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23318

Produced by Louise Hope and The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) [Transcriber's Note: The html version of this text includes the illustrations. Since all pages are illustrated, they are not separately marked here.] NINE LIVES OF A CAT by CHARLES BENNETT [Illustration: FRONTISPIECE] THE NINE LIVES of A CAT A TALE OF WONDER by CHARLES BENNETT. Author of "Shadows" London Griffith and Farran. Corner of St Pauls' Churchyard. 1860. PREFACE This tale of wonder is told for children; with which view, it has been carefully designed and very nicely printed. For some time past, it has arrived at the dignity of a popular Nursery Tale in the Author's family; and it is hoped it will merit the same good fortune elsewhere. It will be worth while explaining, that the circle in each page is made to represent some object in connection with the story; and, that as some of them have proved rather puzzling, to Juvenile admirers has been left the task of "finding them out." _London_, 1859. 1 How many Lives has the Cat got? NINE! But when she was young, Poor Kitty was hung; So how many Lives has the Cat got? 2 Yes, Kitty was hung When she was so young; But, as you would hope, She pulled a knife out of her side- pocket, and before you could count ONE, TWO, THREE, cut right through the rope. 3 How many Lives has the Cat got? EIGHT! But, when she was rounder, A boy tried to drown her; So how many Lives has the Cat got? 4 Yes, a boy tried to drown her When fatter and rounder, But, as you would wish, She slipped the stone off her neck, and before you could count, ONE, TWO, THREE, swam like a fish. 5 How many Lives has the Cat got? SEVEN! But, as I have learnt, Poor Pussy was burnt. So how many Lives has the Cat got? 6 Yes, Pussy was burnt, As I too have learnt; But, as you will read, She jumped into the water-butt before you could count, ONE, TWO, THREE; she did, indeed! 7 How many Lives has the Cat got? SIX! But she fell off the house, Running after a mouse; So how many Lives has the Cat got? 8 Yes, she fell off the house Running after a mouse; But, as life is sweet, Before you could count ONE, TWO, THREE, she came on her feet. 9 How many Lives has the Cat got? FIVE! But I hear she has not; For they say she was shot. So how many Lives has the Cat got? 10 Yes, with a gun she was shot, And a trigger it had got, I saw the man pull it; But Pussy held up her paws like the Wizard of the North, and before you could count, ONE, TWO, THREE, caught the Bullet. 11 How many Lives has the Cat got? FOUR! But people all say She was poison'd one day; So how many Lives has the Cat got? 12 Yes, it's true, people say She was poison'd one day, And very much it shock'd her; But the moment she felt ill, and before you could count ONE, TWO, THREE, she was off to the Doctor. 13 How many Lives has the Cat got? THREE! But then the old wall Crush'd her in its fall. So how many Lives has the Cat got? 14 Yes, I know the old wall Flatten'd Puss in its fall, And a dozen of her fellows; But Pussy walked sideways into the kitchen, and before you could count ONE, TWO, THREE, blew herself out with the bellows. 15 How many Lives has the Cat got? TWO! But, bit by a dog, She is dead as a log. So how many Lives has the Cat got? 16 Yes, bit by a dog, But not dead as a log, As you'll gladly find; For she climbed up the apple-tree before you could count ONE, TWO, THREE, and left the dog behind. 17 How many Lives has the Cat got? ONE! But then she's grown old, And has caught a bad cold; So how many Lives has the Cat got? 18 Yes, she has grown old, And has caught a bad cold, Only bread and milk she touches, Except a little gruel, but she burns a great deal of fuel, and you may count, ONE, TWO, THREE, a great many times, while she hobbles across the room on her crutches. 19 How many Lives has the Cat got? NONE! Is it true then, as they said, That poor old Puss is dead, So many lives as she'd got? 20 Yes, the song has all been said, And poor old Puss is dead, Let it never be forgot; Although not ONE, TWO, THREE, but NINE LIVES she had got. [Illustration: TAILPIECE] End of Project Gutenberg's The Nine Lives of A Cat, by Charles Bennett

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:30.249450

23319

Produced by Joseph R. Hauser, Ross Wilburn and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net MECHANICAL DRAWING SELF-TAUGHT: COMPRISING INSTRUCTIONS IN THE SELECTION AND PREPARATION OF DRAWING INSTRUMENTS, _ELEMENTARY INSTRUCTION IN PRACTICAL MECHANICAL DRAWING_; TOGETHER WITH EXAMPLES IN SIMPLE GEOMETRY AND ELEMENTARY MECHANISM, INCLUDING SCREW THREADS, GEAR WHEELS, MECHANICAL MOTIONS, ENGINES AND BOILERS. BY JOSHUA ROSE, M.E., AUTHOR OF "THE COMPLETE PRACTICAL MACHINIST," "THE PATTERN MAKER'S ASSISTANT," "THE SLIDE VALVE" ILLUSTRATED BY THREE HUNDRED AND THIRTY ENGRAVINGS. PHILADELPHIA: HENRY CAREY BAIRD & CO., INDUSTRIAL PUBLISHERS, BOOKSELLERS AND IMPORTERS, 810 WALNUT STREET. LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE & RIVINGTON, CROWN BUILDINGS, 188 FLEET STREET. 1887. Copyright by JOSHUA ROSE. 1883. PHILADELPHIA. COLLINS, PRINTER PREFACE. The object of this book is to enable the beginner to learn to make simple mechanical drawings without the aid of an instructor, and to create an interest in the subject by giving examples such as the machinist meets with in his every-day workshop practice. The plan of representing in many examples the pencil lines, and numbering the order in which they are marked, the author believes to possess great advantages for the learner, since it is the producing of the pencil lines that really proves the study, the inking in being merely a curtailed repetition of the pencilling. Similarly when the drawing of a piece, such, for example, as a fully developed screw thread, is shown fully developed from end to end, even though the pencil lines were all shown, yet the process of construction will be less clear than if the process of development be shown gradually along the drawing. Thus beginning at an end of the example the first pencil lines only may be shown, and as the pencilling progresses to the right-hand, the development may progress so that at the other or left-hand end, the finished inked in and shaded thread may be shown, and between these two ends will be found a part showing each stage of development of the thread, all the lines being numbered in the order in which they were marked. This prevents a confusion of lines, and makes it more easy to follow or to copy the drawing. It is the numerous inquiries from working machinists for a book of this kind that have led the author to its production, which he hopes and believes will meet the want thus indicated, giving to the learner a sufficiently practical knowledge of mechanical drawing to enable him to proceed further by copying such drawings as he may be able to obtain, or by the aid of some of the more expensive and elaborate books already published on the subject. He believes that in learning mechanical drawing without the aid of an instructor the chief difficulty is overcome when the learner has become sufficiently familiar with the instruments to be enabled to use them without hesitation or difficulty, and it is to attain this end that the chapter on plotting mechanical motions and the succeeding examples have been introduced; these forming studies that are easily followed by the beginner; while sufficiently interesting to afford to the student pleasure as well as profit. NEW YORK, _February, 1883_. CONTENTS. CHAPTER I. THE DRAWING BOARD. The T square 18 The triangles 19 Curves 21 Selecting and testing drawing instruments 22 Lead pencils 23 Mixing India ink 25 The drawing paper 26 Tracing paper 29 The ink 30 Testing and selecting India ink 30 Draftsmen's measuring rules 33 CHAPTER II. THE PREPARATION AND USE OF THE INSTRUMENTS. Preparing the lining pen for use 34 The shapes of the lining pen points 35 Oil stoning pen points 36 Preparing the circle pen for use 38 The shape for circle pen points 38 Shaping circle pens for very small circles 39 A form of pen point recently introduced; forming the pen point 39 The method of oil-stoning circle pen points 40 The needle point and pen point 42 How to use the circle pen 43 German instrument to avoid slipping of a needle point 44 How to use the lining pen 45 Applying the ink to the bow-pen 46 Using a straight line or lining pen with a T square 47 CHAPTER III. LINES AND CURVES. Explanation of simple geometrical terms; radius; explanation of conventional dotted lines 48 A line at a right angle to another; a point; parallel lines 49 A line produced; a line bisected; a line bounding a circle; an arc of a circle; segments of a circle; the chord of an arc; a quadrant of a circle 50 A sector of a circle; a line tangent to a circle; a semicircle; centre of a circle; axis of a cylinder; to draw a circle that shall pass through three given points 51 To find the centre from which an arc of a circle has been struck; the degrees of a circle 52 The protractor 53 To find the angle of one line to another 54 To find the angles of three lines one to the other 55 Acute angles and obtuse angles 57 Triangles; right angle triangle; obtuse angle triangle; equilateral triangle; isosceles triangle 58 Scalene triangle; a quadrangle; quadrilateral or tetragon 59 Rhomboid; trapezoid; trapezium 60 The construction of polygons 61 The names of regular polygons 62 The angles of regular polygons; the ellipse 63 Form of a true ellipse 69 The use of a trammel for drawing an ellipse 72 To draw a parabola mechanically 73 To draw a parabola by lines 74 To draw a heart cam 75 CHAPTER IV. SHADOW LINES AND LINE-SHADING. Section lining or cross-hatching 77 To represent cylindrical pieces one within the other; to represent a number of pieces one within the other 78 To represent pieces put together and having slots or keyways through them. 79 Effects of shading or cross-hatching 80 Lines in sectional shading or cross-hatching made to denote the material of which the piece is composed--lead, wood, steel, brass, wrought iron, cast iron 81 Line-shading 82 The shade line to indicate the shape of piece; representation of a washer 83 A key drawn with a shade line; shade line applied to a nut; a German pen regulated to draw lines of various breadths 84 Example of line-shading in perspective drawing, shown in a pipe threading stock and die 85 A cylindrical pin line-shaded; two cylindrical pieces that join each other; a lathe centre; a piece having a curved outline 86 Line-shading applied to a ball or sphere; applied to a pin in a socket shown in section 87 A piece of tube, where the thickness of the tube is shown; where the hollow or hole is seen, the piece shown in section; where the body is bell-mouthed and the hollow curve shown by shading 88 Example of line-shading to denote the relative distances of various surfaces from the eye 89 Line-shading to denote that the piece represented is of wood; shade-lines being regular or irregular 90 CHAPTER V. MARKING DIMENSIONS. Examples in marking dimensions 91 CHAPTER VI. THE ARRANGEMENT OF DIFFERENT VIEWS. The different views of a mechanical drawing; elevation; plan; general view; a figure to represent a solid cylinder 94 To represent the different sides of a cube; the use of a cross to denote a square 95 A triangular piece requires two or three views 96 To represent a ring having hexagon cross section; examples; a rectangular piece in two views 98 The position of the piece when in its place determines the name of the view in the drawing 103 View of a lever 105 Best method of projecting one view from another; the two systems of different views of a piece 106 CHAPTER VII. EXAMPLES IN BOLTS, NUTS AND POLYGONS. To represent the thread of a small screw 112 A bolt with a hexagon head 113 United States standard sizes for forged or unfinished bolts and nuts 116 The basis of the Franklin Institute or United States standard for bolts and nuts; hexagonal or hexagon heads of bolts 118 Comparison of hexagon and square heads of bolts; chamfers 120 Without chamfer; best plan for view of both square and hexagon heads 123 Drawing different views of hexagon heads 125 To draw a square-headed bolt; to draw the end view of a hexagon head 125 Use of the triangle to divide circles 129 Scales giving the length of the sides of polygons 135 To find what a square body which measures one inch on each side measures across the corners; to find what diameter a cylindrical piece of wood must be turned to which is to be squared, and each side of which square must measure an inch 136 To find a radius across corners of a hexagon or a six sided figure, the length of a side being an inch 138 To draw a stud 142 To pencil in a cap nut; pencilling for a link having the hubs on one side only 145 Link with hubs on both sides; pencil lines for a double eye or a knuckle joint 146 Double eye or knuckle joint with an offset; a connecting rod end 147 A rod end with a round stem 148 A bolt with a square under the head 149 Example in which the corner where the round stem meets the square under the head is sharp; a centre punch giving an example in which the flat sides gradually run out upon a circle, the edges forming curves 150 CHAPTER VIII. SCREW THREADS AND SPIRALS. Screw threads for small bolts with the angles of the thread drawn in, and the method of doing this 152 A double thread; a round top and bottom thread such as the Whitworth thread; a left hand thread; to draw screw threads of a large diameter 156 Drawing the curves for screw threads 157 To draw the United States standard thread 160 To draw a square thread 162 Form of template for drawing the curves of threads 165 To show the thread depth in a top or end view of a nut; to draw a spiral spring 166 To obtain an accurate division of the lines that divide the pitch 167 CHAPTER IX. EXAMPLES FOR PRACTICE. A locomotive spring; a stuffing box and gland; working drawings of a coupling rod; dimensions and directions marked; a connecting rod drawn and put together as it would be for the lathe, vise, or erecting shop 169 Drawings for the blacksmith 172 A locomotive frame 174 Reducing scales 175 Making a drawing to scale 177 CHAPTER X. PROJECTIONS. A spiral wound around a cylinder whose end is cut off at an angle 178 A cylindrical body joining another at a right-angle; a Tee for example 180 Other examples of Tees 181 Example of a cylinder intersecting a cone 186 A cylindrical body whose top face if viewed from one point would appear as a straight line, or from another a circle 188 CHAPTER XI. DRAWING GEAR WHEELS. Names of the curves and lines of gear teeth 193 How to draw spur wheel teeth 194 Professor Willis' scale of tooth proportions 195 The application of the scale 197 How to find the curve for the tooth face 198 To trace hypocycloides for the flanks of teeth 200 Sectional view of a section of a wheel for showing the dimensions through the arms and hub 202 To draw an edge view of a wheel; rules for drawing the teeth of wheels; bevel gear wheels 203 The construction to find the curves 204 To draw the arcs for the teeth 205 To draw the pitch circle of the inner and small end of the pinion teeth 206 One-half of a bevel gear and an edge view projected from the same 207 A pair of bevel wheels shown in section; drawing of a part of an Ames lathe feed motion; small bevel gears 208 Example in which part of the gear is shown with teeth in, and the remainder illustrated by circles; drawings of part of the feed motion of a Niles horizontal tool work boring mill 209 Three bevel gears, one of which is line-shaded; the construction of oval gearing; Professor Rankine's process for rectifying and subdividing circular arcs 210 Various examples of laying out gear wheels 214 CHAPTER XII. PLOTTING MECHANICAL MOTIONS. To find how much motion an eccentric will give to its rod 223 To find how much a given amount of motion of a long arm will move the short arm of a lever 224 Example of the end of a lever acting directly on a shoe; a short arm having a roller acting upon a larger roller 225 A link introduced in the place of the roller to find the amount of motion of the rod; a lever actuating a plunger in a vertical line, to find how much a given amount of motion of the long arm will actuate the plunger 226 Two levers upon their axles or shafts, the arms connected by a link and one arm connected to a rod 227 A lever arm and cam in one piece on a shaft, a shoe sliding on the line, and held against the cam face by the rod, to find the position of the face of the shoe against the cam 228 To find the amount of motion imparted in a straight line to a rod, attached to an eccentric strap 229 Examples in drawing the cut off cams employed instead of eccentrics on river steamboats in the Western and Southern States. Different views of a pair of cams 232 The object of using a cam instead of an eccentric 234 Method of drawing or marking out a full stroke cam 237 Illustration of the lines embracing cut off cams of varying limits of cut-off 240 Part played by the stroke of the engine in determining the conformation of cut-off cams; manner of finding essential points of drawings of cutoff cams 241 A cam designed to cut off the steam at five-eighths of the piston stroke 244 Three-fourths and seven-eighths cams 246 Necessary imperfections in the operations of cut-off cams 247 Drawing representing the motion which a crank imparts to a connecting rod 249 Plotting out the motion of a shaper link quick return 250 Plotting out the Whitworth quick return motion employed in machines 253 Finding the curves for moulding cutters 257 CHAPTER XIII. EXAMPLES IN LINE-SHADING AND DRAWING FOR LINE-SHADED ENGRAVINGS. Arrangement of idle pulleys to guide bolts from one pulley to another; representation of a cutting tool for a planing machine 264 Drawings for photo-engraving 267 Drawing for an engraver in wood; drawings for engravings by the wax process 268 Engraving made by the wax process from a print from a wood engraving; engravings of a boiler drilling machine 269 CHAPTER XIV. SHADING AND COLORING DRAWINGS. Coloring the journals of shafts; simple shading; drawing cast-iron, wrought iron, steel and copper 277 Points to be observed in coloring and shading; colored drawings to be glued around their edges to the drawing board; to maintain an even shade of color; mixing colors 278 To graduate the depth of tint for a cylindrical surface 279 The size and use of brushes; light in shading; example for shading a Medart pulley 280 Brush shading 281 To show by the shading that the surfaces are highly polished; representation of an oil cup; representation of an iron planing machine 282 Example in shading of Blake's patent direct acting steam pump 284 Example of shading an independent condenser 288 CHAPTER XV. EXAMPLES OF ENGINE WORK. Drawings of an automatic high speed engine; side and end views of the engine; vertical section of the cylinder through the valve face 289 Valve motion; governor 292 Pillow box, block crank-pin, wheel and main journal 294 Side and edge view of the connecting rod 295 A two hundred horse power horizontal steam boiler for a stationary engine; cross sectional view of the boiler shell 296 Side elevation, end view of the boiler, and setting 297 Working drawings of a one hundred horse power engine; plan and side view of the bed plate, with the main bearing and guide bars; cross sections of the bed plate; side elevation of the cylinder, with end view of the same 299 Steam chest side and horizontal cross section of the cylinder; steam chest and the valves; cam wrist plate and cut-off mechanism; shaft for the cam plate; cross head; side view and section through the centre of the eccentric and strap 301 Construction of the connecting rod 303 INDEX 305 +-----------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: In this text $T$ indicates a larger capital letter.| +-----------------------------------------------------------------------+ MECHANICAL DRAWING SELF-TAUGHT. CHAPTER I. _THE DRAWING BOARD._ A Drawing Board should be of soft pine and free from knots, so that it will easily receive the pins or tacks used to fasten down the paper. Its surface should be flat and level, or a little rounding, so that the paper shall lie close to its surface, which is one of the first requisites in making a good drawing. Its edges should be straight and at a right angle one to the other, and the ends of the battens B B in Figure 1 should fall a little short of the edge A of the board, so that if the latter shrinks they will not protrude. The size of the board of course depends upon the size of the paper, hence it is best to obtain a board as small as will answer for the size of paper it is intended to use. The student will find it most convenient as well as cheapest to learn on small drawings rather than large ones, since they take less time to make, and cost less for paper; and although they require more skill to make, yet are preferable for the beginner, because he does not require to reach so far over the board, and furthermore, they teach him more quickly and effectively. He who can make a fair drawing having short lines and small curves can make a better one if it has large curves, etc., because it is easier to draw a large than a very small circle or curve. It is unnecessary to enter into a description of the various kinds of drawing boards in use, because if the student purchases one he will be duly informed of the kinds and their special features, while if he intends to make one the sketch in Figure 1 will give him all the information he requires, save that, as before noted, the wood must be soft pine, well seasoned and free from knots, while the battens B should be dovetailed in and the face of the board trued after they are glued and driven in. To true the edges square, it is best to make the two longest edges parallel and straight, and then the ends may be squared from those long edges. [Illustration: Fig. 1.] THE $T$ SQUARE. Drawing squares or T squares, as they are termed, are made of wood, of hard rubber and of steel. There are several kinds of T squares; in one the blade is solid, as it is shown in Figure 5 on page 20; in another the back of the square is pivoted, so that the blade can be set to draw lines at an angle as well as across the board, which is often very convenient, although this double back prevents the triangles, when used in some positions, from coming close enough to the left hand side of the board. In an improved form of steel square, with pivoted blade, shown in Figure 2, the back is provided with a half circle divided into the degrees of a circle, so that the blade can be set to any required degree of angle at once. [Illustration: Fig. 2.] [Illustration: Fig. 3.] [Illustration: Fig. 4.] THE TRIANGLES. [Illustration: Fig. 5.] Two triangles are all that are absolutely necessary for a beginner. The first is that shown in Figure 3, which is called a triangle of 45 degrees, because its edge A is at that angle to edges B and C. That in Figure 4 is called a triangle of 60 degrees, its edge A being at 60 degrees to B, and at 30 degrees to C. The edges P and C are at a right angle or an angle of 90 degrees in both figures; hence they are in this respect alike. By means of these triangles alone, a great many straight line drawings may be made with ease without the use of a drawing square; but it is better for the beginner to use the square at first. The manner of using these triangles with the square is shown in Figure 5, in which the triangle, Figure 3, is shown in three positions marked D E F, and that shown in Figure 4 is shown in three positions, marked respectively G H and I. It is obvious, however, that by turning I over, end for end, another position is attained. The usefulness in these particular triangles is because in the various positions shown they are capable of use for drawing a very large proportion of the lines that occur in mechanical drawing. The principal requirement in their use is to hold them firmly to the square-blade without moving it, and without permitting them to move upon it. The learner will find that this is best attained by so regulating the height of the square-blade that the line to be drawn does not come down too near the bottom of the triangle or edge of the square-blade, nor too high on the triangle; that is to say, too near its uppermost point. It is the left-hand edge of the triangle that is used, whenever it can be done, to produce the required line. [Illustration: Fig. 6.] CURVES. To draw curves that are not formed of arcs or parts of circles, templates called curves are provided, examples of these forms being given in Figure 6. They are made in wood and in hard rubber, the latter being most durable; their uses are so obvious as to require no explanation. It may be remarked, however, that the use of curves gives excellent practice, because they must be adjusted very accurately to produce good results, and the drawing pen must be held in the same vertical plane, or the curve drawn will not be true in its outline. DRAWING INSTRUMENTS. It is not intended or necessary to enter into an elaborate discussion of the various kinds of drawing instruments, since the purchaser can obtain a good set of drawing instruments from a reputable dealer by paying a proportionate price, and must _per force_ learn to use such as his means enable him to purchase. It is recommended that the beginner purchase as good a set of instruments as his means will permit, and that if his means are limited he purchase less than a full set of instruments, having the same of good quality. All the instruments that need be used in the examples of this book are as follows: A small spring bow-pen for circles, a lining pen or pen for straight lines, a small spring bow-pencil for circles, a large bow-pen with a removable leg to replace by a divider leg or a pencil leg, and having an extension piece to increase its capacity. The spring bow-pen should have a stiff spring, and should be opened out to its full capacity to see that the spring acts well when so opened out, keeping the legs stiff when opened for the larger diameters. The purchaser should see that the joint for opening and closing the legs is an easy but not a loose fit on the screw, and that the legs will not move sideways. To test this latter, which is of great importance in the spring bow-pencil as well as in the pen, it is well to close the legs nearly together and taking one leg in one hand and the other leg in the other hand (between the forefinger and thumb), pushing and pulling them sideways, any motion in that direction being sufficient to condemn the instrument. It is safest and best to have the two legs of the bow-pen and pencil made from one piece of metal, and not of two separate pieces screwed together at the top, as the screw will rarely hold them firmly together. The points should be long and fine, and as round as possible. In very small instruments separate points that are fastened with a screw are objectionable, because, in very small circles, they hide the point and make it difficult to apply the instrument to the exact proper point or spot on the drawing. The joints of the large bow or circle-pen should also be somewhat stiff, and quite free from side motion, and the extension piece should be rigidly secured when held by the screw. It is a good plan in purchasing to put in the extension piece, open the joint and the pen to their fullest, and draw a circle, moving the pen in one direction, and then redraw it, moving it in the other direction, and if one line only appears and that not thickened by the second drawing, the pen is a good one. The lead pencil should be of hard lead, and it is recommended that they be of the H, H, H, H, H, H, in the English grades, which corresponds to the V, V, H, of the Dixon grade. The pencil lines should be made as lightly as possible; first, because the presence of the lead on the paper tends to prevent the ink from passing to the paper; and, secondly, because in rubbing out the pencil lines the ink lines are reduced in blackness and the surface of the paper becomes roughened, so that it will soil easier and be harder to clean. In order to produce fine pencil lines without requiring a very frequent sharpening of the pencil it is best to sharpen the pencil as in Figures 7 and 8, so that the edge shall be long in the direction in which it is moved, which is denoted by the arrow in Figure 7. But when very fine work is to be done, as in the case of Patent Office drawings, a long, round point is preferable, because the eye can see plainer just where the pencil will begin to mark and leave off; hence the pencil lines will not be so liable to overrun. [Illustration: Fig. 7.] [Illustration: Fig. 8.] In place of the ordinary wood-covered lead pencils there may be obtained at the drawing material stores pencil holders for holding the fine, round sticks of lead, and these are by far the best for a learner. They are easier to sharpen, and will slip in the holder, giving warning when the draftsman is pressing them too hard on the paper, as he is apt to do. The best method of trimming these leads, as also lead pencils after they have been roughly shaped, is with a small fine file, holding the file still and moving the pencil; or a good piece of emery paper or sand paper is good, moving the pencil as before. All lines in pencilling as in inking in should begin at the left hand and be drawn towards the right, or when triangles are used the lines are begun at the bottom and drawn towards the top or away from the operator. The rubber used should not be of a harsh grade, since that will roughen the face of the paper and probably cause the ink to run. The less rubbing out the better the learner will progress, and the more satisfaction he will receive from the results. If it becomes necessary to scratch out it is best done with a penknife well sharpened, and not applied too forcibly to the paper but somewhat lightly, and moved in different and not all in one direction. After the penknife the rubber may sometimes be used to advantage, since it will, if of a smooth grade, leave the paper smoother than the knife. Finally, before inking in, the surface that has been scraped should be condensed again by rubbing some clean, hard substance over it which will prevent the ink from spreading. The end of a paper-cutter or the end of a rounded ivory handled drawing instrument is excellent for this purpose. [Illustration: Fig. 9.] [Illustration: Fig. 10.] It is well to use the rubber for general purposes in such a way as to fit it for special purposes; thus, in cleaning the sheet of paper, the rubber may be applied first, as in Figure 9, as at A, and then as at B, and if it be moved sideways at the same time it will wear to the form shown in Figure 10, which will enable it to be applied along a line that may require to be rubbed out without removing other and neighboring lines. If the rubber is in the form of a square stick one end may be bevelled, as in Figure 11, which is an excellent form, or it may be made to have a point, as in Figure 12. The object is in each case to enable the rubber action to be confined to the desired location on the paper, so as to destroy its smooth surface as little as possible. [Illustration: Fig. 11.] [Illustration: Fig 12.] For simple cleaning purposes, or to efface the pencil lines when they are drawn very lightly, squares of sponge-rubber answer admirably, these being furnished by the dealers in drawing materials. A piece of bread will answer a similar purpose, but it is less convenient. For glazed surface paper, as Bristol-board, the smoothest rubber must be used, the grade termed velvet rubber answering well. THE DRAWING PAPER. Whatever kind of drawing paper be used it should be kept dry, or the ink, however good it may be, will be apt to run and make a thick line that will not have the sharp, clean edges necessary to make lines look well. Drawing paper is made in various qualities, kinds, and forms, as follows: The sizes and names of paper made in sheets are: Cap, 13 × 16 inches. Demy, 20 × 15 " Medium, 22 × 17 " Royal, 24 × 19 " Super Royal, 27 × 19 " Imperial, 30 × 21 " Elephant, 28 × 22 " Columbier, 34 × 23 " Atlas, 33 × 26 " Theorem, 34 × 28 " Double Elephant, 40 × 26 " Antiquarian, 52 × 31 " Emperor, 40 × 60 " Uncle Sam, 48 × 120 " the thickness of the sheets increasing with their size. Some sheets of paper are hot pressed, to give a smoother surface, and thus enable cleaner-edged lines to be drawn. [Illustration: Fig. 13.] For large drawings paper is made in rolls of various widths, but as rolled paper is troublesome to lay flat upon the drawing board, it is recommended to the learner to obtain the sheets, which may be laid sufficiently flat by means of broad headed pins, such as shown in Figure 13, which are called thumb tacks. These are forced through the paper into the board at each corner, as in Figure 14 at _f_. On account of the large diameter of the stems of these thumb tacks, which unduly pierce and damage the board, and on account also of their heads, by reason of their thickness, coming in the way of the square blade, it will be found preferable to use the smallest sizes of ordinary iron tacks, with flat heads, whose stems are much finer and heads much thinner than thumb tacks. The objection to ordinary tacks is that they are more difficult to remove, but they are, as stated, more desirable for use. [Illustration: Fig. 14.] [Illustration: Fig. 15.] If the paper is nearly the full size of the board, it does not much matter as to its precise location on the board, but otherwise it is best to place it as near the left-hand edge of the board as convenient, as is shown in Figure 14. The lower edge, D, Figure 15, of the paper, however, should not be placed too near the edge, A, of the board, because if the end P of the square back comes down below the edge of the board, it is more difficult to keep the square back true against the end of the board. The paper must lie flat upon and close to the surface of the board, and a sufficient number of tacks must be used to effect this purpose. Drawings that are to be intricate, or to contain a great many lines, as a drawing of an engine or of a machine, are best pasted or glued all around the edges of the paper, which should first be dampened; but as the learner will scarcely require to make such drawings until he is somewhat familiar with and well practised in the use of the instruments, this part of the subject need not be treated here. TRACING PAPER. For taking tracings from drawings tracing paper or tracing cloth is used. They require to be stretched tightly and without wrinkles upon the drawing. To effect this object the mucilage should be thick, and the tracing paper should be dampened with a sponge after it is pasted. It must be thoroughly dry before use, or the ink will run. Tracing cloth must be fastened by pins or thumb tacks, and not dampened. The drawing should be made on the polished side of the cloth, and any coloring to be done should be on the other side, and done after the tracing is removed from the drawing. THE INK. India ink should always be used for mechanical drawing: First, because it lies upon and does not sink into the paper, and is, therefore, easily erased; and, secondly, because it does not corrode or injure the drawing instruments. India ink is prepared in two forms--in the stick and in a liquid form. The stick ink is mixed in what are termed saucers, or cabinet saucers, one being placed above the other, so as to exclude the dust from settling in it, and also to prevent the rapid evaporation to which it is subject. The surface of the saucer should be smooth, as any roughness grinds the ink too coarsely, whereas the finer it is ground or mixed the easier it will flow, the less liability to clog the instruments, and the smoother and more flat it will lie upon the paper. In mixing the ink only a small quantity of water should be used, the stick of ink being pressed _lightly_ upon the saucer and moved quickly, the grinding being continued until the ink is mixed quite thickly. This will grind the ink fine as it is mixed, and more water may be added to thin it. It is best, however, to let the ink be somewhat thick for use, and to keep it covered when not in use; and though water may be added if it gets too thick, yet ink that has once dried should not be mixed up again, as it will not work so well after having once dried. Of liquid inks the Higgins ink is by far the best, being quite equal to and much more convenient for use than the best stick ink. The difference between a good and an inferior India ink lies chiefly in the extent to which the lamp-black, which is the coloring matter, forms with the water a chemical solution rather than a mechanical mixture. In inferior ink the lamp-black is more or less held in suspension, and by prolonged exposure to the air will separate, so that on being spread the solid particles will aggregate by themselves and the water by itself. This explains why draughtsmen will, after the ink has been exposed to the air for an hour or two, add a drop of mucilage to it; the mucilage thickening the solution, adding weight to the water, and deferring the separation of the lamp-black. A good India ink is jet black, flows easily, lies close to, does not stand upon or sink into the paper, and has an even lustre, the latter being an indication of fineness. The more perfect the incorporation of the lamp-black with the water the easier the ink will flow, the less liable it is to clog the instruments, the more even and sharp the edges of the lines, and the finer the lines that may be drawn. Usually India ink can only be tested by actual trial; but since it is desirable to test before purchasing it, it may be mentioned that one method is to mix a little on the finger nail, and if it has a "bronzy" gloss it is a good indication. It should also spread out and dry without any tendency to separate. The best method of testing is to mix a very little, and drop a single drop in a tumbler of clear water. The best ink will diffuse itself over the surface, and if the water is disturbed will diffuse itself through the water, leaving it translucent and black, with a slight tinge of bronze color. A coarser ink will act in a similar manner, but make the water somewhat opaque, with a blue-black, or dull, ashy color. A still coarser ink will, when diffused over the surface of the water, show fine specks, like black dust, on the surface. This is readily apparent, showing that the mixture of the ink is not homogeneous. When it is an object to have the lines of a drawing show as black as possible, as for drawings that are to be photo-engraved, the ink should be mixed so thickly as to have a tendency to lift when a body, such as a lead pencil, is lifted out of it. For Patent Office drawings some will mix it so thickly that under the above test it appears a little stringy. The thicker the ink can be used the better, because the tendency of the carbon to separate is less; and it is for this reason that the test mentioned with a tumbler of water is so accurate. When ink is to be used on parchment, or glossy tracing-paper, it will flow perfectly if a few drops of ox-gall be mixed with it; but on soft paper, or on bristol board, this will cause the ink to spread. For purposes of measurement, there are special rules or scales of steel and of paper manufactured. The steel rules are finely and accurately divided, and some are of triangular form, so that when laid upon the paper the lines divided will lie close to the paper, and the light will fall directly on the ruled surface. Triangular rules or scales are therefore much superior to flat ones. The object of having a paper rule or scale is, that the paper will expand and contract under varying degrees of atmospheric moisture, the same as the drawing paper does. Figure 16 represents a triangular scale, having upon it six different divisions of the inch. These are made in different patterns, having either decimal divisions or the vulgar fractions. Being made of steel, and nickel-plated, they are proof against the moisture of the fingers, and are not subject to the variation of the wooden scale. [Illustration: Fig. 16.] CHAPTER II. _THE PREPARATION AND USE OF THE INSTRUMENTS._ The points of drawing instruments require to be very accurately prepared and shaped, to enable them to make clean, clear lines. The object is to have the points as sharp as they can be made without cutting the paper, and the curves as even and regular as possible. [Illustration: Fig. 17.] [Illustration: Fig. 18.] The lining pen should be formed as in Figure 17, which presents an edge and a front view of the points. The inside faces should be flat across, and slightly curved in their lengths, as shown. If this curve is too great, as shown exaggerated in Figure 18, the body of the ink lies too near the point and is apt to flow too freely, running over the pen-point and making a thick, ragged line. On the other hand, if the inside faces, between which the ink lies, are too parallel and narrow near the points, the ink dries in the pen, and renders a too frequent cleaning necessary. Looking at the face of the pen as at A in Figure 17, its point should have an even curve, as shown, the edge being as sharp as it can be made without cutting the drawing paper. Upon this quality depends the fineness and cleanness of the lines it will make. This thin edge should extend around the curve as far as the dotted line, so that it will be practicable to slant the pen in either of the directions shown in Figure 19; and it is obvious that its thickness must be equal around the arc, so that the same thickness of line will be drawn whether the pen be held vertical or slanted in either direction. [Illustration: Fig. 19.] [Illustration: Fig. 20.] The outside faces of the pen should be slightly curved, so that when held vertically, as in Figure 20 (the dotted line representing the centre of the length of the instrument), and against the square blade S, the point will meet the paper a short distance from the lower edge of S as shown. By this means it is not necessary to adjust the square edge exactly coincident with the line, but a little way from it. This is an advantage for two reasons: first, the trouble of setting the square-edge exactly coincident is avoided, and, secondly, the liability of the ink to adhere to the edge of the square-blade and flow on to the paper and make a thick, ragged line, is prevented. The square being set as near to the line as desired, the handle may be held at such an angle that the pen-point will just meet the line when sloped either as in Figure 21 or 22. If, however, the slope be too much in the direction shown in Figure 21, practice is necessary to enable the drawing of straight lines if they be long ones, because any variation in the angle of the instrument to the paper obviously vitiates the straightness of the line. If, on the other hand, the square be too close to the line, and the pen therefore requires to be sloped as in Figure 22, the ink flowing from the pen-point is apt to adhere to the square-edge, and the result will be a ragged, thick line, as shown in Figure 23. [Illustration: Fig. 21.] [Illustration: Fig. 22.] [Illustration: Fig. 23.] [Illustration: Fig. 24.] [Illustration: Fig. 25.] [Illustration: Fig. 26.] Each of the legs should be of equal thickness at the pen-point edge, so that when closed together the point will be in the middle of the edge. The width and curve of each individual point should be quite equal, and the easiest method of attaining this end is as follows: Take a small slip of Arkansas oil-stone, and with the pen-points closed firmly by the screw trim the pen-edges to the required curve as shown at A, Figure 17, making the curve as even as possible. Then stone the faces until this curve is brought up to a sharp edge at the point between the two pen-legs forming the point. Next take a piece of 000 French emery paper, lay it upon some flat body like the blade of a square, and smooth the curve of the edge enough to take off the fine, sharp edge left by the oil-stone; then apply the outside flat faces of the pen to the emery paper again, bringing the pen-edge up sharp. The emery paper will simply have smoothed and polished the surfaces, still leaving them too sharp, so sharp as to cut the paper, and to take off this sharp edge (which must first be done on the inside faces) open the pen-points as wide as the screw will permit. Then wrap one thickness of the emery paper upon a thin blade, as upon a drawing-triangle, and pass the open pen-points over it, and move the instrument endwise, taking care to keep the inside face level with the surface of the emery paper, so that the pen-points shall not cut through. Next close the pen-points with the screw until they nearly, but not quite, touch, and sweep the edge of the pen-point along the emery paper under a slight pressure, so moving the handle that at each stroke the whole length around the curved end of the pen will meet the emery surface. During this motion the inside faces of the pen-point must be held as nearly vertical as possible, so as to keep the two halves of the pen-point equal. The pen is now ready for use, and will draw a fine and clean line. It is not usual to employ emery paper for the purpose indicated, but it will be found very desirable, since it leaves a smoother surface and edge than the oil-stone alone. Circle-pens are more difficult to put in order than the straight-line pen, especially those for drawing the smallest circles, which cannot be well drawn unless the pen is of the precise right shape and in the best condition. A circle-pen is shown in Figure 24, in which A represents the point-leg and B the pen-leg. The point-leg must be the longest because it requires to enter the drawing paper before the pen meets the surface. The point should be sharp and round, for any edges or angles on it will cause it to widen the hole in the paper when it is rotated. To shape the points to prevent the enlargement of the centre in the paper is one of the most important considerations in the use of this instrument, especially when several circles require to be drawn from the same centre. To accomplish this end the inside of the point-leg should be, as near as possible, parallel to the length of the instrument (which is denoted in Figure 24 by the dotted line) when the legs are closed, as in the figure. If the point is at an angle, as shown in Figure 25, it is obvious that rotating it will enlarge the top of the centre in the drawing paper. The point should be sharp and smooth on its circumferential surface, and so much longer than the pen-point that it will have sufficient hold in the paper when the instrument stands vertical and the pen-point meets the surface of it, which amount is about 1/64th of an inch. We may now consider the shape of the pen-point. Its inside surfaces should be flat across and to the curve shown in Figure 24, not as shown exaggerated in Figure 25, because in the latter the body of the ink will be too near the pen-point, and but little can be placed in it without causing it sometimes to flow over the edges and down the outside of the pen. A form of pen-point recently introduced is shaped as in Figure 26, the object being to have a thin stream of ink near the marking pen-point and the main body of the ink near at hand, instead of extending up the pen, as would be the case with Figure 24. The advantage thus gained is that the ink lies in a more solid body, and having less area of surface exposed to the air will not dry so quickly in the pen; but this is more than offset by the liability of the ink to flow over the crook at A, and cause the pen to draw a thick ragged line. The pen-point must be slightly inclined toward the needle-point, to the end that they may approach each other close enough for drawing very small circles, but it should also stand as nearly vertical as will permit that end to be attained. As this pen is for drawing small circles only, it does not require much ink, and hence may be somewhat close together, as in Figure 24; this has the advantage that the point is not hidden from observation. In forming the pen-point the greatest refinement is necessary to enable the drawing of very small true circles, say 1/16th of an inch, or less, in diameter. The requirements are that the pen-point shall meet the surface of the paper when the needle-point has entered it sufficiently to give the necessary support, and that the instrument shall stand vertical, as shown by the dotted line in Figure 24. Also, that the pen shall then touch the paper at a point only, this point being the apex of a fine curve; that this curve be equal on each side of the point of contact with the paper; that both halves forming the pen be of equal thickness and width at the pointed curve; and that the point be as sharp as possible without cutting the paper. The best method of attaining these ends is as follows: On each side of the pen make, with an oil-stone, a flat place, as C D, Figure 27 (where the pen-point is shown magnified), thus bringing both halves to an edge of exactly equal length, and leaving the point flat at D. These flat places must be parallel to one another and to the joint between the two halves of the pen. As the oil-stone may leave a slightly ragged edge, it is a good plan to take a piece of 00 French emery paper, lay it on a flat surface, and holding the instrument vertically remove the fine edge D until it will not cut. Then with the oil-stone shape the curved edge as in Figure 28, taking care that the curve no more than brings the flat place D up to a true curve and leaves the edge sharp, with only the very point touching the paper, which is represented in the cut by the horizontal line. [Illustration: Figures 27. 28. 29. 30. 31. 32.] The point must have a sharp edge all around the curve, and the two halves must be exactly equal in width, for if one half is wider than the other, as in Figure 29 at a, or as in Figure 30 at b, it will be impossible to draw a very small circle true. So, likewise, the two halves of the pen must be of exactly equal length, and not one half longer than the other, as in Figures 31 or 32, which would tend to cut the paper, and also render the drawing of true small circles impracticable. When the pen is closed to draw a very small circle the two halves of the pen-leg should have an equal degree of contact with the surface of the paper, and then as the legs are opened out to draw larger circles the contact of the outside half of the pen will have less contact with the paper. The smaller the circle, the more difficult it is to keep the point-leg from slipping out of the centre, and the more difficult it is to draw a clear line and true circle; hence the points should be shaped to the best advantage for drawing these small circles, by oil-stoning the pen, as already described, and then finishing it as follows: After the oil-stoning, open the two valves of the pen-leg wide enough to admit a piece of 000 French emery paper wrapped once around a very thin blade, and move the pen endwise as described for the straight-line pen. This will smooth the inner surfaces and remove any fine wire-edge that the oil-stone may leave. Close the two halves of the pen again, and lightly emery-paper the outside faces, which will leave the edge sharp enough to cut the paper. The removal of the sharp edge still left, to the exact degree, requires great care. It may best be done by closing the pen until its two halves very nearly, but not quite, touch, then adjust it to mark a circle of about 3/16 inch diameter, and strike a number of circles in different locations upon the surface of a piece of 0000 French emery paper. In marking these circles, however, let the instrument stand out of the perpendicular, and do very little while standing vertically. Indeed, it is well to strike a number of half-circles, first from right to left and then from left to right, and finally draw a full circle, sloping the pen on one side, gradually raising it vertically, and finally sloping it to the other side. This will insure that the pen has contact at its extreme point, and leave that point fine and keen, but not enough so to cut the paper. To test the pen, draw small circles with the pen rotated first in one direction and then in the other, closing its points so as to mark a fine line, which, if the pen is properly shaped, will be clear and fine, while if improperly formed the circle drawn with the pen rotated in one direction will not coincide with that drawn while rotating it in the other. The same circle may be drawn over several times to make a thorough test. If a drawing instrument will draw a fine line correctly, it will be found to answer for thick lines which are more easily made. In thus preparing the instruments, the operator will find that if he occasionally holds the points in the right position with regard to the light, he will be able to see plainly if the work is proceeding evenly and equally, for if one-half of the pen is thicker at the point or edge than the other, it will show a brighter line. This is especially the case with instruments that have become dull by use, for in that case the edges will be found quite bright, and any inequality of thickness shows plainly. [Illustration: Fig 33.] [Illustration: Fig. 34.] It follows, from what has been said, that the needle-point and pen-point should stand vertical when in use, and to effect this the instruments, except in the smallest sizes, are provided with joints, such as shown at A and B in the bow-pencil or circle-pencil, in Figure 33. These joints should be sufficiently stiff that they will not move too easily, and yet will move rather than that the legs should sensibly spring without moving at the joint. The needle-point leg should be adjusted by means of the joint, to stand vertical, and the same remarks apply equally to the pen-leg; but in the case of the pencil-leg it is the pencil itself and not the leg that requires attention, the joint B being so adjusted that the pencil either stands vertical, or, what is perhaps preferable, so that it stands inclined slightly towards the needle-point. In sharpening the pencil the inner face C may be made concave or at least vertical and flat, and the outer convex or else bevelled and flat, producing a fine and long edge rounded in its length of edge. In using the circle-pencil and circle-pen it will be found more convenient to rotate it in the direction of the arrow in Figure 34. It should be held lightly to the paper, and the learner will find that he has a natural tendency to hold it too firmly and press it too heavily, which is _especially to be avoided_. If in drawing a small circle the needle-point slips out of the paper, it is because the pencil-point is too long; or, what is the same thing, the needle-point does not protrude far enough out from the leg. Or if the instrument requires to be leaned over too much to make the pencil or pen mark, it is because the pen or pencil is not far enough out, and this again may cause the needle-point to slip out of the paper. [Illustration: Fig. 35.] [Illustration: Fig. 36.] In Figure 35 is shown a German instrument especially designed to avoid this slipping. The peculiarity of this instrument consists in the arrangement of the centre point, which remains stationary whilst the pen or pencil, resting by its own weight on the paper, is guided round by gently turning, without pressure, the small knob at the upper end of the tube. By this means the misplacing or sliding of the centre-point and the cutting of the paper by the pen are avoided. By means of this fixed centre-point any number of concentric circles may be drawn, without making a hole of very distinguishable size on the paper. [Illustration: Fig 37.] In applying the ink to the bow-pen as to all other instruments, care must be taken that the ink lies between the points only and not on the outside, for in the latter case the ink will flow down too freely and make a broad, ragged line, perhaps getting on the edge of the square blade or triangle, and causing a blot of ink on the drawing. In using a straight line or lining pen with a T square it may be used as in Figure 36, being nearly vertical, as shown, and moved from left to right as denoted by the arrow, S representing the square blade. But in using it, or a pencil, with a straight edge or a triangle unsupported by the square blade, the latter should be steadied by letting the fingers rest upon it while using the instrument, the operation being shown in Figure 37. The position, Figure 36, is suitable for long lines, and that in Figure 37 for small drawings, where the pen requires close adjustment to the lines. CHAPTER III. _LINES AND CURVES._ Although the beginner will find that a study of geometry is not essential to the production of such elementary examples of mechanical drawing as are given in this book, yet as more difficult examples are essayed he will find such a study to be of great advantage and assistance. Meantime the following explanation of simple geometrical terms is all that is necessary to an understanding of the examples given. The shortest distance between two points is termed the radius; and, in the case of a circle, means the distance from the centre to the perimeter measured in a straight line. [Illustration: Fig. 38.] [Illustration: Fig. 39.] [Illustration: Fig. 40.] Dotted lines, thus, <----->, mean the direction and the points at which a dimension is taken or marked. Dotted lines, thus,-----, simply connect the same parts or lines in different views of the object. Thus in Figure 38 are a side and an end view of a rivet, and the dotted lines show that the circles on the end view correspond to the circle of the diameters of the head and of the stem, and therefore represent their diameters while showing that both are round. A straight line is in geometry termed a right line. A line at a right angle to another is said to be perpendicular to it; thus, in Figures 39, 40, and 41, lines A are in each case perpendicular to line B, or line B is in each case perpendicular to line A. A point is a position or location supposed to have no size, and in cases where necessary is indicated by a dot. [Illustration: Fig. 41.] [Illustration: Fig. 42.] [Illustration: Fig. 43.] Parallel lines are those equidistant one from the other throughout their length, as in Figure 42. Lines maybe parallel though not straight; thus, in Figure 43, the lines are parallel. [Illustration: Fig. 44.] [Illustration: Fig. 45.] [Illustration: Fig. 46.] A line is said to be _produced_ when it is extended beyond its natural limits: thus, in Figure 44, lines A and B are _produced_ in the point C. A line is bisected when the centre of its length is marked: thus, line A in Figure 45 is bisected, at or in, as it is termed, _e_. The line bounding a circle is termed its circumference or periphery and sometimes the perimeter. A part of this circumference is termed an arc of a circle or an arc; thus Figure 46 represents an arc. When this arc has breadth it is termed a segment; thus Figures 47 and 48 are segments of a circle. A straight line cutting off an arc is termed the chord of the arc; thus, in Figure 48, line A is the chord of the arc. [Illustration: Fig. 47.] [Illustration: Fig. 48.] [Illustration: Fig. 49.] [Illustration: Fig. 50.] [Illustration: Fig. 51.] A quadrant of a circle is one quarter of the same, being bounded on two of its sides by two radial lines, as in Figure 49. When the area of a circle that is enclosed within two radial lines is either less or more than one quarter of the whole area of the circle the figure is termed a sector; thus, in Figure 50, A and B are both sectors of a circle. A straight line touching the perimeter of a circle is said to be tangent to that circle, and the point at which it touches is that to which it is tangent; thus, in Figure 51, line A is tangent to the circle at point B. The half of a circle is termed a semicircle; thus, in Figure 52, A B and C are each a semicircle. [Illustration: Fig. 52.] [Illustration: Fig. 53.] The point from which a circle or arc of a circle is drawn is termed its centre. The line representing the centre of a cylinder is termed its axis; thus, in Figure 53, dot _d_ represents the centre of the circle, and line _b b_ the axial line of the cylinder. To draw a circle that shall pass through any three given points: Let A B and C in Figure 54 be the points through which the circumference of a circle is to pass. Draw line D connecting A to C, and line E connecting B to C. Bisect D in F and E in G. From F as a centre draw the semicircle O, and from G as a centre draw the semicircle P; these two semicircles meeting the two ends of the respective lines D E. From B as a centre draw arc H, and from C the arc I, bisecting P in J. From A as a centre draw arc K, and from C the arc L, bisecting the semicircle O in M. Draw a line passing through M and F, and a line passing through J and Q, and where these two lines intersect, as at Q, is the centre of a circle R that will pass through all three of the points A B and C. [Illustration: Fig. 54.] [Illustration: Fig. 55.] To find the centre from which an arc of a circle has been struck: Let A A in Figure 55 be the arc whose centre is to be found. From the extreme ends of the arc bisect it in B. From end A draw the arc C, and from B the arc D. Then from the end A draw arc G, and from B the arc F. Draw line H passing through the two points of intersections of arcs C D, and line I passing through the two points of intersection of F G, and where H and I meet, as at J, is the centre from which the arc was drawn. A degree of a circle is the 1/360 part of its circumference. The whole circumference is supposed to be divided into 360 equal divisions, which are called the degrees of a circle; but, as one-half of the circle is simply a repetition of the other half, it is not necessary for mechanical purposes to deal with more than one-half, as is done in Figure 56. As the whole circle contains 360 degrees, half of it will contain one-half of that number, or 180; a quarter will contain 90, and an eighth will contain 45 degrees. In the protractors (as the instruments having the degrees of a circle marked on them are termed) made for sale the edges of the half-circle are marked off into degrees and half-degrees; but it is sufficient for the purpose of this explanation to divide off one quarter by lines 10 degrees apart, and the other by lines 5 degrees apart. The diameter of the circle obviously makes no difference in the number of decrees contained in any portion of it. Thus, in the quarter from 0 to 90, there are 90 degrees, as marked; but suppose the diameter of the circle were that of inner circle _d_, and one-quarter of it would still contain 90 degrees. [Illustration: Fig. 56.] So, likewise, the degrees of one line to another are not always taken from one point, as from the point O, but from any one line to another. Thus the line marked 120 is 60 degrees from line 180, or line 90 is 60 degrees from line 150. Similarly in the other quarter of the circle 60 degrees are marked. This may be explained further by stating that the point O or zero may be situated at the point from which the degrees of angle are to be taken. Here it may be remarked that, to save writing the word "degrees," it is usual to place on the right and above the figures a small °, as is done in Figure 56, the 60° meaning sixty degrees, the °, of course, standing for degrees. [Illustration: Fig. 57.] Suppose, then, we are given two lines, as _a_ and _b_ in Figure 57, and are required to find their angle one to the other. Then, if we have a protractor, we may apply it to the lines and see how many degrees of angle they contain. This word "contain" means how many degrees of angle there are between the lines, which, in the absence of a protractor, we may find by prolonging the lines until they meet in a point as at _c_. From this point as a centre we draw a circle D, passing through both lines _a_, _b_. All we now have to do is to find what part, or how much of the circumference, of the circle is enclosed within the two lines. In the example we find it is the one-twelfth part; hence the lines are 30 degrees apart, for, as the whole circle contains 360, then one-twelfth must contain 30, because 360÷12 = 30. [Illustration: Fig. 58.] If we have three lines, as lines A B and C in Figure 58, we may find their angles one to the other by projecting or prolonging the lines until they meet as at points D, E, and F, and use these points as the centres wherefrom to mark circles as G, H, and I. Then, from circle H, we may, by dividing it, obtain the angle of A to B or of B to A. By dividing circle I we may obtain the angle of A to C or of C to A, and by dividing circle G we may obtain the angle of B to C or of C to B. [Illustration: Fig. 59.] It may happen, and, indeed, generally will do so, that the first attempt will not succeed, because the distance between the lines measured, or the arc of the circle, will not divide the circle without having the last division either too long or too short, in which case the circle may be divided as follows: The compasses set to its radius, or half its diameter, will divide the circle into 6 equal divisions, and each of these divisions will contain 60 degrees of angle, because 360 (the number of degrees in the whole circle) ÷6 (the number of divisions) = 60, the number of degrees in each division. We may, therefore, subdivide as many of the divisions as are necessary for the two lines whose degrees of angle are to be found. Thus, in Figure 59, are two lines, C, D, and it is required to find their angle one to the other. The circle is divided into six divisions, marked respectively from 1 to 6, the division being made from the intersection of line C with the circle. As both lines fall within less than a division, we subdivide that division as by arcs _a_, _b_, which divide it into three equal divisions, of which the lines occupy one division. Hence, it is clear that they are at an angle of 20 degrees, because twenty is one-third of sixty. When the number of degrees of angle between two lines is less than 90, the lines are said to form an acute angle one to the other, but when they are at more than 90 degrees of angle they are said to form an obtuse angle. Thus, in Figure 60, A and C are at an acute angle, while B and C are at an obtuse angle. F and G form an acute angle one to the other, as also do G and B, while H and A are at an obtuse angle. Between I and J there are 90 degrees of angle; hence they form neither an acute nor an obtuse angle, but what is termed a right-angle, or an angle of 90 degrees. E and B are at an obtuse angle. Thus it will be perceived that it is the amount of inclination of one line to another that determines its angle, irrespective of the positions of the lines, with respect to the circle. [Illustration: Fig. 60.] TRIANGLES. A right-angled triangle is one in which two of the sides are at a right angle one to the other. Figure 61 represents a right-angled triangle, A and B forming a right angle. The side opposite, as C, is called the hypothenuse. The other sides, A and B, are called respectively the base and the perpendicular. [Illustration: Fig. 61.] [Illustration: Fig. 62.] [Illustration: Fig. 63.] [Illustration: Fig. 64.] An acute-angled triangle has all its angles acute, as in Figure 63. An obtuse-angled triangle has one obtuse angle, as A, Figure 62. When all the sides of a triangle are equal in length and the angles are all equal, as in Figure 63, it is termed an equilateral triangle, and either of its sides may be called the base. When two only of the sides and two only of the angles are equal, as in Figure 64, it is termed an isosceles triangle, and the side that is unequal, as A in the figure, is termed the base. [Illustration: Fig. 65.] [Illustration: Fig. 66.] When all the sides and angles are unequal, as in Figure 65, it is termed a scalene triangle, and either of its sides may be called the base. The angle opposite the base of a triangle is called the vertex. [Illustration: Fig. 67.] [Illustration: Fig. 68.] A figure that is bounded by four straight lines is termed a quadrangle, quadrilateral or tetragon. When opposite sides of the figure are parallel to each other it is termed a parallelogram, no matter what the angle of the adjoining lines in the figure may be. When all the angles are right angles, as in Figure 66, the figure is called a rectangle. If the sides of a rectangle are of equal length, as in Figure 67, the figure is called a square. If two of the parallel sides of a rectangle are longer than the other two sides, as in Figure 66, it is called an oblong. If the length of the sides of a parallelogram are all equal and the angles are not right angles, as in Figure 68, it is called a rhomb, rhombus or diamond. If two of the parallel sides of a parallelogram are longer than the other two, and the angles are not right angles, as in Figure 69, it is called a rhomboid. If two of the parallel sides of a quadrilateral are of unequal lengths and the angles of the other two sides are not equal, as in Figure 70, it is termed a trapezoid. [Illustration: Fig. 69.] [Illustration: Fig. 70.] [Illustration: Fig. 71.] If none of the sides of a quadrangle are parallel, as in Figure 71, it is termed a trapezium. THE CONSTRUCTION OF POLYGONS. [Illustration: Fig. 71_a_.] [Illustration: Fig. 72.] The term polygon is applied to figures having flat sides equidistant from a common centre. From this centre a circle may be struck that will touch all the corners of the sides of the polygon, or the point of each side that is central in the length of the side. In drawing a polygon, one of these circles is used upon which to divide the figure into the requisite number of divisions for the sides. When the dimension of the polygon across its corners is given, the circle drawn to that dimension circumscribes the polygon, because the circle is without or outside of the polygon and touches it at its corners only. When the dimension across the flats of the polygon is given, or when the dimension given is that of a circle that can be inscribed or marked within the polygon, touching its sides but not passing through them, then the polygon circumscribes or envelops the circle, and the circle is inscribed or marked within the polygon. Thus, in Figure 71 _a_, the circle is inscribed within the polygon, while in Figure 72 the polygon is circumscribed by the circle; the first is therefore a circumscribed and the second an inscribed polygon. A regular polygon is one the sides of which are all of an equal length. NAMES OF REGULAR POLYGONS. A figure of 3 sides is called a Trigon. " 4 " " Tetragon. polygon 5 " " Pentagon. " 6 " " Hexagon. " 7 " " Heptagon. " 8 " " Octagon. " 9 " " Enneagon or Nonagon. [Illustration: Fig. 73.] [Illustration: Fig. 74.] The angles of regular polygons are designated by their degrees of angle, "at the centre" and "at the circumference." By the angle at the centre is meant the angle of a side to a radial line; thus in Figure 73 is a hexagon, and at C is a radial line; thus the angle of the side D to C is 60 degrees. Or if at the two ends of a side, as A, two radial lines be drawn, as B, C, then the angles of these two lines, one to the other, will be the "angle at the centre." The angle at the circumference is the angle of one side to its next neighbor; thus the angle at the circumference in a hexagon is 120 degrees, as shown in the figure for the sides E, F. It is obvious that as all the sides are of equal length, they are all at the same angle both to the centre and to one another. In Figure 74 is a trigon, the angles at its centre being 120, and the angle at the circumference being 60, as marked. The angles of regular polygons: Trigon, at the centre, 120°, at the circumference, 60°. Tetragon, " 90°, " " 90°. Pentagon, " 72°, " " 108°. Hexagon, " 60°, " " 120°. Octagon, " 45°, " " 135°. Enneagon, " 40°, " " 140°. Decagon, " 36°, " " 144°. Dodecagon, " 30°, " " 150°. THE ELLIPSE. An ellipse is a figure bounded by a continuous curve, whose nature will be shown presently. The dimensions of an ellipse are taken at its extreme length and narrowest width, and they are designated in three ways, as by the length and breadth, by the major and minor axis (the major axis meaning the length, and the minor the breadth of the figure), and the conjugate and transverse diameters, the transverse meaning the shortest, and the conjugate the longest diameter of the figure. In this book the terms major and minor axis will be used to designate the dimensions. The minor and major axes are at a right angle one to the other, and their point of intersection is termed the axis of the ellipse. In an ellipse there are two points situated upon the line representing the major axis, and which are termed the foci when both are spoken of, and a focus when one only is referred to, foci simply being the plural of focus. These foci are equidistant from the centre of the ellipse, which is formed as follows: Two pins are driven in on the major axis to represent the foci A and B, Figure 75, and around these pins a loop of fine twine is passed; a pencil point, C, is then placed in the loop and pulled outwards, to take up the slack of the twine. The pencil is held vertical and moved around, tracing an ellipse as shown. [Illustration: Fig. 75.] Now it is obvious, from this method of construction, that there will be at every point in the pencil's path a length of twine from the final point to each of the foci, and a length from one foci to the other, and the length of twine in the loop remaining constant, it is demonstrated that if in a true ellipse we take any number of points in its curve, and for each point add together its distance to each focus, and to this add the distance apart of the foci, the total sum obtained will be the same for each point taken. [Illustration: Fig. 76.] [Illustration: Fig. 77.] In Figures 76 and 77 are a series of ellipses marked with pins and a piece of twine, as already described. The corresponding ellipses, as A in both figures, were marked with the same loop, the difference in the two forms being due to the difference in distance apart of the foci. Again, the same loop was used for ellipses B in both figures, as also for C and D. From these figures we perceive that-- 1st. With a given width or distance apart of foci, the larger the dimensions are the nearer the form of the figure will approach to that of a circle. 2d. The nearer the foci are together in an ellipse, having any given dimensions, the nearer the form of the figure will approach that of a circle. 3d. That the proportion of length to width in an ellipse is determined by the distance apart of the foci. 4th. That the area enclosed within an ellipse of a given circumference is greater in proportion as the distance apart of the foci is diminished; and, 5th. That an ellipse may be given any required proportion of width to length by locating the foci at the requisite distance apart. The form of a true ellipse may be very nearly approached by means of the arcs of circles, if the centres from which those arcs are struck are located in the most desirable positions for the form of ellipse to be drawn. [Illustration: Fig. 78.] Thus in Figure 78 are three ellipses whose forms were pencilled in by means of pins and a loop of twine, as already described, but which were inked in by finding four arcs of circles of a radius that would most closely approach the pencilled line; _a b_ are the foci of all three ellipses A, B, and C; the centre for the end curves of _a_ are at _c_ and _d_, and those for its side arcs are at _e_ and _f_. For B the end centres are at _g_ and _h_, and the side centres at _i_ and _j_. For C the end centres are at _k_, _l_, and the side centres at _m_ and _n_. It will be noted that, first, all the centres for the end curves fall on the line of the length or major axis, while all those for the sides fall on the line of width or the minor axis; and, second, that as the dimensions of the ellipses increase, the centres for the arcs fall nearer to the axis of the ellipse. Now in proportion as a greater number of arcs of circles are employed to form the figure, the nearer it will approach the form of a true ellipse; but in practice it is not usual to employ more than eight, while it is obvious that not less than four can be used. When four are used they will always fall somewhere on the lines on the major and minor axis; but if eight are used, two will fall on the line of the major axis, two on the line of the minor axis, and the remaining four elsewhere. [Illustration: Fig. 79.] In Figure 79 is a construction wherein four arcs are used. Draw the line _a b_, the major axis, and at a right angle to it the line _c d_, the minor axis of the figure. Now find the difference between the length of half the two axes as shown below the figure, the length of line _f_ (from _g_ to _i_) representing half the length of the figure (as from _a_ to _e_), and the length or radius from _g_ to _h_ equalling that from _e_ to _d_; hence from _h_ to _i_ is the difference between half the major and half the minor axis. With the radius (_h i_), mark from _e_ as a centre the arcs _j k_, and join _j k_ by line _l_. Take half the length of line _l_ and from _j_ as a centre mark a line on _a_ to the arc _m_. Now the radius of _m_ from _e_ will be the radius of all the centres from which to draw the figure; hence we may draw in the circle _m_ and draw line _s_, cutting the circle. Then draw line _o_, passing through _m_, and giving the centre _p_. From _p_ we draw the line _q_, cutting the intersection of the circle with line _a_ and giving the centre _r_. From _r_ we draw line _s_, meeting the circle and the line _c, d_, giving us the centre _t_. From _t_ we draw line _u_, passing through the centre _m_. These four lines _o_, _q_, _s_, _u_ are prolonged past the centres, because they define what part of the curve is to be drawn from each centre: thus from centre _m_ the curve from _v_ to _w_ is drawn, from centre _t_ the curve from _w_ to _x_ is drawn. From centre _r_ the curve from _x_ to _y_ is drawn, and from centre _p_ the curve from _y_ to _v_ is drawn. It is to be noted, however, that after the point _m_ is found, the remaining lines may be drawn very quickly, because the line _o_ from _m_ to _p_ may be drawn with the triangle of 45 degrees resting on the square blade. The triangle may be turned over, set to point _p_ and line _q_ drawn, and by turning the triangle again the line _s_ may be drawn from point _r_; finally the triangle may be again turned over and line _u_ drawn, which renders the drawing of the circle _m_ unnecessary. To draw an elliptical figure whose proportion of width to breadth shall remain the same, whatever the length of the major axis may be: Take any square figure and bisect it by the line A in Figure 80. Draw, in each half of the square, the diagonals E F, G H. From P as a centre with the radius P R draw the arc S E R. With the same radius draw from O as a centre the arc T D V. With radius L C draw arc R C V, and from K as a centre draw arc S B T. [Illustration: Fig. 80.] [Illustration: Fig. 81.] A very near approach to the true form of a true ellipse may be drawn by the construction given in Figure 81, in which A A and B B are centre lines passing through the major and minor axis of the ellipse, of which _a_ is the axis or centre, _b c_ is the major axis, and _a e_ half the minor axis. Draw the rectangle _b f g c_, and then the diagonal line _b e_; at a right angle to _b e_ draw line _f h_, cutting B B at _i_. With radius _a e_ and from _a_ as a centre draw the dotted arc _e j_, giving the point _j_ on line B B. From centre _k_, which is on the line B B and central between _b_ and _j_, draw the semicircle _b m j_, cutting A A at _l_. Draw the radius of the semicircle _b m j_, cutting it at _m_, and cutting _f g_ at _n_. With the radius _m n_ mark on A A at and from _a_ as a centre the point _o_. With radius _h o_ and from centre _h_ draw the arc _p o q_. With radius _a l_ and from _b_ and _c_ as centres, draw arcs cutting _p o q_ at the points _p q_. Draw the lines _h p r_ and _h q s_ and also the lines _p i t_ and _q v w_. From _h_ as a centre draw that part of the ellipse lying between _r_ and _s_, with radius _p r_; from _p_ as a centre draw that part of the ellipse lying between _r_ and _t_, with radius _q s_, and from _q_ as a centre draw the ellipse from _s_ to _w_, with radius _i t_; and from _i_ as a centre draw the ellipse from _t_ to _b_ and with radius _v w_, and from _v_ as a centre draw the ellipse from _w_ to _c_, and one-half of the ellipse will be drawn. It will be seen that the whole construction has been performed to find the centres _h_, _p_, _q_, _i_ and _v_, and that while _v_ and _i_ may be used to carry the curve around on the other side of the ellipse, new centres must be provided for _h_ _p_ and _q_, these new centres corresponding in position to _h_ _p_ _q_. Divesting the drawing of all the lines except those determining its dimensions and the centres from which the ellipse is struck, we have in Figure 82 the same ellipse drawn half as large. The centres _v_, _p_, _q_, _h_ correspond to the same centres in Figure 81, while _v'_, _p'_, _q'_, _h'_ are in corresponding positions to draw in the other half of the ellipse. The length of curve drawn from each centre is denoted by the dotted lines radiating from that centre; thus, from _h_ the part from _r_ to _s_ is drawn; from _h'_ that part from _r'_ to _s'_. At the ends the respective centres _v_ are used for the parts from _w_ to _w'_ and from _t_ to _t'_ respectively. [Illustration: Fig. 82.] [Illustration: Fig. 83.] The most correct method of drawing an ellipse is by means of an instrument termed a trammel, which is shown in Figure 83. It consists of a cross frame in which are two grooves, represented by the broad black lines, one of which is at a right angle to the other. In these grooves are closely fitted two sliding blocks, carrying pivots E F, which may be fastened to the sliding blocks, while leaving them free to slide in the grooves at any adjusted distance apart. These blocks carry an arm or rod having a tracing point (as pen or pencil) at G. When this arm is swept around by the operator, the blocks slide in the grooves and the pen-point describes an ellipse whose proportion of width to length is determined by the distance apart of the sliding blocks, and whose dimensions are determined by the distance of the pen-point from the sliding block. To set the instrument, draw lines representing the major and minor axes of the required ellipse, and set off on these lines (equidistant from their intersection), to mark the required length and width of ellipse. Place the trammel so that the centre of its slots is directly over the point or centre from which the axes are marked (which may be done by setting the centres of the slots true to the lines passing through the axis) and set the pivots as follows: Place the pencil-point G so that it coincides with one of the points as C, and place the pivot E so that it comes directly at the point of intersection of the two slots, and fasten it there. Then turn the arm so that the pencil-point G coincides with one of the points of the minor axis as D, the arm lying parallel to B D, and place the pivot F over the centre of the trammel and fasten it there, and the setting is complete. [Illustration: Fig. 84.] To draw a parabola mechanically: In Figure 84 C D is the width and H J the height of the curve. Bisect H D in K. Draw the diagonal line J K and draw K E, cutting K at a right angle to J K, and produce it in E. With the radius H E, and from J as a centre, mark point F, which will be the focus of the curve. At any convenient distance above J fasten a straight-edge A B, setting it parallel to the base C D of the parabola. Place a square S with its back against the straight-edge, setting the edge O N coincident with the line J H. Place a pin in the focus F, and tie to it one end of a piece of twine. Place a tracing-point at J, pass the twine around the tracing-point, bringing down along the square-blade and fasten it at N, with the tracing-point kept against the edge of the square and the twine kept taut; slide the square along the straight-edge, and the tracing-point will mark the half J C of the parabola. Turn the square over and repeat the operation to trace the other half J D. This method corresponds to the method of drawing an ellipse by the twine and pins, as already described. [Illustration: Fig. 85.] To draw a parabola by lines: Bisect the width A B in Figure 85, and divide each half into any convenient number of equal divisions; and through these points of division draw vertical lines, as 1, 2, 3, etc. (in each half). Divide the height A D at one end and B E at the other into as many equal divisions as the half of A B is divided into. From the points of divisions 1, 2, 3, etc., on lines A D and B E, draw lines pointing to C, and where these lines intersect the corresponding vertical lines are points through which the curve may be drawn. Thus on the side A D of the curve, the intersection of the two lines marked 1 is a point in the curve; the intersection of the two lines marked 2 is another point in the curve, and so on. TO DRAW A HEART CAM. [Illustration: Fig. 86.] Draw the line A B, Figure 86, equal to the length of stroke required. Divide it into any number of equal parts, and from C as a centre draw circles through the points of division. Draw the outer circle and divide its circumference into twice as many equal divisions as the line A B was divided into. Draw radial lines from each point of division on the circle, and the points of intersection of the radial lines with the circles are points for the outline of the cam, and through these points a curved line may be drawn giving the shape of the cam. It is obvious that the greater the number of divisions on A B, the more points and the more perfect the curve may be drawn. CHAPTER IV. _SHADOW LINES AND LINE SHADING._ SECTION LINING OR CROSS-HATCHING. When the interior of a piece is to be shown as a piece cut in half, or when a piece is broken away, as is done to make more of the parts show, or show more clearly, the surface so broken away or cut off is section-lined or cross-hatched; that is to say, diagonal lines are drawn across it, and to distinguish one piece from another these lines are drawn at varying angles and of varying widths apart. In Figure 87 is given a view of three cylindrical pieces. It may be known to be a sectional view by the cross-hatching or section lines. It would be a difficult matter to represent the three pieces put together without showing them in section, because, in an outline view, the collars and recesses would not appear. Each piece could of course be drawn separately, but this would not show how they were placed when put together. They could be shown in one view if they were shaded by lines and a piece shown broken out where the collars and, recesses are, but line shading is too tedious for detail drawings, beside involving too much labor in their production. [Illustration: Fig. 87.] Figure 88 represents a case in which there are three cylindrical pieces one within the other, the two inner ones being fastened together by a screw which is shown dotted in in the end view, and whose position along the pieces is shown in the side view. The edges of the fracture in the outer piece are in this case cross-hatched, to show the line of fracture. [Illustration: Fig. 88.] [Illustration: Fig. 89.] In cross-hatching it is better that the diagonal lines do not quite meet the edges of the piece, than that they should in the least overrun, as is shown in Figure 89, where in the top half the diagonals slightly overrun, while in the lower half they do not quite meet the outlines of the piece. In Figure 90 are shown in section a number of pieces one within the other, the central bore being filled with short plugs. All the cross-hatching was done with the triangle of 60 degrees and that of 90 degrees. It is here shown that with these two triangles only, and a judicious arrangement of the diagonals, an almost infinite number of pieces may be shown in cross section without any liability of mistaking one for the other, or any doubt as to the form and arrangement of the pieces; for, beside the difference in spacing in the cross-hatching, there are no two adjoining pieces with the diagonals running in the same direction. It will be seen that the narrow pieces are most clearly defined by a close spacing of the cross-hatching. [Illustration: Fig. 90.] In Figure 91 are shown three pieces put together and having slots or keyways through them. The outer shell is shown to be in one piece from end to end, because the cross-hatching is not only equally spaced, but the diagonals are in the same direction; hence it would be known that D, F, H, and E were slots or recesses through the piece. The same remarks apply to piece B, wherein G, J, K are recesses or slots. Piece C is shown to have in its bore a recess at L. In the case of B, as of A, there would be no question as to the piece being all one from end to end, notwithstanding that the two ends are completely severed where the slots G, I, come, because the spacing and direction of the cross-hatching are equal on each side of the slots, which they would not be if they were separate pieces. [Illustration: Fig. 91.] [Illustration: Fig. 92.] Section shading or cross-hatching may sometimes cause the lines of the drawing to appear crooked to the eye. Thus, in Figure 92, the key edge on the right appears curved inwards, while on the left the key edge appears curved outwards, although such is not actually the case. The same effect is produced in Figure 93 on the right-hand edge of the key, but not on the left-hand edge. [Illustration: Fig. 93] [Illustration: Fig. 94.] A remarkable instance of this kind is shown in Figure 94, when the vertical lines appear to the eye to be at a considerable angle one to the other, although they are parallel. The lines in sectional shading or cross-hatching may be made to denote the material of which the piece is to be composed. Thus Professor Unwin has proposed the system shown in the Figures 95 and 96. This may be of service in some cases, but it would involve very much more labor than it is worth in ordinary machine shop drawings, except in the case of cast iron and wood, these two being shown in the simplest and the usual manner. It is much better to write the name of the material beneath the piece in a detail drawing. [Illustration: Fig. 95.] [Illustration: Fig. 96.] LINE SHADING. Mechanical drawings are made to look better and to show more distinctly by being line shaded or shaded by lines. The simplest form of line shading is by the use of the shade or shadow line. In a mechanical drawing the light is supposed, for the purposes of line shading or of coloring, to come in from the upper left-hand corner of the drawing paper; hence it falls directly upon the upper and left-hand lines of each piece, which are therefore represented by fine lines, while the right hand and lower edges of the piece being on the shadow side may therefore, with propriety, be represented by broader lines, which are called shadow or shade lines. These lines will often serve to indicate the shape of some part of the piece represented, as will be seen from the following examples. In Figure 97 is a piece that contains a hole, the fact being shown by the circle being thickened at A. If the circle were thickened on the other side as at B, in Figure 98, it would show that it represented a cylindrical stem instead of a hole. [Illustration: Fig. 97.] [Illustration: Fig. 98.] [Illustration: Fig. 99.] In Figure 99 is represented a washer, the surfaces that are in the shadow side being shown in a shade line or shadow line, as it is often called. In Figure 100 is a key drawn with a shade line, while in Figure 101 the shade line is shown applied to a nut. The shade line may be produced in straight lines by drawing the line twice over, and slightly inclining the pen, or by opening the pen points a little. For circles, however, it may be produced either by slightly moving the centre from which the circle is drawn, or by going over the shade part twice, and slightly pressing the instrument as it moves, so as to gradually spring the legs farther apart, the latter plan being generally preferable. [Illustration: Fig. 100.] [Illustration: Fig. 101.] [Illustration: Fig. 102.] Figure 102 shows a German pen, that can be regulated to draw lines of various breadths. The head of the adjusting screw is made rather larger than usual, and is divided at the under side into twenty divisional notches, each alternate notch being marked by a figure on the face. By this arrangement a uniform thickness of line may be maintained after filling or clearing the pen, and any desired thickness may be repeated, without any loss of time in trial of thickness on the paper. A small spring automatically holds the divided screw-head in any place. With very little practice the click of the spring in the notches becomes a sufficient guide for adjustment, without reference to the figures on the screw-head. Another meritorious feature of this pen is that it is armed with sapphire points, which retain their sharpness very long, and thus save the time and labor required to keep ordinary instruments in order for the performance of fine work. An example of line shading in perspective drawing is shown in the drawing of a pipe threading stock and die in Figure 103. [Illustration: Fig. 103.] Shading by means of lines may be used with excellent effect in mechanical drawing, not only to distinguish round from flat surfaces, but also to denote to the eye the relative distances of surfaces. Figure 104 represents a cylindrical pin line shaded. As the light is supposed to come in from the upper left-hand corner, it will evidently fall more upon the left-hand half of the stem, and of the collar or bead, hence those parts are shaded with lighter or finer lines than the right-hand sides are. [Illustration: Fig. 104.] [Illustration: Fig. 105.] Two cylindrical pieces that join each other may be line shaded at whatever angle they may join. Figure 105 represents two such pieces, one at a right angle to the other, both being of equal diameter. [Illustration: Fig. 106.] Figure 106 represents a drawing of a lathe centre shaded by lines, the lines on the taper parts meeting those on the parallel part A, and becoming more nearly parallel to the axis of the piece as the centre of the piece is approached. The same is the case where a piece having a curved outline is drawn, which is shown in Figure 107, where the set of the bow-pen is gradually increased for drawing the shade lines of the curves. The centres of the shade curves fall in each case upon a line at a right angle to the axis of the piece, as upon the lines A, B, C, the dotted lines showing the radius for each curve. [Illustration: Fig. 107.] The lines are made finer by closing the pen points by means of the screw provided for that purpose. The pen requires for this purpose to be cleaned of the ink that is apt to dry in it. In Figure 108 line shading is shown applied to a ball or sphere, while in Figure 109 it is shown applied to a pin in a socket which is shown in section. By showing the hollow in connection with the round piece, the difference between the two is quite clearly seen, the light falling most upon the upper half of the pin and the lower half of the hole. This perhaps is more clearly shown in the piece of tube in Figure 110, where the thickness of the tube showing is a great aid to the eye. So, likewise, the hollow or hole is more clearly seen where the piece is shown in section, as in Figure 111, which is the case even though the piece be taper as in the figure. If the body be bell-mouthed, as in Figure 112, the hollow curve is readily shown by the shading; but to line shade a hollow curve without any of these aids to the eye, as say, to show a half of a tin tube, is a very difficult matter if the piece is to look natural; and all that can be done is to shade the top darkly and let the light fall mostly at and near the bottom. An example of line shading to denote the relative distances from the eye of various surfaces is given in Figure 113, where the surfaces most distant are the most shaded. The flat surfaces are lined with lines of equal breadth, the degrees of shading being governed by the width apart of the lines. [Illustration: Fig. 108.] [Illustration: Fig. 109.] [Illustration: Fig. 110.] [Illustration: Fig. 111.] [Illustration: Fig. 112.] [Illustration: Fig. 113.] Line shading is often used to denote that the piece represented is to be of wood, the shade lines being in some cases regular in combination with regular ones, or entirely irregular, as in Figure 114. [Illustration: Fig. 114.] CHAPTER V. _MARKING DIMENSIONS._ The dimensions of mechanical drawings are best marked in red ink so that they will show plainly, and that the lines denoting the points at which the dimension is given shall not be confounded with the lines of the drawing. The dimension figures should be as large as the drawing will conveniently admit; and should be marked at every point at which a shoulder or change of form or dimension occurs, except in the case of straight tapers which have their dimensions marked at each end of the taper. In the case of a single piece standing by itself the dimension figures may be marked all standing one way, so as to be read without changing the position of the operator or requiring to turn the drawing around. This is done in Figure 115, which represents the drawing of a key. The figures are here placed outside the drawing in all cases where it can be done, which, in the case of a small drawing, leaves the same clearer. [Illustration: Fig. 115.] In Figure 116 the dimensions are marked, running parallel to the dimension for which they are given, so that all measures of length stand lengthwise, and those of breadth across the drawing. [Illustration: Fig. 116.] Figure 117 represents a key with a sharp-cornered step in it. Here the two dimensions forming the steps cannot both be coincident with it; hence they are marked as near to it as convenient, it being understood that they apply to the step, and not to one side of it. When the step has a round instead of a sharp corner, the radius of the arc of the corner may be marked, as shown in Figure 118. [Illustration: Fig. 117.] Figure 119 represents a key drawn in perspective, so that all the dimensions may be marked on one view. Perspective sketches may be used for single pieces, as they denote the shape of the piece more clearly to the eye. On account of the skill required in their production, they are not, however, used in mechanical drawing, except as in the case of Patent-Office or similar drawings, where the form and construction rather than the dimension is the information sought to be conveyed. [Illustration: Fig. 118.] [Illustration: Fig. 119.] CHAPTER VI. _THE ARRANGEMENT OF DIFFERENT VIEWS._ THE DIFFERENT VIEWS OF A MECHANICAL DRAWING. The word _elevation_, as applied to mechanical drawing, means simply a view; hence a side elevation is a side view, or an end elevation is an end view. The word _plan_ is employed in place of the word top; hence a plan view is a top view, or a view looking down upon the top of the piece. A _general_ view means a view showing the machine put together or assembled, while a detail drawing is one containing a detail, as a part of the machine or a single piece disconnected from the other parts of the whole machine. It is obviously desirable in a mechanical drawing to present the piece of work in as few views as possible, but in all cases there must be a sufficient number to permit of the dimensions in every necessary direction to be marked on the drawing. Suppose, then, that in Figure 120 we have to represent a solid cylinder, whose length equals its diameter, and it is obvious that both the diameter and length may be marked in the one view given; hence, a second view, such as shown by the circle in Figure 121, is unnecessary, except it be to distinguish the body from a cube, in which the one view would also be sufficient whereon to mark all the dimensions necessary to enable the piece to be made. It happens, however, that a cube and a cylinder are the only two figures upon which all the dimensions can be marked on one view of the piece, and as cylindrical pieces are much more common in machine work than cubes are, it is taken for granted that, where the pieces are cylindrical, but one view shall be used, and that where they are cubes either two views shall be given, or where they are square a cross shall be marked upon the parts that are square; thus, in Figure 122, is shown a cross formed by the lines A B across the face of the drawing, which saves making a second view. [Illustration: Fig. 120.] [Illustration: Fig. 121.] [Illustration: Fig. 122.] [Illustration: Fig. 123.] It would appear that under some conditions this might lead to error; as, for example, take the piece in Figure 123, and there is nothing to denote which is the length and which is the diameter of the piece, but there is a certain amount of custom in such cases than will usually determine this point; thus, the piece will be given a name, as pin or disk, the one denoting that its diameter is less than its length, and the other that its diameter is greater than its length. In the absence of any such name, it would be in practice assumed that it was a pin and not a disk; because, if it were a disk, it would either be named or shaded, or a second view given to show its unusual form, the disk being a more unusual form than the pin-form in mechanical structures. As an example of the use of the cross to denote a square, we have Figure 124, which represents a piece having a hexagon head, section _a_, _a'_, that is rectangular, a collar _b_, a square part _c_, and a round stem _d_. Here it will be noted that it is the rectangular part _a_, _a'_, that renders necessary two views, and that in the absence of the cross, yet another view would be necessary to show that part _c_ is square. [Illustration: Fig. 124.] [Illustration: Fig. 125.] A rectangular piece always requires two views and sometimes three. In Figure 125, for example, is a piece that would require a side view to show the length and breadth, and an edge view to show the thickness. Suppose the piece to be wedge-shaped in any direction; then another view will be necessary, as is shown in Figs. 126 and 127. In the former the wedge or taper is in the direction of its length, while in the latter it is in the direction of its thickness. Outline views, however, will not in some cases show the form of the figure, however many views be presented. An example of this is given in Figure 128, which represents a ring having a hexagon cross section. A sectional edge view is here necessary in order to show the hexagonal form. Another example of this kind, which occurs more frequently in practice, is a cupped ring such as shown in Figure 129. [Illustration: Fig. 126.] [Illustration: Fig. 127.] [Illustration: Fig. 128.] [Illustration: Fig. 129.] EXAMPLES. Let it be required to draw a rectangular piece such as is shown in two views in Figure 130, and the process for the pencil lines is as follows: [Illustration: Fig. 130.] With the bow-pencil set to half the required length and breadth of the square the arcs 1, 2, 3 and 4, in Figure 131, are marked, and then the lines 5 and 6, letting them run past the width of the arcs 3 and 4. There is no need to pencil in lines 7 and 8, since they can be inked in without pencilling, because it is known that they must meet the arcs 3 and 4 and terminate at the lines 5 and 6. The top and bottom lines of the edge view are merely prolongations of lines 5 and 6; hence the lines 9 and 10 are drawn the requisite distance apart for the thickness and to meet the top and bottom lines. The lines are then inked in, the pencil lines rubbed out, and the drawing will appear as in Figure 130. [Illustration: Fig. 131.] [Illustration: Fig. 132.] Suppose, however, that the piece has a step in it, as in Figure 132, and the pencilling will be as in Figure 133. From the centre, the arcs 1, 2, 3 and 4 for the outer, and arcs 5, 6, 7 and 8 for the inner square are marked; lines 9 and 10, and their prolongations, 11 and 12, for the edge view, are then pencilled; lines 13 and 14, and their prolongations, 15 and 16, are then pencilled, and dots to show the locations for lines 21 and 22 maybe marked and the pencilling is complete. Lines 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, and 23 may then be inked in, in the order named, and then lines 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15 and 16, when the inking in will be complete. [Illustration: Fig. 133.] In inking in horizontal lines begin at the top and mark in each line as the square comes to it; and in inking the vertical ones begin always at the left hand line and mark the lines as they are come to, moving the square or the triangle to the right, and great care should be taken not to let the lines cross where they meet, as at the corners, since this would greatly impair the appearance of the drawing. These figures have been drawn without the aid of a centre line, because from their shapes it was easy to dispense with it, but in most cases a centre line is necessary; thus in Figure 134 we have a body having a number of steps. The diameters of these steps are marked by arcs, as in the previous examples, and their lengths may be marked by applying the measuring rule direct to the drawing paper and making the necessary pencil mark. But it would be tedious to mark the successive steps true one with the other by measuring each step, because one step would require to be pencilled in before the next could be marked. To avoid this the centre line 1, Figure 134, is first marked, and the arcs for the steps are then marked as shown. Centre lines are also necessary to show the alignment of one part to another; thus in Figure 135 is a cube with a hole passing through it. The dotted lines in the side view show that the hole passes clear through the piece and is a parallel one, while the centre line, being central to the outline throughout the piece, shows that the hole is equidistant, all through, from the walls of the piece. [Illustration: Fig. 134.] [Illustration: Fig. 135.] The pencil lines for this piece would be marked as in Figure 136, line 1 representing the centre line from which all the arcs are marked. It will be noted that the length of the piece is marked by arcs which occur, because being a cube the set of the compasses for arcs 2, 3, 4 and 5 will answer without altering to mark arcs 6 and 7. [Illustration: Fig. 136.] If the hole in the piece were a taper or conical one, it would be denoted by the dotted lines, as in Figure 137, and that the taper is central to the body is shown by these dotted lines being equidistant from the centre line. [Illustration: Fig. 137.] Suppose one of the sides to be tapered, as is the side A, in Figure 138, and that the hole is not central, and both facts will be shown by the centre lines 1 and 2 in the figure. The measurement of face A would be marked from A to line B at each end, but the distance the hole was out of the centre would be marked by the distance between the centre line 2 and the edge C of the piece. [Illustration: Fig. 138.] If the hole did not pass entirely through the piece, the dotted lines would show it, as in Figure 139. [Illustration: Fig. 139.] [Illustration: Fig. 140.] The designations of the views of a piece of work depend upon the position in which the piece stands, when in place upon the machine of which it forms a part. Thus in Figure 140 is a lever, and if its shaft stood horizontal when the piece is in place in the machine, the view given is an end one, but suppose that the shaft stood vertical, and the same view becomes a plan or top view. [Illustration: Fig. 141.] [Illustration: Fig. 142.] In Figure 142 is a view of a lever which is a side view if the lever stands horizontal, and lever B hangs down, or a plan view if the shaft stands horizontal, but lever B stands also horizontal. We may take the same drawing and turn it around on the paper as in Figure 143, and it becomes a side view if the shaft stands vertical, and a plan view if the shaft stands horizontal and arm D vertical above it. In a side or an end view, the piece that projects highest in the drawing is highest when upon the machine; also in a side elevation the piece that is at the highest point in the drawing extends farthest upward when the piece is on the machine. But in a plan or top view the height of vertical pieces is not shown, as appears in the case of arm D in Figure 143. [Illustration: Fig. 143.] In either of the levers, Figures 142 or 143, all the dimensions could be marked if an additional view were given, but this will not be the case if an eye have a slot in it, as at E, in Figure 144, or a jaw have a tongue in it, as at F: hence, end views of the eye and the jaw must be given, which may be most conveniently done by showing them projected from the ends of those parts as in the figure. This naturally brings us to a consideration as to the best method of projecting one view from another. As a general rule, the side elevation or side view is the most important, because it shows more of the parts and details of the work; hence it should be drawn first, because it affords more assistance in drawing the other views. [Illustration: Fig. 144.] There are two systems of placing the different views of a piece. In the first the views are presented as the piece would present itself if it were laid upon the paper for the side view, and then turned or rolled upon the paper for the other views, as shown in Figure 145, in which the piece consists of five sections or members, marked respectively A, B, C, D, and E. Now if the piece were turned or rolled so that the end face of B were uppermost, and the member E was beneath, it will, by the operation of turning it, have assumed the position in the lower view marked position 2; while if it were turned over upon the paper in the opposite direction it would assume the position marked 3. This gives to the mind a clear idea of the various views and positions; but it possesses some disadvantages: thus, if position 1 is a side elevation or view of the piece, as it stands when in place of the machine, then E is naturally the bottom member; but it is shown in the top view of the drawing, hence what is actually the bottom view of the piece (position 3) becomes the top view in the drawing. A second disadvantage is that if we desire to put in dotted lines, to show how one view is derived from the other, and denote corresponding parts, then these dotted lines must be drawn across the face of the drawing, making it less distinct; thus the dotted lines connecting stem E in position 1 to E in position 3, pass across the faces of both A and B of position 1. [Illustration: Fig. 145.] [Illustration: Fig. 146.] In a large drawing, or one composed of many members or parts, it would, therefore, be out of the question to mark in the dotted lines. A further disadvantage in a large drawing is that it is necessary to go from one side of the drawing to the other to see the construction of the same part. [Illustration: Fig. 147.] To obviate these difficulties, a modern method is to suppose the piece, instead of rolling upon the paper, to be lifted from it, turned around to present the required view, and then moved upwards on the paper for a top view, sideways for a side view, and below for a bottom view. Thus the three views of the piece in Figure 145 would be as in Figure 146, where position 2 is obtained by supposing the piece to be lifted from position 1, the bottom face turned uppermost, and the piece moved down the paper to position 2, which is a bottom view of the piece, and the bottom view in the drawing. Similarly, if the piece be lifted from position 1, and the top face in that figure is turned uppermost, and the piece is then slid upwards on the paper, view 3 is obtained, being a top view of the piece as it lies in position 1, and the top view in the drawing. Now suppose we require to find the shape of member B, then in Figure 145 we require to look at the top of position 1, and then down below to position 2. [Illustration: Fig. 148.] But in Figure 146 we have the side view and end view both together, while the dotted lines do not require to cross the face of the side view. Now suppose we take a similar piece, and suppose its end faces, as F, G, to have holes in them, which require to be shown in both views, and under the one system the drawing would, if the dotted lines were drawn across, appear as in Figure 147, whereas under the other system the drawing would appear as in Figure 148. And it follows that in cases where it is necessary to draw dotted lines from one view to the other, it is best to adopt the new system. CHAPTER VII. _EXAMPLES IN BOLTS, NUTS, AND POLYGONS._ [Illustration: Fig. 149.] [Illustration: Fig. 150.] [Illustration: Fig. 151.] Let it be required to draw a machine screw, and it is not necessary, and therefore not usual in small screws to draw the full outline of the thread, but to represent it by thick and thin lines running diagonally across the bolt, as in Figure 149, the thick ones representing the bottom, and the thin ones the top of the thread. The pencil lines would be drawn in the order shown in Figure 150. Line 1 is the centre line, and line 2 a line to represent the lower side of the head; from the intersection of these two lines as a centre (as at A) short arcs 3 and 6, showing the diameter of the thread, are marked, and the arcs 5 and 6, representing the depth of the thread, are marked. The arc 7, representing the head, is then marked. The vertical lines 8, 9, 10, and 11 are then marked, and the outline of the screw is complete. The thick lines representing the bottom of the thread are next marked in, as in Figure 151, extending from line 9 to line 10. Midway between these lines fine ones are made for the tops of the thread. All the lines being pencilled in, they may be inked in with the drawing instruments, taking care that they do not overrun one another. When the pencil lines are rubbed out, the sketch will appear as in Figure 149. [Illustration: Fig. 152.] For a bolt with a hexagon head the lines would be drawn in the order shown in Figure 152. At a right-angle to centre line 1, line two is drawn. The pencil-compasses are then set to half the diameter of the bolt, and from point A arcs 3 and 6 are pencilled, thus showing the width of the front flat of the head, as well as the diameter of the stem. From the point where these arcs meet line 2, and with the same radius, arcs 5 and 6 are marked, showing the widths of the other two flats of the head. The thickness of the head and the length of the bolt head may then be marked either by placing a rule on line 1 and marking the short lines (such as line 7) a cross line 1, or the pencil-compasses may be set to the rule and the lengths marked from point A. In the United States standard for bolt heads and nuts the thickness of the head is made equal to the diameter of the bolt. With the compasses set for the arcs 3 and 4, we may in two steps, from A along the centre line, mark off the thickness of the head without using the rule. But as the rule has to be applied along line 1 to mark line 7 for the length of the bolt, it is just as easy to mark the head thickness at the same time. The line 8 showing the length of the thread may be marked at the same time as the other lengths are marked, and the outlines 9, 10, 11, 12, 13 may be drawn in the order named. We have now to mark the arcs at the top of the flats of the head to show the chamfer, and to explain how these arcs are obtained we have in Figure 153 an enlarged view of the head. It is evident that the smallest diameter of the chamfer is represented by the circle A, and therefore the length of the line B must equal A. It is also evident that the outer edge of the chamfer will meet the corners at an equal depth (from the face of the nut), as represented by the line C C, and it is obvious that the curves that represent the outline of the chamfer on each side of the head or nut will approach the face of the head or nut at an equal distance, as denoted by the line D D. It follows that the curve must in each case be such as will, at each of its ends, meet the line C, and at its centre meet the line D D, the centres of the respective curves being marked in the figure by X. [Illustration: Fig. 153.] It is sufficiently accurate, therefore, for all practical purposes to set the pencil on the centre-line at the point A in Figure 152 and mark the curve 14, and to then set the compasses by trial to mark the other two curves of the chamfer, so that they shall be an equal distance with arc 14 from line 9, and join lines 10 and 13 at the same distance from line 9 that 14 joins lines 3 and 4, so that as in Figure 153 all three of the arcs would touch a line as C, and another line as D. [Illustration: Fig. 154.] The United States standard sizes for forged or unfinished bolts and nuts are given in the following table, Figure 154 showing the dimensions referred to in the table. UNITED STATES STANDARD DIMENSIONS OF BOLTS AND NUTS. KEY: A: Nominal. D. B: Effective.[*] C: Standard Number of threads per inch. ------------------------+----------------------------+--------------------- BOLT. | BOLT HEAD AND NUT. | ------------------------+-----------------+----------+----------+---------- Diameter. | | Long diameter, | Short | | -------+------| | I, or diameter | diameter | | | | | across corners. | of | | | | |--------+--------| hexagon | | A | B | C | Hexa- | Square.| and | | | | | gon. | | square, | Depth of | Depth of | | | | | or width | nut, | bolt | | | | | across J.| H. | head, K. -------+------+---------+--------+--------+----------+----------+---------- 1/4 | .185 | 20 | 9/16| 23/32| 1/2 | 1/4 | 1/4 5/16 | .240 | 18 | 11/16| 27/32| 19/32 | 5/16 | 19/64 3/8 | .294 | 16 | 25/32| 31/32| 11/16 | 3/8 | 11/32 7/16 | .345 | 14 | 29/32| 1-3/32 | 25/32 | 7/16 | 25/64 1/2 | .400 | 13 | 1 | 1-1/4 | 7/8 | 1/2 | 7/16 9/16 | .454 | 12 | 1-1/8 | 1-3/8 | 31/32 | 9/16 | 31/64 5/8 | .507 | 11 | 1-7/32 | 1-1/2 | 1-1/16 | 5/8 | 17/32 3/4 | .620 | 10 | 1-7/16 | 1-3/4 | 1-1/4 | 3/4 | 5/8 7/8 | .731 | 9 | 1-21/32| 2-1/32 | 1-7/16 | 7/8 | 23/32 1 | .837 | 8 | 1-7/8 | 2-5/16 | 1-5/8 | 1 | 13/16 1-1/8 | .940 | 7 | 2-3/32 | 2-9/16 | 1-13/16 | 1-1/8 | 29/32 1-1/4 |1.065 | 7 | 2-5/16 | 2-27/32| 2 | 1-1/4 | 1 1-3/8 |1.160 | 6 | 2-17/32| 3-3/32 | 2-3/16 | 1-3/8 | 1-3/32 1-1/2 |1.284 | 6 | 2-3/4 | 3-11/32| 2-3/8 | 1-1/2 | 1-3/16 1-5/8 |1.389 | 5-1/2 | 2-31/32| 3-5/8 | 2-9/16 | 1-5/8 | 1-9/32 1-3/4 |1.491 | 5 | 3-3/16 | 3-7/8 | 2-3/4 | 1-3/4 | 1-3/8 1-7/8 |1.616 | 5 | 3-13/32| 4-5/32 | 2-15/16 | 1-7/8 | 1-15/32 2 |1.712 | 4-1/2 | 3-19/32| 4-13/32| 3-1/8 | 2 | 1-9/16 2-1/4 |1.962 | 4-1/2 | 4-1/32 | 4-15/16| 3-1/2 | 2-1/4 | 1-3/4 2-1/2 |2.176 | 4 | 4-15/32| 5-15/32| 3-7/8 | 2-1/2 | 1-15/16 2-3/4 |2.426 | 4 | 4-29/32| 6 | 4-1/4 | 2-3/4 | 2-1/8 3 |2.629 | 3-1/2 | 5-11/32| 6-17/32| 4-5/8 | 3 | 2-5/16 3-1/4 |2.879 | 3-1/2 | 5-25/32| 7-1/16 | 5 | 3-1/4 | 2-1/2 3-1/2 |3.100 | 3-1/4 | 6-7/32 | 7-19/32| 5-3/8 | 3-1/2 | 2-11/16 3-3/4 |3.317 | 3 | 6-5/8 | 8-1/8 | 5-3/4 | 3-3/4 | 2-7/8 ... |3.567 | 3 | 7-1/16 | 8-21/32| 6-1/8 | 4 | 3-1/16 4-1/4 |3.798 | 2-7/8 | 7-1/2 | 9-3/16 | 6-1/2 | 4-1/4 | 3-1/4 4-1/2 |4.028 | 2-3/4 | 7-15/16| 9-23/32| 6-7/8 | 4-1/2 | 3-7/16 4-3/4 |4.256 | 2-5/8 | 8-3/8 |10-1/4 | 7-1/4 | 4-3/4 | 3-5/8 5 |4.480 | 2-1/2 | 8-13/16|10-25/32| 7-5/8 | 5 | 3-13/16 5-1/4 |4.730 | 2-1/2 | 9-1/4 |11-5/16 | 8 | 5-1/4 | 4 5-1/2 |4.953 | 2-3/8 | 9-11/16|11-27/32| 8-3/8 | 5-1/2 | 4-3/16 5-3/4 |5.203 | 2-3/8 |10-3/32 |12-3/8 | 8-3/4 | 5-3/4 | 4-3/8 6 |5.423 | 2-1/4 |10-17/32|12-29/32| 9-1/8 | 6 | 4-9/16 -------+------+---------+--------+--------+----------+----------+---------- * Diameter at the root of the thread. The basis of the Franklin Institute or United States standard for the heads of bolts and for nuts is as follows: The short diameter or width across the flats is equal to one and one-half times the diameter plus 1/8 inch for rough or unfinished bolts and nuts, and one and one-half times the bolt diameter plus, 1/16 inch for finished heads and nuts. The thickness is, for rough heads and nuts, equal to the diameter of the bolt, and for finished heads and nuts 1/16 inch less. [Illustration: Fig. 155.] [Illustration: Fig. 156.] The hexagonal or hexagon (as they are termed in the shop) heads of bolts may be presented in two ways, as is shown in Figures 155 and 156. The latter is preferable, inasmuch as it shows the width across the flats, which is the dimension that is worked to, because it is where the wrench fits, and therefore of most importance; whereas the latter gives the length of a flat, which is not worked to, except incidentally, as it were. There is the objection to the view of the head, given in Figure 156, however, that unless it is accompanied by an end view it somewhat resembles a similar view of a square head for a bolt. It may be distinguished therefrom, however, in the following points: If the amount of chamfer is such as to leave the chamfer circle (as circle A, in Figure 153) of smaller diameter than the width across the flats of the bolt-head, the outline of the sides of the head will pass above the arcs at the top of the flats, and there will be two small flat places, as A and B, in Figure 156 (representing the angle of the chamfer), which will not meet the arcs at the top of the flats, but will join the sides above those arcs, as in the figure; which is also the case in a similar view of a square-headed bolt. It may be distinguished therefrom, however, in the following points: If the amount of chamfer is such as to leave the chamfer circle (A, Figure 153) of smaller diameter than the width across the flats of the bolt-head, the outline of the sides will pass above the arc on the flats, as is shown in Figure 157, in which the chamfer A meets the side of the head at B, and does not, therefore, meet the arc C. The length of side lying between B and D in the side view corresponds with the part lying between E and F in the end view. [Illustration: Fig. 157.] If we compare this head with similar views of a square head G, both being of equal widths, and having their chamfer circles at an equal distance from the sides of the flats, and at the same angle, we perceive at once that the amount of chamfer necessary to give the same distance between the chamfer circle and the side of the bolt (that is, the distance from J to K, being equal to that from L to M), the length of the chamfer N for the square head so greatly exceeds the length A for the hexagon head that the eye detects the difference at once, and is instinctively informed that G must be square, independently of the fact that in the case of the square head, N meets the arc O, while in the hexagon head, A, which corresponds to N, does not meet the arc C, which corresponds to O. When, however, the chamfer is drawn, but just sufficient to meet the flats, as in the case of the hexagon H, and the square I, in Figure 157, the chamfer line passes from the chamfer circle to the side of the head, and the distinction is greater, as will be seen by comparing head H with head I, both being of equal width, having the same angle of chamfer, and an amount just sufficient to meet the sides of the flats. Here it will be seen that in the hexagon H, each side of the head, as P, meets the chamfer circle A. Whereas, in the square head these two lines are joined by the chamfer line Q, the figures being quite dissimilar. [Illustration: Fig. 158.] It is obvious that whatever the degree or angle of the chamfer may be, the diameter of the chamfer circle will be the same in any view in which the head may be presented. Thus, in Figure 158, the line G in the side view is in length equal to the diameter of circle G, in the end view, and so long as the angle of the chamfer is forty-five degrees, as in all the views hitherto given, the width of the chamfer will be equal at corresponding points in the different views; thus in the figure the widths A and B in the two views are equal. [Illustration: Fig. 159.] If the other view showing a corner of the head in front of the head be given, the same fact holds good, as is shown in Figure 159. That the two outside flats should appear in the drawing to be half the width of the middle flat is also shown in Figure 158, where D and E are each half the width of C. Let us now suppose, that the chamfer be given some other angle than that of 45 degrees, and we shall find that the effect is to alter the curves of the chamfer arcs on the flats, as is shown in Figure 160, where these arcs E, C, D are shown less curved, because the chamfer B has more angle to the flats. As a result, the width or distance between the arcs and line G is different in the two views. On this account it is better to draw the chamfer at 45 degrees, as correct results may be obtained with the least trouble. If no chamfer at all is to be given, a hexagon head may still be distinguished from a square one, providing that the view giving three sides of the head, as in Figure 158, is shown, because the two sides D and E being half the width of the middle one C, imparts the information that it is a hexagon head. If, however, the view showing but two of the sides and a corner in front is given, and no chamfer is used, it could not be known whether the head was to be hexagon or square, unless an end view be given, as in Figure 161. [Illustration: Fig. 160.] If the view showing a full side of the head of a square-headed bolt is given, then either an end view must be given, as in Figure 162, or else a single view with a cross on its head, as in Figure 163, may be given. It is the better plan, both in square and hexagon heads, to give the view in which the full face of a flat is presented, that is, as in Figures 155 and 163; because, in the case of the square, the length of a side and the width across the head are both given in that view; whereas if two sides are shown, as in Figure 161, the width across flats is not given, and this is the dimension that is wanted to work to, and not the width across corners. In the case of a hexagon the middle of the three flats is equal in width to the diameter of the bolt, and the other two are one-half its width; all three, therefore, being marked with the same set of compasses as gives the diameter of the body of the bolt, were as shown in Figure 152. For the width across flats there is an accepted standard; hence there is no need to mark it upon the drawing, unless in cases where the standard is to be departed from, in which event an end view may be added, or the view showing two sides may be given. [Illustration: Fig 161.] [Illustration: Fig. 162.] [Illustration: Fig. 163.] [Illustration: Fig. 164.] To draw a square-headed bolt, the pencil lines are marked in the order shown by figures in Figure 164. The inking in is done in the order of the letters _a_, _b_, _c_, etc. It will be observed that pencil lines 2, 9, and 10 are not drawn to cross, but only to meet the lines at their ends, a point that, as before stated, should always be carefully attended to. [Illustration: Fig. 165] To draw the end view of a hexagon head, first draw a circle of the diameter across the flats, and then rest the triangle of 60 degrees on the blade _s_ of the square, as at T 1, in Figure 165, and mark the lines _a_ and _b_. Reverse the triangle, as at T 2, and draw lines _c_ and _d_. Then place the triangle as in Figure 166, and draw the lines _e_ and _f_. [Illustration: Fig. 166.] If the other view of the head is to be drawn, then first draw the lines _a_ and _b_ in Figure 167 with the square, then with the 60 degree triangle, placed on the square S, as at T 1, draw the lines _c_, _d_, and turning the square over, as at T 2, mark lines _e_ and _f_. [Illustration: Fig. 167.] If the diameter across corners of a square head is given, and it be required to draw the head, the process is as follows: For a view showing one corner in front, as in Figure 168, a circle of the given diameter across corners is pencilled, and the horizontal centre-line _a_ is marked, and the triangle of 45 degrees is rested against the square blade S, as in position T 1, and lines _b_ and _c_ marked, _b_ being marked first; and the triangle is then slid along the square blade to position T 1, when line _c_ is marked, these two lines just meeting the horizontal line _a_, where it meets the circle. The triangle is then moved to the left, and line _d_, joining the ends of _b_ and _c_, is marked, and by moving it still farther to the left to position T 2, line _e_ is marked. Lines _b_, _c_, _d_, and _e_ are, of course, the only ones inked in. [Illustration: Fig. 168.] [Illustration: Fig. 169.] If the flats are to lie in the other direction, the pencilling will be done as in Figure 169. The circle is marked as before, and with the triangle placed as shown at T 1, line _a_, passing through the centre of the circle, is drawn. By moving the triangle to the right its edge B will be brought into position to mark line _b_, also passing through the centre of the circle. All that remains is to join the ends of these two lines, using the square blade for lines _c_, _d_, and the triangle for _e_ and _f_, its position on the square blade being denoted at T 3; lines _c_, _d_, _e_, _f_, are the ones inked in. [Illustration: Fig. 170.] For a hexagon head we have the processes, Figures 170 and 171. The circle is struck, and across it line _a_, Figure 170, passing through its centre, the triangle of sixty degrees will mark the sides _b_, _c_, and _d_, _e_, as shown, and the square blade is used for _f_, _g_. [Illustration: Fig. 171.] The chamfer circles are left out of these figures to reduce the number of lines and so keep the engraving clear. Figure 171 shows the method of drawing a hexagon head when the diameter across corners is given, the lines being drawn in the alphabetical order marked, and the triangle used as will now be understood. [Illustration: Fig. 172.] [Illustration: Fig. 173.] It may now be pointed out that the triangle may be used to divide circles much more quickly than they could be divided by stepping around them with compasses. Suppose, for example, that we require to divide a circle into eight equal parts, and we may do so as in Figure 172, line _a_ being marked from the square, and lines _b_, _c_ and _d_ from the triangle of forty-five degrees; the lines to be inked in to form an octagon need not be pencilled, as their location is clearly defined, being lines joining the ends of the lines crossing the circle, as for example, lines _e_, _f_. Let it be required to draw a polygon having twelve equal sides, and the triangle of sixty is used, marking all the lines within the circle in Figure 173, except _a_, for which the square blade is used; the only lines to be inked in are such as _b_, _c_. In this example there is a corner at the top and bottom, but suppose it were required that a flat should fall there instead of a corner; then all we have to do is to set the square blade S at the required angle, as in Figure 174, and then proceed as before, bearing in mind that the point of the circle nearest to the square blade, straight-edge, or whatever the triangle is rested on, is always a corner of a polygon having twelve sides. [Illustration: Fig. 174.] [Illustration: Fig. 175.] In both of these examples we have assumed that the diameter across corners of the polygon was given, but suppose the diameter across the flats were given, and the construction is a little more complicated. Circle _a_, _a_, in Figure 175, is drawn of the required diameter across the flats, and the lines of division are drawn across with the triangle of 60 as before; the triangle of 45 is then used to draw the four lines, _b_, _c_, _d_, _e_, joining the ends of lines _i_, _j_, _k_, _l_, and touching the inner circle, _a_, _a_. The outer circle is then pencilled in, touching the lines of division where they meet the lines _b_, _c_, _d_, _e_, and the rest of the lines for the sides of the polygon may then be drawn within the outer circle, as at _g_, _h_. [Illustration: Fig. 176.] It is obvious, also, that the triangle may be used to draw slots radiating from a centre, as in Figure 176, where it is desired to draw a chuck-plate having 6 slots. The triangle of 60 is used to draw the centre lines, _a_, _b_, _c_, etc., for the slots. From the centre, the arcs _e_, _f_, _g_, _h_, etc., are marked, showing where the centres will fall for describing the half circles forming the ends of the slots. Then half circles, _i_, _j_, _k_, _l_, etc., being drawn, the sides of the slots may be drawn in with the triangle, and the outer circle and the slots inked in. If the slots are not to radiate from the centre of the circle the process is as follows: The outer circle _a_, Figure 177, being drawn, an inner one _b_ is drawn, its radius equalling the amount; the centres of the slots are to point to one side of the centre of circle _a_. The triangle is then used to divide the circle into the requisite number of divisions _c_ for the slots, and arcs _i, j_, are then drawn for the lengths of the slots. The centre lines _e_ are then drawn, passing through the lines _c_, and the arcs _i, j_, etc., and touching the perimeter of the inner circle _b_; arcs _f, g_, are then marked in, and their sides joined with the triangle adjusted by hand. All that would be inked in black are the outer circle and the slots, but the inner circle _b_ and a centre line of one of the slots should be marked in red ink to show how the inclination of the slot was obtained, and therefore its amount. [Illustration: Fig. 177.] For a five-sided figure it is best to step around the circumference of the circle with the compasses, but for a three-sided one, or trigon, the construction is as follows: It will be found that the compasses set to the radius of a circle will accurately divide it into six equal divisions, as is shown in Figure 178; hence every other one of these divisions will be the location for a corner of a trigon. The circle being drawn, a line A, 179, is drawn through its centre, and from its intersection with the circle as at _b_, here a step on each side is marked as _c_, _d_, then lines _c_ to _d_, and _c_ and _d_ to _e_, where A meets, the circle will describe a trigon. If the figure is to stand vertical, all that is necessary is to draw the line _a_ vertical, as in Figure 180. A ready method of getting the dimension across corners, across the flats, or the length of a side of a given polygon, is by means of diagrams, such as shown in the following figures, which form excellent examples for practice. [Illustration: Fig. 178.] [Illustration: Fig. 179.] [Illustration: Fig. 180.] Draw the line O P, Figure 181, and at a right angle to it the line O B; divide these two lines into parts of one inch, as shown in the cut, which is divided into inches and quarter inches, and from these points of division draw lines crossing each other as shown. [Illustration: Fig. 181.] From the point O, draw diagonal lines, at suitable angles to the line O P. As shown in the cut, these diagonal lines are marked: 40 degrees for 5 sided figures. 45 " " 6 " " 49 " " 7 " " 52-1/2 " " 8 " " 55-1/2 " " 9 " " But still others could be added for figures having a greater number of sides. 1. Now it will be found as follows: Half the diameter, or the radius of a piece of cylindrical work being given, and the number of sides it is to have being stated, the length of one side will be the distance measured horizontally from the line O B to the diagonal line for that particular number of sides. EXAMPLE.--A piece of work is 2-1/2 inches in diameter, and is required to have 9 sides: what will be the length of the sides or flats? Now the half diameter or radius of 2-1/2 inches is 1-1/4 inches. Then look along the line O B for 1-1/4, which is denoted in the cut by figures and the arrow A; set one point of the compasses at A, and the other at the point of crossing of the diagonal line with the 1-1/4 horizontal line, as shown in the figure at _a_, and from A to _a_ is the length of one side. Again: A piece of work, 4 inches in diameter, is to have 9 sides: how long will each side be? Now half of 4 is 2, hence from B to _b_ is the length of each side. But suppose that from the length of each side, and the number of sides, it is required to find the diameter to which to turn the piece; that is, its diameter across corners, and we simply reverse the process thus: A body has 9 sides, each side measures 27/32: what is its diameter across corners? Take a rule, apply it horizontally on the figure, and pass it along till the distance from the line O B to the diagonal line marked 9 sides measures 27/32, which is from 1-1/4 on O B to _a_, and the 1-1/4 is the radius, which, multiplied by 2, gives 2-1/2 inches, which is the required diameter across corners. For any other number of sides the process is just the same. Thus: A body is 3-1/2 inches in diameter, and is to have 5 sides: what will be the length of each side? Now half of 3-1/2 is 1-3/4; hence from 1-3/4 on the line O B to the point C, where the diagonal line crosses the 1-3/4 line, is the length of each of the sides. 2. It will be found that the length of a side of a square being given, the size of the square, measured across corners, will be the length of the diagonal line marked 45 degrees, from the point O to the figures indicating, on the line O B or on the line O P, the length of one side. EXAMPLE.--A square body measures 1 inch on each side: what does it measure across the corners? Answer: From the point O, along diagonal line marked 45 degrees, to the point where it crosses the lines 1 (as denoted in the figure by a dot). Again: A cylindrical piece of wood requires to be squared, and each side of the square must measure an inch: what diameter must the piece be turned to? Now the diagonal line marked 45 degrees passes through the 1-inch line on O B, and the inch line on O P, at the point where these lines meet; hence all we have to do is to run the eye along either of the lines marked inch, and from its point of meeting the 45 degrees line, to the point O, is the diameter to turn the piece to. There is another way, however, of getting this same measurement, which is to set a pair of compasses from the line 1 on O B, to line 1 on O P, as shown by the line D, which is the full diameter across corners. This is apparent, because from point O, along line O B, to 1, thence to the dot, thence down to line 1 on O P, and along that to O, encloses a square, of which either from O to the dot, or the length of the line D, is the measurement across corners, while the length of each side, or diameter across the flats, is from point O to either of the points 1, or from either of the points 1 to the dot. [Illustration: Fig. 182.] After graphically demonstrating the correctness of the scale we may simplify it considerably. In Figure 182, therefore, we have applications shown. A is a hexagon, and if one of its sides be measured, it will be found that it measures the same as along line 1 from O B to the diagonal line 45 degrees, which distance is shown by a thickened line. At 1-1/2 is shown a seven-sided figure, whose diameter is 3 inches, and radius 1-1/2 inches, and if from the point at 1-1/2 (along the thickened horizontal line), to the diagonal marked 49 degrees, be measured, it will be found exactly equal to the length of a side on the polygon. At C is shown part of a nine-sided polygon, of 2-inch radius, and the length of one of its sides will be found to equal the distance from the diagonal line marked 52-1/2 degrees, and the line O B at 2. Let it now be noted that if from the point O, as a centre, we describe arcs of circles from the points of division on O B to O P, one end of each arc will meet the same figure on O P as it started from at O B, as is shown in Figure 181, and it becomes apparent that in the length of diagonal line between O and the required arc we have the radius of the polygon. EXAMPLE.--What is the radius across corners of a hexagon or six-sided figure, the length of a side being an inch? Turning to our scale we find that the place where there is a horizontal distance of an inch between the diagonal 45 degrees, answering to six-sided figures, is along line 1 (Figure 182), and the radius of the circle enclosing the six-sided body is, therefore, an inch, as will be seen on referring to circle A. But it will be noted that the length of diagonal line 45 degrees, enclosed between the point O and the arc of circle from 1 on O B to one on O P, measures also an inch. Hence we may measure the radius along the diagonal lines if we choose. This, however, simply serves to demonstrate the correctness of the scale, which, being understood, we may dispense with most of the lines, arriving at a scale such as shown in Figure 183, in which the length of the side of the polygon is the distance from the line O B, measured horizontally to the diagonal, corresponding to the number of sides of the polygon. The radius across corners of the polygon is that of the distance from O along O B to the horizontal line, giving the length of the side of the polygon, and the width across corners for a given length of one side of the square, is measured by the length of the lines A, B, C, etc. Thus, dotted line 2 shows the length of the side of a nine-sided figure, of 2-inch radius, the radius across corners of the figure being 2 inches. [Illustration: Fig. 183.] The dotted line 2-1/2 shows the length of the side of a nine-sided polygon, having a radius across corners of 2-1/2 inches. The dotted line 1 shows the diameter, across corners, of a square whose sides measure an inch, and so on. [Illustration: Fig. 184.] This scale lacks, however, one element, in that the diameter across the flats of a regular polygon being given, it will not give the diameter across the corners. This, however, we may obtain by a somewhat similar construction. Thus, in Figure 184, draw the line O B, and divide it into inches and parts of an inch. From these points of division draw horizontal lines; from the point O draw the following lines and at the following angles from the horizontal line O P. [Illustration: Fig. 185.] A line at 75° for polygons having 12 sides. " 72° " " 10 " " 67-1/2° " " 8 " " 60° " " 6 " From the point O to the numerals denoting the radius of the polygon is the radius across the flats, while from point O to the horizontal line drawn from those numerals is the radius across corners of the polygon. [Illustration: Fig. 186.] A hexagon measures two inches across the flats: what is its diameter measured across the corners? Now from point O to the horizontal line marked 1 inch, measured along the line of 60 degrees, is 1 5-32nds inches: hence the hexagon measures twice that, or 2 5-16ths inches across corners. The proof of the construction is shown in the figure, the hexagon and other polygons being marked simply for clearness of illustration. [Illustration: Fig. 187.] [Illustration: Fig. 188.] Let it be required to draw the stud shown in Figure 185, and the construction would be, for the pencil lines, as shown in Figure 186; line 1 is the centre line, arcs, 2 and 3 give the large, and arcs 4 and 5 the small diameter, to touch which lines 6, 7, 8, and 9 may be drawn. Lines 10, 11, and 12 are then drawn for the lengths, and it remains to draw the curves in. In drawing these curves great exactitude is required to properly find their centres; nothing looks worse in a drawing than an unfair or uneven junction between curves and straight lines. To find the location for these centres, set the compasses to the required radius for the curve, and from the point or corner A draw the arcs _b_ and _c_, from _c_ mark the arc _e_, and from _b_ the arc _d_, and where _d_ and _e_ cross is the centre for the curve _f_. [Illustration: Fig. 189.] Similarly for the curve _h_, set the compasses on _i_ and mark the arc _g_, and from the point where it crosses line 6, draw the curve _h_. In inking in it is best to draw in all curves or arcs of circles first, and the straight lines that join them afterward, because, if the straight lines are drawn first, it is a difficult matter to alter the centres of the curves to make them fall true, whereas, after the curves are drawn it is an easy matter, if it should be necessary, to vary the line a trifle, so as to make it join the curves correctly and fair. In inking in these curves also, care must be taken not to draw them too short or too long, as this would impair the appearance very much, as is shown in Figure 187. [Illustration: Fig. 190.] [Illustration: Fig. 191.] To draw the piece shown in Figure 188, the lines are drawn in the order indicated by the letters in Figure 189, the example being given for practice. It is well for the beginner to draw examples of common objects, such as the hand hammer in Figure 190, or the chuck plate in Figure 191, which afford good examples in the drawing of arcs and circles. In Figure 191 _a_ is a cap nut, and the order in which the same would be pencilled in is indicated by the respective numerals. The circles 3 and 4 represent the thread. [Illustration: Fig. 191 _a_.] In Figure 192 is shown the pencilling for a link having the hubs on one side only, so that a centre line is unnecessary on the edge view, as all the lengths are derived from the top view, while the thickness of the stem and height of the hubs may be measured from the line A. In Figure 193 there are hubs (on both sides of the link) of unequal height, hence a centre line is necessary in both views, and from this line all measurements should be marked. [Illustration: Fig. 192.] [Illustration: Fig. 193.] In Figure 194 are represented the pencil lines for a double eye or knuckle joint, as it is sometimes termed, an example that it is desirable for the student to draw in various sizes, as it is representative of a large class of work. These eyes often have an offset, and an example of this is given in Figure 195, in which A is the centre line for the stem distant from the centre line B of the eyes to the amount of offset required. [Illustration: Fig. 194.] [Illustration: Fig. 195.] [Illustration: Fig. 196.] [Illustration: Fig. 197.] In Figure 196 is an example of a connecting rod end. From a point, as A, we draw arcs, as B C for the width, and E D for the length of the block, and through A we draw the centre line. It is obvious, however, that we may draw the centre line first, and apply the measuring rule direct to the paper, and mark lines in place of the arcs B, C, D, E, and F, G, which are for the stem. As the block joins the stem in a straight line, the latter is evidently rectangular, as will be seen by referring to Figure 197, which represents a rod end with a round stem, the fact that the stem is round being clearly shown by the curves A B. The radius of these curves is obtained as follows: It is obvious that they will join the rod stem at the same point as the shoulder curves do, as denoted by the dotted vertical line. So likewise they join the curves E F at the same point in the rod length as the shoulder curves, both curves in fact being formed by the same round corner or shoulder. The centre of the radius of A or B must therefore be the same distance from the centre of the rod as is the centre from which the shoulder curve is struck, and at the same time at such a distance from the corner (as E or F) that the curve will meet the centre line of the rod at the same point in its length as the shoulder curves do. [Illustration: Fig. 198.] Figure 198 gives an example, in which the similar curved lines show that a part is square. The figure represents a bolt with a square under the head. As but one view is given, that fact alone tells us that it must be round or square. Now we might mark a cross on the square part, to denote that it is square; but this is unnecessary, because the curves F G show such to be the case. These curves are marked as follows: With the compasses set to the radius E, one point is rested at A, and arc B is drawn; then one point of the compass is rested at C, and arc D is drawn; giving the centre for the curve F by a similar process on the other side of the figure, curve G is drawn. Point C is obtained by drawing the dotted line across where the outline curve meets the stem. Suppose that the corner where the round stem meets the square under the head was a sharp one instead of a curve, then the traditional cross would require to be put on the square, as in Figure 199; or the cross will be necessary if the corner be a round one, if the stem is reduced in diameter, as in Figure 200. [Illustration: Fig. 199.] [Illustration: Fig. 200.] [Illustration: Fig. 201.] Figure 201 represents a centre punch, giving an example, in which the flat sides gradually run out upon a circle, the edges forming curves, as at A, B, etc. The length of these curves is determined as follows: They must begin where the taper of the punch joins the parallel, or at C, C, and they must end on that part of the taper stem where the diameter is equal to the diameter across the flats of the octagon. All that is to be done then is to find the diameter across the flats on the end view, and mark it on the taper stem, as at D, D, which will show where the flats terminate on the taper stem. And the curved lines, as A, B, may be drawn in by a curve that must meet at the line C, and also in a rounded point at line D. CHAPTER VIII. _SCREW THREADS AND SPIRALS._ [Illustration: Fig. 202.] [Illustration: Fig. 203.] The screw thread for small bolts is represented by thick and thin lines, such as was shown in Figure 152, but in larger sizes; the angles of the thread also are drawn in, as in Figure 202, and the method of doing this is shown in Figure 203. The centre line 1 and lines 2 and 3 for the full diameter of the thread being drawn, set the compasses to the required pitch of the thread, and stepping along line 2, mark the arcs 4, 5, 6, etc., for the full length the thread is to be marked. With the triangle resting against the $T$-square, the lines 7, 8, 9, etc. (for the full length of the thread), are drawn from the points 4, 5, 6, on line 2. These give one side of the thread. Reversing the drawing triangle, angles 10, 11, etc., are then drawn, which will complete the outline of the thread at the top of the bolt. We may now mark the depth of the thread by drawing line 12, and with the compasses set on the centre line transfer this depth to the other side of the bolt, as denoted by the arcs 13 and 14. Touching arc 14 we mark line 15 for the thread depth on that side. We have now to get the slant of the thread across the bolt. It is obvious that in passing once around the bolt the thread advances to the amount of the pitch as from _a_ to _b_; hence, in passing half way around, it will advance from _a_ to _c_; we therefore draw line 16 at a right-angle to the centre line, and a line that touches the top of the threads at _a_, where it meets line 2, and also meets line 16, where it touches line 3, is the angle or slope for the tops of the threads, which may be drawn across by lines, as 18, 19, 20, etc. From these lines the sides of the thread may be drawn at the bottom of the bolt, marking first the angle on one side, as by lines 21, 22, 23, etc., and then the angles on the other, as by lines 24, 25, etc. [Illustration: Fig. 204.] There now remain the bottoms of the thread to draw, and this is done by drawing lines from the bottom of the thread on one side of the bolt to the bottom on the other, as shown in the cut by a dotted line; hence, we may set a square blade to that angle, and mark in these lines, as 26, 27, 28, etc., and the thread is pencilled in complete. If the student will follow out this example upon paper, it will appear to him that after the thread had been marked out on one side of the bolt, the angle of the thread might be obtained, as shown by lines 16 and 17, and that the bottoms of the thread as well as the tops might be carried across the bolt to the other side. Figure 204 represents a case in which this has been done, and it will be observed that the lines denoting the bottom of the thread do not meet the bottoms of the thread, which occurs for the reason that the angle for the bottom is not the same as that for the top of the thread. [Illustration: Fig. 205.] [Illustration: Fig. 206.] In inking in the thread, it enhances the appearance to give the bottom of the thread and the right-hand side of the same, heavy shade lines, as in Figure 202, a plan that is usually adopted for threads of large diameter and coarse pitch. A double thread, such as in Figure 205, is drawn in the same way, except that the slant of the thread is doubled, and the square is to be set for the thread-pitch A, A, both for the tops and bottoms of the thread. [Illustration: Fig 207.] A round top and bottom thread, as the Whitworth thread, is drawn by single lines, as in Figure 206. A left-hand thread, Figure 207, is obviously drawn by the same process as a right-hand one, except that the slant of the thread is given in the opposite direction. For screw threads of a large diameter it is not uncommon to draw in the thread curves as they appear to the eye, and the method of doing this is shown in Figure 208. The thread is first marked on both sides of the bolt, as explained, and instead of drawing, straight across the bolt, lines to represent the tops and bottoms of the thread, a template to draw the curves by is required. To get these curves, two half-circles, one equal in diameter to the top, and one equal to the bottom of the thread, are drawn, as in Figure 208. [Illustration: Fig. 208.] These half-circles are divided into any convenient number of equal divisions: thus in Figure 208, each has eight divisions, as _a_, _b_, _c_, etc., for the outer, and _i_, _j_, _k_, etc., for the inner one. The pitch of the thread is then divided off by vertical lines into as many equal divisions as the half-circles are divided into, as by the lines _a_, _b_, _c_, etc., to _o_. Of these, the seven from _a_, to _h_, correspond to the seven from _a'_ to _g'_, and are for the top of the thread, and the seven from _i_ to _o_ correspond to the seven on the inner half-circle, as _i_, _j_, _k_, etc. Horizontal lines are then drawn from the points of the division to meet the vertical lines of division; thus the horizontal dotted line from _a'_ meets the vertical line _a_, and where they meet, as at A, a dot is made. Where the dotted line from _b'_ meets vertical line _b_, another dot is made, as at B, and so on until the point G is found. A curve drawn to pass from the top of the thread on one side of the bolt to the top of the other side, and passing through these points, as from A to G, will be the curve for the top of the thread, and from this curve a template may be made to mark all the other thread-tops from, because manifestly all the tops of the thread on the bolt will be alike. For the bottoms of the thread, lines are similarly drawn, as from _i'_ to meet _i_, where dot I is marked. J is got from _j'_ and _j_, while K is got from the intersection of _k'_ with _k_, and so on, the dots from I to O being those through which a curve is drawn for the bottom of the thread, and from this curve a template also may be made to mark all the thread bottoms. We have in our example used eight points of division in each half-circle, but either more or less points maybe used, the only requisite being that the pitch of the thread must be divided into as many divisions as the two half-circles are. But it is not absolutely necessary that both half-circles be divided into the same number of equal divisions. Thus, suppose the large half-circle were divided into ten divisions, then instead of the first half of the pitch being divided into eight (as from _a_ to _h_) it would require to have ten lines. But the inner half-circle may have eight only, as in our example. It is more convenient, however, to use the same number of divisions for both circles, so that they may both be divided together by lines radiating from the centre. The more the points of division, the greater number of points to draw the curves through; hence it is desirable to have as many as possible, which is governed by the pitch of the thread, it being obvious that the finer the pitch the less the number of distinct and clear divisions it is practicable to divide it into. In our example the angles of the thread are spread out to cause these lines to be thrown further apart than they would be in a bolt of that diameter; hence it will be seen that in threads of but two or three inches in diameter the lines would fall very close together, and would require to be drawn finely and with care to keep them distinct. [Illustration: Fig. 208 _a_.] [Illustration: Fig. 209.] The curves for a United States standard form of thread are obtained in the same manner as from the $V$ thread in Figure 208, but the thread itself is more difficult to draw. The construction of this thread is shown in Figure 208, it having a flat place at the top and at the bottom of the thread. A common $V$ thread has its sides at an angle of 60 degrees, one to the other, the top and bottom meeting in a point. The United States standard is obtained from drawing a common $V$ thread and dividing its depth into eight equal divisions, as at _x_, in Figure 208 _a_, and cutting off one of these divisions at the top and filling in one at the bottom to form flat places, as shown in the figure. But the thread cannot be sketched on a bolt by this means unless temporary lines are used to get the thread from, these temporary lines being drawn to represent a bolt one-fourth the depth of the thread too large in diameter. Thus, in Figure 208 _a_, it is seen that cutting off one-eighth the depth of the thread reduces the diameter of the thread. It is necessary, then, to draw the flat place on top of the thread first, the order of procedure being shown in Figure 209. The lines for the full diameter of the thread being drawn, the pitch is stepped off by arcs, as 1, 2, 3, etc.; and from these, arcs, as 4, 5, 6, etc., are marked for the width of the flat places at the tops of the threads. Then one side of the thread is marked off by lines, as 7, which meet the arcs 1, 2, 3, etc., as at _a_, _c_, etc. Similar lines, as 8 and 9, are marked for the other side of the thread, these lines, 7, 8 and 9, projecting until they cross each other. Line 10 is then drawn, making a flat place at the bottom of the thread equal in width to that at the top. Line 12 is then drawn square across the bolt, starting from the bottom of the thread, and line 13 is drawn starting from the corner _f_ on one side of the thread and meeting line 12 on the other side of the thread, which gives the angle for the tops of the thread. The depth of the thread may then be marked on the other side of the bolt by the arcs _d_ and _e_, and the line 14. The tops of all the threads may then be drawn in, as by lines 15, 16, 17 and 18, and by lines, as 19, etc., the thread sides may be drawn on the other side of the bolt. All that remains is to join the bottoms of the threads by lines across the bolt, and the pencil lines will be complete, ready to ink in. If the thread is to be shown curved instead of drawn straight across, the curve may be obtained by the construction in Figure 208, which is similar to that in Figure 207, except that while the pitch is divided off into 16 divisions, the whole of these 16 divisions are not used to get the curves, some of them being used twice over; thus for the bottom the eight divisions from _b_ to _i_ are used, while for the tops the eight from _g_ to _o_ are used. Hence _g_, _h_ and _i_ are used for getting both curves, the divisions from _a_ to _b_ and from _o_ to _p_ being taken up by the flat top and bottom of the thread. It will be noted that in Figure 207, the top of the thread is drawn first, while in Figure 208 the bottom is drawn first, and that in the latter (for the U.S. standard) the pitch is marked from centre to centre of the flats of the thread. [Illustration: Fig. 210.] To draw a square thread the pencil lines are marked in the order shown in Figure 210, in which 1 represents the centre line and 2, 3, 4 and 5, the diameter and depth of the thread. The pitch of the thread is marked off by arcs, as 6, 7, etc., or by laying a rule directly on the centre line and marking with a lead pencil. To obtain the slant of the thread, lines 8 and 9 are drawn, and from these line 10, touching 8 and 9 where they meet lines 2 and 5; the threads may then be drawn in from the arcs as 6, 7, etc. The side of the thread will show at the top and the bottom as at A B, because of the coarse pitch and the thread on the other or unseen side of the bolt slants, as denoted by the lines 12, 13; and hence to draw the sides A B, the triangle must be set from one thread to the next on the opposite side of the bolt, as denoted by the dotted lines 12 and 13. [Illustration: Fig. 211.] If the curves of the thread are to be drawn in, they may be obtained as in Figure 211, which is substantially the same as described for a V thread. The curves _f_, representing the sides of the thread, terminate at the centre line _g_, and the curves _e_ are equidistant with the curves _c_ from the vertical lines _d_. As the curves _f_ above the line are the same as _f_ below the line, the template for _f_ need not be made to extend the whole distance across, but one-half only; as is shown by the dotted curve _g_, in the construction for finding the curve for square-threaded nuts in Figure 212. [Illustration: Fig. 212.] [Illustration: Fig. 213.] A specimen of the form of template for drawing these curves is shown in Figure 213; _g_ _g_, is the centre line parallel to the edges R, S; lines _m_, _n_, represent the diameter of the thread at the top, and _o_, _p_, that at the bottom or root; edge _a_ is formed to the points (found by the constructions in the figures as already explained) for the tops of the thread, and edge _f_ is so formed for the curve at the thread bottoms. The edge, as S or R, is laid against the square-blade to steady it while drawing in the curves. It may be noted, however, that since the curve is the same below the centre line as it is above, the template may be made to serve for one-half the thread diameter, as at _f_, where it is made from _o_ to _g_, only being turned upside down to draw the other half of the curve; the notches cut out at _x_, _x_, are merely to let the pencil-lines in the drawing show plainly when setting the template. When the thread of a nut is shown in section, it slants in the opposite direction to that which appears on the bolt-thread, because it shows the thread that fits to the opposite side of the bolt, which, therefore, slants in the opposite direction, as shown by the lines 12 and 13 in Figure 210. In a top or end view of a nut the thread depth is usually shown by a simple circle, as in Figure 214. [Illustration: Fig. 214.] To draw a spiral spring, draw the centre line A, and lines B, C, Figure 215, distant apart the diameter the spring is to be less the diameter of the wire of which it is to be made. On the centre line A mark two lines _a b_, _c d_, representing the pitch of the spring. Divide the distance between _a_ and _b_ into four equal divisions, as by lines 1, 2, 3, letting line 3 meet line B. Line _e_ meeting the centre line at line _a_, and the line B at its intersection with line 3, is the angle of the coil on one side of the spring; hence it may be marked in at all the locations, as at _e f_, etc. These lines give at their intersections with the lines C and B the centres for the half circles _g_, which being drawn, the sides _h_, _i_, _j_, _k_, etc., of the spring, may all be marked in. By the lines _m_, _n_, _o_, _p_, the other sides of the spring may be marked in. [Illustration: Fig. 215.] The end of the spring is usually marked straight across, as at L. If it is required to draw the coils curved instead of straight across, a template must be made, the curve being obtained as already described for threads. It may be pointed out, however, that to obtain as accurate a division as possible of the lines that divide the pitch, the pitch may be divided upon a diagonal line, as F, Figure 216, which will greatly facilitate the operation. [Illustration: Fig. 216.] Before going into projections it may be as well to give some examples for practice. [Illustration: Fig. 219. (Page 169.)] CHAPTER IX. _EXAMPLES FOR PRACTICE._ Figure 217 represents a simple example for practice, which the student may draw the size of the engraving, or he may draw it twice the size. It is a locomotive spring, composed of leaves or plates, held together by a central band. [Illustration: Fig. 217.] Figure 218 is an example of a stuffing box and gland, supposed to stand vertical, hence the gland has an oil cup or receptacle. In Figure 219 are working drawings of a coupling rod, with the dimensions and directions marked in. It may be remarked, however, that the drawings of a workshop are, where large quantities of the same kind of work is done, varied in character to suit some special departments--that is to say, special extra drawings are made for these departments. In Figures 220 and 221 is a drawing of a connecting rod drawn, put together as it would be for the lathe, vise or erecting shop. [Illustration: Fig. 218.] [Illustration: Fig. 219.] [Illustration: Fig. 220.] [Illustration: Fig. 221.] To the two views shown there would be necessary detail sketches of the set screws, gibbs, and keys, all the rest being shown; the necessary dimensions being, of course, marked on the general drawing and on the details. In so simple a thing as a connecting rod, however, there would be no question as to how the parts go together; hence detail drawings of each separate piece would answer for the lathe or vise bands. But in many cases this would not be the case, and the drawing would require to show the parts put together, and be accompanied with such detail sketches as might be necessary to show parts that could not be clearly defined in the general views. The blacksmith, for example, is only concerned with the making of the separate pieces, and has no concern as to how the parts go together. Furthermore, there are parts and dimensions in the general drawing with which the blacksmith has nothing to do. Thus the location and dimensions of the keyways, the dimensions of the brasses, and the location of the bolt holes, are matters that have no reference to the blacksmith's work, because the keyways, bolt holes, and set-screw holes would be cut out of the solid in the machine shop. It is customary, therefore, to send to the blacksmith shop drawings containing separate views of each piece drawn to the shape it is to be forged; and drawn full size, or else on a scale sufficiently large to make each part show clearly without close inspection, marking thereon the full sizes, and stating beneath the number of pieces of each detail. (As in Figure 222, which represents the iron work of the connecting rod in Figure 220). In some cases the finished sizes are marked, and it is left to the blacksmith's judgment how much to leave for the finishing. This is undesirable, because either the blacksmith is left to judge what parts are to be finished, or else there must be on the drawing instructions on this point, or else signs or symbols that are understood to convey the information. It is better, therefore, to make for the blacksmith a special sketch, and mark thereon the full-forged sizes, stating on the drawing that such is the case. [Illustration: Fig. 222] As to the material of which the pieces are to be made, the greater part of blacksmith work is made of wrought iron, and it is, therefore, unnecessary to write "wrought iron" beneath each piece. When the pieces are to be of steel, however, it should be marked on the drawing and beneath the piece. In special cases, as where the greater part of the work of the shop is of steel, the rule may, of course, be reversed, and the parts made of iron may be the ones marked, whereas when parts are sometimes of iron, and at others of steel, each piece should be marked. As a general rule the blacksmith knows, from the custom of the shop or the nature of the work, what the quality or kind of iron is to be, and it is, therefore, only in exceptional cases that they need to be mentioned on the drawing. Thus in a carriage manufactory, Norway or Swede iron will be found, as well as the better grades of refined iron, but the blacksmith will know what iron to use, for certain parts, or the shop may be so regulated that the selection of the iron is not left to him. In marking the number of pieces required, it is better to use the word "thus" than the words "of this," or "off this," because it is shorter and more correct, for the forging is not taken off the drawing, nor is it of the same; the drawing gives the shape and the size, and the word "thus" conveys that idea better than "of," "off," or "like this." In shops where there are many of the same pieces forged, the blacksmith is furnished with sheet-iron templates that he can lay directly upon the forging and test its dimensions at once, which is an excellent plan in large work. Such templates are, of course, made from the drawings, and it becomes a question as to whether their dimensions should be the forged or the finished ones. If they are the forged, they may cause trouble, because a forging may have a scant place that it is difficult for the blacksmith to bring up to the size of the template, and he is in doubt whether there is enough metal in the scant place to allow the job to clean up. It is better, therefore, to make them to finished sizes, so that he can see at once if the work will clean up, notwithstanding the scant place. This will lead to no errors in large work, because such work is marked out by lines, and the scant part will therefore be discovered by the machinist, who will line out the piece accordingly. Figure 223 is a drawing of a locomotive frame, which the student may as well draw three or four times as large as the engraving, which brings us to the subject of enlarging or reducing scales. REDUCING SCALES. [Illustration: Fig. 223.] [Illustration: Fig. 224.] [Illustration: Fig. 225.] It is sometimes necessary to reduce a drawing to a smaller scale, or to find a minute fraction of a given dimension, such fraction not being marked on the lineal measuring rules at hand. Figure 224 represents a scale for finding minute fractions. Draw seven lines parallel to each other, and equidistant draw vertical lines dividing the scale into half-inches, as at _a_, _b_, _c_, etc. Divide the first space _e d_ into equal halves, draw diagonal lines, and number them as in the figure. The distance of point 1, which is at the intersection of diagonal with the second horizontal line, will be 1/24 inch from vertical line _e_. Point 2 will be 2/24 inch from line _e_, and so on. For tenths of inches there would require to be but six horizontal lines, the diagonals being drawn as before. A similar scale is shown in Figure 225. Draw the lines A B, B D, D C, C A, enclosing a square inch. Divide each of these lines into ten equal divisions, and number and letter them as shown. Draw also the diagonal lines A 1, _a_ 2, B 3, and so on; then the distances from the line A C to the points of intersection of the diagonals with the horizontal lines represent hundredths of an inch. Suppose, for example, we trace one diagonal line in its path across the figure, taking that which starts from A and ends at 1 on the top horizontal line; then where the diagonal intersects _horizontal_ line 1, is 99/100 from the line B D, and 1/100 from the line A C, while where it intersects _horizontal_ line 2, is 98/100 from line B D, and 2/100 from line A C, and so on. If we require to set the compasses to 67/100 inch, we set them to the radius of _n_, and the figure 3 on line B D, because from that 3 to the vertical line _d_ 4 is 6/10 or 60/100 inch, and from that vertical line to the diagonal at _n_ is seven divisions from the line C D of the figure. In making a drawing to scale, however, it is an excellent plan to draw a line and divide it off to suit the required scale. Suppose, for example, that the given scale is one-quarter size, or three inches per foot; then a line three inches long may be divided into twelve equal divisions, representing twelve inches, and these may be subdivided into half or quarter inches and so on. It is recommended to the beginner, however, to spend all his time making simple drawings, without making them to scale, in order to become so familiar with the use of the instruments as to feel at home with them, avoiding the complication of early studies that would accompany drawing to scale. CHAPTER X. _PROJECTIONS._ In projecting, the lines in one view are used to mark those in other views, and to find their shapes or curvature as they will appear in other views. Thus, in Figure 225_a_ we have a spiral, wound around a cylinder whose end is cut off at an angle. The pitch of the spiral is the distance A B, and we may delineate the curve of the spiral looking at the cylinder from two positions (one at a right-angle to the other, as is shown in the figure), by means of a circle having a circumference equal to that of the cylinder. The circumference of this circle we divide into any number of equidistant divisions, as from 1 to 24. The pitch A B of the spiral or thread is then divided off also into 24 equidistant divisions, as marked on the left hand of the figure; vertical lines are then drawn from the points of division on the circle to the points correspondingly numbered on the lines dividing the pitch; and where line 1 on the circle intersects line 1 on the pitch is one point in the curve. Similarly, where point 2 on the circle intersects line 2 on the pitch is another point in the curve, and so on for the whole 24 divisions on the circle and on the pitch. In this view, however, the path of the spiral from line 7 to line 19 lies on the other side of the cylinder, and is marked in dotted lines, because it is hidden by the cylinder. In the right-hand view, however, a different portion of the spiral or thread is hidden, namely from lines 1 to 13 inclusive, being an equal proportion to that hidden in the left-hand view. [Illustration: Fig. 225 _a_.] The top of the cylinder is shown in the left-hand view to be cut off at an angle to the axis, and will therefore appear elliptical; in the right-hand view, to delineate this oval, the same vertical lines from the circle may be carried up as shown on the right hand, and horizontal lines may be drawn from the inclined face in one view across the end of the other view, as at P; the divisions on the circle may be carried up on the right-hand view by means of straight lines, as Q, and arcs of circle, as at R, and vertical lines drawn from these arcs, as line S, and where these vertical lines S intersect the horizontal lines as P, are points in the ellipse. Let it be required to draw a cylindrical body joining another at a right-angle; as for example, a Tee, such as in Figure 226, and the outline can all be shown in one view, but it is required to find the line of junction of one piece, A, with the other, B; that is, find or mark the lines of junction C. Now when the diameters of A and B are equal, the line of junction C is a straight line, but it becomes a curved one when the diameter of A is less than that of B, or _vice versa_; hence it may be as well to project it in both cases. For this purpose the three views are necessary. One-quarter of the circle of B, in the end view, is divided off into any number of equal divisions; thus we have chosen the divisions marked _a_, _b_, _c_, _d_, _e_, etc.; a quarter of the top view is similarly divided off, as at _f_, _g_, _h_, _i_, _j_; from these points of division lines are projected on to the side view, as shown by the dotted lines _k_, _l_, _m_, _n_, _o_, _p_, etc., and where these lines meet, as denoted by the dots, is in each case a point in the line of junction of the two cylinders A, B. [Illustration: Fig. 226.] [Illustration: Fig. 227.] Figure 227 represents a Tee, in which B is less in diameter than A; hence the two join in a curve, which is found in a similar manner, as is shown in Figure 227. Suppose that the end and top views are drawn, and that the side view is drawn in outline, but that the curve of junction or intersection is to be found. Now it is evident that since the centre line 1 passes through the side and end views, that the face _a_, in the end view, will be even with the face _a'_ in the side view, both being the same face, and as the full length of the side of B in the end view is marked by line _b_, therefore line _c_ projected down from _b_ will at its junction with line _b'_, which corresponds to line _b_, give the extreme depth to which _b'_ extends into the body A, and therefore, the apex of the curve of intersection of B with A. To obtain other points, we divide one-quarter of the circumference of the circle B in the top view into four equal divisions, as by lines _d_, _e_, _f_, and from the points of division we draw lines _j_, _i_, _g_, to the centre line marked 2, these lines being thickened in the cut for clearness of illustration. The compasses are then set to the length of thickened line _g_, and from point _h_, in the end view, as a centre, the arc _g'_ is marked. With the compasses set to the length of thickened line _i_, and from _h_ as a centre, arc _i'_ is marked, and with the length of thickened line _j_ as a radius and from _h_ as a centre arc _j'_ is marked; from these arcs lines _k_, _l_, _m_ are drawn, and from the intersection of _k_, _l_, _m_, with the circle of A, lines _n_, _o_, _p_ are let fall. From the lines of division, _d_, _e_, _f_, the lines _q_, _r_, _s_ are drawn, and where lines _n_, _o_, _p_ join lines _q_, _r_, _s_, are points in the curve, as shown by the dots, and by drawing a line to intersect these dots the curve is obtained on one-half of B. Since the axis of B is in the same plane as that of A, the lower half of the curve is of the same curvature as the upper, as is shown by the dotted curve. [Illustration: Fig. 228.] In Figure 228 the axis of piece B is not in the same plane as that of D, but to one side of it to the distance between the centre lines C, D, which is most clearly seen in the top view. In this case the process is the same except in the following points: In the side view the line _w_, corresponding to the line _w_ in the end view, passes within the line _x_ before the curve of intersection begins, and in transferring the lengths of the full lines _b_, _c_, _d_, _e_, _f_ to the end view, and marking the arcs _b'_, _c'_, _d'_, _e'_, _f'_, they are marked from the point _w_ (the point where the centre line of B intersects the outline of A), instead of from the point _x_. In all other respects the construction is the same as that in Figure 227. [Illustration: Fig. 229.] In these examples the axis of B stands at a right-angle to that of A. But in Figure 229 is shown the construction where the axis of B is not at a right-angle to A. In this case there is projected from B, in the side view, an end view of B as at B', and across this end at a right-angle to the centre line of B is marked a centre line C C of B', which is divided as before by lines _d_, _e_, _f_, _g_, _h_, their respective lengths being transferred from W as a centre, and marked by the arcs _d'_, _e'_, _f'_, which are marked on a vertical line and carried by horizontal lines, to the arc of A as at _i_, _j_, _k_. From these points, _i_, _j_, _k_, the perpendicular lines _l_, _m_, _n_, _o_, are dropped, and where these lines meet lines _p_, _q_, _r_, _s_, _t_, are points in the curve of intersection of B with A. It will be observed that each of the lines _m_, _n_, _o_, serves for two of the points in the curve; thus, _m_ meets _q_ and _s_, while _n_ meets _p_ and _t_, and _o_ meets the outline on each side of B, in the side view, and as _i_, _j_, _k_ are obtained from _d_ and _e_, the lines _g_ and _h_ might have been omitted, being inserted merely for the sake of illustration. In Figure 230 is an example in which a cylinder intersects a cone, the axes being parallel. To obtain the curve of intersection in this case, the side view is divided by any convenient number of lines, as _a_, _b_, _c_, etc., drawn at a right-angle to its axis A A, and from one end of these lines are let fall the perpendiculars _f_, _g_, _h_, _i_, _j_; from the ends of these (where they meet the centre line of A in the top view), half-circles _k_, _l_, _m_, _n_, _o_, are drawn to meet the circle of B in the top view, and from their points of intersection with B, lines _p_, _q_, _r_, _s_, _t_, are drawn, and where these meet lines _a_, _b_, _c_, _d_ and _e_, which is at _u_, _v_, _w_, _x_, _y_, are points in the curve. [Illustration: Fig. 230.] [Illustration: Fig. 231.] It will be observed, on referring again to Figure 229, that the branch or cylinder B appears to be of elliptical section on its end face, which occurs because it is seen at an angle to its end surface; now the method of finding the ellipse for any given degree of angle is as in Figure 231, in which B represents a cylindrical body whose top face would, if viewed from point I, appear as a straight line, while if viewed from point J it would appear in outline a circle. Now if viewed from point E its apparent dimension in one direction will obviously be defined by the lines S, Z. So that if on a line G G at a right angle to the line of vision E, we mark points touching lines S, Z, we get points 1 and 2, representing the apparent dimension in that direction which is the width of the ellipse. The length of the ellipse will obviously be the full diameter of the cylinder B; hence from E as a centre we mark points 3 and 4, and of the remaining points we will speak presently. Suppose now the angle the top face of B is viewed from is denoted by the line L, and lines S', Z, parallel to L, will be the width for the ellipse whose length is marked by dots, equidistant on each side of centre line G' G', which equal in their widths one from the other the full diameter of B. In this construction the ellipse will be drawn away from the cylinder B, and the ellipse, after being found, would have to be transferred to the end of B. But since centre line G G is obviously at the same angle to A A that A A is to G G, we may start from the centre line of the body whose elliptical appearance is to be drawn, and draw a centre line A A at the same angle to G G as the end of B is supposed to be viewed from. This is done in Figure 231 _a_, in which the end face of B is to be drawn viewed from a point on the line G G, but at an angle of 45 degrees; hence line A A is drawn at an angle of 45 degrees to centre line G G, and centre line E is drawn from the centre of the end of B at a right angle to G G, and from where it cuts A A, as at F, a side view of B is drawn, or a single line of a length equal to the diameter of B may be drawn at a right angle to A A and equidistant on each side of F. A line, D D, at a right angle to A A, and at any convenient distance above F, is then drawn, and from its intersection with A A as a centre, a circle C equal to the diameter of B is drawn; one-half of the circumference of C is divided off into any number of equal divisions as by arcs _a_, _b_, _c_, _d_, _e_, _f_. From these points of division, lines _g_, _h_, _i_, _j_, _k_, _l_ are drawn, and also lines _m_, _n_, _o_, _p_, _q_, _r_. From the intersection of these last lines with the face in the side view, lines _s_, _t_, _u_, _t_, _w_, _x_, _y_, _z_ are drawn, and from point F line E is drawn. Now it is clear that the width of the end face of the cylinder will appear the same from any point of view it may be looked at, hence the sides H H are made to equal the diameter of the cylinder B and marked up to centre line E. [Illustration: Fig. 231 _a_.] [Illustration: Fig. 232.] It is obvious also that the lines _s_, _z_, drawn from the extremes of the face to be projected will define the width of the ellipse, hence we have four of the points (marked respectively 1, 2, 3, 4) in the ellipse. To obtain the remaining points, lines _t_, _u_, _v_, _w_, _x_, _y_ (which start from the point on the face F where the lines _m_, _n_, _o_, _p_, _q_, _r_, respectively meet it) are drawn across the face of B as shown. The compasses are then set to the radius _g_; that is, from centre line D to division _a_ on the circle, and this radius is transferred to the face to be projected the compass-point being rested at the intersection of centre line G and line _t_, and two arcs as 5 and 6 drawn, giving two more points in the curve of the ellipse. The compasses are then set to the length of line _h_ (that is, from centre line D to point of division _b_), and this distance is transferred, setting the compasses on centre line G where it is intersected by line _u_, and arcs 7, 8 are marked, giving two more points in the ellipse. In like manner points 9 and 10 are obtained from the length of line _i_, 11 and 12 from that of _j_; points 13 and 14 from the length of _k_, and 15 and 16 from _l_, and the ellipse may be drawn in from these points. It may be pointed out, however, that since points 5 and 6 are the same distance from G that points 15 and 16 are, and since points 7 and 8 are the same distance from G that points 13 and 14 are, while points 9 and 10 are the same distance from G that 11 and 12 are, the lines, _j_, _k_, _l_ are unnecessary, since _l_ and _g_ are of equal length, as are also _h_ and _k_ and _i_ and _j_. In Figure 232 the cylinders are line shaded to make them show plainer to the eye, and but three lines (_a_, _b_, _c_) are used to get the radius wherefrom to mark the arcs where the points in the ellipse shall fall; thus, radius _a_ gives points 1, 2, 3 and 4; radius _b_ gives points 5, 6, 7 and 8, and radius _c_ gives 9, 10, 11 and 12, the extreme diameter being obtained from lines S, Z, and H, H. CHAPTER XI. _DRAWING GEAR WHEELS._ The names given to the various lines of a tooth on a gear-wheel are as follows: In Figure 233, A is the face and B the flank of a tooth, while C is the point, and D the root of the tooth; E is the height or depth, and F the breadth. P P is the pitch circle, and the space between the two teeth, as H, is termed a space. [Illustration: Fig. 233.] [Illustration: Fig. 234.] It is obvious that the points of the teeth and the bottoms of the spaces, as well as the pitch circle, are concentric to the axis of the wheel bore. And to pencil in the teeth these circles must be fully drawn, as in Figure 234, in which P P is the pitch circle. This circle is divided into as many equal divisions as the wheel is to have teeth, these divisions being denoted by the radial lines, A, B, C, etc. Where these divisions intersect the pitch circle are the centres from which all the teeth curves may be drawn. The compasses are set to a radius equal to the pitch, less one-half the thickness of the tooth, and from a centre, as R, two face curves, as F G, may be marked; from the next centre, as at S, the curves D E may be marked, and so on for all the faces; that is, the tooth curves lying between the outer circle X and the pitch circle P. For the flank curves, that is, the curve from P to Y, the compasses are set to a radius equal to the pitch; and from the sides of the teeth the flank curves are drawn. Thus from J, as a centre flank, K is drawn; from V, as a centre flank, H is drawn, and so on. The proportions of the teeth for cast gears generally accepted in this country are those given by Professor Willis, as average practice, and are as follows: Depth to pitch line, 3/10 of the pitch. Working depth, 6/10 " " Whole depth, 7/10 " " Thickness of tooth, 5/11 " " Breadth of space, 6/11 " " Instead, however, of calculating the dimensions these proportions give for any particular pitch, a diagram or scale may be made from which they may be taken for any pitch by a direct application of the compasses. A scale of this kind is given in Figure 235, in which the line A B is divided into inches and parts to represent the pitches; its total length representing the coarsest pitch within the capacity of the scale; and, the line B C (at a right-angle to A B) the whole depth of the tooth for the coarsest pitch, being 7/10 of the length of A B. [Illustration: Fig. 235.] The other diagonal lines are for the proportion of the dimensions marked on the figure. Thus the depth of face, or distance from the pitch line to the extremity or tooth point for a 4 inch pitch, would be measured along the line B C, from the vertical line B to the first diagonal. The thickness of the tooth would be for a 4 inch pitch along line B C from B to the second diagonal, and so on. For a 3 inch pitch the measurement would be taken along the horizontal line, starting from the 3 on the line A B, and so on. On the left of the diagram or scale is marked the lbs. strain each pitch will safely transmit per inch width of wheel face, according to Professor Marks. [Illustration: Fig. 236.] The application of the scale as follows: The pitch circles P P and P' P', Figure 236, for the respective wheels, are drawn, and the height of the teeth is obtained from the scale and marked beyond the pitch circles, when circles Q and Q' may be drawn. Similarly, the depths of the teeth within the pitch circles are obtained from the scale or diagram and marked within the respective pitch circles, and circles R and R' are marked in. The pitch circles are divided off into as many points of equal division, as at _a_, _b_, _c_, _d_, _e_, etc., as the respective wheels are to have teeth, and the thickness of tooth having been obtained from the scale, this thickness is marked from the points of division on the pitch circles, as at _f_ in the figure, and the tooth curves may then be drawn in. It may be observed, however, that the tooth thicknesses will not be strictly correct, because the scale gives the same chord pitch for the teeth on both wheels which will give different arc pitches to the teeth on the two wheels; whereas, it is the arc pitches, and not the chord pitches, that should be correct. This error obviously increases as there is a greater amount of difference between the two wheels. The curves given to the teeth in Figure 234 are not the proper ones to transmit uniform motion, but are curves merely used by draughtsmen to save the trouble of finding the true curves, which if it be required, may be drawn with a very near approach to accuracy, as follows, which is a construction given by Rankine: Draw the rolling circle D, Figure 237, and draw A D, the line of centres. From the point of contact at C, mark on D, a point distant from C one-half the amount of the pitch, as at P, and draw the line P C of indefinite length beyond C. Draw the line P E passing through the line of centres at E, which is equidistant between C and A. Then increase the length of line P F to the right of C by an amount equal to the radius A C, and then diminish it to an amount equal to the radius E D, thus obtaining the point F and the latter will be the location of centre for compasses to strike the face curve. [Illustration: Fig. 237.] [Illustration: Fig. 238.] Another method of finding the face curve, with compasses, is as follows: In Figure 238 let P P represent the pitch circle of the wheel to be marked, and B C the path of the centre of the generating or describing circle as it rolls outside of P P. Let the point B represent the centre of the generating circle when it is in contact with the pitch circle at A. Then from B mark off, on B C, any number of equidistant points, as D, E, F, G, H, and from A mark on the pitch circle, with the same radius, an equal number of points of division, as 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. With the compasses set to the radius of the generating circle, that is, A B, from B, as a centre, mark the arc I, from D, the arc J, from E, the arc K, from F, and so on, marking as many arcs as there are points of division on B C. With the compasses set to the radius of divisions 1, 2, etc., step off on arc M the five divisions, N, O, S, T, V, and at V will be a point on the epicycloidal curve. From point of division 4, step off on L four points of division, as _a_, _b_, _c_, _d_; and _d_ will be another point on the epicycloidal curve. From point 3, set off three divisions, and so on, and through the points so obtained draw by hand, or with a scroll, the curve. [Illustration: Fig. 239.] Hypocycloids for the flanks of the teeth maybe traced in a similar manner. Thus in Figure 239, P P is the pitch circle, and B C the line of motion of the centre of the generating circle to be rolled within P P. From 1 to 6 are points of equal division on the pitch circle, and D to I are arc locations for the centre of the generating circle. Starting from A, which represents the location for the centre of the generating circle, the point of contact between the generating and base circles will be at B. Then from 1 to 6 are points of equal division on the pitch circle, and from D to I are the corresponding locations for the centres of the generating circle. From these centres the arcs J, K, L, M, N, O, are struck. The six divisions on O, from _a_ to _f_, give at _f_ a point in the curve. Five divisions on N, four on M, and so on, give, respectively, points in the curve. There is this, however, to be noted concerning the construction of the last two figures. Since the circle described by the centre of the generating circle is of a different arc or curve to that of the pitch circle, the length of an arc having an equal radius on each will be different. The amount is so small as to be practically correct. The direction of the error is to give to the curves a less curvature, as though they had been produced by a generating circle of larger diameter. Suppose, for example, that the difference between the arc _a_, _b_, and its chord is .1, and that the difference between the arc 4, 5, and its chord is .01, then the error in one step is .09, and, as the point _f_ is formed in five steps, it will contain this error multiplied five times. Point _d_ would contain it multiplied three times, because it has three steps, and so on. The error will increase in proportion as the diameter of the generating is less than that of the pitch circle, and though in large wheels, working with large wheels, so that the difference between the radius of the generating circle and that of the smallest wheel is not excessive, it is so small as to be practically inappreciable, yet in small wheels, working with large ones, it may form a sensible error. [Illustration: Fig. 240.] For showing the dimensions through the arms and hub, a sectional view of a section of the wheel may be given, as in Figure 240, which represents a section of a wheel, and a pinion, and on these two views all the necessary dimensions may be marked. [Illustration: Fig. 240 _a_. (Page 203.)] If it is desired to draw an edge view of a wheel (which the student will find excellent practice), the lines for the teeth may be projected from the teeth in the side view, as in Figure 240 _a_. Thus tooth E is projected by drawing lines from the corners A, B, C, in the side view across the face in the edge view, as at A, B, C in the latter view, and similar lines may be obtained in the same way for all the teeth. When the teeth of wheels are to be cut to form in a gear-cutting machine, the thickness of the teeth is nearly equal to the thickness of the spaces, there being just sufficient difference to prevent the teeth of one wheel from becoming locked in the spaces of the other; but when the teeth are to be cast upon the wheel, the tooth thickness is made less than the width of the space to an amount that is usually a certain proportion of the pitch, and is termed the side clearance. In all wheels, whether with cut or cast teeth, there is given a certain amount of top and bottom clearance; that is to say, the points of the teeth of one wheel do not reach to the bottom of the spaces in the other. Thus in the Pratt and Whitney system the top and bottom clearance is one-eighth of the pitch, while in the Brown and Sharpe system for involute teeth the clearance is equal to one-tenth the thickness of the tooth. In drawing bevil gear wheels, the pitch line of each tooth on each wheel, and the surfaces of the points, as well as those at the bottom of the spaces, must all point to a centre, as E in Figure 241, which centre is where the axes of the shafts would meet. It is unnecessary to mark in the correct curves for the teeth, for reasons already stated, with reference to the curves for a spur wheel. But if it is required to do so, the construction to find the curves is as shown in Figure 242, in which let A A represent the axis of one shaft, and B that of the other of the pair of bevil wheels that are to work together, their axes meeting at W; draw the line E at a right angle to A A, and representing the pitch circle diameter of one wheel, and draw F at a right angle to B, and representing the pitch circle of the other wheel; draw the line G G, passing through the point W and the point T, where the pitch circles or lines E F meet, and G G will be the line of contact of the tooth of one wheel upon the tooth of the other wheel; or in other words, the pitch line of the tooth. [Illustration: Fig. 241.] [Illustration: Fig. 242.] Draw lines, as H and I, representing the tooth breadth. From W, as a centre, draw on each side of G G dotted lines, as P, representing the height of the tooth above and below the pitch line G G. At a right angle to G G draw the line J K; and from where this line meets B, as at Q, mark the arc _a_, which will represent the pitch circle for the large diameter of the pinion D. [The smallest wheel of a pair of gears is termed the pinion.] Draw the arc _b_ for the height, and circle _c_ for the depth of the teeth, thus defining the height of the tooth at that end. Similarly from P, as a centre mark (for the large diameter of wheel C,) arcs _g_, _h_, and _i_, arc _g_ representing the pitch circle, _i_ the height, and _h_ the depth of the tooth. On these arcs draw the proper tooth curves in the same manner as for spur wheels; that is, obtain the curves by the construction shown in Figures 237, or by those in Figures 238 and 239. To obtain the arcs for the other end of the tooth, draw line M M parallel to line J K; set the compasses to the radius R L, and from P, as a centre, draw the pitch circle _k_. For the depth of the tooth draw the dotted line _p_, meeting the circle _h_ and the point W. A similar line, from _i_ to W, will give the height of the tooth at its inner end. Then the tooth curves may be drawn on these three arcs, _k_, _l_, _m_, in the same as if they were for a spur wheel. Similarly for the pitch circle of the inner and small end of the pinion teeth, set the compasses to radius S L, and from Q as a centre mark the pitch circle _d_. Outside of _d_ mark _e_ for the height above pitch lines of the tooth, and inside of _d_ mark the arc _f_ for the depth below pitch line of the tooth at that end. The distance between the dotted lines as _p_, represents the full height of the tooth; hence _h_ meets _p_, which is the root of the tooth on the large wheel. To give clearance and prevent the tops of the teeth on one wheel from bearing against the bottoms of the spaces in the other wheel, the point of the pinion teeth is marked below; thus arc _b_ does not meet _h_ or _p_, but is short to the amount of clearance. Having obtained the arcs _d_, _e_, _f_, the curves may be marked thereon as for a spur wheel. A tooth thus marked is shown at _x_, and from its curves between _b_ and _c_, a template may be made for the large diameter or outer end of the pinion teeth. Similarly for the wheel C the outer end curves are marked on the arcs _g_, _h_, _i_, and those for the other end of the tooth are marked between the arcs _l_, _m_. [Illustration: Fig. 243. (Page 207.)] [Illustration: Fig. 244.] Figure 243 represents a drawing of one-half of a bevil gear, and an edge view projected from the same. The point E corresponds to point E in Figure 241, or W in 242. The line F shows that the top surface of the teeth points to E. Line G shows that the pitch line of each tooth points to E, and lines H show that the bottom of the surface of a space also points to E. Line 1 shows that the sides of each tooth point to E. And it follows that the outer end of a tooth is both higher or deeper and also thicker than its inner end; thus J is thicker and deeper than end K of the tooth. Lines F G, representing the top and bottom of a tooth in Figure 243, obviously correspond to dotted lines _p_ in Figure 242. The outer and inner ends of the teeth in the edge view are projected from the outer and inner ends in the face view, as is shown by the dotted lines carried from tooth L in the face view, to tooth L in the edge view, and it is obvious from what has been said that in drawing the lines for the tooth in the edge view they will point to the centre E. [Illustration: Fig. 245.] To save work in drawing bevil gear wheels, they are sometimes drawn in section or in outline only; thus in Figure 244 is shown a pair of bevil wheels shown in section, and in Figure 245 is a drawing of a part of an Ames lathe feed motion. B C D and E are spur gears, while G H and I are bevil gears, the cone surface on which the teeth lie being left blank, save at the edges where a tooth is in each case drawn in. Wheel D is shown in section so as to show the means by which it may be moved out of gear with C and E. Small bevil gears may also be represented by simple line shading; thus in Figure 247 the two bodies A and C would readily be understood to be a bevil gear and pinion. Similarly small spur wheels may be represented by simple circles in a side view and by line shading in an edge view; thus it would answer every practical purpose if such small wheels as in Figures 246 and 247 at D, F, G, K, P, H, I and J, were drawn as shown. The pitch circles, however, are usually drawn in red ink to distinguish them. [Illustration: Fig. 251. (Page 209.)] [Illustration: Fig. 246.] [Illustration: Fig. 247.] In Figure 248 is an example in which part of the gear is shown with teeth in, and the remainder is illustrated by circles. In Figure 250 is a drawing of part of the feed motions of a Niles Tool Works horizontal boring mill, Figure 251 being an end view of the same, _f_ is a friction disk, and _g_ a friction pinion, _g'_ is a rack, F is a feed-screw, _p_ is a bevil pinion, and _q_ a bevil wheel; _i_, _m_, _o_, are gear wheels, and _J_ a worm operating a worm-pinion and the gears shown. Figure 249 represents three bevil gears, the upper of which is line shaded, forming an excellent example for the student to copy. [Illustration: Fig. 248.] The construction of oval gearing is shown in Figures 252, 253, 254, 255, and 256. The pitch-circle is drawn by the construction for drawing an ellipse that was given with reference to Figure 81, but as that construction is by means of arcs of circles, and therefore not strictly correct, Professor McCord, in an article on elliptical gearing, says, concerning it and the construction of oval gearing generally, as follows: [Illustration: Fig. 249. (Page 210.)] [Illustration: Fig. 250.] [Illustration: Fig. 252.] "But these circular arcs may be rectified and subdivided with great facility and accuracy by a very simple process, which we take from Prof. Rankine's "Machinery and Mill Work," and is illustrated in Figure 252. Let O B be tangent at O to the arc O D, of which C is the centre. Draw the chord D O, bisect it in E, and produce it to A, making O A=O E; with centre A and radius A D describe an arc cutting the tangent in B; then O B will be very nearly equal in length to the arc O D, which, however, should not exceed about 60 degrees; if it be 60 degrees, the error is theoretically about 1/900 of the length of the arc, O B being so much too short; but this error varies with the fourth power of the angle subtended by the arc, so that for 30 degrees it is reduced to 1/16 of that amount, that is, to 1/14400. Conversely, let O B be a tangent of given length; make O F=1/4 O B; then with centre F and radius F B describe an arc cutting the circle O D G (tangent to O B at O) in the point D; then O D will be approximately equal to O B, the error being the same as in the other construction and following the same law. [Illustration: Fig. 253.] The extreme simplicity of these two constructions and the facility with which they may be made with ordinary drawing instruments make them exceedingly convenient, and they should be more widely known than they are. Their application to the present problem is shown in Figure 253, which represents a quadrant of an ellipse, the approximate arcs C D, E, E F, F A having been determined by trial and error. In order to space this off, for the positions of the teeth, a tangent is drawn at D, upon which is constructed the rectification of D C, which is D G, and also that of D E in the opposite direction, that is, D H, by the process just explained. Then, drawing the tangent at F, we set off in the same manner F I = F E, and F K = F A, and then measuring H L = I K, we have finally G L, equal to the whole quadrant of the ellipse. [Illustration: Fig. 254.] Let it now be required to lay out twenty-four teeth upon this ellipse; that is, six in each quadrant; and for symmetry's sake we will suppose that the centre of one tooth is to be at A, and that of another at C, Figure 253. We, therefore, divide L G into six equal parts at the points 1, 2, 3, etc., which will be the centres of the teeth upon the rectified ellipse. It is practically necessary to make the spaces a little greater than the teeth; but if the greatest attainable exactness in the operation of the wheels is aimed at, it is important to observe that backlash, in elliptical gearing, has an effect quite different from that resulting in the case of circular wheels. When the pitch-curves are circles, they are always in contact; and we may, if we choose, make the tooth only half the breadth of the space, so long as its outline is correct. When the motion of the driver is reversed, the follower will stand still until the backlash is taken up, when the motion will go on with a perfectly constant velocity ratio as before. But in the case of two elliptical wheels, if the follower stand still while the driver moves, which must happen when the motion is reversed if backlash exists, the pitch-curves are thrown out of contact, and, although the continuity of the motion will not be interrupted, the velocity ratio will be affected. If the motion is never to be reversed, the perfect law of the velocity ratio due to the elliptical pitch-curve may be preserved by reducing the thickness of the tooth, not equally on each side, as is done in circular wheels, but wholly on the side not in action. But if the machine must be capable of acting indifferently in both directions, the reduction must be made on both sides of the tooth: evidently the action will be slightly impaired, for which reason the backlash should be reduced to a minimum. Precisely what _is_ the minimum is not so easy to say, as it evidently depends much upon the excellence of the tools and the skill of the workman. In many treatises on constructive mechanism it is variously stated that the backlash should be from one-fifteenth to one-eleventh of the pitch, which would seem to be an ample allowance in reasonably good castings not intended to be finished, and quite excessive if the teeth are to be cut; nor is it very obvious that its amount should depend upon the pitch any more than upon the precession of the equinoxes. On paper, at any rate, we may reduce it to zero, and make the teeth and spaces equal in breadth, as shown in the figure, the teeth being indicated by the double lines. Those upon the portion L H are then laid off upon K I, after which these divisions are transferred to the ellipse by the second of Prof. Rankine's constructions, and we are then ready to draw the teeth. The outlines of these, as of any other teeth upon pitch-curves which roll together in the same plane, depend upon the general law that they must be such as can be marked out upon the planes of the curves, as they roll by a tracing-point, which is rigidly connected with and carried by a third line, moving in rolling contact with both the pitch-curves. And since under that condition the motion of this third line, relatively to each of the others, is the same as though it rolled along each of them separately while they remained fixed, the process of constructing the generated curves becomes comparatively simple. For the describing line we naturally select a circle, which, in order to fulfil the condition, must be small enough to roll within the pitch ellipse; its diameter is determined by the consideration that if it be equal to A P, the radius of the arc A F, the flanks of the teeth in that region will be radial. We have, therefore, chosen a circle whose diameter, A B, is three-fourths of A P, as shown, so that the teeth, even at the ends of the wheels, will be broader at the base than on the pitch line. This circle ought strictly to roll upon the true elliptical curve; and assuming, as usual, the tracing-point upon the circumference, the generated curves would vary slightly from true epicycloids, and no two of those used in the same quadrant of the ellipse would be exactly alike. Were it possible to divide the ellipse accurately, there would be no difficulty in laying out these curves; but having substituted the circular arcs, we must now roll the generating circle upon these as bases, thus forming true epicycloidal teeth, of which those lying upon the same approximating arc will be exactly alike. Should the junction of two of these arcs fall within the breadth of a tooth, as at D, evidently both the face and the flank on one side of that tooth will be different from those on the other side; should the junction coincide with the edge of a tooth, which is very nearly the case at F, then the face on that side will be the epicycloid belonging to one of the arcs, its flank a hypocycloid belonging to the other; and it is possible that either the face or the flank on one side should be generated by the rolling of the describing circle partly on one arc, partly on the one adjacent, which, upon a large scale, and where the best results are aimed at, may make a sensible change in the form of the curve. The convenience of the constructions given in Figure 252 is nowhere more apparent than in the drawing of the epicycloids, when, as in the case in hand the base and generating circles may be of incommensurable diameters; for which reason we have, in Figure 254, shown its application in connection with the most rapid and accurate mode yet known of describing those curves. Let C be the centre of the base circle; B, that of the rolling one; A, the point of contact. Divide the semi-circumference of B into six equal parts at 1, 2, 3, etc.; draw the common tangent at A, upon which rectify the arc A 2 by process No. 1; then by process No. 2 set out an equal arc A 2 on the base circle, and stepping it off three times to the right and left, bisect these spaces, thus making subdivisions on the base circle equal in length to those on the rolling one. Take in succession as radii the chords A 1, A 2, A 3, etc., of the describing circle, and with centres 1, 2, 3, etc., on the base circle, strike arcs either externally or internally, as shown respectively on the right and left; the curve tangent to the external arcs is the epicycloid, that tangent to the internal ones the hypocycloid, forming the face and flank of a tooth for the base circle. [Illustration: Fig. 255.] In the diagram, Figure 253, we have shown a part of an ellipse whose length is ten inches, and breadth six, the figure being half size. In order to give an idea of the actual appearance of the combination when complete, we show in Figure 255 the pair in gear, on a scale of three inches to the foot. The excessive eccentricity was selected merely for the purpose of illustration. Figure 255 will serve also to call attention to another serious circumstance, which is, that although the ellipses are alike, the wheels are not; nor can they be made so if there be an even number of teeth, for the obvious reason that a tooth upon one wheel must fit into a space on the other; and since in the first wheel, Figure 255, we chose to place a tooth at the extremity of each axis, we must in the second one place there a space instead; because at one time the major axes must coincide; at another, the minor axes, as in Figure 255. If, then, we use even numbers, the distribution, and even the forms of the teeth, are not the same in the two wheels of the pair. But this complication may be avoided by using an odd number of teeth, since, placing a tooth at one extremity of the major axes, a space will come at the other. It is not, however, always necessary to cut teeth all round these wheels, as will be seen by an examination of Figure 256, C and D being the fixed centres of the two ellipses in contact at P. Now P must be on the line C D, whence, considering the free foci, we see that P B is equal to P C, and P A to P D; and the common tangent at P makes equal angles with C P and P A, as is also with P B and P D; therefore, C D being a straight line, A B is also a straight line and equal to C D. If then the wheels be overhung, that is, fixed on the ends of the shafts outside the bearings, leaving the outer faces free, the moving foci may be connected by a rigid link A B, as shown. [Illustration: Fig. 256.] This link will then communicate the same motion that would result from the use of the complete elliptical wheels, and we may therefore dispense with the most of the teeth, retaining only those near the extremities of the major axes, which are necessary in order to assist and control the motion of the link at and near the dead-points. The arc of the pitch-curves through which the teeth must extend will vary with their eccentricity; but in many cases it would not be greater than that which in the approximation may be struck about one centre; so that, in fact, it would not be necessary to go through the process of rectifying and subdividing the quarter of the ellipse at all, as in this case it can make no possible difference whether the spacing adopted for the teeth to be cut would "come out even" or not, if carried around the curve. By this expedient, then, we may save not only the trouble of drawing, but a great deal of labor in making, the teeth round the whole ellipse. We might even omit the intermediate portions of the pitch ellipses themselves; but as they move in rolling contact their retention can do no harm, and in one part of the movement will be beneficial, as they will do part of the work; for if, when turning, as shown by the arrows, we consider the wheel whose axis is D as the driver, it will be noted that its radius of contact, C P, is on the increase; and so long as this is the case the other wheel will be compelled to move by contact of the pitch lines, although the link be omitted. And even if teeth be cut all round the wheels, this link is a comparatively inexpensive and a useful addition to the combination, especially if the eccentricity be considerable. Of course the wheels shown in Figure 255 might also have been made alike, by placing a tooth at one end of the major axis and a space at the other, as above suggested. In regard to the variation in the velocity ratio, it will be seen, by reference to Figure 256, that if D be the axis of the driver, the follower will in the position there shown move faster, the ratio of the angular velocities being P × D/P × B; if the driver turn uniformly, the velocity of the follower will diminish, until at the end of half a revolution, the velocity ratio will be P × B/P × D; in the other half of the revolution these changes will occur in a reverse order. But P D = L B; if then the centres B D are given in position, we know L P, the major axis; and in order to produce any assumed maximum or minimum velocity ratio, we have only to divide L P into segments whose ratio is equal to that assumed value, which will give the foci of the ellipse, whence the minor axis may be found and the curve described. For instance, in Figure 255 the velocity ratio being nine to one at the maximum, the major axis is divided into two parts, of which one is nine times as long as the other; in Figure 256 the ratio is as one to three, so that the major axis being divided into four parts, the distance A C between the foci is equal to two of them, and the distance of either focus from the nearest extremity of the major axis is equal to one, and from the more remote extremity is equal to three of these parts. CHAPTER XII. _PLOTTING MECHANICAL MOTIONS._ [Illustration: Fig. 257.] Let it be required to find how much motion an eccentric will give to its rod, the distance from the centre of its bore to the centre of the circumference, which is called the throw, being the distance from A to B in Figure 257. Now as the eccentric is moved around by the shaft, it is evident that the axis of its motion will be the axis A of the shaft. Then from A as a centre, and with radius from A to C, we draw the dotted circle D, and from E to F will be the amount of motion of the rod in the direction of the arrow. This becomes obvious if we suppose a lead pencil to be placed against the eccentric at E, and suppose the eccentric to make half a revolution, whereupon the pencil will be pushed out to F. If now we measure the distance from E to F, we shall find it is just twice that from A to B. We may find the amount of motion, however, in another way, as by striking the dotted half circle G, showing the path of motion of B, the diameter of this path of motion being the amount of lateral motion given to the rod. [Illustration: Fig. 258.] In Figure 258 is a two arm lever fast upon the same axis or shaft, and it is required to find how much a given amount of motion of the long arm will move the short one. Suppose the distance the long arm moves is to A. Then draw the line B from A to the axis of the shaft, and the line C the centre line of the long arm. From the axis of the shaft as a centre, draw the circle D, passing through the eye or centre E of the short arm. Take the radius from F to G, and from E as a centre mark it on D as at H, and H is where E will be when the long arm moves to A. We have here simply decreased the motion in the same proportion as one arm is shorter than the other. The principle involved is to take the motion of both arms at an equal distance from their axis of motion, which is the axis of the shaft S. [Illustration: Fig. 259.] In Figure 259 we have a case in which the end of a lever acts directly upon a shoe. Now let it be required to find how much a given motion of the lever will cause the shoe to slide along the line _x_; the point H is here found precisely as before, and from it as a centre, the dotted circle equal in diameter to the small circle at E is drawn from the perimeter of the dotted circle, a dotted line is carried up and another is carried up from the face of the shoe. The distance K between these dotted lines is the amount of motion of the shoe. In Figure 260 we have the same conditions as in Figure 259, but the short arm has a roller acting against a larger roller R. The point H is found as before. The amount of motion of R is the distance of K from J; hence we may transfer this distance from the centre of R, producing the point P, from which the new position may be marked by a dotted circle as shown. [Illustration: Fig. 260.] In Figure 261 a link is introduced in place of the roller, and it is required to find the amount of motion of rod R. The point H is found as before, and then the length from centre to centre of link L is found, and with this radius and from H as a centre the arc P is drawn, and where P intersects the centre line J of R is the new position for the eye or centre Q of R. [Illustration: Fig. 261.] In Figure 262 we have a case of a similar lever actuating a plunger in a vertical line, it being required to find how much a given amount of motion of the long arm will actuate the plunger. Suppose the long arm to move to A, then draw the lines B C and the circle D. Take the radius or distance F, G, and from E mark on D the arc H. Mark the centre line J of the rod. Now take the length from E to I of the link, and from H as a centre mark arc K, and at the intersection of K with J is where the eye I will be when the long arm has moved to A. [Illustration: Fig. 262.] In Figure 263 are two levers upon their axles or shafts S and S'; arm A is connected by a link to arm B, and arm C is connected direct to a rod R. It is required to find the position of centre G of the rod eye when D is in position E, and when it is also in position F. Now the points E and F are, of course, on an arc struck from the axis S, and it is obvious that in whatever position the centre H may be it will be somewhere on the arc I, I, which is struck from the centre S'. Now suppose that D moves to E, and if we take the radius D, H, and from E mark it upon the arc I as at V, then H will obviously be the new position of H. To find the new position of G we first strike the arc J, J, because in every position of G it will be somewhere on the arc J, J. To find where that will be when H is at V, take the radius H, G, and from V as a centre mark it on J, J, as at K, which is the position of G when D is at E and H is at V. For the positions when D is at F we repeat the process, taking the radius D, H, and from F marking P, and with the radius H, G, and from P as a centre marking Q; then P is the new position for H, and Q is that for G. [Illustration: Fig. 263.] In Figure 264 a lever arm A and cam C are in one piece on a shaft. S is a shoe sliding on the line _x_, and held against the cam face by the rod R; it is required to find the position of the face of the shoe against the cam when the end of the arm is at D. Draw line E from D to the axis of the shaft and line F. From the shaft axis as a centre draw circle W; draw line J parallel to _x_. Take the radius G H, and from K as a centre mark point P on W; draw line Q from the shaft axis through P, and mark point T. From the shaft axis as a centre draw from T an arc, cutting J at V, and V is the point where the face of the shoe and the face of the cam will touch when the arm stands at D. [Illustration: Fig. 264.] Let it be required to find the amount of motion imparted in a straight line to a rod attached to an eccentric strap, and the following construction may be used. In Figure 265 let A represent the centre of the shaft, and, therefore, the axis about which the eccentric revolves. Let B represent the centre of the eccentric, and let it be required to find in what position on the line of motion _x_, the centre C of the rod eye will be when the centre B of the eccentric has moved to E. Now since A is the axis, the centre B of the eccentric must rotate about it as denoted by the circle D, and all that is necessary to find the position of C for any position of eccentric is to mark the position of B on circle D, as at E, and from that position, as from E, as a centre, and with the length of the rod as a radius, mark the new position of C on the line _x_ of its motion. With the centre of the eccentric at B, the line Q, representing the faces of the straps, will stand at a right angle to the line of motion, and the length of the rod is from B to C; when the eccentric centre moves to E, the centre line of the rod will be moved to position P, the line Q will have assumed position R, and point C will have moved from its position in the drawing to G on line _x_. If the eccentric centre be supposed to move on to F, the point C will move to H, the radii B C, E G, and F H all being equal in length. Now when the eccentric centre is at E it will have moved one-quarter of a revolution, and yet the point C will only have moved to G, which is not central between C and H, as is denoted by the dotted half circle I. [Illustration: Fig. 265.] On the other hand, while the eccentric centre is moving from E to F, which is but one-quarter of a revolution, the rod end will move from G to H. This occurs because the rod not only moves _endwise_, but the end connected to the eccentric strap moves towards and away from the line _x_. This is shown in the figure, the rod centre line being marked in full line from B to _x_. And when B has moved to E, the rod centre line is marked by dotted line E, so that it has moved away from the line of motion B _x_. In Figure 266 the eccentric centre is shown to stand at an angle of 45 degrees from line _q_, which is at a right angle to the line of motion _x x_, and the position of the rod end is shown at C, J and H representing the extremes of motion, and G the centre of the motion. [Illustration: Fig. 266.] If now we suppose the eccentric centre to stand at T, which is also an angle of 45 degrees to _q_, then the rod end will stand at K, which is further away from G than C is; hence we find that on account of the movement of the rod out of the straight end motion, the motion of the rod end becomes irregular in proportion to that of the eccentric, whose action in moving the eye C of the rod in a straight line is increased (by the rod) while it is moving through the half rotation denoted by V in figure, and diminished during the other half rotation. In many cases, as, for example, on the river steamboats in the Western and Southern States, cams are employed instead of eccentrics, and the principles involved in drawing or marking out such cams are given in the following remarks, which contain the substance of a paper read by Lewis Johnson before the American Society of Mechanical Engineers. In Figure 267 is a side view of a pair of cams; one, C, being a full stroke cam for operating the valve that admits steam to the engine cylinder; and the other, D, being a cam to cut off the steam supply at the required point in the engine stroke. The positions of these cams with relation to the position of the crank-pin need not be commented upon here, more than to remark that obviously the cam C must operate to open the steam inlet valve in advance of cam D, which operates to close it and cause the steam to act expansively in the cylinder, and that the angle of the throw line of the cut-off valve D to the other cam or to the crank-pin varies according as it is required to cut off the steam either earlier or later in the stroke. [Illustration: Fig. 267.] The cam yoke is composed of two halves, Y and Y', bolted together by bolts B, which have a collar at one end and two nuts at the other end, the inner nuts N N enabling the letting together of the two halves of the yoke to take up the wear. It is obvious that as the shaft revolves and carries the cam with it, it will, by reason of its shape, move the yoke back and forth; thus, in the position of the parts shown in Figure 267, the direction of rotation being denoted by the arrow, cam C will, as it rotates, move the yoke to the left, and this motion will occur from the time corner _a_ of the cam meets the face of Y' until corner _b_ has passed the centre line _d_. Now since that part of the circumference lying between points _a_ and _b_ of the cam is an arc of a circle, of which the axis of the shaft is the centre, the yoke will remain at rest until such time as _b_ has passed line _d_ and corner _a_ meets the jaw Y of the yoke; hence the period of rest is determined by the amount of circumference that is made concentric to the shaft; or, in other words, is determined by the distance between _a_ and _b_. The object of using a cam instead of an eccentric is to enable the opening of the valves abruptly at the beginning of the piston stroke, maintaining a uniform steam-port opening during nearly the entire length of stroke, and as abruptly closing the valves at the termination of the stroke. Figure 268 is a top view of the mechanism in Figure 267; and Figure 269 shows an end view of the yoke. At B, in Figure 268, is shown a guide through which the yoke-stem passes so as to be guided to move in a straight line, there being a guide of this kind on each side of the yoke. [Illustration: Fig. 268.] The two cams are bolted to a collar that is secured to the crank-shaft, and are made in halves, as shown in the figures and also in Figures 270 and 271, which represent cams removed from the other mechanism. To enable a certain amount of adjustment of the cams upon the collar, the bolts which hold them to the collar fit closely in the holes in the collar, but the cams are provided with oblong bolt holes as shown, so that the position of either cam, either with relation to the other cam or with relation to the crank-pin, can be adjusted to the extent permitted by the length of the oblong holes. [Illustration: Fig. 269.] The crank is assumed in the figures to be on its dead centre nearest to the engine cylinder, and to revolve in the direction of the arrows. The cams are so arranged that their plain unflanged surfaces bolt against the collar. The method of drawing or marking out a full stroke cam, such as C in Figure 267, is illustrated in Figure 272, in which the dimensions are assumed to be as follows: Diameter of crank shaft, 7-1/2 inches; travel of cam, 3 inches; width of yoke, 18 inches. [Illustration: Fig. 270.] The circumference of the cam is composed of four curved lines, P, P', K 1, and K 2. The position of the centre of the crank shaft in this irregularly curved body is at X. The arcs K 1 and K 2 differ in radius, but are drawn from the same point, X, and hence are concentric with the crank shaft. The arcs P, P', are of like radius, but are drawn from the opposite points S, S', shown at the intersection of the arcs P, P', with the arc K 1. Thus arcs P, P', are eccentric to the crank shaft. [Illustration: Fig. 271.] [Illustration: Fig. 272.] [Illustration: Fig. 273.] To draw the cam place one point of the dividers at X, which is the centre of the crank shaft, and draw the circle E equal to width of yoke, 18 inches. Through this centre X, draw the two right lines A and B. On the line B, at the intersection of the curved line E, draw the two vertical lines A 1, A 1. With a radius of 10-1/2 inches, and with one point of the dividers at X, draw the arc K 1. With a radius of 7-1/2 inches, and one point of the dividers at X, draw the arc K 2. With a radius of 18 inches, and one point of the dividers at the intersection of the arc E, with the vertical line A 1 at S, draw the arc P opposite to S, and let it merge or lose itself in the curved line K 2. Draw the other curved line P' from the other point S, and we have a full stroke cam of the dimensions required, and which is represented in Figure 273, removed from the lines used in constructing it. [Illustration: Fig. 274.] The engravings from and including Figure 274 illustrate the lines embracing cut-off cams of varying limits of cut-off, but all of like travel and dimensions, which are the same as those given for the full stroke cam in Figure 272. In drawing cut-off cams, the stroke of the engine plays a part in determining their conformation, and in the examples shown this is assumed to be 4 feet. Figure 274 illustrates the manner of finding essential points in drawing or marking out cut-off cams. With X as a centre, and a radius of 2 feet, draw the circle E 1, showing the path of the crank-pin in making a revolution. This circle has a diameter of 4 feet, equal to the stroke of the engine. Draw the horizontal line B, passing through the centre of circle E 1. Within the limits of circle E 1, subdivide line B into eight equal parts, as at 1, 2, 3, 4, etc. Draw the vertical lines, 1, 2, 3, 4, etc., until they each intersect the circle E 1. [Illustration: Fig. 275.] With X as a centre, draw the circle E, having a diameter of 18 inches, equal to the space in the yoke embracing the cam. From the centre X draw the series of radial lines through the points of intersection of the vertical lines 1, 2, 3, 4, etc., from the circle E 1, and terminating at X. We will now proceed to utilize the scale afforded by Figure 274, in laying off the cut-off cam shown in Figure 276, of half stroke limit. [Illustration: Fig. 276.] With X as a centre, draw the circle E, Figure 275, having a diameter of 18 inches. Bisect this circle with the straight lines A and B, which bear the same relation to their enclosing circle that the lines A, B, do to the circle E in Figure 274. [Illustration: Fig. 277.] It will be observed, in Figure 274, that the vertical line A is (at the top half) also No. 4, representing 4/8, or half of the stroke. With a radius of 18 inches, and one point of the dividers placed at V, which is at the intersection of the circle E with the horizontal line B in Figure 275, draw the arc P. With the same radius and with one compass point rested at V', draw the arc P'; then two arcs, P and P', intersecting at the point S. With the same radius and one point of the compasses at S, draw the arc H H. The arcs K 1 and K 2 are drawn from the centre X, with a radius of 10-1/2 for K 1 and 7-1/2 inches for K 2, and only serve in a half stroke cam to intersect the curved lines already drawn, as shown in Figure 275. In practice, the sharp corner at S would be objectionable, owing to rapid wear at this point; and hence a modification of the dimensions for this half stroke cam would be required to obtain a larger wearing surface at the point S, but the cam of this limit (1/2 stroke) is correctly drawn by the process described with reference to Figure 275, the outline of the cam so constructed being shown in Figure 276. [Illustration: Fig. 278.] In Figure 278 is shown a cam designed to cut off the steam at five-eighths of the piston stroke, the construction lines being given in Figure 277, for which draw circle E and straight lines A and B, as in the preceding example. By reference to Figure 274 it will be observed that the diagonal line drawn through circle E at 5 is drawn from the straight line marked 5, which intersects circle E 1, and as this straight line 5 represents five-eighths of the stroke laid off on line B, it determines the limit of cut-off on the five-eighths cam in Figure 277. [Illustration: Fig. 279.] Turning then to Figure 274, take on circle E the radius from radial line 4 to radial line 5, and mark it in Figure 277 from the vertical line producing V'. Now, with a radius of 18 inches, and one point of the dividers fixed at point V, forming the intersection of the circle E with the horizontal line B, draw the arc P. With the same radius, and one point of the dividers fixed at point V', draw the opposite arc P'. With a radius of 10-1/2 inches from the centre X, draw the arc K 1, intersecting lines P P', at S S. With a radius of 7-1/2 inches, draw the curved line K 2, opposite to curved line K 1. Now, with a radius of 18 inches, and one point of the dividers fixed alternately at S S, draw the arcs H, H, from their intersection with the circle E, until they merge into the curved line K 2. These curved lines embrace a cut-off cam of five-eighths limit, shown complete in Figure 278. [Illustration: Fig. 280.] From the instructions already given it should be easy to understand that the three-fourths and seven-eighths cams, shown in Figures 279, 280, 281 and 282, are drawn by taking the points of their cut-off from the same scale shown in Figure 274, at the diagonal points 6 and 7, intersecting circle E in that figure; and cut-off cams of intermediate limit of cut-off can be drawn by further subdividing the stroke line B, in Figure 274, into the required limits. [Illustration: Fig. 281.] Cut-off cams of any limit are necessarily imperfect in their operations as to uniformity of cut-off from opposite ends of the slides, not from any defect in the rule for laying them off, but from the well-known fact of the crank pin travelling a greater distance, while driven by the piston from the centre of the cylinder, through its curved path from the cylinder, over its centre, and back to the centre of the cylinder, than in accomplishing the remaining distance of its path in making a complete revolution; and, although the subdivisions of eighths of the stroke line B, in Figure 274, does not truly represent a like division of the piston stroke, owing to deviation, caused by inclination of the connecting rod in traversing from the centres to half stroke, still it will be found that laying off a cut-off cam by this rule is more nearly correct than if the divisions on stroke line B were made to correspond exactly with a subdivision of piston stroke into eighths. [Illustration: Fig. 282.] The cut-off in cams laid off by the rules herein described is greater in travelling from one side of the slides than in travelling from the opposite end, one cut-off being more than the actual cut-off of piston stroke, and the other less; and in practical use, owing to play or lost motion in the connections from cam to valve, the actual cut-off is less than the theoretical; hence cut-off cams are usually laid off to compensate for lost motion; that is, laid off with more limit; for instance, a five-eighths cam would be laid off to cut-off at eleven-sixteenths instead of five-eighths. [Illustration: Fig. 283.] Figure 283 represents the motion a crank, C, imparts to a connecting rod, represented by the thick line R, whose end, B, is supposed to be guided to move in a straight line. The circle H represents the path of the crank-pin, and dots 1, 2, 3, etc., are 24 different crank-pin positions equidistant on the circle of crank-pin revolution. Suppose the crank-pin to have moved to position 1, and with the compasses set to the length of the rod R, we set one point on the centre of position 1, and mark on the line of motion _m_ the line _a_, which will be the position rod end B will have moved to. Suppose next that the crank-pin has moved into position 2, and with the compass point on the centre of 2 we mark line 2, showing that while the crank-pin moved from 1 to 2, the rod end moved from _a_ to _b_; by continuing this process we are enabled to discern the motion for the whole of the stroke. The backward stroke will be the same, for corresponding crank-pin positions, for both strokes; thus, when the rod end is at 7 the crank-pin may be at 7 or at 17. This fact enables us to find the positions for the positions later than 6, on the other side of the circle, as at 17, 16, 15, etc., which keeps the engraving clear. [Illustration: Fig. 284.] In Figure 284 a pinion, P, drives a gear-wheel, D, on which there is a pin driving the sliding die A in the link L, which is pivoted at C, and connected at its upper end to a rod, R, which is connected to a bolt, B, fast to a slide, S. It is required to find the motion of S, it moving in a straight line, dotted circle H' representing the path of the pin in the sliding die A, arc H representing the line of motion of the upper end of link L, and lines N, O, its centre line at the extreme ends of its vibrating motion. In Figure 285 the letters of reference refer to the same parts as those in Figure 284. We divide the circle H' of pin motion into 24 equidistant parts marked by dots, and through these we draw lines radiating from centre, C, and cutting arc H, obtaining on the arc H the various positions for end Z of rod R, these positions being marked respectively 1, 2, 3, 4, etc., up to 24. With a pair of compasses set to the length of rod R from 1 on H, as a centre, we mark on the line of motion of the slide, line _a_, which shows where the other end of rod R will be (or in other words, it shows the position of bolt B in Figure 284), when the centre of A, Figure 284, is in position 1, Figure 285. [Illustration: Fig. 285.] From 2 on arc H, we mark with the compasses line _b_ on line M, showing that while the pin moved from 1 to 2, the rod R would move slide S, Figure 284, from _a_ to _b_, in Figure 285. From 3 we mark _c_, and so on, all these marks being above the horizontal line M, representing the line of motion, and being for the forward stroke. For the backward stroke we draw the dotted line from position 17 up to arc H, and with the compasses at 17 mark a line beneath the line M of motion, pursuing the same course for all the other pin motions, as 18, 19, etc., until the pin arrives again at position 24, and the link at O, and has made a full revolution, and we shall have the motion of the forward stroke above and that of the backward one below the line of motion of the slide, and may compare the two. [Illustration: Fig. 286.] [Illustration: Fig. 287.] [Illustration: Fig. 288.] [Illustration: Fig. 289.] Figures 286 and 287 represent the Whitworth quick return motion that is employed in many machines. F represents a frame supporting a fixed journal, B, on which revolves a gear-wheel, G, operated by a pinion, P. At A is an arm having journal bearing in B at C. This arm is driven by a pin, D, fast in the gear, G; hence as the gear revolves, pin D moves A around on C as a centre of motion. A is provided with a slot carrying a pin, X, on which is pivoted the rod, R. The motion of end N of the rod R being in a straight line, M, it is required to find the positions of N during twenty-four periods in one revolution of G. In Figure 288 let H' represent the path of motion of the driving pin D, about the centre of B, and H the path of motion of X about the centre C; these two centres corresponding to the centres of B and C respectively, in Figure 287. Let the line M correspond to the line of motion M in Figure 286. Now since it is the pin D, Figure 287, that drives, and since its speed of revolution is uniform, we divide its circle of motion H' into twenty-four equal divisions, and by drawing lines radiating from centre C, and passing through the lines of division on H' we get on circle H twenty-four positions for the pin X in Figure 286. Then setting the compasses to the length of the rod (R, Figure 286), we mark from position 1 on circle H as a centre line, _a_; from position 2 on H we mark line _b_, and so on for the whole twenty-four positions on circle H, obtaining from _a_ to _n_ for the forward, and from _n_ to _y_ for the motion during the backward stroke. Suppose now that the mechanism remaining precisely the same as before, the line M of motion be in a line with the centres C, B, instead of at a right angle to it, as it is in Figure 286, and the motion under this new condition will be as in Figure 289; the process for finding the amount of motion along M from the motion around H being precisely as before. [Illustration: Fig. 290.] In Figure 290 is shown a cutter-head for a wood moulding machine, and it is required to find what shape the cutting edge of the cutter must be to form a moulding such as is shown in the end view of the moulding in the figure. Now the line A A being at a right angle to the line of motion of the moulding as it is passed beneath the revolving cutter, or, what is the same thing, at a right angle to the face of the table on which the moulding is moved, it is obvious that the highest point C of the moulding will be cut to shape by the point C of the cutter; and that since the line of motion of the end of the cutter is the arc D, the lowest part of the cutter action upon the moulding will be at point E. It will also be obvious that as the cutter edge passes, at each point, its length across the line A A, it forms the moulding to shape, while all the cutting action that occurs on either side of that line is serving simply to remove material. All that we have to consider, therefore, is the action on line A A. It may be observed also that the highest point C of the cutter edge must not be less than 1/4 inch from the corner of the cutter head, which gives room for the nut N (that holds the cutter to the head) to pass over the top of the moulding in a 2-1/2 inch head. In proportion as the heads are made larger, however, less clearance is necessary for the nut, as is shown in Figure 291, the cutter edge extending to C, and therefore nearly up to the corner of the head. Its path of motion at C is shown by dotted arc B, which it will be observed amply clears the nut N. In practice, however, point C is not in any size of cutter-head placed nearer than 1/4 inch from corner X of the cutter-head. To find the length of the cutter edge necessary to produce a given depth of moulding, we may draw a circle _i_, Figure 292, equal in diameter to the size of the cutter head to be used, and line A A. The highest point of cutting edge being at _e_, and the lowest at g, then circles _d_ and _f_ represent the line of motion of these two points; and if we mark the cutter in, the necessary length of cutting edge on the cutter is obviously from _a_ to _b_. [Illustration: Fig. 291.] [Illustration: Fig. 292.] Now the necessary depth of cutter edge being found for any given moulding, or part of a moulding, the curves for the edge may be found as follows: Suppose the moulding is to be half round, as in the end view in Figure 290. The width of the cutter must of course equal the width of the moulding, and the length or depth of cutting edge required may be found from the construction shown in Figure 292; hence all that remains is to find the curve for the cutting edge. In Figure 293, let A A represent the centre of the cutter width, its sides being F F', and its end B B. From centre C draw circle D, the upper half of which will serve to represent the moulding. Mark on A the length or depth the cutting edge requires to be, ascertaining the same from the construction shown in Figure 292, and mark it as from C to K'. Then draw line E E, passing through point K. Draw line G, standing at the same angle to A A as the face _h b_, Figure 292, of the cutter does to the line A A, and draw line H H, parallel to G. From any point on G, as at I, with radius J, draw a quarter of a circle, as K. Mark off this quarter circle into equal points of division, as by 1, 2, 3, etc., and from these points of division draw lines, as _a_, _b_, _c_, etc.; and from these lines draw horizontal lines _d_, _e_, _f_, etc. Now divide the lower half of circle D into twice as many equal divisions as quarter circle K is divided into, and from these points of division draw perpendiculars _g_, _h_, _i_, etc. And where these perpendiculars cross the horizontal lines, as _d_, will be points through which the curve may be drawn, three of such points being marked by dots at _p_, _q_, _r_. If the student will, after having drawn the curve by this construction, draw it by the construction that was explained in connection with Figure 79, he will find the two methods give so nearly identical curves, that the latter and more simple method may be used without sensible error. [Illustration: Fig. 293.] [Illustration: Fig. 294.] When the curves of the moulding are not arcs of circles they may be marked as follows: Take the drawing of the moulding and divide each member or step of it by equidistant lines, as _a_, _b_, _c_, _d_, _e_, _f_, _g_, in Figure 294; above the moulding draw lines representing the cutter, and having found the depth of cutting edge for each member by the construction shown in Figure 292, finding a separate line, _a b_, for each member of the moulding, transfer the depths so found to the face of the cutter; divide the depth of each member of the cutter into as many equal divisions as the corresponding member of the moulding is divided into, as by lines _h_, _i_, _j_, _k_, _l_, _m_, _n_. Then draw vertical lines, as _o_, _p_, _q_, _r_, etc.; and where these lines meet the respective lines _h_, _i_, _j_, etc., are points in the curve, such points being marked on the cutter by dots. CHAPTER XIII. _EXAMPLES IN LINE-SHADING AND DRAWINGS FOR LINE-SHADED ENGRAVINGS._ Although in workshop drawings, line-shading is rarely employed, yet where a design rather than the particular details of construction is to be shown, line-shading is a valuable accessory. Figure 295, for example, is intended to show an arrangement of idle pulleys to guide belts from one pulley to another; the principle being that so long as the belt passes to a pulley moving in line with the line of rotation of the pulley, the belt will run correctly, although it may leave the pulley at considerable angle. When a belt envelops two pulleys that are at a right angle to each other, two guide pulleys are needed in order that the belt may, in passing to each pulley, move in the same plane as the pulley rotates in, and the belt is in this case given what is termed a quarter twist. It will be observed that by the line-shading even the twist of the belt is much more clearly shown than it would be if left unshaded. An excellent example of shading is given in Figure 296, which is extracted from the _American Machinist_, and represents a cutting tool for a planing machine. The figure is from a wood engraving, but the effect may be produced by lines, the black parts being considered as simply broad black lines. [Illustration: Fig. 295.] The drawings from which engravings are made are drawn to conform to the process by which the engraving is to be produced. Drawings that are shaded by plain lines may be engraved by three methods. First, the drawing may be photo-engraved, in which process the drawing is photographed on the metal, and every line appears in the engraving precisely as it appears in the drawing. [Illustration: Fig. 296.] For this kind of engraving the drawing may be made of any convenient size that is larger than the size of engraving to be produced, the reduction of size being produced in the photographing process. Drawings for photo-engraving require to have the lines jet black, and it is to be remembered that if red centrelines are marked on the drawing, they will be produced as ordinary black lines in the engraving. The shading on a drawing to be photo-engraved must be produced by lines, and not by tints, for tints, whether of black or of colors, will not photo-engrave properly. It is generally preferred to make the drawing for a photo-engraving larger than the engraving that is to be made from it, a good proportion being to make the drawing twice the length the engraving is to be. This serves to reduce the magnitude of any roughness in the lines of the drawing, and, therefore, to make the engraving better than the drawing. The thickness of the lines in the drawing should be made to suit the amount of reduction to be made, because the lines are reduced in thickness in the same proportion as the engraving is reduced from the drawing. Thus the lines on an engraving reduced to one-half the dimensions of the drawing would be one-half as thick as the lines on the drawing. Drawings for photo-engraving should be made on smooth-faced paper; as, for example, on Bristol board; and to make the lines clean and clear, the drawing instruments should be in the best of condition, and the paper or Bristol board quite dry. The India rubber should be used as little as possible on drawings to be photo-engraved, because, if used before the lines are inked in, it roughens the surface of the paper, and the inking lines will be less smooth and even at their edges; and for this reason it is better not to rub out any lines until all the lines have been inked in. If used to excess after the lines have been inked in it serves to reduce the blackness of the lines, and may so pale them that they will not properly photo-engrave. To make a drawing for an engraver in wood it would be drawn directly on the face of the box-wood block, on which it is to be engraved. The surface of the block is first whitened by a white water color, as Chinese white. If the drawing that is to be used as a copy is on sufficiently thin paper, its outline may be traced over by pencil lines, and the copy may then be laid face down on the wood block and its edges held to the block by wax, the pencilled lines being face to the block. The outline may then be again traced over with a pencil or pointed instrument, causing the imprint of the lead pencil lines to be left on the whitened surface of the block. If the copy is on paper too thick to be thus employed, a tracing may be made and used as above; it being borne in mind that the tracing must be laid with the pencilled lines on the block, because what is the right hand of the drawing on the block is the left hand in the print it gives. The shading on wood blocks is given by tints of India ink aided by pencilled lines, or of course pencilled lines only may for less artistic work be used. Another method is to photograph the drawing direct upon the surface of the wood block; it is unnecessary, however, to enter into this part of the subject. The third method of producing an engraving from a drawing is by means of what is known as the wax process. Drawings for this process should be made on thin paper, for the following reasons: The process consists, briefly stated, in coating a copper plate with a layer of wax about 1/32 inch deep, and in drawing upon the wax the lines to compose the engraving, which lines are produced by means of tools that remove the wax down to the surface of the copper. The plate and wax are then placed in a battery and a deposit of copper fills in the lines and surface of the wax, thus forming the engraving. Now if the drawing is made on thin paper, the engraver coats the surface of the drawing with a dry red pigment, and with a pointed instrument traces over the lines of the drawing, which causes them to leave a red imprint on the surface of the wax, and after the drawing is removed the engraver cuts these imprinted lines in the wax. If the drawing is on thick paper, this method of transferring the drawing to the wax cannot be used, and the engraver may take a tracing from the drawing and transfer from the tracing to the wax. It is obvious, also, that for wax engravings the drawing should be made of the same size that the engraving is required to be, or otherwise the tracing process described cannot be used. Figure 297 represents an engraving made by the wax process from a print from a wood engraving, and it is obvious that since all the lines drawn on the wax sink down to the surface of the copper plate, the shading is virtually composed of lines, the black surfaces being where the lines have been sufficiently close together and broad to remove all the wax enclosed within those surfaces. [Illustration: Fig. 297.] [Illustration: Fig. 298.] The wax process is, however, more suitable for engravings in plain outline only, and is especially excellent when the parts are small and the lines fall close together; as, for example, in Figures 298 and 299, which are engravings of a boiler drilling machine, and were produced for the _American Machinist_ by tracing over a wood engraving from London, "Engineering" in the manner already described. The fineness and cleanness of the lines in the wax process is here well illustrated, the disposition of the parts being easily seen from the engraving, and easily followed in connection with the following description: The machine consists of two horizontal bed-plates A 1 and A 2, made with $V$ slides on top, and placed at right angles to each other. Upon each of the bed-plates is fitted a vertical arm B 1 and B 2, each of which carries two saddles, C 1 and C 2, these being each adjustable vertically on its respective arm by means of rack and pinion and hand wheels D 1 and D 2. The saddles are balanced so that the least possible exertion is sufficient to adjust them. The vertical arms, B 1 and B 2, are cast each with a round foot by which the arms are attached to the square boxes E 1 and E 2, which are fitted to the $V$ slides on the horizontal beds A 1 and A 2, and are adjustable thereon by means of screw and ratchet motion F 1 and F 2. Each of the square boxes has cast on it a small arm G 1 and G 2, carrying studs upon which run pinions gearing into the circular racks at the foot of the vertical arms. The square boxes have each a circular groove turned in the top to receive the bolts by which the vertical arms are connected to them, and thus the vertical arms, and with them the drill spindles N 1 and N 2, are adjustable radially with the boiler--the adjustment being effected by means of the pinions and circular racks. The pinions are arranged so that they can be worked with the same screw key that is used for the bolts in the circular grooves. The shell to be drilled is placed upon the circular table H, which is carried by suitable framework adjustable by means of screw on a $V$ slide I, placed at an angle of 45° with the horizontal bed-plates. By this arrangement, when the table is moved along I, it will approach to or recede from all the drills equally. J 1 and J 2 are girders forming additional bearings for the framework of the table. The bed-plates and slides for the table are bolted and braced together, making the whole machine very firm and rigid. Power is applied to the machine through the cones K 1 and K 2, working the horizontal and vertical shafts L 1 and L 2, etc. On the vertical shafts are fitted coarse pitch worms sliding on feather keys, and carried with the saddles C 1 and C 2, etc. The worms gearing with the worm wheels M 1 and M 2 are fitted on the sleeves of the steel spindles N 1 and N 2. The spindles are fitted with self-acting motions O 1 and O 2, which are easily thrown in and out of gear. The machine is also used for turning the edge of the flanges which some makers prefer to have on the end plates of marine boilers. The plates are very readily fixed to the circular table H, and the edge of the flange trued up much quicker than by the ordinary means of chipping. When the machine is used for this purpose, the cross beam P, which is removable, is fastened to the two upright brackets R 1 and R 2. The cross beam is cast with $V$ slides at one side for a little more than half its length from one end, and on the opposite side for the same length, but from the opposite end. The $V$ slides are each fitted with a tool box S 1 and S 2, having a screw adjustment for setting the tool to the depth of cut, and adjustable on the $V$ slides of the cross beam to the diameter of the plate to be turned. This arrangement of the machine is also used for cutting out the furnace mouths in the boiler ends. The plate is fastened to the circular table, the centre of the hole to be cut out being placed over the centre of table; one or both of the tool boxes may be used. There is sufficient space between the upright brackets R 1 and R 2, to allow that section of a boiler end which contains the furnace mouths to revolve while the holes are being cut out; the plate belonging to the end of a boiler of the largest diameter that the machine will take in for drilling. The holes cut out will be from 2 feet 3 inches in diameter and upwards. Power for using the turntable is applied through the cone T. The bevel wheels, worms, worm wheels, and pinions for driving the tables are of cast steel, which is necessary for the rough work of turning the flanges. [Illustration: Fig. 299. (Page 275.)] As to the practical results of using the machine, the drills are driven at a speed of 340 feet per minute at the cutting edges. A jet of soapsuds plays on each drill from an orifice 1/32 in. in diameter, and at a pressure of 60 lbs. per square inch. A joint composed of two 1-inch plates, and having holes 1 and one-eighth in. in diameter, can be drilled in about 2-1/2 minutes, and allowing about half a minute for adjusting the drill, each drill will do about 20 holes per hour. The machine is designed to stand any amount of work that the drills will bear. The time required for putting on the end of a boiler and turning the flange thereon (say 14 feet diameter) is about 2-1/2 hours; much, however, depends on the state of the flanges, as sometimes they are very rough, while at others very little is necessary to true them up. The time required for putting on the plate containing the furnace mouths and cutting out three holes 2 feet 6 in. in diameter, the plate being 1 and one-eighth in. thick, is three hours. Of course, if several boilers of one size are being made at the same time, the holes in two or more of these plates can be cut out at once. The machine is of such design that it can be placed with one of the horizontal bed-plates (say A 1), parallel and close up to a wall of the boiler shop; and when the turning apparatus is being used, the vertical arm B 2 can be swiveled half way round on its square box E 2, and used for drilling and tapping the stay holes in marine boiler ends after they are put together; of course sufficient room must be left between bed-plate A 2, and the wall of boiler shop parallel with it, to allow for reception of the boiler to be operated upon. It would obviously be quite difficult to draw such drawings as in Figures 298 and 299 on thin paper, so as to enable the drawing to be traced on the wax direct by the process before described, unless indeed the draftsman had considerable experience in fine work; hence, it is not uncommon to make the drawing large, and on ordinary drawing paper. The engraver then has the drawing photographed on the surface of the wax, and works to the photograph. The letters of reference in wax engravings are put in by impressing type in the wax, and in this connection it may be remarked that the letters I and O should not be used on drawings to be engraved by the wax process, unless they are situated outside the outlines of the drawing, because the I looks so much like part of a dotted line that it is often indistinguishable therefrom, while the O looks like a circle or an ellipse. CHAPTER XIV. _SHADING AND COLORING DRAWINGS._ The shading or coloring of drawings by tints is more employed in large drawings than in small ones, and in Europe than in the United States; while on the other hand tinting by means of line-shading is more employed in the United States than in Europe, and more on small drawings than on large ones. Many draftsmen adopt the plan of coloring the journals of shafts, etc., with a light tint, giving them the deepest tint at the circumference to give them a cylindrical appearance. This makes the drawing much clearer and takes but little time to do, and is especially advantageous where the parts are small or on a small scale, so that the lines are comparatively close together. For simple shading purposes black tints of various degrees of darkness may be employed, but it is usual to tint brass work with yellow. Cast iron with India ink, wrought iron with Prussian blue, steel with as light purple tint produced by mixing India ink, Prussian blue and a tinge of crimson lake. Copper is tinted red. On plane surfaces an even tint of color is laid, but if the surfaces are cylindrical they are usually colored deeper at and near the circumference, and are tinted over the colors with light tints of India ink to show their cylindrical form. If a drawing is to be colored or shaded with India ink the paper should be glued all around its edges to the drawing board, and then dampened evenly all over with a sponge, which will cause the paper to shrink and lay close to the surface of the drawing board. If, in applying a color or a tint, the color dries before the whole surface is colored, the color will not be of an equal shade; hence it is necessary before applying the color to dampen the surface, if it is a large one, so that the color at one part shall not get dry before there has been time to go over the whole surface; a more even depth of color is attained by the application of several coats of a light tint, than with one coat, giving the full depth of color. But if the paper is not allowed to dry sufficiently between the coats, or if it has been made too wet previous to the application of the colors, it will run in places, leaving other hollows into which the color will flow, making darker-colored spots. To avoid this the paper may be dried somewhat by the application of clean blotting paper. To maintain an even shade of color, it is necessary to slightly stir up the color each time the brush is dipped into the color saucer or palette, especially when the coloring is composed of mixed colors, because the coloring matter is apt to separate from the water and sink to the bottom. So, also, in mixing colors it is best to apply the end of the color to the surface of the palette and not to apply the brush direct to the cake of color, because the color is more completely mixed by contact with the palette than it can be by the brush, which may retain a speck of color that will, unless washed out, make a streak upon the drawing. To graduate the depth of tint for a cylindrical surface, it is best to mix several, as, say three depths or degrees of tint, and to first use the darkest, applying it in the direction in which the piece is to be shaded darkest. The width this dark application should be is obviously determined by the diameter of the piece. The next operation is to lighten or draw the part, line or streak thus dark colored, causing it to get paler and paler as it approaches the axial line of the piece or cylinder. This lightening is accomplished as follows: The dark streak is applied along such a length of the piece that it will not dry before there has been time to draw it out or lighten it on the side towards the axis. A separate brush may then be wetted and drawn along the edge of the dark streak in short strokes, causing the color to run outwards and become lighter as it approaches the axis. It will be found that during this process the brush will occasionally require washing in water, because from continuous contact with the dark streak the tint it contains will darken. When the first coat has been laid and spread or drawn out from end to end of the piece, the process may be repeated two or three times, the most even results being obtained by making the first dark streak not too dark, and going over the drawing several times, but allowing the paper to get very nearly dry between each coat. In small cylindrical bodies, as, say 1/4 inch in diameter, the darkest line of shadow may be located at the lines representing the diameter of the piece, but in pieces of larger diameter the darkest line may be located at a short distance from the line that denotes the diameter or perimeter on the shadow or right-hand side of the piece, as is shown in many of the engravings that follow. It is obvious that if a drawing is to have dimensions marked on it, the coloring or tinting should not be deep enough to make it difficult to see the dimension figures. The size of the brush to be used depends, of course, upon the size of the piece to be shaded or colored, and it is best to keep one brush for the dark tint and to never let the brush dry with the tint in it, as this makes it harsh. In a good brush the hairs are fine, lie close together when moistened, are smooth and yet sufficiently stiff or elastic to bend back slightly when the pressure is removed. If, when under pressure and nearly dry, the hairs will separate or the brush has no elasticity in it, good results cannot be obtained. All brushes should be well dried after use. The light in shading is supposed to come in at the left-hand corner of the drawing, as was explained with reference to the shade line. Excellent examples to copy and shade with the brush are given as follows: Figure 300 represents a Medart pulley, constructed by the Hartford Steam Engineering Company; the arms and hub are cast in one piece, and the rim is a wrought iron band riveted to the arms, whose ends are turned or ground true with the hub bore. The figure is obviously a wood engraving, but it presents the varying degrees of shade or shadow with sufficient accuracy to form a good example to copy and brush shade with India ink. Figure 301 represents a similar pulley with a double set of arms, forming an excellent example in perspective drawing, as well as for brush-shading. [Illustration: Fig. 300.] In brush-shading as with line-shading, the difficulties increase with an increase in the size of the piece, and the learner will find that after he has succeeded tolerably well in shading these small pulleys, it will be quite difficult, but excellent practice to shade the large pulley in Figure 302. One of the principal considerations is to not let the color dry at the edges in one part while continuing the shading in another part of the same surface, hence it is best to begin at the edge or outline of the drawing and carry the work forward as quickly as possible, occasionally slightly wetting with water edges that require to be left while the shading is proceeding in another direction. [Illustration: Fig. 301.] When it is required to show by the shading that the surfaces are highly polished, the lighter parts of the shading are made to contain what may be termed splashes of lighter and darker shadow, as in Figure 303, which represents an oil cup, having a brass casing enclosing a glass cylinder, which appears through the openings in the brass shell. Figure 304 represents an iron planing machine whose line-shading is so evenly effected that it affords an excellent example of shading. Its parts are similar to those shown in the iron planer in Figure 297, save that it carries two sliding heads, so as to enable the use, simultaneously, of two cutting tools. [Illustration: Fig. 304. (Page 282.)] [Illustration: Fig. 302.] A superior example in shading is shown in Figures 305 and 306, which represent a plan and a sectional view of the steam-cylinder of a Blake's patent direct-acting steam-pump. The construction of the parts is as follows: A is the steam-piston, H 1 and H are the cylinder steam-passages; M is the cylinder exhaust port. [Illustration: Fig. 303.] [Illustration: Fig. 305.] The main valve, whose movement alternately opens the ports for the admission of steam to, and the escape of steam from, the main cylinder, is divided into two parts, one of which, C, slides upon a seat on the main cylinder, and at the same time affords a seat for the other part, D, which slides upon the upper face of C. As shown in the engravings, D is at the left-hand end of its stroke, and C at the opposite or right-hand end of its stroke. Steam from the steam-chest, J, is therefore entering the right-hand end of the main cylinder through the ports E and H, and the exhaust is escaping through the ports H 1, E 1, K and M, which causes the main piston A to move from right to left. When this _piston_ has nearly reached the left-hand end of its cylinder, the tappet arm, T, attached to the piston-rod, comes in contact with, and moves the valve rod collar O 1 and valve rod P, and thus causes C, together with the supplemental valves R and S S 1, which form, with C, _one casting_, to be moved from right to left. This movement causes steam to be admitted to the left-hand end of the supplemental cylinder, whereby its piston B will be forced towards the right, carrying D to the opposite or right-hand end of its stroke; for the movement of S closes N (the steam-port leading to the right-hand end), and the movement of S 1 opens N 1 (the steam-port leading to the opposite or left-hand end), at the same time the movement of V opens the right-hand end of this cylinder to the exhaust, through the exhaust ports X and Z. The parts C and D now have positions opposite to those shown in the engravings, and steam is therefore entering the main cylinder through the ports E 1 and H 1, and escaping through the ports H, E, K and M, which causes the main piston A to move in the opposite direction, or from left to right, and operations similar to those already described will follow, when the piston approaches the right-hand end of its cylinder. By this simple arrangement the pump is rendered positive in its action; that is, it will instantly start and continue working the moment steam is admitted to the steam-chest, while at the same time the piston is enabled to move as slowly as the nature of the duty may require. It will be noted that in Figure 305, the ports of C are shown through D, whose location is marked by dark shading. This obviously is not correct, because D being above C should be shaded lighter than C, and again the ports E 1 and K could not show dark through the port D. They might, of course, be shown by dotted outlines, but they would not appear to such advantage, and on this account it is permissible where artistic effect is sought, the object being to subserve the shading to making the mechanism and its operation clearly and readily understood. [Illustration: Fig. 306.] Figure 307 affords another excellent example for shading. It consists of an independent condenser, whose steam-cylinder and valve mechanism is the same as that described with reference to Figures 305 and 306. [Illustration: Fig. 307. (Page 288.)] [Illustration: Fig. 308. (Page 289.)] [Illustration: Fig. 309. (Page 289.)] [Illustration: Fig. 310--SECTION OF CYLINDER AND STEAM CHEST. (Page 289.)] CHAPTER XV. _EXAMPLES IN ENGINE WORK._ In the figures from 308 to 328 inclusive are given three examples in engine work, all these drawings being from _The American Machinist_. Figures 308 to 314 represent drawings of an automatic high speed engine designed and made by Professor John E. and William A. Sweet, of Syracuse, New York. Figure 308 is a side and 309 an end view of the engine. Upon a bed-plate is bolted two straight frames, between which, at their upper ends, the cylinder is secured by bolts. The guides for the cross-head are bolted to the frame, which enables them to be readily removed to be replaned when necessary. The hand wheel and rod to the right are to operate the stop-cock for turning on and off the steam to the steam-chest. The objects of the design are as follows: Figure 310 is a vertical section of the cylinder through the valve face, also showing the valve in section, and it will be seen that the lower steam passage enters the cylinder its full depth below the inside bottom, and that the whole inside bottom surface of the cylinder slopes or inclines towards the entrance of this passage. The object of this is to overcome the difficulty experienced from the accumulation of water in the cylinder, which, in the vertical engine, is usually a source of considerable annoyance and frequently the cause of accident. Any water that may be present in the bottom finds its way by gravity to the port steam entrance, and is forced out by and with the exhaust steam at or before the commencement of the return stroke. To assist in the escape of water from the top of the cylinder, the piston is made quite crowning at that end, the effect of which is to collect the water in a narrow band, instead of spreading it over a large surface. This materially assists in its escape, and at the same time presents a large surface for the distribution of any water that may not find its way out in advance of the piston. The piston is a single casting unusually long and light, and is packed with four spring rings of 3/8 inch square brass wire. The valve is a simple rectangular plate, working between the valve face and a cover plate, the cover plate being held in its proper position, relative to the back of the valve, by steam pressure against its outer surface, and by resting against loose distance pieces between its inner surface and the valve seat. This construction admits of the valve leaving the seat, if necessary, to relieve the cylinder from water, as in the instance of priming, and also, by the reduction of these pieces, admits of ready adjustment to contact, should it become necessary. [Illustration: Fig. 311--VALVE MOTION.] The cover plate is provided with recesses on its inner surface which exactly correspond with the ports in the valve face, and the corresponding ports and recesses are kept in communication with each other by means of relief passages in the valve. From this it will be seen that the valve is subjected to equal and balanced pressure on each of its sides, and hence, is in equilibrium. The valve is operated through the valve motion, shown in Figure 311, the eccentric rod of which hooks on a slightly tapered block that turns on the pin of the rock arm, like an ordinary journal box. The expansion, or cut-off, is automatically regulated by the operation of the governor in swinging the slotted eccentric in a manner substantially equivalent to moving it across the shaft, but is however favorably modified by the arrangement of the rock arm, which, in combination with the other motions, neutralizes the unfavorable operation of the usual shifting eccentric, and which, in connection with the large double port opening, provides for a good use of steam from 0 to 3/4 stroke. The governor shown in Figure 312 is of the disc and single ball type, the centrifugal force of the ball being counteracted by a powerful spring. Friction is reduced to a minimum in the governor connection, by introducing steel rollers and hardened steel plates in such a manner as to provide rolling instead of sliding motion. In order that a governor shall correctly perform its functions, it is unquestionably necessary that it have power largely in excess of the work required of it, and also that the friction shall represent a very low percentage of that power. In respect to this, especial means have been employed to reduce the friction; the valve being balanced, requires but little power to move it, while the governor ball being made heavy for the purpose of counterbalancing the weight of the eccentric and strap, its centrifugal force when the engine is at full speed is enormous, the spring to counteract it having to sustain from _two to three thousand pounds_. Under these circumstances, as might be expected, the regulation is remarkably good. This is a very important consideration in an engine working under the conditions of a roll-train engine. [Illustration: Fig. 312--GOVERNOR.] [Illustration: Fig. 313--SECTION OF PILLOW BLOCK.] Figure 313 represents a section of the pillow block box, crank-pin and wheel, together with the main journal. It will be seen that the end of the box next the crank wheel has a circular groove around its outside, and that a corresponding groove in the crank wheel projects over this groove. From this latter groove an oil hole of liberal size extends, as shown, to the surface of the crank-pin. Any oil placed at the upper part of the groove on the box finds its way by gravity into the groove in the crank wheel, and is carried by centrifugal force to the outside surface of the crank-pin; so that whatever other means of lubrication may be employed, this one will always be positive in its action. This cut also shows the manner in which the box overlaps the main journal and forms the oil reservoir. [Illustration: Fig. 314--CONNECTING ROD. (Page 295.)] Another feature in the construction of this box is the means by which it is made to adjust itself in line with the shaft. It will be observed that it rests on the bottom of the jaws of the frame on two inclined surfaces, which form equal angles with the axis of the shaft when in its normal position, and that by moving longitudinally in either direction, as may be necessary, the box will accommodate itself to a change in the alignment of the shaft. In order that it may be free to move for this purpose it is not fitted with the usual fore and aft flanges. By this means any slight derangement, as in either the outboard or inboard bearing wearing down the fastest, is taken care of, the movement of the box on the inclined surfaces being for this purpose equivalent to the operation of a ball and socket bearing. Figure 314 gives a side and an edge view of the connecting rod, the rod being in section in the edge view, and the brasses in section lined in both views. The cross-head pin, it will be observed, is tapered, and is drawn home in the cross-head by a bolt; the sides of the pin are flattened somewhat where the journal is, so that the pin may not wear oval, as it is apt to do, because of the pull and thrust strain of the rod brasses falling mainly upon the top and bottom of the journal, where the most wear therefore takes place. The brasses at the crossed end are set up by a wedge adjustable by means of the screw bolts shown. The cross-head wrist pin being removable from the cross-head enables the upper end of the rod to have a solid end, since it can be passed into place in the crossed and the wrist pin inserted through the two. The lower ends of the connecting-rod and the crank-pin possess a peculiar feature, inasmuch as by enlarging the diameter of the crank-pin, the ends of the brasses overlap, to a certain extent, the ends of the journal, thus holding the oil and affording increased lubrication. The segments that partly envelop the cross-head pin and crank-pin, and are section lined in two directions, producing crossing section lines, or small squares, show that the brasses are lined with babbitt metal, which is represented by this kind of cross-hatching. These drawings are sufficiently open and clear to form very good examples to copy and to trace on tracing paper. [Illustration: Fig. 315.] [Illustration: Fig. 316. (Page 296.)] [Illustration: Fig. 317.] Figures 315, 316 and 317 represent, in place upon its setting, a 200 horse-power horizontal steam-boiler for a stationary engine, and are the design of William H. Hoffman. The cross-sectional view of the boiler shell in Figure 315 shows the arrangement of the tubes, which, having clear or unobstructed passages between the vertical rows of tubes, permits the steam to rise freely and assists the circulation of the water. The dry pipe (which is also shown in Figure 316) is a perforated pipe through which the steam passes to the engine cylinder, its object being to carry off the steam as dry as possible; that is to say, without its carrying away with the steam any entrained water that may be held in suspension. Figure 316 is a side elevation with the setting shown in section, and Figure 317 is an end view of the boiler and setting at the furnace end. The boiler is supported on each side by channel iron columns, these being riveted to the boiler shell angle pieces which rest upon the columns. The heat and products of combustion pass from the furnace along the bottom of the boiler, and at the end pass into and through the tubes and thence over the top of the boiler to the chimney flue. There is shown in the bridge wall an opening, and its service is to admit air to the gases after they have passed the bridge wall, and thus complete the combustion of such gases as may have remained unconsumed in the furnace. The cleansing door at one end and that lined with asbestos at the other, are to admit the passage of the tube cleaners. The asbestos at the top of the boiler shell is to protect it from any undue rise in temperature, steam being a poorer conductor of heat than water, and it being obvious that if one side of the boiler is hotter than the other it expands more from the heat and becomes longer, causing the boiler to bend, which strains and weakens it. The sides of the setting are composed of a double row of brick walls with an air space of three inches between them, the object being to prevent as far as possible the radiation of heat from the walls. The brick-staves are simply stays to hold the brick work together and prevent its cracking, as it is apt, in the absence of staying, to do. [Illustration: Fig. 318. (Page 299.)] Figures from 318 to 330 are working drawings of a 100-horse engine, designed also by William H. Hoffman. Figure 318 represents a plan and a side view of the bed-plate with the main bearing and the guide bars in place. The cylinder is bolted at the stuffing box end to the bed-plate, and is supported at the outer end by an expansion link pivoted to the bed-plate. The main bearing is provided with a screw for adjusting the height of the bottom piece of the bearing, and thus taking up the wear. The guide bars are held to the bed in the middle as well as at each end. Figures 319 and 320 represent cross sections of the bed-plate. [Illustration: Fig. 319--CROSS SECTION OF BED PLATE NEAR JUNCTION WITH CYLINDER. (Page 299.)] [Illustration: Fig. 320.] [Illustration: Fig. 321--100 H.P. HORIZONTAL STEAM-ENGINE--ELEVATION OF CYLINDER--SCALE 1-1/2" = 1 FOOT. (Page 299.)] [Illustration: Fig. 322--100 H.P. HORIZONTAL STEAM-ENGINE--END VIEW OF CYLINDER--SCALE 1-1/2" = 1 FOOT. (Page 299.)] Figure 321 represents a side elevation of the cylinder, and Figure 322 an end view of the same, the expansion support being for the purpose of permitting the cylinder to expand and contract under variations of temperature without acting to bend the bed-plate, while at the same time the cylinder is supported at both ends. The cylinder and cylinder covers are jacketted with live steam in the steam-spaces shown. [Illustration: Fig. 323--100 H.P. ENGINE--OUTSIDE VIEW OF CYLINDER AND STEAM-CHEST. (Page 301.)] [Illustration: Fig. 324--SECTIONAL VIEW OF CYLINDER AND VALVES--SCALE 1-1/2 INCHES = 1 FOOT. (Page 301.)] [Illustration: Fig. 325--PLAN OF CUT-OFF DEVICE. (Page 301.)] [Illustration: Fig. 326--WORKING DRAWING OF 100 H.P. ENGINE--DETAILS OF MAIN VALVE MOTION--SCALE 3" = 1 FOOT. (Page 301.)] [Illustration: Fig. 328--100 H.P. HORIZONTAL STEAM-ENGINE--CROSS HEAD. (Page 301.)] [Illustration: Fig. 329. Fig. 329 _a_. Working Drawings of 100 H.P. Steam Engine--Eccentric and Eccentric Strap--Scale: 3" = 1 Foot. (Page 301.)] [Illustration: Fig. 330--100 H.P. HORIZONTAL STEAM-ENGINE--CONNECTING ROD. (Page 303.)] A view of the steam-chest side of the cylinder is given in Figure 323, and a horizontal cross section of the cylinder, the steam-chest and the valves, is shown in Figure 324. The main valves are connected by a right and left hand screw, to enable their adjustment, as are also the cut-off valves. Figures 325 and 326 show the cam wrist plate and the cut-off mechanism. The cam wrist plate, which is of course vibrated by the eccentric rod, has an inclined groove, whose walls are protected from wear by steel shoes. In this groove is a steel roller upon a pin attached to the bell crank operating the main valve stem. The operation of the groove is to accelerate the motion imparted from the eccentric to the valve at one part of the latter's travel, and retard it at another, the accelerated portion being during the opening of the port for steam admission, and during its closure for cutting off, which enables the employment of a smaller steam-port than would otherwise be the case. The shaft for the cam plate is carried in a bearing at one end, and fits in a socket at the other, the socket and bearing being upon a base plate that is bolted to the bed-plate of the engine; a side view of the construction being shown in Figure 327. Figure 328 represents the cross-head, whose wrist pin is let into the cross-head cheeks, so that it may be removed to be turned up true. The clip is to prevent the piston rod nut from loosening back of itself. Figure 329 represents a side view; and Figure 329 _a_ a section through the centre of the eccentric and strap. [Illustration: Fig. 327--WORKING DRAWING OF 100 H.P. STEAM-ENGINE.--WRIST PLATE.--3" = 1 FOOT.] The eccentric is let into the strap and is provided with an eye to receive a circular nut by means of which the length of the eccentric rod may be adjusted, a hexagon nut being upon the other or outer end of the eye. Figure 330 shows the construction of the connecting rod, the brasses of which are adjustable to take up the wear and to maintain them to correct length, notwithstanding the wear, by means of a key on each side of each pair of brasses, the keys being set up by nuts and secured by check nuts. INDEX. Ames' lathe feed motion, drawing a part of, 208. Angle of three lines, one to the other, to find, 55, 56. of two lines, one to the other, to find, 54, 55, 56. Angles, acute and obtuse, 57. Arc of a circle, an, 50. Arcs, construction with four, 67, 68. Arcs for the teeth of wheels, to draw, 205. Arrangement of different views, 94-111. Automatic high speed engine, drawings of, 289. Axis of a cylinder, 51. of an ellipse, 63. Ball or sphere, representation of by line-shading, 87, 88. Bed-plate, cross section of, 299. plan and side view of, with main bearing and guide bars, 299. Bell-mouthed body, representation of by line-shading, 88, 89. Bevelled gear, one-half of, and an edge view projected from the same, 207. one of which is line-shaded, 210. wheels, 203. Bevelled gears, small, 208. Bevelled wheels, a pair of, in section, 208. Bisected line, 50. Black lines of a drawing, how to produce, 32. Blacksmith, drawings for the, 172. Blake's patent direct acting steam pump, 284, 285. Boiler drilling machine, a, 269, 270. Boiler, end view of, 297. shell, sectional view of, 296. Bolt heads and nuts, United States standard, 114, 118. to draw a square-headed, 125. with a hexagon head, to draw. 113, 114. with a square under the head, 149. Bolts and nuts, dimensions of United States standard, 117. United States standard, forged or unfinished, 116. Bolts, nuts and polygons, examples in, 112-151. Bow pen, applying the ink to, 46. large, with a removable leg, 22. Brass, representation of, by cross-hatching, 82. Bread for rubbing out, 26. Bristol board, use of rubber on, 26. Brush-shading, 281. Brushes, size and use of, 280. Cam, a, and a lever arm in one piece on a shaft, a shoe sliding on the line, and held against the cam face by the rod, to find the position of the face of the shoe against the cam, 228. a full stroke, method of drawing or marking out, 237-241. designed to cut off steam at five-eighths of the piston stroke, 244-246. heart, to draw, 75, 76. object of using, instead of eccentric, 234. Cam wrist plate, and cut-off mechanism, 301. Cams, cut-off, employed instead of eccentrics on steamboats, examples in drawing, 232. finding the essential points of drawings of, 241-244. necessary imperfections in the operations of, 247-249. part played by the stroke of the engine in determining the conformation of, 241. three-fourths and seven-eighths, 246, 247. Cap nut, to pencil in a, 143. Cast iron, representation of, 277. representation of by cross-hatching, 82. Centre from which an arc of a circle has been struck, to find, 52. Centre of a circle, 51. Centre punch in which the flat sides run out upon a circle, the edges forming curves, 150. Chamfer circles of bolt heads, 120-123. of Franklin Institute bolt head, 119. Chord of an arc, 50. Chuck plate with six slots, to draw, 131. Circle, degrees of a, 52-55. pencil and circle pen, use of, 43, 44. pens, 37, 38. that shall pass through any three given points, to draw, 51. to divide into six divisions, 56, 57. Circles, to divide with the triangle, 129. for bolt heads, to draw, 128. German instrument for drawing, 44, 45. use of the instrument in forming, 42-45. Circular arcs, Rankine's process for rectifying and subdividing, 210. Circumference, 50. Collar, a representation of, 96. Coloring and shading, points to be observed in, 278. Color, to maintain an even shade of, 278. Colors, mixing, 278. Condenser, independent, 288. Cone, cylinder intersecting a, 186. Connecting rod, 169, 295, 303. drawing representing the motion which a crank imparts to a, 249, 250. end, 147. Copper, representation of, 277. Corner where the round stem meets the square under the head, 150. Coupling rod, working drawings of a, 169. Crank, drawing representing the motion which it imparts to a connecting rod, 249. pin and wheel, 294. Cross-hatching or section lining, 77-82. made to denote material of which the piece is composed, 81, 82. may sometimes cause the lines of the drawing to appear crooked to the eye, 80, 81. representation by, of a section of a number of pieces one within the other, the central bore being filled with short plugs, 78, 79. representation by, of three pieces put together, having slots or keyways through them, 79, 80. the diagonal lines in, should not meet the edges of the piece, 78. Cross-head, 301. Cross, use of, to designate a square, 95, 96. Cube, with a hole passing through it, to draw, 101, 102. Cupped ring, representation of, 98. Curved outline, representation of, 86, 87. Curve for tooth face, how to find, 198. representation of the radius for, 87. Curves and lines, 48-76. of gear teeth, names of, 193. Curves for moulding cutter, to find the, 257-263. of thread, template for drawing, 165. of wheels, construction, to find, 204. screw threads, drawing, 159. templates called, 21. use of, in practice, 21. Cut-off cams, employed instead of eccentrics on steamboats, examples in drawing, 232. manner of finding essential points of drawings of, 241-244. necessary imperfections in the operations of, 247-249. part played by the stroke of the engine in determining the conformation of, 241. Cut-off mechanism, 301. Cutting tool for a planing machine, representation of, 264-266. Cylinder, 299. a solid, representation of, 94, 95. intersecting a cone, 186 of an engine, 299-301. of an engine, drawing of, 289. Cylindrical body joining another at a right angle, a, 180. body whose top face, if viewed from one point, would appear as a straight line, or if from another as a circle, 188. piece of wood, which is to be squared, and each side of which square must be an inch, to find the diameter, 136. pieces and cubes, representation of, 95. pieces, representation of, by cross-hatching, 77, 78. Cylindrical pieces, representation of three, one within the other, by cross-hatching, 78. pieces that join each other, representation of, 86. pin line-shaded, representation of, 86. Decagon, a, 63. Degrees of a circle, 52-55. Diameter of a cylindrical piece of wood, which is to be squared, and each side of which square must measure an inch, to find, 136. Diamond, a, 59, 60. Different views, arrangement of, 94-111. Dimension figures in mechanical drawing, 91. Dimensions, marking, 91-93. Distances, relative from the eye, representation of, by line-shading, 89. Dodecagon, a, 63. Dotted lines, use of, 48. Double eye, or knuckle-joint, pencil lines for, 146. or knuckle-joint, with an offset, 147. Double thread, 156. Drawing board, 17, 18. fastening the drawing to, 278. size of, 18. small, advantage of, to student, 18. Drawing for engraver on wood, 268. gear wheels, 193-222. Drawing instruments, 22-26. parts of, 34. selecting and testing, 22. Drawing paper, 26-29. different qualities, kinds and forms, 26, 27. location of on the drawing board, 28, 29. Drawing the curves for screw threads, 159. to scale, making a, 177. Drawings for engraving, necessity of conforming to the particular process of, 266. for engravings by the wax process, 268, 269. Drawings for photo-engraving, 266. for the blacksmith, 172. shading and coloring, 277-288. Drilling machine, a boiler, 269, 270. Eccentric and strap, 301. to find how much motion it will give to its rod, 223. Edge view of a wheel, to draw, 203. Elevation, 94. Ellipse, dimensions of, how taken and designated, 63. form of a true, 66. most correct method of drawing, 72. the, 63-75. Elliptical figure, whose proportion of width to breadth shall remain the same, whatever the length of the major axis, 69. Emery paper, use of on the lining pen, 37. Ennagon, a, 62, 63. Engine work, examples of, 289-303. Engine, working drawings of a 100 horse-power, 299. Engravings by the wax process, drawings for, 268, 269. Examples for practice, 169-177 in bolts, nuts and polygons, 112-151. of engine work, 289-303. of work with nine sides, 135. Feed motion of a Niles horizontal tool work boring mill, 209. Five-sided figure, to draw, 132, 133. Flanks of teeth to trace hypocycloides, for, 200. Foci of an ellipse, 64. Franklin Institute or United States Standard for heads of bolts and of nuts, basis of, 118. Full stroke cam, method of drawing or marking out a, 237-241. Gear, part of, showing the teeth in, the remainder illustrated by circles, 209. Gear teeth, names of the curves and lines of, 193. Gear wheels, drawing, 193-222. various examples for laying out, 214-222. Gearing oval, construction of, 210. General view, 94. Geometrical terms, simple explanation of, 48. Geometry, advantage of to the draughtsman, 48. Governor of an engine, 292, 293. Guide bolts from one pulley to another, arrangement of idle pulleys to, 264. Heart cam, to draw, 75, 76. Hexagon, a, 62, 63. head, representation of a piece with, 96. head, to draw the end view of, 125, 126, 127. headed screw, to draw, 113, 114. radius across corners, 138. Hexagonal form, representation of, 98. or hexagon heads of bolts, 118, 119. Hole, representation of by shade or shadow line, 83. Hollows in connection with round pieces, representations of, 87-89. Hypocycloides for the flanks of teeth, to trace, 200. Independent condenser, 288. India ink, advantages of in drawing, 30. difference between good and inferior, 31. good, characteristics of, 31. India ink, Higgins', 30. mixing, 25. testing, 31, 32. the two forms of, 30. to be used thick, 32. use of, 30. use of on parchment, 32. Ink, applying, to the bow pen, 46. for drawing, 30-33. Instruments, preparation and use of, 34-47. Iron planing machine, representation of, 282. Iron, wrought and cast, representation of by cross-hatching, 82. Journal, 294. Journals of shafts, 277. Key, a, drawn in perspective, 92, 93. drawing of a, 91. marking the dimensions of on a drawing, 92. representation of with a shade line, 84. Knuckle-joint, pencil eye for, 146. with an offset, 147. Large bow or circle pen, joints of, 23. Lathe centre, representation of, 86. Lathe feed motion, drawing of a part of a, 208. Lead pencils for drawing, 23. Lead, representation of by cross-hatching, 82. Left-hand thread, 156. Lever, a, actuating a plunger in a vertical line, to find how much a given amount of motion of the long arm will actuate the plunger, 226. and shaft, drawing, 103, 104, 105. arm and cam, in one piece on a shaft, a shoe sliding on the line, and held against the cam face by the rod, to find the position of the face of the shoe against the cam, 228. example of the end of a, acting directly on a shoe, 225. to find how much a given amount of motion of a long arm will move the short arm of a lever, 224. Levers, two, upon their axles or shafts, the arms connected by a link, and one arm connected to a rod, 227. Light in shading, 280. management of, in mechanical drawing, 82, 83. Line-shaded engravings, drawing for, 264-276. Line-shading, 77-90. and drawing for line-shaded engravings, 264-276. in perspective drawing of a pipe-threading stock and die, 85. mechanical drawing made to look better and show more distinctly by, 82. simplest form of, 82. Lines and curves, 48-76. Lines in pencilling, where to begin, 24, 25. Lining pen, 22. Lining pen, form of, 34-37. Lining pen, use of with a T square, 45, 47. Link introduced in the place of a roller, to find the amount of motion of the rod, 226. quick return, plotting out the motion of a shaper, 250-253. Links, pencilling for, 145, 146. Locomotive frame, 174. spring, 169. Machine screw, to draw, 112, 113. Main journal, 294. Marking dimensions, 91-93. Measuring rules, draughtsman's, 33. Mechanical motions, plotting, 223-263. Motion an eccentric will give to its rod, to find, 223. a shaper link, quick return, plotting out, 250-253. imparted in a straight line to a rod, attached to an eccentric strap, to find the amount of, 229-231. which a crank imparts to a connecting rod, 249, 250. Motions, plotting mechanical, 223-263. Moulding cutter, finding the curves for, 257-263. Niles' horizontal tool work boring mill, feed motion of a, 209. Nonagon, a, 62. Nut, a representation of the shade line on, 84. cap, to pencil in a, 145. to show the thread depth in the top or end view of a, 166. Nuts' and bolts, dimensions of United States Standard, 117. Nuts and polygons, examples in, 112-151. Octagon, a, 62, 63. Oil cup, representation of, 282, 284. Outline views, 97, 98. Oval gearing, construction of, 210. Paper cutter, the form of the end of, 25. rules or scales, 32. Parabola, to draw by lines, 74, 75. to draw mechanically, 73, 74. Parallel lines, 49. Parallelogram, 59, 60. Parchment, use of India ink on, 32. Pen, German, regulated to draw lines of various breadths, 84, 85. lining, form of, 34-37. Pen point, forming the, 39, 40. form of recently introduced, 39. Pen points, oil-stoning, 36. Pen, with sapphire points, 85. Pens, circle, 37, 38. used in drawing, 22. Pencil holders for sticks of lead, 24. lines in drawing, 23. sharpening for fine work, 24. Pencilling for a link, having the hubs on one side only, 145. in a cap nut, 145. Penknife and rubber scratching out, 25. Pentagon, a, 62, 63. Perimeter, the, 50. Periphery, 50. Perpendicular line, 49. Perspective sketches to denote the shape of the piece, 93. Photo-engraving, drawings for, 266, 267. Piece of work should, in mechanical drawing, be presented in as few views as possible, 94. Pillow block box, 294. Pin, in a socket, in section, representation of, 87, 88. Pinion teeth, to draw to the pitch of the inner and small end of, 206. Pins and discs, discrimination of, in mechanical drawing, 96. Pipe threading stock and die, drawing of, 85. Pitch circle of the inner and small end of, to draw, 206. to obtain a division of the lines that divide, 167. Plan, 94. Planing machine, a cutting tool for, 264-266. Plotting mechanical motions, 223-263. out the motion of a shaper link quick return, 250-253. Point, a, 49. Points of drawing instruments, 34. Polished surfaces, to show by shading, 282. Polygon of twelve equal sides, to draw, 129, 130. Polygons, bolts and nuts, examples of, 112-151. construction of, 61. designation of the angles of, 62. names of regular, 62, 63. scales giving the lengths of the sides of, 135. Preparation and use of the instruments, 34-47. Produced line, 50. Projecting one view from another, 106. Projections, 178-192. Protractors, 53. Pulley, Medart, shading a, 280. Pulleys, arrangement of idle, to guide bolts from one pulley to another, 264. Quadrangle, quadrilateral or tetragon, 59. Quadrant of a circle, 50. Quick return motion, Whitworth, plotting out, 253-256. Radius across corners of a hexagon, 138. Rankine's process for rectifying and subdividing circular arcs, 210. Reducing scales, 175. Rectangle, a, 59, 60. Rectangular piece, a, to draw in two views, 98, 99. requires two or three views, 96, 97. representation of, 96. Red ink, marking dimensions of mechanical drawings in, 91. Rhomboid, a, 60. Rhomb, rhombus or diamond, 54, 60. Right line, a, 49. Ring with a hexagon cross section, 98. Rivet, side and end views of, 49. Roller, example of a short arm having a, acting upon a larger roller, 225. Rod, attached to an eccentric strap, to find the amount of motion imparted in a straight line to a, 229-231. end with a round stem, 148. Round stem, a representation of, 96. top and bottom thread, 156. Rubber, 25. form of, 26. proper uses of, 25. sponge, 26. the use of, 25. to be used on Bristol board, 26. velvet, 26. Rule, steel, 32. Sapphire points, pen with, 85. Scale for diameter of a regular polygon, 140. of tooth proportions, 195. triangular, 33. Scales, for measurement and drawing, 32. reducing, 175. Scratching out, 25. Screw machine, to draw, 112, 113. thread, United States standard, to draw, 159-160. threads and spirals, 152-168. threads, drawing the curves for, 159. threads for small bolts, with the angles of the threads drawn in, 152-155. threads of a large diameter, 156. Section lining or cross-hatching, 77-82. Sectional view of a section of a wheel, for showing dimensions through arms and hub, 202. Sector of a circle, 51. Segment of a circle, 50. Semicircle, 51. Shade curve, representation of, 87. line produced for circles, 84. Shade line, produced in straight lines, 84. or shadow line, 82. Shading a Medart pulley, 280. and coloring, points to be observed in, 278. brush, 281. by means of lines to distinguish round from flat surfaces, and denote relative distances of surfaces, 85. example in, of a Blake's patent direct acting steam pump, 284, 285. example of, in an independent condenser, 288. light in, 280. simple, 277. to show by, that the surfaces are highly polished, 282. Shadow line, 82. lines and line shading, 77-90. Shaft for cam plate, 301. Shaper link, quick return, plotting out the motion of a, 250-253. Shoe against a cam, to find the position of the face of, 228. Side elevation, drawing a, 106. Sides or flats of work, to find the lengths of, 135, 136. Slots not radiating from a centre, to draw, 131, 132. radiating from a centre, 131. Spiral spring, to draw, 166. Spiral wound round a cylinder, whose end is cut off at an angle, 178. Spirals and screw threads, 152-168. Sponge, rubber, 26. Spring bow pencil, for circles, 22. pen, for circles, 22, 23. Spring, spiral, to draw, 166. Spur wheel teeth, how to draw, 194. Square, a, 59, 60. body, which measures one inch on each side, to find what it measures across the corners, 136. Square part, a representation of, 96. parts, use of a cross to designate, 95, 96. thread, to draw a, 162-164. Steam boiler, horizontal, for stationary engine, 296. chest and valves, 301. chest side, and horizontal cross section of cylinder, 301. pump, Blake's patent direct acting, 284, 285. Steel, representation of, 277. representation of by cross-hatching, 82. square, improved, with pivoted blade, 19. Steps, to draw a piece containing, 99-101. Stock and die, pipe-threading, drawing of, 85. Straight line in geometry termed a right line, 49. or lining pen, use of with a T square, 45, 47. Stud, to draw a, 142. Stuffing-box and gland, 169. Surface of the paper, condensing after rubbing out, 25. Surfaces, highly polished, to show by shading, 282. Tacks for drawing paper, 27, 28. Tangent, 51. Taper or conical hole, to denote in drawing, 102. sides in a drawing, 102, 103. Tees, 180. Teeth of wheels, rules for drawing, 203. pinion, to draw the pitch of the inner and small end of, 206. spur wheel, how to draw, 194. to trace hypocycloides for the flanks of, 200. Template for drawing the curves of thread, 165. Templates called curves, 21. T square, 18, 19. T squares, different kinds of, 19. Tetragon, a, 59, 62, 63. Thread, a double, 156. a round top and bottom, 156. depth in the top or end view of a nut, to show, 166. left hand, 156. square, to draw a, 162-164. Whitworth, 156. Threads of a large diameter, 156. Thumb tacks for drawing paper, 27. Tint, to graduate the depth of, for a cylindrical surface, 279. Tooth face, how to find the curve for, 198. proportions, Willis' scale of, 195. Tracing cloth, 29. paper, 29. Trammel, use of in drawing an ellipse, 72. Trapezium, 60. Trapezoid, a, 60. Triangle, equilateral, 58, 59. isosceles, 58, 59. obtuse, 58. right angle, 58. scalene, 59. use of in dividing circles, 129. use of in drawing polygons, 129, 130. use of to draw slots radiating from a centre, 131. Triangles, 19-21, 58-60. requirements in use of, 20, 21. to draw, 133. using with the square, 20. Triangular scale, 33. Trigon, a, 62, 63. True ellipse, a near approach to the form of, 69-72. United States standard bolts and nuts, 114-118. standard thread, to draw, 159, 160. Valve of an engine, 290-292. Valves, 301. Vertex, the, 59. Views, different arrangement of, 94-111. of a piece of work, designations of, 103, 104. of a piece, two systems of placing, 106-111. Washer, a, representation of the shadow side of, 83. Wax process, drawings for engravings by, 268, 269. engraving from a print from a wood engraving, 269. Wedge-shaped piece, representation of a, 97. Wheel, edge view of a, to draw, 203. sectional view of a section of a, 202. Wheels, construction, to find the curves of, 204. to draw the arcs for the teeth of, 205. Whitworth thread, 156. quick return motion, plotting out, 253-256. Willis' scale of tooth proportions, 195. application of, 197. Wood engraving, drawing for, 268. Wood, representation of by cross-hatching, 82. representation of, regular and irregular shade lines in, 90. Wrought iron, representation of, 277. representation of by cross-hatching, 82. CATALOGUE OF Practical and Scientific Books PUBLISHED BY HENRY CAREY BAIRD & CO. INDUSTRIAL PUBLISHERS, BOOKSELLERS AND IMPORTERS, 810 Walnut Street, Philadelphia. [Illustration: Pointing Finger] Any of the Books comprised in this Catalogue will be sent by mail, free of postage, to any address in the world, at the publication prices. [Illustration: Pointing Finger] A Descriptive Catalogue, 96 pages, 8vo., will be sent free and free of postage, to any one in any part of the world, who will furnish his address. [Illustration: Pointing Finger] Where not otherwise stated, all of the Books in this Catalogue are bound in muslin. $AMATEUR MECHANICS' WORKSHOP:$ A treatise containing plain and concise directions for the manipulation of Wood and Metals, including Casting, Forging, Brazing, Soldering and Carpentry. By the author of the "Lathe and Its Uses." Third edition. Illustrated. 8vo. $3.00 $ANDRES.--A Practical Treatise on the Fabrication of Volatile and Fat Varnishes, Lacquers, Siccatives and Sealing Waxes.$ From the German of ERWIN ANDRES, Manufacturer of Varnishes and Lacquers. With additions on the Manufacture and Application of Varnishes, Stains for Wood, Horn, Ivory, Bone and Leather. From the German of DR. EMIL WINCKLER and LOUIS E. ANDES. The whole translated and edited by WILLIAM T. BRANNT. With 11 illustrations. 12mo. $2.50 $ARLOT.--A Complete Guide for Coach Painters:$ Translated from the French of M. ARLOT, Coach Painter; for eleven years Foreman of Painting to M. Eherler, Coach Maker, Paris. By A.A. FESQUET, Chemist and Engineer. To which is added an Appendix, containing Information respecting the Materials and the Practice of Coach and Car Painting and Varnishing in the United States and Great Britain. 12mo. $1.25 $ARMENGAUD, AMOROUX, AND JOHNSON.--The Practical Draughtsman's Book of Industrial Design, and Machinist's and Engineer's Drawing Companion$: Forming a Complete Course of Mechanical Engineering and Architectural Drawing. From the French of M. Armengaud the elder, Prof. of Design in the Conservatoire of Arts and Industry, Paris, and MM. Armengaud the younger, and Amoroux, Civil Engineers. Rewritten and arranged with additional matter and plates, selections from and examples of the most useful and generally employed mechanism of the day. By WILLIAM JOHNSON, Assoc. Inst. C.E. Illustrated by fifty folio steel plates, and fifty wood-cuts. A new edition, 4to., half morocco $10.00 $ARMSTRONG.--The Construction and Management of Steam Boilers$: By R. ARMSTRONG, With an Appendix by ROBERT MALLET, C.F., F.R.S. Seventh Edition. Illustrated. 1 vol. 12mo. $75.00 $ARROWSMITH.--Paper-Hanger's Companion$: A Treatise in which the Practical Operations of the Trade are Systematically laid down: with Copious Directions Preparatory to Papering; Preventives against the Effect of Damp on Walls; the various Cements and Pastes Adapted to the Several Purposes of the Trade; Observations and Directions for the Panelling and Ornamenting of Rooms, etc. By JAMES ARROWSMITH. 12mo., cloth $1.25 $ASHTON.--The Theory and Practice of the Art of Designing Fancy Cotton and Woollen Cloths from Sample$: Giving full instructions for reducing drafts, as well as the methods of spooling and making out harness for cross drafts and finding any required reed; with calculations and tables of yarn. By FREDERIC T. ASHTON, Designer, West Pittsfield, Mass. With fifty-two illustrations. One vol. folio $10.00 $AUERBACH--CROOKES.--Anthracen$: Its Constitution, Properties, Manufacture and Derivatives, including Artificial Alizarin, Anthrapurpurin, etc., with their applications in Dyeing and Printing. By G. AUERBACH. Translated and edited from the revised manuscript of the Author, by WM. CROOKES, F.R. S., Vice-President of the Chemical Society. 8vo. $5.00 $BAIRD.--Miscellaneous Papers on Economic Questions. By Henry Carey Baird.$ (_In preparation._) $BAIRD.--The American Cotton Spinner, and Manager's and Carder's Guide$: A Practical Treatise on Cotton Spinning; giving the Dimensions and Speed of Machinery, Draught and Twist Calculations, etc.; with notices of recent Improvements: together with Rules and Examples for making changes in the sizes and numbers of Roving and Yarn. Compiled from the papers of the late ROBERT H. BAIRD. 12mo. $1.50 $BAIRD.--Standard Wages Computing Tables:$ An Improvement in all former Methods of Computation, so arranged that wages for days, hours, or fractions of hours, at a specified rate per day or hour, may be ascertained at a glance. By T. SPANGLER BAIRD. Oblong folio $5.00 $BAKER.--Long-Span Railway Bridges:$ Composing Investigations of the Comparative Theoretical and Practical Advantages of the various Adopted or Proposed Type Systems of Construction; with numerous Formulæ and Tables. By B. BAKER. 12mo. $1.50 $BAKER.--The Mathematical Theory of the Steam-Engine:$ With Rules at length, and Examples worked out for the use of Practical Men. By T. BAKER, C.E., with numerous Diagrams. Sixth Edition, Revised by Prof. J.R. YOUNG. 12mo. $75.00 $BARLOW.--The History and Principles of Weaving, by Hand and by Power:$ Reprinted, with Considerable Additions, from "Engineering," with a chapter on Lace-making Machinery, reprinted from the Journal of the "Society of Arts." By ALFRED BARLOW. With several hundred illustrations. 8vo., 443 pages $10.00 $BARR.--A Practical Treatise on the Combustion of Coal:$ Including descriptions of various mechanical devices for the Economic Generation of Heat by the Combustion of Fuel, whether solid, liquid or gaseous. 8vo. $2.50 $BARR.--A Practical Treatise on High Pressure Steam Boilers:$ Including Results of Recent Experimental Tests of Boiler Materials, together with a Description of Approved Safety Apparatus, Steam Pumps, Injectors and Economizers in actual use. By WM. M. BARR. 204 Illustrations. 8vo. $3.00 $BAUERMAN.--A Treatise on the Metallurgy of Iron:$ Containing Outlines of the History of Iron Manufacture, Methods of Assay, and Analysis of Iron Ores, Processes of Manufacture of Iron and Steel, etc., etc. By H. BAUERMAN, F.G.S., Associate of the Royal School of Mines. Fifth Edition, Revised and Enlarged. Illustrated with numerous Wood Engravings from Drawings by J.B. JORDAN. 12mo. 2.00 $BAYLES.--House Drainage and Water Service:$ In Cities, Villages and Rural Neighborhoods. With Incidental Consideration of Certain Causes Affecting the Healthfulness of Dwellings. By JAMES C. BAYLES, Editor of "The Iron Age" and "The Metal Worker." With numerous illustrations. 8vo. cloth, $3.00 $BEANS.--A Treatise on Railway Curves and Location of Railroads:$ By E.W. BEANS, C.E. Illustrated. 12mo. Tucks $1.50 $BECKETT.--A Rudimentary Treatise on Clocks, and Watches and Bells:$ By Sir EDMUND BECKETT, Bart., LL. D., Q.C.F.R.A.S. With numerous illustrations. Seventh Edition, Revised and Enlarged. 12mo. $2.25 $BELL.--Carpentry Made Easy$: Or, The Science and Art of Framing on a New and Improved System With Specific Instructions for Building Balloon Frames, Barn Frames, Mill; Frames, Warehouses, Church Spires, etc. Comprising also a System of Bridge Building, with Bills, Estimates of Cost, and valuable Tables. Illustrated by forty four plates, comprising nearly 200 figures. By WILLIAM E. BELL, Architect and Practical Builder. 8vo. $5.00 $BEMROSE.--Fret-Cutting and Perforated Carving.$ With fifty three practical illustrations By W. BEMROSE, JR. 1 vol. quarto. $3.00 $BEMROSE.--Manual of Buhl-work and Marquetry.$ With Practical Instructions for Learners, and ninety colored designs By W. BEMROSE, JR. 1 vol. quarto. $3.00 $BEMROSE.--Manual of Wood Carving.$ With Practical Illustrations for Learners of the Art, and Original and Selected Designs. By WILLIAM BEMROSE, JR. With an Introduction by LLEWELLYN JEWITT, F.S.A., etc. With 128 illustrations, 4to. $3.00 $BILLINGS.--Tobacco$ Its History, Variety, Culture, Manufacture, Commerce, and Various Modes of Use. By E.R. BILLINGS. Illustrated by nearly 200 engravings. 8vo. $3.00 $BIRD.--The American Practical Dyers' Companion.$ Comprising a Description of the Principal Dye Stuffs and Chemicals used in Dyeing, their Natures and Uses, Mordants, and How Made, with the best American, English, French and German processes for Bleaching and Dyeing Silk, Wool, Cotton, Linen, Flannel, Felt, Dress Goods, Mixed and Hosiery Yarns, Feathers, Grass, Felt, Fur, Wool, and Straw Hats, Jute Yarn, Vegetable Ivory, Mats, Skins, Furs, Leather, etc., etc. By Wood, Aniline, and other Processes, together with Remarks on Finishing Agents, and Instructions in the Finishing of Fabrics, Substitutes for Indigo, Water Proofing of Materials, Tests and Purification of Water, Manufacture of Aniline and other New Dye Wares, Harmonizing Colors, etc., etc., embracing in all over 800 Receipts for Colors and Shades, _accompanied by 170 Dyed Samples of Raw Materials and Fabrics_ By F.J. BIRD, Practical Dyer, Author of "The Dyers' Hand Book." 8vo. $10.00 $BLINN.--A Practical Workshop Companion for Tin, Sheet-Iron, and Copper-plate Workers.$ Containing Rules for describing various kinds of Patterns used by Tin, Sheet Iron, and Copper plate Workers, Practical Geometry; Mensuration of Surfaces and Solids, Tables of the Weights of Metals, Lead pipe, etc., Tables of Areas and Circumferences of Circles, Japan, Varnishes, Lackers, Cements, Compositions, etc., etc. By LEROY J. BLINN, Master Mechanic. With over One Hundred Illustrations. 12mo. $2.50 $BOOTH.--Marble Worker's Manual.$ Containing Practical Information respecting Marbles in general, their Cutting, Working and Polishing, Veneering of Marble, Mosaics, Composition and Use of Artificial Marble, Stuccos, Cements, Receipts. Secrets, etc., etc. Translated from the French by M.L. BOOTH. With an Appendix concerning American Marbles. 12mo, cloth $1.50 $BOOTH and MORFIT.--The Encyclopædia of Chemistry, Practical and Theoretical.$ Embracing its application to the Arts, Metallurgy, Mineralogy, Geology, Medicine and Pharmacy. By JAMES C. BOOTH, Melter and Refiner in the United States Mint, Professor of Applied Chemistry in the Franklin Institute, etc., assisted by CAMPBELL MORFIT, author of "Chemical Manipulations," etc. Seventh Edition. Complete in one volume. royal 8vo., 978 pages, with numerous wood cuts and other illustrations. $5.00 $BRAMWELL.--The Wool Carder's Vade-Mecum$. A Complete Manual of the Art of Carding Textile Fabrics. By W.C. BRAMWELL. Third Edition, revised and enlarged. Illustrated pp. 400. 12mo. $2.50 $BRANNT.--A Practical Treatise on the Raw Materials and the Distillation and Rectification of Alcohol, and the Preparation of Alcoholic Liquors, Liqueurs, Cordials, Bitters, etc.$: Edited chiefly from the German of Dr. K. Stammer, Dr. F. Elsner, and E. Schubert. By WM T. BRANNT. Illustrated by thirty one engravings. 12mo. $2. 50 $BRANNT--WAHL.--The Techno-Chemical Receipt Book.$ Containing several thousand Receipts covering the latest, most important, and most useful discoveries in Chemical Technology, and their Practical Application in the Arts, and the Industries. Edited chiefly from the German of Drs. Winckler, Elsner, Heintze, Mierzinski, Jacobsen, Koller and Heinzerling with additions by WM.T. BRANNT and WM.H. WAHL, PH. D. Illustrated by 78 engravings. 12mo. 495 pages. $2.00 $BROWN.--Five Hundred and Seven Mechanical Movements.$ Embracing all those which are most important in Dynamics, Hydraulics, Hydrostatics, Pneumatics, Steam Engines, Mill and other Gearing, Presses, Horology and Miscellaneous Machinery, and including many movements never before published, and several of which have only recently come into use. By HENRY T. BROWN. 12mo. $1.00 $BUCKMASTER.--The Elements of Mechanical Physics.$ By J.C. BUCKMASTER. Illustrated with numerous engravings. 12mo. $1.50 $BULLOCK.--The American Cottage Builder.$ A Series of Designs, Plans and Specifications, from $200 to $20,000, for Homes for the People, together with Warming, Ventilation, Drainage, Painting and Landscape Gardening. By JOHN BULLOCK, Architect and Editor of "The Rudiments of Architecture and Building," etc., etc. Illustrated by 75 engravings. 8vo. $3.50 $BULLOCK.--The Rudiments of Architecture and Building.$ For the use of Architects, Builders, Draughtsmen, Machinists, Engineers and Mechanics. Edited by JOHN BULLOCK author of "The American Cottage Builder." Illustrated by 250 Engravings. 8vo. $3.50 $BURGH.--Practical Rules for the Proportions of Modern Engines and Boilers for Land and Marine Purposes.$ By N.P. BURGH, Engineer. 12mo. $1.50 $BURNS.--The American Woolen Manufacturer$: A Practical Treatise on the Manufacture of Woolens, in two parts. Part First gives full and explicit instructions upon Drafting, Cross-Drawing, Combining Weaves, and the correct arrangement of Weights, Colors and Sizes of Yarns to produce any desired fabric. Illustrated with diagrams of various weavings, and twelve samples of cloth for explanation and practice. Part Second is fully supplied with extended Tables, Rules, Examples, Explanations, etc.; gives full and practical information, in detailed order, from the stock department to the market, of the proper selection and use of the various grades and staples of wool, with the admixture of waste, cotton and shoddy; and the proper application and economical use of the various oils, drugs, dye stuffs, soaps, belting, etc. Also, the most approved method for Calculating and Estimating the Cost of Goods, for all Wool, Wool Waste and Cotton and Cotton Warps. With Examples and Calculations on the Circular motions of Wheels, Pinions, Drums, Pulleys and Gears, how to speed them, etc. The two parts combined form a whole work on the American way of manufacturing more complete than any yet issued. By GEORGE C. BURNS. 8vo. $BYLES.--Sophisms of Free Trade and Popular Political Economy Examined.$ By a BARRISTER (SIR JOHN BARNARD BYLES, Judge of Common Pleas). From the Ninth English Edition, as published by the Manchester Reciprocity Association. 12mo. $1.25 $BOWMAN.--The Structure of the Wool Fibre in its Relation to the Use of Wool for Technical Purposes$: Being the substance, with additions, of Five Lectures, delivered at the request of the Council, to the members of the Bradford Technical College, and the Society of Dyers and Colorists. By F.H. BOWMAN, D. Sc., F.R.S.E., F.L.S. Illustrated by 32 engravings. 8vo. $6.50 $BYRN.--The Complete Practical Distiller:$ Comprising the most perfect and exact Theoretical and Practical Description of the Art of Distillation and Rectification; including all of the most recent improvements in distilling apparatus; instructions for preparing spirits from the numerous vegetables, fruits, etc; directions for the distillation and preparation of all kinds of brandies and other spirits, spirituous and other compounds, etc. By M. LA FAYETTE BYRN, M.D. Eighth Edition. To which are added Practical Directions for Distilling, from the French of Th. Fling, Brewer and Distiller. 12mo. $BYRNE.--Hand-Book for the Artisan, Mechanic, and Engineer$: Comprising the Grinding and Sharpening of Cutting Tools, Abrasive Processes, Lapidary Work, Gem and Glass Engraving, Varnishing and Lackering, Apparatus, Materials and Processes for Grinding and Polishing, etc. By OLIVER BYRNE. Illustrated by 185 wood engravings. 8vo. $5.00 $BYRNE.--Pocket-Book for Railroad and Civil Engineers$: Containing New, Exact and Concise Methods for Laying out Railroad Curves, Switches, Frog Angles and Crossings; the Staking out of work; Levelling; the Calculation of Cuttings; Embankments; Earthwork, etc. By OLIVER BYRNE. 18mo., full bound, pocket-book form. $1.75 $BYRNE.--The Practical Metal-Worker's Assistant$: Comprising Metallurgic Chemistry; the Arts of Working all Metals and Alloys; Forging of Iron and Steel; Hardening and Tempering; Melting and Mixing; Casting and Founding; Works in Sheet Metal; the Processes Dependent on the Ductility of the Metals; Soldering; and the most Improved Processes and Tools employed by Metal-Workers. With the Application of the Art of Electro-Metallurgy to Manufacturing Processes; collected from Original Sources, and from the works of Holtzapffel, Bergeron, Leupold, Plumier, Napier, Scoffern, Clay, Fairbairn and others. By OLIVER BYRNE. A new, revised and improved edition, to which is added an Appendix, containing The Manufacture of Russian Sheet-Iron. By JOHN PERCY, M.D., F.R.S. The Manufacture of Malleable Iron Castings, and Improvements in Bessemer Steel. By A.A. FESQUET, Chemist and Engineer. With over Six Hundred Engravings, Illustrating every Branch of the Subject. 8vo. $7.00 $BYRNE.--The Practical Model Calculator$: For the Engineer, Mechanic, Manufacturer of Engine Work, Naval Architect, Miner and Millwright. By OLIVER BYRNE. 8vo., nearly 600 pages. $4.50 $CABINET MAKER'S ALBUM OF FURNITURE$: Comprising a Collection of Designs for various Styles of Furniture. Illustrated by Forty-eight Large and Beautifully Engraved Plates. Oblong, 8vo. $3.50 $CALLINGHAM.--Sign Writing and Glass Embossing$: A Complete Practical Illustrated Manual of the Art. By JAMES CALLINGHAM. 12mo. $1.50 $CAMPIN.--A Practical Treatise on Mechanical Engineering$: Comprising Metallurgy, Moulding, Casting, Forging, Tools, Workshop Machinery, Mechanical Manipulation, Manufacture of Steam-Engines, etc. With an Appendix on the Analysis of Iron and Iron Ores. By FRANCIS CAMPIN, C.E. To which are added, Observations on the Construction of Steam Boilers, and Remarks upon Furnaces used for Smoke Prevention; with a Chapter on Explosions. By R. ARMSTRONG, C.E., and JOHN BOURNE. Rules for Calculating the Change Wheels for Screws on a Turning Lathe, and for a Wheel-cutting Machine. By J. LA NICCA. Management of Steel, Including Forging, Hardening, Tempering, Annealing, Shrinking and Expansion; and the Case-hardening of Iron. By G. EDE. 8vo. Illustrated with twenty-nine plates and 100 wood engravings. $5.00 $CAREY.--A Memoir of Henry C. Carey.$ By DR. WM. ELDER. With a portrait. 8vo., cloth $.75 $CAREY.--The Works of Henry C. Carey:$ $Harmony of Interests:$ Agricultural, Manufacturing and Commercial. 8vo. $1.50 $Manual of Social Science.$ Condensed from Carey's "Principles of Social Science." By KATE MCKEAN. 1 vol. 12mo. $2.25 $Miscellaneous Works.$ With a Portrait. 2 vols. 8vo. $6.00 $Past, Present and Future.$ 8vo. $2.50 $Principles of Social Science.$ 3 volumes, 8vo. $10.00 $The Slave-Trade, Domestic and Foreign;$ Why it Exists, and How it may be Extinguished (1853). 8vo. $2.00 $The Unity of Law:$ As Exhibited in the Relations of Physical, Social, Mental and Moral Science (1872). 8vo. $3.50 $CLARK.--Tramways, their Construction and Working$: Embracing a Comprehensive History of the System. With an exhaustive analysis of the various modes of traction, including horse-power, steam, heated water and compressed air; a description of the varieties of Rolling stock, and ample details of cost and working expenses. By D. KINNEAR CLARK. Illustrated by over 200 wood engravings, and thirteen folding plates. 2 vols. 8vo. $12.50 $COLBURN.--The Locomotive Engine$: Including a Description of its Structure, Rules for Estimating its Capabilities, and Practical Observations on its Construction and Management. By ZERAH COLBURN. Illustrated. 12mo. $1.00 $COLLENS.--The Eden of Labor; or, the Christian Utopia.$ By T. WHARTON COLLENS, author of "Humanics," "The History of Charity," etc. 12mo. Paper cover, $1.00; Cloth $1.25 $COOLEY.--A Complete Practical Treatise on Perfumery$: Being a Hand-book of Perfumes, Cosmetics and other Toilet Articles. With a Comprehensive Collection of Formulæ. By ARNOLD J. COOLEY. 12mo. $1.50 $COOPER.--A Treatise on the use of Belting for the Transmission of Power.$ With numerous illustrations of approved and actual methods of arranging Main Driving and Quarter Twist Belts, and of Belt Fastenings. Examples and Rules in great number for exhibiting and calculating the size and driving power of Belts. Plain, Particular and Practical Directions for the Treatment, Care and Management of Belts. Descriptions of many varieties of Beltings, together with chapters on the Transmission of Power by Ropes; by Iron and Wood Frictional Gearing; on the Strength of Belting Leather; and on the Experimental Investigations of Morin, Briggs, and others. By JOHN H. COOPER, M.E. 8vo. $3.50 $CRAIK.--The Practical American Millwright and Miller.$ By DAVID CRAIK, Millwright. Illustrated by numerous wood engravings and two folding plates. 8vo. $5.00 $CRISTIANI.--A Technical Treatise on Soap and Candles$: With a Glance at the Industry of Fats and Oils. By R.S. CRISTIANI, Chemist. Author of "Perfumery and Kindred Arts." Illustrated by 176 engravings. 581 pages, 8vo. $7.50 $CRISTIANI.--Perfumery and Kindred Arts$: A Comprehensive Treatise on Perfumery, containing a History of Perfumes from the remotest ages to the present time. A complete detailed description of the various Materials and Apparatus used in the Perfumer's Art, with thorough Practical Instruction and careful Formulæ, and advice for the fabrication of all known preparations of the day, including Essences, Tinctures, Extracts, Spirits, Waters, Vinegars, Pomades, Powders, Paints, Oils, Emulsions, Cosmetics, Infusions, Pastilles, Tooth Powders and Washes, Cachous, Hair Dyes, Sachets, Essential Oils, Flavoring Extracts, etc.; and full details for making and manipulating Fancy Toilet Soaps, Shaving Creams, etc., by new and improved methods. With an Appendix giving hints and advice for making and fermenting Domestic Wines, Cordials, Liquors, Candies, Jellies, Syrups, Colors, etc., and for Perfuming and Flavoring Segars, Snuff and Tobacco, and Miscellaneous Receipts for various useful Analogous Articles. By R.S. CRISTIANI, Consulting Chemist and Perfumer, Philadelphia. 8vo. $5.00 $CUPPER.--The Universal Stair-Builder$: Being a new Treatise on the Construction of Stair-Cases and Hand-Rails; showing Plans of the various forms of Stairs, method of Placing the Risers in the Cylinders, general method of describing the Face Moulds for a Hand-Rail, and an expeditious method of Squaring the Rail. Useful also to Stonemasons constructing Stone Stairs and Hand-Rails; with a new method of Sawing the Twist Part of any Hand-Rail square from the face of the plank, and to a parallel width. Also, a new method of forming the Easings of the Rail by a gauge; preceded by some necessary Problems in Practical Geometry, with the Sections of Prismatic Solids. Illustrated by 29 plates. By R.A. CUPPER, Architect, author of "The Practical Stair-Builder's Guide." Third Edition. Large 4to. $DAVIDSON.--A Practical Manual of House Painting, Graining, Marbling, and Sign-Writing$: Containing full information on the processes of House Painting in Oil and Distemper, the Formation of Letters and Practice of Sign-Writing, the Principles of Decorative Art, a Course of Elementary Drawing for House Painters, Writers, etc., and a Collection of Useful Receipts. With nine colored illustrations of Woods and Marbles, and numerous wood engravings. By ELLIS A. DAVIDSON. 12mo. $3.00 $DAVIES.--A Treatise on Earthy and Other Minerals and Mining$: By D.C. DAVIES, F.G.S., Mining Engineer, etc. Illustrated by 76 Engravings. 12mo. $5.00 $DAVIES.--A Treatise on Metalliferous Minerals and Mining$: By D.C. DAVIES, F.G.S., Mining Engineer, Examiner of Mines, Quarries and Collieries. Illustrated by 148 engravings of Geological Formations, Mining Operations and Machinery, drawn from the practice of all parts of the world. 2d Edition, 12mo., 450 pages. $5.00 $DAVIES.--A Treatise on Slate and Slate Quarrying$: Scientific, Practical and Commercial. By D.C. DAVIES, F.G.S., Mining Engineer, etc. With numerous illustrations and folding plates. 12mo. $2.50 $DAVIS.--A Practical Treatise on the Manufacture of Bricks, Tiles, Terra-Cotta, etc.$: Including Common, Pressed, Ornamentally Shaped, and Enamelled Bricks, Drain-Tiles, Straight and Curved Sewer-Pipes, Fire-Clays, Fire-Bricks, Terra-Cotta, Roofing-Tiles, Flooring-Tiles, Art-Tiles, Mosaic Plates, and Imitation of Intarsia or Inlaid Surfaces; comprising every important Product of Clay employed in Architecture, Engineering, the Blast-Furnace, for Retorts, etc., with a History and the Actual Processes in Handling, Disintegrating, Tempering, and Moulding the Clay into Shape, Drying Naturally and Artificially, Setting and Burning, Enamelling in Polychrome Colors, Composition and Application of Glazes, etc.; including Full Detailed Descriptions of the most modern Machines, Tools, Kilns, and Kiln-Roofs used. By CHARLES THOMAS DAVIS. Illustrated by 228 Engravings and 6 Plates. 8vo., 472 pages $5.00 $DAVIS.--The Manufacture of Leather$: Being a description of all of the Processes for the Tanning, Tawing, Currying, Finishing and Dyeing of every kind of Leather; including the various Raw Materials and the Methods for Determining their Values; the Tools, Machines, and all Details of Importance connected with an Intelligent and Profitable Prosecution of the Art, with Special Reference to the Best American Practice. To which are added Complete Lists of all American Patents for Materials, Processes, Tools, and Machines for Tanning, Currying, etc. By CHARLES THOMAS DAVIS. Illustrated by 302 engravings and 12 Samples of Dyed Leathers. One vol., 8vo., 824 pages $10.00 $DAWIDOWSKY--BRANNT.--A Practical Treatise on the Raw Materials and Fabrication of Glue, Gelatine, Gelatine Veneers and Foils, Isinglass, Cements, Pastes, Mucilages, etc.$: Based upon Actual Experience. By F. DAWIDOWSKY, Technical Chemist. Translated from the German, with extensive additions, including a description of the most Recent American Processes, by WILLIAM T. BRANNT, Graduate of the Royal Agricultural College of Eldena, Prussia. 35 Engravings. 12mo. $2.50 $DE GRAFF.--The Geometrical Stair-Builders' Guide$: Being a Plain Practical System of Hand-Railing, embracing all its necessary Details, and Geometrically Illustrated by twenty-two Steel Engravings; together with the use of the most approved principles of Practical Geometry. By SIMON DE GRAFF, Architect. 4to. $2.50 $DE KONINCK--DIETZ.--A Practical Manual of Chemical Analysis and Assaying:$ As applied to the Manufacture of Iron from its Ores, and to Cast Iron, Wrought Iron, and Steel, as found in Commerce. By L.L. DE KONINCK, Dr. Sc, and E. DIETZ, Engineer. Edited with Notes, by ROBERT MALLET, F.R.S., F.S.G., M.I.C.E., etc. American Edition, Edited with Notes and an Appendix on Iron Ores, by A.A. FESQUET, Chemist and Engineer. 12mo. $2.50 $DUNCAN.--Practical Surveyor's Guide:$ Containing the necessary information to make any person of common capacity, a finished land surveyor without the aid of a teacher. By ANDREW DUNCAN. Illustrated. 12mo. $1.25 $DUPLAIS--A Treatise on the Manufacture and Distillation of Alcoholic Liquors:$ Comprising Accurate and Complete Details in Regard to Alcohol from Wine, Molasses, Beets, Grain, Rice, Potatoes, Sorghum, Asphodel, Fruits, etc.; with the Distillation and Rectification of Brandy, Whiskey, Rum, Gin, Swiss Absinthe, etc., the Preparation of Aromatic Waters. Volatile Oils or Essences, Sugars, Syrups, Aromatic Tinctures, Liqueurs, Cordial Wines, Effervescing Wines, etc., the Ageing of Brandy and the improvement of Spirits, with Copious Directions and Tables for Testing and Reducing Spirituous Liquors, etc., etc. Translated and Edited from the French of MM. DUPLAIS, Ainè et Jeune. By M. MCKENNIE, M.D. To which are added the United States Internal Revenue Regulations for the Assessment and Collection of Taxes on Distilled Spirits. Illustrated by fourteen folding plates and several wood engravings. 743 pp. 8vo. $10.00 $DUSSAUCE.--A General Treatise on the Manufacture of Vinegar:$ Theoretical and Practical. Comprising the various Methods, by the Slow and the Quick Processes, with Alcohol, Wine, Grain, Malt, Cider, Molasses, and Beets; as well as the Fabrication of Wood Vinegar, etc., etc. By Prof. H. DUSSAUCE. 8vo. $5.00 $DUSSAUCE.--Practical Treatise on the Fabrication of Matches, Gun Cotton, and Fulminating Powder.$ By Professor H. DUSSAUCE. 12mo. $3.00 $DYER AND COLOR-MAKER'S COMPANION:$ Containing upwards of two hundred Receipts for making Colors, on the most approved principles, for all the various styles and fabrics now in existence; with the Scouring Process, and plain Directions for Preparing, Washing-off, and Finishing the Goods. 12mo. $1.25 $EDWARDS.--A Catechism of the Marine Steam-Engine,$ For the use of Engineers, Firemen, and Mechanics. A Practical Work for Practical Men. By EMORY EDWARDS, Mechanical Engineer. Illustrated by sixty-three Engravings, including examples of the most modern Engines. Third edition, thoroughly revised, with much additional matter. 12mo. 414 pages $2.00 $EDWARDS.--Modern American Locomotive Engines,$ Their Design, Construction and Management. By EMORY EDWARDS. Illustrated 12mo. $2.00 $EDWARDS.--Modern American Marine Engines, Boilers, and Screw Propellers$, Their Design and Construction. Showing the Present Practice of the most Eminent Engineers and Marine Engine Builders in the United States. Illustrated by 30 large and elaborate plates. 4to. $5.00 $EDWARDS.--The Practical Steam Engineer's Guide$ In the Design, Construction, and Management of American Stationary, Portable, and Steam Fire Engines, Steam Pumps, Boilers, Injectors, Governors, Indicators, Pistons and Rings, Safety Valves and Steam Gauges. For the use of Engineers, Firemen, and Steam Users. By EMORY EDWARDS. Illustrated by 119 engravings. 420 pages. 12mo. $2.50 $ELDER.--Conversations on the Principal Subjects of Political Economy.$ By Dr. WILLIAM ELDER. 8vo. $2.50 $ELDER.--Questions of the Day$, Economic and Social. By Dr. WILLIAM ELDER. 8vo. $3.00 $ELDER.--Memoir of Henry C. Carey.$ By Dr. WILLIAM ELDER. 8vo. cloth. $.75 $ERNI.--Mineralogy Simplified.$ Easy Methods of Determining and Classifying Minerals, including Ores, by means of the Blowpipe, and by Humid Chemical Analysis, based on Professor von Kobell's Tables for the Determination of Minerals, with an Introduction to Modern Chemistry. By HENRY ERNI, A.M., M.D., Professor of Chemistry. Second Edition, rewritten, enlarged and improved. 12mo. $3.00 $FAIRBAIRN.--The Principles of Mechanism and Machinery of Transmission$ Comprising the Principles of Mechanism, Wheels, and Pulleys, Strength and Proportions of Shafts, Coupling of Shafts, and Engaging and Disengaging Gear. By SIR WILLIAM FAIRBAIRN, Bait. C.E. Beautifully illustrated by over 150 wood-cuts. In one volume, 12mo. $2.50 $FITCH.--Bessemer Steel$, Ores and Methods, New Facts and Statistics Relating to the Types of Machinery in Use, the Methods in Vogue, Cost and Class of Labor employed, and the Character and Availability of the Ores utilized in the Manufacture of Bessemer Steel in Europe and in the United States; together with opinions and excerpts from various accepted authorities. Compiled and arranged by THOMAS W. FITCH. 8vo. $3.00 $FLEMING.--Narrow Gauge Railways in America.$ A Sketch of their Rise, Progress, and Success. Valuable Statistics as to Grades, Curves, Weight of Rail, Locomotives, Cars, etc. By HOWARD FLEMING. Illustrated, 8vo. $1.50 $FORSYTH.--Book of Designs for Headstones, Mural, and other Monuments$: Containing 78 Designs. By JAMES FORSYTH. With an Introduction by CHARLES BOUTELL, M.A. 4 to., cloth $5.00 $FRANKEL--HUTTER.--A Practical Treatise on the Manufacture of Starch, Glucose, Starch-Sugar, and Dextrine:$ Based on the German of LADISLAUS VON WAGNER, Professor in the Royal Technical High School, Buda-Pest, Hungary, and other authorities. By JULIUS FRANKEL, Graduate of the Polytechnic School of Hanover. Edited by ROBERT HUTTER, Chemist, Practical Manufacturer of Starch-Sugar. Illustrated by 58 engravings, covering every branch of the subject, including examples of the most Recent and Best American Machinery. 8vo., 344 pp. $3.50 $GEE.--The Goldsmith's Handbook:$ Containing full instructions for the Alloying and Working of Gold, including the Art of Alloying, Melting, Reducing, Coloring, Collecting, and Refining; the Processes of Manipulation, Recovery of Waste; Chemical and Physical Properties of Gold; with a New System of Mixing its Alloys; Solders, Enamels, and other Useful Rules and Recipes. By GEORGE E. GEE. 12mo. $1.75 $GEE.--The Silversmith's Handbook:$ Containing full instructions for the Alloying and Working of Silver, including the different modes of Refining and Melting the Metal; its Solders; the Preparation of Imitation Alloys; Methods of Manipulation; Prevention of Waste; Instructions for Improving and Finishing the Surface of the Work; together with other Useful Information and Memoranda. By GEORGE E. GEE, Jeweller. Illustrated. 12mo. $1.75 $GOTHIC ALBUM FOR CABINET-MAKERS:$ Designs for Gothic Furniture. Twenty-three plates. Oblong $2.00 $GREENWOOD.--Steel and Iron:$ Comprising the Practice and Theory of the Several Methods Pursued in their Manufacture, and of their Treatment in the Rolling-Mills, the Forge, and the Foundry. By WILLIAM HENRY GREENWOOD, F.C.S. Asso. M.I.C.E., M.I.M.E., Associate of the Royal School of Mines. With 97 Diagrams, 536 pages. 12mo. $2.00 $GREGORY.--Mathematics for Practical Men:$ Adapted to the Pursuits of Surveyors, Architects, Mechanics, and Civil Engineers. By OLINTHUS GREGORY. 8vo., plates. $3.00 $GRIER.--Rural Hydraulics:$ A Practical Treatise on Rural Household Water Supply. Giving a full description of Springs and Wells, of Pumps and Hydraulic Ram, with Instructions in Cistern Building, Laying of Pipes, etc. By W.W. GRIER. Illustrated 8vo. $.75 $GRIMSHAW.--Modern Milling:$ Being the substance of two addresses delivered by request, at the Franklin Institute, Philadelphia, January 19th; and January 27th, 1881. By ROBERT GRIMSHAW, Ph. D. Edited from the Phonographic Reports. With 28 Illustrations. 8vo. $1.00 $GRIMSHAW.--Saws:$ The History, Development, Action, Classification, and Comparison of Saws of all kinds. _With Copious Appendices._ Giving the details of Manufacture, Filing. Setting, Gumming, etc. Care and Use of Saws; Tables of Gauges; Capacities of Saw-Mills; List of Saw-Patents, and other valuable information. By ROBERT GRIMSHAW. Second and greatly enlarged edition, _with Supplement_, and 354 Illustrations. Quarto $4.00 $GRIMSHAW.--A Supplement to Grimshaw on Saws$: Containing additional practical matter, more especially relating to the Forms of Saw-Teeth, for special material and conditions, and to the Behavior of Saws under particular conditions. 120 Illustrations. By ROBERT GRIMSHAW. Quarto. $2.00 $GRISWOLD.--Railroad Engineer's Pocket Companion for the Field$: Comprising Rules for Calculating Deflection Distances and Angles, Tangential Distances and Angles, and all Necessary Tables for Engineers; also the Art of Levelling from Preliminary Survey to the Construction of Railroads, intended Expressly for the Young Engineer, together with Numerous Valuable Rules and Examples. By W. GRISWOLD. 12 mo., tucks $1.75 $GRUNER.--Studies of Blast Furnace Phenomena$: By M.L. GRUNER, President of the General Council of Mines of France, and lately Professor of Metallurgy at the Ecole des Mines. Translated, with the author's sanction, with an Appendix, by L.D. B. GORDON, F.R.S.E., F.G.S. 8vo. $2.50 $GUETTIER.--Metallic Alloys$: Being a Practical Guide to their Chemical and Physical Properties, their Preparation, Composition, and Uses. Translated from the French of A. GUETTIER, Engineer and Director of Founderies, author of "La Fouderie en France," etc., etc. By A.A. FESQUET, Chemist and Engineer. 12mo. $3.00 $HASERICK.--The Secrets of the Art of Dyeing Wool, Cotton, and Linen$, Including Bleaching and Coloring Wool and Cotton Hosiery and Random Yarns. A Treatise based on Economy and Practice. By E.C. HASERICK. _Illustrated by 323 Dyed Patterns of the Yarns or Fabrics._ 8vo. $25.00 $HATS AND FELTING$: A Practical Treatise on their Manufacture. By a Practical Hatter. Illustrated by Drawings of Machinery, etc. 8vo. $1.25 $HENRY.--The Early and Later History of Petroleum$: With Authentic Facts in regard to its Development in Western Pennsylvania. With Sketches of the Pioneer and Prominent Operators, together with the Refining Capacity of the United States. By J.T. HENRY. Illustrated 8vo. $HOFFER.--A Practical Treatise on Caoutchouc and Gutta Percha$, Comprising the Properties of the Raw Materials, and the manner of Mixing and Working them; with the Fabrication of Vulcanized and Hard Rubbers, Caoutchouc and Gutta Percha Compositions, Water-proof Substances, Elastic Tissues, the Utilization of Waste, etc., etc. From the German of RAIMUND HOFFER. By W.T. BRANNT. Illustrated 12mo. $2.50 $HOFMANN.--A Practical Treatise on the Manufacture of Paper in all its Branches$: By CARL HOFMANN, Late Superintendent of Paper-Mills in Germany and the United States; recently Manager of the "Public Ledger" Paper Mills, near Elkton, Maryland. Illustrated by 110 wood engravings, and five large Folding Plates. 4to., cloth; about 400 pages. $50.00 $HUGHES.--American Miller and Millwright's Assistant$: By WILLIAM CARTER HUGHES. 12mo. $1.50 $HULME.--Worked Examination Questions in Plane Geometrical Drawing$: For the Use of Candidates for the Royal Military Academy, Woolwich; the Royal Military College, Sandhurst; the Indian Civil Engineering College, Cooper's Hill; Indian Public Works and Telegraph Departments; Royal Marine Light Infantry; the Oxford and Cambridge Local Examinations, etc. By F. EDWARD HULME, F.L.S., F.S.A., Art-Master Marlborough College. Illustrated by 300 examples. Small quarto. $3.75 $JERVIS.--Railroad Property$: A Treatise on the Construction and Management of Railways; designed to afford useful knowledge, in the popular style, to the holders of this class of property; as well as Railway Managers, Officers, and Agents. By JOHN B. JERVIS, late Civil Engineer of the Hudson River Railroad, Croton Aqueduct, etc. 12mo., cloth $2.00 $KEENE.--A Hand-Book of Practical Gauging$: For the Use of Beginners, to which is added a Chapter on Distillation, describing the process in operation at the Custom-House for ascertaining the Strength of Wines. By JAMES B. KEENE, of H.M. Customs. 8vo. $1.25 $KELLEY.--Speeches, Addresses, and Letters on Industrial and Financial Questions$: By HON. WILLIAM D. KELLEY, M.C. 544 pages, 8vo. $3.00 $KELLOGG.--A New Monetary System$: The only means of Securing the respective Rights of Labor and Property, and of Protecting the Public from Financial Revulsions. By EDWARD KELLOGG. Revised from his work on "Labor and other Capital." With numerous additions from his manuscript. Edited by MARY KELLOGG PUTNAM. $Fifth edition.$ To which is added a Biographical Sketch of the Author. One volume, 12mo. Paper cover. $1.00 Bound in cloth. $1.50 $KEMLO.--Watch-Repairer's Hand-Book$: Being a Complete Guide to the Young Beginner, in Taking Apart, Putting Together, and Thoroughly Cleaning the English Lever and other Foreign Watches, and all American Watches. By F. KEMLO, Practical Watchmaker. With Illustrations. 12mo. $1.25 $KENTISH.--A Treatise on a Box of Instruments$, And the Slide Rule; with the Theory of Trigonometry and Logarithms, including Practical Geometry, Surveying, Measuring of Timber, Cask and Malt Gauging, Heights, and Distances. By THOMAS KENTISH. In one volume, 12mo. $1.25 $KERL.--The Assayer's Manual$: An Abridged Treatise on the Docimastic Examination of Ores, and Furnace and other Artificial Products. By BRUNO KERL, Professor in the Royal School of Mines; Member of the Royal Technical Commission for the Industries, and of the Imperial Patent-Office, Berlin. Translated from the German by WILLIAM T. BRANNT, Graduate of the Royal Agricultural College of Eldena, Prussia. Edited by WILLIAM H. WAHL, Ph. D., Secretary of the Franklin Institute, Philadelphia. Illustrated by sixty-five engravings. 8vo. $3.00 $KINGZETT.--The History, Products, and Processes of the Alkali Trade$: Including the most Recent Improvements. By CHARLES THOMAS KINGZETT, Consulting Chemist. With 23 illustrations. 8vo. $2.50 $KINSLEY.--Self-Instructor on Lumber Surveying$: For the Use of Lumber Manufacturers, Surveyors, and Teachers. By CHARLES KINSLEY, Practical Surveyor and Teacher of Surveying. 12mo. $2.50 $KIRK.--The Founding of Metals$: A Practical Treatise on the Melting of Iron, with a Description of the Founding of Alloys; also, of all the Metals and Mineral Substances used in the Art of Founding. Collected from original sources. By EDWARD KIRK, Practical Foundryman and Chemist. Illustrated. Third edition. 8vo. $2.50 $KITTREDGE.--The Compendium of Architectural Sheet-Metal Work$: Profusely Illustrated. Embracing Rules and Directions for Estimates, Items of Cost, Nomenclature, Tables of Brackets, Modillions, Dentals, Trusses, Stop-Blocks, Frieze Pieces, etc. Architect's Specification, Tables of Tin-Roofing, Galvanized Iron, etc., etc. To which is added the Exemplar of Architectural Sheet-Metal Work, containing details of the Centennial Buildings, and other important Sheet-Metal Work, Designs and Prices of Architectural Ornaments, as manufactured for the Trade by the Kittredge Cornice and Ornament Company, and a Catalogue of Cornices, Window-Caps, Mouldings, etc., as manufactured by the Kittredge Cornice and Ornament Company. The whole supplemented by a full Index and Table of Contents. By A.O. KITTREDGE. 8vo., 565 pages. $LANDRIN.--A Treatise on Steel$: Comprising its Theory, Metallurgy, Properties, Practical Working, and Use. By M.H.C. LANDRIN, Jr., Civil Engineer. Translated from the French, with Notes, by A.A. FESQUET, Chemist and Engineer. With an Appendix on the Bessemer and the Martin Processes for Manufacturing Steel, from the Report of Abram S. Hewitt, United States Commissioner to the Universal Exposition, Paris, 1867. 12mo. $3.00 $LARDEN.--A School Course on Heat$: By W. LARDEN, M.A. 321 pp. 12mo. $2.00 $LARDNER.--The Steam-Engine$: For the Use of Beginners. By DR. LARDNER. Illustrated. 12mo. $.75 $LARKIN.--The Practical Brass and Iron Founder's Guide$: A Concise Treatise on Brass Founding, Moulding, the Metals and their Alloys, etc.; to which are added Recent Improvements in the Manufacture of Iron, Steel by the Bessemer Process, etc., etc. By JAMES LARKIN, late Conductor of the Brass Foundry Department in Reany, Neafie & Co.'s Penn Works, Philadelphia. Fifth edition, revised, with extensive additions. 12mo. $2.25 $LEROUX.--A Practical Treatise on the Manufacture of Worsteds and Carded Yarns$: Comprising Practical Mechanics, with Rules and Calculations applied to Spinning; Sorting, Cleaning, and Scouring Wools; the English and French Methods of Combing, Drawing, and Spinning Worsteds, and Manufacturing Carded Yarns. Translated from the French of CHARLES LEROUX, Mechanical Engineer and Superintendent of a Spinning Mill, by HORATIO PAINE, M.D., and A.A. FESQUET, Chemist and Engineer. Illustrated by twelve large Plates. To which is added an Appendix, containing Extracts from the Reports of the International Jury, and of the Artisans selected by the Committee appointed by the Council of the Society of Arts, London, on Woolen and Worsted Machinery and Fabrics, as exhibited in the Paris Universal Exposition, 1867. 8vo. $5.00 $LEFFEL.--The Construction of Mill-Dams$: Comprising also the Building of Race and Reservoir Embankments and Head-Gates, the Measurement of Streams, Gauging of Water Supply, etc. By JAMES LEFFEL & CO. Illustrated by 58 engravings. 8vo. $2.50 $LESLIE.--Complete Cookery$: Directions for Cookery in its Various Branches. By MISS LESLIE. Sixtieth thousand. Thoroughly revised, with the addition of New Receipts. In 12mo., cloth $1.50 $LIEBER.--Assayer's Guide$: Or, Practical Directions to Assayers, Miners, and Smelters, for the Tests and Assays, by Heat and by Wet Processes, for the Ores of all the principal Metals, of Gold and Silver Coins and Alloys, and of Coal, etc. By OSCAR M. LIEBER. 12mo. $1.25 $LOVE.--The Art of Dyeing, Cleaning, Scouring, and Finishing, on the Most Approved English and French Methods$: Being Practical Instructions in Dyeing Silks, Woolens, and Cottons, Feathers, Chips, Straw, etc. Scouring and Cleaning Bed and Window Curtains, Carpets, Rugs, etc. French and English Cleaning, any Color or Fabric of Silk, Satin, or Damask. By THOMAS LOVE, a Working Dyer and Scourer. Second American Edition, to which are added General Instructions for the use of Aniline Colors. 8vo. 343 pages $5.00 $LUKIN.--Amongst Machines$: Embracing Descriptions of the various Mechanical Appliances used in the Manufacture of Wood, Metal, and other Substances. 12mo. $1.75 $LUKIN.--The Boy Engineers$: What They Did, and How They Did It. With 30 plates. 18mo. $1.75 $LUKIN.--The Young Mechanic$: Practical Carpentry. Containing Directions for the Use of all kinds of Tools, and for Construction of Steam-Engines and Mechanical Models, including the Art of Turning in Wood and Metal. By JOHN LUKIN, Author of "The Lathe and Its Uses," etc. Illustrated. 12mo $1.75 $MAIN and BROWN.--Questions on Subjects Connected with the Marine Steam-Engine$: And Examination Papers; with Hints for their Solution. By THOMAS J. MAIN, Professor of Mathematics, Royal Naval College, and THOMAS BROWN, Chief Engineer, R.N. 12mo., cloth. $1.50 $MAIN and BROWN.--The Indicator and Dynamometer$: With their Practical Applications to the Steam-Engine. By THOMAS J. MAIN, M.A.F.R., Ass't S. Professor Royal Naval College, Portsmouth, and THOMAS BROWN, Assoc. Inst. C.E., Chief Engineer R.N., attached to the R.N. College. Illustrated. 8vo. $1.50 $MAIN and BROWN.--The Marine Steam-Engine.$ By THOMAS J. MAIN, F.R. Ass't S. Mathematical Professor at the Royal Naval College, Portsmouth, and THOMAS BROWN, Assoc. Inst. C.E., Chief Engineer R.N. Attached to the Royal Naval College. With numerous illustrations. 8vo. $5.00 $MARTIN.--Screw-Cutting Tables, for the Use of Mechanical Engineers$: Showing the Proper Arrangement of Wheels for Cutting the Threads of Screws of any Required Pitch; with a Table for Making the Universal Gas-Pipe Thread and Taps. By W.A. MARTIN, Engineer. 8vo. .50 $MICHELL.--Mine Drainage$: Being a Complete and Practical Treatise on Direct-Acting Underground Steam Pumping Machinery. With a Description of a large number of the best known Engines, their General Utility and the Special Sphere of their Action, the Mode of their Application, and their Merits compared with other Pumping Machinery. By STEPHEN MICHELL. Illustrated by 137 engravings. 8vo., 277 pages. $6.00 $MOLESWORTH.--Pocket-Book of Useful Formulæ and Memoranda for Civil and Mechanical Engineers.$ By GUILFORD L. MOLESWORTH, Member of the Institution of Civil Engineers, Chief Resident Engineer of the Ceylon Railway. Full-bound in Pocket-book form $1.00 $MOORE.--The Universal Assistant and the Complete Mechanic$: Containing over one million Industrial Facts, Calculations, Receipts, Processes, Trades Secrets, Rules, Business Forms, Legal Items, Etc., in every occupation, from the Household to the Manufactory. By R. MOORE. Illustrated by 500 Engravings. 12mo. $2.50 $MORRIS.--Easy Rules for the Measurement of Earthworks$: By means of the Prismoidal Formula. Illustrated with Numerous Wood-Cuts, Problems, and Examples, and concluded by an Extensive Table for finding the Solidity in cubic yards from Mean Areas. The whole being adapted for convenient use by Engineers, Surveyors, Contractors, and others needing Correct Measurements of Earthwork. By ELWOOD MORRIS, C.E. 8vo. $1.50 $MORTON.--The System of Calculating Diameter, Circumference, Area, and Squaring the Circle$: Together with Interest and Miscellaneous Tables, and other information. By JAMES MORTON. Second Edition, enlarged, with the Metric System. 12mo. $1.00 $NAPIER.--Manual of Electro-Metallurgy$: Including the Application of the Art to Manufacturing Processes. By JAMES NAPIER. Fourth American, from the Fourth London edition, revised and enlarged. Illustrated by engravings. 8vo. $1.50 $NAPIER.--A System of Chemistry Applied to Dyeing.$ By JAMES NAPIER, F.C.S. A New and Thoroughly Revised Edition. Completely brought up to the present state of the Science, including the Chemistry of Coal Tar Colors, by A.A. FESQUET, Chemist and Engineer. With an Appendix on Dyeing and Calico Printing, as shown at the Universal Exposition, Paris, 1867. Illustrated. 8vo. 422 pages $5.00 $NEVILLE.--Hydraulic Tables, Coefficients, and Formulæ, for finding the Discharge of Water from Orifices, Notches, Weirs, Pipes, and Rivers$: Third Edition, with Additions, consisting of New Formulæ for the Discharge from Tidal and Flood Sluices and Siphons; general information on Rainfall, Catchment-Basins, Drainage, Sewerage, Water Supply for Towns and Mill Power. By JOHN NEVILLE, C.E.M.R. I.A.; Fellow of the Royal Geological Society of Ireland. Thick 12mo. $3.50 $NEWBERY.--Gleanings from Ornamental Art of every style$: Drawn from Examples in the British, South Kensington, Indian, Crystal Palace, and other Museums, the Exhibitions of 1851 and 1862, and the best English and Foreign works. In a series of 100 exquisitely drawn Plates, containing many hundred examples. By ROBERT NEWBERY. 4to. $12.50 $NICHOLLS.--The Theoretical and Practical Boiler-Maker and Engineer's Reference Book$: Containing a variety of Useful Information for Employers of Labor, Foremen and Working Boiler-Makers, Iron, Copper, and Tinsmiths, Draughtsmen, Engineers, the General Steam-using Public, and for the Use of Science Schools and Classes. By SAMUEL NICHOLLS. Illustrated by sixteen plates, 12mo. $2.50 $NICHOLSON.--A Manual of the Art of Bookbinding$: Containing full instructions in the different Branches of Forwarding, Gilding, and Finishing. Also, the Art of Marbling Book-edges and Paper. By JAMES B. NICHOLSON. Illustrated. 12mo., cloth $2.25 $NICOLLS.--The Railway Builder$: A Hand-Book for Estimating the Probable Cost of American Railway Construction and Equipment. By WILLIAM J. NICOLLS, Civil Engineer. Illustrated, full bound, pocket-book form. $2.00 $NORMANDY.--The Commercial Handbook of Chemical Analysis$: Or Practical Instructions for the Determination of the Intrinsic or Commercial Value of Substances used in Manufactures, in Trades, and in the Arts. By A. NORMANDY. New Edition, Enlarged, and to a great extent rewritten. By HENRY M. NOAD, Ph.D., F.R.S., thick 12mo. $5.00 $NORRIS.--A Handbook for Locomotive Engineers and Machinists$: Comprising the Proportions and Calculations for Constructing Locomotives; Manner of Setting Valves; Tables of Squares, Cubes, Areas, etc., etc. By SEPTIMUS NORRIS, M.E. New edition. Illustrated, 12mo. $1.50 $NORTH.--The Practical Assayer$: Containing Easy Methods for the Assay of the Principal Metals and Alloys. Principally designed for explorers and those interested in Mines. By OLIVER NORTH. Illustrated. 12mo. $NYSTROM.--A New Treatise on Elements of Mechanics$: Establishing Strict Precision in the Meaning of Dynamical Terms: accompanied with an Appendix on Duodenal Arithmetic and Metrology. By JOHN W. NYSTROM, C.E. Illustrated. 8vo. $2.00 $NYSTROM.--On Technological Education and the Construction of Ships and Screw Propellers$: For Naval and Marine Engineers. By JOHN W. NYSTROM, late Acting Chief Engineer, U.S.N. Second edition, revised, with additional matter. Illustrated by seven engravings. 12mo. $1.50 $O'NEILL.--A Dictionary of Dyeing and Calico Printing$: Containing a brief account of all the Substances and Processes in use in the Art of Dyeing and Printing Textile Fabrics; with Practical Receipts and Scientific Information. By CHARLES O'NEILL, Analytical Chemist. To which is added an Essay on Coal Tar Colors and their application to Dyeing and Calico Printing. By A.A. FESQUET, Chemist and Engineer. With an appendix on Dyeing and Calico Printing, as shown at the Universal Exposition, Paris, 1867. 8vo., 491 pages. $5.00 $ORTON.--Underground Treasures$: How and Where to Find Them. A Key for the Ready Determination of all the Useful Minerals within the United States. By JAMES ORTON, A.M., Late Professor of Natural History in Vassar College, N.Y.; Cor. Mem. of the Academy of Natural Sciences, Philadelphia, and of the Lyceum of Natural History, New York; author of the "Andes and the Amazon," etc. A New Edition, with Additions. Illustrated. $1.50 $OSBORN.--The Metallurgy of Iron and Steel$: Theoretical and Practical in all its Branches; with special reference to American Materials and Processes. By H.S. OSBORN, LL. D., Professor of Mining and Metallurgy in Lafayette College, Easton, Pennsylvania. Illustrated by numerous large folding plates and wood-engravings. 8vo. $25.00 $OVERMAN.--The Manufacture of Steel$: Containing the Practice and Principles of Working and Making Steel. A Handbook for Blacksmiths and Workers in Steel and Iron, Wagon Makers, Die Sinkers, Cutlers, and Manufacturers of Files and Hardware, of Steel and Iron, and for Men of Science and Art. By FREDERICK OVERMAN, Mining Engineer, Author of the "Manufacture of Iron," etc. A new, enlarged, and revised Edition. By A.A. FESQUET, Chemist and Engineer. 12mo. $1.50 $OVERMAN.--The Moulder's and Founder's Pocket Guide$: A Treatise on Moulding and Founding in Green-sand, Dry-sand, Loam, and Cement; the Moulding of Machine Frames, Mill-gear, Hollow-ware, Ornaments, Trinkets, Bells, and Statues; Description of Moulds for Iron, Bronze, Brass, and other Metals; Plaster of Paris, Sulphur, Wax, etc.; the Construction of Melting Furnaces, the Melting and Founding of Metals; the Composition of Alloys and their Nature, etc., etc. By FREDERICK OVERMAN, M.E. A new Edition, to which is added a Supplement on Statuary and Ornamental Moulding, Ordnance, Malleable Iron Castings, etc. By A.A. FESQUET, Chemist and Engineer. Illustrated by 44 engravings. 12mo. $2.00 $PAINTER, GILDER, AND VARNISHER'S COMPANION$: Containing Rules and Regulations in everything relating to the Arts of Painting, Gilding, Varnishing, Glass-Staining, Graining, Marbling, Sign-Writing, Gilding on Glass, and Coach Painting and Varnishing; Tests for the Detection of Adulterations in Oils, Colors, etc.; and a Statement of the Diseases to which Painters are peculiarly liable, with the Simplest and Best Remedies. Sixteenth Edition. Revised, with an Appendix. Containing Colors and Coloring--Theoretical and Practical. Comprising descriptions of a great variety of Additional Pigments, their Qualities and Uses, to which are added, Dryers, and Modes and Operations of Painting, etc. Together with Chevreul's Principles of Harmony and Contrast of Colors. 12mo. Cloth $1.50 $PALLETT.--The Miller's, Millwright's, and Engineer's Guide.$ By HENRY PALLETT. Illustrated. 12mo. $3.00 $PEARSE.--A Concise History of the Iron Manufacture of the American Colonies up to the Revolution, and of Pennsylvania until the present time.$ By JOHN B. PEARSE. Illustrated 12mo. $2.00 $PERCY.--The Manufacture of Russian Sheet-Iron.$ By JOHN PERCY, M.D., F.R.S., Lecturer on Metallurgy at the Royal School of Mines, and to The Advance Class of Artillery Officers at the Royal Artillery Institution, Woolwich; Author of "Metallurgy." With Illustrations. 8vo., paper 50 cts. $PERKINS.--Gas and Ventilation$: Practical Treatise on Gas and Ventilation. With Special Relation to Illuminating, Heating, and Cooking by Gas. Including Scientific Helps to Engineer-students and others. With Illustrated Diagrams. By E.E. PERKINS. 12mo., cloth $1.25 $PERKINS AND STOWE.--A New Guide to the Sheet-iron and Boiler Plate Roller$: Containing a Series of Tables showing the Weight of Slabs and Piles to Produce Boiler Plates, and of the Weight of Piles and the Sizes of Bars to produce Sheet-iron; the Thickness of the Bar Gauge in decimals; the Weight per foot, and the Thickness on the Bar or Wire Gauge of the fractional parts of an inch; the Weight per sheet, and the Thickness on the Wire Gauge of Sheet-iron of various dimensions to weigh 112 lbs. per bundle; and the conversion of Short Weight into Long Weight, and Long Weight into Short. Estimated and collected by G.H. PERKINS and J.G. STOWE. $2.50 $POWELL--CHANCE--HARRIS.--The Principles of Glass Making.$ By HARRY J. POWELL, B.A. Together with Treatises on Crown and Sheet Glass; by HENRY CHANCE, M.A. And Plate Glass, by H.G. HARRIS, Asso. M. Inst. C.E. Illustrated 18mo. $1.50 $PROTEAUX.--Practical Guide for the Manufacture of Paper and Boards.$ By A. PROTEAUX. From the French, by HORATIO PAINE, A.B., M.D. To which is added the Manufacture of Paper from Wood, by HENRY T. BROWN. Illustrated by six plates. 8vo. $PROCTOR.--A Pocket-Book of Useful Tables and Formulæ for Marine Engineers.$ By FRANK PROCTOR. Second Edition, Revised and Enlarged. Full bound pocket-book form. $1.50 $REGNAULT.--Elements of Chemistry.$ By M.V. REGNAULT. Translated from the French by T. FORREST BETTON, M.D., and edited, with Notes, by JAMES C. BOOTH, Melter and Refiner U.S. Mint, and WILLIAM L. FABER, Metallurgist and Mining Engineer. Illustrated by nearly 700 wood engravings. Comprising nearly 1,500 pages. In two volumes, 8vo., cloth $7.50 $RIFFAULT, VERGNAUD, and TOUSSAINT.--A Practical Treatise on the Manufacture of Colors for Painting$: Comprising the Origin, Definition, and Classification of Colors; the Treatment of the Raw Materials; the best Formulæ and the Newest Processes for the Preparation of every description of Pigment, and the Necessary Apparatus and Directions for its Use; Dryers; the Testing, Application, and Qualities of Paints, etc., etc. By MM. RIFFAULT, VERGNAUD, and TOUSSAINT. Revised and Edited by M.F. MALEPEYRE. Translated from the French, by A.A. FESQUET, Chemist and Engineer. Illustrated by Eighty engravings. In one vol., 8vo., 659 pages. $7.50 $ROPER.--A Catechism of High-Pressure, or Non-Condensing Steam-Engines$: Including the Modelling, Constructing, and Management of Steam-Engines and Steam Boilers. With valuable illustrations. By STEPHEN ROPER, Engineer. Sixteenth edition, revised and enlarged. 18mo., tucks, gilt edge. $2.00 $ROPER.--Engineer's Handy-Book$: Containing a full Explanation of the Steam-Engine Indicator, and its Use and Advantages to Engineers and Steam Users. With Formulæ for Estimating the Power of all Classes of Steam-Engines; also, Facts, Figures, Questions, and Tables for Engineers who wish to qualify themselves for the United States Navy, the Revenue Service, the Mercantile Marine, or to take charge of the Better Class of Stationary Steam-Engines. Sixth edition. 16mo., 690 pages, tucks, gilt edge. $3.50 $ROPER.--Hand-Book of Land and Marine Engines$: Including the Modelling, Construction, Running, and Management of Land and Marine Engines and Boilers. With illustrations. By STEPHEN ROPER, Engineer. Sixth edition. 12mo., tucks, gilt edge. $3.50 $ROPER.--Hand-Book of the Locomotive$: Including the Construction of Engines and Boilers, and the Construction, Management, and Running of Locomotives. By STEPHEN ROPER. Eleventh edition. 18mo., tucks, gilt edge. $2.50 $ROPER.--Hand-Book of Modern Steam Fire-Engines.$ With illustrations. By STEPHEN ROPER, Engineer. Fourth edition, 12mo., tucks, gilt edge. $3.50 $ROPER.--Questions and Answers for Engineers.$ This little book contains all the Questions that Engineers will be asked when undergoing an Examination for the purpose of procuring Licenses, and they are so plain that any Engineer or Fireman of ordinary intelligence may commit them to memory in a short time. By STEPHEN ROPER, Engineer. Third edition. $3.00 $ROPER.--Use and Abuse of the Steam Boiler.$ By STEPHEN ROPER, Engineer. Eighth edition, with illustrations. 18mo., tucks, gilt edge. $2.00 $ROSE.--The Complete Practical Machinist$: Embracing Lathe Work, Vise Work, Drills and Drilling, Taps and Dies, Hardening and Tempering, the Making and Use of Tools, Tool Grinding, Marking out Work, etc. By JOSHUA ROSE. Illustrated by 356 engravings. Thirteenth edition, thoroughly revised and in great part rewritten. In one vol., 12mo., 439 pages. $2.50 $ROSE.--Mechanical Drawing Self-Taught$: Comprising Instructions in the Selection and Preparation of Drawing Instruments, Elementary Instruction in Practical Mechanical Drawing, together with Examples in Simple Geometry and Elementary Mechanism, including Screw Threads, Gear Wheels, Mechanical Motions, Engines and Boilers. By JOSHUA ROSE, M.E., Author of "The Complete Practical Machinist," "The Pattern-maker's Assistant," "The Slide-valve." Illustrated by 330 engravings. 8vo., 313 pages. $4.00 $ROSE.--The Slide-Valve Practically Explained$: Embracing simple and complete Practical Demonstrations of the operation of each element in a Slide-valve Movement, and illustrating the effects of Variations in their Proportions by examples carefully selected from the most recent and successful practice. By JOSHUA ROSE, M.E., Author of "The Complete Practical Machinist," "The Pattern-maker's Assistant," etc. Illustrated by 35 engravings. $1.00 $ROSS.--The Blowpipe in Chemistry, Mineralogy and Geology$: Containing all Known Methods of Anhydrous Analysis, many Working Examples, and Instructions for Making Apparatus. By LIEUT.-COLONEL W.A. ROSS, R.A.F., G.S. With 120 Illustrations. 12mo. $1.50 $SHAW.--Civil Architecture$: Being a Complete Theoretical and Practical System of Building, containing the Fundamental Principles of the Art. By EDWARD SHAW, Architect. To which is added a Treatise on Gothic Architecture, etc. By THOMAS W. SILLOWAY and GEORGE M. HARDING, Architects. The whole illustrated by 102 quarto plates finely engraved on copper. Eleventh edition. 4to. $10.00 $SHUNK.--A Practical Treatise on Railway Curves and Location, for Young Engineers.$ By WILLIAM F. SHUNK, Civil Engineer. 12mo. Full bound pocket-book form. $2.00 $SLATER.--The Manual of Colors and Dye Wares.$ By J.W. SLATER. 12mo. $3.75 $SLOAN.--American Houses$: A variety of Original Designs for Rural Buildings. Illustrated by twenty-six colored Engravings, with Descriptive References. By SAMUEL SLOAN, Architect, author of the "Model Architect," etc. etc. 8vo. $1.50 $SLOAN.--Homestead Architecture$: Containing Forty Designs for Villas, Cottages, and Farm-houses, with Essays on Style, Construction, Landscape Gardening, Furniture, etc., etc. Illustrated by upwards of 200 engravings. By SAMUEL SLOAN, Architect. 8vo. $3.50 $SMEATON.--Builder's Pocket-Companion$: Containing the Elements of Building, Surveying, and Architecture; with Practical Rules and Instructions connected with the subject. By A.C. SMEATON, Civil Engineer, etc. 12mo. $1.50 $SMITH.--A Manual of Political Economy.$ By E. PESHINE SMITH. A new Edition, to which is added a full Index. 12mo. $1.25 $SMITH.--Parks and Pleasure-Grounds:$ Or Practical Notes on Country Residences, Villas, Public Parks, and Gardens. By CHARLES H.J. SMITH, Landscape Gardener and Garden Architect, etc., etc. 12mo. $2.00 $SMITH.--The Dyer's Instructor:$ Comprising Practical Instructions in the Art of Dyeing Silk, Cotton, Wool, and Worsted, and Woolen Goods; containing nearly 800 Receipts. To which is added a Treatise on the Art of Padding; and the Printing of Silk Warps, Skeins, and Handkerchiefs, and the various Mordants and Colors for the different styles of such work. By DAVID SMITH, Pattern Dyer. 12mo. $3.00 $SMYTH.--A Rudimentary Treatise on Coal and Coal-Mining.$ By WARRINGTON W. SMYTH, M.A., F.R.G., President R.G.S. of Cornwall. Fifth edition, revised and corrected. With numerous illustrations. 12mo. $1.75 $SNIVELY.--A Treatise on the Manufacture of Perfumes and Kindred Toilet Articles.$ By JOHN H. SNIVELY, Phr. D., Professor of Analytical Chemistry in the Tennessee College of Pharmacy. 8vo. $3.00 $SNIVELY.--Tables for Systematic Qualitative Chemical Analysis.$ By JOHN H. SNIVELY, Phr. D. 8vo. $1.00 $SNIVELY.--The Elements of Systematic Qualitative Chemical Analysis:$ A Hand-book for Beginners. By JOHN H. SNIVELY, Phr. D. 16mo. $2.00 $STEWART.--The American System:$ Speeches on the Tariff Question, and on Internal Improvements, principally delivered in the House of Representatives of the United States. By ANDREW STEWART, late M.C. from Pennsylvania. With a Portrait, and a Biographical Sketch. 8vo. $3.00 $STOKES.--The Cabinet-Maker and Upholsterer's Companion:$ Comprising the Art of Drawing, as applicable to Cabinet Work; Veneering, Inlaying, and Buhl-Work; the Art of Dyeing and Staining Wood, Ivory, Bone, Tortoise-Shell, etc. Directions for Lackering, Japanning, and Varnishing; to make French Polish, Glues, Cements, and Compositions; with numerous Receipts, useful to workmen generally. By J. STOKES. Illustrated. A New Edition, with an Appendix upon French Polishing, Staining, Imitating, Varnishing, etc., etc. 12mo. $1.25 $STRENGTH AND OTHER PROPERTIES OF METALS:$ Reports of Experiments on the Strength and other Properties of Metals for Cannon. With a Description of the Machines for Testing Metals, and of the Classification of Cannon in service. By Officers of the Ordnance Department, U.S. Army. By authority of the Secretary of War. Illustrated by 25 large steel plates. Quarto. $10.00 $SULLIVAN.--Protection to Native Industry.$ By Sir EDWARD SULLIVAN, Baronet, author of "Ten Chapters on Social Reforms." 8vo. $1.50 $SYME.--Outlines of an Industrial Science.$ By DAVID SYME. 12mo. $2.00 $TABLES SHOWING THE WEIGHT OF ROUND, SQUARE, AND FLAT BAR IRON, STEEL, ETC.,$ By Measurement. Cloth. 63 $TAYLOR.--Statistics of Coal:$ Including Mineral Bituminous Substances employed in Arts and Manufactures; with their Geographical, Geological, and Commercial Distribution and Amount of Production and Consumption on the American Continent. With Incidental Statistics of the Iron Manufacture. By R.C. TAYLOR. Second edition, revised by S.S. HALDEMAN. Illustrated by five Maps and many wood engravings. 8vo., cloth. $10.00 $TEMPLETON.--The Practical Examinator on Steam and the Steam--Engine:$ With Instructive References relative thereto, arranged for the Use of Engineers, Students, and others. By WILLIAM TEMPLETON, Engineer. 12mo. $1.25 $THAUSING.--The Theory and Practice of the Preparation of Malt and the Fabrication of Beer:$ With especial reference to the Vienna Process of Brewing. Elaborated from personal experience by JULIUS E. THAUSING, Professor at the School for Brewers, and at the Agricultural Institute, Mödling, near Vienna. Translated from the German by WILLIAM T. BRANNT. Thoroughly and elaborately edited, with much American matter, and according to the latest and most Scientific Practice, by A. SCHWARZ and DR. A.H. BAUER. Illustrated by 140 Engravings. 8vo., 815 pages. $10.00 $THOMAS.--The Modern Practice of Photography:$ By R.W. THOMAS, F.C.S. 8vo. $.75 $THOMPSON.--Political Economy. With Especial Reference to the Industrial History of Nations:$ By ROBERT E. THOMPSON, M.A., Professor of Social Science in the University of Pennsylvania. 12mo. $1.50 $THOMSON.--Freight Charges Calculator:$ By ANDREW THOMSON, Freight Agent. 24mo. $1.25 $TURNER'S (THE) COMPANION:$ Containing Instructions in Concentric, Elliptic, and Eccentric Turning; also various Plates of Chucks, Tools, and Instruments; and Directions for using the Eccentric Cutter, Drill, Vertical Cutter, and Circular Rest; with Patterns and Instructions for working them. 12mo. $1.25 $TURNING: Specimens of Fancy Turning Executed on the Hand or Foot-Lathe:$ With Geometric, Oval, and Eccentric Chucks, and Elliptical Cutting Frame. By an Amateur. Illustrated by 30 exquisite Photographs. 4to. $3.00 $URBIN--BRULL.--A Practical Guide for Puddling Iron and Steel.$ By ED. URBIN, Engineer of Arts and Manufactures. A Prize Essay, read before the Association of Engineers, Graduate of the School of Mines, of Liege, Belgium, at the Meeting of 1865-6. To which is added A COMPARISON OF THE RESISTING PROPERTIES OF IRON AND STEEL. By A. BRULL. Translated from the French by A.A. FESQUET, Chemist and Engineer. 8vo. $1.00 $VAILE.--Galvanized-Iron Cornice-Worker's Manual:$ Containing Instructions in Laying out the Different. Mitres, and Making Patterns for all kinds of Plain and Circular Work. Also, Tables of Weights, Areas and Circumferences of Circles, and other Matter calculated to Benefit the Trade. By CHARLES A. VAILE. Illustrated by twenty-one plates. 4to. $5.00 $VILLE.--On Artificial Manures:$ Their Chemical Selection and Scientific Application to Agriculture. A series of Lectures given at the Experimental Farm at Vincennes, during 1867 and 1874-75. By M. GEORGES VILLE. Translated and Edited by WILLIAM CROOKES, F.R.S. Illustrated by thirty-one engravings. 8vo., 450 pages. $6.00 $VILLE.--The School of Chemical Manures:$ Or, Elementary Principles in the Use of Fertilizing Agents. From the French of M. GEO. VILLE, by A.A. FESQUET, Chemist and Engineer. With Illustrations. 12mo. $1.25 $VOGDES.--The Architect's and Builder's Pocket-Companion and Price-Book:$ Consisting of a Short but Comprehensive Epitome of Decimals, Duodecimals, Geometry and Mensuration; with Tables of United States Measures, Sizes, Weights, Strengths, etc., of Iron, Wood, Stone, Brick, Cement and Concretes, Quantities of Materials in given Sizes and Dimensions of Wood, Brick and Stone; and full and complete Bills of Prices for Carpenter's Work and Painting; also, Rules for Computing and Valuing Brick and Brick Work, Stone Work, Painting, Plastering, with a Vocabulary of Technical Terms, etc. By FRANK W. VOGDES, Architect, Indianapolis, Ind. Enlarged, revised, and corrected. In one volume, 368 pages, full-bound, pocket-book form, gilt edges. $2.00 Cloth 1.50 $WAHL.--Galvanoplastic Manipulations:$ A Practical Guide for the Gold and Silver Electroplater and the Galvanoplastic Operator. Comprising the Electro-Deposition of all Metals by means of the Battery and the Dynamo-Electric Machine, as well as the most approved Processes of Deposition by Simple Immersion, with Descriptions of Apparatus, Chemical Products employed in the Art, etc. Based largely on the "Manipulations Hydroplastiques" of ALFRED ROSELEUR. By WILLIAM H. WAHL, Ph. D. (Heid), Secretary of the Franklin Institute. Illustrated by 189 engravings. 8vo., 656 pages. $7.50 $WALTON.--Coal-Mining Described and Illustrated:$ By THOMAS H. WALTON, Mining Engineer. Illustrated by 24 large and elaborate Plates, after Actual Workings and Apparatus. $5.00 $WARE.--The Sugar Beet.$ Including a History of the Beet Sugar Industry in Europe, Varieties of the Sugar Beet, Examination, Soils, Tillage, Seeds and Sowing, Yield and Cost of Cultivation, Harvesting, Transportation, Conservation, Feeding Qualities of the Beet and of the Pulp, etc. By LEWIS S. WARE, C.E., M.E. Illustrated by ninety engravings. 8vo. $4.00 $WARN.--The Sheet-Metal Worker's Instructor:$ For Zinc, Sheet-Iron, Copper, and Tin-Plate Workers, etc. Containing a selection of Geometrical Problems; also, Practical and Simple Rules for Describing the various Patterns required in the different branches of the above Trades. By REUBEN H. WARN, Practical Tin-Plate Worker. To which is added an Appendix, containing Instructions for Boiler-Making, Mensuration of Surfaces and Solids, Rules for Calculating the Weights of different Figures of Iron and Steel, Tables of the Weights of Iron, Steel, etc. Illustrated by thirty-two Plates and thirty-seven Wood Engravings. 8vo. $3.00. $WARNER.--New Theorems, Tables, and Diagrams, for the Computation of Earth-work:$ Designed for the use of Engineers in Preliminary and Final Estimates, of Students in Engineering, and of Contractors and other non-professional Computers. In two parts, with an Appendix. Part I. A Practical Treatise; Part II. A Theoretical Treatise, and the Appendix. Containing Notes to the Rules and Examples of Part I.; Explanations of the Construction of Scales, Tables, and Diagrams, and a Treatise upon Equivalent Square Bases and Equivalent Level Heights. The whole illustrated by numerous original engravings, comprising explanatory cuts for Definitions and Problems, Stereometric Scales and Diagrams, and a series of Lithographic Drawings from Models: Showing all the Combinations of Solid Forms which occur in Railroad Excavations and Embankments. By JOHN WARNER, A.M., Mining and Mechanical Engineer. Illustrated by 14 Plates. A new, revised and improved edition. 8vo. $4.00 $WATSON.--A Manual of the Hand-Lathe:$ Comprising Concise Directions for Working Metals of all kinds, Ivory, Bone and Precious Woods; Dyeing, Coloring, and French Polishing; Inlaying by Veneers, and various methods practised to produce Elaborate work with Dispatch, and at Small Expense. By EGBERT P. WATSON, Author of "The Modern Practice of American Machinists and Engineers." Illustrated by 78 engravings. $1.50 $WATSON.--The Modern Practice of American Machinists and Engineers:$ Including the Construction, Application, and Use of Drills, Lathe Tools, Cutters for Boring Cylinders, and Hollow-work generally, with the most Economical Speed for the same; the Results verified by Actual Practice at the Lathe, the Vise, and on the Floor. Together with Workshop Management, Economy of Manufacture, the Steam-Engine, Boilers, Gears, Belting, etc., etc. By EGBERT P. WATSON. Illustrated by eighty-six engravings. 12mo. $2.50 $WATSON.--The Theory and Practice of the Art of Weaving by Hand and Power:$ With Calculations and Tables for the Use of those connected with the Trade. By JOHN WATSON, Manufacturer and Practical Machine-Maker. Illustrated by large Drawings of the best Power Looms. 8vo. $7.50 $WATT.--The Art of Soap Making:$ A Practical Hand-book of the Manufacture of Hard and Soft Soaps, Toilet Soaps, etc., including many New Processes, and a Chapter on the Recovery of Glycerine from Waste Leys. By ALEXANDER WATT. Ill. 12mo. $3.00 $WEATHERLY.--Treatise on the Art of Boiling Sugar, Crystallizing, Lozenge-making, Comfits, Gum Goods,$ And other processes for Confectionery, etc., in which are explained, in an easy and familiar manner, the various Methods of Manufacturing every Description of Raw and Refined Sugar Goods, as sold by Confectioners and others. 12mo. $1.50 $WEDDING.--Elements of the Metallurgy of Iron.$ By Dr. HERMANN WEDDING, Royal Privy Counsellor of Mines, Berlin, Prussia. Translated from the second revised and rewritten German edition. By WILLIAM T. BRANNT, Graduate of the Royal Agricultural College at Eldena, Prussia. Edited by WILLIAM H. WAHL, Ph. D., Secretary of the Franklin Institute, Philadelphia. Illustrated by about 250 engravings. 8vo., about 500 pages (_In preparation_.) $WEINHOLD.--Introduction to Experimental Physics, Theoretical and Practical.$ Including directions for Constructing Physical Apparatus and for Making Experiments. By ADOLF F. WEINHOLD, Professor in the Royal Technical School at Chemnitz. Translated and edited, with the author's sanction, by BENJAMIN LOEWY, F.R.A.S., with a preface, by G.C. FOSTER, F.R.S. Illustrated by three colored plates and 404 wood-cuts. 8vo., 848 pages $6.00 $WIGHTWICK.--Hints to Young Architects:$ Comprising Advice to those who, while yet at school, are destined to the Profession; to such as, having passed their pupilage, are about to travel; and to those who, having completed their education, are about to practise. Together with a Model Specification involving a great variety of instructive and suggestive matter. By GEORGE WIGHTWICK, Architect. A new edition, revised and considerably enlarged; comprising Treatises on the Principles of Construction and Design. By G. HUSKISSON GUILLAUME, Architect. Numerous Illustrations. One vol. 12mo. $2.00 $WILL.--Tables of Qualitative Chemical Analysis.$ With an Introductory Chapter on the Course of Analysis. By Professor HEINRICH WILL, of Giessen, Germany. Third American, from the eleventh German edition. Edited by CHARLES F. HIMES. Ph. D., Professor of Natural Science, Dickinson College, Carlisle, Pa. 8vo. $1.50 $WILLIAMS.--On Heat and Steam:$ Embracing New Views of Vaporization, Condensation, and Explosion. By CHARLES WYE WILLIAMS, A.I.C.E. Illustrated 8vo. $3.50 $WILSON.--A Treatise on Steam Boilers:$ Their Strength, Construction, and Economical Working. By ROBERT WILSON. Illustrated 12mo. $2.50 $WILSON.--Cotton Carder's Companion:$ In which is given a description of the manner of Picking, Baling, Marketing, Opening, and Carding Cotton; to which is added a list of valuable Tables, Rules, and Receipts, by FOSTER WILSON. 12mo. $1.50 $WILSON.--First Principles of Political Economy:$ With Reference to Statesmanship and the Progress of Civilization. By Professor W.D. WILSON, of the Cornell University. A new and revised edition. 12mo. $1.50 $WÖHLER.--A Hand-book of Mineral Analysis.$ By F. WÖHLER, Professor of Chemistry in the University of Göttingen. Edited by HENRY B. NASON, Professor of Chemistry in the Renssalaer Polytechnic Institute, Troy, New York. Illustrated 12mo. $3.00 $WORSSAM.--On Mechanical Saws:$ From the Transactions of the Society of Engineers, 1869. By S.W. WORSSAM, JR. Illustrated by eighteen large plates. 8vo. $2.50 * * * * * $RECENT ADDITIONS.$ $ANDERSON--The Prospector's Hand-Book:$ A Guide for the Prospector and Traveler in Search of Metal Bearing or other Valuable Minerals. By J.W. ANDERSON. 52 Illustrations. 12mo. $1.50 $BILGRAM.--Slide-Valve Gears:$ A new, graphical method for Analyzing the Action of Slide-Valves, moved by Eccentrics, Link Motions, and Cut-off Gears, offering easy means for properly designing Valves and Valve-Gears, and for establishing the comparative merits of their various constructions. By HUGO BILGRAM, M.E. Illustrated. 16mo. $1.00 $CREW.--A Practical Treatise on Petroleum:$ Comprising its Geographical Distribution, its Geology, Chemistry, Mining, Refining, Preparation, and Uses. Together with a Description of Gas Wells and the Application of Gas as Fuel, etc. By BENJAMIN J. CREW. Illustrated. 8vo. (In preparation.) $CROOKES.--Select Methods in Chemical Analysis (Chiefly Inorganic):$ By WILLIAM CROOKES, F.R.S., V.P.C.S. 2d edition, re-written and greatly enlarged. Illustrated by 37 wood-cuts. 725 pp. 8vo. $9.50 $DAVIS.--A Treatise on Steam-Boiler Incrustation and Methods for Preventing Corrosion and the Formation of Scale:$ By CHARLES T. DAVIS. Illustrated by 65 engravings. 8vo. $2.00 $DAVIS.--The Manufacture of Paper:$ Being a Description of the various Processes for the Fabrication, Coloring and Finishing of every kind of Paper, Including the Different Raw Materials and the Methods for Determining their Values, the Tools, Machines and Practical Details connected with an intelligent and a profitable prosecution of the art, with special reference to the best American Practice. To which are added a History of Paper, complete Lists of Paper-Making Materials, List of American Machines, Tools and Processes used in treating the Raw Materials, and in Making, Coloring and Finishing Paper. By CHARLES T. DAVIS. Illustrated by 156 engravings. 500 pages, 8vo. $6.00 $Hand-Book of Useful Tables for the Lumberman, Farmer and Mechanic:$ Containing Accurate Tables of Logs Reduced to Inch Board Measure, Plank, Scantling and Timber Measure; Wages and Rent, by Week or Month; Capacity of Granaries, Bins and Cisterns; Land Measure, Interest Tables, with Directions for Finding the Interest on any sum at 4, 5, 6, 7 and 8 per cent., and many other Useful Tables. 32 mo., boards. 186 pages .25 $MAKINS.--A Manual of Metallurgy:$ By GEORGE HOGARTH MAKINS, M.R.C.S.S.C.S. Illustrated by 100 engravings. Second edition rewritten and much enlarged. 8vo., 592 pages. $3.00 $ROPER.--Instructions and Suggestions for Engineers and Firemen:$ By STEPHEN ROPER, Engineer $2.00 $ROPER.--The Steam Boiler: Its Care and Management:$ By STEPHEN ROPER, Engineer. 12mo., tuck, gilt edges. $2.00 $ROPER.--The Young Engineer's Own Book:$ Containing an Explanation of the Principle and Theories on which the Steam Engine as a Prime Mover is Based. By STEPHEN ROPER, Engineer. 160 illustrations, 363 pages. 18mo., tuck $3.00 $ROSE.--Modern Steam-Engines:$ An Elementary Treatise upon the Steam-Engine, written in Plain language; for Use in the Workshop as well as in the Drawing Office. Giving Full Explanations of the Construction of Modern Steam-Engines: Including Diagrams showing their Actual operation. Together with Complete but Simple Explanations of the operations of Various Kinds of Valves, Valve Motions, and Link Motions, etc., thereby Enabling the Ordinary Engineer to Clearly Understand the Principles Involved in their Construction and Use, and to Plot out their Movements upon the Drawing Board. By JOSHUA ROSE, M.E., Author of "The Complete Practical Machinist," "The Pattern Maker's Assistant," "The Slide Valve" and "Mechanical Drawing Self-Taught." Illustrated by over 400 engravings. In one volume, 4to, 320 pages. $6.00 $A Great Repository of Practical and Scientific Information.$ * * * * * One of the Fullest, Freshest and Most Valuable Hand-books of the Age. Indispensable to Every Practical Man. JUST READY. $PRICE, $2.00$ $FREE OF POSTAGE TO ANY ADDRESS IN THE WORLD.$ $THE TECHNO-CHEMICAL RECEIPT BOOK:$ CONTAINING Several Thousand Receipts, covering the Latest, Most Important and Most Useful Discoveries in Chemical Technology, and their Practical Application in the Arts and the Industries. Edited chiefly from the German of Drs. Winckler, Eisner, Heintze, Mierzinski, Jacobsen, Koller, and Heinzerling, WITH ADDITIONS BY $WILLIAM T. BRANNT,$ Graduate of the Royal Agricultural College of Eldena, Prussia, AND $WILLIAM H. WAHL, PH. D. (Heid.),$ Secretary of the Franklin Institute, Philadelphia; author of "Galvanoplastic Manipulations." $Illustrated by Seventy-eight Engravings.$ In one volume, xxxii, 495 pages, 12mo., closely printed, containing an immense amount and a great variety of matter. Price $2.00, free of postage to any address in the world. »_The above or any of our books sent by mail, free of postage, at the publication price, to any address in the world._ »_Our New and Enlarged Catalogue of Practical and Scientific Books, 96 pages, 8vo., and our other Catalogues, the whole covering every branch of Science applied to the Arts, sent free and free of postage to any one, in any part of the world, who will furnish his address._ $HENRY CAREY BAIRD & CO., Industrial Publishers, Booksellers and Importers, 810 Walnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa., U.S.A.$ Transcriber's Notes: Opening quote on folio page 210 was eliminated due to ambiguity of the extent of the quote: Quote: "But these circular arcs.... Conventional text emphasis coding $...$ used for bolded text. End of Project Gutenberg's Mechanical Drawing Self-Taught, by Joshua Rose

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:30.254015

2332

Produced by Martin Adamson; The html file produced by David Widger CRITICAL AND HISTORICAL ESSAYS, VOLUME ONE By Thomas Babbington Macaulay EDITOR’S NOTE By A. J. Grieve A French student of English letters (M. Paul Oursel) has written the following lines: “Depuis deux siècles les Essais forment une branche importante de la littérature anglaise; pour designer un écrivain de cette classe, nos voisins emploient un mot qui n’a pas d’équivalent en francais; ils disent: un essayiste. Quo’est-ce qu’un essayiste? L’essayiste se distingue du moraliste, de l’historien, du critique littéraire, du biographe, de l’écrivain politique; et pourtant il emprunte quelque trait a chacun d’eux; il ressemble tour a tour a l’un ou a l’autre; il est aussi philosophe, il est satirique, humoriste a ses heures; il remit en sa personne des qualités multiples; il offre dans ses écrits un spécimen de tous les genres. On voit qu’il n’est pas facile de définir l’essayiste; mais l’exemple suppléera a la définition. On connaîtra exactement le sens du mot quand on aura étudie l’écrivain qui, d’après le jugement de ces compatriotes, est l’essayiste par excellence, ou, comme on disait dans les anciens cours de littérature, le Prince des essayistes.” Macaulay is indeed the prince of essayists, and his reign is unchallenged. “I still think--says Professor Saintsbury (Corrected Impressions, p. 89 f.)--that on any subject which Macaulay has touched, his survey is unsurpassable for giving a first bird’s-eye view, and for creating interest in the matter.... And he certainly has not his equal anywhere for covering his subject in the pointing-stick fashion. You need not--you had much better not--pin your faith on his details, but his Pisgah sights are admirable. Hole after hole has been picked in the “Clive” and the “Hastings,” the “Johnson” and the “Addison,” the “Frederick” and the “Horace Walpole,” yet every one of these papers contains sketches, summaries, precis, which have not been made obsolete or valueless by all the work of correction in detail. Two other appreciations from among the mass of critical literature that has accumulated round Macaulay’s work may be fitly cited, This from Mr. Frederic Harrison:-- “How many men has Macaulay succeeded in reaching, to whom all other history and criticism is a sealed book, or a book in an unknown tongue! If he were a sciolist or a wrongheaded fanatic, this would be a serious evil. But, as he is substantially right in his judgments, brimful of saying common-sense and generous feeling, and profoundly well read in his own periods and his favourite literature, Macaulay has conferred most memorable services on the readers of English throughout the world. He stands between philosophic historians and the public very much as journals and periodicals stand between the masses and great libraries. Macaulay is a glorified journalist and reviewer, who brings the matured results of scholars to the man in the street in a form that he can remember and enjoy, when he could not make use of a merely learned book. He performs the office of the ballad-maker or story-teller in an age before books were known or were common. And it is largely due to his influence that the best journals and periodicals of our day are written in a style so clear, so direct, so resonant.” And this from Mr. Cotter Morison “Macaulay did for the historical essay what Haydn did for the sonata, and Watt for the steam engine; he found it rudimentary and unimportant, and left it complete and a thing of power.... To take a bright period or personage of history, to frame it in a firm outline, to conceive it at once in article-size, and then to fill in this limited canvas with sparkling anecdote, telling bits of colour, and facts, all fused together by a real genius for narrative, was the sort of genre-painting which Macaulay applied to history.... And to this day his essays remain the best of their class, not only in England, but in Europe.... The best would adorn any literature, and even the less successful have a picturesque animation, and convey an impression of power that will not easily be matched. And, again, we need to bear in mind that they were the productions of a writer immersed in business, written in his scanty moments of leisure, when most men would have rested or sought recreation. Macaulay himself was most modest in his estimate of their value.... It was the public that insisted on their re-issue, and few would be bold enough to deny that the public was right.” It is to Mr. Morison that the plan followed in the present edition of the Essays is due. In his monograph on Macaulay (English Men of Letters series) he devotes a chapter to the Essays and “with the object of giving as much unity as possible to a subject necessarily wanting it,” classifies the Essays into four groups, (1)English history, (2)Foreign history, (3)Controversial, (4)Critical and Miscellaneous. The articles in the first group are equal in bulk to those of the three other groups put together, and are contained in the first volume of this issue. They form a fairly complete survey of English history from the time of Elizabeth to the later years of the reign of George III, and are fitly introduced by the Essay on Hallam’s History, which forms a kind of summary or microcosm of the whole period. The scheme might be made still more complete by including certain articles (and especially the exquisite biographies contributed by Macaulay to the Encyclopaedia Britannica) which are published in the volume of “Miscellaneous Writings and Speeches.” Exigencies of space have, however, compelled the limitation of the present edition to the “Essays” usually so-called. These have also been reprinted in the chronological arrangement ordinarily followed (see below) in The Temple Classics (5 vols. 1900), where an exhaustive bibliography, etc., has been appended to each Essay. Chief dates in the life of Thomas Babington Macaulay, afterwards Baron Macaulay:-- 1800 (Oct. 25). Birth at Rothley Temple, Leicestershire. 1818-1825. Life at Cambridge (Fellow of Trinity, 1824). 1825. Essay on Milton contributed to Edinburgh Review. 1826. Joined the Northern Circuit. 1830 M.P. for Calne (gift of the Marquis of Lansdowne). 1833. M.P. for Leeds. 1834-38. Legal Adviser to the Supreme Council of India. Work at the Indian Penal Code. 1839. M.P. for Edinburgh, and Secretary at War In Melbourne’s Cabinet. 1842. Lays of Ancient Rome. 1843. Collected edition of the Essays. 1847. Rejected at the Election of M.P. for Edinburgh. 1848. England from the Accession of James II. vols. i. and ii. 1852. M.P. for Edinburgh; serious illness. 1855. History of England, vols. iii. and iv. 1857. Raised to the peerage. 1859 (Dec. 28). Death at Holly Lodge, Kensington. (Buried in Westminster Abbey, 9th January 1860.) The following are the works of Thomas Babington Macaulay: Pompeii (Prize poem), 1819; Evening (prize poem), 1821; Lays of Ancient Rome (1842); Ivry and the Armada (Quarterly Magazine), added to Edition of 1848; Critical and Historical Essays (Edinburgh Review), 1843. The Essays originally appeared as follows: Milton, August 1825; Machiavelli, March 1827; Hallam’s “Constitutional History,” September 1828; Southey’s “Colloquies,” January 1830; R. Montgomery’s Poems, April 1830; Civil Disabilities of Jews, January 1831; Byron, June 1831; Croker’s “Boswell,” September 1831; Pilgrim’s Progress, December 1831; Hampden, December 1831; Burleigh, April 1832; War of Succession in Spain, January 1833; Horace Walpole, October 1833; Lord Chatham, January 1834; Mackintosh’s “History of Revolution,” July 1835; Bacon, July 1837; Sir William Temple, October 1838; “Gladstone on Church and State,” April 1839; Clive, January 1840; Ranke’s “History of the Popes,” October 1840; Comic Dramatists, January 1841; Lord Holland, July 1841; Warren Hastings, October 1841; Frederick the Great, April 1842; Madame D’Arblay, January 1843; Addison, July 1843; Lord Chatham (2nd Art.), October 1844. History of England, vols. i. and ii., 1848; vols. iii. and iv., 1855; vol. v., Ed. Lady Trevelyan, 1861; Ed. 8 vols., 1858-62 (Life by Dean Milman); Ed. 4 vols., People’s Edition, with Life by Dean Milman, 1863-4; Inaugural Address (Glasgow), 1849; Speeches corrected by himself, 1854 (unauthorized version, 1853, by Vizetelly); Miscellaneous Writings, 2 vols. 1860 (Ed. T. F. Ellis). These include poems, lives (Encyclo. Britt. 8th ed.), and contributions to Quarterly Magazine, and the following from Edinburgh Review: Dryden, January 1828; History, May 1828; Mill on Government, March 1829; Westminster Reviewer’s Defence of Mill, June 1829; Utilitarian Theory of Government, October 1829; Sadler’s “Law of Population,” July 1830; Sadler’s “Refutation Refuted,” January 1831 Mirabeau, July 1832; Barere, April 1844. Complete Works (Ed. Lady Trevelyan), 8 vols., 1866. BOOKS OF REFERENCE Sir G.O. Trevelyan: The Life and Letters Of Lord Macaulay (2 vols. 8vo., 1876, 2nd ed. with additions, 1877, subsequent editions 1878 and 1881). J. Cotter Morison: Macaulay [English Men of Letters], (1882). Mark Pattison: Art. “Macaulay” in Encyclopaedia Britannica. Leslie Stephen: Hours in a Library [new ed. 1892], ii. 243-376. Art. “Macaulay” in Dictionary of National Biography. Frederic Harrison: Macaulay’s Place in Literature (1894). Studies in Early Victorian Literature, chap. iii. (1895). G. Saintsbury: Corrected Impressions, chaps. ix. x. (189,5). A History of Nineteenth Century Literature, pp. 224-232 (1896). P. Oursel: Les Essais de Lord Macaulay (1882). D.H. Macgregor: Lord Macaulay (1901). Sir R.C. Jebb: Macaulay (1900). F.C. Montague. Macaulay’s Essays (3 vols. 1901). A. J. G. August 1907. HALLAM (September 1828) _The Constitutional History of England, from the Accession of Henry VII. to the Death of George II. By HENRY HALLAM. In 2 vols. 1827_ HISTORY, at least in its state of ideal perfection, is a compound of poetry and philosophy. It impresses general truths on the mind by a vivid representation of particular characters and incidents. But, in fact, the two hostile elements of which it consists have never been known to form a perfect amalgamation; and at length, in our own time, they have been completely and professedly separated. Good histories, in the proper sense of the word, we have not. But we have good historical romances, and good historical essays. The imagination and the reason, if we may use a legal metaphor, have made partition of a province of literature of which they were formerly seized per my et per tout; and now they hold their respective portions in severalty, instead of holding the whole in common. To make the past present, to bring the distant near, to place us in the society of a great man or on the eminence which overlooks the field of a mighty battle, to invest with the reality of human flesh and blood beings whom we are too much inclined to consider as personified qualities in an allegory, to call up our ancestors before us with all their peculiarities of language, manners, and garb, to show us over their houses, to seat us at their tables, to rummage their old-fashioned ward-robes, to explain the uses of their ponderous furniture, these parts of the duty which properly belongs to the historian have been appropriated by the historical novelist. On the other hand, to extract the philosophy of history, to direct on judgment of events and men, to trace the connection of cause and effects, and to draw from the occurrences of former time general lessons of moral and political wisdom, has become the business of a distinct class of writers. Of the two kinds of composition into which history has been thus divided, the one may be compared to a map, the other to a painted landscape. The picture, though it places the country before us, does not enable us to ascertain with accuracy the dimensions, the distances, and the angles. The map is not a work of imitative art. It presents no scene to the imagination; but it gives us exact information as to the bearings of the various points, and is a more useful companion to the traveller or the general than the painted landscape could be, though it were the grandest that ever Rosa peopled with outlaws, or the sweetest over which Claude ever poured the mellow effulgence of a setting sun. It is remarkable that the practice of separating the two ingredients of which history is composed has become prevalent on the Continent as well as in this country. Italy has already produced a historical novel, of high merit and of still higher promise. In France, the practice has been carried to a length somewhat whimsical. M. Sismondi publishes a grave and stately history of the Merovingian Kings, very valuable, and a little tedious. He then sends forth as a companion to it a novel, in which he attempts to give a lively representation of characters and manners. This course, as it seems to us, has all the disadvantages of a division of labour, and none of its advantages. We understand the expediency of keeping the functions of cook and coachman distinct. The dinner will be better dressed, and the horses better managed. But where the two situations are united, as in the Maitre Jacques of Moliere, we do not see that the matter is much mended by the solemn form with which the pluralist passes from one of his employments to the other. We manage these things better in England. Sir Walter Scott gives us a novel; Mr. Hallam a critical and argumentative history. Both are occupied with the same matter. But the former looks at it with the eye of a sculptor. His intention is to give an express and lively image of its external form. The latter is an anatomist. His task is to dissect the subject to its inmost recesses, and to lay bare before us all the springs of motion and all the causes of decay. Mr. Hallam is, on the whole, far better qualified than any other writer of our time for the office which he has undertaken. He has great industry and great acuteness. His knowledge is extensive, various, and profound. His mind is equally distinguished by the amplitude of its grasp, and by the delicacy of its tact. His speculations have none of that vagueness which is the common fault of political philosophy. On the contrary, they are strikingly practical, and teach us not only the general rule, but the mode of applying it to solve particular cases. In this respect they often remind us of the Discourses of Machiavelli. The style is sometimes open to the charge of harshness. We have also here and there remarked a little of that unpleasant trick, which Gibbon brought into fashion, the trick, we mean, of telling a story by implication and allusion. Mr. Hallam however, has an excuse which Gibbon had not. His work is designed for readers who are already acquainted with the ordinary books on English history, and who can therefore unriddle these little enigmas without difficulty. The manner of the book is, on the whole, not unworthy of the matter. The language, even where most faulty, is weighty and massive, and indicates strong sense in every line. It often rises to an eloquence, not florid or impassioned, but high, grave, and sober; such as would become a state paper, or a judgment delivered by a great magistrate, a Somers or a D’Aguesseau. In this respect the character of Mr. Hallam’s mind corresponds strikingly with that of his style. His work is eminently judicial. Its whole spirit is that of the bench, not that of the bar. He sums up with a calm, steady impartiality, turning neither to the right nor to the left, glossing over nothing, exaggerating nothing, while the advocates on both sides are alternately biting their lips to hear their conflicting misstatements and sophisms exposed. On a general survey, we do not scruple to pronounce the Constitutional History the most impartial book that we ever read. We think it the more incumbent on us to bear this testimony strongly at first setting out, because, in the course of our remarks, we shall think it right to dwell principally on those parts of it from which we dissent. There is one peculiarity about Mr. Hallam which, while it adds to the value of his writings, will, we fear, take away something from their popularity. He is less of a worshipper than any historian whom we can call to mind. Every political sect has its esoteric and its exoteric school, its abstract doctrines for the initiated, its visible symbols, its imposing forms, its mythological fables for the vulgar. It assists the devotion of those who are unable to raise themselves to the contemplation of pure truth by all the devices of Pagan or Papal superstition. It has its altars and its deified heroes, its relics and pilgrimages, its canonized martyrs and confessors, its festivals and its legendary miracles. Our pious ancestors, we are told, deserted the High Altar of Canterbury, to lay all their oblations on the shrine of St. Thomas. In the same manner the great and comfortable doctrines of the Tory creed, those particularly which relate to restrictions on worship and on trade, are adored by squires and rectors in Pitt Clubs, under the name of a minister who was as bad a representative of the system which has been christened after him as Becket of the spirit of the Gospel. On the other hand, the cause for which Hampden bled on the field and Sidney on the scaffold is enthusiastically toasted by many an honest radical who would be puzzled to explain the difference between Ship-money and the Habeas Corpus Act. It may be added that, as in religion, so in politics, few even of those who are enlightened enough to comprehend the meaning latent under the emblems of their faith can resist the contagion of the popular superstition. Often, when they flatter themselves that they are merely feigning a compliance with the prejudices of the vulgar, they are themselves under the influence of those very prejudices. It probably was not altogether on grounds of expediency that Socrates taught his followers to honour the gods whom the state honoured, and bequeathed a cock to Esculapius with his dying breath. So there is often a portion of willing credulity and enthusiasm in the veneration which the most discerning men pay to their political idols. From the very nature of man it must be so. The faculty by which we inseparably associate ideas which have often been presented to us in conjunction is not under the absolute control of the will. It may be quickened into morbid activity. It may be reasoned into sluggishness. But in a certain degree it will always exist. The almost absolute mastery which Mr. Hallam has obtained over feelings of this class is perfectly astonishing to us, and will, we believe, be not only astonishing but offensive to many of his readers. It must particularly disgust those people who, in their speculations on politics, are not reasoners but fanciers; whose opinions, even when sincere, are not produced, according to the ordinary law of intellectual births, by induction or inference, but are equivocally generated by the heat of fervid tempers out of the overflowing of tumid imaginations. A man of this class is always in extremes. He cannot be a friend to liberty without calling for a community of goods, or a friend to order without taking under his protection the foulest excesses of tyranny. His admiration oscillates between the most worthless of rebels and the most worthless of oppressors, between Marten, the disgrace of the High Court of justice, and Laud, the disgrace of the Star-Chamber. He can forgive anything but temperance and impartiality. He has a certain sympathy with the violence of his opponents, as well as with that of his associates. In every furious partisan he sees either his present self or his former self, the pensioner that is, or the Jacobin that has been. But he is unable to comprehend a writer who, steadily attached to principles, is indifferent about names and badges, and who judges of characters with equable severity, not altogether untinctured with cynicism, but free from the slightest touch of passion, party spirit, or caprice. We should probably like Mr. Hallam’s book more if, instead of pointing out with strict fidelity the bright points and the dark spots of both parties, he had exerted himself to whitewash the one and to blacken the other. But we should certainly prize it far less. Eulogy and invective may be had for the asking. But for cold rigid justice, the one weight and the one measure, we know not where else we can look. No portion of our annals has been more perplexed and misrepresented by writers of different parties than the history of the Reformation. In this labyrinth of falsehood and sophistry, the guidance of Mr. Hallam is peculiarly valuable. It is impossible not to admire the even-handed justice with which he deals out castigation to right and left on the rival persecutors. It is vehemently maintained by some writers of the present day that Elizabeth persecuted neither Papists nor Puritans as such, and that the severe measures which she occasionally adopted were dictated, not by religious intolerance, but by political necessity. Even the excellent account of those times which Mr. Hallam has given has not altogether imposed silence on the authors of this fallacy. The title of the Queen, they say, was annulled by the Pope; her throne was given to another; her subjects were incited to rebellion; her life was menaced; every Catholic was bound in conscience to be a traitor; it was therefore against traitors, not against Catholics, that the penal laws were enacted. In order that our readers may be fully competent to appreciate the merits of this defence, we will state, as concisely as possible, the substance of some of these laws. As soon as Elizabeth ascended the throne, and before the least hostility to her government had been shown by the Catholic population, an act passed prohibiting the celebration of the rites of the Romish Church on pain of forfeiture for the first offence, of a year’s imprisonment for the second, and of perpetual imprisonment for the third. A law was next made in 1562, enacting, that all who had ever graduated at the Universities or received holy orders, all lawyers, and all magistrates, should take the oath of supremacy when tendered to them, on pain of forfeiture and imprisonment during the royal pleasure. After the lapse of three mouths, the oath might again be tendered to them; and if it were again refused, the recusant was guilty of high treason. A prospective law, however severe, framed to exclude Catholics from the liberal professions, would have been mercy itself compared with this odious act. It is a retrospective statute; it is a retrospective penal statute; it is a retrospective penal statute against a large class. We will not positively affirm that a law of this description must always, and under all circumstances, be unjustifiable. But the presumption against it is most violent; nor do we remember any crisis either in our own history, or in the history of any other country, which would have rendered such a provision necessary. In the present case, what circumstances called for extraordinary rigour? There might be disaffection among the Catholics. The prohibition of their worship would naturally produce it. But it is from their situation, not from their conduct, from the wrongs which they had suffered, not from those which they had committed, that the existence of discontent among them must be inferred. There were libels, no doubt, and prophecies, and rumours and suspicions, strange grounds for a law inflicting capital penalties, ex post facto, on a large body of men. Eight years later, the bull of Pius deposing Elizabeth produced a third law. This law, to which alone, as we conceive, the defence now under our consideration can apply, provides that, if any Catholic shall convert a Protestant to the Romish Church, they shall both suffer death as for high treason. We believe that we might safely content ourselves with stating the fact, and leaving it to the judgment of every plain Englishman. Recent controversies have, however, given so much importance to this subject, that we will offer a few remarks on it. In the first place, the arguments which are urged in favour of Elizabeth apply with much greater force to the case of her sister Mary. The Catholics did not, at the time of Elizabeth’s accession, rise in arms to seat a Pretender on her throne. But before Mary had given, or could give, provocation, the most distinguished Protestants attempted to set aside her rights in favour of the Lady Jane. That attempt, and the subsequent insurrection of Wyatt, furnished at least as good a plea for the burning of Protestants, as the conspiracies against Elizabeth furnish for the hanging and embowelling of Papists. The fact is that both pleas are worthless alike. If such arguments are to pass current, it will be easy to prove that there was never such a thing as religious persecution since the creation. For there never was a religious persecution in which some odious crime was not, justly or unjustly, said to be obviously deducible from the doctrines of the persecuted party. We might say, that the Caesars did not persecute the Christians; that they only punished men who were charged, rightly or wrongly, with burning Rome, and with committing the foulest abominations in secret assemblies; and that the refusal to throw frankincense on the altar of Jupiter was not the crime, but only evidence of the crime. We might say, that the massacre of St. Bartholomew was intended to extirpate, not a religious sect, but a political party. For, beyond all doubt, the proceedings of the Huguenots, from the conspiracy of Amboise to the battle of Moncontour, had given much more trouble to the French monarchy than the Catholics have ever given to the English monarchy since the Reformation; and that too with much less excuse. The true distinction is perfectly obvious. To punish a man because he has committed a crime, or because he is believed, though unjustly, to have committed a crime, is not persecution. To punish a man, because we infer from the nature of some doctrine which he holds, or from the conduct of other persons who hold the same doctrines with him, that he will commit a crime is persecution, and is, in every case, foolish and wicked. When Elizabeth put Ballard and Babington to death, she was not persecuting. Nor should we have accused her government of persecution for passing any law, however severe, against overt acts of sedition. But to argue that, because a man is a Catholic, he must think it right to murder a heretical sovereign, and that because he thinks it right, he will attempt to do it, and then, to found on this conclusion a law for punishing him as if he had done it, is plain persecution. If, indeed, all men reasoned in the same manner on the same data, and always did what they thought it their duty to do, this mode of dispensing punishment might be extremely judicious. But as people who agree about premises often disagree about conclusions, and as no man in the world acts up to his own standard of right, there are two enormous gaps in the logic by which alone penalties for opinions can be defended. The doctrine of reprobation, in the judgment of many very able men, follows by syllogistic necessity from the doctrine of election. Others conceive that the Antinomian heresy directly follows from the doctrine of reprobation; and it is very generally thought that licentiousness and cruelty of the worst description are likely to be the fruits, as they often have been the fruits, of Antinomian opinions. This chain of reasoning, we think, is as perfect in all its parts as that which makes out a Papist to be necessarily a traitor. Yet it would be rather a strong measure to hang all the Calvinists, on the ground that if they were spared, they would infallibly commit all the atrocities of Matthias and Knipperdoling. For, reason the matter as we may, experience shows us that a man may believe in election without believing in reprobation, that he may believe in reprobation without being an Antinomian, and that he may be an Antinomian without being a bad citizen. Man, in short, is so inconsistent a creature that it is impossible to reason from his belief to his conduct, or from one part of his belief to another. We do not believe that every Englishman who was reconciled to the Catholic Church would, as a necessary consequence, have thought himself justified in deposing or assassinating Elizabeth. It is not sufficient to say that the convert must have acknowledged the authority of the Pope, and that the Pope had issued a bull against the Queen. We know through what strange loopholes the human mind contrives to escape, when it wishes to avoid a disagreeable inference from an admitted proposition. We know how long the Jansenists contrived to believe the Pope infallible in matters of doctrine, and at the same time to believe doctrines which he pronounced to be heretical. Let it pass, however, that every Catholic in the kingdom thought that Elizabeth might be lawfully murdered. Still the old maxim, that what is the business of everybody is the business of nobody, is particularly likely to hold good in a case in which a cruel death is the almost inevitable consequence of making any attempt. Of the ten thousand clergymen of the Church of England, there is scarcely one who would not say that a man who should leave his country and friends to preach the Gospel among savages, and who should, after labouring indefatigably without any hope of reward, terminate his life by martyrdom, would deserve the warmest admiration. Yet we can doubt whether ten of the ten thousand ever thought of going on such an expedition. Why should we suppose that conscientious motives, feeble as they are constantly found to be in a good cause, should be omnipotent for evil? Doubtless there was many a jolly Popish priest in the old manor-houses of the northern counties, who would have admitted, in theory, the deposing power of the Pope, but who would not have been ambitious to be stretched on the rack, even though it were to be used, according to the benevolent proviso of Lord Burleigh, “as charitably as such a thing can be,” or to be hanged, drawn, and quartered, even though, by that rare indulgence which the Queen, of her special grace, certain knowledge, and mere motion, sometimes extended to very mitigated cases, he were allowed a fair time to choke before the hangman began to grabble in his entrails. But the laws passed against the Puritans had not even the wretched excuse which we have been considering. In this case, the cruelty was equal, the danger, infinitely less. In fact, the danger was created solely by the cruelty. But it is superfluous to press the argument. By no artifice of ingenuity can the stigma of persecution, the worst blemish of the English Church, be effaced or patched over. Her doctrines, we well know, do not tend to intolerance. She admits the possibility of salvation out of her own pale. But this circumstance, in itself honourable to her, aggravates the sin and the shame of those who persecuted in her name. Dominic and De Montfort did not, at least, murder and torture for differences of opinion which they considered as trifling. It was to stop an infection which, as they believed, hurried to certain perdition every soul which it seized, that they employed their fire and steel. The measures of the English government with respect to the Papists and Puritans sprang from a widely different principle. If those who deny that the founders of the Church were guilty of religious persecution mean only that the founders of the Church were not influenced by any religious motive, we perfectly agree with them. Neither the penal code of Elizabeth, nor the more hateful system by which Charles the Second attempted to force Episcopacy on the Scotch, had an origin so noble. The cause is to be sought in some circumstances which attended the Reformation in England, circumstances of which the effects long continued to be felt, and may in some degree be traced even at the present day. In Germany, in France, in Switzerland, and in Scotland, the contest against the Papal power was essentially a religious contest. In all those countries, indeed, the cause of the Reformation, like every other great cause, attracted to itself many supporters influenced by no conscientious principle, many who quitted the Established Church only because they thought her in danger, many who were weary of her restraints, and many who were greedy for her spoils. But it was not by these adherents that the separation was there conducted. They were welcome auxiliaries; their support was too often purchased by unworthy compliances; but, however exalted in rank or power, they were not the leaders in the enterprise. Men of a widely different description, men who redeemed great infirmities and errors by sincerity, disinterestedness, energy and courage, men who, with many of the vices of revolutionary chiefs and of polemic divines, united some of the highest qualities of apostles, were the real directors. They might be violent in innovation and scurrilous in controversy. They might sometimes act with inexcusable severity towards opponents, and sometimes connive disreputably at the vices of powerful allies. But fear was not in them, nor hypocrisy, nor avarice, nor any petty selfishness. Their one great object was the demolition of the idols and the purification of the sanctuary. If they were too indulgent to the failings of eminent men from whose patronage they expected advantage to the church, they never flinched before persecuting tyrants and hostile armies. For that theological system to which they sacrificed the lives of others without scruple, they were ready to throw away their own lives without fear. Such were the authors of the great schism on the Continent and in the northern part of this island. The Elector of Saxony and the Landgrave of Hesse, the Prince of Conde and the King of Navarre, the Earl of Moray and the Earl of Morton, might espouse the Protestant opinions, or might pretend to espouse them; but it was from Luther, from Calvin, from Knox, that the Reformation took its character. England has no such names to show; not that she wanted men of sincere piety, of deep learning, of steady and adventurous courage. But these were thrown into the background. Elsewhere men of this character were the principals. Here they acted a secondary part. Elsewhere worldliness was the tool of zeal. Here zeal was the tool of worldliness. A King, whose character may be best described by saying that he was despotism itself personified, unprincipled ministers, a rapacious aristocracy, a servile Parliament, such were the instruments by which England was delivered from the yoke of Rome. The work which had been begun by Henry, the murderer of his wives, was continued by Somerset, the murderer of his brother, and completed by Elizabeth, the murderer of her guest. Sprung from brutal passion, nurtured by selfish policy, the Reformation in England displayed little of what had, in other countries, distinguished it; unflinching and unsparing devotion, boldness of speech, and singleness of eye. These were indeed to be found; but it was in the lower ranks of the party which opposed the authority of Rome, in such men as Hooper, Latimer, Rogers, and Taylor. Of those who had any important share in bringing the Reformation about, Ridley was perhaps the only person who did not consider it as a mere political job. Even Ridley did not play a very prominent part. Among the statesmen and prelates who principally gave the tone to the religious changes, there is one, and one only, whose conduct partiality itself can attribute to any other than interested motives. It is not strange, therefore, that his character should have been the subject of fierce controversy. We need not say that we speak of Cranmer. Mr. Hallam has been severely censured for saying with his usual placid severity, that, “if we weigh the character of this prelate in an equal balance, he will appear far indeed removed from the turpitude imputed to him, by his enemies; yet not entitled to any extraordinary veneration.” We will venture to expand the sense of Mr. Hallam, and to comment on it thus:--If we consider Cranmer merely as a statesman, he will not appear a much worse man than Wolsey, Gardiner, Cromwell, or Somerset. But, when an attempt is made to set him up as a saint, it is scarcely possible for any man of sense who knows the history of the times to preserve his gravity. If the memory of the archbishop had been left to find its own place, he would have soon been lost among the crowd which is mingled “A quel cattivo coro Degli angeli, che non furon ribelli, Ne fur fedelia Dio, per se foro.” And the only notice which it would have been necessary to take of his name would have been “Non ragioniam di lui; ma guarda, e passa.” But, since his admirers challenge for him a place in the noble army of martyrs, his claims require fuller discussion. The origin of his greatness, common enough in the scandalous chronicles of courts, seems strangely out of place in a hagiology. Cranmer rose into favour by serving Henry in the disgraceful affair of his first divorce. He promoted the marriage of Anne Boleyn with the King. On a frivolous pretence he pronounced that marriage null and void. On a pretence, if possible still more frivolous, he dissolved the ties which bound the shameless tyrant to Anne of Cleves. He attached himself to Cromwell while the fortunes of Cromwell flourished. He voted for cutting off Cromwell’s head without a trial, when the tide of royal favour turned. He conformed backwards and forwards as the King changed his mind. He assisted, while Henry lived, in condemning to the flames those who denied the doctrine of transubstantiation. He found out, as soon as Henry was dead, that the doctrine was false. He was, however, not at a loss for people to burn. The authority of his station and of his grey hairs was employed to overcome the disgust with which an intelligent and virtuous child regarded persecution. Intolerance is always bad. But the sanguinary intolerance of a man who thus wavered in his creed excites a loathing, to which it is difficult to give vent without calling foul names. Equally false to political and to religious obligations, the primate was first the tool of Somerset, and then the tool of Northumberland. When the Protector wished to put his own brother to death, without even the semblance of a trial, he found a ready instrument in Cranmer. In spite of the canon law, which forbade a churchman to take any part in matters of blood, the archbishop signed the warrant for the atrocious sentence. When Somerset had been in his turn destroyed, his destroyer received the support of Cranmer in a wicked attempt to change the course of the succession. The apology made for him by his admirers only renders his conduct more contemptible. He complied, it is said, against his better judgment, because he could not resist the entreaties of Edward. A holy prelate of sixty, one would think, might be better employed by the bedside of a dying child, than in committing crimes at the request of the young disciple. If Cranmer had shown half as much firmness when Edward requested him to commit treason as he had before shown when Edward requested him not to commit murder, he might have saved the country from one of the greatest misfortunes that it ever underwent. He became, from whatever motive, the accomplice of the worthless Dudley. The virtuous scruples of another young and amiable mind were to be overcome. As Edward had been forced into persecution, Jane was to be seduced into treason. No transaction in our annals is more unjustifiable than this. If a hereditary title were to be respected, Mary possessed it. If a parliamentary title were preferable, Mary possessed that also. If the interest of the Protestant religion required a departure from the ordinary rule of succession, that interest would have been best served by raising Elizabeth to the throne. If the foreign relations of the kingdom were considered, still stronger reasons might be found for preferring Elizabeth to Jane. There was great doubt whether Jane or the Queen of Scotland had the better claim; and that doubt would, in all probability, have produced a war both with Scotland and with France, if the project of Northumberland had not been blasted in its infancy. That Elizabeth had a better claim than the Queen of Scotland was indisputable. To the part which Cranmer, and unfortunately some better men than Cranmer, took in this most reprehensible scheme, much of the severity with which the Protestants were afterwards treated must in fairness be ascribed. The plot failed; Popery triumphed; and Cranmer recanted. Most people look on his recantation as a single blemish on an honourable life, the frailty of an unguarded moment. But, in fact, his recantation was in strict accordance with the system on which he had constantly acted. It was part of a regular habit. It was not the first recantation that he had made; and, in all probability, if it had answered its purpose, it would not have been the last. We do not blame him for not choosing to be burned alive. It is no very severe reproach to any person that he does not possess heroic fortitude. But surely a man who liked the fire so little should have had some sympathy for others. A persecutor who inflicts nothing which he is not ready to endure deserves some respect. But when a man who loves his doctrines more than the lives of his neighbours, loves his own little finger better than his doctrines, a very simple argument a fortiori will enable us to estimate the amount of his benevolence. But his martyrdom, it is said, redeemed everything. It is extraordinary that so much ignorance should exist on this subject. The fact is that, if a martyr be a man who chooses to die rather than to renounce his opinions, Cranmer was no more a martyr than Dr. Dodd. He died solely because he could not help it. He never retracted his recantation till he found he had made it in vain. The Queen was fully resolved that, Catholic or Protestant, he should burn. Then he spoke out, as people generally speak out when they are at the point of death and have nothing to hope or to fear on earth. If Mary had suffered him to live, we suspect that he would have heard mass and received absolution, like a good Catholic, till the accession of Elizabeth, and that he would then have purchased, by another apostasy, the power of burning men better and braver than himself. We do not mean, however, to represent him as a monster of wickedness. He was not wantonly cruel or treacherous. He was merely a supple, timid, interested courtier, in times of frequent and violent change. That which has always been represented as his distinguishing virtue, the facility with which he forgave his enemies, belongs to the character. Slaves of his class are never vindictive, and never grateful. A present interest effaces past services and past injuries from their minds together. Their only object is self-preservation; and for this they conciliate those who wrong them, just as they abandon those who serve them. Before we extol a man for his forgiving temper, we should inquire whether he is above revenge, or below it. Somerset had as little principle as his coadjutor. Of Henry, an orthodox Catholic, except that he chose to be his own Pope, and of Elizabeth, who certainly had no objection to the theology of Rome, we need say nothing. These four persons were the great authors of the English Reformation. Three of them had a direct interest in the extension of the royal prerogative. The fourth was the ready tool of any who could frighten him. It is not difficult to see from what motives, and on what plan, such persons would be inclined to remodel the Church. The scheme was merely to transfer the full cup of sorceries from the Babylonian enchantress to other hands, spilling as little as possible by the way. The Catholic doctrines and rites were to be retained in the Church of England. But the King was to exercise the control which had formerly belonged to the Roman Pontiff. In this Henry for a time succeeded. The extraordinary force of his character, the fortunate situation in which he stood with respect to foreign powers, and the vast resources which the suppression of the monasteries placed at his disposal, enabled him to oppress both the religious factions equally. He punished with impartial severity those who renounced the doctrines of Rome, and those who acknowledged her jurisdiction. The basis, however, on which he attempted to establish his power was too narrow to be durable. It would have been impossible even for him long to persecute both persuasions. Even under his reign there had been insurrections on the part of the Catholics, and signs of a spirit which was likely soon to produce insurrection on the part of the Protestants. It was plainly necessary, therefore, that the Crown should form an alliance with one or with the other side. To recognise the Papal supremacy, would have been to abandon the whole design. Reluctantly and sullenly the government at last joined the Protestants. In forming this junction, its object was to procure as much aid as possible for its selfish undertaking, and to make the smallest possible concessions to the spirit of religious innovation. From this compromise the Church of England sprang. In many respects, indeed, it has been well for her that, in an age of exuberant zeal, her principal founders were mere politicians. To this circumstance she owes her moderate articles, her decent ceremonies, her noble and pathetic liturgy. Her worship is not disfigured by mummery. Yet she has preserved, in a far greater degree than any of her Protestant sisters, that art of striking the senses and filling the imagination in which the Catholic Church so eminently excels. But, on the other hand, she continued to be, for more than a hundred and fifty years, the servile handmaid of monarchy, the steady enemy of public liberty. The divine right of kings, and the duty of passively obeying all their commands, were her favourite tenets. She held those tenets firmly through times of oppression, persecution, and licentiousness; while law was trampled down; while judgment was perverted; while the people were eaten as though they were bread. Once, and but once, for a moment, and but for a moment, when her own dignity and property were touched, she forgot to practise the submission which she had taught. Elizabeth clearly discerned the advantages which were to be derived from a close connection between the monarchy and the priesthood. At the time of her accession, indeed, she evidently meditated a partial reconciliation with Rome; and, throughout her whole life, she leaned strongly to some of the most obnoxious parts of the Catholic system. But her imperious temper, her keen sagacity, and her peculiar situation, soon led her to attach herself completely to a church which was all her own. On the same principle on which she joined it, she attempted to drive all her people within its pale by persecution. She supported it by severe penal laws, not because she thought conformity to its discipline necessary to salvation; but because it was the fastness which arbitrary power was making strong for itself, because she expected a more profound obedience from those who saw in her both their civil and their ecclesiastical chief than from those who, like the Papists, ascribed spiritual authority to the Pope, or from those who, like some of the Puritans, ascribed it only to Heaven. To dissent from her establishment was to dissent from an institution founded with an express view to the maintenance and extension of the royal prerogative. This great Queen and her successors, by considering conformity and loyalty as identical at length made them so. With respect to the Catholics, indeed, the rigour of persecution abated after her death. James soon found that they were unable to injure him, and that the animosity which the Puritan party felt towards them drove them of necessity to take refuge under his throne. During the subsequent conflict, their fault was anything but disloyalty. On the other hand, James hated the Puritans with more than the hatred of Elizabeth. Her aversion to them was political; his was personal. The sect had plagued him in Scotland, where he was weak; and he was determined to be even with them in England, where he was powerful. Persecution gradually changed a sect into a faction. That there was anything in the religious opinions of the Puritans which rendered them hostile to monarchy has never been proved to our satisfaction. After our civil contests, it became the fashion to say that Presbyterianism was connected with Republicanism; just as it has been the fashion to say, since the time of the French Revolution, that Infidelity is connected with Republicanism. It is perfectly true that a church constituted on the Calvinistic model will not strengthen the hands of the sovereign so much as a hierarchy which consists of several ranks, differing in dignity and emolument, and of which all the members are constantly looking to the Government for promotion. But experience has clearly shown that a Calvinistic church, like every other church, is disaffected when it is persecuted, quiet when it is tolerated, and actively loyal when it is favoured and cherished. Scotland has had a Presbyterian establishment during a century and a half. Yet her General Assembly has not, during that period, given half so much trouble to the government as the Convocation of the Church of England gave during the thirty years which followed the Revolution. That James and Charles should have been mistaken in this point is not surprising. But we are astonished, we must confess, that men of our own time, men who have before them the proof of what toleration can effect, men who may see with their own eyes that the Presbyterians are no such monsters when government is wise enough to let them alone, should defend the persecutions of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries as indispensable to the safety of the church and the throne. How persecution protects churches and thrones was soon made manifest. A systematic political opposition, vehement, daring, and inflexible, sprang from a schism about trifles, altogether unconnected with the real interests of religion or of the state. Before the close of the reign of Elizabeth this opposition began to show itself. It broke forth on the question of the monopolies. Even the imperial Lioness was compelled to abandon her prey, and slowly and fiercely to recede before the assailants. The spirit of liberty grew with the growing wealth and intelligence of the people. The feeble struggles and insults of James irritated instead of suppressing it; and the events which immediately followed the accession of his son portended a contest of no common severity, between a king resolved to be absolute, and a people resolved to be free. The famous proceedings of the third Parliament of Charles, and the tyrannical measures which followed its dissolution, are extremely well described by Mr. Hallam. No writer, we think, has shown, in so clear and satisfactory a manner, that the Government then entertained a fixed purpose of destroying the old parliamentary constitution of England, or at least of reducing it to a mere shadow. We hasten, however, to a part of his work which, though it abounds in valuable information and in remarks well deserving to be attentively considered, and though it is, like the rest, evidently written in a spirit of perfect impartiality, appears to us, in many points, objectionable. We pass to the year 1640. The fate of the short Parliament held in that year clearly indicated the views of the king. That a Parliament so moderate in feeling should have met after so many years of oppression is truly wonderful. Hyde extols its loyal and conciliatory spirit. Its conduct, we are told, made the excellent Falkland in love with the very name of Parliament. We think, indeed, with Oliver St. John, that its moderation was carried too far, and that the times required sharper and more decided councils. It was fortunate, however, that the king had another opportunity of showing that hatred of the liberties of his subjects which was the ruling principle of all his conduct. The sole crime of the Commons was that, meeting after a long intermission of parliaments, and after a long series of cruelties and illegal imposts, they seemed inclined to examine grievances before they would vote supplies. For this insolence they were dissolved almost as soon as they met. Defeat, universal agitation, financial embarrassments, disorganisation in every part of the government, compelled Charles again to convene the Houses before the close of the same year. Their meeting was one of the great eras in the history of the civilised world. Whatever of political freedom exists either in Europe or in America has sprung, directly or indirectly, from those institutions which they secured and reformed. We never turn to the annals of those times without feeling increased admiration of the patriotism, the energy, the decision, the consummate wisdom, which marked the measures of that great Parliament, from the day on which it met to the commencement of civil hostilities. The impeachment of Strafford was the first, and perhaps the greatest blow. The whole conduct of that celebrated man proved that he had formed a deliberate scheme to subvert the fundamental laws of England. Those parts of his correspondence which have been brought to light since his death, place the matter beyond a doubt. One of his admirers has, indeed, offered to show “that the passages which Mr. Hallam has invidiously extracted from the correspondence between Laud and Strafford, as proving their design to introduce a thorough tyranny, refer not to any such design, but to a thorough reform in the affairs of state, and the thorough maintenance of just authority.” We will recommend two or three of these passages to the especial notice of our readers. All who know anything of those times, know that the conduct of Hampden in the affair of the ship-money met with the warm approbation of every respectable Royalist in England. It drew forth the ardent eulogies of the champions of the prerogative and even of the Crown lawyers themselves. Clarendon allows Hampden’s demeanour through the whole proceeding to have been such, that even those who watched for an occasion against the defender of the people, were compelled to acknowledge themselves unable to find any fault in him. That he was right in the point of law is now universally admitted. Even had it been otherwise, he had a fair case. Five of the judges, servile as our Courts then were, pronounced in his favour. The majority against him was the smallest possible. In no country retaining the slightest vestige of constitutional liberty can a modest and decent appeal to the laws be treated as a crime. Strafford, however, recommends that, for taking the sense of a legal tribunal on a legal question, Hampden should be punished, and punished severely, “whipt,” says the insolent apostate, “whipt into his senses. If the rod,” he adds, “be so used that it smarts not, I am the more sorry.” This is the maintenance of just authority. In civilised nations, the most arbitrary governments have generally suffered justice to have a free course in private suits. Strafford wished to make every cause in every court subject to the royal prerogative. He complained that in Ireland he was not permitted to meddle in cases between party and party. “I know very well,” says he, “that the common lawyers will be passionately against it, who are wont to put such a prejudice upon all other professions, as if none were to be trusted, or capable to administer justice, but themselves: yet how well this suits with monarchy, when they monopolise all to be governed by their year-books, you in England have a costly example.” We are really curious to know by what arguments it is to be proved, that the power of interfering in the law-suits of individuals is part of the just authority of the executive government. It is not strange that a man so careless of the common civil rights, which even despots have generally respected, should treat with scorn the limitations which the constitution imposes on the royal prerogative. We might quote pages: but we will content ourselves with a single specimen: “The debts of the Crown being taken off, you may govern as you please: and most resolute I am that may be done without borrowing any help forth of the King’s lodgings.” Such was the theory of that thorough reform in the state which Strafford meditated. His whole practice, from the day on which he sold himself to the court, was in strict conformity to his theory. For his accomplices various excuses may be urged; ignorance, imbecility, religious bigotry. But Wentworth had no such plea. His intellect was capacious. His early prepossessions were on the side of popular rights. He knew the whole beauty and value of the system which he attempted to deface. He was the first of the Rats, the first of those statesmen whose patriotism has been only the coquetry of political prostitution, and whose profligacy has taught governments to adopt the old maxim of the slave-market, that it is cheaper to buy than to breed, to import defenders from an Opposition than to rear them in a Ministry. He was the first Englishman to whom a peerage was a sacrament of infamy, a baptism into the communion of corruption. As he was the earliest of the hateful list, so was he also by far the greatest; eloquent, sagacious, adventurous, intrepid, ready of invention, immutable of purpose, in every talent which exalts or destroys nations pre-eminent, the lost Archangel, the Satan of the apostasy. The title for which, at the time of his desertion, he exchanged a name honourably distinguished in the cause of the people, reminds us of the appellation which, from the moment of the first treason, fixed itself on the fallen Son of the Morning, “Satan;--so call him now-- His former name Is heard no more in heaven.” The defection of Strafford from the popular party contributed mainly to draw on him the hatred of his contemporaries. It has since made him an object of peculiar interest to those whose lives have been spent, like his, in proving that there is no malice like the malice of a renegade; Nothing can be more natural or becoming than that one turncoat should eulogize another. Many enemies of public liberty have been distinguished by their private virtues. But Strafford was the same throughout. As was the statesman, such was the kinsman and such the lover. His conduct towards Lord Mountmorris is recorded by Clarendon. For a word which can scarcely be called rash, which could not have been made the subject of an ordinary civil action, the Lord Lieutenant dragged a man of high rank, married to a relative of that saint about whom he whimpered to the peers, before a tribunal of slaves. Sentence of death was passed. Everything but death was inflicted. Yet the treatment which Lord Ely experienced was still more scandalous. That nobleman was thrown into prison, in order to compel him to settle his estate in a manner agreeable to his daughter-in-law, whom, as there is every reason to believe, Strafford had debauched. These stories do not rest on vague report. The historians most partial to the minister admit their truth, and censure them in terms which, though too lenient for the occasion, was too severe. These facts are alone sufficient to justify the appellation with which Pym branded him “the wicked Earl.” In spite of all Strafford’s vices, in spite of all his dangerous projects, he was certainly entitled to the benefit of the law; but of the law in all its rigour; of the law according to the utmost strictness of the letter, which killeth. He was not to be torn in pieces by a mob, or stabbed in the back by an assassin. He was not to have punishment meted out to him from his own iniquitous measure. But if justice, in the whole range of its wide armoury, contained one weapon which could pierce him, that weapon his pursuers were bound, before God and man, to employ. “If he may Find mercy in the law, ‘tis his: if none, Let him not seek’t of us.” Such was the language which the Commons might justly use. Did then the articles against Strafford strictly amount to high treason? Many people, who know neither what the articles were, nor what high treason is, will answer in the negative, simply because the accused person, speaking for his life, took that ground of defence. The journals of the Lords show that the judges were consulted. They answered, with one accord, that the articles on which the earl was convicted amounted to high treason. This judicial opinion, even if we suppose it to have been erroneous, goes far to justify the Parliament. The judgment pronounced in the Exchequer Chamber has always been urged by the apologists of Charles in defence of his conduct respecting ship-money. Yet on that occasion there was but a bare majority in favour of the party at whose pleasure all the magistrates composing the tribunal were removable. The decision in the case of Strafford was unanimous; as far as we can judge, it was unbiassed; and, though there may be room for hesitation, we think, on the whole, that it was reasonable. “It may be remarked,” says Mr. Hallam, “that the fifteenth article of the impeachment, charging Strafford with raising money by his own authority, and quartering troops on the people of Ireland, in order to compel their obedience to his unlawful requisitions, upon which, and upon one other article, not upon the whole matter, the Peers voted him guilty, does, at least, approach very nearly, if we may not say more, to a substantive treason within the statute of Edward the Third, as a levying of war against the King.” This most sound and just exposition has provoked a very ridiculous reply. “It should seem to be an Irish construction this,” says, an assailant of Mr. Hallam, “which makes the raising money for the King’s service, with his knowledge, and by his approbation, to come under the head of levying war on the King, and therefore to be high treason.” Now, people who undertake to write on points of constitutional law should know, what every attorney’s clerk and every forward schoolboy on an upper form knows, that, by a fundamental maxim of our polity, the King can do no wrong; that every court is bound to suppose his conduct and his sentiments to be, on every occasion, such as they ought to be; and that no evidence can be received for the purpose of setting aside this loyal and salutary presumption. The Lords therefore, were bound to take it for granted that the King considered arms which were unlawfully directed against his people as directed against his own throne. The remarks of Mr. Hallam on the bill of attainder, though, as usual, weighty and acute, do not perfectly satisfy us. He defends the principle, but objects to the severity of the punishment. That, on great emergencies, the State may justifiably pass a retrospective act against an offender, we have no doubt whatever. We are acquainted with only one argument on the other side, which has in it enough of reason to bear an answer. Warning, it is said, is the end of punishment. But a punishment inflicted, not by a general rule, but by an arbitrary discretion, cannot serve the purpose of a warning. It is therefore useless; and useless pain ought not to be inflicted. This sophism has found its way into several books on penal legislation. It admits however of a very simple refutation. In the first place, punishments ex post facto are not altogether useless even as warnings. They are warnings to a particular class which stand in great need of warnings to favourites and ministers. They remind persons of this description that there maybe a day of reckoning for those who ruin and enslave their country in all forms of the law. But this is not all. Warning is, in ordinary cases, the principal end of punishment; but it is not the only end. To remove the offender, to preserve society from those dangers which are to be apprehended from his incorrigible depravity, is often one of the ends. In the case of such a knave as Wild, or such a ruffian as Thurtell, it is a very important end. In the case of a powerful and wicked statesman, it is infinitely more important; so important, as alone to justify the utmost severity, even though it were certain that his fate would not deter others from imitating his example. At present, indeed, we should think it extremely pernicious to take such a course, even with a worse minister than Strafford, if a worse could exist; for, at present, Parliament has only to withhold its support from a Cabinet to produce an immediate change of hands. The case was widely different in the reign of Charles the First. That Prince had governed during eleven years without any Parliament; and, even when Parliament was sitting, had supported Buckingham against its most violent remonstrances. Mr. Hallam is of opinion that a bill of pains and penalties ought to have been passed; but he draws a distinction less just, we think, than his distinctions usually are. His opinion, so far as we can collect it, is this, that there are almost insurmountable objections to retrospective laws for capital punishment, but that, where the punishment stops short of death, the objections are comparatively trifling. Now the practice of taking the severity of the penalty into consideration, when the question is about the mode of procedure and the rules of evidence, is no doubt sufficiently common. We often see a man convicted of a simple larceny on evidence on which he would not be convicted of a burglary. It sometimes happens that a jury, when there is strong suspicion, but not absolute demonstration, that an act, unquestionably amounting to murder, was committed by the prisoner before them, will find him guilty of manslaughter. But this is surely very irrational. The rules of evidence no more depend on the magnitude of the interests at stake than the rules of arithmetic. We might as well say that we have a greater chance of throwing a size when we are playing for a penny than when we are playing for a thousand pounds, as that a form of trial which is sufficient for the purposes of justice, in a matter affecting liberty and property, is insufficient in a matter affecting life. Nay, if a mode of proceeding be too lax for capital cases, it is, a fortiori, too lax for all others; for in capital cases, the principles of human nature will always afford considerable security. No judge is so cruel as he who indemnifies himself for scrupulosity in cases of blood, by licence in affairs of smaller importance. The difference in tale on the one side far more than makes up for the difference in weight on the other. If there be any universal objection to retrospective punishment, there is no more to be said. But such is not the opinion of Mr. Hallam. He approves of the mode of proceeding. He thinks that a punishment, not previously affixed by law to the offences of Strafford, should have been inflicted; that Strafford should have been, by act of Parliament, degraded from his rank, and condemned to perpetual banishment. Our difficulty would have been at the first step, and there only. Indeed we can scarcely conceive that any case which does not call for capital punishment can call for punishment by a retrospective act. We can scarcely conceive a man so wicked and so dangerous that the whole course of law must be disturbed in order to reach him, yet not so wicked as to deserve the severest sentence, nor so dangerous as to require the last and surest custody, that of the grave. If we had thought that Strafford might be safely suffered to live in France, we should have thought it better that he should continue to live in England, than that he should be exiled by a special act. As to degradation, it was not the Earl, but the general and the statesman, whom the people had to fear. Essex said, on that occasion, with more truth than elegance, “Stone dead hath no fellow.” And often during the civil wars the Parliament had reason to rejoice that an irreversible law and an impassable barrier protected them from the valour and capacity of Wentworth. It is remarkable that neither Hyde nor Falkland voted against the bill of attainder. There is, indeed, reason to believe that Falkland spoke in favour of it. In one respect, as Mr. Hallam has observed, the proceeding was honourably distinguished from others of the same kind. An act was passed to relieve the children of Strafford from the forfeiture and corruption of blood which were the legal consequences of the sentence. The Crown had never shown equal generosity in a case of treason. The liberal conduct of the Commons has been fully and most appropriately repaid. The House of Wentworth has since that time been as much distinguished by public spirit as by power and splendour, and may at the present moment boast of members with whom Say and Hampden would have been proud to act. It is somewhat curious that the admirers of Strafford should also be, without a single exception, the admirers of Charles; for, whatever we may think of the conduct of the Parliament towards the unhappy favourite, there can be no doubt that the treatment which he received from his master was disgraceful. Faithless alike to his people and to his tools, the King did not scruple to play the part of the cowardly approver, who hangs his accomplice. It is good that there should be such men as Charles in every league of villainy. It is for such men that the offer of pardon and reward which appears after a murder is intended. They are indemnified, remunerated and despised. The very magistrate who avails himself of their assistance looks on them as more contemptible than the criminal whom they betray. Was Strafford innocent? Was he a meritorious servant of the Crown? If so, what shall we think of the Prince, who having solemnly promised him that not a hair of his head should be hurt, and possessing an unquestioned constitutional right to save him, gave him up to the vengeance of his enemies? There were some points which we know that Charles would not concede, and for which he was willing to risk the chances of the civil war. Ought not a King, who will make a stand for anything, to make a stand for the innocent blood? Was Strafford guilty? Even on this supposition, it is difficult not to feel disdain for the partner of his guilt, the tempter turned punisher. If, indeed, from that time forth, the conduct of Charles had been blameless, it might have been said that his eyes were at last opened to the errors of his former conduct, and that, in sacrificing to the wishes of his Parliament a minister whose crime had been a devotion too zealous to the interests of his prerogative, he gave a painful and deeply humiliating proof of the sincerity of his repentance. We may describe the King’s behaviour on this occasion in terms resembling those which Hume has employed when speaking of the conduct of Churchill at the Revolution. It required ever after the most rigid justice and sincerity in the dealings of Charles with his people to vindicate his conduct towards his friend. His subsequent dealings with his people, however, clearly showed, that it was not from any respect for the Constitution, or from any sense of the deep criminality of the plans in which Strafford and himself had been engaged, that he gave up his minister to the axe. It became evident that he had abandoned a servant who, deeply guilty as to all others, was guiltless to him alone, solely in order to gain time for maturing other schemes of tyranny, and purchasing the aid of the other Wentworths. He, who would not avail himself of the power which the laws gave him to save an adherent to whom his honour was pledged, soon showed that he did not scruple to break every law and forfeit every pledge, in order to work the ruin of his opponents. “Put not your trust in princes!” was the expression of the fallen minister, when he heard that Charles had consented to his death. The whole history of the times is a sermon on that bitter text. The defence of the Long Parliament is comprised in the dying words of its victim. The early measures of that Parliament Mr. Hallam in general approves. But he considers the proceedings which took place after the recess in the summer of 1641 as mischievous and violent. He thinks that, from that time, the demands of the Houses were not warranted by any imminent danger to the Constitution and that in the war which ensued they were clearly the aggressors. As this is one of the most interesting questions in our history, we will venture to state, at some length, the reasons which have led us to form an opinion on it contrary to that of a writer whose judgment we so highly respect. We will premise that we think worse of King Charles the First than even Mr. Hallam appears to do. The fixed hatred of liberty which was the principle of the King’s public conduct the unscrupulousness with which he adopted any means which might enable him to attain his ends, the readiness with which he gave promises, the impudence with which he broke them, the cruel indifference with which he threw away his useless or damaged tools, made him, at least till his character was fully exposed, and his power shaken to its foundations, a more dangerous enemy to the Constitution than a man of far greater talents and resolution might have been. Such princes may still be seen, the scandals of the southern thrones of Europe, princes false alike to the accomplices who have served them and to the opponents who have spared them, princes who, in the hour of danger, concede everything, swear everything, hold out their cheeks to every smiter, give up to punishment every instrument of their tyranny, and await with meek and smiling implacability the blessed day of perjury and revenge. We will pass by the instances of oppression and falsehood which disgraced the early part of the reign of Charles. We will leave out of the question the whole history of his third Parliament, the price which he exacted for assenting to the Petition of Right, the perfidy with which he violated his engagements, the death of Eliot, the barbarous punishments inflicted by the Star-Chamber, the ship-money, and all the measures now universally condemned, which disgraced his administration from 1630 to 1640. We will admit that it might be the duty of the Parliament after punishing the most guilty of his creatures, after abolishing the inquisitorial tribunals which had been the instruments of his tyranny, after reversing the unjust sentences of his victims to pause in its course. The concessions which had been made were great, the evil of civil war obvious, the advantages even of victory doubtful. The former errors of the King might be imputed to youth, to the pressure of circumstances, to the influence of evil counsel, to the undefined state of the law. We firmly believe that if, even at this eleventh hour, Charles had acted fairly towards his people, if he had even acted fairly towards his own partisans, the House of Commons would have given him a fair chance of retrieving the public confidence. Such was the opinion of Clarendon. He distinctly states that the fury of opposition had abated, that a reaction had begun to take place, that the majority of those who had taken part against the King were desirous of an honourable and complete reconciliation and that the more violent or, as it soon appeared, the more judicious members of the popular party were fast declining in credit. The Remonstrance had been carried with great difficulty. The uncompromising antagonists of the court such as Cromwell, had begun to talk of selling their estates and leaving England. The event soon showed that they were the only men who really understood how much inhumanity and fraud lay hid under the constitutional language and gracious demeanour of the King. The attempt to seize the five members was undoubtedly the real cause of the war. From that moment, the loyal confidence with which most of the popular party were beginning to regard the King was turned into hatred and incurable suspicion. From that moment, the Parliament was compelled to surround itself with defensive arms. From that moment, the city assumed the appearance of a garrison. From that moment, in the phrase of Clarendon, the carriage of Hampden became fiercer, that he drew the sword and threw away the scabbard. For, from that moment, it must have been evident to every impartial observer, that, in the midst of professions, oaths, and smiles, the tyrant was constantly looking forward to an absolute sway, and to a bloody revenge. The advocates of Charles have very dexterously contrived to conceal from their readers the real nature of this transaction. By making concessions apparently candid and ample, they elude the great accusation. They allow that the measure was weak and even frantic, an absurd caprice of Lord Digby, absurdly adopted by the King. And thus they save their client from the full penalty of his transgression, by entering a plea of guilty to the minor offence. To us his conduct appears at this day as at the time it appeared to the Parliament and the city. We think it by no means so foolish as it pleases his friends to represent it, and far more wicked. In the first place, the transaction was illegal from beginning to end. The impeachment was illegal. The process was illegal. The service was illegal. If Charles wished to prosecute the five members for treason, a bill against them should have been sent to a grand jury. That a commoner cannot be tried for high treason by the Lords at the suit of the Crown, is part of the very alphabet of our law. That no man can be arrested by the King in person is equally clear. This was an established maxim of our jurisprudence even in the time of Edward the Fourth. “A subject,” said Chief Justice Markham to that Prince, “may arrest for treason: the King cannot; for, if the arrest be illegal, the party has no remedy against the King.” The time at which Charles took his step also deserves consideration. We have already said that the ardour which the Parliament had displayed at the time of its first meeting had considerably abated, that the leading opponents of the court were desponding, and that their followers were in general inclined to milder and more temperate measures than those which had hitherto been pursued. In every country, and in none more than in England, there is a disposition to take the part of those who are unmercifully run down, and who seem destitute of all means of defence. Every man who has observed the ebb and flow of public feeling in our own time will easily recall examples to illustrate this remark. An English statesman ought to pay assiduous worship to Nemesis, to be most apprehensive of ruin when he is at the height of power and popularity, and to dread his enemy most when most completely prostrated. The fate of the Coalition Ministry in 1784 is perhaps the strongest instance in our history of the operation of this principle. A few weeks turned the ablest and most extended Ministry that ever existed into a feeble Opposition, and raised a King who was talking of retiring to Hanover to a height of power which none of his predecessors had enjoyed since the Revolution. A crisis of this description was evidently approaching in 1642. At such a crisis, a Prince of a really honest and generous nature, who had erred, who had seen his error, who had regretted the lost affections of his people, who rejoiced in the dawning hope of regaining them, would be peculiarly careful to take no step which could give occasion of offence, even to the unreasonable. On the other hand, a tyrant, whose whole life was a lie, who hated the Constitution the more because he had been compelled to feign respect for it, and to whom his own honour and the love of his people were as nothing, would select such a crisis for some appalling violation of the law, for some stroke which might remove the chiefs of an Opposition, and intimidate the herd. This Charles attempted. He missed his blow; but so narrowly, that it would have been mere madness in those at whom it was aimed to trust him again. It deserves to be remarked that the King had, a short time before, promised the most respectable Royalists in the House of Commons, Falkland, Colepepper, and Hyde, that he would take no measure in which that House was concerned, without consulting them. On this occasion he did not consult them. His conduct astonished them more than any other members of the Assembly. Clarendon says that they were deeply hurt by this want of confidence, and the more hurt, because, if they had been consulted, they would have done their utmost to dissuade Charles from so improper a proceeding. Did it never occur to Clarendon, will it not at least occur to men less partial, that there was good reason for this? When the danger to the throne seemed imminent, the King was ready to put himself for a time into the hands of those who, though they disapproved of his past conduct, thought that the remedies had now become worse than the distempers. But we believe that in his heart he regarded both the parties in the Parliament with feelings of aversion which differed only in the degree of their intensity, and that the awful warning which he proposed to give, by immolating the principal supporters of the Remonstrance, was partly intended for the instruction of those who had concurred in censuring the ship-money and in abolishing the Star-Chamber. The Commons informed the King that their members should be forthcoming to answer any charge legally brought against them. The Lords refused to assume the unconstitutional office with which he attempted to invest them. And what was then his conduct? He went, attended by hundreds of armed men, to seize the objects of his hatred in the House itself. The party opposed to him more than insinuated that his purpose was of the most atrocious kind. We will not condemn him merely on their suspicions. We will not hold him answerable for the sanguinary expressions of the loose brawlers who composed his train. We will judge of his act by itself alone. And we say, without hesitation, that it is impossible to acquit him of having meditated violence, and violence which might probably end in blood. He knew that the legality of his proceedings was denied. He must have known that some of the accused members were men not likely to submit peaceably to an illegal arrest. There was every reason to expect that he would find them in their places, that they would refuse to obey his summons, and that the House would support them in their refusal. What course would then have been left to him? Unless we suppose that he went on this expedition for the sole purpose of making himself ridiculous, we must believe that he would have had recourse to force. There would have been a scuffle; and it might not, under such circumstances, have been in his power, even if it had been in his inclination, to prevent a scuffle from ending in a massacre. Fortunately for his fame, unfortunately perhaps for what he prized far more, the interests of his hatred and his ambition, the affair ended differently. The birds, as he said, were flown, and his plan was disconcerted. Posterity is not extreme to mark abortive crimes; and thus the King’s advocates have found it easy to represent a step, which, but for a trivial accident, might have filled England with mourning and dismay, as a mere error of judgment, wild and foolish, but perfectly innocent. Such was not, however, at the time, the opinion of any party. The most zealous Royalists were so much disgusted and ashamed that they suspended their opposition to the popular party, and, silently at least, concurred in measures of precaution so strong as almost to amount to resistance. From that day, whatever of confidence and loyal attachment had survived the misrule of seventeen years was, in the great body of the people, extinguished, and extinguished for ever. As soon as the outrage had failed, the hypocrisy recommenced. Down to the very eve of this flagitious attempt Charles had been talking of his respect for the privileges of Parliament and the liberties of his people. He began again in the same style on the morrow; but it was too late. To trust him now would have been, not moderation, but insanity. What common security would suffice against a Prince who was evidently watching his season with that cold and patient hatred which, in the long-run, tires out every other passion? It is certainly from no admiration of Charles that Mr. Hallam disapproves of the conduct of the Houses in resorting to arms. But he thinks that any attempt on the part of that Prince to establish a despotism would have been as strongly opposed by his adherents as by his enemies, and that therefore the Constitution might be considered as out of danger, or, at least that it had more to apprehend from the war than from the King. On this subject Mr. Hallam dilates at length, and with conspicuous ability. We will offer a few considerations which lead us to incline to a different opinion. The Constitution of England was only one of a large family. In all the monarchies of Western Europe, during the middle ages, there existed restraints on the royal authority, fundamental laws, and representative assemblies. In the fifteenth century, the government of Castile seems to have been as free as that of our own country. That of Arragon was beyond all question more so. In France, the sovereign was more absolute. Yet even in France, the States-General alone could constitutionally impose taxes; and, at the very time when the authority of those assemblies was beginning to languish, the Parliament of Paris received such an accession of strength as enabled it, in some measure, to perform the functions of a legislative assembly. Sweden and Denmark had constitutions of a similar description. Let us overleap two or three hundred years, and contemplate Europe at the commencement of the eighteenth century. Every free constitution, save one, had gone down. That of England had weathered the danger, and was riding in full security. In Denmark and Sweden, the kings had availed themselves of the disputes which raged between the nobles and the commons, to unite all the powers of government in their own hands. In France the institution of the States was only mentioned by lawyers as a part of the ancient theory of their government. It slept a deep sleep, destined to be broken by a tremendous waking. No person remembered the sittings of the three orders, or expected ever to see them renewed. Louis the Fourteenth had imposed on his parliament a patient silence of sixty years. His grandson, after the War of the Spanish Succession, assimilated the constitution of Arragon to that of Castile, and extinguished the last feeble remains of liberty in the Peninsula. In England, on the other hand, the Parliament was infinitely more powerful than it had ever been. Not only was its legislative authority fully established; but its right to interfere, by advice almost equivalent to command, in every department of the executive government, was recognised. The appointment of ministers, the relations with foreign powers, the conduct of a war or a negotiation, depended less on the pleasure of the Prince than on that of the two Houses. What then made us to differ? Why was it that, in that epidemic malady of constitutions, ours escaped the destroying influence; or rather that, at the very crisis of the disease, a favourable turn took place in England, and in England alone? It was not surely without a cause that so many kindred systems of government, having flourished together so long, languished and expired at almost the same time. It is the fashion to say that the progress of civilisation is favourable to liberty. The maxim, though in some sense true, must be limited by many qualifications and exceptions. Wherever a poor and rude nation, in which the form of government is a limited monarchy, receives a great accession of wealth and knowledge, it is in imminent danger of falling under arbitrary power. In such a state of society as that which existed all over Europe during the middle ages, very slight checks sufficed to keep the sovereign in order. His means of corruption and intimidation were very scanty. He had little money, little patronage, no military establishment. His armies resembled juries. They were drawn out of the mass of the people: they soon returned to it again: and the character which was habitual prevailed over that which was occasional. A campaign of forty days was too short, the discipline of a national militia too lax, to efface from their minds the feelings of civil life. As they carried to the camp the sentiments and interests of the farm and the shop, so they carried back to the farm and the shop the military accomplishments which they had acquired in the camp. At home the soldier learned how to value his rights, abroad how to defend them. Such a military force as this was a far stronger restraint on the regal power than any legislative assembly. The army, now the most formidable instrument of the executive power, was then the most formidable check on that power. Resistance to an established government, in modern times so difficult and perilous an enterprise, was in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries the simplest and easiest matter in the world. Indeed, it was far too simple and easy. An insurrection was got up then almost as easily as a petition is got up now. In a popular cause, or even in an unpopular cause favoured by a few great nobles, a force of ten thousand armed men was raised in a week. If the King were, like our Edward the Second and Richard the Second, generally odious, he could not procure a single bow or halbert. He fell at once and without an effort. In such times a sovereign like Louis the Fifteenth or the Emperor Paul would have been pulled down before his misgovernment had lasted for a month. We find that all the fame and influence of our Edward the Third could not save his Madame de Pompadour from the effects of the public hatred. Hume and many other writers have hastily concluded, that, in the fifteenth century, the English Parliament was altogether servile, because it recognised, without opposition, every successful usurper. That it was not servile its conduct on many occasions of inferior importance is sufficient to prove. But surely it was not strange that the majority of the nobles, and of the deputies chosen by the commons, should approve of revolutions which the nobles and commons had effected. The Parliament did not blindly follow the event of war, but participated in those changes of public sentiment on which the event of war depended. The legal check was secondary and auxiliary to that which the nation held in its own hands. There have always been monarchies in Asia, in which the royal authority has been tempered by fundamental laws, though no legislative body exists to watch over them. The guarantee is the opinion of a community of which every individual is a soldier. Thus, the king of Cabul, as Mr. Elphinstone informs us, cannot augment the land revenue, or interfere with the jurisdiction of the ordinary tribunals. In the European kingdoms of this description there were representative assemblies. But it was not necessary that those assemblies should meet very frequently, that they should interfere with all the operations of the executive government, that they should watch with jealousy, and resent with prompt indignation, every violation of the laws which the sovereign might commit. They were so strong that they might safely be careless. He was so feeble that he might safely be suffered to encroach. If he ventured too far, chastisement and ruin were at hand. In fact, the people generally suffered more from his weakness than from his authority. The tyranny of wealthy and powerful subjects was the characteristic evil of the times. The royal prerogatives were not even sufficient for the defence of property and the maintenance of police. The progress of civilisation introduced a great change. War became a science, and, as a necessary consequence, a trade. The great body of the people grew every day more reluctant to undergo the inconveniences of military service, and better able to pay others for undergoing them. A new class of men, therefore, dependent on the Crown alone, natural enemies of those popular rights which are to them as the dew to the fleece of Gideon, slaves among freemen, freemen among slaves, grew into importance. That physical force which in the dark ages had belonged to the nobles and the commons, and had, far more than any charter, or any assembly, been the safeguard of their privileges, was transferred entire to the King. Monarchy gained in two ways. The sovereign was strengthened, the subjects weakened. The great mass of the population, destitute of all military discipline and organisation, ceased to exercise any influence by force on political transactions. There have, indeed, during the last hundred and fifty years, been many popular insurrections in Europe: but all have failed except those in which the regular army has been induced to join the disaffected. Those legal checks which, while the sovereign remained dependent on his subjects, had been adequate to the purpose for which they were designed, were now found wanting. The dikes which had been sufficient while the waters were low were not high enough to keep out the springtide. The deluge passed over them and, according to the exquisite illustration of Butler, the formal boundaries, which had excluded it, now held it in. The old constitutions fared like the old shields and coats of mail. They were the defences of a rude age; and they did well enough against the weapons of a rude age. But new and more formidable means of destruction were invented. The ancient panoply became useless; and it was thrown aside, to rust in lumber-rooms, or exhibited only as part of an idle pageant. Thus absolute monarchy was established on the Continent. England escaped; but she escaped very narrowly. Happily our insular situation, and the pacific policy of James, rendered standing armies unnecessary here, till they had been for some time kept up in the neighbouring kingdoms. Our public men, had therefore an opportunity of watching the effects produced by this momentous change on governments which bore a close analogy to that established in England. Everywhere they saw the power of the monarch increasing, the resistance of assemblies which were no longer supported by a national force gradually becoming more and more feeble, and at length altogether ceasing. The friends and the enemies of liberty perceived with equal clearness the causes of this general decay. It is the favourite theme of Strafford. He advises the King to procure from the judges a recognition of his right to raise an army at his pleasure. “This place well fortified,” says he, “for ever vindicates the monarchy at home from under the conditions and restraints of subjects.” We firmly believe that he was in the right. Nay; we believe that, even if no deliberate scheme, of arbitrary government had been formed, by the sovereign and his ministers, there was great reason to apprehend a natural extinction of the Constitution. If, for example, Charles had played the part of Gustavus Adolphus, if he had carried on a popular war for the defence of the Protestant cause in Germany, if he had gratified the national pride by a series of victories, if he had formed an army of forty or fifty thousand devoted soldiers, we do not see what chance the nation would have had of escaping from despotism. The judges would have given as strong a decision in favour of camp-money as they gave in favour of ship-money. If they had been scrupulous, it would have made little difference. An individual who resisted would have been treated as Charles treated Eliot, and as Strafford wished to treat Hampden. The Parliament might have been summoned once in twenty years, to congratulate a King on his accession, or to give solemnity to some great measure of state. Such had been the fate of legislative assemblies as powerful, as much respected, as high-spirited, as the English Lords and Commons. The two Houses, surrounded by the ruins of so many free constitutions overthrown or sapped by the new military system, were required to intrust the command of an army and the conduct of the Irish war to a King who had proposed to himself the destruction of liberty as the great end of his policy. We are decidedly of opinion that it would have been fatal to comply. Many of those who took the side of the King on this question would have cursed their own loyalty, if they had seen him return from war; at the head of twenty thousand troops, accustomed to carriage and free quarters in Ireland. We think with Mr. Hallam that many of the Royalist nobility and gentry were true friends to the Constitution, and that, but for the solemn protestations by which the King bound himself to govern according to the law for the future, they never would have joined his standard. But surely they underrated the public danger. Falkland is commonly selected as the most respectable specimen of this class. He was indeed a man of great talents and of great virtues but, we apprehend, infinitely too fastidious for public life. He did not perceive that, in such times as those on which his lot had fallen, the duty of a statesman is to choose the better cause and to stand by it, in spite of those excesses by which every cause, however good in itself, will be disgraced. The present evil always seemed to him the worst. He was always going backward and forward; but it should be remembered to his honour that it was always from the stronger to the weaker side that he deserted. While Charles was oppressing the people, Falkland was a resolute champion of liberty. He attacked Strafford. He even concurred in strong measures against Episcopacy. But the violence of his party annoyed him, and drove him to the other party, to be equally annoyed there. Dreading the success of the cause which he had espoused, disgusted by the courtiers of Oxford, as he had been disgusted by the patriots of Westminster, yet bound by honour not to abandon the cause, for which he was in arms, he pined away, neglected his person, went about moaning for peace, and at last rushed desperately on death, as the best refuge in such miserable times. If he had lived through the scenes that followed, we have little doubt that he would have condemned himself to share the exile and beggary of the royal family; that he would then have returned to oppose all their measures; that he would have been sent to the Tower by the Commons as a stifler of the Popish Plot, and by the King as an accomplice in the Rye-House Plot; and that, if he had escaped being hanged, first by Scroggs, and then by Jeffreys, he would, after manfully opposing James the Second through years of tyranny, have been seized with a fit of compassion, at the very moment of the Revolution, have voted for a regency, and died a non-juror. We do not dispute that the royal party contained many excellent men and excellent citizens. But this we say, that they did not discern those times. The peculiar glory of the Houses of Parliament is that, in the great plague and mortality of constitutions, they took their stand between the living and the dead. At the very crisis of our destiny, at the very moment when the fate which had passed on every other nation was about to pass on England, they arrested the danger. Those who conceive that the parliamentary leaders were desirous merely to maintain the old constitution, and those who represent them as conspiring to subvert it, are equally in error. The old constitution, as we have attempted to show, could not be maintained. The progress of time, the increase of wealth, the diffusion of knowledge, the great change in the European system of war, rendered it impossible that any of the monarchies of the middle ages should continue to exist on the old footing. The prerogative of the crown was constantly advancing. If the privileges of the people were to remain absolutely stationary, they would relatively retrograde. The monarchical and democratical parts of the government were placed in a situation not unlike that of the two brothers in the Fairy Queen, one of whom saw the soil of his inheritance daily, washed away by the tide and joined to that of his rival. The portions had at first been fairly meted out. By a natural and constant transfer, the one had been extended; the other had dwindled to nothing. A new partition, or a compensation, was necessary to restore the original equality. It was now, therefore, absolutely necessary to violate the formal part of the constitution, in order to preserve its spirit. This might have been done, as it was done at the Revolution, by expelling the reigning family, and calling to the throne princes who, relying solely on an elective title, would find it necessary to respect the privileges and follow the advice of the assemblies to which they owed everything, to pass every bill which the Legislature strongly pressed upon them, and to fill the offices of state with men in whom the Legislature confided. But, as the two Houses did not choose to change the dynasty, it was necessary that they should do directly what at the Revolution was done indirectly. Nothing is more usual than to hear it said that, if the Houses had contented themselves with making such a reform in the government under Charles as was afterwards made under William, they would have had the highest claim to national gratitude; and that in their violence they overshot the mark. But how was it possible to make such a settlement under Charles? Charles was not, like William and the princes of the Hanoverian line, bound by community of interests and dangers to the Parliament. It was therefore necessary that he should be bound by treaty and statute. Mr. Hallam reprobates, in language which has a little surprised us, the nineteen propositions into which the Parliament digested its scheme. Is it possible to doubt that, if James the Second had remained in the island, and had been suffered, as he probably would in that case have been suffered, to keep his crown, conditions to the full as hard would have been imposed on him? On the other hand, we fully admit that, if the Long Parliament had pronounced the departure of Charles from London an abdication, and had called Essex or Northumberland to the throne, the new prince might have safely been suffered to reign without such restrictions. His situation would have been a sufficient guarantee. In the nineteen propositions we see very little to blame except the articles against the Catholics. These, however, were in the spirit of that age; and to some sturdy churchmen in our own, they may seem to palliate even the good which the Long Parliament effected. The regulation with respect to new creations of Peers is the only other article about which we entertain any doubt. One of the propositions is that the judges shall hold their offices during good behaviour. To this surely no exception will be taken. The right of directing the education and marriage of the princes was most properly claimed by the Parliament, on the same ground on which, after the Revolution, it was enacted, that no king, on pain of forfeiting, his throne, should espouse a Papist. Unless we condemn the statesmen of the Revolution, who conceived that England could not safely be governed by a sovereign married to a Catholic queen, we can scarcely condemn the Long Parliament because, having a sovereign so situated, they thought it necessary to place him under strict restraints. The influence of Henrietta Maria had already been deeply felt in political affairs. In the regulation of her family, in the education and marriage of her children, it was still more likely to be felt; There might be another Catholic queen; possibly a Catholic king. Little, as we are disposed to join in the vulgar clamour on this subject, we think that such an event ought to be, if possible, averted; and this could only be done, if Charles was to be left on the throne, by placing his domestic arrangements under the control of Parliament. A veto on the appointment of ministers was demanded. But this veto Parliament has virtually possessed ever since the Revolution. It is no doubt very far better that this power of the Legislature should be exercised as it is now exercised, when any great occasion calls for interference, than that at every change the Commons should have to signify their approbation or disapprobation in form. But, unless a new family had been placed on the throne, we do not see how this power could have been exercised as it is now exercised. We again repeat that no restraints which could be imposed on the princes who reigned after the Revolution could have added to the security, which their title afforded. They were compelled to court their parliaments. But from Charles nothing was to be expected which was not set down in the bond. It was not stipulated that the King should give up his negative on acts of Parliament. But the Commons, had certainly shown a strong disposition to exact this security also. “Such a doctrine,” says Mr. Hallam, “was in this country as repugnant to the whole history of our laws, as it was incompatible with the subsistence of the monarchy in anything more than a nominal preeminence.” Now this article has been as completely carried into elect by the Revolution as if it had been formally inserted in the Bill of Rights and the Act of Settlement. We are surprised, we confess, that Mr. Hallam should attach so much importance to a prerogative which has not been exercised for a hundred and thirty years, which probably will never be exercised again, and which can scarcely, in any conceivable case, be exercised for a salutary purpose. But the great security, the security without which every other would have been insufficient, was the power of the sword. This both parties thoroughly understood. The Parliament insisted on having the command of the militia and the direction of the Irish war. “By God, not for an hour!” exclaimed the King. “Keep the militia,” said the Queen, after the defeat of the royal party. “Keep the militia; that will bring back everything.” That, by the old constitution, no military authority was lodged in the Parliament, Mr. Hallam has clearly shown. That it is a species of authority which ought, not to be permanently lodged in large and divided assemblies, must, we think in fairness be conceded. Opposition, publicity, long discussion, frequent compromise; these are the characteristics of the proceedings of such assemblies. Unity, secrecy, decision, are the qualities which military arrangements require. There were, therefore, serious objections to the proposition of the Houses on this subject. But, on the other hand, to trust such a King, at such a crisis, with the very weapon which, in hands less dangerous, had destroyed so many free constitutions, would have been the extreme of rashness. The jealousy with which the oligarchy of Venice and the States of Holland regarded their generals and armies induced them perpetually to interfere in matters of which they were incompetent to judge. This policy secured them against military usurpation, but placed them, under great disadvantages in war. The uncontrolled power which the King of France exercised over his troops enabled him to conquer his enemies, but enabled him also to oppress his people. Was there any intermediate course? None, we confess altogether free from objection. But on the whole, we conceive that the best measure would have been that which the Parliament over and over proposed, namely, that for a limited time the power of the sword should be left to the two Houses, and that it should revert to the Crown when the constitution should be firmly established, and when the new securities of freedom should be so far strengthened by prescription that it would be difficult to employ even a standing army for the purpose of subverting them. Mr. Hallam thinks that the dispute might easily have been compromised, by enacting that, the King should have no power to keep a standing army on foot without the consent of Parliament. He reasons as if the question had been merely theoretical, and as if at that time no army had been wanted. “The kingdom,” he says, “might have well dispensed, in that age, with any military organisation.” Now, we think that Mr. Hallam overlooks the most important circumstance in the whole case. Ireland was actually in rebellion; and a great expedition would obviously be necessary to reduce that kingdom to obedience. The Houses had therefore to consider, not at abstract question of law, but an urgent practical question, directly involving the safety of the state. They had to consider the expediency of immediately giving a great army to a King who was, at least, as desirous to put down the Parliament of England as to conquer the insurgents of Ireland. Of course we do not mean to defend all the measures of the Houses. Far from it. There never was a perfect man. It would, therefore, be the height of absurdity to expect a perfect party or a perfect assembly. For large bodies are far more likely to err than individuals. The passions are inflamed by sympathy; the fear of punishment and the sense of shame are diminished by partition. Every day we see men do for their faction what they would die rather than do for themselves. Scarcely any private quarrel ever happens, in which the right and wrong are so exquisitely divided that all the right lies on one side, and all the wrong on the other. But here was a schism which separated a great nation into two parties. Of these parties, each was composed of many smaller parties. Each contained many members, who differed far less from their moderate opponents than from their violent allies. Each reckoned among its supporters many who were determined in their choice by some accident of birth, of connection, or of local situation. Each of them attracted to itself in multitudes those fierce and turbid spirits, to whom the clouds and whirlwinds of the political hurricane are the atmosphere of life. A party, like a camp, has its sutlers and camp-followers, as well as its soldiers. In its progress it collects round it a vast retinue, composed of people who thrive by its custom or are amused by its display, who may be sometimes reckoned, in an ostentatious enumeration, as forming a part of it, but who give no aid to its operations, and take but a languid interest in its success, who relax its discipline and dishonour its flag by their irregularities, and who, after a disaster, are perfectly ready to cut the throats and rifle the baggage of their companions. Thus it is in every great division; and thus it was in our civil war. On both sides there was, undoubtedly, enough of crime and enough of error to disgust any man who did not reflect that the whole history of the species is made up of little except crimes and errors. Misanthropy is not the temper which qualifies a man to act in great affairs, or to judge of them. “Of the Parliament,” says Mr. Hallam, “it may be said I think, with not greater severity than truth, that scarce two or three public acts of justice, humanity, or generosity, and very few of political wisdom or courage, are recorded of them, from their quarrel with the King, to their expulsion by Cromwell.” Those who may agree with us in the opinion which we have expressed as to the original demands of the Parliament will scarcely concur in this strong censure. The propositions which the Houses made at Oxford, at Uxbridge, and at Newcastle, were in strict accordance with these demands. In the darkest period of the war, they showed no disposition to concede any vital principle. In the fulness of their success, they showed no disposition to encroach beyond these limits. In this respect we cannot but think that they showed justice and generosity, as well as political wisdom and courage. The Parliament was certainly far from faultless. We fully agree with Mr. Hallam in reprobating their treatment of Laud. For the individual, indeed, we entertain a more unmitigated contempt than, for any other character in our history. The fondness with which a portion of the church regards his memory, can be compared only to that perversity of affection which sometimes leads a mother to select the monster or the idiot of the family as the object of her especial favour, Mr. Hallam has incidentally observed, that, in the correspondence of Laud with Strafford, there are no indications of a sense of duty towards God or man. The admirers of the Archbishop have, in consequence, inflicted upon the public a crowd of extracts designed to prove the contrary. Now, in all those passages, we see nothing, which a prelate as wicked as Pope Alexander or Cardinal Dubois might not have written. Those passages indicate no sense of duty to God or man, but simply a strong interest in the prosperity and dignity of the order to which the writer belonged; an interest which, when kept within certain limits, does not deserve censure, but which can never be considered as a virtue. Laud is anxious to accommodate satisfactorily the disputes in the University of Dublin. He regrets to hear that a church is used as a stable, and that the benefices of Ireland are very poor. He is desirous that, however small a congregation may be, service should be regularly performed. He expresses a wish that the judges of the court before which questions of tithe are generally brought should be selected with a view to the interest of the clergy. All this may be very proper; and it may be very proper that an alderman should stand up for the tolls of his borough, and an East India director for the charter of his Company. But it is ridiculous to say that these things indicate piety and benevolence. No primate, though he were the most abandoned of mankind, could wish to see the body, with the influence of which his own influence was identical, degraded in the public estimation by internal dissensions, by the ruinous state of its edifices, and by the slovenly performance of its rites. We willingly acknowledge that the particular letters in question have very little harm in them; a compliment which cannot often be paid either to the writings or to the actions of Laud. Bad as the Archbishop was, however, he was not a traitor within the statute. Nor was he by any means so formidable as to be a proper subject for a retrospective ordinance of the legislature. His mind had not expansion enough to comprehend a great scheme, good or bad. His oppressive acts were not, like those of the Earl of Strafford, parts of an extensive system. They were the luxuries in which a mean and irritable disposition indulges itself from day to day, the excesses natural to a little mind in a great place. The severest punishment which the two Houses could have inflicted on him would have been to set him at liberty and send him to Oxford. There he might have stayed, tortured by his own diabolical temper, hungering for Puritans to pillory and mangle, plaguing the Cavaliers, for want of somebody else to plague with his peevishness and absurdity, performing grimaces and antics in the cathedral, continuing that incomparable diary, which we never see without forgetting the vices of his heart. In the imbecility of his intellect minuting down his dreams, counting the drops of blood which fell from his nose, watching the direction of the salt, and listening for the note of the screech-owls. Contemptuous mercy was the only vengeance which it became the Parliament to take on such a ridiculous old bigot. The Houses, it must be acknowledged, committed great errors in the conduct of the war, or rather one great error, which brought their affairs into a condition requiring the most perilous expedients. The parliamentary leaders of what may be called the first generation, Essex, Manchester, Northumberland, Hollis, even Pym, all the most eminent men in short, Hampden excepted, were inclined to half measures. They dreaded a decisive victory almost as much as a decisive overthrow. They wished to bring the King into a situation which might render it necessary for him to grant their just and wise demands, but not to subvert the constitution or to change the dynasty. They were afraid of serving the purposes of those fierce and determined enemies of monarchy, who now began to show themselves in the lower ranks of the party. The war was, therefore, conducted in a languid and inefficient manner. A resolute leader might have brought it to a close in a month. At the end of three campaigns, however, the event was still dubious; and that it had not been decidedly unfavourable to the cause of liberty was principally owing to the skill and energy which the more violent roundheads had displayed in subordinate situations. The conduct of Fairfax and Cromwell at Marston had, exhibited a remarkable contrast to that of Essex at Edgehill, and to that of Waller at Lansdowne. If there be any truth established by the universal experience of nations, it is this; that to carry the spirit of peace into war is weak and cruel policy. The time for negotiation is the time for deliberation and delay. But when an extreme case calls for that remedy which is in its own nature most violent, and which, in such cases, is a remedy only because it is violent, it is idle to think of mitigating and diluting. Languid war can do nothing which negotiation or submission will not do better: and to act on any other principle is, not to save blood and money, but to squander them. This the parliamentary leaders found. The third year of hostilities was drawing to a close; and they had not conquered the King. They had not obtained even those advantages which they had expected from a policy obviously erroneous in a military point of view. They had wished to husband their resources. They now found that in enterprises like theirs, parsimony is the worst profusion. They had hoped to effect a reconciliation. The event taught them that the best way to conciliate is to bring the work of destruction to a speedy termination. By their moderation many lives and much property had been wasted. The angry passions which, if the contest had been short, would have died away almost as soon as they appeared, had fixed themselves in the form of deep and lasting hatred. A military caste had grown up. Those who had been induced to take up arms by the patriotic feelings of citizens had begun to entertain the professional feelings of soldiers. Above all, the leaders of the party had forfeited its confidence, If they had, by their valour and abilities, gained a complete victory, their influence might have been sufficient to prevent their associates from abusing it. It was now necessary to choose more resolute and uncompromising commanders. Unhappily the illustrious man who alone united in himself all the talents and virtues which the crisis required, who alone could have saved his country from the present dangers without plunging her into others, who alone could have united all the friends of liberty in obedience to his commanding genius and his venerable name, was no more. Something might still be done. The Houses might still avert that worst of all evils, the triumphant return of an imperious and unprincipled master. They might still preserve London from all the horrors of rapine, massacre, and lust. But their hopes of a victory as spotless as their cause, of a reconciliation which might knit together the hearts of all honest Englishmen for the defence of the public good, of durable tranquillity, of temperate freedom, were buried in the grave of Hampden. The self-denying ordinance was passed, and the army was remodelled. These measures were undoubtedly full of danger. But all that was left to the Parliament was to take the less of two dangers. And we think that, even if they could have accurately foreseen all that followed, their decision ought to have been the same. Under any circumstances, we should have preferred Cromwell to Charles. But there could be no comparison between Cromwell and Charles victorious, Charles restored, Charles enabled to feed fat all the hungry grudges of his smiling rancour and his cringing pride. The next visit of his Majesty to his faithful Commons would have been more serious than that with which he last honoured them; more serious than that which their own General paid them some years after. The King would scarce have been content with praying that the Lord would deliver him from Vane, or with pulling Marten by the cloak. If, by fatal mismanagement, nothing was left to England but a choice of tyrants, the last tyrant whom she should have chosen was Charles. From the apprehension of this worst evil the Houses were soon delivered by their new leaders. The armies of Charles were everywhere routed, his fastnesses stormed, his party humbled and subjugated. The King himself fell into the hands of the Parliament; and both the King and the Parliament soon fell into the hands of the army. The fate of both the captives was the same. Both were treated alternately with respect and with insult. At length the natural life of one, and the political life of the other, were terminated by violence; and the power for which both had struggled was united in a single hand. Men naturally sympathise with the calamities of individuals; but they are inclined to look on a fallen party with contempt rather than with pity. Thus misfortune turned the greatest of Parliaments into the despised Rump, and the worst of Kings into the Blessed Martyr. Mr. Hallam decidedly condemns the execution of Charles; and in all that he says on that subject we heartily agree. We fully concur with him in thinking that a great social schism, such as the civil war, is not to be confounded with an ordinary treason, and that the vanquished ought to be treated according to the rules, not of municipal, but of international law. In this case the distinction is of the less importance, because both international and municipal law were in favour of Charles. He was a prisoner of war by the former, a King by the latter. By neither was he a traitor. If he had been successful, and had put his leading opponents to death, he would have deserved severe censure; and this without reference to the justice or injustice of his cause. Yet the opponents of Charles, it must be admitted, were technically guilty of treason. He might have sent them to the scaffold without violating any established principle of jurisprudence. He would not have been compelled to overturn the whole constitution in order to reach them. Here his own case differed widely from theirs. Not only was his condemnation in itself a measure which only the strongest necessity could vindicate; but it could not be procured without taking several previous steps, every one of which would have required the strongest necessity to vindicate it. It could not be procured without dissolving the Government by military force, without establishing precedents of the most dangerous description, without creating difficulties which the next ten years were spent in removing, without pulling down institutions which it soon became necessary to reconstruct, and setting up others which almost every man was soon impatient to destroy. It was necessary to strike the House of Lords out of the constitution, to exclude members of the House of Commons by force, to make a new crime, a new tribunal, a new mode of procedure. The whole legislative and judicial systems were trampled down for the purpose of taking a single head. Not only those parts of the constitution which the republicans were desirous to destroy, but those which they wished to retain and exalt, were deeply injured by these transactions. High Courts of justice began to usurp the functions of juries. The remaining delegates of the people were soon driven from their seats by the same military violence which had enabled them to exclude their colleagues. If Charles had been the last of his line, there would have been an intelligible reason for putting him to death. But the blow which terminated his life at once transferred the allegiance of every Royalist to an heir, and an heir who was at liberty. To kill the individual was, under such circumstances, not to destroy, but to release the King. We detest the character of Charles; but a man ought not to be removed by a law ex post facto, even constitutionally procured, merely because he is detestable. He must also be very dangerous. We can scarcely conceive that any danger which a state can apprehend from any individual could justify the violent, measures which were necessary to procure a sentence against Charles. But in fact the danger amounted to nothing. There was indeed, danger from the attachment of a large party to his office. But this danger his execution only increased. His personal influence was little indeed. He had lost the confidence of every party. Churchmen, Catholics, Presbyterians, Independents, his enemies, his friends, his tools, English, Scotch, Irish, all divisions and subdivisions of his people had been deceived by him. His most attached councillors turned away with shame and anguish from his false and hollow policy, plot intertwined with plot, mine sprung beneath mine, agents disowned, promises evaded, one pledge given in private, another in public. “Oh, Mr. Secretary,” says Clarendon, in a letter to Nicholas, “those stratagems have given me more sad hours than all the misfortunes in war which have befallen the King, and look like the effects of God’s anger towards us.” The abilities of Charles were not formidable. His taste in the fine arts was indeed exquisite; and few modern sovereigns have written or spoken better. But he was not fit for active life. In negotiation he was always trying to dupe others, and duping only himself. As a soldier, he was feeble, dilatory, and miserably wanting, not in personal courage, but in the presence of mind which his station required. His delay at Gloucester saved the parliamentary party from destruction. At Naseby, in the very crisis of his fortune, his want of self-possession spread a fatal panic through his army. The story which Clarendon tells of that affair reminds us of the excuses by which Bessus and Bobadil explain their cudgellings. A Scotch nobleman, it seems, begged the King not to run upon his death, took hold of his bridle, and turned his horse round. No man who had much value for his life would have tried to perform the same friendly office on that day for Oliver Cromwell. One thing, and one alone, could make Charles dangerous--a violent death. His tyranny could not break the high spirit of the English people. His arms could not conquer, his arts could not deceive them; but his humiliation and his execution melted them into a generous compassion. Men who die on a scaffold for political offences almost always die well. The eyes of thousands are fixed upon them. Enemies and admirers are watching their demeanour. Every tone of voice, every change of colour, is to go down to posterity. Escape is impossible. Supplication is vain. In such a situation pride and despair have often been known to nerve the weakest minds with fortitude adequate to the occasion. Charles died patiently and bravely; not more patiently or bravely, indeed, than many other victims of political rage; not more patiently or bravely than his own judges, who were not only killed, but tortured; or than Vane, who had always been considered as a timid man. However, the king’s conduct during his trial and at his execution made a prodigious impression. His subjects began to love his memory as heartily as they had hated his person; and posterity has estimated his character from his death rather than from his life. To represent Charles as a martyr in the cause of Episcopacy is absurd. Those who put him to death cared as little for the Assembly of Divines, as for the Convocation, and would, in all probability, only have hated him the more if he had agreed to set up the Presbyterian discipline. Indeed, in spite of the opinion of Mr. Hallam, we are inclined to think that the attachment of Charles to the Church of England was altogether political. Human nature is, we admit, so capricious that there may be a single, sensitive point, in a conscience which everywhere else is callous. A man without truth or humanity may have some strange scruples about a trifle. There was one devout warrior in the royal camp whose piety bore a great resemblance to that which is ascribed to the King. We mean Colonel Turner. That gallant Cavalier was hanged, after the Restoration, for a flagitious burglary. At the gallows he told the crowd that his mind received great consolation from one reflection: he had always taken off his hat when he went into a church. The character of Charles would scarcely rise in our estimation, if we believed that he was pricked in conscience after the manner of this worthy loyalist, and that while violating all the first rules of Christian morality, he was sincerely scrupulous about church-government. But we acquit him of such weakness. In 1641 he deliberately confirmed the Scotch Declaration which stated that the government of the church by archbishops and bishops was contrary to the word of God. In 1645, he appears to have offered to set up Popery in Ireland. That a King who had established the Presbyterian religion in one kingdom, and who was willing to establish the Catholic religion in another, should have insurmountable scruples about the ecclesiastical constitution of the third, is altogether incredible. He himself says in his letters that he looks on Episcopacy as a stronger support of monarchical power than even the army. From causes which we have already considered, the Established Church had been, since the Reformation, the great bulwark of the prerogative. Charles wished, therefore, to preserve it. He thought himself necessary both to the Parliament and to the army. He did not foresee, till too late, that by paltering with the Presbyterians, he should put both them and himself into the power of a fiercer and more daring party. If he had foreseen it, we suspect that the royal blood which still cries to Heaven every thirtieth of January, for judgments only to be averted by salt-fish and egg-sauce, would never have been shed. One who had swallowed the Scotch Declaration would scarcely strain at the Covenant. The death of Charles and the strong measures which led to it raised Cromwell to a height of power fatal to the infant Commonwealth. No men occupy so splendid a place in history as those who have founded monarchies on the ruins of republican institutions. Their glory, if not of the purest, is assuredly of the most seductive and dazzling kind. In nations broken to the curb, in nations long accustomed to be transferred from one tyrant to another, a man without eminent qualities may easily gain supreme power. The defection of a troop of guards, a conspiracy of eunuchs, a popular tumult, might place an indolent senator or a brutal soldier on the throne of the Roman world. Similar revolutions have often occurred in the despotic states of Asia. But a community which has heard the voice of truth and experienced the pleasures of liberty, in which the merits of statesmen and of systems are freely canvassed, in which obedience is paid, not to persons, but to laws, in which magistrates are regarded, not as the lords, but as the servants of the public, in which the excitement of a party is a necessary of life, in which political warfare is reduced to a system of tactics; such a community is not easily reduced to servitude. Beasts of burden may easily be managed by a new master. But will the wild ass submit to the bonds? Will the unicorn serve and abide by the crib? Will leviathan hold out his nostrils to the book? The mythological conqueror of the East, whose enchantments reduced wild beasts to the tameness of domestic cattle, and who harnessed lions and tigers to his chariot, is but an imperfect type of those extraordinary minds which have thrown a spell on the fierce spirits of nations unaccustomed to control, and have compelled raging factions to obey their reins and swell their triumph. The enterprise, be it good or bad, is one which requires a truly great man. It demands courage, activity, energy, wisdom, firmness, conspicuous virtues, or vices so splendid and alluring as to resemble virtues. Those who have succeeded in this arduous undertaking form a very small and a very remarkable class. Parents of tyranny, heirs of freedom, kings among citizens, citizens among kings, they unite in themselves the characteristics of the system which springs from them, and those of the system from which they have sprung. Their reigns shine with a double light, the last and dearest rays of departing freedom mingled with the first and brightest glories of empire in its dawn. The high qualities of such a prince lend to despotism itself a charm drawn from the liberty under which they were formed, and which they have destroyed. He resembles an European who settles within the Tropics, and carries thither the strength and the energetic habits acquired in regions more propitious to the constitution. He differs as widely from princes nursed in the purple of imperial cradles, as the companions of Gama from their dwarfish and imbecile progeny, which, born in a climate unfavourable to its growth and beauty, degenerates more and more, at every descent, from the qualities of the original conquerors. In this class three men stand pre-eminent, Caesar, Cromwell, and Bonaparte. The highest place in this remarkable triumvirate belongs undoubtedly to Caesar. He united the talents of Bonaparte to those of Cromwell; and he possessed also, what neither Cromwell nor Bonaparte possessed, learning, taste, wit, eloquence, the sentiments and the manners of an accomplished gentleman. Between Cromwell and Napoleon Mr. Hallam has instituted a parallel, scarcely less ingenious than that which Burke has drawn between Richard Coeur de Lion and Charles the Twelfth of Sweden. In this parallel, however, and indeed throughout his work, we think that he hardly gives Cromwell fair measure. “Cromwell,” says he, “far unlike his antitype, never showed any signs of a legislative mind, or any desire to place his renown on that noblest basis, the amelioration of social institutions.” The difference in this respect, we conceive, was not in the character of the men, but in the character of the revolutions by means of which they rose to power. The civil war in England had been undertaken to defend and restore; the republicans of France set themselves to destroy. In England, the principles of the common law had never been disturbed, and most even of its forms had been held sacred. In France, the law and its ministers had been swept away together. In France, therefore, legislation necessarily became the first business of the first settled government which rose on the ruins of the old system. The admirers of Inigo Jones have always maintained that his works are inferior to those of Sir Christopher Wren, only because the great fire of London gave Wren such a field for the display of his powers as no architect in the history of the world ever possessed. Similar allowance must be made for Cromwell. If he erected little that was new, it was because there had been no general devastation to clear a space for him. As it was, he reformed the representative system in a most judicious manner. He rendered the administration of justice uniform throughout the island. We will quote a passage from his speech to the Parliament in September 1656, which contains, we think, simple and rude as the diction is, stronger indications of a legislative mind, than are to be found in the whole range of orations delivered on such occasions before or since. “There is one general grievance in the nation. It is the law. I think, I may say it, I have as eminent judges in this land as have been had, or that the nation has had for these many years. Truly, I could be particular as to the executive part, to the administration; but that would trouble you. But the truth of it is, there are wicked and abominable laws that will be in your power to alter. To hang a man for sixpence, threepence, I know not what,--to hang for a trifle, and pardon murder, is in the ministration of the law through the ill framing of it. I have known in my experience abominable murders quitted; and to see men lose their lives for petty matters! This is a thing that God will reckon for; and I wish it may not lie upon this nation a day longer than you have an opportunity to give a remedy; and I hope I shall cheerfully join with you in it.” Mr. Hallam truly says that, though it is impossible to rank Cromwell with Napoleon as a general, “yet his exploits were as much above the level of his contemporaries, and more the effects of an original uneducated capacity.” Bonaparte was trained in the best military schools; the army which he led to Italy was one of the finest that ever existed. Cromwell passed his youth and the prime of his manhood in a civil situation. He never looked on war till he was more than forty years old. He had first to form himself, and then to form his troops. Out of raw levies he created an army, the bravest and the best disciplined, the most orderly in peace, and the most terrible in war, that Europe had seen. He called this body into existence. He led it to conquest. He never fought a battle without gaining it. He never gained a battle without annihilating the force opposed to him. Yet his victories were not the highest glory of his military system. The respect which his troops paid to property, their attachment to the laws and religion of their country, their submission to the civil power, their temperance, their intelligence, their industry, are without parallel. It was after the Restoration that the spirit which their great leader had infused into them was most signally displayed. At the command of the established government, an established government which had no means of enforcing obedience, fifty thousand soldiers whose backs no enemy had ever seen, either in domestic or in continental war, laid down their arms, and retired into the mass of the people, thenceforward to be distinguished only by superior diligence, sobriety, and regularity in the pursuits, of peace, from the other members of the community which they had saved. In the general spirit and character of his administration, we think Cromwell far superior to Napoleon. “In the civil government,” says Mr. Hallam, “there can be no adequate parallel between one who had sucked only the dregs of a besotted fanaticism, and one to whom the stores of reason and philosophy were open.” These expressions, it seems to us, convey the highest eulogium on our great countryman. Reason and philosophy did not teach the conqueror of Europe to command his passions, or to pursue, as a first object, the happiness of his people. They did not prevent him from risking his fame and his power in a frantic contest against the principles of human nature and the laws of the physical world, against the rage of the winter and the liberty of the sea. They did not exempt him from the influence of that most pernicious of superstitions, a presumptuous fatalism. They did not preserve him from the inebriation of prosperity, or restrain him from indecent querulousness in adversity. On the other hand, the fanaticism of Cromwell never urged him on impracticable undertakings, or confused his perception of the public good. Our countryman, inferior to Bonaparte in invention, was far superior to him in wisdom. The French Emperor is among conquerors what Voltaire is among writers, a miraculous child. His splendid genius was frequently clouded by fits of humour as absurdly perverse as those of the pet of the nursery, who quarrels with his food, and dashes his playthings to pieces. Cromwell was emphatically a man. He possessed, in an eminent degree, that masculine and full-grown robustness of mind, that equally diffused intellectual health, which, if our national partiality does not mislead us, has peculiarly characterised the great men of England. Never was any ruler so conspicuously born for sovereignty. The cup which has intoxicated almost all others, sobered him. His spirit, restless from its own buoyancy in a lower sphere, reposed in majestic placidity as soon as it had reached the level congenial to it. He had nothing in common with that large class of men who distinguish themselves in subordinate posts, and whose incapacity becomes obvious as soon as the public voice summons them to take the lead. Rapidly as his fortunes grew, his mind expanded more rapidly still. Insignificant as a private citizen, he was a great general; he was a still greater prince. Napoleon had a theatrical manner, in which the coarseness of a revolutionary guard-room was blended with the ceremony of the old Court of Versailles. Cromwell, by the confession even of his enemies, exhibited in his demeanour the simple and natural nobleness of a man neither ashamed of his origin nor vain of his elevation, of a man who had found his proper place in society, and who felt secure that he was competent to fill it. Easy, even to familiarity, where his own dignity was concerned, he was punctilious only for his country. His own character he left to take care of itself; he left it to be defended by his victories in war, and his reforms in peace. But he was a jealous and implacable guardian of the public honour. He suffered a crazy Quaker to insult him in the gallery of Whitehall, and revenged himself only by liberating him and giving him a dinner. But he was prepared to risk the chances of war to avenge the blood of a private Englishman. No sovereign ever carried to the throne so large a portion of the best qualities of the middling orders, so strong a sympathy with the feelings and interests of his people. He was sometimes driven to arbitrary measures; but he had a high, stout, honest, English heart. Hence it was that he loved to surround his throne with such men as Hale and Blake. Hence it was that he allowed so large a share of political liberty to his subjects, and that, even when an opposition dangerous to his power and to his person almost compelled him to govern by the sword, he was still anxious to leave a germ from which, at a more favourable season, free institutions might spring. We firmly believe that, if his first Parliament had not commenced its debates by disputing his title, his government would have been as mild at home as it was energetic and able abroad. He was a soldier; he had risen by war. Had his ambition been of an impure or selfish kind, it would have been easy for him to plunge his country into continental hostilities on a large scale, and to dazzle the restless factions which he ruled, by the splendour of his victories. Some of his enemies have sneeringly remarked, that in the successes obtained under his administration he had no personal share; as if a man who had raised himself from obscurity to empire solely by his military talents could have any unworthy reason for shrinking from military enterprise. This reproach is his highest glory. In the success of the English navy he could have no selfish interest. Its triumphs added nothing to his fame; its increase added nothing to his means of overawing his enemies; its great leader was not his friend. Yet he took a peculiar pleasure in encouraging that noble service which, of all the instruments employed by an English government, is the most impotent for mischief, and the most powerful for good. His administration was glorious, but with no vulgar glory. It was not one of those periods of overstrained and convulsive exertion which necessarily produce debility and languor. Its energy was natural, healthful, temperate. He placed England at the head of the Protestant interest, and in the first rank of Christian powers. He taught every nation to value her friendship and to dread her enmity. But he did not squander her resources in a vain attempt to invest her with that supremacy which no power, in the modern system of Europe, can safely affect, or can long retain. This noble and sober wisdom had its reward. If he did not carry the banners of the Commonwealth in triumph to distant capitals, if he did not adorn Whitehall with the spoils of the Stadthouse and the Louvre, if he did not portion out Flanders and Germany into principalities for his kinsmen and his generals, he did not, on the other hand, see his country overrun by the armies of nations which his ambition had provoked. He did not drag out the last years of his life an exile and a prisoner, in an unhealthy climate and under an ungenerous gaoler, raging with the impotent desire of vengeance, and brooding over visions of departed glory. He went down to his grave in the fulness of power and fame; and he left to his son an authority which any man of ordinary firmness and prudence would have retained. But for the weakness of that foolish Ishbosheth, the opinions which we have been expressing would, we believe, now have formed the orthodox creed of good Englishmen. We might now be writing under the government of his Highness Oliver the Fifth or Richard the Fourth, Protector, by the grace of God, of the Commonwealth of England, Scotland, and Ireland, and the dominions thereto belonging. The form of the great founder of the dynasty, on horseback, as when he led the charge at Naseby or on foot, as when he took the mace from the table of the Commons, would adorn our squares and over look our public offices from Charing Cross; and sermons in his praise would be duly preached on his lucky day, the third of September, by court-chaplains, guiltless of the abomination of the surplice. But, though his memory has not been taken under the patronage of any party, though every device has been used to blacken it, though to praise him would long have been a punishable crime, truth and merit at last prevail. Cowards who had trembled at the very sound of his name, tools of office, who, like Downing, had been proud of the honour of lacqueying his coach, might insult him in loyal speeches and addresses. Venal poets might transfer to the king the same eulogies little the worse for wear, which they had bestowed on the Protector. A fickle multitude might crowd to shout and scoff round the gibbeted remains of the greatest Prince and Soldier of the age. But when the Dutch cannon startled an effeminate tyrant in his own palace, when the conquests which had been won by the armies of Cromwell were sold to pamper the harlots of Charles, when Englishmen were sent to fight under foreign banners, against the independence of Europe and the Protestant religion, many honest hearts swelled in secret at the thought of one who had never suffered his country to be ill-used by any but himself. It must indeed have been difficult for any Englishman to see the salaried viceroy of France, at the most important crisis of his fate, sauntering through his haram, yawning and talking nonsense over a despatch, or beslobbering his brother and his courtiers in a fit of maudlin affection, without a respectful and tender remembrance of him before whose genius the young pride of Louis and the veteran craft of Mazarine had stood rebuked, who had humbled Spain on the land and Holland on the sea, and whose imperial voice had arrested the sails of the Libyan pirates and the persecuting fires of Rome. Even to the present day his character, though constantly attacked, and scarcely ever defended, is popular with the great body of our countrymen. The most blameable act of his life was the execution of Charles. We have already strongly condemned that proceeding; but we by no means consider it as one which attaches any peculiar stigma of infamy to the names of those who participated in it. It was an unjust and injudicious display of violent party spirit; but it was not a cruel or perfidious measure. It had all those features which distinguish the errors of magnanimous and intrepid spirits from base and malignant crimes. From the moment that Cromwell is dead and buried, we go on in almost perfect harmony with Mr. Hallam to the end of his book. The times which followed the Restoration peculiarly require that unsparing impartiality which is his most distinguishing virtue. No part of our history, during the last three centuries, presents a spectacle of such general dreariness. The whole breed of our statesmen seems to have degenerated; and their moral and intellectual littleness strikes us with the more disgust, because we see it placed in immediate contrast with the high and majestic qualities of the race which they succeeded. In the great civil war, even the bad cause had been rendered respectable and amiable by the purity and elevation of mind which many of its friends displayed. Under Charles the Second, the best and noblest of ends was disgraced by means the most cruel and sordid. The rage of faction succeeded to the love of liberty. Loyalty died away into servility. We look in vain among the leading politicians of either side for steadiness of principle, or even for that vulgar fidelity to party which, in our time, it is esteemed infamous to violate. The inconsistency, perfidy, and baseness, which the leaders constantly practised, which their followers defended, and which the great body of the people regarded, as it seems, with little disapprobation, appear in the present age almost incredible. In the age of Charles the First, they would, we believe, have excited as much astonishment. Man, however, is always the same. And when so marked a difference appears between two generations, it is certain that the solution may be found in their respective circumstances. The principal statesmen of the reign of Charles the Second were trained during the civil war and the revolutions which followed it. Such a period is eminently favourable to the growth of quick and active talents. It forms a class of men, shrewd, vigilant, inventive; of men whose dexterity triumphs over the most perplexing combinations of circumstances, whose presaging instinct no sign of the times can elude. But it is an unpropitious season for the firm and masculine virtues. The statesman who enters on his career at such a time, can form no permanent connections, can make no accurate observations on the higher parts of political science. Before he can attach himself to a party, it is scattered. Before he can study the nature of a government, it is overturned. The oath of abjuration comes close on the oath of allegiance. The association which was subscribed yesterday is burned by the hangman to-day. In the midst of the constant eddy and change, self-preservation becomes the first object of the adventurer. It is a task too hard for the strongest head to keep itself from becoming giddy in the eternal whirl. Public spirit is out of the question. A laxity of principle, without which no public man can be eminent or even safe, becomes too common to be scandalous; and the whole nation looks coolly on instances of apostasy which would startle the foulest turncoat of more settled times. The history of France since the Revolution affords some striking illustrations of these remarks. The same man was a servant of the Republic, of Bonaparte, of Lewis the Eighteenth, of Bonaparte again after his return from Elba, of Lewis again after his return from Ghent. Yet all these manifold treasons by no means seemed to destroy his influence, or even to fix any peculiar stain of infamy on his character. We, to be sure, did not know what to make of him; but his countrymen did not seem to be shocked; and in truth they had little right to be shocked: for there was scarcely one Frenchman distinguished in the state or in the army, who had not, according to the best of his talents and opportunities, emulated the example. It was natural, too, that this should be the case. The rapidity and violence with which change followed change in the affairs of France towards the close of the last century had taken away the reproach of inconsistency, unfixed the principles of public men, and produced in many minds a general scepticism and indifference about principles of government. No Englishman who has studied attentively the reign of Charles the Second, will think himself entitled to indulge in any feelings of national superiority over the Dictionnaire des Girouttes. Shaftesbury was surely a far less respectable man than Talleyrand; and it would be injustice even to Fouche to compare him with Lauderdale. Nothing, indeed, can more clearly show how low the standard of political morality had fallen in this country than the fortunes of the two British statesmen whom we have named. The government wanted a ruffian to carry on the most atrocious system of misgovernment with which any nation was ever cursed, to extirpate Presbyterianism by fire and sword, by the drowning of women, by the frightful torture of the boot. And they found him among the chiefs of the rebellion and the subscribers of the Covenant. The opposition looked for a chief to head them in the most desperate attacks ever made, under the forms of the Constitution, on any English administration; and they selected the minister who had the deepest share in the worst acts of the Court, the soul of the Cabal, the counsellor who had shut up the Exchequer and urged on the Dutch war. The whole political drama was of the same cast. No unity of plan, no decent propriety of character and costume, could be found in that wild and monstrous harlequinade. The whole was made up of extravagant transformations and burlesque contrasts; Atheists turned Puritans; Puritans turned Atheists; republicans defending the divine right of kings; prostitute courtiers clamouring for the liberties of the people; judges inflaming the rage of mobs; patriots pocketing bribes from foreign powers; a Popish prince torturing Presbyterians into Episcopacy in one part of the island; Presbyterians cutting off the heads of Popish noblemen and gentlemen in the other. Public opinion has its natural flux and reflux. After a violent burst, there is commonly a reaction. But vicissitudes so extraordinary as those which marked the reign of Charles the Second can only be explained by supposing an utter want of principle in the political world. On neither side was there fidelity enough to face a reverse. Those honourable retreats from power which, in later days, parties have often made, with loss, but still in good order, in firm union, with unbroken spirit and formidable means of annoyance, were utterly unknown. As soon as a check took place a total rout followed: arms and colours were thrown away. The vanquished troops, like the Italian mercenaries of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, enlisted on the very field of battle, in the service of the conquerors. In a nation proud of its sturdy justice and plain good sense, no party could be found to take a firm middle stand between the worst of oppositions and the worst of courts. When on charges as wild as Mother Goose’s tales, on the testimony of wretches who proclaimed themselves to be spies and traitors, and whom everybody now believes to have been also liars and murderers, the offal of gaols and brothels, the leavings of the hangman’s whip and shears, Catholics guilty of nothing but their religion were led like sheep to the Protestant shambles, where were the loyal Tory gentry and the passively obedient clergy? And where, when the time of retribution came, when laws were strained and juries packed to destroy the leaders of the Whigs, when charters were invaded, when Jeffreys and Kirke were making Somersetshire what Lauderdale and Graham had made Scotland, where were the ten thousand brisk boys of Shaftesbury, the members of ignoramus juries, the wearers of the Polish medal? All-powerful to destroy others, unable to save themselves, the members of the two parties oppressed and were oppressed, murdered and were murdered, in their turn. No lucid interval occurred between the frantic paroxysms of two contradictory illusions. To the frequent changes of the government during the twenty years which had preceded the Restoration, this unsteadiness is in a great measure to be attributed. Other causes had also been at work. Even if the country had been governed by the house of Cromwell or by the remains of the Long Parliament, the extreme austerity of the Puritans would necessarily have produced a revulsion. Towards the close of the Protectorate many signs indicated that a time of licence was at hand. But the restoration of Charles the Second rendered the change wonderfully rapid and violent. Profligacy became a test of orthodoxy, and loyalty a qualification for rank and office. A deep and general taint infected the morals of the most influential classes, and spread itself through every province of letters. Poetry inflamed the passions; philosophy undermined the principles; divinity itself, inculcating an abject reverence for the Court, gave additional effect to the licentious example of the Court. We look in vain for those qualities which lend a charm to the errors of high and ardent natures, for the generosity, the tenderness, the chivalrous delicacy, which ennoble appetites into passions, and impart to vice itself a portion of the majesty of virtue. The excesses of that age remind us of the humours of a gang of footpads, revelling with their favourite beauties at a flash-house In the fashionable libertinism there is a hard, cold ferocity, an impudence, a lowness, a dirtiness, which can be paralleled only among the heroes and heroines of that filthy and heartless literature which encouraged it. One nobleman of great abilities wanders about as a Merry-Andrew. Another harangues the mob stark naked from a window. A third lays an ambush to cudgel a man who has offended him. A knot of gentlemen of high rank and influence combine to push their fortunes at Court by circulating stories intended to ruin an innocent girl, stones which had no foundation, and which, if they had been true, would never have passed the lips of a man of honour. A dead child is found in the palace, the offspring of some maid of honour by some courtier, or perhaps by Charles himself. The whole flight of pandars and buffoons pounce upon it, and carry it in triumph to the royal laboratory, where his Majesty, after a brutal jest, dissects it for the amusement of the assembly, and probably of its father among the rest. The favourite Duchess stamps about Whitehall, cursing and swearing. The ministers employ their time at the council-board in making mouths at each other and taking off each other’s gestures for the amusement of the King. The Peers at a conference begin to pommel each other and to tear collars and periwigs. A speaker in the House of Commons gives offence to the Court. He is waylaid by a gang of bullies, and his nose is cut to the bone. This ignominious dissoluteness, or rather, if we may venture to designate it by the only proper word, blackguardism of feeling and manners, could not but spread from private to public life. The cynical sneers, and epicurean sophistry, which had driven honour and virtue from one part of the character, extended their influence over every other. The second generation of the statesmen of this reign were worthy pupils of the schools in which they had been trained, of the gaming-table of Grammont, and the tiring-room of Nell. In no other age could such a trifler as Buckingham have exercised any political influence. In no other age could the path to power and glory have been thrown open to the manifold infamies of Churchill. The history of Churchill shows, more clearly perhaps than that of any other individual, the malignity and extent of the corruption which had eaten into the heart of the public morality. An English gentleman of good family attaches himself to a Prince who has seduced his sister, and accepts rank and wealth as the price of her shame and his own. He then repays by ingratitude the benefits which he has purchased by ignominy, betrays his patron in a manner which the best cause cannot excuse, and commits an act, not only of private treachery, but of distinct military desertion. To his conduct at the crisis of the fate of James, no service in modern times has, as far as we remember, furnished any parallel. The conduct of Ney, scandalous enough no doubt, is the very fastidiousness of honour in comparison of it. The perfidy of Arnold approaches it most nearly. In our age and country no talents, no services, no party attachments, could bear any man up under such mountains of infamy. Yet, even before Churchill had performed those great actions which in some degree redeem his character with posterity, the load lay very lightly on him. He had others in abundance to keep him in countenance. Godolphin, Orford, Danby, the trimmer Halifax, the renegade Sunderland, were all men of the same class. Where such was the political morality of the noble and the wealthy, it may easily be conceived that those professions which, even in the best times, are peculiarly liable to corruption, were in a frightful state. Such a bench and such a bar England has never seen. Jones, Scroggs, Jeffreys, North, Wright, Sawyer, Williams, are to this day the spots and blemishes of our legal chronicles. Differing in constitution and in situation, whether blustering or cringing, whether persecuting Protestant or Catholics, they were equally unprincipled and inhuman. The part which the Church played was not equally atrocious; but it must have been exquisitely diverting to a scoffer. Never were principles so loudly professed, and so shamelessly abandoned. The Royal prerogative had been magnified to the skies in theological works. The doctrine of passive obedience had been preached from innumerable pulpits. The University of Oxford had sentenced the works of the most moderate constitutionalists to the flames. The accession of a Catholic King, the frightful cruelties committed in the west of England, never shook the steady loyalty of the clergy. But did they serve the King for nought? He laid his hand on them, and they cursed him to his face. He touched the revenue of a college and the liberty of some prelates; and the whole profession set up a yell worthy of Hugh Peters himself. Oxford sent her plate to an invader with more alacrity than she had shown when Charles the First requested it. Nothing was said about the wickedness of resistance till resistance had done its work, till the anointed vicegerent of Heaven had been driven away, and till it had become plain that he would never be restored, or would be restored at least under strict limitations. The clergy went back, it must be owned, to their old theory, as soon as they found that it would do them no harm. It is principally to the general baseness and profligacy of the times that Clarendon is indebted for his high reputation. He was, in every respect, a man unfit for his age, at once too good for it and too bad for it. He seemed to be one of the ministers of Elizabeth, transplanted at once to a state of society widely different from that in which the abilities of such ministers had been serviceable. In the sixteenth century, the Royal prerogative had scarcely been called in question. A Minister who held it high was in no danger, so long as he used it well. That attachment to the Crown, that extreme jealousy of popular encroachments, that love, half religious half political, for the Church, which, from the beginning of the second session of the Long Parliament, showed itself in Clarendon, and which his sufferings, his long residence in France, and his high station in the government, served to strengthen, would a hundred years earlier, have secured to him the favour of his sovereign without rendering him odious to the people. His probity, his correctness in private life, his decency of deportment, and his general ability, would not have misbecome a colleague of Walsingham and Burleigh. But, in the times on which he was cast, his errors and his virtues were alike out of place. He imprisoned men without trial. He was accused of raising unlawful contributions on the people for the support of the army. The abolition of the act which ensured the frequent holding of Parliaments was one of his favourite objects. He seems to have meditated the revival of the Star-Chamber and the High Commission Court. His zeal for the prerogative made him unpopular; but it could not secure to him the favour of a master far more desirous of ease and pleasure than of power. Charles would rather have lived in exile and privacy, with abundance of money, a crowd of mimics to amuse him, and a score of mistresses, than have purchased the absolute dominion of the world by the privations and exertions to which Clarendon was constantly urging him. A councillor who was always bringing him papers and giving him advice, and who stoutly refused to compliment Lady Castlemaine and to carry messages to Mistress Stewart, soon became more hateful to him than ever Cromwell had been. Thus, considered by the people as an oppressor, by the Court as a censor, the Minister fell from his high office with a ruin more violent and destructive than could ever have been his fate, if he had either respected the principles of the Constitution or flattered the vices of the King. Mr. Hallam has formed, we think, a most correct estimate of the character and administration of Clarendon. But he scarcely makes a sufficient allowance for the wear and tear which honesty almost necessarily sustains in the friction of political life, and which, in times so rough as those through which Clarendon passed, must be very considerable. When these are fairly estimated, we think that his integrity may be allowed to pass muster. A high-minded man he certainly was not, either in public or in private affairs. His own account of his conduct in the affair of his daughter is the most extraordinary passage in autobiography. We except nothing even in the Confessions of Rousseau. Several writers have taken a perverted and absurd pride in representing themselves as detestable; but no other ever laboured hard to make himself despicable and ridiculous. In one important particular Clarendon showed as little regard to the honour of his country as he had shown to that of his family. He accepted a subsidy from France for the relief of Portugal. But this method of obtaining money was afterwards practised to a much greater extent and for objects much less respectable, both by the Court and by the Opposition. These pecuniary transactions are commonly considered as the most disgraceful part of the history of those times: and they were no doubt highly reprehensible. Yet, in justice to the Whigs and to Charles himself, we must admit that they were not so shameful or atrocious as at the present day they appear. The effect of violent animosities between parties has always been an indifference to the general welfare and honour of the State. A politician, where factions run high, is interested not for the whole people, but for his own section of it. The rest are, in his view, strangers, enemies, or rather pirates. The strongest aversion which he can feel to any foreign power is the ardour of friendship, when compared with the loathing which he entertains towards those domestic foes with whom he is cooped up in a narrow space, with whom he lives in a constant interchange of petty injuries and insults, and from whom, in the day of their success, he has to expect severities far beyond any that a conqueror from a distant country would inflict. Thus, in Greece, it was a point of honour for a man to cleave to his party against his country. No aristocratical citizen of Samos or Corcyra would have hesitated to call in the aid of Lacedaemon. The multitude, on the contrary, looked everywhere to Athens. In the Italian states of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, from the same cause, no man was so much a Pisan or a Florentine as a Ghibelline or a Guelf. It may be doubted whether there was a single individual who would have scrupled to raise his party from a state of depression, by opening the gates of his native city to a French or an Arragonese force. The Reformation, dividing almost every European country into two parts, produced similar effects. The Catholic was too strong for the Englishman, the Huguenot for the Frenchman. The Protestant statesmen of Scotland and France called in the aid of Elizabeth; and the Papists of the League brought a Spanish army into the very heart of France. The commotions to which the French Revolution gave rise were followed by the same consequences. The Republicans in every part of Europe were eager to see the armies of the National Convention and the Directory appear among them, and exalted in defeats which distressed and humbled those whom they considered as their worst enemies, their own rulers. The princes and nobles of France, on the other hand, did their utmost to bring foreign invaders to Paris. A very short time has elapsed since the Apostolical party in Spain invoked, too successfully, the support of strangers. The great contest which raged in England during the seventeenth century extinguished, not indeed in the body of the people, but in those classes which were most actively engaged in politics, almost all national feelings. Charles the Second and many of his courtiers had passed a large part of their lives in banishment, living on the bounty of foreign treasuries, soliciting foreign aid to re-establish monarchy in their native country. The King’s own brother had fought in Flanders, under the banners of Spain, against the English armies. The oppressed Cavaliers in England constantly looked to the Louvre and the Escurial for deliverance and revenge. Clarendon censures the continental governments with great bitterness for not interfering in our internal dissensions. It is not strange, therefore, that, amidst the furious contests which followed the Restoration, the violence of party feeling should produce effects which would probably have attended it even in an age less distinguished by laxity of principle and indelicacy of sentiment. It was not till a natural death had terminated the paralytic old age of the Jacobite party that the evil was completely at an end. The Whigs long looked to Holland, the High Tories to France. The former concluded the Barrier Treaty; the latter entreated the Court of Versailles to send an expedition to England. Many men, who, however erroneous their political notions might be, were unquestionably honourable in private life, accepted money without scruple from the foreign powers favourable to the Pretender. Never was there less of national feeling among the higher orders than during the reign of Charles the Second. That Prince, on the one side, thought it better to be the deputy of an absolute king than the King of a free people. Algernon Sydney, on the other hand, would gladly have aided France in all her ambitious schemes, and have seen England reduced to the condition of a province, in the wild hope that a foreign despot would assist him to establish his darling republic. The King took the money of France to assist him in the enterprise which he meditated against the liberty of his subjects, with as little scruple as Frederic of Prussia or Alexander of Russia accepted our subsidies in time of war. The leaders of the Opposition no more thought themselves disgraced by the presents of Lewis, than a gentleman of our own time thinks himself disgraced by the liberality of powerful and wealthy members of his party who pay his election bill. The money which the King received from France had been largely employed to corrupt members of Parliament. The enemies of the court might think it fair, or even absolutely necessary, to encounter bribery with bribery. Thus they took the French gratuities, the needy among them for their own use, the rich probably for the general purposes of the party, without any scruple. If we compare their conduct not with that of English statesmen in our own time, but with that of persons in those foreign countries which are now situated as England then was, we shall probably see reason to abate something of the severity of censure with which it has been the fashion to visit those proceedings. Yet when every allowance is made, the transaction is sufficiently offensive. It is satisfactory to find that Lord Russell stands free from any imputation of personal participation in the spoil. An age so miserably poor in all the moral qualities which render public characters respectable can ill spare the credit which it derives from a man, not indeed conspicuous for talents or knowledge, but honest even in his errors, respectable in every relation of life, rationally pious, steadily and placidly brave. The great improvement which took place in our breed of public men is principally to be ascribed to the Revolution. Yet that memorable event, in a great measure, took its character from the very vices which it was the means of reforming. It was assuredly a happy revolution, and a useful revolution; but it was not, what it has often been called, a glorious revolution. William, and William alone, derived glory from it. The transaction was, in almost every part, discreditable to England. That a tyrant who had violated the fundamental laws of the country, who had attacked the rights of its greatest corporations, who had begun to persecute the established religion of the state, who had never respected the law either in his superstition or in his revenge, could not be pulled down without the aid of a foreign army, is a circumstance not very grateful to our national pride. Yet this is the least degrading part of the story. The shameless insincerity of the great and noble, the warm assurances of general support which James received, down to the moment of general desertion, indicate a meanness of spirit and a looseness of morality most disgraceful to the age. That the enterprise succeeded, at least that it succeeded without bloodshed or commotion, was principally owing to an act of ungrateful perfidy, such as no soldier had ever before committed, and to those monstrous fictions respecting the birth of the Prince of Wales which persons of the highest rank were not ashamed to circulate. In all the proceedings of the convention, in the conference particularly, we see that littleness of mind which is the chief characteristic of the times. The resolutions on which the two Houses at last agreed were as bad as any resolutions for so excellent a purpose could be. Their feeble and contradictory language was evidently intended to save the credit of the Tories, who were ashamed to name what they were not ashamed to do. Through the whole transaction no commanding talents were displayed by any Englishman; no extraordinary risks were run; no sacrifices were made for the deliverance of the nation, except the sacrifice which Churchill made of honour, and Anne of natural affection. It was in some sense fortunate, as we have already said, for the Church of England, that the Reformation in this country was effected by men who cared little about religion. And, in the same manner, it was fortunate for our civil government that the Revolution was in a great measure effected by men who cared little about their political principles. At such a crisis, splendid talents and strong passions might have done more harm than good. There was far greater reason to fear that too much would be attempted, and that violent movements would produce an equally violent reaction, than that too little would be done in the way of change. But narrowness of intellect, and flexibility of principle, though they may be serviceable, can never be respectable. If in the Revolution itself, there was little that can properly be called glorious, there was still less in the events which followed. In a church which had as one man declared the doctrine of resistance unchristian, only four hundred persons refused to take the oath of allegiance to a government founded on resistance. In the preceding generation, both the Episcopal and the Presbyterian clergy, rather than concede points of conscience not more important, had resigned their livings by thousands. The churchmen, at the time of the Revolution, justified their conduct by all those profligate sophisms which are called Jesuitical, and which are commonly reckoned among the peculiar sins of Popery, but which, in fact, are everywhere the anodynes employed by minds rather subtle than strong, to quiet those internal twinges which they cannot but feel and which they will not obey. As the oath taken by the clergy was in the teeth of their principles, so was their conduct in the teeth of their oath. Their constant machinations against the Government to which they had sworn fidelity brought a reproach on their order and on Christianity itself. A distinguished prelate has not scrupled to say that the rapid increase of infidelity at that time was principally produced by the disgust which the faithless conduct of his brethren excited in men not sufficiently candid or judicious to discern the beauties of the system amidst the vices of its ministers. But the reproach was not confined to the Church. In every political party in the Cabinet itself, duplicity and perfidy abounded. The very men whom William loaded with benefits and in whom he reposed most confidence, with his seals of office in their hands, kept up a correspondence with the exiled family. Orford, Leeds, and Shrewsbury were guilty of this odious treachery. Even Devonshire is not altogether free from suspicion. It may well be conceived that, at such a time, such a nature as that of Marlborough would riot in the very luxury of baseness. His former treason, thoroughly furnished with all that makes infamy exquisite, placed him under the disadvantage which attends every artist from the time that he produces a masterpiece. Yet his second great stroke may excite wonder, even in those who appreciate all the merit of the first. Lest his admirers should be able to say that at the time of the Revolution he had betrayed his King from any other than selfish motives, he proceeded to betray his country. He sent intelligence to the French Court of a secret expedition intended to attack Brest. The consequence was that the expedition failed, and that eight hundred British soldiers lost their lives from the abandoned villainy of a British general. Yet this man has been canonized by so many eminent writers that to speak of him as he deserves may seem scarcely decent. The reign of William the Third, as Mr. Hallam happily says, was the Nadir of the national prosperity. It was also the Nadir of the national character. It was the time when the rank harvest of vices sown during thirty years of licentiousness and confusion was gathered in; but it was also the seed-time of great virtues. The press was emancipated from the censorship soon after the Revolution; and the Government immediately fell under the censorship of the press. Statesmen had a scrutiny to endure which was every day becoming more and more severe. The extreme violence of opinions abated. The Whigs learned moderation in office; the Tories learned the principles of liberty in opposition. The parties almost constantly approximated, often met, sometimes crossed each other. There were occasional bursts of violence; but, from the time of the Revolution, those bursts were constantly becoming less and less terrible. The severity with which the Tories, at the close of the reign of Anne, treated some of those who had directed the public affairs during the war of the Grand Alliance, and the retaliatory measures of the Whigs, after the accession of the House of Hanover, cannot be justified; but they were by no means in the style of the infuriated parties, whose alternate murders had disgraced our history towards the close of the reign of Charles the Second. At the fall of Walpole far greater moderation was displayed. And from that time it has been the practice, a practice not strictly according to the theory of our Constitution, but still most salutary, to consider the loss of office, and the public disapprobation, as punishments sufficient for errors in the administration not imputable to personal corruption. Nothing, we believe, has contributed more than this lenity to raise the character of public men. Ambition is of itself a game sufficiently hazardous and sufficiently deep to inflame the passions without adding property, life, and liberty to the stake. Where the play runs so desperately high as in the seventeenth century, honour is at an end. Statesmen instead of being, as they should be, at once mild and steady, are at once ferocious and inconsistent. The axe is for ever before their eyes. A popular outcry sometimes unnerves them, and sometimes makes them desperate; it drives them to unworthy compliances, or to measures of vengeance as cruel as those which they have reason to expect. A Minister in our times need not fear either to be firm or to be merciful. Our old policy in this respect was as absurd as that of the king in the Eastern tale who proclaimed that any physician who pleased might come to court and prescribe for his diseases, but that if the remedies failed the adventurer should lose his head. It is easy to conceive how many able men would refuse to undertake the cure on such conditions; how much the sense of extreme danger would confuse the perceptions, and cloud the intellect of the practitioner, at the very crisis which most called for self-possession, and how strong his temptation would be, if he found that he had committed a blunder, to escape the consequences of it by poisoning his patient. But in fact it would have been impossible, since the Revolution, to punish any Minister for the general course of his policy, with the slightest semblance of justice; for since that time no Minister has been able to pursue any general course of policy without the approbation of the Parliament. The most important effects of that great change were, as Mr. Hallam has most truly said, and most ably shown, those which it indirectly produced. Thenceforward it became the interest of the executive government to protect those very doctrines which an executive government is in general inclined to persecute. The sovereign, the ministers, the courtiers, at last even the universities and the clergy, were changed into advocates of the right of resistance. In the theory of the Whigs, in the situation of the Tories, in the common interest of all public men, the Parliamentary constitution of the country found perfect security. The power of the House of Commons, in particular, has been steadily on the increase. Since supplies have been granted for short terms and appropriated to particular services, the approbation of that House has been as necessary in practice to the executive administration as it has always been in theory to taxes and to laws. Mr. Hallam appears to have begun with the reign of Henry the Seventh, as the period at which what is called modern history, in contradistinction to the history of the middle ages, is generally supposed to commence. He has stopped at the accession of George the Third, “from unwillingness” as he says, “to excite the prejudices of modern politics, especially those connected with personal character.” These two eras, we think, deserved the distinction on other grounds. Our remote posterity, when looking back on our history in that comprehensive manner in which remote posterity alone can, without much danger of error, look back on it, will probably observe those points with peculiar interest. They are, if we mistake not, the beginning and the end of an entire and separate chapter in our annals. The period which lies between them is a perfect cycle, a great year of the public mind. In the reign of Henry the Seventh, all the political differences which had agitated England since the Norman conquest seemed to be set at rest. The long and fierce struggle between the Crown and the Barons had terminated. The grievances which had produced the rebellions of Tyler and Cade had disappeared. Villanage was scarcely known. The two royal houses, whose conflicting claims had long convulsed the kingdom, were at length united. The claimants whose pretensions, just or unjust, had disturbed the new settlement, were overthrown. In religion there was no open dissent, and probably very little secret heresy. The old subjects of contention, in short, had vanished; those which were to succeed had not yet appeared. Soon, however, new principles were announced; principles which were destined to keep England during two centuries and a half in a state of commotion. The Reformation divided the people into two great parties. The Protestants were victorious. They again subdivided themselves. Political factions were engrafted on theological sects. The mutual animosities of the two parties gradually emerged into the light of public life. First came conflicts in Parliament; then civil war; then revolutions upon revolutions, each attended by its appurtenance of proscriptions, and persecutions, and tests; each followed by severe measures on the part of the conquerors; each exciting a deadly and festering hatred in the conquered. During the reign of George the Second, things were evidently tending to repose. At the close of that reign, the nation had completed the great revolution which commenced in the early part of the sixteenth century, and was again at rest, The fury of sects had died away. The Catholics themselves practically enjoyed toleration; and more than toleration they did not yet venture even to desire. Jacobitism was a mere name. Nobody was left to fight for that wretched cause, and very few to drink for it. The Constitution, purchased so dearly, was on every side extolled and worshipped. Even those distinctions of party which must almost always be found in a free state could scarcely be traced. The two great bodies which, from the time of the Revolution, had been gradually tending to approximation, were now united in emulous support of that splendid Administration which smote to the dust both the branches of the House of Bourbon. The great battle for our ecclesiastical and civil polity had been fought and won. The wounds had been healed. The victors and the vanquished were rejoicing together. Every person acquainted with the political writers of the last generation will recollect the terms in which they generally speak of that time. It was a glimpse of a golden age of union and glory, a short interval of rest, which had been preceded by centuries of agitation, and which centuries of agitation were destined to follow. How soon faction again began to ferment is well known. The Letters of Junius, in Burke’s Thoughts on the Cause of the Discontents, and in many other writings of less merit, the violent dissensions which speedily convulsed the country are imputed to the system of favouritism which George the Third introduced, to the influence of Bute, or to the profligacy of those who called themselves the King’s friends. With all deference to the eminent writers to whom we have referred, we may venture to say that they lived too near the events of which they treated to judge correctly. The schism which was then appearing in the nation, and which has been from that time almost constantly widening, had little in common with those schisms which had divided it during the reigns of the Tudors and the Stuarts. The symptoms of popular feeling, indeed, will always be in a great measure the same; but the principle which excited that feeling was here new. The support which was given to Wilkes, the clamour for reform during the American war, the disaffected conduct of large classes of people at the time of the French Revolution, no more resembled the opposition which had been offered to the government of Charles the Second, than that opposition resembled the contest between the Roses. In the political as in the natural body, a sensation is often referred to a part widely different from that in which it really resides. A man whose leg is cut off fancies that he feels a pain in his toe. And in the same manner the people, in the earlier part of the late reign, sincerely attributed their discontent to grievances which had been effectually lopped off. They imagined that the prerogative was too strong for the Constitution, that the principles of the Revolution were abandoned, that the system of the Stuarts was restored. Every impartial man must now acknowledge that these charges were groundless. The conduct of the Government with respect to the Middlesex election would have been contemplated with delight by the first generation of Whigs. They would have thought it a splendid triumph of the cause of liberty that the King and the Lords should resign to the lower House a portion of the legislative power, and allow it to incapacitate without their consent. This, indeed, Mr. Burke clearly perceived. “When the House of Commons,” says he, “in an endeavour to obtain new advantages at the expense of the other orders of the state, for the benefit of the commons at large, have pursued strong measures, if it were not just, it was at least natural, that the constituents should connive at all their proceedings; because we ourselves were ultimately to profit. But when this submission is urged to us in a contest between the representatives and ourselves, and where nothing can be put into their scale which is not taken from ours, they fancy us to be children when they tell us that they are our representatives, our own flesh and blood, and that all the stripes they give us are for our good.” These sentences contain, in fact, the whole explanation of the mystery. The conflict of the seventeenth century was maintained by the Parliament against the Crown. The conflict which commenced in the middle of the eighteenth century, which still remains undecided, and in which our children and grandchildren will probably be called to act or to suffer, is between a large portion of the people on the one side, and the Crown and the Parliament united on the other. The privileges of the House of Commons, those privileges which, in 1642, all London rose in arms to defend, which the people considered as synonymous with their own liberties, and in comparison of which they took no account of the most precious and sacred principles of English jurisprudence, have now become nearly as odious as the rigours of martial law. That power of committing which the people anciently loved to see the House of Commons exercise, is now, at least when employed against libellers, the most unpopular power in the Constitution. If the Commons were to suffer the Lords to amend money-bills, we do not believe that the people would care one straw about the matter. If they were to suffer the Lords even to originate money-bills, we doubt whether such a surrender of their constitutional rights would excite half so much dissatisfaction as the exclusion of strangers from a single important discussion. The gallery in which the reporters sit has become a fourth estate of the realm. The publication of the debates, a practice which seemed to the most liberal statesmen of the old school full of danger to the great safeguards of public liberty, is now regarded by many persons as a safeguard tantamount, and more than tantamount, to all the rest together. Burke, in a speech on parliamentary reform which is the more remarkable because it was delivered long before the French Revolution, has described, in striking language, the change in public feeling of which we speak. “It suggests melancholy reflections,” says he, “in consequence of the strange course we have long held, that we are now no longer quarrelling about the character, or about the conduct of men, or the tenor of measures; but we are grown out of humour with the English Constitution itself; this is become the object of the animosity of Englishmen. This constitution in former days used to be the envy of the world; it was the pattern for politicians; the theme of the eloquent; the meditation of the philosopher in every part of the world. As to Englishmen, it was their pride, their consolation. By it they lived, and for it they were ready to die. Its defects, if it had any, were partly covered by partiality, and partly borne by prudence. Now all its excellencies are forgot, its faults are forcibly dragged into day, exaggerated by every artifice of misrepresentation. It is despised and rejected of men; and every device and invention of ingenuity or idleness is set up in opposition, or in preference to it.” We neither adopt nor condemn the language of reprobation which the great orator here employs. We call him only as a witness to the fact. That the revolution of public feeling which he described was then in progress is indisputable; and it is equally indisputable, we think, that it is in progress still. To investigate and classify the causes of so great a change would require far more thought, and far more space, than we at present have to bestow. But some of them are obvious. During the contest which the Parliament carried on against the Stuarts, it had only to cheek and complain. It has since had to govern. As an attacking body, it could select its points of attack, and it naturally chose those on which it was likely to receive public support. As a ruling body, it has neither the same liberty of choice, nor the same motives to gratify the people. With the power of an executive government, it has drawn to itself some of the vices, and all the unpopularity of an executive government. On the House of Commons above all, possessed as it is of the public purse, and consequently of the public sword, the nation throws all the blame of an ill-conducted war, of a blundering negotiation, of a disgraceful treaty, of an embarrassing commercial crisis. The delays of the Court of Chancery, the misconduct of a judge at Van Diemen’s Land, any thing, in short, which in any part of the administration any person feels as a grievance, is attributed to the tyranny, or at least to the negligence, of that all-powerful body. Private individuals pester it with their wrongs and claims. A merchant appeals to it from the Courts of Rio Janeiro or St. Petersburg. A historical painter complains to it that his department of art finds no encouragement. Anciently the Parliament resembled a member of opposition, from whom no places are expected, who is not expected to confer favours and propose measures, but merely to watch and censure, and who may, therefore, unless he is grossly injudicious, be popular with the great body of the community. The Parliament now resembles the same person put into office, surrounded by petitioners whom twenty times his patronage would not satisfy, stunned with complaints, buried in memorials, compelled by the duties of his station to bring forward measures similar to those which he was formerly accustomed to observe and to check, and perpetually encountered by objections similar to those which it was formerly his business to raise. Perhaps it may be laid down as a general rule that a legislative assembly, not constituted on democratical principles, cannot be popular long after it ceases to be weak. Its zeal for what the people, rightly or wrongly, conceive to be their interests, its sympathy with their mutable and violent passions, are merely the effects of the particular circumstances in which it is placed. As long as it depends for existence on the public favour, it will employ all the means in its power to conciliate that favour. While this is the case, defects in its constitution are of little consequence. But, as the close union of such a body with the nation is the effect of an identity of interests not essential but accidental, it is in some measure dissolved from the time at which the danger which produced it ceases to exist. Hence, before the Revolution, the question of Parliamentary reform was of very little importance. The friends of liberty had no very ardent wish for reform. The strongest Tories saw no objections to it. It is remarkable that Clarendon loudly applauds the changes which Cromwell introduced, changes far stronger than the Whigs of the present day would in general approve. There is no reason to think, however, that the reform effected by Cromwell made any great difference in the conduct of the Parliament. Indeed, if the House of Commons had, during the reign of Charles the Second, been elected by universal suffrage, or if all the seats had been put up to sale, as in the French Parliaments, it would, we suspect, have acted very much as it did. We know how strongly the Parliament of Paris exerted itself in favour of the people on many important occasions; and the reason is evident. Though it did not emanate from the people, its whole consequence depended on the support of the people. From the time of the Revolution the House of Commons has been gradually becoming what it now is, a great council of state, containing many members chosen freely by the people, and many others anxious to acquire the favour of the people; but, on the whole, aristocratical in its temper and interest. It is very far from being an illiberal and stupid oligarchy; but it is equally far from being an express image of the general feeling. It is influenced by the opinion of the people, and influenced powerfully, but slowly and circuitously. Instead of outrunning the public mind, as before the Revolution it frequently did, it now follows with slow steps and at a wide distance. It is therefore necessarily unpopular; and the more so because the good which it produces is much less evident to common perception than the evil which it inflicts. It bears the blame of all the mischief which is done, or supposed to be done, by its authority or by its connivance. It does not get the credit, on the other hand, of having prevented those innumerable abuses which do not exist solely because the House of Commons exists. A large part of the nation is certainly desirous of a reform in the representative system. How large that part may be, and how strong its desires on the subject may be, it is difficult to say. It is only at intervals that the clamour on the subject is loud and vehement. But it seems to us that, during the remissions, the feeling gathers strength, and that every successive burst is more violent than that which preceded it. The public attention may be for a time diverted to the Catholic claims or the Mercantile code but it is probable that at no very distant period, perhaps in the lifetime of the present generation, all other questions will merge in that which is, in a certain degree, connected with them all. Already we seem to ourselves to perceive the signs of unquiet times the vague presentiment of something great and strange which pervades the community, the restless and turbid hopes of those who have everything to gain, the dimly hinted forebodings of those who have everything to lose. Many indications might be mentioned, in themselves indeed as insignificant as straws; but even the direction of a straw, to borrow the illustration of Bacon, will show from what quarter the storm in setting in. A great statesman might, by judicious and timely reformations by reconciling the two great branches of the natural aristocracy, the capitalists and the landowners, and by so widening the base of the government as to interest in its defence the whole of the middle class that brave, honest, and sound-hearted class, which is as anxious for the maintenance of order and the security of property, as it is hostile to corruption and oppression, succeed in averting a struggle to which no rational friend of liberty or of law can look forward without great apprehensions. There are those who will be contented with nothing but demolition; and there are those who shrink from all repair. There are innovators who long for a President and a National Convention; and there are bigots who, while cities larger and richer than the capitals of many great kingdoms are calling out for representatives to watch over their interests, select some hackneyed jobber in boroughs, some peer of the narrowest and smallest mind, as the fittest depository of a forfeited franchise. Between these extremes there lies a more excellent way. Time is bringing round another crisis analogous to that which occurred in the seventeenth century. We stand in a situation similar to that in which our ancestors stood under the reign of James the First. It will soon again be necessary to reform that we may preserve, to save the fundamental principles of the Constitution by alterations in the subordinate parts. It will then be possible, as it was possible two hundred years ago, to protect vested rights, to secure every useful institution, every institution endeared by antiquity and noble associations, and, at the same time, to introduce into the system improvements harmonizing with the original plan. It remains to be seen whether two hundred years have made us wiser. We know of no great revolution which might not have been prevented by compromise early and graciously made. Firmness is a great virtue in public affairs; but it has its proper sphere. Conspiracies and insurrections in which small minorities are engaged, the outbreakings of popular violence unconnected with any extensive project or any durable principle, are best repressed by vigour and decision. To shrink from them is to make them formidable. But no wise ruler will confound the pervading taint with the slight local irritation. No wise ruler will treat the deeply seated discontents of a great party, as he treats the fury of a mob which destroys mills and power-looms. The neglect of this distinction has been fatal even to governments strong in the power of the sword. The present time is indeed a time of peace and order. But it is at such a time that fools are most thoughtless and wise men most thoughtful. That the discontents which have agitated the country during the late and the present reign, and which, though not always noisy, are never wholly dormant, will again break forth with aggravated symptoms, is almost as certain as that the tides and seasons will follow their appointed course. But in all movements of the human mind which tend to great revolutions there is a crisis at which moderate concession may amend, conciliate, and preserve. Happy will it be for England if, at that crisis her interests be confided to men for whom history has not recorded the long series of human crimes and follies in vain. BURLEIGH AND HIS TIMES (April 1832) _Memoirs of the Life and Administration of the Right Honourable William Cecil Lord Burghley, Secretary of State in the Reign of King Edward the Sixth, and Lord High Treasurer, of England in the Reign of Queen Elizabeth. Containing an historical View of the Times in which he lived, and of the many eminent and illustrious Persons with whom he was connected; with Extracts from his Private and Official Correspondence and other Papers, now first published from the Originals. By the Reverend EDWARD NARES, D.D., Regius Professor of Modern History in the University of Oxford. 3 vols. 4to. London: 1828, 1832._ THE work of Dr. Nares has filled us with astonishment similar to that which Captain Lemuel Gulliver felt when first he landed in Brobdingnag, and saw corn as high as the oaks in the New Forest, thimbles as large as buckets, and wrens of the bulk of turkeys. The whole book, and every component part of it, is on a gigantic scale. The title is as long as an ordinary preface: the prefatory matter would furnish out an ordinary book; and the book contains as much reading as an ordinary library. We cannot sum up the merits of the stupendous mass of paper which lies before us better than by saying that it consists of about two thousand closely printed quarto pages, that it occupies fifteen hundred inches cubic measure, and that it weighs sixty pounds avoirdupois. Such a book might, before the deluge, have been considered as light reading by Hilpa and Shallum. But unhappily the life of man is now three-score years and ten; and we cannot but think it somewhat unfair in Dr. Nares to demand from us so large a portion of so short an existence. Compared with the labour of reading through these volumes, all other labour, the labour of thieves on the treadmill, of children in factories, of negroes in sugar plantations, is an agreeable recreation. There was, it is said, a criminal in Italy, who was suffered to make his choice between Guicciardini and the galleys. He chose the history. But the war of Pisa was too much for him. He changed his mind, and went to the oar. Guicciardini, though certainly not the most amusing of writers, is a Herodotus or a Froissart, when compared with Dr. Nares, It is not merely in bulk, but in specific gravity also, that these memoirs exceed all other human compositions. On every subject which the Professor discusses, he produces three times as many pages as another man; and one of his pages is as tedious as another man’s three. His book is swelled to its vast dimensions by endless repetitions, by episodes which have nothing to do with the main action, by quotations from books which are in every circulating library, and by reflections which, when they happen to be just, are so obvious that they must necessarily occur to the mind of every reader. He employs more words in expounding and defending a truism than any other writer would employ in supporting a paradox. Of the rules of historical perspective, he has not the faintest notion. There is neither foreground nor background in his delineation. The wars of Charles the Fifth in Germany are detailed at almost as much length as in Robertson’s life of that prince. The troubles of Scotland are related as fully as in M’Crie’s Life of John Knox. It would be most unjust to deny that Dr. Nares is a man of great industry and research; but he is so utterly incompetent to arrange the materials which he has collected that he might as well have left them in their original repositories. Neither the facts which Dr. Nares has discovered, nor the arguments which he urges, will, we apprehend, materially alter the opinion generally entertained by judicious readers of history concerning his hero. Lord Burleigh can hardly be called a great man. He was not one of those whose genius and energy change the fate of empires. He was by nature and habit one of those who follow, not one of those who lead. Nothing that is recorded, either of his words or of his actions, indicates intellectual or moral elevation. But his talents, though not brilliant, were of an eminently useful kind; and his principles, though not inflexible, were not more relaxed than those of his associates and competitors. He had a cool temper, a sound judgement, great powers of application, and a constant eye to the main chance. In his youth he was, it seems, fond of practical jokes. Yet even out of these he contrived to extract some pecuniary profit. When he was studying the law at Gray’s Inn, he lost all his furniture and books at the gaming table to one of his friends. He accordingly bored a hole in the wall which separated his chambers from those of his associate, and at midnight bellowed through this passage threats of damnation and calls to repentance in the ears of the victorious gambler, who lay sweating with fear all night, and refunded his winnings on his knees next day. “Many other the like merry jest,” says his old biographer, “I have heard him tell, too long to be here noted.” To the last, Burleigh was somewhat jocose; and some of his sportive sayings have been recorded by Bacon. They show much more shrewdness than generosity, and are, indeed, neatly expressed reasons for exacting money rigorously, and for keeping it carefully. It must, however, be acknowledged that he was rigorous and careful for the public advantage as well as for his own. To extol his moral character as Dr. Nares has extolled it is absurd. It would be equally absurd to represent him as a corrupt, rapacious, and bad-hearted man. He paid great attention to the interests of the state, and great attention also to the interest of his own family. He never deserted his friends till it was very inconvenient to stand by them, was an excellent Protestant, when it was not very advantageous to be a Papist, recommended a tolerant policy to his mistress as strongly as he could recommend it without hazarding her favour, never put to the rack any person from whom it did not seem probable that useful information might be derived, and was so moderate in his desires that he left only three hundred distinct landed estates, though he might, as his honest servant assures us, have left much more, “if he would have taken money out of the Exchequer for his own use, as many Treasurers have done.” Burleigh, like the old Marquess of Winchester, who preceded him in the custody of the White Staff, was of the willow, and not of the oak. He first rose into notice by defending the supremacy of Henry the Eighth. He was subsequently favoured and promoted by the Duke of Somerset. He not only contrived to escape unhurt when his patron fell, but became an important member of the administration of Northumberland. Dr. Nares assures us over and over again that there could have been nothing base in Cecil’s conduct on this occasion; for, says he, Cecil continued to stand well with Cranmer. This, we confess, hardly satisfies us. We are much of the mind of Falstaff’s tailor. We must have better assurance for Sir John than Bardolph’s. We like not the security. Through the whole course of that miserable intrigue which was carried on round the dying bed of Edward the Sixth, Cecil so demeaned himself as to avoid, first, the displeasure of Northumberland, and afterwards the displeasure of Mary. He was prudently unwilling to put his hand to the instrument which changed the course of the succession. But the furious Dudley was master of the palace. Cecil, therefore, according to his own account, excused himself from signing as a party, but consented to sign as a witness. It is not easy to describe his dexterous conduct at this most perplexing crisis in language more appropriate than that which is employed by old Fuller. “His hand wrote it as secretary of state,” says that quaint writer; “but his heart consented not thereto. Yea, he openly opposed it; though at last yielding to the greatness of Northumberland, in an age when it was present drowning not to swim with the stream. But as the philosopher tells us, that though the planets be whirled about daily from east to west, by the motion of the primum mobile, yet have they also a contrary proper motion of their own from west to east, which they slowly, though surely, move, at their leisure; so Cecil had secret counter-endeavours against the strain of the court herein, and privately advanced his rightful intentions, against the foresaid duke’s ambition.” This was undoubtedly the most perilous conjuncture of Cecil’s life. Wherever there was a safe course, he was safe. But here every course was full of danger. His situation rendered it impossible for him to be neutral. If he acted on either side, if he refused to act at all, he ran a fearful risk. He saw all the difficulties of his position. He sent his money and plate out of London, made over his estates to his son, and carried arms about his person. His best arms, however, were his sagacity and his self-command. The plot in which he had been an unwilling accomplice ended, as it was natural that so odious and absurd a plot should end, in the ruin of its contrivers. In the meantime, Cecil quietly extricated himself and, having been successively patronised by Henry, by Somerset, and by Northumberland, continued to flourish under the protection of Mary. He had no aspirations after the crown of martyrdom. He confessed himself, therefore, with great decorum, heard mass in Wimbledon Church at Easter, and, for the better ordering of his spiritual concerns, took a priest into his house. Dr. Nares, whose simplicity passes that of any casuist with whom we are acquainted, vindicates his hero by assuring us that this was not superstition, but pure unmixed hypocrisy. “That he did in some manner conform, we shall not be able, in the face of existing documents, to deny; while we feel in our own minds abundantly satisfied, that, during this very trying reign, he never abandoned the prospect of another revolution in favour of Protestantism.” In another place, the Doctor tells us, that Cecil went to mass “with no idolatrous intention.” Nobody, we believe, ever accused him of idolatrous intentions. The very ground of the charge against him is that he had no idolatrous intentions. We never should have blamed him if he had really gone to Wimbledon Church, with the feelings of a good Catholic, to worship the host. Dr. Nares speaks in several places with just severity of the sophistry of the Jesuits, and with just admiration of the incomparable letters of Pascal. It is somewhat strange, therefore, that he should adopt, to the full extent, the jesuitical doctrine of the direction of intentions. We do not blame Cecil for not choosing to be burned. The deep stain upon his memory is that, for differences of opinion for which he would risk nothing himself, he, in the day of his power, took away without scruple the lives of others. One of the excuses suggested in these Memoirs for his conforming, during the reign of Mary to the Church of Rome, is that he may have been of the same mind with those German Protestants who were called Adiaphorists, and who considered the popish rites as matters indifferent. Melanchthon was one of these moderate persons, and “appears,” says Dr. Nares, “to have gone greater lengths than any imputed to Lord Burleigh.” We should have thought this not only an excuse, but a complete vindication, if Cecil had been an Adiaphorist for the benefit of others as well as for his own. If the popish rites were matters of so little moment that a good Protestant might lawfully practise them for his safety, how could it be just or humane that a Papist should be hanged, drawn, and quartered, for practising them from a sense of duty? Unhappily these non-essentials soon became matters of life and death just at the very time at which Cecil attained the highest point of power and favour, an Act of Parliament was passed by which the penalties of high treason were denounced against persons who should do in sincerity what he had done from cowardice. Early in the reign of Mary, Cecil was employed in a mission scarcely consistent with the character of a zealous Protestant. He was sent to escort the Papal Legate, Cardinal Pole, from Brussels to London. That great body of moderate persons who cared more for the quiet of the realm than for the controverted points which were in issue between the Churches seem to have placed their chief hope in the wisdom and humanity of the gentle Cardinal. Cecil, it is clear, cultivated the friendship of Pole with great assiduity, and received great advantage from the Legate’s protection. But the best protection of Cecil, during the gloomy and disastrous reign of Mary, was that which he derived from his own prudence and from his own temper, a prudence which could never be lulled into carelessness, a temper which could never be irritated into rashness. The Papists could find no occasion against him. Yet he did not lose the esteem even of those sterner Protestants who had preferred exile to recantation. He attached himself to the persecuted heiress of the throne, and entitled himself to her gratitude and confidence. Yet he continued to receive marks of favour from the Queen. In the House of Commons, he put himself at the head of the party opposed to the Court. Yet, so guarded was his language that, even when some of those who acted with him were imprisoned by the Privy Council, he escaped with impunity. At length Mary died: Elizabeth succeeded; and Cecil rose at once to greatness. He was sworn in Privy-councillor and Secretary of State to the new sovereign before he left her prison of Hatfield; and he continued to serve her during forty years, without intermission, in the highest employments. His abilities were precisely those which keep men long in power. He belonged to the class of the Walpoles, the Pelhams, and the Liverpools, not to that of the St. Johns, the Carterets, the Chathams, and the Cannings. If he had been a man of original genius and of an enterprising spirit, it would have been scarcely possible for him to keep his power or even his head. There was not room in one government for an Elizabeth and a Richelieu. What the haughty daughter of Henry needed, was a moderate, cautious, flexible minister, skilled in the details of business, competent to advise, but not aspiring to command. And such a minister she found in Burleigh. No arts could shake the confidence which she reposed in her old and trusty servant. The courtly graces of Leicester, the brilliant talents and accomplishments of Essex, touched the fancy, perhaps the heart, of the woman; but no rival could deprive the Treasurer of the place which he possessed in the favour of the Queen. She sometimes chid him sharply; but he was the man whom she delighted to honour. For Burleigh, she forgot her usual parsimony both of wealth and of dignities. For Burleigh, she relaxed that severe etiquette to which she was unreasonably attached. Every other person to whom she addressed her speech, or on whom the glance of her eagle eye fell, instantly sank on his knee. For Burleigh alone, a chair was set in her presence; and there the old minister, by birth only a plain Lincolnshire esquire, took his ease, while the haughty heirs of the Fitzalans and the De Veres humbled themselves to the dust around him. At length, having, survived all his early coadjutors and rivals, he died full of years and honours. His royal mistress visited him on his deathbed, and cheered him with assurances of her affection and esteem; and his power passed, with little diminution, to a son who inherited his abilities, and whose mind had been formed by his counsels. The life of Burleigh was commensurate with one of the most important periods in the history of the world. It exactly measures the time during which the House of Austria held decided superiority and aspired to universal dominion. In the year in which Burleigh was born, Charles the Fifth obtained the imperial crown. In the year in which Burleigh died, the vast designs which had, during near a century, kept Europe in constant agitation, were buried in the same grave with the proud and sullen Philip. The life of Burleigh was commensurate also with the period during which a great moral revolution was effected, a revolution the consequences of which were felt, not only in the cabinets of princes, but at half the firesides in Christendom. He was born when the great religious schism was just commencing. He lived to see that schism complete, and to see a line of demarcation, which, since his death, has been very little altered, strongly drawn between Protestant and Catholic Europe. The only event of modern times which can be properly compared with the Reformation is the French Revolution, or, to speak more accurately, that great revolution of political feeling which took place in almost every part of the civilised world during the eighteenth century, and which obtained in France its most terrible and signal triumph. Each of these memorable events may be described as a rising up of the human reason against a Caste. The one was a struggle of the laity against the clergy for intellectual liberty; the other was a struggle of the people against princes and nobles for political liberty. In both cases, the spirit of innovation was at first encouraged by the class to which it was likely to be most prejudicial. It was under the patronage of Frederic, of Catherine, of Joseph, and of the grandees of France, that the philosophy which afterwards threatened all the thrones and aristocracies of Europe with destruction first became formidable. The ardour with which men betook themselves to liberal studies, at the close of the fifteenth and the beginning of the sixteenth century, was zealously encouraged by the heads of that very church to which liberal studies were destined to be fatal. In both cases, when the explosion came, it came with a violence which appalled and disgusted many of those who had previously been distinguished by the freedom of their opinions. The violence of the democratic party in France made Burke a Tory and Alfieri a courtier. The violence of the chiefs of the German schism made Erasmus a defender of abuses, and turned the author of Utopia into a persecutor. In both cases, the convulsion which had overthrown deeply seated errors, shook all the principles on which society rests to their very foundations. The minds of men were unsettled. It seemed for a time that all order and morality were about to perish with the prejudices with which they had been long and intimately associated. Frightful cruelties were committed. Immense masses of property were confiscated. Every part of Europe swarmed with exiles. In moody and turbulent spirits zeal soured into malignity, or foamed into madness. From the political agitation of the eighteenth century sprang the Jacobins. From the religious agitation of the sixteenth century sprang the Anabaptists. The partisans of Robespierre robbed and murdered in the name of fraternity and equality. The followers of Kniperdoling robbed and murdered in the name of Christian liberty. The feeling of patriotism was in many parts of Europe, almost wholly extinguished. All the old maxims of foreign policy were changed. Physical boundaries were superseded by moral boundaries. Nations made war on each other with new arms, with arms which no fortifications, however strong by nature or by art, could resist, with arms before which rivers parted like the Jordan, and ramparts fell down like the walls of Jericho. The great masters of fleets and armies were often reduced to confess, like Milton’s warlike angel, how hard they found it ”--To exclude Spiritual substance with corporeal bar.” Europe was divided, as Greece had been divided during the period concerning which Thucydides wrote. The conflict was not, as it is in ordinary times, between state and state, but between two omnipresent factions, each of which was in some places dominant and in other places oppressed, but which, openly or covertly, carried on their strife in the bosom of every society. No man asked whether another belonged to the same country with himself, but whether he belonged to the same sect. Party-spirit seemed to justify and consecrate acts which, in any other times, would have been considered as the foulest of treasons. The French emigrant saw nothing disgraceful in bringing Austrian and Prussian hussars to Paris. The Irish or Italian democrat saw no impropriety in serving the French Directory against his own native government. So, in the sixteenth century, the fury of theological factions suspended all national animosities and jealousies. The Spaniards were invited into France by the League; the English were invited into France by the Huguenots. We by no means intend to underrate or to palliate the crimes and excesses which, during the last generation, were produced by the spirit of democracy. But, when we hear men zealous for the Protestant religion, constantly represent the French Revolution as radically and essentially evil on account of those crimes and excesses, we cannot but remember that the deliverance of our ancestors from the house of their spiritual bondage was effected “by plagues and by signs, by wonders and by war.” We cannot but remember that, as in the case of the French Revolution, so also in the case of the Reformation, those who rose up against tyranny were themselves deeply tainted with the vices which tyranny engenders. We cannot but remember that libels scarcely less scandalous than those of Hebert, mummeries scarcely less absurd than those of Clootz, and crimes scarcely less atrocious than those of Marat, disgrace the early history of Protestantism. The Reformation is an event long past. That volcano has spent its rage. The wide waste produced by its outbreak is forgotten. The landmarks which were swept away have been replaced. The ruined edifices have been repaired. The lava has covered with a rich incrustation the fields which it once devastated, and, after having turned a beautiful and fruitful garden into a desert, has again turned the desert into a still more beautiful and fruitful garden. The second great eruption is not yet over. The marks of its ravages are still all around us. The ashes are still hot beneath our feet. In some directions the deluge of fire still continues to spread. Yet experience surely entitles us to believe that this explosion, like that which preceded it, will fertilise the soil which it has devastated. Already, in those parts which have suffered most severely, rich cultivation and secure dwellings have begun to appear amidst the waste. The more we read of the history of past ages, the more we observe the signs of our own times, the more do we feel our hearts filled and swelled up by a good hope for the future destinies of the human race. The history of the Reformation in England is full of strange problems. The most prominent and extraordinary phaenomenon which it presents to us is the gigantic strength of the government contrasted with the feebleness of the religious parties. During the twelve or thirteen years which followed the death of Henry the Eighth, the religion of the state was thrice changed. Protestantism was established by Edward; the Catholic Church was restored by Mary; Protestantism was again established by Elizabeth. The faith of the nation seemed to depend on the personal inclinations of the sovereign. Nor was this all. An established church was then, as a matter of course, a persecuting church. Edward persecuted Catholics. Mary persecuted Protestants. Elizabeth persecuted Catholics again. The father of those three sovereigns had enjoyed the pleasure of persecuting both sects at once, and had sent to death, on the same hurdle, the heretic who denied the real presence, and the traitor who denied the royal supremacy. There was nothing in England like that fierce and bloody opposition which, in France, each of the religious factions in its turn offered to the government. We had neither a Coligny nor a Mayenne, neither a Moncontour nor an Ivry. No English city braved sword and famine for the reformed doctrines with the spirit of Rochelle, or for the Catholic doctrines with the spirit of Paris. Neither sect in England formed a League. Neither sect extorted a recantation from the sovereign. Neither sect could obtain from an adverse sovereign even a toleration. The English Protestants, after several years of domination, sank down with scarcely a struggle under the tyranny of Mary. The Catholics, after having regained and abused their old ascendency submitted patiently to the severe rule of Elizabeth. Neither Protestants nor Catholics engaged in any great and well-organized scheme of resistance. A few wild and tumultuous risings, suppressed as soon as they appeared, a few dark conspiracies in which only a small number of desperate men engaged, such were the utmost efforts made by these two parties to assert the most sacred of human rights, attacked by the most odious tyranny. The explanation of these circumstances which has generally been given is very simple but by no means satisfactory. The power of the crown, it is said, was then at its height, and was in fact despotic. This solution, we own, seems to us to be no solution at all. It has long been the fashion, a fashion introduced by Mr. Hume, to describe the English monarchy in the sixteenth century as an absolute monarchy. And such undoubtedly it appears to a superficial observer. Elizabeth, it is true, often spoke to her parliaments in language as haughty and imperious as that which the Great Turk would use to his divan. She punished with great severity members of the House of Commons who, in her opinion, carried the freedom of debate too far. She assumed the power of legislating by means of proclamations. She imprisoned her subjects without bringing them to a legal trial. Torture was often employed, in defiance of the laws of England, for the purpose of extorting confessions from those who were shut up in her dungeons. The authority of the Star-Chamber and of the Ecclesiastical Commission was at its highest point. Severe restraints were imposed on political and religious discussion. The number of presses was at one time limited. No man could print without a licence; and every work had to undergo the scrutiny of the Primate, or the Bishop of London. Persons whose writings were displeasing to the Court, were cruelly mutilated, like Stubbs, or put to death, like Penry. Nonconformity was severely punished. The Queen prescribed the exact rule of religious faith and discipline; and whoever departed from that rule, either to the right or to the left, was in danger of severe penalties. Such was this government. Yet we know that it was loved by the great body of those who lived under it. We know that, during the fierce contests of the seventeenth century, both the hostile parties spoke of the time of Elizabeth as of a golden age. That great Queen has now been lying two hundred and thirty years in Henry the Seventh’s chapel. Yet her memory is still dear to the hearts of a free people. The truth seems to be that the government of the Tudors was, with a few occasional deviations, a popular government, under the forms of despotism. At first sight, it may seem that the prerogatives of Elizabeth were not less ample than those of Lewis the Fourteenth, and her parliaments were as obsequious as his parliaments, that her warrant had as much authority as his lettre de cachet. The extravagance with which her courtiers eulogized her personal and mental charms went beyond the adulation of Boileau and Moliere. Lewis would have blushed to receive from those who composed the gorgeous circles of Marli and Versailles such outward marks of servitude as the haughty Britoness exacted of all who approached her. But the authority of Lewis rested on the support of his army. The authority of Elizabeth rested solely on the support of her people. Those who say that her power was absolute do not sufficiently consider in what her power consisted. Her power consisted in the willing obedience of her subjects, in their attachment to her person and to her office, in their respect for the old line from which she sprang, in their sense of the general security which they enjoyed under her government. These were the means, and the only means, which she had at her command for carrying her decrees into execution, for resisting foreign enemies, and for crushing domestic treason. There was not a ward in the city, there was not a hundred in any shire in England, which could not have overpowered the handful of armed men who composed her household. If a hostile sovereign threatened invasion, if an ambitious noble raised the standard of revolt, she could have recourse only to the trainbands of her capital and the array of her counties, to the citizens and yeomen of England, commanded by the merchants and esquires of England. Thus, when intelligence arrived of the vast preparations which Philip was making for the subjugation of the realm, the first person to whom the government thought of applying for assistance was the Lord Mayor of London. They sent to ask him what force the city would engage to furnish for the defence of the kingdom against the Spaniards. The Mayor and Common Council, in return desired to know what force the Queen’s Highness wished them to furnish. The answer was, fifteen ships, and five thousand men. The Londoners deliberated on the matter, and, two days after, “humbly intreated the council, in sign of their perfect love and loyalty to prince and country, to accept ten thousand men, and thirty ships amply furnished.” People who could give such signs as these of their loyalty were by no means to be misgoverned with impunity. The English in the sixteenth century were, beyond all doubt, a free people. They had not, indeed, the outward show of freedom; but they had the reality. They had not as good a constitution as we have; but they had that without which the best constitution is as useless as the king’s proclamation against vice and immorality, that which, without any constitution, keeps rulers in awe, force, and the spirit to use it. Parliaments, it is true, were rarely held, and were not very respectfully treated. The great charter was often violated. But the people had a security against gross and systematic misgovernment, far stronger than all the parchment that was ever marked with the sign-manual, and than all the wax that was ever pressed by the great seal. It is a common error in politics to confound means with ends. Constitutions, charters, petitions of right, declarations of right, representative assemblies, electoral colleges, are not good government; nor do they, even when most elaborately constructed, necessarily produce good government. Laws exist in vain for those who have not the courage and the means to defend them. Electors meet in vain where want makes them the slaves of the landlord, or where superstition makes them the slaves of the priest. Representative assemblies sit in vain unless they have at their command, in the last resort the physical power which is necessary to make their deliberations free, and their votes effectual. The Irish are better represented in parliament than the Scotch, who indeed are not represented at all. But are the Irish better governed than the Scotch? Surely not. This circumstance has of late been used as an argument against reform. It proves nothing against reform. It proves only this, that laws have no magical, no supernatural, virtue; that laws do not act like Aladdin’s lamp or Prince Ahmed’s apple; that priestcraft, that ignorance, that the rage of contending factions, may make good institutions useless; that intelligence, sobriety, industry, moral freedom, firm union, may supply in a great measure the defects of the worst representative system. A people whose education and habits are such that, in every quarter of the world they rise above the mass of those with whom they mix, as surely as oil rises to the top of water, a people of such temper and self-government that the wildest popular excesses recorded in their history partake of the gravity of judicial proceedings, and of the solemnity of religious rites, a people whose national pride and mutual attachment have passed into a proverb, a people whose high and fierce spirit, so forcibly described in the haughty motto which encircles their thistle, preserved their independence, during a struggle of centuries, from the encroachments of wealthier and more powerful neighbours, such a people cannot be long oppressed. Any government, however constituted, must respect their wishes and tremble at their discontents. It is indeed most desirable that such a people should exercise a direct influence on the conduct of affairs, and should make their wishes known through constitutional organs. But some influence, direct or indirect, they will assuredly possess. Some organ, constitutional or unconstitutional, they will assuredly find. They will be better governed under a good constitution than under a bad constitution. But they will be better governed under the worst constitution than some other nations under the best. In any general classification of constitutions, the constitution of Scotland must be reckoned as one of the worst, perhaps as the worst, in Christian Europe. Yet the Scotch are not ill governed. And the reason is simply that they will not bear to be ill governed. In some of the Oriental monarchies, in Afghanistan for example, though there exists nothing which an European publicist would call a Constitution, the sovereign generally governs in conformity with certain rules established for the public benefit; and the sanction of those rules is, that every Afghan approves them, and that every Afghan is a soldier. The monarchy of England in the sixteenth century was a monarchy of this kind. It is called an absolute monarchy, because little respect was paid by the Tudors to those institutions which we have been accustomed to consider as the sole checks on the power of the sovereign. A modern Englishman can hardly understand how the people can have had any real security for good government under kings who levied benevolences, and chid the House of Commons as they would have chid a pack of dogs. People do not sufficiently consider that, though the legal cheeks were feeble, the natural checks were strong. There was one great and effectual limitation on the royal authority, the knowledge that, if the patience of the nation were severely tried, the nation would put forth its strength, and that its strength would be found irresistible. If a large body of Englishmen became thoroughly discontented, instead of presenting requisitions, holding large meetings, passing resolutions, signing petitions, forming associations and unions, they rose up; they took their halberds and their bows; and, if the sovereign was not sufficiently popular to find among his subjects other halberds and other bows to oppose to the rebels, nothing remained for him but a repetition of the horrible scenes of Berkeley and Pomfret, He had no regular army which could, by its superior arms and its superior skill, overawe or vanquish the sturdy Commons of his realm, abounding in the native hardihood of Englishmen, and trained in the simple discipline of the militia. It has been said that the Tudors were as absolute as the Caesars. Never was parallel so unfortunate. The government of the Tudors was the direct opposite to the government of Augustus and his successors. The Caesars ruled despotically, by means of a great standing army, under the decent forms of a republican constitution. They called themselves citizens. They mixed unceremoniously with other citizens. In theory they were only the elective magistrates of a free commonwealth. Instead of arrogating to themselves despotic power, they acknowledged allegiance to the senate. They were merely the lieutenants of that venerable body. They mixed in debate. They even appeared as advocates before the courts of law. Yet they could safely indulge in the wildest freaks of cruelty and rapacity, while their legions remained faithful. Our Tudors, on the other hand, under the titles and forms of monarchical supremacy, were essentially popular magistrates. They had no means of protecting themselves against the public hatred; and they were therefore compelled to court the public favour. To enjoy all the state and all the personal indulgences of absolute power, to be adored with Oriental prostrations, to dispose at will of the liberty and even of the life of ministers and courtiers, this nation granted to the Tudors. But the condition on which they were suffered to be the tyrants of Whitehall was that they should be the mild and paternal sovereigns of England. They were under the same restraints with regard to their people under which a military despot is placed with regard to his army. They would have found it as dangerous to grind their subjects with cruel taxation as Nero would have found it to leave his praetorians unpaid. Those who immediately surrounded the royal person, and engaged in the hazardous game of ambition, were exposed to the most fearful dangers. Buckingham, Cromwell, Surrey, Seymour of Sudeley, Somerset, Northumberland, Suffolk, Norfolk, Essex, perished on the scaffold. But in general the country gentleman hunted and the merchant traded in peace. Even Henry, as cruel as Domitian, but far more politic, contrived, while reeking with the blood of the Lamiae, to be a favourite with the cobblers. The Tudors committed very tyrannical acts. But in their ordinary dealings with the people they were not, and could not safely be, tyrants. Some excesses were easily pardoned. For the nation was proud of the high and fiery blood of its magnificent princes, and saw in many proceedings which a lawyer would even then have condemned, the outbreak of the same noble spirit which so manfully hurled foul scorn at Parma and at Spain. But to this endurance there was a limit. If the government ventured to adopt measures which the people really felt to be oppressive, it was soon compelled to change its course. When Henry the Eighth attempted to raise a forced loan of unusual amount by proceedings of unusual rigour, the opposition which he encountered was such as appalled even his stubborn and imperious spirit. The people, we are told, said that, if they were treated thus, “then were it worse than the taxes Of France; and England should be bond, and not free.” The county of Suffolk rose in arms. The king prudently yielded to an opposition which, if he had persisted, would, in all probability, have taken the form of a general rebellion. Towards the close of the reign of Elizabeth, the people felt themselves aggrieved by the monopolies. The Queen, proud and courageous as she was, shrank from a contest with the nation, and, with admirable sagacity, conceded all that her subjects had demanded, while it was yet in her power to concede with dignity and grace. It cannot be imagined that a people who had in their own hands the means of checking their princes would suffer any prince to impose upon them a religion generally detested. It is absurd to suppose that, if the nation had been decidedly attached to the Protestant faith, Mary could have re-established the Papal supremacy. It is equally absurd to suppose that, if the nation had been zealous for the ancient religion, Elizabeth could have restored the Protestant Church. The truth is, that the people were not disposed to engage in a struggle either for the new or for the old doctrines. Abundance of spirit was shown when it seemed likely that Mary would resume her father’s grants of church property, or that she would sacrifice the interests of England to the husband whom she regarded with unmerited tenderness. That queen found that it would be madness to attempt the restoration of the abbey lands. She found that her subjects would never suffer her to make her hereditary kingdom a fief of Castile. On these points she encountered a steady resistance, and was compelled to give way. If she was able to establish the Catholic worship and to persecute those who would not conform to it, it was evidently because the people cared far less for the Protestant religion than for the rights of property and for the independence of the English crown. In plain words, they did not think the difference between the hostile sects worth a struggle. There was undoubtedly a zealous Protestant party and a zealous Catholic party. But both these parties were, we believe, very small. We doubt, whether both together made up, at the time of Mary’s death, the twentieth part of the nation. The remaining nineteen twentieths halted between the two opinions, and were not disposed to risk a revolution in the government, for the purpose of giving to either of the extreme factions an advantage over the other. We possess no data which will enable us to compare with exactness the force of the two sects. Mr. Butler asserts that, even at the accession of James the First, a majority of the population of England were Catholics. This is pure assertion; and is not only unsupported by evidence, but, we think, completely disproved by the strongest evidence. Dr. Lingard is of opinion that the Catholics were one-half of the nation in the middle of the reign of Elizabeth. Rushton says that, when Elizabeth came to the throne, the Catholics were two-thirds of the nation, and the Protestants only one-third. The most judicious and impartial of English historians, Mr. Hallam, is, on the contrary, of opinion, that two-thirds were Protestants and only one-third Catholics. To us, we must confess, it seems, incredible that, if the Protestants were really two to one, they should have borne the government of Mary, or that, if the Catholics were really two to one, they should have borne the government of Elizabeth. We are at a loss to conceive how a sovereign who has no standing army, and whose power rests solely on the loyalty of his subjects, can continue for years to persecute a religion to which the majority of his subjects are sincerely attached. In fact, the Protestants did rise up against one sister, and the Catholics against the other. Those risings clearly showed how small and feeble both the parties were. Both in the one case and in the other the nation ranged itself on the side of the government, and the insurgents were speedily put down and punished. The Kentish gentlemen who took up arms for the reformed doctrines against Mary, and the great Northern Earls who displayed the banner of the Five Wounds against Elizabeth, were alike considered by the great body of their countrymen as wicked disturbers of the public peace. The account which Cardinal Bentivoglio gave of the state of religion in England well deserves consideration. The zealous Catholics he reckoned at one-thirtieth part of the nation. The people who would without the least scruple become Catholics, if the Catholic religion were established, he estimated at four-fifths of the nation. We believe this account to have been very near the truth. We believe that people, whose minds were made up on either side, who were inclined to make any sacrifice or run any risk for either religion, were very few. Each side had a few enterprising champions, and a few stout-hearted martyrs; but the nation, undetermined in its opinions and feelings, resigned itself implicitly to the guidance of the government, and lent to the sovereign for the time being an equally ready aid against either of the extreme parties. We are very far from saying that the English of that generation were irreligious. They held firmly those doctrines which are common to the Catholic and to the Protestant theology. But they had no fixed opinion as to the matters in dispute between the churches. They were in a situation resembling that of those Borderers whom Sir Walter Scott has described with so much spirit, “_Who sought the beeves that made their broth In England and in Scotland both_.” And who “_Nine times outlawed had been By England’s king and Scotland’s queen_.” They were sometimes Protestants, sometimes Catholics; sometimes half Protestants half Catholics. The English had not, for ages, been bigoted Papists. In the fourteenth century, the first and perhaps the greatest of the reformers, John Wicliffe, had stirred the public mind to its inmost depths. During the same century, a scandalous schism in the Catholic Church had diminished, in many parts of Europe, the reverence in which the Roman pontiffs were held. It is clear that, a hundred years before the time of Luther, a great party in this kingdom was eager for a change at least as extensive as that which was subsequently effected by Henry the Eighth. The House of Commons, in the reign of Henry the Fourth, proposed a confiscation of ecclesiastical property, more sweeping and violent even than that which took place under the administration of Thomas Cromwell; and, though defeated in this attempt, they succeeded in depriving the clerical order of some of its most oppressive privileges. The splendid conquests of Henry the Fifth turned the attention of the nation from domestic reform. The Council of Constance removed some of the grossest of those scandals which had deprived the Church of the public respect. The authority of that venerable synod propped up the sinking authority of the Popedom. A considerable reaction took place. It cannot, however, be doubted, that there was still some concealed Lollardism in England; or that many who did not absolutely dissent from any doctrine held by the Church of Rome were jealous of the wealth and power enjoyed by her ministers. At the very beginning of the reign of Henry the Eighth, a struggle took place between the clergy and the courts of law, in which the courts of law remained victorious. One of the bishops, on that occasion, declared that the common people entertained the strongest prejudices against his order, and that a clergyman had no chance of fair play before a lay tribunal. The London juries, he said, entertained such a spite to the Church that, if Abel were a priest, they would find him guilty of the murder of Cain. This was said a few months before the time when Martin Luther began to preach at Wittenburg against indulgences. As the Reformation did not find the English bigoted Papists, so neither was it conducted in such a manner as to make them zealous Protestants. It was not under the direction of men like that fiery Saxon who swore that he would go to Worms, though he had to face as many devils as there were tiles on the houses, or like that brave Switzer who was struck down while praying in front of the ranks of Zurich. No preacher of religion had the same power here which Calvin had at Geneva and Knox in Scotland. The government put itself early at the head of the movement, and thus acquired power to regulate, and occasionally to arrest, the movement. To many persons it appears extraordinary that Henry the Eighth should have been able to maintain himself so long in an intermediate position between the Catholic and Protestant parties. Most extraordinary it would indeed be, if we were to suppose that the nation consisted of none but decided Catholics and decided Protestants. The fact is that the great mass of the people was neither Catholic nor Protestant, but was, like its sovereign, midway between the two sects. Henry, in that very part of his conduct which has been represented as most capricious and inconsistent, was probably following a policy far more pleasing to the majority of his subjects than a policy like that of Edward, or a policy like that of Mary, would have been. Down even to the very close of the reign of Elizabeth, the people were in a state somewhat resembling that in which, as Machiavelli says, the inhabitants of the Roman empire were, during the transition from heathenism to Christianity; “sendo la maggior parte di loro incerti a quale Dio dovessero ricorrere.” They were generally, we think, favourable to the royal supremacy. They disliked the policy of the Court of Rome. Their spirit rose against the interference of a foreign priest with their national concerns. The bull which pronounced sentence of deposition against Elizabeth, the plots which were formed against her life, the usurpation of her titles by the Queen of Scotland, the hostility of Philip, excited their strongest indignation. The cruelties of Bonner were remembered with disgust. Some parts of the new system, the use of the English language, for example, in public worship, and the communion in both kinds, were undoubtedly popular. On the other hand, the early lessons of the nurse and the priest were not forgotten. The ancient ceremonies were long remembered with affectionate reverence. A large portion of the ancient theology lingered to the last in the minds which had been imbued with it in childhood. The best proof that the religion of the people was of this mixed kind is furnished by the Drama of that age. No man would bring unpopular opinions prominently forward in a play intended for representation. And we may safely conclude, that feelings and opinions which pervade the whole Dramatic Literature of a generation, are feelings and opinions of which the men of that generation generally partook. The greatest and most popular dramatists of the Elizabethan age treat religious subjects in a very remarkable manner. They speak respectfully of the fundamental doctrines of Christianity. But they speak neither like Catholics nor like Protestants, but like persons who are wavering between the two systems, or who have made a system for themselves out of parts selected from both. They seem to hold some of the Romish rites and doctrines in high respect. They treat the vow of celibacy, for example, so tempting, and, in later times, so common a subject for ribaldry, with mysterious reverence. Almost every member of a religious order whom they introduce is a holy and venerable man. We remember in their plays nothing resembling the coarse ridicule with which the Catholic religion and its ministers were assailed, two generations later, by dramatists who wished to please the multitude. We remember no Friar Dominic, no Father Foigard, among the characters drawn by those great poets. The scene at the close of the Knight of Malta might have been written by a fervent Catholic. Massinger shows a great fondness for ecclesiastics of the Romish Church, and has even gone so far as to bring a virtuous and interesting Jesuit on the stage. Ford, in that fine play which it is painful to read and scarcely decent to name, assigns a highly creditable part to the Friar. The partiality of Shakspeare for Friars is well known. In Hamlet, the Ghost complains that he died without extreme unction, and, in defiance of the article which condemns the doctrine of purgatory, declares that he is “Confined to fast in fires, Till the foul crimes, done in his days of nature, Are burnt and purged away.” These lines, we suspect, would have raised a tremendous storm In the theatre at any time during the reign of Charles the Second. They were clearly not written by a zealous Protestant, or for zealous Protestants. Yet the author of King John and Henry the Eighth was surely no friend to papal supremacy. There is, we think, only one solution of the phaenomena which we find in the history and in the drama of that age. The religion of the English was a mixed religion, like that of the Samaritan settlers, described in the second book of Kings, who “feared the Lord, and served their graven images”; like that of the Judaizing Christians who blended the ceremonies and doctrines of the synagogue with those of the church; like that of the Mexican Indians, who, during many generations after the subjugation of their race, continued to unite with the rites learned from their conquerors the worship of the grotesque idols which had been adored by Montezuma and Guatemozin. These feelings were not confined to the populace. Elizabeth herself was by no means exempt from them. A crucifix, with wax-lights burning round it, stood in her private chapel. She always spoke with disgust and anger of the marriage of priests. “I was in horror,” says Archbishop Parker, “to hear such words to come from her mild nature and Christian learned conscience, as she spake concerning God’s holy ordinance and institution of matrimony.” Burleigh prevailed on her to connive at the marriages of churchmen. But she would only connive; and the children sprung from such marriages were illegitimate till the accession of James the First. That which is, as we have said, the great stain on the character of Burleigh is also the great stain on the character of Elizabeth. Being herself an Adiaphorist, having no scruple about conforming to the Romish Church when conformity was necessary to her own safety, retaining to the last moment of her life a fondness for much of the doctrine and much of the ceremonial of that church, yet she subjected that church to a persecution even more odious than the persecution with which her sister had harassed the Protestants. We say more odious. For Mary had at least the plea of fanaticism. She did nothing for her religion which she was not prepared to suffer for it. She had held it firmly under persecution. She fully believed it to be essential to salvation. If she burned the bodies of her subjects, it was in order to rescue their souls. Elizabeth had no such pretext. In opinion, she was little more than half a Protestant. She had professed, when it suited her, to be wholly a Catholic. There is an excuse, a wretched excuse, for the massacres of Piedmont and the Autos da fe of Spain. But what can be said in defence of a ruler who is at once indifferent and intolerant? If the great Queen, whose memory is still held in just veneration by Englishmen, had possessed sufficient virtue and sufficient enlargement of mind to adopt those principles which More, wiser in speculation than in action, had avowed in the preceding generation, and by which the excellent L’Hospital regulated his conduct in her own time, how different would be the colour of the whole history of the last two hundred and fifty years! She had the happiest opportunity ever vouchsafed to any sovereign of establishing perfect freedom of conscience throughout her dominions, without danger to her government, without scandal to any large party among her subjects. The nation, as it was clearly ready to profess either religion, would, beyond all doubt, have been ready to tolerate both. Unhappily for her own glory and for the public peace, she adopted a policy from the effects of which the empire is still suffering. The yoke of the Established Church was pressed down on the people till they would bear it no longer. Then a reaction came. Another reaction followed. To the tyranny of the establishment succeeded the tumultuous conflict of sects, infuriated by manifold wrongs, and drunk with unwonted freedom. To the conflict of sects succeeded again the cruel domination of one persecuting church. At length oppression put off its most horrible form, and took a milder aspect. The penal laws which had been framed for the protection of the established church were abolished. But exclusions and disabilities still remained. These exclusions and disabilities, after having generated the most fearful discontents, after having rendered all government in one part of the kingdom impossible, after having brought the state to the very brink of ruin, have, in our times, been removed, but, though removed have left behind them a rankling which may last for many years. It is melancholy to think with what case Elizabeth might have united all conflicting sects under the shelter of the same impartial laws and the same paternal throne, and thus have placed the nation in the same situation, as far as the rights of conscience are concerned, in which we at last stand, after all the heart-burnings, the persecutions, the conspiracies, the seditions, the revolutions, the judicial murders, the civil wars, of ten generations. This is the dark side of her character. Yet she surely was a great woman. Of all the sovereigns who exercised a power which was seemingly absolute, but which in fact depended for support on the love and confidence of their subjects, she was by far the most illustrious. It has often been alleged as an excuse for the misgovernment of her successors that they only followed her example, that precedents might be found in the transactions of her reign for persecuting the Puritans, for levying money without the sanction of the House of Commons, for confining men without bringing them to trial, for interfering with the liberty of parliamentary debate. All this may be true. But it is no good plea for her successors; and for this plain reason, that they were her successors. She governed one generation, they governed another; and between the two generations there was almost as little in common as between the people of two different countries. It was not by looking at the particular measures which Elizabeth had adopted, but by looking at the great general principles of her government, that those who followed her were likely to learn the art of managing untractable subjects. If, instead of searching the records of her reign for precedents which might seem to vindicate the mutilation of Prynne and the imprisonment of Eliot, the Stuarts had attempted to discover the fundamental rules which guided her conduct in all her dealings with her people, they would have perceived that their policy was then most unlike to hers, when to a superficial observer it would have seemed most to resemble hers. Firm, haughty, sometimes unjust and cruel, in her proceedings towards individuals or towards small parties, she avoided with care, or retracted with speed, every measure which seemed likely to alienate the great mass of the people. She gained more honour and more love by the manner in which she repaired her errors than she would have gained by never committing errors. If such a man as Charles the First had been in her place when the whole nation was crying out against the monopolies, he would have refused all redress. He would have dissolved the Parliament, and imprisoned the most popular members. He would have called another Parliament. He would have given some vague and delusive promises of relief in return for subsidies. When entreated to fulfil his promises, he would have again dissolved the Parliament, and again imprisoned his leading opponents. The country would have become more agitated than before. The next House of Commons would have been more unmanageable than that which preceded it. The tyrant would have agreed to all that the nation demanded. He would have solemnly ratified an act abolishing monopolies for ever. He would have received a large supply in return for this concession; and within half a year new patents, more oppressive than those which had been cancelled, would have been issued by scores. Such was the policy which brought the heir of a long line of kings, in early youth the darling of his countrymen, to a prison and a scaffold. Elizabeth, before the House of Commons could address her, took out of their mouths the words which they were about to utter in the name of the nation. Her promises went beyond their desires. Her performance followed close upon her promise. She did not treat the nation as an adverse party, as a party which had an interest opposed to hers, as a party to which she was to grant as few advantages as possible, and from which she was to extort as much money as possible. Her benefits were given, not sold; and, when once given, they were never withdrawn. She gave them too with a frankness, an effusion of heart, a princely dignity, a motherly tenderness, which enhanced their value. They were received by the sturdy country gentlemen who had come up to Westminster full of resentment, with tears of joy, and shouts of “God save the Queen.” Charles the First gave up half the prerogatives of his crown to the Commons; and the Commons sent him in return the Grand Remonstrance. We had intended to say something concerning that illustrious group of which Elizabeth is the central figure, that group which the last of the bards saw in vision from the top of Snowdon, encircling the Virgin Queen, “Many a baron bold, And gorgeous dames and statesmen old In bearded majesty.” We had intended to say something concerning the dexterous Walsingham, the impetuous Oxford, the graceful Sackville, the all-accomplished Sydney; concerning Essex, the ornament of the court and of the camp, the model of chivalry, the munificent patron of genius, whom great virtues, great courage, great talents, the favour of his sovereign, the love of his countrymen, all that seemed to ensure a happy and glorious life, led to an early and an ignominious death, concerning Raleigh, the soldier, the sailor, the scholar, the courtier, the orator, the poet, the historian, the philosopher, whom we picture to ourselves, sometimes reviewing the Queen’s guard, sometimes giving chase to a Spanish galleon, then answering the chiefs of the country party in the House of Commons, then again murmuring one of his sweet love-songs too near the ears of her Highness’s maids of honour, and soon after poring over the Talmud, or collating Polybius with Livy. We had intended also to say something concerning the literature of that splendid period, and especially concerning those two incomparable men, the Prince of Poets, and the Prince of Philosophers, who have made the Elizabethan age a more glorious and important era in the history of the human mind than the age of Pericles, of Augustus, or of Leo. But subjects so vast require a space far larger than we can at present afford. We therefore stop here, fearing that, if we proceed, our article may swell to a bulk exceeding that of all other reviews, as much as Dr. Nares’s book exceeds the bulk of all other histories. JOHN HAMPDEN _(December 1831) Some Memorials of John Hampden, his Party, and his Times. By LORD NUGENT. Two vols. 8vo. London: 1831._ WE have read this book with great pleasure, though not exactly with that kind of pleasure which we had expected. We had hoped that Lord Nugent would have been able to collect, from family papers and local traditions, much new and interesting information respecting the life and character of the renowned leader of the Long Parliament, the first of those great English commoners whose plain addition of Mister has, to our ears, a more majestic sound than the proudest of the feudal titles. In this hope we have been disappointed; but assuredly not from any want of zeal or diligence on the part of the noble biographer. Even at Hampden, there are, it seems, no important papers relating to the most illustrious proprietor of that ancient domain. The most valuable memorials of him which still exist, belong to the family of his friend Sir John Eliot. Lord Eliot has furnished the portrait which is engraved for this work, together with some very interesting letters. The portrait is undoubtedly an original, and probably the only original now in existence. The intellectual forehead, the mild penetration of the eye, and the inflexible resolution expressed by the lines of the mouth, sufficiently guarantee the likeness. We shall probably make some extracts from the letters. They contain almost all the new information that Lord Nugent has been able to procure respecting the private pursuits of the great man whose memory he worships with an enthusiastic, but not extravagant veneration. The public life of Hampden is surrounded by no obscurity. His history, more particularly from the year 1640 to his death, is the history of England. These Memoirs must be considered as Memoirs of the history of England; and, as such, they well deserve to be attentively perused. They contain some curious facts which, to us at least, are new, much spirited narrative, many judicious remarks, and much eloquent declamation. We are not sure that even the want of information respecting the private character of Hampden is not in itself a circumstance as strikingly characteristic as any which the most minute chronicler, O’Meara, Mrs. Thrale, or Boswell himself, ever recorded concerning their heroes. The celebrated Puritan leader is an almost solitary instance of a great man who neither sought nor shunned greatness, who found glory only because glory lay in the plain path of duty. During more than forty years he was known to his country neighbours as a gentleman of cultivated mind, of high principles, of polished address, happy in his family, and active in the discharge of local duties; and to political men as an honest, industrious, and sensible member of Parliament, not eager to display his talents, stanch to his party and attentive to the interests of his constituents. A great and terrible crisis came. A direct attack was made by an arbitrary government on a sacred right of Englishmen, on a right which was the chief security for all their other rights. The nation looked round for a defender. Calmly and unostentatiously the plain Buckinghamshire Esquire placed himself at the head of his countrymen, and right before the face and across the path of tyranny. The times grew darker and more troubled. Public service, perilous, arduous, delicate, was required, and to every service the intellect and the courage of this wonderful man were found fully equal. He became a debater of the first order, a most dexterous manager of the House of Commons, a negotiator, a soldier. He governed a fierce and turbulent assembly, abounding in able men, as easily as he had governed his family. He showed himself as competent to direct a campaign as to conduct the business of the petty sessions. We can scarcely express the admiration which we feel for a mind so great, and, at the same time, so healthful and so well proportioned, so willingly contracting itself to the humblest duties, so easily expanding itself to the highest, so contented in repose, so powerful in action. Almost every part of this virtuous and blameless life which is not hidden from us in modest privacy is a precious and splendid portion of our national history. Had the private conduct of Hampden afforded the slightest pretence for censure, he would have been assailed by the same blind malevolence which, in defiance of the clearest proofs, still continues to call Sir John Eliot an assassin. Had there been even any weak part in the character of Hampden, had his manners been in any respect open to ridicule, we may be sure that no mercy would have been shown to him by the writers of Charles’s faction. Those writers have carefully preserved every little circumstance which could tend to make their opponents odious or contemptible. They have made themselves merry with the cant of injudicious zealots. They have told us that Pym broke down in speech, that Ireton had his nose pulled by Hollis, that the Earl of Northumberland cudgelled Henry Martin, that St. John’s manners were sullen, that Vane had an ugly face, that Cromwell had a red nose. But neither the artful Clarendon nor the scurrilous Denham could venture to throw the slightest imputation on the morals or the manners of Hampden. What was the opinion entertained respecting him by the best men of his time we learn from Baxter. That eminent person, eminent not only for his piety and his fervid devotional eloquence, but for his moderation, his knowledge of political affairs, and his skill in judging of characters, declared in the Saint’s Rest, that one of the pleasures which he hoped to enjoy in heaven was the society of Hampden. In the editions printed after the Restoration, the name of Hampden was omitted. “But I must tell the reader,” says Baxter, “that I did blot it out, not as changing my opinion of the person.... Mr. John Hampden was one that friends and enemies acknowledged to be most eminent for prudence, piety, and peaceable counsels, having the most universal praise of any gentleman that I remember of that age. I remember a moderate, prudent, aged gentleman, far from him, but acquainted with him, whom I have heard saying, that if he might choose what person he would be then in the world, he would be John Hampden.” We cannot but regret that we have not fuller memorials of a man who, after passing through the most severe temptations by which human virtue can be tried, after acting a most conspicuous part in a revolution and a civil war, could yet deserve such praise as this from such authority. Yet the want of memorials is surely the best proof that hatred itself could find no blemish on his memory. The story of his early life is soon told. He was the head of a family which had been settled in Buckinghamshire before the Conquest. Part of the estate which he inherited had been bestowed by Edward the Confessor on Baldwyn de Hampden, whose name seems to indicate that he was one of the Norman favourites of the last Saxon king. During the contest between the houses of York and Lancaster, the Hampdens adhered to the party of the Red Rose, and were, consequently, persecuted by Edward the Fourth, and favoured by Henry the Seventh. Under the Tudors, the family was great and flourishing. Griffith Hampden, high sheriff of Buckinghamshire, entertained Elizabeth with great magnificence at his seat. His son, William Hampden, sate in the Parliament which that Queen summoned in the year 1593. William married Elizabeth Cromwell, aunt of the celebrated man who afterwards governed the British islands with more than regal power; and from this marriage sprang John Hampden. He was born in 1594. In 1597 his father died, and left him heir to a very large estate. After passing some years at the grammar school of Thame, young Hampden was sent, at fifteen, to Magdalen College, in the University of Oxford. At nineteen, he was admitted a student of the Inner Temple, where he made himself master of the principles of the English law. In 1619 he married Elizabeth Symeon, a lady to whom he appears to have been fondly attached. In the following year he was returned to parliament by a borough which has in our time obtained a miserable celebrity, the borough of Grampound. Of his private life during his early years little is known beyond what Clarendon has told us. “In his entrance into the world,” says that great historian, “he indulged himself in all the licence in sports, and exercises, and company, which were used by men of the most jolly conversation.” A remarkable change, however, passed on his character. “On a sudden,” says Clarendon, “from a life of great pleasure and licence, he retired to extraordinary sobriety and strictness, to a more reserved and melancholy society.” It is probable that this change took place when Hampden was about twenty-five years old. At that age he was united to a woman whom he loved and esteemed. At that age he entered into political life. A mind so happily constituted as his would naturally, under such circumstances, relinquish the pleasures of dissipation for domestic enjoyments and public duties. His enemies have allowed that he was a man in whom virtue showed itself in its mildest and least austere form. With the morals of a Puritan, he had the manners of an accomplished courtier. Even after the change in his habits, “he preserved,” says Clarendon, “his own natural cheerfulness and vivacity, and, above all, a flowing courtesy to all men.” These qualities distinguished him from most of the members of his sect and his party, and, in the great crisis in which he afterwards took a principal part, were of scarcely less service to the country than his keen sagacity and his dauntless courage. In January 1621, Hampden took his seat in the House of Commons. His mother was exceedingly desirous that her son should obtain a peerage. His family, his possessions, and his personal accomplishments were such as would, in any age, have justified him in pretending to that honour. But in the reign of James the First there was one short cut to the House of Lords. It was but to ask, to pay, and to have. The sale of titles was carried on as openly as the sale of boroughs in our times. Hampden turned away with contempt from the degrading honours with which his family desired to see him invested, and attached himself to the party which was in opposition to the court. It was about this time, as Lord Nugent has justly remarked, that parliamentary opposition began to take a regular form. From a very early age, the English had enjoyed a far larger share of liberty than had fallen to the lot of any neighbouring people. How it chanced that a country conquered and enslaved by invaders, a country of which the soil had been portioned out among foreign adventurers and of which the laws were written in a foreign tongue, a country given over to that worst tyranny, the tyranny of caste over caste, should have become the seat of civil liberty, the object of the admiration and envy of surrounding states, is one of the most obscure problems in the philosophy of history. But the fact is certain. Within a century and a half after the Norman conquest, the Great Charter was conceded. Within two centuries after the Conquest, the first House of Commons met. Froissart tells us, what indeed his whole narrative sufficiently proves, that of all the nations of the fourteenth century, the English were the least disposed to endure oppression. “C’est le plus périlleux peuple qui soit au monde, et plus outrageux et orgueilleux.” The good canon probably did not perceive that all the prosperity and internal peace which this dangerous people enjoyed were the fruits of the spirit which he designates as proud and outrageous. He has, however, borne ample testimony to the effect, though he was not sagacious enough to trace it to its cause. “En le royaume d’Angleterre,” says he, “toutes gens, laboureurs et marchands, ont appris de vivre en paix, et à mener leurs marchandises paisiblement, et les laboureurs labourer.” In the fifteenth century, though England was convulsed by the struggle between the two branches of the royal family, the physical and moral condition of the people continued to improve. Villenage almost wholly disappeared. The calamities of war were little felt, except by those who bore arms. The oppressions of the government were little felt, except by the aristocracy. The institutions of the country when compared with the institutions of the neighbouring kingdoms, seem to have been not undeserving of the praises of Fortescue. The government of Edward the Fourth, though we call it cruel and arbitrary, was humane and liberal when compared with that of Lewis the Eleventh, or that of Charles the Bold. Comines, who had lived amidst the wealthy cities of Flanders, and who had visited Florence and Venice, had never seen a people so well governed as the English. “Or selon mon avis,” says he, “entre toutes les seigneuries du monde, dont j’ay connoissance, ou la chose publique est miel traitée, et ou règne moins de violence sur le peuple, et ou il n’y a nuls édifices abbatus n’y démolis pour guerre, c’est Angleterre; et tombe le sort et le malheur sur ceux qui font la guerre.” About the close of the fifteenth and the commencement of the sixteenth century, a great portion of the influence which the aristocracy had possessed passed to the crown. No English king has ever enjoyed such absolute power as Henry the Eighth. But while the royal prerogatives were acquiring strength at the expense of the nobility, two great revolutions took place, destined to be the parents of many revolutions, the invention of Printing, and the reformation of the Church. The immediate effect of the Reformation in England was by no means favourable to political liberty. The authority which had been exercised by the Popes was transferred almost entire to the King. Two formidable powers which had often served to check each other were united in a single despot. If the system on which the founders of the Church of England acted could have been permanent, the Reformation would have been, in a political sense, the greatest curse that ever fell on our country. But that system carried within it the seeds of its own death. It was possible to transfer the name of Head of the Church from Clement to Henry; but it was impossible to transfer to the new establishment the veneration which the old establishment had inspired. Mankind had not broken one yoke in pieces only in order to put on another. The supremacy of the Bishop of Rome had been for ages considered as a fundamental principle of Christianity. It had for it everything that could make a prejudice deep and strong, venerable antiquity, high authority, general consent. It had been taught in the first lessons of the nurse. It was taken for granted in all the exhortations of the priest. To remove it was to break innumerable associations, and to give a great and perilous shock to the principles. Yet this prejudice, strong as it was, could not stand in the great day of the deliverance of the human reason. And it was not to be expected that the public mind, just after freeing itself by an unexampled effort, from a bondage which it had endured for ages, would patiently submit to a tyranny which could plead no ancient title. Rome had at least prescription on its side. But Protestant intolerance, despotism in an upstart sect, infallibility claimed by guides who acknowledged that they had passed the greater part of their lives in error, restraints imposed on the liberty of private judgment at the pleasure of rulers who could vindicate their own proceedings only by asserting the liberty of private judgment, these things could not long be borne. Those who had pulled down the crucifix could not long continue to persecute for the surplice. It required no great sagacity to perceive the inconsistency and dishonesty of men who, dissenting from almost all Christendom, would suffer none to dissent from themselves, who demanded freedom of conscience, yet refused to grant it, who execrated persecution, yet persecuted, who urged reason against the authority of one opponent, and authority against the reasons of another. Bonner acted at least in accordance with his own principles. Cranmer could vindicate himself from the charge of being a heretic only by arguments which made him out to be a murderer. Thus the system on which the English Princes acted with respect to ecclesiastical affairs for some time after the Reformation was a system too obviously unreasonable to be lasting. The public mind moved while the government moved, but would not stop where the government stopped. The same impulse which had carried millions away from the Church of Rome continued to carry them forward in the same direction. As Catholics had become Protestants, Protestants became Puritans; and the Tudors and Stuarts were as unable to avert the latter change as the Popes had been to avert the former. The dissenting party increased and became strong under every kind of discouragement and oppression. They were a sect. The government persecuted them; and they became an opposition. The old constitution of England furnished to them the means of resisting the sovereign without breaking the law. They were the majority of the House of Commons. They had the power of giving or withholding supplies; and, by a judicious exercise of this power, they might hope to take from the Church its usurped authority over the consciences of men, and from the Crown some part of the vast prerogative which it had recently acquired at the expense of the nobles and of the Pope. The faint beginnings of this memorable contest may be discerned early in the reign of Elizabeth. The conduct of her last Parliament made it clear that one of those great revolutions which policy may guide but cannot stop was in progress. It was on the question of monopolies that the House of Commons gained its first great victory over the throne. The conduct of the extraordinary woman who then governed England is an admirable study for politicians who live in unquiet times. It shows how thoroughly she understood the people whom she ruled, and the crisis in which she was called to act. What she held she held firmly. What she gave she gave graciously. She saw that it was necessary to make a concession to the nation; and she made it not grudgingly, not tardily, not as a matter of bargain and sale, not, in a word, as Charles the First would have made it, but promptly and cordially. Before a bill could be framed or an address presented, she applied a remedy to the evil of which the nation complained. She expressed in the warmest terms her gratitude to her faithful Commons for detecting abuses which interested persons had concealed from her. If her successors had inherited her wisdom with her crown, Charles the First might have died of old age, and James the Second would never have seen St. Germains. She died; and the kingdom passed to one who was, in his own opinion, the greatest master of king-craft that ever lived, but who was, in truth, one of those kings whom God seems to send for the express purpose of hastening revolutions. Of all the enemies of liberty whom Britain has produced, he was at once the most harmless and the most provoking. His office resembled that of the man who, in a Spanish bull-fight, goads the torpid savage to fury, by shaking a red rag in the air, and by now and then throwing a dart, sharp enough to sting, but too small to injure. The policy of wise tyrants has always been to cover their violent acts with popular forms. James was always obtruding his despotic theories on his subjects without the slightest necessity. His foolish talk exasperated them infinitely more than forced loans or benevolences would have done. Yet, in practice, no king ever held his prerogatives less tenaciously. He neither gave way gracefully to the advancing spirit of liberty nor took vigorous measures to stop it, but retreated before it with ludicrous haste, blustering and insulting as he retreated. The English people had been governed during near a hundred and fifty years by Princes who, whatever might be their frailties or their vices, had all possessed great force of character, and who, whether beloved or hated, had always been feared. Now, at length, for the first time since the day when the sceptre of Henry the Fourth dropped from the hand of his lethargic grandson, England had a king whom she despised. The follies and vices of the man increased the contempt which was produced by the feeble policy of the sovereign. The indecorous gallantries of the Court, the habits of gross intoxication in which even the ladies indulged, were alone sufficient to disgust a people whose manners were beginning to be strongly tinctured with austerity. But these were trifles. Crimes of the most frightful kind had been discovered; others were suspected. The strange story of the Gowries was not forgotten. The ignominious fondness of the King for his minions, the perjuries, the sorceries, the poisonings, which his chief favourites had planned within the walls of his palace, the pardon which, in direct violation of his duty and of his word, he had granted to the mysterious threats of a murderer, made him an object of loathing to many of his subjects. What opinion grave and moral persons residing at a distance from the Court entertained respecting him, we learn from Mrs. Hutchinson’s Memoirs. England was no place, the seventeenth century no time, for Sporus and Locusta. This was not all. The most ridiculous weaknesses seemed to meet in the wretched Solomon of Whitehall, pedantry, buffoonery, garrulity, low curiosity, the most contemptible personal cowardice. Nature and education had done their best to produce a finished specimen of all that a king ought not to be. His awkward figure, his rolling eye, his rickety walk, his nervous tremblings, his slobbering mouth, his broad Scotch accent, were imperfections which might have been found in the best and greatest man. Their effect, however, was to make James and his office objects of contempt, and to dissolve those associations which had been created by the noble bearing of preceding monarchs, and which were in themselves no inconsiderable fence to royalty. The sovereign whom James most resembled was, we think, Claudius Caesar. Both had the same feeble vacillating temper, the same childishness, the same coarseness, the same poltroonery. Both were men of learning; bath wrote and spoke, not, indeed, well, but still in a manner in which it seems almost incredible that men so foolish should have written or spoken. The follies and indecencies of James are well described in the words which Suetonius uses respecting Claudius: “Multa talia, etiam privatis deformia, nedum principi, neque infacundo, neque indocto, immo etiam pertinaciter liberalibus studiis dedito.” The description given by Suetonius of the manner in which the Roman prince transacted business exactly suits the Briton. “In cognoscendo ac decernendo mira varietate animi fuit, modo circumspectus et sagax, modo inconsultus ac praeceps, nonnunquam frivolus amentique similis.” Claudius was ruled successively by two bad women: James successively by two bad men. Even the description of the person of Claudius, which we find in the ancient memoirs, might, in many points, serve for that of James. “Ceterum et ingredientem destituebant poplites minus firmi, et remisse quid vel serio, agentem multa dehonestabant, risus indecens, ira turpior, spumante rictu, praeterea linguae titubantia.” The Parliament which James had called soon after his accession had been refractory. His second Parliament, called in the spring of 1614, had been more refractory still. It had been dissolved after a session of two months; and during six years the King had governed without having recourse to the legislature. During those six years, melancholy and disgraceful events, at home and abroad, had followed one another in rapid succession; the divorce of Lady Essex, the murder of Overbury, the elevation of Villiers, the pardon of Somerset, the disgrace of Coke, the execution of Raleigh, the battle of Prague, the invasion of the Palatinate by Spinola, the ignominious flight of the son-in-law of the English king, the depression of the Protestant interest all over the Continent. All the extraordinary modes by which James could venture to raise money had been tried. His necessities were greater than ever; and he was compelled to summon the Parliament in which Hampden first appeared as a public man. This Parliament lasted about twelve months. During that time it visited with deserved punishment several of those who, during the preceding six years, had enriched themselves by peculation and monopoly. Mitchell, one of the grasping patentees who had purchased of the favourite the power of robbing the nation, was fined and imprisoned for life. Mompesson, the original, it is said, of Massinger’s Overreach, was outlawed and deprived of his ill-gotten wealth. Even Sir Edward Villiers, the brother of Buckingham, found it convenient to leave England. A greater name is to be added to the ignominious list. By this Parliament was brought to justice that illustrious philosopher whose memory genius has half redeemed from the infamy due to servility, to ingratitude, and to corruption. After redressing internal grievances, the Commons proceeded to take into consideration the state of Europe. The King flew into a rage with them for meddling with such matters, and, with characteristic judgment, drew them into a controversy about the origin of their House and of its privileges. When he found that he could not convince them, he dissolved them in a passion, and sent some of the leaders of the Opposition to ruminate on his logic in prison. During the time which elapsed between this dissolution and the meeting of the next Parliament, took place the celebrated negotiation respecting the Infanta. The would-be despot was unmercifully browbeaten. The would-be Solomon was ridiculously over-reached. Steenie, in spite of the begging and sobbing of his dear dad and gossip, carried off baby Charles in triumph to Madrid. The sweet lads, as James called them, came back safe, but without their errand. The great master of king-craft, in looking for a Spanish match, had found a Spanish war. In February 1624, a Parliament met, during the whole sitting of which, James was a mere puppet in the hands of his baby, and of his poor slave and dog. The Commons were disposed to support the King in the vigorous policy which his favourite urged him to adopt. But they were not disposed to place any confidence in their feeble sovereign and his dissolute courtiers, or to relax in their efforts to remove public grievances. They therefore lodged the money which they voted for the war in the hands of Parliamentary Commissioners. They impeached the treasurer, Lord Middlesex, for corruption, and they passed a bill by which patents of monopoly were declared illegal. Hampden did not, during the reign of James, take any prominent part in public affairs. It is certain, however, that he paid great attention to the details of Parliamentary business, and to the local interests of his own country. It was in a great measure owing to his exertions that Wendover and some other boroughs on which the popular party could depend recovered the elective franchise, in spite of the opposition of the Court. The health of the King had for some time been declining. On the twenty-seventh of March 1625, he expired. Under his weak rule, the spirit of liberty had grown strong, and had become equal to a great contest. The contest was brought on by the policy of his successor. Charles bore no resemblance to his father. He was not a driveller, or a pedant, or a buffoon, or a coward. It would be absurd to deny that he was a scholar and a gentleman, a man of exquisite tastes in the fine arts, a man of strict morals in private life. His talents for business were respectable; his demeanour was kingly. But he was false, imperious, obstinate, narrow-minded, ignorant of the temper of his people, unobservant of the signs of his times. The whole principle of his government was resistance to public opinion; nor did he make any real concession to that opinion till it mattered not whether he resisted or conceded, till the nation, which had long ceased to love him or to trust him, had at last ceased to fear him. His first Parliament met in June 1625. Hampden sat in it as burgess for Wendover. The King wished for money. The Commons wished for the redress of grievances. The war, however, could not be carried on without funds. The plan of the Opposition was, it should seem, to dole out supplies by small sums, in order to prevent a speedy dissolution. They gave the King two subsidies only, and proceeded to complain that his ships had been employed against the Huguenots in France, and to petition in behalf of the Puritans who were persecuted in England. The King dissolved them, and raised money by Letters under his Privy Seal. The supply fell far short of what he needed; and, in the spring of 1626, he called together another Parliament. In this Parliament Hampden again sat for Wendover. The Commons resolved to grant a very liberal supply, but to defer the final passing of the act for that purpose till the grievances of the nation should be redressed. The struggle which followed far exceeded in violence any that had yet taken place. The Commons impeached Buckingham. The King threw the managers of the impeachment into prison. The Commons denied the right of the King to levy tonnage and poundage without their consent. The King dissolved them. They put forth a remonstrance. The King circulated a declaration vindicating his measures, and committed some of the most distinguished members of the Opposition to close custody. Money was raised by a forced loan, which was apportioned among the people according to the rate at which they had been respectively assessed to the last subsidy. On this occasion it was, that Hampden made his first stand for the fundamental principle of the English constitution. He positively refused to lend a farthing. He was required to give his reasons. He answered, “that he could be content to lend as well as others, but feared to draw upon himself that curse in Magna Charta which should be read twice a year against those who infringe it.” For this spirited answer, the Privy Council committed him close prisoner to the Gate House. After some time, he was again brought up; but he persisted in his refusal, and was sent to a place of confinement in Hampshire. The government went on, oppressing at home, and blundering in all its measures abroad. A war was foolishly undertaken against France, and more foolishly conducted. Buckingham led an expedition against Rhé, and failed ignominiously. In the mean time soldiers were billeted on the people. Crimes of which ordinary justice should have taken cognisance were punished by martial law. Near eighty gentlemen were imprisoned for refusing to contribute to the forced loan. The lower people who showed any signs of insubordination were pressed into the fleet, or compelled to serve in the army. Money, however, came in slowly; and the King was compelled to summon another Parliament. In the hope of conciliating his subjects, he set at liberty the persons who had been imprisoned for refusing to comply with his unlawful demands. Hampden regained his freedom, and was immediately re-elected burgess for Wendover. Early in 1628 the Parliament met. During its first session, the Commons prevailed on the King, after many delays and much equivocation, to give, in return for five subsidies, his full and solemn assent to that celebrated instrument, the second great charter of the liberties of England, known by the name of the Petition of Right. By agreeing to this act, the King bound himself to raise no taxes without the consent of Parliament, to imprison no man except by legal process, to billet no more soldiers on the people, and to leave the cognisance of offences to the ordinary tribunals. In the summer, this memorable Parliament was prorogued. It met again in January 1629. Buckingham was no more. That weak, violent, and dissolute adventurer, who, with no talents or acquirements but those of a mere courtier, had, in a great crisis of foreign and domestic politics, ventured on the part of prime minister, had fallen, during the recess of Parliament, by the hand of an assassin. Both before and after his death the war had been feebly and unsuccessfully conducted. The King had continued, in direct violation of the Petition of Right, to raise tonnage and poundage without the consent of Parliament. The troops had again been billeted on the people; and it was clear to the Commons that the five subsidies which they had given as the price of the national liberties had been given in vain. They met accordingly in no complying humour. They took into their most serious consideration the measures of the government concerning tonnage and poundage. They summoned the officers of the custom-house to their bar. They interrogated the barons of the exchequer. They committed one of the sheriffs of London. Sir John Eliot, a distinguished member of the Opposition, and an intimate friend of Hampden, proposed a resolution condemning the unconstitutional imposition. The Speaker said that the King had commanded him to put no such question to the vote. This decision produced the most violent burst of feeling ever seen within the walls of Parliament. Hayman remonstrated vehemently against the disgraceful language which had been heard from the chair. Eliot dashed the paper which contained his resolution on the floor of the House. Valentine and Hollis held the Speaker down in his seat by main force, and read the motion amidst the loudest shouts. The door was locked. The key was laid on the table. Black Rod knocked for admittance in vain. After passing several strong resolutions, the House adjourned. On the day appointed for its meeting it was dissolved by the King, and several of its most eminent members, among whom were Hollis and Sir John Eliot, were committed to prison. Though Hampden had as yet taken little part in the debates of the House, he had been a member of many very important committees, and had read and written much concerning the law of Parliament. A manuscript volume of Parliamentary cases, which is still in existence, contains many extracts from his notes. He now retired to the duties and pleasures of a rural life. During the eleven years which followed the dissolution of the Parliament of 1628, he resided at his seat in one of the most beautiful parts of the county of Buckingham. The house, which has since his time been greatly altered, and which is now, we believe, almost entirely neglected, was an old English mansion, built in the days of the Plantagenets and the Tudors. It stood on the brow of a hill which overlooks a narrow valley. The extensive woods which surround it were pierced by long avenues. One of those avenues the grandfather of the great statesman had cut for the approach of Elizabeth; and the opening which is still visible for many miles, retains the name of the Queen’s Gap. In this delightful retreat, Hampden passed several years, performing with great activity all the duties of a landed gentleman and a magistrate, and amusing himself with books and with field sports. He was not in his retirement unmindful of his persecuted friends. In particular, he kept up a close correspondence with Sir John Eliot, who was confined in the Tower. Lord Nugent has published several of the Letters. We may perhaps be fanciful; but it seems to us that every one of them is an admirable illustration of some part of the character of Hampden which Clarendon has drawn. Some of the correspondence relates to the two sons of Sir John Eliot. These young men were wild and unsteady; and their father, who was now separated from them, was naturally anxious about their conduct. He at length resolved to send one of them to France, and the other to serve a campaign in the Low Countries. The letter which we subjoin shows that Hampden, though rigorous towards himself, was not uncharitable towards others, and that his puritanism was perfectly compatible with the sentiments and the tastes of an accomplished gentleman. It also illustrates admirably what has been said of him by Clarendon: “He was of that rare affability and temper in debate, and of that seeming humility and submission of judgment, as if he brought no opinion of his own with him, but a desire of information and instruction. Yet he had so subtle a way of interrogating, and, under cover of doubts, insinuating his objections, that he infused his own opinions into those from whom he pretended to learn and receive them.” The letter runs thus: “I am so perfectly acquainted with your clear insight into the dispositions of men, and ability to fit them with courses suitable, that, had you bestowed sons of mine as you have done your own, my judgment durst hardly have called it into question, especially when, in laying the design, you have prevented the objections to be made against it. For if Mr. Richard Eliot will, in the intermissions of action, add study to practice, and adorn that lively spirit with flowers of contemplation, he will raise our expectations of another Sir Edward Vere, that had this character--all summer in the field, all winter in his study--in whose fall fame makes this kingdom a greater loser; and, having taken this resolution from counsel with the highest wisdom, as I doubt not you have, I hope and pray that the same power will crown it with a blessing answerable to our wish. The way you take with my other friend shows you to be none of the Bishop of Exeter’s converts; [Hall, Bishop of Exeter, had written strongly, both in verse and in prose, against the fashion of sending young men of quality to travel.] of whose mind neither am I superstitiously. But had my opinion been asked, I should, as vulgar conceits use me to do, have showed my power rather to raise objections than to answer them. A temper between France and Oxford might have taken away his scruples, with more advantage to his years.... For although he be one of those that, if his age were looked for in no other book but that of the mind, would be found no ward if you should die tomorrow, yet it is a great hazard, methinks, to see so sweet a disposition guarded with no more, amongst a people whereof many make it their religion to be superstitious in impiety, and their behaviour to be affected in all manners. But God, who only knoweth the periods of life and opportunities to come, hath designed him, I hope, for his own service betime, and stirred up your providence to husband him so early for great affairs. Then shall he be sure to find Him in France that Abraham did in Shechem and Joseph in Egypt, under whose wing alone is perfect safety.” Sir John Eliot employed himself, during his imprisonment, in writing a treatise on government, which he transmitted to his friend. Hampden’s criticisms are strikingly characteristic. They are written with all that “flowing courtesy” which is ascribed to him by Clarendon. The objections are insinuated with so much delicacy that they could scarcely gall the most irritable author. We see too how highly Hampden valued in the writings of others that conciseness which was one of the most striking peculiarities of his own eloquence. Sir John Eliot’s style was, it seems, too diffuse, and it is impossible not to admire the skill with which this is suggested. “The piece,” says Hampden, “is as complete an image of the pattern as can be drawn by lines, a lively character of a large mind, the subject, method, and expression, excellent and homogeneal, and, to say truth, sweetheart, somewhat exceeding my commendations. My words cannot render them to the life. Yet, to show my ingenuity rather than wit, would not a less model have given a full representation of that subject, not by diminution but by contraction of parts? I desire to learn. I dare not say. The variations upon each particular seem many; all, I confess, excellent. The fountain was full, the channel narrow; that may be the cause; or that the author resembled Virgil, who made more verses by many than he intended to write. To extract a just number, had I seen all his, I could easily have bid him make fewer; but if he had bade me tell him which he should have spared, I had been posed.” This is evidently the writing not only of a man of good sense and natural good taste, but of a man of literary habits. Of the studies of Hampden little is known. But as it was at one time in contemplation to give him the charge of the education of the Prince of Wales, it cannot be doubted that his acquirements were considerable. Davila, it is said, was one of his favourite writers. The moderation of Davila’s opinions and the perspicuity and manliness of his style could not but recommend him to so judicious a reader. It is not improbable that the parallel between France and England, the Huguenots and the Puritans, had struck the mind of Hampden, and that he already found within himself powers not unequal to the lofty part of Coligni. While he was engaged in these pursuits, a heavy domestic calamity fell on him. His wife, who had borne him nine children, died in the summer of 1634. She lies in the parish church of Hampden, close to the manor-house. The tender and energetic language of her epitaph still attests the bitterness of her husband’s sorrow, and the consolation which he found in a hope full of immortality. In the meantime, the aspect of public affairs grew darker and darker. The health of Eliot had sunk under an unlawful imprisonment of several years. The brave sufferer refused to purchase liberty, though liberty would to him have been life, by recognising the authority which had confined him. In consequence of the representations of his physicians, the severity of restraint was somewhat relaxed. But it was in vain. He languished and expired a martyr to that good cause for which his friend Hampden was destined to meet a more brilliant, but not a more honourable death. All the promises of the king were violated without scruple or shame. The Petition of Right to which he had, in consideration of moneys duly numbered, given a solemn assent, was set at nought. Taxes were raised by the royal authority. Patents of monopoly were granted. The old usages of feudal times were made pretexts for harassing the people with exactions unknown during many years. The Puritans were persecuted with cruelty worthy of the Holy Office. They were forced to fly from the country. They were imprisoned. They were whipped. Their ears were cut off. Their noses were slit. Their cheeks were branded with red-hot iron. But the cruelty of the oppressor could not tire out the fortitude of the victims. The mutilated defenders of liberty again defied the vengeance of the Star-Chamber, came back with undiminished resolution to the place of their glorious infamy, and manfully presented the stumps of their ears to be grubbed out by the hangman’s knife. The hardy sect grew up and flourished in spite of everything that seemed likely to stunt it, struck its roots deep into a barren soil, and spread its branches wide to an inclement sky. The multitude thronged round Prynne in the pillory with more respect than they paid to Mainwaring in the pulpit, and treasured up the rags which the blood of Burton had soaked, with a veneration such as mitres and surplices had ceased to inspire. For the misgovernment of this disastrous period Charles himself is principally responsible. After the death of Buckingham, he seems to have been his own prime minister. He had, however, two counsellors who seconded him, or went beyond him, in intolerance and lawless violence, the one a superstitious driveller, as honest as a vile temper would suffer him to be, the other a man of great valour and capacity, but licentious, faithless, corrupt, and cruel. Never were faces more strikingly characteristic of the individuals to whom they belonged, than those of Laud and Strafford, as they still remain portrayed by the most skilful hand of that age. The mean forehead, the pinched features, the peering eyes, of the prelate, suit admirably with his disposition. They mark him out as a lower kind of Saint Dominic, differing from the fierce and gloomy enthusiast who founded the Inquisition, as we might imagine the familiar imp of a spiteful witch to differ from an archangel of darkness. When we read His Grace’s judgments, when we read the report which he drew up, setting forth that he had sent some separatists to prison, and imploring the royal aid against others, we feel a movement of indignation. We turn to his Diary, and we are at once as cool as contempt can make us. There we learn how his picture fell down, and how fearful he was lest the fall should be an omen; how he dreamed that the Duke of Buckingham came to bed to him, that King James walked past him, that he saw Thomas Flaxney in green garments, and the Bishop of Worcester with his shoulders wrapped in linen. In the early part of 1627, the sleep of this great ornament of the church seems to have been much disturbed. On the fifth of January, he saw a merry old man with a wrinkled countenance, named Grove, lying on the ground. On the fourteenth of the same memorable month, he saw the Bishop of Lincoln jump on a horse and ride away. A day or two after this he dreamed that he gave the King drink in a silver cup, and that the King refused it, and called for glass. Then he dreamed that he had turned Papist; of all his dreams the only one, we suspect, which came through the gate of horn. But of these visions our favourite is that which, as he has recorded, he enjoyed on the night of Friday, the ninth of February 1627. “I dreamed,” says he, “that I had the scurvy: and that forthwith all my teeth became loose. There was one in especial in my lower jaw, which I could scarcely keep in with my finger till I had called for help.” Here was a man to have the superintendence of the opinions of a great nation! But Wentworth,--who ever names him without thinking of those harsh dark features, ennobled by their expression into more than the majesty of an antique Jupiter; of that brow, that eye, that cheek, that lip, wherein, as in a chronicle, are written the events of many stormy and disastrous years, high enterprise accomplished, frightful dangers braved, power unsparingly exercised, suffering unshrinkingly borne; of that fixed look, so full of severity, of mournful anxiety, of deep thought, of dauntless resolution, which seems at once to forebode and to defy a terrible fate, as it lowers on us from the living canvas of Vandyke? Even at this day the haughty earl overawes posterity as he overawed his contemporaries, and excites the same interest when arraigned before the tribunal of history which he excited at the bar of the House of Lords. In spite of ourselves, we sometimes feel towards his memory a certain relenting similar to that relenting which his defence, as Sir John Denham tells us, produced in Westminster Hall. This great, brave, bad man entered the House of Commons at the same time with Hampden, and took the same side with Hampden. Both were among the richest and most powerful commoners in the kingdom. Both were equally distinguished by force of character and by personal courage. Hampden had more judgment and sagacity than Wentworth. But no orator of that time equalled Wentworth in force and brilliancy of expression. In 1626 both these eminent men were committed to prison by the King, Wentworth, who was among the leaders of the Opposition, on account of his parliamentary conduct, Hampden, who had not as yet taken a prominent part in debate, for refusing to pay taxes illegally imposed. Here their path separated. After the death of Buckingham, the King attempted to seduce some of the chiefs of the Opposition from their party; and Wentworth was among those who yielded to the seduction. He abandoned his associates, and hated them ever after with the deadly hatred of a renegade. High titles and great employments were heaped upon him. He became Earl of Strafford, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, President of the Council of the North; and he employed all his power for the purpose of crushing those liberties of which he had been the most distinguished champion. His counsels respecting public affairs were fierce and arbitrary. His correspondence with Laud abundantly proves that government without parliaments, government by the sword, was his favourite scheme. He was angry even that the course of justice between man and man should be unrestrained by the royal prerogative. He grudged to the courts of King’s Bench and Common Pleas even that measure of liberty which the most absolute of the Bourbons allowed to the Parliaments of France. In Ireland, where he stood in place of the King, his practice was in strict accordance with his theory. He set up the authority of the executive government over that of the courts of law. He permitted no person to leave the island without his licence. He established vast monopolies for his own private benefit. He imposed taxes arbitrarily. He levied them by military force. Some of his acts are described even by the partial Clarendon as powerful acts, acts which marked a nature excessively imperious, acts which caused dislike and terror in sober and dispassionate persons, high acts of oppression. Upon a most frivolous charge, he obtained a capital sentence from a court-martial against a man of high rank who had given him offence. He debauched the daughter-in-law of the Lord Chancellor of Ireland, and then commanded that nobleman to settle his estate according to the wishes of the lady. The Chancellor refused. The Lord Lieutenant turned him out of office and threw him into prison. When the violent acts of the Long Parliament are blamed, let it not be forgotten from what a tyranny they rescued the nation. Among the humbler tools of Charles were Chief-Justice Finch and Noy the Attorney-General. Noy had, like Wentworth, supported the cause of liberty in Parliament, and had, like Wentworth, abandoned that cause for the sake of office. He devised, in conjunction with Finch, a scheme of exaction which made the alienation of the people from the throne complete. A writ was issued by the King, commanding the city of London to equip and man ships of war for his service. Similar writs were sent to the towns along the coast. These measures, though they were direct violations of the Petition of Right, had at least some show of precedent in their favour. But, after a time, the government took a step for which no precedent could be pleaded, and sent writs of ship-money to the inland counties. This was a stretch of power on which Elizabeth herself had not ventured, even at a time when all laws might with propriety have been made to bend to that highest law, the safety of the state. The inland counties had not been required to furnish ships, or money in the room of ships, even when the Armada was approaching our shores. It seemed intolerable that a prince who, by assenting to the Petition of Right, had relinquished the power of levying ship-money even in the out-ports, should be the first to levy it on parts of the kingdom where it had been unknown under the most absolute of his predecessors. Clarendon distinctly admits that this tax was intended, not only for the support of the navy, but “for a spring and magazine that should have no bottom, and for an everlasting supply of all occasions.” The nation well understood this; and from one end of England to the other the public mind was strongly excited. Buckinghamshire was assessed at a ship of four hundred and fifty tons, or a sum of four thousand five hundred pounds. The share of the tax which fell to Hampden was very small; so small, indeed, that the sheriff was blamed for setting so wealthy a man at so low a rate. But, though the sum demanded was a trifle, the principle involved was fearfully important. Hampden, after consulting the most eminent constitutional lawyers of the time, refused to pay the few shillings at which he was assessed, and determined to incur all the certain expense, and the probable danger, of bringing to a solemn hearing, this great controversy between the people and the Crown. “Till this time,” says Clarendon, “he was rather of reputation in his own country than of public discourse or fame in the kingdom; but then he grew the argument of all tongues, every man inquiring who and what he was that durst, at his own charge, support the liberty and prosperity of the kingdom.” Towards the close of the year 1636 this great cause came on in the Exchequer Chamber before all the judges of England. The leading counsel against the writ was the celebrated Oliver St. John, a man whose temper was melancholy, whose manners were reserved, and who was as yet little known in Westminster Hall, but whose great talents had not escaped the penetrating eye of Hampden. The Attorney-General and Solicitor-General appeared for the Crown. The arguments of the counsel occupied many days; and the Exchequer Chamber took a considerable time for deliberation. The opinion of the bench was divided. So clearly was the law in favour of Hampden that, though the judges held their situations only during the royal pleasure, the majority against him was the least possible. Five of the twelve pronounced in his favour. The remaining seven gave their voices for the writ. The only effect of this decision was to make the public indignation stronger and deeper. “The judgment,” says Clarendon, “proved of more advantage and credit to the gentleman condemned than to the King’s service.” The courage which Hampden had shown on this occasion, as the same historian tells us, “raised his reputation to a great height generally throughout the kingdom.” Even courtiers and crown-lawyers spoke respectfully of him. “His carriage,” says Clarendon, “throughout that agitation, was with that rare temper and modesty, that they who watched him narrowly to find some advantage against his person, to make him less resolute in his cause, were compelled to give him a just testimony.” But his demeanour, though it impressed Lord Falkland with the deepest respect, though it drew forth the praises of Solicitor-General Herbert, only kindled into a fiercer flame the ever-burning hatred of Strafford. That minister in his letters to Laud murmured against the lenity with which Hampden was treated. “In good faith,” he wrote, “were such men rightly served, they should be whipped into their right wits.” Again he says, “I still wish Mr. Hampden, and others to his likeness, were well whipped into their right senses. And if the rod be so used that it smart not, I am the more sorry.” The person of Hampden was now scarcely safe. His prudence and moderation had hitherto disappointed those who would gladly have had a pretence for sending him to the prison of Eliot. But he knew that the eye of a tyrant was on him. In the year 1637 misgovernment had reached its height. Eight years had passed without a Parliament. The decision of the Exchequer Chamber had placed at the disposal of the Crown the whole property of the English people. About the time at which that decision was pronounced, Prynne, Bastwick, and Burton were mutilated by the sentence of the Star-Chamber, and sent to rot in remote dungeons. The estate and the person of every man who had opposed the court were at its mercy. Hampden determined to leave England. Beyond the Atlantic Ocean a few of the persecuted Puritans had formed, in the wilderness of Connecticut, a settlement which has since become a prosperous commonwealth, and which, in spite of the lapse of time and of the change of government, still retains something of the character given to it by its first founders. Lord Saye and Lord Brooke were the original projectors of this scheme of emigration. Hampden had been early consulted respecting it. He was now, it appears, desirous to withdraw himself beyond the reach of oppressors who, as he probably suspected, and as we know, were bent on punishing his manful resistance to their tyranny. He was accompanied by his kinsman Oliver Cromwell, over whom he possessed great influence, and in whom he alone had discovered, under an exterior appearance of coarseness and extravagance, those great and commanding talents which were afterwards the admiration and the dread of Europe. The cousins took their passage in a vessel which lay in the Thames, and which was bound for North America. They were actually on board, when an order of council appeared, by which the ship was prohibited from sailing. Seven other ships, filled with emigrants, were stopped at the same time. Hampden and Cromwell remained; and with them remained the Evil Genius of the House of Stuart. The tide of public affairs was even now on the turn. The King had resolved to change the ecclesiastical constitution of Scotland, and to introduce into the public worship of that kingdom ceremonies which the great body of the Scots regarded as Popish. This absurd attempt produced, first discontents, then riots, and at length open rebellion. A provisional government was established at Edinburgh, and its authority was obeyed throughout the kingdom. This government raised an army, appointed a general, and summoned an assembly of the Kirk. The famous instrument called the Covenant was put forth at this time, and was eagerly subscribed by the people. The beginnings of this formidable insurrection were strangely neglected by the King and his advisers. But towards the close of the year 1638 the danger became pressing. An army was raised; and early in the following spring Charles marched northward at the head of a force sufficient, as it seemed, to reduce the Covenanters to submission. But Charles acted at this conjuncture as he acted at every important conjuncture throughout his life. After oppressing, threatening, and blustering, he hesitated and failed. He was bold in the wrong place, and timid in the wrong place. He would have shown his wisdom by being afraid before the liturgy was read in St. Giles’s church. He put off his fear till he had reached the Scottish border with his troops. Then, after a feeble campaign, he concluded a treaty with the insurgents, and withdrew his army. But the terms of the pacification were not observed. Each party charged the other with foul play. The Scots refused to disarm. The King found great difficulty in re-assembling his forces. His late expedition had drained his treasury. The revenues of the next year had been anticipated. At another time, he might have attempted to make up the deficiency by illegal expedients; but such a course would clearly have been dangerous when part of the island was in rebellion. It was necessary to call a Parliament. After eleven years of suffering, the voice of the nation was to be heard once more. In April 1640, the Parliament met; and the King had another chance of conciliating his people. The new House of Commons was, beyond all comparison, the least refractory House of Commons that had been known for many years. Indeed, we have never been able to understand how, after so long a period of misgovernment, the representatives of the nation should have shown so moderate and so loyal a disposition. Clarendon speaks with admiration of their dutiful temper. “The House, generally,” says he, “was exceedingly disposed to please the King, and to do him service.” “It could never be hoped,” he observes elsewhere, “that more sober or dispassionate men would ever meet together in that place, or fewer who brought ill purposes with them.” In this Parliament Hampden took his seat as member for Buckinghamshire, and thenceforward, till the day of his death, gave himself up, with scarcely any intermission, to public affairs. He took lodgings in Gray’s Inn Lane, near the house occupied by Pym, with whom he lived in habits of the closest intimacy. He was now decidedly the most popular man in England. The Opposition looked to him as their leader, and the servants of the King treated him with marked respect. Charles requested the Parliament to vote an immediate supply, and pledged his word that, if they would gratify him in this request, he would afterwards give them time to represent their grievances to him. The grievances under which the nation suffered were so serious, and the royal word had been so shamefully violated, that the Commons could hardly be expected to comply with this request. During the first week of the session, the minutes of the proceedings against Hampden were laid on the table by Oliver St. John, and a committee reported that the case was matter of grievance. The King sent a message to the Commons, offering, if they would vote him twelve subsidies, to give up the prerogative of ship-money. Many years before, he had received five subsidies in consideration of his assent to the Petition of Right. By assenting to that petition, he had given up the right of levying ship-money, if he ever possessed it. How he had observed the promises made to his third Parliament, all England knew; and it was not strange that the Commons should be somewhat unwilling to buy from him, over and over again, their own ancient and undoubted inheritance. His message, however, was not unfavourably received. The Commons were ready to give a large supply; but they were not disposed to give it in exchange for a prerogative of which they altogether denied the existence. If they acceded to the proposal of the King, they recognised the legality of the writs of ship-money. Hampden, who was a greater master of parliamentary tactics than any man of his time, saw that this was the prevailing feeling, and availed himself of it with great dexterity. He moved that the question should be put, “Whether the House would consent to the proposition made by the King, as contained in the message.” Hyde interfered, and proposed that the question should be divided; that the sense of the House should be taken merely on the point whether there should be a supply or no supply; and that the manner and the amount should be left for subsequent consideration. The majority of the House was for granting a supply, but against granting it in the manner proposed by the King. If the House had divided on Hampden’s question, the court would have sustained a defeat; if on Hyde’s, the court would have gained an apparent victory. Some members called for Hyde’s motion, others, for Hampden’s. In the midst of the uproar, the secretary of state, Sir Harry Vane, rose and stated that the supply would not be accepted unless it were voted according to the tenor of the message. Vane was supported by Herbert, the Solicitor-General. Hyde’s motion was therefore no further pressed, and the debate on the general question was adjourned till the next day. On the next day the King came down to the House of Lords, and dissolved the Parliament with an angry speech. His conduct on this occasion has never been defended by any of his apologists. Clarendon condemns it severely. “No man,” says he, “could imagine what offence the Commons had given.” The offence which they had given is plain. They had, indeed, behaved most temperately and most respectfully. But they had shown a disposition to redress wrongs and to vindicate the laws; and this was enough to make them hateful to a king whom no law could bind, and whose whole government was one system of wrong. The nation received the intelligence of the dissolution with sorrow and indignation, The only persons to whom this event gave pleasure were those few discerning men who thought that the maladies of the state were beyond the reach of gentle remedies. Oliver St. John’s joy was too great for concealment. It lighted up his dark and melancholy features, and made him, for the first time, indiscreetly communicative. He told Hyde that things must be worse before they could be better, and that the dissolved Parliament would never have done all that was necessary. St. John, we think, was in the right. No good could then have been done by any Parliament which did not fully understand that no confidence could safely be placed in the King, and that, while he enjoyed more than the shadow of power, the nation would never enjoy more than the shadow of liberty. As soon as Charles had dismissed the Parliament, he threw several members of the House of Commons into prison. Ship-money was exacted more rigorously than ever; and the Mayor and Sheriffs of London were prosecuted before the Star-Chamber for slackness in levying it. Wentworth, it is said, observed, with characteristic insolence and cruelty, that things would never go right till the Aldermen were hanged. Large sums were raised by force on those counties in which the troops were quartered. All the wretched shifts of a beggared exchequer were tried. Forced loans were raised. Great quantities of goods were bought on long credit and sold for ready money. A scheme for debasing the currency was under consideration. At length, in August, the King again marched northward. The Scots advanced into England to meet him. It is by no means improbable that this bold step was taken by the advice of Hampden, and of those with whom he acted; and this has been made matter of grave accusation against the English Opposition. It is said that to call in the aid of foreigners in a domestic quarrel is the worst of treasons, and that the Puritan leaders, by taking this course, showed that they were regardless of the honour and independence of the nation, and anxious only for the success of their own faction. We are utterly unable to see any distinction between the case of the Scotch invasion in 1640, and the case of the Dutch invasion in 1688; or rather, we see distinctions which are to the advantage of Hampden and his friends. We believe Charles to have been a worse and more dangerous king than his son. The Dutch were strangers to us, the Scots a kindred people speaking the same language, subjects of the same prince, not aliens in the eye of the law. If, indeed, it had been possible that a Scotch army or a Dutch army could have enslaved England, those who persuaded Leslie to cross the Tweed, and those who signed the invitation to the Prince of Orange, would have been traitors to their country. But such a result was out of the question. All that either a Scotch or a Dutch invasion could do was to give the public feeling of England an opportunity to show itself. Both expeditions would have ended in complete and ludicrous discomfiture, had Charles and James been supported by their soldiers and their people. In neither case, therefore, was the independence of England endangered; in both cases her liberties were preserved. The second campaign of Charles against the Scots was short and ignominious. His soldiers, as soon as they saw the enemy, ran away as English soldiers have never run either before or since. It can scarcely be doubted that their flight was the effect, not of cowardice, but of disaffection. The four northern counties of England were occupied by the Scotch army and the King retired to York. The game of tyranny was now up. Charles had risked and lost his last stake. It is not easy to retrace the mortifications and humiliations which the tyrant now had to endure, without a feeling of vindictive pleasure. His army was mutinous; his treasury was empty; his people clamoured for a Parliament; addresses and petitions against the government were presented. Strafford was for shooting the petitioners by martial law; but the King could not trust the soldiers. A great council of Peers was called at York; but the King could not trust even the Peers. He struggled, evaded, hesitated, tried every shift, rather than again face the representatives of his injured people. At length no shift was left. He made a truce with the Scots, and summoned a Parliament. The leaders of the popular party had, after the late dissolution, remained in London for the purpose of organizing a scheme of opposition to the Court. They now exerted themselves to the utmost. Hampden, in particular, rode from county to county, exhorting the electors to give their votes to men worthy of their confidence. The great majority of the returns was on the side of the Opposition. Hampden was himself chosen member both for Wendover and Buckinghamshire. He made his election to serve for the county. On the third of November 1640, a day to be long remembered, met that great Parliament, destined to every extreme of fortune, to empire and to servitude, to glory and to contempt; at one time the sovereign of its sovereign, at another time the servant of its servants. From the first day of meeting the attendance was great; and the aspect of the members was that of men not disposed to do the work negligently. The dissolution of the late Parliament had convinced most of them that half measures would no longer suffice. Clarendon tells us, that “the same men who, six months before, were observed to be of very moderate tempers, and to wish that gentle remedies might be applied, talked now in another dialect both of kings and persons; and said that they must now be of another temper than they were the last Parliament.” The debt of vengeance was swollen by all the usury which had been accumulating during many years; and payment was made to the full. This memorable crisis called forth parliamentary abilities such as England had never before seen. Among the most distinguished members of the House of Commons were Falkland, Hyde, Digby, young Harry Vane, Oliver St. John, Denzil Hollis, Nathaniel Fiennes. But two men exercised a paramount influence over the legislature and the country, Pym and Hampden; and by the universal consent of friends and enemies, the first place belonged to Hampden. On occasions which required set speeches Pym generally took the lead. Hampden very seldom rose till late in a debate. His speaking was of that kind which has, in every age, been held in the highest estimation by English Parliaments, ready, weighty, perspicuous, condensed. His perception of the feelings of the House was exquisite, his temper unalterably placid, his manner eminently courteous and gentlemanlike. “Even with those,” says Clarendon, “who were able to preserve themselves from his infusions, and who discerned those opinions to be fixed in him with which they could not comply, he always left the character of an ingenious and conscientious person.” His talents for business were as remarkable as his talents for debate. “He was,” says Clarendon, “of an industry and vigilance not to be tired out or wearied by the most laborious, and of parts not to be imposed upon by the most subtle and sharp.” Yet it was rather to his moral than to his intellectual qualities that he was indebted for the vast influence which he possessed. “When this parliament began”--we again quote Clarendon--“the eyes of all men were fixed upon him, as their patriae pater, and the pilot that must steer the vessel through the tempests and rocks which threatened it. And I am persuaded his power and interest at that time were greater to do good or hurt than any man’s in the kingdom, or than any man of his rank hath had in any time; for his reputation of honesty was universal, and his affections seemed so publicly guided, that no corrupt or private ends could bias them.... He was indeed a very wise man, and of great parts, and possessed with the most absolute spirit of popularity, and the most absolute faculties to govern the people, of any man I ever knew.” It is sufficient to recapitulate shortly the acts of the Long Parliament during its first session. Strafford and Laud were impeached and imprisoned. Strafford was afterwards attainted by Bill, and executed. Lord Keeper Finch fled to Holland, Secretary Windebank to France. All those whom the King had, during the last twelve years, employed for the oppression of his people, from the servile judges who had pronounced in favour of the crown against Hampden, down to the sheriffs who had distrained for ship-money, and the custom-house officers who had levied tonnage and poundage, were summoned to answer for their conduct. The Star-Chamber, the High Commission Court, the Council of York, were abolished. Those unfortunate victims of Laud who, after undergoing ignominious exposure and cruel manglings, had been sent to languish in distant prisons, were set at liberty, and conducted through London in triumphant procession. The King was compelled to give the judges patents for life or during good behaviour. He was deprived of those oppressive powers which were the last relics of the old feudal tenures. The Forest Courts and the Stannary Courts were reformed. It was provided that the Parliament then sitting should not be prorogued or dissolved without its own consent, and that a Parliament should be held at least once every three years. Many of these measures Lord Clarendon allows to have been most salutary; and few persons will, in our times, deny that, in the laws passed during this session, the good greatly preponderated over the evil. The abolition of those three hateful courts, the Northern Council, the Star-Chamber, and the High Commission, would alone entitle the Long Parliament to the lasting gratitude of Englishmen. The proceeding against Strafford undoubtedly seems hard to people living in our days. It would probably have seemed merciful and moderate to people living in the sixteenth century. It is curious to compare the trial of Charles’s minister with the trial, if it can be so called, of Lord Seymour of Sudeley, in the blessed reign of Edward the Sixth. None of the great reformers of our Church doubted the propriety of passing an act of Parliament for cutting off Lord Seymour’s head without a legal conviction. The pious Cranmer voted for that act; the pious Latimer preached for it; the pious Edward returned thanks for it; and all the pious Lords of the council together exhorted their victim to what they were pleased facetiously to call “the quiet and patient suffering of justice.” But it is not necessary to defend the proceedings against Strafford by any such comparison. They are justified, in our opinion, by that which alone justifies capital punishment or any punishment, by that which alone justifies war, by the public danger. That there is a certain amount of public danger which will justify a legislature in sentencing a man to death by retrospective law, few people, we suppose, will deny. Few people, for example, will deny that the French Convention was perfectly justified in placing Robespierre, St. Just, and Couthon under the ban of the law, without a trial. This proceeding differed from the proceeding against Strafford only in being much more rapid and violent. Strafford was fully heard. Robespierre was not suffered to defend himself. Was there, then, in the case of Strafford, a danger sufficient to justify an act of attainder? We believe that there was. We believe that the contest in which the Parliament was engaged against the King was a contest for the security of our property, for the liberty of our persons, for everything which makes us to differ from the subjects of Don Miguel. We believe that the cause of the Commons was such as justified them in resisting the King, in raising an army, in sending thousands of brave men to kill and to be killed. An act of attainder is surely not more a departure from the ordinary course of law than a civil war. An act of attainder produces much less suffering than a civil war. We are, therefore, unable to discover on what principle it can be maintained that a cause which justifies a civil war will not justify an act of attainder. Many specious arguments have been urged against the retrospective law by which Strafford was condemned to death. But all these arguments proceed on the supposition that the crisis was an ordinary crisis. The attainder was, in truth, a revolutionary measure. It was part of a system of resistance which oppression had rendered necessary. It is as unjust to judge of the conduct pursued by the Long Parliament towards Strafford on ordinary principles, as it would have been to indict Fairfax for murder because he cut down a cornet at Naseby. From the day on which the Houses met, there was a war waged by them against the King, a war for all that they held dear, a war carried on at first by means of parliamentary forms, at last by physical force; and, as in the second stage of that war, so in the first, they were entitled to do many things which, in quiet times, would have been culpable. We must not omit to mention that those who were afterwards the most distinguished ornaments of the King’s party supported the bill of attainder. It is almost certain that Hyde voted for it. It is quite certain that Falkland both voted and spoke for it. The opinion of Hampden, as far as it can be collected from a very obscure note of one of his speeches, seems to have been that the proceeding by Bill was unnecessary, and that it would be a better course to obtain judgment on the impeachment. During this year the Court opened a negotiation with the leaders of the Opposition. The Earl of Bedford was invited to form an administration on popular principles. St. John was made solicitor-general. Hollis was to have been secretary of state, and Pym chancellor of the exchequer. The post of tutor to the Prince of Wales was designed for Hampden. The death of the Earl of Bedford prevented this arrangement from being carried into effect; and it may be doubted whether, even if that nobleman’s life had been prolonged, Charles would ever have consented to surround himself with counsellors whom he could not but hate and fear. Lord Clarendon admits that the conduct of Hampden during this year was mild and temperate, that he seemed disposed rather to soothe than to excite the public mind, and that, when violent and unreasonable motions were made by his followers, he generally left the House before the division, lest he should seem to give countenance to their extravagance. His temper was moderate. He sincerely loved peace. He felt also great fear lest too precipitate a movement should produce a reaction. The events which took place early in the next session clearly showed that this fear was not unfounded. During the autumn the Parliament adjourned for a few weeks. Before the recess, Hampden was despatched to Scotland by the House of Commons, nominally as a commissioner, to obtain security for a debt which the Scots had contracted during the last invasion; but in truth that he might keep watch over the King, who had now repaired to Edinburgh, for the purpose of finally adjusting the points of difference which remained between him and his northern subjects. It was the business of Hampden to dissuade the Covenanters from making their peace with the Court, at the expense of the popular party in England. While the King was in Scotland, the Irish rebellion broke out. The suddenness and violence of this terrible explosion excited a strange suspicion in the public mind. The Queen was a professed Papist. The King and the Archbishop of Canterbury had not indeed been reconciled to the See of Rome; but they had, while acting towards the Puritan party with the utmost rigour, and speaking of that party with the utmost contempt, shown great tenderness and respect towards the Catholic religion and its professors. In spite of the wishes of successive Parliaments, the Protestant separatists had been cruelly persecuted. And at the same time, in spite of the wishes of those very Parliaments, laws which were in force against the Papists, and which, unjustifiable as they were, suited the temper of that age, had not been carried into execution. The Protestant nonconformists had not yet learned toleration in the school of suffering. They reprobated the partial lenity which the government showed towards idolaters; and, with some show of reason, ascribed to bad motives conduct which, in such a king as Charles, and such a prelate as Laud, could not possibly be ascribed to humanity or to liberality of sentiment. The violent Arminianism of the Archbishop, his childish attachment to ceremonies, his superstitious veneration for altars, vestments, and painted windows, his bigoted zeal for the constitution and the privileges of his order, his known opinions respecting the celibacy of the clergy, had excited great disgust throughout that large party which was every day becoming more and more hostile to Rome, and more and more inclined to the doctrines and the discipline of Geneva. It was believed by many that the Irish rebellion had been secretly encouraged by the Court; and, when the Parliament met again in November, after a short recess, the Puritans were more intractable than ever. But that which Hampden had feared had come to pass. A reaction had taken place. A large body of moderate and well-meaning men, who had heartily concurred in the strong measures adopted before the recess, were inclined to pause. Their opinion was that, during many years the country had been grievously misgoverned, and that a great reform had been necessary; but that a great reform had been made, that the grievances of the nation had been fully redressed, that sufficient vengeance had been exacted for the past, that sufficient security had been provided for the future, and that it would, therefore, be both ungrateful and unwise to make any further attacks on the royal prerogative. In support of this opinion many plausible arguments have been used. But to all these arguments there is one short answer. The King could not be trusted. At the head of those who may be called the Constitutional Royalists were Falkland, Hyde, and Culpeper. All these eminent men had, during the former year, been in very decided opposition to the Court. In some of those very proceedings with which their admirers reproach Hampden, they had taken a more decided part than Hampden. They had all been concerned in the impeachment of Strafford. They had all, there is reason to believe, voted for the Bill of Attainder. Certainly none of them voted against it. They had all agreed to the act which made the consent of the Parliament necessary to a dissolution or prorogation. Hyde had been among the most active of those who attacked the Council of York. Falkland had voted for the exclusion of the bishops from the Upper House. They were now inclined to halt in the path of reform, perhaps to retrace a few of their steps. A direct collision soon took place between the two parties into which the House of Commons, lately at almost perfect unity with itself, was now divided. The opponents of the government moved that celebrated address to the King which is known by the name of the Grand Remonstrance. In this address all the oppressive acts of the preceding fifteen years were set forth with great energy of language; and, in conclusion, the King was entreated to employ no ministers in whom the Parliament could not confide. The debate on the Remonstrance was long and stormy. It commenced at nine in the morning of the twenty-first of November, and lasted till after midnight. The division showed that a great change had taken place in the temper of the House. Though many members had retired from exhaustion, three hundred voted and the Remonstrance was carried by a majority of only nine. A violent debate followed, on the question whether the minority should be allowed to protest against this decision. The excitement was so great that several members were on the point of proceeding to personal violence. “We had sheathed our swords in each other’s bowels,” says an eye-witness, “had not the sagacity and great calmness of Mr. Hampden, by a short speech, prevented it.” The House did not rise till two in the morning. The situation of the Puritan leaders was now difficult and full of peril. The small majority which they still had might soon become a minority. Out of doors, their supporters in the higher and middle classes were beginning to fall off. There was a growing opinion that the King had been hardly used. The English are always inclined to side with a weak party which is in the wrong, rather than with a strong party which is in the right. This may be seen in all contests, from contests of boxers to contests of faction. Thus it was that a violent reaction took place in favour of Charles the Second against the Whigs in 1681. Thus it was that an equally violent reaction took place in favour of George the Third against the coalition in 1784. A similar action was beginning to take place during the second year of the Long Parliament. Some members of the Opposition “had resumed” says Clarendon, “their old resolution of leaving the kingdom.” Oliver Cromwell openly declared that he and many others would have emigrated if they had been left in a minority on the question of the Remonstrance. Charles had now a last chance of regaining the affection of his people. If he could have resolved to give his confidence to the leaders of the moderate party in the House of Commons, and to regulate his proceedings by their advice, he might have been, not, indeed, as he had been, a despot, but the powerful and respected king of a free people. The nation might have enjoyed liberty and repose under a government with Falkland at its head, checked by a constitutional Opposition under the conduct of Hampden. It was not necessary that, in order to accomplish this happy end, the King should sacrifice any part of his lawful prerogative, or submit to any conditions inconsistent with his dignity. It was necessary only that he should abstain from treachery, from violence, from gross breaches of the law. This was all that the nation was then disposed to require of him. And even this was too much. For a short time he seemed inclined to take a wise and temperate course. He resolved to make Falkland secretary of state, and Culpeper chancellor of the exchequer. He declared his intention of conferring in a short time some important office on Hyde. He assured these three persons that he would do nothing relating to the House of Commons without their joint advice, and that he would communicate all his designs to them in the most unreserved manner. This resolution, had he adhered to it, would have averted many years of blood and mourning. But “in very few days,” says Clarendon, “he did fatally swerve from it.” On the third of January 1642, without giving the slightest hint of his intention to those advisers whom he had solemnly promised to consult, he sent down the attorney-general to impeach Lord Kimbolton, Hampden, Pym, Hollis, and two other members of the House of Commons, at the bar of the Lords, on a charge of High Treason. It is difficult to find in the whole history of England such an instance of tyranny, perfidy, and folly. The most precious and ancient rights of the subject were violated by this act. The only way in which Hampden and Pym could legally be tried for treason at the suit of the King, was by a petty jury on a bill found by a grand jury. The attorney-general had no right to impeach them. The House of Lords had no right to try them. The Commons refused to surrender their members. The Peers showed no inclination to usurp the unconstitutional jurisdiction which the King attempted to force on them. A contest began, in which violence and weakness were on the one side, law and resolution on the other. Charles sent an officer to seal up the lodgings and trunks of the accused members. The Commons sent their sergeant to break the seals. The tyrant resolved to follow up one outrage by another. In making the charge, he had struck at the institution of juries. In executing the arrest, he struck at the privileges of Parliament. He resolved to go to the House in person with an armed force, and there to seize the leaders of the Opposition, while engaged in the discharge of their parliamentary duties. What was his purpose? Is it possible to believe that he had no definite purpose, that he took the most important step of his whole reign without having for one moment considered what might be its effects? Is it possible to believe that he went merely for the purpose of making himself a laughing-stock, that he intended, if he had found the accused members, and if they had refused, as it was their right and duty to refuse, the submission which he illegally demanded, to leave the House without bringing them away? If we reject both these suppositions, we must believe, and we certainly do believe, that he went fully determined to carry his unlawful design into effect by violence, and, if necessary, to shed the blood of the chiefs of the Opposition on the very floor of the Parliament House. Lady Carlisle conveyed intelligence of the design to Pym. The five members had time to withdraw before the arrival of Charles. They left the House as he was entering New Palace Yard. He was accompanied by about two hundred halberdiers of his guard, and by many gentlemen of the Court armed with swords. He walked up Westminster Hall. At the southern end of the Hall his attendants divided to the right and left and formed a lane to the door of the House of Commons. He knocked, entered, darted a look towards the place which Pym usually occupied, and, seeing it empty, walked up to the table. The Speaker fell on his knee. The members rose and uncovered their heads in profound silence, and the King took his seat in the chair. He looked round the House. But the five members were nowhere to be seen. He interrogated the Speaker. The Speaker answered, that he was merely the organ of the House, and had neither eyes to see, nor tongue to speak, but according to their direction. The King muttered a few feeble sentences about his respect for the laws of the realm, and the privileges of Parliament, and retired. As he passed along the benches, several resolute voices called out audibly “Privilege!” He returned to Whitehall with his company of bravoes, who, while he was in the House, had been impatiently waiting in the lobby for the word, cocking their pistols, and crying, “Fall on.” That night he put forth a proclamation, directing that the ports should be stopped, and that no person should, at his peril, venture to harbour the accused members. Hampden and his friends had taken refuge in Coleman Street. The city of London was indeed the fastness of public liberty, and was, in those times, a place of at least as much importance as Paris during the French Revolution. The city, properly so called, now consists in a great measure of immense warehouses and counting-houses, which are frequented by traders and their clerks during the day, and left in almost total solitude during the night. It was then closely inhabited by three hundred thousand persons, to whom it was not merely a place of business, but a place of constant residence. The great capital had as complete a civil and military organization as if it had been an independent republic. Each citizen had his company; and the companies, which now seem to exist only for the sake of epicures and of antiquaries, were then formidable brotherhoods, the members of which were almost as closely bound together as the members of a Highland clan. How strong these artificial ties were, the numerous and valuable legacies anciently bequeathed by citizens to their corporations abundantly prove. The municipal offices were filled by the most opulent and respectable merchants of the kingdom. The pomp of the magistracy of the capital was inferior only to that which surrounded the person of the sovereign. The Londoners loved their city with that patriotic love which is found only in small communities, like those of ancient Greece, or like those which arose in Italy during the middle ages. The numbers, the intelligence, the wealth of the citizens, the democratical form of their local government, and their vicinity to the Court and to the Parliament, made them one of the most formidable bodies in the kingdom. Even as soldiers they were not to be despised. In an age in which war is a profession, there is something ludicrous in the idea of battalions composed of apprentices and shopkeepers, and officered by aldermen. But in the early part of the seventeenth century, there was no standing army in the island; and the militia of the metropolis was not inferior in training to the militia of other places. A city which could furnish many thousands of armed men, abounding in natural courage, and not absolutely untinctured with military discipline, was a formidable auxiliary in times of internal dissension. On several occasions during the civil war, the trainbands of London distinguished themselves highly; and at the battle of Newbury, in particular, they repelled the fiery onset of Rupert, and saved the army of the Parliament from destruction. The people of this great city had long been thoroughly devoted to the national cause. Many of them had signed a protestation in which they declared their resolution to defend the privileges of Parliament. Their enthusiasm had, indeed, of late begun to cool. But the impeachment of the five members, and the insult offered to the House of Commons, inflamed them to fury. Their houses, their purses, their pikes, were at the command of the representatives of the nation. London was in arms all night. The next day the shops were closed; the streets were filled with immense crowds; the multitude pressed round the King’s coach, and insulted him with opprobrious cries. The House of Commons, in the meantime, appointed a committee to sit in the city, for the purpose of inquiring into the circumstances of the late outrage. The members of the committee were welcomed by a deputation of the common council. Merchant Taylors’ Hall, Goldsmiths’ Hall, and Grocers’ Hall, were fitted up for their sittings. A guard of respectable citizens, duly relieved twice a day, was posted at their doors. The sheriffs were charged to watch over the safety of the accused members, and to escort them to and from the committee with every mark of honour. A violent and sudden revulsion of feeling, both in the House and out of it, was the effect of the late proceedings of the King. The Opposition regained in a few hours all the ascendency which it had lost. The constitutional royalists were filled with shame and sorrow. They saw that they had been cruelly deceived by Charles. They saw that they were, unjustly, but not unreasonably, suspected by the nation. Clarendon distinctly says that they perfectly detested the counsels by which the King had been guided, and were so much displeased and dejected at the unfair manner in which he had treated them that they were inclined to retire from his service. During the debates on the breach of privilege, they preserved a melancholy silence. To this day, the advocates of Charles take care to say as little as they can about his visit to the House of Commons, and, when they cannot avoid mention of it, attribute to infatuation an act which, on any other supposition, they must admit to have been a frightful crime. The Commons, in a few days, openly defied the King, and ordered the accused members to attend in their places at Westminster and to resume their parliamentary duties. The citizens resolved to bring back the champions of liberty in triumph before the windows of Whitehall. Vast preparations were made both by land and water for this great festival. The King had remained in his palace, humbled, dismayed, and bewildered, “feeling,” says Clarendon, “the trouble and agony which usually attend generous and magnanimous minds upon their having committed errors”; feeling, we should say, the despicable repentance which attends the man who, having attempted to commit a crime, finds that he has only committed a folly. The populace hooted and shouted all day before the gates of the royal residence. The tyrant could not bear to see the triumph of those whom he had destined to the gallows and the quartering-block. On the day preceding that which was fixed for their return, he fled, with a few attendants, from that palace which he was never to see again till he was led through it to the scaffold. On the eleventh of January, the Thames was covered with boats, and its shores with the gazing multitude. Armed vessels decorated with streamers, were ranged in two lines from London Bridge to Westminster Hall. The members returned upon the river in a ship manned by sailors who had volunteered their services. The trainbands of the city, under the command of the sheriffs, marched along the Strand, attended by a vast crowd of spectators, to guard the avenues to the House of Commons; and thus, with shouts, and loud discharges of ordnance, the accused patriots were brought back by the people whom they had served, and for whom they had suffered. The restored members, as soon as they had entered the House, expressed, in the warmest terms, their gratitude to the citizens of London. The sheriffs were warmly thanked by the Speaker in the name of the Commons; and orders were given that a guard selected from the trainbands of the city, should attend daily to watch over the safety of the Parliament. The excitement had not been confined to London. When intelligence of the danger to which Hampden was exposed reached Buckinghamshire, it excited the alarm and indignation of the people. Four thousand freeholders of that county, each of them wearing in his hat a copy of the protestation in favour of the Privileges of Parliament, rode up to London to defend the person of their beloved representative. They came in a body to assure Parliament of their full resolution to defend its privileges. Their petition was couched in the strongest terms. “In respect,” said they, “of that latter attempt upon the honourable House of Commons, we are now come to offer our service to that end, and resolved, in their just defence, to live and die.” A great struggle was clearly at hand. Hampden had returned to Westminster much changed. His influence had hitherto been exerted rather to restrain than to animate the zeal of his party. But the treachery, the contempt of law, the thirst for blood, which the King had now shown, left no hope of a peaceable adjustment. It was clear that Charles must be either a puppet or a tyrant, that no obligation of law or of honour could bind him, and that the only way to make him harmless was to make him powerless. The attack which the King had made on the five members was not merely irregular in manner. Even if the charges had been preferred legally, if the Grand Jury of Middlesex had found a true bill, if the accused persons had been arrested under a proper warrant and at a proper time and place, there would still have been in the proceeding enough of perfidy and injustice to vindicate the strongest measures which the Opposition could take. To impeach Pym and Hampden was to impeach the House of Commons. It was notoriously on account of what they had done as members of that House that they were selected as objects of vengeance; and in what they had done as members of that House the majority had concurred. Most of the charges brought against them were common between them and the Parliament. They were accused, indeed, and it may be with reason, of encouraging the Scotch army to invade England. In doing this, they had committed what was, in strictness of law, a high offence, the same offence which Devonshire and Shrewsbury committed in 1688. But the King had promised pardon and oblivion to those who had been the principals in the Scotch insurrection. Did it then consist with his honour to punish the accessaries? He had bestowed marks of his favour on the leading Covenanters. He had given the great seal of Scotland to one chief of the rebels, a marquisate to another, an earldom to Leslie, who had brought the Presbyterian army across the Tweed. On what principle was Hampden to be attainted for advising what Leslie was ennobled for doing? In a court of law, of course, no Englishman could plead an amnesty granted to the Scots. But, though not an illegal, it was surely an inconsistent and a most unkingly course, after pardoning and promoting the heads of the rebellion in one kingdom, to hang, draw, and quarter their accomplices in another. The proceedings of the King against the five members, or rather against that Parliament which had concurred in almost all the acts of the five members, was the cause of the civil war. It was plain that either Charles or the House of Commons must be stripped of all real power in the state. The best course which the Commons could have taken would perhaps have been to depose the King, as their ancestors had deposed Edward the Second and Richard the Second, and as their children afterwards deposed James. Had they done this, had they placed on the throne a prince whose character and whose situation would have been a pledge for his good conduct, they might safely have left to that prince all the old constitutional prerogatives of the Crown, the command of the armies of the state, the power of making peers, the power of appointing ministers, a veto on bills passed by the two Houses. Such prince, reigning by their choice, would have been under the necessity of acting in conformity with their wishes. But the public mind was not ripe for such a measure. There was no Duke of Lancaster, no Prince of Orange, no great and eminent person, near in blood to the throne, yet attached to the cause of the people. Charles was then to remain King; and it was therefore necessary that he should be king only in name. A William the Third, or a George the First, whose title to the crown was identical with the title of the people to their liberty, might safely be trusted with extensive powers. But new freedom could not exist in safety under the old tyrant. Since he was not to be deprived of the name of king, the only course which was left was to make him a mere trustee, nominally seised of prerogatives of which others had the use, a Grand Lama, a Roi Faineant, a phantom resembling those Dagoberts and Childeberts who wore the badges of royalty, while Ebroin and Charles Martel held the real sovereignty of the state. The conditions which the Parliament propounded were hard, but, we are sure, not harder than those which even the Tories, in the Convention of 1689, would have imposed on James, if it had been resolved that James should continue to be king. The chief condition was that the command of the militia and the conduct of the war in Ireland should be left to the Parliament. On this point was that great issue joined, whereof the two parties put themselves on God and on the sword. We think, not only that the Commons were justified in demanding for themselves the power to dispose of the military force, but that it would have been absolute insanity in them to leave that force at the disposal of the King. From the very beginning of his reign, it had evidently been his object to govern by an army. His third Parliament had complained, in the Petition of Right, of his fondness for martial law, and of the vexatious manner in which he billeted his soldiers on the people. The wish nearest the heart of Strafford was, as his letters prove, that the revenue might be brought into such a state as would enable the King to keep a standing military establishment. In 1640 Charles had supported an army in the northern counties by lawless exactions. In 1641 he had engaged in an intrigue, the object of which was to bring that army to London for the purpose of overawing the Parliament. His late conduct had proved that, if he were suffered to retain even a small body-guard of his own creatures near his person, the Commons would be in danger of outrage, perhaps of massacre. The Houses were still deliberating under the protection of the militia of London. Could the command of the whole armed force of the realm have been, under these circumstances, safely confided to the King? Would it not have been frenzy in the Parliament to raise and pay an army of fifteen or twenty thousand men for the Irish war, and to give to Charles the absolute control of this army, and the power of selecting, promoting, and dismissing officers at his pleasure? Was it not probable that this army might become, what it is the nature of armies to become, what so many armies formed under much more favourable circumstances have become, what the army of the Roman republic became, what the army of the French republic became, an instrument of despotism? Was it not probable that the soldiers might forget that they were also citizens, and might be ready to serve their general against their country? Was it not certain that, on the very first day on which Charles could venture to revoke his concessions, and to punish his opponents, he would establish an arbitrary government, and exact a bloody revenge? Our own times furnish a parallel case. Suppose that a revolution should take place in Spain, that the Constitution of Cadiz should be reestablished, that the Cortes should meet again, that the Spanish Prynnes and Burtons, who are now wandering in rags round Leicester Square, should be restored to their country. Ferdinand the Seventh would, in that case, of course repeat all the oaths and promises which he made in 1820, and broke in 1823. But would it not be madness in the Cortes, even if they were to leave him the name of King, to leave him more than the name? Would not all Europe scoff at them, if they were to permit him to assemble a large army for an expedition to America, to model that army at his pleasure, to put it under the command of officers chosen by himself? Should we not say that every member of the Constitutional party who might concur in such a measure would most richly deserve the fate which he would probably meet, the fate of Riego and of the Empecinado? We are not disposed to pay compliments to Ferdinand; nor do we conceive that we pay him any compliment, when we say that, of all sovereigns in history, he seems to us most to resemble, in some very important points, King Charles the First. Like Charles, he is pious after a certain fashion; like Charles, he has made large concessions to his people after a certain fashion. It is well for him that he has had to deal with men who bore very little resemblance to the English Puritans. The Commons would have the power of the sword; the King would not part with it; and nothing remained but to try the chances of war. Charles still had a strong party in the country. His august office, his dignified manners, his solemn protestations that he would for the time to come respect the liberties of his subjects, pity for fallen greatness, fear of violent innovation, secured to him many adherents. He had with him the Church, the Universities, a majority of the nobles and of the old landed gentry. The austerity of the Puritan manners drove most of the gay and dissolute youth of that age to the royal standard. Many good, brave, and moderate men, who disliked his former conduct, and who entertained doubts touching his present sincerity, espoused his cause unwillingly and with many painful misgivings, because, though they dreaded his tyranny much, they dreaded democratic violence more. On the other side was the great body of the middle orders of England, the merchants, the shopkeepers, the yeomanry, headed by a very large and formidable minority of the peerage and of the landed gentry. The Earl of Essex, a man of respectable abilities, and of some military experience, was appointed to the command of the parliamentary army. Hampden spared neither his fortune nor his person in the cause. He subscribed two thousand pounds to the public service. He took a colonel’s commission in the army, and went into Buckinghamshire to raise a regiment of infantry. His neighbours eagerly enlisted under his command. His men were known by their green uniform, and by their standard, which bore on one side the watchword of the Parliament, “God with us,” and on the other the device of Hampden, “Vestigia nulla retrorsum.” This motto well described the line of conduct which he pursued. No member of his party had been so temperate, while there remained a hope that legal and peaceable measures might save the country. No member of his party showed so much energy and vigour when it became necessary to appeal to arms. He made himself thoroughly master of his military duty, and “performed it,” to use the words of Clarendon, “upon all occasions most punctually.” The regiment which he had raised and trained was considered as one of the best in the service of the Parliament. He exposed his person in every action with an intrepidity which made him conspicuous even among thousands of brave men. “He was,” says Clarendon, “of a personal courage equal to his best parts; so that he was an enemy not to be wished wherever he might have been made a friend, and as much to be apprehended where he was so, as any man could deserve to be.” Though his military career was short, and his military situation subordinate, he fully proved that he possessed the talents of a great general, as well as those of a great statesman. We shall not attempt to give a history of the war. Lord Nugent’s account of the military operations is very animating and striking. Our abstract would be dull, and probably unintelligible. There was, in fact, for some time no great and connected system of operations on either side. The war of the two parties was like the war of Arimanes and Oromasdes, neither of whom, according to the Eastern theologians, has any exclusive domain, who are equally omnipresent, who equally pervade all space, who carry on their eternal strife within every particle of matter. There was a petty war in almost every county. A town furnished troops to the Parliament while the manor-house of the neighbouring peer was garrisoned for the King. The combatants were rarely disposed to march far from their own homes. It was reserved for Fairfax and Cromwell to terminate this desultory warfare, by moving one overwhelming force successively against all the scattered fragments of the royal party. It is a remarkable circumstance that the officers who had studied tactics in what were considered as the best schools, under Vere in the Netherlands, and under Gustavus Adolphus in Germany, displayed far less skill than those commanders who had been bred to peaceful employments, and who never saw even a skirmish till the civil war broke out. An unlearned person might hence be inclined to suspect that the military art is no very profound mystery, that its principles are the principles of plain good sense, and that a quick eye, a cool head, and a stout heart, will do more to make a general than all the diagrams of Jomini. This, however, is certain, that Hampden showed himself a far better officer than Essex, and Cromwell than Leslie. The military errors of Essex were probably in some degree produced by political timidity. He was honestly, but not warmly, attached to the cause of the Parliament; and next to a great defeat he dreaded a great victory. Hampden, on the other hand, was for vigorous and decisive measures. When he drew the sword, as Clarendon has well said, he threw away the scabbard. He had shown that he knew better than any public man of his time how to value and how to practise moderation. But he knew that the essence of war is violence, and that moderation in war is imbecility. On several occasions, particularly during the operations in the neighbourhood of Brentford, he remonstrated earnestly with Essex. Wherever he commanded separately, the boldness and rapidity of his movements presented a striking contrast to the sluggishness of his superior. In the Parliament he possessed boundless influence. His employments towards the close of 1642 have been described by Denham in some lines which, though intended to be sarcastic, convey in truth the highest eulogy. Hampden is described in this satire as perpetually passing and repassing between the military station at Windsor and the House of Commons at Westminster, as overawing the general, and as giving law to that Parliament which knew no other law. It was at this time that he organized that celebrated association of counties to which his party was principally indebted for its victory over the King. In the early part of 1643, the shires lying in the neighbourhood of London, which were devoted to the cause of the Parliament, were incessantly annoyed by Rupert and his cavalry. Essex had extended his lines so far that almost every point was vulnerable. The young prince, who, though not a great general, was an active and enterprising partisan, frequently surprised posts, burned villages, swept away cattle, and was again at Oxford before a force sufficient to encounter him could be assembled. The languid proceedings of Essex were loudly condemned by the troops. All the ardent and daring spirits in the parliamentary party were eager to have Hampden at their head. Had his life been prolonged, there is every reason to believe that the supreme command would have been intrusted to him. But it was decreed that, at this conjuncture, England should lose the only man who united perfect disinterestedness to eminent talents, the only man who, being capable of gaining the victory for her, was incapable of abusing that victory when gained. In the evening of the seventeenth of June, Rupert darted out of Oxford with his cavalry on a predatory expedition. At three in the morning of the following day, he attacked and dispersed a few parliamentary soldiers who lay at Postcombe. He then flew to Chinnor, burned the village, killed or took all the troops who were quartered there, and prepared to hurry back with his booty and his prisoners to Oxford. Hampden had, on the preceding day, strongly represented to Essex the danger to which this part of the line was exposed. As soon as he received intelligence of Rupert’s incursion, he sent off a horseman with a message to the General. The cavaliers, he said, could return only by Chiselhampton Bridge. A force ought to be instantly despatched in that direction for the purpose of intercepting them. In the meantime, he resolved to set out with all the cavalry that he could muster, for the purpose of impeding the march of the enemy till Essex could take measures for cutting off their retreat. A considerable body of horse and dragoons volunteered to follow him. He was not their commander. He did not even belong to their branch of the service. But “he was,” says Lord Clarendon, “second to none but the General himself in the observance and application of all men.” On the field of Chalgrove he came up with Rupert. A fierce skirmish ensued. In the first charge Hampden was struck in the shoulder by two bullets, which broke the bone, and lodged in his body. The troops of the Parliament lost heart and gave way. Rupert, after pursuing them for a short time, hastened to cross the bridge, and made his retreat unmolested to Oxford. Hampden, with his head drooping, and his hands leaning on his horse’s neck, moved feebly out of the battle. The mansion which had been inhabited by his father-in-law, and from which in his youth he had carried home his bride Elizabeth, was in sight. There still remains an affecting tradition that he looked for a moment towards that beloved house, and made an effort to go thither to die. But the enemy lay in that direction. He turned his horse towards Thame, where he arrived almost fainting with agony. The surgeons dressed his wounds. But there was no hope. The pain which he suffered was most excruciating. But he endured it with admirable firmness and resignation. His first care was for his country. He wrote from his bed several letters to London concerning public affairs, and sent a last pressing message to the head-quarters, recommending that the dispersed forces should be concentrated. When his public duties were performed, he calmly prepared himself to die. He was attended by a clergyman of the Church of England, with whom he had lived in habits of intimacy, and by the chaplain of the Buckinghamshire Greencoats, Dr. Spurton, whom Baxter describes as a famous and excellent divine. A short time before Hampden’s death the sacrament was administered to him. He declared that though he disliked the government of the Church of England, he yet agreed with that Church as to all essential matters of doctrine. His intellect remained unclouded. When all was nearly over, he lay murmuring faint prayers for himself, and for the cause in which, he died. “Lord Jesus,” he exclaimed in the moment of the last agony, “receive my soul. O Lord, save my country. O Lord, be merciful to--.” In that broken ejaculation passed away his noble and fearless spirit. He was buried in the parish church of Hampden. His soldiers, bareheaded, with reversed arms and muffled drums and colours, escorted his body to the grave, singing, as they marched, that lofty and melancholy psalm in which the fragility of human life is contrasted with the immutability of Him to whom a thousand years are as yesterday when it is past, and as a watch in the night. The news of Hampden’s death produced as great a consternation in his party, according to Clarendon, as if their whole army had been cut off. The journals of the time amply prove that the Parliament and all its friends were filled with grief and dismay. Lord Nugent has quoted a remarkable passage from the next Weekly Intelligencer. “The loss of Colonel Hampden goeth near the heart of every man that loves the good of his king and country, and makes some conceive little content to be at the army now that he is gone. The memory of this deceased colonel is such, that in no age to come but it will more and more be had in honour and esteem; a man so religious, and of that prudence, judgment, temper, valour, and integrity, that he hath left few his like behind.” He had indeed left none his like behind him. There still remained, indeed, in his party, many acute intellects, many eloquent tongues, many brave and honest hearts. There still remained a rugged and clownish soldier, half fanatic, half buffoon, whose talents, discerned as yet only by one penetrating eye, were equal to all the highest duties of the soldier and the prince. But in Hampden, and in Hampden alone, were united all the qualities which, at such a crisis, were necessary to save the state, the valour and energy of Cromwell, the discernment and eloquence of Vane, the humanity and moderation of Manchester, the stern integrity of Hale, the ardent public spirit of Sydney. Others might possess the qualities which were necessary to save the popular party in the crisis of danger; he alone had both the power and the inclination to restrain its excesses in the hour of triumph. Others could conquer; he alone could reconcile. A heart as bold as his brought up the cuirassiers who turned the tide of battle on Marston Moor. As skilful an eye as his watched the Scotch army descending from the heights over Dunbar. But it was when to the sullen tyranny of Laud and Charles had succeeded the fierce conflict of sects and factions, ambitious of ascendency and burning for revenge, it was when the vices and ignorance which the old tyranny had generated threatened the new freedom with destruction, that England missed the sobriety, the self-command, the perfect soundness of judgment, the perfect rectitude of intention, to which the history of revolutions furnishes no parallel, or furnishes a parallel in Washington alone. MILTON (August 1825) _Joannis Miltoni, Angli, de Doctrina Christiana libri duo posthumi. A Treatise on Christian Doctrine, compiled from the Holy Scriptures alone. By JOHN MILTON, translated from the Original by Charles R. Sumner, M.A., etc., etc. 1825._ TOWARDS the close of the year 1823, Mr. Lemon, deputy keeper of the state papers, in the course of his researches among the presses of his office, met with a large Latin manuscript. With it were found corrected copies of the foreign despatches written by Milton while he filled the office of Secretary, and several papers relating to the Popish Trials and the Rye-house Plot. The whole was wrapped up in an envelope, superscribed To Mr. Skinner, Merchant. On examination, the large manuscript proved to be the long-lost Essay on the Doctrines of Christianity, which, according to Wood and Toland, Milton finished after the Restoration, and deposited with Cyriac Skinner. Skinner, it is well known, held the same political opinions with his illustrious friend. It is therefore probable, as Mr. Lemon conjectures, that he may have fallen under the suspicions of the Government during that persecution of the Whigs which followed the dissolution of the Oxford parliament, and that, in consequence of a general seizure of his papers, this work may have been brought to the office in which it has been found. But whatever the adventures of the manuscript may have been, no doubt can exist that it is a genuine relic of the great poet. Mr. Sumner who was commanded by his Majesty to edit and translate the treatise, has acquitted himself of his task in a manner honourable to his talents and to his character. His version is not indeed very easy or elegant; but it is entitled to the praise of clearness and fidelity. His notes abound with interesting quotations, and have the rare merit of really elucidating the text. The preface is evidently the work of a sensible and candid man, firm in his own religious opinions, and tolerant towards those of others. The book itself will not add much to the fame of Milton. It is, like all his Latin works, well written, though not exactly in the style of the prize essays of Oxford and Cambridge. There is no elaborate imitation of classical antiquity, no scrupulous purity, none of the ceremonial cleanness which characterises the diction of our academical Pharisees. The author does not attempt to polish and brighten his composition into the Ciceronian gloss and brilliancy. He does not in short sacrifice sense and spirit to pedantic refinements. The nature of his subject compelled him to use many words “That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp.” But he writes with as much ease and freedom as if Latin were his mother tongue; and, where he is least happy, his failure seems to arise from the carelessness of a native, not from the ignorance of a foreigner. We may apply to him what Denham with great felicity says of Cowley: “He wears the garb, but not the clothes of the ancients.” Throughout the volume are discernible the traces of a powerful and independent mind, emancipated from the influence of authority, and devoted to the search of truth. Milton professes to form his system from the Bible alone; and his digest of scriptural texts is certainly among the best that have appeared. But he is not always so happy in his inferences as in his citations. Some of the heterodox doctrines which he avows seemed to have excited considerable amazement, particularly his Arianism, and his theory on the subject of polygamy. Yet we can scarcely conceive that any person could have read the Paradise Lost without suspecting him of the former; nor do we think that any reader, acquainted with the history of his life, ought to be much startled at the latter. The opinions which he has expressed respecting the nature of the Deity, the eternity of matter, and the observation of the Sabbath, might, we think, have caused more just surprise. But we will not go into the discussion of these points. The book, were it far more orthodox or far more heretical than it is, would not much edify or corrupt the present generation. The men of our time are not to be converted or perverted by quartos. A few more days, and this essay will follow the Defensio Populi to the dust and silence of the upper shelf. The name of its author, and the remarkable circumstances attending its publication, will secure to it a certain degree of attention. For a month or two it will occupy a few minutes of chat in every drawing-room, and a few columns in every magazine; and it will then, to borrow the elegant language of the play-bills, be withdrawn to make room for the forthcoming novelties. We wish, however, to avail ourselves of the interest, transient as it may be, which this work has excited. The dexterous Capuchins never choose to preach on the life and miracles of a saint, until they have awakened the devotional feelings of their auditors by exhibiting some relic of him, a thread of his garment, a lock of his hair, or a drop of his blood. On the same principle, we intend to take advantage of the late interesting discovery, and, while this memorial of a great and good man is still in the hands of all, to say something of his moral and intellectual qualities. Nor, we are convinced, will the severest of our readers blame us if, on an occasion like the present, we turn for a short time from the topics of the day, to commemorate, in all love and reverence, the genius and virtues of John Milton, the poet, the statesman, the philosopher, the glory of English literature, the champion and the martyr of English liberty. It is by his poetry that Milton is best known; and it is of his poetry that we wish first to speak. By the general suffrage of the civilised world, his place has been assigned among the greatest masters of the art. His detractors, however, though outvoted, have not been silenced. There are many critics, and some of great name, who contrive in the same breath to extol the poems and to decry the poet. The works they acknowledge, considered in themselves, may be classed among the noblest productions of the human mind. But they will not allow the author to rank with those great men who, born in the infancy of civilisation, supplied, by their own powers, the want of instruction, and, though destitute of models themselves, bequeathed to posterity models which defy imitation. Milton, it is said, inherited what his predecessors created; he lived in an enlightened age; he received a finished education, and we must therefore, if we would form a just estimate of his powers, make large deductions in consideration of these advantages. We venture to say, on the contrary, paradoxical as the remark may appear, that no poet has ever had to struggle with more unfavourable circumstances than Milton. He doubted, as he has himself owned, whether he had not been born “an age too late.” For this notion Johnson has thought fit to make him the butt of much clumsy ridicule. The poet, we believe, understood the nature of his art better than the critic. He knew that his poetical genius derived no advantage from the civilisation which surrounded him, or from the learning which he had acquired; and he looked back with something like regret to the ruder age of simple words and vivid impressions. We think that, as civilisation advances, poetry almost necessarily declines. Therefore, though we fervently admire those great works of imagination which have appeared in dark ages, we do not admire them the more because they have appeared in dark ages. On the contrary, we hold that the most wonderful and splendid proof of genius is a great poem produced in a civilised age. We cannot understand why those who believe in that most orthodox article of literary faith, that the earliest poets are generally the best, should wonder at the rule as if it were the exception. Surely the uniformity of the phaenomenon indicates a corresponding uniformity in the cause. The fact is, that common observers reason from the progress of the experimental sciences to that of imitative arts. The improvement of the former is gradual and slow. Ages are spent in collecting materials, ages more in separating and combining them. Even when a system has been formed, there is still something to add, to alter, or to reject. Every generation enjoys the use of a vast hoard bequeathed to it by antiquity, and transmits that hoard, augmented by fresh acquisitions, to future ages. In these pursuits, therefore, the first speculators lie under great disadvantages, and, even when they fail, are entitled to praise. Their pupils, with far inferior intellectual powers, speedily surpass them in actual attainments. Every girl who has read Mrs. Marcet’s little dialogues on Political Economy could teach Montague or Walpole many lessons in finance. Any intelligent man may now, by resolutely applying himself for a few years to mathematics, learn more than the great Newton knew after half a century of study and meditation. But it is not thus with music, with painting, or with sculpture. Still less is it thus with poetry. The progress of refinement rarely supplies these arts with better objects of imitation. It may indeed improve the instruments which are necessary to the mechanical operations of the musician, the sculptor, and the painter. But language, the machine of the poet, is best fitted for his purpose in its rudest state. Nations, like individuals, first perceive, and then abstract. They advance from particular images to general terms. Hence the vocabulary of an enlightened society is philosophical, that of a half-civilised people is poetical. This change in the language of men is partly the cause and partly the effect of a corresponding change in the nature of their intellectual operations, of a change by which science gains and poetry loses. Generalisation is necessary to the advancement of knowledge; but particularity is indispensable to the creations of the imagination. In proportion as men know more and think more, they look less at individuals and more at classes. They therefore make better theories and worse poems. They give us vague phrases instead of images, and personified qualities instead of men. They may be better able to analyse human nature than their predecessors. But analysis is not the business of the poet. His office is to portray, not to dissect. He may believe in a moral sense, like Shaftesbury; he may refer all human actions to self-interest, like Helvetius; or he may never think about the matter at all. His creed on such subjects will no more influence his poetry, properly so called, than the notions which a painter may have conceived respecting the lacrymal glands, or the circulation of the blood will affect the tears of his Niobe, or the blushes of his Aurora. If Shakespeare had written a book on the motives of human actions, it is by no means certain that it would have been a good one. It is extremely improbable that it would have contained half so much able reasoning on the subject as is to be found in the Fable of the Bees. But could Mandeville have created an Iago? Well as he knew how to resolve characters into their elements, would he have been able to combine those elements in such a manner as to make up a man, a real, living, individual man? Perhaps no person can be a poet, or can even enjoy poetry, without a certain unsoundness of mind, if anything which gives so much pleasure ought to be called unsoundness. By poetry we mean not all writing in verse, nor even all good writing in verse. Our definition excludes many metrical compositions which, on other grounds, deserve the highest praise. By poetry we mean the art of employing words in such a manner as to produce an illusion on the imagination, the art of doing by means of words what the painter does by means of colours. Thus the greatest of poets has described it, in lines universally admired for the vigour and felicity of their diction, and still more valuable on account of the just notion which they convey of the art in which he excelled: “As the imagination bodies forth The forms of things unknown, the poet’s pen Turns them to shapes, and gives to airy nothing A local habitation and a name.” These are the fruits of the “fine frenzy” which he ascribes to the poet--a fine frenzy doubtless, but still a frenzy. Truth, indeed, is essential to poetry; but it is the truth of madness. The reasonings are just; but the premises are false. After the first suppositions have been made, everything ought to be consistent; but those first suppositions require a degree of credulity which almost amounts to a partial and temporary derangement of the intellect. Hence of all people children are the most imaginative. They abandon themselves without reserve to every illusion. Every image which is strongly presented to their mental eye produces on them the effect of reality. No man, whatever his sensibility may be, is ever affected by Hamlet or Lear, as a little girl is affected by the story of poor Red Riding-hood. She knows that it is all false, that wolves cannot speak, that there are no wolves in England. Yet in spite of her knowledge she believes; she weeps; she trembles; she dares not go into a dark room lest she should feel the teeth of the monster at her throat. Such is the despotism of the imagination over uncultivated minds. In a rude state of society men are children with a greater variety of ideas. It is therefore in such a state of society that we may expect to find the poetical temperament in its highest perfection. In an enlightened age there will be much intelligence, much science, much philosophy, abundance of just classification and subtle analysis, abundance of wit and eloquence, abundance of verses, and even of good ones; but little poetry. Men will judge and compare; but they will not create. They will talk about the old poets, and comment on them, and to a certain degree enjoy them. But they will scarcely be able to conceive the effect which poetry produced on their ruder ancestors, the agony, the ecstasy, the plenitude of belief. The Greek Rhapsodists, according to Plato, could scarce recite Homer without falling into convulsions. The Mohawk hardly feels the scalping knife while he shouts his death-song. The power which the ancient bards of Wales and Germany exercised over their auditors seems to modern readers almost miraculous. Such feelings are very rare in a civilised community, and most rare among those who participate most in its improvements. They linger longest amongst the peasantry. Poetry produces an illusion on the eye of the mind, as a magic lantern produces an illusion on the eye of the body. And, as the magic lantern acts best in a dark room, poetry effects its purpose most completely in a dark age. As the light of knowledge breaks in upon its exhibitions, as the outlines of certainty become more and more definite, and the shades of probability more and more distinct, the hues and lineaments of the phantoms which the poet calls up grow fainter and fainter. We cannot unite the incompatible advantages of reality and deception, the clear discernment of truth and the exquisite enjoyment of fiction. He who, in an enlightened and literary society, aspires to be a great poet must first become a little child, he must take to pieces the whole web of his mind. He must unlearn much of that knowledge which has perhaps constituted hitherto his chief title to superiority. His very talents will be a hindrance to him. His difficulties will be proportioned to his proficiency in the pursuits which are fashionable among his contemporaries; and that proficiency will in general be proportioned to the vigour and activity of his mind. And it is well if, after all his sacrifices and exertions, his works do not resemble a lisping man or a modern ruin. We have seen in our own time great talents, intense labour, and long meditation, employed in this struggle against the spirit of the age, and employed, we will not say absolutely in vain, but with dubious success and feeble applause. If these reasonings be just, no poet has ever triumphed over greater difficulties than Milton. He received a learned education: he was a profound and elegant classical scholar: he had studied all the mysteries of Rabbinical literature: he was intimately acquainted with every language of modern Europe, from which either pleasure or information was then to be derived. He was perhaps the only great poet of later times who has been distinguished by the excellence of his Latin verse. The genius of Petrarch was scarcely of the first order; and his poems in the ancient language, though much praised by those who have never read them, are wretched compositions. Cowley, with all his admirable wit and ingenuity, had little imagination: nor indeed do we think his classical diction comparable to that of Milton. The authority of Johnson is against us on this point. But Johnson had studied the bad writers of the middle ages till he had become utterly insensible to the Augustan elegance, and was as ill qualified to judge between two Latin styles as a habitual drunkard to set up for a wine-taster. Versification in a dead language is an exotic, a far-fetched, costly, sickly, imitation of that which elsewhere may be found in healthful and spontaneous perfection. The soils on which this rarity flourishes are in general as ill suited to the production of vigorous native poetry as the flower-pots of a hot-house to the growth of oaks. That the author of the Paradise Lost should have written the Epistle to Manso was truly wonderful. Never before were such marked originality and such exquisite, mimicry found together. Indeed in all the Latin poems of Milton the artificial manner indispensable to such works is admirably preserved, while, at the same time, his genius gives to them a peculiar charm, an air of nobleness and freedom, which distinguishes them from all other writings of the same class. They remind us of the amusements of those angelic warriors who composed the cohort of Gabriel: “About him exercised heroic games The unarmed youth of heaven. But o’er their heads Celestial armoury, shields, helms, and spears Hang high, with diamond flaming, and with gold.” We cannot look upon the sportive exercises for which the genius of Milton ungirds itself, without catching a glimpse of the gorgeous and terrible panoply which it is accustomed to wear. The strength of his imagination triumphed over every obstacle. So intense and ardent was the fire of his mind, that it not only was not suffocated beneath the weight of fuel, but penetrated the whole superincumbent mass with its own heat and radiance. It is not our intention to attempt anything like a complete examination of the poetry of Milton. The public has long been agreed as to the merit of the most remarkable passages, the incomparable harmony of the numbers, and the excellence of that style, which no rival has been able to equal, and no parodist to degrade, which displays in their highest perfection the idiomatic powers of the English tongue, and to which every ancient and every modern language has contributed something of grace, of energy, or of music. In the vast field of criticism on which we are entering, innumerable reapers have already put their sickles. Yet the harvest is so abundant that the negligent search of a straggling gleaner may be rewarded with a sheaf. The most striking characteristic of the poetry of Milton is the extreme remoteness of the associations by means of which it acts on the reader. Its effect is produced, not so much by what it expresses, as by what it suggests; not so much by the ideas which it directly conveys, as by other ideas which are connected with them. He electrifies the mind through conductors. The most unimaginative man must understand the Iliad. Homer gives him no choice, and requires from him no exertion, but takes the whole upon himself, and sets the images in so clear a light, that it is impossible to be blind to them. The works of Milton cannot be comprehended or enjoyed, unless the mind of the reader co-operate with that of the writer. He does not paint a finished picture, or play for a mere passive listener. He sketches, and leaves others to fill up the outline. He strikes the keynote, and expects his hearer to make out the melody. We often hear of the magical influence of poetry. The expression in general means nothing: but, applied to the writings of Milton, it is most appropriate. His poetry acts like an incantation. Its merit lies less in its obvious meaning than in its occult power. There would seem, at first sight, to be no more in his words than in other words. But they are words of enchantment. No sooner are they pronounced, than the past is present and the distant near. New forms of beauty start at once into existence, and all the burial-places of the memory give up their dead. Change the structure of the sentence; substitute one synonym for another, and the whole effect is destroyed. The spell loses its power: and he who should then hope to conjure with it would find himself as much mistaken as Cassim in the Arabian tale, when he stood crying, “Open Wheat,” “Open Barley,” to the door which obeyed no sound but “Open Sesame.” The miserable failure of Dryden in his attempt to translate into his own diction some parts of the Paradise Lost, is a remarkable instance of this. In support of these observations we may remark, that scarcely any passages in the poems of Milton are more generally known or more frequently repeated than those which are little more than muster-rolls of names. They are not always more appropriate or more melodious than other names. Every one of them is the first link in a long chain of associated ideas. Like the dwelling-place of our infancy revisited in manhood, like the song of our country heard in a strange land, they produce upon us an effect wholly independent of their intrinsic value. One transports us back to a remote period of history. Another places us among the novel scenes avid manners of a distant region. A third evokes all the dear classical recollections of childhood, the schoolroom, the dog-eared Virgil, the holiday, and the prize. A fourth brings before us the splendid phantoms of chivalrous romance, the trophied lists, the embroidered housings, the quaint devices, the haunted forests, the enchanted gardens, the achievements of enamoured knights, and the smiles of rescued princesses. In none of the works of Milton is his peculiar manner more happily displayed than in the Allegro and the Penseroso. It is impossible to conceive that the mechanism of language can be brought to a more exquisite degree of perfection. These poems differ from others, as attar of roses differs from ordinary rose water, the close packed essence from the thin diluted mixture. They are indeed not so much poems, as collections of hints, from each of which the reader is to make out a poem for himself. Every epithet is a text for a stanza. The Comus and the Samson Agonistes are works which, though of very different merit, offer some marked points of resemblance. Both are lyric poems in the form of plays. There are perhaps no two kinds of composition so essentially dissimilar as the drama and the ode. The business of the dramatist is to keep himself out of sight, and to let nothing appear but his characters. As soon as he attracts notice to his personal feelings, the illusion is broken. The effect is as unpleasant as that which is produced on the stage by the voice of a prompter or the entrance of a scene-shifter. Hence it was, that the tragedies of Byron were his least successful performances. They resemble those pasteboard pictures invented by the friend of children, Mr. Newbery, in which a single moveable head goes round twenty different bodies, so that the same face looks out upon us successively, from the uniform of a hussar, the furs of a judge, and the rags of a beggar. In all the characters, patriots and tyrants, haters and lovers, the frown and sneer of Harold were discernible in an instant. But this species of egotism, though fatal to the drama, is the inspiration of the ode. It is the part of the lyric poet to abandon himself, without reserve, to his own emotions. Between these hostile elements many great men have endeavoured to effect an amalgamation, but never with complete success. The Greek Drama, on the model of which the Samson was written, sprang from the Ode. The dialogue was ingrafted on the chorus, and naturally partook of its character. The genius of the greatest of the Athenian dramatists cooperated with the circumstances under which tragedy made its first appearance. Aeschylus was, head and heart, a lyric poet. In his time, the Greeks had far more intercourse with the East than in the days of Homer; and they had not yet acquired that immense superiority in war, in science, and in the arts, which, in the following generation, led them to treat the Asiatics with contempt. From the narrative of Herodotus it should seem that they still looked up, with the veneration of disciples, to Egypt and Assyria. At this period, accordingly, it was natural that the literature of Greece should be tinctured with the Oriental style. And that style, we think, is discernible in the works of Pindar and Aeschylus. The latter often reminds us of the Hebrew writers. The book of Job, indeed, in conduct and diction, bears a considerable resemblance to some of his dramas. Considered as plays, his works are absurd; considered as choruses, they are above all praise. If, for instance, we examine the address of Clytemnestra to Agamemnon on his return, or the description of the seven Argive chiefs, by the principles of dramatic writing, we shall instantly condemn them as monstrous. But if we forget the characters, and think only of the poetry, we shall admit that it has never been surpassed in energy and magnificence. Sophocles made the Greek Drama as dramatic as was consistent with its original form. His portraits of men have a sort of similarity; but it is the similarity not of a painting, but of a bas-relief. It suggests a resemblance; but it does not produce an illusion. Euripides attempted to carry the reform further. But it was a task far beyond his powers, perhaps beyond any powers. Instead of correcting what was bad, he destroyed what was excellent. He substituted crutches for stilts, bad sermons for good odes. Milton, it is well known, admired Euripides highly, much more highly than, in our opinion, Euripides deserved. Indeed the caresses which this partiality leads our countryman to bestow on “sad Electra’s poet,” sometimes remind us of the beautiful Queen of Fairy-land kissing the long ears of Bottom. At all events, there can be no doubt that this veneration for the Athenian, whether just or not, was injurious to the Samson Agonistes. Had Milton taken Aeschylus for his model, he would have given himself up to the lyric inspiration, and poured out profusely all the treasures of his mind, without bestowing a thought on those dramatic proprieties which the nature of the work rendered it impossible to preserve. In the attempt to reconcile things in their own nature inconsistent he has failed, as every one else must have failed. We cannot identify ourselves with the characters, as in a good play. We cannot identify ourselves with the poet, as in a good ode. The conflicting ingredients, like an acid and an alkali mixed, neutralise each other. We are by no means insensible to the merits of this celebrated piece, to the severe dignity of the style, the graceful and pathetic solemnity of the opening speech, or the wild and barbaric melody which gives so striking an effect to the choral passages. But we think it, we confess, the least successful effort of the genius of Milton. The Comus is framed on the model of the Italian Masque, as the Samson is framed on the model of the Greek Tragedy. It is certainly the noblest performance of the kind which exists in any language. It is as far superior to the Faithful Shepherdess as the Faithful Shepherdess is to the Aminta, or the Aminta to the Pastor Fido. It was well for Milton that he had here no Euripides to mislead him. He understood and loved the literature of modern Italy. But he did not feel for it the same veneration which he entertained for the remains of Athenian and Roman poetry, consecrated by so many lofty and endearing recollections. The faults, moreover, of his Italian predecessors were of a kind to which his mind had a deadly antipathy. He could stoop to a plain style, sometimes even to a bald style; but false brilliancy was his utter aversion. His muse had no objection to a russet attire; but she turned with disgust from the finery of Guarini, as tawdry and as paltry as the rags of a chimney-sweeper on May-day. Whatever ornaments she wears are of massive gold, not only dazzling to the sight, but capable of standing the severest test of the crucible. Milton attended in the Comus to the distinction which he afterwards neglected in the Samson. He made his Masque what it ought to be, essentially lyrical, and dramatic only in semblance. He has not attempted a fruitless struggle against a defect inherent in the nature of that species of composition; and he has therefore succeeded, wherever success was not impossible. The speeches must be read as majestic soliloquies; and he who so reads them will be enraptured with their eloquence, their sublimity, and their music. The interruptions of the dialogue, however, impose a constraint upon the writer, and break the illusion of the reader. The finest passages are those which are lyric in form as well as in spirit. “I should much commend,” says the excellent Sir Henry Wotton in a letter to Milton, “the tragical part if the lyrical did not ravish me with a certain Dorique delicacy in your songs and odes, whereunto, I must plainly confess to, you, I have seen yet nothing parallel in our language.” The criticism was just. It is when Milton escapes from the shackles of the dialogue, when he is discharged from the labour of uniting two incongruous styles, when he is at liberty to indulge his choral raptures without reserve, that he rises even above himself. Then, like his own good Genius bursting from the earthly form and weeds of Thyrsis, he stands forth in celestial freedom and beauty; he seems to cry exultingly, “Now my task is smoothly done, I can fly or I can run,” to skim the earth, to soar above the clouds, to bathe in the Elysian dew of the rainbow, and to inhale the balmy smells of nard and cassia, which the musky winds of the zephyr scatter through the cedared alleys of the Hesperides. There are several of the minor poems of Milton on which we would willingly make a few remarks. Still more willingly would we enter into a detailed examination of that admirable poem, the Paradise Regained, which, strangely enough, is scarcely ever mentioned except as an instance of the blindness of the parental affection which men of letters bear towards the offspring of their intellects. That Milton was mistaken in preferring this work, excellent as it is, to the Paradise Lost, we readily admit. But we are sure that the superiority of the Paradise Lost to the Paradise Regained is not more decided, than the superiority of the Paradise Regained to every poem which has since made its appearance. Our limits, however, prevent us from discussing the point at length. We hasten on to that extraordinary production which the general suffrage of critics has placed in the highest class of human compositions. The only poem of modern times which can be compared with the Paradise Lost is the Divine Comedy. The subject of Milton, in some points, resembled that of Dante; but he has treated it in a widely different manner. We cannot, we think, better illustrate our opinion respecting our own great poet, than by contrasting him with the father of Tuscan literature. The poetry of Milton differs from that of Dante, as the hieroglyphics of Egypt differed from the picture-writing of Mexico. The images which Dante employs speak for themselves; they stand simply for what they are. Those of Milton have a signification which is often discernible only to the initiated. Their value depends less on what they directly represent than on what they remotely suggest. However strange, however grotesque, may be the appearance which Dante undertakes to describe, he never shrinks from describing it. He gives us the shape, the colour, the sound, the smell, the taste; he counts the numbers; he measures the size. His similes are the illustrations of a traveller. Unlike those of other poets, and especially of Milton, they are introduced in a plain, business-like manner; not for the sake of any beauty in the objects from which they are drawn; not for the sake of any ornament which they may impart to the poem; but simply in order to make the meaning of the writer as clear to the reader as it is to himself. The ruins of the precipice which led from the sixth to the seventh circle of hell were like those of the rock which fell into the Adige on the south of Trent. The cataract of Phlegethon was like that of Aqua Cheta at the monastery of St. Benedict. The place where the heretics were confined in burning tombs resembled the vast cemetery of Arles. Now let us compare with the exact details of Dante the dim intimations of Milton. We will cite a few examples. The English poet has never thought of taking the measure of Satan. He gives us merely a vague idea of vast bulk. In one passage the fiend lies stretched out huge in length, floating many a rood, equal in size to the earth-born enemies of Jove, or to the sea-monster which the mariner mistakes for an island. When he addresses himself to battle against the guardian angels, he stands like Teneriffe or Atlas: his stature reaches the sky. Contrast with these descriptions the lines in which Dante has described the gigantic spectre of Nimrod. “His face seemed to me as long and as broad as the ball of St. Peter’s at Rome, and his other limbs were in proportion; so that the bank, which concealed him from the waist downwards, nevertheless showed so much of him, that three tall Germans would in vain have attempted to reach to his hair.” We are sensible that we do no justice to the admirable style of the Florentine poet. But Mr. Cary’s translation is not at hand; and our version, however rude, is sufficient to illustrate our meaning. Once more, compare the lazar-house in the eleventh book of the Paradise Lost with the last ward of Malebolge in Dante. Milton avoids the loathsome details, and takes refuge in indistinct but solemn and tremendous imagery. Despair hurrying from couch to couch to mock the wretches with his attendance, Death shaking his dart over them, but, in spite of supplications, delaying to strike. What says Dante? “There was such a moan there as there would be if all the sick who, between July and September, are in the hospitals of Valdichiana, and of the Tuscan swamps, and of Sardinia, were in one pit together; and such a stench was issuing forth as is wont to issue from decayed limbs.” We will not take upon ourselves the invidious office of settling precedency between two such writers, Each in his own department is incomparable; and each, we may remark, has wisely, or fortunately, taken a subject adapted to exhibit his peculiar talent to the greatest advantage. The Divine Comedy is a personal narrative. Dante is the eye-witness and ear-witness of that which he relates. He is the very man who has heard the tormented spirits crying out for the second death, who has read the dusky characters on the portal within which there is no hope, who has hidden his face from the terrors of the Gorgon, who has fled from the hooks and the seething pitch of Barbariccia and Draghignazzo. His own hands have grasped the shaggy sides of Lucifer. His own feet have climbed the mountain of expiation. His own brow has been marked by the purifying angel. The reader would throw aside such a tale in incredulous disgust, unless it were told with the strongest air of veracity, with a sobriety even in its horrors, with the greatest precision and multiplicity in its details. The narrative of Milton in this respect differs from that of Dante, as the adventures of Amadis differ from those of Gulliver. The author of Amadis would have made his book ridiculous if he had introduced those minute particulars which give such a charm to the work of Swift, the nautical observations, the affected delicacy about names, the official documents transcribed at full length, and all the unmeaning gossip and scandal of the court, springing out of nothing, and tending to nothing. We are not shocked at being told that a man who lived, nobody knows when, saw many very strange sights, and we can easily abandon ourselves to the illusion of the romance. But when Lemuel Gulliver, surgeon, resident at Rotherhithe, tells us of pygmies and giants, flying islands, and philosophising horses, nothing but such circumstantial touches could produce for a single moment a deception on the imagination. Of all the poets who have introduced into their works the agency of supernatural beings, Milton has succeeded best. Here Dante decidedly yields to him: and as this is a point on which many rash and ill-considered judgments have been pronounced, we feel inclined to dwell on it a little longer. The most fatal error which a poet can possibly commit in the management of his machinery, is that of attempting to philosophise too much. Milton has been often censured for ascribing to spirits many functions of which spirits must be incapable. But these objections, though sanctioned by eminent names, originate, we venture to say, in profound ignorance of the art of poetry. What is spirit? What are our own minds, the portion of spirit with which we are best acquainted? We observe certain phaenomena. We cannot explain them into material causes. We therefore infer that there exists something which is not material. But of this something we have no idea. We can define it only by negatives. We can reason about it only by symbols. We use the word; but we have no image of the thing; and the business of poetry is with images, and not with words. The poet uses words indeed; but they are merely the instruments of his art, not its objects. They are the materials which he is to dispose in such a manner as to present a picture to the mental eye. And if they are not so disposed, they are no more entitled to be called poetry than a bale of canvas and a box of colours to be called a painting. Logicians may reason about abstractions. But the great mass of men must have images. The strong tendency of the multitude in all ages and nations to idolatry can be explained on no other principle. The first inhabitants of Greece, there is reason to believe, worshipped one invisible Deity. But the necessity of having something more definite to adore produced, in a few centuries, the innumerable crowd of Gods and Goddesses. In like manner the ancient Persians thought it impious to exhibit the Creator under a human form. Yet even these transferred to the Sun the worship which, in speculation, they considered due only to the Supreme Mind. The history of the Jews is the record of a continued struggle between pure Theism, supported by the most terrible sanctions, and the strangely fascinating desire of having some visible and tangible object of adoration. Perhaps none of the secondary causes which Gibbon has assigned for the rapidity with which Christianity spread over the world, while Judaism scarcely ever acquired a proselyte, operated more powerfully than this feeling. God, the uncreated, the incomprehensible, the invisible, attracted few worshippers. A philosopher might admire so noble a conception; but the crowd turned away in disgust from words which presented no image to their minds. It was before Deity embodied in a human form, walking among men, partaking of their infirmities, leaning on their bosoms, weeping over their graves, slumbering in the manger, bleeding on the cross, that the prejudices of the Synagogue, and the doubts of the Academy, and the pride of the Portico, and the fasces of the Lictor, and the swords of thirty legions, were humbled in the dust. Soon after Christianity had achieved its triumph, the principle which had assisted it began to corrupt it. It became a new Paganism. Patron saints assumed the offices of household gods. St. George took the place of Mars. St. Elmo consoled the mariner for the loss of Castor and Pollux. The Virgin Mother and Cecilia succeeded to Venus and the Muses. The fascination of sex and loveliness was again joined to that of celestial dignity; and the homage of chivalry was blended with that of religion. Reformers have often made a stand against these feelings; but never with more than apparent and partial success. The men who demolished the images in cathedrals have not always been able to demolish those which were enshrined in their minds. It would not be difficult to show that in politics the same rule holds good. Doctrines, we are afraid, must generally be embodied before they can excite a strong public feeling. The multitude is more easily interested for the most unmeaning badge, or the most insignificant name, than for the most important principle. From these considerations, we infer that no poet, who should affect that metaphysical accuracy for the want of which Milton has been blamed, would escape a disgraceful failure. Still, however, there was another extreme which, though far less dangerous, was also to be avoided. The imaginations of men are in a great measure under the control of their opinions. The most exquisite art of poetical colouring can produce no illusion, when it is employed to represent that which is at once perceived to be incongruous and absurd. Milton wrote in an age of philosophers and theologians. It was necessary, therefore, for him to abstain from giving such a shock to their understanding as might break the charm which it was his object to throw over their imaginations. This is the real explanation of the indistinctness and inconsistency with which he has often been reproached. Dr. Johnson acknowledges that it was absolutely necessary that the spirit should be clothed with material forms. “But,” says he, “the poet should have secured the consistency of his system by keeping immateriality out of sight, and seducing the reader to drop it from his thoughts.” This is easily said; but what if Milton could not seduce his readers to drop immateriality from their thoughts? What if the contrary opinion had taken so full a possession of the minds of men as to leave no room even for the half belief which poetry requires? Such we suspect to have been the case. It was impossible for the poet to adopt altogether the material or the immaterial system. He therefore took his stand on the debatable ground. He left the whole in ambiguity. He has doubtless, by so doing, laid himself open to the charge of inconsistency. But, though philosophically in the wrong, we cannot but believe that he was poetically in the right. This task, which almost any other writer would have found impracticable, was easy to him. The peculiar art which he possessed of communicating his meaning circuitously through a long succession of associated ideas, and of intimating more than he expressed, enabled him to disguise those incongruities which he could not avoid. Poetry which relates to the beings of another world ought to be at once mysterious and picturesque. That of Milton is so. That of Dante is picturesque indeed beyond any that ever was written. Its effect approaches to that produced by the pencil or the chisel. But it is picturesque to the exclusion of all mystery. This is a fault on the right side, a fault inseparable from the plan of Dante’s poem, which, as we have already observed, rendered the utmost accuracy of description necessary. Still it is a fault. The supernatural agents excite an interest; but it is not the interest which is proper to supernatural agents. We feel that we could talk to the ghosts and daemons, without any emotion of unearthly awe. We could, like Don Juan, ask them to supper, and eat heartily in their company. Dante’s angels are good men with wings. His devils are spiteful ugly executioners. His dead men are merely living men in strange situations. The scene which passes between the poet and Farinata is justly celebrated. Still, Farinata in the burning tomb is exactly what Farinata would have been at an auto da fe. Nothing can be more touching than the first interview of Dante and Beatrice. Yet what is it, but a lovely woman chiding, with sweet austere composure, the lover for whose affection she is grateful, but whose vices she reprobates? The feelings which give the passage its charm would suit the streets of Florence as well as the summit of the Mount of Purgatory. The spirits of Milton are unlike those of almost all other writers. His fiends, in particular, are wonderful creations. They are not metaphysical abstractions. They are not wicked men. They are not ugly beasts. They have no horns, no tails, none of the fee-faw-fum of Tasso and Klopstock. They have just enough in common with human nature to be intelligible to human beings. Their characters are, like their forms, marked by a certain dim resemblance to those of men, but exaggerated to gigantic dimensions, and veiled in mysterious gloom. Perhaps the gods and daemons of Aeschylus may best bear a comparison with the angels and devils of Milton. The style of the Athenian had, as we have remarked, something of the Oriental character; and the same peculiarity may be traced in his mythology. It has nothing of the amenity and elegance which we generally find in the superstitions of Greece. All is rugged, barbaric, and colossal. The legends of Aeschylus seem to harmonise less with the fragrant groves and graceful porticoes in which his countrymen paid their vows to the God of Light and Goddess of Desire, than with those huge and grotesque labyrinths of eternal granite in which Egypt enshrined her mystic Osiris, or in which Hindustan still bows down to her seven-headed idols. His favourite gods are those of the elder generation, the sons of heaven and earth, compared with whom Jupiter himself was a stripling and an upstart, the gigantic Titans, and the inexorable Furies. Foremost among his creations of this class stands Prometheus, half fiend, half redeemer, the friend of man, the sullen and implacable enemy of Heaven. Prometheus bears undoubtedly a considerable resemblance to the Satan of Milton. In both we find the same impatience of control, the same ferocity, the same unconquerable pride. In both characters also are mingled, though in very different proportions, some kind and generous feelings. Prometheus, however, is hardly superhuman enough. He talks too much of his chains and his uneasy posture: he is rather too much depressed and agitated. His resolution seems to depend on the knowledge which he possesses that he holds the fate of his torturer in his hands, and that the hour of his release will surely come. But Satan is a creature of another sphere. The might of his intellectual nature is victorious over the extremity of pain. Amidst agonies which cannot be conceived without horror, he deliberates, resolves, and even exults. Against the sword of Michael, against the thunder of Jehovah, against the flaming lake, and the marl burning with solid fire, against the prospect of an eternity of unintermitted misery, his spirit bears up unbroken, resting on its own innate energies, requiring no support from anything external, nor even from hope itself. To return for a moment to the parallel which we have been attempting to draw between Milton and Dante, we would add that the poetry of these great men has in a considerable degree taken its character from their moral qualities. They are not egotists. They rarely obtrude their idiosyncrasies on their readers. They have nothing in common with those modern beggars for fame, who extort a pittance from the compassion of the inexperienced by exposing the nakedness and sores of their minds. Yet it would be difficult to name two writers whose works have been more completely, though undesignedly, coloured by their personal feelings. The character of Milton was peculiarly distinguished by loftiness of spirit, that of Dante by intensity of feeling. In every line of the Divine Comedy we discern the asperity which is produced by pride struggling with misery. There is perhaps no work in the world so deeply and uniformly sorrowful. The melancholy of Dante was no fantastic caprice. It was not, as far as at this distance of time can be judged, the effect of external circumstances. It was from within. Neither love nor glory, neither the conflicts of earth nor the hope of heaven could dispel it. It turned every consolation and every pleasure into its own nature. It resembled that noxious Sardinian soil of which the intense bitterness is said to have been perceptible even in its honey. His mind was, in the noble language of the Hebrew poet, “a land of darkness, as darkness itself, and where the light was as darkness.” The gloom of his character discolours all the passions of men, and all the face of nature, and tinges with its own livid hue the flowers of Paradise and the glories of the eternal throne. All the portraits of him are singularly characteristic. No person can look on the features, noble even to ruggedness, the dark furrows of the cheek, the haggard and woeful stare of the eye, the sullen and contemptuous curve of the lip, and doubt that they belong to a man too proud and too sensitive to be happy. Milton was, like Dante, a statesman and a lover; and, like Dante, he had been unfortunate in ambition and in love. He had survived his health and his sight, the comforts of his home, and the prosperity of his party. Of the great men by whom he had been distinguished at his entrance into life, some had been taken away from the evil to come; some had carried into foreign climates their unconquerable hatred of oppression; some were pining in dungeons; and some had poured forth their blood on scaffolds. Venal and licentious scribblers, with just sufficient talent to clothe the thoughts of a pandar in the style of a bellman, were now the favourite writers of the Sovereign and of the public. It was a loathsome herd, which could be compared to nothing so fitly as to the rabble of Comus, grotesque monsters, half bestial, half human, dropping with wine, bloated with gluttony, and reeling in obscene dances. Amidst these that fair Muse was placed, like the chaste lady of the Masque, lofty, spotless, and serene, to be chattered at, and pointed at, and grinned at, by the whole rout of Satyrs and Goblins. If ever despondency and asperity could be excused in any man, they might have been excused in Milton. But the strength of his mind overcame every calamity. Neither blindness, nor gout, nor age, nor penury, nor domestic afflictions, nor political disappointments, nor abuse, nor proscription, nor neglect, had power to disturb his sedate and majestic patience. His spirits do not seem to have been high, but they were singularly equable. His temper was serious, perhaps stern; but it was a temper which no sufferings could render sullen or fretful. Such as it was when, on the eve of great events, he returned from his travels, in the prime of health and manly beauty, loaded with literary distinctions, and glowing with patriotic hopes, such it continued to be when, after having experienced every calamity which is in incident to our nature, old, poor, sightless and disgraced, he retired to his hovel to die. Hence it was that, though he wrote the Paradise Lost at a time of life when images of beauty and tenderness are in general beginning to fade, even from those minds in which they have not been effaced by anxiety and disappointment, he adorned it with all that is most lovely and delightful in the physical and in the moral world. Neither Theocritus nor Ariosto had a finer or a more healthful sense of the pleasantness of external objects, or loved better to luxuriate amidst sunbeams and flowers, the songs of nightingales, the juice of summer fruits, and the coolness of shady fountains. His conception of love unites all the voluptuousness of the Oriental haram, and all the gallantry of the chivalric tournament, with all the pure and quiet affection of an English fireside. His poetry reminds us of the miracles of Alpine scenery. Nooks and dells, beautiful as fairyland, are embosomed in its most rugged and gigantic elevations. The roses and myrtles bloom unchilled on the verge of the avalanche. Traces, indeed, of the peculiar character of Milton may be found in all his works; but it is most strongly displayed in the Sonnets. Those remarkable poems have been undervalued by critics who have not understood their nature. They have no epigrammatic point. There is none of the ingenuity of Filicaja in the thought, none of the hard and brilliant enamel of Petrarch in the style. They are simple but majestic records of the feelings of the poet; as little tricked out for the public eye as his diary would have been. A victory, an unexpected attack upon the city, a momentary fit of depression or exultation, a jest thrown out against one of his books, a dream which for a short time restored to him that beautiful face over which the grave had closed for ever, led him to musings, which without effort shaped themselves into verse. The unity of sentiment and severity of style which characterise these little pieces remind us of the Greek Anthology, or perhaps still more of the Collects of the English Liturgy. The noble poem on the Massacres of Piedmont is strictly a collect in verse. The Sonnets are more or less striking, according as the occasions which gave birth to them are more or less interesting. But they are, almost without exception, dignified by a sobriety and greatness of mind to which we know not where to look for a parallel. It would, indeed, be scarcely safe to draw any decided inferences as to the character of a writer from passages directly egotistical. But the qualities which we have ascribed to Milton, though perhaps most strongly marked in those parts of his works which treat of his personal feelings, are distinguishable in every page, and impart to all his writings, prose and poetry, English, Latin, and Italian, a strong family likeness. His public conduct was such as was to be expected from a man of a spirit so high and of an intellect so powerful. He lived at one of the most memorable eras in the history of mankind, at the very crisis of the great conflict between Oromasdes and Arimanes, liberty and despotism, reason and prejudice. That great battle was fought for no single generation, for no single land. The destinies of the human race were staked on the same cast with the freedom of the English people. Then were first proclaimed those mighty principles which have since worked their way into the depths of the American forests, which have roused Greece from the slavery and degradation of two thousand years, and which, from one end of Europe to the other, have kindled an unquenchable fire in the hearts of the oppressed, and loosed the knees of the oppressors with an unwonted fear. Of those principles, then struggling for their infant existence, Milton was the most devoted and eloquent literary champion. We need not say how much we admire his public conduct. But we cannot disguise from ourselves that a large portion of his countrymen still think it unjustifiable. The civil war, indeed, has been more discussed, and is less understood, than any event in English history. The friends of liberty laboured under the disadvantage of which the lion in the fable complained so bitterly. Though they were the conquerors, their enemies were the painters. As a body, the Roundheads had done their utmost to decry and ruin literature; and literature was even with them, as, in the long-run, it always is with its enemies. The best book on their side of the question is the charming narrative of Mrs. Hutchinson. May’s History of the Parliament is good; but it breaks off at the most interesting crisis of the struggle. The performance of Ludlow is foolish and violent; and most of the later writers who have espoused the same cause, Oldmixon for instance, and Catherine Macaulay, have, to say the least, been more distinguished by zeal than either by candour or by skill. On the other side are the most authoritative and the most popular historical works in our language, that of Clarendon, and that of Hume. The former is not only ably written and full of valuable information, but has also an air of dignity and sincerity which makes even the prejudices and errors with which it abounds respectable. Hume, from whose fascinating narrative the great mass of the reading public are still contented to take their opinions, hated religion so much that he hated liberty for having been allied with religion, and has pleaded the cause of tyranny with the dexterity of an advocate, while affecting the impartiality of a judge. The public conduct of Milton must be approved or condemned according as the resistance of the people to Charles the First shall appear to be justifiable or criminal. We shall therefore make no apology for dedicating a few pages to the discussion of that interesting and most important question. We shall not argue it on general grounds. We shall not recur to those primary principles from which the claim of any government to the obedience of its subjects is to be deduced. We are entitled to that vantage ground; but we will relinquish it. We are, on this point, so confident of superiority, that we are not unwilling to imitate the ostentatious generosity of those ancient knights, who vowed to joust without helmet or shield against all enemies, and to give their antagonists the advantage of sun and wind. We will take the naked constitutional question. We confidently affirm, that every reason which can be urged in favour of the Revolution of 1688 may be urged with at least equal force in favour of what is called the Great Rebellion. In one respect, only, we think, can the warmest admirers of Charles venture to say that he was a better sovereign than his son. He was not, in name and profession, a Papist; we say in name and profession, because both Charles himself and his creature Laud, while they abjured the innocent badges of Popery, retained all its worst vices, a complete subjection of reason to authority, a weak preference of form to substance, a childish passion for mummeries, an idolatrous veneration for the priestly character, and, above all, a merciless intolerance. This, however, we waive. We will concede that Charles was a good Protestant; but we say that his Protestantism does not make the slightest distinction between his case and that of James. The principles of the Revolution have often been grossly misrepresented, and never more than in the course of the present year. There is a certain class of men, who, while they profess to hold in reverence the great names and great actions of former times, never look at them for any other purpose than in order to find in them some excuse for existing abuses. In every venerable precedent they pass by what is essential, and take only what is accidental: they keep out of sight what is beneficial, and hold up to public imitation all that is defective. If, in any part of any great example, there be any thing unsound, these flesh-flies detect it with an unerring instinct, and dart upon it with a ravenous delight. If some good end has been attained in spite of them, they feel, with their prototype, that “Their labour must be to pervert that end, And out of good still to find means of evil.” To the blessings which England has derived from the Revolution these people are utterly insensible. The expulsion of a tyrant, the solemn recognition of popular rights, liberty, security, toleration, all go for nothing with them. One sect there was, which, from unfortunate temporary causes, it was thought necessary to keep under close restraint. One part of the empire there was so unhappily circumstanced, that at that time its misery was necessary to our happiness, and its slavery to our freedom. These are the parts of the Revolution which the politicians of whom we speak love to contemplate, and which seem to them not indeed to vindicate, but in some degree to palliate, the good which it has produced. Talk to them of Naples, of Spain, or of South America. They stand forth zealots for the doctrine of Divine Right which has now come back to us, like a thief from transportation, under the alias of Legitimacy. But mention the miseries of Ireland. Then William is a hero. Then Somers and Shrewsbury are great men. Then the Revolution is a glorious era. The very same persons, who, in this country never omit an opportunity of reviving every wretched Jacobite slander respecting the Whigs of that period, have no sooner crossed St. George’s Channel, than they begin to fill their bumpers to the glorious and immortal memory. They may truly boast that they look not at men, but at measures. So that evil be done, they care not who does it; the arbitrary Charles, or the liberal William, Ferdinand the Catholic, or Frederic the Protestant. On such occasions their deadliest opponents may reckon upon their candid construction. The bold assertions of these people have of late impressed a large portion of the public with an opinion that James the Second was expelled simply because he was a Catholic, and that the Revolution was essentially a Protestant Revolution. But this certainly was not the case; nor can any person who has acquired more knowledge of the history of those times than is to be found in Goldsmith’s Abridgement believe that, if James had held his own religious opinions without wishing to make proselytes, or if, wishing even to make proselytes, he had contented himself with exerting only his constitutional influence for that purpose, the Prince of Orange would ever have been invited over. Our ancestors, we suppose, knew their own meaning; and, if we may believe them, their hostility was primarily not to popery, but to tyranny. They did not drive out a tyrant because he was a Catholic; but they excluded Catholics from the crown, because they thought them likely to be tyrants. The ground on which they, in their famous resolution, declared the throne vacant, was this, “that James had broken the fundamental laws of the kingdom.” Every man, therefore, who approves of the Revolution of 1688 must hold that the breach of fundamental laws on the part of the sovereign justifies resistance. The question, then, is this. Had Charles the First broken the fundamental laws of England? No person can answer in the negative, unless he refuses credit, not merely to all the accusations brought against Charles by his opponents, but to the narratives of the warmest Royalists, and to the confessions of the King himself. If there be any truth in any historian of any party, who has related the events of that reign, the conduct of Charles, from his accession to the meeting of the Long Parliament, had been a continued course of oppression and treachery. Let those who applaud the Revolution and condemn the Rebellion, mention one act of James the Second to which a parallel is not to be found in the history of his father. Let them lay their fingers on a single article in the Declaration of Right, presented by the two Houses to William and Mary, which Charles is not acknowledged to have violated. He had, according to the testimony of his own friends, usurped the functions of the legislature, raised taxes without the consent of parliament, and quartered troops on the people in the most illegal and vexatious manner. Not a single session of parliament had passed without some unconstitutional attack on the freedom of debate; the right of petition was grossly violated; arbitrary judgments, exorbitant fines, and unwarranted imprisonments were grievances of daily occurrence. If these things do not justify resistance, the Revolution was treason; if they do, the Great Rebellion was laudable. But it is said, why not adopt milder measures? Why, after the King had consented to so many reforms, and renounced so many oppressive prerogatives, did the Parliament continue to rise in their demands at the risk of provoking a civil war? The ship-money had been given up. The Star-Chamber had been abolished. Provision had been made for the frequent convocation and secure deliberation of parliaments. Why not pursue an end confessedly good by peaceable and regular means? We recur again to the analogy of the Revolution. Why was James driven from the throne? Why was he not retained upon conditions? He too had offered to call a free parliament and to submit to its decision all the matters in dispute. Yet we are in the habit of praising our forefathers, who preferred a revolution, a disputed succession, a dynasty of strangers, twenty years of foreign and intestine war, a standing army, and a national debt, to the rule, however restricted, of a tried and proved tyrant. The Long Parliament acted on the same principle, and is entitled to the same praise. They could not trust the King. He had no doubt passed salutary laws; but what assurance was there that he would not break them? He had renounced oppressive prerogatives but where was the security that he would not resume them? The nation had to deal with a man whom no tie could bind, a man who made and broke promises with equal facility, a man whose honour had been a hundred times pawned, and never redeemed. Here, indeed, the Long Parliament stands on still stronger ground than the Convention of 1688. No action of James can be compared to the conduct of Charles with respect to the Petition of Right. The Lords and Commons present him with a bill in which the constitutional limits of his power are marked out. He hesitates; he evades; at last he bargains to give his assent for five subsidies. The bill receives his solemn assent; the subsidies are voted; but no sooner is the tyrant relieved, than he returns at once to all the arbitrary measures which he had bound himself to abandon, and violates all the clauses of the very Act which he had been paid to pass. For more than ten years the people had seen the rights which were theirs by a double claim, by immemorial inheritance and by recent purchase, infringed by the perfidious king who had recognised them. At length circumstances compelled Charles to summon another parliament: another chance was given to our fathers: were they to throw it away as they had thrown away the former? Were they again to be cozened by le Roi le veut? Were they again to advance their money on pledges which had been forfeited over and over again? Were they to lay a second Petition of Right at the foot of the throne, to grant another lavish aid in exchange for another unmeaning ceremony, and then to take their departure, till, after ten years more of fraud and oppression, their prince should again require a supply, and again repay it with a perjury? They were compelled to choose whether they would trust a tyrant or conquer him. We think that they chose wisely and nobly. The advocates of Charles, like the advocates of other malefactors against whom overwhelming evidence is produced, generally decline all controversy about the facts, and content themselves with calling testimony to character. He had so many private virtues! And had James the Second no private virtues? Was Oliver Cromwell, his bitterest enemies themselves being judges, destitute of private virtues? And what, after all, are the virtues ascribed to Charles? A religious zeal, not more sincere than that of his son, and fully as weak and narrow-minded, and a few of the ordinary household decencies which half the tombstones in England claim for those who lie beneath them. A good father! A good husband! Ample apologies indeed for fifteen years of persecution, tyranny, and falsehood! We charge him with having broken his coronation oath; and we are told that he kept his marriage vow! We accuse him of having given up his people to the merciless inflictions of the most hot-headed and hard-hearted of prelates; and the defence is, that he took his little son on his knee and kissed him! We censure him for having violated the articles of the Petition of Right, after having, for good and valuable consideration, promised to observe them; and we are informed that he was accustomed to hear prayers at six o’clock in the morning! It is to such considerations as these, together with his Vandyck dress, his handsome face, and his peaked beard, that he owes, we verily believe, most of his popularity with the present generation. For ourselves, we own that we do not understand the common phrase, a good man, but a bad king. We can as easily conceive a good man and an unnatural father, or a good man and a treacherous friend. We cannot, in estimating the character of an individual, leave out of our consideration his conduct in the most important of all human relations; and if in that relation we find him to have been selfish, cruel, and deceitful, we shall take the liberty to call him a bad man, in spite of all his temperance at table, and all his regularity at chapel. We cannot refrain from adding a few words respecting a topic on which the defenders of Charles are fond of dwelling. If, they say, he governed his people ill, he at least governed them after the example of his predecessors. If he violated their privileges, it was because those privileges had not been accurately defined. No act of oppression has ever been imputed to him which has not a parallel in the annals of the Tudors. This point Hume has laboured, with an art which is as discreditable in a historical work as it would be admirable in a forensic address. The answer is short, clear, and decisive. Charles had assented to the Petition of Right. He had renounced the oppressive powers said to have been exercised by his predecessors, and he had renounced them for money. He was not entitled to set up his antiquated claims against his own recent release. These arguments are so obvious, that it may seem superfluous to dwell upon them. But those who have observed how much the events of that time are misrepresented and misunderstood will not blame us for stating the case simply. It is a case of which the simplest statement is the strongest. The enemies of the Parliament, indeed, rarely choose to take issue on the great points of the question. They content themselves with exposing some of the crimes and follies to which public commotions necessarily give birth. They bewail the unmerited fate of Strafford. They execrate the lawless violence of the army. They laugh at the Scriptural names of the preachers. Major-generals fleecing their districts; soldiers revelling on the spoils of a ruined peasantry; upstarts, enriched by the public plunder, taking possession of the hospitable firesides and hereditary trees of the old gentry; boys smashing the beautiful windows of cathedrals; Quakers riding naked through the market-place; Fifth-monarchy-men shouting for King Jesus; agitators lecturing from the tops of tubs on the fate of Agag;--all these, they tell us, were the offspring of the Great Rebellion. Be it so. We are not careful to answer in this matter. These charges, were they infinitely more important, would not alter our opinion of an event which alone has made us to differ from the slaves who crouch beneath despotic sceptres. Many evils, no doubt, were produced by the civil war. They were the price of our liberty. Has the acquisition been worth the sacrifice? It is the nature of the Devil of tyranny to tear and rend the body which he leaves. Are the miseries of continued possession less horrible than the struggles of the tremendous exorcism? If it were possible that a people brought up under an intolerant and arbitrary system could subvert that system without acts of cruelty and folly, half the objections to despotic power would be removed. We should, in that case, be compelled to acknowledge that it at least produces no pernicious effects on the intellectual and moral character of a nation. We deplore the outrages which accompany revolutions. But the more violent the outrages, the more assured we feel that a revolution was necessary. The violence of those outrages will always be proportioned to the ferocity and ignorance of the people; and the ferocity and ignorance of the people will be proportioned to the oppression and degradation under which they have been accustomed to live. Thus it was in our civil war. The heads of the church and state reaped only that which they had sown. The Government had prohibited free discussion: it had done its best to keep the people unacquainted with their duties and their rights. The retribution was just and natural. If our rulers suffered from popular ignorance, it was because they had themselves taken away the key of knowledge. If they were assailed with blind fury, it was because they had exacted an equally blind submission. It is the character of such revolutions that we always see the worst of them at first. Till men have been some time free, they know not how to use their freedom. The natives of wine countries are generally sober. In climates where wine is a rarity intemperance abounds. A newly liberated people may be compared to a northern army encamped on the Rhine or the Xeres. It is said that, when soldiers in such a situation first find themselves able to indulge without restraint in such a rare and expensive luxury, nothing is to be seen but intoxication. Soon, however, plenty teaches discretion; and, after wine has been for a few months their daily fare, they become more temperate than they had ever been in their own country. In the same manner, the final and permanent fruits of liberty are wisdom, moderation, and mercy. Its immediate effects are often atrocious crimes, conflicting errors, scepticism on points the most clear, dogmatism on points the most mysterious. It is just at this crisis that its enemies love to exhibit it. They pull down the scaffolding from the half-finished edifice. They point to the flying dust, the falling bricks, the comfortless rooms, the frightful irregularity of the whole appearance; and then ask in scorn where the promised splendour and comfort is to be found. If such miserable sophisms were to prevail, there would never be a good house or a good government in the world. Ariosto tells a pretty story of a fairy, who, by some mysterious law of her nature, was condemned to appear at certain seasons in the form of a foul and poisonous snake. Those who injured her during the period of her disguise were for ever excluded from participation in the blessings which she bestowed. But to those who, in spite of her loathsome aspect, pitied and protected her, she afterwards revealed herself in the beautiful and celestial form which was natural to her, accompanied their steps, granted all their wishes, filled their houses with wealth, made them happy in love and victorious in war. Such a spirit is Liberty. At times she takes the form of a hateful reptile. She grovels, she hisses, she stings. But woe to those who in disgust shall venture to crush her! And happy are those who, having dared to receive her in her degraded and frightful shape, shall at length be rewarded by her in the time of her beauty and her glory! There is only one cure for the evils which newly acquired freedom produces; and that cure is freedom. When a prisoner first leaves his cell he cannot bear the light of day: he is unable to discriminate colours, or recognise faces. But the remedy is, not to remand him into his dungeon, but to accustom him to the rays of the sun. The blaze of truth and liberty may at first dazzle and bewilder nations which have become half blind in the house of bondage. But let them gaze on, and they will soon be able to bear it. In a few years men learn to reason. The extreme violence of opinion subsides. Hostile theories correct each other. The scattered elements of truth cease to contend, and begin to coalesce. And at length a system of justice and order is educed out of the chaos. Many politicians of our time are in the habit of laying it down as a self-evident proposition, that no people ought to be free till they are fit to use their freedom. The maxim is worthy of the fool in the old story who resolved not to go into the water till he had learnt to swim. If men are to wait for liberty till they become wise and good in slavery, they may indeed wait for ever. Therefore it is that we decidedly approve of the conduct of Milton and the other wise and good men who, in spite of much that was ridiculous and hateful in the conduct of their associates, stood firmly by the cause of Public Liberty. We are not aware that the poet has been charged with personal participation in any of the blameable excesses of that time, The favourite topic of his enemies is the line of conduct which he pursued with regard to the execution of the King. Of that celebrated proceeding we by no means approve. Still we must say, in justice to the many eminent persons who concurred in it, and in justice more particularly to the eminent person who defended it, that nothing can be more absurd than the imputations which, for the last hundred and sixty years, it has been the fashion to cast upon the Regicides. We have, throughout, abstained from appealing to first principles. We will not appeal to them now. We recur again to the parallel case of the Revolution. What essential distinction can be drawn between the execution of the father and the deposition of the son? What constitutional maxim is there which applies to the former and not to the latter? The King can do no wrong. If so, James was as innocent as Charles could have been. The minister only ought to be responsible for the acts of the Sovereign. If so, why not impeach Jeffreys and retain James? The person of a king is sacred. Was the person of James considered sacred at the Boyne? To discharge cannon against an army in which a king is known to be posted is to approach pretty near to regicide. Charles, too, it should always be remembered, was put to death by men who had been exasperated by the hostilities of several years, and who had never been bound to him by any other tie than that which was common to them with all their fellow-citizens. Those who drove James from his throne, who seduced his army, who alienated his friends, who first imprisoned him in his palace, and then turned him out of it, who broke in upon his very slumbers by imperious messages, who pursued him with fire and sword from one part of the empire to another, who hanged, drew, and quartered his adherents, and attainted his innocent heir, were his nephew and his two daughters. When we reflect on all these things, we are at a loss to conceive how the same persons who, on the fifth of November, thank God for wonderfully conducting his servant William, and for making all opposition fall before him until he became our King and Governor, can, on the thirtieth of January, contrive to be afraid that the blood of the Royal Martyr may be visited on themselves and their children. We disapprove, we repeat, of the execution of Charles; not because the constitution exempts the King from responsibility, for we know that all such maxims, however excellent, have their exceptions; nor because we feel any peculiar interest in his character, for we think that his sentence describes him with perfect justice as “a tyrant, a traitor, a murderer, and a public enemy”; but because we are convinced that the measure was most injurious to the cause of freedom. He whom it removed was a captive and a hostage: his heir, to whom the allegiance of every Royalist was instantly transferred, was at large. The Presbyterians could never have been perfectly reconciled to the father; they had no such rooted enmity to the son. The great body of the people, also, contemplated that proceeding with feelings which, however unreasonable, no government could safely venture to outrage. But though we think the conduct of the Regicides blameable, that of Milton appears to us in a very different light. The deed was done. It could not be undone. The evil was incurred; and the object was to render it as small as possible. We censure the chiefs of the army for not yielding to the popular opinion; but we cannot censure Milton for wishing to change that opinion. The very feeling which would have restrained us from committing the act would have led us, after it had been committed, to defend it against the ravings of servility and superstition. For the sake of public liberty, we wish that the thing had not been done, while the people disapproved of it. But, for the sake of public liberty, we should also have wished the people to approve of it when it was done. If anything more were wanting to the justification of Milton, the book of Salmasius would furnish it. That miserable performance is now with justice considered only as a beacon to word-catchers, who wish to become statesmen. The celebrity of the man who refuted it, the “Aeneae magni dextra,” gives it all its fame with the present generation. In that age the state of things was different. It was not then fully understood how vast an interval separates the mere classical scholar from the political philosopher. Nor can it be doubted that a treatise which, bearing the name of so eminent a critic, attacked the fundamental principles of all free governments, must, if suffered to remain unanswered, have produced a most pernicious effect on the public mind. We wish to add a few words relative to another subject, on which the enemies of Milton delight to dwell, his conduct during the administration of the Protector. That an enthusiastic votary of liberty should accept office under a military usurper seems, no doubt, at first sight, extraordinary. But all the circumstances in which the country was then placed were extraordinary. The ambition of Oliver was of no vulgar kind. He never seems to have coveted despotic power. He at first fought sincerely and manfully for the Parliament, and never deserted it, till it had deserted its duty. If he dissolved it by force, it was not till he found that the few members who remained after so many deaths, secessions, and expulsions, were desirous to appropriate to themselves a power which they held only in trust, and to inflict upon England the curse of a Venetian oligarchy. But even when thus placed by violence at the head of affairs, he did not assume unlimited power. He gave the country a constitution far more perfect than any which had at that time been known in the world. He reformed the representative system in a manner which has extorted praise even from Lord Clarendon. For himself he demanded indeed the first place in the commonwealth; but with powers scarcely so great as those of a Dutch stadtholder, or an American president. He gave the parliament a voice in the appointment of ministers, and left to it the whole legislative authority, not even reserving to himself a veto on its enactments; and he did not require that the chief magistracy should be hereditary in his family. Thus far, we think, if the circumstances of the time and the opportunities which he had of aggrandising himself be fairly considered, he will not lose by comparison with Washington or Bolivar. Had his moderation been met by corresponding moderation, there is no reason to think that he would have overstepped the line which he had traced for himself. But when he found that his parliaments questioned the authority under which they met, and that he was in danger of being deprived of the restricted power which was absolutely necessary to his personal safety, then, it must be acknowledged, he adopted a more arbitrary policy. Yet, though we believe that the intentions of Cromwell were at first honest, though we believe that he was driven from the noble course which he had marked out for himself by the almost irresistible force of circumstances, though we admire, in common with all men of all parties, the ability and energy of his splendid administration, we are not pleading for arbitrary and lawless power, even in his hands. We know that a good constitution is infinitely better than the best despot. But we suspect, that at the time of which we speak, the violence of religious and political enmities rendered a stable and happy settlement next to impossible. The choice lay, not between Cromwell and liberty, but between Cromwell and the Stuarts. That Milton chose well, no man can doubt who fairly compares the events of the Protectorate with those of the thirty years which succeeded it, the darkest and most disgraceful in the English annals. Cromwell was evidently laying, though in an irregular manner, the foundations of an admirable system. Never before had religious liberty and the freedom of discussion been enjoyed in a greater degree. Never had the national honour been better upheld abroad, or the seat of justice better filled at home. And it was rarely that any opposition which stopped short of open rebellion provoked the resentment of the liberal and magnanimous usurper. The institutions which he had established, as set down in the Instrument of Government, and the Humble Petition and Advice, were excellent. His practice, it is true, too often departed from the theory of these institutions. But, had he lived a few years longer, it is probable that his institutions would have survived him, and that his arbitrary practice would have died with him. His power had not been consecrated by ancient prejudices. It was upheld only by his great personal qualities. Little, therefore, was to be dreaded from a second protector, unless he were also a second Oliver Cromwell. The events which followed his decease are the most complete vindication of those who exerted themselves to uphold his authority. His death dissolved the whole frame of society. The army rose against the Parliament, the different corps of the army against each other. Sect raved against sect. Party plotted against party, The Presbyterians, in their eagerness to be revenged on the Independents, sacrificed their own liberty, and deserted all their old principles. Without casting one glance on the past, or requiring one stipulation for the future, they threw down their freedom at the feet of the most frivolous and heartless of tyrants. Then came those days, never to be recalled without a blush, the days of servitude without loyalty and sensuality without love, of dwarfish talents and gigantic vices, the paradise of cold hearts and narrow minds, the golden age of the coward, the bigot, and the slave. The King cringed to his rival that he might trample on his people, sank into a viceroy of France, and pocketed, with complacent infamy, her degrading insults, and her more degrading gold. The caresses of harlots, and the jests of buffoons, regulated the policy of the State. The Government had just ability enough to deceive, and just religion enough to persecute. The principles of liberty were the scoff of every grinning courtier, and the Anathema Maranatha of every fawning dean. In every high place, worship was paid to Charles and James, Belial and Moloch; and England propitiated those obscene and cruel idols with the blood of her best and bravest children. Crime succeeded to crime, and disgrace to disgrace, till the race accursed of God and man was a second time driven forth, to wander on the face of the earth, and to be a by-word and a shaking of the head to the nations. Most of the remarks which we have hitherto made on the public character of Milton, apply to him only as one of a large body. We shall proceed to notice some of the peculiarities which distinguished him from his contemporaries. And, for that purpose, it is necessary to take a short survey of the parties into which the political world was at that time divided. We must premise, that our observations are intended to apply only to those who adhered, from a sincere preference, to one or to the other side. In days of public commotion, every faction, like an Oriental army, is attended by a crowd of camp-followers, an useless and heartless rabble, who prowl round its line of march in the hope of picking up something under its protection, but desert it in the day of battle, and often join to exterminate it after a defeat. England, at the time of which we are treating, abounded with fickle and selfish politicians, who transferred their support to every government as it rose, who kissed the hand of the King in 1640, and spat in his face in 1649, who shouted with equal glee when Cromwell was inaugurated in Westminster Hall, and when he was dug up to be hanged at Tyburn, who dined on calves’ heads or stuck-up oak-branches, as circumstances altered, without the slightest shame or repugnance. These we leave out of the account. We take our estimate of parties from those who really deserved to be called partisans. We would speak first of the Puritans, the most remarkable body of men, perhaps, which the world has ever produced. The odious and ridiculous parts of their character lie on the surface. He that runs may read them; nor have there been wanting attentive and malicious observers to point them out. For many years after the Restoration, they were the theme of unmeasured invective and derision. They were exposed to the utmost licentiousness of the press and of the stage, at the time when the press and the stage were most licentious. They were not men of letters; they were, as a body, unpopular; they could not defend themselves; and the public would not take them under its protection. They were therefore abandoned, without reserve, to the tender mercies of the satirists and dramatists. The ostentatious simplicity of their dress, their sour aspect, their nasal twang, their stiff posture, their long graces, their Hebrew names, the Scriptural phrases which they introduced on every occasion, their contempt of human learning, their detestation of polite amusements, were indeed fair game for the laughers. But it is not from the laughers alone that the philosophy of history is to be learnt. And he who approaches this subject should carefully guard against the influence of that potent ridicule which has already misled so many excellent writers. “Ecco il fonte del riso, ed ecco il rio Che mortali perigli in so contiene: Hor qui tener a fren nostro desio, Ed esser cauti molto a noi conviene.” Those who roused the people to resistance, who directed their measures through a long series of eventful years, who formed, out of the most unpromising materials, the finest army that Europe had ever seen, who trampled down King, Church, and Aristocracy, who, in the short intervals of domestic sedition and rebellion, made the name of England terrible to every nation on the face of the earth, were no vulgar fanatics. Most of their absurdities were mere external badges, like the signs of freemasonry, or the dresses of friars. We regret that these badges were not more attractive. We regret that a body to whose courage and talents mankind has owed inestimable obligations had not the lofty elegance which distinguished some of the adherents of Charles the First, or the easy good-breeding for which the court of Charles the Second was celebrated. But, if we must make our choice, we shall, like Bassanio in the play, turn from the specious caskets which contain only the Death’s head and the Fool’s head, and fix on the plain leaden chest which conceals the treasure. The Puritans were men whose minds had derived a peculiar character from the daily contemplation of superior beings and eternal interests. Not content with acknowledging, in general terms, an overruling Providence, they habitually ascribed every event to the will of the Great Being, for whose power nothing was too vast, for whose inspection nothing was too minute. To know him, to serve him, to enjoy him, was with them the great end of existence. They rejected with contempt the ceremonious homage which other sects substituted for the pure worship of the soul. Instead of catching occasional glimpses of the Deity through an obscuring veil, they aspired to gaze full on his intolerable brightness, and to commune with him face to face. Hence originated their contempt for terrestrial distinctions. The difference between the greatest and the meanest of mankind seemed to vanish, when compared with the boundless interval which separated the whole race from him on whom their own eyes were constantly fixed. They recognised no title to superiority but his favour; and, confident of that favour, they despised all the accomplishments and all the dignities of the world. If they were unacquainted with the works of philosophers and poets, they were deeply read in the oracles of God. If their names were not found in the registers of heralds, they were recorded in the Book of Life. If their steps were not accompanied by a splendid train of menials, legions of ministering angels had charge over them. Their palaces were houses not made with hands; their diadems crowns of glory which should never fade away. On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and priests, they looked down with contempt: for they esteemed themselves rich in a more precious treasure, and eloquent in a more sublime language, nobles by the right of an earlier creation, and priests by the imposition of a mightier hand. The very meanest of them was a being to whose fate a mysterious and terrible importance belonged, on whose slightest action the spirits of light and darkness looked with anxious interest, who had been destined, before heaven and earth were created, to enjoy a felicity which should continue when heaven and earth should have passed away. Events which shortsighted politicians ascribed to earthly causes, had been ordained on his account. For his sake empires had risen, and flourished, and decayed. For his sake the Almighty had proclaimed his will by the pen of the evangelist, and the harp of the prophet. He had been wrested by no common deliverer from the grasp of no common foe. He had been ransomed by the sweat of no vulgar agony, by the blood of no earthly sacrifice. It was for him that the sun had been darkened, that the rocks had been rent, that the dead had risen, that all nature had shuddered at the sufferings of her expiring God. Thus the Puritan was made up of two different men, the one all self-abasement, penitence, gratitude, passion; the other proud, calm, inflexible, sagacious. He prostrated himself in the dust before his Maker: but he set his foot on the neck of his king. In his devotional retirement, he prayed with convulsions, and groans, and tears. He was half-maddened by glorious or terrible illusions. He heard the lyres of angels or the tempting whispers of fiends. He caught a gleam of the Beatific Vision, or woke screaming from dreams of everlasting fire. Like Vane, he thought himself intrusted with the sceptre of the millennial year. Like Fleetwood, he cried in the bitterness of his soul that God had hid his face from him. But when he took his seat in the council, or girt on his sword for war, these tempestuous workings of the soul had left no perceptible trace behind them. People who saw nothing of the godly but their uncouth visages, and heard nothing from them but their groans and their whining hymns, might laugh at them. But those had little reason to laugh who encountered them in the hall of debate or in the field of battle. These fanatics brought to civil and military affairs a coolness of judgment and an immutability of purpose which some writers have thought inconsistent with their religious zeal, but which were in fact the necessary effects of it. The intensity of their feelings on one subject made them tranquil on every other. One overpowering sentiment had subjected to itself pity and hatred, ambition and fear. Death had lost its terrors and pleasure its charms. They had their smiles and their tears, their raptures and their sorrows, but not for the things of this world. Enthusiasm had made them Stoics, had cleared their minds from every vulgar passion and prejudice, and raised them above the influence of danger and of corruption. It sometimes might lead them to pursue unwise ends, but never to choose unwise means. They went through the world, like Sir Artegal’s iron man Talus with his flail, crushing and trampling down oppressors, mingling with human beings, but having neither part nor lot in human infirmities, insensible to fatigue, to pleasure, and to pain, not to be pierced by any weapon, not to be withstood by any barrier. Such we believe to have been the character of the Puritans. We perceive the absurdity of their manners. We dislike the sullen gloom of their domestic habits. We acknowledge that the tone of their minds was often injured by straining after things too high for mortal reach: and we know that, in spite of their hatred of Popery, they too often fell into the worst vices of that bad system, intolerance and extravagant austerity, that they had their anchorites and their crusades, their Dunstans and their De Montforts, their Dominics and their Escobars. Yet, when all circumstances are taken into consideration, we do not hesitate to pronounce them a brave, a wise, an honest, and an useful body. The Puritans espoused the cause of civil liberty mainly because it was the cause of religion. There was another party, by no means numerous, but distinguished by learning and ability, which acted with them on very different principles. We speak of those whom Cromwell was accustomed to call the Heathens, men who were, in the phraseology of that time, doubting Thomases or careless Gallios with regard to religious subjects, but passionate worshippers of freedom. Heated by the study of ancient literature, they set up their country as their idol, and proposed to themselves the heroes of Plutarch as their examples. They seem to have borne some resemblance to the Brissotines of the French Revolution. But it is not very easy to draw the line of distinction between them and their devout associates, whose tone and manner they sometimes found it convenient to affect, and sometimes, it is probable, imperceptibly adopted. We now come to the Royalists. We shall attempt to speak of them, as we have spoken of their antagonists, with perfect candour. We shall not charge upon a whole party the profligacy and baseness of the horseboys, gamblers and bravoes, whom the hope of licence and plunder attracted from all the dens of Whitefriars to the standard of Charles, and who disgraced their associates by excesses which, under the stricter discipline of the Parliamentary armies, were never tolerated. We will select a more favourable specimen. Thinking as we do that the cause of the King was the cause of bigotry and tyranny, we yet cannot refrain from looking with complacency on the character of the honest old Cavaliers. We feel a national pride in comparing them with the instruments which the despots of other countries are compelled to employ, with the mutes who throng their ante-chambers, and the Janissaries who mount guard at their gates. Our royalist countrymen were not heartless dangling courtiers, bowing at every step, and simpering at every word. They were not mere machines for destruction dressed up in uniforms, caned into skill, intoxicated into valour, defending without love, destroying without hatred. There was a freedom in their subserviency, a nobleness in their very degradation. The sentiment of individual independence was strong within them. They were indeed misled, but by no base or selfish motive. Compassion and romantic honour, the prejudices of childhood, and the venerable names of history, threw over them a spell potent as that of Duessa; and, like the Red-Cross Knight, they thought that they were doing battle for an injured beauty, while they defended a false and loathsome sorceress. In truth they scarcely entered at all into the merits of the political question. It was not for a treacherous king or an intolerant church that they fought, but for the old banner which had waved in so many battles over the heads of their fathers, and for the altars at which they had received the hands of their brides. Though nothing could be more erroneous than their political opinions, they possessed, in a far greater degree than their adversaries, those qualities which are the grace of private life. With many of the vices of the Round Table, they had also many of its virtues, courtesy, generosity, veracity, tenderness, and respect for women. They had far more both of profound and of polite learning than the Puritans. Their manners were more engaging, their tempers more amiable, their tastes more elegant, and their households more cheerful. Milton did not strictly belong to any of the classes which we have described. He was not a Puritan. He was not a freethinker. He was not a Royalist. In his character the noblest qualities of every party were combined in harmonious union. From the Parliament and from the Court, from the conventicle and from the Gothic cloister, from the gloomy and sepulchral circles of the Roundheads, and from the Christmas revel of the hospitable Cavalier, his nature selected and drew to itself whatever was great and good, while it rejected all the base and pernicious ingredients by which those finer elements were defiled. Like the Puritans, he lived “As ever in his great taskmaster’s eye.” Like them, he kept his mind continually fixed on an Almighty judge and an eternal reward. And hence he acquired their contempt of external circumstances, their fortitude, their tranquillity, their inflexible resolution. But not the coolest sceptic or the most profane scoffer was more perfectly free from the contagion of their frantic delusions, their savage manners, their ludicrous jargon, their scorn of science, and their aversion to pleasure. Hating tyranny with a perfect hatred, he had nevertheless all the estimable and ornamental qualities which were almost entirely monopolised by the party of the tyrant. There was none who had a stronger sense of the value of literature, a finer relish for every elegant amusement, or a more chivalrous delicacy of honour and love. Though his opinions were democratic, his tastes and his associations were such as harmonise best with monarchy and aristocracy. He was under the influence of all the feelings by which the gallant Cavaliers were misled. But of those feelings he was the master and not the slave. Like the hero of Homer, he enjoyed all the pleasures of fascination; but he was not fascinated. He listened to the song of the Syrens; yet he glided by without being seduced to their fatal shore. He tasted the cup of Circe; but he bore about him a sure antidote against the effects of its bewitching sweetness. The illusions which captivated his imagination never impaired his reasoning powers. The statesman was proof against the splendour, the solemnity, and the romance which enchanted the poet. Any person who will contrast the sentiments expressed in his treatises on Prelacy with the exquisite lines on ecclesiastical architecture and music in the Penseroso, which was published about the same time, will understand our meaning. This is an inconsistency which, more than anything else, raises his character in our estimation, because it shows how many private tastes and feelings he sacrificed, in order to do what he considered his duty to mankind. It is the very struggle of the noble Othello. His heart relents; but his hand is firm. He does nought in hate, but all in honour. He kisses the beautiful deceiver before he destroys her. That from which the public character of Milton derives its great and peculiar splendour, still remains to be mentioned. If he exerted himself to overthrow a forsworn king and a persecuting hierarchy, he exerted himself in conjunction with others. But the glory of the battle which he fought for the species of freedom which is the most valuable, and which was then the least understood, the freedom of the human mind, is all his own. Thousands and tens of thousands among his contemporaries raised their voices against Ship-money and the Star-Chamber. But there were few indeed who discerned the more fearful evils of moral and intellectual slavery, and the benefits which would result from the liberty of the press and the unfettered exercise of private judgment. These were the objects which Milton justly conceived to be the most important. He was desirous that the people should think for themselves as well as tax themselves, and should be emancipated from the dominion of prejudice as well as from that of Charles. He knew that those who, with the best intentions, overlooked these schemes of reform, and contented themselves with pulling down the King and imprisoning the malignants, acted like the heedless brothers in his own poem, who in their eagerness to disperse the train of the sorcerer, neglected the means of liberating the captive. They thought only of conquering when they should have thought of disenchanting. “Oh, ye mistook! Ye should have snatch’d his wand And bound him fast. Without the rod reversed, And backward mutters of dissevering power, We cannot free the lady that sits here Bound in strong fetters fix’d and motionless.” To reverse the rod, to spell the charm backward, to break the ties which bound a stupefied people to the seat of enchantment, was the noble aim of Milton. To this all his public conduct was directed. For this he joined the Presbyterians; for this he forsook them. He fought their perilous battle; but he turned away with disdain from their insolent triumph. He saw that they, like those whom they had vanquished, were hostile to the liberty of thought. He therefore joined the Independents, and called upon Cromwell to break the secular chain, and to save free conscience from the paw of the Presbyterian wolf. With a view to the same great object, he attacked the licensing system, in that sublime treatise which every statesman should wear as a sign upon his hand and as frontlets between his eyes. His attacks were, in general, directed less against particular abuses than against those deeply-seated errors on which almost all abuses are founded, the servile worship of eminent men and the irrational dread of innovation. That he might shake the foundations of these debasing sentiments more effectually, he always selected for himself the boldest literary services. He never came up in the rear, when the outworks had been carried and the breach entered. He pressed into the forlorn hope. At the beginning of the changes, he wrote with incomparable energy and eloquence against the bishops. But, when his opinion seemed likely to prevail, he passed on to other subjects, and abandoned prelacy to the crowd of writers who now hastened to insult a falling party. There is no more hazardous enterprise than that of bearing the torch of truth into those dark and infected recesses in which no light has ever shone. But it was the choice and the pleasure of Milton to penetrate the noisome vapours, and to brave the terrible explosion. Those who most disapprove of his opinions must respect the hardihood with which he maintained them. He, in general, left to others the credit of expounding and defending the popular parts of his religious and political creed. He took his own stand upon those which the great body of his countrymen reprobated as criminal, or derided as paradoxical. He stood up for divorce and regicide. He attacked the prevailing systems of education. His radiant and beneficent career resembled that of the god of light and fertility. “Nitor in adversum; nec me, qui caetera, vincit Impetus, et rapido contrarius evehor orbi.” It is to be regretted that the prose writings of Milton should, in our time, be so little read. As compositions, they deserve the attention of every man who wishes to become acquainted with the full power of the English language. They abound with passages compared with which the finest declamations of Burke sink into insignificance. They are a perfect field of cloth-of-gold. The style is stiff with gorgeous embroidery. Not even in the earlier books of the Paradise Lost has the great poet ever risen higher than in those parts of his controversial works in which his feelings, excited by conflict, find a vent in bursts of devotional and lyric rapture. It is, to borrow his own majestic language, “a sevenfold chorus of hallelujahs and harping symphonies.” We had intended to look more closely at these performances, to analyse the peculiarities of the diction, to dwell at some length on the sublime wisdom of the Areopagitica and the nervous rhetoric of the Iconoclast, and to point out some of those magnificent passages which occur in the Treatise of Reformation, and the Animadversions on the Remonstrant. But the length to which our remarks have already extended renders this impossible. We must conclude. And yet we can scarcely tear ourselves away from the subject. The days immediately following the publication of this relic of Milton appear to be peculiarly set apart, and consecrated to his memory. And we shall scarcely be censured if, on this his festival, we be found lingering near his shrine, how worthless soever may be the offering which we bring to it. While this book lies on our table, we seem to be contemporaries of the writer. We are transported a hundred and fifty years back. We can almost fancy that we are visiting him in his small lodging; that we see him sitting at the old organ beneath the faded green hangings; that we can catch the quick twinkle of his eyes, rolling in vain to find the day; that we are reading in the lines of his noble countenance the proud and mournful history of his glory and his affliction. We image to ourselves the breathless silence in which we should listen to his slightest word, the passionate veneration with which we should kneel to kiss his hand and weep upon it, the earnestness with which we should endeavour to console him, if indeed such a spirit could need consolation, for the neglect of an age unworthy of his talents and his virtues, the eagerness with which we should contest with his daughters, or with his Quaker friend Elwood, the privilege of reading Homer to him, or of taking down the immortal accents which flowed from his lips. These are perhaps foolish feelings. Yet we cannot be ashamed of them; nor shall we be sorry if what we have written shall in any degree excite them in other minds. We are not much in the habit of idolising either the living or the dead. And we think that there is no more certain indication of a weak and ill-regulated intellect than that propensity which, for want of a better name, we will venture to christen Boswellism. But there are a few characters which have stood the closest scrutiny and the severest tests, which have been tried in the furnace and have proved pure, which have been weighed in the balance and have not been found wanting, which have been declared sterling by the general consent of mankind, and which are visibly stamped with the image and superscription of the Most High. These great men we trust that we know how to prize; and of these was Milton. The sight of his books, the sound of his name, are pleasant to us. His thoughts resemble those celestial fruits and flowers which the Virgin Martyr of Massinger sent down from the gardens of Paradise to the earth, and which were distinguished from the productions of other soils, not only by superior bloom and sweetness, but by miraculous efficacy to invigorate and to heal. They are powerful, not only to delight, but to elevate and purify. Nor do we envy the man who can study either the life or the writings of the great poet and patriot, without aspiring to emulate, not indeed the sublime works with which his genius has enriched our literature, but the zeal with which he laboured for the public good, the fortitude with which he endured every private calamity, the lofty disdain with which he looked down on temptations and dangers, the deadly hatred which he bore to bigots and tyrants, and the faith which he so sternly kept with his country and with his fame. SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE (October 1838) _Memoirs of the Life, Works, and Correspondence of Sir William Temple. By the Right Hon. THOMAS PEREGRINE COURTENAY. Two vols. 8vo. London: 1836._ MR. COURTENAY has long been well known to politicians as an industrious and useful official man, and as an upright and consistent member of Parliament. He has been one of the most moderate, and, at the same time, one of the least pliant members of the Conservative party. His conduct has, indeed, on some questions been so Whiggish, that both those who applauded and those who condemned it have questioned his claim to be considered as a Tory. But his Toryism, such as it is, he has held fast through all changes of fortune and fashion; and he has at last retired from public life, leaving behind him, to the best of our belief, no personal enemy, and carrying with him the respect and goodwill of many who strongly dissent from his opinions. This book, the fruit of Mr. Courtenay’s leisure, is introduced by a preface in which he informs us that the assistance furnished to him from various quarters “has taught him the superiority of literature to politics for developing the kindlier feelings, and conducing to an agreeable life.” We are truly glad that Mr. Courtenay is so well satisfied with his new employment, and we heartily congratulate him on having been driven by events to make an exchange which, advantageous as it is, few people make while they can avoid it. He has little reason, in our opinion, to envy any of those who are still engaged in a pursuit from which, at most, they can only expect that, by relinquishing liberal studies and social pleasures, by passing nights without sleep and summers without one glimpse of the beauty of nature, they may attain that laborious, that invidious, that closely watched slavery which is mocked with the name of power. The volumes before us are fairly entitled to the praise of diligence, care, good sense, and impartiality; and these qualities are sufficient to make a book valuable, but not quite sufficient to make it readable. Mr. Courtenay has not sufficiently studied the arts of selection and compression. The information with which he furnishes us, must still, we apprehend, be considered as so much raw material. To manufacturers it will be highly useful; but it is not yet in such a form that it can be enjoyed by the idle consumer. To drop metaphor, we are afraid that this work will be less acceptable to those who read for the sake of reading, than to those who read in order to write. We cannot help adding, though we are extremely unwilling to quarrel with Mr. Courtenay about politics, that the book would not be at all the worse if it contained fewer snarls against the Whigs of the present day. Not only are these passages out of place in a historical work, but some of them are intrinsically such that they would become the editor of a third-rate party newspaper better than a gentleman of Mr. Courtenay’s talents and knowledge. For example, we are told that, “it is a remarkable circumstance, familiar to those who are acquainted with history, but suppressed by the new Whigs, that the liberal politicians of the seventeenth century and the greater part of the eighteenth, never extended their liberality to the native Irish, or the professors of the ancient religion.” What schoolboy of fourteen is ignorant of this remarkable circumstance? What Whig, new or old, was ever such an idiot as to think that it could be suppressed? Really we might as well say that it is a remarkable circumstance, familiar to people well read in history, but carefully suppressed by the Clergy of the Established Church, that in the fifteenth century England was in communion with Rome. We are tempted to make some remarks on another passage, which seems to be the peroration of a speech intended to have been spoken against the Reform Bill: but we forbear. We doubt whether it will be found that the memory of Sir William Temple owes much to Mr. Courtenay’s researches. Temple is one of those men whom the world has agreed to praise highly without knowing much about them, and who are therefore more likely to lose than to gain by a close examination. Yet he is not without fair pretensions to the most honourable place among the statesmen of his time. A few of them equalled or surpassed him in talents; but they were men of no good repute for honesty. A few may be named whose patriotism was purer, nobler, and more disinterested than his; but they were of no eminent ability. Morally, he was above Shaftesbury; intellectually, he was above Russell. To say of a man that he occupied a high position in times of misgovernment, of corruption, of civil and religious faction, that nevertheless he contracted no great stain and bore no part in any great crime, that he won the esteem of a profligate Court and of a turbulent people, without being guilty of any disgraceful subserviency to either, seems to be very high praise; and all this may with truth be said of Temple. Yet Temple is not a man to our taste. A temper not naturally good, but under strict command; a constant regard to decorum; a rare caution in playing that mixed game of skill and hazard, human life; a disposition to be content with small and certain winnings rather than to go on doubling the stake; these seem to us to be the most remarkable features of his character. This sort of moderation, when united, as in him it was, with very considerable abilities, is, under ordinary circumstances, scarcely to be distinguished from the highest and purest integrity, and yet may be perfectly compatible with laxity of principle, with coldness of heart, and with the most intense selfishness. Temple, we fear, had not sufficient warmth and elevation of sentiment to deserve the name of a virtuous man. He did not betray or oppress his country: nay, he rendered considerable services to her; but he risked nothing for her. No temptation which either the King or the Opposition could hold out ever induced him to come forward as the supporter either of arbitrary or of factious measures. But he was most careful not to give offence by strenuously opposing such measures. He never put himself prominently before the public eye, except at conjunctures when he was almost certain to gain, and could not possibly lose, at conjunctures when the interest of the State, the views of the Court, and the passions of the multitude, all appeared for an instant to coincide. By judiciously availing himself of several of these rare moments, he succeeded in establishing a high character for wisdom and patriotism. When the favourable crisis was passed, he never risked the reputation which he had won. He avoided the great offices of State with a caution almost pusillanimous, and confined himself to quiet and secluded departments of public business, in which he could enjoy moderate but certain advantages without incurring envy. If the circumstances of the country became such that it was impossible to take any part in politics without some danger, he retired to his library and his orchard, and, while the nation groaned under oppression, or resounded with tumult and with the din of civil arms, amused himself by writing memoirs and tying up apricots. His political career bore some resemblance to the military career of Lewis the Fourteenth. Lewis, lest his royal dignity should be compromised by failure, never repaired to a siege, till it had been reported to him by the most skilful officers in his service, that nothing could prevent the fall of the place. When this was ascertained, the monarch, in his helmet and cuirass, appeared among the tents, held councils of war, dictated the capitulation, received the keys, and then returned to Versailles to hear his flatterers repeat that Turenne had been beaten at Mariendal, that Conde had been forced to raise the siege of Arras, and that the only warrior whose glory had never been obscured by a single check was Lewis the Great. Yet Conde and Turenne will always be considered as captains of a very different order from the invincible Lewis; and we must own that many statesmen who have committed great faults, appear to us to be deserving of more esteem than the faultless Temple. For in truth his faultlessness is chiefly to be ascribed to his extreme dread of all responsibility, to his determination rather to leave his country in a scrape than to run any chance of being in a scrape himself. He seems to have been averse from danger; and it must be admitted that the dangers to which a public man was exposed, in those days of conflicting tyranny and sedition, were of a most serious kind. He could not bear discomfort, bodily or mental. His lamentations, when in the course of his diplomatic journeys he was put a little out of his way, and forced, in the vulgar phrase, to rough it, are quite amusing. He talks of riding a day or two on a bad Westphalian road, of sleeping on straw for one night, of travelling in winter when the snow lay on the ground, as if he had gone on an expedition to the North Pole or to the source of the Nile. This kind of valetudinarian effeminacy, this habit of coddling himself, appears in all parts of his conduct. He loved fame, but not with the love of an exalted and generous mind. He loved it as an end, not at all as a means; as a personal luxury, not at all as an instrument of advantage to others. He scraped it together and treasured it up with a timid and niggardly thrift; and never employed the hoard in any enterprise, however virtuous and useful, in which there was hazard of losing one particle. No wonder if such a person did little or nothing which deserves positive blame. But much more than this may justly be demanded of a man possessed of such abilities, and placed in such a situation. Had Temple been brought before Dante’s infernal tribunal, he would not have been condemned to the deeper recesses of the abyss. He would not have been boiled with Dundee in the crimson pool of Bulicame, or hurled with Danby into the seething pitch of Malebolge, or congealed with Churchill in the eternal ice of Giudecca; but he would perhaps have been placed in the dark vestibule next to the shade of that inglorious pontiff “Che fece per viltate il gran rifiuto.” Of course a man is not bound to be a politician any more than he is bound to be a soldier; and there are perfectly honourable ways of quitting both politics and the military profession. But neither in the one way of life, nor in the other, is any man entitled to take all the sweet and leave all the sour. A man who belongs to the army only in time of peace, who appears at reviews in Hyde Park, escorts the Sovereign with the utmost valour and fidelity to and from the House of Lords, and retires as soon as he thinks it likely that he may be ordered on an expedition, is justly thought to have disgraced himself. Some portion of the censure due to, such a holiday-soldier may justly fall on the mere holiday-politician, who flinches from his duties as soon as those duties become difficult and disagreeable, that is to say, as soon as it becomes peculiarly important that he should resolutely perform them. But though we are far indeed from considering Temple as a perfect statesman, though we place him below many statesmen who have committed very great errors, we cannot deny that, when compared with his contemporaries, he makes a highly respectable appearance. The reaction which followed the victory of the popular party over Charles the First, had produced a hurtful effect on the national character; and this effect was most discernible in the classes and in the places which had been most strongly excited by the recent revolution. The deterioration was greater in London than in the country, and was greatest of all in the courtly and official circles. Almost all that remained of what had been good and noble in the Cavaliers and Roundheads of 1642, was now to be found in the middling orders. The principles and feelings which prompted the Grand Remonstrance were still strong among the sturdy yeomen, and the decent God-fearing merchants. The spirit of Derby and Capel still glowed in many sequestered manor-houses; but among those political leaders who, at the time of the Restoration, were still young or in the vigour of manhood, there was neither a Southampton nor a Vane, neither a Falkland nor a Hampden. The pure, fervent, and constant loyalty which, in the preceding reign, had remained unshaken on fields of disastrous battle, in foreign garrets and cellars, and at the bar of the High Court of Justice, was scarcely to be found among the rising courtiers. As little, or still less, could the new chiefs of parties lay claim to the great qualities of the statesmen who had stood at the head of the Long Parliament. Hampden, Pym, Vane, Cromwell, are discriminated from the ablest politicians of the succeeding generation, by all the strong lineaments which distinguish the men who produce revolutions from the men whom revolutions produce. The leader in a great change, the man who stirs up a reposing community, and overthrows a deeply-rooted system, may be a very depraved man; but he can scarcely be destitute of some moral qualities, which extort even from enemies a reluctant admiration, fixedness of purpose, intensity of will, enthusiasm, which is not the less fierce or persevering because it is sometimes disguised under the semblance of composure, and which bears down before it the force of circumstances and the opposition of reluctant minds. These qualities, variously combined with all sorts of virtues and vices, may be found, we think, in most of the authors of great civil and religious movements, in Caesar, in Mahomet, in Hildebrand, in Dominic, in Luther, in Robespierre; and these qualities were found, in no scanty measure, among the chiefs of the party which opposed Charles the First. The character of the men whose minds are formed in the midst of the confusion which follows a great revolution is generally very different. Heat, the natural philosophers tell us, produces rarefaction of the air; and rarefaction of the air produces cold. So zeal makes revolutions; and revolutions make men zealous for nothing. The politicians of whom we speak, whatever may be their natural capacity or courage, are almost always characterised by a peculiar levity, a peculiar inconstancy, an easy, apathetic way of looking at the most solemn questions, a willingness to leave the direction of their course to fortune and popular opinion, a notion that one public cause is nearly as good as another, and a firm conviction that it is much better to be the hireling of the worst cause than to be a martyr to the best. This was most strikingly the case with the English statesmen of the generation which followed the Restoration. They had neither the enthusiasm of the Cavalier nor the enthusiasm of the Republican. They had been early emancipated from the dominion of old usages and feelings; yet they had not acquired a strong passion for innovation. Accustomed to see old establishments shaking, falling, lying in ruins all around them, accustomed to live under a succession of constitutions of which the average duration was about a twelvemonth, they had no religious reverence for prescription, nothing of that frame of mind which naturally springs from the habitual contemplation of immemorial antiquity and immovable stability. Accustomed, on the other hand, to see change after change welcomed with eager hope and ending in disappointment, to see shame and confusion of face follow the extravagant hopes and predictions of rash and fanatical innovators, they had learned to look on professions of public spirit, and on schemes of reform, with distrust and contempt. They sometimes talked the language of devoted subjects, sometimes that of ardent lovers of their country. But their secret creed seems to have been, that loyalty was one great delusion and patriotism another. If they really entertained any predilection for the monarchical or for the popular part of the constitution, for episcopacy or for presbyterianism, that predilection was feeble and languid, and instead of overcoming, as in the times of their fathers, the dread of exile, confiscation, and death, was rarely of power to resist the slightest impulse of selfish ambition or of selfish fear. Such was the texture of the presbyterianism of Lauderdale, and of the speculative republicanism of Halifax. The sense of political honour seemed to be extinct. With the great mass of mankind, the test of integrity in a public man is consistency. This test, though very defective, is perhaps the best that any, except very acute or very near observers, are capable of applying; and does undoubtedly enable the people to form an estimate of the characters of the great, which on the whole approximates to correctness. But during the latter part of the seventeenth century, inconsistency had necessarily ceased to be a disgrace; and a man was no more taunted with it, than he is taunted with being black at Timbuctoo. Nobody was ashamed of avowing what was common between him and the whole nation. In the short space of about seven years, the supreme power had been held by the Long Parliament, by a Council of Officers, by Barebones’ Parliament, by a Council of Officers again, by a Protector according to the Instrument of Government, by a Protector according to the Humble Petition and Advice, by the Long Parliament again, by a third Council of Officers, by the Long Parliament a third time, by the Convention, and by the King. In such times, consistency is so inconvenient to a man who affects it, and to all who are connected with him, that it ceases to be regarded as a virtue, and is considered as impracticable obstinacy and idle scrupulosity. Indeed, in such times, a good citizen may be bound in duty to serve a succession of Governments. Blake did so in one profession, and Hale in another; and the conduct of both has been approved by posterity. But it is clear that when inconsistency with respect to the most important public questions has ceased to be a reproach, inconsistency with respect to questions of minor importance is not likely to be regarded as dishonourable. In a country in which many very honest people had, within the space of a few months, supported the government of the Protector, that of the Rump, and that of the King, a man was not likely to be ashamed of abandoning his party for a place, or of voting for a bill which he had opposed. The public men of the times which followed the Restoration were by no means deficient in courage or ability; and some kinds of talent appear to have been developed amongst them to a remarkable, we might almost say, to a morbid and unnatural degree. Neither Theramenes in ancient, nor Talleyrand in modern times, had a finer perception of all the peculiarities of character, and of all the indications of coming change, than some of our countrymen in that age. Their power of reading things of high import, in signs which to others were invisible or unintelligible, resembled magic. But the curse of Reuben was upon them all: “Unstable as water, thou shalt not excel.” This character is susceptible of innumerable modifications, according to the innumerable varieties of intellect and temper in which it may be found. Men of unquiet minds and violent ambition followed a fearfully eccentric course, darted wildly from one extreme to another, served and betrayed all parties in turn, showed their unblushing foreheads alternately in the van of the most corrupt administrations and of the most factious oppositions, were privy to the most guilty mysteries, first of the Cabal, and then of the Rye-House Plot, abjured their religion to win their sovereign’s favour while they were secretly planning his overthrow, shrived themselves to Jesuits, with letters in cypher from the Prince of Orange in their pockets, corresponded with the Hague whilst in office under James, and began to correspond with St. Germain’s as soon as they had kissed hands for office under William. But Temple was not one of these. He was not destitute of ambition. But his was not one of those souls in which unsatisfied ambition anticipates the tortures of hell, gnaws like the worm which dieth not, and burns like the fire which is not quenched. His principle was to make sure of safety and comfort, and to let greatness come if it would. It came: he enjoyed it: and, in the very first moment in which it could no longer be enjoyed without danger and vexation, he contentedly let it go. He was not exempt, we think, from the prevailing political immorality. His mind took the contagion, but took it ad modum recipientis, in a form so mild that an undiscerning judge might doubt whether it were indeed the same fierce pestilence that was raging all around. The malady partook of the constitutional languor of the patient. The general corruption, mitigated by his calm and unadventurous temperament, showed itself in omissions and desertions, not in positive crimes; and his inactivity, though sometimes timorous and selfish, becomes respectable when compared with the malevolent and perfidious restlessness of Shaftesbury and Sunderland. Temple sprang from a family which, though ancient and honourable, had, before his time, been scarcely mentioned in our history, but which, long after his death, produced so many eminent men, and formed such distinguished alliances, that it exercised, in a regular and constitutional manner, an influence in the state scarcely inferior to that which, in widely different times, and by widely different arts, the house of Neville attained in England, and that of Douglas in Scotland. During the latter years of George the Second, and through the whole reign of George the Third, members of that widely spread and powerful connection were almost constantly at the head either of the Government or of the Opposition. There were times when the cousinhood, as it was once nicknamed, would of itself have furnished almost all the materials necessary for the construction of an efficient Cabinet. Within the space of fifty years, three First Lords of the Treasury, three Secretaries of State, two Keepers of the Privy Seal, and four First Lords of the Admiralty were appointed from among the sons and grandsons of the Countess Temple. So splendid have been the fortunes of the main stock of the Temple family, continued by female succession. William Temple, the first of the line who attained to any great historical eminence, was of a younger branch. His father, Sir John Temple, was Master of the Rolls in Ireland, and distinguished himself among the Privy Councillors of that kingdom by the zeal with which, at the commencement of the struggle between the Crown and the Long Parliament, he supported the popular cause. He was arrested by order of the Duke of Ormond, but regained his liberty by an exchange, repaired to England, and there sate in the House of Commons as burgess for Chichester. He attached himself to the Presbyterian party, and was one of those moderate members who, at the close of the year 1648, voted for treating with Charles on the basis to which that Prince had himself agreed, and who were, in consequence, turned out of the House, with small ceremony, by Colonel Pride. Sir John seems, however, to have made his peace with the victorious Independents; for, in 1653, he resumed his office in Ireland. Sir John Temple was married to a sister of the celebrated Henry Hammond, a learned and pious divine, who took the side of the King with very conspicuous zeal during the Civil War, and was deprived of his preferment in the church after the victory of the Parliament. On account of the loss which Hammond sustained on this occasion, he has the honour of being designated, in the cant of that new brood of Oxonian sectaries who unite the worst parts of the Jesuit to the worst parts of the Orangeman, as Hammond, Presbyter, Doctor, and Confessor. William Temple, Sir John’s eldest son, was born in London in the year 1628. He received his early education under his maternal uncle, was subsequently sent to school at Bishop-Stortford, and, at seventeen, began to reside at Emmanuel College, Cambridge, where the celebrated Cudworth was his tutor. The times were not favourable to study. The Civil War disturbed even the quiet cloisters and bowling-greens of Cambridge, produced violent revolutions in the government and discipline of the colleges, and unsettled the minds of the students. Temple forgot at Emmanuel all the little Greek which he had brought from Bishop-Stortford, and never retrieved the loss; a circumstance which would hardly be worth noticing but for the almost incredible fact that, fifty years later, he was so absurd as to set up his own authority against that of Bentley on questions of Greek history and philology. He made no proficiency either in the old philosophy which still lingered in the schools of Cambridge, or in the new philosophy of which Lord Bacon was the founder. But to the end of his life he continued to speak of the former with ignorant admiration, and of the latter with equally ignorant contempt. After residing at Cambridge two years, he departed without taking a degree, and set out upon his travels. He seems to have been then a lively, agreeable young man of fashion, not by any means deeply read, but versed in all the superficial accomplishments of a gentleman, and acceptable in all polite societies. In politics he professed himself a Royalist. His opinions on religious subjects seem to have been such as might be expected from a young man of quick parts, who had received a rambling education, who had not thought deeply, who had been disgusted by the morose austerity of the Puritans, and who, surrounded from childhood by the hubbub of conflicting sects, might easily learn to feel an impartial contempt for them all. On his road to France he fell in with the son and daughter of Sir Peter Osborne. Sir Peter held Guernsey for the King, and the young people were, like their father, warm for the royal cause. At an inn where they stopped in the Isle of Wight, the brother amused himself with inscribing on the windows his opinion of the ruling powers. For this instance of malignancy the whole party were arrested, and brought before the governor. The sister, trusting to the tenderness which, even in those troubled times, scarcely any gentleman of any party ever failed to show where a woman was concerned, took the crime on herself, and was immediately set at liberty with her fellow-travellers. This incident, as was natural, made a deep impression on Temple. He was only twenty. Dorothy Osborne was twenty-one. She is said to have been handsome; and there remains abundant proof that she possessed an ample share of the dexterity, the vivacity, and the tenderness of her sex. Temple soon became, in the phrase of that time, her servant, and she returned his regard. But difficulties, as great as ever expanded a novel to the fifth volume, opposed their wishes. When the courtship commenced, the father of the hero was sitting in the Long Parliament; the father of the heroine was commanding in Guernsey for King Charles. Even when the war ended, and Sir Peter Osborne returned to his seat at Chicksands, the prospects of the lovers were scarcely less gloomy. Sir John Temple had a more advantageous alliance in view for his son. Dorothy Osborne was in the meantime besieged by as many suitors as were drawn to Belmont by the fame of Portia. The most distinguished on the list was Henry Cromwell. Destitute of the capacity, the energy, the magnanimity of his illustrious father, destitute also of the meek and placid virtues of his elder brother, this young man was perhaps a more formidable rival in love than either of them would have been. Mrs. Hutchinson, speaking the sentiments of the grave and aged, describes him as an “insolent foole,” and a “debauched ungodly cavalier.” These expressions probably mean that he was one who, among young and dissipated people, would pass for a fine gentleman. Dorothy was fond of dogs of larger and more formidable breed than those which lie on modern hearth-rugs; and Henry Cromwell promised that the highest functionaries at Dublin should be set to work to procure her a fine Irish greyhound. She seems to have felt his attentions as very flattering, though his father was then only Lord-General, and not yet Protector. Love, however, triumphed over ambition, and the young lady appears never to have regretted her decision; though, in a letter written just at the time when all England was ringing with the news of the violent dissolution of the Long Parliament, she could not refrain from reminding Temple, with pardonable vanity, “how great she might have been, if she had been so wise as to have taken hold of the offer of H. C.” Nor was it only the influence of rivals that Temple had to dread. The relations of his mistress regarded him with personal dislike, and spoke of him as an unprincipled adventurer, without honour or religion, ready to render service to any party for the sake of preferment. This is, indeed, a very distorted view of Temple’s character. Yet a character, even in the most distorted view taken of it by the most angry and prejudiced minds, generally retains something of its outline. No caricaturist ever represented Mr. Pitt as a Falstaff, or Mr. Fox as a skeleton; nor did any libeller ever impute parsimony to Sheridan, or profusion to Marlborough. It must be allowed that the turn of mind which the eulogists of Temple have dignified with the appellation of philosophical indifference, and which, however becoming it may be in an old and experienced statesman, has a somewhat ungraceful appearance in youth, might easily appear shocking to a family who were ready to fight or to suffer martyrdom for their exiled King and their persecuted church. The poor girl was exceedingly hurt and irritated by these imputations on her lover, defended him warmly behind his back, and addressed to himself some very tender and anxious admonitions, mingled with assurances of her confidence in his honour and virtue. On one occasion she was most highly provoked by the way in which one of her brothers spoke of Temple. “We talked ourselves weary,” she says; “he renounced me, and I defied him.” Near seven years did this arduous wooing continue. We are not accurately informed respecting Temple’s movements during that time. But he seems to have led a rambling life, sometimes on the Continent, sometimes in Ireland, sometimes in London. He made himself master of the French and Spanish languages, and amused himself by writing essays and romances, an employment which at least served the purpose of forming his style. The specimen which Mr. Courtenay has preserved of these early compositions is by no means contemptible: indeed, there is one passage on Like and Dislike which could have been produced only by a mind habituated carefully to reflect on its own operations, and which reminds us of the best things in Montaigne. Temple appears to have kept up a very active correspondence with his mistress. His letters are lost, but hers have been preserved; and many of them appear in these volumes. Mr. Courtenay expresses some doubt whether his readers will think him justified in inserting so large a number of these epistles. We only wish that there were twice as many. Very little indeed of the diplomatic correspondence of that generation is so well worth reading. There is a vile phrase of which bad historians are exceedingly fond, “the dignity of history.” One writer is in possession of some anecdotes which would illustrate most strikingly the operation of the Mississippi scheme on the manners and morals of the Parisians. But he suppresses those anecdotes, because they are too low for the dignity of history. Another is strongly tempted to mention some facts indicating the horrible state of the prisons of England two hundred years ago. But he hardly thinks that the sufferings of a dozen felons, pigging together on bare bricks in a hole fifteen feet square, would form a subject suited to the dignity of history. Another, from respect for the dignity of history, publishes an account of the reign of George the Second, without ever mentioning Whitefield’s preaching in Moorfields. How should a writer, who can talk about senates, and congresses of sovereigns, and pragmatic sanctions, and ravelines, and counterscarps, and battles where ten thousand men are killed, and six thousand men with fifty stand of colours and eighty guns taken, stoop to the Stock Exchange, to Newgate, to the theatre, to the tabernacle? Tragedy has its dignity as well as history; and how much the tragic art has owed to that dignity any man may judge who will compare the majestic Alexandrines in which the Seigneur Oreste and Madame Andromaque utter their complaints, with the chattering of the fool in Lear and of the nurse in Romeo and Juliet. That a historian should not record trifles, that he should confine himself to what is important, is perfectly true. But many writers seem never to have considered on what the historical importance of an event depends. They seem not to be aware that the importance of a fact, when that fact is considered with reference to its immediate effects, and the importance of the same fact, when that fact is considered as part of the materials for the construction of a science, are two very different things. The quantity of good or evil which a transaction produces is by no means necessarily proportioned to the quantity of light which that transaction affords, as to the way in which good or evil may hereafter be produced. The poisoning of an emperor is in one sense a far more serious matter than the poisoning of a rat. But the poisoning of a rat may be an era in chemistry; and an emperor may be poisoned by such ordinary means, and with such ordinary symptoms, that no scientific journal would notice the occurrence. An action for a hundred thousand pounds is in one sense a more momentous affair than an action for fifty pounds. But it by no means follows that the learned gentlemen who report the proceedings of the courts of law ought to give a fuller account of an action for a hundred thousand pounds, than of an action for fifty pounds. For a cause in which a large sum is at stake may be important only to the particular plaintiff and the particular defendant. A cause, on the other hand, in which a small sum is at stake, may establish some great principle interesting to half the families in the kingdom. The case is exactly the same with that class of subjects of which historians treat. To an Athenian, in the time of the Peloponnesian war, the result of the battle of Delium was far more important than the fate of the comedy of The Knights. But to us the fact that the comedy of The Knights was brought on the Athenian stage with success is far more important than the fact that the Athenian phalanx gave way at Delium. Neither the one event nor the other has now any intrinsic importance. We are in no danger of being speared by the Thebans. We are not quizzed in The Knights. To us the importance of both events consists in the value of the general truth which is to be learned from them. What general truth do we learn from the accounts which have come down to us of the battle of Delium? Very little more than this, that when two armies fight, it is not improbable that one of them will be very soundly beaten, a truth which it would not, we apprehend, be difficult to establish, even if all memory of the battle of Delium were lost among men. But a man who becomes acquainted with the comedy of The Knights, and with the history of that comedy, at once feels his mind enlarged. Society is presented to him under a new aspect. He may have read and travelled much. He may have visited all the countries of Europe, and the civilised nations of the East. He may have observed the manners of many barbarous races. But here is something altogether different from everything which he has seen, either among polished men or among savages. Here is a community politically, intellectually, and morally unlike any other community of which he has the means of forming an opinion. This is the really precious part of history, the corn which some threshers carefully sever from the chaff, for the purpose of gathering the chaff into the garner, and flinging the corn into the fire. Thinking thus, we are glad to learn so much, and would willingly learn more, about the loves of Sir William and his mistress. In the seventeenth century, to be sure, Lewis the Fourteenth was a much more important person than Temple’s sweetheart. But death and time equalise all things. Neither the great King, nor the beauty of Bedfordshire, neither the gorgeous paradise of Marli nor Mistress Osborne’s favourite walk “in the common that lay hard by the house, where a great many young wenches used to keep sheep and cows and sit in the shade singing of ballads,” is anything to us. Lewis and Dorothy are alike dust. A cotton-mill stands on the ruins of Marli; and the Osbornes have ceased to dwell under the ancient roof of Chicksands. But of that information for the sake of which alone it is worth while to study remote events, we find so much in the love letters which Mr. Courtenay has published, that we would gladly purchase equally interesting billets with ten times their weight in state-papers taken at random. To us surely it is as useful to know how the young ladies of England employed themselves a hundred and eighty years ago, how far their minds were cultivated, what were their favourite studies, what degree of liberty was allowed to them, what use they made of that liberty, what accomplishments they most valued in men, and what proofs of tenderness delicacy permitted them to give to favoured suitors, as to know all about the seizure of Franche Comté and the treaty of Nimeguen. The mutual relations of the two sexes seem to us to be at least as important as the mutual relations of any two governments in the world; and a series of letters written by a virtuous, amiable, and sensible girl, and intended for the eye of her lover alone, can scarcely fail to throw some light on the relations of the sexes; whereas it is perfectly possible, as all who have made any historical researches can attest, to read bale after bale of despatches and protocols, without catching one glimpse of light about the relations of governments. Mr. Courtenay proclaims that he is one of Dorothy Osborne’s devoted servants, and expresses a hope that the publication of her letters will add to the number. We must declare ourselves his rivals. She really seems to have been a very charming young woman, modest, generous, affectionate, intelligent, and sprightly; a royalist, as was to be expected from her connections, without any of that political asperity which is as unwomanly as a long beard; religious, and occasionally gliding into a very pretty and endearing sort of preaching, yet not too good to partake of such diversions as London afforded under the melancholy rule of the Puritans, or to giggle a little at a ridiculous sermon from a divine who was thought to be one of the great lights of the Assembly at Westminster; with a little turn of coquetry, which was yet perfectly compatible with warm and disinterested attachment, and a little turn for satire, which yet seldom passed the bounds of good-nature. She loved reading; but her studies were not those of Queen Elizabeth and Lady Jane Grey. She read the verses of Cowley and Lord Broghill, French Memoirs recommended by her lover, and the Travels of Fernando Mendez Pinto. But her favourite books were those ponderous French romances which modern readers know chiefly from the pleasant satire of Charlotte Lennox. She could not, however, help laughing at the vile English into which they were translated. Her own style is very agreeable; nor are her letters at all the worse for some passages in which raillery and tenderness are mixed in a very engaging namby-pamby. When at last the constancy of the lovers had triumphed over all the obstacles which kinsmen and rivals could oppose to their union, a yet more serious calamity befell them. Poor Mistress Osborne fell ill of the small-pox, and, though she escaped with life, lost all her beauty. To this most severe trial the affection and honour of the lovers of that age was not unfrequently subjected. Our readers probably remember what Mrs. Hutchinson tells of herself. The lofty Cornelia-like spirit of the aged matron seems to melt into a long-forgotten softness when she relates how her beloved Colonel “married her as soon as she was able to quit the chamber, when the priest and all that saw her were affrighted to look on her. But God,” she adds, with a not ungraceful vanity, “recompensed his justice and constancy, by restoring her as well as before.” Temple showed on this occasion the same justice and constancy which did so much honour to Colonel Hutchinson. The date of the marriage is not exactly known. But Mr. Courtenay supposes it to have taken place about the end of the year 1654. From this time we lose sight of Dorothy, and are reduced to form our opinion of the terms on which she and her husband were from very slight indications which may easily mislead us. Temple soon went to Ireland, and resided with his father, partly at Dublin, partly in the county of Carlow. Ireland was probably then a more agreeable residence for the higher classes, as compared with England, than it has ever been before or since. In no part of the empire were the superiority of Cromwell’s abilities and the force of his character so signally displayed. He had not the power, and probably had not the inclination, to govern that island in the best way. The rebellion of the aboriginal race had excited in England a strong religious and national aversion to them; nor is there any reason to believe that the Protector was so far beyond his age as to be free from the prevailing sentiment. He had vanquished them; he knew that they were in his power; and he regarded them as a band of malefactors and idolaters, who were mercifully treated if they were not smitten with the edge of the sword. On those who resisted he had made war as the Hebrews made war on the Canaanites. Drogheda was as Jericho; and Wexford as Ai. To the remains of the old population the conqueror granted a peace, such as that which Israel granted to the Gibeonites. He made them hewers of wood and drawers of water. But, good or bad, he could not be otherwise than great. Under favourable circumstances, Ireland would have found in him a most just and beneficent ruler. She found in him a tyrant; not a small teasing tyrant, such as those who have so long been her curse and her shame, but one of those awful tyrants who, at long intervals, seem to be sent on earth, like avenging angels, with some high commission of destruction and renovation. He was no man of half measures, of mean affronts and ungracious concessions. His Protestant ascendency was not an ascendency of ribands, and fiddles, and statues, and processions. He would never have dreamed of abolishing the penal code and withholding from Catholics the elective franchise, of giving them the elective franchise and excluding them from Parliament, of admitting them to Parliament, and refusing to them a full and equal participation in all the blessings of society and government. The thing most alien from his clear intellect and his commanding spirit was petty persecution. He knew how to tolerate; and he knew how to destroy. His administration in Ireland was an administration on what are now called Orange principles, followed out most ably, most steadily, most undauntedly, most unrelentingly, to every extreme consequence to which those principles lead; and it would, if continued, inevitably have produced the effect which he contemplated, an entire decomposition and reconstruction of society. He had a great and definite object in view, to make Ireland thoroughly English, to make Ireland another Yorkshire or Norfolk. Thinly peopled as Ireland then was, this end was not unattainable; and there is every reason to believe that, if his policy had been followed during fifty years, this end would have been attained. Instead of an emigration, such as we now see from Ireland to England, there was, under his government, a constant and large emigration from England to Ireland. This tide of population ran almost as strongly as that which now runs from Massachusetts and Connecticut to the states behind the Ohio. The native race was driven back before the advancing van of the Anglo-Saxon population, as the American Indians or the tribes of Southern Africa are now driven back before the white settlers. Those fearful phaenomena which have almost invariably attended the planting of civilised colonies in uncivilised countries, and which had been known to the nations of Europe only by distant and questionable rumour, were now publicly exhibited in their sight. The words “extirpation,” “eradication,” were often in the mouths of the English back-settlers of Leinster and Munster, cruel words, yet, in their cruelty, containing more mercy than much softer expressions which have since been sanctioned by universities and cheered by Parliaments. For it is in truth more merciful to extirpate a hundred thousand human beings at once and to fill the void with a well-governed population, than to misgovern millions through a long succession of generations. We can much more easily pardon tremendous severities inflicted for a great object, than an endless series of paltry vexations and oppressions inflicted for no rational object at all. Ireland was fast becoming English. Civilisation and wealth were making rapid progress in almost every part of the island. The effects of that iron despotism are described to us by a hostile witness in very remarkable language. “Which is more wonderful,” says Lord Clarendon, “all this was done and settled within little more than two years, to that degree of perfection that there were many buildings raised for beauty as well as use, orderly and regular plantations of trees, and fences and inclosures raised throughout the kingdom, purchases made by one from another at very valuable rates, and jointures made upon marriages, and all other conveyances and settlements executed, as in a kingdom at peace within itself, and where no doubt could be made of the validity of titles.” All Temple’s feelings about Irish questions were those of a colonist and a member of the dominant caste. He troubled himself as little about the welfare of the remains of the old Celtic population, as an English farmer on the Swan River troubles himself about the New Hollanders, or a Dutch boor at the Cape about the Caffres. The years which he passed in Ireland, while the Cromwellian system was in full operation, he always described as “years of great satisfaction.” Farming, gardening, county business, and studies rather entertaining than profound, occupied his time. In politics he took no part, and many years later he attributed this inaction to his love of the ancient constitution, which, he said, “would not suffer him to enter into public affairs till the way was plain for the King’s happy restoration.” It does not appear, indeed, that any offer of employment was made to him. If he really did refuse any preferment, we may, without much breach of charity, attribute the refusal rather to the caution which, during his whole life, prevented him from running any risk, than to the fervour of his loyalty. In 1660 he made his first appearance in public life. He sat in the convention which, in the midst of the general confusion that preceded the Restoration, was summoned by the chiefs of the army of Ireland to meet in Dublin. After the King’s return an Irish parliament was regularly convoked, in which Temple represented the county of Carlow. The details of his conduct in this situation are not known to us. But we are told in general terms, and can easily believe, that he showed great moderation, and great aptitude for business. It is probable that he also distinguished himself in debate; for many years afterwards he remarked that “his friends in Ireland used to think that, if he had any talent at all, it lay in that way.” In May, 1663, the Irish parliament was prorogued, and Temple repaired to England with his wife. His income amounted to about five hundred pounds a-year, a sum which was then sufficient for the wants of a family mixing in fashionable circles, He passed two years in London, where he seems to have led that easy, lounging life which was best suited to his temper. He was not, however, unmindful of his interest. He had brought with him letters of introduction from the Duke of Ormond, then Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, to Clarendon, and to Henry Bennet, Lord Arlington, who was Secretary of State. Clarendon was at the head of affairs. But his power was visibly declining, and was certain to decline more and more every day. An observer much less discerning than Temple might easily perceive that the Chancellor was a man who belonged to a by-gone world, a representative of a past age, of obsolete modes of thinking, of unfashionable vices, and of more unfashionable virtues. His long exile had made him a stranger in the country of his birth. His mind, heated by conflict and by personal suffering, was far more set against popular and tolerant courses than it had been at the time of the breaking out of the civil war. He pined for the decorous tyranny of the old Whitehall; for the days of that sainted king who deprived his people of their money and their ears, but let their wives and daughters alone; and could scarcely reconcile himself to a court with a seraglio and without a Star-Chamber. By taking this course he made himself every day more odious, both to the sovereign, who loved pleasure much more than prerogative, and to the people, who dreaded royal prerogatives much more than royal pleasures; and thus he was at last more detested by the Court than any chief of the Opposition, and more detested by the Parliament than any pandar of the Court. Temple, whose great maxim was to offend no party, was not likely to cling to the falling fortunes of a minister the study of whose life was to offend all parties. Arlington, whose influence was gradually rising as that of Clarendon diminished, was the most useful patron to whom a young adventurer could attach himself. This statesman, without virtue, wisdom, or strength of mind, had raised himself to greatness by superficial qualities, and was the mere creature of the time, the circumstances, and the company. The dignified reserve of manners which he had acquired during a residence in Spain provoked the ridicule of those who considered the usages of the French court as the only standard of good breeding, but served to impress the crowd with a favourable opinion of his sagacity and gravity. In situations where the solemnity of the Escurial would have been out of place, he threw it aside without difficulty, and conversed with great humour and vivacity. While the multitude were talking of “Bennet’s grave looks,” [“Bennet’s grave looks were a pretence” is a line in one of the best political poems of that age,] his mirth made his presence always welcome in the royal closet. While Buckingham, in the antechamber, was mimicking the pompous Castilian strut of the Secretary, for the diversion of Mistress Stuart, this stately Don was ridiculing Clarendon’s sober counsels to the King within, till his Majesty cried with laughter, and the Chancellor with vexation. There perhaps never was a man whose outward demeanour made such different impressions on different people. Count Hamilton, for example, describes him as a stupid formalist, who had been made secretary solely on account of his mysterious and important looks. Clarendon, on the other hand, represents him as a man whose “best faculty was raillery,” and who was “for his pleasant and agreeable humour acceptable unto the King.” The truth seems to be that, destitute as Bennet was of all the higher qualifications of a minister, he had a wonderful talent for becoming, in outward semblance, all things to all men. He had two aspects, a busy and serious one for the public, whom he wished to awe into respect, and a gay one for Charles, who thought that the greatest service which could be rendered to a prince was to amuse him. Yet both these were masks which he laid aside when they had served their turn. Long after, when he had retired to his deer-park and fish-ponds in Suffolk, and had no motive to act the part either of the hidalgo or of the buffoon, Evelyn, who was neither an unpractised nor an undiscerning judge, conversed much with him, and pronounced him to be a man of singularly polished manners and of great colloquial powers. Clarendon, proud and imperious by nature, soured by age and disease, and relying on his great talents and services, sought out no new allies. He seems to have taken a sort of morose pleasure in slighting and provoking all the rising talent of the kingdom. His connections were almost entirely confined to the small circle, every day becoming smaller, of old cavaliers who had been friends of his youth or companions of his exile. Arlington, on the other hand, beat up everywhere for recruits. No man had a greater personal following, and no man exerted himself more to serve his adherents. It was a kind of habit with him to push up his dependants to his own level, and then to complain bitterly of their ingratitude because they did not choose to be his dependants any longer. It was thus that he quarrelled with two successive Treasurers, Gifford and Danby. To Arlington Temple attached himself, and was not sparing of warm professions of affection, or even, we grieve to say, of gross and almost profane adulation. In no long time he obtained his reward. England was in a very different situation with respect to foreign powers from that which she had occupied during the splendid administration of the Protector. She was engaged in war with the United Provinces, then governed with almost regal power by the Grand Pensionary, John de Witt; and though no war had ever cost the kingdom so much, none had ever been more feebly and meanly conducted. France had espoused the interests of the States-General. Denmark seemed likely to take the same side. Spain, indignant at the close political and matrimonial alliance which Charles had formed with the House of Braganza, was not disposed to lend him any assistance. The great plague of London had suspended trade, had scattered the ministers and nobles, had paralysed every department of the public service, and had increased the gloomy discontent which misgovernment had begun to excite throughout the nation. One continental ally England possessed, the Bishop of Munster, a restless and ambitious prelate, bred a soldier, and still a soldier in all his tastes and passions. He hated the Dutch for interfering in the affairs of his see, and declared himself willing to risk his little dominions for the chance of revenge. He sent, accordingly, a strange kind of ambassador to London, a Benedictine monk, who spoke bad English, and looked, says Lord Clarendon, “like a carter.” This person brought a letter from the Bishop, offering to make an attack by land on the Dutch territory. The English ministers eagerly caught at the proposal, and promised a subsidy of 500,000 rix-dollars to their new ally. It was determined to send an English agent to Munster; and Arlington, to whose department the business belonged, fixed on Temple for this post. Temple accepted the commission, and acquitted himself to the satisfaction of his employers, though the whole plan ended in nothing, and the Bishop, finding that France had joined Holland, made haste, after pocketing an instalment of his subsidy, to conclude a separate peace. Temple, at a later period, looked back with no great satisfaction to this part of his life; and excused himself for undertaking a negotiation from which little good could result, by saying that he was then young and very new to business. In truth, he could hardly have been placed in a situation where the eminent diplomatic talents which he possessed could have appeared to less advantage. He was ignorant of the German language, and did not easily accommodate himself to the manners of the people. He could not bear much wine; and none but a hard drinker had any chance of success in Westphalian society. Under all these disadvantages, however, he gave so much satisfaction that he was created a Baronet, and appointed resident at the vice-regal court of Brussels. Brussels suited Temple far better than the palaces of the boar-hunting and wine-bibbing princes of Germany. He now occupied one of the most important posts of observation in which a diplomatist could be stationed. He was placed in the territory of a great neutral power, between the territories of two great powers which were at war with England. From this excellent school he soon came forth the most accomplished negotiator of his age. In the meantime the government of Charles had suffered a succession of humiliating disasters. The extravagance of the court had dissipated all the means which Parliament had supplied for the purpose of carrying on offensive hostilities. It was determined to wage only a defensive war; and even for defensive war the vast resources of England, managed by triflers and public robbers, were found insufficient. The Dutch insulted the British coasts, sailed up the Thames, took Sheerness, and carried their ravages to Chatham. The blaze of the ships burning in the river was seen at London: it was rumoured that a foreign army had landed at Gravesend; and military men seriously proposed to abandon the Tower. To such a depth of infamy had a bad administration reduced that proud and victorious country, which a few years before had dictated its pleasure to Mazarine, to the States-General, and to the Vatican. Humbled by the events of the war, and dreading the just anger of Parliament, the English Ministry hastened to huddle up a peace with France and Holland at Breda. But a new scheme was about to open. It had already been for some time apparent to discerning observers, that England and Holland were threatened by a common danger, much more formidable than any which they had reason to apprehend from each other. The old enemy of their independence and of their religion was no longer to be dreaded. The sceptre had passed away from Spain. That mighty empire, on which the sun never set, which had crushed the liberties of Italy and Germany, which had occupied Paris with its armies, and covered the British seas with its sails, was at the mercy of every spoiler; and Europe observed with dismay the rapid growth of a new and more formidable power. Men looked to Spain and saw only weakness disguised and increased by pride, dominions of vast bulk and little strength, tempting, unwieldy, and defenceless, an empty treasury, a sullen and torpid nation, a child on the throne, factions in the council, ministers who served only themselves, and soldiers who were terrible only to their countrymen. Men looked to France, and saw a large and compact territory, a rich soil, a central situation, a bold, alert, and ingenious people, large revenues, numerous and well-disciplined troops, an active and ambitious prince, in the flower of his age, surrounded by generals of unrivalled skill. The projects of Lewis could be counteracted only by ability, vigour, and union on the part of his neighbours. Ability and vigour had hitherto been found in the councils of Holland alone, and of union there was no appearance in Europe. The question of Portuguese independence separated England from Spain. Old grudges, recent hostilities, maritime pretensions, commercial competition separated England as widely from the United Provinces. The great object of Lewis, from the beginning to the end of his reign, was the acquisition of those large and valuable provinces of the Spanish monarchy, which lay contiguous to the eastern frontier of France. Already, before the conclusion of the treaty of Breda, he had invaded those provinces. He now pushed on his conquest with scarcely any resistance. Fortress after fortress was taken. Brussels itself was in danger; and Temple thought it wise to send his wife and children to England. But his sister, Lady Giffard, who had been some time his inmate, and who seems to have been a more important personage in his family than his wife, still remained with him. De Witt saw the progress of the French arms with painful anxiety. But it was not in the power of Holland alone to save Flanders; and the difficulty of forming an extensive coalition for that purpose appeared almost insuperable. Lewis, indeed, affected moderation. He declared himself willing to agree to a compromise with Spain. But these offers were undoubtedly mere professions, intended to quiet the apprehensions of the neighbouring powers; and, as his position became every day more and more advantageous, it was to be expected that he would rise in his demands. Such was the state of affairs when Temple obtained from the English Ministry permission to make a tour in Holland incognito. In company with Lady Giffard he arrived at the Hague. He was not charged with any public commission, but he availed himself of this opportunity of introducing himself to De Witt. “My only business, sir,” he said, “is to see the things which are most considerable in your country, and I should execute my design very imperfectly if I went away without seeing you.” De Witt, who from report had formed a high opinion of Temple, was pleased by the compliment, and replied with a frankness and cordiality which at once led to intimacy. The two statesmen talked calmly over the causes which had estranged England from Holland, congratulated each other on the peace, and then began to discuss the new dangers which menaced Europe. Temple, who had no authority to say any thing on behalf of the English Government, expressed himself very guardedly. De Witt, who was himself the Dutch Government, had no reason to be reserved. He openly declared that his wish was to see a general coalition formed for the preservation of Flanders. His simplicity and openness amazed Temple, who had been accustomed to the affected solemnity of his patron, the Secretary, and to the eternal doublings and evasions which passed for great feats of statesmanship among the Spanish politicians at Brussels. “Whoever,” he wrote to Arlington, “deals with M. de Witt must go the same plain way that he pretends to in his negotiations, without refining or colouring or offering shadow for substance.” Temple was scarcely less struck by the modest dwelling and frugal table of the first citizen of the richest state in the world. While Clarendon was amazing London with a dwelling more sumptuous than the palace of his master, while Arlington was lavishing his ill-gotten wealth on the decoys and orange-gardens and interminable conservatories of Euston, the great statesman who had frustrated all their plans of conquest, and the roar of whose guns they had heard with terror even in the galleries of Whitehall, kept only a single servant, walked about the streets in the plainest garb, and never used a coach except for visits of ceremony. Temple sent a full account of his interview with De Witt to Arlington, who, in consequence of the fall of the Chancellor, now shared with the Duke of Buckingham the principal direction of affairs. Arlington showed no disposition to meet the advances of the Dutch minister. Indeed, as was amply proved a few years later, both he and his masters were perfectly willing to purchase the means of misgoverning England by giving up, not only Flanders, but the whole Continent to France. Temple, who distinctly saw that a moment had arrived at which it was possible to reconcile his country with Holland, to reconcile Charles with the Parliament, to bridle the power of Lewis, to efface the shame of the late ignominious war, to restore England to the same place in Europe which she had occupied under Cromwell, became more and more urgent in his representations. Arlington’s replies were for some time couched in cold and ambiguous terms. But the events which followed the meeting of Parliament, in the autumn of 1667, appear to have produced an entire change in his views. The discontent of the nation was deep and general. The administration was attacked in all its parts. The King and the ministers laboured, not unsuccessfully, to throw on Clarendon the blame of past miscarriages; but though the Commons were resolved that the late Chancellor should be the first victim, it was by no means clear that he would be the last. The Secretary was personally attacked with great bitterness in the course of the debates. One of the resolutions of the Lower House against Clarendon was in truth a censure of the foreign policy of the Government, as too favourable to France. To these events chiefly we are inclined to attribute the change which at this crisis took place in the measures of England. The Ministry seem to have felt that, if they wished to derive any advantage from Clarendon’s downfall, it was necessary for them to abandon what was supposed to be Clarendon’s system, and by some splendid and popular measure to win the confidence of the nation. Accordingly, in December 1667, Temple received a despatch containing instructions of the highest importance. The plan which he had so strongly recommended was approved; and he was directed to visit De Witt as speedily as possible, and to ascertain whether the States were willing to enter into an offensive and defensive league with England against the projects of France. Temple, accompanied by his sister, instantly set out for the Hague, and laid the propositions of the English Government before the Grand Pensionary. The Dutch statesman answered with characteristic straightforwardness, that he was fully ready to agree to a defensive confederacy, but that it was the fundamental principle of the foreign policy of the States to make no offensive alliance under any circumstances whatever. With this answer Temple hastened from the Hague to London, had an audience of the King, related what had passed between himself and De Witt, exerted himself to remove the unfavourable opinion which had been conceived of the Grand Pensionary at the English Court, and had the satisfaction of succeeding in all his objects. On the evening of the first of January, 1668, a council was held, at which Charles declared his resolution to unite with the Dutch on their own terms. Temple and his indefatigable sister immediately sailed again for the Hague, and, after weathering a violent storm in which they were very nearly lost, arrived in safety at the place of their destination. On this occasion, as on every other, the dealings between Temple and De Witt were singularly fair and open. When they met, Temple began by recapitulating what had passed at their last interview. De Witt, who was as little given to lying with his face as with his tongue, marked his assent by his looks while the recapitulation proceeded, and, when it was concluded, answered that Temple’s memory was perfectly correct, and thanked him for proceeding in so exact and sincere a manner. Temple then informed the Grand Pensionary that the King of England had determined to close with the proposal of a defensive alliance. De Witt had not expected so speedy a resolution, and his countenance indicated surprise as well as pleasure. But he did not retract; and it was speedily arranged that England and Holland should unite for the purpose of compelling Lewis to abide by the compromise which he had formerly offered. The next object of the two statesmen was to induce another government to become a party to their league. The victories of Gustavus and Torstenson, and the political talents of Oxenstiern, had obtained for Sweden a consideration in Europe, disproportioned to her real power: the princes of Northern Germany stood in great awe of her; and De Witt and Temple agreed that if she could be induced to accede to the league, “it would be too strong a bar for France to venture on.” Temple went that same evening to Count Dona, the Swedish Minister at the Hague, took a seat in the most unceremonious manner, and, with that air of frankness and goodwill by which he often succeeded in rendering his diplomatic overtures acceptable, explained the scheme which was in agitation. Dona was greatly pleased and flattered. He had not powers which would authorise him to conclude a treaty of such importance. But he strongly advised Temple and De Witt to do their part without delay, and seemed confident that Sweden would accede. The ordinary course of public business in Holland was too slow for the present emergency; and De Witt appeared to have some scruples about breaking through the established forms. But the urgency and dexterity of Temple prevailed. The States-General took the responsibility of executing the treaty with a celerity unprecedented in the annals of the federation, and indeed inconsistent with its fundamental laws. The state of public feeling was, however, such in all the provinces, that this irregularity was not merely pardoned but applauded. When the instrument had been formally signed, the Dutch Commissioners embraced the English Plenipotentiary with the warmest expressions of kindness and confidence. “At Breda,” exclaimed Temple, “we embraced as friends, here as brothers.” This memorable negotiation occupied only five days. De Witt complimented Temple in high terms on having effected in so short a time what must, under other management, have been the work of months; and Temple, in his despatches, spoke in equally high terms of De Witt. “I must add these words, to do M. de Witt right, that I found him as plain, as direct and square in the course of this business as any man could be, though often stiff in points where he thought any advantage could accrue to his country; and have all the reason in the world to be satisfied with him; and for his industry, no man had ever more I am sure. For these five days at least, neither of us spent any idle hours, neither day nor night.” Sweden willingly acceded to the league, which is known in history by the name of the Triple Alliance; and, after some signs of ill-humour on the part of France, a general pacification was the result. The Triple Alliance may be viewed in two lights; as a measure of foreign policy, and as a measure of domestic policy; and under both aspects it seems to us deserving of all the praise which has been bestowed upon it. Dr. Lingard, who is undoubtedly a very able and well-informed writer, but whose great fundamental rule of judging seems to be that the popular opinion on a historical question cannot possibly be correct, speaks very slightingly of this celebrated treaty; and Mr. Courtenay, who by no means regards Temple with that profound veneration which is generally found in biographers, has conceded, in our opinion, far too much to Dr. Lingard. The reasoning of Dr. Lingard is simply this. The Triple Alliance only compelled Lewis to make peace on the terms on which, before the alliance was formed, he had offered to make peace. How can it then be said that this alliance arrested his career, and preserved Europe from his ambition? Now, this reasoning is evidently of no force at all, except on the supposition that Lewis would have held himself bound by his former offers, if the alliance had not been formed; and, if Dr. Lingard thinks this is a reasonable supposition, we should be disposed to say to him, in the words of that, great politician, Mrs. Western: “Indeed, brother, you would make a fine plenipo to negotiate with the French. They would soon persuade you that they take towns out of mere defensive principles.” Our own impression is that Lewis made his offer only in order to avert some such measure as the Triple Alliance, and adhered to his offer only in consequence of that alliance. He had refused to consent to an armistice. He had made all his arrangements for a winter campaign. In the very week in which Temple and the States concluded their agreement at the Hague, Franche Comte was attacked by the French armies, and in three weeks the whole province was conquered. This prey Lewis was compelled to disgorge. And what compelled him? Did the object seem to him small or contemptible? On the contrary, the annexation of Franche Comte to his kingdom was one of the favourite projects of his life. Was he withheld by regard for his word? Did he, who never in any other transaction of his reign showed the smallest respect for the most solemn obligations of public faith, who violated the Treaty of the Pyrenees, who violated the Treaty of Aix, who violated the Treaty of Nimeguen, who violated the Partition Treaty, who violated the Treaty of Utrecht, feel himself restrained by his word on this single occasion? Can any person who is acquainted with his character and with his whole policy doubt that, if the neighbouring powers would have looked quietly on, he would instantly have risen in his demands? How then stands the case? He wished to keep Franche Comte It was not from regard to his word that he ceded Franche Comte. Why then did he cede Franche Comte? We answer, as all Europe answered at the time, from fear of the Triple Alliance. But grant that Lewis was not really stopped in his progress by this famous league; still it is certain that the world then, and long after, believed that he was so stopped, and that this was the prevailing impression in France as well as in other countries. Temple, therefore, at the very least, succeeded in raising the credit of his country, and in lowering the credit of a rival power. Here there is no room for controversy. No grubbing among old state-papers will ever bring to light any document which will shake these facts; that Europe believed the ambition of France to have been curbed by the three powers; that England, a few months before the last among the nations, forced to abandon her own seas, unable to defend the mouths of her own rivers, regained almost as high a place in the estimation of her neighbours as she had held in the times of Elizabeth and Oliver; and that all this change of opinion was produced in five days by wise and resolute counsels, without the firing of a single gun. That the Triple Alliance effected this will hardly be disputed; and therefore, even if it effected nothing else, it must still be regarded as a masterpiece of diplomacy. Considered as a measure of domestic policy, this treaty seems to be equally deserving of approbation. It did much to allay discontents, to reconcile the sovereign with a people who had, under his wretched administration, become ashamed of him and of themselves. It was a kind of pledge for internal good government. The foreign relations of the kingdom had at that time the closest connection with our domestic policy. From the Restoration to the accession of the House of Hanover, Holland and France were to England what the right-hand horseman and the left-hand horseman in Burger’s fine ballad were to the Wildgraf, the good and the evil counsellor, the angel of light and the angel of darkness. The ascendency of France was as inseparably connected with the prevalence of tyranny in domestic affairs. The ascendency of Holland was as inseparably connected with the prevalence of political liberty and of mutual toleration among Protestant sects. How fatal and degrading an influence Lewis was destined to exercise on the British counsels, how great a deliverance our country was destined to owe to the States, could not be foreseen when the Triple Alliance was concluded. Yet even then all discerning men considered it as a good omen for the English constitution and the reformed religion, that the Government had attached itself to Holland, and had assumed a firm and somewhat hostile attitude towards France. The fame of this measure was the greater, because it stood so entirely alone. It was the single eminently good act performed by the Government during the interval between the Restoration and the Revolution. [“The only good public thing that hath been done since the King came into England.”--PEPYS’S Diary, February 14, 1667-8.] Every person who had the smallest part in it, and some who had no part in it at all, battled for a share of the credit. The most parsimonious republicans were ready to grant money for the purpose of carrying into effect the provisions of this popular alliance; and the great Tory poet of that age, in his finest satires, repeatedly spoke with reverence of the “triple bond.” This negotiation raised the fame of Temple both at home and abroad to a great height, to such a height, indeed, as seems to have excited the jealousy of his friend Arlington. While London and Amsterdam resounded with acclamations of joy, the Secretary, in very cold official language, communicated to his friend the approbation of the King; and, lavish as the Government was of titles and of money, its ablest servant was neither ennobled nor enriched. Temple’s next mission was to Aix-la-Chapelle, where a general congress met for the purpose of perfecting the work of the Triple Alliance. On his road he received abundant proofs of the estimation in which he was held. Salutes were fired from the walls of the towns through which lie passed; the population poured forth into the streets to see him; and the magistrates entertained him with speeches and banquets. After the close of the negotiations at Aix he was appointed Ambassador at the Hague. But in both these missions he experienced much vexation from the rigid, and, indeed, unjust parsimony of the Government. Profuse to many unworthy applicants, the Ministers were niggardly to him alone. They secretly disliked his politics; and they seem to have indemnified themselves for the humiliation of adopting his measures, by cutting down his salary and delaying the settlement of his outfit. At the Hague he was received with cordiality by De Witt, and with the most signal marks of respect by the States-General. His situation was in one point extremely delicate. The Prince of Orange, the hereditary chief of the faction opposed to the administration of De Witt, was the nephew of Charles. To preserve the confidence of the ruling party, without showing any want of respect to so near a relation of his own master, was no easy task, But Temple acquitted himself so well that he appears to have been in great favour, both with the Grand Pensionary and with the Prince. In the main, the years which he spent at the Hague seem, in spite of some pecuniary difficulties occasioned by the ill-will of the English Ministers, to have passed very agreeably. He enjoyed the highest personal consideration. He was surrounded by objects interesting in the highest degree to a man of his observant turn of mind. He had no wearing labour, no heavy responsibility; and, if he had no opportunity of adding to his high reputation, he ran no risk of impairing it. But evil times were at hand. Though Charles had for a moment deviated into a wise and dignified policy, his heart had always been with France; and France employed every means of seduction to lure him back. His impatience of control, his greediness for money, his passion for beauty, his family affections, all his tastes, all his feelings, were practised on with the utmost dexterity. His interior Cabinet was now composed of men such as that generation, and that generation alone, produced; of men at whose audacious profligacy the renegades and jobbers of our own time look with the same sort of admiring despair with which our sculptors contemplate the Theseus, and our painters the Cartoons. To be a real, hearty, deadly enemy of the liberties and religion of the nation was, in that dark conclave, an honourable distinction, a distinction which belonged only to the daring and impetuous Clifford. His associates were men to whom all creeds and all constitutions were alike; who were equally ready to profess the faith of Geneva, of Lambeth, and of Rome; who were equally ready to be tools of power without any sense of loyalty, and stirrers of sedition without any zeal for freedom. It was hardly possible even for a man so penetrating as De Witt to foresee to what depths of wickedness and infamy this execrable administration would descend. Yet, many signs of the great woe which was coming on Europe, the visit of the Duchess of Orleans to her brother, the unexplained mission of Buckingham to Paris, the sudden occupation of Lorraine by the French, made the Grand Pensionary uneasy, and his alarm increased when he learned that Temple had received orders to repair instantly to London. De Witt earnestly pressed for an explanation. Temple very sincerely replied that he hoped that the English Ministers would adhere to the principles of the Triple Alliance. “I can answer,” he said, “only for myself. But that I can do. If a new system is to be adopted, I will never have any part in it. I have told the King so; and I will make my words good. If I return you will know more: and if I do not return you will guess more.” De Witt smiled, and answered that he would hope the best, and would do all in his power to prevent others from forming unfavourable surmises. In October 1670, Temple reached London; and all his worst suspicions were immediately more than confirmed. He repaired to the Secretary’s house, and was kept an hour and a half waiting in the ante-chamber, whilst Lord Ashley was closeted with Arlington. When at length the doors were thrown open, Arlington was dry and cold, asked trifling questions about the voyage, and then, in order to escape from the necessity of discussing business, called in his daughter, an engaging little girl of three years old, who was long after described by poets “as dressed in all the bloom of smiling nature,” and whom Evelyn, one of the witnesses of her inauspicious marriage, mournfully designated as “the sweetest, hopefullest, most beautiful, child, and most virtuous too.” Any particular conversation was impossible: and Temple, who with all his constitutional or philosophical indifference, was sufficiently sensitive on the side of vanity, felt this treatment keenly. The next day he offered himself to the notice of the King, who was snuffing up the morning air and feeding his ducks in the Mall. Charles was civil, but, like Arlington, carefully avoided all conversation on politics. Temple found that all his most respectable friends were entirely excluded from the secrets of the inner council, and were awaiting in anxiety and dread for what those mysterious deliberations might produce. At length he obtained a glimpse of light. The bold spirit and fierce passions of Clifford made him the most unfit of all men to be the keeper of a momentous secret. He told Temple, with great vehemence, that the States had behaved basely, that De Witt was a rogue and a rascal, that it was below the King of England, or any other king, to have anything to do with such wretches; that this ought to be made known to all the world, and that it was the duty of the Minister of the Hague to declare it publicly. Temple commanded his temper as well as he could, and replied calmly and firmly, that he should make no such declaration, and that, if he were called upon to give his opinion of the States and their Ministers, he would say exactly what he thought. He now saw clearly that the tempest was gathering fast, that the great alliance which he had formed and over which he had watched with parental care was about to be dissolved, that times were at hand when it would be necessary for him, if he continued in public life, either to take part decidedly against the Court, or to forfeit the high reputation which he enjoyed at home and abroad. He began to make preparations for retiring altogether from business. He enlarged a little garden which he had purchased at Sheen, and laid out some money in ornamenting his house there. He was still nominally ambassador to Holland; and the English Ministers continued during some months to flatter the States with the hope that he would speedily return. At length, in June 1671, the designs of the Cabal were ripe. The infamous treaty with France had been ratified. The season of deception was past, and that of insolence and violence had arrived. Temple received his formal dismission, kissed the King’s hand, was repaid for his services with some of those vague compliments and promises which cost so little to the cold heart, the easy temper, and the ready tongue of Charles, and quietly withdrew to his little nest, as he called it, at Sheen. There he amused himself with gardening, which he practised so successfully that the fame of his fruit-trees soon spread far and wide. But letters were his chief solace. He had, as we have mentioned, been from his youth in the habit of diverting himself with composition. The clear and agreeable language of his despatches had early attracted the notice of his employers; and, before the peace of Breda, he had, at the request of Arlington, published a pamphlet on the war, of which nothing is now known, except that it had some vogue at the time, and that Charles, not a contemptible judge, pronounced it to be very well written. Temple had also, a short time before he began to reside at the Hague, written a treatise on the state of Ireland, in which he showed all the feelings of a Cromwellian. He had gradually formed a style singularly lucid and melodious, superficially deformed, indeed, by Gallicisms and Hispanicisms, picked up in travel or in negotiation, but at the bottom pure English, which generally flowed along with careless simplicity, but occasionally rose even into Ciceronian magnificence. The length of his sentences has often been remarked. But in truth this length is only apparent. A critic who considers as one sentence everything that lies between two full stops will undoubtedly call Temple’s sentences long. But a critic who examines them carefully will find that they are not swollen by parenthetical matter, that their structure is scarcely ever intricate, that they are formed merely by accumulation, and that, by the simple process of now and then leaving out a conjunction, and now and then substituting a full stop for a semicolon, they might, without any alteration in the order of the words, be broken up into very short periods with no sacrifice except that of euphony. The long sentences of Hooker and Clarendon, on the contrary, are really long sentences, and cannot be turned into short ones, without being entirely taken to pieces. The best known of the works which Temple composed during his first retreat from official business are an Essay on Government, which seems to us exceedingly childish, and an Account of the United Provinces, which we value as a masterpiece in its kind. Whoever compares these two treatises will probably agree with us in thinking that Temple was not a very deep or accurate reasoner, but was an excellent observer, that he had no call to philosophical speculation, but that he was qualified to excel as a writer of Memoirs and Travels. While Temple was engaged in these pursuits, the great storm which had long been brooding over Europe burst with such fury as for a moment seemed to threaten ruin to all free governments and all Protestant churches. France and England, without seeking for any decent pretext, declared war against Holland. The immense armies of Lewis poured across the Rhine, and invaded the territory of the United Provinces. The Dutch seemed to be paralysed by terror. Great towns opened their gates to straggling parties. Regiments flung down their arms without seeing an enemy. Guelderland, Overyssel, Utrecht were overrun by the conquerors. The fires of the French camp were seen from the walls of Amsterdam. In the first madness of despair the devoted people turned their rage against the most illustrious of their fellow-citizens. De Ruyter was saved with difficulty from assassins. De Witt was torn to pieces by an infuriated rabble. No hope was left to the Commonwealth, save in the dauntless, the ardent, the indefatigable, the unconquerable spirit which glowed under the frigid demeanour of the young Prince of Orange. That great man rose at once to the full dignity of his part, and approved himself a worthy descendant of the line of heroes who had vindicated the liberties of Europe against the house of Austria. Nothing could shake his fidelity to his country, not his close connection with the royal family of England, not the most earnest solicitations, not the most tempting offers. The spirit of the nation, that spirit which had maintained the great conflict against the gigantic power of Philip, revived in all its strength. Counsels, such as are inspired by a generous despair, and are almost always followed by a speedy dawn of hope, were gravely concerted by the statesmen of Holland. To open their dykes, to man their ships, to leave their country, with all its miracles of art and industry, its cities, its canals, its villas, its pastures, and its tulip gardens, buried under the waves of the German ocean, to bear to a distant climate their Calvinistic faith and their old Batavian liberties, to fix, perhaps with happier auspices, the new Stadthouse of their Commonwealth, under other stars, and amidst a strange vegetation, in the Spice Islands of the Eastern seas; such were the plans which they had the spirit to form; and it is seldom that men who have the spirit to form such plans are reduced to the necessity of executing them. The Allies had, during a short period, obtained success beyond their hopes. This was their auspicious moment. They neglected to improve it. It passed away; and it returned no more. The Prince of Orange arrested the progress of the French armies. Lewis returned to be amused and flattered at Versailles. The country was under water. The winter approached. The weather became stormy. The fleets of the combined kings could no longer keep the sea. The republic had obtained a respite; and the circumstances were such that a respite was, in a military view, important, in a political view almost decisive. The alliance against Holland, formidable as it was, was yet of such a nature that it could not succeed at all, unless it succeeded at once. The English Ministers could not carry on the war without money. They could legally obtain money only from the Parliament and they were most unwilling to call the Parliament together. The measures which Charles had adopted at home were even more unpopular than his foreign policy. He had bound himself by a treaty with Lewis to re-establish the Catholic religion in England; and, in pursuance of this design, he had entered on the same path which his brother afterwards trod with greater obstinacy to a more fatal end. The King had annulled, by his own sole authority, the laws against Catholics and other dissenters. The matter of the Declaration of Indulgence exasperated one-half of his subjects, and the manner the other half. Liberal men would have rejoiced to see a toleration granted, at least to all Protestant sects. Many High Churchmen had no objection to the King’s dispensing power. But a tolerant act done in an unconstitutional way excited the opposition of all who were zealous either for the Church or for the privileges of the people, that is to say, of ninety-nine Englishmen out of a hundred. The Ministers were, therefore, most unwilling to meet the Houses. Lawless and desperate as their counsels were, the boldest of them had too much value for his neck to think of resorting to benevolences, privy-seals, ship-money, or any of the other unlawful modes of extortion which had been familiar to the preceding age. The audacious fraud of shutting up the Exchequer furnished them with about twelve hundred thousand pounds, a sum which, even in better hands than theirs, would not have sufficed for the war-charges of a single year. And this was a step which could never be repeated, a step which, like most breaches of public faith, was speedily found to have caused pecuniary difficulties greater than those which it removed. All the money that could be raised was gone; Holland was not conquered; and the King had no resource but in a Parliament. Had a general election taken place at this crisis, it is probable that the country would have sent up representatives as resolutely hostile to the Court as those who met in November 1640; that the whole domestic and foreign policy of the Government would have been instantly changed; and that the members of the Cabal would have expiated their crimes on Tower Hill. But the House of Commons was still the same which had been elected twelve years before, in the midst of the transports of joy, repentance, and loyalty which followed the Restoration; and no pains had been spared to attach it to the Court by places, pensions, and bribes. To the great mass of the people it was scarcely less odious than the Cabinet itself. Yet, though it did not immediately proceed to those strong measures which a new House would in all probability have adopted, it was sullen and unmanageable, and undid, slowly indeed, and by degrees, but most effectually, all that the Ministers had done. In one session it annihilated their system of internal government. In a second session it gave a death-blow to their foreign policy. The dispensing power was the first object of attack. The Commons would not expressly approve the war; but neither did they as yet expressly condemn it; and they were even willing to grant the King a supply for the purpose of continuing hostilities, on condition that he would redress internal grievances, among which the Declaration of Indulgence held the foremost place. Shaftesbury, who was Chancellor, saw that the game was up, that he had got all that was to be got by siding with despotism and Popery, and that it was high time to think of being a demagogue and a good Protestant. The Lord Treasurer Clifford was marked out by his boldness, by his openness, by his zeal for the Catholic religion, by something which, compared with the villainy of his colleagues, might almost be called honesty, to be the scapegoat of the whole conspiracy. The King came in person to the House of Peers for the purpose of requesting their Lordships to mediate between him and the Commons touching the Declaration of Indulgence. He remained in the House while his speech was taken into consideration; a common practice with him; for the debates amused his sated mind, and were sometimes, he used to say, as good as a comedy. A more sudden turn his Majesty had certainly never seen in any comedy of intrigue, either at his own play-house, or at the Duke’s, than that which this memorable debate produced. The Lord Treasurer spoke with characteristic ardour and intrepidity in defence of the Declaration. When he sat down, the Lord Chancellor rose from the woolsack, and, to the amazement of the King and of the House, attacked Clifford, attacked the Declaration for which he had himself spoken in Council, gave up the whole policy of the Cabinet, and declared himself on the side of the House of Commons. Even that age had not witnessed so portentous a display of impudence. The King, by the advice of the French Court, which cared much more about the war on the Continent than about the conversion of the English heretics, determined to save his foreign policy at the expense of his plans in favour of the Catholic church. He obtained a supply; and in return for this concession he cancelled the Declaration of Indulgence, and made a formal renunciation of the dispensing power before he prorogued the Houses. But it was no more in his power to go on with the war than to maintain his arbitrary system at home. His Ministry, betrayed within, and fiercely assailed from without, went rapidly to pieces. Clifford threw down the white staff, and retired to the woods of Ugbrook, vowing, with bitter tears, that he would never again see that turbulent city, and that perfidious Court. Shaftesbury was ordered to deliver up the Great Seal, and instantly carried over his front of brass and his tongue of poison to the ranks of the Opposition. The remaining members of the Cabal had neither the capacity of the late Chancellor, nor the courage and enthusiasm of the late Treasurer. They were not only unable to carry on their former projects, but began to tremble for their own lands and heads. The Parliament, as soon as it again met, began to murmur against the alliance with France and the war with Holland; and the murmur gradually swelled into a fierce and terrible clamour. Strong resolutions were adopted against Lauderdale and Buckingham. Articles of impeachment were exhibited against Arlington. The Triple Alliance was mentioned with reverence in every debate; and the eyes of all men were turned towards the quiet orchard, where the author of that great league was amusing himself with reading and gardening. Temple was ordered to attend the King, and was charged with the office of negotiating a separate peace with Holland. The Spanish Ambassador to the Court of London had been empowered by the States-General to treat in their name. With him Temple came to a speedy agreement; and in three days a treaty was concluded. The highest honours of the State were now within Temple’s reach. After the retirement of Clifford, the white staff had been delivered to Thomas Osborne, soon after created Earl of Danby, who was related to Lady Temple, and had, many years earlier, travelled and played tennis with Sir William. Danby was an interested and dishonest man, but by no means destitute of abilities or of judgment. He was, indeed, a far better adviser than any in whom Charles had hitherto reposed confidence. Clarendon was a man of another generation, and did not in the least understand the society which he had to govern. The members of the Cabal were ministers of a foreign power, and enemies of the Established Church; and had in consequence raised against themselves and their master an irresistible storm of national and religious hatred. Danby wished to strengthen and extend the prerogative; but he had the sense to see that this could be done only by a complete change of system. He knew the English people and the House of Commons; and he knew that the course which Charles had recently taken, if obstinately pursued, might well end before the windows of the Banqueting-House. He saw that the true policy of the Crown was to ally itself, not with the feeble, the hated, the downtrodden Catholics, but with the powerful, the wealthy, the popular, the dominant Church of England; to trust for aid not to a foreign Prince whose name was hateful to the British nation, and whose succours could be obtained only on terms of vassalage, but to the old Cavalier party, to the landed gentry, the clergy, and the universities. By rallying round the throne the whole strength of the Royalists and High Churchmen, and by using without stint all the resources of corruption, he flattered himself that he could manage the Parliament. That he failed is to be attributed less to himself than to his master. Of the disgraceful dealings which were still kept up with the French Court, Danby deserved little or none of the blame, though he suffered the whole punishment. Danby, with great parliamentary talents, had paid little attention to European politics, and wished for the help of some person on whom he could rely in the foreign department. A plan was accordingly arranged for making Temple Secretary of State. Arlington was the only member of the Cabal who still held office in England. The temper of the House of Commons made it necessary to remove him, or rather to require him to sell out; for at that time the great offices of State were bought and sold as commissions in the army now are. Temple was informed that he should have the Seals if he would pay Arlington six thousand pounds. The transaction had nothing in it discreditable, according to the notions of that age, and the investment would have been a good one; for we imagine that at that time the gains which a Secretary of State might make, without doing any thing considered as improper, were very considerable. Temple’s friends offered to lend him the money; but he was fully determined not to take a post of so much responsibility in times so agitated, and under a Prince on whom so little reliance could be placed, and accepted the embassy to the Hague, leaving Arlington to find another purchaser. Before Temple left England he had a long audience of the King, to whom he spoke with great severity of the measures adopted by the late Ministry. The King owned that things had turned out ill. “But,” said he, “if I had been well served, I might have made a good business of it.” Temple was alarmed at this language, and inferred from it that the system of the Cabal had not been abandoned, but only suspended. He therefore thought it his duty to go, as he expresses it, “to the bottom of the matter.” He strongly represented to the King the impossibility of establishing either absolute government, or the Catholic religion in England; and concluded by repeating an observation which he had heard at Brussels from M. Gourville, a very intelligent Frenchman well known to Charles: “A king of England,” said Gourville, “who is willing to be the man of his people, is the greatest king in the world, but if he wishes to be more, by heaven he is nothing at all!” The King betrayed some symptoms of impatience during this lecture; but at last he laid his hand kindly on Temple’s shoulder, and said, “You are right, and so is Gourville; and I will be the man of my people.” With this assurance Temple repaired to the Hague in July 1674. Holland was now secure, and France was surrounded on every side by enemies. Spain and the Empire were in arms for the purpose of compelling Lewis to abandon all that he had acquired since the treaty of the Pyrenees. A congress for the purpose of putting an end to the war was opened at Nimeguen under the mediation of England in 1675; and to that congress Temple was deputed. The work of conciliation however, went on very slowly. The belligerent powers were still sanguine, and the mediating power was unsteady and insincere. In the meantime the Opposition in England became more and more formidable, and seemed fully determined to force the King into a war with France. Charles was desirous of making some appointments which might strengthen the administration and conciliate the confidence of the public. No man was more esteemed by the nation than Temple; yet he had never been concerned in any opposition to any government. In July 1677, he was sent for from Nimeguen. Charles received him with caresses, earnestly pressed him to accept the seals of Secretary of State, and promised to bear half the charge of buying out the present holder. Temple was charmed by the kindness and politeness of the King’s manner, and by the liveliness of his Majesty’s conversation; but his prudence was not to be so laid asleep. He calmly and steadily excused himself. The King affected to treat his excuses as mere jest, and gaily said, “Go; get you gone to Sheen. We shall have no good of you till you have been there; and when you have rested yourself, come up again.” Temple withdrew and stayed two days at his villa, but returned to town in the same mind; and the King was forced to consent at least to a delay. But while Temple thus carefully shunned the responsibility of bearing a part in the general direction of affairs, he gave a signal proof of that never-failing sagacity which enabled him to find out ways of distinguishing himself without risk. He had a principal share in bringing about an event which was at the time hailed with general satisfaction, and which subsequently produced consequences of the highest importance. This was the marriage of the Prince of Orange and the Lady Mary. In the following year Temple returned to the Hague; and thence he was ordered, in the close of 1678, to repair to Nimeguen, for the purpose of signing the hollow and unsatisfactory treaty by which the distractions of Europe were for a short time suspended. He grumbled much at being required to affix his name to bad articles which he had not framed, and still more at having to travel in very cold weather. After all, a difficulty of etiquette prevented him from signing, and he returned to the Hague. Scarcely had he arrived there when he received intelligence that the King, whose embarrassments were now far greater than ever, was fully resolved immediately to appoint him Secretary of State. He a third time declined that high post, and began to make preparations for a journey to Italy; thinking, doubtless, that he should spend his time much more pleasantly among pictures and ruins than in such a whirlpool of political and religious frenzy as was then raging in London. But the King was in extreme necessity, and was no longer to be so easily put off. Temple received positive orders to repair instantly to England. He obeyed, and found the country in a state even more fearful than that which he had pictured to himself. Those are terrible conjunctures, when the discontents of a nation, not light and capricious discontents, but discontents which have been steadily increasing during a long series of years, have attained their full maturity. The discerning few predict the approach of these conjunctures, but predict in vain. To the many, the evil season comes as a total eclipse of the sun at noon comes to a people of savages. Society which, but a short time before, was in a state of perfect repose, is on a sudden agitated with the most fearful convulsions, and seems to be on the verge of dissolution; and the rulers who, till the mischief was beyond the reach of all ordinary remedies, had never bestowed one thought on its existence, stand bewildered and panic-stricken, without hope or resource, in the midst of the confusion. One such conjuncture this generation has seen. God grant that we may never see another! At such a conjuncture it was that Temple landed on English ground in the beginning of 1679. The Parliament had obtained a glimpse of the King’s dealings with France; and their anger had been unjustly directed against Danby, whose conduct as to that matter had been, on the whole, deserving rather of praise than of censure. The Popish plot, the murder of Godfrey, the infamous inventions of Oates, the discovery of Colman’s letters, had excited the nation to madness. All the disaffection which had been generated by eighteen years of misgovernment had come to the birth together. At this moment the King had been advised to dissolve that Parliament which had been elected just after his restoration, and which, though its composition had since that time been greatly altered, was still far more deeply imbued with the old cavalier spirit than any that had preceded, or that was likely to follow it. The general election had commenced, and was proceeding with a degree of excitement never before known. The tide ran furiously against the Court. It was clear that a majority of the new House of Commons would be, to use a word which came into fashion a few months later, decided Whigs. Charles had found it necessary to yield to the violence of the public feeling. The Duke of York was on the point of retiring to Holland. “I never,” says Temple, who had seen the abolition of monarchy, the dissolution of the Long Parliament, the fall of the Protectorate, the declaration of Monk against the Rump, “I never saw greater disturbance in men’s minds.” The King now with the utmost urgency besought Temple to take the seals. The pecuniary part of the arrangement no longer presented any difficulty; and Sir William was not quite so decided in his refusal as he had formerly been. He took three days to consider the posture of affairs, and to examine his own feelings; and he came to the conclusion that “the scene was unfit for such an actor as he knew himself to be.” Yet he felt that, by refusing help to the King at such a crisis, he might give much offence and incur much censure. He shaped his course with his usual dexterity. He affected to be very desirous of a seat in Parliament; yet he contrived to be an unsuccessful candidate; and, when all the writs were returned, he represented that it would be useless for him to take the seals till he could procure admittance to the House of Commons; and in this manner he succeeded in avoiding the greatness which others desired to thrust upon him. The Parliament met; and the violence of its proceedings surpassed all expectation. The Long Parliament itself, with much greater provocation, had at its commencement been less violent. The Treasurer was instantly driven from office, impeached, sent to the Tower. Sharp and vehement votes were passed on the subject of the Popish Plot. The Commons were prepared to go much further, to wrest from the King his prerogative of mercy in cases of high political crimes, and to alter the succession to the Crown. Charles was thoroughly perplexed and dismayed. Temple saw him almost daily and thought him impressed with a deep sense of his errors, and of the miserable state into which they had brought him. Their conferences became longer and more confidential; and Temple began to flatter himself with the hope that he might be able to reconcile parties at home as he had reconciled hostile States abroad; that he might be able to suggest a plan which should allay all heats, efface the memory of all past grievances, secure the nation from misgovernment, and protect the Crown against the encroachments of Parliament. Temple’s plan was that the existing Privy Council, which consisted of fifty members, should be dissolved, that there should no longer be a small interior council, like that which is now designated as the Cabinet, that a new Privy Council of thirty members should be appointed, and that the King should pledge himself to govern by the constant advice of this body, to suffer all his affairs of every kind to be freely debated there, and not to reserve any part of the public business for a secret committee. Fifteen of the members of this new council were to be great officers of State. The other fifteen were to be independent noblemen and gentlemen of the greatest weight in the country. In appointing them particular regard was to be had to the amount of their property. The whole annual income of the counsellors was estimated at £300,000. The annual income of all the members of the House of Commons was not supposed to exceed £400,000 The appointment of wealthy counsellors Temple describes as “a chief regard, necessary to this constitution.” This plan was the subject of frequent conversation between the King and Temple. After a month passed in discussions to which no third person appears to have been privy, Charles declared himself satisfied of the expediency of the proposed measure, and resolved to carry it into effect. It is much to be regretted that Temple has left us no account of these conferences. Historians have, therefore, been left to form their own conjectures as to the object of this very extraordinary plan, “this Constitution,” as Temple himself calls it. And we cannot say that any explanation which has yet been given seems to us quite satisfactory. Indeed, almost all the writers whom we have consulted appear to consider the change as merely a change of administration, and so considering it, they generally applaud it. Mr. Courtenay, who has evidently examined this subject with more attention than has often been bestowed upon it, seems to think Temple’s scheme very strange, unintelligible, and absurd. It is with very great diffidence that we offer our own solution of what we have always thought one of the great riddles of English history. We are strongly inclined to suspect that the appointment of the new Privy Council was really a much more remarkable event than has generally been supposed, and that what Temple had in view was to effect, under colour of a change of administration, a permanent change in the Constitution. The plan, considered merely as a plan for the formation of a Cabinet, is so obviously inconvenient, that we cannot easily believe this to have been Temple’s chief object. The number of the new Council alone would be a most serious objection. The largest Cabinets of modern times have not, we believe, consisted of more than fifteen members. Even this number has generally been thought too large. The Marquess Wellesley, whose judgment on a question of executive administration is entitled to as much respect as that of any statesman that England ever produced, expressed, during the ministerial negotiations of the year 1812, his conviction that even thirteen was an inconveniently large number. But in a Cabinet of thirty members what chance could there be of finding unity, secrecy, expedition, any of the qualities which such a body ought to possess? If, indeed, the members of such a Cabinet were closely bound together by interest, if they all had a deep stake in the permanence of the Administration, if the majority were dependent on a small number of leading men, the thirty might perhaps act as a smaller number would act, though more slowly, more awkwardly, and with more risk of improper disclosures. But the Council which Temple proposed was so framed that if, instead of thirty members, it had contained only ten, it would still have been the most unwieldy and discordant Cabinet that ever sat. One half of the members were to be persons holding no office, persons who had no motive to compromise their opinions, or to take any share of the responsibility of an unpopular measure, persons, therefore, who might be expected as often as there might be a crisis requiring the most cordial co-operation, to draw off from the rest, and to throw every difficulty in the way of the public business. The circumstance that they were men of enormous private wealth only made the matter worse. The House of Commons is a checking body; and therefore it is desirable that it should, to a great extent, consist of men of independent fortune, who receive nothing and expect nothing from the Government. But with executive boards the case is quite different. Their business is not to check, but to act. The very same things, therefore, which are the virtues of Parliaments may be vices in Cabinets. We can hardly conceive a greater curse to the country than an Administration, the members of which should be as perfectly independent of each other, and as little under the necessity of making mutual concessions, as the representatives of London and Devonshire in the House of Commons are and ought to be. Now Temple’s new Council was to contain fifteen members who were to hold no offices, and the average amount of whose private estates was ten thousand pounds a year, an income which, in proportion to the wants of a man of rank of that period, was at least equal to thirty thousand a year in our time. Was it to be expected that such men would gratuitously take on themselves the labour and responsibility of Ministers, and the unpopularity which the best Ministers must sometimes be prepared to brave? Could there be any doubt that an Opposition would soon be formed within the Cabinet itself, and that the consequence would be disunion, altercation, tardiness in operations, the divulging of secrets, everything most alien from the nature of an executive council? Is it possible to imagine that considerations so grave and so obvious should have altogether escaped the notice of a man of Temple’s sagacity and experience? One of two things appears to us to be certain, either that his project has been misunderstood, or that his talents for public affairs have been overrated. We lean to the opinion that his project has been misunderstood. His new Council, as we have shown, would have been an exceedingly bad Cabinet. The inference which we are inclined to draw is this, that he meant his Council to serve some other purpose than that of a mere Cabinet. Barillon used four or five words which contain, we think, the key of the whole mystery. Mr. Courtenay calls them pithy words; but he does not, if we are right, apprehend their whole force. “Ce sont,” said Barillon, “des Etats, non des conseils.” In order clearly to understand what we imagine to have been Temple’s views, the reader must remember that the Government of England was at that moment, and had been during nearly eighty years, in a state of transition. A change, not the less real or the less extensive because disguised under ancient names and forms, was in constant progress. The theory of the Constitution, the fundamental laws which fix the powers of the three branches of the legislature, underwent no material change between the time of Elizabeth and the time of William the Third. The most celebrated laws of the seventeenth century on those subjects, the Petition of Right, the Declaration of Right, are purely declaratory. They purport to be merely recitals of the old polity of England. They do not establish free government as a salutary improvement, but claim it as an undoubted and immemorial inheritance. Nevertheless, there can be no doubt that, during the period of which we speak, all the mutual relations of all the orders of the State did practically undergo an entire change. The letter of the law might be unaltered; but, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, the power of the Crown was, in fact, decidedly predominant in the State; and at the end of that century the power of Parliament, and especially of the Lower House, had become, in fact, decidedly predominant. At the beginning of the century, the sovereign perpetually violated, with little or no opposition, the clear privileges of Parliament. At the close of the century, the Parliament had virtually drawn to itself just as much as it chose of the prerogative of the Crown. The sovereign retained the shadow of that authority of which the Tudors had held the substance. He had a legislative veto which he never ventured to exercise, a power of appointing Ministers, whom an address of the Commons could at any moment force him to discard, a power of declaring war which, without Parliamentary support, could not be carried on for a single day. The Houses of Parliament were now not merely legislative assemblies, not merely checking assemblies; they were great Councils of State, whose voice, when loudly and firmly raised, was decisive on all questions of foreign and domestic policy. There was no part of the whole system of Government with which they had not power to interfere by advice equivalent to command; and, if they abstained from intermeddling with some departments of the executive administration, they were withheld from doing so only by their own moderation, and by the confidence which they reposed in the Ministers of the Crown. There is perhaps no other instance in history of a change so complete in the real constitution of an empire, unaccompanied by any corresponding change in the theoretical constitution. The disguised transformation of the Roman commonwealth into a despotic monarchy, under the long administration of Augustus, is perhaps the nearest parallel. This great alteration did not take place without strong and constant resistance on the part of the kings of the house of Stuart. Till 1642, that resistance was generally of an open, violent, and lawless nature. If the Commons refused supplies, the sovereign levied a benevolence. If the Commons impeached a favourite minister, the sovereign threw the chiefs of the Opposition into prison. Of these efforts to keep down the Parliament by despotic force, without the pretext of law, the last, the most celebrated, and the most wicked was the attempt to seize the five members. That attempt was the signal for civil war, and was followed by eighteen years of blood and confusion. The days of trouble passed by; the exiles returned; the throne was again set up in its high place; the peerage and the hierarchy recovered their ancient splendour. The fundamental laws which had been recited in the Petition of Right were again solemnly recognised. The theory of the English constitution was the same on the day when the hand of Charles the Second was kissed by the kneeling Houses at Whitehall as on the day when his father set up the royal standard at Nottingham. There was a short period of doting fondness, a hysterica passio of loyal repentance and love. But emotions of this sort are transitory; and the interests on which depends the progress of great societies are permanent. The transport of reconciliation was soon over; and the old struggle recommenced. The old struggle recommenced; but not precisely after the old fashion. The Sovereign was not indeed a man whom any common warning would have restrained from the grossest violations of law. But it was no common warning that he had received. All around him were the recent signs of the vengeance of an oppressed nation, the fields on which the noblest blood of the island had been poured forth, the castles shattered by the cannon of the Parliamentary armies, the hall where sat the stern tribunal to whose bar had been led, through lowering ranks of pikemen, the captive heir of a hundred kings, the stately pilasters before which the great execution had been so fearlessly done in the face of heaven and earth. The restored Prince, admonished by the fate of his father, never ventured to attack his Parliaments with open and arbitrary violence. It was at one time by means of the Parliament itself, at another time by means of the courts of law, that he attempted to regain for the Crown its old predominance. He began with great advantages. The Parliament of 1661 was called while the nation was still full of joy and tenderness. The great majority of the House of Commons were zealous royalists. All the means of influence which the patronage of the Crown afforded were used without limit. Bribery was reduced to a system. The King, when he could spare money from his pleasures for nothing else, could spare it for purposes of corruption. While the defence of the coasts was neglected, while ships rotted, while arsenals lay empty, while turbulent crowds of unpaid seamen swarmed in the streets of the seaports, something could still be scraped together in the Treasury for the members of the House of Commons. The gold of France was largely employed for the same purpose. Yet it was found, as indeed might have been foreseen, that there is a natural limit to the effect which can be produced by means like these. There is one thing which the most corrupt senates are unwilling to sell; and that is the power which makes them worth buying. The same selfish motives which induced them to take a price for a particular vote induce them to oppose every measure of which the effect would be to lower the importance, and consequently the price, of their votes. About the income of their power, so to speak, they are quite ready to make bargains. But they are not easily persuaded to part with any fragment of the principal. It is curious to observe how, during the long continuance of this Parliament, the Pensionary Parliament, as it was nicknamed by contemporaries, though every circumstance seemed to be favourable to the Crown, the power of the Crown was constantly sinking, and that of the Commons constantly rising. The meetings of the Houses were more frequent than in former reigns; their interference was more harassing to the Government than in former reigns; they had begun to make peace, to make war; to pull down, if they did not set up, administrations. Already a new class of statesmen had appeared, unheard of before that time, but common ever since. Under the Tudors and the earlier Stuarts, it was generally by courtly arts, or by official skill and knowledge, that a politician raised himself to power. From the time of Charles the Second down to our own days a different species of talent, parliamentary talent, has been the most valuable of all the qualifications of an English statesman. It has stood in the place of all other acquirements. It has covered ignorance, weakness, rashness, the most fatal maladministration. A great negotiator is nothing when compared with a great debater; and a Minister who can make a successful speech need trouble himself little about an unsuccessful expedition. This is the talent which has made judges without law, and diplomatists without French, which has sent to the Admiralty men who did not know the stern of a ship from her bowsprit, and to the India Board men who did not know the difference between a rupee and a pagoda, which made a foreign secretary of Mr. Pitt, who, as George the Second said, had never opened Vattel, and which was very near making a Chancellor of the Exchequer of Mr. Sheridan, who could not work a sum in long division. This was the sort of talent which raised Clifford from obscurity to the head of affairs. To this talent Osborne, by birth a simple country gentleman, owed his white staff, his garter, and his dukedom. The encroachment of the power of the Parliament on the power of the Crown resembled a fatality, or the operation of some great law of nature. The will of the individual on the throne, or of the individuals in the two Houses, seemed to go for nothing. The King might be eager to encroach; yet something constantly drove him back. The Parliament might be loyal, even servile; yet something constantly urged them forward. These things were done in the green tree. What then was likely to be done in the dry? The Popish Plot and the general election came together, and found a people predisposed to the most violent excitation. The composition of the House of Commons was changed. The Legislature was filled with men who leaned to Republicanism in politics, and to Presbyterianism in religion. They no sooner met than they commenced an attack on the Government, which, if successful, must have made them supreme in the State. Where was this to end? To us who have seen the solution the question presents few difficulties. But to a statesman of the age of Charles the Second, to a statesman, who wished, without depriving the Parliament of its privileges, to maintain the monarch in his old supremacy, it must have appeared very perplexing. Clarendon had, when Minister, struggled honestly, perhaps, but, as was his wont, obstinately, proudly, and offensively, against the growing power of the Commons. He was for allowing them their old authority, and not one atom more. He would never have claimed for the Crown a right to levy taxes from the people without the consent of Parliament. But when the Parliament, in the first Dutch war, most properly insisted on knowing how it was that the money which they had voted had produced so little effect, and began to inquire through what hands it had passed, and on what services it had been expended, Clarendon considered this as a monstrous innovation. He told the King, as he himself says, “that he could not be too indulgent in the defence of the privileges of Parliament, and that he hoped he would never violate any of them; but he desired him to be equally solicitous to prevent the excesses in Parliament, and not to suffer them to extend their jurisdiction to cases they have nothing to do with; and that to restrain them within their proper bounds and limits is as necessary as it is to preserve them from being invaded; and that this was such a new encroachment as had no bottom.” This is a single instance. Others might easily be given. The bigotry, the strong passions, the haughty and disdainful temper, which made Clarendon’s great abilities a source of almost unmixed evil to himself and to the public, had no place in the character of Temple. To Temple, however, as well as to Clarendon, the rapid change which was taking place in the real working of the Constitution gave great disquiet; particularly as Temple had never sat in the English Parliament, and therefore regarded it with none of the predilection which men naturally feel for a body to which they belong, and for a theatre on which their own talents have been advantageously displayed. To wrest by force from the House of Commons its newly acquired powers was impossible; nor was Temple a man to recommend such a stroke, even if it had been possible. But was it possible that the House of Commons might be induced to let those powers drop? Was it possible that, as a great revolution had been effected without any change in the outward form of the Government, so a great counter-revolution might be effected in the same manner? Was it possible that the Crown and the Parliament might be placed in nearly the same relative position in which they had stood in the reign of Elizabeth, and that this might be done without one sword drawn, without one execution, and with the general acquiescence of the nation? The English people--it was probably thus that Temple argued--will not bear to be governed by the unchecked power of the Sovereign, nor ought they to be so governed. At present there is no check but the Parliament. The limits which separate the power of checking those who govern from the power of governing are not easily to be defined. The Parliament, therefore, supported by the nation, is rapidly drawing to itself all the powers of Government. If it were possible to frame some other check on the power of the Crown, some check which might be less galling to the Sovereign than that by which he is now constantly tormented, and yet which might appear to the people to be a tolerable security against maladministration, Parliaments would probably meddle less; and they would be less supported by public opinion in their meddling. That the King’s hands may not be rudely tied by others, he must consent to tie them lightly himself. That the executive administration may not be usurped by the checking body, something of the character of a checking body must be given to the body which conducts the executive administration. The Parliament is now arrogating to itself every day a larger share of the functions of the Privy Council. We must stop the evil by giving to the Privy Council something of the constitution of a Parliament. Let the nation see that all the King’s measures are directed by a Cabinet composed of representatives of every order in the State, by a Cabinet which contains, not placemen alone, but independent and popular noblemen and gentlemen who have large estates and no salaries, and who are not likely to sacrifice the public welfare in which they have a deep stake, and the credit which they have obtained with the country, to the pleasure of a Court from which they receive nothing. When the ordinary administration is in such hands as these, the people will be quite content to see the Parliament become, what it formerly was, an extraordinary check. They will be quite willing that the House of Commons should meet only once in three years for a short session, and should take as little part in matters of state as it did a hundred years ago. Thus we believe that Temple reasoned: for on this hypothesis his scheme is intelligible; and on any other hypothesis his scheme appears to us, as it does to Mr. Courtenay, exceedingly absurd and unmeaning. This Council was strictly what Barillon called it, an Assembly of States. There are the representatives of all the great sections of the community, of the Church, of the Law, of the Peerage, of the Commons. The exclusion of one half of the counsellors from office under the Crown, an exclusion which is quite absurd when we consider the Council merely as an executive board, becomes at once perfectly reasonable when we consider the Council as a body intended to restrain the Crown as well as to exercise the powers of the Crown, to perform some of the functions of a Parliament as well as the functions of a Cabinet. We see, too, why Temple dwelt so much on the private wealth of the members, why he instituted a comparison between their united incomes and the united incomes of the members of the House of Commons. Such a parallel would have been idle in the case of a mere Cabinet. It is extremely significant in the case of a body intended to supersede the House of Commons in some very important functions. We can hardly help thinking that the notion of this Parliament on a small scale was suggested to Temple by what he had himself seen in the United Provinces. The original Assembly of the States-General consisted, as he tells us, of above eight hundred persons. But this great body was represented by a smaller Council of about thirty, which bore the name and exercised the powers of the States-General. At last the real States altogether ceased to meet; and their power, though still a part of the theory of the Constitution, became obsolete in practice. We do not, of course, imagine that Temple either expected or wished that Parliaments should be thus disused; but he did expect, we think, that something like what had happened in Holland would happen in England, and that a large portion of the functions lately assumed by Parliament would be quietly transferred to the miniature Parliament which he proposed to create. Had this plan, with some modifications, been tried at an earlier period, in a more composed state of the public mind, and by a better sovereign, we are by no means certain that it might not have effected the purpose for which it was designed. The restraint imposed on the King by the Council of thirty, whom he had himself chosen, would have been feeble indeed when compared with the restraint imposed by Parliament. But it would have been more constant. It would have acted every year, and all the year round; and before the Revolution the sessions of Parliament were short and the recesses long. The advice of the Council would probably have prevented any very monstrous and scandalous measures; and would consequently have prevented the discontents which follow such measures, and the salutary laws which are the fruit of such discontents. We believe, for example, that the second Dutch war would never have been approved by such a Council as that which Temple proposed. We are quite certain that the shutting up of the Exchequer would never even have been mentioned in such a Council. The people, pleased to think that Lord Russell, Lord Cavendish, and Mr. Powle, unplaced and unpensioned, were daily representing their grievances and defending their rights in the Royal presence, would not have pined quite so much for the meeting of Parliaments. The Parliament, when it met, would have found fewer and less glaring abuses to attack. There would have been less misgovernment and less reform. We should not have been cursed with the Cabal, or blessed with the Habeas Corpus Act. In the mean time the Council, considered as an executive Council, would, unless some at least of its powers had been delegated to a smaller body, have been feeble, dilatory, divided, unfit for everything that requires secrecy and despatch, and peculiarly unfit for the administration of war. The Revolution put an end, in a very different way, to the long contest between the King and the Parliament. From that time, the House of Commons has been predominant in the State. The Cabinet has really been, from that time, a committee nominated by the Crown out of the prevailing party in Parliament. Though the minority in the Commons are constantly proposing to condemn executive measures, or to call for papers which may enable the House to sit in judgment on such measures, these propositions are scarcely ever carried; and, if a proposition of this kind is carried against the Government, a change of Ministry almost necessarily follows. Growing and struggling power always gives more annoyance and is more unmanageable than established power. The House of Commons gave infinitely more trouble to the Ministers of Charles the Second than to any Ministers of later times; for, in the time of Charles the Second, the House was checking Ministers in whom it did not confide. Now that its ascendency is fully established, it either confides in Ministers or turns them out. This is undoubtedly a far better state of things than that which Temple wished to introduce. The modern Cabinet is a far better Executive Council than his. The worst House of Commons that has sate since the Revolution was a far more efficient check on misgovernment than his fifteen independent counsellors would have been. Yet, everything considered, it seems to us that his plan was the work of an observant, ingenious, and fertile mind. On this occasion, as on every occasion on which he came prominently forward, Temple had the rare good fortune to please the public as well as the Sovereign. The general exultation was great when it was known that the old Council, made up of the most odious tools of power, was dismissed, that small interior committees, rendered odious by the recent memory of the Cabal, were to be disused, and that the King would adopt no measure till it had been discussed and approved by a body, of which one half consisted of independent gentlemen and noblemen, and in which such persons as Russell, Cavendish, and Temple himself had seats. Town and country were in a ferment of joy. The bells were rung; bonfires were lighted; and the acclamations of England were echoed by the Dutch, who considered the influence obtained by Temple as a certain omen of good for Europe. It is, indeed, much to the honour of his sagacity that every one of his great measures should, in such times, have pleased every party which he had any interest in pleasing. This was the case with the Triple Alliance, with the treaty which concluded the second Dutch war, with the marriage of the Prince of Orange, and, finally, with the institution of this new Council. The only people who grumbled were those popular leaders of the House of Commons who were not among the Thirty; and, if our view of the measure be correct, they were precisely the people who had good reason to grumble. They were precisely the people whose activity and whose influence the new Council was intended to destroy. But there was very soon an end of the bright hopes and loud applauses with which the publication of this scheme had been hailed. The perfidious levity of the King and the ambition of the chiefs of parties produced the instant, entire, and irremediable failure of a plan which nothing but firmness, public spirit, and self-denial on the part of all concerned in it could conduct to a happy issue. Even before the project was divulged, its author had already found reason to apprehend that it would fail. Considerable difficulty was experienced in framing the list of counsellors. There were two men in particular about whom the King and Temple could not agree, two men deeply tainted with the vices common to the English statesman of that age, but unrivalled in talents, address, and influence. These were the Earl of Shaftesbury, and George Savile Viscount Halifax. It was a favourite exercise among the Greek sophists to write panegyrics on characters proverbial for depravity. One professor of rhetoric sent to Isocrates a panegyric on Busiris; and Isocrates himself wrote another which has come down to us. It is, we presume, from an ambition of the same kind that some writers have lately shown a disposition to eulogise Shaftesbury. But the attempt is vain. The charges against him rest on evidence not to be invalidated by any arguments which human wit can devise, or by any information which may be found in old trunks and escritoires. It is certain that, just before the Restoration, he declared to the Regicides that he would be damned, body and soul, rather than suffer a hair of their heads to be hurt, and that, just after the Restoration, he was one of the judges who sentenced them to death. It is certain that he was a principal member of the most profligate Administration ever known, and that he was afterwards a principal member oft the most profligate Opposition ever known. It is certain that, in power, he did not scruple to violate the great fundamental principle of the Constitution, in order to exalt the Catholics, and that, out of power, he did not scruple to violate every principle of justice, in order to destroy them. There were in that age some honest men, such as William Penn, who valued toleration so highly that they would willingly have seen it established even by an illegal exertion of the prerogative. There were many honest men who dreaded arbitrary power so much that, on account of the alliance between Popery and arbitrary power, they were disposed to grant no toleration to Papists. On both those classes we look with indulgence, though we think both in the wrong. But Shaftesbury belonged to neither class. He united all that was worst in both. From the misguided friends of toleration he borrowed their contempt for the Constitution, and from the misguided friends of civil liberty their contempt for the rights of conscience. We never can admit that his conduct as a member of the Cabal was redeemed by his conduct as a leader of Opposition. On the contrary, his life was such that every part of it, as if by a skilful contrivance, reflects infamy on every other. We should never have known how abandoned a prostitute he was in place, if we had not known how desperate an incendiary he was out of it. To judge of him fairly, we must bear in mind that the Shaftesbury who, in office, was the chief author of the Declaration of Indulgence, was the same Shaftesbury who, out of office, excited and kept up the savage hatred of the rabble of London against the very class to whom that Declaration of Indulgence was intended to give illegal relief. It is amusing to see the excuses that are made for him. We will give two specimens. It is acknowledged that he was one of the Ministry which made the alliance with France against Holland, and that this alliance was most pernicious. What, then, is the defence? Even this, that he betrayed his master’s counsels to the Electors of Saxony and Brandenburg, and tried to rouse all the Protestant powers of Germany to defend the States. Again, it is acknowledged that he was deeply concerned in the Declaration of Indulgence, and that his conduct on this occasion was not only unconstitutional, but quite inconsistent with the course which he afterwards took respecting the professors of the Catholic faith. What, then, is the defence? Even this, that he meant only to allure concealed Papists to avow themselves, and thus to become open marks for the vengeance of the public. As often as he is charged with one treason, his advocates vindicate him by confessing two. They had better leave him where they find him. For him there is no escape upwards. Every outlet by which he can creep out of his present position, is one which lets him down into a still lower and fouler depth of infamy. To whitewash an Ethiopian is a proverbially hopeless attempt; but to whitewash an Ethiopian by giving him a new coat of blacking is an enterprise more extraordinary still. That in the course of Shaftesbury’s dishonest and revengeful opposition to the Court he rendered one or two most useful services to his country we admit. And he is, we think, fairly entitled, if that be any glory, to have his name eternally associated with the Habeas Corpus Act in the same way in which the name of Henry the Eighth is associated with the reformation of the Church, and that of Jack Wilkes with the most sacred rights of electors. While Shaftesbury was still living, his character was elaborately drawn by two of the greatest writers of the age, by Butler, with characteristic brilliancy of wit, by Dryden, with even more than characteristic energy and loftiness, by both with all the inspiration of hatred. The sparkling illustrations of Butler have been thrown into the shade by the brighter glory of that gorgeous satiric Muse, who comes sweeping by in sceptred pall, borrowed from her most august sisters. But the descriptions well deserve to be compared. The reader will at once perceive a considerable difference between Butler’s “politician, With more beads than a beast in vision,” and the Achitophel of Dryden. Butler dwells on Shaftesbury’s unprincipled versatility; on his wonderful and almost instinctive skill in discerning the approach of a change of fortune; and on the dexterity with which he extricated himself from the snares in which he left his associates to perish. “Our state-artificer foresaw Which way the world began to draw. For as old sinners have all points O’ th’ compass in their bones and joints, Can by their pangs and aches find All turns and changes of the wind, And better than by Napier’s bones Feel in their own the age of moons: So guilty sinners in a state Can by their crimes prognosticate, And in their consciences feel pain Some days before a shower of rain. He, therefore, wisely cast about All ways he could to ensure his throat.” In Dryden’s great portrait, on the contrary, violent passion, implacable revenge, boldness amounting to temerity, are the most striking features. Achitophel is one of the “great wits to madness near allied.” And again-- “A daring pilot in extremity, Pleased with the danger when the waves went high, He sought the storms; but, for a calm unfit, Would steer too near the sands to boast his wit.” [It has never, we believe, been remarked, that two of the most striking lines in the description of Achitophel are borrowed from a most obscure quarter. In Knolles’s History of the Turks, printed more than sixty years before the appearance of Absalom and Achitophel, are the following verses, under a portrait of the Sultan Mustapha the First: “Greatnesse on goodnesse loves to slide, not stand, And leaves for Fortune’s ice Vertue’s firme land.” Dryden’s words are “But wild Ambition loves to slide, not stand, And Fortune’s ice prefers to Virtue’s land.” The circumstance is the more remarkable, because Dryden has really no couplet which would seem to a good critic more intensely Drydenian, both in thought and expression, than this, of which the whole thought, and almost the whole expression, are stolen. As we are on this subject, we cannot refrain from observing that Mr. Courtenay has done Dryden injustice by inadvertently attributing to him some feeble lines which are in Tate’s part of Absalom and Achitophel.] The dates of the two poems will, we think, explain this discrepancy. The third part of Hudibras appeared in 1678, when the character of Shaftesbury had as yet but imperfectly developed itself. He had, indeed, been a traitor to every party in the State; but his treasons had hitherto prospered. Whether it were accident or sagacity, he had timed his desertions in such a manner that fortune seemed to go to and fro with him from side to side. The extent of his perfidy was known; but it was not till the Popish Plot furnished him with a machinery which seemed sufficiently powerful for all his purposes, that the audacity of his spirit, and the fierceness of his malevolent passions, became fully manifest. His subsequent conduct showed undoubtedly great ability, but not ability of the sort for which he had formerly been so eminent. He was now headstrong, sanguine, full of impetuous confidence in his own wisdom and his own good luck. He, whose fame as a political tactician had hitherto rested chiefly on his skilful retreats, now set himself to break down all the bridges behind him. His plans were castles in the air: his talk was rhodomontade. He took no thought for the morrow: he treated the Court as if the King were already a prisoner in his hands: he built on the favour of the multitude, as if that favour were not proverbially inconstant. The signs of the coming reaction were discerned by men of far less sagacity than his, and scared from his side men more consistent than he had ever pretended to be. But on him they were lost. The counsel of Achitophel, that counsel which was as if a man had inquired of the oracle of God, was turned into foolishness. He who had become a by-word, for the certainty with which he foresaw and the suppleness with which he evaded danger, now, when beset on every side with snares and death, seemed to be smitten with a blindness as strange as his former clear-sightedness, and, turning neither to the right nor to the left, strode straight on with desperate hardihood to his doom. Therefore, after having early acquired and long preserved the reputation of infallible wisdom and invariable success, he lived to see a mighty ruin wrought by his own ungovernable passions, to see the great party which he had led vanquished, and scattered, and trampled down, to see all his own devilish enginery of lying witnesses, partial sheriffs, packed juries, unjust judges, bloodthirsty mobs, ready to be employed against himself and his most devoted followers, to fly from that proud city whose favour had almost raised him to be Mayor of the Palace, to hide himself in squalid retreats, to cover his grey head with ignominious disguises; and he died in hopeless exile, sheltered by the generosity of a State which he had cruelly injured and insulted, from the vengeance of a master whose favour he had purchased by one series of crimes, and forfeited by another. Halifax had, in common with Shaftesbury, and with almost all the politicians of that age, a very loose morality where the public was concerned; but in Halifax the prevailing infection was modified by a very peculiar constitution both of heart and head, by a temper singularly free from gall, and by a refining and sceptical understanding. He changed his course as often as Shaftesbury; but he did not change it to the same extent, or in the same direction. Shaftesbury was the very reverse of a trimmer. His disposition led him generally to do his utmost to exalt the side which was up, and to depress the side which was down. His transitions were from extreme to extreme. While he stayed with a party he went all lengths for it: when he quitted it he went all lengths against it. Halifax was emphatically a trimmer; a trimmer both by intellect and by constitution. The name was fixed on him by his contemporaries; and he was so far from being ashamed of it that he assumed it as a badge of honour. He passed from faction to faction. But instead of adopting and inflaming the passions of those whom he joined, he tried to diffuse among them something of the spirit of those whom he had just left. While he acted with the Opposition he was suspected of being a spy of the Court; and when he had joined the Court all the Tories were dismayed by his Republican doctrines. He wanted neither arguments nor eloquence to exhibit what was commonly regarded as his wavering policy in the fairest light. He trimmed, he said, as the temperate zone trims between intolerable heat and intolerable cold, as a good government trims between despotism and anarchy, as a pure church trims between the errors of the Papist and those of the Anabaptist. Nor was this defence by any means without weight; for though there is abundant proof that his integrity was not of strength to withstand the temptations by which his cupidity and vanity were sometimes assailed, yet his dislike of extremes, and a forgiving and compassionate temper which seems to have been natural to him, preserved him from all participation in the worst crimes of his time. If both parties accused him of deserting them, both were compelled to admit that they had great obligations to his humanity, and that, though an uncertain friend, he was a placable enemy. He voted in favour of Lord Stafford, the victim of the Whigs; he did his utmost to save Lord Russell, the victim of the Tories; and, on the whole, we are inclined to think that his public life, though far indeed from faultless, has as few great stains as that of any politician who took an active part in affairs during the troubled and disastrous period of ten years which elapsed between the fall of Lord Danby and the Revolution. His mind was much less turned to particular observations, and much more to general speculations, than that of Shaftesbury. Shaftesbury knew the King, the Council, the Parliament, the City, better than Halifax; but Halifax would have written a far better treatise on political science than Shaftesbury. Shaftesbury shone more in consultation, and Halifax in controversy: Shaftesbury was more fertile in expedients, and Halifax in arguments. Nothing that remains from the pen of Shaftesbury will bear a comparison with the political tracts of Halifax. Indeed, very little of the prose of that age is so well worth reading as the Character of a Trimmer and the Anatomy of an Equivalent. What particularly strikes us in those works is the writer’s passion for generalisation. He was treating of the most exciting subjects in the most agitated times he was himself placed in the very thick of the civil conflict; yet there is no acrimony, nothing inflammatory, nothing personal. He preserves an air of cold superiority, a certain philosophical serenity, which is perfectly marvellous. He treats every question as an abstract question, begins with the widest propositions, argues those propositions on general grounds, and often, when he has brought out his theorem, leaves the reader to make the application, without adding an allusion to particular men, or to passing events. This speculative turn of mind rendered him a bad adviser in cases which required celerity. He brought forward, with wonderful readiness and copiousness, arguments, replies to those arguments, rejoinders to those replies, general maxims of policy, and analogous cases from history. But Shaftesbury was the man for a prompt decision. Of the parliamentary eloquence of these celebrated rivals, we can judge only by report; and, so judging, we should be inclined to think that, though Shaftesbury was a distinguished speaker, the superiority belonged to Halifax. Indeed the readiness of Halifax in debate, the extent of his knowledge, the ingenuity of his reasoning, the liveliness of his expression, and the silver clearness and sweetness of his voice, seems to have made the strongest impression on his contemporaries. By Dryden he is described as “of piercing wit and pregnant thought, Endued by nature and by learning taught To move assemblies.” His oratory is utterly and irretrievably lost to us, like that of Somers, of Bolingbroke, of Charles Townshend, of many others who were accustomed to rise amid the breathless expectation of senates, and to sit down amidst reiterated bursts of applause. But old men who lived to admire the eloquence of Pulteney in its meridian, and that of Pitt in its splendid dawn, still murmured that they had heard nothing like the great speeches of Lord Halifax on the Exclusion Bill. The power of Shaftesbury over large masses was unrivalled. Halifax was disqualified by his whole character, moral and intellectual, for the part of a demagogue. It was in small circles, and, above all, in the House of Lords, that his ascendency was felt. Shaftesbury seems to have troubled himself very little about theories of government. Halifax was, in speculation, a strong republican, and did not conceal it. He often made hereditary monarchy and aristocracy the subjects of his keen pleasantry, while he was fighting the battles of the Court, and obtaining for himself step after step in the peerage. In this way, he tried to gratify at once his intellectual vanity and his more vulgar ambition. He shaped his life according to the opinion of the multitude, and indemnified himself by talking according to his own. His colloquial powers were great; his perception of the ridiculous exquisitely fine; and he seems to have had the rare art of preserving the reputation of good breeding and good nature, while habitually indulging a strong propensity to mockery. Temple wished to put Halifax into the new Council, and leave out Shaftesbury. The King objected strongly to Halifax, to whom he had taken a great dislike, which is not accounted for, and which did not last long. Temple replied that Halifax was a man eminent both by his station and by his abilities, and would, if excluded, do everything against the new arrangement that could be done by eloquence, sarcasm, and intrigue. All who were consulted were of the same mind; and the King yielded, but not till Temple had almost gone on his knees. This point was no sooner settled than his Majesty declared that he would have Shaftesbury too. Temple again had recourse to entreaties and expostulations. Charles told him that the enmity of Shaftesbury would be at least as formidable as that of Halifax, and this was true; but Temple might have replied that by giving power to Halifax they gained a friend, and that by giving power to Shaftesbury they only strengthened an enemy. It was vain to argue and protest. The King only laughed and jested at Temple’s anger; and Shaftesbury was not only sworn of the Council, but appointed Lord President. Temple was so bitterly mortified by this step that he had at one time resolved to have nothing to do with the new Administration, and seriously thought of disqualifying himself from sitting in council by omitting to take the Sacrament. But the urgency of Lady Temple and Lady Giffard induced him to abandon that intention. The Council was organised on the twenty-first of April, 1679; and, within a few hours, one of the fundamental principles on which it had been constructed was violated. A secret committee, or, in the modern phrase, a cabinet of nine members, was formed. But as this committee included Shaftesbury and Monmouth, it contained within itself the elements of as much faction as would have sufficed to impede all business. Accordingly there soon arose a small interior cabinet, consisting of Essex, Sunderland, Halifax, and Temple. For a time perfect harmony and confidence subsisted between the four. But the meetings of the thirty were stormy. Sharp retorts passed between Shaftesbury and Halifax, who led the opposite parties, In the Council, Halifax generally had the advantage. But it soon became apparent that Shaftesbury still had at his back the majority of the House of Commons. The discontents which the change of Ministry had for a moment quieted broke forth again with redoubled violence; and the only effect which the late measures appeared to have produced was that the Lord President, with all the dignity and authority belonging to his high place, stood at the head of the Opposition. The impeachment of Lord Danby was eagerly prosecuted. The Commons were determined to exclude the Duke of York from the throne. All offers of compromise were rejected. It must not be forgotten, however, that, in the midst of the confusion, one inestimable law, the only benefit which England has derived from the troubles of that period, but a benefit which may well be set off against a great mass of evil, the Habeas Corpus Act, was pushed through the Houses and received the royal assent. The King, finding the Parliament as troublesome as ever, determined to prorogue it; and he did so, without even mentioning his intention to the Council by whose advice he had pledged himself, only a month before, to conduct the Government. The counsellors were generally dissatisfied; and Shaftesbury swore, with great vehemence, that if he could find out who the secret advisers were, he would have their heads. The Parliament rose; London was deserted; and Temple retired to his villa, whence, on council days, he went to Hampton Court. The post of Secretary was again and again pressed on him by his master and by his three colleagues of the inner Cabinet. Halifax, in particular, threatened laughingly to burn down the house at Sheen. But Temple was immovable. His short experience of English politics had disgusted him; and he felt himself so much oppressed by the responsibility under which he at present lay that he had no inclination to add to the load. When the term fixed for the prorogation had nearly expired, it became necessary to consider what course should be taken. The King and his four confidential advisers thought that a new Parliament might possibly be more manageable, and could not possibly be more refractory, than that which they now had, and they therefore determined on a dissolution. But when the question was proposed at council, the majority, jealous, it should seem, of the small directing knot, and unwilling to bear the unpopularity of the measures of Government, while excluded from all power, joined Shaftesbury, and the members of the Cabinet were left alone in the minority. The King, however, had made up his mind, and ordered the Parliament to be instantly dissolved. Temple’s Council was now nothing more than an ordinary Privy Council, if indeed it were not something less; and, though Temple threw the blame of this on the King, on Lord Shaftesbury, on everybody but himself, it is evident that the failure of his plan is to be chiefly ascribed to its own inherent defects. His Council was too large to transact business which required expedition, secrecy, and cordial cooperation. A Cabinet was therefore formed within the Council. The Cabinet and the majority of the Council differed; and, as was to be expected, the Cabinet carried their point. Four votes outweighed six-and-twenty. This being the case, the meetings of the thirty were not only useless, but positively noxious. At the ensuing election, Temple was chosen for the University of Cambridge. The only objection that was made to him by the members of that learned body was that, in his little work on Holland, he had expressed great approbation of the tolerant policy of the States; and this blemish, however serious, was overlooked, in consideration of his high reputation, and of the strong recommendations with which he was furnished by the Court. During the summer he remained at Sheen, and amused himself with rearing melons, leaving to the three other members of the inner Cabinet the whole direction of public affairs. Some unexplained cause began about this time, to alienate them from him. They do not appear to have been made angry by any part of his conduct, or to have disliked him personally. But they had, we suspect, taken the measure of his mind, and satisfied themselves that he was not a man for that troubled time, and that he would be a mere incumbrance to them. Living themselves for ambition, they despised his love of ease. Accustomed to deep stakes in the game of political hazard, they despised his piddling play. They looked on his cautious measures with the sort of scorn with which the gamblers at the ordinary, in Sir Walter Scott’s novel, regarded Nigel’s practice of never touching a card but when he was certain to win. He soon found that he was left out of their secrets. The King had, about this time, a dangerous attack of illness. The Duke of York, on receiving the news, returned from Holland. The sudden appearance of the detested Popish successor excited anxiety throughout the country. Temple was greatly amazed and disturbed. He hastened up to London and visited Essex, who professed to be astonished and mortified, but could not disguise a sneering smile. Temple then saw Halifax, who talked to him much about the pleasures of the country, the anxieties of office, and the vanity of all human things, but carefully avoided politics and when the Duke’s return was mentioned, only sighed, shook his head, shrugged his shoulders, and lifted up his eyes and hands. In a short time Temple found that his two friends had been laughing at him, and that they had themselves sent for the Duke, in order that his Royal Highness might, if the King should die, be on the spot to frustrate the designs of Monmouth. He was soon convinced, by a still stronger proof, that, though he had not exactly offended his master or his colleagues in the Cabinet, he had ceased to enjoy their confidence. The result of the general election had been decidedly unfavourable to the Government; and Shaftesbury impatiently expected the day when the Houses were to meet. The King, guided by the advice of the inner Cabinet, determined on a step of the highest importance. He told the Council that he had resolved to prorogue the new Parliament for a year, and requested them not to object; for he had, he said, considered the subject fully, and had made up his mind. All who were not in the secret were thunderstruck, Temple as much as any. Several members rose, and entreated to be heard against the prorogation. But the King silenced them, and declared that his resolution was unalterable. Temple, much hurt at the manner in which both himself and the Council had been treated, spoke with great spirit. He would not, he said, disobey the King by objecting to a measure an which his Majesty was determined to hear no argument; but he would most earnestly entreat his Majesty, if the present Council was incompetent to give advice, to dissolve it and select another; for it was absurd to have counsellors who did not counsel, and who were summoned only to be silent witnesses of the acts of others. The King listened courteously. But the members of the Cabinet resented this reproof highly; and from that day Temple was almost as much estranged from them as from Shaftesbury. He wished to retire altogether from business. But just at this time Lord Russell, Lord Cavendish, and some other counsellors of the popular party, waited on the King in a body, declared their strong disapprobation of his measures, and requested to be excused from attending any more at council. Temple feared that if, at this moment, he also were to withdraw, he might be supposed to act in concert with those decided opponents of the Court, and to have determined on taking a course hostile to the Government. He, therefore, continued to go occasionally to the board; but he had no longer any real share in the direction of public affairs. At length the long term of the prorogation expired. In October 1680, the Houses met; and the great question of the Exclusion was revived. Few parliamentary contests in our history appear to have called forth a greater display of talent; none certainly ever called forth more violent passions. The whole nation was convulsed by party spirit. The gentlemen of every county, the traders of every town, the boys of every public school, were divided into exclusionists and abhorrers. The book-stalls were covered with tracts on the sacredness of hereditary right, on the omnipotence of Parliament, on the dangers of a disputed succession, on the dangers of a Popish reign. It was in the midst of this ferment that Temple took his seat, for the first time, in the House of Commons. The occasion was a very great one. His talents, his long experience of affairs, his unspotted public character, the high posts which he had filled, seemed to mark him out as a man on whom much would depend. He acted like himself, He saw that, if he supported the Exclusion, he made the King and the heir presumptive his enemies, and that, if he opposed it, he made himself an object of hatred to the unscrupulous and turbulent Shaftesbury. He neither supported nor opposed it. He quietly absented himself from the House. Nay, he took care, he tells us, never to discuss the question in any society whatever. Lawrence Hyde, afterwards Earl of Rochester, asked him why he did not attend in his place. Temple replied that he acted according to Solomon’s advice, neither to oppose the mighty, nor to go about to stop the current of a river. Hyde answered, “You are a wise and a quiet man.” And this might be true. But surely such wise and quiet men have no call to be members of Parliament in critical times. A single session was quite enough for Temple. When the Parliament was dissolved, and another summoned at Oxford, he obtained an audience of the King, and begged to know whether his Majesty wished him to continue in Parliament. Charles, who had a singularly quick eye for the weaknesses of all who came near him, had no doubt seen through Temple, and rated the parliamentary support of so cool and guarded a friend at its proper value. He answered good-naturedly, but we suspect a little contemptuously, “I doubt, as things stand, your coming into the House will not do much good. I think you may as well let it alone.” Sir William accordingly informed his constituents that he should not again apply for their suffrages, and set off for Sheen, resolving never again to meddle with public affairs. He soon found that the King was displeased with him. Charles, indeed, in his usual easy way, protested that he was not angry, not at all. But in a few days he struck Temple’s name out of the list of Privy Councillors. Why this was done Temple declares himself unable to comprehend. But surely it hardly required his long and extensive converse with the world to teach him that there are conjunctures when men think that all who are not with them are against them, that there are conjunctures when a lukewarm friend, who will not put himself the least out of his way, who will make no exertion, who will run no risk, is more distasteful than an enemy. Charles had hoped that the fair character of Temple would add credit to an unpopular and suspected Government. But his Majesty soon found that this fair character resembled pieces of furniture which we have seen in the drawing-rooms of very precise old ladies, and which are a great deal too white to be used. This exceeding niceness was altogether out of season. Neither party wanted a man who was afraid of taking a part, of incurring abuse, of making enemies. There were probably many good and moderate men who would have hailed the appearance of a respectable mediator. But Temple was not a mediator. He was merely a neutral. At last, however, he had escaped from public life, and found himself at liberty to follow his favourite pursuits. His fortune was easy. He had about fifteen hundred a year, besides the Mastership of the Rolls in Ireland, an office in which he had succeeded his father, and which was then a mere sinecure for life, requiring no residence. His reputation both as a negotiator and a writer stood high. He resolved to be safe, to enjoy himself, and to let the world take its course; and he kept his resolution. Darker times followed. The Oxford Parliament was dissolved. The Tories were triumphant. A terrible vengeance was inflicted on the chiefs of the Opposition. Temple learned in his retreat the disastrous fate of several of his old colleagues in council. Shaftesbury fled to Holland. Russell died on the scaffold. Essex added a yet sadder and more fearful story to the bloody chronicles of the Tower. Monmouth clung in agonies of supplication round the knees of the stern uncle whom he had wronged, and tasted a bitterness worse than that of death, the bitterness of knowing that he had humbled himself in vain. A tyrant trampled on the liberties and religion of the realm. The national spirit swelled high under the oppression. Disaffection spread even to the strongholds of loyalty, to the Cloisters of Westminster, to the schools of Oxford, to the guard-room of the household troops, to the very hearth and bed-chamber of the Sovereign. But the troubles which agitated the whole country did not reach the quiet orangery in which Temple loitered away several years without once seeing the smoke of London. He now and then appeared in the circle at Richmond or Windsor. But the only expressions which he is recorded to have used during these perilous times were, that he would be a good subject, but that he had done with politics. The Revolution came: he remained strictly neutral during the short struggle; and he then transferred to the new settlement the same languid sort of loyalty which he had felt for his former masters. He paid court to William at Windsor, and William dined with him at Sheen. But, in spite of the most pressing solicitations, Temple refused to become Secretary of State. The refusal evidently proceeded only from his dislike of trouble and danger; and not, as some of his admirers would have us believe, from any scruple of conscience or honour. For he consented that his son should take the office of Secretary at War under the new Sovereign. This unfortunate young man destroyed himself within a week after his appointment from vexation at finding that his advice had led the King into some improper steps with regard to Ireland. He seems to have inherited his father’s extreme sensibility to failure, without that singular prudence which kept his father out of all situations in which any serious failure was to be apprehended. The blow fell heavily on the family. They retired in deep dejection to Moor Park, [Mr. Courtenay (vol. ii. p. 160) confounds Moor Park in Surrey, where Temple resided, with the Moor Park in Hertfordshire, which is praised in the Essay on Gardening.] which they now preferred to Sheen, on account of the greater distance from London. In that spot, then very secluded, Temple passed the remainder of his life. The air agreed with him. The soil was fruitful, and well suited to an experimental farmer and gardener. The grounds were laid out with the angular regularity which Sir William had admired in the flower-beds of Haarlem and the Hague. A beautiful rivulet, flowing from the hills of Surrey, bounded the domain. But a straight canal which, bordered by a terrace, intersected the garden, was probably more admired by the lovers of the picturesque in that age. The house was small but neat, and well-furnished; the neighbourhood very thinly peopled. Temple had no visitors, except a few friends who were willing to travel twenty or thirty miles in order to see him, and now and then a foreigner whom curiosity brought to have a look at the author of the Triple Alliance. Here, in May 1694, died Lady Temple. From the time of her marriage we know little of her, except that her letters were always greatly admired, and that she had the honour to correspond constantly with Queen Mary. Lady Giffard, who, as far as appears, had always been on the best terms with her sister-in-law, still continued to live with Sir William. But there were other inmates of Moor Park to whom a far higher interest belongs. An eccentric, uncouth, disagreeable young Irishman, who had narrowly escaped plucking at Dublin, attended Sir William as an amanuensis, for board and twenty pounds a year, dined at the second table, wrote bad verses in praise of his employer, and made love to a very pretty, dark-eyed young girl, who waited on Lady Giffard. Little did Temple imagine that the coarse exterior of his dependant concealed a genius equally suited to politics and to letters, a genius destined to shake great kingdoms, to stir the laughter and the rage of millions, and to leave to posterity memorials which can perish only with the English language. Little did he think that the flirtation in his servants’ hall, which he perhaps scarcely deigned to make the subject of a jest, was the beginning of a long unprosperous love, which was to be as widely famed as the passion of Petrarch or of Abelard. Sir William’s secretary was Jonathan Swift. Lady Giffard’s waiting-maid was poor Stella. Swift retained no pleasing recollection of Moor Park. And we may easily suppose a situation like his to have been intolerably painful to a mind haughty, irascible, and conscious of pre-eminent ability. Long after, when he stood in the Court of Requests with a circle of gartered peers round him, or punned and rhymed with Cabinet Ministers over Secretary St. John’s Monte-Pulciano, he remembered, with deep and sore feeling, how miserable he used to be for days together when he suspected that Sir William had taken something ill. He could hardly believe that he, the Swift who chid the Lord Treasurer, rallied the Captain General, and confronted the pride of the Duke of Buckinghamshire with pride still more inflexible, could be the same being who had passed nights of sleepless anxiety, in musing over a cross look or a testy word of a patron. “Faith,” he wrote to Stella, with bitter levity, “Sir William spoiled a fine gentleman.” Yet, in justice to Temple, we must say that there is no reason to think that Swift was more unhappy at Moor Park than he would have been in a similar situation under any roof in England. We think also that the obligations which the mind of Swift owed to that of Temple were not inconsiderable. Every judicious reader must be struck by the peculiarities which distinguish Swift’s political tracts from all similar works produced by mere men of letters. Let any person compare, for example, the Conduct of the Allies, or the Letter to the October Club, with Johnson’s False Alarm, or Taxation no Tyranny, and he will be at once struck by the difference of which we speak. He may possibly think Johnson a greater man than Swift. He may possibly prefer Johnson’s style to Swift’s. But he will at once acknowledge that Johnson writes like a man who has never been out of his study. Swift writes like a man who has passed his whole life in the midst of public business, and to whom the most important affairs of state are as familiar as his weekly bills. “Turn him to any cause of policy, The Gordian knot of it he will unloose, Familiar as his garter.” The difference, in short, between a political pamphlet by Johnson and a political pamphlet by Swift, is as great as the difference between an account of a battle by Mr. Southey, and the account of the same battle by Colonel Napier. It is impossible to doubt that the superiority of Swift is to be, in a great measure, attributed to his long and close connection with Temple. Indeed, remote as were the alleys and flower-pots of Moor Park from the haunts of the busy and the ambitious, Swift had ample opportunities of becoming acquainted with the hidden causes of many great events. William was in the habit of consulting Temple, and occasionally visited him. Of what passed between them very little is known. It is certain, however, that when the Triennial Bill had been carried through the two Houses, his Majesty, who was exceedingly unwilling to pass it, sent the Earl of Portland to learn Temple’s opinion. Whether Temple thought the bill in itself a good one does not appear; but he clearly saw how imprudent it must be in a prince, situated as William was, to engage in an altercation with his Parliament, and directed Swift to draw up a paper on the subject, which, however, did not convince the King. The chief amusement of Temple’s declining years was literature. After his final retreat from business, he wrote his very agreeable Memoirs, corrected and transcribed many of his letters, and published several miscellaneous treatises, the best of which, we think, is that on Gardening. The style of his essays is, on the whole, excellent, almost always pleasing, and now and then stately and splendid. The matter is generally of much less value; as our readers will readily believe when we inform them that Mr. Courtenay, a biographer, that is to say, a literary vassal, bound by the immemorial law of his tenure to render homage, aids, reliefs, and all other customary services to his lord, avows that he cannot give an opinion about the essay on Heroic Virtue, because he cannot read it without skipping; a circumstance which strikes us as peculiarly strange, when we consider how long Mr. Courtenay was at the India Board, and how many thousand paragraphs of the copious official eloquence of the East he must have perused. One of Sir William’s pieces, however, deserves notice, not, indeed, on account of its intrinsic merit, but on account of the light which it throws on some curious weaknesses of his character, and on account of the extraordinary effects which it produced in the republic of letters. A most idle and contemptible controversy had arisen in France touching the comparative merit of the ancient and modern writers. It was certainly not to be expected that, in that age, the question would be tried according to those large and philosophical principles of criticism which guided the judgments of Lessing and of Herder. But it might have been expected that those who undertook to decide the point would at least take the trouble to read and understand the authors on whose merits they were to pronounce. Now, it is no exaggeration to say that, among the disputants who clamoured, some for the ancients and some for the moderns, very few were decently acquainted with either ancient or modern literature, and hardly one was well acquainted with both. In Racine’s amusing preface to the Iphigenie the reader may have noticed a most ridiculous mistake into which one of the champions of the moderns fell about a passage in the Alcestis of Euripides. Another writer is so inconceivably ignorant as to blame Homer for mixing the four Greek dialects, Doric, Ionic, Aeolic, and Attic, just, says he, as if a French poet were to put Gascon phrases and Picard phrases into the midst of his pure Parisian writing. On the other hand, it is no exaggeration to say that the defenders of the ancients were entirely unacquainted with the greatest productions of later times; nor, indeed, were the defenders of the moderns better informed. The parallels which were instituted in the course of this dispute are inexpressibly ridiculous. Balzac was selected as the rival of Cicero. Corneille was said to unite the merits of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. We should like to see a Prometheus after Corneille’s fashion. The Provincial Letters, masterpieces undoubtedly of reasoning, wit, and eloquence, were pronounced to be superior to all the writings of Plato, Cicero, and Lucian together, particularly in the art of dialogue, an art in which, as it happens, Plato far excelled all men, and in which Pascal, great and admirable in other respects, is notoriously very deficient. This childish controversy spread to England; and some mischievous daemon suggested to Temple the thought of undertaking the defence of the ancients. As to his qualifications for the task, it is sufficient to say that he knew not a word of Greek. But his vanity, which, when he was engaged in the conflicts of active life and surrounded by rivals, had been kept in tolerable order by his discretion, now, when he had long lived in seclusion, and had become accustomed to regard himself as by far the first man of his circle, rendered him blind to his own deficiencies. In an evil hour he published an Essay on Ancient and Modern Learning. The style of this treatise is very good, the matter ludicrous and contemptible to the last degree. There we read how Lycurgus travelled into India, and brought the Spartan laws from that country; how Orpheus made voyages in search of knowledge, and attained to a depth of learning which has made him renowned in all succeeding ages; how Pythagoras passed twenty-two years in Egypt, and, after graduating there, spent twelve years more at Babylon, where the Magi admitted him ad eundem; how the ancient Brahmins lived two hundred years; how the earliest Greek philosophers foretold earthquakes and plagues, and put down riots by magic; and how much Ninus surpassed in abilities any of his successors on the throne of Assyria. The moderns, Sir William owns, have found out the circulation of blood; but, on the other hand, they have quite lost the art of conjuring; nor can any modern fiddler enchant fishes, fowls, and serpents by his performance. He tells us that “Thales, Pythagoras, Democritus, Hippocrates, Plato, Aristotle, and Epicurus made greater progresses in the several empires of science than any of their successors have since been able to reach”; which is just as absurd as if he had said that the greatest names in British science are Merlin, Michael Scott, Dr. Sydenham, and Lord Bacon. Indeed, the manner in which Temple mixes the historical and the fabulous reminds us of those classical dictionaries, intended for the use of schools, in which Narcissus the lover of himself and Narcissus the freedman of Claudius, Pollux the son of Jupiter and Leda and Pollux the author of the Onomasticon, are ranged under the same headings, and treated as personages equally real. The effect of this arrangement resembles that which would be produced by a dictionary of modern names, consisting of such articles as the following:-“Jones, William, an eminent Orientalist, and one of the judges of the Supreme Court of judicature in Bengal--Davy, a fiend, who destroys ships--Thomas, a foundling, brought up by Mr. Allworthy.” It is from such sources as these that Temple seems to have learned all that he knew about the ancients. He puts the story of Orpheus between the Olympic games and the battle of Arbela; as if we had exactly the same reasons for believing that Orpheus led beasts with his lyre, which we have for believing that there were races at Pisa, or that Alexander conquered Darius. He manages little better when he comes to the moderns. He gives us a catalogue of those whom he regards as the greatest writers of later times. It is sufficient to say that, in his list of Italians, he has omitted Dante, Petrarch, Ariosto, and Tasso; in his list of Spaniards, Lope and Calderon; in his list of French, Pascal, Bossuet, Moliere, Corneille, Racine, and Boileau; and in his list of English, Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton. In the midst of all this vast mass of absurdity one paragraph stands out pre-eminent. The doctrine of Temple, not a very comfortable doctrine, is that the human race is constantly degenerating, and that the oldest books in every kind are the best in confirmation of this notion, he remarks that the Fables of Aesop are the best Fables, and the Letters of Phalaris the best Letters in the world. On the merit of the Letters of Phalaris he dwells with great warmth and with extraordinary felicity of language. Indeed we could hardly select a more favourable specimen of the graceful and easy majesty to which his style sometimes rises than this unlucky passage. He knows, he says, that some learned men, or men who pass for learned, such as Politian, have doubted the genuineness of these letters; but of such doubts he speaks with the greatest contempt. Now it is perfectly certain, first, that the letters are very bad; secondly, that they are spurious; and thirdly, that, whether they be bad or good, spurious or genuine, Temple could know nothing of the matter; inasmuch as he was no more able to construe a line of them than to decipher an Egyptian obelisk. This Essay, silly as it is, was exceedingly well received, both in England and on the Continent. And the reason is evident. The classical scholars who saw its absurdity were generally on the side of the ancients, and were inclined rather to veil than to expose the blunders of an ally; the champions of the moderns were generally as ignorant as Temple himself; and the multitude was charmed by his flowing and melodious diction. He was doomed, however, to smart, as he well deserved, for his vanity and folly. Christchurch at Oxford was then widely and justly celebrated as a place where the lighter parts of classical learning were cultivated with success. With the deeper mysteries of philology neither the instructors nor the pupils had the smallest acquaintance. They fancied themselves Scaligers, as Bentley scornfully said, if they could write a copy of Latin verses with only two or three small faults. From this College proceeded a new edition of the Letters of Phalaris, which were rare, and had been in request since the appearance of Temple’s Essay. The nominal editor was Charles Boyle, a young man of noble family and promising parts; but some older members of the society lent their assistance. While this work was in preparation, an idle quarrel, occasioned, it should seem, by the negligence and misrepresentations of a bookseller, arose between Boyle and the King’s Librarian, Richard Bentley. Boyle in the preface to his edition, inserted a bitter reflection on Bentley. Bentley revenged himself by proving that the Epistles of Phalaris were forgeries, and in his remarks on this subject treated Temple, not indecently, but with no great reverence. Temple, who was quite unaccustomed to any but the most respectful usage, who, even while engaged in politics, had always shrunk from all rude collision, and had generally succeeded in avoiding it, and whose sensitiveness had been increased by many years of seclusion and flattery, was moved to most violent resentment, complained, very unjustly, of Bentley’s foul-mouthed raillery, and declared that he had commenced an answer, but had laid it aside, “having no mind to enter the lists with such a mean, dull, unmannerly pedant” Whatever may be thought of the temper which Sir William showed on this occasion, we cannot too highly applaud his discretion in not finishing and publishing his answer, which would certainly have been a most extraordinary performance. He was not, however, without defenders. Like Hector, when struck down prostrate by Ajax, he was in an instant covered by a thick crowd of shields. Outis edunesato poimena laou Outasai oudi balein prin gar peribesan aristoi Polubmas te, kai Aineias, kai dios Agenor, Sarpedon t’archos Lukion, kai Glaukos amumon. Christchurch was up in arms; and though that College seems then to have been almost destitute of severe and accurate learning, no academical society could show a greater array of orators, wits, politicians, bustling adventurers who united the superficial accomplishments of the scholar with the manners and arts of the man of the world; and this formidable body resolved to try how far smart repartees, well-turned sentences, confidence, puffing, and intrigue could, on the question whether a Greek book were or were not genuine, supply the place of a little knowledge of Greek. Out came the Reply to Bentley, bearing the name of Boyle, but in truth written by Atterbury with the assistance of Smalridge and others. A most remarkable book it is, and often reminds us of Goldsmith’s observation, that the French would be the best cooks in the world if they had any butcher’s meat, for that they can make ten dishes out of a nettle-top. It really deserves the praise, whatever that praise may be worth, of being the best book ever written by any man on the wrong side of a question of which he was profoundly ignorant. The learning of the confederacy is that of a schoolboy, and not of an extraordinary schoolboy; but it is used with the skill and address of most able, artful, and experienced men; it is beaten out to the very thinnest leaf, and is disposed in such a way as to seem ten times larger than it is. The dexterity with which the confederates avoid grappling with those parts of the subject with which they know themselves to be incompetent to deal is quite wonderful. Now and then, indeed, they commit disgraceful blunders, for which old Busby, under whom they had studied, would have whipped them all round. But this circumstance only raises our opinion of the talents which made such a fight with such scanty means. Let readers who are not acquainted with the controversy imagine a Frenchman, who has acquired just English enough to read the Spectator with a dictionary, coming forward to defend the genuineness of Ireland’s Vortigern against Malone; and they will have some notion of the feat which Atterbury had the audacity to undertake, and which, for a time, it was really thought that he had performed. The illusion was soon dispelled. Bentley’s answer for ever settled the question, and established his claim to the first place amongst classical scholars. Nor do those do him justice who represent the controversy as a battle between wit and learning. For though there is a lamentable deficiency of learning on the side of Boyle, there is no want of wit on the side of Bentley. Other qualities, too, as valuable as either wit or learning, appear conspicuously in Bentley’s book, a rare sagacity, an unrivalled power of combination, a perfect mastery of all the weapons of logic. He was greatly indebted to the furious outcry which the misrepresentations, sarcasms, and intrigues of his opponents had raised against him, an outcry in which fashionable and political circles joined, and which was echoed by thousands who did not know whether Phalaris ruled in Sicily or in Siam. His spirit, daring even to rashness, self-confident even to negligence, and proud even to insolent ferocity, was awed for the first and for the last time, awed, not into meanness or cowardice, but into wariness and sobriety. For once he ran no risks; he left no crevice unguarded; he wantoned in no paradoxes; above all, he returned no railing for the railing of his enemies. In almost everything that he has written we can discover proofs of genius and learning. But it is only here that his genius and learning appear to have been constantly under the guidance of good sense and good temper. Here, we find none of that besotted reliance on his own powers and on his own luck, which he showed when he undertook to edit Milton; none of that perverted ingenuity which deforms so many of his notes on Horace; none of that disdainful carelessness by which he laid himself open to the keen and dexterous thrust of Middleton; none of that extravagant vaunting and savage scurrility by which he afterwards dishonoured his studies and his profession, and degraded himself almost to the level of De Pauw. Temple did not live to witness the utter and irreparable defeat of his champions. He died, indeed, at a fortunate moment, just after the appearance of Boyle’s book, and while all England was laughing at the way in which the Christchurch men had handled the pedant. In Boyle’s book, Temple was praised in the highest terms, and compared to Memmius: not a very happy comparison; for almost the only particular information which we have about Memmius is that, in agitated times, he thought it his duty to attend exclusively to politics, and that his friends could not venture, except when the Republic was quiet and prosperous, to intrude on him with their philosophical and poetical productions. It is on this account that Lucretius puts up the exquisitely beautiful prayer for peace with which his poem opens. “Nam neque nos agere hoc patriai tempore iniquo Possumus aequo animo, nec Memmi clara propago Talibus in rebus communi de esse saluti.” This description is surely by no means applicable to a statesman who had, through the whole course of his life, carefully avoided exposing himself in seasons of trouble; who had repeatedly refused, in most critical conjunctures, to be Secretary of State; and, who now, in the midst of revolutions, plots, foreign and domestic wars, was quietly writing nonsense about the visits of Lycurgus to the Brahmins and the tunes which Arion played to the Dolphin. We must not omit to mention that, while the controversy about Phalaris was raging, Swift, in order to show his zeal and attachment, wrote the Battle of the Books, the earliest piece in which his peculiar talents are discernible. We may observe that the bitter dislike of Bentley, bequeathed by Temple to Swift, seems to have been communicated by Swift to Pope, to Arbuthnot, and to others, who continued to tease the great critic long after he had shaken hands very cordially both with Boyle and with Atterbury. Sir William Temple died at Moor Park in January 1699. He appears to have suffered no intellectual decay. His heart was buried under a sundial which still stands in his favourite garden. His body was laid in Westminster Abbey by the side of his wife; and a place hard by was set apart for Lady Giffard, who long survived him. Swift was his literary executor, superintended the publication of his Letters and Memoirs, and, in the performance of this office, had some acrimonious contests with the family. Of Temple’s character little more remains to be said. Burnet accuses him of holding irreligious opinions, and corrupting everybody who came near him. But the vague assertion of so rash and partial a writer as Burnet, about a man with whom, as far as we know, he never exchanged a word, is of little weight. It is, indeed, by no means improbable that Temple may have been a freethinker. The Osbornes thought him so when he was a very young man. And it is certain that a large proportion of the gentlemen of rank and fashion who made their entrance into society while the Puritan party was at the height of power, and while the memory of the reign of that party was still recent, conceived a strong disgust for all religion. The imputation was common between Temple and all the most distinguished courtiers of the age. Rochester, and Buckingham were open scoffers, and Mulgrave very little better. Shaftesbury, though more guarded, was supposed to agree with them in opinion. All the three noblemen who were Temple’s colleagues during the short time of his sitting in the Cabinet were of very indifferent repute as to orthodoxy. Halifax, indeed, was generally considered as an atheist; but he solemnly denied the charge; and, indeed, the truth seems to be that he was more religiously disposed than most of the statesmen of that age, though two impulses which were unusually strong in him, a passion for ludicrous images, and a passion for subtle speculations, sometimes prompted him to talk on serious subjects in a manner which gave grave and just offence. It is not unlikely that Temple, who seldom went below the surface of any question, may have been infected with the prevailing scepticism. All that we can say on the subject is, that there is no trace of impiety in his works, and that the case with which he carried his election for an university, where the majority of the voters were clergymen, though it proves nothing as to his opinions, must, we think, be considered as proving that he was not, as Burnet seems to insinuate, in the habit of talking atheism to all who came near him. Temple, however, will scarcely carry with him any great accession of authority to the side either of religion or of infidelity. He was no profound thinker. He was merely a man of lively parts and quick observation, a man of the world among men of letters, a man of letters among men of the world. Mere scholars were dazzled by the Ambassador and Cabinet counsellor; mere politicians by the Essayist and Historian. But neither as a writer nor as a statesman can we allot to him any very high place. As a man, he seems to us to have been excessively selfish, but very sober, wary, and far-sighted in his selfishness; to have known better than most people what he really wanted in life; and to have pursued what he wanted with much more than ordinary steadiness and sagacity, never suffering himself to be drawn aside either by bad or by good feelings. It was his constitution to dread failure more than he desired success, to prefer security, comfort, repose, leisure, to the turmoil and anxiety which are inseparable from greatness; and this natural languor of mind, when contrasted with the malignant energy of the keen and restless spirits among whom his lot was cast, sometimes appears to resemble the moderation of virtue. But we must own that he seems to us to sink into littleness and meanness when we compare him, we do not say with any high ideal standard of morality, but with many of those frail men who, aiming at noble ends, but often drawn from the right path by strong passions and strong temptations, have left to posterity a doubtful and checkered fame. SIR JAMES MACKINTOSH (July 1835) _History of the Revolution in England, in 1688. Comprising a View of the Reign of James the Second from his Accession to the Enterprise of the Prince of Orange, by the late Right Honourable Sir JAMES MACKINTOSH; and completed to the Settlement of the Crown, by the Editor. To which is prefixed a Notice of the Life, Writings, and Speeches of Sir James Mackintosh. 4to. London: 1834._ [In this review, as it originally stood, the editor of the History of the Revolution was attacked with an asperity which neither literary defects nor speculative differences can justify, and which ought to be reserved for offences against the laws of morality and honour. The reviewer was not actuated by any feeling of personal malevolence: for when he wrote this paper in a distant country, he did not know, or even guess, whom he was assailing. His only motive was regard for the memory of an eminent man whom he loved and honoured, and who appeared to him to have been unworthily treated. The editor is now dead; and, while living, declared that he had been misunderstood, and that he had written in no spirit of enmity to Sir James Mackintosh, for whom he professed the highest respect. Many passages have therefore been softened, and some wholly omitted. The severe censure passed on the literary execution of the “Memoir” and “Continuation” could not be retracted without a violation of truth. But whatever could be construed into an imputation on the moral character of the editor has been carefully expunged.] IT is with unfeigned diffidence that we venture to give our opinion of the last work of Sir James Mackintosh. We have in vain tried to perform what ought to be to a critic an easy and habitual act. We have in vain tried to separate the book from the writer, and to judge of it as if it bore some unknown name. But it is to no purpose. All the lines of that venerable countenance are before us. All the little peculiar cadences of that voice from which scholars and statesmen loved to receive the lessons of a serene and benevolent wisdom are in our ears. We will attempt to preserve strict impartiality. But we are not ashamed to own that we approach this relic of a virtuous and most accomplished man with feelings of respect and gratitude which may possibly pervert our judgment. It is hardly possible to avoid instituting a comparison between this work and another celebrated Fragment. Our readers will easily guess that we allude to Mr. Fox’s History of James the Second. The two books relate to the same subject. Both were posthumously published. Neither had received the last corrections. The authors belonged to the same political party, and held the same opinions concerning the merits and defects of the English constitution, and concerning most of the prominent characters and events in English history. Both had thought much on the principles of government; yet they were not mere speculators. Both had ransacked the archives of rival kingdoms, and pored on folios which had mouldered for ages in deserted libraries; yet they were not mere antiquaries. They had one eminent qualification for writing history: they had spoken history, acted history, lived history. The turns of political fortune, the ebb and flow of popular feeling, the hidden mechanism by which parties are moved, all these things were the subjects of their constant thought and of their most familiar conversation. Gibbon has remarked that he owed part of his success as a historian to the observations which he had made as an officer in the militia and as a member of the House of Commons. The remark is most just. We have not the smallest doubt that his campaign, though he never saw an enemy, and his parliamentary attendance, though he never made a speech, were of far more use to him than years of retirement and study would have been. If the time that he spent on parade and at mess in Hampshire, or on the Treasury bench and at Brookes’s during the storms which overthrew Lord North and Lord Shelburne, had been passed in the Bodleian Library, he might have avoided some inaccuracies; he might have enriched his notes with a greater number of references; but he would never have produced so lively a picture of the court, the camp, and the senate-house. In this respect Mr. Fox and Sir James Mackintosh had great advantages over almost every English historian who has written since the time of Burnet. Lord Lyttelton had indeed the same advantages; but he was incapable of using them. Pedantry was so deeply fixed in his nature that the hustings, the Treasury, the Exchequer, the House of Commons, the House of Lords, left him the same dreaming schoolboy that they found him. When we compare the two interesting works of which we have been speaking, we have little difficulty in giving the preference to that of Sir James Mackintosh. Indeed, the superiority of Mr. Fox to Sir James as an orator is hardly more clear than the superiority of Sir James to Mr. Fox as a historian. Mr. Fox with a pen in his hand, and Sir James on his legs in the House of Commons, were, we think, each out of his proper element. They were men, it is true, of far too much judgment and ability to fail scandalously in any undertaking to which they brought the whole power of their minds. The History of James the Second will always keep its place in our libraries as a valuable book; and Sir James Mackintosh succeeded in winning and maintaining a high place among the parliamentary speakers of his time. Yet we could never read a page of Mr. Fox’s writing, we could never listen for a quarter of an hour to the speaking of Sir James, without feeling that there was a constant effort, a tug up hill. Nature, or habit which had become nature, asserted its rights. Mr. Fox wrote debates. Sir James Mackintosh spoke essays. As far as mere diction was concerned, indeed, Mr. Fox did his best to avoid those faults which the habit of public speaking is likely to generate. He was so nervously apprehensive of sliding into some colloquial incorrectness, of debasing his style by a mixture of parliamentary slang, that he ran into the opposite error, and purified his vocabulary with a scrupulosity unknown to any purist. “Ciceronem Allobroga dixit.” He would not allow Addison, Bolingbroke, or Middleton to be a sufficient authority for an expression. He declared that he would use no word which was not to be found in Dryden. In any other person we should have called this solicitude mere foppery; and, in spite of all our admiration for Mr. Fox, we cannot but think that his extreme attention to the petty niceties of language was hardly worthy of so manly and so capacious an understanding. There were purists of this kind at Rome; and their fastidiousness was censured by Horace, with that perfect good sense and good taste which characterise all his writings. There were purists of this kind at the time of the revival of letters; and the two greatest scholars of that time raised their voices, the one from within, the other from without the Alps, against a scrupulosity so unreasonable. “Carent,” said Politian, “quae scribunt isti viribus et vita, carent actu, carent effectu, carent indole... Nisi liber ille praesto sit ex quo quid excerpant, colligere tria verba non possunt... Horum semper igitur oratio tremula, vacillans, infirma... Quaeso ne ista superstitione te alliges... Ut bene currere non potest qui pedem ponere studet in alienis tantum vestigiis, ita nec bene scribere qui tanquam de praetscripto non audet egredi.”--“Posthac,” exclaims Erasmus, “non licebit episcopos appellare patres reverendos, nec in calce literarum scribere annum a Christo nato, quod id nusquam faciat Cicero. Quid autem ineptius quam, toto seculo novato, religione, imperiis, magistratibus, locorum vocabulis, aedificiis, cultu, moribus, non aliter audere loqui quam locutus est Cicero? Si revivisceret ipse Cicero, rideret hoc Ciceronianorum genus.” While Mr. Fox winnowed and sifted his phraseology with a care which seems hardly consistent with the simplicity and elevation of his mind, and of which the effect really was to debase and enfeeble his style, he was little on his guard against those more serious improprieties of manner into which a great orator who undertakes to write history is in danger of falling. There is about the whole book a vehement, contentious, replying manner. Almost every argument is put in the form of an interrogation, an ejaculation, or a sarcasm. The writer seems to be addressing himself to some imaginary audience, to be tearing in pieces a defence of the Stuarts which has just been pronounced by an imaginary Tory. Take, for example, his answer to Hume’s remarks on the execution of Sydney; and substitute “the honourable gentleman” or “the noble Lord” for the name of Hume. The whole passage sounds like a powerful reply, thundered at three in the morning from the Opposition Bench. While we read it, we can almost fancy that we see and hear the great English debater, such as he has been described to us by the few who can still remember the Westminster scrutiny and the Oczakow Negotiations, in the full paroxysm of inspiration, foaming, screaming, choked by the rushing multitude of his words. It is true that the passage to which we have referred, and several other passages which we could point out, are admirable when considered merely as exhibitions of mental power. We at once recognise in them that consummate master of the whole art of intellectual gladiatorship, whose speeches, imperfectly as they have been transmitted to us, should be studied day and night by every man who wishes to learn the science of logical defence. We find in several parts of the History of James the Second fine specimens of that which we conceive to have been the great characteristic Demosthenes among the Greeks, and of Fox among the orators of England, reason penetrated, and, if we may venture on the expression, made red-hot by passion. But this is not the kind of excellence proper to history; and it is hardly too much to say that whatever is strikingly good in Mr. Fox’s Fragment is out of place. With Sir James Mackintosh the case was reversed. His proper place was his library, a circle of men of letters, or a chair of moral and political philosophy. He distinguished himself in Parliament. But nevertheless Parliament was not exactly the sphere for him. The effect of his most successful speeches was small when compared with the quantity of ability and learning which was expended on them. We could easily name men who, not possessing a tenth part of his intellectual powers, hardly ever address the House of Commons without producing a greater impression than was produced by his most splendid and elaborate orations. His luminous and philosophical disquisition on the Reform Bill was spoken to empty benches. Those, indeed, who had the wit to keep their seats, picked up hints which, skilfully used, made the fortune of more than one speech. But “it was caviare to the general.” And even those who listened to Sir James with pleasure and admiration could not but acknowledge that he rather lectured than debated. An artist who should waste on a panorama, or a scene, or on a transparency, the exquisite finishing which we admire in some of the small Dutch interiors, would not squander his powers more than this eminent man too often did. His audience resembled the boy in the Heart of Midlothian, who pushes away the lady’s guineas with contempt, and insists on having the white money. They preferred the silver with which they were familiar, and which they were constantly passing about from hand to hand, to the gold which they had never before seen, and with the value of which they were unacquainted. It is much to be regretted, we think, that Sir James Mackintosh did not wholly devote his later years to philosophy and literature. His talents were not those which enable a speaker to produce with rapidity a series of striking but transitory impressions, and to excite the minds of five hundred gentlemen at midnight, without saying anything that any one of them will be able to remember in the morning. His arguments were of a very different texture from those which are produced in Parliament at a moment’s notice, which puzzle a plain man who, if he had them before him in writing, would soon detect their fallacy, and which the great debater who employs them forgets within half an hour, and never thinks of again. Whatever was valuable in the compositions of Sir James Mackintosh was the ripe fruit of study and of meditation. It was the same with his conversation. In his most familiar talk there was no wildness, no inconsistency, no amusing nonsense, no exaggeration for the sake of momentary effect. His mind was a vast magazine, admirably arranged. Everything was there; and everything was in its place. His judgments on men, on sects, on books, had been often and carefully tested and weighed, and had then been committed, each to its proper receptacle, in the most capacious and accurately constructed memory that any human being ever possessed. It would have been strange indeed if you had asked for anything that was not to be found in that immense storehouse. The article which you required was not only there. It was ready. It was in its own proper compartment. In a moment it was brought down, unpacked, and displayed. If those who enjoyed the privilege--for a privilege indeed it was--of listening to Sir James Mackintosh had been disposed to find some fault in his conversation, they might perhaps have observed that he yielded too little to the impulse of the moment. He seemed to be recollecting, not creating. He never appeared to catch a sudden glimpse of a subject in a new light. You never saw his opinions in the making, still rude, still inconsistent, and requiring to be fashioned by thought and discussion. They came forth, like the pillars of that temple in which no sound of axes or hammers was heard, finished, rounded, and exactly suited to their places. What Mr. Charles Lamb has said, with much humour and some truth, of the conversation of Scotchmen in general, was certainly true of this eminent Scotchman. He did not find, but bring. You could not cry halves to anything that turned up while you were in his company. The intellectual and moral qualities which are most important in a historian, he possessed in a very high degree. He was singularly mild, calm, and impartial in his judgments of men, and of parties. Almost all the distinguished writers who have treated of English history are advocates. Mr. Hallam and Sir James Mackintosh alone are entitled to be called judges. But the extreme austerity of Mr. Hallam takes away something from the pleasure of reading his learned, eloquent, and judicious writings. He is a judge, but a hanging judge, the Page or Buller of the High Court of Literary justice. His black cap is in constant requisition. In the long calendar of those whom he has tried, there is hardly one who has not, in spite of evidence to character and recommendations to mercy, been sentenced and left for execution. Sir James, perhaps, erred a little on the other side. He liked a maiden assize, and came away with white gloves, after sitting in judgment on batches of the most notorious offenders. He had a quick eye for the redeeming parts of a character, and a large toleration for the infirmities of men exposed to strong temptations. But this lenity did not arise from ignorance or neglect of moral distinctions. Though he allowed perhaps too much weight to every extenuating circumstance that could be urged in favour of the transgressor, he never disputed the authority of the law, or showed his ingenuity by refining away its enactments. On every occasion he showed himself firm where principles were in question, but full of charity towards individuals. We have no hesitation in pronouncing this Fragment decidedly the best history now extant of the reign of James the Second. It contains much new and curious information, of which excellent use has been made. But we are not sure that the book is not in some degree open to the charge which the idle citizen in the Spectator brought against his pudding; “Mem. too many plums, and no suet.” There is perhaps too much disquisition and too little narrative; and indeed this is the fault into which, judging from the habits of Sir James’s mind, we should have thought him most likely to fall. What we assuredly did not anticipate was, that the narrative would be better executed than the disquisitions. We expected to find, and we have found, many just delineations of character, and many digressions full of interest, such as the account of the order of Jesuits, and of the state of prison discipline in England a hundred and fifty years ago. We expected to find, and we have found, many reflections breathing the spirit of a calm and benignant philosophy. But we did not, we own, expect to find that Sir James could tell a story as well as Voltaire or Hume. Yet such is the fact; and if any person doubts it, we would advise him to read the account of the events which followed the issuing of King James’s declaration, the meeting of the clergy, the violent scene at the privy council, the commitment, trial, and acquittal of the bishops. The most superficial reader must be charmed, we think, by the liveliness of the narrative. But no person who is not acquainted with that vast mass of intractable materials of which the valuable and interesting part has been extracted and condensed can fully appreciate the skill of the writer. Here, and indeed throughout the book, we find many harsh and careless expressions which the author would probably have removed if he had lived to complete his work. But, in spite of these blemishes, we must say that we should find it difficult to point out, in any modern history, any passage of equal length and at the same time of equal merit. We find in it the diligence, the accuracy, and the judgment of Hallam, united to the vivacity and the colouring of Southey. A history of England, written throughout in this manner, would be the most fascinating book in the language. It would be more in request at the circulating libraries than the last novel. Sir James was not, we think, gifted with poetical imagination. But that lower kind of imagination which is necessary to the historian he had in large measure. It is not the business of the historian to create new worlds and to people them with new races of beings. He is to Homer and Shakspeare, to Dante and Milton, what Nollekens was to Canova, or Lawrence to Michael Angelo. The object of the historian’s imitation is not within him; it is furnished from without. It is not a vision of beauty and grandeur discernible only by the eye of his own mind, but a real model which he did not make, and which he cannot alter. Yet his is not a mere mechanical imitation. The triumph of his skill is to select such parts as may produce the effect of the whole, to bring out strongly all the characteristic features, and to throw the light and shade in such a manner as may heighten the effect. This skill, as far as we can judge from the unfinished work now before us, Sir James Mackintosh possessed in an eminent degree. The style of this Fragment is weighty, manly, and unaffected. There are, as we have said, some expressions which seem to us harsh, and some which we think inaccurate. These would probably have been corrected, if Sir James had lived to superintend the publication. We ought to add that the printer has by no means done his duty. One misprint in particular is so serious as to require notice. Sir James Mackintosh has paid a high and just tribute to the genius, the integrity, and the courage of a good and great man, a distinguished ornament of English literature, a fearless champion of English liberty, Thomas Burnet, Master of the Charter-House, and author of the most eloquent and imaginative work, the Telluris Theoria Sacra. Wherever the name of this celebrated man occurs, it is printed “Bennet,” both in the text and in the index. This cannot be mere negligence. It is plain that Thomas Burnet and his writings were never heard of by the gentleman who has been employed to edit this volume, and who, not content with deforming Sir James Mackintosh’s text by such blunders, has prefixed to it a bad Memoir, has appended to it a bad continuation, and has thus succeeded in expanding the volume into one of the thickest, and debasing it into one of the worst that we ever saw. Never did we fall in with so admirable an illustration of the old Greek proverb, which tells us that half is sometimes more than the whole. Never did we see a case in which the increase of the bulk was so evidently a diminution of the value. Why such an artist was selected to deface so fine a Torso, we cannot pretend to conjecture. We read that, when the Consul Mummius, after the taking of Corinth, was preparing to send to Rome some works of the greatest Grecian sculptors, he told the packers that if they broke his Venus or his Apollo, he would force them to restore the limbs which should be wanting. A head by a hewer of milestones joined to a bosom by Praxiteles would not surprise or shock us more than this supplement. The “Memoir” contains much that is worth reading; for it contains many extracts from the compositions of Sir James Mackintosh. But when we pass from what the biographer has done with his scissors to what he has done with his pen, we can find nothing to praise in his work. Whatever may have been the intention with which he wrote, the tendency of his narrative is to convey the impression that Sir James Mackintosh, from interested motives, abandoned the doctrines of the Vindiciae Gallicae. Had such charges appeared in their natural place, we should leave them to their natural fate. We would not stoop to defend Sir James Mackintosh from the attacks of fourth-rate magazines and pothouse newspapers. But here his own fame is turned against him. A book of which not one copy would ever have been bought but for his name in the title-page is made the vehicle of the imputation. Under such circumstances we cannot help exclaiming, in the words of one of the most amiable of Homer’s heroes, “Nun tis enieies Patroklios deilio Mnisastho pasin gar epistato meilichos einai Zoos eun’ nun d’ au Thanatos kai Moira kichanei.” We have no difficulty in admitting that during the ten or twelve years which followed the appearance of the Vindicae Gallicae, the opinions of Sir James Mackintosh underwent some change. But did this change pass on him alone? Was it not common? Was it not almost universal? Was there one honest friend of liberty in Europe or in America whose ardour had not been damped, whose faith in the high destinies of mankind had not been shaken? Was there one observer to whom the French Revolution, or revolutions in general, appeared in exactly the same light on the day when the Bastile fell, and on the day when the Girondists were dragged to the scaffold, the day when the Directory shipped off their principal opponents for Guiana, or the day when the Legislative Body was driven from its hall at the point of the bayonet? We do not speak of light-minded and enthusiastic people, of wits like Sheridan, or poets like Alfieri; but of the most virtuous and intelligent practical statesmen, and of the deepest, the calmest, the most impartial political speculators of that time. What was the language and conduct of Lord Spencer, of Lord Fitzwilliam, or Mr. Grattan? What is the tone of M. Dumont’s Memoirs, written just at the close of the eighteenth century? What Tory could have spoken with greater disgust or contempt of the French Revolution and its authors? Nay, this writer, a republican, and the most upright and zealous of republicans, has gone so far as to say that Mr. Burke’s work on the Revolution had saved Europe. The name of M. Dumont naturally suggests that of Mr. Bentham. He, we presume, was not ratting for a place; and what language did he hold at that time? Look at his little treatise entitled Sophismes Anarchiques. In that treatise he says, that the atrocities of the Revolution were the natural consequences of the absurd principles on which it was commenced; that, while the chiefs of the constituent assembly gloried in the thought that they were pulling down aristocracy, they never saw that their doctrines tended to produce an evil a hundred times more formidable, anarchy; that the theory laid down in the Declaration of the Rights of Man had, in a great measure, produced the crimes of the Reign of Terror; that none but an eyewitness could imagine the horrors of a state of society in which comments on that Declaration were put forth by men with no food in their bellies, with rags on their backs and pikes in their hands. He praises the English Parliament for the dislike which it has always shown to abstract reasonings, and to the affirming of general principles. In M. Dumont’s preface to the Treatise on the Principles of Legislation, a preface written under the eye of Mr. Bentham, and published with his sanction, are the following still more remarkable expressions: “M. Bentham est bien loin d’attacher une préférence exclusive a aucune forme de gouvernement. Il pense que la meilleure constitution pour un peuple est celle a laquelle il est accoutume... Le vice fondamental des théories sur les constitutions politiques, c’est de commencer par attaquer celles qui existent, et d’exciter tout au moins des inquiétudes et des jalousies de pouvoir. Une telle disposition n’est point favorable au perfectionnement des lois. La seule époque ou l’on puisse entreprendre avec succes des grandes reformes de législation est celle ou les passions publiques sont calmes, et ou le gouvernement jouit de la stabilité la plus grande. L’objet de M. Bentham, en cherchant dans le vice des lois la cause de la plupart des maux, a été constamment d’éloigner le plus grand de tous, le bouleversement de l’autorite, les révolutions de propriété et de pouvoir.” To so conservative a frame of mind had the excesses of the French Revolution brought the most illustrious reformers of that time. And why is one person to be singled out from among millions, and arraigned before posterity as a traitor to his opinions only because events produced on him the effect which they produced on a whole generation? People who, like Mr. Brothers in the last generation, and Mr. Percival in this, have been favoured with revelations from heaven, may be quite independent of the vulgar sources of knowledge. But such poor creatures as Mackintosh, Dumont, and Bentham, had nothing but observation and reason to guide them; and they obeyed the guidance of observation and of reason. How is it in physics? A traveller falls in with a berry which he has never before seen. He tastes it, and finds it sweet and refreshing. He praises it, and resolves to introduce it into his own country. But in a few minutes he is taken violently sick; he is convulsed; he is at the point of death. He of course changes his opinion, denounces this delicious food a poison, blames his own folly in tasting it, and cautions his friends against it. After a long and violent struggle he recovers, and finds himself much exhausted by his sufferings, but free from some chronic complaints which had been the torment of his life. He then changes his opinion again, and pronounces this fruit a very powerful remedy, which ought to be employed only in extreme cases and with great caution, but which ought not to be absolutely excluded from the Pharmacopoeia. And would it not be the height of absurdity to call such a man fickle and inconsistent, because he had repeatedly altered his judgment? If he had not altered his judgment, would he have been a rational being? It was exactly the same with the French Revolution. That event was a new phaenomenon in politics. Nothing that had gone before enabled any person to judge with certainty of the course which affairs might take. At first the effect was the reform of great abuses; and honest men rejoiced. Then came commotion, proscription, confiscation, bankruptcy, the assignats, the maximum, civil war, foreign war, revolutionary tribunals, guillotinades, noyades, fusillades. Yet a little while, and a military despotism rose out of the confusion, and menaced the independence of every state in Europe. And yet again a little while, and the old dynasty returned, followed by a train of emigrants eager to restore the old abuses. We have now, we think, the whole before us. We should therefore be justly accused of levity or insincerity if our language concerning those events were constantly changing. It is our deliberate opinion that the French Revolution, in spite of all its crimes and follies, was a great blessing to mankind. But it was not only natural, but inevitable, that those who had only seen the first act should be ignorant of the catastrophe, and should be alternately elated and depressed as the plot went on disclosing itself to them. A man who had held exactly the same opinion about the Revolution in 1789, in 1794, in 1804, in 1814, and in 1834, would have been either a divinely inspired prophet, or an obstinate fool. Mackintosh was neither. He was simply a wise and good man; and the change which passed on his mind was a change which passed on the mind of almost every wise and good man in Europe. In fact, few of his contemporaries changed so little. The rare moderation and calmness of his temper preserved him alike from extravagant elation and from extravagant despondency. He was never a Jacobin. He was never an Anti-Jacobin. His mind oscillated undoubtedly, but the extreme points of the oscillation were not very remote. Herein he differed greatly from some persons of distinguished talents who entered into life at nearly the same time with him. Such persons we have seen rushing from one wild extreme to another, out-Paining Paine, out-Castlereaghing Castlereagh, Pantisocratists, Ultra-Tories, heretics, persecutors, breaking the old laws against sedition, calling for new and sharper laws against sedition, writing democratic dramas, writing Laureate odes panegyrising Marten, panegyrising Laud, consistent in nothing but an intolerance which in any person would be censurable, but which is altogether unpardonable in men who, by their own confession, have had such ample experience of their own fallibility. We readily concede to some of these persons the praise of eloquence and poetical invention; nor are we by any means disposed, even where they have been gainers by their conversion, to question their sincerity. It would be most uncandid to attribute to sordid motives actions which admit of a less discreditable explanation. We think that the conduct of these persons has been precisely what was to be expected from men who were gifted with strong imagination and quick sensibility, but who were neither accurate observers nor logical reasoners. It was natural that such men should see in the victory of the third estate of France the dawn of a new Saturnian age. It was natural that the rage of their disappointment should be proportioned to the extravagance of their hopes. Though the direction of their passions was altered, the violence of those passions was the same. The force of the rebound was proportioned to the force of the original impulse. The pendulum swung furiously to the left, because it had been drawn too far to the right. We own that nothing gives us so high an idea of the judgment and temper of Sir James Mackintosh as the manner in which he shaped his course through those times. Exposed successively to two opposite infections, he took both in their very mildest form. The constitution of his mind was such that neither of the diseases which wrought such havoc all round him could in any serious degree, or for any great length of time, derange his intellectual health. He, like every honest and enlightened man in Europe, saw with delight the great awakening of the French nation. Yet he never, in the season of his warmest enthusiasm, proclaimed doctrines inconsistent with the safety of property and the just authority of governments. He, like almost every other honest and enlightened man, was discouraged and perplexed by the terrible events which followed. Yet he never in the most gloomy times abandoned the cause of peace, of liberty, and of toleration. In that great convulsion which overset almost every other understanding, he was indeed so much shaken that he leaned sometimes in one direction and sometimes in the other; but he never lost his balance. The opinions in which he at last reposed, and to which, in spite of strong temptations, he adhered with a firm, a disinterested, an ill-requited fidelity, were a just mean between those which he had defended with youthful ardour and with more than manly prowess against Mr. Burke, and those to which he had inclined during the darkest and saddest years in the history of modern Europe. We are much mistaken if this be the picture either of a weak or of a dishonest mind. What the political opinions of Sir James Mackintosh were in his later years is written in the annals of his country. Those annals will sufficiently refute what the Editor has ventured to assert in the very advertisement to this work. “Sir James Mackintosh,” says he, “was avowedly and emphatically a Whig of the Revolution: and since the agitation of religious liberty and parliamentary reform became a national movement, the great transaction of 1688 has been more dispassionately, more correctly, and less highly estimated.” If these words mean anything, they must mean that the opinions of Sir James Mackintosh concerning religious liberty and parliamentary reform went no further than those of the authors of the Revolution; in other words, that Sir James Mackintosh opposed Catholic Emancipation, and approved of the old constitution of the House of Commons. The allegation is confuted by twenty volumes of Parliamentary Debates, nay, by innumerable passages in the very fragment which this writer has defaced. We will venture to say that Sir James Mackintosh often did more for religious liberty and for parliamentary reform in a quarter of an hour than most of those zealots who are in the habit of depreciating him have done or will do in the whole course of their lives. Nothing in the “Memoir” or in the “Continuation of the History” has struck us so much as the contempt with which the writer thinks fit to speak of all things that were done before the coming in of the very last fashions in politics. We think that we have sometimes observed a leaning towards the same fault in writers of a much higher order of intellect. We will therefore take this opportunity of making a few remarks on an error which is, we fear, becoming common, and which appears to us not only absurd, but as pernicious as almost any error concerning the transactions of a past age can possibly be. We shall not, we hope, be suspected of a bigoted attachment to the doctrines and practices of past generations. Our creed is that the science of government is an experimental science, and that, like all other experimental sciences, it is generally in a state of progression. No man is so obstinate an admirer of the old times as to deny that medicine, surgery, botany, chemistry, engineering, navigation, are better understood now than in any former age. We conceive that it is the same with political science. Like those physical sciences which we have mentioned, it has always been working itself clearer and clearer, and depositing impurity after impurity. There was a time when the most powerful of human intellects were deluded by the gibberish of the astrologer and the alchemist; and just so there was a time when the most enlightened and virtuous statesmen thought it the first duty of a government to persecute heretics, to found monasteries, to make war on Saracens. But time advances; facts accumulate; doubts arise. Faint glimpses of truth begin to appear, and shine more and more unto the perfect day. The highest intellects, like the tops of mountains, are the first to catch and to reflect the dawn. They are bright, while the level below is still in darkness. But soon the light, which at first illuminated only the loftiest eminences, descends on the plain and penetrates to the deepest valley. First come hints, then fragments of systems, then defective systems, then complete and harmonious systems. The sound opinion, held for a time by one bold speculator, becomes the opinion of a small minority, of a strong minority, of a majority of mankind. Thus, the great progress goes on, till schoolboys laugh at the jargon which imposed on Bacon, till country rectors condemn the illiberality and intolerance of Sir Thomas More. Seeing these things, seeing that, by the confession of the most obstinate enemies of innovation, our race has hitherto been almost constantly advancing in knowledge, and not seeing any reason to believe that, precisely at the point of time at which we came into the world, a change took place in the faculties of the human mind, or in the mode of discovering truth, we are reformers: we are on the side of progress. From the great advances which European society has made during the last four centuries, in every species of knowledge, we infer, not that there is no more room for improvement, but that, in every science which deserves the name, immense improvements may be confidently expected. But the very considerations which lead us to look forward with sanguine hope to the future prevent us from looking back with contempt on the past We do not flatter ourselves with the notion that we have attained perfection, and that no more truth remains to be found. We believe that we are wiser than our ancestors. We believe, also, that our posterity will be wiser than we. It would be gross injustice in our grandchildren to talk of us with contempt, merely because they may have surpassed us; to call Watt a fool, because mechanical powers may be discovered which may supersede the use of steam; to deride the efforts which have been made in our time to improve the discipline of prisons, and to enlighten the minds of the poor, because future philanthropists may devise better places of confinement than Mr. Bentham’s Panopticon, and better places of education than Mr. Lancaster’s Schools. As we would have our descendants judge us, so ought we to judge our fathers. In order to form a correct estimate of their merits, we ought to place ourselves in their situation, to put out of our minds, for a time, all that knowledge which they, however eager in the pursuit of truth, could not have, and which we, however negligent we may have been, could not help having. It was not merely difficult, but absolutely impossible, for the best and greatest of men, two hundred years ago, to be what a very commonplace person in our days may easily be, and indeed must necessarily be. But it is too much that the benefactors of mankind, after having been reviled by the dunces of their own generation for going too far, should be reviled by the dunces of the next generation for not going far enough. The truth lies between two absurd extremes. On one side is the bigot who pleads the wisdom of our ancestors as a reason for not doing what they in our place would be the first to do; who opposes the Reform Bill because Lord Somers did not see the necessity of Parliamentary Reform; who would have opposed the Revolution because Ridley and Cranmer professed boundless submission to the royal prerogative; and who would have opposed the Reformation because the Fitzwalters and Mareschals, whose seals are set to the Great Charter, were devoted adherents to the Church of Rome. On the other side is the sciolist who speaks with scorn of the Great Charter because it did not reform the Church of the Reformation, because it did not limit the prerogative; and of the Revolution, because it did not purify the House of Commons. The former of these errors we have often combated, and shall always be ready to combat. The latter, though rapidly spreading, has not, we think, yet come under our notice. The former error bears directly on practical questions, and obstructs useful reforms. It may, therefore, seem to be, and probably is, the more mischievous of the two. But the latter is equally absurd; it is at least equally symptomatic of a shallow understanding and an unamiable temper: and, if it should ever become general, it will, we are satisfied, produce very prejudicial effects. Its tendency is to deprive the benefactors of mankind of their honest fame, and to put the best and the worst men of past times on the same level. The author of a great reformation is almost always unpopular in his own age. He generally passes his life in disquiet and danger. It is therefore for the interest of the human race that the memory of such men should be had in reverence, and that they should be supported against the scorn and hatred of their contemporaries by the hope of leaving a great and imperishable name. To go on the forlorn hope of truth is a service of peril. Who will undertake it, if it be not also a service of honour? It is easy enough, after the ramparts are carried, to find men to plant the flag on the highest tower. The difficulty is to find men who are ready to go first into the breach; and it would be bad policy indeed to insult their remains because they fell in the breach, and did not live to penetrate to the citadel. Now here we have a book which is by no means a favourable specimen of the English literature of the nineteenth century, a book indicating neither extensive knowledge nor great powers of reasoning. And, if we were to judge by the pity with which the writer speaks of the great statesmen and philosophers of a former age, we should guess that he was the author of the most original and important inventions in political science. Yet not so: for men who are able to make discoveries are generally disposed to make allowances. Men who are eagerly pressing forward in pursuit of truth are grateful to every one who has cleared an inch of the way for them. It is, for the most part, the man who has just capacity enough to pick up and repeat the commonplaces which are fashionable in his own time who looks with disdain on the very intellects to which it is owing that those commonplaces are not still considered as startling paradoxes or damnable heresies. This writer is just the man who, if he had lived in the seventeenth century, would have devoutly believed that the Papists burned London, who would have swallowed the whole of Oates’s story about the forty thousand soldiers, disguised as pilgrims, who were to meet in Gallicia, and sail thence to invade England, who would have carried a Protestant flail under his coat, and who would have been angry if the story of the warming-pan had been questioned. It is quite natural that such a man should speak with contempt of the great reformers of that time, because they did not know some things which he never would have known but for the salutary effects of their exertions. The men to whom we owe it that we have a House of Commons are sneered at because they did not suffer the debates of the House to be published. The authors of the Toleration Act are treated as bigots, because they did not go the whole length of Catholic Emancipation. Just so we have heard a baby, mounted on the shoulders of its father, cry out, “How much taller I am than Papa!” This gentleman can never want matter for pride, if he finds it so easily. He may boast of an indisputable superiority to all the greatest men of all past ages. He can read and write: Homer probably did not know a letter. He has been taught that the earth goes round the sun: Archimedes held that the sun went round the earth. He is aware that there is a place called New Holland: Columbus and Gama went to their graves in ignorance of the fact. He has heard of the Georgium Sidus: Newton was ignorant of the existence of such a planet. He is acquainted with the use of gunpowder: Hannibal and Caesar won their victories with sword and spear. We submit, however, that this is not the way in which men are to be estimated. We submit that a wooden spoon of our day would not be justified in calling Galileo and Napier blockheads, because they never heard of the differential calculus. We submit that Caxton’s press in Westminster Abbey, rude as it is, ought to be looked at with quite as much respect as the best constructed machinery that ever, in our time, impressed the clearest type on the finest paper. Sydenham first discovered that the cool regimen succeeded best in cases of small-pox. By this discovery he saved the lives of hundreds of thousands; and we venerate his memory for it, though he never heard of inoculation. Lady Mary Montague brought inoculation into use; and we respect her for it, though she never heard of vaccination. Jenner introduced vaccination; we admire him for it, and we shall continue to admire him for it, although some still safer and more agreeable preservative should be discovered. It is thus that we ought to judge of the events and the men of other times. They were behind us. It could not be otherwise. But the question with respect to them is not where they were, but which way they were going. Were their faces set in the right or in the wrong direction? Were they in the front or in the rear of their generation? Did they exert themselves to help onward the great movement of the human race, or to stop it? This is not charity, but simple justice and common sense. It is the fundamental law of the world in which we live that truth shall grow, first the blade, then the ear, after that the full corn in the ear. A person who complains of the men of 1688 for not having been men of 1835 might just as well complain of a projectile for describing a parabola, or of quicksilver for being heavier than water. Undoubtedly we ought to look at ancient transactions by the light of modern knowledge. Undoubtedly it is among the first duties of a historian to point out the faults of the eminent men of former generations. There are no errors which are so likely to be drawn into precedent, and therefore none which it is so necessary to expose, as the errors of persons who have a just title to the gratitude and admiration of posterity. In politics, as in religion, there are devotees who show their reverence for a departed saint by converting his tomb into a sanctuary for crime. Receptacles of wickedness are suffered to remain undisturbed in the neighbourhood of the church which glories in the relics of some martyred apostle. Because he was merciful, his bones give security to assassins. Because he was chaste, the precinct of his temple is filled with licensed stews. Privileges of an equally absurd kind have been set up against the jurisdiction of political philosophy. Vile abuses cluster thick round every glorious event, round every venerable name; and this evil assuredly calls for vigorous measures of literary police. But the proper course is to abate the nuisance without defacing the shrine, to drive out the gangs of thieves and prostitutes without doing foul and cowardly wrong to the ashes of the illustrious dead. In this respect, two historians of our own time may be proposed as models, Sir James Mackintosh and Mr. Mill. Differing in most things, in this they closely resemble each other. Sir James is lenient. Mr. Mill is severe. But neither of them ever omits, in the apportioning of praise and of censure, to make ample allowance for the state of political science and political morality in former ages. In the work before us, Sir James Mackintosh speaks with just respect of the Whigs of the Revolution, while he never fails to condemn the conduct of that party towards the members of the Church of Rome. His doctrines are the liberal and benevolent doctrines of the nineteenth century. But he never forgets that the men whom he is describing were men of the seventeenth century. From Mr. Mill this indulgence, or, to speak more properly, this justice, was less to be expected. That gentleman, in some of his works, appears to consider politics not as an experimental, and therefore a progressive science, but as a science of which all the difficulties may be resolved by short synthetical arguments drawn from truths of the most vulgar notoriety. Were this opinion well founded, the people of one generation would have little or no advantage over those of another generation. But though Mr. Mill, in some of his Essays, has been thus misled, as we conceive, by a fondness for neat and precise forms of demonstration, it would be gross injustice not to admit that, in his History, he has employed a very different method of investigation with eminent ability and success. We know no writer who takes so much pleasure in the truly useful, noble and philosophical employment of tracing the progress of sound opinions from their embryo state to their full maturity. He eagerly culls from old despatches and minutes every expression in which he can discern the imperfect germ of any great truth which has since been fully developed. He never fails to bestow praise on those who, though far from coming up to his standard of perfection, yet rose in a small degree above the common level of their contemporaries. It is thus that the annals of past times ought to be written. It is thus, especially, that the annals of our own country ought to be written. The history of England is emphatically the history of progress. It is the history of a constant movement of the public mind, of a constant change in the institutions of a great society. We see that society, at the beginning of the twelfth century, in a state more miserable than the state in which the most degraded nations of the East now are. We see it subjected to the tyranny of a handful of armed foreigners. We see a strong distinction of caste separating the victorious Norman from the vanquished Saxon. We see the great body of the population in a state of personal slavery. We see the most debasing and cruel superstition exercising boundless dominion over the most elevated and benevolent minds. We see the multitude sunk in brutal ignorance, and the studious few engaged in acquiring what did not deserve the name of knowledge. In the course of seven centuries the wretched and degraded race have become the greatest and most highly civilised people that ever the world saw, have spread their dominion over every quarter of the globe, have scattered the seeds of mighty empires and republics over vast continents of which no dim intimation had ever reached Ptolemy or Strabo, have created a maritime power which would annihilate in a quarter of an hour the navies of Tyre, Athens, Carthage, Venice, and Genoa together, have carried the science of healing, the means of locomotion and correspondence, every mechanical art, every manufacture, everything that promotes the convenience of life, to a perfection which our ancestors would have thought magical, have produced a literature which may boast of works not inferior to the noblest which Greece has bequeathed to us, have discovered the laws which regulate the motions of the heavenly bodies, have speculated with exquisite subtilty on the operations of the human mind, have been the acknowledged leaders of the human race in the career of political improvement. The history of England is the history of this great change in the moral, intellectual, and physical state of the inhabitants of our own island. There is much amusing and instructive episodical matter; but this is the main action. To us, we will own, nothing is so interesting and delightful as to contemplate the steps by which the England of Domesday Book, the England of the Curfew and the Forest Laws, the England of crusaders, monks, schoolmen, astrologers, serfs, outlaws, became the England which we know and love, the classic ground of liberty and philosophy, the school of all knowledge, the mart of all trade. The Charter of Henry Beauclerk, the Great Charter, the first assembling of the House of Commons, the extinction of personal slavery, the separation from the See of Rome, the Petition of Right, the Habeas Corpus Act, the Revolution, the establishment of the liberty of unlicensed printing, the abolition of religious disabilities, the reform of the representative system, all these seem to us to be the successive stages of one great revolution--nor can we fully comprehend any one of these memorable events unless we look at it in connection with those which preceded, and with those which followed it. Each of those great and ever-memorable struggles, Saxon against Norman, Villein against Lord, Protestant against Papist, Roundhead against Cavalier, Dissenter against Churchman, Manchester against Old Sarum, was, in its own order and season, a struggle, on the result of which were staked the dearest interests of the human race; and every man who, in the contest which, in his time, divided our country, distinguished himself on the right side, is entitled to our gratitude and respect. Whatever the editor of this book may think, those persons who estimate most correctly the value of the improvements which have recently been made in our institutions are precisely the persons who are least disposed to speak slightingly of what was done in 1688. Such men consider the Revolution as a reform, imperfect indeed, but still most beneficial to the English people and to the human race, as a reform, which has been the fruitful parent of reforms, as a reform, the happy effects of which are at this moment felt, not only throughout our own country, but in half the monarchies of Europe, and in the depth of the forests of Ohio. We shall be pardoned, we hope, if we call the attention of our readers to the causes and to the consequences of that great event. We said that the history of England is the history of progress; and, when we take a comprehensive view of it, it is so. But, when examined in small separate portions, it may with more propriety be called a history of actions and reactions. We have often thought that the motion of the public mind in our country resembles that of the sea when the tide is rising. Each successive wave rushes forward, breaks, and rolls back; but the great flood is steadily coming in. A person who looked on the waters only for a moment might fancy that they were retiring. A person who looked on them only for five minutes might fancy that they were rushing capriciously to and fro. But when he keeps his eye on them for a quarter of an hour, and sees one seamark disappear after another, it is impossible for him to doubt of the general direction in which the ocean is moved. Just such has been the course of events in England. In the history of the national mind, which is, in truth, the history of the nation, we must carefully distinguish between that recoil which regularly follows every advance and a great general ebb. If we take short intervals, if we compare 1640 and 1660, 1680 and 1685, 1708 and 1712, 1782 and 1794, we find a retrogression. But if we take centuries, if, for example, we compare 1794 with 1660 or with 1685, we cannot doubt in which direction society is proceeding. The interval which elapsed between the Restoration and the Revolution naturally divides itself into three periods. The first extends from 1660 to 1678, the second from 1678 to 1681, the third from 1681 to 1688. In 1660 the whole nation was mad with loyal excitement. If we had to choose a lot from among all the multitude of those which men have drawn since the beginning of the world, we would select that of Charles the Second on the day of his return. He was in a situation in which the dictates of ambition coincided with those of benevolence, in which it was easier to be virtuous than to be wicked, to be loved than to be hated, to earn pure and imperishable glory than to become infamous. For once the road of goodness was a smooth descent. He had done nothing to merit the affection of his people. But they had paid him in advance without measure. Elizabeth, after the destruction of the Armada, or after the abolition of monopolies, had not excited a thousandth part of the enthusiasm with which the young exile was welcomed home. He was not, like Lewis the Eighteenth, imposed on his subjects by foreign conquerors; nor did he, like Lewis the Eighteenth, come back to a country which had undergone a complete change. The House of Bourbon was placed in Paris as a trophy of the victory of the European confederation. The return of the ancient princes was inseparably associated in the public mind with the cession of extensive provinces, with the payment of an immense tribute, with the devastation of flourishing departments, with the occupation of the kingdom by hostile armies, with the emptiness of those niches in which the gods of Athens and Rome had been the objects of a new idolatry, with the nakedness of those walls on which the Transfiguration had shone with light as glorious as that which overhung Mount Tabor. They came back to a land in which they could recognise nothing. The seven sleepers of the legend, who closed their eyes when the Pagans were persecuting the Christians, and woke when the Christians were persecuting each other, did not find themselves in a world more completely new to them. Twenty years had done the work of twenty generations. Events had come thick. Men had lived fast. The old institutions and the old feelings had been torn up by the roots. There was a new Church founded and endowed by the usurper; a new nobility whose titles were taken from fields of battle, disastrous to the ancient line; a new chivalry whose crosses had been won by exploits which had seemed likely to make the banishment of the emigrants perpetual. A new code was administered by a new magistracy. A new body of proprietors held the soil by a new tenure. The most ancient local distinctions had been effaced. The most familiar names had become obsolete. There was no longer a Normandy or a Burgundy, a Brittany and a Guienne. The France of Lewis the Sixteenth had passed away as completely as one of the Preadamite worlds. Its fossil remains might now and then excite curiosity. But it was as impossible to put life into the old institutions as to animate the skeletons which are imbedded in the depths of primeval strata. It was as absurd to think that France could again be placed under the feudal system, as that our globe could be overrun by Mammoths. The revolution in the laws and in the form of government was but an outward sign of that mightier revolution which had taken place in the heart and brain of the people, and which affected every transaction of life, trading, farming, studying, marrying, and giving in marriage. The French whom the emigrant prince had to govern were no more like the French of his youth, than the French of his youth were like the French of the Jacquerie. He came back to a people who knew not him nor his house, to a people to whom a Bourbon was no more than a Carlovingian or a Merovingian. He might substitute the white flag for the tricolor; he might put lilies in the place of bees; he might order the initials of the Emperor to be carefully effaced. But he could turn his eyes nowhere without meeting some object which reminded him that he was a stranger in the palace of his fathers. He returned to a country in which even the passing traveller is every moment reminded that there has lately been a great dissolution and reconstruction of the social system. To win the hearts of a people under such circumstances would have been no easy task even for Henry the Fourth. In the English Revolution the case was altogether different. Charles was not imposed on his countrymen, but sought by them. His restoration was not attended by any circumstance which could inflict a wound on their national pride. Insulated by our geographical position, insulated by our character, we had fought out our quarrels and effected our reconciliation among ourselves. Our great internal questions had never been mixed up with the still greater question of national independence. The political doctrines of the Roundheads were not, like those of the French philosophers, doctrines of universal application. Our ancestors, for the most part, took their stand, not on a general theory, but on the particular constitution of the realm. They asserted the rights, not of men, but of Englishmen. Their doctrines therefore were not contagious; and, had it been otherwise, no neighbouring country was then susceptible of the contagion. The language in which our discussions were generally conducted was scarcely known even to a single man of letters out of the islands. Our local situation made it almost impossible that we should effect great conquests on the Continent. The kings of Europe had, therefore, no reason to fear that their subjects would follow the example of the English Puritans, and looked with indifference, perhaps with complacency, on the death of the monarch and the abolition of the monarchy. Clarendon complains bitterly of their apathy. But we believe that this apathy was of the greatest service to the royal cause. If a French or Spanish army had invaded England, and if that army had been cut to pieces, as we have no doubt that it would have been, on the first day on which it came face to face with the soldiers of Preston and Dunbar, with Colonel Fight-the-good-Fight, and Captain Smite-them-hip-and-thigh, the House of Cromwell would probably now have been reigning in England. The nation would have forgotten all the misdeeds of the man who had cleared the soil of foreign invaders. Happily for Charles, no European state, even when at war with the Commonwealth, chose to bind up its cause with that of the wanderers who were playing in the garrets of Paris and Cologne at being princes and chancellors. Under the administration of Cromwell, England was more respected and dreaded than any power in Christendom and, even under the ephemeral governments which followed his death, no foreign state ventured to treat her with contempt. Thus Charles came back not as a mediator between his people and a victorious enemy, but as a mediator between internal factions. He found the Scotch Covenanters and the Irish Papists alike subdued. He found Dunkirk and Jamaica added to the empire. He was heir to the conquest and to the influence of the able usurper who had excluded him. The old government of England, as it had been far milder than the old government of France, had been far less violently and completely subverted. The national institutions had been spared, or imperfectly eradicated. The laws had undergone little alteration. The tenures of the soil were still to be learned from Littleton and Coke. The Great Charter was mentioned with as much reverence in the parliaments of the Commonwealth as in those of any earlier or of any later age. A new Confession of Faith and a new ritual had been introduced into the church. But the bulk of the ecclesiastical property still remained. The colleges still held their estates. The parson still received his tithes. The Lords had, at a crisis of great excitement, been excluded by military violence from their House; but they retained their titles and an ample share of the public veneration. When a nobleman made his appearance in the House of Commons he was received with ceremonious respect. Those few Peers who consented to assist at the inauguration of the Protector were placed next to himself, and the most honourable offices of the day were assigned to them. We learn from the debates of Richard’s Parliament how strong a hold the old aristocracy had on the affections of the people. One member of the House of Commons went so far as to say that, unless their Lordships were peaceably restored, the country might soon be convulsed by a war of the Barons. There was indeed no great party hostile to the Upper House. There was nothing exclusive in the constitution of that body. It was regularly recruited from among the most distinguished of the country gentlemen, the lawyers, and the clergy. The most powerful nobles of the century which preceded the civil war, the Duke of Somerset, the Duke of Northumberland, Lord Seymour of Sudeley, the Earl of Leicester, Lord Burleigh, the Earl of Salisbury, the Duke of Buckingham, the Earl of Strafford, had all been commoners, and had all raised themselves, by courtly arts or by parliamentary talents, not merely to seats in the House of Lords, but to the first influence in that assembly. Nor had the general conduct of the Peers been such as to make them unpopular. They had not, indeed, in opposing arbitrary measures, shown so much eagerness and pertinacity as the Commons. But still they had opposed those measures. They had, at the beginning of the discontents, a common interest with the people. If Charles had succeeded in his scheme of governing without parliaments, the consequence of the Peers would have been grievously diminished. If he had been able to raise taxes by his own authority, the estates of the Peers would have been as much at his mercy as those of the merchants or the farmers. If he had obtained the power of imprisoning his subjects at his pleasure, a Peer ran far greater risk of incurring the royal displeasure, and of being accommodated with apartments in the Tower, than any city trader or country squire. Accordingly Charles found that the Great Council of Peers which he convoked at York would do nothing for him. In the most useful reforms which were made during the first session of the Long Parliament, the Peers concurred heartily with the Lower House; and a large minority of the English nobles stood by the popular side through the first years of the war. At Edgehill, Newbury, Marston, and Naseby, the armies of the Parliament were commanded by members of the aristocracy. It was not forgotten that a Peer had imitated the example of Hampden in refusing the payment of the ship-money, or that a Peer had been among the six members of the legislature whom Charles illegally impeached. Thus the old constitution of England was without difficulty re-established; and of all the parts of the old constitution the monarchical part was, at the time, dearest to the body of the people. It had been injudiciously depressed, and it was in consequence unduly exalted. From the day when Charles the First became a prisoner had commenced a reaction in favour of his person and of his office. From the day when the axe fell on his neck before the windows of his palace, that reaction became rapid and violent. At the Restoration it had attained such a point that it could go no further. The people were ready to place at the mercy of their Sovereign all their most ancient and precious rights. The most servile doctrines were publicly avowed. The most moderate and constitutional opposition was condemned. Resistance was spoken of with more horror than any crime which a human being can commit. The Commons were more eager than the King himself to avenge the wrongs of the royal house; more desirous than the bishops themselves to restore the church; more ready to give money than the ministers to ask for it. They abrogated the excellent law passed in the first session of the Long Parliament, with the general consent of all honest men, to insure the frequent meeting of the great council of the nation. They might probably have been induced to go further, and to restore the High Commission and the Star-Chamber. All the contemporary accounts represent the nation as in a state of hysterical excitement, of drunken joy. In the immense multitude which crowded the beach at Dover, and bordered the road along which the King travelled to London, there was not one who was not weeping. Bonfires blazed. Bells jingled. The streets were thronged at night by boon-companions, who forced all the passers-by to swallow on bended knees brimming glasses to the health of his Most Sacred Majesty, and the damnation of Red-nosed Noll. That tenderness to the fallen which has, through many generations been a marked feature of the national character, was for a time hardly discernible. All London crowded to shout and laugh round the gibbet where hung the rotten remains of a prince who had made England the dread of the world, who had been the chief founder of her maritime greatness, and of her colonial empire, who had conquered Scotland and Ireland, who had humbled Holland and Spain, the terror of whose name had been as a guard round every English traveller in remote countries, and round every Protestant congregation in the heart of Catholic empires. When some of those brave and honest though misguided men who had sate in judgment on their King were dragged on hurdles to a death of prolonged torture, their last prayers were interrupted by the hisses and execrations of thousands. Such was England in 1660. In 1678 the whole face of things had changed. At the former of those epochs eighteen years of commotion had made the majority of the people ready to buy repose at any price. At the latter epoch eighteen years of misgovernment had made the same majority desirous to obtain security for their liberties at any risk. The fury of their returning loyalty had spent itself in its first outbreak. In a very few months they had hanged and half-hanged, quartered and embowelled enough to satisfy them. The Roundhead party seemed to be not merely overcome, but too much broken and scattered ever to rally again. Then commenced the reflux of public opinion. The nation began to find out to what a man it had intrusted, without conditions, all its dearest interests, on what a man it had lavished all its fondest affection. On the ignoble nature of the restored exile, adversity had exhausted all her discipline in vain. He had one immense advantage over most other princes. Though born in the purple, he was no better acquainted with the vicissitudes of life and the diversities of character than most of his subjects. He had known restraint, danger, penury, and dependence. He had often suffered from ingratitude, insolence, and treachery. He had received many signal proofs of faithful and heroic attachment. He had seen, if ever man saw, both sides of human nature. But only one side remained in his memory. He had learned only to despise and to distrust his species, to consider integrity in men, and modesty in women, as mere acting; nor did he think it worth while to keep his opinion to himself. He was incapable of friendship; yet he was perpetually led by favourites without being in the smallest degree duped by them. He knew that their regard to his interests was all simulated; but, from a certain easiness which had no connection with humanity, he submitted, half-laughing at himself, to be made the tool of any woman whose person attracted him, or of any man whose tattle diverted him. He thought little and cared less about religion. He seems to have passed his life in dawdling suspense between Hobbism and Popery. He was crowned in his youth with the Covenant in his hand; he died at last with the Host sticking in his throat; and during most of the intermediate years, was occupied in persecuting both Covenanters and Catholics. He was not a tyrant from the ordinary motives. He valued power for its own sake little, and fame still less. He does not appear to have been vindictive, or to have found any pleasing excitement in cruelty. What he wanted was to be amused, to get through the twenty-four hours pleasantly without sitting down to dry business. Sauntering was, as Sheffield expresses it, the true Sultana Queen of his Majesty’s affections. A sitting in council would have been insupportable to him if the Duke of Buckingham had not been there to make mouths at the Chancellor. It has been said, and is highly probable, that in his exile he was quite disposed to sell his rights to Cromwell for a good round sum. To the last his only quarrel with his Parliaments was that they often gave him trouble and would not always give him money. If there was a person for whom he felt a real regard, that person was his brother. If there was a point about which he really entertained a scruple of conscience or of honour, that point was the descent of the crown. Yet he was willing to consent to the Exclusion Bill for six hundred thousand pounds; and the negotiation was broken off only because he insisted on being paid beforehand. To do him justice, his temper was good; his manners agreeable; his natural talents above mediocrity. But he was sensual, frivolous, false, and cold-hearted, beyond almost any prince of whom history makes mention. Under the government of such a man, the English people could not be long in recovering from the intoxication of loyalty. They were then, as they are still, a brave, proud, and high-spirited race, unaccustomed to defeat, to shame, or to servitude. The splendid administration of Oliver had taught them to consider their country as a match for the greatest empire of the earth, as the first of maritime powers, as the head of the Protestant interest. Though, in the day of their affectionate enthusiasm, they might sometimes extol the royal prerogative in terms which would have better become the courtiers of Aurungzebe, they were not men whom it was quite safe to take at their word. They were much more perfect in the theory than in the practice of passive obedience. Though they might deride the austere manners and scriptural phrases of the Puritans they were still at heart a religious people. The majority saw no great sin in field-sports, stage-plays, promiscuous dancing, cards, fairs, starch, or false hair. But gross profaneness and licentiousness were regarded with general horror; and the Catholic religion was held in utter detestation by nine-tenths of the middle class. Such was the nation which, awaking from its rapturous trance, found itself sold to a foreign, a despotic, a Popish court, defeated on its own seas and rivers by a state of far inferior resources and placed under the rule of pandars and buffoons. Our ancestors saw the best and ablest divines of the age turned out of their benefices by hundreds. They saw the prisons filled with men guilty of no other crime than that of worshipping God according to the fashion generally prevailing throughout Protestant Europe. They saw a Popish Queen on the throne, and a Popish heir on the steps of the throne. They saw unjust aggression followed by feeble war, and feeble war ending in disgraceful peace. They saw a Dutch fleet riding triumphant in the Thames. They saw the Triple Alliance broken, the Exchequer shut up, the public credit shaken, the arms of England employed, in shameful subordination to France, against a country which seemed to be the last asylum of civil and religious liberty. They saw Ireland discontented, and Scotland in rebellion. They saw, meantime, Whitehall swarming with sharpers and courtesans. They saw harlot after harlot, and bastard after bastard, not only raised to the highest honours of the peerage, but supplied out of the spoils of the honest, industrious, and ruined public creditor, with ample means of supporting the new dignity. The government became more odious every day. Even in the bosom of that very House of Commons which had been elected by the nation in the ecstasy of its penitence, of its joy, and of its hope, an opposition sprang up and became powerful. Loyalty which had been proof against all the disasters of the civil war, which had survived the routs of Naseby and Worcester, which had never flinched from sequestration and exile, which the Protector could never intimidate or seduce, began to fail in this last and hardest trial. The storm had long been gathering. At length it burst with a fury which threatened the whole frame of society with dissolution. When the general election of January 1679 took place, the nation had retraced the path which it had been describing from 1640 to 1660. It was again in the same mood in which it had been when, after twelve years of misgovernment, the Long Parliament assembled. In every part of the country, the name of courtier had become a by-word of reproach. The old warriors of the Covenant again ventured out of those retreats in which they had, at the time of the Restoration, hidden themselves from the insults of the triumphant Malignants, and in which, during twenty years, they had preserved in full vigour “The unconquerable will And study of revenge, immortal hate, With courage never to submit or yield, And what is else not to be overcome.” Then were again seen in the streets faces which called up strange and terrible recollections of the days when the saints, with the high praises of God in their mouths, and a two-edged sword in their hands, had bound kings with chains, and nobles with links of iron. Then were again heard voices which had shouted “Privilege” by the coach of Charles the First in the time of his tyranny, and had called for “justice” in Westminister Hall on the day of his trial. It has been the fashion to represent the excitement of this period as the effect of the Popish plot. To us it seems clear that the Popish plot was rather the effect than the cause of the general agitation. It was not the disease, but a symptom, though, like many other symptoms, it aggravated the severity of the disease. In 1660 or 1661 it would have been utterly out of the power of such men as Oates or Bedloe to give any serious disturbance to the Government. They would have been laughed at, pilloried, well pelted, soundly whipped, and speedily forgotten. In 1678 or 1679 there would have been an outbreak if those men had never been born. For years things had been steadily tending to such a consummation. Society was one vast mass of combustible matter. No mass so vast and so combustible ever waited long for a spark. Rational men, we suppose, are now fully agreed that by far the greater part, if not the whole, of Oates’s story was a pure fabrication. It is indeed highly probable that, during his intercourse with the Jesuits, he may have heard much wild talk about the best means of re-establishing the Catholic religion in England, and that from some of the absurd daydreams of the zealots with whom he then associated he may have taken hints for his narrative. But we do not believe that he was privy to anything which deserved the name of conspiracy. And it is quite certain that, if there be any small portion of the truth in his evidence, that portion is so deeply buried in falsehood that no human skill can now effect a separation. We must not, however, forget, that we see his story by the light of much information which his contemporaries did not at first possess. We have nothing to say for the witnesses, but something in mitigation to offer on behalf of the public. We own that the credulity which the nation showed on that occasion seems to us, though censurable indeed, yet not wholly inexcusable. Our ancestors knew, from the experience of several generations at home and abroad, how restless and encroaching was the disposition of the Church of Rome. The heir-apparent of the crown was a bigoted member of that church. The reigning King seemed far more inclined to show favour to that church than to the Presbyterians. He was the intimate ally, or rather the hired servant, of a powerful King, who had already given proofs of his determination to tolerate within his dominions no other religion than that of Rome. The Catholics had begun to talk a bolder language than formerly, and to anticipate the restoration of their worship in all its ancient dignity and splendour. At this juncture, it is rumoured that a Popish Plot has been discovered. A distinguished Catholic is arrested on suspicion. It appears that he has destroyed almost all his papers. A few letters, however, have escaped the flames; and these letters are found to contain much alarming matter, strange expressions about subsidies from France, allusions to a vast scheme which would “give the greatest blow to the Protestant religion that it had ever received,” and which “would utterly subdue a pestilent heresy.” It was natural that those who saw these expressions, in letters which had been overlooked, should suspect that there was some horrible villainy in those which had been carefully destroyed. Such was the feeling of the House of Commons: “Question, question, Coleman’s letters!” was the cry which drowned the voices of the minority. Just after the discovery of these papers, a magistrate who had been distinguished by his independent spirit, and who had taken the deposition of the informer, is found murdered, under circumstances which make it almost incredible that he should have fallen either by robbers or by his own hands. Many of our readers can remember the state of London just after the murders of Marr and Williams, the terror which was on every face, the careful barring of doors, the providing of blunderbusses and watchmen’s rattles. We know of a shopkeeper who on that occasion sold three hundred rattles in about ten hours. Those who remember that panic may be able to form some notion of the state of England after the death of Godfrey. Indeed, we must say that, after having read and weighed all the evidence now extant on that mysterious subject, we incline to the opinion that he was assassinated, and assassinated by Catholics, not assuredly by Catholics of the least weight or note, but by some of those crazy and vindictive fanatics who may be found in every large sect, and who are peculiarly likely to be found in a persecuted sect. Some of the violent Cameronians had recently, under similar exasperation, committed similar crimes. It was natural that there should be a panic; and it was natural that the people should, in a panic, be unreasonable and credulous. It must be remembered also that they had not at first, as we have, the means of comparing the evidence which was given on different trials. They were not aware of one tenth part of the contradictions and absurdities which Oates had committed. The blunders, for example, into which he fell before the Council, his mistake about the person of Don John of Austria, and about the situation of the Jesuits’ College at Paris, were not publicly known. He was a bad man; but the spies and deserters by whom governments are informed of conspiracies axe generally bad men. His story was strange and romantic; but it was not more strange and romantic than a well-authenticated Popish plot, which some few people then living might remember, the Gunpowder treason. Oates’s account of the burning of London was in itself not more improbable than the project of blowing up King, Lords, and Commons, a project which had not only been entertained by very distinguished Catholics, but which had very narrowly missed of success. As to the design on the King’s person, all the world knew that, within a century, two kings of France and a prince of Orange had been murdered by Catholics, purely from religious enthusiasm, that Elizabeth had been in constant danger of a similar fate, and that such attempts, to say the least, had not been discouraged by the highest authority of the Church of Rome. The characters of some of the accused persons stood high; but so did that of Anthony Babington, and that of Everard Digby. Those who suffered denied their guilt to the last; but no persons versed in criminal proceedings would attach any importance to this circumstance. It was well known also that the most distinguished Catholic casuists had written largely in defence of regicide, of mental reservation, and of equivocation. It was not quite impossible that men whose minds had been nourished with the writings of such casuists might think themselves justified in denying a charge which, if acknowledged, would bring great scandal on the Church. The trials of the accused Catholics were exactly like all the state trials of those days; that is to say, as infamous as they could be. They were neither fairer nor less fair than those of Algernon Sydney, of Rosewell, of Cornish, of all the unhappy men, in short, whom a predominant party brought to what was then facetiously called justice. Till the Revolution purified our institutions and our manners, a state trial was merely a murder preceded by the uttering of certain gibberish and the performance of certain mummeries. The Opposition had now the great body of the nation with them. Thrice the King dissolved the Parliament; and thrice the constituent body sent him back representatives fully determined to keep strict watch on all his measures, and to exclude his brother from the throne. Had the character of Charles resembled that of his father, this intestine discord would infallibly have ended in a civil war. Obstinacy and passion would have been his ruin. His levity and apathy were his security. He resembled one of those light Indian boats which are safe because they are pliant, which yield to the impact of every wave, and which therefore bound without danger through a surf in which a vessel ribbed with heart of oak would inevitably perish. The only thing about which his mind was unalterably made up was that, to use his own phrase, he would not go on his travels again for anybody or for anything. His easy, indolent behaviour produced all the effects of the most artful policy. He suffered things to take their course; and if Achitophel had been at one of his ears, and Machiavel at the other, they could have given him no better advice than to let things take their course. He gave way to the violence of the movement, and waited for the corresponding violence of the rebound. He exhibited himself to his subjects in the interesting character of an oppressed king, who was ready to do anything to please them, and who asked of them, in return, only some consideration for his conscientious scruples and for his feelings of natural affection, who was ready to accept any ministers, to grant any guarantees to public liberty, but who could not find it in his heart to take away his brother’s birthright. Nothing more was necessary. He had to deal with a people whose noble weakness it has always been not to press too hardly on the vanquished, with a people the lowest and most brutal of whom cry “Shame!” if they see a man struck when he is on the ground. The resentment which the nation bad felt towards the Court began to abate as soon as the Court was manifestly unable to offer any resistance. The panic which Godfrey’s death had excited gradually subsided. Every day brought to light some new falsehood or contradiction in the stories of Oates and Bedloe. The people were glutted with the blood of Papists, as they had, twenty years before, been glutted with the blood of regicides. When the first sufferers in the plot were brought to the bar, the witnesses for the defence were in danger of being torn in pieces by the mob. Judges, jurors, and spectators seemed equally indifferent to justice, and equally eager for revenge. Lord Stafford, the last sufferer, was pronounced not guilty by a large minority of his peers; and when he protested his innocence on the scaffold, the people cried out, “God bless you, my lord; we believe you, my lord.” The attempt to make a son of Lucy Waters King of England was alike offensive to the pride of the nobles and to the moral feeling of the middle class. The old Cavalier party, the great majority of the landed gentry, the clergy and the universities almost to a man, began to draw together, and to form in close array round the throne. A similar reaction had begun to take place in favour of Charles the First during the second session of the Long Parliament; and, if that prince had been honest or sagacious enough to keep himself strictly within the limits of the law, we have not the smallest doubt that he would in a few months have found himself at least as powerful as his best friends, Lord Falkland, Culpeper, or Hyde, would have wished to see him. By illegally impeaching the leaders of the Opposition, and by making in person a wicked attempt on the House of Commons, he stopped and turned back that tide of loyal feeling which was just beginning to run strongly. The son, quite as little restrained by law or by honour as the father, was, luckily for himself, a man of a lounging, careless temper, and, from temper, we believe, rather than from policy, escaped that great error which cost the father so dear. Instead of trying to pluck the fruit before it was ripe, he lay still till it fell mellow into his very mouth. If he had arrested Lord Shaftesbury and Lord Russell in a manner not warranted by law, it is not improbable that he would have ended his life in exile. He took the sure course. He employed only his legal prerogatives, and he found them amply sufficient for his purpose. During the first eighteen or nineteen years of his reign, he had been playing the game of his enemies. From 1678 to 1681 his enemies had played his game. They owed their power to his misgovernment. He owed the recovery of his power to their violence. The great body of the people came back to him after their estrangement with impetuous affection. He had scarcely been more popular when he landed on the coast of Kent than when, after several years of restraint and humiliation, he dissolved his last Parliament. Nevertheless, while this flux and reflux of opinion went on, the cause of public liberty was steadily gaining. There had been a great reaction in favour of the throne at the Restoration. But the Star-Chamber, the High Commission, the Ship-money, had for ever disappeared. There was now another similar reaction. But the Habeas Corpus Act had been passed during the short predominance of the Opposition, and it was not repealed. The King, however, supported as he was by the nation, was quite strong enough to inflict a terrible revenge on the party which had lately held him in bondage. In 1681 commenced the third of those periods in which we have divided the history of England from the Restoration to the Revolution. During this period a third great reaction took place. The excesses of tyranny restored to the cause of liberty the hearts which had been alienated from that cause by the excesses of faction. In 1681, the King had almost all his enemies at his feet. In 1688, the King was an exile in a strange land. The whole of that machinery which had lately been in motion against the Papists was now put in motion against the Whigs, browbeating judges, packed juries, lying witnesses, clamorous spectators. The ablest chief of the party fled to a foreign country and died there. The most virtuous man of the party was beheaded. Another of its most distinguished members preferred a voluntary death to the shame of a public execution. The boroughs on which the Government could not depend were, by means of legal quibbles, deprived of their charters; and their constitution was remodelled in such a manner as almost to ensure the return of representatives devoted to the Court. All parts of the kingdom sedulously sent up the most extravagant assurances of the love which they bore to their sovereign, and of the abhorrence with which they regarded those who questioned the divine origin or the boundless extent of his power. It is scarcely necessary to say that, in this hot competition of bigots and staves, the University of Oxford had the unquestioned pre-eminence. The glory of being further behind the age than any other portion of the British people, is one which that learned body acquired early, and has never lost. Charles died, and his brother came to the throne; but, though the person of the sovereign was changed, the love and awe with which the office was regarded were undiminished. Indeed, it seems that, of the two princes, James was, in spite of his religion, rather the favourite of the High Church party. He had been specially singled out as the mark of the Whigs; and this circumstance sufficed to make him the idol of the Tories. He called a parliament. The loyal gentry of the counties and the packed voters of the remodelled boroughs gave him a parliament such as England had not seen for a century, a parliament beyond all comparison the most obsequious that ever sate under a prince of the House of Stuart. One insurrectionary movement, indeed, took place in England, and another in Scotland. Both were put down with ease, and punished with tremendous severity. Even after that bloody circuit, which will never be forgotten while the English race exists in any part of the globe, no member of the House of Commons ventured to whisper even the mildest censure on Jeffreys. Edmund Waller, emboldened by his great age and his high reputation, attacked the cruelty of the military chiefs; and this is the brightest part of his long and checkered public life. But even Waller did not venture to arraign the still more odious cruelty of the Chief Justice. It is hardly too much to say that James, at that time, had little reason to envy the extent of authority possessed by Lewis the Fourteenth. By what means this vast power was in three years broken down, by what perverse and frantic misgovernment the tyrant revived the spirit of the vanquished Whigs, turned to fixed hostility the neutrality of the trimmers, and drove from him the landed gentry, the Church, the army, his own creatures, his own children, is well known to our readers. But we wish to say something about one part of the question, which in our own time has a little puzzled some very worthy men, and about which the author of the “Continuation” before us has said much with which we can by no means concur. James, it is said, declared himself a supporter of toleration. If he violated the constitution, he at least violated it for one of the noblest ends that any statesman ever had in view. His object was to free millions of his subjects from penal laws and disabilities which hardly any person now considers as just. He ought, therefore, to be regarded as blameless, or, at worst, as guilty only of employing irregular means to effect a most praiseworthy purpose. A very ingenious man, whom we believe to be a Catholic, Mr. Banim, has written a historical novel, of the literary merit of which we cannot speak very highly, for the purpose of inculcating this opinion. The editor of Mackintosh’s Fragments assures us, that the standard of James bore the nobler inscription, and so forth; the meaning of which is, that William and the other authors of the Revolution were vile Whigs who drove out James from being a Radical; that the crime of the King was his going further in liberality than his subjects: that he was the real champion of freedom; and that Somers, Locke, Newton, and other narrow-minded people of the same sort, were the real bigots and oppressors. Now, we admit that if the premises can be made out, the conclusion follows. If it can be shown that James did sincerely wish to establish perfect freedom of conscience, we shall think his conduct deserving of indulgence, if not of praise. We shall not be inclined to censure harshly even his illegal acts. We conceive that so noble and salutary an object would have justified resistance on the part of subjects. We can therefore scarcely deny that it would at least excuse encroachment on the part of a king. But it can be proved, we think, by the strongest evidence, that James had no such object in view, and that, under the pretence of establishing perfect religious liberty, he was trying to establish the ascendency and the exclusive dominion of the Church of Rome. It is true that he professed himself a supporter of toleration. Every sect clamours for toleration when it is down. We have not the smallest doubt that, when Bonner was in the Marshalsea, he thought it a very hard thing that a man should be locked up in a gaol for not being able to understand the words, “This is my body,” in the same way with the lords of the council. It would not be very wise to conclude that a beggar is full of Christian charity, because he assures you that God will reward you if you give him a penny; or that a soldier is humane because he cries out lustily for quarter when a bayonet is at his throat. The doctrine which from the very first origin of religious dissensions, has been held by all bigots of all sects, when condensed into a few words, and stripped of rhetorical disguise is simply this: I am in the right, and you are in the wrong. When you are the stronger you ought to tolerate me; for it is your duty to tolerate truth. But when I am the stronger, I shall persecute you; for it is my duty to persecute error. The Catholics lay under severe restraints in England. James wished to remove those restraints; and therefore he held a language favourable to liberty of conscience. But the whole history of his life proves that this was a mere pretence. In 1679 he held similar language, in a conversation with the magistrates of Amsterdam; and the author of the “Continuation” refers to the circumstance as a proof that the King had long entertained a strong feeling on the subject. Unhappily it proves only the utter insincerity of all the King’s later professions. If he had pretended to be converted to the doctrines of toleration after his accession to the throne, some credit might have been due to him. But we know most certainly that, in 1679, and long after that year, James was a most bloody and remorseless persecutor. After 1679, he was placed at the head of the government of Scotland. And what had been his conduct in that country? He had hunted down the scattered remnant of the Covenanters with a barbarity of which no other prince of modern times, Philip the Second excepted, had ever shown himself capable. He had indulged himself in the amusement of seeing the torture of the Boot inflicted on the wretched enthusiasts whom persecution had driven to resistance. After his accession, almost his first act was to obtain from the servile parliament of Scotland a law for inflicting death on preachers at conventicles held within houses, and on both preachers and hearers at conventicles held in the open air. All this he had done, for a religion which was not his own. All this he had done, not in defence of truth against error, but in defence of one damnable error against another, in defence of the Episcopalian against the Presbyterian apostasy. Lewis the Fourteenth is justly censured for trying to dragoon his subjects to heaven. But it was reserved for James to torture and murder for the difference between two roads to hell. And this man, so deeply imbued with the poison of intolerance that, rather than not persecute at all, he would persecute people out of one heresy into another, this man is held up as the champion of religious liberty. This man, who persecuted in the cause of the unclean panther, would not, we are told, have persecuted for the sake of the milk-white and immortal hind. And what was the conduct of James at the very time when he was professing zeal for the rights of conscience? Was he not even then persecuting to the very best of his power? Was he not employing all his legal prerogatives, and many prerogatives which were not legal, for the purpose of forcing his subjects to conform to his creed? While he pretended to abhor the laws which excluded Dissenters from office, was he not himself dismissing from office his ablest, his most experienced, his most faithful servants, on account of their religious opinions? For what offence was Lord Rochester driven from the Treasury? He was closely connected with the Royal House. He was at the head of the Tory party. He had stood firmly by James in the most trying emergencies. But he would not change his religion, and he was dismissed. That we may not be suspected of overstating the case, Dr. Lingard, a very competent, and assuredly not a very willing witness, shall speak for us. “The King,” says that able but partial writer, “was disappointed. He complained to Barillon of the obstinacy and insincerity of the treasurer; and the latter received from the French envoy a very intelligible hint that the loss of office would result from his adhesion to his religious creed. He was, however, inflexible; and James, after a long delay, communicated to him, but with considerable embarrassment and many tears, his final determination. He had hoped, he said, that Rochester, by conforming to the Church of Rome, would have spared him the unpleasant task; but kings must sacrifice their feelings to their duty.” And this was the King who wished to have all men of all sects rendered alike capable of holding office. These proceedings were alone sufficient to take away all credit from his liberal professions; and such, as we learn from the despatches of the Papal Nuncio, was really the effect. “Pare,” says D’Adda, writing a few days after the retirement of Rochester, “pare che gli animi sono inaspriti della voce che corre tra il popolo, d’esser cacciato il detto ministro per non essere Cattolico, percio tirarsi al esterminio de’ Protestanti” Was it ever denied that the favours of the Crown were constantly bestowed and withheld purely on account of the religious opinions of the claimants? And if these things were done in the green tree, what would have been done in the dry? If James acted thus when he had the strongest motives to court his Protestant subjects, what course was he likely to follow when he had obtained from them all that he asked? Who again was his closest ally? And what was the policy of that ally? The subjects of James, it is true, did not know half the infamy of their sovereign. They did not know, as we know, that, while he was lecturing them on the blessings of equal toleration, he was constantly congratulating his good brother Lewis on the success of that intolerant policy which had turned the fairest tracts of France into deserts, and driven into exile myriads of the most peaceable, industrious, and skilful artisans in the world. But the English did know that the two princes were bound together in the closest union. They saw their sovereign with toleration on his lips, separating himself from those states which had first set the example of toleration, and connecting himself by the strongest ties with the most faithless and merciless persecutor who could then be found on any continental throne. By what advice again was James guided? Who were the persons in whom he placed the greatest confidence, and who took the warmest interest in his schemes? The ambassador of France, the Nuncio of Rome, and Father Petre the Jesuit. And is not this enough to prove that the establishment of equal toleration was not his plan? Was Lewis for toleration? Was the Vatican for toleration? Was the order of Jesuits for toleration? We know that the liberal professions of James were highly approved by those very governments, by those very societies, whose theory and practice it notoriously was to keep no faith with heretics and to give no quarter to heretics. And are we, in order to save James’s reputation for sincerity, to believe that all at once those governments and those societies had changed their nature, had discovered the criminality of all their former conduct, had adopted principles far more liberal than those of Locke, of Leighton, or of Tillotson? Which is the more probable supposition, that the King who had revoked the edict of Nantes, the Pope under whose sanction the Inquisition was then imprisoning and burning, the religious order which, in every controversy in which it had ever been engaged, had called in the aid either of the magistrate or of the assassin, should have become as thorough-going friends to religious liberty as Dr. Franklin and Mr. Jefferson, or that a Jesuit-ridden bigot should be induced to dissemble for the good of the Church? The game which the Jesuits were playing was no new game. A hundred years before they had preached up political freedom, just as they were now preaching up religious freedom. They had tried to raise the republicans against Henry the Fourth and Elizabeth, just as they were now trying to raise the Protestant Dissenters against the Established Church. In the sixteenth century, the tools of Philip the Second were constantly preaching doctrines that bordered on Jacobinism, constantly insisting on the right of the people to cashier kings, and of every private citizen to plunge his dagger into the heart of a wicked ruler. In the seventeenth century, the persecutors of the Huguenots were crying out against the tyranny of the Established Church of England, and vindicating with the utmost fervour the right of every man to adore God after his own fashion. In both cases they were alike insincere. In both cases the fool who had trusted them would have found himself miserably duped. A good and wise man would doubtless disapprove of the arbitrary measures of Elizabeth. But would he have really served the interests of political liberty, if he had put faith in the professions of the Romish Casuists, joined their party, and taken a share in Northumberland’s revolt, or in Babington’s conspiracy? Would he not have been assisting to establish a far worse tyranny than that which he was trying to put down? In the same manner, a good and wise man would doubtless see very much to condemn in the conduct of the Church of England under the Stuarts. But was he therefore to join the King and the Catholics against that Church? And was it not plain that, by so doing, he would assist in setting up a spiritual despotism, compared with which the despotism of the Establishment was as a little finger to the loins, as a rod of whips to a rod of scorpions? Lewis had a far stronger mind than James. He had at least an equally high sense of honour. He was in a much less degree the slave of his priests. His Protestant subjects had all the security for their rights of conscience which law and solemn compact could give. Had that security been found sufficient? And was not one such instance enough for one generation? The plan of James seems to us perfectly intelligible. The toleration which, with the concurrence and applause of all the most cruel persecutors in Europe, he was offering to his people, was meant simply to divide them. This is the most obvious and vulgar of political artifices. We have seen it employed a hundred times within our own memory. At this moment we see the Carlists in France hallooing on the Extreme Left against the Centre Left. Four years ago the same trick was practised in England. We heard old buyers and sellers of boroughs, men who had been seated in the House of Commons by the unsparing use of ejectments, and who had, through their whole lives, opposed every measure which tended to increase the power of the democracy, abusing the Reform Bill as not democratic enough, appealing to the labouring classes, execrating the tyranny of the ten-pound householders, and exchanging compliments and caresses with the most noted incendiaries of our time. The cry of universal toleration was employed by James, just as the cry of universal suffrage was lately employed by some veteran Tories. The object of the mock democrats of our time was to produce a conflict between the middle classes and the multitude, and thus to prevent all reform. The object of James was to produce a conflict between the Church and the Protestant Dissenters, and thus to facilitate the victory of the Catholics over both. We do not believe that he could have succeeded. But we do not think his plan so utterly frantic and hopeless as it has generally been thought; and we are sure that, if he had been allowed to gain his first point, the people would have had no remedy left but an appeal to physical force, which would have been made under most unfavourable circumstances. He conceived that the Tories, hampered by their professions of passive obedience, would have submitted to his pleasure, and that the Dissenters, seduced by his delusive promises of relief, would have given him strenuous support. In this way he hoped to obtain a law, nominally for the removal of all religious disabilities, but really for the excluding of all Protestants from all offices. It is never to be forgotten that a prince who has all the patronage of the State in his hands can, without violating the letter of the law, establish whatever test he chooses. And, from the whole conduct of James, we have not the smallest doubt that he would have availed himself of his power to the utmost. The statute-book might declare all Englishmen equally capable of holding office; but to what end, if all offices were in the gift of a sovereign resolved not to employ a single heretic? We firmly believe that not one post in the government, in the army, in the navy, on the bench, or at the bar, not one peerage, nay not one ecclesiastical benefice in the royal gift, would have been bestowed on any Protestant of any persuasion. Even while the King had still strong motives to dissemble, he had made a Catholic Dean of Christ Church and a Catholic President of Magdalen College. There seems to be no doubt that the See of York was kept vacant for another Catholic. If James had been suffered to follow this course for twenty years, every military man from a general to a drummer, every officer of a ship, every judge, every King’s counsel, every lord-lieutenant of a county, every justice of the peace, every ambassador, every minister of state, every person employed in the royal household, in the custom-house, in the post-office, in the excise, would have been a Catholic. The Catholics would have had a majority in the House of Lords, even if that majority had been made, as Sunderland threatened, by bestowing coronets on a whole troop of the Guards. Catholics would have had, we believe, the chief weight even in the Convocation. Every bishop, every dean, every holder of a crown living, every head of every college which was subject to the royal power, would have belonged to the Church of Rome. Almost all the places of liberal education would have been under the direction of Catholics. The whole power of licensing books would have been in the hands of Catholics. All this immense mass of power would have been steadily supported by the arms and by the gold of France, and would have descended to an heir whose whole education would have been conducted with a view to one single end, the complete re-establishment of the Catholic religion. The House of Commons would have been the only legal obstacle. But the rights of a great portion of the electors were at the mercy of the courts of law; and the courts of law were absolutely dependent on the Crown. We cannot therefore think it altogether impossible that a House might have been packed which would have restored the days of Mary. We certainly do not believe that this would have been tamely borne. But we do believe that, if the nation had been deluded by the King’s professions of toleration, all this would have been attempted, and could have been averted only by a most bloody and destructive contest, in which the whole Protestant population would have been opposed to the Catholics. On the one side would have been a vast numerical superiority. But on the other side would have been the whole organization of government, and two great disciplined armies, that of James, and that of Lewis. We do not doubt that the nation would have achieved its deliverance. But we believe that the struggle would have shaken the whole fabric of society, and that the vengeance of the conquerors would have been terrible and unsparing. But James was stopped at the outset. He thought himself secure of the Tories, because they professed to consider all resistance as sinful, and of the Protestant Dissenters, because he offered them relief. He was in the wrong as to both. The error into which he fell about the Dissenters was very natural. But the confidence which he placed in the loyal assurances of the High Church party, was the most exquisitely ludicrous proof of folly that a politician ever gave. Only imagine a man acting for one single day on the supposition that all his neighbours believe all that they profess, and act up to all that they believe. Imagine a man acting on the supposition that he may safely offer the deadliest injuries and insults to everybody who says that revenge is sinful; or that he may safely intrust all his property without security to any person who says that it is wrong to steal. Such a character would be too absurd for the wildest farce. Yet the folly of James did not stop short of this incredible extent. Because the clergy had declared that resistance to oppression was in no case lawful, he conceived that he might oppress them exactly as much as he chose, without the smallest danger of resistance. He quite forgot that, when they magnified the royal prerogative, the prerogative was exerted on their side, that, when they preached endurance, they had nothing to endure, that, when they declared it unlawful to resist evil, none but Whigs and Dissenters suffered any evil. It had never occurred to him that a man feels the calamities of his enemies with one sort of sensibility, and his own with quite a different sort. It had never occurred to him as possible that a reverend divine might think it the duty of Baxter and Bunyan to bear insults and to lie in dungeons without murmuring, and yet when he saw the smallest chance that his own prebend might be transferred to some sly Father from Italy or Flanders, might begin to discover much matter for useful meditation in the texts touching Ehud’s knife and Jael’s hammer. His majesty was not aware, it should seem, that people do sometimes reconsider their opinions; and that nothing more disposes a man to reconsider his opinions, than a suspicion, that, if he adheres to them, he is very likely to be a beggar or a martyr. Yet it seems strange that these truths should have escaped the royal mind. Those Churchmen who had signed the Oxford Declaration in favour of passive obedience had also signed the thirty-nine Articles. And yet the very man who confidently expected that, by a little coaxing and bullying, he should induce them to renounce the Articles, was thunderstruck when he found that they were disposed to soften down the doctrines of the Declaration. Nor did it necessarily follow that, even if the theory of the Tories had undergone no modification, their practice would coincide with their theory. It might, one should think, have crossed the mind of a man of fifty, who had seen a great deal of the world, that people sometimes do what they think wrong. Though a prelate might hold that Paul directs us to obey even a Nero, it might not on that account be perfectly safe to treat the Right Reverend Father in God after the fashion of Nero, in the hope that he would continue to obey on the principles of Paul. The King indeed had only to look at home. He was at least as much attached to the Catholic Church as any Tory gentleman or clergyman could be to the Church of England. Adultery was at least as clearly and strongly condemned by his Church as resistance by the Church of England. Yet his priests could not keep him from Arabella Sedley. While he was risking his crown for the sake of his soul, he was risking his soul for the sake of an ugly, dirty mistress. There is something delightfully grotesque in the spectacle of a man who, while living in the habitual violation of his own known duties, is unable to believe that any temptation can draw any other person aside from the path of virtue. James was disappointed in all his calculations. His hope was that the Tories would follow their principles, and that the Nonconformists would follow their interests. Exactly the reverse took place. The great body of the Tories sacrificed the principle of non-resistance to their interests; the great body of Nonconformists rejected the delusive offers of the King, and stood firmly by their principles. The two parties whose strife had convulsed the empire during half a century were united for a moment; and all that vast royal power which three years before had seemed immovably fixed vanished at once like chaff in a hurricane. The very great length to which this article has already been extended makes it impossible for us to discuss, as we had meant to do, the characters and conduct of the leading English statesmen at this crisis. But we must offer a few remarks on the spirit and tendency of the Revolution of 1688. The editor of this volume quotes the Declaration of Right, and tells us that, by looking at it, we may “judge at a glance whether the authors of the Revolution achieved all they might and ought, in their position, to have achieved; whether the Commons of England did their duty to their constituents, their country, posterity, and universal freedom.” We are at a loss to imagine how he can have read and transcribed the Declaration of Right, and yet have so utterly misconceived its nature. That famous document is, as its very name imports, declaratory, and not remedial. It was never meant to be a measure of reform. It neither contained, nor was designed to contain, any allusion to those innovations which the authors of the Revolution considered as desirable, and which they speedily proceeded to make. The Declaration was merely a recital of certain old and wholesome laws which had been violated by the Stuarts, and a solemn protest against the validity of any precedent which might be set up in opposition to those laws. The words run thus: “They do claim, demand, and insist upon all and singular the premises as their undoubted rights and liberties.” Before a man begins to make improvements on his estate, he must know its boundaries. Before a legislature sits down to reform a constitution, it is fit to ascertain what that constitution really is. This is all that the Declaration was intended to do; and to quarrel with it because it did not directly introduce any beneficial changes is to quarrel with meat for not being fuel. The principle on which the authors of the Revolution acted cannot be mistaken. They were perfectly aware that the English institutions stood in need of reform. But they also knew that an important point was gained if they could settle once for all, by a solemn compact, the matters which had, during several generations, been in controversy between Parliament and the Crown. They therefore most judiciously abstained from mixing up the irritating and perplexing question of what ought to be the law with the plain question of what was the law. As to the claims set forth in the Declaration of Right, there was little room for debate, Whigs and Tories were generally agreed as to the illegality of the dispensing power and of taxation imposed by the royal prerogative. The articles were therefore adjusted in a very few days. But if the Parliament had determined to revise the whole constitution, and to provide new securities against misgovernment, before proclaiming the new sovereign, months would have been lost in disputes. The coalition which had delivered the country would have been instantly dissolved. The Whigs would have quarrelled with the Tories, the Lords with the Commons, the Church with the Dissenters; and all this storm of conflicting interests and conflicting theories would have been raging round a vacant throne. In the meantime, the greatest power on the Continent was attacking our allies, and meditating a descent on our own territories. Dundee was preparing to raise the Highlands. The authority of James was still owned by the Irish. If the authors of the Revolution had been fools enough to take this course, we have little doubt that Luxembourg would have been upon them in the midst of their constitution-making. They might probably have been interrupted in a debate on Filmer’s and Sydney’s theories of government by the entrance of the musqueteers of Lewis’s household, and have been marched off, two and two, to frame imaginary monarchies and commonwealths in the Tower. We have had in our own time abundant experience of the effects of such folly. We have seen nation after nation enslaved, because the friends of liberty wasted in discussions upon abstract questions the time which ought to have been employed in preparing for vigorous national defence. This editor, apparently, would have had the English Revolution of 1688 end as the Revolutions of Spain and Naples ended in our days. Thank God, our deliverers were men of a very different order from the Spanish and Neapolitan legislators. They might on many subjects hold opinions which, in the nineteenth century, would not be considered as liberal. But they were not dreaming pedants. They were statesmen accustomed to the management of great affairs. Their plans of reform were not so extensive as those of the lawgivers of Cadiz; but what they planned, that they effected; and what they effected, that they maintained against the fiercest hostility at home and abroad. Their first object was to seat William on the throne; and they were right. We say this without any reference to the eminent personal qualities of William, or to the follies and crimes of James. If the two princes had interchanged characters, our opinions would still have been the same. It was even more necessary to England at that time that her king should be a usurper than that he should be a hero. There could be no security for good government without a change of dynasty. The reverence for hereditary right and the doctrine of passive obedience had taken such a hold on the minds of the Tories, that, if James had been restored to power on any conditions, their attachment to him would in all probability have revived, as the indignation which recent oppression had produced faded from their minds. It had become indispensable to have a sovereign whose title to his throne was strictly bound up with the title of the nation to its liberties. In the compact between the Prince of Orange and the Convention, there was one most important article which, though not expressed, was perfectly understood by both parties, and for the performance of which the country had securities far better than all the engagements that Charles the First or Ferdinand the Seventh ever took in the day of their weakness, and broke in the day of their power. The article to which we allude was this, that William would in all things conform himself to what should appear to be the fixed and deliberate sense of his Parliament. The security for the performance was this, that he had no claim to the throne except the choice of Parliament, and no means of maintaining himself on the throne but the support of Parliament. All the great and inestimable reforms which speedily followed the Revolution were implied in those simple words; “The Lords Spiritual and Temporal, and Commons, assembled at Westminster, do resolve that William and Mary, Prince and Princess of Orange, be, and be declared King and Queen of England.” And what were the reforms of which we speak? We will shortly recount some which we think the most important; and we will then leave our readers to judge whether those who consider the Revolution as a mere change of dynasty, beneficial to a few aristocrats, but useless to the body of the people, or those who consider it as a happy era in the history of the British nation and of the human species, have judged more correctly of its nature. Foremost in the list of the benefits which our country owes to the Revolution we place the Toleration Act. It is true that this measure fell short of the wishes of the leading Whigs. It is true also that, where Catholics were concerned, even the most enlightened of the leading Whigs held opinions by no means so liberal as those which are happily common at the present day. Those distinguished statesmen did, however, make a noble, and, in some respects, a successful struggle for the rights of conscience. Their wish was to bring the great body of the Protestant Dissenters within the pale of the Church by judicious alterations in the Liturgy and the Articles, and to grant to those who still remained without that pale the most ample toleration. They framed a plan of comprehension which would have satisfied a great majority of the seceders; and they proposed the complete abolition of that absurd and odious test which, after having been, during a century and a half, a scandal to the pious and a laughing-stock to the profane, was at length removed in our time. The immense power of the Clergy and of the Tory gentry frustrated these excellent designs. The Whigs, however, did much. They succeeded in obtaining a law in the provisions of which a philosopher will doubtless find much to condemn, but which had the practical effect of enabling almost every Protestant Nonconformist to follow the dictates of his own conscience without molestation. Scarcely a law in the statute-book is theoretically more objectionable than the Toleration Act. But we question whether in the whole of that vast mass of legislation, from the Great Charter downwards, there be a single law which has so much diminished the sum of human suffering, which has done so much to allay bad passions, which has put an end to so much petty tyranny and vexation, which has brought gladness, peace, and a sense of security to so many private dwellings. The second of those great reforms which the Revolution produced was the final establishment of the Presbyterian Kirk in Scotland. We shall not now inquire whether the Episcopal or the Calvinistic form of church government be more agreeable to primitive practice. Far be it from us to disturb with our doubts the repose of any Oxonian Bachelor of Divinity who conceives that the English prelates with their baronies and palaces, their purple and their fine linen, their mitred carriages and their sumptuous tables, are the true successors of those ancient bishops who lived by catching fish and mending tents. We say only that the Scotch, doubtless from their own inveterate stupidity and malice, were not Episcopalians; that they could not be made Episcopalians; that the whole power of government had been in vain employed for the purpose of converting them; that the fullest instruction on the mysterious questions of the Apostolical succession and the imposition of hands had been imparted by the very logical process of putting the legs of the students into wooden boots, and driving two or more wedges between their knees; that a course of divinity lectures, of the most edifying kind, had been given in the Grassmarket of Edinburgh; yet that, in spite of all the exertions of those great theological professors, Lauderdale and Dundee, the Covenanters were as obstinate as ever. To the contest between the Scotch nation and the Anglican Church are to be ascribed near thirty years of the most frightful misgovernment ever seen in any part of Great Britain. If the Revolution had produced no other effect than that of freeing the Scotch from the yoke of an establishment which they detested, and giving them one to which they were attached, it would have been one of the happiest events in our history. The third great benefit which the country derived from the Revolution was the alteration in the mode of granting the supplies. It had been the practice to settle on every prince, at the commencement of his reign, the produce of certain taxes which, it was supposed, would yield a sum sufficient to defray the ordinary expenses of government. The distribution of the revenue was left wholly to the sovereign. He might be forced by a war, or by his own profusion, to ask for an extraordinary grant. But, if his policy were economical and pacific, he might reign many years without once being under the necessity of summoning his Parliament, or of taking their advice when he had summoned them. This was not all. The natural tendency of every society in which property enjoys tolerable security is to increase in wealth. With the national wealth, the produce of the customs, of the excise, and of the post-office, would of course increase; and thus it might well happen that taxes which, at the beginning of a long reign, were barely sufficient to support a frugal government in time of peace, might, before the end of that reign, enable the sovereign to imitate the extravagance of Nero or Heliogabalus, to raise great armies, to carry on expensive wars. Something of this sort had actually happened under Charles the Second, though his reign, reckoned from the Restoration, lasted only twenty-five years. His first Parliament settled on him taxes estimated to produce twelve hundred thousand pounds a year. This they thought sufficient, as they allowed nothing for a standing army in time of peace. At the time of Charles’s death, the annual produce of these taxes considerably exceeded a million and a half; and the King who, during the years which immediately followed his accession, was perpetually in distress, and perpetually asking his Parliaments for money, was at last able to keep a body of regular troops without any assistance from the House of Commons. If his reign had been as long as that of George the Third, he would probably, before the close of it, have been in the annual receipt of several millions over and above what the ordinary expenses of civil government required; and of those millions he would have been as absolutely master as the King now is of the sum allotted for his privy-purse. He might have spent them in luxury, in corruption, in paying troops to overawe his people, or in carrying into effect wild schemes of foreign conquest. The authors of the Revolution applied a remedy to this great abuse. They settled on the King, not the fluctuating produce of certain fixed taxes, but a fixed sum sufficient for the support of his own royal state. They established it as a rule that all the expenses of the army, the navy, and the ordnance should be brought annually under the review of the House of Commons, and that every sum voted should be applied to the service specified in the vote. The direct effect of this change was important. The indirect effect has been more important still. From that time the House of Commons has been really the paramount power in the State. It has, in truth, appointed and removed ministers, declared war, and concluded peace. No combination of the King and the Lords has ever been able to effect anything against the Lower House, backed by its constituents. Three or four times, indeed, the sovereign has been able to break the force of an opposition by dissolving the Parliament. But if that experiment should fail, if the people should be of the same mind with their representatives, he would clearly have no course left but to yield, to abdicate, or to fight. The next great blessing which we owe to the Revolution is the purification of the administration of justice in political cases. Of the importance of this change no person can judge who is not well acquainted with the earlier volumes of the State Trials. Those volumes are, we do not hesitate to say, the most frightful record of baseness and depravity that is extant in the world. Our hatred is altogether turned away from the crimes and the criminals, and directed against the law and its ministers. We see villanies as black as ever were imputed to any prisoner at any bar daily committed on the bench and in the jury-box. The worst of the bad acts which brought discredit on the old parliaments of France, the condemnation of Lally, for example, or even that of Calas, may seem praiseworthy when compared with the atrocities which follow each other in endless succession as we turn over that huge chronicle of the shame of England. The magistrates of Paris and Toulouse were blinded by prejudice, passion, or bigotry. But the abandoned judges of our own country committed murder with their eyes open. The cause of this is plain. In France there was no constitutional opposition. If a man held language offensive to the Government, he was at once sent to the Bastile or to Vincennes. But in England, at least after the days of the Long Parliament, the King could not, by a mere act of his prerogative, rid himself of a troublesome politician. He was forced to remove those who thwarted him by means of perjured witnesses, packed juries, and corrupt, hardhearted, browbeating judges. The Opposition naturally retaliated whenever they had the upper hand. Every time that the power passed from one party to the other, there was a proscription and a massacre, thinly disguised under the forms of judicial procedure. The tribunals ought to be sacred places of refuge, where, in all the vicissitudes of public affairs, the innocent of all parties may find shelter. They were, before the Revolution, an unclean public shambles, to which each party in its turn dragged its opponents, and where each found the same venal and ferocious butchers waiting for its custom. Papist or Protestant, Tory or Whig, Priest or Alderman, all was one to those greedy and savage natures, provided only there was money to earn, and blood to shed. Of course, these worthless judges soon created around them, as was natural, a breed of informers more wicked, if possible, than themselves. The trial by jury afforded little or no protection to the innocent. The juries were nominated by the sheriffs. The sheriffs were in most parts of England nominated by the Crown. In London, the great scene of political contention, those officers were chosen by the people. The fiercest parliamentary election of our time will give but a faint notion of the storm which raged in the city on the day when two infuriated parties, each bearing its badge, met to select the men in whose hands were to be the issues of life and death for the coming year. On that day, nobles of the highest descent did not think it beneath them to canvass and marshal the livery, to head the procession, and to watch the poll. On that day, the great chiefs of parties waited in an agony of suspense for the messenger who was to bring from Guildhall the news whether their lives and estates were, for the next twelve months, to be at the mercy of a friend or of a foe. In 1681, Whig sheriffs were chosen; and Shaftesbury defied the whole power of the Government. In 1682 the sheriffs were Tories. Shaftesbury fled to Holland. The other chiefs of the party broke up their councils, and retired in haste to their country seats. Sydney on the scaffold told those sheriffs that his blood was on their heads. Neither of them could deny the charge; and one of them wept with shame and remorse. Thus every man who then meddled with public affairs took his life in his hand. The consequence was that men of gentle natures stood aloof from contests in which they could not engage without hazarding their own necks and the fortunes of their children. This was the course adopted by Sir William Temple, by Evelyn, and by many other men who were, in every respect, admirably qualified to serve the State. On the other hand, those resolute and enterprising men who put their heads and lands to hazard in the game of politics naturally acquired, from the habit of playing for so deep a stake, a reckless and desperate turn of mind. It was, we seriously believe, as safe to be a highwayman as to be a distinguished leader of Opposition. This may serve to explain, and in some degree to excuse, the violence with which the factions of that age are justly reproached. They were fighting, not merely for office, but for life. If they reposed for a moment from the work of agitation, if they suffered the public excitement to flag, they were lost men. Hume, in describing this state of things, has employed an image which seems hardly to suit the general simplicity of his style, but which is by no means too strong for the occasion. “Thus,” says he, “the two parties actuated by mutual rage, but cooped up within the narrow limits of the law, levelled with poisoned daggers the most deadly blows against each other’s breast, and buried in their factious divisions all regard to truth, honour, and humanity.” From this terrible evil the Revolution set us free. The law which secured to the judges their seats during life or good behaviour did something. The law subsequently passed for regulating trials in cases of treason did much more. The provisions of that law show, indeed, very little legislative skill. It is not framed on the principle of securing the innocent, but on the principle of giving a great chance of escape to the accused, whether innocent or guilty. This, however, is decidedly a fault on the right side. The evil produced by the occasional escape of a bad citizen is not to be compared with the evils of that Reign of Terror, for such it was, which preceded the Revolution. Since the passing of this law scarcely one single person has suffered death in England as a traitor, who had not been convicted on overwhelming evidence, to the satisfaction of all parties, of the highest crime against the State. Attempts have been made in times of great excitement, to bring in persons guilty of high treason for acts which, though sometimes highly blamable, did not necessarily imply a design falling within the legal definition of treason. All those attempts have failed. During a hundred and forty years no statesman, while engaged in constitutional opposition to a government, has had the axe before his eyes. The smallest minorities, struggling against the most powerful majorities, in the most agitated times, have felt themselves perfectly secure. Pulteney and Fox wore the two most distinguished leaders of Opposition, since the Revolution. Both were personally obnoxious to the Court. But the utmost harm that the utmost anger of the Court could do to them was to strike off the “Right Honourable” from before their names. But of all the reforms produced by the Revolution, perhaps the most important was the full establishment of the liberty of unlicensed printing. The Censorship which, under some form or other, had existed, with rare and short intermissions, under every government, monarchical or republican, from the time of Henry the Eighth downwards, expired, and has never since been renewed. We are aware that the great improvements which we have recapitulated were, in many respects, imperfectly and unskilfully executed. The authors of those improvements sometimes, while they removed or mitigated a great practical evil, continued to recognise the erroneous principle from which that evil had sprung. Sometimes, when they had adopted a sound principle, they shrank from following it to all the conclusions to which it would have led them. Sometimes they failed to perceive that the remedies which they applied to one disease of the State were certain to generate another disease, and to render another remedy necessary. Their knowledge was inferior to ours: nor were they always able to act up to their knowledge. The pressure of circumstances, the necessity of compromising differences of opinion, the power and violence of the party which was altogether hostile to the new settlement, must be taken into the account. When these things are fairly weighed, there will, we think, be little difference of opinion among liberal and right-minded men as to the real value of what the great events of 1688 did for this country. We have recounted what appear to us the most important of those changes which the Revolution produced in our laws. The changes which it produced in our laws, however, were not more important than the change which it indirectly produced in the public mind, The Whig party had, during seventy years, an almost uninterrupted possession of power. It had always been the fundamental doctrine of that party, that power is a trust for the people; that it is given to magistrates, not for their own, but for the public advantage--that, where it is abused by magistrates, even by the highest of all, it may lawfully be withdrawn. It is perfectly true, that the Whigs were not more exempt than other men from the vices and infirmities of our nature, and that, when they had power, they sometimes abused it. But still they stood firm to their theory. That theory was the badge of their party. It was something more. It was the foundation on which rested the power of the houses of Nassau and Brunswick. Thus, there was a government interested in propagating a class of opinions which most governments are interested in discouraging, a government which looked with complacency on all speculations favourable to public liberty, and with extreme aversion on all speculations favourable to arbitrary power. There was a King who decidedly preferred a republican to a believer in the divine right of kings; who considered every attempt to exalt his prerogative as an attack on his title; and who reserved all his favours for those who declaimed on the natural equality of men, and the popular origin of government. This was the state of things from the Revolution till the death of George the Second. The effect was what might have been expected. Even in that profession which has generally been most disposed to magnify the prerogative, a great change took place. Bishopric after bishopric and deanery after deanery were bestowed on Whigs and Latitudinarians. The consequence was that Whiggism and Latitudinarianism were professed by the ablest and most aspiring churchmen. Hume complained bitterly of this at the close of his history. “The Whig party,” says he, “for a course of near seventy years, has almost without interruption enjoyed the whole authority of government, and no honours or offices could be obtained but by their countenance and protection. But this event, which in some particulars has been advantageous to the State, has proved destructive to the truth of history, and has established many gross falsehoods, which it is unaccountable how any civilised nation could have embraced, with regard to its domestic occurrences. Compositions the most despicable, both for style and matter,”--in a note he instances the writings of Locke, Sydney, Hoadley, and Rapin,--“have been extolled and propagated and read as if they had equalled the most celebrated remains of antiquity. And forgetting that a regard to liberty, though a laudable passion, ought commonly to be subservient to a reverence for established government, the prevailing faction has celebrated only the partisans of the former.” We will not here enter into an argument about the merit of Rapin’s History or Locke’s political speculations. We call Hume merely as evidence to a fact well known to all reading men, that the literature patronised by the English Court and the English ministry, during the first half of the eighteenth century, was of that kind which courtiers and ministers generally do all in their power to discountenance, and tended to inspire zeal for the liberties of the people rather than respect for the authority of the Government. There was still a very strong Tory party in England. But that party was in opposition. Many of its members still held the doctrine of passive obedience. But they did not admit that the existing dynasty had any claim to such obedience. They condemned resistance. But by resistance they meant the keeping out of James the Third, and not the turning out of George the Second. No radical of our times could grumble more at the expenses of the royal household, could exert himself more strenuously to reduce the military establishment, could oppose with more earnestness every proposition for arming the executive with extraordinary powers, or could pour more unmitigated abuse on placemen and courtiers. If a writer were now, in a massive Dictionary, to define a Pensioner as a traitor and a slave, the Excise as a hateful tax, the Commissioners of the Excise as wretches, if he were to write a satire full of reflections on men who receive “the price of boroughs and of souls,” who “explain their country’s dear-bought rights away,” or “whom pensions can incite, To vote a patriot black, a courtier white,” we should set him down for something more democratic than a Whig. Yet this was the language which Johnson, the most bigoted of Tories and High Churchmen held under the administration of Walpole and Pelham. Thus doctrines favourable to public liberty were inculcated alike by those who were in power and by those who were in opposition. It was by means of these doctrines alone that the former could prove that they had a King de jure. The servile theories of the latter did not prevent them from offering every molestation to one whom they considered as merely a King de facto. The attachment of one party to the House of Hanover, of the other to that of Stuart, induced both to talk a language much more favourable to popular rights than to monarchical power. What took place at the first representation of Cato is no bad illustration of the way in which the two great sections of the community almost invariably acted. A play, the whole merit of which consists in its stately rhetoric sometimes not unworthy of Lucan, about hating tyrants and dying for freedom, is brought on the stage in a time of great political excitement. Both parties crowd to the theatre. Each affects to consider every line as a compliment to itself, and an attack on its opponents. The curtain falls amidst an unanimous roar of applause. The Whigs of the Kit Cat embrace the author, and assure him that he has rendered an inestimable service to liberty. The Tory secretary of state presents a purse to the chief actor for defending the cause of liberty so well. The history of that night was, in miniature, the history of two generations. We well know how much sophistry there was in the reasonings, and how much exaggeration in the declamations of both parties. But when we compare the state in which political science was at the close of the reign of George the Second with the state in which it had been when James the Second came to the throne, it is impossible not to admit that a prodigious improvement had taken place. We are no admirers of the political doctrines laid down in Blackstone’s Commentaries. But if we consider that those Commentaries were read with great applause in the very schools where, seventy or eighty years before, books had been publicly burned by order of the University of Oxford for containing the damnable doctrine that the English monarchy is limited and mixed, we cannot deny that a salutary change had taken place. “The Jesuits,” says Pascal, in the last of his incomparable letters, “have obtained a Papal decree, condemning Galileo’s doctrine about the motion of the earth. It is all in vain. If the world is really turning round, all mankind together will not be able to keep it from turning, or to keep themselves from turning with it.” The decrees of Oxford were as ineffectual to stay the great moral and political revolution as those of the Vatican to stay the motion of our globe. That learned University found itself not only unable to keep the mass from moving, but unable to keep itself from moving along with the mass. Nor was the effect of the discussions and speculations of that period confined to our own country. While the Jacobite party was in the last dotage and weakness of its paralytic old age, the political philosophy of England began to produce a mighty effect on France, and, through France, on Europe. Here another vast field opens itself before us. But we must resolutely turn away from it. We will conclude by advising all our readers to study Sir James Mackintosh’s valuable Fragment, and by expressing our hope that they will soon be able to study it without those accompaniments which have hitherto impeded its circulation. HORACE WALPOLE (October 1833) _Letters of Horace Walpole, Earl of Orford, to Sir Horace Mann, British Envoy at the Court of Tuscany. Now first published from the Originals in the Possession of the EARL OF WALDEGRAVE. Edited by LORD DOVER 2 vols. 8vo. London: 1833._ WE cannot transcribe this title-page without strong feelings of regret. The editing of these volumes was the last of the useful and modest services rendered to literature by a nobleman of amiable manners, of untarnished public and private character, and of cultivated mind. On this, as on other occasions, Lord Dover performed his part diligently, judiciously, and without the slightest ostentation. He had two merits which are rarely found together in a commentator, he was content to be merely a commentator, to keep in the background, and to leave the foreground to the author whom he had undertaken to illustrate. Yet, though willing to be an attendant, he was by no means a slave; nor did he consider it as part of his duty to see no faults in the writer to whom he faithfully and assiduously rendered the humblest literary offices. The faults of Horace Walpole’s head and heart are indeed sufficiently glaring. His writings, it is true, rank as high among the delicacies of intellectual epicures as the Strasburg pies among the dishes described in the Almanach des Gourmands. But as the pate-de-foie-gras owes its excellence to the diseases of the wretched animal which furnishes it, and would be good for nothing if it were not made of livers preternaturally swollen, so none but an unhealthy and disorganised mind could have produced such literary luxuries as the works of Walpole. He was, unless we have formed a very erroneous judgment of his character, the most eccentric, the most artificial, the most fastidious, the most capricious of men. His mind was a bundle of inconsistent whims and affectations. His features were covered by mask within mask. When the outer disguise of obvious affectation was removed, you were still as far as ever from seeing the real man. He played innumerable parts and over-acted them all. When he talked misanthropy, he out-Timoned Timon. When he talked philanthropy, he left Howard at an immeasurable distance. He scoffed at courts, and kept a chronicle of their most trifling scandal; at society, and was blown about by its slightest veerings of opinion; at literary fame, and left fair copies of his private letters, with copious notes, to be published after his decease; at rank, and never for a moment forgot that he was an Honourable; at the practice of entail, and tasked the ingenuity of conveyancers to tie up his villa in the strictest settlement. The conformation of his mind was such that whatever was little seemed to him great, and whatever was great seemed to him little. Serious business was a trifle to him, and trifles were his serious business. To chat with blue-stockings, to write little copies of complimentary verses on little occasions, to superintend a private press, to preserve from natural decay the perishable topics of Ranelagh and White’s, to record divorces and bets, Miss Chudleigh’s absurdities and George Selwyn’s good sayings, to decorate a grotesque house with pie-crust battlements, to procure rare engravings and antique chimney-boards, to match odd gauntlets, to lay out a maze of walks within five acres of ground, these were the grave employments of his long life. From these he turned to politics as to an amusement. After the labours of the print-shop and the auction-room, he unbent his mind in the House of Commons. And, having indulged in the recreation of making laws and voting millions, he returned to more important pursuits, to researches after Queen Mary’s comb, Wolsey’s red hat, the pipe which Van Tromp smoked during his last sea-fight, and the spur which King William struck into the flank of Sorrel. In everything in which Walpole busied himself, in the fine arts, in literature, in public affairs, he was drawn by some strange attraction from the great to the little, and from the useful to the odd. The politics in which he took the keenest interests, were politics scarcely deserving of the name. The growlings of George the Second, the flirtations of Princess Emily with the Duke of Grafton, the amours of Prince Frederic and Lady Middlesex, the squabbles between Gold Stick in waiting and the Master of the Buckhounds, the disagreements between the tutors of Prince George, these matters engaged almost all the attention which Walpole could spare from matters more important still, from bidding for Zinckes and Petitots, from cheapening fragments of tapestry and handles of old lances, from joining bits of painted glass, and from setting up memorials of departed cats and dogs. While he was fetching and carrying the gossip of Kensington Palace and Carlton House, he fancied that he was engaged in politics, and when he recorded that gossip, he fancied that he was writing history. He was, as he has himself told us, fond of faction as an amusement. He loved mischief: but he loved quiet; and he was constantly on the watch for opportunities of gratifying both his tastes at once. He sometimes contrived, without showing himself, to disturb the course of ministerial negotiations, and to spread confusion through the political circles. He does not himself pretend that, on these occasions, he was actuated by public spirit; nor does he appear to have had any private advantage in view. He thought it a good practical joke to set public men together by the ears; and he enjoyed their perplexities, their accusations, and their recriminations, as a malicious boy enjoys the embarrassment of a misdirected traveller. About politics, in the high sense of the word, he knew nothing, and cared nothing. He called himself a Whig. His father’s son could scarcely assume any other name. It pleased him also to affect a foolish dislike of kings as kings, and a foolish love and admiration of rebels as rebels; and perhaps, while kings were not in danger, and while rebels were not in being, he really believed that he held the doctrines which he professed. To go no further than the letters now before us, he is perpetually boasting to his friend Mann of his aversion to royalty and to royal persons. He calls the crime of Damien “that least bad of murders, the murder of a king.” He hung up in his villa an engraving of the death-warrant of Charles, with the inscription “Major Charta.” Yet the most superficial knowledge of history might have taught him that the Restoration, and the crimes and follies of the twenty-eight years which followed the Restoration, were the effects of this Greater Charter. Nor was there much in the means by which that instrument was obtained that could gratify a judicious lover of liberty. A man must hate kings very bitterly, before he can think it desirable that the representatives of the people should be turned out of doors by dragoons, in order to get at a king’s head. Walpole’s Whiggism, however, was of a very harmless kind. He kept it, as he kept the old spears and helmets at Strawberry Hill, merely for show. He would just as soon have thought of taking down the arms of the ancient Templars and Hospitallers from the walls of his hall, and setting off on a crusade to the Holy Land, as of acting in the spirit of those daring warriors and statesmen, great even in their errors, whose names and seals were affixed to the warrant which he prized so highly. He liked revolution and regicide only when they were a hundred years old. His republicanism, like the courage of a bully, or the love of a fribble, was strong and ardent when there was no occasion for it, and subsided when he had an opportunity of bringing it to the proof. As soon as the revolutionary spirit really began to stir in Europe, as soon as the hatred of kings became something more than a sonorous phrase, he was frightened into a fanatical royalist, and became one of the most extravagant alarmists of those wretched times. In truth, his talk about liberty, whether he knew it or not, was from the beginning a mere cant, the remains of a phraseology which had meant something in the mouths of those from whom he had learned it, but which, in his mouth, meant about as much as the oath by which the Knights of some modern orders bind themselves to redress the wrongs of all injured ladies. He had been fed in his boyhood with Whig speculations on government. He must often have seen, at Houghton or in Downing Street, men who had been Whigs when it was as dangerous to be a Whig as to be a highwayman, men who had voted for the Exclusion Bill, who had been concealed in garrets and cellars after the battle of Sedgemoor, and who had set their names to the declaration that they would live and die with the Prince of Orange. He had acquired the language of these men, and he repeated it by rote, though it was at variance with all his tastes and feelings; just as some old Jacobite families persisted in praying for the Pretender, and in passing their glasses over the water decanter when they drank the King’s health, long after they had become loyal supporters of the government of George the Third. He was a Whig by the accident of hereditary connection; but he was essentially a courtier; and not the less a courtier because he pretended to sneer at the objects which excited his admiration and envy. His real tastes perpetually show themselves through the thin disguise. While professing all the contempt of Bradshaw or Ludlow for crowned heads, he took the trouble to write a book concerning Royal Authors. He pryed with the utmost anxiety into the most minute particulars relating to the Royal family. When, he was a child, he was haunted with a longing to see George the First, and gave his mother no peace till she had found a way of gratifying his curiosity. The same feeling, covered with a thousand disguises, attended him to the grave. No observation that dropped from the lips of Majesty seemed to him too trifling to be recorded. The French songs of Prince Frederic, compositions certainly not deserving of preservation on account of their intrinsic merit, have been carefully preserved for us by this contemner of royalty. In truth, every page of Walpole’s works betrays him. This Diogenes, who would be thought to prefer his tub to a palace, and who has nothing to ask of the masters of Windsor and Versailles but that they will stand out of his light, is a gentleman-usher at heart. He had, it is plain, an uneasy consciousness of the frivolity of his favourite pursuits; and this consciousness produced one of the most diverting of his ten thousand affectations. His busy idleness, his indifference to matters which the world generally regards as important, his passion for trifles, he thought fit to dignify with the name of philosophy. He spoke of himself as of a man whose equanimity was proof to ambitious hopes and fears, who had learned to rate power, wealth, and fame at their true value, and whom the conflict of parties, the rise and fall of statesmen, the ebb and flow of public opinion, moved only to a smile of mingled compassion and disdain. It was owing to the peculiar elevation of his character that he cared about a pinnacle of lath and plaster more than about the Middlesex election, and about a miniature of Grammont more than about the American Revolution. Pitt and Murray might talk themselves hoarse about trifles. But questions of government and war were too insignificant to detain a mind which was occupied in recording the scandal of club-rooms and the whispers of the back-stairs, and which was even capable of selecting and disposing chairs of ebony and shields of rhinoceros-skin. One of his innumerable whims was an extreme unwillingness to be considered a man of letters. Not that he was indifferent to literary fame. Far from it. Scarcely any writer has ever troubled himself so much about the appearance which his works were to make before posterity. But he had set his heart on incompatible objects. He wished to be a celebrated author, and yet to be a mere idle gentleman, one of those Epicurean gods of the earth who do nothing at all, and who pass their existence in the contemplation of their own perfections. He did not like to have anything in common with the wretches who lodged in the little courts behind St. Martin’s Church, and stole out on Sundays to dine with their bookseller. He avoided the society of authors. He spoke with lordly contempt of the most distinguished among them. He tried to find out some way of writing books, as M. Jourdain’s father sold cloth, without derogating from his character of Gentilhomme. “Lui, marchand? C’est pure médisance: il ne l’a jamais été. Tout ce qu’il faisait, c’est qu’il était fort obligeant, fort officieux; et comme il se connaissait fort bien en étoffes, il en allait choisir de tons les cotes, les faisait apporter chez lui, et en donnait a ses amis pour de l’argent.” There are several amusing instances of Walpole’s feeling on this subject in the letters now before us. Mann had complimented him on the learning which appeared in the Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors; and it is curious to see how impatiently Walpole bore the imputation of having attended to anything so unfashionable as the improvement of his mind. “I know nothing. How should I? I who have always lived in the big busy world; who lie a-bed all the morning, calling it morning as long as you please; who sup in company; who have played at faro half my life, and now at loo till two and three in the morning; who have always loved pleasure; haunted auctions.... How I have laughed when some of the Magazines have called me the learned gentleman. Pray don’t be like the Magazines.” This folly might be pardoned in a boy. But a man between forty and fifty years old, as Walpole then was, ought to be quite as much ashamed of playing at loo till three every morning as of being that vulgar thing, a learned gentleman. The literary character has undoubtedly its full share of faults, and of very serious and offensive faults. If Walpole had avoided those faults, we could have pardoned the fastidiousness with which he declined all fellowship with men of learning. But from those faults Walpole was not one jot more free than the garreteers from whose contact he shrank. Of literary meannesses and literary vices, his life and his works contain as many instances as the life and the works of any member of Johnson’s club. The fact is, that Walpole had the faults of Grub Street, with a large addition from St. James’s Street, the vanity, the jealousy, and the irritability of a man of letters, the affected superciliousness and apathy of a man of ton. His judgment of literature, of contemporary literature especially, was altogether perverted by his aristocratical feelings. No writer surely was ever guilty of so much false and absurd criticism. He almost invariably speaks with contempt of those books which are now universally allowed to be the best that appeared in his time; and, on the other hand, he speaks of writers of rank and fashion as if they were entitled to the same precedence in literature which would have been allowed to them in a drawing-room. In these letters, for example, he says that he would rather have written the most absurd lines in Lee than Thomson’s Seasons. The periodical paper called The World, on the other hand, was by “our first writers.” Who, then, were the first writers of England in the year 1750? Walpole has told us in a note. Our readers will probably guess that Hume, Fielding, Smollett, Richardson, Johnson, Warburton, Collins, Akenside, Gray, Dyer, Young, Warton, Mason, or some of those distinguished men, were in the list. Not one of them. Our first writers, it seems, were Lord Chesterfield, Lord Bath, Mr. W. Whithed, Sir Charles Williams, Mr. Soame Jenyns, Mr. Cambridge, Mr. Coventry. Of these seven personages, Whithed was the lowest in station, but was the most accomplished tuft-hunter of his time. Coventry was of a noble family. The other five had among them two seats in the House of Lords, two seats in the House of Commons, three seats in the Privy Council, a baronetcy, a blue riband, a red riband, about a hundred thousand pounds a year, and not ten pages that are worth reading. The writings of Whithed, Cambridge, Coventry, and Lord Bath are forgotten. Soame Jenyns is remembered chiefly by Johnson’s review of the foolish Essay on the Origin of Evil. Lord Chesterfield stands much lower in the estimation of posterity than he would have done if his letters had never been published. The lampoons of Sir Charles Williams are now read only by the curious, and, though not without occasional flashes of wit, have always seemed to us, we must own, very poor performances. Walpole judged of French literature after the same fashion. He understood and loved the French language. Indeed, he loved it too well. His style is more deeply tainted with Gallicism than that of any other English writer with whom we are acquainted. His composition often reads, for a page together, like a rude translation from the French. We meet every minute with such sentences as these, “One knows what temperaments Annibal Caracci painted.” “The impertinent personage!” “She is dead rich.” “Lord Dalkeith is dead of the small-pox in three days.” “It will now be seen whether he or they are most patriot.” His love of the French language was of a peculiar kind. He loved it as having been for a century the vehicle of all the polite nothings of Europe, as the sign by which the freemasons of fashion recognised each other in every capital from Petersburgh to Naples, as the language of raillery, as the language of anecdote, as the language of memoirs, as the language of correspondence. Its higher uses he altogether disregarded. The literature of France has been to ours what Aaron was to Moses, the expositor of great truths which would else have perished for want of a voice to utter them with distinctness. The relation which existed between Mr. Bentham and M. Dumont is an exact illustration of the intellectual relation in which the two countries stand to each other. The great discoveries in physics, in metaphysics, in political science, are ours. But scarcely any foreign nation except France has received them from us by direct communication. Isolated by our situation, isolated by our manners, we found truth, but we did not impart it. France has been the interpreter between England and mankind. In the time of Walpole, this process of interpretation was in full activity. The great French writers were busy in proclaiming through Europe the names of Bacon, of Newton, and of Locke. The English principles of toleration, the English respect for personal liberty, the English doctrine that all power is a trust for the public good, were making rapid progress. There is scarcely anything in history so interesting as that great stirring up of the mind of France, that shaking of the foundations of all established opinions, that uprooting of old truth and old error. It was plain that mighty principles were at work whether for evil or for good. It was plain that a great change in the whole social system was at hand. Fanatics of one kind might anticipate a golden age, in which men should live under the simple dominion of reason, in perfect equality and perfect amity, without property, or marriage, or king, or God. A fanatic of another kind might see nothing in the doctrines of the philosophers but anarchy and atheism, might cling more closely to every old abuse, and might regret the good old days when St. Dominic and Simon de Montfort put down the growing heresies of Provence. A wise man would have seen with regret the excesses into which the reformers were running; but he would have done justice to their genius and to their philanthropy. He would have censured their errors; but he would have remembered that, as Milton has said, error is but opinion in the making. While he condemned their hostility to religion, he would have acknowledged that it was the natural effect of a system under which religion had been constantly exhibited to them in forms which common sense rejected and at which humanity shuddered. While he condemned some of their political doctrines as incompatible with all law, all property, and all civilisation, he would have acknowledged that the subjects of Lewis the Fifteenth had every excuse which men could have for being eager to pull down, and for being ignorant of the far higher art of setting up. While anticipating a fierce conflict, a great and wide-wasting destruction, he would yet have looked forward to the final close with a good hope for France and for mankind. Walpole had neither hopes nor fears. Though the most Frenchified English writer of the eighteenth century, he troubled himself little about the portents which were daily to be discerned in the French literature of his time. While the most eminent Frenchmen were studying with enthusiastic delight English politics and English philosophy, he was studying as intently the gossip of the old court of France. The fashions and scandal of Versailles and Marli, fashions and scandal a hundred years old, occupied him infinitely more than a great moral revolution which was taking place in his sight. He took a prodigious interest in every noble sharper whose vast volume of wig and infinite length of riband had figured at the dressing or at the tucking up of Lewis the Fourteenth, and of every profligate woman of quality who had carried her train of lovers backward and forward from king to parliament, and from parliament to king, during the wars of the Fronde. These were the people of whom he treasured up the smallest memorial, of whom he loved to hear the most trifling anecdote, and for whose likenesses he would have given any price. Of the great French writers of his own time, Montesquieu is the only one of whom he speaks with enthusiasm. And even of Montesquieu he speaks with less enthusiasm than of that abject thing, Crebillon the younger, a scribbler as licentious as Louvet and as dull as Rapin. A man must be strangely constituted who can take interest in pedantic journals of the blockades laid by the Duke of A. to the hearts of the Marquise de B. and the Comtesse de C. This trash Walpole extols in language sufficiently high for the merits of Don Quixote. He wished to possess a likeness of Crebillon; and Liotard, the first painter of miniatures then living, was employed to preserve the features of the profligate dunce. The admirer of the Sopha and of the Lettres Atheniennes had little respect to spare for the men who were then at the head of French literature. He kept carefully out of their way. He tried to keep other people from paying them any attention. He could not deny that Voltaire and Rousseau were clever men; but he took every opportunity of depreciating them. Of D’Alembert he spoke with a contempt which, when the intellectual powers of the two men are compared, seems exquisitely ridiculous. D’Alembert complained that he was accused of having written Walpole’s squib against Rousseau. “I hope,” says Walpole, “that nobody will attribute D’Alembert’s works to me.” He was in little danger. It is impossible to deny, however, that Walpole’s writings have real merit, and merit of a very rare, though not of a very high kind. Sir Joshua Reynolds used to say that, though nobody would for a moment compare Claude to Raphael, there would be another Raphael before there was another Claude. And we own that we expect to see fresh Humes and fresh Burkes before we again fall in with that peculiar combination of moral and intellectual qualities to which the writings of Walpole owe their extraordinary popularity. It is easy to describe him by negatives. He had not a creative imagination. He had not a pure taste. He was not a great reasoner. There is indeed scarcely any writer in whose works it would be possible to find so many contradictory judgments, so many sentences of extravagant nonsense. Nor was it only in his familiar correspondence that he wrote in this flighty and inconsistent manner, but in long and elaborate books, in books repeatedly transcribed and intended for the public eye. We will give an instance or two; for without instances readers not very familiar with his works will scarcely understand our meaning. In the Anecdotes of Painting, he states, very truly, that the art declined after the commencement of the civil wars. He proceeds to inquire why this happened. The explanation, we should have thought, would have been easily found. He might have mentioned the loss of a king who was the most munificent and judicious patron that the fine arts have ever had in England, the troubled state of the country, the distressed condition of many of the aristocracy, perhaps also the austerity of the victorious party. These circumstances, we conceive, fully account for the phaenomenon. But this solution was not odd enough to satisfy Walpole. He discovers another cause for the decline of the art, the want of models. Nothing worth painting, it seems, was left to paint. “How picturesque,” he exclaims, “was the figure of an Anabaptist!”--as if puritanism had put out the sun and withered the trees; as if the civil wars had blotted out the expression of character and passion from the human lip and brow; as if many of the men whom Vandyke painted had not been living in the time of the Commonwealth, with faces little the worse for wear; as if many of the beauties afterwards portrayed by Lely were not in their prime before the Restoration; as if the garb or the features of Cromwell and Milton were less picturesque than those of the round-faced peers, as like each other as eggs to eggs, who look out from the middle of the periwigs of Kneller. In the Memoirs, again, Walpole sneers at the Prince of Wales, afterwards George the Third, for presenting a collection of books to one of the American colleges during the Seven Years’ War, and says that, instead of books, his Royal Highness ought to have sent arms and ammunition, as if a war ought to suspend all study and all education; or as if it were the business of the Prince of Wales to supply the colonies with military stores out of his own pocket. We have perhaps dwelt too long on these passages; but we have done so because they are specimens of Walpole’s manner. Everybody who reads his works with attention will find that they swarm with loose and foolish observations like those which we have cited; observations which might pass in conversation or in a hasty letter, but which are unpardonable in books deliberately written and repeatedly corrected. He appears to have thought that he saw very far into men; but we are under the necessity of altogether dissenting from his opinion. We do not conceive that he had any power of discerning the finer shades of character. He practised an art, however, which, though easy and even vulgar, obtains for those who practise it the reputation of discernment with ninety-nine people out of a hundred. He sneered at everybody, put on every action the worst construction which it would bear, “spelt every man backward,” to borrow the Lady Hero’s phrase, “Turned every man the wrong side out, And never gave to truth and virtue that Which simpleness and merit purchaseth.” In this way any man may, with little sagacity and little trouble, be considered by those whose good opinion is not worth having as a great judge of character. It is said that the hasty and rapacious Kneller used to send away the ladies who sate to him as soon as he had sketched their faces, and to paint the figure and hands from his housemaid. It was in much the same way that Walpole portrayed the minds of others. He copied from the life only those glaring and obvious peculiarities which could not escape the most superficial observation. The rest of the canvas he filled up, in a careless dashing way, with knave and fool, mixed in such proportions as pleased Heaven. What a difference between these daubs and the masterly portraits of Clarendon! There are contradictions without end in the sketches of character which abound in Walpole’s works. But if we were to form our opinion of his eminent contemporaries from a general survey of what he has written concerning them, we should say that Pitt was a strutting, ranting, mouthing actor, Charles Townshend an impudent and voluble jack-pudding, Murray a demure, cold-blooded, cowardly hypocrite, Hardwicke an insolent upstart, with the understanding of a pettifogger and the heart of a hangman, Temple an impertinent poltroon, Egmont a solemn coxcomb, Lyttelton a poor creature whose only wish was to go to heaven in a coronet, Onslow a pompous proser, Washington a braggart, Lord Camden sullen, Lord Townshend malevolent, Secker an atheist who had shammed Christian for a mitre, Whitefield an impostor who swindled his converts out of their watches. The Walpoles fare little better than their neighbours. Old Horace is constantly represented as a coarse, brutal, niggardly buffoon, and his son as worthy of such a father. In short, if we are to trust this discerning judge of human nature, England in his time contained little sense and no virtue, except what was distributed between himself, Lord Waldegrave, and Marshal Conway. Of such a writer it is scarcely necessary to say, that his works are destitute of every charm which is derived from elevation, or from tenderness of sentiment. When he chose to be humane and magnanimous,--for he sometimes, by way of variety, tried this affectation,--he overdid his part most ludicrously. None of his many disguises sat so awkwardly upon him. For example, he tells us that he did not choose to be intimate with Mr. Pitt. And why? Because Mr. Pitt had been among the persecutors of his father? Or because, as he repeatedly assures us, Mr. Pitt was a disagreeable man in private? Not at all; but because Mr. Pitt was too fond of war, and was great with too little reluctance. Strange that a habitual scoffer like Walpole should imagine that this cant could impose on the dullest reader! If Moliere had put such a speech into the mouth of Tartuffe, we should have said that the fiction was unskilful, and that Orgon could not have been such a fool as to be taken in by it. Of the twenty-six years during which Walpole sat in Parliament, thirteen were years of war. Yet he did not, during all those thirteen years, utter a single word or give a single vote tending to peace. His most intimate friend, the only friend, indeed, to whom he appears to have been sincerely attached, Conway, was a soldier, was fond of his profession, and was perpetually entreating Mr. Pitt to give him employment. In this Walpole saw nothing but what was admirable. Conway was a hero for soliciting the command of expeditions which Mr. Pitt was a monster for sending out. What then is the charm, the irresistible charm, of Walpole’s writings? It consists, we think, in the art of amusing without exciting. He never convinces the reason or fills the imagination, or touches the heart; but he keeps the mind of the reader constantly attentive and constantly entertained. He had a strange ingenuity peculiarly his own, an ingenuity which appeared in all that he did, in his building, in his gardening, in his upholstery, in the matter and in the manner of his writings. If we were to adopt the classification, not a very accurate classification, which Akenside has given of the pleasures of the imagination, we should say that with the Sublime and the Beautiful Walpole had nothing to do, but that the third province, the Odd, was his peculiar domain. The motto which he prefixed to his Catalogue of Royal and Noble Authors might have been inscribed with perfect propriety over the door of every room in his house, and on the title-page of every one of his books; “Dove Diavolo, Messer Ludovico, avete pigliate tante coglionerie?” In his villa, every apartment is a museum; every piece of furniture is a curiosity; there is something strange in the form of the shovel; there is a long story belonging to the bell-rope. We wander among a profusion of rarities, of trifling intrinsic value, but so quaint in fashion, or connected with such remarkable names and events, that they may well detain our attention for a moment. A moment is enough. Some new relic, some new unique, some new carved work, some new enamel, is forthcoming in an instant. One cabinet of trinkets is no sooner closed than another is opened. It is the same with Walpole’s writings. It is not in their utility, it is not in their beauty, that their attraction lies. They are to the works of great historians and poets, what Strawberry Hill is to the Museum of Sir Hans Sloane or to the Gallery of Florence. Walpole is constantly showing us things, not of very great value indeed, yet things which we are pleased to see, and which we can see nowhere else. They are baubles; but they are made curiosities either by his grotesque workmanship or by some association belonging to them. His style is one of those peculiar styles by which everybody is attracted, and which nobody can safely venture to imitate. He is a mannerist whose manner has become perfectly easy to him, His affectation is so habitual and so universal that it can hardly be called affectation. The affectation is the essence of the man. It pervades all his thoughts and all his expressions. If it were taken away, nothing would be left. He coins new words, distorts the senses of old words, and twists sentences into forms which make grammarians stare. But all this he does, not only with an air of ease, but as if he could not help doing it. His wit was, in its essential properties, of the same kind with that of Cowley and Donne. Like theirs, it consisted in an exquisite perception of points of analogy and points of contrast too subtile for common observation. Like them, Walpole perpetually startles us by the ease with which he yokes together ideas between which there would seem, at first sight, to be no connection. But he did not, like them, affect the gravity of a lecture, and draw his illustrations from the laboratory and from the schools. His tone was light and fleeting; his topics were the topics of the club and the ballroom; and therefore his strange combinations and far-fetched allusions, though very closely resembling those which tire us to death in the poems of the time of Charles the First, are read with pleasure constantly new. No man who has written so much is so seldom tiresome. In his books there are scarcely any of those passages which, in our school-days, we used to call skip. Yet he often wrote on subjects which are generally considered as dull, on subjects which men of great talents have in vain endeavoured to render popular. When we compare the Historic Doubts about Richard the Third with Whitaker’s and Chalmers’s books on a far more interesting question, the character of Mary Queen of Scots; when we compare the Anecdotes of Painting with the works of Anthony Wood, of Nichols, of Granger, we at once see Walpole’s superiority, not in industry, not in learning, not in accuracy, not in logical power, but in the art of writing what people will like to read. He rejects all but the attractive parts of his subject. He keeps only what is in itself amusing or what can be made so by the artifice of his diction. The coarser morsels of antiquarian learning he abandons to others, and sets out an entertainment worthy of a Roman epicure, an entertainment consisting of nothing but delicacies, the brains of singing birds, the roe of mullets, the sunny halves of peaches. This, we think, is the great merit of his romance. There is little skill in the delineation of the characters. Manfred is as commonplace a tyrant, Jerome as commonplace a confessor, Theodore as commonplace a young gentleman, Isabella and Matilda as commonplace a pair of young ladies, as are to be found in any of the thousand Italian castles in which condottieri have revelled or in which imprisoned duchesses have pined. We cannot say that we much admire the big man whose sword is dug up in one quarter of the globe, whose helmet drops from the clouds in another, and who, after clattering and rustling for some days, ends by kicking the house down. But the story, whatever its value may be, never flags for a single moment. There are no digressions, or unseasonable descriptions, or long speeches. Every sentence carries the action forward. The excitement is constantly renewed. Absurd as is the machinery, insipid as are the human actors, no reader probably ever thought the book dull. Walpole’s Letters are generally considered as his best performances, and, we think, with reason. His faults are far less offensive to us in his correspondence than in his books. His wild, absurd, and ever-changing opinions about men and things are easily pardoned in familiar letters. His bitter, scoffing, depreciating disposition does not show itself in so unmitigated a manner as in his Memoirs. A writer of letters must in general be civil and friendly to his correspondent at least, if to no other person. He loved letter-writing, and had evidently studied it as an art. It was, in truth, the very kind of writing for such a man, for a man very ambitious to rank among wits, yet nervously afraid that, while obtaining the reputation of a wit, he might lose caste as a gentleman. There was nothing vulgar in writing a letter. Not even Ensign Northerton, not even the Captain described in Hamilton’s Bawn,--and Walpole, though the author of many quartos, had some feelings in common with those gallant officers,--would have denied that a gentleman might sometimes correspond with a friend. Whether Walpole bestowed much labour on the composition of his letters, it is impossible to judge from internal evidence. There are passages which seem perfectly unstudied. But the appearance of ease may be the effect of labour. There are passages which have a very artificial air. But they may have been produced without effort by a mind of which the natural ingenuity had been improved into morbid quickness by constant exercise. We are never sure that we see him as he was. We are never sure that what appears to be nature is not disguised art. We are never sure that what appears to be art is not merely habit which has become second nature. In wit and animation the present collection is not superior to those which have preceded it. But it has one great advantage over them all. It forms a connected whole, a regular journal of what appeared to Walpole the most important transactions of the last twenty years of George the Second’s reign. It furnishes much new information concerning the history of that time, the portion of English history of which common readers know the least. The earlier letters contain the most lively and interesting account which we possess of that “great Walpolean battle,” to use the words of Junius, which terminated in the retirement of Sir Robert. Horace entered the House of Commons just in time to witness the last desperate struggle which his father, surrounded by enemies and traitors, maintained, with a spirit as brave as that of the column of Fontenoy, first for victory, and then for honourable retreat. Horace was, of course, on the side of his family. Lord Dover seems to have been enthusiastic on the same side, and goes so far as to call Sir Robert “the glory of the Whigs.” Sir Robert deserved this high eulogium, we think, as little as he deserved the abusive epithets which have often been coupled with his name. A fair character of him still remains to be drawn; and, whenever it shall be drawn, it will be equally unlike the portrait by Coxe and the portrait by Smollett. He had, undoubtedly, great talents and great virtues. He was not, indeed, like the leaders of the party which opposed his government, a brilliant orator. He was not a profound scholar, like Carteret, or a wit and a fine gentleman, like Chesterfield. In all these respects his deficiencies were remarkable. His literature consisted of a scrap or two of Horace and an anecdote or two from the end of the Dictionary. His knowledge of history was so limited that, in the great debate on the Excise Bill, he was forced to ask Attorney-General Yorke who Empson and Dudley were. His manners were a little too coarse and boisterous even for that age of Westerns and Topehalls. When he ceased to talk of politics, he could talk of nothing but women and he dilated on his favourite theme with a freedom which shocked even that plain-spoken generation, and which was quite unsuited to his age and station. The noisy revelry of his summer festivities at Houghton gave much scandal to grave people, and annually drove his kinsman and colleague, Lord Townshend, from the neighbouring mansion of Rainham. But, however ignorant Walpole might be of general history and of general literature, he was better acquainted than any man of his day with what it concerned him most to know, mankind, the English nation, the Court, the House of Commons, and the Treasury. Of foreign affairs he knew little; but his judgment was so good that his little knowledge went very far. He was an excellent parliamentary debater, an excellent parliamentary tactician, an excellent man of business. No man ever brought more industry or more method to the transacting of affairs. No minister in his time did so much; yet no minister had so much leisure. He was a good-natured man who had during thirty years seen nothing but the worst parts of human nature in other men. He was familiar with the malice of kind people, and the perfidy of honourable people. Proud men had licked the dust before him. Patriots had begged him to come up to the price of their puffed and advertised integrity. He said after his fall that it was a dangerous thing to be a minister, that there were few minds which would not be injured by the constant spectacle of meanness and depravity. To his honour it must be confessed that few minds have come out of such a trial so little damaged in the most important parts. He retired, after more than twenty years of supreme power, with a temper not soured, with a heart not hardened, with simple tastes, with frank manners, and with a capacity for friendship. No stain of treachery, of ingratitude, or of cruelty rests on his memory. Factious hatred, while flinging on his name every other foul aspersion, was compelled to own that he was not a man of blood. This would scarcely seem a high eulogium on a statesman of our times. It was then a rare and honourable distinction. The contests of parties in England had long been carried on with a ferocity unworthy of a civilised people. Sir Robert Walpole was the minister who gave to our Government that character of lenity which it has since generally preserved. It was perfectly known to him that many of his opponents had dealings with the Pretender. The lives of some were at his mercy. He wanted neither Whig nor Tory precedents for using his advantage unsparingly. But with a clemency to which posterity has never done justice, he suffered himself to be thwarted, vilified, and at last overthrown, by a party which included many men whose necks were in his power. That he practised corruption on a large scale, is, we think, indisputable. But whether he deserves all the invectives which have been uttered against him on that account may be questioned. No man ought to be severely censured for not being beyond his age in virtue. To buy the votes of constituents is as immoral as to buy the votes of representatives. The candidate who gives five guineas to the freeman is as culpable as the man who gives three hundred guineas to the member. Yet we know that, in our own time, no man is thought wicked or dishonourable, no man is cut, no man is black-balled, because, under the old system of election, he was returned in the only way in which he could be returned, for East Redford, for Liverpool, or for Stafford. Walpole governed by corruption, because, in his time, it was impossible to govern otherwise. Corruption was unnecessary to the Tudors, for their Parliaments were feeble. The publicity which has of late years been given to parliamentary proceedings has raised the standard of morality among public men. The power of public opinion is so great that, even before the reform of the representation, a faint suspicion that a minister had given pecuniary gratifications to Members of Parliament in return for their votes would have been enough to ruin him. But, during the century which followed the Restoration, the House of Commons was in that situation in which assemblies must be managed by corruption, or cannot be managed at all. It was not held in awe, as in the sixteenth century, by the throne. It was not held in awe as in the nineteenth century, by the opinion of the people. Its constitution was oligarchical. Its deliberations were secret. Its power in the State was immense. The Government had every conceivable motive to offer bribes. Many of the members, if they were not men of strict honour and probity, had no conceivable motive to refuse what the Government offered. In the reign of Charles the Second, accordingly, the practice of buying votes in the House of Commons was commenced by the daring Clifford, and carried to a great extent by the crafty and shameless Danby. The Revolution, great and manifold as were the blessings of which it was directly or remotely the cause, at first aggravated this evil. The importance of the House of Commons was now greater than ever. The prerogatives of the Crown were more strictly limited than ever; and those associations in which, more than in its legal prerogatives, its power had consisted, were completely broken. No prince was ever in so helpless and distressing a situation as William the Third. The party which defended his title was, on general grounds, disposed to curtail his prerogative. The party which was, on general grounds, friendly to prerogative, was adverse to his title. There was no quarter in which both his office and his person could find favour. But while the influence of the House of Commons in the Government was becoming paramount, the influence of the people over the House of Commons was declining. It mattered little in the time of Charles the First whether that House were or were not chosen by the people; it was certain to act for the people, because it would have been at the mercy of the Court but for the support of the people. Now that the Court was at the mercy of the House of Commons, those members who were not returned by popular election had nobody to please but themselves. Even those who were returned by popular election did not live, as now, under a constant sense of responsibility. The constituents were not, as now, daily apprised of the votes and speeches of their representatives. The privileges which had in old times been indispensably necessary to the security and efficiency of Parliaments were now superfluous. But they were still carefully maintained, by honest legislators from superstitious veneration, by dishonest legislators for their own selfish ends. They had been an useful defence to the Commons during a long and doubtful conflict with powerful sovereigns. They were now no longer necessary for that purpose; and they became a defence to the members against their constituents. That secrecy which had been absolutely necessary in times when the Privy Council was in the habit of sending the leaders of Opposition to the Tower was preserved in times when a vote of the House of Commons was sufficient to hurl the most powerful minister from his post. The Government could not go on unless the Parliament could be kept in order. And how was the Parliament to be kept in order? Three hundred years ago it would have been enough for the statesman to have the support of the Crown. It would now, we hope and believe, be enough for him to enjoy the confidence and approbation of the great body of the middle class. A hundred years ago it would not have been enough to have both Crown and people on his side. The Parliament had shaken off the control of the Royal prerogative. It had not yet fallen under the control of public opinion. A large proportion of the members had absolutely no motive to support any administration except their own interest, in the lowest sense of the word. Under these circumstances, the country could be governed only by corruption. Bolingbroke, who was the ablest and the most vehement of those who raised the clamour against corruption, had no better remedy to propose than that the Royal prerogative should be strengthened. The remedy would no doubt have been efficient. The only question is, whether it would not have been worse than the disease. The fault was in the constitution of the Legislature; and to blame those ministers who managed the Legislature in the only way in which it could be managed is gross injustice. They submitted to extortion because they could not help themselves. We might as well accuse the poor Lowland farmers who paid black-mail to Rob Roy of corrupting the virtue of the Highlanders, as accuse Sir Robert Walpole of corrupting the virtue of Parliament. His crime was merely this, that he employed his money more dexterously, and got more support in return for it, than any of those who preceded or followed him. He was himself incorruptible by money. His dominant passion was the love of power: and the heaviest charge which can be brought against him is that to this passion he never scrupled to sacrifice the interests of his country. One of the maxims which, as his son tells us, he was most in the habit of repeating, was quieta non movere. It was indeed the maxim by which he generally regulated his public conduct. It is the maxim of a man more solicitous to hold power long than to use it well. It is remarkable that, though he was at the head of affairs during more than twenty years, not one great measure, not one important change for the better or for the worse in any part of our institutions, marks the period of his supremacy. Nor was this because he did not clearly see that many changes were very desirable. He had been brought up in the school of toleration, at the feet of Somers and of Burnet. He disliked the shameful laws against Dissenters. But he never could be induced to bring forward a proposition for repealing them. The sufferers represented to him the injustice with which they were treated, boasted of their firm attachment to the House of Brunswick and to the Whig party, and reminded him of his own repeated declarations of goodwill to their cause. He listened, assented, promised, and did nothing. At length, the question was brought forward by others, and the Minister, after a hesitating and evasive speech, voted against it. The truth was that he remembered to the latest day of his life that terrible explosion of high-church feeling which the foolish prosecution of a foolish parson had occasioned in the days of Queen Anne. If the Dissenters had been turbulent he would probably have relieved them; but while he apprehended no danger from them, he would not run the slightest risk for their sake. He acted in the same manner with respect to other questions. He knew the state of the Scotch Highlands. He was constantly predicting another insurrection in that part of the empire. Yet, during his long tenure of power, he never attempted to perform what was then the most obvious and pressing duty of a British Statesman, to break the power of the Chiefs, and to establish the authority of law through the furthest corners of the Island. Nobody knew better than he that, if this were not done, great mischiefs would follow. But the Highlands were tolerably quiet in his time. He was content to meet daily emergencies by daily expedients; and he left the rest to his successors. They had to conquer the Highlands in the midst of a war with France and Spain, because he had not regulated the Highlands in a time of profound peace. Sometimes, in spite of all his caution, he found that measures which he had hoped to carry through quietly had caused great agitation. When this was the case he generally modified or withdrew them. It was thus that he cancelled Wood’s patent in compliance with the absurd outcry of the Irish. It was thus that he frittered away the Porteous Bill to nothing, for fear of exasperating the Scotch. It was thus that he abandoned the Excise Bill, as soon as he found that it was offensive to all the great towns of England. The language which he held about that measure in a subsequent session is strikingly characteristic. Pulteney had insinuated that the scheme would be again brought forward. “As to the wicked scheme,” said Walpole, “as the gentleman is pleased to call it, which he would persuade gentlemen is not yet laid aside, I for my part assure this House I am not so mad as ever again to engage in anything that looks like an Excise; though, in my private opinion, I still think it was a scheme that would have tended very much to the interest of the nation.” The conduct of Walpole with regard to the Spanish war is the great blemish of his public life. Archdeacon Coxe imagined that he had discovered one grand principle of action to which the whole public conduct of his hero ought to be referred. “Did the administration of Walpole,” says the biographer, “present any uniform principle which may be traced in every part, and which gave combination and consistency to the whole? Yes, and that principle was, THE LOVE OF PEACE.” It would be difficult, we think, to bestow a higher eulogium on any statesman. But the eulogium is far too high for the merits of Walpole. The great ruling principle of his public conduct was indeed a love of peace, but not in the sense in which Archdeacon Coxe uses the phrase. The peace which Walpole sought was not the peace of the country, but the peace of his own administration. During the greater part of his public life, indeed, the two objects were inseparably connected. At length he was reduced to the necessity of choosing between them, of plunging the State into hostilities for which there was no just ground, and by which nothing was to be got, or of facing a violent opposition in the country, in Parliament, and even in the royal closet. No person was more thoroughly convinced than he of the absurdity of the cry against Spain. But his darling power was at stake, and his choice was soon made. He preferred an unjust war to a stormy session. It is impossible to say of a Minister who acted thus that the love of peace was the one grand principle to which all his conduct is to be referred. The governing principle of his conduct was neither love of peace nor love of war, but love of power. The praise to which he is fairly entitled is this, that he understood the true interest of his country better than any of his contemporaries, and that he pursued that interest whenever it was not incompatible with the interest of his own intense and grasping ambition. It was only in matters of public moment that he shrank from agitation and had recourse to compromise. In his contests for personal influence there was no timidity, no flinching. He would have all or none. Every member of the Government who would not submit to his ascendency was turned out or forced to resign. Liberal of everything else, he was avaricious of power. Cautious everywhere else, when power was at stake he had all the boldness of Richelieu or Chatham. He might easily have secured his authority if he could have been induced to divide it with others. But he would not part with one fragment of it to purchase defenders for all the rest. The effect of this policy was that he had able enemies and feeble allies. His most distinguished coadjutors left him one by one, and joined the ranks of the Opposition. He faced the increasing array of his enemies with unbroken spirit, and thought it far better that they should attack his power than that they should share it. The Opposition was in every sense formidable. At its head were two royal personages, the exiled head of the House of Stuart, the disgraced heir of the House of Brunswick. One set of members received directions from Avignon. Another set held their consultations and banquets at Norfolk House. The majority of the landed gentry, the majority of the parochial clergy, one of the universities, and a strong party in the City of London and in the other great towns, were decidedly adverse to the Government. Of the men of letters, some were exasperated by the neglect with which the Minister treated them, a neglect which was the more remarkable, because his predecessors, both Whig and Tory, had paid court with emulous munificence to the wits and poets; others were honestly inflamed by party zeal; almost all lent their aid to the Opposition. In truth, all that was alluring to ardent and imaginative minds was on that side; old associations, new visions of political improvement, high-flown theories of loyalty, high-flown theories of liberty, the enthusiasm of the Cavalier, the enthusiasm of the Roundhead. The Tory gentleman, fed in the common-rooms of Oxford with the doctrines of Filmer and Sacheverell, and proud of the exploits of his great-grandfather, who had charged with Rupert at Marston, who had held out the old manor-house against Fairfax, and who, after the King’s return, had been set down for a Knight of the Royal Oak, flew to that section of the Opposition which, under pretence of assailing the existing administration, was in truth assailing the reigning dynasty. The young republican, fresh from his Livy and his Lucan, and glowing with admiration of Hampden, of Russell, and of Sydney, hastened with equal eagerness to those benches from which eloquent voices thundered nightly against the tyranny and perfidy of courts. So many young politicians were caught by these declamations that Sir Robert, in one of his best speeches, observed that the Opposition consisted of three bodies, the Tories, the discontented Whigs, who were known by the name of the Patriots, and the Boys. In fact almost every young man of warm temper and lively imagination, whatever his political bias might be, was drawn into the party adverse to the Government; and some of the most distinguished among them, Pitt, for example, among public men, and Johnson, among men of letters, afterwards openly acknowledged their mistake. The aspect of the Opposition, even while it was still a minority in the House of Commons, was very imposing. Among those who, in Parliament or out of Parliament, assailed the administration of Walpole, were Bolingbroke, Carteret, Chesterfield, Argyle, Pulteney, Wyndham, Doddington, Pitt, Lyttelton, Barnard, Pope, Swift, Gay, Arbuthnot, Fielding, Johnson, Thomson, Akenside, Glover. The circumstance that the Opposition was divided into two parties, diametrically opposed to each other in political opinions, was long the safety of Walpole. It was at last his ruin. The leaders of the minority knew that it would be difficult for them to bring forward any important measure without producing an immediate schism in their party. It was with very great difficulty that the Whigs in opposition had been induced to give a sullen and silent vote for the repeal of the Septennial Act. The Tories, on the other hand, could not be induced to support Pulteney’s motion for an addition to the income of Prince Frederic. The two parties had cordially joined in calling out for a war with Spain; but they now had their war. Hatred of Walpole was almost the only feeling which was common to them. On this one point, therefore, they concentrated their whole strength. With gross ignorance, or gross dishonesty, they represented the Minister as the main grievance of the State. His dismissal, his punishment, would prove the certain cure for all the evils which the nation suffered. What was to be done after his fall, how misgovernment was to be prevented in future, were questions to which there were as many answers as there were noisy and ill-informed members of the Opposition. The only cry in which all could join was, “Down with Walpole!” So much did they narrow the disputed ground, so purely personal did they make the question, that they threw out friendly hints to the other members of the Administration, and declared that they refused quarter to the Prime Minister alone. His tools might keep their heads, their fortunes, even their places, if only the great father of corruption were given up to the just vengeance of the nation. If the fate of Walpole’s colleagues had been inseparably bound up with his, he probably would, even after the unfavourable elections of 1741, have been able to weather the storm. But as soon as it was understood that the attack was directed against him alone, and that, if he were sacrificed, his associates might expect advantageous and honourable terms, the ministerial ranks began to waver, and the murmur of sauve qui peut was heard. That Walpole had foul play is almost certain, but to what extent it is difficult to say. Lord Islay was suspected; the Duke of Newcastle something more than suspected. It would have been strange, indeed, if his Grace had been idle when treason was hatching. “Ch’ i’ ho de’ traditor’ sempre sospetto, E Gan fu traditor prima che nato.” “His name,” said Sir Robert, “is perfidy.” Never was a battle more manfully fought out than the last struggle of the old statesman. His clear judgment, his long experience, and his fearless spirit, enabled him to maintain a defensive war through half the session. To the last his heart never failed him--and, when at last he yielded, he yielded not to the threats of his enemies, but to the entreaties of his dispirited and refractory followers. When he could no longer retain his power, he compounded for honour and security, and retired to his garden and his paintings, leaving to those who had overthrown him shame, discord, and ruin. Everything was in confusion. It has been said that the confusion was produced by the dexterous policy of Walpole; and, undoubtedly, he did his best to sow dissension amongst his triumphant enemies. But there was little for him to do. Victory had completely dissolved the hollow truce, which the two sections of the Opposition had but imperfectly observed, even while the event of the contest was still doubtful. A thousand questions were opened in a moment. A thousand conflicting claims were preferred. It was impossible to follow any line of policy which would not have been offensive to a large portion of the successful party. It was impossible to find places for a tenth part of those who thought that they had a right to office. While the parliamentary leaders were preaching patience and confidence, while their followers were clamouring for reward, a still louder voice was heard from without, the terrible cry of a people angry, they hardly know with whom, and impatient they hardly knew for what. The day of retribution had arrived. The Opposition reaped that which they had sown. Inflamed with hatred and cupidity, despairing of success by any ordinary mode of political warfare, and blind to consequences, which, though remote, were certain, they had conjured up a devil whom they could not lay. They had made the public mind drunk with calumny and declamation. They had raised expectations which it was impossible to satisfy. The downfall of Walpole was to be the beginning of a political millennium; and every enthusiast had figured to himself that millennium according to the fashion of his own wishes. The republican expected that the power of the Crown would be reduced to a mere shadow, the high Tory that the Stuarts would be restored, the moderate Tory that the golden days which the Church and the landed interest had enjoyed during the last years of Queen Anne would immediately return. It would have been impossible to satisfy everybody. The conquerors satisfied nobody. We have no reverence for the memory of those who were then called the patriots. We are for the principles of good government against Walpole,--and for Walpole against the Opposition. It was most desirable that a purer system should be introduced; but, if the old system was to be retained, no man was so fit as Walpole to be at the head of affairs. There were grievous abuses in the Government, abuses more than sufficient to justify a strong Opposition. But the party opposed to Walpole, while they stimulated the popular fury to the highest point, were at no pains to direct it aright. Indeed they studiously misdirected it. They misrepresented the evil. They prescribed inefficient and pernicious remedies. They held up a single man as the sole cause of all the vices of a bad system which had been in full operation before his entrance into public life, and which continued to be in full operation when some of these very brawlers had succeeded to his power. They thwarted his best measures. They drove him into an unjustifiable war against his will. Constantly talking in magnificent language about tyranny, corruption, wicked ministers, servile courtiers, the liberty of Englishmen, the Great Charter, the rights for which our fathers bled, Timoleon, Brutus, Hampden, Sydney, they had absolutely nothing to propose which would have been an improvement on our institutions. Instead of directing the public mind to definite reforms which might have completed the work of the revolution, which might have brought the legislature into harmony with the nation, and which might have prevented the Crown from doing by influence what it could no longer do by prerogative, they excited a vague craving for change, by which they profited for a single moment, and of which, as they well deserved, they were soon the victims. Among the reforms which the State then required, there were two of paramount importance, two which would alone have remedied almost every gross abuse, and without which all other remedies would have been unavailing, the publicity of parliamentary proceedings, and the abolition of the rotten boroughs. Neither of these was thought of. It seems us clear that, if these were not adopted, all other measures would have been illusory. Some of the patriots suggested changes which would, beyond all doubt, have increased the existing evils a hundredfold. These men wished to transfer the disposal of employments and the command of the army from the Crown to the Parliament; and this on the very ground that the Parliament had long been a grossly corrupt body. The security against malpractices was to be that the members, instead of having a portion of the public plunder doled out to them by a minister, were to help themselves. The other schemes of which the public mind was full were less dangerous than this. Some of them were in themselves harmless. But none of them would have done much good, and most of them were extravagantly absurd. What they were we may learn from the instructions which many constituent bodies, immediately after the change of administration, sent up to their representatives. A more deplorable collection of follies can hardly be imagined. There is, in the first place, a general cry for Walpole’s head. Then there are better complaints of the decay of trade, a decay which, in the judgment of these enlightened politicians, was brought about by Walpole and corruption. They would have been nearer to the truth if they had attributed their sufferings to the war into which they had driven Walpole against his better judgment. He had foretold the effects of his unwilling concession. On the day when hostilities against Spain were proclaimed, when the heralds were attended into the city by the chiefs of the Opposition, when the Prince of Wales himself stopped at Temple Bar to drink success to the English arms, the minister heard all the steeples of the city jingling with a merry peal, and muttered, “They may ring the bells now; they will be wringing their hands before long.” Another grievance, for which of course Walpole and corruption were answerable, was the great exportation of English wool. In the judgment of the sagacious electors of several large towns, the remedying of this evil was a matter second only in importance to the hanging of Sir Robert. There were also earnest injunctions that the members should vote against standing armies in time of peace, injunctions which were, to say the least, ridiculously unseasonable in the midst of a war which was likely to last, and which did actually last, as long as the Parliament. The repeal of the Septennial Act, as was to be expected, was strongly pressed. Nothing was more natural than that the voters should wish for a triennial recurrence of their bribes and their ale. We feel firmly convinced that the repeal of the Septennial Act, unaccompanied by a complete reform of the constitution of the elective body, would have been an unmixed curse to the country. The only rational recommendation which we can find in all these instructions is that the number of placemen in Parliament should be limited, and that pensioners should not he allowed to sit there. It is plain, however, that this cure was far from going to the root of the evil, and that, if it had been adopted without other reforms, secret bribery would probably have been more practised than ever. We will give one more instance of the absurd expectations which the declamations of the Opposition had raised in the country. Akenside was one of the fiercest and most uncompromising of the young patriots out of Parliament. When he found that the change of administration had produced no change of system, he gave vent to his indignation in the Epistle to Curio, the best poem that he ever wrote, a poem, indeed, which seems to indicate, that, if he had left lyric composition to Gray and Collins, and had employed his powers in grave and elevated satire, he might have disputed the pre-eminence of Dryden. But whatever be the literary merits of the epistle, we can say nothing in praise of the political doctrines which it inculcates. The poet, in a rapturous apostrophe to the spirits of the great men of antiquity, tells us what he expected from Pulteney at the moment of the fall of the tyrant. “See private life by wisest arts reclaimed, See ardent youth to noblest manners framed, See us achieve whate’er was sought by you, If Curio--only Curio--will be true.” It was Pulteney’s business, it seems, to abolish faro, and masquerades, to stint the young Duke of Marlborough to a bottle of brandy a day, and to prevail on Lady Vane to be content with three lovers at a time. Whatever the people wanted, they certainly got nothing. Walpole retired in safety; and the multitude were defrauded of the expected show on Tower Hill. The Septennial Act was not repealed. The placemen were not turned out of the House of Commons. Wool, we believe, was still exported. “Private life” afforded as much scandal as if the reign of Walpole and corruption had continued; and “ardent youth” fought with watchmen and betted with blacklegs as much as ever. The colleagues of Walpole had, after his retreat, admitted some of the chiefs of the Opposition into the Government, and soon found themselves compelled to submit to the ascendency of one of their new allies. This was Lord Carteret, afterwards Earl Granville. No public man of that age had greater courage, greater ambition, greater activity, greater talents for debate or for declamation. No public man had such profound and extensive learning. He was familiar with the ancient writers, and loved to sit up till midnight discussing philological and metrical questions with Bentley. His knowledge of modern languages was prodigious. The privy council, when he was present; needed no interpreter. He spoke and wrote French, Italian, Spanish, Portuguese, German, even Swedish. He had pushed his researches into the most obscure nooks of literature. He was as familiar with Canonists and Schoolmen as with orators and poets. He had read all that the universities of Saxony and Holland had produced on the most intricate questions of public law. Harte, in the preface to the second edition of his History of Gustavus Adolphus, bears a remarkable testimony to the extent and accuracy of Lord Carteret’s knowledge. “It was my good fortune or prudence to keep the main body of my army (or in other words my matters of fact) safe and entire. The late Earl of Granville was pleased to declare himself of this opinion; especially when he found that I had made Chemnitius one of my principal guides; for his Lordship was apprehensive I might not have seen that valuable and authentic book, which is extremely scarce. I thought myself happy to have contented his Lordship even in the lowest degree: for he understood the German and Swedish histories to the highest perfection.” With all this learning, Carteret was far from being a pedant. His was not one of those cold spirits of which the fire is put out by the fuel. In council, in debate, in society, he was all life and energy. His measures were strong, prompt, and daring, his oratory animated and glowing. His spirits were constantly high. No misfortune, public or private, could depress him. He was at once the most unlucky and the happiest public man of his time. He had been Secretary of State in Walpole’s Administration, and had acquired considerable influence over the mind of George the First. The other ministers could speak no German. The King could speak no English. All the communication that Walpole held with his master was in very bad Latin. Carteret dismayed his colleagues by the volubility with which he addressed his Majesty in German. They listened with envy and terror to the mysterious gutturals which might possibly convey suggestions very little in unison with their wishes. Walpole was not a man to endure such a colleague as Carteret. The King was induced to give up his favourite. Carteret joined the Opposition, and signalised himself at the head of that party till, after the retirement of his old rival, he again became Secretary of State. During some months he was chief Minister, indeed sole Minister. He gained the confidence and regard of George the Second. He was at the same time in high favour with the Prince of Wales. As a debater in the House of Lords, he had no equal among his colleagues. Among his opponents, Chesterfield alone could be considered as his match. Confident in his talents, and in the royal favour, he neglected all those means by which the power of Walpole had been created and maintained. His head was full of treaties and expeditions, of schemes for supporting the Queen of Hungary and for humbling the House of Bourbon. He contemptuously abandoned to others all the drudgery, and, with the drudgery, all the fruits of corruption. The patronage of the Church and of the Bar he left to the Pelhams as a trifle unworthy of his care. One of the judges, Chief Justice Willes, if we remember rightly, went to him to beg some ecclesiastical preferment for a friend. Carteret said, that he was too much occupied with continental politics to think about the disposal of places and benefices. “You may rely on it, then,” said the Chief Justice, “that people who want places and benefices will go to those who have more leisure.” The prediction was accomplished. It would have been a busy time indeed in which the Pelhams had wanted leisure for jobbing; and to the Pelhams the whole cry of place-hunters and pension-hunters resorted. The parliamentary influence of the two brothers became stronger every day, till at length they were at the head of a decided majority in the House of Commons. Their rival, meanwhile, conscious of his powers, sanguine in his hopes, and proud of the storm which he had conjured up on the Continent, would brook neither superior nor equal. “His rants,” says Horace Walpole, “are amazing; so are his parts and his spirits.” He encountered the opposition of his colleagues, not with the fierce haughtiness of the first Pitt, or the cold unbending arrogance of the second, but with a gay vehemence, a good-humoured imperiousness, that bore everything down before it. The period of his ascendency was known by the name of the “Drunken Administration”; and the expression was not altogether figurative. His habits were extremely convivial; and champagne probably lent its aid to keep him in that state of joyous excitement in which his life was passed. That a rash and impetuous man of genius like Carteret should not have been able to maintain his ground in Parliament against the crafty and selfish Pelhams is not strange. But it is less easy to understand why he should have been generally unpopular throughout the country. His brilliant talents, his bold and open temper, ought, it should seem, to have made him a favourite with the public. But the people had been bitterly disappointed; and he had to face the first burst of their rage. His close connection with Pulteney, now the most detested man in the nation, was an unfortunate circumstance. He had, indeed, only three partisans, Pulteney, the King, and the Prince of Wales, a most singular assemblage. He was driven from his office. He shortly after made a bold, indeed a desperate, attempt to recover power. The attempt failed. From that time he relinquished all ambitious hopes, and retired laughing to his books and his bottle. No statesman ever enjoyed success with so exquisite a relish, or submitted to defeat with so genuine and unforced a cheerfulness. Ill as he had been used, he did not seem, says Horace Walpole, to have any resentment, or indeed any feeling except thirst. These letters contain many good stories, some of them no doubt grossly exaggerated, about Lord Carteret; how, in the height of his greatness, he fell in love at first sight on a birthday with Lady Sophia Fermor, the handsome daughter of Lord Pomfret; how he plagued the Cabinet every day with reading to them her ladyship’s letters; how strangely he brought home his bride; what fine jewels he gave her; how he fondled her at Ranelagh; and what queen-like state she kept in Arlington Street. Horace Walpole has spoken less bitterly of Carteret than of any public man of that time, Fox, perhaps, excepted; and this is the more remarkable, because Carteret was one of the most inveterate enemies of Sir Robert. In the Memoirs, Horace Walpole, after passing in review all the great men whom England had produced within his memory, concludes by saying, that in genius none of them equalled Lord Granville. Smollett, in Humphrey Clinker, pronounces a similar judgment in coarser language. “Since Granville was turned out, there has been no minister in this nation worth the meal that whitened his periwig.” Carteret fell; and the reign of the Pelhams commenced. It was Carteret’s misfortune to be raised to power when the public mind was still smarting from recent disappointment. The nation had been duped, and was eager for revenge. A victim was necessary, and on such occasions the victims of popular rage are selected like the victim of Jephthah. The first person who comes in the way is made the sacrifice. The wrath of the people had now spent itself; and the unnatural excitement was succeeded by an unnatural calm. To an irrational eagerness for something new, succeeded an equally irrational disposition to acquiesce in everything established. A few months back the people had been disposed to impute every crime to men in power, and to lend a ready ear to the high professions of men in opposition. They were now disposed to surrender themselves implicitly to the management of Ministers, and to look with suspicion and contempt on all who pretended to public spirit. The name of patriot had become a by-word of derision. Horace Walpole scarcely exaggerated when he said that, in those times, the most popular declaration which a candidate could make on the hustings was that he had never been and never would be a patriot. At this conjecture took place the rebellion of the Highland clans. The alarm produced by that event quieted the strife of internal factions. The suppression of the insurrection crushed for ever the spirit of the Jacobite party. Room was made in the Government for a few Tories. Peace was patched up with France and Spain. Death removed the Prince of Wales, who had contrived to keep together a small portion of that formidable opposition of which he had been the leader in the time of Sir Robert Walpole. Almost every man of weight in the House of Commons was officially connected with the Government. The even tenor of the session of Parliament was ruffled only by an occasional harangue from Lord Egmont on the army estimates. For the first time since the accession of the Stuarts there was no opposition. This singular good fortune, denied to the ablest statesmen, to Salisbury, to Strafford, to Clarendon, to Somers, to Walpole, had been reserved for the Pelhams. Henry Pelham, it is true, was by no means a contemptible person. His understanding was that of Walpole on a somewhat smaller scale. Though not a brilliant orator, he was, like his master, a good debater, a good parliamentary tactician, a good man of business. Like his master, he distinguished himself by the neatness and clearness of his financial expositions. Here the resemblance ceased. Their characters were altogether dissimilar. Walpole was good-humoured, but would have his way: his spirits were high, and his manners frank even to coarseness. The temper of Pelham was yielding, but peevish: his habits were regular, and his deportment strictly decorous. Walpole was constitutionally fearless, Pelham constitutionally timid. Walpole had to face a strong opposition; but no man in the Government durst wag a finger against him. Almost all the opposition which Pelham had to encounter was from members of the Government of which he was the head. His own pay-master spoke against his estimates. His own secretary-at-war spoke against his Regency Bill. In one day Walpole turned Lord Chesterfield, Lord Burlington, and Lord Clinton out of the royal household, dismissed the highest dignitaries of Scotland from their posts, and took away the regiments of the Duke of Bolton and Lord Cobham, because he suspected them of having encouraged the resistance to his Excise Bill. He would far rather have contended with the strongest minority, under the ablest leaders, than have tolerated mutiny in his own party. It would have gone hard with any of his colleagues, who had ventured, on a Government question, to divide the House of Commons against him. Pelham, on the other hand, was disposed to bear anything rather than drive from office any man round whom a new opposition could form. He therefore endured with fretful patience the insubordination of Pitt and Fox. He thought it far better to connive at their occasional infractions of discipline than to hear them, night after night, thundering against corruption and wicked ministers from the other side of the House. We wonder that Sir Walter Scott never tried his hand on the Duke of Newcastle. An interview between his Grace and Jeanie Deans would have been delightful, and by no means unnatural. There is scarcely any public man in our history of whose manners and conversation so many particulars have been preserved. Single stories may be unfounded or exaggerated. But all the stories about him, whether told by people who were perpetually seeing him in Parliament and attending his levee in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, or by Grub Street writers who never had more than a glimpse of his star through the windows of his gilded coach, are of the same character. Horace Walpole and Smollett differed in their tastes and opinions as much as two human beings could differ. They kept quite different society. Walpole played at cards with countesses, and corresponded with ambassadors. Smollett passed his life surrounded by printers’ devils and famished scribblers. Yet Walpole’s Duke and Smollett’s Duke are as like as if they were both from one hand. Smollett’s Newcastle runs out of his dressing-room, with his face covered with soap-suds, to embrace the Moorish envoy. Walpole’s Newcastle pushes his way into the Duke of Grafton’s sick-room to kiss the old nobleman’s plasters. No man was so unmercifully satirised. But in truth he was himself a satire ready made. All that the art of the satirist does for other men, nature had done for him. Whatever was absurd about him stood out with grotesque prominence from the rest of the character. He was a living, moving, talking caricature. His gait was a shuffling trot; his utterance a rapid stutter; he was always in a hurry; he was never in time; he abounded in fulsome caresses and in hysterical tears. His oratory resembled that of justice Shallow. It was nonsense--effervescent with animal spirits and impertinence. Of his ignorance many anecdotes remain, some well authenticated, some probably invented at coffee-houses, but all exquisitely characteristic. “Oh--yes--yes--to be sure--Annapolis must be defended--troops must be sent to Annapolis--Pray where is Annapolis?”--“Cape Breton an island! Wonderful!--show it me in the map. So it is, sure enough. My dear sir, you always bring us good news. I must go and tell the King that Cape Breton is an island.” And this man was, during near thirty years, Secretary of State, and, during near ten years, First Lord of the Treasury! His large fortune, his strong hereditary connection, his great parliamentary interest, will not alone explain this extraordinary fact. His success is a signal instance of what may be effected by a man who devotes his whole heart and soul without reserve to one object. He was eaten up by ambition. His love of influence and authority resembled the avarice of the old usurer in the Fortunes of Nigel. It was so intense a passion that it supplied the place of talents, that it inspired even fatuity with cunning. “Have no money dealings with my father,” says Marth to Lord Glenvarloch; “for, dotard as he is, he will make an ass of you.” It was as dangerous to have any political connection with Newcastle as to buy and sell with old Trapbois. He was greedy after power with a greediness all his own. He was jealous of all his colleagues, and even of his own brother. Under the disguise of levity he was false beyond all example of political falsehood. All the able men of his time ridiculed him as a dunce, a driveller, a child who never knew his own mind for an hour together; and he overreached them all round. If the country had remained at peace, it is not impossible that this man would have continued at the head of affairs without admitting any other person to a share of his authority until the throne was filled by a new Prince, who brought with him new maxims of government, new favourites, and a strong will. But the inauspicious commencement of the Seven Years’ War brought on a crisis to which Newcastle was altogether unequal. After a calm of fifteen years the spirit of the nation was again stirred to its inmost depths. In a few days the whole aspect of the political world was changed. But that change is too remarkable an event to be discussed at the end of an article already more than sufficiently long. It is probable that we may, at no remote time, resume the subject. WILLIAM PITT, EARL OF CHATHAM (January 1834) _A History of the Right Honourable William Pitt, Earl of Chatham, containing his Speeches in Parliament, a considerable Portion of his Correspondence when Secretary of State, upon French, Spanish, and American Affairs, never before published; and an Account of the principal Events and Persons of his Time, connected with his Life, Sentiments and Administration. By the Rev. FRANCIS THACKERAY, A.M. 2 Vols. 4to. London: 1827._ THOUGH several years have elapsed since the publication of this work, it is still, we believe, a new publication to most of our readers. Nor are we surprised at this. The book is large, and the style heavy. The information which Mr. Thackeray has obtained from the State Paper Office is new; but much of it is very uninteresting. The rest of his narrative is very little better than Gifford’s or Tomline’s Life of the second Pitt, and tells us little or nothing that may not be found quite as well told in the Parliamentary History, the Annual Register, and other works equally common. Almost every mechanical employment, it is said, has a tendency to injure some one or other of the bodily organs of the artisan. Grinders of cutlery die of consumption; weavers are stunted in their growth; smiths become blear-eyed. In the same manner almost every intellectual employment has a tendency to produce some intellectual malady. Biographers, translators, editors, all, in short, who employ themselves in illustrating the lives or the writings of others, are peculiarly exposed to the Lues Boswelliana, or disease of admiration. But we scarcely remember ever to have seen a patient so far gone in this distemper as Mr. Thackeray. He is not satisfied with forcing us to confess that Pitt was a great orator, a vigorous minister, an honourable and high-spirited gentleman. He will have it that all virtues and all accomplishments met in his hero. In spite of Gods, men, and columns, Pitt must be a poet, a poet capable of producing a heroic poem of the first order; and we are assured that we ought to find many charms in such lines as these: “Midst all the tumults of the warring sphere, My light-charged bark may haply glide; Some gale may waft, some conscious thought shall cheer, And the small freight unanxious glide.” [The quotation is faithfully made from Mr. Thackeray. Perhaps Pitt wrote guide in the fourth line.] Pitt was in the army for a few months in time of peace. Mr. Thackeray accordingly insists on our confessing that, if the young cornet had remained in the service, he would have been one of the ablest commanders that ever lived. But this is not all. Pitt, it seems, was not merely a great poet, in esse, and a great general in posse, but a finished example of moral excellence, the just man made perfect. He was in the right when he attempted to establish an inquisition, and to give bounties for perjury, in order to get Walpole’s head. He was in the right when he declared Walpole to have been an excellent minister. He was in the right when, being in opposition, he maintained that no peace ought to be made with Spain, till she should formally renounce the right of search. He was in the right when, being in office, he silently acquiesced in a treaty by which Spain did not renounce the right of search. When he left the Duke of Newcastle, when he coalesced with the Duke of Newcastle, when he thundered against subsidies, when he lavished subsidies with unexampled profusion, when he execrated the Hanoverian connection, when he declared that Hanover ought to be as dear to us as Hampshire, he was still invariably speaking the language of a virtuous and enlightened statesman. The truth is that there scarcely ever lived a person who had so little claim to this sort of praise as Pitt. He was undoubtedly a great man. But his was not a complete and well-proportioned greatness. The public life of Hampden or of Somers resembles a regular drama, which can be criticised as a whole, and every scene of which is to be viewed in connection with the main action. The public life of Pitt, on the other hand, is a rude though striking piece, a piece abounding in incongruities, a piece without any unity of plan, but redeemed by some noble passages, the effect of which is increased by the tameness or extravagance of what precedes and of what follows. His opinions were unfixed. His conduct at some of the most important conjunctures of his life was evidently determined by pride and resentment. He had one fault, which of all human faults is most rarely found in company with true greatness. He was extremely affected. He was an almost solitary instance of a man of real genius, and of a brave, lofty, and commanding spirit, without simplicity of character. He was an actor in the Closet, an actor at Council, an actor in Parliament; and even in private society he could not lay aside his theatrical tones and attitudes. We know that one of the most distinguished of his partisans often complained that he could never obtain admittance to Lord Chatham’s room till everything was ready for the representation, till the dresses and properties were all correctly disposed, till the light was thrown with Rembrandt-like effect on the head of the illustrious performer, till the flannels had been arranged with the air of a Grecian drapery, and the crutch placed as gracefully as that of Belisarius or Lear. Yet, with all his faults and affectations, Pitt had, in a very extraordinary degree, many of the elements of greatness. He had genius, strong passions, quick sensibility, and vehement enthusiasm for the grand and the beautiful. There was something about him which ennobled tergiversation itself. He often went wrong, very wrong. But, to quote the language of Wordsworth, “He still retained, ’Mid such abasement, what he had received From nature, an intense and glowing mind.” In an age of low and dirty prostitution, in the age of Dodington and Sandys, it was something to have a man who might perhaps, under some strong excitement, have been tempted to ruin his country, but who never would have stooped to pilfer from her, a man whose errors arose, not from a sordid desire of gain, but from a fierce thirst for power, for glory, and for vengeance. History owes to him this attestation, that at a time when anything short of direct embezzlement of the public money was considered as quite fair in public men, he showed the most scrupulous disinterestedness; that, at a time when it seemed to be generally taken for granted that Government could be upheld only by the basest and most immoral arts, he appealed to the better and nobler parts of human nature; that he made a brave and splendid attempt to do, by means of public opinion, what no other statesman of his day thought it possible to do, except by means of corruption; that he looked for support, not, like the Pelhams, to a strong aristocratical connection, not, like Bute, to the personal favour of the sovereign, but to the middle class of Englishmen; that he inspired that class with a firm confidence in his integrity and ability; that, backed by them, he forced an unwilling court and an unwilling oligarchy to admit him to an ample share of power; and that he used his power in such a manner as clearly proved him to have sought it, not for the sake of profit or patronage, but from a wish to establish for himself a great and durable reputation by means of eminent services rendered to the State. The family of Pitt was wealthy and respectable. His grandfather was Governor of Madras, and brought back from India that celebrated diamond which the Regent Orleans, by the advice of Saint Simon, purchased for upwards of two millions of livres, and which is still considered as the most precious of the crown jewels of France. Governor Pitt bought estates and rotten boroughs, and sat in the House of Commons for Old Sarum. His son Robert was at one time member for Old Sarum, and at another for Oakhampton. Robert had two sons. Thomas, the elder, inherited the estates and the parliamentary interest of his father. The second was the celebrated William Pitt. He was born in November, 1708. About the early part of his life little more is known than that he was educated at Eton, and that at seventeen he was entered at Trinity College, Oxford. During the second year of his residence at the University, George the First died; and the event was, after the fashion of that generation, celebrated by the Oxonians in many middling copies of verses. On this occasion Pitt published some Latin lines, which Mr. Thackeray has preserved. They prove that the young student had but a very limited knowledge even of the mechanical part of his art. All true Etonians will hear with concern that their illustrious schoolfellow is guilty of making the first syllable in labenti short. [So Mr. Thackeray has printed the poem. But it may be charitably hoped that Pitt wrote labanti.] The matter of the poem is as worthless as that of any college exercise that was ever written before or since. There is, of course, much about Mars, Themis, Neptune, and Cocytus. The Muses are earnestly entreated to weep over the urn of Caesar; for Caesar, says the Poet, loved the Muses; Caesar, who could not read a line of Pope, and who loved nothing but punch and fat women. Pitt had been, from his school-days, cruelly tormented by the gout, and was advised to travel for his health. He accordingly left Oxford without taking a degree, and visited France and Italy. He returned, however, without having received much benefit from his excursion, and continued, till the close of his life, to suffer most severely from his constitutional malady. His father was now dead, and had left very little to the younger children. It was necessary that William should choose a profession. He decided for the army, and a cornet’s commission was procured for him in the Blues. But, small as his fortune was, his family had both the power and the inclination to serve him. At the general election of 1734, his elder brother Thomas was chosen both for Old Sarum and for Oakhampton. When Parliament met in 1735, Thomas made his election to serve for Oakhampton, and William was returned for Old Sarum. Walpole had now been, during fourteen years, at the head of affairs. He had risen to power under the most favourable circumstances. The whole of the Whig party, of that party which professed peculiar attachment to the principles of the Revolution, and which exclusively enjoyed the confidence of the reigning house, had been united in support of his administration. Happily for him, he had been out of office when the South-Sea Act was passed; and, though he does not appear to have foreseen all the consequences of that measure, he had strenuously opposed it, as he had opposed all the measures, good and bad, of Sutherland’s administration. When the South-Sea Company were voting dividends of fifty per cent, when a hundred pounds of their stock were selling for eleven hundred pounds, when Threadneedle Street was daily crowded with the coaches of dukes and prelates, when divines and philosophers turned gamblers, when a thousand kindred bubbles were daily blown into existence, the periwig-company, and the Spanish-jackass-company, and the quicksilver-fixation-company, Walpole’s calm good sense preserved him from the general infatuation. He condemned the prevailing madness in public, and turned a considerable sum by taking advantage of it in private. When the crash came, when ten thousand families were reduced to beggary in a day, when the people, in the frenzy of their rage and despair, clamoured, not only against the lower agents in the juggle, but against the Hanoverian favourites, against the English ministers, against the King himself, when Parliament met, eager for confiscation and blood, when members of the House of Commons proposed that the directors should be treated like parricides in ancient Rome, tied up in sacks, and thrown into the Thames, Walpole was the man on whom all parties turned their eyes. Four years before he had been driven from power by the intrigues of Sunderland and Stanhope; and the lead in the House of Commons had been intrusted to Craggs and Aislabie. Stanhope was no more. Aislabie was expelled from Parliament on account of his disgraceful conduct regarding the South-Sea scheme. Craggs was perhaps saved by a timely death from a similar mark of infamy. A large minority in the House of Commons voted for a severe censure on Sunderland, who, finding it impossible to withstand the force of the prevailing sentiment, retired from office, and outlived his retirement but a very short time. The schism which had divided the Whig party was now completely healed. Walpole had no opposition to encounter except that of the Tories; and the Tories were naturally regarded by the King with the strongest suspicion and dislike. For a time business went on with a smoothness and a despatch such as had not been known since the days of the Tudors. During the session of 1724, for example, there was hardly a single division except on private bills. It is not impossible that, by taking the course which Pelham afterwards took, by admitting into the Government all the rising talents and ambition of the Whig party, and by making room here and there for a Tory not unfriendly to the House of Brunswick, Walpole might have averted the tremendous conflict in which he passed the later years of his administration, and in which he was at length vanquished. The Opposition which overthrew him was an opposition created by his own policy, by his own insatiable love of power. In the very act of forming his Ministry he turned one of the ablest and most attached of his supporters into a deadly enemy. Pulteney had strong public and private claims to a high situation in the new arrangement. His fortune was immense. His private character was respectable. He was already a distinguished speaker. He had acquired official experience in an important post. He had been, through all changes of fortune, a consistent Whig. When the Whig party was split into two sections, Pulteney had resigned a valuable place, and had followed the fortunes of Walpole. Yet, when Walpole returned to power, Pulteney was not invited to take office. An angry discussion took place between the friends. The Ministry offered a peerage. It was impossible for Pulteney not to discern the motive of such an offer. He indignantly refused to accept it. For some time he continued to brood over his wrongs, and to watch for an opportunity of revenge. As soon as a favourable conjuncture arrived he joined the minority, and became the greatest leader of Opposition that the House of Commons had ever seen. Of all the members of the Cabinet Carteret was the most eloquent and accomplished. His talents for debate were of the first order; his knowledge of foreign affairs was superior to that of any living statesman; his attachment to the Protestant succession was undoubted. But there was not room in one Government for him and Walpole. Carteret retired, and was from that time forward, one of the most persevering and formidable enemies of his old colleague. If there was any man with whom Walpole could have consented to make a partition of power, that man was Lord Townshend. They were distant kinsmen by birth, near kinsmen by marriage. They had been friends from childhood. They had been schoolfellows at Eton. They were country neighbours in Norfolk. They had been in office together under Godolphin. They had gone into opposition together when Harley rose to power. They had been persecuted by the same House of Commons. They had, after the death of Anne, been recalled together to office. They had again been driven out together by Sunderland, and had again come back together when the influence of Sunderland had declined. Their opinions on public affairs almost always coincided. They were both men of frank, generous, and compassionate natures. Their intercourse had been for many years affectionate and cordial. But the ties of blood, of marriage, and of friendship, the memory of mutual services, the memory of common triumphs and common disasters, were insufficient to restrain that ambition which domineered over all the virtues and vices of Walpole. He was resolved, to use his own metaphor, that the firm of the house should be, not Townshend and Walpole, but Walpole and Townshend. At length the rivals proceeded to personal abuse before a large company, seized each other by the collar, and grasped their swords. The women squalled. The men parted the combatants. By friendly intervention the scandal of a duel between cousins, brothers-in-law, old friends, and old colleagues, was prevented. But the disputants could not long continue to act together. Townshend retired, and, with rare moderation and public spirit, refused to take any part in politics. He could not, he said, trust his temper. He feared that the recollection of his private wrongs might impel him to follow the example of Pulteney, and to oppose measures which he thought generally beneficial to the country. He therefore never visited London after his resignation, but passed the closing years of his life in dignity and repose among his trees and pictures at Rainham. Next went Chesterfield. He too was a Whig and a friend of the Protestant succession. He was an orator, a courtier, a wit, and a man of letters. He was at the head of ton in days when, in order to be at the head of ton, it was not sufficient to be dull and supercilious. It was evident that he submitted impatiently to the ascendency of Walpole. He murmured against the Excise Bill. His brothers voted against it in the House of Commons. The Minister acted with characteristic caution and characteristic energy; caution in the conduct of public affairs; energy where his own supremacy was concerned. He withdrew his Bill, and turned out all his hostile or wavering colleagues. Chesterfield was stopped on the great staircase of St. James’s, and summoned to deliver up the staff which he bore as Lord Steward of the Household. A crowd of noble and powerful functionaries, the Dukes of Montrose and Bolton, Lord Burlington, Lord Stair, Lord Cobham, Lord Marchmont, Lord Clinton, were at the same time dismissed from the service of the Crown. Not long after these events the Opposition was reinforced by the Duke of Argyle, a man vainglorious indeed and fickle, but brave, eloquent and popular. It was in a great measure owing to his exertions that the Act of Settlement had been peaceably carried into effect in England immediately after the death of Anne, and that the Jacobite rebellion which, during the following year, broke out in Scotland, had been suppressed. He too carried over to the minority the aid of his great name, his talents, and his paramount influence in his native country. In each of these cases taken separately, a skilful defender of Walpole might perhaps make out a case for him. But when we see that during a long course of years all the footsteps are turned the same way, that all the most eminent of those public men who agreed with the Minister in their general views of policy left him, one after another, with sore and irritated minds, we find it impossible not to believe that the real explanation of the phaenomenon is to be found in the words of his son, “Sir Robert Walpole loved power so much that he would not endure a rival.” Hume has described this famous minister with great felicity in one short sentence,--“moderate in exercising power, not equitable in engrossing it.” Kind-hearted, jovial, and placable as Walpole was, he was yet a man with whom no person of high pretensions and high spirit could long continue to act. He had, therefore, to stand against an Opposition containing all the most accomplished statesmen of the age, with no better support than that which he received from persons like his brother Horace or Henry Pelham, whose industrious mediocrity gave no cause for jealousy, or from clever adventurers, whose situation and character diminished the dread which their talents might have inspired. To this last class belonged Fox, who was too poor to live without office; Sir William Yonge, of whom Walpole himself said, that “Nothing but such parts could buoy up such a character, and that nothing but such a character could drag down such parts; and Winnington, whose private morals lay, justly or unjustly, under imputations of the worst kind.” The discontented Whigs were, not perhaps in number, but certainly in ability, experience, and weight, by far the most important part of the Opposition. The Tories furnished little more than rows of ponderous foxhunters, fat with Staffordshire or Devonshire ale, men who drank to the King over the water, and believed that all the fundholders were Jews, men whose religion consisted in hating the Dissenters, and whose political researches had led them to fear, like Squire Western, that their land might be sent over to Hanover to be put in the sinking-fund. The eloquence of these zealous squires, and remnant of the once formidable October Club, seldom went beyond a hearty Aye or No. Very few members of this party had distinguished themselves much in Parliament, or could, under any circumstances, have been called to fill any high office; and those few had generally, like Sir William Wyndham, learned in the company of their new associates the doctrines of toleration and political liberty, and might indeed with strict propriety be called Whigs. It was to the Whigs in Opposition, the Patriots, as they were called, that the most distinguished of the English youth who at this season entered into public life attached themselves. These inexperienced politicians felt all the enthusiasm which the name of liberty naturally excites in young and ardent minds. They conceived that the theory of the Tory Opposition and the practice of Walpole’s Government were alike inconsistent with the principles of liberty. They accordingly repaired to the standard which Pulteney had set up. While opposing the Whig minister, they professed a firm adherence to the purest doctrines of Whiggism. He was the schismatic; they were the true Catholics, the peculiar people, the depositaries of the orthodox faith of Hampden and Russell, the one sect which, amidst the corruptions generated by time and by the long possession of power, had preserved inviolate the principles of the Revolution. Of the young men who attached themselves to this portion of the Opposition the most distinguished were Lyttelton and Pitt. When Pitt entered Parliament, the whole political world was attentively watching the progress of an event which soon added great strength to the Opposition, and particularly to that section of the Opposition in which the young statesman enrolled himself. The Prince of Wales was gradually becoming more and more estranged from his father and his father’s ministers, and more and more friendly to the Patriots. Nothing is more natural than that, in a monarchy where a constitutional Opposition exists, the heir-apparent of the throne should put himself at the head of that Opposition. He is impelled to such a course by every feeling of ambition and of vanity. He cannot be more than second in the estimation of the party which is in. He is sure to be the first member of the party which is out. The highest favour which the existing administration can expect from him is that he will not discard them. But, if he joins the Opposition, all his associates expect that he will promote them; and the feelings which men entertain towards one from whom they hope to obtain great advantages which they have not are far warmer than the feelings with which they regard one who, at the very utmost, can only leave them in possession of what they already have. An heir-apparent, therefore, who wishes to enjoy, in the highest perfection, all the pleasure that can be derived from eloquent flattery and profound respect, will always join those who are struggling to force themselves into power. This is, we believe, the true explanation of a fact which Lord Granville attributed to some natural peculiarity in the illustrious House of Brunswick. “This family,” said he at Council, we suppose after his daily half-gallon of Burgundy, “always has quarrelled, and always will quarrel, from generation to generation.” He should have known something of the matter; for he had been a favourite with three successive generations of the royal house. We cannot quite admit his explanation; but the fact is indisputable. Since the accession of George the First, there have been four Princes of Wales, and they have all been almost constantly in Opposition. Whatever might have been the motives which induced Prince Frederick to join the party opposed to the Government, his support infused into many members of that party a courage and an energy of which they stood greatly in need. Hitherto it had been impossible for the discontented Whigs not to feel some misgivings when they found themselves dividing night after night, with uncompromising Jacobites who were known to be in constant communication with the exiled family, or with Tories who had impeached Somers, who had murmured against Harley and St. John as too remiss in the cause of the Church and the landed interest, and who, if they were not inclined to attack the reigning family, yet considered the introduction of that family as, at best, only the least of two great evils, as a necessary but painful and humiliating preservative against Popery. The Minister might plausibly say that Pulteney and Carteret, in the hope of gratifying their own appetite for office and for revenge, did not scruple to serve the purposes of a faction hostile to the Protestant succession. The appearance of Frederick at the head of the Patriots silenced this reproach. The leaders of the Opposition might now boast that their course was sanctioned by a person as deeply interested as the King himself in maintaining the Act of Settlement, and that, instead of serving the purposes of the Tory party, they had brought that party over to the side of Whiggism. It must indeed be admitted that, though both the King and the Prince behaved in a manner little to their honour, though the father acted harshly, the son disrespectfully, and both childishly, the royal family was rather strengthened than weakened by the disagreement of its two most distinguished members. A large class of politicians, who had considered themselves as placed under sentence of perpetual exclusion from office, and who, in their despair, had been almost ready to join in a counter-revolution as the only mode of removing the proscription under which they lay, now saw with pleasure an easier and safer road to power opening before them, and thought it far better to wait till, in the natural course of things, the Crown should descend to the heir of the House of Brunswick, than to risk their lands and their necks in a rising for the House of Stuart. The situation of the royal family resembled the situation of those Scotch families in which father and son took opposite sides during the rebellion, in order that, come what might, the estate might not be forfeited. In April 1736, Frederick was married to the Princess of Saxe Gotha, with whom he afterwards lived on terms very similar to those on which his father had lived with Queen Caroline. The Prince adored his wife, and thought her in mind and person the most attractive of her sex. But he thought that conjugal fidelity was an unprincely virtue; and, in order to be like Henry the Fourth, and the Regent Orleans, he affected a libertinism for which he had no taste, and frequently quitted the only woman whom he loved for ugly and disagreeable mistresses. The address which the House of Commons presented to the King on the occasion of the Prince’s marriage was moved, not by the Minister, but by Pulteney, the leader of the Whigs in Opposition. It was on this motion that Pitt, who had not broken silence during the session in which he took his seat, addressed the House for the first time. “A contemporary historian,” says Mr. Thackeray, “describes Mr. Pitt’s first speech as superior even to the models of ancient eloquence. According to Tindal, it was more ornamented than the speeches of Demosthenes, and less diffuse than those of Cicero.” This unmeaning phrase has been a hundred times quoted. That it should ever have been quoted, except to be laughed at, is strange. The vogue which it has obtained may serve to show in how slovenly a way most people are content to think. Did Tindal, who first used it, or Archdeacon Coxe and Mr. Thackeray, who have borrowed it, ever in their lives hear any speaking which did not deserve the same compliment? Did they ever hear speaking less ornamented than that of Demosthenes, or more diffuse than that of Cicero? We know no living orator, from Lord Brougham down to Mr. Hunt, who is not entitled to the same eulogy. It would be no very flattering compliment to a man’s figure to say, that he was taller than the Polish Count, and shorter than Giant O’Brien, fatter than the Anatomie Vivante, and more slender than Daniel Lambert. Pitt’s speech, as it is reported in the Gentleman’s Magazine, certainly deserves Tindal’s compliment, and deserves no other. It is just as empty and wordy as a maiden speech on such an occasion might be expected to be. But the fluency and the personal advantages of the young orator instantly caught the ear and eye of his audience. He was, from the day of his first appearance, always heard with attention; and exercise soon developed the great powers which he possessed. In our time, the audience of a member of Parliament is the nation. The three or four hundred persons who may be present while a speech is delivered may be pleased or disgusted by the voice and action of the orator; but, in the reports which are read the next day by hundreds of thousands, the difference between the noblest and the meanest figure, between the richest and the shrillest tones, between the most graceful and the most uncouth gesture, altogether vanishes. A hundred years ago, scarcely any report of what passed within the walls of the House of Commons was suffered to get abroad. In those times, therefore, the impression which a speaker might make on the persons who actually heard him was everything. His fame out of doors depended entirely on the report of those who were within the doors. In the Parliaments of that time, therefore, as in the ancient commonwealths, those qualifications which enhance the immediate effect of a speech, were far more important ingredients in the composition of an orator than at present. All those qualifications Pitt possessed in the highest degree. On the stage, he would have been the finest Brutus or Coriolanus ever seen. Those who saw him in his decay, when his health was broken, when his mind was untuned, when he had been removed from that stormy assembly of which he thoroughly knew the temper, and over which he possessed unbounded influence, to a small, a torpid, and an unfriendly audience, say that his speaking was then, for the most part, a low, monotonous muttering, audible only to those who sat close to him, that when violently excited, he sometimes raised his voice for a few minutes, but that it sank again into an unintelligible murmur. Such was the Earl of Chatham, but such was not William Pitt. His figure, when he first appeared in Parliament, was strikingly graceful and commanding, his features high and noble, his eye full of fire. His voice, even when it sank to a whisper, was heard to the remotest benches; and when he strained it to its full extent, the sound rose like the swell of the organ of a great Cathedral, shook the house with its peal, and was heard through lobbies and down staircases to the Court of Requests and the precincts of Westminster Hall. He cultivated all these eminent advantages with the most assiduous care. His action is described by a very malignant observer as equal to that of Garrick. His play of countenance was wonderful: he frequently disconcerted a hostile orator by a single glance of indignation or scorn. Every tone, from the impassioned cry to the thrilling aside, was perfectly at his command. It is by no means improbable that the pains which he took to improve his great personal advantages had, in some respects, a prejudicial operation, and tended to nourish in him that passion for theatrical effect which, as we have already remarked, was one of the most conspicuous blemishes in his character. But it was not solely or principally to outward accomplishments that Pitt owed the vast influence which, during nearly thirty years, he exercised over the House of Commons. He was undoubtedly a great orator; and, from the descriptions given by his contemporaries, and the fragments of his speeches which still remain, it is not difficult to discover the nature and extent of his oratorical powers. He was no speaker of set speeches. His few prepared discourses were complete failures. The elaborate panegyric which he pronounced on General Wolfe was considered as the very worst of all his performances. “No man,” says a critic who had often heard him, “ever knew so little what he was going to say.” Indeed, his facility amounted to a vice. He was not the master, but the slave of his own speech. So little self-command had he when once he felt the impulse, that he did not like to take part in a debate when his mind was full of an important secret of state. “I must sit still,” he once said to Lord Shelburne on such an occasion; “for, when once I am up, everything that is in my mind comes out.” Yet he was not a great debater. That he should not have been so when first he entered the House of Commons is not strange. Scarcely any person has ever become so without long practice and many failures. It was by slow degrees, as Burke said, that Charles Fox became the most brilliant and powerful debater that ever lived. Charles Fox himself attributed his own success to the resolution which he formed when very young, of speaking, well or ill, at least once every night. “During five whole sessions,” he used to say, “I spoke every night but one; and I regret only that I did not speak on that night too.” Indeed, with the exception of Mr. Stanley, whose knowledge of the science of parliamentary defence resembles an instinct, it would be difficult to name any eminent debater who has not made himself a master of his art at the expense of his audience. But, as this art is one which even the ablest men have seldom acquired without long practice, so it is one which men of respectable abilities, with assiduous and intrepid practice, seldom fail to acquire. It is singular that, in such an art, Pitt, a man of great parts, of great fluency, of great boldness, a man whose whole life was passed in parliamentary conflict, a man who, during several years, was the leading minister of the Crown in the House of Commons, should never have attained to high excellence. He spoke without premeditation; but his speech followed the course of his own thoughts, and not the course of the previous discussion. He could, indeed, treasure up in his memory some detached expression of an opponent, and make it the text for lively ridicule or solemn reprehension. Some of the most celebrated bursts of his eloquence were called forth by an unguarded word, a laugh, or a cheer. But this was the only sort of reply in which he appears to have excelled. He was perhaps the only great English orator who did not think it any advantage to have the last word, and who generally spoke by choice before his most formidable antagonists. His merit was almost entirely rhetorical. He did not succeed either in exposition or in refutation; but his speeches abounded with lively illustrations, striking apophthegms, well-told anecdotes, happy allusions, passionate appeals. His invective and sarcasm were terrific. Perhaps no English orator was ever so much feared. But that which gave most effect to his declamation was the air of sincerity, of vehement feeling, of moral elevation, which belonged to all that he said. His style was not always in the purest taste. Several contemporary judges pronounced it too florid. Walpole, in the midst of the rapturous eulogy which he pronounces on one of Pitt’s greatest orations, owns that some of the metaphors were too forced. Some of Pitt’s quotations and classical stories are too trite for a clever schoolboy. But these were niceties for which the audience cared little. The enthusiasm of the orator infected all who heard him; his ardour and his noble bearing put fire into the most frigid conceit, and gave dignity to the most puerile allusion. His powers soon began to give annoyance to the Government; and Walpole determined to make an example of the patriotic cornet. Pitt was accordingly dismissed from the service. Mr. Thackeray says that the Minister took this step, because he plainly saw that it would have been vain to think of buying over so honourable and disinterested an opponent. We do not dispute Pitt’s integrity; but we do not know what proof he had given of it when he was turned out of the army; and we are sure that Walpole was not likely to give credit for inflexible honesty to a young adventurer who had never had an opportunity of refusing anything. The truth is, that it was not Walpole’s practice to buy off enemies. Mr. Burke truly says, in the Appeal to the Old Whigs, that Walpole gained very few over from the Opposition. Indeed that great minister knew his business far too well. He, knew that, for one mouth which is stopped with a place, fifty other mouths will be instantly opened. He knew that it would have been very bad policy in him to give the world to understand that more was to be got by thwarting his measures than by supporting them. These maxims are as old as the origin of parliamentary corruption in England. Pepys learned them, as he tells us, from the counsellors of Charles the Second. Pitt was no loser. He was made Groom of the Bedchamber to the Prince of Wales, and continued to declaim against the ministers with unabated violence and with increasing ability. The question of maritime right, then agitated between Spain and England, called forth all his powers. He clamoured for war with a vehemence which it is not easy to reconcile with reason or humanity, but which appears to Mr. Thackeray worthy of the highest admiration. We will not stop to argue a point on which we had long thought that all well-informed people were agreed. We could easily show, we think, that, if any respect be due to international law, if right, where societies of men are concerned, be anything but another name for might, if we do not adopt the doctrine of the Buccaneers, which seems to be also the doctrine of Mr. Thackeray, that treaties mean nothing within thirty degrees of the line, the war with Spain was altogether unjustifiable. But the truth is, that the promoters of that war have saved the historian the trouble of trying them. They have pleaded guilty. “I have seen,” says Burke, “and with some care examined, the original documents concerning certain important transactions of those times. They perfectly satisfied me of the extreme injustice of that war, and of the falsehood of the colours which Walpole, to his ruin, and guided by a mistaken policy, suffered to be daubed over that measure. Some years after, it was my fortune to converse with many of the principal actors against that minister, and with those who principally excited that clamour. None of them, no, not one, did in the least defend the measure, or attempt to justify their conduct. They condemned it as freely as they would have done in commenting upon any proceeding in history in which they were totally unconcerned.” Pitt, on subsequent occasions, gave ample proof that he was one of these penitents. But his conduct, even where it appeared most criminal to himself, appears admirable to his biographer. The elections of 1741 were unfavourable to Walpole; and after a long and obstinate struggle he found it necessary to resign. The Duke of Newcastle and Lord Hardwicke opened a negotiation with the leading Patriots, in the hope of forming an administration on a Whig basis. At this conjuncture, Pitt and those persons who were most nearly connected with him acted in a manner very little to their honour. They attempted to come to an understanding with Walpole, and offered, if he would use his influence with the King in their favour, to screen him from prosecution. They even went so far as to engage for the concurrence of the Prince of Wales. But Walpole knew that the assistance of the Boys, as he called the young Patriots, would avail him nothing if Pulteney and Carteret should prove intractable, and would be superfluous if the great leaders of the Opposition could be gained. He, therefore, declined the proposal. It is remarkable that Mr. Thackeray, who has thought it worth while to preserve Pitt’s bad college verses, has not even alluded to this story, a story which is supported by strong testimony, and which may be found in so common a book as Coxe’s Life of Walpole. The new arrangements disappointed almost every member of the Opposition, and none more than Pitt. He was not invited to become a place-man; and he therefore stuck firmly to his old trade of patriot. Fortunate it was for him that he did so. Had he taken office at this time, he would in all probability have shared largely in the unpopularity of Pulteney, Sandys, and Carteret. He was now the fiercest and most implacable of those who called for vengeance on Walpole. He spoke with great energy and ability in favour of the most unjust and violent propositions which the enemies of the fallen minister could invent. He urged the House of Commons to appoint a secret tribunal for the purpose of investigating the conduct of the late First Lord of the Treasury. This was done. The great majority of the inquisitors were notoriously hostile to the accused statesman. Yet they were compelled to own that they could find no fault in him. They therefore called for new powers, for a bill of indemnity to witnesses, or, in plain words, for a bill to reward all who might give evidence, true or false, against the Earl of Orford. This bill Pitt supported, Pitt, who had himself offered to be a screen between Lord Orford and public justice. These are melancholy facts. Mr. Thackeray omits them, or hurries over them as fast as he can; and, as eulogy is his business, he is in the right to do so. But, though there are many parts of the life of Pitt which it is more agreeable to contemplate, we know none more instructive. What must have been the general state of political morality, when a young man, considered, and justly considered, as the most public-spirited and spotless statesman of his time, could attempt to force his way into office by means so disgraceful! The Bill of Indemnity was rejected by the Lords. Walpole withdrew himself quietly from the public eye; and the ample space which he had left vacant was soon occupied by Carteret. Against Carteret Pitt began to thunder with as much zeal as he had ever manifested against Sir Robert. To Carteret he transferred most of the hard names which were familiar to his eloquence, sole minister, wicked minister, odious minister, execrable minister. The chief topic of Pitt’s invective was the favour shown to the German dominions of the House of Brunswick. He attacked with great violence, and with an ability which raised him to the very first rank among the parliamentary speakers, the practice of paying Hanoverian troops with English money. The House of Commons had lately lost some of its most distinguished ornaments. Walpole and Pulteney had accepted peerages; Sir William Wyndham was dead; and among the rising men none could be considered as, on the whole, a match for Pitt. During the recess of 1744, the old Duchess of Marlborough died. She carried to her grave the reputation of being decidedly the best hater of her time. Yet her love had been infinitely more destructive than her hatred. More than thirty years before, her temper had ruined the party to which she belonged and the husband whom she adored. Time had made her neither wiser nor kinder. Whoever was at any moment great and prosperous was the object of her fiercest detestation. She had hated Walpole; she now hated Carteret. Pope, long before her death, predicted the fate of her vast property. “To heirs unknown descends the unguarded store, Or wanders, heaven-directed, to the poor.” Pitt was then one of the poor; and to him Heaven directed a portion of the wealth of the haughty Dowager. She left him a legacy of ten thousand pounds, in consideration of “the noble defence he had made for the support of the laws of England, and to prevent the ruin of his country.” The will was made in August--The Duchess died in October. In November Pitt was a courtier. The Pelhams had forced the King, much against his will, to part with Lord Carteret, who had now become Earl Granville. They proceeded, after this victory, to form the Government on that basis, called by the cant name of “the broad bottom.” Lyttelton had a seat at the Treasury, and several other friends of Pitt were provided for. But Pitt himself was, for the present, forced to be content with promises. The King resented most highly some expressions which the ardent orator had used in the debate on the Hanoverian troops. But Newcastle and Pelham expressed the strongest confidence that time and their exertions would soften the royal displeasure. Pitt, on his part, omitted nothing that might facilitate his admission to office. He resigned his place in the household of Prince Frederick, and, when Parliament met, exerted his eloquence in support of the Government. The Pelhams were really sincere in their endeavours to remove the strong prejudices which had taken root in the King’s mind. They knew that Pitt was not a man to be deceived with ease or offended with impunity. They were afraid that they should not be long able to put him off with promises. Nor was it their interest so to put him off. There was a strong tie between him and them. He was the enemy of their enemy. The brothers hated and dreaded the eloquent, aspiring, and imperious Granville. They had traced his intrigues in many quarters. They knew his influence over the royal mind. They knew that, as soon as a favourable opportunity should arrive, he would be recalled to the head of affairs. They resolved to bring things to a crisis; and the question on which they took issue with their master was whether Pitt should or should not be admitted to office. They chose their time with more skill than generosity. It was when rebellion was actually raging in Britain, when the Pretender was master of the northern extremity of the island, that they tendered their resignations. The King found himself deserted, in one day, by the whole strength of that party which had placed his family on the throne. Lord Granville tried to form a Government; but it soon appeared that the parliamentary interest of the Pelhams was irresistible, and that the King’s favourite statesman could count only on about thirty Lords and eighty members of the House of Commons. The scheme was given up. Granville went away laughing. The ministers came back stronger than ever; and the King was now no longer able to refuse anything that they might be pleased to demand. He could only mutter that it was very hard that Newcastle, who was not fit to be chamberlain to the most insignificant prince in Germany, should dictate to the King of England. One concession the ministers graciously made. They agreed that Pitt should not be placed in a situation in which it would be necessary for him to have frequent interviews with the King. Instead, therefore, of making their new ally Secretary at War as they had intended, they appointed him Vice-Treasurer of Ireland, and in a few months promoted him to the office of Paymaster of the Forces. This was, at that time, one of the most lucrative offices in the Government. The salary was but a small part of the emolument which the Paymaster derived from his place. He was allowed to keep a large sum, which, even in time of peace, was seldom less than one hundred thousand pounds, constantly in his hands; and the interest on this sum he might appropriate to his own use. This practice was not secret, nor was it considered as disreputable. It was the practice of men of undoubted honour, both before and after the time of Pitt. He, however, refused to accept one farthing beyond the salary which the law had annexed to his office. It had been usual for foreign princes who received the pay of England to give to the Paymaster of the Forces a small percentage on the subsidies. These ignominious veils Pitt resolutely declined. Disinterestedness of this kind was, in his days, very rare. His conduct surprised and amused politicians. It excited the warmest admiration throughout the body of the people. In spite of the inconsistencies of which Pitt had been guilty, in spite of the strange contrast between his violence in Opposition and his tameness in office, he still possessed a large share of the public confidence. The motives which may lead a politician to change his connections or his general line of conduct are often obscure; but disinterestedness in pecuniary matters everybody can understand. Pitt was thenceforth considered as a man who was proof to all sordid temptations. If he acted ill, it might be from an error in judgment; it might be from resentment; it might be from ambition. But poor as he was, he had vindicated himself from all suspicion of covetousness. Eight quiet years followed, eight years during which the minority, which had been feeble ever since Lord Granville had been overthrown, continued to dwindle till it became almost invisible. Peace was made with France and Spain in 1748. Prince Frederick died in 1751; and with him died the very semblance of opposition. All the most distinguished survivors of the party which had supported Walpole and of the party which had opposed him, were united under his successor. The fiery and vehement spirit of Pitt had for a time been laid to rest. He silently acquiesced in that very system of continental measures which he had lately condemned. He ceased to talk disrespectfully about Hanover. He did not object to the treaty with Spain, though that treaty left us exactly where we had been when he uttered his spirit-stirring harangues against the pacific policy of Walpole. Now and then glimpses of his former self appeared; but they were few and transient. Pelham knew with whom he had to deal, and felt that an ally, so little used to control, and so capable of inflicting injury, might well be indulged in an occasional fit of waywardness. Two men, little, if at all inferior to Pitt in powers of mind, held, like him, subordinate offices in the Government. One of these, Murray, was successively Solicitor-General and Attorney-General. This distinguished person far surpassed Pitt in correctness of taste, in power of reasoning, in depth and variety of knowledge. His parliamentary eloquence never blazed into sudden flashes of dazzling brilliancy; but its clear, placid, and mellow splendour was never for an instant overclouded. Intellectually he was, we believe, fully equal to Pitt; but he was deficient in the moral qualities to which Pitt owed most of his success. Murray wanted the energy, the courage, the all-grasping and all-risking ambition, which make men great in stirring times. His heart was a little cold, his temper cautious even to timidity, his manners decorous even to formality. He never exposed his fortunes or his fame to any risk which he could avoid. At one time he might, in all probability, have been Prime Minister. But the object of his wishes was the judicial bench. The situation of Chief Justice might not be so splendid as that of First Lord of the Treasury; but it was dignified; it was quiet; it was secure; and therefore it was the favourite situation of Murray. Fox, the father of the great man whose mighty efforts in the cause of peace, of truth, and of liberty, have made that name immortal, was Secretary-at-War. He was a favourite with the King, with the Duke of Cumberland, and with some of the most powerful members of the great Whig connection. His parliamentary talents were of the highest order. As a speaker he was in almost all respects the very opposite to Pitt. His figure was ungraceful; his face, as Reynolds and Nollekens have preserved it to us, indicated a strong understanding; but the features were coarse, and the general aspect dark and lowering. His manner was awkward; his delivery was hesitating; he was often at a stand for want of a word; but as a debater, as a master of that keen, weighty, manly logic, which is suited to the discussion of political questions, he has perhaps never been surpassed except by his son. In reply he was as decidedly superior to Pitt as in declamation he was Pitt’s inferior. Intellectually the balance was nearly even between the rivals. But here, again, the moral qualities of Pitt turned the scale. Fox had undoubtedly many virtues. In natural disposition as well as in talents, he bore a great resemblance to his more celebrated son. He had the same sweetness of temper, the same strong passions, the same openness, boldness, and impetuosity, the same cordiality towards friends, the same placability towards enemies. No man was more warmly or justly beloved by his family or by his associates. But unhappily he had been trained in a bad political school, in a school, the doctrines of which were, that political virtue is the mere coquetry of political prostitution, that every patriot has his price, that government can be carried on only by means of corruption, and that the State is given as a prey to statesmen. These maxims were too much in vogue throughout the lower ranks of Walpole’s party, and were too much encouraged by Walpole himself, who, from contempt of what is in our day vulgarly called humbug; often ran extravagantly and offensively into the opposite extreme. The loose political morality of Fox presented a remarkable contrast to the ostentatious purity of Pitt. The nation distrusted the former, and placed implicit confidence in the latter. But almost all the statesmen of the age had still to learn that the confidence of the nation was worth having. While things went on quietly, while there was no opposition, while everything was given by the favour of a small ruling junto, Fox had a decided advantage over Pitt; but when dangerous times came, when Europe was convulsed with war, when Parliament was broken up into factions, when the public mind was violently excited, the favourite of the people rose to supreme power, while his rival sank into insignificance. Early in the year 1754 Henry Pelham died unexpectedly. “Now I shall have no more peace,” exclaimed the old King, when he heard the news. He was in the right. Pelham had succeeded in bringing together and keeping together all the talents of the kingdom. By his death, the highest post to which an English subject can aspire was left vacant; and at the same moment, the influence which had yoked together and reined-in so many turbulent and ambitious spirits was withdrawn. Within a week after Pelham’s death, it was determined that the Duke of Newcastle should be placed at the head of the Treasury; but the arrangement was still far from complete. Who was to be the leading Minister of the Crown in the House of Commons? Was the office to be intrusted to a man of eminent talents? And would not such a man in such a place demand and obtain a larger share of power and patronage than Newcastle would be disposed to concede? Was a mere drudge to be employed? And what probability was there that a mere drudge would be able to manage a large and stormy assembly, abounding with able and experienced men? Pope has said of that wretched miser Sir John Cutler, “Cutler saw tenants break and houses fall For very want: he could not build a wall.” Newcastle’s love of power resembled Cutler’s love of money. It was an avarice which thwarted itself, a penny-wise and pound-foolish cupidity. An immediate outlay was so painful to him that he would not venture to make the most desirable improvement. If he could have found it in his heart to cede at once a portion of his authority, he might probably have ensured the continuance of what remained. But he thought it better to construct a weak and rotten government, which tottered at the smallest breath, and fell in the first storm, than to pay the necessary price for sound and durable materials. He wished to find some person who would be willing to accept the lead of the House of Commons on terms similar to those on which Secretary Craggs had acted under Sunderland, five-and-thirty years before. Craggs could hardly be called a minister. He was a mere agent for the Minister. He was not trusted with the higher secrets of State, but obeyed implicitly the directions of his superior, and was, to use Doddington’s expression, merely Lord Sunderland’s man. But times were changed. Since the days of Sunderland, the importance of the House of Commons had been constantly on the increase. During many years, the person who conducted the business of the Government in that House had almost always been Prime Minister. In these circumstances, it was not to be supposed that any person who possessed the talents necessary for the situation would stoop to accept it on such terms as Newcastle was disposed to offer. Pitt was ill at Bath; and, had he been well and in London, neither the King nor Newcastle would have been disposed to make any overtures to him. The cool and wary Murray had set his heart on professional objects. Negotiations were opened with Fox. Newcastle behaved like himself, that is to say, childishly and basely. The proposition which he made was that Fox should be Secretary of State, with the lead of the House of Commons; that the disposal of the secret-service money, or, in plain words, the business of buying members of Parliament, should be left to the First Lord of the Treasury; but that Fox should be exactly informed of the way in which this fund was employed. To these conditions Fox assented. But the next day everything was in confusion. Newcastle had changed his mind. The conversation which took place between Fox and the Duke is one of the most curious in English history. “My brother,” said Newcastle, “when he was at the Treasury, never told anybody what he did with the secret-service money. No more will I.” The answer was obvious. Pelham had been not only First Lord of the Treasury, but also manager of the House of Commons; and it was therefore unnecessary for him to confide to any other person his dealings with the members of that House. “But how,” said Fox, “can I lead in the Commons without information on this head? How can I talk to gentlemen when I do not know which of them have received gratifications and which have not? And who,” he continued, “is to have the disposal of places?”--“I myself,” said the Duke. “How then am I to manage the House of Commons?”--“Oh, let the members of the House of Commons come to me.” Fox then mentioned the general election which was approaching, and asked how the ministerial boroughs were to be filled up. “Do not trouble yourself”, said Newcastle; “that is all settled.” This was too much for human nature to bear. Fox refused to accept the Secretaryship of State on such terms; and the Duke confided the management of the House of Commons to a dull, harmless man, whose name is almost forgotten in our time, Sir Thomas Robinson. When Pitt returned from Bath, he affected great moderation, though his haughty soul was boiling with resentment. He did not complain of the manner in which he had been passed by, but said openly that, in his opinion, Fox was the fittest man to lead the House of Commons. The rivals, reconciled by their common interest and their common enmities, concerted a plan of operations for the next session. “Sir Thomas Robinson lead us!” said Pitt to Fox. “The Duke might as well send his jack-boot to lead us.” The elections of 1754 were favourable to the administration. But the aspect of foreign affairs was threatening. In India the English and the French had been employed, ever since the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle, in cutting each other’s throats. They had lately taken to the same practice in America. It might have been foreseen that stirring times were at hand, times which would call for abilities very different from those of Newcastle and Robinson. In November the Parliament met; and before the end of that month the new Secretary of State had been so unmercifully baited by the Paymaster of the Forces and the Secretary-at-War that he was thoroughly sick of his situation. Fox attacked him with great force and acrimony. Pitt affected a kind of contemptuous tenderness for Sir Thomas, and directed his attacks principally against Newcastle. On one occasion he asked in tones of thunder whether Parliament sat only to register the edicts of one too powerful subject? The Duke was scared out of his wits. He was afraid to dismiss the mutineers, he was afraid to promote them; but it was absolutely necessary to do something. Fox, as the less proud and intractable of the refractory pair, was preferred. A seat in the Cabinet was offered to him on condition that he would give efficient support to the ministry in Parliament. In an evil hour for his fame and his fortunes he accepted the offer, and abandoned his connection with Pitt, who never forgave this desertion. Sir Thomas, assisted by Fox, contrived to get through the business of the year without much trouble. Pitt was waiting his time. The negotiations pending between France and England took every day a more unfavourable aspect. Towards the close of the session the King sent a message to inform the House of Commons that he had found it necessary to make preparations for war. The House returned an address of thanks, and passed a vote of credit. During the recess, the old animosity of both nations was inflamed by a series of disastrous events. An English force was cut off in America and several French merchantmen were taken in the West Indian seas. It was plain that an appeal to arms was at hand. The first object of the King was to secure Hanover; and Newcastle was disposed to gratify his master. Treaties were concluded, after the fashion of those times, with several petty German princes, who bound themselves to find soldiers if England would find money; and, as it was suspected that Frederic the Second had set his heart on the electoral dominions of his uncle, Russia was hired to keep Prussia in awe. When the stipulations of these treaties were made known, there arose throughout the kingdom a murmur from which a judicious observer might easily prognosticate the approach of a tempest. Newcastle encountered strong opposition, even from those whom he had always considered as his tools. Legge, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, refused to sign the Treasury warrants, which were necessary to give effect to the treaties. Those persons who were supposed to possess the confidence of the young Prince of Wales and of his mother held very menacing language. In this perplexity Newcastle sent for Pitt, hugged him, patted him, smirked at him, wept over him, and lisped out the highest compliments and the most splendid promises. The King, who had hitherto been as sulky as possible, would be civil to him at the levee; he should be brought into the Cabinet; he should be consulted about everything; if he would only be so good as to support the Hessian subsidy in the House of Commons. Pitt coldly declined the proffered seat in the Cabinet, expressed the highest love and reverence for the King, and said that, if his Majesty felt a strong personal interest in the Hessian treaty he would so far deviate from the line which he had traced out for himself as to give that treaty his support. “Well, and the Russian subsidy,” said Newcastle. “No,” said Pitt, “not a system of subsidies.” The Duke summoned Lord Hardwicke to his aid; but Pitt was inflexible. Murray would do nothing. Robinson could do nothing. It was necessary to have recourse to Fox. He became Secretary of State, with the full authority of a leader in the House of Commons; and Sir Thomas was pensioned off on the Irish establishment. In November 1755, the Houses met. Public expectation was wound up to the height. After ten quiet years there was to be an Opposition, countenanced by the heir-apparent of the throne, and headed by the most brilliant orator of the age. The debate on the address was long remembered as one of the parliamentary conflicts of that generation. It began at three in the afternoon, and lasted till five the next morning. It was on this night that Gerard Hamilton delivered that single speech from which his nickname was derived. His eloquence threw into the shade every orator, except Pitt, who declaimed against the subsidies for an hour and a half with extraordinary energy and effect. Those powers which had formerly spread terror through the majorities of Walpole and Carteret were now displayed in their highest perfection before an audience long unaccustomed to such exhibitions. One fragment of this celebrated oration remains in a state of tolerable preservation. It is the comparison between the coalition of Fox and Newcastle, and the junction of the Rhone and the Saone. “At Lyons,” said Pitt, “I was taken to see the place where the two rivers meet, the one gentle, feeble, languid, and though languid, yet of no depth, the other a boisterous and impetuous torrent: but different as they are, they meet at last.” The amendment moved by the Opposition was rejected by a great majority; and Pitt and Legge were immediately dismissed from their offices. During several months the contest in the House of Commons was extremely sharp. Warm debates took place in the estimates, debates still warmer on the subsidiary treaties. The Government succeeded in every division; but the fame of Pitt’s eloquence, and the influence of his lofty and determined character, continued to increase through the Session; and the events which followed the prorogation made it utterly impossible for any other person to manage the Parliament or the country. The war began in every part of the world with events disastrous to England, and even more shameful than disastrous. But the most humiliating of these events was the loss of Minorca. The Duke of Richelieu, an old fop who had passed his life from sixteen to sixty in seducing women for whom he cared not one straw, landed on that island, and succeeded in reducing it. Admiral Byng was sent from Gibraltar to throw succours into Port-Mahon; but he did not think fit to engage the French squadron, and sailed back without having effected his purpose. The people were inflamed to madness. A storm broke forth, which appalled even those who remembered the days of Excise and of South-Sea. The shops were filled with libels and caricatures. The walls were covered with placards. The city of London called for vengeance, and the cry was echoed from every corner of the kingdom. Dorsetshire, Huntingdonshire, Bedfordshire, Buckinghamshire, Somersetshire, Lancashire, Suffolk, Shropshire, Surrey, sent up strong addresses to the throne, and instructed their representatives to vote for a strict inquiry into the causes of the late disasters. In the great towns the feeling was as strong as in the counties. In some of the instructions it was even recommended that the supplies should be stopped. The nation was in a state of angry and sullen despondency, almost unparalleled in history. People have, in all ages, been in the habit of talking about the good old times of their ancestors, and the degeneracy of their contemporaries. This is in general merely a cant. But in 1756 it was something more. At this time appeared Brown’s Estimate, a book now remembered only by the allusions in Cowper’s Table Talk and in Burke’s Letters on a Regicide Peace. It was universally read, admired, and believed. The author fully convinced his readers that they were a race of cowards and scoundrels; that nothing could save them; that they were on the point of being enslaved by their enemies, and that they richly deserved their fate. Such were the speculations to which ready credence was given at the outset of the most glorious war in which England had ever been engaged. Newcastle now began to tremble for his place, and for the only thing which was dearer to him than his place, his neck. The people were not in a mood to be trifled with. Their cry was for blood. For this once they might be contented with the sacrifice of Byng. But what if fresh disasters should take place? What if an unfriendly sovereign should ascend the throne? What if a hostile House of Commons should be chosen? At length, in October, the decisive crisis came. The new Secretary of State had been long sick of the perfidy and levity of the First Lord of the Treasury, and began to fear that he might be made a scapegoat to save the old intriguer who, imbecile as he seemed, never wanted dexterity where danger was to be avoided. Fox threw up his office, Newcastle had recourse to Murray; but Murray had now within his reach the favourite object of his ambition. The situation of Chief-Justice of the King’s Bench was vacant; and the Attorney-General was fully resolved to obtain it, or to go into Opposition. Newcastle offered him any terms, the Duchy of Lancaster for life, a teller-ship of the Exchequer, any amount of pension, two thousand a year, six thousand a year. When the Ministers found that Murray’s mind was made up, they pressed for delay, the delay of a session, a month, a week, a day. Would he only make his appearance once more in the House of Commons? Would he only speak in favour of the address? He was inexorable, and peremptorily said that they might give or withhold the Chief-Justiceship, but that he would be Attorney-General no longer. Newcastle now contrived to overcome the prejudices of the King, and overtures were made to Pitt, through Lord Hardwicke. Pitt knew his power, and showed that he knew it. He demanded as an indispensable condition that Newcastle should be altogether excluded from the new arrangement. The Duke was in a state of ludicrous distress. He ran about chattering and crying, asking advice and listening to none. In the meantime, the Session drew near. The public excitement was unabated. Nobody could be found to face Pitt and Fox in the House of Commons. Newcastle’s heart failed him, and he tendered his resignation. The King sent for Fox, and directed him to form the plan of an administration in concert with Pitt. But Pitt had not forgotten old injuries, and positively refused to act with Fox. The King now applied to the Duke of Devonshire, and this mediator succeeded in making an arrangement. He consented to take the Treasury. Pitt became Secretary of State, with the lead of the House of Commons. The Great Seal was put into commission. Legge returned to the Exchequer; and Lord Temple, whose sister Pitt had lately married, was placed at the head of the Admiralty. It was clear from the first that this administration would last but a very short time. It lasted not quite five months; and, during those five months, Pitt and Lord Temple were treated with rudeness by the King, and found but feeble support in the House of Commons. It is a remarkable fact, that the Opposition prevented the re-election of some of the new Ministers. Pitt, who sat for one of the boroughs which were in the Pelham interest, found some difficulty in obtaining a seat after his acceptance of the seals. So destitute was the new Government of that sort of influence without which no Government could then be durable. One of the arguments most frequently urged against the Reform Bill was that, under a system of popular representation, men whose presence in the House of Commons was necessary to the conducting of public business might often find it impossible to find seats. Should this inconvenience ever be felt, there cannot be the slightest difficulty in devising and applying a remedy. But those who threatened us with this evil ought to have remembered that, under the old system, a great man called to power at a great crisis by the voice of the whole nation was in danger of being excluded, by an aristocratical cabal from that House of which he was the most distinguished ornament. The most important event of this short administration was the trial of Byng. On that subject public opinion is still divided. We think the punishment of the Admiral altogether unjust and absurd. Treachery, cowardice, ignorance amounting to what lawyers have called crassa ignorantia, are fit objects of severe penal inflictions. But Byng was not found guilty of treachery, of cowardice, or of gross ignorance of his profession. He died for doing what the most loyal subject, the most intrepid warrior, the most experienced seaman, might have done. He died for an error in judgment, an error such as the greatest commanders, Frederick, Napoleon, Wellington, have often committed, and have often acknowledged. Such errors are not proper objects of punishment, for this reason, that the punishing of such errors tends not to prevent them, but to produce them. The dread of an ignominious death may stimulate sluggishness to exertion, may keep a traitor to his standard, may prevent a coward from running away, but it has no tendency to bring out those qualities which enable men to form prompt and judicious decisions in great emergencies. The best marksman may be expected to fail when the apple which is to be his mark is set on his child’s head. We cannot conceive anything more likely to deprive an officer of his self-possession at the time when he most needs it than the knowledge that, if, the judgment of his superiors should not agree with his, he will be executed with every circumstance of shame. Queens, it has often been said, run far greater risk in childbed than private women, merely because their medical attendants are more anxious. The surgeon who attended Marie Louise was altogether unnerved by his emotions. “Compose yourself,” said Bonaparte; “imagine that you are assisting a poor girl in the Faubourg Saint Antoine.” This was surely a far wiser course than that of the Eastern king in the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments, who proclaimed that the physicians who failed to cure his daughter should have their heads chopped off. Bonaparte knew mankind well; and, as he acted towards this surgeon, he acted towards his officers. No sovereign was ever so indulgent to mere errors of judgment; and it is certain that no sovereign ever had in his service so many military men fit for the highest commands. Pitt acted a brave and honest part on this occasion. He ventured to put both his power and his popularity to hazard, and spoke manfully for Byng, both in Parliament and in the royal presence. But the King was inexorable. “The House of Commons, Sir,” said Pitt, “seems inclined to mercy.” “Sir,” answered the King, “you have taught me to look for the sense of my people in other places than the House of Commons.” The saying has more point than most of those which are recorded of George the Second, and, though sarcastically meant, contains a high and just compliment to Pitt. The King disliked Pitt, but absolutely hated Temple. The new Secretary of State, his Majesty said, had never read Vattel, and was tedious and pompous, but respectful. The first Lord of the Admiralty was grossly impertinent. Walpole tells one story, which, we fear, is much too good to be true, He assures us that Temple entertained his royal master with an elaborate parallel between Byng’s behaviour at Minorca, and his Majesty’s behaviour at Oudenarde, in which the advantage was all on the side of the Admiral. This state of things could not last. Early in April, Pitt and all his friends were turned out, and Newcastle was summoned to St. James’s. But the public discontent was not extinguished. It had subsided when Pitt was called to power. But it still glowed under the embers; and it now burst at once into a flame. The stocks fell. The Common Council met. The freedom of the city was voted to Pitt. All the greatest corporate towns followed the example. “For some weeks,” says Walpole, “it rained gold boxes.” This was the turning point of Pitt’s life. It might have been expected that a man of so haughty and vehement a nature, treated so ungraciously by the Court, and supported so enthusiastically by the people, would have eagerly taken the first opportunity of showing his power and gratifying his resentment; and an opportunity was not wanting. The members for many counties and large towns had been instructed to vote for an inquiry into the circumstances which had produced the miscarriage of the preceding year. A motion for inquiry had been carried in the House of Commons, without opposition; and, a few days after Pitt’s dismissal, the investigation commenced. Newcastle and his colleagues obtained a vote of acquittal; but the minority were so strong that they could not venture to ask for a vote of approbation, as they had at first intended; and it was thought by some shrewd observers that, if, Pitt had exerted himself to the utmost of his power, the inquiry might have ended in a censure, if not in an impeachment. Pitt showed on this occasion a moderation and self-government which was not habitual to him. He had found by experience, that he could not stand alone. His eloquence and his popularity had done much, very much for him. Without rank, without fortune, without borough interest, hated by the King, hated by the aristocracy, he was a person of the first importance in the State. He had been suffered to form a ministry, and to pronounce sentence of exclusion on all his rivals, on the most powerful nobleman of the Whig party, on the ablest debater in the House of Commons. And he now found that he had gone too far. The English Constitution was not, indeed, without a popular element. But other elements generally predominated. The confidence and admiration of the nation might make a statesman formidable at the head of an Opposition, might load him with framed and glazed parchments and gold boxes, might possibly, under very peculiar circumstances, such as those of the preceding year, raise him for a time to power. But, constituted as Parliament then was, the favourite of the people could not depend on a majority in the people’s own House. The Duke of Newcastle, however contemptible in morals, manners, and understanding, was a dangerous enemy. His rank, his wealth, his unrivalled parliamentary interest, would alone have made him important. But this was not all. The Whig aristocracy regarded him as their leader. His long possession of power had given him a kind of prescriptive right to possess it still. The House of Commons had been elected when he was at the head of affairs, The members for the ministerial boroughs had all been nominated by him. The public offices swarmed with his creatures. Pitt desired power; and he desired it, we really believe, from high and generous motives. He was, in the strict sense of the word, a patriot. He had none of that philanthropy which the great French writers of his time preached to all the nations of Europe. He loved England as an Athenian loved the City of the Violet Crown, as a Roman loved the City of the Seven Hills. He saw his country insulted and defeated. He saw the national spirit sinking. Yet he knew what the resources of the empire, vigorously employed, could effect, and he felt that he was the man to employ them vigorously. “My Lord,” he said to the Duke of Devonshire, “I am sure that I can save this country, and that nobody else can.” Desiring, then, to be in power, and feeling that his abilities and the public confidence were not alone sufficient to keep him in power against the wishes of the Court and of the aristocracy, he began to think of a coalition with Newcastle. Newcastle was equally disposed to a reconciliation. He, too, had profited by his recent experience. He had found that the Court and the aristocracy, though powerful, were not everything in the State. A strong oligarchical connection, a great borough interest, ample patronage, and secret-service money, might, in quiet times, be all that a Minister needed; but it was unsafe to trust wholly to such support in time of war, of discontent, and of agitation. The composition of the House of Commons was not wholly aristocratical; and, whatever be the composition of large deliberative assemblies, their spirit is always in some degree popular. Where there are free debates, eloquence must have admirers, and reason must make converts. Where there is a free press, the governors must live in constant awe of the opinions of the governed. Thus these two men, so unlike in character, so lately mortal enemies, were necessary to each other. Newcastle had fallen in November, for want of that public confidence which Pitt possessed, and of that parliamentary support which Pitt was better qualified than any man of his time to give. Pitt had fallen in April, for want of that species of influence which Newcastle had passed his whole life in acquiring and hoarding. Neither of them had power enough to support himself. Each of them had power enough to overturn the other. Their union would be irresistible. Neither the King nor any party in the State would be able to stand against them. Under these circumstances, Pitt was not disposed to proceed to extremities against his predecessors in office. Something, however, was due to consistency; and something was necessary for the preservation of his popularity. He did little; but that little he did in such manner as to produce great effect. He came down to the House in all the pomp of gout, his legs swathed in flannels, his arm dangling in a sling. He kept his seat through several fatiguing days, in spite of pain and languor. He uttered a few sharp and vehement sentences; but during the greater part of the discussion, his language was unusually gentle. When the inquiry had terminated without a vote either of approbation or of censure, the great obstacle to a coalition was removed. Many obstacles, however, remained. The King was still rejoicing in his deliverance from the proud and aspiring Minister who had been forced on him by the cry of the nation. His Majesty’s indignation was excited to the highest point when it appeared that Newcastle, who had, during thirty years, been loaded with marks of royal favour, and who had bound himself, by a solemn promise, never to coalesce with Pitt, was meditating a new perfidy. Of all the statesmen of that age, Fox had the largest share of royal favour. A coalition between Fox and Newcastle was the arrangement which the King wished to bring about. But the Duke was too cunning to fall into such a snare. As a speaker in Parliament, Fox might perhaps be, on the whole, as useful to an administration as his great rival; but he was one of the most unpopular men in England. Then, again, Newcastle felt all that jealousy of Fox, which, according to the proverb, generally exists between two of a trade. Fox would certainly intermeddle with that department which the Duke was most desirous to reserve entire to himself, the jobbing department. Pitt, on the other hand, was quite willing to leave the drudgery of corruption to any who might be inclined to undertake it. During eleven weeks England remained without a ministry; and in the meantime Parliament was sitting, and a war was raging. The prejudices of the King, the haughtiness of Pitt, the jealousy, levity, and treachery of Newcastle, delayed the settlement. Pitt knew the Duke too well to trust him without security. The Duke loved power too much to be inclined to give security. While they were haggling, the King was in vain attempting to produce a final rupture between them, or to form a Government without them. At one time he applied to Lord Waldegrave, an honest and sensible man, but unpractised in affairs. Lord Waldegrave had the courage to accept the Treasury, but soon found that no administration formed by him had the smallest chance of standing a single week. At length the King’s pertinacity yielded to the necessity of the case. After exclaiming with great bitterness, and with some justice, against the Whigs, who ought, he said, to be ashamed to talk about liberty while they submitted to the footmen of the Duke of Newcastle, his Majesty submitted. The influence of Leicester House prevailed on Pitt to abate a little, and but a little, of his high demands; and all at once, out of the chaos in which parties had for some time been rising, falling, meeting, separating, arose a government as strong at home as that of Pelham, as successful abroad as that of Godolphin. Newcastle took the Treasury. Pitt was Secretary of State, with the lead in the House of Commons, and with the supreme direction of the war and of foreign affairs. Fox, the only man who could have given much annoyance to the new Government, was silenced by the office of Paymaster, which, during the continuance of that war, was probably the most lucrative place in the whole Government. He was poor, and the situation was tempting; yet it cannot but seem extraordinary that a man who had played a first part in politics, and whose abilities had been found not unequal to that part, who had sat in the Cabinet, who had led the House of Commons, who had been twice intrusted by the King with the office of forming a ministry, who was regarded as the rival of Pitt, and who at one time seemed likely to be a successful rival, should have consented, for the sake of emolument, to take a subordinate place, and to give silent votes for all the measures of a government to the deliberations of which he was not summoned. The first acts of the new administration were characterized rather by vigour than by judgment. Expeditions were sent against different parts of the French coast with little success. The small island of Aix was taken, Rochefort threatened, a few ships burned in the harbour of St. Maloes, and a few guns and mortars brought home as trophies from the fortifications of Cherbourg. But soon conquests of a very different kind filled the kingdom with pride and rejoicing. A succession of victories undoubtedly brilliant, and, as was thought, not barren, raised to the highest point the fame of the minister to whom the conduct of the war had been intrusted. In July 1758, Louisburg fell. The whole island of Cape Breton was reduced. The fleet to which the Court of Versailles had confided the defence of French America was destroyed. The captured standards were borne in triumph from Kensington Palace to the city, and were suspended in St. Paul’s Church, amidst the roar of drums and kettledrums, and the shouts of an immense multitude. Addresses of congratulation came in from all the great towns of England. Parliament met only to decree thanks and monuments, and to bestow, without one murmur, supplies more than double of those which had been given during the war of the Grand Alliance. The year 1759 opened with the conquest of Goree. Next fell Guadaloupe; then Ticonderoga; then Niagara. The Toulon squadron was completely defeated by Boscawen off Cape Lagos. But the greatest exploit of the year was the achievement of Wolfe on the heights of Abraham. The news of his glorious death and of the fall of Quebec reached London in the very week in which the Houses met. All was joy and triumph. Envy and faction were forced to join in the general applause. Whigs and Tories vied with each other in extolling the genius and energy of Pitt. His colleagues were never talked of or thought of. The House of Commons, the nation, the colonies, our allies, our enemies, had their eyes fixed on him alone. Scarcely had Parliament voted a monument to Wolfe, when another great event called for fresh rejoicings. The Brest fleet, under the command of Conflans, had put out to sea. It was overtaken by an English squadron under Hawke. Conflans attempted to take shelter close under the French coast. The shore was rocky; the night was black: the wind was furious: the waves of the Bay of Biscay ran high. But Pitt had infused into each branch of the service a spirit which had long been unknown. No British seaman was disposed to err on the same side with Byng. The pilot told Hawke that the attack could not be made without the greatest danger. “You have done your duty in remonstrating,” answered Hawke; “I will answer for everything. I command you to lay me alongside the French admiral.” Two French ships of the line struck. Four were destroyed. The rest hid themselves in the rivers of Brittany. The year 1760 came; and still triumph followed triumph. Montreal was taken; the whole province of Canada was subjugated; the French fleets underwent a succession of disasters in the seas of Europe and America. In the meantime conquests equalling in rapidity, and far surpassing in magnitude, those of Cortes and Pizarro, had been achieved in the East. In the space of three years the English had founded a mighty empire. The French had been defeated in every part of India. Chandernagore had surrendered to Clive, Pondicherry to Coote. Throughout Bengal, Bahar, Orissa, and the Carnatic, the authority of the East India Company was more absolute than that of Acbar or Aurungzebe had ever been. On the continent of Europe the odds were against England. We had but one important ally, the King of Prussia; and he was attacked not only by France, but also by Russia and Austria. Yet even on the Continent the energy of Pitt triumphed over all difficulties. Vehemently as he had condemned the practice of subsidising foreign princes, he now carried that practice further than Carteret himself would have ventured to do. The active and able Sovereign of Prussia received such pecuniary assistance as enabled him to maintain the conflict on equal terms against his powerful enemies. On no subject had Pitt ever spoken with so much eloquence and ardour as on the mischiefs of the Hanoverian connection. He now declared, not without much show of reason, that it would be unworthy of the English people to suffer their King to be deprived of his electoral dominions in an English quarrel. He assured his countrymen that they should be no losers, and that he would conquer America for them in Germany. By taking this line he conciliated the King, and lost no part of his influence with the nation. In Parliament, such was the ascendency which his eloquence, his success, his high situation, his pride, and his intrepidity had obtained for him, that he took liberties with the House of which there had been no example, and which have never since been imitated. No orator could there venture to reproach him with inconsistency. One unfortunate man made the attempt, and was so much disconcerted by the scornful demeanour of the Minister that he stammered, stopped, and sat down. Even the old Tory country gentleman, to whom the very name of Hanover had been odious, gave their hearty Ayes to subsidy after subsidy. In a lively contemporary satire, much more lively indeed than delicate, this remarkable conversation is not unhappily described: “No more they make a fiddle-faddle About a Hessian horse or saddle. No more of continental measures No more of wasting British treasures. Ten millions, and a vote of credit, ‘Tis right. He can’t be wrong who did it.” The success of Pitt’s continental measures was such as might have been expected from their vigour. When he came into power, Hanover was in imminent danger; and before he had been in office three months, the whole electorate was in the hands of France. But the face of affairs was speedily changed. The invaders were driven out. An army, partly English, partly Hanoverian, partly composed of soldiers furnished by the petty Princes of Germany, was placed under the command of Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick. The French were beaten in 1758 at Crevelt. In 1759 they received a still more complete and humiliating defeat at Minden. In the meantime, the nation exhibited all the signs of wealth and prosperity. The merchants of London had never been more thriving. The importance of several great commercial and manufacturing towns, of Glasgow in particular, dates from this period. The fine inscription on the monument of Lord Chatham, in Guildhall records the general opinion of the citizens of London, that under his administration commerce had been “united with and made to flourish by war.” It must be owned that these signs of prosperity were in some degree delusive. It must be owned that some of our conquests were rather splendid than useful. It must be owned that the expense of the war never entered into Pitt’s consideration. Perhaps it would be more correct to say that the cost of his victories increased the pleasure with which he contemplated them. Unlike other men in his situation, he loved to exaggerate the sums which the nation was laying out under his direction. He was proud of the sacrifices and efforts which his eloquence and his success had induced his countrymen to make. The price at which he purchased faithful service and complete victory, though far smaller than that which his son, the most profuse and incapable of war ministers, paid for treachery, defeat, and shame, was long and severely felt by the nation. Even as a war minister, Pitt is scarcely entitled to all the praise which his contemporaries lavished on him. We, perhaps from ignorance, cannot discern in his arrangements any appearance of profound or dexterous combination. Several of his expeditions, particularly those which were sent to the coast of France, were at once costly and absurd. Our Indian conquests, though they add to the splendour of the period during which he was at the head of affairs, were not planned by him. He had undoubtedly great energy, great determination, great means at his command. His temper was enterprising; and, situated as he was, he had only to follow his temper. The wealth of a rich nation, the valour of a brave nation, were ready to support him in every attempt. In one respect, however, he deserved all the praise that he has ever received. The success of our arms was perhaps owing less to the skill of his dispositions than to the national resources and the national spirit. But that the national spirit rose to the emergency, that the national resources were contributed with unexampled cheerfulness, this was undoubtedly his work. The ardour of his soul had set the whole kingdom on fire. It inflamed every soldier who dragged the cannon up the heights of Quebec, and every sailor who boarded the French ships among the rocks of Brittany. The Minister, before he had been long in office, had imparted to the commanders whom he employed his own impetuous, adventurous, and defying character They, like him, were disposed to risk everything, to play double or quits to the last, to think nothing done while anything remained undone, to fail rather than not to attempt. For the errors of rashness there might be indulgence. For over-caution, for faults like those of Lord George Sackville, there was no mercy. In other times, and against other enemies, this mode of warfare might have failed. But the state of the French government and of the French nation gave every advantage to Pitt. The fops and intriguers of Versailles were appalled and bewildered by his vigour. A panic spread through all ranks of society. Our enemies soon considered it as a settled thing that they were always to be beaten. Thus victory begot victory; till, at last, wherever the forces of the two nations met, they met with disdainful confidence on one side, and with a craven fear on the other. The situation which Pitt occupied at the close of the reign of George the Second was the most enviable ever occupied by any public man in English history. He had conciliated the King; he domineered over the House of Commons; he was adored by the people; he was admired by all Europe. He was the first Englishman of his time; and he had made England the first country in the world. The Great Commoner, the name by which he was often designated, might look down with scorn on coronets and garters. The nation was drunk with joy and pride. The Parliament was as quiet as it had been under Pelham. The old party distinctions were almost effaced; nor was their place yet supplied by distinctions of a still more important kind. A new generation of country squires and rectors had arisen who knew not the Stuarts. The Dissenters were tolerated; the Catholics not cruelly persecuted. The Church was drowsy and indulgent. The great civil and religious conflict which began at the Reformation seemed to have terminated in universal repose. Whigs and Tories, Churchmen and Puritans, spoke with equal reverence of the constitution, and with equal enthusiasm of the talents, virtues, and services of the Minister. A few years sufficed to change the whole aspect of affairs. A nation convulsed by faction, a throne assailed by the fiercest invective, a House of Commons hated and despised by the nation, England set against Scotland, Britain set against America, a rival legislature sitting beyond the Atlantic, English blood shed by English bayonets, our armies capitulating, our conquests wrested from us, our enemies hastening to take vengeance for past humiliation, our flag scarcely able to maintain itself in our own seas, such was the spectacle which Pitt lived to see. But the history of this great revolution requires far more space than we can at present bestow. We leave the Great Commoner in the zenith of his glory. It is not impossible that we may take some other opportunity of tracing his life to its melancholy, yet not inglorious close. THE EARL OF CHATHAM (October 1844) _1. Correspondence of William Pitt, Earl of Chatham. 4 vols. 8vo. London: 1840. 2. Letters of Horace Walpole, Earl of Orford, to Horace Mann. 4 vols. 8vo. London: 1843-4._ MORE than ten years ago we commenced a sketch of the political life of the great Lord Chatham. We then stopped at the death of George the Second, with the intention of speedily resuming our task. Circumstances, which it would be tedious to explain, long prevented us from carrying this intention into effect. Nor can we regret the delay. For the materials which were within our reach in 1834 were scanty and unsatisfactory when compared with those which we at present possess. Even now, though we have had access to some valuable sources of information which have not yet been opened to the public, we cannot but feel that the history of the first ten years of the reign of George the Third is but imperfectly known to us. Nevertheless, we are inclined to think that we are in a condition to lay before our readers a narrative neither uninstructive nor uninteresting. We therefore return with pleasure to our long interrupted labour. We left Pitt in the zenith of prosperity and glory, the idol of England, the terror of France, the admiration of the whole civilised world. The wind, from whatever quarter it blew, carried to England tidings of battles won, fortresses taken, provinces added to the empire. At home, factions had sunk into a lethargy, such as had never been known since the great religious schism of the sixteenth century had roused the public mind from repose. In order that the events which we have to relate may be clearly understood, it may be desirable that we should advert to the causes which had for a time suspended the animation of both the great English parties. If, rejecting all that is merely accidental, we look at the essential characteristics of the Whig and the Tory, we may consider each of them as the representative of a great principle, essential to the welfare of nations. One is, in an especial manner, the guardian of liberty, and the other of order. One is the moving power, and the other the steadying power of the State. One is the sail, without which society would make no progress; the other the ballast, without which there would be small safety in a tempest. But, during the forty-six years which followed the accession of the House of Hanover, these distinctive peculiarities seemed to be effaced. The Whig conceived that he could not better serve the cause of civil and religious freedom than by strenuously supporting the Protestant dynasty. The Tory conceived that he could not better prove his hatred of revolutions than by attacking a government to which a revolution had given birth. Both came by degrees to attach more importance to the means than to the end. Both were thrown into unnatural situations; and both, like animals transported to an uncongenial climate, languished and degenerated. The Tory, removed from the sunshine of the Court, was as a camel in the snows of Lapland. The Whig, basking in the rays of royal favour, was as a reindeer in the sands of Arabia. Dante tells us that he saw, in Malebolge, a strange encounter between a human form and a serpent. The enemies, after cruel wounds inflicted, stood for a time glaring on each other. A great cloud surrounded them, and then a wonderful metamorphosis began. Each creature was transfigured into the likeness of its antagonist. The serpent’s tail divided itself into two legs; the man’s legs intertwined themselves into a tail. The body of the serpent put forth arms; the arms of the man shrank into his body. At length the serpent stood up a man, and spake; the man sank down a serpent, and glided hissing away. Something like this was the transformation which, during the reign of George the First, befell the two English parties. Each gradually took the shape and colour of its foe, till at length the Tory rose up erect the zealot of freedom, and the Whig crawled and licked the dust at the feet of power. It is true that, when these degenerate politicians discussed questions merely speculative, and, above all, when they discussed questions relating to the conduct of their own grandfathers, they still seemed to differ as their grandfathers had differed. The Whig, who, during three Parliaments, had never given one vote against the Court, and who was ready to sell his soul for the Comptroller’s staff or for the Great Wardrobe, still professed to draw his political doctrines from Locke and Milton, still worshipped the memory of Pym and Hampden, and would still, on the thirtieth of January, take his glass, first to the man in the mask, and then to the man who would do it without a mask. The Tory, on the other hand, while he reviled the mild and temperate Walpole as a deadly enemy of liberty, could see nothing to reprobate in the iron tyranny of Strafford and Laud. But, whatever judgment the Whig or the Tory of that age might pronounce on transactions long past, there can be no doubt that, as respected the practical questions then pending, the Tory was a reformer, and indeed an intemperate and indiscreet reformer, while the Whig was conservative even to bigotry. We have ourselves seen similar effects produced in a neighbouring country by similar causes. Who would have believed, fifteen years ago, that M. Guizot and M. Villemain would have to defend property and social order against the attacks of such enemies as M. Genoude and M. de La Roche Jaquelin? Thus the successors of the old Cavaliers had turned demagogues; the successors of the old Roundheads had turned courtiers. Yet was it long before their mutual animosity began to abate; for it is the nature of parties to retain their original enmities far more firmly than their original principles. During many years, a generation of Whigs, whom Sidney would have spurned as slaves, continued to wage deadly war with a generation of Tories whom Jeffreys would have hanged for republicans. Through the whole reign of George the First, and through nearly half of the reign of George the Second, a Tory was regarded as an enemy of the reigning house, and was excluded from all the favours of the Crown. Though most of the country gentlemen were Tories, none but Whigs were created peers and baronets. Though most of the clergy were Tories, none but Whigs were appointed deans and bishops. In every county, opulent and well descended Tory squires complained that their names were left out of the commission of the peace, while men of small estate and mean birth, who were for toleration and excise, septennial parliaments and standing armies, presided at quarter-sessions, and became deputy lieutenants. By degrees some approaches were made towards a reconciliation. While Walpole was at the head of affairs, enmity to his power induced a large and powerful body of Whigs, headed by the heir-apparent of the throne, to make an alliance with the Tories, and a truce even with the Jacobites. After Sir Robert’s fall, the ban which lay on the Tory party was taken off. The chief places in the administration continued to be filled with Whigs, and, indeed, could scarcely have been filled otherwise; for the Tory nobility and gentry, though strong in numbers and in property, had among them scarcely a single man distinguished by talents, either for business or for debate. A few of them, however, were admitted to subordinate offices; and this indulgence produced a softening effect on the temper of the whole body. The first levee of George the Second after Walpole’s resignation was a remarkable spectacle. Mingled with the constant supporters of the House of Brunswick, with the Russells, the Cavendishes, and the Pelhams, appeared a crowd of faces utterly unknown to the pages and gentlemen-ushers, lords of rural manors, whose ale and foxhounds were renowned in the neighbourhood of the Mendip hills, or round the Wrekin, but who had never crossed the threshold of the palace since the days when Oxford, with the white staff in his hand, stood behind Queen Anne. During the eighteen years which followed this day, both factions were gradually sinking deeper and deeper into repose. The apathy of the public mind is partly to be ascribed to the unjust violence with which the administration of Walpole had been assailed. In the body politic, as in the natural body, morbid languor generally succeeds morbid excitement. The people had been maddened by sophistry, by calumny, by rhetoric, by stimulants applied to the national pride. In the fulness of bread, they had raved as if famine had been in the land. While enjoying such a measure of civil and religious freedom as, till then, no great society had ever known, they had cried out for a Timoleon or a Brutus to stab their oppressor to the heart. They were in this frame of mind when the change of administration took place; and they soon found that there was to be no change whatever in the system of government. The natural consequences followed. To frantic zeal succeeded sullen indifference. The cant of patriotism had not merely ceased to charm the public ear, but had become as nauseous as the cant of Puritanism after the downfall of the Rump. The hot fit was over, the cold fit had begun: and it was long before seditious arts, or even real grievances, could bring back the fiery paroxysm which had run its course and reached its termination. Two attempts were made to disturb this tranquillity. The banished heir of the House of Stuart headed a rebellion; the discontented heir of the House of Brunswick headed an opposition. Both the rebellion and the opposition came to nothing. The battle of Culloden annihilated the Jacobite party. The death of Prince Frederic dissolved the faction which, under his guidance, had feebly striven to annoy his father’s government. His chief followers hastened to make their peace with the ministry; and the political torpor became complete. Five years after the death of Prince Frederic, the public mind was for a time violently excited. But this excitement had nothing to do with the old disputes between Whigs and Tories. England was at war with France. The war had been feebly conducted. Minorca had been torn from us. Our fleet had retired before the white flag of the House of Bourbon. A bitter sense of humiliation, new to the proudest and bravest of nations, superseded every other feeling. The cry of all the counties and great towns of the realm was for a government which would retrieve the honour of the English arms. The two most powerful in the country were the Duke of Newcastle and Pitt. Alternate victories and defeats had made them sensible that neither of them could stand alone. The interest of the State, and the interest of their own ambition, impelled them to coalesce. By their coalition was formed the ministry which was in power when George the Third ascended the throne. The more carefully the structure of this celebrated ministry is examined, the more shall we see reason to marvel at the skill or the luck which had combined in one harmonious whole such various and, as it seemed, incompatible elements of force. The influence which is derived from stainless integrity, the influence which is derived from the vilest arts of corruption, the strength of aristocratical connection, the strength of democratical enthusiasm, all these things were for the first time found together. Newcastle brought to the coalition a vast mass of power, which had descended to him from Walpole and Pelham. The public offices, the church, the courts of law, the army, the navy, the diplomatic service, swarmed with his creatures. The boroughs, which long afterwards made up the memorable schedules A and B, were represented by his nominees. The great Whig families, which, during several generations, had been trained in the discipline of party warfare, and were accustomed to stand together in a firm phalanx, acknowledged him as their captain. Pitt, on the other hand, had what Newcastle wanted, an eloquence which stirred the passions and charmed the imagination, a high reputation for purity, and the confidence and ardent love of millions. The partition which the two ministers made of the powers of government was singularly happy. Each occupied a province for which he was well qualified; and neither had any inclination to intrude himself into the province of the other. Newcastle took the treasury, the civil and ecclesiastical patronage, and the disposal of that part of the secret-service money which was then employed in bribing members of Parliament. Pitt was Secretary of State, with the direction of the war and of foreign affairs. Thus the filth of all the noisome and pestilential sewers of government was poured into one channel. Through the other passed only what was bright and stainless. Mean and selfish politicians, pining for commissionerships, gold sticks, and ribands, flocked to the great house at the corner of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. There, at every levee, appeared eighteen or twenty pair of lawn sleeves; for there was not, it was said, a single Prelate who had not owed either his first elevation or some subsequent translation to Newcastle. There appeared those members of the House of Commons in whose silent votes the main strength of the Government lay. One wanted a place in the excise for his butler. Another came about a prebend for his son. A third whispered that he had always stood by his Grace and the Protestant succession; that his last election had been very expensive; that potwallopers had now no conscience; that he had been forced to take up money on mortgage; and that he hardly knew where to turn for five hundred pounds. The Duke pressed all their hands, passed his arms round all their shoulders, patted all their backs, and sent away some with wages, and some with promises. From this traffic Pitt stood haughtily aloof. Not only was he himself incorruptible, but he shrank from the loathsome drudgery of corrupting others. He had not, however, been twenty years in Parliament, and ten in office, without discovering how the Government was carried on. He was perfectly aware that bribery was practised on a large scale by his colleagues. Hating the practice, yet despairing of putting it down, and doubting whether, in those times, any ministry could stand without it, he determined to be blind to it. He would see nothing, know nothing, believe nothing. People who came to talk to him about shares in lucrative contracts, or about the means of securing a Cornish corporation, were soon put out of countenance by his arrogant humility. They did him too much honour. Such matters were beyond his capacity. It was true that his poor advice about expeditions and treaties was listened to with indulgence by a gracious sovereign. If the question were, who should command in North America, or who should be ambassador at Berlin, his colleagues would condescend to take his opinion. But he had not the smallest influence with the Secretary of the Treasury, and could not venture to ask even for a tidewaiter’s place. It may be doubted whether he did not owe as much of his popularity to his ostentatious purity as to his eloquence, or to his talents for the administration of war. It was everywhere said with delight and admiration that the Great Commoner, without any advantages of birth or fortune, had, in spite of the dislike of the Court and of the aristocracy, made himself the first man in England, and made England the first country in the world; that his name was mentioned with awe in every palace from Lisbon to Moscow; that his trophies were in all the four quarters of the globe; yet that he was still plain William Pitt, without title or riband, without pension or sinecure place. Whenever he should retire, after saving the State, he must sell his coach horses and his silver candlesticks. Widely as the taint of corruption had spread, his hands were clean. They had never received, they had never given, the price of infamy. Thus the coalition gathered to itself support from all the high and all the low parts of human nature, and was strong with the whole united strength of virtue and of Mammon. Pitt and Newcastle were co-ordinate chief ministers. The subordinate places had been filled on the principle of including in the Government every party and shade of party, the avowed Jacobites alone excepted, nay, every public man who, from his abilities or from his situation, seemed likely to be either useful in office or formidable in opposition. The Whigs, according to what was then considered as their prescriptive right, held by far the largest share of power. The main support of the administration was what may be called the great Whig connection, a connection which, during near half a century, had generally had the chief sway in the country, and which derived an immense authority from rank, wealth, borough interest, and firm union. To this connection, of which Newcastle was the head, belonged the houses of Cavendish, Lennox, Fitzroy, Bentinck, Manners, Conway, Wentworth, and many others of high note. There were two other powerful Whig connections, either of which might have been a nucleus for a strong opposition. But room had been found in the Government for both. They were known as the Grenvilles and the Bedfords. The head of the Grenvilles was Richard Earl Temple. His talents for administration and debate were of no high order. But his great possessions, his turbulent and unscrupulous character, his restless activity, and his skill in the most ignoble tactics of faction, made him one of the most formidable enemies that a ministry could have. He was keeper of the privy seal. His brother George was treasurer of the navy. They were supposed to be on terms of close friendship with Pitt, who had married their sister, and was the most uxorious of husbands. The Bedfords, or, as they were called by their enemies, the Bloomsbury gang, professed to be led by John Duke of Bedford, but in truth led him wherever they chose, and very often led him where he never would have gone of his own accord. He had many good qualities of head and heart, and would have been certainly a respectable, and possibly a distinguished man, if he had been less under the influence of his friends, or more fortunate in choosing them. Some of them were indeed, to do them justice, men of parts. But here, we are afraid, eulogy must end. Sandwich and Rigby were able debaters, pleasant boon companions, dexterous intriguers, masters of all the arts of jobbing and electioneering, and both in public and private life, shamelessly immoral. Weymouth had a natural eloquence, which sometimes astonished those who knew how little he owed to study. But he was indolent and dissolute, and had early impaired a fine estate with the dice-box, and a fine constitution with the bottle. The wealth and power of the Duke, and the talents and audacity of some of his retainers, might have seriously annoyed the strongest ministry. But his assistance had been secured. He was Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland; Rigby was his secretary; and the whole party dutifully supported the measures of the Government. Two men had, a short time before, been thought likely to contest with Pitt the lead of the House of Commons, William Murray and Henry Fox. But Murray had been removed to the Lords, and was Chief Justice of the King’s Bench. Fox was indeed still in the Commons; but means had been found to secure, if not his strenuous support, at least his silent acquiescence. He was a poor man; he was a doting father. The office of Paymaster-General during an expensive war was, in that age, perhaps the most lucrative situation in the gift of the Government. This office was bestowed on Fox. The prospect of making a noble fortune in a few years, and of providing amply for his darling boy Charles, was irresistibly tempting. To hold a subordinate place, however profitable, after having led the House of Commons, and having been intrusted with the business of forming a ministry, was indeed a great descent. But a punctilious sense of personal dignity was no part of the character of Henry Fox. We have not time to enumerate all the other men of weight who were, by some tie or other, attached to the Government. We may mention Hardwicke, reputed the first lawyer of the age; Legge, reputed the first financier of the age; the acute and ready Oswald; the bold and humorous Nugent; Charles Townshend, the most brilliant and versatile of mankind; Elliot, Barrington, North, Pratt. Indeed, as far as we recollect, there were in the whole House of Commons only two men of distinguished abilities who were not connected with the Government; and those two men stood so low in public estimation, that the only service which they could have rendered to any government would have been to oppose it. We speak of Lord George Sackville and Bubb Dodington. Though most of the official men, and all the members of the Cabinet, were reputed Whigs, the Tories were by no means excluded from employment. Pitt had gratified many of them with commands in the militia, which increased both their income and their importance in their own counties; and they were therefore in better humour than at any time since the death of Anne. Some of the party still continued to grumble over their punch at the Cocoa Tree; but in the House of Commons not a single one of the malcontents durst lift his eyes above the buckle of Pitt’s shoe. Thus there was absolutely no opposition. Nay, there was no sign from which it could be guessed in what quarter opposition was likely to arise. Several years passed during which Parliament seemed to have abdicated its chief functions. The journals of the House of Commons, during four sessions, contain no trace of a division on a party question. The supplies, though beyond precedent great, were voted without discussion. The most animated debates of that period were on road bills and enclosure bills. The old King was content; and it mattered little whether he were content or not. It would have been impossible for him to emancipate himself from a ministry so powerful, even if he had been inclined to do so. But he had no such inclination. He had once, indeed, been strongly prejudiced against Pitt, and had repeatedly been ill used by Newcastle; but the vigour and success with which the war had been waged in Germany, and the smoothness with which all public business was carried on, had produced a favourable change in the royal mind. Such was the posture of affairs when, on the twenty-fifth of October, 1760, George the Second suddenly died, and George the Third, then twenty-two years old, became King. The situation of George the Third differed widely from that of his grandfather and that of his great grandfather. Many years had elapsed since a sovereign of England had been an object of affection to any part of his people. The first two Kings of the House of Hanover had neither those hereditary rights which have often supplied the defect of merit, nor those personal qualities which have often supplied the defect of title. A prince may be popular with little virtue or capacity, if he reigns by birthright derived from a long line of illustrious predecessors. An usurper may be popular, if his genius has saved or aggrandised the nation which he governs. Perhaps no rulers have in our time had a stronger hold on the affection of subjects than the Emperor Francis, and his son-in-law the Emperor Napoleon. But imagine a ruler with no better title than Napoleon, and no better understanding than Francis. Richard Cromwell was such a ruler; and, as soon as an arm was lifted up against him, he fell without a struggle, amidst universal derision. George the First and George the Second were in a situation which bore some resemblance to that of Richard Cromwell. They were saved from the fate of Richard Cromwell by the strenuous and able exertions of the Whig party, and by the general conviction that the nation had no choice but between the House of Brunswick and popery. But by no class were the Guelphs regarded with that devoted affection, of which Charles the First, Charles the Second, and James the Second, in spite of the greatest faults, and in the midst of the greatest misfortunes, received innumerable proofs. Those Whigs who stood by the new dynasty so manfully with purse and sword did so on principles independent of, and indeed almost incompatible with, the sentiment of devoted loyalty. The moderate Tories regarded the foreign dynasty as a great evil, which must be endured for fear of a greater evil. In the eyes of the high Tories, the Elector was the most hateful of robbers and tyrants. The crown of another was on his head; the blood of the brave and loyal was on his hands. Thus, during many years, the Kings of England were objects of strong personal aversion to many of their subjects; and of strong personal attachment to none. They found, indeed, firm and cordial support against the pretender to their throne; but this support was given, not at all for their sake, but for the sake of a religious and political system which would have been endangered by their fall. This support, too, they were compelled to purchase by perpetually sacrificing their private inclinations to the party which had set them on the throne, and which maintained them there. At the close of the reign of George the Second, the feeling of aversion with which the House of Brunswick had long been regarded by half the nation had died away; but no feeling of affection to that house had yet sprung up. There was little, indeed, in the old King’s character to inspire esteem or tenderness. He was not our countryman. He never set foot on our soil till he was more than thirty years old. His speech betrayed his foreign origin and breeding. His love for his native land, though the most amiable part of his character, was not likely to endear him to his British subjects. He was never so happy as when he could exchange St. James’s for Hernhausen. Year after year, our fleets were employed to convoy him to the Continent, and the interests of his kingdom were as nothing to him when compared with the interests of his Electorate. As to the rest, he had neither the qualities which make dulness respectable, nor the qualities which make libertinism attractive. He had been a bad son and a worse father, an unfaithful husband and an ungraceful lover. Not one magnanimous or humane action is recorded of him; but many instances of meanness, and of a harshness which, but for the strong constitutional restraints under which he was placed, might have made the misery of his people. He died; and at once a new world opened. The young King was a born Englishman. All his tastes and habits, good or bad, were English. No portion of his subjects had anything to reproach him with. Even the remaining adherents of the House of Stuart could scarcely impute to him the guilt of usurpation. He was not responsible for the Revolution, for the Act of Settlement, for the suppression of the risings of 1715 and of 1745. He was innocent of the blood of Derwentwater and Kilmarnock, of Balmerino and Cameron. Born fifty years after the old line had been expelled, fourth in descent and third in succession of the Hanoverian dynasty, he might plead some show of hereditary right. His age, his appearance, and all that was known of his character, conciliated public favour. He was in the bloom of youth; his person and address were pleasing. Scandal imputed to him no vice; and flattery might without any glaring absurdity, ascribe to him many princely virtues. It is not strange, therefore, that the sentiment of loyalty, a sentiment which had lately seemed to be as much out of date as the belief in witches or the practice of pilgrimage, should, from the day of his accession, have begun to revive. The Tories in particular, who had always been inclined to King-worship, and who had long felt with pain the want of an idol before whom they could bow themselves down, were as joyful as the priests of Apis, when, after a long interval, they had found a new calf to adore. It was soon clear that George the Third was regarded by a portion of the nation with a very different feeling from that which his two predecessors had inspired. They had been merely First Magistrates, Doges, Stadtholders; he was emphatically a King, the anointed of heaven, the breath of his people’s nostrils. The years of the widowhood and mourning of the Tory party were over. Dido had kept faith long enough to the cold ashes of a former lord; she had at last found a comforter, and recognised the vestiges of the old flame. The golden days of Harley would return. The Somersets, the Lees, and the Wyndhams would again surround the throne. The latitudinarian Prelates, who had not been ashamed to correspond with Doddridge and to shake hands with Whiston, would be succeeded by divines of the temper of South and Atterbury. The devotion which had been so signally shown to the House of Stuart, which had been proof against defeats, confiscations, and proscriptions, which perfidy, oppression, ingratitude, could not weary out, was now transferred entire to the House of Brunswick. If George the Third would but accept the homage of the Cavaliers, and High Churchmen, he should be to them all that Charles the First and Charles the Second had been. The Prince, whose accession was thus hailed by a great party long estranged from his house, had received from nature a strong will, a firmness of temper to which a harsher name might perhaps be given, and an understanding not, indeed, acute or enlarged, but such as qualified him to be a good man of business. But his character had not yet fully developed itself. He had been brought up in strict seclusion. The detractors of the Princess Dowager of Wales affirmed that she had kept her children from commerce with society, in order that she might hold an undivided empire over their minds. She gave a very different explanation of her conduct. She would gladly, she said, see her sons and daughters mix in the world, if they could do so without risk to their morals. But the profligacy of the people of quality alarmed her. The young men were all rakes; the young women made love, instead of waiting till it was made to them. She could not bear to expose those whom she loved best to the contaminating influence of such society. The moral advantages of the system of education which formed the Duke of York, the Duke of Cumberland, and the Queen of Denmark, may perhaps be questioned. George the Third was indeed no libertine; but he brought to the throne a mind only half open, and was for some time entirely under the influence of his mother and of his Groom of the Stole, John Stuart, Earl of Bute. The Earl of Bute was scarcely known, even by name, to the country which he was soon to govern. He had indeed, a short time after he came of age, been chosen to fill a vacancy, which, in the middle of a parliament, had taken place among the Scotch representative peers. He had disobliged the Whig ministers by giving some silent votes with the Tories, had consequently lost his seat at the next dissolution, and had never been re-elected. Near twenty years had elapsed since he had borne any part in politics. He had passed some of those years at his seat in one of the Hebrides, and from that retirement he had emerged as one of the household of Prince Frederic. Lord Bute, excluded from public life, had found out many ways of amusing his leisure. He was a tolerable actor in private theatricals, and was particularly successful in the part of Lothario. A handsome leg, to which both painters and satirists took care to give prominence, was among his chief qualifications for the stage. He devised quaint dresses for masquerades. He dabbled in geometry, mechanics, and botany. He paid some attention to antiquities and works of art, and was considered in his own circle as a judge of painting, architecture, and poetry. It is said that his spelling was incorrect. But though, in our time, incorrect spelling is justly considered as a proof of sordid ignorance, it would be unjust to apply the same rule to people who lived a century ago. The novel of Sir Charles Grandison was published about the time at which Lord Bute made his appearance at Leicester House. Our readers may perhaps remember the account which Charlotte Grandison gives of her two lovers. One of them, a fashionable baronet who talks French and Italian fluently, cannot write a line in his own language without some sin against orthography; the other, who is represented as a most respectable specimen of the young aristocracy, and something of a virtuoso, is described as spelling pretty well for a lord. On the whole, the Earl of Bute might fairly be called a man of cultivated mind. He was also a man of undoubted honour. But his understanding was narrow, and his manners cold and haughty. His qualifications for the part of a statesman were best described by Frederic, who often indulged in the unprincely luxury of sneering at his dependants. “Bute,” said his Royal Highness, “you are the very man to be envoy at some small proud German court where there is nothing to do.” Scandal represented the Groom of the Stole as the favoured lover of the Princess Dowager. He was undoubtedly her confidential friend. The influence which the two united exercised over the mind of the King was for a time unbounded. The Princess, a woman and a foreigner, was not likely to be a judicious adviser about affairs of State. The Earl could scarcely be said to have served even a noviciate in politics. His notions of government had been acquired in the society which had been in the habit of assembling round Frederic at Kew and Leicester House. That society consisted principally of Tories, who had been reconciled to the House of Hanover by the civility with which the Prince had treated them, and by the hope of obtaining high preferment when he should come to the throne. Their political creed was a peculiar modification of Toryism. It was the creed neither of the Tories of the seventeenth nor of the Tories of the nineteenth century. It was the creed, not of Filmer and Sacheverell, not of Perceval and Eldon, but of the sect of which Bolingbroke may be considered as the chief doctor. This sect deserves commendation for having pointed out and justly reprobated some great abuses which sprang up during the long domination of the Whigs. But it is far easier to point out and reprobate abuses than to propose beneficial reforms: and the reforms which Bolingbroke proposed would either have been utterly inefficient, or would have produced much more mischief than they would have removed. The Revolution had saved the nation from one class of evils, but had at the same time--such is the imperfection of all things human--engendered or aggravated another class of evils which required new remedies. Liberty and property were secure from the attacks of prerogative. Conscience was respected. No government ventured to infringe any of the rights solemnly recognised by the instrument which had called William and Mary to the throne. But it cannot be denied that, under the new system, the public interests and the public morals were seriously endangered by corruption and faction. During the long struggle against the Stuarts, the chief object of the most enlightened statesmen had been to strengthen the House of Commons, The struggle was over; the victory was won; the House of Commons was supreme in the State; and all the vices which had till then been latent in the representative system were rapidly developed by prosperity and power. Scarcely had the executive government become really responsible to the House of Commons, when it began to appear that the House of Commons was not really responsible to the nation. Many of the constituent bodies were under the absolute control of individuals; many were notoriously at the command of the highest bidder. The debates were not published. It was very seldom known out of doors how a gentleman had voted. Thus, while the ministry was accountable to the Parliament, the majority of the Parliament was accountable to nobody. In such circumstances, nothing could be more natural than that the members should insist on being paid for their votes, should form themselves into combinations for the purpose of raising the price of their votes, and should at critical conjunctures extort large wages by threatening a strike. Thus the Whig ministers of George the First and George the Second were compelled to reduce corruption to a system, and to practise it on a gigantic scale. If we are right as to the cause of these abuses, we can scarcely be wrong as to the remedy. The remedy was surely not to deprive the House of Commons of its weight in the State. Such a course would undoubtedly have put an end to parliamentary corruption and to parliamentary factions: for, when votes cease to be of importance, they will cease to be bought; and, when knaves can get nothing by combining, they will cease to combine. But to destroy corruption and faction by introducing despotism would have been to cure bad by worse. The proper remedy evidently was, to make the House of Commons responsible to the nation; and this was to be effected in two ways; first, by giving publicity to parliamentary proceedings, and thus placing every member on his trial before the tribunal of public opinion; and secondly, by so reforming the constitution of the House that no man should be able to sit in it who had not been returned by a respectable and independent body of constituents. Bolingbroke and Bolingbroke’s disciples recommended a very different mode of treating the diseases of the State. Their doctrine was that a vigorous use of the prerogative by a patriot King would at once break all factious combinations, and supersede the pretended necessity of bribing members of Parliament. The King had only to resolve that he would be master, that he would not be held in thraldom by any set of men, that he would take for ministers any persons in whom he had confidence, without distinction of party, and that he would restrain his servants from influencing by immoral means either the constituent bodies or the representative body. This childish scheme proved that those who proposed it knew nothing of the nature of the evil with which they pretended to deal. The real cause of the prevalence of corruption and faction was that a House of Commons, not accountable to the people, was more powerful than the King. Bolingbroke’s remedy could be applied only by a King more powerful than the House of Commons. How was the patriot Prince to govern in defiance of the body without whose consent he could not equip a sloop, keep a battalion under arms, send an embassy, or defray even the charges of his own household? Was he to dissolve the Parliament? And what was he likely to gain by appealing to Sudbury and Old Sarum against the venality of their representatives? Was he to send out privy seals? Was he to levy ship-money? If so, this boasted reform must commence in all probability by civil war, and, if consummated, must be consummated by the establishment of absolute monarchy. Or was the patriot King to carry the House of Commons with him in his upright designs? By what means? Interdicting himself from the use of corrupt influence, what motive was he to address to the Dodingtons and Winningtons? Was cupidity, strengthened by habit, to be laid asleep by a few fine sentences about virtue and union? Absurd as this theory was, it had many admirers, particularly among men of letters. It was now to be reduced to practice; and the result was, as any man of sagacity must have foreseen, the most piteous and ridiculous of failures. On the very day of the young King’s accession, appeared some signs which indicated the approach of a great change. The speech which he made to his Council was not submitted to the Cabinet. It was drawn up by Bute, and contained some expressions which might be construed into reflections on the conduct of affairs during the late reign. Pitt remonstrated, and begged that these expressions might be softened down in the printed copy; but it was not till after some hours of altercation that Bute yielded; and even after Bute had yielded, the King affected to hold out till the following afternoon. On the same day on which this singular contest took place, Bute was not only sworn of the Privy Council, but introduced into the Cabinet. Soon after this Lord Holdernesse, one of the Secretaries of State, in pursuance of a plan concerted with the Court, resigned the seals. Bute was instantly appointed to the vacant place. A general election speedily followed, and the new Secretary entered Parliament in the only way in which he then could enter it, as one of the sixteen representative peers of Scotland. [In the reign of Anne, the House of Lords had resolved that, under the 23rd article of Union, no Scotch peer could be created a peer of Great Britain. This resolution was not annulled till the year 1782.] Had the ministers been firmly united it can scarcely be doubted that they would have been able to withstand the Court. The parliamentary influence of the Whig aristocracy, combined with the genius, the virtue, and the fame of Pitt, would have been irresistible. But there had been in the Cabinet of George the Second latent jealousies and enmities, which now began to show themselves. Pitt had been estranged from his old ally Legge, the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Some of the ministers were envious of Pitt’s popularity. Others were, not altogether without cause, disgusted by his imperious and haughty demeanour. Others, again, were honestly opposed to some parts of his policy. They admitted that he had found the country in the depths of humiliation, and had raised it to the height of glory; they admitted that he had conducted the war with energy, ability, and splendid success; but they began to hint that the drain on the resources of the State was unexampled, and that the public debt was increasing with a speed at which Montague or Godolphin would have stood aghast. Some of the acquisitions made by our fleets and armies were, it was acknowledged, profitable as well as honourable; but, now that George the Second was dead, a courtier might venture to ask why England was to become a party in a dispute between two German powers. What was it to her whether the House of Hapsburg or the House of Brandenburg ruled in Silesia? Why were the best English regiments fighting on the Main? Why were the Prussian battalions paid with English gold? The great minister seemed to think it beneath him to calculate the price of victory. As long as the Tower guns were fired, as the streets were illuminated, as French banners were carried in triumph through London, it was to him matter of indifference to what extent the public burdens were augmented. Nay, he seemed to glory in the magnitude of those sacrifices which the people, fascinated by his eloquence and success, had too readily made, and would long and bitterly regret. There was no check on waste or embezzlement. Our commissaries returned from the camp of Prince Ferdinand to buy boroughs, to rear palaces, to rival the magnificence of the old aristocracy of the realm. Already had we borrowed, in four years of war, more than the most skilful and economical government would pay in forty years of peace. But the prospect of peace was as remote as ever. It could not be doubted that France, smarting and prostrate, would consent to fair terms of accommodation; but this was not what Pitt wanted. War had made him powerful and popular; with war, all that was brightest in his life was associated: for war his talents were peculiarly fitted. He had at length begun to love war for its own sake, and was more disposed to quarrel with neutrals than to make peace with enemies. Such were the views of the Duke of Bedford and of the Earl of Hardwicke; but no member of the Government held these opinions so strongly as George Grenville, the treasurer of the navy. George Grenville was brother-in-law of Pitt, and had always been reckoned one of Pitt’s personal and political friends. But it is difficult to conceive two men of talents and integrity more utterly unlike each other, Pitt, as his sister often said, knew nothing accurately except Spenser’s Fairy Queen. He had never applied himself steadily to any branch of knowledge. He was a wretched financier. He never became familiar even with the rules of that House of which he was the brightest ornament. He had never studied public law as a system; and was, indeed, so ignorant of the whole subject, that George the Second, on one occasion, complained bitterly that a man who had never read Vattel should presume to undertake the direction of foreign affairs. But these defects were more than redeemed by high and rare gifts, by a strange power of inspiring great masses of men with confidence and affection, by an eloquence which not only delighted the ear, but stirred the blood, and brought tears into the eyes, by originality in devising plans, by vigour in executing them. Grenville, on the other hand, was by nature and habit a man of details. He had been bred a lawyer; and he had brought the industry and acuteness of the Temple into official and parliamentary life. He was supposed to be intimately acquainted with the whole fiscal system of the country. He had paid especial attention to the law of Parliament, and was so learned in all things relating to the privileges and orders of the House of Commons that those who loved him least pronounced him the only person competent to succeed Onslow in the Chair. His speeches were generally instructive, and sometimes, from the gravity and earnestness with which he spoke, even impressive, but never brilliant, and generally tedious. Indeed, even when he was at the head of affairs, he sometimes found it difficult to obtain the ear of the House. In disposition as well as in intellect, he differed widely from his brother-in-law. Pitt was utterly regardless of money. He would scarcely stretch out his hand to take it; and when it came, he threw it away with childish profusion. Grenville, though strictly upright, was grasping and parsimonious. Pitt was a man of excitable nerves, sanguine in hope, easily elated by success and popularity, keenly sensible of injury, but prompt to forgive; Grenville’s character was stem, melancholy, and pertinacious. Nothing was more remarkable in him than his inclination always to look on the dark side of things. He was the raven of the House of Commons, always croaking defeat in the midst of triumphs, and bankruptcy with an overflowing exchequer. Burke, with general applause, compared him, in a time of quiet and plenty, to the evil spirit whom Ovid described looking down on the stately temples and wealthy haven of Athens, and scarce able to refrain from weeping because she could find nothing at which to weep. Such a man was not likely to be popular. But to unpopularity Grenville opposed a dogged determination, which sometimes forced even those who hated him to respect him. It was natural that Pitt and Grenville, being such as they were, should take very different views of the situation of affairs. Pitt could see nothing but the trophies; Grenville could see nothing but the bill. Pitt boasted that England was victorious at once in America, in India, and in Germany, the umpire of the Continent, the mistress of the sea. Grenville cast up the subsidies, sighed over the army extraordinaries, and groaned in spirit to think that the nation had borrowed eight millions in one year. With a ministry thus divided it was not difficult for Bute to deal. Legge was the first who fell. He had given offence to the young King in the late reign, by refusing to support a creature of Bute at a Hampshire election. He was now not only turned out, but in the closet, when he delivered up his seal of office, was treated with gross incivility. Pitt, who did not love Legge, saw this event with indifference. But the danger was now fast approaching himself. Charles the Third of Spain had early conceived a deadly hatred of England. Twenty years before, when he was King of the Two Sicilies, he had been eager to join the coalition against Maria Theresa. But an English fleet had suddenly appeared in the Bay of Naples. An English Captain had landed, and proceeded to the palace, had laid a watch on the table, and had told his majesty that, within an hour, a treaty of neutrality must be signed, or a bombardment would commence. The treaty was signed; the squadron sailed out of the bay twenty-four hours after it had sailed in; and from that day the ruling passion of the humbled Prince was aversion to the English name. He was at length in a situation in which he might hope to gratify that passion. He had recently become King of Spain and the Indies. He saw, with envy and apprehension, the triumphs of our navy, and the rapid extension of our colonial Empire. He was a Bourbon, and sympathised with the distress of the house from which he sprang. He was a Spaniard; and no Spaniard could bear to see Gibraltar and Minorca in the possession of a foreign power. Impelled by such feelings, Charles concluded a secret treaty with France. By this treaty, known as the Family Compact, the two powers bound themselves, not in express words, but by the clearest implication, to make war on England in common. Spain postponed the declaration of hostilities only till her fleet, laden with the treasures of America, should have arrived. The existence of the treaty could not be kept a secret from Pitt. He acted as a man of his capacity and energy might be expected to act. He at once proposed to declare war against Spain, and to intercept the American fleet. He had determined, it is said, to attack without delay both Havanna and the Philippines. His wise and resolute counsel was rejected. Bute was foremost in opposing it, and was supported by almost the whole Cabinet. Some of the ministers doubted, or affected to doubt, the correctness of Pitt’s intelligence; some shrank from the responsibility of advising a course so bold and decided as that which he proposed; some were weary of his ascendency, and were glad to be rid of him on any pretext. One only of his colleagues agreed with him, his brother-in-law, Earl Temple. Pitt and Temple resigned their offices. To Pitt the young King behaved at parting in the most gracious manner. Pitt, who, proud and fiery everywhere else, was always meek and humble in the closet, was moved even to tears. The King and the favourite urged him to accept some substantial mark of royal gratitude. Would he like to be appointed governor of Canada? A salary of five thousand pounds a year should be annexed to the office. Residence would not be required. It was true that the governor of Canada, as the law then stood, could not be a member of the House of Commons. But a bill should be brought in, authorising Pitt to hold his Government together with a seat in Parliament, and in the preamble should be set forth his claims to the gratitude of his country. Pitt answered, with all delicacy, that his anxieties were rather for his wife and family than for himself, and that nothing would be so acceptable to him as a mark of royal goodness which might be beneficial to those who were dearest to him. The hint was taken. The same Gazette which announced the retirement of the Secretary of State announced also that, in consideration of his great public services, his wife had been created a peeress in her own right, and that a pension of three thousand pounds a year, for three lives, had been bestowed on himself. It was doubtless thought that the rewards and honours conferred on the great minister would have a conciliatory effect on the public mind. Perhaps, too, it was thought that his popularity, which had partly arisen from the contempt which he had always shown for money, would be damaged by a pension; and, indeed, a crowd of libels instantly appeared, in which he was accused of having sold his country. Many of his true friends thought that he would have best consulted the dignity of his character by refusing to accept any pecuniary reward from the Court. Nevertheless, the general opinion of his talents, virtues, and services, remained unaltered. Addresses were presented to him from several large towns. London showed its admiration and affection in a still more marked manner. Soon after his resignation came the Lord Mayor’s day. The King and the royal family dined at Guildhall. Pitt was one of the guests. The young Sovereign, seated by his bride in his state coach, received a remarkable lesson. He was scarcely noticed. All eyes were fixed on the fallen minister; all acclamations directed to him. The streets, the balconies, the chimney tops, burst into a roar of delight as his chariot passed by. The ladies waved their handkerchiefs from the windows. The common people clung to the wheels, shook hands with the footmen, and even kissed the horses. Cries of “No Bute!” “No Newcastle salmon!” were mingled with the shouts of “Pitt for ever!” When Pitt entered Guildhall, he was welcomed by loud huzzas and clapping of hands, in which the very magistrates of the city joined. Lord Bute, in the meantime, was hooted and pelted through Cheapside, and would, it was thought, have been in some danger, if he had not taken the precaution of surrounding his carriage with a strong bodyguard of boxers. Many persons blamed the conduct of Pitt on this occasion as disrespectful to the King. Indeed, Pitt himself afterwards owned that he had done wrong. He was led into this error, as he was afterwards led into more serious errors, by the influence of his turbulent and mischievous brother-in-law, Temple. The events which immediately followed Pitt’s retirement raised his fame higher than ever. War with Spain proved to be, as he had predicted, inevitable. News came from the West Indies that Martinique had been taken by an expedition which he had sent forth. Havanna fell; and it was known that he had planned an attack on Havanna. Manilla capitulated; and it was believed that he had meditated a blow against Manilla. The American fleet, which he had proposed to intercept, had unloaded an immense cargo of bullion in the haven of Cadiz, before Bute could be convinced that the Court of Madrid really entertained hostile intentions. The session of Parliament which followed Pitt’s retirement passed over without any violent storm. Lord Bute took on himself the most prominent part in the House of Lords. He had become Secretary of State, and indeed Prime Minister, without having once opened his lips in public except as an actor. There was, therefore, no small curiosity to know how he would acquit himself. Members of the House of Commons crowded the bar of the Lords, and covered the steps of the throne. It was generally expected that the orator would break down; but his most malicious hearers were forced to own that he had made a better figure than they expected. They, indeed, ridiculed his action as theatrical, and his style as tumid. They were especially amused by the long pauses which, not from hesitation, but from affectation, he made at all the emphatic words, and Charles Townshend cried out, “Minute guns!” The general opinion however was, that, if Bute had been early practised in debate, he might have become an impressive speaker. In the Commons, George Grenville had been intrusted with the lead. The task was not, as yet, a very difficult one for Pitt did not think fit to raise the standard of opposition. His speeches at this time were distinguished, not only by that eloquence in which he excelled all his rivals, but also by a temperance and a modesty which had too often been wanting to his character. When war was declared against Spain, he justly laid claim to the merit of having foreseen what had at length become manifest to all, but he carefully abstained from arrogant and acrimonious expressions; and this abstinence was the more honourable to him, because his temper, never very placid, was now severely tried, both by gout and calumny. The courtiers had adopted a mode of warfare, which was soon turned with far more formidable effect against themselves. Half the inhabitants of the Grub Street garrets paid their milk scores, and got their shirts out of pawn, by abusing Pitt. His German war, his subsidies, his pension, his wife’s peerage, were shin of beef and gin, blankets and baskets of small coal, to the starving poetasters of the Fleet. Even in the House of Commons, he was, on one occasion during this session, assailed with an insolence and malice which called forth the indignation of men of all parties; but he endured the outrage with majestic patience. In his younger days he had been but too prompt to retaliate on those who attacked him; but now, conscious of his great services, and of the space which he filled in the eyes of all mankind, he would not stoop to personal squabbles. “This is no season,” he said, in the debate on the Spanish war, “for altercation and recrimination. A day has arrived when every Englishman should stand forth for his country. Arm the whole; be one people; forget everything but the public. I set you the example. Harassed by slanderers, sinking under pain and disease, for the public I forget both my wrongs and my infirmities!” On a general review of his life, we are inclined to think that his genius and virtue never shone with so pure an effulgence as during the session of 1762. The session drew towards the close; and Bute, emboldened by the acquiescence of the Houses, resolved to strike another great blow, and to become first minister in name as well as in reality. That coalition, which a few months before had seemed all-powerful, had been dissolved. The retreat of Pitt had deprived the Government of popularity. Newcastle had exulted in the fall of the illustrious colleague whom he envied and dreaded, and had not foreseen that his own doom was at hand. He still tried to flatter himself that he was at the head of the Government; but insults heaped on insults at length undeceived him. Places which had always been considered as in his gift, were bestowed without any reference to him. His expostulations only called forth significant hints that it was time for him to retire. One day he pressed on Bute the claims of a Whig Prelate to the archbishopric of York. “If your grace thinks so highly of him,” answered Bute, “I wonder that you did not promote him when you had the power.” Still the old man clung with a desperate grasp to the wreck. Seldom, indeed, have Christian meekness and Christian humility equalled the meekness and humility of his patient and abject ambition. At length he was forced to understand that all was over. He quitted that Court where he had held high office during forty-five years, and hid his shame and regret among the cedars of Claremont. Bute became First Lord of the Treasury. The favourite had undoubtedly committed a great error. It is impossible to imagine a tool better suited to his purposes than that which he thus threw away, or rather put into the hands of his enemies. If Newcastle had been suffered to play at being first minister, Bute might securely and quietly have enjoyed the substance of power. The gradual introduction of Tories into all the departments of the Government might have been effected without any violent clamour, if the chief of the great Whig connection had been ostensibly at the head of affairs. This was strongly represented to Bute by Lord Mansfield, a man who may justly be called the father of modern Toryism, of Toryism modified to suit an order of things under which the House of Commons is the most powerful body in the State. The theories which had dazzled Bute could not impose on the fine intellect of Mansfield. The temerity with which Bute provoked the hostility of powerful and deeply rooted interests, was displeasing to Mansfield’s cold and timid nature. Expostulation, however, was vain. Bute was impatient of advice, drunk with success, eager to be, in show as well as in reality, the head of the Government. He had engaged in an undertaking in which a screen was absolutely necessary to his success, and even to his safety. He found an excellent screen ready in the very place where it was most needed; and he rudely pushed it away. And now the new system of government came into full operation. For the first time since the accession of the House of Hanover, the Tory party was in the ascendant. The Prime Minister himself was a Tory. Lord Egremont, who had succeeded Pitt as Secretary of State, was a Tory, and the son of a Tory. Sir Francis Dashwood, a man of slender parts, of small experience, and of notoriously immoral character, was made Chancellor of the Exchequer, for no reason that could be imagined, except that he was a Tory, and had been a Jacobite. The royal household was filled with men whose favourite toast, a few years before, had been the King over the water. The relative position of the two great national seats of learning was suddenly changed. The University of Oxford had long been the chief seat of disaffection. In troubled times the High Street had been lined with bayonets; the colleges had been searched by the King’s messengers. Grave doctors were in the habit of talking very Ciceronian treason in the theatre; and the undergraduates drank bumpers to Jacobite toasts, and chanted Jacobite airs. Of four successive Chancellors of the University, one had notoriously been in the Pretender’s service; the other three were fully believed to be in secret correspondence with the exiled family. Cambridge had therefore been especially favoured by the Hanoverian Princes, and had shown herself grateful for their patronage. George the First had enriched her library; George the Second had contributed munificently to her Senate House. Bishoprics and deaneries were showered on her children. Her Chancellor was Newcastle, the chief of the Whig aristocracy; her High Steward was Hardwicke, the Whig head of the law. Both her burgesses had held office under the Whig ministry. Times had now changed. The University of Cambridge was received at St. James’s with comparative coldness. The answers to the addresses of Oxford were all graciousness and warmth. The watchwords of the new Government were prerogative and purity. The sovereign was no longer to be a puppet in the hands of any subject, or of any combination of subjects. George the Third would not be forced to take ministers whom he disliked, as his grandfather had been forced to take Pitt. George the Third would not be forced to part with any whom he delighted to honour, as his grandfather had been forced to part with Carteret. At the same time, the system of bribery which had grown up during the late reigns was to cease. It was ostentatiously proclaimed that, since the accession of the young King, neither constituents nor representatives had been bought with the secret-service money. To free Britain from corruption and oligarchical cabals, to detach her from continental connections, to bring the bloody and expensive war with France and Spain to a close, such were the specious objects which Bute professed to procure. Some of these objects he attained. England withdrew, at the cost of a deep stain on her faith, from her German connections. The war with France and Spain was terminated by a peace, honourable indeed and advantageous to our country, yet less honourable and less advantageous than might have been expected from a long and almost unbroken series of victories, by land and sea, in every part of the world. But the only effect of Bute’s domestic administration was to make faction wilder, and corruption fouler than ever. The mutual animosity of the Whig and Tory parties had begun to languished after the fall of Walpole, and had seemed to be almost extinct at the close of the reign of George the Second. It now revived in all its force. Many Whigs, it is true, were still in office. The Duke of Bedford had signed the treaty with France. The Duke of Devonshire, though much out of humour, still continued to be Lord Chamberlain. Grenville, who led the House of Commons, and Fox, who still enjoyed in silence the immense gains of the Pay Office, had always been regarded as strong Whigs. But the bulk of the party throughout the country regarded the new minister with abhorrence. There was, indeed, no want of popular themes for invective against his character. He was a favourite; and favourites have always been odious in this country. No mere favourite had been at the head of the Government since the dagger of Felton had reached the heart of the Duke of Buckingham. After that event the most arbitrary and the most frivolous of the Stuarts had felt the necessity of confiding the chief direction of affairs to men who had given some proof of parliamentary or official talent. Strafford, Falkland, Clarendon, Clifford, Shaftesbury, Lauderdale, Danby, Temple, Halifax, Rochester, Sunderland, whatever their faults might be, were all men of acknowledged ability. They did not owe their eminence merely to the favour of the sovereign. On the contrary, they owed the favour of the sovereign to their eminence. Most of them, indeed, had first attracted the notice of the Court by the capacity and vigour which they had shown in opposition. The Revolution seemed to have for ever secured the State against the domination of a Carr or a Villiers. Now, however, the personal regard of the King had at once raised a man who had seen nothing of public business, who had never opened his lips in Parliament, over the heads of a crowd of eminent orators, financiers, diplomatists. From a private gentleman, this fortunate minion had at once been turned into a Secretary of State. He had made his maiden speech when at the head of the administration. The vulgar resorted to a simple explanation of the phaenomenon, and the coarsest ribaldry against the Princess Mother was scrawled on every wall, and sung in every alley. This was not all. The spirit of party, roused by impolitic provocation from its long sleep, roused in turn a still fiercer and more malignant Fury, the spirit of national animosity. The grudge of Whig against Tory was mingled with the grudge of Englishman against Scot. The two sections of the great British people had not yet been indissolubly blended together. The events of 1715 and of 1745 had left painful and enduring traces. The tradesmen of Cornhill had been in dread of seeing their tills and warehouses plundered by barelegged mountaineers from the Grampians. They still recollected that Black Friday, when the news came that the rebels were at Derby, when all the shops in the city were closed, and when the Bank of England began to pay in sixpences. The Scots, on the other hand, remembered, with natural resentment, the severity with which the insurgents had been chastised, the military outrages, the humiliating laws, the heads fixed on Temple Bar, the fires and quartering blocks on Kennington Common. The favourite did not suffer the English to forget from what part of the island he came. The cry of all the south was that the public offices, the army, the navy, were filled with high-cheeked Drummonds and Erskines, Macdonalds and Macgillivrays, who could not talk a Christian tongue, and some of whom had but lately begun to wear Christian breeches. All the old jokes on hills without trees, girls without stockings, men eating the food of horses, pails emptied from the fourteenth story, were pointed against these lucky adventurers. To the honour of the Scots it must be said, that their prudence and their pride restrained them from retaliation. Like the princess in the Arabian tale, they stopped their ears tight, and, unmoved by the shrillest notes of abuse, walked on, without once looking round, straight towards the Golden Fountain. Bute, who had always been considered as a man of taste and reading, affected, from the moment of his elevation, the character of a Maecenas. If he expected to conciliate the public by encouraging literature and art, he was grievously mistaken. Indeed, none of the objects of his munificence, with the single exception of Johnson, can be said to have been well selected; and the public, not unnaturally, ascribed the selection of Johnson rather to the Doctor’s political prejudices than to his literary merits: for a wretched scribbler named Shebbeare, who had nothing in common with Johnson except violent Jacobitism, and who had stood in the pillory for a libel on the Revolution, was honoured with a mark of royal approbation, similar to that which was bestowed on the author of the English Dictionary, and of the Vanity of Human Wishes. It was remarked that Adam, a Scotchman, was the Court architect, and that Ramsay, a Scotchman, was the Court painter, and was preferred to Reynolds. Mallet, a Scotchman, of no high literary fame, and of infamous character, partook largely of the liberality of the Government. John Home, a Scotchman, was rewarded for the tragedy of Douglas, both with a pension and with a sinecure place. But, when the author of the Bard, and of the Elegy in a Country Churchyard, ventured to ask for a Professorship, the emoluments of which he much needed, and for the duties of which he was, in many respects, better qualified than any man living, he was refused; and the post was bestowed on the pedagogue under whose care the favourite’s son-in-law, Sir James Lowther, had made such signal proficiency in the graces and in the humane virtues. Thus, the First Lord of the Treasury was detested by many as a Tory, by many as a favourite, and by many as a Scot. All the hatred which flowed from these various sources soon mingled, and was directed in one torrent of obloquy against the treaty of peace. The Duke of Bedford, who had negotiated that treaty, was hooted through the streets. Bute was attacked in his chair, and was with difficulty rescued by a troop of the guards. He could hardly walk the streets in safety without disguising himself. A gentleman who died not many years ago used to say that he once recognised the favourite Earl in the piazza of Covent Garden, muffled in a large coat, and with a hat and wig drawn down over his brows. His lordship’s established type with the mob was a jack-boot, a wretched pun on his Christian name and title. A jack-boot, generally accompanied by a petticoat, was sometimes fastened on a gallows, and sometimes committed to the flames. Libels on the Court, exceeding in audacity and rancour any that had been published for many years, now appeared daily both in prose and verse. Wilkes, with lively insolence, compared the mother of George the Third to the mother of Edward the Third, and the Scotch minister to the gentle Mortimer. Churchill, with all the energy of hatred, deplored the fate of his country invaded by a new race of savages, more cruel and ravenous than the Picts or the Danes, the poor, proud children of Leprosy and Hunger. It is a slight circumstance, but deserves to be recorded, that in this year pamphleteers first ventured to print at length the names of the great men whom they lampooned. George the Second had always been the K--. His ministers had been Sir R--W--, Mr. P--, and the Duke of N--. But the libellers of George the Third, of the Princess Mother, and of Lord Bute did not give quarter to a single vowel. It was supposed that Lord Temple secretly encouraged the most scurrilous assailants of the Government. In truth, those who knew his habits tracked him as men track a mole. It was his nature to grub underground. Whenever a heap of dirt was flung up it might well be suspected that he was at work in some foul crooked labyrinth below. Pitt turned away from the filthy work of opposition, with the same scorn with which he had turned away from the filthy work of government. He had the magnanimity to proclaim everywhere the disgust which he felt at the insults offered by his own adherents to the Scottish nation, and missed no opportunity of extolling the courage and fidelity which the Highland regiments had displayed through the whole war. But, though he disdained to use any but lawful and honourable weapons, it was well known that his fair blows were likely to be far more formidable than the privy thrusts of his brother-in-law’s stiletto. Bute’s heart began to fail him. The Houses were about to meet. The treaty would instantly be the subject of discussion. It was probable that Pitt, the great Whig connection, and the multitude, would all be on the same side. The favourite had professed to hold in abhorrence those means by which preceding ministers had kept the House of Commons in good humour. He now began to think that he had been too scrupulous. His Utopian visions were at an end. It was necessary, not only to bribe, but to bribe more shamelessly and flagitiously than his predecessors, in order to make up for lost time. A majority must be secured, no matter by what means. Could Grenville do this? Would he do it? His firmness and ability had not yet been tried in any perilous crisis. He had been generally regarded as a humble follower of his brother Temple, and of his brother-in-law Pitt, and was supposed, though with little reason, to be still favourably inclined towards them. Other aid must be called in. And where was other aid to be found? There was one man, whose sharp and manly logic had often in debate been found a match for the lofty and impassioned rhetoric of Pitt, whose talents for jobbing were not inferior to his talents for debate, whose dauntless spirit shrank from no difficulty or danger, and who was as little troubled with scruples as with fears. Henry Fox, or nobody, could weather the storm which was about to burst. Yet was he a person to whom the Court, even in that extremity, was unwilling to have recourse. He had always been regarded as a Whig of the Whigs. He had been the friend and disciple of Walpole. He had long been connected by close ties with William Duke of Cumberland. By the Tories he was more hated than any man living. So strong was their aversion to him that when, in the late reign, he had attempted to form a party against the Duke of Newcastle, they had thrown all their weight into Newcastle’s scale. By the Scots, Fox was abhorred as the confidential friend of the conqueror of Culloden. He was, on personal grounds, most obnoxious to the Princess Mother. For he had, immediately after her husband’s death, advised the late King to take the education of her son, the heir-apparent, entirely out of her hands. He had recently given, if possible, still deeper offence; for he had indulged, not without some ground, the ambitious hope that his beautiful sister-in-law, the Lady Sarah Lennox, might be queen of England. It had been observed that the King at one time rode every morning by the grounds of Holland House, and that on such occasions, Lady Sarah, dressed like a shepherdess at a masquerade, was making hay close to the road, which was then separated by no wall from the lawn. On account of the part which Fox had taken in this singular love affair, he was the only member of the Privy Council who was not summoned to the meeting at which his Majesty announced his intended marriage with the Princess of Mecklenburg. Of all the statesmen of the age, therefore, it seemed that Fox was the last with whom Bute the Tory, the Scot, the favourite of the Princess Mother, could, under any circumstances, act. Yet to Fox Bute was now compelled to apply. Fox had many noble and amiable qualities, which in private life shone forth in full lustre, and made him dear to his children, to his dependants, and to his friends; but as a public man he had no title to esteem. In him the vices which were common to the whole school of Walpole appeared, not perhaps in their worst, but certainly in their most prominent form; for his parliamentary and official talents made all his faults conspicuous. His courage, his vehement temper, his contempt for appearances, led him to display much that others, quite as unscrupulous as himself, covered with a decent veil. He was the most unpopular of the statesmen of his time, not because he sinned more than many of them, but because he canted less. He felt his unpopularity; but he felt it after the fashion of strong minds. He became, not cautious, but reckless, and faced the rage of the whole nation with a scowl of inflexible defiance. He was born with a sweet and generous temper; but he had been goaded and baited into a savageness which was not natural to him, and which amazed and shocked those who knew him best. Such was the man to whom Bute, in extreme need, applied for succour. That succour Fox was not unwilling to afford. Though by no means of an envious temper, he had undoubtedly contemplated the success and popularity of Pitt with bitter mortification. He thought himself Pitt’s match as a debater, and Pitt’s superior as a man of business. They had long been regarded as well-paired rivals. They had started fair in the career of ambition. They had long run side by side. At length Fox had taken the lead, and Pitt had fallen behind. Then had come a sudden turn of fortune, like that in Virgil’s foot-race. Fox had stumbled in the mire, and had not only been defeated, but befouled. Pit had reached the goal, and received the prize. The emoluments of the Pay Office might induce the defeated statesman to submit in silence to the ascendency of his competitor, but could not satisfy a mind conscious of great powers, and sore from great vexations. As soon, therefore, as a party arose adverse to the war and to the supremacy of the great war minister, the hopes of Fox began to revive. His feuds with the Princess Mother, with the Scots, with the Tories, he was ready to forget, if, by the help of his old enemies, he could now regain the importance which he had lost, and confront Pitt on equal terms. The alliance was, therefore, soon concluded. Fox was assured that, if he would pilot the Government out of its embarrassing situation, he should be rewarded with a peerage, of which he had long been desirous. He undertook on his side to obtain, by fair or foul means, a vote in favour of the peace. In consequence of this arrangement he became leader of the House of Commons; and Grenville, stifling his vexation as well as he could, sullenly acquiesced in the change. Fox had expected that his influence would secure to the Court the cordial support of some eminent Whigs who were his personal friends, particularly of the Duke of Cumberland and of the Duke of Devonshire. He was disappointed, and soon found that, in addition to all his other difficulties, he must reckon on the opposition of the ablest prince of the blood, and of the great house of Cavendish. But he had pledged himself to win the battle: and he was not a man to go back. It was no time for squeamishness. Bute was made to comprehend that the ministry could be saved only by practising the tactics of Walpole to an extent at which Walpole himself would have stared. The Pay Office was turned into a mart for votes. Hundreds of members were closeted there with Fox, and, as there is too much reason to believe, departed carrying with them the wages of infamy. It was affirmed by persons who had the best opportunities of obtaining information, that twenty-five thousand pounds were thus paid away in a single morning. The lowest bribe given, it was said, was a bank-note for two hundred pounds. Intimidation was joined with corruption. All ranks, from the highest to the lowest, were to be taught that the King would be obeyed. The Lords Lieutenants of several counties were dismissed. The Duke of Devonshire was especially singled out as the victim by whose fate the magnates of England were to take warning. His wealth, rank, and influence, his stainless private character, and the constant attachment of his family to the House of Hanover, did not secure him from gross personal indignity. It was known that he disapproved of the course which the Government had taken; and it was accordingly determined to humble the Prince of the Whigs, as he had been nicknamed by the Princess Mother. He went to the palace to pay his duty. “Tell him,” said the King to a page, “I that I will not see him.” The page hesitated. “Go to him,” said the King, “and tell him those very words.” The message was delivered. The Duke tore off his gold key, and went away boiling with anger. His relations who were in office instantly resigned. A few days later, the King called for the list of Privy Councillors, and with his own hand struck out the Duke’s name. In this step there was at least courage, though little wisdom or good nature. But, as nothing was too high for the revenge of the Court, so also was nothing too low. A persecution, such as had never been known before, and has never been known since, raged in every public department. Great numbers of humble and laborious clerks were deprived of their bread, not because they had neglected their duties, not because they had taken an active part against the ministry, but merely because they had owed their situations to the recommendation of some nobleman or gentleman who was against the peace. The proscription extended to tidewaiters, to gaugers, to doorkeepers. One poor man to whom a pension had been given for his gallantry in a fight with smugglers, was deprived of it because he had been befriended by the Duke of Grafton. An aged widow, who, on account of her husband’s services in the navy, had, many years before, been made housekeeper to a public office, was dismissed from her situation, because it was imagined that she was distantly connected by marriage with the Cavendish family. The public clamour, as may well be supposed, grew daily louder and louder. But the louder it grew, the more resolutely did Fox go on with the work which he had begun. His old friends could not conceive what had possessed him. “I could forgive,” said the Duke of Cumberland, “Fox’s political vagaries; but I am quite confounded by his inhumanity. Surely he used to be the best-natured of men.” At last Fox went so far to take a legal opinion on the question, whether the patents granted by George the Second were binding on George the Third. It is said, that, if his colleagues had not flinched, he would at once have turned out the Tellers of the Exchequer and Justices in Eyre. Meanwhile the Parliament met. The ministers, more hated by the people than ever, were secure of a majority, and they had also reason to hope that they would have the advantage in the debates as well as in the divisions; for Pitt was confined to his chamber by a severe attack of gout. His friends moved to defer the consideration of the treaty till he should be able to attend: but the motion was rejected. The great day arrived. The discussion had lasted some time, when a loud huzza was heard in Palace Yard. The noise came nearer and nearer, up the stairs, through the lobby. The door opened, and from the midst of a shouting multitude came forth Pitt, borne in the arms of his attendants. His face was thin and ghastly, his limbs swathed in flannel, his crutch in his hand. The bearers set him down within the bar. His friends instantly surrounded him, and with their help he crawled to his seat near the table. In this condition he spoke three hours and a half against the peace. During that time he was repeatedly forced to sit down and to use cordials. It may well be supposed that his voice was faint, that his action was languid, and that his speech, though occasionally brilliant and impressive, was feeble when compared with his best oratorical performances. But those who remembered what he had done, and who saw what he suffered, listened to him with emotions stronger than any that mere eloquence can produce. He was unable to stay for the division, and was carried away from the House amidst shouts as loud as those which had announced his arrival. A large majority approved the peace. The exultation of the Court was boundless. “Now,” exclaimed the Princess Mother, “my son is really King.” The young sovereign spoke of himself as freed from the bondage in which his grandfather had been held. On one point, it was announced, his mind was unalterably made up. Under no circumstances whatever should those Whig grandees, who had enslaved his predecessors and endeavoured to enslave himself, be restored to power. This vaunting was premature. The real strength of the favourite was by no means proportioned to the number of votes which he had, on one particular division, been able to command. He was soon again in difficulties. The most important part of his budget was a tax on cider. This measure was opposed, not only by those who were generally hostile to his administration, but also by many of his supporters. The name of excise had always been hateful to the Tories. One of the chief crimes of Walpole in their eyes, had been his partiality for this mode of raising money. The Tory Johnson had in his Dictionary given so scurrilous a definition of the word Excise, that the Commissioners of Excise had seriously thought of prosecuting him. The counties which the new impost particularly affected had always been Tory counties. It was the boast of John Philips, the poet of the English vintage, that the Cider-land had ever been faithful to the throne, and that all the pruning-hooks of her thousand orchards had been beaten into swords for the service of the ill-fated Stuarts. The effect of Bute’s fiscal scheme was to produce an union between the gentry and yeomanry of the Cider-land and the Whigs of the capital. Herefordshire and Worcestershire were in a flame. The city of London, though not so directly interested, was, if possible, still more excited. The debates on this question irreparably damaged the Government. Dashwood’s financial statement had been confused and absurd beyond belief, and had been received by the House with roars of laughter. He had sense enough to be conscious of his unfitness for the high situation which he held, and exclaimed in a comical fit of despair, “What shall I do? The boys will point at me in the street and cry, ‘There goes the worst Chancellor of the Exchequer that ever was.’” George Grenville came to the rescue, and spoke strongly on his favourite theme, the profusion with which the late war had been carried on. That profusion, he said, had made taxes necessary. He called on the gentlemen opposite to him to say where they would have a tax laid, and dwelt on this topic with his usual prolixity. “Let them tell me where,” he repeated in a monotonous and somewhat fretful tone. “I say, sir, let them tell me where. I repeat it, sir; I am entitled to say to them, Tell me where.” Unluckily for him, Pitt had come down to the House that night, and had been bitterly provoked by the reflections thrown on the war. He revenged himself by murmuring in a whine resembling Grenville’s, a line of a well-known song, “Gentle Shepherd, tell me where.” “If,” cried Grenville, “gentlemen are to be treated in this way--.” Pitt, as was his fashion, when he meant to mark extreme contempt, rose deliberately, made his bow, and walked out of the House, leaving his brother-in-law in convulsions of rage, and everybody else in convulsions of laughter. It was long before Grenville lost the nickname of the Gentle Shepherd. But the ministry had vexations still more serious to endure. The hatred which the Tories and Scots bore to Fox was implacable. In a moment of extreme peril, they had consented to put themselves under his guidance. But the aversion with which they regarded him broke forth as soon as the crisis seemed to be over. Some of them attacked him about the accounts of the Pay Office. Some of them rudely interrupted him when speaking, by laughter and ironical cheers. He was naturally desirous to escape from so disagreeable a situation, and demanded the peerage which had been promised as the reward of his services. It was clear that there must be some change in the composition of the ministry. But scarcely any, even of those who, from their situation, might be supposed to be in all the secrets of the Government, anticipated what really took place. To the amazement of the Parliament and the nation, it was suddenly announced that Bute had resigned. Twenty different explanations of this strange step were suggested. Some attributed it to profound design, and some to sudden panic. Some said that the lampoons of the Opposition had driven the Earl from the field; some that he had taken office only in order to bring the war to a close, and had always meant to retire when that object had been accomplished. He publicly assigned ill health as his reason for quitting business, and privately complained that he was not cordially seconded by his colleagues, and that Lord Mansfield, in particular, whom he had himself brought into the Cabinet, gave him no support in the House of Peers. Mansfield was, indeed, far too sagacious not to perceive that Bute’s situation was one of great peril and far too timorous to thrust himself into peril for the sake of another. The probability, however, is that Bute’s conduct on this occasion, like the conduct of most men on most occasions, was determined by mixed motives. We suspect that he was sick of office; for this is a feeling much more common among ministers than persons who see public life from a distance are disposed to believe; and nothing could be more natural than that this feeling should take possession of the mind of Bute. In general, a statesman climbs by slow degrees. Many laborious years elapse before he reaches the topmost pinnacle of preferment. In the earlier part of his career, therefore, he is constantly lured on by seeing something above him. During his ascent he gradually becomes inured to the annoyances which belong to a life of ambition. By the time that he has attained the highest point, he has become patient of labour and callous to abuse. He is kept constant to his vocation, in spite of all its discomforts, at first by hope, and at last by habit. It was not so with Bute. His whole public life lasted little more than two years. On the day on which he became a politician he became a cabinet minister. In a few months he was, both in name and in show, chief of the administration. Greater than he had been he could not be. If what he already possessed was vanity and vexation of spirit, no delusion remained to entice him onward. He had been cloyed with the pleasures of ambition before he had been seasoned to its pains. His habits had not been such as were likely to fortify his mind against obloquy and public hatred. He had reached his forty-eighth year in dignified ease, without knowing, by personal experience, what it was to be ridiculed and slandered. All at once, without any previous initiation, he had found himself exposed to such a storm of invective and satire as had never burst on the head of any statesman. The emoluments of office were now nothing to him; for he had just succeeded to a princely property by the death of his father-in-law. All the honours which could be bestowed on him he had already secured. He had obtained the Garter for himself, and a British peerage for his son. He seems also to have imagined that by quitting the Treasury he should escape from danger and abuse without really resigning power, and should still be able to exercise in private supreme influence over the royal mind. Whatever may have been his motives, he retired. Fox at the same time took refuge in the House of Lords; and George Grenville became First Lord of the Treasury and Chancellor of the Exchequer. We believe that those who made this arrangement fully intended that Grenville should be a mere puppet in the hands of Bute; for Grenville was as yet very imperfectly known even to those who had observed him long. He passed for a mere official drudge; and he had all the industry, the minute accuracy, the formality, the tediousness, which belong to the character. But he had other qualities which had not yet shown themselves, devouring ambition, dauntless courage, self-confidence amounting to presumption, and a temper which could not endure opposition. He was not disposed to be anybody’s tool; and he had no attachment, political or personal, to Bute. The two men had, indeed, nothing in common, except a strong propensity towards harsh and unpopular courses. Their principles were fundamentally different. Bute was a Tory. Grenville would have been very angry with any person who should have denied his claim to be a Whig. He was more prone to tyrannical measures than Bute; but he loved tyranny only when disguised under the forms of constitutional liberty. He mixed up, after a fashion then not very unusual, the theories of the republicans of the seventeenth century with the technical maxims of English law, and thus succeeded in combining anarchical speculation with arbitrary practice. The voice of the people was the voice of God; but the only legitimate organ through which the voice of the people could be uttered was the Parliament. All power was from the people; but to the Parliament the whole power of the people had been delegated. No Oxonian divine had ever, even in the years which immediately followed the Restoration, demanded for the King so abject, so unreasoning a homage, as Grenville, on what he considered as the purest Whig principles, demanded for the Parliament. As he wished to see the Parliament despotic over the nation, so he wished to see it also despotic over the Court. In his view the Prime Minister, possessed of the confidence of the House of Commons, ought to be mayor of the Palace. The King was a mere Childeric or Chilperic, who well might think himself lucky in being permitted to enjoy such handsome apartments at Saint James’s, and so fine a park at Windsor. Thus the opinions of Bute and those of Grenville were diametrically opposed. Nor was there any private friendship between the two statesmen. Grenville’s nature was not forgiving; and he well remembered how, a few months before, he had been compelled to yield the lead of the House of Commons to Fox. We are inclined to think, on the whole, that the worst administration which has governed England since the Revolution was that of George Grenville. His public acts may be classed under two heads, outrages on the liberty of the people, and outrages on the dignity of the Crown. He began by making war on the press. John Wilkes, member of Parliament for Aylesbury, was singled out for persecution. Wilkes had, till very lately, been known chiefly as one of the most profane, licentious, and agreeable rakes about town. He was a man of taste, reading, and engaging manners. His sprightly conversation was the delight of greenrooms and taverns, and pleased even grave hearers when he was sufficiently under restraint to abstain from detailing the particulars of his amours, and from breaking jests on the New Testament. His expensive debaucheries forced him to have recourse to the Jews. He was soon a ruined man, and determined to try his chance as a political adventurer. In Parliament he did not succeed. His speaking, though pert, was feeble, and by no means interested his hearers so much as to make them forget his face, which was so hideous that the caricaturists were forced, in their own despite, to flatter him. As a writer, he made a better figure. He set up a weekly paper, called the North Briton. This journal, written with some pleasantry, and great audacity and impudence, had a considerable number of readers. Forty-four numbers had been published when Bute resigned; and, though almost every number had contained matter grossly libellous, no prosecution had been instituted. The forty-fifth number was innocent when compared with the majority of those which had preceded it, and indeed contained nothing so strong as may in our time be found daily in the leading articles of the Times and Morning Chronicle. But Grenville was now at the head of affairs. A new spirit had been infused into the administration. Authority was to be upheld. The Government was no longer to be braved with impunity. Wilkes was arrested under a general warrant, conveyed to the Tower, and confined there with circumstances of unusual severity. His papers were seized, and carried to the Secretary of State. These harsh and illegal measures produced a violent outbreak of popular rage, which was soon changed to delight and exultation. The arrest was pronounced unlawful by the Court of Common Pleas, in which Chief justice Pratt presided, and the prisoner was discharged. This victory over the Government was celebrated with enthusiasm both in London and in the cider counties. While the ministers were daily becoming more odious to the nation, they were doing their best to make themselves also odious to the Court. They gave the King plainly to understand that they were determined not to be Lord Bute’s creatures, and exacted a promise that no secret adviser should have access to the royal ear. They soon found reason to suspect that this promise had not been observed. They remonstrated in terms less respectful than their master had been accustomed to hear, and gave him a fortnight to make his choice between his favourite and his Cabinet. George the Third was greatly disturbed. He had but a few weeks before exulted in his deliverance from the yoke of the great Whig connection. He had even declared that his honour would not permit him ever again to admit the members of that connection into his service. He now found that he had only exchanged one set of masters for another set still harsher and more imperious. In his distress he thought on Pitt. From Pitt it was possible that better terms might be obtained than either from Grenville, or from the party of which Newcastle was the head. Grenville, on his return from an excursion into the country, repaired to Buckingham House. He was astonished to find at the entrance a chair, the shape of which was well known to him, and indeed to all London. It was distinguished by a large boot, made for the purpose of accommodating the Great Commoner’s gouty leg. Grenville guessed the whole. His brother-in-law was closeted with the King. Bute, provoked by what he considered as the unfriendly and ungrateful conduct of his successors, had himself proposed that Pitt should be summoned to the palace. Pitt had two audiences on two successive days. What passed at the first interview led him to expect that the negotiations would be brought to a satisfactory close; but on the morrow he found the King less complying. The best account, indeed the only trustworthy account of the conference, is that which was taken from Pitt’s own mouth by Lord Hardwicke. It appears that Pitt strongly represented the importance of conciliating those chiefs of the Whig party who had been so unhappy as to incur the royal displeasure. They had, he said, been the most constant friends of the House of Hanover. Their power was great; they had been long versed in public business. If they were to be under sentence of exclusion, a solid administration could not be formed. His Majesty could not bear to think of putting himself into the hands of those whom he had recently chased from his Court with the strongest marks of anger. “I am sorry, Mr. Pitt,” he said, “but I see this will not do. My honour is concerned. I must support my honour.” How his Majesty succeeded in supporting his honour, we shall soon see. Pitt retired, and the King was reduced to request the ministers, whom he had been on the point of discarding, to remain in office. During the two years which followed, Grenville, now closely leagued with the Bedfords, was the master of the Court; and a hard master he proved. He knew that he was kept in place only because there was no choice except between himself and the Whigs. That under any circumstances the Whigs would be forgiven, he thought impossible. The late attempt to get rid of him had roused his resentment; the failure of that attempt had liberated him from all fear. He had never been very courtly. He now began to hold a language, to which, since the days of Cornet Joyce and President Bradshaw, no English King had been compelled to listen. In one matter, indeed, Grenville, at the expense of justice and liberty, gratified the passions of the Court while gratifying his own. The persecution of Wilkes was eagerly pressed. He had written a parody on Pope’s Essay on Man, entitled the Essay on Woman, and had appended to it notes, in ridicule of Warburton’s famous Commentary. This composition was exceedingly profligate, but not more so, we think, than some of Pope’s own works, the imitation of the second satire of the first book of Horace, for example; and, to do Wilkes justice, he had not, like Pope, given his ribaldry to the world. He had merely printed at a private press a very small number of copies, which he meant to present to some of his boon companions, whose morals were in no more danger of being corrupted by a loose book than a negro of being tanned by a warm sun. A tool of the Government, by giving a bribe to the printer, procured a copy of this trash, and placed it in the hands of the ministers. The ministers resolved to visit Wilkes’s offence against decorum with the utmost rigour of the law. What share piety and respect for morals had in dictating this resolution, our readers may judge from the fact that no person was more eager for bringing the libertine poet to punishment than Lord March, afterwards Duke of Queensberry. On the first day of the session of Parliament, the book, thus disgracefully obtained, was laid on the table of the Lords by the Earl of Sandwich, whom the Duke of Bedford’s interest had made Secretary of State. The unfortunate author had not the slightest suspicion that his licentious poem had ever been seen, except by his printer and a few of his dissipated companions, till it was produced in full Parliament. Though he was a man of easy temper, averse from danger, and not very susceptible of shame, the surprise, the disgrace, the prospect of utter ruin, put him beside himself. He picked a quarrel with one of Lord Bute’s dependants, fought a duel, was seriously wounded, and when half recovered, fled to France. His enemies had now their own way both in the Parliament and in the King’s Bench. He was censured, expelled from the House of Commons, outlawed. His works were ordered to be burned by the common hangman. Yet was the multitude still true to him. In the minds even of many moral and religious men, his crime seemed light when compared with the crime of his accusers. The conduct of Sandwich in particular, excited universal disgust. His own vices were notorious; and, only a fortnight before he laid the Essay on Woman before the House of Lords, he had been drinking and singing loose catches with Wilkes at one of the most dissolute clubs in London. Shortly after the meeting of Parliament, the Beggar’s Opera was acted at Covent Garden theatre. When Macheath uttered the words--“That Jemmy Twitcher should peach me I own surprised me,”--pit, boxes, and galleries, burst into a roar which seemed likely to bring the roof down. From that day Sandwich was universally known by the nickname of Jemmy Twitcher. The ceremony of burning the North Briton was interrupted by a riot. The constables were beaten; the paper was rescued; and, instead of it, a jack-boot and a petticoat were committed to the flames. Wilkes had instituted an action for the seizure of his papers against the Under-secretary of State. The jury gave a thousand pounds damages. But neither these nor any other indications of public feeling had power to move Grenville. He had the Parliament with him: and, according to his political creed, the sense of the nation was to be collected from the Parliament alone. Soon, however, he found reason to fear that even the Parliament might fail him. On the question of the legality of general warrants, the Opposition, having on its side all sound principles, all constitutional authorities, and the voice of the whole nation, mustered in great force, and was joined by many who did not ordinarily vote against the Government. On one occasion the ministry, in a very full House, had a majority of only fourteen votes. The storm, however, blew over. The spirit of the Opposition, from whatever cause, began to flag at the moment when success seemed almost certain. The session ended without any change. Pitt, whose eloquence had shone with its usual lustre in all the principal debates, and whose popularity was greater than ever, was still a private man. Grenville, detested alike by the Court and by the people, was still minister. As soon as the Houses had risen, Grenville took a step which proved, even more signally than any of his past acts, how despotic, how acrimonious, and how fearless his nature was. Among the gentlemen not ordinarily opposed to the Government, who, on the great constitutional question of general warrants, had voted with the minority, was Henry Conway, brother of the Earl of Hertford, a brave soldier, a tolerable speaker, and a well-meaning, though not a wise or vigorous politician. He was now deprived of his regiment, the merited reward of faithful and gallant service in two wars. It was confidently asserted that in this violent measure the King heartily concurred. But whatever pleasure the persecution of Wilkes, or the dismissal of Conway, may have given to the royal mind, it is certain that his Majesty’s aversion to his ministers increased day by day. Grenville was as frugal of the public money as of his own, and morosely refused to accede to the King’s request, that a few thousand pounds might be expended in buying some open fields to the west of the gardens of Buckingham House. In consequence of this refusal, the fields were soon covered with buildings, and the King and Queen were overlooked in their most private walks by the upper windows of a hundred houses. Nor was this the worst. Grenville was as liberal of words as he was sparing of guineas. Instead of explaining himself in that clear, concise, and lively manner, which alone could win the attention of a young mind new to business, he spoke in the closet just as he spoke in the House of Commons. When he had harangued two hours, he looked at his watch, as he had been in the habit of looking at the clock opposite the Speaker’s chair, apologised for the length of his discourse, and then went on for an hour more. The members of the House of Commons can cough an orator down, or can walk away to dinner; and they were by no means sparing in the use of these privileges when Grenville was on his legs. But the poor young King had to endure all this eloquence with mournful civility. To the end of his life he continued to talk with horror of Grenville’s orations. About this time took place one of the most singular events in Pitt’s life. There was a certain Sir William Pynsent, a Somersetshire baronet of Whig politics, who had been a Member of the House of Commons in the days of Queen Anne, and had retired to rural privacy when the Tory party, towards the end of her reign, obtained the ascendency in her councils. His manners were eccentric. His morals lay under very odious imputations. But his fidelity to his political opinions was unalterable. During fifty years of seclusion he continued to brood over the circumstances which had driven him from public life, the dismissal of the Whigs, the peace of Utrecht, the desertion of our allies. He now thought that he perceived a close analogy between the well remembered events of his youth and the events which he had witnessed in extreme old age; between the disgrace of Marlborough and the disgrace of Pitt; between the elevation of Harley and the elevation of Bute; between the treaty negotiated by St. John and the treaty negotiated by Bedford; between the wrongs of the House of Austria in 1712 and the wrongs of the House of Brandenburgh in 1762. This fancy took such possession of the old man’s mind that he determined to leave his whole property to Pitt. In this way, Pitt unexpectedly came into possession of near three thousand pounds a year. Nor could all the malice of his enemies find any ground for reproach in the transaction. Nobody could call him a legacy-hunter. Nobody could accuse him of seizing that to which others had a better claim. For he had never in his life seen Sir William; and Sir William had left no relation so near as to be entitled to form any expectations respecting the estate. The fortunes of Pitt seemed to flourish; but his health was worse than ever. We cannot find that, during the session which began in January 1765, he once appeared in Parliament. He remained some months in profound retirement at Hayes, his favourite villa, scarcely moving except from his armchair to his bed, and from his bed to his armchair, and often employing his wife as his amanuensis in his most confidential correspondence. Some of his detractors whispered that his invisibility was to be ascribed quite as much to affectation as to gout. In truth his character, high and splendid as it was, wanted simplicity. With genius which did not need the aid of stage tricks, and with a spirit which should have been far above them, he had yet been, through life, in the habit of practising them. It was, therefore, now surmised that, having acquired all the considerations which could be derived from eloquence and from great services to the State, he had determined not to make himself cheap by often appearing in public, but, under the pretext of ill health, to surround himself with mystery, to emerge only at long intervals and on momentous occasions, and at other times to deliver his oracles only to a few favoured votaries, who were suffered to make pilgrimages to his shrine. If such were his object, it was for a time fully attained. Never was the magic of his name so powerful, never was he regarded by his country with such superstitious veneration, as during this year of silence and seclusion. While Pitt was thus absent from Parliament, Grenville proposed a measure destined to produce a great revolution, the effects of which will long be felt by the whole human race. We speak of the act for imposing stamp-duties on the North American colonies. The plan was eminently characteristic of its author. Every feature of the parent was found in the child. A timid statesman would have shrunk from a step, of which Walpole, at a time when the colonies were far less powerful, had said--“He who shall propose it will be a much bolder man than I.” But the nature of Grenville was insensible to fear. A statesman of large views would have felt that to lay taxes at Westminster on New England and New York, was a course opposed, not indeed to the letter of the Statute Book, or to any decision contained in the Term Reports, but to the principles of good government, and to the spirit of the constitution. A statesman of large views would also have felt that ten times the estimated produce of the American stamps would have been dearly purchased by even a transient quarrel between the mother country and the colonies. But Grenville knew of no spirit of the constitution distinct from the letter of the law, and of no national interests except those which are expressed by pounds, shillings, and pence. That his policy might give birth to deep discontents in all the provinces, from the shore of the Great Lakes to the Mexican sea; that France and Spain might seize the opportunity of revenge; that the empire might be dismembered; that the debt, that debt with the amount of which he perpetually reproached Pitt, might, in consequence of his own policy, be doubled; these were possibilities which never occurred to that small, sharp mind. The Stamp Act will be remembered as long as the globe lasts. But, at the time, it attracted much less notice in this country than another Act which is now almost utterly forgotten. The King fell ill, and was thought to be in a dangerous state. His complaint, we believe, was the same which, at a later period, repeatedly incapacitated him for the performance of his regal functions. The heir-apparent was only two years old. It was clearly proper to make provision for the administration of the Government, in case of a minority. The discussions on this point brought the quarrel between the Court and the ministry to a crisis. The King wished to be intrusted with the power of naming a regent by will. The ministers feared, or affected to fear, that, if this power were conceded to him, he would name the Princess Mother, nay, possibly the Earl of Bute. They, therefore, insisted on introducing into the bill words confining the King’s choice to the royal family. Having thus excluded Bute, they urged the King to let them, in the most marked manner, exclude the Princess Dowager also. They assured him that the House of Commons would undoubtedly strike her name out, and by this threat they wrung from him a reluctant assent. In a few days, it appeared that the representations by which they had induced the King to put this gross and public affront on his mother were unfounded. The friends of the Princess in the House of Commons moved that her name should be inserted. The ministers could not decently attack the parent of their master. They hoped that the Opposition would come to their help, and put on them a force to which they would gladly have yielded. But the majority of the Opposition, though hating the Princess, hated Grenville more, beheld his embarrassment with delight, and would do nothing to extricate him from it. The Princess’s name was accordingly placed in the list of persons qualified to hold the regency. The King’s resentment was now at the height. The present evil seemed to him more intolerable than any other. Even the junta of Whig grandees could not treat him worse than he had been treated by his present ministers. In his distress, he poured out his whole heart to his uncle, the Duke of Cumberland. The Duke was not a man to be loved; but he was eminently a man to be trusted. He had an intrepid temper, a strong understanding, and a high sense of honour and duty. As a general, he belonged to a remarkable class of captains, captains we mean, whose fate it has been to lose almost all the battles which they have fought, and yet to be reputed stout and skilful soldiers. Such captains were Coligny and William the Third. We might, perhaps, add Marshal Soult to the list. The bravery of the Duke of Cumberland was such as distinguished him even among the princes of his brave house. The indifference with which he rode about amidst musket balls and cannon balls was not the highest proof of his fortitude. Hopeless maladies, horrible surgical operations, far from unmanning him, did not even discompose him. With courage he had the virtues which are akin to courage. He spoke the truth, was open in enmity and friendship, and upright in all his dealings. But his nature was hard; and what seemed to him justice was rarely tempered with mercy. He was, therefore, during many years, one of the most unpopular men in England. The severity with which he had treated the rebels after the battle of Culloden, had gained for him the name of the Butcher. His attempts to introduce into the army of England, then in a most disorderly state, the rigorous discipline of Potsdam, had excited still stronger disgust. Nothing was too bad to be believed of him. Many honest people were so absurd as to fancy that, if he were left Regent during the minority of his nephews, there would be another smothering in the Tower. These feelings, however, had passed away. The Duke had been living, during some years, in retirement. The English, full of animosity against the Scots, now blamed his Royal Highness only for having left so many Camerons and Macphersons to be made gaugers and custom-house officers. He was, therefore, at present, a favourite with his countrymen, and especially with the inhabitants of London. He had little reason to love the King, and had shown clearly, though not obtrusively, his dislike of the system which had lately been pursued. But he had high and almost romantic notions of the duty which, as a prince of the blood, he owed to the head of his house. He determined to extricate his nephew from bondage, and to effect a reconciliation between the Whig party and the throne, on terms honourable to both. In this mind he set off for Hayes, and was admitted to Pitt’s sick-room; for Pitt would not leave his chamber, and would not communicate with any messenger of inferior dignity. And now began a long series of errors on the part of the illustrious statesman, errors which involved his country in difficulties and distresses more serious even than those from which his genius had formerly rescued her. His language was haughty, unreasonable, almost unintelligible. The only thing which could be discerned through a cloud of vague and not very gracious phrases, was that he would not at that moment take office. The truth, we believe, was this. Lord Temple, who was Pitt’s evil genius, had just formed a new scheme of politics. Hatred of Bute and of the Princess had, it should seem, taken entire possession of Temple’s soul. He had quarrelled with his brother George, because George had been connected with Bute and the Princess. Now that George appeared to be the enemy of Bute and of the Princess, Temple was eager to bring about a general family reconciliation. The three brothers, as Temple, Grenville, and Pitt, were popularly called, might make a ministry without leaning for aid either on Bute or on the Whig connection. With such views, Temple used all his influence to dissuade Pitt from acceding to the propositions of the Duke of Cumberland. Pitt was not convinced. But Temple had an influence over him such as no other person had ever possessed. They were very old friends, very near relations. If Pitt’s talents and fame had been useful to Temple, Temple’s purse had formerly, in times of great need, been useful to Pitt. They had never been parted in politics. Twice they had come into the Cabinet together; twice they had left it together. Pitt could not bear to think of taking office without his chief ally. Yet he felt that he was doing wrong, that he was throwing away a great opportunity of serving his country. The obscure and unconciliatory style of the answers which he returned to the overtures of the Duke of Cumberland, may be ascribed to the embarrassment and vexation of a mind not at peace with itself. It is said that he mournfully exclaimed to Temple, “Extinxti te meque, soror, populumque, patresque Sidonios, urbemque tuam.” The prediction was but too just. Finding Pitt impracticable, the Duke of Cumberland advised the King to submit to necessity, and to keep Grenville and the Bedfords. It was, indeed, not a time at which offices could safely be left vacant. The unsettled state of the Government had produced a general relaxation through all the departments of the public service. Meetings, which at another time would have been harmless, now turned to riots, and rapidly rose almost to the dignity of rebellions. The Houses of Parliament were blockaded by the Spitalfields weavers. Bedford House was assailed on all sides by a furious rabble, and was strongly garrisoned with horse and foot. Some people attributed these disturbances to the friends of Bute, and some to the friends of Wilkes. But, whatever might be the cause, the effect was general insecurity. Under such circumstances the King had no choice. With bitter feelings of mortification, he informed the ministers that he meant to retain them. They answered by demanding from him a promise on his royal word never more to consult Lord Bute. The promise was given. They then demanded something more. Lord Bute’s brother, Mr. Mackenzie, held a lucrative office in Scotland. Mr. Mackenzie must be dismissed. The King replied that the office had been given under very peculiar circumstances, and that he had promised never to take it away while he lived. Grenville was obstinate; and the King, with a very bad grace, yielded. The session of Parliament was over. The triumph of the ministers was complete. The King was almost as much a prisoner as Charles the First had been when in the Isle of Wight. Such were the fruits of the policy which, only a few months before, was represented as having for ever secured the throne against the dictation of insolent subjects. His Majesty’s natural resentment showed itself in every look and word. In his extremity he looked wistfully towards that Whig connection, once the object of his dread and hatred. The Duke of Devonshire, who had been treated with such unjustifiable harshness, had lately died, and had been succeeded by his son, who was still a boy. The King condescended to express his regret for what had passed, and to invite the young Duke to Court. The noble youth came, attended by his uncles, and was received with marked graciousness. This and many other symptoms of the same kind irritated the ministers. They had still in store for their sovereign an insult which would have provoked his grandfather to kick them out of the room. Grenville and Bedford demanded an audience of him, and read him a remonstrance of many pages, which they had drawn up with great care. His Majesty was accused of breaking his word, and of treating his advisers with gross unfairness. The Princess was mentioned in language by no means eulogistic. Hints were thrown out that Bute’s head was in danger. The King was plainly told that he must not continue to show, as he had done, that he disliked the situation in which he was placed, that he must frown upon the Opposition, that he must carry it fair towards his ministers in public. He several times interrupted the reading, by declaring that he had ceased to hold any communication with Bute. But the ministers, disregarding his denial, went on; and the King listened in silence, almost choked by rage. When they ceased to read, he merely made a gesture expressive of his wish to be left alone. He afterwards owned that he thought he should have gone into a fit. Driven to despair, he again had recourse to the Duke of Cumberland; and the Duke of Cumberland again had recourse to Pitt. Pitt was really desirous to undertake the direction of affairs, and owned, with many dutiful expressions, that the terms offered by the King were all that any subject could desire. But Temple was impracticable; and Pitt, with great regret, declared that he could not, without the concurrence of his brother-in-law, undertake the administration. The Duke now saw only one way of delivering his nephew. An administration must be formed of the Whigs in opposition, without Pitt’s help. The difficulties seemed almost insuperable. Death and desertion had grievously thinned the ranks of the party lately supreme in the State. Those among whom the Duke’s choice lay might be divided into two classes, men too old for important offices, and men who had never been in any important office before. The Cabinet must be composed of broken invalids or of raw recruits. This was an evil, yet not an unmixed evil. If the new Whig statesmen had little experience in business and debate, they were, on the other hand, pure from the taint of that political immorality which had deeply infected their predecessors. Long prosperity had corrupted that great party which had expelled the Stuarts, limited the prerogatives of the Crown, and curbed the intolerance of the Hierarchy. Adversity had already produced a salutary effect. On the day of the accession of George the Third, the ascendency of the Whig party terminated; and on that day the purification of the Whig party began. The rising chiefs of that party were men of a very different sort from Sandys and Winnington, from Sir William Yonge and Henry Fox. They were men worthy to have charged by the side of Hampden at Chalgrove, or to have exchanged the last embrace with Russell on the scaffold in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. They carried into politics the same high principles of virtue which regulated their private dealings, nor would they stoop to promote even the noblest and most salutary ends by means which honour and probity condemn. Such men were Lord John Cavendish, Sir George Savile, and others whom we hold in honour as the second founders of the Whig party, as the restorers of its pristine health and energy after half a century of degeneracy. The chief of this respectable band was the Marquess of Rockingham, a man of splendid fortune, excellent sense, and stainless character. He was indeed nervous to such a degree that, to the very close of his life, he never rose without great reluctance and embarrassment to address the House of Lords. But, though not a great orator, he had in a high degree some of the qualities of a statesman. He chose his friends well; and he had, in an extraordinary degree, the art of attaching them to him by ties of the most honourable kind. The cheerful fidelity with which they adhered to him through many years of almost hopeless opposition was less admirable than the disinterestedness and delicacy which they showed when he rose to power. We are inclined to think that the use and the abuse of party cannot be better illustrated than by a parallel between two powerful connections of that time, the Rockinghams and the Bedfords. The Rockingham party was, in our view, exactly what a party should be. It consisted of men bound together by common opinions, by common public objects, by mutual esteem. That they desired to obtain, by honest and constitutional means, the direction of affairs, they openly avowed. But, though often invited to accept the honours and emoluments of office, they steadily refused to do so on any conditions inconsistent with their principles. The Bedford party, as a party, had, as far as we can discover, no principle whatever. Rigby and Sandwich wanted public money, and thought that they should fetch a higher price jointly than singly. They therefore acted in concert, and prevailed on a much more important and a much better man than themselves to act with them. It was to Rockingham that the Duke of Cumberland now had recourse. The Marquess consented to take the Treasury. Newcastle, so long the recognised chief of the Whigs, could not well be excluded from the ministry. He was appointed Keeper of the Privy Seal. A very honest clear-headed country gentleman, of the name of Dowdeswell, became Chancellor of the Exchequer. General Conway, who had served under the Duke of Cumberland, and was strongly attached to his royal highness, was made Secretary of State, with the lead in the House of Commons. A great Whig nobleman, in the prime of manhood, from whom much was at that time expected, Augustus, Duke of Grafton, was the other Secretary. The oldest man living could remember no Government so weak in oratorical talents and in official experience. The general opinion was, that the ministers might hold office during the recess, but that the first day of debate in Parliament would be the last day of their power. Charles Townshend was asked what he thought of the new administration. “It is,” said he, “mere lutestring; pretty summer wear. It will never do for the winter.” At this conjuncture Lord Rockingham had the wisdom to discern the value, and secure the aid, of an ally, who, to eloquence surpassing the eloquence of Pitt, and to industry which shamed the industry of Grenville, united an amplitude of comprehension to which neither Pitt nor Grenville could lay claim. A young Irishman had, some time before, come over to push his fortune in London. He had written much for the booksellers; but he was best known by a little treatise, in which the style and reasoning of Bolingbroke were mimicked with exquisite skill, and by a theory, of more ingenuity than soundness, touching the pleasures which we receive from the objects of taste He had also attained a high reputation as a talker, and was regarded by the men of letters who supped together at the Turk’s Head as the only match in conversation for Dr. Johnson. He now became private secretary to Lord Rockingham, and was brought into Parliament by his patron’s influence. These arrangements, indeed, were not made without some difficulty. The Duke of Newcastle, who was always meddling and chattering, adjured the First Lord of the Treasury to be on his guard against this adventurer, whose real name was O’Bourke, and whom his Grace knew to be a wild Irishman, a Jacobite, a Papist, a concealed Jesuit. Lord Rockingham treated the calumny as it deserved; and the Whig party was strengthened and adorned by the accession of Edmund Burke. The party, indeed, stood in need of accessions; for it sustained about this time an almost irreparable loss. The Duke of Cumberland had formed the Government, and was its main support. His exalted rank and great name in some degree balanced the fame of Pitt. As mediator between the Whigs and the Court, he held a place which no other person could fill. The strength of his character supplied that which was the chief defect of the new ministry. Conway, in particular, who, with excellent intentions and respectable talents, was the most dependent and irresolute of human beings, drew from the counsels of that masculine mind a determination not his own. Before the meeting of Parliament the Duke suddenly died. His death was generally regarded as the signal of great troubles, and on this account, as well as from respect for his personal qualities, was greatly lamented. It was remarked that the mourning in London was the most general ever known, and was both deeper and longer than the Gazette had prescribed. In the meantime, every mail from America brought alarming tidings. The crop which Grenville had sown his successors had now to reap. The colonies were in a state bordering on rebellion. The stamps were burned. The revenue officers were tarred and feathered. All traffic between the discontented provinces and the mother country was interrupted. The Exchange of London was in dismay. Half the firms of Bristol and Liverpool were threatened with bankruptcy. In Leeds, Manchester, Nottingham, it was said that three artisans out of every ten had been turned adrift. Civil war seemed to be at hand; and it could not be doubted that, if once the British nation were divided against itself, France and Spain would soon take part in the quarrel. Three courses were open to the ministers. The first was to enforce the Stamp Act by the sword. This was the course on which the King, and Grenville, whom the King hated beyond all living men, were alike bent. The natures of both were arbitrary and stubborn. They resembled each other so much that they could never be friends; but they resembled each other also so much that they saw almost all important practical questions in the same point of view. Neither of them would bear to be governed by the other; but they were perfectly agreed as to the best way of governing the people. Another course was that which Pitt recommended. He held that the British Parliament was not constitutionally competent to pass a law for taxing the colonies. He therefore considered the Stamp Act as a nullity, as a document of no more validity than Charles’s writ of ship-money, or James’s proclamation dispensing with the penal laws. This doctrine seems to us, we must own, to be altogether untenable. Between these extreme courses lay a third way. The opinion of the most judicious and temperate statesmen of those times was that the British constitution had set no limit whatever to the legislative power of the British King, Lords, and Commons, over the whole British Empire. Parliament, they held, was legally competent to tax America, as Parliament was legally competent to commit any other act of folly or wickedness, to confiscate the property of all the merchants in Lombard Street, or to attaint any man in the kingdom of high treason, without examining witnesses against him, or hearing him in his own defence. The most atrocious act of confiscation or of attainder is just as valid an act as the Toleration Act or the Habeas Corpus Act. But from acts of confiscation and acts of attainder lawgivers are bound, by every obligation of morality, systematically to refrain. In the same manner ought the British legislature to refrain from taxing the American colonies. The Stamp Act was indefensible, not because it was beyond the constitutional competence of Parliament, but because it was unjust and impolitic, sterile of revenue, and fertile of discontents. These sound doctrines were adopted by Lord Rockingham and his colleagues, and were, during a long course of years, inculcated by Burke, in orations, some of which will last as long as the English language. The winter came; the Parliament met; and the state of the colonies instantly became the subject of fierce contention. Pitt, whose health had been somewhat restored by the waters of Bath, reappeared in the House of Commons, and, with ardent and pathetic eloquence, not only condemned the Stamp Act, but applauded the resistance of Massachusetts and Virginia, and vehemently maintained, in defiance, we must say, of all reason and of all authority, that, according to the British constitution, the supreme legislative power does not include the power to tax. The language of Grenville, on the other hand, was such as Strafford might have used at the council-table of Charles the First, when news came of the resistance to the liturgy at Edinburgh. The colonists were traitors; those who excused them were little better. Frigates, mortars, bayonets, sabres, were the proper remedies for such distempers. The ministers occupied an intermediate position; they proposed to declare that the legislative authority of the British Parliament over the whole Empire was in all cases supreme; and they proposed, at the same time, to repeal the Stamp Act. To the former measure Pitt objected; but it was carried with scarcely a dissentient voice. The repeal of the Stamp Act Pitt strongly supported; but against the Government was arrayed a formidable assemblage of opponents. Grenville and the Bedfords were furious. Temple, who had now allied himself closely with his brother, and separated himself from Pitt, was no despicable enemy. This, however, was not the worst. The ministry was without its natural strength. It had to struggle, not only against its avowed enemies, but against the insidious hostility of the King, and of a set of persons who, about this time, began to be designated as the King’s friends. The character of this faction has been drawn by Burke with even more than his usual force and vivacity. Those who know how strongly, through his whole life, his judgment was biassed by his passions, may not unnaturally suspect that he has left us rather a caricature than a likeness; and yet there is scarcely, in the whole portrait, a single touch of which the fidelity is not proved by facts of unquestionable authenticity. The public generally regarded the King’s friends as a body of which Bute was the directing soul. It was to no purpose that the Earl professed to have done with politics, that he absented himself year after year from the levee and the drawing-room, that he went to the north, that he went to Rome. The notion that, in some inexplicable manner, he dictated all the measures of the Court, was fixed in the minds, not only of the multitude, but of some who had good opportunities of obtaining information, and who ought to have been superior to vulgar prejudices. Our own belief is that these suspicions were unfounded, and that he ceased to have any communication with the King on political matters some time before the dismissal of George Grenville. The supposition of Bute’s influence is, indeed, by no means necessary to explain the phaenomena. The King, in 1765, was no longer the ignorant and inexperienced boy who had, in 1760, been managed by his mother and his Groom of the Stole. He had, during several years, observed the struggles of parties, and conferred daily on high questions of State with able and experienced politicians. His way of life had developed his understanding and character. He was now no longer a puppet, but had very decided opinions both of men and things. Nothing could be more natural than that he should have high notions of his own prerogatives, should be impatient of opposition and should wish all public men to be detached from each other and dependent on himself alone; nor could anything be more natural than that, in the state in which the political world then was, he should find instruments fit for his purposes. Thus sprang into existence and into note a reptile species of politicians never before and never since known in our country. These men disclaimed all political ties, except those which bound them to the throne. They were willing to coalesce with any party, to abandon any party, to undermine any party, to assault any party, at a moment’s notice. To them, all administrations, and all oppositions were the same. They regarded Bute, Grenville, Rockingham, Pitt, without one sentiment either of predilection or of aversion. They were the King’s friends. It is to be observed that this friendship implied no personal intimacy. These people had never lived with their master as Dodington at one time lived with his father, or as Sheridan afterwards lived with his son. They never hunted with him in the morning, or played cards with him in the evening, never shared his mutton or walked with him among his turnips. Only one or two of them ever saw his face, except on public days. The whole band, however, always had early and accurate information as to his personal inclinations. These people were never high in the administration. They were generally to be found in places of much emolument, little labour, and no responsibility; and these places they continued to occupy securely while the Cabinet was six or seven times reconstructed. Their peculiar business was not to support the Ministry against the Opposition, but to support the King against the Ministry. Whenever his Majesty was induced to give a reluctant assent to the introduction of some bill which his constitutional advisers regarded as necessary, his friends in the House of Commons were sure to speak against it, to vote against it, to throw in its way every obstruction compatible with the forms of Parliament. If his Majesty found it necessary to admit into his closet a Secretary of State or a First Lord of the Treasury whom he disliked, his friends were sure to miss no opportunity of thwarting and humbling the obnoxious minister. In return for these services, the King covered them with his protection. It was to no purpose that his responsible servants complained to him that they were daily betrayed and impeded by men who were eating the bread of the Government. He sometimes justified the offenders, sometimes excused them, sometimes owned that they were to blame, but said that he must take time to consider whether he could part with them. He never would turn them out; and, while everything else in the State was constantly changing, these sycophants seemed to have a life estate in their offices. It was well known to the King’s friends that, though his Majesty had consented to the repeal of the Stamp Act, he had consented with a very bad grace, and that though he had eagerly welcomed the Whigs, when, in his extreme need and at his earnest entreaty, they had undertaken to free him from an insupportable yoke, he had by no means got over his early prejudices against his deliverers. The ministers soon found that, while they were encountered in front by the whole force of a strong Opposition, their rear was assailed by a large body of those whom they had regarded as auxiliaries. Nevertheless, Lord Rockingham and his adherents went on resolutely with the bill for repealing the Stamp Act. They had on their side all the manufacturing and commercial interests of the realm. In the debates the Government was powerfully supported. Two great orators and statesmen, belonging to two different generations, repeatedly put forth all their powers in defence of the bill. The House of Commons heard Pitt for the last time, and Burke for the first time, and was in doubt to which of them the palm of eloquence should be assigned. It was indeed a splendid sunset and a splendid dawn. For a time the event seemed doubtful. In several divisions the ministers were hard pressed. On one occasion, not less than twelve of the King’s friends, all men in office, voted against the Government. It was to no purpose that Lord Rockingham remonstrated with the King. His Majesty confessed that there was ground for complaint, but hoped that gentle means would bring the mutineers to a better mind. If they persisted in their misconduct, he would dismiss them. At length the decisive day arrived. The gallery, the lobby, the Court of Requests, the staircases, were crowded with merchants from all the great ports of the island. The debate lasted till long after midnight. On the division the ministers had a great majority. The dread of civil war, and the outcry of all the trading towns of the kingdom, had been too strong for the combined strength of the Court and the Opposition. It was in the first dim twilight of a February morning that the doors were thrown open, and that the chiefs of the hostile parties showed themselves to the multitude. Conway was received with loud applause. But, when Pitt appeared, all eyes were fixed on him alone. All hats were in the air. Loud and long huzzas accompanied him to his chair, and a train of admirers escorted him all the way to his home. Then came forth Grenville. As soon as he was recognised, a storm of hisses and curses broke forth. He turned fiercely on the crowd, and caught one by the throat. The bystanders were in great alarm. If a scuffle began, none could say how it might end. Fortunately the person who had been collared only said, “If I may not hiss, sir, I hope I may laugh,” and laughed in Grenville’s face. The majority had been so decisive, that all the opponents of the Ministry, save one, were disposed to let the bill pass without any further contention. But solicitation and expostulation were thrown away on Grenville. His indomitable spirit rose up stronger and stronger under the load of public hatred. He fought out the battle obstinately to the end. On the last reading he had a sharp altercation with his brother-in-law, the last of their many sharp altercations. Pitt thundered in his loftiest tones against the man who had wished to dip the ermine of a British King in the blood of the British people. Grenville replied with his wonted intrepidity and asperity. “If the tax,” he said, “were still to be laid on, I would lay it on. For the evils which it may produce my accuser is answerable. His profusion made it necessary. His declarations against the constitutional powers of Kings, Lords, and Commons, have made it doubly necessary. I do not envy him the huzza. I glory in the hiss. If it were to be done again, I would do it.” The repeal of the Stamp Act was the chief measure of Lord Rockingham’s Government. But that Government is entitled to the praise of having put a stop to two oppressive practices, which, in Wilkes’s case, had attracted the notice and excited the just indignation of the public. The House of Commons was induced by the ministers to pass a resolution condemning the use of general warrants, and another resolution condemning the seizure of papers in cases of libel. It must be added, to the lasting honour of Lord Rockingham, that his administration was the first which, during a long course of years, had the courage and the virtue to refrain from bribing members of Parliament. His enemies accused him and his friends of weakness, of haughtiness, of party spirit; but calumny itself never dared to couple his name with corruption. Unhappily his Government, though one of the best that has ever existed in our country, was also one of the weakest. The King’s friends assailed and obstructed the ministers at every turn. To appeal to the King was only to draw forth new promises and new evasions. His Majesty was sure that there must be some misunderstanding. Lord Rockingham had better speak to the gentlemen. They should be dismissed on the next fault. The next fault was soon committed, and his Majesty still continued to shuffle. It was too bad. It was quite abominable; but it mattered less as the prorogation was at hand. He would give the delinquents one more chance. If they did not alter their conduct next session, he should not have one word to say for them. He had already resolved that, long before the commencement of the next session, Lord Rockingham should cease to be minister. We have now come to a part of our story which, admiring as we do the genius and the many noble qualities of Pitt, we cannot relate without much pain. We believe that, at this conjuncture, he had it in his power to give the victory either to the Whigs or to the King’s friends. If he had allied himself closely with Lord Rockingham, what could the Court have done? There would have been only one alternative, the Whigs or Grenville; and there could be no doubt what the King’s choice would be. He still remembered, as well he might, with the uttermost bitterness, the thraldom from which his uncle had freed him, and said about this time, with great vehemence, that he would sooner see the Devil come into his closet than Grenville. And what was there to prevent Pitt from allying himself with Lord Rockingham? On all the most important questions their views were the same. They had agreed in condemning the peace, the Stamp Act, the general warrant, the seizure of papers. The points on which they differed were few and unimportant. In integrity, in disinterestedness, in hatred of corruption, they resembled each other. Their personal interests could not clash. They sat in different Houses, and Pitt had always declared that nothing should induce him to be First Lord of the Treasury. If the opportunity of forming a coalition beneficial to the State, and honourable to all concerned, was suffered to escape, the fault was not with the Whig ministers. They behaved towards Pitt with an obsequiousness which, had it not been the effect of sincere admiration and of anxiety for the public interests, might have been justly called servile. They repeatedly gave him to understand that, if he chose to join their ranks, they were ready to receive him, not as an associate, but as a leader. They had proved their respect for him by bestowing a peerage on the person who, at that time, enjoyed the largest share of his confidence, Chief Justice Pratt. What then was there to divide Pitt from the Whigs? What, on the other hand, was there in common between him and the King’s friends, that he should lend himself to their purposes, he who had never owed anything to flattery or intrigue, he whose eloquence and independent spirit had overawed two generations of slaves and jobbers, he who had twice been forced by the enthusiasm of an admiring nation on a reluctant Prince? Unhappily the Court had gained Pitt, not, it is true, by those ignoble means which were employed when such men as Rigby and Wedderburn were to be won, but by allurements suited to a nature noble even in its aberrations. The King set himself to seduce the one man who could turn the Whigs out without letting Grenville in. Praise, caresses, promises, were lavished on the idol of the nation. He, and he alone, could put an end to faction, could bid defiance to all the powerful connections in the land united, Whigs and Tories, Rockinghams, Bedfords, and Grenvilles. These blandishments produced a great effect. For though Pitt’s spirit was high and manly, though his eloquence was often exerted with formidable effect against the Court, and though his theory of government had been learned in the school of Locke and Sydney, he had always regarded the person of the sovereign with profound veneration. As soon as he was brought face to face with royalty, his imagination and sensibility were too strong for his principles. His Whiggism thawed and disappeared; and he became, for the time, a Tory of the old Ormond pattern. Nor was he by any means unwilling to assist in the work of dissolving all political connections. His own weight in the State was wholly independent of such connections. He was therefore inclined to look on them with dislike, and made far too little distinction between gangs of knaves associated for the mere purpose of robbing the public, and confederacies of honourable men for the promotion of great public objects. Nor had he the sagacity to perceive that the strenuous efforts which he made to annihilate all parties tended only to establish the ascendency of one party, and that the basest and most hateful of all. It may be doubted whether he would have been thus misled, if his mind had been in full health and vigour. But the truth is that he had for some time been in an unnatural state of excitement. No suspicion of this sort had yet got abroad. His eloquence had never shone with more splendour than during the recent debates. But people afterwards called to mind many things which ought to have roused their apprehensions. His habits were gradually becoming more and more eccentric. A horror of all loud sounds, such as is said to have been one of the many oddities of Wallenstein, grew upon him. Though the most affectionate of fathers, he could not at this time bear to hear the voices of his own children, and laid out great sums at Hayes in buying up houses contiguous to his own, merely that he might have no neighbours to disturb him with their noise. He then sold Hayes, and took possession of a villa at Hampstead, where he again began to purchase houses to right and left. In expense, indeed, he vied, during this part of his life, with the wealthiest of the conquerors of Bengal and Tanjore. At Burton Pynsent, he ordered a great extent of ground to be planted with cedars. Cedars enough for the purpose were not to be found in Somersetshire. They were therefore collected in London, and sent down by land carriage. Relays of labourers were hired; and the work went on all night by torchlight. No man could be more abstemious than Pitt; yet the profusion of his kitchen was a wonder even to epicures. Several dinners were always dressing; for his appetite was capricious and fanciful; and at whatever moment he felt inclined to eat, he expected a meal to be instantly on the table. Other circumstances might be mentioned, such as separately are of little moment, but such as, when taken altogether, and when viewed in connection with the strange events which followed, justify us in believing that his mind was already in a morbid state. Soon after the close of the session of Parliament, Lord Rockingham received his dismissal. He retired, accompanied by a firm body of friends, whose consistency and uprightness enmity itself was forced to admit. None of them had asked or obtained any pension or any sinecure, either in possession or in reversion. Such disinterestedness was then rare among politicians. Their chief, though not a man of brilliant talents, had won for himself an honourable fame, which he kept pure to the last. He had, in spite of difficulties which seemed almost insurmountable, removed great abuses and averted a civil war. Sixteen years later, in a dark and terrible day, he was again called upon to save the State, brought to the very brink of ruin by the same perfidy and obstinacy which had embarrassed, and at length overthrown his first administration. Pitt was planting in Somersetshire when he was summoned to Court by a letter written by the royal hand. He instantly hastened to London. The irritability of his mind and body were increased by the rapidity with which he travelled; and when he reached his journey’s end he was suffering from fever. Ill as he was, he saw the King at Richmond, and undertook to form an administration. Pitt was scarcely in the state in which a man should be who has to conduct delicate and arduous negotiations. In his letters to his wife, he complained that the conferences in which it was necessary for him to bear a part heated his blood and accelerated his pulse. From other sources of information we learn, that his language, even to those whose co-operation he wished to engage, was strangely peremptory and despotic. Some of his notes written at this time have been preserved, and are in a style which Lewis the Fourteenth would have been too well bred to employ in addressing any French gentleman. In the attempt to dissolve all parties, Pitt met with some difficulties. Some Whigs, whom the Court would gladly have detached from Lord Rockingham, rejected all offers. The Bedfords were perfectly willing to break with Grenville; but Pitt would not come up to their terms. Temple, whom Pitt at first meant to place at the head of the Treasury, proved intractable. A coldness indeed had, during some months, been fast growing between the brothers-in-law, so long and so closely allied in politics. Pitt was angry with Temple for opposing the repeal of the Stamp Act. Temple was angry with Pitt for refusing to accede to that family league which was now the favourite plan at Stowe. At length the Earl proposed an equal partition of power and patronage, and offered, on this condition, to give up his brother George. Pitt thought the demand exorbitant, and positively refused compliance. A bitter quarrel followed. Each of the kinsmen was true to his character. Temple’s soul festered with spite, and Pitt’s swelled into contempt. Temple represented Pitt as the most odious of hypocrites and traitors. Pitt held a different and perhaps a more provoking tone. Temple was a good sort of man enough, whose single title to distinction was, that he had a large garden, with a large piece of water, and had a great many pavilions and summer-houses. To his fortunate connection with a great orator and statesman he was indebted for an importance in the State which his own talents could never have gained for him. That importance had turned his head. He had begun to fancy that he could form administrations, and govern empires. It was piteous to see a well meaning man under such a delusion. In spite of all these difficulties, a ministry was made such as the King wished to see, a ministry in which all his Majesty’s friends were comfortably accommodated, and which, with the exception of his Majesty’s friends, contained no four persons who had ever in their lives been in the habit of acting together. Men who had never concurred in a single vote found themselves seated at the same board. The office of Paymaster was divided between two persons who had never exchanged a word. Most of the chief posts were filled either by personal adherents of Pitt, or by members of the late ministry, who had been induced to remain in place after the dismissal of Lord Rockingham. To the former class belonged Pratt, now Lord Camden, who accepted the great seal, and Lord Shelburne, who was made one of the Secretaries of State. To the latter class belonged the Duke of Grafton, who became First Lord of the Treasury, and Conway, who kept his old position both in the Government and in the House of Commons. Charles Townshend, who had belonged to every party, and cared for none, was Chancellor of the Exchequer. Pitt himself was declared Prime Minister, but refused to take any laborious office. He was created Earl of Chatham, and the Privy Seal was delivered to him. It is scarcely necessary to say, that the failure, the complete and disgraceful failure, of this arrangement, is not to be ascribed to any want of capacity in the persons whom we have named. None of them was deficient in abilities; and four of them, Pitt himself, Shelburne, Camden, and Townshend, were men of high intellectual eminence. The fault was not in the materials, but in the principle on which the materials were put together. Pitt had mixed up these conflicting elements, in the full confidence that he should be able to keep them all in perfect subordination to himself, and in perfect harmony with other. We shall soon see how the experiment succeeded. On the very day on which the new Prime Minister kissed hands, three-fourths of that popularity which he had long enjoyed without a rival, and to which he owed the greater part of his authority, departed from him. A violent outcry was raised, not against that part of his conduct which really deserved severe condemnation, but against a step in which we can see nothing to censure. His acceptance of a peerage produced a general burst of indignation. Yet surely no peerage had ever been better earned; nor was there ever a statesman who more needed the repose of the Upper House. Pitt was now growing old. He was much older in constitution than in years. It was with imminent risk to his life that he had, on some important occasions, attended his duty in Parliament. During the session of 1764, he had not been able to take part in a single debate. It was impossible that he should go through the nightly labour of conducting the business of the Government in the House of Commons. His wish to be transferred, under such circumstances, to a less busy and a less turbulent assembly, was natural and reasonable. The nation, however, overlooked all these considerations. Those who had most loved and honoured the Great Commoner were loudest in invective against the new-made Lord. London had hitherto been true to him through every vicissitude. When the citizens learned that he had been sent for from Somersetshire, that he had been closeted with the King at Richmond, and that he was to be first minister, they had been in transports of joy. Preparations were made for a grand entertainment and for a general illumination. The lamps had actually been placed round the monument, when the Gazette announced that the object of all this enthusiasm was an Earl. Instantly the feast was countermanded. The lamps were taken down. The newspapers raised the roar of obloquy. Pamphlets, made up of calumny and scurrility, filled the shops of all the booksellers; and of those pamphlets, the most galling were written under the direction of the malignant Temple. It was now the fashion to compare the two Williams, William Pulteney and William Pitt. Both, it was said, had, by eloquence and simulated patriotism, acquired a great ascendency in the House of Commons and in the country. Both had been intrusted with the office of reforming the Government. Both had, when at the height of power and popularity, been seduced by the splendour of the coronet. Both had been made earls, and both had at once become objects of aversion and scorn to the nation which a few hours before had regarded them with affection and veneration. The clamour against Pitt appears to have had a serious effect on the foreign relations of the country. His name had till now acted like a spell at Versailles and Saint Ildefonso. English travellers on the Continent had remarked that nothing more was necessary to silence a whole room full of boasting Frenchmen than to drop a hint of the probability that Mr. Pitt would return to power. In an instant there was deep silence: all shoulders rose, and all faces were lengthened. Now, unhappily, every foreign court, in learning that he was recalled to office, learned also that he no longer possessed the hearts of his countrymen. Ceasing to be loved at home, he ceased to be feared abroad. The name of Pitt had been a charmed name. Our envoys tried in vain to conjure with the name of Chatham. The difficulties which beset Chatham were daily increased by the despotic manner in which he treated all around him. Lord Rockingham had, at the time of the change of ministry, acted with great moderation, had expressed a hope that the new Government would act on the principles of the late Government, and had even interfered to prevent many of his friends from quitting office. Thus Saunders and Keppel, two naval commanders of great eminence, had been induced to remain at the Admiralty, where their services were much needed. The Duke of Portland was still Lord Chamberlain, and Lord Besborough Postmaster. But within a quarter of a year, Lord Chatham had so deeply affronted these men, that they all retired in disgust. In truth, his tone, submissive in the closet, was at this time insupportably tyrannical in the Cabinet. His colleagues were merely his clerks for naval, financial, and diplomatic business. Conway, meek as he was, was on one occasion provoked into declaring that such language as Lord Chatham’s had never been heard west of Constantinople, and was with difficulty prevented by Horace Walpole from resigning, and rejoining the standard of Lord Rockingham. The breach which had been made in the Government by the defection of so many of the Rockinghams, Chatham hoped to supply by the help of the Bedfords. But with the Bedfords he could not deal as he had dealt with other parties. It was to no purpose that he bade high for one or two members of the faction, in the hope of detaching them from the rest. They were to be had; but they were to be had only in the lot. There was indeed for a moment some wavering and some disputing among them. But at length the counsels of the shrewd and resolute Rigby prevailed. They determined to stand firmly together, and plainly intimated to Chatham that he must take them all, or that he should get none of them. The event proved that they were wiser in their generation than any other connection in the State. In a few months they were able to dictate their own terms. The most important public measure of Lord Chatham’s administration was his celebrated interference with the corn trade. The harvest had been bad; the price of food was high; and he thought it necessary to take on himself the responsibility of laying an embargo on the exportation of grain. When Parliament met, this proceeding was attacked by the Opposition as unconstitutional, and defended by the ministers as indispensably necessary. At last an act was passed to indemnify all who had been concerned in the embargo. The first words uttered by Chatham, in the House of Lords, were in defence of his conduct on this occasion. He spoke with a calmness, sobriety, and dignity, well suited to the audience which he was addressing. A subsequent speech which he made on the same subject was less successful. He bade defiance to aristocratical connections, with a superciliousness to which the Peers were not accustomed, and with tones and gestures better suited to a large and stormy assembly than to the body of which he was now a member. A short altercation followed, and he was told very plainly that he should not be suffered to browbeat the old nobility of England. It gradually became clearer and clearer that he was in a distempered state of mind. His attention had been drawn to the territorial acquisitions of the East India Company, and he determined to bring the whole of that great subject before Parliament. He would not, however, confer on the subject with any of his colleagues. It was in vain that Conway, who was charged with the conduct of business in the House of Commons, and Charles Townshend, who was responsible for the direction of the finances, begged for some glimpse of light as to what was in contemplation. Chatham’s answers were sullen and mysterious. He must decline any discussion with them; he did not want their assistance; he had fixed on a person to take charge of his measure in the House of Commons. This person was a member who was not connected with the Government, and who neither had, nor deserved to have the ear of the House, a noisy, purseproud, illiterate demagogue, whose Cockney English and scraps of mispronounced Latin were the jest of the newspapers, Alderman Beckford. It may well be supposed that these strange proceedings produced a ferment through the whole political world. The city was in commotion. The East India Company invoked the faith of charters. Burke thundered against the ministers. The ministers looked at each other, and knew not what to say. In the midst of the confusion, Lord Chatham proclaimed himself gouty, and retired to Bath. It was announced, after some time, that he was better, that he would shortly return, that he would soon put everything in order. A day was fixed for his arrival in London. But when he reached the Castle inn at Marlborough, he stopped, shut himself up in his room, and remained there some weeks. Everybody who travelled that road was amazed by the number of his attendants. Footmen and grooms, dressed in his family livery filled the whole inn, though one of the largest in England, and swarmed in the streets of the little town. The truth was that the invalid had insisted that, during his stay, all the waiters and stable-boys of the Castle should wear his livery. His colleagues were in despair. The Duke of Grafton proposed to go down to Marlborough in order to consult the oracle. But he was informed that Lord Chatham must decline all conversation on business. In the meantime, all the parties which were out of office, Bedfords, Grenvilles, and Rockinghams, joined to oppose the distracted Government on the vote for the land tax. They were reinforced by almost all the county members, and had a considerable majority. This was the first time that a ministry had been beaten on an important division in the House of Commons since the fall of Sir Robert Walpole. The administration, thus furiously assailed from without, was torn by internal dissensions. It had been formed on no principle whatever. From the very first, nothing but Chatham’s authority had prevented the hostile contingents which made up his ranks from going to blows with each other. That authority was now withdrawn, and everything was in commotion. Conway, a brave soldier, but in civil affairs the most timid and irresolute of men, afraid of disobliging the King, afraid of being abused in the newspapers, afraid of being thought factious if he went out, afraid of being thought interested if he stayed in, afraid of everything, and afraid of being known to be afraid of anything, was beaten backwards and forwards like a shuttlecock between Horace Walpole who wished to make him Prime Minister, and Lord John Cavendish who wished to draw him into opposition. Charles Townshend, a man of splendid eloquence, of lax principles, and of boundless vanity and presumption, would submit to no control. The full extent of his parts, of his ambition, and of his arrogance, had not yet been made manifest; for he had always quailed before the genius and the lofty character of Pitt. But now that Pitt had quitted the House of Commons, and seemed to have abdicated the part of chief minister, Townshend broke loose from all restraint. While things were in this state, Chatham at length returned to London. He might as well have remained at Marlborough. He would see nobody. He would give no opinion on any public matter. The Duke of Grafton begged piteously for an interview, for an hour, for half an hour, for five minutes. The answer was, that it was impossible. The King himself repeatedly condescended to expostulate and implore. “Your duty,” he wrote, “your own honour, require you to make an effort.” The answers to these appeals were commonly written in Lady Chatham’s hand, from her lord’s dictation; for he had not energy even to use a pen. He flings himself at the King’s feet. He is penetrated by the royal goodness so signally shown to the most unhappy of men. He implores a little more indulgence. He cannot as yet transact business. He cannot see his colleagues. Least of all can he bear the excitement of an interview with majesty. Some were half inclined to suspect that he was, to use a military phrase, malingering. He had made, they said, a great blunder, and had found it out. His immense popularity, his high reputation for statesmanship, were gone for ever. Intoxicated by pride, he had undertaken a task beyond his abilities. He now saw nothing before him but distresses and humiliations; and he had therefore simulated illness, in order to escape from vexations which he had not fortitude to meet. This suspicion, though it derived some colour from that weakness which was the most striking blemish of his character, was certainly unfounded. His mind, before he became first minister, had been, as we have said, in an unsound state; and physical and moral causes now concurred to make the derangement of his faculties complete. The gout, which had been the torment of his whole life, had been suppressed by strong remedies. For the first time since he was a boy at Oxford, he had passed several months without a twinge. But his hand and foot had been relieved at the expense of his nerves. He became melancholy, fanciful, irritable. The embarrassing state of public affairs, the grave responsibility which lay on him, the consciousness of his errors, the disputes of his colleagues, the savage clamours raised by his detractors, bewildered his enfeebled mind. One thing alone, he said, could save him. He must repurchase Hayes. The unwilling consent of the new occupant was extorted by Lady Chatham’s entreaties and tears; and her lord was somewhat easier. But if business were mentioned to him, he, once the proudest and boldest of mankind, behaved like a hysterical girl, trembled from head to foot, and burst into a flood of tears. His colleagues for a time continued to entertain the expectation that his health would soon be restored, and that he would emerge from his retirement. But month followed month, and still he remained hidden in mysterious seclusion, and sunk, as far as they could learn, in the deepest dejection of spirits. They at length ceased to hope or to fear anything from him; and though he was still nominally Prime Minister, took without scruple steps which they knew to be diametrically opposed to all his opinions and feelings, allied themselves with those whom he had proscribed, disgraced those whom he most esteemed, and laid taxes on the colonies, in the face of the strong declarations which he had recently made. When he had passed about a year and three quarters in gloomy privacy, the King received a few lines in Lady Chatham’s hand. They contained a request, dictated by her lord, that he might be permitted to resign the Privy Seal. After some civil show of reluctance, the resignation was accepted. Indeed Chatham was, by this time, almost as much forgotten as if he had already been lying in Westminster Abbey. At length the clouds which had gathered over his mind broke and passed away. His gout returned, and freed him from a more cruel malady. His nerves were newly braced. His spirits became buoyant. He woke as from a sickly dream. It was a strange recovery. Men had been in the habit of talking of him as of one dead, and, when he first showed himself at the King’s levee, started as if they had seen a ghost. It was more than two years and a half since he had appeared in public. He, too, had cause for wonder. The world which he now entered was not the world which he had quitted. The administration which he had formed had never been, at any one moment, entirely changed. But there had been so many losses and so many accessions, that he could scarcely recognise his own work. Charles Townshend was dead. Lord Shelburne had been dismissed. Conway had sunk into utter insignificance. The Duke of Grafton had fallen into the hands of the Bedfords. The Bedfords had deserted Grenville, had made their peace with the King and the King’s friends, and had been admitted to office. Lord North was Chancellor of the Exchequer, and was rising fast in importance. Corsica had been given up to France without a struggle. The disputes with the American colonies had been revived. A general election had taken place. Wilkes had returned from exile, and, outlaw as he was, had been chosen knight of the shire for Middlesex. The multitude was on his side. The Court was obstinately bent on ruining him, and was prepared to shake the very foundations of the constitution for the sake of a paltry revenge. The House of Commons, assuming to itself an authority which of right belongs only to the whole legislature, had declared Wilkes incapable of sitting in Parliament. Nor had it been thought sufficient to keep him out. Another must be brought in. Since the freeholders of Middlesex had obstinately refused to choose a member acceptable to the Court, the House had chosen a member for them. This was not the only instance, perhaps not the most disgraceful instance, of the inveterate malignity of the Court. Exasperated by the steady opposition of the Rockingham party, the King’s friends had tried to rob a distinguished Whig nobleman of his private estate, and had persisted in their mean wickedness till their own servile majority had revolted from mere disgust and shame. Discontent had spread throughout the nation, and was kept up by stimulants such as had rarely been applied to the public mind. Junius had taken the field, and trampled Sir William Draper in the dust, had well-nigh broken the heart of Blackstone, and had so mangled the reputation of the Duke of Grafton, that his grace had become sick of office, and was beginning to look wistfully towards the shades of Euston. Every principle of foreign, domestic, and colonial policy which was dear to the heart of Chatham had, during the eclipse of his genius, been violated by the Government which he had formed. The remaining years of his life were spent in vainly struggling against that fatal policy which, at the moment when he might have given it a death-blow, he had been induced to take under his protection. His exertions redeemed his own fame, but they effected little for his country. He found two parties arrayed against the Government, the party of his own brothers-in-law, the Grenvilles, and the party of Lord Rockingham. On the question of the Middlesex election these parties were agreed. But on many other important questions they differed widely; and they were, in truth, not less hostile to each other than to the Court. The Grenvilles had, during several years, annoyed the Rockinghams with a succession of acrimonious pamphlets. It was long before the Rockinghams could be induced to retaliate. But an ill-natured tract, written under Grenville’s direction, and entitled A State of the Nation, was too much for their patience. Burke undertook to defend and avenge his friends, and executed the task with admirable skill and vigour. On every point he was victorious, and nowhere more completely victorious than when he joined issue on those dry and minute questions of statistical and financial detail in which the main strength of Grenville lay. The official drudge, even on his own chosen ground, was utterly unable to maintain the fight against the great orator and philosopher. When Chatham reappeared, Grenville was still writhing with the recent shame and smart of this well-merited chastisement. Cordial co-operation between the two sections of the Opposition was impossible. Nor could Chatham easily connect himself with either. His feelings, in spite of many affronts given and received, drew him towards the Grenvilles. For he had strong domestic affections; and his nature, which, though haughty, was by no means obdurate, had been softened by affliction. But from his kinsmen he was separated by a wide difference of opinion on the question of colonial taxation. A reconciliation, however, took place. He visited Stowe: he shook hands with George Grenville; and the Whig freeholders of Buckinghamshire, at their public dinners, drank many bumpers to the union of the three brothers. In opinions, Chatham was much nearer to the Rockinghams than to his own relatives. But between him and the Rockinghams there was a gulf not easily to be passed. He had deeply injured them, and in injuring them, had deeply injured his country. When the balance was trembling between them and the Court, he had thrown the whole weight of his genius, of his renown, of his popularity, into the scale of misgovernment. It must be added, that many eminent members of the party still retained a bitter recollection of the asperity and disdain with which they had been treated by him at the time when he assumed the direction of affairs. It is clear from Burke’s pamphlets and speeches, and still more clear from his private letters, and from the language which he held in conversation, that he regarded Chatham with a feeling not far removed from dislike. Chatham was undoubtedly conscious of his error, and desirous to atone for it. But his overtures of friendship, though made with earnestness, and even with unwonted humility, were at first received by Lord Rockingham with cold and austere reserve. Gradually the intercourse of the two statesmen became courteous and even amicable. But the past was never wholly forgotten. Chatham did not, however, stand alone. Round him gathered a party, small in number, but strong in great and various talents. Lord Camden, Lord Shelburne, Colonel Barré, and Dunning, afterwards Lord Ashburton, were the principal members of this connection. There is no reason to believe that, from this time till within a few weeks of Chatham’s death, his intellect suffered any decay. His eloquence was almost to the last heard with delight. But it was not exactly the eloquence of the House of Lords. That lofty and passionate, but somewhat desultory declamation, in which he excelled all men, and which was set off by looks, tones, and gestures, worthy of Garrick or Talma, was out of place in a small apartment where the audience often consisted of three or four drowsy prelates, three or four old judges, accustomed during many years to disregard rhetoric, and to look only at facts and arguments, and three or four listless and supercilious men of fashion, whom anything like enthusiasm moved to a sneer. In the House of Commons, a flash of his eye, a wave of his arm, had sometimes cowed Murray. But, in the House of Peers, his utmost vehemence and pathos produced less effect than the moderation, the reasonableness, the luminous order and the serene dignity, which characterised the speeches of Lord Mansfield. On the question of the Middlesex election, all the three divisions of the Opposition acted in concert. No orator in either House defended what is now universally admitted to have been the constitutional cause with more ardour or eloquence than Chatham. Before this subject had ceased to occupy the public mind, George Grenville died. His party rapidly melted away; and in a short time most of his adherents appeared on the ministerial benches. Had George Grenville lived many months longer, the friendly ties which, after years of estrangement and hostility, had been renewed between him and his brother-in-law, would, in all probability, have been a second time violently dissolved. For now the quarrel between England and the North American colonies took a gloomy and terrible aspect. Oppression provoked resistance; resistance was made the pretext for fresh oppression. The warnings of all the greatest statesmen of the age were lost on an imperious Court and a deluded nation. Soon a colonial senate confronted the British Parliament. Then the colonial militia crossed bayonets with the British regiments. At length the commonwealth was torn asunder. Two millions of Englishmen, who, fifteen years before, had been as loyal to their prince and as proud of their country as the people of Kent or Yorkshire, separated themselves by a solemn act from the Empire. For a time it seemed that the insurgents would struggle to small purpose against the vast financial and military means of the mother country. But disasters, following one another in rapid succession, rapidly dispelled the illusions of national vanity. At length a great British force, exhausted, famished, harassed on every side by a hostile peasantry, was compelled to deliver up its arms. Those Governments which England had, in the late war, so signally humbled, and which had during many years been sullenly brooding over the recollections of Quebec, of Minden, and of the Moro, now saw with exultation that the day of revenge was at hand. France recognised the independence of the United States, and there could be little doubt that the example would soon be followed by Spain. Chatham and Rockingham had cordially concurred in opposing every part of the fatal policy which had brought the State into this dangerous situation. But their paths now diverged. Lord Rockingham thought, and, as the event proved, thought most justly, that the revolted colonies were separated from the Empire for ever, and that the only effect of prolonging the war on the American continent would be to divide resources which it was desirable to concentrate. If the hopeless attempt to subjugate Pennsylvania and Virginia were abandoned, war against the House of Bourbon might possibly be avoided, or, if inevitable, might be carried on with success and glory. We might even indemnify ourselves for part of what we had lost, at the expense of those foreign enemies who had hoped to profit by our domestic dissensions. Lord Rockingham, therefore, and those who acted with him, conceived that the wisest course now open to England was to acknowledge the independence of the United States, and to turn her whole force against her European enemies. Chatham, it should seem, ought to have taken the same side. Before France had taken any part in our quarrel with the colonies, he had repeatedly, and with great energy of language, declared that it was impossible to conquer America, and he could not without absurdity maintain that it was easier to conquer France and America together than America alone. But his passions overpowered his judgment, and made him blind to his own inconsistency. The very circumstances which made the separation of the colonies inevitable made it to him altogether insupportable. The dismemberment of the Empire seemed to him less ruinous and humiliating, when produced by domestic dissensions, than when produced by foreign interference. His blood boiled at the degradation of his country. Whatever lowered her among the nations of the earth, he felt as a personal outrage to himself. And the feeling was natural. He had made her so great. He had been so proud of her; and she had been so proud of him. He remembered how, more than twenty years before, in a day of gloom and dismay, when her possessions were torn from her, when her flag was dishonoured, she had called on him to save her. He remembered the sudden and glorious change which his energy had wrought, the long series of triumphs, the days of thanksgiving, the nights of illumination. Fired by such recollections, he determined to separate himself from those who advised that the independence of the colonies should be acknowledged. That he was in error will scarcely, we think, be disputed by his warmest admirers. Indeed, the treaty, by which, a few years later, the republic of the United States was recognised, was the work of his most attached adherents and of his favourite son. The Duke of Richmond had given notice of an address to the throne, against the further prosecution of hostilities with America. Chatham had, during some time, absented himself from Parliament, in consequence of his growing infirmities. He determined to appear in his place on this occasion, and to declare that his opinions were decidedly at variance with those of the Rockingham party. He was in a state of great excitement. His medical attendants were uneasy, and strongly advised him to calm himself, and to remain at home. But he was not to be controlled. His son William and his son-in-law Lord Mahon, accompanied him to Westminster. He rested himself in the Chancellor’s room till the debate commenced, and then, leaning on his two young relations, limped to his seat. The slightest particulars of that day were remembered, and have been carefully recorded. He bowed, it was remarked, with great courtliness to those peers who rose to make way for him and his supporters. His crutch was in his hand. He wore, as was his fashion, a rich velvet coat. His legs were swathed in flannel. His wig was so large, and his face so emaciated, that none of his features could be discerned, except the high curve of his nose, and his eyes, which still retained a gleam of the old fire. When the Duke of Richmond had spoken, Chatham rose. For some time his voice was inaudible. At length his tones became distinct and his action animated. Here and there his hearers caught a thought or an expression which reminded them of William Pitt. But it was clear that he was not himself. He lost the thread of his discourse, hesitated, repeated the same words several times, and was so confused that, in speaking of the Act of Settlement, he could not recall the name of the Electress Sophia. The House listened in solemn silence, and with the aspect of profound respect and compassion. The stillness was so deep that the dropping of a handkerchief would have been heard. The Duke of Richmond replied with great tenderness and courtesy; but while he spoke, the old man was observed to be restless and irritable. The Duke sat down. Chatham stood up again, pressed his hand on his breast, and sank down in an apoplectic fit. Three or four lords who sat near him caught him in his fall. The House broke up in confusion. The dying man was carried to the residence of one of the officers of Parliament, and was so far restored as to be able to bear a journey to Hayes. At Hayes, after lingering a few weeks, he expired in his seventieth year. His bed was watched to the last, with anxious tenderness, by his wife and children; and he well deserved their care. Too often haughty and wayward to others, to them he had been almost effeminately kind. He had through life been dreaded by his political opponents, and regarded with more awe than love even by his political associates. But no fear seems to have mingled with the affection which his fondness, constantly overflowing in a thousand endearing forms, had inspired in the little circle at Hayes. Chatham, at the time of his decease, had not, in both Houses of Parliament, ten personal adherents. Half the public men of the age had been estranged from him by his errors, and the other half by the exertions which he had made to repair his errors. His last speech had been an attack at once on the policy pursued by the Government, and on the policy recommended by the Opposition. But death restored him to his old place in the affection of his country. Who could hear unmoved of the fall of that which had been so great, and which had stood so long? The circumstances, too, seemed rather to belong to the tragic stage than to real life. A great statesman, full of years and honours, led forth to the Senate House by a son of rare hopes, and stricken down in full council while straining his feeble voice to rouse the drooping spirit of his country, could not but be remembered with peculiar veneration and tenderness. The few detractors who ventured to murmur were silenced by the indignant clamours of a nation which remembered only the lofty genius, the unsullied probity, the undisputed services, of him who was no more. For once, the chiefs of all parties were agreed. A public funeral, a public monument, were eagerly voted. The debts of the deceased were paid. A provision was made for his family. The City of London requested that the remains of the great man whom she had so long loved and honoured might rest under the dome of her magnificent cathedral. But the petition came too late. Everything was already prepared for the interment in Westminster Abbey. Though men of all parties had concurred in decreeing posthumous honours to Chatham, his corpse was attended to the grave almost exclusively by opponents of the Government. The banner of the lordship of Chatham was borne by Colonel Barre, attended by the Duke of Richmond and Lord Rockingham. Burke, Savile, and Dunning upheld the pall. Lord Camden was conspicuous in the procession. The chief mourner was young William Pitt. After the lapse of more than twenty-seven years, in a season as dark and perilous, his own shattered frame and broken heart were laid, with the same pomp, in the same consecrated mould. Chatham sleeps near the northern door of the Church, in a spot which has ever since been appropriated to statesmen, as the other end of the same transept has long been to poets. Mansfield rests there, and the second William Pitt, and Fox, and Grattan, and Canning, and Wilberforce. In no other cemetery do so many great citizens lie within so narrow a space. High over those venerable graves towers the stately monument of Chatham, and from above, his effigy, graven by a cunning hand, seems still, with eagle face and outstretched arm, to bid England be of good cheer, and to hurl defiance at her foes. The generation which reared that memorial of him has disappeared. The time has come when the rash and indiscriminate judgments which his contemporaries passed on his character may be calmly revised by history. And history, while, for the warning of vehement, high, and daring natures, she notes his many errors, will yet deliberately pronounce, that, among the eminent men whose bones lie near his, scarcely one has left a more stainless, and none a more splendid name. LORD CLIVE (January 1840) _The Life of Robert Lord Clive; collected from the Family Papers, communicated by the Earl of Powis. By MAJOR-GENERAL SIR JOHN MALCOLM, K.C.B. 3 vols. 8vo. London: 1836._ WE have always thought it strange that, while the history of the Spanish empire in America is familiarly known to all the nations of Europe, the great actions of our countrymen in the East should, even among ourselves, excite little interest. Every schoolboy knows who imprisoned Montezuma, and who strangled Atahualpa. But we doubt whether one in ten, even among English gentlemen of highly cultivated minds, can tell who won the battle of Buxar, who perpetrated the massacre of Patna, whether Sujah Dowlah ruled in Oude or in Travancore, or whether Holkar was a Hindoo, or a Mussulman. Yet the victories of Cortes were gained over savages who had no letters, who were ignorant of the use of metals, who had not broken in a single animal to labour, who wielded no better weapons than those which could be made out of sticks, flints, and fish-bones, who regarded a horse-soldier as a monster, half man and half beast, who took a harquebusier for a sorcerer, able to scatter the thunder and lightning of the skies. The people of India, when we subdued them, were ten times as numerous as the Americans whom the Spaniards vanquished, and were at the same time quite as highly civilised as the victorious Spaniards. They had reared cities larger and fairer than Saragossa or Toledo, and buildings more beautiful and costly than the cathedral of Seville. They could show bankers richer than the richest firms of Barcelona or Cadiz, viceroys whose splendour far surpassed that of Ferdinand the Catholic, myriads of cavalry and long trains of artillery which would have astonished the Great Captain. It might have been expected, that every Englishman who takes any interest in any part of history would be curious to know how a handful of his countrymen, separated from their home by an immense ocean, subjugated, in the course of a few years, one of the greatest empires in the world. Yet, unless we greatly err, this subject is, to most readers, not only insipid, but positively distasteful. Perhaps the fault lies partly with the historians. Mr. Mill’s book, though it has undoubtedly great and rare merit, is not sufficiently animated and picturesque to attract those who read for amusement. Orme, inferior to no English historian in style and power of painting, is minute even to tediousness. In one volume he allots, on an average, a closely printed quarto page to the events of every forty-eight hours. The consequence is, that his narrative, though one of the most authentic and one of the most finely written in our language, has never been very popular, and is now scarcely ever read. We fear that the volumes before us will not much attract those readers whom Orme and Mill have repelled. The materials placed at the disposal of Sir John Malcolm by the late Lord Powis were indeed of great value. But we cannot say that they have been very skilfully worked up. It would, however, be unjust to criticise with severity a work which, if the author had lived to complete and revise it, would probably have been improved by condensation and by a better arrangement. We are more disposed to perform the pleasing duty of expressing our gratitude to the noble family to which the public owes so much useful and curious information. The effect of the book, even when we make the largest allowance for the partiality of those who have furnished and of those who have digested the materials, is, on the whole, greatly to raise the character of Lord Clive. We are far indeed from sympathising with Sir John Malcolm, whose love passes the love of biographers, and who can see nothing but wisdom and justice in the actions of his idol. But we are at least equally far from concurring in the severe judgment of Mr. Mill, who seems to us to show less discrimination in his account of Clive than in any other part of his valuable work. Clive, like most men who are born with strong passions and tried by strong temptations, committed great faults. But every person who takes a fair and enlightened view of his whole career must admit that our island, so fertile in heroes and statesmen, has scarcely ever produced a man more truly great either in arms or in council. The Clives had been settled, ever since the twelfth century, on an estate of no great value, near Market-Drayton, in Shropshire. In the reign of George the First this moderate but ancient inheritance was possessed by Mr. Richard Clive, who seems to have been a plain man of no great tact or capacity. He had been bred to the law, and divided his time between professional business and the avocations of a small proprietor. He married a lady from Manchester, of the name of Gaskill, and became the father of a very numerous family. His eldest son, Robert, the founder of the British empire in India, was born at the old seat of his ancestors on the twenty-ninth of September, 1725. Some lineaments of the character of the man were early discerned in the child. There remain letters written by his relations when he was in his seventh year; and from these letters it appears that, even at that early age, his strong will and his fiery passions, sustained by a constitutional intrepidity which sometimes seemed hardly compatible with soundness of mind, had begun to cause great uneasiness to his family. “Fighting,” says one of his uncles, “to which he is out of measure addicted, gives his temper such a fierceness and imperiousness, that he flies out on every trifling occasion.” The old people of the neighbourhood still remember to have heard from their parents how Bob Clive climbed to the top of the lofty steeple of Market-Drayton, and with what terror the inhabitants saw him seated on a stone spout near the summit. They also relate how he formed all the idle lads of the town into a kind of predatory army, and compelled the shopkeepers to submit to a tribute of apples and half-pence, in consideration of which he guaranteed the security of their windows. He was sent from school to school, making very little progress in his learning, and gaining for himself everywhere the character of an exceedingly naughty boy. One of his masters, it is said, was sagacious enough to prophesy that the idle lad would make a great figure in the world. But the general opinion seems to have been that poor Robert was a dunce, if not a reprobate. His family expected nothing good from such slender parts and such a headstrong temper. It is not strange therefore, that they gladly accepted for him, when he was in his eighteenth year, a writer-ship in the service of the East India Company, and shipped him off to make a fortune or to die of a fever at Madras. Far different were the prospects of Clive from those of the youths whom the East India College now annually sends to the Presidencies of our Asiatic empire. The Company was then purely a trading corporation. Its territory consisted of few square miles, for which rent was paid to the native governments. Its troops were scarcely numerous enough to man the batteries of three or four ill-constructed forts, which had been erected for the protection of the warehouses. The natives who composed a considerable part of these little garrisons, had not yet been trained in the discipline of Europe, and were armed, some with swords and shields, some with bows and arrows. The business of the servant of the Company was not, as now, to conduct the judicial, financial, and diplomatic business of a great country, but to take stock, to make advances to weavers, to ship cargoes, and above all to keep an eye on private traders who dared to infringe the monopoly. The younger clerks were so miserably paid that they could scarcely subsist without incurring debt; the elder enriched themselves by trading on their own account; and those who lived to rise to the top of the service often accumulated considerable fortunes. Madras, to which Clive had been appointed, was, at this time, perhaps, the first in importance of the Company’s settlements. In the preceding century Fort St. George had arisen on a barren spot beaten by a raging surf; and in the neighbourhood a town, inhabited by many thousands of natives, had sprung up, as towns spring up in the East, with the rapidity of the prophet’s gourd. There were already in the suburbs many white villas, each surrounded by its garden, whither the wealthy agents of the Company retired, after the labours of the desk and the warehouse, to enjoy the cool breeze which springs up at sunset from the Bay of Bengal. The habits of these mercantile grandees appear to have been more profuse, luxurious, and ostentatious, than those of the high judicial and political functionaries who have succeeded them. But comfort was far less understood. Many devices which now mitigate the heat of the climate, preserve health, and prolong life, were unknown. There was far less intercourse with Europe than at present. The voyage by the Cape, which in our time has often been performed within three months, was then very seldom accomplished in six, and was sometimes protracted to more than a year. Consequently, the Anglo-Indian was then much more estranged from his country, much more addicted to Oriental usages, and much less fitted to mix in society after his return to Europe, than the Anglo-Indian of the present day. Within the fort and its precinct, the English exercised, by permission of the native government, an extensive authority, such as every great Indian landowner exercised within his own domain. But they had never dreamed of claiming independent power. The surrounding country was ruled by the Nabob of the Carnatic, a deputy of the Viceroy of the Deccan, commonly called the Nizam, who was himself only a deputy of the mighty prince designated by our ancestors as the Great Mogul. Those names, once so august and formidable, still remain. There is still a Nabob of the Carnatic, who lives on a pension allowed to him by the English out of the revenues of the provinces which his ancestors ruled. There is still a Nizam, whose capital is overawed by a British cantonment, and to whom a British resident gives, under the name of advice, commands which are not to be disputed. There is still a Mogul, who is permitted to play at holding courts and receiving petitions, but who has less power to help or hurt than the youngest civil servant of the Company. Clive’s voyage was unusually tedious even for that age. The ship remained some months at the Brazils, where the young adventurer picked up some knowledge of Portuguese, and spent all his pocket-money. He did not arrive in India till more than a year after he had left England. His situation at Madras was most painful. His funds were exhausted. His pay was small. He had contracted debts. He was wretchedly lodged, no small calamity in a climate which can be made tolerable to an European only by spacious and well placed apartments. He had been furnished with letters of recommendation to a gentleman who might have assisted him; but when he landed at Fort St. George he found that this gentleman had sailed for England. The lad’s shy and haughty disposition withheld him from introducing himself to strangers. He was several months in India before he became acquainted with a single family. The climate affected his health and spirits. His duties were of a kind ill-suited to his ardent and daring character. He pined for his home, and in his letters to his relations expressed his feelings in language softer and more pensive than we should have expected either from the waywardness of his boyhood, or from the inflexible sternness of his later years. “I have not enjoyed” says he “one happy day since I left my native country”; and again, “I must confess, at intervals, when I think of my dear native England, it affects me in a very peculiar manner.... If I should be so far blest as to revisit again my own country, but more especially Manchester, the centre of all my wishes, all that I could hope or desire for would be presented before me in one view.” One solace he found of the most respectable kind. The Governor possessed a good library, and permitted Clive to have access to it. The young man devoted much of his leisure to reading, and acquired at this time almost all the knowledge of books that he ever possessed. As a boy he had been too idle, as a man he soon became too busy, for literary pursuits. But neither climate nor poverty, neither study nor the sorrows of a home-sick exile, could tame the desperate audacity of his spirit. He behaved to his official superiors as he had behaved to his schoolmasters, and he was several times in danger of losing his situation. Twice, while residing in the Writers’ Buildings, he attempted to destroy himself; and twice the pistol which he snapped at his own head failed to go off. This circumstance, it is said, affected him as a similar escape affected Wallenstein. After satisfying himself that the pistol was really well loaded, he burst forth into an exclamation that surely he was reserved for something great. About this time an event which at first seemed likely to destroy all his hopes in life suddenly opened before him a new path to eminence. Europe had been, during some years, distracted by the war of the Austrian succession. George the Second was the steady ally of Maria Theresa. The house of Bourbon took the opposite side. Though England was even then the first of maritime powers, she was not, as she has since become, more than a match on the sea for all the nations of the world together; and she found it difficult to maintain a contest against the united navies of France and Spain. In the eastern seas France obtained the ascendency. Labourdonnais, governor of Mauritius, a man of eminent talents and virtues, conducted an expedition to the continent of India in spite of the opposition of the British fleet, landed, assembled an army, appeared before Madras, and compelled the town and fort to capitulate. The keys were delivered up; the French colours were displayed on Fort St. George; and the contents of the Company’s warehouses were seized as prize of war by the conquerors. It was stipulated by the capitulation that the English inhabitants should be prisoners of war on parole, and that the town should remain in the hands of the French till it should be ransomed. Labourdonnais pledged his honour that only a moderate ransom should be required. But the success of Labourdonnais had awakened the jealousy of his countryman, Dupleix, governor of Pondicherry. Dupleix, moreover, had already begun to revolve gigantic schemes, with which the restoration of Madras to the English was by no means compatible. He declared that Labourdonnais had gone beyond his powers; that conquests made by the French arms on the continent of India were at the disposal of the governor of Pondicherry alone; and that Madras should be razed to the ground. Labourdonnais was compelled to yield. The anger which the breach of the capitulation excited among the English was increased by the ungenerous manner in which Dupleix treated the principal servants of the Company. The Governor and several of the first gentlemen of Fort St. George were carried under a guard to Pondicherry, and conducted through the town in a triumphal procession under the eyes of fifty thousand spectators. It was with reason thought that this gross violation of public faith absolved the inhabitants of Madras from the engagements into which they had entered with Labourdonnais. Clive fled from the town by night in the disguise of a Mussulman, and took refuge at Fort St. David, one of the small English settlements subordinate to Madras. The circumstances in which he was now placed naturally led him to adopt a profession better suited to his restless and intrepid spirit than the business of examining packages and casting accounts. He solicited and obtained an ensign’s commission in the service of the Company, and at twenty-one entered on his military career. His personal courage, of which he had, while still a writer, given signal proof by a desperate duel with a military bully who was the terror of Fort St. David, speedily made him conspicuous even among hundreds of brave men. He soon began to show in his new calling other qualities which had not before been discerned in him, judgment, sagacity, deference to legitimate authority. He distinguished himself highly in several operations against the French, and was particularly noticed by Major Lawrence, who was then considered as the ablest British officer in India. Clive had been only a few months in the army when intelligence arrived that peace had been concluded between Great Britain and France. Dupleix was in consequence compelled to restore Madras to the English Company; and the young ensign was at liberty to resume his former business. He did indeed return for a short time to his desk. He again quitted it in order to assist Major Lawrence in some petty hostilities with the natives, and then again returned to it. While he was thus wavering between a military and a commercial life, events took place which decided his choice. The politics of India assumed a new aspect. There was peace between the English and French Crowns; but there arose between the English and French Companies trading to the East a war most eventful and important, a war in which the prize was nothing less than the magnificent inheritance of the house of Tamerlane. The empire which Baber and his Moguls reared in the sixteenth century was long one of the most extensive and splendid in the world. In no European kingdom was so large a population subject to a single prince, or so large a revenue poured into the treasury. The beauty and magnificence of the buildings erected by the sovereigns of Hindostan amazed even travellers who had seen St. Peter’s. The innumerable retinues and gorgeous decorations which surrounded the throne of Delhi dazzled even eyes which were accustomed to the pomp of Versailles. Some of the great viceroys who held their posts by virtue of commissions from the Mogul ruled as many subjects as the King of France or the Emperor of Germany. Even the deputies of these deputies might well rank, as to extent of territory and amount of revenue, with the Grand Duke of Tuscany, or the Elector of Saxony. There can be little doubt that this great empire, powerful and prosperous as it appears on a superficial view, was yet, even in its best days, far worse governed than the worst governed parts of Europe now are. The administration was tainted with all the vices of Oriental despotism, and with all the vices inseparable from the domination of race over race. The conflicting pretensions of the princes of the royal house produced a long series of crimes and public disasters. Ambitious lieutenants of the sovereign sometimes aspired to independence. Fierce tribes of Hindoos, impatient of a foreign yoke, frequently withheld tribute, repelled the armies of the government from the mountain fastnesses, and poured down in arms on the cultivated plains. In spite, however, of much constant maladministration, in spite of occasional convulsions which shook the whole frame of society, this great monarchy, on the whole, retained, during some generations, an outward appearance of unity, majesty, and energy. But, throughout the long reign of Aurungzebe, the state, notwithstanding all that the vigour and policy of the prince could effect, was hastening to dissolution. After his death, which took place in the year 1707, the ruin was fearfully rapid. Violent shocks from without co-operated with an incurable decay which was fast proceeding within; and in a few years the empire had undergone utter decomposition. The history of the successors of Theodosius bears no small analogy to that of the successors of Aurungzebe. But perhaps the fall of the Carlovingians furnishes the nearest parallel to the fall of the Moguls. Charlemagne was scarcely interred when the imbecility and the disputes of his descendants began to bring contempt on themselves and destruction on their subjects. The wide dominion of the Franks was severed into a thousand pieces. Nothing more than a nominal dignity was left to the abject heirs of an illustrious name, Charles the Bald, and Charles the Fat, and Charles the Simple. Fierce invaders, differing, from each other in race, language, and religion, flocked, as if by concert, from the farthest corners of the earth, to plunder provinces which the government could no longer defend. The pirates of the Northern Sea extended their ravages from the Elbe to the Pyrenees, and at length fixed their seat in the rich valley of the Seine. The Hungarian, in whom the trembling monks fancied that they recognised the Gog or Magog of prophecy, carried back the plunder of the cities of Lombardy to the depths of the Pannonian forests. The Saracen ruled in Sicily, desolated the fertile plains of Campania, and spread terror even to the walls of Rome. In the midst of these sufferings, a great internal change passed upon the empire. The corruption of death began to ferment into new forms of life. While the great body, as a whole, was torpid and passive, every separate member began to feel with a sense and to move with an energy all its own. Just here, in the most barren and dreary tract of European history, all feudal privileges, all modern nobility, take their source. It is to this point, that we trace the power of those princes who, nominally vassals, but really independent, long governed, with the titles of dukes, marquesses, and counts, almost every part of the dominions which had obeyed Charlemagne. Such or nearly such was the change which passed on the Mogul empire during the forty years which followed the death of Aurungzebe. A succession of nominal sovereigns, sunk in indolence and debauchery, sauntered away life in secluded palaces, chewing bang, fondling concubines, and listening to buffoons. A succession of ferocious invaders descended through the western passes, to prey on the defenceless wealth of Hindostan. A Persian conqueror crossed the Indus, marched through the gates of Delhi, and bore away in triumph those treasures of which the magnificence had astounded Roe and Bernier, the Peacock Throne, on which the richest jewels of Golconda had been disposed by the most skilful hands of Europe, and the inestimable Mountain of Light, which, after many strange vicissitudes, lately shone in the bracelet of Runjeet Sing, and is now destined to adorn the hideous idol of Orissa. The Afghan soon followed to complete the work of the devastation which the Persian had begun. The warlike tribes of Rajpootana, threw off the Mussulman yoke. A band of mercenary soldiers occupied Rohilcund. The Seiks ruled or the Indus. The Jauts spread dismay along the Jumna. The highlands which border on the western sea-coast of India poured forth a yet more formidable race, a race which was long the terror of every native power, and which, after many desperate and doubtful struggles, yielded only to the fortune and genius of England. It was under the reign of Aurungzebe that this wild clan of plunderers first descended from their mountains; and soon after his death, every corner of his wide empire learned to tremble at the mighty name of the Mahrattas. Many fertile viceroyalties were entirely subdued by them. Their dominions stretched across the peninsula from sea to sea. Mahratta captains reigned at Poonah, at Gualior, in Guzerat, in Berar, and in Tanjore. Nor did they, though they had become great sovereigns, therefore cease to be freebooters. They still retained the predatory habits of their forefathers. Every region which was not subject to their rule was wasted by their incursions. Wherever their kettle-drums were heard, the peasant threw his bag of rice on his shoulder, hid his small savings in his girdle, and fled with his wife and children to the mountains or the jungles, to the milder neighbourhood of the hyaena and the tiger. Many provinces redeemed their harvests by the payment of an annual ransom. Even the wretched phantom who still bore the imperial title stooped to pay this ignominious black-mail. The camp-fires of one rapacious leader were seen from the walls of the palace of Delhi. Another, at the head of his innumerable cavalry, descended year after year on the rice-fields of Bengal. Even the European factors trembled for their magazines. Less than a hundred years ago, it was thought necessary to fortify Calcutta against the horsemen of Berar, and the name of the Mahratta ditch still preserves the memory of the danger. Wherever the viceroys of the Mogul retained authority they became sovereigns. They might still acknowledge in words the superiority of the house of Tamerlane; as a Count of Flanders or a Duke of Burgundy might have acknowledged the superiority of the most helpless driveller among the later Carlovingians. They might occasionally send to their titular sovereign a complimentary present, or solicit from him a title of honour. In truth, however, they were no longer lieutenants removable at pleasure, but independent hereditary princes. In this way originated those great Mussulman houses which formerly ruled Bengal and the Carnatic, and those which still, though in a state of vassalage, exercise some of the powers of royalty at Lucknow and Hyderabad. In what was this confusion to end? Was the strife to continue during centuries? Was it to terminate in the rise of another great monarchy? Was the Mussulman or the Mahratta to be the Lord of India? Was another Baber to descend from the mountains, and to lead the hardy tribes of Cabul and Chorasan against a wealthier and less warlike race? None of these events seemed improbable. But scarcely any man, however sagacious, would have thought it possible that a trading company, separated from India by fifteen thousand miles of sea, and possessing in India only a few acres for purposes of commerce, would, in less than a hundred years, spread its empire from Cape Comorin to the eternal snow of the Himalayas; would compel Mahratta and Mahommedan to forget their mutual feuds in common subjection; would tame down even those wild races which had resisted the most powerful of the Moguls; and, having united under its laws a hundred millions of subjects, would carry its victorious arms far to the east of the Burrampooter, and far to the west of the Hydaspes, dictate terms of peace at the gates of Ava, and seat its vassal on the throne of Candahar. The man who first saw that it was possible to found an European empire on the ruins of the Mogul monarchy was Dupleix. His restless, capacious, and inventive mind had formed this scheme, at a time when the ablest servants of the English Company were busied only about invoices and bills of lading. Nor had he only proposed to himself the end. He had also a just and distinct view of the means by which it was to be attained. He clearly saw that the greatest force which the princes of India could bring into the field would be no match for a small body of men trained in the discipline, and guided by the tactics, of the West. He saw also that the natives of India might, under European commanders, be formed into armies, such as Saxe or Frederic would be proud to command. He was perfectly aware that the most easy and convenient way in which an European adventurer could exercise sovereignty in India, was to govern the motions, and to speak through the mouth of some glittering puppet dignified by the title of Nabob or Nizam. The arts both of war and policy, which a few years later were employed with such signal success by the English, were first understood and practised by this ingenious and aspiring Frenchman. The situation of India was such that scarcely any aggression could be without a pretext, either in old laws or in recent practice. All rights were in a state of utter uncertainty; and the Europeans who took part in the disputes of the natives confounded the confusion, by applying to Asiatic politics the public law of the West, and analogies drawn from the feudal system. If it was convenient to treat a Nabob as an independent prince, there was an excellent plea for doing so. He was independent, in fact. If it was convenient to treat him as a mere deputy of the Court of Delhi, there was no difficulty; for he was so in theory. If it was convenient to consider his office as an hereditary dignity, or as a dignity held during life only, or as a dignity held only during the good pleasure of the Mogul, arguments and precedents might be found for every one of those views. The party who had the heir of Baber in their hands, represented him as the undoubted, the legitimate, the absolute sovereign, whom all subordinate authorities were bound to obey. The party against whom his name was used did not want plausible pretexts for maintaining that the empire was in fact dissolved, and that though it might be decent to treat the Mogul with respect, as a venerable relic of an order of things which had passed away, it was absurd to regard him as the real master of Hindostan. In the year 1748, died one of the most powerful of the new masters of India, the great Nizam al Mulk, Viceroy of the Deccan. His authority descended to his son, Nazir Jung. Of the provinces subject to this high functionary, the Carnatic was the wealthiest and the most extensive. It was governed by an ancient Nabob, whose name the English corrupted into Anaverdy Khan. But there were pretenders to the government both of the viceroyalty and of the subordinate province. Mirzapha Jung, a grandson of Nizam al Mulk, appeared as the competitor of Nazir Jung. Chunda Sahib, son-in-law of a former Nabob of the Carnatic, disputed the title of Anaverdy Khan. In the unsettled state of Indian law it was easy for both Mirzapha Jung and Chunda Sahib to make out something like a claim of right. In a society altogether disorganised, they had no difficulty in finding greedy adventurers to follow their standards. They united their interests, invaded the Carnatic, and applied for assistance to the French, whose fame had been raised by their success against the English in a recent war on the coast of Coromandel. Nothing could have happened more pleasing to the subtle and ambitious Dupleix. To make a Nabob of the Carnatic, to make a Viceroy of the Deccan, to rule under their names the whole of Southern India; this was indeed an attractive prospect. He allied himself with the pretenders, and sent four hundred French soldiers, and two thousand sepoys, disciplined after the European fashion, to the assistance of his confederates. A battle was fought. The French distinguished themselves greatly. Anaverdy Khan was defeated and slain. His son, Mahommed Ali, who was afterwards well known in England as the Nabob of Arcot, and who owes to the eloquence of Burke a most unenviable immortality, fled with a scanty remnant of his army to Trichinopoly; and the conquerors became at once masters of almost every part of the Carnatic. This was but the beginning of the greatness of Dupleix. After some months of fighting, negotiation and intrigue, his ability and good fortune seemed to have prevailed everywhere. Nazir Jung perished by the hands of his own followers; Mirzapha Jung was master of the Deccan; and the triumph of French arms and French policy was complete. At Pondicherry all was exultation and festivity. Salutes were fired from the batteries, and Te Deum sung in the churches. The new Nizam came thither to visit his allies; and the ceremony of his installation was performed there with great pomp. Dupleix, dressed in the garb worn by Mahommedans of the highest rank, entered the town in the same palanquin with the Nizam, and, in the pageant which followed, took precedence of all the court. He was declared Governor of India from the river Kristna to Cape Comorin, a country about as large as France, with authority superior even to that of Chunda Sahib. He was intrusted with the command of seven thousand cavalry. It was announced that no mint would be suffered to exist in the Carnatic except that at Pondicherry. A large portion of the treasures which former Viceroys of the Deccan had accumulated had found its way into the coffers of the French governor. It was rumoured that he had received two hundred thousand pounds sterling in money, besides many valuable jewels. In fact, there could scarcely be any limit to his gains. He now ruled thirty millions of people with almost absolute power. No honour or emolument could be obtained from the government but by his intervention. No petition, unless signed by him, was perused by the Nizam. Mirzapha Jung survived his elevation only a few months, But another prince of the same house was raised to the throne by French influence, and ratified all the promises of his predecessor. Dupleix was now the greatest potentate in India. His countrymen boasted that his name was mentioned with awe even in the chambers of the palace of Delhi. The native population looked with amazement on the progress which, in the short space of four years, an European adventurer had made towards dominion in Asia. Nor was the vainglorious Frenchman content with the reality of power. He loved to display his greatness with arrogant ostentation before the eyes of his subjects and of his rivals. Near the spot where his policy had obtained its chief triumph, by the fall of Nazir Jung, and the elevation of Mirzapha, he determined to erect a column, on the four sides of which four pompous inscriptions, in four languages, should proclaim his glory to all the nations of the East. Medals stamped with emblems of his successes were buried beneath the foundations of his stately pillar, and round it arose a town bearing the haughty name of Dupleix Fatihabad, which is, being interpreted, the City of the Victory of Dupleix. The English had made some feeble and irresolute attempts to stop the rapid and brilliant career of the rival Company, and continued to recognise Mahommed Ali as Nabob of the Carnatic. But the dominions of Mahommed Ali consisted of Trichinopoly alone: and Trichinopoly was now invested by Chunda Sahib and his French auxiliaries. To raise the siege seemed impossible. The small force which was then at Madras had no commander. Major Lawrence had returned to England; and not a single officer of established character remained in the settlement. The natives had learned to look with contempt on the mighty nation which was soon to conquer and to rule them. They had seen the French colours flying on Fort St. George; they had seen the chiefs of the English factory led in triumph through the streets of Pondicherry; they had seen the arms and counsels of Dupleix everywhere successful, while the opposition which the authorities of Madras had made to his progress, had served only to expose their own weakness, and to heighten his glory. At this moment, the valour and genius of an obscure English youth suddenly turned the tide of fortune. Clive was now twenty-five years old. After hesitating for some time between a military and a commercial life, he had at length been placed in a post which partook of both characters, that of commissary to the troops, with the rank of captain. The present emergency called forth all his powers. He represented to his superiors that unless some vigorous effort were made, Trichinopoly would fall, the house of Anaverdy Khan would perish, and the French would become the real masters of the whole peninsula of India. It was absolutely necessary to strike some daring blow. If an attack were made on Arcot, the capital of the Carnatic, and the favourite residence of the Nabobs, it was not impossible that the siege of Trichinopoly would be raised. The heads of the English settlement, now thoroughly alarmed by the success of Dupleix, and apprehensive that, in the event of a new war between France and Great Britain, Madras would be instantly taken and destroyed, approved of Clive’s plan, and intrusted the execution of it to himself. The young captain was put at the head of two hundred English soldiers, and three hundred sepoys, armed and disciplined after the European fashion. Of the eight officers who commanded this little force under him, only two had ever been in action, and four of the eight were factors of the Company, whom Clive’s example had induced to offer their services. The weather was stormy; but Clive pushed on, through thunder, lightning, and rain, to the gates of Arcot. The garrison, in a panic, evacuated the fort, and the English entered it without a blow. But Clive well knew that he should not be suffered to retain undisturbed possession of his conquest. He instantly began to collect provisions, to throw up works, and to make preparations for sustaining a siege. The garrison, which had fled at his approach, had now recovered from its dismay, and, having been swelled by large reinforcements from the neighbourhood to a force of three thousand men, encamped close to the town. At dead of night, Clive marched out of the fort, attacked the camp by surprise, slew great numbers, dispersed the rest, and returned to his quarters without having lost a single man. The intelligence of these events was soon carried to Chunda Sahib, who, with his French allies, was besieging Trichinopoly. He immediately detached four thousand men from his camp, and sent them to Arcot. They were speedily joined by the remains of the force which Clive had lately scattered. They were further strengthened by two thousand men from Vellore, and by a still more important reinforcement of a hundred and fifty French soldiers whom Dupleix despatched from Pondicherry. The whole of his army, amounting to about ten thousand men, was under the command of Rajah Sahib, son of Chunda Sahib. Rajah Sahib proceeded to invest the fort of Arcot, which seemed quite incapable of sustaining a siege. The walls were ruinous, the ditches dry, the ramparts too narrow to admit the guns, the battlements too low to protect the soldiers. The little garrison had been greatly reduced by casualties. It now consisted of a hundred and twenty Europeans and two hundred sepoys. Only four officers were left; the stock of provisions was scanty; and the commander, who had to conduct the defence under circumstances so discouraging, was a young man of five-and-twenty, who had been bred a bookkeeper. During fifty days the siege went on. During fifty days the young captain maintained the defence, with a firmness, vigilance, and ability, which would have done honour to the oldest marshal in Europe. The breach, however, increased day by day. The garrison began to feel the pressure of hunger. Under such circumstances, any troops so scantily provided with officers might have been expected to show signs of insubordination; and the danger was peculiarly great in a force composed of men differing widely from each other in extraction, colour, language, manners, and religion. But the devotion of the little band to its chief surpassed anything that is related of the Tenth Legion of Caesar, or of the Old Guard of Napoleon. The sepoys came to Clive, not to complain of their scanty fare, but to propose that all the grain should be given to the Europeans, who required more nourishment than the natives of Asia. The thin gruel, they said, which was strained away from the rice, would suffice for themselves. History contains no more touching instance of military fidelity, or of the influence of a commanding mind. An attempt made by the government of Madras to relieve the place had failed. But there was hope from another quarter. A body of six thousand Mahrattas, half soldiers, half robbers, under the command of a chief named Morari Row, had been hired to assist Mahommed Ali; but thinking the French power irresistible, and the triumph of Chunda Sahib certain, they had hitherto remained inactive on the frontiers of the Carnatic. The fame of the defence of Arcot roused them from their torpor. Morari Row declared that he had never before believed that Englishmen could fight, but that he would willingly help them since he saw that they had spirit to help themselves. Rajah Sahib learned that the Mahrattas were in motion. It was necessary for him to be expeditious. He first tried negotiation. He offered large bribes to Clive, which were rejected with scorn. He vowed that, if his proposals were not accepted, he would instantly storm the fort, and put every man in it to the sword. Clive told him in reply, with characteristic haughtiness, that his father was an usurper, that his army was a rabble, and that he would do well to think twice before he sent such poltroons into a breach defended by English soldiers. Rajah Sahib determined to storm the fort. The day was well suited to a bold military enterprise. It was the great Mahommedan festival which is sacred to the memory of Hosein, the son of Ali. The history of Islam contains nothing more touching than the event which gave rise to that solemnity. The mournful legend relates how the chief of the Fatimites, when all his brave followers had perished round him, drank his latest draught of water, and uttered his latest prayer, how the assassins carried his head in triumph, how the tyrant smote the lifeless lips with his staff, and how a few old men recollected with tears that they had seen those lips pressed to the lips of the Prophet of God. After the lapse of near twelve centuries, the recurrence of this solemn season excites the fiercest and saddest emotions in the bosoms of the devout Moslem of India. They work themselves up to such agonies of rage and lamentation that some, it is said, have given up the ghost from the mere effect of mental excitement. They believe that, whoever, during this festival, falls in arms against the infidels, atones by his death for all the sins of his life, and passes at once to the garden of the Houris. It was at this time that Rajah Sahib determined to assault Arcot. Stimulating drugs were employed to aid the effect of religious zeal, and the besiegers, drunk with enthusiasm, drunk with bang, rushed furiously to the attack. Clive had received secret intelligence of the design, had made his arrangements, and, exhausted by fatigue, had thrown himself on his bed. He was awakened by the alarm, and was instantly at his post. The enemy advanced, driving before them elephants whose foreheads were armed with iron plates. It was expected that the gates would yield to the shock of these living battering-rams. But the huge beasts no sooner felt the English musket-balls than they turned round, and rushed furiously away, trampling on the multitude which had urged them forward. A raft was launched on the water which filled one part of the ditch. Clive, perceiving that his gunners at that post did not understand their business, took the management of a piece of artillery himself, and cleared the raft in a few minutes. When the moat was dry the assailants mounted with great boldness; but they were received with a fire so heavy and so well directed, that it soon quelled the courage even of fanaticism and of intoxication. The rear ranks of the English kept the front ranks supplied with a constant succession of loaded muskets, and every shot told on the living mass below. After three desperate onsets, the besiegers retired behind the ditch. The struggle lasted about an hour. Four hundred of the assailants fell. The garrison lost only five or six men. The besieged passed an anxious night, looking for a renewal of the attack. But when the day broke, the enemy were no more to be seen. They had retired, leaving to the English several guns and a large quantity of ammunition. The news was received at Fort St. George with transports of joy and pride. Clive was justly regarded as a man equal to any command. Two hundred English soldiers and seven hundred sepoys were sent to him, and with this force he instantly commenced offensive operations. He took the fort of Timery, effected a junction with a division of Morari Row’s army, and hastened, by forced marches, to attack Rajah Sahib, who was at the head of about five thousand men, of whom three hundred were French. The action was sharp; but Clive gained a complete victory. The military chest of Rajah Sahib fell into the hands of the conquerors. Six hundred sepoys, who had served in the enemy’s army, came over to Clive’s quarters, and were taken into the British service. Conjeveram surrendered without a blow. The governor of Arnee deserted Chunda Sahib, and recognised the title of Mahommed Ali. Had the entire direction of the war been intrusted to Clive, it would probably have been brought to a speedy close. But the timidity and incapacity which appeared in all the movements of the English, except where he was personally present, protracted the struggle. The Mahrattas muttered that his soldiers were of a different race from the British whom they found elsewhere. The effect of this languor was that in no long time Rajah Sahib, at the head of a considerable army, in which were four hundred French troops, appeared almost under the guns of Fort St. George, and laid waste the villas and gardens of the gentlemen of the English settlement. But he was again encountered and defeated by Clive. More than a hundred of the French were killed or taken, a loss more serious than that of thousands of natives. The victorious army marched from the field of battle to Fort St. David. On the road lay the City of the Victory of Dupleix, and the stately monument which was designed to commemorate the triumphs of France in the East. Clive ordered both the city and the monument to be razed to the ground. He was induced, we believe, to take this step, not by personal or national malevolence, but by a just and profound policy. The town and its pompous name, the pillar and its vaunting inscriptions, were among the devices by which Dupleix had laid the public mind of India under a spell. This spell it was Clive’s business to break. The natives had been taught that France was confessedly the first power in Europe, and that the English did not presume to dispute her supremacy. No measure could be more effectual for the removing of this delusion than the public and solemn demolition of the French trophies. The government of Madras, encouraged by these events, determined to send a strong detachment, under Clive, to reinforce the garrison of Trichinopoly. But just at this conjuncture, Major Lawrence arrived from England, and assumed the chief command. From the waywardness and impatience of control which had characterised Clive, both at school and in the counting-house, it might have been expected that he would not, after such achievements, act with zeal and good humour in a subordinate capacity. But Lawrence had early treated him with kindness; and it is bare justice to Clive, to say that, proud and overbearing as he was, kindness was never thrown away upon him. He cheerfully placed himself under the orders of his old friend, and exerted himself as strenuously in the second post as he could have done in the first. Lawrence well knew the value of such assistance. Though himself gifted with no intellectual faculty higher than plain good sense, he fully appreciated the powers of his brilliant coadjutor. Though he had made a methodical study of military tactics, and, like all men regularly bred to a profession, was disposed to look with disdain on interlopers, he had yet liberality enough to acknowledge that Clive was an exception to common rules. “Some people,” he wrote, “are pleased to term Captain Clive fortunate and lucky; but, in my opinion, from the knowledge I have of the gentleman, he deserved and might expect from his conduct everything as it fell out;--a man of an undaunted resolution, of a cool temper, and of a presence of mind which never left him in the greatest danger--born a soldier; for, without a military education of any sort, or much conversing with any of the profession, from his judgment and good sense, he led on an army like an experienced officer and a brave soldier, with a prudence that certainly warranted success.” The French had no commander to oppose to the two friends. Dupleix, not inferior in talents for negotiation and intrigue to any European who has borne a part in the revolutions of India, was ill qualified to direct in person military operations. He had not been bred a soldier, and had no inclination to become one. His enemies accused him of personal cowardice; and he defended himself in a strain worthy of Captain Bobadil. He kept away from shot, he said, because silence and tranquillity were propitious to his genius, and he found it difficult to pursue his meditations amidst the noise of fire-arms. He was thus under the necessity of intrusting to others the execution of his great warlike designs; and he bitterly complained that he was ill served. He had indeed been assisted by one officer of eminent merit, the celebrated Bussy. But Bussy had marched northward with the Nizam, and was fully employed in looking after his own interests, and those of France, at the court of that prince. Among the officers who remained with Dupleix, there was not a single man of capacity; and many of them were boys, at whose ignorance and folly the common soldiers laughed. The English triumphed everywhere. The besiegers of Trichinopoly were themselves besieged and compelled to capitulate. Chunda Sahib fell into the hands of the Mahrattas, and was put to death, at the instigation probably of his competitor, Mahommed Ali. The spirit of Dupleix, however, was unconquerable, and his resources inexhaustible. From his employers in Europe he no longer received help or countenance. They condemned his policy. They gave him no pecuniary assistance. They sent him for troops only the sweepings of the galleys. Yet still he persisted, intrigued, bribed, promised, lavished his private fortune, strained his credit, procured new diplomas from Delhi, raised up new enemies to the government of Madras on every side, and found tools even among the allies of the English Company. But all was in vain. Slowly, but steadily, the power of Britain continued to increase, and that of France to decline. The health of Clive had never been good during his residence in India; and his constitution was now so much impaired that he determined to return to England. Before his departure he undertook a service of considerable difficulty, and performed it with his usual vigour and dexterity. The forts of Covelong and Chingleput were occupied by French garrisons. It was determined to send a force against them. But the only force available for this purpose was of such a description that no officer but Clive would risk his reputation by commanding it. It consisted of five hundred newly levied sepoys and two hundred recruits who had just landed from England, and who were the worst and lowest wretches that the Company’s crimps could pick up in the flash-houses of London. Clive, ill and exhausted as he was, undertook to make an army of this undisciplined rabble, and marched with them to Covelong. A shot from the fort killed one of these extraordinary soldiers; on which all the rest faced about and ran away, and it was with the greatest difficulty that Clive rallied them. On another occasion, the noise of a gun terrified the sentinels so much that one of them was found, some hours later, at the bottom of a well. Clive gradually accustomed them to danger, and, by exposing himself constantly in the most perilous situations, shamed them into courage. He at length succeeded in forming a respectable force out of his unpromising materials. Covelong fell. Clive learned that a strong detachment was marching to relieve it from Chingleput. He took measures to prevent the enemy from learning that they were too late, laid an ambuscade for them on the road, killed a hundred of them with one fire, took three hundred prisoners, pursued the fugitives to the gates of Chingleput, laid siege instantly to that fastness, reputed one of the strongest in India, made a breach, and was on the point of storming, when the French commandant capitulated and retired with his men. Clive returned to Madras victorious, but in a state of health which rendered it impossible for him to remain there long. He married at this time a young lady of the name of Maskelyne, sister of the eminent mathematician, who long held the post of Astronomer Royal. She is described as handsome and accomplished; and her husband’s letters, it is said, contain proofs that he was devotedly attached to her. Almost immediately after the marriage, Clive embarked with his bride for England. He returned a very different person from the poor slighted boy who had been sent out ten years before to seek his fortune. He was only twenty-seven; yet his country already respected him as one of her first soldiers. There was then general peace in Europe. The Carnatic was the only part of the world where the English and French were in arms against each other. The vast schemes of Dupleix had excited no small uneasiness in the city of London; and the rapid turn of fortune, which was chiefly owing to the courage and talents of Clive, had been hailed with great delight. The young captain was known at the India House by the honourable nickname of General Clive, and was toasted by that appellation at the feasts of the Directors. On his arrival in England, he found himself an object of general interest and admiration. The East India Company thanked him for his services in the warmest terms, and bestowed on him a sword set with diamonds. With rare delicacy, he refused to receive this token of gratitude, unless a similar compliment were paid to his friend and commander, Lawrence. It may easily be supposed that Clive was most cordially welcomed home by his family, who were delighted by his success, though they seem to have been hardly able to comprehend how their naughty idle Bobby had become so great a man. His father had been singularly hard of belief. Not until the news of the defence of Arcot arrived in England was the old gentleman heard to growl out that, after all, the booby had something in him. His expressions of approbation became stronger and stronger as news arrived of one brilliant exploit after another; and he was at length immoderately fond and proud of his son. Clive’s relations had very substantial reasons for rejoicing at his return. Considerable sums of prize money had fallen to his share; and he had brought home a moderate fortune, part of which he expended in extricating his father from pecuniary difficulties, and in redeeming the family estate. The remainder he appears to have dissipated in the course of about two years. He lived splendidly, dressed gaily even for those times, kept a carriage and saddle-horses, and, not content with these ways of getting rid of his money, resorted to the most speedy and effectual of all modes of evacuation, a contested election followed by a petition. At the time of the general election of 1754, the Government was in a very singular state. There was scarcely any formal opposition. The Jacobites had been cowed by the issue of the last rebellion. The Tory party had fallen into utter contempt. It had been deserted by all the men of talents who had belonged to it, and had scarcely given a symptom of life during some years. The small faction which had been held together by the influence and promises of Prince Frederic, had been dispersed by his death. Almost every public man of distinguished talents in the kingdom, whatever his early connections might have been, was in office, and called himself a Whig. But this extraordinary appearance of concord was quite delusive. The administration itself was distracted by bitter enmities and conflicting pretensions. The chief object of its members was to depress and supplant each other. The Prime Minister, Newcastle, weak, timid, jealous, and perfidious, was at once detested and despised by some of the most important members of his Government, and by none more than by Henry Fox, the Secretary-at-War. This able, daring, and ambitious man seized every opportunity of crossing the First Lord of the Treasury, from whom he well knew that he had little to dread and little to hope; for Newcastle was through life equally afraid of breaking with men of parts and of promoting them. Newcastle had set his heart on returning two members for St. Michael, one of those wretched Cornish boroughs which were swept away by the Reform Act of 1832. He was opposed by Lord Sandwich, whose influence had long been paramount there: and Fox exerted himself strenuously in Sandwich’s behalf. Clive, who had been introduced to Fox, and very kindly received by him, was brought forward on the Sandwich interest, and was returned. But a petition was presented against the return, and was backed by the whole influence of the Duke of Newcastle. The case was heard, according to the usage of that time, before a committee of the whole House. Questions respecting elections were then considered merely as party questions. Judicial impartiality was not even affected. Sir Robert Walpole was in the habit of saying openly that, in election battles, there ought to be no quarter. On the present occasion the excitement was great. The matter really at issue was, not whether Clive had been properly or improperly returned, but whether Newcastle or Fox was to be master of the new House of Commons, and consequently first minister. The contest was long and obstinate, and success seemed to lean sometimes to one side and sometimes to the other. Fox put forth all his rare powers of debate, beat half the lawyers in the House at their own weapons, and carried division after division against the whole influence of the Treasury. The committee decided in Clive’s favour. But when the resolution was reported to the House, things took a different course. The remnant of the Tory Opposition, contemptible as it was, had yet sufficient weight to turn the scale between the nicely balanced parties of Newcastle and Fox. Newcastle the Tories could only despise. Fox they hated, as the boldest and most subtle politician and the ablest debater among the Whigs, as the steady friend of Walpole, as the devoted adherent of the Duke of Cumberland. After wavering till the last moment, they determined to vote in a body with the Prime Minister’s friends. The consequence was that the House, by a small majority, rescinded the decision of the committee, and Clive was unseated. Ejected from Parliament, and straitened in his means, he naturally began to look again towards India. The Company and the Government were eager to avail themselves of his services. A treaty favourable to England had indeed been concluded in the Carnatic. Dupleix had been superseded, and had returned with the wreck of his immense fortune to Europe, where calumny and chicanery soon hunted him to his grave. But many signs indicated that a war between France and Great Britain was at hand; and it was therefore thought desirable to send an able commander to the Company’s settlements in India. The Directors appointed Clive governor of Fort St. David. The King gave him the commission of a lieutenant-colonel in the British army, and in 1755 he again sailed for Asia. The first service on which he was employed after his return to the East was the reduction of the stronghold of Gheriah. This fortress, built on a craggy promontory, and almost surrounded by the ocean, was the den of a pirate named Angria, whose barks had long been the terror of the Arabian Gulf. Admiral Watson, who commanded the English squadron in the Eastern seas, burned Angria’s fleet, while Clive attacked the fastness by land. The place soon fell, and a booty of a hundred and fifty thousand pounds sterling was divided among the conquerors. After this exploit, Clive proceeded to his government of Fort St. David. Before he had been there two months, he received intelligence which called forth all the energy of his bold and active mind. Of the provinces which had been subject to the house of Tamerlane, the wealthiest was Bengal. No part of India possessed such natural advantages both for agriculture and for commerce. The Ganges, rushing through a hundred channels to the sea, has formed a vast plain of rich mould which, even under the tropical sky, rivals the verdure of an English April. The rice-fields yield an increase such as is elsewhere unknown. Spices, sugar, vegetable oils, are produced with marvellous exuberance. The rivers afford an inexhaustible supply of fish. The desolate islands along the sea-coast, overgrown by noxious vegetation, and swarming with deer and tigers, supply the cultivated districts with abundance of salt. The great stream which fertilises the soil is, at the same time, the chief highway of Eastern commerce. On its banks, and on those of its tributary waters, are the wealthiest marts, the most splendid capitals, and the most sacred shrines of India. The tyranny of man had for ages struggled in vain against the overflowing bounty of nature. In spite of the Mussulman despot and of the Mahratta freebooter, Bengal was known through the East as the garden of Eden, as the rich kingdom. Its population multiplied exceedingly. Distant provinces were nourished from the overflowing of its granaries--and the noble ladies of London and Paris were clothed in the delicate produce of its looms, The race by whom this rich tract was peopled, enervated by a soft climate and accustomed to peaceful employments, bore the same relation to other Asiatics which the Asiatics generally bear to the bold and energetic children of Europe. The Castilians have a proverb, that in Valencia the earth is water and the men women; and the description is at least equally applicable to the vast plain of the Lower Ganges. Whatever the Bengalee does he does languidly. His favourite pursuits are sedentary. He shrinks from bodily exertion; and, though voluble in dispute, and singularly pertinacious in the war of chicane, he seldom engages in a personal conflict, and scarcely ever enlists as a soldier. We doubt whether there be a hundred genuine Bengalees in the whole army of the East India Company. There never, perhaps, existed a people so thoroughly fitted by nature and by habit for a foreign yoke. The great commercial companies of Europe had long possessed factories in Bengal. The French were settled, as they still are, at Chandernagore on the Hoogley. Higher up the stream the Dutch held Chinsurah. Nearer to the sea, the English had built Fort William. A church and ample warehouses rose in the vicinity. A row of spacious houses, belonging to the chief factors of the East India Company, lined the banks of the river; and in the neighbourhood had sprung up a large and busy native town, where some Hindoo merchants of great opulence had fixed their abode. But the tract now covered by the palaces of Chowringhee contained only a few miserable huts thatched with straw. A jungle, abandoned to waterfowl and alligators, covered the site of the present Citadel, and the Course, which is now daily crowded at sunset with the gayest equipages of Calcutta. For the ground on which the settlement stood, the English, like other great landholders, paid rent to the Government; and they were, like other great landholders, permitted to exercise a certain jurisdiction within their domain. The great province of Bengal, together with Orissa and Bahar, had long been governed by a viceroy, whom the English called Aliverdy Khan, and who, like the other viceroys of the Mogul, had become virtually independent. He died in 1756, and the sovereignty descended to his grandson, a youth under twenty years of age, who bore the name of Surajah Dowlah. Oriental despots are perhaps the worst class of human beings; and this unhappy boy was one of the worst specimens of his class. His understanding was naturally feeble, and his temper naturally unamiable. His education had been such as would have enervated even a vigorous intellect, and perverted even a generous disposition. He was unreasonable, because nobody ever dared to reason with him, and selfish, because he had never been made to feel himself dependent on the goodwill of others. Early debauchery had unnerved his body and his mind. He indulged immoderately in the use of ardent spirits, which inflamed his weak brain almost to madness. His chosen companions were flatterers sprung from the dregs of the people, and recommended by nothing but buffoonery and, servility. It is said that he had arrived at the last stage of human depravity, when cruelty becomes pleasing for its own sake, when the sight of pain as pain, where no advantage is to be gained, no offence punished, no danger averted, is an agreeable excitement. It had early been his amusement to torture beasts and birds; and, when he grew up, he enjoyed with still keener relish the misery of his fellow-creatures. From a child Surajah Dowlah had hated the English. It was his whim to do so; and his whims were never opposed. He had also formed a very exaggerated notion of the wealth which might be obtained by plundering them; and his feeble and uncultivated mind was incapable of perceiving that the riches of Calcutta, had they been even greater than he imagined, would not compensate him for what he must lose, if the European trade, of which Bengal was a chief seat, should be driven by his violence to some other quarter. Pretexts for a quarrel were readily found. The English, in expectation of a war with France, had begun to fortify their settlement without special permission from the Nabob. A rich native, whom he longed to plunder, had taken refuge at Calcutta, and had not been delivered up. On such grounds as these Surajah Dowlah marched with a great army against Fort William. The servants of the Company at Madras had been forced by Dupleix to become statesmen and soldiers. Those in Bengal were still mere traders, and were terrified and bewildered by the approaching danger. The governor, who had heard much of Surajah Dowlah’s cruelty, was frightened out of his wits, jumped into a boat, and took refuge in the nearest ship. The military commandant thought that he could not do better than follow so good an example. The fort was taken after a feeble resistance; and great numbers of the English fell into the hands of the conquerors. The Nabob seated himself with regal pomp in the principal hall of the factory, and ordered Mr. Holwell, the first in rank among the prisoners, to be brought before him. His Highness talked about the insolence of the English, and grumbled at the smallness of the treasure which he had found, but promised to spare their lives, and retired to rest. Then was committed that great crime, memorable for its singular atrocity, memorable for the tremendous retribution by which it was followed. The English captives were left to the mercy of the guards, and the guards determined to secure them for the night in the prison of the garrison, a chamber known by the fearful name of the Black Hole. Even for a single European malefactor, that dungeon would, in such a climate, have been too close and narrow. The space was only twenty feet square. The air-holes were small and obstructed. It was the summer solstice, the season when the fierce heat of Bengal can scarcely be rendered tolerable to natives of England by lofty halls and by the constant waving of fans. The number of the prisoners was one hundred and forty-six. When they were ordered to enter the cell, they imagined that the soldiers were joking; and, being in high spirits on account of the promise of the Nabob to spare their lives, they laughed and jested at the absurdity of the notion. They soon discovered their mistake. They expostulated; they entreated; but in vain. The guards threatened to cut down all who hesitated. The captives were driven into the cell at the point of the sword, and the door was instantly shut and locked upon them. Nothing in history or fiction, not even the story which Ugolino told in the sea of everlasting ice, after he had wiped his bloody lips on the scalp of his murderer, approaches the horrors which were recounted by the few survivors of that night. They cried for mercy. They strove to burst the door. Holwell who, even in that extremity, retained some presence of mind, offered large bribes to the gaolers. But the answer was that nothing could be done without the Nabob’s orders, that the Nabob was asleep, and that he would be angry if anybody woke him. Then the prisoners went mad with despair. They trampled each other down, fought for the places at the windows, fought for the pittance of water with which the cruel mercy of the murderers mocked their agonies, raved, prayed, blasphemed, implored the guards to fire among them. The gaolers in the meantime held lights to the bars, and shouted with laughter at the frantic struggles of their victims. At length the tumult died away in low gaspings and moanings. The day broke. The Nabob had slept off his debauch, and permitted the door to be opened. But it was some time before the soldiers could make a lane for the survivors, by piling up on each side the heaps of corpses on which the burning climate had already begun to do its loathsome work. When at length a passage was made, twenty-three ghastly figures, such as their own mothers would not have known, staggered one by one out of the charnel-house. A pit was instantly dug. The dead bodies, a hundred and twenty-three in number, were flung into it promiscuously and covered up. But these things--which, after the lapse of more than eighty years, cannot be told or read without horror--awakened neither remorse nor pity in the bosom of the savage Nabob. He inflicted no punishment on the murderers. He showed no tenderness to the survivors. Some of them, indeed, from whom nothing was to be got, were suffered to depart; but those from whom it was thought that anything could be extorted were treated with execrable cruelty. Holwell, unable to walk, was carried before the tyrant, who reproached him, threatened him, and sent him up the country in irons, together with some other gentlemen who were suspected of knowing more than they chose to tell about the treasures of the Company. These persons, still bowed down by the sufferings of that great agony, were lodged in miserable sheds, and fed only with grain and water, till at length the intercessions of the female relations of the Nabob procured their release. One Englishwoman had survived that night. She was placed in the harem of the Prince at Moorshedabad. Surajah Dowlah, in the meantime, sent letters to his nominal sovereign at Delhi, describing the late conquest in the most pompous language. He placed a garrison in Fort William, forbade Englishmen to dwell in the neighbourhood, and directed that, in memory of his great actions, Calcutta should thenceforward be called Alinagore, that is to say, the Port of God. In August the news of the fall of Calcutta reached Madras, and excited the fiercest and bitterest resentment. The cry of the whole settlement was for vengeance. Within forty-eight hours after the arrival of the intelligence it was determined that an expedition should be sent to the Hoogley, and that Clive should be at the head of the land forces. The naval armament was under the command of Admiral Watson. Nine hundred English infantry, fine troops and full of spirit, and fifteen hundred sepoys, composed the army which sailed to punish a Prince who had more subjects than Lewis the Fifteenth or the Empress Maria Theresa. In October the expedition sailed; but it had to make its way against adverse winds and did not reach Bengal till December. The Nabob was revelling in fancied security at Moorshedabad. He was so profoundly ignorant of the state of foreign countries that he often used to say that there were not ten thousand men in all Europe; and it had never occurred to him as possible that the English would dare to invade his dominions. But, though undisturbed by any fear of their military power, he began to miss them greatly. His revenues fell off; and his ministers succeeded in making him understand that a ruler may sometimes find it more profitable to protect traders in the open enjoyment of their gains than to put them to the torture for the purpose of discovering hidden chests of gold and jewels. He was already disposed to permit the Company to resume its mercantile operations in his country, when he received the news that an English armament was in the Hoogley. He instantly ordered all his troops to assemble at Moorshedabad, and marched towards Calcutta. Clive had commenced operations with his usual vigour. He took Budgebudge, routed the garrison of Fort William, recovered Calcutta, stormed and sacked Hoogley. The Nabob, already disposed to make some concessions to the English, was confirmed in his pacific disposition by these proofs of their power and spirit. He accordingly made overtures to the chiefs of the invading armament, and offered to restore the factory, and to give compensation to those whom he had despoiled. Clive’s profession was war; and he felt that there was something discreditable in an accommodation with Surajah Dowlah. But his power was limited. A committee, chiefly composed of servants of the Company who had fled from Calcutta, had the principal direction of affairs; and these persons were eager to be restored to their posts and compensated for their losses. The government of Madras, apprised that war had commenced in Europe, and apprehensive of an attack from the French, became impatient for the return of the armament. The promises of the Nabob were large, the chances of a contest doubtful; and Clive consented to treat, though he expressed his regret that things should not be concluded in so glorious a manner as he could have wished. With this negotiation commences a new chapter in the life of Clive. Hitherto he had been merely a soldier carrying into effect, with eminent ability and valour, the plans of others. Henceforth he is to be chiefly regarded as a statesman; and his military movements are to be considered as subordinate to his political designs. That in his new capacity he displayed great ability, and obtained great success, is unquestionable. But it is also unquestionable that the transactions in which he now began to take a part have left a stain on his moral character. We can by no means agree with Sir John Malcolm, who is obstinately resolved to see nothing but honour and integrity in the conduct of his hero. But we can as little agree with Mr. Mill, who has gone so far as to say that Clive was a man “to whom deception, when it suited his purpose, never cost a pang.” Clive seems to us to have been constitutionally the very opposite of a knave, bold even to temerity, sincere even to indiscretion, hearty in friendship, open in enmity. Neither in his private life, nor in those parts of his public life in which he had to do with his countrymen, do we find any signs of a propensity to cunning. On the contrary, in all the disputes in which he was engaged as an Englishman against Englishmen, from his boxing-matches at school to those stormy altercations at the India House and in Parliament amidst which his later years were passed, his very faults were those of a high and magnanimous spirit. The truth seems to have been that he considered Oriental politics as a game in which nothing was unfair. He knew that the standard of morality among the natives of India differed widely from that established in England. He knew that he had to deal with men destitute of what in Europe is called honour, with men who would give any promise without hesitation, and break any promise without shame, with men who would unscrupulously employ corruption, perjury, forgery, to compass their ends. His letters show that the great difference between Asiatic and European morality was constantly in his thoughts. He seems to have imagined, most erroneously in our opinion, that he could effect nothing against such adversaries, if he was content to be bound by ties from which they were free, if he went on telling truth, and hearing none, if he fulfilled, to his own hurt, all his engagements with confederates who never kept an engagement that was not to their advantage. Accordingly this man, in the other parts of his life an honourable English gentleman and a soldier, was no sooner matched against an Indian intriguer, than he became himself an Indian intriguer, and descended, without scruple, to falsehood, to hypocritical caresses, to the substitution of documents, and to the counterfeiting of hands. The negotiations between the English and the Nabob were carried on chiefly by two agents, Mr. Watts, a servant of the Company, and a Bengalee of the name of Omichund. This Omichund had been one of the wealthiest native merchants resident at Calcutta, and had sustained great losses in consequence of the Nabob’s expedition against that place. In the course of his commercial transactions, he had seen much of the English, and was peculiarly qualified to serve as a medium of communication between them and a native court. He possessed great influence with his own race, and had in large measure the Hindoo talents, quick observation, tact, dexterity, perseverance, and the Hindoo vices, servility, greediness, and treachery. The Nabob behaved with all the faithlessness of an Indian statesman, and with all the levity of a boy whose mind had been enfeebled by power and self-indulgence. He promised, retracted, hesitated, evaded. At one time he advanced with his army in a threatening manner towards Calcutta; but when he saw the resolute front which the English presented, he fell back in alarm, and consented to make peace with them on their own terms. The treaty was no sooner concluded than he formed new designs against them. He intrigued with the French authorities at Chandernagore. He invited Bussy to march from the Deccan to the Hoogley, and to drive the English out of Bengal. All this was well known to Clive and Watson. They determined accordingly to strike a decisive blow, and to attack Chandernagore, before the force there could be strengthened by new arrivals, either from the south of India, or from Europe. Watson directed the expedition by water, Clive by land. The success of the combined movements was rapid and complete. The fort, the garrison, the artillery, the military stores, all fell into the hands of the English. Near five hundred European troops were among the prisoners. The Nabob had feared and hated the English, even while he was still able to oppose to them their French rivals. The French were now vanquished; and he began to regard the English with still greater fear and still greater hatred. His weak and unprincipled mind oscillated between servility and insolence. One day he sent a large sum to Calcutta, as part of the compensation due for the wrongs which he had committed, The next day he sent a present of jewels to Bussy, exhorting that distinguished officer to hasten to protect Bengal “against Clive, the daring in war, on whom,” says his Highness, “may all bad fortune attend.” He ordered his army to march against the English. He countermanded his orders. He tore Clive’s letters. He then sent answers in the most florid language of compliment. He ordered Watts out of his presence, and threatened to impale him. He again sent for Watts, and begged pardon for the insult. In the meantime, his wretched maladministration, his folly, his dissolute manners, and his love of the lowest company, had disgusted all classes of his subjects, soldiers, traders, civil functionaries, the proud and ostentatious Mahommedans, the timid, supple, and parsimonious Hindoos. A formidable confederacy was formed against him, in which were included Roydullub, the minister of finance, Meer Jaffier, the principal commander of the troops, and Jugget Seit, the richest banker in India. The plot was confided to the English agents, and a communication was opened between the malcontents at Moorshedabad and the committee at Calcutta. In the committee there was much hesitation; but Clive’s voice was given in favour of the conspirators, and his vigour and firmness bore down all opposition. It was determined that the English should lend their powerful assistance to depose Surajah Dowlah, and to place Meer Jaffier on the throne of Bengal. In return, Meer Jaffier promised ample compensation to the Company and its servants, and a liberal donative to the army, the navy, and the committee. The odious vices of Surajah Dowlah, the wrongs which the English had suffered at his hands, the dangers to which our trade must have been exposed, had he continued to reign, appear to us fully to justify the resolution of deposing him. But nothing can justify the dissimulation which Clive stooped to practise. He wrote to Surajah Dowlah in terms so affectionate that they for a time lulled that weak prince into perfect security. The same courier who carried this “soothing letter,” as Clive calls it, to the Nabob, carried to Mr. Watts a letter in the following terms: “Tell Meer Jaffier to fear nothing. I will join him with five thousand men who never turned their backs. Assure him I will march night and day to his assistance, and stand by him as long as I have a man left.” It was impossible that a plot which had so many ramifications should long remain entirely concealed. Enough reached the ear of the Nabob to arouse his suspicions. But he was soon quieted by the fictions and artifices which the inventive genius of Omichund produced with miraculous readiness. All was going well; the plot was nearly ripe; when Clive learned that Omichund was likely to play false. The artful Bengalee had been promised a liberal compensation for all that he had lost at Calcutta. But this would not satisfy him. His services had been great. He held the thread of the whole intrigue. By one word breathed in the ear of Surajah Dowlah, he could undo all that he had done. The lives of Watts, of Meer Jaffier of all the conspirators, were at his mercy; and he determined to take advantage of his situation and to make his own terms. He demanded three hundred thousand pounds sterling as the price of his secrecy and of his assistance. The committee, incensed by the treachery and appalled by the danger, knew not what course to take. But Clive was more than Omichund’s match in Omichund’s own arts. The man, he said, was a villain. Any artifice which would defeat such knavery was justifiable. The best course would be to promise what was asked. Omichund would soon be at their mercy; and then they might punish him by withholding from him, not only the bribe which he now demanded, but also the compensation which all the other sufferers of Calcutta were to receive. His advice was taken. But how was the wary and sagacious Hindoo to be deceived? He had demanded that an article touching his claims should be inserted in the treaty between Meer Jaffier and the English, and he would not be satisfied unless he saw it with his own eyes. Clive had an expedient ready. Two treaties were drawn up, one on white paper, the other on red, the former real, the latter fictitious. In the former Omichund’s name was not mentioned; the latter, which was to be shown to him, contained a stipulation in his favour. But another difficulty arose. Admiral Watson had scruples about signing the red treaty. Omichund’s vigilance and acuteness were such that the absence of so important a name would probably awaken his suspicions. But Clive was not a man to do anything by halves. We almost blush to write it. He forged Admiral Watson’s name. All was now ready for action. Mr. Watts fled secretly from Moorshedabad. Clive put his troops in motion, and wrote to the Nabob in a tone very different from that of his previous letters. He set forth all the wrongs which the British had suffered, offered to submit the points in dispute to the arbitration of Meer Jaffier, and concluded by announcing that, as the rains were about to set in, he and his men would do themselves the honour of waiting on his Highness for an answer. Surajah Dowlah instantly assembled his whole force, and marched to encounter the English. It had been agreed that Meer Jaffier should separate himself from the Nabob, and carry over his division to Clive. But, as the decisive moment approached, the fears of the conspirator overpowered his ambition. Clive had advanced to Cossimbuzar; the Nabob lay with a mighty power a few miles off at Plassey; and still Meer Jaffier delayed to fulfil his engagements, and returned evasive answers to the earnest remonstrances of the English general. Clive was in a painfully anxious situation. He could place no confidence in the sincerity or in the courage of his confederate; and, whatever confidence he might place in his own military talents, and in the valour and discipline of his troops, it was no light thing to engage an army twenty times numerous as his own. Before him lay a river over which it was easy to advance, but over which, if things went ill, not one of his little band would ever return. On this occasion, for the first and for the last time, his dauntless spirit, during a few hours, shrank from the fearful responsibility of making a decision He called a council of war. The majority pronounced against fighting; and Clive declared his concurrence with the majority. Long afterwards, he said that he had never called but one council of war, and that, if he had taken the advice of that council, the British would never have been masters of Bengal. But scarcely had the meeting broken up when he was himself again. He retired alone under the shade of some trees, and passed near an hour there in thought. He came back determined to put everything to the hazard, and gave orders that all should be in readiness for passing the river on the morrow. The river was passed; and, at the close of a toilsome day’s march, the army, long after sunset, took up its quarters in a grove of mango-trees near Plassey, within a mile of the enemy. Clive was unable to sleep; he heard, through the whole night the sound of drums and cymbals from the vast camp of the Nabob. It is not strange that even his stout heart should now and then have sunk, when he reflected against what odds, and for what a prize, he was in a few hours to contend. Nor was the rest of Surajah Dowlah more peaceful. His mind, at once weak and stormy, was distracted by wild and horrible apprehensions. Appalled by the greatness and nearness of the crisis, distrusting his captains, dreading every one who approached him, dreading to be left alone, he sat gloomily in his tent, haunted, a Greek poet would have said, by the furies of those who had cursed him with their last breath in the Black Hole. The day broke, the day which was to decide the fate of India. At sunrise the army of the Nabob, pouring through many openings of the camp, began to move towards the grove where the English lay. Forty thousand infantry, armed with firelocks, pikes, swords, bows and arrows, covered the plain. They were accompanied by fifty pieces of ordnance of the largest size, each tugged by a long team of white oxen, and each pushed on from behind by an elephant. Some smaller guns, under the direction of a few French auxiliaries, were perhaps more formidable. The cavalry were fifteen thousand, drawn, not from the effeminate population of Bengal, but from the bolder race which inhabits the northern provinces; and the practised eye of Clive could perceive that both the men and the horses were more powerful than those of the Carnatic. The force which he had to oppose to this great multitude consisted of only three thousand men. But of these nearly a thousand were English; and all were led by English officers, and trained in the English discipline. Conspicuous in the ranks of the little army were the men of the Thirty-Ninth Regiment, which still bears on its colours, amidst many honourable additions won under Wellington in Spain and Gascony, the name of Plassey, and the proud motto, Primus in Indis. The battle commenced with a cannonade in which the artillery of the Nabob did scarcely any execution, while the few fieldpieces of the English produced great effect. Several of the most distinguished officers in Surajah Dowlah’s service fell. Disorder began to spread through his ranks. His own terror increased every moment. One of the conspirators urged on him the expediency of retreating. The insidious advice, agreeing as it did with what his own terrors suggested, was readily received. He ordered his army to fall back, and this order decided his fate. Clive snatched the moment, and ordered his troops to advance. The confused and dispirited multitude gave way before the onset of disciplined valour. No mob attacked by regular soldiers was ever more completely routed. The little band of Frenchmen, who alone ventured to confront the English, were swept down the stream of fugitives. In an hour the forces of Surajah Dowlah were dispersed, never to reassemble. Only five hundred of the vanquished were slain. But their camp, their guns, their baggage, innumerable waggons, innumerable cattle, remained in the power of the conquerors. With the loss of twenty-two soldiers killed and fifty wounded, Clive had scattered an army of near sixty thousand men, and subdued an empire larger and more populous than Great Britain. Meer Jaffier had given no assistance to the English during the action. But, as soon as he saw that the fate of the day was decided, he drew off his division of the army, and, when the battle was over, sent his congratulations to his ally. The next morning he repaired to the English quarters, not a little uneasy as to the reception which awaited him there. He gave evident signs of alarm when a guard was drawn out to receive him with the honours due to his rank. But his apprehensions were speedily removed, Clive came forward to meet him, embraced him, saluted him as Nabob of the three great provinces of Bengal, Bahar, and Orissa, listened graciously to his apologies, and advised him to march without delay to Moorshedabad. Surajah Dowlah had fled from the field of battle with all the speed with which a fleet camel could carry him, and arrived at Moorshedabad in little more than twenty-four hours. There he called his councillors round him. The wisest advised him to put himself into the hands of the English, from whom he had nothing worse to fear than deposition and confinement. But he attributed this suggestion to treachery. Others urged him to try the chance of war again. He approved the advice, and issued orders accordingly. But he wanted spirit to adhere even during one day to a manly resolution. He learned that Meer Jaffier had arrived, and his terrors became insupportable. Disguised in a mean dress, with a casket of jewels in his hand, he let himself down at night from a window of his palace, and accompanied by only two attendants, embarked on the river for Patna. In a few days Clive arrived at Moorshedabad, escorted by two hundred English soldiers and three hundred sepoys. For his residence had been assigned a palace, which was surrounded by a garden so spacious that all the troops who accompanied him could conveniently encamp within it. The ceremony of the installation of Meer Jaffier was instantly performed. Clive led the new Nabob to the seat of honour, placed him on it, presented to him, after the immemorial fashion of the East, an offering of gold, and then, turning to the natives who filled the hall, congratulated them on the good fortune which had freed them from a tyrant. He was compelled on this occasion to use the services of an interpreter; for it is remarkable that, long as he resided in India, intimately acquainted as he was with Indian politics and with the Indian character, and adored as he was by his Indian soldiery, he never learned to express himself with facility in any Indian language. He is said indeed to have been sometimes under the necessity of employing, in his intercourse with natives of India, the smattering of Portuguese which he had acquired, when a lad, in Brazil. The new sovereign was now called upon to fulfil the engagements into which he had entered with his allies. A conference was held at the house of Jugget Seit, the great banker, for the purpose of making the necessary arrangements. Omichund came thither, fully believing himself to stand high in the favour of Clive, who, with dissimulation surpassing even the dissimulation of Bengal, had up to that day treated him with undiminished kindness. The white treaty was produced and read. Clive then turned to Mr. Scrafton, one of the servants of the Company, and said in English, “It is now time to undeceive Omichund.” “Omichund,” said Mr. Scrafton in Hindostanee, “the red treaty is a trick, you are to have nothing.” Omichund fell back insensible into the arms of his attendants. He revived; but his mind was irreparably ruined. Clive, who, though little troubled by scruples of conscience in his dealings with Indian politicians, was not inhuman, seems to have been touched. He saw Omichund a few days later, spoke to him kindly, advised him to make a pilgrimage to one of the great temples of India, in the hope that change of scene might restore his health, and was even disposed, notwithstanding all that had passed, again to employ him in the public service. But from the moment of that sudden shock, the unhappy man sank gradually into idiocy. He who had formerly been distinguished by the strength of his understanding and the simplicity of his habits, now squandered the remains of his fortune on childish trinkets, and loved to exhibit himself dressed in rich garments, and hung with precious stones. In this abject state he languished a few months, and then died. We should not think it necessary to offer any remarks for the purpose of directing the judgment of our readers, with respect to this transaction, had not Sir John Malcolm undertaken to defend it in all its parts. He regrets, indeed, that it was necessary to employ means so liable to abuse as forgery; but he will not admit that any blame attaches to those who deceived the deceiver. He thinks that the English were not bound to keep faith with one who kept no faith with them and that, if they had fulfilled their engagements with the wily Bengalee, so signal an example of successful treason would have produced a crowd of imitators. Now, we will not discus this point on any rigid principles of morality. Indeed, it is quite unnecessary to do so for, looking at the question as a question of expediency in the lowest sense of the word, and using no arguments but such as Machiavelli might have employed in his conferences with Borgia, we are convinced that Clive was altogether in the wrong, and that he committed, not merely a crime, but a blunder. That honesty is the best policy is a maxim which we firmly believe to be generally correct, even with respect to the temporal interest of individuals; but with respect to societies, the rule is subject to still fewer exceptions, and that for this reason, that the life of societies is longer than the life of individuals. It is possible to mention men who have owed great worldly prosperity to breaches of private faith; but we doubt whether it be possible to mention a state which has on the whole been a gainer by a breach of public faith. The entire history of British India is an illustration of the great truth, that it is not prudent to oppose perfidy to perfidy, and that the most efficient weapon with which men can encounter falsehood is truth. During a long course of years, the English rulers of India, surrounded by allies and enemies whom no engagement could bind, have generally acted with sincerity and uprightness; and the event has proved that sincerity and uprightness are wisdom. English valour and English intelligence have done less to extend and to preserve our Oriental empire than English veracity. All that we could have gained by imitating the doublings, the evasions, the fictions, the perjuries which have been employed against us, is as nothing, when compared with what we have gained by being the one power in India on whose word reliance can be placed. No oath which superstition can devise, no hostage however precious, inspires a hundredth part of the confidence which is produced by the “yea, yea,” and “nay, nay,” of a British envoy. No fastness, however strong by art or nature, gives to its inmates a security like that enjoyed by the chief who, passing through the territories of powerful and deadly enemies, is armed with the British guarantee. The mightiest princes of the East can scarcely, by the offer of enormous usury, draw forth any portion of the wealth which is concealed under the hearths of their subjects. The British Government offers little more than four per cent. and avarice hastens to bring forth tens of millions of rupees from its most secret repositories. A hostile monarch may promise mountains of gold to our sepoys on condition that they will desert the standard of the Company. The Company promises only a moderate pension after a long service. But every sepoy knows that the promise of the Company will be kept; he knows that if he lives a hundred years his rice and salt are as secure as the salary of the Governor-General; and he knows that there is not another state in India which would not, in spite of the most solemn vows, leave him to die of hunger in a ditch as soon as he had ceased to be useful. The greatest advantage which government can possess is to be the one trustworthy government in the midst of governments which nobody can trust. This advantage we enjoy in Asia. Had we acted during the last two generations on the principles which Sir John Malcolm appears to have considered as sound, had we as often as we had to deal with people like Omichund, retaliated by lying and forging, and breaking faith, after their fashion, it is our firm belief that no courage or capacity could have upheld our empire. Sir John Malcolm admits that Clive’s breach of faith could be justified only by the strongest necessity. As we think that breach of faith not only unnecessary, but most inexpedient, we need hardly say that we altogether condemn it. Omichund was not the only victim of the revolution. Surajah Dowlah was taken a few days after his flight, and was brought before Meer Jaffier. There he flung himself on the ground in convulsions of fear, and with tears and loud cries implored the mercy which he had never shown. Meer Jaffier hesitated; but his son Meeran, a youth of seventeen, who in feebleness of brain and savageness of nature greatly resemble the wretched captive, was implacable. Surajah Dowlah was led into a secret chamber, to which in a short time the ministers of death were sent. In this act the English bore no part and Meer Jaffier understood so much of their feelings that he thought it necessary to apologize to them for having avenged them on their most malignant enemy. The shower of wealth now fell copiously on the Company and its servants. A sum of eight hundred thousand pound sterling, in coined silver, was sent down the river from Moorshedabad to Fort William. The fleet which conveyed this treasure consisted of more than a hundred boats, and performed its triumphal voyage with flags flying and music playing. Calcutta, which a few months before had been desolate, was now more prosperous than ever. Trade revived; and the signs of affluence appeared in every English house. As to Clive, there was no limit to his acquisitions but his own moderation. The treasury of Bengal was thrown open to him. There were piled up, after the usage of Indian princes, immense masses of coin, among which might not seldom he detected the florins and byzants with which, before any European ship had turned the Cape of Good Hope, the Venetians purchased the stuffs and spices of the East. Clive walked between heaps of gold and silver, crowned with rubies and diamonds, and was at liberty to help himself. He accepted between two and three hundred thousand pounds. The pecuniary transactions between Meer Jaffier and Clive were sixteen years later condemned by the public voice, and severely criticised in Parliament. They are vehemently defended by Sir John Malcolm. The accusers of the victorious general represented his gains as the wages of corruption, or as plunder extorted at the point of the sword from a helpless ally. The biographer, on the other hand, considers these great acquisitions as free gifts, honourable alike to the donor and to the receiver, and compares them to the rewards bestowed by foreign powers on Marlborough, on Nelson, and on Wellington. It had always, he says, been customary in the East to give and receive presents; and there was, as yet, no Act of Parliament positively prohibiting English functionaries in India from profiting by this Asiatic usage. This reasoning, we own, does not quite satisfy us. We do not suspect Clive of selling the interests of his employers or his country; but we cannot acquit him of having done what, if not in itself evil, was yet of evil example. Nothing is more clear than that a general ought to be the servant of his own government, and of no other. It follows that whatever rewards he receives for his services ought to be given either by his own government, or with the full knowledge and approbation of his own government. This rule ought to be strictly maintained even with respect to the merest bauble, with respect to a cross, a medal, or a yard of coloured riband. But how can any government be well served, if those who command its forces are at liberty, without its permission, without its privity, to accept princely fortunes from its allies? It is idle to say that there was then no Act of Parliament prohibiting the practice of taking presents from Asiatic sovereigns. It is not on the Act which was passed at a later period for the purpose of preventing any such taking of presents, but on grounds which were valid before that Act was passed, on grounds of common law and common sense, that we arraign the conduct of Clive. There is no Act that we know of, prohibiting the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs from being in the pay of continental powers, but it is not the less true that a Secretary who should receive a secret pension from France would grossly violate his duty, and would deserve severe punishment. Sir John Malcolm compares the conduct of Clive with that of the Duke of Wellington. Suppose,--and we beg pardon for putting such a supposition even for the sake of argument,--that the Duke of Wellington had, after the campaign of 1815, and while he commanded the army of occupation in France, privately accepted two hundred thousand pounds from Lewis the Eighteenth, as a mark of gratitude for the great services which his Grace had rendered to the House of Bourbon; what would be thought of such a transaction? Yet the statute-book no more forbids the taking of presents in Europe now than it forbade the taking of presents in Asia then. At the same time, it must be admitted that, in Clive’s case, there were many extenuating circumstances. He considered himself as the general, not of the Crown, but of the Company. The Company had, by implication at least, authorised its agents to enrich themselves by means of the liberality of the native princes, and by other means still more objectionable. It was hardly to be expected that the servant should entertain stricter notions of his duty than were entertained by his masters. Though Clive did not distinctly acquaint his employers with what had taken place and request their sanction, he did not, on the other hand, by studied concealment, show that he was conscious of having done wrong. On the contrary, he avowed with the greatest openness that the Nabob’s bounty had raised him to affluence. Lastly, though we think that he ought not in such a way to have taken anything, we must admit that he deserves praise for having taken so little. He accepted twenty lacs of rupees. It would have cost him only a word to make the twenty forty. It was a very easy exercise of virtue to declaim in England against Clive’s rapacity; but not one in a hundred of his accusers would have shown so much self-command in the treasury of Moorshedabad. Meer Jaffier could be upheld on the throne only by the hand which had placed him on it. He was not, indeed, a mere boy; nor had he been so unfortunate as to be born in the purple. He was not therefore quite so imbecile or quite so depraved as his predecessor had been. But he had none of the talents or virtues which his post required; and his son and heir, Meeran, was another Surajah Dowlah. The recent revolution had unsettled the minds of men. Many chiefs were in open insurrection against the new Nabob. The viceroy of the rich and powerful province of Oude, who, like the other viceroys of the Mogul was now in truth an independent sovereign, menaced Bengal with invasion. Nothing but the talents and authority of Clive could support the tottering government. While things were in this state, a ship arrived with despatches which had been written at the India House before the news of the battle of Plassey had reached London. The Directors had determined to place the English settlements in Bengal under a government constituted in the most cumbrous and absurd manner; and to make the matter worse, no place in the arrangement was assigned to Clive. The persons who were selected to form this new government, greatly to their honour, took on themselves the responsibility of disobeying these preposterous orders, and invited Clive to exercise the supreme authority. He consented; and it soon appeared that the servants of the Company had only anticipated the wishes of their employers. The Directors, on receiving news of Clive’s brilliant success, instantly appointed him governor of their possessions in Bengal, with the highest marks of gratitude and esteem. His power was now boundless, and far surpassed even that which Dupleix had attained in the south of India. Meer Jaffier regarded him with slavish awe. On one occasion, the Nabob spoke with severity to a native chief of high rank, whose followers had been engaged in a brawl with some of the Company’s sepoys. “Are you yet to learn,” he said, “who that Colonel Clive is, and in what station God has placed him?” The chief, who, as a famous jester and an old friend of Meer Jaffier, could venture to take liberties, answered, “I affront the Colonel! I, who never get up in the morning without making three low bows to his jackass!” This was hardly an exaggeration. Europeans and natives were alike at Clive’s feet. The English regarded him as the only man who could force Meer Jaffier to keep his engagements with them. Meer Jaffier regarded him as the only man who could protect the new dynasty against turbulent subjects and encroaching neighbours. It is but justice to say that Clive used his power ably and vigorously for the advantage of his country. He sent forth an expedition against the tract lying to the north of the Carnatic. In this tract the French still had the ascendency; and it was important to dislodge them. The conduct of the enterprise was intrusted to an officer of the name of Forde, who was then little known, but in whom the keen eye of the governor had detected military talents of a high order. The success of the expedition was rapid and splendid. While a considerable part of the army of Bengal was thus engaged at a distance, a new and formidable danger menaced the western frontier. The Great Mogul was a prisoner at Delhi in the hands of a subject. His eldest son, named Shah Alum, destined to be, during many years, the sport of adverse fortune, and to be a tool in the hands, first of the Mahrattas, and then of the English, had fled from the palace of his father. His birth was still revered in India. Some powerful princes, the Nabob of Oude in particular, were inclined to favour him. Shah Alum found it easy to draw to his standard great numbers of the military adventurers with whom every part of the country swarmed. An army of forty thousand men, of various races and religions, Mahrattas, Rohillas, Jauts, and Afghans, were speedily assembled round him; and he formed the design of overthrowing the upstart whom the English had elevated to a throne, and of establishing his own authority throughout Bengal, Orissa, and Bahar. Meer Jaffier’s terror was extreme; and the only expedient which occurred to him was to purchase, by the payment of a large sum of money, an accommodation with Shah Alum. This expedient had been repeatedly employed by those who, before him, had ruled the rich and unwarlike provinces near the mouth of the Ganges. But Clive treated the suggestion with a scorn worthy of his strong sense and dauntless courage. “If you do this,” he wrote, “you will have the Nabob of Oude, the Mahrattas, and many more, come from all parts of the confines of your country, who will bully you out of money till you have none left in your treasury. I beg your Excellency will rely on the fidelity of the English, and of those troops which are attached to you.” He wrote in a similar strain to the governor of Patna, a brave native soldier whom he highly esteemed. “Come to no terms; defend your city to the last. Rest assured that the English are staunch and firm friends, and that they never desert a cause in which they have once taken a part.” He kept his word. Shah Alum had invested Patna, and was on the point of proceeding to storm, when he learned that the Colonel was advancing by forced marches. The whole army which was approaching consisted of only four hundred and fifty Europeans and two thousand five hundred sepoys. But Clive and his Englishmen were now objects of dread over all the East. As soon as his advance guard appeared, the besiegers fled before him. A few French adventurers who were about the person of the prince advised him to try the chance of battle; but in vain. In a few days this great army, which had been regarded with so much uneasiness by the court of Moorshedabad, melted away before the mere terror of the British name. The conqueror returned in triumph to Fort William. The joy of Meer Jaffier was as unbounded as his fears had been, and led him to bestow on his preserver a princely token of gratitude. The quit-rent which the East India Company were bound to pay to the Nabob for the extensive lands held by them to the south of Calcutta amounted to near thirty thousand pounds sterling a year. The whole of this splendid estate, sufficient to support with dignity the highest rank of the British peerage, was now conferred on Clive for life. This present we think Clive justified in accepting. It was a present which, from its very nature, could be no secret. In fact, the Company itself was his tenant, and, by its acquiescence, signified its approbation of Meer Jaffier’s grant. But the gratitude of Meer Jaffier did not last long. He had for some time felt that the powerful ally who had set him up, might pull him down, and had been looking round for support against the formidable strength by which he had himself been hitherto supported. He knew that it would be impossible to find among the natives of India any force which would look the Colonel’s little army in the face. The French power in Bengal was extinct. But the fame of the Dutch had anciently been great in the Eastern seas; and it was not yet distinctly known in Asia how much the power of Holland had declined in Europe. Secret communications passed between the court of Moorshedabad and the Dutch factory at Chinsurah; and urgent letters were sent from Chinsurah, exhorting the government of Batavia to fit out an expedition which might balance the power of the English in Bengal. The authorities of Batavia, eager to extend the influence of their country, and still more eager to obtain for themselves a share of the wealth which had recently raised so many English adventurers to opulence, equipped a powerful armament. Seven large ships from Java arrived unexpectedly in the Hoogley. The military force on board amounted to fifteen hundred men, of whom about one half were Europeans. The enterprise was well timed. Clive had sent such large detachments to oppose the French in the Carnatic that his army was now inferior in number to that of the Dutch. He knew that Meer Jaffier secretly favoured the invaders. He knew that he took on himself a serious responsibility if he attacked the forces of a friendly power; that the English ministers could not wish to see a war with Holland added to that in which they were already engaged with France; that they might disavow his acts; that they might punish him. He had recently remitted a great part of his fortune to Europe, through the Dutch East India Company; and he had therefore a strong interest in avoiding any quarrel. But he was satisfied that, if he suffered the Batavian armament to pass up the river and to join the garrison of Chinsurah, Meer Jaffier would throw himself into the arms of these new allies, and that the English ascendency in Bengal would be exposed to most serious danger. He took his resolution with characteristic boldness, and was most ably seconded by his officers, particularly by Colonel Forde, to whom the most important part of the operations was intrusted. The Dutch attempted to force a passage. The English encountered them both by land and water. On both elements the enemy had a great superiority of force. On both they were signally defeated. Their ships were taken. Their troops were put to a total rout. Almost all the European soldiers, who constituted the main strength of the invading army, were killed or taken. The conquerors sat down before Chinsurah; and the chiefs of that settlement, now thoroughly humbled, consented to the terms which Clive dictated. They engaged to build no fortifications, and to raise no troops beyond a small force necessary for the police of their factories; and it was distinctly provided that any violation of these covenants should be punished with instant expulsion from Bengal. Three months after this great victory, Clive sailed for England. At home, honours and rewards awaited him, not indeed equal to his claims or to his ambition, but still such as, when his age, his rank in the army, and his original place in society are considered, must be pronounced rare and splendid. He was raised to the Irish peerage, and encouraged to expect an English title. George the Third, who had just ascended the throne, received him with great distinction. The ministers paid him marked attention; and Pitt, whose influence in the House of Commons and in the country was unbounded, was eager to mark his regard for one whose exploits had contributed so much to the lustre of that memorable period. The great orator had already in Parliament described Clive as a heaven-born general, as a man who, bred to the labour of the desk, had displayed a military genius which might excite the admiration of the King of Prussia. There were then no reporters in the gallery; but these words, emphatically spoken by the first statesman of the age, had passed from mouth to mouth, had been transmitted to Clive in Bengal, and had greatly delighted and flattered him. Indeed, since the death of Wolfe, Clive was the only English general of whom his countrymen had much reason to be proud. The Duke of Cumberland had been generally unfortunate; and his single victory, having been gained over his countrymen and used with merciless severity, had been more fatal to his popularity than his many defeats. Conway, versed in the learning of his profession, and personally courageous, wanted vigour and capacity. Granby, honest, generous, and brave as a lion, had neither science nor genius. Sackville, inferior in knowledge and abilities to none of his contemporaries, had incurred, unjustly as we believe, the imputation most fatal to the character of a soldier. It was under the command of a foreign general that the British had triumphed at Minden and Warburg. The people therefore, as was natural, greeted with pride and delight a captain of their own, whose native courage and self-taught skill had placed him on a level with the great tacticians of Germany. The wealth of Clive was such as enabled him to vie with the first grandees of England. There remains proof that he had remitted more than a hundred and eighty thousand pounds through the Dutch East India Company, and more than forty thousand pounds through the English Company. The amount which he had sent home through private houses was also considerable. He had invested great sums in jewels, then a very common mode of remittance from India. His purchases of diamonds, at Madras alone, amounted to twenty-five thousand pounds. Besides a great mass of ready money, he had his Indian estate, valued by himself at twenty-seven thousand a year. His whole annual income, in the opinion of Sir John Malcolm, who is desirous to state it as low as possible, exceeded forty thousand pounds; and incomes of forty thousand pounds at the time of the accession of George the Third were at least as rare as incomes of a hundred thousand pounds now. We may safely affirm that no Englishman who started with nothing has ever, in any line of life, created such a fortune at the early age of thirty-four. It would be unjust not to add that Clive made a creditable use of his riches. As soon as the battle of Plassey had laid the foundation of his fortune, he sent ten thousand pounds to his sisters, bestowed as much more on other poor friends and relations, ordered his agent to pay eight hundred a year to his parents, and to insist that they should keep a carriage, and settled five hundred a year on his old commander Lawrence, whose means were very slender. The whole sum which Clive expended in this manner may be calculated at fifty thousand pounds. He now set himself to cultivate Parliamentary interest. His purchases of land seem to have been made in a great measure with that view, and, after the general election of 1761, he found himself in the House of Commons, at the head of a body of dependants whose support must have been important to any administration. In English politics, however, he did not take a prominent part. His first attachments, as we have seen, were to Mr. Fox; at a later period he was attracted by the genius and success of Mr. Pitt; but finally he connected himself in the closest manner with George Grenville. Early in the session Of 1764, when the illegal and impolitic persecution of that worthless demagogue Wilkes had strongly excited the public mind, the town was amused by an anecdote, which we have seen in some unpublished memoirs of Horace Walpole. Old Mr. Richard Clive, who, since his son’s elevation, had been introduced into society for which his former habits had not well fitted him, presented himself at the levee. The King asked him where Lord Clive was. “He will be in town very soon,” said the old gentleman, loud enough to be heard by the whole circle, “and then your Majesty will have another vote.” But in truth all Clive’s views were directed towards the country in which he had so eminently distinguished himself as a soldier and a statesman; and it was by considerations relating to India that his conduct as a public man in England was regulated. The power of the Company, though an anomaly, is in our time, we are firmly persuaded, a beneficial anomaly. In the time of Clive, it was not merely an anomaly, but a nuisance. There was no Board of Control. The Directors were for the most part mere traders, ignorant of general politics, ignorant of the peculiarities of the empire which had strangely become subject to them. The Court of Proprietors, wherever it chose to interfere, was able to have its way. That Court was more numerous, as well as more powerful, than at present; for then every share of five hundred pounds conferred a vote. The meetings were large, stormy, even riotous, the debates indecently virulent. All the turbulence of a Westminster election, all the trickery and corruption of a Grampound election, disgraced the proceedings of this assembly on questions of the most solemn importance. Fictitious votes were manufactured on a gigantic scale. Clive himself laid out a hundred thousand pounds in the purchase of stock, which he then divided among nominal proprietors on whom he could depend, and whom he brought down in his train to every discussion and every ballot. Others did the same, though not to quite so enormous an extent. The interest taken by the public of England in Indian questions was then far greater than at present, and the reason is obvious. At present a writer enters the service young; he climbs slowly; he is fortunate if, at forty-five, he can return to his country with an annuity of a thousand a year, and with savings amounting to thirty thousand pounds. A great quantity of wealth is made by English functionaries in India; but no single functionary makes a very large fortune, and what is made is slowly, hardly, and honestly earned. Only four or five high political offices are reserved for public men from England. The residencies, the secretaryships, the seats in the boards of revenue and in the Sudder courts are all filled by men who have given the best years of life to the service of the Company; nor can any talents however splendid or any connections however powerful obtain those lucrative posts for any person who has not entered by the regular door, and mounted by the regular gradations. Seventy years ago, less money was brought home from the East than in our time. But it was divided among a very much smaller number of persons, and immense sums were often accumulated in a few months. Any Englishman, whatever his age might be, might hope to be one of the lucky emigrants. If he made a good speech in Leadenhall Street, or published a clever pamphlet in defence of the chairman, he might be sent out in the Company’s service, and might return in three or four years as rich as Pigot or as Clive. Thus the India House was a lottery-office, which invited everybody to take a chance, and held out ducal fortunes as the prizes destined for the lucky few. As soon as it was known that there was a part of the world where a lieutenant-colonel had one morning received as a present an estate as large as that of the Earl of Bath or the Marquess of Rockingham, and where it seemed that such a trifle as ten or twenty thousand pounds was to be had by any British functionary for the asking, society began to exhibit all the symptoms of the South Sea year, a feverish excitement, an ungovernable impatience to be rich, a contempt for slow, sure, and moderate gains. At the head of the preponderating party in the India House, had long stood a powerful, able, and ambitious director of the name of Sulivan. He had conceived a strong jealousy of Clive, and remembered with bitterness the audacity with which the late governor of Bengal had repeatedly set at nought the authority of the distant Directors of the Company. An apparent reconciliation took place after Clive’s arrival; but enmity remained deeply rooted in the hearts of both. The whole body of Directors was then chosen annually. At the election of 1763, Clive attempted to break down the power of the dominant faction. The contest was carried on with a violence which he describes as tremendous. Sulivan was victorious, and hastened to take his revenge. The grant of rent which Clive had received from Meer Jaffier was, in the opinion of the best English lawyers, valid. It had been made by exactly the same authority from which the Company had received their chief possessions in Bengal, and the Company had long acquiesced in it. The Directors, however, most unjustly determined to confiscate it, and Clive was forced to file a bill in chancery against them. But a great and sudden turn in affairs was at hand. Every ship from Bengal had for some time brought alarming tidings. The internal misgovernment of the province had reached such a point that it could go no further. What, indeed, was to be expected from a body of public servants exposed to temptation such that, as Clive once said, flesh and blood could not bear it, armed with irresistible power, and responsible only to the corrupt, turbulent, distracted, ill-informed Company, situated at such a distance that the average interval between the sending of a despatch and the receipt of an answer was above a year and a half? Accordingly, during the five years which followed the departure of Clive from Bengal, the misgovernment of the English was carried to a point such as seems hardly compatible with the very existence of society. The Roman proconsul, who, in a year or two, squeezed out of a province the means of rearing marble palaces and baths on the shores of Campania, of drinking from amber, of feasting on singing birds, of exhibiting armies of gladiators and flocks of camelopards; the Spanish viceroy, who, leaving behind him the curses of Mexico or Lima, entered Madrid with a long train of gilded coaches, and of sumpter-horses trapped and shod with silver, were now outdone. Cruelty, indeed, properly so called, was not among the vices of the servants of the Company. But cruelty itself could hardly have produced greater evils than sprang from their unprincipled eagerness to be rich. They pulled down their creature, Meer Jaffier. They set up in his place another Nabob, named Meer Cossim. But Meer Cossim had parts and a will; and, though sufficiently inclined to oppress his subjects himself, he could not bear to see them ground to the dust by oppressions which yielded him no profit, nay, which destroyed his revenue in the very source. The English accordingly pulled down Meer Cossim, and set up Meer Jaffier again; and Meer Cossim, after revenging himself by a massacre surpassing in atrocity that of the Black Hole, fled to the dominions of the Nabob of Oude. At every one of these revolutions, the new prince divided among his foreign masters whatever could be scraped together in the treasury of his fallen predecessor. The immense population of his dominions was given up as a prey to those who had made him a sovereign, and who could unmake him. The servants of the Company obtained, not for their employers, but for themselves, a monopoly of almost the whole internal trade. They forced the natives to buy dear and to sell cheap. They insulted with impunity the tribunals, the police, and the fiscal authorities of the country. They covered with their protection a set of native dependants who ranged through the provinces, spreading desolation and terror wherever they appeared. Every servant of a British factor was armed with all the power of his master; and his master was armed with all the power of the Company. Enormous fortunes were thus rapidly accumulated at Calcutta, while thirty millions of human beings were reduced to the extremity of wretchedness. They had been accustomed to live under tyranny, but never under tyranny like this. They found the little finger of the Company thicker than the loins of Surajah Dowlah. Under their old masters they had at least one resource: when the evil became insupportable, the people rose and pulled down the government. But the English government was not to be so shaken off. That government, oppressive as the most oppressive form of barbarian despotism, was strong with all the strength of civilisation. It resembled the government of evil Genii, rather than the government of human tyrants. Even despair could not inspire the soft Bengalee with courage to confront men of English breed, the hereditary nobility of mankind, whose skill and valour had so often triumphed in spite of tenfold odds. The unhappy race never attempted resistance. Sometimes they submitted in patient misery. Sometimes they fled from the white man, as their fathers had been used to fly from the Mahratta; and the palanquin of the English traveller was often carried through silent villages and towns, which the report of his approach had made desolate. The foreign lords of Bengal were naturally objects of hatred to all the neighbouring powers; and to all the haughty race presented a dauntless front. The English armies, everywhere outnumbered, were everywhere victorious. A succession of commanders, formed in the school of Clive, still maintained the fame of their country. “It must be acknowledged,” says the Mussulman historian of those times, “that this nation’s presence of mind, firmness of temper, and undaunted bravery, are past all question. They join the most resolute courage to the most cautious prudence; nor have they their equals in the art of ranging themselves in battle array and fighting in order. If to so many military qualifications they knew how to join the arts of government, if they exerted as much ingenuity and solicitude in relieving the people of God, as they do in whatever concerns their military affairs, no nation in the world would be preferable to them, or worthier of command. But the people under their dominion groan everywhere, and are reduced to poverty and distress. Oh God! come to the assistance of thine afflicted servants, and deliver them from the oppressions which they suffer.” It was impossible, however, that even the military establishment should long continue exempt from the vices which pervaded every other part of the government. Rapacity, luxury, and the spirit of insubordination spread from the civil service to the officers of the army, and from the officers to the soldiers. The evil continued to grow till every mess-room became the seat of conspiracy and cabal, and till the sepoys could be kept in order only by wholesale executions. At length the state of things in Bengal began to excite uneasiness at home. A succession of revolutions; a disorganised administration; the natives pillaged, yet the Company not enriched; every fleet bringing back fortunate adventurers who were able to purchase manors and to build stately dwellings, yet bringing back also alarming accounts of the financial prospects of the government; war on the frontiers; disaffection in the army; the national character disgraced by excesses resembling those of Verres and Pizarro; such was the spectacle which dismayed those who were conversant with Indian affairs. The general cry was that Clive, and Clive alone, could save the empire which he had founded. This feeling manifested itself in the strongest manner at a very full General Court of Proprietors. Men of all parties, forgetting their feuds and trembling for their dividends, exclaimed that Clive was the man whom the crisis required, that the oppressive proceedings which had been adopted respecting his estate ought to be dropped, and that he ought to be entreated to return to India. Clive rose. As to his estate, he said, he would make such propositions to the Directors, as would, he trusted, lead to an amicable settlement. But there was a still greater difficulty. It was proper to tell them that he never would undertake the government of Bengal while his enemy Sulivan was chairman of the Company. The tumult was violent. Sulivan could scarcely obtain a hearing. An overwhelming majority of the assembly was on Clive’s side. Sulivan wished to try the result of a ballot. But, according to the bye-laws of the Company, there can be no ballot except on a requisition signed by nine proprietors; and, though hundreds were present, nine persons could not be found to set their hands to such a requisition. Clive was in consequence nominated Governor and Commander-in-chief of the British possessions in Bengal. But he adhered to his declaration, and refused to enter on his office till the event of the next election of Directors should be known. The contest was obstinate; but Clive triumphed. Sulivan, lately absolute master of the India House, was within a vote of losing his own seat; and both the chairman and the deputy-chairman were friends of the new governor. Such were the circumstances under which Lord Clive sailed for the third and last time to India. In May 1765, he reached Calcutta; and he found the whole machine of government even more fearfully disorganised than he had anticipated. Meer Jaffier, who had some time before lost his eldest son Meeran, had died while Clive was on his voyage out. The English functionaries at Calcutta had already received from home strict orders not to accept presents from the native princes. But, eager for gain, and unaccustomed to respect the commands of their distant, ignorant, and negligent masters, they again set up the throne of Bengal to sale. About one hundred and forty thousand pounds sterling was distributed among nine of the most powerful servants of the Company; and, in consideration of this bribe, an infant son of the deceased Nabob was placed on the seat of his father. The news of the ignominious bargain met Clive on his arrival. In a private letter, written immediately after his landing, to an intimate friend, he poured out his feelings in language, which, proceeding from a man so daring, so resolute, and so little given to theatrical display of sentiment, seems to us singularly touching. “Alas!” he says, “how is the English name sunk! I could not avoid paying the tribute of a few tears to the departed and lost fame of the British nation--irrecoverably so, I fear. However, I do declare, by that great Being who is the searcher of all hearts, and to whom we must be accountable if there be a hereafter, that I am come out with a mind superior to all corruption, and that I am determined to destroy these great and growing evils, or perish in the attempt.” The Council met, and Clive stated to them his full determination to make a thorough reform, and to use for that purpose the whole of the ample authority, civil and military, which had been confided to him. Johnstone, one of the boldest and worst men in the assembly, made some show of opposition. Clive interrupted him, and haughtily demanded whether he meant to question the power of the new government. Johnstone was cowed, and disclaimed any such intention. All the faces round the board grew long and pale; and not another syllable of dissent was uttered. Clive redeemed his pledge. He remained in India about a year and a half; and in that short time effected one of the most extensive, difficult, and salutary reforms that ever was accomplished by any statesman. This was the part of his life on which he afterwards looked back with most pride. He had it in his power to triple his already splendid fortune; to connive at abuses while pretending to remove them; to conciliate the goodwill of all the English in Bengal, by giving up to their rapacity a helpless and timid race, who knew not where lay the island which sent forth their oppressors, and whose complaints had little chance of being heard across fifteen thousand miles of ocean. He knew that if he applied himself in earnest to the work of reformation, he should raise every bad passion in arms against him. He knew how unscrupulous, how implacable, would be the hatred of those ravenous adventurers who, having counted on accumulating in a few months fortunes sufficient to support peerages, should find all their hopes frustrated. But he had chosen the good part; and he called up all the force of his mind for a battle far harder than that of Plassey. At first success seemed hopeless; but soon all obstacles began to bend before that iron courage and that vehement will. The receiving of presents from the natives was rigidly prohibited. The private trade of the servants of the Company was put down. The whole settlement seemed to be set, as one man, against these measures. But the inexorable governor declared that, if he could not find support at Fort William, he would procure it elsewhere, and sent for some civil servants from Madras to assist him in carrying on the administration. The most factious of his opponents he turned out of their offices. The rest submitted to what was inevitable; and in a very short time all resistance was quelled. But Clive was far too wise a man not to see that the recent abuses were partly to be ascribed to a cause which could not fail to produce similar abuses, as soon as the pressure of his strong hand was withdrawn. The Company had followed a mistaken policy with respect to the remuneration of its servants. The salaries were too low to afford even those indulgences which are necessary to the health and comfort of Europeans in a tropical climate. To lay by a rupee from such scanty pay was impossible. It could not be supposed that men of even average abilities would consent to pass the best years of life in exile, under a burning sun, for no other consideration than these stinted wages. It had accordingly been understood, from a very early period, that the Company’s agents were at liberty to enrich themselves by their private trade. This practice had been seriously injurious to the commercial interests of the corporation. That very intelligent observer, Sir Thomas Roe, in the reign of James the First, strongly urged the Directors to apply a remedy to the abuse. “Absolutely prohibit the private trade,” said he; “for your business will be better done. I know this is harsh. Men profess they come not for bare wages. But you will take away this plea if you give great wages to their content; and then you know what you part from.” In spite of this excellent advice, the Company adhered the old system, paid low salaries, and connived at the indirect gains of the agents. The pay of a member of Council was only three hundred pounds a year. Yet it was notorious that such a functionary could not live in India for less than ten times that sum; and it could not be expected that he would be content to live even handsomely in India without laying up something against the time of his return to England. This system, before the conquest of Bengal, might affect the amount of the dividends payable to the proprietors, but could do little harm in any other way. But the Company was now a ruling body. Its servants might still be called factors, junior merchants, senior merchants. But they were in truth proconsuls, propraetors, procurators, of extensive regions. They had immense power. Their regular pay was universally admitted to be insufficient. They were, by the ancient usage of the service, and by the implied permission of their employers, warranted in enriching themselves by indirect means; and this had been the origin of the frightful oppression and corruption which had desolated Bengal. Clive saw clearly that it was absurd to give men power, and to require them to live in penury. He justly concluded that no reform could be effectual which should not be coupled with a plan for liberally remunerating the civil servants of the Company. The Directors, he knew, were not disposed to sanction any increase of the salaries out of their own treasury. The only course which remained open to the governor was one which exposed him to much misrepresentation, but which we think him fully justified in adopting. He appropriated to the support of the service the monopoly of salt, which has formed, down to our own time, a principal head of Indian revenue; and he divided the proceeds according to a scale which seems to have been not unreasonably fixed. He was in consequence accused by his enemies, and has been accused by historians, of disobeying his instructions, of violating his promises, of authorising that very abuse which it was his special mission to destroy, namely, the trade of the Company’s servants. But every discerning and impartial judge will admit, that there was really nothing in common between the system which he set up and that which he was sent to destroy. The monopoly of salt had been a source of revenue to the Government of India before Clive was born. It continued to be so long after his death. The civil servants were clearly entitled to a maintenance out of the revenue; and all that Clive did was to charge a particular portion of the revenue with their maintenance. He thus, while he put an end to the practices by which gigantic fortunes had been rapidly accumulated, gave to every British functionary employed in the East the means of slowly, but surely, acquiring a competence. Yet, such is the injustice of mankind, that none of those acts which are the real stains of his life has drawn on him so much obloquy as this measure, which was in truth a reform necessary to the success of all his other reforms. He had quelled the opposition of the civil servants: that of the army was more formidable. Some of the retrenchments which had been ordered by the Directors affected the interests of the military service; and a storm arose, such as even Caesar would not willingly have faced. It was no light thing to encounter the resistance of those who held the power of the sword, in a country governed only by the sword. Two hundred English officers engaged in a conspiracy against the government, and determined to resign their commissions on the same day, not doubting that Clive would grant any terms, rather than see the army, on which alone the British empire in the East rested, left without commanders. They little knew the unconquerable spirit with which they had to deal. Clive had still a few officers round his person on whom he could rely. He sent to Fort St George for a fresh supply. He gave commissions even to mercantile agents who were disposed to support him at this crisis; and he sent orders that every officer who resigned should be instantly brought up to Calcutta. The conspirators found that they had miscalculated. The governor was inexorable. The troops were steady. The sepoys, over whom Clive had always possessed extraordinary influence, stood by him with unshaken fidelity. The leaders in the plot were arrested, tried, and cashiered. The rest, humbled and dispirited, begged to be permitted to withdraw their resignations. Many of them declared their repentance even with tears. The younger offenders Clive treated with lenity. To the ringleaders he was inflexibly severe; but his severity was pure from all taint of private malevolence. While he sternly upheld the just authority of his office, he passed by personal insults and injuries with magnanimous disdain. One of the conspirators was accused of having planned the assassination of the governor; but Clive would not listen to the charge. “The officers,” he said, “are Englishmen, not assassins.” While he reformed the civil service and established his authority over the army, he was equally successful in his foreign policy. His landing on Indian ground was the signal for immediate peace. The Nabob of Oude, with a large army, lay at that time on the frontier of Bahar. He had been joined by many Afghans and Mahrattas, and there was no small reason to expect a general coalition of all the native powers against the English. But the name of Clive quelled in an instant all opposition. The enemy implored peace in the humblest language, and submitted to such terms as the new governor chose to dictate. At the same time, the Government of Bengal was placed on a new footing. The power of the English in that province had hitherto been altogether undefined. It was unknown to the ancient constitution of the empire, and it had been ascertained by no compact. It resembled the power which, in the last decrepitude of the Western Empire, was exercised over Italy by the great chiefs of foreign mercenaries, the Ricimers and the Odoacers, who put up and pulled down at their pleasure a succession of insignificant princes, dignified with the names of Caesar and Augustus. But as in Italy, so in India, the warlike strangers at length found it expedient to give to a domination which had been established by arms the sanction of law and ancient prescription. Theodoric thought it politic to obtain from the distant Court of Byzantium a commission appointing him ruler of Italy; and Clive, in the same manner, applied to the Court of Delhi for a formal grant of the powers of which he already possessed the reality. The Mogul was absolutely helpless; and, though he murmured, had reason to be well pleased that the English were disposed to give solid rupees, which he never could have extorted from them, in exchange for a few Persian characters which cost him nothing. A bargain was speedily struck; and the titular sovereign of Hindostan issued a warrant, empowering the Company to collect and administer the revenues of Bengal, Orissa, and Bahar. There was still a Nabob, who stood to the British authorities in the same relation in which the last drivelling Chilperics and Childerics of the Merovingian line stood to their able and vigorous Mayors of the Palace, to Charles Martel, and to Pepin. At one time Clive had almost made up his mind to discard this phantom altogether; but he afterwards thought that it might be convenient still to use the name of the Nabob, particularly in dealings with other European nations. The French, the Dutch, and the Danes, would, he conceived, submit far more readily to the authority of the native Prince, whom they had always been accustomed to respect, than to that of a rival trading corporation. This policy may, at that time, have been judicious. But the pretence was soon found to be too flimsy to impose on anybody; and it was altogether laid aside. The heir of Meer Jaffier still resides at Moorshedabad, the ancient capital of his house, still bears the title of Nabob, is still accosted by the English as “Your Highness,” and is still suffered to retain a portion of the regal state which surrounded his ancestors. A pension of a hundred and sixty thousand pounds a year is annually paid to him by the government. His carriage is surrounded by guards, and preceded by attendants with silver maces. His person and his dwelling are exempted from the ordinary authority of the ministers of justice. But he has not the smallest share of political power, and is, in fact, only a noble and wealthy subject of the Company. It would have been easy for Clive, during his second administration in Bengal, to accumulate riches such as no subject in Europe possessed. He might indeed, without subjecting the rich inhabitants of the province to any pressure beyond that to which their mildest rulers had accustomed them, have received presents to the amount of three hundred thousand pounds a year. The neighbouring princes would gladly have paid any price for his favour. But he appears to have strictly adhered to the rules which he had laid down for the guidance of others. The Rajah of Benares offered him diamonds of great value. The Nabob of Oude pressed him to accept a large sum of money and a casket of costly jewels. Clive courteously, but peremptorily refused; and it should be observed that he made no merit of his refusal, and that the facts did not come to light till after his death. He kept an exact account of his salary, of his share of the profits accruing from the trade in salt, and of those presents which, according to the fashion of the East, it would be churlish to refuse. Out of the sum arising from these resources, he defrayed the expenses of his situation. The surplus he divided among a few attached friends who had accompanied him to India. He always boasted, and as far as we can judge, he boasted with truth, that this last administration diminished instead of increasing his fortune. One large sum indeed he accepted. Meer Jaffier had left him by will above sixty thousand pounds sterling in specie and jewels: and the rules which had been recently laid down extended only to presents from the living, and did not affect legacies from the dead. Clive took the money, but not for himself. He made the whole over to the Company, in trust for officers and soldiers invalided in their service. The fund which still bears his name owes its origin to this princely donation. After a stay of eighteen months, the state of his health made it necessary for him to return to Europe. At the close of January 1767, he quitted for the last time the country, on whose destinies he had exercised so mighty an influence. His second return from Bengal was not, like his first, greeted by the acclamations of his countrymen. Numerous causes were already at work which embittered the remaining years of his life, and hurried him to an untimely grave. His old enemies at the India House were still powerful and active; and they had been reinforced by a large band of allies whose violence far exceeded their own. The whole crew of pilferers and oppressors from whom he had rescued Bengal persecuted him with the implacable rancour which belongs to such abject natures. Many of them even invested their property in India stock, merely that they might be better able to annoy the man whose firmness had set bounds to their rapacity. Lying newspapers were set up for no purpose but to abuse him; and the temper of the public mind was then such, that these arts, which under ordinary circumstances would have been ineffectual against truth and merit produced an extraordinary impression. The great events which had taken place in India had called into existence a new class of Englishmen, to whom their countrymen gave the name of Nabobs. These persons had generally sprung from families neither ancient nor opulent; they had generally been sent at an early age to the East; and they had there acquired large fortunes, which they had brought back to their native land. It was natural that, not having had much opportunity of mixing with the best society, they should exhibit some of the awkwardness and some of the pomposity of upstarts. It was natural that, during their sojourn in Asia, they should have acquired some tastes and habits surprising, if not disgusting, to persons who never had quitted Europe. It was natural that, having enjoyed great consideration in the East, they should not be disposed to sink into obscurity at home; and as they had money, and had not birth or high connection, it was natural that they should display a little obtrusively the single advantage which they possessed. Wherever they settled there was a kind of feud between them and the old nobility and gentry, similar to that which raged in France between the farmer-general and the marquess. This enmity to the aristocracy long continued to distinguish the servants of the Company. More than twenty years after the time of which we are now speaking, Burke pronounced that among the Jacobins might be reckoned “the East Indians almost to a man, who cannot bear to find that their present importance does not bear a proportion to their wealth.” The Nabobs soon became a most unpopular class of men. Some of them had in the East displayed eminent talents, and rendered great services to the state; but at home their talents were not shown to advantage, and their services were little known. That they had sprung from obscurity, that they had acquired great wealth, that they exhibited it insolently, that they spent it extravagantly, that they raised the price of everything in their neighbourhood, from fresh eggs to rotten boroughs, that their liveries outshone those of dukes, that their coaches were finer than that of the Lord Mayor, that the examples of their large and ill-governed households corrupted half the servants in the country, that some of them, with all their magnificence, could not catch the tone of good society, but, in spite of the stud and the crowd of menials, of the plate and the Dresden china, of the venison and the Burgundy, were still low men; these were things which excited, both in the class from which they had sprung and in the class into which they attempted to force themselves, the bitter aversion which is the effect of mingled envy and contempt. But when it was also rumoured that the fortune which had enabled its possessor to eclipse the Lord Lieutenant on the race-ground, or to carry the county against the head of a house as old as Domesday Book, had been accumulated by violating public faith, by deposing legitimate princes, by reducing whole provinces to beggary, all the higher and better as well as all the low and evil parts of human nature were stirred against the wretch who had obtained by guilt and dishonour the riches which he now lavished with arrogant and inelegant profusion. The unfortunate Nabob seemed to be made up of those foibles against which comedy has pointed the most merciless ridicule, and of those crimes which have thrown the deepest gloom over tragedy, of Turcaret and Nero, of Monsieur Jourdain and Richard the Third. A tempest of execration and derision, such as can be compared only to that outbreak of public feeling against the Puritans which took place at the time of the Restoration, burst on the servants of the Company. The humane man was horror-struck at the way in which they had got their money, the thrifty man at the way in which they spent it. The Dilettante sneered at their want of taste. The Maccaroni black-balled them as vulgar fellows. Writers the most unlike in sentiment and style, Methodists and libertines, philosophers and buffoons, were for once on the same side. It is hardly too much to say that, during a space of about thirty years, the whole lighter literature of England was coloured by the feelings which we have described. Foote brought on the stage an Anglo-Indian chief, dissolute, ungenerous, and tyrannical, ashamed of the humble friends of his youth, hating the aristocracy, yet childishly eager to be numbered among them, squandering his wealth on pandars and flatterers, tricking out his chairmen with the most costly hot-house flowers, and astounding the ignorant with jargon about rupees, lacs, and jaghires. Mackenzie, with more delicate humour, depicted a plain country family raised by the Indian acquisitions of one of its members to sudden opulence, and exciting derision by an awkward mimicry of the manners of the great. Cowper, in that lofty expostulation which glows with the very spirit of the Hebrew poets, placed the oppression of India foremost in the list of those national crimes for which God had punished England with years of disastrous war, with discomfiture in her own seas, and with the loss of her transatlantic empire. If any of our readers will take the trouble to search in the dusty recesses of circulating libraries for some novel published sixty years ago, the chance is that the villain or sub-villain of the story will prove to be a savage old Nabob, with an immense fortune, a tawny complexion, a bad liver, and a worse heart. Such, as far as we can now judge, was the feeling of the country respecting Nabobs in general. And Clive was eminently the Nabob, the ablest, the most celebrated, the highest in rank, the highest in fortune, of all the fraternity. His wealth was exhibited in a manner which could not fail to excite odium. He lived with great magnificence in Berkeley Square. He reared one palace in Shropshire and another at Claremont. His parliamentary influence might vie with that of the greatest families. But in all this splendour and power envy found something to sneer at. On some of his relations wealth and dignity seem to have sat as awkwardly as on Mackenzie’s Margery Mushroom. Nor was he himself, with all his great qualities, free from those weaknesses which the satirists of that age represented as characteristic of his whole class. In the field, indeed, his habits were remarkably simple. He was constantly on horseback, was never seen but in his uniform, never wore silk, never entered a palanquin, and was content with the plainest fare. But when he was no longer at the head of an army, he laid aside this Spartan temperance for the ostentatious luxury of a Sybarite. Though his person was ungraceful, and though his harsh features were redeemed from vulgar ugliness only by their stern, dauntless, and commanding expression, he was fond of rich and gay clothing, and replenished his wardrobe with absurd profusion. Sir John Malcolm gives us a letter worthy of Sir Matthew Mite, in which Clive orders “two hundred shirts, the best and finest that can be got for love or money.” A few follies of this description, grossly exaggerated by report, produced an unfavourable impression on the public mind. But this was not the worst. Black stories, of which the greater part were pure inventions, were circulated touching his conduct in the East. He had to bear the whole odium, not only of those bad acts to which he had once or twice stooped, but of all the bad acts of all the English in India, of bad acts committed when he was absent, nay, of bad acts which he had manfully opposed and severely punished. The very abuses against which he had waged an honest, resolute, and successful war were laid to his account. He was, in fact, regarded as the personification of all the vices and weaknesses which the public, with or without reason, ascribed to the English adventurers in Asia. We have ourselves heard old men, who knew nothing of his history, but who still retained the prejudices conceived in their youth, talk of him as an incarnate fiend. Johnson always held this language. Brown, whom Clive employed to lay out his pleasure grounds, was amazed to see in the house of his noble employer a chest which had once been filled with gold from the treasury of Moorshedabad, and could not understand how the conscience of the criminal could suffer him to sleep with such an object so near to his bedchamber. The peasantry of Surrey looked with mysterious horror on the stately house which was rising at Claremont, and whispered that the great wicked lord had ordered the walls to be made so thick in order to keep out the devil, who would one day carry him away bodily. Among the gaping clowns who drank in this frightful story was a worthless ugly lad of the name of Hunt, since widely known as William Huntington, S.S.; and the superstition which was strangely mingled with the knavery of that remarkable impostor seems to have derived no small nutriment from the tales which he heard of the life and character of Clive. In the meantime, the impulse which Clive had given to the administration of Bengal was constantly becoming fainter and fainter. His policy was to a great extent abandoned; the abuses which he had suppressed began to revive; and at length the evils which a bad government had engendered were aggravated by one of those fearful visitations which the best government cannot avert. In the summer of 1770, the rains failed; the earth was parched up; the tanks were empty; the rivers shrank within their beds; and a famine, such as is known only in countries where every household depends for support on its own little patch of cultivation, filled the whole valley of the Ganges with misery and death. Tender and delicate women, whose veils had never been lifted before the public gaze, came forth from the inner chambers in which Eastern jealousy had kept watch over their beauty, threw themselves on the earth before the passers-by, and, with loud wailings, implored a handful of rice for their children. The Hoogley every day rolled down thousands of corpses close to the porticoes and gardens of the English conquerors. The very streets of Calcutta were blocked up by the dying and the dead. The lean and feeble survivors had not energy enough to bear the bodies of their kindred to the funeral pile or to the holy river, or even to scare away the jackals and vultures, who fed on human remains in the face of day. The extent of the mortality was never ascertained; but it was popularly reckoned by millions. This melancholy intelligence added to the excitement which already prevailed in England on Indian subjects. The proprietors of East India stock were uneasy about their dividends. All men of common humanity were touched by the calamities of our unhappy subjects; and indignation soon began to mingle itself with pity. It was rumoured that the Company’s servants had created the famine by engrossing all the rice of the country; that they had sold grain for eight, ten, twelve times the price at which they had bought it; that one English functionary who, the year before, was not worth a hundred guineas, had, during that season of misery, remitted sixty thousand pounds to London. These charges we believe to have been unfounded. That servants of the Company had ventured, since Clive’s departure, to deal in rice, is probable. That, if they dealt in rice, they must have gained by the scarcity, is certain. But there is no reason for thinking that they either produced or aggravated an evil which physical causes sufficiently explain. The outcry which was raised against them on this occasion was, we suspect, as absurd as the imputations which, in times of dearth at home, were once thrown by statesmen and judges, and are still thrown by two or three old women, on the corn factors. It was, however, so loud and so general that it appears to have imposed even on an intellect raised so high above vulgar prejudices as that of Adam Smith. What was still more extraordinary, these unhappy events greatly increased the unpopularity of Lord Clive. He had been some years in England when the famine took place. None of his acts had the smallest tendency to produce such a calamity. If the servants of the Company had traded in rice, they had done so in direct contravention of the rule which he had laid down, and, while in power, had resolutely enforced. But, in the eyes of his countrymen, he was, as we have said, the Nabob, the Anglo-Indian character personified; and, while he was building and planting in Surrey, he was held responsible for all the effects of a dry season in Bengal. Parliament had hitherto bestowed very little attention on our Eastern possessions. Since the death of George the Second, a rapid succession of weak administrations, each of which was in turn flattered and betrayed by the Court, had held the semblance of power. Intrigues in the palace, riots in the capital, and insurrectionary movements in the American colonies, had left the advisers of the Crown little leisure to study Indian politics. When they did interfere, their interference was feeble and irresolute. Lord Chatham, indeed, during the short period of his ascendency in the councils of George the Third, had meditated a bold attack on the Company. But his plans were rendered abortive by the strange malady which about that time began to overcloud his splendid genius. At length, in 1772, it was generally felt that Parliament could no longer neglect the affairs of India. The Government was stronger than any which had held power since the breach between Mr. Pitt and the great Whig connection in 1761. No pressing question of domestic or European policy required the attention of public men. There was a short and delusive lull between two tempests. The excitement produced by the Middlesex election was over; the discontents of America did not yet threaten civil war; the financial difficulties of the Company brought on a crisis; the Ministers were forced to take up the subject; and the whole storm, which had long been gathering, now broke at once on the head of Clive. His situation was indeed singularly unfortunate. He was hated throughout the country, hated at the India House, hated, above all, by those wealthy and powerful servants of the Company, whose rapacity and tyranny he had withstood. He had to bear the double odium of his bad and of his good actions, of every Indian abuse and of every Indian reform. The state of the political world was such that he could count on the support of no powerful connection. The party to which he had belonged, that of George Grenville, had been hostile to the Government, and yet had never cordially united with the other sections of the Opposition, with the little band which still followed the fortunes of Lord Chatham, or with the large and respectable body of which Lord Rockingham was the acknowledged leader. George Grenville was now dead: his followers were scattered; and Clive, unconnected with any of the powerful factions which divided the Parliament, could reckon only on the votes of those members who were returned by himself. His enemies, particularly those who were the enemies of his virtues, were unscrupulous, ferocious, implacable. Their malevolence aimed at nothing less than the utter ruin of his fame and fortune. They wished to see him expelled from Parliament, to see his spurs chopped off, to see his estate confiscated; and it may be doubted whether even such a result as this would have quenched their thirst for revenge. Clive’s parliamentary tactics resembled his military tactics. Deserted, surrounded, outnumbered, and with everything at stake, he did not even deign to stand on the defensive, but pushed boldly forward to the attack. At an early stage of the discussions on Indian affairs he rose, and in a long and elaborate speech vindicated himself from a large part of the accusations which had been brought against him. He is said to have produced a great impression on his audience. Lord Chatham, who, now the ghost of his former self, loved to haunt the scene of his glory, was that night under the gallery of the House of Commons, and declared that he had never heard a finer speech. It was subsequently printed under Clive’s direction, and, when the fullest allowance has been made for the assistance which he may have obtained from literary friends, proves him to have possessed, not merely strong sense and a manly spirit, but talents both for disquisition and declamation which assiduous culture might have improved into the highest excellence. He confined his defence on this occasion to the measures of his last administration, and succeeded so far that his enemies thenceforth thought it expedient to direct their attacks chiefly against the earlier part of his life. The earlier part of his life unfortunately presented some assailable points to their hostility. A committee was chosen by ballot to inquire into the affairs of India; and by this committee the whole history of that great revolution which threw down Surajah Dowlah and raised Meer Jaffier was sifted with malignant care. Clive was subjected to the most unsparing examination and cross-examination, and afterwards bitterly complained that he, the Baron of Plassey, had been treated like a sheep-stealer. The boldness and ingenuousness of his replies would alone suffice to show how alien from his nature were the frauds to which, in the course of his Eastern negotiations, he had sometimes descended. He avowed the arts which he had employed to deceive Omichund, and resolutely said that he was not ashamed of them, and that, in the same circumstances, he would again act in the same manner. He admitted that he had received immense sums from Meer Jaffier; but he denied that, in doing so, he had violated any obligation of morality or honour. He laid claim, on the contrary, and not without some reason, to the praise of eminent disinterestedness. He described in vivid language the situation in which his victory had placed him: great princes dependent on his pleasure; an opulent city afraid of being given up to plunder; wealthy bankers bidding against each other for his smiles; vaults piled with gold and jewels thrown open to him alone. “By God, Mr. Chairman,” he exclaimed, “at this moment I stand astonished at my own moderation.” The inquiry was so extensive that the Houses rose before it had been completed. It was continued in the following session. When at length the committee had concluded its labours, enlightened and impartial men had little difficulty in making up their minds as to the result. It was clear that Clive had been guilty of some acts which it is impossible to vindicate without attacking the authority of all the most sacred laws which regulate the intercourse of individuals and of states. But it was equally clear that he had displayed great talents, and even great virtues; that he had rendered eminent services both to his country and to the people of India; and that it was in truth not for his dealings with Meer Jaffier, nor for the fraud which he had practised on Omichund, but for his determined resistance to avarice and tyranny, that he was now called in question. Ordinary criminal justice knows nothing of set-off. The greatest desert cannot be pleaded in answer to a charge of the slightest transgression. If a man has sold beer on a Sunday morning, it is no defence that he has saved the life of a fellow-creature at the risk of his own. If he has harnessed a Newfoundland dog to his little child’s carriage, it is no defence that he was wounded at Waterloo. But it is not in this way that we ought to deal with men who, raised far above ordinary restraints, and tried by far more than ordinary temptations, are entitled to a more than ordinary measure of indulgence. Such men should be judged by their contemporaries as they will be judged by posterity. Their bad actions ought not indeed to be called good; but their good and bad actions ought to be fairly weighed; and if on the whole the good preponderate, the sentence ought to be one, not merely of acquittal, but of approbation. Not a single great ruler in history can be absolved by a judge who fixes his eye inexorably on one or two unjustifiable acts. Bruce the deliverer of Scotland, Maurice the deliverer of Germany, William the deliverer of Holland, his great descendant the deliverer of England, Murray the good regent, Cosmo the father of his country, Henry the Fourth of France, Peter the Great of Russia, how would the best of them pass such a scrutiny? History takes wider views; and the best tribunal for great political cases is the tribunal which anticipates the verdict of history. Reasonable and moderate men of all parties felt this in Clive’s case. They could not pronounce him blameless; but they were not disposed to abandon him to that low-minded and rancorous pack who had run him down and were eager to worry him to death. Lord North, though not very friendly to him, was not disposed to go to extremities against him. While the inquiry was still in progress, Clive, who had some years before been created a Knight of the Bath, was installed with great pomp in Henry the Seventh’s Chapel. He was soon after appointed Lord Lieutenant of Shropshire. When he kissed hands, George the Third, who had always been partial to him, admitted him to a private audience, talked to him half an hour on Indian politics, and was visibly affected when the persecuted general spoke of his services and of the way in which they had been requited. At length the charges came in a definite form before the House of Commons. Burgoyne, chairman of the committee, a man of wit, fashion, and honour, an agreeable dramatic writer, an officer whose courage was never questioned, and whose skill was at that time highly esteemed, appeared as the accuser. The members of the administration took different sides; for in that age all questions were open questions, except such as were brought forward by the Government, or such as implied censure on the Government. Thurlow, the Attorney-General, was among the assailants. Wedderburne, the Solicitor-General, strongly attached to Clive, defended his friend with extraordinary force of argument and language. It is a curious circumstance that, some years later, Thurlow was the most conspicuous champion of Warren Hastings, while Wedderburne was among the most unrelenting persecutors of that great though not faultless statesman. Clive spoke in his own defence at less length and with less art than in the preceding year, but with much energy and pathos. He recounted his great actions and his wrongs; and, after bidding his hearers remember, that they were about to decide not only on his honour but on their own, he retired from the House. The Commons resolved that acquisitions made by the arms of the State belong to the State alone, and that it is illegal in the servants of the State to appropriate such acquisitions to themselves. They resolved that this wholesome rule appeared to have been systematically violated by the English functionaries in Bengal. On a subsequent day they went a step further, and resolved that Clive had, by means of the power which he possessed as commander of the British forces in India, obtained large sums from Meer Jaffier. Here the Commons stopped. They had voted the major and minor of Burgoyne’s syllogism; but they shrank from drawing the logical conclusion. When it was moved that Lord Clive had abused his powers, and set an evil example to the servants of the public, the previous question was put and carried. At length, long after the sun had risen on an animated debate, Wedderburne moved that Lord Clive had at the same time rendered great and meritorious services to his country; and this motion passed without a division. The result of this memorable inquiry appears to us, on the whole, honourable to the justice, moderation, and discernment of the Commons. They had indeed no great temptation to do wrong. They would have been very bad judges of an accusation brought against Jenkinson or against Wilkes. But the question respecting Clive was not a party question; and the House accordingly acted with the good sense and good feeling which may always be expected from an assembly of English gentlemen, not blinded by faction. The equitable and temperate proceedings of the British Parliament were set off to the greatest advantage by a foil. The wretched government of Lewis the Fifteenth had murdered, directly or indirectly, almost every Frenchman who had served his country with distinction in the East. Labourdonnais was flung into the Bastile, and, after years of suffering, left it only to die. Dupleix, stripped of his immense fortune, and broken-hearted by humiliating attendance in ante-chambers, sank into an obscure grave. Lally was dragged to the common place of execution with a gag between his lips. The Commons of England, on the other hand, treated their living captain with that discriminating justice which is seldom shown except to the dead. They laid down sound general principles; they delicately pointed out where he had deviated from those principles; and they tempered the gentle censure with liberal eulogy. The contrast struck Voltaire, always partial to England, and always eager to expose the abuses of the Parliaments of France. Indeed he seems, at this time, to have meditated a history of the conquest of Bengal. He mentioned his design to Dr. Moore, when that amusing writer visited him at Ferney. Wedderburne took great interest in the matter, and pressed Clive to furnish materials. Had the plan been carried into execution, we have no doubt that Voltaire would have produced a book containing much lively and picturesque narrative, many just and humane sentiments poignantly expressed, many grotesque blunders, many sneers at the Mosaic chronology, much scandal about the Catholic missionaries, and much sublime theo-philanthropy, stolen from the New Testament, and put into the mouths of virtuous and philosophical Brahmins. Clive was now secure in the enjoyment of his fortune and his honours. He was surrounded by attached friends and relations; and he had not yet passed the season of vigorous bodily and mental exertion. But clouds had long been gathering over his mind, and now settled on it in thick darkness. From early youth he had been subject to fits of that strange melancholy “which rejoiceth exceedingly and is glad when it can find the grave.” While still a writer at Madras, he had twice attempted to destroy himself. Business and prosperity had produced a salutary effect on his spirits. In India, while he was occupied by great affairs, in England, while wealth and rank had still the charm of novelty, he had borne up against his constitutional misery. But he had now nothing to do, and nothing to wish for. His active spirit in an inactive situation drooped and withered like a plant in an uncongenial air. The malignity with which his enemies had pursued him, the indignity with which he had been treated by the committee, the censure, lenient as it was, which the House of Commons had pronounced, the knowledge that he was regarded by a large portion of his countrymen as a cruel and perfidious tyrant, all concurred to irritate and depress him. In the meantime, his temper was tried by acute physical suffering. During his long residence in tropical climates, he had contracted several painful distempers. In order to obtain ease he called in the help of opium; and he was gradually enslaved by this treacherous ally. To the last, however, his genius occasionally flashed through the gloom. It was said that he would sometimes, after sitting silent and torpid for hours, rouse himself to the discussion of some great question, would display in full vigour all the talents of the soldier and the statesman, and would then sink back into his melancholy repose. The disputes with America had now become so serious that an appeal to the sword seemed inevitable; and the Ministers were desirous to avail themselves of the services of Clive. Had he still been what he was when he raised the siege of Patna and annihilated the Dutch army and navy at the mouth of the Ganges, it is not improbable that the resistance of the colonists would have been put down, and that the inevitable separation would have been deferred for a few years. But it was too late. His strong mind was fast sinking under many kinds of suffering. On the twenty-second of November, 1774, he died by his own hand. He had just completed his forty-ninth year. In the awful close of so much prosperity and glory, the vulgar saw only a confirmation of all their prejudices; and some men of real piety and genius so far forgot the maxims both of religion and of philosophy as confidently to ascribe the mournful event to the just vengeance of God, and to the horrors of an evil conscience. It is with very different feelings that we contemplate the spectacle of a great mind ruined by the weariness of satiety, by the pangs of wounded honour, by fatal diseases, and more fatal remedies. Clive committed great faults; and we have not attempted to disguise them. But his faults, when weighed against his merits, and viewed in connection with his temptations, do not appear to us to deprive him of his right to an honourable place in the estimation of posterity. From his first visit to India dates the renown of the English arms in the East. Till he appeared, his countrymen were despised as mere pedlars, while the French were revered as a people formed for victory and command. His courage and capacity dissolved the charm. With the defence of Arcot commences that long series of Oriental triumphs which closes with the fall of Ghizni. Nor must we forget that he was only twenty-five years old when he approved himself ripe for military command. This is a rare if not a singular distinction. It is true that Alexander, Conde, and Charles the Twelfth, won great battles at a still earlier age--but those princes were surrounded by veteran generals of distinguished skill, to whose suggestions must be attributed the victories of the Granicus, of Rocroi and of Narva. Clive, an inexperienced youth, had yet more experience than any of those who served under him. He had to form himself, to form his officers, and to form his army. The only man, as far as we recollect, who at an equally early age ever gave equal proof of talents for war, was Napoleon Bonaparte. From Clive’s second visit to India dates the political ascendency of the English in that country. His dexterity and resolution realised, in the course of a few months, more than an the gorgeous visions which had floated before the imagination of Dupleix. Such an extent of cultivated territory, such an amount of revenue, such a multitude of subjects, was never added to the dominion of Rome by the most successful proconsul. Nor were such wealthy spoils ever borne under arches of triumph, down the Sacred Way, and through the crowded Forum, to the threshold of Tarpeian Jove. The fame of those who subdued Antiochus and Tigranes grows dim when compared with the splendour of the exploits which the young English adventurer achieved at the head of an army not equal in numbers to one half of a Roman legion. From Clive’s third visit to India dates the purity of the administration of our Eastern empire. When he landed in Calcutta in 1765, Bengal was regarded as a place to which Englishmen were sent only to get rich, by any means, in the shortest possible time. He first made dauntless and unsparing war on that gigantic system of oppression, extortion, and corruption. In that war he manfully put to hazard his ease, his fame, and his splendid fortune. The same sense of justice which forbids us to conceal or extenuate the faults of his earlier days compels us to admit that those faults were nobly repaired. If the reproach of the Company and of its servants has been taken away, if in India the yoke of foreign masters, elsewhere the heaviest of all yokes, has been found lighter than that of any native dynasty, if to that gang of public robbers, which formerly spread terror through the whole plain of Bengal, has succeeded a body of functionaries not more highly distinguished by ability and diligence than by integrity, disinterestedness, and public spirit, if we now see such men as Munro, Elphinstone, and Metcalfe, after leading victorious armies, after making and deposing kings, return, proud of their honourable poverty, from a land which once held out to every greedy factor the hope of boundless wealth, the praise is in no small measure due to Clive. His name stands high on the roll of conquerors. But it is found in a better list, in the list of those who have done and suffered much for the happiness of mankind. To the warrior, history will assign a place in the same rank with Lucullus and Trajan. Nor will she deny to the reformer a share of that veneration with which France cherishes the memory of Turgot, and with which the latest generations of Hindoos will contemplate the statue of Lord William Bentinck. WARREN HASTINGS (October 1841) _Memoirs of the Life of Warren Hastings, first Governor-General of Bengal. Compiled from Original Papers, by the Rev. G.R. GLEIG M.A. 3 vols. 8vo. London: 1841._ WE are inclined to think that we shall best meet the wishes of our readers, if, instead of minutely examining this book, we attempt to give, in a way necessarily hasty and imperfect, our own view of the life and character of Mr. Hastings. Our feeling towards him is not exactly that of the House of Commons which impeached him in 1787; neither is it that of the House of Commons which uncovered and stood up to receive him in 1813. He had great qualities, and he rendered great services to the State. But to represent him as a man of stainless virtue is to make him ridiculous; and from regard for his memory, if from no other feeling, his friends would have done well to lend no countenance to such adulation. We believe that, if he were now living, he would have sufficient judgment and sufficient greatness of mind to wish to be shown as he was. He must have known that there were dark spots on his fame. He might also have felt with pride that the splendour of his fame would bear many spots. He would have wished posterity to have a likeness of him, though an unfavourable likeness, rather than a daub at once insipid and unnatural, resembling neither him nor anybody else. “Paint me as I am,” said Oliver Cromwell, while sitting to young Lely. “If you leave out the scars and wrinkles, I will not pay you a shilling.” Even in such a trifle, the great Protector showed both his good sense and his magnanimity. He did not wish all that was characteristic in his countenance to be lost, in the vain attempt to give him the regular features and smooth blooming cheeks of the curl-pated minions of James the First. He was content that his face should go forth marked with all the blemishes which had been put on it by time, by war, by sleepless nights, by anxiety, perhaps by remorse; but with valour, policy, authority, and public care written in all its princely lines. If men truly great knew their own interest, it is thus that they would wish their minds to be portrayed. Warren Hastings sprang from an ancient and illustrious race. It has been affirmed that his pedigree can be traced back to the great Danish sea-king, whose sails were long the terror of both coasts of the British Channel, and who, after many fierce and doubtful struggles, yielded at last to the valour and genius of Alfred. But the undoubted splendour of the line of Hastings needs no illustration from fable. One branch of that line wore, in the fourteenth century, the coronet of Pembroke. From another branch sprang the renowned Chamberlain, the faithful adherent of the White Rose, whose fate has furnished so striking a theme both to poets and to historians. His family received from the Tudors the earldom of Huntingdon, which, after long dispossession, was regained in our time by a series of events scarcely paralleled in romance. The lords of the manor of Daylesford, in Worcestershire, claimed to be considered as the heads of this distinguished family. The main stock, indeed, prospered less than some of the younger shoots. But the Daylesford family, though not ennobled, was wealthy and highly considered, till, about two hundred years ago, it was overwhelmed by the great ruin of the civil war. The Hastings of that time was a zealous cavalier. He raised money on his lands, sent his plate to the mint at Oxford, joined the royal army, and, after spending half his property in the cause of King Charles, was glad to ransom himself by making over most of the remaining half to Speaker Lenthal. The old seat at Daylesford still remained in the family; but it could no longer be kept up: and in the following generation it was sold to a merchant of London. Before this transfer took place, the last Hastings of Daylesford had presented his second son to the rectory of the parish in which the ancient residence of the family stood. The living was of little value; and the situation of the poor clergyman, after the sale of the estate, was deplorable. He was constantly engaged in lawsuits about his tithes with the new lord of the manor, and was at length utterly ruined. His eldest son, Howard, a well-conducted young man, obtained a place in the Customs. The second son, Pynaston, an idle worthless boy, married before he was sixteen, lost his wife in two years, and died in the West Indies, leaving to the care of his unfortunate father a little orphan, destined to strange and memorable vicissitudes of fortune. Warren, the son of Pynaston, was born on the sixth of December, 1731. His mother died a few days later, and he was left dependent on his distressed grandfather. The child was early sent to the village school, where he learned his letters on the same bench with the sons of the peasantry; nor did anything in his garb or face indicate that his life was to take a widely different course from that of the young rustics with whom he studied and played. But no cloud could overcast the dawn of so much genius and so much ambition. The very ploughmen observed, and long remembered, how kindly little Warren took to his book. The daily sight of the lands which his ancestors had possessed, and which had passed into the hands of strangers, filled his young brain with wild fancies and projects. He loved to hear stories of the wealth and greatness of his progenitors, of their splendid housekeeping, their loyalty, and their valour. On one bright summer day, the boy, then just seven years old, lay on the bank of the rivulet which flows through the old domain of his house to join the Isis. There, as threescore and ten years later he told the tale, rose in his mind a scheme which, through all the turns of his eventful career, was never abandoned. He would recover the estate which had belonged to his fathers. He would be Hastings of Daylesford. This purpose, formed in infancy and poverty, grew stronger as his intellect expanded and as his fortune rose. He pursued his plan with that calm but indomitable force of will which was the most striking peculiarity of his character. When, under a tropical sun, he ruled fifty millions of Asiatics, his hopes, amidst all the cares of war, finance, and legislation, still pointed to Daylesford. And when his long public life, so singularly chequered with good and evil, with glory and obloquy, had at length closed for ever, it was to Daylesford that he retired to die. When he was eight years old, his uncle Howard determined to take charge of him, and to give him a liberal education. The boy went up to London, and was sent to a school at Newington, where he was well taught but ill fed. He always attributed the smallness of his stature to the hard and scanty fare of this seminary. At ten he was removed to Westminster school, then flourishing under the care of Dr. Nichols. Vinny Bourne, as his pupils affectionately called him, was one of the masters. Churchill, Colman, Lloyd, Cumberland, Cowper, were among the students. With Cowper, Hastings formed a friendship which neither the lapse of time, nor a wide dissimilarity of opinions and pursuits, could wholly dissolve. It does not appear that they ever met after they had grown to manhood. But forty years later, when the voices of many great orators were crying for vengeance on the oppressor of India, the shy and secluded poet could image to himself Hastings the Governor-General only as the Hastings with whom he had rowed on the Thames and played in the cloister, and refused to believe that so good-tempered a fellow could have done anything very wrong. His own life had been spent in praying, musing, and rhyming among the waterlilies of the Ouse. He had preserved in no common measure the innocence of childhood. His spirit had indeed been severely tried, but not by temptations which impelled him to any gross violation of the rules of social morality. He had never been attacked by combinations of powerful and deadly enemies. He had never been compelled to make a choice between innocence and greatness, between crime and ruin. Firmly as he held in theory the doctrine of human depravity, his habits were such that he was unable to conceive how far from the path of right even kind and noble natures may be hurried by the rage of conflict and the lust of dominion. Hastings had another associate at Westminster of whom we shall have occasion to make frequent mention, Elijah Impey. We know little about their school days. But, we think, we may safely venture to guess that, whenever Hastings wished to play any trick more than usually naughty, he hired Impey with a tart or a ball to act as fag in the worst part of the prank. Warren was distinguished among his comrades as an excellent swimmer, boatman, and scholar. At fourteen he was first in the examination for the foundation. His name in gilded letters on the walls of the dormitory still attests his victory over many older competitors. He stayed two years longer at the school, and was looking forward to a studentship at Christ Church, when an event happened which changed the whole course of his life. Howard Hastings died, bequeathing his nephew to the care of a friend and distant relation, named Chiswick. This gentleman, though he did not absolutely refuse the charge, was desirous to rid himself of it as soon as possible. Dr. Nichols made strong remonstrances against the cruelty of interrupting the studies of a youth who seemed likely to be one of the first scholars of the age. He even offered to bear the expense of sending his favourite pupil to Oxford. But Mr. Chiswick was inflexible. He thought the years which had already been wasted on hexameters and pentameters quite sufficient. He had it in his power to obtain for the lad a writership in the service of the East India Company. Whether the young adventurer, when once shipped off, made a fortune, or died of a liver complaint, he equally ceased to be a burden to anybody. Warren was accordingly removed from Westminster school, and placed for a few months at a commercial academy, to study arithmetic and book-keeping. In January 1750, a few days after he had completed his seventeenth year, he sailed for Bengal, and arrived at his destination in the October following. He was immediately placed at a desk in the Secretary’s office at Calcutta, and laboured there during two years. Fort William was then purely a commercial settlement. In the south of India the encroaching policy of Dupleix had transformed the servants of the English Company, against their will, into diplomatists and Generals. The war of the succession was raging in the Carnatic; and the tide had been suddenly turned against the French by the genius of young Robert Clive. But in Bengal the European settlers, at peace with the natives and with each other, were wholly occupied with ledgers and bills of lading. After two years passed in keeping accounts at Calcutta, Hastings was sent up the country to Cossimbazar, a town which lies on the Hoogley, about a mile from Moorshedabad, and which then bore to Moorshedabad a relation, if we may compare small things with great, such as the city of London bears to Westminster. Moorshedabad was the abode of the prince who, by an authority ostensibly derived from the Mogul, but really independent, ruled the three great provinces of Bengal, Orissa, and Bahar. At Moorshedabad were the court, the harem, and the public offices. Cossimbazar was a port and a place of trade, renowned for the quantity and excellence of the silks which were sold in its marts, and constantly receiving and sending forth fleets of richly laden barges. At this important point, the Company had established a small factory subordinate to that of Fort William. Here, during several years, Hastings was employed in making bargains for stuffs with native brokers. While he was thus engaged, Surajah Dowlah succeeded to the government, and declared war against the English. The defenceless settlement of Cossimbazar, lying close to the tyrant’s capital, was instantly seized. Hastings was sent a prisoner to Moorshedabad, but, in consequence of the humane intervention of the servants of the Dutch Company, was treated with indulgence. Meanwhile the Nabob marched on Calcutta; the governor and the commandant fled; the town and citadel were taken, and most of the English prisoners perished in the Black Hole. In these events originated the greatness of Warren Hastings. The fugitive governor and his companions had taken refuge on the dreary islet of Fulda, near the mouth of the Hoogley. They were naturally desirous to obtain full information respecting the proceedings of the Nabob; and no person seemed so likely to furnish it as Hastings, who was a prisoner at large in the immediate neighbourhood of the court. He thus became a diplomatic agent, and soon established a high character for ability and resolution. The treason which at a later period was fatal to Surajah Dowlah was already in progress; and Hastings was admitted to the deliberations of the conspirators. But the time for striking had not arrived. It was necessary to postpone the execution of the design; and Hastings, who was now in extreme peril, fled to Fulda. Soon after his arrival at Fulda, the expedition from Madras, commanded by Clive, appeared in the Hoogley. Warren, young, intrepid, and excited probably by the example of the Commander of the Forces, who, having like himself been a mercantile agent of the Company, had been turned by public calamities into a soldier, determined to serve in the ranks. During the early operations of the war he carried a musket. But the quick eye of Clive soon perceived that the head of the young volunteer would be more useful than his arm. When, after the battle of Plassey, Meer Jaffier was proclaimed Nabob of Bengal, Hastings was appointed to reside at the court of the new prince as agent for the Company. He remained at Moorshedabad till the year 1761, when he became a Member of Council, and was consequently forced to reside at Calcutta. This was during the interval between Clive’s first and second administration, an interval which has left on the fame of the East India Company a stain not wholly effaced by many years of just and humane government. Mr. Vansittart, the Governor, was at the head of a new and anomalous empire. On one side was a band of English functionaries, daring, intelligent, eager to be rich. On the other side was a great native population, helpless, timid, accustomed to crouch under oppression. To keep the stronger race from preying on the weaker, was an undertaking which tasked to the utmost the talents and energy of Clive. Vansittart, with fair intentions, was a feeble and inefficient ruler. The master caste, as was natural, broke loose from all restraint; and then was seen what we believe to be the most frightful of all spectacles, the strength of civilisation without its mercy. To all other despotism there is a check, imperfect indeed, and liable to gross abuse, but still sufficient to preserve society from the last extreme of misery. A time comes when the evils of submission are obviously greater than those of resistance, when fear itself begets a sort of courage, when a convulsive burst of popular rage and despair warns tyrants not to presume too far on the patience of mankind. But against misgovernment such as then afflicted Bengal it was impossible to struggle. The superior intelligence and energy of the dominant class made their power irresistible. A war of Bengalees against Englishmen was like a war of sheep against wolves, of men against daemons. The only protection which the conquered could find was in the moderation, the clemency, the enlarged policy of the conquerors. That protection, at a later period, they found. But at first English power came among them unaccompanied by English morality. There was an interval between the time at which they became our subjects, and the time at which we began to reflect that we were bound to discharge towards them the duties of rulers. During that interval the business of a servant of the Company was simply to wring out of the natives a hundred or two hundred thousand pounds as speedily as possible, that he might return home before his constitution had suffered from the heat, to marry a peer’s daughter, to buy rotten boroughs in Cornwall, and to give balls in St. James’s Square. Of the conduct of Hastings at this time little is known; but the little that is known, and the circumstance that little is known, must be considered as honourable to him. He could not protect the natives: all that he could do was to abstain from plundering and oppressing them; and this he appears to have done. It is certain that at this time he continued poor; and it is equally certain that by cruelty and dishonesty he might easily have become rich. It is certain that he was never charged with having borne a share in the worst abuses which then prevailed; and it is almost equally certain that, if he had borne a share in those abuses, the able and bitter enemies who afterwards persecuted him would not have failed to discover and to proclaim his guilt. The keen, severe, and even malevolent scrutiny to which his whole public life was subjected, a scrutiny unparalleled, as we believe, in the history of mankind, is in one respect advantageous to his reputation. It brought many lamentable blemishes to light; but it entitles him to be considered pure from every blemish which has not been brought to light. The truth is that the temptations to which so many English functionaries yielded in the time of Mr. Vansittart were not temptations addressed to the ruling passions of Warren Hastings. He was not squeamish in pecuniary transactions; but he was neither sordid nor rapacious. He was far too enlightened a man to look on a great empire merely as a buccaneer would look on a galleon. Had his heart been much worse than it was, his understanding would have preserved him from that extremity of baseness. He was an unscrupulous, perhaps an unprincipled statesman; but still he was a statesman, and not a freebooter. In 1764 Hastings returned to England. He had realised only a very moderate fortune; and that moderate fortune was soon reduced to nothing, partly by his praiseworthy liberality, and partly by his mismanagement. Towards his relations he appears to have acted very generously. The greater part of his savings he left in Bengal, hoping probably to obtain the high usury of India. But high usury and bad security generally go together; and Hastings lost both interest and principal. He remained four years in England. Of his life at this time very little is known. But it has been asserted, and is highly probable, that liberal studies and the society of men of letters occupied a great part of his time. It is to be remembered to his honour that, in days when the languages of the East were regarded by other servants of the Company merely as the means of communicating with weavers and moneychangers, his enlarged and accomplished mind sought in Asiatic learning for new forms of intellectual enjoyment, and for new views of government and society. Perhaps, like most persons who have paid much attention to departments of knowledge which he out of the common track, he was inclined to overrate the value of his favourite studies. He conceived that the cultivation of Persian literature might with advantage be made a part of the liberal education of an English gentleman; and he drew up a plan with that view. It is said that the University of Oxford, in which Oriental learning had never, since the revival of letters, been wholly neglected, was to be the seat of the institution which he contemplated. An endowment was expected from the munificence of the Company: and professors thoroughly competent to interpret Hafiz and Ferdusi were to be engaged in the East. Hastings called on Johnson, with the hope, as it should seem, of interesting in this project a man who enjoyed the highest literary reputation, and who was particularly connected with Oxford. The interview appears to have left on Johnson’s mind a most favourable impression of the talents and attainments of his visitor. Long after, when Hastings was ruling the immense population of British India, the old philosopher wrote to him, and referred in the most courtly terms, though with great dignity, to their short but agreeable intercourse. Hastings soon began to look again towards India. He had little to attach him to England; and his pecuniary embarrassments were great. He solicited his old masters the Directors for employment, They acceded to his request, with high compliments both to his abilities and to his integrity, and appointed him a Member of Council at Madras. It would be unjust not to mention that, though forced to borrow money for his outfit, he did not withdraw any portion of the sum which he had appropriated to the relief of his distressed relations. In the spring of 1769 he embarked on board of the Duke of Grafton, and commenced a voyage distinguished by incidents which might furnish matter for a novel. Among the passengers in the Duke of Grafton was a German of the name of Imhoff. He called himself a Baron; but he was in distressed circumstances, and was going out to Madras as a portrait-painter, in the hope of picking up some of the pagodas which were then lightly got and as lightly spent by the English in India. The Baron was accompanied by his wife, a native, we have somewhere read, of Archangel. This young woman, who, born under the Arctic circle, was destined to play the part of a Queen under the tropic of Cancer, had an agreeable person, a cultivated mind, and manners in the highest degree engaging. She despised her husband heartily, and, as the story which we have to tell sufficiently proves, not without reason. She was interested by the conversation and flattered by the attentions of Hastings. The situation was indeed perilous. No place is so propitious to the formation either of close friendships or of deadly enmities as an Indiaman. There are very few people who do not find a voyage which lasts several months insupportably dull. Anything is welcome which may break that long monotony, a sail, a shark, an albatross, a man overboard. Most passengers find some resource in eating twice as many meals as on land. But the great devices for killing the time are quarrelling and flirting. The facilities for both these exciting pursuits are great. The inmates of the ship are thrown together far more than in any country-seat or boarding-house. None can escape from the rest except by imprisoning himself in a cell in which he can hardly turn. All food, all exercise, is taken in company. Ceremony is to a great extent banished. It is every day in the power of a mischievous person to inflict innumerable annoyances. It is every day in the power of an amiable person to confer little services. It not seldom happens that serious distress and danger call forth, in genuine beauty and deformity, heroic virtues and abject vices which, in the ordinary intercourse of good society, might remain during many years unknown even to intimate associates. Under such circumstances met Warren Hastings and the Baroness Imhoff, two persons whose accomplishments would have attracted notice in any court of Europe. The gentleman had no domestic ties. The lady was tied to a husband for whom she had no regard, and who had no regard for his own honour. An attachment sprang up, which was soon strengthened by events such as could hardly have occurred on land. Hastings fell ill. The Baroness nursed him with womanly tenderness, gave him his medicines with her own hand, and even sat up in his cabin while he slept. Long before the Duke of Grafton reached Madras, Hastings was in love. But his love was of a most characteristic description. Like his hatred, like his ambition, like all his passions, it was strong, but not impetuous. It was calm, deep, earnest, patient of delay, unconquerable by time. Imhoff was called into council by his wife and his wife’s lover. It was arranged that the Baroness should institute a suit for a divorce in the courts of Franconia, that the Baron should afford every facility to the proceeding, and that, during the years which might elapse before the sentence should be pronounced, they should continue to live together. It was also agreed that Hastings should bestow some very substantial marks of gratitude on the complaisant husband, and should, when the marriage was dissolved, make the lady his wife, and adopt the children whom she had already borne to Imhoff. At Madras, Hastings found the trade of the Company in a very disorganised state. His own tastes would have led him rather to political than to commercial pursuits: but he knew that the favour of his employers depended chiefly on their dividends, and that their dividends depended chiefly on the investment. He, therefore, with great judgment, determined to apply his vigorous mind for a time to this department of business, which had been much neglected, since the servants of the Company had ceased to be clerks, and had become warriors and negotiators. In a very few months he effected an important reform. The Directors notified to him their high approbation, and were so much pleased with his conduct that they determined to place him at the head of the government at Bengal. Early in 1772 he quitted Fort St. George for his new post. The Imhoffs, who were still man and wife, accompanied him, and lived at Calcutta on the same plan which they had already followed during more than two years. When Hastings took his seat at the head of the council-board, Bengal was still governed according to the system which Clive had devised, a system which was, perhaps, skilfully contrived for the purpose of facilitating and concealing a great revolution, but which, when that revolution was complete and irrevocable, could produce nothing but inconvenience. There were two governments, the real and the ostensible. The supreme power belonged to the Company, and was in truth the most despotic power that can be conceived. The only restraint on the English masters of the country was that which their own justice and humanity imposed on them. There was no constitutional check on their will, and resistance to them was utterly hopeless. But though thus absolute in reality the English had not yet assumed the style of sovereignty. They held their territories as vassals of the throne of Delhi; they raised their revenues as collectors appointed by the imperial commission; their public seal was inscribed with the imperial titles; and their mint struck only the imperial coin. There was still a nabob of Bengal, who stood to the English rulers of his country in the same relation in which Augustulus stood to Odoacer, or the last Merovingians to Charles Martel and Pepin. He lived at Moorshedabad, surrounded by princely magnificence. He was approached with outward marks of reverence, and his name was used in public instruments. But in the government of the country he had less real share than the youngest writer or cadet in the Company’s service. The English council which represented the Company at Calcutta was constituted on a very different plan from that which has since been adopted. At present the Governor is, as to all executive measures, absolute. He can declare war, conclude peace, appoint public functionaries or remove them, in opposition to the unanimous sense of those who sit with him in council. They are, indeed, entitled to know all that is done, to discuss all that is done, to advise, to remonstrate, to send protests to England. But it is with the Governor that the supreme power resides, and on him that the whole responsibility rests. This system, which was introduced by Mr. Pitt and Mr. Dundas in spite of the strenuous opposition of Mr. Burke, we conceive to be on the whole the best that was ever devised for the government of a country where no materials can be found for a representative constitution. In the time of Hastings the Governor had only one vote in council, and, in case of an equal division, a casting vote. It therefore happened not unfrequently that he was overruled on the gravest questions and it was possible that he might be wholly excluded, for years together, from the real direction of public affairs. The English functionaries at Fort William had as yet paid little or no attention to the internal government of Bengal. The only branch of politics about which they much busied themselves was negotiation with the native princes. The police, the administration of justice, the details of the collection of revenue, were almost entirely neglected. We may remark that the phraseology of the Company’s servants still bears the traces of this state of things. To this day they always use the word “political,” as synonymous with “diplomatic.” We could name a gentleman still living, who was described by the highest authority as an invaluable public servant, eminently fit to be at the head of the internal administration of a whole presidency, but unfortunately quite ignorant of all political business. The internal government of Bengal the English rulers delegated to a great native minister, who was stationed at Moorshedabad. All military affairs, and, with the exception of what pertains to mere ceremonial, all foreign affairs, were withdrawn from his control; but the other departments of the administration were entirely confided to him. His own stipend amounted to near a hundred thousand pounds sterling a year. The personal allowance of the nabob, amounting to more than three hundred thousand pounds a year, passed through the minister’s hands, and was, to a great extent, at his disposal. The collection of the revenue, the administration of justice, the maintenance of order, were left to this high functionary; and for the exercise of his immense power he was responsible to none but the British masters of the country. A situation so important, lucrative, and splendid, was naturally an object of ambition to the ablest and most powerful natives. Clive had found it difficult to decide between conflicting pretensions. Two candidates stood out prominently from the crowd, each of them the representative of a race and of a religion. One of these was Mahommed Reza Khan, a Mussulman of Persian extraction, able, active, religious after the fashion of his people, and highly esteemed by them. In England he might perhaps have been regarded as a corrupt and greedy politician. But, tried by the lower standard of Indian morality, he might be considered as a man of integrity and honour. His competitor was a Hindoo Brahmin whose name has by a terrible and melancholy event, been inseparably associated with that of Warren Hastings, the Maharajah Nuncomar. This man had played an important part in all the revolutions which, since the time of Surajah Dowlah, had taken place in Bengal. To the consideration which in that country belongs to high and pure caste, he added the weight which is derived from wealth, talents, and experience. Of his moral character it is difficult to give a notion to those who are acquainted with human nature only as it appears in our island. What the Italian is to the Englishman, what the Hindoo is to the Italian, what the Bengalee is to other Hindoos, that was Nuncomar to other Bengalees. The physical organisation of the Bengalee is feeble even to effeminacy. He lives in a constant vapour bath. His pursuits are sedentary, his limbs delicate, his movements languid. During many ages he has been trampled upon by men of bolder and more hardy breeds. Courage, independence, veracity, are qualities to which his constitution and his situation are equally unfavourable. His mind bears a singular analogy to his body. It is weak even to helplessness for purposes of manly resistance; but its suppleness and its tact move the children of sterner climates to admiration not unmingled with contempt. All those arts which are the natural defence of the weak are more familiar to this subtle race than to the Ionian of the time of Juvenal, or to the Jew of the dark ages. What the horns are to the buffalo, what the paw is to the tiger, what the sting is to the bee, what beauty, according to the old Greek song, is to woman, deceit is to the Bengalee. Large promises, smooth excuses, elaborate tissues of circumstantial falsehood, chicanery, perjury, forgery, are the weapons, offensive and defensive, of the people of the Lower Ganges. All those millions do not furnish one sepoy to the armies of the Company. But as userers, as money-changers, as sharp legal practitioners, no class of human beings can bear a comparison with them. With all his softness, the Bengalee is by no means placable in his enmities or prone to pity. The pertinacity with which he adheres to his purposes yields only to the immediate pressure of fear. Nor does he lack a certain kind of courage which is often wanting to his masters. To inevitable evils he is sometimes found to oppose a passive fortitude, such as the Stoics attributed to their ideal sage. An European warrior who rushes on a battery of cannon with a loud hurrah, will sometimes shriek under the surgeon’s knife, and fall in an agony of despair at the sentence of death. But the Bengalee, who would see his country overrun, his house laid in ashes, his children murdered or dishonoured, without having the spirit to strike one blow, has yet been known to endure torture with the firmness of Mucius, and to mount the scaffold with the steady step and even pulse of Algernon Sydney. In Nuncomar, the national character was strongly and with exaggeration personified. The Company’s servants had repeatedly detected him in the most criminal intrigues. On one occasion he brought a false charge against another Hindoo, and tried to substantiate it by producing forged documents. On another occasion it was discovered that, while professing the strongest attachment to the English, he was engaged in several conspiracies against them, and in particular that he was the medium of a correspondence between the court of Delhi and the French authorities in the Carnatic. For these and similar practices he had been long detained in confinement. But his talents and influence had not only procured his liberation, but had obtained for him a certain degree of consideration even among the British rulers of his country. Clive was extremely unwilling to place a Mussulman at the head of the administration of Bengal. On the other hand, he could not bring himself to confer immense power on a man to whom every sort of villainy had repeatedly been brought home. Therefore, though the nabob, over whom Nuncomar had by intrigue acquired great influence, begged that the artful Hindoo might be intrusted with the government, Clive, after some hesitation, decided honestly and wisely in favour of Mahommed Reza Khan. When Hastings became Governor, Mahommed Reza Khan had held power seven years. An infant son of Meer Jaffier was now nabob; and the guardianship of the young prince’s person had been confided to the minister. Nuncomar, stimulated at once by cupidity and malice, had been constantly attempting to hurt the reputation of his successful rival. This was not difficult. The revenues of Bengal, under the administration established by Clive, did not yield such a surplus as had been anticipated by the Company; for, at that time, the most absurd notions were entertained in England respecting the wealth of India. Palaces of porphyry, hung with the richest brocade, heaps of pearls and diamonds, vaults from which pagodas and gold mohurs were measured out by the bushel, filled the imagination even of men of business. Nobody seemed to be aware of what nevertheless was most undoubtedly the truth, that India was a poorer country than countries which in Europe are reckoned poor, than Ireland, for example, or than Portugal. It was confidently believed by Lords of the Treasury and members for the city that Bengal would not only defray its own charges, but would afford an increased dividend to the proprietors of India stock, and large relief to the English finances. These absurd expectations were disappointed; and the Directors, naturally enough, chose to attribute the disappointment rather to the mismanagement of Mahommed Reza Khan than to their own ignorance of the country intrusted to their care. They were confirmed in their error by the agents of Nuncomar; for Nuncomar had agents even in Leadenhall Street. Soon after Hastings reached Calcutta, he received a letter addressed by the Court of Directors, not to the Council generally, but to himself in particular. He was directed to remove Mahommed Reza Khan, to arrest him together with all his family and all his partisans, and to institute a strict inquiry into the whole administration of the province. It was added that the Governor would do well to avail himself of the assistance of Nuncomar in the investigation. The vices of Nuncomar were acknowledged. But even from his vices, it was said, much advantage might at such a conjuncture be derived; and, though he could not safely be trusted, it might still be proper to encourage him by hopes of reward. The Governor bore no goodwill to Nuncomar. Many years before, they had known each other at Moorshedabad; and then a quarrel had arisen between them which all the authority of their superiors could hardly compose. Widely as they differed in most points, they resembled each other in this, that both were men of unforgiving natures. To Mahommed Reza Khan, on the other hand, Hastings had no feelings of hostility. Nevertheless he proceeded to execute the instructions of the Company with an alacrity which he never showed, except when instructions were in perfect conformity with his own views. He had, wisely as we think, determined to get rid of the system of double government in Bengal. The orders of the Directors furnished him with the means of effecting his purpose, and dispensed him from the necessity of discussing the matter with his Council. He took his measures with his usual vigour and dexterity. At midnight, the palace of Mahommed Reza Khan at Moorshedabad was surrounded by a battalion of sepoys. The Minister was roused from his slumbers and informed that he was a prisoner. With the Mussulman gravity, he bent his head and submitted himself to the will of God. He fell not alone. A chief named Schitab Roy had been intrusted with the government of Bahar. His valour and his attachment to the English had more than once been signally proved. On that memorable day on which the people of Patna saw from their walls the whole army of the Mogul scattered by the little band of Captain Knox, the voice of the British conquerors assigned the palm of gallantry to the brave Asiatic. “I never,” said Knox, when he introduced Schitab Roy, covered with blood and dust, to the English functionaries assembled in the factory, “I never saw a native fight so before.” Schitab Roy was involved in the ruin of Mahommed Reza Khan, was removed from office, and was placed under arrest. The members of the Council received no intimation of these measures till the prisoners were on their road to Calcutta. The inquiry into the conduct of the minister was postponed on different pretences. He was detained in an easy confinement during many months. In the meantime, the great revolution which Hastings had planned was carried into effect. The office of minister was abolished. The internal administration was transferred to the servants of the Company. A system, a very imperfect system, it is true, of civil and criminal justice, under English superintendence, was established. The nabob was no longer to have even an ostensible share in the government; but he was still to receive a considerable annual allowance, and to be surrounded with the state of sovereignty. As he was an infant, it was necessary to provide guardians for his person and property. His person was intrusted to a lady of his father’s harem, known by the name of the Munny Begum. The office of treasurer of the household was bestowed on a son of Nuncomar, named Goordas. Nuncomar’s services were wanted; yet he could not safely be trusted with power; and Hastings thought it a masterstroke of policy to reward the able and unprincipled parent by promoting the inoffensive child. The revolution completed, the double government dissolved, the Company installed in the full sovereignty of Bengal, Hastings had no motive to treat the late ministers with rigour. Their trial had been put off on various pleas till the new organization was complete. They were then brought before a committee, over which the Governor presided. Schitab Roy was speedily acquitted with honour. A formal apology was made to him for the restraint to which he had been subjected. All the Eastern marks of respect were bestowed on him. He was clothed in a robe of state, presented with jewels and with a richly harnessed elephant, and sent back to his government at Patna. But his health had suffered from confinement; his high spirit had been cruelly wounded; and soon after his liberation he died of a broken heart. The innocence of Mahommed Reza Khan was not so clearly established. But the Governor was not disposed to deal harshly. After a long hearing, in which Nuncomar appeared as the accuser, and displayed both the art and the inveterate rancour which distinguished him, Hastings pronounced that the charge had not been made out, and ordered the fallen minister to be set at liberty. Nuncomar had purposed to destroy the Mussulman administration, and to rise on its ruin. Both his malevolence and his cupidity had been disappointed. Hastings had made him a tool, had used him for the purpose of accomplishing the transfer of the government from Moorshedabad to Calcutta, from native to European hands. The rival, the enemy, so long envied, so implacably persecuted, had been dismissed unhurt. The situation so long and ardently desired had been abolished. It was natural that the Governor should be from that time an object of the most intense hatred to the vindictive Brahmin. As yet, however, it was necessary to suppress such feelings. The time was coming when that long animosity was to end in a desperate and deadly struggle. In the meantime, Hastings was compelled to turn his attention to foreign affairs. The object of his diplomacy was at this time simply to get money. The finances of his government were in an embarrassed state, and this embarrassment he was determined to relieve by some means, fair or foul. The principle which directed all his dealings with his neighbours is fully expressed by the old motto of one of the great predatory families of Teviotdale, “Thou shalt want ere I want.” He seems to have laid it down, as a fundamental proposition which could not be disputed, that, when he had not as many lacs of rupees as the public service required, he was to take them from anybody who had. One thing, indeed, is to be said in excuse for him. The pressure applied to him by his employers at home, was such as only the highest virtue could have withstood, such as left him no choice except to commit great wrongs, or to resign his high post, and with that post all his hopes of fortune and distinction. The Directors, it is true, never enjoined or applauded any crime. Far from it. Whoever examines their letters written at that time, will find there many just and humane sentiments, many excellent precepts, in short, an admirable code of political ethics. But every exhortation is modified or nullified by a demand for money. “Govern leniently, and send more money; practise strict justice and moderation towards neighbouring powers, and send more money”--this is, in truth, the sum of almost all the instructions that Hastings ever received from home. Now these instructions, being interpreted, mean simply, “Be the father and the oppressor of the people; be just and unjust, moderate and rapacious.” The Directors dealt with India, as the Church, in the good old times, dealt with a heretic. They delivered the victim over to the executioners, with an earnest request that all possible tenderness might be shown. We by no means accuse or suspect those who framed these despatches of hypocrisy. It is probable that, writing fifteen thousand miles from the place where their orders were to be carried into effect, they never perceived the gross inconsistency of which they were guilty. But the inconsistency was at once manifest to their vicegerent at Calcutta, who, with an empty treasury, with an unpaid army, with his own salary often in arrear, with deficient crops, with government tenants daily running away, was called upon to remit home another half million without fail. Hastings saw that it was absolutely necessary for him to disregard either the moral discourses or the pecuniary requisitions of his employers. Being forced to disobey them in something, he had to consider what kind of disobedience they would most readily pardon; and he correctly judged that the safest course would be to neglect the sermons and to find the rupees. A mind so fertile as his, and so little restrained by conscientious scruples, speedily discovered several modes of relieving the financial embarrassments of the Government. The allowance of the Nabob of Bengal was reduced at a stroke from three hundred and twenty thousand pounds a year to half that sum. The Company had bound itself to pay near three hundred thousand pounds a year to the Great Mogul, as a mark of homage for the provinces which he had intrusted to their care; and they had ceded to him the districts of Corah and Allahabad. On the plea that the Mogul was not really independent, but merely a tool in the hands of others, Hastings determined to retract these concessions. He accordingly declared that the English would pay no more tribute, and sent troops to occupy Allahabad and Corah. The situation of these places was such, that there would be little advantage and great expense in retaining them. Hastings, who wanted money and not territory, determined to sell them. A purchaser was not wanting. The rich province of Oude had, in the general dissolution of the Mogul Empire, fallen to the share of the great Mussulman house by which it is still governed. About twenty years ago, this house, by the permission of the British Government, assumed the royal title; but in the time of Warren Hastings such an assumption would have been considered by the Mahommedans of India as a monstrous impiety. The Prince of Oude, though he held the power, did not venture to use the style of sovereignty. To the appellation of Nabob or Viceroy, he added that of Vizier of the monarchy of Hindostan, just as in the last century the Electors of Saxony and Brandenburg, though independent of the Emperor, and often in arms against him, were proud to style themselves his Grand Chamberlain and Grand Marshal. Sujah Dowlah, then Nabob Vizier, was on excellent terms with the English. He had a large treasure. Allahabad and Corah were so situated that they might be of use to him and could be of none to the Company. The buyer and seller soon came to an understanding; and the provinces which had been torn from the Mogul were made over to the Government of Oude for about half a million sterling. But there was another matter still more important to be settled by the Vizier and the Governor. The fate of a brave people was to be decided. It was decided in a manner which has left a lasting stain on the fame of Hastings and of England. The people of Central Asia had always been to the inhabitants of India what the warriors of the German forests were to the subjects of the decaying monarchy of Rome. The dark, slender, and timid Hindoo shrank from a conflict with the strong muscle and resolute spirit of the fair race which dwelt beyond the passes. There is reason to believe that, at a period anterior to the dawn of regular history, the people who spoke the rich and flexible Sanskrit came from regions lying far beyond the Hyphasis and the Hystaspes, and imposed their yoke on the children of the soil. It is certain that, during the last ten centuries, a succession of invaders descended from the west on Hindostan; nor was the course of conquest ever turned back towards the setting sun, till that memorable campaign in which the cross of Saint George was planted on the walls of Ghizni. The Emperors of Hindostan themselves came from the other side of the great mountain ridge; and it had always been their practice to recruit their army from the hardy and valiant race from which their own illustrious house sprang. Among the military adventurers who were allured to the Mogul standards from the neighbourhood of Cabul and Candahar, were conspicuous several gallant bands, known by the name of the Rohillas. Their services had been rewarded with large tracts of land, fiefs of the spear, if we may use an expression drawn from an analogous state of things, in that fertile plain through which the Ramgunga flows from the snowy heights of Kumaon to join the Ganges. In the general confusion which followed the death of Aurungzebe, the warlike colony became virtually independent. The Rohillas were distinguished from the other inhabitants of India by a peculiarly fair complexion. They were more honourably distinguished by courage in war, and by skill in the arts of peace. While anarchy raged from Lahore to Cape Comorin, their little territory enjoyed the blessings of repose under the guardianship of valour. Agriculture and commerce flourished among them; nor were they negligent of rhetoric and poetry. Many persons now living have heard aged men talk with regret of the golden days when the Afghan princes ruled in the vale of Rohilcund. Sujah Dowlah had set his heart on adding this rich district to his own principality. Right, or show of right, he had absolutely none. His claim was in no respect better founded than that of Catherine to Poland, or that of the Bonaparte family to Spain. The Rohillas held their country by exactly the same title by which he held his, and had governed their country far better than his had ever been governed. Nor were they a people whom it was perfectly safe to attack. Their land was indeed an open plain destitute of natural defences; but their veins were full of the high blood of Afghanistan. As soldiers, they had not the steadiness which is seldom found except in company with strict discipline; but their impetuous valour had been proved on many fields of battle. It was said that their chiefs, when united by common peril, could bring eighty thousand men into the field. Sujah Dowlah had himself seen them fight, and wisely shrank from a conflict with them. There was in India one army, and only one, against which even those proud Caucasian tribes could not stand. It had been abundantly proved that neither tenfold odds, nor the martial ardour of the boldest Asiatic nations, could avail ought against English science and resolution. Was it possible to induce the Governor of Bengal to let out to hire the irresistible energies of the imperial people, the skill against which the ablest chiefs of Hindostan were helpless as infants, the discipline which had so often triumphed over the frantic struggles of fanaticism and despair, the unconquerable British courage which is never so sedate and stubborn as towards the close of a doubtful and murderous day? This was what the Nabob Vizier asked, and what Hastings granted. A bargain was soon struck. Each of the negotiators had what the other wanted. Hastings was in need of funds to carry on the government of Bengal, and to send remittances to London; and Sujah Dowlah had an ample revenue. Sujah Dowlah was bent on subjugating the Rohillas; and Hastings had at his disposal the only force by which the Rohillas could be subjugated. It was agreed that an English army should be lent to the Nabob Vizier, and that, for the loan, he should pay four hundred thousand pounds sterling, besides defraying all the charge of the troops while employed in his service. “I really cannot see,” says Mr. Gleig, “upon what grounds, either of political or moral justice, this proposition deserves to be stigmatised as infamous.” If we understand the meaning of words, it is infamous to commit a wicked action for hire, and it is wicked to engage in war without provocation. In this particular war, scarcely one aggravating circumstance was wanting. The object of the Rohilla war was this, to deprive a large population, who had never done us the least harm, of a good government, and to place them, against their will, under an execrably bad one. Nay, even this is not all. England now descended far below the level even of those petty German princes who, about the same time, sold us troops to fight the Americans. The hussar-mongers of Hesse and Anspach had at least the assurance that the expeditions on which their soldiers were to be employed would be conducted in conformity with the humane rules of civilised warfare. Was the Rohilla war likely to be so conducted? Did the Governor stipulate that it should be so conducted? He well knew what Indian warfare was. He well knew that the power which he covenanted to put into Sujah Dowlah’s hands would, in all probability, be atrociously abused; and he required no guarantee, no promise, that it should not be so abused. He did not even reserve to himself the right of withdrawing his aid in case of abuse, however gross. We are almost ashamed to notice Major Scott’s plea, that Hastings was justified in letting out English troops to slaughter the Rohillas, because the Rohillas were not of Indian race, but a colony from a distant country. What were the English themselves? Was it for them to proclaim a crusade for the expulsion of all intruders from the countries watered by the Ganges? Did it lie in their mouths to contend that a foreign settler who establishes an empire in India is a caput lupinum? What would they have said if any other power had, on such a ground, attacked Madras or Calcutta, without the slightest provocation? Such a defence was wanting to make the infamy of the transaction complete. The atrocity of the crime, and the hypocrisy of the apology, are worthy of each other. One of the three brigades of which the Bengal army consisted was sent under Colonel Champion to join Sujah Dowlah’s forces. The Rohillas expostulated, entreated, offered a large ransom, but in vain. They then resolved to defend themselves to the last. A bloody battle was fought. “The enemy,” says Colonel Champion, “gave proof of a good share of military knowledge; and it is impossible to describe a more obstinate firmness of resolution than they displayed.” The dastardly sovereign of Oude fled from the field. The English were left unsupported; but their fire and their charge were irresistible. It was not, however, till the most distinguished chiefs had fallen, fighting bravely at the head of their troops, that the Rohilla ranks gave way. Then the Nabob Vizier and his rabble made their appearance, and hastened to plunder the camp of the valiant enemies whom they had never dared to look in the face. The soldiers of the Company, trained in an exact discipline, kept unbroken order, while the tents were pillaged by these worthless allies. But many voices were heard to exclaim, “We have had all the fighting, and those rogues are to have all the profit.” Then the horrors of Indian war were let loose on the fair valleys and cities of Rohilcund. The whole country was in a blaze. More than a hundred thousand people fled from their homes to pestilential jungles, preferring famine, and fever, and the haunts of tigers, to the tyranny of him, to whom an English and a Christian government had, for shameful lucre, sold their substance, and their blood, and the honour of their wives and daughters. Colonel Champion remonstrated with the Nabob Vizier, and sent strong representations to Fort William; but the Governor had made no conditions as to the mode in which the war was to be carried on. He had troubled himself about nothing, but his forty lacs; and, though he might disapprove of Sujah Dowlah’s wanton barbarity, he did not think himself entitled to interfere, except by offering advice. This delicacy excites the admiration of the biographer. “Mr. Hastings,” he says, “could not himself dictate to the Nabob, nor permit the commander of the Company’s troops to dictate how the war was to be carried on.” No, to be sure. Mr. Hastings had only to put down by main force the brave struggles of innocent men fighting for their liberty. Their military resistance crushed his duties ended; and he had then only to fold his arms and look on, while their villages were burned, their children butchered, and their women violated. Will Mr. Gleig seriously maintain this opinion? Is any rule more plain than this, that whoever voluntarily gives to another irresistible power over human beings is bound to take order that such power shall not be barbarously abused? But we beg pardon of our readers for arguing a point so clear. We hasten to the end of this sad and disgraceful story. The war ceased. The finest population in India was subjected to a greedy, cowardly, cruel tyrant. Commerce and agriculture languished. The rich province which had tempted the cupidity of Sujah Dowlah became the most miserable part even of his miserable dominions. Yet is the injured nation not extinct. At long intervals gleams of its ancient spirit have flashed forth; and even at this day, valour, and self-respect, and a chivalrous feeling rare among Asiatics, and a bitter remembrance of the great crime of England, distinguish that noble Afghan race. To this day they are regarded as the best of all sepoys at the cold steel; and it was very recently remarked, by one who had enjoyed great opportunities of observation, that the only natives of India to whom the word “gentleman” can with perfect propriety be applied, are to be found among the Rohillas. Whatever we may think of the morality of Hastings, it cannot be denied that the financial results of his policy did honour to his talents. In less than two years after he assumed the government, he had without imposing any additional burdens on the people subject to his authority, added about four hundred and fifty thousand pounds to the annual income of the Company, besides procuring about a million in ready money. He had also relieved the finances of Bengal from military expenditure, amounting to near a quarter of a million a year, and had thrown that charge on the Nabob of Oude. There can be no doubt that this was a result which, if it had been obtained by honest means, would have entitled him to the warmest gratitude of his country, and which, by whatever means obtained, proved that he possessed great talents for administration. In the meantime, Parliament had been engaged in long and grave discussions on Asiatic affairs. The ministry of Lord North, in the session of 1773, introduced a measure which made a considerable change in the constitution of the Indian Government. This law, known by the name of the Regulating Act, provided that the presidency of Bengal should exercise a control over the other possessions of the Company; that the chief of that presidency should be styled Governor-General; that he should be assisted by four Councillors; and that a supreme court of judicature, consisting of a chief justice and three inferior judges, should be established at Calcutta. This court was made independent of the Governor-General and Council, and was intrusted with a civil and criminal jurisdiction of immense and, at the same time, of undefined extent. The Governor-General and Councillors were named in the Act, and were to hold their situations for five years. Hastings was to be the first Governor-General. One of the four new Councillors, Mr. Barwell, an experienced servant of the Company, was then in India. The other three, General Clavering, Mr. Monson, and Mr. Francis, were sent out from England. The ablest of the new Councillors was, beyond all doubt, Philip Francis. His acknowledged compositions prove that he possessed considerable eloquence and information. Several years passed in the public offices had formed him to habits of business. His enemies have never denied that he had a fearless and manly spirit; and his friends, we are afraid, must acknowledge that his estimate of himself was extravagantly high, that his temper was irritable, that his deportment was often rude and petulant, and that his hatred was of intense bitterness and long duration. It is scarcely possible to mention this eminent man without adverting for a moment to the question which his name at once suggests to every mind. Was he the author of the Letters Of Junius? Our own firm belief is that he was. The evidence is, we think, such as would support a verdict in a civil, nay, in a criminal proceeding. The handwriting of Junius is the very peculiar handwriting of Francis, slightly disguised. As to the position, pursuits, and connections of Junius, the following are the most important facts which can be considered as clearly proved: first, that he was acquainted with the technical forms of the Secretary of State’s office; secondly, that he was intimately acquainted with the business of the War Office; thirdly, that he, during the year 1770, attended debates in the House of Lords, and took notes of speeches, particularly of the speeches of Lord Chatham; fourthly, that he bitterly resented the appointment of Mr. Chamier to the place of Deputy Secretary-at-War; fifthly, that he was bound by some strong tie to the first Lord Holland. Now, Francis passed some years in the Secretary of State’s office. He was subsequently Chief Clerk of the War Office. He repeatedly mentioned that he had himself, in 1770, heard speeches of Lord Chatham; and some of these speeches were actually printed from his notes. He resigned his clerkship at the War Office from resentment at the appointment of Mr. Chamier. It was by Lord Holland that he was first introduced into the public service. Now, here are five marks, all of which ought to be found in Junius. They are all five found in Francis. We do not believe that more than two of them can be found in any other person whatever. If this argument does not settle the question, there is an end of all reasoning on circumstantial evidence. The internal evidence seems to us to point the same way. The style of Francis bears a strong resemblance to that of Junius; nor are we disposed to admit, what is generally taken for granted, that the acknowledged compositions of Francis are very decidedly inferior to the anonymous letters. The argument from inferiority, at all events, is one which may be urged with at least equal force against every claimant that has ever been mentioned, with the single exception of Burke; and it would be a waste of time to prove that Burke was not Junius. And what conclusion, after all, can be drawn from mere inferiority? Every writer must produce his best work; and the interval between his best work and his second best work may be very wide indeed. Nobody will say that the best letters of Junius are more decidedly superior to the acknowledged works of Francis than three or four of Corneille’s tragedies to the rest, than three or four of Ben Jonson’s comedies to the rest, than the Pilgrim’s Progress to the other works of Bunyan, than Don Quixote to the other works of Cervantes. Nay, it is certain that Junius, whoever he may have been, was a most unequal writer. To go no further than the letters which bear the signature of Junius; the letter to the king, and the letters to Horne Tooke, have little in common, except the asperity; and asperity was an ingredient seldom wanting either in the writings or in the speeches of Francis. Indeed one of the strongest reasons for believing that Francis was Junius is the moral resemblance between the two men. It is not difficult, from the letters which, under various signatures, are known to have been written by Junius, and from his dealings with Woodfall and others, to form a tolerably correct notion of his character. He was clearly a man not destitute of real patriotism and magnanimity, a man whose vices were not of a sordid kind. But he must also have been a man in the highest degree arrogant and insolent, a man prone to malevolence, and prone to the error of mistaking his malevolence for public virtue. “Doest thou well to be angry?” was the question asked in old time of the Hebrew prophet. And he answered, “I do well.” This was evidently the temper of Junius; and to this cause we attribute the savage cruelty which disgraces several of his letters. No man is so merciless as he who, under a strong self-delusion, confounds his antipathies with his duties. It may be added that Junius, though allied with the democratic party by common enmities, was the very opposite of a democratic politician. While attacking individuals with a ferocity which perpetually violated all the laws of literary warfare, he regarded the most defective parts of old institutions with a respect amounting to pedantry, pleaded the cause of Old Sarum with fervour, and contemptuously told the capitalists of Manchester and Leeds that, if they wanted votes, they might buy land and become freeholders of Lancashire and Yorkshire. All this, we believe, might stand, with scarcely any change, for a character of Philip Francis. It is not strange that the great anonymous writer should have been willing at that time to leave the country which had been so powerfully stirred by his eloquence. Everything had gone against him. That party which he clearly preferred to every other, the party of George Grenville, had been scattered by the death of its chief; and Lord Suffolk had led the greater part of it over to the ministerial benches. The ferment produced by the Middlesex election had gone down. Every faction must have been alike an object of aversion to Junius. His opinions on domestic affairs separated him from the Ministry; his opinions on colonial affairs from the Opposition. Under such circumstances, he had thrown down his pen in misanthropical despair. His farewell letter to Woodfall bears date the nineteenth of January, 1773. In that letter, he declared that he must be an idiot to write again; that he had meant well by the cause and the public; that both were given up; that there were not ten men who would act steadily together on any question. “But it is all alike,” he added, “vile and contemptible. You have never flinched that I know of; and I shall always rejoice to hear of your prosperity.” These were the last words of Junius. In a year from that time, Philip Francis was on his voyage to Bengal. With the three new Councillors came out the judges of the Supreme Court. The chief justice was Sir Elijah Impey. He was an old acquaintance of Hastings; and it is probable that the Governor-General, if he had searched through all the inns of court, could not have found an equally serviceable tool. But the members of Council were by no means in an obsequious mood. Hastings greatly disliked the new form of government, and had no very high opinion of his coadjutors. They had heard of this, and were disposed to be suspicious and punctilious. When men are in such a frame of mind, any trifle is sufficient to give occasion for dispute. The members of Council expected a salute of twenty-one guns from the batteries of Fort William. Hastings allowed them only seventeen. They landed in ill-humour. The first civilities were exchanged with cold reserve. On the morrow commenced that long quarrel which, after distracting British India, was renewed in England, and in which all the most eminent statesmen and orators of the age took active part on one or the other side. Hastings was supported by Barwell. They had not always been friends. But the arrival of the new members of Council from England naturally had the effect of uniting the old servants of the Company. Clavering, Monson, and Francis formed the majority. They instantly wrested the government out of the hands of Hastings, condemned, certainly not without justice, his late dealings with the Nabob Vizier, recalled the English agent from Oude, and sent thither a creature of their own, ordered the brigade which had conquered the unhappy Rohillas to return to the Company’s territories, and instituted a severe inquiry into the conduct of the war. Next, in spite of the Governor-General’s remonstrances, they proceeded to exercise, in the most indiscreet manner, their new authority over the subordinate presidencies; threw all the affairs of Bombay into confusion; and interfered, with an incredible union of rashness and feebleness, in the intestine disputes of the Mahratta Government. At the same time, they fell on the internal administration of Bengal, and attacked the whole fiscal and judicial system, a system which was undoubtedly defective, but which it was very improbable that gentlemen fresh from England would be competent to amend. The effect of their reforms was that all protection to life and property was withdrawn, and that gangs of robbers plundered and slaughtered with impunity in the very suburbs of Calcutta. Hastings continued to live in the Government-house, and to draw the salary of Governor-General. He continued even to take the lead at the council-board in the transaction of ordinary business; for his opponents could not but feel that he knew much of which they were ignorant, and that he decided, both surely and speedily, many questions which to them would have been hopelessly puzzling. But the higher powers of government and the most valuable patronage had been taken from him. The natives soon found this out. They considered him as a fallen man; and they acted after their kind. Some of our readers may have seen, in India, a cloud of crows pecking a sick vulture to death, no bad type of what happens in that country, as often as fortune deserts one who has been great and dreaded. In an instant, all the sycophants who had lately been ready to lie for him, to forge for him, to pandar for him, to poison for him, hasten to purchase the favour of his victorious enemies by accusing him. An Indian government has only to let it be understood that it wishes a particular man to be ruined; and, in twenty-four hours, it will be furnished with grave charges, supported by depositions so full and circumstantial that any person unaccustomed to Asiatic mendacity would regard them as decisive. It is well if the signature of the destined victim is not counterfeited at the foot of some illegal compact, and if some treasonable paper is not slipped into a hiding-place in his house. Hastings was now regarded as helpless. The power to make or mar the fortune of every man in Bengal had passed, as it seemed, into the hands of the new Councillors. Immediately charges against the Governor-General began to pour in. They were eagerly welcomed by the majority, who, to do them justice, were men of too much honour knowingly to countenance false accusations, but who were not sufficiently acquainted with the East to be aware that, in that part of the world, a very little encouragement from power will call forth, in a week, more Oateses, and Bedloes, and Dangerfields, than Westminster Hall sees in a century. It would have been strange indeed if, at such a juncture, Nuncomar had remained quiet. That bad man was stimulated at once by malignity, by avarice, and by ambition. Now was the time to be avenged on his old enemy, to wreak a grudge of seventeen years, to establish himself in the favour of the majority of the Council, to become the greatest native in Bengal. From the time of the arrival of the new Councillors he had paid the most marked court to them, and had in consequence been excluded, with all indignity, from the Government-house. He now put into the hands of Francis with great ceremony, a paper, containing several charges of the most serious description. By this document Hastings was accused of putting offices up to sale, and of receiving bribes for suffering offenders to escape. In particular, it was alleged that Mahommed Reza Khan had been dismissed with impunity, in consideration of a great sum paid to the Governor-General. Francis read the paper in Council. A violent altercation followed. Hastings complained in bitter terms of the way in which he was treated, spoke with contempt of Nuncomar and of Nuncomar’s accusation, and denied the right of the Council to sit in judgment on the Governor. At the next meeting of the Board, another communication from Nuncomar was produced. He requested that he might be permitted to attend the Council, and that he might be heard in support of his assertions. Another tempestuous debate took place. The Governor-General maintained that the council-room was not a proper place for such an investigation; that from persons who were heated by daily conflict with him he could not expect the fairness of judges; and that he could not, without betraying the dignity of his post, submit to be confronted with such a man as Nuncomar. The majority, however, resolved to go into the charges. Hastings rose, declared the sitting at an end, and left the room, followed by Barwell. The other members kept their seats, voted themselves a council, put Clavering in the chair, and ordered Nuncomar to be called in. Nuncomar not only adhered to the original charges, but, after the fashion of the East, produced a large supplement. He stated that Hastings had received a great sum for appointing Rajah Goordas treasurer of the Nabob’s household, and for committing the care of his Highness’s person to the Munny Begum. He put in a letter purporting to bear the seal of the Munny Begum, for the purpose of establishing the truth of his story. The seal, whether forged, as Hastings affirmed, or genuine, as we are rather inclined to believe, proved nothing. Nuncomar, as everybody knows who knows India, had only to tell the Munny Begum that such a letter would give pleasure to the majority of the Council, in order to procure her attestation. The majority, however, voted that the charge was made out; that Hastings had corruptly received between thirty and forty thousand pounds; and that he ought to be compelled to refund. The general feeling among the English in Bengal was strongly in favour of the Governor-General. In talents for business, in knowledge of the country, in general courtesy of demeanour, he was decidedly superior to his persecutors. The servants of the Company were naturally disposed to side with the most distinguished member of their own body against a clerk from the War Office, who, profoundly ignorant of the native language, and of the native character, took on himself to regulate every department of the administration. Hastings, however, in spite of the general sympathy of his countrymen, was in a most painful situation. There was still an appeal to higher authority in England. If that authority took part with his enemies, nothing was left to him but to throw up his office. He accordingly placed his resignation in the hands of his agent in London, Colonel Macleane. But Macleane was instructed not to produce the resignation, unless it should be fully ascertained that the feeling at the India House was adverse to the Governor-General. The triumph of Nuncomar seemed to be complete. He held a daily levee, to which his countrymen resorted in crowds, and to which on one occasion, the majority of the Council condescended to repair. His house was an office for the purpose of receiving charges against the Governor-General. It was said that, partly by threats, and partly by wheedling, the villainous Brahmin had induced many of the wealthiest men of the province to send in complaints. But he was playing a perilous game. It was not safe to drive to despair a man of such resources and of such determination as Hastings. Nuncomar, with all his acuteness, did not understand the nature of the institutions under which he lived. He saw that he had with him the majority of the body which made treaties, gave places, raised taxes. The separation between political and judicial functions was a thing of which he had no conception. It bad probably never occurred to him that there was in Bengal an authority perfectly independent of the Council, an authority which could protect one whom the Council wished to destroy and send to the gibbet one whom the Council wished to protect. Yet such was the fact. The Supreme Court was, within the sphere of its own duties, altogether independent of the Government. Hastings, with his usual sagacity, had seen how much advantage he might derive from possessing himself of this stronghold; and he had acted accordingly. The judges, especially the Chief Justice, were hostile to the majority of the Council. The time had now come for putting this formidable machinery into action. On a sudden, Calcutta was astounded by the news that Nuncomar had been taken up on a charge of felony, committed and thrown into the common gaol. The crime imputed to him was that six years before he had forged a bond. The ostensible prosecutor was a native. But it was then, and still is, the opinion of everybody, idiots and biographers excepted, that Hastings was the real mover in the business. The rage of the majority rose to the highest point. They protested against the proceedings of the Supreme Court, and sent several urgent messages to the judges, demanding that Nuncomar should be admitted to bail. The Judges returned haughty and resolute answers. All that the Council could do was to heap honours and emoluments on the family of Nuncomar; and this they did. In the meantime the assizes commenced; a true bill was found; and Nuncomar was brought before Sir Elijah Impey and a jury composed of Englishmen. A great quantity of contradictory swearing, and the necessity of having every word of the evidence interpreted, protracted the trial to a most unusual length. At last a verdict of guilty was returned, and the Chief Justice pronounced sentence of death on the prisoner. That Impey ought to have respited Nuncomar we hold to be perfectly clear. Whether the whole proceeding was not illegal, is a question. But it is certain, that whatever may have been, according to technical rules of construction, the effect of the statute under which the trial took place, it was most unjust to hang a Hindoo for forgery. The law which made forgery capital in England was passed without the smallest reference to the state of society in India. It was unknown to the natives of India. It had never been put in execution among them, certainly not for want of delinquents. It was in the highest degree shocking to all their notions. They were not accustomed to the distinction which many circumstances, peculiar to our own state of society, have led us to make between forgery and other kinds of cheating. The counterfeiting of a seal was, in their estimation, a common act of swindling; nor had it ever crossed their minds that it was to be punished as severely as gang-robbery or assassination. A just judge would, beyond all doubt, have reserved the case for the consideration of the sovereign. But Impey would not hear of mercy or delay. The excitement among all classes was great. Francis and Francis’s few English adherents described the Governor-General and the Chief justice as the worst of murderers. Clavering, it was said, swore that even at the foot of the gallows, Nuncomar should be rescued. The bulk of the European society, though strongly attached to the Governor-General, could not but feel compassion for a man who, with all his crimes, had so long filled so large a space in their sight, who had been great and powerful before the British empire in India began to exist, and to whom, in the old times, governors and members of Council, then mere commercial factors, had paid court for protection. The feeling of the Hindoos was infinitely stronger. They were, indeed, not a people to strike one blow for their countryman. But his sentence filled them with sorrow and dismay. Tried even by their low standard of morality, he was a bad man. But bad as he was, he was the head of their race and religion, a Brahmin of the Brahmins. He had inherited the purest and highest caste. He had practised with the greatest punctuality all those ceremonies to which the superstitious Bengalees ascribe far more importance than to the correct discharge of the social duties. They felt, therefore, as a devout Catholic in the dark ages would have felt, at seeing a prelate of the highest dignity sent to the gallows by a secular tribunal. According to their old national laws, a Brahmin could not be put to death for any crime whatever. And the crime for which Nuncomar was about to die was regarded by them in much the same light in which the selling of an unsound horse, for a sound price, is regarded by a Yorkshire jockey. The Mussulmans alone appear to have seen with exultation the fate of the powerful Hindoo, who had attempted to rise by means of the ruin of Mahommed Reza Khan. The Mahommedan historian of those times takes delight in aggravating the charge. He assures us that in Nuncomar’s house a casket was found containing counterfeits of the seals of all the richest men of the province. We have never fallen in with any other authority for this story, which in itself is by no means improbable. The day drew near; and Nuncomar prepared himself to die with that quiet fortitude with which the Bengalee, so effeminately timid in personal conflict, often encounters calamities for which there is no remedy. The sheriff, with the humanity which is seldom wanting in an English gentleman, visited the prisoner on the eve of the execution, and assured him that no indulgence, consistent with the law, should be refused to him. Nuncomar expressed his gratitude with great politeness and unaltered composure. Not a muscle of his face moved. No a sigh broke from him. He put his finger to his forehead, and calmly said that fate would have its way, and that there was no resisting the pleasure of God. He sent his compliments to Francis, Clavering, and Monson, and charged them to protect Rajah Goordas, who was about to become the head of the Brahmins of Bengal. The sheriff withdrew, greatly agitated by what had passed, and Nuncomar sat composedly down to write notes and examine accounts. The next morning, before the sun was in his power, an immense concourse assembled round the place where the gallows had been set up. Grief and horror were on every face; yet to the last the multitude could hardly believe that the English really purposed to take the life of the great Brahmin. At length the mournful procession came through the crowd. Nuncomar sat up in his palanquin, and looked round him with unaltered serenity. He had just parted from those who were most nearly connected with him. Their cries and contortions had appalled the European ministers of justice, but had not produced the smallest effect on the iron stoicism of the prisoner. The only anxiety which he expressed was that men of his own priestly caste might be in attendance to take charge of his corpse. He again desired to be remembered to his friends in the Council, mounted the scaffold with firmness, and gave the signal to the executioner. The moment that the drop fell, a howl of sorrow and despair rose from the innumerable spectators. Hundreds turned away their faces from the polluting sight, fled with loud wailings towards the Hoogley, and plunged into its holy waters, as if to purify themselves from the guilt of having looked on such a crime. These feelings were not confined to Calcutta. The whole province was greatly excited; and the population of Dacca, in particular, gave strong signs of grief and dismay. Of Impey’s conduct it is impossible to speak too severely. We have already said that, in our opinion, he acted unjustly in refusing to respite Nuncomar. No rational man can doubt that he took this course in order to gratify the Governor-General. If we had ever had any doubts on that point, they would have been dispelled by a letter which Mr. Gleig has published. Hastings, three or four years later, described Impey as the man “to whose support he was at one time indebted for the safety of his fortune, honour, and reputation.” These strong words can refer only to the case of Nuncomar; and they must mean that Impey hanged Nuncomar in order to support Hastings. It is, therefore, our deliberate opinion that Impey, sitting as a judge, put a man unjustly to death in order to serve a political purpose. But we look on the conduct of Hastings in a somewhat different light. He was struggling for fortune, honour, liberty, all that makes life valuable. He was beset by rancorous and unprincipled enemies. From his colleagues he could expect no justice. He cannot be blamed for wishing to crush his accusers. He was indeed bound to use only legitimate means for that end. But it was not strange that he should have thought any means legitimate which were pronounced legitimate by the sages of the law, by men whose peculiar duty it was to deal justly between adversaries, and whose education might be supposed to have peculiarly qualified them for the discharge of that duty. Nobody demands from a party the unbending equity of a judge. The reason that judges are appointed is, that even a good man cannot be trusted to decide a cause in which he is himself concerned. Not a day passes on which an honest prosecutor does not ask for what none but a dishonest tribunal would grant. It is too much to expect that any man, when his dearest interests are at stake, and his strongest passions excited, will, as against himself, be more just than the sworn dispensers of justice. To take an analogous case from the history of our own island; suppose that Lord Stafford, when in the Tower on suspicion of being concerned in the Popish plot, had been apprised that Titus Oates had done something which might, by a questionable construction, be brought under the head of felony. Should we severely blame Lord Stafford, in the supposed case, for causing a prosecution to be instituted, for furnishing funds, for using all his influence to intercept the mercy of the Crown? We think not. If a judge, indeed, from favour to the Catholic lords, were to strain the law in order to hang Oates, such a judge would richly deserve impeachment. But it does not appear to us that the Catholic lord, by bringing the case before the judge for decision, would materially overstep the limits of a just self-defence. While, therefore, we have not the least doubt that this memorable execution is to be attributed to Hastings, we doubt whether it can with justice be reckoned among his crimes. That his conduct was dictated by a profound policy is evident. He was in a minority in Council. It was possible that he might long be in a minority. He knew the native character well. He knew in what abundance accusations are certain to flow in against the most innocent inhabitant of India who is under the frown of power. There was not in the whole black population of Bengal a placeholder, a place-hunter, a government tenant, who did not think that he might better himself by sending up a deposition against the Governor-General. Under these circumstances, the persecuted statesman resolved to teach the whole crew of accusers and witnesses, that, though in a minority at the council-board, he was still to be feared. The lesson which he gave then was indeed a lesson not to be forgotten. The head of the combination which had been formed against him, the richest, the most powerful, the most artful of the Hindoos, distinguished by the favour of those who then held the government, fenced round by the superstitious reverence of millions, was hanged in broad day before many thousands of people. Everything that could make the warning impressive, dignity in the sufferer, solemnity in the proceeding, was found in this case. The helpless rage and vain struggles of the Council made the triumph more signal. From that moment the conviction of every native was that it was safer to take the part of Hastings in a minority than that of Francis in a majority, and that he who was so venturous as to join in running down the Governor-General might chance, in the phrase of the Eastern poet, to find a tiger, while beating the jungle for a deer. The voices of a thousand informers were silenced in an instant. From that time, whatever difficulties Hastings might have to encounter, he was never molested by accusations from natives of India. It is a remarkable circumstance that one of the letters of Hastings to Dr. Johnson bears date a very few hours after the death of Nuncomar. While the whole settlement was in commotion, while a mighty and ancient priesthood were weeping over the remains of their chief, the conqueror in that deadly grapple sat down, with characteristic self-possession to write about the Tour to the Hebrides, Jones’s Persian Grammar, and the history, traditions, arts, and natural productions of India. In the meantime, intelligence of the Rohilla war, and of the first disputes between Hastings and his colleagues, had reached London. The Directors took part with the majority, and sent out a letter filled with severe reflections on the conduct of Hastings. They condemned, in strong but just terms, the iniquity of undertaking offensive wars merely for the sake of pecuniary advantage. But they utterly forgot that, if Hastings had by illicit means obtained pecuniary advantages, he had done so, not for his own benefit, but in order to meet their demands. To enjoin honesty, and to insist on having what could not be honestly got, was then the constant practice of the Company. As Lady Macbeth says of her husband, they “would not play false, and yet would wrongly win.” The Regulating Act, by which Hastings had been appointed Governor-General for five years, empowered the Crown to remove him on an address from the Company. Lord North was desirous to procure such an address. The three members of Council who had been sent out from England were men of his own choice. General Clavering, in particular, was supported by a large parliamentary connection, such as no Cabinet could be inclined to disoblige. The wish of the minister was to displace Hastings, and to put Clavering at the head of the Government. In the Court of Directors parties were very nearly balanced. Eleven voted against Hastings; ten for him. The Court of Proprietors was then convened. The great sale-room presented a singular appearance. Letters had been sent by the Secretary of the Treasury, exhorting all the supporters of Government who held India stock to be in attendance. Lord Sandwich marshalled the friends of the administration with his usual dexterity and alertness. Fifty peers and privy councillors, seldom seen so far eastward, we counted in the crowd. The debate lasted till midnight. The opponents of Hastings had a small superiority on the division; but a ballot was demanded; and the result was that the Governor-General triumphed by a majority of above a hundred votes over the combined efforts of the Directors and the Cabinet. The ministers were greatly exasperated by this defeat. Even Lord North lost his temper, no ordinary occurrence with him, and threatened to convoke Parliament before Christmas, and to bring in a bill for depriving the Company of all political power, and for restricting it to its old business of trading in silks and teas. Colonel Macleane, who through all this conflict had zealously supported the cause of Hastings, now thought that his employer was in imminent danger of being turned out branded with parliamentary censure, perhaps prosecuted. The opinion of the Crown lawyers had already been taken respecting some parts of the Governor-General’s conduct. It seemed to be high time to think of securing an honourable retreat. Under these circumstances, Macleane thought himself justified in producing the resignation with which he had been intrusted. The instrument was not in very accurate form; but the Directors were too eager to be scrupulous. They accepted the resignation, fixed on Mr. Wheler, one of their own body to succeed Hastings, and sent out orders that General Clavering, as senior member of Council, should exercise the functions of Governor-General till Mr. Wheler should arrive. But, while these things were passing in England, a great change had taken place in Bengal. Monson was no more. Only four members of the Government were left. Clavering and Francis were on one side, Barwell and the Governor-General on the other; and the Governor-General had the casting vote. Hastings, who had been during two years destitute of all power and patronage, became at once absolute. He instantly proceeded to retaliate on his adversaries. Their measures were reversed: their creatures were displaced. A new valuation of the lands of Bengal, for the purposes of taxation, was ordered: and it was provided that the whole inquiry should be conducted by the Governor-General, and that all the letters relating to it should run in his name. He began, at the same time, to revolve vast plans of conquest and dominion, plans which he lived to see realised, though not by himself. His project was to form subsidiary alliances with the native princes, particularly with those of Oude and Berar, and thus to make Britain the paramount power in India. While he was meditating these great designs, arrived the intelligence that he had ceased to be Governor-General, that his resignation had been accepted, that Wheler was coming out immediately, and that, till Wheler arrived, the chair was to be filled by Clavering. Had Hastings still been in a minority, he would probably have retired without a struggle; but he was now the real master of British India, and he was not disposed to quit his high place. He asserted that he had never given any instructions which could warrant the steps taken at home. What his instructions had been, he owned he had forgotten. If he had kept a copy of them he had mislaid it. But he was certain that he had repeatedly declared to the Directors that he would not resign. He could not see how the court possessed of that declaration from himself, could receive his resignation from the doubtful hands of an agent. If the resignation were invalid, all the proceedings which were founded on that resignation were null, and Hastings was still Governor-General. He afterwards affirmed that, though his agents had not acted in conformity with his instructions, he would nevertheless have held himself bound by their acts, if Clavering had not attempted to seize the supreme power by violence. Whether this assertion were or were not true, it cannot be doubted that the imprudence of Clavering gave Hastings an advantage. The General sent for the keys of the fort and of the treasury, took possession of the records, and held a council at which Francis attended. Hastings took the chair in another apartment, and Barwell sat with him. Each of the two parties had a plausible show of right. There was no authority entitled to their obedience within fifteen thousand miles. It seemed that there remained no way of settling the dispute except an appeal to arms; and from such an appeal Hastings, confident of his influence over his countrymen in India, was not inclined to shrink. He directed the officers of the garrison at Fort William and of all the neighbouring stations to obey no orders but his. At the same time, with admirable judgment, he offered to submit the case to the Supreme Court, and to abide by its decision. By making this proposition he risked nothing; yet it was a proposition which his opponents could hardly reject. Nobody could be treated as a criminal for obeying what the judges should solemnly pronounce to be the lawful government. The boldest man would shrink from taking arms in defence of what the judges should pronounce to be usurpation. Clavering and Francis, after some delay, unwillingly consented to abide by the award of the court. The court pronounced that the resignation was invalid, and that therefore Hastings was still Governor-General under the Regulating Act; and the defeated members of the Council, finding that the sense of the whole settlement was against them, acquiesced in the decision. About this time arrived the news that, after a suit which had lasted several years, the Franconian courts had decreed a divorce between Imhoff and his wife. The Baron left Calcutta, carrying with him the means of buying an estate in Saxony. The lady became Mrs. Hastings. The event was celebrated by great festivities; and all the most conspicuous persons at Calcutta, without distinction of parties, were invited to the Government-house. Clavering, as the Mahommedan chronicler tells the story, was sick in mind and body, and excused himself from joining the splendid assembly. But Hastings, whom, as it should seem, success in ambition and in love had put into high good-humour, would take no denial. He went himself to the General’s house, and at length brought his vanquished rival in triumph to the gay circle which surrounded the bride. The exertion was too much for a frame broken by mortification as well as by disease. Clavering died a few days later. Wheler, who came out expecting to be Governor-General, and was forced to content himself with a seat at the council-board, generally voted with Francis. But the Governor-General, with Barwell’s help and his own casting vote, was still the master. Some change took place at this time in the feeling both of the Court of Directors and of the Ministers of the Crown. All designs against Hastings were dropped; and, when his original term of five years expired, he was quietly reappointed. The truth is, that the fearful dangers to which the public interests in every quarter were now exposed, made both Lord North and the Company unwilling to part with a Governor whose talents, experience, and resolution, enmity itself was compelled to acknowledge. The crisis was indeed formidable. That great and victorious empire, on the throne of which George the Third had taken his seat eighteen years before, with brighter hopes than had attended the accession of any of the long line of English sovereigns, had, by the most senseless misgovernment, been brought to the verge of ruin. In America millions of Englishmen were at war with the country from which their blood, their language, their religion, and their institutions were derived, and to which, but a short time before, they had been as strongly attached as the inhabitants of Norfolk and Leicestershire. The great powers of Europe, humbled to the dust by the vigour and genius which had guided the councils of George the Second, now rejoiced in the prospect of a signal revenge. The time was approaching when our island, while struggling to keep down the United States of America, and pressed with a still nearer danger by the too just discontents of Ireland, was to be assailed by France, Spain, and Holland, and to be threatened by the armed neutrality of the Baltic; when even our maritime supremacy was to be in jeopardy; when hostile fleets were to command the Straits of Calpe and the Mexican Sea; when the British flag was to be scarcely able to protect the British Channel. Great as were the faults of Hastings, it was happy for our country that at that conjuncture, the most terrible through which she has ever passed, he was the ruler of her Indian dominions. An attack by sea on Bengal was little to be apprehended. The danger was that the European enemies of England might form an alliance with some native power, might furnish that power with troops, arms, and ammunition, and might thus assail our possessions on the side of the land. It was chiefly from the Mahrattas that Hastings anticipated danger. The original seat of that singular people was the wild range of hills which runs along the western coast of India. In the reign of Aurungzebe the inhabitants of those regions, led by the great Sevajee, began to descend on the possessions of their wealthier and less warlike neighbours. The energy, ferocity, and cunning of the Mahrattas, soon made them the most conspicuous among the new powers which were generated by the corruption of the decaying monarchy. At first they were only robbers. They soon rose to the dignity of conquerors. Half the provinces of the empire were turned into Mahratta principalities, Freebooters, sprung from low castes, and accustomed to menial employments, became mighty Rajahs. The Bonslas, at the head of a band of plunderers, occupied the vast region of Berar. The Guicowar, which is, being interpreted, the Herdsman, founded that dynasty which still reigns in Guzerat. The houses of Scindia and Holkar waxed great in Malwa. One adventurous captain made his nest on the impregnable rock of Gooti. Another became the lord of the thousand villages which are scattered among the green rice-fields of Tanjore. That was the time throughout India of double government. The form and the power were everywhere separated. The Mussulman nabobs who had become sovereign princes, the Vizier in Oude, and the Nizam at Hyderabad, still called themselves the viceroys of the House of Tamerlane. In the same manner the Mahratta states, though really independent of each other, pretended to be members of one empire. They all acknowledged, by words and ceremonies, the supremacy of the heir of Sevajee, a roi faineant who chewed bang and toyed with dancing girls in a state prison at Sattara, and of his Peshwa or mayor of the palace, a great hereditary magistrate, who kept a court with kingly state at Poonah, and whose authority was obeyed in the spacious provinces of Aurungabad and Bejapoor. Some months before war was declared in Europe the Government of Bengal was alarmed by the news that a French adventurer, who passed for a man of quality, had arrived at Poonah. It was said that he had been received there with great distinction, that he had delivered to the Peshwa letters and presents from Louis the Sixteenth, and that a treaty, hostile to England, had been concluded between France and the Mahrattas. Hastings immediately resolved to strike the first blow. The title of the Peshwa was not undisputed. A portion of the Mahratta nation was favourable to a pretender. The Governor General determined to espouse this pretender’s interest, to move an army across the peninsula of India, and to form a close alliance with the chief of the house of Bonsla, who ruled Berar, and who, in power and dignity, was inferior to none of the Mahratta princes. The army had marched, and the negotiations with Berar were in progress, when a letter from the English consul at Cairo brought the news that war had been proclaimed both in London and Paris. All the measures which the crisis required were adopted by Hastings without a moment’s delay. The French factories in Bengal were seized. Orders were sent to Madras that Pondicherry should instantly be occupied. Near Calcutta works were thrown up which were thought to render the approach of a hostile force impossible. A maritime establishment was formed for the defence of the river. Nine new battalions of sepoys were raised, and a corps of native artillery was formed out of the hardy Lascars of the Bay of Bengal. Having made these arrangements, the Governor-General, with calm confidence, pronounced his presidency secure from all attack, unless the Mahrattas should march against it in conjunction with the French. The expedition which Hastings had sent westward was not so speedily or completely successful as most of his undertakings. The commanding officer procrastinated. The authorities at Bombay blundered. But the Governor-General persevered. A new commander repaired the errors of his predecessor. Several brilliant actions spread the military renown of the English through regions where no European flag had ever been seen. It is probable that, if a new and more formidable danger had not compelled Hastings to change his whole policy, his plans respecting the Mahratta empire would have been carried into complete effect. The authorities in England had wisely sent out to Bengal, as commander of the forces and member of the Council, one of the most distinguished soldiers of that time. Sir Eyre Coote had, many years before, been conspicuous among the founders of the British empire in the East. At the council of war which preceded the battle of Plassey, he earnestly recommended, in opposition to the majority, that daring course which, after some hesitation, was adopted, and which was crowned with such splendid success. He subsequently commanded in the south of India against the brave and unfortunate Lally, gained the decisive battle of Wandewash over the French and their native allies, took Pondicherry, and made the English power supreme in the Carnatic. Since those great exploits near twenty years had elapsed. Coote had no longer the bodily activity which he had shown in earlier days; nor was the vigour of his mind altogether unimpaired. He was capricious and fretful, and required much coaxing to keep him in good humour. It must, we fear, be added that the love of money had grown upon him, and that he thought more about his allowances, and less about his duties, than might have been expected from so eminent a member of so noble a profession. Still he was perhaps the ablest officer that was then to be found in the British army. Among the native soldiers his name was great and his influence unrivalled. Nor is he yet forgotten by them. Now and then a white-bearded old sepoy may still be found who loves to talk of Porto Novo and Pollilore. It is but a short time since one of those aged men came to present a memorial to an English officer, who holds one of the highest employments in India. A print of Coote hung in the room. The veteran recognised at once that face and figure which he had not seen for more than half a century, and, forgetting his salaam to the living, halted, drew himself up lifted his hand, and with solemn reverence paid his military obeisance to the dead. Coote, though he did not, like Barwell, vote constantly with the Governor-General, was by no means inclined to join in systematic opposition, and on most questions concurred with Hastings, who did his best, by assiduous courtship, and by readily granting the most exorbitant allowances, to gratify the strongest passions of the old soldier. It seemed likely at this time that a general reconciliation would put an end to the quarrels which had, during some years, weakened and disgraced the Government of Bengal. The dangers of the empire might well induce men of patriotic feeling--and of patriotic feeling neither Hastings nor Francis was destitute--to forget private enmities, and to co-operate heartily for the general good. Coote had never been concerned in faction. Wheler was thoroughly tired of it. Barwell had made an ample fortune, and, though he had promised that he would not leave Calcutta while his help was needed in Council, was most desirous to return to England, and exerted himself to promote an arrangement which would set him at liberty. A compact was made, by which Francis agreed to desist from opposition, and Hastings engaged that the friends of Francis should be admitted to a fair share of the honours and emoluments of the service. During a few months after this treaty there was apparent harmony at the council-board. Harmony, indeed, was never more necessary: for at this moment internal calamities, more formidable than war itself menaced Bengal. The authors of the Regulating Act of 1773 had established two independent powers, the one judicial, and the other political; and, with a carelessness scandalously common in English legislation, had omitted to define the limits of either. The judges took advantage of the indistinctness, and attempted to draw to themselves supreme authority, not only within Calcutta, but through the whole of the great territory subject to the Presidency of Fort William. There are few Englishmen who will not admit that the English law, in spite of modern improvements, is neither so cheap nor so speedy as might be wished. Still, it is a system which has grown up among us. In some points it has been fashioned to suit our feelings; in others, it has gradually fashioned our feelings to suit itself. Even to its worst evils we are accustomed; and therefore, though we may complain of them, they do not strike us with the horror and dismay which would be produced by a new grievance of smaller severity. In India the case is widely different. English law, transplanted to that country, has all the vices from which we suffer here; it has them all in a far higher degree; and it has other vices, compared with which the worst vices from which we suffer are trifles. Dilatory here, it is far more dilatory in a land where the help of an interpreter is needed by every judge and by every advocate. Costly here, it is far more costly in a land into which the legal practitioners must be imported from an immense distance. All English labour in India, from the labour of the Governor-General and the Commander-in-Chief, down to that of a groom or a watchmaker, must be paid for at a higher rate than at home. No man will be banished, and banished to the torrid zone, for nothing. The rule holds good with respect to the legal profession. No English barrister will work, fifteen thousand miles from all his friends, with the thermometer at ninety-six in the shade, for the emoluments which will content him in chambers that overlook the Thames. Accordingly, the fees at Calcutta are about three times as great as the fees of Westminster Hall; and this, though the people of India are, beyond all comparison, poorer than the people of England. Yet the delay and the expense, grievous as they are, form the smallest part of the evil which English law, imported without modifications into India, could not fail to produce. The strongest feelings of our nature, honour, religion, female modesty, rose up against the innovation. Arrest on mesne process was the first step in most civil proceedings; and to a native of rank arrest was not merely a restraint, but a foul personal indignity. Oaths were required in every stage of every suit; and the feeling of a quaker about an oath is hardly stronger than that of a respectable native. That the apartments of a woman of quality should be entered by strange men, or that her face should be seen by them, are, in the East, intolerable outrages, outrages which are more dreaded than death, and which can be expiated only by the shedding of blood. To these outrages the most distinguished families of Bengal, Bahar, and Orissa were now exposed. Imagine what the state of our own country would be, if a jurisprudence were on a sudden introduced among us, which should be to us what our jurisprudence was to our Asiatic subjects. Imagine what the state of our country would be, if it were enacted that any man, by merely swearing that a debt was due to him, should acquire a right to insult the persons of men of the most honourable and sacred callings and of women of the most shrinking delicacy, to horsewhip a general officer, to put a bishop in the stocks, to treat ladies in the way which called forth the blow of Wat Tyler. Something like this was the effect of the attempt which the Supreme Court made to extend its jurisdiction over the whole of the Company’s territory. A reign of terror began, of terror heightened by mystery for even that which was endured was less horrible than that which was anticipated. No man knew what was next to be expected from this strange tribunal. It came from beyond the black water, as the people of India, with mysterious horror, call the sea. It consisted of judges not one of whom was familiar with the usages of the millions over whom they claimed boundless authority. Its records were kept in unknown characters; its sentences were pronounced in unknown sounds. It had already collected round itself an army of the worst part the native population, informers, and false witnesses, and common barrators, and agents of chicane, and above all, a banditti of bailiffs followers, compared with whom the retainers of the worst English sponging-houses, in the worst times, might be considered as upright and tender-hearted. Many natives, highly considered among their countrymen, were seized, hurried up to Calcutta, flung into the common gaol, not for any crime even imputed, not for any debt that had been proved, but merely as a precaution till their cause should come to trial There were instances in which men of the most venerable dignity, persecuted without a cause by extortioners, died of rage and shame in the gripe of the vile alguazils of Impey. The harems of noble Mahommedans, sanctuaries respected in the East by governments which respected nothing else, were burst open by gangs of bailiffs. The Mussulmans, braver and less accustomed to submission than the Hindoos, sometimes stood on their defence; and there were instances in which they shed their blood in the doorway, while defending, sword in hand, the sacred apartments of their women. Nay, it seemed as if even the faint-hearted Bengalee, who had crouched at the feet of Surajah Dowlah, who had been mute during the administration of Vansittart, would at length find courage in despair. No Mahratta invasion had ever spread through the province such dismay as this inroad of English lawyers. All the injustice of former oppressors, Asiatic and European, appeared as a blessing when compared with the justice of the Supreme Court. Every class of the population, English and native, with the exception of the ravenous pettifoggers who fattened on the misery and terror of an immense community, cried out loudly against this fearful oppression. But the judges were immovable. If a bailiff was resisted, they ordered the soldiers to be called out. If a servant of the Company, in conformity with the orders of the Government, withstood the miserable catchpoles who, with Impey’s writs in their hands, exceeded the insolence and rapacity of gang-robbers, he was flung into prison for a contempt. The lapse of sixty years, the virtue and wisdom of many eminent magistrates who have during that time administered justice in the Supreme Court, have not effaced from the minds of the people of Bengal the recollection of those evil days. The members of the Government were, on this subject, united as one man. Hastings had courted the judges; he had found them useful instruments; but he was not disposed to make them his own masters, or the masters of India. His mind was large; his knowledge of the native character most accurate. He saw that the system pursued by the Supreme Court was degrading to the Government and ruinous to the people; and he resolved to oppose it manfully. The consequence was, that the friendship, if that be the proper word for such a connection, which had existed between him and Impey, was for a time completely dissolved. The Government placed itself firmly between the tyrannical tribunal and the people. The Chief Justice proceeded to the wildest excesses. The Governor-General and all the members of Council were served with writs, calling on them to appear before the King’s justices, and to answer for their public acts. This was too much. Hastings, with just scorn, refused to obey the call, set at liberty the persons wrongfully detained by the court, and took measures for resisting the outrageous proceedings of the sheriff’s officers, if necessary, by the sword. But he had in view another device, which might prevent the necessity of an appeal to arms. He was seldom at a loss for an expedient; and he knew Impey well. The expedient, in this case, was a very simple one, neither more nor less than a bribe. Impey was, by Act of Parliament, a judge, independent of the Government of Bengal, and entitled to a salary of eight thousand a year. Hastings proposed to make him also a judge in the Company’s service, removable at the pleasure of the Government of Bengal; and to give him, in that capacity, about eight thousand a year more. It was understood that, in consideration of this new salary, Impey would desist from urging the high pretensions of his court. If he did urge these pretensions, the Government could, at a moment’s notice, eject him from the new place which had been created for him. The bargain was struck; Bengal was saved; an appeal to force was averted; and the Chief Justice was rich, quiet and infamous. Of Impey’s conduct it is unnecessary to speak. It was of a piece with almost every part of his conduct that comes under the notice of history. No other such judge has dishonoured the English ermine, since Jeffreys drank himself to death in the Tower. But we cannot agree with those who have blamed Hastings for this transaction. The case stood thus. The negligent manner in which the Regulating Act had been framed put it in the power of the Chief Justice to throw a great country into the most dreadful confusion. He was determined to use his power to the utmost, unless he was paid to be still; and Hastings consented to pay him. The necessity was to be deplored. It is also to be deplored that pirates should be able to exact ransom, by threatening to make their captives walk the plank. But to ransom a captive from pirates has always been held a humane and Christian act; and it would be absurd to charge the payer of the ransom with corrupting the virtue of the corsair. This, we seriously think, is a not unfair illustration of the relative position of Impey, Hastings, and the people of India. Whether it was right in Impey to demand or to accept a price for powers which, if they really belonged to him, he could not abdicate, which, if they did not belong to him, he ought never to have usurped, and which in neither case he could honestly sell, is one question. It is quite another question whether Hastings was not right to give any sum, however large, to any man, however worthless, rather than either surrender millions of human being to pillage, or rescue them by civil war. Francis strongly opposed this arrangement. It may, indeed be suspected that personal aversion to Impey was as strong motive with Francis as regard for the welfare of the province. To a mind burning with resentment, it might seem better to leave Bengal to the oppressors than to redeem it by enriching them. It is not improbable, on the other hand, that Hastings may have been the more willing to resort to an expedient agreeable to the Chief Justice, because that high functionary had already been so serviceable, and might, when existing dissensions were composed, be serviceable again. But it was not on this point alone that Francis was now opposed to Hastings. The peace between them proved to be only a short and hollow truce, during which their mutual aversion was constantly becoming stronger. At length an explosion took place. Hastings publicly charged Francis with having deceived him, and with having induced Barwell to quit the service by insincere promises. Then came a dispute, such as frequently arises even between honourable men, when they may make important agreements by mere verbal communication. An impartial historian will probably be of opinion that they had misunderstood each other: but their minds were so much embittered that they imputed to each other nothing less than deliberate villainy. “I do not,” said Hastings, in a minute recorded on the Consultations of the Government, “I do not trust to Mr. Francis’s promises of candour, convinced that he is incapable of it. I judge of his public conduct by his private, which I have found to be void of truth and honour.” After the Council had risen, Francis put a challenge into the Governor-General’s hand. It was instantly accepted. They met, and fired. Francis was shot through the body. He was carried to a neighbouring house, where it appeared that the wound, though severe, was not mortal. Hastings inquired repeatedly after his enemy’s health, and proposed to call on him; but Francis coldly declined the visit. He had a proper sense, he said, of the Governor-General’s politeness, but could not consent to any private interview. They could meet only at the council-board. In a very short time it was made signally manifest to how great a danger the Governor-General had, on this occasion, exposed his country. A crisis arrived with which he, and he alone, was competent to deal. It is not too much to say that if he had been taken from the head of affairs, the years 1780 and 1781 would have been as fatal to our power in Asia as to our power in America. The Mahrattas had been the chief objects of apprehension to Hastings. The measures which he had adopted for the purpose of breaking their power, had at first been frustrated by the errors of those whom he was compelled to employ; but his perseverance and ability seemed likely to be crowned with success, when a far more formidable danger showed itself in a distant quarter. About thirty years before this time, a Mahommedan soldier had begun to distinguish himself in the wars of Southern India. His education had been neglected; his extraction was humble. His father had been a petty officer of revenue; his grandfather a wandering dervise. But though thus meanly descended, though ignorant even of the alphabet, the adventurer had no sooner been placed at the head of a body of troops than he proved himself a man born for conquest and command. Among the crowd of chiefs who were struggling for a share of India, none could compare with him in the qualities of the captain and the statesman. He became a general; he became a sovereign. Out of the fragments of old principalities, which had gone to pieces in the general wreck he formed for himself a great, compact, and vigorous empire. That empire he ruled with the ability, severity, and vigilance of Lewis the Eleventh. Licentious in his pleasures, implacable in his revenge, he had yet enlargement of mind enough to perceive how much the prosperity of subjects adds to the strength of governments. He was an oppressor; but he had at least the merit of protecting his people against all oppression except his own. He was now in extreme old age; but his intellect was as clear, and his spirit as high, as in the prime of manhood. Such was the great Hyder Ali, the founder of the Mahommedan kingdom of Mysore, and the most formidable enemy with whom the English conquerors of India have ever had to contend. Had Hastings been governor of Madras, Hyder would have been either made a friend, or vigorously encountered as an enemy. Unhappily the English authorities in the south provoked their powerful neighbour’s hostility, without being prepared to repel it. On a sudden, an army of ninety thousand men, far superior in discipline and efficiency to any other native force that could be found in India, came pouring through those wild passes which, worn by mountain torrents, and dark with jungle, lead down from the table-land of Mysore to the plains of the Carnatic. This great army was accompanied by a hundred pieces of cannon; and its movements were guided by many French officers, trained in the best military schools of Europe. Hyder was everywhere triumphant. The sepoys in many British garrisons flung down their arms. Some forts were surrendered by treachery, and some by despair. In a few days the whole open country north of the Coleroon had submitted. The English inhabitants of Madras could already see by night, from the top of Mount St. Thomas, the eastern sky reddened by a vast semicircle of blazing villages. The white villas, to which our countrymen retire after the daily labours of government and of trade, when the cool evening breeze springs up from the bay, were now left without inhabitants; for bands of the fierce horsemen of Mysore had already been seen prowling among the tulip-trees, and near the gay verandas. Even the town was not thought secure, and the British merchants and public functionaries made haste to crowd themselves behind the cannon of Fort St. George. There were the means, indeed, of assembling an army which might have defended the presidency, and even driven the invader back to his mountains. Sir Hector Munro was at the head of one considerable force; Baillie was advancing with another. United, they might have presented a formidable front even to such an enemy as Hyder. But the English commanders, neglecting those fundamental rules of the military art of which the propriety is obvious even to men who had never received a military education, deferred their junction, and were separately attacked. Baillie’s detachment was destroyed. Munro was forced to abandon his baggage, to fling his guns into the tanks, and to save himself by a retreat which might be called a flight. In three weeks from the commencement of the war, the British empire in Southern India had been brought to the verge of ruin. Only a few fortified places remained to us. The glory of our arms had departed. It was known that a great French expedition might soon be expected on the coast of Coromandel. England, beset by enemies on every side, was in no condition to protect such remote dependencies. Then it was that the fertile genius and serene courage of Hastings achieved their most signal triumph. A swift ship, flying before the southwest monsoon, brought the evil tidings in few days to Calcutta. In twenty-four hours the Governor-General had framed a complete plan of policy adapted to the altered state of affairs. The struggle with Hyder was a struggle for life and death. All minor objects must be sacrificed to the preservation of the Carnatic. The disputes with the Mahrattas must be accommodated. A large military force and a supply of money must be instantly sent to Madras. But even these measures would be insufficient, unless the war, hitherto so grossly mismanaged, were placed under the direction of a vigorous mind. It was no time for trifling. Hastings determined to resort to an extreme exercise of power, to suspend the incapable governor of Fort St. George, to send Sir Eyre Coote to oppose Hyder, and to intrust that distinguished general with the whole administration of the war. In spite of the sullen opposition of Francis, who had now recovered from his wound, and had returned to the Council, the Governor-General’s wise and firm policy was approved by the majority of the Board. The reinforcements were sent off with great expedition, and reached Madras before the French armament arrived in the Indian seas. Coote, broken by age and disease, was no longer the Coote of Wandewash; but he was still a resolute and skilful commander. The progress of Hyder was arrested; and in a few months the great victory of Porto Novo retrieved the honour of the English arms. In the meantime Francis had returned to England, and Hastings was now left perfectly unfettered. Wheler had gradually been relaxing in his opposition, and, after the departure of his vehement and implacable colleague, cooperated heartily with the Governor-General, whose influence over the British in India, always great, had, by the vigour and success of his recent measures, been considerably increased. But, though the difficulties arising from factions within the Council were at an end, another class of difficulties had become more pressing than ever. The financial embarrassment was extreme. Hastings had to find the means, not only of carrying on the government of Bengal, but of maintaining a most costly war against both Indian and European enemies in the Carnatic, and of making remittances to England. A few years before this time he had obtained relief by plundering the Mogul and enslaving the Rohillas; nor were the resources of his fruitful mind by any means exhausted. His first design was on Benares, a city which in wealth, population, dignity, and sanctity, was among the foremost of Asia. It was commonly believed that half a million of human beings was crowded into that labyrinth of lofty alleys, rich with shrines, and minarets, and balconies, and carved oriels, to which the sacred apes clung by hundreds. The traveller could scarcely make his way through the press of holy mendicants and not less holy bulls. The broad and stately flights of steps which descended from these swarming haunts to the bathing-places along the Ganges were worn every day by the footsteps of an innumerable multitude of worshippers. The schools and temples drew crowds of pious Hindoos from every province where the Brahminical faith was known. Hundreds of devotees came thither every month to die: for it was believed that a peculiarly happy fate awaited the man who should pass from the sacred city into the sacred river. Nor was superstition the only motive which allured strangers to that great metropolis. Commerce had as many pilgrims as religion. All along the shores of the venerable stream lay great fleets of vessels laden with rich merchandise. From the looms of Benares went forth the most delicate silks that adorned the balls of St. James’s and of the Petit Trianon; and in the bazars, the muslins of Bengal and the sabres of Oude were mingled with the jewels of Golconda and the shawls of Cashmere. This rich capital, and the surrounding tract, had long been under the immediate rule of a Hindoo prince, who rendered homage to the Mogul emperors. During the great anarchy of India, the lords of Benares became independent of the Court of Delhi, but were compelled to submit to the authority of the Nabob of Oude. Oppressed by this formidable neighbour, they invoked the protection of the English. The English protection was given; and at length the Nabob Vizier, by a solemn treaty, ceded all his rights over Benares to the Company. From that time the Rajah was the vassal of the Government of Bengal, acknowledged its supremacy, and engaged to send an annual tribute to Fort William. This tribute Cheyte Sing, the reigning prince, had paid with strict punctuality. About the precise nature of the legal relation between the Company and the Rajah of Benares, there has been much warm and acute controversy. On the one side, it has been maintained that Cheyte Sing was merely a great subject on whom the superior power had a right to call for aid in the necessities of the empire. On the other side, it has been contended that he was an independent prince, that the only claim which the Company had upon him was for a fixed tribute, and that, while the fixed tribute was regularly paid, as it assuredly was, the English had no more right to exact any further contribution from him than to demand subsidies from Holland or Denmark. Nothing is easier than to find precedents and analogies in favour of either view. Our own impression is that neither view is correct. It was too much the habit of English politicians to take it for granted that there was in India a known and definite constitution by which questions of this kind were to be decided. The truth is that, during the interval which elapsed between the fall of the house of Tamerlane and the establishment of the British ascendency, there was no such constitution. The old order of things had passed away; the new order of things was not yet formed. All was transition, confusion, obscurity. Everybody kept his head as he best might, and scrambled for whatever he could get. There have been similar seasons in Europe. The time of the dissolution of the Carlovingian empire is an instance. Who would think of seriously discussing the question, what extent of pecuniary aid and of obedience Hugh Capet had constitutional right to demand from the Duke of Brittany or the Duke of Normandy? The words “constitutional right” had, in that state of society, no meaning. If Hugh Capet laid hands on all the possessions of the Duke of Normandy, this might be unjust and immoral; but it would not be illegal, in the sense in which the ordinances of Charles the Tenth were illegal. If, on the other hand, the Duke of Normandy made war on Hugh Capet, this might be unjust and immoral; but it would not be illegal, in the sense in which the expedition of Prince Louis Bonaparte was illegal. Very similar to this was the state of India sixty years ago. Of the existing governments not a single one could lay claim to legitimacy, or could plead any other title than recent occupation. There was scarcely a province in which the real sovereignty and the nominal sovereignty were not disjoined. Titles and forms were still retained which implied that the heir of Tamerlane was an absolute ruler, and that the Nabobs of the provinces were his lieutenants. In reality, he was a captive. The Nabobs were in some places independent princes. In other places, as in Bengal and the Carnatic, they had, like their master, become mere phantoms, and the Company was supreme. Among the Mahrattas, again, the heir of Sevajee still kept the title of Rajah; but he was a prisoner, and his prime minister, the Peshwa, had become the hereditary chief of the state. The Peshwa, in his turn, was fast sinking into the same degraded situation into which he had reduced the Rajah. It was, we believe, impossible to find, from the Himalayas to Mysore, a single government which was once a government de facto and a government de jure, which possessed the physical means of making itself feared by its neighbours and subjects, and which had at the same time the authority derived from law and long prescription. Hastings clearly discerned, what was hidden from most of his contemporaries, that such a state of things gave immense advantages to a ruler of great talents and few scruples. In every international question that could arise, he had his option between the de facto ground and the de jure ground; and the probability was that one of those grounds would sustain any claim that it might be convenient for him to make, and enable him to resist any claim made by others. In every controversy, accordingly, he resorted to the plea which suited his immediate purpose, without troubling himself in the least about consistency; and thus he scarcely ever failed to find what, to persons of short memories and scanty information, seemed to be a justification for what he wanted to do. Sometimes the Nabob of Bengal is a shadow, sometimes a monarch. Sometimes the Vizier is a mere deputy, sometimes an independent potentate. If it is expedient for the Company to show some legal title to the revenues of Bengal, the grant under the seal of the Mogul is brought forward as an instrument of the highest authority. When the Mogul asks for the rents which were reserved to him by that very grant, he is told that he is a mere pageant, that the English power rests on a very different foundation from a charter given by him, that he is welcome to play at royalty as long as he likes, but that he must expect no tribute from the real masters of India. It is true that it was in the power of others, as well as of Hastings, to practise this legerdemain; but in the controversies of governments, sophistry is of little use unless it be backed by power. There is a principle which Hastings was fond of asserting in the strongest terms, and on which he acted with undeviating steadiness. It is a principle which, we must own, though it may be grossly abused, can hardly be disputed in the present state of public law. It is this, that where an ambiguous question arises between two governments, there is, if they cannot agree, no appeal except to force, and that the opinion of the stronger must prevail. Almost every question was ambiguous in India. The English Government was the strongest in India. The consequences are obvious. The English Government might do exactly what it chose. The English Government now chose to wring money out of Cheyte Sing. It had formerly been convenient to treat him as a sovereign prince; it was now convenient to treat him as a subject. Dexterity inferior to that of Hastings could easily find, in the general chaos of laws and customs, arguments for either course. Hastings wanted a great supply. It was known that Cheyte Sing had a large revenue, and it was suspected that he had accumulated a treasure. Nor was he a favourite at Calcutta. He had, when the Governor-General was in great difficulties, courted the favour of Francis and Clavering. Hastings, who, less perhaps from evil passions than from policy, seldom left an injury unpunished, was not sorry that the fate of Cheyte Sing should teach neighbouring princes the same lesson which the fate of Nuncomar had already impressed on the inhabitants of Bengal. In 1778, on the first breaking out of the war with France, Cheyte Sing was called upon to pay, in addition to his fixed tribute, an extraordinary contribution of fifty thousand pounds. In 1779, an equal sum was exacted. In 1780, the demand was renewed. Cheyte Sing, in the hope of obtaining some indulgence, secretly offered the Governor-General a bribe of twenty thousand pounds. Hastings took the money, and his enemies have maintained that he took it intending to keep it. He certainly concealed the transaction, for a time, both from the Council in Bengal and from the Directors at home; nor did he ever give any satisfactory reason for the concealment. Public spirit, or the fear of detection, at last determined him to withstand the temptation. He paid over the bribe to the Company’s treasury, and insisted that the Rajah should instantly comply with the demands of the English Government. The Rajah, after the fashion of his countrymen, shuffled, solicited, and pleaded poverty. The grasp of Hastings was not to be so eluded. He added to the requisition another ten thousand pounds as a fine for delay, and sent troops to exact the money. The money was paid. But this was not enough. The late events in the south of India had increased the financial embarrassments of the Company. Hastings was determined to plunder Cheyte Sing, and, for that end, to fasten a quarrel on him. Accordingly, the Rajah was now required to keep a body of cavalry for the service of the British Government. He objected and evaded. This was exactly what the Governor-General wanted. He had now a pretext for treating the wealthiest of his vassals as a criminal. “I resolved,”--these were the words of Hastings himself,--“to draw from his guilt the means of relief of the Company’s distresses, to make him pay largely for his pardon, or to exact a severe vengeance for past delinquency.” The plan was simply this, to demand larger and larger contributions till the Rajah should be driven to remonstrate, then to call his remonstrance a crime, and to punish him by confiscating all his possessions. Cheyte Sing was in the greatest dismay. He offered two hundred thousand pounds to propitiate the British Government. But Hastings replied that nothing less than half a million would be accepted. Nay, he began to think of selling Benares to Oude, as he had formerly sold Allahabad and Rohilcund. The matter was one which could not be well managed at a distance; and Hastings resolved to visit Benares. Cheyte Sing received his liege lord with every mark of reverence, came near sixty miles, with his guards, to meet and escort the illustrious visitor, and expressed his deep concern at the displeasure of the English. He even took off his turban, and laid it in the lap of Hastings, a gesture which in India marks the most profound submission and devotion. Hastings behaved with cold and repulsive severity. Having arrived at Benares, he sent to the Rajah a paper containing the demands of the Government of Bengal. The Rajah, in reply, attempted to clear himself from the accusations brought against him. Hastings, who wanted money and not excuses, was not to be put off by the ordinary artifices of Eastern negotiation. He instantly ordered the Rajah to be arrested and placed under the custody of two companies of sepoys. In taking these strong measures, Hastings scarcely showed his usual judgment. It is possible that, having had little opportunity of personally observing any part of the population of India, except the Bengalees, he was not fully aware of the difference between their character and that of the tribes which inhabit the upper provinces. He was now in a land far more favourable to the vigour of the human frame than the Delta of the Ganges; in a land fruitful of soldiers, who have been found worthy to follow English battalions to the charge and into the breach. The Rajah was popular among his subjects. His administration had been mild; and the prosperity of the district which he governed presented a striking contrast to the depressed state of Bahar under our rule, and a still more striking contrast to the misery of the provinces which were cursed by the tyranny of the Nabob Vizier. The national and religious prejudices with which the English were regarded throughout India were peculiarly intense in the metropolis of the Brahminical superstition. It can therefore scarcely be doubted that the Governor-General, before he outraged the dignity of Cheyte Sing by an arrest, ought to have assembled a force capable of bearing down all opposition. This had not been done. The handful of sepoys who attended Hastings would probably have been sufficient to overawe Moorshedabad, or the Black Town of Calcutta. But they were unequal to a conflict with the hardy rabble of Benares. The streets surrounding the palace were filled by an immense multitude, of whom a large proportion, as is usual in Upper India, wore arms. The tumult became a fight, and the fight a massacre. The English officers defended themselves with desperate courage against overwhelming numbers, and fell, as became them, sword in hand. The sepoys were butchered. The gates were forced. The captive prince, neglected by his gaolers, during the confusion, discovered an outlet which opened on the precipitous bank of the Ganges, let himself down to the water by a string made of the turbans of his attendants, found a boat, and escaped to the opposite shore. If Hastings had, by indiscreet violence, brought himself into a difficult and perilous situation, it is only just to acknowledge that he extricated himself with even more than his usual ability and presence of mind. He had only fifty men with him. The building in which he had taken up his residence was on every side blockaded by the insurgents, But his fortitude remained unshaken. The Rajah from the other side of the river sent apologies and liberal offers. They were not even answered. Some subtle and enterprising men were found who undertook to pass through the throng of enemies, and to convey the intelligence of the late events to the English cantonments. It is the fashion of the natives of India to wear large earrings of gold. When they travel, the rings are laid aside, lest the precious metal should tempt some gang of robbers; and, in place of the ring, a quill or a roll of paper is inserted in the orifice to prevent it from closing. Hastings placed in the cars of his messengers letters rolled up in the smallest compass. Some of these letters were addressed to the commanders of English troops. One was written to assure his wife of his safety. One was to the envoy whom he had sent to negotiate with the Mahrattas. Instructions for the negotiation were needed; and the Governor-General framed them in that situation of extreme danger, with as much composure as if he had been writing in his palace at Calcutta. Things, however, were not yet at the worst. An English officer of more spirit than judgment, eager to distinguish himself, made a premature attack on the insurgents beyond the river. His troops were entangled in narrow streets, and assailed by a furious population. He fell, with many of his men; and the survivors were forced to retire. This event produced the effect which has never failed to follow every check, however slight, sustained in India by the English arms. For hundreds of miles round, the whole country was in commotion. The entire population of the district of Benares took arms. The fields were abandoned by the husbandmen, who thronged to defend their prince. The infection spread to Oude. The oppressed people of that province rose up against the Nabob Vizier, refused to pay their imposts, and put the revenue officers to flight. Even Bahar was ripe for revolt. The hopes of Cheyte Sing began to rise. Instead of imploring mercy in the humble style of a vassal, he began to talk the language of a conqueror, and threatened, it was said, to sweep the white usurpers out of the land. But the English troops were now assembling fast. The officers, and even the private men, regarded the Governor-General with enthusiastic attachment, and flew to his aid with an alacrity which, as he boasted, had never been shown on any other occasion. Major Popham, a brave and skilful soldier, who had highly distinguished himself in the Mahratta war, and in whom the Governor-General reposed the greatest confidence, took the command. The tumultuary army of the Rajah was put to rout. His fastnesses were stormed. In a few hours, above thirty thousand men left his standard, and returned to their ordinary avocations. The unhappy prince fled from his country for ever. His fair domain was added to the British dominions. One of his relations indeed was appointed rajah; but the Rajah of Benares was henceforth to be, like the Nabob of Bengal, a mere pensioner. By this revolution, an addition of two hundred thousand pounds a year was made to the revenues of the Company. But the immediate relief was not as great as had been expected. The treasure laid up by Cheyte Sing had been popularly estimated at a million sterling. It turned out to be about a fourth part of that sum; and, such as it was, it was seized by the army, and divided as prize-money. Disappointed in his expectations from Benares, Hastings was more violent than he would otherwise have been, in his dealings with Oude. Sujah Dowlah had long been dead. His son and successor, Asaph-ul-Dowlah, was one of the weakest and most vicious even of Eastern princes. His life was divided between torpid repose and the most odious forms of sensuality. In his court there was boundless waste, throughout his dominions wretchedness and disorder. He had been, under the skilful management of the English Government, gradually sinking from the rank of an independent prince to that of a vassal of the Company. It was only by the help of a British brigade that he could be secure from the aggressions of neighbours who despised his weakness, and from the vengeance of subjects who detested his tyranny. A brigade was furnished, and he engaged to defray the charge of paying and maintaining it. From that time his independence was at an end. Hastings was not a man to lose the advantage which he had thus gained. The Nabob soon began to complain of the burden which he had undertaken to bear. His revenues, he said, were falling off; his servants were unpaid; he could no longer support the expense of the arrangement which he had sanctioned. Hastings would not listen to these representations. The Vizier, he said, had invited the Government of Bengal to send him troops, and had promised to pay for them. The troops had been sent. How long the troops were to remain in Oude was a matter not settled by the treaty. It remained, therefore, to be settled between the contracting parties. But the contracting parties differed. Who then must decide? The stronger. Hastings also argued that, if the English force was withdrawn, Oude would certainly become a prey to anarchy, and would probably be overrun by a Mahratta army. That the finances of Oude were embarrassed he admitted, But he contended, not without reason, that the embarrassment was to be attributed to the incapacity and vices of Asaph-ul-Dowlah himself, and that if less were spent on the troops, the only effect would be that more would be squandered on worthless favourites. Hastings, had intended, after settling the affairs of Benares, to visit Lucknow, and there to confer with Asaph-ul-Dowlah. But the obsequious courtesy of the Nabob Vizier prevented this visit. With a small train he hastened to meet the Governor-General. An interview took place in the fortress which, from the crest of the precipitous rock of Chunar, looks down on the waters of the Ganges. At first sight it might appear impossible that the negotiation should come to an amicable close. Hastings wanted an extraordinary supply of money. Asaph-ul-Dowlah wanted to obtain a remission of what he already owed. Such a difference seemed to admit of no compromise. There was, however, one course satisfactory to both sides, one course by which it wan possible to relieve the finances both of Oude and of Bengal; and that course was adopted. It was simply this, that the Governor-General and the Nabob Vizier should join to rob a third party; and the third party whom they determined to rob was the parent of one of the robbers. The mother of the late Nabob and his wife, who was the mother of the present Nabob, were known as the Begums or Princesses of Oude. They had possessed great influence over Sujah Dowlah, and had, at his death, been left in possession of a splendid dotation. The domains of which they received the rents and administered the government were of wide extent. The treasure hoarded by the late Nabob, a treasure which was popularly estimated at near three millions sterling, was in their hands. They continued to occupy his favourite palace at Fyzabad, the Beautiful Dwelling; while Asaph-ul-Dowlah held his court in the stately Lucknow, which he had built for himself on the shores of the Goomti, and had adorned with noble mosques and colleges. Asaph-ul-Dowlah had already extorted considerable sums from his mother. She had at length appealed to the English; and the English had interfered. A solemn compact had been made, by which she consented to give her son some pecuniary assistance, and he in his turn promised never to commit any further invasion of her rights. This compact was formally guaranteed by the Government of Bengal. But times had changed; money was wanted; and the power which had given the guarantee was not ashamed to instigate the spoiler to excesses such that even he shrank from them. It was necessary to find some pretext for a confiscation inconsistent, not merely with plighted faith, not merely with the ordinary rules of humanity and justice, but also with that great law of filial piety which, even in the wildest tribes of savages, even in those more degraded communities which wither under the influence of a corrupt half-civilisation, retains a certain authority over the human mind. A pretext was the last thing that Hastings was likely to want. The insurrection at Benares had produced disturbances in Oude. These disturbances it was convenient to impute to the Princesses. Evidence for the imputation there was scarcely any; unless reports wandering from one mouth to another, and gaining something by every transmission, may be called evidence. The accused were furnished with no charge; they were permitted to make no defence for the Governor-General wisely considered that, if he tried them, he might not be able to find a ground for plundering them. It was agreed between him and the Nabob Vizier that the noble ladies should, by a sweeping act of confiscation, be stripped of their domains and treasures for the benefit of the Company, and that the sums thus obtained should be accepted by the Government of Bengal in satisfaction of its claims on the Government of Oude. While Asaph-ul-Dowlah was at Chunar, he was completely subjugated by the clear and commanding intellect of the English statesman. But, when they had separated, the Vizier began to reflect with uneasiness on the engagements into which he had entered. His mother and grandmother protested and implored. His heart, deeply corrupted by absolute power and licentious pleasures, yet not naturally unfeeling, failed him in this crisis. Even the English resident at Lucknow, though hitherto devoted to Hastings, shrank from extreme measures. But the Governor-General was inexorable. He wrote to the resident in terms of the greatest severity, and declared that, if the spoliation which had been agreed upon were not instantly carried into effect, he would himself go to Lucknow, and do that from which feebler minds recoil with dismay. The resident, thus menaced, waited on his Highness, and insisted that the treaty of Chunar should be carried into full and immediate effect. Asaph-ul-Dowlah yielded making at the same time a solemn protestation that he yielded to compulsion. The lands were resumed; but the treasure was not so easily obtained. It was necessary to use violence. A body of the Company’s troops marched to Fyzabad, and forced the gates of the palace. The Princesses were confined to their own apartments. But still they refused to submit. Some more stringent mode of coercion was to be found. A mode was found of which, even at this distance of time, we cannot speak without shame and sorrow. There were at Fyzabad two ancient men, belonging to that unhappy class which a practice, of immemorial antiquity in the East, has excluded from the pleasures of love and from the hope of posterity. It has always been held in Asiatic courts that beings thus estranged from sympathy with their kind are those whom princes may most safely trust. Sujah Dowlah had been of this opinion. He had given his entire confidence to the two eunuchs; and after his death they remained at the head of the household of his widow. These men were, by the orders of the British Government, seized, imprisoned, ironed, starved almost to death, in order to extort money from the Princesses. After they had been two months in confinement, their health gave way. They implored permission to take a little exercise in the garden of their prison. The officer who was in charge of them stated that, if they were allowed this indulgence, there was not the smallest chance of their escaping, and that their irons really added nothing to the security of the custody in which they were kept. He did not understand the plan of his superiors. Their object in these inflictions was not security but torture; and all mitigation was refused. Yet this was not the worst. It was resolved by an English government that these two infirm old men should be delivered to the tormentors. For that purpose they were removed to Lucknow. What horrors their dungeon there witnessed can only be guessed. But there remains on the records of Parliament, this letter, written by a British resident to a British soldier: “Sir, the Nabob having determined to inflict corporal punishment upon the prisoners under your guard, this is to desire that his officers, when they shall come, may have free access to the prisoners, and be permitted to do with them as they shall see proper.” While these barbarities were perpetrated at Lucknow, the Princesses were still under duress at Fyzabad. Food was allowed to enter their apartments only in such scanty quantities that their female attendants were in danger of perishing with hunger. Month after month this cruelty continued, till at length, after twelve hundred thousand pounds had been wrung out of the Princesses, Hastings began to think that he had really got to the bottom of their coffers, and that no rigour could extort more. Then at length the wretched men who were detained at Lucknow regained their liberty. When their irons were knocked off, and the doors of their prison opened, their quivering lips, the tears which ran down their cheeks, and the thanksgivings which they poured forth to the common Father of Mussulmans and Christians, melted even the stout hearts of the English warriors who stood by. But we must not forget to do justice to Sir Elijah Impey’s conduct on this occasion. It was not indeed easy for him to intrude himself into a business so entirely alien from all his official duties. But there was something inexpressibly alluring, we must suppose, in the peculiar rankness of the infamy which was then to be got at Lucknow. He hurried thither as fast as relays of palanquin-bearers could carry him. A crowd of people came before him with affidavits against the Begums, ready drawn in their hands. Those affidavits he did not read. Some of them, indeed, he could not read; for they were in the dialects of Northern India, and no interpreter was employed. He administered the oath to the deponents with all possible expedition, and asked not a single question, not even whether they had perused the statements to which they swore. This work performed, he got again into his palanquin, and posted back to Calcutta, to be in time for the opening of term. The cause was one which, by his own confession, lay altogether out of his jurisdiction. Under the charter of justice, he had no more right to inquire into crimes committed by Asiatics in Oude than the Lord President of the Court of Session of Scotland to hold an assize at Exeter. He had no right to try the Begums, nor did he pretend to try them. With what object, then, did he undertake so long a journey? Evidently in order that he might give, in an irregular manner, that sanction which in a regular manner he could not give, to the crimes of those who had recently hired him; and in order that a confused mass of testimony which he did not sift, which he did not even read, might acquire an authority not properly belonging to it, from the signature of the highest judicial functionary in India. The time was approaching, however, when he was to be stripped of that robe which has never, since the Revolution, been disgraced so foully as by him. The state of India had for some time occupied much of the attention of the British Parliament. Towards the close of the American war, two committees of the Commons sat on Eastern affairs. In one Edmund Burke took the lead. The other was under the presidency of the able and versatile Henry Dundas, then Lord Advocate of Scotland. Great as are the changes which, during the last sixty years, have taken place in our Asiatic dominions, the reports which those committees laid on the table of the House will still be found most interesting and instructive. There was as yet no connection between the Company and either of the great parties in the State. The ministers had no motive to defend Indian abuses. On the contrary, it was for their interest to show, if possible, that the government and patronage of our Oriental empire might, with advantage, be transferred to themselves. The votes, therefore, which, in consequence of the reports made by the two committees, were passed by the Commons, breathed the spirit of stern and indignant justice. The severest epithets were applied to several of the measures of Hastings, especially to the Rohilla war; and it was resolved, on the motion of Mr. Dundas, that the Company ought to recall a Governor-General who had brought such calamities on the Indian people, and such dishonour on the British name. An act was passed for limiting the jurisdiction of the Supreme Court. The bargain which Hastings had made with the Chief Justice was condemned in the strongest terms; and an address was presented to the King, praying that Impey might be summoned home to answer for his misdeeds. Impey was recalled by a letter from the Secretary of State. But the proprietors of India Stock resolutely refused to dismiss Hastings from their service, and passed a resolution affirming, what was undeniably true, that they were intrusted by law with the right of naming and removing their Governor-General, and that they were not bound to obey the directions of a single branch of the legislature with respect to such nomination or removal. Thus supported by his employers, Hastings remained at the head of the Government of Bengal till the spring of 1785. His administration, so eventful and stormy, closed in almost perfect quiet. In the Council there was no regular opposition to his measures. Peace was restored to India. The Mahratta war had ceased. Hyder was no more. A treaty had been concluded with his son, Tippoo; and the Carnatic had been evacuated by the armies of Mysore. Since the termination of the American war, England had no European enemy or rival in the Eastern seas. On a general review of the long administration of Hastings, it is impossible to deny that, against the great crimes by which it is blemished, we have to set off great public services. England had passed through a perilous crisis. She still, indeed, maintained her place in the foremost rank of European powers; and the manner in which she had defended herself against fearful odds had inspired surrounding nations with a high opinion both of her spirit and of her strength. Nevertheless, in every part of the world, except one, she had been a loser. Not only had she been compelled to acknowledge the independence of thirteen colonies peopled by her children, and to conciliate the Irish by giving up the right of legislating for them; but, in the Mediterranean, in the Gulf of Mexico, on the coast of Africa, on the continent of America, she had been compelled to cede the fruits of her victories in former wars. Spain regained Minorca and Florida; France regained Senegal, Goree, and several West Indian Islands. The only quarter of the world in which Britain had lost nothing was the quarter in which her interests had been committed to the care of Hastings. In spite of the utmost exertions both of European and Asiatic enemies, the power of our country in the East had been greatly augmented. Benares was subjected, the Nabob Vizier reduced to vassalage. That our influence had been thus extented, nay, that Fort William and Fort St. George had not been occupied by hostile armies, was owing, if we may trust the general voice of the English in India, to the skill and resolution of Hastings. His internal administration, with all its blemishes, gives him a title to be considered as one of the most remarkable men in our history. He dissolved the double government. He transferred the direction of affairs to English hands. Out of a frightful anarchy, he educed at least a rude and imperfect order. The whole organisation by which justice was dispensed, revenue collected, peace maintained throughout a territory not inferior in population to the dominions of Lewis the Sixteenth or the Emperor Joseph, was formed and superintended by him. He boasted that every public office, without exception, which existed when he left Bengal, was his creation. It is quite true that this system, after all the improvements suggested by the experience of sixty years, still needs improvement, and that it was at first far more defective than it now is. But whoever seriously considers what it is to construct from the beginning the whole of a machine so vast and complex as a government, will allow that what Hastings effected deserves high admiration. To compare the most celebrated European ministers to him seems to us as unjust as it would be to compare the best baker in London with Robinson Crusoe, who, before he could bake a single loaf, had to make his plough and his harrow, his fences and his scarecrows, his sickle and his flail, his mill and his oven. The just fame of Hastings rises still higher, when we reflect that he was not bred a statesman; that he was sent from school to a counting-house; and that he was employed during the prime of his manhood as a commercial agent, far from all intellectual society. Nor must we forget that all, or almost all, to whom, when placed at the head of affairs, he could apply for assistance, were persons who owed as little as himself, or less than himself, to education. A minister in Europe finds himself, on the first day on which he commences his functions, surrounded by experienced public servants, the depositaries of official traditions. Hastings had no such help. His own reflection, his own energy, were to supply the place of all Downing Street and Somerset House. Having had no facilities for learning, he was forced to teach. He had first to form himself, and then to form his instruments; and this not in a single department, but in all the departments of the administration. It must be added that, while engaged in this most arduous task, he was constantly trammelled by orders from home, and frequently borne down by a majority in Council. The preservation of an Empire from a formidable combination of foreign enemies, the construction of a government in all its parts, were accomplished by him, while every ship brought out bales of censure from his employers, and while the records of every consultation were filled with acrimonious minutes by his colleagues. We believe that there never was a public man whose temper was so severely tried; not Marlborough, when thwarted by the Dutch Deputies; not Wellington, when he had to deal at once with the Portuguese Regency, the Spanish juntas, and Mr. Percival. But the temper of Hastings was equal to almost any trial. It was not sweet; but it was calm. Quick and vigorous as his intellect was, the patience with which he endured the most cruel vexations, till a remedy could be found, resembled the patience of stupidity. He seems to have been capable of resentment, bitter and long enduring; yet his resentment so seldom hurried him into any blunder, that it may be doubted whether what appeared to be revenge was anything but policy. The effect of this singular equanimity was that he always had the full command of all the resources of one of the most fertile minds that ever existed. Accordingly no complication of perils and embarrassments could perplex him. For every difficulty he had a contrivance ready; and, whatever may be thought of the justice and humanity of some of his contrivances, it is certain that they seldom failed to serve the purpose for which they were designed. Together with this extraordinary talent for devising expedients, Hastings possessed, in a very high degree, another talent scarcely less necessary to a man in his situation; we mean the talent for conducting political controversy. It is as necessary to an English statesman in the East that he should be able to write, as it is to a minister in this country that he should be able to speak. It is chiefly by the oratory of a public man here that the nation judges of his powers. It is from the letters and reports of a public man in India that the dispensers of patronage form their estimate of him. In each case, the talent which receives peculiar encouragement is developed, perhaps at the expense of the other powers. In this country, we sometimes hear men speak above their abilities. It is not very unusual to find gentlemen in the Indian service who write above their abilities. The English politician is a little too much of a debater; the Indian politician a little too much of an essayist. Of the numerous servants of the Company who have distinguished themselves as framers of minutes and despatches, Hastings stands at the head. He was indeed the person who gave to the official writing of the Indian governments the character which it still retains. He was matched against no common antagonist. But even Francis was forced to acknowledge, with sullen and resentful candour, that there was no contending against the pen of Hastings. And, in truth, the Governor-General’s power of making out a case, of perplexing what it was inconvenient that people should understand, and of setting in the clearest point of view whatever would bear the light, was incomparable. His style must be praised with some reservation. It was in general forcible, pure, and polished; but it was sometimes, though not often, turgid, and, on one or two occasions, even bombastic. Perhaps the fondness of Hastings for Persian literature may have tended to corrupt his taste. And, since we have referred to his literary tastes, it would be most unjust not to praise the judicious encouragement which, as a ruler, he gave to liberal studies and curious researches. His patronage was extended, with prudent generosity, to voyages, travels, experiments, publications. He did little, it is true, towards introducing into India the learning of the West. To make the young natives of Bengal familiar with Milton and Adam Smith, to substitute the geography, astronomy, and surgery of Europe for the dotages of the Brahminical superstition, or for the imperfect science of ancient Greece transfused through Arabian expositions, this was a scheme reserved to crown the beneficent administration of a far more virtuous ruler. Still it is impossible to refuse high commendation to a man who, taken from a ledger to govern an empire, overwhelmed by public business, surrounded by people as busy as himself and separated by thousands of leagues from almost all literary society, gave, both by his example and by his munificence, a great impulse to learning. In Persian and Arabic literature he was deeply skilled. With the Sanscrit he was not himself acquainted; but those who first brought that language to the knowledge of European students owed much to his encouragement. It was under his protection that the Asiatic Society commenced its honourable career. That distinguished body selected him to be its first president; but, with excellent taste and feeling, he declined the honour in favour of Sir William Jones. But the chief advantage which the students of Oriental letters derived from his patronage remains to be mentioned. The Pundits of Bengal had always looked with great jealousy on the attempts of foreigners to pry into those mysteries which were locked up in the sacred dialect. The Brahminical religion had been persecuted by the Mahommedans. What the Hindoos knew of the spirit of the Portuguese Government might warrant them in apprehending persecution from Christians. That apprehension, the wisdom and moderation of Hastings removed. He was the first foreign ruler who succeeded in gaining the confidence of the hereditary priests of India, and who induced them to lay open to English scholars the secrets of the old Brahminical theology and jurisprudence. It is indeed impossible to deny that, in the great art of inspiring large masses of human beings with confidence and attachment, no ruler ever surpassed Hastings. If he had made himself popular with the English by giving up the Bengalees to extortion and oppression, or if, on the other hand, he had conciliated the Bengalees and alienated the English, there would have been no cause for wonder. What is peculiar to him is that, being the chief of a small band of strangers, who exercised boundless power over a great indigenous population, he made himself beloved both by the subject many and by the dominant few. The affection felt for him by the civil service was singularly ardent and constant. Through all his disasters and perils, his brethren stood by him with steadfast loyalty. The army, at the same time, loved him as armies have seldom loved any but the greatest chiefs who have led them to victory. Even in his disputes with distinguished military men, he could always count on the support of the military profession. While such was his empire over the hearts of his countrymen, he enjoyed among the natives a popularity, such as other governors have perhaps better merited, but such as no other governor has been able to attain. He spoke their vernacular dialects with facility and precision. He was intimately acquainted with their feelings and usages. On one or two occasions, for great ends, he deliberately acted in defiance of their opinion; but on such occasions he gained more in their respect than he lost in their love, In general, he carefully avoided all that could shock their national or religious prejudices. His administration was indeed in many respects faulty; but the Bengalee standard of good government was not high. Under the Nabobs, the hurricane of Mahratta cavalry had passed annually over the rich alluvial plain. But even the Mahratta shrank from a conflict with the mighty children of the sea; and the immense rich harvests of the Lower Ganges were safely gathered in under the protection of the English sword. The first English conquerors had been more rapacious and merciless even than the Mahrattas--but that generation had passed away. Defective as was the police, heavy as were the public burdens, it is probable that the oldest man in Bengal could not recollect a season of equal security and prosperity. For the first time within living memory, the province was placed under a government strong enough to prevent others from robbing, and not inclined to play the robber itself. These things inspired goodwill. At the same time, the constant success of Hastings and the manner in which he extricated himself from every difficulty made him an object of superstitious admiration; and the more than regal splendour which he sometimes displayed dazzled a people who have much in common with children. Even now, after the lapse of more than fifty years, the natives of India still talk of him as the greatest of the English; and nurses sing children to sleep with a jingling ballad about the fleet horses and richly caparisoned elephants of Sahib Warren Hostein. The gravest offence of which Hastings was guilty did not affect his popularity with the people of Bengal; for those offences were committed against neighbouring states. Those offences, as our readers must have perceived, we are not disposed to vindicate; yet, in order that the censure may be justly apportioned to the transgression, it is fit that the motive of the criminal should be taken into consideration. The motive which prompted the worst acts of Hastings was misdirected and ill-regulated public spirit. The rules of justice, the sentiments of humanity, the plighted faith of treaties, were in his view as nothing, when opposed to the immediate interest of the State. This is no justification, according to the principles either of morality, or of what we believe to be identical with morality, namely, far-sighted policy. Nevertheless the common sense of mankind, which in questions of this sort seldom goes far wrong, will always recognise a distinction between crimes which originate in an inordinate zeal for the commonwealth, and crimes which originate in selfish cupidity. To the benefit of this distinction Hastings is fairly entitled. There is, we conceive, no reason to suspect that the Rohilla war, the revolution of Benares, or the spoliation of the Princesses of Oude, added a rupee to his fortune. We will not affirm that, in all pecuniary dealings, he showed that punctilious integrity, that dread of the faintest appearance of evil, which is now the glory of the Indian civil service. But when the school in which he had been trained, and the temptations to which he was exposed are considered, we are more inclined to praise him for his general uprightness with respect to money, than rigidly to blame him for a few transactions which would now be called indelicate and irregular, but which even now would hardly be designated as corrupt. A rapacious man he certainly was not. Had he been so, he would infallibly have returned to his country the richest subject in Europe. We speak within compass, when we say that, without applying any extraordinary pressure, he might easily have obtained from the zemindars of the Company’s provinces and from neighbouring princes, in the course of thirteen years, more than three millions sterling, and might have outshone the splendour of Carlton House and of the Palais Royal. He brought home a fortune such as a Governor-General, fond of state, and careless of thrift, might easily, during so long a tenure of office, save out of his legal salary. Mrs. Hastings, we are afraid, was less scrupulous. It was generally believed that she accepted presents with great alacrity, and that she thus formed, without the connivance of her husband, a private hoard amounting to several lacs of rupees. We are the more inclined to give credit to this story, because Mr. Gleig, who cannot but have heard it, does not, as far as we have observed, notice or contradict it. The influence of Mrs. Hastings over her husband was indeed such that she might easily have obtained much larger sums than she was ever accused of receiving. At length her health began to give way; and the Governor-General, much against his will, was compelled to send her to England. He seems to have loved her with that love which is peculiar to men of strong minds, to men whose affection is not easily won or widely diffused. The talk of Calcutta ran for some time on the luxurious manner in which he fitted up the round-house of an Indiaman for her accommodation, on the profusion of sandal-wood and carved ivory which adorned her cabin, and on the thousands of rupees which had been expended in order to procure for her the society of an agreeable female companion during the voyage. We may remark here that the letters of Hastings to his wife are exceedingly characteristic. They are tender, and full of indications of esteem and confidence; but, at the same time, a little more ceremonious than is usual in so intimate a relation. The solemn courtesy with which he compliments “his elegant Marian” reminds us now and then of the dignified air with which Sir Charles Grandison bowed over Miss Byron’s hand in the cedar parlour. After some months, Hastings prepared to follow his wife to England. When it was announced that he was about to quit his office, the feeling of the society which he had so long governed manifested itself by many signs. Addresses poured in from Europeans and Asiatics, from civil functionaries, soldiers, and traders. On the day on which he delivered up the keys of office, a crowd of friends and admirers formed a lane to the quay where he embarked. Several barges escorted him far down the river; and some attached friends refused to quit him till the low coast of Bengal was fading from the view, and till the pilot was leaving the ship. Of his voyage little is known, except that he amused himself with books and with his pen; and that, among the compositions by which he beguiled the tediousness of that long leisure, was a pleasing imitation of Horace’s Otium Divos Rogat. This little poem was inscribed to Mr. Shore, afterwards Lord Teignmouth, a man of whose integrity, humanity, and honour, it is impossible to speak too highly, but who, like some other excellent members of the civil service, extended to the conduct of his friend Hastings an indulgence of which his own conduct never stood in need. The voyage was, for those times, very speedy. Hastings was little more than four months on the sea. In June 1785, he landed at Plymouth, posted to London, appeared at Court, paid his respects in Leadenhall Street, and then retired with his wife to Cheltenham. He was greatly pleased with his reception. The King treated him with marked distinction. The Queen, who had already incurred much censure on account of the favour which, in spite of the ordinary severity of her virtue, she had shown to the “elegant Marian,” was not less gracious to Hastings. The Directors received him in a solemn sitting; and their chairman read to him a vote of thanks which they had passed without one dissentient voice. “I find myself,” said Hastings, in a letter written about a quarter of a year after his arrival in England, “I find myself everywhere, and universally, treated with evidences, apparent even to my own observation, that I possess the good opinion of my country.” The confident and exulting tone of his correspondence about this time is the more remarkable, because he had already received ample notice of the attack which was in preparation. Within a week after he landed at Plymouth, Burke gave notice in the House of Commons of a motion seriously affecting a gentleman lately returned from India. The Session, however, was then so far advanced, that it was impossible to enter on so extensive and important a subject. Hastings, it is clear, was not sensible of the danger of his position. Indeed that sagacity, that judgment, that readiness in devising expedients, which had distinguished him in the East, seemed now to have forsaken him; not that his abilities were at all impaired; not that he was not still the same man who had triumphed over Francis and Nuncomar, who had made the Chief justice and the Nabob Vizier his tools, who had deposed Cheyte Sing, and repelled Hyder Ali. But an oak, as Mr. Grattan finely said, should not be transplanted at fifty. A man who having left England when a boy, returns to it after thirty or forty years passed in India, will find, be his talents what they may, that he has much both to learn and to unlearn before he can take a place among English statesmen. The working of a representative system, the war of parties, the arts of debate, the influence of the press, are startling novelties to him. Surrounded on every side by new machines and new tactics, he is as much bewildered as Hannibal would have been at Waterloo, or Themistocles at Trafalgar. His very acuteness deludes him. His very vigour causes him to stumble. The more correct his maxims, when applied to the state of society to which he is accustomed, the more certain they are to lead him astray. This was strikingly the case with Hastings. In India he had a bad hand; but he was master of the game, and he won every stake. In England he held excellent cards, if he had known how to play them; and it was chiefly by his own errors that he was brought to the verge of ruin. Of all his errors the most serious was perhaps the choice of a champion. Clive, in similar circumstances, had made a singularly happy selection. He put himself into the hands of Wedderburn, afterwards Lord Loughborough, one of the few great advocates who have also been great in the House of Commons. To the defence of Clive, therefore, nothing was wanting, neither learning nor knowledge of the world, neither forensic acuteness nor that eloquence which charms political assemblies. Hastings intrusted his interests to a very different person, a Major in the Bengal army, named Scott. This gentleman had been sent over from India some time before as the agent of the Governor-General. It was rumoured that his services were rewarded with Oriental munificence; and we believe that he received much more than Hastings could conveniently spare. The Major obtained a seat in Parliament, and was there regarded as the organ of his employer. It was evidently impossible that a gentleman so situated could speak with the authority which belongs to an independent position. Nor had the agent of Hastings the talents necessary for obtaining the ear of an assembly which, accustomed to listen to great orators, had naturally become fastidious. He was always on his legs; he was very tedious; and he had only one topic, the merits and wrongs of Hastings. Everybody who knows the House of Commons will easily guess what followed. The Major was soon considered as the greatest bore of his time. His exertions were not confined to Parliament. There was hardly a day on which the newspapers did not contain some puff upon Hastings, signed Asiaticus or Bengalensis, but known to be written by the indefatigable Scott; and hardly a month in which some bulky pamphlet on the same subject, and from the same pen, did not pass to the trunkmakers and the pastry-cooks. As to this gentleman’s capacity for conducting a delicate question through Parliament, our readers will want no evidence beyond that which they will find in letters preserved in these volumes. We will give a single specimen of his temper and judgment. He designated the greatest man then living as “that reptile Mr. Burke.” In spite, however, of this unfortunate choice, the general aspect of affairs was favourable to Hastings. The King was on his side. The Company and its servants were zealous in his cause. Among public men he had many ardent friends. Such were Lord Mansfield, who had outlived the vigour of his body, but not that of his mind; and Lord Lansdowne, who, though unconnected with any party, retained the importance which belongs to great talents and knowledge. The ministers were generally believed to be favourable to the late Governor-General. They owed their power to the clamour which had been raised against Mr. Fox’s East India Bill. The authors of that bill, when accused of invading vested rights, and of setting up powers unknown to the constitution, had defended themselves by pointing to the crimes of Hastings, and by arguing that abuses so extraordinary justified extraordinary measures. Those who, by opposing that bill, had raised themselves to the head of affairs, would naturally be inclined to extenuate the evils which had been made the plea for administering so violent a remedy; and such, in fact, was their general disposition. The Lord Chancellor Thurlow, in particular, whose great place and force of intellect gave him a weight in the Government inferior only to that of Mr. Pitt, espoused the cause of Hastings with indecorous violence. Mr. Pitt, though he had censured many parts of the Indian system, had studiously abstained from saying a word against the late chief of the Indian Government. To Major Scott, indeed, the young minister had in private extolled Hastings as a great, a wonderful man, who had the highest claims on the Government. There was only one objection to granting all that so eminent a servant of the public could ask. The resolution of censure still remained on the journals of the House of Commons. That resolution was, indeed, unjust; but, till it was rescinded, could the minister advise the King to bestow any mark of approbation on the person censured? If Major Scott is to be trusted, Mr. Pitt declared that this was the only reason which prevented the advisers of the Crown from conferring a peerage on the late Governor-General. Mr. Dundas was the only important member of the administration who was deeply committed to a different view of the subject. He had moved the resolution which created the difficulty; but even from him little was to be apprehended. Since he had presided over the committee on Eastern affairs, great changes had taken place. He was surrounded by new allies; he had fixed his hopes on new objects; and whatever may have been his good qualities,--and he had many,--flattery itself never reckoned rigid consistency in the number. From the Ministry, therefore, Hastings had every reason to expect support; and the Ministry was very powerful. The Opposition was loud and vehement against him. But the Opposition, though formidable from the wealth and influence of some of its members, and from the admirable talents and eloquence of others, was outnumbered in Parliament, and odious throughout the country. Nor, as far as we can judge, was the Opposition generally desirous to engage in so serious an undertaking as the impeachment of an Indian Governor. Such an impeachment must last for years. It must impose on the chiefs of the party an immense load of labour. Yet it could scarcely, in any manner, affect the event of the great political game. The followers of the coalition were therefore more inclined to revile Hastings than to prosecute him. They lost no opportunity of coupling his name with the names of the most hateful tyrants of whom history makes mention. The wits of Brooks’s aimed their keenest sarcasms both at his public and at his domestic life. Some fine diamonds which he had presented, as it was rumoured, to the royal family, and a certain richly-carved ivory bed which the Queen had done him the honour to accept from him, were favourite subjects of ridicule. One lively poet proposed, that the great acts of the fair Marian’s present husband should be immortalised by the pencil of his predecessor; and that Imhoff should be employed to embellish the House of Commons with paintings of the bleeding Rohillas, of Nuncomar swinging, of Cheyte Sing letting himself down to the Ganges. Another, in an exquisitely humorous parody of Virgil’s third eclogue, propounded the question, what that mineral could be of which the rays had power to make the most austere of princesses the friend of a wanton. A third described, with gay malevolence, the gorgeous appearance of Mrs. Hastings at St. James’s, the galaxy of jewels, torn from Indian Begums, which adorned her head-dress, her necklace gleaming with future votes, and the depending questions that shone upon her ears. Satirical attacks of this description, and perhaps a motion for a vote of censure, would have satisfied the great body of the Opposition. But there were two men whose indignation was not to be so appeased, Philip Francis and Edmund Burke. Francis had recently entered the House of Commons, and had already established a character there for industry and ability. He laboured indeed under one most unfortunate defect, want of fluency. But he occasionally expressed himself with a dignity and energy worthy of the greatest orators, Before he had been many days in Parliament, he incurred the bitter dislike of Pitt, who constantly treated him with as much asperity as the laws of debate would allow. Neither lapse of years nor change of scene had mitigated the enmities which Francis had brought back from the East. After his usual fashion, he mistook his malevolence for virtue, nursed it, as preachers tell us that we ought to nurse our good dispositions, and paraded it, on all occasions, with Pharisaical ostentation. The zeal of Burke was still fiercer; but it was far purer. Men unable to understand the elevation of his mind, have tried to find out some discreditable motive for the vehemence and pertinacity which he showed on this occasion. But they have altogether failed. The idle story that he had some private slight to revenge has long been given up, even by the advocates of Hastings. Mr. Gleig supposes that Burke was actuated by party spirit, that he retained a bitter remembrance of the fall of the coalition, that he attributed that fall to the exertions of the East India interest, and that he considered Hastings as the head and the representative of that interest. This explanation seems to be sufficiently refuted by a reference to dates. The hostility of Burke to Hastings commenced long before the coalition; and lasted long after Burke had become a strenuous supporter of those by whom the coalition had been defeated. It began when Burke and Fox, closely allied together, were attacking the influence of the Crown, and calling for peace with the American republic. It continued till Burke, alienated from Fox, and loaded with the favours of the Crown, died, preaching a crusade against the French republic. We surely cannot attribute to the events of 1784 an enmity which began in 1781, and which retained undiminished force long after persons far more deeply implicated than Hastings in the events of 1784 had been cordially forgiven. And why should we look for any other explanation of Burke’s conduct than that which we find on the surface? The plain truth is that Hastings had committed some great crimes, and that the thought of those crimes made the blood of Burke boil in his veins. For Burke was a man in whom compassion for suffering, and hatred of injustice and tyranny, were as strong as in Las Casas or Clarkson. And although in him, as in Las Casas and in Clarkson, these noble feelings were alloyed with the infirmity which belongs to human nature, he is, like them, entitled to this great praise, that he devoted years of intense labour to the service of a people with whom he had neither blood nor language, neither religion nor manners in common, and from whom no requital, no thanks, no applause could be expected. His knowledge of India was such as few, even of those Europeans who have passed many years in that country have attained, and such as certainly was never attained by any public man who had not quitted Europe. He had studied the history, the laws, and the usages of the East with an industry, such as is seldom found united to so much genius and so much sensibility. Others have perhaps been equally laborious, and have collected an equal mass of materials. But the manner in which Burke brought his higher powers of intellect to work on statements of facts, and on tables of figures, was peculiar to himself. In every part of those huge bales of Indian information which repelled almost all other readers, his mind, at once philosophical and poetical, found something to instruct or to delight. His reason analysed and digested those vast and shapeless masses; his imagination animated and coloured them. Out of darkness, and dulness, and confusion, he formed a multitude of ingenious theories and vivid pictures. He had, in the highest degree, that noble faculty whereby man is able to live in the past and in the future, in the distant and in the unreal. India and its inhabitants were not to him, as to most Englishmen, mere names and abstractions, but a real country and a real people. The burning sun, the strange vegetation of the palm and the cocoa-tree, the rice-field, the tank, the huge trees, older than the Mogul empire, under which the village crowds assemble, the thatched roof of the peasant’s hut, the rich tracery of the mosque where the imaum prays with his face to Mecca, the drums, and banners, and gaudy idols, the devotee swinging in the air, the graceful maiden, with the pitcher on her head, descending the steps to the riverside, the black faces, the long beards, the yellow streaks of sect, the turbans and the flowing robes, the spears and the silver maces, the elephants with their canopies of state, the gorgeous palanquin of the prince, and the close litter of the noble lady, all these things were to him as the objects amidst which his own life had been passed, as the objects which lay on the road between Beaconsfield and St. James’s Street. All India was present to the eye of his mind, from the hall where suitors laid gold and perfumes at the feet of sovereigns to the wild moor where the gipsy camp was pitched, from the bazar, humming like a bee-hive with the crowd of buyers and sellers, to the jungle where the lonely courier shakes his bunch of iron rings to scare away the hyaenas. He had just as lively an idea of the insurrection at Benares as of Lord George Gordon’s riots, and of the execution of Nuncomar as of the execution of Dr. Dodd. Oppression in Bengal was to him the same thing as oppression in the streets of London. He saw that Hastings had been guilty of some most unjustifiable acts. All that followed was natural and necessary in a mind like Burke’s. His imagination and his passions, once excited, hurried him beyond the bounds of justice and good sense. His reason, powerful as it was, became the slave of feelings which it should have controlled. His indignation, virtuous in its origin, acquired too much of the character of personal aversion. He could see no mitigating circumstance, no redeeming merit. His temper, which, though generous and affectionate, had always been irritable, had now been made almost savage by bodily infirmities and mental vexations, Conscious of great powers and great virtues, he found himself, in age and poverty, a mark for the hatred of a perfidious Court and a deluded people. In Parliament his eloquence was out of date. A young generation, which knew him not, had filled the House. Whenever he rose to speak, his voice was drowned by the unseemly interruption of lads who were in their cradles when his orations on the Stamp Act called forth the applause of the great Earl of Chatham. These things had produced on his proud and sensitive spirit an effect at which we cannot wonder. He could no longer discuss any question with calmness, or make allowance for honest differences of opinion. Those who think that he was more violent and acrimonious in debates about India than on other occasions, are ill-informed respecting the last years of his life. In the discussions on the Commercial Treaty with the Court of Versailles, on the Regency, on the French Revolution, he showed even more virulence than in conducting the impeachment. Indeed it may be remarked that the very persons who called him a mischievous maniac, for condemning in burning words the Rohilla war and the spoliation of the Begums, exalted him into a prophet as soon as he began to declaim, with greater vehemence, and not with greater reason, against the taking of the Bastile and the insults offered to Marie Antoinette. To us he appears to have been neither a maniac in the former case, nor a prophet in the latter, but in both cases a great and good man, led into extravagance by a sensibility which domineered over all his faculties. It may be doubted whether the personal antipathy of Francis, or the nobler indignation of Burke, would have led their party to adopt extreme measures against Hastings, if his own conduct had been judicious. He should have felt that, great as his public services had been, he was not faultless, and should have been content to make his escape, without aspiring to the honours of a triumph. He and his agent took a different view. They were impatient for the rewards which, as they conceived, it were deferred only till Burke’s attack should be over. They accordingly resolved to force on a decisive action with an enemy for whom, if they had been wise, they would have made a bridge of gold. On the first day of the session of 1786, Major Scott reminded Burke of the notice given in the preceding year, and asked whether it was seriously intended to bring any charge against the late Governor-General. This challenge left no course open to the Opposition, except to come forward as accusers, or to acknowledge themselves calumniators. The administration of Hastings had not been so blameless, nor was the great party of Fox and North so feeble, that it could be prudent to venture on so bold a defiance. The leaders of the Opposition instantly returned the only answer which they could with honour return; and the whole party was irrevocably pledged to a prosecution. Burke began his operations by applying for Papers. Some of the documents for which he asked were refused by the ministers, who, in the debate, held language such as strongly confirmed the prevailing opinion, that they intended to support Hastings. In April, the charges were laid on the table. They had been drawn by Burke with great ability, though in a form too much resembling that of a pamphlet. Hastings was furnished with a copy of the accusation; and it was intimated to him that he might, if he thought fit, be heard in his own defence at the bar of the Commons. Here again Hastings was pursued by the same fatality which had attended him ever since the day when he set foot on English ground. It seemed to be decreed that this man, so politic and so successful in the East, should commit nothing but blunders in Europe. Any judicious adviser would have told him that the best thing which he could do would be to make an eloquent, forcible, and affecting oration at the bar of the House; but that, if he could not trust himself to speak, and found it necessary to read, he ought to be as concise as possible. Audiences accustomed to extemporaneous debating of the highest excellence are always impatient of long written compositions. Hastings, however, sat down as he would have done at the Government-house in Bengal, and prepared a paper of immense length. That paper, if recorded on the consultations of an Indian administration, would have been justly praised as a very able minute. But it was now out of place. It fell flat, as the best written defence must have fallen flat, on an assembly accustomed to the animated and strenuous conflicts of Pitt and Fox. The members, as soon as their curiosity about the face and demeanour of so eminent a stranger was satisfied, walked away to dinner, and left Hastings to tell his story till midnight to the clerks and the Serjeant-at-Arms. All preliminary steps having been duly taken, Burke, in the beginning of June, brought forward the charge relating to the Rohilla war. He acted discreetly in placing this accusation in the van; for Dundas had formerly moved, and the House had adopted, a resolution condemning, in the most severe terms, the policy followed by Hastings with regard to Rohilcund, Dundas had little, or rather nothing, to say in defence of his own consistency; but he put a bold face on the matter, and opposed the motion. Among other things, he declared that, though he still thought the Rohilla war unjustifiable, he considered the services which Hastings had subsequently rendered to the State as sufficient to atone even for so great an offence Pitt did not speak, but voted with Dundas; and Hastings was absolved by a hundred and nineteen votes against sixty-seven. Hastings was now confident of victory. It seemed, indeed, that he had reason to be so. The Rohilla war was, of all his measures, that which his accusers might with greatest advantage assail. It had been condemned by the Court of Directors. It had been condemned by the House of Commons. It had been condemned by Mr. Dundas, who had since become the chief minister of the Crown for Indian affairs. Yet Burke, having chosen this strong ground, had been completely defeated on it. That, having failed here, he should succeed on any point, was generally thought impossible. It was rumoured at the clubs and coffee-houses that one or perhaps two more charges would be brought forward, that if, on those charges, the sense of the House of Commons should be against impeachment, the Opposition would let the matter drop, that Hastings would be immediately raised to the peerage, decorated with the star of the Bath, sworn of the Privy Council, and invited to lend the assistance of his talents and experience to the India Board. Lord Thurlow, indeed, some months before, had spoken with contempt of the scruples which prevented Pitt from calling Hastings to the House of Lords; and had even said that, if the Chancellor of the Exchequer was afraid of the Commons, there was nothing to prevent the Keeper of the Great Seal from taking the royal pleasure about a patent of peerage. The very title was chosen. Hastings was to be Lord Daylesford. For, through all changes of scene and changes of fortune, remained unchanged his attachment to the spot which had witnessed the greatness and the fall of his family, and which had borne so great a part in the first dreams of his young ambition. But in a very few days these fair prospects were overcast. On the thirteenth of June, Mr. Fox brought forward, with great ability and eloquence, the charge respecting the treatment of Cheyte Sing. Francis followed on the same side. The friends of Hastings were in high spirits when Pitt rose. With his usual abundance and felicity of language, the Minister gave his opinion on the case. He maintained that the Governor-General was justified in calling on the Rajah of Benares for pecuniary assistance, and in imposing a fine when that assistance was contumaciously withheld. He also thought that the conduct of the Governor-General during the insurrection had been distinguished by ability and presence of mind. He censured, with great bitterness, the conduct of Francis, both in India and in Parliament, as most dishonest and malignant. The necessary inference from Pitt’s arguments seemed to be that Hastings ought to be honourably acquitted; and both the friends and the opponents of the Minister expected from him a declaration to that effect. To the astonishment of all parties, he concluded by saying that, though he thought it right in Hastings to fine Cheyte Sing for contumacy, yet the amount of the fine was too great for the occasion. On this ground, and on this ground alone, did Mr. Pitt, applauding every other part of the conduct of Hastings with regard to Benares, declare that he should vote in favour of Mr. Fox’s motion. The House was thunderstruck; and it well might be so. For the wrong done to Cheyte Sing, even had it been as flagitious as Fox and Francis contended, was a trifle when compared with the horrors which had been inflicted on Rohilcund. But if Mr. Pitt’s view of the case of Cheyte Sing were correct, there was no ground for an impeachment, or even for a vote of censure. If the offence of Hastings was really no more than this, that, having a right to impose a mulct, the amount of which mulct was not defined, but was left to be settled by his discretion, he had, not for his own advantage, but for that of the State, demanded too much, was this an offence which required a criminal proceeding of the highest solemnity, a criminal proceeding, to which during sixty years, no public functionary had been subjected? We can see, we think, in what way a man of sense and integrity might have been induced to take any course respecting Hastings, except the course which Mr. Pitt took. Such a man might have thought a great example necessary, for the preventing of injustice, and for the vindicating of the national honour, and might, on that ground, have voted for impeachment both on the Rohilla charge, and on the Benares charge. Such a man might have thought that the offences of Hastings had been atoned for by great services, and might, on that ground, have voted against the impeachment, on both charges. With great diffidence, we give it as our opinion that the most correct course would, on the whole, have been to impeach on the Rohilla charge, and to acquit on the Benares charge. Had the Benares charge appeared to us in the same light in which it appeared to Mr. Pitt, we should, without hesitation, have voted for acquittal on that charge. The one course which it is inconceivable that any man of a tenth part of Mr. Pitt’s abilities can have honestly taken was the course which he took. He acquitted Hastings on the Rohilla charge. He softened down the Benares charge till it became no charge at all; and then he pronounced that it contained matter for impeachment. Nor must it be forgotten that the principal reason assigned by the ministry for not impeaching Hastings on account of the Rohilla war was this, that the delinquencies of the early part of his administration had been atoned for by the excellence of the later part. Was it not most extraordinary that men who had held this language could afterwards vote that the later part of his administration furnished matter for no less than twenty articles of impeachment? They first represented the conduct of Hastings in 1780 and 1781 as so highly meritorious that, like works of supererogation in the Catholic theology, it ought to be efficacious for the cancelling of former offences; and they then prosecuted him for his conduct in 1780 and 1781. The general astonishment was the greater, because, only twenty-four hours before, the members on whom the minister could depend had received the usual notes from the Treasury, begging them to be in their places and to vote against Mr. Fox’s motion. It was asserted by Mr. Hastings, that, early on the morning of the very day on which the debate took place, Dundas called on Pitt, woke him, and was, closeted with him many hours. The result of this conference was a determination to give up the late Governor-General to the vengeance of the Opposition. It was impossible even for the most powerful minister to carry all his followers with him in so strange a course. Several persons high in office, the Attorney-General, Mr. Grenville, and Lord Mulgrave, divided against Mr. Pitt. But the devoted adherents who stood by the head of the Government without asking questions, were sufficiently numerous to turn the scale. A hundred and nineteen members voted for Mr. Fox’s motion; seventy-nine against it. Dundas silently followed Pitt. That good and great man, the late William Wilberforce, often related the events of this remarkable night. He described the amazement of the House, and the bitter reflections which were muttered against the Prime Minister by some of the habitual supporters of Government. Pitt himself appeared to feel that his conduct required some explanation. He left the treasury bench, sat for some time next to Mr. Wilberforce, and very earnestly declared that he had found it impossible, as a man of conscience, to stand any longer by Hastings. The business, he said, was too bad. Mr. Wilberforce, we are bound to add, fully believed that his friend was sincere, and that the suspicions to which this mysterious affair gave rise were altogether unfounded. Those suspicions, indeed, were such as it is painful to mention. The friends of Hastings, most of whom, it is to be observed, generally supported the administration, affirmed that the motive of Pitt and Dundas was jealousy. Hastings was personally a favourite with the King. He was the idol of the East India Company and of its servants. If he were absolved by the Commons, seated among the Lords, admitted to the Board of Control, closely allied with the strong-minded and imperious Thurlow, was it not almost certain that he would soon draw to himself the entire management of Eastern affairs? Was it not possible that he might become a formidable rival in the Cabinet? It had probably got abroad that very singular communications had taken place between Thurlow and Major Scott, and that, if the First Lord of the Treasury was afraid to recommend Hastings for a peerage, the Chancellor was ready to take the responsibility of that step on himself. Of all ministers, Pitt was the least likely to submit with patience to such an encroachment on his functions. If the Commons impeached Hastings, all danger was at an end. The proceeding, however it might terminate, would probably last some years. In the meantime, the accused person would be excluded from honours and public employments, and could scarcely venture even to pay his duty at Court. Such were the motives attributed by a great part of the public to the young minister, whose ruling passion was generally believed to be avarice of power. The prorogation soon interrupted the discussions respecting Hastings. In the following year, those discussions were resumed. The charge touching the spoliation of the Begums was brought forward by Sheridan, in a speech which was so imperfectly reported that it may be said to be wholly lost, but which was without doubt, the most elaborately brilliant of all the productions of his ingenious mind. The impression which it produced was such as has never been equalled. He sat down, not merely amidst cheering, but amidst the loud clapping of hands, in which the Lords below the bar and the strangers in the gallery joined. The excitement of the House was such that no other speaker could obtain a hearing; and the debate was adjourned. The ferment spread fast through the town. Within four and twenty hours, Sheridan was offered a thousand pounds for the copyright of the speech, if he would himself correct it for the press. The impression made by this remarkable display of eloquence on severe and experienced critics, whose discernment may be supposed to have been quickened by emulation, was deep and permanent. Mr. Windham, twenty years later, said that the speech deserved all its fame, and was, in spite of some faults of taste, such as were seldom wanting either in the literary or in the parliamentary performances of Sheridan, the finest that had been delivered within the memory of man. Mr. Fox, about the same time, being asked by the late Lord Holland what was the best speech ever made in the House of Commons, assigned the first place, without hesitation, to the great oration of Sheridan on the Oude charge. When the debate was resumed, the tide ran so strongly against the accused that his friends were coughed and scraped down. Pitt declared himself for Sheridan’s motion; and the question was carried by a hundred and seventy-five votes against sixty-eight. The Opposition, flushed with victory and strongly supported by the public sympathy, proceeded to bring forward a succession of charges relating chiefly to pecuniary transactions. The friends of Hastings were discouraged, and, having now no hope of being able to avert an impeachment, were not very strenuous in their exertions. At length the House, having agreed to twenty articles of charge, directed Burke to go before the Lords, and to impeach the late Governor-General of High Crimes and Misdemeanours. Hastings was at the same time arrested by the Serjeant-at-Arms, and carried to the bar of the Peers. The session was now within ten days of its close. It was, therefore, impossible that any progress could be made in the trial till the next year. Hastings was admitted to bail; and further proceedings were postponed till the Houses should re-assemble. When Parliament met in the following winter, the Commons proceeded to elect a Committee for managing the impeachment. Burke stood at the head; and with him were associated most of the leading members of the Opposition. But when the name of Francis was read a fierce contention arose. It was said that Francis and Hastings were notoriously on bad terms, that they had been at feud during many years, that on one occasion their mutual aversion had impelled them to seek each other’s lives, and that it would be improper and indelicate to select a private enemy to be a public accuser. It was urged on the other side with great force, particularly by Mr. Windham, that impartiality, though the first duty of a judge, had never been reckoned among the qualities of an advocate; that in the ordinary administration of criminal justice among the English, the aggrieved party, the very last person who ought to be admitted into the jury-box, is the prosecutor; that what was wanted in a manager was, not that he should be free from bias, but that he should be able, well informed, energetic, and active. The ability and information of Francis were admitted; and the very animosity with which he was reproached, whether a virtue or a vice, was at least a pledge for his energy and activity. It seems difficult to refute these arguments. But the inveterate hatred borne by Francis to Hastings had excited general disgust. The House decided that Francis should not be a manager. Pitt voted with the majority, Dundas with the minority. In the meantime, the preparations for the trial had proceeded rapidly; and on the thirteenth of February, 1788, the sittings of the Court commenced. There have been spectacles more dazzling to the eye, more gorgeous with jewellery and cloth of gold, more attractive to grown-up children, than that which was then exhibited at Westminster; but, perhaps, there never was a spectacle so well calculated to strike a highly cultivated, a reflecting, and imaginative mind. All the various kinds of interest which belong to the near and to the distant, to the present and to the past, were collected on one spot and in one hour. All the talents and all the accomplishments which are developed by liberty and civilisation were now displayed, with every advantage that could be derived both from cooperation and from contrast. Every step in the proceedings carried the mind either backward, through many troubled centuries, to the days when the foundations of our constitution were laid; or far away, over boundless seas and deserts, to dusky nations living under strange stars, worshipping strange gods, and writing strange characters from right to left. The High Court of Parliament was to sit, according to forms handed down from the days of the Plantagenets, on an Englishman accused of exercising tyranny over the lord of the holy city of Benares, and over the ladies of the princely house of Oude. The place was worthy of such a trial. It was the great hall of William Rufus, the hall which had resounded with acclamations at the inauguration of thirty kings, the hall which had witnessed the just sentence of Bacon and the just absolution of Somers, the hall where the eloquence of Strafford had for a moment awed and melted a victorious party inflamed with just resentment, the hall where Charles had confronted the High Court of Justice with the placid courage which has half redeemed his fame. Neither military nor civil pomp was wanting. The avenues were lined with grenadiers. The streets were kept clear by cavalry. The peers, robed in gold and ermine, were marshalled by the heralds under Garter King-at-Arms. The judges in their vestments of state attended to give advice on points of law. Near a hundred and seventy lords, three-fourths of the Upper House as the Upper House then was, walked in solemn order from their usual place of assembling to the tribunal. The junior Baron present led the way, George Eliott, Lord Heathfield, recently ennobled for his memorable defence of Gibraltar against the fleets and armies of France and Spain. The long procession was closed by the Duke of Norfolk, Earl Marshal of the realm, by the great dignitaries, and by the brothers and sons of the King. Last of all came the Prince of Wales, conspicuous by his fine person and noble bearing. The grey old walls were hung with scarlet. The long galleries were crowded by an audience such as has rarely excited the fears or the emulation of an orator. There were gathered together, from all parts of a great, free, enlightened, and prosperous empire, grace and female loveliness, wit and learning, the representatives of every science and of every art. There were seated round the Queen the fair-haired young daughters of the house of Brunswick. There the Ambassadors of great Kings and Commonwealths gazed with admiration on a spectacle which no other country in the world could present. There Siddons, in the prime of her majestic beauty, looked with emotion on a scene surpassing all the imitations of the stage. There the historian of the Roman Empire thought of the days when Cicero pleaded the cause of Sicily against Verres, and when, before a senate which still retained some show of freedom, Tacitus thundered against the oppressor of Africa. There were seen, side by side, the greatest painter and the greatest scholar of the age. The spectacle had allured Reynolds from that easel which has preserved to us the thoughtful foreheads of so many writers and statesmen, and the sweet smiles of to many noble matrons. It had induced Parr to suspend his labours in that dark and profound mine from which he had extracted a vast treasure of erudition, a treasure too often buried in the earth, too often paraded with injudicious and inelegant ostentation, but still precious, massive, and splendid. There appeared the voluptuous charms of her to whom the heir of the throne had in secret plighted his faith. There too was she, the beautiful mother of a beautiful race, the Saint Cecilia, whose delicate features, lighted up by love and music, art has rescued from the common decay. There were the members of that brilliant society which quoted, criticised, and exchanged repartees, under the rich peacock hangings of Mrs. Montague. And there the ladies whose lips, more persuasive than those of Fox himself, had carried the Westminster election against palace and treasury, shone round Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire. The Serjeants made proclamation. Hastings advanced to the bar, and bent his knee. The culprit was indeed not unworthy of that great presence. He had ruled an extensive and populous country, had made laws and treaties, had sent forth armies, had set up and pulled down princes. And in his high place he had so borne himself, that all had feared him, that most had loved him, and that hatred itself could deny him no title to glory, except virtue. He looked like a great man, and not like a bad man. A person small and emaciated, yet deriving dignity from a carriage which, while it indicated deference to the Court, indicated also habitual self-possession and self-respect, a high and intellectual forehead, a brow pensive, but not gloomy, a mouth of inflexible decision, a face pale and worn, but serene, on which was written, as legibly as under the picture in the council-chamber at Calcutta, Mens aequa in arduis; such was the aspect with which the great proconsul presented himself to his judges. His counsel accompanied him, men all of whom were afterwards raised by their talents and learning to the highest posts in their profession, the bold and strong-minded Law, afterwards Chief Justice of the King’s Bench; the more humane and eloquent Dallas, afterwards Chief Justice of the Common Pleas; and Plomer, who, near twenty years later, successfully conducted in the same high court the defence of Lord Melville, and subsequently became Vice-chancellor and Master of the Rolls. But neither the culprit nor his advocates attracted so much notice as the accusers. In the midst of the blaze of red drapery, a space had been fitted up with green benches and tables for the Commons. The managers, with Burke at their head, appeared in full dress. The collectors of gossip did not fail to remark that even Fox, generally so regardless of his appearance, had paid to the illustrious tribunal the compliment of wearing a bag and sword. Pitt had refused to be one of the conductors of the impeachment; and his commanding, copious, and sonorous eloquence was wanting to that great muster of various talents. Age and blindness had unfitted Lord North for the duties of a public prosecutor; and his friends were left without the help of his excellent sense, his tact and his urbanity. But in spite of the absence of these two distinguished members of the Lower House, the box in which the managers stood contained an array of speakers such as perhaps had not appeared together since the great age of Athenian eloquence. There were Fox and Sheridan, the English Demosthenes and the English Hyperides. There was Burke, ignorant, indeed, or negligent of the art of adapting his reasonings and his style to the capacity and taste of his hearers, but in amplitude of comprehension and richness of imagination superior to every orator, ancient or modern. There, with eyes reverentially fixed on Burke, appeared the finest gentleman of the age, his form developed by every manly exercise, his face beaming with intelligence and spirit, the ingenious, the chivalrous, the high-souled Windham. Nor, though surrounded by such men, did the youngest manager pass unnoticed. At an age when most of those who distinguish themselves in life are still contending for prizes and fellowships at college, he had won for himself a conspicuous place in Parliament. No advantage of fortune or connection was wanting that could set off to the height his splendid talents and his unblemished honour. At twenty-three he had been thought worthy to be ranked with the veteran statesmen who appeared as the delegates of the British Commons, at the bar of the British nobility. All who stood at that bar, save him alone, are gone, culprit, advocates, accusers. To the generation which is now in the vigour of life, he is the sole representative of a great age which has passed away. But those who, within the last ten years, have listened with delight, till the morning sun shone on the tapestries of the House of Lords, to the lofty and animated eloquence of Charles Earl Grey, are able to form some estimate of the powers of a race of men among whom he was not the foremost. The charges and the answers of Hastings were first read. The ceremony occupied two whole days, and was rendered less tedious than it would otherwise have been by the silver voice and just emphasis of Cowper, the clerk of the court, a near relation of the amiable poet. On the third day Burke rose. Four sittings were occupied by his opening speech, which was intended to be a general introduction to all the charges. With an exuberance of thought and a splendour of diction which more than satisfied the highly raised expectation of the audience, he described the character and institutions of the natives of India, recounted the circumstances in which the Asiatic empire of Britain had originated, and set forth the constitution of the Company and of the English Presidencies. Having thus attempted to communicate to his hearers an idea of Eastern society, as vivid as that which existed in his own mind, he proceeded to arraign the administration of Hastings as systematically conducted in defiance of morality and public law. The energy and pathos of the great orator extorted expressions of unwonted admiration from the stern and hostile Chancellor, and, for a moment, seemed to pierce even the resolute heart of the defendant. The ladies in the galleries, unaccustomed to such displays of eloquence, excited by the solemnity of the occasion, and perhaps not unwilling to display their taste and sensibility, were in a state of uncontrollable emotion. Handkerchiefs were pulled out; smelling bottles were handed round; hysterical sobs and screams were heard: and Mrs. Sheridan was carried out in a fit. At length the orator concluded. Raising his voice till the old arches of Irish oak resounded, “Therefore,” said be, “hath it with all confidence been ordered, by the Commons of Great Britain, that I impeach Warren Hastings of high crimes and misdemeanours. I impeach him in the name of the Commons’ House of Parliament, whose trust he has betrayed. I impeach him in the name of the English nation, whose ancient honour he has sullied. I impeach him in the name of the people of India, whose rights he has trodden under foot, and whose country he has turned into a desert. Lastly, in the name of human nature itself, in the name of both sexes, in the name of every age, in the name of every rank, I impeach the common enemy and oppressor of all!” When the deep murmur of various emotions had subsided, Mr. Fox rose to address the Lords respecting the course of proceeding to be followed. The wish of the accusers was that the Court would bring to a close the investigation of the first charge before the second was opened. The wish of Hastings and of his counsel was that the managers should open all the charges, and produce all the evidence for the prosecution, before the defence began. The Lords retired to their own House to consider the question. The Chancellor took the side of Hastings. Lord Loughborough, who was now in opposition, supported the demand of the managers. The division showed which way the inclination of the tribunal leaned. A majority of near three to one decided in favour of the course for which Hastings contended. When the Court sat again, Mr. Fox, assisted by Mr. Grey, opened the charge respecting Cheyte Sing, and several days were spent in reading papers and hearing witnesses. The next article was that relating to the Princesses of Oude. The conduct of this part of the case was intrusted to Sheridan. The curiosity of the public to hear him was unbounded. His sparkling and highly finished declamation lasted two days; but the Hall was crowded to suffocation during the whole time. It was said that fifty guineas had been paid for a single ticket. Sheridan, when he concluded, contrived, with a knowledge of stage effect which his father might have envied, to sink back, as if exhausted, into the arms of Burke, who hugged him with the energy of generous admiration. June was now far advanced. The session could not last much longer; and the progress which had been made in the impeachment was not very satisfactory. There were twenty charges. On two only of these had even the case for the prosecution been heard; and it was now a year since Hastings had been admitted to bail. The interest taken by the public in the trial was great when the Court began to sit, and rose to the height when Sheridan spoke on the charge relating to the Begums. From that time the excitement went down fast. The spectacle had lost the attraction of novelty. The great displays of rhetoric were over. What was behind was not of a nature to entice men of letters from their books in the morning, or to tempt ladies who had left the masquerade at two to be out of bed before eight There remained examinations and cross-examinations. There remained statements of accounts. There remained the reading of papers, filled with words unintelligible to English ears, with lacs and crores, zemindars and aumils, sunnuds and perwarmahs, jaghires and nuzzurs. There remained bickerings, not always carried on with the best taste or the best temper, between the managers of the impeachment and the counsel for the defence, particularly between Mr. Burke and Mr. Law. There remained the endless marches and counter-marches of the Peers between their House and the Hall: for as often as a point of law was to be discussed, their Lordships retired to discuss it apart; and the consequence was, as a Peer wittily said, that the judges walked and the trial stood still. It is to be added that, in the spring of 1788, when the trial commenced, no important question, either of domestic or foreign policy, occupied the public mind. The proceeding in Westminster Hall, therefore, naturally attracted most of the attention of Parliament and of the country. It was the one great event of that season. But in the following year the King’s illness, the debates on the Regency, the expectation of a change of ministry, completely diverted public attention from Indian affairs; and within a fortnight after George the Third had returned thanks in St. Paul’s for his recovery, the States General of France met at Versailles. In the midst of the agitation produced by these events, the impeachment was for a time almost forgotten. The trial in the Hall went on languidly. In the session of 1788, when the proceedings had the interest of novelty, and when the Peers had little other business before them, only thirty-five days were given to the impeachment. In 1789, the Regency Bill occupied the Upper House till the session was far advanced. When the King recovered the circuits were beginning. The judges left town; the Lords waited for the return of the oracles of jurisprudence; and the consequence was that during the whole year only seventeen days were given to the case of Hastings. It was clear that the matter would be protracted to a length unprecedented in the annals of criminal law. In truth, it is impossible to deny that impeachment, though it is a fine ceremony, and though it may have been useful in the seventeenth century, is not a proceeding from which much good can now be expected. Whatever confidence may be placed in the decision of the Peers on an appeal arising out of ordinary litigation, it is certain that no man has the least confidence in their impartiality, when a great public functionary, charged with a great state crime, is brought to their bar. They are all politicians. There is hardly one among them whose vote on an impeachment may not be confidently predicted before a witness has been examined; and, even if it were possible to rely on their justice, they would still be quite unfit to try such a cause as that of Hastings. They sit only during half the year. They have to transact much legislative and much judicial business. The law-lords, whose advice is required to guide the unlearned majority, are employed daily in administering justice elsewhere. It is impossible, therefore, that during a busy session, the Upper House should give more than a few days to an impeachment. To expect that their Lordships would give up partridge-shooting, in order to bring the greatest delinquent to speedy justice, or to relieve accused innocence by speedy acquittal, would be unreasonable indeed. A well-constituted tribunal, sitting regularly six days in the week, and nine hours in the day, would have brought the trial of Hastings to a close in less than three months. The Lords had not finished their work in seven years. The result ceased to be matter of doubt, from the time when the Lords resolved that they would be guided by the rules of evidence which are received in the inferior courts of the realm. Those rules, it is well known, exclude much information which would be quite sufficient to determine the conduct of any reasonable man, in the most important transactions of private life. These rules, at every assizes, save scores of culprits whom judges, jury, and spectators, firmly believe to be guilty. But when those rules were rigidly applied to offences committed many years before, at the distance of many thousands of miles, conviction was, of course, out of the question. We do not blame the accused and his counsel for availing themselves of every legal advantage in order to obtain an acquittal. But it is clear that an acquittal so obtained cannot be pleaded in bar of the judgment of history. Several attempts were made by the friends of Hastings to put a stop to the trial. In 1789 they proposed a vote of censure upon Burke, for some violent language which he had used respecting the death of Nuncomar and the connection between Hastings and Impey. Burke was then unpopular in the last degree both with the House and with the country. The asperity and indecency of some expressions which he had used during the debates on the Regency had annoyed even his warmest friends. The vote of censure was carried; and those who had moved it hoped that the managers would resign in disgust. Burke was deeply hurt. But his zeal for what he considered as the cause of justice and mercy triumphed over his personal feelings. He received the censure of the House with dignity and meekness, and declared that no personal mortification or humiliation should induce him to flinch from the sacred duty which he had undertaken. In the following year the Parliament was dissolved; and the friends of Hastings entertained a hope that the new House of Commons might not be disposed to go on with the impeachment. They began by maintaining that the whole proceeding was terminated by the dissolution. Defeated on this point, they made a direct motion that the impeachment should be dropped; but they were defeated by the combined forces of the Government and the Opposition. It was, however, resolved that, for the sake of expedition, many of the articles should be withdrawn. In truth, had not some such measure been adopted, the trial would have lasted till the defendant was in his grave. At length, in the spring of 1795, the decision was pronounced, near eight years after Hastings had been brought by the Sergeant-at-Arms of the Commons to the bar of the Lords. On the last day of this great procedure the public curiosity, long suspended, seemed to be revived. Anxiety about the judgment there could be none; for it had been fully ascertained that there was a great majority for the defendant. Nevertheless many wished to see the pageant, and the Hall was as much crowded as on the first day. But those who, having been present on the first day, now bore a part in the proceedings of the last, were few; and most of those few were altered men. As Hastings himself said, the arraignment had taken place before one generation, and the judgment was pronounced by another. The spectator could not look at the woolsack, or at the red benches of the Peers, or at the green benches of the Commons, without seeing something that reminded him of the instability of all human things, of the instability of power and fame and life, of the more lamentable instability of friendship. The great seal was borne before Lord Loughborough, who, when the trial commenced, was a fierce opponent of Mr. Pitt’s Government, and who was now a member of that Government, while Thurlow, who presided in the court when it first sat, estranged from all his old allies, sat scowling among the junior barons. Of about a hundred and sixty nobles who walked in the procession on the first day, sixty had been laid in their family vaults. Still more affecting must have been the sight of the managers’ box. What had become of that fair fellowship, so closely bound together by public and private ties, so resplendent with every talent and accomplishment? It had been scattered by calamities more bitter than the bitterness of death. The great chiefs were still living, and still in the full vigour of their genius. But their friendship was at an end. It had been violently and publicly dissolved, with tears and stormy reproaches. If those men, once so dear to each other, were now compelled to meet for the purpose of managing the impeachment, they met as strangers whom public business had brought together, and behaved to each other with cold and distant civility. Burke had in his vortex whirled away Windham. Fox had been followed by Sheridan and Grey. Only twenty-nine Peers voted. Of these only six found Hastings guilty on the charges relating to Cheyte Sing and to the Begums. On other charges, the majority in his favour was still greater. On some he was unanimously absolved. He was then called to the bar, was informed from the woolsack that the Lords had acquitted him, and was solemnly discharged. He bowed respectfully and retired. We have said that the decision had been fully expected. It was also generally approved. At the commencement of the trial there had been a strong and indeed unreasonable feeling against Hastings. At the close of the trial there was a feeling equally strong and equally unreasonable in his favour. One cause of the change was, no doubt, what is commonly called the fickleness of the multitude, but what seems to us to be merely the general law of human nature. Both in individuals and in masses violent excitement is always followed by remission, and often by reaction. We are all inclined to depreciate whatever we have overpraised, and, on the other hand, to show undue indulgence where we have shown undue rigour. It was thus in the case of Hastings. The length of his trial, moreover, made him an object of compassion. It was thought, and not without reason, that, even if he was guilty, he was still an ill-used man, and that an impeachment of eight years was more than a sufficient punishment. It was also felt that, though, in the ordinary course of criminal law, a defendant is not allowed to set off his good actions against his crimes, a great political cause should be tried on different principles, and that a man who had governed an empire during thirteen years might have done some very reprehensible things, and yet might be on the whole deserving of rewards and honours rather than of fine and imprisonment. The press, an instrument neglected by the prosecutors, was used by Hastings and his friends with great effect. Every ship, too, that arrived from Madras or Bengal, brought a cuddy full of his admirers. Every gentleman from India spoke of the late Governor-General as having deserved better, and having been treated worse, than any man living. The effect of this testimony unanimously given by all persons who knew the East, was naturally very great. Retired members of the Indian services, civil and military, were settled in all corners of the kingdom. Each of them was, of course, in his own little circle, regarded as an oracle on an Indian question; and they were, with scarcely one exception, the zealous advocates of Hastings. It is to be added, that the numerous addresses to the late Governor-General, which his friends in Bengal obtained from the natives and transmitted to England, made a considerable impression. To these addresses we attach little or no importance. That Hastings was beloved by the people whom he governed is true; but the eulogies of pundits, zemindars, Mahommedan doctors, do not prove it to be true. For an English collector or judge would have found it easy to induce any native who could write to sign a panegyric on the most odious ruler that ever was in India. It was said that at Benares, the very place at which the acts set forth in the first article of impeachment had been committed, the natives had erected a temple to Hastings; and this story excited a strong sensation in England. Burke’s observations on the apotheosis were admirable. He saw no reason for astonishment, he said, in the incident which had been represented as so striking. He knew something of the mythology of the Brahmins. He knew that as they worshipped some gods from love, so they worshipped others from fear. He knew that they erected shrines, not only to the benignant deities of light and plenty, but also to the fiends who preside over smallpox and murder; nor did he at all dispute the claim of Mr. Hastings to be admitted into such a Pantheon. This reply has always struck us as one of the finest that ever was made in Parliament. It is a grave and forcible argument, decorated by the most brilliant wit and fancy. Hastings was, however, safe. But in everything except character, he would have been far better off if, when first impeached, he had at once pleaded guilty, and paid a fine of fifty thousand pounds. He was a ruined man. The legal expenses of his defence had been enormous. The expenses which did not appear in his attorney’s bill were perhaps larger still. Great sums had been paid to Major Scott. Great sums had been laid out in bribing newspapers, rewarding pamphleteers, and circulating tracts. Burke, so early as 1790, declared in the House of Commons that twenty thousand pounds had been employed in corrupting the press. It is certain that no controversial weapon, from the gravest reasoning to the coarsest ribaldry, was left unemployed. Logan defended the accused Governor with great ability in prose. For the lovers of verse, the speeches of the managers were burlesqued in Simpkin’s letters. It is, we are afraid, indisputable that Hastings stooped so low as to court the aid of that malignant and filthy baboon John Williams, who called himself Anthony Pasquin. It was necessary to subsidise such allies largely. The private boards of Mrs. Hastings had disappeared. It is said that the banker to whom they had been intrusted had failed. Still if Hastings had practised strict economy, he would, after all his losses, have had a moderate competence; but in the management of his private affairs he was imprudent. The dearest wish of his heart had always been to regain Daylesford. At length, in the very year in which his trial commenced, the wish was accomplished; and the domain, alienated more than seventy years before, returned to the descendant of its old lords. But the manor-house was a ruin; and the grounds round it had, during many years, been utterly neglected. Hastings proceeded to build, to plant, to form a sheet of water, to excavate a grotto; and, before he was dismissed from the bar of the House of Lords, he had expended more than forty thousand pounds in adorning his seat. The general feeling both of the Directors and of the proprietors of the East India Company was that he had great claims on them, that his services to them had been eminent, and that his misfortunes had been the effect of his zeal for their interest. His friends in Leadenhall Street proposed to reimburse him the costs of his trial, and to settle on him an annuity of five thousand pounds a year. But the consent of the Board of Control was necessary; and at the head of the Board of Control was Mr. Dundas, who had himself been a party to the impeachment, who had, on, that account, been reviled with great bitterness by the adherents of Hastings, and who, therefore, was not in a very complying mood. He refused to consent to what the Directors suggested. The Directors remonstrated. A long controversy followed. Hastings, in the meantime, was reduced to such distress that he could hardly pay his weekly bills. At length a compromise was made. An annuity for life of four thousand pounds was settled on Hastings; and in order to enable him to meet pressing demands, he was to receive ten years’ annuity in advance. The Company was also permitted to lend him fifty thousand pounds, to be repaid by instalments without interest. This relief, though given in the most absurd manner, was sufficient to enable the retired Governor to live in comfort, and even in luxury, if he had been a skilful manager. But he was careless and profuse, and was more than once under the necessity of applying to the Company for assistance, which was liberally given. He had security and affluence, but not the power and dignity which, when he landed from India, he had reason to expect. He had then looked forward to a coronet, a red riband, a seat at the Council Board, an office at Whitehall. He was then only fifty-two, and might hope for many years of bodily and mental vigour. The case was widely different when he left the bar of the Lords. He was now too old a man to turn his mind to a new class of studies and duties. He had no chance of receiving any mark of royal favour while Mr. Pitt remained in power; and, when Mr. Pitt retired, Hastings was approaching his seventieth year. Once, and only once, after his acquittal, he interfered in politics; and that interference was not much to his honour. In 1804 he exerted himself strenuously to prevent Mr. Addington, against whom Fox and Pitt had combined, from resigning the Treasury. It is difficult to believe that a man, so able and energetic as Hastings, can have thought that, when Bonaparte was at Boulogne with a great army, the defence of our island could safely be intrusted to a ministry which did not contain a single person whom flattery could describe as a great statesman. It is also certain that, on the important question which had raised Mr. Addington to power, and on which he differed from both Fox and Pitt, Hastings, as might have been expected, agreed with Fox and Pitt, and was decidedly opposed to Addington. Religious intolerance has never been the vice of the Indian service, and certainly was not the vice of Hastings. But Mr. Addington had treated him with marked favour. Fox had been a principal manager of the impeachment. To Pitt it was owing that there had been an impeachment; and Hastings, we fear, was on this occasion guided by personal considerations, rather than by a regard to the public interest. The last twenty-four years of his life were chiefly passed at Daylesford. He amused himself with embellishing his grounds, riding fine Arab horses, fattening prize-cattle, and trying to rear Indian animals and vegetables in England. He sent for seeds of a very fine custard-apple, from the garden of what had once been his own villa, among the green hedgerows of Allipore. He tried also to naturalise in Worcestershire the delicious leechee, almost the only fruit of Bengal which deserves to be regretted even amidst the plenty of Covent Garden. The Mogul emperors, in the time of their greatness, had in vain attempted to introduce into Hindostan the goat of the table-land of Thibet, whose down supplies the looms of Cashmere with the materials of the finest shawls. Hastings tried, with no better fortune, to rear a breed at Daylesford; nor does he seem to have succeeded better with the cattle of Bootan, whose tails are in high esteem as the best fans for brushing away the mosquitoes. Literature divided his attention with his conservatories and his menagerie. He had always loved books, and they were now necessary to him. Though not a poet, in any high sense of the word, he wrote neat and polished lines with great facility, and was fond of exercising this talent. Indeed, if we must speak out, he seems to have been more of a Trissotin than was to be expected from the powers of his mind, and from the great part which he had played in life. We are assured in these Memoirs that the first thing which he did in the morning was to write a copy of verses. When the family and guests assembled, the poem made its appearance as regularly as the eggs and rolls; and Mr. Gleig requires us to believe that, if from any accident Hastings came to the breakfast-table without one of his charming performances in his hand, the omission was felt by all as a grievous disappointment. Tastes differ widely. For ourselves, we must say that, however good the breakfasts at Daylesford may have been,--and we are assured that the tea was of the most aromatic flavour, and that neither tongue nor venison-pasty was wanting,--we should have thought the reckoning high if we had been forced to earn our repast by listening every day to a new madrigal or sonnet composed by our host. We are glad, however, that Mr. Gleig has preserved this little feature of character, though we think it by no means a beauty. It is good to be often reminded of the inconsistency of human nature, and to learn to look without wonder or disgust on the weaknesses which are found in the strongest minds. Dionysius in old times, Frederic in the last century, with capacity and vigour equal to the conduct of the greatest affairs, united all the little vanities and affectations of provincial bluestockings. These great examples may console the admirers of Hastings for the affliction of seeing him reduced to the level of the Hayleys and Sewards. When Hastings had passed many years in retirement, and had long outlived the common age of men, he again became for a short time an object of general attention. In 1813 the charter of the East India Company was renewed; and much discussion about Indian affairs took place in Parliament. It was determined to examine witnesses at the bar of the Commons; and Hastings was ordered to attend. He had appeared at that bar once before. It was when he read his answer to the charges which Burke had laid on the table. Since that time twenty-seven years had elapsed; public feeling had undergone a complete change; the nation had now forgotten his faults, and remembered only his services. The reappearance, too, of a man who had been among the most distinguished of a generation that had passed away, who now belonged to history, and who seemed to have risen from the dead, could not but produce a solemn and pathetic effect. The Commons received him with acclamations, ordered a chair to be set for him, and, when he retired, rose and uncovered. There were, indeed, a few who did not sympathise with the general feeling. One or two of the managers of the impeachment were present. They sate in the same seats which they had occupied when they had been thanked for the services which they had rendered in Westminster Hall: for, by the courtesy of the House, a member who has been thanked in his place is considered as having a right always to occupy that place. These gentlemen were not disposed to admit that they had employed several of the best years of their lives in persecuting an innocent man. They accordingly kept their seats, and pulled their hats over their brows; but the exceptions only made the prevailing enthusiasm more remarkable. The Lords received the old man with similar tokens of respect. The University of Oxford conferred on him the degree of Doctor of Laws; and, in the Sheldonian Theatre, the undergraduates welcomed him with tumultuous cheering. These marks of public esteem were soon followed by marks of royal favour. Hastings was sworn of the Privy Council, and was admitted to a long private audience of the Prince Regent, who treated him very graciously. When the Emperor of Russia and the King of Prussia visited England, Hastings appeared in their train both at Oxford and in the Guildhall of London, and, though surrounded by a crowd of princes and great warriors, was everywhere received with marks of respect and admiration. He was presented by the Prince Regent both to Alexander and to Frederic William; and his Royal Highness went so far as to declare in public that honours far higher than a seat in the Privy Council were due, and would soon be paid, to the man who had saved the British dominions in Asia. Hastings now confidently expected a peerage; but, from some unexplained cause, he was again disappointed. He lived about four years longer, in the enjoyment of good spirits, of faculties not impaired to any painful or degrading extent, and of health such as is rarely enjoyed by those who attain such an age. At length, on the twenty-second of August, 1818, in the eighty-sixth year of his age, he met death with the same tranquil and decorous fortitude which he had opposed to all the trials of his various and eventful life. With all his faults,--and they were neither few nor small--only one cemetery was worthy to contain his remains. In that temple of silence and reconciliation where the enmities of twenty generations lie buried, in the Great Abbey which has during many ages afforded a quiet resting-place to those whose minds and bodies have been shattered by the contentions of the Great Hall, the dust of the illustrious accused should have mingled with the dust of the illustrious accusers. This was not to be. Yet the place of interment was not ill chosen. Behind the chancel of the parish church of Daylesford, in earth which already held the bones of many chiefs of the house of Hastings, was laid the coffin of the greatest man who has ever borne that ancient and widely extended name. On that very spot probably, four-score years before, the little Warren, meanly clad and scantily fed, had played with the children of ploughmen. Even then his young mind had revolved plans which might be called romantic. Yet, however romantic, it is not likely that they had been so strange as the truth. Not only had the poor orphan retrieved the fallen fortunes of his line--not only had he repurchased the old lands, and rebuilt the old dwelling--he had preserved and extended an empire. He had founded a polity. He had administered government and war with more than the capacity of Richelieu. He had patronised learning with the judicious liberality of Cosmo. He had been attacked by the most formidable combination of enemies that ever sought the destruction of a single victim; and over that combination, after a struggle of ten years, he had triumphed. He had at length gone down to his grave in the fulness of age, in peace, after so many troubles, in honour, after so much obloquy. Those who look on his character without favour or malevolence will pronounce that, in the two great elements of all social virtue, in respect for the rights of others, and in sympathy for the sufferings of others, he was deficient. His principles were somewhat lax. His heart was somewhat hard. But though we cannot with truth describe him either as a righteous or as a merciful ruler, we cannot regard without admiration the amplitude and fertility of his intellect, his rare talents for command, for administration, and for controversy, his dauntless courage, his honourable poverty, his fervent zeal for the interests of the State, his noble equanimity, tried by both extremes of fortune, and never disturbed by either. LORD HOLLAND (July 1841) _The Opinions of Lord Holland, as recorded in the journals of the House of Lords from 1797 to 1841. Collected and edited by D. C. MOYLAN, of Lincoln’s Inn, Barrister-at-law. 8vo. London: 1841._ MANY reasons make it impossible for us to lay before our readers, at the present moment, a complete view of the character and public career of the late Lord Holland. But we feel that we have already deferred too long the duty of paying some tribute to his memory. We feel that it is more becoming to bring without further delay an offering, though intrinsically of little value, than to leave his tomb longer without some token of our reverence and love. We shall say very little of the book which lies on our table. And yet it is a book which, even if it had been the work of a less distinguished man, or had appeared under circumstances less interesting, would have well repaid an attentive perusal. It is valuable, both as a record of principles and as a model of composition. We find in it all the great maxims which, during more than forty years, guided Lord Holland’s public conduct, and the chief reasons on which those maxims rest, condensed into the smallest possible space, and set forth with admirable perspicuity, dignity, and precision. To his opinions on Foreign Policy we for the most part cordially assent; but now and then we are inclined to think them imprudently generous. We could not have signed the protest against the detention of Napoleon. The Protest respecting the course which England pursued at the Congress of Verona, though it contains much that is excellent, contains also positions which, we are inclined to think, Lord Holland would, at a later period, have admitted to be unsound. But to all his doctrines on constitutional questions, we give our hearty approbation; and we firmly believe that no British Government has ever deviated from that line of internal policy which he has traced, without detriment to the public. We will give, as a specimen of this little volume, a single passage, in which a chief article of the political creed of the Whigs is stated and explained, with singular clearness, force, and brevity. Our readers will remember that, in 1825, the Catholic Association raised the cry of emancipation with most formidable effect. The Tories acted after their kind. Instead of removing the grievance they tried to put down the agitation, and brought in a law, apparently sharp and stringent, but in truth utterly impotent, for restraining the right of petition. Lord Holland’s Protest on that occasion is excellent: “We are,” says he, “well aware that the privileges of the people, the rights of free discussion, and the spirit and letter of our popular institutions, must render,--and they are intended to render,--the continuance of an extensive grievance and of the dissatisfaction consequent thereupon, dangerous to the tranquillity of the country, and ultimately subversive of the authority of the State. Experience and theory alike forbid us to deny that effect of a free constitution; a sense of justice and a love of liberty equally deter us from lamenting it. But we have always been taught to look for the remedy of such disorders in the redress of the grievances which justify them, and in the removal of the dissatisfaction from which they flow--not in restraints on ancient privileges, not in inroads on the right of public discussion, nor in violations of the principles of a free government. If, therefore, the legal method of seeking redress, which has been resorted to by persons labouring under grievous disabilities, be fraught with immediate or remote danger to the State, we draw from that circumstance a conclusion long since foretold by great authority--namely, that the British constitution, and large exclusions, cannot subsist together; that the constitution must destroy them, or they will destroy the constitution.” It was not, however, of this little book, valuable and interesting as it is, but of the author, that we meant to speak; and we will try to do so with calmness and impartiality. In order to fully appreciate the character of Lord Holland, it is necessary to go far back into the history of his family; for he had inherited something more than a coronet and an estate. To the House of which he was the head belongs one distinction which we believe to be without a parallel in our annals. During more than a century, there has never been a time at which a Fox has not stood in a prominent station among public men. Scarcely had the chequered career of the first Lord Holland closed, when his son, Charles, rose to the head of the Opposition, and to the first rank among English debaters. And before Charles was borne to Westminster Abbey a third Fox had already become one of the most conspicuous politicians in the kingdom. It is impossible not to be struck by the strong family likeness which, in spite of diversities arising from education and position, appears in these three distinguished persons. In their faces and figures there was a resemblance, such as is common enough in novels, where one picture is good for ten generations, but such as in real life is seldom found. The ample person, the massy and thoughtful forehead, the large eyebrows, the full cheek and lip, the expression, so singularly compounded of sense, humour, courage, openness, a strong will and a sweet temper, were common to all. But the features of the founder of the House, as the pencil of Reynolds and the chisel of Nollekens have handed them down to us, were disagreeably harsh and exaggerated. In his descendants, the aspect was preserved, but it was softened, till it became, in the late lord, the most gracious and interesting countenance that was ever lighted up by the mingled lustre of intelligence and benevolence. As it was with the faces of the men of this noble family, so was it also with their minds. Nature had done much for them all. She had moulded them all of that clay of which she is most sparing. To all she had given strong reason and sharp wit, a quick relish for every physical and intellectual enjoyment, constitutional intrepidity, and that frankness by which constitutional intrepidity is generally accompanied, spirits which nothing could depress, tempers easy, generous, and placable, and that genial courtesy which has its seat in the heart, and of which artificial politeness is only a faint and cold imitation. Such a disposition is the richest inheritance that ever was entailed on any family. But training and situation greatly modified the fine qualities which nature lavished with such profusion on three generations of the house of Fox. The first Lord Holland was a needy political adventurer. He entered public life at a time when the standard of integrity among statesmen was low. He started as the adherent of a minister who had indeed many titles to respect, who possessed eminent talents both for administration and for debate, who understood the public interest well, and who meant fairly by the country, but who had seen so much perfidy and meanness that he had become sceptical as to the existence of probity. Weary of the cant of patriotism, Walpole had learned to talk a cant of a different kind. Disgusted by that sort of hypocrisy which is at least a homage to virtue, he was too much in the habit of practising the less respectable hypocrisy which ostentatiously displays, and sometimes even simulates vice. To Walpole Fox attached himself, politically and personally, with the ardour which belonged to his temperament. And it is not to be denied that in the school of Walpole he contracted faults which destroyed the value of his many great endowments. He raised himself, indeed, to the first consideration in the House of Commons; he became a consummate master of the art of debate; he attained honours and immense wealth; but the public esteem and confidence were withheld from him. His private friends, indeed, justly extolled his generosity and good nature. They maintained that in those parts of his conduct which they could least defend there was nothing sordid, and that, if he was misled, he was misled by amiable feelings, by a desire to serve his friends, and by anxious tenderness for his children. But by the nation he was regarded as a man of insatiable rapacity and desperate ambition; as a man ready to adopt, without scruple, the most immoral and the most unconstitutional manners; as a man perfectly fitted, by all his opinions and feelings, for the work of managing the Parliament by means of secret-service money, and of keeping down the people with the bayonet. Many of his contemporaries had a morality quite as lax as his: but very few among them had his talents, and none had his hardihood and energy. He could not, like Sandys and Doddington, find safety in contempt. He therefore became an object of such general aversion as no statesman since the fall of Strafford has incurred, of such general aversion as was probably never in any country incurred by a man of so kind and cordial a disposition. A weak mind would have sunk under such a load of unpopularity. But that resolute spirit seemed to derive new firmness from the public hatred. The only effect which reproaches appeared to produce on him, was to sour, in some degree, his naturally sweet temper. The last acts of his public life were marked, not only by that audacity which he had derived from nature, not only by that immorality which he had learned in the school of Walpole, but by a harshness which almost amounted to cruelty, and which had never been supposed to belong to his character. His severity increased the unpopularity from which it had sprung. The well-known lampoon of Gray may serve as a specimen of the feeling of the country. All the images are taken from shipwrecks, quicksands, and cormorants. Lord Holland is represented as complaining, that the cowardice of his accomplices had prevented him from putting down the free spirit of the city of London by sword and fire, and as pining for the time when birds of prey should make their nests in Westminster Abbey, and unclean beasts burrow in St. Paul’s. Within a few months after the death of this remarkable man, his second son Charles appeared at the head of the party opposed to the American War. Charles had inherited the bodily and mental constitution of his father, and had been much, far too much, under his father’s influence. It was indeed impossible that a son of so affectionate and noble a nature should not have been warmly attached to a parent who possessed many fine qualities, and who carried his indulgence and liberality towards his children even to a culpable extent. Charles saw that the person to whom he was bound by the strongest ties was, in the highest degree, odious to the nation; and the effect was what might have been expected from the strong passions and constitutional boldness of so high-spirited a youth. He cast in his lot with his father, and took, while still a boy, a deep part in the most unjustifiable and unpopular measures that had been adopted since the reign of James the Second. In the debates on the Middlesex Election, he distinguished himself, not only by his precocious powers of eloquence, but by the vehement and scornful manner in which he bade defiance to public opinion. He was at that time regarded as a man likely to be the most formidable champion of arbitrary government that had appeared since the Revolution, to be a Bute with far greater powers, a Mansfield with far greater courage. Happily his father’s death liberated him early from the pernicious influence by which he had been misled. His mind expanded. His range of observation became wider. His genius broke through early prejudices. His natural benevolence and magnanimity had fair play. In a very short time he appeared in a situation worthy of his understanding and of his heart. From a family whose name was associated in the public mind with tyranny and corruption, from a party of which the theory and the practice were equally servile, from the midst of the Luttrells, the Dysons, the Barringtons, came forth the greatest parliamentary defender of civil and religious liberty. The late Lord Holland succeeded to the talents and to the fine natural dispositions of his House. But his situation was very different from that of the two eminent men of whom we have spoken. In some important respects it was better, in some it was worse than theirs. He had one great advantage over them. He received a good political education. The first lord was educated by Sir Robert Walpole. Mr. Fox was educated by his father. The late lord was educated by Mr. Fox. The pernicious maxims early imbibed by the first Lord Holland, made his great talents useless and worse than useless to the State. The pernicious maxims early imbibed by Mr. Fox, led him, at the commencement of his public life, into great faults which, though afterwards nobly expiated, were never forgotten. To the very end of his career, small men, when they had nothing else to say in defence of their own tyranny, bigotry, and imbecility, could always raise a cheer by some paltry taunt about the election of Colonel Luttrell, the imprisonment of the lord mayor, and other measures in which the great Whig leader had borne a part at the age of one or two and twenty. On Lord Holland no such slur could be thrown. Those who most dissent from his opinions must acknowledge that a public life more consistent is not to be found in our annals. Every part of it is in perfect harmony with every other part; and the whole is in perfect harmony with the great principles of toleration and civil freedom. This rare felicity is in a great measure to be attributed to the influence of Mr. Fox. Lord Holland, as was natural in a person of his talents and expectations, began at a very early age to take the keenest interest in politics; and Mr. Fox found the greatest pleasure in forming the mind of so hopeful a pupil. They corresponded largely on political subjects when the young lord was only sixteen; and their friendship and mutual confidence continued to the day of that mournful separation at Chiswick. Under such training such a man as Lord Holland was in no danger of falling into those faults which threw a dark shade over the whole career of his grandfather, and from which the youth of his uncle was not wholly free. On the other hand, the late Lord Holland, as compared with his grandfather and his uncle, laboured under one great disadvantage. They were members of the House of Commons. He became a Peer while still an infant. When he entered public life, the House of Lords was a very small and a very decorous assembly. The minority to which he belonged was scarcely able to muster five or six votes on the most important nights, when eighty or ninety lords were present. Debate had accordingly become a mere form, as it was in the Irish House of Peers before the Union. This was a great misfortune to a man like Lord Holland. It was not by occasionally addressing fifteen or twenty solemn and unfriendly auditors that his grandfather and his uncle attained their unrivalled parliamentary skill. The former had learned his art in “the great Walpolean battles,” on nights when Onslow was in the chair seventeen hours without intermission, when the thick ranks on both sides kept unbroken order till long after the winter sun had risen upon them, when the blind were led out by the hand into the lobby and the paralytic laid down in their bed-clothes on the benches. The powers of Charles Fox were, from the first, exercised in conflicts not less exciting. The great talents of the late Lord Holland had no such advantage. This was the more unfortunate, because the peculiar species of eloquence which belonged to him in common with his family required much practice to develop it. With strong sense, and the greatest readiness of wit, a certain tendency to hesitation was hereditary in the line of Fox. This hesitation arose, not from the poverty, but from the wealth of their vocabulary. They paused, not from the difficulty of finding one expression, but from the difficulty of choosing between several. It was only by slow degrees and constant exercise that the first Lord Holland and his son overcame the defect. Indeed neither of them overcame it completely. In statement, the late Lord Holland was not successful; his chief excellence lay in reply. He had the quick eye of his house for the unsound parts of an argument, and a great felicity in exposing them. He was decidedly more distinguished in debate than any peer of his time who had not sat in the House of Commons. Nay, to find his equal among persons similarly situated, we must go back eighty years to Earl Granville. For Mansfield, Thurlow, Loughborough, Grey, Grenville, Brougham, Plunkett, and other eminent men, living and dead, whom we will not stop to enumerate, carried to the Upper House an eloquence formed and matured in the Lower. The opinion of the most discerning judges was that Lord Holland’s oratorical performances, though sometimes most successful, afforded no fair measure of his oratorical powers, and that, in an assembly of which the debates were frequent and animated, he would have attained a very high order of excellence. It was, indeed, impossible to listen to his conversation without seeing that he was born a debater. To him, as to his uncle, the exercise of the mind in discussion was a positive pleasure. With the greatest good nature and good breeding, he was the very opposite to an assenter. The word “disputatious” is generally used as a word of reproach; but we can express our meaning only by saying that Lord Holland was most courteously and pleasantly disputatious. In truth, his quickness in discovering and apprehending distinctions and analogies was such as a veteran judge might envy. The lawyers of the Duchy of Lancaster were astonished to find in an unprofessional man so strong a relish for the esoteric parts of their science, and complained that as soon as they had split a hair, Lord Holland proceeded to split the filaments into filaments still finer. In a mind less happily constituted, there might have been a risk that this turn for subtilty would have produced serious evil. But in the heart and understanding of Lord Holland there was ample security against all such danger. He was not a man to be the dupe of his own ingenuity. He put his logic to its proper use; and in him the dialectician was always subordinate to the statesman. His political life is written in the chronicles of his country. Perhaps, as we have already intimated, his opinions on two or three great questions of foreign policy were open to just objection. Yet even his errors, if he erred, were amiable and respectable. We are not sure that we do not love and admire him the more because he was now and then seduced from what we regard as a wise policy by sympathy with the oppressed, by generosity towards the fallen, by a philanthropy so enlarged that it took in all nations, by love of peace, a love which in him was second only to the love of freedom, and by the magnanimous credulity of a mind which was as incapable of suspecting as of devising mischief. To his views on questions of domestic policy the voice of his countrymen does ample justice. They revere the memory of the man who was, during forty years, the constant protector of all oppressed races and persecuted sects, of the man whom neither the prejudices nor the interests belonging to his station could seduce from the path of right, of the noble, who in every great crisis cast in his lot with the commons, of the planter, who made manful war on the slave-trade of the landowner, whose whole heart was in the struggle against the corn-laws. We have hitherto touched almost exclusively on those parts of Lord Holland’s character which were open to the observation of millions. How shall we express the feelings with which his memory is cherished by those who were honoured with his friendship? Or in what language shall we speak of that house, once celebrated for its rare attractions to the furthest ends of the civilised world, and now silent and desolate as the grave? To that house, a hundred and twenty years ago, a poet addressed those tender and graceful lines, which have now acquired a new meaning not less sad than that which they originally bore: “Thou hill, whose brow the antique structures grace, Reared by bold chiefs of Warwick’s noble race, Why, once so loved, whene’er thy bower appears, O’er my dim eyeballs glance the sudden tears? How sweet were once thy prospects fresh and fair, Thy sloping walks and unpolluted air! How sweet the glooms beneath thine aged trees, Thy noon-tide shadow and thine evening breeze His image thy forsaken bowers restore; Thy walks and airy prospects charm no more No more the summer in thy glooms allayed, Thine evening breezes, and thy noon-day shade.” Yet a few years, and the shades and structures may follow their illustrious masters. The wonderful city which, ancient and gigantic as it is, still continues to grow as fast as a young town of logwood by a water-privilege in Michigan, may soon displace those turrets and gardens which are associated with so much that is interesting and noble, with the courtly magnificence of Rich with the loves of Ormond, with the counsels of Cromwell, with the death of Addison. The time is coming when, perhaps, a few old men, the last survivors of our generation, will in vain seek, amidst new streets, and squares, and railway stations, for the site of that dwelling which was in their youth the favourite resort of wits and beauties, of painters and poets, of scholars, philosophers, and statesmen. They will then remember, with strange tenderness, many objects once familiar to them, the avenue and the terrace, the busts and the paintings, the carving, the grotesque gilding, and the enigmatical mottoes. With peculiar fondness they will recall that venerable chamber, in which all the antique gravity of a college library was so singularly blended with all that female grace and wit could devise to embellish a drawing-room. They will recollect, not unmoved, those shelves loaded with the varied learning of many lands and many ages, and those portraits in which were preserved the features of the best and wisest Englishmen of two generations. They will recollect how many men who have guided the politics of Europe, who have moved great assemblies by reason and eloquence, who have put life into bronze and canvas, or who have left to posterity things so written as it shall not willingly let them die, were there mixed with all that was loveliest and gayest in the society of the most splendid of capitals. They will remember the peculiar character which belonged to that circle, in which every talent and accomplishment, every art and science, had its place. They will remember how the last debate was discussed in one corner, and the last comedy of Scribe in another; while Wilkie gazed with modest admiration on Sir Joshua’s Baretti; while Mackintosh turned over Thomas Aquinas to verify a quotation; while Talleyrand related his conversations with Barras at the Luxembourg, or his ride with Lannes over the field of Austerlitz. They will remember, above all, the grace, and the kindness, far more admirable than grace, with which the princely hospitality of that ancient mansion was dispensed. They will remember the venerable and benignant countenance and the cordial voice of him who bade them welcome. They will remember that temper which years of pain, of sickness, of lameness, of confinement, seemed only to make sweeter and sweeter, and that frank politeness, which at once relieved all the embarrassment of the youngest and most timid writer or artist, who found himself for the first time among Ambassadors and Earls. They will remember that constant flow of conversation, so natural, so animated, so various, so rich with observation and anecdote; that wit which never gave a wound; that exquisite mimicry which ennobled, instead of degrading; that goodness of heart which appeared in every look and accent, and gave additional value to every talent and acquirement. They will remember, too, that he whose name they hold in reverence was not less distinguished by the inflexible uprightness of his political conduct than by his loving disposition and his winning manners. They will remember that, in the last lines which he traced, he expressed his joy that he had done nothing unworthy of the friend of Fox and Grey; and they will have reason to feel similar joy, if, in looking back on many troubled years, they cannot accuse themselves of having done anything unworthy of men who were distinguished by the friendship of Lord Holland. INDEX AND GLOSSARY OF ALLUSIONS ACBAR, contemporary with Elizabeth, firmly established the Mogul rule in India; Aurungzebe (1659-1707) extended the Mogul Empire over South India. Aislabie, Chancellor of the Exchequer; forfeited most of his huge profits. Alexander VI., Pope, father of Lucretia and Caesar Borgia. He obtained his office by bribery and held it by a series of infamous crimes (d. 1503). Alguazils, “a Spanish adaptation of the Arabic al-wazir, the minister and used in Spanish both for a justiciary and a bailiff.” Here it implies cruel and extortionate treatment. Allipore, a suburb of Calcutta. Amadis, the model knight who is the hero of the famous mediaeval prose-romance of the same title. Of Portuguese origin, it was afterwards translated and expanded in Spanish and in French. Aminta, a pastoral play composed by Tasso in 1581. Antiochus and Tigranes, overthrown respectively by Pompey, B.C. 65, and Lucullus, B.C. 69. Atahualpa, King of Peru, captured and put to death by Pizarro in 1532. Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester and champion of the High Church and Tory party (1662-1732). Aumils, district governors. Aurungzebe, dethroned and succeeded Shah Jehan in 1658 (d. 1707). Austrian Succession, War of (see the Essay on Frederic the Great, vol. v. of this edition). BABINGTON, Anthony, an English Catholic, executed in 1586 for plotting to assassinate Elizabeth. Everard Digby was concerned in the Gunpowder Plot of 1605. Babington, an English Catholic executed in 1586 for plotting to assassinate Elizabeth under the instruction of a Jesuit named Ballard. Ballard. See Babington. Barbariccia and Draghignazzo, the fiends who torment the lost with hooks in the lake of boiling pitch in Malebolge, the eighth circle in Dante’s Inferno. Baretti, Giuseppe, an Italian lexiographer who came to London, was patronised by Johnson and became Secretary of the Royal Academy. Barillon, the French Ambassador in England. Barnard, Sir John, an eminent London merchant, and Lord Mayor (1685-1764). Barras, a member of the Jacobin (q. v.) club; he put an end to Robespierre’s Reign of Terror and was a member of the Directory till Napoleon abolished it (d. 1829). Batavian liberties, Batavia is an old name for Holland; the Celtic tribe known as Batavii once dwelt there. Bath, Lord, William Pulteney, Sir R. Walpole’s opponent, and author of a few magazine articles (1684-1764). Belisarius, Justinian’s great general, who successively repulsed the Persians, Vandals, Goths, and Huns, but who, tradition says, was left to become a beggar (d. 565). Benevolences, royal demands from individuals not sanctioned by Parliament and supposed to be given willingly; declared illegal by the Bill of Rights, 1689. Bentinck, Lord William, the Governor. General (1828-1835) under whom suttee was abolished, internal communications opened up, and education considerably furthered. Bentivoglio, Cardinal, a disciple of Galileo, and one of the Inquisitors who signed his condemnation (1579-1641). Berkeley and Pomfret, where Edward II. and Richard II. respectively met their deaths. Bernier, a French traveller who wandered over India, 1656-1668. Blues, The, Royal Horse Guards. Board of Control, a body responsible to the Ministry with an authoritative parliamentary head established by Pitt’s India Bill (1784). Bobadil, the braggart hero in Johnson’s Every Man in his Humour, Bolingbroke, Viscount, Tory Minister under Anne; brought about the Peace of Utrecht, 1713. His genius and daring were undoubted, but as a party leader he failed utterly. Bolivar, the Washington of South America, who freed Venezuela, Colombia, and Bolivia from Spain (1783-1830). Bonner, Bishop of London, served “Bloody” Mary’s anti-Protestant zeal, died in the Marshalsea Prison under Elizabeth. Bonslas, a Maratha tribe not finally subdued till 1817. Bradshaw, President of the Court that condemned Charles I. Braganza, House of, the reigning family of Portugal; Charles II married Catherine of Braganza in 1662. Breda, Peace of, July 21, 1667. Breda is in North Brabant, Holland. Brissotines, those moderate republicans in the French Revolution who are often known as the Girondists. Broghill, Lord, better known as Rope Boyle, author of Parthenissa, etc. Brooks’s, the great Whig Club in St. James’s Street amongst whose members were Burke, Sheridan, Fox, and Garrick. Brothers, Richard, a fanatic who held that the English were the lost ten tribes of Israel(1757-1824). Browne’s Estimate (of the Manners and Principles of the Times), the author was a clergyman noted also for his defence of utilitarianism in answer to Shaftesbury (Lecky, Hist. Eng. in 18th Cent., ii, 89 f.). Brutus, i. The reputed expeller of the last King of Rome; ii. One of Caesar’s murderers. Bulicame, the seventh circle in the Inferno, the place of all the violent. Buller, Sir Francis, English judge, author of Introduction to the Law of Trials at Nisi Prius (1745-1800). Burger, Gottfried, German poet (1748-1794), author of the fine ballad “The Wild Huntsman.” Burgoyne, afterwards the General in command of the British troops whose surrender at Saratoga practically settled the American War of Independence. Burlington, Lord, Richard Boyle, an enthusiastic architect of the Italian school (1695-1753). Button, Henry, a Puritan divine, pilloried, mutilated, and imprisoned by the Star Chamber (1578-1648). Busiris, a mythological King of Egypt who used to sacrifice one foreigner yearly in the hope of ending a prolonged famine. Buxar, between Patna and Benares, where Major Munro defeated Sujah Dowlah and Meer Cossim in 1765. CALAS, Jean, a tradesman of Toulouse, done to death on the wheel in 1762 on the false charge of murdering his son to prevent his becoming a Romanist. Voltaire took his case up and vindicated his memory. Camden, Lord, the Chief Justice of the Common Pleas who declared general warrants illegal and released Wilkes in 1763. Capel, Lord Arthur, at first sided with the Parliament, but afterwards joined the King; executed for attempting to escape from Colchester in 1649. Caracci, Annibal, an Italian painter of the Elizabethan age. Carlton House, the residence of George IV. when Prince of Wales. Cartoons, the, the famous designs by Raphael, originally intended for tapestry. Cato, Addison’s play, produced in 1713. Cavendish, Lord, first Duke of Devonshire (d. 1707). He gave evidence in favour of Russell and tried to secure his escape. Cesare Borgia, son of Pope Alexander VI. and brother of Lucrezia, whose infamous ability, cruelty, and treachery he even surpassed. Chandernagora, on the Hooghly twenty miles from Calcutta. Pondicherry, in the Carnatic (i.e. the S.E. coast of India) is still a French possession. Chemnitius, a seventeenth-century German historian who wrote a History of the Swedish War in Germany. Chicksands, in Bedfordshire. Childeric or Chilperic, the former was King of the Franks (c460-480), the latter King of Neustria (c. 560-580); both were puppets in the hands of their subjects. Chorasan, a Persian province. Chowringhee, still the fashionable quarter of Calcutta. Chudleigh, Miss, maid of honour to the Princess of Wales (mother of George III.); the original of Beatrix in Thackeray’s Esmond. Churchill, John, the famous Duke of Marlborough. Clootz, a French Revolutionary and one of the founders of the Worship of Reason; guillotined 1794. Cocytus, one of the five rivers of Hades (see Milton’s Paradise Lost, ii. 577ff). Coleroon, the lower branch of the river Kaveri: it rises in Mysore and flows to the Bay of Bengal. Colman, the Duke of York’s confessor, in whose rooms were found papers held to support Oates’s story. Conde, a French general who, fighting for Spain, besieged Arras but had to abandon it after a defeat by Turenne. Conjeveram, south-west from Madras and east from Arcot. Conway, Marshal, cousin to Walpole; fought at Fontenoy and Culloden; moved the repeal of the Stamp Act (1766). Corah, one hundred miles north-west from Allahabad, formerly a town of great importance, now much decayed. Cornelia, a noble and virtuous Roman matron, daughter of Scipio Africanus and wife of Sempronius Graccus. Cortes, conqueror of Mexico (1485-1547). Cosmo di Medici, a great Florentine ruler, who, however, understood the use of assassination. Cossimbuzar (see the description in the Essay on Hastings). Court of Requests, instituted under Henry VII. for the recovery of small debts and superseded by the County Courts in 1847. Covelong and Chingleput, between Madras and Pondicherry. Craggs. Secretary of State: a man of ability and character, probably innocent in the South Sea affair. Crevelt, near Cleves, in West Prussia; Minden is in Westphalia. Cumberland... single victory, at Culloden, over the young Pretender’s forces, in 1745. Cutler, St. John, a wealthy London merchant (1608?-1693) whose permanent avarice outshone his occasional benefactions (see Pope, Moral Essays, iii. 315). DAGOBERTS... Charles Martel, nominal and real rulers of France in the seventh and eighth centuries. D’Aguesseau, a famous French jurist, law reformer, and magistrate (1668-1751). D’Alembert, a mathematician and philosopher who helped to sow the seeds of the French Revolution. Macaulay quite misrepresents Walpole’s attitude to him (see letter of 6th Nov. 1768). Damien, the attempted assassinator of Louis XV. in 1757. Danby, Thomas Osborne, Esq. of, one of Charles II.’s courtiers, impeached for his share in the negotiations by which France was to pension Charles on condition of his refusal to assist the Dutch. Danes, only had a few trading stations in India, which they sold to the British in 1845. Demosthenes and Hyperides, the two great orators of Athens who were also contemporaries and friends. De Pauw, Cornelius, a Dutch canon (1739-99), esteemed by Frederic the Great among others, as one of the freest speculators of his day. Derby, James Stanley, Earl of, one of Charles I’s supporters, captured at Worcester and beheaded in 1651. Derwentwater... Cameron, Stuart adherents who suffered for their share in the attempts of 1715 and 1745. Dido, Queen of Carthage, who after years of mourning for her first husband, vainly sought the love of Aeneas. Dionysius, the tyrant of Syracuse (367-343 B.C.) who gathered to his court the foremost men of the time in literature and philosophy. Dodd, Dr., a royal chaplain and fashionable preacher whose extravagance led him to forge a bond of Lord Chesterfield’s, for which he was sentenced to death and duly executed (1729-77). Dodington, George Bubb, a time-serving and unprincipled politician in the time of George II., afterwards Baron Melcombe. Dubois, Cardinal, Prime Minister of France. An able statesman and a notorious debauchee (1656-1723). Duke of Lancaster, Henry IV., the deposer and successor of Richard II. Dumont, Pierre, a French writer who settled in England and became the translator and exponent of Bentham’s works to Europe (1759-1829). Dundee, the persecutor of the Scottish Covenanters under Charles II Dyer, John, author of some descriptive poems, e.g. Grongar Hill (1700-58). ELDON, John Scott, Earl of, was in turn Solicitor-General, Attorney-General, Lord Chief Justice of Common Pleas and Lord Chancellor, and throughout a staunch Tory (1751-1838). Empson and Dudley, ministers and tax-raisers under Henry VII, executed by Henry VIII. Ensign Northerton (see Fielding’s Tom Jones, VII. xii.-xv.). Escobar, a Spanish Jesuit preacher and writer (1589-1669). Escurial, the palace and monastery built by Philip II. Essex, One of the Rye House Conspirators; he was found in the Tower with his throat cut, whether as the result of suicide or murder is not known. Euston, a late Jacobean house (and park) 10 miles from Bury St. Edmunds. Faithful Shepherdess, a pastoral by Fletcher which may have suggested the general plan and some of the details of Comus. Farinata (see Dante’s Inferno, canto 10). Farmer-general, the tax-gatherers of France, prior to the Revolution: they contracted with the Government for the right to collect or “farm” the taxes. Ferdinand the Catholic, King of Aragon, who, by marrying Isabella of Castile and taking Granada from the Moors, united Spain under one crown. Filicaja, a Florentine poet (1642-1707); according to Macaulay (“Essay on Addison”) “the greatest lyric poet of modern times,”. Filmer, Sir Robert, advocated the doctrine of absolute regal power in his Patriarcha, 1680. Foigard, Father, a French refugee priest in Farquhar’s Beaux Stratagem. Fouche, Joseph, duke of Otranto. A member of the National Convention, who voted for the death of Louis XVI., and afterwards served under Napoleon (as Minister of Police) and Louis XVIII. Fox, Henry F., father of Charles James Fox, and later Lord Holland. Franche-Comte, that part of France which lies south of Lorraine and west of Switzerland. French Memoirs, those of Margaret of Valois, daughter of Henry II. Of and wife of Henry (IV.) of Navarre. Friar Dominic, a character in Dryden’s Spanish Friar designed to ridicule priestly vices. Fronde, a French party who opposed the power Of Mazarin and the Parliament of Paris during the minority of Louis XIV. GRERIAH, c. seventy miles south from Bombay. Ghizni, in Afghanistan, taken by Sir John Keane in 1839. Gifford, John, the pseudonym of John Richards Green, a voluminous Tory pamphleteer (1758-1818). Giudecca. In the ninth and lowest circle of the Inferno, the place of those who betray their benefactors. Glover, a London merchant who wrote some poetry, including Admiral Hosier’s Ghost. Godfrey, Sir Edmund, this Protestant magistrate who took Titus Oates’s depositions and was next morning found murdered near Primrose Hill. Godolphin, Lord of the Treasury under Charles II., James II., and William III. Prime Minister 1702-10 when Harley ousted him (d. 1712) Gooti, north from Mysore in the Bellary district, 589 Goree, near Cape Verde, west coast of Africa, Gaudaloupe, is in West Indies; Ticonderaga and Niagara, frontier forts in Canada. Gowries, the, Alexander Ruthven and his brother, the Earl of Gowrie, who were killed in a scuffle during the visit of King James to their house in Perth (Aug. 1600). Grammont, a French count whose Memoirs give a vivid picture of life at Charles II.’s court. Grandison, Sir Charles... Miss Byron, the title character (and his lady-love) of one of Richardson’s novels. Granicus, Rocroi, Narva, won respectively by Alexander (aged 22) against the Persians, by Conde (aged 22) against the Spaniards, and by Charles XII. (aged 18) against the Russians. Great Captain, the, Gonzalvo Hernandez di Cordova, who drove the Moors from Granada and the French from Italy (d. 1515). Guarini, (see Pastor Fido). Guicciardini, Florentian statesman and historian; disciple of Macchiavelli secured the restoration of the Medici, (1485-1540). Guizot and Villemain, in 1829 upheld liberal opinions against Charles X., in 1844 took the part of monarchy and Louis Philippe. Genonde and Jaquelin made the reverse change. HAFIZ and Ferdusi, famous Persian poets: the former flourished in the eleventh, the latter in the thirteenth century. Hamilton, Count, friend of James II. and author of the Memoirs of the Count de Grammont, the best picture of the English court of the Restoration (1646-1720) Hamilton’s Bawn, a tumble-down house in the north of Ireland which inspired Swift to write an amusing Poem. Hamilton, Gerard, M.P. for Petersfield, a man of somewhat despicable character. The nickname was “Single-speech Hamilton.” Hammond, Henry, Rector of Penshurst in Kent, and commentator on the New Testament, the Psalms, etc. Hardwicke, Lord, the Lord Chancellor (1737-56), whose Marriage Act (1753) put an end to Fleet marriages. Harte, Walter, poet, historian, and tutor to Lord Chesterfield’s son (1709-74). Hayley and Seward, inferior authors who were at one time very popular. Hebert, Jacques Rene, editor of the violent revolutionary organ Pere Duchesne; for opposing his colleagues he was arrested and guillotined (1756-94). Heliogabalus, made emperor of Rome by the army in 218; ruled moderately at first, but soon abandoned himself to excesses of all kinds, and was assassinated. Helvetius, a French philosopher of the materialist school (1715-71). Henry the Fourth, the famous French king, “Henry of Navarre” (?1589-1610). Hildebrand, Pope Gregory VII., who waged war against the vices of society and the imperial tyranny over the Church. Hilpa and Shalum, Chinese antediluvians (see Spectator, vol. viii.). Hilpa was a princess and Shalum her lover. Hoadley, Benjamin, a prelate and keen controversialist on the side of civil and religious liberty (1676-1761). Holkar, a Mahratta chief whose headquarters were at Indore. Hosein, the son of Ali Hosein’s mother was Fatima, the favourite daughter of Mahomet. Houghton, Sir R. Walpole’s Norfolk seat. Hunt, Mr., a well-to-do Wiltshire farmer, who after many attempts entered Parliament in 1832. Huntingdon, William, the S.S. “Sinner Save”; Huntingdon was one of those religious impostors who professed to be the recipient of divine visions and prophetic oracles. Hydaspes, or Hytaspes, the Greek name for the river Jhelam in the Punjab. Hyphasis, the Greek name for the river Beds in the Punjab. ILDEFONSO, ST., a village in Old Castile containing a Spanish royal residence built by Philip V. on the model of Versailles. JACOBINS, those holding extreme democratic principles. The name is derived from an extreme Party of French Revolutionists who used to meet in the ball of the Jacobin Friars. Jaghires, landed estates. Jauts, a fighting Hindoo race inhabiting the North-West Provinces. Jefferson, Thomas, an American statesman, who took a prominent part in struggle for independence, and became President, 1801 to 1807. Jenkinson, one of Bute’s supporters, afterwards Earl of Liverpool. Jomini, a celebrated Swiss military writer, who served in the French army as aide-de-camp to Marshal Ney (1779-1869). Monsieur Jourdain, the honest but uneducated tradesman of Moliere’s Le Bourgeois Gentilhomme, whose sudden wealth lands him in absurd attempts at aristocracy. 539 Justices in Eyre, i.e. in itinere, on circuit. In 1284 such were superseded by judges of assize. KLOPSTOCK, author of the German epic Messiah, and one of the pioneers of modern German literature (1724-1803). Knight of Malta, a play by Fletcher, Massinger, and another, produced before 1619. Knipperdoling, one of the leading German Anabaptists, stadtholder of Munster, 1534-35, beheaded there in Jan. 1536. LALLY, Baron de Tollendal, a distinguished French general in India who, however, could not work harmoniously with his brother officers or with his native troops, and was defeated by Eyre Coote at Wandewash in January 1760. He was imprisoned in the Bastille and executed (1766) on a charge of betraying French interests. Las Casas, a Catholic bishop who laboured among the aborigines of South America, interposing himself between them and the cruelty of the Spaniards. Clarkson (ib.) was Wilberforce’s fellow-worker in the abolition of slavery. Latitudinarians, the school of Cudworth and Henry More (end of seventeenth century), who sought to affiliate the dogmas of the Church to a rational philosophy. Law Mr., afterwards Edward (first) Lord Ellenborough. Lee, Nathaniel, a minor play-writer (1653-92). Legge, son of the Earl of Dartmouth. Lord Of the Admiralty 1746, of the Treasury 1747, Chancellor of the Exchequer, 1754 (1708-64). Lennox, Charlotte, friend of Johnson and Richardson, wrote The Female Don Quixote and Shakespeare Illustrated. Lenthal, Speaker, who presided at the trial of Charles I. Leo, tenth pope (1513-21) of the name, Giovanni de Medici, son of Lorenzo the Magnificent, and patron of art, science, and letters. Lingard, Dr. Job., a Roman Catholic priest who wrote a history of England to the Accession of William and Mary (d. 1851). Locusta, a famous female poisoner employed by Agrippina and Nero. Lothario, a loose character in Rowe’s tragedy of The Fair Penitent. Lucan, the Roman epic Poet whose Pharsalia describes the struggle between Caesar and Pompey and breathes freedom throughout. Ludlow, Edmund, a member of the Court that condemned Charles I. An ardent republican, he went into exile when Cromwell was appointed Protector. MACKENZIE, HENRY, author of The Man of Feeling and other sentimental writings. Maccaroni, an eighteenth-century term for a dandy or fop. Maecenas, patron of literature in the Augustan age of Rome. Virgil and Horace were largely favoured by him. Malebolge, i.e. the place of darkness and horror--the eighth Of the ten circles or pits in Dante’s Inferno, and the abode of barterers, hypocrites, evil counsellors, etc. Malwa, about 100 miles east from Baroda and nearly 350 miles north-cast from Bombay. Marat, Jean Paul, a fanatical democrat whose one fixed idea was wholesale slaughter of the aristocracy; assassinated by Charlotte Corday (1743-93). Mariendal, in Germany. Turenne’s defeat here was an incident in the Thirty Years’ War. Marlborough, Nelson, Wellington, the first was made Prince of Mindelheim by Emperor Joseph I, the second Duke of Bronte by Ferdinand IV., the third Duke of Vittoria by Ferdinand VII. Marli, a forest and village ten miles west from Paris, seat of a royal (now presidential) country-house. Marten, Henry, one of the most extreme and most conspicuous members of the Parliamentary Party. Charles I insulted him in public and ordered him to be turned out of Hyde Park (1602-80). The Marten mentioned on p.4 as guilty of judicial misfeasance was his father (1562?-41). Mason, William, friend and biographer of Gray; wrote Caractacus and some odes (1725-97). Mathias, a noted Anabaptist who, with John of Leyden, committed great excesses in the endeavour to set up a Kingdom of Mount Zion in Munster, Westphalia (1535). Maurice, Elector of Saxony (1521-23) and leader of the Protestants of Germany against the Emperor Charles V. Mayor of the Palace, the chief minister of the Kings of France between 638 and 742. Mayor of the Palace, the name given to the comptroller of the household of the Frankish kings. By successive encroachments these officials became at length more powerful than the monarchs, whom they finally ousted. Mazarin(e) Cardinal, chief minister of France during the first eighteen years of Louis XIV.’s reign. Memmius, Roman Governor of Bithynia, distinguished for his rhetorical and literary gifts, 270. Merovingian line, a dynasty of Frankish kings in the sixth and seventh centuries A.D. They were gradually superseded in power by their “Mayors of the Palace,” and were succeeded by the Carolingians. Middleton, Conyers, a Cambridge theologian who had some controversy with Bentley; distinguished for his “absolutely plain style” of writing (1683-50). Miguel, Don, King of Portugal, whose usurpation of the throne, refusal to marry Maria, daughter of Don Pedro of Brazil, and general conduct of affairs, led to a civil war, as a result of which he had to withdraw to Italy (1802-66). Mississippi Scheme, a plan for reducing the French National Debt, similar in folly and in downfall to the South Sea Bubble. Mite, Sir Matthew (see Foote’s comedy, The Nabob). Montague, Charles, Earl of Halifax, Chancellor of the Exchequer 1694; First Lord of Treasury 1697; impeached by the Tories for peculation and acquitted; Prime Minister 1714; reformed the currency. Montezuma and Guatemozin, two of the native rulers of Mexico prior to its conquest by Cortez in 1519. Montezuma, Emperor of Mexico, seized by Cortez in 1519. Moro, the, a strong fort at the entrance to the harbour of Havana, taken after a hard struggle by the English under Admiral Sir George Pocock and General the Earl of Albemarle in July 1762. Moore, Dr., father of Sir John Moore, European traveller, and author of the novel Zeluco. Moorish Envoy, Algerine in Humphrey Clinker. Mountain of Light, the Koh-i-noor, which after many adventures is now one of the English crown jewels. Mucius, a Roman, who, when condemned to the stake, thrust his right hand unflinchingly into a fire lit for a sacrifice. He was spared and given the name Scaevola, i. e. left-handed. Murray, orator; afterwards Earl of Mansfield, and Lord Chief Justice (1705-93). NAPIER, COLONEL, served under Sir John Moore. Like Southey he wrote a History of the Peninsular War. Nimeguen, treaty of; by this it was agreed that France should restore all her Dutch conquests, but should keep the Spanish conquest of Franche-Comte, a clause which naturally incensed the Emperor and the King of Spain. Nollekens, Joseph, the eminent English sculptor, and friend of George III. (1737-1823). Nuzzurs, presents to persons in authority. OATES, Bedloe, Dangerfield, in 1678 pretended to have discovered a “Popish Plot” which aimed at overthrowing the King and Protestantism. Odoacer, a Hun, who became emperor in 476 and was assassinated by his colleague, Theodoric (ib.) the Ostrogoth in 493. O’Meara, Barry Edward, Napoleon’s physician in St. Helena, and author of A Voice from St. Helena; or, Napoleon in Exile. Onomasticon, a Greek dictionary of antiquities, in ten books, arranged according to subject-matter. Onslow, Arthur, Speaker of the House of Commons from 1728 to 1761. Oromasdes and Arimanes, Ormuzd and Ahriman, the embodiments of the principles of good and evil respectively, in the Zoroastrian religion. Oxenstiern, Chancellor to Gustavus Adolphus and the director of the negotiations which led to the Peace of Westphalia and the close of the Thirty Years’ War. PAGE, SIR FRANCIS, a judge whose “reputation for coarseness and brutality (e.g. Pope, Dunciad, iv. 2730) is hardly warranted by the few reported cases in which he took part.” (1661?-1741). Palais Royal, in Paris, formerly very magnificent. Pannonia, roughly equivalent to the modern Hungary. Pasquin, Anthony, a fifteenth-century Italian tailor, noted for his caustic wit. Pastor Fido, a pastoral play, composed in 1585 by Guarini on the model of Aminta. Patna, massacre of. Peacock Throne, a gilded and jewelled couch with a canopy, described by a French jeweller named Tavernier, who saw it in 1665, and possibly the present throne of the Shah of Persia. Perceval, Spencer, supported the Tory party, and became its leader in 1809; assassinated in the Commons Lobby, 1812. Perwannahs, magisterial documents containing instructions or orders. Peters, Hugh, a famous Independent divine and chaplain to the Parliamentary forces, executed in 1660 for his alleged share in the death of Charles 1. He was an upright and genial man, but somewhat lacking in moderation and taste. Petit Trianon, a chateau built for Madame du Barry by Louis XV, and afterwards the favourite resort of Marie Antoinette. In a subsequent edition Macaulay substituted Versailles. Phalaris, a tyrant of Agrigentum in Sicily (sixth century). Pigot, Governor of Madras when Clive was in Bengal, and also, as Lord Pigot, in the time of Warren Hastings. Pinto, Fernandez Mendez, a Portuguese traveller (d. 1583), who visited the Far East and possibly landed in the Gulf of Pekin. Politian, one of the early scholars of the Renaissance; patronized by Lorenzo de Medici (1454-94). Pontiff, that inglorious, Peter Marone (Celestine V.), who was tricked into abdicating the papacy for Boniface VIII, and died in prison. Porto Novo and Pollilore, where Coote defeated Hyder Ali in July and August 1781, and so finished a long campaign in the Carnatic. Powis, Lord, Edward Clive, created Earl of Powis in 1804. Powle, a leading Politician and lawyer in the events connected with the accession Of William III. Prynne, William, a Puritan, who attacked the stage and the Queen’s virtue, and suffered by order of the Star Chamber. In late life he changed his opinions, was imprisoned by Cromwell, and favoured by Charles II. Pyrenees, treaty of the, closed the war between France and Spain (1660), which had continued twelve years after the Peace of Westphalia was signed. For the other treaties mentioned here see the essay on “The War of the Spanish Succession,” in vol. ii. RAPIN, a Huguenot who joined the army of William of Orange, and wrote a Histoire d’Angleterre which surpassed all its predecessors. Ricimer, a fifth-century Swabian soldier who deposed the Emperor Avitus, and then set up and deposed Majorian, Libius Severus and Anthemius, and finally set up Olybrius. Rix dollar, a Scandinavian coin worth between three and four shillings. Roe, Sir Thomas, an English traveller who, in 1615, went on an embassy to Jehangir at Agra. Rohilcund, north-west of Oude. Rohillas, Mussulman mountaineers inhabiting Rohilcund (q.v.). Russell, Lord William, the Hampden of the Restoration period. Fought hard for the exclusion of James II. from the crown; unjustly executed for alleged share in the “Rye House Plot” (1639-83). Algernon Sydney (1621-83) was a fellow-worker and sufferer. SACHEVERELL, Henry, a famous divine of Queen Anne’s reign, who was impeached by the Whigs for forwardly preaching the doctrine of non-resistance. Sackville, Lord George, the general commanding the British cavalry at Minden. Nervousness led to his disobeying a critical order to charge, which would have completed the French rout, and he was court-martialled and degraded. Saint Cecilia, Mrs. Sheridan, painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds in this character because of her love of, and skill in, music. Salmacius, the Latin name of Claude de Saumaise an eminent French scholar and linguist (1588-1653), whose Defence of Charles 1. provoked Milton’s crushing reply, Defensio Pro populo Anglicano. Sandys, Samuel, opposed Sir R. Walpole, on whose retirement he became Chancellor of the Exchequer, and afterwards a peer. Sattara, a fortified town c. one hundred miles southeast from Bombay. Saxe, the foremost French general in the War of the Austrian Succession (1696-1750.) Scaligers, Julius Caesar S., a learned Italian writer and classical scholar (1484-1558) and his son Joseph Justus S., who lived in France and was also an eminent scholar. Schedules A and B. In the Reform Act Of 1832 Schedule A comprised those boroughs which were no longer to be represented, B those which were to send one member instead of two. Scroggs, the infamous Chief-Justice of the King’s Bench in the reign of Charles II., impeached in 680, and pensioned by Charles. Secker, Archbishop of Canterbury from 1758 to 1768. Seigneur Oreste and Madame Andromaque. See Racine’s Andromaque. Settle, Elkanah. See Flecknoe and Settle. Sidney, Algernon, condemned and executed on scanty and illegal evidence on a charge of implication in the Rye House Plot of 1683. Somers, President of the Council (1708-10) a great Whig leader (he had defended the Seven Bishops) and patron of literature (1650-1716). Spinola, Spanish marquis and general who served his country with all his genius and fortune for naught (1571-1630). Sporus, a favourite of Nero. Owing to his resemblance to that emperor’s wife he was, after her death, dressed as a woman, and went through a marriage ceremony with Nero. Stafford, Lord, executed in 1680, on a false charge of complicity in Oates’s Popish Plot. Stanley, Mr., fourth Earl of Derby, the “Rupert of Debate.” Stella, Esther Johnson, the daughter of one of Lady Giffard’s friends. St. Martin’s Church, the site of the present G. P. 0., formerly a monastery, church, and “sanctuary.” Sudbury and Old Sarum, rotten boroughs, the one in Suffolk disfranchised in 1844, the other near Salisbury in 1832. Sudder Courts, courts of criminal and civil jurisdiction which, in Macaulay’s day, existed alongside the Supreme Court, but which, since 1858, have with the Supreme Court, been merged in the “High Courts.” Sunnuds, certificates of possession. Surajah Dowlah, better Suraj-ud-daulah. Swan River, in the S.W. of Australia, to which country the name of New Holland was at first given. Switzer, that brave, Ulrich Zwingli, the Swiss reformer, who fell at Cappel in 1531. TALLEYRAND, French diplomatist (1754-1831), rendered good service to the Revolution, was influential under Buonaparte and Louis Philippe’s ambassador to England. Talma, Francis Joseph, a famous French actor of tragic parts, who passed part of his life in England (1763-1826). Talus, Sir Artegal’s iron man, who in Spenser’s Faery Queen, Book v., represents the executive power of State Justice. Tamerlane, the Tartar who invaded India in 1398, and whose descendant, Baber, founded the Mogul dynasty. Tanjore, a district of Madras, noted for its fertility; ceded to the East India Company by the Marathas in 1799. The town of Tanjore is about 300 miles south from Madras. Temple, Lord Pitt’s brother-in-law. Cf. Macaulay’s severe description of him in the second “Essay on Chatham.” (vol. v. of this edition). Themis, Justice. Theodosius, emperor of the East 378-395, and for a short time of the West also. He partly checked the Goths’ advance. Theramenes, Athenian philosopher and general (third century B.C.), unjustly accused and condemned to drink hemlock. Theseus, the, one of the most perfect statues in the “Elgin marbles,” of the British Museum. Thurtell, John, a notorious boxer and gambler (b. 1794), who was hanged at Hertford on January 9th, 1824, for the brutal murder of William Weare, one of his boon-companions. Thirty-Ninth, i.e. the Dorsets. Thyrsis, a herdsman in the Idylls of Theocritus; similarly a shepherd in Virgil’s Eclogues; hence a rustic or shepherd. Timoleon, the Corinthian who expelled the tyrants from the Greek cities of Sicily (415-337 B.C.). Tindal, Nicholas, clergyman and miscellaneous author (1687-1774). Topehall, Smollett’s drunken fox-hunter in Roderick Random. Torso, lit. “trunk,” a statue which has lost its head and members. Torstenson, Bernard, pupil of Gustavus Adolphus, and General-in-Chief of the Swedish army from 1641. He carried the Thirty Years’ War into the heart of Austria. Trapbois, the usurer in Scott’s Fortunes of Nigel ch. xvii.-xxv. Trissotin, a literary fop in Moliere’s Les Femmes Savantes. Turcaret, the title-character in one of Le Sage’s comedies. Turgot, the French statesman (1727-81) who for two years managed the national finances under Louis XVI., and whose reforms, had they not been thwarted by the nobility and the king’s indecision, would have considerably mitigated the violence of the Revolution. Turk’s Head. The most famous coffeehouse of this name was in the Strand, and was one of Johnson’s frequent resorts. UGOLINO See Dante’s Inferno, xxxii., xxxiii., VANSITTART, was governor of Bengal in the interval between Clive’s first and second administrations. Vattel, the great jurist whose Droit des Gens, a work on Natural Law and its relation to International Law, appeared in 1758. Vellore, west of Arcot. Verres, the Roman governor of Sicily (73-77 B.C.), for plundering which island he was brought to trial and prosecuted by Cicero. Virgil’s foot race. In Aeneid v. 325 ff it is told how Nisus, who was leading, tripped Salius, his second, that his, friend Euryalus might gain the prize. WALDEGRAVE, Lord, Governor to George III. before the latter’s accession; married Walpole’s niece. Wallenstein, Duke of Friedland, the ablest commander on the Catholic side in the Thirty Years’ War. Warburg, like Minden 1759, a victory gained by Ferdinand of Brunswick over the French (1760). Watson, Admiral, made no protest against his name being signed, and claimed his share of the profits. Western, Mrs. See Fielding’s Tom Jones. Whithed, Mr. W., Poet-laureate from 1757 to 1785; author of the School for Lovers, etc. Wild, Jonathan, a detective who turned villain and was executed for burglary in 1725; the hero of one of Fielding s stories. Williams, Sir Charles Hanbury, Ambassador to Berlin (1746-49), His satires against Walpole’s opponents are easy and humorous (d. 1759). Winnington. In turn Lord of the Admiralty, Lord of the Treasury, And Paymaster of the Forces. He had infinitely more wit than principle. Wood’s patent the permission granted to Wood of Wolverhampton to mint copper coin for Ireland, which called forth Swift’s Drapier Letters. YORKE, Attorney-General; Earl of Hardwicke (q.v.). ZEMINDARS, landholders, Zincke and Petitot, eighteenth and seventeenth century enamel painters who came to England from the Continent.

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2024-05-14T13:06:30.294429

23320

Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net +-----------------------------------------------+ | WORKS ON | | ECONOMICS, SOCIOLOGY, ETC. | +-----------------------------------------------+ | ADAM SMITH'S | | _Wealth of Nations._ Condensed edition, | | with preface and introductions by Hector | | MacPherson. 12mo, $1.00 net. | | | | FREDERIC C. HOWE'S | | _Taxation and Taxes in the United States._ | | 12mo, $1.75. | | | | RICHARD T. ELY'S | | _The Coming City._ 60 cents net. | | _Social Aspects of Christianity._ 90 cents. | | _Socialism and Social Reform._ 12mo, $1.50. | | | | J. E. LE ROSSIGNOL'S | | _Orthodox Socialism._ 12mo, $1.00 net. | | _State Socialism in New Zealand._ 12mo, | | $1.50 net. | | | | BERNHARD E. FERNOW'S | | _Economics of Forestry._ 12mo, $1.50 net. | | | | FREDERICK H. NEWELL'S | | _Irrigation._ Illustrated. 12mo, $2.00 net. | | | | AMOS G. WARNER'S | | _American Charities._ New edition, revised | | and enlarged. 12mo, $2.00 net. | | | | FREDERICK H. WINES' | | _Punishment and Reformation._ Revised | | edition. 12mo, $1.75 net. | | | | THOMAS TRAVIS' | | _The Young Malefactor._ Introduction by | | Hon. Ben B. Lindsey. Revised edition. | | 12mo, $1.50 net. | | | | WILLIAM P. TRENT'S | | _Southern Statesmen of the Old Régime._ | | With portraits. 12mo, $1.75. | +-----------------------------------------------+ | THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY | +-----------------------------------------------+ THE DEAF THEIR POSITION IN SOCIETY AND THE PROVISION FOR THEIR EDUCATION IN THE UNITED STATES BY HARRY BEST NEW YORK THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY PUBLISHERS COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY HARRY BEST. _Published April, 1914._ Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Significant corrections have been listed at the end of the text. The oe ligature has been transcribed as [oe]. TO THE DEAF OF THE LAND AND TO THOSE WHO LOVE THEM FOREWORD The aim of the present study is to ascertain as far as possible the standing of the deaf, or, as they are so often called, the "deaf and dumb," in society in America, and to examine the treatment that has been accorded to them--to present an account of an element of the population of whom little is generally known. In this effort regard is had not only to the interests of the deaf themselves, but also, with the growing concern in social problems, to the fixing of a status for them in the domain of the social sciences. In other words, the design may be said to be to set forth respecting the deaf something of what the social economist terms a "survey," or, as it may more popularly be described, to tell "the story of 'the deaf and dumb.'" The material employed in the preparation of the work has been collected from various documents, and from not a little personal correspondence: from the reports and other publications of schools for the deaf, of organizations interested in the deaf, of state charities, education or other departments, of the United States bureaus of education and of the census; from the proceedings of bodies interested in the education of the deaf, of organizations composed of the deaf, of state and national conferences of charities and corrections; from the statutes of the several states; and from similar publications. From the _American Annals of the Deaf_ the writer has drawn unsparingly, and to it a very considerable debt is owed. Valuable assistance has also been obtained from the _Volta Review_, formerly the _Association Review_, and from papers published by the deaf or in schools for the deaf. Other sources of information used will be noted from time to time in the work itself. For all that has been set down the writer is alone responsible. He is, however, keenly mindful of all the co-operation that has been given him, and it would be most pleasant if it were possible to relate by name those who have been of aid. Mere words of thanks could but very little express the sense of obligation that is felt towards all of these. Indeed, one of the most delightful features connected with the work has been the response which as a rule has been elicited by the writer's inquiries; and in some cases so courteous and gracious have been the correspondents and informants that one might at times think that a favor were being done them in the making of the request. To certain ones the writer cannot escape mentioning his appreciation: to Dr. E. A. Fay, editor of the _American Annals of the Deaf_, and vice-president of Gallaudet College; Dr. J. R. Dobyns, of the Mississippi School, and secretary of the Convention of American Instructors of the Deaf; Mr. Fred Deland, of the Volta Bureau; Mr. E. A. Hodgson, editor of the _Deaf-Mutes' Journal_; Mr. E. H. Currier, of the New York Institution, and Dr. T. F. Fox and Mr. Ignatius Bjorlee, also of this institution; Dr. Joseph A. Hill, of the Census Bureau; Mr. Alexander Johnson, formerly secretary of the National Conference of Charities and Corrections; Dr. H. H. Hart, of the Russell Sage Foundation; Professor S. M. Lindsay and Dr. E. S. Whitin, of Columbia University; and to the officials of the Library of Congress, of the New York Public Library, of the New York State Library, of the New York School of Philanthropy Library, of the New York Academy of Medicine, of the Columbia University Library, of the Volta Bureau, and of the Gallaudet College Library. CONTENTS PAGE INTRODUCTION xiii PART I POSITION OF THE DEAF IN SOCIETY CHAPTER I. THE DEAF IN THE UNITED STATES 3 Meaning of Term "Deaf" in the Present Study--Number of the Deaf in the United States--Age when Deafness Occurred--Ability of the Deaf to Speak--Means of Communication Employed by the Deaf. II. THE DEAF AS A PERMANENT ELEMENT OF THE POPULATION 13 Increase in the Number of the Deaf in Relation to the Increase in the General Population--The Adventitiously Deaf and the Congenitally Deaf--Adventitious Deafness and its Causes--Possible Action for the Prevention of Adventitious Deafness--Adventitious Deafness as an Increasing or Decreasing Phenomenon--The Congenitally Deaf--The Offspring of Consanguineous Marriages--The Deaf Having Deaf Relatives--The Offspring of Deaf Parents--Possible Action for the Prevention of Congenital Deafness--Congenital Deafness as an Increasing or Decreasing Phenomenon--Conclusions with Respect to the Elimination or Prevention of Deafness. III. TREATMENT OF THE DEAF BY THE STATE 63 General Attitude of the Law towards the Deaf--Legislation Discriminatory respecting the Deaf--Legislation in Protection of the Deaf--Legislation in Aid of the Deaf--Tenor of Court Decisions Affecting the Deaf--Present Trend of the Law in Respect to the Deaf. IV. ECONOMIC CONDITION OF THE DEAF 75 The Extent to which the Deaf are a Wage-earning and Self-supporting Element of the Population--Views of the Deaf as to their Economic Standing--The Deaf as Alms-seekers--Homes for the Deaf--Conclusions with Respect to the Economic Position of the Deaf. V. SOCIAL ORGANIZATION OF THE DEAF 91 Social Cleavage from the General Population--Desirability of Organizations Composed of the Deaf--Purposes, Activities, and Extent of Such Organizations--Newspapers of the Deaf. VI. POPULAR CONCEPTIONS CONCERNING THE DEAF 99 Viewed as a Strange Class--Viewed as a Defective Class--Viewed as an Unhappy Class--Viewed as a Dependent Class--Need of a Changed Regard for the Deaf. VII. PRIVATE ORGANIZATIONS INTERESTED IN THE DEAF 107 General Societies Interested in the Deaf--The Volta Bureau--Parents' Associations for the Deaf--Church Missions to the Deaf--Organizations Interested in the Education of the Deaf--Publications Devoted to the Interests of the Deaf. PART II PROVISION FOR THE EDUCATION OF THE DEAF VIII. THE EDUCATION OF THE DEAF PRIOR TO ITS INTRODUCTION INTO THE UNITED STATES 119 IX. HISTORY OF EDUCATION OF THE DEAF IN THE UNITED STATES 129 Early Attempts at Instruction--Beginning of the First Schools--Early Ideas concerning the Schools for the Deaf--Aims of the Founders--Extension of the Means of Instruction over the Country. X. ORGANIZATION OF THE INSTITUTIONS AND GENERAL PROVISIONS 171 Arrangements in the Different States--Semi-Public Institutions--"Dual Schools"--Provision for the Deaf-Blind--Provision for the Feeble-minded Deaf--Government of the Different Institutions--Procedure in States without Institutions. XI. THE DAY SCHOOL FOR THE DEAF 187 Inception and Growth of the Day School--Design and Scope of Day Schools--Extent and Organization of Day Schools--Arguments for the Day School--Arguments against the Day School--Evening Schools for Adults. XII. DENOMINATIONAL AND PRIVATE SCHOOLS 202 Denominational Schools--Private Schools. XIII. THE NATIONAL COLLEGE 206 XIV. PROVISION FOR EDUCATION BY STATES 209 XV. CONSTITUTIONAL PROVISIONS FOR SCHOOLS 242 Extent of Constitutional Provisions--Language and Forms of Provisions. XVI. QUESTION OF THE CHARITY CONNECTION OF SCHOOLS 248 Institutions Sometimes Regarded as Educational: Sometimes as Charitable--Charity in Connection with Schools for the Deaf--Arguments for the Connection with Boards of Charities--Arguments in Opposition to the Connection---Conclusions in Respect to the Charity Connection of Schools for the Deaf. XVII. PROVISIONS CONCERNING ADMISSION OF PUPILS INTO SCHOOLS 262 Rules as to the Payment of Fees--Provision for the Collateral Support of Pupils--Age Limits of Attendance. XVIII. ATTENDANCE UPON THE SCHOOLS 268 The Proportion of the Deaf in the Schools--The Need of Compulsory Education Laws for the Deaf--Present Extent of Compulsory Education Laws. XIX. METHODS OF INSTRUCTION IN SCHOOLS 277 The Use of Signs as a Means of Communication--Rise and Growth of the Oral Movement--Present Methods of Instruction--Courses of Study and Gradations of Pupils--Industrial Training in the Schools. XX. COST TO THE STATE FOR EDUCATION 293 Value of the Property Used for the Education of the Deaf--Cost of the Maintenance of the Schools--Form of Public Appropriations--Cost to the State for Each Pupil. XXI. PUBLIC DONATIONS OF LAND TO SCHOOLS 299 Grants by the National Government--Grants by the States--Grants by Cities or Citizens. XXII. PRIVATE BENEFACTIONS TO SCHOOLS 303 Donations of Money--Gifts for Pupils--Present Tendencies of Private Benefactions. XXIII. CONCLUSIONS WITH RESPECT TO THE WORK FOR THE DEAF IN AMERICA 309 APPENDIX A 325 TABLE WITH RESPECT TO HOMES FOR THE DEAF IN AMERICA. APPENDIX B 326 TABLES WITH RESPECT TO SCHOOLS FOR THE DEAF IN AMERICA. I. PUBLIC INSTITUTIONS 326 II. PUBLIC DAY SCHOOLS 329 III. DENOMINATIONAL AND PRIVATE SCHOOLS 331 INDEX 333 INTRODUCTION Society as a whole knows little of the deaf, or the so-called deaf and dumb. They do not form a large part of the population, and many people seldom come in contact with them. Their affliction to a great extent removes them from the usual avenues of intercourse with men and debars them from many of the social activities of life, all tending to make the deaf more or less a class apart in the community. They would seem, then, to have received separate treatment, as a section not wholly absorbed and lost in the general population, but in a measure standing out and differentiated from the rest of their kind. Thus it comes that society has to take notice of them. By reason of their condition certain duties are called forth respecting them, and certain provision has to be made for them. The object of the present study of the deaf is to consider primarily the attitude of society or the state in America towards them, the duties it has recognized in respect to them, the status it has created for them, and the extent and forms, as well as the adequacy and correctness, of this treatment. Hence in our study of the problems of the deaf, the approach is not to be by the way of medicine, or of law, or of education, though all these aspects will be necessarily touched upon. Nor is our study to deal with this class as a problem of psychology or of mental or physical abnormality, though more or less consideration will have to be given to these points. Nor yet again are we to concern ourselves principally with what is known as the "human interest" question, though we should be much disappointed if there were not found an abundance of human interest in what we shall have to consider. Rather, then, we are to regard the deaf as certain components of the state who demand classification and attention in its machinery of organization. Our attitude is thus that of the social economist, and the object of our treatment is a part or section of the community in its relation to the greater and more solidified body of society. More particularly, our purpose is twofold. We first consider the deaf, who they are, and their place in society, and then examine the one great form of treatment which the state gives, namely, the making of provision for their education. This we have attempted to do in two parts, Part I treating of the position of the deaf in society, and Part II of the provisions made for their education. As we shall find, the special care of the state for the deaf to-day has assumed practically this one form. Means of education are extended to all the state's deaf children, and with this its attention for the most part ceases. It has come to be seen that after they have received an education, they deserve or require little further aid or concern. But it has not always been the policy of the state to allow to the deaf the realization that they form in its citizenship an element able to look out for themselves, and demanding little of its special oversight. They have a story full of interest to tell, for the way of the deaf to the attainment of this position has been long and tortuous, being first looked upon as wards, and then by slow gradations coming to the full rights and responsibilities of citizenship. In this final stage, where the state provides education for the deaf only as it provides it for all others, and attempts little beyond, the deaf find themselves on a level with citizens in general in the state's regard. In Part I, after we have ascertained who are meant by the "deaf," and how many of them there are, we are to find ourselves confronted by a question which is of the foremost concern to society; namely, whether the deaf are to be considered a permanent part of the population, or whether society may have means at hand to eliminate or prevent deafness. After this, our discussion will revolve about the deaf from different points of view, regarding them in the several aspects in which they appear to society. We shall examine the treatment which the state in general accords the deaf, how they are looked upon in the law, and what changes have been brought about in its attitude towards them. This may be said to be the view of the publicist or legalist. Next, we shall attempt to see how far the deaf are really a class apart in the life of the community. This will involve an examination, on the one hand, as to whether their infirmity is a bar to their independent self-support, that is, whether they are potentially economic factors in the world of industry, how far their status is due to what they themselves have done, and to what extent this result has modified the regard and treatment of society; and, on the other, how far their want of hearing stands in the way of their mingling in the social life of the community in which they live, whether the effect of this will tend to force the deaf to associate more with themselves than with the rest of the people, and what forms their associations take. These will be the views respectively of the economist and the sociologist. Then we shall consider the regard in which the deaf are popularly held, the view of "the man in the street," and whether this regard is the proper and just one. Lastly, we shall note what movements have been undertaken in the interests of the deaf by private organizations, and to what extent these have been carried. In Part II we shall consider the provision that has been made for the instruction of deaf children. First we shall review the attempts at instruction in the Old World, and then carefully follow the development of instruction in America, considering the early efforts in this direction, the founding of the first schools, and the spread of the work over the land; and noting how it was first taken up by private initiative, in time to be seconded or taken over by the state, and how far the state has seen and performed its duty in this respect. Public institutions have been created in nearly all the states, and we shall examine the organizations of these institutions and the general arrangements in the different states. The development of the work also includes a system of day schools, a certain number of private schools and a national college, all of which we shall consider, devoting especial attention to the day schools and their significance. Following this, we shall consider how each state individually has been found to provide for the instruction of the deaf, observing also the extent to which the states have made provision in their constitutions, and the extent to which the schools are regarded as purely educational. Next, we shall proceed to inquire into the terms of admission of pupils into the schools; and we shall particularly concern ourselves with the investigation of the question of how far the means provided for education by the state are actually availed of by the deaf. The great technical problems involved in the education of the deaf will be outside the province of this work, but we shall indicate, so far as public action may be concerned, the present methods of instruction. This done, we shall mark what is the cost to the state of all this activity for the education of its deaf children, noting also how far the state has been assisted in the work by private benevolence. In the final chapter of our study we shall set down the conclusions which we have found in respect to the work for the deaf on the whole in the United States. PART I POSITION OF THE DEAF IN SOCIETY CHAPTER I THE DEAF IN THE UNITED STATES MEANING OF TERM "DEAF" IN THE PRESENT STUDY By the "deaf" in the present study is meant that element of the population in which the sense of hearing is either wholly absent or is so slight as to be of no practical value; or in which there is inability to hear and understand spoken language; or in which there exists no real sound perception. In other words, those persons are meant who may be regarded as either totally deaf or practically totally deaf.[1] With such deafness there is not infrequently associated an inability to speak, or to use vocal language. Hence our attention may be said to be directed to that part of the community which, by the want of the sense of hearing and oftentimes also of the power of speech, forms a special and distinct class; and is known, more or less inaccurately, as the "deaf and dumb" or "deaf-mutes" or "mutes." In our discussion it is with deafness that we are primarily concerned. _Deafness_ and _dumbness_ are, physically, two essentially different things. There is no anatomical connection between the organs of hearing and those of speech; and the structure and functioning of each are such as to preclude any direct pathological relation. The number of the so-called deaf and dumb, moreover, who are really dumb is very small--so small actually as to be negligible. Almost all who are spoken of as deaf and dumb have organs of speech that are quite intact, and are, indeed, constructively perfect. It comes about, however, that dumbness--considered as the want of normal and usual locution--though organically separate from deafness, is a natural consequence of it; and does, as a matter of fact, in most cases to a greater or less extent, accompany or co-exist with it. The reason of this is that the deaf, particularly those who have always been so, being unable to hear, do not know how to use their organs of speech, and especially are unable to modulate their speech by the ear, as the hearing do. If the deaf could regain their hearing, they would have back their speech in short order. The character of the human voice depends thus on the ear to an unrealized degree. NUMBER OF THE DEAF IN THE UNITED STATES According to the census of 1900 there were 37,426 persons in the United States enumerated as totally deaf;[2] and according to that of 1910 there were 43,812 enumerated as "deaf and dumb."[3] Hence we may assume that there are between forty and fifty thousand deaf persons in the United States forming a special class.[4] The following table will give the number of the deaf in the several states and the number per million of population, according to the census of 1910.[5] NUMBER OF THE DEAF IN THE SEVERAL STATES NO. PER NO. PER MILLION OF MILLION OF NO. POPULATION NO. POPULATION United States 43,812 476 Montana 117 311 Alabama 807 377 Nebraska 636 531 Arizona 53 259 Nevada 23 281 Arkansas 729 464 New Hampshire 191 443 California 784 329 New Jersey 667 263 Colorado 243 304 New Mexico 177 540 Connecticut 332 297 New York 4,760 522 Delaware 59 291 North Carolina 1,421 644 District of Columbia 114 344 North Dakota 239 414 Florida 216 286 Ohio 2,582 539 Georgia 956 366 Oklahoma 826 491 Idaho 114 349 Oregon 241 359 Illinois 2,641 468 Pennsylvania 3,656 477 Indiana 1,672 619 Rhode Island 208 383 Iowa 950 427 South Carolina 735 485 Kansas 934 552 South Dakota 315 539 Kentucky 1,581 690 Tennessee 1,231 563 Louisiana 774 468 Texas 1,864 478 Maine 340 458 Utah 232 621 Maryland 746 576 Vermont 126 354 Massachusetts 1,092 324 Virginia 1,120 543 Michigan 1,315 468 Washington 368 323 Minnesota 1,077 519 West Virginia 713 584 Mississippi 737 410 Wisconsin 1,251 537 Missouri 1,823 553 Wyoming 24 159 From this table the largest proportions of the deaf appear to be found in the states rather toward the central part of the country, and the smallest in the states in the far west and the extreme east. The highest proportions occur in Kentucky, North Carolina, Utah, Indiana, West Virginia, Maryland, Tennessee, Missouri, Kansas, Virginia, New Mexico, Ohio, South Dakota, Wisconsin, Nebraska, New York, and Minnesota, all these states having over 500 per million of population. The lowest proportions are found in Wyoming, Arizona, New Jersey, Nevada, Florida, Delaware, Connecticut, Colorado, Montana, Washington, Massachusetts, California, District of Columbia, Idaho, Vermont, Oregon, Alabama, and Rhode Island, in none of these states the number being over 400 per million. Why there should be these differences in the respective proportions of the deaf in the population of the several states, we cannot say; and we are generally unable to determine to what the variations are to be ascribed--whether they are to be set down to particular conditions of morbidity, the intensity of congenital deafness, or other influences operating in different sections; or, perhaps in some measure, to the greater thoroughness with which the census was taken in some places than in others. AGE WHEN DEAFNESS OCCURRED The vast majority of the deaf lost their hearing in early life, and most of them in the tender years of infancy and childhood. More than ninety per cent (90.6, according to the returns of the census) became deaf before the twentieth year; nearly three-fourths (73.7 per cent) under five; over half (52.4 per cent) under two; and over a third (35.5 per cent) were born deaf. Deafness thus occurs in a strongly diminishing ratio with advancing years.[6] These facts may be indicated by the following table,[7] which shows the percentages of those who became deaf at different ages. THE DEAF ACCORDING TO AGE OF OCCURRENCE OF DEAFNESS At birth 35.5 After birth and under two 16.9 Under two years 52.4 2 and under 4 17.1 4 and under 6 7.3 6 and under 8 4.5 8 and under 10 2.8 10 and under 12 1.8 12 and under 14 1.6 14 and under 16 1.3 16 and under 18 1.0 18 and under 20 0.8 Under five 73.7 5 and under 10 10.5 10 and under 15 4.0 15 and under 20 2.4 Under 20 90.6 20 and under 40 5.7 40 and under 60 2.4 60 and under 80 1.1 80 and over 0.2 ABILITY OF THE DEAF TO SPEAK We have just seen that "dumbness" frequently follows upon deafness, or that it is usually believed to be an effect of deafness. It is true that with the majority of the deaf phonetic speech is not employed to any large extent; but there is at the same time a fair number who can, and do, use vocal language. This speech varies to a wide degree, in some approximating normal speech, and in others being harsh and understood with difficulty; and it depends in the main upon three conditions: 1. the age at which deafness occurred, this being the most important factor; 2. the extent to which the voice is cultivated; and 3. the remaining power of the ear (which is found but seldom).[8] Of the deaf persons enumerated in the census,[9] 21.5 per cent were reported able to speak well; 15.8 per cent imperfectly; and 62.7 per cent not at all. In other words, somewhat over a third of the deaf can speak more or less, one-fifth being able to speak well, and one-sixth imperfectly, while over three-fifths do not speak at all. The dependence of the ability to speak upon the age of becoming deaf is clearly in evidence here, the proportion of those not able to speak showing a great decrease with the rise of this age. Thus, of those born deaf, 83.5 per cent cannot speak at all; of those becoming deaf after birth and under five, 74.6 per cent; of those becoming deaf after five and under twenty, 26.5 per cent; and of those becoming deaf after twenty, 3.4 per cent. Some of the deaf are able to read the lips of the speaker, or as it is better expressed, to read speech, or to understand what is being said by watching the motions of the mouth. This in reality is a distinct art from the ability to speak, though popularly they are often thought to be co-ordinate or complementary one to the other. Like the ability to speak, it varies in wide degree, from the ability to understand simple and easy expressions only, to the ability to follow protracted discourse; and like the ability to speak, it is found in increasing frequency with the rise of the age of becoming deaf. According to the census,[10] 38.6 per cent of the deaf are able to read the lips. Of those born deaf, 28.0 per cent have this ability; of those becoming deaf after birth and under five, 37.1 per cent; of those becoming deaf after five and under twenty, 64.3 per cent; and of those becoming deaf after twenty, 43.6 per cent.[11] MEANS OF COMMUNICATION EMPLOYED BY THE DEAF If the larger number of the deaf do not use the speech which is used by those who can hear, how is it that their communication is carried on? The chief method is a certain silent tongue peculiar to the deaf, known as the "sign language,"[12] a part of which may be said to be the manual alphabet, or the system of finger-spelling,[13] the two usually going hand in hand. In this way most of the deaf are enabled to communicate with each other readily and fluently. But this language, or at least the greater part of it, not being known to people generally, the deaf frequently have to fall back on writing to convey their ideas in communicating with hearing persons. This, while slow and cumbersome, is the surest and most reliable method of all. In addition, as we have seen, a certain number of the deaf are able to use speech, which of course has manifold advantages. These are the several methods, then, of communication employed by the deaf; but they are not usually employed singly, as most of the deaf are able to use two or more. According to the census,[14] the sign language alone or in combination with other methods is employed by 68.2 per cent, or over two-thirds of the deaf; finger-spelling by 52.6 per cent, or over one-half; writing by almost the same proportion--51.9 per cent; and speech by 39.8 per cent, or some two-fifths. It is probable, however, that the proportions employing the sign language, finger-spelling and writing, either singly or with other methods, are really somewhat larger. In this case, likewise, we find that the lower the age of becoming deaf, the smaller is the proportion of the deaf with speech, which shows again the connection of the ability to speak with the age of the occurrence of deafness. Of those born deaf, speech alone or in combination with other methods is used by 18.2 per cent; of those becoming deaf after birth and under five, by 27.4 per cent; of those becoming deaf after five and under twenty, by 75.3 per cent; and of those becoming deaf after twenty, by 97.7 per cent. FOOTNOTES: [1] There are no sharply dividing lines between the different degrees of deafness, but it is only those described that really constitute a special class. Persons whose hearing is such as to be of use even in some slight degree are rather to be distinguished as "hard of hearing." [2] By this census both the partially deaf and the totally deaf were enumerated, or 89,287 in all. The former should not have been enumerated, the enumerators being instructed not to include those able to hear loud conversation. [3] For the census returns for 1900, see "Special Reports of the Census Office. The Blind and the Deaf," 1906. This report was under the special direction of Dr. Alexander Graham Bell, who has long been interested in the deaf. The returns of the census for 1910 are yet to be revised, while at the same time additional data are to be secured to be published as a special report like that of 1906. As yet the census office has for 1910 only the actual enumeration of the deaf and dumb in the various states, and the returns with respect to other particulars regarding them are yet to be completed. See _Volta Review_, xiii., 1911, p. 399. Hence in our discussions we shall, except for the number by states, deal with the census of 1900. For a review of this census, see _American Annals of the Deaf_, Sept., 1906, to May, 1907 (li., lii.). In a number of states certain county officers are required from time to time to enumerate the deaf. For a census in one state, see Bulletin of Labor of Massachusetts, July-Aug., 1907. [4] Included in the census of 1900 were 491 deaf-blind persons (totally deaf), and in that of 1910, 584. [5] From statistics kindly furnished by the Census Bureau. [6] This is just the opposite of the case with the blind. [7] Special Reports, 1906, p. 79. Some 2,000 cases were thrown out for indefinite replies, leaving 35,479, upon which our percentages are based. [8] A somewhat frequent classification of the deaf in respect to their power to speak is to regard them roughly as falling into three great divisions: 1. "Deaf-mutes," who come nearest to being deaf and dumb. They have always been deaf, and have never had natural speech. What speech they may possess has come from special instruction, with the result that it is more or less artificial. 2. "Semi-mutes," who are deaf, but who have once had hearing as well as speech; and this speech they are able to use to a greater or less degree, though in time it is likely to become more and more astray. 3. "Semi-deaf" persons, who are only partly deaf, and possess a little hearing, though it is too slight to be of real practical use; and who have voices most nearly approaching the normal. They belong somewhere between the really deaf and the hard of hearing. [9] Special Reports, pp. 82, 240. [10] _Ibid._, pp. 87, 240. For 8,966 no returns were made. [11] On the subject of lip-reading, see especially E. B. Nitchie, "Lip-Reading: its Principles and Practice", 1912. [12] This "sign language" is referred to at somewhat more length in Chapter XIX. [13] Sometimes called "the deaf and dumb alphabet". [14] Special Reports, pp. 89, 240. For 2,365 no returns were made. CHAPTER II THE DEAF AS A PERMANENT ELEMENT OF THE POPULATION INCREASE IN THE NUMBER OF THE DEAF IN RELATION TO THE INCREASE IN THE GENERAL POPULATION Are the deaf to be a permanent element in the constitution of the population? Are they always to be reckoned with in the life of the state and the regard of society? Would it not be well to inquire whether or not deafness may be eliminated, or at least reduced to an appreciable degree? These are questions that present themselves at the outset in a consideration of the relation of the deaf to society, and to them we now devote our attention. Our first inquiry in the matter is directed to the question whether deafness as a whole is increasing, decreasing or remaining stationary, in relation to the general population. To determine this, we have recourse to the census returns of the deaf in connection with those of the general population. Unfortunately, however, comparisons of the different censuses respecting the deaf are not altogether to be depended upon, for the reason that they have not always been taken on the same basis, and conclusions from them consequently have to be accepted with qualifications. Special census returns of the deaf have been made since 1830; but the censuses of 1830-1870 purport to be of the deaf and dumb; the census of 1880, of the deaf who became deaf under sixteen years of age; that of 1890, of the deaf and dumb; that of 1900, of the totally deaf; and that of 1910, of the deaf and dumb. The results thus obtained are in the main analogous, but there are a certain number of cases included on one basis that would be excluded on another, and _vice versa_.[15] Taking the statistics as they are, we have the following table,[16] which gives the number of the deaf as found in the several censuses, according to the bases upon which they were made, together with the ratio per million of population. NUMBER OF THE DEAF ACCORDING TO THE CENSUSES OF 1830-1910 NO. PER MILLION OF YEAR NUMBER POPULATION 1830 (the deaf and dumb) 6,106 475 1840 (the deaf and dumb) 7,665 449 1850 (the deaf and dumb) 9,803 423 1860 (the deaf and dumb) 12,821 408 1870 (the deaf and dumb) 16,205 420 1880 (deafness occurring under sixteen) 33,878 675 1890 (the deaf and dumb) 40,592 648 1900 (the totally deaf) 37,426 492 1910 (the deaf and dumb) 43,812 476 From this table there appears to be a steady decrease in the number of the deaf in relation to the general population from 1830 to 1860, this latter year seeming to be the low water mark. From 1860 to 1870 there is a slight increase, and from 1870 to 1880 a very large one, due to some extent to the method of taking the census. From 1880 to 1890 there is a certain decrease, though the proportion is still very high. From 1890 to 1900 there is a very considerable decrease, probably indicating a return to true conditions; and a not negligible decrease from 1900 to 1910. On the whole, with respect to these statistics, probably the most that we can safely say is that deafness is at least not on the increase relatively among the population, while there is a possibility that at present it is decreasing. For further determinations, we shall have to seek other means of inquiry. THE ADVENTITIOUSLY DEAF AND THE CONGENITALLY DEAF We may perhaps best approach the problem of deafness as an increasing or decreasing phenomenon in the population, if we think of the deaf as composed of two great classes: those adventitiously deaf, that is, those who have lost their hearing by some disease or accident occurring after birth, and those congenitally deaf, that is, those who have never had hearing.[17] In regard to the former class, it follows that we are largely interested in the consideration of those diseases, especially those of childhood, which may affect the hearing, and in their prevention or diminution we can endeavor to ascertain how far there are possibilities of reducing the number of the deaf of this class. In the latter case we are called upon to examine some of the great problems involved in the study of heredity, especially in respect to the extent that the offspring is affected by defects or abnormalities of the parent, and to see what, if any, means are at hand to alter conditions that bring about this form of deafness. We shall first discuss the causes of adventitious deafness, together with the possibilities of its prevention and the likelihood of its diminution, and then consider the questions involved in congenital deafness. ADVENTITIOUS DEAFNESS AND ITS CAUSES From three-fifths to two-thirds of the cases of deafness are caused adventitiously--by accident or disease. To accidents, however, only a very small part are due, probably less than one-fiftieth of the entire number.[18] Nearly all adventitious deafness results from some disease, either as a primary disease of the auditory organs, or as a sequence or product of some disease of the system, often one of infectious character, the deafness thus constituting a secondary malady or ailment. The larger portion is of the latter type, probably less than a fourth resulting from original ear troubles.[19] In either case deafness occurs usually in infancy or childhood, and does its harm by attacking the middle or internal ear. From diseases of the middle ear results over one-fourth (27.2 per cent, according to the census) of all deafness, and from diseases of the internal ear, one-fifth (20.7 per cent), very little (0.6 per cent) being caused by disorders of the outer ear. Of the classified cases of deafness, according to the census, 56.3 per cent are due to diseases affecting the middle ear, and 42.7 per cent to diseases affecting the internal. Of diseases of the middle ear, 72 per cent are of suppurative character, often with inflammation or abscess, and 28 per cent non-suppurative, or rather catarrhal in character. Of diseases of the internal ear, 89 per cent are affections of the nerve, and 10 per cent of the labyrinth. It is to be noted that when the affection is of the internal ear, the result is usually total deafness. By specified diseases, the leading causes of deafness are scarlet fever (11.1 per cent), meningitis (9.6), brain fever (4.7), catarrh (3.6), "disease of middle ear" (3.6), measles (2.5), typhoid fever (2.4), colds (1.6), malarial fever (1.2), influenza (0.7), with smaller proportions from diphtheria, pneumonia, whooping cough, la grippe, and other diseases. A large part of deafness is seen to be due to infectious diseases, the probabilities being that fully one-third is to be so ascribed, with one-fifth from infectious fevers alone. After birth and under two years of age, the chief causes of deafness are meningitis, scarlet fever, disease of middle ear, brain fever, and measles. From two to five scarlet fever and meningitis are far in the lead, with many cases also from brain fever, disease of middle ear, measles, and typhoid fever. From five to ten scarlet fever alone outdistances all other diseases, followed in order by meningitis, brain fever and typhoid fever. From ten to fifteen the main causes are meningitis, scarlet fever, brain fever, and catarrh; from fifteen to twenty catarrh and meningitis; from twenty to forty catarrh, colds and typhoid fever; and from forty on, catarrh. The following table[20] will show in detail the several causes of deafness and their respective percentages. CAUSES OF DEAFNESS Total classified 48.5 External ear 0.6 Impacted cerumen 0.2 Foreign bodies 0.1 Miscellaneous 0.3 Middle ear 27.2 Suppurative 19.6 Scarlet fever 11.1 Disease of ear 3.6 Measles 2.5 Influenza 0.7 Other causes 1.7 Non-suppurative 7.6 Catarrh 3.6 Colds 1.6 Other causes 2.4 Internal ear 20.7 Labyrinth 1.8 Malarial fever 1.2 Other causes 0.6 Nerves 18.5 Meningitis 9.6 Brain fever 4.7 Typhoid fever 2.4 Other causes 1.8 Brain center 0.3 Miscellaneous 0.1 Unclassified 45.3 Congenital 33.7 Old age 0.3 Military service 1.0 Falls and blows 2.8 Sickness 2.7 Fever 2.0 Hereditary 0.3 Miscellaneous 2.5 Unknown 6.2 In fairly approximate agreement with the returns of the census, are the records of the special schools for the deaf in respect to the causes of deafness in their pupils, with information also as to the amount from the minor diseases. The following table will give the causes by specific diseases, as found in one school, the Pennsylvania Institution, for two years:[21] CAUSES OF DEAFNESS OF PUPILS IN PENNSYLVANIA INSTITUTION 1906 1907 PER CENT PER CENT Total number 510 100.0 500 100.0 Born deaf 213 41.8 206 41.2 Scarlet fever 43 8.2 47 9.4 Meningitis 36 7.1 40 8.0 Falls 24 4.7 25 5.0 Diseases of ear and throat 13 2.6 23 4.6 Catarrh and colds 13 2.6 -- -- Measles 18 3.5 18 3.6 Brain fever 17 3.3 16 3.2 Convulsions 14 2.8 13 2.6 Abscesses 10 2.0 12 2.4 La grippe 10 2.0 7 1.4 Accidents (not stated) 9 1.8 7 1.4 Whooping cough 7 1.4 7 1.4 Typhoid fever 7 1.4 6 1.2 Diphtheria 6 1.2 6 1.2 Mumps 5 1.0 5 1.0 Paralysis 5 1.0 4 0.8 Marasmus 2 0.4 4 0.8 Pneumonia 4 0.8 2 0.4 Dentition -- -- 2 0.4 Dropsy of blood 2 0.4 -- -- Chicken pox 1 0.2 1 0.2 Poisoning 1 0.2 1 0.2 Intermittent fever 1 0.2 1 0.2 Blood clotting on brain 1 0.2 -- -- Cholera infantum 1 0.2 -- -- Gastric fever -- -- 1 0.2 Sickness (not stated) 10 2.0 8 1.6 Unknown 37 7.3 38 7.6 POSSIBLE ACTION FOR THE PREVENTION OF ADVENTITIOUS DEAFNESS In respect to present activities for the prevention of adventitious deafness, we find the situation very much like that of marking time. Deafness, since the beginning of time, has largely been accepted as the portion of a certain fraction of the race, and any serious and determined efforts for its eradication have been considered for the most part as of little hope.[22] With the auditory organs so securely hidden away in the head, entrenched within the protecting temporal bone, and with their structure so delicate and complicated, the problem may well have been regarded a baffling one even for the best labor of medicine and surgery. Hence it is that after deafness has once effected lodgment in the system, a cure has not usually been regarded as within reach, though for certain individual cases there may be medical examination and treatment, with attempts made at relief. For deafness in general, it has been felt that there has been little that could be done in the way of prevention or cure beyond the preservation of the general health and the warding off of diseases that might cause loss of hearing. As a matter of fact, however, altogether too little attention has been given hitherto to the possibilities of the prevention of deafness. Without question there is much at the outset that can be accomplished towards the prevention of those diseases that cause deafness. A large part, perhaps fully a third, as we have seen, are due to infectious diseases, and it is probably here that measures are likely to be most efficacious. A considerable portion likewise are the result of diseases affecting the passages of the nose and throat, and help should be possible for many of these if taken in hand soon enough. In certain diseases also, as scarlet fever, measles, typhoid fever, diphtheria, and others, there are not a few cases which, so far as deafness as a development is concerned, would prove amenable to skillful and persistent treatment. At the same time due attention to primary ear troubles would in a number of instances keep off permanent deafness. Indeed, it is possible that some thirty or forty per cent of adventitious deafness is preventable by present known means.[23] Aside from direct medical treatment for those diseases that cause deafness, there are other measures available in a program for the prevention of deafness. One of the foremost essentials is the report to the health authorities of all serious diseases that are liable to result in deafness. In this way proper medical care may be secured, and due precautions may be taken to isolate infectious cases. Even with meningitis, which is so hard usually to deal with and which is so severe in its ravages, there is often some concomitant trouble, and if made notifiable in all cases deafness from it might be checked in no inconsiderable measure. The report of births is also especially needed, and as it becomes obligatory in general, with the consequent detection of physical ailments or disabilities, early cases of deafness may come increasingly to notice, and timely treatment may be availed of. Particular attention is likewise necessary in respect to the medical examination of school children. The proportion of such children with impaired hearing is not slight, even though no great part of them become totally deaf. A committee on defective eyes and ears of school children of the National Educational Association in 1903 found that of 57,072 children examined in seven cities, 2,067, or 3.6 per cent, were extremely defective in hearing.[24] An investigation of the school children in New York City has disclosed the fact that one per cent have seriously defective hearing.[25] Under proper and adequate medical inspection of schools, not only would the need of treatment for adenoids and similar troubles be brought to light, with the result that a number of incipient cases might be stopped in time, but in some instances of deafness already acquired beneficial treatment might be possible.[26] There is thus a considerable sphere for action towards the prevention of adventitious deafness both by legislation and by education. For the ultimate solution of its problems, however, we have to look mainly to the medical profession. In recent years medical science has won some great triumphs, and in the field of the prevention of deafness no little may be in store to be accomplished in the years to come.[27] Even now, with more particular attention to the diseases of children, and with stronger insistence upon general sanitary measures, the probabilities are that there is less deafness from certain diseases than formerly--a matter which we are soon to consider. Though as yet there has been little direct action for the prevention of adventitious deafness, there is an increasing concern in the matter, and in this there is promise. By medical bodies in particular is greater attention being given to the subject,[28] and in the widening recognition of their part as guardians of the public health it may be possible for them to do much for the enlightenment of the public. In one state legislative action has been taken expressly for the protection of the hearing of school children. This is Massachusetts, which requires the examination of the eyes and ears of the school children in every town and city, the state board of education furnishing the tests.[29] In some states also general inspection of schools is mandatory by statute, and in others permissive, while in several there are local ordinances with the force of a state law. In combating adventitious deafness, then, our attack is to be directed in the largest part upon those diseases, especially infantile and infectious diseases, that cause deafness; and it is upon the checking of their spread that our main efforts for the present have to be concentrated. At the same time the better safe-guarding of the general health of the community will insure a proportionate diminution of deafness. Beyond this, we will have to wait upon the developments of medical science, both in the study of the prevention of diseases and of their treatment; and can trust only to what it may offer.[30] ADVENTITIOUS DEAFNESS AS AN INCREASING OR DECREASING PHENOMENON Our main interest in the problem of adventitious deafness lies in the possible discovery whether or not it is relatively increasing or decreasing among the population, and in what respects signs appear of a diminution. We have just seen the likelihood of a decrease from certain causes; but we are to find what is indicated by statistical evidence. To be considered first is adventitious deafness as a whole. Respecting it our only statistics are in the returns of the censuses since 1880, the different forms of deafness not being distinguished before this time. The following table will show the number of the adventitiously deaf as reported by the censuses of 1880, 1890 and 1900, with their respective percentages and ratios per million of population.[31] NUMBER OF THE ADVENTITIOUSLY DEAF IN 1880, 1890 AND 1900 TOTAL ADVENTITIOUSLY PERCENTAGE RATIO NUMBER DEAF PER MILLION OF POPULATION 1880 33,878 10,187 30.1 20.3 1890 40,562 16,767 41.1 26.8 1900 37,426 18,164 48.4 23.9 From this it appears that adventitious deafness is increasing in relation to total deafness, which is most likely the case, as congenital deafness, as we shall see, is evidently decreasing. Whether or not adventitious deafness is increasing in respect to the general population, the table does not disclose definitely. The statistics probably are not full enough to afford any real indication yet. Our next inquiry is in respect to the increase or decrease of adventitious deafness from the several diseases individually, which is, upon the whole, the more satisfactory test. Here also, unfortunately, our statistics are very limited, and our findings will have to fall much short of what could be desired. The following table, based on the returns of the censuses of 1880, 1890 and 1900, so far as the approximate identity of the several diseases can be established, will give the respective percentages found.[32] CAUSES OF ADVENTITIOUS DEAFNESS IN 1880, 1890 AND 1900 1880 1890 1900 Scarlet fever 7.9 11.8 11.1 Meningitis 8.4 7.8 9.6 Catarrh and catarrhal fevers 0.9 3.3 3.6[33] Diphtheria 0.2 0.5 --[34] Abscess and inflammation 1.0 2.5 --[35] Measles 1.3 2.5 2.5 Whooping cough 0.5 0.8 --[34] Malarial and typhoid fevers 1.7 1.8 3.6 Other fevers 1.1 -- 2.0 In this table the most noticeable thing is perhaps the persistency with which we find most of the diseases to recur, with apparently no great change, while in certain ones, as catarrh and malarial and typhoid fevers, there seems to be rather an increase. It would be best, however, not to place very great confidence in these figures, but, so far as the census reports are concerned, to wait for more precise and uniform statistics. We have, further, the statistics published in the reports of certain schools for the deaf. While these are perhaps not of sufficient extent to warrant full conclusions, they may be regarded as quite representative;[36] and though to be taken with something of the caution as the census figures, they may serve to throw some light upon the situation. Comparison of the proportions of pupils deaf from the several diseases at different times may be made in two ways: by finding the respective proportions over a series of successive years from a certain time back down to the present, and by contrasting the proportions in two widely separated periods, one in the present and one in the past. These will be taken up in order. The following tables give the percentages of cases of deafness in pupils from the important diseases as found in six schools in successive years: in the New York Institution in the total annual attendance from 1899 to 1912; in the Michigan School in the total biennial attendance from 1883 to 1912; in the Pennsylvania Institution in the number of new pupils admitted quadriennially from 1843 to 1912; in the Western Pennsylvania Institution in the number admitted biennially from 1887 to 1912; in the Maryland School in the number admitted biennially from 1884 to 1911; and in the Wisconsin School in the number admitted biennially from 1880 to 1908. I. CAUSES OF DEAFNESS IN NEW YORK INSTITUTION FROM 1899 TO 1912 |1899|1900|1901|1902|1903|1904|1905|1906|1907|1908|1909 +----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+---- Total Number | 466| 476| 481| 477| 464| 503| 508| 510| 543| 555| 565 +----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+---- Congenital |36.0|27.1|26.8|40.9|36.2|41.1|46.2|31.8|33.3|34.4|34.9 Scarlet Fever |11.4|10.1| 8.9| 7.1| 6.5| 6.9| 6.5| 4.9| 5.3| 5.0| 5.7 Meningitis | 9.5| 9.4| 7.7| 7.9| 7.8| 7.9|11.0|12.2|16.8|18.6|17.7 Brain Trouble |10.1| 9.2| 8.3| 8.1| 7.2| 5.9| 5.9| 7.1| 9.0| 8.3| 8.7 Falls | 9.0| 7.2| 5.4| 4.5| 3.9| 4.2| 3.8| 5.2| 5.9| 6.1| 6.0 Measles | 5.1| 3.8| 3.8| 2.1| 3.9| 4.5| 4.1| 4.1| 4.8| 4.7| 4.4 Typhoid Fever | 3.7| 2.3| 1.6| 1.0| 0.9| 1.2| 1.0| 1.0| 1.3| 1.3| 1.2 Convulsions | 3.2| 4.4| 3.2| 2.9| 2.6| 0.2| 1.8| 1.8| 1.9| 1.5| 1.9 Various Fevers | 2.5| 1.5| 1.4| 1.0| 1.7| 1.6| 1.6| 1.6| 1.5| 1.3| 0.7 Catarrh | 2.3| 2.1| 1.9| 1.8| 1.6| 1.2| 1.0| 2.0| 1.9| 1.9| 1.4 Diphtheria | 1.9| 1.7| 1.9| 1.0| 0.9| 0.4| 0.6| 0.8| 0.9| 0.9| 0.7 Pneumonia | 1.5| 0.8| 0.8| 0.6| 1.1| 0.2| 1.0| 1.1| 1.1| 0.9| 1.1 Whooping Cough | 1.7| -- | 1.6| 1.2| 1.1| 1.0| 0.8| 0.6| 0.9| 0.9| 0.5 Miscellaneous | | | | | | | | | | | and Unknown | 2.1|20.4|26.7|19.8|18.6|23.7|14.7|25.9|15.4|14.2|15.1 1910|1911|1912| ----+----+----+ Total Number 570| 546| 518| ----+----+----+ Congenital 32.8|34.6|36.6| Scarlet Fever 6.1| 5.7| 5.0| Meningitis 17.9|19.0|19.7| Brain Trouble 8.3| 8.0| 8.9| Falls 5.1| 5.5| 5.6| Measles 4.6| 0.2| 0.7| Typhoid Fever 1.1| 0.9| 0.5| Convulsions 1.9| 2.0| 2.1| Various Fevers 0.5| 0.5| 0.7| Catarrh 0.8| 1.0| 0.5| Diphtheria 0.7| 0.7| 0.5| Pneumonia 1.1| 0.7| 0.5| Whooping Cough 0.5| 0.5| 0.2| Miscellaneous | | | and Unknown 18.6|20.7|18.5| II. CAUSES OF DEAFNESS IN MICHIGAN SCHOOL FROM 1883 TO 1912 |1883|1885|1887|1889|1891|1893|1895|1897|1899|1901|1903 |1884|1886|1888|1890|1892|1894|1896|1898|1900|1902|1904 +----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+---- Total Number | 302| 336| 342| 350| 343| 365| 428| 412| 441| 447| 451 +----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+---- Congenital | 7.0|18.8|23.1|26.3|24.2|26.3|25.2|30.3|28.8|31.5|32.8 Meningitis |28.8|28.1|23.1|23.1|21.3|15.8|15.6|14.5|10.2| 9.2| 4.6 Scarlet Fever |12.2|11.8|12.3|11.2| 9.0| 9.6| 9.5| 9.7| 9.5| 9.3| 7.6 Brain Fever | 6.2| 6.5| 4.8| 3.7| 5.2| 6.9| 6.6| 6.3| 5.4| 3.8| 3.8 Typhoid Fever | 4.6| 3.6| 4.1| 4.3| 4.7| 1.9| 1.8| 1.4| 2.5| 2.2| 1.3 Measles | 3.6| 4.1| 3.9| 2.9| 2.6| 1.4| 0.8| 1.9| 3.2| 3.1| 2.9 Diphtheria | 0.6| -- | -- | 0.3| 0.3| 0.3| 0.2| 0.2| 0.4| 0.2| 0.4 Catarrh | 0.6| 0.6| 0.9| 0.8| 0.9| 1.1| 1.9| -- | 2.9| 3.5| 3.3 Various Fevers | 2.9| 1.5| 2.0| 2.6| 3.0| 4.4| 4.4| 1.7| 2.9| 2.9| 3.3 Whooping Cough | 1.3| 1.2| 1.5| 1.5| 1.5| 3.0| 3.8| 3.6| 2.7| 2.5| 3.1 Pneumonia | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | 0.2| 0.2| 0.4 La grippe | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | 0.9| 1.1| 1.6 Miscellaneous | | | | | | | | | | | and Unknown |32.2|23.8|24.3|23.3|27.3|29.3|30.2|30.4|30.4|31.5|34.9 1905|1907|1909|1911| 1906|1908|1910|1912| ----+----+----+----+ Total Number 404| 361| 354| 353| ----+----+----+----+ Congenital 36.6|35.7|35.0|31.2| Meningitis 8.6| 9.5| 8.8| 8.2| Scarlet Fever 6.9| 5.8| 3.6| 4.5| Brain Fever 2.7| 2.5| 2.3| 1.0| Typhoid Fever 1.0| 1.4| 1.5| 1.7| Measles 2.9| 4.1| 3.4| 3.1| Diphtheria 0.5| 0.2| 0.3| 0.3| Catarrh 2.8| 1.9| 2.5| 0.8| Various Fevers 2.5| 0.5| 2.0| 1.4| Whooping Cough 3.4| 4.4| 4.8| 5.1| Pneumonia -- | 0.7| 0.6| 0.8| La grippe 1.5| 3.0| 2.3| -- | Miscellaneous | | | | and Unknown 30.6|30.3|32.9|41.9| III. CAUSES OF DEAFNESS IN PENNSYLVANIA INSTITUTION FROM 1843 TO 1912 |1843|1847|1851|1855|1859|1863|1867|1871|1875|1879|1883 |1846|1850|1854|1858|1862|1866|1870|1874|1878|1882|1886 +----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+---- Total Number | 90| 111| 125| 143| 167| 152| 150| 178| 282| 233| 261 +----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+---- Congenital |54.4|58.5|56.0|46.8|53.3|48.4|40.0|42.1|31.2|24.4|34.1 Scarlet Fever |13.3|18.0|12.8|16.8| 9.6|19.7|16.0|18.6|18.1|13.7|14.9 Meningitis | -- | -- | 0.8| -- | -- | 2.0| 1.3| 9.6|18.1|25.7|16.4 Measles | 1.1| 2.7| 1.6| 2.8| 2.4| 3.3| 4.0| 1.1| 1.7| 2.6| 1.9 Whooping Cough | 2.2| 0.9| 0.8| 0.7| 1.2| 0.7| 1.3| 0.6| 0.3| 0.8| -- Catarrh | -- | 0.9| -- | -- | -- | -- | 0.7| 0.6| 2.1| -- | -- Brain Fever | -- | -- | 2.8| 2.1| -- | 6.0| 4.7| -- | -- | -- | 0.8 Typhoid Fever | -- | -- | -- | 1.4| 0.6| 0.7| 2.6| 2.7| 2.1| 2.6| 3.4 Diphtheria | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | 0.7| -- | -- | -- | -- Pneumonia | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- La grippe | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- Mis. and Unknown |29.0|19.2|25.2|29.4|32.9|19.2|28.7|24.7|26.3|30.2|28.5 1887|1891|1895|1899|1903|1907|1911| 1890|1894|1898|1902|1906|1910|1912| ----+----+----+----+----+----+----+ Total Number 207| 248| 250| 239| 240| 282| 152| ----+----+----+----+----+----+----+ Congenital 47.3|46.8|41.6|32.2|35.8|33.7|34.2| Scarlet Fever 14.0|14.1|11.2| 6.3|10.4| 3.9| 5.2| Meningitis 5.8| 5.6| 7.6| 8.4| 7.1|17.4|15.1| Measles 3.9| 3.2| 4.4| 4.6| 4.5| 3.5| 3.9| Whooping Cough 0.5| 0.4| 0.8| 1.7| 0.7| 2.9| 1.3| Catarrh 3.9| 4.8| 6.8| 4.2| 1.2| 2.5| 1.3| Brain Fever 2.9| 5.2| 4.0| 3.4| 1.7| 2.9| 2.6| Typhoid Fever 2.9| 3.6| -- | 2.5| 0.7| 3.9| 1.3| Diphtheria 0.5| 1.6| 2.0| 0.8| 2.5| 1.2| 2.0| Pneumonia 0.5| -- | -- | 0.8| 0.4| 1.2| 4.8| La grippe -- | 0.4| -- | 2.1| 1.2| 0.3| -- | Mis. and Unknown 17.8|14.3|21.6|33.0|33.8|26.6|28.3| IV. CAUSES OF DEAFNESS IN WESTERN PENNSYLVANIA INSTITUTION FROM 1887 TO 1912 |1887|1889|1891|1893|1895|1897|1899|1901|1903|1905|1907 |1888|1890|1892|1894|1896|1898|1900|1902|1904|1906|1908 +----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+---- Total Number | 61| 56| 58| 58| 49| 40| 50| 41| 110| 59| 73 +----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+---- Congenital |24.6|14.3|20.7|32.8|46.9|40.6|40.0|31.9|38.2|25.4|30.1 Scarlet Fever | 9.8|21.4| 8.6|10.4|10.2| 5.0| 6.0|12.2| 8.3|11.8| 8.2 Meningitis |16.5|14.5|13.8|10.4|10.2|20.0|14.0|17.1| 7.2|10.2|13.7 Measles | 4.9| 1.9| 5.2|10.4| 4.0| -- | 2.0| 2.4| 7.2| 1.9| 8.2 Catarrh | 3.2| -- | 7.6| 1.9| 2.0| 5.0| 2.0| 9.6| 2.7| 3.8| 4.1 Brain Fever | 6.5| 5.4| 1.9| 1.9| -- | 2.5| -- | 4.8| 2.7| 5.1| 2.8 Typhoid Fever | -- | 1.9| 5.2| -- | 6.0| 2.5| -- | -- | 1.8| 1.9| 4.1 Whooping Cough | 1.6| -- | 1.9| -- | 2.0| -- | 6.0| 2.4| 1.8| 1.9| 2.8 Diphtheria | 1.6| -- | 1.9| -- | -- | -- | 4.0| 2.4| 1.8| -- | 1.4 La grippe | -- | -- | -- | -- | 2.0| -- | 2.0| -- | -- | 1.9| -- Pneumonia | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | 2.5| 2.0| -- | -- | 1.9| 1.4 Miscellaneous | | | | | | | | | | | and Unknown |31.3|30.6|33.2|32.2|16.7|22.5|22.0|17.2|28.3|34.2|23.2 1909|1911| 1910|1912| ----+----+ Total Number 71| 73| ----+----+ Congenital 40.9|36.5| Scarlet Fever 11.3|12.7| Meningitis 14.1| 9.6| Measles 2.8| 6.8| Catarrh 2.8| 1.8| Brain Fever 1.4| 4.1| Typhoid Fever 2.8| -- | Whooping Cough -- | 1.8| Diphtheria 1.4| 1.8| La grippe -- | -- | Pneumonia -- | -- | Miscellaneous | | and Unknown 22.5|24.9| V. CAUSES OF DEAFNESS IN MARYLAND SCHOOL FROM 1884 TO 1911 |1884|1886|1888|1890|1892|1894|1896|1898|1900|1902|1904 |1885|1887|1889|1891|1893|1895|1897|1899|1901|1903|1905 +----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+---- Total Number | 28| 27| 25| 25| 29| 30| 30| 39| 29| 30| 28 +----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+----+---- Congenital |46.4|62.9|44.4|36.0|37.9|43.3|43.3|61.5|44.8|43.3|57.1 Meningitis |10.7|11.1| 8.0|12.0|10.3|10.6| 6.7| 2.6|14.0| 3.3| 3.6 Scarlet Fever |10.7| 7.4|12.0|16.0| -- | -- | 6.7| 5.2| 3.5|10.0| 7.2 Measles | 3.6| -- | -- | -- | 3.5| 3.3| 6.7| -- | 3.5| 3.3| -- Diphtheria | -- | -- | -- | -- | 3.5| 3.3| 3.3| 2.6| -- | 3.3| 3.6 Catarrh | -- | -- | -- | -- | 3.5| 3.3| 3.3| 5.2| 3.5| -- | -- Typhoid Fever | -- | -- | 4.0| -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | 6.7| -- Whooping Cough | 3.6| -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | 3.5| -- | -- Pneumonia | 3.6| -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | 7.0| -- | 3.6 Brain Fever | 7.2| -- | 4.0| 8.0| 3.5| 3.3| -- | -- | 7.0| 3.3| -- Various Fevers | -- | -- | 4.0| 8.0| 3.5| -- | -- | 2.6| -- | 3.3| 3.6 Miscellaneous | | | | | | | | | | | and Unknown |14.2|18.6|23.6|20.0|34.3|32.9|28.1|22.0|16.7|23.5|21.3 1906|1908| 1910| 1907|1909| 1911| ----+----+-------+ Total Number 41| 32|135[37]| ----+----+-------+ Congenital 53.7|34.4| 51.8| Meningitis 2.4|12.2| 8.1| Scarlet Fever 9.6| 3.1| 1.4| Measles -- | 3.3| 2.2| Diphtheria -- | -- | 0.7| Catarrh -- | -- | -- | Typhoid Fever 2.4| 3.1| 2.2| Whooping Cough -- | 3.1| 1.4| Pneumonia 2.4| 3.1| 2.2| Brain Fever 4.8| -- | 2.9| Various Fevers 4.8| -- | 2.2| Miscellaneous | | | and Unknown 19.9|37.7| 24.1| VI. CAUSES OF DEAFNESS IN WISCONSIN SCHOOL FROM 1879 TO 1908 |1879|1881| 1883 |1885|1887|1889|1891|1893|1895|1897 |1880|1882| 1884 |1886|1888|1890|1892|1894|1896|1898 +----+----+-------+----+----+----+----+----+----+---- Total Number | 36| 66|231[37]| 56| 67| 50| 44| 72| 64| 72 +----+----+-------+----+----+----+----+----+----+---- Congenital |14.3|31.8| 35.1|35.7|49.3|38.0|50.0|40.3|53.1|52.7 Meningitis |27.7|33.3| 37.7|33.9|28.3|32.0|15.9|12.5|31.2|19.4 Scarlet Fever |14.3| 6.0| 12.5| -- | 8.9|12.0|20.4|11.1| 4.7| 6.9 Measles |12.8| 3.0| 1.5| -- | 2.9| -- | 2.3| 4.1| 3.1| -- Typhoid Fever | -- | 6.0| 7.4| 1.8| -- | 2.0| 2.3| -- | 1.6| -- Whooping Cough | -- | -- | 1.3| 1.8| 1.5| -- | -- | -- | -- | 1.4 Diphtheria | -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | 2.0| 4.6| -- | -- | 1.4 Catarrh | -- | -- | 1.3| -- | -- | -- | -- | -- | 1.6| 5.5 Brain Fever | -- | -- | -- | -- | 2.9| -- | -- |11.1| -- | -- Miscellaneous | | | | | | | | | | and Unknown |30.9|19.9| 3.2|26.8| 6.2|14.0| 4.5|20.9| 4.7|12.7 1899|1901|1903|1905|1907| 1900|1902|1904|1906|1908| ----+----+----+----+----+ Total Number 62| 33| 33| 63| 70| ----+----+----+----+----+ Congenital 64.3|33.3|48.4|34.9|40.0| Meningitis 16.1| 9.1| 3.0| 6.3| 5.7| Scarlet Fever 4.7| 6.1| -- | 9.5| 8.6| Measles -- | 3.0| 3.6| 1.6| 4.3| Typhoid Fever 3.2| 6.1| -- | 3.2| 1.4| Whooping Cough -- | -- | -- | 1.6| 2.8| Diphtheria 1.6| -- | -- | 3.2| 1.4| Catarrh 1.6| 3.0| 9.1| 3.2| 2.8| Brain Fever -- | 6.1| 3.6| 4.8| 4.3| Miscellaneous | | | | | and Unknown 8.5|33.3|31.3|31.7|28.7| We may take these tables together to see how the proportions of deafness from the leading diseases have changed in the course of the several periods indicated, proper allowance being made for the shorter length of time covered in some schools than in others. In respect to scarlet fever, one of the two foremost causes, we find in the New York Institution, the Michigan School and the Maryland School, a distinct and steady decline; in the Pennsylvania Institution a decline of late years, which is especially significant in view of the extended period covered by it; and in the Western Pennsylvania and the Wisconsin School little change, though in the latter there is less than at the beginning. In meningitis, on the other hand, the second of the two most important causes, a marked increase is seen in the Pennsylvania Institution for the entire period, while in the New York a sharp increase is found in the time designated, this being all the more noticeable because of the large proportion already attributed here to convulsions, often a trouble of kindred origin. In the Western Pennsylvania Institution and the Maryland School little change is observed, though in the latter some decline is apparent in the later years. In the Wisconsin and Michigan schools a very strong decline is seen. On somewhat the same order as meningitis is brain fever. It, however, shows little change on the whole, though in the Michigan and Maryland schools and the New York Institution some decline is evident. Of the remaining diseases none plays singly a large part in the causation of deafness, and in most of them the results are similar. Measles, typhoid fever, diphtheria, pneumonia, and whooping cough show, with some fluctuations at times, little change on the whole, beyond certain local differences. In the New York Institution a decline is reported in nearly all. In the Pennsylvania Institution a rather larger proportion for measles is seen in later than in earlier years. In the Michigan School an increase seems to be the case with whooping cough, but a decrease with typhoid fever. In catarrh the results are not so uniform. In the New York and Pennsylvania institutions a decline is manifest, though in the latter a larger proportion is reported than at the beginning. In the Michigan and Wisconsin schools rather an increase is noted. La grippe is only reported occasionally of late years, and its real effects cannot yet be ascertained. With respect to general fevers, their classification is found to be so varying that little can be determined. We now proceed to make comparison of the proportions of deafness from the principal diseases in a series of years some time past with similar proportions in recent years. The following tables give the several proportions in the American School (Connecticut) in the entire attendance from 1817 to 1844 and from 1817 to 1857, and in the new admissions from 1901 to 1913; in the Ohio School in the entire attendance from 1829 to 1872, and in the average annual attendance in 1904, 1905, 1906, and 1911; in the Iowa School in the entire attendance from 1855 to 1870 and from 1855 to 1912; and in the New York Institution in the entire attendance from 1818 to 1853 and in the average annual attendance from 1899 to 1912.[38] I. CAUSES OF DEAFNESS IN AMERICAN SCHOOL FROM 1817 TO 1844, FROM 1817 TO 1857, AND FROM 1901 TO 1913. PERIOD |TOTAL NUMBER | |CONGENITAL | | |SCARLET FEVER | | | |MENINGITIS | | | | |TYPHOID FEVER | | | | | |MEASLES | | | | | | |WHOOPING COUGH | | | | | | | |GENERAL FEVERS | | | | | | | | |BRAIN FEVER | | | | | | | | | |PNEUMONIA | | | | | | | | | | |DIPHTHERIA | | | | | | | | | | | |CATARRH | | | | | | | | | | | | |UNKNOWN | | | | | | | | | | | | |AND MIS. ---------+----+----+----+-----+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+-------- 1817-1844| 761|44.8| 5.7| 6.1| --|1.6|1.6|6.7| --| --| --| --| 33.5 1817-1857|1081|50.1| 9.2| 4.6| --|1.8|1.3|5.3| --| --| --| --| 27.7 1901-1913| 310|35.2| 7.7| 11.3|3.2|1.3|1.3|1.9|5.8|0.6|1.3|1.0| 29.4 II. CAUSES OF DEAFNESS IN OHIO SCHOOL FROM 1829 TO 1872 AND FROM 1904 TO 1911. PERIOD |TOTAL NUMBER | |CONGENITAL | | |SCARLET FEVER | | | |MENINGITIS | | | | |TYPHOID FEVER | | | | | |MEASLES | | | | | | |WHOOPING COUGH | | | | | | | |GENERAL FEVERS | | | | | | | | |BRAIN FEVER | | | | | | | | | |PNEUMONIA | | | | | | | | | | |DIPHTHERIA | | | | | | | | | | | |CATARRH | | | | | | | | | | | | |UNKNOWN | | | | | | | | | | | | |AND MIS. ---------+----+----+----+-----+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+-------- 1829-1872|1252|33.8|10.3| 3.0|1.8|3.2|1.7|4.6|5.7| --|0.3| --| 35.6 1904-1911| --|38.9| 5.0| 9.2|1.4|2.8|1.7|1.1|5.3|0.5|0.5|3.5| 30.1 III. CAUSES OF DEAFNESS IN IOWA SCHOOL FROM 1855 TO 1870 AND FROM 1855 TO 1912. PERIOD |TOTAL NUMBER | |CONGENITAL | | |SCARLET FEVER | | | |MENINGITIS | | | | |TYPHOID FEVER | | | | | |MEASLES | | | | | | |WHOOPING COUGH | | | | | | | |GENERAL FEVERS | | | | | | | | |BRAIN FEVER | | | | | | | | | |PNEUMONIA | | | | | | | | | | |DIPHTHERIA | | | | | | | | | | | |CATARRH | | | | | | | | | | | | |UNKNOWN | | | | | | | | | | | | |AND MIS. ---------+----+----+----+-----+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+-------- 1855-1870| 245|87.2|13.4| 3.3|1.6|2.0|1.3|6.1|1.3| --| --| --| 33.8 1855-1912|1672|26.9|10.3| 14.9|1.7|2.2|1.7|0.1|7.0|0.3|0.8|1.7| 32.4 IV. CAUSES OF DEAFNESS IN NEW YORK INSTITUTION FROM 1818 TO 1853 AND FROM 1899 TO 1912. PERIOD |TOTAL NUMBER | |CONGENITAL | | |SCARLET FEVER | | | |MENINGITIS | | | | |TYPHOID FEVER | | | | | |MEASLES | | | | | | |WHOOPING COUGH | | | | | | | |GENERAL FEVERS | | | | | | | | |BRAIN FEVER | | | | | | | | | |PNEUMONIA | | | | | | | | | | |DIPHTHERIA | | | | | | | | | | | |CATARRH | | | | | | | | | | | | |UNKNOWN | | | | | | | | | | | | |AND MIS. ---------+----+----+----+------+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+---+-------- 1818-1853|1148|42.9| 7.2|--[39]| --|1.9|0.7|1.6| --| --| --| --| 45.7 1899-1912| --|38.0| 6.8| 13.1|1.3|3.4|0.8|1.3|8.1|0.9|0.9|1.7| 23.7 Taking these tables also collectively, we find in respect to scarlet fever a decline in all the schools, this being especially pronounced in the case of the Ohio. In meningitis, however, there is an increase so heavy as to call in question the accuracy of the earlier records; and it is possible that it failed to be entirely recognized then. In most of the other diseases, as in the previous case, no very great change is perceptible. In general fevers a decline is apparent in all, in most being considerable; and probably several diseases were formerly included which are now listed separately. In measles rather a decline is found in the American and Ohio schools, but a slight increase in the Iowa, and a somewhat larger one in the New York Institution. In typhoid fever there is a slight increase also in the Iowa School, but a decrease in the Ohio. In brain fever a considerable increase is observed in the Iowa School, but a slight decrease likewise in the Ohio. In whooping cough there is an increase in the New York Institution and the Iowa School, but a decrease in the American. Such diseases as pneumonia, diphtheria and catarrh seem not usually to have been separately classified in the past, though in the Ohio School we find diphtheria noted, and with somewhat smaller proportions than in later years; while in several of the schools we find "colds" given in former times, which may have been in part really catarrh. Combining now the results of our two groups of tables, we may be able to reach some conclusions with respect to the increase or decrease of deafness from certain diseases, though on the whole far less definite than we could wish. In the first place, it seems safe to affirm that deafness from scarlet fever is becoming relatively less with the years; and it is possible that if it continues its present rate of decline, it will in time cease to be one of the main causes of deafness. On the other hand, meningitis, its great companion in evil, shows a striking increase in comparison with past years, as a cause of adventitious deafness; while its accretion may be traced as well in a series of recent years in certain schools, though not in others. But how far there is an absolute increase in meningitis over the past, and whether it is tending at present actually to increase, may be a matter for question. In view of the possibility that the disease was not sufficiently accounted for in the past, and in the absence of any knowledge to indicate a reason for its less prevalence in earlier years, at least not to the extent indicated by the statistics, it may be that its increase is, after all, more apparent than real. The fact, moreover, that in the series of recent years a marked increase is found in some schools, but a marked decline in others, may perhaps be taken to mean that at present meningitis may be on the increase only in certain sections, depending possibly on local conditions. With the greater medical skill of to-day, and with a larger proportion of children in the schools, it may be open to considerable doubt if the movement of this disease is really one of increase, though it seems that we are on the whole making no great headway against it. As to the minor diseases causing deafness, our statistics do not indicate just to what extent and in what direction deafness from them is being affected, and no precise conclusions can at present be set down. It is probable, however, that with the increased attention to children's diseases, as we have noted, there is really less deafness from most of them than formerly.[40] THE CONGENITALLY DEAF When we come to consider the question of congenital deafness, which comprises a little over a third of the total amount of deafness, we have an even more difficult problem on our hands, for here we are to deal with some of the great questions of heredity--though hereditary deafness and congenital deafness are not altogether one and the same thing.[41] For the purposes of our inquiry, let us think of the congenitally deaf as divided into three great classes in respect to their family relations: 1. the offspring of parents who were cousins; 2. the offspring of parents who were themselves deaf or members of families in which there are other deaf relatives; and 3. the product of families without either consanguinity or antecedent deafness. Of these three classes the first two only will engage our attention. Of the last, comprising, according to the census, nine-twentieths, or 44.4 per cent, of the congenitally deaf, there is not much that we can say. For a great part of it there no doubt exists in the parent, or perhaps in a more remote ancestor, some abnormal strain, physical or mental, in the nature of disease or other defect. But in respect to such deafness we have too little in the way of statistical data to help us arrive at any real determination; and for it as a whole we shall have to wait till we have greater knowledge of eugenics and the laws of heredity.[42] THE OFFSPRING OF CONSANGUINEOUS MARRIAGES Not all the deaf born of consanguineous marriages are congenitally deaf, but as the majority are so, and as the fact of the parents being blood relatives is assumed to have at least a contributing influence in the result, we may consider the matter in this place. It is in fact closely connected with the question of deaf relatives in general. In the census investigations,[43] of the number who answered on this point, 2,525, or 7.4 per cent, have parents who were cousins. Of these cases, deafness occurred in 87 per cent before the fifth year of age, and in 60 per cent at birth. Of all the deaf born without hearing, 13.5 per cent are the offspring of consanguineous marriages. The proportion of those born deaf is thus nearly twice as great when the parents are cousins as it is among the whole class of the congenitally deaf; and the proportion is also nearly twice as great of the offspring of consanguineous marriages among the congenitally deaf as the proportion of the deaf from such marriages among the total number of the deaf. Moreover, 55.0 per cent of the offspring of cousin-marriages have deaf relatives of some kind, and of the congenitally deaf from cousin-marriages, 65.6 per cent have deaf relatives; while the respective proportions when the parents are not cousins are 25.5 per cent and 40.7 per cent--in the one case less than half, and in the other two-thirds, as great. Further statistics bear out the findings of the census. Dr. E. A. Fay in his "Marriages of the Deaf"[44]--a work we are soon to notice--finds that, though consanguineous marriages form only about one per cent of the total number considered, 30.0 per cent of the children of deaf parents who are cousins are deaf, and that 45.1 per cent of such marriages result in deaf offspring; but that when the parents are not cousins, the respective proportions are 8.3 per cent and 9.3 per cent--only about a fourth and a fifth as great. In the Colorado School, out of 567 pupils in attendance from the beginning to 1912, in 17, or 3 per cent, the parents were related before marriage. In the Kentucky School, out of 83 pupils admitted in 1910 and 1911, 18, or 19.3 per cent, and out of 42 admitted in 1912 and 1913, 8, or 19 per cent, were the offspring of parents who were cousins. In the Iowa School, out of 62 admissions in 1911 and 1912, 4, or 6.5 per cent, and in the Maryland School, out of a total attendance in 1911 of 135, 13, or 9.2 per cent, had parents who were cousins.[45] Consanguineous marriages, so far as the effect on deafness is concerned, are not of relatively frequent occurrence. But where they do take place, there is found a decided connection between them and deafness, the increased tendency thus to transmit a physical abnormality being plain. How far, however, if at all, such deafness is to be directly ascribed to consanguineous marriages, is a matter for question. The main consideration seems to be that in such marriages the chances are at least doubled of the offspring acquiring the characteristics of the parents; and that in them the liability is thus proportionately enhanced of transmitting deafness.[46] THE DEAF HAVING DEAF RELATIVES We are now to examine what traces there may be of deafness in a family by noting what proportion of the deaf have deaf relatives, and are to attempt to see what may be its bearings upon the question of heredity. In the census investigations,[47] we find that out of 34,780 deaf persons who answered, there are 10,033, or 28.8 per cent, who have deaf relatives of some kind, direct or collateral, 8,170, or 23.5 per cent, having deaf brothers, sisters or ancestors. In all of these we can without difficulty discover the influence of heredity. In the congenitally deaf the trace of a physical defect is even more clearly indicated. Of these 40.1 per cent have deaf brothers, sisters or ancestors, and 46.2 per cent have also deaf uncles, cousins, etc.[48] It is thus evident that there are certain families in society deeply tinged with deafness, that it sometimes passes from parent to child, from generation to generation, and that like a cloud it hangs over a section of the race. THE OFFSPRING OF DEAF PARENTS All this argument leads up to one most pertinent question: Are the statistics which we have indicative that this deafness which passes so remorselessly in certain families will be found all the stronger in the children of deaf parents? Have we ground to believe or fear that this deafness will crop out far more surely than in the children of parents not deaf? And can we determine to what extent possibilities are increased of the offspring of deaf parents being likewise deaf? Let us now consider the statistics which we have in this matter, first examining the results of the census investigation.[49] Of the 8,022 married deaf persons for whom statements are made, we find that there are 190 who have deaf offspring, or 2.4 per cent. Of the 4,116 deaf persons who are married to deaf persons, 137 have deaf children, or 3.3 per cent; and of the 3,906 deaf persons married to hearing persons, 53 have deaf children, or 1.4 per cent. Of the married deaf having deaf children, 52.5 per cent have deaf relatives of some kind, and 54.7 per cent are congenitally deaf, the proportion of those having deaf relatives who are also congenitally deaf being 66.7 per cent. Of the deaf married to hearing partners, who have deaf children, 26.4 per cent are congenitally deaf, while 50.9 per cent of the partners in such marriages have deaf relatives of some kind. From the census statistics, then, it appears that the married deaf as a class do not have a large proportion of deaf children, and that this proportion is only a little more than twice as great when the deaf are married to the deaf as when they are married to the hearing. It appears also, however, that when there are deaf relatives involved in either kind of marriages, or when there is congenital deafness in the deaf parent, the effect is quite marked in the offspring. Besides the census returns, we have the statistics presented in the reports of certain schools, which are found to point, as far as they go, to the same conclusions. In the Kentucky School, out of 83 pupils admitted in 1910 and 1911, there were none the children of deaf parents, though 35, or 30.1 per cent, had deaf relatives; and out of 42 admitted in 1912 and 1913, there were 2, or 4.8 per cent, the children of deaf parents, and 12, or 28.8 per cent, with deaf relatives. In the Iowa School, out of 62 admissions in 1911 and 1912, 4, or 6.5 per cent, had deaf parents, and 21, or 33.9 per cent, "defective" relatives. In the Michigan School, with an annual enrollment of some three hundred, there were from 1903 to 1908 but three children of deaf parents.[50] In the Colorado School, out of a total attendance since its founding to 1912 of 567, 3, or 0.57 per cent, were the children of deaf parents, though 83, or 14.6 per cent, had deaf relatives. In the Missouri School, out of a similar attendance to 1912 of 2,174 there were 52, or 2.4 per cent, with deaf parents, though there were 235, or 10.8 per cent, with deaf relatives.[51] The most exhaustive study of the question of the liability of the deaf to deaf offspring is that of Dr. E. A. Fay in his "Marriages of the Deaf"--covering the majority of the marriages of the deaf in America at the time it was made (1898).[52] Statistical information is presented for 7,227 deaf persons and for 3,078 marriages with either deaf or hearing partners.[53] In the following table are summarized the results of this investigation.[54] MARRIAGES OF DEAF PERSONS NUMBER OF NUMBER OF MARRIAGES CHILDREN ---------------------------------+------+---------+-----+------+----+----- Partners in Marriage |Total |Resulting|Per |Total |Deaf|Per | |in deaf |cent | | |cent | |children | | | | ---------------------------------+------+---------+-----+------+----+----- One or both deaf | 3,078| 300| 9.7| 6,782| 588| 8.6 | | | | | | Both deaf | 2,377| 220| 9.2| 5,072| 429| 8.4 One deaf, other hearing | 599| 75| 12.5| 1,532| 151| 9.8 | | | | | | One or both congenitally deaf | 1,477| 194| 13.1| 3,401| 413| 12.1 One or both adventitiously deaf | 2,212| 124| 5.6| 4,701| 199| 4.2 | | | | | | Both congenitally deaf | 335| 83| 24.7| 779| 202| 25.9 One congenitally, other | | | | | | adventitiously deaf | 814| 66| 8.1| 1,820| 119| 6.5 Both adventitiously deaf | 845| 30| 3.5| 1,720| 40| 2.3 | | | | | | One congenitally deaf, other | | | | | | hearing | 191| 28| 14.6| 528| 63| 11.9 One adventitiously deaf, other | | | | | | hearing | 310| 10| 3.2| 713| 16| 2.2 | | | | | | Both had deaf relatives | 437| 103 | 23.5| 1,060| 222| 20.9 One had deaf relatives, other not| 541| 36 | 6.6| 1,210| 78| 6.4 Neither had deaf relatives | 471| 11 | 2.3| 1,044| 13| 1.2 | | | | | | _Both congenitally deaf_ | | | | | | Both had deaf relatives | 172| 49 | 28.4| 429| 130| 30.3 One had deaf relatives, other not| 49| 8 | 16.3| 105| 21| 20.0 Neither had deaf relatives | 14| 1 | 7.1| 24| 1| 4.1 | | | | | | _Both adventitiously deaf_ | | | | | | Both had deaf relatives | 57| 10 | 17.5| 114| 11| 9.6 One had deaf relatives, other not| 167| 7 | 4.1| 357| 10| 2.8 Neither had deaf relatives | 284| 2 | 0.7| 550| 2| 0.3 | | | | | | Partners consanguineous | 31| 14 | 45.1| 100| 30| 30.0 It is thus seen that 9.7 per cent of the marriages of the deaf result in deaf offspring, and that 8.6 per cent of the children born of them are deaf--proportions far greater than for the the population generally.[55] A striking fact to be noted, however, is that these proportions are greater when one parent is deaf and the other hearing than when both are deaf. The percentage of marriages resulting in deaf offspring when only one parent is deaf is 12.5, and when both are deaf, 9.2; while the percentage of deaf children born of them when only one parent is deaf is 9.8, and when both are deaf, 8.4. This is apparently a very strange result, though it probably may be accounted for in some part on the theory that it is not so much deafness itself that is inherited, but rather an abnormality of the auditory organs, or a tendency to disease, of which deafness is a result or symptom, and that with different pathological conditions in the parent there is less likelihood of deafness resulting. The most significant part of the results seems to be found, as before, in respect to whether or not deaf parents are themselves congenitally deaf or have deaf relatives. On the one hand, when one or both of the parents are adventitiously deaf, the percentage of marriages resulting in deaf children is 5.6, and the percentage of deaf children is 4.2; when both parents are so, the percentages are lower: 3.5 and 2.3. The percentages rise when one parent is adventitiously deaf, and the other congenitally: 8.1 and 6.5. In respect to deaf relatives of parents, the percentages are very low when neither has such relatives: 2.3 and 1.2. The lowest percentages of all are in the case where both parents are adventitiously deaf and neither has deaf relatives: 0.7 and 0.3. On the other hand, we find the proportion of marriages resulting in deaf offspring and the proportion of deaf children much greater when there is congenital deafness in one or both parents, when one or both have deaf relatives, and greatest of all when these influences are combined. When one or both parents are congenitally deaf, the percentage of marriages resulting in deaf offspring is 13.1, and the percentage of deaf children is 12.1; when both parents are so, the percentages are doubled: 24.7 and 25.9. When one parent has deaf relatives and the other has not, the percentages are 6.6 and 6.4; when both have, the percentages are nearly four times as great: 23.5 and 20.9. When both parents are congenitally deaf but neither has deaf relatives, the percentages are 7.1 and 4.1. When both are adventitiously deaf and both have deaf relatives, the percentages are 17.5 and 9.6. When both are congenitally deaf and one has deaf relatives, the percentages are 16.3 and 20.0; and when both have deaf relatives, the percentages are 28.4 and 30.3. The evidence is very strong, then, with regard to the form of deafness and the presence or absence of deaf relatives. In cases where the parents are not congenitally deaf and have no deaf relatives, the proportion of deaf children is very low. When one or both parents are congenitally deaf or have deaf relatives--when the deafness is inherited or in the family--the likelihood becomes far greater, and greater still when the two influences are in conjunction. In general, in respect to the influences of heredity upon deafness, the main determinants seem to be found in the existence in the parties, whether hearing or deaf, of deaf relatives, and, to a less extent, in the existence in parties who are deaf of congenital deafness. POSSIBLE ACTION FOR THE PREVENTION OF CONGENITAL DEAFNESS We come now to the consideration of the question of possible action for the prevention of congenital deafness. This examination naturally centers about the matter of the regulation of marriage, with due attention to the extent that action on the part of the state is to be regarded as desirable or feasible. We have seen that congenital deafness may, hypothetically, be divided into three distinguishable classes: that in which consanguineous marriages are concerned, that in which there is antecedent deafness in the family, and that in which neither of these conditions occurs; and in our inquiry it has seemed best to take up each of these separately. It may be, however, that there is in fact no very radical difference between these several forms, and that with increased knowledge on the subject a more or less intimate relation will be found to exist. Of that form of deafness in which neither consanguineous marriages nor antecedent deafness is involved, we are at present, as we have noted, able to say little definitely. In most cases we may be convinced that there exists in the parent some peculiar state of morbidity or other affection, latent or manifest, perhaps to some extent of hereditary influence, which has an effect on the organs of hearing of the offspring. A certain proportion is quite possibly due to recognizable defects both of physical and mental character. Our statistical evidence, however, in respect to this form of congenital deafness is too slight to warrant any positive deductions; and we will have to wait for further investigation to determine its nature fully. None the less, marriage of persons known to be liable to have ill effect on possible offspring is objectionable for not a few reasons, from the standpoint of the interests of society; and in their reduction there will probably be a greater or less diminution of congenital deafness. With regard to consanguineous marriages and their effect on deafness we are on surer ground, so far as may be indicated by statistical data. This question is found in very great measure to be connected with that of deaf relatives in general. The matter appears to be largely a part of a law of wide application, namely, that in the blood relationship of parents the possibilities are intensified of the perpetuation of a certain strain, which holds true no less with the transmission of deafness. Consanguineous marriages are perhaps not of sufficiently frequent occurrence, so far as concerns the effect on deafness, to require special action; but in the consideration of such marriages in general, their part in the causation of deafness should have due weight; and whatever may be said regarding them in other relations, they are to be avoided if we wish to remove all chances of this kind of deafness resulting. The problem of deaf relatives and their connection with congenital deafness is a very large one. Attention however, has mostly been focused upon it in relation to the intermarriage of the deaf and its effect upon their offspring. Indeed, in such unions there has already been more or less concern, and there has even been question whether it is a wise or unwise policy to allow the deaf to marry other deaf persons. The deaf, as we shall discover, not only find their companions for social intercourse among similar deaf persons, but _a fortiori_ very often seek such persons for their partners in marriage--in fact, more often than they do hearing partners, nearly three-fourths of the married deaf being married to deaf partners.[56] Not only has it been feared that the offspring of such marriages might likewise be deaf, but there has also been apprehension lest in their encouragement there might result a deaf species of the race.[57] From our discussion, however, we have found that in most of the marriages of the deaf we have but small reason for disquiet. If deafness in the parent is really adventitious, there is little possibility of its passing on to the offspring. When the deafness in the parent is itself congenital, the situation becomes more serious. If in such case there is no added risk from the existence of deaf relatives, the likelihood of transmitting deafness need not always be a matter of deep concern, though the hazard is materially larger than for adventitious deafness. When there are deaf relatives involved, the peril, made stronger if coupled with congenital deafness, is most pronounced; and, indeed, the existence of collateral deafness seems a more certain sign of warning than direct heredity itself. Finally, even in the marriage of the deaf with the hearing, the dangers are not in fact lessened if conditions otherwise unchanged are attendant. What action should be taken in respect to that part of the deaf who may marry under conditions favorable to the production of deaf offspring is not at present clear. Legislation would not appear on the whole to be advisable;[58] and the exertion of moral suasion, so far as possible, in the individual cases concerned would seem a more acceptable course. The matter, however, really belongs in the province of eugenics, and we will probably do best to await the authoritative pronouncement of its decrees before full procedure is resolved upon. CONGENITAL DEAFNESS AS AN INCREASING OR DECREASING PHENOMENON The final matter to be ascertained in respect to congenital deafness is whether it is relatively increasing or decreasing. The following table will show the number of the congenitally deaf in the censuses of 1880, 1890, and 1900, with their respective percentages and the ratios per million of population.[59] NUMBER OF THE CONGENITALLY DEAF IN 1880, 1890, AND 1900 RATIO PER TOTAL CONGENITALLY PER MILLION OF NUMBER DEAF CENT POPULATION 1880 33,878 12,155 35.6 242 1890 40,562 16,866 41.2 269 1900 37,426 12,609 33.7 166 From this it appears that congenital deafness is decreasing both in relation to all deafness, and to the general population. For further statistics, we may revert to our tables under adventitious deafness. In the tables relating to periods of successive recent years we find in respect to three schools, the New York and Western Pennsylvania institutions and the Maryland School, with certain fluctuations, no great change on the whole, though the last named school shows still a very high proportion. In two schools, the Michigan and Wisconsin, rather an increase is observed. In the Pennsylvania Institution, which covers a period of seventy years, there is a decrease from over 50 per cent to less than 40. A better test perhaps lies in the comparison of the proportions found for congenital deafness in the tables relating to periods widely separated in time. In these an increase is seen in the single case of the Ohio School; while a decrease is apparent in three, namely, the American and Iowa schools and the New York Institution. These decreases in percentages are respectively from 44.8 and 50.1 to 35.2; from 37.2 to 26.9; and from 42.9 to 38.0.[60] From the evidence that we have, then, taken together, it seems reasonable to conclude that congenital deafness is, though slowly, becoming less in the course of the years. CONCLUSIONS WITH RESPECT TO THE ELIMINATION OR PREVENTION OF DEAFNESS Most of what has been said in this chapter with respect to the elimination or prevention of deafness may be summed up as follows: 1. There are two kinds of deafness--adventitious and congenital. Of the total number of cases adventitious deafness comprises nearly two-thirds, and congenital deafness a little over one-third. 2. Nearly all adventitious deafness is caused by some disease of infancy or childhood attacking the middle or internal ear, a large part being of infectious character. The two chief diseases causing such deafness are scarlet fever and meningitis, with a less amount from brain fever, typhoid fever, measles, catarrh, diphtheria, whooping cough, etc. 3. A considerable part of this deafness is preventable under enlightened action. Medical science is principally in control of the situation, but there is also much that can be done in general measures for the protection of the health. In attacking the problem, the most immediate practical program lies in the arrest of those diseases, especially infantile and infectious diseases, that cause deafness. 4. Our evidence is incomplete to determine definitely whether adventitious deafness is increasing or decreasing relatively among the population; but it is hardly other than likely that it is decreasing. Although certain diseases producing deafness fail to show any extensive signs of abatement, there are other diseases from which there can be little doubt that deafness is decreasing. 5. In the outlook there is, on the whole, promise, both in respect to the treatment of deafness itself and of the diseases that lead to deafness, though it cannot be said in any sense that any large or general relief is at present in sight. 6. Of congenital deafness nearly half occurs in families often without any positively known strain to indicate a predisposition to deafness. Though concerning this deafness little in the present state of our knowledge can be predicated, it is likely that with measures to secure a race sound in all particulars there will be a reduction to a greater or less extent of such deafness. 7. Consanguineous marriages do not take place, so far as deafness as an effect is concerned, to any great extent; though where they do the consequences are very marked. Their relation to deafness consists apparently for the greatest part in the fact that the chances of its transmission are thereby intensified, there being also a very strong connection with the question of deaf relatives in general. 8. There are a certain number of families in society deeply tainted with deafness, in evidence both lineally and collaterally, and this deafness may be transmitted from parent to offspring. 9. Children of deaf parents are far more likely to be deaf than children of hearing parents. 10. The great majority of the children of deaf parents, however, are able to hear, the proportion of those who are not being small. 11. The likelihood of deaf offspring is not necessarily greater when both parents are deaf than when one is deaf and the other hearing. 12. The liability to deaf offspring depends in the greatest degree upon the presence or absence in the parents, deaf or hearing, of deaf relatives, and, to a less extent, upon whether or not the existing deafness is congenital--being especially great under a combination of these two conditions. 13. Action in respect to marriages of the deaf likely to result in deaf offspring seems for the present rather to be limited to moral forces. 14. Congenital deafness appears, from all the evidence, to be decreasing relatively among the population, though probably only at a very slow rate. 15. Finally, with respect to our original inquiry, it is to be said that there are no indications that deafness will disappear from the human race within any time which we can measure; and hence that the deaf are to be in society not only for a season, but for a period apparently as yet indefinite. Nevertheless the situation is not without encouragement. From the data in our possession regarding deafness as a whole, it seems certain that deafness is not on the increase relatively among the population. From our knowledge concerning adventitious deafness, the probabilities are that, if anything, it is decreasing; while the evidence as to congenital deafness is that it is decreasing. It is likely, then, that deafness in general is tending to decrease; and we are thus justified in believing that the number of the deaf will in time become less. FOOTNOTES: [15] Moreover, later censuses are probably taken more thoroughly than former, with a consequent discovery of a larger number of the deaf; while at the same time greater care is employed in preparing the later censuses, with the more rigorous elimination of doubtful cases, all in some measure, however, tending to even up the differences. On the difficulty of making comparisons of the censuses of the deaf, see Special Reports, pp. 66-69; _Annals_, li., 1906, p. 487. [16] _Ibid._ [17] Deafness has also been divided into three classes: adventitious deafness, congenital or hereditary deafness, and infantile or sporadic congenital deafness, the last class including many cases where there are other antecedent defects, mental or physical, or where the deafness occurred shortly after birth with the exact cause not definitely determined. See Proceedings of International Otological Congress, ix., 1913, p. 49; _Volta Review_, xiv., 1912, p. 348; xv., 1913, p. 209. [18] Of the cases usually ascribed to accidents, as falls, blows and the like, the probabilities are that a large part are really to be attributed to some other cause. Deafness is not often likely to result from such occurrences. [19] See Proceedings of International Otological Congress, ix., 1913, p. 49; _Volta Review_, xiv., 1912, p. 348. [20] Special Reports, pp. 110, 122, 124. See also _Annals_, xxxiii., 1888, p. 199; lii., 1907, p. 168. In the table are given only the specified causes that represent at least 0.7 per cent of the total amount of deafness. In respect to external ear trouble, impacted cerumen is usually found to result from water in the ear, or wax in the ear. Other diseases of the middle ear of suppurative character are diphtheria, pneumonia, erysipelas, smallpox, tonsilitis, teething, bronchitis, and consumption. Other non-suppurative diseases of the middle ear are whooping cough, scrofula, exposure and cold, disease of the throat, thickening of eardrum, croup, etc. Of the internal ear, other causes affecting the labyrinth are malformation, noise and concussion, mumps, and syphilis; affecting the nerve, paralysis, convulsions, sunstroke, congestion of brain, and disease of nervous system; and affecting brain center, hydrocephalus and epilepsy. Among unclassified causes are also adduced neuralgia, childbirth, accident, medicine, heat, rheumatism, head-ache, fright or shock, overwork, lightning, diarrhea, chicken-pox, operation, and other causes. [21] Proceedings of National Conference of Charities and Corrections, 1906, p. 250; Ceremonies of Laying of Corner Stone of Rhode Island School, 1907, p. 27. [22] There are no general or organized movements on foot for the prevention of deafness as there are for the prevention of blindness. This is perhaps chiefly because there are believed to be nothing like so many preventable cases of the one as of the other, so much of blindness being due to diseases that might have been avoided without great difficulty, and to accidents and other injuries to the eye. [23] It has been estimated that three-fourths of deafness from primary ear diseases, and one-half from infectious diseases, is preventable. See Proceedings of International Otological Congress, _loc. cit._; _Volta Review_, xiv., 1912, pp. 251, 348. [24] Proceedings, 1903, p. 1036. [25] _Volta Review_, xv., 1913, p. 136. See also _ibid._, v., 1903, p. 415; _Outlook_, civ., 1913, p. 997. [26] See _Medical and Surgical Monitor_, vii., 1904, p. 47; _New York Medical Journal_, lxxxiii., 1906, p. 816; _Annals_, lv., 1910, p. 192; _Volta Review_, xiii., 1911, p. 332. [27] The possibilities, for instance, in the use of antitoxins and vaccines in certain diseases are just beginning to be known, and some results as affect deafness may be expected from such operations. [28] In 1909 a special committee in regard to the prevention of deafness was created by the Otological Section of the American Medical Association, and in 1910 both by the American Laryngological, Rhinological and Otological Society and by the American Otological Society. See _Laryngoscope_, xx., 1910, pp. 596-665; _Volta Review_, xii., 1910, pp. 267, 545. [29] Laws, 1906, ch. 502. [30] On the possibilities of the prevention of adventitious deafness, see Dr. J. K. Love, "Deaf-Mutism", 1896; Archives of Otology, xxiv., 1895, p. 50; _Journal of American Medical Association_, liii., 1909, p. 89; _New York Medical Journal_, l., 1889, p. 205; lxxxix., 1909, p. 1007; xcv., 1912, p. 1189; _New York State Journal of Medicine_, xii., 1912, p. 690ff.; _Maryland Medical Journal_, lv., 1912, p. 33; _Pediatrics_, xxiv., 1912, p. 335; _Popular Science Monthly_, xlii., 1892, p. 211; "Progress in Amelioration of Certain Forms of Deafness and Impaired Hearing," Proceedings of American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, iv., 1894; _Annals_, xxxiv., 1889, p. 199; lvi., 1911, p. 211; lviii., 1913, p. 131; _Volta Review_, xii., 1910, p. 143; xv., 1913, p. 303; New York _Times_, April 6, 1913; Public School Health Bulletin, Eyes and Ears, by Superintendent of Public Instruction of North Carolina, 1910. [31] Census Reports, 1880. Report on Defective, Dependent and Delinquent Classes of the Population of the United States, 1888, p. 402ff.; Census Reports, 1890. Report on Insane, Feeble-minded, Deaf and Dumb and Blind, 1895, pp. 108ff., 648; Special Reports, 1906, p. 122. [32] _Ibid._ [33] Probably with the "fevers" the proportion would be larger. [34] Less than 0.7 per cent. [35] Probably included with certain of the suppurative diseases. [36] Not a large number of schools, it is greatly to be regretted, give, regularly and over an extended period of time, such information in statistical form and upon the same basis from year to year. [37] Total attendance. [38] These tables are based upon statistics given in the reports of the schools, and given in _Annals_, vi., 1854, p. 237; xv., 1870, p. 113; xvii., 1872, p. 167. [39] One case reported. [40] Letters of inquiry as to whether or not "total" deafness appeared to be decreasing were sent by the writer to the professors of diseases of the ear of the medical schools of Johns Hopkins University, University of Pennsylvania, Columbia University, Cornell University, Harvard University, University of Chicago, Northwestern University, University of Michigan, and the Jefferson Medical College of Philadelphia. The opinion of four of these is that such deafness is clearly decreasing; of three that little or no decrease is apparent; while by two no opinion can be vouched yet. The greatest encouragement is found in respect to treatment for middle ear affections and infections from fevers. By Dr. S. MacCuen Smith, of the Jefferson Medical College, it is believed that there is a decrease, "largely due to the fact that not only the general medical profession, but the public at large, are recognizing the importance of having the minor aural lesions promptly and properly cared for. This being the case, it is no longer possible for children in the public schools to continue their studies when suffering from diseased tonsils and enlarged adenoid vegetations. From this cause alone, many cases of impairment of hearing which usually occur later in life will be prevented in the future". By Dr. E. A. Crockett, of Harvard University, it is believed that, although there is a larger amount of deafness from measles, there is less, not only from scarlet fever, but also from chronic suppurations, from adenoid and throat troubles in general, and even from meningitis, owing to the use of serums. Regarding his own observations, within a period of twenty-five years "the number of extremely deaf persons and deaf-mutes has very materially diminished". [41] Hereditary deafness is sometimes of a kind that manifests itself some years after birth, often with certain relatives similarly affected. This is especially true of catarrhal and middle ear affections, though their results may more often be partial rather than total deafness. [42] In a part of such deafness, and also in a portion of that occurring shortly after birth, the cause is said to be syphilis. See Proceedings of International Otological Congress, ix., 1913, p. 49; _Volta Review_, xiv., 1912, p. 348; xv., 1913, p. 209. [43] Special Reports, pp. 125, 236. There were 3,341 who failed to answer, and if all had made reply, our percentage would probably be higher yet. [44] P. 108. [45] In the Louisiana School 10 per cent of the pupils are said to have parents who were blood relatives; in the Illinois, 5 per cent; and in the Kansas, from 5 to 5.5 per cent. Report of Louisiana School, 1906, p. 17. See also Transactions of American Medical Association, xi., 1858, pp. 321-425; Proceedings of Conference of Principals, iii., 1876, p. 204; _Annals_, xxii., 1877, p. 242. [46] On this subject, see Francis Galton. "Natural Inheritance", 1889, p. 132ff. See also G. B. L. Arner, "Consanguineous Marriages", 1908, p. 65ff.; C. B. Davenport, "Heredity in Relation to Eugenics", 1911, p. 124ff. [47] Special Reports, pp. 128, 235, and _passim_. [48] These proportions are further indicated in the succeeding section. [49] Special Reports, p. 135ff. [50] Report, 1908, p. 31. [51] Out of 107 children born to former pupils of the Minnesota School up to 1892, 2, or 1.9 per cent, were deaf. Report, 1892, p. 39. Out of 811 children born to former pupils of the American School up to 1891, 105, or 12.9 per cent, were deaf. Report, 1891, p. 20. [52] The study had been originally planned by Dr. F. H. Wines for the _International Record of Charities and Corrections_. See issue for October, 1888. The work was published by the Volta Bureau. For a discussion of the results, see _Association Review_, ii., 1900, p. 178; Publications of American Statistical Association, vi., 1899, p. 353; _Biometrika_ (London), iv., 1904-5, p. 465. See also charts in current numbers of _Volta Review_. [53] From the total number of marriages, 974 were deducted, being cases concerning the offspring of which no information could be obtained, and also 434 cases where there were no offspring. [54] From p. 134. It has also been computed by Dr. Fay from his data that of 5,455 married deaf persons, 300, or 5.5 per cent, have deaf offspring. _Annals_, lii., 1907, p. 253. [55] The proportions for the general population are hardly over 0.3 per cent and 0.05 per cent respectively. [56] The proportion of the married deaf who are married to deaf partners is found by Dr. Fay to be 72.5 per cent, and of those married to hearing partners, 20 per cent, there being no information for the remaining 7.5 per cent. The census returns, however, give the respective proportions as 51.3 per cent and 48.7 per cent. [57] See Proceedings of National Conference of Charities and Corrections, 1879, p. 214; A. G. Bell, "The Formation of a Deaf Variety of the Human Race", Memoirs, 1883, ii., part 4, p. 177; Proceedings of Conference of Principals, i., 1868, p. 91; v., 1884, p. 205; A. G. Bell, "Marriage, an Address to the Deaf", 1898; Evidence before the Royal Commission on the Deaf, etc., 1892, ii., pp. 74-129; _Annals_, xxix., 1884, pp. 32, 72; xxx., 1885, p. 155; xxxiii., 1888, pp. 37, 206; _Popular Science Monthly_, xvii., 1885, p. 15; _Science_, Aug., 1890, to March, 1891 (xvi., xvii.); _Arena_, xii., 1895, p. 130; _Association Review_, x., 1908, p. 166; _Volta Review_, xiv., 1912, p. 184; Proceedings of Reunion of Alumni of Wisconsin School for the Deaf, vi., 1891, p. 46; National Association of the Deaf, iv., 1893, p. 112; ix., 1910, p. 69; Report of Board of Charities of New York, 1911, i., p. 150. [58] No statutory action seems ever to have been taken in the matter. In Connecticut, however, in 1895 when a law (Laws, ch. 325) was enacted forbidding the marriage of the feeble-minded and epileptic, a provision respecting the congenitally deaf and blind came near being included. _Annals_, xl., 1895, p. 310. [59] Census Reports, 1880. Report on Defective, Dependent and Delinquent Classes of the Population of the United States, 1888, p. 402ff.; Census Reports, 1890. Report on Insane, Feeble-minded, Deaf and Dumb and Blind, 1895, pp. 108ff., 684; Special Reports, 1906, p. 122. The ages of the deaf were reported less fully in 1880 than in 1890, and less fully in 1890 than in 1900; and if we take the numbers of those whose ages were reported in these three censuses, we have the following table, showing the proportion of the congenitally deaf. THE CONGENITALLY DEAF ACCORDING TO NUMBERS IN WHICH AGE WAS REPORTED NUMBER WHOSE AGE CONGENITALLY PER WAS REPORTED DEAF CENT 1880 22,473 12,155 54.7 1890 37,204 16,866 45.8 1900 35,479 12,609 35.3 If we assume that the proportion of the congenitally deaf to all the deaf in each census was the same that it was among the cases in which the age of the occurrence of deafness was reported, we have this table to show the number of the congenitally deaf and the ratio of the deaf among the population. THE CONGENITALLY DEAF ACCORDING TO NUMBERS ASSUMED ASSUMED NUMBER OF RATIO PER CONGENITALLY MILLION OF DEAF POPULATION 1880 18,531 369 1890 18,375 293 1900 13,286 175 These tables are taken from _Annals_, li., 1906, p. 487. [60] In the three schools where an increase in congenital deafness appears to be found, namely, those of Michigan, Wisconsin and Ohio, a partial explanation probably lies in the fact that in these states a number of day schools have been created of late years, which are not likely to draw congenitally deaf pupils to the extent that the institutions do, thus leaving a larger proportion for the latter. See also E. A. Fay, _op. cit._, p. 125. CHAPTER III TREATMENT OF THE DEAF BY THE STATE GENERAL ATTITUDE OF THE LAW TOWARDS THE DEAF After examination of the question of how long the deaf are to be an element of the population, our discussion turns to their position at present as an actual part of society. The first relation to be considered is that of the state to them. The state acts on men through the law, and in the law is represented not only its authority, but its attitude as well towards the problems that confront society, including the treatment of the various elements of its population. In this chapter it is our purpose by a study of the law in respect to the deaf to discover the attitude of the state towards them and the treatment which it has accorded them. Generally in ancient and even in more modern days the deaf, especially the congenitally deaf without education, have been held in the eyes of the law more or less as though they were an abnormal element in the state, at times being regarded as though they were of defective minds, and now and then being considered practically as idiots. Though there was usually meditated no unduly harsh treatment of the deaf, they were for the most part deemed incapable of performing the full duties of citizenship, certain of the rights that belonged to their fellowmen were denied to them, and they were held in considerable degree in what amounted to legal bondage. It was only in the course of time in most countries that the law came to look upon the deaf differently, to regard them more as normal persons, and to grant them in greater measure the rights of other men.[61] In America the attention of the law has been directed to the deaf both by legislation relating to them, and by court decisions affecting them. In addition, in the constitutions of a number of states, as we shall see, provision is made for institutions for the education of the deaf; and in one state, Mississippi,[62] a provision is found exempting the deaf from the payment of a poll tax. The law cannot be said to have concerned itself extensively with the deaf, but the light in which they have been viewed has been indicated fairly clearly. Judicial _dicta_ and opinions have been of less frequency and importance than legislation, and have rather dealt with the mental capacity of the deaf in certain legal relations and proceedings, as in their responsibility for crimes, the making of wills, the appointment of interpreters, etc. Legislation itself has not often been engaged in providing for the deaf as a special class, beyond maintaining schools for the education of the young. Where this legislation has taken place, it may be said to be of three kinds. First, the deaf have been regarded as mentally deficient or incapable of certain civic acts, and discriminatory laws have been enacted. Next, the deaf have been thought to need special consideration or protection on the part of the state, and laws have been passed for the appointment of guardians or otherwise for their security or benefit. The third class of legislation is where the state bases its action upon the supposed weakness of the deaf, their "physical disability," as it is frequently termed, and here we have a series of what may be called negative benefactions, designed to make less hard the way of the deaf. Such special provision has consisted chiefly in the remission of taxes in certain instances or of some other form of more or less direct assistance. LEGISLATION DISCRIMINATORY RESPECTING THE DEAF Legislation which may be termed discriminatory in respect to the deaf has really been of but slight extent.[63] In Georgia we find an enactment of 1840,[64] in which the deaf were to be regarded _pro tanto_ as idiots, so far as concerned the managing of their estates, though this was in fact intended for their protection. In New Mexico a law has been enacted, forbidding those deaf by birth from making wills, unless their intention is declared in writing;[65] and in Louisiana a deaf man is incapable of acting as a witness to a testament.[66] In several states, as New York and Massachusetts, there have been enactments in regard to deaf-mute immigrants together with other classes who might be likely to become a public charge, with the exaction of bond as security.[67] In Georgia[68] there is an enactment in reference to various itinerant concerns which might leave deaf persons, as well as others, in the state as public charges.[69] LEGISLATION IN PROTECTION OF THE DEAF Legislation of the second class, where the deaf are thought to require particular consideration or protection, has likewise been infrequent. The first instance is an enactment of Massachusetts in 1776,[70] relating to the appointment, on certain occasions, of guardians for the deaf, especially those deaf "from their nativity," together with other persons--which is probably the earliest statutory reference to the deaf in America. A later example is an enactment in Georgia in 1818,[71] and still in force, providing for the appointment of guardians, on somewhat the same order as that which we have indicated, for deaf and dumb persons incapable of managing their estates. In New Jersey in 1838[72] a law was enacted, forbidding deaf persons under seventeen years of age to be bound out as apprentices. In Ohio a statute also of 1838[73] provided for guardians for the deaf, and several modern statutes are somewhat of this nature. In Maine the deaf cannot be sent to the reform school.[74] In Arkansas[75] and Missouri[76] it is provided that the court may appoint guardians for deaf persons from fourteen to twenty-one years of age in case of the death of a parent. Of somewhat different character, but still for the protection of the deaf, is the enactment in several states, as Wisconsin[77] and Virginia,[78] where injury or abuse of the deaf is made a matter of special attention in the law. LEGISLATION IN AID OF THE DEAF Examples of legislation designed to be of material aid to the deaf are rather more common, the chief of which, as we have noted, is the exemption from the payment of some personal or property tax.[79] Thus in Missouri we find a statute of 1843[80] allowing a deaf man to be exempt from the poll tax and the tax on property up to $300. Indiana in 1848[81] exempted its deaf and blind citizens from a poll tax and a property tax up to $500. Mississippi[82] exempted these classes from the road duty in 1878, and two years later from the poll tax as well, this exemption being incorporated in the state constitution, as we have seen. Tennessee[83] in 1895 also exempted from the poll tax the deaf, the blind and those incapable of labor. In Pennsylvania legislation seems to have gone the furthest in its desire to be of material help to the deaf, for here we find the deaf with the blind exempted from the penalties which usually apply to tramps.[84] Such are instances of this form of legislation, but similar legislation has been enacted in other states. Very rare are instances where the state makes special provision for the care of, or extends special poor relief to, any of its deaf population. The chief example seems to be the action of some of the New England states with their so-called "missions for the deaf." These are associations, composed in great part of the deaf and engaged in various forms of mission work, and to them state funds are granted to aid the aged, infirm and helpless deaf. By this plan Maine is said to have been without a deaf-mute pauper in ten years. The amounts allowed, however, for this purpose are not large, being $200 a year in Maine and $150 in New Hampshire.[85] In Ohio the counties are allowed to contract with private homes for the maintenance of the aged and infirm deaf--there being but one such in the state, that supported by the deaf themselves--and the state board of charities is given power to remove deaf persons thereto from the county infirmaries.[86] Instances are likewise rare where the state makes a distinct appropriation of money for the benefit of the deaf other than for schools. We have one instance in New York where the state for a certain number of years allowed a small sum to the publishers of a paper for the benefit of poor deaf-mutes.[87] As a last species of legislation in aid of the deaf, we have a single enactment of quite different character from that which we have hitherto found, and of later appearance. This is the law enacted in Minnesota in 1913,[88] which provides for a division for the deaf in the state bureau of labor. Its duties are to Collect statistics of the deaf, ascertain what trades or occupations are most suitable for them and best adapted to promote their interests, ... use [its] best efforts to aid them in securing such employment as they may be best fitted to engage in, keep a census and obtain facts, information and statistics as to their condition in life with a view to the betterment of their lot, and endeavor to obtain statistics and information of the conditions of labor and employment and education in other states with a view to promoting the general welfare of the deaf in this state. Such legislation may prove highly beneficial to the deaf, not only in rendering very desirable aid to them, but also in offering means of learning very important facts as to their condition. TENOR OF COURT DECISIONS AFFECTING THE DEAF The opinions of the courts of law in regard to the deaf have, as we have noted, rather revolved upon the mental capacity of the deaf in certain proceedings, and upon their competence in certain legal relations. These judicial expressions have in the main referred to four relations of the deaf in the law: 1. in their responsibility for crime; 2. in acting as witnesses; 3. in requiring guardians; and 4. in the making of wills and contracts generally. As to the responsibility of the deaf man for his misdeeds, there has been in times past more or less presumption against it, especially if he were born deaf and were without education; but to-day he is quite generally held fully answerable for his crimes and misdemeanors, and his deafness cannot mitigate his punishment.[89] As a witness, the deaf man under proper circumstances is now allowed to appear without hindrance before virtually any court.[90] As to special guardians, these will be accorded the deaf when there appears sufficient need, though there is less of this than formerly.[91] With respect to the testamentary capacity of the deaf, we find that in times past the deaf were often said to be more or less incapable of making wills, though this presumption could always be overcome. Naturally their wills were subjected to considerable scrutiny for the purpose of preventing fraud; but if written and apparently genuine, they could usually stand. To-day the deaf are practically everywhere held to be quite capable in this respect, and probably nowhere would a will be set aside for reason of the deafness of the testator alone. Likewise the deaf are now generally held capable of entering into all contractual relations.[92] PRESENT TREND OF THE LAW IN RESPECT TO THE DEAF In most of the statutes and decisions to which we have referred there appears a distinct trend towards treating the deaf quite as normal persons, and the tendency may be considered to be general to-day to hold them very much as other citizens. The greater part of all the special legislation has ceased of late years, and it is seldom now that a particular enactment is placed upon the statute books. Where such does occur, it arises chiefly where some peculiar protection of the deaf has been felt to be needed. Discriminatory legislation has practically disappeared, as has also beneficial legislation of the old sort, the only kind likely to be enacted in the future being along the new lines pointed out. In judicial proceedings likewise particular usage in respect to the deaf has almost entirely passed away, and the deaf to-day receive little distinctive treatment. Practically the sole special consideration now accorded them is in the procurement of interpreters for proper occasions. On the whole, then, the present attitude of the law may be said to be to regard the deaf more and more fully as citizens, to allow them all the rights and duties of such, and to consider them in little need of particular aid or attention.[93] FOOTNOTES: [61] The legal treatment of the deaf, however, in past times has not been as severe as has been often supposed. Both the Justinian Code and the Civil Law, as well as the Common Law, granted a number of rights to the deaf, these being in some cases as far as the policy of the law would permit. In a few instances a not unsympathetic attitude was displayed towards them. In the early Roman law and in some other systems word of mouth was necessary to accomplish certain legal acts, and this of course bore hardly upon the deaf. In all cases it was the deaf-mute from birth who suffered most. On this subject, see A. C. Gaw, "The Legal Status of the Deaf," 1907; H. P. Peet, "Legal Rights and Responsibilities of the Deaf," 1857 (Proceedings of Convention of American Instructors, iv., p. 17). [62] Constitution, 1890, sec. 243. The blind are also included in the exemption. [63] In New York we find an early reference to the deaf in the rules adopted in 1761 by the state assembly regarding suffrage qualifications in the election of its own members, one of which rules declared that "no man deaf and dumb from his nativity has a vote," though this may have been partly due to the fact that nearly all voting then was _viva voce_. William Smith, "History of the Late Province of New York," 1830, ii., p. 358. [64] Laws, p. 110. A Kentucky statute refers to "idiots and those by speech or sign incapable" of understanding (Stat., 1894, § 2149), but the deaf may not necessarily be included. [65] Cod. Laws, 1865, ch. 3, § 2; 1884, § 1378. [66] Civ. Code, 1838, § 1852; 1898, § 1591. [67] In 1849 New York required the masters of ships landing in New York City to report to the mayor what passengers were deaf, blind or insane. Laws, ch. 350. See also Laws, 1851, ch. 523; 1881, ch. 427. See Public Statutes of Massachusetts, 1882, p. 468. The present United States immigration laws do not directly exclude the deaf, but they have been thought at times to have been made to bear unduly upon them. [68] Code, 1911, § 559. The application is to "proprietors of circuses and other migratory companies." [69] In a few states, as California and New York, attempts have been made to secure laws barring the deaf from licenses to run automobiles. Such measures, however, are to be regarded less as discrimination against the deaf than for the public safety. [70] Laws, 1776, ch. 20. [71] Laws, 1818, p. 342; 1840, p. 345; Code, 1911, § 3089. [72] Laws, p. 128. [73] Laws, 1838, p. 40; 1841, p. 573. [74] Rev. Stat., 1883, ch. 142, § 2. [75] Digest, 1894, § 3571; 1904, § 3760. [76] Stat., 1872, p. 672; Rev. Stat., 1909, § 407. In Kansas by opinion of the attorney-general, the juvenile court laws do not apply to the deaf. [77] Gen. Stat., 1898, p. 2672. Abuse or ill-treatment of an inmate of a state institution for the deaf, the blind and other classes may be punished by fine or imprisonment. [78] Laws, 1908, p. 55. It is made a misdemeanor to abduct or kidnap inmates of "deaf and dumb and blind hospitals". [79] In several states there are provisions in regard to the employment of interpreters for the deaf. See Code of Georgia, 1911, § 5864; Gen. Laws of Rhode Island, 1909, § 3855. [80] Laws, p. 202. [81] Laws, ch. 76. [82] Laws, 1878, ch. 52; 1880, p. 20. [83] Laws, 1895, ch. 120; Ann. Code, 1896, § 686. [84] Purdon's Digest, 1903, p. 5023. In Georgia persons deaf and blind are expressly permitted to make wills if properly scrutinized. Code, 1911, § 3844. [85] See Laws of New Hampshire, 1895, ch. 131. This relief is here known as the "Granite State Mission". See also _Deaf-Mutes' Journal_, Feb. 9, 1911. [86] See Laws, 1896, p. 419; 1898, p. 212; 1900, p. 369. [87] This seems to have been begun in 1839, and continued nearly fifty years. See Laws, 1839, ch. 329; 1858, ch. 546; 1886, ch. 330. The sum of $100 was first granted to the _Radii_, and later appropriations to succeeding publications. [88] Laws, p. 330. The law was secured by the efforts of the deaf themselves. See _Deaf-Mutes' Journal_, May 22, 1913. [89] See Houst. Crim. Cas. (Del.), 291; 8 Jones L. (N. C.), 136; 14 Mass., 207. This last case was one of larceny. See also I. L. Peet, "Psychical Status and Criminal Responsibility of the Totally Uneducated Deaf and Dumb," 1872 (_Journal of Psychological Medicine_, Jan., 1872); _Annals_, xvii., 1872, p. 65. [90] 37 S. W. (Tex.), 440; 118 Mo., 127; 39 S. C., 318; 1 Den. (N. Y.), 19; 23 Col., 314; 3 N. M., 134. [91] See 16 Ohio St., 455, where a guardian was allowed; 41 N. J. Eq., 409, where the deaf were said to be liable to guardianship. [92] See 1 Jones Eq. (N. C.), 221. In 4 Johns. Ch., 441, a New York case in 1820, it was said by Chancellor Kent that the deaf and dumb were considered _prima facie_ as insane, incapable of making a will and fit subjects for guardianship, by the civil law. The presumption was due, he said, to the fact that "want of hearing and speech exceedingly cramps the powers of the mind," but it was to be overcome by proof. In this case the presumption was overruled. The implication, however, never applied to the deaf not born so. At present there is no presumption in connection with wills, deeds, witnessing, or guardianship. See 3 Conn., 299; 27 Gratt. (Va.), 190; 6 Ga., 324; 3 Ired. (N. C.), 535. In the Missouri case, quoted above, it was said: "Presumption of idiocy does not seem to obtain in modern practice, at least not in the United States." [93] The deaf as a class may be said to be strongly opposed to nearly all forms of legal treatment different from those of their fellow-citizens. In Texas, where they have been exempted from a personal or property tax, they have made formal protest against the exemption. _Annals_, l., 1905, p. 263; Report of Mississippi School, 1911, p. 72. They have, as another instance, voiced opposition to the release of criminals on the ground of their deafness. See Proceedings of Convention of National Association of the Deaf, ii., 1883, p. 16. CHAPTER IV ECONOMIC CONDITION OF THE DEAF EXTENT TO WHICH THE DEAF ARE A WAGE-EARNING AND SELF-SUPPORTING ELEMENT OF THE POPULATION In the want of the sense of hearing, and with it oftentimes the faculty of speech, the deaf are deprived of most important powers, and, it might appear, of an essential equipment for work among men. It is not to be denied that the deaf start out into life severely handicapped, nor can the difficulties which they must face in meeting the world pass unregarded. Yet notwithstanding the particular adversity under which the deaf have to labor, they remain in full possession of all their other physical forces, and it may be a question whether on the whole they are to be considered disqualified from engaging in the industrial pursuits of men. It may be that there are occupations in which their deafness will not prove of material consequence, and that in such fields they will be able to enter without serious impediment. In the present chapter we shall attempt to see how far these possibilities seem to be realized in the actual industrial life of the community. In other words, we shall consider what is the place of the deaf as economic factors in this life, and how far they are independent wage-earners, at the same time comparing their economic standing with that of the general population. The returns of the census, covering the entire country and presenting the results of a careful investigation, will furnish our most complete source of information. Here[94] are reported in gainful occupations 12,678 deaf persons over ten years of age, or 38.1 per cent of the number of the deaf over this age.[95] This is somewhat less than the percentage for the general population, which is 50.2. Of the deaf twenty years of age and over, however, the percentage gainfully employed is 50.1, embracing 11,670 persons. In the following table is shown the number of the deaf over ten years of age in the five great occupations, with the respective percentages, and also the percentages for the general population. GENERAL OCCUPATIONS OF THE DEAF PER CENT PER OF GENERAL OCCUPATION NUMBER CENT POPULATION Agricultural pursuits 4,761 37.5 35.7 Manufacturing and mechanical 4,583 36.1 24.4 Domestic and personal 2,395 18.9 19.2 Trade and transportation 552 4.4 16.4 Professional 387 3.1 4.3 It is seen from this that the proportions are very nearly the same for the deaf and the general population in agricultural pursuits, domestic and personal service, and professional service. In manufacturing and mechanical occupations the proportion of the deaf is indeed considerably higher. In trade and transportation, on the other hand, the proportion for the deaf is far lower than that for the general population--a condition to be accounted for by the very evident need of hearing in such pursuits. Of the deaf engaged in agricultural pursuits, 3,366, or about three-fourths, are in a position of ownership or direction, being farmers, planters, or overseers; 1,218 are agricultural laborers, while 75 are gardeners, florists, or nursery-men. The large number of the deaf in professional occupations is in part explained by the fact that 206 are themselves engaged in the instruction of the deaf. Other specified occupations where fifty or more of the deaf are employed in each are as follows: SPECIFIED OCCUPATIONS OF THE DEAF Laborers not specified 1,217 Servants and waiters 712 Boot and shoemakers and repairers 559 Printers, lithographers and pressmen 382 Carpenters and joiners 371 Dressmakers 314 Seamstresses 306 Tailors 236 Painters, glaziers and varnishers 223 Launderers 210 Cigar and tobacco operators 162 Cabinet-makers 119 Merchants and dealers (retail) 115 Iron and steel workers 106 Clerks and copyists 105 Housekeepers and stewards 91 Machinists 87 Blacksmiths 84 Miners and quarrymen 81 Cotton mill operators 78 Barbers and hairdressers 74 Bakers 61 Agents 61 Artists and teachers of art 60 Harness and saddle makers and repairers 59 Draymen, hackmen, teamsters, etc. 56 Manufacturers and officials 55 Masons 52 So far, then, as appears from the findings of the United States census, the deaf are seen to be distributed among the chief industries very generally, and in very many of what are known as "trades" they are able to be profitably employed. In some activities of life deafness is of course an effectual barrier, but these are rather restricted ones. There is but one great division of employment in which the deaf cannot enter extensively, namely, commercial and mercantile pursuits. With these exceptions, the deaf are found to be industrially occupied like the rest of the community, and to be able to engage, and actually engaging, in most of the employments of men.[96] In respect to the general economic status of the deaf, a second source of information, at the bottom of the scale, as it were, is to be found in the proportion of the deaf cared for in public alms-houses. Though a much greater proportion of the deaf are discovered here than of the general population, the deaf do not on the whole constitute a large part of the alms-house population of the country. In 1910 the census reported 540 deaf-mutes to be in alms-houses, or six-tenths of one per cent of all their inmates.[97] That is to say, a little over one per cent (1.2) of the total number of the deaf in the United States are found to-day in alms-houses.[98] Such is the evidence we have in respect to the economic standing of the deaf. Yet the fact that the deaf are usually found capable of taking care of themselves should not be, after all, a matter either of doubt or of wonder. They are for the most part, as we have indicated, quite "able-bodied," and but for their want of hearing are perfectly normal in respect to "doing a job." If they are skillful and efficient, their deafness proves comparatively little of a drawback. Another contributing cause in the situation lies in the fact that most of the deaf have attended the special schools provided for them, where industrial preparation with the opportunity to learn a trade is offered and largely availed of.[99] When they go out into the world, they may be supposed to have an industrial equipment, which, besides taking in view their handicap, is one in many respects fully equal to that of their hearing fellow-laborers; and though many of the deaf, apparently the greater number, do not follow the trade learned at school, yet there is no doubt that the training and lessons in industry there acquired prove of decided practical advantage.[100] VIEWS OF THE DEAF AS TO THEIR ECONOMIC STANDING To what extent the deaf hold themselves able to stand alongside the general population may well be indicated by what they themselves have to say. Of the adult deaf who have had schooling, it is claimed that eighty-one per cent are gainfully employed;[101] and that of the adult male deaf ninety per cent are self-supporting.[102] A large proportion are said to be the heads of families and the possessors of homes.[103] In respect to the conditions of their employment, including that of wages, they are usually ready to declare that they are little different from those of the general population, sometimes taking pains to point out the substantial equality of the two.[104] The views of the deaf in the whole matter of their industrial footing may be expressed as summed up in the following resolutions, which were reported by a special committee on industrial conditions of the deaf at the convention of the National Association of the Deaf in 1904:[105] 1. There are few ordinary occupations in which the deaf do not or cannot engage. 2. Employers and foremen treat deaf workmen as they do hearing workmen. 3. Deafness is a hindrance to a great extent, but it is not such a formidable barrier as has popularly been supposed. 4. The deaf workman usually has steady work. Those that do not generally have only themselves to blame. 5. The deaf invariably get the same wages for the same class of work as the hearing. 6. Employers and foremen are glad to have deaf workmen who can show that they have the ability to do the work expected of them, and take them on a basis equal to that of the hearing. If they are competent, their services secure ready recognition.[106] THE DEAF AS ALMS-SEEKERS It might be thought that the deaf might sometimes find their infirmity a useful means of soliciting alms from the public. But it is gratifying to learn that very few of them ever try to make capital out of their affliction. That a deaf man merely as such is in no wise to be considered a special beneficiary of charity is a principle spiritedly endorsed by nearly all the deaf themselves; and they are found to be the last to lend encouragement to any appeals for aid from the charitably disposed.[107] On the other hand, it is a fact, perhaps not as widely known as it should be, that there are persons able to hear who often pretend to be deaf and dumb in order to work on the sensibilities of the public. To such appeals a far more ready response is met with than should be the case. The deaf themselves usually do what they can to prevent this, a certain number indeed going to considerable lengths in this direction, and not infrequently running such impostors down.[108] In nearly all the state associations of the deaf as well as in the national organization it is made a particular object to investigate and prosecute mendicants simulating deafness, while in their papers a vigorous war is being waged.[109] At the same time by many of the deaf a campaign of education is being conducted for the enlightenment of the public. The following resolutions, adopted by the National Association of the Deaf in 1910, attest their feeling in the matter:[110] _Whereas_, There is no necessity for an educated deaf person to beg or solicit alms on account of deafness; and _Whereas_, There are many cases of persons who are not really deaf, but hearing people, who prey on the sympathy of the public to the injury of the respectable and self-supporting deaf; therefore be it _Resolved_, That it is the sense of the Association that stringent laws should be enacted, making it a penal offense to ask pecuniary aid on account of deafness or on pretense of being "deaf and dumb." Only very rarely, however, has legal cognizance been taken of this evil, though it may sometimes be included under the general charge of "vagrancy" or "imposture." In a few states there have been special enactments, as in New York[111] and Minnesota,[112] in the former the impersonation of a deaf man being expressly added to the offenses that constitute imposture, and in the latter to those that constitute vagrancy. HOMES FOR THE DEAF Homes for the deaf in America have never been organized on other than a small scale, and in the main they may be said to serve a purpose similar to that of homes for the aged and infirm generally. Though there is little call for such establishments to a wide extent, and though the proportion of the deaf to be benefited by them is small,[113] yet for a number of the deaf there is a peculiar need. These are deaf persons, usually the old and decrepit, who are without means to support themselves, and have no family or friends to look to for help. To them a special retreat in association with others in similar condition proves an immeasurable blessing, and in such their last years may be spent in tranquillity and comparative happiness. The object of a home for the deaf is thus given for one of them.[114] To take care of such of the deaf of the state as are incapacitated by reason of old age or other infirmity from taking care of themselves, to the end that they may have the comforts of a home, where they can associate with each other, and have the consolation of religious services in their own language of signs, instead of being sent to a county infirmary. The purpose of another home is thus described:[115] This home is unique, being the only institution of its kind in the state, owned and controlled by the deaf, who have formed themselves into an association, known as the Pennsylvania Society for the Advancement of the Deaf. Like our Ohio cousins, who have already established a similar home, we pride ourselves upon our ability to own and control such a responsible institution. The home owes its existence entirely to the charitable impulse of the deaf themselves, aided by the generosity of their hearing friends. It exists because of the desire to provide a home of rest for the infirm of our class during their declining years, so that they may find here comfort and happiness in congenial companionship and intelligent conversation. At present there are five homes for the deaf.[116] They are found in the states of Massachusetts, New York, Ohio, and Pennsylvania, there being two in New York.[117] The first to be created was the Gallaudet Home at Wappinger's Falls, New York, founded in 1885; the second the Ohio Home at Westerville in 1896; the third the home of St. Elizabeth's Industrial School in New York City in 1897; the fourth the New England Home at Everett, Massachusetts, in 1901;[118] and the fifth the Pennsylvania Home at Doyleston in 1902. The homes in Ohio and Pennsylvania are owned and controlled by the societies for the deaf in these respective states, the management being in the hands of trustees, in the former of twenty, and in the latter of nine. The Gallaudet Home is under the Church Mission to Deaf-Mutes of the Protestant Episcopal Church, with the direction vested in a board of twenty-five trustees. The home in Massachusetts is controlled by a private society organized for the purpose, with a board of fifteen trustees in charge. The home in New York City is a part of St. Elizabeth's Industrial School of the Roman Catholic Church.[119] The homes are for the most part for the deaf of restricted areas, those in Pennsylvania and Ohio being for the deaf in these respective states. With but one exception,[120] they are open to the "aged and infirm," in some there being an age limitation of sixty years. The homes are in general free to those qualified to enter, and though a charge may be exacted from persons able to pay, this is seldom done, the homes being intended for the destitute and friendless. The total number of inmates in the homes is 106, ranging in different ones from 13 to 30, and averaging about 20. The total annual cost of maintenance is $30,190, making the average cost of each inmate $290.[121] The value of the property of the homes is about $375,000, one home having two-thirds of this, and two homes four-fifths. As little is received in the way of pay from inmates,[122] the homes have to depend for the most part upon private benevolence for their support. In the case of the Ohio and Pennsylvania homes this support comes largely from the deaf themselves.[123] In nearly all the homes there are a certain number of inmates, but usually a very small number, cared for at public expense. Private contributions to the homes are seldom large, though in one case these have amounted to a considerable sum.[124] They usually range from three or four thousand dollars a year to several times as much.[125] CONCLUSIONS WITH RESPECT TO THE ECONOMIC POSITION OF THE DEAF From all the foregoing we may conclude the following with respect to the economic position of the deaf: 1. The deaf are not a burden upon the community. 2. They are wage-earners in a degree that compares well with the general population. 3. The occupations open to them and in which they are successfully employed are much larger in number than is generally thought, and in many their infirmity is very little of a drawback. 4. The deaf hold themselves on an economic equality with the rest of their fellow-citizens, and ask no alms or favors of any kind. 5. Beyond homes for certain of the aged and infirm, which are called for in not a few quarters, the deaf stand in need of little distinctive economic treatment from society. FOOTNOTES: [94] Special Reports, p. 146ff. [95] The proportion for the deaf would no doubt be higher but for the large number in the schools. It should also be noted that "keeping house", the most usual occupation reported by females, is not listed among the occupations. [96] Several of the deaf have won distinction as artists, and there have been not a few inventors. In the civil service of the National government there are said to be nearly two score. In 1908 an order was issued by the Civil Service Commission, debarring deaf persons from this service. So great was the protest, however, made by the deaf and their friends that the decision was reversed by the President, and the deaf were allowed to compete for any position where their deafness would not interfere. See _Annals_, liii., 1908, p. 249; liv., 1909, p. 387; _Volta Review_, x., 1908, p. 224; _Silent Worker_, Feb., 1909; Proceedings of National Association of the Deaf, ix., 1910, pp. 26, 70. [97] Paupers in Alms-houses, 1913, p. 76. In 1911 there were in the alms-houses of Illinois, according to the Report of the state board of charities, 38 deaf-mutes, or 0.5 per cent of the entire alms-house population; in Indiana, 81, or 2.6 per cent; in New York, 191, or 1.8 per cent; and in Virginia, 17, or 0.7 per cent. In Michigan, according to the annual Abstract of Statistical Information Relating to the Insane, Deaf and Dumb, etc., for 1912, of the 1,059 deaf persons reported, 32, or 3 per cent, were cared for at public expense. [98] The percentage for the general population is 0.1. [99] In many schools it is said that few of their former pupils have failed to be self-supporting, especially those who have taken the full prescribed course. Of the New York Institution the proportion is stated to be as low as four per cent. Report, 1907, p. 37. Of the Michigan School it is asserted that out of 1,800 former pupils, only three are not self-supporting. Proceedings of Michigan Conference of Charities and Corrections, 1907, pp. 32, 63. Similar claims are made for other schools in respect to the condition of the deaf. By the head of the New Jersey School it is stated: "Inquiry at the state prison elicits the fact that there is not among its vast number of inmates a single deaf man or woman, and, indeed, I know of no educated deaf convict or pauper in the state." Report of Board of Education of New Jersey, 1904, p. 323. In 1911 a committee of the Convention of American Instructors of the Deaf was appointed to collect information and statistics as to the occupations and wages of the deaf. Proceedings, xix., p. 217. [100] A special committee on the industrial condition of the deaf of the National Association of the Deaf stated as a conclusion: "More deaf workmen learn a new trade when they leave school than follow the one they were taught at school." Proceedings, vii., 1904, p. 216. In Minnesota the division for the deaf in the state bureau of labor works in connection with the state school. See _Deaf-Mutes' Journal_, March 7, 1912. On the general industrial training of the deaf and its results, see _Annals_, l., 1905, p. 98; lvii., 1912, p. 364; _Volta Review_, xi., 1909, p. 311 (Proceedings of American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf); xiii., 1912, pp. 542, 595; Proceedings of American Instructors, xv., 1898, p. 86; xvi., 1901, p. 238; xvii., 1905, p. 93; Report of Special Committee of Board of Directors of Pennsylvania Institution to Collect Information as to Lives and Occupations of Former Pupils, 1884; Report of Pennsylvania Institution, 1885, p. 30; Mississippi School, 1893, p. 9; 1911, pp. 36, 52; Manual and History of Ohio School, 1911, p. 16; Report of United States Commissioner of Education, 1885, p. ccxxxv.; _Journal of Social Science_, xxvi., 1889, p. 91. [101] Proceedings of National Association of the Deaf, viii., 1907, p. 41; Indiana Bulletin of Charities and Corrections, June, 1912. [102] Proceedings of National Conference of Charities and Corrections, 1906, pp. 232, 239. [103] _Ibid._; Proceedings of National Association of the Deaf, _loc. cit._ [104] In New York the deaf are said to "earn from $2500 a year to $6 or $7 a week", most being "journeymen at their trades or skilled factory operatives". Proceedings of Empire State Association of Deaf-Mutes, xx., 1899, p. 7. In Missouri the earnings of the graduates of the state school are reported as ranging up to $1300 a year. Report of Missouri School, 1912, p. 28. In Massachusetts, in an investigation of the state board of education, it has been found that of 84 deaf men who had left school between 1907 and 1912, the average wage was $7.78 a week. _Volta Review_, xv., 1913, p. 183. The deaf when opportunity offers often become members of labor unions. They are said "quite generally to join labor unions where the nature of their occupation permits", though, on the whole, it does not seem that a large proportion do. Proceedings of National Association of the Deaf, vii., 1904, pp. 143, 218. For other views of the deaf on their employment and its returns, see _ibid._, i., 1880, p. 10; iv., 1893, pp. 122, 167; v., 1896, p. 35; vi., 1899, p. 64; viii., 1907, p. 53; Empire State Association of Deaf-Mutes, xi., 1887, p. 9; Illinois Gallaudet Union, v., 1897, p. 25; Reunion of Alumni of Wisconsin School for the Deaf, vii., 1895, p. 2; _Louisiana Pelican_, of Louisiana School, Oct. 17, 1908. [105] Proceedings, vii., p. 190ff. Questionnaires were submitted to deaf workmen and their employers, and the conclusions (p. 227) were based on their replies. These resolutions were confirmed by further findings reported in 1907, especially as to the similarity of the wages of the deaf and the hearing, and as to the satisfaction of employers with deaf workmen. Proceedings, viii., p. 48. [106] Another conclusion was that rural pursuits are better for the deaf than factory work. [107] See Proceedings of Convention of American Instructors, v., 1858, p. 351; Report of Kentucky School, 1867, p. 13n.; _Annals_, x., 1858, p. 161; xxiv., 1879, p. 194. [108] In the year 1911 the number of impostors whose arrest was secured by the deaf was 38. _Deaf-Mutes' Journal_, Sept. 4, 1913. [109] In many issues this is made a prominent feature. [110] Proceedings, ix., p. 89. See also Proceedings of Pennsylvania Society for the Advancement of the Deaf, xxiv., 1910, pp. 12, 32; Iowa Association for the Advancement of the Deaf, vi., 1895, p. 29. The action on the part of the deaf is worthy of the highest praise, and speaks volumes for them. The real cause for wonder, however, is that the public should ever allow itself to be deceived by those asking alms on the pretexts given. By no disease known to medical science, save paralysis alone, can a man lose his speech and hearing at one and the same time. It may be safely estimated that of such gentry 98, perhaps 100, per cent are rank frauds. [111] Rev. Stat., 1896, p. 1242. See also _Annals_, xxxi., 1886, p. 295. On the other hand, it would seem that such statutes as that in Pennsylvania which we have noted, exempting the deaf from the provisions against tramps, would lend encouragement to alms-seeking. [112] Laws, 1911, p. 356. The law in this state was secured by the action of the deaf. [113] It is said that less than 400, or less than one per cent of the entire number of the deaf, are in need of special homes. Proceedings of National Association of the Deaf, ix., 1910, p. 51. [114] Report of Ohio Home for Aged and Infirm Deaf, 1912, p. 15. [115] From an address given at opening of Pennsylvania Home for the Deaf, 1902. On the objects of a home, see also Proceedings of Reunion of Alumni of Wisconsin School for the Deaf, vii., 1895, p. 10. [116] In three other states funds are being collected to establish homes: Illinois, Indiana and Missouri. To that in Indiana 20 acres of land have been donated. A private home was opened in New Jersey in 1854 for colored deaf, blind and crippled, lasting but a short time, and having less than a dozen inmates. See Report of New Jersey School for the Deaf, 1893, pp. 3, 7. [117] A national home for the deaf has also been proposed. For arguments for and against it, see Proceedings of National Association of the Deaf, ix., 1910, p. 51. In 1872 such a home was projected, to be located in New York City, some $4,000 being collected for it. Little encouragement, however, was met from outside, and the plan was abandoned for a local institution. See Report of Church Mission to Deaf-Mutes, 1874, p. 18; 1875, p. 17 ("Report of Committee on Building and Fund of National Home for the Aged and Infirm Deaf"); New York _Times_, Sept. 1, 1875. See also _International Record of Charities and Corrections_, June, 1886. [118] This home was at Roxbury till 1905. [119] In one or two cases there are ladies' auxiliary societies. [120] The home in New York City receives only women from sixteen to fifty years of age. [121] One home is exceptionally provided for, however. Without it the average is $252. [122] In 1903 the amount from pay inmates was $1,600. Special Report of the Census. Benevolent Institutions, 1904. The nominal charge is usually $250. [123] Over $3,000 was contributed by the deaf of Ohio for the establishment of a home in this state. [124] The Gallaudet Home has an endowment fund of $153,150, of which $107,000 came from one legacy. [125] See Appendix A for table in respect to the homes for the deaf. In connection with the scheme of homes for the deaf, it is interesting to note that there have been one or two suggestions for colonies for them, though such have never been taken seriously. One was by a deaf man in 1860 in the form of a memorial to Congress for the creation of a deaf-mute commonwealth. See _Annals_, viii., 1856, p. 118; x., 1858, pp. 40, 72, 136; xxix., 1884, p. 73. See also "Facts and Opinions Relating to the Deaf from America", 1892, p. 182; Proceedings of National Association of the Deaf, i., 1880, pp. 36-39. Farm colonies on a small scale for poor deaf-mutes have also been considered occasionally, but little further has ever been attempted. See _Deaf-Mutes' Journal_, Aug. 8, 1912; Sept. 12, 1912. CHAPTER V SOCIAL ORGANIZATION OF THE DEAF SOCIAL CLEAVAGE FROM THE GENERAL POPULATION The preceding chapter has dealt with the economic possibilities of the deaf, and the extent to which they stand alongside the population generally. The other side of the shield in relation of the deaf to society is now to be presented, that is, how far their want of hearing will count in their participation in the social life of the community. While the deaf man may be an active component in the economic and industrial life of society, yet his inability to hear and his frequently consequent inability to speak stand in the way of his prompt and continuous partaking in its social life. He may, and does, have many friends among his neighbors and acquaintances, but in the discourse between man and man which forms such a large part of the interest and delight in living, he is unable to join. There is usually at hand no ready and rapid means of communication as there is between two hearing persons in conversation, and his intercourse must necessarily be slow and tedious. The privileges of his church he cannot enjoy; in his lodge he misses the fellowship which is one of its fundamental ends; in few forms of convivial entertainment can he take part. Thus seeking an outlet for those social instincts which charge through his being, the deaf man finds himself among men, but as though surrounded by a great impenetrable wall against which their voices break in vain. Placed, however, with his deaf fellows, he discovers himself in a different situation. He soon learns that by the use of that language of signs so largely employed by other deaf men, and of which he in a short time becomes master, he is able to converse with an ease and quickness fully as great as by that means of which he has been deprived. Hence he ceases in large measure to carry on his social intercourse with the hearing, and turns to his deaf comrades; in them he builds up an approximately congenial companionship and fellowship, and to them he looks largely for his means of social diversion. With them he feels a close bond of sympathy, and is moved to co-operate with them, and to stand with them when their mutual interests are concerned. In time associations in various forms come to be organized among them. In such wise is realized the desire of the deaf as of all men to commune with their fellows. DESIRABILITY OF ORGANIZATIONS COMPOSED OF THE DEAF By some people societies or organizations composed exclusively of the deaf have been opposed, or at least looked upon with disfavor. This is because it has been felt that it is not well for the deaf to form a class apart in the community, and that unless discouraged the practice will cause intermarriage among the deaf, which may result in an increasing number of deaf people--a matter to which we have already given attention. But in combating this tendency of the deaf to organize among themselves, we are really unmindful of an elemental sociological principle, that like-minded persons are prone to congregate, and will seek to form purposive societies and associations, exemplified as well in a boys' athletic club, in a church sewing circle, in a lodge of free and accepted masons, as in a "league of elect surds."[126] If "clannishness" is the outcome, it must be accepted only as the necessary consequence of the infirmity of the deaf, in the practical affairs of life such men being bound to seek out and associate with others of like condition. By the deaf themselves it is claimed that the good readily outweighs the possible evils, and that, as the fact of their deafness forbids them belonging generally to societies for the hearing, they are thus forced to band together, or almost entirely to go without the social amalgamations which form such a conspicuous and valuable part of life.[127] PURPOSES, ACTIVITIES AND EXTENT OF SUCH ORGANIZATIONS The organizations of the deaf are of several kinds: termed clubs, leagues, societies, associations and the like; and wherever a number of deaf persons are congregated, some such organization is likely to be effected.[128] In large cities not a few may be found, planned perhaps on different lines or appealing to different kinds of people. The majority of the societies are formed for the mutual pleasure and culture of the members.[129] A part are organized on fraternal principles, some with benefit features, paying out so much in case of illness and the like; while in a few a certain amount of relief may be dispensed to those discovered to be in need. In most of the societies, as with the body of the deaf generally, there is a considerable amount of solidarity, and the members are usually quick to act in a common cause or to apply the principle that the concern of one is the concern of all.[130] While these societies of the deaf are usually local in their composition, there exists more or less communication with bodies in other cities and communities. In over a fourth of the states there are state societies, while in most of the states there are also alumni associations of the special schools, which are of state-wide extent.[131] A national body is likewise in existence, the National Association of the Deaf, founded in 1880, and incorporated in 1900; and there is a National Fraternal Society of the Deaf, with benefits for sickness, injury and death, which has many local branches, this being probably the largest organization of the deaf in the country.[132] An international organization has also been formed, known as the World's Congress of the Deaf. Among the various associations of the deaf, particular mention may be made of church organizations in some of the larger cities and towns, which not infrequently serve in some measure the purpose of a social center. These deaf congregations are usually in communion with some denominational body, often being the result of church "missions" to the deaf, and are ministered to regularly or at stated times by clergymen, most of whom are themselves deaf. For the use of the deaf, the church building or rooms in it are generally given over at certain times. In a few cases the deaf are in possession of edifices of their own.[133] NEWSPAPERS OF THE DEAF With the deaf there have been a number of special papers, published by and for them, and circulating for the most part only among them. Their chief purpose is to chronicle the various happenings in deaf circles, and to serve as a medium for the discussion of matters of general interest to the deaf. These papers are usually weeklies or monthlies, more often the former, and frequently have correspondents in a greater or smaller number of localities. There have been not a few ventures in the establishment of such independent papers, but most of them have proved short-lived for want of sufficient support, some being of very brief duration, and only an exceptional one continuing over an extended period. As a rule there have been seldom more than two or three in existence at any one time.[134] In addition, there have been several religious papers for the deaf, often under the auspices of some denominational body, but usually published by the deaf themselves. These, however, have never been numerous, and have been of limited circulation.[135] FOOTNOTES: [126] The deaf are not usually eligible to regular secret orders. [127] On the subject of societies of the deaf, see _Annals_, xviii., 1873, pp. 200, 255; xxi., 1876, p. 137; xxxii., 1887, p. 246; xxxiii., 1888, p. 28; xlix., 1904, p. 369; Proceedings of Convention of American Instructors, ix., 1878, p. 117; National Association of the Deaf, ii., 1883, p. 12; iv., 1893, pp. 25, 40; vii., 1904, p. 132; viii., 1907, p. 26; Reunion of Alumni of Wisconsin School for the Deaf, v., 1888, p. 36; Empire State Association of Deaf-Mutes, xiii., 1890, p. 12; _Deaf-Mutes' Friend_, Aug., 1869. See also E. A. Hodgson, "The Deaf and Dumb; Facts, Anecdotes and Poetry", 1891; J. E. Gallaher, "Representative Deaf Persons in the United States", 1898; _International Review_, ii., 1875, p. 471. [128] The oldest organization of the deaf now existing is the New England Gallaudet Association of the Deaf, which began in 1853. It resulted largely from the Gallaudet Memorial Association, organized two years before to raise funds for a monument to Thomas Hopkins Gallaudet. In 1859 was created the Alumni Association of the High Class of the New York Institution; in 1865 the Empire State Association; and in 1870 the Ohio Alumni Association. See Proceedings of National Association of the Deaf, iv., 1893, p. 25. [129] Some of these have special club rooms for social and literary meetings, where conversation can be carried on freely without attracting public notice. Some of these club rooms are large and well appointed. In not a few of the younger clubs athletics forms a prominent feature. [130] This spirit is illustrated in many ways, perhaps most strikingly in the case where a deaf man seems likely to be debarred from some public position because of his want of hearing, when the deaf promptly rally to his support. We have already seen their action in connection with the order of the Civil Service Commission. Sometimes candidates for office have been asked to state their views on this subject. As a further instance of mutual assistance among the deaf may be mentioned the raising of relief funds for deaf sufferers in other localities in times of some great disaster. [131] In Ohio and Pennsylvania the state societies manage homes for the aged deaf, as we have seen; and in Virginia the state association supports a special missionary to the deaf. In Pennsylvania there are many county sections of the state body. In a number of centers a leading association is that of the alumni of Gallaudet College. [132] There has also frequently been discussion of a federation of the various state and local organizations. See Proceedings of National Association of the Deaf, iii., 1889, p. 14; ix., 1910, p. 25. [133] Such churches are now in New York, Philadelphia and Wheeling, under Protestant Episcopal auspices; in Milwaukee under Lutheran; and in Baltimore under Methodist. Special church buildings are also in contemplation in other cities. Funds for these churches are raised by the deaf with the assistance of their hearing friends. In the Roman Catholic Church there is a special organization of the deaf, founded in 1910, and known as the Knights of l'Épée. [134] There have been about thirty such publications created, the first of which seems to have been begun in 1839, and the second in 1860. See especially "Periodicals Devoted to the Interests of the Deaf," by the Volta Bureau, 1913. See also _Volta Review_, xii., 1910, p. 456; Proceedings of National Association of the Deaf, ix., 1910, p. 45. The present publications are: the _Deaf-Mutes' Journal_, of New York, a weekly; the _Observer_, of Seattle, a bi-weekly; the _Frat_, of Chicago, a monthly; and the _Pennsylvania Society News_, a quarterly. [135] Those now existing are: the _Catholic Deaf-Mute_, of New York, under Roman Catholic auspices; the _Silent Churchman_, of Chicago, under Protestant Episcopal; the _Silent Herald_, of Chicago, under Methodist; and the _Deaf Lutheran_, of Milwaukee, under Lutheran. CHAPTER VI POPULAR CONCEPTIONS CONCERNING THE DEAF VIEWED AS A STRANGE CLASS The position of the deaf in society is yet to be seen from another standpoint. The question may be asked, How does the public at large, how does "the man in the street," look upon the deaf? Are the deaf viewed merely as so many people deprived of the sense of hearing, in whom also the power of speech is often wanting? Or is there superimposed upon this a feeling, owing perhaps to the supposed isolation of the deaf, that they are in other ways a peculiar class of beings? Unfortunately, it is the latter of these two conceptions that is the prevailing one--unfortunately for the deaf, for their burden is quite sufficient as it is. The public has been and is under many misapprehensions and delusions regarding the deaf.[136] Being thrown intimately with them but seldom, people often come to form curious ideas respecting the deaf, but ideas which are more or less unhappy ones. There is frequently an attitude towards them combined of wonder, misgiving, fear, aversion--a vague feeling or belief that the deaf are more or less distinct in their thoughts and actions from other people, that they are somehow "unnatural" or "uncanny."[137] VIEWED AS A DEFECTIVE CLASS Not only are the deaf often looked upon as a strange class in the community, but they are not uncommonly known as "defectives," and this is the classification frequently applied to them. It is true that the deaf are "defective" in that they are deprived of one of the most important of the physical senses; but, in addition, the term often carries a connotation of mental, or even of moral, aberrance, and results in the infliction upon the deaf of an unnecessary brand. In many libraries such a classification is found, and the deaf are catalogued under the heading "defective." In the "Index of the Economic Material in Documents of the States of the United States" of the Carnegie Foundation, the deaf and the blind are grouped as "defectives" along with the feeble-minded and consumptives.[138] Though in such a classification, any untoward signification is disclaimed, and it is held to be merely one of convenience of arrangement, it remains true that terms are employed and associations involved that to a certain extent do a very real injury to the deaf.[139] VIEWED AS AN UNHAPPY CLASS People are also prone to think of the deaf as an unhappy, morose or dejected class. Professor E. T. Devine in his "Misery and its Causes" (1909)[140] enumerates the deaf, among other classes, as embodiments of misery--"not for the most part," he is careful to state, "personally unhappy," but rather with reference to their imperfect senses. This view is clear enough, and in one sense is doubtless correct; but it does not express the entire situation in respect to the deaf. While their deafness must always be a serious and distressing affliction, and even handicap and burden as well, and while the deaf must often bemoan their fate, it yet seems to be true that the deaf as a lot are not "unhappy." They are good-natured, see the world from an odd angle sometimes, yet are as much philosophers as the average man; and when in the company of their deaf associates are able to derive fully as large a portion of happiness as any other group of human beings. The deaf are cheerful, swayed by the same emotions as other mortals, responsive equally to all the touches of life, and are not, at least in these days of education, a morbid, brooding, passionate folk, as is too often the popular judgment. VIEWED AS A DEPENDENT CLASS In some quarters the deaf continue to be looked upon as one of the dependent classes of society. Mr. Robert Hunter in his "Poverty" (1904)[141] under the head of "Dependents and their Treatment" places the deaf and dumb as "absolute dependents." Such views, however, are no longer general, the deaf having themselves demonstrated to what extent they are a self-supporting part of the community. But where this belief is still shared, the deaf are thought in many cases to be in need of aid or public charity; or at any rate to be economically inferior to the rest of society. Deaf pupils in the schools, for instance, are often referred to as "inmates" or even as "patients," not only by the public but by newspapers as well; and the schools themselves are often spoken of as "asylums" or as charitable institutions.[142] This nomenclature is hardly defensible on any ground, and by it the education of the deaf is not even given its true status. As a further illustration of the general feeling, though rather of different order, may perhaps be cited the attitude of the general insurance companies toward the deaf. Though some of the companies accept the deaf at their regular rates, a number refuse them altogether, while others limit their liability or demand an extra premium.[143] This is largely because of the fear that the deaf are more liable to accidents than other people; but in point of fact the deaf seem to be a long-lived people, and it is likely that with greater statistical knowledge concerning them, most of the discrimination would cease.[144] NEED OF A CHANGED REGARD FOR THE DEAF Thus in many ways are the deaf made to suffer from popular misconceptions, and quite unnecessarily. Too long have designations been employed regarding them that call up undeserved associations. Too long have they been set down as a strange and uncertain body of human beings, removed in their actions, manners and modes of thought from the rest of society. The interests of the deaf require a different consideration and treatment. They demand that the deaf be regarded exactly as other people, only unable to hear. Theirs will be a great boon when they are looked upon no more as a distinct and different portion of the race, but entirely as normal creatures, equally capable and human as all other men.[145] FOOTNOTES: [136] Very often in the public mind the deaf and the blind are associated, the two classes sometimes becoming more or less merged the one into the other, and the problems of the one are not infrequently assumed to be those of the other. As a matter of fact, there is but one point of similarity in the two classes--both are "defective" in that they are deprived of a most important physical sense. The gulf that really separates the blind from the deaf is far deeper than that which lies between either of the two classes and the normal population. [137] In this connection it may be interesting to note the regard for the deaf as has been indicated by the deaf characters that have been created in fiction. Though not a large number are found, there is displayed towards them an attitude largely of kindly sympathy, in some cases mingled with wonder. Such characters appear in Lew Wallace's "Prince of India", where three deaf-mutes are instructed to speak; Scott's _Fanella_ in "Peveril of the Peak"; Dickens' _Sophy_ in "Dr. Marigold" (an unusually attractive and lovable character); Collins' _Madonna Mary_ in "Hide and Seek"; Caine's _Naomi_ in "The Scapegoat"; Haggard's "She"; Maarten's "God's Fool"; de Musset's "Pierre and Camille"; and elsewhere. Thomas Holcroft's "Deaf and Dumb; or the Orphan Protected" is an adaptation from the French play "Abbé de l'Épée" of J. N. Bouilly, in 1802, in which the founder of the first school for the deaf and his pupils are touchingly portrayed. Feigned characters are also found, as Scott's mute in "The Talisman"; in Moliere's "Le Médecin malgré Lui"; Jonson's "Epicoene"; and John Poole's "Deaf as a Post". Defoe has a character, _Duncan Campbell_, which is possibly based on one from real life, being referred to by Addison in the _Spectator_ and the _Tatler_. On the subject of the deaf in fiction, see _Silent Worker_, Dec., 1893; _Annals_, xxxix., 1894, p. 79; Indiana Bulletin of Charities and Corrections, June, 1897; _Athenaeum_, Feb., April, 1896. [138] It may be recorded here that in the present compilation of the Bibliography of the United States Bureau of Education, the expression formerly used, "Delinquents, Dependents and Defectives", has been dropped in favor of the term, "Special Classes of Persons". On this subject, see Proceedings of National Educational Association, 1901, p. 876. [139] A possibly more serious misapprehension respecting the deaf arises from the impression often current among a large number of people, and apparently encouraged not infrequently in the proceedings of some scientific bodies, to the effect that nearly all deaf-mutes are so either because of a similar condition in their parents or because of the existence in the parents of some physical disease, sometimes of an immoral character. This is in a great part due to the increasing emphasis upon eugenics, with the desire to weed out from the population as many as possible of the "unfit" or "defective". In consequence has been the belief that if there were proper regulation of certain marriages, especially of the deaf and of others suffering from particular maladies, "deaf-mutism", which is looked upon as an excrescence upon society, would in the course of a short time be stamped out. An illustration of this conception is the following extract from the Handbook of the Child Welfare Exhibit held in New York in 1911 (p. 38): "Mating of the Unfit. 'The Law'. Marriages of cousins, insane or feeble-minded, alcoholic, syphilitic parents and effects. The cost--7,369 blind infants, 89,287 deaf and dumb, 18,476 feeble-minded". See also Proceedings of National Conference of Charities and Corrections, 1912, p. 277; Report of Philadelphia Baby Saving Show, 1912, p. 37; _Annals_, lvii., 1912, p. 284. As a matter of fact, as we have already seen, the question of deafness is not one so much of eugenics as of medical science, although eugenics may well be called in play in respect to the marriages of persons under unfavorable conditions, including to an extent the congenitally deaf and those having deaf relatives. The total number of the deaf, however, marrying under unfavorable conditions, is not large. Every effort to remove or diminish deafness is entitled only to the highest praise; but when it is made to appear that deafness generally results from such causes as are often ascribed, it is seen how wrongly the deaf, upon whom a great affliction is already resting, may be made to suffer. [140] P. 45. See also Proceedings of Empire State Association of Deaf-Mutes, xii., 1888, p. 35; National Conference of Charities and Corrections, 1883, p. 416. [141] P. 76. See also p. 96. Similarly Professor C. R. Henderson in his "Dependents, Defectives and Delinquents" says (p. 170): "Many of the deaf and blind are so deficient in industrial efficiency, owing to their infirmity, that they must be cared for in adult life and old age". [142] In the special census report of Benevolent Institutions of 1904 schools for the deaf and the blind are included, because they contain "free homes for care and maintenance". In some charity directories schools for the deaf are listed. [143] It is claimed that 95 per cent of the general fraternal organizations consider the deaf as "hazardous" or "undesirable". Proceedings of National Association of the Deaf, ix., 1910, p. 53. Accident insurance is usually refused by all. When an extra rate is charged in life insurance, this is usually one-half of one per cent. On the subject of insurance and the mortality of the deaf, see _Annals_, xxxiii., 1888, p. 246; xlix., 1904, p. 274; Proceedings of Convention of American Instructors, ii., 1851, p. 168; iii., 1853, p. 85; xi., 1886, p. 67; Empire State Association of Deaf-Mutes, xii., 1888, p. 35; xiii., 1890, p. 30: xvi., 1894, p. 28; xix., 1897, p. 93; National Association of the Deaf, ii., 1883, p. 12; vii., 1904, p. 183; Report of New York Institution, 1853, p. 70. [144] The foregoing illustrate some of the most striking misconceptions regarding the deaf. On the other hand, no doubt the deaf as well as the blind suffer from sentiment on the part of the public, and from the sensational accounts which appear from time to time in the newspapers and magazines concerning what the deaf have been found able to accomplish. Many things are referred to as "wonders", as though it were strange that they could be done by people without hearing, some of the achievements of the deaf being set down as most remarkable. Such writings are usually in a kindly spirit, and may often serve a useful purpose in making known the similarity of the capabilities of the deaf and of the hearing; but when they make the deaf appear as a peculiar and unlike part of the race, their effect may be most misleading. The worst result is that the public becomes ready and willing to believe almost any thing about the deaf. [145] In 1908 the Convention of American Instructors of the Deaf appointed a committee to consider the question of the dissemination of knowledge regarding the attainments of the deaf. Proceedings, xviii., p. 210. CHAPTER VII PRIVATE ORGANIZATIONS INTERESTED IN THE DEAF GENERAL SOCIETIES INTERESTED IN THE DEAF We have now considered the interest of society in the deaf in its several relations, together with the treatment that has been extended to them. It remains to be noted whether there have been any private undertakings organized in behalf of the deaf or interested in their welfare, and what has been done by such bodies. In America virtually the only organizations composed of persons not deaf and formed for the purpose of advancing the interests of the deaf have been those more or less closely related to the education of deaf children, and with their exception practically no movements in respect to the deaf may be said to have been undertaken.[146] These organizations interested in the instruction of the deaf are of two divisions: bodies actively engaged in the work of this instruction, and bodies only indirectly concerned. The first division includes, on the one hand, associations of instructors of the deaf, and, on the other, societies or corporations formed to promote and establish schools, which have either passed out of existence, their mission being fulfilled, on the taking over of the school by the state, or have remained in control of certain schools--to be considered when we come to the general provisions for the education of the deaf. In the second division are three kinds of organizations: the Volta Bureau, an organization in a class of its own; associations of parents concerned mainly with the instruction of their own children; and undertakings interested in the extension of religious knowledge to the deaf, usually in the form of church missions. THE VOLTA BUREAU The one organization in America of large compass and concerned solely with the interests of the deaf is the Volta Bureau, located in Washington. This has resulted from the gift of Dr. Alexander Graham Bell in 1880, who having received 50,000 francs from the French government in recognition of his services in the field of invention, decided to use the money to establish the bureau for the "increase and diffusion of knowledge relating to the deaf." The bureau now contains much information regarding the deaf as a class, as well as carefully compiled data regarding many individuals; and also publishes works on the deaf, including the "Volta Review," a monthly periodical. It is much interested in the methods of instruction of the deaf, while another important aim may be said to be the elimination of deafness as far as possible, or the removal of many of the effects of deafness. Dr. Bell's total benefactions to this bureau, together with the Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, to which it is now joined, have amounted to more than a quarter of a million dollars.[147] PARENTS' ASSOCIATIONS FOR THE DEAF Associations of parents have been organized chiefly in relation to the education of their own deaf children, though in some cases friends as well as parents are included. They have often been particularly concerned in the creation of day schools for the deaf, but have also shown an interest in other ways.[148] These associations have been mostly confined to cities, and have been organized in a dozen or so of them, as Boston, Cleveland, Cincinnati, Chicago, Detroit, Milwaukee, St. Paul, New York, Los Angeles, and San Francisco.[149] State associations have been rare, being found in only two or three states, as Ohio, Wisconsin and Nebraska.[150] CHURCH MISSIONS TO THE DEAF Practically all the religious denominations have shown more or less concern in the spiritual welfare of the deaf, so far as individuals have been affected, and many churches have deaf members on their rolls. Some of the church bodies have, in addition, given more particular attention to the deaf, and have instituted special activities to embrace as many of them as possible. Such movements have their greatest opportunities in the cities, where it is easier to reach the deaf than in the scattered districts of the country, though some efforts have been made there too. On the whole, however, only a small part of the religious duty towards the deaf is found to have been done; and it remains beyond question that they have been neglected in this regard far too much, and that there is indeed a field "white unto the harvest" for the spiritual well-being of the deaf. Perhaps also there is no sphere of religious endeavor where the need of mutual understanding and co-operation is so manifest as with the deaf. The denominations that have taken special action usually maintain what are called "missions to the deaf," and have clergymen, both deaf and hearing, who give part or all of their time to the work. In a few of the larger cities, as we have seen, special churches for the deaf have been organized, supported with the aid of the denominational body, while in other cases the use of the church building is allowed to the deaf at certain times. Visits are also made from time to time to smaller places when a number of deaf people may be assembled together, and special meetings are arranged for them.[151] In such missions, while the aims are largely spiritual, there are often in addition operations of a material character, with appropriate attention to individual cases of need.[152] Among Protestant Churches, the Protestant Episcopal may be considered the pioneer, and it has taken up the work with considerable zeal and effectiveness. In 1850 work was begun in the East, and in 1871 formally organized. In 1873 it was extended to the Mid-west, and in 1875 to the North-west and South-west. In a number of the dioceses the work is now given attention, in some of the large cities, as New York, Philadelphia and Chicago, its labor being notable.[153] The Lutheran Church has been active particularly in some of the states of the Middle West, as in the synods of Missouri, Ohio, and others, and in a few cities of the East. The Methodists have likewise been engaged in certain sections of the country, especially in the South and in the Mid-west. The Baptists have also taken up work, especially in the South and in New England. Together with the Congregationalists, they started action in the latter section in 1884, though most of the work in New England is now done by a union organization of several denominations, called the "Evangelical Alliance." In other Protestant bodies little has been attempted beyond local undertakings in a few places. The work of the Roman Catholic Church in respect to the deaf is well organized in a number of centers, and many of the Catholic deaf are carefully looked after. With the Hebrews most of the attention has been confined to certain large cities.[154] ORGANIZATIONS INTERESTED IN THE EDUCATION OF THE DEAF There are in America three large bodies interested in the education of the deaf, and composed for the most part of those directly connected with the work of education. These are the Convention of American Instructors of the Deaf, the Conference of Superintendents and Principals, and the American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, all meeting, as a usual thing, triennially in different years. Of these the oldest is the Convention of American Instructors, which was organized in 1850.[155] It is a large and representative body, and has manifested its interest from the beginning in the general welfare of the deaf, as well as in the particular demands of education. The Conference of Superintendents and Principals, as its name implies, is composed of the heads of schools, and was organized in 1868.[156] The Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf was incorporated as such in 1890, though it was not the first body concerned in this work.[157] It is now countrywide, and embraces a large number of those interested in the teaching of speech to the deaf, whether active educators or not. A large section of its members are "pure oralists," that is, believing in the exclusive use of speech with the deaf. In 1908 the Volta Bureau was taken over by this body.[158] It may be mentioned here also that the educators of the deaf are represented in the National Educational Association.[159] PUBLICATIONS DEVOTED TO THE INTERESTS OF THE DEAF There are two publications devoted to the interests of the deaf: the "American Annals of the Deaf" and the "Volta Review," both published in Washington. The former was begun in 1848. It appears bi-monthly, and is under the direction of the Conference of Principals.[160] It has long been known as the standard periodical relating to the deaf in America, and represents current thought and opinion of practical educators of the deaf, as well as constituting a general record of the work. The "Volta Review," formerly known as the "Association Review," was begun in 1899, and was published by the Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf. It is now published conjointly by the Association and the Volta Bureau, and appears as an illustrated monthly. It is "devoted to the problems of deafness," but deals in the greatest measure with the matters pertaining to the education of the deaf.[161] In most of the residential schools, or institutions, there are also papers, which often serve to keep parents and others informed of the work of the respective schools. We have already referred to the publications by the deaf themselves, both secular and religious. FOOTNOTES: [146] General organizations of a philanthropic or other character have seldom extended activities to include the deaf, though at times some institution, as the Young Men's Christian Association or a social settlement, has manifested an interest, chiefly in providing a place for meeting. [147] The bureau contains a card catalogue of more than 50,000 deaf children who have been in the special schools from 1817 to 1900; authentic manuscript respecting 4,471 marriages of the deaf; and the special schedules of the census of 1900 respecting the deaf. It serves, moreover, as a bureau of information and advice, with suggestions for the hard of hearing also, and as a teachers' agency. On the work of the bureau, see _Deaf-Mute Advance_, of Illinois School, March 14, 1891; _Silent Worker_, May, 1895; and current numbers of the _Volta Review_, especially that for Jan., 1913 (xiv., p. 605). [148] The purpose of the Boston Parents' Education Association for Deaf Children is "to encourage home instruction, aid schools for the deaf in Boston, help deaf children to continue their education in schools or colleges for hearing persons, aid them in acquiring a practical knowledge of useful trades and business, assist them in obtaining remunerative employment, bring them into more extensive social relations with hearing persons, and employ such other means for their advancement as may be deemed advisable." See "Offering in behalf of the Deaf", by this association, 1903, p. 8. See also _Association Review_, ii., 1900, p. 146. Most of the associations have also been interested in the employment of the oral method of instruction. Dues in such associations are usually only one or two dollars, and there is often a board of directors appointed. [149] The first seems to have been the Boston Association, formed in 1894. [150] In several of these associations membership is over a hundred. In Milwaukee there is also a similar society known as the Wisconsin Phonological Institute to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, which was organized in 1878, and incorporated in 1879, as a philanthropic society. See Report, 1878, p. 5. [151] On the subject of church work among the deaf, see Proceedings of National Association of the Deaf, i., 1880, p. 19; iv., 1893, p. 53; vi., 1899, p. 58; vii., 1904, p. 153; Empire State Association of Deaf-Mutes, xii., 1888, p. 31; Conference on Church Work among the Deaf (Protestant Episcopal), i., 1881, p. 5; ii., 1883, p. 4; iv., 1887, p. 3; v., 1888, p. 23; Report of Diocesan Commission on Church Work among the Deaf, 1886; Church Mission to the Deaf (New York), 1873, p. 14; 1886, p. 3; 1888, p. 3; _Annals_, xxix., 1884, p. 24. [152] Direct relief may be afforded in some cases, and in others visits made to hospitals, prisons and the like, where deaf persons may be found, without regard to religious affiliation. Assistance is also often rendered in acting as interpreters in court, though this work is frequently shared in by instructors of the deaf. In one or two instances, as we have seen, homes for the deaf have been established by religious bodies. [153] In the Protestant Episcopal Church there are now some twelve clergymen engaged in this work, ten of whom are deaf, and more than twice this number of lay helpers. [154] In New York there is a Society for the Welfare of the Jewish Deaf, which was organized in 1910, and incorporated in 1913. Laws, ch. 313. It is controlled by a board of from seventeen to thirty governors, and is interested in the educational, industrial, social and religious concerns of the deaf. See _Hebrew Standard_, March 15, 1912; _Jewish Charities_, Jan., 1912. See also Proceedings of National Conference of Jewish Charities, 1908, p. 28. [155] Its first meeting was at the New York Institution, after a call had been issued by several of the leading educators. In 1897 this body was incorporated. [156] The organization was effected at Washington. See Report of Columbia Institution, 1868, p. 16. [157] A convention of articulation teachers was held as early as 1874. Another meeting was held in 1884. See _Annals_, xix., 1874, pp. 90, 217; xxix., 1884, pp. 154, 237; _Volta Review_, xiv., 1913, p. 394. In 1894 was formed the Association to Promote Auricular Training of the Deaf, which was subsequently merged with the larger organization. [158] The Association has a board of fifteen directors, and an advisory board of twelve. [159] This was organized in 1897. Proceedings, p. 36. It is known as Department XVI, or the Department of Special Education. Both instructors of the deaf and of the blind are represented, those interested in the education of the feeble-minded having also been included up to 1902. In addition to the three general organizations of educators of the deaf, there have been several local conferences, as of the principals of schools in the Southern states and in New York, and of teachers in the state of Michigan and of the city of New York. [160] Its first publication was by the instructors of the Hartford School. Publication was omitted in 1849, and from 1861 to 1868. [161] For other publications that have appeared in the interest of the deaf, see "Periodicals Devoted to the Interests of the Deaf," by the Volta Bureau, 1913. PART II PROVISION FOR THE EDUCATION OF THE DEAF CHAPTER VIII THE EDUCATION OF THE DEAF PRIOR TO ITS INTRODUCTION INTO THE UNITED STATES Among the ancient peoples generally the deaf and dumb, especially those so by birth, were deemed as of deficient mentality, and were accounted, intellectually, as little better than children, or, indeed, as idiots. Though treated, it seems, for the most part humanely, they were regarded not without some aversion; and their affliction was not infrequently looked upon as a visitation of the gods, some of the hardy races even destroying their deaf offspring. For a long period there were scarcely any serious attempts to give instruction to the deaf. Allusions to the deaf and their state with respect to education are found in certain of the Greek and Latin writers, and occasionally in those of other languages. Herodotus speaks of the deaf son of Cr[oe]sus, and Hippocrates has reference to the deaf as a class. Plato and Aristotle also make mention of the deaf, the latter considering them incapable of education because of the absence of the sense of hearing. Among Latin authors we find an account by Pliny the Elder of a deaf man who had learned painting. It is only after the fifteenth century that we have more or less authenticated accounts of the instruction of the deaf, and many of these are hardly more than a passing reference here and there. It was, moreover, well after Europe had taken its present political appearance that the modern attitude towards the deaf and their instruction began. Before this their education as a class was not thought of, and while no doubt there have always been sporadic instances of the instruction of the deaf, it is only since the middle of the eighteenth century that the deaf have come generally into the birthright of their education. Yet it is not so great a matter of wonder that the movements for the instruction of the deaf took organized shape so late in the world's civilization. Learning or schooling was in no sense popular till some time after the passing away of the so-called dark ages. For long it was rather the privilege of the rich and powerful. The great mass of the people were not deemed worthy of learning, and education itself in any general application did not have a recognized standing in society. After the Renaissance, however, had ushered in a new age, and when the desire for learning was the master passion among many men in Southern and Western Europe, it is natural to suppose that efforts should have more frequently been made to instruct the deaf child; and after this time we are prepared to find an increasing number of instances of the instruction of the deaf. This was all the more true when an air of mystery was felt to surround these silent ones, and to bring the light of the new learning to these afflicted creatures was considered well worth the attempt. The earliest instance recorded of instruction given to the deaf in the English language is that of the Venerable Bede about the year 691, who tells of a deaf person taught to speak by Bishop John of York, related as though it were a miracle. After many years we meet accounts of other cases. Rudolph Agricola (1443-1485) of Gröningen, Holland, and later a professor at Heidelberg, cites in his "_De Inventione Dialecta_" a deaf man who could write. In Italy a little later we find certain deaf children whose instruction is mentioned by Pietro de Castro; while in the sixteenth century Girolamo Cardano (1501-1576), the distinguished physician of Pavia, attempted to state the principles of the education of the deaf, demonstrating the use of a written language for them, and advocating the teaching of speech. He further invented a manual alphabet, which was one of the first of its kind. In 1616 Giovanni Bonifaccio also wrote regarding the "art of signing" and speech for the deaf. But it is to Spain that credit is to be given as being the first country of Europe where there are recorded accounts of successful instruction of the deaf. In 1550, or perhaps earlier, Pedro Ponce de Leon of the Order of St. Benedict taught, chiefly by oral methods, several deaf children in the convent of San Salvador de Oña. Great success must have attended his efforts, for in addition to the Spanish language and arithmetic, his pupils are reported to have mastered Latin, Greek and astrology. About this time there lived a deaf artist, known as _El Mudo_, and he had very likely received instruction in some way. In 1620 Juan Pablo Bonet, who had had several deaf pupils, instructing them largely in articulation methods, published a treatise on the art of instructing the deaf, called "_Reduccion de las Letras y Arta para Enseñer a Hablar los Mudos_;" and he was the inventor of a manual alphabet, in considerable part like that used in America to-day. Sir Kinelm Digby of England, visiting Spain about this time, saw Bonet's work and wrote an account of his pupils. In 1644 appeared in England "_Chirologia_, or the Natural Language of the Hand" by a physician, Dr. John Bulwer, who had perhaps also observed the results in Spain. This was followed in 1648 by his more important work, "_Philocophus_, or the Deaf and Dumb Man's Friend," mostly describing a kind of process in articulation and lip-reading. Bulwer's friend, John Wallis, a professor at Oxford, seems to have been the first practical teacher here, instructing two deaf persons by writing and in speech, and showing them to the King. In 1653 his "_Tractatus de Loquela_" was published. Along the same line was the writing of Dr. William Holder on the "Elements of Speech," published in 1669, in which he advocated articulation teaching. In 1670 there appeared a treatise by George Sibscota on "The Deaf and Dumb Man's Discourse," but this was really a translation from the writings of a German named Deusing. In 1680 Dr. George Dalgarno of Scotland published his "_Didascalocophus_, the Deaf and Dumb Man's Tutor," in which preference was given to the use of a written language and a manual alphabet, of one of which he was himself the inventor. In 1698 appeared "_Digiti Lingua_," written "by a person who had conversed no otherwise in above nine years." Some half a century later we find the name of Henry Baker, son-in-law of Daniel Defoe, who gave instruction in speech. Other countries of Europe were hardly behind England in their interest in the deaf and their instruction. Spain, besides the names we have mentioned, had notably Ramirez de Carion, himself a deaf man, who lived not long after Bonet. Italy had in particular Padre Lana Terzi, who in 1670 published a work on articulation; and also Fabrizio d'Acquapendente and Affinité, who in their writings threw out references to speech for the deaf. In Holland there were Peter Montans, who about 1635 issued several tracts on speech; Jan Baptista Van Helmont, who in 1667 wrote on speech and an alphabet; and John Conrad Amman, formerly a Swiss physician, who in 1692 gave out his "_Surdus Loquens_," which was enlarged and republished in 1700 as "_Dissertatio de Loquela_." The name of Amman is especially notable, not only for his instruction in speech of several deaf children, but for his influence on later oral methods. In Switzerland we find at Basel in 1531, or perhaps a few years sooner, an account of a deaf person who was instructed in speech by [OE]colampadius, the Reformer and friend of Luther; at Geneva in 1604 of a deaf child instructed by St. Francis de Sales; and also in Geneva in 1685 of a deaf person who had probably received instruction. In Germany we have a regular succession of names of those who either attempted to instruct the deaf or who wrote of this instruction, some of these names being among the earliest of those in Europe who showed an interest in the matter. In the year 1578 we meet the name of Pasch, a clergyman of Brandenburgh, who taught his daughter by means of pictures. In 1621 Rudolph Camerarius wrote a book on speech, and in 1642 Gaspard Schott mentions a case of successful instruction. In 1701 or 1704 Kerger at Liegnitz in Silesia taught some pupils orally, having what seemed a temporary school. In 1718 Georges Raphel, who had taught his three deaf daughters, wrote a book explaining his process of instruction. Among other names appearing earlier or later were those of Morhoff, Mallenkrot, Wild, Niederoff, Lichwitz, Shulze, Ettmuller, Arnoldi, Lasius, Heinicke, and Nicolai. Of all these much the most renowned is that of Samuel Heinicke. In 1754 at Dresden he became interested in the deaf, and a few years later started a school near Hamburg. In 1778, at the instance of the state, he moved to Leipsic, his school thus being the first public school for the deaf to be established. He was also the author of several books on the education of the deaf. Heinicke was instrumental in bringing the oral method into favor, and in many respects, so far as its present use is concerned, may be said to be its father. He was in fact one of the greatest teachers of the deaf, and the influence of his work has been felt in no small measure in America. In France, too, there were great names, though they were late in appearing; Père Vanin, Rousset, Ernaud, de Fay, Pereire, Abbé de l'Épée, Abbé Deschamps, and others.[162] Of these Vanin, Pereire, Deschamps, and de l'Épée are the most notable. Vanin about 1743 instructed some children by means of pictures and a manual alphabet. Rodriguez Pereire, a Portuguese Jew, had several pupils at Bordeaux before the middle of the eighteenth century, and though his methods were kept secret for the most part, he appeared to have met considerable success, in 1749 giving an exhibition before the Academy of Sciences. Abbé Deschamps in 1779 published at Orleans a work on the instruction of the deaf, largely favoring the oral method. It is to Charles Michel abbé de l'Épée, however, that is given the highest reverence of all the initial workers for the deaf, being the founder of the first regular school, and receiving nearly equal distinction for his impression on early methods of instruction--this being especially true in respect to America, where his influence in the introduction of the sign language has been greater than any other man's. The abbé had become interested in two deaf orphans in Paris, whom he attempted to teach, and in 1755 established a school near the city, conducting it at his own expense. This proved a success, and he decided to give his whole life to the instruction of the deaf. He wrote several works on their education, the chief one being "_La Veritable Manière d'Instruire les Sourds et Muets_," published in 1784. The achievements of de l'Épée were soon far-famed, and the people were taken with their novelty. Many honors were offered him, and his work was brought to the notice of the French Academy and approved. In 1791 his school was adopted by the state. The successor of abbé de l'Épée was abbé Sicard, and the work continued to flourish in France. Not long after de l'Épée and Heinicke had started their schools in France and Germany respectively, Thomas Braidwood, in 1760, opened a school in Edinburgh, Scotland. In 1784 a school was established in Rome, in 1788 in Madrid, and in 1801 in Genoa. In the early years of the nineteenth century other schools were started over Western Europe. Thus by the time that the work for the education of the deaf was to enter America, in the establishment of the first school in the second decade of the century, there were already in Europe a number of schools in existence.[163] FOOTNOTES: [162] In 1751 Diderot published his "_Lettre sur les Sourds et Muets_," in which there is reference to the education of the deaf. [163] For accounts of the early work for the education of the deaf, both before and after it was taken up in the United states, the following may be referred to: Thomas Arnold, "A Method of Teaching the Deaf and Dumb Speech, Lip-Reading and Language", 1881; "The Education of Deaf-Mutes", 1888; E. M. Gallaudet, "Life of Thomas Hopkins Gallaudet", 1888; H. N. Dixon, "A Method of Teaching Deaf-Mutes to Speak, with a Historical Introduction" (including a translation of Bonet's work), 1890; J. K. Love, "Deaf-Mutism", 1896; Henry Barnard, "A Tribute to Gallaudet", with other papers, 1852; Heman Humphrey, "Life and Labors of T. H. Gallaudet", 1857; H. W. Syle, "Retrospect of the Education of the Deaf", 1886; J. A. Seiss, "The Children of Silence", 1887; J. R. Burnet, "Tales of the Deaf and Dumb", 1835; E. J. Mann, "Deaf and Dumb", 1836; J. N. Williams, "A Silent People", 1883; W. R. Scott, "The Deaf and Dumb, their Education and Social Position", 1870; History of First School for Deaf-Mutes in America, 1883; Addresses delivered at the New York Institution, 1847; H. P. Peet, Address at Laying of Corner Stone of North Carolina Institution, 1848; Proceedings of Laying of Corner Stone of Michigan Institution, 1856; Collins Stone, "Address on History and Methods of Deaf-Mute Instruction", 1869; Addresses Commemorative of the Virtues and Services of Abraham B. Hutton, 1870; _American Annals of the Deaf_ (especially early numbers, often giving accounts of individual schools as well as of the general work); _North American Review_, vii., 1818, p. 127; xxxviii., 1834, p. 307; lxxxvii., 1858, p. 517; civ., 1867, p. 512; _American Journal of Education_, (n. s.) i., 1830, p. 409; _American Annals of Education_, iv., 1834, p. 53; _Literary and Theological Review_, ii., 1835, p. 365; _American Biblical Repository_, viii., 1842, p. 269; _De Bow's Review_, xvii., 1854, p. 435; _National Magazine_, ix., 1856, pp. 385, 487 (Sketches of Humane Institutions); _Scribner's Magazine_, xii., 1892, p. 463; _Association Review_, ii.-v., 1900-1904 ("Historical Notes concerning the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf"); Proceedings of Convention of American Instructors of the Deaf, i., 1850, p. 99; v., 1858, p. 275 (H. P. Peet, "Memoirs on the Origin and Early History of the Art of the Instruction of the Deaf and Dumb"); iii., 1853, p. 277; iv., 1856, p. 17; ix., 1878, p. 195; American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, v., 1896, p. 27 (P. G. Gillet, "Some Notable Benefactors of the Deaf"); National Association of the Deaf, iii., 1889, p. 21; National Conference of Charities and Corrections, 1907, p. 512; _Californian_, iv., 1881, p. 376; Iowa Bulletin of State Institutions, viii., 1906, p. 175; xii., 1910, p. 24; Transactions of Royal Historical Society, viii., 1880; Encyclopedia Americana, 1883 (History of the Education of the Deaf in the United States, given in _Annals_, xxxi., 1886, p. 130); various reports of the several schools for the deaf in America (as that of New York Institution, 1839, p. 8; 1843, p. 11; 1876, p. 48; American School, 1844, p. 25; 1867, p. 13; Pennsylvania Institution, 1843, p. 9; 1892, p. 64; Kentucky School, 1857, p. 8; 1867, p. 13; Michigan School, 1858, p. 40; Illinois School, 1868, p. 42; New York Institution for Improved Instruction, 1869, p. 26; Mississippi School, appendices, 1907, 1909, 1911); "Histories of American Schools for the Deaf", edited and with an introduction by Dr. E. A. Fay, 1893 (containing accounts of individual schools, and a most valuable work). CHAPTER IX HISTORY OF EDUCATION OF THE DEAF IN THE UNITED STATES EARLY ATTEMPTS AT INSTRUCTION The first instance of which we have record in America of an attempt to teach the deaf was in 1679[164] when a man named Philip Nelson of Rowley, Massachusetts, tried to instruct a deaf and dumb boy, Isaac Kilbourn by name, in speech, though with what success we do not know.[165] These, however, were the witchcraft days, and the work of Nelson seemed such an extraordinary thing that the ministers of the community are said to have made an investigation, fearing that witches might be involved in the affair. The next instance of which we have mention occurred in Virginia a century later, when John Harrower, a school-master of Fredericksburg, had in his school from 1773 to 1776 a deaf boy named John Edge, reference to whose instruction is made in his diary.[166] The earliest effort for the establishment of a school for the deaf in America of which we know was made almost contemporaneously with the opening of the nineteenth century, and at the time that such schools were being created over Europe. There lived at this time in Boston a man named Francis Green, who had a deaf son. This boy he sent to the school in Scotland which Braidwood had started; while he himself became much interested in the subject of the education of the deaf. In 1783 he published in England a work entitled "_Vox Oculis Subjecta_." In 1803 he had, with the help of some of the ministers, a census made of the deaf in Massachusetts, when 75 were found, and it was estimated that there were 500 in the United States. Green felt the need of a school, and in several of the publications of the time appeared his writings, in which he urged the creation of one.[167] It was in 1810, however, and in the city of New York that the real beginning of deaf-mute education in the United States was marked. This was when John Stanford, a minister, found several deaf children in the city almshouse and attempted to teach them. Though his efforts continued but a short time, it was these from which resulted the establishment a few years later of a school in the city, the New York Institution.[168] In Virginia shortly afterwards a second school was started, which in itself is to be set down as an important stage in the course of the early attempts to create schools for the deaf in America. In 1812 there came to the United States John Braidwood, a member of the family which was in control of the institution at Edinburgh, Scotland, in the hope of establishing a school. He began plans for one at Baltimore, but before it had gotten under headway, he was called to Virginia to undertake the instruction of the deaf children of William Bolling, of Goochland County. This private school continued, with seemingly satisfactory results in the progress of the pupils, for two and a half years. In 1815 it was moved to Cobbs, Chesterfield County,[169] to be open to the public. The school now promised well, and there were already several pupils. However, Braidwood was looking about for other opportunities, and had been in touch with several parties in regard to the employment of his services.[170] In 1816 he went to New York, where he proposed to start a school, and collected a few pupils, only to return to Virginia again after a few months. In 1817 he began operations anew, this time at a private classical school at Manchester under John Kilpatrick, a minister. In less than a year this too was abandoned by Braidwood, who soon after met his death. Kilpatrick attempted to continue the school only a year or two longer, possibly even taking a few pupils with him when he moved to Cumberland County in 1819; and so was brought to an end the checkered career of this early school for the deaf in Virginia.[171] Such were the beginnings of the instruction of the deaf in America. With the exception of these undertakings, barely touching the surface in the number of children reached, the only means of education possible in the land was in sending children to a school in Europe, which was done in the case of a few wealthy parents. For the great mass of the deaf, isolated and scattered though they were at the time, there was no instruction to be had. But this period was now nearly passed. Attention in more than one quarter was being directed to the deaf and the possibilities of their education; and in the breasts of not a few men a feeling was astir that instruction was somehow to be brought to them.[172] The seed was already sown, and by the time the school in Virginia was broken up, others were beginning to arise elsewhere. When the work was finally to be taken up, it was to be upon a solid foundation which should last with the lastingness of education. BEGINNING OF THE FIRST SCHOOLS The seat of the first permanent school to be established in the United States for the education of the deaf was Hartford, Connecticut; and the name of the one man with which the beginning work will forever be coupled is that of Thomas Hopkins Gallaudet. America, however, was not to commence the work of itself: the spirit and the method had to be brought from Europe. Early in the nineteenth century there lived at Hartford a young deaf girl, Alice Cogswell by name, the daughter of a physician, and in her a group of men had become interested. An investigation of the number of the deaf had been made in 1812 by a body of clergymen, when 84 were found, and it was estimated that there were 400 in New England, and 2,000 in the United States; and the question of a school had been considered.[173] In 1815 the friends of Alice Cogswell decided to organize a society for the purpose of providing means to instruct some of these, and to secure an instructor. To take up this work, attention was directed to Gallaudet, then a young theological student. He was fixed upon as the man to go to Europe and acquaint himself with the methods there employed. Gallaudet responded at once to the appeal made to him, and proceeded to prepare himself forthwith. The same year, 1815, saw Gallaudet start upon his errand, his expenses being defrayed by the society.[174] He first visited England, but finding there a monopoly composed of the Braidwood and Watson families, he betook himself to France. In this country he met with a warm reception, and here he eagerly set upon his labors of study and investigation at the school which de l'Épée had established. He observed closely, and then the following year turned his face towards America, equipped for the great work before him, and bringing with him one of the deaf teachers from Paris named Laurent Clerc. On Gallaudet's return the second part of the undertaking for the creation of a school was to be accomplished, namely, the securing of funds, which required half a year more. For this purpose Gallaudet and a few others set about soliciting contributions. New York, Philadelphia, Albany, New Haven, and other cities were visited, and the interest in the new undertaking was shown by the response made.[175] By the time the school was ready to open, over $12,000 had been obtained, which was soon after more than doubled.[176] The contributions came from various sources, including individuals, societies and churches, and were from not a few states, and even foreign countries. A charter was granted the society in 1816 by the legislature of Connecticut; and $5,000 was appropriated for the school,[177] which was probably the first appropriation of public money for education not in regular schools.[178] On April 15, 1817, the new school threw open its doors, and thus was established the first institution for the instruction of the deaf--in fact, the first for any of the so-called "defective classes." Its success was assured from the start, and there were many applicants, coming from different parts of the country. The school had to depend mainly upon private contributions, and for its maintenance efforts had to be continued to collect funds, pupils being taken for this purpose to several cities for exhibition, especially before church assemblies and the legislative bodies of New England.[179] It was not long in appearing, however, that, as the school was really to be national in scope, the United States government might be appealed to for aid. Visits were accordingly made to Washington in 1819, and the interest of certain of the members of Congress was secured. Among these was Henry Clay, who showed a particular regard for the new undertaking, and it was largely through his influence that Congress was prevailed upon to bestow upon the school 23,000 acres of the public land, from which in time $300,000 was realized.[180] It was the understanding, there being no census of the deaf at this time, that any state or individual might participate in the benefit of this grant, and that the school was to be open on equal terms to all.[181] Though the school was regarded as national in one sense, it was also felt to be particularly New England's from the share that these states took in its development. Very soon after it had commenced operations a lively interest had been manifested; and in 1825 a meeting was held at Hartford of official representatives of all these states except Rhode Island, to discuss the possibilities of co-operation in its work.[182] Hardly, indeed, had the school entered upon its labor when, without solicitation, Massachusetts began sending its deaf children to it. It was followed in turn by the others, all the states of New England thus coming to provide for their children here as at a common school--a policy continued with all for many years. By this arrangement a certain amount from the state treasury was allowed for each pupil. The action of Massachusetts was taken in 1819, of New Hampshire in 1821, of Vermont and Maine in 1825, of Connecticut in 1828, and of Rhode Island in 1842. Two other states, far removed from New England, also by special legislative grants provided for pupils in this school for a time. These were Georgia and South Carolina, both beginning in 1834.[183] In addition, there were private pupils sent here from a number of states.[184] The school at Hartford was now in full operation, with a nation-wide interest upon it.[185] But scarcely had it received its first pupil when other schools began to be established, and indeed New York and Pennsylvania are hardly to be considered behind Connecticut at all, schools in these states being in the course of formation when the Hartford school was opened. From the concern now apparent in many sections, it was soon evident that the new work was to spread over the land, and that the education of the deaf had achieved for itself an established position. In New York, as we have seen, the Rev. John Stanford had found several deaf children in the almshouse of the city, and, moved by their condition, had sought to teach them. Interest was felt by other men, and the agitation for a school was furthered by letters from the American consul at Bordeaux in 1816, one of which was written by a French teacher and addressed to the "Philanthropists of the United States." A census was made of the deaf in the city,[186] meetings were held in their behalf, a notable one taking place at Tammany Hall, and private funds collected. In 1817 a charter was secured from the legislature, and the following year the school was opened. The city of New York displayed a warm interest in it, making a special appropriation at its beginning, and undertaking the support of a number of pupils for a time, besides furnishing quarters free of cost. In 1819 the state legislature, after an exhibit of pupils, decided to assist, making an appropriation for the benefit of the school, and soon afterward allowing a certain amount for each pupil. In 1821 New Jersey began sending children to the school, action being taken in this state by a unanimous vote. Pennsylvania followed close upon Connecticut and New York. A committee had been organized in Philadelphia in 1816 to secure contributions for a school, and meetings had been held, though without immediate result. Late in the year 1819, or early in 1820, David Seixas, a Jew, finding several poor deaf-mute children to whom he gave shelter, made attempts to teach them. In the latter year a society was formed by certain citizens, after a meeting in the rooms of the American Philosophical Society; and being pleased with the work of Seixas, it decided to adopt his school. The following year, after an exhibit of pupils, the school was incorporated by the legislature, and granted a _per capita_ appropriation of $160, while contributions from friends were numerous. In 1821, also, pupils were admitted from New Jersey, this state providing for them both at the New York and Philadelphia schools. In 1827 Maryland, and in 1835 Delaware, authorized the sending of children to the Pennsylvania Institution, exhibits of pupils having been made before the legislatures of these states.[187] Kentucky in 1823 was the fourth state in the Union to establish a school. In this case, however, action was taken directly by the legislature, and the school has always been the property of the state. In 1826[188] Congress granted to it a township of land in Florida, on the theory that this school would be the center for pupils from the western and southern states; and it was for some years the place of education for many of the children from the southern states,[189] and also for a number from western states. With the establishment of this school directly by the state begins a new policy in the provision for the education of the deaf--the work no longer being entrusted to private individuals and societies. All the states that followed Kentucky in the creation of schools, with the exception of Maryland and some of the New England states, adopted this policy. Ohio came next in 1829, although an attempt had been made to establish a school in Cincinnati as early as 1821.[190] Pupils were also received into it from neighboring states.[191] In 1838 Virginia established a joint school for the deaf and the blind, after exhibitions of pupils had been given in the state. In Indiana a private school was started in 1841, and three years later the state institution, action being taken by the legislature without a single dissenting vote. In this state another stage is reached in the work of educating the deaf: education which had hitherto been, by statute, free to the "indigent" only is in positive terms made free to all. This was done in 1848, and the action has been thus described:[192] The doors of all asylums built at public expense for mutes, for the blind, and for lunatics were thrown open to all, that their blessings, like the rain and dew of heaven, might freely descend on these children of misfortune throughout the state, without money and without price. Well might this paean break forth, for this is probably the broadest benevolent legislation ever enacted up to this time. In Georgia a private school was opened in 1842, and in 1846 the state school was established, after a visit of pupils from the Hartford school. In 1845 a school was started in Tennessee, after an exhibit of pupils from Kentucky. The same year in North Carolina, after an exhibit of pupils from Virginia, a school was opened for the deaf and the blind, though one had been projected as early as 1828.[193] In 1846 a school was established in Illinois, the bill passing the legislature by a unanimous vote. To it came pupils from Missouri, Iowa and Wisconsin. In 1849 a school was established in South Carolina. Thus by the middle of the nineteenth century, or thirty-two years after the founding of the first school in America, there were schools in a dozen states. In the next quarter century schools were created in nineteen other states, and since in nearly all the remainder. EARLY IDEAS CONCERNING THE SCHOOLS FOR THE DEAF It was but natural that for some years the providing of schools for the education of the deaf should be looked upon with wonder. To many the very thought of their instruction seemed strange. Curious notions had been held as to the deaf-mute's mind, and it was not certain how far it was capable of instruction. By some the idea of the education of the deaf was received with scarcely concealed skepticism, and despite the enthusiasm of the promoters and despite the cordial interest manifested in many quarters, there were not a few doubters. Efforts to educate the deaf were even declared quixotic and absurd. When the state of Illinois was erecting a building to be used as a school, it was by some called "the state's folly."[194] The legislatures themselves occasionally had misgivings, and now and then an appropriation was voted for a school more in hope than otherwise.[195] The work was thus with many often misunderstood, and a few of the schools did not have altogether easy sailing. But when it was found that the deaf could be, and were being, educated, not only were all doubts dispelled, but the astonishment almost goes beyond bounds, and even passes into a rapture of thanksgiving. Visitors, in some cases, flocked to the places where these wonderful things were transpiring. They came to convince themselves, and stood hushed in admiration at the spectacle before them. The accounts of a number of the early schools attest the greeting given to the new work. The New York Institution in its first report[196] speaks of the "numerous visitors" and their "expressions of mingled surprise and delight." In the new Pennsylvania Institution interest was markedly aroused. By _Poulson's American Daily Advocate_ of Philadelphia it was stated that 1,600 people crowded into a church to witness an examination of pupils, and by the _Columbian Observer_ it was declared that this scene "was impressive beyond description," and that "the exercises excited wonder mingled with the acutest sensations of compassion for these isolated beings."[197] An early report of the Tennessee School[198] speaks of the interest "evinced by the great numbers of persons" who visited the school, which was shown "by the sympathy warmly expressed with the great affliction" of the pupils, and the "surprise at the attainments made by them." Indeed, the new work is more than once referred to in the accounts of the period as a miracle. The age of miracles, we are told, was not past.[199] When a private school was opened in Kansas, the advertisement ran: "Behold the educational miracle of the nineteenth century. The deaf hear, the dumb speak, the blind see."[200] The wonders of education had become all the more marked and expectations were aroused to a high pitch, when it was seen about this time that the blind and other classes as well were being instructed. Great things were believed to be in store for the human race. With the schools for the deaf there was now general approbation and support. Doubters were silenced, and the promoters took heart. Soon the new institutions had won for themselves a place in the intelligent and affectionate regard of all; and to those instrumental in their creation the people universally "pledged their gratitude." AIMS OF THE FOUNDERS Though the first schools for the deaf in the United States were founded to a considerable extent with the idea of charity or benevolence present, yet this was not so much the uppermost purpose as to provide instruction for them; or rather, it may be said that the benevolence itself was prompted by the desire to see the deaf led from the darkness of ignorance to the light of education. It is true that many of the pupils were recognized as entitled to material assistance as well as instruction. Some of the schools were chartered as benevolent institutions, while several even avowed themselves as charitable affairs.[201] It is also true that the promoters were in part concerned with deaf children found in poverty, these being likely to engage not a little attention. It was desired to furnish homes for a number without charge; and early accounts and statutes speak of the "care," "aid," "maintenance" or "support"[202] of these children. But it is none the less true that the great purpose in establishing institutions was educational, and the instruction of the children was the primary and chief thing guiding the hands of the men who created the schools. In the prospectuses of some of the schools any object is disclaimed other than that of education. In a circular describing the proposed school in Kansas were the words: "This is not an asylum, but a school for the education of the deaf."[203] Homes, or institutions, were provided largely for the reason that this plan appeared the only practicable means of reaching a considerable number of pupils. With the early workers, then, the purpose was to give the children an education. But this was not all. In their vision, a far greater opening presented itself. Heretofore the deaf had been outcasts from society, had no place among civilized beings, and were a dead weight in the community. Now all was to be changed. Eyes saw a glorious transformation: the deaf were to be restored to society, and education was the magic by which it was to be done. In full measure were the founders thrilled with this prospect; and to reclaim the deaf from their condition was the great resolve. Many of the early reports, charters and organic acts express such a purpose, and speak of the "lonely and cheerless condition" of the deaf, and the hope to "restore them to the ranks of their species." In the preamble of an "Address to the Inhabitants of Pennsylvania," prepared by the society to establish the school in this state,[204] the deaf are said to be in "entire and invincible separation from the vast stores of knowledge which human talent has accumulated--ignorant of the truths of Revelation, her glorious assurances and unspeakable consolations," all being "among the bitter ingredients which fill up the vast measure of the affliction to the deaf and dumb;" and that "among the various efforts of philanthropy and learning to enlarge the circle of human happiness and knowledge, none should perhaps rank higher than those which have been directed to the discovery and application of means for the instruction of the deaf and dumb." In language glowing and impassioned the condition of the deaf without education is described. Almost universally they are thought of as abiding in impenetrable silence and deep darkness. In an address delivered before the New York Forum in behalf of the New York Institution[205] in its early days, it is asserted that the deaf dwell in "silence, solitude and darkness," and in the second report of this school[206] they are declared to be "wrapt in impenetrable gloom of silence, sorrow and despair." In an Ohio report[207] they are said to be in "intellectual and moral midnight;" and in a Michigan report[208] to be "groping in thick darkness." In a Louisiana report[209] they are called "sorrow-stricken children of silence;" and in a Kentucky report[210] their lives are described as "dark, dreary and comfortless." The _Southern Literary Messenger_[211] of Richmond, Virginia, characterizes their existence as "intellectual night." The New York _Commercial Advertiser_[212] in the year the first school was opened affirms that "their intellectual faculties ... are ... locked in the darkness of night and shrouded in silence." In an address delivered shortly after the opening of the Tennessee School[213] they are referred to as "entombed in a prison." The _Albany Argus_ and _Daily City Gazette_[214] points to the deaf man as "abandoned to his hard fate, to wander in darkness, the pitiable object of dismal despair." In an address delivered in the Capitol in Washington[215] the deaf are said to be "doomed to wear out their lives in intellectual darkness." The results of education were to be great beyond measurement, and the passing of the deaf from ignorance to education is likened even to the glories of the Resurrection. A Committee of Congress[216] in recommending the granting of land to the Kentucky School speaks of education as "the only means of redeeming this unfortunate portion of our species from the ignorance and stupidity to which they would otherwise be consigned by the partial hand of nature, and, indeed; of transferring them from a state of almost mental blindness to that of intellectual and accountable beings." The New York _Statesman_[217] speaks of the effects in "improving the moral principle, which is torpid and almost obliterated, and opening the way to moral and religious instruction and knowledge of the Deity which is almost void." An early report of the American School[218] tells of the transition of their "imprisoned minds which have too long been enveloped in the profoundest shade of intellectual and moral darkness to the cleansing and purifying light of Divine Truth." An Ohio report[219] states that they "have come forth into the light of truth, that truth that teaches them that they possess a rational and immortal spirit." In the address in behalf of the New York Institution before noted,[220] it is said of the deaf that the "powers of torpid and dormant intellects are resurrected from an eternal night of silence." The first report of the Minnesota School[221] refers to the deaf as "liberated from the winding sheets of silence and ignorance," and tells how "their souls vibrate with such joy as Lazarus felt when he stepped forth from the gloom of the grave." In the first report of the Indiana School[222] the state of the deaf without education is thus contrasted with that of the deaf with education: Indeed, the difference between the uneducated and the educated mute is almost incredible. The former "winds his weary way" through life in ignorance and obscurity, often an object of charity, and almost a burden to himself; but the latter, gladdened by the genial rays of knowledge and fitted for the discharge of duty, becomes a blessing to his friends and to society, acts well his part as a member of the great human family, enjoys the present, and looks forward to the future with cheerfulness and hope. The charter of the Pennsylvania Institution refers to the desire of certain citizens "to restore the deaf and dumb to the ranks of their species;" and the preamble of the statutes creating schools in Kentucky and other states contains similar language. The purpose of the Illinois school is given in the organic act, the language of that of Nebraska and other states being almost identical: To promote by all proper and feasible means the mental, moral and physical culture of that portion of the community, who by the mysterious dispensations of Providence, have been born, or by disease have become deaf, and of course dumb, by a judicious and well adapted course of education, to reclaim them from their lonely and cheerless condition, to restore them to the ranks of their species, and to fit them to discharge the social and domestic duties of life. The object of the schools in Wisconsin, South Dakota, and other states is declared to be: To afford the deaf and dumb of the state, so far as possible, an enlightened and practical education, that may aid them to obtain the means of instruction, discharge the duties of citizenship, and secure all the happiness they are capable of obtaining. The early educators of the deaf felt themselves that they were indeed carrying the light to shine in a dark place. In the language of one of the foremost of them:[223] Then the great triumph of science and benevolence over one of the most terrible of human calamities will be complete, and the deaf and dumb, objects of interest, but hardly of compassion, will stand forth among their kindred who hear, heirs of all the hopes, the privileges and the lofty aspirations of their race. EXTENSION OF THE MEANS OF INSTRUCTION OVER THE COUNTRY Interest in the education of the deaf had thus become general, public concern was awakened, and movements were early on foot in not a few states to start schools. The enthusiasm aroused by the success of the first schools only increased the hopes that others would be provided to reach the deaf children in all the states. A writer in the _North American Review_ in 1834[224] declared that there were "no doubts that the wants of the deaf and dumb will soon be supplied, and that the public beneficence already extended to a portion will, before the lapse of many years, be extended to all." Nor were these hopes to be shattered, for the states followed each other in rapid succession in providing means for the instruction of their deaf youth. Indeed, when we consider how early some of the newly settled states began to devote attention to the education of the deaf--a work that was undertaken in Europe only after the middle of the eighteenth century--we are persuaded that it speaks no less for the regard for and devotion to education implanted in the breasts of the American people, than for the bigness and benevolence of their hearts. The credit remains just as deep, even though it has ever been the mission and spirit of America to bring education to the door of every one of its children, and though what it has done for the deaf is but a part of this great principle. The early workers, despite the preliminary journeys to Europe, were largely pioneers, and this country owes an immeasurable debt to the founders and directors of the first schools. Many of them were ministers of the Gospel, and all of them were men of high ideals. Possibly there has never been a movement undertaken for the good of humanity that has drawn to it a more capable or earnest band of men. These early workers were possessed of a determination, an ardor, a resourcefulness, combined with scholarship and understanding of no common order, that would have graced any human cause. They were truly of those in America that have blazed trails, and to them belonged those elements of character that are a pride to any people.[225] The first schools were created by societies of private citizens, funds being contributed from "membership fees" in the societies, from subscriptions and from other private donations.[226] To the aid of these schools the state later came with appropriations; but while an oversight and general control were assumed by it, the schools were left as private corporations. With the establishment, however, of the Kentucky School in 1823, a second stage is reached in the extension of the new work, the state now undertaking the task itself and providing the schools at its own initiative and expense. At first admission into the schools was restricted to a certain number of pupils, often based upon some political division of the state, as a senatorial district in Tennessee, or a judicial in Ohio. When such limitations were swept away, we have the third stage in the provision for the education of the deaf. The fourth and last stage--though not necessarily in this order in any one particular state, and not in every case formally accomplished--is attained when in Indiana all charges are removed, and education is made free to all.[227] In the schools created in later times all these steps were usually merged into one: limitations of any kind were mostly omitted, and the schools were in general thrown open to all from the beginning. Thus is reached the culminative point in the course of the provision for the education of the deaf in America. No longer was private benevolence to inaugurate and carry on the work, but the state was coming to see its responsibility in part, finally to realize its full duty in making education free to all its deaf population, just as it was free to the rest of its citizens.[228] In many instances, before action by the state, instruction of a small collection of deaf children was taken up by a group of citizens;[229] but hardly had this been done when as a rule the state proved itself ready and willing to move in and shoulder the responsibility. These private schools were thus often the nuclei of the state institutions, at first aided to an extent, and then taken over. In fact, the private schools were not infrequently started more or less as experimental affairs, but with the expectation that the state would speedily come to their help. "The idea of the founders seemed to be to give barely enough to keep the school going, and to depend upon getting support of a substantial character in the course of time."[230] In some cases there were exhibitions of pupils, either from the school which was hoped to be aided, or from an already established school in another state. These were designed to awaken interest in the public, and especially among the legislators, and to quicken the desired action. In more than one instance the school was established at or near the state capital to show the legislatures what could be done and to influence their proceedings. Not infrequently memorials or petitions, in some cases containing a great number of names, were presented to the legislatures, praying for the establishment of the schools. Sometimes if doubt as to the wisdom of the proposed course seemed to delay matters, a point was to be gained in the dispatch as a preliminary procedure of a special committee or agent to some existing school in another state, to examine and report upon its work, this report being, as was expected, nearly always highly favorable.[231] But appeals to these bodies, whatever their nature, were rarely turned away, and usually secured prompt response. When action was finally to be obtained, the measure relating to the deaf was passed with few dissenting votes, sometimes with none at all. So eager had the representatives of the people now become, that, if it was not deemed practicable at once to create a state institution, haste was made to provide for the children in a school in another state till one within their own borders could be established. In some cases steps were taken to this end by the legislative assemblies of territories before statehood had been bestowed upon them.[232] At the same time not to be forgotten, in the narration of the extension of the means of education to the deaf of the country, is the real debt to private action. It was private initiative that often brought the schools into being, and it was private solicitude that often won their final endorsement and adoption by the state. In not a few places there were citizens found who were willing to give of their substance to forward the new work.[233] For some of the schools money was not only subscribed, but it came also from the proceeds of fairs and concerts, and for a few also from lectures, debates, exhibits of pictures, and similar affairs; while exhibitions of the pupils themselves from the schools seldom failed to draw a generous offering.[234] Indeed, many were glad of the opportunity to lend a hand, and contributions were tendered not only by various individuals, but also by different societies and organizations[235]--churches probably among the latter proving the most ready givers, with aid, in addition, at time from newspapers, and now and then from a school or college. In some cases funds were collected by citizens with which to purchase a site, and sometimes the land required was given by the cities themselves. Indirect aid was extended as well of not a few kinds; and in the early schools there was seldom great difficulty in securing reduced transportation on railroads and steamboats.[236] However, except in a few instances, private assistance in the aggregate did not prove great: as a rule in most schools it was limited, usually sufficing only to tide them over their nascent stage, and in large part ceasing upon their full establishment. From then on the maintenance was assumed practically entirely as a public charge, the legislatures of the several states undertaking themselves to provide for the schools. In a few cases, however, there was public aid of another sort. In several schools there were allowances for a longer or shorter period from municipal funds, as in Maryland, Pennsylvania and New York, and from county, as in North Carolina and Utah.[237] But much the most important assistance of this character came from the national government; and while only a few schools were favored by its action, the benefactions to those were hardly less than munificent. For the benefit of the Connecticut and Kentucky schools early in their careers Congress granted great areas of the public domain; and later, on the admission of half a dozen or so states in the West into the Union, set apart extensive tracts for the schools to be established in them.[238] When the school for the deaf had been formally recognized by the state, its first act of assistance as a rule was in the form of _per capita_ allowances for the pupils, with only occasionally a specific appropriation. These allowances were in the beginning small, but in time were gradually increased. It was usually some years before the policy was adopted of making regular appropriations. In a few cases, as in Indiana and Illinois, when it was decided to create a state institution, the first proceedings were, in lieu of a direct appropriation, the levying of a small mill tax upon the assessed property of the state. In New York benefit was allowed from the fines or licenses on lotteries, and in Ohio from the receipts of a tax on auctions in one of the counties of the state. In a few cases the schools were even located where there appeared the greatest financial inducement,[239] as with the requirement that a certain number of acres of land should be donated for the school.[240] For the organization of the new schools a small body of citizens was appointed, often the original promoters of the undertaking, to act as trustees, and to them was confided its direction, with the support and general oversight of the state back of them.[241] Now and then the trustees of an existing educational or other institution were given charge as a temporary arrangement.[242] In the material projection of the schools, little was to be expected at the beginning. With the meagre resources at their disposal, the directors had small choice in what was to be provided. In not a few cases the schools started out under conditions far from auspicious, and in some the circumstances in connection with their origin were quite discouraging.[243] The quarters secured for the schools were nearly always of unpretentious, and sometimes of humble, type. Many began in a single rented room, and a few in a church building lent for the purpose. It was only in the course of the years, as the communities grew in population and wealth, that the establishments for the deaf assumed appearances in keeping with their character. The schools for the deaf were now in being, and were ready for the reception of their pupils. But what of these pupils, and where were they? Were they found at the doors of the new institutions, clamoring for admission? The situation was hardly this. In point of fact, in nearly every case the schools were ahead of the pupils. Though in practically every community where a school was created, there were a greater or less number of children in need of an education, these children, or rather their parents, were slow in availing themselves of the privilege. It was thus that the schools when established had to wait, as it were, for the coming of their pupils, and indeed, in not a few instances, to go out after them. On the opening of the schools, none was found to have a large number of pupils, and in most there were only a handful, as three, four or five.[244] It was discovered that it was a far from easy task to get the children in.[245] The parents were in no small measure ignorant themselves, and the real value of the school was not always readily understood. Besides, in many sections the country was new, the roads bad, and the facilities for travel scant. Oftentimes in the course of the founding of the schools, before any direct act was attempted, a census was taken of the deaf of the state. It was also frequently made the duty of certain local officers as county clerks, assessors, etc., to register and report prospective pupils. By many of the schools circulars were distributed to postmasters, tax-collectors, ministers, school-teachers and others to enlist their help in reaching deaf children;[246] and by certain of the schools the newspapers were even availed of to carry their advertisements. Sometimes special agents were sent out to scour the state and gather in pupils. In many of the schools at the same time the terms of admission were carefully prescribed,[247] and in some, especially the older ones, these terms were often published. Notices of vacancies were also in a few cases put in the newspapers, while in one or two instances, as in Massachusetts, it was provided that lots should be drawn when it was found that the number of applicants exceeded the number allowed. In a large portion of the schools at first the pupils were individually committed, or were "appointed," as it was called.[248] It was usually some years before the greater part of such formalities ceased. Charges were also occasionally made at the beginning,[249] later to be reduced and in time to be abolished.[250] In most of the schools in their first days the period of attendance allowed to the pupils was very short, often being three or four years, and sometimes only two. Usually, however, after a time one or two years were added to the number permitted, which procedure was repeated after certain intervals, and the length of residence was thus gradually increased. In few of the schools, moreover, was an early age held essential; and, indeed, in a considerable number pupils were not admitted at an early age, the limit not infrequently being ten or twelve.[251] The upper limit was high as well, and in some cases pupils might enter up to thirty. These age limitations were also in turn lowered in the course of time. Thus eventually we find the ages of attendance as well as the general rules and regulations of admission conforming more and more to those of the regular schools. The various schools that have been created for the deaf have been for the most part boarding institutions, in which the pupils have lived during the school year. But beginning in 1869, and increasing rapidly since 1890, a system of day schools has been brought into being, more on the order of the regular common schools, and more distinctly an integral part of the state's educational economy. Such schools, now over three score in number, have been established in fourteen states, and belong especially to large cities. They may be regarded in many respects as denoting a new departure in the educational treatment of the deaf, and as marking the latest development in the course of the instruction of the deaf in the country. In addition, there have been created a class of schools, numbering some score at present, which are of denominational or private character, and are not affected by state control. Finally, there has been established by the United States government a national college for the deaf of all the country--which may be called the crowning feature in the provision for the education of the deaf in America. For the great number of the deaf--over five-sixths of the total--the institutional schools remain the one means of instruction. They have been created in all but a few of the states, and in those without them the children are sent to a school in a neighboring state. In some of the more populous states two or more schools have been established. These schools are as a rule supported entirely from the public treasury, and are controlled by the legislatures, the actual administration being delegated to boards of trustees or other bodies. In half the states a regard of an enduring kind has been manifested for the schools in that provision for them has been included in the constitutions, and these states are thus committed to their maintenance. In the schools themselves not only is education presented in the usual sense, but in practically all industrial training has also been provided to no mean extent, and constitutes a prominent feature of the work. We have now traced the origin and development of the schools for the deaf in the United States. The present organization and arrangements are to be considered in the following chapters. We have found that the duty of the education of the deaf has been recognized in all the states of the Union; that to-day everywhere in America provision has been made for the instruction of the deaf; and that to all the deaf children of the land the doors of education are open wide.[252] FOOTNOTES: [164] There is, however, a case reported before this of a deaf person who had received instruction, though hardly in America. This was a woman who was blind as well as deaf, and who lived at Ipswich, Massachusetts, in 1637. She had come from England; but whether or not she had been taught before the coming on of her affliction, we are left in ignorance. All that we are sure of is that communication could be had with her. See John Winthrop, "History of New England", ed. 1853, i., p. 281; _Annals_, xlv., 1900, p. 91. [165] _Association Review_, ii., 1900, p. 34 ("Historical Notes concerning the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf"). No little debt is owed to Dr. Alexander Graham Bell for his researches into the early attempts at instruction in America. [166] _American Historical Review_, vi., 1900, pp. 65, 81, 82, 95. See also _Association Review_, ii., 1900, p. 527. [167] See A. G. Bell, "A Philanthropist of the Last Century Identified as a Boston Man", 1900; _North American Review_, civ., 1867, p. 512; _Annals_, i., 1848, p. 189; ix., 1857, p. 169; xii., 1860, p. 258; xiii., 1861, p. 1; _Association Review_, ii., 1900, pp. 42, 119. In some of these are given letters of Green appearing in the _New England Palladium_ and _Columbian Centinel_, of Boston, and the _Medical Repository and Review of American Publications on Medicine, Surgery and the Auxiliary Branches of Science_, of New York. Green also published a translation of de l'Épée's main work and extracts from his other writings. A review of "_Vox Oculis Subjecta_" appeared in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, Sept., 1783, and in the _Boston Magazine_, Dec., 1784, Jan., 1785. [168] Report of New York Institution, 1843, p. 17; _Annals_, ix., 1857, p. 168. [169] At this time the United States and England were at war, and Braidwood's adventure received official notice in a permit from the Commissary General of Prisoners to the Marshal of Virginia. [170] Braidwood was in communication with the promoters of the schools now being organized in Hartford and New York. [171] On these schools, see History of Virginia School, 1893, p. 3; Report, 1853, p. 25; Report of New York Institution, 1856, p. 17; _Annals_, ix., 1857, p. 170; xxi., 1876, p. 130; _Association Review_, ii., 1900, pp. 257, 385, 489; v., 1903, p. 400. In the last are given advertisements and notices concerning the school from the Richmond _Enquirer_, the Petersburg _Republican_, and _Niles' Weekly Register_, of Baltimore. [172] Among those who had given the matter thought was Dr. William Thornton of Philadelphia, who in 1793 published "Cadmus: a Treatise on the Elements of Written Language", there being an appendix on "A Mode of Teaching the Deaf, or Surd, and Consequently Dumb, to Speak". Transactions of American Philosophical Society, iii., p. 262, as cited in _Association Review_, ii., 1900, p. 113. See also _ibid._, v., 1903, p. 406; _Annals_, i., 1848, p. 190. He was the first writer in America upon the education of the deaf. [173] By some at this time there were not believed to be a sufficient number of the deaf to justify a school, and it was due to this mainly that the investigation was made. [174] Funds to the amount of $2,278 were subscribed before the departure of Gallaudet. _Association Review_, iii., 1901, p. 329. [175] It is said that Stephen Girard declined to contribute because Philadelphia was not chosen as the site of the school. Tribute to Gallaudet, p. 114. [176] _Ibid._, p. 155. [177] This grant seems to have been used later for the benefit of Connecticut pupils. [178] This, however, was not the first appropriation to a benevolent institution. The colony of Pennsylvania in 1751 had voted an appropriation for certain of its insane in a hospital to be opened the following year, while New York in 1806 granted $15,000 for the care of its insane in a hospital. Virginia established its insane asylum at Williamsburg in 1773. [179] See Laws of Maine, 1829, p. 24. [180] _Annals_, iv., 1851, p. 63; _National Magazine_, ix., 1856, p. 489. [181] Tribute to Gallaudet, p. 136. This was also expressed in the _Missionary Herald_, Sept., 1826, quoted in _American Journal of Education_, i., 1826, p. 631. At the same time caution was advised as to the result, as the benefit was to depend upon the sale of the land. [182] Report of American School, 1825, p. 5; 1836, p. 22. [183] In 1821 steps were taken to establish a school in South Carolina. A census of the deaf children in the state was made, 29 being found. The school here, however, was not started till some years later. See Report of South Carolina School, 1904, p. 7. In neither the case of this state nor that of Georgia was the number of pupils annually sent to Hartford large, ranging from 2 to 8 in each. See Report of American School, 1835, p. 9; Georgia School, 1874, p. 11; _American Annals of Education_, v., 1835, p. 93. A joint school for the south-eastern states was also contemplated at this time. [184] There were several pupils here supported by the United States government, who were the children of deceased veterans, the first coming from Maryland in 1819. History of Maryland School, 1893, p. 11. [185] Gallaudet remained at the head of the American Asylum, as it was then called, till 1828, when he resigned. He was engaged thereafter in various philanthropic activities, and was invited to lead in the work for the education of the blind, towards which attention was now being directed. Notwithstanding the impairment of his health, his different labors were continued, not the least of which was his office as chaplain of the Connecticut Asylum for the Insane. To Thomas Hopkins Gallaudet America owes a rare debt. Without him the work for the deaf would have been taken up eventually by other hands, but he brought to his task a disregard for obstacles, a splendid idealism, a fine conception of duty, a complete forgetfulness of self, a singular beauty of character, and a great human love that could have existed in but few other men. [186] There were 66 found in a very short time. [187] Volumes iii. and iv. of the _Association Review_ (1901 and 1902) contain most interesting accounts of these first schools, with extracts from early reports, letters of Dr. Cogswell, Gallaudet and others; extracts from the Hartford _Courant_ and the _Connecticut Mirror_, both urging the importance of the school established at Hartford and the need of contributions, and the latter (in the issue of March 24, 1817) giving the conditions and terms of admission; also extracts from other papers, as the Albany _Daily Advertiser_, the New York _Commercial Advertiser_, the _General Aurora Advertiser_, _Poulson's American Daily Advocate_, the _Christian Observer_, the _Freeman's Journal and Columbian Chronicle_, of Philadelphia, and _Niles' Weekly Register_, of Baltimore. See also E. M. Gallaudet, "Life of Thomas Hopkins Gallaudet." [188] Pub. Stat., ch. 24. [189] Pupils were in time received here from all the Southern states. History, 1893, p. 5. [190] This was to be called "The Western Asylum for the Education of the Deaf and Dumb". An association was formed, and the legislature was asked to incorporate the school. In 1822 a census was taken for all the state except two counties, when 428 deaf persons were found. The school was not established on the ground that it was too far removed from the center of the state. See _Annals_, v., 1853, p. 221; xxv., 1880, p. 30; Report of Ohio School, 1876, p. 30. [191] A school under Roman Catholic auspices was established near St. Louis in 1837. [192] Report of Indiana School, 1851, p. 26. See also _Annals_, vi., 1854, p. 150. This honor is also to be shared in by the state of Ohio. In 1844, or four years before the action of Indiana, the laws prohibiting the trustees from receiving more than a certain number of indigent pupils in one year at the expense of the state were repealed, and the trustees were authorized to admit suitable pupils, as they might deem necessary and proper. This probably had the effect of allowing all pupils free attendance, though it remained with the trustees to decide. The formal removal of limitations respecting indigent pupils did not take place till 1854. [193] A society was formed for the purpose, a charter secured from the legislature, and Congress petitioned for land. _Annals_, xiii., 1868, p. 233. [194] History, 1893, p. 9. [195] In Maryland, for instance, we find an early appropriation for those "teachable". The _American Journal of Education_ tells of the wonder on the part of the legislators of Massachusetts when a class of deaf-mutes was exhibited in their presence, iv., 1829, p. 78. [196] P. 5. [197] See Sketch of Origin and Progress of the Institution for the Deaf and Dumb in Pennsylvania, 1821. [198] Report, 1867, p. 12. [199] See _Annals_, iii., 1851, p. 123, quoting from the _Boston Congregationalist_. [200] History, 1893, p. 3. [201] See Report of American School, 1823, p. 5; 1824, p. 10; 1840, pp. 5, 24; New York Institution, 1829, p. 17; Pennsylvania Institution, 1839, p. 6; Illinois School, 1856, p. 10; Report of Select Committee to Visit Pennsylvania Institution, 1838, p. 3. [202] It is interesting to note that of the first four institutions incorporated in New York, the purposes are thus respectively given: "to afford the necessary means of instruction to the deaf and dumb, and also provide for the support and maintenance of those whose parents are unable"; "to aid and instruct the deaf and dumb"; "to instruct and support"; and "to receive, care for, support and educate". [203] History, 1893, p. 4. See also _Annals_, vi., 1853, p. 234. [204] Account of Origin and Progress of the Pennsylvania Institution, 1821, pp. 4, 7. See also "Sketch of Origin and Progress," etc., 1821, p. 4; Report of Pennsylvania Institution, 1875, p. 22. [205] By Silvanus Miller, 1819, p. 15. [206] 1819, p. 31 (reprint of 1894). [207] 1839, p. 5. [208] 1862, p. 5. [209] 1853, p. 20. [210] 1848, p. 3. [211] i., 1835, p. 136. [212] Jan., 18, 1817. Quoted in _Association Review_, iii., 1901, p. 434. [213] Address at Proceedings of Laying of Corner Stone, 1848, p. 13. [214] March 1, 1827. Quoted in Report of New York Institution, 1827, p. 19. [215] By Lewis Weld, 1828, p. 3. [216] Report of Select Committee of 18th Congress, 1st sess., upon a Memorial to Give Land, etc., 1824, p. 12. [217] Quoted in _American Journal of Education_, i., 1826, p. 432. [218] 1827, p. 10. [219] 1834, p. 5. [220] Address of Silvanus Miller, _loc. cit._ [221] 1863, p. 17. [222] Quoted in History, 1893, p. 6. For other accounts of the condition of the deaf without education and the blessings to be obtained from it, see Report of Kentucky School, 1824, p. 10; Ohio School, 1842, p. 13; Kansas School, 1870, p. 12; History of Mississippi School, 1893, p. 3; _Southwestern School Journal_ (Tennessee), i., 1848, p. 49; J. H. Tyler, "Duty and Advantages of the Education of the Deaf", etc., 1843; Sermon by John Summerfield, in behalf of the New York Institution, 1822; Discourse of Samuel L. Mitchell, Pronounced at Request of Society for Instruction of the Deaf and Dumb, New York, 1818; Addresses of Joseph H. Lane and Ebenezer Demorest, before Legislature of Indiana, 1851. [223] Harvey Prindle Peet, at first Convention of American Instructors, 1850, p. 141. See also _Annals_, iii., 1850, p. 160. [224] xxxviii., p. 357. [225] When the accounts of brave endeavor, and the rolls of those inflamed for human service, are finally made up, high indeed will stand the names of Thomas Hopkins Gallaudet, Lewis Weld, John A. Jacobs, Abraham B. Hutton, Harvey P. Peet, Collins Stone, Horatio N. Hubbell, Thomas McIntyre, Luzerne Rae, Barabas M. Fay, David E. Bartlett, William W. Turner, Newton P. Walker, Jacob Van Nostrand, William D. Kerr, and others both of those who worked with them and who followed in their steps. [226] Where the institutions were under regularly chartered societies, these dues were usually fixed at $5, with life membership at $50, though the size of the fees varied in the different schools. In the American School the office of vice-president was created for those paying $200. In some of these schools the fees proved of considerable assistance. [227] The course of provision may be illustrated in the case of the Ohio School. In 1829, at the beginning, an indigent pupil was to be admitted from each of the nine judicial districts of the state, "to be selected by the board of trustees from persons recommended by the associate judges of the counties where they reside". In 1830 the number was increased to eighteen, in 1832 to twenty-seven, in 1834 to forty-eight, and in 1835 to sixty. In 1844 all suitable applicants were to be received, and in 1854 all limitations as to financial ability were removed. [228] In many instances the school for the deaf was the first "benevolent" or "humane" institution created by the state. [229] In several instances a deaf man himself came to a community and organized a school. [230] Mr. E. S. Tillinghast, of the Oregon School, in a letter to the writer. See also Report of Oregon School, 1880, p. 4. [231] On efforts to secure schools, see _Southern Literary Messenger_, i., 1835, pp. 134, 201. [232] It is to be noted that some of the older schools did not look with favor upon the rapid increase in the number of the schools. The creation of many new ones was sometimes advised against, it being declared that the existing ones could answer for all the country, and that pupils would gain by attending them. See Report of Pennsylvania Institution, 1830, appendix, p. 14; American School, 1824, p. 6; 1826, p. 4. [233] In some cases pathetic appeals were made for money. See Address before New York Forum in behalf of New York Institution, 1819; Discourse pronounced at Request of Society for the Instruction of the Deaf and Dumb, appendix (address to the public), 1818; Circular of President and Directors of New York Institution, 1818; Addresses to Contributors to the Pennsylvania Asylum, 1821; Report of Pennsylvania Institution, 1826, appendix, p. 19. [234] In New York exhibits of pupils were given in a score of cities and towns, in a third of which there were repetitions. _Annals_, xviii., 1873, p. 80. In Illinois there were more than two score exhibits given, witnessed by some 50,000 persons. Report of Illinois School, 1868, p. 36. [235] In connection with the New York Institution there was a society called the New York Female Association, "to aid in giving support and instruction to the indigent deaf and dumb", which lasted from 1825 to 1835. It raised in one year $1200 for "unsuccessful applicants". See Address and Constitution, 1830; Report of New York Institution, 1826, p. 6. [236] See Report of Mississippi School, 1872, p. 17; _Annals_, ix., 1857, p. 178. [237] In a few instances, as in North Carolina, the counties were authorized to raise funds by a special tax. [238] Aid was besought of the national government by a number of schools. In 1826 Congress was asked for the endowment of the institutions then in being which had not already been assisted. See Address of Lewis Weld in the Capitol in Washington, 1828, p. 8. In 1833 the Senate passed bills granting land to the schools in New York, Pennsylvania and Ohio, but these failed to be acted upon in the House. Proceedings of Laying of Corner Stone of Ohio Institution, 1864; Report of Ohio School, 1869, p. 52. Later there were applications from individual schools, most seeking grants of land. Requests came from Vermont, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, North Carolina, Georgia, Ohio, Michigan, Wisconsin, and Nebraska. A township was usually desired, though Vermont asked for 10,000 acres for the benefit of a hospital for the insane and for the education of the deaf and blind. See Laws of Vermont, 1851, no. 81; New Jersey, 1823, p. 124; Report of New York Institution, 1846, p. 14; Michigan School, 1858, p. 46; History of Wisconsin School, 1893, p. 6; Proceedings of Convention of American Instructors, i., 1850, p. 171. [239] In Indiana several cities made efforts to secure the school. In Bloomington $4,000 was raised, and an offer extended of a special local tax levy of one cent on $100 of property for its benefit. _Annals_, vi., 1854, p. 150. [240] Thus in Kansas the school was established on condition that 20 acres be granted for a site, and 150 for its benefit; in Minnesota that 40 acres be provided; and in Colorado that 5 be provided. In Indiana the school was first only provisionally located by the statute. [241] In one or two instances "contract" schools were provided for, the managers receiving a certain amount from the state and reserving the balance left after the payment of expenses as their compensation. This plan, however, did not continue long, and was generally condemned. See _Annals_, iii., 1851, p. 34. [242] In Kentucky the school was placed under the trustees of Centre College at Danville, and so remained for fifty years. [243] The schools in Indiana and Tennessee were compelled for financial reasons to close for six months, and that in Oregon for eight months, shortly after they had been opened. Report of Tennessee School, 1847, p. 9; History of Oregon School, 1893, p. 4; _Annals_, x., 1858, p. 106. To add to the difficulties in some instances, was the belief that not enough deaf children could be assembled for a school. [244] The number in the beginning at the Kentucky and Texas schools was 3, at the New York and Illinois 4, at the Indiana and Tennessee 6, at the Hartford 7, and at the Ohio and Missouri 1. [245] On the difficulty in getting the pupils in, see Report of Iowa School, 1865, p. 12; 1868, p. 8; Arkansas School, 1872, p. 15; Indiana School, 1877, p. 15; Kentucky School, 1846, p. 1; West Virginia School, 1879, p. 10; Illinois School, 1854, p. 11; Wisconsin School, 1859, p. 15; _Annals_, iv., 1852, p. 241. [246] See Report of Michigan School, 1874, p. 43. [247] In many of the schools there was, and still is, a formal requirement of good character. [248] In some of the states the pupils were long known as "beneficiaries". The power of appointment was not infrequently vested in the governor of the state. [249] In Tennessee a charge was at first made for board, with the result that no pupil appeared; and after a month or two this was removed. Report of Tennessee School, 1845, p. 14; _Annals_, ix., 1857, p. 118. See also Proceedings of Convention of American Instructors, iii., 1853, p. 169. As to the desirability of free transportation, see Report of Ohio School, 1843, p. 11. [250] At the American School a charge of $200 was laid for each pupil at first. This was reduced after a time to $150, then to $115, then to $100, and finally removed altogether. [251] In Massachusetts the law for a number of years allowed no applications under fourteen, while in Georgia the age limits for pupils sent to Connecticut were from ten to forty. At the first Convention of American Instructors, it was agreed that it was not expedient to receive pupils under ten, while twelve was considered more suitable. Proceedings, i., 1850, p. 223. On the ages of admission and attendance, see _Annals_, v., 1852, p. 141; xviii., 1873, p. 176; Report of American School, 1833, p. 23; Iowa School, 1865, p. 11; Indiana School, 1871, p. 19; Missouri School, 1856, p. 14; Proceedings of Conference of Principals, i., 1868, p. 43; Documents of Senate of New York, 1838, no. 25 (Report of Secretary of State on Relation to Deaf and Dumb). [252] How well America has performed its duty towards the deaf has been generally recognized in other countries. In the Encyclopedia Britannica (eleventh edition) the deaf of America are referred to as the best educated deaf in the world. A German opinion is that "America has given special attention to the care and education of deaf-mutes". _American Journal of Sociology_, vii., 1902, p. 532. See also G. Ferreri, "American Institutions for the Education of the Deaf", 1908; Education of Deaf Children, Evidence of E. M. Gallaudet and A. G. Bell, Presented to Royal Commission of the United Kingdom on Condition of the Blind, the Deaf and Dumb, etc., 1892; E. M. Gallaudet, Report on Deaf-Mute Institutions in the American Commission at the Vienna International Exhibit, 1873, Report of United States Commissioners, 1876, ii.; J. C. Gordon, "Notes and Observations upon the Education of Deaf Children", 1892; E. E. Allen, "Education of Defectives" in "Education in the United States", 1900; E. G. Dexter, "History of Education in the United States", 1906, p. 470; G. G. Smith, "Social Pathology", 1911, p. 245; Cyclopedia of Education, 1911, p. 257; _Education_, xviii., 1898, p. 417; W. H. Addison, Report of a Visit to Some of the American Schools for the Deaf (the Mosely Commission), 1907; _Association Review_, ii., 1900, pp. 70, 159, 273; xi., 1909, p. 495; _Annals_, xliv., 1899, pp. 177, 342, 439; xlv., 1900, pp. 16, 126, 205, 297. CHAPTER X ORGANIZATION OF THE INSTITUTIONS AND GENERAL PROVISIONS ARRANGEMENTS IN THE DIFFERENT STATES Provision for the education of the deaf is made by the different states as a general rule in local institutions. In only four states are deaf children sent at public expense to a school outside for their instruction: Delaware, New Hampshire, Nevada, and Wyoming. In these, owing to their comparatively small populations, it has been considered more economical and satisfactory to contract with the school in an adjoining state. In each of the other states there is at least one institution, or sixty-five in all. In Connecticut and the District of Columbia[253] there are two, in Massachusetts three, in Pennsylvania four, and in New York eight. In some of these the schools are distributed over the state the better to reach all the pupils. In the Southern states there are usually separate departments in the regular institutions for children of the colored race,[254] but in some there are special arrangements. In Virginia there is one school for the white deaf and blind, and another for the colored. In North Carolina there is a school for the white deaf, and another for the blind with a department for the colored deaf and blind. In Alabama, Maryland, Oklahoma, and Texas each there is a school for the white deaf and another for the colored deaf and blind.[255] In nearly all the states these schools are strictly public institutions, owned by the state and supported wholly by taxation, and are under the direct control and supervision of the legislature. In a few of the Eastern states the institutions are in private hands and operated under their immediate direction, and in some cases supported in part by endowment funds, but at the same time receiving appropriations from the state, and subject to its authority and general oversight. They are thus "semi-public" or "quasi-public" institutions, and will need a brief separate treatment, as will also the "dual schools," where the deaf and blind are educated together. SEMI-PUBLIC INSTITUTIONS The semi-public institutions are seventeen in number, and are found in six states: Connecticut, Maryland,[256] Massachusetts, New York, Pennsylvania,[257] and Vermont. Institutions in these states have remained private corporations from the time they were established, some of them being, as we have seen, the first schools that were created for the deaf. A certain number were especially favored by private munificence at their beginning, and continued to be supported by private funds till the state came to their aid and undertook to assist by regular appropriations. Other schools have been similarly organized, but have always depended largely on the appropriations from the state. All of them are in the hands of societies,[258] organized and chartered as corporations under the laws of the state. In some cases membership is open to those interested on the payment of the regular dues or fees.[259] These institutions, while corporate bodies, are under the authority and supervision of the state. Their relation to the state and the conditions under which they exist may be understood from their position in New York. Here the institutions were chartered by the state as benevolent societies, the buildings and grounds being presented, or the money for them collected, by the trustees, and the property reverting to the state if alienated to another use.[260] These schools are all subsidized from the state treasury in _per capita_ allowances for the pupils received;[261] and to some, especially the newer ones, there are general appropriations from time to time for buildings and the like. The regular grants, however, are often not sufficient for the cost of maintenance, which means that the institutions are instructing the children of the state, and maintaining them, at a cost to which the state contributes only a part. Such balances are covered from the endowment funds and private donations, but it would seem that the state gets a good bargain from the transaction.[262] On the other hand, it is to be remembered in connection with these schools that in the matter of the education of certain of the children of the state this duty is turned over to a private society. An anomalous situation, it would seem, is thus created, the state abdicating one of its most important functions as now conceived. The question, however, is not of great practical moment, and the matter may be likened to the general policy of the state when it contracts out for any of its work to be done. If economy and efficiency are secured, it is felt that there can be little ground for objection. A more important question arises in the matter of the granting of public money to a private institution. The matter of such state subsidies has already received considerable discussion,[263] and may receive even more attention in the future. Notwithstanding, these private institutions for the deaf were largely organized before the present attitude in the matter: they have in some cases really anticipated the duty of the state, and in a general consideration of the subject would probably be the last to be condemned. "DUAL SCHOOLS" "Dual schools," that is, schools in which there are departments both for the deaf and the blind, are found in ten states: California, Colorado, Florida, Idaho, Montana, South Carolina, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, and West Virginia.[264] In a number of other states the deaf and the blind were for a certain period educated together, either the two classes being provided for jointly from the first or a department for the blind being later created; but in time in these the two classes have been separated, and distinct schools for the blind set up.[265] As a general thing, this arrangement of having the deaf and the blind together in one school has been regarded as unfortunate, and educators of both classes have protested against it. The question has thus been stated: The deaf and the blind "have nothing in common in the matter of education, and the bringing of the two classes together is a prolific source of friction and compromise."[266] The blind, it seems, are the worst sufferers, as they are in a minority, are often considered only a department or class in an institution designed primarily for the deaf, and consequently receive less attention than they should.[267] However, this arrangement has not been adopted as a deliberate policy on the part of the state: rather, it was begun when the school was young, pupils of both classes few, and one plant was thought adequate; and was allowed to continue as a makeshift till separate schools could be created. As the states have grown in population and resources, most have seen the wisdom of severing the blind from the deaf; and even in the states where the dual school is retained it is probably only a question of time till provision will be made for the separate education of the two classes, and eventually there will be independent schools for each in all the states. PROVISION FOR THE DEAF-BLIND In 1824 at the school for the deaf at Hartford, Connecticut, the first deaf-blind pupil in America began to receive instruction. To-day the names of certain illustrious deaf-blind persons are known over the civilized world.[268] Such children are provided for at present more often in schools for the deaf than in schools for the blind, only one or two schools for the latter class instructing them. The deaf-blind, however, do not form a large class, and only in a small number of schools are they to be found.[269] In certain cases where the school is only for the deaf, special permission with a special appropriation has to be obtained, but there has been little difficulty met here from the legislatures. To certain of the deaf-blind individual benefactions have been made, as legacies, donations and subscriptions, sometimes given to the institutions to hold in trust; and in some cases these funds are for life. PROVISION FOR THE FEEBLE-MINDED DEAF In many of the schools for the deaf a problem has arisen in connection with a number of feeble-minded children more or less defective in speech or hearing who have sought to gain admittance. Educators of the deaf have been called upon to give considerable attention to this class, and it has been a serious question what to do with them.[270] Many of those who have applied at the institutions have been denied. Some have been allowed to enter, and their presence in the schools has constituted a difficult problem.[271] It is felt by those concerned in the education of the deaf that they are out of place here, and that they should be removed to a regular institution for the feeble-minded, or should otherwise be specially provided for.[272] GOVERNMENT OF THE DIFFERENT INSTITUTIONS The government of schools for the deaf is practically the same in the different states. They are, for the most part, in the hands of boards of trustees, boards of directors, boards of managers, or boards of visitors, as they are variously termed. The semi-public institutions, as we have seen, were started as private concerns under private boards of directors. These boards still exist, and control the affairs of the institutions, having full powers but subject to such regulation as the state may direct. Such boards are usually self-perpetuating bodies, though in some cases the governor has been allowed to name a part. In the American School the governors and secretaries of state of the New England states are _ex-officio_ directors. In the case of some schools, as the Pennsylvania Institution, where membership is open to any one on the payment of the dues, the governing board is elected by the members of the society or corporation.[273] In all these boards the members serve without compensation. Their size varies considerably, but they are usually large, having in some cases over twenty members.[274] Where the school is strictly a state institution, the board is usually appointed by the governor, sometimes with the approval of the state senate.[275] In a few cases the boards are elected by the legislature, as in Georgia and Tennessee. In Montana appointment is made by the state board of education. In several of the states the governor or some other public officer, most often the superintendent of public instruction, is a member _ex-officio_.[276] These boards also as a rule serve without compensation, and are paid only for expenses actually incurred.[277] Their size is smaller than that of the corporate boards, usually consisting of from three to seven members, though in a few cases they may go beyond the latter figure. They are appointed to serve two, three, four or five years, and in a few cases even longer. In states where the members are elected by the legislature, the term is usually indefinite; and in one or two states, as in Alabama, the board is self-perpetuating.[278] In eight states the institutions are under special boards of their own, without supervision or regulation from other bodies: Alabama, District of Columbia, Georgia, Mississippi, New Mexico, South Carolina, Texas, and Utah. In eighteen states the schools are under special boards of trustees, while the state board of charities--or whatever the official title--may visit, inspect, supervise, advise, or may otherwise be connected with them: California, Connecticut, Idaho, Indiana, Louisiana, Maine, Maryland, Michigan, Minnesota, Missouri, Montana, New York, North Carolina, Oklahoma, Pennsylvania, Tennessee, Virginia, and West Virginia. It may be noted that such central boards--including the state boards of control--are found in thirty-nine states, and in all but five have some connection with the schools.[279] In eleven states the schools are directly under the state boards of control, central boards or bodies with similar powers, no special or local board intervening: Arkansas, Florida, Illinois, Iowa, Nebraska, North Dakota, Ohio, Oregon, South Dakota, Washington, and Wisconsin.[280] In some of the states, on the other hand, the schools are related to the state department of education. In four states they are under boards of trustees, with supervision only by this department: Colorado, Kentucky, Massachusetts, and Rhode Island. In Idaho and New Jersey the schools are directly under the department,[281] though in the former there is also connection with another state board. In Montana the board of trustees is appointed by the department. In Indiana and Oklahoma the schools have boards of trustees and are under the department of education, but with inspection also by the department of charities. In New York and North Carolina there is supervision both by the department of education and of charities. In several states the board of trustees includes the state superintendent of public instruction as a member _ex-officio_, as in Alabama, Louisiana, Minnesota, South Carolina, Tennessee, and Virginia. In Kansas the school is under the state board of administration for educational institutions, including the university, normal school and agricultural college, and in Florida the school is under the board of control of state educational institutions, while in Arizona the school is a department of the state university.[282] PROCEDURE IN STATES WITHOUT INSTITUTIONS In states where pupils are sent to schools outside the state, appointments and commitments are usually made in the East by the respective governors, and in the West by the boards of education or of charities. In Delaware the governor appoints pupils to outside schools, the state supreme court having first recommended. In New Hampshire the governor recommends, while the children are placed by the board of control.[283] In Wyoming the education of deaf children is directed by the board of charities and reforms, and in Nevada by the state department of education.[284] FOOTNOTES: [253] The two institutions here are the Kendall School and Gallaudet College, though both really form what is known as the Columbia Institution. [254] In Louisiana full action has not been taken as yet for the creation of a special school for the colored deaf, though this may be expected soon. See Message of Governor, 1908, p. 78. In regard to the value of the schools for the colored, the opinion of the heads of the schools in the Southern states has been ascertained by the Board of Charities of Louisiana. The wisdom of the policy was agreed in by all, and the schools were reported as doing well, as were their graduates. By one superintendent it was stated that "ignorance is costly to the state in more ways than one". Report, 1907, p. 43. [255] In the District of Columbia and West Virginia colored children are sent to Maryland for education. [256] The Maryland School approaches more nearly a state institution, though it is under a self-perpetuating body of trustees. [257] Two schools in Pennsylvania are entirely state institutions, the Home for the Training in Speech and the Pennsylvania Oral School. [258] In a few institutions there are aid or auxiliary societies composed of ladies, usually about fifteen in number, as in the New York Institution, the New York Institution for Improved Instruction, and the Pennsylvania Institution. [259] These fees and dues, as we have seen, are of varying size. Annual membership dues are often $5, and sometimes as high as $25. Life membership fees range from $25 to $100, with corresponding fees for patrons, vice-presidents and others. The highest fee is that of life donor in the New York Institution for Improved Instruction, being $1,000. [260] Dr. I. L. Peet, Proceedings of National Conference of Charities and Corrections, 1883, p. 415. [261] The annual appropriations are from $265 to $360 for each pupil, but not often over $300 or $325. [262] In the case of the Pennsylvania Institution we are advised that the _per capita_ appropriation is $32 less than the actual cost. See also Report, 1900, p. 9; 1901, p. 10; 1908, p. 10. In the case of the Clarke School, the trustees declare that the state has never paid the school for each pupil the average annual cost of instruction and maintenance, and the legislature is repeatedly asked to increase its appropriations. See Report, 1904, p. 8; 1911, p. 9; 1912, p. 8. Of the American School we are told that the state appropriation "has never been enough to meet the actual cost". Report, 1909, p. 9. In the case of the New York Institution we are advised that the cost per pupil from 1903 to 1913 has ranged from $338 to $415, while the state appropriation has never exceeded $325; and that from 1893 to 1913 $357,579 has been expended for educational purposes, and $500,000 for buildings and equipment, from the school's own funds. [263] On this subject, see _American Journal of Sociology_, vii., 1901, p. 359; Report of Superintendent of Charities of District of Columbia, 1891, p. 11; Proceedings of National Conference of Charities and Corrections, 1911, p. 27. [264] As we have noted, Alabama, Maryland, North Carolina, Oklahoma, Texas, and Virginia have similar arrangements for their colored deaf and blind. [265] In New Mexico, however, where there are schools for both classes, the governor has advised their consolidation, as one institution "could administer to the needs of both". Message, 1907, p. 21. [266] Report of Colorado School, 1908, p. 20. See also Report of Board of Charities of West Virginia, 1910, p. 209. [267] The educators of the blind have particularly arraigned this plan. At one of the first conventions of the American Instructors of the Blind, the following propositions were enunciated: 1. Deaf-mutes and the blind differ from each other more widely than either class differs from those having all the senses; 2. the methods of instruction peculiar to each are entirely unlike and incompatible; 3. the deaf engross the main attention; 4. the development of the blind department is retarded. Proceedings, 1871, p. 87. Educators of the deaf have likewise stated their objections. At an early conference of principals, a resolution was adopted that the arrangement was bad, the methods being entirely different. Proceedings, ii., 1872, pp. 146, 151. See also Report of Michigan School, 1855 (first report), p. 1; 1880, p. 62; Louisiana School, 1870, p. 30. In times past, however, advantages of this arrangement have been pointed out. See Report of California Institution, 1869, p. 15; 1873, p. 19. [268] See individual accounts in William Wade's monograph on the Deaf-Blind, 1901; see also _National Magazine_, xi., 1857, p. 27; _Review of Reviews_, xxv., 1902, p. 435; Ohio Bulletin of Charities and Corrections, xiii., 1907, p. 47; Proceedings of American Instructors of the Deaf, xvi., 1901, p. 175ff.; _Annals_, l., 1905, p. 125. [269] The chief schools where they have been of recent years or are now being instructed are the New York Institution, the Pennsylvania Institution, the Western Pennsylvania Institution, and the schools in Ohio, Mississippi, Kentucky, Illinois, Iowa, Minnesota, South Dakota, Wisconsin, Colorado, North Carolina, South Carolina, Virginia, Arkansas, Louisiana, and Texas. The number in any one school at one time seldom exceeds two or three, most often there being but one. [270] A considerable proportion of such children are rather dumb than deaf, having some oral, as well as mental, defect. [271] On this question, see especially Report of Illinois School, 1860, p. 15; Michigan School, 1887, p. 25; Maryland School, 1885, p. 13; 1897, p. 13; Mississippi School, 1909, p. 24; _Minnesota Companion_, of Minnesota School, Nov. 22, 1911; Report of Board of Charities of New York, 1912, i., p. 144. Of the Alabama School, it is said that it "has turned away a number of these feeble-minded children during the past two years". Report, 1904, p. 21. In Ohio there are stated to be a hundred such children. Report of Ohio School, 1909, p. 17. In another state there are said to be 150 feeble-minded deaf. _Annals_, liv., 1909, p. 444. [272] In 1910 the census reported 294 deaf persons in institutions for the feeble-minded, or 1.4 per cent of all their inmates. Insane and Feeble-minded in Institutions, 1914, p. 92. It has also been estimated that five per cent of the deaf are feeble-minded. Proceedings of Conference of Charities and Corrections, 1906, p. 254ff. On the subject of the feeble-minded deaf in institutions, Mr. Cyrus E. White, of the Kansas School, sent letters to the heads of 55 schools, receiving replies from 45. No state, it was found, had made special provision for the feeble-minded deaf. It was the general agreement that they should be in institutions for the feeble-minded, one superintendent declaring that "feeble-mindedness is a better classification than deafness". Another superintendent suggested the establishment of such an institution in a central state, to which the different states could send suitable cases. See _Annals_, lv., 1910, p. 133. A committee of the Pennsylvania Society for the Advancement of the Deaf has found that all of the three feeble-minded institutions in this state are crowded, and that there is no hope for the feeble-minded deaf in them. Proceedings, xxiv., 1910, p. 9. In one institution for the feeble-minded there are said to be twenty deaf feeble-minded. _Annals_, liv., 1909, p. 444. In the institution for the feeble-minded in Iowa a special class of such inmates was organized in 1912. _Ibid._, lviii., 1913, p. 107. It is to be remembered in this connection that in many states there are no institutions for the feeble-minded. Educators of the deaf have often been instrumental in securing the creation of such institutions. See Proceedings of Convention of American Instructors, iv., 1857, p. 227. In a few states, as Illinois, Minnesota and Washington, departments for the feeble-minded have been created in schools for the deaf, the feeble-minded being removed later. In Montana a department is still maintained. [273] The Columbia Institution is considered a corporation, its governing board being composed of nine members, one of whom is a senator appointed by the President of the Senate, and two members of the House appointed by the Speaker, while the President of the United States is patron. [274] In the New York Institution and the New York Institution for Improved Instruction the number is 21, and in the Maryland School, the Pennsylvania Institution and the Western Pennsylvania Institution, 27. [275] Such is the case in Alabama, Mississippi, New Mexico, North Carolina, Rhode Island, and Utah. Confirmation by the Senate is also usual with boards of control. [276] On rare occasions a deaf man himself is made a member of the board. [277] In a few states compensation is allowed, as in Indiana, Montana, Oklahoma, Texas, and West Virginia. [278] On the arrangements in the several states, see especially _Annals_, xlviii., 1903, p. 348; lviii., 1913, p. 327. See also Proceedings of American Instructors, iv., 1857, p. 199; vii., 1870, p. 144; ix., 1878, pp. 195, 217; Report of Royal Commission on the Blind, Deaf and Dumb, etc., 1889, iii., p. 456ff. [279] In certain of these states, however, as Idaho, Indiana, Maine, Minnesota, Montana, and West Virginia, the boards of charities or central boards have only more or less financial concern, the statutes usually referring to some such connection with the several state institutions, though not always mentioning them by name. In one or two states, as Rhode Island, there is connection with a board of purchases and supplies. In Minnesota there is also a board of visitors for state institutions, exerting rather a moral supervision. [280] The duties of such boards may be indicated from the following extract in a letter to the writer from the Secretary of the Wisconsin Board: The board "appoints the chief officers, purchases all the supplies for the institutions, formulates the provisions under which the institutions are managed, and has almost unlimited power with reference to the institutions". The boards thus have practically complete control of the public institutions of the state, and in some cases state universities have come within their direction. The boards have come especially into favor in states of the West and Middle West. In their favor it is claimed that they secure economy, accuracy, better discipline and more equitable appropriations, introduce business methods, relieve the heads of schools from financial problems, visit other states, and keep in touch with the people. See University of Nebraska Studies, Oct., 1905. The evolution of state control is also here traced. See also Bulletin of Ohio Board of Charities, Dec., 1908, xiv., 6. [281] In Iowa the school for the blind is under the board of education. [282] In nearly all the states the schools were placed at first in the hands of special boards of trustees, with connection with no other bodies, and it was only later that any change was brought about. In some states there have been various experiments in the organization of governing boards and in the number of members they were to contain. Several schools at their beginning have been put under the direction of a state educational institution, as the university in Utah, and the normal school in Oklahoma. In a few states the schools have been placed under certain state officers, as in New Mexico and Oregon. In Washington the first board of trustees of the school consisted of a physician, a lawyer and a practical educator. [283] We have already noted that the colored deaf of the District of Columbia and West Virginia are sent to an outside school. [284] In regard to the organization of the several boards that have to do with the education of the deaf, it may be stated that in some states, as in Ohio and Indiana, the law restricts the number that may be of any one political party. In connection with the government of schools for the deaf, the saddest feature has too often been the political influences which have been allowed to become factors in the conducting of some of them. In certain instances the playing of "politics" has been of serious moment, and with incalculable harm to the work of the schools. In some cases the administration of schools has been considered legitimate spoils to the party in power, and appointments have been made as a matter of reward, and removals as a matter of punishment. The evil effect of such procedure it is hard to overestimate, and indeed in an enlightened land it is even difficult of credence. Public opinion should severely condemn all attempts at political interference in the work of the education of the deaf, and those seeking to promote it should be dealt with befittingly. Happily, however, such conduct seems now on the decline in the schools, and it may earnestly be hoped that the end is not far in the future. CHAPTER XI THE DAY SCHOOL FOR THE DEAF INCEPTION AND GROWTH OF THE DAY SCHOOL A small number of the institutions for the deaf had begun as day schools, the pupils living away from the school outside school hours, and had continued so for a longer or shorter period. The schools were then in an experimental stage, and this plan came first to hand. In the course of time it was found that this feature was not practicable, as the pupils were often far scattered, and the boarding arrangement was accordingly adopted.[285] This was the policy finally chosen in all the states having schools. Later, however, when the states had grown in population, and in some of the cities there were found not a few deaf children, the demand was renewed for day schools.[286] The result has been the beginning and development of a system of day schools in a number of states; and they have come to occupy part of the field formerly covered by the state institutions alone. Of the day schools now existing, the Horace Mann School, of Boston, which was established in 1869, is accredited with being the initial one.[287] Two others were opened before 1890, while from 1891 to 1900 there were 22 started, and since 1901, 40, making 65 in all now.[288] These schools are found in fourteen states, but the movement has reached its greatest growth in the Middle West, especially in Wisconsin and Michigan. In some of the states special laws have been enacted, providing for the establishment of day schools.[289] DESIGN AND SCOPE OF DAY SCHOOLS The day school for the deaf is still sometimes regarded as an experiment, while its advocates insist that its success has been demonstrated. Among school authorities in cities especially, pleas for the establishment of day schools are often listened to with favor, and there is frequently a tendency to give them at least a trial. General bodies interested in education or the public welfare are likewise inclined to countenance day schools, largely for the reason that they are opposed to the institution idea, and would place as many children as possible in the regular schools. An illustration of this view is found in the Report on Children of the National Conference of Charities and Corrections in 1906.[290] Institutional care of healthy, normal children is objectionable.... Institutional care for educational purposes is necessary for a portion of the deaf and blind children ... but it is recognized that in large cities public schools can be provided for many deaf and blind children. By some it is believed that in time the day school will supplant the large institution, so far at least as large cities are concerned, and that the deaf, and the blind as well, will not be differentiated from the pupils in the regular schools. Separate apartments and special teachers will be provided for them, but in all public school systems these classes will be actual factors. On the other hand, it is maintained that there is an abundant field for both day school and institution. The former should only supplement the work of the latter, especially in reaching children that cannot otherwise be brought into school. The reason why the day school is called into being is thus given by an educational authority of one city:[291] Institutions that care for these children throughout the entire year, that feed, clothe and educate them, that render skilful and prompt medical attention, and afford uplifting social advantages--all under one roof--have a worthy place under our social and educational systems; but these institutions cannot care for all the unfortunate children in need of education. It is also suggested that it might be arranged that day schools should keep pupils during their early years, as from five to nine years of age, after which time they could enter the institution, and be placed in graded classes and in a suitable trade school.[292] Hence it is pointed out that the day school and institution should not be antagonistic, that their interests are common at bottom, and that they should work hand in hand, without friction or misunderstanding. The day school plan has not as yet been followed in a large number of states; yet as these schools are being looked upon with more and more favor by city boards of education, and as in the centers of population there is said to be a need for them, it is not improbable that they may be extended much farther in the future. It is doubtful, however, if very soon they will spread beyond the large cities; and states without great cities may be without such schools for many years at least.[293] EXTENT AND ORGANIZATION OF DAY SCHOOLS The day schools, numbering 65 in all, as we have seen, are found in the states of California, Georgia, Illinois, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Missouri, New Jersey, New York, Ohio, Oregon, Washington, and Wisconsin. In Georgia, Louisiana, Massachusetts, Minnesota, Missouri, and Oregon each there is but one school, in New Jersey and Washington each 2, in New York 3, in California 4, in Ohio and Illinois each 5, in Michigan 14, and in Wisconsin 24. Where only one day school is found in a state, it is located usually in the largest city (Atlanta, New Orleans, Boston, St. Paul, St. Louis, and Portland), while the two schools of New Jersey are in Newark and Jersey City, the two of Washington in Seattle and Tacoma, and the three of New York in New York City. Of the five schools in Illinois, four are in Chicago. In six of these states, namely, California, Illinois, Michigan, New Jersey, Ohio, and Wisconsin, there are special state laws under which the schools are established and operated.[294] By such laws it is generally provided that where there are a certain number of deaf children, usually three,[295] a school may, on application of the local school trustees or district board, be organized by the state department of education.[296] The minimum age for such children is often three. A stated sum is frequently allowed for each pupil, as $150.[297] In the remaining eight states the schools are organized and directed by local school authorities, without assistance from legislative statute. These schools are supported by local funds or by state and local funds together. The latter is the more common procedure, and in the case of schools operating under a state law, it is the usual, but not the necessary, practice. The schools in six states, namely, Georgia, Illinois, Louisiana, Minnesota, Missouri, and New York, are thus maintained only by local funds of the city or county, the remainder receiving aid in whole or in part from the state.[298] The school in Minnesota and one in California are aided by private contributions. In nearly all cases carfare is provided to and from school when necessary. In the day schools special buildings are not usually provided, separate classes being created in the regular school buildings; but in some of the larger cities there are special buildings, known as distinct schools, in which the class-rooms are for the different grades of deaf pupils. The number of pupils in the day schools in 1912-1913 was 1,942. The smallest schools have but three pupils, while the largest one, in Chicago, has 307, the number usually depending on the size of the city. The method employed in the day schools is exclusively the oral with but two exceptions.[299] In all but a few certain industries are also taught, or more or less of manual training is given. ARGUMENTS FOR THE DAY SCHOOL The great argument for the day school is that it is not well that children be "institutionalized." The institution life is said not to be the normal life, and its habits and associations are not in accord with the principles now being largely held in America. It is coming to be more and more realized that the home should always be the center of interest and attachment in the well established community, and that the character and influence of the family should be maintained unimpaired. In connection with orphan and other child-caring agencies, a greater emphasis than ever before is being put on the question of how to reduce the life to one of normality, and the "placing-out" of dependent children in homes where they can grow up as normal children is now a popular faith. The great watchword to-day in intelligent and constructive philanthropy is the "ideal of the normal," and it is on this ground that the institution is declared to be removed from the standard of the highest interests of society. Even though a child should profit in the institution, and even though he should be sent out into the world strong and self-reliant, yet while in the institution, he is out of line, and is just so far displaced from the ideal of the normal; and even though the institution is cleanlier, more sanitary and otherwise better equipped than the quarters from which the child comes, still the institution cannot be justified, for no solution can be acceptable if in the end it results in the breaking up of the home.[300] More specific charges are also brought against the institution. Here life for the inmates is made too easy, and little can be known by them of the actual struggles of the world. The life is machine-like, and all is routine clockwork. By the discipline, which is necessary, much of the spontaneity of growing children is destroyed, and the surroundings are pervaded with the spirit of uniformity, "solidarity" and "dead levelism." On the other hand, the children fail to learn many important lessons in domestic economy which would be before them every day in the home; and they lose the attitude towards life, morally and socially, which is given by the home.[301] The arguments for the day school may be stated more concretely yet. The special day school may be co-ordinated with, or made a part of, the state's educational system, standing on a level with its other schools. Deaf children here come to feel their place in the normal world, while people in general become more ready to regard them in a proper manner. These children at the same time are not made strangers to their own family circles and communities; and certain ones, by a school nearer home and consequently more acceptable to their parents, may be reached who would otherwise possibly never enter an institution. In the way of cost the balance is distinctly on the side of the day school. With no costly special plant necessary, and with no charges to be incurred for food supplies, attendants and the like, it appears to decided advantage in the matter of economy in comparison with an institution; and its normal expenditures approach nearer those of the regular schools. At present the difference between the cost per pupil in the day schools and in the institutions is the difference between $120 and $277.[302] ARGUMENTS AGAINST THE DAY SCHOOL The argument against the day school rests upon the fact that the deaf form, educationally, a special class, very small in most communities, who have to be reached by unusual methods. To them the large institution offers advantages not likely to be had outside. For this reason the case against the institution, however cogent and logical it may be in general, cannot well apply. In the institution the children may be under intelligent supervision and direction their entire time, and they may be able to get, outside school hours, a part of the education which the hearing child so naturally acquires, for in an institution learning continues outside the classroom as well as within. The "picking up" of knowledge and bits of information, which the hearing child begins to make use of from the time he first hears human words, and the importance and value of which the general public cannot be expected to appreciate, is lost in the greatest measure to the deaf in the home. Here ready means of communication are lacking, and the necessary care and attention cannot be expected to be given in the household. Even though deaf children can and do mingle with their hearing acquaintances, they cannot get so much happiness or zest out of their sports and intercourse as they can with their own deaf comrades; and while, no matter what their surroundings are, the difficulties of most of them in mastering language will never be overcome, still in associations with similar deaf children there will be far more stimuli to react on their consciousness, and the tendency will be for them to become more and more in their mental actions like the normal. In the home there can be no great assurance of study and supervision; and the growing deaf child, not being able to appreciate the forces that surround him as the hearing child does, may the more easily fall under unwholesome influences. In the institution there can be suitable discipline, regular attendance, enlightened general oversight, and co-ordination of all that is concerned in the child's proper development. Furthermore, although there may be a growing feeling against the institution life, there is, on the other hand, an increasing social questioning as to the advisability of a child's remaining in a particular home if his welfare is not properly safeguarded. In many day schools there are comparatively few pupils, and in most of these we cannot expect to find the carefully graded classes, with a place for every pupil according to his needs, bright or dull, quick to learn or slow. A pupil in a day school, if not neglected to some extent, may be required to do work for which he is quite unfitted, being either beyond it or incapable of it. The backward child will here be the worst sufferer, for if there are but few classes, he can get little of the special attention he needs; and his progress cannot be the same as when in a class of like pupils and under an appropriate and patient teacher. Again, the attention that is given in an institution with a considerable number of pupils to the learning of a trade--accounting in strong measure for success in after life--means much more to a deaf child than it could to any other. In an institution there will usually be found larger equipment, fuller apparatus and more varied lines than in any but a very large day school; and in its trade department habits of industry will be formed, talents developed, a knowledge of mechanism and the use of tools implanted, an ardor enkindled for the mastership of a trade, and an appreciation of the part to be played in the great world of industrial activity, besides the incentive of being in a great workshop with other workers--all in far greater measure and more effectively than would be possible anywhere else, save in a great trade school, in which there could not be expected to be taken the special care and provision necessitated by the want of hearing of the pupils. Finally, it may be said that we have no evidence, as respects institutions for the deaf, to show that they have in any way undermined the character or mission of the home, or that their results have been other than desirable in a well-ordered state. Hence we are told, in a word, that no matter how strong and valid are the theoretical objections to an institution, yet so far as the practical issues are concerned, in the preparation of the deaf for the world, and in what really counts for their development and progress, the institution, for many at least, occupies a position of demonstrated usefulness, recognition of which cannot rightly be withheld.[303] EVENING DAY SCHOOLS FOR ADULTS Thus far in this chapter we have discussed day schools in relation to children, that is, pupils in the usual sense. But there is another form of day schools to which attention is to be directed. This is in the creation of evening day schools for the use of adults only, the field open to which is as yet apparently but little realized. Occasion for such schools arises chiefly in communities, especially large cities, where a considerable number of adult deaf persons are within reach, and where a real need may often be found. The matter is to be regarded in effect as the extension of the means of education by the state to include as large a part of the population as possible--a movement which is being so notably evidenced in the opening of evening schools of not a few kinds in cities to-day. With the deaf the demand is of a peculiar nature. Their avenues for receiving instruction are materially restricted, and for some, especially the congenitally deaf, the acquisition of correct language always remains a difficult problem, while to others the advantages of the regular schools may have been limited. A large number of the deaf will not require such special opportunities, but for a portion of them the assistance may be of quite substantial character.[304] FOOTNOTES: [285] The New York Institution, the Pennsylvania Institution and the Western Pennsylvania Institution notably started out as day schools, the first remaining so for eleven years. In some of the institutions also there have been at times day school pupils in attendance. [286] Day schools have, moreover, been fostered and supported to a great extent by advocates of what is known as the oral method, in opposition to the manual, or sign method, which had been largely the method hitherto employed in the institutions. The day school may even be said to have entered the field in part as a protest against this method. [287] A day school was started in Pittsburg two months previously; but it was soon made into the Western Pennsylvania Institution. _Annals_, xv., 1870, p. 165. [288] A number of day schools which were started have been discontinued, but there were never so many as at present. [289] Wisconsin was the first state to have a day school law, which was enacted in 1885. Bills were offered in 1881 and 1883, but were defeated. The movement in this state has been in large part due to the activities of the Wisconsin Phonological Institute to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, an organization formed in 1879. The question has even been considered in this state of abolishing the state school as a boarding institution. See _Public Opinion_, xxv., 1898, no. 16; _Association Review_, iii., 1901, p. 193. [290] Proceedings, p. 88. [291] Mr. C. W. Edson, Associate Superintendent of Schools of New York, _Charities and the Commons_, xix., 1908, p. 1357. See also Report of Illinois Institution, 1874, p. 65. [292] See Report of Washington State School, 1910, p. 6. A like solution was offered before the National Educational Association in 1903. Certain children might be "trained in special schools and live at home if possible up to the age of adolescence, when they may acquire trades at special institutions maintained by the state". Proceedings, p. 1004. [293] It is to be remembered that in Michigan and Wisconsin schools have, under the operation of the state law, been organized in comparatively small towns. [294] Efforts have been made in several other states to secure laws. In Ohio in 1902 the state law was declared unconstitutional, as being class legislation in granting special aid to the cities of Cleveland and Cincinnati. See Report of Ohio School, 1903, p. 14. [295] In California the number is five, and in New Jersey ten. [296] In Ohio the state commissioner of education may appoint and remove teachers, and inspect schools. In Wisconsin the state superintendent appoints inspectors, and the county judge may compel the establishment of schools. [297] In Wisconsin $100 additional is allowed for the board of children who move to a town to attend a school. [298] In Massachusetts a direct appropriation of $150 _per capita_ is made by the state. [299] The methods employed in the instruction of the deaf are treated of in Chapter XIX. [300] The importance of this is accentuated in the present apprehensions concerning the dissolving and loosening of the ties of the home, indicated in more ways than one in present programs of social work. [301] See A. G. Warner, "American Charities", rev. ed., 1908, p. 283; R. R. Reeder, "How Two Hundred Children Live and Learn", 1910, pp. 57, 88; "Philanthropy and Social Progress", 1893, p. 172ff. [302] It is claimed that in Wisconsin with the centralization plan of a state institution one-third of the deaf children failed to be reached, and that by the day school there is a saving to the state of $20,000 a year. Proceedings of National Educational Association, 1907, p. 986. See also _ibid._, 1897, p. 96; 1901, p. 870; 1910, p. 1039; Report of United States Commissioner of Education, 1881, p. ccxi.; P. A. Emery, "Plea for Early Mute Education," 1884; Improvement of the Wisconsin System of Education of Deaf Children, 1894; Public School Classes for Deaf Children: Open Letter from Chicago Association of Parents of Deaf Children, 1897; Michigan Day Schools for the Deaf, 1908; Report of Superintendent of Public Instruction of Michigan, 1909, p. 61; Report of Department of Public Instruction of Wisconsin, 1910, p. 60; Report of Board of Education of Chicago, 1912, p. 155; A. J. Winnie, "History and Handbook of Day Schools for the Deaf", Wisconsin, 1912; _Annals_, xx., 1875, p. 34; _Association Review_, ii., 1900, p. 248; viii., 1906, p. 136; xi., 1909, p. 30; _Volta Review_, xiii., 1911, p. 292; _Independent_, lxxiv., 1913, p. 1140. [303] See _Annals_, xxvii., 1882, p. 182; xxix., 1884, pp. 165, 312; xxx., 1885, p. 121; l., 1905, p. 70; lvi., 1911, p. 91; _Volta Review_, xv., 1913, p. 180; Proceedings of Convention of American Instructors, vii., 1870, p. 114; xiv., 1895, pp. 130, 350; Conference of Principals, vi., 1888, p. 202; viii., 1904, p. 70; Minnesota Conference of Charities and Corrections, 1898, p. 88; Report of Iowa School, 1885, p. 16; Pennsylvania Institution, 1903, p. 38; California School, 1904, p. 20. [304] One or two evening schools have been started in the past, to be discontinued after a few years, both under private and under public auspices. In the consideration, however, of any general scheme for evening schools it should be arranged that the work of the regular schools for the deaf is not infringed upon, and that pupils in these schools should not have before them the temptation of leaving prematurely, with the expectation of making up later. Probably the safest plan would be the securing of a satisfactory compulsory attendance law before evening schools are attempted upon a broad scale. CHAPTER XII DENOMINATIONAL AND PRIVATE SCHOOLS DENOMINATIONAL SCHOOLS In addition to the state institutions and the day schools, there have been established in America certain schools for the deaf which are strictly under private management, and, as a rule, not subject to the immediate control and direction of the state. These are of two kinds: 1. denominational schools, maintained by some religious body; and 2. schools conducted as purely private and secular affairs. Such schools now number twenty-one, ten denominational and eleven private, all in 1912-1913 having 638 pupils. Most are of comparatively recent date, the first having been established in 1873, and nine since 1901.[305] The denominational schools are found in California, Illinois, Louisiana, Maryland, Michigan, Missouri, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and Wisconsin, there being two in Pennsylvania. They are for the most part boarding institutions, in a few cases being departments of larger institutions. Their controlling purpose is to surround their pupils with religious influences, and to provide them with religious instruction. All but one are under Roman Catholic auspices, as a usual thing in the hands of the Sisters. The single Protestant school is in the care of the Lutheran Church, and is controlled by the synod, with the direct management vested in a board of trustees. These schools are supported by denominational funds, by voluntary contributions, and in a small measure by tuition fees. In some of the schools, as in Maryland and Pennsylvania, there is state aid to a small extent. The fees paid by pupils are never high, and not many in the schools pay the full amount, though inability to pay is never allowed to keep any away who wish to attend.[306] PRIVATE SCHOOLS The eleven non-denominational schools may be themselves divided into two classes: those which are really homes for very young deaf children, sometimes under the control of a society organized for the purpose; and those which are purely private enterprises, owned and directed by one or more individuals. Of the former there are four homes or kindergartens--the Sarah Fuller Home of Boston, the McCowen Homes of Chicago, the Home School near Baltimore, and the Home School of San Francisco.[307] Their main object is to give their pupils an early start in the use of speech as well as to provide a home, and children as young as three, or even younger, may be admitted. The management of these schools is usually in the hands of trustees. Support is derived largely from the fees of pupils, though some schools are often the recipients of private donations, especially when children are taken without charge; and one or two have aid from public allowances.[308] The private schools of the second class are almost entirely dependent on tuition fees, though one or two likewise receive some state aid. With two exceptions,[309] they are found in large cities, New York having two, and Philadelphia, Baltimore and Cincinnati one each. These schools are both boarding and day schools. The method employed in the private schools is nearly always the oral, and this is the method also of some of the denominational schools. In some of the schools of both classes manual training and instruction in trades are given to an extent. FOOTNOTES: [305] There have been a number of private schools at various times, perhaps a score or more, which have been discontinued--besides those which were the nuclei of the state institutions. There are, moreover, several private schools for the hard of hearing, where instruction and practice are offered in lip-reading, and attended for the most part by adults. [306] Thus in the Michigan Evangelical Lutheran Institute, where the minimum fee is $10 a month, we are advised that only two or three pay the full amount. In St. John's Institute of Wisconsin, where $12 a month is asked, we are advised that the officials are "contented with whatever part of this sum the parents or guardians can pay". Voluntary contributions likewise do not always prove large. Of the Immaculate Conception Institution of St. Louis, we are advised that private contributions are "too meagre to support one child". The industry of the Sisters often adds much for the maintenance of the Catholic schools. [307] Another such home is in Philadelphia, but is now a state institution. [308] To the Sarah Fuller Home the state of Massachusetts allows $250 _per capita_ for some of the children. [309] At Lead, South Dakota, and Macon, Georgia. CHAPTER XIII THE NATIONAL COLLEGE After our review of the various schools that have been created for the deaf in the United States, we come to what may be regarded as the culminative feature in the provision for their instruction--an institution for their higher education. In this particular the work in America stands unique among the nations of the world. This institution is Gallaudet College--named after the founder of the first school--which is maintained at Washington by the national government, and is open to all the deaf of the country. We have seen how the national government has rendered very distinct aid in the work of the education of the deaf; but in establishing the college it has gone far beyond this, and by this act may be said to have placed the capstone upon the structure of their education. This college has resulted from a school which was established in the District of Columbia in 1857, known as the Kendall School. Not long after Congress was asked to create an institution for the higher education of the deaf as well, and to include all the country. No little interest was aroused in the matter, and zealous advocates appeared to present the claims of the new undertaking. The chief objection was the lack of precedent, while with some members of Congress the idea seemed strange of conferring college degrees upon the deaf. Opposition, however, did not prove strong, and the measure was finally enacted in 1864 by a practically unanimous vote.[310] Thus was the college established, and Congress continues regularly to provide for it, together with the Kendall School, both being known as the Columbia Institution for the Deaf. In the college there are now provided one hundred full scholarships for students from the several states of the Union.[311] It is not surprising that this action on the part of Congress should have been held without a precedent. In no other instance has the national government attempted to make provision for the education of any class or part of the inhabitants of the different states, beyond certain so-called wards of the nation, as the Indians, for example. Though the national government has very perceptibly encouraged learning in many ways,[312] yet direct provision for the education of the youth of the several commonwealths has universally been regarded as their sole prerogative. In thus establishing a college for certain residents of the various states, the federal government has done something that stands out by itself. Though the reason lies in the fact that no other means for the higher education of the deaf seemed at hand, it would appear that thereby the government has signally favored the deaf, as it indeed has; and in taking under its immediate direction this higher education of the deaf, the national government has won the gratitude of them all. FOOTNOTES: [310] See E. M. Gallaudet, "Address in behalf of Columbia Institution," 1858; Inauguration of the College for the Deaf and Dumb, 1864; Report of Columbia Institution, 1866; 1868, p. 104; 1889; 1000, p. 16; 1892; Proceedings of Alumni Association of Gallaudet College, 1889-1899, p. 55; History of Charities in District of Columbia, 1898, part 3; _Annals_, xiv., 1869, p. 183; xix., 1874, p. 134; lvi., 1911, p. 184; _Journal of Social Science_, vi., 1874, p. 160; _Scribner's Magazine_, iii., 1872, p. 727; _Harper's Magazine_, lxix., 1884, p. 181; _Review of Reviews_, xvi., 1897, p. 57. The college was considerably aided in its first few years by private contributions. The first president was Edward Miner Gallaudet, son of Thomas Hopkins Gallaudet, who served more than fifty years. [311] The number was at first small, and has gradually been increased to 100. It has also been suggested that the states assist in providing scholarships. Report of Columbia Institution, 1876, p. 20. [312] This is done, for instance, in the several bureaus established for investigation and the dissemination of knowledge, and in the grants of land for the benefit of agricultural colleges or state universities. CHAPTER XIV PROVISION FOR EDUCATION BY STATES Having now considered the plan and organization of the several kinds of schools for the deaf in America, namely, the institutions, the day schools, the private schools and the national college, we proceed in this chapter to examine the work in the several states individually, and to note to what extent and in what manner the education of the deaf has been provided for in each. _Alabama._ A private school was started near Montgomery in 1854, but was discontinued after one or two years. The state school was established at Talladega in 1858.[313] In 1891[314] a school was created for the colored deaf and blind. The schools are governed by a board of thirteen members, including the governor and the superintendent of public instruction.[315] _Arizona._ Before the opening of a local school the deaf were sent to other states for instruction.[316] The state school was created in 1912,[317] and is a part of the state university. On the admission of Arizona as a state, 100,000 acres of the public land were granted for the benefit of the school for the deaf and the blind. _Arkansas._ A private school was opened at Clarksville in 1850, which was moved to Little Rock in 1861.[318] After a suspension, it was started anew in 1867, and in 1868 was taken over by the state.[319] The school is now in the hands of the state board of charitable institutions.[320] _California._ The state institution for the deaf and the blind was established at Berkeley in 1860,[321] after a society had been formed for the purpose. The school is controlled by a board of five directors, while the state board of charities supervises.[322] There are four day schools in the state:[323] at Oakland, opened in 1898, and supported by state and county; at Los Angeles in 1899, supported by city and private subscriptions; at San Francisco in 1901, supported by the city; and at Sacramento in 1904, supported by state and city. There is a private school in Oakland, the St. Joseph's Home, opened in 1895, and one in San Francisco, the Holden Home Oral School, opened in 1913. _Colorado._ The state school was opened at Colorado Springs in 1874,[324] and is for the deaf and the blind. It is supported by a one-fifth mill tax on the assessed property valuation of the state. The school is in the hands of a board of five trustees, and is connected with the state board of education.[325] _Connecticut._ The American School was established at Hartford in 1817.[326] At the time the state made an appropriation of $5,000, and in 1828 began to allow a certain sum for each state pupil, a policy still continued. The school has remained a private corporation, and its board is made up of eight vice-presidents and eight elected directors, together with the governors and secretaries of state of the New England states. In 1819 Congress gave the school 23,000 acres of the public land, from which almost $300,000 has been realized. Gifts from private sources have nearly equalled this, about half coming since 1850.[327] A second school is at Mystic, known as the Mystic Oral School, this having been started in 1870 at Ledyard, where it remained four years.[328] It is under a board of ten corporators. Both these schools receive _per capita_ allowances from the state, and are visited by the state board of charities.[329] _Delaware._ Deaf children are sent to schools in neighboring states, the first provision having been made in 1835. The supreme court judges act as trustees _ex-officio_, and recommend pupils to the governor to be placed.[330] _District of Columbia._ The Kendall School, as it is known, was opened in 1857,[331] and was designed primarily for the children of the District and of persons in the army and navy service. In 1864[332] Congress decided to establish a collegiate department for the deaf of all the country, which was first known as the National Deaf-Mute College, but is now Gallaudet College. The Columbia Institution, embracing both the college and the Kendall School, is supported by Congress, and is in the form of a corporation, of which the President of the United States is patron, and of the nine members of which one is a Senator and two are members of the House.[333] _Florida._ The state school for the deaf and blind was opened at St. Augustine in 1885.[334] It is now in the hands of the state board of control of educational institutions, which also directs the state university.[335] _Georgia._ The state began sending some of its deaf children to the Hartford school in 1834.[336] A private school was started at Cedar Springs in 1842, which continued two years. The state school was established at Cave Spring in 1846.[337] It is under a board of seven trustees.[338] There is a day school in Atlanta, supported by the city, and a private one at Macon, both opened in 1912. _Idaho._ Before the opening of a state school, deaf children were sent to outside institutions.[339] The school for the deaf and the blind was opened at Boise in 1906, but in 1910 was removed to Gooding. It is under the state board of education, and subject to other state inspection.[340] _Illinois._ The state school was opened at Jacksonville in 1846, although steps had been taken several years before for its establishment.[341] The school is directed by the state board of administration, while the board of charities has moral and auditing supervision.[342] There are in the state five day schools, four of which are in Chicago, the first having been established in 1896, and the last in 1913. The other day school is at Rock Island, opened in 1901. All these schools are operated under the state law, and supported by city funds.[343] In Chicago there are also two private schools: the Ephpheta, opened in 1884, and maintained by St. Joseph's Home for the Friendless,[344] and the McCowen Homes for Deaf Children, opened in 1883.[345] _Indiana._ Prior to the opening of the state school, some children were sent to Kentucky and Ohio for education. In 1841 a private school was started in Parke County, which lasted one year.[346] In 1843 another private school was begun in Indianapolis, which was adopted by the state in 1844.[347] The school is now governed by a board of four trustees, and is under the state board of education, with certain connection also with the board of charities.[348] _Iowa._ Before the opening of the state school some pupils were sent to the school in Illinois. In 1853 a private school was started at Iowa City, which in 1855 was taken over by the state,[349] in 1866 being removed to Council Bluffs.[350] The school is under the state board of control.[351] _Kansas._ A private school was started in 1861 at Baldwin City. After being removed to Topeka in 1864 and back again to Baldwin City in 1865, it was taken over by the state in 1866,[352] and permanently located at Olathe. The state board of administration for educational institutions has the direction of the school.[353] _Kentucky._ The state school was established at Danville in 1823.[354] In 1826 it received from Congress a township of land in Florida.[355] The school is in the hands of a board of twelve commissioners, and is related to the state department of education.[356] _Louisiana._ In 1837 the state began to send some of its children to schools in other states, many being sent to Kentucky.[357] The state school was established at Baton Rouge in 1852.[358] It is governed by a board of trustees, including the governor and the superintendent of public instruction, and is visited by the state board of charities.[359] In New Orleans there is a day school, opened in 1911, and supported by the city.[360] At Chinchuba there is a private school, the Chinchuba Deaf-Mute Institute, under the Sisters of Notre Dame, opened in 1890. _Maine._ In 1825 the state began to send its children to the American School, and later to the schools in Massachusetts as well.[361] In 1876 a private school was started in Portland with aid from the city, and the following year from the state also.[362] In 1897 the state assumed charge, the school being placed under a board of five trustees.[363] Inspection is made by the state board of charities. _Maryland._ In 1827 provision was made for pupils in the Pennsylvania Institution, and in 1860 in the District of Columbia.[364] In 1868[365] the Maryland school was established at Frederick. It is under a private society, composed of twenty-seven visitors, but is supported and controlled by the state. In 1872 a department for the colored was opened in connection with the institution for the blind, now located at Overlea.[366] Both of these schools are inspected by the state board of charities.[367] There are two private schools in Baltimore, the St. Francis Xavier under the Mission Helpers of the Sacred Heart, opened in 1897, and a department in the Knapp School, opened in 1877; and at Kensington a Home School, opened in 1908. These schools are aided by the state.[368] _Massachusetts._ In 1819, just after the American School had been established, Massachusetts began sending its deaf children to it, which policy was continued till the state had schools of its own.[369] The first of these was the Clarke School at Northampton, which was established in 1867.[370] This had been started at Chelmesford the year before, but removed to Northampton when a citizen whose name it bears offered it $50,000--subsequently adding to this till his total gifts reached $300,000.[371] In 1868 the legislature provided that state pupils might be sent to it. The school is under a board of twelve corporators. The New England Industrial School was opened at Beverly in 1879,[372] for the purpose of teaching language and industrial training. It is under a board of thirteen incorporators. The Boston School at Randolph was established in 1899, and is under the Sisters of St. Joseph.[373] In Boston there is a day school, known as the Horace Mann School, opened in 1869, and directed by the city.[374] The Sarah Fuller Home is at West Medford, and was opened in 1888.[375] All these schools receive state appropriations, and are supervised by the state department of education.[376] _Michigan._ Action was taken in 1848 towards the establishment of an institution, but it was not till 1854 that the school was opened, Flint being chosen as the site.[377] In 1850 the state granted the school fifteen sections of its salt spring lands, later increasing the number to twenty-five, which amounted in all to 16,000 acres.[378] The school is under a board of three trustees, and is visited by the state board of charities and corrections.[379] There are fourteen day schools in the state, operating under the state law:[380] Bay City, opened in 1901; Calumet, 1902; Detroit, 1894; Grand Rapids, 1898; Houghton, 1908; Iron Mountain, 1906; Ironwood, 1903; Jackson, 1912; Kalamazoo, 1904; Manistee, 1904; Marquette, 1907; Saginaw, 1901; Sault Ste. Marie, 1906; and Traverse City, 1904. There is a private school at North Detroit, the Evangelical Lutheran Deaf-Mute Institute, opened in 1873.[381] _Minnesota._ The state school was opened at Faribault in 1863, though it had been planned in 1858.[382] The school is governed by a board of seven directors, including the governor and the superintendent of public instruction, while the state board of control has the financial administration.[383] There is a day school in St. Paul, opened in 1913, and supported by the city and with private aid.[384] _Mississippi._ The state school was opened at Jackson in 1854.[385] It is in the hands of a board of six trustees, including the governor.[386] _Missouri._ A school under Catholic auspices was established in St. Louis in 1837, to which the state sent some of its children, while others were sent to schools in other states.[387] The state school was opened at Fulton in 1851.[388] It is governed by a board of five managers, and is visited by the state board of charities.[389] There is a day school in St. Louis, founded in 1878, and managed as part of the public school system. In the same city is a private school, under the Sisters of St. Joseph, opened in 1885 and offspring of the school of 1837. It is known as the Immaculate Conception Institute, and is part of a convent and orphans' home.[390] _Montana._ Before the establishment of a school, deaf children were sent to schools in other states.[391] The state institution for the deaf and blind was opened at Boulder in 1893,[392] 50,000 acres of the public land having been given by Congress for its benefit. It is under a board of nine trustees, appointed by the state board of education, with a local executive board of three, there being other state inspection also.[393] _Nebraska._ Before the establishment of a school, deaf children were sent to Iowa.[394] In 1869 the state school was opened at Omaha.[395] It is governed by the state board of control of state institutions.[396] _Nevada._ Deaf children have been sent since 1869 to California or Utah for education, the superintendent of public instruction contracting for them.[397] _New Hampshire._ In 1821 the state began sending its deaf children to the school at Hartford.[398] They are now sent to the schools in the several New England states, as the governor and council may direct, on the recommendation of the board of control.[399] _New Jersey._ In 1821 the state began to provide for the education of its deaf children in the schools in Pennsylvania and New York.[400] In 1883 the state school was established at Trenton.[401] It is related to the state department of education.[402] There are two day schools in the state, at Newark and Jersey City, both opened in 1910, and operating under the state law.[403] _New Mexico._ A private school was opened at Santa Fé in 1885, which in 1887 was taken over by the territory.[404] It was given 50,000 acres of the public land, and on the admission of New Mexico as a state, this was increased to 100,000. The school is directed by a board of six trustees.[405] _New York._ There are in this state eight institutions, three day schools, and two private schools. The institutions are all private corporations receiving state aid. The first of these was the New York Institution for the Instruction of the Deaf and Dumb, which was opened in 1818 in New York City.[406] In 1819 the state began to make appropriations. The school is governed by a board of twenty-one trustees.[407] The next school was Le Couteulx St. Mary's Institution for the Improved Instruction of Deaf-Mutes, organized in Buffalo in 1853 by a benevolent society, and opened in 1862. In 1872 it came within the state law as to public aid.[408] It is controlled by a board of seven managers. In New York City in 1867 the New York Institution for the Improved Instruction of Deaf-Mutes was established, which had resulted from a private class. It is in the hands of an association formed for the purpose, the management being vested in a board of twenty-one trustees.[409] In 1869 St. Joseph's Institution was opened in New York City, a branch being created in Brooklyn in 1874.[410] It is under the control of the Ladies of the Sacred Heart of Mary, and directed by a board of seven managers. The Central New York Institution was opened at Rome in 1875, and is governed by a board of fifteen trustees.[411] The Western New York Institution was established at Rochester in 1876, and has twenty-one trustees.[412] The Northern New York Institution was established at Malone in 1884, and is under a board of fifteen trustees.[413] The Albany Home School for the Oral Instruction of the Deaf was opened in 1889 as a private affair, and came under the state law in 1892.[414] It has a board of eight trustees. The New York law admitting children into these several institutions is peculiar, pupils under twelve years of age being sent as charges of the counties, and those over that age as state pupils, who are appointed by the state commissioner of education. The schools are visited both by the departments of education and of charities.[415] The three day schools are in New York City, one in Manhattan, opened in 1908, one in Brooklyn, opened in 1910, and one in Queens, opened in 1911, the last two being annexes of the first. The two private schools are also in this city: the Wright Oral, opened in 1894, and the Reno Margulies, opened in 1901.[416] _North Carolina._ A school was planned in this state in 1828, but it did not come into being till 1845, when the state institution was established at Raleigh,[417] which was for both the deaf and the blind. In 1894 a school was opened at Morganton for the white deaf,[418] the colored remaining in a department of the former school. Both schools are controlled by boards of directors--eleven for the Raleigh and seven for the Morganton--and are inspected by the departments of education and of charities.[419] _North Dakota._ Prior to the opening of a state school, children were sent to schools in other states. In 1890 the state institution was created at Devil's Lake.[420] It is in charge of the state board of control.[421] On the admission of North Dakota as a state, 40,000 acres of the public land were set aside for the benefit of the school. It is further supported by a tax of six per cent of one mill on the assessed property valuation of the state.[422] _Ohio._ A movement was on foot for the establishment of a school at Cincinnati in 1821, but did not succeed. A private school was opened in 1827 at Tallmadge, which lasted two years. The state school was established at Columbus in 1829.[423] It is now in the hands of the state board of administration.[424] Five day schools are in operation in the state: Cincinnati, opened in 1886; Cleveland, 1892; Dayton, 1899; Ashtabula, 1903; and Toledo, 1911.[425] There are two private schools in Cincinnati: one, the Notre Dame, under the Sisters of Notre Dame, opened in 1890, and the other in 1906.[426] _Oklahoma._ Before creating an institution of its own, Oklahoma provided for the education of its deaf children in a private school at Guthrie, which had been opened in 1898.[427] In 1908 the state school was established at Sulphur,[428] and in 1909 a second school was opened at Taft, known as the Industrial Institute for the Deaf, the Blind and Orphans of the Colored Race.[429] The former school is directed by a board of four trustees, and the latter by a board of five regents, the state superintendent of public instruction being a member of each. The schools are related to the state department of education, and are inspected by that of charities.[430] _Oregon._ A private school was started at Salem in 1870, which in 1874 was taken over by the state.[431] It is now administered by the state board of control.[432] There is a day school in Portland, opened in 1908, and supported by the city. _Pennsylvania._ There are four institutions and two private schools in this state. Two of the institutions are private corporations receiving state aid, and two are state-owned schools. The first to be established was the Pennsylvania Institution, which was opened in 1820 in Philadelphia.[433] Friends of this school have been generous from the start, and it has probably received several hundred thousand dollars in gifts. The governing board is composed of twenty-seven members.[434] The Western Pennsylvania Institution near Pittsburg was established in 1876, and was the result of a church mission which had begun in 1868 and developed into a day school. It is directed also by a board of twenty-seven members.[435] The Pennsylvania Oral School was founded at Scranton in 1883. It was a private institution till 1913, when it was made a state school. It is governed by a board of eighteen trustees, six of whom are appointed by the governor.[436] The Home for the Training in Speech of Deaf Children before they are of school age was started in Philadelphia in 1892 as a private school, and then adopted by the state.[437] It is under a board of five trustees. All these schools receive appropriations from the state, and are visited by the state board of charities.[438] The private schools are the Forrest Hall in Philadelphia, opened in 1901, the De Paul Institute of Pittsburg, opened in 1908, and the Archbishop Ryan Memorial Institute in Philadelphia, opened in 1912. To these a certain amount of state aid is granted.[439] _Rhode Island._ In 1842 the state began to send its deaf children to the school at Hartford, a policy continued till a local school was created.[440] In 1877 a class for the deaf was started in Providence, for the benefit of which the state made appropriations, and which was soon taken over as a state school.[441] It is now under a board of eleven trustees, including the governor and lieutenant-governor, and is related to the state board of education.[442] _South Carolina._ A school was proposed in this state in 1821,[443] but it was some years later that one was established. In 1834 the state began sending deaf children to the Hartford school.[444] In 1849 a private school was opened at Cedar Springs as a department in a hearing school, and in 1857 this was adopted by the state.[445] The school is for the deaf and blind, and is under a board of five commissioners, one of whom is the state superintendent of education.[446] _South Dakota._ In 1880 a private school was started at Sioux Falls which the territory of Dakota soon took over,[447] before this some of the deaf having been sent to the schools in Iowa, Nebraska and Minnesota. In 1889 when South Dakota was admitted as a state, the school was retained at the same location; and Congress granted it 40,000 acres of the public land. The school is under the direction of the state board of control.[448] A private school was established at Lead in 1911, known as the Black Hills School. _Tennessee._ The state school was established at Knoxville in 1845.[449] It is under a board of fourteen trustees, including the superintendent of public instruction, and is visited by the state board of charities.[450] _Texas._ The state school was established at Austin in 1857,[451] receiving 100,000 acres of the public land which had been set apart by the state for its several eleemosynary institutions. In 1887 a school for the colored deaf and blind was opened in the same city.[452] The schools are each under a board of five trustees.[453] _Utah._ In 1884 a class for the deaf was begun at the state university at Ogden, and in 1888 a department was created. In 1892 the state school was established.[454] It is for both the deaf and the blind, and is under a board of six trustees, including the attorney-general.[455] On the admission of Utah as a state, 200,000 acres of the public land were bestowed upon the school. _Vermont._ In 1825 the state began to send pupils to the American School,[456] and later to the schools in Massachusetts as well.[457] In 1912 a school for the deaf and blind was established at Brattleboro, known as the Austine Institute. It is a private institution, with a board of six trustees, but receiving state aid and under state supervision.[458] _Virginia._ A private school was started in 1812 in Goochland County, thence moved to Cobbs, and finally to Manchester, coming to an end in 1819. The state school for the deaf and the blind was established at Staunton in 1839, though planned several years before.[459] In 1909 a school for the colored deaf and blind was created at Newport News.[460] The first school is under a board of seven trustees, including the superintendent of public instruction, and the second under a board of five. Both are visited by the state board of charities.[461] _Washington._ Before the creation of a state school some of the deaf children were sent to Oregon for instruction.[462] In 1885 a private school was started at Tacoma, which lasted one year. The state school was established at Vancouver in 1886.[463] It is governed by the state board of control.[464] At Seattle and Tacoma there are day schools supported by the respective cities, the former opened in 1906 and the latter in 1908. _West Virginia._ The state school for the deaf and the blind was opened at Romney in 1870,[465] before which time children had been sent to the schools in Virginia and Ohio.[466] The school is under a board of nine regents, while the state board of control has charge of financial affairs.[467] _Wisconsin._ Prior to the establishment of a school of its own, Wisconsin sent some of its deaf children to the Illinois School. The state institution, which had been planned in 1843, was opened in 1852 at Delavan, resulting from a private school started two years previously.[468] It is under the direction of the state board of control.[469] There are 24 day schools in the state, operating under the state law:[470] Antigo, opened in 1906; Appleton, 1896; Ashland, 1898; Black River Falls, 1897; Bloomington, 1906; Eau Claire, 1895; Fond du Lac, 1895; Green Bay, 1897; Kenosha, 1913; La Crosse, 1899; Madison, 1908; Marinette, 1895; Marshfield, 1912; Milwaukee, 1898; Mineral Point, 1912; New London, 1906; Oshkosh, 1895; Platteville, 1906; Racine, 1900; Rice Lake, 1907; Sheboygan, 1894; Stevens Point, 1905; West Superior, 1897; and Wausau, 1890. A private school, the St. John's Institute, was established at St. Francis in 1876, and is conducted by the Sisters of the Third Order of St. Francis. _Wyoming._ Deaf children have been sent since 1886 to the schools in California, Utah, Colorado and Montana, the state board of charities and reform having them in charge.[471] _The American Possessions._ Outside of the United States proper very little has been done for the education of the deaf. In the Philippine Islands a school has been established, this being opened at Manila in 1907.[472] A school under Roman Catholic auspices was started in Porto Rico in 1911; and it is possible that one under the direction of the state will be created in time, a school for the blind having already been opened. In Alaska there is no school, though the deaf have been looked after to some extent by missionaries.[473] No provision has been made in the Panama Canal Zone or the Hawaiian Islands.[474] FOOTNOTES: [313] Laws, 1843-4, p. 43; 1859-60, p. 344. [314] Laws, ch. 209. [315] Laws, 1870, p. 95; 1871, p. 89; 1879, p. 34; 1887, p. 70; 1889, p. 29; 1893, p. 943; 1901, p. 25; 1904, p. 45; 1907, p. 11; Code, 1907, § 1933ff. The school has received a gift of $5,000 for shops. [316] Laws, 1891, ch. 94; 1895, ch. 10; Rev. Stat., 1901, §§ 2267-2271. [317] Laws, 1912, p. 149. [318] To this the legislature appropriated a small sum. Another private school was started at Fort Smith in 1860, but lasted only one year. [319] Acts, July 17, 1868; April 9, 1869; Digest, 1874, p. 204. There were a few gifts at first, and aid came also from the city. The state granted two tracts of land, one of 100 acres. [320] Laws, 1883, p. 182; 1891, ch. 155; 1893, chs. 31, 126; 1895, ch. 151; 1905, ch. 256; 1909, ch. 56; Digest, 1904, § 4129ff. [321] Laws, 1860, pp. 211, 277; 1861, p. 81; 1863, p. 583; 1865, p. 579; 1874, p. 751; 1875, p. 686. In the beginning there were contributions from friends and proceeds from fairs. The city of San Francisco gave $7,000 for a site, and the county a lot. [322] Laws, 1905, ch. 382; Pol. Code, 1909, § 2236ff. In addition to the funds given at first, over $50,000 has been donated to the school, three-fourths coming from one source in 1871. [323] Laws, 1903, p. 88; Code, § 1618. Separate classes (oral) may be established by city boards or district trustees where there are five or more pupils, 3 to 21 years of age. There were day schools in Fresno from 1904 to 1906, and in San Diego from 1912 to 1913; and private schools in San Francisco and Oakland from 1898 to 1900. [324] Act Feb. 13, 1874; Gen. Laws, 1877, p. 653. The school resulted largely from the action of some public-spirited men. It was established on condition that 5 acres be given, and it received 12. [325] Laws, 1885, p. 277; 1891, p. 388; 1895, ch. 98; 1909, p. 333; Ann. Stat, 1908, § 4313ff.; 1912, § 5009ff. The school has been the recipient of $30,000 or more, largely from two men. [326] A charter was granted in May, 1816. See Laws, 1829, ch. 24; 1837, p. 26; 1843, p. 26. [327] At the beginning about $30,000 was raised for the school. [328] This was known as the Whipple School at first. In 1898 it was made a joint stock corporation, capitalized at $8,500. It began to receive state aid in 1872. Act July 24; Laws, 1874, p. 8. [329] Laws, 1895, p. 145; 1903, ch. 207; 1911, ch. 47; Rev. Laws, 1902, § 1831. The _per capita_ allowance is $275. In 1860 a private school was opened at Hartford, lasting one year. [330] The counties paid the cost at first. Act March 4, 1835; Laws, 1841, p. 418; 1843, p. 418; Rev. Stat., 1852, p. 138; Laws, 1860, ch. 119; 1875, ch. 58; 1899, ch. 245; 1907, ch. 143; Rev. Code, 1893, pp. 388-390. The president of the state hospital for the insane is authorized to visit the schools to which pupils are sent. [331] Stat., 1857, ch. 46; 1860, ch. 120. An unsuccessful attempt had been made a year or two before to start a school. To the new school $4,000 of a former orphans' home was turned over. [332] Stat., 1864, ch. 120; 1868, ch. 262. [333] U. S. Comp. Stat., 1901, pp. 3365-71. Colored children are sent to Maryland for education. To the college and school $25,000 or more was given at the beginning, funds coming from several cities in the East. A few acres of land were also given. For two years support largely came from private funds. In the college there are now 100 full scholarships. In Washington also an experimental school was opened in 1883, continuing three years. Another private school was started in 1856, lasting one year. [334] Laws, 1883, ch. 3450. The school resulted from the work of the Association for the Promotion of the Education of the Deaf and the Blind. The city gave 5 acres of land and $1,000, and in 1905 gave 10 acres further. [335] Laws, 1895, no. 41; 1903, ch. 104; Gen. Stat., 1906, §§ 418-425. A department for colored pupils was opened in 1895. [336] Laws, 1834, p. 281; 1838, p. 92; 1842, p. 24. An appropriation, first of $3,500, then of $4,500, was made. [337] Laws, 1845, p. 25; 1847, p. 94; 1852, p. 80; 1854, p. 30; 1856, p. 159; 1858, p. 47; 1860, p. 27. It was first part of an academy. Another private school was established at Lexington in 1856, but it too was short lived. At the school at Cedar Springs there were several state pupils. [338] Laws, 1876, p. 30; 1877, p. 32; 1881, p. 96; 1892, p. 83; 1897, p. 83; Code, 1911, § 1416ff. In 1882 a department was created for the colored. For a time the deaf and the blind were allowed free transportation on the state-owned railroad. Laws, 1853, p. 97. The school has received a gift of $500. [339] Laws, 1891, p. 226; 1899, p. 162. [340] Laws, 1907, p. 240; 1909, p. 379; Rev. Code, 1908, § 800ff. The school has been given 20 acres of land. In this state, 150,000 acres of public land are granted to the charitable and other institutions, the school for the deaf not being mentioned by name. [341] Laws, 1839, p. 162; 1845, p. 93; 1847, p. 47; 1849, pp. 93, 163; 1851, p. 102; 1853, p. 90; 1857, p. 84; 1875, p. 104. It seems that at first one-fourth of the interest of the school fund was allowed to the institution, but in 1851 a tax of one-sixth mill was laid for its benefit, which lasted four years. [342] Laws, 1897, ch. 23; 1909, p. 102; Rev. Stat., 1909, ch. 23. The school has been given five acres of land by the city, and a private gift of $2,000. [343] Laws, 1897, p. 290; 1905, p. 373; 1911, p. 502; Rev. Stat., 1909, p. 2013. The superintendent of public instruction may grant permission for teaching one or more classes of not less than three pupils, average attendance, in the public schools. The amount authorized from the state is not to exceed $110 for each pupil. The first Chicago school was a private one, established in 1870, and lasting one year. In 1874 another school was opened, which was taken over by the city in 1875. The state allowed it $15,000, and appropriated $5,000 a year till 1887, instead of creating an institution in the northern part of the state. See Laws, 1879, p. 20; Report of Illinois Institution, 1874, p. 76; P. A. Emery, "Brief Historical Sketch of Chicago Deaf-Mute Schools", 1886. There has been connection between the Chicago schools and the McCowen Homes. Other day schools in Illinois have been: La Salle, 1898-1899; Streator 1898-1905; Derinda, 1899-1900; Rockford, 1901-1905; Moline, 1901-1908; Galena, 1902-1903; Dundee, 1903-1904; Aurora, 1903-1912; and Elgin, 1905-1906. In 1913 there were eleven day schools in Chicago, which were consolidated into four. In this city a vacation school is also maintained for the deaf. [344] This school has received among other gifts a bequest of $43,000, a donation of $15,000 from a ladies' society, and of $40,000 from friends. [345] This school is under a board of twelve trustees. It has received some private gifts, in addition to an endowment fund from its first trustees. There was in Chicago a private school for adults from 1905 to 1913. [346] This school was taught by a deaf man largely at his own expense. In 1842 the state granted it $200. A census of the deaf was authorized in 1839. Laws, p. 58. [347] Laws, 1843, ch. 70; 1844, ch. 16; 1845, ch. 69; 1848, ch. 59; 1865, p. 124; Rev. Stat., 1852, p. 243. For the benefit of the school a tax levy was laid, first of two mills, then of five, and later of fifteen, which continued till 1851, netting the school some $50,000. [348] Laws, 1891, ch. 186; 1895, p. 157; 1899, ch. 118; 1907, ch. 98; 1909, ch. 146; Ann. Stat., 1908, p. 101ff. There was a private school at Evansville from 1886 to 1902. [349] Code, 1851, ch. 73; Laws 1853, ch. 26; 1855, chs. 56, 87. An appropriation was made to the school while still a private one. [350] Laws, ch. 136. [351] Code, 1897, p. 926ff.; Laws, 1902, ch. 122; 1909, ch. 175; 1913, p. 255; Code, 1907, p. 622ff. There was a private school at Dubuque from 1888 to 1899, which received contributions, proceeds of fairs, etc., of several thousand dollars. It was hoped that this would be made a state school for the children of Eastern Iowa. [352] Laws, 1862, p. 95; 1864, ch. 50; 1865, ch. 36; 1866, ch. 48; 1871, ch. 34; 1873, ch. 135; 1877, ch. 130. To the private school the state granted some aid. The school was located at Olathe on condition that 20 acres of land be given for a site, and 150 for its benefit. [353] Laws, 1901, ch. 353; 1905, chs. 384, 475; Gen. Stat., 1909, § 8437ff. [354] Laws, 1822, p. 179; 1824, p. 452; 1836, p. 379. A private school was opened at Hopkinsville in 1844, which lasted ten years. Pupils were received from several states. _Annals_, xliv., 1899, p. 359. [355] This grant seems not to have been wisely administered, but over $57,000 was realized from it. [356] Laws, 1850, p. 23; 1851, ch. 26; 1852, p. 357; 1854, p. 15; 1870, p. 2; 1882, p. 16; 1912, ch. 71; Stat., 1909, § 270ff. A department for the colored was created in 1884. Laws, p. 175. There have been some private gifts to the school, amounting to about seven thousand dollars. [357] See Laws, 1838, p. 9; Digest, 1842, ch. 39; Report of Kentucky School, 1848, p. 8. [358] Laws, 1852, p. 220; 1866, p. 124; 1871, p. 203; 1888, p. 51. [359] Laws, 1898, ch. 166; 1908, ch. 239; Rev. Stat., 1904, pp. 579-582. [360] A day school was also maintained here from 1886 to 1891. [361] Laws, 1823, p. 233; 1824, p. 353; 1829, p. 25; 1840, ch. 70; 1852, p. 359; 1879, p. 122. [362] In 1877 the state made appropriations for pupils outside of Portland, and in 1881 for the entire state. [363] Laws, 1885, ch. 220; 1893, ch. 203; 1897, ch. 446; 1899, ch. 2; Rev. Stat., 1903, p. 226. The property was conveyed to the state. [364] Laws, 1826, ch. 255; 1827, ch. 140; 1833, ch. 125; 1834, ch. 169; 1839, ch. 28; 1849, ch. 209; 1854, ch. 224; 1860, ch. 129; 1865, ch. 68. [365] Laws, 1867, ch. 247; 1868, chs. 205, 409; 1870, p. 922; 1874, ch. 42. The society was to have power of perpetual succession, and the state was to appropriate $5,000 a year till the endowment fund should reach $200,000. The school was opened in certain barracks belonging to the state. [366] Laws, 1874, p. 483. This school was formed under a board composed of three visitors each from the school for the deaf and that for the blind. [367] Laws, 1886, ch. 78; 1892, ch. 272; 1904, ch. 299; 1906, ch. 236; Gen. Laws, 1904, i., p. 979. The school has received in gifts over six thousand dollars since 1880. Grants have also been made to it by the city of Baltimore. [368] The first receives $1,000 a year, and the second $1,200. [369] Laws, 1817, ch. 24; 1818, p. 496; 1825, ch. 83; 1828, ch. 97; 1841, ch. 45; 1843, ch. 79; 1855, ch. 84. [370] Laws, 1867, chs. 311, 334; 1868, ch. 200; 1869, ch. 333. [371] Some other gifts have also been received, including a gymnasium and two donations of $50,000 each. [372] See Laws, 1886, ch. 42; 1899, p. 554. This school resulted from a gift of $1,500 to the New England Gallaudet Association, a home for adults first being contemplated. See Report, 1881, p. 7; Report of United States Commissioner of Education, 1880, p. clxviii. The school has received a legacy of $50,000, and there are annual donations of two or three thousand dollars. [373] This school came within the law as to state pupils. Some gifts have no doubt been received by it. [374] Laws, 1869, p. 637; 1885, ch. 201; 1905, ch. 468, The state granted the land for a building. This school has received gifts of several thousand dollars. [375] The home is under an executive committee of twenty-five, with powers of trustees. Subscriptions and donations average one or two thousand dollars a year, and in all have amounted to some $50,000. [376] Laws, 1871, ch. 300; 1875, ch. 118; 1886, ch. 241; 1887, ch. 179; 1888, ch. 239; 1889, ch. 226; 1906, ch. 383; Rev. Stat., 1902, p. 412. Appointments are made by the governor with the approval of the secretary of the board of education. The state appropriations are $150 for the day school, and from $250 to $350 for the other schools. [377] Laws, 1848, pp. 246, 463; 1849, pp. 137, 327; 1850, p. 334; 1853, no. 80; 1857, p. 185. [378] The school also received 20 acres of land and $3,000 from the city. [379] Laws, 1867, p. 128; 1873, chs. 109, 111; 1881, pp. 5, 274; 1891, ch. 169; 1893, ch. 116; 1907, chs. 48, 275; Comp. Laws 1897, §§ 1990-2008. [380] Laws, 1899, ch. 176; 1905, ch. 224. The law reads: "Upon the application of a district board or of a board of education of a city in this state to the Superintendent of Public Instruction, he shall grant permission to such board to establish, and such board shall be empowered to establish and maintain, within the limits of its jurisdiction, one or more day schools, having an average attendance of not less than three pupils, for the instruction of deaf persons over the age of three", etc. The amount allowed for each pupil is $150. There have been other day schools in this state: Menominee, 1900-1907; Ishpeming, 1904-1909; Flint, 1911-1912; and L'Anse, 1912-1913. The school at Flint was an evening school for adults. [381] Ten congregations may be incorporated to organize such an institution, and hold property to the value of $50,000. Laws, 1901, ch. 28. This school was for a time part of an orphan asylum. It has been given 20 acres of land. The control is in the hands of a board of nine trustees. A private school was maintained at Marquette from 1879 to 1883. [382] Laws, 1858, p. 175; 1863, ch. 9; 1864, ch. 71; 1868, ch. 17; 1874, ch. 18. In 1863 also provision was made for pupils in outside schools. The school was established on condition that the city give it 40 acres of land, and it received 25 acres in addition. [383] Laws, 1887, ch. 205; Laws, 1902, ch. 83; 1907, ch. 407; 1909, ch. 396; Rev. Laws, 1905, §§ 1931-1937. There is also a board of visitors of state institutions. Departments for the blind and for the feeble-minded were created here, but later separated. [384] There was another day school here from 1895 to 1898; and a private school from 1886 to 1893. A department for the deaf was established at St. Olaf College at Northfield in 1907, but discontinued in 1912. See _Bulletin_, May, 1909; _Viking_, 1909, p. 56. [385] Act, March 1; Laws, 1855, p. 114; 1856-7, ch. 25; 1857, p. 40; 1858, p. 230; Stat. L., 1857, p. 169. The governor had recommended a school in 1841. [386] Ann. Code, 1906, ch. 68. The school has received a gift of $5,000. A department for the colored was opened in 1882. [387] In 1839 $2,000 was appropriated for the deaf at St. Louis, and $210 for a pupil in the Kentucky school. Laws, pp. 27, 213. Some pupils were sent to Ohio and Illinois also. See also Laws, 1847, p. 48. [388] Laws, 1851, p. 211; 1872, p. 155; 1874, p. 171; 1877, p. 264. Forty acres of land provided for the insane asylum were given to the school. [389] Laws, 1895, p. 188; Rev. Stat., 1909, § 1484ff. A department for the colored was opened in 1889. [390] A branch of this school was maintained at Hannibal from 1882 to 1887, and another branch in St. Louis from 1893 to 1900. In St. Louis there was also a private school from 1885 to 1891, and from 1890 to 1892. [391] Comp. Stat., 1887, p. 917. [392] Laws, 1893, p. 181; Code, 1895, § 2330ff. [393] Laws, 1903, chs. 9, 10; Rev. Code, 1907, § 1115ff. A department for the feeble-minded has been connected with this school. [394] Rev. Stat., 1866, p. 374. [395] Laws, 1867, p. 59; 1871, pp. 94, 231; 1875, p. 146. Ten acres of land were given by the city of Omaha. [396] Laws, 1897, ch. 26; 1901, ch. 70; 1905, ch. 147; 1909, p. 230; 1911, p. 209; 1913, p. 537; Ann. Stat., 1911, § 10,006ff. A private school was opened in Omaha in 1897, lasting one year. [397] Laws, 1869, ch. 56; 1905, p. 253; 1907, p. 371; Rev. Laws, 1912, § 1702ff. [398] In 1819 a committee was appointed to inquire into the circumstances of the deaf and the blind. Laws, p. 245. See also Laws, 1821, p. 508; 1822, p. 92; 1836, ch. 256. [399] Laws, 1875, p. 484; 1879, ch. 58; 1899, ch. 99; 1905, ch. 106; Pub. Stat., 1901, ch. 86. [400] The first appropriation was of $2,000. Laws, 1821, p. 3; 1830, pp. 113, 314; 1838, p. 82; 1853, p. 140; 1860, p. 240; 1873, p. 45. A few pupils were sent to the school at Mystic, Connecticut, shortly before the state school was created. [401] Laws, 1882, p. 259; 1884, p. 160; 1885, p. 177. The property of an old school for the children of soldiers was first made use of. In 1825 a school was incorporated in this state, and $160 was allowed by the legislature for each pupil. Laws, pp. 111, 124. Some private donations seem to have been made, but the school never came into being. In 1875 a tract of land was offered for a school. Report of Commission on Proposals for Sites and Plans for Buildings for the Deaf, Blind and the Feeble-minded, 1874. In 1860 a private school was opened in Trenton, which continued six years. [402] Laws, 1891, ch. 97; 1892, ch. 203; 1893, p. 327; 1895, ch. 411; 1910, p. 334; Comp. Stat., 1910, p. 1896ff. [403] Day schools are authorized where there are ten or more Pupils in a city. Laws, 1910, p. 513. [404] Laws, 1887, ch. 31. There were a few contributions at first. [405] Laws, 1899, ch. 42; 1903, ch. 2; Comp. Laws, 1897, p. 904. [406] Laws, 1817, ch. 264; 1819, chs. 206, 238; 1822, p. 247; 1827, p. 329; 1832, ch. 223; 1836, chs. 228, 511; 1841, p. 133; 1849, p. 589. See also Cammann and Camp, "Charities of New York", 1868, p. 151; J. F. Richmond, "New York and its Institutions", 1871, p. 287. The city granted $400 annually for several years, allowed the use of land at a nominal rental for twenty-one years, and later gave an acre of land, besides furnishing quarters in a public building for eleven years. By the state the Institution was, together with a certain free school society, allowed for fourteen years one-half of the proceeds from fines or licenses on lotteries, which from 1819 to 1827 netted over $20,000. In 1827 the legislature granted $10,000 on condition that an equal sum be raised from private funds, and that inspection be allowed to the state. In 1825 a school was established by the state at Canajoharie, but in 1836 its property was ordered sold, and its pupils brought to the New York Institution. Laws, 1823, p. 224; 1836, p. 779. [407] From 1879 to 1882 a primary department was maintained at Tarrytown. In 1857 it was proposed that the buildings and other property be conveyed to the state as trustee, but to be used always for the instruction of the deaf, on condition that the state pay all the debts and finish the buildings then in course of construction; but this plan was not adopted. Report, 1858, p. 9; Assembly Documents of State of New York, 1857, no. 190. The total amount of private gifts to this school seems to be about $125,000, nearly all coming in the first few decades of its existence. See Report, 1879, p. 101. The institution holds 38 names in "perpetual and grateful remembrance". The funds are given in 1912 as $1,030,059, which are largely due to favorable investments. [408] Laws, 1871, ch. 548; 1872, ch. 670. Funds were received in the beginning from the proceeds of bazaars, etc., and an acre of land and a building were given to it. Contributions are still received from time to time. [409] Laws, 1867, ch. 721; 1870, ch. 180. Within a short time after opening, $70,000 was donated for the school. See Addresses upon Laying of Corner Stone, 1880. Other considerable gifts have come to it, one in 1909 being of $30,000, while there are annual contributions of several thousand dollars. Land for a building was granted by the city for ninety-nine years at an annual rental of one dollar. This school has been under Hebrew auspices, but there has been discussion of its being turned over to the city on the payment of its debts, to be kept as a public non-sectarian school. See Reports, 1909, 1910. [410] Laws, 1877, ch. 378. To this school about $150,000 seems to have been donated, to gather from the reports. Several thousand dollars are received annually. [411] Laws, 1876, ch. 13; 1880, ch. 335; 1890, ch. 469. Six acres of land and several thousand dollars were given at the beginning. [412] Laws, 1876, ch. 331. A few gifts were received at first. [413] Laws, 1884, ch. 275; 1890, ch. 280. In the Census Report of Benevolent Institutions of 1904 this school is given as under the direct control of the state. [414] Laws, 1892, ch. 36. [415] In 1863 it was enacted that county overseers or supervisors should place a deaf child when likely to become a public charge in an institution; or a parent or friend of such a child from five to twelve years of age might prove that the health, morals, or comfort of such child was endangered by the want of education or of proper care, and might apply to the county officer for an order to admit the child to an institution. Laws, ch. 325. The _per capita_ allowance to the schools is $350. See Laws, 1851, ch. 272; 1854, ch. 272; 1864, ch. 555; 1875, ch. 213; 1876, ch. 13; 1886, ch. 615; 1894, ch. 556; 1903, chs. 62, 223; 1909, ch. 21; 1910, ch. 140; 1912, p. 405; Cons. Laws, 1909, p. 727ff. The state allows $300 a year to a deaf person seeking a higher education. Laws, 1913, ch. 175. [416] There have been a number of private schools in the state: the Bartlett Family School, established in New York City in 1852, in 1853 moved to Fishkill, in 1854 to Poughkeepsie, and discontinued in 1861; a school at Niagara, 1857-1860; the Home for the Young Deaf in New York City, organized in 1854, and in operation from 1859 to 1862, which was intended for those too young to enter the New York Institution, and which received a number of contributions; a class in the Cayuga Lake Academy at Aurora, 1871-1878; Syle's Free Evening Class in New York City, principally for teaching trades to adults, 1874-1878; the Keeler School, a private class in New York City, 1885-1897; the Warren Articulation School, 1890-1895; and the Peet School, 1893-1894. [417] Act, Jan. 12, 1845; Rev. Code, 1854, ch. 6; Laws, 1870-1, ch. 35; 1873, ch. 134; 1876, ch. 156; 1879, ch. 187; 1880, p. 170; 1881, ch. 211. At first the counties were to raise $75 by taxation for each pupil. In 1876 a tax of 9 cents on $100 was laid for the benefit of the school. This school has received a gift of $4,000. In 1869 colored deaf and blind were admitted, and in 1872 a department was created for them, this being the first public action in the United States for their education. See Laws, 1872, ch. 134; Report of North Carolina Institution, 1869, p. 13. [418] Laws, 1891, ch. 399; 1893, ch. 69. [419] Laws, 1901, chs. 210, 707; 1907, chs. 929, 1007; Rev. Code, 1905, § 4187ff. [420] Laws, 1890, ch. 161. [421] Laws, 1891, chs. 56, 133; 1893, ch. 122; 1897, ch. 72; 1905, chs. 100, 103; Rev. Code, 1905, § 1133ff. [422] From this $1,000 a month is received. [423] Laws, 1822, p. 5; 1827, p. 130; 1831, p. 427; 1832, p. 20; 1834, p. 39; 1837, p. 118; 1844, p. 8; 1846, p. 111; 1854, p. 71; 1856, pp. 42, 96; 1866, p. 116; 1867, p. 124. To the school at Tallmadge the legislature granted $100 a year for two years. The state school was at first allowed the benefit from the taxes on auction sales in Hamilton County, which netted $2,000 a year at first, but afterward of diminishing amounts. The lots for the school were bought "at a price considerably below their supposed value". A donation of $15,000 has also been received by this school. In 1910 180 acres of land were bequeathed to the schools for the deaf and the blind. [424] Laws, 1885, p. 79; 1902, p. 273; 1908, p. 598; 1911, p. 211; Gen. Code, 1910, § 1872ff. [425] There was a school also in Cleveland from 1871 to 1874, and in Toledo from 1890 to 1893. In Cincinnati a school was established by the city in 1875, and in 1888 incorporated with the present one, which had been started as a private school. Both the Cincinnati and Cleveland schools received aid from the state, but in 1902 this was held up by the courts. Other day schools have been at Elyria from 1898 to 1907; at Canton from 1902 to 1904; and at Conneaut from 1909 to 1912. According to the present law, on the application of a local board, schools may be established; $150 may be allowed from the state school funds for each pupil; and the state commissioner is to appoint teachers, and inspect schools. Laws, 1902, p. 37; 1906, p. 219; 1913, p. 270; Gen. Code, § 7755. In 1898 the establishment of day schools was made obligatory in certain cities. Laws, pp. 186, 236. Local tax levies have been of considerable aid in this state. [426] A private school was in operation in Cincinnati from 1887 to 1890, and in Columbus from 1902 to 1904. [427] Laws, 1897, ch. 16; Rev. Stat., 1903, § 3960; Governor's Message, 1903, p. 13. In 1899 a tax of two-fifths of a mill was levied for the benefit of the deaf. Laws, p. 221. There was a private school at Byron from 1898 to 1899. [428] Laws, p. 617. [429] Laws, p. 546. [430] Laws, 1909, p. 534; 1913, p. 385; Rev. Laws, 1910, §§ 6986, 7014. The public land for the benefit of the schools is said to be worth $350,000. The school at Sulphur was given 60 acres of land by the city, and that at Taft 100 acres by citizens. [431] Laws, 1872, p. 102; 1874, p. 88; 1880, p. 18. The legislature made an appropriation to the school while it was still in private hands. It was largely founded through the efforts of the Society to Promote the Instruction of Deaf-Mutes. Donations amounting to two or three thousand dollars, and four lots, were received at the beginning. [432] Laws, 1891, p. 138; 1893, p. 180; 1901, p. 300; 1907, ch. 79; 1913, pp. 120, 683; Oregon Laws, 1910, ch. 23. The school was formerly under the state board of education. [433] A charter was granted in 1821. Laws, ch. 25. See also Laws, 1833, p. 512; 1836, ch. 268; 1838, pp. 263, 398; 1844, p. 221; J. P. Wickersham, "History of Education in Pennsylvania", 1886, p. 443; Report, 1870, appendix; 1875, appendix. [434] In 1889 a gift of $200,000 was received, and in 1892 one of $50,000, as well as other gifts. There are over 400 life members who have contributed each $30, while there are 13 scholarships of $5,000 each. The present endowment funds amount to about $400,000, as we are advised. See also Reports of State Board of Charities. From 1881 to 1885 a day school was conducted as part of the institution. [435] Laws, 1872, p. 97; 1881, p. 149. Aid was received from the city of Pittsburg at first. The school has been given over $100,000, a number of acres of land, and a Carnegie Library. [436] Laws, 1887, p. 238. There have been some gifts, including five acres of land. [437] Laws, 1891, p. 371; 1893, p. 272. About $7,000 came at the beginning as well as some land. Contributions now average several thousand dollars a year. [438] Laws, 1871, p. 245; 1872, p. 9; 1893, p. 250; 1909, p. 405; Purdon's Digest, 1903, p. 1281ff. The _per capita_ appropriations to the several schools range from $260 to $357. In school districts of 20,000 population, special schools with eight or more pupils may be established. Laws, 1876, p. 157. [439] There have been day schools at Pittsburg, 1869-1876; Erie, 1874-1884; Allegheny, 1875-1876; and Philadelphia, 1880-1881. There was a private school in Philadelphia from 1885 to 1889. [440] Rev. Stat., 1857, p. 158. [441] Laws, 1878, p. 200. [442] Laws, 1891, ch. 922; 1896, chs. 324, 332; 1893, ch. 1175; 1901, ch. 809; Gen. Laws, 1909, chs. 100, 101. The governor makes the appointments. There is a state board of purchases and supplies in connection with the school. [443] Act, Dec. 20. [444] Laws, 1834, p. 513. At first $2,500 was appropriated. See also Laws, 1848, p. 524. [445] Laws, 1852, p. 187; 1871, p. 609. [446] Laws, 1878, p. 707; 1895, ch. 521; 1902, ch. 546; 1910, ch. 468; Code, 1912, ch. 27. A department for the colored was created in 1883. [447] Laws of Dakota, 1881, pp. 16, 65; 1883, ch. 26; 1887, ch. 41; Comp. Laws, 1887, § 261ff. Ten acres of land and a thousand dollars or more were given to the school. [448] Laws, 1907, ch. 137; Comp. Laws, 1910, p. 150ff. [449] Act, Jan. 29, 1844; Laws, 1845-6, ch. 157; 1849-50, ch. 127; Code, 1858, p. 338; Laws, 1860, chs. 19, 69; 1866-7, ch. 42. The law creating the school was appended to one providing for the blind alone. At the beginning $6,400 and two acres of land were given to it. [450] Laws, 1877, ch. 49; Ann. Code, 1896, §§ 2660-2670. A department for the colored was created in 1881. Laws, ch. 109. [451] Laws, 1856, p. 66; 1875, p. 66; 1883, p. 109. [452] Laws, p. 150. [453] Laws, 1902, ch. 10; 1905, p. 47; Rev. Stat., 1911, p. 68. [454] Laws, 1888, pp. 33, 44; 1890, pp. 44, 68; Comp. Stat., 1888, p. 662. For two years the school was conducted as a day school. It received some county assistance at first, and there were some private donations. [455] Laws, 1892, p. 10; 1894, ch. 26; 1896, p. 100; 1897, p. 36; 1898, ch. 20; 1903, p. 51; 1907, pp. 14, 59; 1911, ch. 98; Comp. Laws, 1907, p. 789ff. [456] In 1817 a census of the deaf was taken. Laws, no. 25. [457] Laws, 1823, no. 40; 1825, no. 21; 1833, no. 21; 1839, p. 121; Rev. Stat., 1840, p. 121; Laws, 1841, no. 22; 1842, no. 16; 1858, no. 3; 1872, nos. 16, 19; 1892, no. 27; 1898, chs. 29, 30; 1899, no. 27; 1906, chs. 55, 56; Pub. Stat., 1906, ch. 60. [458] Laws, 1908, p. 490; 1910, p. 84. The governor is commissioner for the deaf, and designates and commits them. This school resulted from a fund of $50,000, which was bequeathed for a "hospital for the temporary treatment of strangers and local invalids peculiarly situated", but which the court allowed to be used for the school. [459] Laws, 1838, ch. 19; 1839, p. 205; 1845, p. 385; 1846, p. 17; 1849, p. 385; 1856, p. 81. In 1825 a committee was sent to Kentucky to examine the school. In 1835 a private association was formed to organize a school. [460] Laws, ch. 164. [461] Laws, 1875, ch. 177; 1879, ch. 244; 1896, ch. 702; 1898, p. 276; 1903, ch. 266; 1904, p. 75; Code, 1904, ch. 74. The Staunton school received some private donations at first, and 5 acres of land, besides a later legacy of $3,000 for poor deaf children; and the Newport News school has received a few gifts, including some land. [462] Laws, 1881, p. 211. [463] Laws, 1886, p. 136. At the beginning 100 acres of land were donated. The school seems not to have profited by the gift from Congress of 200,000 acres for charitable and reformatory institutions. [464] Laws, 1890, p. 497; 1897, p. 443; 1903, p. 266; 1905, ch. 139; 1907, p. 238; 1909, p. 258; 1912, ch. 10; Code and Stat., 1910, § 4387ff. There was a department for the feeble-minded till 1906, and for the blind till 1912, all being known as the "school for defective youth". [465] Laws, 1870, ch. 116; 1871, ch. 71. A building and 15 acres of land were given by the city. [466] Laws, 1868, ch. 71. [467] Laws, 1887, ch. 52; 1895, chs. 25, 39; 1897, ch. 25; 1905, ch. 66; Code, 1906, § 1774ff. Colored pupils are sent to Maryland for education. [468] Laws, 1852, ch. 481; 1857, ch. 34; 1858, ch. 102; Rev. Stat., 1858, ch. 186. Eleven acres of land were given to the school. [469] Laws, 1866, ch. 105; 1869, ch. 8: 1880, ch. 116; 1881, ch. 298; 1883, ch. 268; 1891, ch. 331; 1893, ch. 290; 1907, ch. 128; Rev. Stat., 1898, ch. 38. [470] Laws, 1885, ch. 315; 1897, ch. 321; 1901, ch. 422; 1903, ch. 86; 1907, ch. 128; Rev. Stat., 1898, § 578. It is provided that on the application of a local board of education, the state Superintendent of Public Instruction, with the consent of the Board of Control, may authorize the establishment of schools. Inspectors are also appointed by him, and the creation of schools may be compelled by the county judge. For each pupil the amount first allowed was $100, then $125, and now $150. For the board of pupils who do not live near the school, $100 additional is allowed. The first day school in the state was a private one at Milwaukee, founded in 1878 and lasting till 1885, when the law was enacted. It was under the auspices of the Wisconsin Phonological Institute, $15,000 being contributed for it by a ladies' society, and a city allowance being made to it in 1883. There have been other day schools in the state: Manitowac, 1893-1901; Oconto, 1898-1899; Neilsville, 1898-1905; Sparta, 1899-1909; Tomah, 1899-1900; Rhinelander, 1902-1904; and Waupaca, 1905-1906. There was another school in Oshkosh from 1888 to 1889. [471] Laws, 1886, ch. 77; 1891, ch. 15; 1893, ch. 32; 1895, ch. 25; 1907, ch. 10; Comp. Stat., 1910, ch. 48. It has been provided that when there are as many as 12 applicants, a state school will be organized. A building was erected and designed for the school in 1897, but was set aside for military purposes. By the act of admission to the Union, 30,000 acres of land were granted for the school. The income from this fund in 1910 was $2,849. [472] See _Annals_, lii., 1907, p. 208; liii., 1908, p. 173; liv., 1909, p. 193; _Association Review_, ix., 1907, p. 572. The school opened with 22 pupils. [473] See report of Dr. Sheldon Jackson, Proceedings of Conference of Charities and Corrections, 1895, p. 322. In the Report of the Department of the Interior for 1908, pp. 274, 278, we have the following: "Congress in its appropriations for the education of the natives has also provided for their support. Acting under this authority, an effort is being made to reach the sick and indigent". It is possible that the needs of the deaf will be discovered in this way. [474] In the Report of the Minister of Public Instruction to the Hawaiian legislature, April 14, 1854, p. 17, it is stated: "Provision for the deaf, dumb and blind: No provision for such sufferers among us, and from the returns of the census there are on the islands 106 deaf and dumb, and 329 blind". No mention of "such sufferers" has been found in a later report. For much of the information concerning the American possessions presented here, the writer is indebted to the Chief Bibliographer of the Library of Congress. CHAPTER XV CONSTITUTIONAL PROVISIONS FOR SCHOOLS EXTENT OF CONSTITUTIONAL PROVISIONS Not only has provision for the education of the deaf been consummated in all the states, but in some of them this provision has been buttressed, as it were, by a permanent guarantee in the organic law. This regard, while not necessary practically for the continuance of the schools, is none the less commendable,--and indeed is one that should be declared in every state. Such provision concerning the education of the deaf, more direct in some than in others, is found in the constitutions of twenty-seven, or a little over half of the states. These are Alabama, Arizona, Arkansas, Colorado, Florida, Idaho, Indiana, Kansas, Louisiana, Michigan, Minnesota, Mississippi, Montana, Nevada, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, South Carolina, South Dakota, Texas, Utah, Virginia, Washington, and West Virginia.[475] New York in 1846 was the first state to make reference thus to a school for the deaf. Michigan, however, in 1850 was the first state to provide directly for their education, followed in 1851 by Indiana and Ohio. Of the forty-two states adopting constitutions since 1846, twenty-seven have made reference to schools, while fifteen have failed to do so. Of the twenty states adopting constitutions since 1889, sixteen have made such provision.[476] It is to be noted, however, that many of the states with special reference to the education of the deaf have comparatively recent constitutions, while in others where no such provision is found, the present constitutions often date far back in our national history, and were adopted before attention had been called to the needs of the deaf and similar classes. Hence, in general, it is not to be concluded from the mere presence or absence of a reference in the constitution that certain states are more solicitous than others for the education of their deaf children. LANGUAGE AND FORMS OF PROVISIONS The language of these constitutional provisions for schools for the deaf varies to some extent.[477] In all of the constitutions, with the exception of that in Minnesota, schools for the deaf are coupled with those for the blind, and unless the provision is under the caption of "education," institutions for the insane are likewise provided for in the same clause. In several instances there is more than one reference to the school for the deaf.[478] The most usual statement is that institutions for the deaf and dumb, the blind, and the insane shall be established and maintained, or fostered and supported, by the state, as in Arizona,[479] Colorado,[480] Florida,[481] Idaho,[482] Kansas,[483] Michigan,[484] Montana,[485] Nevada,[486] Ohio,[487] South Carolina,[488] Utah,[489] and Washington.[490] In the South Carolina constitution the school is also declared to be exempted from taxation; and in the Utah constitution a further provision establishes the location, and guarantees against diversion the lands granted by the United States.[491] In the constitutions of Arkansas,[492] Indiana,[493] Mississippi,[494] and Oklahoma,[495] the statement or its equivalent is that it is the duty of the legislature to provide by law for the support of institutions for the education of the deaf and dumb, and blind, and for the insane. In other states less direct or authoritative references are found. In West Virginia[496] the legislature "may make suitable provision for the blind, mute and insane whenever it may be practicable," while in North Carolina[497] the matter seems also optional. In the Minnesota constitution[498] there is an amendment by which the public debt is increased for the purpose of establishing certain public institutions, including the school for the deaf. In the South Dakota constitution[499] the several charitable and penal institutions are enumerated, among which is the school for the deaf, while direction is also given as to the sale of land held for the benefit of the school. In New Mexico[500] the school is enumerated among the educational institutions, reference also being made to the public land; and in Virginia[501] the school is mentioned in connection with the composition of the state board of education. In the Texas constitution[502] a permanent fund is provided from the lands which have been granted prior to its adoption, while another reference is made to the printing to be done at the school. In the North Dakota constitution[503] the lands from Congress are declared to be a perpetual fund and inviolable, while in another place the location of the school is provided for. In the Alabama constitution[504] the legislature is expressly declared not to be empowered to change the location of the school. In New York[505] the constitutional provisions have reference to the subsidies granted to private institutions, it being stated that "nothing in the constitution shall prevent the legislature from making such provision for the education and support of the blind, the deaf and dumb, and juvenile delinquents ... as it may deem proper," and that the legislature is not to be prohibited from action by the prohibition of the credit or land of the state being "given to private associations, corporations and undertakings." In Louisiana[506] a similar, though less explicit, reference to state aid is found. FOOTNOTES: [475] The constitutions of most of the states provide for the education of all their children, and the deaf could well be included here. Moreover, in the constitution of Nebraska (VIII., 12) there is a provision for children growing up in mendicancy and crime; and in that of Wyoming (VII., 18) that such charitable, penal or reformatory institutions shall be established as the claims of humanity and the public good many require. In either of these the provision might be construed to apply to schools for the deaf. [476] In the constitutions of some states, as Michigan, Mississippi, New York, and South Carolina, there were provisions in the preceding as well as the present drafts. [477] In the constitutions no reference is made to the deaf other than in provisions for schools, except in the case of Mississippi, where exemption from a certain tax is found. [478] In these constitutional references, the provision is as a rule found under some general head as "public institutions", "state institutions", or "miscellaneous". In the South Carolina constitution the provision is found under the caption "charitable", and in the North Carolina under "charitable and penal". Under the heading of "education" are the provisions in the constitutions of Arizona (one clause), Colorado (as an amendment), Michigan, Mississippi, New Mexico, Oklahoma (one clause), Texas (though under the sub-title "charitable"), Utah (one clause), and Virginia. [479] XXII., 15; XI., 1. [480] VIII., 1. A later amendment classifies it with the educational institutions of the state. [481] XIII., 1. Adopted the same year that the school was established. [482] X., 1. [483] VII., 1. [484] XI., 15. [485] X., 1; XI., 12. [486] XIII., 1. [487] VII., 1. [488] XII., 1; X., 4. [489] X., 10; XIX., 2, 3. [490] XIII., 1. [491] It is to be noted that in nearly all the states having government donations of land, reference is made to its inviolability. [492] XIX., 19. [493] IX., 1. [494] VIII., 209. [495] XII., 2; XXI., 1. [496] XII., 12. [497] XI., 10. [498] IX., 14, as amended. [499] XIV., 1. [500] XII., 11. [501] IX., 130. [502] VII., 9; XVI., 21. [503] IX., 159; XIX., 215. See also amendment, 1904, sec. 5. [504] XIV., 267. [505] VIII., 9, 14. [506] 53. CHAPTER XVI QUESTION OF THE CHARITY CONNECTION OF SCHOOLS INSTITUTIONS SOMETIMES REGARDED AS EDUCATIONAL: SOMETIMES AS CHARITABLE In considering the relation of the state to its schools for the deaf, the question is raised as to the way they are regarded by the state, and in what scheme of classification they have been assigned. We find that with many of the states the institutions are held to be charitable, and the further question is presented as to whether this is proper and just. In times past this has been the usual classification, but of late years an increasing number of states have made a change and now regard the institutions as merely educational. It would be difficult to say with precision to what scheme of classification the schools in the several states should be ascribed; and in quite a number the lines shade off one into the other. From what has been said in the preceding chapters and also from certain legislative classification, it would seem that the schools in the following states are regarded largely, if not entirely, as educational: Alabama, Arizona, Colorado, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Massachusetts, Mississippi, Montana, New Jersey, Nevada, New Mexico, Oregon, Rhode Island, South Carolina, Texas, Utah, Vermont, and West Virginia. In about half of the states, however, the institutions continue to be regarded as charitable to a greater or less extent from their connection with charity boards or from some other classification. Some are recognized as educational, but at the same time not held altogether free from the charitable touch.[507] CHARITY IN CONNECTION WITH SCHOOLS FOR THE DEAF Considerable difficulty at the outset rests with the word charity. In its best sense, it is the finest word in our language, and from its springs flow all benevolence, material and spiritual: when looked upon scientifically much of the repugnance and prejudice felt toward it is lost, and it becomes the touchstone for the remedy of human ills. In one sense, education is most surely and deeply charitable, whether or not it is held to be but the equipment of the state for its self-preservation. This has long been accepted, and so unanimously have the states undertaken the instruction of their children that its very discussion is now unknown. But popularly conceived, charity is still something doled out and granted by the giver as a matter of grace, and to the recipient are carried associations that do not comport with independence and manliness of character. Besides, education has long ceased to be thought of as charitable, and only such institutions as are for the education of the deaf and blind are left with the undesirable signification of the word. In addition, the state maintains institutions for certain of its classes, as the insane, the feeble-minded and the infirm, which as a rule are in no sense educational from our standpoint, and other institutions of a reformatory, corrective or punitive character, and with them have to be classed the institutions for the deaf, all being known as the state's "charitable institutions," or "state institutions;" while the public rarely makes discrimination, or notes the distinctions involved. The chief trouble, then, in classifying the schools for the deaf as charitable is this connection of the word charity, and the grouping of the deaf with certain other parts of the state's population which other children do not have to share. The deaf are thus differentiated from children who have no defect of sense, and the education of the one is thus education, and of the other charity. Schools in which the deaf are educated would thus seem not to be given their just status. They are misrepresented by being aligned, on the one hand, with people of defective or diseased minds, and on the other, with the state's delinquent and criminal classes. The deaf thus become wards of the state, and constitute one of its dependent classes. They are "inmates" of an "eleemosynary" institution, and the fact that it is all for education is lost sight of.[508] But, we are told, the treatment of deaf children should rest upon an altogether different basis, and they should, even in appearance, receive an education as a right and as nothing else. Education as the paramount privilege of American children is so deeply established in American institutions and character that it would seem to be a principle to be applied to all the children of the state. Admission into schools for the deaf has become more and more like that in the regular schools.[509] The schools are open, as a general rule, only to those able and fitted to be educated, and the mentally and physically disqualified are often rejected. When a child has completed the prescribed number of years of attendance, he can be provided for no longer, and at vacation time in nearly all schools he must depart. The schools, as we are to see, have become free to all, while compulsory education laws have also been made to apply. Hence if schools for the deaf are educational, they can be regarded as charitable only to the extent that all schools are so considered; they should not be looked upon in a different light, and the public should be as fully alive to their claims.[510] ARGUMENTS FOR THE CONNECTION WITH THE BOARDS OF CHARITIES Hitherto we have been discussing the theory in regard to the proper place in which the institutions are to be held, but we are now to see what are the actual grounds upon which the connection with the state board of charities is to be justified. Much might be said of the practical workings of schools in connection with such boards, and it is claimed that the schools get the substance at least in the way of beneficial treatment. By one superintendent it has been stated thus: "In theory it is all wrong, but in practice it could not be improved upon." Where the boards are composed of capable, broad-minded, sympathetic men, the needs of the schools can be satisfactorily looked into, and their experience with other institutions, where the problems are akin in the way of housing a large number of people, can be utilized to great advantage, especially in connection with sanitary, hospital and other arrangements.[511] Such boards may secure supplies on more favorable terms, may systematize all the institutions, may properly apportion the appropriations to be asked of the legislature, may exercise a wider supervision, and may correlate all the means of the state for the maintenance of certain classes of its population. These boards may also have peculiar opportunities for coming across poor and neglected children and of getting them in the schools. Lastly, and most important of all, even though the institutions are educational, there is much also to be considered besides education alone, for a home and board are furnished during the school year, and usually transportation and clothing as well to those in need of them.[512] By the boards of charity themselves the institutions are not necessarily regarded as charitable.[513] Many of them hold the institutions to be educational, despite the charity connection, and few are unwilling to give recognition to their educational features. In none is there a desire to injure or stigmatize the deaf. The aim is to consider the matter in its practical bearings, and the question is held to be largely one of classification and administration. With all the fact weighs that board, lodging, etc., are given entirely free.[514] The clearest and fullest presentation of the point of view of the charity boards is given in the following extract from a letter by one board:[515] The institutions are doubtless both educational and charitable, or at least ought to be, using these words in their ordinary application. It is not a question of merit or demerit on the part of the unfortunates or their families. It is not a question whether they are entitled to an education as much as normal children. So far as there is any real issue, it is one of classification for purposes of administration. The question seems to be whether the institutions that care for the above mentioned classes can best be administered under the department of charities that has charge of public institutions, or the department of education that usually has to do with institutions that furnish education only in the limited technical sense, where pupils attend school a few hours a day, but are not boarded at the institutions. Because an institution is an educational institution, I think it may be none the less a charitable institution. For example, it would hardly be denied that an orphan asylum is a charitable institution; yet an orphan asylum that was not an educational institution would be deplorable. In the state institutions for the deaf and the blind, throughout the country, the educational side is very properly emphasized.... These inmates would properly be classed as public dependents as they usually have been.... The whole trouble seems to arise from a feeling of aversion to the word "charity", and probably the word has been degraded.... To refer to the institutions under consideration as "educational institutions", without any qualification, would not be in the interest of clearness of thought, and would either lead to confusion or to some qualifying phrases, because the deaf and the blind are certainly different enough from the normal child to be considered, for many purposes, in a separate class, and the institutions which educate and support them, it would seem to me, need some term by which they can be designated, which would distinguish them from the educational institutions designed for the normal child. ARGUMENTS IN OPPOSITION TO THE CONNECTION Yet over against all the arguments for the connection with the boards of charities the voice of the educators of the deaf is in unison that the connection of the schools be completely severed with whatever is of charitable signification.[516] This feeling cannot all be ascribed to the prejudice regarding the words employed. In the dissolving of the charity connection an issue not to be disregarded is the moral effect on the public. A right conception is to be obtained respecting the education of the deaf, and while in the schools and in after life they are entitled to the recognition of the true character of this education and of their status in the community. If the deaf after they have left the schools have shown that they are capable of wrestling unaided with the difficulties of life, and are really not objects of charity at all, then they should be spared all discriminating associations. Indeed, as our new view of charity is the making of men capable of standing alone, and economic units of gain in society, so the deaf should not be considered as a distinct or dependent class, when by the use of certain expressions this is done; and we should hold that if their work in the world has justified them, then no barriers should be raised which their fellows in society do not have to meet, and that their education should be offered to them without discrimination or stigma. The benefits derived from the relation with the board of charities may be more than offset by the connection with educational agencies, where the school is recognized as part of the state's educational system. In respect to the providing of maintenance for the pupils, this can be regarded as but an incidence, when any other plan would be impracticable. The main, overshadowing purpose in the work of the institutions is education, and what are supplied beyond are only to render this the more effective. But after all this is said, the opponents of the charity connection insist that the burden of proof is upon those who advocate the connection. Why, they ask, should the deaf children of the state who are as capable of being educated as others be considered objects of the state's charity? Why any more than other children? The feeling in the matter may be indicated by two declarations on the subject, one by the educators of the deaf, and the other by the deaf themselves. The first is in the form of a resolution adopted by the Convention of American Instructors:[517] _Resolved_, that the deaf youth of our land unquestionably deserve, and are lawfully entitled to, the same educational care and aid as their more fortunate brothers and sisters; and that this education, the constitutional duty of the state, should be accorded them as a matter of right, not of charity, standing in the law, as it is in fact, a part of the common school system. The second is a resolution adopted by the National Association of the Deaf:[518] _Whereas_, the privilege of an education is the birthright of every American child ...; and _Whereas_, the deaf child ... has the same inalienable right to the same education as his more fortunate hearing brother; and _Whereas_, ... the [modern] movement ... [is] giving schools for the deaf their proper place as part of the public school system of the country; and _Whereas_, ... eighty-one per cent [of the deaf are] gainfully employed of those who have had schooling, thus indicating the value of education ...; therefore be it _Resolved_, ... that education of the deaf on the part of the state is simply fulfillment of its duty as a matter of right and justice, not sympathetic charity and benevolence to the deaf; ... that schools for the deaf should not be known and regarded, nor classified, as benevolent or charitable institutions, ... [but] as strictly educational institutions, a part of the common school system ... [and not with such associations as] tend to foster a spirit of dependence in the pupils and mark them as the objects of charity of the state.... CONCLUSIONS IN RESPECT TO THE CHARITY CONNECTION OF SCHOOLS FOR THE DEAF Certain inferences or conclusions may now be reached regarding our question as to whether schools for the deaf may be regarded and classified as charitable. 1. In America the schools have been regarded both as educational and charitable, but there is an increasing tendency to consider them as purely educational. At present about half of the states hold them entirely or in the main as educational. 2. The state boards or public authorities that regard the schools as charitable are in no wise prompted by any desire to discriminate against the deaf, or to deny that they are less capable or worthy of education than others. The question is held to be mainly one of administration. 3. Inasmuch as board and a home are provided in the institutions, and in some cases clothing and transportation also, the charitable element is present, and in point of fact the schools must be regarded _ad hoc_ as charitable. 4. This charitable feature, however, plays a slight and almost negligible part in the work of the schools, being in fact only incidental, and the educational aims take precedence over all else. 5. Because of the associations involved in the charity connection, which are not shared in by the regular schools, and because of the little to suggest charity in the after lives of the deaf, the schools for the deaf have reason to protest against the connection. As education is the one purpose of the schools, and as their operations are conducted solely to this end, they are entitled to an educational classification. 6. That the schools for the deaf should thus be held and treated, to the farthest possible extent, as purely educational, is demanded both by justice and by the regard for the proper effect on the deaf and on the public. FOOTNOTES: [507] Thus, in addition to the states named above, in the constitutions of Michigan, Oklahoma and Virginia the institutions are designated educational. In certain states also, as we have seen, the state superintendent of public instruction is _ex-officio_ member of the governing board, and in a few other states report is made to the department of education. In New York and North Carolina the schools are visited by this department. In a number also an educational classification is found in some of the statutory references or captions. See in particular on this subject, _Annals_, xlviii., 1903, p. 348; lviii., 1913, p. 327. [508] The earlier conception of the schools is in part illustrated by the name "asylum" given. British schools were often called asylums or hospitals, and were largely founded and supported by charity. Likewise in America the term "asylum" was frequently given to the schools when first started. But the name has now been generally discarded, and in but one state is the title retained, New Mexico. "School" is now mostly used, while in a few "institution" is employed. See _Annals_, _loc. cit._ See also Report of Board of Penal, Pauper and Charitable Institutions of Michigan, 1878, p. 41. [509] In Massachusetts appropriations were once "for beneficiaries in asylums for the deaf and dumb", but now they are "for the education of deaf pupils in schools designated by law". [510] In a legal sense, nearly all educational institutions can be called charitable, especially if they are private affairs, and gifts for such purposes are held in the law as for charitable purposes. See 4 Wheaton, 518; 2 How. (U. S.), 227; 14 How., 277; 44 Mo., 570; 25 O. St., 229. Not many cases have arisen in regard to the status of institutions for the deaf. In 1900 the Columbia Institution was held in the opinion of the Attorney-General to be under the department of charities, but Congress the next year declared it to be educational. See _Annals_, xlvi., 1901, p. 345. In Colorado an opinion was rendered that the school was educational alone, and not subject to the civil service rules, and this was later ratified in the constitution and by the legislature. Some of the courts have been inclined to view the institutions as charitable. In Nebraska the school for the deaf was at first considered an asylum and in the same class with almshouses, rather than educational. 6 Neb., 286. See also 43 Neb., 184. In New York the provision of the law allowing the State Board of Charities to inspect the Institution for the Blind was attacked, and it was held that, though the institution was partly educational and was visited by the department of education, yet the word charity was to be taken in its usual meaning, and if the institution as a private body educated, clothed and maintained indigent pupils, it was charitable. 154 New York, 14 (1897). [511] See Report of Illinois Board of Charities, 1872, pp. 13ff., 32ff. [512] In a few cases a home during vacation is afforded to the indigent or unprotected. [513] In order to discover how these institutions are regarded by the departments of charities, letters of inquiry were sent by the writer to all the states of the Union. Replies were received in 45 out of 49 cases, coming from boards of charities, boards of control, or in their absence from commissioners of education or other state officials,--and in a few cases from individuals or societies to whom the communication was turned over. In the answers, the institutions were called charitable by 6, educational by 13, both charitable and educational by 12, while by 14 the question was not specifically answered. In some instances, these replies were only private opinions, but they represent none the less the views of those most in touch with the charity activities of the states. In a few cases the replies were at variance with what has been accepted regarding certain states. It was also found that boards of control do not necessarily consider the institutions as charitable. [514] By one board, while such schools are admitted to be partly educational, they are held "charitable in that they afford a home for certain defective persons during the time of their dependence". By one board the pupils are called "charity patients". [515] The District of Columbia. [516] Many of the schools in their reports take pains to disclaim any but a strictly educational character. Of the Michigan school it is expressly stated that it is "not an asylum, reformatory or hospital"; of the Colorado that it is "not an 'asylum' or 'home' for the afflicted; it is not a hospital for the care and treatment of the eyes and ears; and it is not a place for the detention and care of imbeciles"; of the Illinois that it is "not a reformatory, poor house, hospital or asylum"; of the Indiana that it is "not an asylum, place of refuge, reform school, almshouse, children's home or hospital"; of the Georgia that it is "in no sense an asylum ... or charitable institution"; and of the Mississippi that it is "in no sense an asylum ... a home ... [nor a place] for medical treatment." See also Report of Commissioner of Public Lands and Buildings of Nebraska, 1896, p. 356; Education Department of New York, 1912, p. 81. [517] Proceedings, xvii., 1905, p. 168. See also _ibid._, xv., 1898, p. 216; _Annals_, lv., 1910, p. 133. The schools are also said to be "maintained solely for the instruction of a large and interesting class of children who, by reason of a physical infirmity, the loss of hearing, are denied instruction in the public schools". Dr. A. L. E. Crouter, Proceedings of National Conference of Charities and Corrections, 1906, p. 249. See also Report of Kentucky School, 1909, p. 17. [518] Proceedings, viii., 1907, p. 40. See also _ibid._, v., 1896, p. 47. CHAPTER XVII PROVISIONS CONCERNING ADMISSION OF PUPILS INTO SCHOOLS RULES AS TO THE PAYMENT OF FEES Hitherto we have considered the several forms of provision for the schools for the deaf, and the general treatment accorded them. We now turn our examination to the schools themselves in their relation to the pupils who enter them. Our first concern is with the provisions as to the admission of pupils into the schools. We find that the schools, to all intents and purposes, are free to all applicants mentally and physically qualified to enter.[519] Usually, when started, the schools were free to the indigent only, though some, especially in the West, were made free to all from the very beginning. However, there was little attempt to observe closely these limitations, and in time, as we have seen, they were for the most part given up.[520] At present limitations of any kind are found in the smaller number of states, and exist in these in form rather than in practice, so that to-day laws or regulations of a restrictive nature may be regarded as but nominal. In all the states the schools are by statute free to the indigent at least, and in less than a score is there a regulation short of universal admittance prescribed. By the wording of the statute, either directly or by implication, it would seem to be indicated that the schools, or, in their absence, the proper public authorities, in the following states were still empowered to demand a charge in whole or in part from those able to pay: Alabama, Arizona, Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Kentucky, Maryland, Mississippi, Missouri, New Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, Nevada, Pennsylvania, South Carolina, and Virginia--these states at least making reference in some place to the indigent.[521] But with or without such reference, as we have noted, in but few instances is there a charge to any, indigent or not.[522] In some states proof of indigence is still formally necessary,[523] and in others payment may be made if desired.[524] Little effort, then, is made to collect fees in American schools for the deaf. The circumstances of the deaf themselves are usually such as to demand for them education without cost; while at the same time the general American feeling that education should be a free gift of the state to its youth would be sufficient to prevent attempts to secure payment, even if such action should be considered proper. PROVISION FOR COLLATERAL SUPPORT OF PUPILS The state thus supplies the means for the education and maintenance of pupils without cost to them; but to insure the attendance of those who by reason of poverty might be prevented from availing themselves of its bounty, it assists even further. Where no other means are provided, clothing and transportation to and from the schools are furnished free of expense. Such charges are usually paid by the counties from which the pupils come, though a few states undertake this directly. A given sum may be allowed for this purpose, or the actual cost may be collected.[525] AGE LIMITS OF ATTENDANCE With most of the schools the age limits of attendance are fixed, and pupils may be admitted only within the time prescribed by the law. In some the age permitted is the common school age; in others pupils are admitted who are of "suitable age and qualifications," or "capacity;" and in some cases, no limits being set down, the matter seems to be left to the discretion of the authorities.[526] In schools where the limits of attendance are specified, the minimum age is usually six, seven or eight, while a few schools admit at five. In a few of the day schools, and in most of the oral home schools, children may be received as early as three, or even two, to make an early beginning in the use of speech, some of the home schools being designed expressly to receive children under five, or before the regular school period. The age limit for the completion of the school period is often twenty or twenty-one, while a few schools may keep pupils longer, as to twenty-five. The most frequent age period at present, where age limits are stated, is from six to twenty-one, but the period often begins and ends at other ages.[527] In some cases pupils are allowed to remain a certain number of years, but none beyond a certain limit, while in many the period may be extended two, three or five years, when it appears that the progress of the pupil justifies a more protracted residence.[528] Finally, it is to be noted that the limits of attendance have in general been lowered, and have been made to conform more and more with those of the regular schools.[529] FOOTNOTES: [519] Certain of the schools receive a few pay pupils, but these are usually from outside the state or are otherwise exceptionally provided for. Receipts from such sources are inconsiderable, and have little effect on the revenues of the schools. According to the Census of Benevolent Institutions of 1905, less than $55,000 came to the schools in this way, the greater amount being for pupils of other states. [520] The statutes of some states, as of Maine and Massachusetts, even go so far as distinctly to declare that no discrimination shall be made on account of wealth. On this subject, see Report of Clarke School, 1885, p. 8. [521] In Florida tuition at least seems to be provided free by the statute, and in Georgia free admission seems to be provided only for the indigent blind, while education is made free to all the deaf. On this subject, see _American Journal of Sociology_, iv., 1898, p. 51ff. [522] On this subject the superintendent of the Mississippi School addressed letters to heads of Southern schools, and found only two--those in Texas and Mississippi--having any requirement as to payment. In Mississippi there had been only two payments in the course of a considerable number of years. In the Texas school for the year 1909 we find the sum of $1,546 collected as a "reasonable amount" for board,--an unusual item in the receipts of a school. [523] Wherever a formal regulation is stated, we are advised that the schools are "free to the indigent", "free if parents are unable to pay", "free under certain circumstances", etc. In a few states, "certificates of inability" have been demanded. [524] In Maine, for instance, the law states that the school is free, "provided, however, that nothing herein contained shall be held to prevent the voluntary payment of the whole or part of such sum by the parent or the guardian". [525] Some states, notably Washington, Minnesota, Mississippi, South Carolina, Arkansas, Utah, Nebraska, and Oklahoma allow funds to pay the transportation of students who enter the college at Washington, and in some cases an even further allowance is made. In Minnesota and Nebraska, for instance, the amount is $300 a year. See _Annals_, lvi., 1911, p. 180. [526] Even where the age period is fixed by law, it is not always rigidly adhered to, and considerable elasticity may be allowed. Of the Michigan school we are told that the state "wisely allows the board of trustees the privilege of admitting those [pupils] who are older or younger, if they see fit". Report, 1908, p. 32. For discussion of the age period, see Report of New York Institution for Improved Instruction, 1870, p. 28; Ohio School, 1872, p. 17; Clarke School, 1888, p. 8; American School, 1893, p. 32; Michigan School, 1894, p. 22; New Jersey School, 1898, p. 20; Pennsylvania Institution, 1901, p. 35; Proceedings of Convention of American Instructors, xviii., 1908, p. 156; _Association Review_, v., 1903, p. 380. [527] The formal age period is from 6 to 21 in Colorado, Florida, Idaho, Maryland, Montana, Oklahoma, South Dakota, and Washington; from 7 to 21 in Kansas, Michigan, Nebraska and New Mexico; 7 to 25 in Georgia and North Dakota; 7 to 20 in Wisconsin; 8 to 20 in Minnesota; 8 to 21 in Indiana; 8 to 25 in West Virginia; 8 to 26 in California; 5 to 21 in Iowa and Maine; 5 to 20 in Vermont; and in North Carolina at one school 6 to 21, and at the other 8 to 23. In Alabama pupils between the ages of 7 and 21 may remain 10 years, with an extension of 4, but none beyond 25. In Arkansas the limits are 6 and 21, and the time of residence may be extended to 13 years. In Texas they are 7 and 20, with a residence of 12 years permitted. In Missouri they are 8 and 21, with a residence of 12 years. In Kentucky and Virginia they are the same, with a residence of 10 years. In Rhode Island they are 3 and 20, with a stay of 10 years, which may be extended. In New Jersey the limits are 8 and 21, and a pupil is entitled to a stay of 8 years, which may be extended 3, and 3 more in addition. In Louisiana the limits are 8 and 22, pupils under 14 being allowed to stay 10 years; between 14 and 17, 8; and over 17, 5--with an extension in each case of 4 years. In Delaware a pupil may stay 5 years, with a further extension of 5. In Ohio the lower limit is 7, and none may remain more than 13 years. In New York pupils may enter at 5, but after 12, the period is 5 years, with an extension of 3, and a further one of 3. In Wyoming pupils may enter at 6; and in Connecticut at 6, with a residence of 12 years and an extension of 6. In Massachusetts a residence of 10 years is permitted, which may be extended, but here the Clarke School has no fixed time, and the Horace Mann takes pupils over 5. In Pennsylvania, though the statute seems to have provided from 10 to 20 years as the period, there are no strict limits, the Pennsylvania Institution receiving from 5 to 21, the Western Pennsylvania from 6 to 20, and the Pennsylvania Oral none under 6, except in special circumstances. In Utah there seems to be only an upper limit of 30. [528] It sometimes happens that there are found a small number of deaf persons who are beyond the age allowed, but who are in need of a certain amount of schooling. Their condition is said to be "due to their environments, to merciless and exacting parents, to sickness, and to other causes." Report of Iowa School, 1812, p. 13. See also Report, 1910, p. 8. Under special arrangements, some of these might be benefited no little by a few years of instruction. In Iowa such persons may now be received up to the age of thirty-five, if the State Board of Control consents. [529] We have already noticed that in the first schools an early age was not insisted upon, some pupils entering at 10 or 12, while their attendance was also of short duration. The period was often from 9 to 30. The latter age has been allowed in some states till recent years, as in Texas, Arkansas and Missouri. It may be stated here that the law as to residence applies usually only at the time of entrance, and the removal of the parent may not always effect a change. For a case in point, see 4 R. I., p. 587. CHAPTER XVIII ATTENDANCE IN SCHOOLS THE PROPORTION OF THE DEAF IN THE SCHOOLS The question now arises as to whether the deaf generally attend these schools provided for them. This inquiry really resolves itself into two parts: how far the deaf have at some time and for a longer or shorter period had recourse to the schools; and how far they may be found to be in attendance at a given time. The one has relation rather to how widely the schools are extending their educational opportunities, and the other to how effectively they are accomplishing their ends. As to the first consideration, the schools are found to reach most of the deaf children with the privileges of an education to a greater or less extent. From the returns of the census[530] we find that nearly four-fifths (78.4 per cent) of the deaf have attended school, over three-fourths (77.5 per cent) of these having attended the special schools. The proportion would be greater still but for the number of the deaf too young to enter school. The proportion of the deaf of school age who have attended school may likewise be estimated by comparing the total number of approximate school age with the number who were reported to have been in attendance. There were, according to the census, 13,905 deaf children from five to twenty years of age. Of these, 10,640, or 76.5 per cent, were reported to have attended school.[531] In 1912-1913 the total number in attendance was 14,474, which probably means a higher proportion. On the whole, then, it would seem that, in respect to the number of deaf children actually reached at one time or another, the schools make a really commendable showing, and one that is becoming better from year to year. The second matter, however, cannot be disposed of nearly so satisfactorily. It is difficult to determine with any approach to exactness the respective proportions of the deaf in the several states of school age who are out of school. The census does not give us definite information on this point; and though the school authorities themselves are usually aware of conditions in their respective states, they seldom have the means of fully ascertaining. But we may learn something of the general situation. In the reports of some of the schools complaint is not infrequently made as to the number of deaf children out of school who should be in, and in a portion the number is said to be large.[532] The proportions, furthermore, found in attendance in the different states in comparison with their total population, or with their total deaf population under twenty years of age, indicate that the attendance in some states is far greater than in others, which means that in the latter a relatively smaller part are in school.[533] It would appear, then, that the number of the deaf out of school who are of school age is probably not negligible in any of the states, and that in some it is very considerable.[534] The fact that the schools do not have their full quota of pupils is not all due to the refusal of deaf children to avail themselves of the opportunity for a schooling. It is in good part owing also to the failure of some of the pupils who attend to remain a sufficient length of time. In the preceding chapter we have seen what are the limits of attendance prescribed in the schools; but as a matter of fact a large proportion of the pupils do not remain the full period allotted, and in some of the schools an appreciable number do not remain the better or a substantial part of the term.[535] As in all schools, there is in the passing of the pupils from the years of childhood an increasing tendency to leave, and with the deaf this applies with no less force;[536] so that on no small portion of the pupils the work of the schools is not permitted to have full effect. THE NEED OF COMPULSORY EDUCATION LAWS FOR THE DEAF It is thus quite evident, however large the true proportion of the deaf who attend the school may be, and whatever the proportion remaining a satisfactory period may be, that in practically every state there are a certain number of deaf children not in the schools who should be there, and that the offer of the state to provide an education for all its deaf children is not availed of as it should be.[537] For the existence of this condition of affairs the schools are not to be held responsible. They are usually doing all they can to get the children in, and all the deaf if they will may receive an education. The cause lies further back: most often in the ignorance or short-sightedness of the parent. For it all there is but one remedy--the enactment of a strong compulsory education law and its uncompromising enforcement. No matter how strenuous and diligent may be the efforts to reach the children,[538] it is only when such a law is on the statute books that the state's really effective weapon is at hand to secure attendance.[539] However urgent are the needs of compulsory education laws for children generally, there are special reasons for them with the deaf. The deaf stand in particular need of an education, and without it their condition is peculiarly helpless and pitiable. Compelling reason is also found in the fact that, besides the ordinary schooling, industrial training is likewise afforded to the deaf, which is hardly possible elsewhere, and which may mean no little towards success in after life. Even though it sometimes seems hard to take a deaf child from his home, and separate him from his parents for a number of months at a time, especially if the child is in his tender years, the greater necessity of the law is but indicated if such children are to be kept from growing up in ignorance. The hardship in separation is rather apparent only and is temporary, while the gains are not to be measured. Not only should the deaf child be required to attend school, but for reasons equally strong it should be seen that he remains at school a sufficient number of years, and a sufficient length of time each year. It is a difficult matter as it is to secure full attendance, but too often also the temptation is at hand for pupils to leave early to take up work on their own account, or because the school routine seems irksome; and too often is a pupil called away to help on the farm or in the shop by what is sometimes hardly less than the greed of the parent, or by what is sometimes miscalled his poverty. The state should allow nothing at all to stand in the way of the child's best interests. PRESENT EXTENT OF COMPULSORY EDUCATION LAWS How important are compulsory education laws for the deaf is being generally seen, and the demand has become practically unanimous for their enactment, the feeling not being confined to educators of the deaf but shared in by others interested in them.[540] Such laws have begun to find their way upon the statute books, and are now being increasingly enacted. Already practically half of the states have them, nearly all of which were enacted since 1900. In other states the matter is also being agitated, with the likelihood that provisions will be extended to them in time. States with such laws now number at least twenty-three: California, Colorado, Idaho, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Maryland, Massachusetts, Michigan, Minnesota, Montana, Nebraska, New Mexico, North Carolina, North Dakota, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Rhode Island, South Dakota, Utah, Washington, and Wisconsin.[541] With respect to the provisions of these statutes, we find that in some cases the general compulsory education law applies with its age-periods, fines, etc., while in others there are special enactments for the deaf. In most states an exception is made if there is instruction at home, or with equal facilities, and at the same time and in the same branches. In certain ones truancy officers are expressly designated to enforce the law.[542] Fines for violation are placed at sums varying from $5 to $200.[543] The period of attendance required may be the school year, but more often a part, as five, six or eight months;[544] and the term for which attendance is required is either a designated number of years, as five or eight, or a period between certain age limits, as from eight to sixteen or from seven to eighteen, etc.[545] FOOTNOTES: [530] Special Reports, 1906, pp. 145, 146, 242. Of the colored deaf less than one-half--1,169 out of 2,836--had been to school. [531] In 1890 the proportion of deaf children between five and twenty years found to be in school was only 40 per cent, to be accounted for in part by the fact that only those children actually in school at the time that the census was taken were included. Census Reports, 1890. Report on Insane, Feeble-minded, Deaf and Dumb and Blind, 1895, p. 102. [532] In the case of the Alabama School it is said that "there are many deaf children of school age in the state not in school". Report, 1900, p. 24. In the case of the Kentucky School it is stated that "there are still 200 [children] of school age in the state who have not received the benefit of the school". Report, 1903, p. 13. See also Report, 1887, p. 98. In Tennessee it is stated that there are "doubtless quite a number of deaf children of whom we have no knowledge in certain counties". Report of Tennessee School, 1910, p. 11. In Texas there are said to be "300 deaf children in the state within scholastic age who are not in school", this proportion possibly being 50 per cent. Report of Texas School, 1912, pp. 5, 12. See also Report of Board of Charities of New York, 1910, i., p. 151; Arkansas School, 1890, p. 44; Western Pennsylvania Institution, 1888, p. 19; 1908, p. 19; Maryland School, 1893, p. 8. [533] It has been found that, by comparing the number of the deaf in school in the several states with the total population of 1910, the best record is 26.0 per 100,000 of population, which belongs to Wisconsin; and if this ratio be accepted as an approximate standard, the average proportion for all the United States is only one-half, with a ratio of 13.6 per 100,000, while in a few of the states it is only one-third, the lowest ratio being 6.1 per 100,000. If all the states had as high a ratio as 26, the number in attendance would be 23,913. The finding of these results is due to Mr. F. W. Booth, _Volta Review_, xii., 1911, p. 786. If we compare the number of the deaf reported by the census under twenty years of age with the number found at school. In 1912-1913, the lowest proportion is seen to be 45 per cent, though only half a dozen states have proportions under 60. [534] The proportion of children generally out of school is found by the Russell Sage Foundation to average 21.8 per cent in all the states, ranging from 7.3 to 44.7 per cent. Comparative Study of Public School Systems in 48 States, 1912. [535] In respect to the ages most common in the schools for the deaf, it has been found by Dr. Harris Taylor, of the New York Institution for Improved Instruction, that of 2,634 pupils in 38 schools for whom returns were made, 19.8 per cent were seven years of age; 17.3 per cent, eight; 10.9 per cent, six; 10.2 per cent, nine; and 9.6 per cent, ten. Only 1.4 per cent were over nineteen. _Volta Review_, xiv., 1912, p. 177. [536] See Report of Western New York Institution, 1888, p. 28; Kentucky School, 1889, p. 14. In the regular schools 85 per cent of the pupils are said to drop out between the twelfth and fifteenth years. F. M. Leavitt, "Examples of Industrial Education", 1912, p. 54. See also Report on Condition of Women and Children Wage Earners in the United States, 1910, vol. 7. [537] In some cases it happens that the school is already crowded, but the need is no less, and it should be the business of the state to provide sufficient accommodations for all those who seek an education. [538] Great credit is often due to the schools for their efforts to get all the children in. Of the Kentucky School it is said that "there remain but few deaf children whom we have not seen personally". Report, 1907, p. 14. [539] We do not have sufficient data to enable us to make comparison between the attendance in states with a compulsory education law and those without it, though the former have in general apparently the better record. In Michigan it is stated that the compulsory education law has brought in many who otherwise would not have come. Report, 1908, p. 14. [540] See Proceedings of National Conference of Charities and Corrections, 1907, p. 498; Report of Commissioner of Charities and Corrections of Oklahoma, 1912, p. 430; Proceedings of Convention of American Instructors, vii., 1870, p. 137; x., 1882, p. 164; xi., 1886, p. 34; Conference of Principals, ii., 1872, p. 178; National Association of the Deaf, iii., 1889, p. 52; _Annals_, xv., 1870, p. 216; xliv., 1899, p. 152; liv., 1909, p. 356; lviii., 1913, p. 347; _Association Review_, v., 1903, p. 181; Report of Clarke School, 1888, pp. 8, 19; North Carolina School (Raleigh) 1896, p. 6; Illinois School, 1898, p. 13; Colorado School, 1898, p. 18; Indiana School, 1900, p. 20; Oregon School, 1901, p. 9; Nebraska School, 1912, p. 9; and current reports of schools generally. [541] In a certain number of states, moreover, as Connecticut and West Virginia, town and county authorities are required to make report of the deaf at fixed times, and this may sometimes have the effect of a regular law. In addition, in some states with the full law, as Wisconsin, Michigan and North Carolina, it is the duty of certain county officials, as superintendents of education, assessors, etc., to send in the names of possible pupils to the schools. In North Carolina many county superintendents of education are said to take an interest in thus getting the children in. Report of North Carolina School, 1908, p. 10; 1910, p. 9. By the secretary of the state board of charities of California, however, we are advised that the state does not compel a parent to send his deaf or blind child to an institution. [542] As in Kansas, Maryland, Michigan, Minnesota, Nebraska, Ohio, and Oregon. [543] The fines in some of the states are as follows: $5 in Maryland, $5-$20 in Minnesota, $5-$25 in Montana and Oregon, $20 in Rhode Island, $25 in Iowa, $5-$50 in Wisconsin, $100 in Kansas, and $50-$200 in Washington. In Utah the offense is a misdemeanor. [544] Kansas requires 5 months, Oklahoma, Oregon and Montana 6, and Maryland, North Dakota and Wisconsin 8. [545] The number in Montana is 8, and in California 5. The limits in Wisconsin are 6 and 16, in North Carolina 7 and 17, in Indiana and Maryland 8 and 16, in North Dakota 7 and 20, in Kansas and Oklahoma 7 and 21, in Michigan, Nebraska and Rhode Island 7 and 18, in Montana, Ohio, Oregon and Utah 8 and 18, in Minnesota 8 and 20, and in Iowa 12 and 19. In Minnesota it is suggested that the law apply to those over 20 as well. Report of Board of Control, 1908, p. 356; Report of Minnesota School, 1909, p. 23. CHAPTER XIX METHODS OF INSTRUCTION IN SCHOOLS THE USE OF SIGNS AS A MEANS OF COMMUNICATION Deaf children cannot be educated as other children, and in the schools there have to be employed special means of instruction. In the present chapter it is our purpose to consider these methods only as they represent, in a complete study of the provision of the state for the education of the deaf, the means which have been found necessary to employ to attain this end. From the beginning of organized instruction of the deaf in America a system of signs has been in use to a wide extent. At the time when the methods of instruction of the deaf were introduced into the first schools, the "sign language" was brought in as an essential part from France, where it had largely been formulated. Modified somewhat and considerably enlarged--and in conjunction with the manual alphabet, of Spanish origin--the system has taken its place as a recognized means of education and communication in the great number of the schools. The deaf themselves after passing from the doors of the schools have employed the sign language mainly in their intercourse with one another, and with most of them meetings and social affairs are conducted virtually entirely in this manner. Thus the sign language has for long been one of the vehicles--usually the chief vehicle--of communication among the deaf and their instructors. With the sign language for practical use goes the manual alphabet, or "finger-spelling," by which the several letters of the alphabet are represented on the hand, the two together really constituting the language.[546] The order of signs itself forms to an extent a universal language. It consists of gestures, bodily movements, mimic actions, pantomime, postures--and to carry a close shade of meaning, even the shrugging of shoulders, the raising of eyebrows and the expression of the face--all appealing graphically to the accustomed eye. The signs of which it is made up are partly natural, and partly arbitrary or conventional; and the whole system as now practiced has been codified, as it were, for experienced users. By the deaf it can be employed rapidly and with ease, and is readily and clearly understood. Many of them become such masters of this silent tongue that it may be used with grace, warmth and expressiveness.[547] RISE AND GROWTH OF THE ORAL MOVEMENT This system of signs, however, has not been looked upon with favor by all parties. The "sign language" is said to be a foreign language, known and understood by only a very small part of the population, standing as a great barrier to the acquisition of language used by people generally, and tending to make the deaf of a class apart or "clannish." In its place in the schools would be substituted what is known as the "oral method," and speech and lip-reading would be used as the means of instruction. It has been sought thus to give all the schools over to the oral method, and summarily to drive out the sign language.[548] Though the system of signs has been used in America as the prevailing method from the beginning, it cannot be said that speech-teaching had not been employed at all in the early days. Several schools had started out as oral schools,[549] and in others speech had been employed to a greater or less extent.[550] But in none of the schools had the oral method been retained to the exclusion of all others. In time, however, attempts were made to secure the adoption of a pure oral system. Attention was called especially to Germany, which had long been known as the home of this method, and it was sought to introduce it into America.[551] In 1843 Horace Mann and Dr. Samuel G. Howe visited that country, and on their return reported in favor of the oral method, though no change was then brought about.[552] A few years later the matter was further agitated, and in 1864 an effort was made to have an oral school incorporated in Massachusetts, but without success. A small oral school was then started at Chelmesford in 1866, which after a short time was removed to Northampton, having been very liberally endowed, and becoming known as the Clarke School. In 1867 the legislature decided to incorporate this, and to allow some of the state pupils to be sent to it. In the meantime--in fact, seven months prior to the actual establishment of the Clarke School--a school which had resulted from a private class had been started in New York City, known as the New York Institution for the Improved Instruction of Deaf-Mutes. This was under a former Austrian teacher, and its stated purpose was to use the oral method as in Germany. Two years later the school board of Boston, having made a canvass of the deaf children of the city, resolved to establish a day school, which was to be a pure oral one, and which not long after was called the Horace Mann School. These three schools were thus the pioneers in the present oral movement.[553] The oral method has gained ground steadily since these times. It is now used exclusively in twelve of the institutions, while it has always remained the prevailing method in the day schools.[554] A great extension is also found in the institutions employing what is called the "combined system," and in them more and more attention is given to the teaching of speech. The growth in the number of speech-taught pupils may be indicated in the following table, showing the number and percentage of those taught speech in different years from 1884, the year we first have record; of those taught wholly or chiefly by the oral method since 1892; and also of those taught wholly or chiefly by the auricular method since 1893.[555] NUMBER OF THE DEAF TAUGHT SPEECH, NUMBER TAUGHT WHOLLY OR CHIEFLY BY ORAL METHOD, AND NUMBER TAUGHT WHOLLY OR CHIEFLY BY AURICULAR METHOD, IN DIFFERENT YEARS ------+--------+--------+------+---------+------+------------+------ | | | | NUMBER | | NUMBER | | TOTAL | | | TAUGHT | | TAUGHT | | NUMBER | NUMBER | | WHOLLY | | WHOLLY | YEAR | OF | TAUGHT | PER | OR | PER | OR | PER | PUPILS | SPEECH | CENT | CHIEFLY | CENT | CHIEFLY BY | CENT | | | | BY ORAL | | AURICULAR | | | | | METHOD | | METHOD | ------+--------+--------+------+---------+------+------------+------ 1884 | 7,482 | 2,041 | 27.2 | | | | 1890 | 8,901 | 3,682 | 41.3 | | | | 1892 | 7,940 | 3,924 | 49.4 | 1,581 | 19.9 | | 1893 | 8,304 | 4,485 | 54.0 | 2,056 | 24.7 | 80 | 0.9 1895 | 9,252 | 5,084 | 54.9 | 2,570 | 27.7 | 149 | 1.6 1900 | 10,608 | 6,887 | 63.0 | 4,538 | 42.8 | 108 | 1.0 1905 | 11,344 | 7,700 | 67.8 | 5,733 | 50.5 | 149 | 1.3 1910 | 12,332 | 8,868 | 71.9 | 7,562 | 61.3 | 134 | 1.1 1913 | 13,459 | 10,138 | 75.3 | 8,791 | 65.3 | 135 | 1.1 It thus appears that in a little over a quarter of a century the proportion of pupils in the schools taught speech has nearly trebled; and that in a score of years the proportion taught chiefly or wholly by the oral method has more than trebled. The proportion of the pupils taught wholly or chiefly by the auricular method never rises above two per cent. It should be stated, however, that these figures are not to be taken as meaning that all the pupils thus enumerated have become proficient in the employment of speech, or have become able to speak clearly and intelligibly, and well enough for general practical use. It would be nearest the truth to say that they are "taught articulation," or that they are instructed by the use of speech and speech-reading. Oftentimes the greatest success lies in the preservation in fair shape of the speech of those who have once had it. The speech acquired by the deaf is of varying degrees, as we have seen; but in some it may be such as to be of distinct service, as well as the lip-reading which may be said to go with it.[556] PRESENT METHODS OF INSTRUCTION The methods of instruction at present employed in American schools for the deaf are known as the manual, the manual alphabet, the oral, the auricular and the combined. They are thus described in the _Annals_:[557] I. THE MANUAL METHOD.--Signs, the manual alphabet, and writing are the chief means used in the instruction of the pupils, and the principal objects aimed at are mental development and facility in the comprehension and use of written language. The degree of relative importance given to these three means varies in different schools; but it is a difference only in degree, and the end aimed at is the same in all. II. THE MANUAL ALPHABET METHOD.--The manual alphabet and writing are the chief means used in the instruction of the pupils, and the principal objects aimed at are mental development and facility in the comprehension and use of written language. Speech and speech-reading are taught to all of the pupils in the school (the Western New York Institution) recorded as following this method. III. THE ORAL METHOD.--Speech and speech-reading, together with writing, are made the chief means of instruction, and facility in speech and speech-reading, as well as mental development and written language, is aimed at. There is a difference in the different schools in the extent to which the use of natural signs is allowed in the early part of the course, and also in the prominence given to writing as an auxiliary to speech and speech-reading in the course of instruction; but they are differences only in degree, and the end aimed at is the same in all. IV. THE AURICULAR METHOD.--The hearing of semi-deaf pupils is utilized and developed to the greatest possible extent, and with or without the aid of artificial appliances, their education is carried on chiefly through the use of speech and hearing, together with writing. The aim of the method is to graduate its pupils as hard-of-hearing speaking people, instead of deaf-mutes. V. THE COMBINED SYSTEM.--Speech and speech-reading are regarded as very important, but mental development and the acquisition of language are regarded as still more important. It is believed that in many cases mental development and the acquisition of language can best be promoted by the Manual or Manual Alphabet Method, and so far as circumstances permit, such method is chosen for each pupil as seems best adapted for his individual case. Speech and speech-reading are taught where the measure of success seems likely to justify the labor expended, and in most of the schools some of the pupils are taught wholly or chiefly by the Oral Method or the Auricular Method.[558] Of these methods the oral and the combined are practically the only ones found. The auricular is employed only in connection with certain pupils in some of the schools; while the manual method is found in but two schools, and the manual alphabet in but one. In the institutions the combined is by far the preponderating system, being employed in all but fifteen of the sixty-five; while the oral is employed in twelve. On the other hand, the oral method is used in the day schools almost altogether, there being but two of the sixty-five schools employing the combined system. In the twenty-one denominational and private schools the oral method predominates, fifteen employing the oral or the oral and auricular, and six the combined. In such schools, the denominational more often employ the combined method, while the strictly private are oral. In respect to the number of pupils in the schools using the two chief methods, we find that 83.7 per cent of those in institutions are in institutions employing the combined system, and 13.9 per cent in oral institutions; that of those in day schools 96.1 per cent are in oral schools, and 3.9 per cent in combined; and that of those in denominational and private schools, 54.8 per cent are in combined schools, and 45.2 per cent in oral. Of all the pupils in the schools, 72.4 per cent are in schools employing the combined system of instruction, and 25.6 per cent in schools employing the oral. The percentage taught by the manual or manual alphabet method is 2.0. The percentage given auricular instruction is 1.1. COURSES OF STUDY AND GRADATIONS OF PUPILS Schools for the deaf have courses of study corresponding in general with those in regular schools, although special emphasis and drill have to be put upon language--something the congenitally deaf child in particular finds exceedingly difficult to use properly. Pupils capable of taking the full course are carried through the kindergarten, primary, intermediate, grammar and high school grades; and on the completion of the prescribed course may receive diplomas, while in some cases a certificate may be granted for a certain period of attendance. Not a large proportion of the pupils, however, really graduate.[559] In all the schools for the deaf in the United States in the year 1912-1913 there were 14,474 pupils. Of these, 11,894, or 82.2 per cent, were in institutions; 1,942, or 13.4 per cent, in day schools; and 638, or 4.4 per cent, in denominational and private schools.[560] The instructors employed in all the schools (not including teachers of industries, but including superintendents or principals) number 1,419, or one instructor for every 9.5 pupils: in the institutions, 1,090, or one to 10; in the day schools, 223, or one to 7.9; and in the denominational and private, 92, or one to 5.7.[561] The total number of pupils who have received instruction from the beginning is 72,453, of whom 89.0 per cent have been in institutions, 7.7 per cent in day schools, and 3.3 per cent in denominational and private schools. The following table, based on the figures given in the Report of the United States Commissioner of Education will show the number of pupils in the different grades and classes in the schools for the year 1911-1912.[562] GRADES OF PUPILS IN THE SCHOOLS --------------+------------+---------------+-------------+------------- | | CLASSES | CLASSES | CLASSES | | CORRESPONDING |CORRESPONDING|CORRESPONDING KIND OF SCHOOL|KINDERGARTEN|TO GRADES 1 TO | TO GRADES 5 | TO HIGH |DEPARTMENTS |4 IN ELEMENTARY| TO 8 | SCHOOL | | SCHOOLS | | GRADES --------------+------------+---------------+-------------+------------- Institutions | 1,063 | 5,040 | 3,365 | 1,069 Day Schools | 134 | 1,195 | 559 | 38 Denominational| | | | and Private | | | | Schools | 63 | 244 | 163 | 16 +------------+---------------+-------------+------------- Total | 1,260 | 6,479 | 4,087 | 1,123 For 1912 there were reported 133 graduates from the schools: 130 from institutions, 2 from day schools, and 1 from denominational or private schools.[563] INDUSTRIAL TRAINING IN THE SCHOOLS The industrial training given in the American schools for the deaf forms a very important feature of the work--in many respects it may be said to be the most important. In many of the schools industrial instruction was recognized almost from the very start, and in a number it commenced practically with the beginning of the work of education.[564] It is now provided in all the institutions, in nearly all the day schools, and in over half of the denominational and private schools. Many of the institutions have large, well-equipped shop and trade departments, with skilled and capable instructors. Nearly every pupil at a suitable age is put at some industry, and encouragement and special opportunity are often given to those who show a particular bent or aptitude. The value of this industrial preparation of the schools in the after lives of the deaf has already been referred to.[565] The following table will show the number and percentage of the pupils in the several kinds of schools in industrial departments, according to the Report of the United States Commissioner of Education for 1911-1912.[566] NUMBER OF PUPILS IN INDUSTRIAL DEPARTMENTS IN SCHOOLS FOR THE DEAF -----------------------------------+--------+-----------+---------- | TOTAL |NUMBER IN | KIND OF SCHOOL | NUMBER |INDUSTRIAL | PER CENT | |DEPARTMENTS| -----------------------------------+--------+-----------+---------- Institutions | 11,244 | 6,203 | 55.2 Day Schools | 1,928 | 662 | 34.3 Denominational and Private Schools | 518 | 196 | 37.8 +--------+-----------+---------- Total | 13,690 | 7,061 | 51.8 In all the schools there are 403 industrial instructors, 373 being in institutions.[567] The industries taught in the schools, as given in the _Annals_,[568] are as follows: Art, baking, barbering, basket-making, blacksmithing, bookbinding, bookkeeping, bricklaying, broom-making, building trades, cabinet-making, calcimining, carpentry, chalk-engraving, cementing, chair-making, china-painting, construction work, cooking, clay-modeling, coopery, dairying, domestic science, drawing, dress-making, electricity, embroidery, engineering, fancy work, farming, floriculture, gardening, glazing, harness-making, house decoration, half-tone engraving, housework, horticulture, ironing, knife work, knitting, lace-making, laundering, leather work, manual training, mattress-making, millinery, needlework, nursing, painting, paper-hanging, photography, plastering, plate-engraving, plumbing, pottery, poultry-farming, printing, pyrography, raffia, rug-weaving, sewing, shoemaking, shop work, sign-painting, sloyd, stone-laying, stencil work, tailoring, tin-work, tray work, typewriting, Venetian iron-work, weaving, wood-carving, wood-engraving, wood-turning, wood-working, working in iron, and the use of tools. The number and kinds of particular industries taught in the different schools vary not a little. In a few as many as a score are offered, while in others only three or four are given. The average seems to be about six or eight. The most usual industries afforded are art, cabinet-making, carpentry, cooking, domestic science, drawing, dress-making, farming, gardening, laundering, painting, printing, sewing, shoemaking, sign-painting, tailoring, wood-working, and the use of tools. The most common of all are carpentry, sewing, printing, farming, shoemaking, and painting. In most of the institutions papers are printed to afford practical instruction in printing, as well as to give local news of interest. These papers are published weekly, bi-weekly or monthly. A number of the schools, especially those in agricultural states, also have small experimental farms in connection with their industrial work, and dairy farming and truck gardening are often given particular attention.[569] FOOTNOTES: [546] In America the one-hand alphabet is used practically altogether, which is also the case with most of the countries of Europe. In England the double-hand is employed mainly. Finger-spelling, as well as sign-making, is very old with the human race. The Egyptians, Greeks and Romans are said to have made use of a system of finger notation. In the Middle Ages monks in their enforced silence often resorted to a finger alphabet. Dalgarno, one of the early English writers on the deaf, had an alphabet in which the letters were represented by parts of the hand. See J. C. Gordon, "Practical Hints to Parents concerning the Preliminary Training of Young Deaf Children", 1886, p. 34ff.; W. R. Cullingworth, "A Brief Review of the Manual Alphabet for the Deaf", 1902. [547] For a description of the sign language, see J. S. Long, "The Sign Language: a Manual of Signs", 1910. See also _American Journal of Science_, viii., 1824, p. 348; _Annals_, i., 1847, pp. 55, 79; v., 1852, pp. 83, 149; vii., 1855, p. 197; xvi., 1871, p. 221; xviii., 1873, p. 1; xxxii., 1887, p. 141; lvii., 1911, p. 46; Proceedings of American Instructors, ii., 1851, p. 193; iv., 1857, p. 133; vii., 1870, p. 133; xii., 1890, pp. 100, 171; Report of New York Institution, 1838, p. 14; 1840, p. 17; American School, 1856, p. 18; California School, 1875, p. 24. See also "The Deaf: by their Fruits," by the New York Institution, 1912. [548] Against the arguments to abolish the sign language, it is claimed that signs are free, and are as natural to the deaf as spoken words to the hearing; that with certain of the deaf, especially the congenitally deaf, they are all but indispensable; that they cause mental stimulation as cannot otherwise be done; that the acquisition of speech requires a great amount of time, which is often needed for other things; that the voices of many of the deaf are disagreeable and attract notice; that communication readily and with pleasure among the deaf by speech and speech-reading cannot be accomplished to any wide extent; that only with the gifted few, and not with the general body of the deaf, can such proficiency in the use of speech and speech-reading be attained as to cause them to be "restored to society", in that they can with ease and with any considerable degree of satisfaction carry on intercourse with the hearing; and that, finally, the great majority of the deaf vigorously demand the retention of the sign language. [549] The New York Institution, by a resolution adopted at the first meeting of its board of directors in 1818, decided for the employment of articulation teaching, which policy was continued for some ten years. Report, 1908, p. 30; E. H. Currier, "History of Articulation Teaching in the New York Institution", 1894 (Proceedings of American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, iv., sec. 12); _American Journal of Education_, iii., 1828, p. 397. [550] In addition, there have always been sporadic instances of private instruction in speech, as by one's family or friends. [551] It is also claimed that it was by accident that the sign method came into vogue in America, Gallaudet in his trip to Europe having found the London and Edinburgh schools closed to him, and having for this reason been compelled to turn to France, where the sign method was in use. [552] It is interesting to note that after Mann and Howe had made their report, the American School at Hartford and the New York Institution sent special representatives to Europe to investigate, these advising little change on the whole. See Report of American School, 1845, p. 25; New York Institution, 1844, p. 62; 1851, p. 83. [553] See "Life and Works of Horace Mann", 1891, iii., p. 245; "Life and Journals of Samuel G. Howe", 1909, p. 169; Report of Board of Charities of Massachusetts, 1867, p. lxxii.; 1868, p. lx.; Report of Special Joint Committee of the Legislature on Education of Deaf-Mutes, Massachusetts, 1867; _North American Review_, lix., 1844, p. 329; civ., 1867, p. 528; American Review, iii., 1846, p. 497; _Common School Journal_ (Boston), vi., 1844, p. 65; Nation, iv., 1867, pp. 249, 339; Report of New York Institution for Improved Instruction, 1868, p. 5; 1870, p. 10; American School, 1849, p. 33; 1866, p. 18; 1867, p. 29; 1868, p. 16; Clarke School, 1875, p. 5; Addresses at 25th Anniversary of Clarke School, 1892; Report of Committee of School for Deaf-Mutes (Horace Mann), 1873, p. 3; 1891, p. 8; _Annals_, xxi., 1876, p. 178; _Lend a Hand_, xiii., 1894, p. 346; _International Review_, xi., 1881, p. 503; G. G. Hubbard, "Education of Deaf Mutes", 1867, and "Rise of Oral Method" (in collected writings, 1898); A. G. Bell, "The Mystic Oral School: Argument in its Favor", 1897, and "Fallacies concerning the Deaf", 1883; Boston Parents' Education Association, "Offering in behalf of the Deaf", 1903; Fred Deland, "Dumb No Longer: the Romance of the Telephone", 1903; _Educational Review_, xii., 1896, p. 236; _Century Magazine_, xxxi., 1897, p. 331; _American Educational Review_, xxxi., 1910, pp. 219, 281, 415; Proceedings of American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, i., 1891, p. 89; _Volta Review_, xiv., 1912, p. 579 (Proceedings of same); Evidence before Royal Commission on the Deaf, etc., 1892, i., p. 6; ii., p. 3; iii., p. 208. [554] In many of the day school laws the use of the oral method is required, which is also partly the case in several state institutions. [555] These statistics are taken from the Special Reports of the Census Office, 1906, p. 86, and the January issues of the _Annals_. See also _Volta Review_, xv., 1913, p. 90; Proceedings of American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf (Condition of Articulation Teaching in American Institutions), ii., 1892; Report of Committee of Horace Mann School, Massachusetts, 1891, p. 8ff.; 1895 (Proceedings of 25th Anniversary). [556] The greatest usefulness of this speech is often found in one's own family circle, or with immediate friends. [557] Jan., 1914, lix., p. 41. [558] The choice of methods for pupils may often depend on their classification, as noted before, into deaf-mutes, that is, those who have never been able to hear; semi-mutes, those who have been able to hear and speak, and retain their speech to some extent; and semi-deaf, those able to hear a little. [559] For accounts of possible correspondence or extension courses for the deaf outside the schools, see Report of California Institution, 1904, p. 18. [560] From _Annals_, Jan., 1914, (lix., p. 23). For a few schools the figures refer to the number present on November 10, 1913. The total number on this date was 13,450. The _Volta Review_ for May, 1913 (xv., p. 99), gives the total number present on March 1, 1913, as 13,143. The Report of the United States Commissioner of Education gives the number for 1911-1912 as 13,690: in institutions, 11,244; in day schools, 1,928, and in denominational and private schools, 518. The total number of volumes in the libraries of the institutions was reported to be 132,461. For tables respecting the schools, see Appendix B. [561] Normal departments for the training of hearing teachers of the deaf are maintained at Gallaudet College and the Clarke School, the latter having a special fund, largely contributed by the American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf. Several of the institutions also have training classes, and there are normal departments in connection with the Chicago and Milwaukee day schools. On the subject of pensions for teachers of the deaf, see _Annals_, xxix., 1884, p. 304; Proceedings of Convention of American Instructors, xviii., 1908, p. 146; Report of California School, 1912, p. 12. [562] Report, 1912, ii., ch. xiii. [563] It is hardly necessary to state that physical education is provided for in the schools for the deaf quite as fully as in the regular schools. [564] The first school to give industrial training was the American School at Hartford, this being begun in 1822. See History, 1893, p. 15; Report of New Hampshire Board of Charities, 1908, p. 184. [565] On this industrial training, see _Craftsman_, xiii., 1908, p. 400. [566] ii., ch. xiii. [567] _Annals_, Jan., 1914 (lix., p. 23). [568] _Ibid._, p. 42. [569] In some of the schools, as we find from the reports, the value of the products of the farms and gardens may amount to a tidy sum, as may also be the case with the trade schools. CHAPTER XX COST TO THE STATE FOR EDUCATION VALUE OF THE PROPERTY USED FOR THE EDUCATION OF THE DEAF The various provisions for the education of the deaf have now been examined. There is to be considered but one question further. This is, what is the cost of it all? In the present chapter we are to see if we may not obtain some figures representing this cost to the state. First we shall find what the plants, that is, the grounds and buildings in actual use, are worth in dollars and cents. Taking the nearest available statistics, which are those for the year 1912-1913, we have the plants of the institutions valued at $16,856,338,[570] or, in round numbers, nearly seventeen million dollars. In all the institutions there were in this year 11,894 pupils, and we may thus calculate that there is property worth $1,414 for each pupil. We do not know the full value of the property used in the day schools and the denominational and private schools,[571] but this would no doubt increase by some two million dollars the value of the property employed in the instruction of the deaf. Hence we have something like nineteen million dollars as the amount invested in plants for the education of the deaf in the United States. For new buildings, repairs, and general expenditures for lasting improvements, so far as is reported, there was expended on institutions $848,068 for the year 1912-1913, which may represent the yearly cost of the upkeep of the institutions.[572] For the other schools we have few figures, but they would add to this sum somewhat. COST OF THE MAINTENANCE OF THE SCHOOLS For the maintenance of the institutions for the year 1912-1913 there was expended $3,297,440.[573] In forty-four, or about two-thirds, of the day schools for the year 1911-1912 there was expended $182,710, and on the basis of $120 as the average cost of the pupils in them, we have $225,720 as the full cost of the support of the day schools. For five of the private schools, the cost per pupil was $225, and assuming that this will hold for all, we have $133,550 as the full cost of the support of such schools, a part of course coming from tuition fees. Then our total expenditures amount to $3,656,710,[574] or to over three and a half million dollars, which represents the annual cost of the education of the deaf in the United States.[575] FORM OF PUBLIC APPROPRIATIONS Save for certain endowment funds in a few institutions,[576] and for limited donations in a small number of schools, all the means for the support of the schools for the deaf, other than the private ones, come from the public treasury. In some of the day schools there are municipal subventions; in a few states the maintenance of certain pupils is paid for by the counties from which they come;[577] and in the case of the Columbia Institution at Washington support is received from the national government.[578] With these exceptions, the entire maintenance of the schools is undertaken by the legislatures of the respective states.[579] Appropriations by the legislatures are usually made in lump sums.[580] In the case of the semi-public institutions the allowances are upon a _per capita_ basis, being from $260 to $357, but more often near $300. In a few of the state schools appropriations are also based upon the number of pupils, as in Alabama with $230 a year for each pupil, in Kentucky with $150 a year, and in Iowa with $35 a quarter, the last two states having additional annual grants. In the states in which pupils are sent to schools outside, a sum of from $200 to $300 is allowed for each pupil thus provided for. In a few cases funds are received from a special tax assessment levied for the benefit of the school, as in Colorado with a one-fifth mill tax on the assessed property valuation of the state,[581] and in North Dakota with six per cent of one mill. COST TO THE STATE FOR EACH PUPIL The average cost for the support of the pupils in the institutions for the year 1912-1913 was $277.23.[582] In few of the schools does the cost go as low as $200, while in a number it is between $300 and $400. The cost per pupil in the day schools averages, where known, $120.60;[583] and in the private schools, where known, $225.33.[584] For pupils in the common schools of the country, the average cost is $31.65.[585] Thus it costs the state eight times as much to educate its deaf children in institutions as it does its hearing children in the regular public schools, and four times as much to educate them in day schools. The education of the deaf, then, is not an inexpensive undertaking on the part of the state. Because of the special arrangements necessary for its accomplishment, it comes high, compared with the cost of education in general. But considered merely as an investment, the outlay for this instruction bears returns of a character surpassed in few other fields of the state's endeavor. FOOTNOTES: [570] The figures in this chapter are for the most part from _Annals_ for January, 1914 (lix., pp. 26, 27), usually for the latest fiscal year, these being supplemented in a few cases from the Report of the United States Commissioner of Education for 1912 (ii., ch. xiii.). In the institutions where there are departments both for the deaf and the blind, we have ascertained the proportionate part for the deaf of the entire institution. If no allowance is made for the blind in these, the worth of all is $17,751,186, and the amount of property for each pupil $1,492. For 1911-1912 the value of all was $16,454,798, or according to the Report of the Commissioner of Education, $16,387,726. In this Report the value of scientific apparatus, furniture, etc., is stated to be $918,053. [571] In most cases, as we have seen, the day schools are housed in public school buildings, special establishments being provided only in a few large cities. In the Report of the Commissioner of Education, the property value of four day schools, two being large ones, is put at $250,055, or $525 for each pupil; and if this be accepted as a measure, the property value of all the day schools is $1,019,550. The property value of seven denominational and private schools is likewise given as $324,717, or $1,358 for each pupil; and if this is taken as a measure, the property value of all is $865,404. [572] In 1910-1911 this was $503,323, and in 1911-1912, $772,245. If allowance be made for the dual schools, it is about ten per cent less. In the Report of the United States Commissioner of Education it is placed at $568,136 for 1911-1912. [573] With no allowance for the dual schools, this is $3,423,126. In the Report of the Commissioner of Education it is $3,285,099, for all but six institutions. [574] At the Conference of Charities and Corrections in 1906 this was estimated to be $3,200,000. Proceedings, p. 249. [575] For tables as to the cost of the support of the schools, see Appendix B. [576] These endowment funds are found for the most part only in certain of the semi-public institutions, and in a few state schools which have received land from the federal government. In the Report of the Commissioner of Education the amount of productive funds in thirteen states for 1911-1912 is given as $3,372,565, as follows: Maine, $2,000; Massachusetts, $193,674 (in 1910-1911, $369,723); Connecticut, $403,000; New York, $1,002,633; Pennsylvania, $373,758; Maryland, $4,500; District of Columbia, $11,000; Kentucky, $9,000; North Dakota, $600,000; South Dakota, $400,000; Montana, $160,000; Utah, $160,000; California, $53,000. Thus practically two-fifths belongs in the states of Massachusetts, Connecticut, New York and Pennsylvania, nearly one-third being in New York alone; while a little under two-fifths belongs in North Dakota, South Dakota, Montana and Utah. [577] This is especially true of New York, where the counties pay the entire amount up to the age of twelve, and after that the state. [578] In this connection it may be noted that Congress has been asked to grant $100,000 to "encourage the establishment of homes in the states and territories for teaching articulate speech and vocal language to deaf children before they are of school age". Teachers are to be trained for this purpose, and pupils are to enter at two years of age and remain till the regular school age. See Report of Pennsylvania Home for Training in Speech of Deaf Children, 1904, p. 5; Proceedings of Conference of National Association for the Study and Education of Exceptional Children, 1911, p. 64. [579] Charges for clothing and transportation of indigent pupils are as a usual thing paid for by the county, though this is assumed by some states. Often a given sum, as thirty dollars, is allowed for clothing, or the actual cost thereof is collected from the county. This is done through the proper administrative offices of the county, there being also some judicial procedure, as where the county judge or similar official certifies by proof. The school is then reimbursed for the expenditures it may have made. Some such procedure is quite general, especially in the South and West, though in a few states, as Vermont and New Jersey, the town or township, where this is the political division, plays a similar part. In Rhode Island, Massachusetts, Maine, Louisiana, California, Nevada, and possibly other states, these charges are paid by the state. In Maryland they may be paid by the county, city or state. [580] It happens sometimes that legislatures are inclined to reduce the appropriations to as low a sum as possible, and superintendents may receive commendation for efforts to cut down expenditures. There is danger, however, that such a policy may be carried to a point where efficiency is sacrificed to seeming economy. On the question of cost, see Report of Mississippi School, 1909, p. 11; Iowa Bulletin of State Institutions, June, 1907, ix., 3; Ohio Bulletin of Charities and Corrections, Nov., 1907, xiii., 4. [581] On the value of this tax, see Report of Colorado School, 1896, p. 22. [582] In 1907-1908 this was $257.02; in 1909-1910, $253.92; in 1910-1911, $259.63; and in 1911-1912, $262.71. Without allowance for the blind in the dual schools, the amount in 1912-1913 is $289.60. According to the Report of the Commissioner of Education, the average cost is $303.58. It may be noted in this connection that the _per capita_ cost for the blind in schools is more than that for the deaf, being $359. [583] In 1910-1911 this was $130.28. [584] In 1910-1911 this was $264.06. [585] Report of Commissioner of Education for 1909-1910. The figures for subsequent years have reference rather to average attendance. CHAPTER XXI PUBLIC DONATIONS OF LAND TO SCHOOLS GRANTS BY THE NATIONAL GOVERNMENT To the schools in some of the states land has been donated, either as an investment, the proceeds of which should be used for their benefit, or as sites for the erection of buildings. This has been done by the national government, by the states, by cities and by individuals and corporations. The most important of such gifts have been the grants of the public domain made by Congress for the benefit of certain of the state institutions. Shortly after the work of the education of the deaf had commenced in the country, it bestowed 23,000 acres upon the Hartford school and a township of land upon the Kentucky.[586] After nearly three-quarters of a century it came again materially to the aid of this education, this time by directing that certain tracts of the public lands located in states about to be admitted to the Union should be set apart for the benefit of the schools. Thus in the enabling act of 1889[587] for the admission of the states of North Dakota, South Dakota and Montana, land was set aside for the benefit of the schools for the deaf and the blind, which are mentioned by name. In North Dakota and South Dakota the number of acres allowed to each was 40,000, and in Montana 50,000.[588] Likewise when Wyoming was admitted in 1890,[589] 30,000 acres were granted for an institution for the deaf and the blind, though the school has not yet been established. When Utah was admitted in 1896,[590] 100,000 acres were granted to the school for the deaf. On the admission of Arizona and New Mexico in 1910,[591] like amounts were respectively granted for institutions for the deaf and the blind, 50,000 acres having already been set aside in the latter while a territory.[592] GRANTS BY THE STATES Grants by the states themselves for the schools on a large scale have not been numerous. The state of Texas has set apart large tracts of public land for its institutions, the school for the deaf coming in for 100,000 acres as its share. The school in Michigan has received a number of sections of the state salt spring lands, amounting to 16,000 acres.[593] GRANTS BY CITIES OR CITIZENS Small tracts of land have been donated in some cases by cities where the schools were to be established, sometimes accompanied by a cash donation as a further inducement for a particular location. Similar gifts have been made by individuals and corporations. These donations have occurred in about half of the states, but they have usually been small in size, most being of five or ten acres.[594] FOOTNOTES: [586] We have also seen how applications were made to Congress for the endowment of other schools. [587] Stat. at Large, 1889, ch. 180. Washington was also admitted by this act, and there was a grant of 200,000 acres for "charitable, penal and reformatory institutions". The schools for the deaf and the blind, which were not mentioned by name, seem not to have shared in this grant. [588] Similar amounts were allowed to the reform schools, the agricultural colleges and the universities. [589] Stat. at Large, ch. 664. When Idaho was admitted the same year (_ibid._, ch. 656) 150,000 acres were granted to charitable, educational, penal and reformatory institutions, the school for the deaf not being directly mentioned. [590] _Ibid._, 1894, ch. 138. Similar amounts were allowed for the school for the blind and other institutions. As the school in Utah is for both the deaf and the blind, it really has 200,000 acres. [591] _Ibid._, 1910, ch. 310. In the act admitting Oklahoma, though the school for the deaf is not mentioned among the institutions upon which land is bestowed, it has shared in the grant, having land reported to be worth at least $350,000. _Annals_, lvi., 1911, p. 206. [592] In general with respect to the land granted by Congress, it is provided that such land is not to be sold at less than $10 an acre. [593] The state of Massachusetts granted a small parcel of land to the Horace Mann school in Boston. To the school in Missouri 40 acres were granted by the state, and to that in Arkansas two tracts of land, one being of 100 acres. [594] Thus land of perhaps five acres or less has been donated to the schools in California, District of Columbia, Illinois, New York (New York Institution, Le Couteulx St. Mary's, and Central New York) Oregon, Pennsylvania (Oral and Pennsylvania Home), Tennessee, Virginia, and doubtless to other schools. Larger tracts, of ten acres or more, have been given in Colorado, Florida, Idaho, Michigan (state school and Evangelical Lutheran Institute), Nebraska, Pennsylvania (Western), South Dakota, West Virginia, Wisconsin, and perhaps elsewhere. To the Kansas school 170 acres were presented, to the Minnesota 65, to the Washington 100, to the Oklahoma 60, to the school for the colored in Oklahoma 100, and to the school for the deaf, together with that for the blind, in Ohio 180. To the New York Institution for Improved Instruction the city of New York granted the land for ninety-nine years at an annual rental of one dollar. CHAPTER XXII PRIVATE BENEFACTIONS TO SCHOOLS DONATIONS OF MONEY TO SCHOOLS In our final chapter on the provision for the schools for the deaf we are to consider how far they have been assisted by private munificence. We have already seen that certain of the schools in the East--those we have called "semi-public institutions"--were started by private societies and were supported entirely by private funds till the state came to their aid, though in no instance was this dependence on private means of long duration. We have also seen that in a number of states private schools were first started, in a brief time to be taken over by the state, and thus received a modicum of private aid. In addition, there have been from time to time donations from private sources to one school or another. As to the entire amount of these private donations to the schools, it is of course impossible to say. The full receipts of the various schools cannot be known, and our reckonings must necessarily be incomplete.[595] However, the data which we have are quite sufficient to enable us to discern in what measure schools for the deaf have been assisted by means other than public, and in what proportion the distribution has taken place; and our calculations, based on the best information to be obtained, may not be altogether without value.[596] We find, then, that to a considerable number of the schools, apparently the majority, there have been gifts large or small from private sources. In most of these cases, however, the gifts have been slight, and have almost always come when the schools were being started, usually ceasing soon after their establishment or their taking over by the state. Nearly all the donations of any importance have been to schools in the East, the greater part also coming in their early days and when still in private hands. At present in the great number of the schools such gifts are not bestowed. In perhaps a dozen schools--practically all in the East--they are still received in greater or lesser degree; and come in three forms: 1. as membership fees in some half dozen schools; 2. as certain annual donations, varying in amount, in about the same number; and 3. as an occasional legacy or similar gift to some school or other.[597] In respect to the funds already received, we find that the great preponderance have fallen in four states, namely, Connecticut, Massachusetts, New York and Pennsylvania. In five others there have been gifts of what may be called measurable size: District of Columbia, California, Colorado, Illinois, and Vermont. In the remaining states private benefactions have been few: where they have occurred they have been small and infrequent. In a score of schools or more there seem to have been gifts of a few thousand dollars--hardly over ten or fifteen thousand, and in most much less.[598] In some sixteen, donations appear to have been received of more appreciable size--twenty-five thousand dollars and upwards. In about half of these the gifts seem to have been from twenty-five thousand to fifty thousand, in one or two cases possibly more: the California, Colorado, Columbia, New England (Massachusetts), Sarah Fuller (Massachusetts), Pennsylvania Home, and Austine (Vermont).[599] To six schools donations seem to have reached a sum between seventy-five or one hundred thousand dollars and twice that amount. Four of these are in New York: the New York Institution, the Institution for Improved Instruction, St. Joseph's and Le Couteulx St. Mary's; one in Pennsylvania, the Western Pennsylvania; and one in Illinois, the Ephpheta. In three schools the quarter million mark has been passed: the American in Connecticut, and the Clarke in Massachusetts, both with receipts well beyond this figure; and the Pennsylvania Institution, which has probably been the largest recipient of all. Total private gifts to schools for the deaf in the United States would probably foot up to little under two and a quarter million dollars, and perhaps to two and a half millions, though these figures cannot be fully substantiated. GIFTS FOR PUPILS IN THE SCHOOLS There have been gifts for the pupils in the schools as well as for the schools themselves. These have been of various kinds: clothing, books, pictures, magazines, newspapers, Christmas presents, prizes, etc., as well as money gifts in a few cases. In many instances reduced transportation has been allowed on railroads, and there have been a number of benefactions of like character. We have already referred to the funds left to certain of the schools in trust for deaf-blind pupils.[600] PRESENT TENDENCIES OF PRIVATE BENEFACTIONS Private benefaction, as we see, has not played any great part in providing the means of education for the deaf in the United States. In a few schools private gifts have been of appreciable aid in the work, but on the whole they have not been of considerable moment, and in the great majority of schools they have been practically negligible. To judge from past experience, it would not seem likely that in the future many of the schools will to any great extent be beneficiaries from private means, or that they will thus be enabled to extend their plants or to make innovations as yet unattempted, though of course such a thing is possible. This condition, however, is not to be entirely deplored. Many of the schools, it is true, could receive large money benefactions to most desirable ends, and in many cases the work of the schools for the best results is hampered for lack of sufficient funds. Yet the schools may feel that they are in reality but agencies of the state in carrying out one of its great functions, and as such should have no need to call upon or depend upon means other than the state's. Whether or not in the course of time there may be an increased incentive for private gifts, it would seem that the schools should be entitled to look with full confidence to the attention and care of the state, since it is but contributing to the education of its citizens. FOOTNOTES: [595] In the case of some of the schools, figures of a financial nature are not to be had, and in many little record has been kept, especially when gifts have been small. [596] In our discussion, few estimates have been made, and these have been conservative. It should be stated that only a part of the figures given are "official", and for the rest the writer alone is responsible. No reference is made to schools that are not now in existence, nor is any money value set on the land which has been donated to some of the schools. [597] Now and then a gift has been in the form of a scholarship, usually of $5,000. Some of the schools aided by fees are the Pennsylvania Institution, Western Pennsylvania, Pennsylvania Oral, New York Institution for Improved Instruction, and Le Couteulx St. Mary's (New York). Some that receive annual donations varying in amount are the New England (Massachusetts), Sarah Fuller (Massachusetts), Pennsylvania Home, New York Institution for Improved Instruction, St. Joseph's (New York), and Le Couteulx St. Mary's (New York). It should be remarked that the three last named institutions are affiliated to an extent with certain religious bodies, receiving assistance from this source also. The smaller denominational schools receive similar aid irregularly. [598] Some of the schools that seem to have received gifts of from five to fifteen thousand dollars, or thereabouts, are the Kentucky, Maryland, Ohio, Central New York, Pennsylvania Oral, Tennessee, and the day schools of Milwaukee. Some of those that have received gifts somewhat smaller are the Alabama, Illinois, Michigan, Mississippi, Horace Mann (Massachusetts), Western New York, North Carolina, Virginia, and the day schools of Chicago. More trivial or more uncertain amounts have been received in Arkansas, Florida, Georgia, Maine, New Mexico, Albany (New York), Oregon, South Dakota, Utah, and the day schools of a few cities. [599] Gifts to semi-public institutions as the Mystic, Connecticut, and Boston, Massachusetts, have also probably been made, though we do not know of what size; and also to some of the denominational and private schools. The McCowen Homes of Illinois have received some gifts, especially at their beginning. [600] The American School at Hartford has a fund of $2,000 to be used for the publication of books for the deaf. CHAPTER XXIII CONCLUSIONS WITH RESPECT TO THE WORK FOR THE DEAF IN AMERICA We have now examined the position of the deaf in society in America and the course and the extent of the treatment accorded them. It only remains for us to inquire if this treatment is well-considered, and how far it is commensurate with the real, actual needs of the deaf, and at the same time consonant with the larger interests of society. The question of paramount concern to society is in respect to the possibilities of the prevention of deafness. As yet it would seem that only a minor degree of attention had been directed to this consideration, though it is likely that in the future much more serious study and thought will be given to it. The problem is for the greater part in the hands of medical science, and for much of it we shall probably have to wait for solution in the laboratory; while no small aid can be rendered by general measures for the protection of health. Already there can be little doubt that there is less deafness from certain diseases than in the past, though the statistics that we have on the question are not as definite as could be wished. The matter is really a part of the long battle against disease, and as human skill takes one position after another, it may be that many of those diseases bringing deafness will be forced to yield, and that such deafness will thus cease in great part to be an affliction upon human flesh. Eugenics also will be looked to for help, and it may in time bring to light much that is now hidden from our ken. As yet our knowledge of the causes of deafness from birth is very imperfect. A small part may be ascribed to consanguineous marriages, and a larger part to the marriages of those whose families are affected with deafness, these perhaps not being wholly distinct, and together comprising a little over half of congenital deafness. Marriages of relatives, even though not of frequent occurrence so far as deafness is affected, have a relation to it which is not to be ignored. Intermarriages of the deaf themselves are not found for the most part to result in deaf offspring; while the likelihood of such is not always greater when both parents are deaf than when one is deaf and the other hearing. The one distinct fact of which we seem altogether certain in this matter is that when there is in the parent congenital deafness, or especially when there are deaf relatives concerned, the chances are vastly increased of deaf offspring. These are the danger signals, and not to be passed without heed. As to that form of deafness occurring when consanguinity and antecedent deafness are not involved, we are in greater ignorance. For most of it, however, we may believe that there is inherited some strain or influence predisposing to deafness; and that in the discovery and application of eugenic principles a greater or less portion will be eliminated. Though, so far as is discernible from the immediate prospect, we cannot look to an early disappearance of deafness from the race, there are indications at present that deafness is tending to become less. The probabilities are that the future will be able to report advance, and so far as the ultimate results are concerned, we have no reason to be other than hopeful. In respect to what has been accomplished for the deaf since America has become concerned in them, we have a record that may well be a distinct cause of pride. The work for the deaf in America is hardly a hundred years old. Yet in that time there has transpired what, without violence being done to language, can be called a revolution. A century ago the deaf were practically outside the pale of human thought and activities. They were in a measure believed to be without reason, and were little less than outcasts in society. To-day they have become active components of the state, possessed of education, on a level with their fellow-men nearly everywhere in the scale of human employment, capable of all the responsibilities of life, and standing in the full stature of citizenship. Perhaps the first workers for the deaf had not placed their faith too high after all, when they declared that the deaf and dumb were to be restored to the ranks of their species. Perhaps, after all, the visions of these men have come true. Perhaps this that we call education has had something of the power they were trying to articulate. For it has come about that a part of society known as the deaf and dumb has been brought to a place of honor and worth and usefulness in the community in which they live. However much of what was claimed has been achieved, it is certain that a great part has been realized. It has been by a slow, silent process, keeping time with the years, but none the less wonderful things have been wrought; and through it all the advance of the deaf has been constant and onward. It might be said with all truth that this whole progress has been simply the march of events. Education has ever been the master passion of Americans, and in its wide sweep the deaf too have been gathered in, and have been borne to the place where all the state had to offer as instruction was laid before them. Yet it remains that by and through all this the deaf have been the gainers as no other people in the world have ever been, and their story is as no other's in the rise of a section of mankind towards the richness and fullness of living which are the fruits of humanized society. Great indeed can be the rejoicing of the deaf, for they are those to whom the way has been hard and long, but who have come from the darkness into the light. Yet the victory of the deaf is not complete. They have not reached the full position among men to which they are entitled. So long as people look upon them as an unnatural portion of the race, view them with suspicion or hold them as of peculiar temperament and habits, or otherwise consider them distinct from the rest of their kind, and by voice or in their own consciousness make use of terms or associations that give fixedness to such a classification or differentiation: just so long will the deaf be strangers in the land in which they dwell; and just so far will they be removed from the place in society which should be theirs, and which is accorded to all the rest of their fellow-men. With regard to their economic position in the world, the deaf have, on the whole, fared well. Their own achievements have thrown out of court the charge that they are a burden upon society. It has been proved by themselves that they are not a dependent class, or a class that should exist to any degree on the bounty of the state. They are wage-earners to an extent that compares well with the rest of the population, and, economically, they form generally a self-sustaining part of society. For a certain number who are aged and infirm and are otherwise uncared for, special homes are to be desired--and with such the need is peculiarly strong. These, however, do not comprise a large part of the deaf; and with their exception there is practically no portion, at least of those with an education, that demands particular economic attention. The community for the most part has been quite ready and willing to recognize the status of the deaf in this respect. Here the deaf are accepted on equal terms with the people collectively, and are in fact lost in the mass of the world's workers. The state has perhaps displayed more reluctance to admit the deaf to the standing of its other citizens, largely no doubt due to the fact that in the sphere of law action is usually slow-moving, and responds less readily to newly recognized conditions. Though on the statute books there are found few examples of legislation directed to the deaf as if they were peculiarly in need of the state's attention, and though such are hardly more than reminders of the past legal attitude, they are mostly an anachronism to-day, and should in great part be removed. The courts have quite generally adopted the true view in regard to the deaf, and hardly anywhere now differentiate them. There is always one particular kind of provision which may be made for the deaf at law, and this is in the employment of interpreters on proper occasion. But even here the matter may be left to the ordinary rules of the court, as well as to the good sense and justice of the law-makers and the law-dispensers. In most things, special attention of the law in relation to the deaf is not often required, and they should, in nearly all respects, be left in its eyes exactly as the rest of their fellow-citizens. When particular legislation is called for in respect to them, it is needed rather to meet some peculiar or unusual situation, which would probably arise most frequently in connection with some special abuse of the deaf, though such is really seldom likely to occur. Provision for young deaf children who are otherwise without protection may well be included in "children's codes," or in other statutes of similar kind. Useful legislation is also feasible in connection with departments for the deaf in state bureaus of labor, the procedure possible being already indicated; and it may be that a considerable field will be revealed, not only in assisting the deaf in securing employment but also in securing information as to their condition. Opportunity is open to the national government likewise in this regard, and valuable statistics and other information may be collected for the country generally. In one further direction the law can be invoked very materially in aid of the deaf, and just where very little has been attempted. In every state there should be enactments, backed up by vigorous public opinion and the co-operation of all citizens, providing severe punishment for those who go about begging alms on the pretense that they are deaf and dumb. For such creatures the law should have no mercy. The deaf themselves demand that such impostors be put out of business, for a real and cruel injury is done to them. They ask this as a great boon, but it should be accorded them absolutely as a right. The deaf do not want alms or pity. But in unnumbered ways can they receive good at the hands of their fellow-men. They need friends as do all others, and power is never lost to the right hand of fellowship. To be desired above all else is the gaining of the right attitude on the part of the community. As one great need, there should be far more attention to the social and spiritual concerns of the deaf, even though they are often found scattered and far apart. There is much that can be done in many communities of a social nature for the deaf, and in manifold forms can life be made more abundant for them. Most important of all, there should be no longer in any place a neglect of the ministrations for the cure of souls, and it should be seen that all of the deaf are made to know the religion of the Man of Galilee, with its untold blessings and consolations. In our present review of the work for the deaf in America, most of our attention has been directed to the provisions for their education. It may be said that to-day this work is as a rule of a high order, and that in many respects, considering the problems involved, it can compare well with the work of education in general. There is still more or less conflict as to methods, but this does not seem vital to the success of the schools, and their character has in general advanced. In the beginning of instruction in some of the states we read of the struggles of the early schools, but eager hands came to push on the new work. This work was taken up with an enthusiasm and earnestness scarcely paralleled elsewhere in the history of education, or in any other of the great movements for the betterment of human kind. Strong and brave souls manned the new enterprise, and these early workers are well worthy of honor at our hands. Oftentimes, at the first, private societies came forward as volunteers in the task of education, but the states early recognized their duty, and usually established schools as soon as they were deemed practicable, either taking over the existing private school or creating one of their own. After a time, as another stage in their development, the schools were made free by express provision, or have become so to all practical purpose. In time also all restrictions or limitations as to the admission of pupils have been in general swept away, and rules and regulations have come more and more to conform with those in the regular schools. Now education is offered to every deaf child, and to the poor and destitute the state provides all collateral necessaries as well, so that instruction may be denied to none. At present much the larger part of the deaf are educated in institutions. But alongside this plan there has grown, especially of late years, a day school system with the pupils living in their own homes, and the result is that in a number of states such schools have now been established. Their main field is recognized to be in large cities, and it is here that they are able to be of the greatest usefulness. It is still a mooted point, however, how far they have passed the experimental stage, and it probably remains to be determined to what extent they really offer advantages to the deaf over the institutions. As a part of this activity, and as an extension of the general public facilities for education to the entire community, we have also the question of evening schools for adult deaf. There seems to be a definite need for them in certain centers, and it may well be hoped that much greater attention will be given to the matter. All the schools are really parts of the public school system, with the exception of a comparatively small number of private schools which have been created in certain communities. In addition, the work in America is characterized by a national college, which represents the completing mark in the system of their instruction. By this the education of the deaf is made not only to stand all along the way parallel with education in general, but also to assume a place accorded it in no other land. In the schools one of the great features is the industrial instruction, and this is rightly emphasized. As much as the need of vocational training is insisted upon on all sides to-day, with the deaf it is essential to a greater degree than it can be anywhere else. The pupils of the schools who have had this industrial training as a rule do well in the world, and in many cases put their training to most practical account. It could be wished, however, that we had a careful and detailed record, uniform over the country, of the former pupils, which would be a test, demonstrative as well as suggestive, of the efficiency of the industrial training of the schools, and which would be equally of value in other spheres of industrial education. Though in the work of the education of the deaf in America, industrial instruction occupies a very prominent part, yet in the schools there is an abundance of "schooling" in the strictest sense. The problems of the education of the deaf are peculiar, and their instructors have to face difficulties of a kind not found in any other lines of education. Yet earnest thought and study are being given to these problems, and efforts made to solve them as far as it is possible. In the conventions and conferences of instructors notable work has been accomplished, and these bodies are insistent upon progress and better results. For the greater efficiency and success of the schools, the law as well as public sentiment can be called in aid. Deaf children everywhere should be prevailed upon or compelled to enter the schools, and should be required to remain as long as their best interests demand it. Education should be a matter, forced if need be, for every deaf child, for terrible as ignorance always is, in the deaf it is the most dreadful of all. In America private assistance to schools for the deaf has not been great, and very few schools have been beneficiaries from resources other than the state's. To-day, with the exception of a few cases, aid from private means has ceased to be expected, and calls for such bounty are now seldom made. At present nearly all the schools are public institutions, and rely entirely upon the care of the state. The state has in general recognized its duty towards the education of the deaf, and has engaged to provide for it. In half of the states this responsibility is recognized, and provision guaranteed in the organic law. In all the states the legislatures have undertaken to see that means of instruction are offered to all their deaf children, and it is found that, all things considered, the states have in general taken a keen interest in their educational welfare. Few schools can boast of overgenerous appropriations; many not infrequently have failed to receive all that has been asked for, and have thus often been prevented from doing their best work. Yet it may be said that if the legislatures have not always responded with alacrity, or always bounteously, or at all times with a full sense of their responsibility, they have responded at least with cheerfulness, and mindful of all the calls upon the state's treasury, and often according to the best of their light. It has been realized that the education of the deaf is an expensive undertaking, far more so than the education of ordinary children; but it is none the less realized also that this education pays--pays from every possible point of view. That the school for the deaf is not given its full educational recognition is a grievance in some states, and this cannot be regarded otherwise than unfortunate. In time, however, this will most likely be changed, and the schools everywhere will come into their proper standing, and be considered only as the agencies of the state for the education of its children. The most deplorable thing in the treatment of the schools by the state is that in some quarters politics with its baneful influence has been allowed to interfere. But as hideous and disgraceful as is this action, we may now believe that in most places its back has been broken, and that hereafter men everywhere will think better of themselves than to allow it in a single instance. Finally, in respect to the work for the deaf in America as a whole, it may be said that the state makes but one form of provision in their behalf. This is in allowing to all its deaf children a means of education. Even this is hardly to be called "provision for the deaf." It is rather the attention that is paid to a certain portion of the population for its education. It is to be distinguished from the provision for general education only in that special means and methods are necessary for its accomplishment. This being done, the state may practically let the deaf alone. No distinctive form of public treatment is usually to be called for in respect to them as a class. They demand little in the way of special care or oversight, they are able as a rule to look after themselves, asking few odds not asked by other men, they have become citizens without reservation or qualification, and economically they form no distinct class, but are absorbed into the industrial life of the state. They have assumed the responsibilities of life in a highly organized community, and in turn reap the benefits that belong to all men in such an order. But though this is true, their affliction bestowed upon them by the partial hand of nature, is not to be minimized, nor its effects lightened by any human words. Their deafness rests indeed upon them as a very material, tangible burden, so sharp and pointed in its operations that they are in great measure cut off socially from the rest of their kind. Because of this their concern becomes great in respect to the form of consideration from the community about them, and their need turns to one not so much of material character as of the attention of the good neighbor. From their condition all the more does it avail that no further load should be placed upon them, and that their prayer should be heard that they be treated fully as men. For even with their ever missing sense, the power of the deaf is only retarded, and not seriously diminished, to derive from life much of its richness and color and well-being. APPENDIX A HOMES FOR THE DEAF IN AMERICA --+------------------+-------------+-------------+-------+-------+------- | | | | YEAR |NUMBER |ANNUAL | NAME | STATE | LOCATION |FOUNDED| OF |COST OF | | | | |INMATES|SUPPORT --+------------------+-------------+-------------+-------+-------+------- | | | | | | 1 |Gallaudet Home |New York |Wappinger's | | | | | |Falls | 1885 | 24 | $7,311 | | | | | | 2 |Ohio Home for |Ohio |Westerville | 1896 | 30 | 6,710 |Aged and Infirm | | | | | |Deaf | | | | | | | | | | | 3 |St. Elizabeth's |New York |New York City| 1897 | 20 | 8,435 |Industrial School | | | | | | | | | | | 4 |New England Home |Massachusetts|Everett | 1901 | 13 | 3,198 |for Deaf-Mutes | | | | | | | | | | | 5 |Pennsylvania |Pennsylvania |Doyleston | 1902 | 19 | 4,536 |Home for the Deaf | | | | | APPENDIX B TABLES WITH RESPECT TO SCHOOLS FOR THE DEAF IN AMERICA I. PUBLIC INSTITUTIONS. SCHOOL |LOCATION |DATE OF OPENING | | |NUMBER OF PUPILS | | |1912-1913 | | | |EXPENDITURE | | | |FOR SUPPORT | | | |1912-1913 --------------------------------------+-------------+----+----+----------- Alabama | | | | School for the Deaf |Talladega |1858|162}| $ 39,800 School for the Negro Deaf and Blind |Talladega |1892| 29}| Arizona, University of, Department for|Tucson |1912| 25 | 10,000 the Deaf | | | | Arkansas Deaf-Mute Institute |Little Rock |1868|270 | 67,500 California Institution for the Deaf |Berkeley |1860|180 | 54,629 and the Blind | | | | Colorado School for the Deaf and the |Colorado |1874|176 | 59,176 Blind | Springs | | | Connecticut | | | | American School for the Deaf |Hartford |1817|142 | 57,991 Mystic Oral School for the Deaf |Mystic |1870| 60 | 13,244 District of Columbia, | | | | Columbia Institution for the Deaf | | | | Kendall School for the Deaf |Washington |1857| 54}| 86,184 Gallaudet College |Washington |1864| 82}| Florida School for the Deaf and the |St. Augustine|1885|108 | 16,877 Blind | | | | Georgia School for the Deaf |Cave Spring |1846|188 | 45,339 Idaho State School for the Deaf and |Gooding |1906| 58 | 20,000 the Blind | | | | Illinois School for the Deaf |Jacksonville |1846|415 | 124,957 Indiana State School for the Deaf |Indianapolis |1844|345 | 85,980 Iowa School for the Deaf |Council |1855|227 | 60,500 | Bluffs | | | Kansas School for the Deaf |Olathe |1861|243 | 56,494 Kentucky School for the Deaf |Danville |1823|353 | 82,325 Louisiana State School for the Deaf |Baton Rouge |1852|145 | 30,500 Maine School for the Deaf |Portland |1876|134 | 27,000 Maryland | | | | School for the Deaf and Dumb |Frederick |1868|114 | 33,461 School for the Colored Blind and Deaf|Overlea |1872|44 | 10,059 Massachusetts | | | | Boston School for the Deaf |Randolph |1899|145 | 21,660 Clarke School for the Deaf |Northampton |1867|156 | 65,255 New England Industrial School for |Beverly |1879| 36 | 9,098 Deaf-Mutes | | | | Michigan School for the Deaf |Flint |1854|297 | 93,872 Minnesota School for the Deaf |Faribault |1863|308 | 70,229 Mississippi Institution for the Deaf |Jackson |1854|188 | 33,577 Missouri School for the Deaf |Fulton |1851|344 | 99,000 Montana School for Deaf, Blind and |Boulder |1893| 59 | 20,024 Backward Children | | | | Nebraska School for the Deaf |Omaha |1869|175 | 44,150 New Jersey School for the Deaf |Trenton |1883|185 | 60,000 New Mexico Asylum for the Deaf and the|Santa Fé |1885| 44 | 11,000 Dumb | | | | New York | | | | New York Institution for the |New York |1818|517 | 181,153 Instruction of the Deaf and Dumb | | | | Central New York Institution for |Rome |1875|117 | 31,347 Deaf-Mutes | | | | Western New York Institution for |Rochester |1876|192 | 60,362 Deaf-Mutes | | | | Northern New York Institution for |Malone |1884|110 | 29,745 Deaf-Mutes | | | | Institution for the Improved |New York |1867|241 | 88,455 Instruction of Deaf-Mutes | | | | Le Couteulx St. Mary's Inst'n for the|Buffalo |1862|188 | 52,349 Imp'd Instruction of Deaf-Mutes | | | | St. Joseph's Institute for the |West Chester |1869|515 | 122,962 Improved Instruction of Deaf-Mutes| | | | Albany Home School for the Oral |Albany |1889| 58 | 16,052 Instruction of the Deaf | | | | North Carolina | | | | State School for the Deaf and Dumb |Morganton |1894|263 | 62,500 State School for the Blind and the |Raleigh |1845|117 | 16,062 Deaf | | | | North Dakota School for the Deaf and |Devils Lake |1890| 94 | 26,977 Dumb | | | | Ohio State School for the Deaf |Columbus |1829|542 | 118,000 Oklahoma | | | | School for the Deaf |Sulphur |1898|221 | 50,000 Industrial Institute for the Deaf, |Taft |1909| 18 | 11,053 Blind, and Orphans of the Colored | | | | Race | | | | Oregon School for Deaf-Mutes |Salem |1870| 90 | 22,500 Pennsylvania | | | | Pennsylvania Institution for the Deaf|Philadelphia |1820|621 | 172,572 and Dumb | | | | Western Pennsylvania Institution for |Edgewood Park|1876|282 | 62,653 the Instruction of the Deaf and | | | | Dumb | | | | Pennsylvania Oral School for the Deaf|Scranton |1883|100 | 51,000 Home for the Training in Speech of |Philadelphia |1892| 65 | 26,790 Deaf Children | | | | Rhode Island Institute for the Deaf |Providence |1877| 91 | 33,000 South Carolina Institution for the |Cedar Spring |1849|156 | 21,780 Education of the Deaf and the | | | | Blind | | | | South Dakota School for the Deaf |Sioux Falls |1880| 90 | 26,000 Tennessee Deaf and Dumb School |Knoxville |1845|326 | 47,800 Texas | | | | School for the Deaf |Austin |1857|417 | 100,000 Deaf, Dumb, and Blind Institute for |Austin |1887| 94 | 17,652 Colored Youth | | | | Utah School for the Deaf |Ogden |1884|115 | 42,857 Vermont, The Austine Institution for |Brattleboro |1912| 25 | 11,487 the Deaf and Blind | | | | Virginia | | | | School for the Deaf and the Blind |Staunton |1839|193 | 36,748 School for Colored Deaf and Blind |Newport News |1909| 85 | 11,824 Children | | | | Washington State School for the Deaf |Vancouver |1886|132 | 36,178 West Virginia Schools for the Deaf and|Romney |1870|159 | 34,700 the Blind | | | | Wisconsin State School for the Deaf |Delavan |1852|169 | 65,010 II. PUBLIC DAY SCHOOLS SCHOOL |DATE OF OPENING | |NUMBER OF PUPILS | |1912-1913 | | |EXPENDITURE | | |FOR SUPPORT | | |1911-1912 ----------------------------------------------------+----+----+----------- California | | | Los Angeles Day School for the Deaf |1899| 45| $ 6,048 Oakland Public School Oral Classes |1898| 11| -- Sacramento Day-School for the Deaf |1904| 12| 2,520 San Francisco Oral School for the Deaf |1901| 23| 2,350 Georgia | | | Atlanta Day-School for the Deaf |1912| 10| -- Illinois | | | Chicago | | | Delano School for the Deaf |1913|} | Kozminski Public Day-School for the Deaf |1896|} | Parker Practice Public Day-School for the Deaf |1905|}307| 30,474 Waters School for the Deaf |1913|} | Rock Island Day-School for the Deaf |1901| 8| 720 Louisiana | | | New Orleans Day-School for the Deaf |1911| 24| 2,150 Massachusetts | | | Boston, Horace Mann School |1869| 167| 29,040 Michigan | | | Bay City Day-School for the Deaf |1901| 7| 1,005 Calumet Day-School for the Deaf |1902| 13| 1,566 Detroit Day-School for the Deaf |1894| 92| -- Grand Rapids Oral School for Deaf and |1898| 23| 4,600 Hard-of-Hearing | | | Houghton Day-School for the Deaf |1908| 4| 800 Iron Mountain Day-School for the Deaf |1906| 3| 900 Ironwood Day-School for the Deaf |1903| 9| 875 Jackson Day-School for the Deaf |1912| 7| -- Kalamazoo Day-School for the Deaf |1904| 4| -- Manistee Day-School for the Deaf |1904| 10| 1,100 Marquette Day-School for the Deaf |1907| 7| 1,020 Saginaw Oral Day-School for the Deaf |1901| 11| 1,050 Sault Ste. Marie Day-School for the Deaf |1906| 3| -- Traverse City Day-School for the Deaf |1904| 7| 900 Minnesota | | | St. Paul Day-School for the Deaf |1913| --| -- Missouri | | | St. Louis, Gallaudet School |1878| 62| 5,321 New Jersey | | | Jersey City Public Day-School for the Deaf |1910| 14| -- Newark School for the Deaf |1910| 58| -- New York | | | Public School 47, Manhattan |1908| 279| -- Public School, Brooklyn, (Annex to School 47, |1910| 24| 3,000 Manhattan) | | | Public School, Queens, (Annex to School 47, |1913| 10| -- Manhattan) | | | Ohio | | | Ashtabula Day-School for the Deaf |1903| 5| 810 Cincinnati Oral School |1886| 45| 4,150 Cleveland Public School for the Deaf |1892| 99| 10,000 Dayton School for the Deaf |1899| 10| 1,500 Toledo Day-School for the Deaf |1911| 13| 1,200 Oregon | | | Portland Day-School for the Deaf |1908| 31| 3,800 Washington | | | Seattle Public-Day-School for the Deaf |1906| 27| 2,800 Tacoma Day-School for the Deaf |1908| 13| 1,114 Wisconsin | | | Antigo Day-School for the Deaf |1906| 17| 1,850 Appleton Day-School for the Deaf |1896| 13| 980 Ashland Day-School for the Deaf |1898| 15| 3,016 Black River Falls School for the Deaf |1897| 10| -- Bloomington Day-School for the Deaf |1906| 8| 930 Eau Claire Day-School for the Deaf |1895| 31| 6,000 Fond du Lac Day-School for the Deaf |1895| 16| 1,803 Green Bay Day-School for the Deaf |1897| 24| 3,600 Kenosha Day-School for the Deaf |1913| 10| -- La Crosse Day-School for the Deaf |1899| 6| 1,060 Madison Day-School for the Deaf |1908| 15| 2,272 Marinette Day-School for the Deaf |1895| 9| 1,582 Marshfield School for the Deaf |1912| 5| -- Milwaukee School for the Deaf |1898| 146| 23,292 Mineral Point School for the Deaf |1912| 13| -- New London Day-School for the Deaf |1906| 10| 1,200 Oshkosh School for the Deaf |1895| 15| 1,439 Platteville Day-School for the Deaf |1906| 9| 1,397 Racine Day-School for the Deaf |1900| 21| 1,751 Rice Lake Day-School for the Deaf |1907| 8| 1,243 Sheboygan Day-School for the Deaf |1894| 13| 1,476 Stevens Point Day-School for the Deaf |1905| 12| 2,646 Superior Day-School for the Deaf |1897| 8| 970 Wausau Day-School for the Deaf |1890| 11| 885 III. DENOMINATIONAL AND PRIVATE SCHOOLS SCHOOL |LOCATION |DATE OF | |OPENING | | |NUMBER | | |OF PUPILS | | |1912-1913 ---------------------------------------------+-------------+----+--------- California | | | Holden Home Oral School |San Francisco|1913| 6 St. Joseph's Home for the Deaf |Oakland |1895| 26 Georgia | | | Miss Arbaugh's School for Deaf Children |Macon |1912| 9 Illinois | | | Ephpheta School for the Deaf |Chicago |1884| 95 The McCowen Homes for Deaf Children |Chicago |1883| 40 Louisiana | | | Chinchuba Deaf-Mute Institute |Chinchuba |1890| 40 Maryland | | | Home School for Little Deaf Children |Kensington |1908| 10 F. Knapp's English and German Institute |Baltimore |1877| 25 St. Francis Xavier's School for the Deaf |Irvington |1897| 31 Massachusetts | | | The Sarah Fuller Home for Little Deaf |West Medford |1888| 16 Children | | | Michigan | | | Evangelical Lutheran Deaf-Mute Institute |North Detroit|1873| 29 Missouri | | | Immaculate Conception Institute for the Deaf|St. Louis |1885| 70 New York | | | Reno Margulies School for the Deaf |New York |1901| 18 The Wright Oral School |New York |1894| 28 Ohio | | | Notre Dame School for the Deaf |Cincinnati |1890| 10 Miss Breckinridge's School |Cincinnati |1906| 3 Pennsylvania | | | Archbishop Ryan Memorial Institute for |Philadelphia |1912| 19 Deaf-Mutes | | | De Paul Institute for Deaf-Mutes |Pittsburgh |1908| 64 Forrest Hall |Philadelphia |1901| 7 South Dakota | | | Black Hills School for the Deaf |Lead |1911| 2 Wisconsin | | | St. John's Institute for Deaf-Mutes |St. Francis |1876| 90 INDEX Accidents as a cause of deafness, 17. Admission into schools, 157, 166-168, 262-267. _See_ Fees; Restrictions. Adult deaf in schools, 267n. _See_ Evening schools; Homes. Adventitious deafness, 16-40; ages of occurrence of, 18; action for the prevention of, 21-26; as an increasing or decreasing phenomenon, 27-40; causes of, 17-21; conclusions respecting, 59, 60, 309. Age of occurrence of deafness, 7-10, 12, 17, 18. Agricola, Rudolph, 121. Aid to the deaf, _see_ Homes for the deaf; Legislation; Private organizations. ---- for schools, _see_ Clothing and transportation; Private benefactions. Aims of first schools, 147-154. Alabama, education in, 172, 176n, 182, 184, 209, 297. Alms-houses, deaf in, 79. Alms-seekers, deaf as, 83-85, 316. Alphabet for deaf, _see_ Manual alphabet. American Association to Promote the Teaching of Speech to the Deaf, 109, 113, 114. American possessions, education in, 240. American School, 132n, 134-139, 141n, 156n, 181, 299, 306. _See_ Connecticut. Amman, John, 124. Ancient treatment of deaf, 63, 119. "Annals of the Deaf, American", 115. Appropriations for schools, state, 136, 161, 163, 295, 321. _See_ Day schools; Semi-public schools. Arizona, education in, 185, 209, 300. Arkansas, education in, 183, 210. Associations of the deaf, _see_ Societies. "Asylums", use of term, 104, 148, 251n, 256n. Attendance in schools, 165, 268-276. _See_ Age limits. Auricular instruction, 283, 285-287. Austine Institution, 306. _See_ Vermont. Baker, Henry, 123. Baptist Church, work of, _see_ Church work. Bartlett, David E., 156n. Bede, Venerable, 121. Bell, A. G., 5n, 108. Benefactions, _see_ Private benefactions; Endowment funds. Blind associated with deaf, 99n. _See_ Dual schools. Boarding institutions, 168, 169, 187. Bolling, William, 131. Bonet, Juan, 122. Bonifaccio, Giovanni, 121. Braidwood, John, 131, 132. Braidwood, Thomas, 127. Bulwer, John, 122. California, education in, 176, 183, 191, 192, 193, 202, 204, 210, 305. Camerarius, Rudolph, 125. Carion, Ramirez de, 123. Cardano, Girolamo, 121. Castro, Pietro de, 121. Catholic Church, work of, _see_ Church work; Denominational schools. Causes of deafness, _see_ Adventitious deafness; Congenital deafness. Census of deaf, how taken, 5n, 14. Charges to pupils, _see_ Fees; Restrictions. Charities, boards of, 182, 183. _See_ Charity; States, provision in. Charity in connection with schools, 104, 147, 248-261, 322; conclusions respecting, 260; in best sense, 249; in legal sense, 252n; opposition to connection, 256; popular conceptions of charity, 250; regard by states, 248; views of boards of charities, 254; views of deaf, 259; views of instructors, 259. Church work for deaf, 96, 110-113. _See_ Private benefactions. Cities, aid of to schools, 161-163, 301. _See_ Day schools; States, provision in. Clarke School, 281, 306. _See_ Massachusetts. Classes of pupils, _see_ Gradations. Classical allusions to the deaf, 119. Clerc, Laurent, 135. Clothing and transportation provided for pupils, 255, 264, 265, 296, 307. Clubs of deaf, _see_ Societies. Cogswell, Alice, 134. College for the deaf, _see_ Gallaudet College. Colorado, education in, 176, 184, 211, 297, 305. Colonies for the deaf, 89n. Combined method of instruction, 283, 285-287. Communication, methods of among deaf, 11, 12, 277-287. Compulsory education, 272-276, 320. Conference of Principals, 113, 114. Congenital deafness, 41-60; as an increasing or decreasing phenomenon, 57; conclusions respecting, 60-62, 310; consanguineous marriages affecting, 42; deaf parents affecting, 46; deaf relatives affecting, 45; possible action for the prevention of, 52. Congregational Church, work of, _see_ Church work. Congress, action of, _see_ National government. Connecticut, education in, 136, 138, 171, 173, 183, 211, 305. _See_ American School. Consanguineous marriages, 42, 54, 60. _See_ Congenital deafness. Constitutional provisions, 64, 169, 242-247, 321. Control, boards of, 183. Convention of American Instructors of the Deaf, 113, 114. Corporations, _see_ Semi-public schools. Cost of education, 293-298, 322; for maintenance, 295; for new buildings, 294; in day schools, 192; per pupil, 298; to states sending outside, 297. _See_ Property, value of; Semi-public schools. County aid to schools, 162, 265, 296; officers, work of, 166, 275n. Courses of study, 287. Court decisions relating to deaf, 65, 71. _See_ Law, attitude of. Crimes, responsibility of deaf for, 65, 72. Dactylology, _see_ Manual alphabet. Dalgarno, George, 123. Day schools, 168, 187-201, 318; arguments against, 197; arguments for, 194; co-operation with institutions, 189, 190; co-ordination with public schools, 190, 193; design of, 188; equipment of, 193, 196; evening schools as part of, 200, 201; institutions as, 187; laws for, 192; number, 187, 191; pupils in, 193; support, 192, 193. _See_ Methods of instruction; States, provision in. "Deaf", meaning of term, 3. "Deaf-and-dumb", _see_ "Deaf". Deaf-blind, 5n, 178-179, 307. "Deaf-mute", 9n, 286n. _See_ "Deaf". "Deaf-mutism", 101n. Deafness in different states, 5. "Defective" class, the deaf as a, 100. Delaware, education in, 141, 171, 185, 212. Denominational and private schools, 168, 202-205, 319. _See_ Methods of instruction; States, provision in. Dependent class, the deaf as a, 103. _See_ Economic condition. Deschamps, 126. Difficulties of early schools, 144, 145, 164, 165. Diseases, effect of, _see_ Adventitious deafness. District of Columbia, education in, 171, 172n, 182, 185n, 212, 213, 296, 305. _See_ Gallaudet College. Dual schools, 173, 176, 177, 293n, 294n, 295n. Dues, _see_ Fees. "Dumbness", _see_ "Deaf". Ear, diseases of, _see_ Adventitious Deafness. Early attempts at instruction, 129-133. ---- workers, character of, 155, 156. Economic condition of deaf, 75-90, 314, 316; conclusions respecting, 90; deafness, effect of, 75, 80, 83; occupations of deaf, 76, 77; unions, members of, 82n; views of deaf, 81; wage-earners, extent as, 76-78, 81, 82. _See_ Alms-houses; Dependent class; Homes; Industrial training. Education, associations for, 113, 114; boards of, 184, 185, 248, 258; _See_ States, provision in. ----, condition of deaf before, 146, 148-154, 312. Employment of deaf, _see_ Economic condition. Endowment funds, 172, 174, 295. _See_ Private benefactions. England, early education in, 121-123, 127. Épée, abbé de l', 126, 127. Ephpheta School, 306. _See_ Illinois. Eugenics, _see_ Congenital deafness. Europe, first schools in, 119-128; recognition in of work in America, 170n. Evening schools for adults, 200, 201. Exhibits of deaf pupils, 136, 142, 158, 159, 160. Farming as an industry, 83n, 90n, 291, 292. _See_ Economic condition. Fay, Barnabas M., 156n. Feeble-minded deaf, 179, 180. Fees for pupils, 143, 157. _See_ Admission into schools; Denominational schools; Restrictions. ---- in semi-public schools, membership, 156, 173, 181, 304. Fiction, deaf in, 100n. Finger-spelling, _see_ Manual alphabet; Sign language. First schools, 131, 134-144. Florida, education in, 176, 183, 184, 213. France, early education in, 125-127. Fraternal organizations of deaf, 95, 96. Gallaudet College, 168, 206-208, 265n, 319. _See_ District of Columbia. Gallaudet, Edward Miner, 207n. Gallaudet, Thomas Hopkins, 134-136, 138n, 156n. Georgia, education in, 138, 143, 182, 191, 193, 204n, 214. Germany, early education in, 121, 124, 125. Gifts, _see_ Private benefactions. Government of institutions, 180-185. _See_ States, provision in. Gradations of pupils, 287-289. Graduates of schools, 80, 288, 289. Green, Francis, 130. Guardians for deaf, 67, 68. "Hard of hearing", 3n; schools for, 202n. Harrower, John, 129. Hearing in school children, defective, 24. Hebrew work for deaf, _see_ Church work. Heinicke, Samuel, 125. Heredity, _see_ Congenital deafness. Holder, William, 123. Holland, early education in, 124. Homes for deaf, 85-89, 314; extent of, 87, 88; purpose, 86; support, 89. ---- for children, 254n, 296n. _See_ Denominational and private schools; Boarding institutions. Horace Mann School, 188, 282. _See_ Massachusetts. Hubbell, Horatio N., 156n. Hutton, Abraham B., 156n. Idaho, education in, 176, 183, 184, 214. Ideas of early schools, 144-147. Illinois, education in, 144, 183, 191, 192, 193, 202, 204, 214, 215, 305. Immigration in respect to deaf, 66. Impostors simulating deafness, 82-84, 316. Increase of deafness, _see_ Adventitious deafness; Congenital deafness. Indiana, education in, 142, 157, 183, 184, 216. Indigent pupils, _see_ Admission into schools; Clothing and transportation; Fees; Restrictions. Industrial training, 80, 169, 193, 199, 205, 290-292, 319. Institutions, general arrangements of, 171-186; government, 180-185; arguments against, 194; arguments for, 197. _See_ Boarding institutions; Methods of instruction; States, provision in. Instructors, associations of, 113, 114; number of, 288; training schools for, 289n. Insurance companies and the deaf, 104; among the deaf, 95, 96. Interpreters for deaf, 65, 74, 112n. Iowa, education in, 144, 183, 216. Italy, early education in, 121, 124. Jacobs, John A., 156n. Kansas, education in, 184, 217. Kendall School, _see_ Gallaudet College; District of Columbia. Kentucky, education in, 141, 142, 157, 164n, 184, 217, 297, 299. Kerger, 125. Kerr, William D., 156n. Kilpatrick, John, 132. Kindergarten departments, _see_ Denominational and private schools; Gradations of pupils. Labor bureaus for deaf, 71, 81n. Ladies' societies, 88n, 161n, 173n. Land given for schools, 137, 141, 162, 299-302. _See_ States, provision in. Language, difficulty of for deaf, 198, 201, 287. Law, general attitude of toward deaf, 63-74; trend of, 73; need of changed regard, 314. _See_ Legal exceptions; Legislation. Le Couteulx St. Mary's Institution, 306. _See_ New York. Legal exceptions, views of deaf respecting, 74n. Legislation in aid of deaf, 68-71; discriminatory, 66; in protection, 67, 68. Legislatures, appeals to, 159, 160. _See_ Appropriations; Law, attitude of; States, provision in. Lip-reading, 10, 284. _See_ Speech. Location of schools, 163, 301. Louisiana, education in, 172n, 183, 184, 191, 193, 202, 218. Lutheran Church, work of, _see_ Church work; Denominational schools. McIntyre, Thomas, 156n. Maine, education in, 138, 183, 218. Mann, Horace, 281. Manual alphabet, 11, 12, 277, 278. _See_ Sign language. Manual alphabet method, 285-287. Manual method, 285-287. Maryland, education in, 141, 172, 173, 176n, 183, 202-205, 219. Marriages of deaf, advisability of, 46, 54-56; laws to prohibit, 56n; partners in, 55; possibilities of deaf offspring, 46-52. _See_ Congenital deafness. Massachusetts, education in, 130, 138, 171, 173, 184, 191, 193n, 219, 305. _See_ Clarke School; Horace Mann School; New England Industrial School; Sarah Fuller Home. Medical bodies and prevention of deafness, 25, 26. _See_ Adventitious deafness. Mendicancy, _see_ Alms-seekers. Methodist Church, work of, _see_ Church work. Methods of instruction, 193, 205, 277-287. Michigan, education in, 183, 191, 192, 202, 221, 301. Middle ages, education in, 120. Minnesota, education in, 183, 184, 191, 193, 222. Mississippi, education in, 182, 223. Missions, _see_ Church work for deaf; Legislation in aid of deaf. Missouri, education in, 142n, 144, 183, 191, 193, 202, 223. Montana, education in, 176, 182, 183, 184, 224, 300. Montans, Peter, 124. "Mute", _see_ "Deaf". National college, _see_ Gallaudet College. National Educational Association, 114. National government, granting land for schools, 137, 141, 162, 299, 300; creating Gallaudet College, 206-208. _See_ District of Columbia. Nebraska, education in, 183, 224. Negroes, education of, 172, 176n, 185n, 268n. Nelson Philip, 129. Nevada, education in, 171, 185, 224. New England School, 306. _See_ Massachusetts. New England states, interest in American School, 136, 137, 138. New Hampshire, education in, 138, 171, 185, 225. New Jersey, education in, 140, 141, 184, 191, 192, 225. New Mexico, education in, 182, 185n, 225. New York, education in, 131, 139, 140, 148n, 171, 173, 183, 184, 191-193, 204, 226-229, 305. _See_ Le Couteulx St. Mary's Institution; New York Institution; New York Institution for Improved Instruction; St. Joseph's Institution. New York Institution, 131, 132n, 139, 140, 161n, 187n, 280n, 306. _See_ New York. New York Institution for Improved Instruction, 281, 306. _See_ New York. North Carolina, education in, 143, 172, 176n, 183, 184, 229. North Dakota, education in, 183, 230, 297, 300. Occupations of deaf, _see_ Economic condition. [OE]colampadius, 124. Offspring, deaf, _see_ Marriages of deaf. Ohio, education in, 142, 143n, 157n, 183, 191, 192, 202, 205, 230. Oklahoma education in, 172, 176, 183, 184, 185n, 231. Opinions of deaf, _see_ Charity; Economic condition; Legal exceptions. Oral method, 187n, 193, 205, 279-287, 296n. Oregon, education in, 183, 185n, 191, 232. Papers of deaf, 97, 116; of schools, 116, 292. _See_ Publications for deaf. Parents, deaf, and offspring, _see_ Marriages of deaf. Parents' associations, 109. Partially deaf, 3n. Pasch, 125. Pay pupils, _see_ Fees. Peet, Harvey P., 156n. Pereire, 126. Pennsylvania, education in, 140, 141, 171, 173, 183, 202-204, 233, 234, 305. _See_ Pennsylvania Institution; Western Pennsylvania Institution. Pennsylvania Institution, 140, 141, 181, 187n, 306. _See_ Pennsylvania. Politics in schools, 185n, 322. Ponce de Leon, Pedro, 122. Popular conceptions of deaf, 99-106, 313, 314. Prevention of deafness, _see_ Adventitious deafness; Congenital deafness. Principals, Conference of, 113, 114. Private benefactions, 135, 136, 140, 142, 158, 160, 161, 163, 173-176, 179, 181, 281, 295, 296, 301, 303-308, 321. _See_ Denominational and private schools; Homes; Private organizations; States, provision in. Private organizations for deaf, 107-116. _See_ Denominational schools; Semi-public schools. Private schools, _see_ Denominational and private schools. Property, value of, 293. Protestant Episcopal Church, work of, _see_ Church work. Public appropriations, _see_ Appropriations. Public schools, deaf in, _see_ Day schools. Publications for deaf, 115, 307n. _See_ Papers; Volta Bureau. Pupils, at beginning, 165; number of, 288; proportion in attendance, 268-270. _See_ Clothing; Fees; Gradations; Restrictions. Quasi-public schools, _see_ Semi-public schools. Rae, Luzerne, 156n. Raphel, Georges, 125. Relatives, deaf, _see_ Congenital deafness. Relief for needy deaf, 69, 95, 112. Religious work, _see_ Church work; Denominational schools. Restrictions, 157, 166, 262, 263, 318. _See_ Fees; Age-limits. Rhode Island, education in, 138, 184, 234. St. Francis de Sales, 124. St. Joseph's Institution, 306. _See_ New York. Sarah Fuller Home, 306. _See_ Denominational and private schools; Massachusetts. Schott, Gaspard, 125. Seixas, David, 140. Self-supporting, the deaf as, _see_ Economic condition. "Semi-deaf", 9n, 286n. "Semi-mute", 9n, 286n. Semi-public schools, 156, 172-176, 180, 181, 295n, 297, 303. Sensational accounts of deaf, 105n. Settlements, social, work of, 107n. Sibscota, George, 123. Sicard, 127. Sign language, 11, 12, 92, 187n, 277-279. _See_ Manual alphabet. Societies for deaf, _see_ Private organizations. Social organization of deaf, 91-98. Societies of the deaf, 92-96; desirability, 93; purposes, 94-96. Solidarity of deaf, 78n, 94, 95. South Carolina, education in, 138, 144, 176, 182, 184, 235. South Dakota, education in, 183, 204n, 235, 300. Spain, early education in, 122, 123. Speech, 8-12, 279-284; ability of deaf in, 8, 9, 284; growth of teaching of, 282-284; relation to sense of hearing, 3, 4. _See_ Oral method. Stanford, John, 131, 139. State, action of, _see_ Law, attitude of. States, provision in, 209-241; lands given by, 301; without schools, procedure in, 169, 171, 185, 297. _See_ Appropriations; Charity; Constitutional provisions; Government of institutions. Stone, Collins, 156n. Strange class, deaf as a, 99. Subsidies, _see_ Appropriations; Semi-public schools. Support of schools, _see_ Cost. Tax, exemptions of deaf from, 65, 69. Taxation for schools, special, 163, 172, 297. Teachers, _see_ Instructors. Tennessee, education in, 143, 182, 183, 184, 236. Terms, _see_ Admission into schools. Terzi, Lana, 124. Texas, education in, 172, 176n, 182, 236. Thornton, William, 133n. Totally deaf, _see_ "Deaf". Trades, _see_ Industrial training; Economic condition. Transportation, _see_ Clothing. Trustees of schools, 163, 169, 180-184, 185n. _See_ Homes; Denominational schools; States, provision in. Turner, William W., 156n. Unhappy class, deaf as, 102. United States, number of deaf in, 5. _See_ American possessions. Utah, education in, 176, 182, 185n, 236, 300. Vagrants, _see_ Impostors. Value of property, _see_ Property. Van Helmont, Jan Baptista, 124. Van Nostrand, Jacob, 156n. Vanin, 126. Vermont, education in, 138, 173, 176, 237. Virginia, education in, 131-133, 142, 172, 176, 183, 184, 237. Volta Bureau, 108, 109, 115. "Volta Review", 109, 115. Wages paid to deaf, _see_ Economic condition. Walker, Newton P., 156n. Wallis, John, 123. Washington, education in, 183, 185n, 191, 192, 238. Weld, Louis, 156n. West Virginia, education in, 172n, 176, 183, 185n, 238. Western Pennsylvania Institution, 187n, 188n, 306. _See_ Pennsylvania. Wills of deaf, 65, 72, 73. Wisconsin, education in, 144, 183, 188n, 191, 192, 202, 239. Witness, the deaf as, 72. Writing as means of communication, 11, 12, 285, 286. Wyoming, education in, 171, 185, 240. Young Men's Christian Association, work of, 107n. Transcriber's Corrections: Page 19. Chapter II. "ceramen" to _cerumen_. Impacted cerumen Page 19n. Chapter II. "ceramen" to _cerumen_. ... ear trouble, impacted cerumen is usually found ... Page 28. Chapter II. "1800" to _1880_. NUMBER OF THE ADVENTITIOUSLY DEAF IN 1880, 1890 AND 1900 Page 32. Table IV. 8th column "1902/1901" to _1901/1902_. Page 69. Chapter III. "is" to _in_. Thus in Missouri we find a statute of 1843 allowing ... Page 128n. Chapter VIII. "appendicies" to _appendices_. ... Mississippi School, appendices, 1907, 1909, 1911 ... Page 158. Chapter IX. "nucleii" to _nuclei_. ... schools were thus often the nuclei of the ... Page 202n. Chapter XII. "nucleii" to _nuclei_. ... which were the nuclei of the state ... Page 222. Chapter XIV. "Saulte" to _Sault_. ... Sault Ste. Marie, 1906; ... Page 253. Chapter XVI. "superintendant" to _superintendent_ ... By one superintendent it has been stated ... Page 259. Chapter XVI. "Rosolved" to _Resolved_. Resolved, that the deaf youth of our land ... Page 304. Chapter XXII. "suffcient" to _sufficient_. ... are quite sufficient to enable us to ... Page 320. Chapter XXIII. "educaton" to _education_. ... work of the education of the deaf ... Page 329. Appendix B. "Annez" to _Annex_. Public School, Queens, (Annex to School 47, Manhattan) Page 333 & 339. Index. No entry for "Age Limits". Relevant information can be found in Ch. XVII, pp. 265-267, under the heading "Age Limits of Attendance". Page 334. Index. "Giralamo" to _Girolamo_. Cardano, Girolamo, 121. Page 335, 337 & 340. Index. "provisions" to _provision_. _See_ ... States, provision in ... Page 340. Index. "schools" to _institutions_. _See_ ... Government of institutions. Page 340. Index. "of pupils" to _into schools_. Terms, _see_ Admission into schools.

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:30.453989

23321

Produced by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, Marcia Brooks, Don Tvenge, African American Biographical Database and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net The Choctaw Freedmen [Illustration: OAK HILL] AN OAK TREE On the southeastern slope, near the Academy, A pretty Oak, That strong and stalwart grows. With every changing wind that blows, is a beautiful emblem of the strength, beauty and eminent usefulness of an intelligent and noble man. "He shall grow like a Cedar in Lebanon; like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season." [Illustration: ALICE LEE ELLIOTT 1846-1906] THE Choctaw Freedmen AND The Story of OAK HILL INDUSTRIAL ACADEMY Valliant, McCurtain County OKLAHOMA Now Called the ALICE LEE ELLIOTT MEMORIAL Including the early History of the Five Civilized Tribes of Indian Territory the Presbytery of Kiamichi, Synod of Canadian, and the Bible in the Free Schools of the American Colonies, but suppressed in France, previous to the American and French Revolutions BY ROBERT ELLIOTT FLICKINGER A Recent Superintendent of the Academy and Pastor of the Oak Hill Church ILLUSTRATED BY 100 ENGRAVINGS Under the Auspices of the PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF MISSIONS FOR FREEDMEN Pittsburgh, Pa. ENTERED ACCORDING TO ACT OF CONGRESS IN THE YEAR 1914 BY THE AUTHOR IN THE OFFICE OF THE LIBRARIAN OF CONGRESS AT WASHINGTON, D. C. Journal and Times Press, Fonda, Iowa TABLE OF CONTENTS I. GENERAL FACTS Introduction--List of Portraits I Indian Territory 7 II Indian Schools and Churches 15 III The Bible, An Important Factor in Civilization 31 IV The American Negro 39 V Problem of the Freedman 46 VI Voices From the Black Belt 59 VII Uplifting Influences 65 VIII The Presbyterian Church 84 IX The Freedmen's Board 90 X Special Benefactors 96 II. OAK HILL INDUSTRIAL ACADEMY XI Native Oak Hill School and Church 101 XII Era of Eliza Hartford 107 XIII Early Reminiscences 114 XIV Early Times at Forest 124 XV Era of Supt. James F. McBride 131 XVI Era of Rev. Edward G. Haymaker 134 XVII Buds of Promise 146 XVIII Closed in 1904 154 XIX Reopening and Organization 155 XX Prospectus in 1912 162 XXI Obligation and Pledges 169 XXII Bible Study and Memory Work 173 XXIII Decision Days 183 XXIV The Self-Help Department 185 XXV Industrial Education 196 XXVI Permanent Improvements 202 XXVII Elliott Hall 210 XXVIII Unfavorable Circumstances 216 XXIX Building the Temple 227 XXX Success Maxims and Good Suggestions 241 XXXI Rules and Wall Mottoes 259 XXXII Savings and Investments 272 XXXIII Normals and Chautauquas 275 XXXIV Graces and Prayers 279 XXXV Presbyterial Meetings and Picnics 282 XXXVI Farmer's Institutes 287 XXXVII The Apiary, Health Hints 294 XXXVIII Oak Hill Aid Society 300 XXXIX Tributes to Workers 308 XL Closing Day, 1912 325 III. THE PRESBYTERY AND SYNOD XLI Presbytery of Kiamichi 335 XLII Histories of Churches 345 XLIII Parson Stewart 351 XLIV Wiley Homer 360 XLV Other Ministers and Elders 370 XLVI Synod of Canadian 382 IV. THE BIBLE IN THE PUBLIC SCHOOL XLVII The Public School 391 XLVIII A Half Century of Bible Suppression in France 418 [Illustration: OAK HILL CHAPEL] [Illustration: ELLIOTT HALL--1910] LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Alice Lee Elliott Frontispiece Elliott Hall 11 Choctaw Church and Court House 14 Alexander Reid, John Edwards 15 Biddle and Lincoln Universities 70 Rev. E. P. Cowan, Rev. John Gaston, Mrs. V. P. Boggs 91 Eliza Hartford, Anna Campbell, Rev. E. G. and Priscilla G. Haymaker 108 Girls Hall, Old Log House 109 Carrie and Mrs. M. E. Crowe, Anna and Mattie Hunter 116 James McGuire and others 117 Wiley Homer, William Butler, Stewart, Jones 148 Buds of Promise 149 Rev. and Mrs. R. E. Flickinger, Claypool, Ahrens, Eaton 160 Reopening, 1915, Flower Gatherers 192 Mary I. Weimer, Lou K. Early, Jo Lu Wolcott 193 Rev. and Mrs. Carroll, Hall, Buchanan, Folsom 224 Closing Day, 1912; Dr. Baird 225 Approved Fruits 256 Planting Sweet Potatoes and Arch 257 Orchestra, Sweepers, Going to School 274 Miss Weimer, Celestine, Coming Home 275 The Apiary; Feeding the Calves 294 Log House Burning, Pulling Stumps 298 Oak Hill in 1902, 1903 299 The Hen House, Pigpen 295 The Presbytery, Grant Chapel 352 Bridges, Bethel, Starks, Meadows, Colbert, Crabtree 353 Crittenden, Folsom, Butler, Stewart, Perkins, Arnold, Shoals, Johnson 378 Teachers in 1899, Harris, Brown 379 Representative Homes of the Choctaw Freedmen 406 The Sweet Potato Field 407 INTRODUCTION "The pleasant books, that silently among Our household treasures take familiar places, Are to us, as if a living tongue Spake from the printed leaves, or pictured faces!" The aim of the Author in preparing this volume has been to put in a form, convenient for preservation and future reference, a brief historical sketch of the work and workers connected with the founding and development of Oak Hill Industrial Academy, established for the benefit of the Freedmen of the Choctaw Nation, Indian Territory, by the Presbyterian church, U. S. A., in 1886, when Miss Eliza Hartford became the first white teacher, to the erection of Elliott Hall in 1910, and its dedication in 1912; when the name of the institution was changed to "The Alice Lee Elliott Memorial." Some who rendered service at Oak Hill Academy, bestowed upon it their best work, while superintendent, James F. McBride and Matron, Adelia M. Eaton, brought to it a faithful service, that proved to be the crowning work of their lives. The occasion of receiving a new name in 1912, is one that suggests the eminent propriety of a volume, that will commemorate the labors of those, whose self-denying pioneer work was associated with the former name of the institution. Another aim has been, to place as much as possible of the character building work of the institution, in an attractive form for profitable perusal by the youth, in the homes of the pupils and patrons of the Academy. As an aid in effecting this result, the volume has been profusely illustrated with engravings of all the good photographs of groups of the students that have come to the hand of the author; and also of all the teachers of whom they could be obtained at this time. The portraits of the ministers and older elders of the neighboring churches have been added to these, to increase its general interest and value. In as much as Oak Hill Industrial Academy was intended to supply the special educational needs of the young people in the circuit of churches ministered to by Parson Charles W. Stewart, the pioneer preacher of the Choctaw Freedmen, and faithful founder of most of the churches in the Presbytery of Kiamichi, a memorial sketch of this worthy soldier of the cross has been added, that the young people of the present and future generations may catch the inspiration of his heroic missionary spirit. "All who labor wield a mighty power; The glorious privilege to do Is man's most noble dower." The ministers of the neighboring churches, in recent years, have been so helpfully identified with the work of the Academy, as special lecturers and assistants on decision days, and on the first and last days of the school terms, they seem to have been members of the Oak Hill Family. The story of the Academy would not be complete, without a recognition of them and their good work. This recognition has been very gratefully accorded in a brief history of the Presbytery of Kiamichi and of the Synod of Canadian. The period of service rendered by the author, as superintendent of the Academy from the beginning of 1905 to the end of 1912, eight years, was one of important transitions in the material development of Indian Territory. The allotment of lands in severalty to the Indians and Freedmen was completed in 1905, and the Territorial government was transformed into one of statehood on Jan. 1, 1908. The progress of their civilization, that made it possible for the Indians in the Territory to become owners and occupants of their own homes, supporters of their own schools and churches and to be invested with all the powers and duties of citizenship, is briefly reviewed in the introductory chapters. The author has endeavored to make this volume one easily read and understood by the Choctaw Freedmen, in whose homes it is expected to find a place, and be read with interest and profit many years. He has done what he could to enable as many of you as possible to leave the impress of your personality on the world, when your feet no longer move, your hands no longer build and your lips no longer utter your sentiments. The hope is indulged that every pupil of the Academy, whose portrait has been given an historic setting in this volume, will regard that courteous recognition, as a special call to make the Bible your guide in life and perform each daily duty nobly and faithfully, as though it were your last. A life on service bent, A life for love laid down, A life for others spent, The Lord will surely crown. Whilst other denominations have rendered conspicuous and highly commendable service in the effort to educate and evangelize the Indians and Freedmen, in this volume mention is made only of the work of the Presbyterian church. This is due to the fact the Presbyterian church, having begun missionary work among the Choctaws at a very early date, it was left to pursue it without a rival, in the particular section of country and early period of time included in the scope of this volume. Such as it is, this volume is commended to him, whose blessing alone can make it useful, and make it to fulfil its mission of comfort and encouragement, to the children and youth of the Freedmen who are sincerely endeavoring to solve the problem of their present and future destiny. Fonda, Iowa, March 15, 1914. R. E. F. PART I GENERAL FACTS RELATING TO THE INDIANS OF INDIAN TERRITORY, THE CHOCTAW FREEDMEN AND PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF MISSIONS FOR FREEDMEN. "In history we meet the great personalities, who have crystallized in their own lives, the hopes and fears of nations and races. We meet the living God, as an actor, and discover in passing events, a consistent purpose, guiding the changing world to an unchanging end."--W. A. Brown. "Four things a man must learn to do, If he would make his record true; To think without confusion, clearly; To act from honest motives purely; To love his fellowmen sincerely; To trust in God and heaven securely." --Vandyke. "The study of history, as a means of cultivating the mind and for its immediate practical benefit, ever since the days of Moses, who wrote the pioneer history of Israel, and Herodotus, the father of profane history, has formed a necessary part of a liberal and thorough education."--History of Pocahontas County, Iowa. I INDIAN TERRITORY EARLY HISTORY OF THE FIVE CIVILIZED TRIBES--OPENING OF INDIAN TERRITORY--OKLAHOMA--CLEAR CREEK, OAK HILL, VALLIANT. "Let us develop the resources of our land, call forth its powers, build up its institutions, promote all its great interests and see whether we, also, in our day and generation may not perform something worthy to be remembered."--Daniel Webster. Indian Territory, now Oklahoma, was a part of the public domain, that was reserved for several tribes of Indians whose native hunting grounds were principally in the Southern states. While they remained in their native valleys they proved a menace to the safety of the frontier settlers, and in times of war were sure to take sides against them. Thomas Jefferson in his day advised that they be located together on some general reservation. This was gradually effected during the earlier years of the last century. The official act of congress constituting it an Indian Reservation did not occur until 1834, but a considerable number of the Choctaws, Chickasaws and of some other tribes were induced to migrate westward and locate there previous to that date. Other leading tribes that were transferred to special reservations in Indian Territory were the Cherokees, Creeks and Seminoles. THE FIVE CIVILIZED TRIBES The Choctaw Indians recently occupied lands in the states bordering on the Gulf of Mexico. In 1820 a considerable part of them, ceding their lands in Georgia, were located on a reservation in the Red River valley west of Arkansas. In 1830 they ceded the remainder of their lands in Alabama and Mississippi and all, together with their slaves, were then transferred to their new reservation in the southeastern part of Indian Territory. The Chickasaws, who originally occupied the country on the east side of the Mississippi river, as early as 1800 began to migrate up the valley of the Arkansas. In 1805, 1816 and in 1818 they ceded more of their lands and more of them migrated westward, many of them going to the country allotted to the Choctaws. In 1834, when the last of their lands in the Gulf states were ceded, they were located on a reservation south of the Canadian river, west of the Choctaws. These two tribes lived under one tribal government until 1855, when they were granted a political separation. The Cherokees, previous to 1830, occupied the upper valley of the Tennessee river, extending through the northern parts of Georgia and Alabama. In 1790 a part of the tribe migrated to Louisiana and they rendered important services in the army of Gen. Jackson at New Orleans in the war of 1812. In 1817 they ceded a part of their native lands for others and the next year 3,000 of them were located in the northwestern part of Arkansas in the valleys of the Arkansas and White rivers. In 1835 the remainder of them were located just west of the first migration in the northeast part of Indian Territory. The Creek Indians originally lived in the valleys of the Flint, Chattahoochee, Coosa and Alabama rivers and in the peninsula of Florida. About the year 1875, a part of them moved to Louisiana and later to Texas. In 1836 the remainder of the tribe was transferred to a reservation north of the Canadian river in Indian Territory. The Seminoles were a nation of Florida Indians, that was composed chiefly of Creeks and the remnants of some other tribes. After the acquisition of Florida from Spain in 1819 many slaves in that section fled from their masters to the Seminoles. The government endeavored to recover them and to force the Seminoles to remove westward. These efforts were not immediately successful, Osceola, their wily and intrepid chief, defeating and capturing four of the generals sent against them, namely, Clinch, Gaines, Call and Winfield Scott. He was finally captured by his captors violating a flag of truce. In 1845 they were induced to move west of the Mississippi and in 1856, they were assigned lands west of the Creeks in the central part of Indian Territory. These five tribes, the Choctaws, Chickasaws, Cherokees, Creeks and Seminoles, were the most powerful in numbers. After their settlement in Indian Territory, they made considerable progress in elementary education and agriculture, their farm work being principally done by their slaves previous to the time they were accorded their freedom in 1865. As a result of their progress in the arts of life, during the last half of the last century, these were often called "The Five Civilized Tribes, or Nations." In 1900 when the last census was taken of them in their tribal form their numbers were as follows: Choctaw nation, 99,681; Chickasaw, 139,260; Cherokee, 101,754; Creek, 40,674; Seminole, 3,786. The Osage Indians were early driven to the valley of the Arkansas river. They were conveyed to their reservation west of that river, in the north part of Indian Territory, in 1870. The supplies of oil and other minerals found upon their reservation have caused some of the members of this nation to be reputed as quite wealthy. Other tribes that were located on small reservations in the northeast part of the Territory were the Modocs, Ottawas, Peorias, Quapaws, Senecas, Shawnees and Wyandottes. During this early period the Union Indian agency established its headquarters at Muskogee, and it became and continued to be their principal city, during the period of their tribal government. OPENING OF INDIAN TERRITORY On April 22, 1889, 2,000,000 acres of the Creek and Seminole lands were opened to white settlers, and there occurred an ever memorable rush for lands and a race for homes. An area as large as the state of Maryland was settled in a day. On that first day the city of Guthrie was founded with a population of 8,000, a newspaper was issued and in a tent a bank was organized with a capital of $50,000. Oklahoma and other cities sprang up as if in a night. On June 6, 1890, the west half of Indian Territory was created a new territory, called Oklahoma, with its capital at Guthrie, and with later additions it soon included 24,000,000 acres. On June 16, 1906, President Roosevelt signed the enabling act, that admitted Oklahoma, including Oklahoma and Indian Territories, as a state, one year from that date. On November 6, 1906, occurred the election of members to the constitutional convention, that met at Guthrie January 1, 1907. The first legislature met there January 1, 1908. Two years later the capital was moved to Oklahoma City. The growth, progress and advancement of the territory of Oklahoma during the sixteen years preceding statehood in 1907 has never been equaled in the history of the world, and in all probability will never be eclipsed. This was due to the mild and healthful climate of this region, and a previous knowledge of its great, but undeveloped agricultural and mineral resources. So great has been the flow of oil near Tulsa, in the north central part of the state, it has been necessary to store it there in an artificial lake or reservoir. OKLAHOMA The surface of Oklahoma consists of a gently undulating plain, that gradually ascends from an altitude of 511 feet at Valliant in the southeast to 1197 feet at Oklahoma City, and 1893 at Woodward, the county seat of Woodward county, in the northwest. The principal mountains are the Kiamichi in the southern part of Laflore county, and the Wichita, a forest reserve in Comanche and Swanson counties. Previous to statehood Indian Territory was divided into 31 recording districts for court purposes. In 1902 when Garvin was founded it became the residence of the judge of the southeastern judicial or recording district, and a small court house was built there for the transaction of the public business. In 1907, when McCurtain county was established, Idabel was chosen as the county seat. The location of Oak Hill Academy proved to be one and a half miles east of the west line of McCurtain county. In 1910 the population of McCurtain county was 20,681, of Oklahoma City 64,205; and of the state of Oklahoma, 1,657,155. CLEAR CREEK During the period immediately preceding the incoming of the Hope and Ardmore Railroad in 1902, the most important news and trading center, between Fort Towson and Wheelock, was called "Clear Creek." Clear Creek is a rustling, sparkling little stream of clear water that flows southward in a section of the country where most of the streams are sluggish and of a reddish hue. The Clear Creek post office was located in a little store building a short distance east of this stream and about three miles north of Red river. A little log court house, for the administration of tribal justice among the Choctaws of that vicinity, a blacksmith shop and a Choctaw church were also located at this place. These varied interests gave to Clear Creek the importance of a miniature county seat until Valliant and Swink were founded. OAK HILL During this early period the oak covered ridge, extending several miles east of Clear Creek, was known as Oak Hill and the settlement in its vicinity was called by the same name. When the first church (1869) and school (1876) were established among the Freedmen in this settlement, the same name was naturally given to both of them. It has adhered to them, amid all the changes that have occurred, since the first meetings were held at the home of Henry Crittenden in 1868. VALLIANT Valliant was founded in 1902, and was so named in honor of one of the surveyors of the Hope and Ardmore, a branch of the Frisco railway. It is located in the west end of McCurtain county eight miles north of Red river. It has now a population of 1,000 and a branch railroad running northward. The country adjacent to the town consists of beautiful valleys and forests heavily set with timber, principally oak, walnut, ash and hickory, and with pine and cedar along the streams. The soil is a rich sandy loam, that is easily cultivated and gives promise of great agricultural and horticultural possibilities. It is in the center of the cotton belt and this staple is proving a very profitable one. The climate is healthful and the locality is unusually free from the prevalence of high winds. II INDIAN SCHOOLS AND CHURCHES BEFORE THE CIVIL WAR.--EFFECTS OF THE CIVIL WAR.--TRANSFER OF THE FREEDMEN'S WORK.--THE INDIANS MAKE PROGRESS TOWARD CIVILIZATION.--WHEELOCK ACADEMY.--SPENCER ACADEMY.--DOAKSVILLE AND FORT TOWSON. "God, who hath made of one blood all nations of men and determined the bounds of their habitation, commandeth all men everywhere to repent."--Paul. When Columbus landed on the shores of America, the Indians were the only people he found occupying this great continent. During the long period that has intervened, the Indian has furnished proof, that he possesses all the attributes which God has bestowed upon other members of the human family. He has shown that he has an intellect capable of development, that he is willing to receive instruction and that he is capable of performing any duty required of an American citizen. Considerable patience however has had to be exercised both by the church in its effort to bring him under the saving influence of the gospel, and by the government in its effort to elevate him to the full standard of citizenship. Results are achieved slowly. His struggles have been many and difficult. He has needed counsel and encouragement at every advancing step. In the former days, when the Indian supported his family by hunting, trapping and fishing, he moved about from place to place. This was finally checked in Indian Territory by the individual allotment of lands in 1904. He has thus been compelled by the force of circumstances, to change his mode of life. He has gradually discovered he can settle down on his own farm, improve it by the erection of good buildings, and either buy or make the implements he needs for cultivating the soil. The great commission to the church to "go into all the world and preach the gospel to every creature," will not be completed until the American Indian and the Freedmen, who were his former slaves, have been brought under its uplifting influence. The Presbyterian church throughout all its history has been the friend and patron of learning and inasmuch as the evangelistic work among the Indians and Freedmen, has been largely dependent on school work for permanent results, it began to establish schools among the Indians at a very early date. The work among the five civilized tribes was begun many years before they were transported from the southern states to Indian Territory. Some of these missionaries migrated with them and continued both their school and church work in the Territory. Rev. Alfred Wright, who organized the Presbyterian church at Wheelock in December, 1832, and died there in 1853, after receiving 570 members into it, began his work as a missionary to the Choctaws in 1820. The aim of the government in its educational work among the Indians, as elsewhere in the public schools of the country, has been mainly to make them intelligent citizens. The aim of the church, by making the Bible a daily textbook, is to make them happy and hopeful Christians, as well as citizens. In the early days there was great need for this educational work, and in the Presbyterian church it was carried forward by its foreign mission board, with wisdom, energy and success. In 1861 the Presbyterian church had established and was maintaining six boarding schools with 800 pupils and six day schools among the Indians in the Territory. Two of these schools, Spencer and Wheelock Academies, were located in the southern part of the Choctaw Nation. In 1840 the Presbytery of Indian was organized and in 1848 the Presbytery of the Creek Nation. In 1861 these included an enrollment of 16 churches with a communicant membership of 1,772. EFFECTS OF THE CIVIL WAR At the outbreak of the civil war in 1861, all of these schools and churches were closed, and the next year the Presbyterian church became divided by the organization of the Southern Presbyterian church, under the corporate name, "The Presbyterian Church in the United States." At the close of the war it was left to the Southern branch of the church to re-establish this school and church work in the Territory. It undertook to do this and carried parts of it alone for a number of years. The task however proved to be too great; the men and means were not available to re-open the boarding schools, and to supply the churches with ministers. The arrangement was accordingly made for the foreign mission board of the Presbyterian church, to resume its former work as fast as workers could be obtained. In 1879, four ministers returned and opened six churches among the Choctaws, Creeks and Cherokees. In 1882 Spencer Academy was re-opened at Nelson, by Rev. Oliver P. Starks, a native of Goshen, New York, who, for seventeen years previous to the Civil War, had been a missionary to the Choctaws, having his home at Goodland. The Indian Mission school at Muskogee was also re-opened that year by Miss Rose Steed. In the fall of 1883 the Presbytery of Indian Territory was re-established with a membership of 16 ministers, 11 churches, 385 communicants and 676 Sunday school scholars. In 1884 Wheelock Academy was re-opened by Rev. John Edwards, who for a couple of years previous, had been located at Atoka. This was a return of Edwards to the educational work among the Choctaws. From 1851 to 1853 he served at Spencer Academy, north of Doaksville, and then from 1853 to 1861 had charge of Wheelock Academy, as the successor of Rev. Alfred Wright, its early founder. In 1883 two teachers were sent, who opened a school among the Creek Freedmen at Muskogee, known as the "Pittsburgh Mission." A teacher was also sent to the Freedmen among the Seminoles. After a few years the Pittsburgh Mission was transferred from Muskogee to Atoka, where it supplied a real want for a few years longer. In 1904 when adequate provision was first made for the Freedmen in the public schools of that town this mission was discontinued. TRANSFER OF THE FREEDMEN'S WORK During this same year, 1884, the Presbyterian Board of Missions for Freedmen, Pittsburgh, Pa., received the voluntary transfer from the Southern church of all the work it had developed at that date among the Choctaw Freedmen. This transfer was made in good spirit. The motive that prompted it was the conviction and belief the Presbyterian church could carry it forward more conveniently, aggressively and successfully. The work that was transferred at this date consisted of Rev. Charles W. Stewart, Doaksville, and the following churches then under his pastoral care, namely: Oak Hill, Beaver Dam, Hebron, New Hope and St. Paul (Eagletown). Parson Stewart had been licensed about 1867 and ordained a few years later. With a true missionary spirit he had gone into these various settlements and effected the organization of these churches among his people. During the next two years he added to his circuit two more churches, Mount Gilead at Lukfata and Forest, south of Wheelock, and occasionally visited one or two other places. INDIANS MAKE PROGRESS TOWARDS CIVILIZATION About the year 1880 the social and moral condition of the Indians in Indian Territory was described as follows: "About thirty different languages are spoken by the Indians now in the territory. The population of the territory, though principally Indians, includes a lot of white men and negroes, amongst whom intermarriages are frequent. The society ranges from an untutored Indian, with a blanket for his dress and paganism for his religion, to men of collegiate education, who are manifesting their christian culture and training by their earnest advocacy of the christian faith. "The Cherokees were the first to be brought under direct christian influence and they were probably in the lead of all the Indians on the continent in civilization, or practice of the useful arts and enjoyment of the common comforts of life." "In 1890, the year following the opening of the first land in the territory to white settlers, the mission work in the territory was described as "very interesting and unique." The Indian population represented every grade of civilization. One might see the several stages of progress from the ignorant and superstitious blanketed Indian on the western reservations to the representatives of our advanced American culture among the five civilized nations. Our missionaries have labored long and successfully and the education, degree of civilization and prosperity enjoyed by the Indians are due principally, if not solely, to the efforts of consecrated men and women, who devoted their lives to this special work. Although their names may not be familiarly known among the churches, none have deserved more honorable mention than these faithful servants of the Master, who selected this particular field of effort for their life work." "Events are moving rapidly in Indian Territory. Many new lines of railroad have been surveyed, and when they have been built, every part of the Territory will be easily accessible." "A new judicial system with a complete code of laws has recently been provided, and with liberal provision for Indian citizenship and settlement of the land question it is safe to predict a speedy end to tribal government." "This means the opening of a vast region to settlement, the establishment of churches and the thorough organization of every form of christian work. For this we must prepare and there is no time to lose. Our churches and schools must be multiplied and our brethren of the ministry must be fully reinforced by competent educated men trained for christian work. What the future has in store for the whole Territory was illustrated by the marvelous rush into and settlement of Oklahoma Territory during the last year." "A wonderful transformation has taken place. The unbroken prairie of one year ago has been changed to cultivated fields. The tents of boomers have given place to well built homes and substantial blocks of brick and stone. Unorganized communities have now become members of a legally constituted commonwealth. Here are found all the elements of great progress and general prosperity and the future of Oklahoma Territory is full of great promise." "Here the Presbyterian church has shown itself capable of wrestling with critical social problems and stands today as the leading denomination in missionary enterprise. Every county has its minister and many churches have been organized. Others are underway. With more ministers and liberal aid for the erection of churches the Presbyterian church will do for Oklahoma what it has done for Kansas and the Dakotas." In 1886 the mission school work among the Indians was transferred from the care of the foreign to the home mission board. Those in charge of the school work of Spencer Academy at Nelson resigned that work and the school was closed. In 1895 the Mission school work at Wheelock Academy was undertaken and continued thereafter by the Indian Agency, as a school for orphan children of the Indians. WHEELOCK ACADEMY Wheelock Academy for nearly four-score years was the most attractive social, educational and religious center in the southeast part of the Choctaw nation. It was located on the main trails running east and west and north and south. But when the Frisco railway came in 1902, it passed two miles south of it, and a half dozen flourishing towns were founded along its line. There remain to mark this place of early historic interest the two mission school buildings, a strongly built stone church 30 by 50 feet, a two story parsonage and cemetery. The church is of the Gothic style of architecture, tastefully decorated inside and furnished with good pews and pulpit furniture. REV. ALFRED WRIGHT Among the many old inscriptions on the grave stones in the Wheelock cemetery, there may be seen the following beautiful record of the work of one, whose long and eminently useful life was devoted to the welfare of the Choctaw people: SACRED to the memory of the REV. ALFRED WRIGHT who entered into his heavenly rest March 31, 1853, age 65 years. Born in Columbia, Connecticut, March 1, 1788. Appointed Missionary to the Choctaws 1820. Removed to this land October, 1832. Organized Wheelock Church December, 1832. Received to its fellowship 570 members. AS A MAN he was intelligent, firm in principle, prudent in counsel, gentle in spirit, kindness and gravity, and conscientious in the discharge of every relative and social duty. AS A CHRISTIAN he was uniform, constant, strong in faith, and in doctrine, constant and fervent in prayer, holy in life, filled with the spirit of Christ and peaceful in death. AS A PHYSICIAN he was skillful, attentive, ever ready to relieve and comfort the afflicted. AS A TRANSLATOR he was patient, investigating and diligent, giving to the Choctaws in their own tongue the New and part of the Old Testament, and various other books. AS A MINISTER his preaching was scriptural, earnest, practical, and rich in the full exhibition of Gospel truth. He was laborious, faithful and successful. Communion with God, faith in the Lord Jesus, and reliance upon the aid of the Holy Spirit, made all his labor sweet to his own soul and a blessing to others. In testimony of his worth, and their affection, his mourning friends erect this Tablet to his Memory. "There remaineth therefore a rest to the people of God." REV. JOHN EDWARDS Rev. John Edwards, the successor of Rev. Alfred Wright, was a native of Bath, New York. He graduated from the college at Princeton, New Jersey, in 1848, and from the theological seminary there in 1851. He was ordained by the Presbytery of Indian Territory December 11, 1853. [Illustration: THE CHOCTAW CHURCH, CLEAR CREEK.] [Illustration: THE CHOCTAW COURT HOUSE, CLEAR CREEK. Both buildings ceased to be used about 1899.] [Illustration: REV. ALEXANDER REID. Spencer Academy, 1849-1861.] [Illustration: REV. JOHN EDWARDS. Wheelock Academy, 1853-61; 1882-95.] He became a teacher at Spencer Academy, north of Fort Towson, in 1851, and continued until 1853, when he became the successor of Rev. Alfred Wright as the stated supply of the Choctaw church and superintendent of the academy at Wheelock. At the outbreak of the Civil War in 1861 he passed to California and after teaching two years in San Francisco, served as stated supply of various churches during the next twenty years, having his residence during the latter part of that period at Oakland. In 1882 he returned and resumed work among the Choctaws, locating first at Atoka. In 1884 he re-opened the academy at Wheelock, and continued to serve as its superintendent until 1895, when it became a government school. He remained the next year in charge of the church. He then returned to California and died at San Jose, at 75, December 18, 1903. In 1897, Rev. Evan B. Evans, supplied the Choctaw church at Wheelock one year. As its membership of 60 consisted principally of students living at a distance, and they were absent most of the year, the services were then discontinued. A few years later the services were resumed at the town of Garvin, where another stone church was built in 1910, during the efficient ministry of Rev. W. J. Willis. SPENCER ACADEMY Rev. Alexander Reid, principal of Spencer Academy, was a native of Scotland, and came to this country in his boyhood. He graduated from the college at Princeton, N. J., in 1845, and the theological seminary there, three years later. He was ordained by the Presbytery of New York in 1849 and accepting a commission to serve as a missionary to the Indians of the Choctaw Nation in Indian Territory, was immediately appointed superintendent of Spencer Academy, ten miles north of Fort Towson. He was accompanied by Rev. Alexander J. Graham, a native of Newark, New Jersey, who served as a teacher in the academy. The latter was a roommate of Reid's at Princeton seminary, and his sister became Reid's wife. At the end of his first year of service he returned to Lebanon Springs, New York, for the recovery of his health, and died there July 23, 1850. Rev. John Edwards immediately became his successor as a teacher. Alexander Reid while pursuing his studies, learned the tailor's trade at West Point and this proved a favorable introduction to his work among the Choctaws. They were surprised and greatly pleased on seeing that he had already learned the art of sitting on the ground "tailor fashion" according to their own custom. The academy under Reid enjoyed a prosperous career of twelve years. In 1861, when the excitement of war absorbed the attention of everybody, the school work was abandoned. Reid, however, continued to serve as a gospel missionary among the Indians until 1869, when he took his family to Princeton, New Jersey, to provide for the education of his children. While ministering to the spiritual needs of the Indians his sympathies and interest were awakened by the destitute and helpless condition of their former slaves. In 1878 he resumed work as a missionary to the Choctaws making his headquarters at or near Atoka and in 1882 he was appointed by the Foreign Mission Board, superintendent of mission work among the Freedmen in Indian Territory. In this capacity he aided in establishing neighborhood schools wherever teachers could be found. In order that a number of them might be fitted for teaching, he obtained permission of their parents to take a number of bright looking and promising young people to boarding schools, maintained by our Freedmen's Board in Texas, Mississippi and North Carolina. He thus became instrumental in preparing the way, and advised the development of the native Oak Hill School into an industrial and normal boarding school. In 1884, owing to failing health, he went to the home of his son, Rev. John G. Reid (born at Spencer Academy in 1854), at Greeley, Colorado, and died at 72 at Cambridgeport, near Boston, July 30, 1890. "He was a friend to truth, of soul sincere, of manners unaffected and of mind enlarged, he wished the good of all mankind." UNCLE WALLACE AND AUNT MINERVA Uncle Wallace and Aunt Minerva were two of the colored workers that were employed at Spencer Academy, before the war. They lived together in a little cabin near it. In the summer evenings they would often sit at the door of the cabin and sing their favorite plantation songs, learned in Mississippi in their early youth. In 1871, when the Jubilee singers first visited Newark, New Jersey, Rev. Alexander Reid happened to be there and heard them. The work of the Jubilee singers was new in the North and attracted considerable and very favorable attention. But when Prof. White, who had charge of them, announced several concerts to be given in different churches of the city he added, "We will have to repeat the Jubilee songs as we have no other." When Mr. Reid was asked how he liked them he remarked, "Very well, but I have heard better ones." When he had committed to writing a half dozen of the plantation songs he had heard "Wallace and Minerva" sing with so much delight at old Spencer Academy, he met Mr. White and his company in Brooklyn, New York, and spent an entire day rehearsing them. These new songs included, "Steal away to Jesus." "The Angels are Coming," "I'm a Rolling," and "Swing Low." "Steal Away to Jesus" became very popular and was sung before Queen Victoria. The Hutchinson family later used several of them in their concerts, rendering "I'm a Rolling," with a trumpet accompaniment to the words: "The trumpet sounds in my soul, I haint got long to stay here." These songs have now been sung around the world. When one thinks of the two old slaves singing happily together at the door of their humble cabin, amid the dreary solitudes of Indian Territory, and the widely extended results that followed, he cannot help perceiving in these incidents a practical illustration of the way in which our Heavenly Father uses "things that are weak," for the accomplishment of his gracious purposes. They also serve to show how little we know of the future use God will make of the lowly service any of us may now be rendering. These two slaves giving expression to their devotional feelings in simple native songs, unconsciously exerted a happy influence, that was felt even in distant lands; an influence that served to attract attention and financial support to an important institution, established for the education of the Freedmen. NEW SPENCER ACADEMY In the fall of 1881 the Presbyterian Board of Foreign Missions re-established Spencer Academy in a new location where the postoffice was called, Nelson, ten miles southwest of Antlers and twenty miles west of old Spencer, now called Spencerville. =Rev. Oliver P. Stark=, the first superintendent of this institution, died there at the age of 61, March 2, 1884. He was a native of Goshen, New York, and a graduate of the college and Theological Seminary at Princeton, N. J. In 1851, he was ordained by the Presbytery of Indian which, as early as 1840, had been organized to include the missions of the American Board. As early as 1849, while he was yet a licentiate, he was commissioned as a missionary to the Choctaws, and, locating at Goodland, remained in charge of the work in that section until 1866, a period of seventeen years. During the next thirteen years he served as principal of the Lamar Female Seminary at Paris, Texas. His next and last work was the development of the mission school for the Choctaws at Nelson, which had formed a part of his early and long pastorate. =Rev. Harvey R. Schermerhorn=, became the immediate successor of Mr. Stark as superintendent of the new Spencer Academy and continued to serve in that capacity until 1890, when the mission work among the Indians was transferred from the Foreign to the care of the Home Mission Board. The school was then discontinued and he became pastor of the Presbyterian church at Macalester. After a long and very useful career he is now living in retirement at Hartshorne. These incidents, relating to the work of the Presbyterian church among the Indians, especially the Choctaws, have been narrated, because the men who had charge of these two educational institutions at Wheelock and Spencer Academies, were very helpful in effecting the organization of Presbyterian churches, the establishment of Oak Hill Academy and a number of neighborhood schools among the Freedmen in the south part of the Choctaw Nation. DOAKSVILLE AND FORT TOWSON Rev. Cyrus Kingsbury, an early Presbyterian missionary to the Choctaws, was located at Doaksville near old Fort Towson. He secured the erection of an ample church building and rendered many years of faithful service. He died and was buried in the cemetery at that place in 1870. Doaksville, though no longer entitled to a place on the map, is the name of an important pioneer Indian village. Here the once proud and powerful Choctaws established themselves during the later twenties, and were regarded as happy and prosperous before the Civil War. Fort Towson was built by the government to protect them from incursions on the part of the wild Kiowas and Comanches, who still roamed over the plains of Texas. The name of Ulyses S. Grant was associated with it just before the Mexican war. The generous hospitality of Col. Garland, who died there after a long period of service, is still gratefully remembered. During its most prosperous days, which were long before the Civil War, a considerable number of aristocratic Choctaws, claiming large plantations in the neighboring valleys, dwelt there near each other. Some were men of culture and university education, while others were ignorant and superstitious. Some had previously enjoyed the acquaintance and friendship of Andrew Jackson and Zachary Taylor, and greatly appreciated the privilege of manifesting their chivalrous spirit. Berthlett's store, now used as a stable, was a noted trading establishment and place of social resort. Its owner was a native of Canada, who had come to live among the Choctaws. While living in this beautiful country, where they were paternally protected from poverty at home and the encroachments of enemies abroad it has been said they were so addicted to private quarrels and fatal combats, that there was scarcely a Choctaw family that did not have its tragedy of blood. These fatal tribal feuds, however, seldom occurred except on gala days, and the preparations therefor included a supply of "fire-water." The old Doaksville cemetery occupies the slope of a hillside near a little stream skirted with timber. Some of the leading pioneers of the Choctaw nation were buried here. The marble tablets that mark their graves were brought by steam boat from New Orleans, up the Mississippi and Red rivers to a landing four miles south. Some of the graves are walled and covered with a marble slab, while others are marked by the erection over them of oddly shaped little houses. In the early days, the full-bloods were in the habit of burying with the body some favorite trinket or article of personal adornment. Many of the grave stones attest the fact that the deceased while living enjoyed a good hope of a blessed immortality through our Lord Jesus Christ. III THE BIBLE AN IMPORTANT FACTOR IN CIVILIZATION AND EDUCATION THE BIBLE A POWER IN THE FORMATION OF CHARACTER.--THE ARCHITECT GREATER THAN THE CATHEDRAL.--THE BIBLE THE BASIS OF THE AMERICAN PUBLIC SCHOOL SYSTEM.--VALLEY OF DIAMONDS.--IMPORTANCE OF CHRISTIAN TEACHERS. "From a child thou hast known the HOLY SCRIPTURES, which are able to make thee Wise unto Salvation." "All scripture is given by inspiration of God, and is profitable for instruction; That the man of God may be perfect thoroughly furnished unto all good works."--Paul Whilst our religious educational institutions where unsectarian instruction in the Bible is fundamental, have been producing good results of the highest order, those educational institutions where only secular instruction is given, have been contributing a very small proportion of the world's consecrated moral leaders. Of 1,600 home missionaries, 1,503 received their training in Christian educational institutions. Of 600 foreign missionaries, 551 received their training in Christian educational institutions. It is not correct to say that one standard of education is as good as another. Fourteen American colleges, recently established in China by the Christian Missionaries, though only meagerly equipped, but manned by those of un-questioned Christian character, and teaching the plain saving truths of the Bible, have become educational centers, from which have gone out the leaders in a peaceful revolution that occurred there in 1912, that have brought the boon of civil and religious liberty to one-fourth of the population of the world. Under the beneficent influence of a few Christian leaders this ancient empire has been lifted off its hinges and a new life and spirit of progress have been infused into a civilization, hoary with centuries of stagnant heathenism. In this wonderful transformation, effected by trained Christian teachers, the church and the world have seen the fulfillment of the Bible prediction, "A nation shall be born in a day." Training for a noble Christian life is many times better than training merely to make a living. The demand for good and true men, to serve as leaders in church and state was never greater than at present. The aim of the church is to supply the world with capable leaders that are "Christ-led and Bible-fed." A right education knows no limit of breadth. It includes a knowledge of the Infinite as well as the finite. It recognizes the fact that finite things can not be rightly understood without knowing their relation to the Infinite. Our Lord Jesus, who came into the world to make known the will of the Father, "holds in his girdle the key to all the secrets of the universe, and no education can be thorough without the knowledge of Him." Christian schools are established for the culture of souls. Their aim is to develop men and women as persons to the full extent of their powers for the sake of their contribution to the personal welfare and progress of society. THE BIBLE A POWER IN THE FORMATION OF CHARACTER All things being equal the thorough Christian makes a better mechanic, a better farmer, a better housekeeper, teacher, doctor, lawyer or business man, than one who is not a Christian. It is the work of a Bible school of instruction to equip its graduates with the very best elements of character and progress, and send them forth tempered and polished for the conquest of the world. The young have characters to be molded, ideals to be formed, capacities to be enlarged, an efficiency that may be increased, an energy to be centralized, and a hope and faith to be strengthened. The Bible, in the hands of the tactful and faithful Christian teacher accomplishes all of these results, by its precepts and interesting biographies. The Bible, furnishes the young correct ideals of a noble and useful manhood. The common greed for money, position and outward appearance is weighed in the balance and found wanting. The Bible is the fountain of all true character, and furnishes the means for the betterment of one's self. It furnished the principles and ideals that enabled Washington, Lincoln, Frances Willard, Queen Victoria, Gladstone and others, to achieve greatness as statesmen, rulers or national leaders; and enabled Gary, Judson, Moffat, Livingstone and others to invade dark, dangerous continents that they might become heralds of gospel light and liberty where they were most needed. "Buy the truth, sell it not, and the truth shall make you free," was the ringing message they proclaimed to men, women and children. THE ARCHITECT GREATER THAN THE CATHEDRAL A tourist, visiting the famous cathedral at Milan, expressed his great surprise at the wonderful vision and perfect ideal of the man, who designed it. A guide remarked, that the mind of the architect, who wrought out the hundred striking features of the design, was greater than the magnificent cathedral. This led another to remark, "Only a mind inspired by Christ could have designed this wonderful building," How true! The love of Christ constrains his people to bring to his service and worship their noblest powers of mind and body. When the tourist viewed the works of art, which included some of the world's most famous statuary and paintings, he found the master pieces of Michael Angelo, the sculptor, were Moses and David, both of them characters from the Bible; and the most wonderful paintings were those of the person of our Lord Jesus, the only Redeemer of the world. Hayden and Handel, two of the world's most famous musical composers, were inspired to write their great choral masterpieces, the "Creation" and the "Messiah" as a result of their careful study of the sacred scriptures. The best the world has produced in law, literature, poetry, music, art and architecture has been the embodiment of ideals, that have received their inspiration from reading God's Holy Word, and experiencing saving knowledge of the redeeming work of His blessed Son. Abraham continues to be the "father of the faithful;" Moses, author of the Pentateuch, continues to be the world's greatest lawgiver and leader of men; Joshua effecting the conquest of Canaan on the principle, "Divide and Conquer," continues to be the inspirer of successful military strategists; David author of Psalms, continues to be the world's greatest poet; Joseph, Daniel and Isaiah, continue to be the best ideals for rulers and their counselors; Nehemiah, the best representative of a progressive and successful man of affairs; Peter and John, the most noted examples of loyalty to truth; Paul, the most zealous advocate of a great cause; and our Lord Jesus continues to be the ideal of the world's greatest teachers and benefactors. THE BASIS OF THE AMERICAN PUBLIC SCHOOL SYSTEM "The Bible, the basis of moral instruction in the public school," was the interesting theme of an address it was the privilege of the author to deliver at a teachers' institute forty years ago, when engaged in teaching in central Pennsylvania. The conviction then became indelibly impressed, that the Bible is really the basis of the American public school system. The fact is now noted with a good deal of interest, that the legislature of Pennsylvania in 1913, enacted a law, distinctly recognizing this fact, and providing that at least ten verses from the Bible shall be read every school day, in the presence of the scholars in every public school within the bounds of the state. Every teacher refusing to comply with this law is subject to dismissal. Every state in the Union should have a law of this kind. The Bible is not merely the book of books, it is the only one that has correct ideals for young people. It awakens the desire for more knowledge and inspires the courage to do right. THE VALLEY OF DIAMONDS Ruskin, in "The Ethics of Dust", referring to the valley of diamonds, remarks that "many people go to real places and never see them; and many people pass through this valley of diamonds and never see it." One great object to be attained in the education of the mind is to awaken an earnest desire for truth. All real life, whether it be in the school, shop or field, consists in using aright the true principles of life, that are found in the Word of God. Every human heart, that has been illuminated by this Word of Truth, finds that along the pathway that leads to God, there are hidden the gems and jewels of eternal truth, that prevail in every department of life. These gems are hidden only from the careless and indifferent. Those that make a diligent search are sure to find them. This longing desire for truth is not only the mark of a good student, but the assurance also that such a one, if circumstances are favorable will continue to make progress after school days have ended. Many pupils, during their youthful school days, fail to perceive the real mission of their education. They do not then fully appreciate the real gold of truth, that cultivates in them "those general charities of heart, sincerities of thought, and graces of habit, which are likely to lead them, throughout life to prefer frankness to affectation, reality to shadows, and beauty to corruption." This enlightenment is pretty sure to come to them later, if the Bible has been their daily text book. THE CHRISTIAN TEACHER The acceptance of the Bible as the Word of God should be regarded as essential, on the part of all teachers of children and youth. If the Bible is the great fountain of saving truth and the highest authority on human conduct, and it is to be used as a daily text book, then, it naturally follows, the teacher should be "a workman approved unto God, apt to teach and rightly dividing the word of truth." Persons who do not believe in the Bible do not care to teach it, and when they are required to do so, they are pretty sure to vaunt their unbelief. The influence of such teachers tends to establish unbelief instead of awakening a longing desire for more truth. Emerson in one of his essays, after pressing the fact that the soul is the receiver and revealer of truth, states an undeniable fact, when he says: "That which we are, we shall teach, not voluntarily but involuntarily. Thoughts go out of our minds through avenues, which we never voluntarily opened. Character teaches over our head. The infallible index of true progress is found in the tone the man takes. Neither his age, nor his breeding, nor his company, nor books, nor actions, nor talents, nor all together can hinder him from being deferential to a higher spirit than his own. If he has not found his home in God, his manners, his form of speech, the turn of his sentences, the build, shall I say of all his opinions, will involuntarily confess it, let him brave it out how he will." The longings of the human heart are unsatisfied, until the soul finds its home in God, its creator and preserver. Teachers that ignore this fact, lack one thing that is vitally important. Our Lord Jesus, the great teacher, expressed its relative importance when he said: "Seek ye first the Kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things will be added unto you." A RAILROAD PRESIDENT James J. Hill, a prominent railroad president recently made this important statement: "We are making a mistake to train our young people in various lines of knowledge for undertaking the big tasks of life, without making sure also that those fundamental principles of right and wrong as taught in the Bible, have become a part of their equipment. There is a control of forces and motives, that is essential to the management of the vast affairs of our nation, which comes only through an educated conscience; and to fail to equip young men, who are to manage the great affairs of the future, with this control and direction, is a serious mistake of the age and bears with it a certain menace for the future." In a recent issue of the Assembly Herald there appeared the following very pertinent paragraphs on this subject, credited to the Synod of Tennessee: "In common with all good citizens, we rejoice in the progress of the cause of popular education in our land. The intelligence of our citizenship is a bulwark to the country. But unless the education of the future citizen is complete and symmetrical, the body politic becomes a body partly of iron and partly of potter's clay. The education of the head and the hand without the heart is not enough. "The popular education has no place for the heart in all of its splendid equipment. This is not a reflection on the fine system. It is merely the statement of a melancholy fact. The average state school, high or low, is absolutely colorless as to religion. Even the morality that is taught is not the morality of the Christian religion, but of philosophical ethics that differ but little from the ethics of the pagan. "Our state schools have no place for the God of the Bible, nor for the Bible of the only living and true God. The poetry of Homer and Horace are sufficiently honored, but the finer poetry of Moses, Job and David are unknown in the courses of study of our schools, except now and then as specimens of Oriental song. The wise sayings of Plato and Socrates are reckoned worthy of profound study, while the vastly greater sayings of our Lord Jesus and Paul are unknown. Cicero and Demosthenes are commended as great models of public address, while Isaiah and Ezekiel are seldom mentioned in the four years of college life, or in the longer years of the secondary schools. "That education is incomplete and inadequate for life's best, which does not include the whole man, and put first things first. If the heart be not educated and the conscience be not enlightened, the best trained hand may strike in a wrong manner, and the best trained mind pronounce wrong judgments.... Our citizenship must be Christian if it is to promote a Christian civilization." IV THE AMERICAN NEGRO RELIGIOUS INSTINCT.--LOYAL AND PATRIOTIC.--THE FREEDMAN.--HOMELESS AND ILLITERATE WHEN EMANCIPATED.--FIRST SCHOOLS DURING THE CIVIL WAR.--FREE NEGROES AND COLLEGE GRADUATES.--50th ANNIVERSARY. "All nations whom thou hast made shall come and worship before thee and glorify thy name." David. RELIGIOUS INSTINCT In commendation of woman's loyalty and sense of obligation to our Lord Jesus, it has been said of her, "She was last at his cross and first at his grave, she staid longest there and was soonest here." In recognition of this fact when he rose from the dead he appeared first to one of them, Mary Magdalene. To the credit of men of African descent, it may be said, that one of them performed the last act of kindness to our Lord Jesus, and the first individual conversion, of which we have an account in the book of Acts, relates to another one. Simon, who assisted Jesus to bear his cross to the place of crucifixion, was a native of Cyrene in North Africa. The eastern church canonized him as Simon, the Black one, because his was the high and holy honor of bearing for the weary Christ, his cross of shame and pain. Our Lord Jesus was not long in the black man's debt. A few hours later, he paid it back by bearing for him all his weary burdens, on the very cross the African had borne for him. That was a good start for the Black man. Philip, directed by an angel of the Lord to go south and join himself to the chariot occupied by the Eunuch, a man of great authority under the Queen of Ethiopia, found him reading the prophet Isaiah. Explaining the scriptures to him the eunuch confessed his faith in Jesus, was baptized with water found at the roadside and resumed his journey, homeward from Jerusalem, rejoicing. The record of this Black man's conversion is the first one of an individual in the book of Acts. The religious trait of the American Negro has often been the subject of favorable comment. He has never, in all his history, been swayed by the false teachings of infidels, atheists or anarchists. Dan Crawford, a Scotch missionary, the successor of Livingstone in the central part of the dark continent, recently stated he had discovered the fact, that the most ignorant and degraded natives of central Africa, have a religious instinct, that includes a belief in one God and the immortality of the soul. Penetrating the jungles of the interior beyond the reach of a previous explorer, he found a tribe of nearly nude cannibals. He saw one of them eating human flesh. Meeting Ka la ma ta, their chief, the next day in the presence of several hundred of his tribe, he made special inquiry in regard to their knowledge of God. The result was an astounding surprise. Kalamata, gave their name of God as Vi de Mu ku lu the Great King. When further questioned he said: "We know there is a God for the same reason we know where the goats went on a wet night, when we see their deep foot-prints in the mud. We see the sun and the sun sees us. We see the wonderful mountains and the flowing streams, and both tell us there is a God. He is the one who sends the rain. No rain, nothing to eat; no God, no anything." Concerning a future life he expressed the thought, the body is the cottage of the soul. The dead do not really die. When one dies they do not say, "he departed", but "he has arrived." The American Negro, like his native ancestor, has always manifested this religious instinct. Under the influence of a natural instinct the bee invariably builds its cell in the same form for the next brood and the storage of honey for it; the butterfly prepares the cradle and food for offspring it never sees, and the migratory birds follow the sun northward in the spring and southward on the approach of winter. All this is natural instinct. Religious instinct is something very different from the natural instinct of any creature. It is a natural power possessed by man alone, and has its sphere in the human conscience. Paul, writing to the Romans in regard to the barbarians of his day, observed, "God is manifest in them, for the invisible things of God, even his eternal power and God-head, are clearly seen by the things that are made." LOYAL AND PATRIOTIC The Negro in America has always been loyal and patriotic. He has rendered a voluntary service in the army and navy of the United States that is worthy of special commendation. The records of the war department show that the number of colored soldiers, participating in the several wars of this country was as follows: Revolutionary War, 1775-1781 3,000 War of 1812 2,500 Civil War, 1861-1865 178,975 In the war with Spain in Cuba in 1898 the first troops that were sent to the front were four regiments of colored soldiers, and the service they rendered was distinguished by bravery and courage. THE FREEDMAN, HOMELESS AND ILLITERATE In 1860 the number of Negroes that were in a state of slavery was 3,930,760. In 1910 their number in the southern states had increased to 9,000,000; and in the northern states to 1,078,000. The Emancipation Proclamation of President Lincoln was issued January 1, 1863, but it was preceded by a preliminary one on September 22, 1862, that gave the public a notice of 100 days of the coming event. The Act of Emancipation that severed the relation binding them to their masters, left them in a very forlorn and deplorable condition. They were homeless and penniless in a country, that had been rendered more or less desolate, by the ravages of war and bloodshed. No provision had ever been made for the spread of intelligence among them. It has been estimated that only about five per cent of them at that time could read and write. Their homeless and illiterate condition rendered them comparatively helpless and dependent. In 1885 the number of voters enrolled among the Freedmen was 1,420,000 and of these as many as 1,065,000 were then unable to read and write. These illiterate voters then represented the balance of power in eight southern states and one sixth of the national electoral vote. This was a matter of vital importance to the nation as well as the states. In 1900 the percentage of the Freedmen that could read and write had been increased to 55.5 per cent and in 1910 to 69.3 per cent. At this latter date however only 56.3 per cent of their children, of a school age, were enrolled as attending school, which left more than one million yet to be provided for. FIRST PUBLIC SCHOOL The first day school among the Freedmen was established at Fortress Monroe, Virginia, by the American Missionary Association on September 17, 1861. This school became the foundation of Hampton Institute, to which the ragged urchin wended his way on foot and slept the first night under a wooden pavement, that has since been known as Booker T. Washington. In 1862 similar schools were established at Portsmouth, Norfolk, and Newport News, Virginia; Newbern and Roanoke Island, North Carolina, and Port Royal, South Carolina. In December of that year Gen. Grant assigned Col. John Eaton the supervision of the Freedmen in Arkansas, with instruction to establish schools where practical. After the Emancipation Proclamation of January 1, 1863, schools for the Negroes began to be established in those parts of the south occupied by the Federal armies, General Banks establishing the first ones in Louisiana. In 1865 the Freedman's Bureau was established, and it made the maintenance of schools one of its objects until 1870, when it was discontinued. The work has since been left to the supervision of the several states, aided by the generosity of the friends of Christian education through the missionary agencies of their respective churches. It is estimated that since 1870 the Freedmen, who constitute nearly one half the population of the southern states have received for the support of their schools, only one eighth of the public funds appropriated for the maintenance of common schools. In the rural districts teachers only are furnished, and these are supplied on the condition the Freedmen in the district build, furnish and maintain the school building, the same as they do their church buildings. The number of free Negroes in the United States in 1860 was 487,970. The states having the greatest number of them were Pennsylvania, New York, Ohio, Maryland, Virginia and North Carolina. A few of these had become graduates of colleges before the war and were thus fitted for intelligent leadership. The beginning and increase in number of these colored college graduates has been as follows; In 1829, 1; in 1849, 7; in 1859, 12; in 1869, 44; in 1879, 313; in 1899, 1,126; and in 1909, 1,613. About 700 of them have graduated from our northern colleges the largest number having attended Oberlin college at Oberlin, Ohio, and Lincoln University at Oxford, Pennsylvania. In 1910 the whole number that had graduated was 3,856. 50th ANNIVERSARY The 50th anniversary of the Emancipation Proclamation was observed by a number of the states in September, 1913. In Pennsylvania it consisted of an exposition at the city of Philadelphia, that lasted one month. The exhibit, showing the progress of the negroes from their infantile condition of 50 years ago, was characterized as "wonderful", and the occasion, one for devout thanksgiving and encouragement on the part of those, who have labored patiently and faithfully for their civil, social, moral or religious development. The Presbyterian was the only one of the white churches that attempted an exhibit of its work at this exposition. Its exhibit consisted of photographs of churches and schools, and accounts of the results of the work. It included specimens of industrial work done in the schools by the sewers, cabinet workers and other artisans. It was under the direction of Rev. John M. Gaston, field secretary of the Presbyterian Board of Missions for Freedmen. V THE PROBLEM OF THE FREEDMAN DIFFERENT STANDPOINTS.--REPRESENTATION IN CONGRESS.--13th, 14th AND 15th AMENDMENTS.--NEGRO SENATORS AND REPRESENTATIVES.-- DISFRANCHISEMENTS.--RESULTS CONTRARY TO EXPECTATION.--PROVIDENTIAL LEADING OF JOSEPH, ISRAEL, NEHEMIAH AND DANIEL SUGGESTIVE.--A DIVINE MISSION.--THE FREEDMAN'S FRIENDS.--FRIENDLY COUNSELS.--THE GOLDEN RULE. "Justice and judgment are the habitation of thy throne; mercy and truth shall go before thy face." "Righteousness exalteth a nation but sin is a reproach to any people." The "Problem of the Negro" is an old and familiar phrase. It relates to the fact, that, however many and great have been the benefits derived from his labor and loyalty, the best management of him has been a troublesome problem to the statesmen of this country, ever since the declaration of independence, and especially the Freedman, since his emancipation. Like a prism or cube, this problem has several sides, but unlike these symbols, its various sides are unlike each other. The solution of it has always appeared to be different when viewed from different angles of vision. Observers in one part of our country unite in saying, "this is the best way to solve this problem," while others in another section insist, they know a better way. The statesman views it from one point of view, the labor leader from another and the Christian philanthropist from still another standpoint. The first part of this problem, the one relating to the fact of his freedom, has already been solved. The solution of this introductory part of the problem caused preliminary struggles in Kansas and other places, including the Civil War. It served to bring out that which was noblest and best in Harriet Beecher Stowe, William Lloyd Garrison, Frederic Douglass, Henry Ward Beecher, Horace Greeley, Charles Summer, Abraham Lincoln and others. The parts that remain to be solved relate to his uplift from ignorance, poverty and degradation, to the attainment of the ability to support himself, by a fair chance in the labor market, and the enjoyment of approved educational, religious and political privileges. He has been accorded the right to own property, and is enjoying that right to the full extent of his ability to acquire and hold it. He has been accorded limited educational and religious privileges, and has made a very commendable progress along both of these lines. It is at this point we reach the difficult and unsolved part of the problem. The intelligent and prosperous portion of them in the South, though native and loyal Americans, are discriminated against, and denied rights and recognitions, that are accorded other nationalities, though illiterate. The popular reason assigned, for locally withholding from all of them certain privileges of citizenship, is the fact that a great number of them continue to be illiterate. In several of the states the Freedman is denied the privilege of enjoying the instruction of competent white teachers in their state and public schools, and in all of them he is prohibited from attending white schools, as in Pennsylvania and other northern states. The discriminations against them are so general, that it is almost impossible for any of them to acquire skill as workmen, or become fitted to serve their own people in the professions, except from those of their own number, or institutions of learning provided specially for them. REPRESENTATION IN CONGRESS During the last forty years, the Freedmen have been counted as a part of the population, in apportioning the districts for the election of Representatives in the Congress of the United States. This inclusion of their number, in the arrangement of the districts, has enabled the states to which they belong, to have a considerable number of additional congressmen, that they would not have had, if the districts had been arranged according to the white population, which alone has been permitted to vote. Since 1910 the additional number of Congressmen representing the suppressed vote of the Freedmen, has been 32 in a total of 82 members. These additional representatives, based on the population representing the suppressed vote of the Freedmen, have come from the different states as follows: Alabama, 5; Arkansas, 2; Florida, 1; Georgia, 6; Louisiana, 4; Mississippi, 5; North Carolina, 4; South Carolina, 4; Texas, 1. Total, 32. This is an unexpected and a rather anomalous condition. It places the Freedmen in this country on a plane somewhat similar to that accorded the Philippines and Porto Ricans, as regards the matter of government and participation therein. It also, however, suggests the goal towards which education, religion and consequent material prosperity are gradually uplifting the race. This goal is clearly expressed in the following amendments to the Constitution of the United States. AMENDMENTS TO THE CONSTITUTION Article XIII. Section I. Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as a punishment for crime, whereof the party shall have been duly convicted, shall exist within the United States, or any place subject to their jurisdiction.--(Ratified Dec. 18, 1865.) Article XIV. Section I. All persons born or naturalized in the United States and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States, and of the state wherein they reside. No state shall make or enforce any law, which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any state deprive any person of life, liberty or property, without due process of law, nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws. Section 2. Representatives shall be apportioned among the several states according to their respective numbers, counting the whole number of persons in each state, excluding Indians not taxed. But when the right to vote at any election for the choice of electors for president and vice-president of the United States, representatives in congress, the executive and judicial officers of a state, or the members of the legislature thereof, is denied to any of the male inhabitants of such state, being twenty-one years of age, and citizens of the United States, or in any way abridged, except for participation in rebellion or other crime, the basis of representation therein shall be reduced in the proportion, which the number of such male citizens shall bear to the whole number of male citizens twenty-one years of age in such state.--(Ratified July 28, 1868.) Article XV. Section I. The right of citizens of the United States to vote shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any state on account of race, color, or previous condition of servitude. Section 2. The congress shall have power to enforce this article (or these articles) by appropriate legislation.--(Ratified March 30, 1870.) NEGRO SENATORS AND REPRESENTATIVES As a result of these amendments two negroes, one free born, the other a Freedman were elected to the United States senate, namely, Hiram R. Revels, 1870-1871; and Blanche K. Bruce, 1875-1881, both from Mississippi. Twenty others have enjoyed the privilege of serving as representatives in congress, during the thirty-two years intervening between 1869 and 1901. The first of these was Jefferson Long of Georgia, who served alone in 1869 and 1870. During the next four years 1871 to 1874, there were four representatives, representing Alabama, Florida, Mississippi and South Carolina, the last having two colored representatives during this entire period. Their number was then reduced to two representatives, and finally to none since 1901, save that there were three during the terms commencing 1877, 1881 and 1883. Their last representatives were George W. Murray of South Carolina, 1893 to 1897; and George H. White of North Carolina, 1897 to 1901. Five of these twenty representatives were re-elected and served terms of four years; three served six years, and Joseph H. Rainey of South Carolina enjoyed the unusual privilege of serving ten years, 1875 to 1885. Eight of them were from South Carolina, four from North Carolina, three from Alabama and one from Florida, Georgia, Louisiana, Mississippi and Virginia. DISFRANCHISEMENTS During the seventies and eighties the Freedmen were to a considerable extent disfranchised by means of "election devices, practices and intimidations." Since 1890, when Mississippi took the lead, a number of the states have passed laws restricting the right of suffrage on their part to such tests as the payment of their annual taxes, previous to a certain date; ownership of a certain amount of land or personal property, the ability to read and write the constitution of the state or of the United States, and the "Grandfather Clause" which permits one unable to meet the educational or property tests to continue to vote, if he enjoyed that privilege, or is a lineal descendant of one that did so, previous to the date mentioned therein, usually 1867. The following states have enacted laws containing the "Grandfather Clause:" South Carolina, Louisiana, Alabama, Virginia, North Carolina, Georgia and in 1910, Oklahoma. This part of the Oklahoma statute reads as follows: "But no person who was on January 1, 1866, or at any time prior thereto, entitled to vote under any form of government, or who at that time resided in some foreign nation, and no lineal descendant of such person shall be denied the right to register and vote because of his inability to so read and write such Constitution." RESULT CONTRARY TO EXPECTATION This historic record, of representation in the highest legislative council of the nation, is very suggestive. That the Freedmen should have been accorded the largest number of representatives just after the dawn of freedom, when their general condition has always been described as extremely deplorable, that this number should have been gradually diminished with the spread of intelligence among them; and that finally they should have no representative during the last thirteen years, when their progress in education and material prosperity has been, at their fiftieth anniversary, declared to be "wonderful," certainly does not seem to be in accordance with what one intuitively would expect to be the natural order of things. It is quite natural the present order of things should awaken and develop a feeling of protest on the part of the Freedmen, for they appreciate rights and privileges as well as other races and nations. Their segregation, enforced on all alike in cities, public places and conveyances results also in many disappointing and humiliating experiences to those who are leaders among them. The existing order is, however, an expression of local public sentiment and of the wisest statesmanship of those, who claim to be the best friends of the Freedman, because they live nearest to him and know better than others how to provide for his needs, including rights and privileges. He enjoys the privileges of public protection to life, property and the pursuit of happiness, but to a considerable extent is denied the privilege of representation in making laws and exercising the power of government. These historic facts relating to the gradual curtailment of the privilege of representation in legislation and government have been noted, not merely because they form an important part in a full statement of the negro problem, but as a prelude to the following facts, and suggestions to the Freedmen. PROVIDENTIAL LEADING The history of the negro in America has been one of providential leading and apparently to enable him to work out his own destiny. From the time the Dutch slave ship in 1619 landed the first importation, consisting of 20 slaves, at Jamestown, Virginia, to the present time, every important event or change in his condition has come to him from others, who without aid or suggestion from him have been moved to act for him. The experience of Joseph, in passing through the pit and the prison, on the way to his real mission, the experience of Israel in Egypt from the death of Joseph until the time of their deliverance at the Red Sea, and the experience of Nehemiah and Daniel, captives at Babylon, who were there providentially led and prepared for the most signal services of their lives, seem like historic parallels flashing from inspired Bible story, their comforting and prophetic light on the servile and dark experiences of the negro in America. In all of these instances the persons were subject to the control of others, the way seemed dark, trying and utterly disappointing, and the opportunities, that prepared the way for important transitions, came unsought and in ways wholly unexpected. The things that proved of greatest importance in every instance were the intelligence, integrity, patience and piety of the individual. The God-fearing integrity of Joseph was expressed when he resisted a great temptation by saying, "How can I do this great wickedness and sin against God?" Israel in Egypt submissively and obediently undertook to make the full tale of brick when unsympathetic taskmasters withheld the usual and necessary amount of straw. Nehemiah, a captive cup-bearer of a heathen prince, won his confidence and when honorably permitted to return and rebuild the wall of Jerusalem, nobly answered his idle opposers, "I am doing a great work I cannot come down to you." Daniel, when a captive youth, "purposed in his heart not to defile himself with the King's meat or the wine which he drank," or be swerved from his fidelity to the living and true God by threats of the lion's den. When the lives of the wise men of Babylon were in danger of being suddenly taken by royal command, he is introduced to King Nebuchadnezzar with the significant words, "I have found a MAN of the captives of Judah that will make known to the King the interpretation." He was a man whose power of vision enabled him to forecast the future correctly and possessed the courage to act prudently. Though a captive and denied many privileges, he proved himself an intelligent and trustworthy man and, serving as a special counsellor of five successive heathen kings, achieved for himself the worthy reputation of being the greatest statesman of his age. All of these men discovered, that their imprisonment or captivity was a part of the divine plan, that providentially led and prepared them for their real mission, which in each instance proved to be one of prominent usefulness. All of them were true patriots, but none of them were "office seekers" or "corrupt politicians." They loved more than any other their own native land, because of its sacred literature and religious institutions, but they were loyal and true to those who ruled over them in a foreign land. If any of them had manifested a political ambition, the divine plan, in regard to their promotion and usefulness, would have been immediately frustrated, and the memory of their names would have perished with their generation. A DIVINE MISSION May we not believe that God had a plan and purpose, in bringing the negro to the christian colonies, that established our government on the fundamental principles of civil and religious liberty. His condition during the period of servitude, which lasted 246 years, was perhaps in many places but little worse than that of most of his kinsmen in Africa, during this same period; while now, at the end of the first fifty years of freedom, the condition and prospects of the intelligent and prosperous ones among them, are declared to be better than those enjoyed by their kinsmen, any where on earth. THE FREEDMAN'S FRIENDS The Freedman has hosts of friends, who are interested in his welfare. He has interested neighbors, amongst whom he lives, and also friends at a distance. Both are trying to solve the problem of his true relation to American institutions and privileges. While both have been co-operating together to a considerable extent and in a very commendable manner for the betterment of his condition, it remains to note however that if one is considered by the other as moving too slowly, or too rapidly, one acts as a gentle spur or check to the other. This is the harmonizing process that is now going on among the friends of the Freedman. He is scarcely regarded as a participating factor in this harmonizing process. There are times when to him every new event seems to be one moving him in the wrong direction. His natural impulse, on experiencing these apparently adverse movements, is to raise the voice of bitter complaint against one set of his friends. When this is done in a personal or partisan way it is offensive and always does more harm than good. This method of procedure should therefore never be approved or adopted. FRIENDLY COUNSELS A respectful protest against a wrong and an appeal to have it removed, addressed to the person or body having the power to remove it, is an inherent right and a proper method of procedure whenever deemed advisable. "Love thy neighbor as thyself" should be regarded as a fundamental principle by every Freedman. When the herdmen of Abraham and Lot had a little trouble over cattle and pastures, Abraham, who had received all the land by promise and Lot was really a troublesome intruder, discovered the greatness of his soul and settled the difficulty by saying to Lot, "Let there be no strife, I pray thee, between me and thee, and between my herdmen and thy herdmen, for we be brethren. "Is not the whole land before thee? Separate thyself from me, if thou wilt take the left hand, then I will go to the right, or if thou depart to the right hand, then I will go to the left." Do not become impatient. Your friends at a distance, especially those in the churches, are generously endeavoring to help you to climb the ladder of progress, until a larger proportion of the race has been uplifted to the plane of an enlightened christian civilization. That the Freedman, notwithstanding his wonderful progress during the last fifty years, is still in an infantile condition, is freely confessed. It was eighty years from the time the helpless babe was uplifted from the river, before Moses was called to be the leader and deliverer of Israel. The uplift from the river and training in his case came from the gentle hands of others. This fact is quite significant. The Freedman who, avoiding the worthless and corrupt politician and over zealous office seeker, makes a good success of his farm and co-operates cordially with his friends and neighbors in effecting the educational and moral uplift of his race, will be happiest while he lives and do most to hasten the day, when political privileges, now temporarily withheld, will be restored to those who are found capable and worthy of their enjoyment. If you happen to live in a state where your neighbor does not wish you to be a politician and hold office, do not worry. There are thousands of citizens every year and in all parts of our land, who do not vote and merely because they do not care to do so. The voice of protest, against the useless and corrupt politician, is now heard in all parts of our land. In many of our cities, he has already been relegated to the junk heap, by the adoption of the commission form of government. Two of the states, Kansas and Oklahoma, are now vying with each other, to see which shall be first to adopt the same system in the management of the public affairs of the state, and thus dispense with a lot of unnecessary public officials. "A public office is a public trust" and affords an opportunity to render a useful and honorable service, but holding public office is not essential to the happiness and prosperity of any of us. An over eager desire to hold public office often suggests nothing more, than an effort to find employment for the idle. The better way, as in the cases of Saul and David, kings of Israel, and of Washington and Grant, commanders-in-chief of our armies, is to let the office seek the man. THE GOLDEN RULE "As ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them." The application of the Golden Rule to this part of this problem, suggests that every man is entitled to recognition according to his worth. "Our country can fulfil its high mission among the nations of the earth, conferring lasting benefits on ourselves and all mankind, only by guaranteeing to its humblest citizen his just right to life, liberty, protection from injustice, the enjoyment of the fruits of his own labor and the pursuit of happiness in his own way, as long as he walks in the path of rectitude and duty and does not trespass upon the rights of others," declares ex-President Roosevelt. "Morality, and not expediency, is the thing that must guide us," is the emphatic declaration of President Woodrow Wilson. The false assumption that "the end justifies the means has come from self-centered men, who see in their own interests the interests of the country, and do not have vision enough to read it in wider terms, the universal terms of equity and justice." VI VOICES FROM THE BLACK BELT "If any man hear my voice and open the door." In a discussion of the Negro problem it is eminently appropriate the Freedman and his neighbor be accorded the privilege of expressing their respective views. The thoughts expressed in this chapter have been gleaned principally from the columns of the Afro-American, a colored weekly, published by the faculty of Biddle University, Charlotte, North Carolina. The problem of the negro relates to his capacity for improvement and self-support. Is the American negro, after centuries of slavery, that kept the race in an infantile condition, capable of development and self support? Over this question the people of our country have expressed differing opinions, many insisting that the servant condition is the better one for the American negro. The Presbyterian Standard, published at Charlotte, N. C., a section of country in which the latter sentiment still prevails, recently bore this testimony to their progress. "While it is true of them as a mass that they are an infantile race, it is not true of them in many individual cases. There are thousands of them, who have advanced wonderfully during the last fifty years. They have made progress in every line. They are owning more farms every year, and in our cities they are buying homes, which sometimes would do credit to a more enlightened people. Their churches are not only built in better taste, but their preachers are becoming better educated, and are exerting a stronger moral influence than ever before." This frank statement fairly represents the sentiment of the thoughtful christian people of the south. Some who have thought otherwise have been led to admit that, "while great advance has been made by a race only fifty years old, it is still in its infancy and therefore in the servant condition." Nor is it any exception in this respect. Through adversity and hard treatment, the Irish people who first came to this country were largely in a servant condition. They accepted it. They became our domestics and built our railroads. But "Pat" is not on the railroad now. He is found occupying the seat of the chief justice, or serving as private secretary of the president and filling many other positions of honor and influence throughout the country. What is thus true of the Irishman, is also true of other Europeans, who came to this country. It is an honor to them, that they truly appreciated their condition, accepted it and, through an honest and valiant struggle, rose above that condition to something better. The American negro is now making it evident, that he is no exception to this general law of progress, under favorable conditions. It is neither necessary nor prudent to blind their eyes in regard to their real condition and status. Their best friends are those who encourage them to accept the situation in which they have been placed by an over ruling providence, and, through a noble endeavor, worthy of divine favor, rise to something better. Their friends assist them best by aiding and encouraging them to make this noble endeavor, without which they cannot rise. The mass of the people must have native teachers and preachers to serve as leaders. This suggests the need of two kinds of educational facilities. A common industrial education, that will enable the mass of the people to achieve success in their daily avocations; and some special educational facilities of a higher grade, to prepare the needed supply of teachers, preachers and other leaders. The mass of the people need an education, the scope of which will reach their physical, mental and spiritual natures. Their greatest need is instruction in the Bible, that it may exert its saving power on their early lives and animate them with noble aspirations. THE CRY OF THE BLACK BELT "They shall cry unto the Lord because of the oppressors and he shall send them a Saviour and a great one and he shall deliver them."--Isaiah. The following appeal in behalf of the Freedmen, by Rev. A. W. Verner, D. D., president of Scotia Seminary, Concord, North Carolina, one of the five normal schools of the Presbyterian board, especially intended for girls, is so well and forcibly expressed, we are sure it will be appreciated by every reader. "The urgent call from the black belt is the cry of souls in distress, the cry of humanity. Fifty years of unprecedented progress, in every line of industrial and intellectual pursuits and religious development, on the part of a considerable number of the colored people, show clearly, that the negro is capable of receiving and using to good advantage the education and training of the christian school." "Industrial education, that lacks genuine christian culture, does not provide leaders of the right character to redeem the race, and many of our friends in the south do not care to open to the negro the doors of opportunity, to develop and manifest the best that is in him. It is therefore to the christian church of the north and to individuals, who have come to recognize the bond of human brotherhood, to whom this infant race still makes its appeal." "The sad and degraded condition of great masses of the race in many localities of the south, ought to be an appeal, silent indeed but sufficiently strong, to awaken the sympathy of every one, capable of being touched by the cry of needy humanity. As a representative of the great Presbyterian church, that has called me into a very important and necessary field of her work, I earnestly appeal to our people to do more for the establishment and fostering of christian schools among the great masses of the black belt." "The christian church and the christian school have something to give, that can be gotten nowhere else. The public school where established and industrial training where available are good and necessary. But the christian school is still needed and very greatly, to give moral and spiritual ballast to the individual. The leaven of gospel power and purity is needed, to give moral strength to the character and the highest degree of usefulness in life." CHRISTIAN EDUCATION "Christian education is not narrow, it takes in every phase of training that is essential to produce a well developed and useful life. It touches and tints industrial training with a brighter and richer glow. It quickens the faculties of the mind, adds keenness to the power of perception, forms permanent habits of industry and strengthens the will or purpose to do right. "Christian education emphasizes the fact that it is not merely book learning--storing the mind with knowledge of facts or training the hands to work, but includes moral elevation, as well as intellectual development. It includes everything that tends to make the life purer, better and more useful. It begets and fosters a spirit of hopefulness. It develops that patience and perseverance that is needed for the best performance of every day's duties. "Christian education emphasizes personal purity, purity of the family life and the sacredness of the marriage relation. Its whole trend and effect is upward. Its genius is moral, spiritual, industrial, domestic, social and individual elevation. It creates a hunger and thirst for higher and better things. It is the mountain summit from whose height one gets a broader vision, a clearer view of the possibilities and demands of life and a truer conception of all human relations. "This is the provision that must be made for our black brother. Nothing less will meet his needs. A great responsibility rests with negro leaders who have attained a good degree of intelligence and refinement, but a greater responsibility still rests upon the people of richer blessing and greater power. "If the spirit of true democracy, which declares, 'opportunity for every one, according to his capacity and merit,' and the spirit of Christianity, whose principle is, 'Help for the weaker as the stronger is able to give it,' be exercised toward the negro, many of the difficulties will vanish, better conditions will prevail and more desirable results will be secured." This cry of humanity from the black belt of our land is very touching and suggestive. It suggests the negro's greatest and most urgent needs, the Bible, the Bible school and the christian teacher. It is the silent appeal of Joseph while passing through the pit and the prison in the land of Israel's enslavement. Beyond these dark and unpleasant experiences there awaited for Joseph a career of great usefulness in the land of his previous imprisonment. Let us recognize the fact that God has a great use for the Freedman in this our native land, because he has providentially brought him here and increased his number so greatly. A spirit of true patriotism, as well as the tie of christian brotherhood, prompts the lending of a helping hand and an encouraging word, while he solves the problem of his own destiny of great usefulness in the home, the school, the church, in the shop, on the farm and in the fields of professional opportunity and business activity. It may be truly said of the Freedmen that they represent the poor of this world, of whom the Lord Jesus said, "Ye have the poor always with you, Me ye have not always. Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these, my brethren, ye have done it unto Me." VII UPLIFTING INFLUENCES FROM DARKNESS TO LIGHT.--AN HISTORIC COMPARISON. "Look unto the rock whence ye were hewn, and to the hole of the pit whence ye were digged."--Isaiah 51:1. FROM DARKNESS TO LIGHT The historic incidents, having an uplifting influence that occurred among the Choctaw Freedmen of Indian Territory, from the time of their first instruction in the Bible to the establishment and present development of Oak Hill Industrial Academy, when briefly summarized, seem like a reproduction on a miniature scale of those greater events that occurred among the Christian nations of Europe and America preceding the adoption of their systems of public instruction. I. THE CHOCTAW FREEDMEN Rev. Cyrus Kingsbury, a generous hearted missionary to the Indians, having charge of a church building at Doaksville, encourages the slaves in the vicinity to meet in it occasionally on Sabbath afternoons, for the purpose of receiving instruction in the Bible and shorter catechism. This Bible instruction does not result in the organization of a church at that place, but opportunity is given for the manifestation and development of the religious instinct of a number of persons, amongst whom there are two young men, who were destined later to become influential leaders among the enslaved people whom they represented. After their emancipation, one locates on the west bank of the Kiamichi river and later becomes known as Parson Stewart, the organizer and circuit rider of a sufficient number of churches, at the time of his decease in 1896, to form the Presbytery of Ki a mich i. The other, accompanied by several personal friends, migrates fifteen miles eastward and founds a home in the Oak Hill neighborhood. In the course of a short time he is visited by the parson and his home becomes a house of worship, where a church is organized and Henry Crittenden is ordained as its ruling elder. A Sunday school for Bible instruction follows the establishment of public worship, and two years later it is followed by the establishment of a week-day school, for the benefit of all the children and youth in the neighborhood. Eight years later, when the trained missionary teacher arrives, the inspiration of a new life is infused into the church and Sunday school, and the week-day school becomes an important industrial academy, where the Bible is the basis of the moral and religious instruction. In 1905 they receive an allotment of lands that they may become independent owners of their own homes. In 1908 statehood brings the rural public school and in 1912, an intelligent Freedman is entrusted with the management of the Industrial Academy, church and farm. This sequence of events includes the dark period of slavery and illiteracy followed by instruction in the Bible, the light of the world; the development of the native preacher of the gospel as a leader, the organization of the church, followed by the Sunday school, the week-day school, the academy, normal, public school and finally a native superintendent of the academy and independent ownership of land. II. THE EUROPEANS AND AMERICANS THE DARK AGES The period from the 8th to the 12th centuries of the christian era has been classed by historians as the "Dark Ages" of the world, because of the general prevalence in Europe of ignorance, superstition and barbarism. Some of the leading events that occurred during this gloomy period, immediately following the decline and fall of the Roman Empire, tended almost wholly to check the spread of intelligence and the prosperity of the people, rather than to promote their welfare. The Scriptures were neglected and the clergy as well as the people became worldly, ignorant, selfish and superstitious. THE SARACENS AND NORMANS These unfavorable events included, at the beginning of this period, the invasion of Palestine and southern Europe including Spain, its most western state, by the Mohammedans of Arabia, often called Saracens and Infidels, who were fanatically inflamed with a passion to destroy with the sword all the people of the world, who would not obey Mohammed, their prophet. During the next century Germany, Britain, Holland and France, then called Gaul, were ruthlessly invaded by conquering hordes of the adventurous and barbarous Normans, who came from Norway, Sweden and Denmark, countries north of the Baltic Sea. THE CRUSADERS OR CROSS-BEARERS These invasions were followed by the period of the Crusaders, 1096 to 1271, when as many as seven great armies or multitudes of people were assembled at the call of the popes, and wearing crosses on their shoulders, marched through the intervening countries to Palestine. Their object was to rescue the city of Jerusalem and the holy sepulchre from the infidels. The first crusade was organized in France, and it enlisted an army of 800,000. Godfrey, duke of Lorraine, was placed in command, and the multitude was arranged for the march in three divisions. Peter, the hermit, a wrong-headed monk, was appointed leader of the first division and experienced an inglorious and irreparable defeat on the way. Godfrey, after the siege and conquest of Jerusalem in 1099, was chosen King to rule over Palestine and the holy city, as his kingdom. At the time of his coronation he made the noble remark, that, "He could not bear the thought of wearing a crown of gold in that city, where the King of Kings had been crowned with thorns." The brave soldier and manly man, who gave expression to this noble sentiment, died the next year. Under weak and unskilful chiefs the crusaders while on the way wandered about like undisciplined bands of robbers, plundering cities, committing the most abominable enormities, and spreading misery and desolation where-ever they passed. There was no kind of insolence, injustice and barbarity of which they were not guilty. The seven successive crusades drained the wealth of the fairest provinces and caused the loss of a prodigious number of people. Those of the first crusade, that remained in Palestine, were divided by sordid ambition and avarice, and in 1187 Saladin, sultan of Egypt and Syria, the most valiant chief of the Mohammedan warriors, recaptured Jerusalem and subsequent crusaders were not able to regain it. FIRST RAYS OF LIGHT The first rays of light, that serve to dispel the darkness of prevailing night, may be briefly summarized in the following leading events. In 901 =Alfred the Great=, king of England, founds a seminary at Oxford to promote the study of sacred literature. Later it becomes a university, the first one in Europe, and it is still distinguished as one of the greatest institutions in the world for publishing the Scriptures in a form suited for the use of preachers and christian teachers. Two centuries later the second university is founded at Cambridge, England. About 1170 =Peter Waldo= of Lyons, France, committing to memory such portions of the Scriptures as he could obtain, and taking for his favorite saying, the command of our Lord to the rich youth, "If thou wilt be perfect, go and sell that thou hast, and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in heaven, and come, follow me," commences to preach the gospel, as the Apostles had done, in the homes of the people and in their market places. As he attracts followers, who also commit portions of the Scriptures, he sends them out like the seventy, two and two, to preach the Word of God. They are called Waldenses, after the name of their leader, and oppose corrupt doctrines and practices with the plain truths of the Word of God. They oppose the crusades, as fanatical expeditions on the part of those who were not Jews, and therefore were unjust and unlawful. They insist the church consists not merely of the clergy or priests, but includes the whole family of believers. The advocacy of these principles and by laymen, causes them to be excommunicated, then anathematized and finally to be condemned by a council at Rome in 1179. Peter Waldo, their leader, flees from land to land, preaching as he goes and dies in Bohemia in 1197. In 1215, King John of England, yielding to the insistent demand of the barons, issued the Magna Charta, (Great Charter) the first grant of English constitutional liberty, pledging the right of trial by jury and protection of life, liberty and property from unlawful deprivation. It is immediately denounced by the pope, Innocent III, who absolves the king from all obligation to keep the pledges therein expressed and solemnized by the royal oath. In 1366 =John Wiclif=, a graduate of Oxford and member of the English Parliament, presents to that body indisputable reasons, why, without the approval of the Parliament, not even the king of England could make their lands subject to a tax claimed by a foreign sovereign, representing the papacy. As a religious leader, he instructs his followers, called "poor priests," to pass from village to village and city to city, and to preach, admonish and instruct the people in "God's Law." He accomplishes the translation of the Latin Vulgate into the English of his day, that his countrymen might have the Scriptures in their own language. =Charles V=, king of France, has the scriptures translated into the French language, for the enlightenment of his people. During this 14th century seventeen universities are founded and they include the one at Geneva in Switzerland, Heidelberg in Germany and Prague in Bohemia. THE MORNING STAR In 1401 John Huss of Bohemia, the Morning Star or John Baptist of the Reformation, appears as "the voice of one crying in the wilderness." His mother, left a widow in early life, gave him to the service of the Lord as he lay in the cradle, and later, like Hannah of old, took him to the school at Prague. [Illustration: BIDDLE UNIVERSITY, CHARLOTTE, N. C.] [Illustration: BETHESDA MISSION, WYNNEWOOD, OKLA.] [Illustration: CAMPUS FROM NORTH] [Illustration: UNIVERSITY HOUSTON LIBRARY CHAPEL] When he became a preacher he found the Lord's vineyard a desert, the ministers of religion, the priests, ignorant, worldly and dissolute, and the popes of that period no better than the priests. The people, designedly chained to the basest superstitions and following the example of their leaders, have cast aside the restraints of chastity and morality. His heart touched with pity at the sight of the religious destitution of the people, his anger, like that of Moses "waxed hot" against those, who should have given them the gospel of their salvation. Encouraged by the example of Wiclif to make known the truth, he affirms the supreme authority of the scriptures, proclaims against the abuse of the clergy and endeavors to regenerate the religious life of both priests and people. His glowing zeal for the honor of God and the church move the people in a way until then unknown; but the priests, unwilling to reform or longer endure his piercing protests, falsely accuse him of heresy. In 1416, after fifteen years of self denying and heroic service, he is condemned at Constance and suffers martyrdom at the stake. A century later Luther, who imbibed his heroic spirit, said of him, "The gospel we now have was born out of the blood of John Huss." THE FIRST PRINTED BIBLE The art of printing is invented and the Vulgate, a Latin Bible, is the first book printed. It is issued in 1450 and is printed on a hand press at Mentz, Germany. Previous to this event and date all books were in the form of costly manuscripts and their number could be increased, only one copy at a time, by penmen called copyists. The mariners compass is invented and in 1492 Columbus discovers America, and thirty years later Magellan sails around the world. During this 15th century the universities of Glasgow and St. Andrews are founded in Scotland, Mentz and eighteen others, on the continent. III. THE REFORMATION MARTIN LUTHER "Arise, shine, for thy Light is Come." In 1517, Martin Luther, the apostle of the German nation, a man of learning and undaunted courage, whose equal had not been known since the days of Paul, appears as the valiant and steadfast leader of the Reformation in Germany. In 1530 he becomes the founder of the Evangelical Lutheran church, and aided by Melancthon, succeeds in translating and giving to the German people the Bible in their own language, and in preparing the Augsburg confession that has since served as a standard of faith and bond of union for the Lutheran churches in Europe and America. Emotion and imaginative piety have become the hand-maids of superstition; and patriotism, lacking courage, has covered its face. He writes hymns and patriotic songs, that inspire the German heart with loyalty to the truth and devotion to their Fatherland. JOHN CALVIN In 1527, John Calvin, a man of great learning and glowing eloquence with burning zeal for the honor of his Master, appears as the leader of the Reformation in France, but nine years later, joins Farrel, the successor of the zealous but fallen Zwingli, in Switzerland, and becomes head of the university at Geneva. He secures the adoption of a constitution, that gave and also limited the authority of the church to spiritual, and of the state to temporal matters; and thus prepares the way for the separation anew of church and state, and the enjoyment of civil and religious liberty. Educated for the priesthood, he is assigned a parish and there obtained a copy of the Scriptures. When he discovered the erroneous teaching and practices of the church of Rome, he resigns his charge and completes a course in law and another in theology in the University of Paris. He becomes a man void of fear and is borne onward on the wings of a living faith. Following the example of Paul in his letters to the churches, and of Augustine, bishop of Hippo (391-446) in North Africa, he undertakes to state in a systematic form the great facts and doctrines of the Bible, as one of the best means of opposing and overcoming prevailing errors and corrupt practices in church and state. He feels the Spirit of God moving him to blazon triumphantly, the thought of God's sovereignty and man's utter dependency, in order to dash in pieces the prevalent self righteousness. His writings, by emphasizing the supreme authority of the Divine Word, have tended to raise the moral standard of individuals and communities, and by emphasizing the moral law, to lessen the distinction between the "sins" of the Bible and "crimes" of the civil law. Their tendency has been to make the moral law the rule for states as well as persons. Presbyterianism, or government of the church by ruling elders and presbyters as in the apostolic period, and Republicanism, government by representatives, are advocated with transcendent ability, and success. After the death of Luther in 1546, Calvin exerts a great influence over the thinking men of that notable period in Switzerland, France, Germany, Holland, Italy, England and Scotland. The young preachers, sent out from the university at Geneva, establish 2,150 reformed congregations in these countries, and in 1564, the last year of his life, the confession of the reformed churches in France is officially recognized by the state. An ardent and effective friend of civil liberty, he makes the city of his adoption the nursery of a pure, noble civilization; and the little republic of Geneva becomes the sun of the European world. Animated by his example and principles, William, prince of Orange, in 1580, establishes the Dutch Republic in Holland, and it becomes "the first free nation to put a girdle of empire around the world." Bancroft, the historian, in summarizing the influences that contributed to American Independence makes this creditable reference to Calvinism. "We are proud of the free states that fringe the Atlantic. The Pilgrims of Plymouth were Calvinists, the best influences in South Carolina came from the Calvinists of France. William Penn was a disciple of the Huguenots; the ships from Holland, that in 1614 brought the first colonists to Manhattan (New York), were filled with Calvinists. He that will not honor the memory and respect the influence of Calvin, knows but little of the origin of American Liberty." WILLIAM TYNDALE In 1530 Henry VIII aided by William Tyndale, the new translator of the New Testament and Pentateuch, and in 1547 Edward VI, his successor, promote the establishment of the Reformation in England. A change of rulers in 1553 leads to the martyrdom of Archbishop Cranmer, bishops, Latimer and Ridley, and of John Rogers, the zealous reformer--four of the noblest men England ever produced. It was the noble-hearted, youthful Tyndale who, when he came to perceive that the Word of God was the gift of God to all mankind and all had a right to read it, that declared to one of the clergy opposing him, "If God spares my life, ere many years, I will cause a boy that driveth the plow to know more of the Scriptures than you do." JOHN KNOX In 1560, John Knox, a pupil of Calvin, establishes the Reformation in Scotland and under his leadership the church of Scotland from the first adopts the system of doctrines and the forms of worship and of government established at Geneva. HUGUENOTS OF FRANCE In 1557, Admiral Coligny, taken prisoner at the battle of St. Quentin, is confined at Gaud in Spain. Securing a copy of the Scriptures he reads it, and, after his release, becomes the enthusiastic leader of the Hu gue nots of France. They represent the most moral, industrious and intelligent of the French people, but those who love the "Mass", which involves no moral obligation, hate them on account of their chaste and devout lives. In 1572, when a bloody persecution arises against them, they begin to emigrate to England, Germany, Netherlands, Switzerland and the Colonies of North America. It was Fenelon, one of the preachers of the Huguenots in France under the feudal system, about the year 1710, that gave utterance to the patriotic sentiment, emphasized in this country since the rise of the great trusts, "That governments exist and have a right to exist, only for the good of the people, and that the many are not made for the use and enjoyment of one." THE BIBLE In 1559 the Puritans protest against the act of uniformity passed by the English Parliament, imposing uniformity in religious worship. The Bible has now come to be regarded as of so much importance to the clergy and people, that as many as fifty-five learned men during this 16th century devote their time and attention to its exposition and illustration; and twenty-seven new universities are established. The Reformation is an insurrection or revolution against ecclesiastical monarchy and absolute power in the church, or spiritual matters. It establishes freedom of inquiry and liberty of mind in Europe. The Bible and theology occupy the attention of the greatest minds, and every question, whether philosophical, political or historical is considered from the religious point of view. THE INQUISITION In 1235, Pope Gregory IX, establishes the Inquisition, a cruel court of inquiry for the suppression of those who question the authority of the papacy to rule over them in the church. It becomes very active in Italy, France, Spain, Portugal and Ireland. It is not suppressed in France until 1834, after a period of six centuries. In 1540, Ignatius Loy o la, an illiterate Spanish soldier and priest, with papal authority, organizes the society of the Jesuits, to require Christians to renounce whatever opinions may separate them, and, accepting the doctrines and worship of the Roman Catholic church to acknowledge the pope as Christ's sole vicegerent on earth. The Inquisition had previously proved a bloody court but this order is intended to make it more effective in suppressing freedom of thought and action in matters relating to education and religion. The events that occur during the period of the Inquisition are harrowing to relate. The historians of that period have recorded, among others, the following executions and massacres. The duke of Alva, a Spanish general and persecutor who died in 1582, condemned 36,000 of his countrymen to be executed. On the night of August 24, 1572, the anniversary of St. Bartholomew, Charles IX, of France, by offering his sister in marriage to the prince of Navarro, a Huguenot, assembles at the nuptials in Paris five hundred of the most prominent of the Huguenots, including Admiral Coligny, their venerable leader, and, at a given signal an unparalleled scene of horror ensues. Before the break of day, these noble leaders and 10,000 of their faithful followers, in Paris that night, are ruthlessly slaughtered. The horrid carnage, against these defenceless friends of truth and right, is extended to Lyons, Orleans, Rouen and other cities until 50,000 are massacred at this particular time. The total loss of France by the Inquisition has been estimated at 100,000 persons. It is estimated that, during a period of seven years Pope Julius II effected the massacre of 200,000 persons. The Irish massacre at Ulster in 1641 cost Ireland the loss of more than 100,000 of her best citizenship. It is estimated that during a period of thirty years as many as 900,000 persons suffered martyrdom for the truth at the hands of the secret order of Jesuits. During the entire period of persecution by the papacy, a vast multitude, numbering many millions in addition to these, were proscribed, banished, starved, suffocated, drowned, imprisoned for life, buried alive, burned at the stake or assassinated.[1] These dark historic events illustrate the price that had to be paid for letting the light shine when darkness prevailed in the high places of the world. Every martyr for the truth was a torch bearer, whose light was extinguished. The countries that suffered the greatest loss of their best citizenship received a check of more than a century's growth. The hand on the dial of progress was turned backward wherever the blighting inquisition was felt. Its blighting effects may yet be seen in Italy, Spain, Portugal, Ireland and other countries where the papacy exerts a controlling influence. Men, whose deeds are evil and they are unwilling to repent, hate the light and endeavor to suppress it, by killing the torch bearer, "lest their deeds should be reproved." A knowledge of these conditions that prevailed at the time is necessary to enable one to appreciate the importance and greatness of the work of the Reformers and their faithful followers during the 16th century in giving the Bible to the people at the risk of their lives. INDEPENDENT OWNERSHIP OF LAND In 1620 the Pilgrim Fathers, bringing with them the Bible as a precious treasure, establish a colony at Plymouth Rock, Massachusetts, where they hope to enjoy civil and religious liberty to a fuller extent than they were able to do elsewhere. Other colonies are established along the Atlantic coast, from New England to Georgia, but no one of them exerts a moral influence, quite so potent as this one, in the events and councils that precede the laying of the foundations for this great government. They now enjoy individual or independent ownership of lands, a privilege they did not enjoy under the feudal system that had its rise in the 10th century and was continued until the French Revolution in 1799. Under the feudal system the land was owned by dukes, earls and barons, who, as members of the House of Lords, alone participated in the government. The orators of the pulpit, commonly called preachers of the gospel, aside from the academies, colleges and universities, are the principal teachers of the people, and for the purpose of instruction, they use but one book--the Bible. In 1635 other colonies of Puritans, under Roger Williams and Thomas Hooker settle Rhode Island and Connecticut, respectively; and religious liberty is accorded Rhode Island by its charter in 1663. WESTMINSTER ASSEMBLY In 1648, the Westminster Assembly, convened by the Long Parliament five years previous, and composed of 10 Lords, 20 Commoners and 121 Clergymen, representing the churches in England, Scotland and Ireland, to prepare a statement of the doctrines of the Bible, that might form the basis of religious liberty and a bond of union of the Protestant churches, completes its work, by publishing a Confession of Faith, Form of Government, Larger and Shorter Catechisms. This confession does not give rise to any new denominations nor result in any union; but it is received and adopted as the standard of faith by all the branches of the Presbyterian church in England, Scotland, Ireland and America. This confession is a natural sequence of the authorized King James Version of the Bible in 1611. In 1704, the newspaper is established in America; and the first postoffice, in 1710. RISE OF METHODISM In 1738 John and Charles Wesley, young preachers of the Church of England, having spent three years as missionaries among the Moravians in Georgia, return to London, where, preaching the gospel as a proclamation of free forgiveness to sinners, and with it, repentance and faith in Christ, they soon find the pulpits of that city closed against them. Supported by Lady Huntington and aided at the first by George Whitefield, the most gifted of their early associates and the first Methodist to preach in the open air, they lay the foundations that soon develop into the Methodist church, by establishing now congregations and organizing them into classes, each under a local leader, who by means of weekly testimonies, exhortations and corrections was to look after the moral conduct and promote the spiritual life of the members. SUNDAY SCHOOLS AND MISSIONARY SOCIETIES In 1782 when there are a sufficient number of printed Bibles available for use, Robert Raikes of London makes the suggestion and Sunday schools are established, that the people in every worshipping congregation may co-operate with their preachers in instructing the young and rising generation in the great truths contained in the Bible. From 1792 to 1800, the three great modern missionary societies of England are organized, and during the next ten years the first two are organized in this country. In 1804, the British and Foreign Bible Society, and in 1816, the American Bible Society, are established in London and New York, to promote the multiplication and circulation of the Bible. CIVIL AND RELIGIOUS LIBERTY In 1776 the Declaration of Independence and American Revolution develop brave and patriotic leaders like George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Samuel Adams, John Adams, Benjamin Franklin, Patrick Henry, John Witherspoon and others, who fight the battles and solve the problems of civil and religious liberty in America. Liberty and independence become familiar watchwords. In 1787 when the Constitution of the United States is adopted, civil and religious liberty is assured. Protection is to be given to religion but there shall be no taxation for its support in church or school, and public education is left to the several states. Those, who framed this remarkable Constitution and thus prepared the way for America to become the land of "Liberty Enlightening the World," expressed their sentiments in regard to the urgent need of general instruction in the Bible, in the ordinance for the government of the Northwest--the country north of the Ohio, as follows: "Religion, morality and knowledge, being necessary to good government and the happiness of mankind, schools and the means of education shall forever be encouraged." In 1841 Congress makes provision for grants of unoccupied lands in the states for the better support of the public schools and the establishment of state universities. In 1862 Congress makes provision by further grants of unoccupied lands for the establishment of State Agricultural Colleges. About this same period Normal Schools are established in the states and they gradually take the place of many of the Academies previously established by Christian people. In 1863 Abraham Lincoln in order to maintain the Union "one and inseparable," becomes the emancipator of 4,000,000 slaves; and America becomes "the land of the free" as well as "the home of the brave." The Boston News Letter, the first American newspaper is established in 1704, and the New England Courant, the second one in 1720. The first Colonial post office is established in 1710. In 1765, when the Stamp Act was passed, there are forty newspapers published in America; and one of the most influential of these is the Philadelphia Gazette, by Benjamin Franklin, the man who "wrested the lightning from heaven and scepters from tyrants." The religious papers of the Presbyterian church are established a half century later, and as follows: The Herald and Presbyter, at Cincinnati in 1830; the Presbyterian at Philadelphia in 1831; and the Interior, now Continent, at Chicago in 1870. As a civilizing agency the press not only rivals but increases many fold the power of the pulpit. The public press, especially the religious newspaper, noting the progress of events relating to the extension of the Redeemer's Kingdom becomes a very potent factor in promoting an enlightened Christian civilization. UPLIFTING INVENTIONS During the 19th century civilization receives a general and wonderful uplift as a result of many important inventions, that, to a greater or less extent, are enjoyed by all the people. They include the steam engine, steamer, railway, telegraph, telephone, phonograph, cylinder printing press and folder, electric light and motor, gasoline and kerosene engines, cotton gin, spinning jenny, sewing machine, mower, reaper, steam thresher and separator, mammoth corn sheller, tractor, gang plow, typewriter, automobile, bicycle, aeroplane, vaccine, serum and wireless telegraph. THE COMPARISON. The intelligent American citizen of the present time is the product of all these forces, to the extent he has come under their uplifting influences. He is the product of centuries of enlightened struggle and successful effort. If the early Roman was proud of his history and privileges as a citizen much more profoundly thankful may be the American of this twentieth century. The forces that have given him the uplift from the Dark Ages include the Bible in his own language, the faithful preacher of the Gospel, the Evangelical Reformer, the brave Military Leader, the God-fearing Statesman, the Church, Sunday school, the public, high and Normal school, the Academy, Christian College, Agricultural College, University, ownership of land, civil and religious liberty. What these institutions have done for the intelligent American citizen they are now beginning to do for the Freedman, as he is brought under their uplifting influence. They suggest both to him and his friends, the greatest or most important needs of the Freedmen. [1] See Cottage Bible on Revelation XVII 6. VIII THE PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH. IT EMPHASIZES THE BIBLE AS FUNDAMENTAL IN EDUCATION.--A ZEALOUS MISSIONARY ORGANIZATION.--AS CATHOLIC IN SPIRIT AS THE GOSPEL. "Walk about Zion, tell the towers thereof; mark ye well her bulwarks, that ye may tell it to the generation following."--David. The Presbyterian Church has always stood for Religion and Education--Religion as the basis of true education, and Education as the promoter of positive practical religion. CHRISTIAN LEADERS. The Presbyterian Church wishes to see the young people of every generation provided with the best means for their intellectual and spiritual progress. It wishes to see them prepared, not merely for active and successful participation in the onward work of the world, but also in full and hearty sympathy with the great work of Christ and his people, for the spiritual salvation of the nations. It knows there is no good reason, why a stirring leader of men should not be a Christian; nor why a Christian should not be eminently successful, in taking his place among men as a forceful factor in the life of the world. The Presbyterian Church believes in the system of state schools from the primary, public and high schools, to the University. These schools provide for general education. Millions of children would never be in school, were it not for these state provisions and for compulsory public education. These schools are however not all perfect, since they do not provide for moral and religious training, the great underlying principles of reverence and righteousness, that must enter into every life in order to fit it for the performance of Christian and patriotic duty. The Presbyterian church takes a patriotic interest in our whole public school system, and believes that all the children should be trained in those that are under public direction, so that all the children and youth of the nation shall be a united, intelligent and patriotic body, fitted for good citizenship. At the same time it believes in special church institutions of higher learning, that shall be adapted to train our young people for intelligent leadership in the church, and enable them to become doubly useful in the home, social circle and in public life. Our Christian academies and colleges are valuable institutions. These furnish to the church and the world the greatest number of ministers, missionaries, college presidents and Christian statesmen. Parents everywhere, find these Christian institutions furnish the best advantages, and that they are the safest and most economical. No institutions furnish higher or more profitable culture. They combine all that is best in real culture and education of the intelligent faculties, with a true religious conception of life; so that all who yield to their best influences go forth from them pure-hearted, stronger and better prepared to engage in life's duties successfully; for they take with them the personal assurance of the gracious presence and abiding blessing of our Father in Heaven. In a christian educational institution, the spirit of the instructor is one that regards the student, as of more value than the subject taught. Its aim including the christian college, is not research, the work of a university, but to make men. The ordinary branches that are taught are regarded as instrumentalities, for making a well trained man of the student. The key to success in the battle of life, is found in the struggle, which insures control of one's self. This is the secret of a good education. In an important sense, all education must be self-education. Professor Huxley gave good emphasis to this thought when he wrote: "Perhaps the most valuable result of all education, is the ability to make yourself do the thing you have to do, when it ought to be done, whether you like it or not; it is the first lesson which ought to be learned, and, however early a man's training begins, it is probably the last lesson he learns thoroughly." An eminent educator used to say to his class: "He, who will become a scholar, must learn to command his faculties." The Presbyterian church honors God and exalts him to the throne of absolute supremacy over all his creatures. It honors Him by using the instrumentalities he has appointed. It receives the Bible, as the very word of God, and adopts it as the only rule of faith and practice. The Presbyterian church from the beginning has been a zealous missionary organization. At the meeting of the First General Assembly arrangements were made to send the gospel to "the regions beyond,"--the frontiers and the various tribes of American Indians. The agencies, then organized as committees, have become the great Boards of Home and Foreign Missions, that now receive and distribute, each, more than a million dollars annually. A ZEALOUS MISSIONARY ORGANIZATION. It is gratifying to know that the colored people, although emotional and demonstrative, have nevertheless an intelligent appreciation of the views and methods of the Presbyterian church. A prominent minister of a southern church is quoted as having said: "The Presbyterian church can do for the colored people of the south what no other church can do." FABLE OF PERSIAN TENT. There is a Persian fable that tells of a young prince who brought to his father a nutshell, which, when opened with a spring, contained a little tent of such ingenious construction, that when spread in the nursery the children could play under its folds; when opened in the council chamber the King and his counsellors could sit beneath its canopy; when placed in the court yard the family and all the servants could gather under its shade; when pitched upon the plain, where the soldiers were encamped, the entire army could gather within its enclosure. It possessed the qualities of boundless adaptability and expansiveness. This little tent is a good symbol of our Presbyterian system. It is all contained within the nutshell of the Gospel. Open it in the nursery, and beneath its folds parents and children sit with delight; spread it in the court yard, and beneath its shadow the whole household assembles for morning and evening worship; open it in the village and it becomes a church, under whose canopy the whole town may worship. Open it upon the plain, and a great sacramental army gathers under it. Send it to the heathen world, and it becomes a great pavilion, that fills and covers the earth. The Presbyterian church is as Catholic as the Gospel in its spirit of brotherly love, and readiness to co-operate with all who love our Lord Jesus Christ. It recognizes the ordination of the Episcopalian and the baptism of the Baptist. It joins cordially with those who would place the crown upon the brow of Jesus by singing only the Psalms of David, and responds with an approving echo to the hearty "Amen" of the Methodists. It is capable of an expansion, that will include all shades of our common humanity, and is working valiantly to usher in the day, when the prayer of our Lord Jesus shall be fulfilled: "That they may be one; as Thou, Father art in me, and I in Thee, that they also may be one in us; that the world may believe that Thou hast sent me." "The Presbyterian church stands," says Rev. W. H. Roberts, D. D., "as it has stood during its entire history, for the unconditional sovereignty of God, for the Bible as the only infallible rule of faith and life, for simplicity of worship, representative government, a high standard of christian living, liberty of conscience, popular education, missionary activity and true Christian Catholicity." President Benjamin Harrison said of it: "The Presbyterian church has been steadfast for liberty, and it has kept steadfast for education. It has stood as stiff as a steel beam for the faith delivered to our fathers, and it still stands with steadfastness for that essential doctrine--the inspired Word. It is not an illiberal church. There is no body of Christians in the world, that opens its arms wider to all who love the Master. Though it has made no boast or shout, it has yet been an aggressive missionary church from the beginning." LINCOLN UNIVERSITY. Lincoln University in Chester county, Pennsylvania, was established in 1854 under the leadership of Rev. John M. Dickey, D. D., pastor of the Presbyterian church of Oxford, for the classical and theological education of negroes. The extent and thoroughness of the courses of instruction at this institution have been amply justified by the success of its graduates; many in the ministry, and others, in founding similar institutions of a high grade in the south, as at Columbia, S. C., Salisbury, N. C., Holly Springs, Miss., and a number of other places. Its aim is to furnish trained professional leaders, and it is accomplishing this object in splendid form. Established before the Freedmen's Board, it has continued to be maintained without its aid. IX THE PRESBYTERIAN BOARD OF MISSIONS FOR FREEDMEN. ORGANIZED IN 1865.--WOMEN ENLISTED IN 1884.--BOARDING SCHOOLS.--TRAINS CHRISTIAN LEADERS.--WORTHY OF GENEROUS SUPPORT AND ENDOWMENT. "The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he hath appointed me to preach the Gospel to the poor; he hath sent me to heal the broken-hearted and preach deliverance to the captives."--Luke. The emancipation of 4,000,000 slaves, at the close of the Civil War, was the sudden opening of a new and a vast field of opportunity and duty, before the Christian churches of this land. The education and moral elevation of the Freedmen became, in both church and state, a very serious and vital question. Ever since the foundation of the government, the church, through the voluntary establishment of academies and colleges, has been co-operating with the civil government, in the effort to develop in all parts of our land an intelligent christian citizenship. The Presbyterian Board of Missions for Freedmen was organized as a committee in 1865, the last year of the Civil War. In 1882 this committee was made and incorporated as a Board. Its work then assumed a more permanent form and the contributions to its work began to be greatly increased. The contributions received that year were $68,268.08. In 1913 the amount received to be applied to this work was $323,899.29. The amount of property held by it and used for educational and church purposes is $1,831,610.09. The office of the board is at Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. [Illustration: THE LATE MRS. V. P. BOGGS Secretary Women's Department, Freedmen's Board] [Illustration: REV. E. P. COWEN, D. D. Secretary and Treasurer] [Illustration: REV. JOHN GASTON Associate Secretary Presbyterian Board of Missions for Freedmen] WOMEN ENLISTED IN 1884 In 1884 the interest of the women of the Presbyterian church was enlisted in behalf of the women and girls among the Freedmen. The progress of the work of the Women's Missionary societies, in establishing and maintaining educational institutions, is worthy of special mention. During their first year they contributed $3,010; the second, $7,966; the third, $17,075; and in 1913, $85,236.09. In raising this last amount 675 Sunday schools and 1082 Young People's societies co-operated with 3591 Women's societies. To the women, almost entirely, is due the establishment and maintenance of most of the boarding schools now supported by the board. The names of some of the most consecrated workers and liberal contributors have been commemorated in the names of most of these institutions. That this fact may be noted and as a matter of general information, the following list of twenty-four of them is given. LIST OF BOARDING SCHOOLS I. FOR MALES ONLY Biddle University, Charlotte, North Carolina. Harbison Agricultural College, Irmo, South Carolina. II. SEMINARIES FOR GIRLS ONLY Scotia, Concord N. C. Mary Allen, Crockett, Texas. Ingleside, Burkeville, Va. Mary Holmes, West Point, Miss. Barber Memorial, Anniston, Ala. III. CO-EDUCATIONAL Allendale Academy, Allendale, S. C. Albion Academy, Franklinton, N. C. Alice Lee Elliott Memorial, Valliant, Okla. Arkadelphia Academy, Arkadelphia, Ark. Boggs Academy, Keyesville, Ga. Brainard Institute, Chester, S. C. Emerson Industrial Institute, Blackville, S. C. Fee Memorial Institute, Nelson, Ky. Gillespie Normal, Cordele, Ga. Haines Industrial, Augusta, Ga. Kendall Institute, Sumpter, S. C. Mary Potter Memorial, Oxford, N. C. Monticello Academy, Monticello, Ark. Cotton Plant Academy, Cotton Plant, Ark. Coulter Memorial Academy, Cheraw, N. C. Redstone Academy, Lumberton, N. C. Swift Memorial College, Rogersville, Tenn. In addition to those in these boarding schools, 112 teachers are employed in the maintenance of this same number of day schools. In his last annual report, April 1, 1913, Rev. E. P. Cowan, D. D., secretary of the Board submitted the following interesting summary of its work. "The Freedmen's Board has ever kept in mind the one great fact that its work is, first, last and all the time, missionary work. We have aimed from the very beginning to follow a course that would commend itself to every man's conscience in the sight of God. We have always sought the counsel and advice of good men on the field, at times nearer our work than ourselves, and better able to judge of its condition. We have endeavored to exert such an influence over the people among whom we have labored, so that no one could object to it except he were a heathen or an infidel. As a consequence, all the opposition we have met with in all these years has been as nothing, compared with the sympathy and encouragement we have received from good men. "We have this year issued our forty-eighth annual report. This annual report shows that we have now in connection with our church, four colored Synods, composed of sixteen colored Presbyteries, in which there are four hundred and four church organizations, with twenty-six thousand, one hundred and thirty-two communicants, two hundred and eighty-nine ordained ministers of the Gospel, and thirteen hundred and seventeen ruling elders. "Within these Presbyteries, there are one hundred and thirty-six schools, and in these schools there are 16,427 pupils, taught by 448 teachers, all of whom are professing Christians, and by a rule of the Board, members of the Presbyterian church. "In all these schools, the Word of God and the Shorter Catechism are regularly and daily taught. On the mind and heart of every living soul that passes in and out of our schools, there is impressed the fundamental and far-reaching truth, that the chief end of man is to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever, and that the Word of God, which is contained in the Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments, is the only rule to direct us how we may glorify and enjoy Him. "These churches and schools, and ministers and teachers--588 workers in all--are housed in 470 buildings, of which 300 are church buildings, 70 are manses, and 100 are school buildings. The value of these buildings is estimated at $1,561,000. The cry comes up to us without ceasing for either more room, or better accommodations. Should we answer these cries promptly, and without regard to the question as to where the money is to come from, we should be hopelessly overwhelmed with debt within one year." TRAINS CHRISTIAN LEADERS The Freedmen are naturally religious and hitherto their churches have been their principal social centers. Under uneducated leadership, the only kind possible at first, their church life was characterized by a loose moral standard, poor business methods and boisterous worship. In many places it still lacks a realization of the real needs of the race. "The true standard bearers of better things have been the relatively few ministers and churches that have been noted for their educated ministry, restraint in worship, rigid morals and careful supervision." The wisdom of the policy of training capable christian leaders, was emphasized at the last General Assembly at Atlanta, by Rev. H. A. Johnson, D. D., in the following pertinent paragraph: "The vital need of the negro people is a trained christian leadership. Their problem can never be solved by elementary education for the masses, or industrial training for those who enter the trades and till the farm. They must have thoroughly trained christian teachers and ministers of the Gospel and should also have the other professions represented among their leaders. The men, who are conspicuous leaders among the negroes in industrial training are publicly saying that they expect such organizations as the Presbyterian church to furnish the ministers and teachers for their people, while they furnish the farmers, the carpenters and other tradesmen. The task of furnishing this trained leadership is being bravely attempted by our Board within the limitations of their available resources. Every intelligent student of the problem must realize how supremely important is this phase of the work." WORTHY OF GENEROUS SUPPORT AND ENDOWMENT The Board of Missions for Freedmen of the Presbyterian church merits the intelligent sympathy and cordial co-operation not only of our whole church but of all the friends who favor christian education among the dependent colored people in the south part of our land. It educates ministers and teachers, and supports them in their work. It builds academies, seminaries and colleges, and aids in the erection of churches and manses. Its 24 boarding schools, having normal and industrial departments, are distributed so that there is one or more in every southern state. It now owns and controls school, church and manse properties that represent a value of one and a half million dollars. Its permanent investments, that bring an annual income for the promotion of its work however, are yet only $200,202.50. In these days of big business, the evidence of unusual prosperity, it ought to have an endowment of one million dollars. Education is the most costly of all philanthropic enterprises. The following reason recently expressed for a large endowment of the College Board applies with equal force to the Freedmen's Board. "A million dollar corporation is now considerably more than twice as efficient, as an instrument to accomplish results than one of a half million. In this day of large things the men who are interested in education, prefer to employ as their agent, an organization whose resources are large enough to place its permanent and financial stability beyond question. A bank with a million dollars of capital has considerable advantage over one having only a quarter of a million. The law, 'To him that hath shall be given,' still prevails among the children of men." The members of the Freedmen's Board have been selected, because of their manifest interest in the educational and spiritual welfare of the colored people; and they are conscientiously striving, to the best of their ability, to promote the interests of the Freedmen, in behalf of the great body of generous hearted christian people whom they represent. The work of the Freedmen's Board has hitherto by its charter been limited to the Freedmen in southern states. At the next General Assembly, an effort will be made to extend its work, so as to include the negroes in the northern states. X SPECIAL BENEFACTORS. GEORGE PEABODY.--JOHN F. SLATER.--DANIEL HAND.--EMILINE CUSHING.--ANNA T. JEANES.--CAROLINE PHELPS STOKES.--JOHN D. ROCKEFELLER.--NEGRO PHILANTHROPISTS. "He loveth our nation and hath built us a synagogue." The educational needs of the Freedman have called forth several large benefactions from individual contributors. George Peabody of Danvers, Massachusetts, in 1867 and 1869, established a fund of $3,500,000 for the promotion of general education in the South. One half of this amount happened to prove unavailable. A large part of the remainder was used in the establishment and endowment of the Peabody teachers college for whites at Nashville, Tennessee, leaving only a small part of it for use among the Freedmen. In 1882, John F. Slater of Norwich, Connecticut, created a trust fund of $1,000,000, for the purpose of uplifting the emancipated population of the southern states and their posterity. The income of this fund, now increased to $1,500,000, is used to promote normal and industrial education. In 1888 Daniel Hand of Guilford, Connecticut, gave the American Missionary Association of the Congregational church $1,000,000, and a residuary estate of $500,000 to aid in the education of the Negro. In 1895 Miss Emiline Cushing of Boston left $23,000 for the same object. In 1907 Miss Anna T. Jeanes of Philadelphia, Pa., left an endowment fund of $1,000,000 to aid in maintaining elementary schools among the Freedmen. Booker T. Washington was named as one of two trustees of this fund. Its distribution contemplates a three fold plan. First, something additional is to be secured from the school authorities. Second, the co-operative efforts of the people are essential. Third, the effectiveness of the school is improved and its neighborhood influence widened by the introduction of industrial features. In 1911, the income from this fund was so widely distributed as to reach the work in as many as 111 counties in 12 different states; and summer schools were aided in six of them. In 1909 Miss Caroline Phelps Stokes created a fund of $300,000 for the erection of tenement houses in New York City; and the education of negroes and Indians, through industrial schools. From 1902 to 1909, John D. Rockefeller gave $53,000,000 to establish a fund for the promotion of general education in the United States. The schools of the Freedmen have received from this fund $532,015. NEGRO PHILANTHROPISTS The Freedmen have fallen heir to the estates of some free negroes, that became wealthy. It is interesting to note the following ones. Tommy Lafon of New Orleans, a dealer in dry goods and real estate, in 1893, left for charitable purposes among his people, an estate appraised at $413,000. Mary E. Shaw of New York City, left Tuskeegee Colored Institute $38,000. Col. John McKee of Philadelphia, at his death in 1902, left about $1,000,000 worth of property for education, including a provision for the establishment of a college to bear his name. Anna Marie Fisher, of Brooklyn, N. Y., in 1911, having an estate of $65,000 left $26,000 for educational institutions. The successful achievement of these four free Negroes and their generous regard for the welfare of their kin-folks, suggest the possibilities of which they are capable, as financiers and philanthropists, when circumstances are favorable. PART II OAK HILL INDUSTRIAL ACADEMY "It is said that the Athenians erected a statue to Æsop, (564 B. C.), who was born a slave; or as Phaedrus phrases it: "They placed the slave upon an eternal pedestal," "Sir, for what the enfranchised slaves did for the cause of constitutional liberty in this country, the American people should imitate the Athenians and, by training the slave for usefulness, place him upon an eternal pedestal. Their conduct has been beyond all praise. "They have been patient and docile; they have been loyal to their masters, to the country, and to those with whom they are associated; but, as I said before, no other people ever endured patiently such injustice and wrong. Despotism makes nihilists; tyranny makes socialists and communists; and injustice is the great manufacturer of dynamite. The thief robs himself; the adulterer pollutes himself; and the murderer inflicts a deeper wound upon himself than that which slays his victim. "If my voice can reach this proscribed and unfortunate class, I appeal to them to continue, as they have begun, to endure to the end; and thus to commend themselves to the favorable judgment of mankind; and to rely for their safety upon the ultimate appeal to the conscience of the human race."--John J. Ingalls, U. S. Senate, 1890. THE NATIVE OAK HILL SCHOOL 1876-1886 CHURCH ORGANIZED JUNE 29, 1869.--SUNDAY SCHOOL IN 1876.--SCHOOL HOUSE, 1878.--OLD LOG HOUSE, 1884.--APPEAL FOR ACADEMY. "The vineyard which thy right hand hath planted." "Who hath despised the day of small things?" As the preaching of the gospel and the organization of a church preceded the establishment of the school, the following facts in regard to the church are first noted. THE OAK HILL PRESBYTERIAN CHURCH The Oak Hill Presbyterian church was organized about June 29, 1869, with six members, namely, Henry Crittenden, who was ordained an elder, Teena Crittenden, his wife, J. Ross Shoals and his wife Hettie Shoals, Emily Harris and Reindeer Clark. The services at first were held in the home and later in an arbor at the home of Henry Crittenden, one mile east of the present town of Valliant, and now known as the home of James and Johnson Shoals. After a few years the place of meeting was transferred to an arbor about two miles southwest of Crittenden's, and two years later, 1878, to the Oak Hill schoolhouse, a frame building erected that year on the main east and west road north of Red river. It was located on the southwest quarter of section 27, near the site on which Valliant was located in 1902. It is reported, that Henry Crittenden was the principal contributor towards the erection of this building. His cash income though meager was greater than others and he gave freely in order that a suitable place might be provided both for public worship and a day school for the neighborhood. Parson Charles W. Stewart of Doaksville, a representative of the last generation of those who were slaves to the Indians, was the minister in charge from the time of organization until the spring of 1893, when he retired from the ministry. He was succeeded at Oak Hill by Rev. Edward G. Haymaker, the superintendent of the academy, who continued a period of eleven years. He was succeeded by Rev. R. E. Flickinger, whose pastorate of nearly eight years was eventfully ended at the dedication of the new colored Presbyterian church at Garvin, on October 3, 1912. Rev. William H. Carroll, relinquishing his work on that same day as the first resident pastor of the Garvin church became the immediate successor at Oak Hill. Those who served as elders of the Oak Hill church and are now dead were Henry Crittenden, J. Ross Shoals, Robert Hall, Jack A. Thomas and Samuel A. Folsom. The elders in 1912 are James R. Crabtree, Matt Brown and Solomon H. Buchanan. In 1912 a site for a new chapel, intended only for the uses of the local congregation, was purchased in a suburb on the west side of Valliant. The trustees chosen at this time were Mitchell S. Stewart, formerly an elder, Matt Brown and James R. Crabtree. They were duly authorized to incorporate and manage the erection of the new church building. THE NATIVE OAK HILL SCHOOL The Negroes who were slaves of the Indians, about the year 1880 were enrolled and adopted as citizens, by the tribes to which they respectively belonged, and they then became entitled to a small part of their public school funds. The amount accorded the Choctaw Freedmen was about one dollar a year for a pupil that was enrolled as attending school. This made possible the employment of a teacher for a short term of three months in the vicinity of a few villages, where a large enrollment could be secured, but left unsupplied the greater number living in the sparsely settled neighborhoods. Our Board of Missions for Freedmen, ever since its organization, has made it the duty of every negro minister commissioned by it, to maintain a school in their respective chapels several months each year, in order that the children of the community might have an opportunity to learn to read the Bible. The first native teacher in the Oak Hill congregation was J. Ross Shoals, one of the elders of the church, who had a large family and principally of boys. His work was that of a Bible reader or Sunday School teacher. About the year 1876 he began to hold meetings in the south arbor on Sabbath afternoons for the purpose of teaching both old and young to read the Bible with him. Nathan Mattison succeeded him the next year at the same place as a Sabbath school teacher. In 1878, George M. Dallas, a carpenter, was employed to build a small frame school house on the southwest quarter of section 27, and after its completion he taught that year the first term of week day school among the colored people of that section. Others that succeeded Dallas, as teachers in this frame school house, were Mary Rounds, Henry Williams and Lee Bibbs. OLD LOG HOUSE In 1884, Henry Williams transferred the day school to the "old log house" on the northeast quarter of section 29, a mile and a half northwest of the school house. The motive for this change was the fact there was no supply of good water near the school house, while at the new location there was a good well and a large vacant building available for use. Robin Clark, its owner and last occupant was an active member of the Oak Hill church. After occupying this building one or two years he moved to another one near Red river and generously tendered the free use of this one for the Oak Hill school. In 1885 Henry Friarson, another native teacher, taught the school in this same "old log house." All of these native teachers did the best they could, but deeply felt their insufficiency for the task laid on them, by the pressure of an urgent necessity. All had personal knowledge of the existence and unusual privileges afforded the children and youth of the Choctaws at Wheelock and Spencer Academies. It was also easy for them to see that as farmers they succeeded as well in securing good results from the cultivation of the soil as many of their Choctaw neighbors, and this fact tended to increase their desire to have a "fair chance" and equal share in the matter of educational privileges for their children. The Oak Hill church and school happened to be near the center of the widely scattered group of a half dozen churches that formed the monthly circuit of Parson Charles W. Stewart. All who were interested in securing a good mission school approved this location as the most convenient for all of them, and, heartily uniting in an appeal for one, pledged their united support of it, when it should be established. APPEAL FOR OAK HILL The appeal of the Choctaw Freedmen was presented to the Presbyterian Board of Missions for Freedmen by Rev. Alexander Reid and Rev. John Edwards, the missionaries in charge of the Indian work at Spencer and Wheelock Academies, respectively. In the early days many of the old Negroes were located near these educational institutions and they were sometimes sent by their masters to work for the missionaries. These men living in their midst had opportunity to witness their extreme poverty, utter ignorance and general degradation. They also heard their personal appeals for the light of knowledge and Bible truth. Their sympathetic interest was awakened and began to manifest itself towards them. They were occasionally accorded the privilege of attending religious services, and at Doaksville, during the ministry of Rev. Cyrus Kingsbury, were permitted to hold occasional Sabbath afternoon meetings in the Choctaw church. Primers, catechisms and testaments were sometimes presented to them, and in this way a few of them learned to read the Bible. The kindly interest of these missionaries won their esteem and confidence and awakened in many of them an abiding love and affection for the Presbyterian church. It is related that when one of them was asked to unite with another church because it was "more free" he replied, "You are too free for me, I need a stricter church. I believe in staying by the old missionaries. They were our friends when we were slaves. They treated us well and did us good, and I mean to stay by their church as long as I live." SLAVERY AMONG INDIANS The state of religion among all of the people, both Indians and Negroes, was low, "very low". One of the missionaries described that of the Negroes as being like that of the Samaritans. "They fear the Lord and serve their own gods. As their fathers did, so do they. Their condition is bad, morally and religiously." It could not easily have been otherwise. The tendency of slavery, under the most favorable conditions has always been in the direction of a low standard of morals and life. Slavery to untutored Indians, in a sparsely settled timber country, suggests the most deplorable condition imaginable. Such a slave lacking the example of intelligence and uprightness, often common among white masters, was subjected to generations of training in every phase of depravity and had no incentive whatever to live a better life. When, however, these slaves of the Indians were accorded their freedom and became entitled to a part of the public school fund of the Choctaws, they manifested an earnest desire to have ministers and teachers sent them, that they might have churches and schools of their own. Their great need was a boarding school where the boys and girls especially those in the remote and neglected rural districts, could be taken from their homes and trained under the personal supervision of christian teachers, to a higher standard of living, and, some at least, become fitted to serve as teachers of their own people. XII ERA OF ELIZA HARTFORD 1886-1888. THE HEROIC PIONEER.--FEBRUARY 14, 1886.--BOARDING SCHOOL, APRIL 15th, 1886.--PRISCILLA G. HAYMAKER.--NEW SCHOOL BUILDING IN 1887.--ANNA E. CAMPBELL. "I'll go where you want me to go." The story of Oak Hill as an Industrial Academy, begins with the work of Miss Eliza Hartford of Steubenville, Ohio, the first white teacher in the "Old Log house". She was commissioned by the Freedmen's Board in January, 1886, and was sent in response to the appeal of the colored people of the Choctaw Nation. The missionaries, Reid and Edwards, had commended as the most favorable location for such an educational institution the rural neighborhood occupied by the Oak Hill church, two miles east of Clear Creek in the valley of Red river. They referred to this as a "pivotal location" for such a school, and wrote, "Here we want to see a good school established that shall grow into a normal academy. The location is central and healthful. If in charge of white teachers, such a school will attract scholars from all the other settlements." HEROIC PIONEER Oak Hill, like other schools of its kind, had its early period of heroic effort and self-sacrificing toil, before the usual comforts and conveniences of civilized life could be enjoyed. This was true of the entire period of service on the part of Miss Hartford, February 1886 to August 1888. When she arrived at Wheelock, where she met a friend, Miss Elder, engaged in teaching the Indians, Rev. John Edwards served as an aid, in making a tour of inspection over the field, of which she was to be the missionary teacher and physician. This journey was made on horseback, which was the most speedy and comfortable mode of travel, over the rough and winding trails through the timber at that time. As a result of this survey and a call at the home of Henry Crittenden, an elder of the Oak Hill church and a "local trustee of the neighborhood, under the Choctaw law," it was decided that the "old log house" was the best place to establish the school; and the best place for her to live was at the home of the colored elder, Henry Crittenden, three miles east. She was expected to make her daily journeys on horseback; and, in connection with the work of the school, to visit the people at their homes, furnish medicines for the sick and give instruction in regard to their care. In her description of the old log house Miss Hartford states, "The windows are without sash or glass and the roof full of holes. The chimneys are of hewn stone, strong and massive. The house is of hewed logs, two stories in height and stands high in the midst of a fine locust grove. The well of water near it seems as famous as Jacob's well." At the request of Mr. Edwards the colored people in the vicinity, after repairing the roof and windows, cleaned, scrubbed and whitewashed the inside of this old log house, and thus prepared it for its new and noble era of usefulness. [Illustration: ELIZA HARTFORD.] [Illustration: ANNA E. CAMPBELL.] [Illustration: PRISCILLA G. HAYMAKER.] [Illustration: REV. EDWARD G. HAYMAKER.] [Illustration: THE GIRLS' HALL, 1889-1910.] [Illustration: THE OLD FARM HOUSE. The Pioneer Home of a Choctaw Chief, Leflore, and of the Oak Hill School.] FEBRUARY 14, 1886 On Sabbath, February 14, 1886, one week after the arrival of Miss Hartford, her first meeting was held and a Sunday school was organized under her leadership. At its close a prayer-meeting was held in which she read the scriptures, the hymns and a sermon. On Tuesday, February 16, 1886, the school was opened with seven pupils. The opening exercises consisted in the reading of a chapter by the new teacher, the singing of a hymn and prayer by elder Henry Crittenden. The latter was profoundly impressed with the fact that, in the auspicious opening of the school that morning, the colored people of that section were realizing the answer to their oft repeated prayers, the fulfilment of their long delayed hopes. The new teacher had never heard such a prayer in any school she ever attended. He thanked Our Heavenly Father, "That the prayers of his people were answered. In their bondage they had cried unto Him and He had heard their cry. In their ignorance and darkness they had asked for light and the light had come." He prayed for the teacher that "God would give her wisdom and enable her to be faithful." He prayed for the children and their parents that, "they might be able to see and appreciate what God had done for them," and for the school, "that it might abide with them and become an uplifting power to them and their children." On the following Monday the number of the pupils had increased to fourteen. The chills were prevalent and frequently half the pupils would be seen huddling around the log fire in the chimney fireplace, and making a chattering noise with their teeth. A BOARDING SCHOOL On April 15, 1886, Miss Hartford began to live at the school building and some of the pupils brought their corn-meal so they might live "wid de teacher," and Oak Hill became a boarding school with an enrollment of 24 pupils. At a prayer meeting of the women held soon after this event, it was decided to build a kitchen at the west end of the log house so "de chillen might have a place to bake and eat their corn bread." While they were building this kitchen a man who saw them said to Miss Hartford, "It makes the men feel mighty mean to see the women doing that work." She repeated to him the following words from the third verse of the fourth chapter of Paul's epistle to the Philippians: "I entreat thee also, true yokefellow, help those women which labor with me in the gospel, whose names are in the book of life." The result was very gratifying. He got his team, hauled the rest of the materials and then helped them to complete it. This improvement increased the facilities and also the general interest in the school. In September 1886 pupils began to arrive from distant places and whilst some of them were retained in the building others were located among the friends in the neighborhood. In February following, all the available room in the log house was occupied and the work of the school proving too great for one teacher, another one was requested. The institution had now acquired the name, "Oak Hill Industrial School." PRISCILLA G. HAYMAKER In April 1887, Miss Priscilla G. Haymaker, of Newlonsburg, Westmoreland county, Pa., arrived to aid in the management of the school, and this event was the occasion for another thanksgiving on the part of the people. At a meeting then held they decided to build a house that could be used for a school house and chapel, using the materials in the Oak Hill school building of 1878. The men agreed to donate all the work they could, and, with ox teams, delivered the lumber in the old building. The Board gave $50.00 and Rev. John Edwards $25.00 towards the purchase of new lumber. It fell to the lot of Miss Hartford and Elder Henry Crittenden to pay some of the balances due on this building, and their contributions were remarkably large ones for those early days. Miss Hartford, at the time this building was undertaken, was given special permission to solicit money to furnish the new school building, to fit up the "old log house" for a boarding house, and scholarships of $15.00 each. She went east and returning in August found the new building ready for the desks. Miss Haymaker solicited and received the promise of a large bell that had been used by her father on the old farm at Newlonsburg, Pa., that the people might rejoice over the possession not merely of a chapel and school building, but one "wid a bell." The time appointed for opening the fall term was now near at hand and yet the old log house was not ready for the boarders, that were expected soon to fill it, owing to the fact no workmen could be found to do the work. Miss Hartford and Miss Haymaker, with the help of a boy, made the bedsteads and tables with their own hands, the latter manifesting considerable skill in the use of the saw and hammer. On September 1st the boarders began to arrive and on the 15th, 60 pupils were enrolled of whom 36 were boarders. Every boarder was expected to bring 12 bushels of corn, and with scholarships of $15.00 each, there was no danger of starving. The girls were required to do the housework and the boys to provide the wood. Miss Haymaker was not used to roughing it and before the close of November she was compelled to return to her home, broken in health. ANNA E. CAMPBELL Miss Anna E. Campbell of Midway, Pa., who had previously been sent for, arrived at Oak Hill two days after the departure of Miss Haymaker, and with her the long expected bell, from the old home of the latter. The following Sabbath, the first one on which they were called together for worship by the clarion tones of the new bell, was another glad day for the people, and they extended to Miss Campbell a very cordial welcome, as the new assistant of Miss Hartford. She remained until the end of the term, June 15th, 1888. Miss Campbell held temperance meetings every Saturday and some objected to them, because "dey was teachin de risin generashun dat it was wrong to drink whiskey or use tobacco, while de Bible said it was good for de stomik." During this second term six of the pupils, repeated the Catechism and nine united with the church. During the summer of 1888 Miss Hartford remained alone to take care of the homeless children, and maintain the Sunday school and prayer meeting. Other parents began to call and plead for room for their children. Believing the time had come when another and a larger building was necessary in order to receive them, she rode a long distance to confer with a carpenter, in regard to the erection and cost of a frame building for boarders. He arranged to call and make an estimate, but while she waited for him, her health began to fail. The exposures, burdens and privations proved too great for her, single handed and alone, and she felt constrained to return to her home. She was unable to return to Oak Hill and died at Richmond, Ohio, July 9, 1901. Miss Campbell was also unable to return and the school was left without a teacher. XIII EARLY REMINISCENCES ELIZA HARTFORD.--PRISCILLA G. HAYMAKER.--ANNA E. CAMPBELL.--THE NIGHT SCHOOL.--HARDSHIPS AT OAK HILL. "Books are keys to wisdom's treasures; Books are gates to lands of pleasure; Books are paths that upward lead; Books are friends. Come let us read." The following reminiscences, gleaned from letters written by these three heroic young lady teachers, will be read with interest. They discover in their own language, their feelings of hopefulness and loyalty while coping with unexpected embarrassments and unusual privations. Single handed and alone they penetrated the wilds of Indian Territory to a secluded spot, where they were a half day's ride from their nearest white friends, and thirty-five miles from the railway. Holding aloft the Bible, the true standard of the cross, they rallied the ignorant and uncivilized natives appreciatingly around it, more worthily and long before our famous explorers decorated the North Pole with the American flag. The mail was carried once a week from Clarksville to Wheelock, ten miles east, the nearest post office. TEACHING ELIZABETH WASHING At the end of her first year, March 19, 1887, when she was still working alone, having school, Sunday school, preaching and boarding house all in the old log house, Miss Hartford wrote to a friend, as follows: "This ought to be a resting day for me, but I am always tired on Saturday. This has been my wash day and I will give you my experience with a girl of fifteen, who is very ignorant about the simplest things relating to work. It is useless to tell Elizabeth how to do any work, unless one goes with her and shows her every change. Today I had her wash her own clothes by my side, while I washed mine, to show her how, and how speedily she ought to do her own work. The only way to succeed in having them work is to work with them." "These poor Freedmen have a just claim on the church. They are far below their white brothers and sisters, but they are not to be blamed for it. Slavery has made them so, and we must do something to lift them up. This however, will not be done by sending them to expensive schools, to make ladies and gentlemen of them, but where they will learn to work thoughtfully and be taught the pure religion of the Bible. The worst ones among them are very religious in their way." A "FEELIN' MEETIN'" "On last Sabbath we had an example of the way they like to do things. Their old black preacher always preaches on the Sunday school lesson. He comes early to hear what I say and then 'enlarges on de subject in de afternoon.' I cannot tell you how hard it is sometimes to sit still and listen to the old man's explanations. Last Sabbath he dwelt a long time 'on de fact Rebecca was a shameful deceiver an dat Jacob was another one.'" "In the afternoon, after two hours of preaching services he concluded, 'as it was still early in de day' they would sing a hymn and any who wished to jine de church could come 'for'ud and give us der hand.'" "As soon as they started to sing, a woman fell in some sort of spell. She was sitting near me on the same bench. Instantly it occurred to me they were getting up one of their 'feelin' meetin's', as they call them, and I was frightened half out of my wits. Fearing they would get to shouting and pounding each other, I ran out as fast as I could. There were about fifty of them packed in one little room sixteen feet square and I was up in front. It was one of the friendly tribe that shouted, and had I been wise, I would have known what was coming. My flight spoiled the meeting, but if you would appreciate my feelings just imagine you are alone in a small room with fifty darkies and fifteen or twenty of them commence shouting and breaking benches. I had a severe headache and have not felt well all week." "After I ran out the people laughed and the poor woman recovered quite suddenly. By the time I was safe in my own room the meeting was dismissed. I was nervous and discouraged. I called the old preacher to my room and gave him a lecture. He said he did not believe in shouting and had no idea of any one doing so. I am afraid some of the shouting ones will be offended but I could not help it. It was the first time I have felt afraid since I came here." "The school children think it was the 'best meetin' they were ever at.' They say 'Miss Hartford did look so funny when she got scared.' I tell them they may laugh at me but not at the poor woman who shouted. I tell them that shouting and falling in fits is not religion, that the poor woman was probably a good christian, but her shouting and spells do not make her one." "'Mamma says,' said one of them, 'that she first took religion wid one of them spells and dey allus' come when she gits happy.'" "Poor things! I tell you this to show you in what a sad state they are. They have had enough preaching to make them think they are religious, but have had no real Bible teaching, and there are ten thousand of them in this nation. The Board has concluded to send Miss Haymaker here and I am glad." BOTHERSOME "BREDDERIN" The Board talks about sending a new preacher here, I hope they will send a strong healthy consecrated white man. A sickly man has no business here. Common sense and grit are needed more than learning. It will be no easy task for a white preacher to manage these black Presbyterians. I suspect it will require more tact and will power to manage this set, than one of our city churches. A half dozen old fellows claiming to be elders tried to run 'de Sunday School and de teacher' until I read to them a letter from Dr. Allen, secretary of the Board. Not one of them can read, but they take great pride in being elders. [Illustration: MRS. M. E. CROWE.] [Illustration: CARRIE E. CROWE.] [Illustration: ANNA T. HUNTER.] [Illustration: MARTHA HUNTER.] [Illustration: James McGuire and Others, 1901.] Some were appointed elders in other churches and they think that makes them elders here. It will be a sad day to them when they learn they are not elders here, and I fear they will not then be willing to remain as members. I have written you a long letter and it is all about the darkies; but no doubt you are expecting that. HARD WORK AND MISERABLE LIVING "I am not so strong, in fact feel ten years older than one year ago. I fear I cannot stand the heat this summer. I said 'heat' but do not mean that exactly. This climate is rather pleasant, if we could only provide comforts. It is the constant hard work and miserable way of living that makes it so bad. "No white person could eat what these women prepare,--bread, always of corn, and fat pork, swimming in grease. Give them flour, they stir in a lot of soda and serve you biscuit as green as grass. They have no idea of better cooking and will not take the pains to do better. We are going to teach them to cook, scrub and wash clothes. "Write soon and tell me whether you called on mother, when you were in Steubenville. "Your Friend, Eliza Hartford." Six months later when she returned from a short visit to her mother she writes: "The weeds were so high I could scarcely see the house. I had to pay forty dollars from my own earnings on lumber hauled for the new school building, but which Elder Crittenden says, was taken by thieves. I paid it to save our credit and am glad I had it to give. "We have now nineteen boarders. I am almost worked to death and it takes all my patience to stand it." BETSY BOBBET A letter dated January 6, 1888, bears the stamp, "Oak Hill Industrial Academy." A change in her assistants had taken place in November previous and she writes: "Miss Haymaker before leaving had miserable health and I have had a hard time since my return. I think Miss Campbell will do well. The attendance now ranges from 45 to 60 and I am not able to do anything except the school work. Four of the children have had chills and fever, and I have had to rise at night to care for them. I have been trying to do the work of three people and not complain. Still I'd like to grumble a little, if I could find the right one to talk to. I am beginning to feel a little like Josiah Allen's wife, when she said, 'Betsy Bobbet, you're a fool, or else me.' "Still I had rather be regarded foolish, by working hard for the good of others, than take advantage of another. "Pray for me for I need your prayers. "Eliza Hartford." MISS HAYMAKER'S EVENTFUL JOURNEY. Miss Priscilla G. Haymaker made her first journey to Oak Hill about the first of April, 1887. She passed by way of St. Louis to Texarkana, Arkansas, 50 miles east of Clarksville, over the Iron Mountain railway. This part of the journey was made during the night, and most of the time she was the only lady in the car. The crowd on the train was one of ruffians, who spent the time playing cards, drinking whiskey and showing their revolvers. The conductor said to her, "Lady you have a rough crowd to ride with to night, but I will not leave you long." He was as good as his word. He sat in the seat with her when in the car and returned promptly when required to be absent. At Clarksville she found the driver from Wheelock awaiting her arrival at the hotel. As early as four o'clock the next morning everything was in readiness for making the trip to Wheelock in a covered wagon. It soon began to rain and continued raining all day. It was 8 o'clock at night when the team arrived at Wheelock. The cordial welcome extended by Rev. John Edwards, Superintendent, and his wife and the teachers at Wheelock Academy, was one not soon to be forgotten. It was greatly appreciated and enabled her to feel she had gotten back again to a place of civilization. Miss Haymaker, the first assistant of Miss Hartford, April to November 1887, was a native of Newlonsburg, Pa., daughter of George R. and Priscilla Haymaker. On October 1, 1890, she returned to Oak Hill and served as the principal teacher in the Academy the next six years. In the fall of 1892 she was joined by her brother Rev. E. G. Haymaker, who then became superintendent. On October 13, 1896, she became the wife of John Blair of Chambersburg, Pa., and they still reside there. MISS CAMPBELL'S TRIP FROM CLARKSVILLE. Miss Anna E. Campbell, the successor of Miss Haymaker arrived at Clarksville, the same day the latter passed through that place on her way home in November, 1887. The proprietor of the hotel called her very early the next morning and informed her he had secured a mule team driven by a negro to take her to Oak Hill. When she was leaving the hotel he solicitously inquired, "Do you carry a gun?" "No I haven't any weapon except a little pocket knife," she answered. He then said, "In going into Indian Territory you ought to have a gun, you may need it." Mr. Moore, the railway agent, a man from Ohio, noticing by the check of her trunk, that she came from Pennsylvania, was very courteous and gave his name. He charged the driver to protect the lady at the risk of his own life; all of which he solemnly promised to do, by promptly answering, "Yes sah, dat I will." The bell and two barrels of clothing for Oak Hill were put on the wagon and they made the load a pretty good one for the team. After driving northward all day it began to grow dark and they had not yet reached the ferry across Red River. The crossing was made however without accident. When the landing had been completed the driver remarked: "I don't reckon we will get dar, 'coz I doesn't know de way now." Fortunately there were several houses not very far away on the bluff along the river, and after a few inquiries, a white family was found that very kindly gave Miss Campbell shelter for the night. The woman at once offered her a sniff of snuff as a token of good will. When the snuff was very politely declined, she laconically remarked: "Well, some folks don't." Miss Campbell arrived at Oak Hill, ten miles distant from the ferry, the next day, after experiencing a "stuck fast" in the mud on the way. Miss Campbell was a native of Midway, Washington county. Pa. She became the assistant of Miss Hartford in November, 1887, two days after the departure of Miss Haymaker and remained until June 15, 1888. At that time she expected to return about the first of October following. But when her trunk had been packed for that purpose circumstances arose at home that made it necessary for her to remain and take care of her parents, both of whom were aged and infirm. On March 7, 1905, she became the wife of James H. McClusky and now lives on a well cultivated productive farm near Monongahela, Pa. MISS HARTFORD'S NIGHT SCHOOL. On requesting Alexander M. Reid, D. D., of Steubenville, Ohio, the early home of Eliza Hartford to obtain and send a photo of her, he reported her death at Richmond, Ohio, July 9, 1901; and stating that a photo could not be found among her relatives, sent instead the following beautiful incident, growing out of her work as a teacher of night school in that place before she came to Oak Hill. MATTHEW FINDING HIS OPPORTUNITY Rev. Charles C. Beatty, D. D., a former Moderator of the General Assembly who had become almost totally blind, at the close of a prayer meeting held in the Second Presbyterian church, said to Miss Hartford, "Could you not name one of your boys here to lead me home?" She replied, "Yes, here is Matthew Rutherford; he will lead you home." On the way home Dr. Beatty asked Matthew, what he was doing: He replied, "I dig coal in the day time and go to the school of Miss Hartford at night." When near home Dr. Beatty inquired, "Matthew, how would you like to go to school and get an education?" He said, "I would like it very much." Dr. Beatty then said, "Matthew, you may quit digging coal and go through the school and High School. Then if you have a good standing, I will send you to college. If the Lord should then seem to be calling you to be a minister, I will enable you to pursue your studies at Allegheny Seminary." Matthew, who was a native of England and exceedingly grateful for this recognition and counsel, quit the mines and entered school. He graduated from Washington and Jefferson college in 1884, and from the theological Seminary, three years later. Since 1896 he has been the highly esteemed pastor of the third Presbyterian church, Washington, Pa., and Bible instructor in the college since 1900. He received the degree of Doctor of Divinity in 1909. This incident serves to illustrate the readiness of the friends of Christian Education to aid young people of limited means, who are trying to educate themselves; and the care they also take to know they are worthy. It also shows the importance of young people industriously and economically doing what they can to help themselves. That is their best recommendation. If young Rutherford, while working in the mines, had indulged in spending his evenings at places merely of amusement or entertainment as many do, he would have missed the golden opportunity of his life. The unexpected and gracious offer came to him, while he was attending night school and the weekly prayer meeting. It was while he was taking advantage of these opportunities for intellectual and moral improvement, within his reach, that he found the true and faithful friend, whose assistance he most needed. HARDSHIPS AT OAK HILL. Miss Hartford, before coming to Oak Hill, spent several years as a teacher among the Mormons at Silver City, Utah. This was a period when missionary work was difficult and dangerous. She resigned that work on account of the failing health of her aged mother. She patiently and hopefully endured many privations and hardships in faithfully and energetically carrying forward the work entrusted to her. These were greatest at Oak Hill than elsewhere. At Oak Hill she was unable to relieve the natural conditions that produce malarial troubles. She felt very deeply the loneliness of dwelling in the wilderness, where there was no white person in the neighborhood to render assistance in time of special need, or sympathetic friend to express a word of comfort and encouragement. Then she could not avoid the incessant strain of continuous work and worry under surroundings and limitations, that could not be removed and tended to produce that nervous exhaustion, which results in complete prostration. This nervous strain was increased by every advancing step in the progress of the work. Relief from this malady is not found in the use of medicines, but in a complete change of scenes, diet and employment. She and her two faithful helpers were compelled to seek this form of relief. XIV EARLY TIMES AT FOREST. FOREST CHAPEL.--LIFTING THE COLLECTION.--PRIMITIVE MID-WEEK MEETINGS. "I have considered the days of old, the years of ancient times." The following reminiscences of early times at Forest church are narrated for their intrinsic as well as historic interest. The first one reveals an order of service, that is very general in the colored churches. It is one that affords the deacon, if he be a man so disposed, to spontaneously introduce considerable native wit and humor into the part of the service entrusted to him; and if he does, it very naturally prepares the way for unexpected shouts of joy and gladness on the part of those who are emotional or subject to the sudden impulse of ecstatic delight. FOREST CHAPEL. Forest Chapel, as is suggested by its name, was located in the large and dense oak forest along Red river eight miles south of Wheelock. Its post office has been successively, Wheelock, Fowlerville, Parsons and since 1906 Millerton. The Forest church was organized by Parson Stewart about 1886, and was served by him once a month the next seven years. In 1898 it became a remote part of the field of Rev. William Butler of Eagletown, who also endeavored to visit it once a month. The chapel was a lonely, dingy and dilapidated building, inside as well as outside. It was about 20 by 30 feet and was built entirely of rough lumber. The side walls consisted of one thickness of wide inch boards, nailed at the top and bottom, and having a thin strip over the cracks on the outside. The roof was covered with long, split, oak clapboards, that invariably look black and rough at the end of a year. The pulpit consisted of a box-like arrangement that stood on a small platform at the center of one end. The seats consisted of a half dozen rough benches without backs, that could be arranged around the stove in cold weather, or in three fold groups for a picnic dinner, the middle one being used for a table on such occasions and the other two for seats around it. No paint or even white wash ever found a place on this building. It was the largest and best building in the neighborhood, and the popular resort for all of their social gatherings. The leading men of the congregation consisted of two elders, both venerable and devout survivors of the slavery period, neither of whom could read, and a deacon, who was one of the only two of the older people who could read a little. LIFTING THE COLLECTION It was regarded as the duty of the deacon to "lift the collection" at the Sabbath services. This gave him a very prominent part in the services, for the collection is not lifted by passing the hat or basket, but each contributor, after the general call brings their offering and lays it either on the pulpit or a little stand near it. However novel this arrangement may at first appear to those unaccustomed to it, it must be remembered that a method somewhat similar to this was in use in the Temple in Jerusalem, when our Lord Jesus, taking his seat opposite the treasury, saw the poor widow cast in her two mites and commended her very highly. It was not unusual for the deacon to announce before hand the amount needed and then, as the offerings are presented, to state the amount received from time to time, until finally the whole amount is obtained. This part of the service was always enlivened by singing some soul-stirring songs, that everybody could sing. Occasionally it would take the form of a good natured rivalry, as to which could appear the most happy and joyous, the deacon, vociferously announcing from time to time as their offerings came in, the latest result of the collection, or, the people, whose merry singing would occasionally develop into a shout of ecstatic enjoyment, on the part of one or more of their number. PRIMITIVE MID-WEEK MEETINGS The early preachers, having monthly appointments, were always very faithful in exhorting and encouraging the elders of their distant congregations to maintain regular Sabbath services, for the study of the Bible and Catechism, and a mid-week meeting for praise and prayer. The people were encouraged to attend all these meetings and cordially co-operate with the elders in making them interesting and instructive. The older generation at Forest was one that had a foretaste of slavery in their early days, but not a day of school privileges, except as the Bible was read or taught at their meetings on the Sabbath. The lack of school privileges in the neighborhood and its remote seclusion from the outside world, had the effect of leaving these colored people to continue their primitive ways and methods of doing things, to a later date than in many other more highly favored communities. The following narrative contains an account of the mid-week meetings held at Forest about the year 1897 when Miss Bertha L. Ahrens, a white missionary teacher of our Freedmen's Board opened a mission school in the chapel. It shows how the people, that lived in the gross darkness of utter ignorance, groped for the light and earnestly endeavored to extend it, when the gospel was first presented to them. The mid-week meetings are held regularly when not prevented by rain or cold weather. The people live in little shanties scattered through the timber near springs of water and are poorly clad. In good weather they "begin to gather" about 8:30 p.m. and continue to "gather" until 9:30, when Elder "B." taking his place at the left of the pulpit, "reckons that they's all here that's going to com." Elder F. sits down beside him and neither of them can read. Deacon L. who serves as chorister, occupies a shortseat in front of the pulpit. The wives of the elders, the lady missionary and other leading sisters occupy seats--a bench--at the right of the pulpit. The meetings are opened by the deacon, who reads two lines of a hymn and, winding out a tune, the people unite in singing them. Two more lines continue to be read and sung until the hymn has been completed. When the deacon is not present Elder "B." says: "Will some of you select something to sing?" If no brother is present, who can read, a sister or the missionary, or perhaps one of her school boys, may "line out" a hymn and may even "raise it" but the tune must be one "the old folks can sing." If the one who "raises the tune" breaks down with it, any one may pick it up and go on with it to the end of the two lines that have been "lined out." The missionary's organ is in position ready for use, but it must be silent in the prayer meeting, and also at the preaching service. It is a new and troublesome innovation. It takes the prominence in the singing, that belongs to the officers of the church. The missionary cannot wind and slur the tunes on it, the way the old folks have learned to sing them, and it robs the singing of its old-time sweetness and power. The organ therefore remains silent. After the first hymn, Elder "B." who never allows any one else, not even the preacher, to lead the prayer meeting, now calls on some one to "read us a lesson from the Bible." This was an innovation introduced into the prayer meeting after the arrival of the lady missionary. It is at first merely tolerated, comments and explanations are strictly forbidden. These restrictions in regard to the Bible in the meeting were due to the influence exerted by the wife of Elder "B." who had been the first real leader of the church and was still regarded as a "mother in Israel, whose opinions should be respected." She felt that God had taught her by visions and dreams, and believed he would teach others the same way. Elder "F." however, is not satisfied till he and others have heard the "Word of God" and permission to read it is given. "Down to pray," is the next request of the leader, and the voice of every one present is expected to be heard in this part of the meeting. A sister, whose seat is near a window, begs the Lord to "come this-a-way, just a little while, to lay his head in the window and hear his servant pray." A brother near the front door responds approvingly, "Yes sir," and bids him, "Walk in, and take a front seat." The prayer of a devout sister after one or two petitions, becomes an earnest exhortation to all the sinners to repent and be saved. Some seemed to believe their prayers have to travel long journeys and are better long than short. Some prayers are chanted with a pleasing variety of the voice, while others are agonized by using many repetitions. All are witnessed to by "amen" and similar words of attestation; for these are "live christians", and have no use for "dead meetings." Elder "F." who sits beside the leader, sometimes insists on "making some remarks." If the leader whispers to him "make it short," and he does not give good heed, the starting of a familiar hymn is the method adopted to "bring him down." At a meeting held on the forenoon of Christmas, Elder "F." was feeling too happy and grateful to restrain himself. His theme was "Our Wonderful Saviour," and he began to exhort sinners to open their hearts to him. He became so absorbed in the greatness and importance of his theme as not to heed the usual whisper of the leader or even the starting of the familiar hymn. The situation is one of embarrassment to the leader. The one that proves equal to it is Elder "B.'s" wife. She walks over to him, grabs him by both arms and pushes him down on his seat, saying, "Bud, you talks too much, sit down now and keep still." She laughs as she says this, the elder smiles as he sits down, and the meeting proceeds in good form. The usual way of closing the mid-week meeting was about as follows: Elder "B." says, "Well we's done about all we can do. Let us sing something and go home." If elder "F." does not call for the new hymn, they have recently learned from the organ. "Lord dismiss us with thy blessing," they stand and sing a familiar one. Elder "B." then says: "Amen!" and dismisses the congregation with a wave of his hand. In the Sunday school the attitude of the people toward the Bible, the organ and the lady missionary was altogether different. Here she is the recognized leader, both in the singing and Bible instruction. As they profit by her instruction, and listen a few times to some of their familiar hymns on the organ, the younger people manifest pleasure and delight and the early prejudices of the older ones are gradually forgotten. The first elders of Forest church were Simon Folsom, Charles Bibbs and Lee Bibbs. Charles Bashears was soon afterward added to their number and died in 1912. His wife exerted a leading influence in the earlier years of this church. The allotment of lands in 1905 made it necessary to move Forest church to another location; and in 1909, it was moved about two miles east in the valley of Red river. XV ERA OF JAMES F. McBRIDE 1888-1892 GIRL'S HALL IN 1889.--ADDITIONAL SCHOOL ROOM.--McBRIDE DIES JAN. 29, 1892--MRS. McBRIDE. "Seest thou a man diligent in his business, he shall stand before kings, he shall not stand before mean men." ERA OF SUPT. McBRIDE About October 1, 1888 Mr. and Mrs. James F. McBride arrived to take charge of the work as superintendent and matron. Their arrival was the occasion of another joyful meeting on the part of the colored people who came to see the "suptender, and express their great joy over the new start that was to be given the school." Mrs. McBride at a later date, referring to the appearance of things on the day of their arrival at this, their new home, wrote: "I can still see how the old log house looked as we drove up; so dilapidated. A broken down porch ran along the front of it, and we had to climb over an old rail fence to get to it. Our first meal was corn bread made with water--without salt--and stewed dried peaches." When the school opened they were assisted by Miss Carrie Peck, Celestine Hodges and Mary Grundy. A new era was now inaugurated in the management of the school. Ownership as yet extended only to the farm buildings, which consisted of the old log house, and barn, purchased from Robin Clark, and the new school building. The first effort was now made to utilize two small fields of cleared land and the neighboring timber to raise stock and crops for the local support of the school. GIRLS' HALL In 1889 a commodious Girls' Hall was built having ample facilities for carrying and boarding a considerable number of students. The enjoyment of anything like ordinary home comforts on the part of the teachers began with the occupancy of this building. It became the home of the family of the superintendent, teachers and the girls; and the old log house was fitted up for occupancy by the boys. An additional room was also added to the school building. As the patronage of the school increased Mr. McBride felt there was need for a suitable Boys' Hall. He made the plans for it and, enlisting the interest of the women of Indiana, they provided the money for it. On January 29, 1892, after three and one half years of faithful service and before his hopes could be realized by merely starting the work on the new building, his death occurred and the progress of the improvement work was again arrested. Mr. McBride was educated at Hanover, Indiana, and had previously taught in several other schools. He was an active christian worker and had been ordained a ruling elder in the Presbyterian church. He anticipated the future needs of the school by planting fruit trees, that, during these later years, have borne bountiful crops of fruit. The other assistants of Mr. McBride were Mary Coffland, principal in 1889 and assistant principal 1890 to 1892; Miss Priscilla G. Haymaker, who returned to serve as principal in 1890 and continued until 1896. Other assistants were Anna McBride, Bettie Stewart, colored, and Rilla Fields who served from the fall of 1891 to the spring of 1895. MRS. J. F. McBRIDE During the next eight months the management of the institution devolved upon Mrs. McBride; and she continued to serve as matron until the spring of 1899, a period of eleven years. She gave to this institution many of her best years for service, and the best work of her life. She became specially interested in a number of young people at Oak Hill and aided them to attend other schools of our Board. She is now living at Coalgate, Okla. XVI ERA OF REV. EDWARD G. HAYMAKER 1892-1904 A TERM ANNOUNCEMENT.--BOYS' HALL 1893.--LAUNDRY AND SMOKEHOUSE, 1895--MR. AND MRS. HAYMAKER.--MRS. McBRIDE.--OTHER HELPERS.--ANNA AND MATTIE HUNTER.--MRS. M. E. CROWE.--PRAYING FOR WATER.--APPEAL FOR HOSPITAL.--CARRIE E. CROWE. "Learning is wealth to the poor, An honor to the rich, An aid to the young, A support and comfort to the aged." ERA, 1892-1904. On October 1, 1892, Rev. Edward Graham Haymaker became superintendent and continued to serve in that capacity until the spring of 1904. The following extracts, from a circular announcement, sent out in script form, for one of the early years of this period, are full of historic interest. "Oak Hill Industrial school for colored children is situated 5 miles north of Red river and 25 miles east of Goodland, the nearest R. R. station. School opens Oct. 2nd and will continue for a term of six months. It is important that all who attend be on hand at the opening. The sum of $10.00 for citizens and $12.00 for non-citizens will be charged which must be paid in advance, or assurance given for its payment. The price of tuition has been raised by the Board as the Choctaw fund seems to be cut off. It only amounts to 1 cent a meal or 3 cents a day for board and 1-1/2 cents for lodging. Cheap enough. The Board pays the large part of the bill. "Shoes must in all cases be provided by parents and guardians. Girls will be provided with other articles of clothing as far as possible, but no such provision can be made for boys. Books for all will be provided free, and all will be required to work certain hours each day. Boys will not be allowed to use tobacco. "A course of study has been arranged and pupils completing the course will be given a diploma, which will admit to any of the higher schools under the Board. "E. G. Haymaker, superintendent." BOYS' HALL During this period a Boys' Hall was erected in 1893, a laundry and smokehouse in 1895. In 1902 the school building was moved from the oak grove at the railway to its present position on the campus and the height of it increased. Most of the pupils were boarders and most of them were girls. The girls were encouraged to learn to sew that at Christmas they might be the wearers of a new calico dress made with their own hands. All were required to read the Bible and encouraged to commit the shorter catechism, the World's briefest and best commentary on the Bible. MR. AND MRS. HAYMAKER Rev. E. G. Haymaker was a native of Newlonsburg, Westmoreland County, Pa. He graduated from Washington and Jefferson College in 1885 and from the Western Theological Seminary at Pittsburgh, in 1890. In 1887 he was licensed by the Presbytery of Blairsville, and in 1890 was ordained by the Presbytery of Kittanning. After serving Midway and Union churches, Cowansville, Pa., two years, on Oct. 1, 1892, he became superintendent of Oak Hill and continued until the spring of 1904, eleven and a half years. Mrs. Haymaker, who became matron of the Boys Hall in 1894, was a native of Pennsylvania and was educated in the public schools and Wilson Female College at Chambersburg. She was a teacher at Wheelock Academy at the time of her marriage in 1894. During the period of service on the part of these and all previous helpers the necessaries of life had to be hauled long distances. The daily supply of water had to be hauled one and a half miles. The nearest post office most of the time was at Wheelock, ten miles east. Previous to 1902, when Valliant was founded the nearest trading stations were Paris and Clarksville, Texas, and from 1889 to 1903 Goodland, twenty-eight miles west. All the surfaced lumber in the Girls' and Boys' Halls, built in 1889 and 1894 had to be hauled from Paris. Travel over the rough crooked trails and unbridged streams in the timber, whilst not unhealthful in good weather, was always a slow, tedious experience, rather than a source of pleasure. To live at Oak Hill meant to enjoy a quiet secluded home, so far removed from the currents of the world's activity, as to be almost unaffected by them. Mrs. McBride continued to serve as matron until 1899, a period of ten years. The school had then a history of 13 years. On reviewing the signs of improvement and progress among the colored people that might be attributed to the good influence of the Oak Hill school, she wrote as follows: "The community has greatly changed since this school was established. When Mr. McBride and I went to the field murders were common in the neighborhood of Oak Hill, but they are rare now. The people are now improving their places, cultivating more land, planting orchards and building board houses, having several rooms. They have more stock than formerly and their outlook seems hopeful; but alas! their religious life is sadly neglected. One half the pupils are from Presbyterian families, and those who come from other denominations learn to love our church, its doctrines and form of worship." Parson Stewart of Doaksville, who had been the faithful pastor of the Oak Hill church from the time it was founded in 1869, continued to serve it once a month until the spring of 1893, a period of 24 years. He was then at the age of 70 honorably retired from the active ministry, and the superintendent of the academy, became his successor in the pastorate of the Oak Hill church. OTHER HELPERS. The other assistants, during the period Mr. Haymaker was superintendent were as follows: Principals: Anna T. Hunter, 1895 to 1901; Sadie Shaw, 1898-9; Carrie E. Crowe, 1901 to 1903; Verne Gossard, 1903 to 1904. Assistant Teachers: Mattie Hunter, 1895 to 1901; Mrs. Mary Scott, 1901-1903; Jessie Fisher, 1903 to 1904; Rilla Fields, 1892 to 1895; Howard McBride, 1892-93. Assistants in the Cooking Department: Mary Gordon, 1894-5; Fannie Green (Col.), Josephine McAfee (Col.), Sadie Shaw, 1897, Lou K. Early, Josie Jones, Lilly E. Lee, Mrs. Martha Folsom (Col.), 1902-3, and Mrs. Emma Burrows, 1903-4. Matrons: Mrs. M. E. Crowe, 1899-1903; Carrie Craig, 1903-04. ANNA F. and MATTIE HUNTER of Huntsville, Ohio, were educated, Mattie in Indianapolis and State Normal at Terra Haute, Indiana, and Anna in similar schools in Ohio. Anna taught at Wheelock, I. T., from 1885 to 1890, under the Home Mission Board, and then three years under the Freedmen's Board at Atoka. In 1895 she became a teacher at Oak Hill and, serving one year as an assistant, served four years as principal 1896 to 1901, being absent in 1898. Mattie was an assistant at Oak Hill from 1896 to 1901, having previously taught at Wheelock two years, 1889 to 1891. The work of these sisters at Oak Hill was greatly appreciated. A number of the views of the early days, that appear in this volume are due to their thoughtfulness, and skill in the use of a Kodak. MRS. M. E. CROWE. Mrs. M. E. (Rev. James B.) Crowe in 1899 became the successor of Mrs. McBride as matron of the Girls' Hall and continued until the spring of 1903. It seemed to her like the dawning of a new era in the life of a Choctaw Negro girl, when she entered a Christian training school like Oak Hill. After an opportunity for observation she wrote as follows: "It gives us no small satisfaction to see the rapid improvement during the first year on the part of those who come to our school. It is very gratifying to witness the surprise of their parents, when they return after the lapse of a few months. This work may seem small when compared with the great South; but these Choctaw Negroes are ours now to mould as we will. The time is near when this country will be thrown open to white settlers; the hordes,--both white and black--will then pour into this section and our opportunity will be gone if we do not seize it now. We have had this year the clearest evidence of God's approval of this work. Oak Hill needs much in the way of facilities. We are thankful for every word of sympathy and the help received this year from societies and friends. I would like to speak of individual pupils; of the transformation we see going on in their characters, and also of their efforts to profit by the instruction given." Rev. James B. Crowe, in 1887 had charge of the Presbyterian church of Remington, Indiana. In 1890 he was appointed by the Freedmen's Board to serve the colored people at Caddo and Atoka. Anna and Mattie Hunter were then teaching at Atoka, and Mrs. Crowe became a teacher at Caddo. In 1893 her health failed and, returning to the North he died soon afterward. Later Mrs. Crowe became matron at Oak Hill. She is now living at Hartford, South Dakota. PRAYING FOR WATER "The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want." When Oak Hill became a boarding school and a heavy draft was made on the old well, that at the first had attracted the school there, it "went dry." After this unexpected occurrence it never furnished an adequate supply of water for the school and stock. During all of the 90's great inconvenience was experienced in securing and keeping on hand an adequate supply during term time. When the supply was exhausted the work in the laundry and kitchen had to stop, until a new supply was obtained. The nearest sources of supply, during this "lack of water" period, were Clear Creek and a large spring near it, both one and a half miles distant. At first two barrels were used to haul water and the team had to make daily trips during term time. Later a long water tank, that held a wagon load, was substituted for the barrels. Hauling water in barrels kept two boys out of school a considerable part of their time. They did not seem to care, yet the feeling prevailed that it was not right. In the fall of 1899 when Mrs. M. E. Crowe became matron, the lack of water was so distressing it was made the subject of prayer. Mrs. F. D. Palmer, a secretary of the Board visited the school at this period and after an address, the question was asked, "How many will join in prayer for water to be given Oak Hill?" Quite a number responded and, at the ringing of the retiring bell, a circle of prayer would form in the girls' sitting room and sentence prayers were offered for that one object. About three weeks later, Mrs. Palmer met the women of the First Presbyterian church, Wilkinsburg, Pa., and, among other needs of the schools visited, referred to the urgent need for water and a cook stove with a large oven at Oak Hill. At the close of her address an elderly lady, Mrs. Rebecca S. Campbell, arose in the back part of the room and said, "My sister-in-law, Anna E. Campbell, taught in that school some years ago; and I will give one hundred dollars for a good well and wind wheel for it, that it may be a useful and worthy memorial of a dear son, Frank Campbell, who died at thirty in 1900, and of Annie's work in 1888." The Endeavor society added fifty dollars for a large cook stove that would serve as an oven. In this reminiscence, the faithful teacher, the circle of prayer, the visit of the secretary, the address, and the presence at the meeting of a woman with a responsive heart and offering, seemed links in a chain of providential circumstances, that made those who were interested feel sure the school at Oak Hill was "precious in the sight of the Lord." Their prayer for water had been heard and the answer was assured. In 1903 this difficulty was overcome by placing an aeromoter over the well, sunk the previous year, to do the pumping for the stock. The stock then enjoyed the free range of the timber and consisted of considerable herds of cattle and hogs. APPEAL FOR HOSPITAL "Ask and it shall be given you." In the early spring of 1903, writes Mrs. M. E. Crowe, matron, one of the girls became ill and feared she was going to die. A special bed was made for her in my own sitting room. After her recovery Mrs. Crowe wrote Mrs. Mary O. Becker, Mexico, N. Y., a personal stranger but previous contributor to the school, soliciting her aid to provide a hospital or separate room for the care of sick girls. A favorable response was received. A partition was removed to make a long room and provide for a stove. Soon afterwards there was received from the Women's Missionary Society represented by Mrs. Becker, three single beds, bedding, gowns, slippers, sponges, water-bottles and all the other articles necessary for the complete equipment of a sick room, including three changes of clothing for the sick. The promptness of this response and the generosity of the donation, awakened feelings of heartfelt gratitude, on the part of the recipients. A few years afterwards Mrs. Crowe related this incident to a group of ladies at Mitchell, South Dakota, standing in the recess of a bay window. The pastor of the church, now an evangelist, was busy in an adjoining room, separated only by a curtain. The reference to Mrs. Becker attracted his attention. At the close of her remarks he entered the room and stepping to the window, pointed to some pictures and said: "These pictures at your side are of Mrs. Becker's home and son. She helped me to get an education. That may not have meant much to others but it meant a great deal to me. It was a fulfilment of the promise. "I will guide thee with mine eye." Mrs. Crowe further states, "Many that were under my care became christians and I know that many of them are now doing great good. "One, when leaving for home at the close of the term, remarked, All things are going to be different with me at home, but I'm goin' to try to live a christian." "They need to be taught how to live as well as to die; So many have died. They are not careful of their feet. "They are unable to get good books at reasonable prices, and the shoddy stuff they do read only tends to make them dreamy and careless." CARRIE E. CROWE. Carrie E. Crowe, principal teacher at Oak Hill 1901 to 1903, and again in 1905, is one to be remembered as having devoted her best years and noblest gifts to the educational work among the Freedmen. It was during the early 80's and through the influence of her cousin Mrs. R. H. Allen, D. D., whose husband was then in the beginning of his work as secretary of the Presbyterian Board of Missions for Freedmen, she was led to consecrate herself to this greatly needed work. Her first commission was as leading teacher in Scotia Seminary, Concord, North Carolina. During one of the vacations while here, she and Miss D. J. Barber developed a new school at Hendersonville, North Carolina that was continued a number of years under the care of our Freedmen's Board and the personal direction of Sadia L. Carson. During another vacation she developed a school at Nebo, Marion county, N. C. This school came to be known as the Boston Mission. While she was caring for it, her father, who was a Colporteur of the American Tract Society, and her mother came and made their home with her. The maintenance of this school was not pleasing to all the people of that community; and when a total abstinence organization was effected and some regarded it as a menace to the local illicit manufacture of intoxicating liquors, the ill feeling was manifested by the complete destruction and loss of their home. Her parents were so distressed over this destructive work of the "white caps" and the seriousness of the loss sustained that both died a few months later at Durham, N. C. After the experience of these great trials that came in quick succession, she was requested to open a day and Sunday school and visiting Mission, among the operatives of the Pearl Cotton Mills at Durham. When failing health made it necessary to relinquish this work, it was extended to the other mills at that place and continued by the women of the Southern Presbyterian church, at whose request this work had been originally undertaken. On resuming work under our Freedmen's Board the first year was spent at Nottoway, near Burkeville, Nottoway county, Virginia. The next year, 1897, the Mary Holmes Seminary, destroyed by fire at Jackson Jan. 1, 1895, was rebuilt and re-opened at West Point, Miss., by Rev. Henry N. Payne, D. D. and she became the principal teacher in that institution. On March 6, 1899, their principal building was again destroyed by fire. After three years of faithful service and another sad experience that tended to impair her health, she became in 1901 principal at Oak Hill Academy, Indian Territory, but after two years, by special request, returned and resumed her former position as leading teacher at West Point, taking with her two pupils from Oak Hill, Lizzie Watt and Iserina Folsom. In the fall of 1905 she returned to Oak Hill Academy and remained until the month of February following, when she was called to the bedside of the late Mary Holmes at Rockford, Illinois. Her work since that date has been limited to more healthful localities, namely Gunnison, Utah, and the Spanish Mission in Los Angeles, California. At both of these places she served under commissions issued by our Board of Home Missions. She is now enjoying the rest of a quiet and frugal life in retirement at Escanto, California, within easy distance of a brother and wife, whose kindness is constant, and having as a companion, a friend, who is as a sister in their modest home. Her last teaching among the Freedmen was at Oak Hill Academy and she seemed to have a special interest in the young people of that section. This interest was awakened by the fact that during her first term of service at West Point several girls were sent there from the vicinity of Oak Hill, which was then represented as a new country, without previous educational and good church privileges. She had the earnest desire to follow these girls when they returned to their home communities to see to what extent their christian training at West Point would tend to elevate and ennoble their own lives and through them the lives of others. This is the desire of every friend of Christian education. It cannot be given too great emphasis. Pupils that give assurance they will "make good" find that there are friends somewhere, when their need is known, ready to "help them to help themselves." It ought to be a source of constant and life-long encouragement to every pupil, specially aided by friends in any of our christian educational institutions, to know that the personal interest of their teachers and friends follows them through life to see and know, that they have profited by their youthful christian training. They are expected to be teachers and leaders in thought and action in their respective communities. XVII BUDS OF PROMISE 1884 to 1904. FAVORED YOUTHFUL CHOCTAW FREEDMEN. "And Hannah took Samuel to the Temple of the Lord and said to Eli, the priest; I have lent him to the Lord as long as he liveth." The object of this chapter is to note the names and careers of a number of the young people that during the early days, were sent or encouraged to attend other educational institutions. As early as 1884, two years before Miss Hartford came to Oak Hill, Rev. Alexander Reid, of Atoka took the lead in arranging for two young men to go to Biddle University, Charlotte, North Carolina, and five young ladies to Scotia Seminary, at Concord, North Carolina. Later the teachers at Oak Hill aided and encouraged others to attend these and other christian institutions of learning established elsewhere by our Freedmen's Board. The present is an opportune time for noting the results, in the way of increased happiness and added usefulness to these young people by one or more years of special training in youth. In 1884 Richard D. Colbert of the Beaver Dam church was sent to the preparatory school at Biddle University and remained till June 1887. After his return he taught school eleven years. He was then licensed by the Presbytery, and has been preaching the gospel ever since that time. In 1884 Henry Williams of Doaksville, (Fort Towson) was sent to Biddle University and remained three years. On his return he became a teacher of public school and in 1892 married Annie Ball. In 1884 Celestine Hodges a daughter of Samuel and Charlotte Hodges, Wheelock, was sent to Scotia Seminary and remained four years. On her return in 1888, she became a teacher and has been teaching most of the time since, serving the first two years as an assistant at Oak Hill. She became custodian of the buildings, after the departure of Miss Hartford, and was teaching the Oak Hill school, when Mr. McBride arrived a month or so after its opening. Two years later she founded a school and Sunday school along Sandy Branch, that a few years later developed into the church, that bears that name. She is now located upon and improving her own farm southwest of Antlers. In 1884 Susan Homer, daughter of Wiley Homer, Grant, was sent to Scotia Seminary and remained two years. On her return she served as a teacher until she married Albert Brown. She is now a widow, occupying and improving her own farm, near Grant. In 1884 Marie Jones and her sister Fannie Jones, daughters of the late Caroline Prince (1911), and Virginia Shoals, daughter of J. Ross and Harriet Shoals, all from the Oak Hill church, were sent to Scotia Seminary. Marie Jones after spending some time at school engaged in teaching and later became the wife of Mr. Sands, a Methodist minister, now located at Kingston, New York. Fannie Jones remained at Concord, going to school and working in the city until 1898, when she located at St. Louis, where she became the wife of Mr. McNair, and taught school a number of years. She is now occupying the old home near Oak Hill. Virginia Shoals, now Mrs. Perry, returned in 1901. She has taught school several years and is now living on her own allotment of land near Red River, where she has founded and is endeavoring to maintain a christian home. Mary Homer (B. 1873) a daughter of Wiley Homer, Grant, after completing a course at Oak Hill attended a Choctaw government school, 1890 to 1894. She engaged in teaching until her marriage to Martin Shoals. She is now improving her own farm and educating her children at Oak Hill. Hattie Homer (B. 1876), a sister of Mary, after attending a Choctaw government school at Grant 1890 to 1894 and completing a course at Oak Hill, taught school until she became the wife of Nick Colbert, an elder of the Beaver Dam church, after his decease she married Bud Lewis and is now occupying and improving her own farm. Harriet Stewart (B. 1873), and Fidelia Perkins, daughter and step-daughter of Parson Stewart, in 1892 were taken by Mrs. Emma F. McBride, matron, to the Mary Allen Seminary at Crockett, Texas. They remained until Harriet was promoted to the senior and Fidelia to the junior class. Both of them engaged in teaching. Harriet Stewart after teaching a few years in 1898 became the wife of Rev. Pugh A. Edwards, a minister of the A. M. E. church and is now occupying and improving her own farm near Hugo. Fidelia in 1900 married Thomas H. Murchison, and located at Garvin, where she and her husband have taken a very active part in promoting the work of the Presbyterian church. She served as one of the first superintendents of the Sunday school and he as an elder. She is now serving her sixth year as teacher of the public school at Millerton. She is a good penman, an acceptable teacher and is making a record of commendable usefulness. [Illustration: REV. WILEY HOMER.] [Illustration: REV. WILLIAM BUTLER.] [Illustration: REV. AND HARRIET STEWART EDWARDS.] [Illustration: REV. AND MARIA JONES SANDS.] [Illustration: FAVORED YOUNG CHOCTAW FREEDMAN.] Martha Jones, a daughter of Caroline Prince, and Nannie Harris a daughter of Charles B. Harris, in 1893, were sent to Crockett, Texas. Nannie Harris contracted consumption and died the next year after returning from the school, and Martha Jones going with one of her teachers, located at Frankfort, Kentucky. Johnson Shoals, son of J. Ross and Hattie, was an early pupil at Oak Hill, and an assistant teacher at that institution during the last term, 1912-1913. He has enjoyed a four years' course of study at Tuskeegee, and four years at the Iowa State Agricultural college, Ames, Iowa. During the last four years he has been working on the old home farm during the summer and teaching school during the winter, which is an ideal plan for the average young man to pursue in early life. Malinda A. Hall in 1900, after completing the grammar course at Oak Hill Academy, was sent by Mrs. Edward G. Haymaker to Ingleside Seminary at Burkeville, Virginia, where she graduated in 1904. She has taught public school one or more years. Commencing in February 1905 she rendered five years of faithful and efficient service as teacher of domestic science and superintendent of the christian Endeavor society at Oak Hill Academy. In 1911 she became the wife of William Stewart and they are now improving their own new farm home south of Valliant. Edward D. Jones, a class mate of Malinda Hall and native of Bluff, Okla., after completing the grammar course in 1900, graduated from Jackson college, Jackson, Miss., five years later, and in 1909 from the Medical school at Raleigh, N. C. He has since been engaged in the practice of medicine in his native state and is now located at Nowata, where he has acquired an extensive and lucrative patronage. In 1903 when Carrie E. Crowe returned to Mary Holmes Seminary at West Point, Miss., she was instrumental in having Lizzie Watt and Iserina Folsom, both Oak Hill pupils, follow her to that institution. Lizzie Watt was from Arkansas. Going with her mistress to spend some time at Winona Lake, Ind., she there met Mrs. M. E. Crowe, matron at Oak Hill. So great was the interest awakened she became a pupil at Oak Hill that fall, and remained until she was encouraged to go to the Mary Holmes Seminary. When last heard from, through the head of that institution, she was teaching and doing well. Iserina Folsom, daughter of Moses and Martha Folsom, after her return from West Point in 1905, married Amos Ward, a farmer, and lives at Grant. Samuel A. Folsom of the Forest church, and early pupil at Oak Hill, in 1903-5 spent two years at Biddle University. On his return he taught one year at Oak Hill Academy, aided in the erection of the temporary Boys' Hall after the fire of Nov. 8, 1908; and, serving as foreman of the carpenters, made it possible for the superintendent to erect Elliott Hall in 1910, by employing only the labor of students and patrons of the academy. On becoming a member and elder of the Oak Hill church, he enjoyed the privilege of representing the Presbytery in the General Assembly at Denver in May, 1909. Returning later in search of health he died there at 29, Jan. 11, 1912. George Shoals, in 1903-05, spent two years at Biddle University. Since his return he married Redonia Grier and they are now improving their own farm near Grant. George Stewart, 1903-5 spent two years at Tuskegee. In 1910 he married Ara Brown, an Oak Hill student, and they are now industriously and successfully improving their own farm near the academy at Valliant. In 1904, when the Pittsburgh Mission at Atoka was closed, Mrs. O. D. Spade, one of the teachers, took Lucretia C. Brown, a pupil of eight years, to her home at Bellefontaine, Ohio, and enabled her to graduate from the Grammar and High schools of that city in 1910. In 1912, after rendering one year of earnest and faithful service as assistant matron at Oak Hill Academy, she became the wife of Everett Richards, one of the older students at Oak Hill that year; and they are now improving and enjoying their own farm home near Lukfata. When their home was gladdened by the birth of their first born on Christmas night, 1913, they named it, Lucian Elliott, in honor of Mrs. Spade, her youthful benefactress. Samuel S. Bibbs and Henry D. Prince in 1904 went to Biddle University and remained one year. Henry, after supporting his venerable mother until her decease in 1911, is now industriously engaged in improving his own farm near the academy. S. S. Bibbs in 1912 married Fannie McElvene, and is now located at Broken Bow, where he is making a good record in a new section of the country. On March 4, 1906, James Stewart and Mary Garland, two previously promising Oak Hill students, were married at the academy. They are now industriously and earnestly developing a comfortable home on their own farm. These incidents relating to the special education of the first young people among the Choctaw Freedmen are quite suggestive and interesting. These young people may be said to represent buds of promise found in the wilderness, where the wild flowers bloom that are cared for only by a Heavenly Father's eye. They are transplanted for a time, where they may receive Bible instruction, industrial training and a foretaste of the privileges of an enlightened christian civilization. They are then returned to the wilderness with the Bible in hand, like the Huguenots and Pilgrim Fathers, when they first came to America, to become the standard bearers of truth, purity and industry, founders of prosperous christian homes, and intelligent promoters of the best interests of their people. Their education and training was the first intelligent effort to provide a supply of competent native teachers and preachers for the colored people in the south part of the Choctaw Nation. However humble their station and limited their attainment, they represent the first generation of native teachers. It was also an effort to introduce into the homes of the people on their return, correct ideals of an intelligent christian civilization. It was the day of small things and of humble beginnings. It is encouraging to note that in all instances where they remained long enough in school to make sufficient progress, they became teachers and Sunday school superintendents on their return to their own neighborhoods. Some of them are still teaching and one after teaching eleven years has made a good record as a faithful minister of the gospel. [Illustration: THE PRESBYTERY OF KIAMICHI, GARVIN, OKLA., APRIL, 1914.] [Illustration: WILEY HOMER, HIS PEOPLE AND CHAPEL AT GRANT, 1904.] [Illustration: REV. T. K. BRIDGES.] [Illustration: REV. W. J. STARKS.] [Illustration: W. R. FLOURNOY.] [Illustration: DOLL BEATTY.] [Illustration: REV. P. S. MEADOWS.] [Illustration: JAMES R. CRABTREE.] Those that have married have in most instances become the founders of prosperous christian homes, and the most influential leaders in their several communities. By their industry, frugality and piety, they are proving themselves, in a very commendable way, to be "the salt of the earth and the light of the world," among their own people. Several of them died soon after their return from school. This is a disappointment that is more deeply felt in Mission work than elsewhere. The proportion of short lives in this list is perhaps no greater than would be found in similar lists taken from other sections of the country. Good health and the disposition to take good care of it are very important assets, on the part of those who are encouraged to take special courses of training in missionary educational institutions. These incidents were not without their influence on the mind of Alexander Reid in leading him to approve the plan of establishing a boarding school for the Freedmen in Indian Territory and Oak Hill as the most needy and favorable location for it. The Board was maintaining missions at Muskogee and Atoka, but those locations were not then attractive. One of his last acts in 1885, his last year, was the purchase of the Old Log House from Robin Clark for the use of the school. The fact this emigration to distant schools continued, after the establishment of Oak Hill as a boarding school, awakens a little surprise. Only a very limited number of them in later years, remained at Oak Hill to complete the Grammar course. The good old rule of local prosperity "Patronize Home Industries," or institutions, seemed to have been forgotten. The sentiment began to prevail that any school abroad was better than one at home. The general prevalence of this sentiment tended to put a slight check upon the successful development of the work at Oak Hill. It was bereft of the presence and co-operation of its older and best trained pupils, just when their example of self-control and habits of study were beginning to exert a good influence over the new ones. XVIII CLOSED IN 1904 In the spring of 1904, as there was no one available to manage it, the school was closed, and a student was entrusted with the care of the buildings, stock and crops. As this was the year the land in Indian Territory was allotted to the Indians and their former slaves, individually, Mr. Haymaker remained until he secured the allotment of two tracts of forty acres each, on which the buildings of the academy were located, one to a graduate student and the other to a friendly full blood Choctaw woman; with the understanding that, when the restrictions should be removed, the allottees or owners would sell them to the Board of Missions for Freedmen, to be held and used as a permanent site for the institution. In August Miss Bertha L. Ahrens of Grant, a missionary teacher of the Board, became the custodian of the buildings and other property belonging to the institution. A few days later, Solomon Buchanan, a former student from Texas, returned and making his home there, began to take care of the stock and crops. His general efficiency, manifest interest and good staying quality enabled him to become ever since a very valuable helper, during term time. XIX REOPENING AND ORGANIZATION 1905. TWO-FOLD ORGANIZATION OF THE WORKERS.--NEW FEATURES--CHARACTER BUILDING.--VISIT OF MRS. V. P. BOGGS. "Do all the good you can, By all the means you can, In all the ways you can, In all the places you can, At all the times you can, To all the people you can, As long as ever you can."--Wesley. After two weeks of voluntary service in the vicinity of the Academy, visiting churches, schools, institutes and towns, making the trips through the timber with a team of faithful but superannuated mules, and delivering addresses in as many as eight different places, during the month preceding, the academy was re-opened for a three months term in February, 1905, under the management of Rev. and Mrs. R. E. Flickinger of Fonda, Iowa. They had for their assistants, Miss Adelia M. Eaton, Fonda, Iowa, matron, Miss Bertha L. Ahrens, principal, Miss Malinda A. Hall and Henry C. Shoals, assistants in the cooking and farming departments, and Solomon Buchanan, a volunteer student accompanist and general helper. TWO FOLD ORGANIZATION OF THE WORKERS The moral and religious instruction was organized after the following manner. The Bible was supplied and read by all as a daily text book in the school. The lady principal served as superintendent of the Sunday school, and as organist and chorister at all the other meetings. The assistant superintendent took charge of the primary department of the Sunday school, the matron, the Bible class; the assistant matron, the intermediate class, and the general management of the work among the Christian Endeavorers, selecting and aiding the leaders in their preparation for and conduct of their meetings on Sabbath evenings, in which all the students were required to participate. Mr. Buchanan served as organist for the Sunday school and accompanist on the piano at the other meetings. The superintendent, in addition to attending and participating in the Sabbath school and Endeavor meetings, which were held on Sabbath mornings and evenings, conducted the preaching service on Sabbath morning, the Bible memory meetings at 2:30 on Sabbath afternoons and the mid-week service, which was held on Friday evenings. VOICE CULTURE. The training and development of their youthful voices, for efficient participation by song or story in religious meetings on their return home, was made a distinct aim and object at the Friday evening meetings. This special vocal training was based on the fact, that in all the recorded instances of the manifestation of divine or spiritual power, it has been communicated through the use or instrumentality of the human voice. The annual results, of this training of their voices for a sacred use, were a very gratifying surprise to all the patrons of the school. The superintendent also conducted the family worship at which all of the students and teachers were present. It consisted in the daily reading of the Scriptures and prayer immediately at the close of the morning and evening meals. Twice a week the young people united in repeating a Psalm or other appropriate selection and the Lord's Prayer. He also invariably attended and participated by a word of encouragement in the Sunday school and Endeavor meetings. CHARACTER BUILDING It was the constant endeavor of the superintendent to make the hours spent together on Sabbath afternoons and Friday evenings, not only the most instructive and profitable of all the week to the students, in the matter of their character building, but also the most joyous and happy to all of them. All cares and troubles were forgotten, while repeating responsively and cheerily together many of the most thrilling and comforting passages of the Bible, or singing merrily the beautiful hymns, plantation melodies, sacred anthems and patriotic glees, that enlisted mutual attention and interest. The joyous blending of their many happy, youthful voices, sometimes soft and low, then rising and swelling with all possible animation into full chorus, while singing together the "Beautiful Story" that "Never Grows Old" and "Must be Told," "Break Forth into Joy," "Before Jehovah's Throne," "Hail to the Flag," "Freedom's Banner" and similar familiar selections, are sweet and blessed treasures of the memory, that are invariably recalled with pleasure and delight. NEW FEATURES In addition to the branches that had been previously taught, arrangements were now made for special instruction in voice culture and vocal music, one hour a week for all the pupils; and the young men in agriculture, horticulture, house-painting, carpentry and masonry. The aim of these new departments was to awaken an intelligent interest and make every one familiar with the principles that would enable them to make The Farm, The Garden, The Orchard, The Dairy, The Cattle, The pigs and Poultry, all a source of greatest profit to them as owners. An earnest effort was also made to check the stream of migration to distant schools, by bringing the work at Oak Hill to such a degree of efficiency as to meet the real needs of every young person in its vicinity. This was successfully accomplished by a voluntary and gratuitous establishment, on the part of the superintendent and principal, of Normal and Theological departments, that were maintained as long as there was any real need for them; the former until the fall of 1907, the last year under territorial rule preceding the establishment of county normal institutes; and the latter in 1910, when the last licentiate was ordained to the full work of the gospel ministry. VISIT OF MRS. V. P. BOGGS, SECRETARY The late Mrs. V. P. Boggs, secretary of the Women's Department of the Freedmen's Board was a welcome visitor in the fall of 1907. Her observations were afterwards summarized in a printed report as follows: "Since the reopening of Oak Hill Academy in February 1905 it has had an era of prosperity that promises permanency. Many improvements have been made, new buildings for farm purposes have been erected, much of the land has been re-fenced and is gradually being brought under a higher state of cultivation, and there is a general improvement in the appearance of the entire premises, that reflects credit on the management, as well as upon the boys who do the work. The literary work progresses under well trained teachers, and a normal department has been added that teachers may be better fitted to supply the schools, which it is hoped will be maintained in the south part of the Territory. The home department is managed, to the comfort and happiness of all by the wife of the superintendent, who 'looketh well to the ways of her household.' The matron's duties, which include the general management of all matters relating to the work in the Girls' Hall, including the sewing, laundry and kitchen departments, are performed with conscientiousness and enthusiasm. A former graduate student is rendering very efficient service in the cooking department." "The property of the Board, farm and buildings, is the most attractive and prosperous in appearance in that region. The location is beautiful, the buildings good for that section are well painted, the ground well fenced and in good order. Some good farm buildings have been erected by the students and they have painted other large buildings in a very workmanlike manner. Considerable land has been redeemed from a state of wildness. Thrift and order are apparent everywhere indoors and out."--V. P. Boggs. Secretary Woman's Department. SUCCESSION OF HELPERS. The succession of helpers during the eight years, 1905 to 1912, inclusive, when Rev. R. E. Flickinger was Superintendent, was as follows: Assistant Superintendent: Mrs. Mary A. Flickinger, Feb. 1, 1905, to Aug. 1, 1909. Principals: Miss Bertha L. Ahrens, Feb. 1, 1905,-Feb. 1, 1911, having been previously custodian of the premises from Aug. 1, 1904; Mrs. W. H. Carroll, Feb. 1, to May 27, 1911; Rev. W. H. Carroll, Oct. 1, 1911, to June 13, 1912. Matrons: Adelia M. Eaton, Feb. 1, 1905, to June 5, 1908; Mrs. John Claypool, 1908-09; Mary I. Weimer, 1909-1911; Jo Lu Wolcott, Feb. 27 to June 13, 1912. Assistant Teachers: Carrie E. Crowe, Oct. 1, 1905 to Jan. 31, 1906; Mrs. Sarah L. Wallace, Feb. 1 to Mar. 31, 1906; Mary A. Donaldson, April 1 to May 31, 1906; Rev. W. H. Carroll, Oct. 28, 1907, to May 28, 1908, and Oct. 25, 1909, to Apr. 28, 1910; Samuel A. Folsom, Oct. 26, 1908, to May 28, 1909; Solomon H. Buchanan, Nov. 15, 1910, to 1911; Mrs. W. H. Carroll, Oct. 16, 1911, to June 13, 1912. Assistants in the Cooking Department and Sewing Room: Malinda A. Hall, Feb. 1, 1905, to June 30, 1909, and Nov. 15, 1910, to June 15, 1911; Mrs. Virginia Wofford, 1909; Ruby Moore and Ruby Peete, 1909 to 1910; Lucretia C. Brown, 1911 to 1912; Ora Perry, 1912. Pianist and Librarian: Solomon H. Buchanan, 1905-1912, except 1909. Foremen, Carpenters: Samuel A. Folsom and Edward Hollingsworth in 1910. Whilst the great need of the colored people in the South is the opportunity for intellectual, manual, moral and religious training, to all of which they are readily responsive and make encouraging improvement, it remains a fact, that the material development of the southern states depends in a great measure upon the general education and intelligence of the colored people; and that a manifestation of prejudice against their general education through public or mission schools is sinful, impolitic and unpatriotic. It is only a few years since the report was made that in Florida 64.5 per cent, in South Carolina, 69.5, and in Louisiana, 76.4 per cent of the children of school age were unprovided for with school privileges. Under favorable conditions it is a delightful work to supply a need for which there is so great and urgent a demand, and such manifest appreciation, and, that means so much in promoting the intelligence and thereby increasing the happiness and prosperity of so many of the common people, whose general education tends to make our nation greater. [Illustration: MRS. MARY A. FLICKINGER.] [Illustration: MRS. JOHN CLAYPOOL.] [Illustration: BERTHA L. AHRENS.] [Illustration: ADELIA M. EATON.] [Illustration: ROBERT ELLIOTT FLICKINGER.] XX THE PROSPECTUS IN 1912 SCHOOL AND WORK PERIODS.--FARM WORK.--IMPROVEMENT WORK.--SAWING WOOD A PICNIC. "Art and science soon would fade And commerce dead would fall, If the farmer ceased to reap and sow For the farmer feeds them all." In 1912 the prospectus of the academy included the following announcements: Free tuition and books are accorded neighborhood pupils under thirteen, that attend regularly after the time of their enrollment. Those over fourteen are expected to pay fifty cents a month. The hope is expressed that every one living near the Academy will see the propriety of making the same noble endeavor to enjoy its valuable privileges for improvement that is made by the many patrons who live at a distance. An opportunity will be afforded a limited number of both boys and girls over fourteen years to work out their term expenditures, with the exception of $5.00 which must be paid at the time of enrollment. This opportunity to work one's own way through school is given to two boys and two girls during the term at one time and to others during the vacation period. After spending six and one-half or seven hours at study in the class room, three hours, in the latter part of the afternoon of each day, are devoted to industrial training and work on the farm, in the shop, kitchen, laundry or sewing room. All work during this period, is required to be done by the rule, which is first stated at the time of assignment, and afterwards illustrated during the hours of work; and the student is required to work as silently, thoughtfully and earnestly as during the hours previously devoted to study. Parents are requested to note that girls are not allowed to wear white waists, skirts or dresses, except at the time of commencement and that each student must supply their own toilet soap, combs and shoe polish. The Bible is a required text book and every student is expected to commit an average of one verse and read one chapter each day during the term. The passages committed to memory are recited in concert to the superintendent at the Bible Memory Service held every Sabbath afternoon. The actual cost of carrying a boarding student through the term is about $50.00. Every student that pays $28.00 or does extra work to that amount enjoys a scholarship of equal amount contributed by the many friends who are supporting the institution. Under this arrangement the student that does most to help himself receives most from the friends who are ready to co-operate with him. The doors of the Academy are thus open to the penniless and homeless boy or girl, if they have a desire to be useful and are willing to work; but young people who lack funds and at the same time are unwilling to do extra work to cover the first half of their expenses, are not regarded as either promising or desirable. Since one half the cost of carrying boarding students at the Academy has to be provided for by the generous offerings of friends, who are interested in their temporal, moral and spiritual welfare, every student is expected to show his appreciation of this fact, by being always thoughtful and earnest, during all the hours set apart each day for study and work. Only those who learn quickly how to be silent, thoughtful and earnest workers, make that improvement in study and work which forms the chief element in the reward of teachers and friends. The student that makes the most encouraging progress is the one that enters at the beginning of the term and continues to attend and work faithfully until the end of it. The annual report of the superintendent of Indian Territory for the year 1907 shows that at the Indian Orphan School at Wheelock, eight miles east of Oak Hill, the cost of carrying each pupil a term of nine months was $155.17, or an average of $17.05 a month. A comparison of these figures with the cost at that time at Oak Hill, $25.00 a term of seven months, or $3.60 a month, it is easy to see that the economy practiced in a mission school is much greater than in one under government control. SCHOOL AND WORK PERIODS Provision is made for eight hours of school work on the part of the teachers, the first five days of every week of the term, and one hour on Saturday evening. These are daily enjoyed by all the smaller pupils. But all over fourteen years, after enjoying 6-1/2 hours in the school room, are expected to work three hours each day in the latter part of the afternoon, and on Saturdays until 2:30 p.m. The two leading objects that are attained by this arrangement are, the opportunity to give and receive practical instruction in the rules, or best methods of doing every part of the work in the home or on an improved farm; and enable those for whose benefit the institution has been established, to perform the work that is necessary to be done for the daily comfort of the students during term time, and the successful and economical management of the farm which now contains 270 acres, of which 140 acres are enclosed and 100 are under cultivation. THE WOOD SUPPLY The sawing and splitting of the wood at the two woodpiles, to meet the daily demands of the many and large stoves, that have to be kept constantly running, is the regular morning and evening chore of those of the boys, that are not otherwise employed at that time about the buildings or stock. The preparation of the fuel in the timber and again at the woodpiles is, to say the least, a long and rather monotonous employment. Boys who do not manifest an interest in this part of their early training, by reason of its necessity and general healthfulness, are prone to regard it as a very wearisome employment, until they acquire skill in the matter of position and movement, and then their delight is manifested in efforts to outdo one another. THE FARM WORK In order that friends at a distance may know something of the regular methods of work during the three-hour work periods of each day and during the period of the term the following notes are added: During the first four or more weeks of the term, all the available student help is busily employed gathering in the crops of cowpeas, potatoes, corn and cotton. In order that their undivided attention may be given to this important work at this time, all the wood needed for fuel during this period has to be brought from the timber, before the end of the previous term. As soon as the crops have been gathered the long campaign for the year's supply of wood in the timber,--about 25 cords,--has to be undertaken and continued from week to week, especially on Saturdays until the end of the term. If the necessary materials are on hand, this is the golden time to start the older and best trained boys on the permanent improvement work outlined for the year, such as fence building, sprouting, clearing of new lands, the construction of conveniences for the school, home or farm, the repair of old, the erection and painting of new buildings and finally, the preparation of the ground and planting of the crops for the next year. The boys, however, are never taken to the timber or fields when the ground is damp or the weather is cold and unfavorable. When from these causes they cannot work to advantage, they continue their studies in the class room, all the day. The two winter months of January and February have been ordinarily unfavorable for student work in the timber or fields. The work is then, to a considerable extent, limited to the carpenter shop, cellar, or indoor work on new buildings. IMPROVEMENT WORK In order that the work performed by the students during the industrial hours of each week, may serve to promote the welfare of the institution as well as for training the individual, it devolves upon the superintendent and matron to have ready suitable work, and all the tools and materials necessary to execute it, when the students are ready for assignment. This work includes the chores morning and evening, the preparation of the fuel--about twenty-five cords annually, first in the timber and then at the woodpile--the cultivation of the farm and garden, the harvesting of the crops and the care of the stock, all of which may be termed necessary routine work. In addition thereto there may be permanent improvement work, such as the clearing of new lands for cultivation and enclosing them with good fences, the repair of old and the erection of new buildings and the manufacture of articles of furniture or comfort, for the better equipment of the many rooms in the buildings. A plain statement of these two kinds of work will indicate to nearly every one the prime importance of endeavoring to accomplish as much improvement work as possible each term. There is now more of this improvement work pressing for immediate attention than possibly may be done during the next three years, but it needs now to be contemplated, intelligently provided for, and then executed as speedily as possible. SAWING WOOD, A PICNIC Saturday forenoon has come to be recognized as the special fuel or timber day of each week. It is a busy and bustling day for all. For this day's work two dozen boys are organised and equipped with axes, a splitting outfit, four crosscut saws and the mule team. The axe men are divided into two squads, the axe men or stumpers who cut down trees, and the trimmers who trim the trunks and large branches. Three boys are assigned to each crosscut, two of whom are expected to keep the saw running steadily, while the third one, who is supposed to be resting, carries a light lever and, with the weight of his body raises the log under the crosscut, so it will not bind the saw as it goes through it. By taking turns at the saw and lever, the hardness of this work is greatly relieved, and it sometimes is surprising to see the amount of work, done by the small boys, when they have "a mind to work." If the logs are large or the saw runs hard, it is not unusual for them to couple together and merrily make the running of the saw a four-handed affair. The superintendent, or one of the older boys acting as a foreman, goes before the saws and with an axe marks out the work for them, so they can work speedily, and so that every piece that may serve for posts, long or short, or for fence props or rails, is cut the proper length. The boys have worked faithfully and industriously in the timber on Saturday forenoons. A rest of fifteen minutes has always been given, about the middle of the forenoon. When the signal is given, they assemble at some convenient place, where there are several logs suited for seats; for all are required to be seated as the best way to rest their weary limbs, during this period. A pail of fresh water and a paper sack filled with soda crackers is always provided for their enjoyment at this time. A smile of pleasure and delight is sure to light up the countenance of every boy, when, taking his turn, he thrusts his hand into the paper sack and draws therefrom his appointed number of crackers. At these periods of rest and lunch all usually seem as happy as if they were enjoying a regular social picnic dinner. Amid the merriment and pleasantry of the occasion they seem to forget all consciousness of weariness, or thought that their work is hard, and resume it again with pleasure and delight. XXI OBLIGATION AND PLEDGES. OBLIGATION.--ENDEAVOR.--SELP-HELP STUDENTS.--TEMPERANCE.--THE INTOXICATING CUP.--PRESIDENT LINCOLN.--PRESIDENT HARRISON. "Thy vows are upon me O God. I will pay my vows unto the Lord, in the presence of all his people."--David. I. THE STUDENT'S OBLIGATION On being received as a student of this institution, I do solemnly promise, God helping me, that I will be obedient to the rules of this institution and endeavor to prove myself an earnest student and thoughtful, faithful worker; that I will be prompt in responding to every call, pay the cost of repair to any furniture or glass broken, as a result of thoughtlessness or carelessness on my part; and that I will refrain from the use of profane or angry words to man or beast; and also from the use of tobacco, cigarettes, snuff, dice, gamblers cards, and intoxicating liquors as a beverage, while I enjoy the privileges of the academy. II. CHRISTIAN ENDEAVOR PLEDGE Trusting in the Lord Jesus Christ for strength, I promise him that I will strive to do whatever he would like to have me do; that I will pray to Him and read the Bible every day, and that, so far as I know how, throughout my whole life, I will endeavor to lead a christian life. III. PLEDGE OF SELF-HELP STUDENTS As long as I am accorded and enjoy the privilege of a home and of a student at Oak Hill Academy, recognizing the fact that my time during the periods of work does not belong to me, but to the institution; I solemnly pledge my word and honor, God helping me, that I will refrain from making any engagement elsewhere, that might interfere with the faithful and constant performance of the duties devolving on me at Oak Hill; that I will conscientiously keep my word as to the time of my return, when absent from my home at the academy; that I will yield a prompt and cordial obedience to all the rules and regulations relating to the conduct of students at the academy, and that I will constantly endeavor to show myself worthy the confidence and esteem of the superintendent and his helpers; and not leave the institution until I have honorably met all of my obligations. IV. TOTAL ABSTINENCE PLEDGE "Abstain from all appearance of evil."--Paul. "With malice toward none and charity for all, I the undersigned do pledge my word and honor, "GOD HELPING ME "To abstain from all Intoxicating Liquors as a beverage and that I will, by all honorable means, encourage others to abstain." An acre of government land costs $1.25, and a bottle of whiskey about $2.00. How strange that so many people prefer the whiskey. [Illustration: The Intoxicating Cup] THE INTOXICATING CUP Within this glass destruction rides, And in its depths does ruin swim; Around its foam perdition glides, And death is dancing on its brim. WHAT THEY THINK ABOUT IT A curse.--Queen Victoria. A scandal and a shame.--Gladstone. It stupefies and besots.--Bismark. The devil in solution.--Sir Wilfred Lawson. The mother of want and the nurse of crime.--Lord Brougham. Saloons are traps for workingmen.--Earl Cairnes. ABRAHAM LINCOLN The following is the pledge of Abraham Lincoln, the great emancipator. "Whereas, the use of alcoholic liquors as a beverage is productive of pauperism, degradation and crime, and believing it is our duty to discourage that which produces more evil than good; we, therefore pledge ourselves to abstain from the use of intoxicating liquors as a beverage." When Lincoln signed the pledge he was a tall awkward youth, and the only one that went forward at the meeting in the log school house to sign it that night. When he was president, "Old Uncle John," who induced him to sign it, called on him at the White House and Lincoln said: "I owe more to you than to almost any one of whom I can think. If I had not signed the pledge in the days of my youthful temptation, I should probably have gone the way of a majority of my early companions, who lived drunkard's lives and are now filling drunkard's graves." After reconstruction, the next great question is the overthrow of the liquor traffic.--Abraham Lincoln. WILLIAM HENRY HARRISON "Gentlemen I have now twice refused your request to partake of the wine cup. That should be sufficient. I made a resolve when I started in life, that I would avoid strong drink: I have never broken that pledge. I am one of a class of seventeen young men who graduated; the other sixteen fill drunkard's graves, all due to the pernicious habit of wine drinking. I owe my health, happiness and prosperity to the fact I have never broken my pledge of total abstinence. I trust you will not again urge me to do so." This noble answer was given to friends who were dining with him at the old Washington House in Chester, Pa., when he was a candidate for president. XXII BIBLE STUDY AND MEMORY WORK AIMS IN BIBLE STUDY.--SELF-CONTROL.--TRAINING THE MEMORY AND VOICE.--DIVINE TRUTH THE NEED OF ALL.--ONE BOOK IN THE HOME.--COMMITTED TO MEMORY.--THE BIBLE ONLY IN SUNDAY SCHOOL.--A LIFE-LONG GOLDEN TREASURE.--A FOUNTAIN OF BLESSING.--UPLIFTING POWER IN NEW HEBRIDES. "Hold fast the form of sound words; ... that ye may be able to give to every one that asketh, a reason of the hope that is in you."--Paul. The development of the Bible-memory work, that, during the later years of this period, moved forward very rapidly, was one of small beginnings and slow progress at first. The meetings were held at half past two o'clock on Sabbath afternoons. The girls were formed into one class and their meeting was held in the sitting room of the Girls' Hall. The boys met immediately afterwards in the office of the superintendent in the Boys' Hall. The weekly lesson consisted in committing to memory five to seven verses in the more important chapters of the New Testament and Psalms, commencing with the ten commandments in Exodus XX, 1-17. The passages assigned were read and studied every week in the school under the direction of the principal, in order that all the younger pupils, as well as the older ones, might be able to repeat them on Sabbath. At the meetings, which were conducted by the superintendent, the lesson assigned would have to be read over several times in concert before their voices would acquire the right movement and expression. The effort to train the memory, by committing scripture verses, was one from which many of them shrank as being too irksome, and the weekly lesson of one verse a day would have to be repeated a number of times, before most of them could continue to be heard to the end of the lesson. The previous lessons were then reviewed, to fasten them more firmly on the memory. The advance lesson was then read together that all might surely know its place and extent. AIMS IN BIBLE STUDY "Accurate Bible Knowledge" and "Character building" were the keynotes of the instruction given at these meetings. A third object, that was constantly kept in view, was the training and development of their youthful voices for public address in religious meetings. This was accomplished by making a large use of the concert drill, both in reading and repeating the classic and beautiful passages of the Bible. The tendency of the new pupils to speak and act badly from sudden impulse, was freely admitted at these meetings. As a means of enabling them to put a check on their impulsive dispositions and acquire the art of self-control, the following questions were prepared and asked of each, at the opening of the lesson hour. 1. During the week that has passed, have you refrained entirely from the use of profane or quarrelsome words and actions? 2. Have you been uniformly respectful and obedient to all of your teachers? 3. Are you using your spare moments each day for some good purpose, that will promote your best interests? The cordial and helpful co-operation of Miss Adelia Eaton, our first matron, in connection with this Bible memory work at the period when it was most difficult to awaken interest and enthusiasm in it, was very greatly appreciated. Although her presence was not required, she voluntarily arranged to be present at every meeting. She seldom if ever participated in the meetings, but she invariably arranged the room in the most convenient form for the meeting and continued to patiently aid and encourage those of the girls, to whom this memory work was the hardest, until the last moment before the meeting. The increased attendance of later years, made it advisable to hold these Bible meetings in the chapel, and there both classes met together. TRAINING THE MEMORY The memory, the natural power of retaining and recalling what has been learned, is the basis of all progress in study. It is the faculty that enriches the mind by preserving the treasures of labor and industry. The beauty and perfection of all the other mental faculties are dependent on it. Without its aid there can be no advancement in knowledge, arts and sciences; and no improvement in virtue, morals and religion. Those who cannot read acquire knowledge by hearing, and their vision is occupied principally with large rather than small objects. It was soon a matter of observation that the children of illiterate parents in whose homes there are no books, find it very difficult to learn to read, after they have passed fourteen years of age. That which is natural and easy in childhood, becomes more difficult the longer it is delayed. They form the habit and find it much easier to acquire knowledge like their parents by the ear, or "by air" as it is sometimes called, than by poring over the letters and words of a printed line in a book. Many that are over fourteen before they are sent to school shrink from the mental discipline and labor of learning things so small as letters and words, and seek relief by looking elsewhere than on the printed page. By the aid of a memory that has been trained for service in childhood, one is able to learn easily and rapidly; and also to express their treasures of knowledge in such a way as to give life and animation to every word that is uttered. The memory is very responsive to training in childhood and youth. Its retentive power may then be very greatly increased by judicious exercise and labor, which have that distinct end in view, just as the limbs gradually grow stronger by daily exercise. If it is accustomed to retain a moderate quantity of knowledge in childhood, it is strengthened and fitted for more rapid development in youth. That is the golden period to learn the "form of sound words," that shall exert a moulding influence upon the entire life. Repeated acts form a habit, and habits of thought may be aided by a methodical system in the arrangement of intellectual possessions. Frequent review, repetition, conscious delight in the things to be learned and association of the new with the known, are important aids to the memory, that may be profitably observed throughout the entire life. DIVINE TRUTH THE NEED OF ALL Truth is the natural food for the mind and does for it what bread and meat do for the body. The mental faculties include the intellect, the power of thought; the memory, the conscience, the power that enables one to distinguish between right and wrong; and the judgment, the power of decision. There are no truths so well adapted for the best training and development of all these faculties, as the great and important ones that God has so attractively and plainly revealed in His holy word. The poetic parts of the Old Testament and the words of Jesus in the New, are adapted alike for the comfort and instruction of childhood, manhood and old age. "Man shall not live by bread alone, but by every word that proceedeth out of the mouth of God." "I am the living bread which came down from heaven; if any man eat of this bread he shall live forever." ONE BOOK IN THE HOME One aim of the requirement to commit one verse a day in the Bible presented to each pupil was, of course, to make even those, whose terms in school were the shortest, familiar with some of the most important parts of the one book, they were expected to take to their homes; but another distinct aim was to develop the memory of every pupil so as to make the mastery of other books easier and their progress in them more rapid. Every pupil was encouraged to train their memory to be their ready and faithful servant, so that it would recall a line, a verse or a rule, when it had been carefully traced the third time, by the eye. The definitions and rules form the most important parts of most of the necessary text-books above the primary department. The future value of these studies, as well as the pupils advance in them while in school, depends on his ability to understand, apply and easily remember the rules. The thorough teacher will discard the use of those superficial authors, whose books lack these important parts, tersely and plainly stated. The sooner that a pupil learns to follow, obey and never to violate a rule, the sooner does he begin to advance rapidly and profitably in his studies. COMMITTED TO MEMORY The memory work of a term, according to the rule, one verse a day, would usually carry the student through the following passages: The Oak Hill Endeavor Benediction, Numbers 6, 24-26 and Rev. 1, 5-6; The Ten Commandments Exodus 20, 1-17; Words of Comfort, Confession and Devotion, Psalms 1st, 8th, 19th, 23d, 27th, 50th, 51st, 90th, 103d, part of the 119th, 122d and 150th; Wise Counsels, Proverbs 3d and 4th; A new heart promised, Ezekiel 36, 25-32; John Baptist's Message, Matthew 3d; The Beatitudes and Sermon on the Mount, Matthew 5th; The Divinity of Christ, John 1st; His Farewell Address, John 14th; The Bible inspired, 2 Timothy 3, 14-17. Also the first half of the Westminster Shorter Catechism, with its ever memorable beginning, "Man's Chief end is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever." Every new pupil is encouraged to read the Bible in course, an average of one chapter a day or seven each week, making report of progress at the Bible hour each Sabbath afternoon. By this plan many of them read, during their first term, the books of Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Acts and Romans. THE BIBLE ONLY IN THE SUNDAY SCHOOL The Inter-National lessons are always prepared for the Sunday school hour, but always and only from the Bible in the hand of each scholar. The teachers only are supplied with other helps, and even these are used only during the period of preparation. The Bible, black board, map and charts only are used by the teacher and students during the Sunday school session. This use of the Bible only in the Sunday school, served to create a demand for it on the part of every scholar and attendant, and to increase the familiarity of each with their own copy of it. It is a good plan for any teacher or Sunday school, that wishes to promote reading and circulation of the Scriptures in the homes of the people. A LIFE-LONG GOLDEN TREASURE He has a rich treasure whose memory is well stored with words from the Holy Scriptures. Such a treasure is "more to be desired than gold, yea, than much fine gold." It is a life-long treasure to those who secure it in youth. It cannot be taken away, but it may be imparted to others. Whoever shares this treasure with others, sows the good seed of the Kingdom of God and realizes in his own soul, that he "who sows bountifully shall also reap bountifully." Committing the scriptures to memory was a delightful employment to the Psalmist, who said: "Thy word have I hid in my heart," and again, "Let my heart be sound in thy statutes." "Thy statutes have been my songs in the house of my pilgrimage." "I will never forget thy precepts; for with them thou hast quickened me and caused me to hate every false way." "Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path." "Order my steps in thy word; for the entrance of thy words giveth light." A BEAUTIFUL TRIBUTE The following beautiful tribute to the Bible, printed by Soper and Son, Detroit, was pasted on the inside of the front lid of every Bible presented to the students. This Book contains the mind of God, the state of man, the way of salvation, the doom of sinners, and the happiness of believers. Its doctrines are holy, its precepts are binding, its histories are true, and its decisions are immutable. Read it to be wise, believe it to be safe, and practise it to be holy. It contains light to direct you, food to support you, and comfort to cheer you. It is the traveler's map, the pilgrim's staff, the pilot's compass, the soldier's sword, and the Christian's charter. Here Paradise is restored, heaven opened, and the gates of hell disclosed, Christ is its grand subject, our good its design, and the glory of God its end. It should fill the memory, rule the heart, and guide the feet. Read it slowly, frequently, prayerfully. It is a mine of wealth, a paradise of glory, and a river of pleasure. It is given you in life, will be opened in judgment, and be remembered forever. It involves the highest responsibility, rewards the greatest labor, and condemns all who trifle with its sacred contents. A FOUNTAIN OF BLESSINGS The Bible is an infallible revelation from God in regard to his own character, will and works. One result of a practical faith in it is the development of an heroic missionary spirit. The noblest heroisms that mark the history of the human race have had their inspiration in implicit faith in the Bible. "Men in whom life was fresh and strong, and women, the embodiment of gentleness and delicacy, have met the martyrs death of fire, singing until the red-tongued flames licked up their breath." It is the fountain from which have come the principles of a pure morality and "all sweet charities." It has been the motive power that has effected the regeneration and reformation of millions of men. "It has comforted the humble, consoled the mourning, sustained the suffering and given trust and triumph to the dying." Rational minds will ask for no higher proof, that the Bible, as a revelation from God is reliable, than the nature and results of the faith that is based upon it. The results include the noblest phenomena of human experience, the richest fruitage of our christian civilization. The Bible is the one great regenerative and redemptive agency in the world, and this soon becomes apparent, whenever it is read in the homes of the people. UPLIFTING POWER IN NEW HEBRIDES' ISLANDS A very interesting illustration of this fact has been narrated by John Inglis a Scottish Missionary to the New Hebrides. On going there about the middle of the last century, he selected for his abode an island occupied by cannibals. Among the things he took with him was a mason's hammer. When he began to dress and square the hard rocks of the neighborhood to build the chimney of his house, the novelty of the operation drew a crowd of the natives around him. They looked on in wonder, and were surprised to see the hammer break in pieces and bring into shape those hard stones, which no one had before attempted to break. Missionaries, like philosophers sometimes find "sermons in stones," as well as "good in everything." On this occasion, he took the stones and the hammer as his text and gave them a short practical sermon as follows: "You see these stones and this hammer. You might strike these stones with a block of wood till you were tired and you would not break off a single chip; but when I strike with a hammer you see how easily they are broken, or cut into needful shapes. Now God tells us that our hearts are like stones, and that his Word is like a hammer. Some white men came among you before the arrival of the missionaries, and you continued as much heathen as ever. But when the missionaries came and spoke to you, you gave up your heathenism, began to keep the Sabbath day, to worship God and to live like christians. What caused this difference? The words of the missionaries were not any louder or stronger than those of the other white men. The difference was merely this--the other white men spoke their own words; they spoke the words of men; and that was like striking these stones with a piece of wood. But the missionaries instead of speaking to you their own words read to you the Words of God; and that was like this hammer striking, breaking and bringing into shape your stony hearts." This illustration took hold on their imagination; the sermon on the stones and the hammer was not soon forgotten. Many years afterwards, some of the older natives when leading in prayer in the church would offer the petition, "O Lord, thy word is like a hammer, take it and with it break our stony hearts and shape them according to the rule of Thy holy law." There were 3,500 natives on this island. Through the influence of God's Word, for no other means were employed save the human voice to make it known, all of them were led to abandon heathenism and place themselves under Christian instruction. These people had no money but they could gather and prepare arrowroot. They were encouraged to bring this to the missionaries, in order to secure a supply of Bibles for the island, with the result that in a few years they sent $2,500 to the British and Foreign Bible society, London, for copies of the New Testament and Psalms; and a few years later $3,500 to pay for the printing of the Old Testament in their own language. There is no instance on record of a like number of heathen people, so poor, being persuaded to contribute so much money to obtain any other book; and why not? It is because the Bible alone is divine and this divine power has subdued human hearts. "Is not my word like as a fire? saith the Lord; and like a hammer that breaketh the rock in pieces?"--Jer. 23. 29. The Bible is the Book of the Lord, a "sure word of prophecy, whereunto we do well to take heed, as unto a light that shineth in a dark place." It challenges us to "prove all things and hold fast that which is good." XXIII DECISION DAYS CHRISTMAS.--WASHINGTON'S BIRTHDAY. "How long halt ye between two opinions? If the Lord be God follow him."--Elijah. Every new student at the time of his enrollment was requested to state whether or not he was a member of church. If a negative response was received, he was kindly informed it would be regarded as a serious disappointment, if he did not become an active Christian worker, during the period he enjoyed the privileges of the Academy. As a means of enabling every one to manifest their decision to live a Christian life, Decision days were held frequently during the term. The first one always occurred at least one week before Christmas; and the others about the Day of Prayer for Colleges, Easter and Memorial Sabbaths. When advantage could not be taken of a voluntary visit on the part of a neighboring pastor the co-operation of one of them was always solicited. On the first occasion Rev. William Butler was present, Feb. 11, 1906, and took for his theme in the morning, the Good Shepherd, and in the evening, the New Heart, his own heart was gladdened by seeing twenty-three young people come to the front in response to his appeal and pledge themselves to live a Christian life. A month later the pastor's heart was gladdened anew by receiving fourteen of them into the membership of the church and administering baptism to ten of them. Two years later, as the result of an evangelistic meeting held on the evening of the closing day of the Farmers' institute, January 1, 1908, Mr. Butler, who was one of the speakers at the institute, had the pleasure of seeing twenty-one other students manifest a decision to live a Christian life. Rev. Wiley Homer, T. K. Bridges and Samuel Gladman, assisted and with encouraging results on other decision days. In 1910, Washington's birthday, Thursday, was observed by a patriotic and evangelistic meeting at which impressive addresses were delivered by Rev. W. J. Willis of Garvin and Rev. A. B. Johnson of McAlester. Among those present were thirteen that had not previously manifested a decision. In response to the appeal of Mr. Willis, every one of these thirteen voluntarily arose, came forward and gave their pledge to live a Christian life. The attainment of a voluntary pledge from every student in attendance at that time made this an eventful occasion. It was also deeply impressive. Every one joined in the joyful congratulatory procession. As it was the last glad and happy decision day before the loss of the Girls' Hall, which occurred on the second Sabbath following, it has been commemorated by an engraving from a photo, thoughtfully taken before hand by Miss Mary Weimer, in which may be seen David Michael, Livingston Brasco, and William Shoals, who have just returned from the timber with vines and white flowers to decorate the chapel for this meeting. XXIV THE SELF-HELP DEPARTMENT FOOLISH NOTIONS.--A PROMISING GIRL.--THOUGHTLESS BOYS.--THOUGHTFUL YOUNG PEOPLE.--VACATION WORKERS.--JAMESTOWN COLLEGE.--SUPPORT OF SELF-SUPPORTING STUDENTS.--HOW IT WORKS.--ENLARGEMENT AND PERMANENT IMPROVEMENT.--SELF-SUPPORT MEANS INDEPENDENCE.--PARK COLLEGE. "If any would not work, neither should he eat."--Paul. The unexpected disappointments experienced in establishing the self-help department are worthy of a brief mention. They serve to illustrate some foolish notions that prevailed among some of our first patrons, and prepare the way for a good suggestion. The aim of this department is to enlarge the scope of the training work of the institution by the employment of students, as far as possible, to do the necessary work during vacations as well as the chores during the school-terms; and by this means, reducing the number of hired helpers, afford lucrative employment to the greatest number of students, as a means of self help. In view of the needy and helpless condition of the people in their new homes, and the urgent prospective demand for more teachers, one would naturally suppose every family would be eager to take advantage of such an opportunity. The scheme however was a new one and it was regarded with suspicion and disfavor. The effort to have leading families, those that seemed to stand in the nearest relation to it by having previously enjoyed its privileges most freely, co-operate in the establishment of this plan, by permitting one of their children to remain at the academy during the vacation period or even do extra work a part of the day during the term, and thereby be able to continue and complete a course of study that would fit them for teaching, proved a complete disappointment. This disappointment was the occasion of two earnest appeals before two different meetings of the Presbytery, but neither of them received more than a respectful hearing, no favorable response. Some, whose children had been previously carried from year to year gratuitously, no doubt, regarded it as the innovation of a stranger, who was adroitly depriving them of their former rights and privileges; while others seemed to view it as a discovery to their neighbors, that they were not able to pay for the education of their children. Some of the larger girls at the academy, when requested to arrange to do some extra work at the school declined, saying they had homes of their own and did not have to work for others away from home. A PROMISING GIRL That this was not the sentiment, however, of all the larger girls appears in the following incident. A very promising girl of sixteen came to the school of her own accord. She was animated with the desire to become a christian teacher. About the middle of the term, a younger brother called with the request from her mother, that she return home. No reason was assigned and she knew of no good one. She sent her mother word that she desired to remain, and resumed her studies. Two weeks later an older brother called with a pre-emptory demand that she return home with him. The reason assigned by her mother for this unexpected and arbitrary request was, "Daughter can get along without school as well as her mother." It seems scarcely necessary to state that this promising and aspiring young lady was not permitted to return. THOUGHTLESS BOYS The first to acquiesce in the arrangement to pay a part of their term expense by working at the academy during the vacation were some boys, who had not learned to work; and it seemed impossible for them to conceal the fact that they did not want to work. They were not old enough or did not know enough to appreciate the privileges accorded to them; and as many as three of them ran away, when most needed. The work deserted by two of these boys was undertaken by a third one, not then a student. He was a willing worker and at the end of the summer found that his job at the academy was his best one during the season. He illustrated the difference between the worthy and the worthless. The worthy achieve success where the worthless make a miserable failure. THOUGHTFUL YOUNG PEOPLE It was left for some thoughtful young people living at a distance to come, take advantage of the opportunities thus afforded and make this self-help or industrial department a real, visible and practical success. While deriving a life-long benefit for themselves, they have conferred a lasting benefit to the institution by remaining long enough to reach the higher grades. Their efficient service in various lines of work has served to show that the varied and thorough training given during recent vacations has been very valuable to them. The vacation period has afforded the best opportunity for instruction and practice on the organ, for reading the many good books in the library and for special training in farming, carpentry and in the various kinds of work, like canning fruit or the manufacture of sorghum, that require attention only during the summer months. It has hitherto seemed to be the golden period of the year when the personal responsibility and general efficiency of the student has been most rapidly developed, a fact no doubt due to the freer daily association with the superintendent and teachers. The full course of training provided at the institution can be fully enjoyed only by those who remain during the summer months. VACATION WORKERS The vacation workers have always been regarded as members of the Oak Hill family and every personal want has been promptly supplied. The habit of reading or learning something every day, kept them prepared for doing their best work on the first as well as their last day of the term; while others would take a week or month, perhaps before they could settle down to good work in the school room. They were allowed a reasonable credit for every day they worked during the vacation and were not requested to do any extra work during the term, except in cases of emergency. The self-help students, who rendered extra service during the term, dropped one study, and they also received a reasonable allowance for all the extra work they performed. JAMESTOWN COLLEGE Effective christian work by students at home during the summer vacation was admirably illustrated by the young people attending the Presbyterian college at Jamestown, North Dakota, during the summer of 1913. Every student at the close of the term had formed the decision to lead a christian life. Under the inspiration of a resident lawyer, John Knouff, a number of them became members of the mission band that had for its object the in gathering of new scholars into their own Sabbath schools, and the college they were attending. The result was a very pleasant surprise and a source of great profit to all of them. They reported the organization of a score of new Sunday schools in neglected communities, and an enrollment of 1231 new scholars through their instrumentality. An incidental result was a greatly increased enrollment of new students at the college they had so worthily represented. SUPPORT OF SELF-SUPPORTING STUDENTS Where does the money come from that is necessary to meet the monthly allowances placed to the credit of the self-help students? This is a very practical question and a few thoughts on it may be helpful. When a farmer employs a man to help him on his farm he expects to pay him from the annual cash income, when the products of the farm are sold. This would naturally be true of the boys who do the farm work at Oak Hill if there was a surplus to sell; but hitherto it has not been sufficient to meet the demands of the boarding department and stock. It would however not be true of the work of the boys who build fence, clear new land or erect and improve buildings. The product of the labor of these students is a permanent improvement, that increases the value of the land to the owner, and it cannot be sold annually for cash, like the products of the farm. But the superintendent has to pay cash for the groceries consumed by these students the same as for the others; and when their monthly allowance for labor is transferred to the enrollment or other account book, it represents an item for which some one must furnish him the cash. Where will he get his money? Who will furnish it to him? Manifestly he must look to the owner of the property for it, and the owner in this instance is the Board of Missions for Freedmen. By using tools and implements the student has been trained in their use and the results of his work have become a permanent possession of the Board. In as much as most permanent improvements do not ordinarily bring any direct annual income to the Board, but serve rather to increase the facilities of the school and provide additional opportunities for self-help, the question arises, "Where does the Board get the money for the support of the self-supporting students?" The answer to this inquiry is, the Board has to solicit and receive it from the friends of christian education. This is a very important statement and it is often not very clearly understood. When the actual cost of carrying a student through a seven months term is found to be about $50.00 then that is the lowest amount that will enable the superintendent to carry a vacation worker, as a self-supporting student, through the period of an entire year. HOW IT WORKS There are some features of this problem that are quite interesting. The student that does the most for the permanent improvement of the institution that has educated him, commonly called his "Alma Mater," or fostering mother, finds at the time of completing his course, that by that means he has done most for himself, by advancing more rapidly than others in the course of training and study. He has also done something in the way of increasing the facilities for the education and uplift of his race. Whilst his employment was creating a demand for a benevolent gift from some friend of christian education he was unconscious of that fact, and is happy in the consciousness, that he is earning his way through school like a man;--one, who wants to make most of himself. He goes forth to enter upon the duties of active life as a true or "good soldier" prepared to "endure hardness," if necessary, and ready to lend a helping hand to other worthy young people. ENLARGEMENT AND PERMANENT IMPROVEMENT The zealous interest of the superintendent in this self-help industrial department appears in the broad foundation he had hoped to lay for it in the purchase of so many acres for the Oak Hill farm. There were other good motives that prompted the purchase of land, when the opportunity was afforded to do so at it which price in 1908 such as provision for future supplies of wood as a cheap fuel, about twenty-five cords a year being needed, and ample pastures for the herds of cattle and hogs, that are easily and profitably raised and greatly needed, but the most urgent motive was the earnest desire to provide an agricultural base large enough to enable the self-help department of the academy to become in time self-supporting. "Enlargement" and "permanent improvement" became the watchwords while laying the foundation for this department. The manifest need of it had been deeply and indelibly impressed. The conviction also prevailed that, when properly organized and developed, so as to meet their most urgent needs, the self-help department in an educational institution works like a live magnet in attracting the patronage of many worthy young people. Permanent improvement year after year by self-supporting students, seeking training is an arrangement that has in it the germ of expansion, that means enlargement and growth with passing years. This was the ideal towards which we were moving with might and main. We wanted to plant the live magnet, that would make Oak Hill an attractive and pre-eminently useful educational center for all the Choctaw Freedmen. There are no annual taxes on lands used for public or mission school purposes, and all the annual income tends to lessen to the Board, the local expenses of the teachers and students. The net income from the farm is the surplus that remains after deducting the cost of management from the gross receipts. Whenever this net income is more than sufficient to cover the local support of the teachers, it goes toward the support of the self-supporting students; whenever it is sufficient to cover all of their monthly allowances, this self-help department is self-supporting; and special remittances from the Board will not then be needed for the worthy, industrious and ambitious young people, in that department. The attainment of this object is worthy of noble and constant endeavor. It is also worthy of note, that good agricultural lands, purchased at the government price in a new section of the country that is destined to be filled with new settlers, is always a good investment. The land rapidly increases in value where the incoming of new settlers causes a rapid increase in the population. [Illustration: OAK HILL IN 1905.] [Illustration: FLOWER GATHERERS FOR DECISION DAY. February 22, 1910.] [Illustration: LOU K. EARLY.] [Illustration: MARY I. WEIMER.] [Illustration: JO LU WOOLCOTT.] This annual increase in the value of new land is known as its "unearned increment." This unearned increment is now accruing to the Board on every acre that has been purchased. Those that were purchased first have already doubled in value. Every acre of land added to the Oak Hill farm at its virgin price means now, by reason of its annual income and gradual increase in value, a live unit added to the permanent endowment of the institution and enlarges the scope of the self-help department. SELF-SUPPORT MEANS INDEPENDENCE The negro needs to be taught to be "self-dependent, self-reliant and self-respecting." Wherever public schools have been established and supplied with good teachers and text-books, they have rendered efficient service in improving the condition of the people. The lack of text-books has caused many of the rural schools to prove very inefficient, one textbook often having to serve as many as three pupils, Then there are yet large sections of some of the southern states in which there are no public schools for the colored people. In proportion as the colored people attain a general christian education and become progressive, industrial workers, do they rise to their natural inheritance; an inheritance that brings to them what America now holds of freedom, justice, opportunity and benevolence to the oppressed of other lands, that are coming a million a year, to locate in this land of civil and religious freedom. Among their essential needs to self-support are a fair industrial opportunity, distribution, education and equal protection of the laws. Whenever too many unskilled workers, including women and children, crowd into towns and cities, the number that have to live in poverty-stricken hovels is greatly increased. Their general health and good morals are also endangered. Every youth will do well to adopt the thrilling watchwords of the early American patriots, "Virtue, Liberty, and Independence." PARK COLLEGE Rev. John A. McAfee, the eminent founder of Park College, Parkville, near Kansas City, Missouri, realizing the need of hardy and energetic ministers during the pioneer days of Missouri and Kansas, manifested a commendable wisdom and foresight in the planting of that institution, by making special provision for the self-help of those, who were candidates for the ministry and those wishing to be missionary teachers. The self-help department then established has greatly promoted its growth, and increased its usefulness. The visitor now sees a beautiful campus of 20 acres occupied by massive stone buildings erected largely by student labor. They include a fine administration building, chapel, library, observatory, boarding and professors houses, and a half dozen large dormitories. He will also find an attendance of 420 students, and a farm of 500 acres cultivated by them. Its worthy representatives in the ministry may now be found in nearly every state of the Union and many, as foreign missionaries and teachers, are doing a noble work in other lands. A large proportion of its most worthy representatives owe their present position and usefulness to the opportunity for self-help, provided in the agricultural and mechanical departments, while pursuing their studies at this classical institution. It was founded in 1875 and was named after Col. George S. Park, the friend and helper of Rev. John A. McAfee. He donated the original college building and one hundred acres of land. At present the college owns 1000 acres, 500 of which are in the college farm. Both of its worthy founders died about the year 1890, but the good work of the institution they planted is going forward with annually increasing usefulness. Though established more recently than many others, it is now very highly prized as one of the most important of our Presbyterian colleges, in maintaining the supply of well trained ministers and christian teachers. A SUGGESTION TO PARENTS Having stated the aims and advantages of the self-help department the following suggestion to parents seems appropriate. If you have a bright son or daughter that can be spared for a time at home, take your child, as Hannah did Samuel, while he is young enough to learn rapidly, to the superintendent of the academy, and, if the way be clear, enter into an agreement as Hannah did, that he shall remain there, if needed, until he has completed the course of study provided at the institution, earning his expenses, as far as possible, by his own industry. Regard your contract as a matter of honor and refrain from calling him away when his services have begun to be of some value to the institution, merely because you need some one to do a few day's work. Encourage him to be true and faithful, that he may win and hold the esteem and confidence of his instructors. If a number of parents will pursue this policy, the academy will accomplish its mission and prove a boon and blessing to you as a people, one generation serving another. XXV INDUSTRIAL EDUCATION A TRAINING PERIOD.--INDEPENDENT HOMES.--DOMESTIC TRAINING.--HIGHLAND PARK COLLEGE.--BOOKER T. WASHINGTON.--SAM DALY. "Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work." "What thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might." Public education is at present passing through a transition stage. The emphasis in the school courses of previous generations was upon the culture of the mind and the appeal was made for a high classical training, but now that the work on the farms as well as in the shops is largely done by costly machinery, the emphasis of school work is being rapidly transferred to the hand, and the appeal is for manual or vocational training and domestic science. Its aim is to reach and train for a successful self-supporting career, the great majority of young people who cannot pursue their studies beyond the fifth to the eighth grades. Our country has made wonderful progress in the arts and sciences including new inventions, during the last half century. The scope of the "Natural Philosophy" and "Familiar Science" of a few years ago has been very greatly enlarged. The country has been spanned and crossed in every direction by great systems of standard and interurban rail-ways. Automobiles are in popular use on the highways and powerful tractors do the threshing, corn-shelling and plowing on the farm. Oil engines and electric motors are in use on the farms and in the homes of the people. The last of the good agricultural lands have been opened for settlement and are now occupied. Agriculture, animal husbandry, horticulture, dairying and even housekeeping have been reduced to a science, by the statement of essential principles, the same as in architecture and civil-engineering. Success in them depends on a practical knowledge of the art, as well as a theoretical knowledge of the science. A few years ago the pressing demand was for teachers and normal instructors for their preparation. The demand for teachers in constantly increasing numbers continues, but it is now rivaled by the present demand for young people, who understand the principles of mechanical construction, whose hands have been trained to use costly and delicate machinery aright and properly care for it. Success and self-support on the farm as well as elsewhere now require the trained hand as well as the intelligent mind. INDEPENDENT HOMES Self-support is essential to the possession of a permanent and happy home. No home can be permanent while there is no assured means of support. While the father depends on uncertain day labor and the mother knows little or nothing of economy in the household and even less about the care, training and discipline of children, there can be but little progress made in the home or church life. Dependent homes mean dependent churches, while prosperous homes mean self-supporting churches. In this fact is found a great motive for the church in her educational missionary work to make suitable provision for teaching the young the useful or necessary arts of life, and some knowledge of the sciences, while offering to them the bread and the water of life, through the establishment of christian educational institutions. DOMESTIC TRAINING A recent debate in the House of Congress at Washington developed a unanimous sentiment, that a good cook is more cultured than a pianist, and that girls should not be allowed piano lessons until they learn how to cook good biscuits. We have read of girls "whose heads were stuffed with useless knowledge, but not one in twenty knew the things that would be serviceable to her through life. They could not sew or cook." At Oak Hill it is different. Every girl at ten begins to take her monthly turn in learning to cook, mend and sew. She is taught the art and the rules of these useful employments the same as those of reading, writing and arithmetic in the school room. The business of housekeeping is thus early introduced to the mind of the child, to awaken its thoughtfulness and develop efficiency in the future work of managing a home. This connects the teaching of the school with the life of the home. It makes the instruction a real and practical help instead of being merely theoretical. It affords pleasant and profitable employment to the pupils during spare moments that would otherwise be lost in idle loafing or play. The business of housekeeping is attracting the attention of schools of learning and of legislatures more and more every year. Some states, like Indiana, are making large investments to promote training in domestic science in the schools of the state. The great results achieved in recent years by health regulations, in checking and suppressing contagious diseases, have greatly increased the scope of this instruction. It now includes in the higher schools, the new applications of the principles of nutrition, the chemistry of cleaning and the laws of hygiene, or health. HIGHLAND PARK COLLEGE At Highland Park College, Des Moines, Iowa, having an enrollment of 2,500 young people in the capital city of one of our most highly favored states in the valley of the Mississippi, ninety-five per cent of them never go beyond the seventh and eighth grades and only two per cent go to higher institutions of learning. This eminently successful institution attracts young people from all parts of our land and this last year from twelve foreign countries. 500 young men, one fifth of its enrollment are in shops. This institution is the embodiment of the genius and a splendid monument to the memory of its founder, Dr. O. F. Longwell, who for twenty-four years served as its president, having previously secured a remarkable development of the Western Normal college at Shenandoah. BOOKER T. WASHINGTON The industrial scheme of Booker T. Washington at Tuskeegee is an intelligent negro's idea of what the illiterate negro needs to help himself. It is undoubtedly the best scheme to enable him to attain self support. Started as a private enterprise its patronage soon over-taxed its equipment of buildings and attracted public aid from the legislature of Alabama, and later large gifts from many wealthy people in our larger northern cities, some of whom endeavor to visit it once a year to note its annual progress and needs. The remarkable success of this industrial institution and the immeasurable amount of good it has already done, during the lifetime of its founder, in bettering the temporal welfare of thousands of colored people in the south, have tended to make it the most prominent illustration of practical and successful industrial education among the colored people of this or any other land. SAM DALY Sam Daly of Tuscaloosa, an illiterate janitor of the University of Alabama, previous to 1903, and died at Atlanta, while attending the Presbyterian General Assembly in May 1913, is a splendid illustration of what one may do for the good of his race. At the time of his death he left to be cared for by others a 500 acre farm of his own, fourteen miles from town on which he was voluntarily caring for 270 convicted and vice steeped colored boys from the cities of that state. He established an industrial school for boys on his own farm, to save convicted and bad boys from prison; received them from the police judges and conveyed them to the farm. They had become a nuisance and burden to the public, but he housed, fed and clothed this large family without receiving a dollar of public funds of Jefferson county; and from the church, only forty dollars, for a sleeping room for them and the salary of a teacher. The rest of their support was obtained from their daily toil on the farm. At last the number of boys and the cost of keeping them became so great, he was compelled for their sakes to put a mortgage of eighteen hundred dollars on his farm. This impelled him to go to the Assembly (South) to make an appeal for funds. Unfortunately he suddenly became ill and died before he was able to make his appeal. His last words were: "Take care--take good care ob mah little niggahs!" He had saved, by industrial occupation and farming, for good citizenship in Alabama, three hundred boys convicted of crimes and misdemeanors. It was a sad disappointment to him that he was unable to present to the Assembly an appeal on behalf of those still under his care. Sam Daly was a good janitor, but when he began to make good men of useless and bad boys, his value to the state of Alabama was increased many fold. This brief record of his generous, energetic and heroic work is made that it may serve as an inspiration to devise other similar ways of being useful and helpful. XXVI PERMANENT IMPROVEMENTS. PAINTING BOYS HALL.--SURFACE DRAINAGE.--ORCHARD IN 1906.--HOG HOUSES.--SHEDS FOR HAY AND THE STOCK HOGS.--OAK BRIDGES.--TEMPORARY BOYS HALL.--ADDITION TO THE ACADEMY.--GOOD FENCES AROUND THE CAMPUS.--GARDEN, STOCK YARD AND CULTIVATED FIELDS.--ELLIOTT HALL.--PULLING STUMPS. "So built we the wall; for the people had a mind to work."--Nehemiah. The improvements undertaken and completed by means of the student help began with the removal of old rubbish, the accumulation of years, and the impenetrable briar thickets near the buildings. During the latter part of the first spring term in 1905 the boys applied two good coats of lead and oil in cream and white to the Boys' Hall. The work was well done although it was the first work of the kind any of them had ever attempted. The appearance of the building was greatly improved, and every boy was delighted to find how quickly the painter's art could be learned. The black picket and crooked worm fences around the buildings were then removed and replaced with good board and wire fences. The extent of good and substantial fences, erected during this period, aggregate about 100 rods of board and picket fences around the campus, garden and stock yards; 12 large farm gates, all hung between tall posts with overhead tie; and 780 rods of web and barb wire fence; all set with good Bodark or Locust posts, top down and reinforced with a strong oak stub in every panel, making a valuable permanent improvement. In March 1906 a young orchard was planted consisting of 50 trees, that include a number of the best varieties of apples and peaches suited for that section. These were supplemented with a similar lot in 1913. The purchase of lands, begun in 1908, as soon as the restrictions were removed, was continued until 1912 when the aggregate included fifteen different purchases, making 270 acres and costing $2050.00. Twenty-five acres were cleared of previously ringed and dead trees and thirty more were enclosed and cleared of underbrush and useless trees. The surface drainage work begun in 1905 and completed in 1912, included outlets to all the little ponds near the buildings, the deepening of the artificial pond north of the buildings, a deep drain with branches, through the meadow and another one through a large slough at the northwest corner of the farm. BUILDINGS The first building erected was a log house 24x32 feet with a good cistern in 1906, and for the number of its conveniences it is an excellent model. A cut and description of it will be found in the latter part of this volume. A new shed was also built that year, on the east side of the commons, for the convenient, daily care of the growing herd in the pastures. In 1907 a belfry and farm bell were put on the comb of the roof of the first girls' hall. An axle was obtained and a wooden wheel and frame were made for the large old bell, and it was then mounted in the tower of the chapel. The new highway along the railroad to Valliant was cleared of trees and the materials converted into posts and fuel. Two substantial oak bridges, five and ten feet long respectively, were constructed over the streams on this road to make it passable for the loaded Oak Hill team during term time. A string of hay sheds, 64x16 feet, was constructed on the south side of the feed lot and two portable racks for feeding hay and fodder economically and conveniently from the sheds. In 1908 the enrollment having reached 115, the seating capacity of the academy was increased by lifting all the seats and adding an additional row of thirteen double seats to their number. The academy was then painted two coats inside and outside and the woodwork of the old desks was brightened and tinted to correspond with the new ones. These improvements made it look more beautiful and attractive than ever before. The porches on the south and west sides of the girls hall were repaired by the insertion of new joists where needed and the laying of new floors. TEMPORARY BOYS' HALL In 1909, the Boys' Hall having been lost a few days after the opening of the term, November 8, 1908, a temporary boys' hall 55x24 feet was hastily constructed, its dedication taking place Feb. 28, 1909, after an address by Rev. Wiley Homer of Grant. This meeting was held on a beautiful Sabbath afternoon and the speakers and singers occupied the wide platform on the west end of the building. This building was erected entirely by the student boys. The materials in it cost $410 and it had apartments for an office, one teacher and twenty-five boys. It was intended as a place for the workmen while erecting a new hall for the boys, the material in it then to be used in lining the new building. The blistered condition of the front of the girls' hall and academy from the intense heat of the fire were then relieved by a thorough scraping, sandpapering and repainting. Owing to the limited accommodations for the boys in this building, and for the large number of pupils in the primary department in the academy, an extension of twelve feet, with an upper room for special students, was added that fall to the academy. While this improvement was under construction, other boys built a new wood shed, obtained in the timber and prepared the supplies of fuel, and built 170 rods of new fence. A considerable quantity of sand was also hauled for the foundation of the new hall for the boys. ELLIOTT HALL In 1910, the erection of Elliott Hall became a necessity after the disastrous fire which occurred on March 13th. This building is 80x32 feet, with an extension 6x32 feet, in front, and a two story addition 18x16 feet, for kitchen store and bath rooms, at the northwest corner over a large brick-walled cistern. This building absorbed the attention of all for more than a year, although it was opened for occupancy on November 14th. It was a great undertaking with the few workmen obtainable. The clearing away of the rubbish, the excavation for the cellar 28x75 feet and the construction of the foundation wall, and the same for the large cistern took a good deal more time than was expected, and all of it was heavy and hard work for every one that participated in it. It was the 15th of June when the cement wall around the main part of the foundation was completed by the superintendent, who placed the rock, cement and reinforcing materials in the walls with his own hands as a precaution against defects. The construction of the frame work was entrusted to Samuel A. Folsom, who, acting as foreman of the carpenters, succeeded in getting the building ready for occupancy at the end of five months, or November 14th. So great, however, was the amount of unfinished work in the halls and rooms upstairs and of cement lining needed for the excavation walls in the cellar that a considerable number of students were employed principally at this work during that and the following term. Every part of the work on this building was very faithfully performed. It is a creditable monument to the memory of every one that wrought upon it. It is symmetrical and, though plain, is handsome in appearance and very convenient in its uses; as an administration building, girls dormitory and boarding house. The lumber was furnished and delivered by J. R. Bowles of Swink; David Folsom made the window and door frames; Solomon Buchanan served as foreman of the painters, and he and George Stewart built the walls of the cistern and the first story of the chimneys. Edward Hollingsworth, in addition to important work on other parts of the building, served as foreman of the construction of the stairways, belfry and porches. It represents an expenditure of $6,500 in cash and student labor. This does not include the services of the superintendent, who had previously prepared the plans for the building and personally superintended its construction. LATER IMPROVEMENTS During 1911 and 1912 while some were putting the finishing touches on Elliott Hall, the last being the insertion of the fixtures in the two bath rooms and the construction of a closed room in the cellar for canned fruit and vegetables, the other boys removed the old oak stumps from the north field, drained a slough covering four acres of land, cleaned twenty acres of land for cultivation and built 160 rods of good fence around it. They also built a pretty and very convenient semi-monitor hen house, with open front and two out-yards. PULLING STUMPS During the month of March, when the ground was moist and favorable, a squad of the larger boys would sometimes be equipped and employed in pulling stumps. This was a new employment for all of them, but they soon learned to make a cheering success of it. The working outfit consisted of two levers, a very large and a smaller one, a log chain, sixty feet of inch rope, and for each of the workmen a shovel and an axe. The method of procedure was to assign them in teams of two each, to remove the earth from around a lot of stumps to the width and depth of about eighteen inches. The larger lever, having the middle fold of rope attached to its smaller end, was placed in a vertical position at the lower side of the stump and firmly fastened to its crown with a log chain, the latter passing over its top from the opposite side. The small lever was placed in position at the side opposite the larger one, for the use of the foreman. When all the boys, in two lines facing each other, had hold of the ends of the rope and the signal was given, "Ready for a pull," something was sure to happen; usually the uprooting of the stump, but sometimes the breaking of the log chain, which was sure to result in making a good natured pile of the boys. The team did the pulling the first half day, but the boys did it afterwards, because they were more available and enjoyed it. WALL OF ELLIOTT HALL The concrete wall under Elliott Hall, built by the superintendent and student boys in the spring of 1910, was the first work of that kind in this section of the country. The sand was found and obtained without cost along a stream in the neighboring timber. The filler consisted of rock and broken brick from the chimneys of the three buildings that had been previously consumed by fire, and they were incorporated in the wall by hand. The iron used for reinforcing the concrete was all obtained from the scrap pile of the burned buildings. The processes, or methods of procedure, were new to all the workmen. As the work advanced it called forth expressions of distrust, rather than confidence and commendation. The mixing of materials had to be strictly forbidden save in the presence of the superintendent, whose hands afterwards placed them in position on the wall. After the lapse of four years this wall is solid as a rock in every respect. It has now the reputation of being not only the first, but also to this date one of the most perfect and substantial concrete walls in that section. WORKING ACCORDING TO RULE An expert carpenter has observed, "It takes the average apprentice about one year to discover, that he does not know how to drive a nail with the skill of an expert;" one who drives it through hard woods without bending and brittle, without splitting. This skill is however always more quickly acquired, when a rule like the following is given the apprentice at the beginning of his training. "Gripping the hammer near the end of the handle and setting the nail slightly slanting from the edges toward the solid center, strike the top of it fairly with the center of the hammer, starting and finishing it with gentle taps." Whenever a new tool or implement was put in the hand of a student, the rules governing its use were fully explained, and a constant effort was made to have the student do all work by rule; whether it was on the farm, in the kitchen, laundry or shop, as well as in the class room. The essential parts of the text books, that were reviewed most frequently, were the definitions and rules. A good position is the first essential in reading, writing, speaking, sawing, planing or plowing; and the second is to grasp and use aright the tool or implement, whether it be the pen, pencil, brush, axe, hammer or saw. The good effect of patiently taking the time to make every one familiar with the rules governing the tools and work, became noticeable very soon on the part of the older students, both in the better quality of the work and the larger amount of it performed. Progress in studies and success in the shop or field depends largely on the ability to follow the rule, and the decision never to violate it. XXVII ELLIOTT HALL THE GIRLS HALL LOST AND REPLACED.--OLD LOG HOUSE--DAVID ELLIOTT.--ALICE LEE ELLIOTT. "Be noble! and the nobleness that lies in other men, sleeping but never dead, will rise in majesty to meet thine own."--Lowell. LOSS OF THE GIRLS HALL On Sabbath afternoon, March 13, 1910, as we left the chapel at the close of a very delightful and profitable Bible Memory service, a cloud of black smoke was seen moving rapidly around the buildings across the view before us and suggesting a fire in one of the buildings. It was a sad and sickening surprise. Quickly the word was passed, "The Girls' Hall is on fire." Rushing into this building to locate and if possible to suppress the conflagration, we found it had originated on the third floor, and that a tub of water had already been applied to it by attendants in the building, without any hope of checking it, as the flames were spreading rapidly over the dry roof, fanned by a strong breeze from the west. The roof was inaccessible both from the inside and the outside, and in a very few minutes both sides of it were covered with a fiery sheet of low, devouring flame similar to that occasionally seen, when fire sweeps rapidly over ground covered with dry underbrush. In a very little while the entire building was consumed, and with it the laundry, smokehouse, old log house, new woodhouse, stock tank, ten rods of the campus fence, fifteen cords of wood, the food supplies on hand and nearly all the furniture and equipment of the Girls' Hall, the home of the institution. A fair estimate of the loss sustained is as follows: Girls' Hall 36x56, $2550: contents, $1175; other buildings and contents, $250; total $3975. The girls rooming on the second story, obedient to instruction, hastened to their rooms and secured all their effects, but six that were rooming on the third story lost their trunks and extra clothing. It is impossible to describe how deeply was felt the loss of everything at this time, coming as it did so soon after the loss of the Boys' Hall in 1908. It had been the comfortable home of the Oak Hill family since 1889. To the superintendent it meant not merely the loss of the property, a kind of loss that is always more or less deeply felt, but a check of several years upon plans outlined for the permanent improvement of the work of the institution. This loss was a staggering blow to the superintendent until he learned the next day that the matron, Miss Weimer, with the co-operation of Miss Hall, was willing to practice the self denial needed to make a heroic effort to recover from it. When this information was received, twenty of the larger girls were constrained to remain, while the rest were sent home. Some of these were provided for in the second story of an addition to the academy building, then nearly completed, and the school room under it served for a dining room and kitchen. The school work was resumed the next day, under Miss Hall with student assistants. The girls that remained proved helpful in executing the extra work then necessary, and the experience of self denial no doubt proved a profitable one to them. The old log farm house 46x16 feet, was the last of the four Oak Hill buildings to yield to the flames. It was built by the Choctaw Indians about the year 1840, soon after they were transferred from Mississippi. It was very substantially constructed and by skilled workmen, who no doubt came from Fort Towson. The Girls' Hall stood between it and the well, indicated by the aeromotor east of it. This building was the pioneer home of the academy. The stages of progress in its use were as follows. The native school was transferred to it in 1884. Eliza Hartford began to occupy it in 1886, first as a day school, and three months later as her home with a boarding school. In the fall of 1887, a kitchen was added to the west end of it, and it was then used as a home for the teachers and girls, and the school was transferred to the new school building. Two years later it became a dormitory for the boys. After 1895 it was used for storage, a smith and carpenter shop. The picture showing it on fire is from a photograph taken by Miss Weimer, after the roof had fallen and the Girls' Hall was entirely consumed. DAVID ELLIOTT The erection of the fine building known as Elliott Hall, was made possible by the receipt of a gift of $5,000 from Mr. David Elliott, of LaFayette, Indiana, who expressed the desire that a school might be established among the Freedmen that would be a memorial of Alice Lee Elliott, deceased, his previously devoted wife. It was dedicated to her memory on June 13, 1912. Elliott Hall is now the commodious and comfortable home of the Oak Hill family. It provides a convenient office for the superintendent, library and reception room, places for the boarding and laundry departments, rooms and bath rooms for the girls. It occupies a beautiful and commanding position on the gentle elevation known as Oak Hill. It stands on the very site previously occupied by the old log house, but parallel with the survey lines. It forms a center around which all other needed buildings can be conveniently and permanently located. Elliott Hall is the largest and finest of the buildings hitherto erected at the academy, and the first of the larger ones to be built by the local Freedmen. This noteworthy achievement, occurring so soon after the reopening in 1905, and the introduction of industrial training in the shop as well as on the farm, is suggestive of the real and substantial progress made by the young men. It is also an encouragement to every patron of this institution, for it practically illustrates the progress that may be made by every thoughtful and industrious youth. In view of the fact that there are few or no opportunities for the young Freedmen to learn carpentry and painting elsewhere in its vicinity, this achievement becomes one in which every Freedman may justly manifest a laudable pride and express devout thanksgiving. The memorial offering of Mr. Elliott, that made it possible, is the largest individual donation yet made to this institution. It came at a time of our saddest and greatest need. It is a gift to be very greatly appreciated. Every Freedman in the region of country benefited and blessed by this institution, may well be profoundly thankful for this manifestation of personal interest in your intellectual and material welfare. ALICE LEE ELLIOTT Mrs. Alice Lee Elliott, in memory of whom Elliott Hall and the Oak Hill Industrial Academy were named in 1910, was the faithful and devoted wife of David Elliott, an elder of the Spring Grove Presbyterian church near LaFayette, Indiana. She was the daughter of John and Maria Ritchey, who left Ohio soon after their marriage to found a new home of their own on the frontier in Indiana. She was born, January 7, 1846, and was called to her rest in her sixty-first year, June 27, 1906. She received a good education in her youth and her marriage occurred March 2, 1875. Three years later she became a member of the Dayton Presbyterian church, of which her husband was already a member, and at once became an earnest and zealous christian worker. When in later years Mr. and Mrs. Elliott transferred their membership to Spring Grove Presbyterian church, because their services were more greatly needed there, she became a very successful teacher in the Sabbath school and an enthusiastic leader in their missionary work. She was amiable and winsome. Although she lived amid the surroundings of wealth, she was the constant friend and helper of all classes. Her home was always a delightful retreat for the ministers of the gospel and those who represented worthy causes of benevolence and charity. The Bible, the favorite family church paper and the missionary magazine were always on the center table and read regularly. She was animated with the noble desire to be eminently useful and took advantage of every opportunity to benefit and bless others. Others were captivated and enthused by her happy, hopeful spirit, and have accorded to her this beautiful tribute, "Many daughters have done virtuously, but thou excellest them all." When her voice became silent and her eyelids closed in death it seemed to her surviving husband that she was worthy and the world would be made better by the erection of a living or useful, as well as granite memorial. Accordingly when her last earthly resting place was duly marked with an appropriate granite memorial, he made a donation of $5000 to the Presbyterian Board of Missions for Freedmen, for the establishment of an educational institution for the benefit of the colored people of this land, that should bear her name. After the loss by fire of two of the main buildings at Oak Hill Industrial Academy in 1908 and 1910, this fund was used for the erection of a main building--Elliott Hall--and the school has since been called the Alice Lee Elliott Memorial. The Bible and shorter catechism are to be regularly and faithfully taught to all pupils, as fundamental in the development of a good moral character. The hope is indulged that the beautiful story of her unselfish and eminently useful life will prove an incentive to constant, noble endeavor on the part of every one that enjoys the privileges of the institution that now bears her honored name. ENDOWMENT Other friends who have it in mind to leave a legacy to this greatly needed institution, will do well to consider the propriety, if possible, of sending the funds to the Freedmen's Board while living, as Mr. Elliott did, and receive from the Board, if desired, an endowment bond bearing interest payable annually to the donor, during the continuance of the donor's life. By this arrangement the gift becomes a profitable source of annual support to the donor, and an immediate benefit to the institution, without costs and discounts. XXVIII UNFAVORABLE CIRCUMSTANCES LOSS OF HELPERS AND BUILDINGS.--BOLL WEEVIL.--STATEHOOD CHANGES.--EFFICIENT SERVICE REQUIRED.--INFERENCES.--BURDENS AND FRIENDS. "All these things are against me."--Jacob. The new era, that had been so auspiciously continued for three years, and gave promise of rapid and substantial material development, was destined soon to be interrupted by the experience of three dark days that occurred, one soon after the other. On June 5, 1908, one week after the end of the term and after three and one half years of faithful and efficient service as a matron, the death of Miss Adelia M. Eaton occurred at the institution. On the 7th of November following the Boys' Hall, and most of its contents were consumed by fire. In the spring of 1909 Mrs. Flickinger experienced a serious injury by falling from the open conveyance while on the way to Valliant, and, going home for treatment during the summer was unable to return in the fall and resume her former duties. On March 13, 1910, the Girls' Hall, laundry, smokehouse, wood house and Old Log House, together with most of their contents, suddenly disappeared in smoke. Nothing was then left of this cherished and promising institution, except the chapel, temporary hall for the boys, built the previous year, and a lot of ashes and burned rubbish, the sight of which suggested the loss of comforts and working outfit; hopes and plans indefinitely deferred if not completely blasted, and the expenditure of a vast amount of labor and time to replace and refurnish the buildings destroyed; and the utter impossibility of any immediate recovery from the oft-repeated and fatal checks imposed on the enrollment, ever since the loss of the Boys' Hall in 1908. [Illustration: BOYS' HALL 1895-1908] Two rays of light relieved the darkness of the gloom that followed the experience of these staggering losses. (1). All of the lady helpers manifested the real spirit of missionary heroes. Presuming they were greatly needed during the period of reconstruction, instead of running away when there seemed to be no suitable place for them, they discovered a readiness to suggest possible and acceptable arrangements for their comfort. (2) There was also available for assistance, a clever squad of intelligent and trained student boys, one of whom, having served for a term as an assistant teacher, was believed to be capable of serving as a foreman of the carpenters; thus making it possible to erect buildings entirely by the aid of colored workmen and principally by student labor. THE BOLL WEEVIL In 1903 the Mexican boll weevil in its northward migration from Brownsville, Texas, crossed Red river and, during the next seven years, continued to deprive the farmers in the country north of that river of all profit on the cotton, their principal money crop; and greatly to injure the corn, their food crop. These long repeated ravages of the weevil came at a time when the colored people were by no means prepared to meet them. In 1904 and 1905 they had been allotted 40 acres of unimproved timber lands appraised at $3.23 an acre, or $130. The allotment was the occasion of many changes in their location. They were really pioneer settlers, in their own native country and without funds to make needed improvements. They were happy in the possession of a home they could call their own, and entertained great hopes for the future. But this new and destructive pest, year after year for seven years, completely checked the prosperity they had so hopefully anticipated. The years came and went and they had nothing to sell worthy of mention to bring them money. In April 1905, at the first meeting of the Presbytery after the reopening, many of the colored people voluntarily and enthusiastically united in making pledges for the purchase of the land needed for the buildings and farm at Oak Hill. But of the many generous hearted friends, who united in pledging about $300.00 at this time, only ministers and teachers receiving aid from the board, and a couple of others ever became able to pay these pledges. Parents bringing their children to school, with only a few or no dollars in hand, would make pledges of payment during the term. The amount proposed was $25.00 for boarding a pupil seven months, about one half the real cost. When they became convinced they had no money to send, some would send for their children during the term, while others would leave them at the end of the term without notice, and even make it necessary for the superintendent to pay their way home. These disappointing experiences had a two-fold effect on the school. They meant the loss, not merely of some expected income, but almost invariably of the pupil and patron, and the constant change of the student body prevents the development of the higher grades which must be reached by the students, if the school is to accomplish its mission, namely the training and development of christian teachers. The term reports of the last eight years will show that all the full term students that continued long enough to reach the higher grades, 7th and 8th, were self supporting ones, who were either sent to remain at the academy during the vacation periods until they completed their course, or were accorded the opportunity to work out a part of their expenses at the academy. The full term students whose boarding was entirely paid by their parents did not average a half dozen a term. Inability to provide for their board, meant the loss of the brightest and most promising pupils of the earlier years, about the time they reached the fifth grade. But a good boarding school can be developed only where the conditions are favorable for the continuance of the pupils from year to year, until they reach the higher grades. The fact that the 7th and 8th grades were reached only during the last two years and then only by the self-supporting young people is quite suggestive, not merely of a past embarrassment, but of that which should be an important feature in the future management of the institution, namely, a constant endeavor to increase the opportunities for young people to support themselves by the employment furnished at the institution. STATEHOOD CHANGES Another embarrassment was experienced as a result of the changes incident to the establishment of statehood. The constitutional convention that met at Guthrie, the old capital, Jan. 1, 1907, changed the map of Indian Territory. From the time the Indians were located in it until that date the civil divisions consisted of the general allotments to the different tribes or nations and Oak Hill was near the center of the southern part of the Choctaw nation. In 1907 when the boundaries of the counties were established Oak Hill was near the west line of McCurtain county. The first election of county officers occurred that fall and they entered upon their duties on Jan. 1, 1908. It was made the duty of the county superintendent to divide the county into school districts so as to meet the needs of the colored people as well as the whites and Indians. On Sabbath, Jan. 20, 1908, the first superintendent of McCurtain county called at the academy and left the papers showing the establishment of Oak Hill district No. 73, for the colored people of that neighborhood. The district included the northeast quarter of section 29, on which the academy is located and the southeast quarter of the section adjoining it on the north. The board of education for this Oak Hill district was organized on February 20th following, by the election of Henry Prince, chairman, Rev. R. E. Flickinger, Secretary; and Malinda A. Hall, treasurer. All this was done at a time, when the county superintendent could not think otherwise, than that the teachers and work at the academy were in some way under his jurisdiction. A little later the Oak Hill district was quietly quashed and its honorable board of education went into "innocuous desuetude." This incident is narrated because it illustrates what was then taking place all over McCurtain county, and all the other counties of the new state. The law provided that a district and a school might be established wherever there were six pupils to attend the school and the people furnished a building for it. In a short time three schools for the colored people were established in the vicinity of the academy, and parents were made to believe that they must send their children to these schools or penalties would be imposed on them. A host of colored teachers from Texas and other localities were attracted to the new state to meet the needs of the public schools, now for the first time established in the rural districts. The mission schools previously established for many years in the chapels of the churches of the Presbytery of Kiamichi became public schools and the pastors that continued to teach became public school teachers. Parents were also for the first time in their lives, taxed for the support of their local school. Will they be able and willing to pay their annual taxes and additional tuition or board at Oak Hill for the education of their children. These important changes, occurring both in the immediate neighborhood and also in distant ones that furnished the supply of students for Oak Hill, were destined to exert considerable influence on the work of that institution. What the effect of that influence would be, was a matter of great anxiety and constant watchfulness on the part of the superintendent. The previous missions of our Freedmen's Board at Muskogee, Atoka and Caddo were abandoned as unnecessary as soon as the increasing population of those towns made adequate provision for the public education of their colored children. Shall this be the outcome of the work at Oak Hill, now that the rural districts are supplied with public schools and teachers? EFFICIENT SERVICE REQUIRED That these changes would temporarily affect the enrollment of Oak Hill, even under the most favorable circumstances was believed to be inevitable. This problem was all the more difficult to meet, while undergoing the experience of repeated checks, that made it necessary to send pupils home during term time on three different occasions and twice to check their incoming on account of "no room." The most efficient and faithful service possible, on the part of the superintendent and teachers, was believed to be the best means of meeting this crisis. Parents and young people must also have a little time for observation, that they might see and be convinced of the greater value of the work at the academy. To visitors at the academy the difference was very quickly perceived. These were some of the things that attracted their special and favorable attention. The Bible was in the hand of every pupil, and even the youngest were familiar with many of its most beautiful and instructive passages. Every pupil had all the text books he needed from the day he entered the school. All that were old enough were required to spend an hour each evening, in quiet study under the helpful and encouraging eye of the principal, in addition to the forenoon and afternoon hours. All were forming the habit of using their spare moments to advantage, by reading some good books from the library, a church paper, or practicing on some useful musical instrument. Their voices were being correctly and rapidly developed for intelligent use in song and public address. In the visible results of their work they witnessed their skill in the necessary arts of life, such as farming, stock raising, carpentry, painting, masonry, cooking, baking and sewing. And then it was very unusual for any pupil to return home at the end of the term, without having voluntarily become an active christian worker in the endeavor meeting and Sunday school. During the spring term in 1905 only 34 pupils were enrolled. During the next three years the increase was very encouraging, the enrollment reaching the full capacity of the buildings at 115, May 31, 1908. The loss of buildings that began with the opening of the next term compelled a reduction in the enrollment. For 1909 and the subsequent years it was 84, 108, 90 and in 1912, 95. INFERENCES It would seem from the foregoing facts, that, whatever demand there was for the Oak Hill Mission as a school for local elementary instruction in the earlier years of its history, the conditions of the country, to which its work must now be adjusted, have experienced a very great change. So long as there are families living in sparsely settled districts, that are not provided with ample school privileges; or the interest of parents in the welfare of their children leads them to prefer the select boarding school, under well-known christian influences, to the rural school; elementary instruction will be needed at Oak Hill. But the greater need now is for the higher christian education that will best fit the young people to become intelligent and successful teachers, and for the industrial training that will fit them for the performance of the necessary duties of life. A comfortable home on a well-tilled farm, that is every year increasing in value, is the ideal and happiest place for ambitions young people. Such a home affords healthful employment, the greatest freedom and is usually a very profitable investment. The young farmer needs not only a knowledge of soils, their drainage and how to use them to best advantage, but also a practical knowledge of carpentry and painting, to enable him to erect good buildings economically and to take proper care of them afterwards. The teacher needs this knowledge and training, that he may create a constant demand for his services during the long summer days when he is not teaching. [Illustration: Rev. W. H. Carroll.] [Illustration: Sadie B. McNiell.] [Illustration: Mrs. W. H. Carroll.] [Illustration: Lucretia C. Brown.] [Illustration: Everett Richard.] [Illustration: Malinda A. Hall.] [Illustration: Solomon H. Buchanan.] [Illustration: Samuel A. Folsom.] [Illustration: CLOSING DAY, 1912. REV. DR. BAIRD AT LEFT ON THE PORCH.] The young minister needs this knowledge more than many others, and a great deal more than is generally appreciated, to enable him to give intelligent counsel to his people, when they have need to make repairs or build new churches and parsonages. As these higher and special lines of industrial instruction are perfected and emphasized, and the facilities for self-help both during term time and vacation are gradually increased, the efficiency and patronage of the academy will continue to increase with the progress of the years. BURDENS AND FRIENDS The deficit in the running expenses on June 30, 1911, the last day included in the annual report of that year was $1,693.95. This was the largest deficit at the end of any previous month, and was a big one with which to commence the improvement work of our last year. It was due to the fact that the completion of Elliott Hall with good materials and workmanship, including furniture, cost nearly $1,500 more than was expected, and the appropriation made for it. We were called upon to experience some serious losses and bear, for considerable periods of time unusually great and heavy burdens. The burden twice became so great, indeed, as to awaken the fear that another straw would break the camel's back. Happily the needed relief came in time to avert that unhappy experience, or check the aggressive onward progress of the improvement work. When the burden became large and a matter of personal anxiety, it also became the measure of the valuable and loyal co-operation of the new friends who came to our assistance, in addition to our Board of Missions for Freedmen; which is the first and final resort for the resources that are necessary to successfully administer, and gradually develop the work of this institution. We deem it appropriate to gratefully record the names of those who have most signally aided us in the management of the finances, so as to keep them locally on a cash basis, namely, the Security State bank of Rockwell City, Ia.; 1st National bank of Valliant; and in succession the following dealers in Valliant: O'Bannon & Son; A. J. Whitfield and Planters Trading Co. Hon. T. P. Gore, United States Senator from Oklahoma, (blind), has favored this institution by sending for its library more than a dozen valuable volumes, among which are 2 Year Books of the Department of Agriculture; 2 Handbooks,--I & II,--of the American Indians; Report of the Commissioner on Education for 1911, in two volumes; Report on Industrial Education; Manual of the United States Senate; Directory of Congress, and several other smaller volumes. SPECIAL ADDRESSES During our last term the institution was favored with encouraging and instructive addresses from the following distinguished visitors: Rev. Duncan McRuer of Pauls Valley, Moderator of the Synod of Oklahoma; Rev. E. B. Teis of Anadarko, Pastoral Evangelist for the Presbytery of El Reno; Rev. Phil C. Baird D. D., Pastor of the First Presbyterian church of Oklahoma City; and by Rev. Wiley Homer, Rev. William Butler, Rev. W. J. Starks and Rev. T. K. Bridges, pastors of local churches, and Rev. M. L. Bethel, Oklahoma City. XXIX BUILDING THE TEMPLE AN EXERCISE FOR CHILDREN'S DAY, ILLUSTRATED BY A TEMPLE AND AN ARCH. "I have no greater joy than to hear that my children walk in the truth."--John "Giving all diligence add to your faith, virtue; and to virtue, knowledge; and to knowledge, temperance; and to temperance, patience; and to patience, godliness; and to godliness, brotherly kindness; and to brotherly kindness, charity. He that lacketh these things is blind."--Peter. It was the good fortune of the author to be called to serve as chorister and superintendent of rural Sunday schools, and leader of the choir of the church, in his early youth. At the beginning of his ministry, he discovered the relative importance of this work among the young, by reading the observation of the sainted Samuel Miller to the effect; if he could repeat the period of his ministry, he would give ten times more time and attention to the work among the children. This importance was very acceptably emphasized during the eighties, by the enthusiasm of Rev. James A. Wooden, D. D., of our Sunday school Board, and the appointment of a Sabbath in June, to be annually observed as Children's Day. One of the most prominent features of our ministry has been, a persistently active participation in the work among the children and young people. Other engagements have not been permitted to interfere with attendance at Sunday school and Endeavor meetings, or an appointment to meet the children at any of the regular times of rehearsal of songs and exercises for Easter, Christmas, Children's Day and other anniversaries. All the young people were encouraged to participate in the effort to make these rallying days, occasions of special instruction and delight. A number of pretty, and sometimes elaborate, designs were devised to add their illuminating effect to the exercises. Two of these designs, a temple and an arch, both having for their object, a visible representation of the divinely appointed elements of a good character, according to the apostle Peter, and animating power of the indwelling spirit, manifested by a conscientious observance of the command to remember the Sabbath, have been deemed worthy of an illustration in this volume, that those who participated in them, and others, may be able to reproduce them for the instruction and delight of others. Exercises, that consist of passages from the Scriptures, are more valuable than others to the children, when committed to memory, and they learn them very readily, when an immediate use is to be made of them at a public service. The passages suggested for use in these exercises include many of the most important ones in the Bible, and as they practice, in the presence of each other, all become more or less familiar with every one of them. The superintendent or leader is expected to arrange the length and number of the exercises, to suit the number and ages of those available to participate in them. A single verse may be best for the child: but a glance over the additional passages may be very helpful to the pastor or other person, delivering a short address at the close of the children's exercises. A very pleasing feature of these designs is the fact, they are constructed by the children as one after the other, or two together, carry their part to the platform and render their exercise. One or two are appointed to serve as Master-builders to receive the stones or tablets, when delivered, and place them in their proper position. A good character is an enduring monument. A good name is rather to be chosen than great riches. WALKING IN THE TRUTH [Illustration: ] AN ENDURING TEMPLE.--A temple for time and eternity, showing the divinely appointed elements of a good character (2 Peter 1:5-8), their sure foundations; the person and work of our Lord Jesus and the inspired Word of God; and their crowning bond, the Sabbath. AN EXERCISE FOR CHILDREN'S DAY (The two master builders standing together) Master Builder. Dear friends: The Bible tells us that all are builders. That some are wise and others are foolish. That some are building on the sand, without any protection against the storms and floods, that will surely cause their fall. That some are building with wood, hay or stubble; or with gold, silver and precious stones, without any protection against the day, when the fire will consume these perishable materials. That others, however are building safely and securely, with divinely appointed materials, on the Rock of Ages and the unchanging, impregnable Word of God. That the indwelling Spirit, commonly called the Comforter, is the occupant, strength and life of their temple; and their conscientious observance of the Sabbath, is to them the pledge of Divine favor and the visible sign of their sure protection. Assistant Builder. All of you no doubt are familiar with the words of the poet, Longfellow: "All are architects of fate Building on the walls of time; Some with massive deeds and great, Others with the ornaments of rhyme. For the structures that we raise God's Word is with materials filled; And our todays and yesterdays Reveal the materials with which we build." "We have planned today to build A temple--on earth, a heaven; A temple on rocks so solid, And with materials divinely given, That all who hear the Master's call To service and an endless life, May of this be sure, whatever befall They have builded for time aright." Life is what we make it out of what God puts within our reach, and every act is a foundation stone for the next one. Walking in the truth, adding to our faith and building a temple all mean advancing one step or stone at a time. Master Builder. The white stone referred to in Revelation was an emblem of pardon and a badge of friendship. The stone ordinarily is an emblem of solidity and enduring strength. In this sense it is an emblem of an eternal truth, or principle. When Peter confessed, "Thou art the Christ," Jesus said in regard to his confession, "Thou art Peter, and on this rock" or fundamental truth, "I am Christ," "I will build my church; and the gates of hell (hades) shall not prevail against it." David tells us "The Lord set his feet upon a rock." He calls the Lord a rock, a fortress and a high tower; and entreats the Lord to "lead him to the rock that is higher than I." Peter speaks of Jesus as a living stone, and of believers as lively stones that form a spiritual house, an holy priesthood. We are now ready for the foundation. "And as we build, let each one pray, That we may build aright; That all we do on earth may be Well pleasing in God's sight." Chorus. "We're building up the temple, Building up the temple Building up the temple of the Lord." Bearer: We bring the corner stone on which our temple rests. Master Builder: This stone represents our Lord Jesus, the sure foundation. Let us hear of this stone, the Rock of Ages, what the Bible may tell. Bearer: "Behold I lay in Zion a chief corner stone, elect, precious; and he that believeth on him shall not be confounded. Unto you therefore which believe, he is precious; but unto them which be disobedient, the stone which the builders rejected, the same is made the head of the corner. Other foundation can no man lay than that is laid, which is Jesus Christ." He said of himself, I am the light of the world. I am the resurrection and the life: he that believeth in me though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. Without me ye can do nothing. My grace is sufficient for thee. Paul said of him, "We preach Christ crucified, unto the Jews a stumbling-block and unto the Greeks foolishness; but unto them which are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God." Asst. Bearer: Peter said: "Be it known unto you all, and to all the people of Israel, that by the name of Jesus Christ of Nazareth, whom ye crucified, whom God raised from the dead, even by him doth this man stand before you whole. This is the stone which was set at nought by you builders--the Jews--which is become the head of the corner. Neither is there salvation in any other; for there is none other name under heaven, given among men whereby we must be saved." Bearer: "We bring another stone for the foundation." M. B. "This stone represents the Word of God that endureth forever. Let us hear of this stone what the Bible may tell." Bearer: "Thou hast known the holy scriptures, which are able to make thee wise unto salvation through faith, which is in Christ Jesus. "All scripture is given by inspiration of God and is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness: That the man of God may be perfect; thoroughly furnished unto all good works. "The law of the Lord is perfect; converting the soul; the testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple. The statutes of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart; the commandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes. The fear of the Lord is clean, enduring forever; the judgments of the Lord are true and righteous altogether." Asst. Bearer. "Heaven and earth shall pass away, but my words shall not pass away." "Whosoever shall be ashamed of me and my words, of him shall the Son of Man be ashamed when he shall come in his own glory, and in the glory of the Father and of the holy angels." "Ye are built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ himself being the chief corner stone; in whom all the building fitly framed together groweth unto a holy temple in the Lord, for a habitation of God through the Spirit." See John 1. 4,14. M. B. The two fold foundation of our glorious temple has now been laid. It consists of the Rock of Ages and the Word of God that endureth forever. We are now ready for those good materials for the walls of the temple that are better than wood, hay or stubble, gold, silver or precious stones. FAITH. Bearer: We bring the stone that represents Faith. Master Builder: Faith is a goodly stone, and it fits right well. Let us hear of Faith what the Bible may tell. (Adjust and repeat for the other stones.) Bearer: By grace are ye saved through Faith; and that not of yourselves; it is the gift of God. God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life; and he that believeth not the Son shall not see life. Asst. Bearer: Abraham believed God, and it was accounted to him for righteousness. Know ye therefore that they which are of faith, the same are the children of Abraham. They which be of faith are blessed with faithful Abraham. He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful. Be thou faithful unto death and I will give thee a crown of life. See also Rom. 10:8-10. VIRTUE--COURAGE. B: Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just; whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things. Thou therefore my son, Timothy, be strong in the grace that is in Christ Jesus and endure hardness, as a good soldier of Jesus Christ. Asst. B: The Lord said unto Joshua, "Be strong and of a good courage: that thou mayest observe to do according to all the law, which Moses, my servant commanded thee; that thou mayest prosper whithersoever thou goest. This book of the law shall not depart out of thy mouth; but thou shalt meditate therein day and night, that thou mayest observe to do according to all that is written therein; for then thou shalt make thy way prosperous, and then thou shalt have good success." See also Eph. 6:10-17. KNOWLEDGE. B: The fear of the Lord is the beginning of knowledge. This is life eternal, that they might know thee, the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom Thou hast sent. Know ye not that ye are the temple of God and that the spirit of God dwelleth in you? If any man defile the temple of God, him shall God destroy: for the temple of God is holy, which temple ye are. See Prov. 4:7-8; 3:16-17 TEMPERANCE. Abstain from all appearance of evil. If meat make my brother to offend I will eat no meat while the world standeth. The fruit of the spirit is love, joy, peace, long suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance; against such there is no law. And 2 Pet. 1:5-6. PATIENCE. In your patience possess ye your souls. Let us run with patience the race that is set before us; looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith; who for the joy that was set before him endured the cross, despising the shame, and is set down at the right hand of the throne of God. GODLINESS. "Great is the mystery of Godliness: God manifest in the flesh, believed on in the world and received up into glory. Godliness with contentment is great gain. Godliness is profitable unto all things, having promise of the life that now is and of that which is to come. Fear God and keep his commandments: for this is the whole duty of man." KINDNESS. "Be ye kind one to another, tender hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you. Love ye your enemies, and do good; lend hoping for nothing again; and your reward shall be great, and ye shall be the children of the Highest: for he is kind unto the unthankful and to the evil." CHARITY. "Though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing. Charity suffereth long and is kind. Charity envieth not; beareth all things, believeth all things, endureth all things. And now abideth faith, hope and charity, these three, but the greatest of these is charity." Luke 10:27. I John 3:17. All repeat 2 Pet. 1:5-8, and review the foundations. THE SABBATH. "The Sabbath was made for man and not man for the Sabbath: therefore the Son of Man is Lord also of the Sabbath, and the apostle John calls it the Lord's day." "From the beginning of the world to the resurrection of Christ, God appointed the seventh day of the week to be the weekly Sabbath; and the first day of the week ever since to continue to the end of the world, which is the Christian Sabbath." "And the Lord spake unto Moses saying, verily my Sabbaths ye shall keep, for it is a sign between me and you throughout your generations; that ye may know that I am the Lord that doth sanctify you. It is a sign between me and the children of Israel for ever." Isaiah refers to the Sabbath as a pledge of divine favor. "If thou call the Sabbath a delight, the holy of the Lord and shalt honor it, not doing thine own ways; I will cause thee to ride upon the high places of the earth and feed thee with the heritage of Jacob thy father." Ezekiel, a prophet of the captivity, older than Daniel and faithful even unto death, refers four times to the pollution of the Sabbath as one of the principal causes of the captivity. "The word of the Lord came unto me, saying, I gave them my Sabbaths to be a sign between me and them, that they might know that I am the Lord that sanctify them. But the house of Israel walked not in my statutes, and my Sabbaths they greatly profaned. Then I said I would greatly pour out my fury upon them to consume them and scatter them among the heathen." Abraham Lincoln very truly observed, "As we keep or break the Sabbath day, we nobly save or meanly lose the last best hope by which man rises." Washington and Lincoln, apart from what they did, were great men. The divine element of a God given character belonged to each. Goodness is the basis of greatness, and greatness is character; the ability and willingness to serve. All unite in repeating the fourth commandment. THE DESIGN. It can be ornamented with a gilt cross and decorated with evergreen festoons pendant over the ends. Bouquets of the same color can be laid at the corresponding angles. THE CROSS. "God forbid that I should glory, save in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, by whom the world is crucified unto me, and I unto the world."--Paul. The children bringing bouquets can be supplied with short exercises like the following. I bring these flowers: Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. These beautiful flowers I bring, A grateful offering to my king. I bring these pretty flowers, A fragrant relic of Eden's bowers. I bring these roses fair To Him who hears my evening prayer. I bring to him this pretty rose, Who died and from the dead arose, To save us all from all our foes. These flowers I bring to him of whom it was said, "I am the rose of Sharon and the lily of the valleys." "By their fruits ye shall know them." This is the present test of character; of men, their teachings and institutions. Fruit, FRUIT, MORE FRUIT. Every branch that beareth not FRUIT He taketh away; every branch that beareth FRUIT He purgeth it, that it may bring forth MORE FRUIT "In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea. With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me; As He died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on." See also Math. 7:30; John 15:5-8, 14, 15. Repeat in unison the call of Jesus for the children: "Suffer little children to come unto me and forbid them not for of such is the kingdom of heaven." OPPORTUNITY FOR DECISION Daniel in his youth, purposed in his heart, not to defile himself by eating the king's meat or the wine which he drank. Joshua expressed his decision to all Israel, saying, "As for me and my house, we will serve the Lord." Choose ye this day whom ye will serve? While the congregation is standing and singing an appropriate, familiar hymn, encourage every undecided person present, to accept Jesus as their savior; and to indicate with the uplifted hand, their decision to live a Christian life. Provide testaments or bibles for those needing them. BUILDING DAY BY DAY "We are building in sorrow and building in joy A temple the world cannot see. But we know it will stand, if we found it on a rock, Through the ages of eternity. Cho. We are building day by day As the moments glide away, Our temple which the world may not see. Every victory won by grace Will be sure to find a place In our building for eternity. "Every deed forms a part in this building of ours, That is done in the name of the Lord; For the love that we show And the kindness we bestow He has promised us a bright reward. Then be watchful and wise Let the temple we rear Be one that no tempest can shock; For the Master has said And He taught us in His word We must build upon the solid rock." --H. E. Blair GROWING UP FOR JESUS "Growing up for Jesus, we are truly blest, In His smile is welcome, in His arms our rest, In His truth our treasure, in His word our rule, Growing up for Jesus, in our Sunday School. Growing up for Jesus, till in Him complete, Growing up for Jesus, oh! His work is sweet; In His truth our treasure, in His word our rule, Growing up for Jesus, in our Sunday School. "Not too young to love Him, little hearts beat true, Not too young to serve Him, as the dew drops do. Not too young to praise Him, singing as we come, Not too young to answer, when He calls us home. Growing up for Jesus, learning day by day, How to follow onward in the narrow way; Seeking holy treasure, finding precious truth, Growing up for Jesus in our happy youth." --Pres. Board Publication. OUR HAPPY LAND A Favorite Children's Chorus. Land of children, birds and flowers, What a happy land is ours! Here the gladdest bells are rung, Here the sweetest songs are sung. With Thy banner o'er us, Join we all in chorus, Land of children, birds and flowers What a happy land is ours. Let us keep it so we pray, Drive the clouds of sin away; Father by Thy love divine Make us, keep us ever Thine. With Thy banner o'er us, etc. Keep us Lord from day to day In the straight and narrow way. May it be our chief delight, To walk upright in Thy sight; With Thy banner o'er us, etc. What a happy land What a happy land is ours, Here the gladdest bells are rung, Here the sweetest songs are sung; Freedom's banner o'er us, Join we all in chorus, Land of children, birds and flowers, What a happy land is ours. THE ARCH The arch, which appears on another page, illustrates in a very striking manner the mutual dependence of all the stones, representing the divinely appointed elements of character, on their crown, the keystone, which represents the Sabbath or fourth commandment, the connecting link between the first and second tables of the law and the visible bond of every man and nation to his Creator. When the keystone has been placed in position the arch will sustain considerable weight, but if it be removed nearly all of the other stones tumble to the floor in a confused heap. Those who do not remember the Sabbath to keep it holy unto the Lord, may manifest some of these divinely appointed elements of character, but every one who conscientiously observes the Sabbath as a day for public worship, reading and teaching the Word of God, endeavors to develop all of them. The indwelling spirit is dependent on an intelligent knowledge of the Word, and the strengthening influence of the Sabbath is usually according to the good use that is made of it. EXPLANATORY A couple of cracker boxes inverted serve for the two foundation stones. The parts of the temple consist of frames made of thin strips, about five inches wide. Each stone is about three inches shorter and one and one-half inches narrower than the one below it, and it rests on supporting strips inserted in the top of the lower one. All can be set aside in the lower one when they are inverted. All are covered with white printing paper and the letters are fastened with little tacks. The large letters are 2-1/2x1-1/4 and the small ones 1-1/2x7-8 inches. A bright red color is essential in order to produce the nicest effect. They can be cut very speedily and uniformly if the cardboard is first ruled with a pen, into squares the size of the letters, and then ruled with a pencil one-fourth of an inch distant from the ink rulings. The arch is four feet wide at the base. The inner circle is described with a radius of two and the outer one of three feet. The curved edges of each are cut with a scroll saw. Strips of orange boxes or sheets of card board, one foot long, are used to nail on their straight edges. All are covered with cheese cloth or muslin and the letters are placed on a curved line. The arch and temple can both be built on a smaller scale with box board. The lifting of the keystone of the arch, when first inserted is a very interesting performance. REFERENCES TEMPLE: 1 Cor. 3:16-17; Math. 7:24-27; Luke 6:47-49; 1 Cor. 3:12-15; James 1:22-24; Rev. 2:17; Ps. 18:2; 31:2-3; 71:35; 40:2; 61:2; 62:2. JESUS. Isa. 28:16; 1 Peter 2:6; Math. 16:15-18; John 1:1-2-14; Dan. 2:34-35; 1 Cor. 8:11; Math 21:42-44; Acts 4:10-12; 1 Peter 2:4-6. WORD. 2 Tim. 3:16-17; 1 Peter 1:20-21; Ps. 19:7,10; Heb. 4:12; Ps. 119:105,130; Isa. 40:8; Math. 24:35; Mark 13:31; Luke 9:26; Eph. 2:19-22. FAITH. John 3:16, 36; Heb. 11:1-3; Eph. 2:4-8; Acts 16:31; Heb. 11:23-26; Mark 11:22-23; Gal. 3:6-9; Luke 16:10. VIRTUE. Phil. 4:8; Josh. 1:6-9; 2 Tim 2:1-3; 1 John 2:13-14. KNOWLEDGE. John 17:3; 1 Cor. 3:16-17; Prov. 1:7; Isa. 11:1-2, 33, 6; Prov. 4:7-8; 3:16-17. TEMPERANCE. Gal. 5:22-24; 1 Cor. 8:13; 2 Peter 1:5-6; Gen. 2:16-17; Dan. 1:8; Thess. 5:22. PATIENCE. Luke 21:19; James 5:11; Heb. 10:35-36; 12:1-2. GODLINESS. 1 Tim. 4:8; 6:6-7; 3:16; Ec. 12:13-14. KINDNESS. Eph. 4:32; Luke 6:35; Ps. 103:2-4. CHARITY. 1 Cor. 13:4-8; 13:1-3; 2 Peter 1:5-8. SABBATH. Ex. 20:8-11; Mark 2:27-28; Ex. 31:13-17; Isa. 58:13-14; Ezek. 20:13, 16, 20, 24; Luke 4:16:18; Rev. 1:10. XXX MAXIMS AND SUGGESTIONS RELATING TO THE DEVELOPMENT OF A GOOD CHARACTER AND THE ACHIEVEMENT OF GOOD SUCCESS--NUGGETS FROM SHORT TALKS TO THE STUDENTS ON FRIDAY EVENINGS. "Precept upon precept, line upon line, here a little and there a little." Proverbs. Unstable as water thou shalt not excel. Jacob. Be gentle in manner, firm in principle, always conciliatory. Go forward; and if difficulties increase, go forward more earnestly. In essentials, unity; in non-essentials, liberty; in all things, charity. Augustine. Find a way or make one, is excellent; but sometimes it needs to read, Find employment or make it. Whatever cannot be avoided must be endured. Endure hard things bravely. Patience and Perseverance will perform great wonders. Early to bed and early to rise will make a man healthy, wealthy and wise. Ben Franklin. Whoever wins man's highest stature here below must grow, and never cease to grow--for when growth ceases, death begins. Alice Carey. "There is so much bad in the best of us, And so much good in the worst of us; It is hardly fair for any of us, To speak ill of the rest of us." If thou wouldst know the secret of a happy life, rise in the morn, with armor clasped about thee, for the day's long strife. "Thy duty do." The very angels then will stoop, when the night brings rest, to cradle thee in heavenly arms because thou didst thy best. Jennings. Bear and forbear are two good bears to have in every home, in order to keep peace in the family. Grin and bear it, is another good one. Impatience, scolding and fault-finding are three black bears, that make every one feel badly and look ugly. Don't harbor them. BIBLE PRECEPTS. Faithful is the Bible word for success. He that is faithful, is faithful in that which is least. Owe no man anything. Render to all their dues. Be not wise in your own conceits. A wise son maketh a glad father; but a foolish son is the heaviness of his mother. Seek ye first the kingdom of God and all these things shall be added unto you. Wisdom is the principal thing, therefore get wisdom. Her ways are ways of pleasantness and all her paths are peace. Honor the Lord with thy substance and with the first-fruits of all thine increase; so shall thy barns be filled with plenty. So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom. Let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us, and establish thou the work of our hands. Moses. The hand of the diligent maketh rich. The hand of the diligent shall bear rule. Be not slothful in business. A man diligent in his business shall stand before kings; he shall not stand before mean men. Anger resteth in the bosom of fools. Make no friendship with an angry man, lest thou learn his ways: Let not the sun go down upon thy wrath. Be patient; and not a brawler or striker. SPIRITUAL POWER. Bring ye all the tithes into the storehouse, that there may be meat in mine house, and prove me now herewith, saith the Lord of hosts, if I will not open the windows of heaven, and pour you out a blessing, that there shall not be room enough to receive it. HOW SOME MEN ACHIEVED GREATNESS Abraham believed God and was promptly obedient to His divine call. "The Lord made Abraham rich" and the "Father of the Faithful." "The Lord was with Joseph," the innocent slave in prison. He led him from the prison to a throne and made him a successful ruler in Egypt. Daniel the youthful, God-fearing captive at Babylon, "sought the Lord by prayer, supplication and fasting." "The Lord prospered him," gave him favor with princes and made him the greatest statesman of his age. Job was a "perfect and upright man, one that feared God." Satan said of him, "Doth Job fear God for nought?" Satan then deprived him of his family, property and health. Job still maintained his integrity, saying, "The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away." The Lord then gave Job twice as much as he had before; so that the latter end of Job was more blessed than his beginning. When the Lord said to Moses, "Come now, I will send thee unto Pharaoh, that thou mayest bring forth my people out of Egypt;" he hesitated, saying, "Who am I?" "They will not believe me;" and "I am not eloquent." But when he obeyed the call and went, the Lord went with him, the people believed, the army of Pharaoh was overthrown; and Moses became the first emancipator, a great leader of men and the greatest lawgiver in the history of the world. OAK HILL BE'S Be Honorable. Never do that which will cause you afterwards to feel ashamed. Be Honest. Never deceive or take that which belongs to another. Be True. Stand firmly for the truth and be faithful, though you stand or work alone. Be Pure. Shun the impure and abhor whatever will corrupt good morals. Be Polite. Help the weak and never by word or act offend another. Be Prompt. If you have done badly, hasten with your apology before you are called to account. Be Thoughtful. Learn how to exercise that forethought that anticipates every future need at the beginning of an undertaking. Self Control. Self control means self discipline. Self discipline means that I must be willing to: Be, what I know I ought to be; Say, what I know I ought to say; Do, what I know I ought to do; Go, where I know I ought to go; Do, with my might what my hands find to do; and be firmly decided, not to do anything I know I ought not to do. It is the ability to control one's thoughts and energies by rule, so as to act prudently, and never impulsively or impatiently. All make mistakes, some more than others. "To err is human." He succeeds best who makes the fewest mistakes; and most quickly corrects them, when discovered. "I am not bound to win, but I am bound to be true. "I am not bound to succeed, but I am bound to live up to what light I have. "I must stand with anybody who stands right; stand with him while he is right, and part with him when he goes wrong." Lincoln. Freedom. True freedom is the freedom to do right, and for it good men contend. The liberty to do what one may wish to do, is not freedom, for that may be wrong. Tact. Tact is the ability to please rather than offend, by saying or doing the right thing in a pleasant way at the right time, ignoring petty slights and insults and leading disagreeable people to become your friends. Blessed is the teacher who expects much from his pupils, he is thereby likely to receive it; that has common sense in framing regulations, and backbone to enforce them; whose vocabulary contains more "do's" than "don'ts." Lucy A. Baker. The little birds, like the busy bees, are cheery and valuable helpers. Encourage their presence and aid, by planting trees for their songs and building little houses for their young. The domestic animals are our servants and profit-makers, or mortgage lifters. Always treat them kindly. Never permit anyone to strike, or stone them. Even the pig of your neighbor, when he becomes a mischievous intruder in your field, if you give him a friendly chase, will conduct you to a hole in the fence that ought to be closed. "Kind words can never die, Cherished and blest; God knows how deep they lie, Stored in each breast." Character. Character is a word derived from another one that means to impress or engrave. It marks our individuality. It is the result of the principles and habits, that have impressed themselves on our nature and the abilities that have been developed. Solomon calls it a good name, which suggests reputation. It is tested and strengthened by overcoming difficulties. A good character is within the reach of all while greatness is possible only to a few. "When wealth is lost, nothing is lost; When health is lost, something is lost; When character is lost, all is lost." Character. "Character is not what we think, feel or know; but what we are. Character is being; and it is infinitely nobler to be than to have, or know, or do. The rank, value and dignity of character cannot be overestimated. The confidence of the whole world on which trade, empires, homes and real happiness are built is confidence in character. Character is the great end; moral and spiritual education is the greatest means to attain that end."--Martin. Character is personal power, the poor boy's best capital and the success, that makes him greater than his occupation. The weak wait for opportunities, but the strong seize them and make even common occasions great. The world honors success. God honors faithfulness. The world commends worldly achievements, but God rewards character. Every student should endeavor to build up the community in which he lives commercially, socially and religiously. Beware of strangers that come to you full of smooth talk and clad in fine clothing. The tree, book, land and other agents sometimes prove helpful. But you will be happier and more prosperous, if you will send for a catalog and get just what you need, and at cost. You will thereby avoid the expensiveness and uncertainty of doing business through a nicely dressed, but irresponsible stranger. The upright exert a blessed influence long after their departure from the earth. They are remembered in the home, the social circle and the church. "That man exists, but never lives, Who much receives but nothing gives; But he who marks his busy way, By generous acts from day to day, Treads the same path his Savior trod, The path to glory and to God." Education. Everything from a pin to an engine has its cost and someone must pay the price. In education the material is human and the product is a new and living worker for the world's work. The material and moral progress of the world has been principally due to the work of educated men and women. Education has its cost, but the profit of a good christian education is vastly greater than its cost. It pays to educate young people who are christians, that they may become leaders in thought and action. "A good education enables one to manifest goodness and not badness. Drawing out all the good qualities of head and heart, it magnifies them and suppresses the bad ones. If this seems hard, it should be remembered that all things of value are obtained only by effort." "For every evil under the sun There's a remedy, or there's none, If there is one, try and find it; If there is none, never mind it." "A clear and legible handwriting is one of the best means of giving a stranger an impression of force of character, self-control and capacity for skilled work. It wins favor by making the reading of it easy and a source of pleasure. It is one of the crowning attainments of a well cultured life."--Spencer. "Success follows those who see and know how to take advantage of their opportunity." The Lord loves to use "the weak things" and "things that are despised." He loves to put the treasure of His grace into the feeble, that the world may be compelled to ask, "whence hath this man power?" Rev. J. H. Jowett. Self education is accomplished by reading good books, with the aid of a dictionary. Get a Bible dictionary for the Bible, and a Webster or Academic dictionary for other books. Do all things by rule. A good rule tells the right way to do things. If you do not know the rule ask for it. Never violate a known rule. It never pays to do so; the confidence of someone is sure to be forfeited. Keep Busy. Keep busy and you will keep happy. Read good books when you cannot work. If you call on a friend and he is busy, do not become an idler or make him one. Either help him or read his best books. Idleness. Idleness is a sin against God. "Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work." "In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread." "If any man will not work, neither let him eat." It is also a sin against our nature; causing a slow movement, which is a serious disappointment; tardiness, which is like a dead fly in precious ointment; and, that loathsome disease, laziness. Like drunkenness it is an inexcusable shame, that dooms one to poverty and clothes him with rags. Shun idleness as you do the sting of a hornet, or the bite of a rattler. "We are not here to play, to dream, to drift, We have our work to do, and loads to lift. Shun not the struggle; face it. 'Tis God's gift." "They are slaves who fear to speak, For the fallen and the weak. They are slaves who will not choose Hatred, scoffing and abuse, Rather than in silence shrink From the truth they needs must think; They are slaves, who dare not be In the right with two or three." Lowell. Do your best. Put your best efforts in your work, no matter how simple or difficult the task. "I am passing through this world but once. I will therefore do my best every day, and do all the good to all the people I can." "I do the very best I know how--the very best I can; and I mean to keep doing so until the end. If the end brings me out all right, what is said against me won't amount to anything. If the end brings me out wrong, ten angels swearing I was right would make no difference." Abraham Lincoln. Efficiency. Efficiency is the ability to perform work in the shortest and quickest way, by omitting every useless movement. Faith. Faith rests on facts and realities. It is the basis of home and business. "It swings the rainbow across the dark clouds, makes heroes in life's battles, extracts the poison from Satan's arrows and links us to God and the good in heaven." Let us have faith that right makes might, and in that faith let us to the end dare to do our duty, as we understand it. With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish, the work we are in. Abraham Lincoln at Gettysburg. Gladness. Gladness is sown for the upright. The joy of the Lord is your strength. Manifest your joy and gladness by wearing the smile of contentment and love. It includes a sparkle in the eye, a little ripple on the cheek and the kind word that "never dies." "Smile and the world smiles with you, Laugh and the world will roar, Growl and the world will leave you, And never come back any more. All of us could not be handsome, Nor all of us wear good clothes, But a smile is not expensive, And covers a world of woes." Energy. Energy is power in action. Stagnant water lacks power, but water in action produces steam, the power that moves the world's machinery and traffic. Knowledge in action means power on the farm, in the home and in the church. "God bless the man who sows the wheat, Produces milk and fruit and meat; His purse be heavy, his heart be light, His corn and cattle all go right, God bless the seed his hand lets fall, The farmer produces the food for all." Knowledge. Knowledge is power, when it is wisely assorted, assimilated and immediately employed; as is the water of a river, when it is used to produce electric power. The knowledge that leads to sovereign power, includes self-knowledge, self-respect and self-control. The man who does well whatsoever he undertakes, cannot be kept down, except by his own indiscretions. A good character is essential to the soul winner. It is a false notion that one must meet the world on its own level--drink to win a drinker, smoke to win a smoker, and play the world's games in order to win it to Christ. Richard Hobbs. Thrift. Thrift consists in increasing the value of our possessions every year, by making good investments of our time and money, and by earning more than is spent for living expenses. "A penny saved is two pence earned." Our Father in heaven sends no man into this world without a work, and a capacity to perform that work. "Live for those that love you, For those you know are true; For the cause that lacks assistance, For the wrong that needs resistance; For the future in the distance: And the good that you can do." "A fool with a gun or an axe can destroy in five minutes, what it took nature years to perfect and perpetuate." A little house well filled, A little field well tilled, A good wife well willed, are great riches. Leaders. Be a leader. A leader does his thinking before hand and endeavors to provide for every need. He must be well informed and know how to arouse interest and stimulate activity. He must discover and adopt only the best methods. The rewards of leadership are a continually increasing power to lead others and the ability to conduct your own life most usefully and happily. "A good farmer's tools are under shelter; But Pete Tumbledown's lie helter-skelter; And when he wants his tools again He finds them rusty from the rain." "Divide and conquer," was Joshua's rule of strategy in the conquest of Canaan. "Separate for the march, unite for the attack," was a maxim of Napoleon. Both are good rules for the people in all our churches, in their constant conflict with vice and iniquity. The noblest man does not always uphold his rights, but waives them for his own good and the good of others. A keen sense of honor, that condemns dishonorable conduct, is one of the finest results of a good education. Education is expected to do for the mind, what sculpture does to a block of marble. "A merry farmer's girl am I, My songs are gay and blithe; For in my humble country home I lead a free, glad life. Through fertile fields and gardens mine, I love at will to roam, And as I wander gayly sing, This is my own, free home, My own free home." Genius. There is no genius like a love for hard work. Hard work develops strength, increases usefulness, and tends to length of days. Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy work. In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread. Labor conquers all things. "He lives the best who never does complain, Whether the passing days be filled with sun or rain. Who patiently toils on though feet be sore, Whose home stands by the road with open door; Who smiles though down he sits to feast or crust, His faith in man sincere, in God his trust." A. F. Caldwell. Seek employment by the month or year, rather than by the day; and render unswerving loyalty to those of your own home, school and church; and those who favor you with employment. A man's work is the expression of his worth. It should make a man of him, and give him great pleasure and delight. When a man knows his work and does it with the enthusiasm of Nehemiah, it gives him joy and enables him to exert a good influence. "That man is blest who does his best and leaves the rest." The world owes no man a living, but every man owes the world an honest effort to make at least his own living. SAVE THE BOY; SAVE THE GIRL! Save them from bad habits and evil associations. Save them for useful careers, happy homes and a glorious inheritance. "If a blessing you have known, 'Twas not given for you alone, Pass it on. Let it travel down the years, Let it dry another's tears, Till in heaven the deed appears, Pass it on." Greatness: Goodness is the basis of that service that leads to greatness. The keynote of that service is found in the words: "The Son of man came not to be ministered unto, but to minister; and to give his life for many." The cross is the symbol of a service that is faithful, even unto death. "So live that every thought and deed may hold within itself the seed of future good and future need." Undertake great things for God and His glory and expect great things from Him. "Never trouble trouble Until trouble troubles you." Prudent, hopeful and enthusiastic are those who make the "desert to rejoice and blossom as the rose." Habits: A habit is a cable; we spin a thread of it every day, and at last we cannot break it. Thoughts leave an ineffaceable trace on the brain or memory. "Sow a thought and you reap an act, Sow an act and you reap a habit, Sow a habit and you reap a character, Sow a character and you reap a destiny." A pretty oak tree is a beautiful emblem of the strength, beauty and eminent usefulness of an intelligent and noble man. Train the head, the heart and hand, and thus develop that strength and beauty of character, that fits one for the most eminent usefulness. A single aim means undivided attention and interest. Concentrate your faculties on the particular work of each day, that later you may be able to give your undivided attention to your chosen employment. All great achievements have been won by those who have had a single aim. "Consider the postage stamp, my son; its usefulness consists in sticking to one thing, until it gets there."--Josh Billings. Concentrate your energies and be master of your work. The world crowns him who knows one thing and does it better than others. I will. Always say, "I will" or "I'll try," when work or a duty is proposed, that can and ought to be done. Never say, "I can't" or "I won't", except to resist a temptation to do wrong. While the "I can'ts" fail in everything, and the "I won'ts" oppose everything, the "I will's" do the world's work. God has a plan for every life. He made you for use and for His own use. He gives power to those whom He uses. Let Him use you. Your happiness depends on the consciousness you are fulfilling your divinely appointed mission; and your success, on your will being in harmony with your work. Only the tuned violin can make music; and only the life in harmony with God can "please him" or "win souls" to Him. Spiritual power is necessary for spiritual work. Investments. Invest only where your investment will be under your own personal supervision, or that of a known and trusted friend. Invest only in those kinds of properties, the successful and profitable management of which, you best understand. Investments in young stock and good real estate increase in value; but investments in rolling stock always decrease in value. Buy low from those who have to sell, and sell to those who want to buy. Seek counsel only of those who are achieving success, and never trust a stranger. Home. A home is one of the best investments for every one of moderate means. It provides a shelter for the individual and for the family, no matter what may happen. A regular income must be assured in order to retain a place to sleep in a rented house. The early desire to own a home makes steady employment a source of pleasure. It is not what we eat, but what we digest, that makes us strong. It is not what we read, but what we remember, that makes us learned. It is not what we earn, but what we save, that makes us rich. Home. A christian home is a precious heritage. It is the divinely appointed educator of mankind. Its seclusion, shelter and culture are invaluable. There the mother whose hand rocks the cradle, moves the world, teaching the lessons of obedience, self-control, faith and trust. Use only a mellow and sweet tone of voice in the home. A kind and gentle voice is a pearl of great price that, like the cheery song of the lark, increases the joy and happiness of the home with passing years. "The farmer's trade is one of worth, He is partner with the earth and sky; He is partner with the sun and rain, And no man loses by his gain. And men may rise and men may fall; The farmer, he must feed them all." "Man's chief end is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever." Knowledge. "Other things may be seized by might or purchased with money; but knowledge is to be gained only by study."--Johnson. "He that studies only men, will get the body of knowledge, without the soul; and he that studies only books, the soul without the body. He that to what he sees adds observation, and to what he reads, reflection, is in the right road to knowledge, provided that in scrutinizing the hearts of others he neglects not his own."--Cotton. Co-operation. "All real progress of the individual, or of society, comes through the joining of hands and working together in a spirit of helpfulness for the common good." A brother in need is a brother indeed. "Whoso hath this world's goods and seeth his brother in need and shutteth up his bowels of compassion from him, how dwelleth the love of God in him?" Never go security for any one who cannot give you a mortgage or whose word is not as good as his bond. "He that is surety for a stranger, shall smart for it; and he that hateth suretyship is sure." Eloquence. Eloquence is the expression of a moral conviction. It is overpowering when the moral conviction is tremendously felt. This was the secret of the eloquence of Lincoln, Beecher and Garrison, when they spoke of the wrong of slavery; and of John B. Gough, Neal Dow and Frances Willard, when they plead for an uprising against the curse of strong drink. Marriage. Marriage is a divine ordinance, instituted by our Heavenly Father in the time of man's innocency. It is not a sacrament, but a social institution, intended to promote the comfort and happiness of mankind, through the establishment of the family relationship, and a responsible home, where the children may be trained for the service of God and the work of their generation. The gospel hallows all the relations of life and sanctions the innocent enjoyment of all the good gifts of God. It purifies the hearts of those who walk in the way of obedience and induces the peace that passeth understanding. "Life is real, life is earnest And the grave is not its goal, Dust thou art to dust returnest, Was not written of the soul. Let us then be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait."--Longfellow. Robbers. Idleness, tardiness and "late nights," are three bold bad robbers, that must be strenuously resisted and overcome. Be watchful or they may rob you of the best that is in you. Spare Moments. It is better to be a busy silent reader in the home or school and learn something useful, than to be an idle, noisy talker, disturbing others and causing the loss or forfeiture of valuable privileges. Have a book for spare moments in the home. Read only good books, the Bible and catechism first; then those on history, biography, travel, and progress in the arts and sciences, including one on your own occupation. Do not read worthless story books. They will rob you of your time, and the taste for the Bible and other good books. Time wasted in idleness or reading worthless books means bad companions, bad habits, and the loss of opportunity, energy and vitality. Learn to abhor idleness as nature does a vacuum. Say No. Have the courage to say "no" to every solicitation to violate rule or known duty. "The companion of fools shall be destroyed." "Though hand join in hand the guilty shall not go unpunished." "This is Fabricius, the man whom it is more difficult to turn from his integrity, than the sun from his course."--Pyrrhus. Writing. Train the hand and inform the mind so you can write the English language, "Plain to the eye and gracefully combined." "The pen engraves for every art and indites for every press. It is the preservative of language, the business man's security, the poor boy's patron and the ready servant of mind."--Spencer. Train: The hand to be graceful, steady, strong; The Eye to be alert and observing; The Memory to be accurate and retentive; The Heart to be tender, true and sympathetic. Promptness. Promptness takes the drudgery out of an occupation. The decision of a moment often determines the destiny of years. Every moment lost affords an opportunity for misfortune. Punctuality is the soul of business, the mother of confidence and credit. Only those, who keep their time, can be trusted to keep their word. Tardiness is a disappointment and an interruption; a kind of falsehood and theft of time. Vices. The four great vices of this age are Sabbath-breaking, gambling, intemperance and licentiousness. These must be fought all the time, like the great plagues that attack the body, tuberculosis, leprosy and small pox. The gospel will save any one from all of them; and some day it will sweep them from the earth, as they are now kept from heaven. "A Sabbath well spent Brings a week of content, And strength for the toils of the morrow; But a Sabbath profaned, Whatso'er may be gained, Is a certain forerunner of sorrow." To be a leader is a praiseworthy ambition. A leader is one who wins the confidence of the people so that they are willing to follow. Our Lord Jesus gave the secret of leadership, when he said: "Whosoever would be first among you, shall be servant of all;" and again, "The Son of Man came not be ministered unto, but to minister, and to give his life a ransom for many." America. America is a land of opportunity, where the poor boy secures a home and later may participate in the government. Most of those, who are managing the world's work to day, were poor boys yesterday. If you are in the school of adversity today, do not be discouraged, "thank God and take courage;" for you are merely on the same level with those, who by their energy and thrift, are making sure of success tomorrow. When Lord Beaconsfield became a member of Parliament, and the other members did not care to listen to his youthful speeches, he said to himself, "I am not a slave nor a captive; and by energy I can overcome great obstacles. The time will come when you will hear me." Books. "The first time I read an excellent book," said Goldsmith, "it is to me as if I had gained a new friend." "Books are the pillars of progress, the inspiration of mankind. They exert a wonderful influence and a mighty power, though silent," says John Knox in Ready Money, "in lifting up humanity and making progress possible." They enable the reader to converge and associate with the noblest and best minds. In them we have the thoughts and deeds, the experience and inspiration of all the great ones of earth. [Illustration: FRUITS APPROVED AT OAK HILL IN 1912, FOR THE HOME ORCHARD IN SOUTHERN OKLAHOMA. _Peaches:_ 1. Mamie Ross; 2. Waddell; 3. Alton; 4. Capt. Ede; 5. Carman; 6. _Early Elberta_; 7. Illinois; 8. Elberta Queen; 9. Belle of Georgia; 10. Champion; 11. Late Crawford; 12. Late Elberta. _Apples:_ 13. Duchess; 14. Maiden Blush; 15. Wilson Red June; 16. Delicious; 17. Jonathon; 18. Wolf River; 19. King David; 20. Stayman Wine Sap; 21. Ben Davis; 22. Mammoth Grimes Golden; 23. Black Ben; 24. Champion; and, Missouri Pippin.] [Illustration: THE FLAMES CONSUMING THE OLD FARM HOUSE, LOOKING NORTHEAST.] [Illustration: THE BRIDGE OF LIFE. The Bible elements of a good character: their two-fold foundation, and bond--the Sabbath.] Good books, that breathe the best thoughts and experiences of others, are trusted friends, that bring instruction, entertainment and contentment to the home. As companions and counselors they supply a real want, that makes the home more than merely a place for food and raiment. "Writing makes an exact man, talking makes a ready man, but reading makes him a full man,"--that is a man of intelligence. A man is known by the books he reads and the company he keeps. Let some of the world's best books find an inviting and permanent place in your home. Books and voices make a glorious combination. No one can tell what good books and good voices may not do. The Word of God and the gospel of our Lord Jesus, have come to us in the form of a book, and we call it by way of pre-eminence, "The Bible," or Scriptures of the Old and New Testaments. Our attention has been directed to them by the living voice. Let your tongues proclaim the glad message of divine truth and redeeming love. The Holy Spirit will record the results in the Lamb's Book of Life. Read and preserve the books. WIT AND HUMOR "Laugh, and grow fat." "A merry heart doeth good like a medicine." Aunt Dinah: "How long hab you dis set of dishes?" Mother Hubbard: "Let me see; I've had 'em--four girls and a half." Mike: "Do ye believe in the recall of judges, Pat?" Pat: "That I do not. The last time I was up before his honor he sez: 'I recall that face.--Sixty days.' I'm agin the recall of judges." Life. Bishop: "Well, Mr. Jones, how do you like your preacher?" Deacon Jones: "He's de best I eber seed, to take de Bible apart; but he dun' no how to put it to gedder agen." A Swede, that had not yet had time to learn our language was accused of throwing a stone through a plate glass window. When the lawyers failed to enable him to describe it's size the judge asked: "Was it as big as my fist?" "It ben bigger," the Swede replied. "Was it as big as my two fists?" "It ben bigger." "Was it as big as my head?" "It ben about as long, but not so thick," the Swede replied, amid the laughter of the court. * * * * * The German's trouble with the English language. Visitor: "Those are two fine dogs you have." Cobbler: "Yes und de funny part of it iss, dat de biggest dog is de leettlest one." Cobbler's Wife: "You must mine husband egscuse; he shpeaks not very good English. He means de oldest dog is de youngest one." XXXI RULES, MOTTOES AND COURSE OF STUDY WALL MOTTOES I. OAK HILL MOTTO Time is precious Time is money-- Do not stand idle, waiting, Do not keep others waiting, Do something useful. Be a busy, silent worker, Shun the idle, noisy shirker. II. RULE OF ORDER Order is the first law of Heaven, and it is the first rule in every well regulated home, school and church. IT REQUIRES THAT EVERYONE: BE in the right place at the right time, DO the right thing in the right way, DO the same things the same way, KEEP everything in the right place; and COMPLETE whatever has been undertaken. ENDEAVOR BENEDICTION "The Lord bless thee and keep thee: "The Lord make his face shine upon thee and be gracious unto thee: "The Lord lift up his countenance upon thee, and give thee peace. "And unto him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in his own blood and hath made us kings and priests unto God and his Father; to him be glory and dominion forever and ever. Amen." III. ESSENTIALS TO SUCCESS An unwavering aim, Unswerving integrity, Intelligent industry, Neverfailing promptness, Indomitable perseverance, Unbounded enthusiasm, Willing and strict economy, In the employment of time, Talents, money and expenses. IV. BUSY DAY THIS is our BUSY DAY. Do not intrude here to day. Come some other day. LOAFERS Are worse than useless. Their presence here is STRICTLY FORBIDDEN. =KEY WORDS:= The Key words that open or close doors of opportunity, and contrast the characteristics of the good and bad student, are as follows: GOOD STUDENT =POET:= Politeness, Obedience, Economy and Earnestness, Thoughtfulness. BAD PUPIL =DIED:= Disorderly conduct, Idleness, Extravagance, Deceit. GOOD WORKMAN =STEAM:= Steam is a good key word, to enable one to remember how the good workman works efficiently and profitably. He works: Steadily, Thoughtfully, Enthusiastically, Alone, Methodically. RULES AND REGULATIONS I. STUDENTS =The Superintendent and Teachers= wish all the students to be gladdened and strengthened by the joy of successful achievement. To effect this each student must learn to do promptly and thoroughly everything he knows he ought to do, and refrain absolutely from doing anything he knows he ought not to do. "The joy of the Lord is your strength." =Order.= Good order must be maintained in all the buildings and premises. It requires that there be a place for everything and everything be kept in its place; that each student know his place and be in it at the right nick of time. =Silence.= All are expected to be silent, thoughtful, earnest workers so as to make perfect recitations. The discipline of absolute silence is necessary to the attainment of complete self control, and the achievement of the best results, both as a student and workman. Silence must be observed in the Academy at all times, and only a low tone of voice is appropriate in the other buildings at any time. =Obedience.= All are expected to yield a prompt and cheerful obedience to all the Rules and Regulations, and never indulge in any disputes with your teachers. Students render themselves liable to suspension or expulsion by persistent disobedience, quarreling, disorderly conduct, profane or unchaste language, truancy, or general disregard for the rules of the school. No student known to be affected with a contagious disease, or coming from a family where such diseases exist, shall be received or continued in the school. Pupils must procure drinks and make all other necessary preparation for school at playtime, and keep their places after the bell rings. Pupils shall not ask questions, walk across or leave the room while classes are reciting, nor at any other time without permission. Pupils must observe the common forms of politeness and at all times treat their teachers and one another with courtesy and respect. No pupil shall be permitted to leave or be absent from the school during school hours, except in case of illness without an excuse from the superintendent or parent. =Rooms.= The rooms occupied by the students are merely sleeping apartments; and for this purpose the pure cold air in them is conducive to the enjoyment of the most rugged health. They must not be used for study or amusement, especially at night; and drafts of air from the windows must be avoided. Each student on rising, when no other provision is made is expected to air the bed and room, to empty the slop pail and put it on its shelf in the sun, to make the bed and sweep the room; and after breakfast to report for duty, the boys at the office, and the girls to the matron. They will report in the same way at 2:30 p.m., and the children at 4:00 p.m. All are expected to refrain from returning to the sleeping rooms during the day, from entering the rooms of others in the evening and from receiving visitors without permission. The doors must be kept closed. =Illness.= The first duty of everyone who becomes ill is to report that fact to the superintendent, or matron. He expects everyone to perform every duty assigned in a faithful and responsible manner, until notice of illness has been received. All are required, even when feeling indisposed and lacking an appetite, to come to the table for warm drinks at the regular meal time. All requests for meals to be brought to the rooms, shall be sent to the matron or superintendent at or before meal time. =Sitting Rooms.= The small boys, when needing the comfort of a warm room, must occupy their own sitting room, and the larger boys and girls the rooms provided for them, respectively; each endeavoring to make a good use of their spare moments, while occupying these places, and observe the rule requiring quiet and good order in the buildings. =Chapel Bell.= The chapel bell shall be rung at 7:45 and 7:55 a.m.; at 12:45 and 12:55 p.m.; at 2:40 p.m. and at 6:45 and 6:55 p.m. Every student is expected to be in his place and be ready for work on his studies, before the tap bell is heard at 8:00 a.m., 1:00 p.m. and 7:00 p.m. =Farm Bell.= The signal for the janitors or fire makers shall be rung at 5:40 a.m., the call to rise, at 6:00 a.m.; for dinner at 11:40 a.m.; supper at 5:40 p.m.; retiring at 8:20 and 8:30 p.m., when all lights in the rooms must be put out. The dining room bell will ring for breakfast, at 6:20 a.m.; dinner, at 11:55 a.m.; supper, at 6:00 p.m. All matters for the mail must be delivered at the office before 1:00 p.m. II. MEETINGS AND CHORES =Genius.= All are encouraged to learn how to work hard and constantly, and to use every spare moment for some good purpose. There is no genius like that for hard work. Enthusiastic interest in one's work is essential to success. Idleness is a sin, a waste of life, and cannot be endured at Oak Hill, which is intended to be a hive of industry. =Carefulness.= All must learn to use rightly and carefully the books, slates, tools, and furniture entrusted to them. All injuries to books, furniture or buildings must be paid for by those guilty of injuring them. =Services.= All, unless specially excused, are required to attend all the religious services on the Sabbath, including the Bible Memory class. The =Endeavor= meeting is the student's special training service; all are expected to participate in it, by at least reading or repeating a verse of Scripture; and in the Bible Memory class by committing an average of one verse a day. All are encouraged to covet the best gifts, especially the power of complete self-control, and the ability to say things forcibly, and do things thoroughly. =Speakers.= Those speak with authority, who, instead of telling what they think, or making an apology, tell what the Bible, the law of the Lord, says. All should endeavor to instruct, animate and encourage; none should ever indulge in fault-finding, or allude to any personal grievance. =Leaders.= Leaders of meetings are expected to be fully prepared before hand, to stand when they speak; to speak sufficiently loud and distinct as to be easily heard by the most distant listener; to repeat the numbers of the hymns; to request the audience to stand during prayer; to afford an opportunity for volunteer prayers or remarks; and to close the meeting as soon as the interest in it has ended. =Immorality.= No one guilty of persistent immoral conduct, will either be admitted, or be permitted to remain at the academy. =Chores.= The domestic work in all the buildings, the care of the stock, and the preparation of the fuel, are apportioned among the students, and all are required to do their part. =Janitors.= The janitors must see that the kindling has been provided in the evening; rise promptly at the call of the janitor's signal; and have the fires in the sitting rooms and chapel burning in good shape, before the ringing of the rising bell. These fires are to be maintained during the day by those specially appointed to perform that duty. All are expected, to exercise good judgment and practice economy in the use of both the kindling and wood. The ashes from all the stoves must be carried to the heap every morning. Only old vessels may be used for this purpose and these, when emptied, must be returned to their proper places. =Care of Stock.= Those assigned the care of the stock are required to be prompt and faithful in caring for it; in the morning, at noon and evening day by day, according to instructions, without having to be prompted. This work must not be left undone or entrusted to others, without first notifying the superintendent. =Other Chores.= This rule, requiring faithfulness, applies also to those, who have been assigned the chore work about the buildings, kindling fires, sweeping halls, cleaning lamps, carrying water and wood. =Hall Lamps.= The hall lamps, water pails and other fixtures, that are intended to serve all, must never be removed from their places, to render service to an individual. III. WORK AND THINGS FORBIDDEN =Work Period.= All over 13 years of age are expected to render three full hours of faithful and efficient work each day, and on Saturday until 2:30 p.m. Time lost by tardiness, or unnecessary absence during the working period, must be made up before the end of the term. =Object.= The aim of your teachers, during these work-periods, is to give you a practical knowledge of the simple arts of life; that you may be intelligent, capable and efficient workmen; be enabled to make your own homes more comfortable, and create a demand for your services. =Tool Rules.= Each workman, at the close of the work period, must return all tools used to their proper place. If they have been transferred, then the last one using them must return them. None are permitted to use any tools, or touch any musical instrument, until they have been taught the rules relating to them; and have been shown how to use them, and do the work in a skillful and workmanlike manner. Tools must never be taken to any of the rooms to do any repair work. =Non-interference.= When students are working under the direction of anyone, they must not be interfered with by others, nor leave the work assigned them, without the knowledge and approval of the one, under whose direction they are working at the time. =Irregularity.= Irregularity greatly interferes with a student's progress and the work of his class and teacher. Leave of absence during the term cannot therefore be granted, except for the most urgent reasons. Those, that from any cause, miss one or more lessons, should endeavor to master them when they return. =Caution.= All are kindly advised never to be guilty of any word or act, that will be likely to cause you to forfeit the esteem and confidence of the superintendent, or your teachers. A good student endeavors to aid and cheer, but never disobeys or annoys a teacher. =Things Forbidden.= Never permit yourself to indulge in any dispute with your teacher in the school room, shop or field. Don't tease, ridicule or despise others; be polite and courteous to each other. Don't indulge in the use of profane or obscene language, or in any acts of deceit, falsehood or theft. Don't use or have in your possession, any intoxicating liquors, tobacco or snuff in any form; gamblers' or obscene cards or pictures; concealed weapons; or soil the floors with spittle or wash water. Don't indulge in singing, whistling, unnecessary talking or foolish laughter while working with others; or play ball while others are working, or choring. All communications between boys and girls, and all association or interference on the play grounds are strictly forbidden. At the close of all meetings, especially those in the evening, the girls are required to go directly and quietly to their hall. Don't be extravagant or foppish in your dress, or borrow or lend, either clothing or money. Don't send home for eatables or other unnecessary things. New clothing, especially shoes, should not be sent from home, without having the measure taken. It is better to send the money. Every article of clothing needing to be washed must have the owner's name. Don't tamper with the street lamp, or the plugs in the water trough; nor change the pins, tubs or tube at the well; nor roughly jerk the pump handles at the well and cisterns. Use everything in the way and for the purpose for which it was intended, never otherwise. Don't leave your seat in the school room, or go out of it during school hours, without permission from your teacher. Never sit on the tops of the desks. =Teachers.= Each teacher is expected to keep in an orderly form on the teacher's desk, for use in conducting recitations, a complete set of the Text books used by the classes; and to prepare before hand all lessons or parts thereof that may not be familiar. The power of suspension or exclusion is vested only in the superintendent. This power must never be exercised by any of his helpers without his previous knowledge and approval. All matters relating to the repair of the buildings and their equipment should be promptly reported to the superintendent. The aim of the primary teacher, at the time of recitation, should be to have all the pupils reproduce the entire lesson one or more times in concert and then individually to accomplish this with as few words as possible. The aim of every teacher should be to make Oak Hill, to all the young people pursuing their studies here, a fountain of inspiration, a sanctuary where fellowship with the Redeemer of the world and a new discovery of the glory of God shall be among the blessings bestowed. =Book Marks.= The teachers are required to furnish every new pupil one complete set of approved, folded marginal book marks; one for each text book, and for both the Sunday school and Memory lessons in the Bible. By example and precept, they are expected to require them to keep them in their proper places, and if carelessly lost, to replace them with new ones of their own making. Among the objects to be attained by the enforcement of this rule are the habit of carefulness in little things, to save the books from other injurious methods of marking and to save the time of the teacher, class and pupil. FIRE PRECAUTIONS The rooms occupied by the students must be carefully inspected by the matrons or their special monitors every time the students leave them for the school or chapel; to see that the buildings have not been endangered by any acts of carelessness or thoughtlessness. The ladders must be kept where they may be easily and quickly obtained. On the first Friday of each term the students shall be organized into a Fire Department, the superintendent serving as chief and the matrons and teachers as his special aids. The fire-fighters shall include the pumpers and a bucket brigade; the life and property savers shall include the ladder squad; and the strenuous work of all shall continue until the building or the last possible piece of property has been saved. The fire drills shall consist of quick orderly marches, at an unexpected signal, from all the buildings occupied, and the report of each squad for duty to their respective foremen. TO PARENTS These suggestions to parents or guardians appear on the monthly report cards. This report is sent you in the hope it will give you that information you naturally desire to receive in regard to the work and standing of the pupils you have sent to the academy. In your communications to your children encourage them to be prompt and punctual in meeting every engagement, to remember the Sabbath day, to improve their spare moments by reading the Bible or some good book, to do their best during the hours of study and work each day, and to refrain from association with the idle or worthless. (1) SALUTE TO THE FLAG (2) We give our heads (3) and our hearts (4) to our Country. (5) One country, one language (6) one flag. 1. All rise and extend right arm toward the flag. 2 Touch forehead with tips of the fingers. 3. Right palm over the heart. 4. Both hands extended upward. 5. Lean forward, hands at sides. 6. With emphasis, right hand pointing to the flag. Sing America. "The red is for love that will dare and do The blue is the sign of the brave and true. The white with all evil and wrong shall cope, And the silver stars are the stars of hope." THE STUDENTS GOODBYE Good bye, Oak Hill; good bye; We're off to the fields and the open sky; But we shall return in the fall, you know, As glad to return as we are now to go. Good bye, Oak Hill; Good bye, THE COURSE OF STUDY The following is the course of study pursued at the academy, the high school course being added June 1, 1912. I. PRIMARY DEPARTMENT First Grade: First Reader, Reading Chart, Primer, Printing, Numbers and Tables. Books of Bible, Memory Work. Second Grade: Second Reader, Doubs Speller, Printing, Writing, Tables, Primary Arithmetic. Also the Bible, Shorter Catechism and Vocal Music in this and the subsequent grades. II. INTERMEDIATE DEPARTMENT Third Grade: Third Reader, Doubs Speller, (Smith's) Primary Arithmetic, Principles of Penmanship, (Spencer or Eaton), Introductory Language Work, Primary Geography. Fourth Grade: Fourth Reader, Doubs Speller, Primary Arithmetic, Writing, (Thompson's) Principles of Drawing, Primary Geography, (Krohn's) First Book in Physiology. Leslie's Music Chart and Ideal Class Book; and Thwing's Voice Culture, are used weekly for instruction in the principles, and general drills in gesture, note reading and voice culture. III. GRAMMAR DEPARTMENT Fifth Grade: Fifth Reader, U. S. History, Doubs Speller, Primary Arithmetic, Reed & Kellogg's Graded Lessons in English, or Burt's Grammar, Physiology, Writing, Nature Study Chart. Sixth Grade: Fifth Reader, History of United States or Oklahoma, Doubs Speller, (Smith's) Practical Arithmetic, Writing, Geography, Drawing, Burt's Grammar or Reed & Kellogg's Graded Lessons in English, Agriculture. Seventh Grade: The Bible, Literary Readings, Doubs Speller, Arithmetic, Grammar, Agriculture, Civics, Writing, Geography Completed. Eighth Grade: The Bible or Literary Readings, Doubs Speller, Grammar, Composition, (Carson's Handbook), Arithmetic, (Evans & Bunn's) Civics, Constitution of Oklahoma and United States, Writing, Bookkeeping (Stephenson's), Thompson's Drawing for Rural Schools. Wentworth's Mental Arithmetic is commended for use in the Sixth to Eighth grades. Frequent reviews of the rules and definitions are essential to the attainment of a thorough knowledge of any textbook and the most rapid advancement in it. Didactic Electives: Page's Theory and Practice in Teaching; Holbrook on the Teacher's Methods; Wickersham on School Government; Trumbull, the Teacher Teaching; or similar works. This outline of grades and studies is intended to be suggestive and helpful to the teachers in the Academy in grading and promoting the pupils. The pupils should be arranged in classes according to their several abilities, rather than according to this outline in an arbitrary manner, in order that the classes at the time of recitation may be as large as possible rather than small. Their grade is ascertained by the majority of their studies, and their standing or rank by their percentage in each. This course has been arranged in harmony with the outline course prepared in 1908 for the public and city schools of Oklahoma, and is intended to prepare pupils for entering the high school course consisting of the Ninth to Twelfth grades, or a normal course consisting of Didactics, Methods in Teaching and School Government. A suitable certificate is issued to all pupils that complete, in a creditable manner, all the studies in this preparatory course ending with the Eighth grade. The industrial work and training required of all the boarding pupils is intended to include a practical knowledge of agriculture, animal husbandry, apiculture, poultry raising, carpentry, cobbling, concrete, gardening, domestic science, sewing and laundry work, as the opportunity is afforded and the pupils discover fitness for these arts. IV. HIGH SCHOOL DEPARTMENT Ninth Grade: Grammar, Arithmetic, Composition, Civics, Elementary Algebra, Bookkeeping. Tenth Grade: Algebra, Hill's Etymology, Physical Geography, General History, Rhetoric. Eleventh Grade: Algebra, Rhetoric, Ancient History, American Literature (Abernathy), Composition, Botany, Plane Geometry. Twelfth Grade: Solid Geometry, (Hessler & Smith's) Chemistry, Newcomber's English Literature, Political Economy. Electives: Astronomy, Geology, Zoology, Trigonometry; Surveying, Stenography, Typewriting, Telegraphy. In January 1908, when P. K. Faison, first superintendent of the public schools of McCurtain county, made his first visit to Oak Hill, he stated that Wheelock and Oak Hill Academies were the only graded schools in McCurtain county at that time. TEACHING IN SUNDAY SCHOOL As a help to young Sunday school teachers in the preparation of the lesson and its management before the class Miss Saxe's method of five points of analysis and five points of application are given. ANALYSIS 1. What is the principal subject? 2. What the leading lessons? 3. Which the best verse? 4. Who are the principal persons? 5. What teaching about Christ? APPLICATION 1. What example to follow? 2. What to avoid? 3. What duty to perform? 4. What promise to proclaim? 5. What prayer to echo? XXXII SAVINGS AND INVESTMENTS "Gather up the Fragments that nothing be lost."--Jesus. SAVINGS OR WAGES It is a matter of great importance to every one to learn early in life the difference between monthly or yearly savings and wages; and also the difference between personal expenses and profitable investments. When a boy works on the railroad and has to supply all his daily wants, he knows what his wages are and answers the question quickly, stating what he receives by the day when he makes a full day's work. But when he is asked, "What are your monthly savings?" he is bothered and frankly confesses he cannot tell. Before the end of the second month the wages of his first month have slowly passed through his hands for personal expenses and little or nothing has been saved for profitable investment. When a boy works for a farmer, who receives him into his home, providing for him a furnished room, fuel, light, boarding and washing, he does not seem to receive more than half what the other boy receives who works for the railroad. When he is asked the same question, "What are your monthly wages and what your monthly savings?" he makes reply by stating the balance in the farmer's hand as his savings, and that is correct; but he cannot tell what his wages are, by way of comparison with the other boy. The first boy at the end of the month has received wages the other boy his savings, save for his clothing. The latter at the end of the year has ordinarily saved more than the former, though all the time he may have imagined he was not receiving sufficient wages, merely because the monthly allowance of the farmer is commonly called "wages," instead of by the right name, "monthly savings." That which the farmer does for his boy, in providing him a home and helping him to save his earnings, this Industrial Academy is now doing for every boy, that is received into the membership of the Oak Hill Family and makes his home there during the summer season. At the Academy he not only finds steady employment, but is removed from the places that call for worse than useless daily expenditures; and the monthly allowance, made by the Superintendent, represents not his wages but his monthly savings, in the deposit bank of the institution. When a parent or boy makes the discovery, that the boys who remain at the Academy during the summer months have more funds to their credit in the Bank of the institution in the fall of the year, than many of those who receive a higher daily wage elsewhere, and that they also make the most rapid progress in their studies, they begin to see the difference between working for savings and working for wages; and how much better off is the boy, who takes the training and grows up under the stimulating and elevating influence of a good educational institution. INVESTMENTS A personal expense is an expenditure of money for some article that may indeed be necessary, as a pair of shoes, but it begins to depreciate in value as soon as the expenditure has been made. A profitable investment is an expenditure of money, time or talents, that is expected to increase in value or yield an income. If a lamb is purchased it will grow into a sheep and its value is doubled. If an acre of good land is purchased it is sure to increase in value according to its quality and location. The ability to avoid personal expenses and to make profitable investments is one of the things that determines our good or ill success in life. The education of a thoughtful, earnest boy or girl is ordinarily a good and profitable investment, for their value or usefulness may be increased many times more than that of the lamb or the acre of land. If they are gratefully responsive to their training no better investment can be made, than that which has for its object the intellectual, moral and religious training of our boys and girls. A christian educational institution is an investment for producing manhood and character, things that money will not buy. One may invest in bonds or stocks, and make or lose money; but he who aids in the production of christian men and women, trained for service, increases their usefulness and continues to live through their consecrated lives and achievements. This institution makes its appeal to the friends who have money and who would make a profitable investment; and also to the thoughtful boys and girls, who would greatly increase their value to society, the church and the world, by obtaining a good education in their youth. [Illustration: GOING TO SCHOOL] [Illustration: THE ORCHESTRA--1912] [Illustration: YOUTHFUL SWEEPERS Holding and using the broom aright] [Illustration: OAK HILL--Weimer Photos] XXXIII SUMMER NORMALS AND CHAUTAUQUA "Apt to teach, patient."--Paul The summer normals were established at the academy in October, 1905, and were continued during the next two years. Their object was to prepare candidates for the ministry, under the care of the Presbytery, to serve also at that time as teachers in the mission, and later in the public schools; and to afford ambitious young people the opportunity to prepare for the same work. They were conducted by the superintendent and Bertha L. Ahrens, the latter serving as instructor in the class room. At the time they were held, they afforded the only opportunity in the south part of the Choctaw Nation, for the Freedmen to receive this training. When the McCurtain county normal was established at Idabel in 1908, they were no longer needed and were discontinued. Those that attended the normals were as follows: In 1905, Mary A. Donaldson of Paris, Texas. In 1906, Mary A. Donaldson and Lilly B. Simms, Paris, Texas; Mrs. W. H. Carroll and Fidelia Murchison, Garvin, Mary E. Shoals, Grant, and James G. Shoals, Valliant. In 1907, Zolo O. Lawson, Shawneetown, Mary E. Shoals, Grant; Delia Clark, Lehigh; Virginia Wofford and Solomon H. Buchanan, Valliant. When the first summer normal was held at the academy in 1905, a request for some lectures or an instructor a part of the time addressed to Hon. J. Blair Shoenfelt, Indian agent, Muskogee, brought the following response from John D. Benedict, superintendent of schools. "The colored citizens of the Choctaw Nation have not been allowed to participate in the benefit of the school fund of that Nation; hence we have not been able to establish any schools for colored children in the Choctaw and Chickasaw Nations, until this year. We have now a few colored schools in both of these Nations. There has never been any demand for normals or summer institutes for colored teachers in these two Nations. They will enjoy an appropriation of $100,000 for the ensuing year, but there are no funds available for normal schools among them this year." John D. Benedict, Superintendent. This letter indicates the lapse of provision for the general education of the Choctaw Freedmen and its renewal during the last years of the Territorial government. LICENTIATES Those that pursued the course of study, provided during these years, for those that were preparing specially for the ministry, were Noah Alverson, Griffin, and John Richards, Lukfata. Mr. Richards died at 28 in 1908 and Mr. Alverson was ordained in 1910. CANDIDATES FOR THE MINISTRY In April 1911, Riley Flournoy, Sylvester S. Bibbs, Fred McFarland and Clarence Peete expressed the desire to become ministers of the gospel and were received under the care of the Presbytery at Eagletown, as candidates. All were members of the Oak Hill church and school. THE FIRST CHAUTAUQUA In 1907, the last year under territorial government, arrangements were made for a patriotic celebration, in the form of a Chautauqua at the Academy. The following account of it is from the columns of the Garvin Graphic: The Fourth of July meeting by the Freedmen at Oak Hill Academy, near Valliant, was a real patriotic Chautauqua, the first meeting of the kind ever held in this part of the Territory, and well worthy of more than a mere passing note. The preparations for the occasion, which included a comfortable seat for everyone, were fully completed before hand. The speakers' stand and the Academy buildings were tastefully decorated with our beautiful national colors, one large flag suspended between two of them, being twelve feet long. "The exercises included three series of addresses, interspersed with soul-stirring patriotic music by the Oak Hill Glee Club, and the speakers included several of the most eloquent orators in the south part of the territory. The occasion afforded ample opportunity for the free and full discussion of those questions, relating to the administration of our public affairs, that are now engaging the attention of the people; and this fact was greatly appreciated both by the speakers and the people. "At the forenoon session James R. Crabtree presided with commendable grace and dignity. The Declaration of Independence was read in a very entertaining and impressive manner by Miss Malinda Hall, who has been an efficient helper in the work of the Academy, since its reopening two years ago. The principal address at this session was delivered by Rev. Wiley Homer, of Grant, a large, well built man with a strong voice, who for many years has been a capable and trusted leader among the Freedmen of this section. Others that participated were Johnson Shoals, of Valliant, who has been pursuing a course of study at the Iowa State Agricultural college, Ames, Iowa, and W. J. Wehunt, one of the prominent business men of Valliant. "At the afternoon session Isaac Johnson, a natural born orator, presided and, both in his address and happy manner of introducing the speakers, enlivened the occasion with unexpected sallies of natural mother wit and eloquence. Rev. W. H. Carroll, of Garvin, one of the instructors of the Academy, discussed in an able manner a number of questions relating to the educational and church work among the negroes; and he was followed by Prof. P. A. Parish, of Idabel, the well-known "Kansas negro," but of full-blood African descent, who seemed at his best in the discussion of current and local public questions. "Rev. Wiley Homer presided at the evening session and the address was delivered by Rev. Chas. C. Weith, of Ardmore. This address, delivered in the cool of the evening, marked the climax of interest. In an eloquent and forceful manner he recalled the events that led to the first declaration of independence, which was for the freedom of the soul by Luther in Germany in 1517; traced the growth of this sentiment in other countries until it found its expression in the Declaration of Independence for the citizen, by our forefathers in 1776; and pressed the urgent need of Godliness on the part of every American citizen, in order to have the highest type of patriot and to insure the permanency of our civil and religious liberty. This address was a rare treat for the people of this section. "Patriotic solos were rendered by Miss Bertha L. Ahrens, organist, Rev. W. H. Carroll, S. H. Buchanan, Mrs. J. A. Thomas and Miss Hall. "The barbecue was prepared during the night previous by Charles Bibbs. "Rev. R. E. Flickinger, the superintendent of the Academy, at the close of the day's sessions, received hearty congratulations for the excellent character of the arrangements for the day and was encouraged to provide for similar patriotic celebrations in the future." XXXIV GRACES AND PRAYERS "In all things, give thanks, pray without ceasing."--Paul. The following forms of grace and prayer are intended to be suggestive helps to young people, who have the desire to be ready always to lead in prayer and conduct family worship, with interest and profit to others. Bible reading and private prayer prepare for public prayer; but the latter is rendered much easier, when it is remembered, that it should consist of expressions of thanksgiving, confession, petition and intercession. Those that lead should speak loud enough to be easily heard by everyone, and with an earnestness, that suggests sincerity. GRACE AT MEALS BREAKFAST. We thank Thee, our Father, for sweet rest and refreshment in sleep, thy bountiful supply of our wants and the right use of our faculties. Give us wisdom this day in the discharge of duty and in the employment of our time and talents for Jesus' sake. Amen. DINNER. We thank thee, our Father, that thou dost give to us health and strength to perform our labors and hast surrounded us with the blessings and comforts of life. Feed our souls with the bread of life and enable us to serve thee acceptably for Jesus' sake. Amen. SUPPER. We thank thee, our Father, that thou hast enabled us to perform the labors of the day and graciously supplied our wants. Establish the work of our hands and forgive our sins for Jesus' sake. Amen. HELPFUL FORMS OF PRAYER "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray thee, Lord, my soul to keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray thee, Lord, my soul to take; And this I ask for Jesus' sake." We thank thee, O Lord, for strength of arm to win our daily bread; for enough on which to live and some to give to those that are unfed. We thank thee for shelter from the cold and storm, a place that may be shared with a friend forlorn. We thank thee for thy wonderful love on us bestowed, that we should now be called the children of God. May thy gracious presence go with us this day. Put good thoughts into our minds and good words into our mouths. Make us strong to do that which is pleasing in thy sight, by making thy word the guide of our lives. Bless our friends that are near and dear unto us. May their lives be found precious in thy sight. Command thy blessing to rest upon our neighbors and all with whom we associate. May thy richest spiritual blessing rest upon thy servant, our pastor, and all the people to whom be ministers; so that the work of the Lord may prosper in our hands. Bless our children and youth by writing their names in the Book of life and inclining them to walk in thy commands. Forgive our sins, comfort our hearts, strengthen our faith and enable us to serve Thee acceptably; we ask it for Jesus' sake. Amen. ANOTHER ONE We thank thee our Father, for the Bible, thine own blessed word, that teaches us, what we are to believe concerning Thee, and what duties Thou requirest of us. Help us to read it with the understanding heart, that it may prove a lamp to our feet and a light to our path. We thank Thee for the voice of conscience, prompting us to do right. Enable us by Thy grace to do promptly, that which we know to be right. Help us to remember the Sabbath, to keep it holy unto the Lord. Help us to set our affection on the "house of the Lord;" and when we worship Thee, may the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us. Bless our friends and neighbors; all who seek an interest in our prayers. Forgive our sins and enable us to serve thee acceptably, for Jesus' sake. Amen. A PRAYER FOR THE AGED Ever blessed and gracious God, our Father, I humbly pray that thou wilt not cast me off in the time of old age, when my strength faileth. Preserve unto me the right use of my faculties for my soul trusteth in Thee. Comfort and strengthen my soul in the day of weakness that I may attest thy faithfulness in fulfilling all thy gracious promises. Thou hast taught me to know mine end and the measure of my days, that I might apply my heart unto wisdom; and desire to dwell in Thy presence, where there is fulness of joy; and at thy right hand, where there are pleasures for evermore. When the time comes for my inexperienced soul to leave its earthly temple, send the blessed angels to carry it to the mansions, thou hast prepared for the redeemed, who put their trust in Thee; and accord unto me an abundant entrance into the Kingdom of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. To whom be praise, dominion and glory, now and forever. Amen. "How beautiful to be with God! To lay aside this toil-worn dress, To wear a crown of righteousness, And robes of purest white possess; And sing the sweet redemption song." --Frances Willard. XXXV PRESBYTERIAL MEETINGS AND PICNICS OAK HILL IN 1905.--NOT A BUCKET.--GOING TO PRESBYTERY.--ENTERTAINMENT FOR EVERYBODY. On August 31, 1905, the Presbytery of Kiamichi met at Oak Hill, at a time when an attack of malaria at his summer home at Fonda, Iowa, prevented the return of the superintendent. The attendance of visitors was unusually large. It fell to the lot of Miss Eaton, matron, and Miss Ahrens to provide for their entertainment. They were ably assisted by Miss M. A. Hall and Mitchell S. Stewart. They had sixty for dinner on Friday and Saturday and one hundred and twenty-five on Sabbath. On this occasion three new members were added to the roll, Jack A. Thomas was elected and ordained an elder, and Samuel Harris, a deacon. The meetings of the Presbytery, which are always evangelistic, have now come to be the most attractive, interesting and profitable meetings held in their respective communities. As the available churches are few in number, the meetings are held in each every two or three years. The coming of the Presbytery is anticipated with a great deal of interest, and a "big crowd" is the delight of the congregation, receiving and entertaining it. This is a fact worthy of special note. NOT AN OAK HILL BUCKET In the Territorial days, or, rather previous to the allotment of lands to them individually in 1905, the most attractive meeting, in their various neighborhoods, was the annual old-time picnic, made interesting by the presence of a "merry go round" that relieved them of their nickels, and a platform, where promiscuous dancing was sure to be continued through most of the night, and be accompanied with considerable dissipation and immorality. When the superintendent discovered the nature of these gatherings, he did not hesitate to declare their dissipating and demoralizing tendency. He also stated the attitude of the institution in regard to them by giving utterance to the following sentiment: "Whilst everything at the academy is available for the betterment of the colored people, there is not an Oak Hill bucket available for use, at a dissipating and demoralizing dance in the timber." This sentiment sounded a little harsh and cruel at first, but it now commands the approval of all the good students and of those, who are doing most to promote the happiness and welfare of the young and rising generation. Since the young people have come to participate, to a greater extent, in the frequent meetings of the Presbytery and in an annual Sunday school convention, the old time "dance in the timber", has become a "thing of the past." EVERYBODY GOES TO PRESBYTERY The meetings of the Presbytery are sure to be attended by everyone, living in the vicinity of the meeting, and by as many others as can manage to "get there." It is unusual for any colored minister and his elder to be absent from any meeting, no matter how great may be the difficulties, that have to be overcome in getting there. If the place of meeting can be easily reached, additional delegates are chosen to represent the Sunday school, the aid, Endeavor and Women's Missionary societies. If these additional delegates get to the meeting, they are duly enrolled and later are accorded all the time they wish in making their oral reports of the work they represent. All seem to enjoy making reports and addresses at Presbytery. Many are animated with the earnest desire to aid in giving their race an uplift, and the address in Presbytery seems to be one of the nicest opportunities to do this. This is especially true of some of those among the older people who cannot read, survivors of the slavery period who inherited good memories and good voices. Several of the most eloquent and deeply impressive appeals, it was the privilege of the author to hear at the academy or Presbytery, were delivered by those, whose condition of slavery in youth and isolated location afterward prevented attendance at school. By frequent participation in religious meetings, where they endeavored to repeat and enforce Bible truths, to which they had given an attentive ear, caused them, like some of the famous philosophers in the days of Socrates and Aristotle, to be held in high esteem as persons of intelligence and influence in their respective communities. Henry Crittenden, Elijah Butler, Mrs. Charles Bashears, and Simon Folsom were all good examples of unlettered, but natural orators, who found their widest sphere of usefulness in the activities of the church. GOING TO PRESBYTERY Those, attending the meetings of the Presbytery, often experienced serious disappointments on the way and some little inconveniences, when they got there. Previous to the organization of the church at Garvin in 1905, there were only two churches, Oak Hill and Beaver Dam at Grant, that were located near the railroad. All the other churches were located in rural neighborhoods, 8 to 20 miles distant from the nearest station. The roads to them were merely winding trails through the timber, that crossed the streams where it was possible to ford them, without any grading of the banks. That which we witnessed and partially experienced, in making our first trip through the timber to a meeting of the Presbytery at Frogville, about fifteen miles from the station, was characteristic of three other meetings we attended, at a distance from the railroad. The delegation, that arrived at the station, consisted of nearly two dozen and about half of them were women. We arrived at the place the wagons were to meet us, after walking across the railroad bridge over the Kiamichi river, a short distance west of the station. When we arrived there, we found only one wagon of the three, that were expected. That was a serious but not a stunning disappointment. The luggage was crowded into the bed of that wagon and it carried also a few of the older women. The rest of us set out on a good long walk, indulging the hope other teams would surely meet and relieve us somewhere on the road. As the hour of noon was approaching, we anticipated our needs on the way, by having a box of crackers and a slice of cheese put on the wagon. When we reached a half way place, where there was also a spring of good water, this lunch was greatly enjoyed. We managed to ride the remainder of the distance, and at the end of the journey we heard no one complain the "road am hard to travel." ENTERTAINMENT FOR EVERYBODY The problem of entertainment, always seemed before-hand a rather serious one for the few families, living near the church in a rural neighborhood. Their generous hospitality, however, never seemed to be over taxed, but to have an elasticity, that included a cordial welcome to every one, and as much of comfort during the night as it was possible to extend. Many of the younger people on Saturday and Sabbath evenings, when their number would be greatest, would be grateful when they were accorded a pillow and blanket for a bed on the floor, or a bench. The happy, hopeful spirit, manifested by both hosts and guests, in meeting the responsibilities and unexpected disappointments, that are sometimes experienced while attending meetings of the Presbytery in the rural neighborhoods, reminds one of the happy remark of a little six year old boy, in regard to a sunny visitor, whom he knew had experienced many trials and had just left their home: "Yes, I like her; she goes over the bumps as though her heart had rubber tires." XXXVI FARMERS INSTITUTES 1905-1912 FOREST CHURCH.--OAK HILL.--SHORT COURSE IN 1912.--ISAAC JOHNSON.--EMANCIPATION DAY. "Agriculture is the most healthful, most useful and most noble employment of man."--George Washington. The first meeting, conducted by the Choctaw Freedmen, it was the privilege of the author to attend was their annual Farmers Institute, held in Forest Presbyterian church on Monday, Jan. 1, 1905. Others had been held in other places during previous years but this was the second annual meeting in the Forest church, and it was called the county institute of Fort Towson county. It was their own original method of endeavoring to make a pleasant and profitable observance of Emancipation Day. On this the first historic occasion the meeting was conducted by Johnson W. Shoals, president, in a very dignified manner. An interesting annual report was read by the secretary, James G. Shoals, Fidelia Murchison read an essay on gardening and Elsie Shoals-Arnold, one on making and marketing butter. The author indulged in a short address and other addresses were delivered by Simon Folsom, Lee V. Bibbs, Charles Bashears and Mitchell Stewart. The principal address however, was by Isaac Johnson, one of their number living along the north bank of Red river, who had learned the teacher's and speaker's art in Texas. He seemed to be at his best and discussed good morals, agriculture and the destiny of the Choctaw Freedmen, with so much native wit and humor, we felt well repaid for the long, wearisome journey to the place of meeting. The meeting consisted of one long session, called a forenoon meeting, and at its close, it fell to our lot to accept an unexpected invitation to enjoy an old-time picnic dinner, which was soon spread on the backless benches in the church. Isaac Johnson was chosen as the new president and he has continued to serve in that capacity. The meeting the next year was held in this same place and commencing Jan. 1, 1907, they began to be held at Oak Hill Academy. The meeting held at Oak Hill on Jan. 1, 1907, had some features worthy of special mention. It was the first occasion, when the meeting included the sessions of two days, or any effort was made to have an exhibit of the products of the garden and field. McCurtain county, though not yet organized had been established, and the officers took more pains than usual, to invite the farmers in all parts of the new county to participate in its discussions. It was the first time, that an effort was made to have a special lecturer from the Agricultural college and the young people at Oak Hill, trained to supply the needs of the occasion with vocal and instrumental music. It was very gratifying to note the increased attendance and interest. For this occasion, Miss Eaton prepared an artistic design, with grains of corn of different colors, for the center of the decoration over the speaker's stand, that attracted the attention and called forth the admiration of all. It consisted of a large tablet having a representation of a large broadly branching oak tree on the summit of a little hill, having a canopy of bright stars over it and the words "Oak Hill" in the form of an arch near its lower branches. Over the tablet was the word "Welcome" and over the ends of it "Happy New Year." The entire program had been previously arranged, so that all the addresses and discussions might form a part of the course of instruction, in agriculture and animal husbandry to the students. All the proceedings proved interesting and instructive to them. In furnishing the vocal and instrumental music, which formed a very pleasing feature of each session, they were enabled to participate in a way that was very profitable to them, and entertaining to others. Among those who participated by addresses, on topics previously assigned, were Isaac Johnson, James G. Shoals, Rev. W. H. Carroll of Garvin, Rev. R. E. Flickinger, Adelia Eaton, Malinda A. Hall, Bertha L. Ahrens, who also served as organist, Solomon Buchanan, who also served as pianist, John Richards of Lukfata, Noah Alverson of Lehigh, whose lectures on raising corn and cotton were worthy of special commendation, Rev. Samuel Gladman of Parsons, Martha Folsom of Grant, R. H. Butler of Bokchito and Charles Bibbs. Illness prevented the attendance of W. S. English, director of the state college. One of the resolutions adopted was as follows: "That we note with great pleasure the manifest increase of interest in this session of the Farmer's Institute, on the part of the superintendent, teachers and students of Oak Hill Academy and of the people generally, there being a good local attendance and a larger representation than ever before of interested farmers and speakers from other parts of the surrounding country." At this meeting it was decided the annual membership fee shall be for men, twenty-five cents; and for women, ten cents. SECOND OAK HILL INSTITUTE The closing day of the second observance of Emancipation day by a two-day Farmer's institute at Oak Hill Academy occurred January 1, 1908. Among the new speakers were Rev. Wiley Homer of Grant, Rev. William Butler of Eagletown and Jack A. Thomas. Isaac Johnson and James G. Shoals served as president and secretary and were again re-elected. Prof. C. A. McNabb of Guthrie, Secretary of the State Board of Agriculture, promised two addresses, but failed to arrive. The resolutions included a memorial to congress for the establishment of postal savings banks and a parcels post, both of which were established a few years (1912) later. They also included the following one in regard to the Mexican boll-weevil that during the previous four years had nearly ruined the cotton crop. "In order that we may do something practical in the way of checking the ravages of the boll-weevil, we encourage every one raising cotton in this section, to plow up and burn as early as possible each fall, all the old cotton stalks, which principally furnish their fall and spring food supply; and as far as possible to avoid planting cotton in the same ground two years in succession." The record of these two Farmer's institutes at Oak Hill Academy, and of three preceding ones at Forest church, by the Choctaw Freedmen during the period of the Territorial government, is of historic interest, since these annual institutes preceded any similar meetings, by the other folks, in that section of the country. This observation is true also of the three summer normals held at the Academy, during the months of October in 1905, 1906 and 1907; and of the first Oak Hill Chautauqua, held July 4, 1907. SHORT COURSE IN 1912 For 1912 the institute was held on the last half day of a three day short course in agriculture and animal husbandry conducted by Prof. E. A. Porter and Mr. R. L. Scott, expert farmers at Hugo; assisted by Prof. J. W. Reynolds of Muskogee, the superintendent and Rev. W. H. Carroll. In 1913, when the first opportunity was afforded ministers in California to attend a short course in agriculture, lasting one week, at the state university farm, it was attended by five hundred pastors of churches, representing twenty denominations. This fact, as an expression of the trend of public sentiment, is noted with a good deal of interest. ISAAC JOHNSON Isaac Johnson, (B. 1859) organizer and president of the Farmer's institute, 1905 to 1912, is a native of Hopkins county, Texas, and in 1865 located near Clarksville. In 1876 he married Anna Wilson of the Choctaw Nation, who died in 1880. He then went to school in Texas and, receiving a certificate in 1889, taught school there four years. In 1893, '94 and '95 he taught successively at Forest, Lukfata and Eagletown, I. T. In 1894 he married Winnie Durant and again located along Red river, south of Valliant, where he is widely known as one of the leading farmers and stock raisers. The people of the community in which he lives, under his leadership, on January 1, 1897, began to observe Emancipation Day by holding a Farmer's institute, a kind of social meeting, that afforded an opportunity for a number of them to make short addresses, on any topic of public or general interest, and all to participate in the enjoyment of a picnic dinner. He enjoys the distinction of having served as president of this organization a number of years before any similar organization was effected in McCurtain county. EMANCIPATION DAY The reasons for the general observance of New Year's day as a legal holiday seem eminently appropriate, for the attention of the people is seldom directed to them. There are several good reasons worthy to be remembered. It was on January 1, 1863, that President Lincoln issued the memorable proclamation, that emancipated the slaves in all the states, then at war against the general government. The number of the persons accorded freedom was about four millions. This event, considered from the standpoint of the number of people affected, was even greater than the Declaration of Independence, for the latter resulted in the freedom of only a part of the people, and their number was one million less than the number set free in 1863. In 1790, when the first census was taken, fourteen years after the Declaration, the entire population was not quite four millions and of that number 697,624 were left in a state of slavery. That "all men are created free and equal," is a fundamental principle of the Declaration, but, for more than four-score years, it was regarded as true of only a part of the people. It was not realized by the other part of the people, that was gradually increasing from one to four millions. For them there was but one law and it was, "Servants obey your masters." This was the only rule of conduct for the negro. Under it he became socially "a curiosity." He had no laws or ceremonies regulating marriage; and if such ties were formed, they were liable to be broken at any time, by their sale to other and different owners. This rule did not regulate his moral, economic or political life, for he was not recognized as a person or citizen, possessing these faculties and functions. It did not prevent him from worshipping his Creator, but this was done in an ignorant way, that served more for entertainment and amusement, than the development of morality and piety. After the lapse of a half century, he has not yet been wholly emancipated from these illiterate and low social conditions; but he is approving and pursuing the better way, as he learns from the Bible, "what man is to believe concerning God and what duty God requires of man." The Emancipation proclamation thus affected the destiny of more persons than the Declaration of Independence, and it marks the beginning of the era of universal freedom; when all the people could unite in saying, America is the "land of the free," as well as the "home of the brave." It also effected national unity, by completely removing the one great cause of previous political dissension. It prepared the way for America to be the home of a happy and united people, knowing no north or south, east or west. In these great facts of national importance there are found good reasons for the annual observance of Emancipation day, as a legal holiday, as well as the anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. XXXVII THE APIARY "Go to the ant, thou sluggard; which gathereth her food in the harvest; consider her ways and be wise."--Solomon. The Oak Hill apiary consists of twenty or more colonies, and their annual yield of comb honey ranges from 300 to 500 pounds. It was started with two colonies in the summer of 1905. These were obtained by the superintendent and H. C. Shoals, from two hollow trees in the timber near Red river, and were what are known as "wild bees." They and their comb were placed in movable comb Langstroth hives, and the native queens were soon afterwards replaced by two pretty yellow Italian queens, obtained by mail from Little Rock. By this means the two colonies of wild bees, in the fall of the year, had become golden Italians. A DOUBLE SWARM On a pretty warm day in March, 1910, when the locust trees in the campus were in full bloom, two swarms of bees left their hives about the same time, and both clustered on the low, branching limbs of a small plum tree. After taking a photo of this unusual sight, Miss Weimer and Clarence Peete, who is standing behind the tree, each using a tin cup, gently lifted the bees from the limbs of the tree and placed them in a hive so arranged, that instead of destroying one of the queens, the bees naturally separated into two clusters around their respective queens. On the following morning, the swarm intended for Clarence was lifted out by him and put in a separate hive. The operations of hiving and separating the swarms were very successfully performed, without either of them receiving a single sting, and in the fall both colonies had a good supply of surplus honey. As an inducement to the young people to learn to manage bees profitably, a colony was presented to those who undertook the responsibility of caring for them at the Academy. [Illustration: THE APIARY Orchard and Swarm-Sack at left] [Illustration: STANCHIONS FOR CALVES Ora feeding them with pleasure and profit] [Illustration: THE HEN HOUSE; OPEN FRONT, SEMI-MONITOR ROOF] [Illustration: PIG PEN; MANY CONVENIENCES] The first frost in the fall of the year indicates the time to remove the surplus honey from the hives; and to cut a bee-tree merely for its supply of honey and wax. April and May however, are the months to transfer colonies from boxes and hollow trees to movable comb hives, so as to save the "bee." A MODEL HOG HOUSE The following description of the hog house is given for the benefit of students and patrons. It was intended to be a model in the arrangement of every part and it is yet unsurpassed in the number of its conveniences. It was built in 1906 and is 24 by 32 feet. An entry, four feet wide, extends through the length of the building and the pens, with outlots, are arranged on each side. The drip boards of the troughs are arranged along each side of this entry making them easy to fill without wetting the stock or pen. The floors intended for litter are further protected from dampness, by being elevated one inch from the rear to a line parallel with the trough, and about two feet from it. The litter is held on this elevated part of the floor by a guard, 2x4 inches, around its edge. Hanging partitions separate the entry from the pens. Fat hogs are easily and quickly loaded, by merely lifting the partitions and driving them through the entry into the open end of a wagon box, placed at the rear end of the entry. It has a floor over head for receiving the corn from the field; husking and sorting it. On this loft there is a bin for storing the good corn intended for meal, and mouse-proof boxes for preserving seed corn on the ear until planting time. There are two hatches, one on each side at the rear for passing the husks for litter to the pens below. At the right near the front, there is a shute that conveys the corn for the pigs to a crib at the right in the first apartment below, from which it is taken at feeding time, by raising a self-closing lid near the floor. In the corner of this open apartment there is a large box covered with a hinged lid for ground feed, and a set of steps to the loft. Under the stairs, there is an elevator and purifying pump, that brings up pure and cool water from a brick walled cistern, underneath the floor of the building, and it has never gone dry, when used only for the hogs. OLD LOG HOUSE The old log house, which remained until 1910 and in which the school was founded, was for a half century the largest and best building occupied by the Choctaws in the south eastern part of their large reservation. During the period previous to 1860, when it was occupied by Bazeel Leflore, chief of the Choctaw Nation, its halls and spacious porches were the favorite places of meetings for the administration of tribal affairs, social and religious gatherings. An Indian graveyard was located a few rods from its southeast corner. A neat little marble monument still marks the grave of Narcissa LeFlore, wife of the chief Bazeel. She died at forty in 1854. Small marble tomb-stones, bearing the names of LeFlore and Wilson, mark a half dozen other graves. One long, unnamed grave is marked by a broad wall of common rock, three feet high, covered with one large flag stone. Chief LeFlore, about the year 1860, located at Goodland, where he spent the remainder of his days. He left the log house to be occupied by John Wilson his nephew. About twenty years later Wilson left it to his son-in-law, Frank Locke, its last Choctaw occupant. He soon afterwards left it to Robin Clark, the Choctaw Freedman, from whom it was obtained in 1884, for the use of the school. PAINTING The pretty and attractive appearance of the premises at Oak Hill was due to a considerable extent to the good work of the boys that learned to use the brush in painting and white washing. The following facts are noted as an aid to them and others. All the school buildings were painted cream and white. The materials used were white lead and flaxseed oil, mixed in the proportion of 15 to 20 pounds of lead to a gallon of oil. A gallon of the mixture is expected to cover 225 square feet of surface with two coats. The cream tint, a warm color, was obtained by mixing a little chrome yellow (and burnt sienna) with a pint or more of oil and adding as much of this mixture as was needed to produce the desired tint. The red paint, used on the farm buildings and large gates, consisted of Venetian red, a dry paint, and oil, five to eight pounds of paint to the gallon of oil. A white trimmer was used on the face boards of the roof, doors and windows. The white wash used on the board and pale fences consisted of quick lime slacked under water and gently stirred during this process. It should be allowed to stand a day or two before it is used. A pound of salt to the gallon of quicklime, the salt being first dissolved in water, improves its wearing quality. A little boiled rice flour improves its adhesiveness for indoor use. Skimmed sweet milk, used the day it is mixed, is an inexpensive substitute for oil in applying Venetian red to old gates. One coat will make them look right well for one or more seasons. Milk however should never be used except to brighten up some old work for one or two years, and each gallon should contain three pounds of Portland cement, frequently stirred. SEED CORN IMPROVED Large yields of corn are secured only by planting seed that has vitality sufficient to produce a good ear as well as a stock. Careful and successful farmers raise and endeavor to improve their seed from year to year. This may be done on a small scale as follows: Select ten good sized, straight rowed, deep-grained ears. Remove the tips and butts. Shell each ear separately and plant in separate rows, marked and numbered from one to ten. As soon as the corn in these rows begins to tassel go through them every few days and remove the tassel from every stalk that is not forming an ear; so that the pollen or tassel dust of the barren stalk may not fall on the silks of the corn-bearing stalks. At husking time husk and weigh the yield from each row or ear of seed separately. Missing hills and barren stocks indicate a low vitality in the seed-ear and also in the crop. Select the seed for the next year from the rows that yield the largest crop. The yield of the cotton crop can be increased two fold by gathering the seed at picking time from only the best fruited stocks. HEALTH HINTS. Health means a sound mind in a sound body. "Know thyself", and remember, that "self-preservation is the first law of nature." An open window, day and night, is better than an open grave. "Warm sleeping rooms have killed more people, than ever froze to death." "A good iron pump, over a well protected well, costs less than a case of typhoid." "Wire screens in the windows may keep crape from the door." "A fly in the milk often means a member of the family in the grave." Work when you work and rest outstretched, when you rest. [Illustration: PLANTING SWEET POTATOES Carriers, Droppers, and Trowelers] [Illustration: READY FOR A PULL] [Illustration: DOUBLE SWARM OF BEES] [Illustration: OAK HILL 1902, LOOKING NORTHWEST] [Illustration: OAK HILL, 1903, LOOKING NORTH M. S. Stewart at left, Mary Stewart at right of Supt.] Avoid all sins of the flesh. Overeating and eating injurious foods or drinks are responsible for many ills of body and mind. He who said, "I am the bread of life," said also, "He that eateth me shall live by me." Cherish a cheerful, hopeful spirit by reading at least one promise from the Bible, for meditation, every day. Learn how to look pleasant, even when you may be feeling otherwise. Fix the mind on the virtue to be cultivated rather than on the vice to be overcome. If the heart action is sometimes weak, avoid all acts of over-exertion and sleep on the right side. Avoid snoring, by breathing through the nose. Sleep is "nature's sweet restorer." Pure air, pure water and proper exercise are nature's healthful invigorators. Use them freely. HEADACHE. Headaches are due to three causes, namely, eye-strain, indigestion, and exposures to dampness and cold. To avoid eye-strain, bathe the eyes frequently with cool water, and avoid using them intently too long, when the light is not good, especially in the twilight after sun set. To avoid the sick headache eat slowly and temperately; and drink water frequently both at and between meals. The ache in the back of the head, caused by exposure to drafts of air, cold and dampness to the feet, may be relieved by the application of hot damp cloths to the parts affected, and warming the feet and limbs until the perspiration is started. Never use dopes or preparations for headache, pure sparkling water is always much better. Hot water, sipped frequently, tends to relieve a cough, difficult breathing and a weak heart action. Pure air, inhaled by frequent daily deep breathings, and out-door exercise do more for weak lungs than medicines. CHILLS. A chill is the protest of the liver or lungs after an exposure one or more days previous, that was not followed by a proper warming of the feet, especially in the evening. Sulphate of quinine, a tonic for the stomach, is a standard remedy for malarial troubles but its use should always be preceded or accompanied with a tonic for the liver. SMALLPOX. A mixture consisting of one ounce of cream of tartar, and two ounces of sulphur flour, should be in every home, to be taken a little occasionally as an antidote, and kept as an approved remedy for smallpox. XXXVIII THE OAK HILL AID SOCIETY AND OTHER CONTRIBUTING SOCIETIES AND INDIVIDUALS. THE OAK HILL AID SOCIETY On Oct. 30, 1904, during the period of vacancy, ten persons interested in its continuance met in the Academy and organized an aid society, to aid the Freedmen's Board in maintaining it. Solomon Buchanan and Samuel Harris took the lead in calling the meeting. James R. Crabtree served as chairman and Bertha L. Ahrens as secretary. The others present were Mitchell S. Stewart, Wilson Clark, S. S. Bibbs, Charles B. Harris and Mrs. J. A. Thomas. The organization was effected by the election of M. S. Stewart, president; J. A. Thomas, (absent) secretary; B. L. Ahrens, treasurer; and Samuel Harris, field secretary: May 28, 1905, George Shoals was elected president and S. S. Bibbs, secretary. On June 25th, 1905 a constitution was adopted, in which its object was stated as follows: "The aims and object of this society shall be: To help the Presbyterian Board of Missions for Freedmen; to raise the funds required to pay for the land on which the buildings are located; to devise ways and means by which the academy may be directly aided with supplies of food, live stock and other things, when money cannot be given; and, to do what we can, to enlarge its course of study and provide new departments of industry." "It is understood, that all money raised shall be sent to the aforesaid Mission Board and be applied by it to the general needs of this institution, when no specific object has been named by this society. It is also understood, that this society shall not hinder the aforesaid Board, in its absolute control of the academy and farm." The annual membership fee is twenty-five cents, other offerings being entirely voluntary, each giving, "as the Lord hath prospered him." The first week in October was designated, as the time for an annual public meeting, to give emphasis to the work of the society and solicit free-will offerings from everybody. Other congregations were requested to form similar organizations, to create a visible bond of union in the support of the academy. The first visible result of this lowly organization, founded as a forlorn hope, appeared on the 15th of April 1905, when at the close of the eloquent appeal of Samuel Harris, its field secretary, before the Presbytery at Grant, Rev. F. W. Hawley, the Synodical Missionary of Indian Territory, challenged all present to unite with him in making a pledge of support toward the purchase of the land. Heading the list with a pledge of $10.00, all were surprised to find it increased, in a few minutes, to $210.00. Two weeks later Mr. Harris made a similar appeal at Oak Hill, and $45.00 more were pledged. He visited Forest church and received pledges to the amount of $45.00. George Shoals visited Bethany church at Parsons, and $15.00 more were pledged, making the amount pledged, $315.00. Sam Harris, in the fall of 1905, voluntarily went to Atoka and had forty-five acres of land allotted to his wife and four of his children, in order that they might later be added to the Oak Hill farm; and the education of his children be provided for, at that institution. His death occurred the next year, and in 1912, the last of these lands were added to the Oak Hill farm. His children are now enjoying the privileges of the institution. He belonged to a generation that could neither read nor write, and that which he accomplished for Oak Hill and his needy children during the short period of his co-operation with the superintendent, is but another beautiful illustration of what may be done for a needy and worthy cause, by one, however unlearned, whose sincere and burning interest leads him to lend a helping hand and to use the power of his voice in its behalf. He had come to appreciate and, before the Presbytery, emphasized the importance of these three vital facts: 1. The need of a good christian education for all the members of his own rapidly growing family. 2. The great value of the educational and religious privileges, and the facilities for industrial training, afforded the young people of the colored race at Oak Hill Academy, located in the very midst of them. 3. The great meaning of the changes, that were taking place in the country around them since the building of the railroad, the transition to statehood, the allotment of the lands to them individually, and the incoming of large numbers of white folks from Arkansas, Texas and other sections; who were founding and building towns, leasing and occupying the farm lands, gaining control of the business interests of the community; and thus making it ten fold more necessary for the young people of the colored race to have sufficient intelligence to enable them to do their own thinking and manage successfully their own business interests, in order to avoid the impending doom, of being soon crowded out of their present homes and possessions. His burning desire as he often expressed it, was to bring it to pass, that their children and the generations to come might rise up and be able to say, "Our Fathers, in grateful acknowledgement of the inestimable value of the educational, moral and religious privileges, that the Presbyterian Board of Missions had established and so long maintained, for the benefit of the colored people of that section, had contributed the funds, paid for and donated the lands occupied by the buildings of Oak Hill Industrial Academy." The members of his family, in whose names the allotments for Oak Hill were secured, were Catherine, his wife; Roland (died Nov. 24, 1911), John, Margie and Ellen. LAND FUNDS CONTRIBUTED The following is a brief summary of the funds contributed for the purchase of the land at Oak Hill. Rev. F. W. Hawley, Sam Harris, Bertha L. Ahrens, Adelia M. Eaton, Wiley Homer, William Butler, R. D. Colbert, Malinda A. Hall, Noah S. Alverson, R. E. Flickinger and Jo Lu Wolcott, each $10.00; Samuel Gladman, W. J. Starks, S. H. Buchanan, John Richards and Finley Union Sunday school, Lehigh, per Isabella Monroe, each $5.00; Virginia Williams, and Matt Brown, each $3.00; Simon Folsom and Alonza Lewis, $2.50; specials from churches in Oklahoma, as follows: Anadarko, Bartlesville, Perry and Vinita, each $2.00; Chelsea, $2.50; Muskogee and Wagoner, each $3.00; Oklahoma First, $5.00; Oak Hill $10.00; and Alva $50.00. The Oak Hill Aid Society in 1906 gave $39.00; in 1907 $46.00; in 1908, $16.00 and in 1910 to 1912, $19.00; making for it $120.00, and altogether $335.00. This amount covers the cost of the forty acre allotment of Samuel A. Folsom, on which the Academy and Boy's Hall are located. This was the first tract purchased, and it was obtained August 30, 1908, a few days after the Choctaw Freedmen were legally authorized to execute warranty deeds. These facts are worthy of note, since to that extent they indicate the achievement of that object, for which Sam Harris plead so earnestly and effectively at Presbytery. A lady at San Jose, California, gave $200 in 1909, for an annuity bond to cover tract No. 5, on the Oak Hill plat, containing twenty acres and allotted to Caroline Prince. Bertha L. Ahrens in 1908 purchased the three fourths inheritance of three of the heirs of William Shoals, in tract No. 8, containing thirty acres, that in course of time, it might be included; and in 1909 and 1913, R. E. Flickinger donated tract number 4, containing twenty acres north of the buildings. These three specials include and cover the 70 acres on section 20, north of the public road, north of the buildings. The Oak Hill Women's Missionary society was organized in October 1906, and at the end of its first year contributed to Home Missions, Gunnison, Utah, $5.00; and to the Board of Freedmen, $15.00. LOCALITY OF DONORS The following exhibit shows the location of the generous contributors, who united in furnishing the general expense funds for the support of the students and furnishing the Temporary Boy's Hall, as it appeared in the report for July 1, 1909. Expense Furnishing Fund Boy's Hall Total California $444.20 $13.41 $457.61 Illinois 55.00 55.00 Iowa 96.75 5.00 101.75 Kansas 19.23 12.25 31.48 Ohio 105.00 105.00 Oklahoma 117.00 80.49 197.49 New York 5.00 5.00 Pennsylvania 329.00 5.00 334.00 Total $1166.18 $121.15 $1287.33 DONORS TO THE GENERAL SUPPORT A record has already been made of those who contributed toward the purchase of the farm in response to the appeal through the Oak Hill Aid society. A grateful mention of the Women's and Young People's societies and individual donors, who contributed to the support and extension of the general work of the institution, seems eminently appropriate. They include the following list: ALABAMA: The Negro in Business by Booker T. Washington, Tuskeegee. CALIFORNIA: Alhambra, Dinuba, Rev. H. J. Frothingham, Elsinore; Eureka, Lampoc, Long Beach, Mrs. O. L. Mason; Los Gatos, Los Angeles, First; Mrs. Margaret Daniels, Mrs. Archibald; Central, Mrs. Hiram Leithead; Highland Park, Mrs. Kate C. Moody M. D.; Third, Mary A. Clark, Boyle Heights, Hollywood, Immanuel, Spanish Mission, Carrie E. Crowe, Westminster; Nordhoff, Margaret Daniels; North Ontario, New Monterey, Monte Cito, Oakland, Mattie Hunter; Orange, Red Bluff, San Diego First, Mrs. A. W. Crawford; San Jose First and Second, Mrs. Frances Palmer, Mrs. G. H. Start, Mrs. Mary Langdon; Lebanon of San Francisco, San Martin, Santa Barbara, Santa Clara, Santa Cruz, Santa Paula, San Louis Obispo; Upland Ventura, Watsonville. COLORADO: Fort Morgan, Gunnison, Timnath. CONNECTICUT: Miss A. C. Benedict, Waterbury. ILLINOIS: Cairo; Chicago, Bethany, J. H. Jones, Leslie Music Company; Fairbury, Mrs. J. J. Pence; Mason City, Springfield Second. INDIANA: William Elliot, Lafayette $5,000 for Elliott Hall; Greensburg, Winona Lake. IOWA: Alta, Lucy M. Haywood; Boone, Burlington First, Clarinda, Corning, Corning Presbytery, Crawfordsville, Creston, Des Moines Central, Fonda, M. E. Church, Mrs. A. S. Wood, Adele Curkeet, Adelia M. Eaton, Mrs. R. E. Flickinger, Geo. Sanborn, Mrs. J. B. Weaver, Mrs. John E. Jordan, Clark Perry; Fort Dodge, Gilmore City, Mrs. Bert C. McGinnis, Clarence M. Patterson; Grimes, Hamburg, Knoxville, Lenox, Malvern, Manchester, Nodaway, Princeton, Red Oak, Rockwell City, Ella T. Smith, Elmer E. Johnson, John H. Mattison; Sanborn, Sigourney, Shenandoah, State Center, Storm Lake, Washington, Bethel, Winfield, Walnut. KANSAS: Auburn, Burlington, Clay Center, Derby, Edgerton, Herrington, Halstead, Highland, Humboldt, Junction City, Kansas City, First, Grand View Park, Western Highland; Lincoln Center, Lawrence, Lyons, Manhattan, Morganville, Mulberry Creek, Neodesha, Oakland, Osawatomie, Oswego, Phillipsburg, Roxbury, Stanley, Sterling, Syracuse, Topeka, First, Second, Third and Westminster, M. B. True; Waverly, Wichita, First. MASSACHUSETTS: Marblehead, Mrs. J. J. Gregory. MICHIGAN: Coldwater, Harrington. MISSOURI: Kansas City, Montgomery Ward & Co., Maryville, Prof, J. C. Speckerman; St. Louis, Majestic Range Co. NEBRASKA: Beatrice. NEW YORK: Mexico, Mrs. Mary O. Becker, Mrs. Mamie G. Richardson; Plattsburg, Mrs. M. D. Edwards; Honoye, Anna M. Bowerman; New York, Am. Bible Society, Oliver Swet Marden. OHIO: Bellefontaine, Mrs. D. O. Spade; Columbiana, Mrs. Mattie C. Flickinger; Dayton Lorenz Music Co.; Denison, College Hill, Miss H. M. Wilson; East Liverpool First, Mansfield, Springfield First, Wellsville First. OKLAHOMA: Alva, Mrs. H. E. Mason, Anadarko, Atoka, Annie Osborne, Ardmore, Rev. Charles C. Weith, Bartlesville, Blackwell; Mrs. Emma F. McBride, Coalgate; Cement, Central, Cimmaron Presbyterial; Chickasha, Edmond, Elk City, El Reno, Mrs. F. R. Farrand, Enid, Eagletown, Kiamichi Presbyterial; Garvin, Rev. and Mrs. W. H. and Emma A. Carroll; Hobart, Mrs. Geo. D. Willingham; Frederick, Griffin, Charity Glover; Granite, Grant, Susan Seats, Kaw, Kingfisher, MacAlester, Millerton, Rance Cherry, Joseph Garner; Muskogee First, Mulhall, Norman, Prof. Geo. N. Gould; Oklahoma First, Phil C. Baird D. D., Mrs. W. A. Knott; Okmulgee, Perry, Ponca, Shawnee, Stroud, Tulsa, Tonkawa, Oak Hill, Valliant, Solomon H. Buchanan, Dining Table and Chairs, Samuel Folsom, Front Door of Elliot Hall, Lucretia C. Brown Communion Service, Bertha L. Ahrens, Adelia M. Eaton, John Claypool, Malinda A. Hall, R. E. and Mary A. Flickinger; Vinita, Wagoner, Watonga. NORTH DAKOTA: Fillmore, Mary I. Weimer. PENNSYLVANIA: Armagh, Bakerstown, Black Lick, Blairsville First, Blairsville Presbyterial, Braddock, First and Calvary; Buelah, Coatesville, E. Lilley; Cresson, Congruity, Derry, Doe Run, Easton, College Hill, Brainard and South Side; East Liberty, Ebensburg, Greensburg, First and Westminster; Anna B. Hazleton, Irwin, Jeanette, Latrobe, Ligonier, Johnstown, First, Second and Laurel Avenue; Lewistown, Manor, McGinnis, Murraysville, Philadelphia, Lena D. Fieber and Prof, H. W. Flickinger; Pittsburgh, First and Second, Ellen M. Watson, Mary R. Scott; Port Royal, Parnassus, Pleasant Grove, Poke Run, Plum Creek, New Alexandria, New Kensington, South Danville, Mrs. W. A. Reagel; Turtle Creek, Westmont Chapel, Wilkinsburg, Martha Graham, Mrs. J. J. Campbell, Williamsburg, Windber and Windsor. SOUTH DAKOTA: Volga, Hartford, Mrs. M. E. Crowe. TEXAS: Bushy Creek, Mary A. Pierson, Crockett, Mrs. John B. Smith. XXXIX TRIBUTES TO THE WORKERS AHRENS.--EATON.--CLAYPOOL.--WEIMER.--WOLCOTT.--HALL.--DONALDSON.--BUCHANAN. "Our lives are songs, God writes the words, And we set them to music at pleasure; And the song grows glad, sweet, or sad As we choose to fashion the measure." MARY A. FLICKINGER Mrs. Flickinger is gratefully remembered for five years of untiring service as assistant superintendent. The sphere of her observation and suggestion included all the women's work in the buildings, occupied by the students, and the special care of the garden and Boy's Hall. In connection with this daily oversight, there was always manifested a feeling of personal responsibility, to carry to completion at the end of the day, any unfinished work, that would otherwise prevent some of the larger girls from enjoying the privileges of the school, during the evening study hour. Trained in her youth to execute speedily all the kinds of work, usually required on a well arranged farm, and also as a sewer and nurse, one proved a very valuable helper. She became the home physician, administering the medicines and caring for the sick. Her method of treatment included the prevention of some of the milder, but common forms of disease, by the regular administration of some inexpensive antidotes. These two principles were frequently expressed: "Self-preservation is the first law of nature," and "Prevention is better than cure." The young people were also encouraged to learn, how to keep and intelligently use, a few simple remedies in the home. She and her husband are both natives of Port Royal, Juniata county, Pa., and their marriage occurred there, June 20, 1878. They have filled pastorates at Doe Run, Pa., Walnut, and Fonda, Iowa. They raised the funds and secured the erection of churches at Marne, Fonda, Pomeroy and Varina, Iowa; and a commodious parsonage at Fonda. He has served as a trustee of Corning Academy, Buena Vista college and of the Presbytery of Fort Dodge; stated clerk and treasurer of the latter twelve and a half years, and as Moderator of the Synod of Iowa, at Washington in 1901; and by special request, as author of the Pioneer History of Pocahontas county, Iowa, in 1904. Mrs. Flickinger in her youth became a teacher in the Sunday school, and during all the years that have followed, has been an efficient and aggressive solicitor and teacher of the children, in that important department of the work of the church. She has ever manifested an unusual degree of energy, always preferring to do all her own home work, rather than have it done by others. One who enjoyed the privilege of witnessing her unflagging energy and enthusiastic devotion to her work, rising early and working late, at a time when she was supposed to be unable to do more than take care of herself, paid to her this friendly compliment: "You work with the untiring industry of a bee, the patient perseverance of a beaver, the overcoming strength of a lion, and the double quickness of a deer." Her liberal responses to the calls of the needy have been limited only by her ability to work, save and give. BERTHA LOUISE AHRENS "I'll praise my Maker with my breath; And when my voice is lost in death, Praise shall employ my nobler powers." --The Psalmist. Bertha Louise Ahrens (B. Feb. 26, 1857), missionary teacher among the Choctaw Freedmen of Indian Territory since 1885, and principal teacher at Oak Hill Academy, 1905-1911, is a native of Berlin, Prussia. Her parents, Otto and Augusta Ahrens, in 1865, when she was 8, and a brother Otto 5, came to America and located on a farm near Sigourney, Iowa, after one year at Bellville, Ill.; and four, at Harper, Iowa. The schools and churches first attended used the German language. Her first studies in English were in the graded schools at Sigourney and here at seventeen, she became a member of the Presbyterian church under the pastorate of Rev. S. G. Hair. He loaned her some missionary literature to read and it awakened a desire on her part to become a missionary. This desire was expressed to the Women's Missionary society of the church and she was encouraged to attend the Western Female Seminary, now college, at Oxford, Ohio. After a course of study at this institution she enjoyed a year's training in the Bible school connected with Moody's Chicago Avenue church, Chicago. During the next year, after hearing in her home town an appeal in behalf of a Negro school in the south, she was led to offer her services to the Presbyterian Board of Missions for Freedmen. In December 1885, she received a commission with request to locate among the Choctaw Freedmen at Lukfata, in the southeast part of Indian Territory. The route at that early date was quite circuitous. Going south through Kansas City over the M. K. T. Ry., to Denison, Texas, she passed eastward by rail to Bells, through Paris to Clarksville, Texas; and thence northward forty miles to Wheelock and Lukfata. Clarksville, south of Red river continued to be the nearest town and station during the next ten years. She has now completed twenty-eight years of continuous and faithful service as a missionary teacher among the Freedmen. During these years she has served the following communities and churches. Lukfata, Mount Gilead 11 years 1885-1896. Fowlerville, Forest 3 years 1896-1899. Goodland, Hebron 1 year 1899-1900. Grant, Beaver Dam 4 years 1900-1904. Valliant, Oak Hill Academy 6-1/2 years 1904-1911. Beaver Dam 1 year 1911-1912. Wynnewood, Bethesda Mission 2 years 1912-1914. She is now serving as principal teacher in the Bethesda Home and School, located three miles northeast of Wynnewood in the Chickasaw Nation. This school was opened Nov. 1, 1899. It was founded by Carrie and Clara Boles and others; and its object is to provide a home and christian education to the orphan and homeless youth of the colored people. Miss Ahrens has been a life long and conscientious Christian worker, among the Freedmen of the Choctaw Nation. Her name is a household word to all of them. She found it necessary from the first to locate as a lonely teacher among them in territorial days, and share with them the unusual privations, incident to a life of such seclusion and unselfish devotion. During the first fifteen years, she had to live alone in little, rudely constructed huts in a sparsely settled timber country, where quarrels and murders, among both the Indians and colored people, were events of common and almost annual occurrence; yet she never thought of leaving her work or forsaking her mission on account of personal danger. The following is an accurate description of the little hut she occupied three years while at Forest church. It was built of saplings, eight feet square and chinked with mud. It had a fire place, an opening eighteen inches square for light, and another one for entrance, that was about three inches lower than her height. The chimney was built of mud, so small and crooked that only a part of the smoke could be induced to go up it, on a windy day. The blind for closing the window opening was so open, it merely broke the force of the wind, it could not keep it out, nor the lamp from blowing out. The little door left similar openings above and below it. On windy days the smoke found its way out through these and other openings overhead. These conditions after a while were relieved, by the insertion of a window in the opening, and covering the walls of the room with sheets. The floor space was fully occupied, when it was supplied with a bed, trunk, sewing machine, book case, table and one chair. It lacked room for the organ, which had to be kept in the chapel. There was no porch, and into this little room the children on Sabbath afternoons would crowd to sing, standing until they grew weary, and then sitting on the floor. This rude and lonely hut was located about one fourth of a mile from the church. Near it was another and larger one-room cabin, having a porch, that was occupied by a good elder of the church, his wife and a family of six children. The school rooms, that she had to occupy, in order to fulfil her mission, though the best the colored people could afford, were also of the rudest sort. It was a difficult task, to make them look within like tidy temples of knowledge. Her work was also very elementary. As the pupils would advance and their work become interesting, they would drop out of school. Yet it never occurred to her the work was wearisome, because it was monotonous and often disappointing. If experiences were disappointing, or the day, gloomy, there remained to her the Bible, with its precious and unchanging promises; and the organ, responsive as ever to the touch of her hand. These were home comforts, that enabled her to forget the trials and burdens of each day, before its close. Her work as a teacher has been increasingly attractive. The secret of this unflagging and ever increasing interest, is found in the large place, given the Bible in all her teaching work. It has been a daily text book in the school room. On the Sabbath, her opportunity to read and explain it to all the people of the community, as superintendent of the Sunday school, has been even greater than that of some of the ministers in charge, when the latter was only a monthly visitor, while she served faithfully every Sabbath. The world is needing the light of Bible truth. It is life giving. "Go teach," is as urgent as the commission, "Go preach." The opportunity to supply the world's great need, with the life giving Word of God, is an inspiration to the consecrated christian teacher. She has felt this inspiration, and has become a very capable interpreter and practical expositor of the Bible. She has been well equipped to lead the people in song, and has received many evidences of the highest appreciation of her work, as a Bible instructor. Though not possessing what might be termed a rugged constitution, she has never lost a week, at any one time, from the school room on account of illness. She has been free to express the desire to continue to labor, as a faithful and efficient teacher, among the Freedmen as long as her strength will permit. Ruth expressed her sentiments, when she said to Naomi: "Entreat me not to leave thee; where thou lodgest I will lodge; Thy people shall be my people and thy God my God." She has been a true missionary hero. She has been willing to work in one of the most solitary places, for the lowliest of people, without the ordinary comforts of home and friends. Whilst her Bible work has been continued through the entire years, with but two exceptions, her income--a mere pittance--has been limited to the terms of school. This has made necessary very close economy in personal expenses, but has not prevented liberal offerings to promote the work of the church. Her seclusion, privations and dangers, during the first fifteen years, were as great as of many of those, who have gone to the remote parts of the earth. The heroic spirit of Martin Luther, translator of the German Bible she learned to read in youth, has always proved a source of great inspiration, to be faithful and courageous. When he was warned of the danger of martyrdom at Worms, where he had been summoned for trial for declaring the plain words of the Bible, he bravely said, "Were they to make a fire that would extend from Worms to Wittemberg, and reach even to the sky, I would walk across it, in the name of the Lord, I would appear before them and confess the Lord Jesus Christ." And a little later, "Were there as many devils (cardinals) in Worms, as there are tiles upon the roofs, I would enter," for the Elector had promised him a safe conduct. When he arrived at Worms and stood before his accusers, he finally said: "Here I am, I neither can, nor will retract anything. I cannot do otherwise; God help me." These noble and courageous words of Luther are well adapted, to prove an inspiration to every one that reads them. Her courage has led and kept her in the place of privilege and duty. Her faithfulness and devotion have enabled her to win the confidence and esteem of all who have come within the sphere of her acquaintance and friendship. She continues to pursue her chosen and loved employment, of serving as a missionary teacher among the Freedmen of Indian Territory, now Oklahoma, in the spirit of the Psalmist. "My days of praise shall ne'er be past, While life, and thought, and being last, Or immortality endures." ADELIA M. EATON The superintendent, teachers, students and friends of Oak Hill were called upon to sustain a great loss and experience a deep sorrow, as the sun was setting, on June 5, 1908, when Adelia M. Eaton, our highly esteemed matron, after three and one half years of unusually efficient service, and a brief illness of one week after the end of the term, peacefully and trustfully passed from the scene of her faithful missionary labors, to the enjoyment of her eternal reward. Her illness, which terminated with heart failure, seemed to be the outcome of a weariness that ensued after rendering some voluntary but needed services for the comfort of others. She was the second daughter of Harvey Eaton, one of the hardy, prosperous pioneer farmers of Pocahontas county, Iowa, She grew to womanhood on the farm, where she learned to be industrious and earnest. She early became identified with the work in the Presbyterian church and Sunday school at Fonda where she received her first training in christian work. After enjoying a four years' course at Buena Vista college, Storm Lake, associated with her elder sister, she spent four years in mercantile pursuits in Sioux City and Fonda. All of these previous employments and experiences seemed to be parts of a varied training, to fit her most fully, for the position she filled as a missionary teacher at the Academy. In the management of the affairs of this institution, her responsibilities and duties made her the executive helper of the superintendent. Here she found responsibilities and opportunities, that called forth all her noblest powers, and enabled her to make it the most highly useful and crowning period of her life. She naturally possessed an attractive personality. She was tall, slender and erect in form, very prompt, dignified and graceful in movement. Her countenance indicated intelligence, energy and culture. She had a good voice for public address, possessed rare executive ability and was so gentle in manner that obedience to her commands was accorded with pleasure and delight. Though never unmindful of her resources, she never manifested any pride, save that which every truly noble soul manifests in the quality of its work, by putting forth a constant effort to perform every duty in the most thorough and efficient manner. She was a happy, willing worker. The key note of her work as a teacher seemed to be the one expressed in the words: "My meat is to do the will of Him that sent me and to finish his work." John 4, 34. Although she had many other important duties on that day, she was always present at the services on the Sabbath. The memory of the living will not soon forget the personal interest she manifested in the spiritual welfare of every member of her large class of older students in the Sunday school, her tender and affectionate appeals to the young people at the Endeavor meetings, her interesting and instructive addresses at institutes and conventions, and how she voluntarily lingered to extend friendly greetings at the close of the church services. The call, to engage in this educational work among the Freedmen in Indian Territory, came to her at an unexpected, but opportune time. When the need for her services and desire for her co-operation were stated, she immediately gave her assent to make a trial of the work for a term of three months. As the work progressed her interest in it increased, and she became more firmly attached to it. Her affections, interest and ambitions seemed to be transferred to the people and work at the Academy. Her attachment and devotion to this work was as remarkable as it was unexpected. This was the secret of the unusual merit of the service rendered. In this new sphere of usefulness, she found a field of opportunity that afforded full scope for the exercise of all her intellectual, moral and spiritual powers, and, engaging in this work with all the enthusiasm of her noble nature, she rendered a continuous service so faithful and efficient, as to call forth heartfelt appreciation and words of highest commendation. MRS. JOHN CLAYPOOL Mrs. John Claypool, matron 1908-9, the successor of Adelia Eaton, came from membership in the class of Mrs. A. W. Crawford of the First Presbyterian church of San Diego, California. Her work is gratefully remembered for its uniform faithfulness and efficiency, and the sweet beneficent influence exerted by the noble womanhood and manhood of herself and husband, previously employed in a bank, who also came and remained with her at the institution. Through the aid of the latter, the profit on the poultry was greater that year, than in any other. The garden that year was greatly enlarged and surrounded with a new fence. He nailed the pales on the panels and they remain as a memento of his interest and handiwork. The fact that she represented one of the churches giving most loyal and liberal support to the Academy, and was thus a living link connecting the work of the institution with the many friends, supporting it on the Pacific Coast, gave to her work an additional charm that was greatly appreciated. They are now living in Texas. MARY I. WEIMER Mary I. Weimer, who served as matron 1909 to 1911, a native of Port Royal, Pa., came to Oak Hill from Knox, in the Devils Lake Region of North Dakota; where, after a course of preparation at the state teachers college at Fargo, she achieved an unusual degree of success, both as a teacher and manager of affairs on the farm. These interests prevented her from coming the previous year when first solicited. At the Academy she rendered a service so efficient and faithful as to merit the gratitude of all. After the loss of the Girls' Hall, which occurred during her first year, when all of its occupants were deprived of comfortable quarters, the fear was entertained she would want to be excused from further service. Instead of pursuing this course she became one of our best counselors and helpers in the effort to provide for the comfort of herself and the girls, and keep the latter from returning home at that critical period. The superintendent will never cease to be grateful for her favorable decision at this trying hour, and the self-denial she voluntarily proposed to undergo, in order to make it possible, to continue the work of the institution. It was the period when Mrs. Flickinger was a helpless invalid at Fonda, patiently awaiting the return of her husband, with daily anxiety. He could not leave, however, until the cellar excavation and concrete walls of the building had been completed. This done, Samuel Folsom was ready to serve as foreman of the carpenters, in the erection of the new building, and it fell to the lot of Miss Weimer, to serve as general manager, in the absence of the superintendent. The situation was one, that required unusual courage, as well as prudence and self-control. Her heroism was equal to the call to duty. Loyalty and faithfulness were her constant watchwords. At the end of the next term in 1911, she found it necessary to give her personal attention anew to the interests of her own home and farm. She enjoys the distinction of having served as matron, the last year in the Girls' Hall and the first one in Elliott Hall. She is gratefully remembered by all, who became the subjects of her daily care and domestic training. MISS JO LU WOLCOTT Miss Jo Lu Wolcott, matron, February to June, 1912, was a daughter of the late Dr. Wolcott of Chandler, Okla. She has had considerable experience as a teacher in the public schools of Kansas and Oklahoma, and in the government school for the Indians at Navajo Falls, Colorado. She is now serving as a teacher in an Indian school in South Dakota. MALINDA A. HALL Malinda A. Hall rendered six years of faithful and efficient service as assistant matron, and teacher. Having completed the grammar course at Oak Hill in 1900, and then a four years course at Ingleside Seminary in Virginia, she was well prepared for the work at the Academy, and proved a very reliable and valuable helper. She was capable and always willing, when requested, to supply any vacancy occurring among the other helpers. She enjoyed good health, and never lost a day from illness. Her strength and energy enabled her to execute promptly and efficiently, every work entrusted to her. Her work throughout was characterized by a never failing promptness, faithfulness and energy. She was familiar with the needs and traits of her people, was thoroughly devoted to the promotion of their best interests, and her suggestions were always gratefully received. The ability and enthusiasm of her work, as the teacher of a large class in the Sunday school and leader of the young people in their Endeavor meetings, will never be forgotten by those, who came within the sphere of her voice and influence. Since her marriage in 1911 to William Stewart she has been devoting her time and attention to the improvement of their home on the farm near Valliant. She is needed on the farm, but the thought lingers, that there continues to be a great need for her services in the educational work among her people. Miss Hall's exploits, as a sharpshooter with her own gun, during her first year as a teacher at Oak Hill, indicate her responsiveness to the spirit of chivalry, that prevailed among the people during the period of her youth. One day in the spring of the year, while hunting eggs in the second story of the old log house, she discovered a large snake on one of the rafters over her head. Hastening quietly to her own room for a gun, she brought the snake to the floor with the first shot. It measured over four feet in length, was dark in color and was of the kind, that eats eggs and chicks, commonly called a chicken snake. She also, at the request of Mrs. Flickinger, stunned a small beef, that they together butchered, at a time the superintendent was absent. MARY A DONALDSON When Carrie E. Crowe was called away in January 1906, the place was rather reluctantly assumed but very acceptably filled by Mrs. Sarah L. Wallace of Fairhope, Alabama. After two months she also was called away. The place was then filled by Mary A. Donaldson of Paris, Texas. She had been an attendant at the first Oak Hill Normal, in 1905, and then became a missionary teacher at Grant. Attendance at the Normal led to her recognition, both at Grant and Oak Hill. After teaching several years she pursued another course of training at New Orleans and has become a professional nurse. SOLOMON H. BUCHANAN "He that is faithful in that which is least, is faithful." Solomon H. Buchanan is a native of Glen Rose, Somervell Co., Texas. At the age of eight he was bereft of both of his parents, and those, into whose care he drifted, were not willing he should learn a letter. By some means he attracted the favorable notice of Miss Mary A. Pearson, a missionary of our Home Mission Board. Furnishing him the funds for the trip, she sent him at the age of 18 in 1903, to Oak Hill Academy with request to become an earnest Christian teacher. At the Academy Mrs. Mary R. Scott of Pittsburgh became his teacher. She taught him his letters and first lessons in spelling and reading, giving him considerable time and attention, while the other boys were playing. Perceiving his special fondness for music, she taught him the chords on the piano, and thus gave him a start on that noble instrument, which has ever since been his favorite. He has always found the study of books a rather difficult task, owing to the lack of early training in them; but he has proved a good student and a very valuable helper at the Academy. The longing desire to become a capable and successful teacher, has kept him there, amid all the changes that have occurred since his arrival in 1903. He has now acquired an unusual degree of skill as a performer on the piano and his enthusiastic accompaniments on that noble instrument contributed greatly to the pleasure and delight of the work at the Academy. He has become an earnest worker in the Sunday school and endeavor meetings. He has a strong voice for song or public address, and has become an excellent leader of religious meetings. He served one year as an assistant teacher at the Academy. He has proved himself a very efficient and valuable helper at the Academy, always looking after the entertainment of visitors. In 1912 he was ordained an elder of the Oak Hill church and in May of that year was sent as one of the commissioners of the Presbytery of Kiamichi, to the general assembly at Louisville, Ky. Through the courtesy of Rev. E. G. Haymaker, he spent the summer of 1903 at Winona Lake, Ind. He is now serving, as superintendent of the farm work and musical instructor, at the Bethesda Home and school at Wynnewood, Okla. The boy who wins is, "Not the one who says, 'I can't'; Nor the one who says, 'Don't care;' Not the boy who shirks his work, Nor the one who plays unfair. But the one who says, I can', And the one who says, 'I will;' He shall be the noble man, He the place of trust will fill." STUDENT WORKERS These tributes to worthy workers seem incomplete, without some reference to the faithful co-operation of some of the young people, who, making rapid progress in their studies and industrial training, during the later years of this period, and serving efficiently as workers, foremen and occasional teachers, made possible the large amount of improvement work necessary to overcome the losses sustained. The memory recalls the names of the following students, whose responsible and efficient co-operation was thus worthy of grateful mention. Occasional Teachers and Leaders: Paul Thornton, Vina Jones, Delia Clark[*], Isabella Monroe, Ruby Moore[*], Virginia Wofford, Sarah Milton, Celestine Seats, Solomon Buchanan, Riley Flournoy, Clarence and Herbert Peete. Carpenters and Cement Workers: David Folsom [*], Solomon Burris, Louis and Alvin Pitchlin, Isaiah Nelson, Clarence Peete, Noah Alverson, Riley Flournoy, Fred and Percy McFarland, Thomas Wilson, George Hollingsworth, Frank Dickson, Ashley and Alonza McLellan and Brown Gaffony.[*] Painters: Solomon Buchanan, Frank Dickson, John Black, Eugene Perry, Wesley Lewis, Herbert Peete and Cornell Smith. Farmers and Trustworthy Teamsters: James Stewart, James Burris. James Richards, Dee McFarland, Robert Johnson, Robert Maxie, S. S. Bibbs, and Everett Richards. [*] Deceased. XL CLOSING DAY, 1912 ELLIOTT HALL DEDICATED.--CONCERT.--RESOLUTIONS.--STUDENTS AFFECTION.--FAREWELL NOTE. The following account, of the closing day of our last term of school, is taken from the last issue of the Oak Hill Freedman's Friend, a news-letter, intended to promote the interests of the Academy, and sent to its patrons and friends as a quarterly at first, but later as an annual, from February 1905, to September 1912. CLOSING DAY, 1912 June 13, 1912, was a day of unusual interest. It was the last day of the last term of school, under the management of the superintendent, and the contemplation of this fact frequently suggested a thought of sadness, since it meant the last meeting with many friends and co-workers. It was also the second day set for the dedication of Elliott Hall, and the third day announced for a visit and address by Rev. Phil C. Baird, D. D., pastor of the First Presbyterian church of Oklahoma City. His leading and unusually happy participation in the events of the day, made his visit and services on this occasion thrice welcome and valuable. At 2:00 p.m. Dr. Baird delivered the principal address to a large and very appreciative audience in the Academy. He chose for his theme, The Essentials of Success; and emphasized these three, namely "Labor, purpose and perseverance." ELLIOTT HALL DEDICATED At the close of the address of Dr. Baird, the meeting was transferred to the cozy and spacious front porch of Elliott Hall. The story of the Hall as a grateful and permanently useful memorial of the late Alice Lee Elliott, and the generous gift of $5,000.00 on the part of her surviving husband, David Elliott of Lafayette, Indiana, now at Minneapolis, Minn., was briefly related by the superintendent. Rev. W. H. Carroll reported that voluntary offerings to the amount of $29.48 had that day been donated toward the expense of furnishing the two bath rooms. The prayer of dedication was offered by Rev. Wiley Homer of Grant, who has been a faithful annual visitor and constant guardian of the good name and welfare of the institution ever since it was founded in 1886. The benediction was pronounced by Rev. P. S. Meadows of Shawneetown, moderator of the Presbytery of Kiamichi. CLOSING CONCERT The program provided for the evening consisted of a vocal and instrumental concert by the students, such as had been given, with one exception, at the close of each term. Several of the selections, rendered as full choruses, were from Leslie's Ideal Class, the music book most frequently used by the superintendent in the training work of note reading and vocal culture. They included the anthems, "Break forth into Joy," "I was Glad," by I. B. Woodbury, "Before Jehovah's Throne," and patriotic Glees, "Hail to the Flag," "Now a Mighty Nation," and "Unfurl the Sail." When the time arrived to announce the closing chorus, the superintendent, after expressing appreciation of the fact there were present so many ministers of the Presbytery, patrons and friends; and gratitude for their constant co-operation, then made known to them, for the first time, the fact that several months previous he had tendered his resignation to the Board of Missions for Freedmen, and that in due season, Rev. W. H. Carroll, the principal, would be promoted to fill the vacancy, when it occurred. After hearing these announcements, every minister present manifested a desire to participate in the meeting, by bearing voluntary testimony to the good work that had been done at the Academy under the leadership of the superintendent. Rev. Dr. Baird was the first speaker, and he acted as a leader or chairman during this temporary interruption of the program. He bore testimony to his previous knowledge of the faithfulness and administrative ability of the superintendent, and his pleasant surprise at the results achieved at this institution. Grateful tributes to the efficiency of his work, as superintendent of the Academy, were then expressed by Rev. Wiley Homer of Grant, Rev. T. K. Bridges of Lukfata, Rev. P. S. Meadows and Rev. W. H. Carroll. Rev. W. J. Starks of Frogville read and presented for adoption the appreciative resolutions that follow: Their unanimous adoption by a rising vote was immediately followed by a general waving of handkerchiefs, a touching expression of good wishes and parting cheer. RESOLUTIONS Whereas the Rev. R. E. Flickinger, our beloved superintendent and friend, has announced his resignation as superintendent of Oak Hill Industrial Academy, now Alice Lee Elliott School; and whereas such resignation has come to us at a very unexpected time; We, citizens of the neighborhood, patrons, students and teachers of the Academy, and members present of the Presbytery of Kiamichi, do hereby unite in adopting the following resolutions: First. That the announcement of his resignation brings to us profound grief and disappointment, as it takes from among us a friend and brother bound to us by many unusual and lasting ties. Second. That we lose in Rev. R. E. Flickinger, the founder of the new and the real Oak Hill Industrial Institution, through the accomplishment of the following achievements, during his administration: When he re-opened the doors of this academy seven and a half years ago, it had been closed for the year, and for months there seemed to be but little prospect it would be opened again. The evidences of neglect, decay and desertion were manifest on every hand. Under his magic hand the school was re-opened, only a few students were enrolled the first term, but the piles of rubbish in every corner, and underbrush began to disappear, and one of the buildings was neatly painted by the boys. At this time the Board did not own the land on which the buildings were located. After the removal of the restrictions in 1908, the title to one small tract was promptly secured by purchase. A dozen other adjoining little tracts have since been added to this first one, as their purchase became possible and at their virgin price; so that now there belongs to this school, as a means of promoting its local support, the magnificent domain of 270 acres of beautiful and valuable tillable lands of which about one-third is now cleared, enclosed and under cultivation. "Enlargement and Permanent Improvement," became the watchwords of progress, when the title to the second tract was secured. Upon this stable material basis there has been systematically organized and developed an important Industrial institution, where boys and girls are trained not only in the great fundamentals of the best intellectual and moral culture, but also in the essential industrial arts of life. The accomplishment of these results has cost the superintendent an indescribable amount of toil and labor. His great staying powers and ingenuity were taxed to their utmost, when, in quick succession, the two largest buildings were suddenly destroyed by unexpected fires, that left nothing but ashes and discouraged friends. The testimony that he has proved himself capable of overcoming these staggering losses appears in the temporary Boys Hall, an addition to the Academy building after the first fire in 1908, and in the large and commodious new building, bearing the name "Elliott Hall" of which he enjoys the honor of having been its architect and builder, through the labors of the students and the teachers of the academy; and, in this creditable student body of well trained young people. Third. In grateful recognition of his unusual patience and perseverance, his unceasing toil and never failing interest, his self denying generosity and for his noble, manly exemplary christian life, we tender to him our heartfelt lasting gratitude; and, enrolling his name among the worthy founders of Oak Hill Industrial Academy, shall enshrine it as one to be given to children's children, as the educator and organizer, who infused new life into this institution and greatly enlarged the scope of its work. Fourth. That a copy of these resolutions be sent to the Board of Freedmen, to the Interior, The Valliant Tribune and the Times, Fonda, Iowa. PHIL. C. BAIRD, Chairman of Meeting. A TOKEN OF AFFECTION AND REGARD FROM THE STUDENTS Dear Superintendent: I have been requested by the boys of this institution, to offer you a slight token of our affection and regard. I cannot tell you how delighted I am to be the means of conveying to you this expression of our united love. What we offer you is a poor symbol of our feelings, but we know you will receive it kindly as a simple indication of the attachment, which each one of us cherishes for you in our hearts. You have made our days and months pleasant to us. We know that we have often tried your patience and forbearance, but you have dealt gently with us in all our waywardness; teaching us by example as well as precept, the advantages of magnanimity and self control. We will never forget you. We shall look back to this institution in after life; and, whenever memory recalls our school days, our hearts will warm toward you as they do today. I have been requested by my school mates, not to address you formally, but as a beloved and respected friend. In that light, Dear Superintendent, we will regard you. Please accept our good wishes. May you always be as happy as you have endeavored to make your pupils; and may they--nothing better could be wished them--be always as faithful to their duties to others, as you have been in your duties to them. Very truly yours, W. RILEY FLOURNOY. In behalf of the boys of Oak Hill Academy. An expression of gratitude from Simon Folsom, an elder of the Forest church, who gave us very cordial co-operation, and whose voice, ringing with pleading eloquence and words of glad encouragement to the students, was frequently heard at the Endeavor meetings or morning services, by the young people during term time: Dear Sir: I want to thank you for your interest, help and work among my people. I feel that you have done us a great service here. It is my prayer that God will reward you in time for all your services in labor, thought and interest. This is the plea of one whom you have been serving. July 21,1912. A Friend, SIMON FOLSOM. FRUIT BULLETIN The superintendent continued to have charge of the improvement and other work of the Academy and farm, until the first of October; publishing in the mean time the last issue of the Freedman's Friend in September; and, remaining during the month of October, prepared and published a bulletin entitled, "Approved Fruits for Southern Oklahoma." The aim of the author, in preparing and publishing this fruit bulletin, was to furnish a short and reliable text book on horticulture, for use in the Academy; and to supply the patrons of the institution, the information they were needing, to enable them to secure, when making their first investments, profitable early, medium and late, fruit-bearing varieties of trees for a small home orchard on their respective allotments. FAREWELL The farewell words of the superintendent, briefly summarized, appeared as follows in the last issue of the Freedman's Friend: With the sending forth of this issue of the Oak Hill Freedman's Friend, Rev. R. E. Flickinger lays aside the mantle of service, as superintendent of the Academy and Farm, and cordially commends Rev. W. H. Carroll, his successor, to the confidence and esteem of all the patrons and friends of the institution. The opportunity afforded here during the last eight years, to engage in the educational work among the colored people of our beloved land, has been the realization of an earnest desire awakened in the early part of our ministry, but not expressed until the opening occurred at this place. The silent but deeply impressive cry of need, the golden opportunity to lay the foundation for the organization and development of an important Industrial Educational Institution in this new section of country, and the cordial co-operation of local ministers, teachers, patrons and friends, have combined to make this work throughout, intensely interesting. It has enlisted our noblest and best powers of mind, heart and hand. The constant probability that our term of service would at best be brief, and the desire to accomplish the greatest possible results, have proved an incentive to incessant industry. When difficulties increased, they served as a signal to go forward more earnestly. We have done what we could to add our mite, most, effectively, to the great educational work needed in this south land. That which has been done, has been due to the constant and cordial co-operation of our Board of Missions for Freedmen, and of the immediate patrons and friends of the institution. It remains, that we express to you all our lasting gratitude, for your cordial co-operation, and for the present, say, Farewell! "God bless you, till we meet again." Very truly, R. E. FLICKINGER. PART III HISTORY ... OF THE ... PRESBYTERY OF KIAMICHI ... AND THE ... SYNOD OF CANADIAN "My church is the place, where the Word of God is preached, the power of God is felt, the Spirit of God is manifested and the unity of God is perceived." "There, I am to meet my Saviour, to meditate on his redemption, to listen to his commands, to bow in reverence before him, to pray for his guidance, to sing his praise, to ask for his help, and to sit quietly in his house." "It is the home of my soul, the altar of my devotion, the hearth of my faith, the center of my affections and the foretaste of heaven." "I have united with it in solemn covenant, pledging myself to attend its services, to pray for its members, to give to its support, to obey its laws, to protect its name, to reverence its building, to honor its officers and to maintain its permanence." "It claims the principal place in my activities, and its unity, peace and progress, concern my life in this world and that which is to come."--F. Hyatt Smith. XLI THE PRESBYTERY OF KIAMICHI CONSTITUTED IN 1896.--ORGANIZED AT GRANT.--BOUNDARY ENLARGED IN 1907.--REPORT IN 1913.--GROWTH, 1868 TO 1913.--DEARTH OF MINISTERS.--FAVORITE SONS.--NEW ERA. "Neglect not the gift which was given thee, with the laying on of the hands of the Presbytery."--Paul. The ministers and group of churches, that first formed the Presbytery of Kiamichi, belonged originally to the Presbytery of Choctaw; which included the territory allotted in 1832 to the Choctaw Nation, comprising the southeast one-fourth of Indian Territory, after the establishment of Oklahoma Territory in 1890. CONSTITUTED BY SYNOD The Synod of Indian Territory, at the meeting held at South McAlester, Oct. 22-25, 1896, in response to an overture for division from the Presbytery of Choctaw, established the new Presbytery by the adoption of the following resolutions: 1st. That the Choctaw Presbytery be divided into two Presbyteries, according to the following geographical boundaries: First, beginning at Durant on the M. K. & T. Railroad, east on the 34th parallel to the Arkansas line, thence South to the Texas line, thence west with the Texas line (Red river) to the M. K. & T. Railroad, thence north with the M. K. & T. Railroad to Durant, the starting point; this Presbytery to be known as the Presbytery of Tuskaloosa, and to embrace the following churches now within its bounds: St. Paul, Oak Hill, Bethany, Forest, Beaver Dam, Hebron, Sandy Branch, New Hope, Oak Grove and Mt. Gilead--10; and to embrace the following ministers, now members of the Presbytery of Choctaw: Rev. E. G. Haymaker, (white) Rev. E. B. Evans, (white) Rev. Wiley Homer, Rev. J. H. Sleeper, and Rev. Samuel Gladman--5. 2nd. That the Presbytery of Tuskaloosa meet at Beaver Dam (Grant) on the Saturday before the third Sabbath in November, 1896, at 11 o'clock a.m. and be opened with a sermon by Rev. E. G. Haymaker, or in his absence, by the oldest minister present, who shall preside until a new Moderator is elected. ORGANIZED AT GRANT The first meeting of this new Presbytery was held at Grant, in the Beaver Dam church of which Rev. Wiley Homer was pastor, Nov. 14-16, 1896, seven months after the death of Parson Stewart, who had organized and developed all these churches. The meeting was opened with a sermon by Rev. Edward G. Haymaker, superintendent of Oak Hill Academy, Clear Creek; and he was chosen to serve as the first stated clerk. The first annual report, April 1, 1897, showed an enrollment of 5 ministers, 11 churches and 292 communicant members. The name of the Choctaw church at Wheelock, Garvin, P. O. was included in this report, and Richard D. Colbert was enrolled as a licentiate and appointed stated supply of New Hope and Sandy Branch churches. The name given this new Presbytery, which was the name of a county and county seat town in Alabama, was not entirely satisfactory to those, who were included in it; and in making their first report to synod in the fall of 1897, they requested the name be changed to Mountain Fork, the name of a branch of Little river, that flows from the east end of Kiamichi mountain. While this matter was under discussion at synod the name of the principal river flowing through the bounds of the Presbytery, "Kiamichi," (Ki a mish ee) signifying "Where you going," was suggested by Rev. Wiley Homer; and it was approved both by the Synod and Presbytery. The roll of the Presbytery, at the time of its first report in the spring of 1897, included two Choctaw churches, namely, Oak Grove at Grant, and Wheelock, having 5 and 70 members respectively. During this year Oak Grove was disbanded and dropped; and Wheelock, becoming vacant, was transferred to the Presbytery of Choctaw; Rev. Evan B. Evans, its last pastor, having gone to Mulhall, in the Presbytery of Oklahoma. Bethany, a colored church previously reported as having 9 members was also dropped. These changes reduced the Presbytery to one consisting entirely of colored churches and of colored ministers, with the single exception of Rev. E. G. Haymaker, superintendent of Oak Hill Academy, who was engaged in the educational work among them. The annual report for 1898, the first one under the new name, "Kiamichi" that included only colored churches, shows that the Presbytery then consisted of 4 ministers, E. G. Haymaker, Wiley Homer, John H. Sleeper and Samuel Gladman; 2 licentiates, William Butler and R. D. Colbert; and 8 churches, Oak Hill, 40; Mount Gilead, 25; Saint Paul, 14; Beaver Dam, 34; Hebron, 13; New Hope, 25; Sandy Branch, 16; and Forest, 20; having 187 members and 248 Sunday school members. BOUNDARY ENLARGED In May 1907, when the General Assembly at Columbus, Ohio, united and rearranged the synods and Presbyteries of the Presbyterian and Cumberland churches, after the union of their Assemblies at Des Moines the previous year, the boundary of the Presbytery of Kiamichi was defined as follows: The Presbytery of Kiamichi shall consist of all ministers and churches of the Negro race in that part of the synod of Oklahoma, lying south of the south Canadian river, and south of the Arkansas river, below the point of confluence of these two rivers.--Min. G. A., 1907, 214. The north half of Oklahoma was included in the Presbytery of Rendall, then established and two men Rev. Burr Williams and Rev. David J. Wallace, who had been members of Kiamichi, since 1899 were transferred to it. In 1910 the colored Presbyterian ministers and churches in east Texas were added to the Presbytery of Kiamichi. These included Rev. J. A. Loving, M. D., and the Mount Zion church, at Jacksonville, Texas; and Rev. J. M. McKellar and the Mount Olivet church at Rusk, Texas. ANNUAL REPORT IN 1913 In 1913, the Presbytery included 14 ministers and 16 churches as follows: S. M S. i O s f M M s f S E e e i e u l m m o r S p d b b n i e p Minister Address Church e e e a n l o r r r r g f r s s s y s t Wiley Homer, H. R. Grant, Okla. Robert E. Flickinger, H. R. Rockwell City, Iowa [2]Samuel Gladman, Ev. Eufaula, Okla. Thomas K. Bridges Lukfata, Okla. Mt. Gilead 2 26 25 $13 $25 William Butler Eagletown, Okla. St. Paul 4 27 38 8 98 Millerton, Okla. Forest 3 13 17 3 25 Lukfata, Okla. Pleasant Valley 2 27 37 8 15 Richard D. Colbert Grant, Okla. Hebron 2 19 15 8 12 William J. Starks Garvin, Okla. Garvin 3 30 57 11 190 William H. Carroll Valliant, Okla. Oak Hill 3 69 85 55 78 Noah S. Alverson Griffin, Okla. Ebenezer 1 12 13 4 Plant S. Meadows Shawneetown, Okla. Mt. Pleasant 2 8 10 3 Millerton, Okla. Bethany 3 23 30 10 10 Samuel J. Onque Grant, Okla. Beaver Dam 4 41 55 10 53 Julius W. Mallard Frogville, Okla. New Hope 8 26 59 11 24 Frogville, Okla. Sandy Branch 2 29 87 6 30 Pleasant Hill, v 4 J. A. Loving Jacksonville, Texas Mt. Zion 3 28 45 14 J. M. KcKeller--14 Rusk, Texas Mt. Olivet--16 1 18 60 6 --------------------- 38 400 583 $170 $560 These churches now represent 38 elders; 400 members, and 583 Sunday school members. They contributed $180.00 to our Missionary Boards and $560.00, towards self-support. At the next meeting of the synod in the fall of 1913, the two ministers and churches in Texas were transferred to the Presbytery of White River, Arkansas. Other ministers and churches, that have been enrolled as members or a part of this Presbytery, and their names have not yet been mentioned, were as follows: Rev. Thomas C. Ogburn, who in 1890 and 1891 served Beaver Dam, New Hope and Hebron. Rev. William G. Ogburn, who in 1890, served Saint Paul and Mount Gilead. Rev. Burr Williams, who from 1899 to 1902 served Conwell chapel at Springvale, and from 1902 to 1903, served Mount Zion at Monger, O. T. Rev. David J. Wallace, Langston, in 1899, and in 1906 at Okmulgee, Ok. Ter. Rev. Hugh L. Harry, New Hope at Frogville in 1904 and 1905. SUCCESSION OF STATED CLERKS Edward G. Haymaker, Clear Creek, Nov. 14, 1896-1903. John H. Sleeper, Frogville, 1903-1904. Thompson K. Bridges, Lukfata, 1904-1906. Samuel Gladman, Millerton 1906-1910. William J. Starks, Garvin, 1910-1914. EXHIBIT OF GROWTH, 1868 TO 1913 The following exhibit shows the comparative growth of the work among the colored people of the Choctaw nation in Indian Territory, the summaries commencing with the results of the work as left by Parson Charles W. Stewart, when he was honorably retired from further active service among the churches, on account of the infirmities of age, in 1890, from Beaver Dam, New Hope, Hebron, St. Paul, and Mount Gilead, and in 1893, from Oak Hill and Forest. The report for 1898 is the first one of the new Presbytery of Kiamichi to include only colored churches. Church Address Stewart Date of Members in began organi- 1890 1893 1898 1913 services zation Beaver Dam Grant 1874 1881 15 34 41 Hebron Messer 1868 1872 12 13 19 New Hope Frogville 1869 1872 38 25 26 St. Paul Eagletown 1877 1878 18 14 27 Mt. Gilead Lukfata 1883 1885 25 25 26 Oak Hill Valliant 1868 1869 30 40 69 Forest Millerton 1885 1887 7 20 13 Sandy Branch Sawyer 1895 16 29 Ebenezer Griffin 1903 12 Bethany Millerton 1904 23 Garvin Garvin 1905 30 Pleasant Valley Lukfata 1906 27 Mount Pleasant Shawneetown 1906 8 Pleasant Hill 4 ------------------------ Total in Oklahoma 108(145) 37 187 354 Mount Zion Jacksonville, Texas 28 Mount Olivet Rusk, Texas 18 ---- Total in Presbytery 400 DEARTH OF MINISTERS This exhibit shows that the membership of the 7 churches, when relinquished by Parson Stewart in 1890 and 1893, numbered 145, and in 1898, when the Presbytery under the name "Kiamichi" made its first report, including only colored churches, the number was 187; suggesting a gain of 42 members by his successors in 8 years. If, however, the 16 members at Sandy Branch be taken from the 1898 column, it shows the 7 churches served by Stewart, gained only 26 members during all those eight years. This lack of growth, during this important period, was in great measure due to the fact most of the churches were left vacant, during a considerable part of that period. Thirty years had passed since the people had been accorded their freedom, but so great had been the lack of educational facilities, a sufficient number of acceptable men, that could read and expound the scriptures profitably to others, could not be found. Other communities throughout the south were experiencing the same need, and had no young men to spare for these needy fields. FAVORITE SONS BECOME MINISTERS It devolved upon each community to solve this problem, relating to the supply of ministers, by encouraging their own brightest and best boys to train for the ministry. That was the way this problem had to be solved by the Choctaw Freedmen in the south part of Indian Territory. While the native young men were under training, and the churches were vacant, the services had to be maintained by the elders and most capable women; and they deserve great credit for their faithfulness and efficiency in maintaining them from year to year. The church, that during this period made the greatest gain--13 members--was Beaver Dam, the one that was first to furnish from its own membership, an acceptable and capable minister for its own pulpit, by commending Wiley Homer for licensure in 1894, when he was appointed the stated supply for that church and Hebron. In 1897 the same church presented Richard D. Colbert, another of its sons for licensure that he might take charge of the church at Frogville and Sandy Branch. Eagletown presented William Butler, as their favorite son, for licensure; and beginning then, he is still serving that church and Forest. In 1905, Ebenezer church at Griffin presented Noah S. Alverson for licensure, and beginning then, he is still faithfully serving that field. In 1905, Mount Gilead church at Lukfata presented for licensure John Richards, a youth of considerable promise, who died at 25, in June 1907, while pursuing his studies under the superintendent of Oak Hill Academy. Under the ministry of these native youth, aided by several others who have joined them, the membership of the Presbytery was increased from 187 to 350; or, nearly doubled, during the period from 1898 to 1913, and five new churches have been organized. Parson Stewart, serving all his seven churches life-long periods, and these favorite sons, following loyally and faithfully in his footsteps, have greatly honored the permanent pastorate, though none of them have ever been installed. In this matter of long pastorates, these ministers and people have made a record, worthy of the emulation of the church at large; especially those congregations that seem to take pride in having "itching ears" and the consequent doom of standing vacant and idle half the time, and those perambulating ministers, who remind one of the proverb of the "rolling stone that gathers no moss." NEW ERA REQUIRES THAT PREACHERS BE TEACHERS On the other hand it is proper to note, that, commencing with Parson Stewart all of these worthy men were licensed and ordained to the full work of the gospel ministry, after taking a very "short course" of educational training. This was due to the fact they were needed to meet an emergency, an unexpected and unusual condition, that called for immediate action. The extraordinary call, these men were encouraged to accept, came to them during the Territorial days, when there was no adequate provision for public education. They were then abreast of their times, and the very best their several communities could furnish. Now the times are different. The change came with the allotment of lands in 1904 and 1905, followed by statehood in 1907 and the establishment of a public school system immediately afterwards. Public schools are now found in every community, where there are a sufficient number of pupils to justify the employment of a teacher. The demand for good teachers is now greater than the supply, and with passing years the call will be for better ones. There are many reasons now, why every candidate for licensure should first prove himself to be an acceptable and successful teacher, as well as a good speaker. Teaching is now, and for many years will continue to be, the secondary employment of the colored minister in the rural districts. Recognizing that fact, every future candidate for the ministry should be animated with the noble ambition, to stand at the front in the teacher's profession, in order that there may be a constant demand for his services as a teacher, in the community he serves as a preacher. More ministers are needed, and promising young men, in every community, should be encouraged to train for that sacred office. The church is standing ready to co-operate with them, in their effort to secure a good and thorough education, as a fitting preparation for their future work. "Go and teach" is a divine call to a noble work, but "Go and preach," is recognized as a divine call to a still nobler and greater work, as the Bible and its mission are greater than that of any other book. A greater work suggests the need of greater preparation. The extraordinary incidents of the past were not intended to be regarded as precedents, or as a rule for the future. The time is now at hand when all, who present themselves to the Presbytery, before they have graduated from the Grammar department, or 8th grade of a well accredited school, should be enrolled and held merely as "candidates for the ministry," until they have completed their studies to that extent, before "licensure to preach" is accorded to them. Ordination should ordinarily be deferred, until the licentiate has completed the theological course prescribed for all in the standards of the church. Young men are frequently impatient to enter upon their ministerial life work. They do not always know, that expert or thorough training in youth, doubles their value in the activities of life; and that this is especially true of the teacher and preacher. [2] Died, Eufaula, January 8, 1913, at 65. XLII HISTORIES OF CHURCHES "I was glad when they said unto me, let us go into the House of the Lord."--David. "There's a church in the valley by the wildwood No lovelier spot in the dale; No place is so dear to my childhood, As the little brown church in the vale." BEAVER DAM CHURCH The early history of the Beaver Dam Presbyterian church at Grant carries us back to the year 1873, when Wiley Homer, one of the enterprising young men of the community, built an arbor in the timber, and held the first religious meetings among the colored people of that neighborhood. Parson C. W. Stewart, of Doaksville, the next year held occasional services in the arbor, and in 1875 secured the erection of the first house of worship. It was built of saplings, and at the place previously occupied by the arbor. Wiley Homer continued to serve as leader of the regular Sabbath meetings, when the parson was not present. In 1881 the church was organized with the following persons as original members: Wiley Homer, Laney Homer, his wife, Louisa Roebuck, Martha Folsom, Amy Walton, Adaline Shoals, Rhoda Larkins.--7. Wiley Homer was the only elder ordained at that time. A year or two later, Richard Roebuck, and in 1888 Richard D. Colbert and Wellington Bolden (died 1892) were ordained. Wiley Homer and Richard D. Colbert continued to serve as elders until they were ordained to the full work of the gospel ministry in 1895 and 1903, respectively. The elders in 1913 are as follows: William Goff, ordained 1892 Aaron Green, ordained 1894 Wiley Brown, ordained 1912 Walter McCulloch, ordained 1912 Others that served as elders were: Nick Colbert, 1891 to 1894 Peter Nolan 1893 to 1896 Moses Folsom 1904 till death, 1912 The succession of pastors has been as follows: Parson C. W. Stewart, Doaksville 1874 to 1890, 16 years Thomas C. Ogburn, Goodland 1890 to 1892 2 years Wiley Homer, Grant 1892 to 1912 20 years Samuel J. Onque, Grant 1912 to date 1914 The comfortable and spacious chapel, now occupied by the congregation, was built in 1904 during the pastorate of Wiley Homer, the God-fearing cowboy, who 30 years before had built the arbor in the timber. NEW HOPE CHURCH AT FROGVILLE The New Hope Presbyterian church at Frogville, Choctaw county, was organized about 1872 by Parson Charles W. Stewart, who had conducted occasional services in this neighborhood for some time previous. The first elders were Elias Radford, who died in 1908 after 36 years of faithful service, and James Pratt, who, after 40 years of faithful official service, is still living (1914) in his own cozy cottage home near the church. In the interest of the church, which is located in the Oak forest, along Red river southeast of Hugo, and still fifteen miles from railway, he has from the first been the principal host, to receive and entertain the Frogville circuit-riders, as in the days of Stewart and Homer; and provided rooms in his own home for the resident ministers as in the days of Sleeper, Harry and Starks. When the Presbytery meets at Frogville, he generously plans to entertain about one half the people that are present from a distance. The good he has already accomplished, by his faithful, life-long service in the church and Sunday school, make him worthy to be long and gratefully remembered, as one of the noblest and most generous benefactors in the community in which he lives. Others that have been ordained and are still serving as ruling elders in this church are Willis Buffington, ordained Sept. 7, 1902; and Garfield Pratt, son of James, April 9, 1911. The succession of pastors of the New Hope church has been as follows: Charles W. Stewart, Doaksville 1872--1889. Thomas C. Ogburn, Goodland 1889--1891. Wiley Homer, Grant 1891--1892. Samuel Gladman, Atoka 1897--1899. Richard D. Colbert, Grant 1899--1900. John H. Sleeper, Frogville 1900--1904. Hugh L. Harry, Frogville 1904--1905. William J. Starks, Frogville 1905--1912. Julius W. Mallard, Frogville since Jan. 4, 1913. Wiley Homer, an elder and catechist in the Beaver Dam church at Grant, as an aid to Parson Stewart conducted most of the services during his last two years, 1887 to 1889. This church in 1913 reports 26 members and 59 in the Sunday school. In all probability it was the second church organized by Parson Stewart. ST. PAUL CHURCH, EAGLETOWN In 1877, Parson Charles W. Stewart of Doaksville began to hold occasional religious services in the colored settlement at Eagletown, and Saint Paul Presbyterian church was organized in 1878. Rev. Charles Copling, a missionary to the Choctaws also conducted an occasional service among the colored people, during the year preceding the organization of the church. The elders ordained at the time of organization were Elijah Butler, Primas Richards and Solomon Pitchlyn. In 1885 William Butler was ordained to supply the vacancy, occasioned by the removal of Elijah Butler, and Primas Richards to Lukfata, where they became that year two of the first elders of the Mount Gilead church. William Butler continued to serve as an elder until 1897, when, as a licentiate of the Presbytery, he became the stated supply of St. Paul and Forest Presbyterian churches. Shepherd Riley served a number of years as an elder of this church. Those serving as elders in 1913 are Calvin Burris, Monroe Lewis, George Burris and Adam Lewis. The ministers serving Saint Paul have been: Parson Charles W. Stewart 1877 to 1889. William G. Ogburn 1890 to 1891. John H. Sleeper 1894 to 1897. William Butler 1897 to date, 1914. William Butler, a favorite son and elder of this church, continuing to serve it acceptably in the pastorate ever since he was made a licentiate in connection with Forest has made a very noble record. He is a pastor who has acquired the art of emphasizing in a very pleasant way the word "come." "Oh, come to the church in the wildwood, To the trees where the wild flowers bloom; Where the parting hymn will be chanted, We will weep by the side of the tomb. "From the church in the valley by the wildwood, When day fades away into night; I would fain from this spot of my childhood, Wing my way to the mansions of light. "Come to the church in the wildwood, Oh, come to the church in the vale, No spot is so dear to my childhood As the little brown church in the vale." MOUNT GILEAD CHURCH, LUKFATA The Mount Gilead church at Lukfata was organized July 26, 1885, by a committee of the Presbytery of Choctaw, consisting of Rev. John Edwards, superintendent of Wheelock Academy, and Elder Charley Morris, a Choctaw. The members enrolled on this date were: Elijah Butler and Amanda Butler, his wife; Elisha Butler and Vina Butler, his wife; Easter Butler, Francis Butler, Jane Butler, Francis Burris, Daniel Burris, Kate Burris, Primas Richards, Rhoda Butler, Nelson Butler and Adaline Butler.--14. Elijah Butler and Elisha Butler, his son, and Primas Richards were elected and ordained as the first elders. On Jan. 29, 1896, Matthew Richards was ordained an elder. This church was called "Mount Gilead," the home of the prophet Elijah, in honor of Elijah Butler, one of the first elders, who, having served a few years as one of the first elders of Saint Paul church, conducted the first religious meetings among the colored people, that led to the organization of this Presbyterian church at Lukfata. Parson Charles W. Stewart held occasional services in the neighborhood of Lukfata, two or three years before the church was organized in 1885, and then continued to be its monthly supply during the next five years. In 1890 it was grouped with St. Paul church at Eagletown and supplied by Rev. William G. Ogburn from that place. From 1895 to 1899 it was supplied by Rev. John H. Sleeper, who then moved to Frogville. From 1901 to 1903 it was served by Rev. Samuel Gladman, who then took charge of Bethany near Wheelock. Rev. Thompson K. Bridges, after serving and organizing Ebenezer church at Lehigh the previous year, located at Lukfata in the fall of 1903, and has been the local teacher and regular supply of the church, since that date, a period of eleven years. XLIII PARSON CHARLES W. STEWART DOAKSVILLE, 1823-1896. "A soldier of the cross, A follower of the Lamb, Who did not fear to own his cause, Or blush to speak His name." This pioneer circuit rider of the Choctaw Freedmen came forth from a period of slavery, to the Choctaw Indians in the wilds of Indian Territory, that covered the first 42 years of his life. His home was afterwards located near the Kiamichi river, seven miles west of Doaksville. He grew to manhood and always lived in an unimproved, sparsely settled timber country in an obscure and inaccessible corner of the world. Taking John the Baptist, as his ideal of a good christian worker, he became the leading herald of the gospel message to his people, first in the valley of the Kiamichi, and then going forth in every direction in the larger valley of Red river, he established a monthly circuit of preaching stations, that included the most thickly settled neighborhoods of the colored people in the territory, now included in Choctaw and McCurtain counties. Like John, he seems never to have sat before a camera long enough to leave the world his portrait, and, though serving faithfully as a minister more than 25 years he never enjoyed the privilege and pleasure of attending a meeting of the General Assembly. Judging him, however, by the results of his work, the circle of churches established and acceptably served for an unusually long period of years, and the number of talented young men, whom he discovered, in the communities visited, and enthused with the longing desire and ambition to become leaders of their race especially useful and efficient teachers and preachers of the gospel, he proved himself worthy to be rated as one of the most aggressive and successful of the early leaders of his race. "A man he was to all the country dear, Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor ever changed, nor wished to change his place." PERIOD OF SLAVERY, 1823-1866 Charles W. Stewart was a native of Alabama, and, at the age of ten in 1833, was transported with the Choctaws, to whom as a slave he belonged, to the southeastern part of Indian Territory. John Homer was then his master, and he located about three miles northeast of the present town of Grant, His first marriage occurred, while he was serving Homer. The wedding of one of Homer's daughters occurred a few years later, and his wife was assigned to serve in the home of the newly married daughter. She located in a distant part of the reservation, and he was thus deprived of his first wife, Charlotte Homer. Charles Stewart, a white man, keeping store at Doaksville, soon afterwards became his owner, and his previous name, "Homer" was then changed to "Stewart", after the name of his new master. About the year 1860, Samson Folsom, a Choctaw who lived eight miles southeast of old Goodland, became his new and last owner. PERIOD OF FREEDOM, 1866-1896 He began to hold religious meetings as early as 1856, when he belonged to Stewart, and lived at Doaksville. Mrs. Stewart, who had been a missionary teacher, encouraged him to learn to read and furnished him with books for that purpose. Rev. Cyrus Kingsbury, pastor of the Choctaw church, gave him the instruction in the Bible, that fitted him for the work of the ministry, and accorded to him the privilege of holding meetings in the church, for his people, on occasional Sabbath afternoons. He was accorded ordination by the Presbytery of Indian (southern) in the fall of 1870, and was then officially assigned the pastoral care of the congregations he had previously developed at Doaksville and its vicinity, and at Wheelock, or Oak Hill. He greatly appreciated the recognitions accorded to him by the Presbytery, which had previously given him a license to preach; and he endeavored to magnify his office, as an evangelist, by going to the "regions beyond," as fast as the door of opportunity opened for him. During the early sixties he gathered new congregations for worship at his home on the Folsom farm and in the Horse Prairie neighborhood. The Oak Hill appointment was established soon after he was accorded his freedom. During the year 1883, the evangelistic work among the Freedmen in Indian Territory, was voluntarily transferred by the Southern to the Northern Presbyterian church, with the conviction the latter was better prepared to successfully prosecute it. At the time of this transfer Charles W. Stewart was enrolled as an ordained minister and designated as the Stated Supply of the following organized churches: Beaver Dam, Hebron, New Hope, Oak Hill and St. Paul. During the next two years three more of his appointments, Mt. Gilead, Forest and Horse Prairie were enrolled, as the fruit of his labors, and added to his circuit. At this early date he had also a preaching station at Caddo near Durant, and the distance across his circuit of appointments, from Caddo eastward to St. Paul at Eagletown, was 118 miles. In 1886 when the Synod of Indian Territory was formed by the union of three Presbyteries having 24 ministers, his circuit included 8 of the 43 churches that were then enrolled. He continued to serve all of these churches four more years. Previous to this latter date, 1890, he was the first and only Presbyterian minister that preached the gospel to the colored people of Indian Territory. During that period, he laid the foundation for most of the churches, that are now enrolled in the Presbytery of Kiamichi and give employment to a half dozen ministers. He was now advanced in years and beginning to feel the infirmities of age. He relinquished, in favor of two new men from a distance, all of his circuit of churches, except Oak Hill and Forest, which he continued to serve three more years, or until 1893. He was then at the age of 70 honorably retired by the Presbytery, after a long and remarkably successful career in the gospel ministry. CIRCUIT OF CHURCHES The following exhibit of the churches he established and served is as nearly correct as it is possible at this date to make it. Post office Church Services Church Work Members Years began organ- dropped of ized by service Stewart Doaksville 1856 Pine Ridge 1858 Caddo 1860 Horse Prairie 1863 1870? 1890 27 Wheelock Oak Hill 1868 1869 1893 30 25 Goodland Hebron 1868 1872 1890 12 22 Frogville New Hope 1869? 1872? 1890 38 21? Grant Beaver Dam 1874 1881 1890 15 16 Eagletown St. Paul 1877 1878 1890 18 13 Lukfata Mt. Gilead 1883 1885 1890 25 7 Wheelock Forest 1885 1887 1893 7 8 ---- 145 About 1890, he moved to a home near Forest church, and died there at 73, April 8, 1896; after an aggressive ministry of more than twenty-five years after his licensure, which had been preceded by nearly ten years of earnest volunteer service for the betterment of his people. He was buried in the Crittenden grave yard. He left three children, the offspring of his marriage to Catherine Perry, namely, Thomas, Betty married to Benjamin Roebuck, and Harriet, married to Rev. Pugh A. Edwards. In 1886, after the death of Catherine, he married the widow of Jeffers Perkins, and she died at 65 in 1905, survived by seven of twelve children by her first marriage, namely, Charles and Louis Perkins, Mrs. R. D. Arnold, Fredonia Allen, Virginia Williams (d. 1913), Fidelia Murchison and Jane Parrish. CHARACTERISTICS AS A PREACHER Charles W. Stewart was a man of medium height and rather stout build. The rugged features of his face suggested a man, possessing strong and sturdy elements of character. He grew to manhood under circumstances and changes that made an early education impossible. His education, which was very limited was acquired by the private study of a primer, catechism, Bible and other books, furnished him by Mrs. Stewart, his real owner, and, Rev. Cyrus Kingsbury (d. 1870). Parson Stewart was a faithful christian worker, who did not become weary in well doing. He made his long journeys on horseback. He endeavored to arrive at his monthly appointments the previous day so as to have time for the discipline or reinstatement of wayward members, or hold an evangelistic meeting. He manifested so much of hopeful enthusiasm in his work that he seemed unmindful of the loneliness and wearisomeness of the long journeys in the wilderness and regarded it merely as a passing incident, when he had to spend a day or even a night in the timber, waiting for the overflow of flooded streams to subside, so he could safely ford them. He was an aggressive christian worker. He strived to preach the gospel, "not where Christ was named, lest he should build upon another man's foundation," but, as it is written, "To whom he was not spoken of they shall see, and they that have not heard shall understand." He was on the alert to hear the cry of Macedonia, "Come over and help us," and he was always ready to enter and hold a new field while his strength lasted. When he was licensed, all the land of the Choctaw Nation seemed to be spread out before him, as his field of effort, as the land of Canaan was before Joshua, when the Lord encouraged him to be "strong, very courageous and possess it," for his people. He knew he had the "book of the law," that his people needed and his whole nature seemed to be enthused with the promise, "Every place that the sole of your foot shall tread upon, that have I given unto you." His ambition, to carry the message of gospel light and liberty into new settlements of his people, was limited by the necessity laid upon him, to continue to serve those he had already acquired. He was an enthusiastic Presbyterian. He frequently delighted, as well as instructed the people, by explaining to them the Bible, by repeating familiar portions of the shorter Catechism and Confession of Faith. These were his most familiar and best commentaries on the Bible. He encouraged the elders, to become leaders of meetings, and teachers of the people, by maintaining regular Sabbath services, for the study of the Bible and Catechism, to promote their spiritual welfare. He was a forceful and acceptable preacher. In his later years he was sometimes slow in finding the hymn, Scripture lesson and text. But when he found the hymn, it was always one the people could sing, and in leading them with his own powerful voice, he needed neither tuning fork or organ accompaniment. He read the Scripture with such a variety of emphasis, as to awaken the desire to catch every word. In the delivery of his message he manifested so much sincerity and earnestness, that every one felt he was speaking to them "direct from the shoulder." He grew in favor with the people. He held, to the end of his life-long ministry, the love and affection of the people, whom he served. He saw their need of teachers and preachers, and encouraged the young people in every neighborhood, to prepare themselves to supply that need. As a direct result of his personal influence and encouragement, Wiley Homer, Richard D. Colbert, William Butler, Elisha Butler, Simon Folsom and others came to be recognized, as efficient Bible teachers and religious leaders, in their respective settlements. Acceptable and permanent preachers could not be found, for the group of churches from which Stewart retired in 1890, until Homer, Colbert and Butler were licensed, and two churches assigned to each of them. The worthy veteran lived long enough to see Wiley Homer licensed in 1893 and become his successor at Beaver Dam and Hebron, The other two were licensed in 1897, the year after he "entered into the joy of his Lord." It was not until this year, when, John H. Sleeper continuing to serve Mt. Gilead, William Butler became his successor at St. Paul and Forest, and R. D. Colbert was assigned New Hope and Sandy Branch, that all of the churches in the circuit of Stewart had regular supplies. He was a real pioneer "circuit rider," who has left the good impression of his personal work, upon the colored people of a large section of country and of him it may well be said: "This man never preached for money, If he did he never got it; He had some faults, but more virtues: He was conscientious and devoted, Persevering and determined; Long his name will be remembered." "He was a faithful circuit rider--though a slave in his youth; His artless earnest sermons were the simple tale of truth, How the Son of God who loved us, left a scepter, crown and throne, All the joys of highest heaven, to go, seek and save his own." "Soldier of Christ, well done! Praise be your new employ, And while eternal ages run Rest in the Saviour's joy." The opportunity to prepare the foregoing tribute to the memory of Charles W. Stewart, and give it an historic setting in this volume, has been greatly appreciated by the author. Rising above the limitations of his condition as a slave, during the first half of his natural life, he consecrated himself to the betterment of his race and thus, under the most unfavorable circumstances, prepared himself for the wider field and greater opportunities, that came to him with the dawn of freedom. This story of noble achievement by one of their own number, is well worthy of long and careful preservation; that it may thrill to noble endeavor, the present and future generations of the Choctaw Freedmen. "Let us labor for the Master, From the dawn till setting sun; Let us talk of all his wondrous love and care, Then, when all of life is over, And our work on earth is done, And the roll is called up yonder, we'll be there." XLIV REV. WILEY HOMER "Patience and Perseverance will perform great wonders." It has been said, "some men are born great, some have greatness thrust upon them, while others achieve greatness." Many, however, who have inherited a great name, wealth or power have failed to meet the expectation of their parents and friends. When, therefore, any one, reared in the home of poverty and educated in the school of "hard knocks," rises above the unfavorable limitations of his surroundings and achieves a noble career of eminent usefulness in church or state, he merits commendation. The subject of this sketch is a good illustration of the self-made man. He inherited good lungs, a strong voice and a splendid physique. He is really a physical giant, his stalwart frame towering upward six feet, and tipping the beam at 265 pounds. His erect and dignified movements have made him a commanding figure among his people. His constant endeavor to promote their best interests has made him a popular leader among them. A slave by birth and denied the privilege of books and papers, lest he should learn to read, his eager desire for knowledge led him to devise ways and means of self-education, to enable him to rise above the fetters that bound him in youth. His successful career as a minister of the gospel, serving the same people amongst whom he was born and raised during the entire period of his active ministerial life, was as unusual and worthy of special commendation, as it was long and useful. Wiley Homer was born March 1, 1851, in the south part of the Choctaw Nation, known as the Red river valley. His parents were Isam McCoy and Adaline Shoals, who lived about three miles northeast of the present town of Grant. As his parents were called after the family name of their masters, in accordance with the usual custom in slavery times, he was called "Homer" after the name of his master, John Homer, a full-blood Choctaw. LEARNING THE ALPHABET His self-education began, when at fourteen, he was employed as a cowboy, to herd cattle on the little prairies and hunt them, when scattered through the timber. The timber was a general pasture for the cattle of everybody, and their ownership was told by the brand which consisted of the initial letters of the owner's names, burned on the hip, or back of each. It became necessary for him, to learn how to distinguish these brands, one from another, for he was sometimes asked to hunt the cattle of other people. To do this he began by drawing the outline of familiar brands in the dust or sand, where the ground was smooth, and then on slips of paper. In a short time, the list on the paper slips included the brand of every owner in the settlement, and nearly all the letters of the alphabet. A man once called on his employer, Samson Loring, to see if he could hunt his cattle. When asked if he could identify the new brand, "A. B.", he took a stick and, stooping down before them, drew the outline of these letters, in the loose sand of the road. On seeing this performance one remarked to the other, "That boy will make a smart nigger." That remark was a source of considerable encouragement to him, and awakened the desire, to take advantage of every opportunity to gain knowledge. LEARNING TO READ When, at 16 in 1867, he was accorded his freedom he obtained a primer and first reader, and undertook to master these by private study. About four years later, a testament and shorter Catechism were given him. He now had what was regarded as a good library for a young man and he applied himself to the reading and study of these books, in the evenings and other periods of spare time. The testament was frequently taken to the field when plowing, in order that he might learn to read a verse or two, while the team was resting, or get a neighbor, passing on the road, to read it for him. The reading of the testament soon awakened a desire to be a teacher and preacher, and this greatly increased his interest in the study of that book. He learned to sing from his mother, who greatly enjoyed whiling away spare hours on the Sabbath, singing the songs they used to sing in slavery times. The only help of a teacher, that he enjoyed was a period of three months, to enable him to read the Bible aloud correctly. This instruction was given only on Sabbath afternoons, and for it he had to cut and split for the teacher 250 oak rails. THE MAN WHO BUILT THE ARBOR The story of the incidents, that prepared the way and providentially led him into the ministry, is as novel and interesting as the one relating to his method of learning the alphabet. When he had learned to read portions of the Testament and Catechism there were no meetings held in his neighborhood on the Sabbath, for the religious instruction of the colored people. He had a good voice and loved to sing. He had experienced as much joy and delight in learning to read the Bible, as many do, when they learn to play a musical instrument. He longed for an opportunity to read the Bible for others. This yearning first took the form of a prayer, that God would provide for them a church or place for meeting. When this prayer had been offered a few times, at the foot of an oak tree in the timber he told others of his earnest desire for a church; and proposed to some friends, that they unite with him in building an arbor in the timber for a meeting place. This proposal was not taken very seriously, and yet none of his friends cared to oppose it. A day was finally appointed and all, who were interested, were requested to meet at the place selected for the arbor, and help to build it. On the morning of that day, he went alone to the appointed place, which was near the oak tree at the foot of which he had before knelt in prayer, and by noon he had cut and erected the frame. Another friend arrived in the afternoon and assisted to cover it with branches of trees and supply it with seats. On the day following, which was the Sabbath, the colored people of the neighborhood assembled to see the new arbor and enjoy a meeting. Now it happened that no one present had ever led a meeting, and the first question to be settled was, "who should lead the meeting?" Every one, that was asked to lead it, insisted, "the man who built the arbor" must serve as leader of the meeting. Young Homer accepted the situation and led the meeting in the best manner possible. The exercises consisted of a prayer, the reading of a familiar passage from the Bible, some remarks by the leader and others, and the singing from memory of a few plantation melodies, such as "Kentucky Home," "Swanee River", and "The Angels Are Coming to Carry Me Home." At the second meeting, which was held on the following Sabbath, the people were formed into a class for instruction in the Bible and catechism, and Homer was chosen to be the leader. This was the organization of the Sunday school for that neighborhood. At this meeting Homer offered prayer the first time in the presence of others; and it happened in this way. When he called on the friend, who led in prayer at the first meeting to do so again, he politely declined, saying: "Homer you lead in prayer, yourself." A TEACHER, ELDER AND PREACHER This arbor, which was the tiny beginning of the Beaver Dam church, was built in 1873, the year after he became of age. The next year this place was visited by Rev. Charles W. Stewart, and it then became one of his regular monthly appointments. Homer was again appointed Bible teacher and leader of the meetings, on the other Sabbaths. In 1875 a church house or meeting place was built of saplings, near the old arbor, that continued to be used for many years. In 1881 he was elected as the first elder of the church, and in 1887 was appointed a Catechist. Encouraged by these recognitions and duties he secured a good library of religious books including a Bible dictionary and a Webster. He read many of them with great profit, and was soon recognized as an intelligent and valuable instructor of the people. The Bible and the shorter Catechism, the one containing all of Bible truth and the other, a brief compend of Bible doctrine, were the two books that were studied most and proved most helpful. In 1893 he was licensed to preach by the Presbytery of Choctaw and assigned the pastoral care of Beaver Dam and Hebron churches. On Sept. 28, 1895, by the same Presbytery, meeting at Oak Hill Academy, now known as the Alice Lee Memorial, he was ordained to the full work of the gospel ministry. He continued to serve Beaver Dam, his old home church, until Oct. 1, 1912, when, after a pastorate of twenty years, he was honorably retired from the active work of the gospel ministry. In 1904 he secured the erection of a commodious chapel at Grant that, during the next five years, served also as the most convenient place for holding the neighborhood school. After serving Hebron about ten years on alternate Sabbaths, in connection with Beaver Dam, he relinquished that field and served Sandy Branch and Horse Prairie, each a short period. When the Presbytery of Kiamichi met in the new chapel at Grant, in April 1905, he conducted the Bible lesson for the entire Sunday school, as had been his custom ever since the early days. The writer was pleasantly surprised and profoundly impressed, by his scholarly and highly instructive management of it, and the many useful, practical lessons he endeavored to impress. THE POWER OF THE BIBLE Wiley Homer is a good practical illustration of what the Bible is intended to do for all men. If he were asked, what book, in the process of his self-education, had proved most valuable to him, he would unhesitatingly reply, "the Bible." His prayer in regard to it has been that of David in the 119th Psalm, "Let my heart be sound in thy statutes," and his testimony, that of David in the 19th Psalm, "The law of the Lord is perfect, converting the soul; the testimony of the Lord is sure making wise the simple. The statutes of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart, the commandment of the Lord is pure, enlightening the eyes." If he were to name the next most helpful book, it would be, The Shorter Catechism, with the statement on its first page, that, "The chief end of man is to glorify God, and to enjoy him forever." The private study of the Bible and Catechism prepared him for life-long usefulness as a teacher, discovered to him and his people his divine call to the ministry and enabled him to do the most important work of his life. He has been a faithful and efficient teacher of these two books, but of these only, to all the people and, as a result, he has become recognized as their spiritual leader. The habit of private study, formed while learning to read the Bible, fitted him to search for knowledge in other fields of literature, and he has thus become one of the most intelligent, highly respected and successful citizens of the community in which he lives. He has been an ardent friend and promoter of education among his people. When in 1889, it was decided to make the school at Oak Hill an industrial institution, he donated two head of cattle to start the herd. He has ever since taken a personal interest in the welfare of that institution. During recent years, he has made one or two visits each year, for the purpose of delivering special lectures and sermons to the young people gathered there. He thus brought to them the encouragement of his own word and example, in solving the problems of their education and life-work. A COMMISSIONER TO THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY, SIX TIMES He has enjoyed the unusual distinction of having been chosen a commissioner and to have represented his Presbytery in the General Assembly, five times during the last fourteen years as a minister, and once before as a ruling elder, making six times in 24 years. The times and places of these meetings were as follows: In 1889, New York; in 1899, Minneapolis; in 1901, Philadelphia; in 1903, Los Angeles; in 1905, Winona Lake, Ind.; in 1913, Atlanta, Georgia. In attending these great meetings he has passed over the entire length and breadth of this land. To appreciate the unusual character of this privilege and honor it is merely necessary to state the fact, that the eminent man, who was chosen Moderator of the Assembly at Atlanta in 1913, Rev. John Timothy Stone, D. D. of Chicago, was attending the Assembly on that occasion, the first time as a commissioner; and Rev. Charles W. Stewart, the worthy founder of Presbyterianism among the Choctaw Freedmen, never so much as got there once. These frequent voluntary recognitions, on the part of his brethren in the Presbytery, suggest the power of leadership he has modestly, but always exercised among them. His brethren have found him a wise and prudent counselor, and an unselfish helper; and he has always been held in the highest esteem by them. A LIFE-LONG LEADER OF THE CHURCH HE FOUNDED He has been a man of strong and positive convictions and a persevering worker for the moral and spiritual uplift of his people. He learned from his own early experience as a slave, the trials and urgent needs of his people and, as the way became clear before him, he consecrated himself unreservedly to the promotion of their welfare. As a preacher he has emphasized the necessity of repentance and forgiveness of sins, willing obedience to all the commands of Christ, and the joyous rewards of faithful service. As he surveys the progress of recent years, he sees the fulfilment of Isaiah's prediction, "The people, that walked in darkness, have seen a great light, they that dwelt in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined." Thirty years have now passed, since he began to hold the ever memorable meetings, in the little arbor in the timber. Ever since that date he has been the faithful Bible instructor of all the people, during the lesson hour of the Sunday school, and the resident pastor of the Presbyterian church for twenty years. The cozy chapel, and the good congregation of happy christian people, that regularly meet there for worship and Bible study, are visible reminders of his consecrated genius and unselfish devotion to the best interests of his people. "Dare to do right, dare to be true, You have a work that no other can do." "Since God is God and right is right, Right the day shall win; To doubt would be disloyalty, To falter would be sin." Wiley Homer and Laney Colbert were married in 1867 and their family consisted of ten children, of whom five died in childhood and youth. Those that are living are Susan, Mary Shoals, Hattie Lewis, Sarah Williams and Lincoln. In 1890, after the death of Laney, he married Rhody Tutt; and in 1906, after her decease, Lizzie Homer. In October 1912, he was granted by the Presbytery, an honorable retirement from the performance of the public duties required of the active ministry. As the sunset of life approaches, and the shadows lengthen toward the closing day, he enjoys the consciousness of a well spent life, as a source of comfort and consolation to sustain and strengthen, until the recording angel shall proclaim, the gracious benediction, "Well done good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy of thy Lord." HAYSTACK MEETING The use of the shadow of the oak tree, and later of the arbor near it, as a place for prayer and worship, reminds one of the historic prayer meeting that was held near Williamstown, in 1806, when Samuel J. Mills, and four other students of Williams college, Newell, Nott, Hall and Judson, met in the shadow of a haystack and united in prayer, that God would fit them and prepare the way for them to carry the gospel into heathen lands. After making two tours to the southwest as far as New Orleans, distributing and selling Bibles and organizing Bible societies, Mills made the suggestion, that led to the organization of the American Bible society in New York, May 11, 1816; and to the Synod of New York, the plan of educating negroes to carry the gospel to Africa. In 1817 he was sent as a missionary to Western Africa, including Sierra Leone. He died on the homeward voyage and like his friend Adoniram Judson, who went to farther India and translated the Bible for the Burmese, was buried in the sea. XLV TRIBUTES TO OTHER MINISTERS AND ELDERS BUTLER.--COLBERT.--GLADMAN.--BRIDGES.--STARKS.--MEADOWS.--AND ELDERS CRITTENDEN.--SHOALS.--FOLSOM.--BUTLER. "Walk about Zion and go round about her; tell the towers thereof. Mark ye well her bulwarks, consider her palaces; that ye may tell it to the generation following."--David. REV. WILLIAM BUTLER "The kindly word, how far it goes along life's way! The kindly smile, how it lights up a sad, gray day; The kindly deed, how it repays the doer." --Mary D. Brine. Rev. William Butler (B. 1859), pastor of St. Paul Presbyterian church at Eagletown, and of Forest church near Red River south of Millerton, is a native of the community in which he still lives. His parents, Abraham and Nellie Butler, were the slaves of Pitchlyn and Howell, Choctaws; and William was about seven, when freedom was accorded the family in 1866. His home and work as a minister until recently have been in localities remote from the railway and good schools. The short period of one and a half months was all the time he ever went to school. He learned to read by a regular attendance at Sabbath school, and by private study at the fireside. The Bible and the Shorter Catechism were the books that occupied his spare time and attention. As a natural result, he became a christian and united with the church at an early age. In 1885, at the age of twenty-six, he was ordained an elder in the St. Paul Presbyterian church. He then began to read the Bible to the congregation and to hold religious meetings. While preparing himself for the work then in hand, he was led to see the great need of more teachers and preachers for the colored people, and, believing he could render efficient service as a minister, he undertook a special course of reading and instruction under Rev. John Sleeper, his pastor, and later of Rev. E. G. Haymaker, superintendent of Oak Hill Academy, instructors who lived 12 and 35 miles distant, respectively. In 1894 he was enrolled as a candidate for the ministry under the Presbytery of Choctaw, Three years later he was licensed by the Presbytery of Kiamichi and appointed the stated supply of St. Paul and Forest churches. He has continued to serve these two congregations, faithfully and acceptably ever since that date, a period now of sixteen years. His ordination occurred in 1902. Other fields, that he developed and served for short periods are, Bethany, two years; Mount Gilead, one year; and Mount Pleasant, one year. A WINNER OF SOULS Mr. Butler is a man, who experienced a hard struggle in early life, in the effort to train himself for his life's work, as a minister and farmer. He has overcome many of these difficulties in a manner, that is very praiseworthy and commendable. He is a man, who carries with him a happy, hopeful spirit, and a countenance full of good cheer. Seeing the need of a religious leader among the people of his home community, he decided to fit himself to supply that need, and has done so hitherto in an efficient and admirable manner. To win souls to Christ and instruct them aright from the word of God, have been his aims during his ministry. He has been to the people an example in righteousness, and has labored with faith and zeal in the vineyard of the Lord. His annual visits to Oak Hill Academy during term time, were always anticipated with considerable interest. They were made the occasion for special evangelistic services, followed with an opportunity for decisions; and many times his heart was gladdened at the close of the sermon, by seeing more than a dozen of the young people manifest their decision to live a Christian life. The people, whom he serves regularly, have shown their appreciation of his efficient and long continued work among them, by according to him a loyal and constant support. He has always lived in the wilderness far removed from the railway, notwithstanding the fact the Frisco railway in 1902 passed through the country, lying between Eagletown on the north and Forest church on the south. He has always had a pony circuit, of two or more rural churches, widely separated. The faithful and acceptable service rendered these widely distant churches, makes him a good representative of the itinerant work of Parson Stewart, his pioneer predecessor. The following lines by Hastings, are an appropriate prayer for all, who like Bro. Butler faithfully and patiently minister to those, who dwell in the wilderness. "O thou, who in the wilderness The sheep, without a shepherd, didst bless, Oh, bless thy servants, who proclaim In every place thy wondrous name. "May voices in the wilderness, Still with glad news the nations bless; And, as of old, in deserts cry, 'Repent', God's kingdom draweth nigh." REV. RICHARD D. COLBERT Rev. Richard D. Colbert of Grant, is one of the young men, enlisted in the work of the church, by Parson Stewart. He attended Biddle University from October 1884 to June 1887, three years, when he returned home, on account of impaired health. Regaining his health after a few months, he became a teacher and taught school eleven years during the territorial period. In the spring of 1897, he became a licentiate of the Presbytery of Kiamichi, and two years later was assigned the pastoral oversight of New Hope and Sandy Branch churches. He was ordained in 1903. Most of his ministerial labors have been devoted to Sandy Branch and Hebron churches, serving the latter until 1913. As a result of accidents that happened in making the journey to the Hebron church in 1911, he experienced the loss of an eye and other injuries that resulted in total blindness in 1913. He endeavored to make a good record as a teacher and preacher, and has served his generation faithfully. REV. SAMUEL GLADMAN Rev. Samuel Gladman, who died Jan. 11, 1913, at Eufaula, Okla., was a native of Westchester, Chester county, Pa. During the early seventies he went to western Texas and engaged in teaching. Sometime afterwards he was licensed and ordained to the work of the gospel ministry. In 1896, when the Presbytery of Kiamichi was organized, he was enrolled as one of its charter members. He was then living at Atoka. During the next year he served New Hope and Sandy Branch churches, but continued to reside in Atoka until 1900, when he located at Lukfata. Three years later he took charge of Bethany, near Wheelock, and in 1905, effected the organization of the church in the new town of Garvin. In 1910, he voluntarily resigned the work at Bethany and the office of stated clerk of the Presbytery, and located at Eufaula. As a minister and life-long teacher, he rendered a very helpful service to the various communities, in which he lived and labored. REV. THOMPSON K. BRIDGES Rev. Thompson K. Bridges, (B. Dec. 6, 1856), Lukfata, is a native of Ellisville, Jones county, Miss. He grew to manhood and received his early education at Claiborne, Jasper county. Later he attended the city school at Meridian, and then took a course in theology at Biddle university. He began to teach public school at the age of 21 in 1877, and taught fourteen years in Mississippi. In 1891, he located in Indian Territory, and has now taught sixteen years in Oklahoma. In 1899 he was licensed to preach by the Presbytery of Catawba and in April 1902 was ordained by the same Presbytery. His first ministerial labors were at Griffin, Indian Territory, where in 1903 he effected the organization of the Ebenezer church. The next year he continued to serve Ebenezer, but located at Lukfata, where he has since continued to serve as the stated supply of the Mount Gilead church, and teacher of the local school. He served two years, 1904 and 1905, as stated clerk of the Presbytery of Kiamichi. Mr. Bridges has been a progressive teacher and minister. In his youth, he formed the habit of having a good book or paper always at hand to occupy his attention profitably, whenever he had a spare moment. That habit of private study in spare moments has enabled him to keep abreast of the times, and the changes that have taken place in recent years, by the addition of new branches of study to the public school course. Ever since he began to render service to his people as a teacher, he has made a highly creditable record for efficiency and faithfulness. As he looks forward to the future it is full of hope and bright prospects. He has never ceased to be grateful, for the benevolent aid, generously furnished him by the Presbyterian church and Sunday school at Purcell, Okla., while he was pursuing his theological studies at Biddle university. The persons, whose names are most associated with these grateful memories, are those of the pastor, Rev. S. G. Fisher, and two of the elders, Mr. Lotting and Will Blanchard. This generous aid, which made possible an education for the gospel ministry, has led the recipient ever since to feel, that he is under a special but very delightful obligation, to render to the church a faithful and efficient service, as long as he lives. REV. WILLIAM J. STARKS The Lord Jesus, who brought to the world the glad tidings of the gospel often finds his messengers in strange or unexpected places; and leads them, in remarkable ways to the accomplishment of his purposes. No one can tell, what is going on in the mind of a young man, brought under the influence of the divine Spirit; nor how deep the impressions, that may have been made upon the heart of those, who naturally seem most unlikely to become heralds of the gospel. William J. Starks (born March 14, 1876), Garvin, is a native of Chambersburg, Pennsylvania. After completing the grammar course in the public school of that place, he prepared for college under special teachers. The Falling Spring Presbyterian church of that city, maintained a mission, that was attended by white and black. Mr. J. M. McDowell, a white lawyer, was the superintendent of this mission. His special interest was awakened in young Starks, by the fact he committed the entire list of 107 questions and answers in the shorter catechism, in one week after a copy was placed in his hands. The superintendent proposed, he undertake special studies under him as his teacher. In 1897, he entered the college at Lincoln university and graduated from it in 1901, and from the Theological department in 1904. After one year spent in mission work at Mercersburg, Pa., he became in 1905 the stated supply of the New Hope church at Frogville, and in 1908, also of Sandy Branch. On November 1, 1912, he became the successor of Rev. W. H. Carroll at Garvin. During his residence of seven years at Frogville, he maintained a six months term of school every year in the chapel, serving the first five years as a mission teacher under our Freedmen's Board, and the last two as a teacher of public school. In September, 1910, he was elected stated clerk of the Presbytery of Kiamichi, and is still serving in that capacity. In October, 1910, he served as moderator of the synod of Canadian at Little Rock, Ark. REV. PLANT SENIOR MEADOWS Plant Senior Meadows, (Born Feb. 15, 1841) Shawneetown, is a native of Lewis county, Mo. At 17 in 1859, he was sold by the administrator of the Cecil Home, and a sugar planter at St. Mary's Parish, La., became his master. Here he was employed at various kinds of mechanical work, until he was accorded his freedom, at 26 in 1865. Mrs. Cecil taught him to read, and during this early period, he made the best possible use of his spare moments, by reading all the good books that were available. As soon as he was free, he became a teacher and in connection with ministerial duties taught twenty-two years in Texas, and since 1908, in Shawneetown, Okla. On Nov. 10, 1867, he was licensed and in 1869, ordained to the full work of the gospel ministry, by the A. M. E. church of Texas. After 41 years of faithful service in that church, which included a term as presiding elder, in 1908 he located within the Presbytery of Kiamichi, Okla., and, becoming a member of it, was placed in charge of the Presbyterian church at Shawneetown. Bethany and Pleasant Hill have since been added to his field. He has made a good record and is still doing splendid work at 73. OAK HILL PIONEERS Henry Crittenden, 1830-1894. Teena Crittenden 1831-1898. John Ross Shoals 1849-1885. Hattie Crittenden Shoals, 1850-1909. Henry Crittenden and Teena Crittenden his wife, John Ross Shoals, his son-in-law and Hattie C. Shoals, his wife, all of whom were buried in the Crittenden Burying Ground near the old Crittenden pioneer home east of Valliant, were four of the six original members of the Oak Hill church in 1869. During the last years of the slavery period, they lived in the neighborhood of Doaksville, and there enjoyed the occasional privilege of attending Sabbath afternoon meetings for the colored people, in the Choctaw Presbyterian church. These meetings were at first conducted, by Rev. Cyrus Kingsbury and Mrs. Charles Stewart, wife of the storekeeper, and later by Parson Stewart. The instruction, given by the parson, consisted principally in reading selections from the Bible and shorter catechism. The rest of the time was spent in singing familiar hymns and giving testimonies. They became Presbyterians and formed a part of Parson Stewart's first congregation at that place. When they were accorded their freedom about the year 1865, they chose their permanent location in the Oak Hill neighborhood, about fifteen miles eastward. Parson Stewart followed them, and began to hold occasional services at the home of Henry Crittenden. He became the first elder of the Oak Hill church, when it was organized in 1869, and during the remaining 25 years of his life rendered a zealous and faithful service. Henry Crittenden enjoyed the reputation of being a "master mechanic." During the slavery period, he was trained as a blacksmith, tinsmith and carpenter, and later acquired the art of repairing jewelry. Soon after he located on the Crittenden land, he built a shop. His intelligence and skill as a workman enabled him to attract customers from long distances. He was industrious and economical, and accumulated savings more rapidly than any of his neighbors. He was a firm believer in the Bible and a regular attendant at church. He encouraged the establishment of the Oak Hill Sunday school, of which J. Ross Shoals, his son-in-law in 1875, became the first teacher. He furnished most of the materials for the first frame school house in the Oak Hill district in 1878, and in 1887, when it was used in the erection of a larger building near the "Old Log House" and since known as Oak Hill Academy, he covered the deficit on the building estimated at $100.00. [Illustration: HENRY CRITTENDEN] [Illustration: SIMON FOLSOM] [Illustration: ELIJAH BUTLER] [Illustration: MRS. PERKINS STEWART] [Illustration: REV. C. L. PERKINS] [Illustration: MRS. R. D. ARNOLD] [Illustration: JOHNSON W. SHOALS] [Illustration: JAMES G. SHOALS] [Illustration: ISAAC JOHNSON] [Illustration: MATT AND MRS. BROWN] [Illustration: THE TEACHERS, 1899 Photo by Mottle Hunter] He and Parson Stewart were the most influential of the Choctaw Freedmen, in securing the establishment of Oak Hill Academy, as a training school for teachers. He manifested his joy, not only on the day of its lowly establishment by Miss Hartford in February 1886, but at every successive enlargement of its work, while he lived. He knew better, than many of his fellow Freedmen, the value of youthful training, and was enthusiastic in his zeal, to have every family far and near take advantage of its open door. An early teacher, who frequently heard him, writes: "He was a dear, good old man, a remarkable man in many ways. His ability to read was quite limited, but his voice was splendid for service in meetings." Teena Crittenden, his amiable wife, was as industrious and frugal in the home, as her husband, in the shop and on the farm. She was a devout christian, one that loved the Bible and enjoyed the privilege of having a place at the meeting for prayer. She died at 67 in 1898, having outlived her husband four years. John Ross Shoals, in addition to the Sabbath afternoon meetings at Doaksville, took some additional night work, that fitted him to become the first Sunday school teacher in the Oak Hill neighborhood in 1875, and an efficient elder in the church. He died at 36 in 1885, leaving to Hattie, his wife, the responsibility of raising and educating a family of nine children. Hattie Crittenden Shoals inherited the industrious and religious traits of her parents, in or near whose home she always lived. She surpassed many of her people, in the intelligent forethought she manifested in all her plans, and in the ability to exercise a correct judgment of men and conditions. "I mean to have my children begin life, at a higher step than I did." This was an ambition oft expressed in the presence of her children. She succeeded in giving all of them a good education, by sending them first to Oak Hill and then to other institutions, including Biddle university, Scotia Seminary, Tuskeegee and the Iowa State Agricultural college. SIMON FOLSOM Simon Folsom, one of the first elders of the Forest Presbyterian church is now one of the oldest living representatives of the slavery period. Nancy Brashears, his third and present wife, enjoys the distinction of having been the most influential of the early leaders in effecting the organization of that church. He became an elder in 1887. After twenty-six years of faithful service under very unfavorable circumstances, he is still trying "to hold up for the faith." In 1901 he enjoyed the privilege of being one of the commissioners of the Presbytery of Kiamichi, and attended the meeting of the General Assembly in Philadelphia. Many of the good things heard and fine impressions received on that occasion, have never been forgotten, and they have furnished him interesting themes, for many subsequent addresses. Though unable to read, he quotes the Bible as one very familiar with that sacred book. He inherited a good memory, that serves him well in public address, and he is always happy and ready when it comes his turn to "speak in meeting." His messages are always notes of joy and gladness, and the ebb and flow of his voice in prayer often seem like the chanting of a sacred melody. He was an ardent supporter of the Oak Hill school and two of his sons, Samuel and David, both now deceased, were among the brightest and most promising, that have attended that institution. He has been for many years the coffin maker, for the people of his community, and both of these boys became skilled carpenters. Samuel, after completing the grammar course at Oak Hill, spent two years 1903-5 at Biddle University and served one year as a teacher at Oak Hill. His skill as a workman and ability to serve as a foreman of the carpenters, made it possible for the superintendent in 1910, to erect Elliott Hall by the labor of the students and patrons of the Academy. Both worked faithfully on this building and died soon after its completion, during the early months of 1912. Both were members and Samuel an elder of the Oak Hill church.[3] ELIJAH BUTLER Elijah Butler, Lukfata, was an uncle of Rev. William Butler. He was one of the early leaders in christian work in what is now the northeast part of McCurtain county. In 1878, when St. Paul church was organized at Eagletown, he was ordained as one of its first elders, and became an active christian worker. A few years later he moved to Lukfata, and when the Presbyterian church of that locality was organized, July 26, 1885, he and his son, Elisha Butler, were chosen as two of the first elders of that church. Elijah Butler, like Apollos of old, was a man, "fervent in spirit," and was teaching others of the people, what he knew of God and the Bible, when Parson Stewart first visited the Lukfata neighborhood. His zeal and faithfulness, in magnifying the call of God to him to be a christian leader among his people, suggested to them the propriety of naming their church, at the time of its organization "Mount Gilead," the home of the prophet, Elijah, in his honor. As an elder and christian worker, he "kept the faith" and "finished his course with joy." [3] Simon died May 17, 1914. XLVI THE SYNOD OF CANADIAN FIRST MEETING AT OKLAHOMA.--SECOND AT OAK HILL.--AT GARVIN IN 1912.--AN UNINTENTIONAL INJUSTICE.--GRATEFUL RECOGNITION.--WOMEN'S SYNODICAL MISSIONARY SOCIETY.--DEPENDENT CONDITION OF THE CHURCHES.--UNSYMPATHETIC ISOLATION.--EDUCATIONAL INSTITUTIONS.--POPULAR MEETINGS. "Christ loved the church and gave himself for it; that he might sanctify and cleanse it with the washing of water by the word. That he might present it unto himself a glorious church."--Paul. CONSTITUTED IN 1907 The following is the enabling act of the General Assembly at Columbus, Ohio, May 24, 1907, establishing the synod of Canadian, to consist of the colored Presbyterian ministers and churches in the states of Arkansas and Oklahoma. IT IS HEREBY ENACTED BY THE GENERAL ASSEMBLY "That the Synod of Canadian is hereby erected and constituted, to consist of the Presbyteries of White River, Kiamichi and Rendall; and the synod of Canadian, as thus constituted, shall meet in the meeting place of the First Colored Presbyterian congregation in Oklahoma City, on Tuesday, the 8th day of October, 1907, at 7:30 o'clock p.m.; that the Rev. W. L. Bethel shall preside until the election of a Moderator, that the Rev. W. D. Feaster preach the opening sermon and that elder J. H. A. Brazleton act as temporary clerk, until the election of a stated and permanent clerk." The assembly at this time enlarged the boundary of the Presbytery of Kiamichi so as to include the south half of the state of Oklahoma and established the Presbytery of Kendall to include the north half of it, the Canadian river, and below its mouth the Arkansas river, forming the boundary line between them. It also enlarged the boundary of White River Presbytery to include all the colored Presbyterian ministers and churches in the synod, or state, of Arkansas. FIRST MEETING AT OKLAHOMA The first meeting of the synod of Canadian, was held in the colored Methodist church of Oklahoma City. The Presbytery of Kiamichi was represented by 3 ministers and one elder, namely, Rev. R. E. Flickinger, and Elder Jack A. Thomas, representing Oak Hill church at Valliant, Rev. W. H. Carroll, Garvin, and Rev. T. K. Bridges, Lukfata. The Presbytery of Rendall was represented by Rev. W. L. Bethel of Oklahoma, who served as moderator, John S. May of Watonga; William T. Wilson, Reevesville; Oscar A. Williams, M. D. Okmulgee; Samuel J. Grier, Guthrie; and elder J. H. A. Brazleton of Oklahoma, who served as temporary clerk. The Presbytery of White River was not represented by any ministers or elders. The Oak Hill church was also represented by Miss Malinda A. Hall, representing the Women's Missionary and Christian Endeavor societies, and by Solomon H. Buchanan, representing the Sunday school and Oak Hill Aid society. At the first meeting, held on Tuesday evening, Oct. 8th, a special address was delivered by Rev. William A. Provine, D. D., representing the Board of Publication of the Cumberland Presbyterian church at Nashville, Tennessee. Another visitor, who was present with him at this first meeting, also delivered a short address in behalf of the cause he represented. Inasmuch as White River Presbytery was not represented by a minister or elder, the sentiment prevailed, that those present did not form a quorum, and nothing further was done save to adjourn until the next morning. At the meetings held on Wednesday morning and afternoon considerable indisposition to organize was manifested by most of those participating in the discussions, because the colored people had not been previously consulted as to their wishes, before the Synod of Canadian was established by the General Assembly. As nothing further was accomplished the meeting was adjourned a third time. On Wednesday evening Oct. 9th, after a sermon by Rev. R. E. Flickinger, the Synod of Canadian was organized. Kev. William L. Bethel was elected Moderator and elder J. H. A. Brazleton, clerk. The principal business transacted was the enrollment of delegates, the arrangement of the standing committees and the appointment of a special committee, to prepare a set of standing rules to be submitted at the next meeting. SECOND MEETING AT OAK HILL The second meeting of the Synod of Canadian was held at Oak Hill Academy Oct. 1-4, 1908. The Presbytery of Kendall was represented by Rev. W. L. Bethel, who delivered the opening sermon, and elder J. H. A. Brazleton of Oklahoma. The Presbytery of White River was represented only by Rev. W. A. Byrd, Ph.D., of Cotton Plant, Ark., and he was elected Moderator. Rev. William H. Carroll of Garvin was elected stated clerk, after the adoption of the standing rules presented by Rev. R. E. Flickinger. The meetings, which included one in behalf of the Women's work, were continued over Sabbath. In 1909 the Synod met at Okmulgee, Oklahoma. In 1910 it met at Little Rock, Arkansas, and Rev. W. J. Starks of Frogville served as moderator. At this meeting a resolution was adopted establishing a Synodical Women's Missionary society by the appointment of Mrs. C. S. Mebane of Hot Springs, president, and Miss Cassie Hollingsworth of Little Rock, Ark., secretary. The next meeting of synod was held at Hot Springs, Ark., Oct. 6, 1911, and the foregoing resolution was re-approved. AT GARVIN IN 1912 On Oct. 3, 1912, the Synod of Canadian met in the new Presbyterian church at Garvin, Okla., and the opening sermon was delivered by Rev. C. S. Mebane, D. D., of Hot Springs, in the absence of the moderator, Rev. A. M. Caldwell. Rev. Virgil McPherson of Camden, Ark., was elected moderator and Rev. M. L. Bethel of Oklahoma, temporary clerk. The representation and attendance at this meeting, the sixth one, was greater than at any previous one. It consisted of 15 ministers and 5 elders as follows: C. S. Mebane, A. E. Rankin and Virgil McPherson from the Presbytery of White River. Martin L. Bethel, the Synodical Sunday school missionary, and J. S. May from the Presbytery of Kendall. Wiley Homer, T. K. Bridges, R. E. Flickinger, William Butler, R. D. Colbert, W. J. Starks, W. H. Carroll, the stated clerk, N. S. Alverson, P. S. Meadows, J. A. Loving, and elders, Calvin Burris, St. Paul, Solomon H. Buchanan, Oak Hill; Lee V. Bibbs, Forest; T. H. Murchison, Garvin, and William Harris, Hebron; from the Presbytery of Kiamichi. At this meeting Rev. R. E. Flickinger presented his fifth and last report on the work of the Board of Missions for Freedmen. He had performed a leading part in effecting the organization of the Synod, at a time when it lacked a legal quorum, because of the previous order of the General Assembly establishing it. The General Assembly at its next meeting approved the organization and made it effective. GRATEFUL RECOGNITION The following words of grateful recognition have been taken from the minutes of the synod of 1912, the first year they have been printed. Rev. R. E. Flickinger, superintendent of Alice Lee Elliott School, in a lengthy and very pathetic address, made known to synod his intention of giving up his charge and returning to his home in Iowa. The period of eight years which he spent in our midst was ended with many deep regrets on the part of all with and for whom he labored. "His work as superintendent of Oak Hill Academy, now called Alice Lee Elliott school, will be long remembered, for he secured and permanently established the Oak Hill Farm, and developed industrial features in the school far beyond what was even expected. We cherish for him the feelings of gratitude and appreciation, that belong to the unselfish worker he was." WOMEN'S SYNODICAL MISSIONARY SOCIETY The Women's Missionary meeting at synod in Garvin in 1912 was the first one at which a complete organization was effected. It is therefore of historic interest. The meeting was opened by Mrs. C. S. Mebane of Hot Springs, convener, and she was later elected president. Mrs. W. H. Carroll was elected secretary, Mrs. W. J. Stark, treasurer, Mrs. Emma P. White president of the Young People's Work, and Miss Bertha L. Ahrens, corresponding secretary. Others who were present and enrolled as members were Mrs. M. L. Bethel, Mrs. Martha Folsom, Mrs. L. Walker, Mrs. Nellie Milton, Sarah Milton, Ledocia Milton, Mrs. Fidelia Murchison, Mrs. Garfield Lewis, Mrs. Ed. Thomas, Mrs. Violet Shelton, Emma Beams, and Emma L. Carroll. The address at their popular meeting in the evening was delivered by Rev. A. E. Rankin of Crockett, Texas; and a paper from Mrs. D. J. Wallace of Okmulgee was read by Mrs. M. L. Bethel. Muskogee was chosen as the place for the synodical meeting in 1913. DEPENDENT CONDITION OF THE CHURCHES The synod in 1913 the sixth year after its organization, represents three Presbyteries, that include all our colored ministers and churches in the states of Arkansas and Oklahoma, and, since 1910, those also that are in the east half of Texas. Its roll includes 42 ministers and 46 churches, whose membership of 1269 contributed to all local purposes, such as maintenance of buildings and pastoral support, the sum of $3,212.00. This is an average of less than $70.00 for each church in the synod and less than $48.00 each, for the churches in Oklahoma and east Texas. This statement indicates, that the ministers serving these churches are almost wholly dependent for their income, on what they receive from other sources, than the dependent congregations they serve, and, that only by the practice of the most rigid economy, in personal expenses, is it possible for them to make ends meet and maintain a good name in their respective communities. POPULAR EVENING MEETINGS The evening meetings of synod and a part of the afternoon sessions may be made very profitable to the local congregation, by arranging before hand for special addresses on the part of representatives of the Boards, or members of the synod. There are some causes, such as education, evangelism, the Freedmen and Women's work that are of popular interest, and a stirring address on these subjects is always appreciated. Such addresses are a means of instruction and serve to awaken popular enthusiasm. Some synods have adopted the plan of holding an annual Sunday school convention during the evening and day preceding the meeting of the synod. These endeavor to bring before the young Sunday school workers, the very best speakers available, on the subjects to be discussed. The arrangements for the popular addresses should be made several weeks in advance, so the speakers may be prepared and the people be duly notified. BENEDICTION "May the God of peace that brought again from the dead our Lord Jesus, the great shepherd of the sheep, through the blood of the everlasting covenant, make you perfect in every good work to do his will, working in you, that which is well pleasing in his sight through Jesus Christ; to whom be dominion and glory for ever and ever. Amen." [Illustration: REV. R. D. COLBERT] [Illustration: REV. M. L. BETHEL] [Illustration: THE SWEET POTATO FIELD. 1911 Looking north from the Frisco railway: the boys' temporary hall at the right.] [Illustration: TWO SETS OF PORTABLE ROOFS FOR SWEET POTATO PITS 1. A set of roofs set aside on their edges for the summer. 2. A set as they appear when set over a pit. The ends are closed during Winter. Looking northwest toward the rear of Elliot Hall.] PART IV THE BIBLE IN THE PUBLIC SCHOOL AND NATION The two following chapters, relating to the supreme importance of reading the Bible daily in every public school of the land, are a supplement to the brief discussion of this subject, that appears in the introductory part of this volume. "Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,-- The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshippers." "Truth forever on the scaffold; Wrong forever on the throne; Yet that scaffold sways the future; And behind the dim unknown, Standeth God, within the shadow, Keeping watch above his own." Queen Victoria said to the King of Siam: "England owes her greatness to this book--The Open Bible." The Bible, and the public school to make known to all the children its moral principles and religious truths, have brought liberty, greatness and enlargement to the United States of America and Great Britain. These two instrumentalities--the open Bible and public school--will bring the needed blessings of intelligence, happiness and prosperity to the people of the United States of Mexico, of Central and South America, when they are accorded a fair chance. XLVII THE PUBLIC SCHOOL AN OUTGROWTH OF THE REFORMATION.--PORTO RICO.--MISSION SCHOOLS.--COLONIAL SCHOOLS.--MASSACHUSETTS AND CONNECTICUT.--NEW YORK AND PENNSYLVANIA.--THE BIBLE, THE STANDARD OF MORALITY.--RISE AND FALL OF INTOLERANCE.--DANIEL WEBSTER.--THE BIBLE, THE FREEDMAN'S BEST BOOK.--THE CHURCH, SUNDAY SCHOOL, PUBLIC SCHOOL.--ENCOURAGING MOVEMENTS. "Education is the cheap defense of a Nation."--Garfield. "Wisdom is the principal thing, therefore get wisdom. The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom."--Solomon. The public school is the general and permanent agency for the education and uplift of the colored people. Religious and independent schools may do a splendid work in their several localities, but the public school is intended to be state-wide. It alone reaches the masses of colored children, and it should receive its due share of the public funds. The fact that they have not received any thing like a fair share of the public funds, for their equipment and support, has already been stated. This, to a great extent, is an act of injustice. Conditions however are gradually improving. They are made better as a good use is made of present educational facilities, and earnest appeal is made for more and better ones. A vast amount of self-sacrificing work, on the part of teachers and parents, is needed to bring the schools of the Freedmen up to their proper standard, and to secure them, where they are still needed both in city and rural district. The Freedman alone cannot do all that is needed, to provide adequate educational facilities for all his people; but there is so much that may be done, in the way of awakening local interest, supplying local deficiencies, and appealing for more and better equipment, as to enlist the united and persistent co-operation of all intelligent, public spirited Freedmen. AN OUTGROWTH OF THE REFORMATION The public school system, in the United States, is an outgrowth, or by-product of the Protestant Reformation of the sixteenth century in Europe. Harvard college was established at Cambridge, near Boston, in 1639, less than twenty years after the first arrival of the Pilgrim Fathers. Its object was to provide a supply of trained ministers and christian teachers, to meet the rapidly growing needs of the colony. The Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign parts, organized in London, England, in 1701, aided the colonists in the establishment of free schools, by sending them donations and supplies of bibles and testaments. Christian teachers were employed in these free schools and two of the text books used were the Bible and the New England primer. This primer was illustrated with Bible pictures and contained the shorter catechism. These colonial free schools of New England were gradually extended to the other colonies, but not without calling forth some opposition in some of them, especially where there was opposition to the use of the Bible. This fact has been rendered quite memorable, by the rather unenviable remark of Governor Berkeley of Virginia in 1670, to the effect, "I thank God, there are no free schools in Virginia." The scattered condition of the population rendered difficult and greatly retarded the progress of free schools in the south. Planters were often widely separated, and many of them preferred to send their children away to school, or employ a private tutor for them. They did not care to provide schools for the Negroes. When, by the adoption of the Constitution the colonies became states, the protection of religion and encouragement of education were left as they had been, as matters to be considered by the legislatures of the several states. As one state after another has been admitted to the Union, extending it over a vast extent of country, a system of public education has been adopted in each, ranging from the rural school to the state university. The system in every state is quite complete and more or less efficient to accomplish its objects. The entire system is due to the presence of the Bible in our land, and especially during the formative period of our government. The states have deemed it necessary to train the young and rising generation in the interest of good government and progress. As the church of the Reformation in Europe, and of our forefathers in New England, found it necessary to establish academies, colleges and theological seminaries, in order to train a constantly increasing supply of christian teachers, statesmen and ministers, the states have realized that it is their duty to maintain public and high schools, in order to have an intelligent and prosperous citizenship; and to maintain normal schools and universities, in order to provide a sufficient number of professional teachers, legislators, jurists and efficient captains of industry. The system of public education in all the states is one, of which every citizen of the land may well be proud, and endeavor to take every possible advantage of it as teachers, patrons and pupils. PORTO RICO 1898-1913 A splendid illustration of its inestimable value has just been received from Porto Rico. In 1898 when the United States received the transfer of Porto Rico from Spain, it had been for centuries under the control of Romanism. There was then only one building on the island, specially erected for school purposes, and more than eighty per cent of the population could neither read nor write; and only 26,000 children had been enrolled as attending school. So rapid has been the progress toward enlightenment and a better civilization under Protestant American rule, that at the end of fifteen years there are 40 school buildings and 162,000 children are enrolled as attending school; and the number of the illiterate has been reduced from 80 to 11 per cent. THE BIBLE AND CHRISTIAN TEACHERS One is now ready to inquire, "Wherein does our splendid system of public education differ from that provided by the various Protestant denominations, in their mission schools, academies, colleges and universities?" Both are essential to the well-being of the state. They are two strong pillars that, supplementing and standing near each other, support the power and promote the material prosperity of the state. Their mutual relation is aptly expressed, by the sentiment of the two brothers on the shield of Kentucky, "United we stand, divided we fall." They look so nearly alike in buildings and equipment, the passing observer sees little or no difference in their outward appearance. Nevertheless there is often a difference in their objects and products, which has already been noted, and in the means employed to accomplish these objects. This difference is fundamental. It is found in the law of their establishment. In the admirable system of public education in the state of Iowa, which is second to none in the land for the goodness and greatness of its beneficent results, there is found the following statute, and it is a fair illustration of similar statutes in other states. "The Bible shall not be excluded from any public school or institution in this state, nor shall any pupil be required to read it contrary to the wishes of his parents or guardian." Sec. 1764. This statute takes it for granted the Bible is in the schools, and that is excellent; it has also a concession and the latter often prevails. Many Jews read only the old Testament, and many Catholics out of regard for the pope, a foreign potentate, think they ought not to read any part of the Bible. The state is a secular power and the result, of this concession to religious freedom, is, that the Bible and the Christian teacher, in many localities, are not regarded as essential features of its educational work. This leaves the moral character and relative value of our public schools, to a considerable extent, to the caprice of those who are in the majority or authority, as directors and teachers in any particular community. In christian communities they are invariably found exerting a christian influence. The Bible and the christian teacher are essential for the accomplishment of the greatest good. These are seldom separated, and when they are found together in the public school, it becomes a fountain of elevating christian influences. This privilege is enjoyed by many of our communities, where the supply of christian teachers is equal to the demand. This discussion of the public school has been included here, for the general knowledge of christian families among the colored people. Since the enactment of laws, limiting the teachers in the public schools of the colored people, to those of the "colored persuasion," there is now and will continue to be, an ever increasing demand for capable christian teachers. Christian teachers come from christian homes and christian schools. COLONIAL SCHOOLS The historic facts, showing that the open Bible has been the corner-stone of the American public school system, have been so interesting and suggestive to the author, as to lead him to take the initiative, in effecting and maintaining a local Bible society in Fonda, and to make the distribution of the Scriptures among the people, a special feature of his ministry there, and later at Oak Hill Academy. The hope is indulged, that the following facts, relating to the place accorded the Bible in the schools of the colonies, will prove of interest to every reader, especially among the Freedmen. Our fore fathers and the stalwart statesmen of their day, were not led astray by the "higher" or more properly called destructive criticism and infidelity, that is now permeating much of the literature of our day to the great injury of all who are influenced by it. Indebted to the Scriptures for their ideas of "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness," and, prizing them as the foundation of their civil and ecclesiastical privileges, they manifested both their sense of obligation to them and dependence upon them, by making them the corner stone of every institution they established. The word of God in their hand, like a pillar of cloud by day and of fire by night, led them to locate in this land, awakened in them the spirit of heroism amid all their privations and sufferings, and served as their common guide and comforter, in all their struggles and progress. If there are any who have the right to judge and to have their judgment respected, as to the nature of the education needed in this republic, surely those men of sagacity, patriotism, piety and comprehensive statesmanship, who founded both the system of education and the Republic, are among the number. During the Colonial period the towns were little republics, with the Bible for their foundation, and their schools were established for general instruction in that book. The exclusion of the Bible from those early schools would have been repugnant to their founders. They regarded the Bible not merely as an authoritative book in all matters of conscience, but as the charter of their liberty and their guide to the independent ownership of land. MASSACHUSETTS The Colony of Massachusetts Bay, as early as 1647, less than twenty years from the date of their first charter, made provision by law, for the support of schools at the public expense; for instruction in reading and writing in every town containing fifty families, and grammar schools in those containing one hundred families. This noble foundation suggests the religious foresight that laid it. The preamble to this school law contained the following motives: "It being one chief object of Satan to keep men from the knowledge of the Scriptures, as in former times keeping them in unknown tongues, therefore, that learning may not be buried in the graves of our fore fathers, the Lord assisting our endeavors, it is ordered," etc. Horace Mann, secretary of the Massachusetts Board of Education, has left on record this noble testimony for all the teachers of our country. "As educators, as friends and sustainers of the common school system, our great duty is to impart to the children of the commonwealth the greatest practicable amount of useful knowledge; to cultivate in them a sacred regard for truth, to keep them unspotted from the world; to train them to love God and also their fellow men; to make the perfect example of Jesus Christ lovely in their eyes; to give to all so much religious instruction, as is compatible with the rights of others and the gains of our government, so that, when they arrive at the years of maturity, they may intelligently enjoy the inviolable prerogatives of private judgment and self-direction, the acknowledged birthright of every human being." Rufus Choate, the eminent statesman and jurist in one of his orations very emphatically exclaimed: "Banish the Bible from our public schools? Never! So long as a piece of Plymouth Rock remains big enough to make a gun-flint." This is an expression of true patriotism on the part of one, who knew well the history and cost of American freedom. "He is the freeman, whom the truth makes free." CONNECTICUT In the Colony of Connecticut as early as 1656, explicit laws were added to the general law by which the schools were first established, and constables were required to take care, "That all their children and apprentices, as they grow capable, may through God's blessing attain at least so much as to be able to read the Scriptures, and other good books in the English tongue." "The schools of this state" says the state school Journal, "were founded and supported chiefly for the purpose of perpetuating civil and religious knowledge and liberty, as the early laws of the colony explicitly declare. Those laws, published in the first number of this Journal declare, that the chief means to be used to attain these objects, was the reading of the Holy Scriptures." This enlightened policy of the Puritans, in regard to the establishment of free schools, for the general dissemination of a knowledge of the Bible and the development of a pure morality among the young, was a great step in advance of all the countries in the old world. The results have wonderfully justified their wisdom and forethought. The schools they established, having the Bible as a universal text book and basis of moral instruction, became nurseries of piety and knowledge. The very thought of excluding the Bible from schools, they had established with great sacrifice for its special study, would have been received with a shudder of horror. "The interests of education," says Chancellor Kent, chief justice of New York, "had engaged the attention of the New England colonists, from the earliest settlement of the country, and the system of common and grammar schools, and of academical and collegiate instruction, was interwoven with the primitive views of the Puritans. Everything in their genius and disposition was favorable to the growth of freedom and learning. They were a grave, thinking people, having a lofty and determined purpose. The first emigrants had studied the oracles of truth as a text book, and they were profoundly affected by the plain commands, awful sanctions, sublime views, hopes and consolations, that accompanied the revelation of life and immortality. The avowed object, of their emigration to New England, was to enjoy and propagate the Reformed faith, in the purity of its discipline and worship. They intended to found republics on the basis of Christianity, and to secure religious liberty, under the auspices of a commonwealth. With this primary view, they were early led to make strict provision for common school education, and the religious instruction of the people. The Word of God was at that time almost the sole object of their solicitude and studies, and the principal design, in emigrating to the banks of the Connecticut, was to preserve the liberty and purity of the gospel. We meet with the system of common schools, in the earliest of the Colonial records. Provision was made for the support of schools in each town, and a grammar school in each county. This system of free schools, sustained by law, has been attended with momentous results; and it has communicated to the people, the blessings of order and security, to an extent never before surpassed in the annals of mankind." STATE OF NEW YORK George Clinton, the first governor, in presenting the matter of public education to the first legislature of New York, used the following language: "Neglect of the education of youth is one of the evils consequent upon the evils of war. There is scarcely anything more worthy your attention, than the revival and encouragement of seminaries of learning; and nothing by which we can more satisfactorily express our gratitude to the Supreme Being for his past favors, since piety and virtue are generally the offspring of an enlightened understanding." Later, when the phrase "Common schools" had come into use, he emphasized morals and religion as their fore-most objects. "The advantage to morals, religion, liberty and good government, arising from the general diffusion of knowledge, being universally admitted, permit me to recommend this subject to your deliberate attention." In 1804, his successor, Governor Lewis, emphasized the necessity of establishing common schools in the following words: "In a government resting on public opinion, and deriving its chief support from the affections of the people, religion and morality cannot be too sedulously inculcated. Common schools, under the guidance of respectable teachers, should be established in every village and the poor be educated at the public expense." In 1810, his successor, Governor Tompkins, brought the matter anew to the attention of the legislature. "I cannot omit inviting your attention to the means of instruction for the rising generation. To enable them to perceive and duly estimate their rights, to inculcate correct principles, and habits of morality and religion, and to render them useful citizens, a competent provision for their education is all essential." In 1811, in response to these successive appeals, the legislature of New York appointed five commissioners, to report a system for the organization and establishment of common schools to carry forward the educational work, that had been previously maintained by the voluntary contributions of christian people in their various communities. These commissioners, in their report, recommending the establishment of common schools for the state of New York, expressed their own sentiments and those of the people they represented, as follows: "The people must possess both intelligence and virtue; intelligence to perceive what is right, and virtue to do what is right. Our republic may justly be said to be founded on the intelligence and virtue of the people, and to maintain it, 'the whole force of education is required.' The establishment of common schools appears to be the best plan, that can be devised, to disseminate religion, morality and learning, throughout a whole country." In referring to the branches to be taught there is added in this report, as follows: "Reading, writing, arithmetic and the principles of morality (Bible) are essential to every person, however humble, his situation in life. Morality and religion are the foundation of all that is truly great and good and are consequently of primary importance." After calling attention to the "absolute necessity of suitable qualifications on the part of the master," the report continues in regard to the Bible, as one of the books to be used: "Connected with the introduction of suitable books, the commissioners take the liberty of suggesting that some observations and advice, touching the reading of the Bible in the schools, might be salutary. In order to render the sacred volume productive of the greatest advantage, it should be held in a very different light, from that of a common school book. It should be regarded not merely as a book for literary improvement, but as inculcating great and indispensable moral truths. With these impressions, the commissioners are induced to recommend the practice, introduced into the New York Free School, of having select chapters read at the opening of the school in the morning and the like at the close in the afternoon. This is deemed the best mode of preserving the religious regard, which is due to the sacred writings." This admirable report closes with these significant words: "The American empire is founded, on the virtue and intelligence of the people. The commissioners cannot but hope that Being, who rules the universe in justice and mercy, who rewards virtue and punishes vice, will graciously deign to smile benignly, on the humble efforts of a people in a cause purely his own; and that he will manifest this pleasure, in the lasting prosperity of our country." The public school system of New York, with the Bible as its corner stone, was established the next year, 1812. Ten years later, Governor DeWitt Clinton, encouraging their liberal support, said, "The first duty of a state is to render its citizens virtuous, by intellectual instruction and moral discipline, by enlightening their minds, purifying their hearts and teaching them their rights and obligations." STATE OF PENNSYLVANIA The status of the Bible, in the early schools of Pennsylvania, may be gathered from the following extract from a report, approved by the National Convention of the friends of public education, that met in Philadelphia in 1850. "In the common schools, which are open for the instruction of the children of all denominations there are many whose religious education is neglected by their parents, and who will grow up in vice and irreligion, unless they receive it from the common school teacher. It seems to us to be the duty of the state, to provide for the education of all the children, morally as well as intellectually; and to require all teachers of youth, to train the children in the knowledge and practice of the principles of virtue and piety. "The Bible should be introduced and read in all the schools in our land. It should be read as a devotional exercise, and be regarded by teachers and scholars, as the text book of morals and religion. The children should early be impressed with the conviction, that it was written by inspiration of God, and that their lives should be regulated by its precepts. They should be taught to regard it, as their manual of piety, justice, veracity, chastity, temperance, benevolence and of all excellent virtues. They should look upon this book, as the highest tribunal to which we can appeal, for the decision of moral questions; and its plain declarations, as the end of all debate." It was about the year 1840, that the Catholics in Pennsylvania began to manifest opposition to the reading of the Bible, in the schools of that state. In view of this opposition the board of directors, for the Fourth section in Philadelphia, adopted the following resolutions: (1) "That we will ever insist on the reading of the Bible, without note or comment in our public schools; because we believe it to be the Word of God, and know that such is the will, of the vast majority of the commonwealth." (2) "That we look on the effort of sectarians to divide the school fund, as an insidious attempt to lay the axe at the root of our noble public school system, the benefits of which are every day manifested in the training of our youth." (3) "That we will use every means proper for christians and citizens to employ to maintain our present school system, and to insure the continuance of the reading of God's holy word in all our schools." BOARD OF NATIONAL EDUCATION The constitution of the Board of National Popular Education contains in its sixth article, the following pledge, as one required of teachers, as well as the board. "The daily use of the Bible in their several schools, as the basis of that sound christian education, to the support and extension of which, the board is solemnly pledged." In its fifth annual report, which is for the year 1852, the necessity of a free and open Bible in our common schools was emphasized as the only possible way, in which our nation can continue to be self-governed. The Bible, for the masses, is God's great instrument for governing men and nations. "There is but one alternative," said Mr. Sawtell, "God will have men and nations governed; and they must be governed by one of the two instruments, an open Bible with its hallowed influences, or a standing army with bristling bayonets. One is the product of God's wisdom; the other, of man's folly; and that nation that discards or will not yield to the moral power of the one, must submit to the brute force of the other. The open Bible, in our schools, is the secret of our ability to govern ourselves. Take from us the open Bible and, like Samson shorn of his locks, we would become as weak as any other people. Take away the Bible, and like Italy, Austria and Russia, we would need a despot on a throne, and a standing army of a half-million to keep the populace in subjection." JESUS, THE GREAT TEACHER It was our Lord Jesus himself, who said, "Suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not." He did not suggest, that they be sent for moral instruction to the schools of the Pharisees, or the unbelieving Sadducees, but that they should come to him, and receive his word and blessing. He saw no sectarianism in the message of love, life and forgiveness, he brought from the Father; for he described it, as, "living water," "living bread which came down from heaven," "the light of the world," and its object, "that they might have life more abundantly." He knew, it was a matter of utmost importance to every individual, to receive that message in childhood and youth. THE BIBLE, THE STANDARD OF MORALITY The Word of God is supreme in all matters of conscience or morality. The man, whose conscience is in harmony with the Word of God, must be recognized as on the side of God and right. Elijah on Mount Carmel, having only the Word of God, prevails over four hundred misguided prophets of Baal. When those, who were prejudiced against the gospel in the days of Peter, imprisoned and undertook to silence him and others, he gave the right answer, when he said, "We ought to obey God rather than men." Peter and Elijah, teaching the Word of God, were progressive up-builders of the Kingdom of God, while their suppressors were merely blind opposers and destructionists. The enlightened consciences of Peter and Elijah were of more value and more to be respected, than those of the hosts of souls, in the darkness of unbelief, arrayed against them. Whilst the work of Peter and the apostles tended to make the world better, and better men of all their opposers, the work of the latter, tended to put a real check, on the cause of human progress. Those, who oppose the reading of the Scriptures in the public schools of this, or any other land, commit the very same folly. The Bible is the Word of God to all mankind. It is his provision for our intellectual, moral and spiritual natures, as the light, air, water and food have been provided for our physical natures. It was originally written in the language of the people to whom it was given, the Old Testament in Hebrew to the Hebrews; and the New Testament in Greek to the Greek speaking Jews, in the time of Christ. Our English version was made from the original languages in the time of King James, and it is an error in judgment to call it, either a Protestant or Sectarian Bible. There is, indeed, a sectarian version of the Bible in use in this country. It is printed in the Latin language, the language of pagan Rome, which the common people no longer use or understand. [Illustration: HOME OF THE LATE CAROLINE PRINCE.] [Illustration: NEW HOME, MRS. SAM HARRIS. Representative Homes of Choctaw Freedmen, near Oak Hill.] [Illustration: Airy View Farm Rockwell City, Iowa, 1911 Robert E. Flickinger Mary A. Flickinger G. H. Patterson, Manager Telephone 7 on 967 A VIRGIN PRAIRIE, IMPROVED BY MR. AND MRS. FLICKINGER, 1884-1914. At the left: Grove of maples and walnuts, orchard, grapes, garden, oat-bin, double corn-crib, house, front yard, chick-yard, bees, barn, implement shed, hen-house, pigpen, calf and pig pastures. Two and a half miles of tile drains.] It seems a queer freak of our human nature, that those who use the Bible in a dead, foreign language, unsuited for use in our public schools, should call our English version of the scriptures a sectarian book, and then oppose its use in our public schools. Our English version of the Scriptures is no more a sectarian book, than are the ordinary books on astronomy, geology, botany, and natural history. Nevertheless when Romanists oppose its use, others of all sorts in the community, who like them need its gracious message of light, life and love, but instead profess not to regard it as a message from God, are liable to unite with them in their unfortunate opposition. No one has an inherent right, to exclude the Bible from the public schools of America. As the one authoritative book of God, it ought to be there. As the charter of American liberty, and the corner stone of our system of public education and jurisprudence, it ought to be there. No one has any more right to exclude the Bible from the public schools of America, than he has to exclude the sun, for both are God's own provision of light. It is intended of God to be the one unchanging standard of morality and purity, for old and young; and to be as free for all, as the common air that we breathe. Its use, at an early age, tends to develop the conservative principles of virtue and knowledge, which serve as the world's best protectors against ignorance, barbarism and vice. RISE AND FALL OF INTOLERANCE Excluding the Bible, from the public schools of America, is an old world innovation. In some countries of Europe, books on science, literature or philosophy have not been permitted to be published, without the previous approval of the government. "The Bible itself, the common inheritance, not merely of Christendom, but of the world, has been put exclusively under the control of government, and has not been allowed to be seen, heard, or read, except in a language unknown to the common inhabitants of the country. To publish a translation in the language of the people, has been in former times a flagrant offense." (Story on the Constitution, page 263.) [Internal link: page 263.] The popes, as early as the eighth century, condemned the circulation and reading of all writings unfriendly to the papacy. In 1515, after the art of printing had been invented, the papal decree was issued, "That no book should be printed without previous examination by the proper ecclesiastical authority, the Inquisition." The books prohibited by it included the bible in the English and German languages, and all the books published by Luther, Calvin, Zwingli and other Reformers. While the Reformers were called, heresiarchs, they proved themselves to be the world's greatest benefactors, by giving the people the Bible. When Roman Catholicism was the state religion of Italy, France, Spain and Britain, it was intolerant, and by massacres and persecutions endeavored to suppress the reading of the Bible and also its publication in the language of the people. In 1531, when the bishops were almost universally statesmen, lawyers or diplomats. Henry, the King of England, by an act of parliament, which consisted of a convocation of the clergy, became the recognized head of the church in England, instead of the pope at Rome. The principle now begins to prevail, that "Truth possesses the power to defend itself." As a result Wiclif, Tyndale, Sir Thomas More, Thomas Cromwell, Archbishop Cranmer, Miles Coverdale and others, with the approval of the king successively, encourage the translation, publication and circulation of the Scriptures among the clergy and people. It was at this time and in this way, that the principle of toleration in matters of religion had its beginning, and the first check was put upon the cruel intolerance of the church of Rome in England. The church of England, episcopal in form then became the established, or state church; and it is so still, but the king is no longer the head of it and the parliament no longer consists of the clergy, as in the days of King James. It was in 1566 that the Puritans, followers of Calvin and other foreign reformers, withdrew from the established church of England, because they did not approve all the forms and ceremonies, then required in the public worship of the established church. The official act of religious toleration in England was passed during the reign of William III, 1689-1702, (and Mary), who, as the prince of Orange and founder of the Dutch republic in 1680, had previously distinguished himself as the friend of liberty. Roger Williams, founder of the Colony of Rhode Island 1636 to 1647, established there the first government in America, upon the principle of universal toleration. William Penn, founder and proprietor of Pennsylvania, in 1684 incorporated the same principle in the government of that colony; and, as the expression of his own views and sentiments, respecting religion and civil government. These men exercised government, by instilling into the minds of the people the principles of religion, morality, forbearance and friendship. Americans do well to cherish the memory of these men, who wrought so nobly a century before the American Revolution. NOBLE DEFENSE BY DANIEL WEBSTER Our American public school system represents the accumulated wisdom of many generations of Bible readers, and in promoting it we preserve for future generations the foundations so wisely laid in the earlier years of our history. Daniel Webster, one of the advocates of the system and early defenders of the Bible in it, stated its fundamental principle when he said, "In all cases there is nothing, that we look for with more certainty, than this general principle, that Christianity is part of the law of this land." He explained its object and motive in the following passage, which is worthy to be repeated in every generation. "We seek to educate the people. We seek to improve men's moral and religious condition. In short, we seek to work upon mind as well as upon matter; and this tends to enlarge the intellect and heart of man. We know that when we work upon materials, immortal and imperishable, that they will bear the impress which we place upon them, through endless ages to come. If we work upon marble, it will perish; if we work upon brass, time will efface it. If we rear temples, they will crumble to the dust. But, if we work on men's immortal minds--if we imbue them with high principles, with the just fear of God, and of their fellow men,--we engrave on those tablets, something which no time can efface, but which will brighten and brighten to all eternity." The exclusion of the Bible from the public schools in New York state had its rise in 1838 and concerning this movement, Mr. Webster said, "This is a question which in its decision is to influence the happiness, the temporal and the eternal welfare of one hundred millions of human beings, alive and to be born in this land. Its decision will give a hue to the character of our institutions. There can be no charity in that system of instruction from which the Bible, the basis of Christianity, is excluded." The public school, with daily instruction to the young in the Bible, is an American system of education. It had its origin in the belief of its founders, that general instruction in the Bible was essential to the permanency of that freedom, civil and religious, and that independent ownership of land, they came to America to enjoy. If the early Pilgrims, more particularly those of Massachusetts and Connecticut, had not struggled and toiled for this great object, and if they had not been immediately succeeded by men, who imbibed a large portion of the same spirit, the free school system of New England would never have been extended to all parts of our land. We have inherited the public school through the Bible, and the feeling prevails, that only by maintaining a general knowledge of the Bible, among the young and rising generation through it can the countless blessings, that flow from it, be conserved for future generations. THE FREEDMAN'S BEST BOOK These historic facts, relating to the original establishment of free schools among the colonies, during the period of the early settlement of this country, and the place accorded the Bible in them by their faithful founders, are well suited to be suggestive, and to prove an inspiration to every friend of freedom, to promote the good cause of maintaining the daily reading of the Bible, in all of our public schools at the present time. Christian parents among the Freedmen, having children that are bright and studious, are encouraged by these facts, to train one or more of them to be teachers and helpers, in promoting the educational and moral uplift of the race. All are encouraged to co-operate with your teachers, in making the public school of your neighborhood, an attractive and inviting place for your own and your neighbor's children. Send the children regularly to school during the term, for the terms are short. Do all you can, as long as you live, to supply your public schools with bibles and christian teachers, in order that they may attain the highest degree of efficiency, and bring the greatest amount of public good, to you and your children. Remember, that the Bible is the mother of the public school and that it awakens a desire for more knowledge, drives back the darkness of ignorance and inspires the courage to do right. Many have been led astray by reading bad books and papers, but none from reading the Bible. Its blessings of comfort and guidance to individuals, and of civil and religious liberty to nations, have come to us like the dew of Hermon, that made "the wilderness and solitary place to be glad, and the desert to rejoice and blossom as the rose." In view of these important historic facts, it is certainly strange that any parents, who permit their children to read all sorts of trashy and worthless books, without protest, should pretend they do not want them to read the Bible, the one infallible and incomparable book, that does not become old and out-of-date like the best of other books, but is as fresh and life giving to day as twenty centuries ago. The number of those, who have opposed the reading of the Bible in the public schools have comprised but a small part of the entire population of our land, and they have always represented that part of it, that have most needed its enlightening and uplifting influence. One million immigrants from other lands are now coming to our shores every year, that they may enjoy the civil and religious privileges, that have here been secured, through the influence of the Bible. One of their greatest needs, immediately on their arrival, is faithful instruction in the living and eternal truths of God's Holy Word, that they may know and understand the genius or spirit of our American, civil and religious institutions. There is urgent need to day for more of that holy compulsion that Jesus exercised, when, surrounded by a lot of hungry people, he required the disciples to "Make the men sit down," and then added, "Give ye them to eat." THE CHURCH AND SUNDAY SCHOOL When Jesus said, "The son of man came not to be ministered unto but to minister," he gave to the world one of its clearest visions of the Kingdom of God, and his own, the highest ideal of life, the one that produces the noblest type of manhood. It is the great business of the church to bring all its children and youth to this true conception of life, and it aims to do this through the christian home, the Sunday school, young peoples' meetings and church services. But these alone are not adequate, to reach all the children and youth of the land, including those of the one million immigrants, arriving annually from other lands. Margaret Slattery in the Charm of the Impossible has very truly remarked: "Men of all creeds and of none agree, that religious instruction ought to be given, to all the children and youth of the land, but the task of attempting it is a tremendous one, and the best manner of doing it is not clear to all. Some say religious instruction should be given in the home. This is usually done, in the intelligent christian home; but there are many homes, where it is impossible, and others indisposed. The fact that the church has seen, as if with a new vision, the method of Jesus, the Great Teacher of all men, reveals itself more clearly in the Sunday school, than in any other department of its work. There it attempts the task of religious education by instruction from the Bible, and endeavors to inspire the child, youth and man with the purest and greatest motives for action." MAKE THE PUBLIC, A BIBLE SCHOOL There is, however, no instrumentality in our country, so convenient and favorable for giving all the children and youth of our land a general knowledge of the Bible, as the public school. The Bible is the embodiment of all lofty ideals, and when it is daily read in all of our schools, there is in them a uniform standard of morals. Schools, that neglect or suppress the daily reading of the Bible, do not keep the vision of those attending them on the christian ideal, or develop the christian motive in them, during the most impressionable period of their lives. The Bible is the light of the intellect, the fore runner of civilization, the charter of true liberty and secret of national greatness. The Bible is the one, all-important book for the Freedmen and their children. Its weekly use, in the church and Sunday school, is to be appreciated and promoted; but the home and the public school are the golden places, where its daily use should be required, and the opportunity be magnified. American patriotism relies on the public school, conducted with moral and social aims, as the one pre-eminent, assimilating agency to bind together the older and newer elements of our population, in a common devotion to our common country. It has been "America's greatest civil glory and chief civil hope." The enthusiasm, that led to its establishment, was well nigh sacred. It needs to day the support of a public spirit, that will insist on the restoration of the daily reading of the Bible, as the basis of moral instruction in it. Concerning its educational value President Woodrow Wilson has recently very truthfully said, "The educational value of the Bible is, that it both awakens the spirit to its finest and only true action, and acquaints the student with the noblest body of literature in existence; a body of literature, having in it more mental and imaginative stimulus, than any other body of writings. A man has deprived himself of the best there is in the world, who has deprived himself of the Bible." How true to day is Paul's description of the people that were living without the Bible in his day. He describes them as "filled with all unrighteousness, fornication, wickedness, covetousness, maliciousness; full of envy, murder, deceit, haters of God, despiteful, proud, boasters, inventors of evil things, disobedient to parents, without understanding, unmerciful."[4] Our own and every heathen land furnishes abundant proofs, that whenever the gracious promises of the Bible are gratefully received, the proud become humble, the disobedient dutiful, the drunkard sober, the dishonest, honorable; the profligate, prudent; and the miserable become happy. Nothing else has ever done this, but the gospel of Christ always does it, when gratefully received. ENCOURAGING MOVEMENTS The legislature of Pennsylvania, in 1913, restored the use of the Bible in the public schools of that state, by a statute requiring the daily reading of at least ten verses of the Bible, in the hearing of all the pupils under every teacher, and making a neglect of this duty a proper cause, for the suspension of the teacher. The National Reform Association at its last meeting in Portland, Oregon, in 1913, resolved to raise $25,000, for the purpose of undertaking to place a copy of the Bible, in every public school in the land, from which it may have been excluded; and to aid in keeping it, where it is now adopted, as the standard of moral instruction. Commissioner Claxton, in welcoming the members of the council of church Boards of Education, representing fourteen denominations, at their third meeting in Washington, D. C., in January 1914, very correctly stated the leadership of the church in the educational work of our country, and the importance of its continued relation to it, in the following language: "The church has been the leader in educational development, at a time when the state was unable and unwilling to pay the large cost for education. Honor should be given the church for its splendid, formative work in education, during the time the state was occupied in building up its political relations. It is indeed a happy thing, that the church is so deeply interested in education, as to maintain national agencies, known as boards." In regard to the secondary schools he prophetically added, "The day will come, when the Bible will be read in the public schools, just as any other book. There is no good reason, why the Bible should not have its rightful place, in our public school curriculum." The Gideons, an organization among traveling salesmen, are endeavoring to place a copy of the Bible in every bedroom of all the public hotels in the United States. At the end of 1913 they had supplied bibles for 220,000 rooms, and had reached all but three states, Utah, Nevada and Washington. These are movements in the right direction and suggest the proper attitude of every christian parent, teacher and legislator. Do not hesitate to advocate the daily reading of the Bible, and the employment of christian teachers, in all the public schools, provided for the Freedman and his children. "There's a dear and precious book, Though it's worn and faded now, Which recalls those happy days of long ago; When I stood at mother's knee With her hand upon my brow, And I heard her voice in gentle tones and low. Blessed book, precious book On thy dear old tear-stained leaves I love to look; Thou art sweeter day by day, As I walk the narrow way, That leads at last, to that bright home above." --M. B. Williams. [4] Rom. 1. 27. XLVIII A HALF-CENTURY OF BIBLE SUPPRESSION IN A NATION, OR FRANCE, DURING THE PERIOD, 1572 TO 1795. THEISM, DEISM, PHILOSOPHISM.--APPEAL FOR BREAD.--MORAL AND FINANCIAL BANKRUPTCY.--FIRST POPULAR ASSEMBLY.--REPUBLIC OF FRANCE.--REIGN OF TERROR.--PEOPLE UNPREPARED FOR FREEDOM.--INSURRECTION OF WOMEN.--RESULTS.--LAND OF JOHN CALVIN.--LAFAYETTE.--ROMANISM, BEHIND THE TIMES.--HUMAN REASON, BLIND.--LIGHT, LIFE AND LIBERTY. "The entrance of thy word giveth light, it giveth understanding to the simple. Open thou mine eyes, that I may behold wondrous things out of thy law."--David. An American citizen does not need to go to far-off India or Africa to learn how people live without the Bible. Every heathen nation, living in ignorance and degradation furnishes a practical illustration. This illustration may be found by visiting the countries on the other side of the southern boundary line of the United States, where for several centuries under dominant catholic influence the Bible has been a forbidden book in the few public educational institutions of the country. The result may now be seen in the general prevalence of ignorance, poverty and oppression; the ownership of land limited to a comparatively few persons, corruption and rapacity on the part of public officials, general improvement checked and the country impoverished by frequent insurrections and revolutions, that indicate incapacity for stable and prosperous self-government. France, however, once made the actual experiment of suppressing the Bible and Bible readers for two centuries, during the period from 1572 to 1795, while the Reformation of the 16th century was progressing in Germany, Switzerland, Britain and other countries. Thomas Carlyle, in his history of the French Revolution, that occurred 1788 to 1795, has very dramatically portrayed scenes and incidents, which become pregnant with new and thrilling interest, when briefly summarized to illustrate the folly and sad consequences of suppressing the Bible and Bible readers in that nation. The historic value of these incidents should make this story interesting and instructive to every student and teacher. ATHEISM, DEISM, PHILOSOPHISM Louis XV, king of France, at the end of a reign of fifty-nine years, dies unwept and unmourned in 1774. Affirming there is no God or heaven, at the beginning of his long reign, and not permitting any of his courtiers to mention the word "death" in his presence, he abandons himself to a life of forbidden pleasure, humiliates and scandalizes the people of France instead of enlightening and elevating them. He inherits and maintains the tyrannous and oppressive feudal system, that prevents the common people from acquiring ownership of land. His career has been described, "as an hideous abortion and mistake of nature, the use and meaning of which is not yet known." The persecution of Bible readers, or Protestants, is begun with a general massacre at Paris, on the anniversary of Saint Bartholomew in 1572. Those who escape the bloody horrors of that occasion, are commanded to emigrate from France, on pain of death. The following events occur, during the latter part of the last half century, preceding the French Revolution. The leaders in thought are the shameless and selfish infidels and deists, Voltaire, Rosseau, Robespierre and others like them. Paris admires her deistical authors and makes them the objects of hero-worship. They are called "Philosophs," and Bible readers must not stand in their way. Philosophism sits joyful in glittering saloons, is the pride of nobles and promises a coming millennium. Crushing and scattering the last elements of the Protestant Reformation, they blindly and falsely talk of a Reformed France. The people applaud, instead of suppressing these false teachers. The highest dignitaries of the church waltz with quack-prophets, pick pockets and public women. The invisible world of Satan is displayed and the smoke of its torment goes up continually. No provision is made for the general education of the common people and yet the government is fast becoming bankrupt. In 1774 Louis XVI succeeds his father, as the last King of France. He is youthful, uneducated, imbecile. He is wedded to a giddy superficial queen. Both are infidels and incapable of any intelligent acts of government. With imbecility and credulity on the throne, corruption continues to prevail among high and low. Instead of individual thrift and general prosperity, poverty and famine prevail throughout the land. APPEAL FOR BREAD In 1775, impelled by a scarcity of bread, a vast multitude from the surrounding country gather around the royal palace at Versailles, their great number, sallow faces and squalid appearance indicating widespread wretchedness and want. Their appeal for royal assistance is plainly written, in "legible hieroglyphics in their winged raggedness." The young king appears on the balcony and they are permitted to see his face. If he does not read their written appeal, he sees it in their pitiable condition. The response of the king is an order, that two of them be hanged. The rest are sent back to their miserable hovels with a warning not to give the king any more trouble. Mirabeau, a French writer, describes a similar scene that occurs later that same year. "The savages descending in torrents from the mountains our people are ordered not to go out. The bagpipes begin to play, but the dance in a quarter of an hour is interrupted by a battle. The cries of children and infirm persons incite them, as the rabble does when dogs fight. The men, like frightful wild animals, are clad in coarse woollen jackets with large girdles of leather studded with copper nails. Their gigantic stature is heightened by high wooden clogs. Their faces are haggard and covered with long greasy hair. The upper part of their visage waxes pale, while the lower distorts itself into a cruel laugh, or the appearance of a ferocious impatience." These proceedings are a protest of the common people, of whom there are twenty millions, against government by blind-man's-buff. These people, paying their taxes, are protesting against corrupt officials depriving them of their salt and sugar, in order to maintain royal and official extravagance. Stumbling too far prepares the way for a general overturn. MORAL AND FINANCIAL BANKRUPTCY There is no visible government. Its principal representative is the Chancellor of the Exchequer, or king's treasurer; and "Deficit of revenue" is his constant announcement, to the feudal lords, who exercise local government. In 1787 Cardinal Lomenie becomes the king's new treasurer. His predecessor has been ousted because the treasury was bankrupt, but his unscrupulous methods continue to be adopted because no better ones can be devised. As late as the next year the cardinal demands the infliction of the death penalty on all Protestant preachers. The period has become one of spiritual and moral bankruptcy. The Bible has been suppressed and blind human reason has been exalted. There is no bond of morality to hold the people together. Men become slaves of their lusts and appetites, and society, a mass of sensuality, rascality and falsehood. Infidelity, despotism and general bankruptcy prevail every where. There is no royal authority and the palace of justice at Versailles is closed. The poverty and misery, experienced by the peasants in their comfortless hovels, awakens a feeling of discontent and protest. This feeling of protest, among the poor and illiterate, permeates upward and becomes more intense as it proceeds. In this unorganized protest the hand of one is arrayed against his fellow man. The common people are arrayed against the nobles; the nobles, against each other, and both nobles and people are bitter against the government. Townships are arrayed against townships and towns against towns. Gibbets are erected everywhere and a dozen wretched bodies may be seen hanging in a row. The mayor of Vaison is buried alive; the mayor of Etampes, defending a supply of food, is trampled to death by a mob exasperated with hunger, and the mayor of Saint Denis is hung at Lanterne. The ripening grain is left ungathered in the fields, and the fruit of the vineyards is trodden under foot. The bloody cruelty of universal madness prevails everywhere. A frightful hail storm, that destroys the grain and fruits of the year at the beginning of harvest, is followed by a severe drought in 1788. Foulon, an official grown gray in treachery and iniquity, when asked, "What will the people do?" makes response, "The people may eat grass." The royal government is now described, as existing only for its own benefit; without right, except possession; and now also without might. "It foresees nothing, and has no purpose, except to maintain its own existence. It is wholly a vortex in which vain counsels, falsehoods, intrigues and imbecilities whirl like withered rubbish in the meeting of the winds." Commerce of all kinds, as far as possible, has come to a dead pause, and the hand of the industrious is idle. Many of the people subsist on meal-husks and boiled grass. Armed Brigands begin to make their appearance and a "reign of terror," is ushered in. FIRST POPULAR ASSEMBLY On May 4, 1789, the first popular assembly meets at Versailles, more churches than other buildings having been used as polling places, at this first election in France. The assembly is composed of nobles, clergy and commoners, the last representing the people. Six "parlements," consisting only of nobles, have previously been convened by the king's treasurer, and as often have been dismissed by the king, because they were not willing to tax themselves more, to increase the revenues of the king. In this assembly, there are six hundred commoners, who, when the king dismissed the assembly, under the leadership of Mirabeau refused to be dismissed, and bind themselves by an oath, to remain in session, until they have framed and adopted a constitution. This act of the commoners is the beginning of the French Revolution. This Revolution has been defined, as "An open, violent rebellion and victory of unimprisoned anarchy, against corrupt worn-out authority; breaking prison, raging uncontrollable and enveloping a world in fever frenzy, until the mad forces are made to work toward their object, as sane and regulated ones." These commoners are shut out of their hall and their signatures are attached to their oath in a tennis court. They are later joined by Lafayette, the friend of Washington, and by other nobles and 149 Roman clergy. They are treated offensively, but cannot be offended. They are animated with a desire to prepare a constitution, that will regenerate France, abolish the old order and usher in a new one. Paris, always very demonstrative under excitement, grows wild with enthusiasm for the commoners, and others, who compose their first National Assembly. They go simmering and dancing, thinking they are shaking off something old and advancing to something new. They have hope in their hearts, the hope of an unutterable universal golden age, and nothing but freedom, equality and brotherhood on their lips. Their hopes, however, are based on nothing but the "vapory vagaries of unenlightened human reason," instead of the unchanging truths and principles of Divine Revelation. They experience an indescribable terror, of the unnumbered hordes of Europe rallying against them, in addition to the constant dread of their own cruel, armed brigands and inhuman official executioners. Unfortunately the commoners had not been previously trained in the art of statesmanship, and after a long session, that lasted until September 14, 1791, the constitution then proposed was still incomplete; and had to be submitted to another assembly to be completed. They however accomplish some things worthy of note. In 1789 they abolish feudalism, root and branch; and the payment of tithes. The latter meant the separation of church and state, in matters of support and government; and this event seemed to the deists, like a time of Pentecost. REPUBLIC OF FRANCE On Sept. 22, 1792 the Republic of France is declared. On Jan. 1, 1793, King Louis XVI, who had become a runaway king, and on October 16th following, Marie Antoinette, the queen, are executed. These events are followed by another reign of terror, the plundering of churches and a war with Spain. The Republic of France, when first established, proves to be one of a mob, robbing and murdering those, who had property. The people become despotic as soon as they have disposed of their useless king, and queen. There were only nine prisoners in the Bastille, when it was destroyed, but now in two days and under the name of liberty, eight thousand innocent persons are massacred in prison. Walter Scott in his Life of Napoleon adds: "Three hundred thousand other persons, one third of whom are women, are ruthlessly committed to prison," the executioners usurping the place of the judges and, without trial, "pronouncing sentence against them." Their watchwords, while the Revolution continues, are, "Unity, Brotherhood or Death." These principles are enforced by edicts of exile, imprisonment, or death by the guillotine. REIGN OF TERROR This reign of terror continues until July 28, 1794, when the cruel hearted Robespierre and his consorts are condemned to death on the guillotine, a cunningly devised beheading machine, on which he had been practicing with innocent and helpless victims, for twenty-two years. In 1795 a new constitution is adopted, and after the suppression of a number of bloody riots and insurrections that year, by the young Napoleon with his batteries of artillery, public order is restored and the Revolution is regarded as ended. PEOPLE UNPREPARED FOR FREEDOM These are but a few of the many riotous and disorderly events that occurred in France just at the close of the American Revolution, in which Lafayette co-operated with so much honor to himself and his country. These suffice to show how unprepared the people were for any great or concerted movement, and how destitute the nation was of men, fit to serve as leaders in thought and action, until the rise of Napoleon with his genius for military affairs. Mirabeau, their first trusted leader, dies before the end of their first assembly. Lafayette, a prominent member of the first assembly, when made military commander at Paris, finds the rabble will not listen to his counsels, and he resigns. In 1782 he makes another attempt to re-instate authority in Paris, and the attempt proving a failure he retires from further participation in public affairs. No one is able to anticipate the next movement of the populace, or win and hold their confidence, any length of time. One event follows another "explosively." Men, fearing to remain longer in their huts or homes, fugitively rush with wives and children, they know not whither. Under the leadership of the infidels, Rosseau and Robespierre, they experience terrors such as had not fallen on any nation, since the fall of Jerusalem. INSURRECTION OF WOMEN An insurrection of women is suddenly started in Paris, in October 1789, at the call of a young woman who seizes a drum and cries aloud, "Descend O Mothers; Descend ye Judiths to food and revenge!" Ten thousand women, quickly responding to this call, press through the military guard to the armory in Hotel de Ville, and when supplied with arms march on foot to Versailles, and, taking the king and his family captives, bring them and the National Assembly to Paris the next day, October 5th, followed by a good natured crowd, estimated at 200,000. Now that the king occupies the palace of the Tuileries at Paris, the people hungry, but hopeful, shake hands in the happiest mood, and assure one another "the New Era has been born." RESULTS The principal results of the French Revolution may be briefly summarized as follows: Good riddance of a half century line, of worse than useless, atheistic kings and queens; the suppression of the tyrannous feudal system, that prevented the common people from acquiring ownership of land, the suppression of the Bastille, a feudal prison and robber den, and of the guillotine; the suppression of religious persecution, and the separation of church and state in matters of government and support; and the adoption of a constitution, that provides for the people to have a voice, in the management of the affairs of the government. LAND OF CALVIN AND LAFAYETTE France is the land that gave birth and education to John Calvin, the pioneer advocate of civil and religious liberty, and in his day the good work of the Reformers had gained an encouraging foot hold in his native land, but after the lapse of a century of cruel extermination, one looks in vain to see the expected fruits of his great work. A century, of Bible suppression and persecution of Bible readers, has left the people in ignorance of the Word of God, which is the Light and Life of the World, and in its place catholicism and infidelity, like hoar frosts or destructive black clouds, have spread over the land. Oppressed with a feeling of need and seeking something not clearly defined, the people grope in darkness and stumble on events, as if playing blind-man's-buff. The one hundred and forty-nine Roman clergy in the first assembly are so lacking in intelligence and patriotism, they exert no special influence worthy of note. Very different were the scenes that Lafayette witnessed, during the period he co-operated with the colonies of America, in their struggles for liberty and independence. Here he met many of the descendants of the very people, whom the bitter persecutions in France had driven to this country. Many of them, as early settlers in New York, Pennsylvania, Delaware and Virginia, exerted a considerable influence, in moulding the character of the American people. He found all the people engaging intelligently in the cause of freedom. Their leaders knew what they were endeavoring to achieve, and every movement was characterized by good order, patriotism and superior wisdom. ROMANISM BEHIND THE TIMES This historic contrast of the good fruits of the open Bible among the people in America, with the sad and deplorable results of Romanism and infidelity in France, previous to the great revolutions, that occurred in both countries in the days of Lafayette, is certainly very interesting and instructive. Other countries in which Romanism has been dominant and the Bible suppressed, as Ireland, Spain, Mexico, the Philippine Islands and the states of Central and South America, show a similar unfavorable contrast. In South America, where Romanism has suppressed the Bible for centuries, only two percent of all the college students in 1913, according to Bishop Kensolving of the Episcopal church in Brazil, "affirm their allegiance to any religious faith." In Spain, according to a recent issue of the Herald of Madrid, there are 30,000 towns and rural villages, that are yet without schools of any kind. There are thousands of the people whose homes can be reached only by bridle-paths. They lack schools, roads and railroads. Seventy-six per cent of the children and youth are unable to read and write. In Spain, Mexico and South America, Romanism has proven itself to be, but little more than a pious form of paganism, an oppressive and widespread relic of ancient, pagan Rome. During the two hundred years preceding the Revolution in France no one was ever persecuted for being an atheist, deist, infidel or Roman catholic, but all of these united in suppressing the general use of the Bible and the presence of Bible readers, to the great injury of the public welfare. If that country had not foolishly and wickedly exterminated the people, that were fast becoming Bible readers at the time of the Reformation, it would no doubt have been saved from many of the blind and bloody scenes of the period of the Revolution. Romanism, by suppressing the Bible, encourages ignorance, superstition and bigotry. It also tends to break down the sanctity of the Sabbath as the Lord's day; winks at the liquor traffic, and by its confessional strikes at the very foundation of free manhood, freedom of thought and liberty of conscience. This contrast, shows clearly that Romanism, whatever good it may have done, is now many centuries behind the times. This is a very serious defect. It has the Bible, a Latin version called the Vulgate which it claims as its own. It has the New Testament and for that reason it is classed as a christian religion. It has however, opposed and suppressed the reading of the Bible by the people, lest the spread of intelligence, through a personal knowledge of its contents, would lessen the respect and obedience of the people to the false claims of the pope, clerical orders and priesthood. Several generations of slave holders in this country gave this same reason, as a good one for not providing educational facilities for their slaves, fearing that intelligence, which greatly increases the value of the workman, would tend to lessen their authority over them. It serves to illustrate the old worn-out adage, that "might makes right," instead of the newer and better one, "God is with the right." The ability to rule, in both cases, is based on the ignorance, instead of the intelligence of the subject. When thus expressed in plain words, it certainly does not sound very creditable, or as if it were the best policy. It is not uncharitable to say, that as a policy, it is "out of date." Our Lord Jesus was a teacher as well as Saviour. He went from place to place, teaching and encouraging the people to "search the scriptures," that they might know, what to believe concerning Him, in order to inherit eternal life and "have life more abundantly." This is one of the good features of Protestantism. It is based on a personal knowledge of the Bible and the general intelligence of the people. Its motto is "Let the Light Shine." Truth is mighty and in the end will prevail, for "justice and judgment are the habitation of God's throne." HUMAN REASON BLIND When the Bible was suppressed in France and human reason exalted, all the infernal elements of a depraved human nature held high carnival. Enthusiasm and fanaticism, the allies of ignorance and superstition, caused the people to think and act wildly. If in his heart there is no devout faith, to develop the sense of personal responsibility and duty, man becomes ready for any evil under the sun. Sin, however, has been and always will be the parent of misery. "The wages of sin is death." This one terrific experiment, of a half-century in France without the Bible, should be enough for a thousand worlds, through countless years. LIGHT, LIFE AND LIBERTY The life-giving word of Divine Truth is the salt, that preserves learning and a sense of personal obligation to do that which is right, amid the changing scenes of time and life. Learning is knowledge based on fact, and not on fiction or unbelief. Duty as a practical matter has regard for that "righteousness, that exalteth a nation," as well as the salvation that saves the individual. "Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free." A knowledge of the truth tends to produce that self-restraint, that is essential to freedom; and that sense of duty and right, that results in faithful public service. Genuine liberty has never been realized, where there has not been also an intelligent self-restraint. The fundamental principle of the Reformation was expressed by Luther as follows: "The Word of God, the whole Word of God, and nothing but the Word of God." This was based on the following passage from Augustine in the fourth century: "I have learned to pay to the canonical books alone, the honor of believing very firmly, that none of them has erred; as to others, I believe not what they say, for the simple reason, that it is they who say it;" and the previous saying of Paul, "Should we, or an angel from heaven, preach any other gospel unto you, than that which we have preached unto you, let him be accursed, for it is written, the just shall live by faith." This principle of the Reformation appears in our common form of attestation, "The truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth;" and in the patriotic motto of Pennsylvania, "Virtue, Liberty and Independence." Think on these things. Search the scriptures. Know that the Bible is the Word of God to all people, that it is the sword of the Spirit, and the Truth that makes you free. The Master hath need and calleth for thee. Be of good courage. Be loyal to the truth and let it shine through you. THE END INDEX Ahrens, Bertha L. 127, 154, 289, 300, 310 Aid Society 300 Allen, Fredonia 149 Allotment of lands 3, 154 Alverson, Noah S. 289, 342 Apiary 294 Arch of Character 257 Arnold, Olivia, Mrs. R. D. 378 Baird, Phil C. D. D. 226, 325 Bartholomew St. Massacre 77 Bashears, Charles 287 Beatty, Doll 353 Bees, Double Swarm 299 Becker, Mary O. 141 Benediction, Endeavor 259 Bethel, M. L. 226, 353 Bethesda Mission 70 Bibbs, Samuel S. 151; Lee, Charles 287-9 Bible, first book, 71; Cause of Reformation, 76; in Public School, 35, 391; Memorized, 173; Uplifting Power, 181; Only Standard of Morality 406 Biddle University 70 Boggs, V. P. Mrs. 90, 158 Boll Weevil 218, 290 Books, Value of 256 Book Marks 267 Boys' Hall 135, 204, 217 Brasco, Livingston 192 Brackeen, Rosetta 275 Brown, Lucretia C. 151, 224; Matt 379 Buds of Promise 146 Buchanan, Solomon 160, 224, 300, 322 Building the Temple 227 Burrows, Emma 137 Butler, William Rev. 148, 183, 226, 290, 370; Elijah 378, 381 Calvin, John 72, 427 Campbell, Anna E. 108, 112, 119 Candidates for Ministry 276, 342 Carroll, William H. Rev. 159, 224, 289, 327 Character, Formed 33, 157, 227, 241 Chautauqua, First 277 Cherokees 7, 19 Chickasaws 7 Choctaws 7, 14 Claypool, John Mrs. 159, 318 Clear Creek 11 Churches: Beaver Dam, Oak Hill (101), New Hope, St. Paul, Mt. Gilead 345 Colbert, Richard D. Rev. 146, 353, 373 Concert, Closing 326 Constitutional Amendments 49 Cowan, Edward L. Rev. 91 Craig, Carrie 137 Crabtree, James R. 277, 353 Crawford, Dan 40 Creek Indians 8 Crittenden, Henry 101, 109, 377 Crusaders 67 Crowe, Carrie, Mrs. M. E. 116, 137, 142 Daly, Sam 200 Decision Days 183, 192 Doaksville 29 Domestic Training 198 Donaldson, Mary A. 160, 321 Donors, Oak Hill 305 Early, Lou K. 137, 193 Eaton, Adelia M. 155, 159, 288, 315 Education 62, 93 Edwards, John Rev. 15, 22, 105 Elliott, Alice Lee, David IV, 212 Elliot Hall II, 205, 208, 210, 326 Emancipation Day 42, 292 Farewell 331 Farmer's Institutes 287 Fields, Rilla 137 Fisher, Jessie 137 Flag, Salute 268 Flickinger, R. E. and Mrs. 155, 160, 308 Flournoy, William R. 329, 353 Folsom, Iserina, Martha, 137, 149; Samuel, 150, 160, 224; Simon 330, 378 Forest Church 125, 130 Fort Towson 28 France, Bible Suppressed 418 France, Republic of 425 Freedmen, Homeless, 42; Choctaw 65 Fruits, Bulletin 256, 330 Gaston, John Rev. 91 Gideons 417 Girls Hall, Weimer Photo 109, 132, 210 Gladman, Samuel Rev. 373 Going to School 274 Gordon, Mary, Lela, Inez 137, 275 Gossard, Verne 137 Graces at Meals 279 Grandfather Clause 51 Green, Fannie 137 Hall, Malinda A. 149, 224, 277, 289, 320 Harris, Nannie, Sam, 149, 300, 379; New Home of Catherine 406 Hartford, Eliza 107, 115, 121 Haymaker, Edward G. and Mrs. 108, 134, 339, 379 Haymaker, Priscilla G. 108, 111, 118 Hawley, Rev. F. W. 301 Headache 299 Health Hints 298 Hen House 295 Highland Park College 199 Hodges, Celestine 147, 149 Homer, Wiley Rev. 148, 226, 277, 302, 360 Homer, Hattie, Mary, Susan 147 Homes Representative 406 Huguenots of France 75 Hunter, Anna, Mattie 116, 137 Huss, John 70 Idleness 247 Improvements 166, 202 Independent Ownership of Land 78, 193, 197 Indian Schools and Churches 15 Indian Territory, Slavery 7, 19, 106 Inquisition, The 76 Intolerance, Rise and Fall 408 Investments 272 Johnson, Isaac 277, 291, 378 Jones, Edward T. 149; Josie, 137, 379; Fannie, Marie, Martha 147, 149 Key Words 260 Kingsbury, Cyrus, Rev. 28, 65, 105 Knox, John 75 Lafayette, Land of 427 Land Funds 303 Lee, Lilly E. 137 Liberty, Civil, Religious 81, 431 Licentiates 276 Lincoln, Abraham 172 Lincoln University 71, 88 Log House, Old 109, 257 Luther, Martin 72, 431 Massacres of Bible Readers 77 Maxims, Character, Success 241 McBride, James F. and Mrs. 131, 136 McGuire, James 117 McNiell, Sadie B. 224 Meadows, Plant S., Rev. 326, 353 Memory Trained 175 Methodism, Rise of 80 Ministers, Dearth of, Teachers 340, 342 Moore, Ruby 160 Mottoes, Wall 259 Murchison, Fidelia 148, 287 Mexico 418 Negro, American, Voices 39, 59, 96 Newspapers, First 82 Normals, Summer 275 Oak Hill, Church, School, 12, 101, 103; Groups in 1902 and 1903 299 Orchestra, Buchanan, Flournoy, Dixon, Ashley and Alonza McLellan, Clarence and Herbert Peete, Harris, Smith 274 Painting 297 Park College 194 Perkins, Charles, Fidelia 149, 355, 378 Perry, Ora Maxie 160, 294 Picnics 282 Pig Pen 203, 295 Pledges, Endeavor, Self-help 169 Porto Rico 394 Prayers, Forms of 280 Presbyterian Church, Board 84, 90 Presbytery, Indian, Meetings 17, 282 Presbytery, Kiamichi; at right, Homer, Onque, Bibbs, Alverson, Bridges, Starks, Crabtree, Frazier, Harris, Richard; 3d row, Elisha Butler, Mills, Wm. Butler, Edmunds, Lewis 335, 352 Prince, Caroline, Henry 406 Pulling Stumps, Percy, Ashley, Alonza, Dee, Mark, Herbert, Thomas 207, 298 Reformation, The 72, 392 Reid, Alexander, Rev. 15, 23, 105, 146 Richard, Everett 224 Romanism, Behind Times 428 Rules, Mottoes 259 Rutherford, Matthew 121 Sands, Rev. Marie Jones 148 Schools, Colonial 395 Scott, Mary 137, 299 Seats, Celestine 275 Seed Corn, Cotton, Improved 298 Self-control, Education 174, 244, 247 Self-help, Support 163, 185 Shaw, Sadie 137 Shoals, John Ross, Johnson 149, 277, 287, 378 Shoals, Virginia Wofford, Perry 148, 160 Study, Course 268 Success, What, How Attained 260 Sunday Schools 80, 271, 413 Sweepers, Rosetta, Mary, Helen, Beatrice, Emma, Evelina, Ellen 274 Synod of Canadian 382 Spain 429 Teachers, Christian, Aim of 36, 266, 270 Teachers in 1899, Mr. and Mrs. Haymaker, Anna Hunter (sitting), Mrs. M. E. Crowe, Visitor, Josie Jones; photo by Mattie Hunter 379 Uncle Wallace 25 Uplifting Influences, Inventions 65, 82 Vacation Workers 188 Valliant 12 Voice Culture 157 Wallace, Sarah L. 160 Waldo, Waldenses 69 Washington, Booker T. 199 Watt, Lizzie 150 Webster, Daniel 410 Weimer, Mary I. 159, 193, 275, 318 Weith, Rev. Charles C. 278 Westminister Assembly 79 Wiclif, John 70 Williams, Henry, Virginia 147, 149 Wit, Humor 257 Wheelock Academy 21 Wolcott, Jo Lu 159, 320 Working by Rule 162, 208, 264 Women's Miss. Soc. Oak Hill, 304; Synod 386 * * * * * CORRECTIONS Page 208, Line 22, read "pigpen," instead of "loghouse." Page 403, Line 9, read "1812." instead of "1892." End of Project Gutenberg's The Choctaw Freedmen, by Robert Elliott Flickinger

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:30.504778

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Produced by Jacqueline Jeremy and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) [Illustration: Cover] _THE STORY OF_ THE THREE BEARS. There were once three bears, who lived in a wood, Their porridge was thick, and their chairs and beds good. The biggest bear, Bruin, was surly and rough; His wife, Mrs. Bruin, was called Mammy Muff. Their son, Tiny-cub, was like Dame Goose's lad; He was not very good, nor yet very bad. Now Bruin, the biggest--the surly old bear-- Had a great granite bowl, and a cast-iron chair. Mammy Muffs bowl and chair you would no doubt prefer-- They were both made of brick-bats, but both suited her. Young Tiny-cub's bowl, chair, and bed were the best,-- This, big bears and baby bears freely confessed. Mr. B----, with his wife and his son, went one day To take a short stroll, and a visit to pay. He left the door open, "For," said he, "no doubt If our friend should call in, he will find us all out." It was only two miles from dark Hazel-nut Wood, In which the great house of the three Bruins stood, That there lived a young miss, daring, funny, and fair, And from having bright curls, she was called Goldenhair. She had roamed through the wood to see what she could see, And she saw going walking the Bruins all three. Said she to herself, "To rob bears is no sin; The three bears have gone out, so I think I'll go in." She entered their parlor, and she saw a great bowl, And in it a spoon like a hair-cutter's pole. "That porridge," said she "may stay long enough there, It tastes like the food of the surly old bear," She tried Mammy Muff's, and she said, "Mrs. B----, I think your taste and my taste will never agree." Then she tried Tiny-Cub's bowl, and said, "This is nice; I will put in some salt, and of bread a thick slice." The porridge she eat soon made her so great, The chair that she sat on broke down with her weight; The bottom fell out, and she cried in dismay, "This is Tiny-cub's chair, and oh, what will he say? His papa is, I know, the most savage of bears,-- His mamma is a fury; but for her who cares? I'm sure I do not; and then, as for her son, That young bear, Tiny-cub--from him shall I run? No, not I, indeed; but I will not sit here-- I shall next break the floor through--that's what I most fear;" So up-stairs she ran, and there three beds she found She looked under each one, and she looked all around; But no one she saw, so she got into bed-- It was surly old Bruin's, and well stuffed with lead. Mammy Muffs next she tried; it was stuffed with round stones, So she got into Tiny-cub's and rested her bones. Goldenhair was asleep when the three bears came in. Said Big Bruin, "I'm hungry--to eat, let's begin-- WHO HAS BEEN TO MY PORRIDGE?" he roared with such might; His voice was like wind down the chimney at night. "WHO HAS BEEN TO MY PORRIDGE?" growled out Mrs. B----; Her voice was like cats fighting up in a tree. "WHO HAS BEEN TO MY PORRIDGE AND EATEN IT ALL?" Young Tiny-cub said, in a voice very small, "WHO HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY GREAT ARM CHAIR?" In voice like a thunder-storm, roared the big bear. "WHO HAS BEEN SITTING IN MY GOOD ARM CHAIR?" Growled out Mammy Muff, like a sow in despair. "WHO HAS SAT IN MY NICE CHAIR, AND BROKEN IT DOWN?" Young Tiny-cub said, and so fierce was his frown, That his mother with pride to his father said, "There! See our pet Tiny-cub can look just like a bear," So roaring, and growling, and frowning, the bears, One after the other, came running up-stairs. "WHO HAS BEEN UPON MY BED?" old Bruin roared out, In a voice just like rain down a large water-spout. "WHO HAS BEEN UPON MY BED?" growled out Mammy Muff, In a voice like her husband's, but not quite so rough. "WHO IS LYING ON MY BED?" said young Tiny-Cub, In a voice like hot water poured into a tub. And Tiny-cub's breath was so hot as he spoke, That Goldenhair dreamt of hot water, and woke. She opened her eyes, and she saw the three bears, And said, "Let me go, please, I'll soon run down stairs." But big Bruin was angry, and shouted out, "No! You had no right to come hither, and now you shan't go. What we mean to do with you, ere long you shall find; You can lie there and cry till I make up my mind." To Mammy and Tiny then did big Bruin roar, "Go and block up the chimney and nail up the door; This Goldenhair now has got into a scrape, And if I can help it, she shall not escape." But Goldenhair saw that a window was there, (It was always kept open to let in fresh air), So she jumped out of bed--to the window she ran, Saying "Three bears, good-bye! Catch me now if you can!" To the window the bears ran as fast as they could, But Goldenhair flew like the wind through the wood. She said the bears' breath had filled her with steam, But when she grew older she said 'twas a dream, And no doubt she was right to take such a view; Still, some part of the story is certainly true, For unto this day there is no one who dares, To say that there never existed THREE BEARS. [Illustration: THE BEAR, WITH HIS WIFE AND SON, TAKES A WALK.] [Illustration: GOLDENHAIR EATS UP TINY-CUB'S PORRIDGE.] [Illustration: GOLDENHAIR BREAKS THE BOTTOM OUT OF TINY-CUB'S CHAIR.] [Illustration: THE BEARS COME HOME AND FIND THEIR PORRIDGE ALL GONE.] [Illustration: THE BEARS FIND GOLDENHAIR ASLEEP IN TINY-CUB'S BED.] [Illustration: GOLDENHAIR JUMPS OUT OF THE WINDOW.] * * * * * NEW PICTURE BOOKS FOR LITTLE CHILDREN. ANCIENT ILLUMINATED RHYMES. TEN CENTS EACH. Gorgeously Illuminated after the Mediæval manner, in Colors and Gold, with Music Complete. The Little Market Woman. Sing a Song of Sixpence. Little Bo-Peep. Simple Simon. _The above Four Books, handsomely bound in one Volume, cloth. PRICE, 75 Cts._ Four Nursery Rhymes. {Jack and Jill. {The Little Man and his Little Gun. The Carrion Crow. Mother Hubbard and her Dog. _The above Four Books, handsomely bound in one Volume, cloth. PRICE, 75 Cts._ * * * * * FAMILIAR STORIES TEN CENTS EACH. Small Quarto. Six Full-page Pictures, with Black Back-grounds, in the best style of Color Printing. THREE BEARS. TOM THUMB. TIT, TINY, AND TITTENS. THREE GOOD FRIENDS. COCK ROBIN. MOTHER HUBBARD'S DOG. THREE LITTLE KITTENS. FOUR-FOOTED FRIENDS. * * * * * LITTLE FOLKS' SERIES. TEN CENTS EACH. Imperial 16mo. Six Full-page Pictures, in the best style of Color Printing with the determination of having them better than any yet published. The Five Little Pigs. Old Mother Goose. Old Woman who lived in a Shoe. The Three Bears. Dame Trot and her Cat. Jack and the Bean-Stalk. Sing a Song of Sixpence. Story of Three Little Pigs. Babes in the Wood. Diamonds and Toads. My First Alphabet. Little Bo-Peep. * * * * * _McLOUGHLIN BROS., PUBLISHERS, New York._

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:30.569376

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Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England Stephen Grattan's Faith, A Canadian Story, by Margaret M Robertson. ________________________________________________________________________ This book was transcribed with acknowledgements to Early Canadiana Online from their website. The scans available there were of good quality, and the transcription went easily and well. The book warns against the effects of the Demon Drink, at least at that time, for it appears that wages were low but that alcohol was expensive, so that a drunkard father could easily ruin the life of his wife and children, and perhaps cause serious, even fatal, accidents, due to violence or causing fires from a carelessly placed candle. There are three families involved in this short book. The Morelys, where the father is a drunkard who runs out of job and money just as a very severe winter is coming on; the Grattans, where the father had previously been a drunkard, and all of whose children had perished in a house-fire which he probably had caused; the Muirs, where the old mother had been married to a dreadful old drunkard, but whose son had never drunk, and so proved, through Stephen Grattan's recommendation, to be Morely's saviour. It is a very short book, but the story is very well told, and quite adequately so. You arrive at the end of the book with a very clear idea of what the author intended to convey. ________________________________________________________________________ STEPHEN GRATTAN'S FAITH, A CANADIAN STORY, BY MARGARET M ROBERTSON. CHAPTER ONE. AN OLD STORY. Stephen Grattan had been a drunkard, and was now a reformed man. John Morely had been a drunkard, and was trying to reform. His father, though not a total abstainer, had lived and died a temperate man. But John Morely was not like his father. He had in him, the neighbours said, "the makings" of a better or a worse man than ever his father had been; and when, after his mother's death, the young builder brought home the pretty and good Alice Lambton as his wife, a "better man" they all declared he was to be; for they believed that now he would not be in danger from his one temptation. But as his business increased, his temptation increased. He was an intelligent man, and a good fellow besides; and his society was much sought after by men who were lovers of pleasure. Some of them were men who occupied a higher position than his; and, flattered by their notice, he yielded to the temptations which they placed before him. He did not yield without a struggle. He sinned, and repented, and promised amendment often and often; but still he went away again, "like an ox to the slaughter; like a fool to the correction of the stocks." Of course ruin and disgrace were the only ending to such a life as this. There was but one chance for him, they told his wife, who, through poverty, neglect, and shame, had still hoped against hope. If he could be made to break away from his old companions, if he could begin anew, and start fair in life again, he might retrieve the past. It almost broke her heart to think of leaving their native land--of leaving behind all hope of ever seeing again her father or her mother, or the home among the hills where her happy girlhood had passed. But, for _his_ sake, for the sake of the hope that gleamed in the future, she could do it. So, with their six little children, they removed from the States to Montreal in Canada, to begin again. At first he struggled bravely with his temptation, though it everywhere met him; but, added to the old wretched craving for strong drink, was the misery of finding himself in a strange land without friends or a good name. If some kind hand had been held out to him at this time it might have been different with him. He might, with help, have stood firm against temptation. But, before work came, he had yielded to his old enemy; and his acknowledged skill as a workman availed him little, when, after days of absence, he would come to his work with a pallid face and trembling hands. I have no heart to enter into the sad details of the family life at this time. It is enough to say that the miseries of Alice Morely's former home were renewed and deepened now. Here she was friendless. Here she could not fall back on the farm-house, as a home to some of her little ones "when the worst should come to the worst" with them. She struggled through some unhappy months, and then they moved again and came to Littleton, and there the same tale was told over again, with even more bitter emphasis, and then something happened. It was something very terrible. Their child most tenderly cared for, the dearest one of all to his father's-heart,--a sickly little lad of seven,--was injured severely, fatally injured, in one of his fits of drunkenness. It was quite by accident. John would have given his own life gladly to save the little moaning creature; but the child never recovered. He died with his little wasted cheek laid close against his father's, and his arms clasped round his neck. There was not much said about it. No one but Stephen Grattan and his wife, who were very kind to them in their troubles, ever knew that any accident had happened to the child. Things went better with them for a while. John got work, and took his family to a little log-house a mile or two from the village; and Alice began to hope that the better days so much longed for were coming now. But then came sickness, and then work failed, and--there was no help for it--the husband must go in search of it, that he might get bread for his starving family. So, with heavy hearts, they bade one another good-bye. The wife stayed with her children in the little log-house on the hill, while the husband went away alone. He was very wretched. The thirst for strong drink, which he had begun to think was allayed, came upon him in all its strength, in the double misery of parting with his family, and going away knowing that he left his wife with more fear than hope in her heart with regard to him. How could she hope that he would resist temptation,--he who had yielded to it so many times? Physically and morally he felt himself unfit for the battle that lay before him; and there was no one to help him--no one who cared to help him--he said bitterly to himself, as one after another passed by him without word or look. It did not help him to know that the fault was altogether his own. It was all the worse to bear for that. He had had his chance in life, and lost it. What was the use of struggling for what could never be regained? If it were not for the wife and babies at home! And yet might it not be better even for them if they never were to see him more? He had come down from his log-house on the hill with a few articles of wearing apparel made up into a bundle, had bought and paid for a cask of flour to be sent up to his family, and was now wandering about in a sad desponding state of mind when Stephen Grattan met him. Stephen spoke a few cheery words of comfort and courage to the poor broken-spirited fellow, begged him to be steadfast in his newly-begun purpose of reformation, and told him of the loving Saviour who would give him all needful help; who, if he looked to Him, would give him the grace of His Holy Spirit to enable him to overcome in the hour of temptation. Morely having thanked him heartily for his kindness, asked him to see that Smith at the provision shop sent up the flour to his wife next day, or the family would be in want of food. This Stephen readily promised to do, and added that he would look after them whilst he was away. The cheery words of his friend gave him a ray of hope and courage for a while. But when Stephen left him at the corner of the street, it was with a heavy heart that he took his way to the hotel from which the stage was to start. The public room into which Morely stepped was large and lofty and brilliantly lighted. There were plenty of respectable people there at that moment. There was not the same temptation here as at the low tavern at which he had so often degraded himself below the level of the beast. There was the bar, to be sure, with its shining array of decanters and glasses. But the respectable landlord, the gentlemanly bar-keeper, would never put the cup to his lips, or taunt him into treating others, for the sake of the "fool's pence," as Bigby, the low tavern-keeper, would have done. There were here no hidden corners where the night's debauch might be slept off, no secret chambers where deeds of iniquity might be planned and executed. No; it was a bright, clean, respectable house--altogether too respectable for such a shrinking, shivering figure, in such shabby garments as his, Morely thought. And the landlord evidently thought so too; for when he had told him that the stage had not yet arrived, and that it was quite uncertain when it might come, he looked so much as if he expected him to go, that Morely took up his bundle and went without a word. So Morely was turned out to wander up and down the street with his bundle in his hand; for he had nowhere else to go. It was not very cold, fortunately, he said to himself; but the snow was moist and penetrating, and his threadbare garments were but an insufficient protection against it. He went back once or twice within the hour to see if the stage had come. He watched at the door another hour, and then he was told that there had been an accident on the railway, and that if the stage came it would go no farther that night, so he had better not wait longer for it. But he did wait a little. He was chilled to the bone by this time, and he trembled and crouched over the fireplace, wondering vaguely what he should do next. The landlord was a kind-hearted man. He could not but pity the shivering wretch. He stirred up the fire and set him a chair, and would gladly have given him a mug of hot drink to revive him, but he dared not. It would be like putting fire to a heap of flax, he knew. John Morely might be a madman or a frozen corpse to-morrow if he drank a single glass to-night. Let him taste it once, and his power of refraining was gone. It was a pity, the landlord thought, and it made him uncomfortable for the moment; and in his discomfort he scolded and frowned, and walked about the room, till John Morely fancied he was the cause of it all, and again he took up his bundle to go. Where was he to go? Utterly faint and weary and sick at heart, he asked himself the question as he took his way down the encumbered street. The snow was still falling heavily, and he toiled slowly and painfully through it. Where could he go? Should he try to get to the station on foot? It would be madness to think of it. He could never reach home through the storm. With cold and weariness and want of food, he was ready to faint. He could not even get home. There were bright lights streaming from many a window along the village street; and no doubt there was warmth and plenty within. But there were no places open to him save those where the devil lay in wait for him; and he had not courage to face the devil then. He would be too much for him, weak and miserable as he was; and, for Alice's sake and the children's, he must keep out of harm's way. He looked about for a sheltered place, where he might sit down and rest a little. He thought of Grattan, and struggled on to his gate; but they were either at meeting, or they had come home and gone to bed; for the house was dark. There were few lights along the village street now. The snow was deeper, and he stumbled on blindly, not knowing whither. All at once a bright light flashed upon his dazzled eyes. It came from a low, wide door beyond the side-walk. He put out his hands blindly, feeling his way towards it, not daring to think where his wanderings had brought him, till mocking laughter startled him into the knowledge that he was once more at the mouth of that hell. He turned as though he would have fled; but he suffered himself to be drawn into the wretched tavern. I cannot tell what happened there that night. Just what happens, I suppose, to many a poor lost wretch every night in the year, in the dark places hidden away in lanes and back streets of our cities and towns. When Stephen Grattan went next morning to fulfil his promise to Morely he did not see Mr Smith; but the clerk told him it was all right--for he had himself helped to lift the barrel of flour onto the sled which was to take it away. No doubt it was all right. He did not tell Stephen--perhaps he did not know--that the barrel of flour had been taken away by the tavern-keeper in payment for drink, and that there was no chance of its ever reaching the little log-house on the hill. Stephen would have liked to go up to the cottage; but the storm still continued. The snow lay deep and unbroken on the road, and it would have been a dangerous walk. "Besides, I could not tell her truly that his courage was good--poor soul!--and without that I might as well stay at home." That worse news awaited them Stephen himself did not know as yet. CHAPTER TWO. A SNOW STORM. Perched on a hill-top overlooking the village of Littleton, stood the humble log-house in which the Morelys had taken refuge. It was on the other side of the river from the village, and was by the road full two miles distant. It had been a poor place when they took possession of it; and it was a poor place still--though Morely's skilful hands had greatly improved it. In summer it was a very pleasant place. Behind it lay a wide stretch of sloping pasture-land, and the forest crowned the hill. It was not a very fertile spot, to be sure. It was full of hillocks and hollows, and there were great rocks scattered here and there through it, and places where the underwood had sprung up again after the first clearing. Later, when the November rains fell, and the wind blew through the hollows, it was dreary enough. It needed the sunshine to make it bright. But the hill screened it from the bitter north; and it was with a thankful heart that poor Alice Morely looked forward to a safe and sheltered winter for her children. At the time when the merry boys and girls of Littleton were enjoying the last of the skating on the mill-pond, the little Morelys were watching the departure of their father for the distant city of Montreal. Their clothes looked scant and threadbare, and quite too thin for the season; but there was an air of cleanliness, and order about them which is rarely seen in connection with the poverty which comes of evil-doing. Only five gravely watched the retreating form of their father; the youngest--a babe of three months--lay in the cradle, and little Ben was in heaven. There was something more than gravity in the mother's face as she stood watching also,--something more even than the sadness that would naturally follow the separation from her husband. It was an unchanging look--not of pain exactly, but as if the face could not easily be made to express any pleasing emotion, such as hope or joy. She was a brave little woman. She had dared much, and borne much, for her husband's sake; she had accepted the sorrowful necessities of her lot with a patient courage which could not have been predicted of one whose girlhood had been so carefully sheltered from evil. Through all her troubles she had been strong to endure, and never, even in the worst times, had she quite lost faith in her husband. But as she saw him disappear round the turn of the hill, and then came out of the sunshine into the dimness of the deserted room, where her baby lay in his cradle, a sense of being utterly forsaken came over her, and for the moment she sank beneath it. The want to which her children might be soon exposed, the danger of temptation which she had so dreaded for her husband, and the bitter feeling of utter friendlessness and loneliness, overcame her. She did not hear her baby cry, nor did she see her little daughter's look of wonder and terror, as, with bitter weeping, she cast herself down, calling aloud upon her father and her mother. It was only for a moment. The child's terrified face recalled her to herself, and by a great effort she grew quiet again. Well might poor little Sophy look on with wonder and terror. She had seen many sorrowful sights, but never, even when they left their old home, or when little Ben died, had her mother given way like this. "What is the matter, mother? Are you ill? Speak to me, mother." But her mother had no power to speak; she could only lay herself down by her wailing baby, quite exhausted. Sophy took up the child, and cared for it and soothed it. She shut the door, to keep her brothers out of the room, and in a little while she said again-- "What is it, mother? Can I do anything?" "Yes, love; you must do all for me and your brothers. I am quite unfitted for anything to-night. If I can keep quiet, I shall be better to-morrow. Give me baby, and keep the boys out a little while. Oh! I must get strong again!" The house was quiet enough; the boys needed no bidding to stay out among the falling snow; and Sophy, having covered the window, that her mother might sleep, crept in behind the curtain to watch the snow-flakes. Before it grew dark the earth was white as far as the eye could see; the snow fell all night too, and when Sophy opened the door in the morning, it lay on the threshold as high as her waist. In the single glimpse of sunshine that flashed forth, how dazzling the earth looked! The fields around, the valleys beneath, the river, the pond, and the hills beyond, all were white. "How beautiful!" she repeated many times. It was a little troublesome, too, she was willing to acknowledge by the time she had gone backward and forward through it to the spring for water, and to the wood-pile for wood, to last through the day. It was neither pleasant nor easy to do all that she had to do in the snow that morning; but little Sophy had a cheerful heart and a willing mind, and came in rosy and laughing, though a little breathless when all was done. She needed all her courage and cheerfulness, for her mother was quite unable to rise; and whatever was to be done either in the house or out of it, must be done by her to-day. "I am afraid the storm may prevent the coming of the things your father was to get for us," said her mother; "and, Sophy dear, you must make the best of the little we have till I am strong again." "Oh, mother, never fear; there's plenty," said the cheerful little Sophy. "There's some meal and flour, and some tea and bread, and-- that's all," she added, coming to a sudden stop. She had not been accustomed of late to a very well-stored pantry, yet even with her limited idea of abundance she was a little startled at the scantiness of the supply. "There's no use in vexing mother, though," said she to herself; "if the things don't come to-day, they will be sure to come to-morrow. There's enough till then if we take care." It snowed all the morning, but it cleared up a little in the afternoon; that is, there was every now and then a glimpse of sunshine as the hurrying clouds failed to overtake each other in the changing sky. Now and then, before it grew dark, down the shallow ravine where the road lay there came driving clouds of snow--tokens of the mountainous drifts that were to pile themselves up there before the storm should be over. How the wind raved round the little house all night, threatening, as it seemed to Alice Morely, to tear it down and scatter its fragments far and wide! The first sight the weary little Sophy saw in the morning was her mother's pale, anxious face looking down upon her. "How you sleep, child! I have been awake all night, expecting every moment that we should be blown away. It does not seem possible that the house can stand against this dreadful wind much longer." "It is much stronger now than when we came, mother dear," said Sophy; "it must have fallen long ago if the wind could blow it down. Go to bed again, mother, and I will bring your tea and take baby, and you shall rest." Mrs Morely had no choice but to lay down again. She was trembling with cold and nervous excitement, quite unable to sit up; and again Sophy was left to the guidance of their affairs, both within and without the house. This was a less easy matter to-day, for the boys were growing weary of being confined to the house, and the little ones were fretful, and it needed all their sister's skill and patience to keep them amused and happy. She did her very best. The daily reading of the Testament was lengthened out by questions and little stories, and then they sang the sweet Sabbath-school hymns, which tell the praises of Him who came to save sinners; and who in the greatness of His love died on the cross, that all who believe in Him might have everlasting life. So she kept them quiet while the weary mother sought a little rest: and thus the day wore on. But all through the reading and the singing and the talk, a vague fear kept crossing the little girl's mind. What if the things so confidently expected from the village should not come? Their little store of food was diminishing rapidly. What if their father had forgotten them? What if there was nothing awaiting them in the village? Oh, that was too dreadful to be thought of! But if there was food in the village for them, how was it to be brought to them through the drifted snow? She eagerly watched the window for some sign that the storm was abating. The snow that had seemed so beautiful at first filled her with a vague fear now; it no longer fell softly and silently; the wind bore it by in whirling masses, that hid the river and the pond and the changing sky, and then laid it down in the valleys and on the hill-sides, to lie there, Sophy knew, till April showers and sunshine should come to melt it away. It was vain to look for any one coming with the expected food. Except now and then in a momentary lull of the storm it was quite impossible to see a rod beyond the window, and these glimpses only served to show that they were, on one side at least, quite shut in by a mountainous drift. Yes, Sophy began to be quite afraid of the snow; tales that she had heard during her summer visits to the mountains came to her mind--how in a single night the valleys would be filled, and how whole flocks of sheep, and sometimes an unwary shepherd, had perished beneath it. She remembered how her grandfather had showed her a cottage where a mother and her children had been quite shut in for two nights and a day, till the neighbours had come to dig them out; and how a lad who had gone out for help before the storm was over had never come home again, but perished on the moor, and how they only found him in the spring time, when the snow melted and showed his dead face turned towards the sky. These things quite appalled her when she thought of venturing out in the storm. The little store of meal held out wonderfully; the bread was put aside for her mother--hidden, indeed, that no little brother, hungry and adventurous, might find it. That night the storm abated, but towards morning it grew bitterly cold, so cold that the little lads in their thin garments could not venture out to play at making roads in the snow, and they had to submit to another day's confinement. They went out a little towards afternoon, and came in again merry and hungry, and by no means satisfied with the scanty supper which their sister had prepared for them. CHAPTER THREE. HOME TRIALS. We could never tell you all that the poor mother suffered as she lay there day after day helpless among her children. Her own illness and helplessness was the last drop, which made her cup overflow. Gradually, as she lay there listening to the roaring of the storm, it became clear, to her how little she had come to trust to her husband's promises of reformation. It was to her own efforts she must trust for the support of herself and her children; her faith in him quite failed after so many hopes and disappointments; and now what was to become of them all? She was angry and bitter against herself, poor woman, because her hope of better days had quite perished. She called herself faithless, and said to herself that she did not deserve that it should go well with her husband, since she had ceased to believe in him and trust him; but, sick in body and sick at heart, she had no power, for the time at least, to rally. She prayed in her misery often and long, but it was to a God who seemed far away--a God who had apparently hidden His face from her. The third day was drawing to a close. Sophy gathered the children to their daily reading near their mother's bed, and, with great pains and patience, found and kept the place for them. John was ten, and a good reader--quite equal to Sophy herself, he thought; but Ned and little Will were only just beginning to be able to read with the rest, and their sister took all the pains in the world to improve them and to make them really care for the reading; and almost always, this hour was a very pleasant time. The lesson to-day was the fifth of Mark. "Now, boys, you must attend carefully," said Sophy, when they were seated; "because there are many wonderful things in the chapter. I read it last night by the firelight after you were all in bed; and I want each of you to tell me which part you think most wonderful. You must begin, Will, and then Ned; and then I'll read your verses over after you, so that you may understand them." For the two little lads could make but little of anything they read themselves as yet, though they listened with pleasure to the reading of their sister. And, besides, the double reading would help to pass the time and make her brothers contented in the house. Mrs Morely was beguiled from the indulgence of her own sad thoughts, first as she watched the little girl's grave, motherly ways with her brothers, and then by listening to the words they were reading. First, there was the story of the man who had his dwelling in the tombs. They read on slowly and gravely, Sophy reading each verse again, except when it was John's turn, till they came to the eighth, "For He said unto him, Come out of the man, thou unclean spirit." "And of course he came out of him," exclaimed Sophy. "For Jesus can do anything--yes, anything. Think of the most difficult thing in the world--Jesus could do it, as easy as I can do this." And she stooped and touched her lips to little Will's brow. The children paused to think about it, and so did the mother. "Come out of him, thou unclean spirit." Was it true? Had the unclean spirit obeyed the voice of Jesus then, and was that voice less powerful now? Surely not. To her He seemed far away, and yet He was near. It came upon her, as it had never come before, how if ever her husband was saved it must be through God's power and grace. If ever her husband was to be saved from the love of strong drink, it must be through a Divine power that should cleanse him and keep him and dwell in him for ever. Even the power of the Holy Ghost, which could convert his heart, and make him "a new creature in Christ Jesus." "Sitting, and clothed, and in his right mind," spelt out little Will, slowly; and Sophy repeated, "clothed, and in his right mind." The mother's soul went up in an agony of prayer for her husband, that he might be saved from suffering and shame, and be found "in his right mind", "sitting at the feet of Jesus." "Surely He can do it! Surely He will do it! Oh, if I were not so faithless--so unworthy!" Still the reading went on, and she listened to the twenty-eighth verse: "For she said, If I may touch but His clothes, I shall be whole." "Lord, give me that poor woman's faith, that I may trust and be blessed as she was," she entreated, covering her face, that her children might not wonder at seeing her so moved. She seemed to see the Saviour now. She cast herself at His feet, "fearing and trembling." Surely He would say to her, as to that other, "Go in peace!" And still they read on, how Jesus went to the ruler's house, and how, having put the unbelieving people out, He took the maiden's hand, and cried, "I say unto thee, Arise. And straightway the damsel arose." "Of course she arose," said Sophy. "It made no matter that she was dead; because, you know, it was Jesus who said it. Think of all these wonderful things!" "Wonderful indeed! Oh, for faith! Lord, I believe; help Thou mine unbelief!" prayed the poor mother--her face still covered. Sophy thought she slept, and sent her little brothers out for a while, cold as it was, that she might be quiet; and then she went about the house, softly doing what was to be done. In a little while she brought in her mother's cup of tea; and, as the light fell on her face, she said, cheerfully, "Your sleep must have done you good, mother. You look better." "Something has done me good, I think, love," said her mother, kissing the little girl's upturned face. "You are looking pale and weary. I hope I shall soon be well now." "I hope so, mother,--not that I am tired; but it will be good to see you up again." Still it grew more bitterly cold. The nails and the boards of the old house cracked so often, and with such violence, that the children grew terrified lest it should fall upon them. As for Sophy, the thought that she ought to brave the bitter cold and all those mountainous drifts, never left her for a moment. She had been hoping all along that the expected food night come. But the fear of actual want was now drawing nearer every moment; and soon, she knew, she would have no choice but to go. That night she divided into two parts the small quantity of meal that remained. One part she put aside for the morning, and of the other she made for her brothers' supper some thin gruel, instead of their usual hearty porridge. The hungry little lads eyed with undisguised discontent the not very savoury mess; but, fortunately, the table was laid in the corner of the room most distant from their mother's bed, and their murmurs were unheard by her. "Now, boys, I have something to say to you," began Sophy, gravely. "There is not much supper; but you must be content with it. We shall be sure to have something more to-morrow. If the things don't come to-night, I shall go myself to the village to-morrow, to see what has become of them. At any rate, we must not fret mother about it. It will be all right to-morrow, you may be sure." She made quite merry over little Will's fears that the things might never come, and that they all might starve, as sometimes children did in books. She laughed at him, and made him laugh at himself. But, though Sophy spoke hopefully to her brothers, she had her own troubled thoughts to struggle with still. That was a long, long night to her, and to her mother too. Though Mrs Morely did not know how nearly they were at the end of their stores, she knew they could not last long; and the thought would come back, What if there was nothing awaiting them in the village? What if her husband had fallen again? She could not hope for immediate help from him, even if he were to hold firm after his arrival in Montreal and get immediate employment. How were the next few weeks to be got through? She thought and planned, till she grew weary and discouraged; but she never quite let go of the hope that had come to her through the children's reading in the afternoon. He who had cast out devils, He who had raised the dead, could He not also save her husband? He who had been merciful to the poor woman who trusted in Him, would He not be merciful to her? Was not His love unchanged, and were not His promises the same yesterday, and to-day, and for ever? She clung to the thoughts of the wonderful works of Jesus, going over and over them in her mind, turning the poor woman's words into prayer to suit her own case; and so the night wore away. Sophy slept now and then; but she might just as well have kept awake, for in her dreams she fancied she was lost in the snow, and that she was struggling on through it with the baby in her arms. The night seemed as long as a whole winter to her, she told her mother afterwards; but it came to an end at last. The first thing that Mrs Morely saw, on waking from a momentary slumber, was her little daughter taking a coverlet from the bed to fasten it over the low window. She must have fallen asleep again; for the next thing she saw was Sophy standing by her bed, with a cup of tea and a bit of toast in her hand. There was a small, bright fire on the hearth; but there was no other light in the room. It seemed early to her; but the children were all awake, and clamouring to be allowed to rise, notwithstanding their sister's entreaties that they would lie still till the room was warm. But little Harry was cold and hungry, and would not be persuaded; and at last he made a rush towards his mother's bed. In passing the window he caught hold of the coverlet that hung over it; and down it fell, and the bright sunlight streamed in. A cry of surprise, which soon changed to indignation, burst from the children. "Mother," exclaimed Sophy, entreatingly, "I did it to keep out the cold, and to make the day seem shorter." "But, dreary as the days are, surely the nights are drearier," said her mother, wonderingly. "Yes, mother; I know--but--" She paused. What could she say, but that she wished to keep the children asleep, because there was so little to give them when they awoke? She saw from her mother's face that she understood her reason, and she hastened to say, "I must go to the village, mother. It is no use waiting any longer. I ought to have gone yesterday. They have forgotten to send the things--or my father has forgotten to get them," she added to herself, with a sense of pain and shame. "I ought to have gone yesterday, mother," repeated Sophy, "but I was afraid of losing my way in the snow. I was foolish, I know, but I could not help thinking of the little lad you told us about once, who never came back." "We must do something," said her mother; "and I am afraid it would be impossible for me to go to the village myself. Surely the road must be opened by this time. Is it still as cold, do you think? You must take John with you. Two are better than one." "No; it is not so cold, I think," said Sophy. "And, dear mother, you are not to fret. We can go easily, and it will all come right, you'll see." And Sophy made a great pretence of hastening the dressing of her little brothers, that she might get their breakfast first and then hurry away. CHAPTER FOUR. HELP IN THE HOUR OF NEED. The breakfast was prepared and eaten, such as it was. Sophy made all things neat, and kept the baby while her mother dressed herself, and then she prepared for her walk to the village. But she was not to struggle through the snow that day. Just as she was bidding her good-bye, they were startled by the sound of voices quite near, and the boys rushed out in time to see a yoke of oxen plunging through the drift that rose like a wall before the door. The voice of Stephen Grattan fell like music on their ears. The things were come at last, and plenty of them. There were bags and bundles manifold, and a great round basket of Dolly Grattan's, well known to the little Morelys as capable of holding a great many good things, for it had been in their house before. "I don't know as you would speak to me, if you knew all, mother," said Stephen at last, approaching Mrs Morely, who was sitting by the fire with her baby in her arms. "You are all alive, I see,--at least the boys are. How is baby, and my little Sophy? Why, what ails the child?" He might well ask; for Sophy was lying limp and white across the baby's cot. Poor little Sophy! The reaction from those terrible fears--the doubt that her father had forgotten them, and the fear of what might become of them all--was too much for her, weakened as she was by anxiety and want of food. She had borne her burden well, but her strength failed her when it was lifted off. It was only for a moment. As Stephen lifted her on the bed, she opened her eyes, and smiled. "Mother, dear, it is nothing,--only I'm so glad." Her eyes closed again wearily. "That ain't just the way my folks show how glad they be," said Stephen, as she turned her face on her pillow to hide her happy tears. "She's hungry," said Ned, gravely. "There wasn't much; and she didn't eat any dinner yesterday--nor much supper." "Now I know you'll have nothing to say to me," said Stephen. "These things--the most of them, at least--might have been here, as well as not, the night your husband went away, if I had done my duty, as I promised." "Thank God!" she murmured as she grasped Stephen's hand. "He did not forget us. The rest is as nothing." "And," continued Stephen with a face which ought to have been radiant, but which was very far from that, "the very last word he said to me that night, when I bade him good-bye, was, `I'll hold on to the end.'" And, having said this, Stephen seemed to have nothing more to say. He betook himself to the preparation of dinner with a zeal and skill that put all Sophy's attempts to help him quite out of the question. How the dinner was enjoyed need not be told. Breakfast the boys called it, in scornful remembrance of the gruel. There were very bright faces round the table. The only face that had a shadow on it was Stephen's; and that only came when he thought no one was looking at him. He was in a great hurry to get away, too, it seemed. "For the roads are awful; and you may be thankful, little Sophy, that you hadn't to go to Littleton to-night. I started to bring the things on a hand-sled, but would never have got through the drifts if it hadn't a' been for Farmer Jackson and his oxen. Don't you try it yet a while. I'll be along again with Dolly one of these days." Stephen Grattan's face might have been brighter, as he turned to nod to the group of happy children watching his departure at the door of the log cottage. The "good-byes" and the "come agains" sent after him did make him smile a little, but only for a moment. The shadow fell darker and darker on his face, as he made his way through the scarcely-open road in the direction of the village. For Stephen's heart was very heavy, and with good cause. Sad as had been his first sight of the sorrowful mother and her children, he had seen a sadder sight that day. In the dim grey of the bitter morning he had caught a glimpse of a crouching, squalid figure hurrying with uncertain yet eager steps-- whither? His heart stood still as he asked himself the question, "To the foot-bridge over Deering Brook? To the gaping hole beyond?" Stephen Grattan had not what is called "a rapid mind." He was not bold to dare, nor strong to do. But in the single minute that passed before he found himself on Deering Bridge he realised all the miserable circumstances of Morely's fall, balanced the chances of life and death for the poor wretch, and took his own life in his hand for his sake. He knew that one more wicked deed had been added to the tavern-keeper's catalogue of sins,--that the children's bread had been stolen, and the father brutalised and then cast forth in the bitter cold, to live or die, it mattered little which. "To live, it must be," said Stephen; "at least for repentance--perhaps for a better life. He must be saved. But how?" Stephen could have touched him with his hand as he asked the question. Could he win him by persuasion and gentle words, or must he master him by force, and save him from the death on which he was rushing? Must he wrestle with the madman's temporary strength?--perhaps yield to it, and share his fate? If these two men knew just what happened, when, by a sudden movement of Stephen, they were brought face to face, they never spoke of it, even to each other. Dolly's brief "Thank God!" as she opened the door to let them in, was like heavenly music to Stephen's ear, he told her afterwards; but never, even to Dolly, would he go beyond the opening of the door in speaking of that day. After three terrible hours, Stephen left Morely in a troubled sleep, and set out for the log-house on the hill with the help so much needed. All the way there he had been going over the question in his mind whether or not he should tell Mrs Morely of her husband's situation. His first thought had been that she must not know it; but, seeing Morely as he had seen him for the last few hours, he feared to take upon himself the responsibility of concealment. Should his troubled sleep grow calm and continue, a few days' rest and care would suffice to place him where he was when he left home; but, otherwise, none could tell what the end might be. Weakened by illness, by want of food, and by his late excess, Stephen well knew the chances were against his recovery; and ought not his wife to be made aware of his situation? The first glance at Mrs Morely's pale face decided him. She must not know of this new misery that had befallen her husband, at least not now. So it was no wonder that Stephen turned towards home with a sad face and a heavy heart, knowing all this. He had not been so downcast for a long time. It broke his heart to think of poor Morely. Even the misery and destitution that seemed to lie before the poor wife and children were nothing to this; and, as he dragged himself through the heavy snow, panting and breathless, he was praying, as even good men cannot always pray, with an urgency that would take no denial, that this poor soul might have space for repentance,--that he might not be suffered to go down into endless death. He did not use many words. "Save him, Lord, for Thy Name's sake--for Thine own Name's sake, Lord!" These were nearly all. But his hand was on the hem of the Lord's garment. Hundreds of times the cry arose. Sometimes he spoke aloud in his agony, never knowing it, never seeing the wondering looks that followed him over the bridge and up the street to his own door. "Well, Dolly!" he said, faintly, going in. Dolly was never a woman of many words; she nodded her head towards the closed door and said, "A leetle quieter, if anything." "Thank God!" said Stephen, and the tears ran down his brown old face with a rush that he could not restrain. Dolly did not try to comfort him. She did better than that; she took from the stove a vessel containing soup, and having poured some into a basin and broken some bread into it, she set it before him, saying, "It's no wonder you feel miserable. Eat this." "Can I, do you suppose?" said Stephen. "You've got to!" said Dolly, taking such an attitude as a hen-sparrow might be supposed to assume should she see fit to threaten a barn-yard fowl. And he did eat it, every drop. "I feel better," he said, with a grateful sigh. "I expect so," said Dolly, briefly, as she removed the basin. It was Mrs Grattan's acknowledged "object in life," her recognised "mission," to provide her husband with "something good to eat." In the old days, when Stephen's reformation was new, she had many a time satisfied herself with a crust, that he might have food to strengthen him to resist the old fierce craving for stimulants, and thus doing, she helped, more than she knew, God's work of grace in him. "Did you tell the poor creetur?" she asked. Stephen shook his head, and told her of poor Mrs Morely's illness, and of all that had been happening at the little log-house during the days of the storm. "It seemed as though it was more than she could bear to hear: so I told her what he said to me the other night, and nothing at all of to-day." They were both silent for a while, thinking. It was a great responsibility for them to take thus to conceal Morely's situation from his wife, for it might be that he was in real danger. But it was not of this they were thinking. Even if he were not in danger--if, after a few days' nursing, they were able to send him to Montreal as though nothing had happened--their troubles would not be at an end. For they were very poor people. By the utmost economy they had been able, during the last five years, to buy and pay for the little house in which they lived; but they had nothing laid up for the future; and now that Littleton was growing to be a place of some importance, as the new railway was nearly completed to it, there were new shops of all kinds to be opened in it, and Stephen's business would be interfered with; for he could not make good boots and shoes as cheaply as other people could buy and sell poor ones, and his custom was dropping off. It would all come right in the end, he told Dolly; but in the meantime a hard winter might lie before them. CHAPTER FIVE. WORKING AND WAITING. So, as they sat there in silence, Dolly was thinking with some anxiety that they were making themselves responsible for all the food needed in the little log-house for the next two months at least, and Stephen was thinking the same. Dolly could see no possible way of doing this without putting themselves in debt, and there were few things that Dolly dreaded more. Stephen saw his way clear without the debt, but it was a way almost as much to be regretted as the running up of a long bill at Smith's would be. The little sum that he had collected with much effort, and kept with much self-denial, which was to purchase a supply of leather at the cheapest market in Montreal, must be appropriated to another purpose, for nothing but ready money would do now. Morely's expenses must be paid to Montreal, and, indeed, in Montreal till he could get employment; and the children must in the meantime be cared for as well; and therefore Stephen's leather must be purchased piece by piece as before; and how could he ever compete with the cheap shoe-shops that had taken away some of his customers already? His face took an anxious look, and so did Dolly's, till she caught sight of the wrinkles on her husband's forehead, and then she thought best to brighten up immediately. "It ain't best to worry about it," said she. "No, worry never helped nobody yet." said Stephen; but his face did not change. "And there's nothing we can do about it, to-day, but wait," continued his wife. "Nothing but wait--and pray," said Stephen, quietly. "If you could go to work now, you'd feel a sight better; but the noise--" and her voice sank into a whisper. "Yes; I promised young Clement that I should have little Teddy Lane's boots ready for him to-night," said Stephen. "It's too late now, I'm afraid; you'll have to keep all the doors shut for the noise," he added, going; and then he turned back to say in a whisper: "I wish I could have that Bigby in my hands for just two minutes? Eh, Dolly?" Dolly shook her head. "You might do him good," said she, gravely. "But then, again, you might not." It never came into these people's minds that they could shirk this care that had fallen on them. To keep Morely's fall a secret would save his wife from terrible grief and pain, and would give the poor broken man a better chance to retrieve the past; and kept from her it must be, at whatever cost and trouble to them. "For don't I remember how worse than death to me was my old man's falling back after my hopes were raised? The poor creetur shan't have this to bear, if I can help it," said Dolly to herself, as she went to Morely's door. "And don't I remember the hole of the pit from which I was drawn time and again by God's mercy?" said Stephen, as he sat down on his bench. "I'll do what I can; and when I can't do no more, then the Lord will put His hand to it Himself, I expect." It would not be well to enter the wretched man's room, or lift the curtain which hid from all but these kind people the next few miserable days. It was enough to say that, at their close, John Morely, weak as a child in mind and body, found himself with the old battle before him again. If he could have had his choice, he would have had it all end there. There was nothing but shame in looking backward--nothing but fear in looking forward. He was helpless and hopeless. Why had Stephen Grattan troubled himself to save him from deeper sin and longer misery? There was no help for him, he thought, in his utter despondency. As for Stephen, if his faith did not hold out for his friend now, no one would have guessed it from his prayers, or from his words of encouragement to Morely. According to him, it was the helpless and hopeless sort that the Lord came to save. He had done it before; He could do it again; and He would do it. "I've been a sight deeper down in this pit than ever you've been yet. But, down or up, it's all the same to Him that's got the pulling of you out. There's no up nor down, nor far nor near, to Him. `O ye of little faith, wherefore do ye doubt?' He's a-saying this to you now; and He's a-saying, too, `This kind goeth not out but by prayer and fasting.' But _He_ drove that kind out by a word, just as He drove all the rest. Hang onto His own word, John. He's said, time and again, that He'll save the man that trusts in Him; and don't you let go of that. You've been trying to be sober, and to get back your good name, for the wife's sake and the babies. You would give all the world to know again how it feels to be a free man. Just you give all that up. Seek to be the Lord's. His grace is all-sufficient. His strength will be made perfect in your weakness. If you're His, He'll keep you, and no mistake. Give all the rest up, and hang on to the Lord in simple faith. You can never do this thing of yourself; but the Lord'll give you the help of His grace, if you ask Him. I _know_, because I've tried Him." Whatever was said, it always ended thus: "You can do nothing of yourself; but with the Lord's help you can do all things. Hold fast to Him. Let your cry be, `Lord Jesus, save, or I perish.'" Poor Morely listened, and tried to hope. If ever he was saved from the power of his foe, the Lord must surely do it, he felt, for he could do nothing; and, in a blind, weak way, he did strive to put his trust in God. When the time came that he was well enough to go away, Stephen would fain have gone with him, to encourage him and stand by him till he could get something to do. But this could not be. They lived by his daily labour, and his business had been neglected of late, through his care for his friend; and he could only write to a friend of his, praying him to interest himself in Morely's behalf. His letter, written out word for word, just as he sent it, would very likely excite laughter. But it answered the end for which it was sent. It awoke in another true heart sympathy for the poor desponding Morely; it strengthened another kind hand to labour in his behalf. So he did not find himself homeless and friendless in the streets of a great city, as he had been before. In Montreal a welcome awaited him, and a home; and something like hope once more sprang up in Morely's heart, as he heard his new friend's cheerful words and responded to the warm grasp of his hand. Stephen and his wife saw hard times after Morely went away. And yet not so very hard, either, seeing they were endured for a friend. They never said to each other that the times were hard. There were no more suppers or breakfasts of thin gruel at the little log-house on the hill. In a few days after his first memorable visit, Stephen Grattan was there again, and again Farmer Jackson's oxen called forth the wonder and admiration of the little Morelys. For Stephen, as he took great pains to explain to Mrs Morely, had taken advantage of the opportunity afforded by the return of the farmer's empty sled, to bring up the barrel of flour and the bag of meal that ought to have been sent up the very night her husband went away. There were fish, too, and meat, and some other things, and a piece of spare-rib, which, Stephen acknowledged, his Dolly had been saving for some good purpose all through the winter. And Stephen brought something for which Mrs Morely was more grateful than even for the spare-rib. He brought an offer of needle-work from a lady in the town who had many little children. The lady, it seemed, had a strange prejudice against sewing-machines, and in favour of skilful fingers, for the doing of fine white work. This did much to restore the mother's health and peace of mind; and a letter that came from her husband about this time did more. Not that it was a very hopeful letter. He said little, except that he had got work, and that he hoped soon to be able to send much more than the trifle he enclosed. But, though he did not say in words that he had withstood all temptation, yet at the very end he said, "Pray for me, Alice, that I may be strong to stand." And her heart leaped with joy, as she said to herself, "He did not need to ask me to do that." And yet she was really more glad to be asked that than for all the letter and the enclosure besides. CHAPTER SIX. A LIFE HISTORY. And so the winter wore away. January, February, March, passed; and when April came in there were only here and there, on the hillocks, bits of bare ground to tell that the spring was coming. "And to think that all my father's fields are sown and growing green by this time--and the violets and the primroses out in all the dales!" said Mrs Morely, with a sudden rush of homesick tears. Mrs Grattan was with her, paying a long day's visit; for they had been all the morning talking cheerfully of many things. "Our winter is long," she said. "Oh, so long and dreary!" sighed Mrs Morely. "No, you must not think me discontented and unthankful," she added, meeting Mrs Grattan's grave looks. "Only a little homesick now and then. If I were sure that all was well with--" She hesitated. "`I will trust, and not be afraid,'" said Mrs Grattan, softly. They had not spoken much to one another about their troubles,--these two women. Mrs Morely's reserve, even at the time of little Ben's death, had never given way so far as to permit her to speak of her husband's faults and her own trials. And Mrs Grattan's sympathy, though deep, had been silent--expressed by deeds rather than by words. She knew well how full of fear for her husband the poor wife's heart had been all the winter; but she could not approach the subject until she herself introduced it. "`I will trust, and not be afraid,'" said Mrs Morely, repeating her friend's words. "I can do naught else; and not always that." "`Lord, increase our faith!'" murmured Dolly. There was a pause, during which Mrs Morely went about, busy with some household matter. When she sat down again, she said: "You must not think I am pining for home. If I were sure that it is well with my husband, nothing else would matter." "You have good hope that it is well with him," said Mrs Grattan. "Oh, I do not know. I cannot tell. I can only leave him in God's hand." But she did not speak very hopefully. "And surely there's no better thing to do for him than that," said Mrs Grattan. "I know it. But I have hoped so many times, and so few of the poor souls who have gone so far astray as he has done come back to a better life. I fear no more than I hope." There was a long pause after that, and then, in a voice that seemed quite changed, Mrs Grattan said, "I never told you about Stephen and me, did I?" "No. I know that you have had some great trouble in your life, like mine--indeed, your husband has told me that: that is all I know." "Well, it's not to be spoken of often. But, just to show what the Lord can do when He sets out to save a poor creature to the uttermost, I will tell you what He has done for Stephen and me. It must be told in few words, though. It shakes me to go back to those days. "We were born in Vermont--as good a State as any to be born and brought up in. It was quite a country place we lived in. My father was a farmer--a grave, quiet man. My mother was never very strong; and I was the only one spared to them of five children. We lived a very quiet, humble sort of life; but, if ever folks lived contented and happy, we did. "Stephen was one of many children--too many for them all to get a living on their little stony farm; and his father sent his boys off as soon as they were able to go, and Stephen, who was the second son, was sent to learn the shoemaker's trade in Weston, about twenty miles away. "We had kept company, Stephen and me--as boys and girls will, you know-- before he went; and it went on all the time he was learning his trade, whenever he came home on a visit. When his time was out, he stayed on as a journeyman in the same place; but he fell into bad hands, I suppose, for it began to come out through the neighbours, who saw him there sometimes, that he wasn't doing as he ought to do; and when my father heard from them that they had seen him more than once the worse for liquor, he would let him have nothing more to say to me. "You will scarcely understand just how it seemed to our folks. There was hardly a man who tasted liquor in all our town in those days. To have been betrayed into taking too much just once would have been to lose one's character; and when my father heard of Stephen's being seen a good many times when he was not able to take care of himself, it seemed to him that it was a desperate case. I think he would as lief have laid me down in the graveyard beside my little brothers, as have thought of giving me to Stephen then. "I didn't know how much I thought of him till there was an end put to his coming to our house. I believe I grew to care more about him when other folks turned against him. Not that I ever thought hard of my father: I knew he was right, and I didn't mean to let him see that I was worrying; but he did see it, and when Stephen came home and worked, sometimes at his trade and sometimes on his father's farm, a year quite steady, he felt every day more and more like giving it up, and taking him into favour again. He never said so, but I am sure my mother thought so, and sometimes I did too. "My mother died that fall, and we had a dreadful still, lonesome winter--my father and me; and when after a while Stephen came to see me, as he used to do, my father didn't seem to mind. And pretty soon Stephen took courage and asked the old man for me. He said that I would be the saving of him, and that we would always stay with him in his old age--which came on him fast after my mother died. So, what with one thing and what with another, he was wrought on to consent to our marriage: but I do believe it was the thought of helping to save a soul from death, that did more than all the rest to bring him round. "Things went well with us for a while--for more than two years--nearly three; but then one day Stephen went to Weston, and got into trouble; and the worst was, having begun, he couldn't stop. It was a miserable time. My father lost faith in Stephen after that, and Stephen lost faith in himself, and he got restless and uneasy, and it was a dreadful cross to him to have to stay at father's, knowing that he wasn't trusted and depended on as he used to be. And I suppose it was a cross to father to have him there; for when I spoke of going away, though he said it would break his heart to part from me, his only child, he said, too, that it would not do to part husband and wife, and perhaps it would be better to try it, for a while at least. So we went to live in Weston, and Stephen worked at his trade. "Then father married again. He was an old man, and it never would have happened if I could have stayed with him. But what could he do? He couldn't stay alone. The woman he married was a widow with children, and I knew there never would be room for me at home any more. "We had a sad time at Weston. I had always lived on a farm, and, though Weston wasn't much of a place then, it seemed dreadful close and shut-up and dismal to me. I was homesick and miserable there, and maybe I didn't do all I might have done to make things pleasant for Stephen, and help to keep him straight. It was a dreadful time for him, and for me too. "Well, after a while our children were born--twin boys. Stephen was always tender-hearted over all little children; and over his own--I couldn't tell you what he was. It did seem then as though, if he could get a fair start and begin again, he might do better, for his children's sake. So, when I got well, I made up my mind that I would ask a little help from father, and we'd go west. "I knew I never could go home to stay now. But, when I saw the old place for the last time, I thought my heart would break. It wasn't much of a place. There were only a few stony fields of pasture-land, and a few narrow meadows; but, oh, I thought, if my babies had only been born when we were in that safe, quiet place, it might have been so different! And my father was so feeble and old, and helpless-like, I could not bear to think of going so far away that I could never hope to see him again. "But there was no help for it. It would give Stephen another chance; and so, with the little help my father could give us, we went out west and settled. "So we left the old life quite behind, and began again. We had a hard time, but no harder than people generally have who go to a new country. Stephen kept up good courage, and stuck to his work; and I helped him all I could; and if I was sometimes a little discouraged and homesick, he never guessed it. And I never _was_ much of either; for I was busy always, and there was my babies--" Dolly's voice broke into a shrill wail as she spoke the word, and she sat with her face hidden a little while before she could go on again. CHAPTER SEVEN. WAITING FOR NEWS. "Well, the time went by till our children were two years old--not, to be sure, without some trouble, but still we got along, and I was never without the hope that better days were coming. About that time we got some new neighbours; but it was a dark day for us,--the day that Sam Healy came and took a place near us. They were kind folks enough, and I don't think the man began by wishing to do my Stephen harm. He could drink and stop when he wanted to--at least, so he said; but Stephen couldn't, and I was never sure of him after the Healys came. "They came in the fall and a dreary winter followed their coming; but when spring opened things began to mend with us. I did what I could to help Stephen, and kept by him in the field. There wasn't much to do within doors. There was only one room in the house, and a bed and table and a bench or two was all the furniture we had; but we might have been well and happy there till now, if we had been let alone. "So, having but little to do in the house, as I said, I helped what I could in the field. I used to take my boys out and let them play about on the warm ground while I planted or hoed; and in this way I got Stephen home many a time when he would have gone over to Healy's, or some of the neighbours, if it hadn't been for carrying the babies home. Not that they needed carrying, for they were strong, hearty lads; but they were fond of their father, and a ride on his shoulders was their great pleasure. And he was always good to them when he was himself; and I kept them out of the way as much as I could at other times. "We got along somehow, on into the summer. Healy's wife was a kind woman enough, but she had been brought up different to me; and it worried me so to have Stephen hanging round there that I hadn't much to say to her any way. I suppose this vexed her, for she was lonesome, and didn't know what to do with herself; and I used to think she put her husband up to being more friendly with Stephen on that account: I mean, partly because she was lonesome, and partly because she saw his being there worried me. I suffered everything, that summer, in my mind. It was the old Weston days over again, only worse. It was so lonesome. I had no one to look to, nowhere to turn. It wouldn't have been so if Stephen had been all right. With him and my boys well, I would have asked for nothing more. "Sunday was worst. I used to think I was a Christian then; but I didn't take all the comfort in my religion that I might have done; and Sunday was a long day. There was no meeting to go to. We had been too well brought up to think of working in the fields, as the Healys and others of the neighbours did; and the day was long--longer to Stephen than to me. I used to read and sing to him and the babies; and if we got through the day without his straying off to Healy's or some of the neighbours, I was happy. He might by chance come home sober on other nights, but on Sunday--never; and it was like death to me to see him go. "Well, one Sunday afternoon Healy sent for him. Some folks had come from a settlement farther up the lake, and they wanted Stephen for some reason or other--I can't tell what, now--and me too, if I would come, the boy said who brought the message. But I wouldn't go, and did my best to keep Stephen at home, till he got vexed, and went away, at last, without a pleasant word. "Oh! what a long day that was! The children played about very quietly by themselves, and I sat with my head upon my hands, thinking some, praying a little, and murmuring a great deal. I can shut my eyes now, and see myself sitting there so miserable, and the little boys playing about, so hushed and quiet. I can see the little green patch of vegetables, and the cornfield, and the roof of Healy's house beyond, and the blue smoke rising up so straight and still, and on the other side the prairie, and the gleam of the lake-water far away. I never hear the crickets on a summer afternoon but I think of that day, so bright and warm and still. Oh, how long it seemed to me! "The children grew tired, and I put them to bed when I could keep them up no longer; and then I went and waited on the doorstep till I grew chilly and sick in the dew; and then I went in. I did not mean to go to sleep, though I sat down on the floor and laid my head on the pillow of my boys' low bed; but I was tired with the week's work, and more tired with the day's waiting, and I did drop off. I could not have slept very long. I woke in a fright from a dream I had, and the room was filled with smoke; and when I made my way to the door and opened it the flames burst out, and I saw my husband lying on the bed. He had come in, though I had not heard him. God alone knows how the fire happened. I don't know, and Stephen don't know, to this day. "I tried my best to wake him; but I could not. What with liquor, and what with the smoke, he was stupefied. I dragged him out and dashed water on him, and then went back for my boys. I don't know what happened then. I have a dream, sometimes, of holding a little body, and being held back when the blazing roof fell in; and then, they say, I went mad. "I don't know how long the time was after that before I saw my husband. I have a remembrance of long nights, troubled by dreams of fire and the crying out of little children; and then of seeing kind faces about me, and of long, quiet days; and then they took me to my husband. He was ill, and cried out for me in his fever; and they took me to him, fearing for us both. "He did not know me at first. I had been a young woman when we lived together on the prairie; but when I went back to him my hair was as white as it is to-day. He was changed too--oh, how changed and broken! He needed me, and I stayed and nursed him till he got well. I was weak in mind, and couldn't remember everything that had happened for a while; but I grew stronger, and it all came back; and then, oh, how I pitied him! There was no room in my heart for blame when I saw how he blamed himself; and we did the best we could to comfort one another. "Then we said we'd begin again. We came away here to Canada, because we thought it was almost the end of the earth, and nobody would be likely to find us who had known us before. "And here the Lord met us and cared for us and comforted us. And I'm not afraid now. Stephen's safe now in His keeping and His loving-kindness--oh, how good!" The last words were uttered brokenly and with an effort, and Mrs Grattan leaned back in her chair pale and faint. Mrs Morely leaned over her, and her tears fell fast on the hands which she clasped in hers. "It shakes me to go back to those old days," said Mrs Grattan, faintly. "You must let me lie down, so as I shall get over it before my husband comes along. It worries him dreadfully to see me bad. It won't last long. I shall be better soon." She was but a little creature, thin and light, and, though Mrs Morely was not strong; she lifted her in her arms and laid her on the bed; and as the poor little woman covered her face and turned it to the wall, she sat down beside her to take the lesson of her story to herself. Surely the grace that had changed Stephen Grattan and given him rest from his enemy could avail for her husband too. "`I will trust, and not be afraid!'" she murmured; and, with her hand clasping the hand of this woman who had suffered so much and was healed now, Mrs Morely had faith given her to touch the hem of the Great Healer's garment; and in the silence, broken only by the prayer-laden sighs of the two women, she seemed to hear a voice saying to her, "Go in peace." There were no sorrowful faces waiting the coming of Stephen in the little log-house that night. The little lads met him with shouts of welcome halfway down the hill, and when he came into the house there was Sophy busy with her tea-cakes, and Mrs Morely sewing her never-failing white seam, and Dolly was dancing the baby on her lap, and singing a song which brought the prairie, and their home there, and the long summer Sabbaths to his mind, and a sudden shadow to his face. Mrs Morely's face showed that her heart was lightened. "You look bright to-night, sister," said Stephen, greeting her in his quaint way; "have you heard good news?" "I am waiting for good news," said Mrs Morely, with a quiver in her voice. "They never wait in vain who wait for Him," said Stephen, looking a little wistfully from one to the other, as though he would fain hear more. But there was no time. Little Sophy's face was growing anxious; for her tea-cakes were in danger of being spoiled by the delay, and there was time to think of nothing else when they appeared. "Have you had a good time, Dolly?" asked Stephen, as they went down the hill together in the moonlight, when the evening's frost had made the roads fit to walk on again. "A good time, Stephen--a very good time," said Dolly, brightly. "I think that poor soul has renewed her strength; and, indeed I think so have I. Yes, dear, I've had a very good time to-day." CHAPTER EIGHT. JOHN MORELY'S FRIEND. In the meantime, John Morely was fighting his battle over again. He left the house of Stephen Grattan a humbled man, without strength, without courage, hardly daring to hope for victory over a foe which he knew waited only for a solitary desponding hour to assail him. The dread and terror that fell upon him when he found himself homeless and friendless in the streets of Montreal cannot be told. Feeling deeply his own degradation, it seemed to him that even the chance eyes that rested on him as he passed by must see it too, and despise him; and he hurried on through the bitter cold, eager only to get out of sight. He had not forgotten Stephen Grattan's letter; but he said to himself that it would be time enough to present it when he had found work and a settled place of abode. But now, weary in mind and in body, and nearly benumbed with the cold, when he found himself in the neighbourhood of the great hardware establishment in which Stephen's friend was employed, he determined to deliver it at once. Stephen had prepared his friend Muir beforehand for Morely's coming. He had written to him how "the Lord had most surely given him this brand to pluck from the burning,--this poor soul to save from the roaring lion that goeth about seeking whom he may devour;" and, reading it, his friend never doubted that Stephen's words were the words of Stephen's Master; and from the moment that Morely stood before him, pale and weary, and shivering with the cold, he looked upon himself as indeed his brother's keeper. Muir took him to his home that night; and when he saw how weak he was, how little able to struggle by himself against his enemy, he kept him there; for he knew all the dangers which might beset him in most of the places where he might be able to find a temporary home. From that time, for the next few months, all things were ordered there with reference to Morely. It was a poor place enough, for Muir's wages were not large; but it was neat and comfortable. His mother was his housekeeper,--a querulous old body, with feeble health, one who little needed any additional burden of household care. But when she knew that in a poor home, far away, a mother of little children was waiting, hoping and praying for the well-doing of this man whom her son had set his heart on helping, she did what she could to help him too. That is, she fretted a little at "her Sam" for thus thoughtlessly adding to her cares, and murmured a little when, giving up his own room to Morely, he betook himself to the garret; but all the same she was putting herself about, and doing her best to make the stranger feel at home with them. None knew better than she how much help was needed; for thirty of the threescore years she had lived had been made anxious, and many of them wretched, by the same enslaving power that had its grasp on Morely. Her husband had lived a drunkard's life; and that he had not died a drunkard's death was owing to the fact that excess had left him helpless and bedridden for years, a burden on his wife and son. To save another woman from the misery of such a life as hers had been, was a good work to help in; and she gave herself to it, in her weak, complaining way, as entirely and as successfully as did her son. As for Sam, many things united to make this labour of love not a light one to him. He looked upon himself as a rising man, as indeed he was, in a small way. He had entered the employment of the great firm of Steel and Ironside as errand-boy, and had gradually risen to occupy a situation of trust. Topham, the head clerk, kept the key of the safes where the books and papers of the firm were stored; but to him was entrusted the key of the great establishment itself; and there was no reason--at least, he saw none--why he might not one day stand in Topham's place. Nay, he might even be a partner: why not? The present chief of the firm had, long ago, been errand-boy in such an establishment; and it really did not seem to him to be presumptuous to suppose that, some time hence, he might be a merchant too, as well as Mr Steel. By dint of constant and earnest attendance at evening schools, and no less constant and earnest efforts at home, he had learned a great deal that would help him in his career. With all his good qualities of mind and heart, he was a little vain: nay, it may be said of him at this time of his life that he was very vain. His boyhood had lasted more years than boyhood generally does. Hard times, the force of circumstances, his father's evil life, had kept him down till lately; and he was now, at twenty-three, going through all the feverish little attacks with regard to dress and appearance, and other personal considerations, that sensible boys usually get over before they are eighteen. He liked to be seen walking with the clerks of the establishment, who considered themselves a step above him in the social ladder, and took pleasure in the success he had enjoyed of late in the frequent evening entertainments given among his friends. Yet, in spite of this weakness, he was a true Christian, not in name, but in reality--one who knew himself to have been bought at an infinite price; and, knowing this, he realised something of the value of the poor soul whom he might help to save from the ruin that threatened him, and he knew himself to be honoured in that he was permitted to do so great a work. But being, as has been said, vain and, in a small way, ambitious, it did come into his mind that to have such a man as this Morely living in his house--a man who could not be trusted to take care of himself, a man who in his best days was only, as he thought, a common workman, earning daily wages by the labour of his hand,--if did come into his mind that all this would not help him in his upward social way. To be seen in his company, to walk with him in the streets, to make the poor man's interests his own, to care for him and watch over him as he must do if he was really to help to save him, to win him to live a new life-- might--indeed, must--place him in circumstances not to be desired-- awkward and uncomfortable, as far as some of his friends were concerned. Being, as we said, a Christian, and having a sincere, true heart, he did not hesitate because of all this; but being vain, and in some things foolish, his labour of love, which could in no case have been light, was made all the heavier. This was only a first experience. Afterwards all this went out of his mind, as if it had never been there. He gave himself to the work with a devotion that was worthy of the holy cause. What one man may do to save another, Samuel Muir did for John Morely. Holidays were rare and precious to him at this time; but he devoted more than one that fell to him in going here and there with him in search of work; and when work was found, he spoke of him to the employers and to the workmen in words that none but the utterly debased could hear in vain, entreating them that they would not make the work of reform more difficult to the poor broken man by placing temptation in his way. Many a morning and evening when he had little time or strength to spare from his own duties, he went far out of his way to see him past temptation, at times when he knew that the agony of desire was strong upon him, and that left to himself he must fall. Many a pleasant invitation he refused at such times, rather than leave the poor homesick wretch to get through the long, dreary evening alone. Sometimes--not often, however--he beguiled him into some quiet pleasure-taking out of the house, to while away the time. Having given up his own room for the garret, he now gave up his garret--a matter of greater self-denial--to share his own room with Morely, that the garret might be made a place for evening work. He purchased, at the price of some self-denial in the way of outward adornment, a set of tools for the finer sort of cabinet-work; and in the long winter evenings applied himself to learn to use them, that his friend might have something to do in teaching him. It would take long to tell all the ways in which this young man carried on the labour of love he had undertaken. He watched over him, cared for him, denied himself on his account, bore alike with his petulance and his despondency, sheltered him from temptation from without, strengthened him to resist temptation from within--in short, laboured, as in God's sight, to turn this sinner from the error of his way, to lead him in faith to the blood of Christ, which cleanseth from all sin; knowing that he was thus "striving to save a soul from death, and to hide a multitude of sins." Nor did he strive in vain. When months of temptation and struggle had passed, John Morely stood--not, perhaps, with his foe beneath his feet, but still on firm ground, a man who once more had confidence in himself, and in whom other men had confidence. CHAPTER NINE. RIGHT AT LAST. The twenty-fourth of May came on Saturday that year. It was to be a double holiday to the children in the little log-house on the hill; for their father had written a letter to say that, if it could possibly be managed, he should pass it with them. It need not be told what joyful news this was to them all. It was not unmingled joy to them all, however. Sophy had some anxieties, which she did her best to hide; but they showed in the wistful watching of her mother's looks, and in her gentle efforts to chase all clouds from her face. As for Mrs Morely, she had suffered so many disappointments that she hardly dared to hope now. And yet her hopes were stronger than her fears this time, and she and her little daughter helped and encouraged one another without ever speaking a word. The father was to come in the night-train of Friday, and go away in the night-train again, so that he might have two whole days at least at home; and early as the sun rises on the twenty-fourth of May, the little Morelys were up before him. The father came early, but not too early for the expectant children. The little lads met him far down the hill. They would have gone all the way to Littleton, only the bridge had been carried away by the sudden rise of the river when the ice broke up, and the mother would not trust so many of them to go over in the ferry-boat. Sophy waited at the garden-gate, with the baby in her arms, and her mother sat on the doorstep, pale and trembling, till the voices drew near and they all came in sight. "`Clothed, and in his right mind,'" she murmured, as her husband came with Will on his shoulder and little Harry in his arms,--oh! so different from him whose going away she had watched with such misgivings! It was the husband of her youth come back to her again; and she had much ado to keep back a great flood of joyful tears as she welcomed him home. As for Sophy, she never thought of keeping back her tears--she could not if she had tried ever so much--but clung sobbing to her father's neck in a way that startled him not a little. "What is it, Sophy? Are you not glad to see me?" he asked, after a time, when she grew quiet. "Oh, yes; she's glad," said Johnny. "That is her way of showing that she's glad. Don't you mind, mother, how she cried that day when Mr Grattan brought the things, just after father went away?" "She cried then because she was hungry," said the matter-of-fact Eddy. Sophy laughed, and kissed her father over and over again. Morely looked at his wife. There was something to be told, but not now. That must wait. Nor can all the pleasure of that day be told. The little log-house was like a palace in the eyes of Morely. Indeed, it would have been very nice in any one's eyes. The beds had been moved into the inner room, now that no fire was needed; and the large room, which was parlour and kitchen all in one, was as neat and clean as it could be made. It was bright, too, with flowers and evergreens and branches of cherry-blossom; and there were many comfortable and pretty things in it that Morely had never seen there before. They did not stay much in the house, however. Mr and Mrs Grattan came up in the afternoon, and with them one whom John Morely presented to his wife as the best friend she had in the world, after Grattan and his wife--his friend Samuel Muir. Knowing a little of what he had been to her husband all these months past, Mrs Morely welcomed him with smiles--and tears, too--and many a silent blessing: and if he had been the head of the firm--Steel and Ironside in one--he could not have been a more honoured guest. They sat out on the hill during most of the afternoon. The day was perfect. It was warm in the sun, but cool in the shadow of the evergreens. The maples and elms did not throw deep shadows yet, and the air was sweet and fresh and still. It was a very happy day to them all. To Samuel Muir it was a day never to be forgotten. Montreal is not a very great city. An hour's walk from the heart of it, in any direction, will bring one either to the river or to fields where wild flowers grow. But his life had been town life--and a very busy one; and to sit in the mild air, amid the sweet sounds and sweeter silence of the spring time, among all these happy children, was something wonderful to him. His constant anxious care for Morely all the winter had done much to make a man of him. His little weaknesses and vanities had fallen from him in the midst of his real work; and seeing the happy mother and her children, his heart filled with humble thankfulness to God, who had permitted him to help the husband and father to stand against his enemy. As for Stephen Grattan, the sight of his face was good that day. He did not say much, but sat looking out over the river, and the village, and the hills beyond, as though he was not seeing _them_, but something infinitely fairer. Now and then, as he gazed, his thoughts overflowed in words not his own: "As the mountains are round about Jerusalem, so the Lord is round about His people." "Ask and receive, that your joy may be full." And sometimes he sang Dolly's favourite chorus, repeating in queer, old, trembling strains,-- "His loving-kindness, oh, how good!" But he said little besides. Even Dolly spoke more than he that day, and with great pains drew out John Morely to tell how his prospects were brightening, and how since the first of May he had been foreman among his fellow-workmen, and how if things went moderately well with him he should have a better home than the little log-house for his wife and children before many months were over. "Not just yet, however," he said, looking with pleased eyes at the brown, healthy faces of the little lads. "No place I could put them in could make up to them for these open fields and this pure air. I think, Alice, they will be better here for a time." As for Alice, it did not seem to her that there was anything left for her to desire. Her heart was rejoicing over her husband with more than bridal joy,--her husband who had been "lost, and was found." On this first day of his coming home she suffered no trembling to mingle with it. She would not distrust the love which had "set her foot upon a rock, and put a new song in her mouth." "Mighty to save" should His name be to her and hers henceforth. The clouds might return again, but there were none in her sky to-day. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ Things went well with the Morelys after this. How it all came about, cannot be told here; but when the grand cut-stone piers of the new bridge were completed, it was John Morely who built the bridge itself,-- that is, he had the charge of building it, under the contractor to whom the work had been committed,--and it was built so quickly and so well that he never needed to go away from Littleton to seek employment again. The little Morelys have come to think of the days before that pleasant May-time as of a troubled dream. The first fall of the snow-flakes brings a shadow to Sophy's face still; but even Sophy has come to have only a vague belief in the troubles of that time. The little ones are never weary of hearing the story of that terrible winter storm: but Sophy never tells them--hardly acknowledges to herself, indeed--that there was something in those days harder to bear than hunger, or cold, or even the dread of the drifting snow. If after that first bright day of her husband's home-coming there mingled trembling with the joy of Mrs Morely, she is at rest now. Day by day, as the years have passed on, she has come to know that with him, as well as with herself, "Old things have passed away, and all things have become new;" and, in the blessed renewal of strength assured to those who wait upon the Lord, she knows that he is safe for evermore. As for Stephen Grattan, he has had a good many years of hard work since then, making strong, serviceable boots and shoes, and serving the Lord in other ways besides. He is ungrammatical still, and queer, and some people smile at him, and pretend to think lightly of him, even when he is most in earnest,--people who, in point of moral worth or heavenly power, are not worthy to tie his shoes. But many a "tempted poor soul" in Littleton and elsewhere has his feet upon a rock and a new song in his mouth because of Stephen's labours in his behalf; and if ever a man had the apostle's prayer for the Ephesians answered in his experience, he has; for he is "strong in the Lord, and in the power of His might." He is an old man now, whose "work of faith and labour of love" is almost over; and I never see him coming up the street, with his leather apron on, a little bowed and tottering, but always cheerful and bright, but I seem to hear the welcome, which cannot be very far before him now,--"Well done, good and faithful servant! Enter thou into the joy of thy Lord." End of Project Gutenberg's Stephen Grattan's Faith, by Margaret M. Robertson

project gutenberg

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Produced by David Widger “SURLY TIM.” A LANCASHIRE STORY. By Frances Hodgson Burnett Copyright, 1877 “Sorry to hear my fellow-workmen speak so disparagin' o' me? Well, Mester, that's as it may be yo' know. Happen my fellow-workmen ha' made a bit o' a mistake--happen what seems loike crustiness to them beant so much crustiness as summat else--happen I mought do my bit o' complainin' too. Yo' munnot trust aw yo' hear, Mester; that's aw I can say.” I looked at the man's bent face quite curiously, and, judging from its rather heavy but still not unprepossessing outline, I could not really call it a bad face, or even a sulky one. And yet both managers and hands had given me a bad account of Tim Hibblethwaite. “Surly Tim,” they called him, and each had something to say about his sullen disposition to silence, and his short answers. Not that he was accused of anything like misdemeanor, but he was “glum loike,” the factory people said, and “a surly fellow well deserving his name,” as the master of his room had told me. I had come to Lancashire to take the control of my father's spinning-factory a short time before, being anxious to do my best toward the hands, and, I often talked to one and another in a friendly way, so that I could the better understand their grievances and remedy them with justice to all parties concerned. So in conversing with men, women, and children, I gradually found out that Tim Hibblethwaite was in bad odor, and that he held himself doggedly aloof from all; and this was how, in the course of time, I came to speak to him about the matter, and the opening words of my story are the words of his answer. But they did not satisfy me by any means. I wanted to do the man justice myself, and see that justice was done to him by others; and then again when, after my curious look at him, he lifted his head from his work and drew the back of his hand across his warm face, I noticed that he gave his eyes a brush, and, glancing at him once more, I recognized the presence of a moisture in them. In my anxiety to conceal that I had noticed anything unusual, I am afraid I spoke to him quite hurriedly. I was a young man then, and by no means as self-possessed as I ought to have been. “I hope you won't misunderstand me, Hibblethwaite,” I said; “I don't mean to complain--indeed, I have nothing to complain of, for Foxley tells me you are the steadiest and most orderly hand he has under him; but the fact is, I should like to make friends with you all, and see that no one is treated badly. And somehow or other I found out that you were not disposed to feel friendly towards the rest, and I was sorry for it. But I suppose you have some reason of your own.” The man bent down over his work again, silent for a minute, to my discomfiture, but at last he spoke, almost huskily. “Thank yo', Mester,” he said; “yo're a koindly chap or yo' wouldn't ha' noticed. An' yo're not fur wrong either. I ha' reasons o' my own, tho' I'm loike to keep 'em to mysen most o' toimes. Th' fellows as throws their slurs on me would na understond 'em if I were loike to gab, which I never were. But happen th' toime 'll come when Surly Tim 'll tell his own tale, though I often think its loike it wunnot come till th' Day o' Judgment.” “I hope it will come before then,” I said, cheerfully. “I hope the time is not far away when we shall all understand you, Hibblethwaite. I think it has been misunderstanding so far which has separated you from the rest, and it cannot last always, you know.” But he shook his head--not after a surly fashion, but, as I thought, a trifle sadly or heavily--so I did not ask any more questions, or try to force the subject upon him. But I noticed him pretty closely as time went on, and the more I saw of him the more fully I was convinced that he was not so surly as people imagined. He never interfered with the most active of his enemies, nor made any reply when they taunted him, and more than once I saw him perform a silent, half-secret act of kindness. Once I caught him throwing half his dinner to a wretched little lad who had just come to the factory, and worked near him; and once again, as I was leaving the building on a rainy night, I came upon him on the stone steps at the door bending down with an almost pathetic clumsiness to pin the woolen shawl of a poor little mite, who, like so many others, worked with her shiftless father and mother to add to their weekly earnings. It was always the poorest and least cared for of the children whom he seemed to befriend, and very often I noticed that even when he was kindest, in his awkward man fashion, the little waifs were afraid of him, and showed their fear plainly. The factory was situated on the outskirts of a thriving country town near Manchester, and at the end of the lane that led from it to the more thickly populated part there was a path crossing a field to the pretty church and church-yard, and this path was a short cut homeward for me. Being so pretty and quiet the place had a sort of attraction for me; and I was in the habit of frequently passing through it on my way, partly because it was pretty and quiet, perhaps, and partly, I have no doubt, because I was inclined to be weak and melancholy at the time, my health being broken down under hard study. It so happened that in passing here one night, and glancing in among the graves and marble monuments as usual, I caught sight of a dark figure sitting upon a little mound under a tree and resting its head upon its hands, and in this sad-looking figure I recognized the muscular outline of my friend Surly Tim. He did not see me at first, and I was almost inclined to think it best to leave him alone; but as I half turned away he stirred with something like a faint moan, and then lifted his head and saw me standing in the bright, clear moonlight. “Who's theer?” he said. “Dost ta want owt?” “It is only Doncaster, Hibblethwaite,” I returned, as I sprang over the low stone wall to join him. “What is the matter, old fellow? I thought I heard you groan just now.” “Yo' mought ha' done, Mester,” he answered heavily. “Happen tha did. I dunnot know mysen. Nowts th' matter though, as I knows on, on'y I'm a bit out o' soarts.” He turned his head aside slightly and began to pull at the blades of grass on the mound, and all at once I saw that his hand was trembling nervously. It was almost three minutes before he spoke again. “That un belongs to me,” he said suddenly at last, pointing to a longer mound at his feet. “An' this little un,” signifying with an indescribable gesture the small one upon which he sat. “Poor fellow,” I said, “I see now.” “A little lad o' mine,” he said, slowly and tremulously. “A little lad o' mine an'--an' his mother.' “What!” I exclaimed, “I never knew that you were a married man, Tim.” He dropped his head upon his hand again, still pulling nervously at the grass with the other. “Th' law says I beant, Mester,” he answered in a painful, strained fashion. “I conna tell mysen what God-a'-moighty 'ud say about it.” “I don't understand,” I faltered; “you don't mean to say the poor girl never was your wife, Hibblethwaite.” “That's what th' law says,” slowly; “I thowt different mysen, an' so did th' poor lass. That's what's the matter, Mester; that's th' trouble.” The other nervous hand went up to his bent face for a minute and hid it, but I did not speak. There was so much of strange grief in his simple movement that I felt words would be out of place. It was not my dogged, inexplicable “hand” who was sitting before me in the bright moonlight on the baby's grave; it was a man with a hidden history of some tragic sorrow long kept secret in his homely breast,--perhaps a history very few of us could read aright. I would not question him, though I fancied he meant to explain himself. I knew that if he was willing to tell me the truth it was best that he should choose his own time for it, and so I let him alone. And before I had waited very long he broke the silence himself, as I had thought he would. “It wur welly about six year ago I comn here,” he said, “more or less, welly about six year. I wur a quiet chap then, Mester, an' had na many friends, but I had more than I ha' now. Happen I wur better nater'd, but just as loike I wur loigh-ter-hearted--but that's nowt to do wi' it. “I had na been here more than a week when theer comes a young woman to moind a loom i' th' next room to me, an' this young woman bein' pretty an' modest takes my fancy. She wur na loike th' rest o' the wenches--loud talkin' an' slattern i' her ways; she wur just quiet loike and nowt else. First time I seed her I says to mysen, 'Theer's a lass 'at's seed trouble;' an' somehow every toime I seed her afterward I says to mysen, 'Theer's a lass 'at's seed trouble.' It wur i' her eye--she had a soft loike brown eye, Mester--an' it wur i' her voice--her voice wur soft loike, too--I sometimes thowt it wur plain to be seed even i' her dress. If she'd been born a lady she'd ha' been one o' th' foine soart, an' as she'd been born a factory-lass she wur one o' th' foine soart still. So I took to watchin' her an' tryin' to mak' friends wi her, but I never had much luck wi' her till one neet I was goin' home through th' snow, and I seed her afore tighten' th' drift wi' nowt but a thin shawl over her head; so I goes up behind her an' I says to her, steady and respecful, so as she wouldna be feart, I says:-- “'Lass, let me see thee home. It's bad weather fur thee to be out in by thysen. Tak' my coat an' wrop thee up in it, an' tak' hold o' my arm an' let me help thee along.' “She looks up right straightforrad i' my face wi' her brown eyes, an' I tell yo' Mester, I wur glad I wur a honest man 'stead o' a rascal, fur them quiet eyes 'ud ha' fun me out afore I'd ha' done sayin' my say if I'd meant harm. “'Thank yo' kindly Mester Hibblethwaite,' she says, 'but dunnot tak' off tha' coat fur me; I'm doin' pretty nicely. It is Mester Hibblethwaite, beant it?' “'Aye, lass,' I answers, 'it's him. Mought I ax yo're name.' “'Aye, to be sure,' said she. 'My name's Rosanna--'Sanna Brent th' folk at th' mill alius ca's me. I work at th' loom i' th' next room to thine. I've seed thee often an' often.' “So we walks home to her lodgins, an' on the way we talks together friendly an' quiet loike, an th' more we talks th' more I sees she's had trouble an' by an' by--bein' on'y common workin' folk, we're straightforrad to each other in our plain way--it comes out what her trouble has been. “'Yo' p'raps wouldn't think I've been a married woman, Mester,' she says; 'but I ha', an' I wedded an' rued. I married a sojer when I wur a giddy young wench, four years ago, an' it wur th' worst thing as ever I did i' aw my days. He wur one o' yo're handsome, fastish chaps, an' he tired o' me as men o' his stripe alius do tire o' poor lasses, an' then he ill-treated me. He went to th' Crimea after we'n been wed a year, an' left me to shift fur mysen. An' I heard six month after he wur dead. He'd never writ back to me nor sent me no help, but I couldna think he wur dead till th' letter comn. He wur killed th' first month he wur out fightin' th' Rooshians. Poor fellow! Poor Phil! Th' Lord ha' mercy on him!' “That wur how I found out about her trouble, an' somehow it seemed to draw me to her, an' mak' me feel kindly to'ards her; 'twur so pitiful to hear her talk about th' rascal, so sorrowful an' gentle, an' not gi' him a real hard word for a' he'd done. But that's alius th' way wi' women folk--th' more yo' harry's them, th' more they'll pity yo' an' pray for yo'. Why she wurna more than twenty-two then, an' she must ha' been nowt but a slip o' a lass when they wur wed. “Hows'ever, Rosanna Brent an' me got to be good friends, an' we walked home together o' nights, an talked about our bits o' wage, an' our bits o' debt, an' th' way that wench 'ud keep me up i' spirits when I wur a bit down-hearted about owt, wur just a wonder. She wur so quiet an' steady, an' when she said owt she meant it, an' she never said too much or too little. Her brown eyes alius minded me o' my mother, though th' old woman deed when I were nobbut a little chap, but I never seed 'Sanna Brent smile th'out thinkin' o' how my mother looked when I wur kneelin' down sayin' my prayers after her. An' bein' as th' lass wur so dear to me, I made up my mind to ax her to be summat dearer. So once goin' home along wi' her, I takes hold o' her hand an' lifts it up an' kisses it gentle--as gentle an' wi' summat th' same feelin' as I'd kiss th' Good Book. “''Sanna,' I says, 'bein' as yo've had so much trouble wi' yo're first chance, would yo' be afeard to try a second? Could yo' trust a mon again? Such a mon as me, 'Sanna?' “'I wouldna be feart to trust thee, Tim,' she answers back soft an' gentle after a manner. 'I wouldna be feart to trust thee any time.' “I kisses her hand again, gentler still. “'God bless thee, lass,' I says. 'Does that mean yes?' “She crept up closer to me i' her sweet, quiet way. “'Aye, lad,' she answers. 'It means yes, an' I'll bide by it.' “'An' tha shalt never rue it, lass,' said I 'Tha's gi'en thy life to me, an' I'll gi' mine to thee, sure and true.' “So we wur axed i' th' church th' next Sunday, an' a month fro then we wur wed, an' if ever God's sun shone on a happy mon, it shone on one that day, when we come out o' church together--me and Rosanna--an' went to our bit o' a home to begin life again. I coujdna tell thee, Mester--theer beant no words to tell how happy an' peaceful we lived fur two year after that. My lass never altered her sweet ways, an' I just loved her to make up to her fur what had gone by. I thanked God-a'-moighty fur his blessing every day, and every day I prayed to be made worthy of it. An' here's just wheer I'd like to ax a question, Mester, about sum m at 'ats worretted me a good deal. I dunnot want to question th' Maker, but I would loike to know how it is 'at sometime it seems 'at we're clean forgot--as if He couldna fash hissen about our troubles, an' most loike left 'em to work out their-sens. Yo' see, Mester, an' we aw see sometime He thinks on us an' gi's us a lift, but hasna tha thysen seen times when tha stopt short an' axed thysen, 'Wheer's God-a'-moighty 'at he isna straighten things out a bit? Th' world's i' a power o' a snarl. Th' righteous is forsaken, 'n his seed's beggin' bread. An' th' devil's topmost agen.' I've talked to my lass about it sometimes, an' I dunnot think I meant harm, Mester, for I felt humble enough--an' when I talked, my lass she'd listen an' smile soft an' sorrowful, but she never gi' me but one answer. “'Tim,' she'd say, 'this is on'y th' skoo' an we're th' scholars, an' He's teachin' us his way. We munnot be loike th' children o' Israel i' th' Wilderness, an' turn away fro' th' cross 'cause o' th' Sarpent. We munnot say, “Theer's a snake:” we mun say, “Theer's th' Cross, an' th' Lord gi' it to us.” Th' teacher wouldna be o' much use, Tim, if th' scholars knew as much as he did, an' I allus think it's th' best to comfort mysen wi' sayin', “Th' Lord-a'-moighty, He knows.”' “An' she alius comforted me too when I wur worretted. Life looked smooth somewhow them three year. Happen th' Lord sent 'em to me to make up fur what wur comin'. “At th' eend o' th' first year th' child wur born, th' little lad here,” touching the turf with his hand, “'Wee Wattie' his mother ca'd him, an' he wur a fine, lightsome little chap. He filled th' whole house wi' music day in an' day out, crowin' an' crowin'--an' cryin' too sometime. But if ever yo're a feyther, Mester, yo'll find out 'at a baby's cry's music often enough, an' yo'll find, too, if yo' ever lose one, 'at yo'd give all yo'd getten just to hear even th' worst o' cryin'. Rosanna she couldna find i' her heart to set th' little un out o' her arms a minnit, an' she'd go about th' room wi' her eyes aw leeted up, an' her face bloomin' like a slip o' a girl's, an' if she laid him i' th' cradle her head 'ud be turnt o'er har shoulder aw th' time lookin' at him an' singin' bits o' sweet-soundin' foolish woman-folks' songs. I thowt then 'at them old nursery songs wur th' happiest music I ever heard, an' when 'Sanna sung 'em they minded me o' hymn-tunes. “Well, Mester, before th' spring wur out Wee Wat was toddlin' round holdin' to his mother's gown, an' by th' middle o' th' next he was cooin' like a dove, an' prattlin' words i' a voice like hers. His eyes wur big an' brown an' straightforrad like hers, an' his mouth was like hers, an' his curls wur the color o' a brown bee's back. Happen we set too much store by him, or happen it wur on'y th' Teacher again teachin' us his way, but hows'ever that wur, I came home one sunny mornin' fro' th' factory, an' my dear lass met me at th' door, all white an' cold, but tryin' hard to be brave an' help me to bear what she had to tell. “'Tim,' said she, 'th' Lord ha' sent us a trouble; but we can bear it together, conna we, dear lad?' “That wur aw, but I knew what it meant, though th' poor little lamb had been well enough when I kissed him last. “I went in an' saw him lyin' theer on his pillows strugglin' an' gaspin' in hard convulsions, an' I seed aw was over. An' in half an hour, just as th' sun crept across th' room an' touched his curls th' pretty little chap opens his eyes aw at once. “'Daddy!' he crows out. 'Sithee Dad--! an' he lift' hissen up, catches at th' floatin' sun shine, laughs at it, and fa's back--dead, Mester. “I've allus thowt 'at th' Lord-a'-moighty knew what He wur doin' when he gi' th' woman t' Adam i' th' Garden o' Eden. He knowed he wur nowt but a poor chap as couldna do fur hissen; an' I suppose that's th' reason he gi' th' woman th' strength to bear trouble when it comn. I'd ha' gi'en clean in if it hadna been fur my lass when th' little chap deed. I never tackledt owt i' aw my days 'at hurt me as heavy as losin' him did. I couldna abear th' sight o' his cradle, an' if ever I comn across any o' his bits o' playthings, I'd fa' to cryin' an' shakin' like a babby. I kept out o' th' way o' th' neebors' children even. I wasna like Rosanna. I couldna see quoite clear what th' Lord meant, an' I couldna help murmuring sad and heavy. That's just loike us men, Mester; just as if th' dear wench as had give him her life fur food day an' neet, hadna fur th' best reet o' th' two to be weak an' heavy-hearted. “But I getten welly over it at last, an' we was beginnin' to come round a bit an' look forrard to th' toime we'd see him agen 'stead o' luokin' back to th' toime we shut th' round bit of a face under th' coffin-lid. Th' day comn when we could bear to talk about him an' moind things he'd said an' tried to say i' his broken babby way. An' so we wur creepin' back again to th' old happy quiet, an' we had been for welly six month, when summat fresh come. I'll never forget it, Mester, th' neet it happened. I'd kissed Rosanna at th' door an' left her standin' theer when I went up to th' village to buy summat she wanted. It wur a bright moon light neet, just such a neet as this, an' th' lass had followed me out to see th' moonshine, it wur so bright an' clear; an' just before I starts she folds both her hands on my shoulder an' says, soft an' thoughtful:-- “'Tim, I wonder if th' little chap sees us?' “'I'd loike to know, dear lass,' I answers back. An' then she speaks again:-- “'Tim, I wonder if he'd know he was ours if he could see, or if he'd ha' forgot? He wur such a little fellow.' “Them wur th' last peaceful words I ever heerd her speak. I went up to th' village an' getten what she sent me fur, an' then I comn back. Th' moon wur shinin' as bright as ever, an' th' flowers i' her slip o' a garden wur aw sparklin' wi' dew. I seed 'em as I went up th' walk, an' I thowt again of what she'd said bout th' little lad. “She wasna outside, an' I couldna see a leet about th' house, but I heerd voices, so I walked straight in--into th' entry an' into th' kitchen, an' theer she wur, Mester--my poor wench, crouchin' down by th' table, hidin' her face i' her hands, an' close beside her wur a mon--a mon i' red sojer clothes. “My heart leaped into my throat, an' fur a min nit I hadna a word, fur I saw summat wui up, though I couldna tell what it wur. But at last my voice come back. “'Good evenin', Mester,' I says to him; 'I hope yo' ha'not broughten ill-news? What ails thee, dear lass?' “She stirs a little, an' gives a moan like a dyin' child; and then she lifts up her wan, brokenhearted face, an' stretches out both her hands to me. “'Tim,' she says, 'dunnot hate me, lad, dunnot. I thowt he wur dead long sin'. I thowt 'at th' Rooshans killed him an' I wur free, but I amna. I never wur. He never deed, Tim, an' theer he is--the mon as I wur wed to an' left by. God forgi' him, an' oh, God forgi' me!' “Theer, Mester, theer's a story fur thee. What dost ta' think o't? My poor lass wasna my wife at aw--th' little chap's mother wasna his feyther's wife, an' never had been. That theer worthless fellow as beat an' starved her an' left her to fight th' world alone, had comn back alive an' well, ready to begin agen. He could tak' her away fro' me any hour i' th' day, and I couldna say a word to bar him. Th' law said my wife--th' little dead lad's mother--belonged to him, body an' soul. Theer was no law to help us--it wur aw on his side. “Theer's no use o' goin' o'er aw we said to each other i' that dark room theer. I raved an' prayed an' pled wi' th' lass to let me carry her across th' seas, wheer I'd heerd tell theer was help fur such loike; but she pled back i' her broken, patient way that it wouldna be reet, an' happen it wur the Lord's will. She didna say much to th' sojer. I scarce heerd her speak to him more than once, when she axed him to let her go away by hersen. “'Tha conna want me now, Phil,' she said. 'Tha conna care fur me. Tha must know I'm more this mon's wife than thine. But I dunnot ax thee to gi' me to him because I know that wouldna be reet; I on'y ax thee to let me aloan. I'll go fur enough off an' never see him more.' “But th' villain held to her. If she didna come wi' him, he said, he'd ha' her up before th' court fur bigamy. I could ha' done murder then, Mester, an' I would ha' done if it hadna been for th' poor lass runnin' in betwixt us an' pleadin' wi' aw her might. If we'n been rich foak theer might ha' been some help fur her, at least; th' law might ha' been browt to mak' him leave her be, but bein' poor workin' foak theer wur on'y one thing: th' wife mun go wi' th' husband, an' theer th' husband stood--a scoundrel, cursin', wi' his black heart on his tongue. “'Well,' says th' lass at last, fair wearied out wi' grief, 'I'll go wi' thee, Phil, an' I'll do my best to please thee, but I wunnot promise to forget th' mon as has been true to me, an' has stood betwixt me an' th' world.' “Then she turned round to me. “'Tim,' she said to me, as if she wur haaf feart--aye, feart o' him, an' me standin' by. Three hours afore, th' law ud ha' let me mill any mon 'at feart her. 'Tim,' she says, 'surely he wunnot refuse to let us go together to th' little lad's grave--fur th' last time.' She didna speak to him but ti me, an' she spoke still an' strained as if she wui too heart-broke to be wild. Her face was as white as th' dead, but she didna cry, as ony other woman would ha' done. 'Come, Tim,' she said, 'he conna say no to that.' “An' so out we went 'thout another word, an' left th' black-hearted rascal behind, sittin' i' th' very room th' little un deed in. His cradle stood theer i' th' corner. We went out into th' moonlight 'thout speakin', an' we didna say a word until we come to this very place, Mester. “We stood here for a minute silent, an' then I sees her begin to shake, an' she throws hersen down on th' grass wi' her arms flung o'er th' grave, an' she cries out as if her death-wound had been give to her. “'Little lad,' she says, 'little lad, dost ta see thy mother? Canst na tha hear her callin' thee? Little lad, get nigh to th' Throne an' plead!' “I fell down beside o' th' poor crushed wench an' sobbed wi' her. I couldna comfort her, for wheer wur there any comfort for us? Theer wur none left--theer wur no hope. We was shamed an' broke down--our lives was lost. Th' past wur nowt--th' future wur worse. Oh, my poor lass, how hard she tried to pray--fur me, Mester--yes, fur me, as she lay theer wi' her arms round her dead babby's grave, an' her cheek on th' grass as grew o'er his breast. 'Lord God-a'-moighty, she says, 'help us--dunnot gi' us up--dunnot, dunnot. We conna do 'thowt thee now, if th' time ever wur when we could. Th' little chap mun be wi' thee, I moind th' bit o' comfort about getherin' th' lambs i' his bosom. An', Lord, if tha could spare him a minnit, send him down to us wi' a bit o' leet. Oh, Feyther! help th' poor lad here--help him. Let th' weight fa' on me, not on him. Just help th' poor lad to bear it. If ever I did owt as wur worthy i' thy sight, let that be my reward. Dear Lord-a'-moighty, I'd be willin' to gi' up a bit o' my own heavenly glory fur th' dear lad's sake.' “Well, Mester, she lay theer on th' grass pray in' an crying wild but gentle, fur nigh haaf an hour, an' then it seemed 'at she got quoite loike, an' she got up. Happen th' Lord had hearkened an' sent th' child--happen He had, fur when she getten up her face looked to me aw white an' shinin' i' th' clear moonlight. “'Sit down by me, dear lad,' she said, 'an' hold my hand a minnit.' I set down an' took hold of her hand, as she bid me. “'Tim,' she said, 'this wur why th' little chap deed. Dost na tha see now 'at th' Lord knew best?' “'Yes, lass,' I answers humble, an' lays my face on her hand, breakin' down again. “'Hush, dear lad,' she whispers, 'we hannot time fur that. I want to talk to thee. Wilta listen?' “'Yes, wife,' I says, an' I heerd her sob when I said it, but she catches hersen up again. “'I want thee to mak' me a promise,' said she. 'I want thee to promise never to forget what peace we ha' had. I want thee to remember it allus, an' to moind him 'at's dead, an' let his little hond howd thee back fro' sin an' hard thowts. I'll pray fur thee neet an' day, Tim, an' tha shalt pray fur me, an' happen theer'll come a leet. But if theer dunnot, dear lad--an' I dunnot see how theer could--if theer dunnot, an' we never see each other agen, I want thee to mak' me a promise that if tha sees th' little chap first tha'lt moind him o' me, and watch out wi' him nigh th' gate, and I'll promise thee that if I see him first, I'll moind him o' thee an' watch out true an' constant.' “I promised her, Mester, as yo' can guess, an' we kneeled down an' kissed th' grass, an' she took a bit o' th' sod to put i' her bosom. An' then we stood up an' looked at each other, an' at last she put her dear face on my breast an' kissed me, as she had done every neet sin' we were mon an' wife. “'Good-bye, dear lad,' she whispers--her voice aw broken. 'Doant come back to th' house till I'm gone. Good-bye, dear, dear, lad, an' God bless thee.' An' she slipped out o' my arms an' wur gone in a moment awmost before I could cry out. “Theer isna much more to tell, Mester--th' eend's comin' now, an' happen it'll shorten off th' story, so 'at it seems suddent to thee. But it were-na suddent to me. I lived alone here, an' worked, an' moinded my own business, an' answered no questions fur nigh about a year, hearin' nowt, an' seein' nowt, an' hopin' nowt, till one toime when th' daisies were blowin' on th' little grave here, theer come to me a letter fro' Manchester fro' one o' th' medical chaps i' th' hospital. It wur a short letter wi' prent on it, an' the moment I seed it I knowed summat wur up, an' I opened it tremblin'. Mester, theer wur a woman lyin' i' one o' th' wards dyin' o' some long-named heart-disease, an' she'd prayed 'em to send fur me, an' one o' th' young softhearted ones had writ me a line to let me know. “I started aw'most afore I'd finished readin' th' letter, an' when I getten to th' place I fun just what I knowed I should. I fun her--my wife--th' blessed lass, an' 'f I'd been an hour later I would-na ha' seen her alive, fur she were nigh past knowin' me then. “But I knelt down by th' bedside an' I plead wi' her as she lay theer, until I browt her back to th world again fur one moment. Her eyes flew wide open aw at onct, an' she seed me an' smiled, aw her dear face quiverin' i' death. “'Dear lad,' she whispered, 'th' path was na so long after aw. Th' Lord knew--He trod it hissen' onct, yo' know. I knowed tha'd come--I prayed so. I've reached th' very eend now, Tim, an' I shall see th' little lad first. But I wunnot forget my promise--no. I'll look out--fur thee--fur thee--at th' gate.' “An' her eyes shut slow an' quiet, an' I knowed she was dead. “Theer, Mester Doncaster, theer it aw is, fur theer she lies under th' daisies cloost by her child, fur I browt her here an' buried her. Th' fellow as come betwixt us had tortured her fur a while an' then left her again, I fun out--an' she wur so afeard of doin' me some harm that she wouldna come nigh me. It wur heart disease as killed her, th' medical chaps said, but I knowed better--it wur heart-break. That's aw. Sometimes I think o'er it till I conna stand it any longer, an' I'm fain to come here an' lay my hand on th' grass,--an' sometimes I ha' queer dreams about her. I had one last neet. I thowt 'at she comn to me aw at onct just as she used to look, on'y, wi' her white face shinin' loike a star, an' she says, 'Tim, th' path isna so long after aw--tha's come nigh to th' eend, an' me an' th' little chap is waitin'. He knows thee, dear lad, fur I've towt him.' “That's why I comn here to-neet, Mester; an' I believe that's why I've talked so free to thee. If I'm near th' eend I'd loike some one to know, I ha' meant no hurt when I seemed grum an' surly, It wurna ill-will, but a heavy heart.” He stopped here, and his head drooped upon his hands again, and for a minute or so there was another dead silence. Such a story as this needed no comment. I could make none. It seemed to me that the poor fellow's sore heart could bear none. At length he rose from the turf and stood up, looking out over the graves into the soft light beyond with a strange, wistful sadness. “Well, I mun go now,” he said slowly. “Good-neet, Mester, good-neet, an' thank yo' fur listenin'.” “Good night,” I returned, adding, in an impulse of pity that was almost a passion, “and God help you!” “Thank yo' again, Mester!” he said, and then turned away; and as I sat pondering I watched his heavy drooping figure threading its way among the dark mounds and white marble, and under the shadowy trees, and out into the path beyond. I did not sleep well that night. The strained, heavy tones of the man's voice were in my ears, and the homely yet tragic story seemed to weave itself into all my thoughts, and keep me from rest. I could not get it out of my mind. In consequence of this sleeplessness I was later than usual in going down to the factory, and when I arrived at the gates I found an unusual bustle there. Something out of the ordinary routine had plainly occurred, for the whole place was in confusion. There was a crowd of hands grouped about one corner of the yard, and as I came in a man ran against me, and showed me a terribly pale face. “I ax pardon, Mester Doncaster,” he said in a wild hurry, “but theer's an accident happened. One o' th' weavers is hurt bad, an' I'm goin' fur th' doctor. Th' loom caught an' crushed him afore we could stop it.” For some reason or other my heart misgave me that very moment. I pushed forward to the group in the yard corner, and made my way through it. A man was lying on a pile of coats in the middle of the by-standers,--a poor fellow crushed and torn and bruised, but lying quite quiet now, only for an occasional little moan, that was scarcely more than a quick gasp for breath. It was Surly Tim! “He's nigh th' eend o' it now!” said one of the hands pityingly. “He's nigh th' last now, poor chap! What's that he's savin', lads?” For all at once some flickering sense seemed to have caught at one of the speaker's words, and the wounded man stirred, murmuring faintly--but not to the watchers. Ah, no! to something far, far beyond their feeble human sight--to something in the broad Without. “Th' eend!” he said, “aye, this is th' eend, dear lass, an' th' path's aw shinin' or summat an--Why, lass, I can see thee plain, an' th' little chap too!” Another flutter of the breath, one slight movement of the mangled hand, and I bent down closer to the poor fellow--closer, because my eyes were so dimmed that I could not see. “Lads,” I said aloud a few seconds later, “you can do no more for him. His pain is over!” For with a sudden glow of light which shone upon the shortened path and the waiting figures of his child and its mother, Surly Tim's earthly trouble had ended.

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:30.581826

23325

Produced by David Widger “SETH” By Frances Hodgson Burnett Copyright, 1877 He came in one evening at sun set with the empty coal-train--his dull young face pale and heavy-eyed with weariness, his corduroy suit dusty and travel-stained, his worldly possessions tied up in the smallest of handkerchief bundles and slung upon the stick resting on his shoulder--and naturally his first appearance attracted some attention among the loungers about the shed dignified by the title of “dépôt.” I say “naturally,” because arrivals upon the trains to Black Creek were so scarce as to be regarded as curiosities; which again might be said to be natural. The line to the mines had been in existence two months, since the English company had taken them in hand and pushed the matter through with an energy startling to, and not exactly approved by, the majority of good East Tennesseeans. After the first week or so of arrivals--principally Welsh and English miners, with an occasional Irishman--the trains had returned daily to the Creek without a passenger; and accordingly this one created some trifling sensation. Not that his outward appearance was particularly interesting or suggestive of approaching excitement. He was only a lad of nineteen or twenty, in working English-cut garb, and with a short, awkward figure, and a troubled, homely face--a face so homely and troubled, in fact, that its half-bewildered look was almost pathetic. He advanced toward the shed hesitatingly, and touched his cap as if half in clumsy courtesy and half in timid appeal. “Mesters,” he said, “good-day to yo'.” The company bestirred themselves with one accord, and to the roughest and most laconic gave him a brief “Good-day.” “You're English,” said a good-natured Welshman, “ar'n't you, my lad?” “Ay, mester,” was the reply: “I'm fro' Lancashire.” He sat down on the edge of the rough platform, and laid his stick and bundle down in a slow, wearied fashion. “Fro' Lancashire,” he repeated in a voice as wearied as his action--“fro' th' Deepton coalmines theer. You'll know th' name on 'em, I ha' no doubt. Th' same company owns 'em as owns these.” “What!” said an outsider--“Langley an 'em?” The boy turned himself round and nodded. “Ay,” he answered--“them. That was why I comn here. I comn to get work fro'--fro' _him_.” He faltered in his speech oddly, and even reddened a little, at the same time rubbing his hands together with a nervousness which seemed habitual to him. “Mester Ed'ard, I mean,” he added--“th' young mester as is here. I heerd as he liked 'Merika, an'--an' I comn.” The loungers glanced at each other, and their glance did not mean high appreciation of the speaker's intellectual powers. There was a lack of practicalness in such faith in another man as expressed itself in the wistful, hesitant voice. “Did he say he'd give you work?” asked the first man who had questioned him, the Welshman Evans. “No. I dunnot think--I dunnot think he'd know me if he seed me. Theer wur so many on us.” Another exchange of glances, and then another question: “Where are you going to stay?” The homely face reddened more deeply, and the lad's eyes--dull, soft, almost womanish eyes--raised themselves to the speaker's. “Do yo' knew anybody as would be loikely to tak' me in a bit” he said, “until I ha' toime to earn th' wage to pay? I wouldna wrong no mon a penny as had trusted me.” There was manifest hesitation, and then some one spoke: “Lancashire Jack might.” “Mester,” said the lad to Evans, “would you moind speakin' a word fur me? I ha' had a long tramp, an' I'm fagged-loike, an'”--He stopped and rose from his seat with a hurried movement. “Who's that theer as is comin'?” he demanded. “Isna it th' young mester?” The some one in question was a young man on horseback, who at that moment turned the corner and rode toward the shed with a loose rein, allowing his horse to choose his own pace. “Ay,” said the lad with an actual tremor in his excited voice--“it's him, sure enow,” and sank back on his seat again as if he had found himself scarcely strong enough to stand. “I--I ha' not 'aten much fur two or three days,” he said to Evans. There was not a man on the platform who did not evince some degree of pleasure at the approach of the new-comer. The last warm rays of the sun, already sinking behind the mountains, seemed rather to take pride in showing what a debonair young fellow he was, in glowing kindly upon his handsome face and strong, graceful figure, and touching up to greater brightness his bright hair. The face was one to be remembered with a sentiment approaching gratitude for the mere existence of such genial and unspoiled good looks, but the voice that addressed the men was one to be loved, and loved without stint, it was so clear and light-hearted and frank. “Boys,” said he, “good-evening to you. Evans, if you could spare me a minute”-- Evans rose at once. “I'll speak to _him_,” he said to the lad at his side. “His word will go further with Lancashire Jack than mine would.” He went to the horse's side, and stood there for a few minutes talking in an undertone, and then he turned to the stranger and beckoned. “Come here,” he said. The lad took up his bundle and obeyed the summons, advancing with an awkward almost stumbling step, suggestive of actual weakness as well as the extremity of shyness. Reaching the two men, he touched his cap humbly, and stood with timorous eyes upraised to the young man's face. Langley met his glance with a somewhat puzzled look, which presently passed away in a light laugh. “I'm trying to remember who you are, my lad,” he said, “but I shall be obliged to give it up. I know your face, I think, but I have no recollection of your name. I dare say I have seen you often enough. You came from Deepton, Evans tells me.” “Ay, mester, fro' Deepton.” “A long journey for a lad like you to take alone,” with inward pity for the heavy face. “Ay, mester.” “And now you want work?” “If you please, mester.” “Well, well!” cheerily, “we will give it to you. There's work enough, though it isn't such as you had at Deepton. What is your name?” “Seth, mester--Seth Raynor,” shifting the stick and bundle in uneasy eagerness from one shoulder to another. “An' I'm used to hard work, mester. It wur na easy work we had at th' Deepton mine, an' I'm stronger than I look. It's th' faggedness as makes me trembly--an' hunger.” “Hunger?” “I ha' not tasted sin' th' neet afore last,” shamefacedly. “I hadna th' money to buy, an' it seemt loike I could howd out.” “Hold out!” echoed Langley in some excitement. “That's a poor business, my lad. Here, come with me. The other matter can wait, Evans.” The downcast face and ungainly figure troubled him in no slight degree as they moved off together, they seemed to express in some indescribable fashion so much of dull and patient pain, and they were so much at variance with the free grandeur of the scene surrounding them. It was as if a new element were introduced into the very air itself. Black Creek was too young yet to have known hunger or actual want of any kind. The wild things on the mountain sides had scarcely had time to learn to fear the invaders of their haunts or understand that they were to be driven backward. The warm wind was fragrant with the keen freshness of pine and cedar. Mountain and forest and sky were stronger than the human stragglers they closed around and shut out from the world. “We don't see anything like that in Lancashire,” said Langley. “That kind of thing is new to us, my lad, isn't it?” with a light gesture toward the mountain, in whose side the workers had burrowed. “Ay, mester,” raising troubled eyes to its grandeur--“iverything's new. I feel aw lost some-toimes, an' feared-loike.” Langley lifted his hat from his brow to meet a little passing breeze, and as it swept softly by he smiled in the enjoyment of its coolness. “Afraid?” he said. “I don't understand that.” “I dunnot see into it mysen', mester. Happen it's th' bigness, an' quiet, an' th' lonely look, an' happen it's summat wrong in mysen'. I've lived in th' cool an' smoke an/ crowd an' work so long as it troubles me in a manner to--to ha' to look so high.” “Does it?” said Langley, a few faint lines showing themselves on his forehead. “That's a queer fancy. So high!” turning his glance upward to where the tallest pine swayed its dark plume against the clear blue. “Well, so it is. But you will get used to it in time,” shaking off a rather unpleasant sensation. “Happen so, mester, in toime,” was the simple answer; and then silence fell upon them again. They had not very far to go. The houses of the miners--rough shanties hurriedly erected to supply immediate needs--were most of them congregated together, or at most stood at short distances from each other, the larger ones signifying the presence o£ feminine members in a family and perhaps two or three juvenile pioneers--the smaller ones being occupied by younger miners, who lived in couples, or sometimes even alone. Before one of the larger shanties Langley reined in his horse. “A Lancashire man lives here,” he said, “and I am going to leave you with him.” In answer to his summons a woman came to the door--a young woman whose rather unresponsive face wakened somewhat when she saw who waited. “Feyther,” she called out, “it's Mester Langley, an' he's getten a stranger wi' him.” “Feyther,” approaching the door, showed himself a burly individual, with traces of coal-dust in all comers not to be reached by hurried and not too fastidious ablutions. Clouds of tobacco-smoke preceded and followed him, and much stale incense from the fragrant weed exhaled itself from his well-worn corduroys. “I ha' not nivver seed him afore,” he remarked after a gruff by no means-ill-natured greeting, signifying the stranger by a duck of the head in his direction. “A Lancashire lad, Janner,” answered Langley, “I want a home for him.” Janner regarded him with evident interest, but shook his head dubiously. “Ax th' missus,” he remarked succinctly: “dunnot ax me.” Langley's good-humored laugh had a touch of conscious power in it. If it depended upon “th' missus” he was safe enough. His bright good looks and gay grace of manner never failed with the women. The most practical and uncompromising melted, however unwillingly, before his sunshine, and the suggestion of chivalric deference which seemed a second nature with him. So it was easy enough to parley with “th' missus.” “A Lancashire lad, Mrs. Janner,” he said, “and so I know you'll take care of him. Lancashire folk have a sort of fellow feeling for each other, you see; that was why I could not make up my mind to leave him until I saw him in good hands; and yours are good ones. Give him a square meal as soon as possible,” he added in a lower voice: “I will be accountable for him myself.” When he lifted his hat and rode away, the group watched him until he was almost out of sight, the general sentiment expressing itself in every countenance. “Theer's summat noice about that theer young chap,” Janner remarked with the slowness of a man who was rather mystified by the fascination under whose influence he found himself--“sum-mat as goes wi' th' grain loike.” “Ay,” answered his wife, “so theer is; an' its natur' too. Coom along in, lad,” to Seth, “an ha' summat to eat: yo' look faintish.” Black Creek found him a wonderfully quiet member of society, the lad Seth. He came and went to and from the mine with mechanical regularity, working with the rest, taking his meals with the Janners, and sleeping in a small shanty left vacant by the desertion of a young miner who had found life at the settlement too monotonous to suit his tastes. No new knowledge of his antecedents was arrived at. He had come “fro' Deepton,” and that was the beginning and end of the matter. In fact, his seemed to be a peculiarly silent nature. He was fond of being alone, and spent most of his spare time in the desolate little shanty. Attempts at conversation appeared to trouble him, it was discovered, and accordingly he was left to himself as not worth the cultivating. “Why does na' tha' talk more?” demanded Janner's daughter, who was a strong, brusque young woman, with a sharp tongue. “I ha' not gotten nowt to say,” was the meekly deprecating response. Miss Janner, regarding the humble face with some impatience, remarkably enough, found nothing to deride in it, though, being neither a beauty nor in her first bloom, and sharp of tongue, as I have said, she was somewhat given to derision as a rule. In truth, the uncomplaining patience in the dull, soft eyes made her feel a little uncomfortable. “I dunnot know what ails thee,” she remarked with unceremonious candor, “but theer's summat as does.” “It's nowt as can be cured,” said the lad, and turned his quiet face away. In his silent fashion he evinced a certain degree of partially for his host's daughter. Occasionally, after his meals, he lingered for a few moments watching her at her work when she was alone, sitting by the fire or near the door, and regarding her business-like movements with a wistful air of wonder and admiration. And yet so unobtrusive were these mute attentions that Bess Janner was never roused to any form of resentment of them. “Tha's goin' to ha' a sweetheart at last, my lass,” was one of Janner's favorite witticisms, but Bess bore it with characteristic coolness. “I'm noan as big a foo' as I look,” she would say, “an' I dunnot moind _him_ no more nor if he wus a wench hissen'.” Small as was the element of female society at Black Creek, this young woman was scarcely popular. She was neither fair nor fond: a predominance of muscle and a certain rough deftness of hand were her chief charms. Ordinary sentiment would have been thrown away upon her; and, fortunately, she was spared it. “She's noan hurt wi' good looks, our Bess,” her father remarked with graceful chivalrousness on more than one occasion, “but hoo con heave a'most as much as I con, an' that's summat.” Consequently, it did not seem likely that the feeling she had evidently awakened in the breast of their lodger was akin to the tender passion. “Am I in yo're way?” he would ask apologetically; and the answer was invariably a gracious if curt one: “No--no more than th' cat. Stay wheer yo' are, lad, an' make yo'resen' comfortable.” There came a change, however, in the nature of their intercourse, but this did not occur until the lad had been with them some three months. For several days he had been ailing and unlike himself. He had been even more silent than usual; he had eaten little, and lagged on his way to and from his work; he looked thinner, and his step was slow and uncertain. There was so great an alteration in him, in fact, that Bess softened toward him visibly. She secretly bestowed the best morsels upon him, and even went so far as to attempt conversation. “Let yo're work go a bit,” she advised: “yo're noan fit fur it.” But he did not give up until the third week of illness, and then one warm day at noon, Bess, at work in her kitchen among dishes and pans, was startled from her labors by his appearing at the door and staggering toward her. “What's up wi' yo'?” she demanded. “Yo' look loike death.” “I dunnot know,” he faltered, and then, staggering again, caught at her dress with feeble hands “Dunnot yo',” he whispered, sinking forward-- “dunnot yo' let no one--come anigh me.” She flung a strong arm around him, and saved him from a heavy fall. His head dropped helplessly against her breast. “He's fainted dead away,” she said: “he mun ha' been worse than he thowt fur.” She laid him down, and, loosening his clothes at the throat, went for water; but a few minutes after she had bent over him for the second time an exclamation, which was almost a cry, broke from' her. “Lord ha' mercy!” she said, and fell back, losing something of color herself. She had scarcely recovered herself even when, after prolonged efforts, she succeeded in restoring animation to the prostrate figure under her hands. The heavy eyes opening met hers in piteous appeal and protest. “I--thowt it wur death comn,” said the lad. “I wur hopin' as it wur death.” “What ha' yo' done as yo' need wish that?” said. Bess; and then, her voice shaking with excitement which got the better of her and forced her to reveal herself, she added, “I've fun' out that as yo've been hidin'.” Abrupt and unprefaced as her speech was, it scarcely produced the effect she had expected it would. Her charge neither flinched nor reddened. He laid a weak, rough hand upon her dress with a feebly pleading touch. “Dunnot yo' turn agen me,” he whispered: “yo' wouldna if yo' knew.” “But I dunnot know,” Bess answered, a trifle doggedly, despite her inward relentings. “I comn to yo',” persisted the lad, “because I thowt yo' wouldna turn agen me: yo' wouldna,” patiently again, “if yo' knew.” ***** Gradually the ponderous witticism in which Janner had indulged became an accepted joke in the settlement. Bess had fallen a victim to the tender sentiment at last. She had found an adorer, and had apparently succumbed to his importunities. Seth spent less time in his shanty and more in her society. He lingered in her vicinity on all possible occasions, and seemed to derive comfort from her mere presence. And Bess not only tolerated but encouraged him. Not that her manner was in the least degree effusive: she rather extended a rough protection to her admirer, and displayed a tendency to fight his battles and employ her sharper wit as a weapon in his behalf. “Yo' may get th' best o' him,” she said dryly once to the wit of the Creek, who had been jocular at his expense, “but yo' conna get th' best o' me. Try me a bit, lad. I'm better worth yo're mettle.” “What's takken yo', lass?” said her mother at another time. “Yo're that theer soft about th chap as theer's no makkin' yo' out. Yo' wur nivver loike to be soft afore,” somewhat testily. “An' it's noan his good looks, neyther.” “No,” said Bess--“it's noan his good looks.” “Happen it's his lack on 'em, then?” “Happen it is.” And there the discussion ended for want of material. There was one person, however, who did not join in the jesting; and this was Langley. When he began to understand the matter he regarded the two with sympathetic curiosity and interest. Why should not their primitive and uncouth love develop and form a tie to bind the homely lives together, and warm and brighten them? It may have been that his own mental condition at this time was such as would tend to often his heart, for an innocent passion, long cherished in its bud, had burst into its full blooming during the months he had spent amid the novel beauty and loneliness, and perhaps his new bliss subdued him somewhat. Always ready with a kindly word, he was specially ready with it where Seth was concerned. He never passed him without one, and frequently reined in his horse to speak to him at greater length. Now and then, on his way home at night, he stopped at the shanty's door, and summoning the lad detained him for a few minutes chatting in the odorous evening air. It was thoroughly in accordance with the impulses of his frank and generous nature that he should endeavor to win upon him and gain his confidence. “We are both Deepton men,” he would say, “and it is natural that we should be friends, We are both alone and a long way from home.” But the lad was always timid and slow of speech. His gratitude showed itself in ways enough, but it rarely took the form of words. Only, one night as the horse moved away, he laid his hand upon the bridle and held it a moment, some powerful emotion showing itself in his face, and lowering his voice until it was almost a whisper. “Mester,” he said, “if theer's ivver owt to be done as is hard an' loike to bring pain an' danger, yo'll--yo'll not forget me?” Langley looked down at him with a mingled feeling of warm pity and deep bewilderment. “Forget you?” he echoed. The dullness seemed to have dropped away from the commonplace face as if it had been a veil; the eyes were burning with a hungry pathos and fire and passion; they were raised to his and held him with the power of an indescribable anguish. “Dunnot forget as I'm here,” the voice growing sharp and intense, “ready an' eager an' waitin' fur th' toime to come. Let me do summat or brave summat or suffer summat, for God's sake!” When the young man rode away it was with a sense of weight and pain upon him. He was mystified. People were often grateful to him, but their gratitude was not such as this; this oppressed and disturbed him. It was suggestive of a mental condition whose existence seemed almost impossible. What a life this poor fellow must have led since the simplest kindliness aroused within him such emotion as this! “It is hard to understand,” he murmured; “it is even a little horrible. One fancies these duller natures do not reach our heights and depths of happiness and pain, and yet----Cathie, Cathie, my dear,” breaking off suddenly and turning his face upward to the broad free blue of the sky as he quickened his horse's pace, “let me think of _you_; this hurts me.” But he was drawn nearer to the boy, and did his best to cheer and help him. His interest in him grew as he saw him oftener, and there was not only the old interest, but a new one. Something in the lad's face--a something which had struck him as familiar even at first--began to haunt him constantly. He could not rid himself of the impression it left upon him, and yet he never found himself a shade nearer a solution of the mystery. “Raynor,” he said to him on one of the evenings when he had stopped before the shanty, “I wish I knew why your face troubles me so.” “Does it trouble yo', mester?” “Yes,” with a half laugh, “I think I may say it troubles me. I have tried to recollect every lad in Deepton, and I have no remembrance of you.” “Happen not, mester,” meekly. “I nivver wur much noticed, yo' see: I'm one o' them as foak is more loike to pass by.” An early train arriving next morning brought visitors to the Creek--a business-like elderly gentleman and his daughter, a pretty girl, with large bright eyes and an innocent rosy face, which became rosier and prettier than ever when Mr. Ed ward Langley advanced from the dépôt shed with uncovered head and extended hand. “Cathie!” he said, when the first greetings had been interchanged, “what a delight this is to me! I did not hope for such happiness as this.” “Father wanted to see the mines,” answered Cathie, sweetly demure, “and I--I wanted to see Black Creek; your letters were so enthusiastic.” “A day will suffice, I suppose?” her paternal parent was wandering on amiably. “A man should always investigate such matters for himself. I can see enough to satisfy me between now and the time for the return train.” “I cannot,” whispered Langley to Cathie: “a century would not suffice. If the sun would but stand still!” The lad Seth was late for dinner that day, and when he entered the house Bess turned from her dish-washing to give him a sharp, troubled look, “Art tha' ill again?” she asked. “Nay,” he answered, “nobbut a bit tired an heavy-loike.” He sat down upon the door-step with wearily-clasped hands, and eyes wandering toward the mountain, whose pine-crowned summit towered above him. He had not even yet outlived the awe of its majesty, but he had learned to love it and draw comfort from its beauty and strength. “Does tha' want thy dinner?” asked Bess. “No, thank yo',” he said; “I couldna eat.” The dish-washing was deserted incontinently, and Bess came to the door, towel in hand, her expression at once softened and shaded with discontent. “Summat's hurt yo',” she said. “What is it? Summat's hurt yo' sore.” The labor-roughened hands moved with their old nervous habit, and the answer came in an odd, jerky, half-connected way: “I dunnot know why it should ha' done. I mun be mad, or summat. I nivver had no hope nor nothin': theer nivver wur no reason why I should ha' had. Ay, I mun be wrong somehow, or it wouldna stick to me i' this road. I conna get rid on it, an' I conna feel as if I want to. What's up wi' me? What's takken howd on me?” his voice breaking and the words ending in a sharp hysterical gasp like a sob. Bess wrung her towel with a desperate strength which spoke of no small degree of tempestuous feeling. Her brow knit itself and her lips were compressed. “What's happened?” she demanded after a pause. “I conna mak' thee out.” The look that fell upon her companion's face had something of shame in it. His eyes left the mountain side and drooped upon his clasped hands. “Theer wur a lass coom to look at 'th place today,” he said--“a lady lass, wi' her feyther--an' him. She wur aw rosy red an' fair white, an' it seemt as if she wur that happy as her laughin' made th' birds mock back at her. He took her up th' mountain, an' we heard 'em both even high up among th' laurels. Th' sound o' their joy a-floatin' down from the height, so nigh th' blue sky, made me sick an' weak-loike. They wur na so gay when they comn back, but her eyes wur shinin', an' so wur his, an' I heerd him say to her as 'Foak didna know how nigh heaven th' top o' th' mountain wur.'” Bess wrung her towel again, and regarded the mountain with manifest impatience and trouble. “Happen it'll coom reet some day,” she said. “Reet!” repeated the lad, as if mechanically. “I hadna towd mysen' as owt wur exactly wrong; on'y I conna see things clear. I niwer could, an' th' more I ax mysen' questions th' worse it gets. Wheer--wheer could I lay th' blame?” “Th' blame!” said Bess. “Coom tha' an' get a bite to eat;” and she shook out the towel with a snap and turned away. “Coom tha,” she repeated; “I mun get my work done.” That night, as Seth lay upon his pallet in the shanty, the sound of Langley's horse's hoofs reached him with an accompaniment of a clear, young masculine voice singing a verse of some sentimental modern carol--a tender song ephemeral and sweet. As the sounds neared the cabin the lad sprang up restlessly, and so was standing at the open door when the singer passed. “Good-neet, mester,” he said. The singer slackened his pace and turned his bright face toward him in the moonlight, waving his hand. “Good-night,” he said, “and pleasant dreams! Mine will be pleasant ones, I know. This has been a happy day for me, Raynor. Goodnight.” When the two met again the brighter face had sadly changed; its beauty was marred with pain, and the shadow of death lay upon it. Entering Janner's shanty the following morning, Seth found the family sitting around the breakfast-table in ominous silence. The meal stood untouched, and even Bess looked pale and anxious. All three glanced toward him questioningly as he approached, and when he sat down Janner spoke: “Hasna tha' heerd th' news?” he asked. “Nay,” Seth answered, “I ha' heerd nowt.” Bess interposed hurriedly: “Dunnot yo' fear him, feyther,” she said. “Happen it isna so bad, after aw. Four or live foak wur takken down ill last neet, Seth, an' th' young mester wur among 'em; an' theer's them as says it's cholera.” It seemed as if he had not caught the full meaning of her words; he only stared at her in a startled, bewildered fashion. “Cholera!” he repeated dully. “Theer's them as knows it's cholera,” said Janner, with gloomy significance. “An' if it's cholera, it's death;” and he let his hand fall heavily upon the table. “Ay,” put in Mrs. Janner in a fretful wail, “fur they say as it's worse i' these parts than it is i' England--th' heat mak's it worse--an' here we are i' th' midst o' th' summer-toime, an' theer's no knowin' wheer it'll end. I wish tha'd takken my advice, Janner, an' stayed i' Lancashire. Ay, I wish we wur safe at home. Better less wage an' more safety. Yo'd niwer ha' coom if yo'd listened to me.” “Howd thy tongue, mother,” said Bess, but the words were not ungently spoken, notwithstanding their bluntness. “Dunnot let us mak' it worse than it need be. Seth, lad, eat thy breakfast.” But there was little breakfast eaten. The fact was, that at the first spreading of the report a panic had seized upon the settlement, and Janner and his wife were by no means the least influenced by it A stolidly stubborn courage upheld Bess, but even she was subdued and somewhat awed. “I niwer heerd much about th' cholera,” Seth said to her after breakfast. “Is this here true, this as thy feyther says?” “I dunnot know fur sure,” Bess answered gravely, “but it's bad enow.” “Coom out wi' me into th' fresh air,” said the lad, laying his hand upon her sleeve: “I mun say a word or so to thee.” And they went out together. There was no work done in the mine that day. Two of three new cases broke out, and the terror spread itself and grew stronger. In fact, Black Creek scarcely comported itself as stoically as might have been expected. A messenger was dispatched to the nearest town for a doctor, and his arrival by the night train was awaited with excited impatience. When he came, however, the matter became worse. He had bad news to tell himself. The epidemic had broken out in the town he had left, and great fears were entertained by its inhabitants. “If you had not been so entirely thrown on your own resources,” he said, “I could not have come.” A heavy enough responsibility rested upon his shoulders during the next few weeks. He had little help from the settlement. Those who were un-stricken looked on at the progress of the disease with helpless fear: few indeed escaped a slight attack, and those who did were scarcely more useful than his patients. In the whole place he found only two reliable and unterrified assistants. His first visit was to a small farm-house round the foot of the mountain and a short distance from the mine. There he found the family huddled in a back room like a flock of frightened sheep, and in the only chamber a handsome, bright-haired young fellow lying, upon the bed with a pinched and ominous look upon his comely face. The only person with him was a lad roughly clad in miner's clothes--a lad who stood by chafing his hands, and who turned desperate eyes to the door when it opened. “Yo're too late, mester,” he said--“yo're too late.” But young as he was--and he was a very young man--the doctor had presence of mind and energy, and he flung his whole soul and strength into the case. The beauty and solitariness of his patient roused his sympathy almost as if it had been the beauty of a woman; he felt drawn toward the stalwart, helpless young figure lying upon the humble couch in such apparent utter loneliness. He did not count much upon the lad at first--he seemed too much bewildered and shaken--but it was not long before he changed his mind. “You are getting over your fear,” he said. “It wasna fear, mester,” was the answer he received; “or at least it wasna fear for mysen'.” “What is your name?” “Seth Ray nor, mester. Him an' me,” with a gesture toward the bed, “comn from th' same place. Th' cholera couldna fear me fro' _him_--nor nowt else if he wur i' need.” So it was Seth Raynor who watched by the bedside, and labored with loving care and a patience which knew no weariness, until the worst was over and Langley was among the convalescent. “The poor fellow and Bess Janner were my only stay,” the young doctor was wont to say. “Only such care as his would have saved you, and you had a close race of it as it was.” During the convalescence nurse and invalid were drawn together with a stronger tie through every hour. Wearied and weak, Langley's old interest in the lad became a warm affection. He could scarcely bear to lose sight of the awkward boyish figure, and never rested so completely as when it was by his bedside. “Give me your hand, dear fellow,” he would say, “and let me hold it. I shall sleep better for knowing you are near me.” He fell asleep thus one morning, and awakened suddenly to a consciousness of some new presence in the room. Seth no longer sat in the chair near his pillow, but stood a little apart; and surely he would have been no lover if the feeble blood had not leaped in his veins at the sight of the face bending over him--the innocent, fair young face which had so haunted his pained and troubled dreams. “Cathie!” he cried out aloud. The-girl fell upon her knees and caught his extended hand with a passionate little gesture of love and pity. “I did not know,” she poured forth in hurried, broken tones. “I have been away ever since the sickness broke out at home. They sent me away, and I only heard yesterday--Father, tell him, for I cannot.” He scarcely heard the more definite explanation, he was at once so happy and so fearful. “Sweetheart,” he said, “I can scarcely bear to think of what may come of this; and yet how blessed it is to have you near me again! The danger for me is all over: even your dear self could not have cared for me more faithfully than I have been cared for. Raynor there has saved my life.” But Cathie could only answer with a piteous, remorseful jealousy: “Why was it not I who saved it? why was it not I?” And the place where Seth had stood waiting was vacant, for he had left it at the sound of Langley's first joyous cry. When he returned an hour or so later, the more restful look Langley had fancied he had seen on his face of late had faded out: the old unawakened heaviness had returned. He was nervous and ill at ease, shrinking and conscious. “I've comn to say good-neet to yo',” he said hesitatingly to the invalid. “Th' young lady says as she an' her feyther will tak' my place a bit. I'll coom i' th' mornin'.” “You want rest,” said Langley; “you are tired, poor fellow!” “Ay,” quietly, “I'm tired; an' th' worst is over, yo' see, an' she's here,” with a patient smile. “Yo' wunnot need me, and theer's them as does.” From that hour his work at this one place seemed done. For several days he made his appearance regularly to see if he was needed, and then his visits gradually ended. He had found a fresh field of labor among the sufferers in the settlement itself. He was as faithful to them as he had been to his first charge. The same unflagging patience showed itself, the same silent constancy and self-sacrifice. Scarcely a man or woman had not some cause to remember him with gratitude, and there was not one of those who had jested at and neglected him but thought of their jests and neglect with secret shame. There came a day, however, when they missed him from among them. If he was not at one house he was surely at another, it appeared for some time; but when, after making his round of visits, the doctor did not find him, he became anxious. He might be at Janner's; but he was not there, nor among the miners, who had gradually resumed their work as the epidemic weakened its strength and their spirits lightened. Making these discoveries at nightfall, the doctor touched up his horse in some secret dread. He had learned earlier than the rest to feel warmly toward this simple co-laborer. “Perhaps he's gone out to pay Langley a visit,” he said: “I'll call and see. He may have stopped to have a rest.” But before he had passed the last group of cabins he met Langley himself, who by this time was well enough to resume his place in the small world, and, hearing his story, Langley's anxiety was greater than his own. “I saw him last night on my way home,” he said. “About this time, too, for I remember he was sitting in the moonlight at the door of his shanty. We exchanged a few words, as we always do, and he said he was there because he was not needed, and thought a quiet night would do him good. Is it possible no one has seen him since?” in sudden alarm. “Come with me,” said his companion. Overwhelmed by a mutual dread, neither spoke until they reached the shanty itself. There was no sign of human life about it: the door stood open, and the only sound to be heard was the rustle of the wind whispering among the pines upon the mountain side. Both men flung themselves from their horses with loudly-beating hearts. “God grant he is not here!” uttered Langley. “God grant he is anywhere else! The place is so drearily desolate.” Desolate indeed! The moonbeams streaming through the door threw their fair light upon the rough boards and upon the walls, and upon the quiet figure lying on the pallet in one of the corners, touching with pitying whiteness the homely face upon the pillow and the hand that rested motionless upon the floor. The doctor went down on his knees at the pallet's side, and thrust his hand into the breast of the coarse garments with a half-checked groan. “Asleep?” broke from Langley's white lips in a desperate whisper. “Not--not”-- “Dead!” said the doctor--“dead for hours!” There was actual anguish in his voice as he uttered the words, but another element predominated in the exclamation which burst from him scarcely a second later. “Good God!” he cried--“good God!” Langley bent down and caught him almost fiercely by the arm: the exclamation jarred upon him. “What is it?” he demanded, “What do you mean?” “It is--a woman!” Even as they gazed at each other in speechless questioning the silence was broken in upon. Swift, heavy footsteps neared the door, crossed the threshold, and Janner's daughter stood before them. There was no need for questioning. One glance told her all. She made her way to the moonlit corner, pushed both aside with rough strength, and knelt down. “I might ha' knowed,” she said with helpless bitterness--“I might ha' knowed;” and she laid her face against the dead hand in a sudden passion of weeping. “I might ha' knowed, Jinny lass,” she cried, “but I didna. It was loike aw th' rest as tha' should lay thee down an' die loike this. Tha' wast alone aw along, an' tha'' wast alone at th' last. But dunnot blame me, poor lass. Nay, I know tha' wiltna.” The two men stood apart, stirred by an emotion too deep for any spoken attempt at sympathy. She scarcely seemed to see them: she seemed to recognize no presence but that of the unresponsive figure upon its lowly couch. She spoke to it as if it had been a living thing, her voice broken and tender, stroking the hair now and then with a touch all womanly and loving. “Yo' were nigher to me than most foak, Jinny,” she said; “an' tha' trusted me, I know.” They left her to her grief until at last she grew calmer and her sobs died away into silence. Then she rose and approaching Langley, who stood at the door, spoke to him, scarcely raising her tear-stained eyes. “I ha' summat to tell yo' an' sum-mat to ax yo',” she said, “an' I mun tell it to yo' alone. Will yo' coom out here?” He followed her, wondering and sad. His heart was heavy with the pain and mystery the narrow walls inclosed. When they paused a few yards from the house, the one face was scarcely more full of sorrow than the other, only that the woman's was wet with tears. She was not given to many words, Bess Janner, and she wasted few in the story she had to tell. “Yo' know th' secret as she carried,” she said, “or I wouldna tell yo' even now; an' now I tell it yo' that she may carry the secret to her grave, an' ha' no gossiping tongue to threep at her. I dunnot want foak starin' an' wonderin' an' makkin' talk. She's borne enow.” “It shall be as you wish, whether you tell me the story or not,” said Langley. “We will keep it as sacred as you have done.” She hesitated a moment, seemingly pondering with herself before she answered him. “Ay,” she said, “but I ha' another reason behind. I want summat fro' yo': I want yo're pity. Happen it moight do her good even now.” She did not look at him as she proceeded, but stood with her face a little turned away and her eyes resting upon the shadow on the mountain. “Theer wur a lass as worked at th' Deepton mines,” she said--“a lass as had a weakly brother as worked an' lodged wi' her. Her name wur Jinny, an' she wur quiet and plain-favored. Theer wur other wenches as wur well-lookin', but she wasna; theer wur others as had homes, and she hadna one; theer wur plenty as had wit an' sharpness, but she hadna them neyther. She wur nowt but a desolate, homely lass, as seemt to ha' no place i' th' world, an' yet wur tender and weak-hearted to th' core. She wur allus longin' fur summat as she wur na loike to get; an' she nivver did get it, fur her brother wasna one as cared fur owt but his own doin's. But theer were one among aw th' rest as nivver passed her by, an' he wur th' mester's son. He wur a bright, handsome chap, as won his way ivverywheer, an' had a koind word or a laugh fur aw. So he gave th' lass a smile, an' did her a favor now and then--loike as not without givin' it more than a thowt--until she learned to live on th' hope o' seein' him. An', bein' weak an' tender, it grew on her fro' day to day, until it seemt to give th' strength to her an' tak' it both i' one.” She stopped and looked at Langley here. “Does tha' see owt now, as I'm getten this fur?” she asked. “Yes,” he answered, his agitation almost master ing him. “And now I have found the lost face that haunted me so.” “Ay,” said Bess, “it was hers;” and she hurried on huskily: “When you went away she couldna abide th' lonesomeness, an' so one day she said to her brother, 'Dave, let us go to th' new mine wheer Mester Ed'ard is;' an' him bein' allus ready fur a move, they started out together. But on th' way th' lad took sick and died sudden, an' Jinny wur left to hersen'. An' then she seed new trouble. She wur beset wi' danger as she'd niwer thowt on, an' before long she foun' out as women didna work o' this side o' the sea as they did o' ours. So at last she wur driv' upon a strange-loike plan. It sounds wild, happen, but it wasna so wild after aw. Her bits of clothes giv' out an' she had no money; an' theer wur Dave's things. She'd wore th' loike at her work i' Deepton, an' she made up her moind to wear 'em agen. Yo' didna know her when she coom here, an' no one else guessed at th' truth. She didna expect nowt, yo' see; she on'y wanted th' comfort o' hearin' th' voice she'd longed an' hungered fur; an' here wur wheer she could hear it. When I fun' her out by accident, she towd me, an' sin' then we 've kept th' secret together. Do yo' guess what else theer's been betwixt us, mester?” “I think I do,” he answered. “God forgive me for my share in her pain!” “Nay,” she returned, “it was no fault o' thine. She niwer had a thowt o' that. She had a patient way wi' her, had Jinny, an' she bore her trouble better than them as hopes. She didna ax nor hope neyther; an' when theer coom fresh hurt to her she wur ready an' waiting knowin' as it moight comn ony day. Happen th' Lord knows what life wur give her fur--I dunnot, but it's ower now--an' happen she knows hersen'. I hurried here to-neet,” she added, battling with a sob, “as soon as I heerd as she was missin', th' truth struck to my heart, an' I thowt as I should be here first, but I wasna I ha' not gotten no more to say.” They went back to the shanty, and with her own hands she did for the poor clay the last service it would need, Langley and his companion waiting the while outside. When her task was at an end she came to them, and this time it was Langley who addressed himself to her. “May I go in?” he asked. She bent her head in assent, and without speaking he left them and entered the shanty alone. The moonlight, streaming in as before, fell upon the closed eyes, and hands folded in the old, old fashion upon the fustian jacket: the low whisper of the pines crept downward like a sigh. Kneeling beside the pallet, the young man bent his head and touched the pale forehead with reverent lips. “God bless you for your love and faith,” he said, “and give you rest!” And when he rose a few minutes later, and saw that the little dead flower he had worn had dropped from its place and lay upon the pulseless breast, he did not move it, but turned away and left it resting; there.

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:30.586290

23326

Produced by David Widger MÈRE GIRAUDS LITTLE DAUGHTER By Frances Hodgson Burnett Copyright, 1877 "Prut!" said Annot, her sabots clattering loudly on the brick floor as she moved more rapidly in her wrath. "Prut! Madame Giraud, indeed! There was a time, and it was but two years ago, that she was but plain Mere Giraud, and no better than the rest of us; and it seems to me, neighbors, that it is not well to show pride because one has the luck to be favored by fortune. Where, forsooth, would our 'Madame' Giraud stand if luck had not given her a daughter pretty enough to win a rich husband?" "True, indeed!" echoed two of the gossips who were her admiring listeners. "True, beyond doubt. Where, indeed?" But the third, a comely, fresh-skinned matron, who leaned against the door, and knitted a stout gray stocking with fast-clashing needles, did not acquiesce so readily. "Well, well, neighbors," she said, "for my part, I do not see so much to complain of. Mère Giraud--she is still Mère Giraud to me--is as honest and kindly a soul as ever. It is not she who has called herself Madame Giraud; it is others who are foolish enough to fancy that good luck must change one's old ways. If she had had the wish to be a grand personage, would she not have left our village before this and have joined Madame Legrand in Paris. On the contrary, however, she remains in her cottage, and is as good a neighbor as ever, even though she is fond of talking of the carriages and jewels of Madame Legrand and her establishment on the Boulevard Malesherbes. In fact, I ask you, who of us would not rejoice also to be the mother of a daughter whose fortune had been so good?" "That also is true," commented the amiable couple, nodding their white-capped heads with a sagacious air. "True, without doubt." But Annot replied with a contemptuous shrug of her shoulders:-- "Wait until Madame Giraud is invited to visit the Boulevard Malesherbes," she said. "We have not heard that this has happened yet." "She would' not go if she were, at least not to remain. Her heart has grown to the old place she bore her children in, and she has herself said to me most sensibly: 'Laure is young, and will learn easily the ways of the great world; I am old, and cannot; I am better at home among my neighbors.' Doubtless, however, In course of time she will pay Madame Legrand a visit at her home in Paris, or at the château which Monsieur Legrand of course possesses, as the rich and aristocratic always do." "Doubtless!" said Annot, grimly; "doubtless." Honest Jeanne Tallot passed the sneer by, and went on with stout gravity of demeanor:-- "There is only one thing for which I somewhat blamed Mère Giraud, and that is that I think she has scarcely done her duty toward Valentin. He disappointed her by being an ugly lad instead of a pretty girl, and she had not patience with him. Laure was the favorite. Whatever Laure did was right, and it was not so with the other, though I myself know that Valentin was a good lad, and tender-hearted." "Once," put in a white cap, "I saw her beat him severely because he fell with the little girl in his arms and scratched her cheek, and it was not his fault. His foot slipped upon a stone. He was carrying the child carefully and tenderly enough. You are right in calling him a good lad, neighbor Tallot. He was a good lad,--Valentin Giraud,--and fond of his mother, notwithstanding that she was not fond of him." "Yes," added her companion; "but it is a truth that he was a great contrast to the girl. _Mon Dieu!_ his long limbs and awkward body, his great sad eyes and ugly face! While Laure,--was she not tall and slender and white, like a lily in a garden? And her voice was like the ringing of silver, and her eyes so soft and large. As an infant, she reminded one of the little Jésu as one sees him in the churches. No wonder that Mère Giraud fretted at the difference between the two. And Valentin was her first, and what mother does not look for great things in her first? We cannot help feeling that something must come of one's own charms if one has any, and Mère Giraud was a handsome bride. An ugly bantling seems to offer one a sort of insult, particularly at first, when one is young and vain." "There was no more beautiful young girl than Laure Giraud at sixteen," said Jeanne Tallot. "And none more useless," said Annot loudly. "Give me a young girl who is industrious and honest. My Margot is better provided for than Laure Giraud was before her marriage; but her hands are not white, nor is her waist but a span around. She has too much work to do. She is not a tall, white, swaying creature who is too good to churn and tend the creatures who give her food. I have heard it said that Laure would have worked if her mother had permitted it, but I don't believe it. She had not a working look. Mademoiselle Laure was too good for the labor of humble people; she must go to Paris and learn a fine, delicate trade." "But good came of it," put in Jeanne Tallot, "It proved all the better for her." "Let her mother thank the Virgin, then," cried Annot, contemptuously. "It might not have proved the better; 'it might have proved the worse; evil might have come of it instead of good. Who among us has not heard of such things? Did not Marie Gautier go to Paris too?" "Ah, poor little one, indeed!" sighed the white caps. "And in two years," added Annot, "_her_ mother died of a broken heart." "But," said cheerful Jeanne, somewhat dryly, "Laure's mother is not dead yet, so let us congratulate ourselves that to go to Paris has brought luck to one of our number at least, and let us deal charitably with Mere Giraud, who certainly means well, and is only naturally proud of her daughter's grandeur. For my part, I can afford to rejoice with her." She rolled up her stout stocking into a ball, and stuck her needles through it, nodding at the three women. "I promised I would drop in and spend a few minutes with her this morning," she said; "so I will bid you good-day," and she stepped across the threshold and trudged off in the sunshine, her wooden shoes sounding bravely on the path. It was only a little place,--St. Croix, as we shall call it for want of a better name,--a little village of one street, and of many vines, and roses, and orchards, and of much gossip. Simple people inhabited it,--simple, ignorant folk, who knew one another, and discussed one another's faults and grape-crops with equal frankness, worked hard, lived frugally, confessed regularly, and slept well. Devout people, and ignorant, who believed that the little shrines they erected in their vineyards brought blessings upon their grapes, and who knew nothing of the great world beyond, and spoke of Paris with awe, and even a shade of doubt. Living the same lives generation after generation, tilling the same crops, and praying before the same stone altar in the small, quaint church, it is not to be wondered at that when a change occurred to any one of their number, it was regarded as a sort of social era. There were those in St. Croix who had known Mère Giraud's grandfather, a slow-spoken, kindly old peasant, who had drunk his _vin ordinaire_, and smoked his pipe with the poorest; and there was not one who did not well know Mère Giraud herself, and who had not watched the growth of the little Laure, who had bloomed into a beauty not unlike the beauty of the white Provence roses which climbed over and around her mother's cottage door. "Mère Giraud's little daughter," she had been called, even after she grew into the wonderfully tall and wonderfully fair creature she became before she left the village, accompanying her brother Valentin to Paris. "_Ma foi!_" said the men, "but she is truly a beauty, Mère Giraud's little daughter!" "She should be well looked to," said the wiseacres,--"Mère Giraud's little daughter." "There is one we must always give way before," said the best-natured among the girls, "and that one is Mère Giraud's little daughter." The old _Curé_ the parish took interest in her, and gave her lessons, and, as Mère Giraud would have held her strictly to them, even if she had not been tractable and studious by nature, she was better educated and more gently trained than her companions. The fact was, however, that she had not many companions. Some element in her grace and beauty seemed to separate her from the rest of her class. Village sports and festivities had little attraction for her, and, upon the whole, she seemed out of place among them. Her stature, her fair, still face, and her slow, quiet movements, suggested rather embarrassingly to the humble feasters the presence of some young princess far above them. "_Pouf!_" said a sharp-tongued belle one day, "I have no patience with her. She is so tall, this Laure, that one must be forever looking up to her, and I, for one, do not care to be forever looking up." The hint of refined pride in her demeanor was Mère Giraud's greatest glory. "She is not like the rest, my Laure," she would say to her son. "One can see it in the way in which she holds her head'. She has the quiet, grave air of a great personage." There were many who wondered that Valentin showed no jealousy or distaste at hearing his sister's praises sounded so frequently to his own detriment. There was no praise for him. The poor, fond mother's heart was too full of Laure. Her son had been a bitter disappointment to her, and, to her mind, was fitted for nothing but to make himself an adoring slave to his sister's beauty; and this, the gentle, generous fellow certainly was. He was always ready to serve her; always affectionate, always faithful; and Mère Giraud, who was blind to, or careless of, all his loving, constant labor for her own comfort, deigned to see that he did his duty toward Laure. "He has at least the sense to appreciate her as far as he is able," she said. So when Valentin, who had a talent for engraving, was discovered by some one who understood his genius, and could make use of it, and was offered a place in the great, gay city, Mère Giraud formed an ambitious plan. He should take Laure and find her a position also; she had the fingers of a fair magician, and could embroider marvelously. So she trusted Laure to him, and the two bade farewell to St. Croix and departed together. A month passed, and then there came a letter containing good news. Valentin was doing well, and Laure also. She had found a place in a great family where she was to embroider and wait upon a young lady. They were rich people, and were kind, and paid her well, and she was happy. "When they first saw her, they were astonished," wrote the simple, tender Valentin. "I went with her to present herself. My employer had recommended her. There is a son who is past his youth, and who has evidently seen the world. He is aristocratic and fair, and slightly bald, but extremely handsome still. He sat holding a newspaper in his long, white fingers, and when we entered, he raised his eyes above it and looked at Laure, and I heard him exclaim under his breath, '_Mon Dieu!_ as if her beauty fairly startled him." When the _Curé_, to whom the proud mother showed the letter, read this part, he did not seem as rejoiced as Mère Giraud had expected. On the contrary, he looked a little grave, and rubbed his forehead. "Ah, ah!" he said; "there lies the danger." "Danger!" exclaimed Mère Giraud, starting. He turned, and regarded her with a rather hesitant air, as if he were at once puzzled and fearful,--puzzled by her simplicity, and fearful of grieving her unnecessarily. "Valentin is a good lad," he said. "Valentin will be watchful,--though perhaps he is too good to suspect evil." Mère Giraud put her hand to her heart. "You are not afraid?" she said, quite proudly, beginning at last to comprehend. "You are not afraid of evil to Laure?" "No, no, no," he answered; "surely not." He said no more then, but he always asked to see the letters, and read them with great care, sometimes over and over again. They came very regularly for six or seven months, and then there was a gap of a few weeks, and then came a strange, almost incomprehensible, letter from Valentin, containing news which almost caused Mère Giraud's heart to burst with joy and gratitude. Laure was married, and had made such a marriage as could scarcely have been dreamed of. A rich aristocrat, who had visited her employers, had fallen in love with her, and married her. He had no family to restrain him, and her beauty had won him completely from the first hour. He had carried her away with him to make a prolonged tour. The family with whom she had lived had been lavish in their gifts and kindness, but they had left Paris also and were voyaging. The name of Laure's bridegroom was Legrand, and there came messages from Laure, and inclosed was a handsome present of money. Mère Giraud was overwhelmed with joy. Before three hours had passed, all St Croix knew the marvelous news. She went from house to house showing the letter and the money, and it was not until night that she cooled down sufficiently to labor through a long epistle to Valentin. It was a year before Laure returned to Paris, and during that time she wrote but seldom; but Valentin wrote often, and answered all his mother's questions, though not as fluently, nor with so many words as she often wished. Laure was rich, and beautiful as ever; her husband adored her, and showered gifts and luxuries upon her; she had equipages and jewels; she wore velvet and satin and lace every day; she was a great lady, and had a house like a palace. Laure herself did not say so much. In her secret heart, Mère Giraud often longed for more, but she was a discreet and farseeing woman. "What would you?" she said. "She must drive out in her equipage, and she must dress and receive great people, and I am not so blind a mother as not to see that she will have many things to learn. She has not time to write long letters,--and see how she cares for me,--money, see you, by every letter, and a silk dress and lace cap she herself has chosen in the Boulevard Capucines. And I must care for myself, and furnish the cottage prettily, and keep a servant. Her wealth and great fortune have not rendered her undutiful,--my Laure." So she talked of Madame Legrand, and so all St. Croix talked of Madame Legrand, and some, of course, were envious and prophesied that the end had not come yet, and Mère Giraud would find herself forgotten some fine day; and others rejoiced with her, and congratulated themselves that they knew so aristocratic a person as Madame Legrand. Jeanne Tallot was of those who sympathized with her in all warm-heartedness and candor. With her knitting in her hand ready for action, and with friendly unceremoniousness, she presented herself at the cottage door one morning, nodding and speaking before she had crossed the threshold. "Good-day, neighbor Giraud. Any letters from Laure this morning?" Mère Giraud, who sat before the window under the swinging cage of her bird, looked up with an air a little more serious than usual. "Ah!" she said, "I am glad it is you, Jeanne. I have been wishing to see you." Jeanne seated herself, smiling. "Then," said she, "it is well I came." But immediately she noticed the absent look of her friend, and commented upon it. "You do not look at your best this morning," she said. "How does it occur?" "I am thinking," said Mère Giraud with some importance of manner,--"I am thinking of going to Paris." "To Paris!" "I am anxious," shaking her head seriously. "I had last night a bad dream. I wish to see Laure." Then she turned and looked at Jeanne almost wistfully. "It is a long time since I have seen her," she said. "Yes," answered Jeanne in a little doubt; "but Paris is a long way off." "Yes," said Mère Giraud; "but it appears that all at once I realize how long it is since I have seen my child. I am getting old, you see. I was not very young when she was born, and, as one grows older, one becomes more uneasy and obstinate in one's fancies. This morning I feel that I must see my Laure. My heart yearns for her, and"--hastily--"she will undoubtedly be rejoiced to see me. She has often said that she wished she might lay her head upon my breast again." It seemed that she was resolved upon the journey. She was in a singular, uneasy mood, and restless beyond measure. She who had never been twenty miles from St. Croix had made up her mind to leave it at once and confront all the terrors of a journey to Paris,--for there were terrors in such a journey to the mind of a simple peasant who had so far traveled but in one groove. She would not even wait to consult _Monsieur le Curé_, who was unfortunately absent. Jeanne discovered to her astonishment that she had already made her small preparations, had packed her best garments in a little wooden box, laying the silk gown and lace cap at the top that they might be in readiness. "I will not interfere at all, and I shall not remain long," she said. "Only long enough to see my Laure, and spend a few days with her quietly. It is not Paris I care for, or the great sights; it is that I must see my child." St. Croix was fairly bewildered at the news it heard the next day. Mère Giraud had gone to Paris to visit Madame Legrand--had actually gone, sending her little servant home, and shutting up her small, trim cottage. "Let us hope that Madame Legrand will receive her as she expects to be received," said Annot. "For my part I should have preferred to remain in St. Croix. Only yesterday Jeanne Tallot told us that she had no intention of going." "She will see wonderful things," said the more simple and amiable. "It is possible that she may be invited to the Tuileries, and without doubt she will drive to the Bois de Boulogne in Madame Legrand's carriage, with servants in livery to attend her. My uncle's sister's son, who is a _valet de place_ in a great family, tells us that the aristocracy drive up and down the Champs Éllysées every afternoon, and the sight is magnificent." But Mère Giraud did not look forward to such splendors as these. "I shall see my Laure as a great lady," she said to herself. "I shall hold her white hands and kiss her cheeks." The roar of vehicles, and the rush and crowd and bustle bewildered her; the brightness and the rolling wheels dazzled her old eyes, but she held herself bravely. People to whom she spoke smiled at her _patois_ and her innocent questions, but she did not care. She found a _fiacre_ which took her to her destination; and when, after she had paid the driver, he left her, she entered the wide doors with a beating heart, the blood rising on her cheek, and glowing through the withered skin. "Madame Legrand," she said a little proudly to the _concierge_, and the woman stared at her as she led her up the staircase. She was so eager that she scarcely saw the beauty around her,--the thick, soft carpets, the carved balustrades, the superb lamps. But when they stopped before a door she touched the _concierge_ upon the arm. "Do not say my name," she said. "I am her mother." The woman stared at her more than ever. "It is not my place to announce you," she said. "I only came up because I thought you would not find the way." She could not have told why it was or how it happened, but when at last she was ushered into the _salon_ a strange sense of oppression fell upon her. The room was long and lofty, and so shadowed by the heavy curtains falling across the windows that it was almost dark. For a few seconds she saw nobody, and then all at once some one rose from a reclining chair at the farther end of the apartment and advanced a few steps toward her--a tall and stately figure, moving slowly. "Who?"--she heard a cold, soft voice say, and then came a sharp cry, and Laurel white hands were thrown out in a strange, desperate gesture, and she stopped and stood like a statue of stone. "Mother--mother--mother!" she repeated again and again, as if some indescribable pain shook her. If she had been beautiful before, now she was more beautiful still. She was even taller than ever,--she was like a queen. Her long robe was of delicate gray velvet, and her hair and throat and wrists were bound with pearls and gold. She was so lovely and so stately that for a moment Mère Giraud was half awed, but the next it was as if her strong mother heart broke loose. "My Laure!" she cried out. "Yes, it is I, my child--it is I, Laure;" and she almost fell upon her knees as she embraced her, trembling for very ecstasy. But Laure scarcely spoke. She was white and cold, and at last she gasped forth three words. "Where is Valentin?" But Mère Giraud did not know. It was not Valentin she cared to see. Valentin could wait, since she had, her Laure. She sat down beside her in one of the velvet chairs, and she held the fair hand in her own. It was covered with jewels, but she did not notice them; her affection only told her that it was cold and tremulous. "You are not well, Laure?" she said. "It was well that my dream warned me to come. Something is wrong." "I am quite well," said Laure. "I do not suffer at all." She was so silent that if Mère Giraud had not had so much to say she would have been troubled \ as it was, however, she was content to pour forth her affectionate speeches one after another without waiting to be answered. "Where is Monsieur Legrand?" she ventured at last. "He is," said Laure, in a hesitant voice,--"he is in Normandy." "Shall I not see him?" asked Mère Giraud. "I am afraid not, unless your visit is a long one. He will be absent for some months." She did not speak with any warmth. It was as if she did not care to speak of him at all,--as if the mention of him even embarrassed her a little. Mère Giraud felt a secret misgiving. "I shall not stay long," she said; "but I could not remain away. I wished so eagerly to see you, and know that you were happy. You are happy, my Laure?" Laure turned toward her and gave her a long look--a look which seemed unconsciously to ask her a question. "Happy!" she answered slowly and deliberately, "I suppose so. Yes." Mère Giraud caressed her hand again and again. "Yes," she said, "it must be so. The good are always happy; and you, my Laure, have always been dutiful and virtuous, and consequently you are rewarded. You have never caused me a grief, and now, thank the good God you are prosperous." She looked at her almost adoringly, and at last touched the soft thick gray velvet of her drapery with reverence. "Do you wear such things as this every day?" she asked. "Yes," Laure answered, "every day." "Ah!" sighed the happy mother. "How Monsieur Legrand must adore you!" At length she found time to ask a few questions concerning Valentin. "I know that he is well and as prosperous as one could expect him to be; but I hope"--bridling a little with great seriousness--"I hope he conducts himself in such a manner as to cause you no embarrassment, though naturally you do not see him often." "No," was the answer,--they did not see him often. "Well, well," began Mère Giraud, becoming lenient in her great happiness, "he is not a bad lad--Valentin. He means well"-- But here she stopped,--Laure checked her with a swift, impassioned movement. "He is what we cannot understand," she said in a hushed, strained voice. "He is a saint. He has no thought for himself. His whole life is a sacrifice. It is not I you should adore--it is Valentin." "Valentin!" echoed Mère Giraud. It quite bewildered her, the mere thought of adoring Valentin. "My child," she said when she recovered herself, "it is your good heart which says this." The same night Valentin came. Laure went out into the antechamber to meet him, and each stood and looked at the other with pale face and anguished eyes. Valentin's eyes were hollow and sunken as if with some great sorrow, and his large awkward frame seemed wasted. But there was no reproach mingled with the indescribable sadness of his gaze. "Your note came to me," he said. "Our mother "-- "She is in there," said Laure in a low, hurried, shaken voice, and she pointed to the _salon_. "She has come to embrace me,--to make sure that I am happy. Ah, my God!" and she covered her deathly face with her hands. Valentin did not approach her. He could only stand still and look on. One thought filled his mind. "We have no time to weep, Laure," he said gently. "We must go on as we have begun. Give me your hand." This was all, and then the two went in together, Laure's hand upon her brother's arm. It was a marvelous life Mère Giraud lived during the next few days. Certainly she could not complain that she was not treated with deference and affection. She wore the silk dress every day; she sat at the wonderful table, and a liveried servant stood behind her chair; she drove here and there in a luxurious carriage; she herself, in fact, lived the life of an aristocrat and a great lady. Better than all the rest, she found her Laure as gracious and dutiful as her fond heart could have wished. She spent every hour with her; she showed her all her grandeurs of jewelry and _toilette_; she was not ashamed of her mother, untutored and simple as she might be. "Only she is very pale and quiet," she remarked to Valentin once; "even paler and more quiet than I should have expected. But then we know that the rich and aristocratic are always somewhat reserved. It is only the peasantry and provincials who are talkative and florid. It is natural that Laure should have gained the manner of the great world." But her happiness, poor soul, did not last long, and yet the blow God sent was a kindly one. One morning as they went out to their carriage Laure stopped to speak to a woman who crouched upon the edge of the pavement with a child in her arms. She bent down and touched the little one with her hand, and Mère Giraud, looking on, thought of pictures she had seen of the Blessed Virgin, and of lovely saints healing the sick. "What is the matter?" asked Laure. The woman looked down at the child and shivered. "I do not know," she answered hoarsely. "Only we are ill, and God has forsaken us. We have not tasted food for two days." Laure took something from her purse and laid it silently in the child's small, fevered hand. The woman burst into tears. "Madame," she said, "it is a twenty-franc piece." "Yes," said Laure gently. "When it is spent come to me again," and she went to her carriage. "My child," said Mère Giraud, "it is you who are a saint. The good God did wisely in showering blessings upon you." A few days longer she was happy, and then she awakened from her sleep one night, and found Laure standing at her bedside looking down at her and shuddering. She started up with an exclamation of terror. "_Mon Dieu!_" she said. "What is it?" She was answered in a voice she had never heard before,--Laure's, but hoarse and shaken. Laure had fallen upon her knees, and grasped the bedclothes, hiding her face in the folds. "I am ill," she answered in this strange, changed tone. "I am--I am cold and burning--I am--dying." In an instant Mère Giraud stood upon the floor holding her already insensible form in her arm'. She was obliged to lay her upon the floor while she rang the bell to alarm the servants. She sent for Valentin and a doctor. The doctor, arriving, regarded the beautiful face with manifest surprise and alarm. It was no longer pale, but darkly flushed, and the stamp of terrible pain was upon it. "She has been exposed to infection," he said. "This is surely the case. It is a malignant fever." Then Mère Giraud thought of the poor mother and child. "O my God!" she prayed, "do not let her die a martyr." But the next day there was not a servant left in the house; but Valentin was there, and there had come a Sister of Mercy. When she came, Valentin met her, and led her into the _salon_. They remained together for half an hour, and then came out and went to the sick-room, and there were traces of tears upon the Sister's face. She was a patient, tender creature, who did her work well, and she listened with untiring gentleness to Mère Giraud's passionate plaints. "So beautiful, so young, so beloved," cried the poor mother; "and Monsieur absent in Normandy, though it is impossible to say where! And if death should come before his return, who could confront him with the truth? So beautiful, so happy, so adored!" And Laure lay upon the bed, sometimes wildly delirious, sometimes a dreadful statue of stone,--unhearing, unseeing, unmoving,--death without death's rest,--life in death's bonds of iron. But while Mère Giraud wept, Valentin had no tears. He was faithful, untiring, but silent even at the worst. "One would think he had no heart," said Mère Giraud; "but men are often so,--ready to work, but cold and dumb. Ah! it is only a mother who bears the deepest grief." She fought passionately enough for a hope at first, but it was forced from her grasp in the end. Death had entered the house and spoken to her in the changed voice which had summoned her from her sleep. "Madame," said the doctor one evening as they stood over the bed while the sun went down, "I have done all that is possible. She will not see the sun set again. She may not see it rise." Mère Giraud fell upon her knees beside the bed, crossing herself and weeping. "She will die," she said, "a blessed martyr. She will die the death of a saint." That very night--only a few hours later--there came to them a friend,--one they had not for one moment even hoped to see,--a gentle, grave old man, in a thin, well-worn black robe,--the _Curé_ of St. Croix. Him Valentin met also, and when the two saw each other, there were barriers that fell away in their first interchange of looks. "My son," said the old man, holding out his hands, "tell me the truth." Then Valentin fell into a chair and hid his face "She is dying," he said, "and I cannot ask that she should live." "What was my life"--he cried passionately, speaking again--"what was my life to me that I should not have given it to save her,--to save her to her beauty and honor, and her mother's love! I would have given it cheerfully,--a thousand times,--a thousand times again and again. But it was not to be; and, in spite of my prayers, I lost her. O my God!" with a sob of agony, "if to-night she were in St. Croix and I could hear the neighbors call her again as they used, 'Mère Giraud's little daughter!'" The eyes of the _Curé_ had tears in them also. "Yesterday I returned to St. Croix and found your mother absent," he said. "I have had terrible fears for months, and when I found her house closed, they caused me to set out upon my journey at once." He did not ask any questions. He remembered too well the man of whom Valentin had written; the son who was "past his youth, and had evidently seen the world;" the pale aristocrat, who had exclaimed "_Mon Dieu!_" at the sight of Laure's wondrous beauty. "When the worst came to the worst," said Valentin, "I vowed myself to the labor of sparing our mother. I have worked early and late to sustain myself in the part I played. It was not from Laure the money came. My God! Do you think I would have permitted my mother's hand to have touched a gift of hers? She wrote the letters, but the money I had earned honestly. Heaven will justify me for my falsehood since I have suffered so much." "Yes," responded the _Curé_, looking at his bent form with gentle, pitying eyes, "Heaven will justify you, my son." They watched by Laure until the morning, but she did not see them; she saw nothing; to-night it was the statue of marble which lay before them. But in the early morning, when the sky was dappled with pink and gold, and the air was fresh and cool, and a silence, even more complete than that of the night, seemed to reign, there came a change. The eyes they had seen closed for so many hours were opened, and the soft voice broke in upon the perfect stillness of the room:-- "The lilies in the garden are in bloom to-day. They were never so tall, and white, and fair before. I will gather them--for the altar--to give to the Virgin--at my confession. _Mea culpa--Mea_"--and all was over, and Mère Giraud fell upon her knees again, crying, as she had cried before, amid a passion of sobs and tears:-- "She has died, my child, the death of a blessed martyr." It was rather strange, the villagers said, that Madame Legrand should have been buried in the little graveyard at St. Croix instead of in some fine tomb at _Père la Chaise_; but--it was terribly sad!--her husband was away, they knew not where, and it was Valentin's wish, and Mère Giraud's heart yearned so over her beloved one. So she was laid there, and a marble cross was placed at her head--a tall, beautiful cross--by Monsieur Legrand, of course. Only it was singular that he never came, though perhaps that is the way of the great--not to mourn long or deeply even for those who have been most lovely, and whom they have most tenderly loved.

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:30.592013

23327

Produced by David Widger LODUSKY By Frances Hodgson Burnett Copyright, 1877 They were rather an incongruous element amid the festivities, but they bore themselves very well, notwithstanding, and seemed to be sufficiently interested. The elder of the two--a tall, slender, middle-aged woman, with a somewhat severe, though delicate face--sat quietly apart, looking on at the rough dances and games with a keen relish of their primitive uncouthness; but the younger, a slight, alert creature, moved here and there, her large, changeable eyes looking larger through their glow of excitement. “Thet gal thar,” drawled a tall mountaineer who supported himself against the chimney and spat with placid regularity into the fire. “They tell me thet gal thar hes writ things as hes been in print. They say she's powerful smart--arns her livin' by it. 'T least thet's what Jake Harney says, 'n they's a-boardin' at Harney's. The old woman's some of her kin, 'n' goes 'long with her when she travels 'round.” There was one fiddler at work sawing industriously at one tune which did good service throughout the entertainment; there was a little furious and erratic reel-dancing, and much loud laughter, and good-natured, even if somewhat personal, jest. The room was one of two which formed the house; the walls were of log; the lights the cheery yellow flare of great pine-knots flung one after the other upon the embers. “I am glad I thought of North Carolina,” Rebecca Noble said to herself. “There is a strong hint of Rembrandt in this,--the bright yellow light, the uncouth figures. Ah! who is that?” A short time after, she made her way through the crowd to her relative's corner among the shadows. She looked eager and excited, and spoke in a quick, breathless fashion. “I want to show you something, if you have not already seen it,” she said. “There is in this room, Aunt Miriam, the most wonderful creature your eyes ever rested on! You must prepare yourself to be startled. Look toward the door--at that tall girl standing with her hands behind her.” She was attired in a calico of flaunting pattern, and leaned against the log wall in an indifferent attitude, regarding the company from under the heavy lashes of her eyes, which had a look of stillness in them which was yet not repose. There was something even secretive in her expression, as if she watched them furtively for reasons of her own. At her side stood a big, discontented-looking young man, who confronted aggressively two or three other young men equally big, if not equally discontented, who seemed to be arguing some point with him and endeavoring to engage the attention of his companion. The girl, however, simply responded to their appeals with an occasional smile, ambiguous, if not scornful. “How I wish I could hear them!” exclaimed Miss Noble. It was her habit to utilize any material she chanced to find, and she had really made her summer jaunt to North Carolina in search of material, but she was not thinking of utilizing this girl, as she managed to keep near her during the remainder of the evening. She had merely found something to be keenly interested in, her interest in any human novelty being, on occasion, intense. In this case her interest increased instead of diminished. She found the girl comporting herself in her natural position as belle, with a calm which was slightly suggestive of “the noble savage.” Each admirer seemed to be treated with indifference alike, though there were some who, for reasons best known to themselves, evidently felt that they stood more securely than the rest. She moved through game and dance with a slow yet free grace; she spoke seldom, and in a low, bell-like monotone, containing no hint of any possible emotional development, and for the rest, her shadow of a disdainful smile seemed to stand her in good stead. Clearly as she stood out from among her companions from the first, at the close of the evening she assumed a position actually dramatic. The big young mountaineer, who, despite his discontent, was a very handsome fellow indeed, had held his own against his rivals stubbornly during the evening, but when, after the final dance, he went in search of his charge, he found that he was not first. She had fallen into her old attitude against the wall, her hands behind her, and was listening to the appeal of a brawny youth with a hunting-knife in his belt. “Dusk,” he was saying, “I'm not such a chicken hearted chap as to let a gal go back on me. Ye sed I mout hev yer comp'ny home, 'n' I'm a-gwine to hev it, Dave Humes or no Dave Humes.” Dusk merely smiled tolerantly. “Are ye?” she said. Rebecca Noble, who stood within a few feet of them, was sure that the lover who approached was the Dave Humes in question, he advanced with such an angry stride, and laying his hand on his rival's shoulder, turned him aside so cavalierly. “No he aint,” he put in; “not an' me about. I brought ye, an' I'll take ye home, Lodusky, or me and him 'll settle it.” The other advanced a step, looking a trifle pale and disheveled. He placed himself square in front of Lodusky. “Dusk Dunbar,” he said, “you're the one to settle it. Which on us is a-gwine home with ye--me or him? Ye haint promised the two of us, hev ye?” There was certainly a suddenly lit spark of exultation in the girl's coolly dropped eyes. “Settle it betwixt ye,” she answered with her exasperating half smile again. They had attracted attention by this time, and were becoming the centre figures of a group of lookers-on. The first had evidently lost his temper. She was the one who should settle it, he proclaimed loudly again. She had promised one man her “comp'ny” and had come with another. There was so much fierce anger in his face that Miss Noble drew a little nearer, and felt her own blood warmed. “Which on us is it to be?” he cried. There was a quick, strong movement on the part of the young man Dave, and he was whirled aside for a second time. “It's to be me,” he was answered. “I'm the man to settle that--I don't leave it to no gal to settle.” In two seconds the lookers-on fell back in dismay, and there was a cry of terror from the women. Two lithe, long-limbed figures were struggling fiercely together, and there was a flash of knives in the air. Rebecca Noble sprang forward. “They will kill each other,” she said. “Stop them!” That they would have done each other deadly injury seemed more than probable, but there were cool heads and hands as strong as their own in the room, and in a few minutes they had been dragged apart and stood, each held back by the arms, staring at each other and panting. The lank peacemaker in blue jeans who held Dave Humes shook him gently and with amiable toleration of his folly. “Look 'ere, boys,” he said, “this yere's all a pack of foolishness, ye know--all a pack of foolishness. There aint no sense in it--it's jest foolishness.” Rebecca cast a quick glance at the girl Lodusky. She leaned against the wall just as she had done before; she was as cool as ever, though the spark which hinted at exultation still shone steadily in her eye. When the two ladies reached the log-cabin at which they had taken up their abode, they found that the story of the event of the evening was before them. Their hostess, whose habit it was to present herself with erratic talk or information at all hours, met them with hospitable eagerness. “Waal now,” she began, “jest to think o' them thar fool boys a-lettin' into one another in thet tharway. I never hearn tell o' sich foolishness. Young folks _is_ so foolish. 'N' they drord knives?” This is in the tone of suggestive query. “Yes,” answered Miss Noble, “they drew knives.” “They did!” benignly. “Lord! What fools! Waal now, an' Dusk--what did Dusk do?” “She stood by and looked on,” was the reply. “Lord!” with the inimitable mountain drawl; “ye don't say so! But it's jest like her--thet is. She's so cur'us, Dusk is. Thar aint no gettin' at her. Ye know the gals ses as she's allers doin' fust one quare thing 'n' then another to get the boys mad at each other. But Lor', p'r'aps 'taint so! Dusk's powerful good-lookin', and gals is jealous, ye know.” “Do you think,” questioned Miss Noble, “that they really would have killed each other?” “Lord! yaas,” placidly. “They went to do it. Both Dan'l and Dave's kinder fiery, 'n' they'd nuther on 'em hev give in with Dusk a-lookin' on--they'd hev cut theirselves to pieces fust. Young folks _is_ so foolish; gettin' mad about a gal! Lord knows gals is plenty enough.” “Not girls like this one,” said Miss Noble, laughing a little. “Waal now, she _is_ good-lookin', aint she? But she's cur'us, Dusk is--she's a cur'us creetur.” “Curious!” echoed Rebecca, finding the term vague even while suggestive. “Yaas,” she said, expansively, “she's cur'us, kinder onsosherble ''n' notionate. Now Dusk is--cur'us. She's so still and sot, 'n' Nath Dunbar and Mandy they think a heap on her, 'n' they do the best they kin by her, but she don't never seem to keer about 'em no way. Fur all she's so still, she's powerful sot on fine dressin' an' rich folkses ways. Nath he once tuk her to Asheville, 'n' seems like she's kinder never got over it, but keeps a-broodin' 'bout the way they done thar, 'n' how their clothes looked, 'n' all thet. She knows she's handsum, 'n' she likes to see other folks knows it, though she never says much. I hed to laugh at my Hamp once; Hamp he aint no fool, an' he'd been tuk with her a spell like the rest o' the boys, but he got chock full of her, 'n' one day we was a-talkin,' 'n' the old man he says, 'Waal now, that gal's a hard wad. She's cur'us, 'n' thar's no two ways about it.' An' Hamp he gives a bit of a laugh kinder mad, 'n' he ses, 'Yes, she's cur'us--cur'us as ----!' May be he felt kinder roughed up about her yet--but I hed to laugh.” The next morning Miss Noble devoted to letter-writing. In one of her letters, a bright one, of a tone rather warmer than the rest, she gave her correspondent a very forcible description of the entertainment of the evening before and its closing scene. “I think it will interest him,” she said half aloud, as she wrote upon the envelope the first part of the address, 'Mr. Paul Lennox.' A shadow falling across the sunshine in the door way checked her and made her look up. It had rather an arousing effect upon her to find herself confronting the young woman, Lodusky, who stood upon the threshold, regarding her with an air entirely composed, slightly mingled with interest. “I was in at Mis' Harney's,” she remarked, as if the explanation was upon the whole rather superfluous, “'n' I thought I'd come in 'n' see ye.” During her sojourn of three weeks Rebecca had learned enough of the laws of mountain society to understand that the occasion only demanded of her friendliness of demeanor and perfect freedom from ceremony. She rose and placed a chair for her guest. “I am glad to see you,” she said. Lodusky seated herself. It was entirely unnecessary to attempt to set her at ease; her composure was perfect. The flaunt-ing-patterned calico must have been a matter of full dress. It had been replaced by a blue-and-white-checked homespun gown--a coarse cotton garment short and scant. Her feet were bare, and their bareness was only a revelation of greater beauty, so perfect was their arched slenderness. Miss Dunbar crossed them with unembarrassed freedom, and looked at the stranger as if she found her worth steady inspection. “Thet thar's a purty dress you're a-wearin',” she vouchsafed at length. Rebecca glanced down at her costume. Being a sensible young person, she had attired herself in apparel suitable for mountain rambling. Her dress was simple pilgrim gray, taut made and trim; but she never lost an air of distinction which rendered abundant adornments a secondary matter. “It is very plain,” she answered. “I believe its chief object; is to be as little in the way as possible.” “Taint much trimmed,” responded the girl, “but it looks kinder nice, 'n' it sets well. Ye come from the city, Mis' Harney says.” “From New York,” said Rebecca. She felt sure that she saw in the tawny brown depths of the girl's eyes a kind of secret eagerness, and this expressed itself openly in her reply. “I don't blame no one fur wantin' to live in a city,” she said, with a kind of discontent. “A body might most as soon be dead as live this way.” Rebecca gave her a keen glance. “Don't you like the quiet?” she asked. “What is it you don't like?” “I don't like nothin' about it,” scornfully. “Thar's nothin' here.” Very slowly a lurking, half-hidden smile showed itself about her fine mouth. “I'm not goin' to stay here allers,” she said. “You want to go away?” said Rebecca. She nodded. “I _am_ goin',” she answered, “some o' these days.” “Where?” asked Rebecca, a little coldly, recognizing as she did a repellant element in the girl. The reply was succinct enough:-- “I don't know whar, 'n' I don't keer whar--but I'm goin'.” She turned her eyes toward the great wall of forest-covered mountain, lifting its height before the open door, and the blood showed its deep glow upon her cheek. “Some o' these days,” she added; “as shore as I'm a woman.” When they talked the matter over afterward, Miss Thorne's remarks were at once decided and severe. “Shall I tell you what my opinion is, Rebecca?” she said. “It is my opinion that there is evil enough in the creature to be the ruin of the whole community. She is bad at the core.” “I would rather believe,” said Rebecca, musingly, “that she was only inordinately vain.” Almost instantaneously her musing was broken by a light laugh. “She has dressed her hair as I dress mine,” she said, “only it was done better. I could not have arranged it so well. She saw it last night and was quick enough to take in the style at a glance.” At the beginning of the next week there occurred an event which changed materially the ordinary routine of life in the cabin. Heretofore the two sojourners among the mountain fastnesses had walked and climbed under the escort of a small tow-headed Harney. But one evening as she sat sketching on her favorite flat seat of rock, Miss Noble somewhat alarmed this youth by dropping her paper and starting to her feet. “Orlander” Harney sat and stared at her with black eyes and opened mouth. The red came and went under her fair skin, and she breathed quickly. “Oh,” she cried softly, “how _could_ I be mistaken!” That she was not mistaken became evident immediately. At the very moment she spoke, the advancing horseman, whose appearance had so roused her, glanced upward along the path and caught sight of her figure. He lifted his hat in gay greeting and struck his horse lightly with his whip. Rebecca bent down and picked up her portfolio. “You may go home,” she said quietly to the boy. “I shall be there soon; and you may tell Miss Thorne that Mr. Lennox has come.” She was at the base of the rock when the stranger drew rein. “How is this?” she asked with bright uplifted eyes. “We did not think”-- It occurred to Lennox that he had never recognized her peculiar charm so fully as he did at this moment. Rebecca Noble, though not a beauty, possessed a subtle grace of look and air which was not easily resisted,--and just now, as she held out her hand, the clear sweetness of her face shadowed by her piquantly plain hat of rough straw, he felt the influence of this element more strongly than ever before. “There was no reason why I should not come,” he said, “since you did not forbid me.” At sunset they returned to the cabin. Lennox led his rather sorry-looking animal by the bridle, and trusting to its meekness of aspect, devoted his attention wholly to his companion. “Thet's Nath Dunbar's critter,” commented “Mis'” Harney, standing at the door. “They've powerful poor 'commodations fur boardin', but I reckon Nath must 'a' tuk him in.” “Then,” said Rebecca, learning that this was the case, “then you have seen Lodusky.” But he had not seen Lodusky, it seemed. She had not been at home when he arrived, and he had only remained in the house long enough to make necessary arrangements before leaving it to go in search of his friends. The bare, rough-walled room was very cheery that night. Lennox brought with him the gossip of the great world, to which he gave an air of freshness and spice that rendered it very acceptable to the temporary hermits. Outside, the moon shone with a light as clear as day, though softer, and the tender night breezes stirred the pine-tops and nestled among the laurels; inside, by the beautiful barbarous light of the flaring pine-knots on the hearth, two talkers, at least, found the hours fly swiftly. When these two bade each other good-night it was only natural that they should reach the point toward which they had been veering for twelve months. Miss Thorne remained in the room, drawing nearer the fire with an amiable little shiver, well excused by the mountain coolness, but Rebecca was beguiled into stepping out into the moonlight The brightness of the moon and the blackness of the shadows cast by trees and rocks and undergrowth, seemed somehow to heighten the effect of the intense and utter stillness reigning around them,--even the occasional distant cry of some wandering wild creature marked, rather than broke in upon, the silence. Rebecca's glance about her was half nervous. “It is very beautiful,” she said, “and it moves one strongly; but I am not sure that it is not, in some of one's moods, just a little oppressive.” It is possible Lennox did not hear her. He was looking down at her with eager eyes. Suddenly he had caught her hand to his lips and kissed it. “You know why I am here, Rebecca,” he said. “Surely, all my hoping is not vain?” She looked pale and a little startled; but she lifted her face and did not draw herself away. “Is it?” he asked again. “Have I come on a hopeless errand?” “No,” she answered. “You have not.” His words came freely enough then and with fire. When Rebecca reentered the cabin her large eyes shone in her small, sweet face, and her lips wore a charming curve. Miss Thorne turned in her chair to look at her and was betrayed into a smile. “Mr. Lennox has gone, of course,” she said. “Yes.” Then, after a brief silence, in which Rebecca pushed the pine-knots with her foot, the elder lady spoke again. “Don't you think you may as well tell me about it, Beck, my child?” she said. Beck looked down and shook her head with very charming gravity. “Why should I?” she asked. “When--when you know.” Lennox rode his mildly disposed but violently gaited steed homeward in that reposeful state of bliss known only to accepted lovers. He had plucked his flower at last; he was no longer one of the many; he was ecstatically content. Uncertainty had no charm for him, and he was by no means the first discoverer of the subtle fineness her admirers found so difficult to describe in Miss Noble. Granted that she was not a beauty, judged rigidly, still he had found in her soft, clear eye, in her color, her charming voice, even in her little gestures, something which reached him as an artist and touched him as a man. “One cannot exactly account for other women's paling before her,” he said to himself; “but they do--and lose significance.” And then he laughed tenderly. At this moment, it was true, every other thing on earth paled and lost significance. That the family of his host had retired made itself evident to him when he dismounted at the house. To the silence of the night was added the silence of slumber. No one was to be seen; a small cow, rendered lean by active climbing in search of sustenance, breathed peacefully near the tumble-down fence; the ubiquitous, long-legged, yellow dog, rendered trustful by long seclusion, aroused himself from his nap to greet the arrival with a series of heavy raps upon the rickety porch-floor with a solid but languid tail. Lennox stepped over him in reaching for the gourd hanging upon the post, and he did not consider it incumbent upon himself to rise. In a little hollow at the road-side was the spring from which the household supplies of water were obtained. Finding none in the wooden bucket, Lennox took the gourd with the intention of going down to the hollow to quench his thirst. “We've powerful good water,” his host had said in the afternoon, “'n' it's nigh the house, too. I built the house yer a-purpose,--on 'count of its be-in' nigh.” He was unconsciously dwelling upon this statement as he walked, and trying to recall correctly the mountain drawl and twang. “She,” he said (there was only one “she” for him to-night)--“she will be sure to catch it and reproduce it in all its shades to the life.” He was only a few feet from the spring itself and he stopped with a sharp exclamation of the most uncontrollable amazement,--stopped and stared straight before him. It was a pretty, dell-like place, darkly shadowed on one side but bathed in the flooding moonlight on the other, and it was something he saw in this flood of moonlight which almost caused him to doubt for the moment the evidence of his senses. How it was possible for him to believe that there really could stand in such a spot a girl attired in black velvet of stagy cut and trimmings, he could not comprehend; but a few feet from him there certainly stood such a girl, who bent her lithe, round shape over the spring, gazing into its depths with all the eagerness of an insatiable vanity. “I can't see nothing” he heard her say impatiently. “I can't see nothin' nohow.” Despite the beauty, his first glance could not help showing him she was a figure so incongruous and inconsistent as to be almost _bizarre_. When she stood upright revealing fully her tall figure in its shabby finery, he felt something like resentment. He made a restive movement which she heard. The bit of broken looking-glass she held in her hand fell into the water, she uttered a shamefaced angry cry. “What d'ye want?” she exclaimed. “What are ye a-doin'? I didn't know as no one was a-lookin'. I”-- Her head was flung backward, her full throat looked like a pillar of marble against the black edge of her dress, her air was fierce. He would not have been an artist if he had not been powerfully struck with a sense of her picturesqueness. But he did not smile at all as he answered:-- “I board at the house there. I returned home late and was thirsty. I came here for water to drink.” Her temper died down as suddenly as it had flamed, and she seemed given up to a miserable, shamed trepidation. “Oh,” she said, “don't ye tell 'em--don't--I--I'm Dusk Dunbar.” Then, as was very natural, he became curious and possibly did smile--a very little. “What in the name of all that is fantastic are you doing?” She made an effort at being defiant and succeeded pretty well. “I wasn't doin' no harm,” she said. “I was--dressin' up a bit. It aint nobody's business.” “That's true,” he answered coolly. “At all events it is not mine--though it is rather late for a lady to be alone at such a place. However, if you have no objection, I will get what I came for and go back.” She said nothing when he stepped down and filled the gourd, but she regarded him with a sort of irritable watchfulness as he drank. “Are ye--are ye a-goin' to tell?” she faltered, when he had finished. “No,” he answered as coolly as before. “Why should I?” Then he gave her a long look from head to foot The dress was a poor enough velveteen and had a cast-off air, but it clung to her figure finely, and its sleeves were picturesque with puffs at the shoulder and slashings of white,--indeed the moonlight made her all black and white; her eyes, which were tawny brown by day, were black as velvet now under the straight lines of her brows, and her face was pure dead fairness itself. When, his look ended, his eyes met hers, she drew back with an impatient movement. . “Ye look as if--as if ye thought I didn't get it honest,” she exclaimed petulantly, “but I did.” That drew his glance toward her dress again, for of course she referred to that, and he could not help asking her a point-blank question. “Where _did_ you get it?” he said. There was a slow flippancy about the manner of her reply which annoyed him by its variance with her beauty--but the beauty! How the moonlight and the black and white brought it out as she leaned against the rock, looking at him from under her lashes! “Are ye goin' to tell the folks up at the house?” she demanded. “They don't know nothin' and I don't want 'em to know.” He shrugged his shoulder negatively. She laughed with a hint of cool slyness and triumph. “I got it at Asheville,” she said. “I went with father when they was a show thar, 'n' the women stayed at the same tavern we was at, 'n' one of 'em tuk up with me 'n' I done somethin' for her--carried a letter or two,” breaking into the sly, triumphant laugh again, “'n' she giv' me the dress fur pay. What d'ye think of it? Is it becomin'?” The suddenness of the change of manner with which she said these last words was indescribable. She stood upright, her head up, her hands fallen at her sides, her eyes cool and straight--her whole presence confronting him with the power of which she was conscious. “Is it?” she repeated. He was a gentleman from instinct and from training, having ordinarily quite a lofty repugnance for all profanity and brusqueness, and yet some how,--account for it as you will,--he had the next instant answered her with positive brutality. “Yes,” he answered, “Damnably!” When the words were spoken and he heard their sound fall upon the soft night air, he was as keenly disgusted as he would have been if he had heard them uttered by another man. It was not until afterward when he had had leisure to think the matter over that he comprehended vaguely the force which had moved him. But his companion received them without discomfiture. Indeed, it really occurred to him at the moment that there was a possibility that she would have been less pleased with an expression more choice. “I come down here to-night,” she said, “because I never git no chance to do nothin' up at the house. I'm not a-goin' to let _them_ know. Never mind why, but ye mustn't tell 'em.” He felt haughtily anxious to get back to his proper position. “Why should I?” he said again. “It is no concern of mine.” Then for the first time he noticed the manner in which she had striven to dress her hair in the style of her model, Rebecca Noble, and this irritated him unendurably. He waved his hand toward it with a gesture of distaste. “Don't do that again,” he said. “That is not becoming at least “--though he was angrily conscious that it was. She bent over the spring with a hint of alarm in her expression. “Aint it?” she said, and the eager rapidity with which she lifted her hands and began to alter it almost drew a smile from him despite his mood. “I done it like hern,” she began, and stopped suddenly to look up at him. “You know her,” she added; “they're at Harney's. Father said ye'd went to see her jest as soon as ye got here.” “I know her,” was his short reply. He picked up the drinking-gourd and turned away. “Good-night,” he said. “Good-night.” At the top of the rocky incline he looked back at her. She was kneeling upon the brink of the spring, her sleeve pushed up to her shoulder, her hand and arm in the water, dipping for the fragment of looking-glass. It was really not wholly inconsistent that he should not directly describe the interview in his next meeting with his betrothed. Indeed, Rebecca was rather struck by the coolness with which he treated the subject when he explained that he had seen the girl and found her beauty all it had been painted. “Is it possible,” she asked, “that she did not quite please you?” “Are you sure,” he returned, “that she quite pleases _you?_” Rebecca gave a moment to reflection. “But her beauty”--she began, when it was over. “Oh!” he interposed, “as a matter of color and curve and proportion she is perfect; one must admit that, however reluctantly.” Rebecca laughed. “Why 'reluctantly?'” she said. It was his turn to give a moment to reflection. His face shadowed, and he looked a little disturbed. “I don't know,” he replied at length; “I give it up.” He had expected to see a great deal of the girl, but somehow he saw her even oftener than he had anticipated. During the time he spent in the house, chance seemed to throw her continually in his path or under his eye. From his window he saw her carrying water from the spring, driving the small agile cow to and from the mountain pasturage, or idling in the shade. Upon the whole it was oftener this last than any other occupation. With her neglected knitting in her hands she would sit for hours under a certain low-spreading cedar not far from the door, barefooted, coarsely clad, beautiful,--every tinge of the sun, every indifferent leisurely movement, a new suggestion of a new grace. It would have been impossible to resist the temptation to watch her; and this Lennox did at first almost unconsciously. Then he did more. One beautiful still morning she stood under the cedar, her hand thrown lightly above her head to catch at a bough, and as she remained motionless, he made a sketch of her. When it was finished he was seized with the whimsical impulse to go out and show it to her. She took it with an uncomprehending air, but the moment she saw what it was a flush of triumph and joy lighted up her face. “It's me,” she cried in a low, eager voice. “Me! Do I look like that thar? Do I?” “You look as that would look if it had color, and was more complete.” She glanced up at him sharply. “D'ye mean if it was han'somer?” He was tempted into adding to her excitement with a compliment. “Yes,” he said, “very much handsomer than I could ever hope to make it.” A slow, deep red rose to her face. “Give it to me!” she demanded. “If you will stand in the same position until I have drawn another--certainly,” he returned. He was fully convinced that when she repeated the attitude there would be added to it a look of consciousness. When she settled into position and caught at the bough again, he watched in some distaste for the growth of the nervously complaisant air, but it did not appear. She was unconsciousness itself. It is possible that Rebecca Noble had never been so happy during her whole life as she was during this one summer. Her enjoyment of every wild beauty and novelty was immeasurably keen. Just at this time to be shut out, and to be as it were high above the world, added zest to her pleasure. “Ah,” she said once to her lover, “happiness is better here--one can taste it slowly.” Fatigue seemed impossible to her. With Lennox as her companion she performed miracles in the way of walking and climbing, and explored the mountain fastnesses for miles around. Her step grew firm and elastic, her color richer, her laugh had a buoyant ring. She had never been so nearly a beautiful woman as she was sometimes when she came back to the cabin after a ramble, bright and sun-flushed, her hands full of laurel and vines. “Your gown of 'hodden-gray' is wonderfully becoming, Beck,” Lennox said again and again with a secret exulting pride in her. Their plans for the future took tone from their blissful, unconventional life. They could not settle down until they had seen the world. They would go here and there, and perhaps, if they found it pleasanter so, not settle down at all. There were certain clay-white, closely built villages, whose tumble-down houses jostled each other upon divers precipitous cliffs on the wayside between Florence and Rome, toward which Lennox's compass seemed always to point. He rather argued that the fact of their not being dilated upon in the guide-books rendered them additionally interesting. Rebecca had her fancies too, and together they managed to talk a good deal of tender, romantic nonsense, which was purely their own business, and gave the summer days a delicate yet distinct flavor. The evening after the sketch was made they spent upon the mountain side together. When they stopped to rest, Lennox flung himself upon the ground at Rebecca's feet, and lay looking up at the far away blue of the sky in which a slow-flying bird circled lazily. Rebecca, with a cluster of pink and white laurel in her hand, proceeded with a metaphysical and poetical harangue she had previously begun. “To my eyes,” she said, “it has a pathetic air of loneliness--pathetic and yet not exactly sorrowful. It knows nothing but its own pure, brave, silent life. It is only pathetic to a worldling--worldlings like us. How fallen we must be to find a life desolate because it has only nature for a companion!” She stopped with an idle laugh, waiting for an ironical reply from the “worldling” at her feet; but he remained silent, still looking upward at the clear, deep blue. As she glanced toward him she saw something lying upon the grass between them, and bent to pick it up. It was the sketch which he had forgotten and which had slipped from the portfolio. “You have dropped something,” she said, and seeing what it was, uttered an exclamation of pleasure. He came back to earth with a start, and, recognizing the sketch, looked more than half irritated. “Oh, it is that, is it?” he said. “It is perfect!” she exclaimed. “What a pictare it will make!” “It is not to be a picture,” he answered. “It was not intended to be anything more than a sketch.” “But why not?” she asked. “It is too good to lose. You never had such a model in your life before.” “No,” he answered grudgingly. The hand with which Rebecca held the sketch dropped. She turned her attention to her lover, and a speculative interest grew in her face. “That girl”--she said slowly, after a mental summing up occupying a few seconds--“that girl irritates you--irritates you.” He laughed faintly. “I believe she does,” he replied; “yes, 'irritates' is the word to use.” And yet if this were true, his first act upon returning home was a singular one. He was rather late, but the girl Lodusky was sitting in the moonlight at the door. He stopped and spoke to her. “If I should wish to paint you,” he said rather coldly, “would you do me the favor of sitting to me?” She did not answer him at once, but seemed to weigh his words as she looked out across the moonlight. “Ye mean, will I let ye put me in a picter?” she said at last. He nodded. “Yes,” she answered. “I reckon he told ye he was a-paintin' Dusk's picter,” “Mis'” Harney said to her boarders a week later. “Mr. Lennox?” returned Rebecca; “yes, he told us.” “I thort so,” nodding benignly. “Waal now, Dusk'll make a powerful nice picter if she don't git contrairy. The trouble with Dusk is her a-gittin' contrairy. She's as like old Hance Dunbar as she kin be. I mean in some ways. Lord knows, 'twouldn't do to say she was like him in everythin'.” Naturally, Miss Noble made some inquiries into the nature of old Hance Dunbar's “contrairiness.” Secretly, she had a desire to account for Lodusky according to established theory. “I wonder ye haint heern of him,” said Mis Harney. “He was just awful--old Hance! He was Nath's daddy, an' Lord! the wickedest feller! Folks was afeared of him. No one darsn't to go a-nigh him when he'd git mad--a-rippin' 'n' a-rearin' 'n' a-chargin'.. 'N' he never got no religion, mind ye; he died jest that a-way. He was allers a hankerin' arter seein' the world, 'n' he went off an' stayed off a right smart while,--nine or ten year,--'n' lived in all sorts o' ways in them big cities. When he come back he was a sight to see, sick 'n' pore 'n' holler-eyed, but as wicked as ever. Dusk was a little thing 'n' he was a old man, but he'd laugh 'n' tell her to take care of her face 'n' be a smart gal. He was drefful sick at last 'n' suffered a heap, 'n' one day he got up offen his bed 'n' tuk down Nath's gun 'n' shot hisself as cool as could be. He hadn't no patience, 'n' he said, 'When a G--derned man had lived through what he had 'n' then wouldn't die, it was time to kill him.' Seems like it sorter 'counts fur Dusk; she don't git her cur'usness from her own folks; Nath an' Mandy's mighty clever, both on 'em.” “Perhaps it does 'count for Dusk,” Rebecca said, after telling the tale to Lennox. “It must be a fearful thing to have such blood in one's veins and feel it on fire. Let us,” she continued with a smile, “be as charitable as possible.” When the picture was fairly under way, Lennox's visits to the Harneys' cabin were somewhat less frequent. The mood in which she found he had gradually begun to regard his work aroused in Rebecca a faint wonder. He seemed hardly to like it, and yet to be fascinated by it. He was averse to speaking freely of it, and still he thought of it continually. Frequently when they were together, he wore an absent, perturbed air. “You do not look content,” she said to him once. He passed his hand quickly across his forehead and smiled, plainly with an effort, but he made no reply. The picture progressed rather slowly upon the whole. Rebecca had thought the subject a little fantastic at first, and yet had been attracted by it. A girl in a peculiar dress of black and white bent over a spring with an impatient air, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of her beauty in the reflection of the moonlight. “It 's our spring, shore,” commented “Mis'” Dunbar. “'N' its Dusk--but Lord! how fine she's fixed. Ye're as fine as ye want to be in the picter, Dusk, if ye wa'n't never fine afore. Don't ye wish ye had sich dressin' as thet thar now?” The sittings were at the outset peculiarly silent. There was no untimely motion or change of expression, and yet no trying passiveness. The girl gave any position a look of unconsciousness quite wonderful. Privately, Lennox was convinced that she was an actress from habit--that her ease was the result of life-long practice. Sometimes he found his own consciousness of her steady gaze almost unbearable. He always turned to meet her deep eyes fixed upon him with an expression he could not fathom. Frequently he thought it an expression of dislike--of secret resentment--of subtle defiance. There came at last a time when he knew that he turned toward her again and again because he felt that he must--because he had a feverish wish to see if the look had changed. Once when he did this he saw that it _had_ changed. She had moved a little, her eyes were dilated with a fire which startled him beyond self-control, her color came and went, she breathed fast. The next instant she sprang from her chair. “I wont stand it no longer,” she cried panting: “no longer--I wont!” Her ire was magnificent. She flung her head back, and struck her side with her clinched hand. “No longer!” she said; “not a minute!” Lennox advanced one step and stood, palette in hand, gazing at her. “What have I done?” he asked. “What?” “What?” she echoed with contemptuous scorn. “Nothin'! _But d'ye think I don't know ye?_” “Know me!” he repeated after her mechanically, finding it impossible to remove his glance from her. “What d'ye take me me fur?” she demanded. “A fool? Yes, I was a fool--a fool to come here, 'n' set 'n' let ye--let ye despise me!” in a final outburst. Still he could only echo her again, and say “Despise you!” Her voice lowered itself into an actual fierceness of tone. “Ye've done it from first to last,” she said. “Would ye look at her like ye look at me? Would ye turn half way 'n' look at her, 'n' then turn back as if--as if--. Aint there”--her eyes ablaze--“aint there no _life_--to me?” “Stop!” he began hoarsely. “I'm beneath her, am I?” she persisted. “Me beneath another woman--Dusk Dunbar! It's the first time!” She walked toward the door as if to leave him, but suddenly she stopped. A passionate tremor shook her; he saw her throat swell. She threw her arm up against the logs of the wall and dropped her face upon it sobbing tumultuously. There was a pause of perhaps three seconds. Then Lennox moved slowly toward her. Almost unconsciously he laid his hand upon her heaving shoulder and so stood trembling a little. When Rebecca paid her next visit to the picture it struck her that it appeared at a standstill. As she looked at it her lover saw a vague trouble growing slowly in her eyes. “What!” he remarked. “It does not please you?” “I think,” she answered,--“I feel as if it had not pleased you.” He fell back a few paces and stood scanning it with an impression at once hard and curious. “Please me!” he exclaimed in a voice almost strident. “It should. She has beauty enough.” On her return home that day Rebecca drew forth from the recesses of her trunk her neglected writing folio and a store of paper. Miss Thorne, entering the room, found her kneeling over her trunk, and spoke to her. “What are you going to do?” she asked. Rebeeca smiled faintly. “What I ought to have begun before,” she said. “I am behindhand with my work.” She laid the folio and her inkstand upon the table, and made certain methodical arrangements for her labor. She worked diligently all day, and looked slightly pale and wearied when she rose from her seat in the evening. Until eleven o'clock she sat at the open door, sometimes talking quietly, sometimes silent and listening to the wind among the pines. She did, not mention her lover's name, and he did not come. She spent many a day and night in the same manner after this. For the present the long, idle rambles and unconventional moon-lit talks were over. It was tacitly understood between herself and her aunt that Lennox's labor occupied him. “It seems a strange time to begin a picture--during a summer holiday,” said Miss Thorne a little sharply upon one occasion. Rebecca laughed with an air of cheer. “No time is a strange time to an artist,” she answered. “Art is a mistress who gives no holidays.” She was continually her bright, erect, alert self. The woman who loved her dearly and had known her from her earliest childhood, found her sagacity and knowledge set at naught as it were. She had been accustomed to see her niece admired far beyond the usual lot of women; she had gradually learned to feel it only natural that she should inspire quite a strong sentiment even in casual acquaintances. She had felt the delicate power of her fascination herself, but never at her best and brightest had she found her more charming or quicker of wit and fancy than she was now. Even Lennox, coming every few days with a worn-out look and touched with a haggard shadow, made no outward change in her. “She does not look,” said the elder lady to herself, “like a neglected woman.” And then the sound of the phrase struck her with a sharp incredulous pain. “A neglected woman!” she repeated,--“Beck!” She did not understand, and was not weak enough to ask questions. Lennox came and went, and Rebecca gained upon her work until she could no longer say she was behindhand. The readers of her letters and sketches found them fresh and sparkling, “as if,” wrote a friend, “you were braced both mentally and physically by the mountain air.” But once in the middle of the night Miss Thorne awakened with a mysterious shock to find the place at her side empty, and her niece sitting at the open window in a quiet which suggested that she might not have moved for an hour. She obeyed her strong first impulse, and rose and went to her. She laid her hand on her shoulder, and shook her gently. “Beck!” she demanded, “what are you doing?” When the girl turned slowly round, she started sit the sight of her cold, miserable pallor. “I am doing nothing--nothing,” she answered. “Why did you get up? It's a fine night, isn't it?” Despite her discretion, Miss Thorne broke down into a blunder. “You--you never look like this in the daytime!” she exclaimed. “No,” was the reply given with cool deliberateness. “No; I would rather _die_.” For the moment she was fairly incomprehensible. There was in the set of her eye and the expression of her fair, clear face, the least hint of dogged obstinacy. “Beck “--she began. “You ought not to have got up,” said Beck. “It is enough to look 'like this' at night when I am by myself. Go back to bed, if you please.” Miss Thorne went back to bed meekly. She was at once alarmed and subdued. She felt as if she had had a puzzling interview with a stranger. In these days Lennox regarded his model with morbid interest. A subtle change was perceptible in her. Her rich color deepened, she held herself more erect, her eye had a larger pride and light. She was a finer creature than ever, and yet--she came at his call. He never ceased to wonder at it. Sometimes the knowledge of his power stirred within him a vast impatience; sometimes he was hardened by it; but somehow it never touched him, though he was thrown into tumult--bound against his will. He could not say that he understood her. Her very passiveness baffled him and caused him to ask himself what it meant. She spoke little, and her emotional phases seemed reluctant, but her motionless face and slowly raised eye always held a meaning of their own. On an occasion when he mentioned his approaching departure, she started as if she had received a blow, and he turned to see her redden and pale alternately, her face full of alarm. “What is the matter?” he asked brusquely. “I--hadn't bin thinkin' on it,” she stammered. “I'd kinder forgot.” He turned to his easel again and painted rapidly for a few minutes. Then he felt a light touch on his arm. She had left her seat noiselessly and stood beside him. She gave him a passionate, protesting look. A fire of excitement seemed to have sprung up within her and given her a defiant daring. “D'ye think I'll stay here--when ye're gone--like I did before?” she said. She had revealed herself in many curious lights to him, but no previous revelation had been so wonderful as was the swift change of mood and bearing which took place in her at this instant. In a moment she had melted into soft tears, her lips were tremulous, her voice dropped into a shaken whisper. “I've allers wanted to go away,” she said. “I--I've allers said I would. I want to go to a city somewhar--I don't keer whar. I might git work--I've heerd of folks as did. P'r'aps some un ud hire me!” He stared at her like a man fascinated. “_You_ go to the city alone!” he said under his breath. “_You_ try to get work!” “Yes,” she answered. “Don't ye know no one”-- He stopped her. “No,” he said, “I don't. It would be a dangerous business unless you had friends. As for me, I shall not be in America long. As soon as I am married I go with my wife to Europe.” He heard a sharp click in her throat. Her tears were dried, and she was looking straight at him. “Are ye a-goin' to be married?” she asked. “Yes.” “To--_her?_” with a gesture in the direction of the Harneys' cabin. “Yes.” “Oh!” and she walked out of the room. He did not see her for three days, and the picture stood still. He went to the Harneys' and found Rebecca packing her trunk. “We are going back to New York,” she said. “Why?” he asked. “Because our holiday is over.” Miss Thorne regarded him with chill severity. “When may we expect to see you?” she inquired. He really felt half stupefied,--as if for the time being his will was paralyzed. “I don't know,” he answered. He tried to think that he was treated badly and coldly. He told himself that he had done nothing to deserve this style of thing, that he had simply been busy and absorbed in his work, and that if he had at times appeared preoccupied it was not to be wondered at. But when he looked at Rebecca he did not put these thoughts into words; he did not even say that of course he should follow them soon, since there was nothing to detain him but a sketch or two he had meant to make. By night they were gone and he was left restless and miserable. He was so restless that he could not sleep but wandered down toward the spring. He stopped at the exact point at which he had stopped on the night of his arrival--at the top of the zigzag little path leading down the rocky incline. He stopped because he heard a sound of passionate sobbing. He descended slowly. He knew the sound--angry, fierce, uncontrollable--because he had heard it before. It checked itself the instant he reached the ground. Lodusky leaning against a projecting rock kept her eyes fixed upon the water. “Why did you come here?” he demanded, a little excitedly. “What are you crying for? What has hurt you?” “Nothing” in a voice low and unsteady. He drew a little nearer to her and for the first time was touched. She would not look at him, she was softened and altered, in her whole appearance, by a new pallor. “Have “--he began, “have I?” “You!” she cried, turning on him with a bitter, almost wild gesture. “_You_ wouldn't keer if I was struck _dead_ afore ye!” “Look here,” he said to her, with an agitation he could not master. “Let me tell you something about myself. If you think I am a passably good fellow you are mistaken. I am a bad fellow, a poor fellow, an ignoble fellow. You don't understand?” as she gazed at him in bewilderment. “No, of course, you don't. God knows I didn't myself until within the last two weeks. It's folly to say such things to you; perhaps I say them half to satisfy myself. But I mean to show you that I am not to be trusted. I think perhaps I am too poor a fellow to love any woman honestly and altogether. I followed one woman here, and then after all let another make me waver”-- “Another!” she faltered. He fixed his eyes on her almost coldly. “You,” he said. He seemed to cast the word at her and wonder what she would make of it He waited a second or so before he went on. “_You_, and yet you are not the woman I love either. Good God! What a villain I must be. I am an insult to every woman that breathes. It is not even you--though I can't break from you, and you have made me despise myself. There! do you know now--do you see now that I am not worth “-- The next instant he started backward. Before he had time for a thought she had uttered a low cry, and flung herself down at his feet. “I don't keer,” she panted; “I wont keer fur nothin',--whether ye're good or bad,--only don't leave me here when ye go away.” ***** A week later Lennox arose one morning and set about the task of getting his belongings together. He had been up late and had slept heavily and long. He felt exhausted and looked so. The day before, his model had given him his last sitting. The picture stood finished upon the easel. It was a thorough and artistic piece of work, and yet the sight of it was at times unbearable to him. There were times again, however, when it fascinated him anew when he went and stood opposite to it, regarding it with an intense gaze. He scarcely knew how the last week had passed. It seemed to have been spent in alternate feverish struggles and reckless abandonment to impulse. He had let himself drift here and there, he had at last gone so far as to tell himself that the time had arrived when baseness was possible to him. “I don't promise you an easy life,” he had said to Dusk the night before. “I tell you I am a bad fellow, and I have lost something through you that I cared for. You may wish yourself back again.” “If you leave me,” she said, “I'll kill myself!” and she struck her hands together. For the moment he was filled, as he often was, with a sense of passionate admiration. It was true he saw her as no other creature had ever seen her before, that so far as such a thing was possible with her, she loved him--loved him with a fierce, unreserved, yet narrow passion. He had little actual packing to do--merely the collecting of a few masculine odds and ends, and then his artistic accompaniments. Nothing was of consequence but these; the rest were tossed together indifferently, but the picture was to be left until the last moment, that its paint might be dry beyond a doubt. Having completed his preparations he went out. He had the day before him, and scarcely knew what to do with it, but it must be killed in one way or another. He wandered up the mountain and at last lay down with his cigar among the laurels. He was full of a strange excitement which now thrilled, now annoyed him. He came back in the middle of the afternoon and laughed a rather half-hearted laugh at the excellent Mandy's comment upon his jaded appearance. “Ye look kinder tuckered out,” she said. “Ye'd oughtn't ter walked so fur when ye was a-gwine off to-night. Ye'd orter rested.” She stopped the churn-dasher and regarded him with a good-natured air of interest. “Hev ye seed Dusk to say good-by to her?” she added. “She's went over the mountain ter help Mirandy Stillins with her soap. She wont be back fur a day or two.” He went into his room and shut the door. A fierce repulsion sickened him. He had heretofore held himself with a certain degree of inward loftiness; he had so condemned the follies and sins of other men, and here he found himself involved in a low and common villainy, in the deceits which belonged to his crime, and which preyed upon simplicity and ignorant trust. He went and stood before his easel, hot with a blush of self-scorn. “Has it come to this?” he muttered through his clinched teeth--“to _this!_” He made an excited forward movement; his foot touched the supports of the easel, jarring it roughly; the picture fell upon the floor. “What?” he cried out. “Beck! You! Great God!” For before him, revealed by the picture's fall, the easel held one of the fairest memories he had of the woman he had proved himself too fickle and slight to value rightly. It was merely a sketch made rapidly one day soon after his arrival and never wholly completed, but it had been touched with fire and feeling, and the face looked out from the canvas with eyes whose soft happiness stung him to the quick with the memories they brought. He had meant to finish it, and had left it upon the easel that he might turn to it at any moment, and it had remained there, covered by a stronger rival--forgotten. He sat down in a chair and his brow fell upon his hands. He felt as if he had been clutched and dragged backward by a powerful arm. When at last he rose, he strode to the picture lying upon the floor, ground it under his heel, and spurned it from him with an imprecation. He was, at a certain hour, to reach a particular bend in the road some miles distant. He was to walk to this place and if he found no one there, to wait. When at sunset that evening he reached it, he was half an hour before the time specified, but he was not the first at the tryst. He was within twenty yards of the spot when a figure rose from the roots of a tree and stood waiting for him--the girl Dusk with a little bundle in her hand. She was not flushed or tremulous with any hint of mental excitement; she awaited him with a fine repose, even the glow of the dying sun having no power to add to her color, but as he drew near he saw her look gradually change. She did not so much as stir, but the change grew slowly, slowly upon her face, and developed there into definite shape--the shape of secret, repressed dread. “What is it,” she asked when he at last confronted her, “that ails ye?” She uttered the words in a half whisper, as if she had not the power to speak louder, and he saw the hand hanging at her side close itself. “What is it--that ails ye?” He waited a few seconds before he answered her. “Look at me,” he said at last, “and see.” She did look at him. For the space of ten seconds their eyes were fixed upon each other in a long, bitter look. Then her little bundle dropped on the ground. “Ye've went back on me,” she said under her breath again. “Ye've went back on me!” He had thought she might make some passionate outcry, but she did not yet. A white wrath was in her face and her chest heaved, but she spoke slowly and low, her hands fallen down by her side. “Ye've went back on me,” she said. “An' _I knew ye would_.” He felt that the odor of his utter falseness tainted the pure air about him; he had been false all round,--to himself, to his love, to his ideals,--even in a baser way here. “Yes,” he answered her with a bitterness she did not understand, “I've gone back on you.” Then, as if to himself, “I could not even reach perfection in villainy.” Then her rage and misery broke forth. “Yer a coward!” she said, with gasps between her words. “Yer afraid! I'd sooner--I'd sooner ye'd killed me--_dead!_” Her voice shrilled itself into a smothered shriek, she cast herself face downward upon the earth and lay there clutching amid her sobs at the grass. He looked down at her in a cold, stunned fashion. “Do you think,” he said hoarsely, “that you can loathe me as I loathe myself? Do you think you can call me one shameful name I don't know I deserve? If you can, for God's sake let me have it.” She struck her fist against the earth. “Thar wasn't a man I ever saw,” she said, “that didn't foller after me, 'n' do fur me, 'n' wait fur a word from me. They'd hev let me set my foot on 'em if I'd said it. Thar wasn't nothin' I mightn't hev done--not nothin'. An' now--an' now “--and, she tore the grass from its earth and flung it from her. “Go on,” he said. “Go on and say your worst.” Her worst was bad enough, but he almost exulted under the blows she dealt him. He felt the horrible sting a vague comfort. He had fallen low enough surely when it was a comfort to be told that he was a liar, a poltroon, and a scoundrel. The sun had been down an hour when it was over and she had risen and taken up her bundle. “Why don't ye ask me to forgive ye?” she said with a scathing sneer. “Why don't ye ask me to forgive ye--an' say ye didn't mean to do it?” He fell back a pace and was silent. With what grace would the words have fallen from his lips? And yet he knew that he had not _meant_ to do it. She turned away and at a distance of a few feet stopped. She gave him a last look--a fierce one in its contempt and anger, and her affluence of beauty had never been so stubborn a fact before. “Ye think ye've left me behind,” she said. “An' so ye hev--but it aint fur allers. The time'll come when mebbe ye'll see me ag'in.” He returned to New York, but he had been there a week before he went to Rebecca. Finally, however, he awoke one morning feeling that the time had come for the last scene of his miserable drama. He presented himself at the house and sent up his name, and in three minutes Rebecca came to him. It struck him with a new thrill of wretchedness to see that she wore by chance the very dress she had worn the day he had made the sketch--a pale, pure-looking gray, with a scarf of white lace loosely fastened at her throat. Next, he saw that there was a painful change in her, that she looked frail and worn, as if she had been ill. His first words he scarcely heard and never remembered. He had not come to make a defense, but a naked, bitter confession. As he made it low and monotonously, in brief, harsh words, holding no sparing for himself, Rebecca stood with her hand upon the mantle looking at him with simple directness. There was no rebuke in her look, but there was weariness. It occurred to him once or twice and with a terribly humiliating pang, that she was tired of him,--tired of it all. “I have lost you,” he ended. “And I have lost myself. I have seen myself as I am,--a poorer figure, a grosser one than I ever dreamed of being, even in the eyes of my worst enemy. Henceforth, this figure will be my companion. It is as if I looked at myself in a bad glass; but now, though the reflection is a pitiable one, the glass is true.” “You think,” she said, after a short silence, “of going away?” “Yes.” “Where?” “To Europe.” “Oh,” she ejaculated, with a soft, desperate sound of pain. His eyes had been downcast and he raised them. “Yes,” he said, mournfully. “We were to have gone together.” “Yes,” she answered, “together.” Her eyes were wet. “I was very happy,” she said, “for a little while.” She held out her hand. “But,” she added, as if finishing a sentence, “you have been truer to me than you think.” “No--no,” he groaned. “Yes, truer to me than you think--and truer to yourself. It was I you loved--I! There have been times when I thought I must give that up, but now I know I need not. It was I. Sometime, perhaps,--sometime,--not now”-- Her voice broke, she did not finish, the end was a sob. Their eyes rested upon each other a few seconds, and then he released her hand and went away. He was absent for two years, and during that time his friends heard much good of him. He lived the life of a recluse and a hard worker. He learned to know his own strength, and taught the world to recognize it also. At the end of the second year, being in Paris, he went one night to the _Nouvelle Opéra_. Toward the close of the second act he became conscious of a little excited stir among those surrounding him. Every glass seemed directed toward a new arrival who stood erect and cool in one of the stage-boxes. She might have been Cleopatra. Her costume was of a creamy satin, she was covered with jewels, and she stood up confronting the house, as it regarded her, with _sang froid_. Lennox rose hurriedly and left the place. He was glad to breathe the bitterly cold but pure night air. She had made no idle prophecy. He had seen her again! There hung upon the wall of his private room a picture whose completion had been the first work after his landing. He went in to it and looked at it with something like adoration. “'Sometime'” he said, “perhaps now,” and the next week he was on his way home.

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:30.597675

23328

Produced by David Widger ESMERALDA By Frances Hodgson Burnett Copyright, 1877 To begin, I am a Frenchman, a teacher of languages, and a poor man,--necessarily a poor man, as the great world would say, or I should not be a teacher of languages, and my wife a copyist of great pictures, selling her copies at small prices. In our own eyes, it is true, we are not so poor--my Clélie and I. Looking back upon our past we congratulate ourselves upon our prosperous condition. There was a time when we were poorer than we are now, and were not together, and were, moreover, in London instead of in Paris. These were indeed calamities: to be poor, to teach, to live apart, not even knowing each other--and in England! In England we spent years; we instructed imbeciles of all grades; we were chilled by east winds, and tortured by influenza; we vainly strove to conciliate the appalling English; we were discouraged and desolate. But this, thank _le bon Dieu!_ is past. We are united; we have our little apartment--upon the fifth floor, it is true, but still not hopelessly far from the Champs Elysées. Clélie paints her little pictures, or copies those of some greater artist, and finds sale for them. She is not a great artist herself, and is charmingly conscious of the fact. “At fifteen,” she says, “I regretted that I was not a genius; at five and twenty, I rejoice that I made the discovery so early, and so gave myself time to become grateful for the small gifts bestowed upon me. Why should I eat out my heart with envy? Is it not possible that I might be a less clever woman than I am, and a less lucky one?” On my part I have my pupils,--French pupils who take lessons in English, German, or Italian; English or American pupils who generally learn French, and, upon the whole, I do not suffer from lack of patrons. It is my habit when Clélie is at work upon a copy in one of the great galleries to accompany her to the scene of her labor in the morning and call for her at noon, and, in accordance with this habit, I made my way to the Louvre at midday upon one occasion three years ago. I found my wife busy at her easel in the _Grande Galerie_, and when I approached her and laid my hand upon her shoulder, as was my wont, she looked up with a smile and spoke to me in a cautious undertone. “I am glad,” she said, “that you are not ten minutes later. Look at those extraordinary people.” She still leaned back in her chair and looked up at me, but made, at the same time, one of those indescribable movements of the head which a clever woman can render so significant. This slight gesture directed me at once to the extraordinary people to whom she referred. “Are they not truly wonderful?” she asked. There were two of them, evidently father and daughter, and they sat side by side upon a seat placed in an archway, and regarded hopelessly one of the finest works in the gallery. The father was a person undersized and elderly. His face was tanned and seamed, as if with years of rough outdoor labor; the effect produced upon him by his clothes was plainly one of actual suffering, both physical and mental. His stiff hands refused to meet the efforts of his gloves to fit them; his body shrank from his garments; if he had not been pathetic, he would have been ridiculous. But he was pathetic. It was evident he was not so attired of his own free will; that only a patient nature, inured by long custom to discomfort, sustained him; that he was in the gallery under protest; that he did not understand the paintings, and that they perplexed--overwhelmed him. The daughter it is almost impossible to describe, and yet I must attempt to describe her. She had a slender and pretty figure; there were slight marks of the sun on her face also, and, as in her father's case, the richness of her dress was set at defiance by a strong element of incongruousness. She had black hair and gray eyes, and she sat with folded hands staring at the picture before her in dumb uninterestedness. Clélie had taken up her brush again, and was touching up her work here and there. “They have been here two hours,” she said. “They are waiting for some one. At first they tried to look about them as others did. They wandered from seat to seat, and sat down, and looked as you see them doing now. What do you think of them? To what nation should you ascribe them?” “They are not French,” I answered. “And they are not English.” “If she were English,” said Clélie, “the girl would be more conscious of herself, and of what we might possibly be saying. She is only conscious that she is out of place and miserable. She does not care for us at all. I have never seen Americans like them before, but I am convinced that they are Americans.” She laid aside her working materials and proceeded to draw on her gloves. “We will go and look at that 'Tentation de St. Antoine' of Teniers,” she said, “and we may hear them speak. I confess I am devoured by an anxiety to hear them speak.” According, a few moments later an amiable young couple stood before “La Tentation,” regarding it with absorbed and critical glances. But the father and daughter did not seem to see us. They looked disconsolately about them, or at the picture before which they sat. Finally, however, we were rewarded by hearing them speak to each other. The father addressed the young lady slowly and deliberately, and with an accent which, but for my long residence in England and familiarity with some forms of its _patois_, I should find it impossible to transcribe. “Esmeraldy,” he said, “your ma's a long time acomin'.” “Yes,” answered the girl, with the same accent, and in a voice wholly listless and melancholy, “she's a long time.” Clélie favored me with one of her rapid side glances. The study of character is her grand passion, and her special weakness is a fancy for the singular and incongruous. I have seen her stand in silence, and regard with positive interest one of her former patronesses who was overwhelming her with contumelious violence, seeming entirely unconscious of all else but that the woman was of a species novel to her, and therefore worthy of delicate observation. “It is as I said,” she whispered. “They are Americans, but of an order entirely new.” Almost the next instant she touched my arm. “Here is the mother!” she exclaimed. “She is coming this way. See!” A woman advanced rapidly toward our part of the gallery,--a small, angry woman, with an un graceful figure, and a keen brown eye. She began to speak aloud while still several feet distant from the waiting couple. “Come along,” she said. “I've found a place at last, though I've been all the morning at it,--and the woman who keeps the door speaks English. “They call 'em,” remarked the husband, meekly rising, “_con-ser-ges_. I wonder why.” The girl rose also, still with her hopeless, abstracted air, and followed the mother, who led the way to the door. Seeing her move forward, my wife uttered an admiring exclamation. “She is more beautiful than I thought,” she said. “She holds herself marvelously. She moves with the freedom of some fine wild creature.” And, as the party disappeared from view, her regret at losing them drew from her a sigh. She discussed them with characteristic enthusiasm all the way home. She even concocted a very probable little romance. One would always imagine so many things concerning Americans. They were so extraordinary a people; they acquired wealth by such peculiar means; their country was so immense; their resources were so remarkable. These persons, for instance, were evidently persons of wealth, and as plainly had risen from the people. The mother was not quite so wholly untaught as the other two, but she was more objectionable. “One can bear with the large simplicity of utter ignorance,” said my fair philosopher. “One frequently finds it gentle and unworldly, but the other is odious because it is always aggressive and narrow.” She had taken a strong feminine dislike to Madame la Mère. “She makes her family miserable,” she said. “She drags them from place to place. Possibly there is a lover,--more possibly than not. The girl's eyes wore a peculiar look,--as if they searched for something far away.” She had scarcely concluded her charming little harangue when we reached our destination; but, as we passed through the entrance, she paused to speak to the curly-headed child of the _concierge_ whose mother held him by the hand. “We shall have new arrivals to-morrow,” said the good woman, who was always ready for friendly gossip. “The apartment upon the first floor,” and she nodded to me significantly, and with good-natured encouragement. “Perhaps you may get pupils,” she added. “They are Americans, and speak only English, and there is a young lady, Madame says.” “Americans!” exclaimed Clélie, with sudden interest. “Americans,” answered the _concierge_. “It was Madame who came. _Mon Dieu!_ it was wonderful! So rich and so--so”--filling up the blank by a shrug of deep meaning. “It cannot have been long since they were--peasants,” her voice dropping into a cautious whisper. “Why not our friends of the Louvre?” said Clélie as we went on up-stairs. “Why not?” I replied. “It is very possible.” The next day there arrived at the house numberless trunks of large dimensions, superintended by the small angry woman and a maid. An hour later came a carriage, from whose door emerged the young lady and her father. Both looked pale and fagged; both were led up-stairs in the midst of voluble comments and commands by the mother; and both, entering the apartment, seemed swallowed up by it, as we saw and heard nothing further of them. Clélie was indignant. “It is plain that the mother overwhelms them,” she said. “A girl of that age should speak and be interested in any novelty. This one would be if she were not wretched. And the poor little husband!”-- “My dear,” I remarked, “you are a feminine Bayard. You engage yourself with such ardor in everybody's wrongs.” When I returned from my afternoon's work a few days later, I found Clélie again excited. She had been summoned to the first floor by Madame. “I went into the room,” said Clélie, “and found the mother and daughter together. Mademoiselle, who stood by the fire, had evidently been weeping Madame was in an abrupt and angry mood. She wasted no words. 'I want you to give her lessons,' she said, making an ungraceful gesture in the direction of her daughter. 'What do you charge a lesson?' And on my telling her, she engaged me at once. 'It's a great deal, but I guess I can pay as well as other people,' she remarked.” A few of the lessons were given downstairs, and then Clélie preferred a request to Madame. “If you will permit Mademoiselle to come to my room, you will confer a favor upon me,” she said. Fortunately, her request was granted, and so I used afterward to come home and find Mademoiselle Esmeralda in our little _salon_ at work disconsolately and tremulously. She found it difficult to hold her pencil in the correct manner, and one morning she let it drop, and burst into tears. “Don't you see I'll never do it!” she answered, miserably. “Don't you see I couldn't, even if my heart was in it, and it aint at all!” She held out her little hands piteously for Clélie to look at. They were well enough shaped, and would have been pretty if they had not been robbed of their youthful suppleness by labor. “I've been used to work,” she said, “rough work all my life, and my hands aint like yours.” “But you must not be discouraged, Mademoiselle,” said Clélie gently. “Time”-- “Time,” interposed the girl, with a frightened look in her pretty gray eyes. “That's what I can't bear to think of--the time that's to come.” This was the first of many outbursts of confidence. Afterward she related to Clélie, with the greatest naïveté, the whole history of the family affairs. They had been the possessors of some barren mountain lands in North Carolina, and her description of their former life was wonderful indeed to the ears of the Parisian. She herself had been brought up with marvelous simplicity and hardihood, barely learning to read and write, and in absolute ignorance of society. A year ago iron had been discovered upon their property, and the result had been wealth and misery for father and daughter. The mother, who had some vague fancies of the attractions of the great outside world, was ambitious and restless. Monsieur, who was a mild and accommodating person, could only give way before her stronger will. “She always had her way with us,” said Mademoiselle Esmeralda, scratching nervously upon the paper before her with her pencil, at this part of the relation. “We did not want to leave home, neither me nor father, and father said more than I ever heard him say before at one time. 'Mother,' says he, 'let me an' Esmeraldy stay at home, an' you go an' enjoy your tower. You've had more schoolin' an' you'll be more at home than we should. You're useder to city ways, havin' lived in 'Lizabethville.' But it only vexed her. People in town had been talking to her about traveling and letting me learn things, and she'd set her mind on it.” She was very simple and unsophisticated. To the memory of her former truly singular life she clung with unshaken fidelity. She recurred to it constantly. The novelty and luxury of her new existence seemed to have no attractions for her. One thing even my Clélie found incomprehensible, while she fancied she understood the rest--she did not appear to be moved to pleasure even by our beloved Paris. “It is a true _maladie du pays_,” Clélie remarked to me. “_And that is not all_.” Nor was it all. One day the whole truth was told amid a flood of tears. “I--I was going to be married,” cried the poor child. “I was to have been married the week the ore was found. I was--all ready, and mother--mother shut right down on us.” Clélie glanced at me in amazed questioning. “It is a kind of _argot_ which belongs only to Americans,” I answered in an undertone. “The alliance was broken off.” “_Ciel!_” exclaimed my Clélie between her small shut teeth. “The woman is a fiend!” She was wholly absorbed in her study of this unworldly and untaught nature. She was full of sympathy for its trials and tenderness, and for its pain. Even the girl's peculiarities of speech were full of interest to her. She made serious and intelligent efforts to understand them, as if she studied a new language. “It is not common _argot_,” she said. “It has its subtleties. One continually finds somewhere an original idea--sometimes even a _bon mot_, which startles one by its pointedness. As you say, however, it belongs only to the Americans and their remarkable country. A French mind can only arrive at its climaxes through a grave and occasionally tedious research, which would weary most persons, but which, however, does not weary me.” The confidence of Mademoiselle Esmeralda was easily won. She became attached to us both, and particularly to Clélie. When her mother was absent or occupied, she stole up-stairs to our apartment and spent with us the moments of leisure chance afforded her. She liked our rooms, she told my wife, because they were small, and our society, because we were “clever,” which we discovered afterward meant “amiable.” But she was always pale and out of spirits. She would sit before our fire silent and abstracted. “You must not mind if I don't talk,” she would say. “I can't; and it seems to help me to get to sit and think about things--Mother won't let me do it down-stairs.” We became also familiar with the father. One day I met him upon the staircase, and to my amazement he stopped as if he wished to address me. I raised my hat and bade him good-morning. On his part he drew forth a large handkerchief and began to rub the palms of his hands with awkward timidity. “How-dy?” he said. I confess that at the moment I was covered with confusion. I who was a teacher of English, and flattered myself that I wrote and spoke it fluently did not understand. Immediately, however, it flashed across my mind that the word was a species of salutation. (Which I finally discovered to be the case.) I bowed again and thanked him, hazarding the reply that my health was excellent, and an inquiry as to the state of Madame's. He rubbed his hands still more nervously, and answered me in the slow and deliberate mariner I had observed at the Louvre. “Thank ye,” he said, “she's doin' tol'able well, is mother--as well as common. And she's a-en-joyin' herself, too. I wish we was all”-- But there he checked himself and glanced hastily about him. Then he began again:-- “Esmeraldy,” he said,--“Esmeraldy thinks a heap on you. She takes a sight of comfort out of Mis' Des----I can't call your name, but I mean your wife.” “Madame Desmarres,” I replied, “is rejoiced indeed to have won the friendship of Mademoiselle.” “Yes,” he proceeded, “she takes a sight of comfort in you and all. An' she needs comfort, does Esmeraldy.” There ensued a slight pause which somewhat embarrassed me, for at every pause he regarded me with an air of meek and hesitant appeal. “She's a little down-sperrited is Esmeraldy,” he said. “An',” adding this suddenly in a subdued and fearful tone, “so am I.” Having said this he seemed to feel that he had overstepped a barrier. He seized the lapel of my coat and held me prisoner, pouring forth his confessions with a faith in my interest by which I was at once amazed and touched. “You see it's this way,” he said,--“it's this way, Mister. We're home folks, me an' Esmeraldy, an' we're a long way from home, an' it sorter seems like we didn't get no useder to it than we was at first. We're not like mother. Mother she was raised in a town,--she was raised in 'Lizabethville,--an' she allers took to town ways; but me an' Esmeraldy, we was raised in the mountains, right under the shadder of old Bald, an' town goes hard with us. Seems like we're allers a thinkin' of North Callina. An' mother she gits outed, which is likely. She says we'd ought to fit ourselves fur our higher pear, an' I dessay we'd ought,--but you see it goes sorter hard with us. An' Esmeraldy she has her trouble an' I can't help a sympathizin' with her, fur young folks will be young folks; an' I was young folks once myself. Once--once I sot a heap o' store by mother. So you see-how it is.” “It is very sad, Monsieur,” I answered with gravity. Singular as it may appear, this was not so laughable to me as it might seem. It was so apparent that he did not anticipate ridicule. And my Clélie's interest in these people also rendered them sacred in my eyes. “Yes,” he returned, “that's so; an' sometimes it's wuss than you'd think--when mother's outed. An' that's why I'm glad as Mis' Dimar an' Esmeraldy is such friends.” It struck me at this moment that he had some request to make of me. He grasped the lapel of my coat somewhat more tightly as if requiring additional support, and finally bent forward and addressed me with caution, “Do you think as Mis' Dimar would mind it ef now an' then I was to step in fur Esmeraldy, an' set a little--just in a kinder neighborin' way. Esmeraldy, she says you're so sosherble. And I haint been sosherble with no one fur--fur a right smart spell. And it seems like I kinder hanker arter it. You've no idea, Mister, how lonesome a man can git when he hankers to be sosherble an' haint no one to be sosherble with. Mother, she says, 'Go out on the Champs Elizy and promenard,' and I've done it; but some ways it don't reach the spot. I don't seem to get sosherble with no one. I've spoke to--may be through us speakin' different languages, an' not comin' to a understandin'. I've tried it loud an' I've tried it low an' encouragen', but some ways we never seemed to get on. An' er Mis' Dimar wouldn't take no exceptions at me a-drop-pin' in, I feel as ef I should be sorter uplifted--if she'd only allow it once a week or even fewer.” “Monsieur,” I replied with warmth, “I beg you will consider our _salon_ at your disposal, not once a week but at all times, and Madame Desmarres would certainly join me in the invitation if she were upon the spot.” He released the lapel of my coat and grasped my hand, shaking it with fervor. “Now, that's clever, that is,” he said. “An' its friendly, an' I'm obligated to ye.” Since he appeared to have nothing further to say we went down-stairs together. At the door we parted. “I'm a-goin',” he remarked, “to the Champs Elizy to promenard. Where are you a-goin'?” “To the Boulevard Haussmann, Monsieur, to give a lesson,” I returned. “I will wish you good-morning.” “Good-mornin',” he answered. “_Bong_”--reflecting deeply for a moment--“_Bong jore_. I'm a tryin' to learn it, you see, with a view to bein' more sosherbler. _Bong jore_” And thus took his departure. After this we saw him frequently. In fact it became his habit to follow Mademoiselle Esmeralda in all her visits to our apartment. A few minutes after her arrival we usually heard a timid knock upon the outer door, which proved to emanate from Monsieur, who always entered with a laborious “_Bong jore_” and always slipped deprecatingly into the least comfortable chair near the fire, hurriedly concealing his hat beneath it. In him also my Clélie became much interested. On my own part I could not cease to admire the fine feeling and delicate tact she continually exhibited in her manner toward him. In time he even appeared to lose something of his first embarrassment and discomfort, though he was always inclined to a reverent silence in her presence. “He don't say much, don't father,” said Mademoiselle Esmeralda, with tears in her pretty eyes. “He's like me, but you don't know what comfort he's taking when he sits and listens and stirs his chocolate round and round without drinking it. He doesn't drink it because he aint used to it; but he likes to have it when we do, because he says it makes him feel sosherble. He's trying to learn to drink it too--he practices every day a little at a time. He was powerful afraid at first that you'd take exceptions to him doing nothing but stir it round; but I told him I knew you wouldn't for you wasn't that kind.” “I find him,” said Clélie to me, “inexpressibly mournful,--even though he excites one to smile? upon all occasions. Is it not mournful that his very suffering should be absurd. _Mon Dieu!_ he does not _wear_ his clothes--he bears them about with him--he simply _carries_ them.” It was about this time that Mademoiselle Esmeralda was rendered doubly unhappy. Since their residence in Paris Madame had been industriously occupied in making efforts to enter society. She had struggled violently and indefatigably. She was at once persistent and ambitious. She had used every means that lay in her power, and, most of all, she had used her money. Naturally, she had found people upon the outskirts of good circles who would accept her with her money. Consequently, she had obtained acquaintances of a class, and was bold enough to employ them as stepping-stones. At all events, she began to receive invitations, and to discover opportunities to pay visits, and to take her daughter with her. Accordingly, Mademoiselle Esmeralda was placed upon exhibition. She was dressed by experienced _artistes_. She was forced from her seclusion, and obliged to drive, and call, and promenade. Her condition was pitiable. While all this was torture to her inexperience and timidity, her fear of her mother rendered her wholly submissive. Each day brought with it some new trial. She was admired for many reasons,--by some for her wealth, of which all had heard rumors; by others for her freshness and beauty. The silence and sensitiveness which arose from shyness, and her ignorance of all social rules, were called _naïveté_ and modesty, and people who abhorred her mother, not unfrequently were charmed with her, and consequently Madame found her also an instrument of some consequence. In her determination to overcome all obstacles, Madame even condescended to apply to my wife, whose influence over Mademoiselle she was clever enough not to undervalue. “I want you to talk to Mademoiselle,” she said. “She thinks a great deal of you, and I want you to give her some good advice. You know what society is, and you know that she ought to be proud of her advantages, and not make a fool of herself. Many a girl would be glad enough of what she has before her. She's got money, and she's got chances, and I don't begrudge her anything. She can spend all she likes on clothes and things, and I'll take her anywhere if she'll behave herself. They wear me out--her and her father. It's her father that's ruined her, and her living as she's done. Her father never knew anything, and he's made a pet of her, and got her into his way of thinking. It's ridiculous how little ambition they have, and she might marry as well as any girl. There's a marquis that's quite in love with her at this moment, and she's as afraid of him as death, and cries if I even mention him, though he's a nice enough man, if he is a bit elderly. Now, I want you to reason with her.” This Clélie told me afterward. “And upon going away,” she ended, “she turned round toward me, setting her face into an indescribable expression of hardness and obstinacy. 'I want her to understand,' she said, 'that she's cut off forever from anything that's happened before. There's the Atlantic Ocean and many a mile of land between her and North Carolina, and so she may as well give that up.'” Two or three days after this Mademoiselle came to our apartment in great grief. She had left Madame in a violent ill-temper. They had received invitations to a ball at which they were to meet the marquis. Madame had been elated, and the discovery of Mademoiselle's misery and trepidation had roused her indignation. There had been a painful scene, and Mademoiselle had been overwhelmed as usual. She knelt before the fire and wept despairingly. “I'd rather die than go,” she said. “I can't stand it. I can't get used to it. The light, and the noise, and the talk, hurts me, and I don't know what I am doing. And people stare at me, and I make mistakes, and I'm not fit for it--and--and--I'd rather be dead fifty thousand times than let that man come near me. I hate him, and I'm afraid of him, and I wish I was dead.” At this juncture came the timid summons upon the door, and the father entered with a disturbed and subdued air. He did not conceal his hat, but held it in his hands, and turned it round and round in an agitated manner as he seated himself beside his daughter. “Esmeraldy,” he said, “don't you take it so hard; honey. Mother, she's kinder outed, and she's not at herself rightly. Don't you never mind. Mother she means well, but--but she's got a sorter curious way of showin' it. She's got a high sperrit, an' we'd ought to 'low fur it, and not take it so much to heart. Mis' Dimar here knows how high-sperrited people is sometimes, I dessay,--an' mother she's got a powerful high sperrit.” But the poor child only wept more hopelessly. It was not only the cruelty of her mother which oppressed her, it was the wound she bore in her heart. Clélie's eyes filled with tears as she regarded her. The father was also more broken in spirit than he wished it to appear. His weather-beaten face assumed an expression of deep melancholy which at last betrayed itself in an evidently inadvertent speech. “I wish--I wish,” he faltered. “Lord! I'd give a heap to see Wash now. I'd give a heap to see him, Esmeraldy.” It was as if the words were the last straw. The girl turned toward him and flung herself upon his breast with a passionate cry. “Oh, father!” she sobbed, “we sha'n't never see him again--never--never! nor the mountains, nor the people that cared for us. We've lost it all, and we can't get it back,--and we haven't a soul that's near to us,--and we're all alone,--you and me, father, and Wash--Wash, he thinks we don't care.” I must confess to a momentary spasm of alarm, her grief was so wild and overwhelming. One hand was flung about her father's neck, and the other pressed itself against her side, as if her heart was breaking. Clélie bent down and lifted her up, consoling her tenderly. “Mademoiselle,” she said, “do not despair. _Le Bon Dieu_ will surely have pity.” The father drew forth the large linen handkerchief, and unfolding it slowly, applied it to his eyes. “Yes, Esmeraldy,” he said; “don't let us give out,--at least don't you give out. It doesn't matter fur me, Esmeraldy, because, you see, I must hold on to mother, as I swore not to go back on; but you're young an' likely, Esmeraldy, an' don't you give out yet, fur the Lord's sake.” But she did not cease weeping until she had wholly fatigued herself, and by this time there arrived a message from Madame, who required her presence down-stairs. Monsieur was somewhat alarmed, and rose precipitately, but Mademoiselle was too full of despair to admit of fear. “It's only the dress-maker,” she said. “You can stay where you are, father, and she won't guess we've been together, and it'll be better for us both.” And accordingly she obeyed the summons alone. Great were the preparations made by Madame for the entertainment. My wife, to whom she displayed the costumes and jewels she had purchased, was aroused to an admiration truly feminine. She had the discretion to trust to the taste of the _artistes_, and had restrained them in nothing. Consequently, all that was to be desired in the appearance of Mademoiselle Esmeralda upon the eventful evening was happiness. With her mother's permission, she came to our room to display herself, Monsieur following her with an air of awe and admiration commingled. Her costume was rich and exquisite, and her beauty beyond criticism; but as she stood in the centre of our little _salon_ to be looked at, she presented an appearance to move one's heart. The pretty young face which had by this time lost its slight traces of the sun had also lost some of its bloom; the slight figure was not so round nor so erect as it had been, and moved with less of spirit and girlishness. It appeared that Monsieur observed this also, for he stood apart regarding her with evident depression, and occasionally used his handkerchief with a violence that was evidently meant to conceal some secret emotion. “You're not so peart as you was, Esmeraldy,” he remarked, tremulously; “not as peart by a light smart, and what with that, and what with your fixin's, Wash--I mean the home-folks,”--hastily--“they'd hardly know ye.” He followed her down-stairs mournfully when she took her departure, and Clélie and myself being left alone interested ourselves in various speculations concerning them, as was our habit. “This Monsieur Wash,” remarked Clélie, “is clearly the lover. Poor child! how passionately she regrets him,--and thousands of miles lie between them--thousands of miles!” It was not long after this that, on my way downstairs to make a trifling purchase, I met with something approaching an adventure. It so chanced that, as I descended the staircase of the second floor, the door of the first floor apartment was thrown open, and from it issued Mademoiselle Esmeralda and her mother on their way to their waiting carriage. My interest in the appearance of Mademoiselle in her white robes and sparkling jewels so absorbed me that I inadvertently brushed against a figure which stood in the shadow regarding them also. Turning at once to apologize, I found myself confronting a young man,--tall, powerful, but with a sad and haggard face, and attired in a strange and homely dress which had a foreign look. “Monsieur!” I exclaimed, “a thousand pardons. I was so unlucky as not to see you.” But he did not seem to hear. He remained silent, gazing fixedly at the ladies until they had disappeared, and then, on my addressing him again he awakened, as it were, with a start. “It doesn't matter,” he answered, in a heavy bewildered voice and in English, and turning back made his way slowly up the stairs. But even the utterance of this brief sentence had betrayed to my practiced ear a peculiar accent--an accent which, strange to say, bore a likeness to that of our friends downstairs, and which caused me to stop a moment at the lodge of the concierge, and ask her a question or so. “Have we a new occupant upon the fifth floor?” I inquired. “A person who speaks English?” She answered me with a dubious expression. “You must mean the strange young man upon the sixth,” she said. “He is a new one and speaks English. Indeed, he does not speak anything else, or even understand a word. _Mon Dieu!_ the trials one encounters with such persons,--endeavoring to comprehend, poor creatures, and failing always,--and this one is worse than the rest and looks more wretched--as if he had not a friend in the world.” “What is his name?” I asked. “How can one remember their names?--it is worse than impossible. This one is frightful. But he has no letters, thank Heaven. If there should arrive one with an impossible name upon it, I should take it to him and run the risk.” Naturally, Clélie, to whom I related the incident, was much interested. But it was some time before either of us saw the hero of it again, though both of us confessed to having been upon the watch for him. The _concierge_ could only tell us that he lived a secluded life--rarely leaving his room in he daytime, and seeming to be very poor. “He does not work and eats next to nothing,” she said. “Late at night he occasionally carries up a loaf, and once he treated himself to a cup of _bouillon_ from the restaurant at the corner--but it was only once, poor young man. He is at least very gentle and well-conducted.” So it was not to be wondered at that we did not see him. Clélie mentioned him to her young friend, but Mademoiselle's interest in him was only faint and ephemeral. She had not the spirit to rouse herself to any strong emotion. “I dare say he's an American,” she said. “There are plenty of Americans in Paris, but none of them seem a bit nearer to me than if they were French. They are all rich and fine, and they all like the life here better than the life at home. This is the first poor one I have heard of.” Each day brought fresh unhappiness to her. Madame was inexorable. She spent a fortune upon _toilette_ for her, and insisted upon dragging her from place to place, and wearying her with gayeties from which her sad young heart shrank. Each afternoon their equipage was to be seen upon the Champs Elysées, and each evening it stood before the door waiting to bear them to some place of festivity. Mademoiselle's _bête noir_, the marquis, who was a debilitated _roue_ in search of a fortune, attached himself to them upon all occasions. “Bah!” said Clélie with contempt, “she amazes one by her imbecility--this woman. Truly, one would imagine that her vulgar sharpness would teach her that his object is to use her as a tool, and that having gained Mademoiselle's fortune, he will treat them with brutality and derision.” But she did not seem to see--possibly she fancied that having obtained him for a son-in-law, she would be bold and clever enough to outwit and control him. Consequently, he was encouraged and fawned upon, and Mademoiselle grew thin and pale and large-eyed, and wore continually an expression of secret terror. Only in her visits to our fifth floor did she dare to give way to her grief, and truly at such times both my Clélie and I were greatly affected. Upon one occasion indeed she filled us both with alarm. “Do you know what I shall do?” she said, stopping suddenly in the midst of her weeping. “I'll bear it as long as I can, and then I'll put an end to it. There's--there's always the Seine left, and I've laid awake and thought of it many a night. Father and me saw a man taken out of it one day, and the people said he was a Tyrolean, and drowned himself because he was so poor and lonely--and--and so far from home.” Upon the very morning she made this speech I saw again our friend of the sixth floor. In going down-stairs I came upon him, sitting upon one of the steps as if exhausted, and when he turned his face upward, its pallor and haggardness startled me. His tall form was wasted, his eyes were hollow, the peculiarities I had before observed were doubly marked--he was even emaciated. “Monsieur,” I said in English, “you appear indisposed. You have been ill. Allow me to assist you to your room.” “No, thank you,” he answered. “It's only weakness. I--I sorter give out. Don't trouble yourself. I shall get over it directly.” Something in his face, which was a very young and well-looking one, forced me to leave him in silence, merely bowing as I did so. I felt instinctively that to remain would be to give him additional pain. As I passed the room of the _concierge_, however, the excellent woman beckoned to me to approach her. “Did you see the young man?” she inquired rather anxiously. “He has shown himself this morning for the first time in three days. There is something wrong. It is my impression that he suffers want--that he is starving himself to death!” Her rosy countenance absolutely paled as she uttered these last words, retreating a pace from me and touching my arm with her fore-finger. “He has carried up even less bread than usual during the last few weeks,” she added, “and there has been no _bouillon_ whatever. A young man cannot live only on dry bread, and too little of that. He will perish; and apart from the inhumanity of the thing, it will be unpleasant for the other _locataires_.” I wasted no time in returning to Clélie, having indeed some hope that I might find the poor fellow still occupying his former position upon the staircase. But in this I met with disappointment: he was gone and I could only relate to my wife what I had heard, and trust to her discretion. As I had expected, she was deeply moved. “It is terrible,” she said. “And it is also a delicate and difficult matter to manage. But what can one do? There is only one thing--I who am a woman, and have suffered privation myself, may venture.” Accordingly, she took her departure for the floor above. I heard her light summons upon the door of one of the rooms, but heard no reply. At last, however, the door was opened gently, and with a hesitance that led me to imagine that it was Clélie herself who had pushed it open, and immediately afterward I was sure that she had uttered an alarmed exclamation. I stepped out upon the landing and called to her in a subdued tone,-- “Clélie,” I said, “did I hear you speak?” “Yes,” she returned from within the room. “Come at once, and bring with you some brandy.” In the shortest possible time I had joined her in the room, which was bare, cold, and unfurnished--a mere garret, in fact, containing nothing but a miserable bedstead. Upon the floor, near the window, knelt Clélie, supporting with her knee and arm the figure of the young man she had come to visit. “Quick with the brandy,” she exclaimed. “This may be a faint, but it looks like death.” She had found the door partially open, and receiving no answer to her knock, had pushed it farther ajar, and caught a glimpse of the fallen figure, and hurried to its assistance. To be as brief as possible, we both remained at the young man's side during the whole of the night. As the _concierge_ had said, he was perishing from inanition, and the physician we called in assured us that only the most constant attention would save his life. “Monsieur,” Clélie explained to him upon the first occasion upon which he opened his eyes, “you are ill and alone, and we wish to befriend you.” And he was too weak to require from her anything more definite. Physically he was a person to admire. In health his muscular power must have been immense. He possessed the frame of a young giant, and yet there was in his face a look of innocence and inexperience amazing even when one recollected his youth. “It is the look,” said Clélie, regarding him attentively,--“the look one sees in the faces of Monsieur and his daughter down-stairs; the look of a person who has lived a simple life, and who knows absolutely nothing of the world.” It is possible that this may have prepared the reader for the _dénoûment_ which followed; but singular as it may appear, it did not prepare either Clélie or myself--perhaps because we _had_ seen the world, and having learned to view it in a practical light, were not prepared to encounter suddenly a romance almost unparalleled. The next morning I was compelled to go out to give my lessons as usual, and left Clélie with our patient. On my return, my wife, hearing my footsteps, came out and met me upon the landing. She was moved by the strongest emotion and much excited; her cheeks were pale and her eyes shone. “Do not go in yet,” she said, “I have something to tell you. It is almost incredible; but--but it is--the lover!” For a moment we remained silent--standing looking at each other. To me it seemed incredible indeed. “He could not give her up,” Clélie went on, “until he was sure she wished to discard him. The mother had employed all her ingenuity to force him to believe that such was the case, but he could not rest until he had seen his betrothed face to face. So he followed her,--poor, inexperienced, and miserable,--and when at last he saw her at a distance, the luxury with which she was surrounded caused his heart to fail him, and he gave way to despair.” I accompanied her into the room, and heard the rest from his own lips. He gathered together all his small savings, and made his journey in the cheapest possible way,--in the steerage of the vessel, and in third-class carriages,--so that he might have some trifle left to subsist upon. “I've a little farm,” he said, “and there's a house on it, but I wouldn't sell that. If she cared to go, it was all I had to take her to, an' I'd worked hard to buy it. I'd worked hard, early and late, always thinking that some day we'd begin life there together--Esmeraldy and me.” “Since neither sea, nor land, nor cruelty, could separate them,” said Clélie to me during the day, “it is not I who will help to hold them apart.” So when Mademoiselle came for her lesson that afternoon, it was Clélie's task to break the news to her,--to tell her that neither sea nor land lay between herself and her lover, and that he was faithful still. She received the information as she might have received a blow,--staggering backward, and whitening, and losing her breath; but almost immediately afterward she uttered a sad cry of disbelief and anguish. “No, no,” she said, “it--it isn't true! I won't believe it--I mustn't. There's half the world between us. Oh, don't try to make me believe it,--when it can't be true!” “Come with me,” replied Clélie. Never--never in my life has it been my fate to see, before or since, a sight so touching as the meeting of these two young hearts. When the door of the cold, bare room opened, and Mademoiselle Esmeralda entered, the lover held out his weak arms with a sob,--a sob of rapture, and yet terrible to hear. “I thought you'd gone back on me, Esmeraldy,” he cried. “I thought you'd gone back on me.” Clélie and I turned away and left them as the girl fell upon her knees at his side. The effect produced upon the father--who had followed Mademoiselle as usual, and whom we found patiently seated upon the bottom step of the flight of stairs, awaiting our arrival--was almost indescribable. He sank back upon his seat with a gasp, clutching at his hat with both hands. He also disbelieved. “Wash!” he exclaimed weakly. “Lord, no! Lord, no! Not Wash! Wash, he's in North Cal-lina. Lord, no!” “He is up-stairs,” returned Clélie, “and Mademoiselle is with him.” During the recovery of Monsieur Wash, though but little was said upon the subject, it is my opinion that the minds of each of our number pointed only toward one course in the future. In Mademoiselle's demeanor there appeared a certain air of new courage and determination, though she was still pallid and anxious. It was as if she had passed a climax and had gained strength. Monsieur, the father, was alternately nervous and dejected, or in feverishly high spirits. Occasionally he sat for some time without speaking, merely gazing into the fire with a hand upon each knee; and it was one evening, after a more than usually prolonged silence of this description, that he finally took upon himself the burden which lay upon us unitedly. “Esmeraldy,” he remarked, tremulously, and with manifest trepidation,--“Esmeraldy, I've been thinkin'--it's time--we broke it to mother.” The girl lost color, but she lifted her head steadily. “Yes, father,” she answered, “it's time.” “Yes,” he echoed, rubbing his knees slowly, “it's time; an', Esmeraldy, it's a thing to--to sorter set a man back.” “Yes, father,” she answered again. “Yes,” as before, though his voice broke somewhat; “an' I dessay you know how it'll be, Esmeraldy,--that you'll have to choose betwixt mother and Wash.” She sat by her lover, and for answer she dropped her face upon his hand with a sob. “An'--an' you've chose Wash, Esmeraldy?” “Yes, father.” He hesitated a moment, and then took his hat from its place of concealment and rose. “It's nat'ral,” he said, “an' it's right. I wouldn't want it no other way. An' you mustn't mind, Esmeraldy, it's bein' kinder rough on me, as can't go back on mother, havin' swore to cherish her till death do us part You've allus been a good gal to me, an' we've thought a heap on each other, an' I reckon it can allers be the same way, even though we're sep'rated, fur it's nat'ral you should have chose Wash, an'--an' I wouldn't have it no other way, Esmeraldy. Now I'll go an' have it out with mother.” We were all sufficiently unprepared for the announcement to be startled by it Mademoiselle Esmeralda, who was weeping bitterly, half sprang to her feet. “To-night!” she said. “Oh, father!” “Yes,” he replied; “I've been thinking over it, an' I don't see no other way, an' it may as well be to-night as any other time.” After leaving us he was absent for about an hour. When he returned, there were traces in his appearance of the storm through which he had passed. His hands trembled with agitation; he even looked weakened as he sank into his chair. We regarded him with commiseration. “It's over,” he half whispered, “an' it was even rougher than I thought it would be. She was terrible outed, was mother. I reckon I never see her so outed before. She jest raged and tore. It was most more than I could stand, Esmeraldy,” and he dropped his head upon his hands for support. “Seemed like it was the Markis as laid heaviest upon her,” he proceeded. “She was terrible sot on the Markis, an' every time she think of him, she'd just rear--. she'd just rear. I never stood up agen mother afore, an' I hope I shan't never have it to do again in my time. I'm kinder wore out.” Little by little we learned much of what had passed, though he evidently withheld the most for the sake of Mademoiselle, and it was some time before he broke the news to her that her mother's doors were closed against her. “I think you'll find it pleasanter a-stoppin' here,” he said, “if Mis' Dimar'll board ye until--the time fur startin' home. Her sperrit was so up that she said she didn't aim to see you no more, an' you know how she is, Esmeraldy, when her sperrit's up.” The girl went and clung around his neck, kneeling at his side, and shedding tears. “Oh, father!” she cried, “you've bore a great deal for me; you've bore more than any one knows, and all for me.” He looked rather grave, as he shook his head at the fire. “That's so, Esmeraldy,” he replied; “but we ailers seemed nigh to each other, somehow, and when it come to the wust, I was bound to kinder make a stand fur you, as I couldn't have made fur myself. I couldn't have done it fur myself. Lord, no!” So Mademoiselle remained with us, and Clélie assisted her to prepare her simple outfit, and in the evening the tall young lover came into our apartment and sat looking on, which aspect of affairs, I will confess, was entirely new to Clélie, and yet did not displease her. “Their candor moves me,” she said. “He openly regards her with adoration. At parting she accompanies him to the door, and he embraces her tenderly, and yet one is not repelled. It is the love of the lost Arcadia--serious and innocent.” Finally, we went with them one morning to the American Chapel in the Rue de Bern, and they were united in our presence and that of Monsieur, who was indescribably affected. After the completion of the ceremony, he presented Monsieur Wash with a package. “It's papers as I've had drawd up fur Esmeraldy,” he said. “It'll start you well out in the world, an' after me and mother's gone, there's no one but you and her to have rest. The Lord--may the Lord bless ye!” We accompanied them to Havre, and did not leave them until the last moment. Monsieur was strangely excited, and clung to the hands of his daughter and son-in-law, talking fast and nervously, and pouring out messages to be delivered to his distant friends. “Tell 'em I'd like powerful well to see 'em all, an' I'd have come only--only things was kinder onconvenient. Sometime, perhaps”-- But here he was obliged to clear his throat, as his voice had become extremely husky. And, having done this, he added in an undertone:-- “You see, Esmeraldy, I couldn't, because of mother, as I've swore not to go back on. Wash, he wouldn't go back on you, however high your sperrit was, an' I can't go back on mother.” The figures of the young couple standing at the side, Monsieur Wash holding his wife to his breast with one strong arm, were the last we saw as the ship moved slowly away. “It is obscurity to which they are returning,” I said, half unconsciously. “It is love,” said Clélie. The father, who had been standing apart, came back to us, replacing in his pocket his handkerchief. “They are young an' likely, you see,” said Monsieur, “an' life before them, an' it's nat'ral as she should have chose Wash, as was young too, an' sot on her. Lord, it's nat'ral, an' I wouldn't have it no otherways.”

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:30.604910

23329

Produced by David Widger “LE MONSIEUR DE LA PETITE DAME” By Frances Hodgson Burnett Copyright, 1877 It was Madame who first entered the box, and Madame was bright with youthful bloom, bright with jewels, and, moreover, a beauty. She was a little creature, with childishly large eyes, a low, white forehead, reddish-brown hair, and Greek nose and mouth. “Clearly,” remarked the old lady in the box opposite, “not a Frenchwoman. Her youth is too girlish, and she has too petulant an air of indifference.” This old lady in the box opposite was that venerable and somewhat severe aristocrat, Madame de Castro, and having gazed for a moment or so a little disapprovingly at the new arrival, she turned her glasses to the young beauty’s companion and uttered an exclamation. It was at Monsieur she was looking now. Monsieur had followed his wife closely, bearing her fan and bouquet and wrap, and had silently seated him self a little behind her and in the shadow. “_Ciel!_” cried Madame de Castro, “what an ugly little man!” It was not an unnatural exclamation. Fate had not been so kind to the individual referred to as she might have been--in fact she had been definitely cruel. He was small of figure, insignificant, dark, and wore a patient sphynx-like air of gravity. He did not seem to speak or move, simply sat in the shadow holding his wife’s belongings, apparently almost entirely unnoticed by her. “I don’t know him at all,” said Madame de Castro; “though that is not to be wondered at, since I have exiled myself long enough to forget and be forgotten by half Paris. What is his name?” The gentleman at her side--a distinguished-looking old young man, with a sarcastic smile--began with the smile, and ended with a half laugh. “They call him,” he replied, “Le Monsieur de la petite Dame. His name is Villefort.” “Le Monsieur de la petite Dame,” repeated Madame, testily. “That is a title of new Paris--the Paris of your Americans and English. It is villainously ill-bred.” M. Renard’s laugh receded into the smile again, and the smile became of double significance. “True,” he acquiesced, “but it is also villainously apropos. Look for yourself.” Madame did so, and her next query, after she had dropped her glass again, was a sharp one. “Who is she--the wife?” “She is what you are pleased to call one of our Americans! You know the class,”--with a little wave of the hand,--“rich, unconventional, comfortable people, who live well and dress well, and have an incomprehensibly _naïve_ way of going to impossible places and doing impossible things by way of enjoyment. Our fair friend there, for instance, has probably been round the world upon several occasions, and is familiar with a number of places and objects of note fearful to contemplate. They came here as tourists, and became fascinated with European life. The most overwhelming punishment which could be inflicted upon that excellent woman, the mother, would be that she should be compelled to return to her New York, or Philadelphia, or Boston, whichsoever it may be.” “Humph!” commented Madame. “But you have not told me the name.” “Madame Villefort’s? No, not yet. It was Trent--Mademoiselle Bertha Trent.” “She is not twenty yet,” said Madame, in a queer, grumbling tone. “What did she marry that man for?” “God knows,” replied M. Renard, not too devoutly, “Paris does not.” For some reason best known to herself, Madame de Castro looked angry. She was a shrewd old person, with strong whims of her own, even at seventy. She quite glared at the pretty American from under her bushy eyebrows. “Le Monsieur de la petite Dame!” she fumed. “I tell you it is low--_low_ to give a man such names.” “Oh!” returned Renard, shrugging his shoulders, “we did not give it to him. It was an awkward servant who dubbed him so at first. She was new to her position, and forgot his name, and being asked who had arrived, stumbled upon this _bon mot: ‘Un monsieur, Madame--le monsieur de la petite dame,’_--and, being repeated and tossed lightly from hand to hand, it has become at last an established witticism, albeit bandied under breath.” It was characteristic of the august De Castro that during the remainder of the evening’s entertainment she should occupy herself more with her neighbors than with the opera. She aroused M. Renard to a secret ecstasy of mirth by the sharp steadiness of her observation of the inmates of the box opposite to them. She talked about them, too, in a tone not too well modulated, criticising the beautifully dressed little woman, her hair, her eyes, her Greek nose and mouth, and, more than all, her indifferent expression and her manner of leaning upon the edge of her box and staring at the stage as if she did not care for, and indeed scarcely saw, what was going on upon it. “That is the way with your American beauties,” she said. “They have no respect for things. Their people spoil them--their men especially. They consider themselves privileged to act as their whims direct. They have not the gentle timidity of Frenchwomen. What French girl would have the _sang froid_ to sit in one of the best boxes of the Nouvelle Opéra and regard, with an actual air of _ennui_, such a performance as this? She does not hear a word that is sung.” “And we--do we hear?” bantered M. Renard. “_Pouf!_” cried Madame. “We! We are world-dried and weather-beaten. We have not a worm-eaten emotion between us. I am seventy, and you, who are thirty-five, are the elder of the two. Bah! At that girl’s age I had the heart of a dove.” “But that is long ago,” murmured M. Renard, as if to himself. It was quite human that he should slightly resent being classed with an unamiable grenadier of seventy. “Yes!” with considerable asperity. “Fifty years!” Then, with harsh voice and withered face melted suddenly into softness quite _naïve, “Mon Dieu!_” she said, “Fifty years since Arsène whispered into my ear at my first opera, that he saw tears in my eyes!” It was at this instant that there appeared in the Villefort box a new figure,--that of a dark, slight young man of graceful movements,--in fact, a young man of intensely striking appearance. M. Villefort rose to receive him with serious courtesy, but the pretty American was not so gracious. Not until he had seated himself at her side and spoken to her did she turn her head and permit her eyes simply to rest upon his face. M. Renard smiled again. “Enter,” he remarked in a low tone,--“enter M. Ralph Edmondstone, the cousin of Madame.” His companion asked no questions, but he proceeded, returning to his light and airy tone:-- “M. Ralph Edmondstone is a genius,” he said. “He is an artist, he is a poet, he is also a writer of subtile prose. His sonnets to Euphrasie--in the day of Euphrasie--awakened the admiration of the sternest critics: they were so tender, so full of purest fire! Some of the same critics also could scarcely choose between these and his songs to Aglæ in her day, or Camille in hers. He is a young man of fine fancies, and possesses the amiable quality of being invariably passionately in earnest. As he was serious in his sentiments yesterday, so he will be to-morrow, so he is to-day.” “To-day!” echoed Madame de Castro. “Nonsense!” Madame Villefort did not seem to talk much. It was M. Ralph Edmondstone who conversed, and that, too, with so much of the charm of animation that it was pleasurable even to be a mere looker-on. One involuntarily strained one’s ears to catch a sentence,--he was so eagerly absorbed, so full of rapid, gracefully unconscious and unconventional gesture. “I wonder what he is saying?” Madame de Castro was once betrayed into exclaiming. “Something metaphysical, about a poem, or a passage of music, or a picture,--or perhaps his soul,” returned M. Renard. “His soul is his strong point,--he pets it and wonders at it. He puts it through its paces. And yet, singularly enough, he is never ridiculous--only fanciful and _naïve_. It is his soul which so fascinates women.” Whether this last was true of other women or not, Madame Villefort scarcely appeared fascinated. As she listened, her eyes still rested upon his eager mobile face, but with a peculiar expression,--an expression of critical attention, and yet one which somehow detracted from her look of youth, as if she weighed his words as they fell from his lips and classified them, without any touch of the enthusiasm which stirred within himself. Suddenly she rose from her seat ana addressed her husband, who immediately rose also. Then she spoke to M. Edmondstone, and without more ado, the three left the box,--the young beauty, a little oddly, rather followed than accompanied by her companions,--at the recognition of which circumstance Madame de Castro uttered a series of sharp ejaculations of disapproval. “Bah! Bah!” she cried. “She is too young for such airs!--as if she were Madame l’Impératrice herself! Take me to my carriage. I am tired also.” Crossing the pavement with M. Renard, they passed the carriage of the Villeforts. Before its open door stood M. Villefort and Edmondstone, and the younger man, with bared head, bent forward speaking to his cousin. “If I come to-morrow,” he was saying, “you will be at home, Bertha?” “Yes.” “Then, good-night,”--holding out his hand,--“only I wish so that you would go to the Aylmers instead of home. That _protégée_ of Mrs. Aylmer’s--the little singing girl--would touch your heart with her voice. On hearing her, one thinks at once of some shy wild bird high in a clear sky,--far enough above earth to have forgotten to be timid.” “Yes,” came quietly from the darkness within the carriage; “but I am too tired to care about voices just now. Good-night, Ralph!” M. Renard’s reply of “God knows, Paris does not,” to Madame de Castro’s query as to why Madame Villefort had married her husband, contained an element of truth, and yet there were numbers of Parisian-Americans, more especially the young, well-looking, and masculine, who at the time the marriage had taken place had been ready enough with sardonic explanations. “There are women who are avaricious enough to sell their souls,” they cried; “and the maternal Trent is one of them. The girl is only to blame for allowing herself to be bullied into the match.” “But the weak place in this argument,” said M. Renard, “is, that the people are too rich to be greatly influenced by money. If there had been a title,--but there was no title.” Neither did Bertha Trent comport herself like a cowed creature. She took her place in society as Madame Villefort in such a manner as could give rise to no comment whatever; only one or two of the restless inquisitive wondered if they had not been, mistaken in her. She was, as I have said already, a childishly small and slight creature,--the kind of woman to touch one with suggestions of helplessness and lack of will; and yet, notwithstanding this, a celebrated artist--a shrewd, worldly-wise old fellow--who had painted her portrait, had complained that he was not satisfied with it because he had not done justice to “the obstinate endurance in her eye.” It was to her cousin, Ralph Edmondstone, he had said this with some degree of testiness, and Edmondstone had smiled and answered:-- “What! have you found that out? Few people do.” At the time of the marriage Edmondstone had been in Rome singeing his wings in the light of the eyes of a certain Marchesa who was his latest poetic passion. She was not his first fancy, nor would she be his last, but she had power enough for the time being to have satisfied the most exacting of women. He was at his banker’s when he heard the news spoken of as the latest item from American Paris, and his start and exclamation of disgust drew forth some cynical after-comment from men who envied him. “Who?” he said, with indiscreet impatience. “That undersized sphynx of a Villefort? Faugh!” But insignificant though he might be, it was M. Villefort who had won, and if he was nothing more, he was at least a faithful attendant. Henceforth, those who saw his wife invariably saw him also,--driving with her in her carriage, riding with her courageously if ungracefully, standing or seated near her in the shadow of her box at the Nouvelle Opéra, silent, impassive, grave, noticeable only through the contrast he afforded to her girlish beauty and bloom. “Always there!” commented a sharp American belle of mature years, “like an ugly little conscience.” Edmondstone’s first meeting with his cousin after his return to Paris was accidental. He had rather put off visiting her, and one night, entering a crowded room, he found himself standing behind a girl’s light figure and staring at an abundance of reddish-brown hair. When, almost immediately the pretty head to which this hair belonged turned with a slow, yet involuntary-looking movement toward him, he felt that he became excited without knowing why. “Ah, Bertha!” he exclaimed. She smiled a little and held out her hand, and he immediately became conscious of M. Villefort being quite near and regarding him seriously. It was the perverseness of fate that he should find in Bertha Villefort even more than he had once seen in Bertha Trent, and there had been a time when he had seen a great deal in Bertha Trent. In the Trent household he had been a great favorite. No social evening or family festivity had seemed complete without his presence. The very children had felt that they had a claim upon his good-humor, and his tendency to break forth into whimsical frolic. Good Mrs. Trent had been wont to scold him and gossip with him. He had read his sonnets and metaphysical articles to Bertha, and occasionally to the rest; in fact, his footing in the family was familiar and firmly established. But since her marriage Bertha had become a little incomprehensible, and on that account a little more interesting. He was sure she had developed, but could not make out in what direction. He found occasion to reproach her sometimes with the changes he found in her. “There are times when I hardly know you,” he would say, “you are so finely orthodox and well controlled. It was not so with you once, Bertha. Don’t--don’t become that terrible thing, a fine lady, and worse still, a fine lady who is _désillusionée_” It baffled him that she never appeared much moved, by his charges. Certainly she lived the life of a “fine lady,”--a brilliant life, a luxurious one, a life full of polite dissipation. Once, when in a tenderly fraternal mood, he reproached her with this also, she laughed at him frankly. “It is absinthe,” she said. “It is my absinthe at least, and who does not drink a little absinthe--of one kind or another?” He was sincerely convinced that from this moment he understood and had the right to pity and watch over her. He went oftener to see her. In her presence he studied her closely, absent he brooded over her. He became impatiently intolerant of M. Villefort, and prone to condemn him, he scarcely knew for what. “He has no dignity--no perception,” was his parental decision. “He has not even the delicacy to love her, or he would have the tenderness to sacrifice his own feelings and leave her to herself. I could do it for a woman I loved.” But M. Villefort was always there,--gravely carrying the shawls, picking up handkerchiefs, and making himself useful. “_Imbécile!_” muttered M. Renard under cover of his smile and his mustache, as he stood near his venerable patroness the first time she met the Villeforts. “Blockhead!” stealthily ejaculated that amiable aristocrat. But though she looked grimly at M. Villefort, M. Renard was uncomfortably uncertain that it was he to whom she referred. “Go and bring them to me,” she commanded, “Go and bring them to me before some one else engages them. I want to talk to that girl.” It was astonishing how agreeable she made herself to her victims when she had fairly entrapped them. Bertha hesitated a little before accepting her offer of a seat at her side, but once seated she found herself oddly amused. When Madame de Castro chose to rake the embers of her seventy years, many a lively coal discovered itself among the ashes. Seeing the two women together, Edmondstone shuddered in fastidious protest. “How could you laugh at that detestable old woman?” he exclaimed on encountering Bertha later in the evening. “I wonder that M. Villefort would permit her to talk to you. She is a wicked, cynical creature, who has the hardihood to laugh at her sins instead of repenting of them.” “Perhaps that is the reason she is so amusing,” said Bertha. Edmondstone answered her with gentle mournfulness. “What!” he said. “Have you begun to say such things? You too, Bertha”-- The laugh with which she stopped him was both light and hard. “Where is M. Villefort?” she asked. “I have actually not seen him for fifteen minutes. Is it possible that Madame de Castro has fascinated him into forgetting me?” Edmondstone went to his hotel that night in a melancholy mood. He even lay awake to think what a dreary mistake his cousin’s marriage was. She had been such a tender and easily swayed little soul as a girl, and now it really seemed as if she was hardening into a woman of the world. In the old times he had been wont to try his sonnets upon Bertha as a musician tries his chords upon his most delicate instrument. Even now he remembered certain fine, sensitive expressions of hers which had thrilled him beyond measure. “How could she marry such a fellow as that--how could she?” he groaned. “What does it mean? It must mean something.” He was pale and heavy-eyed when he wandered round to the Villeforts’ the following morning. M. Villefort was sitting with Bertha and reading aloud. He stopped to receive their visitor punctiliously and inquire after his health. “M. Edmondstone cannot have slept well,” he remarked. “I did not sleep at all,” Edmondstone answered, “and naturally have a headache.” Bertha pointed to a wide lounge of the _pouf_ order. “Then go to sleep now,” she said; “M. Villefort will read. When I have a headache he often reads me to sleep, and I am always better on awaking.” Involuntarily Edmondstone half frowned. Absurdly enough, he resented in secret this amiability on the part of M. Villefort toward his own wife. He was quite prepared to be severe upon the reading, but was surprised to be compelled to acknowledge that M. Villefort read wondrously well, and positively with hints of delicate perception. His voice was full and yet subtly flexible. Edmondstone tried to protest against this also, but uselessly. Finally he was soothed, and from being fretfully wide-awake suddenly passed into sleep as Bertha had commanded. How long his slumber lasted he could not have told. All at once he found himself aroused and wide-awake as ever. His headache had departed; his every sense seemed to have gained keenness. M. Villefort’s voice had ceased, and for a few seconds utter, dead silence reigned. Then he heard the fire crackling, and shortly afterward a strange, startling sound--a sharp, gasping sob! The pang which seized upon him was strong indeed. In one moment he seemed to learn a thousand things by intuition--to comprehend her, himself, the past. Before he moved he knew that Villefort was not in the room, and he had caught a side glimpse of the pretty blue of Bertha’s dress. But he had not imagined the face he saw when he turned his head to look at her. She sat in a rigid attitude, leaning against the high cushioned back of her chair, her hands clasped above her head. She stared at the fire with eyes wide and strained with the agony of tears unshed, and amid the rush of all other emotions he was peculiarly conscious of being touched by the minor one of his recognition of her look of extreme youth--the look which had been wont to touch people in the girl, Bertha Trent. He had meant to speak clearly, but his voice was only a loud whisper when he sprang up, uttering her name. “Bertha! Bertha! Bertha!” as he flung himself upon his knees at her side. Her answer was an actual cry, and yet it reached no higher pitch than his own intense whisper. “I thought you were asleep?” Her hands fell and he caught them. His sad impassioned face bowed itself upon her palms. “I am awake, Bertha,” he groaned. “I am awake--at last.” She regarded him with a piteous, pitying glance. She knew him with a keener, sadder knowledge than he would ever comprehend; but she did not under-estimate the depth of his misery at this one overwhelming moment. He was awake indeed and saw what he had lost. “If you could but have borne with me a little longer,” he said. “If I had only not been so shallow and so blind. If you could but have borne with me a little longer!” “If I could but have borne with myself a little longer,” she answered. “If I could but have borne a little longer with my poor, base pride! Because I suffered myself, I have made another suffer too.” He knew she spoke of M. Villefort, and the thought jarred upon him. “He does not suffer,” he said. “He is not of the fibre to feel pain.” And he wondered why she shrank from him a little and answered with a sad bitterness:-- “Are you sure? You did not know that!”-- “Forgive me,” he said brokenly, the face he lifted, haggard with his unhappiness. “Forgive me, for I have lost so much.” She wasted few words and no tears. The force and suddenness of his emotion and her own had overborne her into this strange unmeant confession; but her mood was unlike his,--it was merely receptive. She listened to his unavailing regrets, but told him little of her own past. “It does not matter,” she said drearily. “It is all over. Let it rest. The pain of to-day and tomorrow is enough for us. We have borne yesterday; why should we want it back again?” And when they parted she said only one thing of the future:-- “There is no need that we should talk. There is nothing for us beyond this point. We can only go back. We must try to forget--and be satisfied with our absinthe.” Instead of returning to his hotel, Edmondstone found his way to the Champs Élysées, and finally to the Bois. He was too wretched to have any purpose in his wanderings. He walked rapidly, looking straight before him and seeing nobody. He scarcely understood his own fierce emotions Hitherto his fancies had brought him a vague rapture; now he experienced absolute anguish, Every past experience had become trivial. What happiness is so keen as one’s briefest pain? As he walked he lived again the days he had thrown away. He remembered a thousand old, yet new, phases of Bertha’s girlhood. He thought of times when she had touched or irritated or pleased him. When he had left Paris for Rome she had not bidden him good-by. Jenny, her younger sister, had told him that she was not well. “If I had seen her then,” he cried inwardly, “I might have read her heart--and my own.” M. Renard, riding a very tall horse in the Bois, passed him and raised his eyebrows at the sight of his pallor and his fagged yet excited look. “There will be a new sonnet,” he said to himself. “A sonnet to Despair, or Melancholy, or Loss.” Afterward, when society became a little restive and eager, M. Renard looked on with sardonic interest. “That happy man, M. Villefort,” he said to Madame de Castro, “is a good soul--a good soul. He has no small jealous follies,” and his smile was scarcely a pleasant thing to see. “There is nothing for us beyond this past,” Bertha had said, and Edmondstone had agreed with her hopelessly. But he could not quite break away. Sometimes for a week the Villeforts missed him, and then again they saw him every day. He spent his mornings with them, joined them in their drives, at their opera-box, or at the entertainments of their friends. He also fell into his old place in the Trent household, and listened with a vague effort at interest to Mrs. Trent’s maternal gossip about the boys’ college expenses, Bertha’s household, and Jenny’s approaching social _début_ He was continually full of a feverish longing to hear of Bertha,--to hear her name spoken, her ingoings and out-comings discussed, her looks, her belongings. “The fact is,” said Mrs. Trent, as the winter advanced, “I am anxious about Bertha. She does not look strong. I don’t know why I have not seen it before, but all at once I found out yesterday that she is really thin. She was always slight and even a little fragile, but now she is actually thin. One can see the little bones in her wrists and fingers. Her rings and her bracelets slip about quite loosely.” “And talking of being thin, mother,” cried Jenny, who was a frank, bright sixteen-year-old, “look at cousin Ralph himself. He has little hollows in his cheeks, and his eyes are as much too big as Bertha’s. Is the sword wearing out the scabbard, Ralph? That is what they always say about geniuses, you know.” “Ralph has not looked well for some time,” said Mrs. Trent. “As for Bertha, I think I shall scold her a little, and M. Villefort too. She has been living too exciting a life. She is out continually. She must stay at home more and rest. It is rest she needs.” “If you tell Arthur that Bertha looks ill “--began Jenny. Edmondstone turned toward her sharply. “Arthur!” he repeated. “Who is Arthur?” Mrs. Trent answered with a comfortable laugh. “It is M. Villefort’s name,” she said, “though none of us call him Arthur but Jenny. Jenny and he are great friends.” “I like him better than any one else,” said Jenny stoutly. “And I wish to set a good example to Bertha, who never calls him anything but M. Villefort, which is absurd. Just as if they had been introduced to each other about a week ago.” “I always hear him address her as Madame Villefort,” reflected Edmondstone, somewhat gloomily. “Oh yes!” answered Jenny, “that is his French way of studying her fancies. He would consider it taking an unpardonable liberty to call her ‘Bertha,’ since she only favors him with ‘M. Villefort.’ I said to him only the other day, ‘Arthur, you are the oddest couple! You’re so grand and well-behaved, I cannot imagine you scolding Bertha a little, and I have never seen you kiss her since you were married.’ I was half frightened after I had said it. He started as if he had been shot, and turned as pale as death. I really felt as if I had done something frightfully improper.” “The French are so different from the Americans,” said Mrs. Trent, “particularly those of M. Villefort’s class. They are beautifully punctilious, but I don’t call it quite comfortable, you know.” Her mother was not the only person who noticed a change in Bertha Villefort. Before long it was a change so marked that all who saw her observed it. She had become painfully frail and slight. Her face looked too finely cut, her eyes had shadowy hollows under them, and were always bright with a feverish excitement. “What is the matter with your wife?” demanded Madame de Castro of M. Villefort. Since their first meeting she had never loosened her hold upon the husband and wife, and had particularly cultivated Bertha. There was no change in the expression of M. Villefort, but he was strangely pallid as he made his reply. “It is impossible for me to explain, Madame.” “She is absolutely attenuated,” cried Madame» “She is like a spirit. Take her to the country--to Normandy--to the sea--somewhere! She will die if there is not a change. At twenty, one should be as plump as a young capon.” A few days after this, Jenny Trent ran in upon Bertha as she lay upon a lounge, holding an open book, but with closed eyes. She had come to spend the morning, she announced. She wanted to talk--about people, about her dress, about her first ball which was to come off shortly. “And Arthur says”--she began. Bertha turned her head almost as Edmondstone had done. “Arthur!” she repeated. For the second time Jenny felt a little embarrassed. “I mean M. Villefort,” she said, hesitantly. She quite forgot what she had been going to say, and for a moment or so regarded the fire quite gravely. But naturally this could not last long. She soon began to talk again, and it was not many minutes before she found M. Villefort in her path once more. “I never thought I could like a Frenchman so much,” she said, in all enthusiastic good faith. “At first, you know,” with an apologetic half laugh, “I wondered why you had not taken an American instead, when there were so many to choose from, but now I understand it. What beautiful tender things he can say, Bertha, and yet not seem in the least sentimental. Everything comes so simply right from the bottom of his heart. Just think what he said to me yesterday when he brought me those flowers. He helps me with mine, and it is odd how things will cheer up and grow for him, I said to him, ‘Arthur, how is it that no flower ever fails you?’ and he answered in the gentlest quiet way, ‘Perhaps because I never fail them. Flowers are like people,--one must love and be true to them, not only to-day and to-morrow, but every day--every hour--always.’ And he says such things so often. That is why I am so fond of him.” As she received no reply, she turned toward the lounge. Bertha lay upon it motionless and silent,--only a large tear trembled on her cheek. Jenny sprung up, shocked and checked, and went to’ her. “Oh, Bertha!” she cried, “how thoughtless I am to tire you so, you poor little soul! Is it true that you are so weak as all that? I heard mamma and Arthur talking about it, but I scarcely believed it. They said you must go to Normandy and be nursed.” “I don’t want to go to Normandy,” said Bertha, “I--I am too tired. I only want to lie still and rest. I have been out too much.” Her voice, however, was so softly weak that in the most natural manner Jenny was subdued into shedding a few tears also, and kissed her fervently. “Oh, Bertha!” she said, “you must do anything--anything that will make you well--if it is only for Arthur’s sake. He loves you so--so terribly.” Whereupon Bertha laughed a little hysterically. “Does he,” she said, “love me so ‘terribly’? Poor M. Villefort?” She did not go to Normandy, however, and still went into society, though not as much as had been her habit. When she spent her evenings at home, some of her own family generally spent them with her, and M. Villefort or Edmondstone read aloud or talked. In fact, Edmondstone came oftener than ever. His anxiety and unhappiness grew upon him, and made him moody, irritable, and morbid. One night, when M. Villefort had left them alone together for a short time, he sprang from his chair and came to her couch, shaken with suppressed emotion. “That man is killing you!” he exclaimed. “You are dying by inches! I cannot bear it!” “It is not _he_ who is killing me,” she answered; and then M. Villefort returned to the room with the book he had been in search of. In this case Edmondstone’s passion took new phases. He wrote no sonnets, painted no pictures. He neglected his work, and spent his idle hours in rambling here and there in a gloomy, unsociable fashion. “He looks,” said M. Renard, “as if his soul had been playing him some evil trick.” He had at first complained that Bertha had taken a capricious fancy to Madame de Castro, but in course of time he found his way to the old woman’s _salon_ too, though it must be confessed that Madame herself never showed him any great favor. But this he did not care for. He only cared to sit in the same room with Bertha, and watch her every movement with a miserable tenderness. One night, after regarding him cynically for some time, Madame broke out to Bertha with small ceremony:-- “What a fool that young man is!” she exclaimed. “He sits and fairly devours you with his eyes. It is bad taste to show such an insane passion for a married woman.” It seemed as if Bertha lost at once her breath and every drop of blood in her body, for she had neither breath nor color when she turned and looked Madame de Castro in the face. “Madame,” she said, “if you repeat that to me, you will never see me again--never!” Upon which Madame snapped her up with some anger at being so rebuked for her frankness. “Then it is worse than I thought,” she said. It was weeks before she saw her young friend again. Indeed, it required some clever diplomacy to heal the breach made, and even in her most amusing and affectionate moods, she often felt afterward that she was treated with a reserve which held her at arm’s length. By the time the horse-chestnuts bloomed pink and white on the Avenue des Champs Élysées, there were few people in the Trent and Villefort circles who had not their opinions on the subject of Madame Villefort and her cousin. There was a mixture of French and American gossip and comment, frank satire, or secret remark. But to her credit be it spoken, Madame de Castro held grim silence, and checked a rumor occasionally with such amiable ferocity as was not without its good effect. The pink and white blossoms were already beginning to strew themselves at the feet of the pedestrians, when one morning M. Villefort presented himself to Madame, and discovered her sitting alone in the strangest of moods. “I thought I might have the pleasure of driving home with Madame Villefort. My servant informed me that I should find her here.” Madame de Castro pointed to a chair. “Sit down,” she commanded. M. Villefort obeyed her in some secret but well-concealed amazement. He saw that she was under the influence of some unusual excitement. Her false front was pushed fantastically away, her rouge and powder were rubbed off in patches, her face looked set and hard. Her first words were abominably blunt. “M. Villefort,” she said, “do you know what your acquaintances call you?” A deep red rose slowly to his face, but he did not answer. “Do you know that you are designated by them by an absurd title--that they call you in ridicule ‘Le Monsieur de la petite Dame?’ Do you know that?” His look was incomprehensible, but he bowed gravely. “Madame,” he answered, “since others have heard the title so often, it is but natural that I myself should have heard it more than once.” She regarded him in angry amazement. She was even roused to rapping upon the floor with her gold-headed cane. “Does it not affect you?” she cried. “Does it not move you to indignation?” “That, Madame,” he replied, “can only be my affair. My friends will allow me my emotions at least.” Then she left her chair and began to walk up and down, striking the carpet hard with her cane at every step. “You are a strange man,” she remarked. Suddenly, however, when just on the point of starting upon a fresh tour, she wheeled about and addressed him sharply. “I respect you,” she said; “and because I respect you, I will do you a good turn.” She made no pretense at endeavoring to soften the blow she was about to bestow. She drew forth from her dress a letter, the mere sight of which seemed to goad her to a mysterious excitement. “See,” she cried; “it was M. Ralph Edmondstone who wrote this,--it was to Madame Villefort it was written. It means ruin and dishonor. I offer it to you to read.” M. Villefort rose and laid his hand upon his chair to steady himself. “Madame,” he answered, “I will not touch it.” She struck herself upon her withered breast. “Behold me!” she said. “_Me!_ I am seventy years old! Good God! seventy! I am a bad old woman, and it is said I do not repent of my sins. I, too, have been a beautiful young girl. I, too, had my first lover. I, too, married a man who had not won my heart. It does not matter that the husband was worthy and the lover was not,--one learns that too late. My fate was what your wife’s will be if you will not sacrifice your pride and save her.” “Pride!” he echoed in a bitter, hollow voice. “My pride, Madame!” She went on without noticing him:-- “They have been here this morning--both of them. He followed her, as he always does. He had a desperate look which warned me. Afterward I found the note upon the floor. Now will you read it?” “Good God!” he cried, as he fell into his chair again, his brow sinking into his hands. “I have read it,” said Madame, with a tragic gesture, “and I choose to place one stumbling-block in the path that would lead her to an old age like mine. I do not like your Americans; but I have sometimes seen in her girl’s face a proud, heroic endurance of the misery she has brought upon herself, and it has moved me. And this let ter--you should read it, to see how such a man can plead. It is a passionate cry of despair--it is a poem in itself. I, myself, read it with sobs in my throat and tears in my eyes. ‘If you love me!--if you have ever loved me!’ he cries, ‘for God’s sake!--for love’s sake!--if there is love on earth--if there is a God in heaven, you will not let me implore you in vain!’ And his prayer is that she will leave Paris with him tonight--. to-night! There! Monsieur, I have done. Behold the letter! Take it or leave it, as you please.” And she flung it upon the floor at his feet. She paused a moment, wondering what he would do. He bent down and picked the letter up. “I will take it,” he said. All at once he had become calm, and when he rose and uttered his last words to her, there was upon his face a faint smile. “I, too,” he said,--“I, too, Madame, suffer from a mad and hopeless passion, and thus can comprehend the bitterness of M. Edmondstone’s pangs. I, too, would implore in the name of love and God,--if I might, but I may not.” And so he took his departure. Until evening Bertha did not see him. The afternoon she spent alone and in writing letters, and having completed and sealed the last, she went to her couch and tried to sleep. One entering the room, as she lay upon the violet cushions, her hands at her sides, her eyes closed, might well have been shocked. Her spotless pallor, the fine sharpness of her face, the shadows under her eyes, her motionlessness, would have excused the momentary feeling. But she was up and dressed for dinner when M. Villefort presented himself. Spring though it was, she was attired in a high, close dress of black velvet, and he found her almost cowering over the open fire-place. Strangely enough, too, she fancied that when she looked up at him she saw him shiver, as if he were struck with a slight chill also. “You should not wear that,” he said, with a half smile at her gown. “Why?” she asked. “It makes you so white--so much like a too early lily. But--but perhaps you thought of going out?” “No,” she answered; “not to-night.” He came quite close to her. “If you are not too greatly fatigued,” he said, “it would give me happiness to take you with me on my errand to your mother’s house. I must carry there my little birthday gift to your sister,” smiling again. An expression of embarrassment showed itself upon her face. “Oh,” she exclaimed, “to think that I had forgotten it! She will feel as if I did not care for her at all.” She seemed for the moment quite unhappy. “Let me see what you have chosen.” He drew from his pocket a case and opened it. “Oh,” she cried, “how pretty and how suitable for a girl!” They were the prettiest, most airy set of pearls imaginable. She sat and looked at them for a few seconds thoughtfully, and then handed them back. “You are very good, and Jenny will be in ecstasies,” she said. “It is a happiness to me to give her pleasure,” he returned. “I feel great tenderness for her. She is not like the young girls I have known. Her innocence is of a frank and noble quality, which is better than ignorance. One could not bear that the slightest shadow of sin or pain should fall upon her. The atmosphere surrounding her is so bright with pure happiness and the courage of youth.” Involuntarily he held out his hand. “Will you”--he began. His voice fell and broke. “Will you go with me?” he ended. He saw that she was troubled. “Now?” she faltered. “Yes--now.” There was a peculiar pause,--a moment, as it seemed to him, of breathless silence. This silence she broke by her rising slowly from her seat. “Yes,” she responded, “I will go. Why should I not?” It was midnight when they left the Trents’, and Jenny stood upon the threshold, a bright figure in a setting of brightness, and kissed her hand to them as they went down the steps. “I hope you will be better to-morrow, Arthur,” she said. He turned quickly to look up at her. “I?” “Yes. You look so tired. I might say haggard, if it was polite.” “It would not be polite,” said Bertha, “so don’t say it. Good-night, Jenny!” But when they were seated in the carriage she glanced at her husband’s face. “_Are_ you unwell?” she asked. He passed his hand quickly across his forehead. “A little fatigued,” he replied. “It is nothing. To-morrow--to-morrow it will be all over.” And so silence fell upon them. As they entered the drawing-room a clock chimed the half hour. “So late as that!” exclaimed Bertha, and sank into a chair with a faint laugh. “Why, to-day is over,” she said. “It is to-morrow.” M. Villefort had approached a side table. Upon it lay a peculiar-looking oblong box. “Ah,” he said, softly, “they have arrived.” “What are they?” Bertha asked. He was bending over the box to open it, and did not turn toward her, as he replied:-- “It is a gift for a young friend of mine,--a brace of pistols. He has before him a long journey in the East, and he is young enough to have a fancy for firearms.” He was still examining the weapons when Bertha crossed the room on her way up-stairs, and she paused an instant to look at them. “They are very handsome,” she said. “One could almost wear them as ornaments.” “But they would have too threatening a look,” he answered, lightly. As he raised his eyes they met hers. She half started backward, moved by a new sense of the haggardness of his face. “You _are_ ill!” she exclaimed. “You are as colorless as marble.” “And you, too,” he returned, still with the same tender lightness. “Let us hope that our ‘to-morrow’ will find us both better, and you say it is tomorrow now. Good-night!” She went away without saying more. Weary as she was, she knew there was no sleep for her, and after dismissing her maid, she threw herself upon the lounge before the bedroom fire and lay there. To-night she felt as if her life had reached its climax. She burst into a passion of tears. “Jenny! Jenny!” she cried, “how I envy--how I envy you!” The recollection of Jenny shining in her pretty gala dress, and delighting in her birthday presents, and everybody else’s pride and affection, filled her with a morbid misery and terror. She covered her face with her hands as she thought of it. “Once,” she panted, “as I looked at her tonight, for a moment I almost hated her. Am I so bad as that?--am I?” Scarcely two seconds afterward she had sprung to her feet and was standing by the side of her couch, her heart beating with a rapid throb of fright, her limbs trembling. A strange sound had fallen suddenly upon the perfect silence of the night--a sound loud, hard, and sharp--the report of a pistol! What dread seized her she knew not. She was across the room and had wrenched the door open in an instant, then with flying feet down the corridor and the staircase. But half-way down the stairs she began to cry out aloud, “Arthur! Arthur!” not conscious of her own voice--“Arthur, what is it?” The door of the drawing-room flew open before the fierce stroke of her palm. M. Villefort stood where she had left him; but while his left hand supported his weight against the table, his right was thrust into his breast. One of the pistols lay at his feet. She thought it was Death’s self that confronted her in his face, but he spoke to her, trying faintly to smile. “Do not come in,” he said, “I have met with--an accident. It is nothing. Do not come in. A servant----” His last recollection was of her white face and white draperies as he fell, and somehow, dizzy, sick, and faint as he was, he seemed to hear her calling out, in a voice strangely like Jenny’s, “Arthur! Arthur!” In less than half an hour the whole house was astir. Upstairs physicians were with the wounded man, downstairs Mrs. Trent talked and wept over her daughter, after the manner of all good women. She was fairly terrified by Bertha’s strange shudderings, quick, strained breath, and dilated eyes. She felt as if she could not reach her--as if she hardly made herself heard. “You must calm yourself, Bertha,” she would say. “Try to calm yourself. We must hope for the best. Oh, how could it have happened!” It was in the midst of this that a servant entered with a letter, which he handed to his mistress. The envelope bore upon it nothing but her own name. She looked at it with a bewildered expression. “For me?” she said. “It fell from Monsieur’s pocket as we carried him upstairs,” replied the man. “Don’t mind it now, Bertha,” said her mother, “Ah, poor M. Villefort!” But Bertha had opened it mechanically and was reading it At first it seemed as if it must have been written in a language she did not understand; but after the first few sentences a change appeared. Her breath came and went more quickly than before--a kind of horror grew in her eyes. At the last she uttered a low, struggling cry. The paper was crushed in her hand, she cast one glance around the room as if in bewildering search for refuge, and flung herself upon her mother’s breast. “Save me, mother!” she said. “Help me! If he dies now, I shall go mad!” Afterward, in telling her story at home, good Mrs. Trent almost broke down. “Oh, Jenny!” she said. “Just to think of the poor fellow’s having had it in his pocket then! Of course I did not see it, but one can fancy that it was something kind and tender,--perhaps some little surprise he had planned for her. It seemed as if she could not bear it.” M. Villefort’s accident was the subject of discussion for many days. He had purchased a wonderful pair of pistols as a gift for a young friend. How it had happened that one had been loaded none knew; it was just possible that he had been seized with the whim to load it himself--at all events, it had gone off in his hands. An inch--nay, half an inch--to the right, and Madame Villefort, who flew downstairs at the sound of the report, would only have found a dead man at her feet. “_Ma foi!_” said M. Renard, repressing his smile; “this is difficult for Monsieur, but it may leave ‘_la petite Dame_’ at liberty.” Madame de Castro flew at him with flashing eyes. “Silence!” she said, “if you would not have me strike you with my cane.” And she looked as if she were capable of doing it. Upon his sick-bed M, Villefort was continually haunted by an apparition--an apparition of a white face and white draperies, such as he had seen as he fell. Sometimes it was here, sometimes there, sometimes near him, and sometimes indistinct and far away. Sometimes he called out to it and tried to extend his arms; again he lay and watched, it murmuring gentle words, and smiling mournfully. Mrs. Trent and the doctor were in despair. Madame Villefort obstinately refused to be forced from her husband’s room. There were times when they thought she might sink and die there herself. She would not even leave it when they obliged her to sleep. Having been slight and frail from ill health before, she became absolutely attenuated. Soon all her beauty would be gone. “Do you know,” said Mrs. Trent to her husband, “I have found out that she always carries that letter in her breast? I see her put her hand to it in the strangest way a dozen times a day.” One night, awakening from a long sleep to a clearer mental consciousness than usual, M. Villefort found his apparition standing over him. She stood with one hand clinched upon her breast, and she spoke to him. “Arthur!” she said,--“Arthur, do you know me?” He answered her, “Yes.” She slipped down upon her knees, and held up in her hand a letter crushed and broken. “Try to keep your mind clear while you listen to me,” she implored. “Try--try! I must tell you, or I shall die. I am not the bad woman you think me. I never had read it--I had not seen it. I think he must have been mad. Once I loved him, but he killed my love himself. I could not have been bad like that, Jenny!--mother!--Arthur! believe me! believe me!” In this supreme moment of her anguish and shame she forgot all else. She stretched forth her hands, panting. “Believe me! It is true! Try to understand! Some one is coming! Say one word before it is too late!” “I understand,” he whispered, “and I believe.” He made a weak effort to touch her hand, but failed. He thought that perhaps it was the chill and numbness of death which stole over him and held him bound. When the nurse, whose footsteps they had heard, entered, she found him lying with glazed eyes, and Madame Villefort fallen in a swoon at the bedside. And yet, from this time forward the outside world began to hear that his case was not so hopeless after all. “Villefort will possibly recover,” it was said at first; then, “Villefort improves, it seems;” and, at last, “Villefort is out of danger Who would have thought it?” Nobody, however, could say that Madame had kept pace with her husband. When Monsieur was sufficiently strong to travel, and was advised to do so, there were grave doubts as to the propriety of his wife’s accompanying him. But she would not listen to those doubts. “I will not stay in Paris,” she said to her mother. “I want to be free from it, and Jenny has promised to go with us.” They were to go into Normandy, and the day before their departure Ralph Edmondstone came to bid them good-bye. Of the three he was by far the most haggard figure, and when Bertha came down to meet him in the empty drawing-room, he became a wretched figure with a broken, hopeless air, For a few seconds Bertha did not speak, but stood a pace or two away looking at him. It seemed, in truth, as she waited there in her dark, nun-like dress, that nearly all her beauty had left her. There remained only her large sad eyes and pretty hair, and the touching look of extreme youth. In her hand she held the crushed letter. “See!” she said at last, holding this out to him. “I am not so bad--so bad as that.” He caught it from her hand and tore it into fragments. He was stabbed through and through with shame and remorse. After all, his love had been strong enough here, and his comprehension keen enough to have made him repent in the dust of the earth, in his first calm hour, the insult he had put upon her. “Forgive me!” he cried; “oh, forgive me!” The few steps between them might have been a myriad of miles. “I did love you--long ago,” she said; “but you never thought of me. You did not understand me then--nor afterward. All this winter my love has been dying a hard death. You tried to keep it alive, but--you did not understand. You only humiliated and tortured me--And I knew that if I had loved you more, you would have loved me less. See!” holding up her thin hand, “I have been worn out in the struggle between my unhappiness and remorse and you.” “You do not know what love is!” he burst forth, stung into swift resentment. A quick sob broke from her. “Yes I do.” she answered. “I--I have seen it” “You mean M. Villefort!” he cried in desperate jealous misery. “You think that he----” She pointed to the scattered fragments of the letter. “He had that in his pocket when he fell,” she said, “He thought that I had read it. If I had been your wife, and you had thought so, would you have thought that I was worth trying to save--as he tried to save me?” “What!” he exclaimed, shamefacedly. “Has he seen it?” “Yes,” she answered, with another sob, which might have been an echo of the first. “And that is the worst of all.” There was a pause, during which he looked down at the floor, and even trembled a little. “I have done you more wrong than I thought,” he said. “Yes,” she replied; “a thousand-fold more.” It seemed as if there might have been more to say, but it was not said. In a little while he roused himself with an effort. “I am not a villain!” he said. “I can do one thing. I can go to Villefort--if you care.” She did not speak. So he moved slowly away until he reached the door. With his hand upon the handle he turned and looked back at her. “Oh, it is good-bye--good-bye!” he almost groaned. “Yes.” He could not help it--few men could have done so. His expression was almost fierce as he spoke his next words. “And you will love him--yes, you will love _him_.” “No,” she answered, with bitter pain. “I am not worthy.” ***** It was a year or more before the Villeforts were seen in Paris again, and Jenny enjoyed her wanderings with them wondrously. In fact, she was the leading member of the party. She took them where she chose,--to queer places, to ugly places, to impossible places, but never from first to last to any place where there were not, or at least had not been, Americans as absurdly erratic as themselves. The winter before their return they were at Genoa, among other places; and it was at Genoa that one morning, on opening a drawer, Bertha came upon an oblong box, the sight of which made her start backward and put her hand to her beating side. M. Villefort approached her hurriedly. An instant later, however, he started also and shut the drawer. “Come away,” he said, taking her hand gently. “Do not remain here.” But he was pale, too, and his hand was unsteady. He led her to the window and made her sit down. “Pardon me,” he said. “I should not have left them there.” “You did not send them to your friend?” she faltered. “No.” He stood for a moment or so, and looked out of the window at the blue sea which melted into the blue sky, at the blue sky which bent itself into the blue sea, at the white sails flecking the deep azure, at the waves hurrying in to break upon the sand. “That”--he said at length, tremulously, and with pale lips--“that was false.” “Was false!” she echoed. “Yes,” hoarsely, “it was false. There was no such friend. It was a lie--they were meant only for myself.” She uttered a low cry of anguish and dread. “Ah, _mon Dieu!_” he said. “You could not know. I understood all, and had been silent. I was nothing--a jest--‘_le Monsieur de la petite Dame_,’ as they said,--only that. I swore that I would save you. When I bade you adieu that night, I thought it was my last farewell. There was no accident. Yes--there was one. I did not die, as I had intended. My hand was not steady enough. And since then----” She rose up, crying out to him as she had done on that terrible night-- “Arthur! Arthur!” He came closer to her. “Is it true,” he said,--“is it true that my prayers have not been in vain? Is it true that at last--at last, you have learned--have learned----” She stretched forth her arms to him. “It is true!” she cried. “Yes, it is true!--it is true!”

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:30.610554

2333

Scanned by Martin Adamson martin@grassmarket.freeserve.co.uk CRITICAL AND HISTORICAL ESSAYS, VOLUME II BY THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY CONTENTS OF VOLUME II FOREIGN HISTORY MACHIAVELLI RANKE'S HISTORY OF THE POPES WAR OF THE SPANISH SUCCESSION FREDERIC THE GREAT POLITICAL CONTROVERSY SOUTHEY'S COLLOQUIES CIVIL DISABILTIES OF THE JEWS GLADSTONE ON CHURCH AND STATE LITERARY CRITICISMS BACON JOHN BUNYAN DRAMATISTS OF THE RESTORATION ADDISON SAMUEL JOHNSON MADAME D'ARBLAY BYRON MONTGOMERY INDEX MACHIAVELLI (March 1827) Oeuvres completes de MACHIAVEL, traduites par J. V. PERIER Paris: 1825. Those who have attended to the practice of our literary tribunal are well aware that, by means of certain legal fictions similar to those of Westminster Hall, we are frequently enabled to take cognisance of cases lying beyond the sphere of our original jurisdiction. We need hardly say, therefore, that in the present instance M. Perier is merely a Richard Roe, who will not be mentioned in any subsequent stage of the proceedings, and whose name is used for the sole purpose of bringing Machiavelli into court. We doubt whether any name in literary history be so generally odious as that of the man whose character and writings we now propose to consider. The terms in which he is commonly described would seem to import that he was the Tempter, the Evil Principle, the discoverer of ambition and revenge, the original inventor of perjury, and that, before the publication of his fatal Prince, there had never been a hypocrite, a tyrant, or a traitor, a simulated virtue, or a convenient crime. One writer gravely assures us that Maurice of Saxony learned all his fraudulent policy from that execrable volume. Another remarks that since it was translated into Turkish, the Sultans have been more addicted than formerly to the custom of strangling their brothers. Lord Lyttelton charges the poor Florentine with the manifold treasons of the house of Guise, and with the massacre of St. Bartholomew. Several authors have hinted that the Gunpowder Plot is to be primarily attributed to his doctrines, and seem to think that his effigy ought to be substituted for that of Guy Faux, in those processions by which the ingenious youth of England annually commemorate the preservation of the Three Estates. The Church of Rome has pronounced his works accursed things. Nor have our own countrymen been backward in testifying their opinion of his merits. Out of his surname they have coined an epithet for a knave, and out of his Christian name a synonym for the Devil. [Nick Machiavel had ne'er a trick, Tho' he gave his name to our old Nick. Hudibras, Part iii. Canto i. But, we believe, there is a schism on this subject among the antiquarians.] It is indeed scarcely possible for any person, not well acquainted with the history and literature of Italy, to read without horror and amazement the celebrated treatise which has brought so much obloquy on the name of Machiavelli. Such a display of wickedness, naked yet not ashamed, such cool, judicious, scientific atrocity, seemed rather to belong to a fiend than to the most depraved of men. Principles which the most hardened ruffian would scarcely hint to his most trusted accomplice, or avow, without the disguise of some palliating sophism, even to his own mind, are professed without the slightest circumlocution, and assumed as the fundamental axioms of all political science. It is not strange that ordinary readers should regard the author of such a book as the most depraved and shameless of human beings. Wise men, however, have always been inclined to look with great suspicion on the angels and daemons of the multitude: and in the present instance, several circumstances have led even superficial observers to question the justice of the vulgar decision. It is notorious that Machiavelli was, through life, a zealous republican. In the same year in which he composed his manual of King-craft, he suffered imprisonment and torture in the cause of public liberty. It seems inconceivable that the martyr of freedom should have designedly acted as the apostle of tyranny. Several eminent writers have, therefore, endeavoured to detect in this unfortunate performance some concealed meaning, more consistent with the character and conduct of the author than that which appears at the first glance. One hypothesis is that Machiavelli intended to practise on the young Lorenzo de Medici a fraud similar to that which Sunderland is said to have employed against our James the Second, and that he urged his pupil to violent and perfidious measures, as the surest means of accelerating the moment of deliverance and revenge. Another supposition which Lord Bacon seems to countenance, is that the treatise was merely a piece of grave irony, intended to warn nations against the arts of ambitious men. It would be easy to show that neither of these solutions is consistent with many passages in The Prince itself. But the most decisive refutation is that which is furnished by the other works of Machiavelli. In all the writings which he gave to the public, and in all those which the research of editors has, in the course of three centuries, discovered, in his Comedies, designed for the entertainment of the multitude, in his Comments on Livy, intended for the perusal of the most enthusiastic patriots of Florence, in his History, inscribed to one of the most amiable and estimable of the Popes, in his public despatches, in his private memoranda, the same obliquity of moral principle for which The Prince is so severely censured is more or less discernible. We doubt whether it would be possible to find, in all the many volumes of his compositions, a single expression indicating that dissimulation and treachery had ever struck him as discreditable. After this, it may seem ridiculous to say that we are acquainted with few writings which exhibit so much elevation of sentiment, so pure and warm a zeal for the public good, or so just a view of the duties and rights of citizens, as those of Machiavelli. Yet so it is. And even from The Prince itself we could select many passages in support of this remark. To a reader of our age and country this inconsistency is, at first, perfectly bewildering. The whole man seems to be an enigma, a grotesque assemblage of incongruous qualities, selfishness and generosity, cruelty and benevolence, craft and simplicity, abject villainy and romantic heroism. One sentence is such as a veteran diplomatist would scarcely write in cipher for the direction of his most confidential spy; the next seems to be extracted from a theme composed by an ardent schoolboy on the death of Leonidas. An act of dexterous perfidy, and an act of patriotic self-devotion, call forth the same kind and the same degree of respectful admiration. The moral sensibility of the writer seems at once to be morbidly obtuse and morbidly acute. Two characters altogether dissimilar are united in him. They are not merely joined, but interwoven. They are the warp and the woof of his mind; and their combination, like that of the variegated threads in shot silk, gives to the whole texture a glancing and ever-changing appearance. The explanation might have been easy, if he had been a very weak or a very affected man. But he was evidently neither the one nor the other. His works prove, beyond all contradiction, that his understanding was strong, his taste pure, and his sense of the ridiculous exquisitely keen. This is strange: and yet the strangest is behind. There is no reason whatever to think, that those amongst whom he lived saw anything shocking or incongruous in his writings. Abundant proofs remain of the high estimation in which both his works and his person were held by the most respectable among his contemporaries. Clement the Seventh patronised the publication of those very books which the Council of Trent, in the following generation, pronounced unfit for the perusal of Christians. Some members of the democratical party censured the Secretary for dedicating The Prince to a patron who bore the unpopular name of Medici. But to those immoral doctrines which have since called forth such severe reprehensions no exception appears to have been taken. The cry against them was first raised beyond the Alps, and seems to have been heard with amazement in Italy. The earliest assailant, as far as we are aware, was a countryman of our own, Cardinal Pole. The author of the Anti-Machiavelli was a French Protestant. It is, therefore, in the state of moral feeling among the Italians of those times that we must seek for the real explanation of what seems most mysterious in the life and writings of this remarkable man. As this is a subject which suggests many interesting considerations, both political and metaphysical, we shall make no apology for discussing it at some length. During the gloomy and disastrous centuries which followed the downfall of the Roman Empire, Italy had preserved, in a far greater degree than any other part of Western Europe, the traces of ancient civilisation. The night which descended upon her was the night of an Arctic summer. The dawn began to reappear before the last reflection of the preceding sunset had faded from the horizon. It was in the time of the French Merovingians and of the Saxon Heptarchy that ignorance and ferocity seemed to have done their worst. Yet even then the Neapolitan provinces, recognising the authority of the Eastern Empire, preserved something of Eastern knowledge and refinement. Rome, protected by the sacred character of her Pontiffs, enjoyed at least comparative security and repose, Even in those regions where the sanguinary Lombards had fixed their monarchy, there was incomparably more of wealth, of information, of physical comfort, and of social order, than could be found in Gaul, Britain, or Germany. That which most distinguished Italy from the neighbouring countries was the importance which the population of the towns, at a very early period, began to acquire. Some cities had been founded in wild and remote situations, by fugitives who had escaped from the rage of the barbarians. Such were Venice and Genoa, which preserved their freedom by their obscurity, till they became able to preserve it by their power. Other cities seem to have retained, under all the changing dynasties of invaders, under Odoacer and Theodoric, Narses and Alboin, the municipal institutions which had been conferred on them by the liberal policy of the Great Republic. In provinces which the central government was too feeble either to protect or to oppress, these institutions gradually acquired stability and vigour. The citizens, defended by their walls, and governed by their own magistrates and their own by-laws, enjoyed a considerable share of republican independence. Thus a strong democratic spirit was called into action. The Carlovingian sovereigns were too imbecile to subdue it. The generous policy of Otho encouraged it. It might perhaps have been suppressed by a close coalition between the Church and the Empire. It was fostered and invigorated by their disputes. In the twelfth century it attained its full vigour, and, after a long and doubtful conflict, triumphed over the abilities and courage of the Swabian princes. The assistance of the Ecclesiastical power had greatly contributed to the success of the Guelfs. That success would, however, have been a doubtful good, if its only effect had been to substitute a moral for a political servitude, and to exalt the Popes at the expense of the Caesars. Happily the public mind of Italy had long contained the seeds of free opinions, which were now rapidly developed by the genial influence of free institutions. The people of that country had observed the whole machinery of the Church, its saints and its miracles, its lofty pretensions and its splendid ceremonial, its worthless blessings and its harmless curses, too long and too closely to be duped. They stood behind the scenes on which others were gazing with childish awe and interest. They witnessed the arrangement of the pulleys, and the manufacture of the thunders. They saw the natural faces and heard the natural voices of the actors. Distant nations looked on the Pope as the Vicegerent of the Almighty, the oracle of the All-wise, the umpire from whose decisions, in the disputes either of theologians or of kings, no Christian ought to appeal. The Italians were acquainted with all the follies of his youth, and with all the dishonest arts by which he had attained power. They knew how often he had employed the keys of the Church to release himself from the most sacred engagements, and its wealth to pamper his mistresses and nephews. The doctrines and rites of the established religion they treated with decent reverence. But though they still called themselves Catholics, they had ceased to be Papists. Those spiritual arms which carried terror into the palaces and camps of the proudest sovereigns excited only contempt in the immediate neighbourhood of the Vatican. Alexander, when he commanded our Henry the Second to submit to the lash before the tomb of a rebellious subject, was himself an exile. The Romans apprehending that he entertained designs against their liberties, had driven him from their city; and though he solemnly promised to confine himself for the future to his spiritual functions, they still refused to readmit him. In every other part of Europe, a large and powerful privileged class trampled on the people and defied the Government. But in the most flourishing parts of Italy, the feudal nobles were reduced to comparative insignificance. In some districts they took shelter under the protection of the powerful commonwealths which they were unable to oppose, and gradually sank into the mass of burghers. In other places they possessed great influence; but it was an influence widely different from that which was exercised by the aristocracy of any Transalpine kingdom. They were not petty princes, but eminent citizens. Instead of strengthening their fastnesses among the mountains, they embellished their palaces in the market-place. The state of society in the Neapolitan dominions, and in some parts of the Ecclesiastical State, more nearly resembled that which existed in the great monarchies of Europe. But the Governments of Lombardy and Tuscany, through all their revolutions, preserved a different character. A people, when assembled in a town, is far more formidable to its rulers than when dispersed over a wide extent of country. The most arbitrary of the Caesars found it necessary to feed and divert the inhabitants of their unwieldy capital at the expense of the provinces. The citizens of Madrid have more than once besieged their sovereign in his own palace, and extorted from him the most humiliating concessions. The Sultans have often been compelled to propitiate the furious rabble of Constantinople with the head of an unpopular Vizier. From the same cause there was a certain tinge of democracy in the monarchies and aristocracies of Northern Italy. Thus liberty, partially indeed and transiently, revisited Italy; and with liberty came commerce and empire, science and taste, all the comforts and all the ornaments of life. The Crusades, from which the inhabitants of other countries gained nothing but relics and wounds, brought to the rising commonwealths of the Adriatic and Tyrrhene seas a large increase of wealth, dominion, and knowledge. The moral and geographical position of those commonwealths enabled them to profit alike by the barbarism of the West and by the civilisation of the East. Italian ships covered every sea. Italian factories rose on every shore. The tables of Italian moneychangers were set in every city. Manufactures flourished. Banks were established. The operations of the commercial machine were facilitated by many useful and beautiful inventions. We doubt whether any country of Europe, our own excepted, have at the present time reached so high a point of wealth and civilisation as some parts of Italy had attained four hundred years ago. Historians rarely descend to those details from which alone the real state of a community can be collected. Hence posterity is too often deceived by the vague hyperboles of poets and rhetoricians, who mistake the splendour of a court for the happiness of a people. Fortunately, John Villani has given us an ample and precise account of the state of Florence in the early part of the fourteenth century. The revenue of the Republic amounted to three hundred thousand florins; a sum which, allowing for the depreciation of the precious metals, was at least equivalent to six hundred thousand pounds sterling; a larger sum than England and Ireland, two centuries ago, yielded annually to Elizabeth. The manufacture of wool alone employed two hundred factories and thirty thousand workmen. The cloth annually produced sold, at an average, for twelve hundred thousand florins; a sum fully equal in exchangeable value to two millions and a half of our money. Four hundred thousand florins were annually coined. Eighty banks conducted the commercial operations, not of Florence only but of all Europe. The transactions of these establishments were sometimes of a magnitude which may surprise even the contemporaries of the Barings and the Rothschilds. Two houses advanced to Edward the Third of England upwards of three hundred thousand marks, at a time when the mark contained more silver than fifty shillings of the present day, and when the value of silver was more than quadruple of what it now is. The city and its environs contained a hundred and seventy thousand inhabitants. In the various schools about ten thousand children were taught to read; twelve hundred studied arithmetic; six hundred received a learned education. The progress of elegant literature and of the fine arts was proportioned to that of the public prosperity. Under the despotic successors of Augustus, all the fields of intellect had been turned into arid wastes, still marked out by formal boundaries, still retaining the traces of old cultivation, but yielding neither flowers nor fruit. The deluge of barbarism came. It swept away all the landmarks. It obliterated all the signs of former tillage. But it fertilised while it devastated. When it receded, the wilderness was as the garden of God, rejoicing on every side, laughing, clapping its hands, pouring forth, in spontaneous abundance, everything brilliant, or fragrant, or nourishing. A new language, characterised by simple sweetness and simple energy, had attained perfection. No tongue ever furnished more gorgeous and vivid tints to poetry; nor was it long before a poet appeared who knew how to employ them. Early in the fourteenth century came forth the Divine Comedy, beyond comparison the greatest work of imagination which had appeared since the poems of Homer. The following generation produced indeed no second Dante: but it was eminently distinguished by general intellectual activity. The study of the Latin writers had never been wholly neglected in Italy. But Petrarch introduced a more profound, liberal, and elegant scholarship, and communicated to his countrymen that enthusiasm for the literature, the history, and the antiquities of Rome, which divided his own heart with a frigid mistress and a more frigid Muse. Boccaccio turned their attention to the more sublime and graceful models of Greece. From this time, the admiration of learning and genius became almost an idolatry among the people of Italy. Kings and republics, cardinals and doges, vied with each other in honouring and flattering Petrarch. Embassies from rival States solicited the honour of his instructions. His coronation agitated the Court of Naples and the people of Rome as much as the most important political transaction could have done. To collect books and antiques, to found professorships, to patronise men of learning, became almost universal fashions among the great. The spirit of literary research allied itself to that of commercial enterprise. Every place to which the merchant princes of Florence extended their gigantic traffic, from the bazars of the Tigris to the monasteries of the Clyde, was ransacked for medals and manuscripts. Architecture, painting, and sculpture, were munificently encouraged. Indeed it would be difficult to name an Italian of eminence, during the period of which we speak, who, whatever may have been his general character, did not at least affect a love of letters and of the arts. Knowledge and public prosperity continued to advance together. Both attained their meridian in the age of Lorenzo the Magnificent. We cannot refrain from quoting the splendid passage, in which the Tuscan Thucydides describes the state of Italy at that period. "Ridotta tutta in somma pace e tranquillita, coltivata non meno ne' luoghi piu montuosi e piu sterili che nelle pianure e regioni piu fertili, ne sottoposta ad altro imperio che de' suoi medesimi, non solo era abbondantissima d' abitatori e di ricchezze; ma illustrata sommamente dalla magnificenza di molti principi, dallo splendore di molte nobilissime e bellissime citta, dalla sedia e maesta della religione, fioriva d' uomini prestantissimi nell' amministrazione delle cose pubbliche, e d'ingegni molto nobili in tutte le scienze, ed in qualunque arte preclara ed industriosa." When we peruse this just and splendid description, we can scarcely persuade ourselves that we are reading of times in which the annals of England and France present us only with a frightful spectacle of poverty, barbarity, and ignorance. From the oppressions of illiterate masters, and the sufferings of a degraded peasantry, it is delightful to turn to the opulent and enlightened States of Italy, to the vast and magnificent cities, the ports, the arsenals, the villas, the museums, the libraries, the marts filled with every article of comfort or luxury, the factories swarming with artisans, the Apennines covered with rich cultivation up to their very summits, the Po wafting the harvests of Lombardy to the granaries of Venice, and carrying back the silks of Bengal and the furs of Siberia to the palaces of Milan. With peculiar pleasure, every cultivated mind must repose on the fair, the happy, the glorious Florence, the halls which rang with the mirth of Pulci, the cell where twinkled the midnight lamp of Politian, the statues on which the young eye of Michael Angelo glared with the frenzy of a kindred inspiration, the gardens in which Lorenzo meditated some sparkling song for the May-day dance of the Etrurian virgins. Alas for the beautiful city! Alas for the wit and the learning, the genius and the love! "Le donne, e i cavalier, gli affanni, e gli agi, Che ne 'nvogliava amore e cortesia La dove i cuor son fatti si malvagi." A time was at hand, when all the seven vials of the Apocalypse were to be poured forth and shaken out over those pleasant countries, a time of slaughter, famine, beggary, infamy, slavery, despair. In the Italian States, as in many natural bodies, untimely decrepitude was the penalty of precocious maturity. Their early greatness, and their early decline, are principally to be attributed to the same cause, the preponderance which the towns acquired in the political system. In a community of hunters or of shepherds, every man easily and necessarily becomes a soldier. His ordinary avocations are perfectly compatible with all the duties of military service. However remote may be the expedition on which he is bound, he finds it easy to transport with him the stock from which he derives his subsistence. The whole people is an army; the whole year a march. Such was the state of society which facilitated the gigantic conquests of Attila and Tamerlane. But a people which subsists by the cultivation of the earth is in a very different situation. The husbandman is bound to the soil on which he labours. A long campaign would be ruinous to him. Still his pursuits are such as give to his frame both the active and the passive strength necessary to a soldier. Nor do they, at least in the infancy of agricultural science, demand his uninterrupted attention. At particular times of the year he is almost wholly unemployed, and can, without injury to himself, afford the time necessary for a short expedition. Thus the legions of Rome were supplied during its earlier wars. The season during which the fields did not require the presence of the cultivators sufficed for a short inroad and a battle. These operations, too frequently interrupted to produce decisive results, yet served to keep up among the people a degree of discipline and courage which rendered them, not only secure, but formidable. The archers and billmen of the middle ages, who, with provisions for forty days at their backs, left the fields for the camp, were troops of the same description. But when commerce and manufactures begin to flourish a great change takes place. The sedentary habits of the desk and the loom render the exertions and hardships of war insupportable. The business of traders and artisans requires their constant presence and attention. In such a community there is little superfluous time; but there is generally much superfluous money. Some members of the society are, therefore, hired to relieve the rest from a task inconsistent with their habits and engagements. The history of Greece is, in this, as in many other respects, the best commentary on the history of Italy. Five hundred years before the Christian era, the citizens of the republics round the Aegean Sea formed perhaps the finest militia that ever existed. As wealth and refinement advanced, the system underwent a gradual alteration. The Ionian States were the first in which commerce and the arts were cultivated, and the first in which the ancient discipline decayed. Within eighty years after the battle of Plataea, mercenary troops were everywhere plying for battles and sieges. In the time of Demosthenes, it was scarcely possible to persuade or compel the Athenians to enlist for foreign service. The laws of Lycurgus prohibited trade and manufactures. The Spartans, therefore, continued to form a national force long after their neighbours had begun to hire soldiers. But their military spirit declined with their singular institutions. In the second century before Christ, Greece contained only one nation of warriors, the savage highlanders of Aetolia, who were some generations behind their countrymen in civilisation and intelligence. All the causes which produced these effects among the Greeks acted still more strongly on the modern Italians. Instead of a power like Sparta, in its nature warlike, they had amongst them an ecclesiastical state, in its nature pacific. Where there are numerous slaves, every freeman is induced by the strongest motives to familiarise himself with the use of arms. The commonwealths of Italy did not, like those of Greece, swarm with thousands of these household enemies. Lastly, the mode in which military operations were conducted during the prosperous times of Italy was peculiarly unfavourable to the formation of an efficient militia. Men covered with iron from head to foot, armed with ponderous lances, and mounted on horses of the largest breed, were considered as composing the strength of an army. The infantry was regarded as comparatively worthless, and was neglected till it became really so. These tactics maintained their ground for centuries in most parts of Europe. That foot- soldiers could withstand the charge of heavy cavalry was thought utterly impossible, till, towards the close of the fifteenth century, the rude mountaineers of Switzerland dissolved the spell, and astounded the most experienced generals by receiving the dreaded shock on an impenetrable forest of pikes. The use of the Grecian spear, the Roman sword, or the modern bayonet, might be acquired with comparative ease. But nothing short of the daily exercise of years could train the man-at-arms to support his ponderous panoply, and manage his unwieldy weapon. Throughout Europe this most important branch of war became a separate profession. Beyond the Alps, indeed, though a profession, it was not generally a trade. It was the duty and the amusement of a large class of country gentlemen. It was the service by which they held their lands, and the diversion by which, in the absence of mental resources, they beguiled their leisure. But in the Northern States of Italy, as we have already remarked, the growing power of the cities, where it had not exterminated this order of men, had completely changed their habits. Here, therefore, the practice of employing mercenaries became universal, at a time when it was almost unknown in other countries. When war becomes the trade of a separate class, the least dangerous course left to a government is to force that class into a standing army. It is scarcely possible, that men can pass their lives in the service of one State, without feeling some interest in its greatness. Its victories are their victories. Its defeats are their defeats. The contract loses something of its mercantile character. The services of the soldier are considered as the effects of patriotic zeal, his pay as the tribute of national gratitude. To betray the power which employs him, to be even remiss in its service, are in his eyes the most atrocious and degrading of crimes. When the princes and commonwealths of Italy began to use hired troops, their wisest course would have been to form separate military establishments. Unhappily this was not done. The mercenary warriors of the Peninsula, instead of being attached to the service of different powers, were regarded as the common property of all. The connection between the State and its defenders was reduced to the most simple and naked traffic. The adventurer brought his horse, his weapons, his strength, and his experience, into the market. Whether the King of Naples or the Duke of Milan, the Pope or the Signory of Florence, struck the bargain, was to him a matter of perfect indifference. He was for the highest wages and the longest term. When the campaign for which he had contracted was finished, there was neither law nor punctilio to prevent him from instantly turning his arms against his late masters. The soldier was altogether disjoined from the citizen and from the subject. The natural consequences followed. Left to the conduct of men who neither loved those whom they defended, nor hated those whom they opposed, who were often bound by stronger ties to the army against which they fought than to the State which they served, who lost by the termination of the conflict, and gained by its prolongation, war completely changed its character. Every man came into the field of battle impressed with the knowledge that, in a few days, he might be taking the pay of the power against which he was then employed, and, fighting by the side of his enemies against his associates. The strongest interests and the strongest feelings concurred to mitigate the hostility of those who had lately been brethren in arms, and who might soon be brethren in arms once more. Their common profession was a bond of union not to be forgotten even when they were engaged in the service of contending parties. Hence it was that operations, languid and indecisive beyond any recorded in history, marches and counter-marches, pillaging expeditions and blockades, bloodless capitulations and equally bloodless combats, make up the military history of Italy during the course of nearly two centuries. Mighty armies fight from sunrise to sunset. A great victory is won. Thousands of prisoners are taken; and hardly a life is lost. A pitched battle seems to have been really less dangerous than an ordinary civil tumult. Courage was now no longer necessary even to the military character. Men grew old in camps, and acquired the highest renown by their warlike achievements, without being once required to face serious danger. The political consequences are too well known. The richest and most enlightened part of the world was left undefended to the assaults of every barbarous invader, to the brutality of Switzerland, the insolence of France, and the fierce rapacity of Arragon. The moral effects which followed from this state of things were still more remarkable. Among the rude nations which lay beyond the Alps, valour was absolutely indispensable. Without it none could be eminent; few could be secure. Cowardice was, therefore, naturally considered as the foulest reproach. Among the polished Italians, enriched by commerce, governed by law, and passionately attached to literature, everything was done by superiority and intelligence. Their very wars, more pacific than the peace of their neighbours, required rather civil than military qualifications. Hence, while courage was the point of honour in other countries, ingenuity became the point of honour in Italy. From these principles were deduced, by processes strictly analogous, two opposite systems of fashionable morality. Through the greater part of Europe, the vices which peculiarly belong to timid dispositions, and which are the natural defence Of weakness, fraud, and hypocrisy, have always been most disreputable. On the other hand, the excesses of haughty and daring spirits have been treated with indulgence, and even with respect. The Italians regarded with corresponding lenity those crimes which require self-command, address, quick observation, fertile invention, and profound knowledge of human nature. Such a prince as our Henry the Fifth would have been the idol of the North. The follies of his youth, the selfish ambition of his manhood, the Lollards roasted at slow fires the prisoners massacred on the field of battle, the expiring lease of priestcraft renewed for another century, the dreadful legacy of a causeless and hopeless war bequeathed to a people who had no interest in its event, everything is forgotten but the victory of Agincourt. Francis Sforza, on the other hand, was the model of Italian heroes. He made his employers and his rivals alike his tools. He first overpowered his open enemies by the help of faithless allies; he then armed himself against his allies with the spoils taken from his enemies. By his incomparable dexterity, he raised himself from the precarious and dependent situation of a military adventurer to the first throne of Italy. To such a man much was forgiven, hollow friendship, ungenerous enmity, violated faith. Such are the opposite errors which men commit, when their morality is not a science but a taste, when they abandon eternal principles for accidental associations. We have illustrated our meaning by an instance taken from history. We will select another from fiction. Othello murders his wife; he gives orders for the murder of his lieutenant; he ends by murdering himself. Yet he never loses the esteem and affection of Northern readers. His intrepid and ardent spirit redeems everything. The unsuspecting confidence with which he listens to his adviser, the agony with which he shrinks from the thought of shame, the tempest of passion with which he commits his crimes, and the haughty fearlessness with which he avows them, give an extraordinary interest to his character. Iago, on the contrary, is the object of universal loathing. Many are inclined to suspect that Shakspeare has been seduced into an exaggeration unusual with him, and has drawn a monster who has no archetype in human nature. Now we suspect that an Italian audience in the fifteenth century would have felt very differently. Othello would have inspired nothing but detestation and contempt. The folly with which he trusts the friendly professions of a man whose promotion he had obstructed, the credulity with which he takes unsupported assertions, and trivial circumstances, for unanswerable proofs, the violence with which he silences the exculpation till the exculpation can only aggravate his misery, would have excited the abhorrence and disgust of the spectators. The conduct of Iago they would assuredly have condemned; but they would have condemned it as we condemn that of his victim. Something of interest and respect would have mingled with their disapprobation. The readiness of the traitor's wit, the clearness of his judgment, the skill with which he penetrates the dispositions of others and conceals his own, would have ensured to him a certain portion of their esteem. So wide was the difference between the Italians and their neighbours. A similar difference existed between the Greeks of the second century before Christ, and their masters the Romans. The conquerors, brave and resolute, faithful to their engagements, and strongly influenced by religious feelings, were, at the same time, ignorant, arbitrary, and cruel. With the vanquished people were deposited all the art, the science, and the literature of the Western world. In poetry, in philosophy, in painting, in architecture, in sculpture, they had no rivals. Their manners were polished, their perceptions acute, their invention ready; they were tolerant, affable, humane; but of courage and sincerity they were almost utterly destitute. Every rude centurion consoled himself for his intellectual inferiority, by remarking that knowledge and taste seemed only to make men atheists, cowards, and slaves. The distinction long continued to be strongly marked, and furnished an admirable subject for the fierce sarcasms of Juvenal. The citizen of an Italian commonwealth was the Greek of the time of Juvenal and the Greek of the time of Pericles, joined in one. Like the former, he was timid and pliable, artful and mean. But, like the latter, he had a country. Its independence and prosperity were dear to him. If his character were degraded by some base crimes, it was, on the other hand, ennobled by public spirit and by an honourable ambition, A vice sanctioned by the general opinion is merely a vice. The evil terminates in itself. A vice condemned by the general opinion produces a pernicious effect on the whole character. The former is a local malady, the latter a constitutional taint. When the reputation of the offender is lost, he too often flings the remains of his virtue after it in despair. The Highland gentleman who, a century ago, lived by taking blackmail from his neighbours, committed the same crime for which Wild was accompanied to Tyburn by the huzzas of two hundred thousand people. But there can be no doubt that he was a much less depraved man than Wild. The deed for which Mrs.Brownrigg was hanged sinks into nothing, when compared with theconduct of the Roman who treated the public to a hundred pair of gladiators. Yet we should greatly wrong such a Roman if we supposed that his disposition was as cruel as that of Mrs. Brownrigg. In our own country, a woman forfeits her place in society by what, in a man, is too commonly considered as an honourable distinction, and, at worst, as a venial error. The consequence is notorious. The moral principle of a woman is frequently more impaired by a single lapse from virtue than that of a man by twenty years of intrigues. Classical antiquity would furnish us with instances stronger, if possible, than those to which we have referred. We must apply this principle to the case before us. Habits of dissimulation and falsehood, no doubt, mark a man of our age and country as utterly worthless and abandoned. But it by no means follows that a similar judgment would be just in the case of an Italian of the middle ages. On the contrary, we frequently find those faults which we are accustomed to consider as certain indications of a mind altogether depraved, in company with great and good qualities, with generosity, with benevolence, with disinterestedness. From such a state of society, Palamedes, in the admirable dialogue of Hume, might have drawn illustrations of his theory as striking as any of those with which Fourli furnished him. These are not, we well know, the lessons which historians are generally most careful to teach, or readers most willing to learn. But they are not therefore useless. How Philip disposed his troops at Chaeronea, where Hannibal crossed the Alps, whether Mary blew up Darnley, or Siquier shot Charles the Twelfth, and ten thousand other questions of the same description, are in themselves unimportant. The inquiry may amuse us, but the decision leaves us no wiser. He alone reads history aright who, observing how powerfully circumstances influence the feelings and opinions of men, how often vices pass into virtues and paradoxes into axioms, learns to distinguish what is accidental and transitory in human nature from what is essential and immutable. In this respect no history suggests more important reflections than that of the Tuscan and Lombard commonwealths. The character of the Italian statesman seems, at first sight, a collection of contradictions, a phantom as monstrous as the portress of hell in Milton, half divinity, half snake, majestic and beautiful above, grovelling and poisonous below, We see a man whose thoughts and words have no connection with each other, who never hesitates at an oath when he wishes to seduce, who never wants a pretext when he is inclined to betray. His cruelties spring, not from the heat of blood, or the insanity of uncontrolled power, but from deep and cool meditation. His passions, like well-trained troops, are impetuous by rule, and in their most headstrong fury never forget the discipline to which they have been accustomed. His whole soul is occupied with vast and complicated schemes of ambition: yet his aspect and language exhibit nothing but philosophical moderation. Hatred and revenge eat into his heart: yet every look is a cordial smile, every gesture a familiar caress. He never excites the suspicion of his adversaries by petty provocations. His purpose is disclosed only when it is accomplished. His face is unruffled, his speech is courteous, till vigilance is laid asleep, till a vital point is exposed, till a sure aim is taken; and then he strikes for the first and last time. Military courage, the boast of the sottish German, of the frivolous and prating Frenchman, of the romantic and arrogant Spaniard, he neither possesses nor values. He shuns danger, not because he is insensible to shame, but because, in the society in which he lives, timidity has ceased to be shameful. To do an injury openly is, in his estimation, as wicked as to do it secretly, and far less profitable. With him the most honourable means are those which are the surest, the speediest, and the darkest. He cannot comprehend how a man should scruple to deceive those whom he does not scruple to destroy. He would think it madness to declare open hostilities against rivals whom he might stab in a friendly embrace, or poison in a consecrated wafer. Yet this man, black with the vices which we consider as most loathsome, traitor, hypocrite, coward, assassin, was by no means destitute even of those virtues which we generally consider as indicating superior elevation of character. In civil courage, in perseverance, in presence of mind, those barbarous warriors, who were foremost in the battle or the breach, were far his inferiors. Even the dangers which he avoided with a caution almost pusillanimous never confused his perceptions, never paralysed his inventive faculties, never wrung out one secret from his smooth tongue, and his inscrutable brow. Though a dangerous enemy, and a still more dangerous accomplice, he could be a just and beneficent ruler. With so much unfairness in his policy, there was an extraordinary degree of fairness in his intellect. Indifferent to truth in the transactions of life, he was honestly devoted to truth in the researches of speculation. Wanton cruelty was not in his nature. On the contrary, where no political object was at stake, his disposition was soft and humane. The susceptibility of his nerves and the activity of his imagination inclined him, to sympathise with the feelings of others, and to delight in the charities and courtesies of social life. Perpetually descending to actions which might seem to mark a mind diseased through all its faculties, he had nevertheless an exquisite sensibility, both for the natural and the moral sublime, for every graceful and every lofty conception. Habits of petty intrigue and dissimulation might have rendered him incapable of great general views, but that the expanding effect of his philosophical studies counteracted the narrowing tendency. He had the keenest enjoyment of wit, eloquence, and poetry. The fine arts profited alike by the severity of his judgment, and by the liberality of his patronage. The portraits of some of the remarkable Italians of those times are perfectly in harmony with this description. Ample and majestic foreheads, brows strong and dark, but not frowning, eyes of which the calm full gaze, while it expresses nothing, seems to discern everything, cheeks pale with thought and sedentary habits, lips formed with feminine delicacy, but compressed with more than masculine decision, mark out men at once enterprising and timid, men equally skilled in detecting the purposes of others, and in concealing their own, men who must have been formidable enemies and unsafe allies, but men, at the same time, whose tempers were mild and equable, and who possessed an amplitude and subtlety of intellect which would have rendered them eminent either in active or in contemplative life, and fitted them either to govern or to instruct mankind. Every age and every nation has certain characteristic vices, which prevail almost universally, which scarcely any person scruples to avow, and which even rigid moralists but faintly censure. Succeeding generations change the fashion of their morals, with the fashion of their hats and their coaches; take some other kind of wickedness under their patronage, and wonder at the depravity of their ancestors. Nor is this all. Posterity, that high court of appeal which is never tired of eulogising its own justice and discernment, acts on such occasions like a Roman dictator after a general mutiny. Finding the delinquents too numerous to be all punished, it selects some of them at hazard, to bear the whole penalty of an offence in which they are not more deeply implicated than those who escape, Whether decimation be a convenient mode of military execution, we know not; but we solemnly protest against the introduction of such a principle into the philosophy of history. In the present instance, the lot has fallen on Machiavelli, a man whose public conduct was upright and honourable, whose views of morality, where they differed from those of the persons around him, seemed to have differed for the better, and whose only fault was, that, having adopted some of the maxims then generally received, he arranged them more luminously, and expressed them more forcibiy, than any other writer. Having now, we hope, in some degree cleared the personal character of Machiavelli, we come to the consideration of his works. As a poet he is not entitled to a high place; but his comedies deserve attention. The Mandragola, in particular, is superior to the best of Goldoni, and inferior only to the best of Moliere. It is the work of a man who, if he had devoted himself to the drama, would probably have attained the highest eminence, and produced a permanent and salutary effect on the national taste. This we infer, not so much from the degree, as from the kind of its excellence. There are compositions which indicate still greater talent, and which are perused with still greater delight, from which we should have drawn very different conclusions. Books quite worthless are quite harmless. The sure sign of the general decline of an art is the frequent occurrence, not of deformity, but of misplaced beauty. In general, Tragedy is corrupted by eloquence, and Comedy by wit. The real object of the drama is the exhibition of human character. This, we conceive, is no arbitrary canon, originating in local and temporary associations, like those canons which regulate the number of acts in a play, or of syllables in a line. To this fundamental law every other regulation is subordinate. The situations which most signally develop character form the best plot. The mother tongue of the passions is the best style. This principle rightly understood, does not debar the poet from any grace of composition. There is no style in which some man may not under some circumstances express himself. There is therefore no style which the drama rejects, none which it does not occasionally require. It is in the discernment of place, of time, and of person, that the inferior artists fail. The fantastic rhapsody of Mercutio, the elaborate declamation of Antony, are, where Shakspeare has placed them, natural and pleasing. But Dryden would have made Mercutio challenge Tybalt in hyperboles as fanciful as those in which he describes the chariot of Mab. Corneille would have represented Antony as scolding and coaxing Cleopatra with all the measured rhetoric of a funeral oration. No writers have injured the Comedy of England so deeply as Congreve and Sheridan. Both were men of splendid wit and polished taste. Unhappily, they made all their characters in their own likeness. Their works bear the same relation to the legitimate drama which a transparency bears to a painting. There are no delicate touches, no hues imperceptibly fading into each other: the whole is lighted up with an universal glare. Outlines and tints are forgotten in the common blaze which illuminates all. The flowers and fruits of the intellect abound; but it is the abundance of a jungle, not of a garden, unwholesome, bewildering, unprofitable from its very plenty rank from its very fragrance. Every fop, every boor, every valet, is a man of wit. The very butts and dupes, Tattle, Witwould, Puff, Acres, outshine the whole Hotel of Rambouillet. To prove the whole system of this school erroneous, it is only necessary to apply the test which dissolved the enchanted Florimel, to place the true by the false Thalia, to contrast the most celebrated characters which have been drawn by the writers of whom we speak with the Bastard in King John or the Nurse in Romeo and Juliet. It was not surely from want of wit that Shakspeare adopted so different a manner. Benedick and Beatrice throw Mirabel and Millamant into the shade. All the good sayings of the facetious houses of Absolute and Surface might have been clipped from the single character of Falstaff, without being missed. It would have been easy for that fertile mind to have given Bardolph and Shallow as much wit as Prince Hal, and to have made Dogberry and Verges retort on each other in sparkling epigrams. But he knew that such indiscriminate prodigality was, to use his own admirable language, "from the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was, and is, to hold, as it were, the mirror up to Nature." This digression will enable our readers to understand what we mean when we say that in the Mandragola, Machiavelli has proved that he completely understood the nature of the dramatic art, and possessed talents which would have enabled him to excel in it. By the correct and vigorous delineation of human nature, it produces interest without a pleasing or skilful plot, and laughter without the least ambition of wit. The lover, not a very delicate or generous lover, and his adviser the parasite, are drawn with spirit. The hypocritical confessor is an admirable portrait. He is, if we mistake not, the original of Father Dominic, the best comic character of Dryden. But old Nicias is the glory of the piece. We cannot call to mind anything that resembles him. The follies which Moliere ridicules are those of affection, not those of fatuity. Coxcombs and pedants, not absolute simpletons, are his game. Shakspeare has indeed a vast assortment of fools; but the precise species of which we speak is not, if we remember right, to be found there. Shallow is a fool. But his animal spirits supply, to a certain degree, the place of cleverness. His talk is to that of Sir John what soda water is to champagne. It has the effervescence though not the body or the flavour. Slender and Sir Andrew Aguecheek are fools, troubled with an uneasy consciousness of their folly, which in the latter produces meekness and docility, and in the former, awkwardness, obstinacy, and confusion. Cloten is an arrogant fool, Osric a foppish fool, Ajax a savage fool; but Nicias is, as Thersites says of Patroclus, a fool positive. His mind is occupied by no strong feeling; it takes every character, and retains none; its aspect is diversified, not by passions, but by faint and transitory semblances of passion, a mock joy, a mock fear, a mock love, a mock pride, which chase each other like shadows over its surface, and vanish as soon as they appear. He is just idiot enough to be an object, not of pity or horror, but of ridicule. He bears some resemblance to poor Calandrino, whose mishaps, as recounted by Boccaccio, have made all Europe merry for more than four centuries. He perhaps resembles still more closely Simon da Villa, to whom Bruno and Buffalmacco promised the love of the Countess Civillari. Nicias is, like Simon, of a learned profession; and the dignity with which he wears the doctoral fur, renders his absurdities infinitely more grotesque. The old Tuscan is the very language for such a being. Its peculiar simplicity gives even to the most forcible reasoning and the most brilliant wit an infantine air, generally delightful, but to a foreign reader sometimes a little ludicrous. Heroes and statesmen seem to lisp when they use it. It becomes Nicias incomparably, and renders all his silliness infinitely more silly. We may add, that the verses with which the Mandragola is interspersed, appear to us to be the most spirited and correct of all that Machiavelli has written in metre. He seems to have entertained the same opinion; for he has introduced some of them in other places. The contemporaries of the author were not blind to the merits of this striking piece. It was acted at Florence with the greatest success. Leo the Tenth was among its admirers, and by his order it was represented at Rome. [Nothing can be more evident than that Paulus Jovius designates the Mandragola under the name of the Nicias. We should not have noticed what is so perfectly obvious. were it not that this natural and palpable misnomer has led the sagacious and industrious Bayle into a gross error.] The Clizia is an imitation of the Casina of Plautus, which is itself an imitation of the lost kleroumenoi of Diphilus. Plautus was, unquestionably, one of the best Latin writers; but the Casina is by no means one of his best plays; nor is it one which offers great facilities to an imitator. The story is as alien from modern habits of life, as the manner in which it is developed from the modern fashion of composition. The lover remains in the country and the heroine in her chamber during the whole action, leaving their fate to be decided by a foolish father, a cunning mother, and two knavish servants. Machiavelli has executed his task with judgment and taste. He has accommodated the plot to a different state of society, and has very dexterously connected it with the history of his own times. The relation of the trick put on the doting old lover is exquisitely humorous. It is far superior to the corresponding passage in the Latin comedy, and scarcely yields to the account which Falstaff gives of his ducking. Two other comedies without titles, the one in prose, the other in verse, appear among the works of Machiavelli. The former is very short, lively enough, but of no great value. The latter we can scarcely believe to be genuine. Neither its merits nor its defects remind us of the reputed author. It was first printed in 1796, from a manuscript discovered in the celebrated library of the Strozzi. Its genuineness, if we have been rightly informed, is established solely by the comparison of hands. Our suspicions are strengthened by the circumstance, that the same manuscript contained a description of the plague of 1527, which has also, in consequence, been added to the works of Machiavelli. Of this last composition the strongest external evidence would scarcely induce us to believe him guilty. Nothing was ever written more detestable in matter and manner. The narrations, the reflections, the jokes, the lamentations, are all the very worst of their respective kinds, at once trite and affected, threadbare tinsel from the Rag Fairs and Monmouth Streets of literature. A foolish schoolboy might write such a piece, and, after he had written it, think it much finer than the incomparable introduction of the Decameron. But that a shrewd statesman, whose earliest works are characterised by manliness of thought and language, should, at near sixty years of age, descend to such puerility, is utterly inconceivable. The little novel of Belphegor is pleasantly conceived and pleasantly told. But the extravagance of the satire in some measure injures its effect. Machiavelli was unhappily married; and his wish to avenge his own cause and that of his brethren in misfortune, carried him beyond even the licence of fiction. Jonson seems to have combined some hints taken from this tale, with others from Boccaccio, in the plot of The Devil is an Ass, a play which, though not the most highly finished of his compositions, is perhaps that which exhibits the strongest proofs of genius. The Political Correspondence of Machiavelli, first published in 1767, is unquestionably genuine, and highly valuable. The unhappy circumstances in which his country was placed during the greater part of his public life gave extraordinary encouragement to diplomatic talents. From the moment that Charles the Eighth descended from the Alps, the whole character of Italian politics was changed. The governments of the Peninsula ceased to form an independent system. Drawn from their old orbit by the attraction of the larger bodies which now approached them, they became mere satellites of France and Spain. All their disputes, internal and external, were decided by foreign influence. The contests of opposite factions were carried on, not as formerly in the senate- house or in the marketplace, but in the antechambers of Louis and Ferdinand. Under these circumstances, the prosperity of the Italian States depended far more on the ability of their foreign agents, than on the conduct of those who were intrusted with the domestic administration. The ambassador had to discharge functions far more delicate than transmitting orders of knighthood, introducing tourists, or presenting his brethren with the homage of his high consideration. He was an advocate to whose management the dearest interests of his clients were intrusted, a spy clothed with an inviolable character. Instead of consulting, by a reserved manner and ambiguous style, the dignity of those whom he represented, he was to plunge into all the intrigues of the Court at which he resided, to discover and flatter every weakness of the prince, and of the favourite who governed the prince, and of the lacquey who governed the favourite. He was to compliment the mistress and bribe the confessor, to panegyrise or supplicate, to laugh or weep, to accommodate himself to every caprice, to lull every suspicion, to treasure every hint, to be everything, to observe everything, to endure everything. High as the art of political intrigue had been carried in Italy, these were times which required it all. On these arduous errands Machiavelli was frequently employed. He was sent to treat with the King of the Romans and with the Duke of Valentinois. He was twice ambassador of the Court of Rome, and thrice at that of France. In these missions, and in several others of inferior importance, he acquitted himself with great dexterity. His despatches form one of the most amusing and instructive collections extant. The narratives are clear and agreeably written; the remarks on men and things clever and judicious. The conversations are reported in a spirited and characteristic manner. We find ourselves introduced into the presence of the men who, during twenty eventful years, swayed the destinies of Europe. Their wit and their folly, their fretfulness and their merriment, are exposed to us. We are admitted to overhear their chat, and to watch their familiar gestures. It is interesting and curious to recognise, in circumstances which elude the notice of historians, the feeble violence and shallow cunning of Louis the Twelfth; the bustling insignificance of Maximilian, cursed with an impotent pruriency for renown, rash yet timid, obstinate yet fickle, always in a hurry, yet always too late; the fierce and haughty energy which gave dignity to the eccentricities of Julius; the soft and graceful manners which masked the insatiable ambition and the implacable hatred of Caesar Borgia. We have mentioned Caesar Borgia. It is impossible not to pause for a moment on the name of a man in whom the political morality of Italy was so strongly personified, partially blended with the sterner lineaments of the Spanish character. On two important occasions Machiavelli was admitted to his society; once, at the moment when Caesar's splendid villainy achieved its most signal triumph, when he caught in one snare and crushed at one blow all his most formidable rivals; and again when, exhausted by disease and overwhelmed by misfortunes, which no human prudence could have averted, he was the prisoner of the deadliest enemy of his house. These interviews between the greatest speculative and the greatest practical statesman of the age are fully described in the Correspondence, and form perhaps the most interesting part of it. From some passages in The Prince, and perhaps also from some indistinct traditions, several writers have supposed a connection between those remarkable men much closer than ever existed. The Envoy has even been accused of prompting the crimes of the artful and merciless tyrant. But from the official documents it is clear that their intercourse, though ostensibly amicable, was in reality hostile. It cannot be doubted, however, that the imagination of Machiavelli was strongly impressed, and his speculations on government coloured, by the observations which he made on the singular character and equally singular fortunes of a man who under such disadvantages had achieved such exploits; who, when sensuality, varied through innumerable forms, could no longer stimulate his sated mind, found a more powerful and durable excitement in the intense thirst of empire and revenge; who emerged from the sloth and luxury of the Roman purple the first prince and general of the age; who, trained in an unwarlike profession, formed a gallant army out of the dregs of an unwarlike people; who, after acquiring sovereignty by destroying his enemies, acquired popularity by destroying his tools; who had begun to employ for the most salutary ends the power which he had attained by the most atrocious means; who tolerated within the sphere of his iron despotism no plunderer or oppressor but himself; and who fell at last amidst the mingled curses and regrets of a people of whom his genius had been the wonder, and might have been the salvation. Some of those crimes of Borgia which to us appear the most odious would not, from causes which we have already considered, have struck an Italian of the fifteenth century with equal horror. Patriotic feeling also might induce Machiavelli to look with some indulgence and regret on the memory of the only leader who could have defended the independence of Italy against the confederate spoilers of Cambray. On this subject Machiavelli felt most strongly. Indeed the expulsion of the foreign tyrants, and the restoration of that golden age which had preceded the irruption of Charles the Eighth, were projects which, at that time, fascinated all the master-spirits of Italy. The magnificent vision delighted the great but ill-regulated mind of Julius. It divided with manuscripts and sauces, painters, and falcons, the attention of the frivolous Leo. It prompted the generous treason of Morone. It imparted a transient energy to the feeble mind and body of the last Sforza. It excited for one moment an honest ambition in the false heart of Pescara. Ferocity and insolence were not among the vices of the national character. To the discriminating cruelties of politicians, committed for great ends on select victims, the moral code of the Italians was too indulgent. But though they might have recourse to barbarity as an expedient, they did not require it as a stimulant. They turned with loathing from the atrocity of the strangers who seemed to love blood for its own sake, who, not content with subjugating, were impatient to destroy, who found a fiendish pleasure in razing magnificent cities, cutting the throats of enemies who cried for quarter, or suffocating an unarmed population by thousands in the caverns to which it had fled for safety. Such were the cruelties which daily excited the terror and disgust of a people among whom, till lately, the worst that a soldier had to fear in a pitched battle was the loss of his horse and the expense of his ransom. The swinish intemperance of Switzerland, the wolfish avarice of Spain, the gross licentiousness of the French, indulged in violation of hospitality, of decency, of love itself, the wanton inhumanity which was common to all the invaders, had made them objects of deadly hatred to the inhabitants of the Peninsula. The wealth which had been accumulated during centuries of prosperity and repose was rapidly melting away. The intellectual superiority of the oppressed people only rendered them more keenly sensible of their political degradation. Literature and taste, indeed, still disguised with a flush of hectic loveliness and brilliancy the ravages of an incurable decay. The iron had not yet entered into the soul. The time was not yet come when eloquence was to be gagged, and reason to be hoodwinked, when the harp of the poet was to be hung on the willows of Arno, and the right hand of the painter to forget its cunning. Yet a discerning eye might even then have seen that genius and learning would not long survive the state of things from which they had sprung, and that the great men whose talents gave lustre to that melancholy period had been formed under the influence of happier days, and would leave no successors behind them. The times which shine with the greatest splendour in literary history are not always those to which the human mind is most indebted. Of this we may be convinced, by comparing the generation which follows them with that which had preceded them. The first fruits which are reaped under a bad system often spring from seed sown under a good one. Thus it was, in some measure, with the Augustan age. Thus it was with the age of Raphael and Ariosto, of Aldus and Vida. Machiavelli deeply regretted the misfortunes of his country, and clearly discerned the cause and the remedy. It was the military system of the Italian people which had extinguished their value and discipline, and left their wealth an easy prey to every foreign plunderer. The Secretary projected a scheme alike honourable to his heart and to his intellect, for abolishing the use of mercenary troops, and for organising a national militia. The exertions which he made to effect this great object ought alone to rescue his name from obloquy. Though his situation and his habits were pacific, he studied with intense assiduity the theory of war. He made himself master of all its details. The Florentine Government entered into his views. A council of war was appointed. Levies were decreed. The indefatigable minister flew from place to place in order to superintend the execution of his design. The times were, in some respects, favourable to the experiment. The system of military tactics had undergone a great revolution. The cavalry was no longer considered as forming the strength of an army. The hours which a citizen could spare from his ordinary employments, though by no means sufficient to familiarise him with the exercise of a man-at-arms, might render him an useful foot-soldier. The dread of a foreign yoke, of plunder, massacre, and conflagration, might have conquered that repugnance to military pursuits which both the industry and the idleness of great towns commonly generate. For a time the scheme promised well. The new troops acquitted themselves respectably in the field. Machiavelli looked with parental rapture on the success of his plan, and began to hope that the arms of Italy might once more be formidable to the barbarians of the Tagus and the Rhine. But the tide of misfortune came on before the barriers which should have withstood it were prepared. For a time, indeed, Florence might be considered as peculiarly fortunate. Famine and sword and pestilence had devastated the fertile plains and stately cities of the Po. All the curses denounced of old against Tyre seemed to have fallen on Venice. Her merchants already stood afar off, lamenting for their great city. The time seemed near when the sea-weed should overgrow her silent Rialto, and the fisherman wash his nets in her deserted arsenal. Naples had been four times conquered and reconquered by tyrants equally indifferent to its welfare and equally greedy for its spoils. Florence, as yet, had only to endure degradation and extortion, to submit to the mandates of foreign powers, to buy over and over again, at an enormous price, what was already justly her own, to return thanks for being wronged, and to ask pardon for being in the right. She was at length deprived of the blessings even of this infamous and servile repose. Her military and political institutions were swept away together. The Medici returned, in the train of foreign invaders, from their long exile. The policy of Machiavelli was abandoned; and his public services were requited with poverty, imprisonment, and torture. The fallen statesman still clung to his project with unabated ardour. With the view of vindicating it from some popular objections and of refuting some prevailing errors on the subject of military science, he wrote his seven books on The Art of War. This excellent work is in the form of a dialogue. The opinions of the writer are put into the mouth of Fabrizio Colonna, a powerful nobleman of the Ecclesiastical State, and an officer of distinguished merit in the service of the King of Spain. Colonna visits Florence on his way from Lombardy to his own domains. He is invited to meet some friends at the house of Cosimo Rucellai, an amiable and accomplished young man, whose early death Machiavelli feelingly deplores. After partaking of an elegant entertainment, they retire from the heat into the most shady recesses of the garden. Fabrizio is struck by the sight of some uncommon plants. Cosimo says that, though rare, in modern days, they are frequently mentioned by the classical authors, and that his grandfather, like many other Italians, amused himself with practising the ancient methods of gardening. Fabrizio expresses his regret that those who, in later times, affected the manners of the old Romans should select for imitation the most trifling pursuits. This leads to a conversation on the decline of military discipline and on the best means of restoring it. The institution of the Florentine militia is ably defended; and several improvements are suggested in the details. The Swiss and the Spaniards were, at that time, regarded as the best soldiers in Europe. The Swiss battalion consisted of pikemen, and bore a close resemblance to the Greek phalanx. The Spaniards, like the soldiers of Rome, were armed with the sword and the shield. The victories of Flamininus and Aemilius over the Macedonian kings seem to prove the superiority of the weapons used by the legions. The same experiment had been recently tried with the same result at the battle of Ravenna, one of those tremendous days into which human folly and wickedness compress the whole devastation of a famine or a plague. In that memorable conflict, the infantry of Arragon, the old companions of Gonsalvo, deserted by all their allies, hewed a passage through the thickest of the imperial pikes, and effected an unbroken retreat, in the face of the gendarmerie of De Foix, and the renowned artillery of Este. Fabrizio, or rather Machiavelli, proposes to combine the two systems, to arm the foremost lines with the pike for the purpose of repulsing cavalry, and those in the rear with the sword, as being a weapon better adapted for every other purpose. Throughout the work, the author expresses the highest admiration of the military science of the ancient Romans, and the greatest contempt for the maxims which had been in vogue amongst the Italian commanders of the preceding generation. He prefers infantry to cavalry, and fortified camps to fortified towns. He is inclined to substitute rapid movements and decisive engagements for the languid and dilatory operations of his countrymen. He attaches very little importance to the invention of gunpowder. Indeed he seems to think that it ought scarcely to produce any change in the mode of arming or of disposing troops. The general testimony of historians, it must be allowed, seems to prove that the ill-constructed and ill-served artillery of those times, though useful in a siege, was of little value on the field of battle. Of the tactics of Machiavelli we will not venture to give an opinion: but we are certain that his book is most able and interesting. As a commentary on the history of his times, it is invaluable. The ingenuity, the grace, and the perspicuity of the style, and the eloquence and animation of particular passages, must give pleasure even to readers who take no interest in the subject. The Prince and the Discourses on Livy were written after the fall of the Republican Government. The former was dedicated to the young Lorenzo di Medici. This circumstance seems to have disgusted the contemporaries of the writer far more than the doctrines which have rendered the name of the work odious in later times. It was considered as an indication of political apostasy. The fact however seems to have been that Machiavelli, despairing of the liberty of Florence, was inclined to support any government which might preserve her independence. The interval which separated a democracy and a despotism, Soderini and Lorenzo, seemed to vanish when compared with the difference between the former and the present state of Italy, between the security, the opulence, and the repose which she had enjoyed under her native rulers, and the misery in which she had been plunged since the fatal year in which the first foreign tyrant had descended from the Alps. The noble and pathetic exhortation with which The Prince concludes shows how strongly the writer felt upon this subject. The Prince traces the progress of an ambitious man, the Discourses the progress of an ambitious people. The same principles on which, in the former work, the elevation of an individual is explained, are applied in the latter, to the longer duration and more complex interest of a society. To a modern statesman the form of the Discourses may appear to be puerile. In truth Livy is not an historian on whom implicit reliance can be placed, even in cases where he must have possessed considerable means of information. And the first Decade, to which Machiavelli has confined himself, is scarcely entitled to more credit than our Chronicle of British Kings who reigned before the Roman invasion. But the commentator is indebted to Livy for little more than a few texts which he might as easily have extracted from the Vulgate or the Decameron. The whole train of thought is original. On the peculiar immorality which has rendered The Prince unpopular, and which is almost equally discernible in the Discourses, we have already given our opinion at length. We have attempted to show that it belonged rather to the age than to the man, that it was a partial taint, and by no means implied general depravity. We cannot, however, deny that it is a great blemish, and that it considerably diminishes the pleasure which, in other respects, those works must afford to every intelligent mind. It is, indeed, impossible to conceive a more healthful and vigorous constitution of the understanding than that which these works indicate. The qualities of the active and the contemplative statesman appear to have been blended in the mind of the writer into a rare and exquisite harmony. His skill in the details of business had not been acquired at the expense of his general powers. It had not rendered his mind less comprehensive; but it had served to correct his speculations and to impart to them that vivid and practical character which so widely distinguishes them from the vague theories of most political philosophers. Every man who has seen the world knows that nothing is so useless as a general maxim. If it be very moral and very true, it may serve for a copy to a charity-boy. If, like those of Rochefoucault, it be sparkling and whimsical, it may make an excellent motto for an essay. But few indeed of the many wise apophthegms which have been uttered, from the time of the Seven Sages of Greece to that of Poor Richard, have prevented a single foolish action. We give the highest and the most peculiar praise to the precepts of Machiavelli when we say that they may frequently be of real use in regulating conduct, not so much because they are more just or more profound than those which might be culled from other authors, as because they can be more readily applied to the problems of real life. There are errors in these works. But they are errors which a writer, situated like Machiavelli, could scarcely avoid. They arise, for the most part, from a single defect which appears to us to pervade his whole system. In his political scheme, the means had been more deeply considered than the ends. The great principle, that societies and laws exist only for the purpose of increasing the sum of private happiness, is not recognised with sufficient clearness. The good of the body, distinct from the good of the members, and sometimes hardly compatible with the good of the members, seems to be the object which he proposes to himself. Of all political fallacies, this has perhaps had the widest and the most mischievous operation. The state of society in the little commonwealths of Greece, the close connection and mutual dependence of the citizens, and the severity of the laws of war, tended to encourage an opinion which, under such circumstances, could hardly be called erroneous. The interests of every individual were inseparably bound up with those of the State. An invasion destroyed his corn-fields and vineyards, drove him from his home, and compelled him to encounter all the hardships of a military life. A treaty of peace restored him to security and comfort. A victory doubled the number of his slaves. A defeat perhaps made him a slave himself. When Pericles, in the Peloponnesian war, told the Athenians, that, if their country triumphed, their private losses would speedily be repaired, but, that, if their arms failed of success, every individual amongst them would probably be ruined, he spoke no more than the truth, He spoke to men whom the tribute of vanquished cities supplied with food and clothing, with the luxury of the bath and the amusements of the theatre, on whom the greatness of their Country conferred rank, and before whom the members of less prosperous communities trembled; to men who, in case of a change in the public fortunes, would, at least, be deprived of every comfort and every distinction which they enjoyed. To be butchered on the smoking ruins of their city, to be dragged in chains to a slave- market. to see one child torn from them to dig in the quarries of Sicily, and another to guard the harams of Persepolis, these were the frequent and probable consequences of national calamities. Hence, among the Greeks, patriotism became a governing principle, or rather an ungovernable passion. Their legislators and their philosophers took it for granted that, in providing for the strength and greatness of the state, they sufficiently provided for the happiness of the people. The writers of the Roman empire lived under despots, into whose dominion a hundred nations were melted down, and whose gardens would have covered the little commonwealths of Phlius and Plataea. Yet they continued to employ the same language, and to cant about the duty of sacrificing everything to a country to which they owed nothing. Causes similar to those which had influenced the disposition of the Greeks operated powerfully on the less vigorous and daring character of the Italians. The Italians, like the Greeks, were members of small communities. Every man was deeply interested in the welfare of the society to which he belonged, a partaker in its wealth and its poverty, in its glory and its shame. In the age of Machiavelli this was peculiarly the case. Public events had produced an immense sum of misery to private citizens. The Northern invaders had brought want to their boards, infamy to their beds, fire to their roofs, and the knife to their throats. It was natural that a man who lived in times like these should overrate the importance of those measures by which a nation is rendered formidable to its neighbours, and undervalue those which make it prosperous within itself. Nothing is more remarkable in the political treatises of Machiavelli than the fairness of mind which they indicate. It appears where the author is in the wrong, almost as strongly as where he is in the right. He never advances a false opinion because it is new or splendid, because he can clothe it in a happy phrase, or defend it by an ingenious sophism. His errors are at once explained by a reference to the circumstances in which he was placed. They evidently were not sought out; they lay in his way, and could scarcely be avoided. Such mistakes must necessarily be committed by early speculators in every science. In this respect it is amusing to compare The Prince and the Discourses with the Spirit of Laws. Montesquieu enjoys, perhaps, a wider celebrity than any political writer of modern Europe. Something he doubtless owes to his merit, but much more to his fortune. He had the good luck of a Valentine. He caught the eye of the French nation, at the moment when it was waking from the long sleep of political and religious bigotry; and, in consequence, he became a favourite. The English, at that time, considered a Frenchman who talked about constitutional checks and fundamental laws as a prodigy not less astonishing than the learned pig or the musical infant. Specious but shallow, studious of effect, indifferent to truth, eager to build a system, but careless of collecting those materials out of which alone a sound and durable system can be built, the lively President constructed theories as rapidly and as slightly as card-houses, no sooner projected than completed, no sooner completed than blown away, no sooner blown away than forgotten. Machiavelli errs only because his experience, acquired in a very peculiar state of society, could not always enable him to calculate the effect of institutions differing from those of which he had observed the operation. Montesquieu errs, because he has a fine thing to say, and is resolved to say it. If the phaenomena which lie before him will not suit his purpose, all history must be ransacked. If nothing established by authentic testimony can be racked or chipped to suit his Procrustean hypothesis, he puts up with some monstrous fable about Siam, or Bantam, or Japan, told by writers compared with whom Lucian and Gulliver were veracious, liars by a double right, as travellers and as Jesuits. Propriety of thought, and propriety of diction, are commonly found together. Obscurity and affectation are the two greatest faults of style. Obscurity of expression generally springs from confusion of ideas; and the same wish to dazzle at any cost which produces affectation in the manner of a writer, is likely to produce sophistry in his reasonings. The judicious and candid mind of Machiavelli shows itself in his luminous, manly, and polished language. The style of Montesquieu, on the other hand, indicates in every page a lively and ingenious, but an unsound mind. Every trick of expression, from the mysterious conciseness of an oracle to the flippancy of a Parisian coxcomb, is employed to disguise the fallacy of some positions, and the triteness of others. Absurdities are brightened into epigrams; truisms are darkened into enigmas. It is with difficulty that the strongest eye can sustain the glare with which some parts are illuminated, or penetrate the shade in which others are concealed. The political works of Machiavelli derive a peculiar interest from the mournful earnestness which he manifests whenever he touches on topics connected with the calamities of his native land. It is difficult to conceive any situation more painful than that of a great man, condemned to watch the lingering agony of an exhausted country, to tend it during the alternate fits of stupefaction and raving which precede its dissolution, and to see the symptoms of vitality disappear one by one, till nothing is left but coldness, darkness, and corruption. To this joyless and thankless duty was Machiavelli called. In the energetic language of the prophet, he was "mad for the sight of his eye which he saw," disunion in the council, effeminacy in the camp, liberty extinguished, commerce decaying, national honour sullied, an enlightened and flourishing people given over to the ferocity of ignorant savages. Though his opinions had no escaped the contagion of that political immorality which was common among his countrymen, his natural disposition seem to have been rather stern and impetuous than pliant and artful When the misery and degradation of Florence and the foul outrage which he had himself sustained recur to his mind, the smooth craft of his profession and his nation is exchanged for the honest bitterness of scorn and anger. He speaks like one sick of the calamitous times and abject people among whom his lot is cast. He pines for the strength and glory of ancient Rome, for the fasces of Brutus, and the sword of Scipio, the gravity of the curule chair, and the bloody pomp of the triumphal sacrifice. He seems to be transported back to the days when eight hundred thousand Italian warriors sprung to arms at the rumour of a Gallic invasion. He breathes all the spirit of those intrepid and haughty senators who forgot the dearest ties of nature in the claims of public duty, who looked with disdain on the elephants and on the gold of Pyrrhus, and listened with unaltered composure to the tremendous tidings of Cannae. Like an ancient temple deformed by the barbarous architecture of a later age, his character acquires an interest from the very circumstances which debase it. The original proportions are rendered more striking by the contrast which they present to the mean and incongruous additions. The influence of the sentiments which we have described was not apparent in his writings alone. His enthusiasm, barred from the career which it would have selected for itself, seems to have found a vent in desperate levity. He enjoyed a vindictive pleasure in outraging the opinions of a society which he despised. He became careless of the decencies which were expected from a man so highly distinguished in the literary and political world. The sarcastic bitterness of his conversation disgusted those who were more inclined to accuse his licentiousness than their own degeneracy, and who were unable to conceive the strength of those emotions which are concealed by the jests of the wretched, and by the follies of the wise. The historical works of Machiavelli still remain to be considered. The Life of Castruccio Castracani will occupy us for a very short time, and would scarcely have demanded our notice, had it not attracted a much greater share of public attention than it deserves. Few books, indeed, could be more interesting than a careful and judicious account, from such a pen, of the illustrious Prince of Lucca, the most eminent of those Italian chiefs who, like Pisistratus and Gelon, acquired a power felt rather than seen, and resting, not on law or on prescription, but on the public favour and on their great personal qualities. Such a work would exhibit to us the real nature of that species of sovereignty, so singular and so often misunderstood, which the Greeks denominated tyranny, and which, modified in some degree by the feudal system, reappeared in the commonwealths of Lombardy and Tuscany. But this little composition of Machiavelli is in no sense a history. It has no pretensions to fidelity. It is a trifle, and not a very successful trifle. It is scarcely more authentic than the novel of Belphegor, and is very much duller. The last great work of this illustrious man was the history of his native city. It was written by command of the Pope, who, as chief of the house of Medici, was at that time sovereign of Florence. The characters of Cosmo, of Piero, and of Lorenzo, are, however, treated with a freedom and impartiality equally honourable to the writer and to the patron. The miseries and humiliations of dependence, the bread which is more bitter than every other food, the stairs which are more painful than every other ascent, had not broken the spirit of Machiavelli. The most corrupting post in a corrupting profession had not depraved the generous heart of Clement. The History does not appear to be the fruit of much industry or research. It is unquestionably inaccurate. But it is elegant, lively, and picturesque, beyond any other in the Italian language. The reader, we believe, carries away from it a more vivid and a more faithful impression of the national character and manners than from more correct accounts. The truth is, that the book belongs rather to ancient than to modern literature. It is in the style, not of Davila and Clarendon, but of Herodotus and Tacitus. The classical histories may almost be called romances founded in fact. The relation is, no doubt, in all its principal points, strictly true. But the numerous little incidents which heighten the interest, the words, the gestures, the looks, are evidently furnished by the imagination of the author. The fashion of later times is different. A more exact narrative is given by the writer. It may be doubted whether more exact notions are conveyed to the reader. The best portraits are perhaps those in which there is a slight mixture of caricature, and we are not certain that the best histories are not those in which a little of the exaggeration of fictitious narrative is judiciously employed. Something is lost in accuracy; but much is gained in effect. The fainter lines are neglected but the great characteristic features are imprinted on the mind for ever. The History terminates with the death of Lorenzo de' Medici. Machiavelli had, it seems, intended to continue his narrative to a later period. But his death prevented the execution of his design; and the melancholy task of recording the desolation and shame of Italy devolved on Guicciardini. Machiavelli lived long enough to see the commencement of the last struggle for Florentine liberty. Soon after his death monarchy was finally established, not such a monarchy as that of which Cosmo had laid the foundations deep in the institution and feelings of his countryman, and which Lorenzo had embellished with the trophies of every science and every art; but a loathsome tyranny, proud and mean, cruel and feeble, bigoted and lascivious. The character of Machiavelli was hateful to the new masters of Italy; and those parts of his theory which were in strict accordance with their own daily practice afforded a pretext for blackening his memory. His works were misrepresented by the learned, misconstrued by the ignorant, censured by the Church, abused with all the rancour of simulated virtue by the tools of a base government, and the priests of a baser superstition. The name of the man whose genius had illuminated all the dark places of policy, and to whose patriotic wisdom an oppressed people had owed their last chance of emancipation and revenge, passed into a proverb of infamy. For more than two hundred years his bones lay undistinguished. At length, an English nobleman paid the as honours to the greatest statesman of Florence. In the church of Santa Croce a monument was erected to his memory, which is contemplated with reverence by all who can distinguish the virtues of a great mind through the corruptions of a degenerate age, and which will be approached with still deeper homage when the object to which his public life was devoted shall be attained, when the foreign yoke shall be broken, when a second Procida shall avenge the wrongs of Naples, when a happier Rienzi shall restore the good estate of Rome, when the streets of Florence and Bologna shall again resound with their ancient war-cry, Popolo; popolo; muoiano i tiranni! VON RANKE (October 1840) The Ecclesiastical and political History of the Popes of Rome, during the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries. By LEOPOLD RANKE, Professor in the University of Berlin: Translated from the German, by SARAH AUSTIN. 3 vols. 8vo. London: 1840. It is hardly necessary for us to say that this is an excellent book excellently translated. The original work of Professor Ranke is known and esteemed wherever German literature is studied, and has been found interesting even in a most inaccurate and dishonest French version. It is, indeed, the work of a mind fitted both for minute researches and for large speculations. It is written also in an admirable spirit, equally remote from levity and bigotry, serious and earnest, yet tolerant and impartial. It is, therefore, with the greatest pleasure that we now see this book take its place among the English classics. Of the translation we need only say that it is such as might be expected from the skill, the taste, and the scrupulous integrity of the accomplished lady who, as an interpreter between the mind of Germany and the mind of Britain, has already deserved so well of both countries. The subject of this book has always appeared to us singularly interesting. How it was that Protestantism did so much, yet did no more, how it was that the Church of Rome, having lost a large part of Europe, not only ceased to lose, but actually regained nearly half of what she had lost, is certainly a most curious and important question; and on this question Professor Ranke has thrown far more light than any other person who has written on it. There is not, and there never was on this earth, a work of human policy so well deserving of examination as the Roman Catholic Church. The history of that Church joins together the two great ages of human civilisation. No other institution is left standing which carries the mind back to the times when the smoke of sacrifice rose from the Pantheon, and when camelopards and tigers bounded in the Flavian amphitheatre. The proudest royal houses are but of yesterday, when compared with the line of the Supreme Pontiffs. That line we trace back in an unbroken series, from the Pope who crowned Napoleon in the nineteenth century to the Pope who crowned Pepin in the eighth; and far beyond the time of Pepin the august dynasty extends, till it is lost in the twilight of fable. The republic of Venice came next in antiquity. But the republic of Venice was modern when compared with the Papacy; and the republic of Venice is gone, and the Papacy remains. The Papacy remains, not in decay, not a mere antique, but full of life and youthful vigour. The Catholic Church is still sending forth to the farthest ends of the world missionaries as zealous as those who landed in Kent with Augustin, and still confronting hostile kings with the same spirit with which she confronted Attila. The number of her children is greater than in any former age. Her acquisitions in the New World have more than compensated for what she has lost in the Old. Her spiritual ascendency extends over the vast countries which lie between the plains of the Missouri and Cape Horn, countries which a century hence, may not improbably contain a population as large as that which now inhabits Europe. The members of her communion are certainly not fewer than a hundred and fifty millions; and it will be difficult to show that all other Christian sects united amount to a hundred and twenty millions. Nor do we see any sign which indicates that the term of her long dominion is approaching. She saw the commencement of all the governments and of all the ecclesiastical establishments that now exist in the world; and we feel no assurance that she is not destined to see the end of them all. She was great and respected before the Saxon had set foot on Britain, before the Frank had passed the Rhine, when Grecian eloquence still flourished at Antioch, when idols were still worshipped in the temple of Mecca. And she may still exist in undiminished vigour when some traveller from New Zealand shall, in the midst of a vast solitude, take his stand on a broken arch of London Bridge to sketch the ruins of St. Paul's. We often hear it said that the world is constantly becoming more and more enlightened, and that this enlightening must be favourable to Protestantism, and unfavourable to Catholicism. We wish that we could think so. But we see great reason to doubt whether this be a well-founded expectation. We see that during the last two hundred and fifty years the human mind has been in the highest degree active, that it has made great advances in every branch of natural philosophy, that it has produced innumerable inventions tending to promote the convenience of life, that medicine, surgery, chemistry, engineering, have been very greatly improved, that government, police, and law have been improved, though not to so great an extent as the physical sciences. Yet we see that, during these two hundred and fifty years, Protestantism has made no conquests worth speaking of. Nay, we believe that, as far as there has been a change, that change has, on the whole, been in favour of the Church of Rome. We cannot, therefore, feel confident that the progress of knowledge will necessarily be fatal to a system which has, to say the least, stood its ground in spite of the immense progress made by the human race in knowledge since the days of Queen Elizabeth. Indeed the argument which we are considering, seems to us to be founded on an entire mistake. There are branches of knowledge with respect to which the law of the human mind is progress. In mathematics, when once a proposition has been demonstrated, it is never afterwards contested. Every fresh story is as solid a basis for a new superstructure as the original foundation was. Here, therefore, there is a constant addition to the stock of truth. In the inductive sciences again, the law is progress. Every day furnishes new facts, and thus brings theory nearer and nearer to perfection. There is no chance that, either in the purely demonstrative, or in the purely experimental sciences, the world will ever go back or even remain stationary. Nobody ever heard of a reaction against Taylor's theorem, or of a reaction against Harvey's doctrine of the circulation of the blood. But with theology the case is very different. As respects natural religion,--revelation being for the present altogether left out of the question,--it is not easy to see that a philosopher of the present day is more favourably situated than Thales or Simonides. He has before him just the same evidences of design in the structure of the universe which the early Greeks had. We say just the same; for the discoveries of modern astronomers and anatomists have really added nothing to the force of that argument which a reflecting mind finds in every beast, bird, insect, fish, leaf, flower and shell. The reasoning by which Socrates, in Xenophon's hearing, confuted the little atheist Aristodemus, is exactly the reasoning of Paley's Natural Theology. Socrates makes precisely the same use of the statues of Polycletus and the pictures of Zeuxis which Paley makes of the watch. As to the other great question, the question, what becomes of man after death, we do not see that a highly educated European, left to his unassisted reason, is more likely to be in the right than a Blackfoot Indian. Not a single one of the many sciences in which we surpass the Blackfoot Indians throws the smallest light on the state of the soul after the animal life is extinct. In truth all the philosophers, ancient and modern, who have attempted, without the help of revelation to prove the immortality of man, from Plato down to Franklin, appear to us to have failed deplorably. Then, again, all the great enigmas which perplex the natural theologian are the same in all ages. The ingenuity of a people just emerging from barbarism is quite sufficient to propound those enigmas. The genius of Locke or Clarke is quite unable to solve them. It is a mistake to imagine that subtle speculations touching the Divine attributes, the origin of evil, the necessity of human actions, the foundation of moral obligation, imply any high degree of intellectual culture. Such speculations, on the contrary, are in a peculiar manner the delight of intelligent children and of half civilised men. The number of boys is not small who, at fourteen, have thought enough on these questions to be fully entitled to the praise which Voltaire gives to Zadig. "Il en savait ce qu'on en a su dans tous les ages; c'est-a-dire, fort peu de chose." The book of Job shows that, long before letters and arts were known to Ionia, these vexing questions were debated with no common skill and eloquence, under the tents of the Idumean Emirs; nor has human reason, in the course of three thousand years, discovered any satisfactory solution of the riddles which perplexed Eliphaz and Zophar. Natural theology, then, is not a progressive science. That knowledge of our origin and of our destiny which we derive from revelation is indeed of very different clearness, and of very different importance. But neither is revealed religion of the nature of a progressive science. All Divine truth is, according to the doctrine of the Protestant Churches, recorded in certain books. It is equally open to all who, in any age, can read those books; nor can all the discoveries of all the philosophers in the world add a single verse to any of those books. It is plain, therefore, that in divinity there cannot be a progress analogous to that which is constantly taking place in pharmacy, geology, and navigation. A Christian of the fifth Century with a Bible is neither better nor worse situated than a Christian of the nineteenth century with a Bible, candour and natural acuteness being, of course, supposed equal. It matters not at all that the compass, printing, gunpowder, steam, gas, vaccination, and a thousand other discoveries and inventions, which were unknown in the fifth century, are familiar to the nineteenth. None of these discoveries and inventions has the smallest bearing on the question whether man is justified by faith alone, or whether the invocation of saints is an orthodox practice. It seems to us, therefore, that we have no security for the future against the prevalence of any theological error that ever has prevailed in time past among Christian men. We are confident that the world will never go back to the solar system of Ptolemy; nor is our confidence in the least shaken by the circumstance, that even so great a man as Bacon rejected the theory of Galileo with scorn; for Bacon had not all the means of arriving at a sound conclusion which are within our reach, and which secure people who would not have been worthy to mend his pens from falling into his mistakes. But when we reflect that Sir Thomas More was ready to die for the doctrine of transubstantiation, we cannot but feel some doubt whether the doctrine of transubstantiation may not triumph over all opposition. More was a man of eminent talents. He had all the information on the subject that we have, or that, while the world lasts, any human being will have. The text, "This is my body," was in his New Testament as it is in ours. The absurdity of the literal interpretation was as great and as obvious in the sixteenth century as it is now. No progress that science has made, or will make, can add to what seems to us the overwhelming force of the argument against the real presence. We are, therefore, unable to understand why what Sir Thomas More believed respecting transubstantiation may not be believed to the end of time by men equal in abilities and honesty to Sir Thomas More. But Sir Thomas More is one of the choice specimens of human wisdom and virtue; and the doctrine of transubstantiation is a kind of proof charge. A faith which stands that test will stand any test. The prophecies of Brothers and the miracles of Prince Hohenlohe sink to trifles in the comparison. One reservation, indeed, must be made. The books and traditions of a sect may contain, mingled with propositions strictly theological, other propositions, purporting to rest on the same authority, which relate to physics. If new discoveries should throw discredit on the physical propositions, the theological propositions, unless they can be separated from the physical propositions, will share in that discredit. In this way, undoubtedly, the progress of science may indirectly serve the cause of religious truth. The Hindoo mythology, for example, is bound up with a most absurd geography. Every young Brahmin, therefore, who learns geography in our colleges learns to smile at the Hindoo mythology. If Catholicism has not suffered to an equal degree from the Papal decision that the sun goes round the earth, this is because all intelligent Catholics now hold, with Pascal, that, in deciding the point at all, the Church exceeded her powers, and was, therefore, justly left destitute of that supernatural assistance which, in the exercise of her legitimate functions, the promise of her Founder authorised her to expect. This reservation affects not at all the truth of our proposition, that divinity, properly so called, is not a progressive science. A very common knowledge of history, a very little observation of life, will suffice to prove that no learning, no sagacity, affords a security against the greatest errors on subjects relating to the invisible world. Bayle and Chillingworth, two of the most sceptical of mankind, turned Catholics from sincere conviction. Johnson, incredulous on all other points, was a ready believer in miracles and apparitions. He would not believe in Ossian; but he was willing to believe in the second sight. He would not believe in the earthquake of Lisbon; but he was willing to believe in the Cock Lane ghost. For these reasons we have ceased to wonder at any vagaries of superstition. We have seen men, not of mean intellect or neglected education, but qualified by their talents and acquirements to attain eminence either in active or speculative pursuits, well-read scholars, expert logicians, keen observers of life and manners, prophesying, interpreting, talking unknown tongues, working miraculous cures, coming down with messages from God to the House of Commons. We have seen an old woman, with no talents beyond the cunning of a fortune-teller, and with the education of a scullion, exalted into a prophetess, and surrounded by tens of thousands of devoted followers, many of whom were, in station and knowledge, immeasurably her superiors; and all this in the nineteenth century; and all this in London. Yet why not? For of the dealings of God with man no more has been revealed to the nineteenth century than to the first, or to London than to the wildest parish in the Hebrides. It is true that, in those things which concern this life and this world, man constantly becomes wiser and wiser. But it is no less true that, as respects a higher power and a future state, man, in the language of Goethe's scoffing friend, "bleibt stets von gleichem Schlag, Und ist so wunderlich als wie am ersten Tag." The history of Catholicism strikingly illustrates these observations. During the last seven centuries the public mind of Europe has made constant progress in every department of secular knowledge. But in religion we can trace no constant progress. The ecclesiastical history of that long period is a history of movement to and fro. Four times, since the authority of the Church of Rome was established in Western Christendom, has the human intellect risen up against her yoke. Twice that Church remained completely victorious. Twice she came forth from the conflict bearing the marks of cruel wounds, but with the principle of life still strong within her. When we reflect on the tremendous assaults which she has survived, we find it difficult to conceive in what way she is to perish. The first of these insurrections broke out in the region where the beautiful language of Oc was spoken. That country, singularly favoured by nature, was, in the twelfth century, the most flourishing and civilised portion of Western Europe. It was in no wise a part of France. It had a distinct political existence, a distinct national character, distinct usages, and a distinct speech. The soil was fruitful and well cultivated; and amidst the cornfields and vineyards arose many rich cities each of which was a little republic, and many stately castles: each of which contained a miniature of an imperial court. It was there that the spirit of chivalry first laid aside its terrors, first took a humane and graceful form, first appeared as the inseparable associate of art and literature, of courtesy and love. The other vernacular dialects which, since the fifth century, had sprung up in the ancient provinces of the Roman empire, were still rude and imperfect. The sweet Tuscan, the rich and energetic English, were abandoned to artisans and shepherds. No clerk had ever condescended to use such barbarous jargon for the teaching of science, for the recording of great events, or for the painting of life and manners. But the language of Provence was already the language of the learned and polite, and was employed by numerous writers, studious of all the arts of composition and versification. A literature rich in ballads, in war-songs, in satire, and, above all, in amatory poetry amused the leisure of the knights and ladies whose fortified mansions adorned the banks of the Rhone and Garonne. With civilisation had come freedom of thought. Use had taken away the horror with which misbelievers were elsewhere regarded. No Norman or Breton ever saw a Mussulman, except to give and receive blows on some Syrian field of battle. But the people of the rich countries which lay under the Pyrenees lived in habits of courteous and profitable intercourse with the Moorish kingdoms of Spain, and gave a hospitable welcome to skilful leeches and mathematicians who, in the schools of Cordova and Granada, had become versed in all the learning of the Arabians. The Greek, still preserving, in the midst of political degradation, the ready wit and the inquiring spirit of his fathers, still able to read the most perfect of human compositions, still speaking the most powerful and flexible of human languages, brought to the marts of Narbonne and Toulouse, together with the drugs and silks of remote climates, bold and subtle theories long unknown to the ignorant and credulous West. The Paulician theology, a theology in which, as it should seem, many of the doctrines of the modern Calvinists were mingled with some doctrines derived from the ancient Manichees, spread rapidly through Provence and Languedoc. The clergy of the Catholic Church were regarded with loathing and contempt. "Viler than a priest," "I would as soon be a priest," became proverbial expressions. The Papacy had lost all authority with all classes, from the great feudal princes down to the cultivators of the soil. The danger to the hierarchy was indeed formidable. Only one transalpine nation had emerged from barbarism; and that nation had thrown off all respect for Rome. Only one of the vernacular languages of Europe had yet been extensively employed for literary purposes; and that language was a machine in the hands of heretics. The geographical position of the sectaries made the danger peculiarly formidable. They occupied a central region communicating directly with France, with Italy, and with Spain. The provinces which were still untainted were separated from each other by this infected district. Under these circumstances, it seemed probable that a single generation would suffice to spread the reformed doctrine to Lisbon, to London, and to Naples. But this was not to be. Rome cried for help to the warriors of northern France. She appealed at once to their superstition and to their cupidity. To the devout believer she promised pardons as ample as those with which she had rewarded the deliverers of the Holy Sepulchre. To the rapacious and profligate she offered the plunder of fertile plains and wealthy cities. Unhappily, the ingenious and polished inhabitants of the Languedocian provinces were far better qualified to enrich and embellish their country than to defend it. Eminent in the arts of peace, unrivalled in the "gay science," elevated above many vulgar superstitions, they wanted that iron courage, and that skill in martial exercises, which distinguished the chivalry of the region beyond the Loire, and were ill fitted to face enemies who, in every country from Ireland to Palestine, had been victorious against tenfold odds. A war, distinguished even among wars of religion by merciless atrocity, destroyed the Albigensian heresy, and with that heresy the prosperity the civilisation, the literature, the national existence, of what was once the most opulent and enlightened part of the great European family. Rome, in the meantime, warned by that fearful danger from which the exterminating swords of her crusaders had narrowly saved her, proceeded to revise and to strengthen her whole system of polity. At this period were instituted the Order of Francis, the Order of Dominic, the Tribunal of the Inquisition. The new spiritual police was everywhere. No alley in a great city, no hamlet on a remote mountain, was unvisited by the begging friar. The simple Catholic, who was content to be no wiser than his fathers, found, wherever he turned, a friendly voice to encourage him. The path of the heretic was beset by innumerable spies; and the Church, lately in danger of utter subversion, now appeared to be impregnably fortified by the love, the reverence, and the terror of mankind. A century and a half passed away; and then came the second great rising up of the human intellect against the spiritual domination of Rome. During the two generations which followed the Albigensian crusade, the power of the Papacy had been at the height. Frederic the Second, the ablest and most accomplished of the long line of German Caesars, had in vain exhausted all the resources of military and political skill in the attempt to defend the rights of the civil power against the encroachments of the Church. The vengeance of the priesthood had pursued his house to the third generation. Manfred had perished on the field of battle, Conradin on the scaffold. Then a turn took place. The secular authority, long unduly depressed, regained the ascendant with startling rapidity. The change is doubtless to be ascribed chiefly to the general disgust excited by the way in which the Church had abused its power and its success. But something must be attributed to the character and situation of individuals. The man who bore the chief part in effecting this revolution was Philip the Fourth of France, surnamed the Beautiful, a despot by position, a despot by temperament, stern, implacable, and unscrupulous, equally prepared for violence and for chicanery, and surrounded by a devoted band of men of the sword and of men of law. The fiercest and most high minded of the Roman Pontiffs, while bestowing kingdoms and citing great princes to his judgment-seat, was seized in his palace by armed men, and so foully outraged that he died mad with rage and terror. "Thus," sang the great Florentine poet, "was Christ, in the person of his vicar, a second time seized by ruffians, a second time mocked, a second time drenched with the vinegar and the gall." The seat of the Papal court was carried beyond the Alps, and the Bishops of Rome became dependants of France. Then came the great schism of the West. Two Popes, each with a doubtful title, made all Europe ring with their mutual invectives and anathemas. Rome cried out against the corruptions of Avignon; and Avignon, with equal justice, recriminated on Rome. The plain Christian people, brought up in the belief that it was a sacred duty to be in communion with the head of the Church, were unable to discover, amidst conflicting testimonies and conflicting arguments, to which of the two worthless priests who were cursing and reviling each other, the headship of the Church rightfully belonged. It was nearly at this juncture that the voice of John Wickliffe began to make itself heard. The public mind of England was soon stirred to its inmost depths: and the influence of the new doctrines was soon felt, even in the distant kingdom of Bohemia. In Bohemia, indeed, there had long been a predisposition to heresy. Merchants from the Lower Danube were often seen in the fairs of Prague; and the Lower Danube was peculiarly the seat of the Paulician theology. The Church, torn by schism, and fiercely assailed at once in England and in the German Empire, was in a situation scarcely less perilous than at the crisis which preceded the Albigensian crusade. But this danger also passed by. The civil power gave its strenuous support to the Church; and the Church made some show of reforming itself. The Council of Constance put an end to the schism. The whole Catholic world was again united under a single chief; and rules were laid down which seemed to make it improbable that the power of that chief would be grossly abused. The most distinguished teachers of the new doctrine were slaughtered. The English Government put down the Lollards with merciless rigour; and in the next generation, scarcely one trace of the second great revolt against the Papacy could be found, except among the rude population of the mountains of Bohemia. Another century went by; and then began the third and the most memorable struggle for spiritual freedom. The times were changed. The great remains of Athenian and Roman genius were studied by thousands. The Church had no longer a monopoly of learning. The powers of the modern languages had at length been developed. The invention of printing had given new facilities to the intercourse of mind with mind. With such auspices commenced the great Reformation. We will attempt to lay before our readers, in a short compass, what appears to us to be the real history of the contest which began with the preaching of Luther against the Indulgences, and which may, in one sense, be said, to have been terminated, a hundred and thirty years later, by the treaty of Westphalia. In the northern parts of Europe the victory of Protestantism was rapid and decisive. The dominion of the Papacy was felt by the nations of Teutonic blood as the dominion of Italians, of foreigners, of men who were aliens in language, manners, and intellectual constitution. The large jurisdiction exercised by the spiritual tribunals of Rome seemed to be a degrading badge of servitude. The sums which, under a thousand pretexts, were exacted by a distant court, were regarded both as a humiliating and as a ruinous tribute. The character of that court excited the scorn and disgust of a grave, earnest, sincere, and devout people. The new theology spread with a rapidity never known before. All ranks, all varieties of character, joined the ranks of the innovators. Sovereigns impatient to appropriate to themselves the prerogatives of the Pope, nobles desirous to share the plunder of abbeys, suitors exasperated by the extortions of the Roman Camera, patriots impatient of a foreign rule, good men scandalised by the corruptions of the Church, bad men desirous of the licence inseparable from great moral revolutions, wise men eager in the pursuit of truth, weak men allured by the glitter of novelty, all were found on one side. Alone among the northern nations the Irish adhered to the ancient faith: and the cause of this seems to have been that the national feeling which, in happier countries, was directed against Rome, was in Ireland directed against England. Within fifty years from the day on which Luther publicly renounced communion with the Papacy, and burned the bull of Leo before the gates of Wittenberg, Protestantism attained its highest ascendency, an ascendency which it soon lost, and which it has never regained. Hundreds, who could well remember Brother Martin a devout Catholic, lived to see the revolution of which he was the chief author, victorious in half the states of Europe. In England, Scotland, Denmark, Sweden, Livonia, Prussia, Saxony, Hesse, Wurtemburg, the Palatinate, in several cantons of Switzerland, in the Northern Netherlands, the Reformation had completely triumphed; and in all the other countries on this side of the Alps and the Pyrenees, it seemed on the point of triumphing. But while this mighty work was proceeding in the north of Europe, a revolution of a very different kind had taken place in the south. The temper of Italy and Spain was widely different from that of Germany and England. As the national feeling of the Teutonic nations impelled them to throw off the Italian supremacy, so the national feeling of the Italians impelled them to resist any change which might deprive their country of the honours and advantages which she enjoyed as the seat of the government of the Universal Church. It was in Italy that the tributes were spent of which foreign nations so bitterly complained. It was to adorn Italy that the traffic in Indulgences had been carried to that scandalous excess which had roused the indignation of Luther. There was among the Italians both much piety and much impiety; but, with very few exceptions, neither the piety nor the impiety took the turn of Protestantism. The religious Italians desired a reform of morals and discipline, but not a reform of doctrine, and least of all a schism. The irreligious Italians simply disbelieved Christianity, without hating it. They looked at it as artists or as statesmen; and, so looking at it, they liked it better in the established form than in any other. It was to them what the old Pagan worship was to Trajan and Pliny. Neither the spirit of Savonarola nor the spirit of Machiavelli had anything in common with the spirit of the religious or political Protestants of the North. Spain again was, with respect to the Catholic Church, in a situation very different from that of the Teutonic nations. Italy was, in truth, a part of the empire of Charles the Fifth; and the Court of Rome was, on many important occasions, his tool. He had not, therefore, like the distant princes of the North, a strong selfish motive for attacking the Papacy. In fact, the very measures which provoked the Sovereign of England to renounce all connection with Rome were dictated by the Sovereign of Spain. The feeling of the Spanish people concurred with the interest of the Spanish Government. The attachment of the Castilian to the faith of his ancestors was peculiarly strong and ardent. With that faith were inseparably bound up the institutions, the independence, and the glory of his country. Between the day when the last Gothic king was vanquished on the banks of the Xeres, and the day when Ferdinand and Isabella entered Granada in triumph, near eight hundred years had elapsed; and during those years the Spanish nation had been engaged in a desperate struggle against misbelievers. The Crusades had been merely an episode in the history of other nations. The existence of Spain had been one long Crusade. After fighting Mussulmans in the Old World, she began to fight heathens in the New. It was under the authority of a Papal bull that her children steered into unknown seas. It was under the standard of the cross that they marched fearlessly into the heart of great kingdoms. It was with the cry of "St. James for Spain," that they charged armies which outnumbered them a hundredfold. And men said that the Saint had heard the call, and had himself, in arms, on a grey war-horse, led the onset before which the worshippers of false gods had given way. After the battle, every excess of rapacity or cruelty was sufficiently vindicated by the plea that the sufferers were unbaptized. Avarice stimulated zeal. Zeal consecrated avarice. Proselytes and gold mines were sought with equal ardour. In the very year in which the Saxons, maddened by the exactions of Rome, broke loose from her yoke, the Spaniards, under the authority of Rome, made themselves masters of the empire and of the treasures of Montezuma. Thus Catholicism which, in the public mind of Northern Europe, was associated with spoliation and oppression, was in the public mind of Spain associated with liberty, victory, dominion, wealth, and glory. It is not, therefore, strange that the effect of the great outbreak of Protestantism in one part of Christendom should have been to produce an equally violent outbreak of Catholic zeal in another. Two reformations were pushed on at once with equal energy and effect, a reformation of doctrine in the North, a reformation of manners and discipline in the South. In the course of a single generation, the whole spirit of the Church of Rome underwent a change. From the halls of the Vatican to the most secluded hermitage of the Apennines, the great revival was everywhere felt and seen. All the institutions anciently devised for the propagation and defence of the faith were furbished up and made efficient. Fresh engines of still more formidable power were constructed. Everywhere old religious communities were remodelled and new religious communities called into existence. Within a year after the death of Leo, the order of Camaldoli was purified. The Capuchins restored the old Franciscan discipline, the midnight prayer and the life of silence. The Barnabites and the society of Somasca devoted themselves to the relief and education of the poor. To the Theatine order a still higher interest belongs. Its great object was the same with that of our early Methodists, namely to supply the deficiencies of the parochial clergy. The Church of Rome, wiser than the Church of England, gave every countenance to the good work. The members of the new brotherhood preached to great multitudes in the streets and in the fields, prayed by the beds of the sick, and administered the last sacraments to the dying. Foremost among them in zeal and devotion was Gian Pietro Caraffa, afterwards Pope Paul the Fourth. In the convent of the Theatines at Venice, under the eye of Caraffa, a Spanish gentleman took up his abode, tended the poor in the hospitals, went about in rags, starved himself almost to death, and often sallied into the streets, mounted on stones, and, waving his hat to invite the passers-by, began to preach in a strange jargon of mingled Castilian and Tuscan. The Theatines were among the most zealous and rigid of men; but to this enthusiastic neophyte their discipline seemed lax, and their movements sluggish; for his own mind, naturally passionate and imaginative, had passed through a training which had given to all its peculiarities a morbid intensity and energy. In his early life he had been the very prototype of the hero of Cervantes. The single study of the young Hidalgo had been chivalrous romance; and his existence had been one gorgeous day- dream of princesses rescued and infidels subdued. He had chosen a Dulcinea, "no countess, no duchess,"--these are his own words,-- "but one of far higher station"; and he flattered himself with the hope of laying at her feet the keys of Moorish castles and the jewelled turbans of Asiatic kings. In the midst of these visions of martial glory and prosperous love, a severe wound stretched him on a bed of sickness. His constitution was shattered and he was doomed to be a cripple for life. The palm of strength, grace, and skill in knightly exercises, was no longer for him. He could no longer hope to strike down gigantic soldans, or to find favour in the sight of beautiful women. A new vision then arose in his mind, and mingled itself with his old delusions in a manner which to most Englishmen must seem singular, but which those who know how close was the union between religion and chivalry in Spain will be at no loss to understand. He would still be a soldier; he would still be a knight errant; but the soldier and knight errant of the spouse of Christ. He would smite the Great Red Dragon. He would be the champion of the Woman clothed with the Sun. He would break the charm under which false prophets held the souls of men in bondage. His restless spirit led him to the Syrian deserts, and to the chapel of the Holy Sepulchre. Thence he wandered back to the farthest West, and astonished the convents of Spain and the schools of France by his penances and vigils. The same lively imagination which had been employed in picturing the tumult of unreal battles, and the charms of unreal queens, now peopled his solitude with saints and angels. The Holy Virgin descended to commune with him. He saw the Saviour face to face with the eye of flesh. Even those mysteries of religion which are the hardest trial of faith were in his case palpable to sight. It is difficult to relate without a pitying smile that, in the sacrifice of the mass, he saw transubstantiation take place, and that, as he stood praying on the steps of the Church of St. Dominic, he saw the Trinity in Unity, and wept aloud with joy and wonder. Such was the celebrated Ignatius Loyola, who, in the great Catholic reaction, bore the same part which Luther bore in the great Protestant movement. Dissatisfied with the system of the Theatines, the enthusiastic Spaniard turned his face towards Rome. Poor, obscure, without a patron, without recommendations, he entered the city where now two princely temples, rich with painting and many-coloured marble, commemorate his great services to the Church; where his form stands sculptured in massive silver; where his bones, enshrined amidst jewels, are placed beneath the altar of God. His activity and zeal bore down all opposition; and under his rule the order of Jesuits began to exist, and grew rapidly to the full measure of his gigantic powers. With what vehemence, with what policy, with what exact discipline, with what dauntless courage, with what self-denial, with what forgetfulness of the dearest private ties, with what intense and stubborn devotion to a single end, with what unscrupulous laxity and versatility in the choice of means, the Jesuits fought the battle of their Church, is written in every page of the annals of Europe during several generations. In the order of Jesus was concentrated the quintessence of the Catholic spirit; and the history of the order of Jesus is the history of the great Catholic reaction. That order possessed itself at once of all the strongholds which command the public mind, of the pulpit, of the press, of the confessional, of the academies. Wherever the Jesuit preached, the church was too small for the audience. The name of Jesuit on a title-page secured the circulation of a book. It was in the ears of the Jesuit that the powerful, the noble, and the beautiful, breathed the secret history of their lives. It was at the feet of the Jesuit that the youth of the higher and middle classes were brought up from childhood to manhood, from the first rudiments to the courses of rhetoric and philosophy. Literature and science, lately associated with infidelity or with heresy, now became the allies of orthodoxy. Dominant in the South of Europe, the great order soon went forth conquering and to conquer. In spite of oceans and deserts, of hunger and pestilence, of spies and penal laws, of dungeons and racks, of gibbets and quartering-blocks, Jesuits were to be found under every disguise, and in every country; scholars, physicians, merchants, serving-men; in the hostile Court of Sweden, in the old manor-houses of Cheshire, among the hovels of Connaught; arguing, instructing, consoling, stealing away the hearts of the young, animating the courage of the timid, holding up the crucifix before the eyes of the dying. Nor was it less their office to plot against the thrones and lives of apostate kings, to spread evil rumours, to raise tumults, to inflame civil wars, to arm the hand of the assassin. Inflexible in nothing but in their fidelity to the Church, they were equally ready to appeal in her cause to the spirit of loyalty and to the spirit of freedom. Extreme doctrines of obedience and extreme doctrines of liberty, the right of rulers to misgovern the people, the right of every one of the people to plunge his knife in the heart of a bad ruler, were inculcated by the same man, according as he addressed himself to the subject of Philip or to the subject of Elizabeth. Some described these divines as the most rigid, others as the most indulgent of spiritual directors; and both descriptions were correct. The truly devout listened with awe to the high and saintly morality of the Jesuit. The gay cavalier who had run his rival through the body, the frail beauty who had forgotten her marriage-vow, found in the Jesuit an easy well-bred man of the world, who knew how to make allowance for the little irregularities of people of fashion. The confessor was strict or lax, according to the temper of the penitent. The first object was to drive no person out of the pale of the Church. Since there were bad people, it was better that they should be bad Catholics than bad Protestants. If a person was so unfortunate as to be a bravo, a libertine, or a gambler, that was no reason for making him a heretic too. The Old World was not wide enough for this strange activity. The Jesuits invaded all the countries which the great maritime discoveries of the preceding age had laid open to European enterprise. They were to be found in the depths of the Peruvian mines, at the marts of the African slave-caravans, on the shores of the Spice Islands, in the observatories of China. They made converts in regions which neither avarice nor curiosity had tempted any of their countrymen to enter; and preached and disputed in tongues of which no other native of the West understood a word. The spirit which appeared so eminently in this order animated the whole Catholic world. The Court of Rome itself was purified. During the generation which preceded the Reformation, that Court had been a scandal to the Christian name. Its annals are black with treason, murder, and incest. Even its more respectable members were utterly unfit to be ministers of religion. They were men like Leo the Tenth; men who, with the Latinity of the Augustan age, had acquired its atheistical and scoffing spirit. They regarded those Christian mysteries, of which they were stewards, just as the Augur Cicero and the high Pontiff Caesar regarded the Sibylline books and the pecking of the sacred chickens. Among themselves, they spoke of the Incarnation, the Eucharist, and the Trinity, in the same tone in which Cotta and Velleius talked of the oracle of Delphi or the voice of Faunus in the mountains. Their years glided by in a soft dream of sensual and intellectual voluptuousness. Choice cookery, delicious wines, lovely women, hounds, falcons, horses, newly-discovered manuscripts of the classics, sonnets, and burlesque romances in the sweetest Tuscan, just as licentious as a fine sense of the graceful would permit, plate from the hand of Benvenuto, designs for palaces by Michael Angelo, frescoes by Raphael, busts, mosaics, and gems just dug up from among the ruins of ancient temples and villas, these things were the delight and even the serious business of their lives. Letters and the fine arts undoubtedly owe much to this not inelegant sloth. But when the great stirring of the mind of Europe began, when doctrine after doctrine was assailed, when nation after nation withdrew from communion with the successor of St. Peter, it was felt that the Church could not be safely confided to chiefs whose highest praise was that they were good judges of Latin compositions, of paintings, and of statues, whose severest studies had a pagan character, and who were suspected of laughing in secret at the sacraments which they administered, and of believing no more of the Gospel than of the Morgante Maggiore. Men of a very different class now rose to the direction of ecclesiastical affairs, men whose spirit resembled that of Dunstan and of Becket. The Roman Pontiffs exhibited in their own persons all the austerity of the early anchorites of Syria. Paul the Fourth brought to the Papal throne the same fervent zeal which had carried him into the Theatine convent. Pius the Fifth, under his gorgeous vestments, wore day and night the hair shirt of a simple friar, walked barefoot in the streets at the head of processions, found, even in the midst of his most pressing avocations, time for private prayer, often regretted that the public duties of his station were unfavourable to growth in holiness, and edified his flock by innumerable instances of humility, charity, and forgiveness of personal injuries, while at the same time he upheld the authority of his see, and the unadulterated doctrines of his Church, with all the stubbornness and vehemence of Hildebrand. Gregory the Thirteenth exerted himself not only to imitate but to surpass Pius in the severe virtues of his sacred profession. As was the head, such were the members. The change in the spirit of the Catholic world may be traced in every walk of literature and of art. It will be at once perceived by every person who compares the poem of Tasso with that of Ariosto, or the monuments Of Sixtus the Fifth with those of Leo the Tenth. But it was not on moral influence alone that the Catholic Church relied. The civil sword in Spain and Italy was unsparingly employed in her support. The Inquisition was armed with new powers and inspired with a new energy. If Protestantism, or the semblance of Protestantism, showed itself in any quarter, it was instantly met, not by petty, teasing persecution, but by persecution of that sort which bows down and crushes all but a very few select spirits. Whoever was suspected of heresy, whatever his rank, his learning, or his reputation, knew that he must purge himself to the satisfaction of a severe and vigilant tribunal, or die by fire. Heretical books were sought out and destroyed with similar rigour. Works which were once in every house were so effectually suppressed that no copy of them is now to be found in the most extensive libraries. One book in particular, entitled Of the Benefits of the Death of Christ, had this fate. It was written in Tuscan, was many times reprinted, and was eagerly read in every part of Italy. But the inquisitors detected in it the Lutheran doctrine of justification by faith alone. They proscribed it; and it is now as hopelessly lost as the second decade of Livy. Thus, while the Protestant reformation proceeded rapidly at one extremity of Europe, the Catholic revival went on as rapidly at the other. About half a century after the great separation, there were, throughout the North, Protestant governments and Protestant nations. In the South were governments and nations actuated by the most intense zeal for the ancient Church. Between these two hostile regions lay, morally as well as geographically, a great debatable land. In France, Belgium, Southern Germany, Hungary, and Poland, the contest was still undecided. The governments of those countries had not renounced their connection with Rome; but the Protestants were numerous, powerful, bold, and active. In France, they formed a commonwealth within the realm, held fortresses, were able to bring great armies into the field, and had treated with their sovereign on terms of equality. In Poland, the King was still a Catholic; but the Protestants had the upper hand in the Diet, filled the chief offices in the administration, and, in the large towns, took possession of the parish churches. "It appeared," says the Papal nuncio, "that in Poland, Protestantism would completely supersede Catholicism." In Bavaria, the state of things was nearly the same. The Protestants had a majority in the Assembly of the States, and demanded from the duke concessions in favour of their religion, as the price of their subsidies. In Transylvania, the House of Austria was unable to prevent the Diet from confiscating, by one sweeping decree, the estates of the Church. In Austria Proper it was generally said that only one-thirtieth part of the population could be counted on as good Catholics. In Belgium the adherents of the new opinions were reckoned by hundreds of thousands. The history of the two succeeding generations is the history of the struggle between Protestantism possessed of the North of Europe, and Catholicism possessed of the South, for the doubtful territory which lay between. All the weapons of carnal and of spiritual warfare were employed. Both sides may boast of great talents and of great virtues. Both have to blush for many follies and crimes. At first, the chances seemed to be decidedly in favour of Protestantism; but the victory remained with the Church of Rome. On every point she was successful. If we overleap, another half century, we find her victorious and dominant in France, Belgium, Bavaria, Bohemia, Austria, Poland, and Hungary. Nor has Protestantism, in the course of two hundred years, been able to reconquer any portion of what was then lost. It is, moreover, not to be dissembled that this triumph of the Papacy is to be chiefly attributed, not to the force of arms, but to a great reflux in public opinion. During the first half century after the commencement of the Reformation, the current of feeling, in the countries on this side of the Alps and of the Pyrenees, ran impetuously towards the new doctrines. Then the tide turned, and rushed as fiercely in the opposite direction. Neither during the one period, nor during the other, did much depend upon the event of battles or sieges. The Protestant movement was hardly checked for an instant by the defeat at Muhlberg. The Catholic reaction went on at full speed in spite of the destruction of the Armada. It is difficult to say whether the violence of the first blow or of the recoil was the greater. Fifty years after the Lutheran separation, Catholicism could scarcely maintain itself on the shores of the Mediterranean. A hundred years after the separation, Protestantism could scarcely maintain itself on the shores of the Baltic. The causes of this memorable turn in human affairs well deserve to be investigated. The contest between the two parties bore some resemblance to the fencing-match in Shakspeare; "Laertes wounds Hamlet; then, in scuffling, they change rapiers, and Hamlet wounds Laertes." The war between Luther and Leo was a war between firm faith and unbelief, between zeal and apathy, between energy and indolence, between seriousness and frivolity, between a pure morality and vice. Very different was the war which degenerate Protestantism had to wage against regenerate Catholicism. To the debauchees, the poisoners, the atheists, who had worn the tiara during the generation which preceded the Reformation, had succeeded Popes who, in religious fervour and severe sanctity of manners, might bear a comparison with Cyprian or Ambrose. The order of Jesuits alone could show many men not inferior in sincerity, constancy, courage, and austerity of life, to the apostles of the Reformation. But while danger had thus called forth in the bosom of the Church of Rome many of the highest qualities of the Reformers, the Reformers had contracted some of the corruptions which had been justly censured in the Church of Rome. They had become lukewarm and worldly. Their great old leaders had been borne to the grave, and had left no successors. Among the Protestant princes there was little or no hearty Protestant feeling. Elizabeth herself was a Protestant rather from policy than from firm conviction. James the First, in order to effect his favourite object of marrying his son into one of the great continental houses, was ready to make immense concessions to Rome, and even to admit a modified primacy in the Pope. Henry the Fourth twice abjured the reformed doctrines from interested motives. The Elector of Saxony, the natural head Of the Protestant party in Germany, submitted to become, at the most important crisis of the struggle, a tool in the hands of the Papists. Among the Catholic sovereigns, on the other hand, we find a religious zeal often amounting to fanaticism. Philip the Second was a Papist in a very different sense from that in which Elizabeth was a Protestant. Maximilian of Bavaria, brought up under the teaching of the Jesuits, was a fervent missionary wielding the powers of a prince. The Emperor Ferdinand the Second deliberately put his throne to hazard over and over again, rather than make the smallest concession to the spirit of religious innovation. Sigismund of Sweden lost a crown which he might have preserved if he would have renounced the Catholic faith. In short, everywhere on the Protestant side we see languor; everywhere on the Catholic side we see ardour and devotion. Not only was there, at this time, a much more intense zeal among the Catholics than among the Protestants; but the whole zeal of the Catholics was directed against the Protestants, while almost the whole zeal of the Protestants was directed against each other. Within the Catholic Church there were no serious disputes on points of doctrine. The decisions of the Council of Trent were received; and the Jansenian controversy had not yet arisen. The whole force of Rome was, therefore, effective for the purpose of carrying on the war against the Reformation. On the other hand, the force which ought to have fought the battle of the Reformation was exhausted in civil conflict. While Jesuit preachers, Jesuit confessors, Jesuit teachers of youth, overspread Europe, eager to expend every faculty of their minds and every drop of their blood in the cause of their Church, Protestant doctors were confuting, and Protestant rulers were punishing, sectaries who were just as good Protestants as themselves. "Cumque superba foret BABYLON spolianda tropaeis, Bella geri placuit nullos habitura triumphos." In the Palatinate, a Calvinistic prince persecuted the Lutherans. In Saxony, a Lutheran prince persecuted the Calvinists. Everybody who objected to any of the articles of the Confession of Augsburg was banished from Sweden. In Scotland, Melville was disputing with other Protestants on questions of ecclesiastical government. In England the gaols were filled with men, who, though zealous for the Reformation, did not exactly agree with the Court on all points of discipline and doctrine. Some were persecuted for denying the tenet of reprobation; some for not wearing surplices. The Irish people might at that time have been, in all probability, reclaimed from Popery, at the expense of half the zeal and activity which Whitgift employed in oppressing Puritans, and Martin Marprelate in reviling bishops. As the Catholics in zeal and in union had a great advantage over the Protestants, so had they also an infinitely superior organisation. In truth, Protestantism, for aggressive purposes, had no organisation at all. The Reformed Churches were mere national Churches. The Church of England existed for England alone. It was an institution as purely local as the Court of Common Pleas, and was utterly without any machinery for foreign operations. The Church of Scotland, in the same manner, existed for Scotland alone. The operations of the Catholic Church, on the other hand, took in the whole world. Nobody at Lambeth or at Edinburgh troubled himself about what was doing in Poland or Bavaria. But Cracow and Munich were at Rome objects of as much interest as the purlieus of St. John Lateran. Our island, the head of the Protestant interest, did not send out a single missionary or a single instructor of youth to the scene of the great spiritual war. Not a single seminary was established here for the purpose of furnishing a supply of such persons to foreign countries. On the other hand, Germany, Hungary, and Poland were filled with able and active Catholic emissaries of Spanish or Italian birth; and colleges for the instruction of the northern youth were founded at Rome. The spiritual force of Protestantism was a mere local militia, which might be useful in case of an invasion, but could not be sent abroad, and could therefore make no conquests. Rome had such a local militia; but she had also a force disposable at a moment's notice for foreign service, however dangerous or disagreeable. If it was thought at head- quarters that a Jesuit at Palermo was qualified by his talents and character to withstand the Reformers in Lithuania, the order was instantly given and instantly obeyed. In a month, the faithful servant of the Church was preaching, catechising, confessing, beyond the Niemen. It is impossible to deny that the polity of the Church of Rome is the very master-piece of human wisdom. In truth, nothing but such a polity could, against such assaults, have borne up such doctrines. The experience of twelve hundred eventful years, the ingenuity and patient care of forty generations of statesmen, have improved that polity to such perfection that, among the contrivances which have been devised for deceiving and oppressing mankind, it occupies the highest place. The stronger our conviction that reason and scripture were decidedly on the side of Protestantism, the greater is the reluctant admiration with which we regard that system of tactics against which reason and scripture were employed in vain. If we went at large into this most interesting subject we should fill volumes. We will, therefore, at present, advert to only one important part of the policy of the Church of Rome. She thoroughly understands, what no other Church has ever understood, how to deal with enthusiasts. In some sects, particularly in infant sects, enthusiasm is suffered to be rampant. In other sects, particularly in sects long established and richly endowed, it is regarded with aversion. The Catholic Church neither submits to enthusiasm nor proscribes it, but uses it. She considers it as a great moving force which in itself, like the muscular power of a fine horse, is neither good nor evil, but which may be so directed as to produce great good or great evil; and she assumes the direction to herself. It would be absurd to run down a horse like a wolf. It would be still more absurd to let him run wild, breaking fences, and trampling down passengers. The rational course is to subjugate his will without impairing his vigour, to teach him to obey the rein, and then to urge him to full speed. When once he knows his master, he is valuable in proportion to his strength and spirit. Just such has been the system of the Church of Rome with regard to enthusiasts. She knows that, when religious feelings have obtained the complete empire of the mind, they impart a strange energy, that they raise men above the dominion of pain and pleasure, that obloquy becomes glory, that death itself is contemplated only as the beginning of a higher and happier life. She knows that a person in this state is no object of contempt. He may be vulgar, ignorant, visionary, extravagant; but he will do and suffer things which it is for her interest that somebody should do and suffer, yet from which calm and sober-minded men would shrink. She accordingly enlists him in her service, assigns to him some forlorn hope, in which intrepidity and impetuosity are more wanted than judgment and self-command, and sends him forth with her benedictions and her applause. In England it not unfrequently happens that a tinker or coal- heaver hears a sermon or falls in with a tract which alarms him about the state of his soul. If he be a man of excitable nerves and strong imagination, he thinks himself given over to the Evil Power. He doubts whether he has not committed the unpardonable sin. He imputes every wild fancy that springs up in his mind to the whisper of a fiend. His sleep is broken by dreams of the great judgment-seat, the open books, and the unquenchable fire. If, in order to escape from these vexing thoughts, he flies to amusement or to licentious indulgence, the delusive relief only makes his misery darker and more hopeless. At length a turn takes place. He is reconciled to his offended Maker. To borrow the fine imagery of one who had himself been thus tried, he emerges from the Valley of the Shadow of Death, from the dark land of gins and snares, of quagmires and precipices, of evil spirits and ravenous beasts. The sunshine is on his path. He ascends the Delectable Mountains, and catches from their summit a distant view of the shining city which is the end of his pilgrimage. Then arises in his mind a natural and surely not a censurable desire, to impart to others the thoughts of which his own heart is full, to warn the careless, to comfort those who are troubled in spirit. The impulse which urges him to devote his whole life to the teaching of religion is a strong passion in the guise of a duty. He exhorts his neighbours; and, if he be a man of strong parts, he often does so with great effect. He pleads as if he were pleading for his life, with tears, and pathetic gestures, and burning words; and he soon finds with delight, not perhaps wholly unmixed with the alloy of human infirmity, that his rude eloquence rouses and melts hearers who sleep very composedly while the rector preaches on the apostolical succession. Zeal for God, love for his fellow-creatures, pleasure in the exercise of his newly discovered powers, impel him to become a preacher. He has no quarrel with the establishment, no objection to its formularies, its government, or its vestments. He would gladly be admitted among its humblest ministers, but, admitted or rejected, he feels that his vocation is determined. His orders have come down to him, not through a long and doubtful series of Arian and Popish bishops, but direct from on high. His commission is the same that on the Mountain of Ascension was given to the Eleven. Nor will he, for lack of human credentials, spare to deliver the glorious message with which he is charged by the true Head of the Church. For a man thus minded, there is within the pale of the establishment no place. He has been at no college; he cannot construe a Greek author or write a Latin theme; and he is told that, if he remains in the communion of the Church, he must do so as a hearer, and that, if he is resolved to be a teacher, he must begin by being a schismatic. His choice is soon made. He harangues on Tower Hill or in Smithfield. A congregation is formed. A licence is obtained. A plain brick building, with a desk and benches, is run up, and named Ebenezer or Bethel. In a few weeks the Church has lost for ever a hundred families, not one of which entertained the least scruple about her articles, her liturgy, her government, or her ceremonies. Far different is the policy of Rome. The ignorant enthusiast whom the Anglican Church makes an enemy, and whatever the polite and learned may think, a most dangerous enemy, the Catholic Church makes a champion. She bids him nurse his beard, covers him with a gown and hood of coarse dark stuff, ties a rope round his waist, and sends him forth to teach in her name. He costs her nothing. He takes not a ducat away from the revenues of her beneficed clergy. He lives by the alms of those who respect his spiritual character, and are grateful for his instructions. He preaches, not exactly in the style of Massillon, but in a way which moves the passions of uneducated hearers; and all his influence is employed to strengthen the Church of which he is a minister. To that Church he becomes as strongly attached as any of the cardinals whose scarlet carriages and liveries crowd the entrance of the palace on the Quirinal. In this way the Church of Rome unites in herself all the strength of establishment, and all the strength of dissent. With the utmost pomp of a dominant hierarchy above, she has all the energy of the voluntary system below. It would be easy to mention very recent instances in which the hearts of hundreds of thousands, estranged from her by the selfishness, sloth, and cowardice of the beneficed clergy, have been brought back by the zeal of the begging friars. Even for female agency there is a place in her system. To devout women she assigns spiritual functions, dignities, and magistracies. In our country, if a noble lady is moved by more than ordinary zeal for the propagation of religion, the chance is that, though she may disapprove of no doctrine or ceremony of the Established Church, she will end by giving her name to a new schism. If a pious and benevolent woman enters the cells of a prison to pray with the most unhappy and degraded of her own sex, she does so without any authority from the Church. No line of action is traced out for her; and it is well if the Ordinary does not complain of her intrusion, and if the Bishop does not shake his head at such irregular benevolence. At Rome, the Countess of Huntingdon would have a place in the calendar as St. Selina, and Mrs. Fry would be foundress and first Superior of the Blessed Order of Sisters of the Gaols. Place Ignatius Loyola at Oxford. He is certain to become the head of a formidable secession. Place John Wesley at Rome. He is certain to be the first General of a new society devoted to the interests and honour of the Church. Place St. Theresa in London. Her restless enthusiasm ferments into madness, not untinctured with craft. She becomes the prophetess, the mother of the faithful, holds disputations with the devil, issues sealed pardons to her adorers, and lies in of the Shiloh. Place Joanna Southcote at Rome. She founds an order of barefooted Carmelites, every one of whom is ready to suffer martyrdom for the Church; a solemn service is consecrated to her memory; and her statue, placed over the holy water, strikes the eye of every stranger who enters St. Peter's. We have dwelt long on this subject, because we believe that of the many causes to which the Church of Rome owed her safety and her triumph at the close of the sixteenth century, the chief was the profound policy with which she used the fanaticism of such persons as St. Ignatius and St. Theresa. The Protestant party was now indeed vanquished and humbled. In France, so strong had been the Catholic reaction that Henry the Fourth found it necessary to choose between his religion and his crown. In spite of his clear hereditary right, in spite of his eminent personal qualities, he saw that, unless he reconciled himself to the Church of Rome, he could not count on the fidelity even of those gallant gentlemen whose impetuous valour had turned the tide of battle at Ivry. In Belgium, Poland, and Southern Germany, Catholicism had obtained complete ascendency. The resistance of Bohemia was put down. The Palatinate was conquered. Upper and Lower Saxony were overflowed by Catholic invaders. The King of Denmark stood forth as the Protector of the Reformed Churches: he was defeated, driven out of the empire, and attacked in his own possessions. The armies of the House of Austria pressed on, subjugated Pomerania, and were stopped in their progress only by the ramparts of Stralsund. And now again the tide turned. Two violent outbreaks of religious feeling in opposite directions had given a character to the whole history of a whole century. Protestantism had at first driven back Catholicism to the Alps and the Pyrenees. Catholicism had rallied, and had driven back Protestantism even to the German Ocean. Then the great southern reaction began to slacken, as the great northern movement had slackened before. The zeal of the Catholics waxed cool. Their union was dissolved. The paroxysm of religious excitement was over on both sides. One party had degenerated as far from the spirit of Loyola as the other from the spirit of Luther. During three generations religion had been the mainspring of politics. The revolutions and civil wars of France, Scotland, Holland, Sweden, the long struggle between Philip and Elizabeth, the bloody competition for the Bohemian crown, had all originated in theological disputes. But a great change now took place. The contest which was raging in Germany lost its religious character. It was now, on one side, less a contest for the spiritual ascendency of the Church of Rome than for the temporal ascendency of the House of Austria. On the other side, it was less a contest for the reformed doctrines than for national independence. Governments began to form themselves into new combinations, in which community of political interest was far more regarded than community of religious belief. Even at Rome the progress of the Catholic arms was observed with mixed feelings. The Supreme Pontiff was a sovereign prince of the second rank, and was anxious about the balance of power as well as about the propagation of truth. It was known that he dreaded the rise of an universal monarchy even more than he desired the prosperity of the Universal Church. At length a great event announced to the world that the war of sects had ceased, and that the war of states had succeeded. A coalition, including Calvinists, Lutherans, and Catholics, was formed against the House of Austria. At the head of that coalition were the first statesman and the first warrior of the age; the former a prince of the Catholic Church, distinguished by the vigour and success with which he had put down the Huguenots; the latter a Protestant king who owed his throne to a revolution caused by hatred of Popery. The alliance of Richelieu and Gustavus marks the time at which the great religious struggle terminated. The war which followed was a war for the equilibrium of Europe. When, at length, the peace of Westphalia was concluded, it appeared that the Church of Rome remained in full possession of a vast dominion which in the middle of the preceding century she seemed to be on the point of losing. No part of Europe remained Protestant, except that part which had become thoroughly Protestant before the generation which heard Luther preach had passed away. Since that time there has been no religious war between Catholics and Protestants as such. In the time of Cromwell, Protestant England was united with Catholic France, then governed by a priest, against Catholic Spain. William the Third, the eminently Protestant hero, was at the head of a coalition which included many Catholic powers, and which was secretly favoured even by Rome, against the Catholic Lewis. In the time of Anne, Protestant England and Protestant Holland joined with Catholic Savoy and Catholic Portugal, for the purpose of transferring the crown of Spain from one bigoted Catholic to another. The geographical frontier between the two religions has continued to run almost precisely where it ran at the close of the Thirty Years' War; nor has Protestantism given any proofs of that "expansive power" which has been ascribed to it. But the Protestant boasts, and boasts most justly, that wealth, civilisation, and intelligence, have increased far more on the northern than on the southern side of the boundary, and that countries so little favoured by nature as Scotland and Prussia are now among the most flourishing and best governed portions of the world, while the marble palaces of Genoa are deserted, while banditti infest the beautiful shores of Campania, while the fertile sea-coast of the Pontifical State is abandoned to buffaloes and wild boars. It cannot be doubted that, since the sixteenth century, the Protestant nations have made decidedly greater progress than their neighbours. The progress made by those nations in which Protestantism, though not finally successful, yet maintained a long struggle, and left permanent traces, has generally been considerable. But when we come to the Catholic Land, to the part of Europe in which the first spark of reformation was trodden out as soon as it appeared, and from which proceeded the impulse which drove Protestantism back, we find, at best, a very slow progress, and on the whole a retrogression. Compare Denmark and Portugal. When Luther began to preach, the superiority of the Portuguese was unquestionable. At present, the superiority of the Danes is no less so. Compare Edinburgh and Florence. Edinburgh has owed less to climate, to soil, and to the fostering care of rulers than any capital, Protestant or Catholic. In all these respects, Florence has been singularly happy. Yet whoever knows what Florence and Edinburgh were in the generation preceding the Reformation, and what they are now, will acknowledge that some great cause has, during the last three Centuries, operated to raise one part of the European family, and to depress the other. Compare the history of England and that of Spain during the last century. In arms, arts, sciences, letters, commerce, agriculture, the contrast is most striking. The distinction is not confined to this side of the Atlantic. The colonies planted by England in America have immeasurably outgrown in power those planted by Spain. Yet we have no reason to believe that, at the beginning of the sixteenth century, the Castilian was in any respect inferior to the Englishman. Our firm belief is, that the North owes its great civilisation and prosperity chiefly to the moral effect of the Protestant Reformation, and that the decay of the southern countries of Europe is to be mainly ascribed to the great Catholic revival. About a hundred years after the final settlement of the boundary line between Protestantism and Catholicism, began to appear the signs of the fourth great peril of the Church of Rome. The storm which was now rising against her was of a very different kind from those which had preceded it. Those who had formerly attacked her had questioned only a part of her doctrines. A school was now growing up which rejected the whole. The Albigenses, the Lollards, the Lutherans, the Calvinists, had a positive religious system, and were strongly attached to it. The creed of the new sectaries was altogether negative. They took one of their premises from the Protestants, and one from the Catholics. From the latter they borrowed the principle, that Catholicism was the only pure and genuine Christianity. With the former, they held that some parts of the Catholic system were contrary to reason. The conclusion was obvious. Two propositions, each of which separately is compatible with the most exalted piety, formed, when held in conjunction, the ground-work of a system of irreligion. The doctrine of Bossuet, that transubstantiation is affirmed in the Gospel, and the doctrine of Tillotson, that transubstantiation is an absurdity, when put together, produced by logical necessity, the inferences of Voltaire. Had the sect which was rising at Paris been a sect of mere scoffers, it is very improbable that it would have left deep traces of its existence in the institutions and manners of Europe. Mere negation, mere Epicurean infidelity, as Lord Bacon most justly observes, has never disturbed the peace of the world. It furnishes no motive for action. It inspires no enthusiasm. It has no missionaries, no crusaders, no martyrs. If the Patriarch of the Holy Philosophical Church had contented himself with making jokes about Saul's asses and David's wives, and with criticising the poetry of Ezekiel in the same narrow spirit in which he criticised that of Shakspeare, Rome would have had little to fear. But it is due to him and to his compeers to say that the real secret of their strength lay in the truth which was mingled with their errors, and in the generous enthusiasm which was hidden under their flippancy. They were men who, with all their faults, moral and intellectual, sincerely and earnestly desired the improvement of the condition of the human race, whose blood boiled at the sight of cruelty and injustice, who made manful war, with every faculty which they possessed, on what they considered as abuses, and who on many signal occasions placed themselves gallantly between the powerful and the oppressed. While they assailed Christianity with a rancour and an unfairness disgraceful to men who called themselves philosophers, they yet had, in far greater measure than their opponents, that charity towards men of all classes and races which Christianity enjoins. Religious persecution, judicial torture, arbitrary imprisonment, the unnecessary multiplication of capital punishments, the delay and chicanery of tribunals, the exactions of farmers of the revenue, slavery, the slave trade, were the constant subjects of their lively satire and eloquent disquisitions. When an innocent man was broken on the wheel at Toulouse, when a youth, guilty only of an indiscretion, was beheaded at Abbeville, when a brave officer, borne down by public injustice, was dragged, with a gag in his mouth, to die on the Place de Greve, a voice instantly went forth from the banks of Lake Leman, which made itself heard from Moscow to Cadiz, and which sentenced the unjust judges to the contempt and detestation of all Europe. The really efficient weapons with which the philosophers assailed the evangelical faith were borrowed from the evangelical morality. The ethical and dogmatical parts of the Gospel were unhappily turned against each other. On one side was a Church boasting of the purity of a doctrine derived from the Apostles, but disgraced by the massacre of St. Bartholomew, by the murder of the best of kings, by the war of Cevennes, by the destruction of Port-Royal. On the other side was a sect laughing at the Scriptures, shooting out the tongue at the sacraments, but ready to encounter principalities and powers in the cause of justice, mercy and toleration. Irreligion, accidentally associated with philanthropy, triumphed for a time over religion accidentally associated with political and social abuses. Everything gave way to the zeal and activity of the new reformers. In France, every man distinguished in letters was found in their ranks. Every year gave birth to works in which the fundamental principles of the Church were attacked with argument, invective, and ridicule. The Church made no defence, except by acts of power. Censures were pronounced: books were seized: insults were offered to the remains of infidel writers; but no Bossuet, no Pascal, came forth to encounter Voltaire. There appeared not a single defence of the Catholic doctrine which produced any considerable effect, or which is now even remembered. A bloody and unsparing persecution, like that which put down the Albigenses, might have put down the philosophers. But the time for De Montforts and Dominics had gone by. The punishments which the priests were still able to inflict were suffficient to irritate, but not sufficient to destroy. The war was between power on one side, and wit on the other; and the power was under far more restraint than the wit. Orthodoxy soon became a synonyme for ignorance and stupidity. It was as necessary to the character of an accomplished man that he should despise the religion of his country, as that he should know his letters. The new doctrines spread rapidly through Christendom. Paris was the capital of the whole Continent. French was everywhere the language of polite circles. The literary glory of Italy and Spain had departed. That of Germany had not dawned. That of England shone, as yet, for the English alone. The teachers of France were the teachers of Europe. The Parisian opinions spread fast among the educated classes beyond the Alps: nor could the vigilance of the Inquisition prevent the contraband importation of the new heresy into Castile and Portugal. Governments, even arbitrary governments, saw with pleasure the progress of this philosophy. Numerous reforms, generally laudable, sometimes hurried on without sufficient regard to time, to place, and to public feeling, showed the extent of its influence. The rulers of Prussia, of Russia, of Austria, and of many smaller states, were supposed to be among the initiated. The Church of Rome was still, in outward show, as stately and splendid as ever; but her foundation was undermined. No state had quitted her communion or confiscated her revenues; but the reverence of the people was everywhere departing from her. The first great warning-stroke was the fall of that society which, in the conflict with Protestantism, had saved the Catholic Church from destruction. The Order of Jesus had never recovered from the injury received in the struggle with Port-Royal. It was now still more rudely assailed by the philosophers. Its spirit was broken; its reputation was tainted. Insulted by all the men of genius in Europe, condemned by the civil magistrate, feebly defended by the chiefs of the hierarchy, it fell: and great was the fall of it. The movement went on with increasing speed. The first generation of the new sect passed away. The doctrines of Voltaire were inherited and exaggerated by successors, who bore to him the same relation which the Anabaptists bore to Luther, or the Fifth- Monarchy men to Pym. At length the Revolution came. Down went the old Church of France, with all its pomp and wealth. Some of its priests purchased a maintenance by separating themselves from Rome, and by becoming the authors of a fresh schism. Some, rejoicing in the new licence, flung away their sacred vestments, proclaimed that their whole life had been an imposture, insulted and persecuted the religion of which they had been ministers, and distinguished themselves, even in the Jacobin Club and the Commune of Paris, by the excess of their impudence and ferocity. Others, more faithful to their principles, were butchered by scores without a trial, drowned, shot, hung on lamp-posts. Thousands fled from their country to take sanctuary under the shade of hostile altars. The churches were closed; the bells were silent; the shrines were plundered; the silver crucifixes were melted down. Buffoons, dressed in copes and surplices, came dancing the carmagnole even to the bar of the Convention. The bust of Marat was substituted for the statues of the martyrs of Christianity. A prostitute, seated on a chair of state in the chancel of Notre Dame, received the adoration of thousands, who exclaimed that at length, for the first time, those ancient Gothic arches had resounded with the accents of truth. The new unbelief was as intolerant as the old superstition. To show reverence for religion was to incur the suspicion of disaffection. It was not without imminent danger that the priest baptized the infant, joined the hands of lovers, or listened to the confession of the dying. The absurd worship of the Goddess of Reason was, indeed, of short duration; but the deism of Robespierre and Lepaux was not less hostile to the Catholic faith than the atheism of Clootz and Chaumette. Nor were the calamities of the Church confined to France. The revolutionary spirit, attacked by all Europe, beat all Europe back, became conqueror in its turn, and, not satisfied with the Belgian cities and the rich domains of the spiritual electors, went raging over the Rhine and through the passes of the Alps. Throughout the whole of the great war against Protestantism, Italy and Spain had been the base of the Catholic operations. Spain was now the obsequious vassal of the infidels. Italy was subjugated by them. To her ancient principalities succeeded the Cisalpine republic, and the Ligurian republic, and the Parthenopean republic. The shrine of Loretto was stripped of the treasures piled up by the devotion of six hundred years. The convents of Rome were pillaged. The tricoloured flag floated on the top of the Castle of St. Angelo. The successor of St. Peter was carried away captive by the unbelievers. He died a prisoner in their hands; and even the honours of sepulture were long withheld from his remains. It is not strange that in the year 1799, even sagacious observers should have thought that, at length, the hour of the Church of Rome was come. An infidel power ascendant, the Pope dying in captivity, the most illustrious prelates of France living in a foreign country on Protestant alms, the noblest edifices which the munificence of former ages had consecrated to the worship of God turned into temples of Victory, or into banqueting-houses for political societies, or into Theophilanthropic chapels, such signs might well be supposed to indicate the approaching end of that long domination. But the end was not yet. Again doomed to death, the milk-white hind was still fated not to die. Even before the funeral rites had been performed over the ashes of Pius the Sixth, a great reaction had commenced, which, after the lapse of more than forty years, appears to be still in progress. Anarchy had had its day. A new order of things rose out of the confusion, new dynasties, new laws, new titles; and amidst them emerged the ancient religion. The Arabs have a fable that the Great Pyramid was built by antediluvian kings, and alone, of all the works of men, bore the weight of the flood. Such as this was the fate of the Papacy. It had been buried under the great inundation; but its deep foundations had remained unshaken; and when the waters abated, it appeared alone amidst the ruins of a world which had passed away. The republic of Holland was gone, and the empire of Germany, and the great Council of Venice, and the old Helvetian League, and the House of Bourbon, and the parliaments and aristocracy of France. Europe was full of young creations, a French empire, a kingdom of Italy, a Confederation of the Rhine. Nor had the late events affected only territorial limits and political institutions. The distribution of property, the composition and spirit of society, had, through great part of Catholic Europe, undergone a complete change. But the unchangeable Church was still there. Some future historian, as able and temperate as Professor Ranke, will, we hope, trace the progress of the Catholic revival of the nineteenth century. We feel that we are drawing too near our own time, and that, if we go on, we shall be in danger of saying much which may be supposed to indicate, and which will certainly excite, angry feelings. We will, therefore, make only one more observation, which, in our opinion, is deserving of serious attention. During the eighteenth century, the influence of the Church of Rome was constantly on the decline. Unbelief made extensive conquests in all the Catholic countries of Europe, and in some countries obtained a complete ascendency. The Papacy was at length brought so low as to be an object of derision to infidels, and of pity rather than of hatred to Protestants. During the nineteenth century, this fallen Church has been gradually rising from her depressed state and reconquering her old dominion. No person who calmly reflects on what, within the last few years, has passed in Spain, in Italy, in South America, in Ireland, in the Netherlands, in Prussia, even in France, can doubt that the power of this Church over the hearts and minds of men, is now greater far than it was when the Encyclopaedia and the Philosophical Dictionary appeared. It is surely remarkable, that neither the moral revolution of the eighteenth century, nor the moral counter-revolution of the nineteenth, should, in any perceptible degree, have added to the domain of Protestantism. During the former period, whatever was lost to Catholicism was lost also to Christianity; during the latter, whatever was regained by Christianity in Catholic countries was regained also by Catholicism. We should naturally have expected that many minds, on the way from superstition to infidelity, or on the way back from infidelity to superstition, would have stopped at an intermediate point. Between the doctrines taught in the schools of the Jesuits, and those which were maintained at the little supper parties of the Baron Holbach, there is a vast interval, in which the human mind, it should seem, might find for itself some resting-place more satisfactory than either of the two extremes. And at the time of the Reformation, millions found such a resting-place. Whole nations then renounced Popery without ceasing to believe in a first cause, in a future life, or in the Divine mission of Jesus. In the last century, on the other hand, when a Catholic renounced his belief in the real Presence, it was a thousand to one that he renounced his belief in the Gospel too; and, when the reaction took place, with belief in the Gospel came back belief in the real presence. We by no means venture to deduce from these phenomena any general law; but we think it a most remarkable fact, that no Christian nation, which did not adopt the principles of the Reformation before the end of the sixteenth century, should ever have adopted them. Catholic communities have, since that time, become infidel and become Catholic again; but none has become Protestant. Here we close this hasty sketch of one of the most important portions of the history of mankind. Our readers will have great reason to feel obliged to us if we have interested them sufficiently to induce them to peruse Professor Ranke's book. We will only caution them against the French translation, a performance which, in our opinion, is just as discreditable to the moral character of the person from whom it proceeds as a false affidavit or a forged bill of exchange would have been, and advise them to study either the original, or the English version, in which the sense and spirit of the original are admirably preserved. WAR OF THE SUCCESSION IN SPAIN (January 1833) History of the War of the Succession in Spain. By LORD MAHON. 8vo. London: 1832. The days when Miscellanies in Prose and Verse by a Person of Honour, and Romances of M. Scuderi, done into English by a Person of Quality, were attractive to readers and profitable to booksellers, have long gone by. The literary privileges once enjoyed by lords are as obsolete as their right to kill the king's deer on their way to Parliament, or as their old remedy of scandalum magnatum. Yet we must acknowledge that, though our political opinions are by no means aristocratical, we always feel kindly disposed towards noble authors. Industry, and a taste for intellectual pleasures, are peculiarly respectable in those who can afford to be idle and who have every temptation to be dissipated. It is impossible not to wish success to a man who, finding himself placed, without any exertion or any merit on his part, above the mass of society, voluntarily descends from his eminence in search of distinctions which he may justly call his own. This is, we think, the second appearance of Lord Mahon in the character of an author. His first book was creditable to him, but was in every respect inferior to the work which now lies before us. He has undoubtedly some of the most valuable qualities of a historian, great diligence in examining authorities, great judgment in weighing testimony, and great impartiality in estimating characters. We are not aware that he has in any instance forgotten the duties belonging to his literary functions in the feelings of a kinsman. He does no more than justice to his ancestor Stanhope; he does full justice to Stanhope's enemies and rivals. His narrative is very perspicuous, and is also entitled to the praise, seldom, we grieve to say, deserved by modern writers, of being very concise. It must be admitted, however, that, with many of the best qualities of a literary veteran, he has some of the faults of a literary novice. He has not yet acquired a great command of words. His style is seldom easy, and is now and then unpleasantly stiff. He is so bigoted a purist that he transforms the Abbe d'Estrees into an Abbot. We do not like to see French words introduced into English composition; but, after all, the first law of writing, that law to which all other laws are subordinate, is this, that the words employed shall be such as convey to the reader the meaning of the writer. Now an Abbot is the head of a religious house; an Abbe is quite a different sort of person. It is better undoubtedly to use an English word than a French word; but it is better to use a French word than to misuse an English word. Lord Mahon is also a little too fond of uttering moral reflections in a style too sententious and oracular. We shall give one instance: "Strange as it seems, experience shows that we usually feel far more animosity against those whom we have injured than against those who injure us: and this remark holds good with every degree of intellect, with every class of fortune, with a prince or a peasant, a stripling or an elder, a hero or a prince." This remark might have seemed strange at the Court of Nimrod or Chedorlaomer; but it has now been for many generations considered as a truism rather than a paradox. Every boy has written on the thesis "Odisse quem loeseris." Scarcely any lines in English poetry are better known than that vigorous couplet, "Forgiveness to the injured does belong; But they ne'er pardon who have done the wrong." The historians and philosophers have quite done with this maxim, and have abandoned it, like other maxims which have lost their gloss, to bad novelists, by whom it will very soon be worn to rags. It is no more than justice to say that the faults of Lord Mahon's book are precisely the faults which time seldom fails to cure, and that the book, in spite of those faults, is a valuable addition to our historical literature. Whoever wishes to be well acquainted with the morbid anatomy of governments, whoever wishes to know how great states may be made feeble and wretched, should study the history of Spain. The empire of Philip the Second was undoubtedly one of the most powerful and splendid that ever existed in the world. In Europe, he ruled Spain, Portugal, the Netherlands on both sides of the Rhine, Franche Comte, Roussillon, the Milanese, and the Two Sicilies. Tuscany, Parma, and the other small states of Italy, were as completely dependent on him as the Nizam and the Rajah of Berar now are on the East India Company. In Asia, the King of Spain was master of the Philippines and of all those rich settlements which the Portuguese had made on the coast of Malabar and Coromandel, in the Peninsula of Malacca, and in the Spice- islands of the Eastern Archipelago. In America his dominions extended on each side of the equator into the temperate zone. There is reason to believe that his annual revenue amounted, in the season of his greatest power, to a sum near ten times as large as that which England yielded to Elizabeth. He had a standing army of fifty thousand excellent troops, at a time when England had not a single battalion in constant pay. His ordinary naval force consisted of a hundred and forty galleys. He held, what no other prince in modern times has held, the dominion both of the land and of the sea. During the greater part of his reign, he was supreme on both elements. His soldiers marched up to the capital of France; his ships menaced the shores of England. It is no exaggeration to say that, during several years, his power over Europe was greater than even that of Napoleon. The influence of the French conqueror never extended beyond low-water mark. The narrowest strait was to his power what it was of old believed that a running stream was to the sorceries of a witch. While his army entered every metropolis from Moscow to Lisbon, the English fleets blockaded every port from Dantzic to Trieste. Sicily, Sardinia, Majorca, Guernsey, enjoyed security through the whole course of a war which endangered every throne on the Continent. The victorious and imperial nation which had filled its museums with the spoils of Antwerp, of Florence, and of Rome, was suffering painfully from the want of luxuries which use had made necessaries. While pillars and arches were rising to commemorate the French conquests, the conquerors were trying to manufacture coffee out of succory and sugar out of beet-root. The influence of Philip on the Continent was as great as that of Napoleon. The Emperor of Germany was his kinsman. France, torn by religious dissensions, was never a formidable opponent, and was sometimes a dependent ally. At the same time, Spain had what Napoleon desired in vain, ships, colonies, and commerce. She long monopolised the trade of America and of the Indian Ocean. All the gold of the West, and all the spices of the East, were received and distributed by her. During many years of war, her commerce was interrupted only by the predatory enterprises of a few roving privateers. Even after the defeat of the Armada, English statesmen continued to look with great dread on the maritime power of Philip. "The King of Spain," said the Lord Keeper to the two Houses in 1593, "since he hath usurped upon the Kingdom of Portugal, hath thereby grown mighty, by gaining the East Indies: so as, how great soever he was before, he is now thereby manifestly more great: . . . He keepeth a navy armed to impeach all trade of merchandise from England to Gascoigne and Guienne which he attempted to do this last vintage; so as he is now become as a frontier enemy to all the west of England, as well as all the south parts, as Sussex, Hampshire, and the Isle of Wight. Yea, by means of his interest in St. Maloes, a port full of shipping for the war, he is a dangerous neighbour to the Queen's isles of Jersey and Guernsey, ancient possessions of this Crown, and never conquered in the greatest wars with France." The ascendency which Spain then had in Europe was, in one sense, well deserved. It was an ascendency which had been gained by unquestioned superiority in all the arts of policy and of war. In the sixteenth century, Italy was not more decidedly the land of the fine arts, Germany was not more decidedly the land of bold theological speculation, than Spain was the land of statesmen and of soldiers. The character which Virgil has ascribed to his countrymen might have been claimed by the grave and haughty chiefs, who surrounded the throne of Ferdinand the Catholic, and of his immediate successors. That majestic art, "regere imperio populos," was not better understood by the Romans in the proudest days of their republic, than by Gonsalvo and Ximenes, Cortes and Alva. The skill of the Spanish diplomatists was renowned throughout Europe. In England the name of Gondomar is still remembered. The sovereign nation was unrivalled both in regular and irregular warfare. The impetuous chivalry of France, the serried phalanx of Switzerland, were alike found wanting when brought face to face with the Spanish infantry. In the wars of the New World, where something different from ordinary strategy was required in the general and something different from ordinary discipline in the soldier, where it was every day necessary to meet by some new expedient the varying tactics of a barbarous enemy, the Spanish adventurers, sprung from the common people, displayed a fertility of resource, and a talent for negotiation and command, to which history scarcely affords a parallel. The Castilian of those times was to the Italian what the Roman, in the days of the greatness of Rome, was to the Greek. The conqueror had less ingenuity, less taste, less delicacy of perception than the conquered; but far more pride, firmness, and courage, a more solemn demeanour, a stronger sense of honour. The subject had more subtlety in speculation, the ruler more energy in action. The vices of the former were those of a coward; the vices of the latter were those of a tyrant. It may be added, that the Spaniard, like the Roman, did not disdain to study the arts and the language of those whom he oppressed. A revolution took place in the literature of Spain, not unlike that revolution which, as Horace tells us, took place in the poetry of Latium: "Capta ferum victorem cepit." The slave took prisoner the enslaver. The old Castilian ballads gave place to sonnets in the style of Petrarch, and to heroic poems in the stanza of Ariosto, as the national songs of Rome were driven out by imitations of Theocritus, and translations from Menander. In no modern society, not even in England during the reign of Elizabeth, has there been so great a number of men eminent at once in literature and in the pursuits of active life, as Spain produced during the sixteenth century. Almost every distinguished writer was also distinguished as a soldier or a politician. Boscan bore arms with high reputation. Garcilaso de Vega, the author of the sweetest and most graceful pastoral poem of modern times, after a short but splendid military career, fell sword in hand at the head of a storming party. Alonzo de Ercilla bore a conspicuous part in that war of Arauco, which he afterwards celebrated in one of the best heroic poems that Spain has produced. Hurtado de Mendoza, whose poems have been compared to those of Horace, and whose charming little novel is evidently the model of Gil-Blas, has been handed down to us by history as one of the sternest of those iron proconsuls who were employed by the House of Austria to crush the lingering public spirit of Italy. Lope sailed in the Armada; Cervantes was wounded at Lepanto. It is curious to consider with how much awe our ancestors in those times regarded a Spaniard. He was, in their apprehension, a kind of daemon, horribly malevolent, but withal most sagacious and powerful. "They be verye wyse and politicke," says an honest Englishman, in a memorial addressed to Mary, "and can, thorowe ther wysdome, reform and brydell theyr owne natures for a tyme, and applye their conditions to the maners of those men with whom they meddell gladlye by friendshippe; whose mischievous maners a man shall never knowe untyll he come under ther subjection: but then shall he parfectlye parceyve and fele them: which thynge I praye God England never do: for in dissimulations untyll they have ther purposes, and afterwards in oppression and tyrarnnye, when they can obtayne them, they do exceed all other nations upon the earthe." This is just such language as Arminius would have used about the Romans, or as an Indian statesman of our times might use about the English. It is the language of a man burning with hatred, but cowed by those whom he hates; and painfully sensible of their superiority, not only in power, but in intelligence. But how art thou fallen from heaven, O Lucifer son of the morning! How art thou cut down to the ground, that didst weaken the nations! If we overleap a hundred years, and look at Spain towards the close of the seventeenth century, what a change do we find! The contrast is as great as that which the Rome of Gallienus and Honorius presents to the Rome of Marius and Caesar. Foreign conquest had begun to eat into every part of that gigantic monarchy on which the sun never set. Holland was gone, and Portugal, and Artois, and Roussillon, and Franche Comte. In the East, the empire founded by the Dutch far surpassed in wealth and splendour that which their old tyrants still retained. In the West, England had seized, and still held, settlements in the midst of the Mexican sea. The mere loss of territory was, however, of little moment. The reluctant obedience of distant provinces generally costs more than it is worth. Empires which branch out widely are often more flourishing for a little timely pruning. Adrian acted judiciously when he abandoned the conquests of Trajan; and England was never so rich, so great, so formidable to foreign princes, so absolutely mistress of the sea, as since the loss of her American colonies. The Spanish Empire was still, in outward appearance, great and magnificent. The European dominions subject to the last feeble Prince of the House of Austria were far more extensive than those of Lewis the Fourteenth. The American dependencies of the Castilian Crown still extended far to the North of Cancer and far to the South of Capricorn. But within this immense body there was an incurable decay, an utter want of tone, an utter prostration of strength. An ingenious and diligent population, eminently skilled in arts and manufactures, had been driven into exile by stupid and remorseless bigots. The glory of the Spanish pencil had departed with Velasquez and Murillo. The splendid age of Spanish literature had closed with Solis and Calderon. During the seventeenth century many states had formed great military establishments. But the Spanish army, so formidable under the command of Alva and Farnese, had dwindled away to a few thousand men, ill paid and ill disciplined. England, Holland, and France had great navies. But the Spanish navy was scarcely equal to the tenth part of that mighty force which, in the time of Philip the Second, had been the terror of the Atlantic and the Mediterranean. The arsenals were deserted. The magazines were unprovided. The frontier fortresses were ungarrisoned. The police was utterly inefficient for the protection of the people. Murders were committed in the face of day with perfect impunity. Bravoes and discarded serving-men, with swords at their sides,. swaggered every day through the most public streets and squares of the capital, disturbing the public peace, and setting at defiance the ministers of justice. The finances were in frightful disorder. The people paid much. The Government received little. The American viceroys and the farmers of the revenue became rich, while the merchants broke, while the peasantry starved, while the body-servants of the sovereign remained unpaid, while the soldiers of the royal guard repaired daily to the doors of convents, and battled there with the crowd of beggars for a porringer of broth and a morsel of bread. Every remedy which was tried aggravated the disease. The currency was altered; and this frantic measure produced its never-failing effects. It destroyed all credit, and increased the misery which it was intended to relieve. The American gold, to use the words of Ortiz, was to the necessities of the State but as a drop of water to the lips of a man raging with thirst. Heaps of unopened despatches accumulated in the offices, while the ministers were concerting with bedchamber-women and Jesuits the means of tripping up each other. Every foreign power could plunder and insult with impunity the heir of Charles the Fifth. Into such a state had the mighty kingdom of Spain fallen, while one of its smallest dependencies, a country not so large as the province of Estremadura or Andalusia, situated under an inclement sky, and preserved only by artificial means from the inroads of the ocean, had become a power of the first class, and treated on terms of equality with the Courts of London and Versailles. The manner in which Lord Mahon explains the financial situation of Spain by no means satisfies us. "It will be found," says he, "that those individuals deriving their chief income from mines, whose yearly produce is uncertain and varying, and seems rather to spring from fortune than to follow industry, are usually careless, unthrifty, and irregular in their expenditure. The example of Spain might tempt us to apply the same remark to states." Lord Mahon would find it difficult, we suspect, to make out his analogy. Nothing could be more uncertain and varying than the gains and losses of those who were in the habit of putting into the State lotteries. But no part of the public income was more certain than that which was derived from the lotteries. We believe that this case is very similar to that of the American mines. Some veins of ore exceeded expectation; some fell below it. Some of the private speculators drew blanks, and others gained prizes. But the revenue of the State depended, not on any particular vein, but on the whole annual produce of two great continents. This annual produce seems to have been almost constantly on the increase during the seventeenth century. The Mexican mines were, through the reigns of Philip the Fourth and Charles the Second, in a steady course of improvement; and in South America, though the district of Potosi was not so productive as formerly, other places more than made up for the deficiency. We very much doubt whether Lord Mahon can prove that the income which the Spanish Government derived from the mines of America fluctuated more than the income derived from the internal taxes of Spain itself. All the causes of the decay of Spain resolve themselves into one cause, bad government. The valour, the intelligence, the energy which, at the close of the fifteenth and the beginning of the sixteenth century, had made the Spaniards the first nation in the world, were the fruits of the old institutions of Castile and Arragon, institutions eminently favourable to public liberty. These institutions the first Princes of the House of Austria attacked and almost wholly destroyed. Their successors expiated the crime. The effects of a change from good government to bad government are not fully felt for some time after the change has taken place. The talents and the virtues which a good constitution generates may for a time survive that constitution. Thus the reigns of princes, who have established absolute monarchy on the ruins of popular forms of government often shine in history with a peculiar brilliancy. But when a generation or two has passed away, then comes signally to pass that which was written by Montesquieu, that despotic governments resemble those savages who cut down the tree in order to get at the fruit. During the first years of tyranny, is reaped the harvest sown during the last years of liberty. Thus the Augustan age was rich in great minds formed in the generation of Cicero and Caesar. The fruits of the policy of Augustus were reserved for posterity. Philip the Second was the heir of the Cortes and of the Justiza Mayor; and they left him a nation which seemed able to conquer all the world. What Philip left to his successors is well known. The shock which the great religious schism of the sixteenth century gave to Europe, was scarcely felt in Spain. In England, Germany, Holland, France, Denmark, Switzerland, Sweden, that shock had produced, with some temporary evil, much durable good. The principles of the Reformation had triumphed in some of those countries. The Catholic Church had maintained its ascendency in others. But though the event had not been the same in all, all had been agitated by the conflict. Even in France, in Southern Germany, and in the Catholic cantons of Switzerland, the public mind had been stirred to its inmost depths. The hold of ancient prejudice had been somewhat loosened. The Church of Rome, warned by the danger which she had narrowly escaped, had, in those parts of her dominion, assumed a milder and more liberal character. She sometimes condescended to submit her high pretensions to the scrutiny of reason, and availed herself more sparingly than in former times of the aid of the secular arm. Even when persecution was employed, it was not persecution in the worst and most frightful shape. The severities of Lewis the Fourteenth, odious as they were, cannot be compared with those which, at the first dawn of the Reformation, had been inflicted on the heretics in many parts of Europe. The only effect which the Reformation had produced in Spain had been to make the Inquisition more vigilant and the commonalty more bigoted. The times of refreshing came to all neighbouring countries. One people alone remained, like the fleece of the Hebrew warrior, dry in the midst of that benignant and fertilising dew. While other nations were putting away childish things, the Spaniard still thought as a child and understood as a child. Among the men of the seventeenth century, he was the man of the fifteenth century or of a still darker period, delighted to behold an Auto da fe, and ready to volunteer on a Crusade. The evils produced by a bad government and a bad religion, seemed to have attained their greatest height during the last years of the seventeenth century. While the kingdom was in this deplorable state, the King, Charles, second of the name, was hastening to an early grave. His days had been few and evil. He had been unfortunate in all his wars, in every part of his internal administration, and in all his domestic relations. His first wife, whom he tenderly loved, died very young. His second wife exercised great influence over him, but seems to have been regarded by him rather with fear than with love. He was childless; and his constitution was so completely shattered that, at little more than thirty years of age, he had given up all hopes of posterity. His mind was even more distempered than his body. He was sometimes sunk in listless melancholy, and sometimes harassed by the wildest and most extravagant fancies. He was not, however, wholly destitute of the feelings which became his station. His sufferings were aggravated by the thought that his own dissolution might not improbably be followed by the dissolution of his empire. Several princes laid claim to the succession. The King's eldest sister had married Lewis the Fourteenth. The Dauphin would, therefore, in the common course of inheritance, have succeeded to the crown. But the Infanta had, at the time of her espousals, solemnly renounced, in her own name, and in that of her posterity, all claim to the succession. This renunciation had been confirmed in due form by the Cortes. A younger sister of the King had been the first wife of Leopold, Emperor of Germany. She too had at her marriage renounced her claims to the Spanish crown; but the Cortes had not sanctioned the renunciation, and it was therefore considered as invalid by the Spanish jurists. The fruit of this marriage was a daughter, who had espoused the Elector of Bavaria. The Electoral Prince of Bavaria inherited her claim to the throne of Spain. The Emperor Leopold was son of a daughter of Philip the Third, and was therefore first cousin to Charles. No renunciation whatever had been exacted from his mother at the time of her marriage. The question was certainly very complicated. That claim which, according to the ordinary rules of inheritance, was the strongest, had been barred by a contract executed in the most binding form. The claim of the Electoral Prince of Bavaria was weaker. But so also was the contract which bound him not to prosecute his claim. The only party against whom no instrument of renunciation could be produced was the party who, in respect of blood, had the weakest claim of all. As it was clear that great alarm would be excited throughout Europe if either the Emperor or the Dauphin should become King of Spain, each of those Princes offered to waive his pretensions in favour of his second son, the Emperor, in favour of the Archduke Charles, the Dauphin, in favour of Philip Duke of Anjou. Soon after the peace of Ryswick, William the Third and Lewis the Fourteenth determined to settle the question of the succession without consulting either Charles or the Emperor. France, England, and Holland, became parties to a treaty by which it was stipulated that the Electoral Prince of Bavaria should succeed to Spain, the Indies, and the Netherlands. The Imperial family were to be bought off with the Milanese; and the Dauphin was to have the Two Sicilies. The great object of the King of Spain and of all his counsellors was to avert the dismemberment of the monarchy. In the hope of attaining this end, Charles determined to name a successor. A will was accordingly framed by which the crown was bequeathed to the Bavarian Prince. Unhappily, this will had scarcely been signed when the Prince died. The question was again unsettled, and presented greater difficulties than before. A new Treaty of Partition was concluded between France, England, and Holland. It was agreed that Spain, the Indies, and the Netherlands, should descend to the Archduke Charles. In return for this great concession made by the Bourbons to a rival house, it was agreed that France should have the Milanese, or an equivalent in a more commodious situation, The equivalent in view was the province of Lorraine. Arbuthnot, some years later, ridiculed the Partition Treaty with exquisite humour and ingenuity. Everybody must remember his description of the paroxysm of rage into which poor old Lord Strutt fell, on hearing that his runaway servant Nick Frog, his clothier John Bull, and his old enemy Lewis Baboon, had come with quadrants, poles, and inkhorns, to survey his estate, and to draw his will for him. Lord Mahon speaks of the arrangement with grave severity. He calls it "an iniquitous compact, concluded without the slightest reference to the welfare of the states so readily parcelled and allotted; insulting to the pride of Spain, and tending to strip that country of its hard-won conquests." The most serious part of this charge would apply to half the treaties which have been concluded in Europe quite as strongly as to the Partition Treaty. What regard was shown in the Treaty of the Pyrenees to the welfare of the people of Dunkirk and Roussillon, in the Treaty of Nimeguen to the welfare of the people of Franche Comte, in the Treaty of Utrecht to the welfare of the people of Flanders, in the treaty of 1735 to the welfare of the people of Tuscany? All Europe remembers, and our latest posterity will, we fear, have reason to remember how coolly, at the last great pacification of Christendom, the people of Poland, of Norway, of Belgium, and of Lombardy, were allotted to masters whom they abhorred. The statesmen who negotiated the Partition Treaty were not so far beyond their age and ours in wisdom and virtue as to trouble themselves much about the happiness of the people whom they were apportioning among foreign rulers. But it will be difficult to prove that the stipulations which Lord Mahon condemns were in any respect unfavourable to the happiness of those who were to be transferred to new sovereigns. The Neapolitans would certainly have lost nothing by being given to the Dauphin, or to the Great Turk. Addison, who visited Naples about the time at which the Partition Treaty was signed, has left us a frightful description of the misgovernment under which that part of the Spanish Empire groaned. As to the people of Lorraine, an union with France would have been the happiest event which could have befallen them. Lewis was already their sovereign for all purposes of cruelty and exaction. He had kept their country during many years in his own hands. At the peace of Ryswick, indeed, their Duke had been allowed to return. But the conditions which had been imposed on him made him a mere vassal of France. We cannot admit that the Treaty of Partition was objectionable because it "tended to strip Spain of hard-won conquests." The inheritance was so vast, and the claimants so mighty, that without some dismemberment it was scarcely possible to make a peaceable arrangement. If any dismemberment was to take place, the best way of effecting it surely was to separate from the monarchy those provinces which were at a great distance from Spain, which were not Spanish in manners, in language, or in feelings, which were both worse governed and less valuable than the old kingdoms of Castile and Arragon, and which, having always been governed by foreigners, would not be likely to feel acutely the humiliation of being turned over from one master to another. That England and Holland had a right to interfere is plain. The question of the Spanish succession was not an internal question, but an European question. And this Lord Mahon admits. He thinks that when the evil had been done, and a French prince was reigning at the Escurial, England and Holland were justified in attempting, not merely to strip Spain of its remote dependencies, but to conquer Spain itself; that they were justified in attempting to put, not merely the passive Flemings and Italians, but the reluctant Castilians and Asturians, under the dominion of a stranger. The danger against which the Partition Treaty was intended to guard was precisely the same danger which afterwards was made the ground of war. It will be difficult to prove that a danger which was sufficient to justify the war was insufficient to justify the provisions of the treaty. If, as Lord Mahon contends, it was better that Spain should be subjugated by main force than that she should be governed by a Bourbon, it was surely better that she should be deprived of Sicily and the Milanese than that she should be governed by a Bourbon. Whether the treaty was judiciously framed is quite another question. We disapprove of the stipulations. But we disapprove of them, not because we think them bad, but because we think that there was no chance of their being executed. Lewis was the most faithless of politicians. He hated the Dutch. He hated the Government which the Revolution had established in England. He had every disposition to quarrel with his new allies. It was quite certain that he would not observe his engagements, if it should be for his interest to violate them. Even if it should be for his interest to observe them, it might well be doubted whether the strongest and clearest interest would induce a man so haughty and self-willed to co-operate heartily with two governments which had always been the objects of his scorn and aversion. When intelligence of the second Partition Treaty arrived at Madrid, it roused to momentary energy the languishing ruler of a languishing state. The Spanish ambassador at the Court of London was directed to remonstrate with the Government of William; and his remonstrances were so insolent that he was commanded to leave England. Charles retaliated by dismissing the English and Dutch ambassadors. The French King, though the chief author of the Partition Treaty, succeeded in turning the whole wrath of Charles and of the Spanish people from himself, and in directing it against the two maritime powers. Those powers had now no agent at Madrid. Their perfidious ally was at liberty to carry on his intrigues unchecked; and he fully availed himself of this advantage. A long contest was maintained with varying success by the factions which surrounded the miserable King. On the side of the Imperial family was the Queen, herself a Princess of that family. With her were allied the confessor of the King, and most of the ministers. On the other side were two of the most dexterous politicians of that age, Cardinal Porto Carrero, Archbishop of Toledo, and Harcourt, the ambassador of Lewis. Harcourt was a noble specimen of the French aristocracy in the days of its highest splendour, a finished gentleman, a brave soldier, and a skilful diplomatist. His courteous and insinuating manners, his Parisian vivacity tempered with Castilian gravity, made him the favourite of the whole Court. He became intimate with the grandees. He caressed the clergy. He dazzled the multitude by his magnificent style of living. The prejudices which the people of Madrid had conceived against the French character, the vindictive feelings generated during centuries of national rivalry, gradually yielded to his arts; while the Austrian ambassador, a surly, pompous, niggardly German, made himself and his country more and more unpopular every day. Harcourt won over the Court and the city: Porto Carrero managed the King. Never were knave and dupe better suited to each other. Charles was sick, nervous, and extravagantly superstitious. Porto Carrero had learned in the exercise of his profession the art of exciting and soothing such minds; and he employed that art with the calm and demure cruelty which is the characteristic of wicked and ambitious priests. He first supplanted the confessor. The state of the poor King, during the conflict between his two spiritual advisers, was horrible. At one time he was induced to believe that his malady was the same with that of the wretches described in the New Testament, who dwelt among the tombs, whom no chains could bind, and whom no man dared to approach. At another time a sorceress who lived in the mountains of the Asturias was consulted about his malady. Several persons were accused of having bewitched him. Porto Carrero recommended the appalling rite of exorcism, which was actually performed. The ceremony made the poor King more nervous and miserable than ever. But it served the turn of the Cardinal, who, after much secret trickery, succeeded in casting out, not the devil, but the confessor. The next object was to get rid of the ministers. Madrid was supplied with provisions by a monopoly. The Government looked after this most delicate concern as it looked after everything else. The partisans of the House of Bourbon took advantage of the negligence of the administration. On a sudden the supply of food failed. Exorbitant prices were demanded. The people rose. The royal residence was surrounded by an immense multitude. The Queen harangued them. The priests exhibited the host. All was in vain. It was necessary to awaken the King from his uneasy sleep, and to carry him to the balcony. There a solemn promise was given that the unpopular advisers of the Crown should be forthwith dismissed. The mob left the palace and proceeded to pull down the houses of the ministers. The adherents of the Austrian line were thus driven from power, and the government was intrusted to the creatures of Porto Carrero. The King left the city in which he had suffered so cruel an insult for the magnificent retreat of the Escurial. Here his hypochondriac fancy took a new turn. Like his ancestor Charles the Fifth, he was haunted by the strange curiosity to pry into the secrets of that grave to which he was hastening. In the cemetery which Philip the Second had formed beneath the pavement of the church of St. Lawrence, reposed three generations of Castilian princes. Into these dark vaults the unhappy monarch descended by torchlight, and penetrated to that superb and gloomy chamber where, round the great black crucifix, were ranged the coffins of the kings and queens of Spain. There he commanded his attendants to open the massy chests of bronze in which the relics of his predecessors decayed. He looked on the ghastly spectacle with little emotion till the coffin of his first wife was unclosed, and she appeared before him--such was the skill of the embalmer--in all her well-remembered beauty. He cast one glance on those beloved features, unseen for eighteen years, those features over which corruption seemed to have no power, and rushed from the vault, exclaiming, "She is with God; and I shall soon be with her." The awful sight completed the ruin of his body and mind. The Escurial became hateful to him; and he hastened to Aranjuez. But the shades and waters of that delicious island-garden, so fondly celebrated in the sparkling verse of Calderon, brought no solace to their unfortunate master. Having tried medicine, exercise, and amusement in, vain, he returned to Madrid to die. He was now beset on every side by the bold and skilful agents of the House of Bourbon. The leading politicians of his Court assured him that Lewis, and Lewis alone, was sufficiently powerful to preserve the Spanish monarchy undivided, and that Austria would be utterly unable to prevent the Treaty of Partition from being carried into effect. Some celebrated lawyers gave it as their opinion that the act of renunciation executed by the late Queen of France ought to be construed according to the spirit, and not according to the letter. The letter undoubtedly excluded the French princes. The spirit was merely this, that ample security should be taken against the union of the French and Spanish Crowns on one head. In all probability, neither political nor legal reasonings would have sufficed to overcome the partiality which Charles felt for the House of Austria. There had always been a close connection between the two great royal lines which sprang from the marriage of Philip and Juana. Both had always regarded the French as their natural enemies. It was necessary to have recourse to religious terrors; and Porto Carrero employed those terrors with true professional skill. The King's life was drawing to a close. Would the most Catholic prince commit a great sin on the brink of the grave? And what could be a greater sin than, from an unreasonable attachment to a family name, from an unchristian antipathy to a rival house, to set aside the rightful heir of an immense monarchy? The tender conscience and the feeble intellect of Charles were strongly wrought upon by these appeals. At length Porto Carrero ventured on a master-stroke. He advised Charles to apply for counsel to the Pope. The King, who, in the simplicity of his heart, considered the successor of St. Peter as an infallible guide in spiritual matters, adopted the suggestion; and Porto Carrero, who knew that his Holiness was a mere tool of France, awaited with perfect confidence the result of the application. In the answer which arrived from Rome, the King was solemnly reminded of the great account which he was soon to render, and cautioned against the flagrant injustice which he was tempted to commit. He was assured that the right was with the House of Bourbon, and reminded that his own salvation ought to be dearer to him than the House of Austria. Yet he still continued irresolute. His attachment to his family, his aversion to France, were not to be overcome even by Papal authority. At length he thought himself actually dying. Then the cardinal redoubled his efforts. Divine after divine, well tutored for the occasion, was brought to the bed of the trembling penitent. He was dying in the commission of known sin. He was defrauding his relatives. He was bequeathing civil war to his people. He yielded, and signed that memorable testament, the cause of many calamities to Europe. As he affixed his name to the instrument, he burst into tears. "God," he said, "gives kingdoms and takes them away. I am already one of the dead." The will was kept secret during the short remainder of his life. On the third of November 1700 he expired. All Madrid crowded to the palace. The gates were thronged. The antechamber was filled with ambassadors and grandees, eager to learn what dispositions the deceased sovereign had made. At length the folding doors were flung open. The Duke of Abrantes came forth, and announced that the whole Spanish monarchy was bequeathed to Philip, Duke of Anjou. Charles had directed that, during the interval which might elapse between his death and the arrival of his successor, the government should be administered by a council, of which Porto Carrero was the chief member. Lewis acted, as the English ministers might have guessed that he would act. With scarcely the show of hesitation, he broke through all the obligations of the Partition Treaty, and accepted for his grandson the splendid legacy of Charles. The new sovereign hastened to take possession of his dominions. The whole Court of France accompanied him to Sceaux. His brothers escorted him to that frontier which, as they weakly imagined, was to be a frontier no longer. "The Pyrenees," said Lewis, "have ceased to exist." Those very Pyrenees, a few years later, were the theatre of a war between the heir of Lewis and the prince whom France was now sending to govern Spain. If Charles had ransacked Europe to find a successor whose moral and intellectual character resembled his own, he could not have chosen better. Philip was not so sickly as his predecessor, but he was quite as weak, as indolent, and as superstitious; he very soon became quite as hypochondriacal and eccentric; and he was even more uxorious. He was indeed a husband of ten thousand. His first object, when he became King of Spain, was to procure a wife. From the day of his marriage to the day of her death, his first object was to have her near him, and to do what she wished. As soon as his wife died, his first object was to procure another. Another was found, as unlike the former as possible. But she was a wife; and Philip was content. Neither by day nor by night, neither in sickness nor in health, neither in time of business nor in time of relaxation, did he ever suffer her to be absent from him for half an hour. His mind was naturally feeble; and he had received an enfeebling education. He had been brought up amidst the dull magnificence of Versailles. His grandfather was as imperious and as ostentatious in his intercourse with the royal family as in public acts. All those who grew up immediately under the eye of Lewis had the manners of persons who had never known what it was to be at ease. They were all taciturn, shy, and awkward. In all of them, except the Duke of Burgundy, the evil went further than the manners. The Dauphin, the Duke Of Berri, Philip of Anjou, were men of insignificant characters. They had no energy, no force of will. They had been so little accustomed to judge or to act for themselves that implicit dependence had become necessary to their comfort. The new King of Spain, emancipated from control, resembled that wretched German captive who, when the irons which he had worn for years were knocked off, fell prostrate on the floor of his prison. The restraints which had enfeebled the mind of the young Prince were required to support it. Till he had a wife he could do nothing; and when he had a wife he did whatever she chose. While this lounging, moping boy was on his way to Madrid, his grandfather was all activity. Lewis had no reason to fear a contest with the Empire single-handed. He made vigorous preparations to encounter Leopold. He overawed the States-General by means of a great army. He attempted to soothe the English Government by fair professions. William was not deceived. He fully returned the hatred of Lewis; and, if he had been free to act according to his own inclinations, he would have declared war as soon as the contents of the will were known. But he was bound by constitutional restraints. Both his person and his measures were unpopular in England. His secluded life and his cold manners disgusted a people accustomed to the graceful affability of Charles the Second. His foreign accent and his foreign attachments were offensive to the national prejudices. His reign had been a season of distress, following a season of rapidly increasing prosperity. The burdens of the late war and the expense of restoring the currency had been severely felt. Nine clergymen out of ten were Jacobites at heart, and had sworn allegiance to the new dynasty, only in order to save their benefices. A large proportion of the country gentlemen belonged to the same party. The whole body of agricultural proprietors was hostile to that interest which the creation of the national debt had brought into notice, and which was believed to be peculiarly favoured by the Court, the monied interest. The middle classes were fully determined to keep out James and his family. But they regarded William only as the less of two evils; and, as long as there was no imminent danger of a counter-revolution, were disposed to thwart and mortify the sovereign by whom they were, nevertheless, ready to stand, in case of necessity, with their lives and fortunes. They were sullen and dissatisfied. "There was," as Somers expressed it in a remarkable letter to William, "a deadness and want of spirit in the nation universally." Everything in England was going on as Lewis could have wished. The leaders of the Whig party had retired from power, and were extremely unpopular on account of the unfortunate issue of the Partition Treaty. The Tories, some of whom still cast a lingering look towards St. Germains, were in office, and had a decided majority in the House of Commons. William was so much embarrassed by the state of parties in England that he could not venture to make war on the House of Bourbon. He was suffering under a complication of severe and incurable diseases. There was every reason to believe that a few months would dissolve the fragile tie which bound up that feeble body with that ardent and unconquerable soul. If Lewis could succeed in preserving peace for a short time, it was probable that all his vast designs would be securely accomplished. Just at this crisis, the most important crisis of his life, his pride and his passions hurried him into an error, which undid all that forty years of victory and intrigue had done, which produced the dismemberment of the kingdom of his grandson, and brought invasion, bankruptcy, and famine on his own. James the Second died at St. Germains. Lewis paid him a farewell visit, and was so much moved by the solemn parting, and by the grief of the exiled queen, that, losing sight of all considerations of policy, and actuated, as it should seem, merely by compassion and by a not ungenerous vanity, he acknowledged the Prince of Wales as King of England. The indignation which the Castilians had felt when they heard that three foreign powers had undertaken to regulate the Spanish succession was nothing to the rage with which the English learned that their good neighbour had taken the trouble to provide them with a king. Whigs and Tories joined in condemning the proceedings of the French Court. The cry for war was raised by the city of London, and echoed and re-echoed from every corner of the realm. William saw that his time was come. Though his wasted and suffering body could hardly move without support, his spirit was as energetic and resolute as when, at twenty-three, he bade defiance to the combined forces of England and France. He left the Hague, where he had been engaged in negotiating with the States and the Emperor a defensive treaty against the ambitious designs of the Bourbons. He flew to London. He remodelled the Ministry. He dissolved the Parliament. The majority of the new House of Commons was with the King; and the most vigorous preparations were made for war. Before the commencement of active hostilities William was no more. But the Grand Alliance of the European Princes against the Bourbons was already constructed. "The master workman died," says Mr. Burke; "but the work was formed on true mechanical principles, and it was as truly wrought." On the fifteenth of May, 1702, war was proclaimed by concert at Vienna, at London, and at the Hague. Thus commenced that great struggle by which Europe, from the Vistula to the Atlantic Ocean, was agitated during twelve years. The two hostile coalitions were, in respect of territory, wealth, and population, not unequally matched. On the one side were France, Spain, and Bavaria; on the other, England, Holland, the Empire, and a crowd of inferior Powers. That part of the war which Lord Mahon has undertaken to relate, though not the least important, is certainly the least attractive. In Italy, in Germany, and in the Netherlands, great means were at the disposal of great generals. Mighty battles were fought. Fortress after fortress was subdued. The iron chain of the Belgian strongholds was broken. By a regular and connected series of operations extending through several years, the French were driven back from the Danube and the Po into their own provinces. The war in Spain, on the contrary, is made up of events which seem to have no dependence on each other. The turns of fortune resemble those which take place in a dream. Victory and defeat are not followed by their usual consequences. Armies spring out of nothing, and melt into nothing. Yet, to judicious readers of history, the Spanish conflict is perhaps more interesting than the campaigns of Marlborough and Eugene. The fate of the Milanese and of the Low Countries was decided by military skill. The fate of Spain was decided by the peculiarities of the national character. When the war commenced, the young King was in a most deplorable situation. On his arrival at Madrid, he found Porto Carrero at the head of affairs, and he did not think fit to displace the man to whom he owed his crown. The Cardinal was a mere intriguer, and in no sense a statesman. He had acquired, in the Court and in the confessional, a rare degree of skill in all the tricks by which. weak minds are managed. But of the noble science of government, of the sources of national prosperity, of the causes of national decay, he knew no more than his master. It is curious to observe the contrast between the dexterity with which he ruled the conscience of a foolish valetudinarian, and the imbecility which he showed when placed at the head of an empire. On what grounds Lord Mahon represents the Cardinal as a man "of splendid genius," "of vast abilities," we are unable to discover. Lewis was of a very different opinion, and Lewis was very seldom mistaken in his judgment of character. "Everybody," says he, in a letter to his ambassador, "knows how incapable the Cardinal is. He is an object of contempt to his countrymen." A few miserable savings were made, which ruined individuals without producing any perceptible benefit to the State. The police became more and more inefficient. The disorders of the capital were increased by the arrival of French adventurers, the refuse of Parisian brothels and gaming-houses. These wretches considered the Spaniards as a subjugated race whom the countrymen of the new sovereign might cheat and insult with impunity. The King sate eating and drinking all night, lay in bed all day, yawned at the council table, and suffered the most important papers to lie unopened for weeks. At length he was roused by the only excitement of which his sluggish nature was susceptible. His grandfather consented to let him have a wife. The choice was fortunate. Maria Louisa, Princess of Savoy, a beautiful and graceful girl of thirteen, already a woman in person and mind at an age when the females of colder climates are still children, was the person selected. The King resolved to give her the meeting in Catalonia. He left his capital, of which he was already thoroughly tired. At setting out he was mobbed by a gang of beggars. He, however, made his way through them, and repaired to Barcelona. Lewis was perfectly aware that the Queen would govern Philip. He, accordingly, looked about for somebody to govern the Queen. He selected the Princess Orsini to be first lady of the bedchamber, no insignificant post in the household of a very young wife, and a very uxorious husband. The Princess was the daughter of a French peer, and the widow of a Spanish grandee. She was, therefore, admirably fitted by her position to be the instrument of the Court of Versailles at the Court of Madrid. The Duke of Orleans called her, in words too coarse for translation, the Lieutenant of Captain Maintenon: and the appellation was well deserved. She aspired to play in Spain the part which Madame de Maintenon had played in France. But, though at least equal to her model in wit, information, and talents for intrigue, she had not that self-command, that patience, that imperturbable evenness of temper, which had raised the widow of a buffoon to be the consort of the proudest of kings. The Princess was more than fifty years old, but was still vain of her fine eyes, and her fine shape; she still dressed in the style of a girl; and she still carried her flirtations so far as to give occasion for scandal. She was, however, polite, eloquent, and not deficient in strength of mind. The bitter Saint Simon owns that no person whom she wished to attach could long resist the graces of her manners and of her conversation. We have not time to relate how she obtained, and how she preserved, her empire over the young couple in whose household she was placed, how she became so powerful, that neither minister of Spain nor ambassador from France could stand against her, how Lewis himself was compelled to court her, how she received orders from Versailles to retire, how the Queen took part with her favourite attendant, how the King took part with the Queen, and how, after much squabbling, lying, shuffling, bullying, and coaxing, the dispute was adjusted. We turn to the events of the war. When hostilities were proclaimed at London, Vienna, and the Hague, Philip was at Naples. He had been with great difficulty prevailed upon, by the most urgent representations from Versailles, to separate himself from his wife, and to repair without her to his Italian dominions, which were then menaced by the Emperor. The Queen acted as Regent, and, child as she was, seems to have been quite as competent to govern the kingdom as her husband or any of his ministers. In August 1702, an armament, under the command of the Duke of Ormond, appeared off Cadiz. The Spanish authorities had no funds and no regular troops. The national spirit, however, supplied, in some degree, what was wanting. The nobles and farmers advanced money. The peasantry were formed into what the Spanish writers call bands of heroic patriots, and what General Stanhope calls "a rascally foot militia." If the invaders had acted with vigour and judgment, Cadiz would probably have fallen. But the chiefs of the expedition were divided by national and professional feelings, Dutch against English, and land against sea. Sparre, the Dutch general, was sulky and perverse. Bellasys, the English general, embezzled the stores. Lord Mahon imputes the ill-temper of Sparre to the influence of the republican institutions of Holland. By parity of reason, we suppose that he would impute the peculations of Bellasys to the influence of the monarchical and aristocratical institutions of England. The Duke of Ormond, who had the command of the whole expedition, proved on this occasion, as on every other, destitute of the qualities which great emergencies require. No discipline was kept; the soldiers were suffered to rob and insult those whom it was most desirable to conciliate. Churches were robbed, images were pulled down; nuns were violated. The officers shared the spoil instead of punishing the spoilers; and at last the armament, loaded, to use the words of Stanhope, "with a great deal of plunder and infamy," quitted the scene of Essex's glory, leaving the only Spaniard of note who had declared for them to be hanged by his countrymen. The fleet was off the coast of Portugal, on the way back to England, when the Duke of Ormond received intelligence that the treasure-ships from America had just arrived in Europe, and had, in order to avoid his armament, repaired to the harbour of Vigo. The cargo consisted, it was said, of more than three millions sterling in gold and silver, besides much valuable merchandise. The prospect of plunder reconciled all disputes. Dutch and English admirals and generals, were equally eager for action. The Spaniards might with the greatest ease have secured the treasure by simply landing it; but it was a fundamental law of Spanish trade that the galleons should unload at Cadiz, and at Cadiz only. The Chamber of Commerce at Cadiz, in the true spirit of monopoly, refused, even at this conjuncture, to bate one jot of its privilege. The matter was referred to the Council of the Indies. That body deliberated and hesitated just a day too long. Some feeble preparations for defence were made. Two ruined towers at the mouth of the bay of Vigo were garrisoned by a few ill-armed and untrained rustics; a boom was thrown across the entrance of the basin; and a few French ships of war, which had convoyed the galleons from America, were moored within. But all was to no purpose. The English ships broke the boom; Ormond and his soldiers scaled the forts; the French burned their ships, and escaped to the shore. The conquerors shared some millions of dollars; some millions more were sunk. When all the galleons had been captured or destroyed came an order in due form allowing them to unload. When Philip returned to Madrid in the beginning of 1703, he found the finances more embarrassed, the people more discontented and the hostile coalition more formidable than ever. The loss of the galleons had occasioned a great deficiency in the revenue. The Admiral of Castile, one of the greatest subjects in Europe, had fled to Lisbon and sworn allegiance to the Archduke. The King of Portugal soon after acknowledged Charles as King of Spain, and prepared to support the title of the House of Austria by arms. On the other side, Lewis sent to the assistance of his grandson an army of 12,000 men, commanded by the Duke of Berwick. Berwick was the son of James the Second and Arabella Churchill. He had been brought up to expect the highest honours which an English subject could enjoy; but the whole course of his life was changed by the revolution which overthrew his infatuated father. Berwick became an exile, a man without a country; and from that time forward his camp was to him in the place of a country, and professional honour was his patriotism. He ennobled his wretched calling. There was a stern, cold, Brutus-like virtue in the manner in which he discharged the duties of a soldier of fortune. His military fidelity was tried by the strongest temptations, and was found invincible. At one time he fought against his uncle; at another time he fought against the cause of his brother; yet he was never suspected of treachery or even of slackness. Early in 1704 an army, composed of English, Dutch, and Portuguese, was assembled on the western frontier of Spain. The Archduke Charles had arrived at Lisbon, and appeared in person at the head of his troops. The military skill of Berwick held the Allies, who were commanded by Lord Galway, in check through the whole campaign. On the south, however, a great blow was struck. An English fleet, under Sir George Rooke, having on board several regiments commanded by the Prince of Hesse Darmstadt, appeared before the rock of Gibraltar. That celebrated stronghold, which nature has made all but impregnable, and against which all the resources of the military art have been employed in vain, was taken as easily as if it had been an open village in a plain. The garrison went to say their prayers instead of standing on their guard. A few English sailors climbed the rock. The Spaniards capitulated; and the British flag was placed on those ramparts from which the combined armies and navies of France and Spain have never been able to pull it down. Rooke proceeded to Malaga, gave battle in the neighbourhood of that port to a French squadron, and after a doubtful action returned to England. But greater events were at hand. The English Government had determined to send an expedition to Spain, under the command of Charles Mordaunt, Earl of Peterborough. This man was, if not the greatest, yet assuredly the most extraordinary character of that age, the King of Sweden himself not excepted. Indeed, Peterborough may be described as a polite, learned, and amorous Charles the Twelfth. His courage had all the French impetuosity, and all the English steadiness. His fertility and activity of mind were almost beyond belief. They appeared in everything that he did, in his campaigns, in his negotiations, in his familiar correspondence, in his lightest and most unstudied conversation. He was a kind friend, a generous enemy, and in deportment a thorough gentleman. But his splendid talents and virtues were rendered almost useless to his country, by his levity, his restlessness, his irritability, his morbid craving for novelty and for excitement. His weaknesses had not only brought him, on more than one occasion, into serious trouble; but had impelled him to some actions altogether unworthy of his humane and noble nature. Repose was insupportable to him. He loved to fly round Europe faster than a travelling courier. He was at the Hague one week, at Vienna the next. Then he took a fancy to see Madrid; and he had scarcely reached Madrid, when he ordered horses and set off for Copenhagen. No attendants could keep up with his speed. No bodily infirmities could confine him. Old age, disease, imminent death, produced scarcely any effect on his intrepid spirit. Just before he underwent the most horrible of surgical operations, his conversation was as sprightly as that of a young man in the full vigour of health. On the day after the operation, in spite of the entreaties of his medical advisers, he would set out on a journey. His figure was that of a skeleton. But his elastic mind supported him under fatigues and sufferings which seemed sufficient to bring the most robust man to the grave. Change of employment was as necessary to him as change of place. He loved to dictate six or seven letters at once. Those who had to transact business with him complained that though he talked with great ability on every subject, he could never be kept to the point. "Lord Peterborough," said Pope, "would say very pretty and lively things in his letters, but they would be rather too gay and wandering; whereas, were Lord Bolingbroke to write to an emperor, or to a statesman, he would fix on that point which was the most material, would set it in the strongest and fiercest light, and manage it so as to make it the most serviceable to his purpose." What Peterborough was to Bolingbroke as a writer, he was to Marlborough as a general. He was, in truth, the last of the knights-errant, brave to temerity, liberal to profusion, courteous in his dealings with enemies, the Protector of the oppressed, the adorer of women. His virtues and vices were those of the Round Table. Indeed, his character can hardly be better summed up, than in the lines in which the author of that clever little poem, Monks and Giants, has described Sir Tristram. "His birth, it seems, by Merlin's calculation, Was under Venus, Mercury, and Mars; His mind with all their attributes was mixed, And, like those planets, wandering and unfixed. "From realm to realm he ran, and never staid: Kingdoms and crowns he won, and gave away: It seemed as if his labours were repaid By the mere noise and movement of the fray: No conquests or acquirements had he made; His chief delight was, on some festive day To ride triumphant, prodigal, and proud, And shower his wealth amidst the shouting crowd. "His schemes of war were sudden, unforeseen, Inexplicable both to friend and foe; It seemed as if some momentary spleen Inspired the project, and impelled the blow; And most his fortune and success were seen With means the most inadequate and low; Most master of himself, and least encumbered, When overmatched, entangled, and outnumbered." In June 1705, this remarkable man arrived in Lisbon with five thousand Dutch and English soldiers. There the Archduke embarked with a large train of attendants, whom Peterborough entertained magnificently during the voyage at his own expense. From Lisbon the armament proceeded to Gibraltar, and, having taken the Prince of Hesse Darmstadt on board, steered towards the north-east along the coast of Spain. The first place at which the expedition touched, after leaving Gibraltar, was Altea in Valencia. The wretched misgovernment of Philip had excited great discontent throughout this province. The invaders were eagerly welcomed. The peasantry flocked to the shore, bearing provisions, and shouting, "Long live Charles the Third." The neighbouring fortress of Denia surrendered without a blow. The imagination of Peterborough took fire. He conceived the hope of finishing the war at one blow. Madrid was but a hundred and fifty miles distant. There was scarcely one fortified place on the road. The troops of Philip were either on the frontiers of Portugal or on the coast of Catalonia. At the capital there was no military force, except a few horse who formed a guard of honour round the person of Philip. But the scheme of pushing into the heart of a great kingdom with an army of only seven thousand men, was too daring to please the Archduke. The Prince of Hesse Darmstadt, who, in the reign of the late King of Spain, had been Governor of Catalonia, and who overrated his own influence in that province, was of opinion that they ought instantly to proceed thither, and to attack Barcelona, Peterborough was hampered by his instructions, and found it necessary to submit. On the sixteenth of August the fleet arrived before Barcelona; and Peterborough found that the task assigned to him by the Archduke and the Prince was one of almost insuperable difficulty. One side of the city was protected by the sea; the other by the strong fortifications of Monjuich. The walls were so extensive, that thirty thousand men would scarcely have been sufficient to invest them. The garrison was as numerous as the besieging army. The best officers in the Spanish service were in the town. The hopes which the Prince of Darmstadt had formed of a general rising in Catalonia were grievously disappointed. The invaders were joined only by about fifteen hundred armed peasants, whose services cost more than they were worth. No general was ever in a more deplorable situation than that in which Peterborough was now placed. He had always objected to the scheme of besieging Barcelona. His objections had been overruled. He had to execute a project which he had constantly represented as impracticable. His camp was divided into hostile factions and he was censured by all. The Archduke and the Prince blamed him for not proceeding instantly to take the town; but suggested no plan by which seven thousand men could be enabled to do the work of thirty thousand. Others blamed their general for giving up his own opinion to the childish whims of Charles, and for sacrificing his men in an attempt to perform what was impossible. The Dutch commander positively declared that his soldiers should not stir: Lord Peterborough might give what orders he chose; but to engage in such a siege was madness; and the men should not be sent to certain death when there was no chance of obtaining any advantage. At length, after three weeks of inaction, Peterborough announced his fixed determination to raise the siege. The heavy cannon were sent on board. Preparations were made for re-embarking the troops. Charles and the Prince of Hesse were furious, but most of the officers blamed their general for having delayed so long the measure which he had at last found it necessary to take. On the twelfth of September there were rejoicings and public entertainments in Barcelona for this great deliverance. On the following morning the English flag was flying on the ramparts of Monjuich. The genius and energy of one man had supplied the place of forty battalions. At midnight Peterborough had called out the Prince of Hesse, with whom he had not for some time been on speaking terms, "I have resolved, sir," said the Earl, "to attempt an assault; you may accompany us, if you think fit, and see whether I and my men deserve what you have been pleased to say of us." The Prince was startled. The attempt, he said, was hopeless; but he was ready to take his share; and, without further discussion, he called for his horse. Fifteen hundred English soldiers were assembled under the Earl. A thousand more had been posted as a body of reserve, at a neighbouring convent, under the command of Stanhope. After a winding march along the foot of the hills, Peterborough and his little army reached the walls of Monjuich. There they halted till daybreak. As soon as they were descried, the enemy advanced into the outer ditch to meet them. This was the event on which Peterborough had reckoned, and for which his men were prepared. The English received the fire, rushed forward, leaped into the ditch, put the Spaniards to flight, and entered the works together with the fugitives. Before the garrison had recovered from their first surprise, the Earl was master of the outworks, had taken several pieces of cannon, and had thrown up a breastwork to defend his men. He then sent off for Stanhope's reserve. While he was waiting for this reinforcement, news arrived that three thousand men were marching from Barcelona towards Monjuich. He instantly rode out to take a view of them; but no sooner had he left his troops than they were seized with a panic. Their situation was indeed full of danger; they had been brought into Monjuich, they scarcely knew how; their numbers were small; their general was gone: their hearts failed them, and they were proceeding to evacuate the fort. Peterborough received information of these occurrences in time to stop the retreat. He galloped up to the fugitives, addressed a few words to them, and put himself at their head. The sound of his voice and the sight of his face restored all their courage, and they marched back to their former position. The Prince of Hesse had fallen in the confusion of the assault; but everything else went well. Stanhope arrived; the detachment which had marched out of Barcelona retreated; the heavy cannon were disembarked, and brought to bear on the inner fortifications of Monjuich, which speedily fell. Peterborough, with his usual generosity, rescued the Spanish soldiers from the ferocity of his victorious army, and paid the last honours with great pomp to his rival the Prince of Hesse. The reduction of Monjuich was the first of a series of brilliant exploits. Barcelona fell; and Peterborough had the glory of taking, with a handful of men, one of the largest and strongest towns of Europe. He had also the glory, not less dear to his chivalrous temper, of saving the life and honour of the beautiful Duchess of Popoli, whom he met flying with dishevelled hair from the fury of the soldiers. He availed himself dexterously of the jealousy with which the Catalonians regarded the inhabitants of Castile. He guaranteed to the province in the capital of which he was now quartered all its ancient rights and liberties, and thus succeeded in attaching the population to the Austrian cause. The open country now declared in favour of Charles. Tarragona, Tortosa, Gerona, Lerida, San Mateo, threw open their gates. The Spanish Government sent the Count of Las Torres with seven thousand men to reduce San Mateo. The Earl of Peterborough, with only twelve hundred men, raised the siege. His officers advised him to be content with this extraordinary success. Charles urged him to return to Barcelona; but no remonstrances could stop such a spirit in the midst of such a career. It was the depth of winter. The country was mountainous. The roads were almost impassable. The men were ill-clothed. The horses were knocked up. The retreating army was far more numerous than the pursuing army. But difficulties and dangers vanished before the energy of Peterborough. He pushed on, driving Las Torres before him. Nules surrendered to the mere terror of his name; and, on the fourth of February, 1706 he arrived in triumph at Valencia. There he learned that a body of four thousand men was on the march to join Las Torres. He set out at dead of night from Valencia, passed the Xucar, came unexpectedly on the encampment of the enemy, and slaughtered, dispersed, or took the whole reinforcement. The Valencians could scarcely believe their eyes when they saw the prisoners brought in. In the meantime the Courts of Madrid and Versailles, exasperated and alarmed by the fall of Barcelona and by the revolt of the surrounding country, determined to make a great effort. A large army, nominally commanded by Philip, but really under the orders of Marshal Tesse, entered Catalonia. A fleet under the Count of Toulouse, one of the natural children of Lewis the Fourteenth, appeared before the port of Barcelona, The city was attacked at once by sea and land. The person of the Archduke was in considerable danger. Peterborough, at the head of about three thousand men, marched with great rapidity from Valencia. To give battle, with so small a force, to a great regular army under the conduct of a Marshal of France, would have been madness. The Earl therefore made war after the fashion of the Minas and Empecinados of our own time. He took his post on the neighbouring mountains, harassed the enemy with incessant alarms, cut off their stragglers, intercepted their communications with the interior, and introduced supplies, both of men and provisions, into the town. He saw, however, that the only hope of the besieged was on the side of the sea. His commission from the British Government gave him supreme power, not only over the army, but, whenever he should be actually on board, over the navy also. He put out to sea at night in an open boat, without communicating his design to any person. He was picked up several leagues from the shore, by one of the ships of the English squadron. As soon as he was on board, he announced himself as first in command, and sent a pinnace with his orders to the Admiral. Had these orders been given a few hours earlier, it is probable that the whole French fleet would have been taken. As it was, the Count of Toulouse put out to sea. The port was open. The town was relieved. On the following night the enemy raised the siege and retreated to Roussillon. Peterborough returned to Valencia, a place which he preferred to every other in Spain; and Philip, who had been some weeks absent from his wife, could endure the misery of separation no longer, and flew to rejoin her at Madrid. At Madrid, however, it was impossible for him or for her to remain. The splendid success which Peterborough had obtained on the eastern coast of the Peninsula had inspired the sluggish Galway with emulation. He advanced into the heart of Spain. Berwick retreated. Alcantara, Ciudad Rodrigo, and Salamanca fell, and the conquerors marched towards the capital. Philip was earnestly pressed by his advisers to remove the seat of government to Burgos. The advance guard of the allied army was already seen on the heights above Madrid. It was known that the main body was at hand. The unfortunate Prince fled with his Queen and his household. The royal wanderers, after travelling eight days on bad roads, under a burning sun, and sleeping eight nights in miserable hovels, one of which fell down and nearly crushed them both to death, reached the metropolis of Old Castile. In the meantime the invaders had entered Madrid in triumph, and had proclaimed the Archduke in the streets of the imperial city. Arragon, ever jealous of the Castilian ascendency, followed the example of Catalonia. Saragossa revolted without seeing an enemy. The governor whom Philip had set over Carthagena betrayed his trust, and surrendered to the Allies the best arsenal and the last ships which Spain possessed. Toledo had been for some time the retreat of two ambitious, turbulent and vindicative intriguers, the Queen Dowager and Cardinal Porto Carrero. They had long been deadly enemies. They had led the adverse factions of Austria and France. Each had in turn domineered over the weak and disordered mind of the late King. At length the impostures of the priest had triumphed over the blandishments of the woman; Porto Carrero had remained victorious; and the Queen had fled in shame and mortification, from the Court where she had once been supreme. In her retirement she was soon joined by him whose arts had destroyed her influence. The Cardinal, having held power just long enough to convince all parties of his incompetency, had been dismissed to his See, cursing his own folly and the ingratitude of the House which he had served too well. Common interests and common enmities reconciled the fallen rivals. The Austrian troops were admitted into Toledo without opposition. The Queen Dowager flung off that mournful garb which the widow of a King of Spain wears through her whole life, and blazed forth in jewels. The Cardinal blessed the standards of the invaders in his magnificent cathedral, and lighted up his palace in honour of the great deliverance. It seemed that the struggle had terminated in favour of the Archduke, and that nothing remained for Philip but a prompt flight into the dominions of his grandfather. So judged those who were ignorant of the character and habits of the Spanish people. There is no country in Europe which it is so easy to overrun as Spain, there is no country in Europe which it is more difficult to conquer. Nothing can be more contemptible than the regular military resistance which Spain offers to an invader; nothing more formidable than the energy which she puts forth when her regular military resistance has been beaten down. Her armies have long borne too much resemblance to mobs; but her mobs have had, in an unusual degree, the spirit of armies. The soldier, as compared with other soldiers, is deficient in military qualities; but the peasant has as much of those qualities as the soldier. In no country have such strong fortresses been taken by surprise: in no country have unfortified towns made so furious and obstinate a resistance to great armies. War in Spain has, from the days of the Romans, had a character of its own; it is a fire which cannot be raked out; it burns fiercely under the embers; and long after it has, to all seeming, been extinguished, bursts forth more violently than ever. This was seen in the last war. Spain had no army which could have looked in the face an equal number of French or Prussian soldiers; but one day laid the Prussian monarchy in the dust; one day put the crown of France at the disposal of invaders. No Jena, no Waterloo, would have enabled Joseph to reign in quiet at Madrid. The conduct of the Castilians throughout the War of the Succession was most characteristic. With all the odds of number and situation on their side, they had been ignominiously beaten. All the European dependencies of the Spanish crown were lost. Catalonia, Arragon, and Valencia had acknowledged the Austrian Prince. Gibraltar had been taken by a few sailors; Barcelona stormed by a few dismounted dragoons. The invaders had penetrated into the centre of the Peninsula, and were quartered at Madrid and Toledo. While these events had been in progress, the nation had scarcely given a sign of life. The rich could hardly be prevailed on to give or to lend for the support of war; the troops had shown neither discipline nor courage; and now at last, when it seemed that all was lost, when it seemed that the most sanguine must relinquish all hope, the national spirit awoke, fierce, proud, and unconquerable. The people had been sluggish when the circumstances might well have inspired hope; they reserved all their energy for what appeared to be a season of despair. Castile, Leon, Andalusia, Estremadura, rose at once; every peasant procured a firelock or a pike; the Allies were masters only of the ground on which they trod. No soldier could wander a hundred yards from the main body of the invading army without imminent risk of being poniarded. The country through which the conquerors had passed to Madrid, and which, as they thought, they had subdued, was all in arms behind them. Their communications with Portugal were cut off. In the meantime, money began, for the first time, to flow rapidly into the treasury of the fugitive King. "The day before yesterday," says the Princess Orsini, in a letter written at this time, "the priest of a village which contains only a hundred and twenty houses brought a hundred and twenty pistoles to the Queen. 'My flock,' said he, 'are ashamed to send you so little; but they beg you to believe that in this purse there are a hundred and twenty hearts faithful even to the death.' The good man wept as he spoke; and indeed we wept too. Yesterday another small village, in which there are only twenty houses, sent us fifty pistoles." While the Castilians were everywhere arming in the cause of Philip, the Allies were serving that cause as effectually by their mismanagement. Galway staid at Madrid, where his soldiers indulged in such boundless licentiousness that one half of them were in the hospitals. Charles remained dawdling in Catalonia. Peterborough had taken Requena, and wished to march from Valencia towards Madrid, and to effect a junction with Galway; but the Archduke refused his consent to the plan. The indignant general remained accordingly in his favourite city, on the beautiful shores of the Mediterranean, reading Don Quixote, giving balls and suppers, trying in vain to get some good sport out of the Valencia bulls, and making love, not in vain, to the Valencian women. At length the Archduke advanced into Castile, and ordered Peterborough to join him. But it was too late. Berwick had already compelled Galway to evacuate Madrid; and, when the whole force of the Allies was collected at Guadalaxara, it was found to be decidedly inferior in numbers to that of the enemy. Peterborough formed a plan for regaining possession of the capital. His plan was rejected by Charles. The patience of the sensitive and vainglorious hero was worn out. He had none of that serenity of temper which enabled Marlborough to act in perfect harmony with Eugene, and to endure the vexatious interference of the Dutch deputies. He demanded permission to leave the army. Permission was readily granted; and he set out for Italy. That there might be some pretext for his departure, he was commissioned by the Archduke to raise a loan in Genoa, on the credit of the revenues of Spain. From that moment to the end of the campaign the tide of fortune ran strong against the Austrian cause. Berwick had placed his army between the Allies and the frontiers of Portugal. They retreated on Valencia, and arrived in that Province, leaving about ten thousand prisoners in the hands of the enemy. In January 1707, Peterborough arrived at Valencia from Italy, no longer bearing a public character, but merely as a volunteer. His advice was asked, and it seems to have been most judicious. He gave it as his decided opinion that no offensive operations against Castile ought to be undertaken. It would be easy, he said, to defend Arragon, Catalonia, and Valencia, against Philip. The inhabitants of those parts of Spain were attached to the cause of the Archduke; and the armies of the House of Bourbon would be resisted by the whole population. In a short time the enthusiasm of the Castilians might abate. The government of Philip might commit unpopular acts. Defeats in the Netherlands might compel Lewis to withdraw the succours which he had furnished to his grandson. Then would be the time to strike a decisive blow. This excellent advice was rejected. Peterborough, who had now received formal letters of recall from England, departed before the opening of the campaign; and with him departed the good fortune of the Allies. Scarcely any general had ever done so much with means so small. Scarcely any general had ever displayed equal originality and boldness. He possessed, in the highest degree, the art of conciliating those whom he had subdued. But he was not equally successful in winning the attachment of those with whom he acted. He was adored by the Catalonians and Valencians; but he was hated by the prince whom he had all but made a great king, and by the generals whose fortune and reputation were staked on the same venture with his own. The English Government could not understand him. He was so eccentric that they gave him no credit for the judgment which he really possessed. One day he took towns with horse-soldiers; then again he turned some hundreds of infantry into cavalry at a minute's notice. He obtained his political intelligence chiefly by means of love affairs, and filled his despatches with epigrams. The ministers thought that it would be highly impolitic to intrust the conduct of the Spanish war to so volatile and romantic a person. They therefore gave the command to Lord Galway, an experienced veteran, a man who was in war what Moliere's doctors were in medicine, who thought it much more honourable to fail according to rule, than to succeed by innovation, and who would have been very much ashamed of himself if he had taken Monjuich by means so strange as those which Peterborough employed. This great commander conducted the campaign of 1707 in the most scientific manner. On the plain of Almanza he encountered the army of the Bourbons. He drew up his troops according to the methods prescribed by the best writers, and in a few hours lost eighteen thousand men, a hundred and twenty standards, all his baggage and all his artillery. Valencia and Arragon were instantly conquered by the French, and, at the close of the year, the mountainous province of Catalonia was the only part of Spain which still adhered to Charles. "Do you remember, child," says the foolish woman in the Spectator to her husband, "that the pigeon-house fell the very afternoon that our careless wench spilt the salt upon the table?" "Yes, my dear," replies the gentleman, "and the next post brought us an account of the battle of Almanza." The approach of disaster in Spain had been for some time indicated by omens much clearer than the mishap of the salt-cellar; an ungrateful prince, an undisciplined army, a divided council, envy triumphant over merit, a man of genius recalled, a pedant and a sluggard intrusted with supreme command. The battle of Almanza decided the fate of Spain. The loss was such as Marlborough or Eugene could scarcely have retrieved, and was certainly not to be retrieved by Stanhope and Staremberg. Stanhope, who took the command of the English army in Catalonia, was a man of respectable abilities, both in military and civil affairs, but fitter, we conceive, for a second than for a first place. Lord Mahon, with his usual candour, tells us, what we believe was not known before, that his ancestor's most distinguished exploit, the conquest of Minorca, was suggested by Marlborough. Staremberg, a methodical tactician of the German school, was sent by the emperor to command in Spain. Two languid campaigns followed, during which neither of the hostile armies did anything memorable, but during which both were nearly starved. At length, in 1710, the chiefs of the Allied forces resolved to venture on bolder measures. They began the campaign with a daring move, pushed into Arragon, defeated the troops of Philip at Almenara, defeated them again at Saragossa, and advanced to Madrid. The King was again a fugitive. The Castilians sprang to arms with the same enthusiasm which they had displayed in 1706. The conquerors found the capital a desert. The people shut themselves up in their houses, and refused to pay any mark of respect to the Austrian prince. It was necessary to hire a few children to shout before him in the streets. Meanwhile, the Court of Philip at Valladolid was thronged by nobles and prelates. Thirty thousand people followed their King from Madrid to his new residence. Women of rank, rather than remain behind, performed the journey on foot. The peasants enlisted by thousands. Money, arms, and provisions, were supplied in abundance by the zeal of the people. The country round Madrid was infested by small parties of irregular horse. The Allies could not send off a despatch to Arragon, or introduce a supply of provisions into the capital. It was unsafe for the Archduke to hunt in the immediate vicinity of the palace which he occupied. The wish of Stanhope was to winter in Castile. But he stood alone in the council of war; and, indeed it is not easy to understand how the Allies could have maintained themselves, through so unpropitious a season, in the midst of so hostile a population. Charles, whose personal safety was the first object of the generals, was sent with an escort of cavalry to Catalonia in November; and in December the army commenced its retreat towards Arragon. But the Allies had to do with a master-spirit. The King of France had lately sent the Duke of Vendome to command in Spain. This man was distinguished by the filthiness of his person, by the brutality of his demeanour, by the gross buffoonery of his conversation, and by the impudence with which he abandoned himself to the most nauseous of all vices. His sluggishness was almost incredible. Even when engaged in a campaign, he often passed whole days in his bed. His strange torpidity had been the cause of some of the most serious disasters which the armies of the House of Bourbon had sustained. But when he was roused by any great emergency, his resources, his energy, and his presence of mind, were such as had been found in no French general since the death of Luxembourg. At this crisis, Vendome was all himself. He set out from Talavera with his troops, and pursued the retreating army of the Allies with a speed perhaps never equalled, in such a season, and in such a country. He marched night and day. He swam, at the head of his cavalry, the flooded stream of Henares, and, in a few days, overtook Stanhope, who was at Brihuega with the left wing of the Allied army. "Nobody with me," says the English general, imagined that they had any foot within some days' march of us and our misfortune is owing to the incredible diligence which their army made." Stanhope had but just time to send off a messenger to the centre of the army, which was some leagues from Brihuega, before Vendome was upon him. The town was invested on every side. The walls were battered with cannon. A mine was sprung under one of the gates. The English kept up a terrible fire till their powder was spent. They then fought desperately with the bayonet against overwhelming odds. They burned the houses which the assailants had taken. But all was to no purpose. The British general saw that resistance could produce only a useless carnage. He concluded a capitulation; and his gallant little army became prisoners of war on honourable terms. Scarcely had Vendome signed the capitulation, when he learned that Staremberg was marching to the relief of Stanhope. Preparations were instantly made for a general action. On the day following that on which the English had delivered up their arms, was fought the obstinate and bloody fight of Villa Viciosa. Staremberg remained master of the field. Vendome reaped all the fruits of the battle. The Allies spiked their cannon, and retired towards Arragon. But even in Arragon they found no place to rest. Vendome was behind them. The guerilla parties were around them. They fled to Catalonia; but Catalonia was invaded by a French army from Roussillon. At length the Austrian general, with six thousand harassed and dispirited men, the remains of a great and victorious army, took refuge in Barcelona, almost the only place in Spain which still recognised the authority of Charles. Philip was now much safer at Madrid than his grandfather at Paris. All hope of conquering Spain in Spain was at an end. But in other quarters the House of Bourbon was reduced to the last extremity. The French armies had undergone a series of defeats in Germany, in Italy, and in the Netherlands. An immense force, flushed with victory, and commanded by the greatest generals of the age, was on the borders of France. Lewis had been forced to humble himself before the conquerors. He had even offered to abandon the cause of his grandson; and his offer had been rejected. But a great turn in affairs was approaching. The English administration which had commenced the war against the House of Bourbon was an administration composed of Tories. But the war was a Whig war. It was the favourite scheme of William, the Whig King. Lewis had provoked it by recognising, as sovereign of England, a prince peculiarly hateful to the Whigs. It had placed England in a position of marked hostility to that power from which alone the Pretender could expect efficient succour. It had joined England in the closest union to a Protestant and republican State, to a State which had assisted in bringing about the Revolution, and which was willing to guarantee the execution of the Act of Settlement. Marlborough and Godolphin found that they were more zealously supported by their old opponents than by their old associates. Those ministers who were zealous for the war were gradually converted to Whiggism. The rest dropped off, and were succeeded by Whigs. Cowper became Chancellor. Sunderland, in spite of the very just antipathy of Anne, was made Secretary of State. On the death of the Prince of Denmark a more extensive change took place. Wharton became Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, and Somers, President of the Council. At length the administration was wholly in the hands of the Low Church party. In the year 1710 a violent change took place. The Queen had always been a Tory at heart. Her religious feelings were all on the side of the Established Church. Her family feelings pleaded in favour of her exiled brother. Her selfish feelings disposed her to favour the zealots of prerogative. The affection which she felt for the Duchess of Marlborough was the great security of the Whigs. That affection had at length turned to deadly aversion. While the great party which had long swayed the destinies of Europe was undermined by bedchamber women at St. James's, a violent storm gathered in the country. A foolish parson had preached a foolish sermon against the principles of the Revolution. The wisest members of the Government were for letting the man alone. But Godolphin, inflamed with all the zeal of a new-made Whig, and exasperated by a nickname which was applied to him in this unfortunate discourse, insisted that the preacher should be impeached. The exhortations of the mild and sagacious Somers were disregarded. The impeachment was brought; the doctor was convicted; and the accusers were ruined. The clergy came to the rescue of the persecuted clergyman. The country gentlemen came to the rescue of the clergy. A display of Tory feelings, such as England had not witnessed since the closing years of Charles the Second's reign, appalled the ministers and gave boldness to the Queen. She turned out the Whigs, called Harley and St. John to power, and dissolved the Parliament. The elections went strongly against the late Government. Stanhope, who had in his absence, been put in nomination for Westminster, was defeated by a Tory candidate. The new ministers, finding themselves masters of the new Parliament, were induced by the strongest motives to conclude a peace with France. The whole system of alliance in which the country was engaged was a Whig system. The general by whom the English armies had constantly been led to victory, and for whom it was impossible to find a substitute, was now whatever he might formerly have been, a Whig general. If Marlborough were discarded it was probable that some great disaster would follow. Yet if he were to retain his command, every great action which he might perform would raise the credit of the party in opposition. A peace was therefore concluded between England and the Princes of the House of Bourbon. Of that peace Lord Mahon speaks in terms of the severest reprehension. He is, indeed, an excellent Whig of the time of the first Lord Stanhope. "I cannot but pause for a moment," says he, "to observe how much the course of a century has inverted the meaning of our party nicknames, how much a modern Tory resembles a Whig of Queen Anne's reign, and a Tory of Queen Anne's reign a modern Whig." We grant one half of Lord Mahon's proposition: from the other half we altogether dissent. We allow that a modern Tory resembles, in many things, a Whig of Queen Anne's reign. It is natural that such should be the case. The worst things of one age often resemble the best things of another. A modern shopkeeper's house is as well furnished as the house of a considerable merchant in Anne's reign. Very plain people now wear finer cloth than Beau Fielding or Beau Edgeworth could have procured in Queen Anne's reign. We would rather trust to the apothecary of a modern village than to the physician of a large town in Anne's reign. A modern boarding-school miss could tell the most learned professor of Anne's reign some things in geography, astronomy, and chemistry, which would surprise him. The science of government is an experimental science; and therefore it is, like all other experimental sciences, a progressive science. Lord Mahon would have been a very good Whig in the days of Harley. But Harley, whom Lord Mahon censures so severely, was very Whiggish when compared even with Clarendon; and Clarendon was quite a democrat when compared with Lord Burleigh. If Lord Mahon lives, as we hope he will, fifty years longer, we have no doubt that, as he now boasts of the resemblance which the Tories of our time bear to the Whigs of the Revolution, he will then boast of the resemblance borne by the Tories of 1882 to those immortal patriots, the Whigs of the Reform Bill. Society, we believe, is constantly advancing in knowledge. The tail is now where the head was some generations ago. But the head and the tail still keep their distance. A nurse of this century is as wise as a justice of the quorum and custalorum in Shallow's time. The wooden spoon of this year would puzzle a senior wrangler of the reign of George the Second. A boy from the National School reads and spells better than half the knights of the shire in the October Club. But there is still as wide a difference as ever between justices and nurses, senior wranglers and wooden spoons, members of Parliament and children at charity schools. In the same way, though a Tory may now be very like what a Whig was a hundred and twenty years ago, the Whig is as much in advance of the Tory as ever. The stag, in the Treatise on the Bathos, who "feared his hind feet would o'ertake the fore," was not more mistaken than Lord Mahon, if he thinks that he has really come up with the Whigs. The absolute position of the parties has been altered; the relative position remains unchanged. Through the whole of that great movement, which began before these party-names existed, and which will continue after they have become obsolete, through the whole of that great movement of which the Charter of John, the institution of the House of Commons, the extinction of Villanage, the separation from the see of Rome, the expulsion of the Stuarts, the reform of the Representative System, are successive stages, there have been, under some name or other, two sets of men, those who were before their age, and those who were behind it, those who were the wisest among their contemporaries, and those who gloried in being no wiser than their great-grandfathers. It is dreadful to think, that, in due time, the last of those who straggle in the rear of the great march will occupy the place now occupied by the advanced guard. The Tory Parliament of 1710 would have passed for a most liberal Parliament in the days of Elizabeth; and there are at present few members of the Conservative Club who would not have been fully qualified to sit with Halifax and Somers at the Kit-cat. Though, therefore, we admit that a modern Tory bears some resemblance to a Whig of Queen Anne's reign, we can by no means admit that a Tory of Anne's reign resembled a modern Whig. Have the modern Whigs passed laws for the purpose of closing the entrance of the House of Commons against the new interests created by trade? Do the modern Whigs hold the doctrine of divine right? Have the modern Whigs laboured to exclude all Dissenters from office and power? The modern Whigs are, indeed, at the present moment, like the Tories of 1712, desirous of peace, and of close union with France. But is there no difference between the France of 1712 and the France of 1832? Is France now the stronghold of the "Popish tyranny" and the "arbitrary power" against which our ancestors fought and prayed? Lord Mahon will find, we think, that his parallel is, in all essential circumstances, as incorrect as that which Fluellen drew between Macedon and Monmouth, or as that which an ingenious Tory lately discovered between Archbishop Williams and Archbishop Vernon. We agree with Lord Mahon in thinking highly of the Whigs of Queen Anne's reign. But that part of their conduct which he selects for especial praise is precisely the part which we think most objectionable. We revere them as the great champions of political and of intellectual liberty. It is true that, when raised to power, they were not exempt from the faults which power naturally engenders. It is true that they were men born in the seventeenth century, and that they were therefore ignorant of many truths which are familiar to the men of the nineteenth century. But they were, what the reformers of the Church were before them, and what the reformers of the House of Commons have been since, the leaders of their species in a right direction. It is true that they did not allow to political discussion that latitude which to us appears reasonable and safe; but to them we owe the removal of the Censorship. It is true that they did not carry the principle of religious liberty to its full extent; but to them we owe the Toleration Act. Though, however, we think that the Whigs of Anne's reign were, as a body, far superior in wisdom and public virtue to their contemporaries the Tories, we by no means hold ourselves bound to defend all the measures of our favourite party. A life of action, if it is to be useful, must be a life of compromise. But speculation admits of no compromise. A public man is often under the necessity of consenting to measures which he dislikes, lest he should endanger the success of measures which he thinks of vital importance. But the historian lies under no such necessity. On the contrary, it is one of his most sacred duties to point out clearly the errors of those whose general conduct he admires. It seems to us, then, that, on the great question which divided England during the last four years of Anne's reign, the Tories were in the right, and the Whigs in the wrong. That question was, whether England ought to conclude peace without exacting from Philip a resignation of the Spanish crown? No parliamentary struggle, from the time of the Exclusion Bill to the time of the Reform Bill, has been so violent as that which took place between the authors of the Treaty of Utrecht and the War Party. The Commons were for peace; the Lords were for vigorous hostilities. The Queen was compelled to choose which of her two highest prerogatives she would exercise, whether she would create Peers, or dissolve the Parliament. The ties of party superseded the ties of neighbourhood and of blood. The members of the hostile factions would scarcely speak to each other, or bow to each other. The women appeared at the theatres bearing the badges of their political sect. The schism extended to the most remote counties of England. Talents, such as had seldom before been displayed in political controversy, were enlisted in the service of the hostile parties. On one side was Steele, gay, lively, drunk with animal spirits and with factious animosity, and Addison, with his polished satire, his inexhaustible fertility of fancy, and his graceful simplicity of style. In the front of the opposite ranks appeared a darker and fiercer spirit, the apostate politician, the ribald priest, the perjured lover, a heart burning with hatred against the whole human race, a mind richly stored with images from the dung-hill and the lazar-house. The ministers triumphed, and the peace was concluded. Then came the reaction. A new sovereign ascended the throne. The Whigs enjoyed the confidence of the King and of the Parliament. The unjust severity with which the Tories had treated Marlborough and Walpole was more than retaliated. Harley and Prior were thrown into prison; Bolingbroke and Ormond were compelled to take refuge in a foreign land. The wounds inflicted in this desperate conflict continued to rankle for many years. It was long before the members of either party could discuss the question of the peace of Utrecht with calmness and impartiality. That the Whig ministers had sold us to the Dutch; that the Tory ministers had sold us to the French; that the war had been carried on only to fill the pockets of Marlborough; that the peace had been concluded only to facilitate the return of the Pretender; these imputations and many others, utterly ungrounded, or grossly exaggerated, were hurled backward and forward by the political disputants of the last century. In our time the question may be discussed without irritation. We will state, as concisely as possible, the reasons which have led us to the conclusion at which we have arrived. The dangers which were to be apprehended from the peace were two; first, the danger that Philip might be induced, by feelings of private affection, to act in strict concert with the elder branch of his house, to favour the French trade at the expense of England, and to side with the French Government in future wars; secondly, the danger that the posterity of the Duke of Burgundy might become extinct, that Philip might become heir by blood to the French crown, and that thus two great monarchies might be united under one sovereign. The first danger appears to us altogether chimerical. Family affection has seldom produced much effect on the policy of princes. The state of Europe at the time of the peace of Utrecht proved that in politics the ties of interest are much stronger than those of consanguinity or affinity. The Elector of Bavaria had been driven from his dominions by his father-in-law; Victor Amadeus was in arms against his sons-in-law; Anne was seated on a throne from which she had assisted to push a most indulgent father. It is true that Philip had been accustomed from childhood to regard his grandfather with profound veneration. It was probable, therefore, that the influence of Lewis at Madrid would be very great. But Lewis was more than seventy years old; he could not live long; his heir was an infant in the cradle. There was surely no reason to think that the policy of the King of Spain would be swayed by his regard for a nephew whom he had never seen. In fact, soon after the peace, the two branches of the House of Bourbon began to quarrel. A close alliance was formed between Philip and Charles, lately competitors for the Castilian crown. A Spanish princess, betrothed to the King of France, was sent back in the most insulting manner to her native country; and a decree was put forth by the Court of Madrid commanding every Frenchman to leave Spain. It is true that, fifty years after the peace of Utrecht, an alliance of peculiar strictness was formed between the French and Spanish Governments. But both Governments were actuated on that occasion, not by domestic affection, but by common interests and common enmities. Their compact, though called the Family Compact, was as purely a political compact as the league of Cambrai or the league of Pilnitz. The second danger was that Philip might have succeeded to the crown of his native country. This did not happen; but it might have happened; and at one time it seemed very likely to happen. A sickly child alone stood between the King of Spain and the heritage of Lewis the Fourteenth. Philip, it is true, solemnly renounced his claim to the French crown. But the manner in which he had obtained possession of the Spanish crown had proved the inefficacy of such renunciations. The French lawyers declared Philip's renunciation null, as being inconsistent with the fundamental law of the realm. The French people would probably have sided with him whom they would have considered as the rightful heir. Saint Simon, though much less zealous for hereditary monarchy than most of his countrymen, and though strongly attached to the Regent, declared, in the presence of that prince, that he never would support the claims of the House of Orleans against those of the King of Spain. "If such," he said, "be my feelings, what must be the feelings of others?" Bolingbroke, it is certain, was fully convinced that the renunciation was worth no more than the paper on which it was written, and demanded it only for the purpose of blinding the English Parliament and people. Yet, though it was at one time probable that the posterity of the Duke of Burgundy would become extinct, and though it is almost certain that, if the posterity of the Duke of Burgundy had become extinct, Philip would have successfully preferred his claim to the crown of France, we still defend the principle of the Treaty of Utrecht. In the first place, Charles had, soon after the battle of Villa-Viciosa, inherited, by the death of his elder brother, all the dominions of the House of Austria. Surely, if to these dominions he had added the whole monarchy of Spain, the balance of power would have been seriously endangered. The union of the Austrian dominions and Spain would not, it is true, have been so alarming an event as the union of France and Spain. But Charles was actually Emperor. Philip was not, and never might be, King of France. The certainty of the less evil might well be set against the chance of the greater evil. But, in fact, we do not believe that Spain would long have remained under the government either of an Emperor or of a King of France. The character of the Spanish people was a better security to the nations of Europe than any will, any instrument of renunciation, or any treaty. The same energy which the people of Castile had put forth when Madrid was occupied by the Allied armies, they would have again put forth as soon as it appeared that their country was about to become a French province. Though they were no longer masters abroad, they were by no means disposed to see foreigners set over them at home. If Philip had attempted to govern Spain by mandates from Versailles, a second Grand Alliance would easily have effected what the first had failed to accomplish. The Spanish nation would have rallied against him as zealously as it had before rallied round him. And of this he seems to have been fully aware. For many years the favourite hope of his heart was that he might ascend the throne of his grandfather; but he seems never to have thought it possible that he could reign at once in the country of his adoption and in the country of his birth. These were the dangers of the peace; and they seem to us to be of no very formidable kind. Against these dangers are to be set off the evils of war and the risk of failure. The evils of the war, the waste of life, the suspension of trade, the expenditure of wealth, the accumulation of debt, require no illustration. The chances of failure it is difficult at this distance of time to calculate with accuracy. But we think that an estimate approximating to the truth may, without much difficulty, be formed. The Allies had been victorious in Germany, Italy, and Flanders. It was by no means improbable that they might fight their way into the very heart of France. But at no time since the commencement of the war had their prospects been so dark in that country which was the very object of the struggle. In Spain they held only a few square leagues. The temper of the great majority of the nation was decidedly hostile to them. If they had persisted, if they had obtained success equal to their highest expectations, if they had gained a series of victories as splendid as those of Blenheim and Ramilies, if Paris had fallen, if Lewis had been a prisoner, we still doubt whether they would have accomplished their object. They would still have had to carry on interminable hostilities against the whole population of a country which affords peculiar facilities to irregular warfare, and in which invading armies suffer more from famine than from the sword. We are, therefore, for the peace of Utrecht. We are indeed no admirers of the statesmen who concluded that peace. Harley, we believe, was a solemn trifler, St. John a brilliant knave. The great body of their followers consisted of the country clergy and the country gentry; two classes of men who were then inferior in intelligence to decent shopkeepers or farmers of our time. Parson Barnabas, Parson Trulliber, Sir Wilful Witwould, Sir Francis Wronghead, Squire Western, Squire Sullen, such were the people who composed the main strength of the Tory party during the sixty years which followed the Revolution. It is true that the means by which the Tories came into power in 1710 were most disreputable. It is true that the manner in which they used their power was often unjust and cruel. It is true that, in order to bring about their favourite project of peace, they resorted to slander and deception, without the slightest scruple. It is true that they passed off on the British nation a renunciation which they knew to be invalid. It is true that they gave up the Catalans to the vengeance of Philip, in a manner inconsistent with humanity and national honour. But on the great question of Peace or War, we cannot but think that, though their motives may have been selfish and malevolent, their decision was beneficial to the State. But we have already exceeded our limits. It remains only for us to bid Lord Mahon heartily farewell, and to assure him that, whatever dislike we may feel for his political opinions, we shall always meet him with pleasure on the neutral ground of literature. FREDERIC THE GREAT (April 1842) Frederic the Great and his Times. Edited, with an Introduction, By THOMAS CAMPBELL, Esq. 2 vols. 8vo. London: 1842. THIS work, which has the high honour of being introduced to the world by the author of Lochiel and Hohenlinden, is not wholly unworthy of so distinguished a chaperon. It professes, indeed, to be no more than a compilation; but it is an exceedingly amusing compilation, and we shall be glad to have more of it. The narrative comes down at present only to the commencement of the Seven Years' War, and therefore does not comprise the most interesting portion of Frederic's reign. It may not be unacceptable to our readers that we should take this opportunity of presenting them with a slight sketch of the life of the greatest king that has, in modern times, succeeded by right of birth to a throne. It may, we fear, be impossible to compress so long and eventful a story within the limits which we must prescribe to ourselves. Should we be compelled to break off, we may perhaps, when the continuation of this work appears, return to the subject. The Prussian monarchy, the youngest of the great European, states, but in population and revenue the fifth among them, and in art, science, and civilisation entitled to the third, if not to the second place, sprang from a humble origin. About the beginning of the fifteenth century, the marquisate of Brandenburg was bestowed by the Emperor Sigismund on the noble family of Hohenzollern. In the sixteenth century that family embraced the Lutheran doctrines. It obtained from the King of Poland, early in the seventeenth century, the investiture of the duchy of Prussia. Even after this accession of territory, the chiefs of the house of Hohenzollern hardly ranked with the Electors of Saxony and Bavaria. The soil of Brandenburg was for the most part sterile. Even round Berlin, the capital of the province, and round Potsdam, the favourite residence of the Margraves, the country was a desert. In some places, the deep sand could with difficulty be forced by assiduous tillage to yield thin crops of rye and oats. In other places, the ancient forests, which the conquerors of the Roman Empire had descended on the Danube, remained untouched by the hand of man. Where the soil was rich it was generally marshy, and its insalubrity repelled the cultivators whom its fertility attracted. Frederic William, called the Great Elector, was the prince to whose policy his successors have agreed to ascribe their greatness. He acquired by the peace of Westphalia several valuable possessions, and among them the rich city and district of Magdeburg; and he left to his son Frederic a principality as considerable as any which was not called a kingdom. Frederic aspired to the style of royalty. Ostentatious and profuse, negligent of his true interests and of his high duties, insatiably eager for frivolous distinctions, he added nothing to the real weight of the state which he governed; perhaps he transmitted his inheritance to his children impaired rather than augmented in value; but he succeeded in gaining the great object of his life, the title of King. In the year 1700 he assumed this new dignity. He had on that occasion to undergo all the mortifications which fall to the lot of ambitious upstarts. Compared with the other crowned heads of Europe, he made a figure resembling that which a Nabob or a Commissary, who had bought a title, would make in the Company of Peers whose ancestors had been attainted for treason against the Plantagenets. The envy of the class which Frederic quitted, and the civil scorn of the class into which he intruded himself, were marked in very significant ways. The Elector of Saxony at first refused to acknowledge the new Majesty. Lewis the Fourteenth looked down on his brother King with an air not unlike that with which the Count in Moliere's play regards Monsieur Jourdain, just fresh from the mummery of being made a gentleman. Austria exacted large sacrifices in return for her recognition, and at last gave it ungraciously. Frederic was succeeded by his son, Frederic William, a prince who must be allowed to have possessed some talents for administration, but whose character was disfigured by odious vices, and whose eccentricities were such as had never before been seen out of a madhouse. He was exact and diligent in the transacting of business; and he was the first who formed the design of obtaining for Prussia a place among the European powers, altogether out of proportion to her extent and population by means of a strong military organisation. Strict economy enabled him to keep up a peace establishment of sixty thousand troops. These troops were disciplined in such a manner, that, placed beside them, the household regiments of Versailles and St. James's would have appeared an awkward squad. The master of such a force could not but be regarded by all his neighbours as a formidable enemy and a valuable ally. But the mind of Frederic William was so ill regulated, that all his inclinations became passions, and all his passions partook of the character of moral and intellectual disease. His parsimony degenerated into sordid avarice. His taste for military pomp and order became a mania, like that of a Dutch burgomaster for tulips, or that of a member of the Roxburghe Club for Caxtons. While the envoys of the Court of Berlin were in a state of such squalid poverty as moved the laughter of foreign capitals, while the food placed before the princes and princesses of the blood- royal of Prussia was too scanty to appease hunger, and so bad that even hunger loathed it, no price was thought too extravagant for tall recruits. The ambition of the King was to form a brigade of giants, and every country was ransacked by his agents for men above the ordinary stature. These researches were not confined to Europe. No head that towered above the crowd in the bazaars of Aleppo, of Cairo, or of Surat, could escape the crimps of Frederic William. One Irishman more than seven feet high, who was picked up in London by the Prussian ambassador, received a bounty of near thirteen hundred pounds sterling, very much more than the ambassador's salary. This extravagance was the more absurd, because a stout youth of five feet eight, who might have been procured for a few dollars, would in all probability have been a much more valuable soldier. But to Frederic William, this huge Irishman was what a brass Otho, or a Vinegar Bible, is to a collector of a different kind. It is remarkable, that though the main end of Frederic William's administration was to have a great military force, though his reign forms an important epoch in the history of military discipline, and though his dominant passion was the love of military display he was yet one of the most pacific of princes. We are afraid that his aversion to war was not the effect of humanity, but was merely one of his thousand whims. His feeling about his troops seems to have resembled a miser's feeling about his money. He loved to collect them, to count them, to see them increase; but he could not find it in his heart to break in upon the precious hoard. He looked forward to some future time when his Patagonian battalions were to drive hostile infantry before them like sheep; but this future time was always receding; and it is probable that, if his life had been prolonged thirty years, his superb army would never have seen any harder service than a sham fight in the fields near Berlin. But the great military means which he had collected were destined to be employed by a spirit far more daring and inventive than his own. Frederic, surnamed the Great, son of Frederic William, was born in January 1712. It may safely be pronounced that he had received from nature a strong and sharp understanding, and a rare firmness of temper and intensity of will. As to the other parts of his character, it is difficult to say whether they are to be ascribed to nature, or to the strange training which he underwent. The history of his boyhood is painfully interesting. Oliver Twist in the parish workhouse, Smike at Dotheboys Hall, were petted children when compared with this heir apparent of a crown. The nature of Frederic William was hard and bad, and the habit of exercising arbitrary power had made him frightfully savage. His rage constantly vented itself to right and left in curses and blows. When his Majesty took a walk, every human being fled before him, as if a tiger had broken loose from a menagerie. If he met a lady in the street, he gave her a kick, and told her to go home and mind her brats. If he saw a clergyman staring at the soldiers, he admonished the reverend gentleman to betake himself to study and prayer, and enforced this pious advice by a sound caning, administered on the spot. But it was in his own house that he was most unreasonable and ferocious. His palace was hell, and he the most execrable of fiends, a cross between Moloch and Puck. His son Frederic and his daughter Wilhelmina, afterwards Margravine of Bareuth, were in an especial manner objects of his aversion. His own mind was uncultivated. He despised literature. He hated infidels, papists, and metaphysicians, and did not very well understand in what they differed from each other. The business of life, according to him, was to drill and to be drilled. The recreations suited to a prince, were to sit in a cloud of tobacco smoke, to sip Swedish beer between the puffs of the pipe, to play backgammon for three halfpence a rubber, to kill wild hogs, and to shoot partridges by the thousand. The Prince Royal showed little inclination either for the serious employments or for the amusements of his father. He shirked the duties of the parade; he detested the fume of tobacco; he had no taste either for backgammon or for field sports. He had an exquisite ear, and performed skilfully on the flute. His earliest instructors had been French refugees, and they had awakened in him a strong passion for French literature and French society. Frederic William regarded these tastes as effeminate and contemptible, and, by abuse and persecution, made them still stronger. Things became worse when the Prince Royal attained that time of life at which the great revolution in the human mind and body takes place. He was guilty of some youthful indiscretions, which no good and wise parent would regard with severity. At a later period he was accused, truly or falsely, of vices from which History averts her eyes, and which even Satire blushes to name, vices such that, to borrow the energetic language of Lord Keeper Coventry, "the depraved nature of man, which of itself carrieth man to all other sin, abhorreth them." But the offences of his youth were not characterised by any peculiar turpitude. They excited, however, transports of rage in the King, who hated all faults except those to which he was himself inclined, and who conceived that he made ample atonement to Heaven for his brutality, by holding the softer passions in detestation. The Prince Royal, too, was not one of those who are content to take their religion on trust. He asked puzzling questions, and brought forward arguments which seemed to savour of something different from pure Lutheranism. The King suspected that his son was inclined to be a heretic of some sort or other, whether Calvinist or Atheist his Majesty did not very well know. The ordinary malignity of Frederic William was bad enough. He now thought malignity a part of his duty as a Christian man, and all the conscience that he had stimulated his hatred. The flute was broken: the French books were sent out of the palace: the Prince was kicked and cudgelled, and pulled by the hair. At dinner the plates were hurled at his head: sometimes he was restricted to bread and water: sometimes he was forced to swallow food so nauseous that he could not keep it on his stomach. Once his father knocked him down, dragged him along the floor to a window, and was with difficulty prevented from strangling him with the cord of the curtain. The Queen, for the crime of not wishing to see her son murdered, was subjected to the grossest indignities. The Princess Wilhelmina, who took her brother's part, was treated almost as ill as Mrs. Brownrigg's apprentices. Driven to despair, the unhappy youth tried to run away. Then the fury of the old tyrant rose to madness. The Prince was an officer in the army: his flight was therefore desertion; and, in the moral code of Frederic William, desertion was the highest of all crimes. "Desertion," says this royal theologian, in one of his half-crazy letters, "is from hell. It is a work of the children of the Devil. No child of God could possibly be guilty of it." An accomplice of the Prince, in spite of the recommendation of a court martial, was mercilessly put to death. It seemed probable that the Prince himself would suffer the same fate. It was with difficulty that the intercession of the States of Holland, of the Kings of Sweden and Poland, and of the Emperor of Germany, saved the House of Brandenburg from the stain of an unnatural murder. After months of cruel suspense, Frederic learned that his life would be spared. He remained, however, long a prisoner; but he was not on that account to be pitied. He found in his gaolers a tenderness which he had never found in his father; his table was not sumptuous, but he had wholesome food in sufficient quantity to appease hunger: he could read the Henriade without being kicked, and could play on his flute without having it broken over his head. When his confinement terminated he was a man. He had nearly completed his twenty-first year, and could scarcely be kept much longer under the restraints which had made his boyhood miserable. Suffering had matured his understanding, while it had hardened his heart and soured his temper. He had learnt self-command and dissimulation; he affected to conform to some of his father's views, and submissively accepted a wife, who was a wife only in name, from his father's hand. He also served with credit, though without any opportunity of acquiring brilliant distinction, under the command of Prince Eugene, during a campaign marked by no extraordinary events. He was now permitted to keep a separate establishment, and was therefore able to indulge with caution his own tastes. Partly in order to conciliate the King, and partly, no doubt, from inclination, he gave up a portion of his time to military and political business, and thus gradually acquired such an aptitude for affairs as his most intimate associates were not aware that he possessed. His favourite abode was at Rheinsberg, near the frontier which separates the Prussian dominions from the Duchy of Mecklenburg. Rheinsberg, is a fertile and smiling spot, in the midst of the sandy waste of the Marquisate. The mansion, surrounded by woods of oak and beech, looks out upon a spacious lake. There Frederic amused himself by laying out gardens in regular alleys and intricate mazes, by building obelisks, temples, and conservatories, and by collecting rare fruits and flowers. His retirement was enlivened by a few companions, among whom he seems to have preferred those who, by birth or extraction, were French. With these intimates he dined and supped well, drank freely, and amused himself sometimes with concerts, and sometimes with holding chapters of a fraternity which he called the Order of Bayard; but literature was his chief resource. His education had been entirely French. The long ascendency which Lewis the Fourteenth had enjoyed, and the eminent merit of the tragic and comic dramatists, of the satirists, and of the preachers who had flourished under that magnificent prince, had made the French language predominant in Europe. Even in countries which had a national literature, and which could boast of names greater than those of Racine, of Moliere, and of Massillon, in the country of Dante, in the country of Cervantes, in the country of Shakspeare and Milton, the intellectual fashions of Paris had been to a great extent adopted. Germany had not yet produced a single masterpiece of poetry or eloquence. In Germany, therefore, the French taste reigned without rival and without limit. Every youth of rank was taught to speak and write French. That he should speak and write his own tongue with politeness, or even with accuracy and facility, was regarded as comparatively an unimportant object. Even Frederic William, with all his rugged Saxon prejudices, thought it necessary that his children should know French, and quite unnecessary that they should be well versed in German. The Latin was positively interdicted. "My son," his Majesty wrote, "shall not learn Latin; and, more than that, I will not suffer anybody even to mention such a thing to me." One of the preceptors ventured to read the Golden Bull in the original with the Prince Royal. Frederic William entered the room, and broke out in his usual kingly style. "Rascal, what are you at there?" "Please your Majesty," answered the preceptor, "I was explaining the Golden Bull to his Royal Highness." "I'll Golden Bull you, you rascal! roared the Majesty of Prussia. Up went the King's cane away ran the terrified instructor; and Frederic's classical studies ended for ever. He now and then affected to quote Latin sentences, and produced such exquisitely Ciceronian phrases as these: "Stante pede morire"--"De gustibus non est disputandus,"--"Tot verbas tot spondera." Of Italian, he had not enough to read a page of Metastasio with ease; and of the Spanish and English, he did not, as far as we are aware, understand a single word. As the highest human compositions to which he had access were those of the French writers, it is not strange that his admiration for those writers should have been unbounded. His ambitious and eager temper early prompted him to imitate what he admired. The wish, perhaps, dearest to his heart was, that he might rank among the masters of French rhetoric and poetry. He wrote prose and verse as indefatigably as if he had been a starving hack of Cave or Osborn; but Nature, which had bestowed on him, in a large measure, the talents of a captain and of an administrator, had withheld from him those higher and rarer gifts, without which industry labours in vain to produce immortal eloquence and song. And, indeed, had he been blessed with more imagination, wit, and fertility of thought, than he appears to have had, he would still have been subject to one great disadvantage, which would, in all probability, have for ever prevented him from taking a high place among men of letters. He had not the full command of any language. There was no machine of thought which he could employ with perfect ease, confidence, and freedom. He had German enough to scold his servants, or to give the word of command to his grenadiers; but his grammar and pronunciation were extremely bad. He found it difficult to make out the meaning even of the simplest German poetry. On one occasion a version of Racine's Iphigenie was read to him. He held the French original in his hand; but was forced to own that, even with such help, he could not understand the translation. Yet, though he had neglected his mother tongue in order to bestow all his attention on French, his French was, after all, the French of a foreigner. It was necessary for him to have always at his beck some men of letters from Paris to point out the solecisms and false rhymes of which, to the last, he was frequently guilty. Even had he possessed the poetic faculty, of which, as far as we can judge, he was utterly destitute, the want of a language would have prevented him from being a great poet. No noble work of imagination, as far as we recollect, was ever composed by any man, except in a dialect which he had learned without remembering how or when, and which he had spoken with perfect ease before he had ever analysed its structure. Romans of great abilities wrote Greek verses; but how many of those verses have deserved to live? Many men of eminent genius have, in modern times, written Latin poems; but, as far as we are aware, none of those poems, not even Milton's, can be ranked in the first class of art, or even very high in the second. It is not strange, therefore, that, in the French verses of Frederic, we can find nothing beyond the reach of any man of good parts and industry, nothing above the level of Newdigate and Seatonian poetry. His best pieces may perhaps rank with the worst in Dodsley's collection. In history, he succeeded better. We do not, indeed, find, in any of his voluminous Memoirs, either deep reflection or vivid painting. But the narrative is distinguished by clearness, conciseness, good sense, and a certain air of truth and simplicity, which is singularly graceful in a man who, having done great things, sits down to relate them. On the whole, however, none of his writings are so agreeable to us as his Letters, particularly those which are written with earnestness, and are not embroidered with verses. It is not strange that a young man devoted to literature, and acquainted only with the literature of France, should have looked with profound veneration on the genius of Voltaire. "A man who has never seen the sun," says Calderon, in one of his charming comedies, "cannot be blamed for thinking that no glory can exceed that of the moon. A man who has seen neither moon nor sun, cannot be blamed for talking of the unrivalled brightness of the morning star." Had Frederic been able to read Homer and Milton or even Virgil and Tasso, his admiration of the Henriade would prove that he was utterly destitute of the power of discerning what is excellent in art. Had he been familiar with Sophocles or Shakspeare, we should have expected him to appreciate Zaire more justly. Had he been able to study Thucydides and Tacitus in the original Greek and Latin, he would have known that there were heights in the eloquence of history far beyond the reach of the author of the Life of Charles the Twelfth. But the finest heroic poem, several of the most powerful tragedies, and the most brilliant and picturesque historical work that Frederic had ever read, were Voltaire's. Such high and various excellence moved the young Prince almost to adoration. The opinions of Voltaire on religious and philosophical questions had not yet been fully exhibited to the public. At a later period, when an exile from his country, and at open war with the Church, he spoke out. But when Frederic was at Rheinsberg, Voltaire was still a courtier; and, though he could not always curb his petulant wit, he had as yet published nothing that could exclude him from Versailles, and little that a divine of the mild and generous school of Grotius and Tillotson might not read with pleasure. In the Henriade, in Zaire, and in Alzire, Christian piety is exhibited in the most amiable form; and, some years after the period of which we are writing, a Pope condescended to accept the dedication of Mahomet. The real sentiments of the poet, however, might be clearly perceived by a keen eye through the decent disguise with which he veiled them, and could not escape the sagacity of Frederic, who held similar opinions, and had been accustomed to practise similar dissimulation. The Prince wrote to his idol in the style of a worshipper; and Voltaire replied with exquisite grace and address. A correspondence followed, which may be studied with advantage by those who wish to become proficients in the ignoble art of flattery. No man ever paid compliments better than Voltaire. His sweetest confectionery had always a delicate, yet stimulating flavour, which was delightful to palates wearied by the coarse preparations of inferior artists. It was only from his hand that so much sugar could be swallowed without making the swallower sick. Copies of verses, writing-desks, trinkets of amber, were exchanged between the friends. Frederic confided his writings to Voltaire; and Voltaire applauded, as if Frederic had been Racine and Bossuet in one. One of his Royal Highness's performances was a refutation of Machiavelli. Voltaire undertook to convey it to the press. It was entitled the Anti-Machiavel, and was an edifying homily against rapacity, perfidy, arbitrary government, unjust war, in short, against almost everything for which its author is now remembered among men. The old King uttered now and then a ferocious growl at the diversions of Rheinsberg. But his health was broken; his end was approaching; and his vigour was impaired. He had only one pleasure left, that of seeing tall soldiers. He could always be propitiated by a present of a grenadier of six feet four or six feet five; and such presents were from time to time judiciously offered by his son. Early in the year 1740, Frederic William met death with a firmness and dignity worthy of a better and wiser man; and Frederic, who had just completed his twenty-eighth year, became King of Prussia. His character was little understood. That he had good abilities, indeed, no person who had talked with him, or corresponded with him, could doubt. But the easy Epicurean life which he had led, his love of good cookery and good wine, of music, of conversation, of light literature, led many to regard him as a sensual and intellectual voluptuary. His habit of canting about moderation, peace, liberty, and the happiness which a good mind derives from the happiness of others, had imposed on some who should have known better. Those who thought best of him, expected a Telemachus after Fenelon's pattern. Others predicted the approach of a Medicean age, an age propitious to learning and art, and not unpropitious to pleasure. Nobody had the least suspicion that a tyrant of extraordinary military and political talents, of industry more extraordinary still, without fear, without faith, and without mercy, had ascended the throne. The disappointment of Falstaff at his old boon-companion's coronation was not more bitter than that which awaited some of the inmates of Rheinsberg. They had long looked forward to the accession of their patron, as to the event from which their own prosperity and greatness was to date. They had at last reached the promised land, the land which they had figured to themselves as flowing with milk and honey; and they found it a desert. "No more of these fooleries," was the short, sharp admonition given by Frederic to one of them. It soon became plain that, in the most important points, the new sovereign bore a strong family likeness to his predecessor. There was indeed a wide difference between the father and the son as respected extent and vigour of intellect, speculative opinions, amusements, studies, outward demeanour. But the groundwork of the character was the same in both. To both were common the love of order, the love of business, the military taste, the parsimony, the imperious spirit, the temper irritable even to ferocity, the pleasure in the pain and humiliation of others. But these propensities had in Frederic William partaken of the general unsoundness of his mind, and wore a very different aspect when found in company with the strong and cultivated understanding of his successor. Thus, for example, Frederic was as anxious as any prince could be about the efficiency of his army. But this anxiety never degenerated into a monomania, like that which led his father to pay fancy prices for giants. Frederic was as thrifty about money as any prince or any private man ought to be. But he did not conceive, like his father, that it was worth while to eat unwholesome cabbages for the purpose of saving four or five rixdollars in the year. Frederic was, we fear, as malevolent as his father; but Frederic's wit enabled him often to show his malevolence in ways more decent than those to which his father resorted, and to inflict misery and degradation by a taunt instead of a blow. Frederic, it is true, by no means relinquished his hereditary privilege of kicking and cudgelling. His practice, however, as to that matter, differed in some important respects from his father's. To Frederic William, the mere circumstance that any persons whatever, men, women, or children, Prussians or foreigners, were within reach of his toes and of his cane, appeared to be a sufficient reason for proceeding to belabour them. Frederic required provocation as well as vicinity; nor was he ever known to inflict this paternal species of correction on any but his born subjects; though on one occasion M. Thiebault had reason, during a few seconds, to anticipate the high honour of being an exception to this general rule. The character of Frederic was still very imperfectly understood either by his subjects or by his neighbours, when events occurred which exhibited it in a strong light. A few months after his accession died Charles the Sixth, Emperor of Germany, the last descendant, in the male line, of the House of Austria. Charles left no son, and had, long before his death, relinquished all hopes of male issue. During the latter part of his life, his principal object had been to secure to his descendants in the female line the many crowns of the House of Hapsburg. With this view, he had promulgated a new law of succession, widely celebrated throughout Europe under the name of the Pragmatic Sanction. By virtue of this law, his daughter, the Archduchess Maria Theresa, wife of Francis of Lorraine, succeeded to the dominions of her ancestors. No sovereign has ever taken possession of a throne by a clearer title. All the politics of the Austrian cabinet had, during twenty years, been directed to one single end, the settlement of the succession. From every person whose rights could be considered as injuriously affected, renunciations in the most solemn form had been obtained. The new law had been ratified by the Estates of all the kingdoms and principalities which made up the great Austrian monarchy. England, France, Spain, Russia, Poland, Prussia, Sweden, Denmark, the Germanic body, had bound themselves by treaty to maintain the Pragmatic Sanction. That instrument was placed under the protection of the public faith of the whole civilised world. Even if no positive stipulations on this subject had existed, the arrangement was one which no good man would have been willing to disturb. It was a peaceable arrangement. It was an arrangement acceptable to the great population whose happiness was chiefly concerned. It was an arrangement which made no change in the distribution of power among the states of Christendom. It was an arrangement which could be set aside only by means of a general war; and, if it were set aside, the effect would be, that the equilibrium of Europe would be deranged, that the loyal and patriotic feelings of millions would be cruelly outraged, and that great provinces which had been united for centuries would be torn from each other by main force. The sovereigns of Europe were, therefore, bound by every obligation which those who are intrusted with power over their fellow-creatures ought to hold most sacred, to respect and defend the rights of the Archduchess. Her situation and her personal qualities were such as might be expected to move the mind of any generous man to pity, admiration, and chivalrous tenderness. She was in her twenty-fourth year. Her form was majestic, her features beautiful, her countenance sweet and animated, her voice musical, her deportment gracious and dignified, In all domestic relations she was without reproach. She was married to a husband whom she loved, and was on the point of giving birth to a child, when death deprived her of her father. The loss of a parent, and the new cares of empire, were too much for her in the delicate state of her health. Her spirits were depressed, and her cheek lost its bloom. Yet it seemed that she had little cause for anxiety. It seemed that justice, humanity, and the faith of treaties would have their due weight, and that the settlement so solemnly guaranteed would be quietly carried into effect. England, Russia, Poland, and Holland, declared in form their intention to adhere to their engagements. The French ministers made a verbal declaration to the same effect. But from no quarter did the young Queen of Hungary receive stronger assurances of friendship and support than from the King of Prussia. Yet the King of Prussia, the Anti-Machiavel, had already fully determined to commit the great crime of violating his plighted faith, of robbing the ally whom he was bound to defend, and of plunging all Europe into a long, bloody, and desolating war; and all this for no end whatever, except that he might extend his dominions, and see his name in the gazettes. He determined to assemble a great army with speed and secrecy, to invade Silesia before Maria Theresa should be apprised of his design, and to add that rich province to his kingdom. We will not condescend to refute at length the pleas which the compiler of the Memoirs before us has copied from Doctor Preuss. They amount to this, that the House of Brandenburg had some ancient pretensions to Silesia, and had in the previous century been compelled, by hard usage on the part of the Court of Vienna, to waive those pretensions. It is certain that, whoever might originally have been in the right, Prussia had submitted. Prince after prince of the House of Brandenburg had acquiesced in the existing arrangement. Nay, the Court of Berlin had recently been allied with that of Vienna, and had guaranteed the integrity of the Austrian states. Is it not perfectly clear that, if antiquated claims are to be set up against recent treaties and long possession, the world can never be at peace for a day? The laws of all nations have wisely established a time of limitation, after which titles, however illegitimate in their origin, cannot be questioned. It is felt by everybody, that to eject a person from his estate on the ground of some injustice committed in the time of the Tudors would produce all the evils which result from arbitrary confiscation, and would make all property insecure. It concerns the commonwealth--so runs the legal maxim--that there be an end of litigation. And surely this maxim is at least equally applicable to the great commonwealth of states; for in that commonwealth litigation means the devastation of provinces, the suspension of trade and industry, sieges like those of Badajoz and St. Sebastian, pitched fields like those of Eylau and Borodino. We hold that the transfer of Norway from Denmark to Sweden was an unjustifiable proceeding; but would the King of Denmark be therefore justified in landing, without any new provocation in Norway, and commencing military operations there? The King of Holland thinks, no doubt, that he was unjustly deprived of the Belgian provinces. Grant that it were so. Would he, therefore, be justified in marching with an army on Brussels? The case against Frederic was still stronger, inasmuch as the injustice of which he complained had been committed more than a century before. Nor must it be forgotten that he owed the highest personal obligations to the House of Austria. It may be doubted whether his life had not been preserved by the intercession of the prince whose daughter he was about to plunder. To do the King justice, he pretended to no more virtue than he had. In manifestoes he might, for form's sake, insert some idle stories about his antiquated claim on Silesia; but in his conversations and Memoirs he took a very different tone. His own words are: "Ambition, interest, the desire of making people talk about me, carried the day; and I decided for war." Having resolved on his course, he acted with ability and vigour. It was impossible wholly to conceal his preparations; for throughout the Prussian territories regiments, guns, and baggage were in motion. The Austrian envoy at Berlin apprised his court of these facts, and expressed a suspicion of Frederic's designs; but the ministers of Maria Theresa refused to give credit to so black an imputation on a young prince, who was known chiefly by his high professions of integrity and philanthropy. "We will not," they wrote, "we cannot, believe it." In the meantime the Prussian forces had been assembled. Without any declaration of war, without any demand for reparation, in the very act of pouring forth compliments and assurances of goodwill, Frederic commenced hostilities. Many thousands of his troops were actually in Silesia before the Queen of Hungary knew that he had set up any claim to any part of her territories. At length he sent her a message which could be regarded only as an insult. If she would but let him have Silesia, he would, he said, stand by her against any power which should try to deprive her of her other dominions; as if he was not already bound to stand by her, or as if his new promise could be of more value than the old one. It was the depth of winter. The cold was severe, and the roads heavy with mire. But the Prussians pressed on. Resistance was impossible. The Austrian army was then neither numerous nor efficient. The small portion of that army which lay in Silesia was unprepared for hostilities. Glogau was blockaded; Breslau opened its gates; Ohlau was evacuated. A few scattered garrisons still held out; but the whole open country was subjugated: no enemy ventured to encounter the King in the field; and, before the end of January 1741, he returned to receive the congratulations of his subjects at Berlin. Had the Silesian question been merely a question between Frederic and Maria Theresa, it would be impossible to acquit the Prussian King of gross perfidy. But when we consider the effects which his policy produced, and could not fail to produce, on the whole community of civilised nations, we are compelled to pronounce a condemnation still more severe. Till he began the war, it seemed possible, even probable, that the peace of the world would be preserved. The plunder of the great Austrian heritage was indeed a strong temptation; and in more than one cabinet ambitious schemes were already meditated. But the treaties by which the Pragmatic Sanction had been guaranteed were express and recent. To throw all Europe into confusion for a purpose clearly unjust, was no light matter. England was true to her engagements. The voice of Fleury had always been for peace. He had a conscience. He was now in extreme old age, and was unwilling, after a life which, when his situation was considered, must be pronounced singularly pure, to carry the fresh stain of a great crime before the tribunal of his God. Even the vain and unprincipled Belle- Isle, whose whole life was one wild day-dream of conquest and spoliation, felt that France, bound as she was by solemn stipulations, could not, without disgrace, make a direct attack on the Austrian dominions. Charles, Elector of Bavaria, pretended that he had a right to a large part of the inheritance which the Pragmatic Sanction gave to the Queen of Hungary; but he was not sufficiently powerful to move without support. It might, therefore, not unreasonably be expected that, after a short period of restlessness, all the potentates of Christendom would acquiesce in the arrangements made by the late Emperor. But the selfish rapacity of the King of Prussia gave the signal to his neighbours. His example quieted their sense of shame. His success led them to underrate the difficulty of dismembering the Austrian monarchy. The whole world sprang to arms. On the head of Frederic is all the blood which was shed in a war which raged during many years and in every quarter of the globe, the blood of the column of Fontenoy, the blood of the mountaineers who were slaughtered at Culloden. The evils produced by his wickedness were felt in lands where the name of Prussia was unknown; and, in order that he might rob a neighbour whom he had promised to defend, black men fought on the coast of Coromandel, and red men scalped each other by the Great Lakes of North America. Silesia had been occupied without a battle; but the Austrian troops were advancing to the relief of the fortresses which still held out. In the spring Frederic rejoined his army. He had seen little of war, and had never commanded any great body of men in the field. It is not, therefore, strange that his first military operations showed little of that skill which, at a later period, was the admiration of Europe. What connoisseurs say of some pictures painted by Raphael in his youth, may be said of this campaign. It was in Frederic's early bad manner. Fortunately for him, the generals to whom he was opposed were men of small capacity. The discipline of his own troops, particularly of the infantry, was unequalled in that age; and some able and experienced officers were at hand to assist him with their advice. Of these, the most distinguished was Field-Marshal Schwerin, a brave adventurer of Pomeranian extraction, who had served half the governments in Europe, had borne the commissions of the States-General of Holland and of the Duke of Mecklenburg, had fought under Marlborough at Blenheim, and had been with Charles the Twelfth at Bender. Frederic's first battle was fought at Molwitz; and never did the career of a great commander open in a more inauspicious manner. His army was victorious. Not only, however, did he not establish his title to the character of an able general; but he was so unfortunate as to make it doubtful whether he possessed the vulgar courage of a soldier. The cavalry, which he commanded in person, was put to flight. Unaccustomed to the tumult and carnage of a field of battle, he lost his self-possession, and listened too readily to those who urged him to save himself. His English grey carried him many miles from the field, while Schwerin, though wounded in two places, manfully upheld the day. The skill of the old Field-Marshal and the steadiness of the Prussian battalions prevailed; and the Austrian army was driven from the field with the loss of eight thousand men. The news was carried late at night to a mill in which the King had taken shelter. It gave him a bitter pang. He was successful; but he owed his success to dispositions which others had made, and to the valour of men who had fought while he was flying. So unpromising was the first appearance of the greatest warrior of that age. The battle of Molwitz was the signal for a general explosion throughout Europe. Bavaria took up arms. France, not yet declaring herself a principal in the war, took part in it as an ally of Bavaria. The two great statesmen to whom mankind had owed many years of tranquillity, disappeared about this time from the scene, but not till they had both been guilty of the weakness of sacrificing their sense of justice and their love of peace to the vain hope of preserving their power. Fleury, sinking under age and infirmity, was borne down by the impetuosity of Belle-Isle. Walpole retired from the service of his ungrateful country to his woods and paintings at Houghton; and his power devolved on the daring and eccentric Carteret. As were the ministers, so were the nations. Thirty years during which Europe had, with few interruptions, enjoyed repose, had prepared the public mind for great military efforts. A new generation had grown up, which could not remember the siege of Turin or the slaughter of Malplaquet; which knew war by nothing but its trophies; and which, while it looked with pride on the tapestries at Blenheim, or the statue in the Place of Victories, little thought by what privations, by what waste of private fortunes, by how many bitter tears, conquests must be purchased. For a time fortune seemed adverse to the Queen of Hungary. Frederic invaded Moravia. The French and Bavarians penetrated into Bohemia, and were there joined by the Saxons. Prague was taken. The Elector of Bavaria was raised by the suffrages of his colleagues to the Imperial throne, a throne which the practice of centuries had almost entitled the House of Austria to regard as a hereditary possession. Yet was the spirit of the haughty daughter of the Caesars unbroken. Hungary was still hers by an unquestionable title; and although her ancestors had found Hungary the most mutinous of all their kingdoms, she resolved to trust herself to the fidelity of a people, rude indeed, turbulent, and impatient of oppression, but brave, generous, and simple-hearted. In the midst of distress and peril she had given birth to a son, afterwards the Emperor Joseph the Second. Scarcely had she arisen from her couch, when she hastened to Presburg. There, in the sight of an innumerable multitude, she was crowned with the crown and robed with the robe of St. Stephen. No spectator could restrain his tears when the beautiful young mother, still weak from child-bearing, rode, after the fashion of her fathers, up the Mount of Defiance, unsheathed the ancient sword of state, shook it towards north and south, east and west, and, with a glow on her pale face, challenged the four corners of the world to dispute her rights and those of her boy. At the first sitting of the Diet she appeared clad in deep mourning for her father, and in pathetic and dignified words implored her people to support her just cause. Magnates and deputies sprang up, half drew their sabres, and with eager voices vowed to stand by her with their lives and fortunes. Till then, her firmness had never once forsaken her before the public eye; but at that shout she sank down upon her throne, and wept aloud. Still more touching was the sight when, a few days later, she came again before the Estates of her realm, and held up before them the little Archduke in her arms. Then it was that the enthusiasm of Hungary broke forth into that war-cry which soon resounded throughout Europe, "Let us die for our King, Maria Theresa!" In the meantime, Frederic was meditating a change of policy. He had no wish to raise France to supreme power on the Continent, at the expense of the House of Hapsburg. His first object was to rob the Queen of Hungary. His second object was that, if possible, nobody should rob her but himself. He had entered into engagements with the powers leagued against Austria; but these engagements were in his estimation of no more force than the guarantee formerly given to the Pragmatic Sanction. His plan now was to secure his share of the plunder by betraying his accomplices. Maria Theresa was little inclined to listen to any such compromise; but the English Government represented to her so strongly the necessity of buying off Frederic, that she agreed to negotiate. The negotiation would not, however, have ended in a treaty, had not the arms of Frederic been crowned with a second victory. Prince Charles of Lorraine, brother-in-law to Maria Theresa, a bold and active, though unfortunate general, gave battle to the Prussians at Chotusitz, and was defeated. The King was still only a learner of the military art. He acknowledged, at a later period, that his success on this occasion was to be attributed, not at all to his own generalship, but solely to the valour and steadiness of his troops. He completely effaced, however, by his personal courage and energy, the stain which Molwitz had left on his reputation. A peace, concluded under the English mediation, was the fruit of this battle. Maria Theresa ceded Silesia: Frederic abandoned his allies: Saxony followed his example; and the Queen was left at liberty to turn her whole force against France and Bavaria. She was everywhere triumphant. The French were compelled to evacuate Bohemia, and with difficulty effected their escape. The whole line of their retreat might be tracked by the corpses of thousands who had died of cold, fatigue, and hunger. Many of those who reached their country carried with them the seeds of death. Bavaria was overrun by bands of ferocious warriors from that bloody debatable land which lies on the frontier between Christendom and Islam. The terrible names of the Pandoor, the Croat, and the Hussar, then first became familiar to Western Europe. The unfortunate Charles of Bavaria, vanquished by Austria, betrayed by Prussia, driven from his hereditary states, and neglected by his allies, was hurried by shame and remorse to an untimely end. An English army appeared in the heart of Germany, and defeated the French at Dettingen. The Austrian captains already began to talk of completing the work of Marlborough and Eugene, and of compelling France to relinquish Alsace and the three Bishoprics. The Court of Versailles, in this peril, looked to Frederic for help. He had been guilty of two great treasons: perhaps he might be induced to commit a third. The Duchess of Chateauroux then held the chief influence over the feeble Lewis. She, determined to send an agent to Berlin; and Voltaire was selected for the mission. He eagerly undertook the task; for, while his literary fame filled all Europe, he was troubled with a childish craving for political distinction. He was vain, and not without reason, of his address, and of his insinuating eloquence: and he flattered himself that he possessed boundless influence over the King of Prussia. The truth was that he knew, as yet, only one corner of Frederic's character. He was well acquainted with all the petty vanities and affectations of the poetaster; but was not aware that these foibles were united with all the talents and vices which lead to success in active life, and that the unlucky versifier who pestered him with reams of middling Alexandrines, was the most vigilant, suspicious, and severe of politicians. Voltaire was received with every mark of respect and friendship, was lodged in the palace, and had a seat daily at the royal table. The negotiation was of an extraordinary description. Nothing can be conceived more whimsical than the conferences which took place between the first literary man and the first practical man of the age, whom a strange weakness had induced to exchange their parts. The great poet would talk of nothing but treaties and guarantees, and the great King of nothing but metaphors and rhymes. On one occasion Voltaire put into his Majesty's hands a paper on the state of Europe, and received it back with verses scrawled on the margin. In secret they both laughed at each other. Voltaire did not spare the King's poems; and the King has left on record his opinion of Voltaire's diplomacy. "He had no credentials," says Frederic, "and the whole mission was a joke, a mere farce." But what the influence of Voltaire could not effect, the rapid progress of the Austrian arms effected. If it should be in the power of Maria Theresa and George the Second to dictate terms of peace to France, what chance was there that Prussia would long retain Silesia? Frederic's conscience told him that he had acted perfidiously and inhumanly towards the Queen of Hungary. That her resentment was strong she had given ample proof; and of her respect for treaties he judged by his own. Guarantees, he said, were mere filigree, pretty to look at, but too brittle to bear the slightest pressure. He thought it his safest course to ally himself closely to France, and again to attack the Empress Queen. Accordingly, in the autumn of 1744, without notice, without any decent pretext, he recommenced hostilities, marched through the electorate of Saxony without troubling himself about the permission of the Elector, invaded Bohemia, took Prague, and even menaced Vienna. It was now that, for the first time, he experienced the inconstancy of fortune. An Austrian army under Charles of Lorraine threatened his communications with Silesia. Saxony was all in arms behind him. He found it necessary to save himself by a retreat. He afterwards owned that his failure was the natural effect of his own blunders. No general, he said, had ever committed greater faults. It must be added, that to the reverses of this campaign he always ascribed his subsequent successes. It was in the midst of difficulty and disgrace that he caught the first clear glimpse of the principles of the military art. The memorable year 1745 followed. The war raged by sea and land, in Italy, in Germany, and in Flanders; and even England, after many years of profound internal quiet, saw, for the last time, hostile armies set in battle array against each other. This year is memorable in the life of Frederic, as the date at which his noviciate in the art of war may be said to have terminated. There have been great captains whose precocious and self-taught military skill resembled intuition. Conde, Clive, and Napoleon are examples. But Frederic was not one of these brilliant portents. His proficiency in military science was simply the proficiency which a man of vigorous faculties makes in any science to which he applies his mind with earnestness and industry. It was at Hohenfriedberg that he first proved how much he had profited by his errors, and by their consequences. His victory on that day was chiefly due to his skilful dispositions, and convinced Europe that the prince who, a few years before, had stood aghast in the rout of Molwitz, had attained in the military art a mastery equalled by none of his contemporaries, or equalled by Saxe alone. The victory of Hohenfriedberg was speedily followed by that of Sorr. In the meantime, the arms of France had been victorious in the Low Countries. Frederic had no longer reason to fear that Maria Theresa would be able to give law to Europe, and he began to meditate a fourth breach of his engagements. The Court of Versailles was alarmed and mortified. A letter of earnest expostulation, in the handwriting of Lewis, was sent to Berlin; but in vain. In the autumn of 1745, Frederic made Peace with England, and, before the close of the year, with Austria also. The pretensions of Charles of Bavaria could present no obstacle to an accommodation. That unhappy Prince was no more; and Francis of Lorraine, the husband of Maria Theresa, was raised, with the general assent of the Germanic body, to the Imperial throne. Prussia was again at peace; but the European war lasted till, in the year 1748, it was terminated by the treaty of Aix-la Chapelle. Of all the powers that had taken part in it, the only gainer was Frederic. Not only had he added to his patrimony the fine province of Silesia: he had, by his unprincipled dexterity, succeeded so well in alternately depressing the scale of Austria and that of France, that he was generally regarded as holding the balance of Europe, a high dignity for one who ranked lowest among kings, and whose great-grandfather had been no more than a Margrave. By the public, the King of Prussia was considered as a politician destitute alike of morality and decency, insatiably rapacious, and shamelessly false; nor was the public much in the wrong. He was at the same time, allowed to be a man of parts, a rising general, a shrewd negotiator and administrator. Those qualities wherein he surpassed all mankind, were as yet unknown to others or to himself; for they were qualities which shine out only on a dark ground. His career had hitherto, with little interruption, been prosperous; and it was only in adversity, in adversity which seemed without hope or resource, in adversity which would have overwhelmed even men celebrated for strength of mind, that his real greatness could be shown. He had, from the commencement of his reign, applied himself to public business after a fashion unknown among kings. Lewis the Fourteenth, indeed, had been his own prime minister, and had exercised a general superintendence over all the departments of the Government; but this was not sufficient for Frederic. He was not content with being his own prime minister: he would be his own sole minister. Under him there was no room, not merely for a Richelieu or a Mazarin, but for a Colbert, a Louvois, or a Torcy. A love of labour for its own sake, a restless and insatiable longing to dictate, to intermeddle, to make his power felt, a profound scorn and distrust of his fellow-creatures, made him unwilling to ask counsel, to confide important secrets, to delegate ample powers. The highest functionaries under his government were mere clerks, and were not so much trusted by him as valuable clerks are often trusted by the heads of departments. He was his own treasurer, his own commander-in-chief, his own intendant of public works, his own minister for trade and justice, for home affairs and foreign affairs, his own master of the horse, steward, and chamberlain. Matters of which no chief of an office in any other government would ever hear, were, in this singular monarchy, decided by the King in person. If a traveller wished for a good place to see a review, he had to write to Frederic, and received next day, from a royal messenger, Frederic's answer signed by Frederic's own hand. This was an extravagant, a morbid activity. The public business would assuredly have been better done if each department had been put under a man of talents and integrity, and if the King had contented himself with a general control. In this manner the advantages which belong to unity of design, and the advantages which belong to the division of labour, would have been to a great extent combined. But such a system would not have suited the peculiar temper of Frederic. He could tolerate no will, no reason, in the State, save his own. He wished for no abler assistance than that of penmen who had just understanding enough to translate and transcribe, to make out his scrawls, and to put his concise Yes and No into an official form. Of the higher intellectual faculties, there is as much in a copying machine, or a lithographic press, as he required from a secretary of the cabinet. His own exertions were such as were hardly to be expected from a human body or a human mind. At Potsdam, his ordinary residence, he rose at three in summer and four in winter. A page soon appeared, with a large basket full of all the letters which had arrived for the King by the last courier, despatches from ambassadors, reports from officers of revenue, plans of buildings, proposals for draining marshes, complaints from persons who thought themselves aggrieved, applications from persons who wanted titles, military commissions, and civil situations. He examined the seals with a keen eye; for he was never for a moment free from the suspicion that some fraud might be practised on him. Then he read the letters, divided them into several packets, and signified his pleasure, generally by a mark, often by two or three words, now and then by some cutting epigram. By eight he had generally finished this part of his task. The adjutant-general was then in attendance, and received instructions for the day as to all the military arrangements of the kingdom. Then the King went to review his guards, not as kings ordinarily review their guards, but with the minute attention and severity of an old drill-sergeant. In the meantime the four cabinet secretaries had been employed in answering the letters on which the King had that morning signified his will. These unhappy men were forced to work all the year round like negro slaves in the time of the sugar-crop. They never had a holiday. They never knew what it was to dine. It was necessary that, before they stirred, they should finish the whole of their work. The King, always on his guard against treachery, took from the heap a handful of letters at random, and looked into them to see whether his instructions had been exactly followed. This was no bad security against foul play on the part of the secretaries; for if one of them were detected in a trick, he might think himself fortunate if he escaped with five years of imprisonment in a dungeon. Frederic then signed the replies, and all were sent off the same evening. The general principles on which this strange government was conducted, deserve attention. The policy of Frederic was essentially the same as his father's; but Frederic, while he carried that policy to lengths to which his father never thought of carrying it, cleared it at the same time from the absurdities with which his father had encumbered it. The King's first object was to have a great, efficient, and well-trained army. He had a kingdom which in extent and population was hardly in the second rank of European powers; and yet he aspired to a place not inferior to that of the sovereigns of England, France, and Austria. For that end it was necessary that Prussia should be all sting. Lewis the Fifteenth, with five times as many subjects as Frederic, and more than five times as large a revenue, had not a more formidable army. The proportion which the soldiers in Prussia bore to the people seems hardly credible. Of the males in the vigour of life, a seventh part were probably under arms; and this great force had, by drilling, by reviewing, and by the unsparing use of cane and scourge, been taught to form all evolutions with a rapidity and a precision which would have astonished Villars or Eugene. The elevated feelings which are necessary to the best kind of army were then wanting to the Prussian service. In those ranks were not found the religious and political enthusiasm which inspired the pikemen of Cromwell, the patriotic ardour, the thirst of glory, the devotion to a great leader, which inflamed the Old Guard of Napoleon. But in all the mechanical parts of the military calling, the Prussians were as superior to the English and French troops of that day as the English and French troops to a rustic militia. Though the pay of the Prussian soldier was small, though every rixdollar of extraordinary charge was scrutinised by Frederic with a vigilance and suspicion such as Mr. Joseph Hume never brought to the examination of an army estimate, the expense of such an establishment was, for the means of the country, enormous. In order that it might not be utterly ruinous, it was necessary that every other expense should be cut down to the lowest possible point. Accordingly Frederic, though his dominions bordered on the sea, had no navy. He neither had nor wished to have colonies. His judges, his fiscal officers, were meanly paid. His ministers at foreign courts walked on foot, or drove shabby old carriages till the axle-trees gave way. Even to his highest diplomatic agents, who resided at London and Paris, he allowed less than a thousand pounds sterling a year. The royal household was managed with a frugality unusual in the establishments of opulent subjects, unexampled in any other palace. The King loved good eating and drinking, and during great part of his life took pleasure in seeing his table surrounded by guests; yet the whole charge of his kitchen was brought within the sum of two thousand pounds sterling a year. He examined every extraordinary item with a care which might be thought to suit the mistress of a boarding- house better than a great prince. When more than four rixdollars were asked of him for a hundred oysters, he stormed as if he had heard that one of his generals had sold a fortress to the Empress Queen. Not a bottle of champagne was uncorked without his express order. The game of the royal parks and forests, a serious head of expenditure in most kingdoms, was to him a source of profit. The whole was farmed out; and though the farmers were almost ruined by their contract, the King would grant them no remission. His wardrobe consisted of one fine gala dress, which lasted him all his life; of two or three old coats fit for Monmouth Street, of yellow waistcoats soiled with snuff, and of huge boots embrowned by time. One taste alone sometimes allured him beyond the limits of parsimony, nay, even beyond the limits of prudence, the taste for building. In all other things his economy was such as we might call by a harsher name, if we did not reflect that his funds were drawn from a heavily taxed people, and that it was impossible for him, without excessive tyranny, to keep up at once a formidable army and a splendid court. Considered as an administrator, Frederic had undoubtedly many titles to praise. Order was strictly maintained throughout his dominions. Property was secure. A great liberty of speaking and of writing was allowed. Confident in the irresistible strength derived from a great army, the King looked down on malcontents and libellers with a wise disdain; and gave little encouragement to spies and informers. When he was told of the disaffection of one of his subject, he merely asked, "How many thousand men can he bring into the field?" He once saw a crowd staring at something on a wall. He rode up and found that the object of curiosity was a scurrilous placard against himself. The placard had been posted up so high that it was not easy to read it. Frederic ordered his attendants to take it down and put it lower. "My people and I," he said, "have come to an agreement which satisfies us both. They are to say what they please, and I am to do what I please." No person would have dared to publish in London satires on George the Second approaching to the atrocity of those satires on Frederic, which the booksellers at Berlin sold with impunity. One bookseller sent to the palace a copy of the most stinging lampoon that perhaps was ever written in the world, the Memoirs of Voltaire, published by Beaumarchais, and asked for his Majesty's orders. "Do not advertise it in an offensive manner," said the King; "but sell it by all means. I hope it will pay you well." Even among statesmen accustomed to the licence of a free press, such steadfastness of mind as this is not very common. It is due also to the memory of Frederic to say that he earnestly laboured to secure to his people the great blessing of cheap and speedy Justice. He was one of the first rulers who abolished the cruel and absurd practice of torture. No sentence of death, pronounced by the ordinary tribunals, was executed without his sanction; and his sanction, except in cases of murder, was rarely given. Towards his troops he acted in a very different manner. Military offences were punished with such barbarous scourging that to be shot was considered by the Prussian soldier as a secondary punishment. Indeed, the principle which pervaded Frederic's whole policy was this, that the more severely the army is governed, the safer it is to treat the rest of the community with lenity. Religious persecution was unknown under his government, unless some foolish and unjust restrictions which lay upon the Jews may be regarded as forming an exception. His policy with respect to the Catholics of Silesia presented an honourable contrast to the policy which, under very similar circumstances, England long followed with respect to the Catholics of Ireland. Every form of religion and irreligion found an asylum in the States. The scoffer whom the parliaments of France had sentenced to a cruel death, was consoled by a commission in the Prussian service. The Jesuit who could show his face nowhere else, who in Britain was still subject to penal laws, who was proscribed by France, Spain, Portugal, and Naples, who had been given up even by the Vatican, found safety and the means of subsistence in the Prussian dominions. Most of the vices of Frederic's administration resolve selves into one vice, the spirit of meddling. The indefatigable activity of his intellect, his dictatorial temper, his military habits, all inclined him to this great fault. He drilled his people as he drilled his grenadiers. Capital and industry were diverted from their natural direction by a crowd of preposterous regulations. There was a monopoly of coffee, a monopoly of tobacco, a monopoly of refined sugar. The public money, of which the King was generally so sparing, was lavishly spent in ploughing bogs, in planting mulberry trees amidst the sand, in bringing sheep from Spain to improve the Saxon wool, in bestowing prizes for fine yarn, in building manufactories of porcelain, manufactories of carpets, manufactories of hardware, manufactories of lace. Neither the experience of other rulers, nor his own, could ever teach him that something more than an edict and a grant of public money was required to create a Lyons, a Brussels, or a Birmingham. For his commercial policy, however, there was some excuse. He had on his side illustrious examples and popular prejudice. Grievously as he erred, he erred in company with his age. In other departments his meddling was altogether without apology. He interfered with the course of justice as well as with the course of trade; and set up his own crude notions of equity against the law as expounded by the unanimous voice of the gravest magistrates. It never occurred to him that men whose lives were passed in adjudicating on questions of civil right were more likely to form correct opinions on such questions than a prince whose attention was divided among a thousand objects, and who had never read a law-book through. The resistance opposed to him by the tribunals inflamed him to fury. He reviled his Chancellor. He kicked the shins of his judges. He did not, it is true, intend to act unjustly. He firmly believed that he was doing right, and defending the cause of the poor against the wealthy. Yet this well-meant meddling probably did far more harm than all the explosions of his evil passions during the whole of his long reign. We could make shift to live under a debauchee or a tyrant; but to be ruled by a busybody is more than human nature can bear. The same passion for directing and regulating appeared in every part of the King's policy. Every lad of a certain station in life was forced to go to certain schools within the Prussian dominions. If a young Prussian repaired, though but for a few weeks, to Leyden or Gottingen for the purpose of study, the offence was punished with civil disabilities, and sometimes with the confiscation of property. Nobody was to travel without the royal permission. If the permission were granted, the pocket- money of the tourist was fixed by royal ordinance. A merchant might take with him two hundred and fifty rixdollars in gold, a noble was allowed to take four hundred; for it may be observed, in passing, that Frederic studiously kept up the old distinction between the nobles and the community. In speculation, he was a French philosopher, but in action, a German prince. He talked and wrote about the privileges of blood in the style of Sieyes; but in practice no chapter in the empire looked with a keener eye to genealogies and quarterings. Such was Frederic the Ruler. But there was another Frederic, the Frederic of Rheinsberg, the fiddler and flute-player, the poetaster and metaphysician. Amidst the cares of State the King had retained his passion for music, for reading, for writing, for literary society. To these amusements he devoted all the time that he could snatch from the business of war and government; and perhaps more light is thrown on his character by what passed during his hours of relaxation, than by his battles or his laws. It was the just boast of Schiller that, in his country, no Augustus, no Lorenzo, had watched over the infancy of poetry. The rich and energetic language of Luther, driven by the Latin from the schools of pedants, and by the French from the palaces of kings, had taken refuge among the people. Of the powers of that language Frederic had no notion. He generally spoke of it, and of those who used it, with the contempt of ignorance. His library consisted of French books; at his table nothing was heard but French conversation. The associates of his hours of relaxation were, for the most part, foreigners. Britain furnished to the royal circle two distinguished men, born in the highest rank, and driven by civil dissensions from the land to which, under happier circumstances, their talents and virtues might have been a source of strength and glory. George Keith, Earl Marischal of Scotland, had taken arms for the House of Stuart in 1715; and his younger brother James, then only seventeen years old, had fought gallantly by his side. When all was lost they retired together to the Continent, roved from country to country, served under various standards, and so bore themselves as to win the respect and good-will of many who had no love for the Jacobite cause. Their long wanderings terminated at Potsdam; nor had Frederic any associates who deserved or obtained so large a share of his esteem. They were not only accomplished men, but nobles and warriors, capable of serving him in war and diplomacy, as well as of amusing him at supper. Alone of all his companions, they appear never to have had reason to complain of his demeanour towards them. Some of those who knew the palace best pronounced that the Lord Marischal was the only human being whom Frederic ever really loved. Italy sent to the parties at Potsdam the ingenious and amiable Algarotti, and Bastiani, the most crafty, cautious, and servile of Abbes. But the greater part of the society which Frederic had assembled round him, was drawn from France. Maupertuis had acquired some celebrity by the journey which he had made to Lapland, for the purpose of ascertaining, by actual measurement, the shape of our planet. He was placed in the chair of the Academy of Berlin, a humble imitation of the renowned academy of Paris. Baculard D'Arnaud, a young poet, who was thought to have given promise of great things, had been induced to quit his country, and to reside at the Prussian Court. The Marquess D'Argens was among the King's favourite companions, on account, as it should seem, of the strong opposition between their characters. The parts of D'Argens were good, and his manners those of a finished French gentleman; but his whole soul was dissolved in sloth, timidity, and self-indulgence. He was one of that abject class of minds which are superstitious without being religious. Hating Christianity with a rancour which made him incapable of rational inquiry, unable to see in the harmony and beauty of the universe the traces of divine power and wisdom, he was the slave of dreams and omens, would not sit down to table with thirteen in company, turned pale if the salt fell towards him, begged his guests not to cross their knives and forks on their plates, and would not for the world commence a journey on Friday. His health was a subject of constant anxiety to him. Whenever his head ached, or his pulse beat quick, his dastardly fears and effeminate precautions were the jest of all Berlin. All this suited the King's purpose admirably. He wanted somebody by whom he might be amused, and whom he might despise. When he wished to pass half an hour in easy polished conversation, D'Argens was an excellent companion; when he wanted to vent his spleen and contempt, D'Argens was an excellent butt. With these associates, and others of the same class, Frederic loved to spend the time which he could steal from public cares. He wished his supper parties to be gay and easy. He invited his guests to lay aside all restraint, and to forget that he was at the head of a hundred and sixty thousand soldiers, and was absolute master of the life and liberty of ail who sat at meat with him. There was, therefore, at these parties the outward show of ease. The wit and learning of the company were ostentatiously displayed. The discussions on history and literature were often highly interesting. But the absurdity of all the religions known among men was the chief topic of conversation; and the audacity with which doctrines and names venerated throughout Christendom were treated on these occasions startled even persons accustomed to the society of French and English freethinkers. Real liberty, however, or real affection, was in this brilliant society not to be found. Absolute kings seldom have friends: and Frederic's faults were such as, even where perfect equality exists, make friendship exceedingly precarious. He had indeed many qualities which, on a first acquaintance were captivating. His conversation was lively; his manners, to those whom he desired to please, were even caressing. No man could flatter with more delicacy. No man succeeded more completely in inspiring those who approached him with vague hopes of some great advantage from his kindness. But under this fair exterior he was a tyrant, suspicious, disdainful, and malevolent. He had one taste which may be pardoned in a boy, but which, when habitually and deliberately indulged by a man of mature age and strong understanding, is almost invariably the sign of a bad heart--a taste for severe practical jokes. If a courtier was fond of dress, oil was flung over his richest suit. If he was fond of money, some prank was invented to make him disburse more than he could spare. If he was hypochondriacal, he was made to believe that he had the dropsy. If he had particularly set his heart on visiting a place, a letter was forged to frighten him from going thither. These things, it may be said, are trifles. They are so; but they are indications, not to be mistaken, of a nature to which the sight of human suffering and human degradation is an agreeable excitement. Frederic had a keen eye for the foibles of others, and loved to communicate his discoveries. He had some talent for sarcasm, and considerable skill in detecting the sore places where sarcasm would be most acutely felt. His vanity, as well as his malignity, found gratification in the vexation and confusion of those who smarted under his caustic jests. Yet in truth his success on these occasions belonged quite as much to the king as to the wit. We read that Commodus descended, sword in hand, into the arena, against a wretched gladiator, armed only with a foil of lead, and, after shedding the blood of the helpless victim, struck medals to commemorate the inglorious victory. The triumphs of Frederic in the war of repartee were of much the same kind. How to deal with him was the most puzzling of questions. To appear constrained in his presence was to disobey his commands, and to spoil his amusement. Yet if his associates were enticed by his graciousness to indulge in the familiarity of a cordial intimacy, he was certain to make them repent of their presumption by some cruel humiliation. To resent his affronts was perilous; yet not to resent them was to deserve and to invite them. In his view, those who mutinied were insolent and ungrateful; those who submitted were curs made to receive bones and kickings with the same fawning patience. It is, indeed, difficult to conceive how anything short of the rage of hunger should have induced men to bear the misery of being the associates of the Great King. It was no lucrative post. His Majesty was as severe and economical in his friendships as in the other charges of his establishment, and as unlikely to give a rixdollar too much for his guests as for his dinners. The sum which he allowed to a poet or a philosopher was the very smallest sum for which such poet or philosopher could be induced to sell himself into slavery; and the bondsman might think himself fortunate, if what had been so grudgingly given was not, after years of suffering, rudely and arbitrarily withdrawn. Potsdam was, in truth, what it was called by one of its most illustrious inmates, the Palace of Alcina, At the first glance it seemed to be a delightful spot, where every intellectual and physical enjoyment awaited the happy adventurer. Every newcomer was received with eager hospitality, intoxicated with flattery, encouraged to expect prosperity and greatness. It was in vain that a long succession of favourites who had entered that abode with delight and hope, and who, after a short term of delusive happiness, had been doomed to expiate their folly by years of wretchedness and degradation, raised their voices to warn the aspirant who approached the charmed threshold. Some had wisdom enough to discover the truth early, and spirit enough to fly without looking back; others lingered on to a cheerless and unhonoured old age. We have no hesitation in saying that the poorest author of that time in London, sleeping on a bulk, dining in a cellar, with a cravat of paper, and a skewer for a shirt- pin, was a happier man than any of the literary inmates of Frederic's Court. But of all who entered the enchanted garden in the inebriation of delight, and quitted it in agonies of rage and shame, the most remarkable was Voltaire. Many circumstances had made him desirous of finding a home at a distance from his country. His fame had raised him up enemies. His sensibility gave them a formidable advantage over him. They were, indeed, contemptible assailants. Of all that they wrote against him, nothing has survived except what he has himself preserved. But the constitution of his mind resembled the constitution of those bodies in which the slightest scratch of a bramble, or the bite of a gnat, never fails to fester. Though his reputation was rather raised than lowered by the abuse of such writers as Freron and Desfontaines, though the vengeance which he took on Freron and Desfontaines was such, that scourging, branding, pillorying, would have been a trifle to it, there is reason to believe that they gave him far more pain than he ever gave them. Though he enjoyed during his own lifetime the reputation of a classic, though he was extolled by his contemporaries above all poets, philosophers, and historians, though his works were read with as much delight and admiration at Moscow and Westminster, at Florence and Stockholm, as at Paris itself, he was yet tormented by that restless jealousy which should seem to belong only to minds burning with the desire of fame, and yet conscious of impotence. To men of letters who could by no possibility be his rivals, he was, if they behaved well to him, not merely just, not merely courteous, but often a hearty friend and a munificent benefactor. But to every writer who rose to a celebrity approaching his own, he became either a disguised or an avowed enemy. He slily depreciated Montesquieu and Buffon. He publicly, and with violent outrage, made war on Rousseau. Nor had he the heart of hiding his feelings under the semblance of good humour or of contempt. With all his great talents, and all his long experience of the world, he had no more self-command than a petted child, or a hysterical woman. Whenever he was mortified, he exhausted the whole rhetoric of anger and sorrow to express his mortification. His torrents of bitter words, his stamping and cursing, his grimaces and his tears of rage, were a rich feast to those abject natures, whose delight is in the agonies of powerful spirits and in the abasement of immortal names. These creatures had now found out a way of galling him to the very quick. In one walk, at least, it had been admitted by envy itself that he was without a living competitor. Since Racine had been laid among the great men whose dust made the holy precinct of Port-Royal holier, no tragic poet had appeared who could contest the palm with the author of Zaire, of Alzire, and of Merope. At length a rival was announced. Old Crebillon, who, many years before, had obtained some theatrical success, and who had long been forgotten, came forth from his garret in one of the meanest lanes near the Rue St. Antoine, and was welcomed by the acclamations of envious men of letters, and of a capricious populace. A thing called Catiline, which he had written in his retirement, was acted with boundless applause. Of this execrable piece it is sufficient to say, that the plot turns on a love affair, carried on in all the forms of Scudery, between Catiline, whose confidant is the Praetor Lentulus, and Tullia, the daughter of Cicero. The theatre resounded with acclamations. The King pensioned the successful poet; and the coffee-houses pronounced that Voltaire was a clever man, but that the real tragic inspiration, the celestial fire which had glowed in Corneille and Racine, was to be found in Crebillon alone. The blow went to Voltaire's heart. Had his wisdom and fortitude been in proportion to the fertility of his intellect, and to the brilliancy of his wit, he would have seen that it was out of the power of all the puffers and detractors in Europe to put Catiline above Zaire; but he had none of the magnanimous patience with which Milton and Bentley left their claims to the unerring judgment of time. He eagerly engaged in an undignified competition with Crebillon, and produced a series of plays on the same subjects which his rival had treated. These pieces were coolly received. Angry with the court, angry with the capital, Voltaire began to find pleasure in the prospect of exile. His attachment for Madame du Chatelet long prevented him from executing his purpose. Her death set him at liberty; and he determined to take refuge at Berlin. To Berlin he was invited by a series of letters, couched in terms of the most enthusiastic friendship and admiration. For once the rigid parsimony of Frederic seemed to have relaxed. Orders, honourable offices, a liberal pension, a well-served table, stately apartments under a royal roof, were offered in return for the pleasure and honour which were expected from the society of the first wit of the age. A thousand louis were remitted for the charges of the journey. No ambassador setting out from Berlin for a court of the first rank, had ever been more amply supplied. But Voltaire was not satisfied. At a later period, when he possessed an ample fortune, he was one of the most liberal of men; but till his means had become equal to his wishes, his greediness for lucre was unrestrained either by justice or by shame. He had the effrontery to ask for a thousand louis more, in order to enable him to bring his niece, Madame Denis, the ugliest of coquettes, in his company. The indelicate rapacity of the poet produced its natural effect on the severe and frugal King. The answer was a dry refusal. "I did not," said his Majesty, "solicit the honour of the lady's society." On this, Voltaire went off into a paroxysm of childish rage. "Was there ever such avarice? He has hundreds of tubs full of dollars in his vaults, and haggles with me about a poor thousand louis." It seemed that the negotiation would be broken off; but Frederic, with great dexterity, affected indifference, and seemed inclined to transfer his idolatry to Baculard D'Arnaud. His Majesty even wrote some bad verses, of which the sense was, that Voltaire was a setting sun, and that D'Arnaud was rising. Good-natured friends soon carried the lines to Voltaire. He was in his bed. He jumped out in his shirt, danced about the room with rage, and sent for his passport and his post-horses. It was not difficult to foresee the end of a connection which had such a beginning. It was in the year 1750 that Voltaire left the great capital, which he was not to see again till, after the lapse of near thirty years, he returned bowed down by extreme old age, to die in the midst of a splendid and ghastly triumph. His reception in Prussia was such as might well have elated a less vain and excitable mind. He wrote to his friends at Paris, that the kindness and the attention with which he had been welcomed surpassed description, that the King was the most amiable of men, that Potsdam was the paradise of philosophers. He was created chamberlain, and received, together with his gold key, the cross of an order, and a patent ensuring to him a pension of eight hundred pounds sterling a year for life. A hundred and sixty pounds a year were promised to his niece if she survived him. The royal cooks and coachmen were put at his disposal. He was lodged in the same apartments in which Saxe had lived, when, at the height of power and glory, he visited Prussia. Frederic, indeed, stooped for a time even to use the language of adulation. He pressed to his lips the meagre hand of the little grinning skeleton, whom he regarded as the dispenser of immortal renown. He would add, he said, to the titles which he owed to his ancestors and his sword, another title, derived from his last and proudest acquisition. His style should run thus: Frederic, King of Prussia, Margrave of Brandenburg, Sovereign Duke of Silesia, Possessor of Voltaire. But even amidst the delights of the honeymoon, Voltaire's sensitive vanity began to take alarm. A few days after his arrival, he could not help telling his niece that the amiable King had a trick of giving a sly scratch with one hand while patting and stroking with the other. Soon came hints not the less alarming, because mysterious. "The supper parties are delicious. The King is the life of the company. But--I have operas and comedies, reviews and concerts, my studies and books. But--but--Berlin is fine, the princesses charming, the maids of honour handsome. But--" This eccentric friendship was fast cooling. Never had there met two persons so exquisitely fitted to plague each other. Each of them had exactly the fault of which the other was most impatient; and they were, in different ways, the most impatient of mankind. Frederic was frugal, almost niggardly. When he had secured his plaything he began to think that he had bought it too dear. Voltaire, on the other hand, was greedy, even to the extent of imprudence and knavery; and conceived that the favourite of a monarch who had barrels full of gold and silver laid up in cellars ought to make a fortune which a receiver-general might envy. They soon discovered each other's feelings. Both were angry; and a war began, in which Frederic stooped to the part of Harpagon, and Voltaire to that of Scapin. It is humiliating to relate, that the great warrior and statesman gave orders that his guest's allowance of sugar and chocolate should be curtailed. It is, if possible, a still more humiliating fact, that Voltaire indemnified himself by pocketing the wax candles in the royal antechamber. Disputes about money, however, were not the most serious disputes of these extraordinary associates. The sarcasms of the King soon galled the sensitive temper of the poet. D'Arnaud and D'Argens, Guichard and La Metrie, might, for the sake of a morsel of bread, be willing to bear the insolence of a master; but Voltaire was of another order. He knew that he was a potentate as well as Frederic, that his European reputation, and his incomparable power of covering whatever he hated with ridicule, made him an object of dread even to the leaders of armies and the rulers of nations. In truth, of all the intellectual weapons which have ever been wielded by man, the most terrible was the mockery of Voltaire. Bigots and tyrants, who had never been moved by the wailing and cursing of millions, turned pale at his name. Principles unassailable by reason, principles which had withstood the fiercest attacks of power, the most valuable truths, the most generous sentiments, the noblest and most graceful images, the purest reputations, the most august institutions, began to look mean and loathsome as soon as that withering smile was turned upon them. To every opponent, however strong in his cause and his talents, in his station and his character, who ventured to encounter the great scoffer, might be addressed the caution which was given of old to the Archangel: "I forewarn thee, shun His deadly arrow: neither vainly hope To be invulnerable in those bright arms, Though temper'd heavenly; for that fatal dint, Save Him who reigns above, none can resist." We cannot pause to recount how often that rare talent was exercised against rivals worthy of esteem; how often it was used to crush and torture enemies worthy only of silent disdain; how often it was perverted to the more noxious purpose of destroying the last solace of earthly misery, and the last restraint on earthly power. Neither can we pause to tell how often it was used to vindicate justice, humanity, and toleration, the principles of sound philosophy, the principles of free government. This is not the place for a full character of Voltaire. Causes of quarrel multiplied fast. Voltaire, who, partly from love of money, and partly from love of excitement, was always fond of stock-jobbing, became implicated in transactions of at least a dubious character. The King was delighted at having such an opportunity to humble his guest; and bitter reproaches and complaints were exchanged. Voltaire, too, was soon at war with the other men of letters who surrounded the King; and this irritated Frederic, who, however, had himself chiefly to blame: for, from that love of tormenting which was in him a ruling passion, he perpetually lavished extravagant praises on small men and bad books, merely in order that he might enjoy the mortification and rage which on such occasions Voltaire took no pains to conceal. His Majesty, however, soon had reason to regret the pains which he had taken to kindle jealousy among the members of his household. The whole palace was in a ferment with literary intrigues and cabals. It was to no purpose that the imperial voice, which kept a hundred and sixty thousand soldiers in order, was raised to quiet the contention of the exasperated wits. It was far easier to stir up such a storm than to lull it. Nor was Frederic, in his capacity of wit, by any means without his own share of vexations. He had sent a large quantity of verses to Voltaire, and requested that they might be returned, with remarks and corrections. "See," exclaimed Voltaire, "what a quantity of his dirty linen the King has sent me to wash!" Talebearers were not wanting to carry the sarcasm to the royal ear; and Frederic was as much incensed as a Grub Street writer who had found his name in the Dunciad. This could not last. A circumstance which, when the mutual regard of the friends was in its first glow, would merely have been matter for laughter, produced a violent explosion. Maupertuis enjoyed as much of Frederic's goodwill as any man of letters. He was President of the Academy of Berlin; and he stood second to Voltaire, though at an immense distance, in the literary society which had been assembled at the Prussian Court. Frederic had, by playing for his own amusement on the feelings of the two jealous and vainglorious Frenchmen, succeeded in producing a bitter enmity between them. Voltaire resolved to set his mark, a mark never to be effaced, on the forehead of Maupertuis, and wrote the exquisitely ludicrous Diatribe of Doctor Akakia. He showed this little piece to Frederic, who had too much taste and too much malice not to relish such delicious pleasantry. In truth, even at this time of day, it is not easy for any person who has the least perception of the ridiculous to read the jokes on the Latin city, the Patagonians, and the hole to the centre of the earth, without laughing till he cries. But though Frederic was diverted by this charming pasquinade, he was unwilling that it should get abroad. His self-love was interested. He had selected Maupertuis to fill the chair of his Academy. If all Europe were taught to laugh at Maupertuis, would not the reputation of the Academy, would not even the dignity of its royal patron, be in some degree compromised? The King, therefore, begged Voltaire to suppress this performance. Voltaire promised to do so, and broke his word. The Diatribe was published, and received with shouts of merriment and applause by all who could read the French language. The King stormed. Voltaire, with his usual disregard of truth, asserted his innocence, and made up some lie about a printer or an amanuensis. The King was not to be so imposed upon. He ordered the pamphlet to be burned by the common hangman, and insisted upon having an apology from Voltaire, couched in the most abject terms. Voltaire sent back to the King his cross, his key, and the patent of his pension. After this burst of rage, the strange pair began to be ashamed of their violence, and went through the forms of reconciliation. But the breach was irreparable; and Voltaire took his leave of Frederic for ever. They parted with cold civility; but their hearts were big with resentment. Voltaire had in his keeping a volume of the King's poetry, and forgot to return it. This was, we believe, merely one of the oversights which men setting out upon a journey often commit. That Voltaire could have meditated plagiarism is quite incredible. He would not, we are confident, for the half of Frederic's kingdom, have consented to father Frederic's verses. The King, however, who rated his own writings much above their value, and who was inclined to see all Voltaire's actions in the worst light, was enraged to think that his favourite compositions were in the hands of an enemy, as thievish as a daw and as mischievous as a monkey. In the anger excited by this thought, he lost sight of reason and decency, and determined on committing an outrage at once odious and ridiculous. Voltaire had reached Frankfort. His niece, Madame Denis, came thither to meet him. He conceived himself secure from the power of his late master, when he was arrested by order of the Prussian resident. The precious volume was delivered up. But the Prussian agents had, no doubt, been instructed not to let Voltaire escape without some gross indignity. He was confined twelve days in a wretched hovel. Sentinels with fixed bayonets kept guard over him. His niece was dragged through the mire by the soldiers. Sixteen hundred dollars were extorted from him by his insolent gaolers. It is absurd to say that this outrage is not to be attributed to the King. Was anybody punished for it? Was anybody called in question for it? Was it not consistent with Frederic's character? Was it not of a piece with his conduct on other similar occasions? Is it not notorious that he repeatedly gave private directions to his officers to pillage and demolish the houses of persons against whom he had a grudge, charging them at the same time to take their measures in such a way that his name might not be compromised? He acted thus towards Count Bruhl in the Seven Years' War. Why should we believe that he would have been more scrupulous with regard to Voltaire? When at length the illustrious prisoner regained his liberty, the prospect before him was but dreary. He was an exile both from the country of his birth and from the country of his adoption. The French Government had taken offence at his journey to Prussia, and would not permit him to return to Paris; and in the vicinity of Prussia it was not safe for him to remain. He took refuge on the beautiful shores of Lake Leman. There, loosed from every tie which had hitherto restrained him, and having little to hope, or to fear from courts and churches, he began his long war against all that, whether for good or evil, had authority over man; for what Burke said of the Constituent Assembly, was eminently true of this its great forerunner: Voltaire could not build: he could only pull down: he was the very Vitruvius of ruin. He has bequeathed to us not a single doctrine to be called by his name, not a single addition to the stock of our positive knowledge. But no human teacher ever left behind him so vast and terrible a wreck of truths and falsehoods, of things noble and things base, of things useful and things pernicious. From the time when his sojourn beneath the Alps commenced, the dramatist, the wit, the historian, was merged in a more important character. He was now the patriarch, the founder of a sect, the chief of a conspiracy, the prince of a wide intellectual commonwealth. He often enjoyed a pleasure dear to the better part of his nature, the pleasure of vindicating innocence which had no other helper, of repairing cruel wrongs, of punishing tyranny in high places. He had also the satisfaction, not less acceptable to his ravenous vanity, of hearing terrified Capuchins call him the Antichrist. But whether employed in works of benevolence, or in works of mischief, he never forgot Potsdam and Frankfort; and he listened anxiously to every murmur which indicated that a tempest was gathering in Europe, and that his vengeance was at hand. He soon had his wish. Maria Theresa had never for a moment forgotten the great wrong which she had received at the hand of Frederic. Young and delicate, just left an orphan, just about to be a mother, she had been compelled to fly from the ancient capital of her race; she had seen her fair inheritance dismembered by robbers, and of those robbers he had been the foremost. Without a pretext, without a provocation, in defiance of the most sacred engagements, he had attacked the helpless ally whom he was bound to defend. The Empress Queen had the faults as well as the virtues which are connected with quick sensibility and a high spirit. There was no peril which she was not ready to brave, no calamity which she was not ready to bring on her subjects, or on the whole human race, if only she might once taste the sweetness of a complete revenge. Revenge, too, presented itself, to her narrow and superstitious mind, in the guise of duty. Silesia had been wrested not only from the House of Austria, but from the Church of Rome. The conqueror had indeed permitted his new subjects to worship God after their own fashion; but this was not enough. To bigotry it seemed an intolerable hardship that the Catholic Church, having long enjoyed ascendency, should be compelled to content itself with equality. Nor was this the only circumstance which led Maria Theresa to regard her enemy as the enemy of God. The profaneness of Frederic's writings and conversation, and the frightful rumours which were circulated respecting the immorality of his private life, naturally shocked a woman who believed with the firmest faith all that her confessor told her, and who, though surrounded by temptations, though young and beautiful, though ardent in all her passions, though possessed of absolute power, had preserved her fame unsullied even by the breath of slander. To recover Silesia, to humble the dynasty of Hohenzollern to the dust, was the great object of her life. She toiled during many years for this end, with zeal as indefatigable as that which the poet ascribed to the stately goddess who tired out her immortal horses in the work of raising the nations against Troy, and who offered to give up to destruction her darling Sparta and Mycenae, if only she might once see the smoke going up from the palace of Priam. With even such a spirit did the proud Austrian Juno strive to array against her foe a coalition such as Europe had never seen. Nothing would content her but that the whole civilised world, from the White Sea to the Adriatic, from the Bay of Biscay to the pastures of the wild horses of the Tanais, should be combined in arms against one petty State. She early succeeded by various arts in obtaining the adhesion of Russia. An ample share of spoil was promised to the King of Poland; and that prince, governed by his favourite, Count Bruhl, readily promised the assistance of the Saxon forces. The great difficulty was with France. That the Houses of Bourbon and of Hapsburg should ever cordially co-operate in any great scheme of European policy, had long been thought, to use the strong expression of Frederic, just as impossible as that fire and water should amalgamate. The whole history of the Continent, during two centuries and a half, had been the history of the mutual jealousies and enmities of France and Austria. Since the administration of Richelieu, above all, it had been considered as the plain policy of the Most Christian King to thwart on all occasions the Court of Vienna, and to protect every member of the Germanic body who stood up against the dictation of the Caesars. Common sentiments of religion had been unable to mitigate this strong antipathy. The rulers of France, even while clothed in the Roman purple, even persecuting the heretics of Rochelle and Auvergne, had still looked with favour on the Lutheran and Calvinistic princes who were struggling against the chief of the empire. If the French ministers paid any respect to the traditional rules handed down to them through many generations, they would have acted towards Frederic as the greatest of their predecessors acted towards Gustavus Adolphus. That there was deadly enmity between Prussia and Austria was of itself a sufficient reason for close friendship between Prussia and France. With France Frederic could never have any serious controversy. His territories were so situated that his ambition, greedy and unscrupulous as it was, could never impel him to attack her of his own accord. He was more than half a Frenchman: he wrote, spoke, read nothing but French: he delighted in French society: the admiration of the French he proposed to himself as the best reward of all his exploits. It seemed incredible that any French Government, however notorious for levity or stupidity, could spurn away such an ally. The Court of Vienna, however, did not despair. The Austrian diplomatists propounded a new scheme of politics, which, it must be owned, was not altogether without plausibility. The great powers, according to this theory, had long been under a delusion. They had looked on each other as natural enemies, while in truth they were natural allies. A succession of cruel wars had devastated Europe, had thinned the population, had exhausted the public resources, had loaded governments with an immense burden of debt; and when, after two hundred years of murderous hostility or of hollow truce, the illustrious Houses whose enmity had distracted the world sat down to count their gains, to what did the real advantage on either side amount? Simply to this, that they had kept each other from thriving. It was not the King of France, it was not the Emperor, who had reaped the fruits of the Thirty Years' War, or of the War of the Pragmatic Sanction. Those fruits had been pilfered by states of the second and third rank, which, secured against jealousy by their insignificance, had dexterously aggrandised themselves while pretending to serve the animosity of the great chiefs of Christendom. While the lion and tiger were tearing each other, the jackal had run off into the jungle with the prey. The real gainer by the Thirty Years' War had been neither France nor Austria, but Sweden. The real gainer by the War of the Pragmatic Sanction had been neither France nor Austria, but the upstart of Brandenburg. France had made great efforts, had added largely to her military glory, and largely to her public burdens; and for what end? Merely that Frederic might rule Silesia. For this and this alone one French army, wasted by sword and famine, had perished in Bohemia; and another had purchased with flood of the noblest blood, the barren glory of Fontenoy. And this prince, for whom France had suffered so much, was he a grateful, was he even an honest ally? Had he not been as false to the Court of Versailles as to the Court of Vienna? Had he not played, on a large scale, the same part which, in private life, is played by the vile agent of chicane who sets his neighbours quarrelling, involves them in costly and interminable litigation, and betrays them to each other all round, certain that, whoever may be ruined, he shall be enriched? Surely the true wisdom of the great powers was to attack, not each other, but this common barrator, who, by inflaming the passions of both, by pretending to serve both, and by deserting both, had raised himself above the station to which he was born. The great object of Austria was to regain Silesia; the great object of France was to obtain an accession of territory on the side of Flanders. If they took opposite sides, the result would probably be that, after a war of many years, after the slaughter of many thousands of brave men, after the waste of many millions of crowns, they would lay down their arms without having achieved either object; but, if they came to an understanding, there would be no risk, and no difficulty. Austria would willingly make in Belgium such cessions as France could not expect to obtain by ten pitched battles. Silesia would easily be annexed to the monarchy of which it had long been a part. The union of two such powerful governments would at once overawe the King of Prussia. If he resisted, one short campaign would settle his fate. France and Austria, long accustomed to rise from the game of war both losers, would, for the first time, both be gainers. There could be no room for jealousy between them. The power of both would be increased at once; the equilibrium between them would be preserved; and the only sufferer would be a mischievous and unprincipled buccaneer, who deserved no tenderness from either. These doctrines, attractive from their novelty and ingenuity, soon became fashionable at the supper-parties and in the coffee- houses of Paris, and were espoused by every gay marquis and every facetious abbe who was admitted to see Madame de Pompadour's hair curled and powdered. It was not, however, to any political theory that the strange coalition between France and Austria owed its origin. The real motive which induced the great continental powers to forget their old animosities and their old state maxims was personal aversion to the King of Prussia. This feeling was strongest in Maria Theresa; but it was by no means confined to her. Frederic, in some respects a good master, was emphatically a bad neighbour. That he was hard in all dealings, and quick to take all advantages, was not his most odious fault. His bitter and scoffing speech had inflicted keener wounds than his ambition. In his character of wit he was under less restraint than even in his character of ruler. Satirical verses against all the princes and ministers of Europe were ascribed to his pen. In his letters and conversation he alluded to the greatest potentates of the age in terms which would have better suited Colle, in a war of repartee with young Crebillon at Pelletier's table, than a great sovereign speaking of great sovereigns. About women he was in the habit of expressing himself in a manner which it was impossible for the meekest of women to forgive; and, unfortunately for him, almost the whole Continent was then governed by women who were by no means conspicuous for meekness. Maria Theresa herself had not escaped his scurrilous jests. The Empress Elizabeth of Russia knew that her gallantries afforded him a favourite theme for ribaldry and invective. Madame de Pompadour, who was really the head of the French Government, had been even more keenly galled. She had attempted, by the most delicate flattery, to propitiate the King of Prussia; but her messages had drawn from him only dry and sarcastic replies. The Empress Queen took a very different course. Though the haughtiest of princesses, though the most austere of matrons, she forgot in her thirst for revenge both the dignity of her race and the purity of her character, and condescended to flatter the lowborn and low-minded concubine, who, having acquired influence by prostituting herself, retained it by prostituting others. Maria Theresa actually wrote with her own hand a note, full of expressions of esteem and friendship to her dear cousin, the daughter of the butcher Poisson, the wife of the publican D'Etioles, the kidnapper of young girls for the haram of an old rake, a strange cousin for the descendant of so many Emperors of the West! The mistress was completely gained over, and easily carried her point with Lewis, who had, indeed, wrongs of his own to resent. His feelings were not quick, but contempt, says the Eastern proverb, pierces even through the shell of the tortoise; and neither prudence nor decorum had ever restrained Frederic from expressing his measureless contempt for the sloth, the imbecility, and the baseness of Lewis. France was thus induced to join the coalition; and the example of France determined the conduct of Sweden, then completely subject to French influence. The enemies of Frederic were surely strong enough to attack him openly; but they were desirous to add to all their other advantages the advantage of a surprise. He was not, however, a man to be taken off his guard. He had tools in every Court; and he now received from Vienna, from Dresden, and from Paris, accounts so circumstantial and so consistent, that he could not doubt of his danger. He learnt, that he was to be assailed at once by France, Austria, Russia, Saxony, Sweden, and the Germanic body; that the greater part of his dominions was to be portioned out among his enemies; that France, which from her geographical position could not directly share in his spoils, was to receive an equivalent in the Netherlands; that Austria was to have Silesia, and the Czarina East Prussia; that Augustus of Saxony expected Magdeburg; and that Sweden would be rewarded with part of Pomerania. If these designs succeeded, the House of Brandenburg would at once sink in the European system to a place lower than that of the Duke of Wurtemberg or the Margrave of Baden. And what hope was there that these designs would fail? No such union of the continental powers had been seen for ages. A less formidable confederacy had in a week conquered, all the provinces of Venice, when Venice was at the height, of power, wealth, and glory. A less formidable confederacy had compelled Lewis the Fourteenth to bow down his haughty head to the very earth. A less formidable confederacy has, within our own memory, subjugated a still mightier empire, and abused a still prouder name. Such odds had never been heard of in war. The people whom Frederic ruled were not five millions. The population of the countries which were leagued against him amounted to a hundred millions, The disproportion in wealth was at least equally great. Small communities, actuated by strong sentiments of patriotism or loyalty, have sometimes made head against great monarchies weakened by factions and discontents. But small as was Frederic's kingdom, it probably contained a greater number of disaffected subjects than were to be found in all the states of his enemies. Silesia formed a fourth part of his dominions; and from the Silesians, born under Austrian princes, the utmost that he could expect was apathy. From the Silesian Catholics he could hardly expect anything but resistance. Some states have been enabled, by their geographical position, to defend themselves with advantage against immense force. The sea has repeatedly protected England against the fury of the whole Continent. The Venetian Government, driven from its possessions on the land, could still bid defiance to the confederates of Cambray from the arsenal amidst the lagoons. More than one great and well appointed army, which regarded the shepherds of Switzerland as an easy prey, has perished in the passes of the Alps. Frederic hid no such advantage. The form of his states, their situation, the nature of the ground, all were against him. His long, scattered, straggling territory seemed to have been shaped with an express view to the convenience of invaders, and was protected by no sea, by no chain of hills. Scarcely any corner of it was a week's march from the territory of the enemy. The capital itself, in the event of war, would be constantly exposed to insult. In truth there was hardly a politician or a soldier in Europe who doubted that the conflict would be terminated in a very few days by the prostration of the House of Brandenburg. Nor was Frederic's own opinion very different. He anticipated nothing short of his own ruin, and of the ruin of his family. Yet there was still a chance, a slender chance, of escape. His states had at least the advantage of a central position; his enemies were widely separated from each other, and could not conveniently unite their overwhelming forces on one point. They inhabited different climates, and it was probable that the season of the year which would be best suited to the military operations of one portion of the League, would be unfavourable to those of another portion. The Prussian monarchy, too, was free from some infirmities which were found in empires far more extensive and magnificent. Its effective strength for a desperate struggle was not to be measured merely by the number of square miles or the number of people. In that spare but well-knit and well-exercised body, there was nothing but sinew, and muscle and bone. No public creditors looked for dividends. No distant colonies required defence. No Court, filled with flatterers and mistresses, devoured the pay of fifty battalions. The Prussian army, though far inferior in number to the troops which were about to be opposed to it, was yet strong out of all proportion to the extent of the Prussian dominions. It was also admirably trained and admirably officered, accustomed to obey and accustomed to conquer. The revenue was not only unincumbered by debt, but exceeded the ordinary outlay in time of peace. Alone of all the European princes, Frederic had a treasure laid up for a day of difficulty. Above all, he was one, and his enemies were many. In their camps would certainly be found the jealousy, the dissension, the slackness inseparable from coalitions; on his side was the energy, the unity, the secrecy of a strong dictatorship. To a certain extent the deficiency of military means might be supplied by the resources of military art. Small as the King's army was, when compared with the six hundred thousand men whom the confederates could bring into the field, celerity of movement might in some degree compensate for deficiency of bulk. It was thus just possible that genius, judgment, resolution, and good luck united, might protract the struggle during a campaign or two; and to gain even a month was of importance. It could not be long before the vices which are found in all extensive confederacies would begin to show themselves. Every member of the League would think his own share of the war too large, and his own share of the spoils too small. Complaints and recriminations would abound. The Turk might stir on the Danube; the statesmen of France might discover the error which they had committed in abandoning the fundamental principles of their national policy. Above all, death might rid Prussia of its most formidable enemies. The war was the effect of the personal aversion with which three or four sovereigns regarded Frederic; and the decease of any one of those sovereigns might produce a complete revolution in the state of Europe. In the midst of a horizon generally dark and stormy, Frederic could discern one bright spot. The peace which had been concluded between England and France in 1748, had been in Europe no more than an armistice; and had not even been an armistice in the other quarters of the globe. In India the sovereignty of the Carnatic was disputed between two great Mussulman houses; Fort Saint George had taken one side, Pondicherry the other; and in a series of battles and sieges the troops of Lawrence and Clive had been opposed to those of Dupleix. A struggle less important in its consequences, but not less likely to produce irritation, was carried on between those French and English adventurers, who kidnapped negroes and collected gold dust on the coast of Guinea. But it was in North America that the emulation and mutual aversion of the two nations were most conspicuous. The French attempted to hem in the English colonists by a chain of military posts, extending from the Great Lakes to the mouth of the Mississippi. The English took arms. The wild aboriginal tribes appeared on each side mingled with the Pale-Faces. Battles were fought; forts were stormed; and hideous stories about stakes, scalpings, and death-songs reached Europe, and inflamed that national animosity which the rivalry of ages had produced. The disputes between France and England came to a crisis at the very time when the tempest which had been gathering was about to burst on Prussia. The tastes and interests of Frederic would have led him, if he had been allowed an option, to side with the House of Bourbon. But the folly of the Court of Versailles left him no choice. France became the tool of Austria; and Frederic was forced to become the ally of England. He could not, indeed, expect that a power which covered the sea with its fleets, and which had to make war at once on the Ohio and the Ganges, would be able to spare a large number of troops for operations in Germany. But England, though poor compared with the England of our time, was far richer than any country on the Continent. The amount of her revenue, and the resources which she found in her credit, though they may be thought small by a generation which has seen her raise a hundred and thirty millions in a single year, appeared miraculous to the politicians of that age. A very moderate portion of her wealth, expended by an able and economical prince, in a country where prices were low, would be sufficient to equip and maintain a formidable army. Such was the situation in which Frederic found himself. He saw the whole extent of his peril. He saw that there was still a faint possibility of escape; and, with prudent temerity, he determined to strike the first blow. It was in the month of August 1756, that the great war of the Seven Years commenced. The King demanded of the Empress Queen a distinct explanation of her intentions, and plainly told her that he should consider a refusal as a declaration of war. "I want," he said, "no answer in the style of an oracle." He received an answer at once haughty and evasive. In an instant the rich electorate of Saxony was overflowed by sixty thousand Prussian troops. Augustus with his army occupied a strong position at Pirna. The Queen of Poland was at Dresden. In a few days Pirna was blockaded and Dresden was taken. The first object of Frederic was to obtain possession of the Saxon State papers; for those papers, he well knew, contained ample proofs that, though apparently an aggressor, he was really acting in self-defence. The Queen of Poland, as well acquainted as Frederic with the importance of those documents, had packed them up, had concealed them in her bed-chamber, and was about to send them off to Warsaw, when a Prussian officer made his appearance. In the hope that no soldier would venture to outrage a lady, a queen, a daughter of an emperor, the mother-in-law of a dauphin, she placed herself before the trunk, and at length sat down on it. But all resistance was vain. The papers were carried to Frederic, who found in them, as he expected, abundant evidence of the designs of the coalition. The most important documents were instantly published, and the effect of the publication was great. It was clear that, of whatever sins the King of Prussia might formerly have been guilty, he was now the injured party, and had merely anticipated a blow intended to destroy him. The Saxon camp at Pirna was in the meantime closely invested; but the besieged were not without hopes of succour. A great Austrian army under Marshal Brown was about to pour through the passes which separate Bohemia from Saxony. Frederic left at Pirna a force sufficient to deal with the Saxons, hastened into Bohemia, encountered Brown at Lowositz, and defeated him. This battle decided the fate of Saxony. Augustus and his favourite Bruhl fled to Poland. The whole army of the Electorate capitulated. From that time till the end of the war, Frederic treated Saxony as a part of his dominions, or, rather, he acted towards the Saxons in a manner which may serve to illustrate the whole meaning of that tremendous sentence, "subjectos tanquam suos, viles tanquam alienos." Saxony was as much in his power as Brandenburg; and he had no such interest in the welfare of Saxony as he had in the welfare of Brandenburg. He accordingly levied troops and exacted contributions throughout the enslaved province, with far more rigour than in any part of his own dominions. Seventeen thousand men who had been in the camp at Pirna were half compelled, half persuaded to enlist under their conqueror. Thus, within a few weeks from the commencement of hostilities, one of the confederates had been disarmed, and his weapons were now pointed against the rest. The winter put a stop to military operations. All had hitherto gone well. But the real tug of war was still to come. It was easy to foresee that the year 1757 would be a memorable era in the history of Europe. The King's scheme for the campaign was simple, bold, and judicious. The Duke of Cumberland with an English and Hanoverian array was in Western Germany, and might be able to prevent the French troops from attacking Prussia. The Russians, confined by their snows, would probably not stir till the spring was far advanced. Saxony was prostrated. Sweden could do nothing very important. During a few months Frederic would have to deal with Austria alone. Even thus the odds were against him. But ability and courage have often triumphed against odds still more formidable. Early in 1757 the Prussian army in Saxony began to move. Through four defiles in the mountains they came pouring into Bohemia. Prague was the King's first mark; but the ulterior object was probably Vienna. At Prague lay Marshal Brown with one great army. Daun, the most cautious and fortunate of the Austrian captains, was advancing with another. Frederic determined to overwhelm Brown before Daun should arrive. On the sixth of May was fought, under those walls which, a hundred and thirty years before, had witnessed the victory of the Catholic league and the flight of the unhappy Palatine, a battle more bloody than any which Europe saw during the long interval between Malplaquet and Eylau. The King and Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick were distinguished on that day by their valour and exertions. But the chief glory was with Schwerin. When the Prussian infantry wavered, the stout old marshal snatched the colours from an ensign, and, waving them in the air, led back his regiment to the charge. Thus at seventy-two years of age he fell in the thickest battle, still grasping the standard which bears the black eagle on the field argent. The victory remained with the King; but it had been dearly purchased. Whole columns of his bravest warriors had fallen. He admitted that he had lost eighteen thousand men. Of the enemy, twenty-four thousand had been killed, wounded, or taken. Part of the defeated army was shut up in Prague. Part fled to join the troops which, under the command of Daun, were now close at hand. Frederic determined to play over the same game which had succeeded at Lowositz. He left a large force to besiege Prague, and at the head of thirty thousand men he marched against Daun. The cautious Marshal, though he had a great superiority in numbers, would risk nothing. He occupied at Kolin a position almost impregnable, and awaited the attack of the King. It was the eighteenth of June, a day which, if the Greek superstition still retained its influence, would be held sacred to Nemesis, a day on which the two greatest princes of modern times were taught, by a terrible experience, that neither skill nor valour can fix the inconstancy of fortune. The battle began before noon; and part of the Prussian army maintained the contest till after the midsummer sun had gone down. But at length the King found that his troops, having been repeatedly driven back with frightful carnage, could no longer be led to the charge. He was with difficulty persuaded to quit the field. The officers of his personal staff were under the necessity of expostulating with him, and one of them took the liberty to say, "Does your Majesty mean to storm the batteries alone?" Thirteen thousand of his bravest followers had perished. Nothing remained for him but to retreat in good order, to raise the siege of Prague, and to hurry his army by different routes out of Bohemia. This stroke seemed to be final. Frederic's situation had at best been such, that only an uninterrupted run of good luck could save him, as it seemed, from ruin. And now, almost in the outset of the contest he had met with a check which, even in a war between equal powers, would have been felt as serious. He had owed much to the opinion which all Europe entertained of his army. Since his accession, his soldiers had in many successive battles been victorious over the Austrians. But the glory had departed from his arms. All whom his malevolent sarcasms had wounded, made haste to avenge themselves by scoffing at the scoffer. His soldiers had ceased to confide in his star. In every part of his camp his dispositions were severely criticised. Even in his own family he had detractors. His next brother, William, heir- presumptive, or rather, in truth, heir-apparent to the throne, and great-grandfather of the present King, could not refrain from lamenting his own fate and that of the House of Hohenzollern, once so great and so prosperous, but now, by the rash ambition of its chief, made a by-word to all nations. These complaints, and some blunders which William committed during the retreat from Bohemia, called forth the bitter displeasure of the inexorable King. The prince's heart was broken by the cutting reproaches of his brother; he quitted the army, retired to a country seat, and in a short time died of shame and vexation. It seemed that the King's distress could hardly be increased. Yet at this moment another blow not less terrible than that of Kolin fell upon him. The French under Marshal D'Estrees had invaded Germany. The Duke of Cumberland had given them battle at Hastembeck, and had been defeated. In order to save the Electorate of Hanover from entire subjugation, he had made, at Closter Seven, an arrangement with the French Generals, which left them at liberty to turn their arms against the Prussian dominions. That nothing might be wanting to Frederic's distress, he lost his mother just at this time; and he appears to have felt the loss more than was to be expected from the hardness and severity of his character. In truth, his misfortunes had now cut to the quick. The mocker, the tyrant, the most rigorous, the most imperious, the most cynical of men, was very unhappy. His face was so haggard, and his form so thin, that when on his return from Bohemia he passed through Leipsic, the people hardly knew him again. His sleep was broken; the tears, in spite of himself, often started into his eyes; and the grave began to present itself to his agitated mind as the best refuge from misery and dishonour. His resolution was fixed never to be taken alive, and never to make peace on condition of descending from his place among the powers of Europe. He saw nothing left for him except to die; and he deliberately chose his mode of death. He always carried about with him a sure and speedy poison in a small glass case; and to the few in whom he placed confidence, he made no mystery of his resolution. But we should very imperfectly describe the state of Frederic's mind, if we left out of view the laughable peculiarities which contrasted so singularly with the gravity, energy, and harshness of his character. It is difficult to say whether the tragic or the comic predominated in the strange scene which was then acting. In the midst of all the great King's calamities, his passion for writing indifferent poetry grew stronger and stronger. Enemies all round him, despair in his heart, pills of corrosive sublimate hidden in his clothes, he poured forth hundreds upon hundreds of lines, hateful to gods and men, the insipid dregs of Voltaire's Hippocrene, the faint echo of the lyre of Chaulieu. It is amusing to compare what he did during the last months of 1757, with what he wrote during the same time. It may be doubted whether any equal portion of the life of Hannibal, of Caesar, or of Napoleon, will bear a comparison with that short period, the most brilliant in the history of Prussia and of Frederic. Yet at this very time the scanty leisure of the illustrious warrior was employed in producing odes and epistles, a little better than Cibber's, and a little worse than Hayley's. Here and there a manly sentiment which deserves to be in prose makes its appearance in company with Prometheus and Orpheus, Elysium and Acheron, the Plaintive Philomel, the poppies of Morpheus, and all the other frippery which, like a robe tossed by a proud beauty to her waiting woman, has long been contemptuously abandoned by genius to mediocrity. We hardly know any instance of the strength and weakness of human nature so striking, and so grotesque, as the character of this haughty, vigilant, resolute, sagacious blue-stocking, half Mithridates and half Trissotin, bearing up against a world in arms, with an ounce of poison in one pocket and a quire of bad verses in the other. Frederic had some time before made advances towards a reconciliation with Voltaire; and some civil letters had passed between them. After the battle of Kolin their epistolary intercourse became, at least in seeming, friendly and confidential. We do not know any collection of Letters which throws so much light on the darkest and most intricate parts of human nature, as the correspondence of these strange beings after they had exchanged forgiveness. Both felt that the quarrel had lowered them in the public estimation. They admired each other. They stood in need of each other. The great King wished to be handed down to posterity by the great Writer. The great Writer felt himself exalted by the homage or the great King. Yet the wounds which they had inflicted on each other were too deep to be effaced, or even perfectly healed. Not only did the scars remain; the sore places often festered and bled afresh. The letters consisted for the most part of compliments, thanks, offers of service, assurances of attachment. But if anything brought back to Frederic's recollection the cunning and mischievous pranks by which Voltaire had provoked him, some expression of contempt and displeasure broke forth in the midst of eulogy. It was much worse when anything recalled to the mind of Voltaire the outrages which he and his kinswoman had suffered at Frankfort. All at once his flowing panegyric was turned into invective. "Remember how you behaved to me. For your sake I have lost the favour of my native King. For your sake I am an exile from my country. I loved you. I trusted myself to you. I had no wish but to end my life in your service. And what was my reward? Stripped of all that you had bestowed on me, the key, the order, the pension, I was forced to fly from your territories. I was hunted as if I had been a deserter from your grenadiers. I was arrested, insulted, plundered. My niece was dragged through the mud of Frankfort by your soldiers, as if she had been some wretched follower of your camp. You have great talents. You have good qualities. But you have one odious vice. You delight in the abasement of your fellow-creatures. You have brought disgrace on the name of philosopher. You have given some colour to the slanders of the bigots, who say that no confidence can be placed in the justice or humanity of those who reject the Christian faith." Then the King answers, with less heat but equal severity--"You know that you behaved shamefully in Prussia. It was well for you that you had to deal with a man so indulgent to the infirmities of genius as I am. You richly deserved to see the inside of a dungeon. Your talents are not more widely known than your faithlessness and your malevolence. The grave itself is no asylum from your spite. Maupertuis is dead; but you still go on calumniating and deriding him, as if you had not made him miserable enough while he was living. Let us have no more of this. And, above all, let me hear no more of your niece. I am sick to death of her name. I can bear with your faults for the sake of your merits; but she has not written Mahomet or Merope." An explosion of this kind, it might be supposed, would necessarily put an end to all amicable communication. But it was not so. After every outbreak of ill humour this extraordinary pair became more loving than before, and exchanged compliments and assurances of mutual regard with a wonderful air of sincerity. It may well be supposed that men who wrote thus to each other, were not very guarded in what they said of each other. The English ambassador, Mitchell, who knew that the King of Prussia was constantly writing to Voltaire with the greatest freedom on the most important subjects, was amazed to hear his Majesty designate this highly favoured correspondent as a bad-hearted fellow, the greatest rascal on the face of the earth. And the language which the poet held about the King was not much more respectful. It would probably have puzzled Voltaire himself to say what was his real feeling towards Frederic. It was compounded of all sentiments, from enmity to friendship, and from scorn to admiration; and the proportions in which these elements were mixed, changed every moment. The old patriarch resembled the spoiled child who screams, stamps, cuffs, laughs, kisses, and cuddles within one quarter of an hour. His resentment was not extinguished; yet he was not without sympathy for his old friend. As a Frenchman, he wished success to the arms of his country. As a philosopher, he was anxious for the stability of a throne on which a philosopher sat. He longed both to save and to humble Frederic. There was one way, and only one, in which all his conflicting feelings could at once be gratified. If Frederic were preserved by the interference of France, if it were known that for that interference he was indebted to the mediation of Voltaire, this would indeed be delicious revenge; this would indeed be to heap coals of fire on that haughty head. Nor did the vain and restless poet think it impossible that he might, from his hermitage near the Alps, dictate peace to Europe. D'Estrees had quitted Hanover, and the command of the French army had been intrusted to the Duke of Richelieu, a man whose chief distinction was derived from his success in gallantry. Richelieu was in truth the most eminent of that race of seducers by profession, who furnished Crebillon the younger and La Clos with models for their heroes. In his earlier days the royal house itself had not been secure from his presumptuous love. He was believed to have carried his conquests into the family of Orleans; and some suspected that he was not unconcerned in the mysterious remorse which embittered the last hours of the charming mother of Lewis the Fifteenth. But the Duke was now sixty years old. With a heart deeply corrupted by vice, a head long accustomed to think only on trifles, an impaired constitution, an impaired fortune, and, worst of all, a very red nose, he was entering on a dull, frivolous, and unrespected old age. Without one qualification for military command, except that personal courage which was common between him and the whole nobility of France, he had been placed at the head of the army of Hanover; and in that situation he did his best to repair, by extortion and corruption, the injury which he had done to his property by a life of dissolute profusion. The Duke of Richelieu to the end of his life hated the philosophers as a sect, not for those parts of their system which a good and wise man would have condemned, but for their virtues, for their spirit of free inquiry, and for their hatred of those social abuses of which he was himself the personification. But he, like many of those who thought with him, excepted Voltaire from the list of proscribed writers. He frequently sent flattering letters to Ferney. He did the patriarch the honour to borrow money of him, and even carried this condescending friendship so far as to forget to pay the interest. Voltaire thought that it might be in his power to bring the Duke and the King of Prussia into communication with each other. He wrote earnestly to both; and he so far succeeded that a correspondence between them was commenced. But it was to very different means that Frederic was to owe his deliverance. At the beginning of November, the net seemed to have closed completely round him. The Russians were in the field, and were spreading devastation through his eastern provinces. Silesia was overrun by the Austrians. A great French army was advancing from the west under the command of Marshal Soubise, a prince of the great Armorican house of Rohan. Berlin itself had been taken and plundered by the Croatians. Such was the situation from which Frederic extricated himself, with dazzling glory, in the short space of thirty days. He marched first against Soubise. On the fifth of November the armies met at Rosbach. The French were two to one; but they were ill-disciplined, and their general was a dunce. The tactics of Frederic, and the well-regulated valour of the Prussian troops obtained a complete victory. Seven thousand of the invaders were made prisoners. Their guns, their colours, their baggage, fell into the hands of the conquerors. Those who escaped fled as confusedly as a mob scattered by cavalry. Victorious in the West, the King turned his arms towards Silesia. In that quarter everything seemed to be lost. Breslau had fallen; and Charles of Lorraine, with a mighty power, held the whole province. On the fifth of December, exactly one month after the battle of Rosbach, Frederic, with forty thousand men, and Prince Charles, at the head of not less than sixty thousand, met at Leuthen, hard by Breslau. The King, who was, in general, perhaps too much inclined to consider the common soldier as a mere machine, resorted, on this great day, to means resembling those which Bonaparte afterwards employed with such signal success for the purpose of stimulating military enthusiasm. The principal officers were convoked. Frederic addressed them with great force and pathos; and directed them to speak to their men as he had spoken to them. When the armies were set in battle array, the Prussian troops were in a state of fierce excitement; but their excitement showed itself after the fashion of a grave people. The columns advanced to the attack chanting, to the sound of drums and fifes, the rude hymns of the old Saxon Sternholds. They had never fought so well; nor had the genius of their chief ever been so conspicuous. "That battle," said Napoleon, "was a masterpiece. Of itself it is sufficient to entitle Frederic to a place in the first rank among generals." The victory was complete. Twenty-seven thousand Austrians were killed, wounded, or taken; fifty stand of colours, a hundred guns, four thousand waggons, fell into the hands of the Prussians. Breslau opened its gates; Silesia was reconquered; Charles of Lorraine retired to hide his shame and sorrow at Brussels; and Frederic allowed his troops to take some repose in winter quarters, after a campaign, to the vicissitudes of which it will be difficult to find any parallel in ancient or modern history. The King's fame filled all the world. He had during the last year, maintained a contest, on terms of advantage, against three powers, the weakest of which had more than three times his resources. He had fought four great pitched battles against superior forces. Three of these battles he had gained: and the defeat of Kolin, repaired as it had been, rather raised than lowered his military renown. The victory of Leuthen is, to this day, the proudest on the roll of Prussian fame. Leipsic indeed, and Waterloo, produced consequences more important to mankind. But the glory of Leipsic must be shared by the Prussians with the Austrians and Russians; and at Waterloo the British infantry bore the burden and heat of the day. The victory of Rosbach was, in a military point of view, less honourable than that of Leuthen; for it was gained over an incapable general, and a disorganised army; but the moral effect which it produced was immense. All the preceding triumphs of Frederic had been triumphs over Germans, and could excite no emotions of national pride among the German people. It was impossible that a Hessian or a Hanoverian could feel any patriotic exultation at hearing that Pomeranians had slaughtered Moravians, or that Saxon banners had been hung in the churches of Berlin. Indeed, though the military character of the Germans justly stood high throughout the world, they could boast of no great day which belonged to them as a people; of no Agincourt, of no Bannockburn. Most of their victories had been gained over each other; and their most splendid exploits against foreigners had been achieved under the command of Eugene, who was himself a foreigner. The news of the battle of Rosbach stirred the blood of the whole of the mighty population from the Alps to the Baltic, and from the borders of Courland to those of Lorraine. Westphalia and Lower Saxony had been deluged by a great host of strangers, whose speech was unintelligible, and whose petulant and licentious manners had excited the strongest feelings of disgust and hatred. That great host had been put to flight by a small band of German warriors, led by a prince of German blood on the side of father and mother, and marked by the fair hair and the clear blue eye of Germany. Never since the dissolution of the empire of Charlemagne, had the Teutonic race won such a field against the French. The tidings called forth a general burst of delight and pride from the whole of the great family which spoke the various dialects of the ancient language of Arminius. The fame of Frederic began to supply, in some degree, the place of a common government and of a common capital. It became a rallying point for all true Germans, a subject of mutual congratulation to the Bavarian and the Westphalian, to the citizen of Frankfort, and to the citizen of Nuremberg. Then first it was manifest that the Germans were truly a nation. Then first was discernible that patriotic spirit which, in 1813, achieved the great deliverance of central Europe, and which still guards, and long will guard, against foreign ambition the old freedom of the Rhine. Nor were the effects produced by that celebrated day merely political. The greatest masters of German poetry and eloquence have admitted that, though the great King neither valued nor understood his native language, though he looked on France as the only seat of taste and philosophy, yet, in his own despite, he did much to emancipate the genius of his countrymen from the foreign yoke; and that, in the act of vanquishing Soubise, he was, unintentionally, rousing the spirit which soon began to question the literary precedence of Boileau and Voltaire. So strangely do events confound all the plans of man. A prince who read only French, who wrote only French, who aspired to rank as a French classic, became, quite unconsciously, the means of liberating half the Continent from the dominion of that French criticism of which he was himself, to the end of his life, a slave. Yet even the enthusiasm of Germany in favour of Frederic hardly equalled the enthusiasm of England. The birthday of our ally was celebrated with as much enthusiasm as that of our own sovereign; and at night the streets of London were in a blaze with illuminations. Portraits of the Hero of Rosbach, with his cocked hat and long pigtail, were in every house. An attentive observer will, at this day, find in the parlours of old-fashioned inns, and in the portfolios of print-sellers, twenty portraits of Frederic for one of George the Second. The sign-painters were everywhere employed in touching up Admiral Vernon into the King of Prussia. This enthusiasm was strong among religious people, and especially among the Methodists, who knew that the French and Austrians were Papists, and supposed Frederic to be the Joshua or Gideon of the Reformed Faith. One of Whitfield's hearers, on the day On which thanks for the battle of Leuthen were returned at the Tabernacle, made the following exquisitely ludicrous entry in a diary, part of which has come down to us: "The Lord stirred up the King of Prussia and his soldiers to pray. They kept three fast days, and spent about an hour praying and singing psalms before they engaged the enemy. O! how good it is to pray and fight!" Some young Englishmen of rank proposed to visit Germany as volunteers, for the purpose of learning the art of war under the greatest of commanders. This last proof of British attachment and admiration, Frederic politely but firmly declined. His camp was no place for amateur students of military science. The Prussian discipline was rigorous even to cruelty. The officers, while in the field, were expected to practise an abstemiousness and self-denial such as was hardly surpassed by the most rigid monastic orders. However noble their birth, however high their rank in the service, they were not permitted to eat from anything better than pewter. It was a high crime even in a count and field-marshal to have a single silver spoon among his baggage. Gay young Englishmen of twenty thousand a year, accustomed to liberty and luxury, would not easily submit to these Spartan restraints. The King could not venture to keep them in order as he kept his own subjects in order. Situated as he was with respect to England, he could not well imprison or shoot refractory Howards and Cavendishes. On the other hand, the example of a few fine gentlemen, attended by chariots and livery servants, eating in plates, and drinking champagne and Tokay, was enough to corrupt his whole army. He thought it best to make a stand at first, and civilly refused to admit such dangerous companions among his troops. The help of England was bestowed in a manner far more useful and more acceptable. An annual subsidy of near seven hundred thousand pounds enabled the King to add probably more than fifty thousand men to his army. Pitt, now at the height of power and popularity, undertook the task of defending Western Germany against France, and asked Frederic only for the loan of a general. The general selected was Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick, who had attained high distinction in the Prussian service. He was put at the head of an army, partly English, partly Hanoverian, partly composed of mercenaries hired from the petty princes of the empire. He soon vindicated the choice of the two allied Courts, and proved himself the second general of the age. Frederic passed the winter at Breslau, in reading, writing, and preparing for the next campaign. The havoc which the war had made among his troops was rapidly repaired; and in the spring of 1758 he was again ready for the conflict. Prince Ferdinand kept the French in check. The King in the meantime, after attempting against the Austrians some operations which led to no very important result, marched to encounter the Russians, who, slaying, burning, and wasting wherever they turned, had penetrated into the heart of his realm. He gave them battle at Zorndorf, near Frankfort on the Oder. The fight was long and bloody. Quarter was neither given nor taken; for the Germans and Scythians regarded each other with bitter aversion, and the sight of the ravages committed by the half savage invaders, had incensed the King and his army. The Russians were overthrown with great slaughter; and for a few months no further danger was to be apprehended from the east. A day of thanksgiving was proclaimed by the King, and was celebrated with pride and delight by his people. The rejoicings in England were not less enthusiastic or less sincere. This may be selected as the point of time at which the military glory of Frederic reached the zenith. In the short space of three quarters of a year he had won three great battles over the armies of three mighty and warlike monarchies, France, Austria, and Russia. But it was decreed that the temper of that strong mind should be tried by both extremes of fortune in rapid succession. Close upon this series of triumphs came a series of disasters, such as would have blighted the fame and broken the heart of almost any other commander. Yet Frederic, in the midst of his calamities, was still an object of admiration to his subjects, his allies, and his enemies. Overwhelmed by adversity, sick of life, he still maintained the contest, greater in defeat, in, flight, and in what seemed hopeless ruin, than on the fields of his proudest victories. Having vanquished the Russians, he hastened into Saxony to oppose the troops of the Empress Queen, commanded by Daun, the most cautious, and Laudohn, the most inventive and enterprising of her generals. These two celebrated commanders agreed on a scheme, in which the prudence of the one and the vigour of the other seem to have been happily combined. At dead of night they surprised the King in his, camp at Hochkirchen. His presence of mind saved his troops from destruction; but nothing could save them from defeat and severe loss. Marshal Keith was among the slain. The first roar of the guns roused the noble exile from his rest, and he was instantly in the front of the battle. He received a dangerous wound, but refused to quit the field, and was in the act of rallying his broken troops, when an Austrian bullet terminated his chequered and eventful life. The misfortune was serious. But of all generals Frederic understood best how to repair defeat, and Daun understood least how to improve victory. In a few days the Prussian army was as formidable as before the battle. The prospect was, however, gloomy. An Austrian army under General Harsch had invaded Silesia, and invested the fortress of Neisse. Daun, after his success at Hochkirchen, had written to Harsch in very confident terms:--"Go on with your operations against Neisse. Be quite at ease as to the King. I will give a good account of him." In truth, the position of the Prussians was full of difficulties. Between them and Silesia, lay the victorious army of Daun. It was not easy for them to reach Silesia at all. If they did reach it, they left Saxony exposed to the Austrians. But the vigour and activity of Frederic surmounted every obstacle. He made a circuitous march of extraordinary rapidity, passed Daun, hastened into Silesia, raised the siege of Niesse, and drove Harsch into Bohemia. Daun availed himself of the King's absence to attack Dresden. The Prussians defended it desperately. The inhabitants of that wealthy and polished capital begged in vain for mercy from the garrison within, and from the besiegers without. The beautiful suburbs were burned to the ground. It was clear that the town, if won at all, would be won street by street by the bayonet. At this conjuncture came news, that Frederic, having cleared Silesia of his enemies, was returning by forced marches into Saxony. Daun retired from before Dresden, and fell back into the Austrian territories. The King, over heaps of ruins, made his triumphant entry into the unhappy metropolis, which had so cruelly expiated the weak and perfidious policy of its sovereign. It was now the twentieth of November. The cold weather suspended military operations; and the King again took up his winter quarters at Breslau. The third of the seven terrible years were over; and Frederic still stood his ground. He had been recently tried by domestic as well as by military disasters. On the fourteenth of October, the day on which he was defeated at Hochkirchen, the day on the anniversary of which, forty-eight years later, a defeat far more tremendous laid the Prussian monarchy in the dust, died Wilhelmina, Margravine of Bareuth. From the accounts which we have of her, by her own hand, and by the hands of the most discerning of her contemporaries, we should pronounce her to have been coarse, indelicate, and a good hater, but not destitute of kind and generous feelings. Her mind, naturally strong and observant, had been highly cultivated; and she was, and deserved to be, Frederic's favourite sister. He felt the loss as much as it was in his iron nature to feel the loss of anything but a province or a battle. At Breslau, during the winter, he was indefatigable in his poetical labours. The most spirited lines, perhaps, that he ever wrote, are, to be found in a bitter lampoon on Lewis and Madame de Pompadour, which he composed at this time, and sent to Voltaire. The verses were, indeed, so good, that Voltaire was afraid that he might himself be suspected of having written them, or at least of having corrected them; and partly from fright, partly, we fear, from love of mischief, sent them to the Duke of Choiseul, then prime minister of France. Choiseul very wisely determined to encounter Frederic at Frederic's own weapons, and applied for assistance to Palissot, who had some skill as a versifier, and some little talent for satire. Palissot produced some very stinging lines on the moral and literary character of Frederic, and these lines the Duke sent to Voltaire. This war of couplets, following close on the carnage of Zorndorf and the conflagration of Dresden, illustrates well the strangely compounded character of the King of Prussia. At this moment he was assailed by a new enemy. Benedict the Fourteenth, the best and wisest of the two hundred and fifty successors of St. Peter, was no more. During the short interval between his reign and that of his disciple Ganganelli, the chief seat in the Church of Rome was filled by Rezzonico, who took the name of Clement the Thirteenth. This absurd priest determined to try what the weight of his authority could effect in favour of the orthodox Maria Theresa against a heretic king. At the high mass on Christmas-day, a sword with a rich belt and scabbard, a hat of crimson velvet lined with ermine, and a dove of pearls, the mystic symbol of the Divine Comforter, were solemnly blessed by the supreme pontiff, and were sent with great ceremony to Marshal Daun, the conqueror of Kolin and Hochkirchen. This mark of favour had more than once been bestowed by the Popes on the great champions of the faith. Similar honours had been paid, more than six centuries earlier, by Urban the Second to Godfrey of Bouillon. Similar honours had been conferred on Alba for destroying the liberties of the Low Countries, and on John Sobiesky after the deliverance of Vienna. But the presents which were received with profound reverence by the Baron of the Holy Sepulchre in the eleventh century, and which had not wholly lost their value even in the seventeenth century, appeared inexpressibly ridiculous to a generation which read Montesquieu and Voltaire. Frederic wrote sarcastic verses on the gifts, the giver, and the receiver. But the public wanted no prompter; and an universal roar of laughter from Petersburg to Lisbon reminded the Vatican that the age of crusades was over. The fourth campaign, the most disastrous of all the campaigns of this fearful war, had now opened. The Austrians filled Saxony and menaced Berlin. The Russians defeated the King's generals on the Oder, threatened Silesia, effected a junction with Laudohn, and intrenched themselves strongly at Kunersdorf. Frederic hastened to attack them. A great battle was fought. During the earlier part of the day everything yielded to the impetuosity of the Prussians, and to the skill of their chief. The lines were forced. Half the Russian guns were taken. The King sent off a courier to Berlin with two lines, announcing a complete victory. But, in the meantime, the stubborn Russians, defeated yet unbroken, had taken up their stand in an almost impregnable position, on an eminence where the Jews of Frankfort were wont to bury their dead. Here the battle recommenced. The Prussian infantry, exhausted by six hours of hard fighting under a sun which equalled the tropical heat, were yet brought up repeatedly to the attack, but in vain. The King led three charges in person. Two horses were killed under him. The officers of his staff fell all round him. His coat was pierced by several bullets. All was in vain. His infantry was driven back with frightful slaughter. Terror began to spread fast from man to man. At that moment, the fiery cavalry of Laudohn, still fresh, rushed on the wavering ranks. Then followed an universal rout. Frederic himself was on the point of falling into the hands of the conquerors, and was with difficulty saved by a gallant officer, who, at the head of a handful of Hussars, made good a diversion of a few minutes. Shattered in body, shattered in mind, the King reached that night a village which the Cossacks had plundered; and there, in a ruined and deserted farm-house, flung himself on a heap of straw. He had sent to Berlin a second despatch very different from the first:--"Let the royal family leave Berlin. Send the archives to Potsdam. The town may make terms with the enemy." The defeat was, in truth, overwhelming. Of fifty thousand men who had that morning marched under the black eagles, not three thousand remained together. The King bethought him again of his corrosive sublimate, and wrote to bid adieu to his friends, and to give directions as to the measures to be taken in the event of his death:-"I have no resource left"--such is the language of one of his letters--"all is lost. I will not survive the ruin of my country.--Farewell for ever." But the mutual jealousies of the confederates prevented them from following up their victory. They lost a few days in loitering and squabbling; and a few days, improved by Frederic, were worth more than the years of other men. On the morning after the battle, he had got together eighteen thousand of his troops. Very soon his force amounted to thirty thousand. Guns were procured from the neighbouring fortresses; and there was again an army. Berlin was for the present safe; but calamities came pouring on the King in uninterrupted succession. One of his generals, with a large body of troops, was taken at Maxen; another was defeated at Meissen; and when at length the campaign of 1759 closed, in the midst of a rigorous winter, the situation of Prussia appeared desperate. The only consoling circumstance was, that, in the West, Ferdinand of Brunswick had been more fortunate than his master; and by a series of exploits, of which the battle of Minden was the most glorious, had removed all apprehension of danger on the side of France. The fifth year was now about to commence. It seemed impossible that the Prussian territories, repeatedly devastated by hundreds of thousands of invaders, could longer support the contest. But the King carried on war as no European power has ever carried on war, except the Committee of Public Safety during the great agony of the French Revolution. He governed his kingdom as he would have governed a besieged town, not caring to what extent property was destroyed, or the pursuits of civil life suspended, so that he did but make head against the enemy. As long as there was a man left in Prussia, that man might carry a musket; as long as there was a horse left, that horse might draw artillery. The coin was debased, the civil functionaries were left unpaid; in some provinces civil government altogether ceased to exist. But there was still rye-bread and potatoes; there was still lead and gunpowder; and, while the means of sustaining and destroying life remained, Frederic was determined to fight it out to the very last. The earlier part of the campaign of 1760 was unfavourable to him. Berlin was again occupied by the enemy. Great contributions were levied on the inhabitants, and the royal palace was plundered. But at length, after two years of calamity, victory came back to his arms. At Lignitz he gained a great battle over Laudohn; at Torgau, after a day of horrible carnage, he triumphed over Daun. The fifth year closed, and still the event was in suspense. In the countries where the war had raged, the misery and exhaustion were more appalling than ever; but still there were left men and beasts, arms and food, and still Frederic fought on. In truth he had now been baited into savageness. His heart was ulcerated with hatred. The implacable resentment with which his enemies persecuted him, though originally provoked by his own unprincipled ambition, excited in him a thirst for vengeance which he did not even attempt to conceal. "It is hard," he says in one of his letters, "for a man to bear what I bear. I begin to feel that, as the Italians say, revenge is a pleasure for the gods. My philosophy is worn out by suffering. I am no saint, like those of whom we read in the legends; and I will own that I should die content if only I could first inflict a portion of the misery which I endure." Borne up by such feelings, he struggled with various success, but constant glory, through the campaign of 1761. On the whole the result of this campaign was disastrous to Prussia. No great battle was gained by the enemy; but, in spite of the desperate bounds of the hunted tiger, the circle of pursuers was fast closing round him. Laudohn had surprised the important fortress of Schweidnitz. With that fortress half of Silesia, and the command of the most important defiles through the mountains had been transferred to the Austrians. The Russians had overpowered the King's generals in Pomerania. The country was so completely desolated that he began, by his own confession, to look round him with blank despair, unable to imagine where recruits, horses, or provisions were to be found. Just at this time, two great events brought on a complete change in the relations of almost all the powers of Europe. One of those events was the retirement of Mr. Pitt from office; the other was the death of the Empress Elizabeth of Russia. The retirement of Pitt seemed to be an omen of utter ruin to the House of Brandenburg. His proud and vehement nature was incapable of anything that looked like either fear or treachery. He had often declared that, while he was in power, England should never make a peace of Utrecht, should never, for any selfish object, abandon an ally even in the last extremity of distress. The Continental war was his own war. He had been bold enough, he who in former times had attacked, with irresistible powers of oratory, the Hanoverian policy of Carteret, and the German subsidies of Newcastle, to declare that Hanover ought to be as dear to us as Hampshire, and that he would conquer America in Germany. He had fallen; and the power which he had exercised, not always with discretion, but always with vigour and genius, had devolved on a favourite who was the representative of the Tory party, of the party which had thwarted William, which had persecuted Marlborough, which had given tip the Catalans to the vengeance of Philip of Anjou. To make peace with France, to shake off, with all, or more than all, the speed compatible with decency, every Continental connection, these were among the chief objects of the new Minister. The policy then followed inspired Frederic with an unjust, but deep and bitter aversion to the English name, and produced effects which are still felt throughout the civilised world. To that policy it was owing that, some years later, England could not find on the whole Continent a single ally to stand by her, in her extreme need against the House of Bourbon. To that policy it was owing that Frederic, alienated from England, was compelled to connect himself closely, during his later years, with Russia, and was induced to assist in that great crime, the fruitful parent of other great crimes, the first partition of Poland. Scarcely had the retreat of Mr. Pitt deprived Prussia of her only friend, when the death of Elizabeth produced an entire revolution in the politics of the North. The Grand Duke Peter, her nephew, who now ascended the Russian throne, was not merely free from the prejudices which his aunt had entertained against Frederic, but was a worshipper, a servile imitator of the great King. The days of the new Czar's government were few and evil, but sufficient to produce a change in the whole state of Christendom. He set the Prussian prisoners at liberty, fitted them out decently, and sent them back to their master; he withdrew his troops from the provinces which Elizabeth had decided on incorporating with her dominions; and he absolved all those Prussian subjects, who had been compelled to swear fealty to Russia, from their engagements. Not content with concluding peace on terms favourable to Prussia, he solicited rank in the Prussian service, dressed himself in a Prussian uniform, wore the Black Eagle of Prussia on his breast, made preparations for visiting Prussia, in order to have an interview with the object of his idolatry, and actually sent fifteen thousand excellent troops to reinforce the shattered army of Frederic. Thus strengthened, the King speedily repaired the losses of the preceding year, reconquered Silesia, defeated Daun at Buckersdorf, invested and retook Schweidnitz, and, at the close of the year, presented to the forces of Maria Theresa a front as formidable as before the great reverses of 1759. Before the end of the campaign, his friend, the Emperor Peter, having, by a series of absurd insults to the institutions, manners, and feelings of his people, united them in hostility to his person and government, was deposed and murdered. The Empress, who, under the title of Catherine the Second, now assumed the supreme power, was, at the commencement of her administration, by no means partial to Frederic, and refused to permit her troops to remain under his command. But she observed the peace made by her husband; and Prussia was no longer threatened by danger from the East. England and France at the same time paired off together. They concluded a treaty, by which they bound themselves to observe neutrality with respect to the German war. Thus the coalitions on both sides were dissolved; and the original enemies, Austria and Prussia, remained alone confronting each other. Austria had undoubtedly far greater means than Prussia, and was less exhausted by hostilities; yet it seemed hardly possible that Austria could effect alone what she had in vain attempted to effect when supported by France on the one side, and by Russia on the other. Danger also began to menace the Imperial house from another quarter. The Ottoman Porte held threatening language, and a hundred thousand Turks were mustered on the frontiers of Hungary. The proud and revengeful spirit of the Empress Queen at length gave way; and, in February 1763, the peace of Hubertsburg put an end to the conflict which had, during seven years, devastated Germany. The King ceded nothing. The whole Continent in arms had proved unable to tear Silesia from that iron grasp. The war was over. Frederic was safe. His glory was beyond the reach of envy. If he had not made conquests as vast as those of Alexander, of Caesar, and of Napoleon, if he had not, on fields of battle, enjoyed the constant success of Marlborough and Wellington, he had yet given an example unrivalled in history of what capacity and resolution can effect against the greatest superiority of power, and the utmost spite of fortune. He entered Berlin in triumph, after an absence of more than six years. The streets were brilliantly lighted up; and, as he passed along in an open carriage, with Ferdinand of Brunswick at his side, the multitude saluted him with loud praises and blessings. He was moved by those marks of attachment, and repeatedly exclaimed "Long live my dear people! Long live my children!" Yet, even in the midst of that gay spectacle, he could not but perceive everywhere the traces of destruction and decay. The city had been more than once plundered. The population had considerably diminished. Berlin, however, had suffered little when compared with most parts of the kingdom. The ruin of private fortunes, the distress of all ranks, was such as might appal the firmest mind. Almost every province had been the seat of war, and of war conducted with merciless ferocity. Clouds of Croatians had descended on Silesia. Tens of thousands of Cossacks had been let loose on Pomerania and Brandenburg. The mere contributions levied by the invaders amounted, it was said, to more than a hundred millions of dollars; and the value of what they extorted was probably much less than the value of what they destroyed. The fields lay uncultivated. The very seed-corn had been devoured in the madness of hunger. Famine, and contagious maladies produced by famine, had swept away the herds and flocks; and there was reason to fear that a great pestilence among the human race was likely to follow in the train of that tremendous war. Near fifteen thousand houses had been burned to the ground. The population of the kingdom had in seven years decreased to the frightful extent of ten per cent. A sixth of the males capable of bearing arms had actually perished on the field of battle. In some districts, no labourers, except women, were seen in the fields at harvest-time. In others, the traveller passed shuddering through a succession of silent villages, in which not a single inhabitant remained. The currency had been debased; the authority of laws and magistrates had been suspended; the whole social system was deranged. For, during that convulsive struggle, everything that was not military violence was anarchy. Even the army was disorganised. Some great generals, and a crowd of excellent officers, had fallen, and it had been impossible to supply their place. The difficulty of finding recruits had, towards the close of the war, been so great, that selection and rejection were impossible. Whole battalions were composed of deserters or of prisoners. It was hardly to be hoped that thirty years of repose and industry would repair the ruin produced by seven years of havoc. One consolatory circumstance, indeed, there was. No debt had been incurred. The burdens of the war had been terrible, almost insupportable; but no arrear was left to embarrass the finances in time of peace. Here, for the present, we must pause. We have accompanied Frederic to the close of his career as a warrior. Possibly, when these Memoirs are completed, we may resume the consideration of his character, and give some account of his domestic and foreign policy, and of his private habits, during the many years of tranquillity which followed the Seven Years' War. SOUTHEY'S COLLOQUIES (Jan, 1830) Sir Thomas More; or, colloquies on the Progress and Prospects of Society. By ROBERT SOUTHEY Esq., LL.D., Poet Laureate. 2 vols. 8vo. London: 1829. IT would be scarcely possible for a man of Mr. Southey's talents and acquirements to write two volumes so large as those before us, which should be wholly destitute of information and amusement. Yet we do not remember to have read with so little satisfaction any equal quantity of matter, written by any man of real abilities. We have, for some time past, observed with great regret the strange infatuation which leads the Poet Laureate to abandon those departments of literature in which he might excel, and to lecture the public on sciences of which he has still the very alphabet to learn. He has now, we think, done his worst. The subject which he has at last undertaken to treat, is one which demands all the highest intellectual and moral qualities of a philosophical statesman, an understanding at once comprehensive and acute, a heart at once upright and charitable. Mr. Southey brings to the task two faculties which were never, we believe, vouchsafed in measure so copious to any human being, the faculty of believing without a reason, and the faculty of hating without a provocation. It is, indeed, most extraordinary, that a mind like Mr. Southey's, a mind richly endowed in many respects by nature, and highly cultivated by study, a mind which has exercised considerable influence on the most enlightened generation of the most enlightened people that ever existed, should be utterly destitute of the power of discerning truth from falsehood. Yet such is the fact. Government is to Mr. Southey one of the fine arts. He judges of a theory, of a public measure, of a religion or a political party, of a peace or a war, as men judge of a picture or a statue, by the effect produced on his imagination. A chain of associations is to him what a chain of reasoning is to other men; and what he calls his opinions are in fact merely his tastes. Part of this description might perhaps apply to a much greater man, Mr. Burke. But Mr. Burke assuredly possessed an understanding admirably fitted for the investigation of truth, an understanding stronger than that of any statesman, active or speculative, of the eighteenth century, stronger than everything, except his own fierce and ungovernable sensibility. Hence he generally chose his side like a fanatic, and defended it like a philosopher. His conduct on the most important occasions of his life, at the time of the impeachment of Hastings for example, and at the time of the French Revolution, seems to have been prompted by those feelings and motives which Mr. Coleridge has so happily described, "Stormy pity, and the cherish'd lure Of pomp, and proud precipitance of soul." Hindostan, with its vast cities, its gorgeous pagodas, its infinite swarms of dusky population, its long-descended dynasties, its stately etiquette, excited in a mind so capacious, so imaginative, and so susceptible, the most intense interest. The peculiarities of the costume, of the manners, and of the laws, the very mystery which hung over the language and origin of the people, seized his imagination. To plead under the ancient arches of Westminster Hall, in the name of the English people, at the bar of the English nobles for great nations and kings separated from him by half the world, seemed to him the height of human glory. Again, it is not difficult to perceive that his hostility to the French Revolution principally arose from the vexation which he felt at having all his old political associations disturbed, at seeing the well-known landmarks of states obliterated, and the names and distinctions with which the history of Europe had been filled for ages at once swept away. He felt like an antiquary whose shield had been scoured, or a connoisseur who found his Titian retouched. But, however he came by an opinion, he had no sooner got it than he did his best to make out a legitimate title to it. His reason, like a spirit in the service of an enchanter, though spell-bound, was still mighty. It did whatever work his passions and his imagination might impose. But it did that work, however arduous, with marvellous dexterity and vigour. His course was not determined by argument; but he could defend the wildest course by arguments more plausible than those by which common men support opinions which they have adopted after the fullest deliberation. Reason has scarcely ever displayed, even in those well-constituted minds of which she occupies the throne, so much power and energy as in the lowest offices of that imperial servitude. Now in the mind of Mr. Southey reason has no place at all, as either leader or follower, as either sovereign or slave. He does not seem to know what an argument is. He never uses arguments himself. He never troubles himself to answer the arguments of his opponents. It has never occurred to him, that a man ought to be able to give some better account of the way in which he has arrived at his opinions than merely that it is his will and pleasure to hold them. It has never occurred to him that there is a difference between assertion and demonstration, that a rumour does not always prove a fact, that a single fact, when proved, is hardly foundation enough for a theory, that two contradictory propositions cannot be undeniable truths, that to beg the question is not the way to settle it, or that when an objection is raised, it ought to be met with something more convincing than "scoundrel" and "blockhead." It would be absurd to read the works of such a writer for political instruction. The utmost that can be expected from any system promulgated by him is that it may be splendid and affecting, that it may suggest sublime and pleasing images. His scheme of philosophy is a mere day-dream, a poetical creation, like the Doindaniel cavern, the Swerga, or Padalon; and indeed it bears no inconsiderable resemblance to those gorgeous visions. Like them, it has something, of invention, grandeur, and brilliancy. But, like them, it is grotesque and extravagant, and perpetually violates even that conventional probability which is essential to the effect of works of art. The warmest admirers of Mr. Southey will scarcely, we think, deny that his success has almost always borne an inverse proportion to the degree in which his undertakings have required a logical head. His poems, taken in the mass, stand far higher than his prose works. His official Odes indeed, among which the Vision of Judgement must be classed, are, for the most part, worse than Pye's and as bad as Cibber's; nor do we think him generally happy in short pieces. But his longer poems, though full of faults, are nevertheless very extraordinary productions. We doubt greatly whether they will be read fifty years hence; but that, if they are read, they will be admired, we have no doubt whatever. But, though in general we prefer Mr. Southey's poetry to his prose, we must make one exception. The Life of Nelson is, beyond all doubt, the most perfect and the most delightful of his works. The fact is, as his poems most abundantly prove, that he is by no means so skilful in designing as in filling up. It was therefore an advantage to him to be furnished with an outline of characters and events, and to have no other task to perform than that of touching the cold sketch into life. No writer, perhaps, ever lived, whose talents so precisely qualified him to write the history of the great naval warrior. There were no fine riddles of the human heart to read, no theories to propound, no hidden causes to develop, no remote consequences to predict. The character of the hero lay on the surface. The exploits were brilliant and picturesque. The necessity of adhering to the real course of events saved Mr, Southey from those faults which deform the original plan of almost every one of his poems, and which even his innumerable beauties of detail scarcely redeem. The subject did not require the exercise of those reasoning powers the want of which is the blemish of his prose. It would not be easy to find, in all literary history, an instance of a more exact hit between wind and water. John Wesley and the Peninsular War were subjects of a very different kind, subjects which required all the qualities of a philosophic historian. In Mr. Southey's works on these subjects, he has, on the whole, failed. Yet there are charming specimens of the art of narration in both of them. The Life of Wesley will probably live. Defective as it is, it contains the only popular account of a most remarkable moral revolution, and of a man whose eloquence and logical acuteness might have made him eminent in literature, whose genius for government was not inferior to that of Richelieu, and who, whatever his errors may have been, devoted all his powers, in defiance of obloquy and derision, to what he sincerely considered as the highest good of his species. The History of the Peninsular War is already dead; indeed, the second volume was dead-born. The glory of producing an imperishable record of that great conflict seems to be reserved for Colonel Napier. The Book of the Church contains some stories very prettily told. The rest is mere rubbish. The adventure was manifestly one which could be achieved only by a profound thinker, and one in which even a profound thinker might have failed, unless his passions had been kept under strict control. But in all those works in which Mr. Southey has completely abandoned narration, and has undertaken to argue moral and political questions, his failure has been complete and ignominious. On such occasions his writings are rescued from utter contempt and derision solely by the beauty and purity of the English. We find, we confess, so great a charm in Mr. Southey's style, that, even when be writes nonsense, we generally read it with pleasure except indeed when he tries to be droll. A more insufferable jester never existed. He very often attempts to be humorous, and yet we do not remember a single occasion on which he has succeeded further than to be quaintly and flippantly dull. In one of his works he tells us that Bishop Sprat was very properly so called, inasmuch as he was a very small poet. And in the book now before us he cannot quote Francis Bugg, the renegade Quaker, without a remark on his unsavoury name. A wise man might talk folly like this by his own fireside; but that any human being, after having made such a joke, should write it down, and copy it out, and transmit it to the printer, and correct the proof-sheets, and send it forth into the world, is enough to make us ashamed of our species. The extraordinary bitterness of spirit which Mr. Southey manifests towards his opponents is, no doubt, in a great measure to be attributed to the manner in which he forms his opinions. Differences of taste, it has often been remarked, produce greater exasperation than differences on points of science. But this is not all. A peculiar austerity marks almost all Mr. Southey's judgments of men and actions. We are far from blaming him for fixing on a high standard of morals, and for applying that standard to every case. But rigour ought to be accompanied by discernment; and of discernment Mr. Southey seems to be utterly destitute. His mode of judging is monkish. It is exactly what we should expect from a stern old Benedictine, who had been preserved from many ordinary frailties by the restraints of his situation. No man out of a cloister ever wrote about love, for example, so coldly and at the same time me so grossly. His descriptions of it are just what we should hear from a recluse who knew the passion only from the details of the confessional. Almost all his heroes make love either like Seraphim or like cattle. He seems to have no notion of anything between the Platonic passion of the Glendoveer who gazes with rapture on his mistress's leprosy, and the brutal appetite of Arvalan and Roderick. In Roderick, indeed, the two characters are united. He is first all clay, and then all spirit. He goes forth a Tarquin, and comes back too ethereal to be married. The only love scene, as far as we can recollect, in Madoc, consists of the delicate attentions which a savage, who has drunk too much of the Prince's excellent metheglin, offers to Goervyl. It would be the labour of a week to find, in all the vast mass of Mr. Southey's poetry, a single passage indicating any sympathy with those feelings which have consecrated the shades of Vaucluse and the rocks of Meillerie. Indeed, if we except some very pleasing images of paternal tenderness and filial duty, there is scarcely anything soft or humane in Mr. Southey's poetry. What theologians call the spiritual sins are his cardinal virtues, hatred, pride, and the insatiable thirst of vengeance. These passions he disguises under the name of duties; he purifies them from the alloy of vulgar interests; he ennobles them by uniting them with energy, fortitude, and a severe sanctity of manners; and he then holds them up to the admiration of mankind. This is the spirit of Thalaba, of Ladurlad, of Adosinda, of Roderick after his conversion. It is the spirit which, in all his writings, Mr. Southey appears to affect. "I do well to be angry," seems to be the predominant feeling of his mind. Almost the only mark of charity which he vouchsafes to his opponents is to pray for their reformation; and this he does in terms not unlike those in which we can imagine a Portuguese priest interceding with Heaven for a Jew, delivered over to the secular arm after a relapse. We have always heard, and fully believe, that Mr. Southey is a very amiable and humane man; nor do we intend to apply to him personally any of the remarks which we have made on the spirit of his writings. Such are the caprices of human nature. Even Uncle Toby troubled himself very little about the French grenadiers who fell on the glacis of Namur. And Mr. Southey, when he takes up his pen, changes his nature as much as Captain Shandy when he girt on his sword. The only opponents to whom the Laureate gives quarter are those in whom he finds something of his own character reflected. He seems to have an instinctive antipathy for calm, moderate men, for men who shun extremes, and who render reasons. He has treated Mr. Owen of Lanark, for example, with infinitely more respect than he has shown to Mr. Hallam or to Dr. Lingard; and this for no reason that we can discover, except that Mr. Owen is more unreasonably and hopelessly in the wrong than any speculator of our time. Mr. Southey's political system is just what we might expect from a man who regards politics, not as matter of science, but as matter of taste and feeling. All his schemes of government have been inconsistent with themselves. In his youth he was a republican; yet, as he tells us in his preface to these Colloquies, he was even then opposed to the Catholic Claims. He is now a violent Ultra-Tory. Yet, while he maintains, with vehemence approaching to ferocity, all the sterner and harsher parts of the Ultra-Tory theory of government, the baser and dirtier part of that theory disgusts him. Exclusion, persecution, severe punishments for libellers and demagogues, proscriptions, massacres, civil war, if necessary, rather than any concession to a discontented people; these are the measures which he seems inclined to recommend. A severe and gloomy tyranny, crushing opposition, silencing remonstrance, drilling the minds of the people into unreasoning obedience, has in it something of grandeur which delights his imagination. But there is nothing fine in the shabby tricks and jobs of office; and Mr. Southey, accordingly, has no toleration for them. When a Jacobin, he did not perceive that his system led logically, and would have led practically, to the removal of religious distinctions. He now commits a similar error. He renounces the abject and paltry part of the creed of his party, without perceiving that it is also an essential part of that creed. He would have tyranny and purity together; though the most superficial observation might have shown him that there can be no tyranny without corruption. It is high time, however, that we should proceed to the consideration of the work which is our more immediate subject, and which, indeed, illustrates in almost every page our general remarks on Mr. Southey's writings. In the preface, we are informed that the author, notwithstanding some statements to the contrary, was always opposed to the Catholic Claims. We fully believe this; both because we are sure that Mr. Southey is incapable of publishing a deliberate falsehood, and because his assertion is in itself probable. We should have expected that, even in his wildest paroxysms of democratic enthusiasm, Mr. Southey would have felt no wish to see a simple remedy applied to a great practical evil. We should have expected that the only measure which all the great statesmen of two generations have agreed with each other in supporting would be the only measure which Mr. Southey would have agreed with himself in opposing. He has passed from one extreme of political opinion to another, as Satan in Milton went round the globe, contriving constantly to "ride with darkness." Wherever the thickest shadow of the night may at any moment chance to fall, there is Mr. Southey. It is not everybody who could have so dexterously avoided blundering on the daylight in the course of a journey to the antipodes. Mr. Southey has not been fortunate in the plan of any of his fictitious narratives. But he has never failed so conspicuously as in the work before us; except, indeed, in the wretched Vision of Judgement. In November 1817, it seems the Laureate was sitting over his newspaper, and meditating about the death of the Princess Charlotte. An elderly person of very dignified aspect makes his appearance, announces himself as a stranger from a distant country, and apologises very politely for not having provided himself with letters of introduction. Mr. Southey supposes his visitor to be some American gentleman who has come to see the lakes and the lake-poets, and accordingly proceeds to perform, with that grace, which only long practice can give, all the duties which authors owe to starers. He assures his guest that some of the most agreeable visits which he has received have been from Americans, and that he knows men among them whose talents and virtues would do honour to any country. In passing we may observe, to the honour of Mr. Southey, that, though he evidently has no liking for the American institutions, he never speaks of the people of the United States with that pitiful affectation of contempt by which some members of his party have done more than wars or tariffs can do to excite mutual enmity between two communities formed for mutual fellowship. Great as the faults of his mind are, paltry spite like this has no place in it. Indeed it is scarcely conceivable that a man of his sensibility and his imagination should look without pleasure and national pride on the vigorous and splendid youth of a great people, whose veins are filled with our blood, whose minds are nourished with our literature, and on whom is entailed the rich inheritance of our civilisation, our freedom, and our glory. But we must return to Mr. Southey's study at Keswick. The visitor informs the hospitable poet that he is not an American but a spirit. Mr. Southey, with more frankness than civility, tells him that he is a very queer one. The stranger holds out his hand. It has neither weight nor substance. Mr. Southey upon this becomes more serious; his hair stands on end; and he adjures the spectre to tell him what he is, and why he comes. The ghost turns out to be Sir Thomas More. The traces of martyrdom, it seems, are worn in the other world, as stars and ribands are worn in this. Sir Thomas shows the poet a red streak round his neck, brighter than a ruby, and informs him that Cranmer wears a suit of flames in Paradise, the right hand glove, we suppose, of peculiar brilliancy. Sir Thomas pays but a short visit on this occasion, but promises to cultivate the new acquaintance which he has formed, and, after begging that his visit may be kept secret from Mrs. Southey, vanishes into air. The rest of the book consists of conversations between Mr. Southey and the spirit about trade, currency, Catholic emancipation, periodical literature, female nunneries, butchers, snuff, bookstalls, and a hundred other subjects. Mr. Southey very hospitably takes an opportunity to escort the ghost round the lakes, and directs his attention to the most beautiful points of view. Why a spirit was to be evoked for the purpose of talking over such matters and seeing such sights, why the vicar of the parish, a blue-stocking from London, or an American, such as Mr. Southey at first supposed the aerial visitor to be, might not have done as well, we are unable to conceive. Sir Thomas tells Mr. Southey nothing about future events, and indeed absolutely disclaims the gifts of prescience. He has learned to talk modern English. He has read all the new publications, and loves a jest as well as when he jested with the executioner, though we cannot say that the quality of his wit has materially improved in Paradise. His powers of reasoning, too, are by no means in as great vigour as when he sate on the woolsack; and though he boasts that he is "divested of all those passions which cloud the intellects and warp the understandings of men," we think him, we must confess, far less stoical than formerly. As to revelations, he tells Mr. Southey at the outset to expect none from him. The Laureate expresses some doubts, which assuredly will not raise him in the opinion of our modern millennarians, as to the divine authority of the Apocalypse. But the ghost preserves an impenetrable silence. As far as we remember, only one hint about the employment of disembodied spirits escapes him. He encourages Mr. Southey to hope that there is a Paradise Press, at which all the valuable publications of Mr. Murray and Mr. Colburn are reprinted as regularly as at Philadelphia; and delicately insinuates that Thalaba and the Curse of Kehama are among the number. What a contrast does this absurd fiction present to those charming narratives which Plato and Cicero prefixed to their dialogues! What cost in machinery, yet what poverty of effect! A ghost brought in to say what any man might have said! The glorified spirit of a great statesman and philosopher dawdling, like a bilious old nabob at a watering-place, over quarterly reviews and novels, dropping in to pay long calls, making excursions in search of the picturesque! The scene of St. George and St. Dennis in the Pucelle is hardly more ridiculous. We know what Voltaire meant. Nobody, however, can suppose that Mr. Southey means to make game of the mysteries of a higher state of existence. The fact is that, in the work before us, in the Vision of Judgement, and in some of his other pieces, his mode of treating the most solemn subjects differs from that of open scoffers only as the extravagant representations of sacred persons and things in some grotesque Italian paintings differ from the caricatures which Carlile exposes in the front of his shop. We interpret the particular act by the general character. What in the window of a convicted blasphemer we call blasphemous, we call only absurd and ill-judged in an altar-piece. We now come to the conversations which pass between Mr. Southey and Sir Thomas More, or rather between two Southeys, equally eloquent, equally angry, equally unreasonable, and equally given to talking about what they do not understand. [A passage in which some expressions used by Mr. Southey were misrepresented, certainly without any unfair intention, has been here omitted.] Perhaps we could not select a better instance of the spirit which pervades the whole book than the passages in which Mr. Southey gives his opinion of the manufacturing system. There is nothing which he hates so bitterly. It is, according to him, a system more tyrannical than that of the feudal ages, a system of actual servitude, a system which destroys the bodies and degrades the minds of those who are engaged in it. He expresses a hope that the competition of other nations may drive us out of the field; that our foreign trade may decline; and that we may thus enjoy a restoration of national sanity and strength. But he seems to think that the extermination of the whole manufacturing population would be a blessing, if the evil could be removed in no other way. Mr. Southey does not bring forward a single fact in support of these views; and, as it seems to us, there are facts which lead to a very different conclusion. In the first place, the poor-rate is very decidedly lower in the manufacturing than in the agricultural districts. If Mr. Southey will look over the Parliamentary returns on this subject, he will find that the amount of parochial relief required by the labourers in the different counties of England is almost exactly in inverse proportion to the degree in which the manufacturing system has been introduced into those counties. The returns for the years ending in March 1825, and in March 1828, are now before us. In the former year we find the poor-rate highest in Sussex, about twenty shillings to every inhabitant. Then come Buckinghamshire, Essex, Suffolk, Bedfordshire, Huntingdonshire, Kent, and Norfolk. In all these the rate is above fifteen shillings a head. We will not go through the whole. Even in Westmoreland and the North Riding of Yorkshire, the rate is at more than eight shillings. In Cumberland and Monmouthshire, the most fortunate of all the agricultural districts, it is at six shillings. But in the West Riding of Yorkshire, it is as low as five shillings. and when we come to Lancashire, we find it at four shillings, one-fifth of what it is in Sussex. The returns of the year ending in March 1828 are a little, and but a little, more unfavourable to the manufacturing districts. Lancashire, even in that season of distress, required a smaller poor-rate than any other district, and little more than one-fourth of the poor-rate raised in Sussex. Cumberland alone, of the agricultural districts, was as well off as the West Riding of Yorkshire. These facts seem to indicate that the manufacturer is both in a more comfortable and in a less dependent situation than the agricultural labourer. As to the effect of the manufacturing system on the bodily health, we must beg leave to estimate it by a standard far too low and vulgar for a mind so imaginative as that of Mr. Southey, the proportion of births and deaths. We know that, during the growth of this atrocious system, this new misery, to use the phrases of Mr. Southey, this new enormity, this birth of a portentous age, this pest which no man can approve whose heart is not scared or whose understanding has not been darkened, there has been a great diminution of mortality, and that this diminution has been greater in the manufacturing towns than anywhere else. The mortality still is, as it always was, greater in towns than in the country. But the difference has diminished in an extraordinary degree. There is the best reason to believe that the annual mortality of Manchester, about the middle of the last century, was one in twenty-eight. It is now reckoned at one in forty-five. In Glasgow and Leeds a similar improvement has taken place. Nay, the rate of mortality in those three great capitals of the manufacturing districts is now considerably less than it was, fifty years ago, over England and Wales, taken together, open country and all. We might with some plausibility maintain that the people live longer because they are better fed, better lodged, better clothed, and better attended in sickness, and that these improvements are owing to that increase of national wealth which the manufacturing system has produced. Much more might be said on this subject. But to what end? It is not from bills of mortality and statistical tables that Mr. Southey has learned his political creed. He cannot stoop to study the history of the system which he abuses, to strike the balance between the good and evil which it has produced, to compare district with district, or generation with generation. We will give his own reason for his opinion, the only reason which he gives for it, in his own words:-- "We remained a while in silence looking upon the assemblage of dwellings below. Here, and in the adjoining hamlet of Millbeck, the effects of manufactures and of agriculture may be seen and compared. The old cottages are such as the poet and the painter equally delight in beholding. Substantially built of the native stone without mortar, dirtied with no white lime, and their long low roofs covered with slate, if they had been raised by the magic of some indigenous Amphion's music, the materials could not have adjusted themselves more beautifully in accord with the surrounding scene; and time has still further harmonized them with weather stains, lichens, and moss, short grasses, and short fern, and stone-plants of various kinds. The ornamented chimneys, round or square, less adorned than those which, like little turrets, crest the houses of the Portuguese peasantry; and yet not less happily suited to their place, the hedge of clipt box beneath the windows, the rose-bushes beside the door, the little patch of flower-ground, with its tall hollyhocks in front; the garden beside, the bee-hives, and the orchard with its bank of daffodils and snow-drops, the earliest and the profusest in these parts, indicate in the owners some portion of ease and leisure, some regard to neatness and comfort, some sense of natural, and innocent, and healthful enjoyment. The new cottages of the manufacturers are upon the manufacturing pattern--naked, and in a row. "'How is it,' said I, 'that everything which is connected with manufactures presents such features of unqualified deformity? From the largest of Mammon's temples down to the poorest hovel in which his helotry are stalled, these edifices have all one character. Time will not mellow them; nature will neither clothe nor conceal them; and they will remain always as offensive to the eye as to the mind.'" Here is wisdom. Here are the principles on which nations are to be governed. Rose-bushes and poor-rates, rather than steam- engines and independence. Mortality and cottages with weather- stains, rather than health and long life with edifices which time cannot mellow. We are told, that our age has invented atrocities beyond the imagination of our fathers; that society has been brought into a state compared with which extermination would be a blessing; and all because the dwellings of cotton-spinners are naked and rectangular. Mr. Southey has found out a way, he tells us, in which the effects of manufactures and agriculture may be compared. And what is this way? To stand on a hill, to look at a cottage and a factory, and to see which is the prettier. Does Mr. Southey think that the body of the English peasantry live, or ever lived, in substantial or ornamented cottages, with box- hedges, flower-gardens, beehives, and orchards? If not, what is his parallel worth? We despise those mock philosophers, who think that they serve the cause of science by depreciating literature and the fine arts. But if anything could excuse their narrowness of mind, it would be such a book as this. It is not strange that, when one enthusiast makes the picturesque the test of political good, another should feel inclined to proscribe altogether the pleasures of taste and imagination. Thus it is that Mr. Southey reasons about matters with which he thinks himself perfectly conversant. We cannot, therefore, be surprised to find that he commits extraordinary blunders when he writes on points of which he acknowledges himself to be ignorant. He confesses that he is not versed in political economy, and that he has neither liking nor aptitude for it; and he then proceeds to read the public a lecture concerning it which fully bears out his confession. "All wealth," says Sir Thomas More, "in former times was tangible. It consisted in land, money, or chattels, which were either of real or conventional value." Montesinos, as Mr. Southey somewhat affectedly calls himself, answers thus:-- "Jewels, for example, and pictures, as in Holland, where indeed at one time tulip bulbs answered the same purpose." "That bubble," says Sir Thomas, "was one of those contagious insanities to which communities are subject. All wealth was real, till the extent of commerce rendered a paper currency necessary; which differed from precious stones and pictures in this important point, that there was no limit to its production." "We regard it," says Montesinos, "as the representative of real wealth; and, therefore, limited always to the amount of what it represents." "Pursue that notion," answers the ghost, "and you will be in the dark presently. Your provincial banknotes, which constitute almost wholly the circulating medium of certain districts, pass current to-day. Tomorrow tidings may come that the house which issued them has stopt payment, and what do they represent then? You will find them the shadow of a shade." We scarcely know at which end to begin to disentangle this knot of absurdities. We might ask, why it should be a greater proof of insanity in men to set a high value on rare tulips than on rare stones, which are neither more useful nor more beautiful? We might ask how it can be said that there is no limit to the production of paper money, when a man is hanged if he issues any in the name of another, and is forced to cash what he issues in his own? But Mr. Southey's error lies deeper still. "All wealth," says he, "was tangible and real till paper currency was introduced." Now, was there ever, since men emerged from a state of utter barbarism, an age in which there were no debts? Is not a debt, while the solvency of the debtor is undoubted, always reckoned as part of the wealth of the creditor? Yet is it tangible and real wealth? Does it cease to be wealth, because there is the security of a written acknowledgment for it? And what else is paper currency? Did Mr. Southey ever read a banknote? If he did, he would see that it is a written acknowledgment of a debt, and a promise to pay that debt. The promise may be violated, the debt may remain unpaid: those to whom it was due may suffer: but this is a risk not confined to cases of paper currency: it is a risk inseparable from the relation of debtor and creditor. Every man who sells goods for anything but ready money runs the risk of finding that what he considered as part of his wealth one day is nothing at all the next day. Mr. Southey refers to the picture-galleries of Holland. The pictures were undoubtedly real and tangible possessions. But surely it might happen that a burgomaster might owe a picture- dealer a thousand guilders for a Teniers. What in this case corresponds to our paper money is not the picture, which is tangible, but the claim of the picture-dealer on his customer for the price of the picture; and this claim is not tangible. Now, would not the picture-dealer consider this claim as part of his wealth? Would not a tradesman who knew of the claim give credit to the picture-dealer the more readily on account of the claim? The burgomaster might be ruined. If so, would not those consequences follow which, as Mr. Southey tells us, were never heard of till paper money came into use? Yesterday this claim was worth a thousand guilders. To-day what is it? The shadow of a shade. It is true that, the more readily claims of this sort are transferred from hand to hand, the more extensive will be the injury produced by a single failure. The laws of all nations sanction, in certain cases, the transfer of rights not yet reduced into possession. Mr. Southey would scarcely wish, we should think, that all indorsements of bills and notes should be declared invalid. Yet even if this were done, the transfer of claims would imperceptibly take place, to a very great extent. When the baker trusts the butcher, for example, he is in fact, though not in form, trusting the butcher's customers. A man who owes large bills to tradesmen, and fails to pay them, almost always produces distress through a very wide circle of people with whom he never dealt. In short, what Mr. Southey takes for a difference in kind is only a difference of form and degree. In every society men have claims on the property of others. In every society there is a possibility that some debtors may not be able to fulfil their obligations. In every society, therefore, there is wealth which is not tangible, and which may become the shadow of a shade. Mr. Southey then proceeds to a dissertation on the national debt, which he considers in a new and most consolatory light, as a clear addition to the income of the country. "You can understand," says Sir Thomas, "that it constitutes a great part of the national wealth." "So large a part," answers Montesinos, "that the interest amounted, during the prosperous times of agriculture, to as much as the rental of all the land in Great Britain; and at present to the rental of all lands, all houses, and all other fixed property put together." The Ghost and Laureate agree that it is very desirable that there should be so secure and advantageous a deposit for wealth as the funds afford. Sir Thomas then proceeds: "Another and far more momentous benefit must not be overlooked; the expenditure of an annual interest, equalling, as you have stated, the present rental of all fixed property." "That expenditure," quoth Montesinos, "gives employment to half the industry in the kingdom, and feeds half the mouths. Take, indeed, the weight of the national debt from this great and complicated social machine, and the wheels must stop." From this passage we should have been inclined to think that Mr. Southey supposes the dividends to be a free gift periodically sent down from heaven to the fundholders, as quails and manna were sent to the Israelites; were it not that he has vouchsafed, in the following question and answer, to give the public some information which, we believe, was very little needed. "Whence comes the interest?" says Sir Thomas. "It is raised," answers Montesinos, "by taxation." Now, has Mr. Southey ever considered what would be done with this sum if it were not paid as interest to the national creditor? If he would think over this matter for a short time, we suspect that the "momentous benefit" of which he talks would appear to him to shrink strangely in amount. A fundholder, we will suppose, spends dividends amounting to five hundred pounds a year; and his ten nearest neighbours pay fifty pounds each to the tax-gatherer, for the purpose of discharging the interest of the national debt. If the debt were wiped out, a measure, be it understood, which we by no means recommend, the fundholder would cease to spend his five hundred pounds a year. He would no longer give employment to industry, or put food into the mouths of labourers. This Mr. Southey thinks a fearful evil. But is there no mitigating circumstance? Each of the ten neighbours of our fundholder has fifty pounds a year more than formerly. Each of them will, as it seems to our feeble understandings, employ more industry and feed more mouths than formerly. The sum is exactly the same. It is in different hands. But on what grounds does Mr. Southey call upon us to believe that it is in the hands of men who will spend it less liberally or less judiciously? He seems to think that nobody but a fundholder can employ the poor; that, if a tax is remitted, those who formerly used to pay it proceed immediately to dig holes in the earth, and to bury the sum which the Government had been accustomed to take; that no money can set industry in motion till such money has been taken by the tax-gatherer out of one man's pocket and put into another man's pocket. We really wish that Mr. Southey would try to prove this principle, which is indeed the foundation of his whole theory of finance: for we think it right to hint to him that our hard-hearted and unimaginative generation will expect some more satisfactory reason than the only one with which he has yet favoured it, namely, a similitude touching evaporation and dew. Both the theory and the illustration, indeed, are old friends of ours. In every season of distress which we can remember, Mr. Southey has been proclaiming that it is not from economy, but from increased taxation, that the country must expect relief; and he still, we find, places the undoubting faith of a political Diafoirus, in his "Resaignare, repurgare, et reclysterizare." "A people," he tells us, "may be too rich, but a government cannot be so." "A state," says he, "cannot have more wealth at its command than may be employed for the general good, a liberal expenditure in national works being one of the surest means of promoting national prosperity; and the benefit being still more obvious, of an expenditure directed to the purposes of national improvement. But a people may be too rich." We fully admit that a state cannot have at its command more wealth than may be employed for the general good. But neither can individuals, or bodies of individuals, have at their command more wealth than may be employed for the general good. If there be no limit to the sum which may be usefully laid out in public works and national improvement, then wealth, whether in the hands of private men or of the Government, may always, if the possessors choose to spend it usefully, be usefully spent. The only ground, therefore, on which Mr. Southey can possibly maintain that a government cannot be too rich, but that a people may be too rich, must be this, that governments are more likely to spend their money on good objects than private individuals. But what is useful expenditure? "A liberal expenditure in national works," says Mr. Southey, "is one of the surest means for promoting national prosperity." What does he mean by national prosperity? Does he mean the wealth of the State? If so, his reasoning runs thus: The more wealth a state has the better; for the more wealth a state has the more wealth it will have. This is surely something like that fallacy, which is ungallantly termed a lady's reason. If by national prosperity he means the wealth of the people, of how gross a contradiction is Mr. Southey guilty. A people, he tells us, may be too rich: a government cannot: for a government can employ its riches in making the people richer. The wealth of the people is to be taken from them, because they have too much, and laid out in works, which will yield them more. We are really at a loss to determine whether Mr. Southey's reason for recommending large taxation is that it will make the people rich, or that it will make them poor. But we are sure that, if his object is to make them rich, he takes the wrong course. There are two or three principles respecting public works, which, as an experience of vast extent proves, may be trusted in almost every case. It scarcely ever happens that any private man or body of men will invest property in a canal, a tunnel, or a bridge, but from an expectation that the outlay will be profitable to them. No work of this sort can be profitable to private speculators, unless the public be willing to pay for the use of it. The public will not pay of their own accord for what yields no profit or convenience to them. There is thus a direct and obvious connection between the motive which induces individuals to undertake such a work, and the utility of the work. Can we find any such connection in the case of a public work executed by a government? If it is useful, are the individuals who rule the country richer? If it is useless, are they poorer? A public man may be solicitous for his credit. But is not he likely to gain more credit by an useless display of ostentatious architecture in a great town than by the best road or the best canal in some remote province? The fame of public works is a much less certain test of their utility than the amount of toll collected at them. In a corrupt age, there will be direct embezzlement. In the purest age, there will be abundance of jobbing. Never were the statesmen of any country more sensitive to public opinion, and more spotless in pecuniary transactions, than those who have of late governed England. Yet we have only to look at the buildings recently erected in London for a proof of our rule. In a bad age, the fate of the public is to be robbed outright. In a good age, it is merely to have the dearest and the worst of everything. Buildings for State purposes the State must erect. And here we think that, in general, the State ought to stop. We firmly believe that five hundred thousand pounds subscribed by individuals for rail-roads or canals would produce more advantage to the public than five millions voted by Parliament for the same purpose. There are certain old saws about the master's eye and about everybody's business, in which we place very great faith. There is, we have said, no consistency in Mr. Southey's political system. But if there be in his political system any leading principle, any one error which diverges more widely and variously than any other, it is that of which his theory about national works is a ramification. He conceives that the business of the magistrate is, not merely to see that the persons and property of the people are secure from attack, but that he ought to be a jack-of-all-trades, architect, engineer, schoolmaster, merchant, theologian, a Lady Bountiful in every parish, a Paul Pry in every house, spying, eaves-dropping, relieving, admonishing, spending our money for us, and choosing our opinions for us. His principle is, if we understand it rightly, that no man can do anything so well for himself as his rulers, be they who they may, can do it for him, and that a government approaches nearer and nearer to perfection, in proportion as it interferes more and more with the habits and notions of individuals. He seems to be fully convinced that it is in the power of government to relieve all the distresses under which the lower orders labour. Nay, he considers doubt on this subject as impious. We cannot refrain from quoting his argument on this subject. It is a perfect jewel of logic: "'Many thousands in your metropolis,' says Sir Thomas More, 'rise every morning without knowing how they are to subsist during the day; as many of them, where they are to lay their heads at night. All men, even the vicious themselves, know that wickedness leads to misery: but many, even among the good and the wise, have yet to learn that misery is almost as often the cause of wickedness.' "'There are many,' says Montesinos, 'who know this, but believe that it is not in the power of human institutions to prevent this misery. They see the effect, but regard the causes as inseparable from the condition of human nature.' "'As surely as God is good,' replies Sir Thomas, 'so surely there is no such thing as necessary evil. For, by the religious mind, sickness, and pain, and death, are not to be accounted evils.'" Now if sickness, pain, and death, are not evils, we cannot understand why it should be an evil that thousands should rise without knowing how they are to subsist. The only evil of hunger is that it produces first pain, then sickness, and finally death. If it did not produce these, it would be no calamity. If these are not evils, it is no calamity. We will propose a very plain dilemma: either physical pain is an evil, or it is not an evil. If it is an evil, then there is necessary evil in the universe: if it is not, why should the poor be delivered from it? Mr. Southey entertains as exaggerated a notion of the wisdom of governments as of their power. He speaks with the greatest disgust of the respect now paid to public opinion. That opinion is, according to him, to be distrusted and dreaded; its usurpation ought to be vigorously resisted; and the practice of yielding to it is likely to ruin the country. To maintain police is, according to him, only one of the ends of government. The duties of a ruler are patriarchal and paternal. He ought to consider the moral discipline of the people as his first object, to establish a religion, to train the whole community in that religion, and to consider all dissenters as his own enemies. "'Nothing,' says Sir Thomas, 'is more certain, than that religion is the basis upon which civil government rests; that from religion power derives its authority, laws their efficacy, and both their zeal and sanction; and it is necessary that this religion be established as for the security of the state, and for the welfare of the people, who would otherwise be moved to and fro with every wind of doctrine. A state is secure in proportion as the people are attached to its institutions; it is, therefore, the first and plainest rule of sound policy, that the people be trained up in the way they should go. The state that neglects this prepares its own destruction; and they who train them in any other way are undermining it. Nothing in abstract science can be more certain than these positions are.' "'All of which,' answers Montesinos, 'are nevertheless denied by our professors of the arts Babblative and Scribblative: some in the audacity of evil designs, and others in the glorious assurance of impenetrable ignorance.' The greater part of the two volumes before us is merely an amplification of these paragraphs. What does Mr. Southey mean by saying that religion is demonstrably the basis of civil government? He cannot surely mean that men have no motives except those derived from religion for establishing and supporting civil government, that no temporal advantage is derived from civil government, that men would experience no temporal inconvenience from living in a state of anarchy? If he allows, as we think he must allow, that it is for the good of mankind in this world to have civil government, and that the great majority of mankind have always thought it for their good in this world to have civil government, we then have a basis for government quite distinct from religion. It is true that the Christian religion sanctions government, as it sanctions everything which promotes the happiness and virtue of our species. But we are at a loss to conceive in what sense religion can be said to be the basis of government, in which religion is not also the basis of the practices of eating, drinking, and lighting fires in cold weather. Nothing in history is more certain than that government has existed, has received some obedience, and has given some protection, in times in which it derived no support from religion, in times in which there was no religion that influenced the hearts and lives of men. It was not from dread of Tartarus, or from belief in the Elysian fields, that an Athenian wished to have some institutions which might keep Orestes from filching his cloak, or Midias from breaking his head. "It is from religion," says Mr. Southey, "that power derives its authority, and laws their efficacy." From what religion does our power over the Hindoos derive its authority, or the law in virtue of which we hang Brahmins its efficacy? For thousands of years civil government has existed in almost every corner of the world, in ages of priestcraft, in ages of fanaticism, in ages of Epicurean indifference, in ages of enlightened piety. However pure or impure the faith of the people might be, whether they adored a beneficent or a malignant power, whether they thought the soul mortal or immortal, they have, as soon as they ceased to be absolute savages, found out their need of civil government, and instituted it accordingly. It is as universal as the practice of cookery. Yet, it is as certain, says Mr. Southey, as anything in abstract science, that government is founded on religion. We should like to know what notion Mr. Southey has of the demonstrations of abstract science. A very vague one, we suspect. The proof proceeds. As religion is the basis of government, and as the State is secure in proportion as the people are attached to public institutions, it is therefore, says Mr. Southey, the first rule of policy, that the government should train the people in the way in which they should go; and it is plain that those who train them in any other way are undermining the State. Now it does not appear to us to be the first object that people should always believe in the established religion and be attached to the established government. A religion may be false. A government may be oppressive. And whatever support government gives to false religions, or religion to oppressive governments, we consider as a clear evil. The maxim, that governments ought to train the people in the way in which they should go, sounds well. But is there any reason for believing that a government is more likely to lead the people in the right way than the people to fall into the right way of themselves? Have there not been governments which were blind leaders of the blind? Are there not still such governments? Can it be laid down as a general rule that the movement of political and religious truth is rather downwards from the government to the people than upwards from the people to the government? These are questions which it is of importance to have clearly resolved. Mr. Southey declaims against public opinion, which is now, he tells us, usurping supreme power. Formerly, according to him, the laws governed; now public opinion governs. What are laws but expressions of the opinion of some class which has power over the rest of the community? By what was the world ever governed but by the opinion of some person or persons? By what else can it ever be governed? What are all systems, religious, political, or scientific, but opinions resting on evidence more or less satisfactory? The question is not between human opinion and some higher and more certain mode of arriving at truth, but between opinion and opinion, between the opinions of one man and another, or of one class and another, or of one generation and another. Public opinion is not infallible; but can Mr. Southey construct any institutions which shall secure to us the guidance of an infallible opinion? Can Mr. Southey select any family, any profession, any class, in short, distinguished by any plain badge from the rest of the community, whose opinion is more likely to be just than this much abused public opinion? Would he choose the peers, for example? Or the two hundred tallest men in the country? Or the poor Knights of Windsor? Or children who are born with cauls? Or the seventh sons of seventh sons? We cannot suppose that he would recommend popular election; for that is merely an appeal to public opinion. And to say that society ought to be governed by the opinion of the wisest and best, though true, is useless. Whose opinion is to decide who are the wisest and best? Mr. Southey and many other respectable people seem to think that, when they have once proved the moral and religious training of the people to be a most important object, it follows, of course, that it is an object which the government ought to pursue. They forget that we have to consider, not merely the goodness of the end, but also the fitness of the means. Neither in the natural nor in the political body have all members the same office. There is surely no contradiction in saying that a certain section of the community may be quite competent to protect the persons and property of the rest, yet quite unfit to direct our opinions, or to superintend our private habits. So strong is the interest of a ruler to protect his subjects against all depredations and outrages except his own, so clear and simple are the means by which this end is to be effected, that men are probably better off under the worst governments in the world than they would be in a state of anarchy. Even when the appointment of magistrates has been left to chance, as in the Italian Republics, things have gone on far better than if there had been no magistrates at all, and if every man had done what seemed right in his own eyes. But we see no reason for thinking that the opinions of the magistrate on speculative questions are more likely to be right than those of any other man. None of the modes by which a magistrate is appointed, popular election, the accident of the lot, or the accident of birth, affords, as far as we can perceive, much security for his being wiser than any of his neighbours. The chance of his being wiser than all his neighbours together is still smaller. Now we cannot understand how it can be laid down that it is the duty and the right of one class to direct the opinions of another, unless it can be proved that the former class is more likely to form just opinions than the latter. The duties of government would be, as Mr. Southey says that they are, paternal, if a government were necessarily as much superior in wisdom to a people as the most foolish father, for a time, is to the most intelligent child, and if a government loved a people as fathers generally love their children. But there is no reason to believe that a government will have either the paternal warmth of affection or the paternal superiority of intellect. Mr. Southey might as well say that the duties of the shoemaker are paternal, and that it is an usurpation in any man not of the craft to say that his shoes are bad and to insist on having better. The division of labour would be no blessing, if those by whom a thing is done were to pay no attention to the opinion of those for whom it is done. The shoemaker, in the Relapse, tells Lord Foppington that his Lordship is mistaken in supposing that his shoe pinches. "It does not pinch; it cannot pinch; I know my business; and I never made a better shoe." This is the way in which Mr. Southey would have a government treat a people who usurp the privilege of thinking. Nay, the shoemaker of Vanbrugh has the advantage in the comparison. He contented himself with regulating his customer's shoes, about which he had peculiar means of information, and did not presume to dictate about the coat and hat. But Mr. Southey would have the rulers of a country prescribe opinions to the people, not only about politics, but about matters concerning which a government has no peculiar sources of information, and concerning which any man in the streets may know as much and think as justly as the King, namely religion and morals. Men are never so likely to settle a question rightly as when they discuss it freely. A government can interfere in discussion only by making it less free than it would otherwise be. Men are most likely to form just opinions when they have no other wish than to know the truth, and are exempt from all influence, either of hope or fear. Government, as government, can bring nothing but the influence of hopes and fears to support its doctrines. It carries on controversy, not with reasons, but with threats and bribes. If it employs reasons, it does so, not in virtue of any powers which belong to it as a government. Thus, instead of a contest between argument and argument, we have a contest between argument and force. Instead of a contest in which truth, from the natural constitution of the human mind, has a decided advantage over falsehood, we have a contest in which truth can be victorious only by accident. And what, after all, is the security which this training gives to governments? Mr. Southey would scarcely propose that discussion should be more effectually shackled, that public opinion should be more strictly disciplined into conformity with established institutions, than in Spain and Italy. Yet we know that the restraints which exist in Spain and Italy have not prevented atheism from spreading among the educated classes, and especially among those whose office it is to minister at the altars of God. All our readers know how, at the time of the French Revolution, priest after priest came forward to declare that his doctrine, his ministry, his whole life, had been a lie, a mummery during which he could scarcely compose his countenance sufficiently to carry on the imposture. This was the case of a false, or at least of a grossly corrupted religion. Let us take then the case of all others most favourable to Mr. Southey's argument. Let us take that form of religion which he holds to be the purest, the system of the Arminian part of the Church of England. Let us take the form of government which he most admires and regrets, the government of England in the time of Charles the First. Would he wish to see a closer connection between Church and State than then existed? Would he wish for more powerful ecclesiastical tribunals? for a more zealous King? for a more active primate? Would he wish to see a more complete monopoly of public instruction given to the Established Church? Could any government do more to train the people in the way in which he would have them go? And in what did all this training end? The Report of the state of the Province of Canterbury, delivered by Laud to his master at the close of 1639, represents the Church of England as in the highest and most palmy state. So effectually had the Government pursued that policy which Mr. Southey wishes to see revived that there was scarcely the least appearance of dissent. Most of the bishops stated that all was well among their flocks. Seven or eight persons in the diocese of Peterborough had seemed refractory to the Church, but had made ample submission. In Norfolk and Suffolk all whom there had been reason to suspect had made profession of conformity, and appeared to observe it strictly. It is confessed that there was a little difficulty in bringing some of the vulgar in Suffolk to take the sacrament at the rails in the chancel. This was the only open instance of nonconformity which the vigilant eye of Laud could detect in all the dioceses of his twenty-one suffragans, on the very eve of a revolution in which primate, and Church, and monarch, and monarchy were to perish together. At which time would Mr. Southey pronounce the constitution more secure: in 1639, when Laud presented this Report to Charles; or now, when thousands of meetings openly collect millions of dissenters, when designs against the tithes are openly avowed, when books attacking not only the Establishment, but the first principles of Christianity, are openly sold in the streets? The signs of discontent, he tells us, are stronger in England now than in France when the States-General met: and hence he would have us infer that a revolution like that of France may be at hand. Does he not know that the danger of states is to be estimated, not by what breaks out of the public mind, but by what stays in it? Can he conceive anything more terrible than the situation of a government which rules without apprehension over a people of hypocrites, which is flattered by the press and cursed in the inner chambers, which exults in the attachment and obedience of its subjects, and knows not that those subjects are leagued against it in a free-masonry of hatred, the sign of which is every day conveyed in the glance of ten thousand eyes, the pressure of ten thousand hands, and the tone of ten thousand voices? Profound and ingenious policy! Instead of curing the disease, to remove those symptoms by which alone its nature can be known! To leave the serpent his deadly sting, and deprive him only of his warning rattle! When the people whom Charles had so assiduously trained in the good way had rewarded his paternal care by cutting off his head, a new kind of training came into fashion. Another government arose which, like the former, considered religion as its surest basis, and the religious discipline of the people as its first duty. Sanguinary laws were enacted against libertinism; profane pictures were burned; drapery was put on indecorous statues; the theatres were shut up; fast-days were numerous; and the Parliament resolved that no person should be admitted into any public employment, unless the House should be first satisfied of his vital godliness. We know what was the end of this training. We know that it ended in impiety in filthy and heartless sensuality, in the dissolution of all ties of honour and morality. We know that at this very day scriptural phrases, scriptural names, perhaps some scriptural doctrines excite disgust and ridicule, solely because they are associated with the austerity of that period. Thus has the experiment of training the people in established forms of religion been twice tried in England on a large scale, once by Charles and Laud, and once by the Puritans. The High Tories of our time still entertain many of the feelings and opinions of Charles and Laud, though in a mitigated form; nor is it difficult to see that the heirs of the Puritans are still amongst us. It would be desirable that each of these parties should remember how little advantage or honour it formerly derived from the closest alliance with power, that it fall by the support of rulers and rose by their opposition, that of the two systems that in which the people were at any time drilled was always at that time the unpopular system, that the training of the High Church ended in the reign of the Puritans, and that the training of the Puritans ended in the reign of the harlots. This was quite natural. Nothing is so galling to a people not broken in from the birth as a paternal, or, in other words, a meddling government, a government which tells them what to read, and say, and eat, and drink, and wear. Our fathers could not bear it two hundred year ago; and we are not more patient than they. Mr. Southey thinks that the yoke of the Church is dropping off because it is loose. We feel convinced that it is borne only because it is easy, and that, in the instant in which an attempt is made to tighten it, it will be flung away. It will be neither the first nor the strongest yoke that has been broken asunder and trampled under foot in the day of the vengeance of England. How far Mr. Southey would have the Government carry its measures for training the people in the doctrines of the Church, we are unable to discover. In one passage Sir Thomas More asks with great vehemence, "Is it possible that your laws should suffer the unbelievers to exist as a party? Vetitum est adeo sceleris nihil?" Montesinos answers: "They avow themselves in defiance of the laws. The fashionable doctrine which the press at this time maintains is, that this is a matter in which the laws ought not to interfere, every man having a right, both to form what opinion he pleases upon religious subjects, and to promulgate that opinion." It is clear, therefore, that Mr. Southey would not give full and perfect toleration to infidelity. In another passage, however, he observes with some truth, though too sweepingly, that "any degree of intolerance short of that full extent which the Papal Church exercises where it has the power, acts upon the opinions which it is intended to suppress, like pruning upon vigorous plants; they grow the stronger for it." These two passages, put together, would lead us to the conclusion that, in Mr. Southey's opinion, the utmost severity ever employed by the Roman Catholic Church in the days of its greatest power ought to be employed against unbelievers in England; in plain words, that Carlile and his shopmen ought to be burned in Smithfield, and that every person who, when called upon, should decline to make a solemn profession of Christianity ought to suffer the same fate. We do not, however, believe that Mr. Southey would recommend such a course, though his language would, according to all the rules of logic, justify us in supposing this to be his meaning. His opinions form no system at all. He never sees, at one glance, more of a question than will furnish matter for one flowing and well-turned sentence; so that it would be the height of unfairness to charge him personally with holding a doctrine merely because that doctrine is deducible, though by the closest and most accurate reasoning, from the premises which he has laid down. We are, therefore, left completely in the dark as to Mr. Southey's opinions about toleration. Immediately after censuring the Government for not punishing infidels, he proceeds to discuss the question of the Catholic disabilities, now, thank God, removed, and defends them on the ground that the Catholic doctrines tend to persecution, and that the Catholics persecuted when they had power. "They must persecute," says he, "if they believe their own creed, for conscience-sake; and if they do not believe it, they must persecute for policy; because it is only by intolerance that so corrupt and injurious a system can be upheld." That unbelievers should not be persecuted is an instance of national depravity at which the glorified spirits stand aghast. Yet a sect of Christians is to be excluded from power, because those who formerly held the same opinions were guilty of persecution. We have said that we do not very well know what Mr. Southey's opinion about toleration is. But, on the whole, we take it to be this, that everybody is to tolerate him, and that he is to tolerate nobody. We will not be deterred by any fear of misrepresentation from expressing our hearty approbation of the mild, wise, and eminently Christian manner in which the Church and the Government have lately acted with respect to blasphemous publications. We praise them for not having thought it necessary to encircle a religion pure, merciful, and philosophical, a religion to the evidence of which the highest intellects have yielded, with the defences of a false and bloody superstition. The ark of God was never taken till it was surrounded by the arms of earthly defenders. In captivity, its sanctity was sufficient to vindicate it from insult, and to lay the hostile fiend prostrate on the threshold of his own temple. The real security of Christianity is to be found in its benevolent morality, in its exquisite adaptation to the human heart, in the facility with which its scheme accommodates itself to the capacity of every human intellect, in the consolation which it bears to the house of mourning, in the light with which it brightens the great mystery of the grave. To such a system it can bring no addition of dignity or of strength, that it is part and parcel of the common law. It is not now for the first time left to rely on the force of its own evidences and the attractions of its own beauty. Its sublime theology confounded the Grecian schools in the fair conflict of reason with reason. The bravest and wisest of the Caesars found their arms and their policy unavailing, when opposed to the weapons that were not carnal and the kingdom that was not of this world. The victory which Porphyry and Diocletian failed to gain is not, to all appearance, reserved for any of those who have in this age, directed their attacks against the last restraint of the powerful and the last hope of the wretched. The whole history of Christianity shows, that she is in far greater danger of being corrupted by the alliance of power, than of being crushed by its opposition. Those who thrust temporal sovereignty upon her treat her as their prototypes treated her author. They bow the knee, and spit upon her; they cry "Hail!" and smite her on the cheek; they put a sceptre in her hand, but it is a fragile reed; they crown her, but it is with thorns; they cover with purple the wounds which their own hands have inflicted on her; and inscribe magnificent titles over the cross on which they have fixed her to perish in ignominy and pain. The general view which Mr. Southey takes of the prospects of society is very gloomy; but we comfort ourselves with the consideration that Mr. Southey is no prophet. He foretold, we remember, on the very eve of the abolition of the Test and Corporation Acts, that these hateful laws were immortal, and that pious minds would long be gratified by seeing the most solemn religious rite of the Church profaned for the purpose of upholding her political supremacy. In the book before us, he says that Catholics cannot possibly be admitted into Parliament until those whom Johnson called "the bottomless Whigs" come into power. While the book was in the press, the prophecy was falsified; and a Tory of the Tories, Mr. Southey's own favourite hero, won and wore that noblest wreath, "Ob cives servatos." The signs of the times, Mr. Southey tells us, are very threatening. His fears for the country would decidedly preponderate over his hopes, but for a firm reliance on the mercy of God. Now, as we know that God has once suffered the civilised world to be overrun by savages, and the Christian religion to be corrupted by doctrines which made it, for some ages, almost as bad as Paganism, we cannot think it inconsistent with his attributes that similar calamities should again befal mankind. We look, however, on the state of the world, and of this kingdom in particular, with much greater satisfaction and with better hopes. Mr. Southey speaks with contempt of those who think the savage state happier than the social. On this subject, he says, Rousseau never imposed on him even in his youth. But he conceives that a community which has advanced a little way in civilisation is happier than one which has made greater progress. The Britons in the time of Caesar were happier, he suspects, than the English of the nineteenth century. On the whole, he selects the generation which preceded the Reformation as that in which the people of this country were better off than at any time before or since. This opinion rests on nothing, as far as we can see, except his own individual associations. He is a man of letters; and a life destitute of literary pleasures seems insipid to him. He abhors the spirit of the present generation, the severity of its studies, the boldness of its inquiries, and the disdain with which it regards some old prejudices by which his own mind is held in bondage. He dislikes an utterly unenlightened age; he dislikes an investigating and reforming age. The first twenty years of the sixteenth century would have exactly suited him. They furnished just the quantity of intellectual excitement which he requires. The learned few read and wrote largely. A scholar was held in high estimation. But the rabble did not presume to think; and even the most inquiring and independent of the educated classes paid more reverence to authority, and less to reason, than is usual in our time. This is a state of things in which Mr. Southey would have found himself quite comfortable; and, accordingly, he pronounces it the happiest state of things ever known in the world. The savages were wretched, says Mr. Southey; but the people in the time of Sir Thomas More were happier than either they or we. Now we think it quite certain that we have the advantage over the contemporaries of Sir Thomas More, in every point in which they had any advantage over savages. Mr. Southey does not even pretend to maintain that the people in the sixteenth century were better lodged or clothed than at present. He seems to admit that in these respects there has been some little improvement. It is indeed a matter about which scarcely any doubt can exist in the most perverse mind that the improvements of machinery have lowered the price of manufactured articles, and have brought within the reach of the poorest some conveniences which Sir Thomas More or his master could not have obtained at any price. The labouring classes, however, were, according to Mr. Southey, better fed three hundred years ago than at present. We believe that he is completely in error on this point. The condition of servants in noble and wealthy families, and of scholars at the Universities, must surely have been better in those times than that of day-labourers; and we are sure that it was not better than that of our workhouse paupers. From the household book of the Northumberland family, we find that in one of the greatest establishments of the kingdom the servants lived very much as common sailors live now. In the reign of Edward the Sixth the state of the students at Cambridge is described to us, on the very best authority, as most wretched. Many of them dined on pottage made of a farthing's worth of beef with a little salt and oatmeal, and literally nothing else. This account we have from a contemporary master of St. John's. Our parish poor now eat wheaten bread. In the sixteenth century the labourer was glad to get barley, and was often forced to content himself with poorer fare. In Harrison's introduction to Holinshed we have an account of the state of our working population in the "golden days," as Mr. Southey calls them, "of good Queen Bess." "The gentilitie, "says he, "commonly provide themselves sufficiently of wheat for their own tables, whylest their household and poore neighbours in some shires are inforced to content themselves with rye or barleie; yea, and in time of dearth, many with bread made eyther of beanes, peason, or otes, or of altogether, and some accrues among. I will not say that this extremity is oft so well to be seen in time of plentie as of dearth; but if I should I could easily bring my trial: for albeit there be much more grounde cared nowe almost in everye place then bathe beene of late yeares, yet such a price of corne continueth in eache towne and markete, without any just cause, that the artificer and poore labouring man is not able to reach unto it, but is driven to content him self with horse-corne." We should like to see what the effect would be of putting any parish in England now on allowance of "horse-corne." The helotry of Mammon are not, in our day, so easily enforced to content themselves as the peasantry of that happy period, as Mr. Southey considers it, which elapsed between the fall of the feudal and the rise of the commercial tyranny. "The people," says Mr. Southey, "are worse fed than when they were fishers." And yet in another place he complains that they will not eat fish. "They have contracted," says he, "I know not how, some obstinate prejudice against a kind of food at once wholesome and delicate, and everywhere to be obtained cheaply and in abundance, were the demand for it as general as it ought to be." It is true that the lower orders have an obstinate prejudice against fish. But hunger has no such obstinate prejudices. If what was formerly a common diet is now eaten only in times of severe pressure, the inference is plain. The people must be fed with what they at least think better food than that of their ancestors. The advice and medicine which the poorest labourer can now obtain, in disease, or after an accident, is far superior to what Henry the Eighth could have commanded. Scarcely any part of the country is out of the reach of practitioners, who are probably not so far inferior to Sir Henry Halford as they are superior to Dr. Butts. That there has been a great improvement in this respect, Mr. Southey allows. Indeed he could not well have denied it. "But," says he, "the evils for which these sciences are the palliative, have increased since the time of the Druids, in a proportion that heavily overweighs the benefit of improved therapeutics." We know nothing either of the diseases or the remedies of the Druids. But we are quite sure that the improvement of medicine has far more than kept pace with the increase of disease during the last three centuries. This is proved by the best possible evidence. The term of human life is decidedly longer in England than in any former age, respecting which we possess any information on which we can rely. All the rants in the world about picturesque cottages and temples of Mammon will not shake this argument. No test of the physical well-being of society can be named so decisive as that which is furnished by bills of mortality. That the lives of the people of this country have been gradually lengthening during the course of several generations, is as certain as any fact in statistics; and that the lives of men should become longer and longer, while their bodily condition during life is becoming worse and worse, is utterly incredible. Let our readers think over these circumstances. Let them take into the account the sweating sickness and the plague. Let them take into the account that fearful disease which first made its appearance in the generation to which Mr. Southey assigns the palm of felicity, and raged through Europe with a fury at which the physician stood aghast, and before which the people were swept away by myriads. Let them consider the state of the northern counties, constantly the scene of robberies, rapes, massacres, and conflagrations. Let them add to all this the fact that seventy-two thousand persons suffered death by the hands of the executioner during the reign of Henry the Eighth, and judge between the nineteenth and the sixteenth century. We do not say that the lower orders in England do not suffer severe hardships. But, in spite of Mr. Southey's assertions, and in spite of the assertions of a class of politicians, who, differing from Mr. Southey in every other point, agree with him in this, we are inclined to doubt whether the labouring classes here really suffer greater physical distress than the labouring classes of the most flourishing countries of the Continent. It will scarcely be maintained that the lazzaroni who sleep under the porticoes of Naples, or the beggars who besiege the convents of Spain, are in a happier situation than the English commonalty. The distress which has lately been experienced in the northern part of Germany, one of the best governed and most prosperous regions of Europe, surpasses, if we have been correctly informed, anything which has of late years been known among us. In Norway and Sweden the peasantry are constantly compelled to mix bark. with their bread; and even this expedient has not always preserved whole families and neighbourhoods from perishing together of famine. An experiment has lately been tried in the kingdom of the Netherlands, which has been cited to prove the possibility of establishing agricultural colonies on the waste lands of England, but which proves to our minds nothing so clearly as this, that the rate of subsistence to which the labouring classes are reduced in the Netherlands is miserably low, and very far inferior to that of the English paupers. No distress which the people here have endured for centuries approaches to that which has been felt by the French in our own time. The beginning of the year 1817 was a time of great distress in this island. But the state of the lowest classes here was luxury compared with that of the people of France. We find in Magendie's Journal de Physiologie Experimentale a paper on a point of physiology connected with the distress of that season. It appears that the inhabitants of six departments, Aix, Jura, Doubs, Haute Saone, Vosges, and Saone-et-Loire, were reduced first to oatmeal and potatoes, and at last to nettles, beanstalks, and other kinds of herbage fit only for cattle; that when the next harvest enabled them to eat barley-bread, many of them died from intemperate indulgence in what they thought an exquisite repast; and that a dropsy of a peculiar description was produced by the hard fare of the year. Dead bodies were found on the roads and in the fields. A single surgeon dissected six of these, and found the stomach shrunk, and filled with the unwholesome aliments which hunger had driven men to share with beasts. Such extremity of distress as this is never heard of in England, or even in Ireland. We are, on the whole, inclined to think, though we would speak with diffidence on a point on which it would be rash to pronounce a positive judgment without a much longer and closer investigation than we have bestowed upon it, that the labouring classes of this island, though they have their grievances and distresses, some produced by their own improvidence, some by the errors of their rulers, are on the whole better off as to physical comforts than the inhabitants of an equally extensive district of the old world. For this very reason, suffering is more acutely felt and more loudly bewailed here than elsewhere. We must take into the account the liberty of discussion, and the strong interest which the opponents of a ministry always have, to exaggerate the extent of the public disasters. There are countries in which the people quietly endure distress that here would shake the foundations of the State, countries in which the inhabitants of a whole province turn out to eat grass with less clamour than one Spitalfields weaver would make here, if the overseers were to put him on barley-bread. In those new commonwealths in which a civilised population has at its command a boundless extent of the richest soil, the condition of the labourer is probably happier than in any society which has lasted for many centuries. But in the old world we must confess ourselves unable to find any satisfactory record of any great nation, past or present, in which the working classes have been in a more comfortable situation than in England during the last thirty years. When this island was thinly peopled, it was barbarous: there was little capital; and that little was insecure. It is now the richest and most highly civilised spot in the world; but the population is dense. Thus we have never known that golden age which the lower orders in the United States are now enjoying. We have never known an age of liberty, of order, and of education, an age in which the mechanical sciences were carried to a great height, yet in which the people were not sufficiently numerous to cultivate even the most fertile valleys. But, when we compare our own condition with that of our ancestors, we think it clear that the advantages arising from the progress of civilisation have far more than counterbalanced the disadvantages arising from the progress of population. While our numbers have increased tenfold, our wealth has increased a hundredfold. Though there are so many more people to share the wealth now existing in the country than there were in the sixteenth century, it seems certain that a greater share falls to almost every individual than fell to the share of any of the corresponding class in the sixteenth century. The King keeps a more splendid court. The establishments of the nobles are more magnificent. The esquires are richer; the merchants are richer; the shopkeepers are richer. The serving-man, the artisan, and the husbandman, have a more copious and palatable supply of food, better clothing, and better furniture. This is no reason for tolerating abuses, or for neglecting any means of ameliorating the condition of our poorer countrymen. But it is a reason against telling them, as some of our philosophers are constantly telling them, that they are the most wretched people who ever existed on the face of the earth. We have already adverted to Mr. Southey's amusing doctrine about national wealth. A state, says he, cannot be too rich; but a people may be too rich. His reason for thinking this is extremely curious. "A people may be too rich, because it is the tendency of the commercial, and more especially of the manufacturing system, to collect wealth rather than to diffuse it. Where wealth is necessarily employed in any of the speculations of trade, its increase is in proportion to its amount. Great capitalists become like pikes in a fish-pond who devour the weaker fish; and it is but too certain, that the poverty of one part of the people seems to increase in the same ratio as the riches of another. There are examples of this in history. In Portugal, when the high tide of wealth flowed in from the conquests in Africa and the East, the effect of that great influx was not more visible in the augmented splendour of the court, and the luxury of the higher ranks, than in the distress of the people." Mr. Southey's instance is not a very fortunate one. The wealth which did so little for the Portuguese was not the fruit either of manufactures or of commerce carried on by private individuals. It was the wealth, not of the people, but of the Government and its creatures, of those who, as Mr. Southey thinks, can never be too rich. The fact is, that Mr. Southey's proposition is opposed to all history, and to the phaenomena which surround us on every side. England is the richest country in Europe, the most commercial country, and the country in which manufactures flourish most. Russia and Poland are the poorest countries in Europe. They have scarcely any trade, and none but the rudest manufactures. Is wealth more diffused in Russia and Poland than in England? There are individuals in Russia and Poland whose incomes are probably equal to those of our richest countrymen. It may be doubted whether there are not, in those countries, as many fortunes of eighty thousand a year as here. But are there as many fortunes of two thousand a year, or of one thousand a year? There are parishes in England which contain more people of between three hundred and three thousand pounds a year than could be found in all the dominions of the Emperor Nicholas. The neat and commodious houses which have been built in London and its vicinity, for people of this class, within the last thirty years, would of themselves form a city larger than the capitals of some European kingdoms. And this is the state of society in which the great proprietors have devoured a smaller! The cure which Mr. Southey thinks that he has discovered is worthy of the sagacity which he has shown in detecting the evil. The calamities arising from the collection of wealth in the hands of a few capitalists are to be remedied by collecting it in the hands of one great capitalist, who has no conceivable motive to use it better than other capitalists, the all-devouring State. It is not strange that, differing so widely from Mr. Southey as to the past progress of society, we should differ from him also as to its probable destiny. He thinks, that to all outward appearance, the country is hastening to destruction; but he relies firmly on the goodness of God. We do not see either the piety or the rationality of thus confidently expecting that the Supreme Being will interfere to disturb the common succession of causes and effects. We, too, rely on his goodness, on his goodness as manifested, not in extraordinary interpositions, but in those general laws which it has pleased him to establish in the physical and in the moral world. We rely on the natural tendency of the human intellect to truth, and on the natural tendency of society to improvement. We know no well-authenticated instance of a people which has decidedly retrograded in civilisation and prosperity, except from the influence of violent and terrible calamities, such as those which laid the Roman Empire in ruins, or those which, about the beginning of the sixteenth century, desolated Italy. We know of no country which, at the end of fifty years of peace and tolerably good government, has been less prosperous than at the beginning of that period. The political importance of a state may decline, as the balance of power is disturbed by the introduction of new forces. Thus the influence of Holland and of Spain is much diminished. But are Holland and Spain poorer than formerly? We doubt it. Other countries have outrun them. But we suspect that they have been positively, though not relatively, advancing. We suspect that Holland is richer than when she sent her navies up the Thames, that Spain is richer than when a French king was brought captive to the footstool of Charles the Fifth. History is full of the signs of this natural progress of society. We see in almost every part of the annals of mankind how the industry of individuals, struggling up against wars, taxes, famines, conflagrations, mischievous prohibitions, and more mischievous protections, creates faster than governments can squander, and repairs whatever invaders can destroy. We see the wealth of nations increasing, and all the arts of life approaching nearer and nearer to perfection, in spite of the grossest corruption and the wildest profusion on the part of rulers. The present moment is one of great distress. But how small will that distress appear when we think over the history of the last forty years; a war, compared with which all other wars sink into insignificance; taxation, such as the most heavily taxed people of former times could not have conceived; a debt larger than all the public debts that ever existed in the world added together; the food of the people studiously rendered dear; the currency imprudently debased, and imprudently restored. Yet is the country poorer than in 1790? We firmly believe that, in spite of all the misgovernment of her rulers, she has been almost constantly becoming richer and richer. Now and then there has been a stoppage, now and then a short retrogression; but as to the general tendency there can be no doubt. A single breaker may recede; but the tide is evidently coming in. If we were to prophesy that in the year 1930 a population of fifty millions, better fed, clad, and lodged than the English of our time, will cover these islands, that Sussex and Huntingdonshire will be wealthier than the wealthiest parts of the West Riding of Yorkshire now are, that cultivation, rich as that of a flower-garden, will be carried up to the very tops of Ben Nevis and Helvellyn, that machines constructed on principles yet undiscovered will be in every house, that there will be no highways but railroads, no travelling but by steam, that our debt, vast as it seems to us, will appear to our great- grandchildren a trifling encumbrance, which might easily be paid off in a year or two, many people would think us insane. We prophesy nothing; but this we say: If any person had told the Parliament which met in perplexity and terror after the crash in 1720 that in 1830 the wealth of England would surpass all their wildest dreams, that the annual revenue would equal the principal of that debt which they considered as an intolerable burden, that for one man of ten thousand pounds then living there would be five men of fifty thousand pounds, that London would be twice as large and twice as populous, and that nevertheless the rate of mortality would have diminished to one-half of what it then was, that the post-office would bring more into the exchequer than the excise and customs had brought in together under Charles the Second, that stage coaches would run from London to York in twenty-four hours, that men would be in the habit of sailing without wind, and would be beginning to ride without horses, our ancestors would have given as much credit to the prediction as they gave to Gulliver's Travels. Yet the prediction would have been true; and they would have perceived that it was not altogether absurd, if they had considered that the country was then raising every year a sum which would have purchased the fee- simple of the revenue of the Plantagenets, ten times what supported the Government of Elizabeth, three times what, in the time of Cromwell, had been thought intolerably oppressive. To almost all men the state of things under which they have been used to live seems to be the necessary state of things. We have heard it said that five per cent. is the natural interest of money, that twelve is the natural number of a jury, that forty shillings is the natural qualification of a county voter. Hence it is that, though in every age everybody knows that up to his own time progressive improvement has been taking place, nobody seems to reckon on any improvement during the next generation. We cannot absolutely prove that those are in error who tell us that society has reached a turning point, that we have seen our best days. But so said all who came before us, and with just as much apparent reason. "A million a year will beggar us," said the patriots of 1640. "Two millions a year will grind the country to powder," was the cry in 1660. "Six millions a year, and a debt of fifty millions!" exclaimed Swift, "the high allies have been the ruin of us." "A hundred and forty millions of debt!" said Junius; "well may we say that we owe Lord Chatham more than we shall ever pay, if we owe him such a load as this." "Two hundred and forty millions of debt!" cried all the statesmen of 1783 in chorus; "what abilities, or what economy on the part of a minister, can save a country so burdened?" We know that if, since 1783, no fresh debt had been incurred, the increased resources of the country would have enabled us to defray that debt at which Pitt, Fox, and Burke stood aghast, nay, to defray it over and over again, and that with much lighter taxation than what we have actually borne. On what principle is it that, when we see nothing but improvement behind us, we are to expect nothing but deterioration before us? It is not by the intermeddling of Mr. Southey's idol, the omniscient and omnipotent State, but by the prudence and energy of the people, that England has hitherto been carried forward in civilisation; and it is to the same prudence and the same energy that we now look with comfort and good hope. Our rulers will best promote the improvement of the nation by strictly confining themselves to their own legitimate duties, by leaving capital to find its most lucrative course, commodities their fair price, industry and intelligence their natural reward, idleness and folly their natural punishment, by maintaining peace, by defending property, by diminishing the price of law, and by observing strict economy in every department of the State. Let the Government do this: the People will assuredly do the rest. CIVIL DISABILITIES OF THE JEWS (January 1831) Statement of the Civil Disabilities and Privations affecting Jews in England. 8vo. London: 1829. THE distinguished member of the House of Commons, who, towards the close of the late Parliament, brought forward a proposition for the relief of the Jews, has given notice of his intention to renew it. The force of reason, in the last session, carried the measure through one stage in spite of the opposition of power. Reason and power are now on the same side; and we have little doubt that they will conjointly achieve a decisive victory. In order to contribute our share to the success of just principles, we propose to pass in review, as rapidly as possible, some of the arguments, or phrases claiming to be arguments, which have been employed to vindicate a system full of absurdity and injustice. The constitution, it is said, is essentially Christian; and therefore to admit Jews to office is to destroy the constitution. Nor is the Jew injured by being excluded from political power. For no man has any right to power. A man has a right to his property; a man has a right to be protected from personal injury. These rights the law allows to the Jew; and with these rights it would be atrocious to interfere. But it is a mere matter of favour to admit any man to political power; and no man can justly complain that he is shut out from it. We cannot but admire the ingenuity of this contrivance for shifting the burden of the proof from those to whom it properly belongs, and who would, we suspect, find it rather cumbersome. Surely no Christian can deny that every human being has a right to be allowed every gratification. which produces no harm to others, and to be spared every mortification which produces no good to others. Is it not a source of mortification to a class of men that they are excluded from political power? If it be, they have, on Christian principles, a right to be freed from that mortification, unless it can be shown that their exclusion is necessary for the averting of some greater evil. The presumption is evidently in favour of toleration. It is for the prosecutor to make out his case. The strange argument which we are considering would prove too much even for those who advance it. If no man has a right to political power, then neither Jew nor Gentile has such a right. The whole foundation of government is taken away. But if government be taken away, the property and the persons of men are insecure; and it is acknowledged that men have a right to their property and to personal security. If it be right that the property of men should be protected, and if this can only be done by means of government, then it must be right that government should exist. Now there cannot be government unless some person or persons possess political power. Therefore it is right that some person or persons should possess political power. That is to say, some person or persons must have a right to political power. It is because men are not in the habit of considering what the end of government is, that Catholic disabilities and Jewish disabilities have been suffered to exist so long. We hear of essentially Protestant governments and essentially Christian governments, words which mean just as much as essentially Protestant cookery, or essentially Christian horsemanship. Government exists for the purpose of keeping the peace, for the purpose of compelling us to settle our disputes by arbitration instead of settling them by blows, for the purpose of compelling us to supply our wants by industry instead of supplying them by rapine. This is the only operation for which the machinery of government is peculiarly adapted, the only operation which wise governments ever propose to themselves as their chief object. If there is any class of people who are not interested, or who do not think themselves interested, in the security of property and the maintenance of order, that class ought to have no share of the powers which exist for the purpose of securing property and maintaining order. But why a man should be less fit to exercise those powers because he wears a beard, because he does not eat ham, because he goes to the synagogue on Saturdays instead of going to the church on Sundays, we cannot conceive. The points of difference between Christianity and Judaism have very much to do with a man's fitness to be a bishop or a rabbi. But they have no more to do with his fitness to be a magistrate, a legislator, or a minister of finance, than with his fitness to be a cobbler. Nobody has ever thought of compelling cobblers to make any declaration on the true faith of a Christian. Any man would rather have his shoes mended by a heretical cobbler than by a person who had subscribed all the thirty-nine articles, but had never handled an awl. Men act thus, not because they are indifferent to religion, but because they do not see what religion has to do with the mending of their shoes. Yet religion has as much to do with the mending of shoes as with the budget and the army estimates. We have surely had several signal proofs within the last twenty years that a very good Christian may be a very bad Chancellor of the Exchequer. But it would be monstrous, says the persecutors, that Jews should legislate for a Christian community. This is a palpable misrepresentation. What is proposed is, not that the Jews should legislate for a Christian community, but that a legislature composed of Christians and Jews should legislate for a community composed of Christians and Jews. On nine hundred and ninety-nine questions out of a thousand, on all questions of police, of finance, of civil and criminal law, of foreign policy, the Jew, as a Jew, has no interest hostile to that of the Christian, or even to that of the Churchman. On questions relating to the ecclesiastical establishment, the Jew and the Churchman may differ. But they cannot differ more widely than the Catholic and the Churchman, or the Independent and the Churchman. The principle that Churchmen ought to monopolise the whole power of the State would at least have an intelligible meaning. The principle that Christians ought to monopolise it has no meaning at all. For no question connected with the ecclesiastical institutions of the country can possibly come before Parliament, with respect to which there will not be as wide a difference between Christians as there can be between any Christian and any Jew. In fact the Jews are not now excluded from political power. They possess it; and as long as they are allowed to accumulate large fortunes, they must possess it. The distinction which is sometimes made between civil privileges and political power is a distinction without a difference. Privileges are power. Civil and political are synonymous words, the one derived from the Latin, the other from the Greek. Nor is this mere verbal quibbling. If we look for a moment at the facts of the case, we shall see that the things are inseparable, or rather identical. That a Jew should be a judge in a Christian country would be most shocking. But he may be a juryman. He may try issues of fact; and no harm is done. But if he should be suffered to try issues of law, there is an end of the constitution. He may sit in a box plainly dressed, and return verdicts. But that he should sit on the bench in a black gown and white wig, and grant new trials, would be an abomination not to be thought of among baptized people. The distinction is certainly most philosophical. What power in civilised society is so great as that of the creditor over the debtor? If we take this away from the Jew, we take away from him the security of his property. If we leave it to him, we leave to him a power more despotic by far than that of the King and all his Cabinet. It would be impious to let a Jew sit in Parliament. But a Jew may make money; and money may make members of Parliament. Gatton and Old Sarum may be the property of a Hebrew. An elector of Penryn will take ten pounds from Shylock rather than nine pounds nineteen shillings and eleven-pence three farthings from Antonio. To this no objection is made. That a Jew should possess the substance of legislative power, that he should command eight votes on every division as if he were the great Duke of Newcastle himself, is exactly as it should be. But that he should pass the bar and sit down on those mysterious, cushions of green leather, that he should cry "hear" and "order," and talk about being on his legs, and being, for one, free to say this and to say that, would be a profanation sufficient to bring ruin on the country. That a Jew should be privy-councillor to a Christian king would be an eternal disgrace to the nation. But the Jew may govern the money-market, and the money-market may govern the world. The Minister may be in doubt as to his scheme of finance till he has been closeted with the Jew. A congress of sovereigns may be forced to summon the Jew to their assistance. The scrawl of the Jew on the back of a piece of paper may be worth more than the royal word of three kings, or the national faith of three new American republics. But that he should put Right Honourable before his name would be the most frightful of national calamities. It was in this way that some of our politicians reasoned about the Irish Catholics. The Catholics ought to have no political power. The sun of England is set for ever if the Catholics exercise political power. Give the Catholics everything else; but keep political power from them. These wise men did not see that, when everything else had been given, political power had been given. They continued to repeat their cuckoo song, when it was no longer a question whether Catholics should have political power or not, when a Catholic association bearded the Parliament, when a Catholic agitator exercised infinitely more authority than the Lord Lieutenant. If it is our duty as Christians to exclude the Jews from political power, it must be our duty to treat them as our ancestors treated them, to murder them, and banish them, and rob them. For in that way, and in that way alone, can we really deprive them of political power. If we do not adopt this course, we may take away the shadow, but we must leave them the substance. We may do enough to pain and irritate them; but we shall not do enough to secure ourselves from danger, if danger really exists. Where wealth is, there power must inevitably be. The English Jews, we are told, are not Englishmen. They are a separate people, living locally in this island, but living morally and politically in communion with their brethren who are scattered over all the world. An English Jew looks on a Dutch or a Portuguese Jew as his countryman, and on an English Christian as a stranger. This want of patriotic feeling, it is said, renders a Jew unfit to exercise political functions. The argument has in it something plausible; but a close examination shows it to be quite unsound. Even if the alleged facts are admitted, still the Jews are not the only people who have preferred their sect to their country. The feeling of patriotism, when society is in a healthful state springs up, by a natural and inevitable association, in the minds of citizens who know that they owe all their comforts and pleasures to the bond which unites them in one community. But, under a partial and oppressive Government, these associations cannot acquire that strength which they have in a better state of things. Men are compelled to seek from their party that protection which they ought to receive from their country, and they, by a natural consequence, transfer to their party that affection which they would otherwise have felt for their country. The Huguenots of France called in the help of England against their Catholic kings. The Catholics of France called in the help of Spain against a Huguenot king. Would it be fair to infer, that at present the French Protestants would wish to see their religion made dominant by the help of a Prussian or an English army? Surely not, and why is it that they are not willing, as they formerly were willing, to sacrifice the interests of their country to the interests of their religious persuasion? The reason is obvious: they were persecuted then, and are not persecuted now. The English Puritans, under Charles the First, prevailed on the Scotch to invade England. Do the Protestant Dissenters of our time wish to see the Church put down by an invasion of foreign Calvinists? If not, to what cause are we to attribute the change? Surely to this, that the Protestant Dissenters are far better treated now than in the seventeenth century. Some of the most illustrious public men that England ever produced were inclined to take refuge from the tyranny of Laud in North America. Was this because Presbyterians and Independents are incapable of loving their country? But it is idle to multiply instances. Nothing is so offensive to a man who knows anything of history or of human nature as to hear those who exercise the powers of government accuse any sect of foreign attachments. If there be any proposition universally true in politics it is this, that foreign attachments are the fruit of domestic misrule. It has always been the trick of bigots to make their subjects miserable at home, and then to complain that they look for relief abroad; to divide society, and to wonder that it is not united; to govern as if a section of the State were the whole, and to censure the other sections of the State for their want of patriotic spirit. If the Jews have not felt towards England like children, it is because she has treated them like a step-mother. There is no feeling which more certainly develops itself in the minds of men living under tolerably good government than the feeling of patriotism. Since the beginning of the world, there never was any nation, or any large portion of any nation, not cruelly oppressed, which was wholly destitute of that feeling. To make it therefore ground of accusation against a class of men, that they are not patriotic, is the most vulgar legerdemain of sophistry. It is the logic which the wolf employs against the lamb. It is to accuse the mouth of the stream of poisoning the source. If the English Jews really felt a deadly hatred to England, if the weekly prayer of their synagogues were that all the curses denounced by Ezekiel on Tyre and Egypt might fall on London, if, in their solemn feasts, they called down blessings on those who should dash their children to pieces on the stones, still, we say, their hatred to their countrymen would not be more intense than that which sects of Christians have often borne to each other. But in fact the feeling of the Jews is not such. It is precisely what, in the situation in which they are placed, we should expect it to be. They are treated far better than the French Protestants were treated in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, or than our Puritans were treated in the time of Laud. They, therefore, have no rancour against the Government or against their countrymen. It will not be denied that they are far better affected to the State than the followers of Coligni or Vane. But they are not so well treated as the dissecting sects of Christians are now treated in England; and on this account, and, we firmly believe, on this account alone, they have a more exclusive spirit. Till we have carried the experiment further, we are not entitled to conclude that they cannot be made Englishmen altogether. The statesman who treats them as aliens, and then abuses them for not entertaining all the feelings of natives, is as unreasonable as the tyrant who punished their fathers for not making bricks without straw. Rulers must not be suffered thus to absolve themselves of their solemn responsibility. It does not lie in their mouths to say that a sect is not patriotic. It is their business to make it patriotic. History and reason clearly indicate the means. The English Jews are, as far as we can see, precisely what our Government has made them. They are precisely what any sect, what any class of men, treated as they have been treated, would have been. If all the red-haired people in Europe had, during centuries, been outraged and oppressed, banished from this place, imprisoned in that, deprived of their money, deprived of their teeth, convicted of the most improbable crimes on the feeblest evidence, dragged at horses' tails, hanged, tortured, burned alive, if, when manners became milder, they had still been subject to debasing restrictions and exposed to vulgar insults, locked up in particular streets in some countries, pelted and ducked by the rabble in others, excluded everywhere from magistracies and honours, what would be the patriotism of gentlemen with red hair? And if, under such circumstances, a proposition were made for admitting red-haired men to office, how striking a speech might an eloquent admirer of our old institutions deliver against so revolutionary a measure! "These men," he might say, "scarcely consider themselves as Englishmen. They think a red-haired Frenchman or a red-haired German more closely connected with them than a man with brown hair born in their own parish. If a foreign sovereign patronises red hair, they love him better than their own native king. They are not Englishmen: they cannot be Englishmen: nature has forbidden it: experience proves it to be impossible. Right to political power they have none; for no man has a right to political power. Let them enjoy personal security; let their property be under the protection of the law. But if they ask for leave to exercise power over a community of which they are only half members, a community the constitution of which is essentially dark-haired, let us answer them in the words of our wise ancestors, Nolumus leges Angliae mutari." But, it is said, the Scriptures declare that the Jews are to be restored to their own country; and the whole nation looks forward to that restoration. They are, therefore, not so deeply interested as others in the prosperity of England. It is not their home, but merely the place of their sojourn, the house of their bondage. This argument, which first appeared in the Times newspaper, and which has attracted a degree of attention proportioned not so much to its own intrinsic force as to the general talent with which that journal is conducted, belongs to a class of sophisms by which the most hateful persecutions may easily be justified. To charge men with practical consequences which they themselves deny is disingenuous in controversy; it is atrocious in government. The doctrine of predestination, in the opinion of many people, tends to make those who hold it utterly immoral. And certainly it would seem that a man who believes his eternal destiny to be already irrevocably fixed is likely to indulge his passions without restraint and to neglect his religious duties. If he is an heir of wrath, his exertions must be unavailing. If he is preordained to life, they must be superfluous. But would it be wise to punish every man who holds the higher doctrines of Calvinism, as if he had actually committed all those crimes which we know some Antinomians to have committed? Assuredly not. The fact notoriously is that there are many Calvinists as moral in their conduct as any Arminian, and many Arminians as loose as any Calvinist. It is altogether impossible to reason from the opinions which a man professes to his feelings and his actions; and in fact no person is ever such a fool as to reason thus, except when he wants a pretext for persecuting his neighbours. A Christian is commanded, under the strongest sanctions, to be just in all his dealings. Yet to how many of the twenty-four millions of professing Christians in these islands would any man in his senses lend a thousand pounds without security? A man who should act, for one day, on the supposition that all the people about him were influenced by the religion which they professed, would find himself ruined before night; and no man ever does act on that supposition in any of the ordinary concerns of life, in borrowing, in lending, in buying, or in selling. But when any of our fellow-creatures are to be oppressed, the case is different. Then we represent those motives which we know to be so feeble for good as omnipotent for evil. Then we lay to the charge of our victims all the vices and follies to which their doctrines, however remotely, seem to tend. We forget that the same weakness, the same laxity, the same disposition to prefer the present to the future, which make men worse than a good religion, make them better than a bad one. It was in this way that our ancestors reasoned, and that some people in our time still reason, about the Catholics. A Papist believes himself bound to obey the Pope. The Pope has issued a bull deposing Queen Elizabeth. Therefore every Papist will treat her grace as an usurper. Therefore every Papist is a traitor. Therefore every Papist ought to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. To this logic we owe some of the most hateful laws that ever disgraced our history. Surely the answer lies on the surface. The Church of Rome may have commanded these men to treat the queen as an usurper. But she has commanded them to do many other things which they have never done. She enjoins her priests to observe strict purity. You are always taunting them with their licentiousness. She commands all her followers to fast often, to be charitable to the poor, to take no interest for money, to fight no duels, to see no plays. Do they obey these injunctions? If it be the fact that very few of them strictly observe her precepts, when her precepts are opposed to their passions and interests, may not loyalty, may not humanity, may not the love of ease, may not the fear of death, be sufficient to prevent them from executing those wicked orders which the Church of Rome has issued against the sovereign of England? When we know that many of these people do not care enough for their religion to go without beef on a Friday for it, why should we think that they will run the risk of being racked and hanged for it? People are now reasoning about the Jews as our fathers reasoned about the Papists. The law which is inscribed on the walls of the synagogues prohibits covetousness. But if we were to say that a Jew mortgagee would not foreclose because God had commanded him not to covet his neighbour's house, everybody would think us out of our wits. Yet it passes for an argument to say that a Jew will take no interest in the prosperity of the country in which he lives, that he will not care how bad its laws and police may be, how heavily it may be taxed, how often it may be conquered and given up to spoil, because God has promised that, by some unknown means, and at some undetermined time, perhaps ten thousand years hence, the Jews shall migrate to Palestine. Is not this the most profound ignorance of human nature? Do we not know that what is remote and indefinite affects men far less than what is near and certain? The argument too applies to Christians as strongly as to Jews. The Christian believes as well as the Jew, that at some future period the present order of things will come to an end. Nay, many Christians believe that the Messiah will shortly establish a kingdom on the earth, and reign visibly over all its inhabitants. Whether this doctrine be orthodox or not we shall not here inquire. The number of people who hold it is very much greater than the number of Jews residing in England. Many of those who hold it are distinguished by rank, wealth, and ability. It is preached from pulpits, both of the Scottish and of the English Church. Noblemen and members of Parliament have written in defence of it. Now wherein does this doctrine differ, as far as its political tendency is concerned, from the doctrine of the Jews? If a Jew is unfit to legislate for us because he believes that he or his remote descendants will be removed to Palestine, can we safely open the House of Commons to a fifth-monarchy man, who expects that before this generation shall pass away, all the kingdoms of the earth will be swallowed up in one divine empire? Does a Jew engage less eagerly than a Christian in any competition which the law leaves open to him? Is he less active and regular in his business than his neighbours? Does he furnish his house meanly, because he is a pilgrim and sojourner in the land? Does the expectation of being restored to the country of his fathers make him insensible to the fluctuations of the stock- exchange? Does he, in arranging his private affairs, ever take into the account the chance of his migrating to Palestine? If not, why are we to suppose that feelings which never influence his dealings as a merchant, or his dispositions as a testator, will acquire a boundless influence over him as soon as he becomes a magistrate or a legislator? There is another argument which we would not willingly treat with levity, and which yet we scarcely know how to treat seriously. Scripture, it is said, is full of terrible denunciations against the Jews. It is foretold that they are to be wanderers. Is it then right to give them a home? It is foretold they are to be oppressed. Can we with propriety suffer them to be rulers? To admit them to the rights of citizens is manifestly to insult the Divine oracles. We allow that to falsify a prophecy inspired by Divine Wisdom would be a most atrocious crime. It is, therefore, a happy circumstance for our frail species, that it is a crime which no man can possibly commit. If we admit the Jews to seats in Parliament, we shall, by so doing, prove that the prophecies in question, whatever they may mean, do not mean that the Jews shall be excluded from Parliament. In fact it is already clear that the prophecies do not bear the meaning put upon them by the respectable persons whom we are now answering. In France and in the United States the Jews are already admitted to all the rights of citizens. A prophecy, therefore, which should mean that the Jews would never, during the course of their wanderings, be admitted to all the rights of citizens in the places of their sojourn, would be a false prophecy. This, therefore, is not the meaning of the prophecies of Scripture. But we protest altogether against the practice of confounding prophecy with precept, of setting up predictions which are often obscure against a morality which is always clear. If actions are to be considered as just and good merely because they have been predicted, what action was ever more laudable than that crime which our bigots are now, at the end of eighteen centuries, urging us to avenge on the Jews, that crime which made the earth shake and blotted out the sun from heaven? The same reasoning which is now employed to vindicate the disabilities imposed on our Hebrew countrymen will equally vindicate the kiss of Judas and the judgment of Pilate. "The Son of man goeth, as it is written of him; but woe to that man by whom the Son of man is betrayed." And woe to those who, in any age, or in any country, disobey His benevolent commands under pretence of accomplishing His predictions. If this argument justifies the laws now existing against the Jews, it justifies equally all the cruelties which have ever been committed against them, the sweeping edicts of banishment and confiscation, the dungeon, the rack, and the slow fire. How can we excuse ourselves for leaving property to people who are to "serve their enemies in hunger, and in thirst, and in nakedness, and in want of all things"; for giving protection to the persons of those who are to "fear day and night, and to have none assurance of their life"; for not seizing on the children of a race whose "sons and daughters are to be given unto another people"? We have not so learned the doctrines of Him who commanded us to love our neighbour as ourselves, and who, when He was called upon to explain what He meant by a neighbour, selected as an example a heretic and an alien. Last year, we remember, it was represented by a pious writer in the John Bull newspaper, and by some other equally fervid Christians, as a monstrous indecency, that the measure for the relief of the Jews should be brought forward in Passion week. One of these humorists ironically recommended that it should be read a second time on Good Friday. We should have had no objection; nor do we believe that the day could be commemorated in a more worthy manner. We know of no day fitter for terminating long hostilities, and repairing cruel wrongs, than the day on which the religion of mercy was founded. We know of no day fitter for blotting out from the statute-book the last traces of intolerance than the day on which the spirit of intolerance produced the foulest of all judicial murders, the day on which the list of the victims of intolerance, that noble list wherein Socrates and More are enrolled, was glorified by a yet greater and holier name. GLADSTONE ON CHURCH AND STATE (April 1839) The state in its Relations with the church. By W. E. GLADSTONE, Esq. Student of Christ Church, and M.P. for Newark. 8vo. Second Edition. London: 1839. THE author of this volume is a young man of unblemished character, and of distinguished parliamentary talents, the rising hope of those stern and unbending Tories who follow, reluctantly and mutinously, a leader whose experience and eloquence are indispensable to them, but whose cautious temper and moderate opinions they abhor. It would not be at all strange if Mr. Gladstone were one of the most unpopular men in England. But we believe that we do him no more than justice when we say that his abilities and his demeanour have obtained for him the respect and goodwill of all parties. His first appearance in the character of an author is therefore an interesting event; and it is natural that the gentle wishes of the public should go with him to his trial. We are much pleased, without any reference to the soundness or unsoundness of Mr. Gladstone's theories, to see a grave and elaborate treatise on an important part of the Philosophy of Government proceed from the pen of a young man who is rising to eminence in the House of Commons. There is little danger that people engaged in the conflicts of active life will be too much addicted to general speculation. The opposite vice is that which most easily besets them. The times and tides of business and debate tarry for no man. A politician must often talk and act before he has thought and read. He may be very ill informed respecting a question; all his notions about it may be vague and inaccurate; but speak he must; and if he is a man of ability, of tact, and of intrepidity, he soon finds that, even under such circumstances, it is possible to speak successfully. He finds that there is a great difference between the effect of written words, which are perused and reperused in the stillness of the closet, and the effect of spoken words which, set off by the graces of utterance and gesture, vibrate for a single moment on the ear. He finds that he may blunder without much chance of being detected, that he may reason sophistically, and escape unrefuted. He finds that, even on knotty questions of trade and legislation, he can, without reading ten pages, or thinking ten minutes, draw forth loud plaudits, and sit down with the credit of having made an excellent speech. Lysias, says Plutarch, wrote a defence for a man who was to be tried before one of the Athenian tribunals. Long before the defendant had learned the speech by heart, he became so much dissatisfied with it that he went in great distress to the author. "I was delighted with your speech the first time I read it; but 1 liked it less the second time, and still less the third time; and now it seems to me to be no defence at all." "My good friend," says Lysias, "you quite forget that the judges are to hear it only once." The case is the same in the English Parliament. It would be as idle in an orator to waste deep meditation and long research on his speeches, as it would be in the manager of a theatre to adorn all the crowd of courtiers and ladies who cross over the stage in a procession with real pearls and diamonds. It is not by accuracy or profundity that men become the masters of great assemblies. And why be at the charge of providing logic of the best quality, when a very inferior article will be equally acceptable? Why go as deep into a question as Burke, only in order to be, like Burke, coughed down, or left speaking to green benches and red boxes? This has long appeared to us to be the most serious of the evils which are to be set off against the many blessings of popular government. It is a fine and true saying of Bacon, that reading makes a full man, talking a ready man, and writing an exact man. The tendency of institutions like those of England is to encourage readiness in public men, at the expense both of fulness and of exactness. The keenest and most vigorous minds of every generation, minds often admirably fitted for the investigation of truth, are habitually employed in producing arguments such as no man of sense would ever put into a treatise intended for publication, arguments which are just good enough to be used once, when aided by fluent delivery and pointed language. The habit of discussing questions in this way necessarily reacts on the intellects of our ablest men, particularly of those who are introduced into Parliament at a very early age, before their minds have expanded to full maturity. The talent for debate is developed in such men to a degree which, to the multitude, seems as marvellous as the performance of an Italian Improvisatore. But they are fortunate indeed if they retain unimpaired the faculties which are required for close reasoning or for enlarged speculation. Indeed we should sooner expect a great original work on political science, such a work, for example, as the Wealth of Nations, from an apothecary in a country town, or from a minister in the Hebrides, than from a statesman who, ever since he was one-and-twenty, had been a distinguished debater in the House of Commons. We therefore hail with pleasure, though assuredly not with unmixed pleasure, the appearance of this work. That a young politician should, in the intervals afforded by his parliamentary avocations, have constructed and propounded, with much study and mental toil, an original theory on a great problem in politics, is a circumstance which, abstracted from all consideration of the soundness or unsoundness of his opinions, must be considered as highly creditable to him. We certainly cannot wish that Mr. Gladstone's doctrines may become fashionable among public men. But we heartily wish that his laudable desire to penetrate beneath the surface of questions, and to arrive, by long and intent meditation, at the knowledge of great general laws, were much more fashionable than we at all expect it to become. Mr. Gladstone seems to us to be, in many respects, exceedingly well qualified for philosophical investigation. His mind is of large grasp; nor is he deficient in dialectical skill. But he does not give his intellect fair play. There is no want of light, but a great want of what Bacon would have called dry light. Whatever Mr. Gladstone sees is refracted and distorted by a false medium of passions and prejudices. His style bears a remarkable analogy to his mode of thinking, and indeed exercises great influence on his mode of thinking. His rhetoric, though often good of its kind, darkens and perplexes the logic which it should illustrate. Half his acuteness and diligence, with a barren imagination and a scanty vocabulary, would have saved him from almost all his mistakes. He has one gift most dangerous to a speculator, a vast command of a kind of language, grave and majestic, but of vague and uncertain import; of a kind of language which affects us much in the same way in which the lofty diction of the Chorus of Clouds affected the simple-hearted Athenian: O ge ton phthegmatos os ieron, kai semnon, kai teratodes. When propositions have been established, and nothing remains but to amplify and decorate them, this dim magnificence may be in place. But if it is admitted into a demonstration, it is very much worse than absolute nonsense; just as that transparent haze, through which the sailor sees capes and mountains of false sizes and in false bearings, is more dangerous than utter darkness. Now, Mr. Gladstone is fond of employing the phraseology of which we speak in those parts of his works which require the utmost perspicuity and precision of which human language is capable; and in this way he deludes first himself, and then his readers. The foundations of his theory, which ought to be buttresses of adamant, are made out of the flimsy materials which are fit only for perorations. This fault is one which no subsequent care or industry can correct. The more strictly Mr. Gladstone reasons on his premises, the more absurd are the conclusions which he brings out; and, when at last his good sense and good nature recoil from the horrible practical inferences to which this theory leads, he is reduced sometimes to take refuge in arguments inconsistent with his fundamental doctrines, and sometimes to escape from the legitimate consequences of his false principles, under cover of equally false history. It would be unjust not to say that this book, though not a good book, shows more talent than many good books. It abounds with eloquent and ingenious passages. It bears the signs of much patient thought. It is written throughout with excellent taste and excellent temper; nor does it, so far as we have observed, contain one expression unworthy of a gentleman, a scholar, or a Christian. But the doctrines which are put forth in it appear to us, after full and calm consideration, to be false, to be in the highest degree pernicious, and to be such as, if followed out in practice to their legitimate consequences, would inevitably produce the dissolution of society; and for this opinion we shall proceed to give our reasons with that freedom which the importance of the subject requires, and which Mr. Gladstone, both by precept and by example, invites us to use, but, we hope, without rudeness, and, we are sure, without malevolence. Before we enter on an examination of this theory, we wish to guard ourselves against one misconception. It is possible that some persons who have read Mr. Gladstone's book carelessly, and others who have merely heard in conversation, or seen in a newspaper, that the member for Newark has written in defence of the Church of England against the supporters of the voluntary system, may imagine that we are writing in defence of the voluntary system, and that we desire the abolition of the Established Church. This is not the case. It would be as unjust to accuse us of attacking the Church, because we attack Mr. Gladstone's doctrines, as it would be to accuse Locke of wishing for anarchy, because he refuted Filmer's patriarchal theory of government, or to accuse Blackstone of recommending the confiscation of ecclesiastical property, because he denied that the right of the rector to tithe was derived from the Levitical law. It is to be observed, that Mr. Gladstone rests his case on entirely new grounds, and does not differ more widely from us than from some of those who have hitherto been considered as the most illustrious champions of the Church. He is not content with the Ecclesiastical Polity, and rejoices that the latter part of that celebrated work "does not carry with it the weight of Hooker's plenary authority." He is not content with Bishop Warburton's Alliance of Church and State. "The propositions of that work generally," he says, "are to be received with qualification"; and he agrees with Bolingbroke in thinking that Warburton's whole theory rests on a fiction. He is still less satisfied with Paley's defence of the Church, which he pronounces to be "tainted by the original vice of false ethical principles, and full of the seeds of evil." He conceives that Dr. Chalmers has taken a partial view of the subject, and "put forth much questionable matter." In truth, on almost every point on which we are opposed to Mr. Gladstone, we have on our side the authority of some divine, eminent as a defender of existing establishments. Mr. Gladstone's whole theory rests on this great fundamental proposition, that the propagation of religious truth is one of the principal ends of government, as government. If Mr. Gladstone has not proved this proposition, his system vanishes at once. We are desirous, before we enter on the discussion of this important question, to point out clearly a distinction which, though very obvious, seems to be overlooked by many excellent people. In their opinion, to say that the ends of government are temporal and not spiritual is tantamount to saying that the temporal welfare of man is of more importance than his spiritual welfare. But this is an entire mistake. The question is not whether spiritual interests be or be not superior in importance to temporal interests; but whether the machinery which happens at any moment to be employed for the purpose of protecting certain temporal interests of a society be necessarily such a machinery as is fitted to promote the spiritual interests of that society. Without a division of labour the world could not go on. It is of very much more importance that men should have food than that they should have pianofortes. Yet it by no means follows that every pianoforte maker ought to add the business of a baker to his own; for, if he did so, we should have both much worse music and much worse bread. It is of much more importance that the knowledge of religious truth should be wisely diffused than that the art of sculpture should flourish among us. Yet it by no means follows that the Royal Academy ought to unite with its present functions those of the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, to distribute theological tracts, to send forth missionaries, to turn out Nollekens for being a Catholic, Bacon for being a Methodist, and Flaxman for being a Swedenborgian. For the effect of such folly would be that we should have the worst possible Academy of Arts, and the worst possible Society for the Promotion of Christian Knowledge. The community, it is plain, would be thrown into universal confusion, if it were supposed to be the duty of every association which is formed for one good object to promote every other good object. As to some of the ends of civil government, all people are agreed. That it is designed to protect our persons and our property; that it is designed to compel us to satisfy our wants, not by rapine, but by industry; that it is designed to compel us to decide our differences, not by the strong hand, but by arbitration; that it is designed to direct our whole force, as that of one man, against any other society which may offer us injury; these are propositions which will hardly be disputed. Now these are matters in which man, without any reference to any higher being, or to any future state, is very deeply interested. Every human being, be he idolater, Mahometan, Jew, Papist, Socinian, Deist, or Atheist, naturally loves life, shrinks from pain, desires comforts which can be enjoyed only in communities where property is secure. To be murdered, to be tortured, to be robbed, to be sold into slavery, these are evidently evils from which men of every religion, and men of no religion, wish to be protected; and therefore it will hardly be disputed that men of every religion, and of no religion, have thus far a common interest in being well governed. But the hopes and fears of man are not limited to this short life and to this visible world. He finds himself surrounded by the signs of a power and wisdom higher than his own; and, in all ages and nations, men of all orders of intellect, from Bacon and Newton, down to the rudest tribes of cannibals, have believed in the existence of some superior mind. Thus far the voice of mankind is almost unanimous. But whether there be one God, or many, what may be God's natural and what His moral attributes, in what relation His creatures stand to Him, whether He have ever disclosed Himself to us by any other revelation than that which is written in all the parts of the glorious and well-ordered world which He has made, whether His revelation be contained in any permanent record, how that record should be interpreted, and whether it have pleased Him to appoint any unerring interpreter on earth, these are questions respecting which there exists the widest diversity of opinion, and respecting some of which a large part of our race has, ever since the dawn of regular history, been deplorably in error. Now here are two great objects: one is the protection of the persons and estates of citizens from injury; the other is the propagation of religious truth. No two objects more entirely distinct can well be imagined. The former belongs wholly to the visible and tangible world in which we live; the latter belongs to that higher world which is beyond the reach of our senses. The former belongs to this life; the latter to that which is to come. Men who are perfectly agreed as to the importance of the former object, and as to the way of obtaining it, differ as widely as possible respecting the latter object. We must, therefore, pause before we admit that the persons, be they who they may, who are intrusted with power for the promotion of the former object, ought always to use that power for the promotion of the latter object. Mr. Gladstone conceives that the duties of governments are paternal; a doctrine which we shall not believe till he can show us some government which loves its subjects as a father loves a child, and which is as superior in intelligence to its subjects as a father is to a child. He tells us in lofty though somewhat indistinct language, that "Government occupies in moral the place of to pan in physical science." If government be indeed to pan in moral science, we do not understand why rulers should not assume all the functions which Plato assigned to them. Why should they not take away the child from the mother, select the nurse, regulate the school, overlook the playground, fix the hours of labour and of recreation, prescribe what ballads shall be sung, what tunes shall be played, what books shall be read, what physic shall be swallowed? Why should not they choose our wives, limit our expenses, and stint us to a certain number of dishes of meat, of glasses of wine, and of cups of tea? Plato, whose hardihood in speculation was perhaps more wonderful than any other peculiarity of his extraordinary mind, and who shrank from nothing to which his principles led, went this whole length. Mr. Gladstone is not so intrepid. He contents himself with laying down this proposition, that whatever be the body which in any community is employed to protect the persons and property of men, that body ought also, in its corporate capacity, to profess a religion, to employ its power for the propagation of that religion, and to require conformity to that religion, as an indispensable qualification for all civil office. He distinctly declares that he does not in this proposition confine his view to orthodox governments or even to Christian governments. The circumstance that a religion is false does not, he tells us, diminish the obligation of governors, as such, to uphold it. If they neglect to do so, "we cannot," he says, "but regard the fact as aggravating the case of the holders of such creed." "I do not scruple to affirm," he adds, "that if a Mahometan conscientiously believes his religion to come from God, and to teach divine truth, he must believe that truth to be beneficial, and beneficial beyond all other things to the soul of man; and he must therefore, and ought to desire its extension, and to use for its extension all proper and legitimate means; and that, if such Mahometan be a prince, he ought to count among those means the application of whatever influence or funds he may lawfully have at his disposal for such purposes." Surely this is a hard saying. Before we admit that the Emperor Julian, in employing the influence and the funds at his disposal for the extinction of Christianity, was doing no more than his duty, before we admit that the Arian Theodoric would have committed a crime if he had suffered a single believer in the divinity of Christ to hold any civil employment in Italy, before we admit that the Dutch Government is bound to exclude from office all members of the Church of England, the King of Bavaria to exclude from office all Protestants, the Great Turk to exclude from office all Christians, the King of Ava to exclude from office all who hold the unity of God, we think ourselves entitled to demand very full and accurate demonstration. When the consequences of a doctrine are so startling, we may well require that its foundations shall be very solid. The following paragraph is a specimen of the arguments by which Mr. Gladstone has, as he conceives, established his great fundamental proposition: We may state the same proposition in a more general form, in which it surely must command universal assent. Wherever there is power in the universe, that power is the property of God, the King of that universe--his property of right, however for a time withholden or abused. Now this property is, as it were, realised, is used according to the will of the owner, when it is used for the purposes he has ordained, and in the temper of mercy, justice, truth, and faith which he has taught us. But those principles never can be truly, never can be permanently entertained in the human breast, except by a continual reference to their source, and the supply of the Divine grace. The powers, therefore, that dwell in individuals acting as a government as well as those that dwell in individuals acting for themselves, can only he secured for right uses by applying to them a religion." Here are propositions of vast and indefinite extent, conveyed in language which has a certain obscure dignity and sagacity, attractive, we doubt not, to many minds. But the moment that we examine these propositions closely, the moment that we bring them to the test by running over but a very few of the particulars which are included in them, we find them to be false and extravagant. The doctrine which "must surely command universal assent" is this, that every association of human beings which exercises any power whatever, that is to say, every association of human beings, is bound, as such association, to profess a religion. Imagine the effect which would follow if this principle were really in force during four-and-twenty hours. Take one instance out of a million. A stage-coach company has power over its horses. This power is the property of God. It is used according to the will of God when it is used with mercy. But the principle of mercy can never be truly or permanently entertained in the human breast without continual reference to God. The powers, therefore, that dwell in individuals, acting as a stage- coach company, can only be secured for right uses by applying to them a religion. Every stage coach company ought, therefore, in its collective capacity, to profess some one faith, to have its articles, and its public worship, and its tests. That this conclusion, and an infinite number of other conclusions equally strange, follow of necessity from Mr. Gladstone's principle, is as certain as it is that two and two make four. And, if the legitimate conclusions be so absurd, there must be something unsound in the principle. We will quote another passage of the same sort: "Why, then, we now come to ask, should the governing body in a state profess a religion? First, because it is composed of individual men; and they, being appointed to act in a definite moral capacity, must sanctify their acts done in that capacity by the offices of religion; inasmuch as the acts cannot otherwise be acceptable to God, or anything but sinful and punishable in themselves. And whenever we turn our face away from God in our conduct, we are living atheistically. . . . In fulfilment, then, of his obligations as an individual, the statesman must be a worshipping man. But his acts are public--the powers and instruments with which he works are public--acting under and by the authority of the law, he moves at his word ten thousand subject arms; and because such energies are thus essentially public, and wholly out of the range of mere individual agency, they must be sanctified not only by the private personal prayers and piety of those who fill public situations, but also by public acts of the men composing the public body. They must offer prayer and praise in their public and collective character--in that character wherein they constitute the organ of the nation, and wield its collective force. Wherever there is a reasoning agency there is a moral duty and responsibility involved in it. The governors are reasoning agents for the nation, in their conjoint acts as such. And therefore there must be attached to this agency, as that without which none of our responsibilities can be met, a religion. And this religion must be that of the conscience of the governor, or none." Here again we find propositions of vast sweep, and of sound so orthodox and solemn that many good people, we doubt not, have been greatly edified by it. But let us examine the words closely; and it will immediately become plain that, if these principles be once admitted, there is an end of all society. No combination can be formed for any purpose of mutual help, for trade, for public works, for the relief of the sick or the poor, for the promotion of art or science, unless the members of the combination agree in their theological opinions. Take any such combination at random, the London and Birmingham Railway Company for example, and observe to what consequences Mr. Gladstone's arguments inevitably lead. Why should the Directors of the Railway Company, in their collective capacity, profess a religion? First, because the direction is composed of individual men appointed to act in a definite moral capacity, bound to look carefully to the property, the limbs, and the lives of their fellow-creatures, bound to act diligently for their constituents, bound to govern their servants with humanity and justice, bound to fulfil with fidelity many important contracts. They must, therefore, sanctify their acts by the offices of religion, or these acts will be sinful and punishable in themselves. In fulfilment, then, of his obligations as an individual, the Director of the London and Birmingham Railway Company must be a worshipping man, But his acts are public. He acts for a body. He moves at his word ten thousand subject arms. And because these energies are out of the range of his mere individual agency, they must be sanctified by public acts of devotion. The Railway Directors must offer prayer and praise in their public and collective character, in that character wherewith they constitute the organ of the Company, and wield its collective power. Wherever there is reasoning agency, there is moral responsibility. The Directors are reasoning agents for the Company, and therefore there must be attached to this agency, as that without which none of our responsibilities can be met, a religion. And this religion must be that of the conscience of the Director himself, or none. There must be public worship and a test. No Jew, no Socinian, no Presbyterian, no Catholic, no Quaker, must, be permitted to be the organ of the Company, and to wield its collected force." Would Mr. Gladstone really defend this proposition? We are sure that he would not; but we are sure that to this proposition, and to innumerable similar propositions, his reasoning inevitably leads. Again "National will and agency are indisputably one, binding either a dissentient minority or the subject body, in a manner that nothing but the recognition of the doctrine of national personality can justify. National honour and good faith are words in every one's mouth. How do they less imply a personality in nations than the duty towards God, for which we now contend? They are strictly and essentially distinct from the honour and good faith of the individuals composing the nation. France is a person to us, and we to her. A wilful injury done to her is a moral act, and a moral act quite distinct from the acts of all the individuals composing the nation. Upon broad facts like these we may rest, without resorting to the more technical proof which the laws afford in their manner of dealing with corporations. If, then, a nation have unity of will, have pervading sympathies, have capability of reward and suffering contingent upon its acts, shall we deny its responsibility; its need of a religion to meet that responsibility? . . A nation, then, having a personality, lies under the obligation, like the individuals composing its governing body, of sanctifying the acts of that personality by the offices of religion, and thus we have a new and imperative ground for the existence of a state religion." A new ground we have here, certainly, but whether very imperative may be doubted. Is it not perfectly clear, that this argument applies with exactly as much force to every combination of human beings for a common purpose, as to governments? Is there any such combination in the world, whether technically a corporation or not, which has not this collective personality, from which Mr. Gladstone deduces such extraordinary consequences? Look at banks, insurance offices, dock companies, canal companies, gas companies, hospitals, dispensaries, associations for the relief of the poor, associations for apprehending malefactors, associations of medical pupils for procuring subjects, associations of country gentlemen for keeping fox-hounds, book societies, benefit societies, clubs of all ranks, from those which have lined Pall-Mall and St. James's Street with their palaces, down to the Free-and-easy which meets in the shabby parlour of a village inn. Is there a single one of these combinations to which Mr. Gladstone's argument will not apply as well as to the State? In all these combinations, in the Bank of England, for example, or in the Athenaeum club, the will and agency of the society are one, and bind the dissentient minority. The Bank and the Athenaeum have a good faith and a justice different from the good faith and justice of the individual members. The Bank is a person to those who deposit bullion with it. The Athenaeum is a person to the butcher and the wine- merchant. If the Athenaeum keeps money at the Bank, the two societies are as much persons to each other as England and France. Either society may pay its debts honestly; either may try to defraud its creditors; either may increase in prosperity; either may fall into difficulties. If, then, they have this unity of will; if they are capable of doing and suffering good and evil, can we to use Mr. Gladstone's words, "deny their responsibility, or their need of a religion to meet that responsibility?" Joint-stock banks, therefore, and clubs, "having a personality, lie under the necessity of sanctifying that personality by the offices of religion;" and thus we have "a new and imperative ground" for requiring all the directors and clerks of joint-stock banks, and all the members of clubs, to qualify by taking the sacrament. The truth is, that Mr. Gladstone has fallen into an error very common among men of less talents than his own. It is not unusual for a person who is eager to prove a particular proposition to assume a major of huge extent, which includes that particular proposition, without ever reflecting that it includes a great deal more. The fatal facility with which Mr. Gladstone multiplies expressions stately and sonorous, but of indeterminate meaning, eminently qualifies him to practise this sleight on himself and on his readers. He lays down broad general doctrines about power, when the only power of which he is thinking is the power of governments, and about conjoint action when the only conjoint action of which he is thinking is the conjoint action of citizens in a state. He first resolves on his conclusion. He then makes a major of most comprehensive dimensions, and having satisfied himself that it contains his conclusion, never troubles himself about what else it may contain: and as soon as we examine it we find that it contains an infinite number of conclusions, every one of which is a monstrous absurdity. It is perfectly true that it would be a very good thing if all the members of all the associations in the world were men of sound religious views. We have no doubt that a good Christian will be under the guidance of Christian principles, in his conduct as director of a canal company or steward of a charity dinner. If he were, to recur to a case which we have before put, a member of a stage-coach company, he would, in that capacity, remember that "a righteous man regardeth the life of his beast." But it does not follow that every association of men must, therefore, as such association, profess a religion. It is evident that many great and useful objects can be attained in this world only by co-operation. It is equally evident that there cannot be efficient co-operation, if men proceed on the principle that they must not co-operate for one object unless they agree about other objects. Nothing seems to us more beautiful or admirable in our social system than the facility with which thousands of people, who perhaps agree only on a single point, can combine their energies for the purpose of carrying that single point. We see daily instances of this. Two men, one of them obstinately prejudiced against missions, the other president of a missionary society, sit together at the board of a hospital, and heartily concur in measures for the health and comfort of the patients. Two men, one of whom is a zealous supporter and the other a zealous opponent of the system pursued in Lancaster's schools, meet at the Mendicity Society, and act together with the utmost cordiality. The general rule we take to be undoubtedly this, that it is lawful and expedient for men to unite in an association for the promotion of a good object, though they may differ with respect to other objects of still higher importance. It will hardly be denied that the security of the persons and property of men is a good object, and that the best way, indeed the only way, of promoting that object, is to combine men together in certain great corporations which are called States. These corporations are very variously, and, for the most part very imperfectly organised. Many of them abound with frightful abuses. But it seems reasonable to believe that the worst that ever existed was, on the whole, preferable to complete anarchy. Now, reasoning from analogy, we should say that these great corporations would, like all other associations, be likely to attain their end most perfectly if that end were kept singly in view: and that to refuse the services of those who are admirably qualified to promote that end, because they are not also qualified to promote some other end, however excellent, seems at first sight as unreasonable as it would be to provide that nobody who was not a fellow of the Society of Antiquaries should be a governor of the Eye Infirmary; or that nobody who was not a member of the Society for Promoting Christianity among the Jews should be a trustee of the Literary Fund. It is impossible to name any collection of human beings to which Mr. Gladstone's reasonings would apply more strongly than to an army. Where shall we find more complete unity of action than in an army? Where else do so many human beings implicitly obey one ruling mind? What other mass is there which moves so much like one man? Where is such tremendous power intrusted to those who command? Where is so awful a responsibility laid upon them? If Mr. Gladstone has made out, as he conceives, an imperative necessity for a State Religion, much more has he made it out to be imperatively necessary that every army should, in its collective capacity, profess a religion. Is he prepared to adopt this consequence? On the morning of the thirteenth of August, in the year 1704, two great captains, equal in authority, united by close private and public ties, but of different creeds, prepared for a battle, on the event of which were staked the liberties of Europe. Marlborough had passed a part of the night in prayer, and before daybreak received the sacrament according to the rites of the Church of England. He then hastened to join Eugene, who had probably just confessed himself to a Popish priest. The generals consulted together, formed their plan in concert, and repaired each to his own post. Marlborough gave orders for public prayers. The English chaplains read the service at the head of the English regiments. The Calvinistic chaplains of the Dutch army, with heads on which hand of Bishop had never been laid, poured forth their supplications in front of their countrymen. In the meantime, the Danes might listen to their Lutheran ministers and Capuchins might encourage the Austrian squadrons, and pray to the Virgin for a blessing on the arms of the Holy Roman Empire. The battle commences. These men of various religions all act like members of one body. The Catholic and the Protestant general exert themselves to assist and to surpass each other. Before sunset the Empire is saved: France has lost in a day the fruits of eighty years of intrigue and of victory: and the allies, after conquering together, return thanks to God separately, each after his own form of worship. Now, is this practical atheism? Would any man in his senses say that, because the allied army had unity of action and a common interest, and because a heavy responsibility lay on its Chiefs, it was therefore imperatively necessary that the Army should, as an Army, have one established religion, that Eugene should be deprived of his command for being a Catholic, that all the Dutch and Austrian colonels should be broken for not subscribing the Thirty-nine Articles? Certainly not. The most ignorant grenadier on the field of battle would have seen the absurdity of such a proposition. "I know," he would have said, "that the Prince of Savoy goes to mass, and that our Corporal John cannot abide it; but what has the mass to do with the taking of the village of Blenheim? The Prince wants to beat the French, and so does Corporal John. If we stand by each other we shall most likely beat them. If we send all the Papists and Dutch away, Tallard will have every man of us." Mr. Gladstone himself, we imagine, would admit that our honest grenadier would have the best of the argument; and if so, what follows? Even this; that all Mr. Gladstone's general principles about power, and responsibility, and personality, and conjoint action, must be given up, and that, if his theory is to stand at all, it must stand on some other foundation. We have now, we conceive, shown that it may be proper to form men into combinations for important purposes, which combinations shall have unity and common interests, and shall be under the direction of rulers intrusted with great power and lying under solemn responsibility, and yet that it may be highly improper that these combinations should, as such, profess any one system of religious belief, or perform any joint act of religious worship. How, then, is it proved that this may not be the case with some of those great combinations which we call States? We firmly believe that it is the case with some States. We firmly believe that there are communities in which it would be as absurd to mix up theology with government, as it would have been in the right wing of the allied army at Blenheim to commence a controversy with the left wing, in the middle of the battle, about purgatory and the worship of images. It is the duty, Mr. Gladstone tells us, of the persons, be they who they may, who hold supreme power in the State, to employ that power in order to promote whatever they may deem to be theological truth. Now, surely, before he can call on us to admit this proposition, he is bound to prove that those persons are likely to do more good than harm by so employing their power. The first question is, whether a government, proposing to itself the propagation of religious truth as one of its principal ends, is more likely to lead the people right than to lead them wrong? Mr. Gladstone evades this question; and perhaps it was his wisest course to do so. "If," says he, "the government be good, let it have its natural duties and powers at its command; but, if not good, let it be made so. . . . We follow, therefore, the true course in looking first for the true idea, or abstract conception of a government, of course with allowance for the evil and frailty that are in man, and then in examining whether there be comprised in that idea a capacity and consequent duty on the part of a government to lay down any laws or devote any means for the purposes of religion,--in short, to exercise a choice upon religion." Of course, Mr. Gladstone has a perfect right to argue any abstract question, provided that he will constantly bear in mind that it is only an abstract question that he is arguing. Whether a perfect government would or would not be a good machinery for the propagation of religious truth is certainly a harmless, and may, for aught we know, be an edifying subject of inquiry. But it is very important that we should remember that there is not, and never has been, any such government in the world. There is no harm at all in inquiring what course a stone thrown into the air would take, if the law of gravitation did not operate. But the consequences would be unpleasant, if the inquirer, as soon as he had finished his calculation, were to begin to throw stones about in all directions, without considering that his conclusion rests on a false hypothesis, and that his projectiles, instead of flying away through infinite space, will speedily return in parabolas, and break the windows and heads of his neighbours. It is very easy to say that governments are good, or if not good, ought to be made so. But what is meant by good government? And how are all the bad governments in the world to be made good? And of what value is a theory which is true only on a supposition in the highest degree extravagant? We do not, however, admit that, if a government were, for all its temporal ends, as perfect as human frailty allows, such a government would, therefore, be necessarily qualified to propagate true religion. For we see that the fitness of governments to propagate true religion is by no means proportioned to their fitness for the temporal end of their institution. Looking at individuals, we see that the princes under whose rule nations have been most ably protected from foreign and domestic disturbance, and have made the most rapid advances in civilisation, have been by no means good teachers of divinity. Take for example, the best French sovereign, Henry the Fourth, a king who restored order, terminated a terrible civil war, brought the finances into an excellent condition, made his country respected throughout Europe, and endeared himself to the great body of the people whom he ruled. Yet this man was twice a Huguenot and twice a Papist. He was, as Davila hints, strongly suspected of having no religion at all in theory, and was certainly not much under religious restraints in his practice. Take the Czar Peter, the Empress Catharine, Frederick the Great. It will surely not be disputed that these sovereigns, with all their faults, were, if we consider them with reference merely to the temporal ends of government, above the average of merit. Considered as theological guides, Mr. Gladstone would probably put them below the most abject drivellers of the Spanish branch of the House of Bourbon. Again, when we pass from individuals to systems, we by no means find that the aptitude of governments for propagating religious truth is proportioned to their aptitude for secular functions. Without being blind admirers either of the French or of the American institutions, we think it clear that the persons and property of citizens are better protected in France and in New England than in almost any society that now exists, or that has ever existed; very much better, certainly, than in the Roman Empire under the orthodox rule of Constantine and Theodosius. But neither the Government of France, nor that of New England, is so organised as to be fit for the propagation of theological doctrines. Nor do we think it improbable that the most serious religious errors might prevail in a state which, considered merely with reference to temporal objects, might approach far nearer than any that has ever been known to the idea of what a state should be. But we shall leave this abstract question, and look at the world as we find it. Does, then, the way in which governments generally obtain their power make it at all probable that they will be more favourable to orthodoxy than to heterodoxy? A nation of barbarians pours down on a rich and unwarlike empire, enslaves the people, portions out the land, and blends the institutions which it finds in the cities with those which it has brought from the woods. A handful of daring adventurers from a civilised nation wander to some savage country, and reduce the aboriginal race to bondage. A successful general turns his arms against the State which he serves. A society made brutal by oppression, rises madly on its masters, sweeps away all old laws and usages, and when its first paroxysm of rage is over, sinks down passively under any form of polity which may spring out of the chaos. A chief of a party, as at Florence, becomes imperceptibly a sovereign, and the founder of a dynasty. A captain of mercenaries, as at Milan, seizes on a city, and by the sword makes himself its ruler. An elective senate, as at Venice, usurps permanent and hereditary power. It is in events such as these that governments have generally originated; and we can see nothing in such events to warrant us in believing that the governments thus called into existence will be peculiarly well fitted to distinguish between religious truth and heresy. When, again, we look at the constitutions of governments which have become settled, we find no great security for the orthodoxy of rulers. One magistrate holds power because his name was drawn out of a purse; another, because his father held it before him. There are representative systems of all sorts, large constituent bodies, small constituent bodies, universal suffrage, high pecuniary qualifications. We see that, for the temporal ends of government, some of these constitutions are very skilfully constructed, and that the very worst of them is preferable to anarchy. We see some sort of connection between the very worst of them and the temporal well-being of society. But it passes our understanding to comprehend what connection any one of them has with theological truth. And how stands the fact? Have not almost all the governments in the world always been in the wrong on religious subjects? Mr. Gladstone, we imagine, would say that, except in the time of Constantine, of Jovian, and of a very few of their successors, and occasionally in England since the Reformation, no government has ever been sincerely friendly to the pure and apostolical Church of Christ. If, therefore, it be true that every ruler is bound in conscience to use his power for the propagation of his own religion, it will follow that, for one ruler who has been bound in conscience to use his power for the propagation of truth, a thousand have been bound in conscience to use their power for the propagation of falsehood. Surely this is a conclusion from which common sense recoils. Surely, if experience shows that a certain machine, when used to produce a certain effect, does not produce that effect once in a thousand times, but produces, in the vast majority of cases, an effect directly contrary, we cannot be wrong in saying that it is not a machine of which the principal end is to be so used. If, indeed, the magistrate would content himself with laying his opinions and reasons before the people, and would leave the people, uncorrupted by hope or fear, to judge for themselves, we should see little reason to apprehend that his interference in favour of error would be seriously prejudicial to the interests of truth. Nor do we, as will hereafter be seen, object to his taking this course, when it is compatible with the efficient discharge of his more especial duties. But this will not satisfy Mr. Gladstone. He would have the magistrate resort to means which have a great tendency to make malcontents, to make hypocrites, to make careless nominal conformists, but no tendency whatever to produce honest and rational conviction. It seems to us quite clear that an inquirer who has no wish except to know the truth is more likely to arrive at the truth than an inquirer who knows that, if he decides one way, he shall be rewarded, and that, if he decides the other way, he shall be punished. Now, Mr. Gladstone would have governments propagate their opinions by excluding all Dissenters from all civil offices. That is to say, he would have governments propagate their opinions by a process which has no reference whatever to the truth or falsehood of those opinions, by arbitrarily uniting certain worldly advantages with one set of doctrines, and certain worldly inconveniences with another set. It is of the very nature of argument to serve the interests of truth; but if rewards and punishments serve the interests of truth, it is by mere accident. It is very much easier to find arguments for the divine authority of the Gospel than for the divine authority of the Koran. But it is just as easy to bribe or rack a Jew into Mahometanism as into Christianity. From racks, indeed, and from all penalties directed against the persons, the property, and the liberty of heretics, the humane spirit of Mr. Gladstone shrinks with horror. He only maintains that conformity to the religion of the State ought to be an indispensable qualification for office; and he would, unless we have greatly misunderstood him, think it his duty, if he had the power, to revive the Test Act, to enforce it rigorously, and to extend it to important classes who were formerly exempt from its operation. This is indeed a legitimate consequence of his principles. But why stop here? Why not roast Dissenters at slow fires? All the general reasonings on which this theory rests evidently lead to sanguinary persecution. If the propagation of religious truth be a principal end of government, as government; if it be the duty of a government to employ for that end its constitutional Power; if the constitutional power of governments extends, as it most unquestionably does, to the making of laws for the burning of heretics; if burning be, as it most assuredly is, in many cases, a most effectual mode of suppressing opinions; why should we not burn? If the relation in which government ought to stand to the people be, as Mr. Gladstone tells us, a paternal relation, we are irresistibly led to the conclusion that persecution is justifiable. For the right of propagating opinions by punishment is one which belongs to parents as clearly as the right to give instruction. A boy is compelled to attend family worship: he is forbidden to read irreligious books: if he will not learn his catechism, he is sent to bed without his supper: if he plays truant at church-time a task is set him. If he should display the precocity of his talents by expressing impious opinions before his brothers and sisters, we should not much blame his father for cutting short the controversy with a horse- whip. All the reasons which lead us to think that parents are peculiarly fitted to conduct the education of their children, and that education is the principal end of a parental relation, lead us also to think that parents ought to be allowed to use punishment, if necessary, for the purpose of forcing children, who are incapable of judging for themselves, to receive religious instruction and to attend religious worship. Why, then, is this prerogative of punishment, so eminently paternal, to be withheld from a paternal government? It seems to us, also, to be the height of absurdity to employ civil disabilities for the propagation of an opinion, and then to shrink from employing other punishments for the same purpose. For nothing can be clearer than that, if you punish at all, you ought to punish enough. The pain caused by punishment is pure unmixed evil, and never ought to be inflicted, except for the sake of some good. It is mere foolish cruelty to provide penalties which torment the criminal without preventing the crime. Now it is possible, by sanguinary persecution unrelentingly inflicted, to suppress opinions. In this way the Albigenses were put down. In this way the Lollards were put down. In this way the fair promise of the Reformation was blighted in Italy and Spain. But we may safely defy Mr. Gladstone to point out a single instance in which the system which he recommends has succeeded. And why should he be so tender-hearted? What reason can he give for hanging a murderer, and suffering a heresiarch to escape without even a pecuniary mulct? Is the heresiarch a less pernicious member of society than the murderer? Is not the loss of one soul a greater evil than the extinction of many lives? And the number of murders committed by the most profligate bravo that ever let out his poniard to hire in Italy, or by the most savage buccaneer that ever prowled on the Windward Station, is small indeed, when compared with the number of souls which have been caught in the snares of one dexterous heresiarch. If, then, the heresiarch causes infinitely greater evils than the murderer, why is he not as proper an object of penal legislation as the murderer? We can give a reason, a reason, short, simple, decisive, and consistent. We do not extenuate the evil which the heresiarch produces; but we say that it is not evil of that sort the sort against which it is the end of government to guard. But how Mr. Gladstone, who considers the evil which the heresiarch produces as evil of the sort against which it is the end of government to guard, can escape from the obvious consequence of his doctrine, we do not understand. The world is full of parallel cases. An orange-woman stops up the pavement with her wheelbarrow; and a policeman takes her into custody. A miser who has amassed a million suffers an old friend and benefactor to die in a workhouse, and cannot be questioned before any tribunal for his baseness and ingratitude. Is this because legislators think the orange-woman's conduct worse than the miser's? Not at all. It is because the stopping up of the pathway is one of the evils against which it is the business of the public authorities to protect society, and heartlessness is not one of those evils. It would be the height of folly to say that the miser ought, indeed, to be punished, but that he ought to be punished less severely than the orange-woman. The heretical Constantius persecutes Athanasius; and why not? Shall Caesar punish the robber who has taken one purse, and spare the wretch who has taught millions to rob the Creator of His honour, and to bestow it on the creature? The orthodox Theodosius persecutes the Arians, and with equal reason. Shall an insult offered to the Caesarean majesty be expiated by death; and shall there be no penalty for him who degrades to the rank of a creature the almighty, the infinite Creator? We have a short answer for both: "To Caesar the things which are Caesar's. Caesar is appointed for the punishment of robbers and rebels. He is not appointed for the purpose of either propagating or exterminating the doctrine of the consubstantiality of the Father and the Son." "Not so," says Mr. Gladstone, "Caesar is bound in conscience to propagate whatever he thinks to be the truth as to this question. Constantius is bound to establish the Arian worship throughout the empire, and to displace the bravest captains of his legions, and the ablest ministers of his treasury, if they hold the Nicene faith. Theodosius is equally bound to turn out every public servant whom his Arian predecessors have put in. But if Constantius lays on Athanasius a fine of a single aureus, if Theodosius imprisons an Arian presbyter for a week, this is most unjustifiable oppression." Our readers will be curious to know how this distinction is made out. The reasons which Mr. Gladstone gives against persecution affecting life, limb, and property, may be divided into two classes; first, reasons which can be called reasons only by extreme courtesy, and which nothing but the most deplorable necessity would ever have induced a man of his abilities to use; and, secondly, reasons which are really reasons, and which have so much force that they not only completely prove his exception, but completely upset his general rule. His artillery on this occasion is composed of two sorts of pieces, pieces which will not go off at all, and pieces which go off with a vengeance, and recoil with most crushing effect upon himself. "We, as fallible creatures," says Mr. Gladstone, "have no right, from any bare speculations of our own to administer pains and penalties to our fellow-creatures, whether on social or religious grounds. We have the right to enforce the laws of the land by such pains and penalties, because it is expressly given by Him who has declared that the civil rulers are to bear the sword for the punishment of evil-doers, and for the encouragement of them that do well. And so, in things spiritual, had it pleased God to give to the Church or the State this power, to be permanently exercised over their members, or mankind at large, we should have the right to use it; but it does not appear to have been so received, and consequently, it should not be exercised." We should be sorry to think that the security of our lives and property from persecution rested on no better ground than this. Is not a teacher of heresy an evil-doer? Has not heresy been condemned in many countries, and in our own among them, by the laws of the land, which, as Mr. Gladstone says, it is justifiable to enforce by penal sanctions? If a heretic is not specially mentioned in the text to which Mr. Gladstone refers, neither is an assassin, a kidnapper, or a highwayman: and if the silence of the New Testament as to all interference of governments to stop the progress of heresy be a reason for not fining or imprisoning heretics, it is surely just as good a reason for not excluding them from office. "God," says Mr. Gladstone, "has seen fit to authorize the employment of force in the one case and not in the other; for it was with regard to chastisement inflicted by the sword for an insult offered to himself that the Redeemer declared his kingdom not to be of this world:-- meaning, apparently in an especial manner, that it should be otherwise than after this world's fashion, in respect to the sanctions by which its laws should be maintained." Now here Mr. Gladstone, quoting from memory, has fallen into an error. The very remarkable words which he cites do not appear to have had any reference to the wound inflicted by Peter on Malchus. They were addressed to Pilate, in answer to the question, "Art thou the King of the Jews?" We can not help saying that we are surprised that Mr. Gladstone should not have more accurately verified a quotation on which, according to him, principally depends the right of a hundred millions of his fellow-subjects, idolaters, Mussulmans, Catholics, and dissenters, to their property, their liberty, and their lives. Mr. Gladstone's humane interpretations of Scripture are lamentably destitute of one recommendation, which he considers as of the highest value: they are by no means in accordance with the general precepts or practice of the Church, from the time when the Christians became strong enough to persecute down to a very recent period. A dogma favourable to toleration is certainly not a dogma quod semper, quod ubique, quod omnibus. Bossuet was able to say, we fear with too much truth, that on one point all Christians had long been unanimous, the right of the civil magistrate to propagate truth by the sword; that even heretics had been orthodox as to this right, and that the Anabaptists and Socinians were the first who called it in question. We will not pretend to say what is the best explanation of the text under consideration; but we are sure that Mr. Gladstone's is the worst. According to him, Government ought to exclude Dissenters from office, but not to fine them, because Christ's kingdom is not of this world. We do not see why the line may not be drawn at a hundred other places as well as that which he has chosen. We do not see why Lord Clarendon, in recommending the act of 1664 against conventicles, might not have said, "It hath been thought by some that this classis of men might with advantage be not only imprisoned but pilloried. But methinks, my Lords, we are inhibited from the punishment of the pillory by that Scripture, 'My kingdom is not of this world."' Archbishop Laud, when he sate on Burton in the Star-Chamber, might have said, "I pronounce for the pillory; and, indeed, I could wish that all such wretches were delivered to the fire, but that our Lord hath said that His kingdom is not of this world." And Gardiner might have written to the Sheriff of Oxfordshire "See that execution be done without fall on Master Ridley and Master Latimer, as you will answer the same to the Queen's grace at your peril. But if they shall desire to have some gunpowder for the shortening of their torment, I see not but you may grant it, as it is written, Regnum meum non est de hoc mundo; that is to say, My kingdom is not of this world." But Mr. Gladstone has other arguments against persecution, arguments which are of so much weight, that they are decisive not only against persecution but against his whole theory. "The Government," he says, "is incompetent to exercise minute and constant supervision over religious opinion." And hence he infers, that "a Government exceeds its province when it comes to adapt a scale of punishments to variations in religious opinion, according to their respective degrees of variation from the established creed. To decline affording countenance to sects is a single and simple rule. To punish their professors, according to their several errors, even were there no other objection, is one for which the State must assume functions wholly ecclesiastical, and for which it is not intrinsically fitted." This is, in our opinion, quite true. But how does it agree with Mr. Gladstone's theory? What! the Government incompetent to exercise even such a degree of supervision over religious opinion as is implied by the punishment of the most deadly heresy! The Government incompetent to measure even the grossest deviations from the standard of truth! The Government not intrinsically qualified to judge of the comparative enormity of any theological errors! The Government so ignorant on these subjects that it is compelled to leave, not merely subtle heresies, discernible only by the eye of a Cyril or a Bucer, but Socinianism, Deism, Mahometanism, Idolatry, Atheism, unpunished! To whom does Mr. Gladstone assign the office of selecting a religion for the State, from among hundreds of religions, every one of which lays claim to truth? Even to this same Government, which is now pronounced to be so unfit for theological investigations that it cannot venture to punish a man for worshipping a lump of stone with a score of heads and hands. We do not remember ever to have fallen in with a more extraordinary instance of inconsistency. When Mr. Gladstone wishes to prove that the Government ought to establish and endow a religion, and to fence it with a Test Act, Government is _to pan_ in the moral world. Those who would confine it to secular ends take a low view of its nature. A religion must be attached to its agency; and this religion must be that of the conscience of the governor, or none. It is for the Governor to decide between Papists and Protestants, Jansenists and Molinists, Arminians and Calvinists, Episcopalians and Presbyterians, Sabellians and Tritheists, Homoousians and Homoiousians, Nestorians and Eutychians, Monothelites and Monophysites, Paedobaptists and Anabaptists. It is for him to rejudge the Acts of Nice and Rimini, of Ephesus and Chalcedon, of Constantinople and St. John Lateran, of Trent and Dort. It is for him to arbitrate between the Greek and the Latin procession, and to determine whether that mysterious filioque shall or shall not have a place in the national creed. When he has made up his mind, he is to tax the whole community in order to pay people to teach his opinion, what ever it may be. He is to rely on his own judgment, though it may be opposed to that of nine-tenths of the society. He is to act on his own judgment, at the risk of exciting the most formidable discontents. He is to inflict, perhaps on a great majority of the population, what, whether we choose to call it persecution or not, will always be felt as persecution by those who suffer it. He is, on account of differences often too slight for vulgar comprehension, to deprive the State of the services of the ablest men. He is to debase and enfeeble the community which he governs, from a nation into a sect. In our own country, for example, millions of Catholics, millions of Protestant Dissenters, are to be excluded from all power and honours. A great hostile fleet is on the sea; but Nelson is not to command in the Channel if in the mystery of the Trinity he confounds the persons. An invading army has landed in Kent; but the Duke of Wellington is not to be at the head of our forces if he divides the substance. And after all this, Mr. Gladstone tells us, that it would be wrong to imprison a Jew, a Mussulman, or a Buddhist, for a day; because really a Government cannot understand these matters, and ought not to meddle with questions which belong to the Church. A singular theologian, indeed, this Government! So learned, that it is competent to exclude Grotius from office for being a Semi-Pelagian, so unlearned that it is incompetent to fine a Hindoo peasant a rupee for going on a pilgrimage to Juggernaut. "To solicit and persuade one another," says Mr. Gladstone, "are privileges which belong to us all; and the wiser and better man is bound to advise the less wise and good; but he is not only not bound, he is not allowed, speaking generally, to coerce him. It is untrue, then, that the same considerations which bind a Government to submit a religion to the free choice of the people would therefore justify their enforcing its adoption." Granted. But it is true that all the same considerations which would justify a Government in propagating a religion by means of civil disabilities would justify the propagating of that religion by penal laws. To solicit! Is it solicitation to tell a Catholic Duke, that he must abjure his religion or walk out of the House of Lords? To persuade! Is it persuasion to tell a barrister of distinguished eloquence and learning that he shall grow old in his stuff gown, while his pupils are seated above him in ermine, because he cannot digest the damnatory clauses of the Athanasian Creed? Would Mr. Gladstone think that a religious system which he considers as false, Socinianism for example, was submitted to his free choice, if it were submitted in these terms?--"If you obstinately adhere to the faith of the Nicene fathers, you shall not be burned in Smithfield; you shall not be sent to Dorchester gaol; you shall not even pay double land-tax. But you shall be shut out from all situations in which you might exercise your talents with honour to yourself and advantage to the country. The House of Commons, the bench of magistracy, are not for such as you. You shall see younger men, your inferiors in station and talents, rise to the highest dignities and attract the gaze of nations, while you are doomed to neglect and obscurity. If you have a son of the highest promise, a son such as other fathers would contemplate with delight, the development of his fine talents and of his generous ambition shall be a torture to you. You shall look on him as a being doomed to lead, as you have led, the abject life of a Roman or a Neapolitan in the midst of a great English people. All those high honours, so much more precious than the most costly gifts of despots, with which a free country decorates its illustrious citizens, shall be to him, as they have been to you, objects not of hope and virtuous emulation, but of hopeless, envious pining. Educate him, if you wish him to feel his degradation. Educate him, if you wish to stimulate his craving for what he never must enjoy. Educate him, if you would imitate the barbarity of that Celtic tyrant who fed his prisoners on salted food till they called eagerly for drink, and then let down an empty cup into the dungeon and left them to die of thirst." Is this to solicit, to persuade, to submit religion to the free choice of man? Would a fine of a thousand pounds, would imprisonment in Newgate for six months, under circumstances not disgraceful, give Mr Gladstone the pain which he would feel, if he were to be told that he was to be dealt with in the way in which he would himself deal with more than one half of his countrymen? We are not at all surprised to find such inconsistency even in a man of Mr. Gladstone's talents. The truth is, that every man is, to a great extent, the creature of the age. It is to no purpose that he resists the influence which the vast mass, in which he is but an atom, must exercise on him. He may try to be a man of the tenth century: but he cannot. Whether he will or not, he must be a man of the nineteenth century. He shares in the motion of the moral as well as in that of the physical world. He can no more be as intolerant as he would have been in the days of the Tudors than he can stand in the evening exactly where he stood in the morning. The globe goes round from west to east; and he must go round with it. When he says that he is where he was, he means only that he has moved at the same rate with all around him. When he says that he has gone a good way to the westward, he means only that he has not gone to the eastward quite so rapidly as his neighbours. Mr. Gladstone's book is, in this respect, a very gratifying performance. It is the measure of what a man can do to be left behind by the world. It is the strenuous effort of a very vigorous mind to keep as far in the rear of the general progress as possible. And yet, with the most intense exertion Mr. Gladstone cannot help being, on some important points, greatly in advance of Locke himself; and, with whatever admiration he may regard Laud, it is well for him, we can tell him, that he did not write in the days of that zealous primate, who would certainly have refuted the expositions of Scripture which we have quoted, by one of the keenest arguments that can be addressed to human ears. This is not the only instance in which Mr. Gladstone has shrunk in a very remarkable manner from the consequences of his own theory. If there be in the whole world a state to which this theory is applicable, that state is the British Empire in India. Even we, who detest paternal governments in general, shall admit that the duties of the Government of India are, to a considerable extent, paternal. There, the superiority of the governors to the governed in moral science is unquestionable. The conversion of the whole people to the worst form that Christianity ever wore in the darkest ages would be a most happy event. It is not necessary that a man should be a Christian to wish for the propagation of Christianity in India. It is sufficient that he should be an European not much below the ordinary European level of good sense and humanity. Compared with the importance of the interests at stake, all those Scotch and Irish questions which occupy so large a portion of Mr. Gladstone's book, sink into insignificance. In no part of the world since the days of Theodosius has so large a heathen population been subject to a Christian government. In no part of the world is heathenism more cruel, more licentious, more fruitful of absurd rites and pernicious laws. Surely, if it be the duty of Government to use its power and its revenue in order to bring seven millions of Irish Catholics over to the Protestant Church, it is a fortiori the duty of the Government to use its power and its revenue in order to make seventy millions of idolaters Christians. If it be a sin to suffer John Howard or William Penn to hold any office in England because they are not in communion with the Established Church, it must be a crying sin indeed to admit to high situations men who bow down, in temples covered with emblems of vice, to the hideous images of sensual or malevolent gods. But no. Orthodoxy, it seems, is more shocked by the priests of Rome than by the priests of Kalee. The plain red brick building, the Cave of Adullam, or Ebenezer Chapel, where uneducated men hear a half-educated man talk of the Christian law of love and the Christian hope of glory, is unworthy of the indulgence which is reserved for the shrine where the Thug suspends a portion of the spoils of murdered travellers, and for the car which grinds its way through the bones of self-immolated pilgrims. "It would be," says Mr. Gladstone, "an absurd exaggeration to maintain it as the part of such a Government as that of the British in India to bring home to the door of every subject at once the ministrations of a new and totally unknown religion." The Government ought indeed to desire to propagate Christianity. But the extent to which they must do so must be "limited by the degree in which the people are found willing to receive it." He proposes no such limitation in the case of Ireland. He would give the Irish a Protestant Church whether they like it or not. "We believe," says he, "that that which we place before them is, whether they know it or not, calculated to be beneficial to them; and that, if they know it not now, they will know it when it is presented to them fairly. Shall we, then, purchase their applause at the expense of their substantial, nay, their spiritual interests?" And why does Mr. Gladstone allow to the Hindoo a privilege which he denies to the Irishman? Why does he reserve his greatest liberality for the most monstrous errors? Why does he pay most respect to the opinion of the least enlightened people? Why does he withhold the right to exercise paternal authority from that one Government which is fitter to exercise paternal authority than any Government that ever existed in the world? We will give the reason in his own words. "In British India," he says, "a small number of persons advanced to a higher grade of civilisation, exercise the powers of government over an immensely greater number of less cultivated persons, not by coercion, but under free stipulation with the governed. Now, the rights of a Government, in circumstances thus peculiar, obviously depend neither upon the unrestricted theory of paternal principles, nor upon any primordial or fictitious contract of indefinite powers, but upon an express and known treaty, matter of positive agreement, not of natural ordinance." Where Mr. Gladstone has seen this treaty we cannot guess for, though he calls it a "known treaty," we will stake our credit that it is quite unknown both at Calcutta and Madras, both in Leadenhall Street and Cannon Row, that it is not to be found in any of the enormous folios of papers relating to India which fill the bookcases of members of Parliament, that it has utterly escaped the researches of all the historians of our Eastern empire, that, in the long and interesting debates of 1813 on the admission of missionaries to India, debates of which the most valuable part has been excellently preserved by the care of the speakers, no allusion to this important instrument is to be found. The truth is that this treaty is a nonentity. It is by coercion, it is by the sword, and not by free stipulation with the governed, that England rule India; nor is England bound by any contract whatever not to deal with Bengal as she deals with Ireland. She may set up a Bishop of Patna, and a Dean of Hoogley; she may grant away the public revenue for the maintenance of prebendaries of Benares and canons of Moorshedabad; she may divide the country into parishes, and place, a rector with a stipend in every one of them; and all this without infringing any positive agreement. If there be such a treaty, Mr. Gladstone can have no difficulty in making known its date, its terms, and, above all the precise extent of the territory within which we have sinfully bound ourselves to be guilty of practical atheism. The last point is of great importance. For, as the provinces of our Indian empire were acquired at different times, and in very different ways, no single treaty, indeed no ten treaties, will justify the system pursued by our Government there. The plain state of the case is this. No man in his senses would dream of applying Mr. Gladstone's theory to India; because, if so applied, it would inevitably destroy our empire, and, with our empire, the best chance of spreading Christianity among the natives. This Mr. Gladstone felt. In some way or other his theory was to be saved, and the monstrous consequences avoided. Of intentional misrepresentation we are quite sure that he is incapable. But we cannot acquit him of that unconscious disingenuousness from which the most upright man, when strongly attached to an opinion, is seldom wholly free. We believe that he recoiled from the ruinous consequences which his system would produce, if tried in India; but that he did not like to say so, lest he should lay himself open to the charge of sacrificing principle to expediency, a word which is held in the utmost abhorrence by all his school. Accordingly, he caught at the notion of a treaty, a notion which must, we think, have originated in some rhetorical expression which he has imperfectly understood. There is one excellent way of avoiding the drawing of a false conclusion from a false major; and that is by having a false minor. Inaccurate history is an admirable corrective of unreasonable theory. And thus it is in the present case. A bad general rule is laid down, and obstinately maintained, wherever the consequences are not too monstrous for human bigotry. But when they become so horrible that even Christ Church shrinks, that even Oriel stands aghast, the rule is evaded by means of a fictitious contract. One imaginary obligation is set up against another. Mr. Gladstone first preaches to Governments the duty of undertaking an enterprise just as rational as the Crusades, and then dispenses them from it on the ground of a treaty which is just as authentic as the donation of Constantine to Pope Sylvester. His system resembles nothing so much as a forged bond with a forged release indorsed on the back of it. With more show of reason he rests the claims of the Scotch Church on a contract. He considers that contract, however, as most unjustifiable, and speaks of the setting up of the Kirk as a disgraceful blot on the reign of William the Third. Surely it would be amusing, if it were not melancholy, to see a man of virtue and abilities unsatisfied with the calamities which one Church, constituted on false principles, has brought upon the empire, and repining that Scotland is not in the same state with Ireland, that no Scottish agitator is raising rent and putting county members in and out, that no Presbyterian association is dividing supreme power with the Government, that no meetings of procursors and repealers are covering the side of the Calton Hill, that twenty-five thousand troops are not required to maintain order on the north of the Tweed, that the anniversary of the Battle of Bothwell Bridge is not regularly celebrated by insult, riot, and murder. We could hardly find a stronger argument against Mr. Gladstone's system than that which Scotland furnishes. The policy which has been followed in that country has been directly opposed to the policy which he recommends. And the consequence is that Scotland, having been one of the rudest, one of the poorest, one of the most turbulent countries in Europe, has become one of the most highly civilised, one of the most flourishing, one of the most tranquil. The atrocities which were of common occurrence: while an unpopular Church was dominant are unknown, In spite of a mutual aversion as bitter as ever separated one people from another, the two kingdoms which compose our island have been indissolubly joined together. Of the ancient national feeling there remains just enough to be ornamental and useful; just enough to inspire the poet, and to kindle a generous and friendly emulation in the bosom of the soldier. But for all the ends of government the nations are one. And why are they so? The answer is simple. The nations are one for all the ends of government, because in their union the true ends of government alone were kept in sight. The nations are one because the Churches are two. Such is the union of England with Scotland, an union which resembles the union of the limbs of one healthful and vigorous body, all moved by one will, all co-operating for common ends. The system of Mr. Gladstone would have produced an union which can be compared only to that which is the subject of a wild Persian fable. King Zohak--we tell the story as Mr. Southey tells it to us--gave the devil leave to kiss his shoulders. Instantly two serpents sprang out, who, in the fury of hunger, attacked his head, and attempted to get at his brain. Zohak pulled them away, and tore them with his nails. But he found that they were inseparable parts of himself, and that what he was lacerating was his own flesh. Perhaps we might be able to find, if we looked round the world, some political union like this, some hideous monster of a state, cursed with one principle of sensation and two principles of volition, self-loathing and self-torturing, made up of parts which are driven by a frantic impulse to inflict mutual pain, yet are doomed to feel whatever they inflict, which are divided by an irreconcileable hatred, Yet are blended in an indissoluble identity. Mr. Gladstone, from his tender concern for Zohak, is unsatisfied because the devil has as yet kissed only one shoulder, because there is not a snake mangling and mangled on the left to keep in countenance his brother on the right. But we must proceed in our examination of his theory. Having, as he conceives, proved that is the duty of every Government to profess some religion or other, right or wrong, and to establish that religion, he then comes to the question what religion a Government ought to prefer; and he decides this question in favour of the form of Christianity established in England. The Church of England is, according to him, the pure Catholic Church of Christ, which possesses the apostolical succession of ministers, and within whose pale is to be found that unity which is essential to truth. For her decisions he claims a degree of reverence far beyond what she has ever, in any of her formularies, claimed for herself; far beyond what the moderate school of Bossuet demands for the Pope; and scarcely short of what that school would ascribe to Pope and General Council together. To separate from her communion is schism. To reject her traditions or interpretations of Scripture is sinful presumption. Mr. Gladstone pronounces the right of private judgment, as it is generally understood throughout Protestant Europe, to be a monstrous abuse. He declares himself favourable, indeed, to the exercise of private judgment, after a fashion of his own. We have, according to him, a right to judge all the doctrines of the Church of England to be sound, but not to judge any of them to be unsound. He has no objection, he assures us, to active inquiry into religious questions. On the contrary, he thinks such inquiry highly desirable, as long as it does not lead to diversity of opinion; which is much the same thing as if he were to recommend the use of fire that will not burn down houses, or of brandy that will not make men drunk. He conceives it to be perfectly possible for mankind to exercise their intellects vigorously and freely on theological subjects, and yet to come to exactly the same conclusions with each other and with the Church of England. And for this opinion he gives, as far as we have been able to discover, no reason whatever, except that everybody who vigorously and freely exercises his understanding on Euclid's Theorems assents to them. "The activity of private judgment," he truly observes, "and the unity and strength of conviction in mathematics vary directly as each other." On this unquestionable fact he constructs a somewhat questionable argument. Everybody who freely inquires agrees, he says, with Euclid. But the Church is as much in the right as Euclid. Why, then, should not every free inquirer agree with the Church? We could put many similar questions. Either the affirmative or the negative of the proposition that King Charles wrote the Icon Basilike is as true as that two sides of a triangle are greater than the third side. Why, then, do Dr. Wordsworth and Mr. Hallam agree in thinking two sides of a triangle greater than the third side, and yet differ about the genuineness of the Icon Basilike? The state of the exact sciences proves, says Mr. Gladstone, that, as respects religion, "the association of these two ideas, activity of inquiry, and variety of conclusion, is a fallacious one." We might just as well turn the argument the other way, and infer from the variety of religious opinions that there must necessarily be hostile mathematical sects, some affirming, and some denying, that the square of the hypothenuse is equal to the squares of the sides. But we do not think either the one analogy or the other of the smallest value. Our way of ascertaining the tendency of free inquiry is simply to open our eyes and look at the world in which we live; and there we see that free inquiry on mathematical subjects produces unity, and that free inquiry on moral subjects produces discrepancy. There would undoubtedly be less discrepancy if inquiries were more diligent and candid. But discrepancy there will be among the most diligent and candid, as long as the constitution of the human mind, and the nature of moral evidence, continue unchanged. That we have not freedom and unity together is a very sad thing; and so it is that we have not wings. But we are just as likely to see the one defect removed as the other. It is not only in religion that this discrepancy is found. It is the same with all matters which depend on moral evidence, with judicial questions, for example, and with political questions. All the judges will work a sum in the rule of three on the same principle, and bring out the same conclusion. But it does not follow that, however honest and laborious they may be, they will all be of one mind on the Douglas case. So it is vain to hope that there may be a free constitution under which every representative will be unanimously elected, and every law unanimously passed; and it would be ridiculous for a statesman to stand wondering and bemoaning himself because people who agree in thinking that two and two make four cannot agree about the new poor law, or the administration of Canada. There are two intelligible and consistent courses which may be followed with respect to the exercise of private judgment; the course of the Romanist, who interdicts private judgment because of its inevitable inconveniences; and the course of the Protestant, who permits private judgment in spite of its inevitable inconveniences. Both are more reasonable than Mr. Gladstone, who would have private judgment without its inevitable inconveniences. The Romanist produces repose by means of stupefaction. The Protestant encourages activity, though he knows that where there is much activity there will be some aberration. Mr. Gladstone wishes for the unity of the fifteenth century with the active and searching spirit of the sixteenth. He might as well wish to be in two places at once. When Mr. Gladstone says that we "actually require discrepancy of opinion--require and demand error, falsehood, blindness, and plume ourselves on such discrepancy as attesting a freedom which is only valuable when used for unity in the truth," he expresses himself with more energy than precision. Nobody loves discrepancy for the sake of discrepancy. But a person who conscientiously believes that free inquiry is, on the whole, beneficial to the interests of truth, and that, from the imperfection of the human faculties, wherever there is much free inquiry there will be some discrepancy, may, without impropriety, consider such discrepancy, though in itself an evil, as a sign of good. That there are ten thousand thieves in London is a very melancholy fact. But, looked at in one point of view, it is a reason for exultation. For what other city could maintain ten thousand thieves? What must be the mass of wealth, where the fragments gleaned by lawless pilfering rise to so large an amount? St. Kilda would not support a single pickpocket. The quantity of theft is, to a certain extent, an index of the quantity of useful industry and judicious speculation. And just as we may, from the great number of rogues in a town, infer that much honest gain is made there; so may we often, from the quantity of error in a community, draw a cheering inference as to the degree in which the public mind is turned to those inquiries which alone can lead to rational convictions of truth. Mr. Gladstone seems to imagine that most Protestants think it possible for the same doctrine to be at once true and false; or that they think it immaterial whether, on a religious question, a man comes to a true or a false conclusion. If there be any Protestants who hold notions so absurd, we abandon them to his censure. The Protestant doctrine touching the right of private judgment, that doctrine which is the common foundation of the Anglican, the Lutheran, and the Calvinistic Churches, that doctrine by which every sect of Dissenters vindicates its separation, we conceive not to be this, that opposite opinions rue; nor this, that truth and falsehood are both may both be true; equally good; nor yet this, that all speculative error is necessarily innocent; but this, that there is on the face of the earth no visible body to whose decrees men are bound to submit their private judgment on points of faith. Is there always such a visible body? Was there such a visible body in the year 1500? If not, why are we to believe that there is such a body in the year 1839? If there was such a body in the year 1500, what was it? Was it the Church of Rome? And how can the Church of England be orthodox now, if the Church of Rome was orthodox then? "In England," says Mr. Gladstone, "the case was widely different from that of the Continent. Her reformation did not destroy, but successfully maintained, the unity and succession of the Church in her apostolical ministry. We have, therefore, still among us the ordained hereditary witnesses of the truth, conveying it to us through an unbroken series from our Lord Jesus Christ and His Apostles. This is to us the ordinary voice of authority; of authority equally reasonable and equally true, whether we will hear, or whether we will forbear." Mr. Gladstone's reasoning is not so clear as might be desired. We have among us, he says, ordained hereditary witnesses of the truth, and their voice is to us the voice of authority. Undoubtedly, if they are witness of the truth, their voice is the voice of authority. But this is little more than saying that the truth is the truth. Nor is truth more true because it comes in an unbroken series from the Apostles. The Nicene faith is not more true in the mouth of the Archbishop of Canterbury, than in that of a Moderator of the General Assembly. If our respect for the authority of the Church is to be only consequent upon our conviction of the truth of her doctrines, we come at once to that monstrous abuse, the Protestant exercise of private judgment. But if Mr. Gladstone means that we ought to believe that the Church of England speaks the truth because she has the apostolical succession, we greatly doubt whether such a doctrine can be maintained. In the first place, what proof have we of the fact? We have, indeed, heard it said that Providence would certainly have interfered to preserve the apostolical succession in the true Church. But this is an argument fitted for understandings of a different kind from Mr. Gladstone's. He will hardly tell us that the Church of England is the true Church because she has the succession; and that she has the succession because she is the true Church. What evidence, then, have we for the fact of the apostolical succession? And here we may easily defend the truth against Oxford with the same arguments with which, in old times, the truth was defended by Oxford against Rome. In this stage of our combat with Mr. Gladstone, we need few weapons except those which we find in the well-furnished and well-ordered armoury of Chillingworth. The transmission of orders from the Apostles to an English clergyman of the present day must have been through a very great number of intermediate persons. Now, it is probable that no clergyman in the Church of England can trace up his spiritual genealogy from bishop to bishop so far back as the time of the Conquest. There remain many centuries during which the history of the transmission of his orders is buried in utter darkness. And whether he be a priest by succession from the Apostles depends on the question, whether during that long period, some thousands of events took place, any one of which may, without any gross improbability, be supposed not to have taken place. We have not a tittle of evidence for any one of these events. We do not even know the names or countries of the men to whom it is taken for granted that these events happened. We do not know whether the spiritual ancestors of any one of our contemporaries were Spanish or Armenian, Arian or Orthodox. In the utter absence of all particular evidence, we are surely entitled to require that there should be very strong evidence indeed that the strictest regularity was observed in every generation, and that episcopal functions were exercised by none who were not bishops by succession from the Apostles. But we have no such evidence. In the first place, we have not full and accurate information touching the polity of the Church during the century which followed the persecution of Nero. That, during this period, the overseers of all the little Christian societies scattered through the Roman empire held their spiritual authority by virtue of holy orders derived from the Apostles, cannot be proved by contemporary testimony, or by any testimony which can be regarded as decisive. The question, whether the primitive ecclesiastical constitution bore a greater resemblance to the Anglican or to the Calvinistic model, has been fiercely disputed. It is a question on which men of eminent parts, learning, and piety have differed, and do to this day differ very widely. It is a question on which at least a full half of the ability and erudition of Protestant Europe has ever since the Reformation, been opposed to the Anglican pretensions. Mr. Gladstone himself, we are persuaded, would have the candour to allow that, if no evidence were admitted but that which is furnished by the genuine Christian literature of the first two centuries, judgment would not go in favour of prelacy. And if he looked at the subject as calmly as he would look at a controversy respecting the Roman Comitia or the Anglo-Saxon Witenagemote, he would probably think that the absence of contemporary evidence during so long a period was a defect which later attestations, however numerous, could but very imperfectly supply. It is surely impolitic to rest the doctrines of the English Church on a historical theory which, to ninety- nine Protestants out of a hundred, would seem much more questionable than any of those doctrines. Nor is this all. Extreme obscurity overhangs the history of the middle ages; and the facts which are discernible through that obscurity prove that the Church was exceedingly ill regulated. We read of sees of the highest dignity openly sold, transferred backwards and forwards by popular tumult, bestowed sometimes by a profligate woman on her paramour, sometimes by a warlike baron on a kinsman still a stripling. We read of bishops of ten years old, of bishops of five years old, of many popes who were mere boys, and who rivalled the frantic dissoluteness of Caligula, nay, of a female pope. And though this last story, once believed throughout all Europe, has been disproved by the strict researches of modern criticism, the most discerning of those who reject it have admitted that it is not intrinsically improbable. In our own island, it was the complaint of Alfred that not a single priest south of the Thames, and very few on the north, could read either Latin or English. And this illiterate clergy exercised their ministry amidst a rude and half-heathen population, in which Danish pirates, unchristened, or christened by the hundred on a field of battle, were mingled with a Saxon peasantry scarcely better instructed in religion. The state of Ireland was still worse. "Tota illa per universam Hiberniam dissolutio, ecclesiasticae disciplinae, illa ubique pro consuetudine Christiana saeva subintroducta barbaries," are the expressions of St. Bernard. We are, therefore, at a loss to conceive how any clergyman can feel confident that his orders have come down correctly. Whether he be really a successor of the Apostles depends on an immense number of such contingencies as these; whether, under King Ethelwolf, a stupid priest might not, while baptizing several scores of Danish prisoners who had just made their option between the font and the gallows, inadvertently omit to perform the rite on one of these graceless proselytes; whether, in the seventh century, an impostor, who had never received consecration, might not have passed himself off as a bishop on a rude tribe of Scots; whether a lad of twelve did really, by a ceremony huddled over when he was too drunk to know what he was about, convey the episcopal character to a lad of ten. Since the first century, not less, in all probability, than a hundred thousand persons have exercised the functions of bishops. That many of these have not been bishops by apostolical succession is quite certain. Hooker admits that deviations from the general rule have been frequent, and with a boldness worthy of his high and statesmanlike intellect, pronounces them to have been often justifiable. "There may be," says he, "sometimes very just and sufficient reason to allow ordination made without a bishop. Where the Church must needs have some ordained, and neither hath nor can have possibly a bishop to ordain, in case of such necessity the ordinary institution of God hath given oftentimes, and may give place. And therefore we are not simply without exception to urge a lineal descent of power from the Apostles by continued succession of bishops in every effectual ordination." There can be little doubt, we think, that the succession, if it ever existed, has often been interrupted in ways much less respectable. For example, let us suppose, and we are sure that no well-informed person will think the supposition by any means improbable, that, in the third century, a man of no principle and some parts, who has, in the course of a roving and discreditable life, been a catechumen at Antioch, and has there become familiar with Christian usages and doctrines afterwards rambles to Marseilles, where he finds a Christian society, rich, liberal, and simple-hearted. He pretends to be a Christian, attracts notice by his abilities and affected zeal, and is raised to the episcopal dignity without having ever been baptized. That such an event might happen, nay, was very likely to happen, cannot well be disputed by any one who has read the Life of Peregrinus. The very virtues, indeed, which distinguished the early Christians, seem to have laid them open to those arts which deceived "Uriel, though Regent of the Sun, and held The sharpest-sighted spirit of all in Heaven." Now this unbaptized impostor is evidently no successor of the Apostles. He is not even a Christian; and all orders derived through such a pretended bishop are altogether invalid. Do we know enough of the state of the world and of the Church in the third century to be able to say with confidence that there were not at that time twenty such pretended bishops? Every such case makes a break in the apostolical succession. Now, suppose that a break, such as Hooker admits to have been both common and justifiable, or such as we have supposed to be produced by hypocrisy and cupidity, were found in the chain which connected the Apostles with any of the missionaries who first spread Christianity in the wilder parts of Europe, who can say how extensive the effect of this single break may be? Suppose that St. Patrick, for example, if ever there was such a man, or Theodore of Tarsus, who is said to have consecrated in the seventh century the first bishops of many English sees, had not the true apostolical orders, is it not conceivable that such a circumstance may affect the orders of many clergymen now living? Even if it were possible, which it assuredly is not, to prove that the Church had the apostolical orders in the third century, it would be impossible to prove that those orders were not in the twelfth century so far lost that no ecclesiastic could be certain of the legitimate descent of his own spiritual character. And if this were so, no subsequent precautions could repair the evil. Chillingworth states the conclusion at which he had arrived on this subject in these very remarkable words: "That of ten thousand probables no one should be false; that of ten thousand requisites, whereof any one may fail, not one should be wanting, this to me is extremely improbable, and even cousin-german to impossible. So that the assurance hereof is like a machine composed of an innumerable multitude of pieces, of which it is strangely unlikely but some will be out of order; and yet, if any one be so, the whole fabric falls of necessity to the ground: and he that shall put them together, and maturely consider all the possible ways of lapsing and nullifying a priesthood in the Church of Rome, will be very inclinable to think that it is a hundred to one, that among a hundred seeming priests, there is not one true one; nay, that it is not a thing very improbable that, amongst those many millions which make up the Romish hierarchy, there are not twenty true." We do not pretend to know to what precise extent the canonists of Oxford agree with those of Rome as to the circumstances which nullify orders. We will not, therefore, go so far as Chillingworth. We only say that we see no satisfactory proof of the fact, that the Church of England possesses the apostolical succession. And, after all, if Mr. Gladstone could prove the apostolical succession, what would the apostolical succession prove? He says that "we have among us the ordained hereditary witnesses of the truth, conveying it to us through an unbroken series from our Lord Jesus Christ and his Apostles." Is this the fact? Is there any doubt that the orders of the Church of England are generally derived from the Church of Rome? Does not the Church of England declare, does not Mr. Gladstone himself admit, that the Church of Rome teaches much error and condemns much truth? And is it not quite clear, that as far as the doctrines of the Church of England differ from those of the Church of Rome, so far the Church of England conveys the truth through a broken series? That the founders, lay and clerical, of the Church of England, corrected all that required correction in the doctrines of the Church of Rome, and nothing more, may be quite true. But we never can admit the circumstance that the Church of England possesses the apostolical succession as a proof that she is thus perfect. No stream can rise higher than its fountain. The succession of ministers in the Church of England, derived as it is through the Church of Rome, can never prove more for the Church of England than it proves for the Church of Rome. But this is not all. The Arian Churches which once predominated in the kingdoms of the Ostrogoths, the Visigoths, the Burgundians, the Vandals, and the Lombards, were all episcopal Churches, and all had a fairer claim than that of England to the apostolical succession, as being much nearer to the apostolical times. In the East, the Greek Church, which is at variance on points of faith with all the Western Churches, has an equal claim to this succession. The Nestorian, the Eutychian, the Jacobite Churches, all heretical, all condemned by councils, of which even Protestant divines have generally spoken with respect, had an equal claim to the apostolical succession. Now if, of teachers having apostolical orders, a vast majority have taught much error, if a large proportion have taught deadly heresy, if on the other hand, as Mr. Gladstone himself admits, Churches not having apostolical orders, that of Scotland for example, have been nearer to the standard of orthodoxy than the majority of teachers who have had apostolical orders, how can he possibly call upon us to submit our private judgment to the authority of a Church on the ground that she has these orders? Mr. Gladstone dwells much on the importance of unity in doctrine. Unity he tells us, is essential to truth. And this is most unquestionable. But when he goes on to tell us that this unity is the characteristic of the Church of England, that she is one in body and in spirit, we are compelled to differ from him widely. The apostolical succession she may or may not have. But unity she most certainly has not, and never has had. It is a matter of perfect notoriety, that her formularies are framed in such a manner as to admit to her highest offices men who differ from each other more widely than a very high Churchman differs from a Catholic, or a very low Churchman from a Presbyterian; and that the general leaning of the Church, with respect to some important questions, has been sometimes one way and sometimes another. Take, for example, the questions agitated between the Calvinists and the Arminians. Do we find in the Church of England, with respect to those questions, that unity which is essential to truth? Was it ever found in the Church? Is it not certain that, at the end of the sixteenth century, the rulers of the Church held doctrines as Calvinistic as ever were held by any Cameronian, and not only held them, but persecuted every body who did not hold them? And is it not equally certain, that the rulers of the Church have, in very recent times, considered Calvinism as a disqualification for high preferment, if not for holy orders? Look at the questions which Archbishop Whitgift propounded to Barret, questions framed in the very spirit of William Huntington, S. S. [One question was, whether God had from eternity reprobated certain persons; and why? The answer which contented the Archbishop was "Affirmative, et quia voluit."] And then look at the eighty-seven questions which Bishop Marsh, within our own memory, propounded to candidates for ordination. We should be loth to say that either of these celebrated prelates had intruded himself into a Church whose doctrines he abhorred, and that he deserved to be stripped of his gown. Yet it is quite certain that one or other of them must have been very greatly in error. John Wesley again, and Cowper's friend, John Newton, were both Presbyters of this Church. Both were men of ability. Both we believe to have been men of rigid integrity, men who would not have subscribed a Confession of Faith which they disbelieved for the richest bishopric in the empire. Yet, on the subject of predestination, Newton was strongly attached to doctrines which Wesley designated as "blasphemy, which might make the ears of a Christian to tingle." Indeed it will not be disputed that the clergy of the Established Church are divided as to these questions, and that her formularies are not found practically to exclude even scrupulously honest men of both sides from her altars. It is notorious that some of her most distinguished rulers think this latitude a good thing, and would be sorry to see it restricted in favour of either opinion. And herein we most cordially agree with them. But what becomes of the unity of the Church, and of that truth to which unity is essential? Mr. Gladstone tells us that the Regium Donum was given originally to orthodox Presbyterian ministers, but that part of it is now received by their heterodox successors. "This," he says, "serves to illustrate the difficulty in which governments entangle themselves, when they covenant with arbitrary systems of opinions, and not with the Church alone. The opinion passes away, but the gift remains." But is it not clear, that if a strong Supralapsarian had, under Whitgift's primacy, left a large estate at the disposal of the bishops for ecclesiastical purposes, in the hope that the rulers of the Church would abide by Whitgift's theology, he would really have been giving his substance for the support of doctrines which he detested? The opinion would have passed away, and the gift would have remained. This is only a single instance. What wide differences of opinion respecting the operation of the sacraments are held by bishops, doctors, presbyters of the Church of England, all men who have conscientiously declared their assent to her articles, all men who are, according to Mr. Gladstone, ordained hereditary witnesses of the truth, all men whose voices make up what, he tells us, is the voice of true and reasonable authority! Here, again, the Church has not unity; and as unity is the essential condition of truth, the Church has not the truth. Nay, take the very question which we are discussing with Mr. Gladstone. To what extent does the Church of England allow of the right of private judgment? What degree of authority does she claim for herself in virtue of the apostolical succession of her ministers? Mr. Gladstone, a very able and a very honest man, takes a view of this matter widely differing from the view taken by others whom he will admit to be as able and as honest as himself. People who altogether dissent from him on this subject eat the bread of the Church, preach in her pulpits, dispense her sacraments, confer her orders, and carry on that apostolical succession, the nature and importance of which, according to him, they do not comprehend. Is this unity? Is this truth? It will be observed that we are not putting cases of dishonest men who, for the sake of lucre, falsely pretend to believe in the doctrines of an establishment. We are putting cases of men as upright as ever lived, differing on theological questions of the highest importance and avowing that difference, are yet priests and prelates of the same church. We therefore say, that on some points which Mr. Gladstone himself thinks of vital importance, the Church has either not spoken at all, or, what is for all practical purposes the same thing, has not spoken in language to be understood even by honest and sagacious divines. The religion of the Church of England is so far from exhibiting that unity of doctrine which Mr. Gladstone represents as her distinguishing glory, that it is, in fact, a bundle of religious systems without number. It comprises the religious system of Bishop Tomline, and the religious system of John Newton, and all the religious systems which lie between them. It comprises the religious system of Mr. Newman, and the religious system of the Archbishop of Dublin, and all the religious systems which lie between them. All these different opinions are held, avowed, preached, printed, within the pale of the Church, by men of unquestioned integrity and understanding. Do we make this diversity a topic of reproach to the Church of England? Far from it. We would oppose with all our power every attempt to narrow her basis? Would to God that, a hundred and fifty years ago, a good king and a good primate had possessed the power as well as the will to widen it! It was a noble enterprise, worthy of William and of Tillotson. But what becomes of all Mr. Gladstone's eloquent exhortations to unity? Is it not mere mockery to attach so much importance to unity in form and name, where there is so little in substance, to shudder at the thought of two Churches in alliance with one State, and to endure with patience the spectacle of a hundred sects battling within one Church? And is it not clear that Mr. Gladstone is bound, on all his own principles, to abandon the defence of a Church in which unity is not found? Is it not clear that he is bound to divide the House of Commons against every grant of money which may be proposed for the clergy of the Established Church in the colonies? He objects to the vote for Maynooth, because it is monstrous to pay one man to teach truth, and another to denounce that truth as falsehood. But it is a mere chance whether any sum which he votes for the English Church in any colony will go to the maintenance of an Arminian or a Calvinist, of a man like Mr. Froude, or of a man like Dr. Arnold. It is a mere chance, therefore, whether it will go to support a teacher of truth, or one who will denounce that truth as falsehood. This argument seems to us at once to dispose of all that part of Mr. Gladstone's book which respects grants of public money to dissenting bodies. All such grants he condemns. But surely, if it be wrong to give the money of the public for the support of those who teach any false doctrine, it is wrong to give that money for the support of the ministers of the Established Church. For it is quite certain that, whether Calvin or Arminius be in the right, whether Laud or Burnet be in the right, a great deal of false doctrine is taught by the ministers of the Established Church. If it be said that the points on which the clergy of the Church of England differ ought to be passed over, for the sake of the many important points on which they agree, why may not the same argument be maintained with respect to the other sects which hold, in common with the Church of England, the fundamental doctrines of Christianity? The principle that a ruler is bound in conscience to propagate religious truth, and to propagate no religious doctrine which is untrue, is abandoned as soon as it is admitted that a gentleman of Mr. Gladstone's opinions may lawfully vote the public money to a chaplain whose opinions are those of Paley or of Simeon. The whole question then becomes one of degree. Of course no individual and no government can justifiably propagate error for the sake of propagating error. But both individuals and governments must work with such machinery as they have; and no human machinery is to be found which will impart truth without some alloy of error. We have shown irrefragably, as we think, that the Church of England does not afford such a machinery. The question then is this; with what degree of imperfection in our machinery must we put up? And to this question we do not see how any general answer can be given. We must be guided by circumstances. It would, for example, be very criminal in a Protestant to contribute to the sending of Jesuit missionaries among a Protestant population. But we do not conceive that a Protestant would be to blame for giving assistance to Jesuit missionaries who might be engaged in converting the Siamese to Christianity. That tares are mixed with the wheat is matter of regret; but it is better that wheat and tares should grow together than that the promise of the year should be blighted. Mr. Gladstone, we see with deep regret, censures the British Government in India for distributing a small sum among the Catholic priests who minister to the spiritual wants of our Irish soldiers. Now, let us put a case to him. A Protestant gentleman is attended by a Catholic servant, in a part of the country where there is no Catholic congregation within many miles. The servant is taken ill, and is given over. He desires, in great trouble of mind, to receive the last sacraments of his Church. His master sends off a messenger in a chaise and four, with orders to bring a confessor from a town at a considerable distance. Here a Protestant lays out money for the purpose of causing religious instruction and consolation to be given by a Catholic priest. Has he committed a sin? Has he not acted like a good master and a good Christian? Would Mr. Gladstone accuse him of "laxity of religious principle," of "confounding truth with falsehood," of "considering the support of religion as a boon to an individual, not as a homage to truth?" But how if this servant had, for the sake of his master, undertaken a journey which removed him from the place where he might easily have obtained religious attendance? How if his death were occasioned by a wound received in defending his master? Should we not then say that the master had only fulfilled a sacred obligation of duty? Now, Mr. Gladstone himself owns that "nobody can think that the personality of the State is more stringent, or entails stronger obligations, than that of the individual." How then stands the case of the Indian Government? Here is a poor fellow enlisted in Clare or Kerry, sent over fifteen thousand miles of sea, quartered in a depressing and pestilential climate. He fights for the Government; he conquers for it; he is wounded; he is laid on his pallet, withering away with fever, under that terrible sun, without a friend near him. He pines for the consolations of that religion which, neglected perhaps in the season of health and vigour, now comes back to his mind, associated with all the overpowering recollections of his earlier days, and of the home which he is never to see again. And because the State for which he dies sends a priest of his own faith to stand at his bedside, and to tell him, in language which at once commands his love and confidence, of the common Father, of the common Redeemer, of the common hope of immortality, because the State for which he dies does not abandon him in his last moments to the care of heathen attendants, or employ a chaplain of a different creed to vex his departing spirit with a controversy about the Council of Trent, Mr. Gladstone finds that India presents "a melancholy picture," and that there is "a large allowance of false principle" in the system pursued there. Most earnestly do we hope that our remarks may induce Mr. Gladstone to reconsider this part of his work, and may prevent him from expressing in that high assembly, in which he must always be heard with attention, opinions so unworthy of his character. We have now said almost all that we think it necessary to say respecting Mr. Gladstone's theory. And perhaps it would be safest for us to stop here. It is much easier to pull down than to build up. Yet, that we may give Mr. Gladstone his revenge, we will state concisely our own views respecting the alliance of Church and State. We set out in company with Warburton, and remain with him pretty sociably till we come to his contract; a contract which Mr. Gladstone very properly designates as a fiction. We consider the primary end of Government as a purely temporal end, the protection of the persons and property of men. We think that Government, like every other contrivance of human wisdom, from the highest to the lowest, is likely to answer its main end best when it is constructed with a single view to that end. Mr. Gladstone, who loves Plato, will not quarrel with us for illustrating our proposition, after Plato's fashion, from the most familiar objects. Take cutlery, for example. A blade which is designed both to shave and to carve, will certainly not shave so well as a razor, or carve so well as a carving-knife. An academy of painting, which should also be a bank, would, in all probability, exhibit very bad pictures and discount very bad bills. A gas company, which should also be an infant school society, would, we apprehend, light the streets ill, and teach the children ill. On this principle, we think that Government should be organised solely with a view to its main end; and that no part of its efficiency for that end should be sacrificed in order to promote any other end however excellent. But does it follow from hence that Governments ought never to pursue any end other than their main end? In no wise. Though it is desirable that every institution should have a main end, and should be so formed as to be in the highest degree efficient for that main end; yet if, without any sacrifice of its efficiency for that end, it can pursue any other good end, it ought to do so. Thus, the end for which a hospital is built is the relief of the sick, not the beautifying of the street. To sacrifice the health of the sick to splendour of architectural effect, to place the building in a bad air only that it may present a more commanding front to a great public place, to make the wards hotter or cooler than they ought to be, in order that the columns and windows of the exterior may please the passers-by would be monstrous. But if, without any sacrifice of the chief object, the hospital can be made an ornament to the metropolis, it would be absurd not to make it so. In the same manner, if a Government can, without any sacrifice of its main end, promote any other good work, it ought to do so. The encouragement of the fine arts, for example, is by no means the main end of Government; and it would be absurd, in constituting a Government, to bestow a thought on the question, whether it would be a Government likely to train Raphaels or Domenichinos. But it by no means follows that it is improper for a Government to form a national gallery of pictures. The same may be said of patronage bestowed on learned men, of the publication of archives, of the collecting of libraries, menageries, plants, fossils, antiques, of journeys and voyages for purposes of geographical discovery or astronomical observation. It is not for these ends that Government is constituted. But it may well happen that a Government may have at its command resources which will enable it, without any injury to its main end, to pursue these collateral ends far more effectually than any individual or any voluntary association could do. If so, Government ought to pursue these collateral ends. It is still more evidently the duty of Government to promote, always in subordination to its main end, everything which is useful as a means for the attaining of that main end. The improvement of steam navigation, for example, is by no means a primary object of Government. But as steam vessels are useful for the purpose of national defence, and for the purpose of facilitating intercourse between distant provinces, and of thereby consolidating the force of the empire, it may be the bounden duty of Government to encourage ingenious men to perfect an invention which so directly tends to make the State more efficient for its great primary end. Now on both these grounds, the instruction of the people may with propriety engage the care of the Government. That the people should be well educated, is in itself a good thing; and the State ought therefore to promote this object, if it can do so without any sacrifice of its primary object. The education of the people, conducted on those principles of morality which are common to all the forms of Christianity, is highly valuable as a means of promoting the main object for which Government exists, and is on this ground well deserving the attention of rulers. We will not at present go into the general question of education; but will confine our remarks to the subject which is more immediately before us, namely, the religious instruction of the people. We may illustrate our view of the policy which Governments ought to pursue with respect to religious instruction, by recurring to the analogy of a hospital. Religious instruction is not the main end for which a hospital is built; and to introduce into a hospital any regulations prejudicial to the health of the patients, on the plea of promoting their spiritual improvement, to send a ranting preacher to a man who has just been ordered by the physician to lie quiet and try to get a little sleep, to impose a strict observance of Lent on a convalescent who has been advised to eat heartily of nourishing food, to direct, as the bigoted Pius the Fifth actually did, that no medical assistance should be given to any person who declined spiritual attendance, would be the most extravagant folly. Yet it by no means follows that it would not be right to have a chaplain to attend the sick, and to pay such a chaplain out of the hospital funds. Whether it will be proper to have such a chaplain at all, and of what religious persuasion such a chaplain ought to be, must depend on circumstances. There may be a town in which it would be impossible to set up a good hospital without the help of people of different opinions: and religious parties may run so high that, though people of different opinions are willing to contribute for the relief of the sick, they will not concur in the choice of any one chaplain. The High Churchmen insist that, if there is a paid chaplain, he shall be a High Churchman. The Evangelicals stickle for an Evangelical. Here it would evidently be absurd and cruel to let an useful and humane design, about which we are all agreed, fall to the ground, because all cannot agree about something else. The governors must either appoint two chaplains and pay them both; or they must appoint none; and every one of them must, in his individual capacity, do what he can for the purpose of providing the sick with such religious instruction and consolation as will, in his opinion, be most useful to them. We should say the same of Government. Government is not an institution for the propagation of religion, any more than St. George's Hospital is an institution for the propagation of religion: and the most absurd and pernicious consequences would follow, if Government should pursue, as its primary end, that which can never be more than its secondary end, though intrinsically more important than its primary end. But a Government which considers the religious instruction of the people as a secondary end, and follows out that principle faithfully, will, we think, be likely to do much good and little harm. We will rapidly run over some of the consequences to which this principle leads, and point out how it solves some problems which, on Mr. Gladstone's hypothesis, admit of no satisfactory solution. All persecution directed against the persons or property of men is, on our principle, obviously indefensible. For, the protection of the persons and property of men being the primary end of Government and religious instruction only a secondary end, to secure the people from heresy by making their lives, their limbs, or their estates insecure, would be to sacrifice the primary end to the secondary end. It would be as absurd as it would be in the governors of a hospital to direct that the wounds of all Arian and Socinian patients should be dressed in such a way as to make them fester. Again, on our principles, all civil disabilities on account of religious opinions are indefensible. For all such disabilities make Government less efficient for its main end: they limit its choice of able men for the administration and defence of the State; they alienate from it the hearts of the sufferers; they deprive it of a part of its effective strength in all contests with foreign nations. Such a course is as absurd as it would be in the governors of a hospital to reject an able surgeon because he is an Universal Restitutionist, and to send a bungler to operate because he is perfectly orthodox. Again, on our principles, no Government ought to press on the people religious instruction, however sound, in such a manner as to excite among them discontents dangerous to public order. For here again Government would sacrifice its primary end to an end intrinsically indeed of the highest importance, but still only a secondary end of Government, as Government. This rule at once disposes of the difficulty about India, a difficulty of which Mr. Gladstone can get rid only by putting in an imaginary discharge in order to set aside an imaginary obligation. There is assuredly no country where it is more desirable that Christianity should be propagated. But there is no country in which the Government is so completely disqualified for the task. By using our power in order to make proselytes, we should produce the dissolution of society, and bring utter ruin on all those interests for the protection of which Government exists. Here the secondary end is, at present, inconsistent with the primary end, and must therefore be abandoned. Christian instruction given by individuals and voluntary societies may do much good. Given by the Government it would do unmixed harm. At the same time, we quite agree with Mr. Gladstone in thinking that the English authorities in India ought not to participate in any idolatrous rite; and indeed we are fully satisfied that all such participation is not only unchristian, but also unwise and most undignified. Supposing the circumstances of a country to be such, that the Government may with propriety, on our principles, give religious instruction to a people; we have next to inquire, what religion shall be taught. Bishop Warburton answers, the religion of the majority. And we so far agree with him, that we can scarcely conceive any circumstances in which it would be proper to establish, as the one exclusive religion of the State, the religion of the minority. Such a preference could hardly be given without exciting most serious discontent, and endangering those interests, the protection of which is the first object of Government. But we never can admit that a ruler can be justified in helping to spread a system of opinions solely because that system is pleasing to the majority. On the other hand, we cannot agree with Mr. Gladstone, who would of course answer that the only religion which a ruler ought to propagate is the religion of his own conscience. In truth, this is an impossibility. And as we have shown, Mr. Gladstone himself, whenever he supports a grant of money to the Church of England, is really assisting to propagate not the precise religion of his own conscience, but some one or more, he knows not how many or which, of the innumerable religions which lie between the confines of Pelagianism and those of Antinomianism, and between the confines of Popery and those of Presbyterianism. In our opinion, that religious instruction which the ruler ought, in his public capacity, to patronise, is the instruction from which he, in his conscience, believes that the people will learn most good with the smallest mixture of evil. And thus it is not necessarily his own religion that he will select. He will, of course, believe that his own religion is unmixedly good. But the question which he has to consider is, not how much good his religion contains, but how much good the people will learn, if instruction is given them in that religion. He may prefer the doctrines and government of the Church of England to those of the Church of Scotland. But if he knows that a Scotch congregation will listen with deep attention and respect while an Erskine or a Chalmers sets before them the fundamental doctrines of Christianity, and that a glimpse of a surplice or a single line of a liturgy would be the signal for hooting and riot and would probably bring stools and brickbats about the ears of the minister, he acts wisely if he conveys religious knowledge to the Scotch rather by means of that imperfect Church, as he may think it, from which they will learn much, than by means of that perfect Church from which they will learn nothing. The only end of teaching is, that men may learn; and it is idle to talk of the duty of teaching truth in ways which only cause men to cling more firmly to falsehood. On these principles we conceive that a statesman, who might be far indeed from regarding the Church of England with the reverence which Mr. Gladstone feels for her, might yet firmly oppose all attempts to destroy her. Such a statesman may be too well acquainted with her origin to look upon her with superstitious awe. He may know that she sprang from a compromise huddled up between the eager zeal of reformers and the selfishness of greedy, ambitious, and time-serving politicians. He may find in every page of her annals ample cause for censure. He may feel that he could not, with ease to his conscience, subscribe all her articles. He may regret that all the attempts which have been made to open her gates to large classes of nonconformists should have failed. Her episcopal polity he may consider as of purely human institution. He cannot defend her on the ground that she possesses the apostolical succession; for he does not know whether that succession may not be altogether a fable. He cannot defend her on the ground of her unity; for he knows that her frontier sects are much more remote from each other, than one frontier is from the Church of Rome, or the other from the Church of Geneva. But he may think that she teaches more truth with less alloy of error than would be taught by those who, if she were swept away, would occupy the vacant space. He may think that the effect produced by her beautiful services and by her pulpits on the national mind, is, on the whole, highly beneficial. He may think that her civilising influence is usefully felt in remote districts. He may think that, if she were destroyed, a large portion of those who now compose her congregations would neglect all religious duties, and that a still larger portion would fall under the influence of spiritual mountebanks, hungry for gain, or drunk with fanaticism. While he would with pleasure admit that all the qualities of Christian pastors are to be found in large measure within the existing body of Dissenting ministers, he would perhaps be inclined to think that the standard of intellectual and moral character among that exemplary class of men may have been raised to its present high point and maintained there by the indirect influence of the Establishment. And he may be by no means satisfied that, if the Church were at once swept away, the place of our Sumners and Whatelys would be supplied by Doddridges and Halls. He may think that the advantages which we have described are obtained, or might, if the existing system were slightly modified, be obtained, without any sacrifice of the paramount objects which all Governments ought to have chiefly in view. Nay, he may be of opinion that an institution, so deeply fixed in the hearts and minds of millions, could not be subverted without loosening and shaking all the foundations of civil society. With at least equal ease he would find reasons for supporting the Church of Scotland. Nor would he be under the necessity of resorting to any contract to justify the connection of two religious establishments with one Government. He would think scruples on that head frivolous in any person who is zealous for a Church, of which both Dr. Herbert Marsh and Dr. Daniel Wilson have been bishops. Indeed he would gladly follow out his principles much further. He would have been willing to vote in 1825 for Lord Francis Egerton's resolution, that it is expedient to give a public maintenance to the Catholic clergy of Ireland: and he would deeply regret that no such measure was adopted in 1829. In this way, we conceive, a statesman might on our principles satisfy himself that it would be in the highest degree inexpedient to abolish the Church, either of England or of Scotland. But if there were, in any part of the world, a national Church regarded as heretical by four-fifths of the nation committed to its care, a Church established and maintained by the sword, a Church producing twice as many riots as conversions, a Church which, though possessing great wealth and power, and though long backed by persecuting laws, had, in the course of many generations, been found unable to propagate its doctrines, and barely able to maintain its ground, a Church so odious, that fraud and violence, when used against its clear rights of property, were generally regarded as fair play, a Church, whose ministers were preaching to desolate walls, and with difficulty obtaining their lawful subsistence by the help of bayonets, such a Church, on our principles, could not, we must own, be defended. We should say that the State which allied itself with such a Church postponed the primary end of Government to the secondary: and that the consequences had been such as any sagacious observer would have predicted. Neither the primary nor the secondary end is attained. The temporal and spiritual interests of the people suffer alike. The minds of men, instead of being drawn to the Church, are alienated from the State. The magistrate, after sacrificing order, peace, union, all the interests which it is his first duty to protect, for the purpose of promoting pure religion, is forced, after the experience of centuries, to admit that he has really been promoting error. The sounder the doctrines of such a Church, the more absurd and noxious the superstition by which those doctrines are opposed, the stronger are the arguments against the policy which has deprived a good cause of its natural advantages. Those who preach to rulers the duty of employing power to propagate truth would do well to remember that falsehood, though no match for truth alone, has often been found more than a match for truth and power together. A statesman, judging on our principles, would pronounce without hesitation that a Church, such as we have last described, never ought to have been set up. Further than this we will not venture to speak for him. He would doubtless remember that the world is full of institutions which, though they never ought to have been set up, yet, having been set up, ought not to be rudely pulled down; and that it is often wise in practice to be content with the mitigation of an abuse which, looking at it in the abstract, we might feel impatient to destroy. We have done; and nothing remains but that we part from Mr. Gladstone with the courtesy of antagonists who bear no malice. We dissent from his opinions, but we admire his talents; we respect his integrity and benevolence; and we hope that he will not suffer political avocations so entirely to engross him, as to leave him no leisure for literature and philosophy. FRANCIS BACON (July 1837) The Works of Francis Bacon, Lord Chancellor of England. A new Edition. By BASIL MONTAGU, Esq., 16 vols. 8vo. London: 1825-1834. WE return our hearty thanks to Mr. Montagu. for this truly valuable work. From the opinions which he expresses as a biographer we often dissent. But about his merit as a collector of the materials out of which opinions are formed, there can be no dispute; and we readily acknowledge that we are in a great measure indebted to his minute and accurate researches for the means of refuting what we cannot but consider as his errors. The labour which has been bestowed on this volume has been a labour of love. The writer is evidently enamoured of the subject. It fills his heart. It constantly overflows from his lips and his pen. Those who are acquainted with the Courts in which Mr. Montagu practises with so much ability and success well know how often he enlivens the discussion of a point of law by citing some weighty aphorism, or some brilliant illustration, from the De Augmentis or the Novum Organum. The Life before us doubtless owes much of its value to the honest and generous enthusiasm of the writer. This feeling has stimulated his activity, has sustained his perseverance, has called forth all his ingenuity and eloquence; but, on the other hand, we must frankly say that it has, to a great extent, perverted his judgment. We are by no means without sympathy for Mr. Montagu even in what we consider as his weakness. There is scarcely any delusion which has a better claim to be indulgently treated than that under the influence of which a man ascribes every moral excellence to those who have left imperishable monuments of their genius. The causes of this error lie deep in the inmost recesses of human nature. We are all inclined to judge of others as we find them. Our estimate of a character always depends much on the manner in which that character affects our own interests and passions. We find it difficult to think well of those by whom we are thwarted or depressed; and we are ready to admit every excuse for the vices of those who are useful or agreeable to us. This is, we believe, one of those illusions to which the whole human race is subject, and which experience and reflection can only partially remove, It is, in the phraseology of Bacon, one of the idola tribus. Hence it is that the moral character of a man eminent in letters or in the fine arts is treated, often by contemporaries, almost always by posterity, with extraordinary tenderness. The world derives pleasure and advantage from the performances of such a man. The number of those who suffer by his personal vices is small, even in his own time, when compared with the number of those to whom his talents are a source of gratification. In a few years all those whom he has injured disappear. But his works remain, and are a source of delight to millions. The genius of Sallust is still with us. But the Numidians whom he plundered, and the unfortunate husbands who caught him in their houses at unseasonable hours, are forgotten. We suffer ourselves to be delighted by the keenness of Clarendon's observation, and by the sober majesty of his style, till we forget the oppressor and the bigot in the historian. Falstaff and Tom Jones have survived the gamekeepers whom Shakspeare cudgelled and the landladies whom Fielding bilked. A great writer is the friend and benefactor of his readers; and they cannot but judge of him under the deluding influence of friendship and gratitude. We all know how unwilling we are to admit the truth of any disgraceful story about a person whose society we like, and from whom we have received favours; how long we struggle against evidence, how fondly, when the facts cannot be disputed, we cling to the hope that there may be some explanation or some extenuating circumstance with which we are unacquainted. Just such is the feeling which a man of liberal education naturally entertains towards the great minds of former ages. The debt which he owes to them is incalculable. They have guided him to truth. They have filled his mind with noble and graceful images. They have stood by him in all vicissitudes, comforters in sorrow, nurses in sickness, companions in solitude. These friendships are exposed to no danger from the occurrences by which other attachments are weakened or dissolved. Time glides on; fortune is inconstant; tempers are soured; bonds which seemed indissoluble are daily sundered by interest, by emulation, or by caprice. But no such cause can affect the silent converse which we hold with the highest of human intellects. That placid intercourse is disturbed by no jealousies or resentments. These are the old friends who are never seen with new faces, who axe the same in wealth and in poverty, in glory and in obscurity. With the dead there is no rivalry. In the dead there is no change. Plato is never sullen. Cervantes is never petulant. Demosthenes never comes unseasonably. Dante never stays too long. No difference of political opinion can alienate Cicero. No heresy can excite the horror of Bossuet. Nothing, then, can be more natural than that a person endowed with sensibility and imagination should entertain a respectful and affectionate feeling towards those great men with whose minds he holds daily communion. Yet nothing can be more certain than that such men have not always deserved to be regarded with respect or affection. Some writers, whose works will continue to instruct and delight mankind to the remotest ages, have been placed in such situations that their actions and motives are as well known to us as the actions and motives of one human being can be known to another; and unhappily their conduct has not always been such as an impartial judge can contemplate with approbation. But the fanaticism of the devout worshipper of genius is proof against all evidence and all argument. The character of his idol is matter of faith; and the province of faith is not to be invaded by reason. He maintains his superstition with a credulity as boundless, and a zeal as unscrupulous, as can be found in the most ardent partisans of religious or political factions. The most decisive proofs are rejected; the plainest rules of morality are explained away; extensive and important portions of history are completely distorted. The enthusiast misrepresents facts with all the effrontery of an advocate, and confounds right and wrong with all the dexterity of a Jesuit; and all this only in order that some man who has been in his grave during many ages may have a fairer character than he deserves. Middleton's Life of Cicero is a striking instance of the influence of this sort of partiality. Never was there a character which it was easier to read than that of Cicero. Never was there a mind keener or more critical than that of Middleton. Had the biographer brought to the examination of his favourite statesman's conduct but a very small part of the acuteness and severity which he displayed when he was engaged in investigating the high pretensions of Epiphanius and Justin Martyr, he could not have failed to produce a most valuable history of a most interesting portion of time. But this most ingenious and learned man, though "So wary held and wise That, as 'twas said, he scarce received For gospel what the church believed," had a superstition of his own. The great Iconoclast was himself an idolater. The great Avvocato del Diavolo, while he disputed, with no small ability, the claims of Cyprian and Athanasius to a place in the Calendar, was himself composing a lying legend in honour of St. Tully. He was holding up as a model of every virtue a man whose talents and acquirements, indeed, can never be too highly extolled, and who was by no means destitute of amiable qualities, but whose whole soul was under the dominion of a girlish vanity and a craven fear. Actions for which Cicero himself, the most eloquent and skilful of advocates, could contrive no excuse, actions which in his confidential correspondence he mentioned with remorse and shame, are represented by his biographer as wise, virtuous, heroic. The whole history of that great revolution which overthrew the Roman aristocracy, the whole state of parties, the character of every public man, is elaborately misrepresented, in order to make out something which may look like a defence of one most eloquent and accomplished trimmer. The volume before us reminds us now and then of the Life of Cicero. But there is this marked difference. Dr. Middleton evidently had an uneasy consciousness of the weakness of his cause, and therefore resorted to the most disingenuous shifts, to unpardonable distortions and suppressions of facts. Mr. Montagu's faith is sincere and implicit. He practises no trickery. He conceals nothing. He puts the facts before us in the full confidence that they will produce on our minds the effect which they have produced on his own. It is not till he comes to reason from facts to motives that his partiality shows itself; and then he leaves Middleton himself far behind. His work proceeds on the assumption that Bacon was an eminently virtuous man. From the tree Mr. Montagu judges of the fruit. He is forced to relate many actions which, if any man but Bacon had committed them, nobody would have dreamed of defending, actions which are readily and completely explained by supposing Bacon to have been a man whose principles were not strict, and whose spirit was not high, actions which can be explained in no other way without resorting to some grotesque hypothesis for which there is not a tittle of evidence. But any hypothesis is, in Mr. Montagu's opinion, more probable than that his hero should ever have done anything very wrong. This mode of defending Bacon seems to us by no means Baconian. To take a man's character for granted, and then from his character to infer the moral quality of all his actions, is surely a process the very reverse of that which is recommended in the Novum Organum. Nothing, we are sure, could have led Mr. Montagu to depart so far from his master's precepts, except zeal for his master's honour. We shall follow a different course. We shall attempt, with the valuable assistance which Mr. Montagu has afforded us, to frame such an account of Bacon's life as may enable our readers correctly to estimate his character. It is hardly necessary to say that Francis Bacon was the son of Sir Nicholas Bacon, who held the great seal of England during the first twenty years of the reign of Elizabeth. The fame of the father has been thrown into shade by that of the son. But Sir Nicholas was no ordinary man. He belonged to a set of men whom it is easier to describe collectively than separately, whose minds were formed by one system of discipline, who belonged to one rank in society, to one university, to one party, to one sect, to one administration, and who resembled each other so much in talents, in opinions, in habits, in fortunes, that one character, we had almost said one life, may, to a considerable extent, serve for them all. They were the first generation of statesmen by profession that England produced. Before their time the division of labour had, in this respect, been very imperfect. Those who had directed public affairs had been, with few exceptions, warriors or priests; warriors whose rude courage was neither guided by science nor softened by humanity, priests whose learning and abilities were habitually devoted to the defence of tyranny and imposture. The Hotspurs, the Nevilles, the Cliffords, rough, illiterate, and unreflecting, brought to the council-board the fierce and imperious disposition which they had acquired amidst the tumult of predatory war, or in the gloomy repose of the garrisoned and moated castle. On the other side was the calm and subtle prelate, versed in all that was then considered as learning, trained in the Schools to manage words, and in the confessional to manage hearts, seldom superstitious, but skilful in practising on the superstition of others; false, as it was natural that a man should be whose profession imposed on all who were not saints the necessity of being hypocrites; selfish, as it was natural that a man should be who could form no domestic ties and cherish no hope of legitimate posterity, more attached to his order than to his country, and guiding the politics of England with a constant side-glance at Rome. But the increase of wealth, the progress of knowledge, and the reformation of religion produced a great change. The nobles ceased to be military chieftains; the priests ceased to possess a monopoly of learning; and a new and remarkable species of politicians appeared. These men came from neither of the classes which had, till then, almost exclusively furnished ministers of state. They were all laymen; yet they were all men of learning; and they were all men of peace. They were not members of the aristocracy. They inherited no titles, no large domains, no armies of retainers, no fortified castles. Yet they were not low men, such as those whom princes, jealous of the power of a nobility, have sometimes raised from forges and cobblers' stalls to the highest situations. They were all gentlemen by birth. They had all received a liberal education. It is a remarkable fact that they were all members of the same university. The two great national seats of learning had even then acquired the characters which they still retain. In intellectual activity, and in readiness to admit improvements, the superiority was then, as it has ever since been, on the side of the less ancient and splendid institution. Cambridge had the honour of educating those celebrated Protestant Bishops whom Oxford had the honour of burning; and at Cambridge were formed the minds of all those statesmen to whom chiefly is to be attributed the secure establishment of the reformed religion in the north of Europe. The statesmen of whom we speak passed their youth surrounded by the incessant din of theological controversy. Opinions were still in a state of chaotic anarchy, intermingling, separating, advancing, receding. Sometimes the stubborn bigotry of the Conservatives seemed likely to prevail. Then the impetuous onset of the Reformers for a moment carried all before it. Then again the resisting mass made a desperate stand, arrested the movement, and forced it slowly back. The vacillation which at that time appeared in English legislation, and which it has been the fashion to attribute to the caprice and to the power of one or two individuals, was truly a national vacillation. It was not only in the mind of Henry that the new theology obtained the ascendant one day, and that the lessons of the nurse and of the priest regained their influence on the morrow. It was not only in the House of Tudor that the husband was exasperated by the opposition of the wife, that the son dissented from the opinions of the father, that the brother persecuted the sister, that one sister persecuted another. The principles of Conservation and Reform carried on their warfare in every part of society, in every congregation, in every school of learning, round the hearth of every private family, in the recesses of every reflecting mind. It was in the midst of this ferment that the minds of the persons whom we are describing were developed. They were born Reformers. They belonged by nature to that order of men who always form the front ranks in the great intellectual progress. They were therefore, one and all, Protestants. In religious matters, however, though there is no reason to doubt that they were sincere, they were by no means zealous. None of them chose to run the smallest personal risk during the reign of Mary. None of them favoured the unhappy attempt of Northumberland in favour of his daughter-in-law. None of them shared in the desperate councils of Wyatt. They contrived to have business on the Continent; or, if they staid in England, they heard mass and kept Lent with great decorum. When those dark and perilous years had gone by, and when the Crown had descended to a new sovereign, they took the lead in the reformation of the Church. But they proceeded, not with the impetuosity of theologians, but with the calm determination of statesmen. They acted, not like men who considered the Romish worship as a system too offensive to God, and too destructive of souls, to be tolerated for an hour, but like men who regarded the points in dispute among Christians as in themselves unimportant, and who were not restrained by any scruple of conscience from professing, as they had before professed, the Catholic faith of Mary, the Protestant faith of Edward, or any of the numerous intermediate combinations which the caprice of Henry and the servile policy of Cranmer had formed out of the doctrines of both the hostile parties. They took a deliberate view of the state of their own country and of the Continent: they satisfied themselves as to the leaning of the public mind; and they chose their side. They placed themselves at the head of the Protestants of Europe, and staked all their fame and fortunes on the success of their party. It is needless to relate how dexterously, how resolutely, how gloriously they directed the politics of England during the eventful years which followed, how they succeeded in uniting their friends and separating their enemies, how they humbled the pride of Philip, how they backed the unconquerable spirit of Coligny, how they rescued Holland from tyranny, how they founded the maritime greatness of their country, how they outwitted the artful politicians of Italy, and tamed the ferocious chieftains of Scotland. It is impossible to deny that they committed many acts which would justly bring on a statesman of our time censures of the most serious kind. But, when we consider the state of morality in their age, and the unscrupulous character of the adversaries against whom they had to contend, we are forced to admit that it is not without reason that their names are still held in veneration by their countrymen. There were, doubtless, many diversities in their intellectual and moral character. But there was a strong family likeness. The constitution of their minds was remarkably sound. No particular faculty was pre-eminently developed; but manly health and vigour were equally diffused through the whole. They were men of letters. Their minds were by nature and by exercise well fashioned for speculative pursuits. It was by circumstances, rather than by any strong bias of inclination, that they were led to take a prominent part in active life. In active life, however, no men could be more perfectly free from the faults of mere theorists and pedants. No men observed more accurately the signs of the times. No men had a greater practical acquaintance with human nature. Their policy was generally characterised rather by vigilance, by moderation, and by firmness, than by invention, or by the spirit of enterprise. They spoke and wrote in a manner worthy of their excellent sense. Their eloquence was less copious and less ingenious, but far purer and more manly than that of the succeeding generation. It was the eloquence of men who had lived with the first translators of the Bible, and with the authors of the Book of Common Prayer. It was luminous, dignified, solid, and very slightly tainted with that affectation which deformed the style of the ablest men of the next age. If, as sometimes chanced, these politicians were under the necessity of taking a part in the theological controversies on which the dearest interests of kingdoms were then staked, they acquitted themselves as if their whole lives had been passed in the Schools and the Convocation. There was something in the temper of these celebrated men which secured them against the proverbial inconstancy both of the Court and of the multitude. No intrigue, no combination of rivals, could deprive them of the confidence of their Sovereign. No parliament attacked their influence. No mob coupled their names with any odious grievance. Their power ended only with their lives. In this respect, their fate presents a most remarkable contrast to that of the enterprising and brilliant politicians of the preceding and of the succeeding generation. Burleigh was Minister during forty years. Sir Nicholas Bacon held the great seal more than twenty years. Sir Walter Mildmay was Chancellor of the Exchequer twenty-three years. Sir Thomas Smith was Secretary of State eighteen years; Sir Francis Walsingham about as long. They all died in office, and in the enjoyment of public respect and royal favour. Far different had been the fate of Wolsey, Cromwell, Norfolk, Somerset, and Northumberland. Far different also was the fate of Essex, of Raleigh, and of the still more illustrious man whose life we propose to consider. The explanation of this circumstance is perhaps contained in the motto which Sir Nicholas Bacon inscribed over the entrance of his hall at Gorhambury, Mediocria firma. This maxim was constantly borne in mind by himself and his colleagues. They were more solicitous to lay the foundations of their power deep than to raise the structure to a conspicuous but insecure height. None of them aspired to be sole Minister. None of them provoked envy by an ostentatious display of wealth and influence. None of them affected to outshine the ancient aristocracy of the kingdom. They were free from that childish love of titles which characterised the successful courtiers of the generation which preceded them and of that which followed them. Only one of those whom we have named was made a peer; and he was content with the lowest degree of the peerage. As to money, none of them could, in that age, justly be considered as rapacious. Some of them would, even in our time, deserve the praise of eminent disinterestedness. Their fidelity to the State was incorruptible. Their private morals were without stain. Their households were sober and well governed. Among these statesmen Sir Nicholas Bacon was generally considered as ranking next to Burleigh. He was called by Camden "Sacris conciliis alterum columen"; and by George Buchanan, "diu Britannici Regni secundum columen." The second wife of Sir Nicholas and mother of Francis Bacon was Anne, one of the daughters of Sir Anthony Cooke, a man of distinguished learning who had been tutor to Edward the Sixth. Sir Anthony had paid considerable attention to the education of his daughters, and lived to see them all splendidly and happily married. Their classical acquirements made them conspicuous even among the women of fashion of that age. Katherine, who became Lady Killigrew, wrote Latin Hexameters and Pentameters which would appear with credit in the Musae Etonenses. Mildred, the wife of Lord Burleigh, was described by Roger Ascham as the best Greek scholar among the young women of England, Lady Jane Grey always excepted. Anne, the mother of Francis Bacon, was distinguished both as a linguist and as a theologian. She corresponded in Greek with Bishop Jewel, and translated his Apologia from the Latin, so correctly that neither he nor Archbishop Parker could suggest a single alteration. She also translated a series of sermons on fate and free-will from the Tuscan of Bernardo Ochino. This fact is the more curious, because Ochino was one of that small and audacious band of Italian reformers, anathematised alike by Wittenberg, by Geneva, by Zurich, and by Rome, from which the Socinian sect deduces its origin. Lady Bacon was doubtless a lady of highly cultivated mind after the fashion of her age. But we must not suffer ourselves to be deluded into the belief that she and her sisters were more accomplished women than many who are now living. On this subject there is, we think, much misapprehension. We have often heard men who wish, as almost all men of sense wish, that women should be highly educated, speak with rapture of the English ladies of the sixteenth century, and lament that they can find no modern damsel resembling those fair pupils of Ascham and Aylmer who compared, over their embroidery, the styles of Isocrates and Lysias, and who, while the horns were sounding, and the dogs in full cry, sat in the lonely oriel, with eyes riveted to that immortal page which tells how meekly and bravely the first great martyr of intellectual liberty took the cup from his weeping gaoler. But surely these complaints have very little foundation. We would by no means disparage the ladies of the sixteenth century or their pursuits. But we conceive that those who extol them at the expense of the women of our time forget one very obvious and very important circumstance. In the time of Henry the Eighth and Edward the Sixth, a person who did not read Greek and Latin could read nothing, or next to nothing. The Italian was the only modern language which possessed anything that could be called a literature. All the valuable books then extant in all the vernacular dialects of Europe would hardly have filled a single shelf, England did not yet possess Shakspeare's plays and the Fairy Queen, nor France Montaigne's Essays, nor Spain Don Quixote. In looking round a well-furnished library, how many English or French books can we find which were extant when Lady Jane Grey and Queen Elizabeth received their education? Chaucer, Gower, Froissart, Commines, Rabelais, nearly complete the list. It was therefore absolutely necessary that a woman should be uneducated or classically educated. Indeed, without a knowledge of one of the ancient languages no person could then have any clear notion of what was passing in the political, the literary, or the religious world. The Latin was in the sixteenth century all and more than all that the French was in the eighteenth. It was the language of courts as well as of the schools. It was the language of diplomacy; it was the language of theological and political controversy. Being a fixed language, while the living languages were in a state of fluctuation, and being universally known to the learned and the polite, it was employed by almost every writer who aspired to a wide and durable reputation. A person who was ignorant of it was shut out from all acquaintance, not merely with Cicero and Virgil, not merely with heavy treatises on canon-law and school divinity, but with the most interesting memoirs, state papers, and pamphlets of his own time, nay even with the most admired poetry and the most popular squibs which appeared on the fleeting topics of the day, with Buchanan's complimentary verses, with Erasmus's dialogues, with Hutten's epistles. This is no longer the case. All political and religious controversy is now conducted in the modern languages. The ancient tongues are used only in comments on the ancient writers. The great productions of Athenian and Roman genius are indeed still what they were. But though their positive value is unchanged, their relative value, when compared with the whole mass of mental wealth possessed by mankind, has been constantly falling. They were the intellectual all of our ancestors. They are but a part of our treasures. Over what tragedy could Lady Jane Grey have wept, over what comedy could she have smiled, if the ancient dramatists had not been in her library? A modern reader can make shift without Oedipus and Medea, while he possesses Othello and Hamlet. If he knows nothing of Pyrgopolynices and Thraso, he is familiar with Bobadil, and Bessus, and Pistol, and Parolles. If he cannot enjoy the delicious irony of Plato, he may find some compensation in that of Pascal. If he is shut out from Nephelococcygia, he may take refuge in Lilliput. We are guilty, we hope, of no irreverence towards those great nations to which the human race owes art, science, taste, civil and intellectual freedom, when we say, that the stock bequeathed by them to us has been so carefully improved that the accumulated interest now exceeds the principal. We believe that the books which have been written in the languages of western Europe, during the last two hundred and fifty years,--translations from the ancient languages of course included,--are of greater value than all the books which at the beginning of that period were extant in the world. With the modern languages of Europe English women are at least as well acquainted as English men. When, therefore, we compare the acquirements of Lady Jane Grey. with those of an accomplished young woman of our own time, we have no hesitation in awarding the superiority to the latter. We hope that our readers will pardon up this digression. It is long; but it can hardly be called unseasonable, if it tends to convince them that they are mistaken in thinking that the great-great-grandmothers of their great-great-grandmothers were superior women to their sisters and their wives. Francis Bacon, the youngest son of Sir Nicholas, was born at York House, his father's residence in the Strand, on the twenty-second of January 1561. The health of Francis was very delicate; and to this circumstance may be partly attributed that gravity of carriage, and that love of sedentary pursuits which distinguished him from other boys. Everybody knows how much sobriety of deportment and his premature readiness of wit amused the Queen, and how she used to call him her young Lord Keeper. We are told that, while still a mere child, he stole away from his playfellows to a vault in St. James's Fields, for the purpose of investigating the cause of a singular echo which he had observed there. It is certain that, at only twelve, he busied himself with very ingenious speculations on the art of legerdemain; a subject which, as Professor Dugald Stewart has most justly observed, merits much more attention from philosophers than it has ever received. These are trifles. But the eminence which Bacon afterwards attained makes them interesting. In the thirteenth year of his age he was entered at Trinity College, Cambridge. That celebrated school of learning enjoyed the peculiar favour of the Lord Treasurer and the Lord Keeper, and acknowledged the advantages which it derived from their patronage in a public letter which bears date just a month after the admission of Francis Bacon. The master was Whitgift, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, a narrow minded, mean, and tyrannical priest, who gained power by servility and adulation, and employed it in persecuting both those who agreed with Calvin about church-government, and those who differed from Calvin touching the doctrine of Reprobation. He was now in a chrysalis state, putting off the worm, and putting on the dragon-fly, a kind of intermediate grub between sycophant and oppressor. He was indemnifying himself for the court which he found it expedient to pay to the Ministers by exercising much petty tyranny within his own college. It would be unjust, however, to deny him the praise of having rendered about this time one important service to letters. He stood up manfully against those who wished to make Trinity College a mere appendage to Westminster school; and by this act, the only good act, as far as we remember, of his long public life, he saved the noblest place of education in England from the degrading fate of King's College and New College. It has often been said that Bacon, while still at college, planned that great intellectual revolution with which his name is inseparably connected. The evidence on this subject, however, is hardly sufficient to prove what is in itself so improbable as that any definite scheme of that kind should have been so early formed, even by so powerful and active a mind. But it is certain that, after a residence of three years at Cambridge, Bacon departed, carrying with him a profound contempt for the course of study pursued there, a fixed conviction that the system of academic education in England was radically vicious, a just scorn for the trifles on which the followers of Aristotle had wasted their powers, and no great reverence for Aristotle himself. In his sixteenth year he visited Paris, and resided there for some time, under the care of Sir Amias Paulet, Elizabeth's Minister at the French Court, and one of the ablest and most upright of the many valuable servants whom she employed. France was at that time in a deplorable state of agitation. The Huguenots and the Catholics were mustering all their force for the fiercest and most protracted of their many struggles; while the prince, whose duty it was to protect and to restrain both, had by his vices and follies degraded himself so deeply that he had no authority over either. Bacon, however, made a tour through several provinces, and appears to have passed some time at Poitiers. We have abundant proof that during his stay on the Continent he did not neglect literary and scientific pursuits. But his attention seems to have been chiefly directed to statistics and diplomacy. It was at this time that he wrote those Notes on the State of Europe which are printed in his works. He studied the principles of the art of deciphering with great interest, and invented one cipher so ingenious, that, many years later, he thought it deserving of a place in the De Augmentis. In February 1580, while engaged in these pursuits, he received intelligence of the almost sudden death of his father, and instantly returned to England. His prospects were greatly overcast by this event. He was most desirous to obtain a provision which might enable him to devote himself to literature and politics. He applied to the Government; and it seems strange that he should have applied in vain. His wishes were moderate. His hereditary claims on the administration were great. He had himself been favourably noticed by the Queen. His uncle was Prime Minister. His own talents were such as any Minister might have been eager to enlist in the public service. But his solicitations were unsuccessful. The truth is that the Cecils disliked him, and did all that they could decently do to keep him down. It has never been alleged that Bacon had done anything to merit this dislike; nor is it at all probable that a man whose temper was naturally mild, whose manners were courteous, who, through life, nursed his fortunes with the utmost care, and who was fearful even to a fault of offending the powerful, would have given any just cause of displeasure to a kinsman who had the means of rendering him essential service and of doing him irreparable injury. The real explanation, we believe, is this. Robert Cecil, the Treasurer's second son, was younger by a few months than Bacon. He had been educated with the utmost care, had been initiated, while still a boy, in the mysteries of diplomacy and court-intrigue, and was just at this time about to be produced on the stage of public life. The wish nearest to Burleigh's heart was that his own greatness might descend to this favourite child. But even Burleigh's fatherly partiality could hardly prevent him from perceiving that Robert, with all his abilities and acquirements, was no match for his cousin Francis. This seems to us the only rational explanation of the Treasurer's conduct. Mr. Montagu is more charitable. He supposes that Burleigh was influenced merely by affection for his nephew, and was "little disposed to encourage him to rely on others rather than on himself, and to venture on the quicksands of politics, instead of the certain profession of the law." If such were Burleigh's feelings, it seems strange that he should have suffered his son to venture on those quicksands from which he so carefully preserved his nephew. But the truth is that, if Burleigh had been so disposed, he might easily have secured to Bacon a comfortable provision which should have been exposed to no risk. And it is certain that he showed as little disposition to enable his nephew to live by a profession as to enable him to live without a profession. That Bacon himself attributed the conduct of his relatives to jealousy of his superior talents, we have not the smallest doubt. In a letter written many years later to Villiers, he expresses himself thus: "Countenance, encourage, and advance able men in all kinds, degrees, and professions. For in the time of the Cecils, the father and the son, able men were by design and of purpose suppressed." Whatever Burleigh's motives might be, his purpose was unalterable. The supplications which Francis addressed to his uncle and aunt were earnest, humble, and almost servile. He was the most promising and accomplished young man of his time. His father had been the brother-in-law, the most useful colleague, the nearest friend of the Minister. But all this availed poor Francis nothing. He was forced, much against his will, to betake himself to the study of the law. He was admitted at Gray's Inn; and during some years, he laboured there in obscurity. What the extent of his legal attainments may have been it is difficult to say. It was not hard for a man of his powers to acquire that very moderate portion of technical knowledge which, when joined to quickness, tact, wit, ingenuity, eloquence, and knowledge of the world, is sufficient to raise an advocate to the highest professional eminence. The general opinion appears to have been that which was on one occasion expressed by Elizabeth. "Bacon," said she, "hath a great wit and much learning; but in law showeth to the utmost of his knowledge, and is not deep." The Cecils, we suspect, did their best to spread this opinion by whispers and insinuations. Coke openly proclaimed it with that rancorous insolence which was habitual to him. No reports are more readily believed than those which disparage genius, and soothe the envy of conscious mediocrity. It must have been inexpressibly consoling to a stupid sergeant, the forerunner of him who, a hundred and fifty years later, "shook his head at Murray as a wit," to know that the most profound thinker and the most accomplished orator of the age was very imperfectly acquainted with the law touching bastard eigne and mulier puisne, and confounded the right of free fishery with that of common piscary. It is certain that no man in that age, or indeed during the century and a half which followed, was better acquainted than Bacon with the philosophy of law. His technical knowledge was quite sufficient, with the help of his admirable talents and of his insinuating address, to procure clients. He rose very rapidly into business, and soon entertained hopes of being called within the bar. He applied to Lord Burleigh for that purpose, but received a testy refusal. Of the grounds of that refusal we can, in some measure, judge by Bacon's answer, which is still extant. It seems that the old Lord, whose temper, age and gout had by no means altered for the better, and who loved to mark his dislike of the showy, quick-witted young men of the rising generation, took this opportunity to read Francis a very sharp lecture on his vanity and want of respect for his betters. Francis returned a most submissive reply, thanked the Treasurer for the admonition, and promised to profit by it. Strangers meanwhile were less unjust to the young barrister than his nearest kinsman had been. In his twenty-sixth year he became a bencher of his Inn; and two years later he was appointed Lent reader. At length, in 1590, he obtained for the first time some show of favour from the Court. He was sworn in Queen's Counsel extraordinary. But this mark of honour was not accompanied by any pecuniary emolument. He continued, therefore, to solicit his powerful relatives for some provision which might enable him to live without drudging at his profession. He bore, with a patience and serenity which, we fear, bordered on meanness, the morose humours of his uncle, and the sneering reflections which his cousin cast on speculative men, lost in philosophical dreams, and too wise to be capable of transacting public business. At length the Cecils were generous enough to procure for him the reversion of the Registrarship of the Star-Chamber. This was a lucrative place; but, as many years elapsed before it fell in, he was still under the necessity of labouring for his daily bread. In the Parliament which was called in 1593 he sat as member for the county of Middlesex, and soon attained eminence as a debater. It is easy to perceive from the scanty remains of his oratory that the same compactness of expression and richness of fancy which appear in his writings characterised his speeches; and that his extensive acquaintance with literature and history enabled him to entertain his audience with a vast variety of illustrations and allusions which were generally happy and apposite, but which were probably not least pleasing to the taste of that age when they were such as would now be thought childish or pedantic. It is evident also that he was, as indeed might have been expected, perfectly free from those faults which are generally found in an advocate who, after having risen to eminence at the bar, enters the House of Commons; that it was his habit to deal with every great question, not in small detached portions, but as a whole; that he refined little, and that his reasonings were those of a capacious rather than a subtle mind. Ben Jonson, a most unexceptionable judge, has described Bacon's eloquence in words, which, though often quoted, will bear to be quoted again. "There happened in my time one noble speaker who was full of gravity in his speaking. His language, where he could spare or pass by a jest, was nobly censorious. No man ever spoke more neatly, more pressly, more weightily, or suffered less emptiness, less idleness, in what he uttered. No member of his speech but consisted of his own graces. His hearers could not cough or look aside from him without loss. He commanded where he spoke, and had his judges angry and pleased at his devotion. No man had their affections more in his power. The fear of every man that heard him was lest he should make an end." From the mention which is made of judges, it would seem that Jonson had heard Bacon only at the Bar. Indeed we imagine that the House of Commons was then almost inaccessible to strangers. It is not probable that a man of Bacon's nice observation would speak in Parliament exactly as he spoke in the Court of Queen's Bench. But the graces of manner and language must, to a great extent, have been common between the Queen's Counsel and the Knight of the Shire. Bacon tried to play a very difficult game in politics. He wished to be at once a favourite at Court and popular with the multitude. If any man could have succeeded in this attempt, a man of talents so rare, of judgment so prematurely ripe, of temper so calm, and of manners so plausible, might have been expected to succeed. Nor indeed did he wholly fail. Once, however, he indulged in a burst of patriotism which cost him a long and bitter remorse, and which he never ventured to repeat. The Court asked for large subsidies and for speedy payment. The remains of Bacon's speech breathe all the spirit of the Long Parliament. "The gentlemen," said he, "must sell their plate, and the farmers their brass pots, ere this will be paid; and for us, we are here to search the wounds of the realm, and not to skim them over. The dangers are these. First, we shall breed discontent and endanger her Majesty's safety, which must consist more in the love of the people than their wealth. Secondly, this being granted in this sort, other princes hereafter will look for the like; so that we shall put an evil precedent on ourselves and our posterity; and in histories, it is to be observed, of all nations the English are not to be subject, base, or taxable." The Queen and her Ministers resented this outbreak of public spirit in the highest manner. Indeed, many an honest member of the House of Commons had, for a much smaller matter, been sent to the Tower by the proud and hot-blooded Tudors. The young patriot condescended to make the most abject apologies. He adjured the Lord Treasurer to show some favour to his poor servant and ally. He bemoaned himself to the Lord Keeper, in a letter which may keep in countenance the most unmanly of the epistles which Cicero wrote during his banishment. The lesson was not thrown away. Bacon never offended in the same manner again. He was now satisfied that he had little to hope from the patronage of those powerful kinsmen whom he had solicited during twelve years with such meek pertinacity; and he began to look towards a different quarter. Among the courtiers of Elizabeth had lately appeared a new favourite, young, noble, wealthy, accomplished, eloquent brave, generous, aspiring; a favourite who had obtained from the grey-headed Queen such marks of regard as she had scarce vouchsafed to Leicester in the season of the passions; who was at once the ornament of the palace and the idol of the city. who was the common patron of men of letters and of men of the sword; who was the common refuge of the persecuted Catholic and of the persecuted Puritan. The calm prudence which had enabled Burleigh to shape his course through so many dangers, and the vast experience which he had acquired in dealing with two generations of colleagues and rivals, seemed scarcely sufficient to support him in this new competition; and Robert Cecil sickened with fear and envy as he contemplated the rising fame and influence of Essex. The history of the factions which, towards the close of the reign of Elizabeth, divided her court and her council, though pregnant with instruction, is by no means interesting or pleasing. Both parties employed the means which are familiar to unscrupulous statesmen; and neither had, or even pretended to have, any important end in view. The public mind was then reposing from one great effort, and collecting strength for another. That impetuous and appalling rush with which the human intellect had moved forward in the career of truth and liberty, during the fifty years which followed the separation of Luther from the communion of the Church of Rome, was now over. The boundary between Protestantism and Popery had been fixed very nearly where it still remains. England, Scotland, the Northern kingdoms were on one side; Ireland, Spain, Portugal, Italy, on the other. The line of demarcation ran, as it still runs, through the midst of the Netherlands, of Germany, and of Switzerland, dividing province from province, electorate from electorate, and canton from canton. France might be considered as a debatable land, in which the contest was still undecided. Since that time, the two religions have done little more than maintain their ground. A few occasional incursions have been made. But the general frontier remains the same. During two hundred and fifty years no great society has risen up like one man, and emancipated itself by one mighty effort from the superstition of ages. This spectacle was common in the sixteenth century. Why has it ceased to be so? Why has so violent a movement been followed by so long a repose? The doctrines of the Reformers are not less agreeable to reason or to revelation now than formerly. The public mind is assuredly not less enlightened now than formerly. Why is it that Protestantism, after carrying everything before it in a time of comparatively little knowledge and little freedom, should make no perceptible progress in a reasoning and tolerant age; that the Luthers, the Calvins, the Knoxes, the Zwingles, should have left no successors; that during two centuries and a half fewer converts should have been brought over from the Church of Rome than at the time of the Reformation were sometimes gained in a year? This has always appeared to us one of the most curious and interesting problems in history. On some future occasion we may perhaps attempt to solve it. At present it is enough to say that, at the close of Elizabeth's reign, the Protestant party, to borrow the language of the Apocalypse, had left its first love and had ceased to do its first works. The great struggle of the sixteenth century was over. The great struggle of the seventeenth century had not commenced. The confessors of Mary's reign were dead. The members of the Long Parliament were still in their cradles. The Papists had been deprived of all power in the State. The Puritans had not yet attained any formidable extent of power. True it is that a student, well acquainted with the history of the next generation, can easily discern in the proceedings of the last Parliaments of Elizabeth the germ of great and ever memorable events. But to the eye of a contemporary nothing of this appeared. The two sections of ambitious men who were struggling for power differed from each other on no important public question. Both belonged to the Established Church. Both professed boundless loyalty to the Queen. Both approved the war with Spain. There is not, as far as we are aware, any reason to believe that they entertained different views concerning the succession to the Crown. Certainly neither faction had any great measure of reform in view. Neither attempted to redress any public grievance. The most odious and pernicious grievance under which the nation then suffered was a source of profit to both, and was defended by both with equal zeal. Raleigh held a monopoly of cards, Essex a monopoly of sweet wines. In fact, the only ground of quarrel between the parties was that they could not agree as to their respective shares of power and patronage. Nothing in the political conduct of Essex entitles him to esteem; and the pity with which we regard his early and terrible end is diminished by the consideration, that he put to hazard the lives and fortunes of his most attached friends, and endeavoured to throw the whole country into confusion, for objects purely personal. Still, it is impossible not to be deeply interested for a man so brave, high-spirited, and generous; for a man who, while he conducted himself towards his sovereign with a boldness such as was then found in no other subject, conducted himself towards his dependants with a delicacy such as has rarely been found in any other patron. Unlike the vulgar herd of benefactors, he desired to inspire, not gratitude, but affection. He tried to make those whom he befriended feel towards him as towards an equal. His mind, ardent, susceptible, naturally disposed to admiration of all that is great and beautiful, was fascinated by the genius and the accomplishments of Bacon. A close friendship was soon formed between them, a friendship destined to have a dark, a mournful, a shameful end. In 1594 the office of Attorney-General became vacant, and Bacon hoped to obtain it. Essex made his friend's cause his own, sued, expostulated, promised, threatened, but all in vain. It is probable that the dislike felt by the Cecils for Bacon had been increased by the connection which he had lately formed with the Earl. Robert was then on the point of being made Secretary of State. He happened one day to be in the same coach with Essex, and a remarkable conversation took place between them. "My Lord," said Sir Robert, "the Queen has determined to appoint an Attorney-General without more delay. I pray your Lordship to let me know whom you will favour." "I wonder at your question," replied the Earl. "You cannot but know that resolutely, against all the world, I stand for your cousin, Francis Bacon." "Good Lord!" cried Cecil, unable to bridle his temper, "I wonder your Lordship should spend your strength on so unlikely a matter. Can you name one precedent of so raw a youth promoted to so great a place?" This objection came with a singularly bad grace from a man who, though younger than Bacon, was in daily expectation of being made Secretary of State. The blot was too obvious to be missed by Essex, who seldom forbore to speak his mind. "I have made no search," said he, "for precedents of young men who have filled the office of Attorney-General. But I could name to you, Sir Robert, a man younger than Francis, less learned, and equally inexperienced, who is suing and striving with all his might for an office of far greater weight." Sir Robert had nothing to say but that he thought his own abilities equal to the place which he hoped to obtain, and that his father's long services deserved such a mark of gratitude from the Queen; as if his abilities were comparable to his cousin's, or as if Sir Nicholas Bacon had done no service to the State. Cecil then hinted that, if Bacon would be satisfied with the Solicitorship, that might be of easier digestion to the Queen. "Digest me no digestions," said the generous and ardent Earl. "The Attorneyship for Francis is that I must have; and in that I will spend all my power, might, authority, and amity; and with tooth and nail procure the same for him against whomsoever; and whosoever getteth this office out of my hands for any other, before he have it, it shall cost him the coming by. And this be you assured of, Sir Robert, for now I fully declare myself; and for my own part, Sir Robert, I think strange both of my Lord Treasurer and you, that can have the mind to seek the preference of a stranger before so near a kinsman; for if you weigh in a balance the parts every way of his competitor and him, only excepting five poor years of admitting to a house of court before Francis, you shall find in all other respects whatsoever no comparison between them." When the office of Attorney-General was filled up, the Earl pressed the Queen to make Bacon Solicitor-General, and, on this occasion, the old Lord Treasurer professed himself not unfavourable to his nephew's pretensions. But after a contest which lasted more than a year and a half, and in which Essex, to use his own words, "spent all his power, might, authority, and amity," the place was given to another. Essex felt this disappointment keenly, but found consolation in the most munificent and delicate liberality. He presented Bacon with an estate worth near two thousand pounds, situated at Twickenham; and this, as Bacon owned many years after, "with so kind and noble circumstances as the manner was worth more than the matter." It was soon after these events that Bacon first appeared before the public as a writer. Early in 1597 he published a small volume of Essays, which was afterwards enlarged by successive additions to many times its original bulk. This little work was, as it well deserved to be, exceedingly popular. It was reprinted in a few months; it was translated into Latin, French, and Italian; and it seems to have at once established the literary reputation of its author. But, though Bacon's reputation rose, his fortunes were still depressed. He was in great pecuniary difficulties; and, on one occasion, was arrested in the street at the suit of a goldsmith for a debt of three hundred pounds, and was carried to a spunging-house in Coleman Street. The kindness of Essex was in the meantime indefatigable. In 1596 he sailed on his memorable expedition to the coast of Spain. At the very moment of his embarkation, he wrote to several of his friends, commending, to them, during his own absence, the interests of Bacon. He returned, after performing the most brilliant military exploit that was achieved on the Continent by English arms during the long interval which elapsed between the battle of Agincourt and that of Blenheim. His valour, his talents, his humane and generous disposition, had made him the idol of his countrymen, and had extorted praise from the enemies whom he had conquered. [See Cervantes's Novela de la Espanola Inglesa.] He had always been proud and headstrong; and his splendid success seems to have rendered his faults more offensive than ever. But to his friend Francis he was still the same. Bacon had some thoughts of making his fortune by marriage, and had begun to pay court to a widow of the name of Hatton. The eccentric manners and violent temper of this woman made her a disgrace and a torment to her connections. But Bacon was not aware of her faults, or was disposed to overlook them for the sake of her ample fortune. Essex pleaded his friend's cause with his usual ardour. The letters which the Earl addressed to Lady Hatton and to her mother are still extant, and are highly honourable to him. "If," he wrote, "she were my sister or my daughter, I protest I would as confidently resolve to further it as I now persuade you"; and again, "If my faith be anything, I protest, if I had one as near me as she is to you, I had rather match her with him, than with men of far greater titles." The suit, happily for Bacon, was unsuccessful. The lady indeed was kind to him in more ways than one. She rejected him; and she accepted his enemy. She married that narrow-minded, bad-hearted pedant, Sir Edward Coke, and did her best to make him as miserable as he deserved to be. The fortunes of Essex had now reached their height, and began to decline. He possessed indeed all the qualities which raise men to greatness rapidly. But he had neither the virtues nor the vices which enable men to retain greatness long. His frankness, his keen sensibility to insult and injustice, were by no means agreeable to a sovereign naturally impatient of opposition, and accustomed, during forty years, to the most extravagant flattery and the most abject submission. The daring and contemptuous manner in which he bade defiance to his enemies excited their deadly hatred. His administration in Ireland was unfortunate, and in many respects highly blamable. Though his brilliant courage and his impetuous activity fitted him admirably for such enterprises as that of Cadiz, he did not possess the caution, patience, and resolution necessary for the conduct of a protracted war, in which difficulties were to be gradually surmounted, in which much discomfort was to be endured, and in which few splendid exploits could be achieved. For the civil duties of his high place he was still less qualified. Though eloquent and accomplished, he was in no sense a statesman. The multitude indeed still continued to regard even his faults with fondness. But the Court had ceased to give him credit, even for the merit which he really possessed. The person on whom, during the decline of his influence, he chiefly depended, to whom he confided his perplexities, whose advice he solicited, whose intercession he employed, was his friend Bacon. The lamentable truth must be told. This friend, so loved, so trusted, bore a principal part in ruining the Earl's fortunes, in shedding his blood, and in blackening his memory. But let us be just to Bacon. We believe that, to the last, he had no wish to injure Essex. Nay, we believe that he sincerely exerted himself to serve Essex, as long as he thought that he could serve Essex without injuring himself. The advice which he gave to his noble benefactor was generally most judicious. He did all in his power to dissuade the Earl from accepting the Government of Ireland. "For," says he, "I did as plainly see, his overthrow chained as it were by destiny to that journey, as it is possible for a man to ground a judgment upon future contingents." The prediction was accomplished. Essex returned in disgrace. Bacon attempted to mediate between his friend and the Queen; and, we believe, honestly employed all his address for that purpose. But the task which he had undertaken was too difficult, delicate, and perilous, even for so wary and dexterous an agent. He had to manage two spirits equally proud, resentful) and ungovernable. At Essex House, he had to calm the rage of a young hero incensed by multiplied wrongs and humiliations) and then to pass to Whitehall for the purpose of soothing the peevishness of a sovereign, whose temper, never very gentle, had been rendered morbidly irritable by age, by declining health, and by the long habit of listening to flattery and exacting implicit obedience. It is hard to serve two masters. Situated as Bacon was, it was scarcely possible for him to shape his course so as not to give one or both of his employers reason to complain. For a time he acted as fairly as, in circumstances so embarrassing, could reasonably be expected. At length he found that, while he was trying to prop the fortunes of another, he was in danger of shaking his own. He had disobliged both the parties whom he wished to reconcile. Essex thought him wanting in zeal as a friend: Elizabeth thought him wanting in duty as a subject. The Earl looked on him as a spy of the Queen; the Queen as a creature of the Earl. The reconciliation which he had laboured to effect appeared utterly hopeless. A thousand signs, legible to eyes far less keen than his, announced that the fall of his patron was at hand. He shaped his course accordingly. When Essex was brought before the council to answer for his conduct in Ireland, Bacon, after a faint attempt to excuse himself from taking part against his friend, submitted himself to the Queen's pleasure, and appeared at the bar in support of the charges. But a darker scene was behind. The unhappy young nobleman, made reckless by despair ventured on a rash and criminal enterprise, which rendered him liable to the highest penalties of the law. What course was Bacon to take? This was one of those conjunctures which show what men are. To a high- minded man, wealth, power, court-favour, even personal safety, would have appeared of no account, when opposed to friendship, gratitude, and honour. Such a man would have stood by the side of Essex at the trial, would have "spent all his power, might, authority, and amity" in soliciting a mitigation of the sentence, would have been a daily visitor at the cell, would have received the last injunctions and the last embrace on the scaffold, would have employed all the powers of his intellect to guard from insult the fame of his generous though erring friend. An ordinary man would neither have incurred the danger of succouring Essex, nor the disgrace of assailing him. Bacon did not even preserve neutrality. He appeared as counsel for the prosecution. In that situation, he did not confine himself to what would have been amply sufficient to procure a verdict. He employed all his wit, his rhetoric, and his learning, not to ensure a conviction,--for the circumstances were such that a conviction was inevitable,-- but to deprive the unhappy prisoner of all those excuses which, though legally of no value, yet tended to diminish the moral guilt of the crime, and which, therefore, though they could not justify the peers in pronouncing an acquittal, might incline the Queen to grant a pardon. The Earl urged as a palliation of his frantic acts that he was surrounded by powerful and inveterate enemies, that they had ruined his fortunes, that they sought his life, and that their persecutions had driven him to despair. This was true; and Bacon well knew it to be true. But he affected to treat it as an idle pretence. He compared Essex to Pisistratus, who, by pretending to be in imminent danger of assassination, and by exhibiting self-inflicted wounds, succeeded in establishing tyranny at Athens. This was too much for the prisoner to bear. He interrupted his ungrateful friend by calling on him to quit the part of an advocate, to come forward as a witness, and to tell the Lords whether, in old times, he, Francis Bacon, had not, under his own hand, repeatedly asserted the truth of what he now represented as idle pretexts. It is painful to go on with this lamentable story. Bacon returned a shuffling answer to the Earl's question, and, as if the allusion to Pisistratus were not sufficiently offensive, made another allusion still more unjustifiable. He compared Essex to Henry Duke of Guise, and the rash attempt in the city to the day of the barricades at Paris. Why Bacon had recourse to such a topic it is difficult to say, It was quite unnecessary for the purpose of obtaining a verdict. It was certain to produce a strong impression on the mind of the haughty and jealous princess on whose pleasure the Earl's fate depended. The faintest allusion to the degrading tutelage in which the last Valois had been held by the House of Lorraine was sufficient to harden her heart against a man who in rank, in military reputation, in popularity among the citizens of the capital, bore some resemblance to the Captain of the League. Essex was convicted. Bacon made no effort to save him, though the Queen's feelings were such that he might have pleaded his benefactor's cause, possibly with success, certainly without any serious danger to himself. The unhappy nobleman was executed. His fate excited strong, perhaps unreasonable feelings of compassion and indignation. The Queen was received by the citizens of London with gloomy looks and faint acclamations. She thought it expedient to publish a vindication of her late proceedings. The faithless friend who had assisted in taking the Earl's life was now employed to murder the Earl's fame. The Queen had seen some of Bacon's writings, and had been pleased with them. He was accordingly selected to write A Declaration of the Practices and Treasons attempted and committed by Robert Earl of Essex, which was printed by authority. In the succeeding reign, Bacon had not a word to say in defence of this performance, a performance abounding in expressions which no generous enemy would have employed respecting a man who had so dearly expiated his offences. His only excuse was, that he wrote it by command, that he considered himself as a mere secretary, that he had particular instructions as to the way in which he was to treat every part of the subject, and that, in fact, he had furnished only the arrangement and the style. We regret to say that the whole conduct of Bacon through the course of these transactions appears to Mr. Montagu not merely excusable, but deserving of high admiration. The integrity and benevolence of this gentleman are so well known that our readers will probably be at a loss to conceive by what steps he can have arrived at so extraordinary a conclusion: and we are half afraid that they will suspect us of practising some artifice upon them when we report the principal arguments which he employs. In order to get rid of the charge of ingratitude, Mr. Montagu attempts to show that Bacon lay under greater obligations to the Queen than to Essex. What these obligations were it is not easy to discover. The situation of Queen's Counsel, and a remote reversion, were surely favours very far below Bacon's personal and hereditary claims. They were favours which had not cost the Queen a groat, nor had they put a groat into Bacon's purse. It was necessary to rest Elizabeth's claims to gratitude on some other ground; and this Mr. Montagu felt. "What perhaps was her greatest kindness," says he, "instead of having hastily advanced Bacon, she had, with a continuance of her friendship, made him bear the yoke in his youth. Such were his obligations to Elizabeth." Such indeed they were. Being the son of one of her oldest and most faithful Ministers, being himself the ablest and most accomplished young man of his time, he had been condemned by her to drudgery, to obscurity, to poverty. She had depreciated his acquirements. She had checked him in the most imperious manner, when in Parliament he ventured to act an independent part. She had refused to him the professional advancement to which he had a just claim. To her it was owing that, while younger men, not superior to him in extraction, and far inferior to him in every kind of personal merit, were filling the highest offices of the State, adding manor to manor, rearing palace after palace, he was lying at a spunging-house for a debt of three hundred pounds. Assuredly if Bacon owed gratitude to Elizabeth, he owed none to Essex. If the Queen really was his best friend, the Earl was his worst enemy. We wonder that Mr. Montagu did not press this argument a little further. He might have maintained that Bacon was excusable in revenging himself on a man who had attempted to rescue his youth from the salutary yoke imposed on it by the Queen, who had wished to advance him hastily, who, not content with attempting to inflict the Attorney-Generalship upon him, had been so cruel as to present him with a landed estate. Again, we can hardly think Mr. Montagu serious when he tells us that Bacon was bound for the sake of the public not to destroy his own hopes of advancement, and that he took part against Essex from a wish to obtain power which might enable him to be useful to his country. We really do not know how to refute such arguments except by stating them. Nothing is impossible which does not involve a contradiction. It is barely possible that Bacon's motives for acting as he did on this occasion may have been gratitude to the Queen for keeping him poor, and a desire to benefit his fellow-creatures in some high situation. And there is a possibility that Bonner may have been a good Protestant who, being convinced that the blood of martyrs is the seed of the Church, heroically went through all the drudgery and infamy of persecution, in order that he might inspire the English people with an intense and lasting hatred of Popery. There is a possibility that Jeffreys may have been an ardent lover of liberty, and that he may have beheaded Algernon Sydney, and burned Elizabeth Gaunt, only in order to produce a reaction which might lead to the limitation of the prerogative. There is a possibility that Thurtell may have killed Weare only in order to give the youth of England an impressive warning against gaming and bad company. There is a possibility that Fauntleroy may have forged powers of attorney, only in order that his fate might turn the attention of the public to the defects of the penal law. These things, we say, are possible. But they are so extravagantly improbable that a man who should act on such suppositions would be fit only for Saint Luke's. And we do not see why suppositions on which no rational man would act in ordinary life should be admitted into history. Mr. Montagu's notion that Bacon desired power only in order to do good to mankind appears somewhat strange to us, when we consider how Bacon afterwards used power, and how he lost it. Surely the service which he rendered to mankind by taking Lady Wharton's broad pieces and Sir John Kennedy's cabinet was not of such vast importance as to sanctify all the means which might conduce to that end. If the case were fairly stated, it would, we much fear, stand thus: Bacon was a servile advocate, that he might be a corrupt judge. Mr. Montagu maintains that none but the ignorant and unreflecting can think Bacon censurable for anything that he did as counsel for the Crown, and that no advocate can justifiably use any discretion as to the party for whom he appears. We will not at present inquire whether the doctrine which is held on this subject by English lawyers be or be not agreeable to reason and morality; whether it be right that a man should, with a wig on his head, and a band round his neck, do for a guinea what, without those appendages, he would think it wicked and infamous to do for an empire; whether it be right that, not merely believing but knowing a statement to be true, he should do all that can be done by sophistry, by rhetoric, by solemn asseveration, by indignant exclamation, by gesture, by play of features, by terrifying one honest witness, by perplexing another, to cause a jury to think that statement false. It is not necessary on the present occasion to decide these questions. The professional rules, be they good or bad, are rules to which many wise and virtuous men have conformed, and are daily conforming. If, therefore, Bacon did no more than these rules required of him, we shall readily admit that he was blameless, or, at least, excusable. But we conceive that his conduct was not justifiable according to any professional rules that now exist, or that ever existed in England. It has always been held that, in criminal cases in which the prisoner was denied the help of counsel, and above all, in capital cases, advocates were both entitled and bound to exercise a discretion. It is true that after the Revolution, when the Parliament began to make inquisition for the innocent blood which had been shed by the last Stuarts, a feeble attempt was made to defend the lawyers who had been accomplices in the murder of Sir Thomas Armstrong, on the ground that they had only acted professionally. The wretched sophism was silenced by the execrations of the House of Commons. "Things will never be well done," said Mr. Foley, "till some of that profession be made examples." "We have a new sort of monsters in the world," said the younger Hampden, "haranguing a man to death. These I call bloodhounds. Sawyer is very criminal and guilty of this murder." "I speak to discharge my conscience," said Mr. Garroway. "I will not have the blood of this man at my door. Sawyer demanded judgment against him and execution. I believe him guilty of the death of this man. Do what you will with him." "If the profession of the law," said the elder Hampden, "gives a man authority to murder at this rate, it is the interest of all men to rise and exterminate that profession." Nor was this language held only by unlearned country gentlemen. Sir William Williams, one of the ablest and most unscrupulous lawyers of the age, took the same view of the case. He had not hesitated, he said, to take part in the prosecution of the Bishops, because they were allowed counsel. But he maintained that, where the prisoner was not allowed counsel the Counsel for the Crown was bound to exercise a discretion, and that every lawyer who neglected this distinction was a betrayer of the law. But it is unnecessary to cite authority. It is known to everybody who has ever looked into a court of quarter-sessions that lawyers do exercise a discretion in criminal cases; and it is plain to every man of common sense that, if they did not exercise such a discretion, they would be a more hateful body of men than those bravoes who used to hire out their stilettoes in Italy. Bacon appeared against a man who was indeed guilty of a great offence, but who had been his benefactor and friend. He did more than this. Nay, he did more than a person who had never seen Essex would have been justified in doing. He employed all the art of an advocate in order to make the prisoner's conduct appear more inexcusable and more dangerous to the State than it really had been. All that professional duty could, in any case, have required of him would have been to conduct the cause so as to ensure a conviction. But from the nature of the circumstances there could not be the smallest doubt that the Earl would be found guilty. The character of the crime was unequivocal. It had been committed recently, in broad daylight, in the streets of the capital, in the presence of thousands. If ever there was an occasion on which an advocate had no temptation to resort to extraneous topics, for the purpose of blinding the judgment and inflaming the passions of a tribunal, this was that occasion. Why then resort to arguments which, while they could add nothing to the strength of the case, considered in a legal point of view, tended to aggravate the moral guilt of the fatal enterprise, and to excite fear and resentment in that quarter from which alone the Earl could now expect mercy? Why remind the audience of the arts of the ancient tyrants? Why deny what everybody knew to be the truth, that: a powerful faction at Court had long sought to effect the ruin of the prisoner? Why above all, institute a parallel between the unhappy culprit and the most wicked and most successful rebel of the age? Was it absolutely impossible to do all that professional duty required without reminding a jealous sovereign of the League, of the barricades, and of all the humiliations which a too powerful subject had heaped on Henry the Third? But if we admit the plea which Mr. Montagu urges in defence of what Bacon did as an advocate, what shall we say of the Declaration of the Treasons of Robert, Earl of Essex? Here at least there was no pretence of professional obligation. Even those who may think it the duty of a lawyer to hang, draw, and quarter his benefactors, for a proper consideration, will hardly say that it is his duty to write abusive pamphlets against them, after they are in their graves. Bacon excused himself by saying that he was not answerable for the matter of the book, and that he furnished only the language. But why did he endow such purposes with words? Could no hack writer, without virtue or shame, be found to exaggerate the errors, already so dearly expiated, of a gentle and noble spirit? Every age produces those links between the man and the baboon. Every age is fertile of Oldmixons, of Kenricks, and of Antony Pasquins. But was it for Bacon so to prostitute his intellect? Could he not feel that, while he rounded and pointed some period dictated by the envy of Cecil, or gave a plausible form to some slander invented by the dastardly malignity of Cobham; he was not sinning merely against his friend's honour and his own? Could he not feel that letters, eloquence, philosophy, were all degraded in his degradation? The real explanation of all this is perfectly obvious; and nothing but a partiality amounting to a ruling passion could cause anybody to miss it. The moral qualities of Bacon were not of a high order. We do not say that he was a bad man. He was not inhuman or tyrannical. He bore with meekness his high civil honours, and the far higher honours gained by his intellect. He was very seldom, if ever, provoked into treating any person with malignity and insolence. No man more readily held up the left cheek to those who had smitten the right. No man was more expert at the soft answer which turneth away wrath. He was never charged, by any accuser entitled to the smallest credit, with licentious habits. His even temper, his flowing courtesy, the general respectability of his demeanour, made a favourable impression on those who saw him in situations which do not severely try the principles. His faults were--we write it with pain--coldness of heart, and meanness of spirit. He seems to have been incapable of feeling strong affection, of facing great dangers, of making great sacrifices. His desires were set on things below wealth, precedence, titles, patronage, the mace, the seals, the coronet, large houses, fair gardens, rich manors, massy services of plate, gay hangings, curious cabinets, had as great attractions for him as for any of the courtiers who dropped on their knees in the dirt when Elizabeth passed by, and then hastened home to write to the King of Scots that her Grace seemed to be breaking fast. For these objects he had stooped to everything and endured everything. For these he had sued in the humblest manner, and, when unjustly and ungraciously repulsed, had thanked those who had repulsed him, and had begun to sue again. For these objects, as soon as he found that the smallest show of independence in Parliament was offensive to the Queen, he had abased himself to the dust before her, and implored forgiveness in terms better suited to a convicted thief than to a knight of the shire. For these he joined, and for these he forsook, Lord Essex. He continued to plead his patron's cause with the Queen as long as he thought that by pleading that cause he might serve himself. Nay, he went further; for his feelings, though not warm, were kind; he pleaded that cause as long as he thought that he could plead it without injury to himself. But when it became evident that Essex was going headlong to his ruin, Bacon began to tremble for his own fortunes. What he had to fear would not indeed have been very alarming to a man of lofty character. It was not death. It was not imprisonment. It was the loss of Court favour. It was the being left behind by others in the career of ambition. It was the having leisure to finish the Instauratio Magna. The Queen looked coldly on him. The courtiers began to consider him as a marked man. He determined to change his line of conduct, and to proceed in a new course with so much vigour as to make up for lost time. When once he had determined to act against his friend, knowing himself to be suspected, he acted with more zeal than would have been necessary or justifiable if he had been employed against a stranger. He exerted his professional talents to shed the Earl's blood, and his literary talents to blacken the Earl's memory. It is certain that his conduct excited at the time great and general disapprobation. While Elizabeth lived, indeed, this disapprobation, though deeply felt, was not loudly expressed. But a great change was at hand. The health of the Queen had long been decaying; and the operation of age and disease was now assisted by acute mental suffering. The pitiable melancholy of her last days has generally been ascribed to her fond regret for Essex. But we are disposed to attribute her dejection partly to physical causes, and partly to the conduct of her courtiers and ministers. They did all in their power to conceal from her the intrigues which they were carrying on at the Court of Scotland. But her keen sagacity was not to be so deceived. She did not know the whole. But she knew that she was surrounded by men who were impatient for that new world which was to begin at her death, who had never been attached to her by affection, and who were now but very slightly attached to her by interest. Prostration and flattery could not conceal from her the cruel truth, that those whom she had trusted, and promoted had never loved her, and were fast ceasing to fear her. Unable to avenge herself, and too proud to complain, she suffered sorrow and resentment to prey on her heart till, after a long career of power, prosperity, and glory, she died sick and weary of the world. James mounted the throne: and Bacon employed all his address to obtain for himself a share of the favour of his new master. This was no difficult task. The faults of James, both as a man and as a prince, were numerous; but insensibility to the claims of genius and learning was not among them. He was indeed made up of two men, a witty, well-read scholar, who wrote, disputed, and harangued, and a nervous, drivelling idiot, who acted. If he had been a Canon of Christ Church or a Prebendary of Westminster, it is not improbable that he would have left a highly respectable name to posterity; that he would have distinguished himself among the translators of the Bible, and among the Divines who attended the Synod of Dort; and that he would have been regarded by the literary world as no contemptible rival of Vossius and Casaubon. But fortune placed him in a situation in which his weakness covered him with disgrace, and in which his accomplishments brought him no honour. In a college, much eccentricity and childishness would have been readily pardoned in so learned a man. But all that learning could do for him on the throne was to make people think him a pedant as well as a fool. Bacon was favourably received at Court; and soon found that his chance of promotion was not diminished by the death of the Queen. He was solicitous to be knighted, for two reasons which are somewhat amusing. The King had already dubbed half London, and Bacon found himself the only untitled person in his mess at Gray's Inn. This was not very agreeable to him. He had also, to quote his own words, "found an Alderman's daughter, a handsome maiden, to his liking." On both these grounds, he begged his cousin Robert Cecil, "if it might please his good Lordship," to use his interest in his behalf. The application was successful. Bacon was one of three hundred gentlemen who, on the coronation- day, received the honour, if it is to be so called, of knighthood. The handsome maiden, a daughter of Alderman Barnham, soon after consented to become Sir Francis's lady. The death of Elizabeth, though on the whole it improved Bacon's prospects, was in one respect an unfortunate event for him. The new King had always felt kindly towards Lord Essex, and, as soon as he came to the throne, began to show favour to the House of Devereux, and to those who had stood by that house in its adversity. Everybody was now at liberty to speak out respecting those lamentable events in which Bacon had borne so large a share. Elizabeth was scarcely cold when the public feeling began to manifest itself by marks of respect towards Lord Southampton. That accomplished nobleman, who will be remembered to the latest ages as the generous and discerning patron of Shakspeare, was held in honour by his contemporaries chiefly on account of the devoted affection which he had borne to Essex. He had been tried and convicted together with his friend; but the Queen had spared his life, and, at the time of her death, he was still a prisoner. A crowd of visitors hastened to the Tower to congratulate him on his approaching deliverance. With that crowd Bacon could not venture to mingle. The multitude loudly condemned him; and his conscience told him that the multitude had but too much reason. He excused himself to Southampton by letter, in terms which, if he had, as Mr. Montagu conceives, done only what as a subject and an advocate he was bound to do, must be considered as shamefully servile. He owns his fear that his attendance would give offence, and that his professions of regard would obtain no credit. "Yet," says he, "it is as true as a thing that God knoweth, that this great change hath wrought in me no other change towards your Lordship than this, that I may safely be that to you now which I was truly before." How Southampton received these apologies we are not informed. But it is certain that the general opinion was pronounced against Bacon in a manner not to be misunderstood. Soon after his marriage he put forth a defence of his conduct, in the form of a Letter to the Earl of Devon. This tract seems to us to prove only the exceeding badness of a cause for which such talents could do so little. It is not probable that Bacon's Defence had much effect on his contemporaries. But the unfavourable impression which his conduct had made appears to have been gradually effaced. Indeed it must be some very peculiar cause that can make a man like him long unpopular. His talents secured him from contempt, his temper and his manners from hatred. There is scarcely any story so black that it may not be got over by a man of great abilities, whose abilities are united with caution, good humour, patience, and affability, who pays daily sacrifice to Nemesis, who is a delightful companion, a serviceable though not an ardent friend, and a dangerous yet a placable enemy. Waller in the next generation was an eminent instance of this. Indeed Waller had much more than may at first sight appear in common with Bacon. To the higher intellectual qualities of the great English philosopher, to the genius which has made an immortal epoch in the history of science, Waller had indeed no pretensions. But the mind of Waller, as far as it extended, coincided with that of Bacon, and might, so to, speak, have been cut out of that of Bacon. In the qualities which make a man an object of interest and veneration to posterity, they cannot be compared together. But in the qualities by which chiefly a man is known to his contemporaries there was a striking similarity between them. Considered as men of the world, as courtiers, as politicians, as associates, as allies, as enemies, they had nearly the same merits, and the same defects. They were not malignant. They were not tyrannical. But they wanted warmth of affection and elevation of sentiment. There were many things which they loved better than virtue, and which they feared more than guilt. Yet, even after they had stooped to acts of which it is impossible to read the account in the most partial narratives without strong disapprobation and contempt, the public still continued to regard them with a feeling not easily to be distinguished from esteem. The hyperbole of Juliet seemed to be verified with respect to them. "Upon their brows shame was ashamed to sit." Everybody seemed as desirous to throw a veil over their misconduct as if it had been his own. Clarendon, who felt, and who had reason to feel, strong personal dislike towards Waller, speaks of him thus: "There needs no more to be said to extol the excellence and power of his wit and pleasantness of his conversation, than that it was of magnitude enough to cover a world of very great faults, that is, so to cover them that they were not taken notice of to his reproach, viz., a narrowness in his nature to the lowest degree, an abjectness and want of courage to support him in any virtuous undertaking, an insinuation and servile flattery to the height the vainest and most imperious nature could be contented with. . . . It had power to reconcile him to those whom he had most offended and provoked, and continued to his age with that rare felicity, that his company was acceptable where his spirit was odious, and he was at least pitied where he was most detested." Much of this, with some softening, might, we fear, be applied to Bacon. The influence of Waller's talents, manners, and accomplishments, died with him; and the world has pronounced an unbiassed sentence on his character. A few flowing lines are not bribe sufficient to pervert the judgment of posterity. But the influence of Bacon is felt and will long be felt over the whole civilised world. Leniently as he was treated by his contemporaries, posterity has treated him more leniently still. Turn where we may, the trophies of that mighty intellect are full in few. We are judging Manlius in sight of the Capitol. Under the reign of James, Bacon grew rapidly in fortune and favour. In 1604 he was appointed King's Counsel, with a fee of forty pounds a year; and a pension of sixty pounds a year was settled upon him. In 1607 he became Solicitor-General, in 1612 Attorney-General. He continued to distinguish himself in Parliament, particularly by his exertions in favour of one excellent measure on which the King's heart was set, the union of England and Scotland. It was not difficult for such an intellect to discover many irresistible arguments in favour of such a scheme. He conducted the great case of the Post Nati in the Exchequer Chamber; and the decision of the judges, a decision the legality of which may be questioned, but the beneficial effect of which must be acknowledged, was in a great measure attributed to his dexterous management. While actively engaged in the House of Commons and in the courts of law, he still found leisure for letters and philosophy. The noble treatise on the Advancement of Learning, which at a later period was expanded into the De Augmentis, appeared in 1605. The Wisdom of the Ancients, a work which, if it had proceeded from any other writer, would have been considered as a masterpiece of wit and learning, but which adds little to the fame of Bacon, was printed in 1609. In the meantime the Novum Organum was slowly proceeding. Several distinguished men of learning had been permitted to see sketches or detached portions of that extraordinary book; and, though they were not generally disposed to admit the soundness of the author's views, they spoke with the greatest admiration of his genius. Sir Thomas Bodley, the founder of one of the most magnificent of English libraries, was among those stubborn Conservatives who considered the hopes with which Bacon looked forward, to the future destinies of the human race as utterly chimerical, and who regarded with distrust and aversion the innovating spirit of the new schismatics in philosophy. Yet even Bodley, after perusing the Cogitata et Visa, one of the most precious of those scattered leaves out of which the great oracular volume was afterwards made up, acknowledged that in "those very points, and in all proposals and plots in that book, Bacon showed himself a master-workman"; and that "it could not be gainsaid but all the treatise over did abound with choice conceits of the present state of learning, and with worthy contemplations of the means to procure it." In 1612 a new edition of the Essays appeared, with additions surpassing the original collection both in bulk and quality. Nor did these pursuits distract Bacon's attention from a work the most arduous, the most glorious, and the most useful that even his mighty powers could have achieved, "the reducing and recompiling," to use his own phrase, "of the laws of England." Unhappily he was at that very time employed in perverting those laws to the vilest purposes of tyranny. When Oliver St. John was brought before the Star Chamber for maintaining that the King had no right to levy Benevolences, and was for his manly and constitutional conduct sentenced to imprisonment during the royal pleasure and to a fine of five thousand pounds, Bacon appeared as counsel for the prosecution. About the same time he was deeply engaged in a still more disgraceful transaction. An aged clergyman, of the name of Peacham, was accused of treason on account of some passages of a sermon which was found in his study. The sermon, whether written by him or not, had never been preached. It did not appear that he had any intention of preaching it. The most servile lawyers of those servile times were forced to admit that there were great difficulties both as to the facts and as to the law. Bacon was employed to remove those difficulties. He was employed to settle the question of law by tampering with the judges, and the question of fact by torturing the prisoner. Three judges of the Court of King's Bench were tractable. But Coke was made of different stuff. Pedant, bigot, and brute as he was, he had qualities which bore a strong, though a very disagreeable resemblance to some of the highest virtues which a public man can possess. He was an exception to a maxim which we believe to be generally true, that those who trample on the helpless are disposed to cringe to the powerful. He behaved with gross rudeness to his juniors at the bar, and with execrable cruelty to prisoners on trial for their lives. But he stood up manfully against the King and the King's favourites. No man of that age appeared to so little advantage when he was opposed to an inferior, and was in the wrong. But, on the other hand, it is but fair to admit that no man of that age made so creditable a figure when he was opposed to a superior, and happened to be in the right. On such occasions, his half-suppressed insolence and his impracticable obstinacy had a respectable and interesting appearance, when compared with the abject servility of the bar and of the bench. On the present occasion he was stubborn and surly. He declared that it was a new and highly improper practice in the judges to confer with a law-officer of the Crown about capital cases which they were afterwards to try; and for some time he resolutely kept aloof. But Bacon was equally artful and persevering. "I am not wholly out of hope," said he in a letter to the King, "that my Lord Coke himself, when I have in some dark manner put him in doubt that he shall be left alone, will not be singular." After some time Bacon's dexterity was successful; and Coke, sullenly and reluctantly, followed the example of his brethren. But in order to convict Peacham it was necessary to find facts as well as law. Accordingly, this wretched old man was put to the rack, and, while undergoing the horrible infliction, was examined by Bacon, but in vain. No confession could be wrung out of him; and Bacon wrote to the King, complaining that Peacham had a dumb devil. At length the trial came on. A conviction was obtained; but the charges were so obviously futile, that the Government could not, for very shame, carry the sentence into execution; and Peacham, was suffered to languish away the short remainder of his life in a prison. All this frightful story Mr. Montagu relates fairly. He neither conceals nor distorts any material fact. But he can see nothing deserving of condemnation in Bacon's conduct. He tells us most truly that we ought not to try the men of one age by the standard of another; that Sir Matthew Hale is not to be pronounced a bad man because he left a woman to be executed for witchcraft; that posterity will not be justified in censuring judges of our time, for selling offices in their courts, according to the established practice, bad as that practice was; and that Bacon is entitled to similar indulgence. "To persecute the lover of truth," says Mr. Montagu, "for opposing established customs, and to censure him in after ages for not having been more strenuous in opposition, are errors which will never cease until the pleasure of self- elevation from the depression of superiority is no more." We have no dispute with Mr. Montagu about the general proposition. We assent to every word of it. But does it apply to the present case? Is it true that in the time of James the First it was the established practice for the law-officers of the Crown to hold private consultations with the judges, touching capital cases which those judges were afterwards to try? Certainly not. In the very page in which Mr. Montagu asserts that "the influencing a judge out of court seems at that period scarcely to have been considered as improper," he give the very words of Sir Edward Coke on the subject. "I will not thus declare what may be my judgment by these auricular confessions of new and pernicious tendency, and not according to the customs of the realm." Is it possible to imagine that Coke, who had himself been Attorney-General during thirteen years, who had conducted a far greater number of important State prosecutions than any other lawyer named in English history, and who had passed with scarcely any interval from the Attorney-Generalship to the first seat in the first criminal court in the realm, could have been startled at an invitation to confer with the Crown-lawyers, and could have pronounced the practice new, if it had really been an established usage? We well know that, where property only was at stake, it was then a common, though a most culpable practice, in the judges, to listen to private solicitation. But the practice of tampering with judges in order to procure capita; convictions we believe to have been new, first, because Coke, who understood those matters better than any man of his time, asserted it to be new; and secondly, because neither Bacon nor Mr. Montagu has shown a single precedent. How then stands the case? Even thus: Bacon was not conforming to an usage then generally admitted to be proper. He was not even the last lingering adherent of an old abuse. It would have been sufficiently disgraceful to such a man to be in this last situation. Yet this last situation would have been honourable compared with that in which he stood. He was guilty of attempting to introduce into the courts of law an odious abuse for which no precedent could be found. Intellectually, he was better fitted than any man that England has ever produced for the work of improving her institutions. But, unhappily, we see that he did not scruple to exert his great powers for the purpose of introducing into those institutions new corruptions of the foulest kind. The same, or nearly the same, may be said of the torturing of Peacham. If it be true that in the time of James the First the propriety of torturing prisoners was generally allowed, we should admit this as an excuse, though we should admit it less readily in the case of such a man as Bacon than in the case of an ordinary lawyer or politician. But the fact is, that the practice of torturing prisoners was then generally acknowledged by lawyers to be illegal, and was execrated by the public as barbarous. More than thirty years before Peacham's trial, that practice was so loudly condemned by the voice of the nation that Lord Burleigh found it necessary to publish an apology for having occasionally resorted to it. But, though the dangers which then threatened the Government were of a very different kind from those which were to be apprehended from anything that Peacham could write, though the life of the Queen and the dearest interests of the State were in jeopardy, though the circumstances were such that all ordinary laws might seem to be superseded by that highest law, the public safety, the apology did not satisfy the country; and the Queen found it expedient to issue an order positively forbidding the torturing of State-prisoners on any pretence whatever. From that time, the practice of torturing, which had always been unpopular, which had always been illegal, had also been unusual. It is well known that in 1628, only fourteen years after the time when Bacon went to the Tower to listen to the yells of Peacham, the judges decided that Felton, a criminal who neither deserved nor was likely to obtain any extraordinary indulgence, could not lawfully be put to the question. We therefore say that Bacon stands in a very different situation from that in which Mr. Montagu tries to place him. Bacon was here distinctly behind his age. He was one of the last of the tools of power who persisted in a practice the most barbarous and the most absurd that has ever disgraced jurisprudence, in a practice of which, in the preceding generation, Elizabeth and her Ministers had been ashamed, in a practice which, a few years later, no sycophant in all the Inns of Court had the heart or the forehead to defend. [Since this Review was written, Mr. Jardine has published a very learned and ingenious Reading on the use of torture in England. It has not, however, been thought necessary to make any change in the observations on Peacham's case. It is impossible to discuss within the limits of a note, the extensive question raised by Mr. Jardine. It is sufficient here to say that every argument by which he attempts to show that the use of the rack was anciently a lawful exertion of royal prerogative may be urged with equal force, nay, with far greater force, to prove the lawfulness of benevolences, of ship-money, of Mompesson's patent, of Eliot's imprisonment, of every abuse, without exception, which is condemned by the Petition of Right and the Declaration of Right.] Bacon far behind his age! Bacon far behind Sir Edward Coke! Bacon clinging to exploded abuses! Bacon withstanding the progress of improvement! Bacon struggling to push back the human mind! The words seem strange. They sound like a contradiction in terms. Yet the fact is even so: and the explanation may be readily found by any person who is not blinded by prejudice. Mr. Montagu cannot believe that so extraordinary a man as Bacon could be guilty of a bad action; as if history were not made up of the bad actions of extraordinary men, as if all the most noted destroyers and deceivers of our species, all the founders of arbitrary governments and false religions, had not been extraordinary men, as if nine-tenths of the calamities which have befallen the human race had any other origin than the union of high intelligence with low desires. Bacon knew this well. He has told us that there are persons "scientia tanquam angeli alati, cupiditatibus vero tanquam serpentes qui humi reptant"; [De Augmentis, Lib. v. Cap. I.] and it did not require his admirable sagacity and his extensive converse with mankind to make the discovery. Indeed, he had only to look within. The difference between the soaring angel and the creeping snake was but a type of the difference between Bacon the philosopher and Bacon the Attorney-General, Bacon seeking for truth, and Bacon seeking for the Seals. Those who survey only one-half of his character may speak of him with unmixed admiration or with unmixed contempt. But those only judge of him correctly who take in at one view Bacon in speculation and Bacon in action. They will have no difficulty in comprehending how one and the same man should have been far above his age and far behind it, in one line the boldest and most useful of innovators, in another one the most obstinate champion of the foulest abuses. In his library, all his rare powers were under the guidance of an honest ambition, of all enlarged philanthropy, of a sincere love of truth. There, no temptation drew him away from the right course. Thomas Aquinas could pay no fees. Duns Scotus could confer no peerages. The Master of the Sentences had no rich reversions in his gift. Far different was the situation of the great philosopher when he came forth from his study and his laboratory to mingle with the crowd which filled the galleries of Whitehall. In all that crowd there was no man equally qualified to render great and lasting services to mankind. But in all that crowd there was not a heart more set on things which no man ought to suffer to be necessary to his happiness, on things which can often be obtained only by the sacrifice of integrity and honour. To be the leader of the human race in the career of improvement, to found on the ruins of ancient intellectual dynasties a more prosperous and a more enduring empire, to be revered by the latest generations as the most illustrious among the benefactors of mankind, all this was within his reach, But all this availed him nothing, while some quibbling special pleader was promoted before him to the bench, while some heavy country gentleman took precedence of him by virtue of a purchased coronet, while some pandar, happy in a fair wife, could obtain a more cordial salute from Buckingham, while some buffoon, versed in all the latest scandal of the Court, could draw a louder laugh from James. During a long course of years, Bacon's unworthy ambition was crowned with success. His sagacity early enabled him to perceive who was likely to become the most powerful man in the kingdom. He probably knew the King's mind before it was known to the King himself, and attached himself to Villiers, while the less discerning crowd of courtiers still continued to fawn on Somerset, The influence of the younger favourite became greater daily. The contest between the rivals might, however, have lasted long, but for that frightful crime which, in spite of all that could be effected by the research and ingenuity of historians, is still covered with so mysterious an obscurity. The descent of Somerset had been a gradual and almost imperceptible lapse. It now became a headlong fall; and Villiers, left without a competitor, rapidly rose to a height of power such as no subject since Wolsey had attained. There were many points of resemblance between the two celebrated courtiers who, at different times, extended their patronage to Bacon. It is difficult to say whether Essex or Villiers was more eminently distinguished by those graces of person and manner which have always been rated in courts at much more than their real value. Both were constitutionally brave; and both, like most men who are constitutionally brave, were open and unreserved. Both were rash and head-strong. Both were destitute of the abilities and of the information which are necessary to statesmen. Yet both, trusting to the accomplishments which had made them conspicuous in tilt-yards and ball-rooms, aspired to rule the State. Both owed their elevation to the personal attachment of the sovereign; and in both cases this attachment was of so eccentric a kind, that it perplexed observers, that it still continues to perplex historians, and that it gave rise to much scandal which we are inclined to think unfounded. Each of them treated the sovereign whose favour he enjoyed with a rudeness which approached to insolence. This petulance ruined Essex, who had to deal with a spirit naturally as proud as his own, and accustomed, during near half a century, to the most respectful observance. But there was a wide difference between the haughty daughter of Henry and her successor. James was timid from the cradle. His nerves, naturally weak, had not been fortified by reflection or by habit. His life, till he came to England, had been a series of mortifications and humiliations. With all his high notions of the origin and extent of his prerogatives, he was never his own master for a day. In spite of his kingly title, in spite of his despotic theories, he was to the last a slave at heart. Villiers treated him like one; and this course, though adopted, we believe, merely from temper, succeeded as well as if it had been a system of policy formed after mature deliberation. In generosity, in sensibility, in capacity for friendship, Essex far surpassed Buckingham. Indeed, Buckingham can scarcely be said to have had any friend, with the exception of the two princes over whom successively he exercised so wonderful an influence. Essex was to the last adored by the people. Buckingham was always a most unpopular man, except perhaps for a very short time after his return from the childish visit to Spain. Essex fell a victim to the rigour of the Government amidst the lamentations of the people. Buckingham, execrated by the people, and solemnly declared a public enemy by the representatives of the people, fell by the hand of one of the people, and was lamented by none but his master. The way in which the two favourites acted towards Bacon was highly characteristic, and may serve to illustrate the old and true saying, that a man is generally more inclined to feel kindly towards one on whom he has conferred favours than towards one from whom he has received them. Essex loaded Bacon with benefits, and never thought that he had done enough. It seems never to have crossed the mind of the powerful and wealthy noble that the poor barrister whom he treated with such munificent kindness was not his equal. It was, we have no doubt, with perfect sincerity that the Earl declared that he would willingly give his sister or daughter in marriage to his friend. He was in general more than sufficiently sensible of his own merits; but he did not seem to know that he had ever deserved well of Bacon. On that cruel day when they saw each other for the last time at the bar of the Lords, Essex taxed his perfidious friend with unkindness and insincerity, but never with ingratitude. Even in such a moment, more bitter than the bitterness of death, that noble heart was too great to vent itself in such a reproach. Villiers, on the other hand, owed much to Bacon. When their acquaintance began, Sir Francis was a man of mature age, of high station, and of established fame as a politician, an advocate, and a writer. Villiers was little more than a boy, a younger son of a house then of no great note. He was but just entering on the career of court favour; and none but the most discerning observers could as yet perceive that he was likely to distance all his competitors. The countenance and advice of a man so highly distinguished as the Attorney-General, must have been an object of the highest importance to the young adventurer. But though Villiers was the obliged party, he was far less warmly attached to Bacon, and far less delicate in his conduct towards Bacon, than Essex had been. To do the new favourite justice, he early exerted his influence in behalf of his illustrious friend. In 1616 Sir Francis was sworn of the Privy Council, and in March 1617, on the retirement of Lord Brackley, was appointed Keeper of the Great Seal. On the seventh of May, the first day of term, he rode in state to Westminster Hall, with the Lord Treasurer on his right hand, the Lord Privy Seal on his left, a long procession of students and ushers before him, and a crowd of peers, privy-councillors, and judges following in his train. Having entered his court, he addressed the splendid auditory in a grave and dignified speech, which proves how well he understood those judicial duties which he afterwards performed so ill. Even at that moment, the proudest moment of his life in the estimation of the vulgar, and, it may be, even in his own, he cast back a look of lingering affection towards those noble pursuits from which, as it seemed, he was about to be estranged. "The depth of the three long vacations," said he, "I would reserve in some measure free from business of estate, and for studies, arts, and sciences, to which of my own nature I am most inclined." The years during which Bacon held the Great Seal were among the darkest and most shameful in English history. Everything at home and abroad was mismanaged. First came the execution of Raleigh, an act which, if done in a proper manner, might have been defensible, but which, under all the circumstances, must be considered as a dastardly murder. Worse was behind: the war of Bohemia, the successes of Tilly and Spinola, the Palatinate conquered, the King's son-in-law an exile, the House of Austria dominant on the Continent, the Protestant religion and the liberties of the Germanic body trodden under foot. Meanwhile, the wavering and cowardly policy of England furnished matter of ridicule to all the nations of Europe. The love of peace which James professed would, even when indulged to an impolitic excess, have been respectable, if it had proceeded from tenderness for his people. But the truth is, that, while he had nothing to spare for the defence of the natural allies of England, he resorted without scruple to the most illegal and oppressive devices, for the purpose of enabling Buckingham and Buckingham's relations to outshine the ancient aristocracy of the realm. Benevolences were exacted. Patents of monopoly were multiplied. All the resources which could have been employed to replenish a beggared exchequer, at the close of a ruinous war, were put in motion during this season of ignominious peace. The vices of the administration must be chiefly ascribed to the weakness of the King and to the levity and violence of the favourite. But it is impossible to acquit the Lord Keeper of all share in the guilt. For those odious patents, in particular, which passed the Great Seal while it was in his charge, he must be held answerable. In the speech which he made on first taking his seat in his court, he had pledged himself to discharge this important part of his functions with the greatest caution and impartiality. He had declared that he "would walk in the light," "that men should see that no particular turn or end led him, but a general rule." Mr. Montagu would have us believe that Bacon acted up to these professions, and says that "the power of the favourite did not deter the Lord Keeper from staying grants and patents when his public duty demanded this interposition." Does Mr. Montagu consider patents of monopoly as good things? or does he mean to say that Bacon staid every patent of monopoly that came before him? Of all patents in our history, the most disgraceful was that which was granted to Sir Giles Mompesson, supposed to be the original of Massinger's Overreach, and to Sir Francis Michell, from whom justice Greedy is supposed to have been drawn, for the exclusive manufacturing of gold and silver lace. The effect of this monopoly was of course that the metal employed in the manufacture was adulterated, to the great loss of the public. But this was a trifle. The patentees were armed with powers as great as have ever been given to farmers of the revenue in the worst governed countries. They were authorised to search houses and to arrest interlopers; and these formidable powers were used for purposes viler than even those for which they were given, for the wreaking of old grudges, and for the corrupting of female chastity. Was not this a case in which public duty demanded the interposition of the Lord Keeper? And did the Lord Keeper interpose? He did. He wrote to inform the King, that he "had considered of the fitness and conveniency of the gold and silver thread business," "that it was convenient that it should be settled," that he "did conceive apparent likelihood that it would redound much to his Majesty's profit," that, therefore, "it were good it were settled with all convenient speed." The meaning of all this was, that certain of the House of Villiers were to go shares with Overreach and Greedy in the plunder of the public. This was the way in which, when the favourite pressed for patents, lucrative to his relations and to his creatures, ruinous and vexatious to the body of the people, the chief guardian of the laws interposed. Having assisted the patentees to obtain this monopoly, Bacon assisted them also in the steps which they took for the purpose of guarding it. He committed several people to close confinement for disobeying his tyrannical edict. It is needless to say more. Our readers are now able to judge whether, in the matter of patents, Bacon acted conformably to his professions, or deserved the praise which his biographer has bestowed on him. In his judicial capacity his conduct was not less reprehensible. He suffered Buckingham to dictate many of his decisions. Bacon knew as well as any man that a judge who listens to private solicitations is a disgrace to his post. He himself, before he was raised to the woolsack, represented this strongly to Villiers, then just entering on his career. "By no means," said Sir Francis, in a letter of advice addressed to the young courtier, "by no means be you persuaded to interpose yourself, either by word or letter, in any cause depending in any court of justice, nor suffer any great man to do it where you can hinder it. If it should prevail, it perverts justice; but if the judge be so just, and of such courage as he ought to be, as not to be inclined thereby, yet it always leaves a taint of suspicion behind it." Yet he had not been Lord Keeper a month when Buckingham began to interfere in Chancery suits; and Buckingham's interference was, as might have been expected, successful. Mr. Montagu's reflections on the excellent passage which we have quoted above are exceedingly amusing. "No man," says he, "more deeply felt the evils which then existed of the interference of the Crown and of statesmen to influence judges. How beautifully did he admonish Buckingham, regardless as he proved of all admonition!" We should be glad to know how it can be expected that admonition will be regarded by him who receives it, when it is altogether neglected by him who gives it. We do not defend Buckingham; but what was his guilt to Bacon's? Buckingham was young, ignorant, thoughtless, dizzy with the rapidity of his ascent and the height of his position. That he should be eager to serve his relations, his flatterers, his mistresses, that he should not fully apprehend the immense importance of a pure administration of justice, that he should think more about those who were bound to him by private ties than about the public interest, all this was perfectly natural, and not altogether unpardonable. Those who intrust a petulant, hot-blooded, ill- informed lad with power, are more to blame than he for the mischief which he may do with it. How could it be expected of a lively page, raised by a wild freak of fortune to the first influence in the empire, that he should have bestowed any serious thought on the principles which ought to guide judicial decisions? Bacon was the ablest public man then living in Europe. He was near sixty years old. He had thought much, and to good purpose, on the general principles of law. He had for many years borne a part daily in the administration of justice. It was impossible that a man with a tithe of his sagacity and experience should not have known that a judge who suffers friends or patrons to dictate his decrees violates the plainest rules of duty. In fact, as we have seen, he knew this well: he expressed it admirably. Neither on this occasion nor on any other could his bad actions be attributed to any defect of the head. They sprang from quite a different cause. A man who stooped to render such services to others was not likely to be scrupulous as to the means by which he enriched himself. He and his dependants accepted large presents from persons who were engaged in Chancery suits. The amount of the plunder which he collected in this way it is impossible to estimate. There can be no doubt that he received very much more than was proved on his trial, though, it may be, less than was suspected by the public. His enemies stated his illicit gains at a hundred thousand pounds. But this was probably an exaggeration. It was long before the day of reckoning arrived. During the interval between the second and third Parliaments of James, the nation was absolutely governed by the Crown. The prospects of the Lord Keeper were bright and serene. His great place rendered the splendour of his talents even more conspicuous, and gave an additional charm to the serenity of his temper, the courtesy of his manners, and the eloquence of his conversation. The pillaged suitor might mutter. The austere Puritan patriot might, in his retreat, grieve that one on whom God had bestowed without measure all the abilities which qualify men to take the lead in great reforms should be found among the adherents of the worst abuses. But the murmurs of the suitor and the lamentations of the patriot had scarcely any avenue to the ears of the powerful. The King, and the Minister who was the King's master, smiled on their illustrious flatterer. The whole crowd of courtiers and nobles sought his favour with emulous eagerness. Men of wit and learning hailed with delight the elevation of one who had so signally shown that a man of profound learning and of brilliant wit might understand, far better than any plodding dunce, the art of thriving in the world. Once, and but once, this course of prosperity was for a moment interrupted. It would seem that even Bacon's brain was not strong enough to bear without some discomposure the inebriating effect of so much good fortune. For some time after his elevation, he showed himself a little wanting in that wariness and self-command to which, more than even to his transcendent talents, his elevation was to be ascribed. He was by no means a good hater. The temperature of his revenge, like that of his gratitude, was scarcely ever more than lukewarm. But there was one person whom he had long regarded with an animosity which, though studiously suppressed, was perhaps the stronger for the suppression. The insults and injuries which, when a young man struggling into note and professional practice, he had received from Sir Edward Coke, were such as might move the most placable nature to resentment. About the time at which Bacon received the Seals, Coke had, on account of his contumacious resistance to the royal pleasure, been deprived of his seat in the Court of King's Bench, and had ever since languished in retirement. But Coke's opposition to the Court, we fear, was the effect not of good principles, but of a bad temper. Perverse and testy as he was, he wanted true fortitude and dignity of character. His obstinacy, unsupported by virtuous motives, was not proof against disgrace. He solicited a reconciliation with the favourite, and his solicitations were successful. Sir John Villiers, the brother of Buckingham, was looking out for a rich wife. Coke had a large fortune and an unmarried daughter. A bargain was struck. But Lady Coke, the lady whom twenty years before Essex had wooed on behalf of Bacon, would not hear of the match. A violent and scandalous family quarrel followed. The mother carried the girl away by stealth. The father pursued them, and regained possession of his daughter by force. The King was then in Scotland, and Buckingham had attended him thither. Bacon was during their absence at the head of affairs in England. He felt towards Coke as much malevolence as it was in his nature to feel towards anybody. His wisdom had been laid to sleep by prosperity. In an evil hour he determined to interfere in the disputes which agitated his enemy's household. He declared for the wife, countenanced the Attorney- General in the filing an information in the Star-Chamber against the husband, and wrote letters to the King and the favourite against the proposed marriage. The strong language which he used in those letters shows that, sagacious as he was, he did not quite know his place, and that he was not fully acquainted with the extent either of Buckingham's power, or of the change which the possession of that power had produced in Buckingham's character. He soon had a lesson which he never forgot. The favourite received the news of the Lord Keeper's interference with feelings of the most violent resentment, and made the King even more angry than himself. Bacon's eyes were at once opened to his error, and to all its possible consequences. He had been elated, if not intoxicated, by greatness. The shock sobered him in an instant. He was all himself again. He apologised submissively for his interference. He directed the Attorney-General to stop the proceedings against Coke. He sent to tell Lady Coke that he could do nothing for her. He announced to both the families that he was desirous to promote the connection. Having given these proofs of contrition, he ventured to present himself before Buckingham. But the young upstart did not think that he had yet sufficiently humbled an old man who had been his friend and his benefactor, who was the highest civil functionary in the realm, and the most eminent man of letters of the world. It is said that on two successive days Bacon repaired to Buckingham's house, that on two successive days he was suffered to remain in an antechamber among footboys, seated on an old wooden box, with the Great Seal of England at his side; and that when at length he was admitted, he flung himself on the floor, kissed the favourite's feet, and vowed never to rise till he was forgiven. Sir Anthony Weldon, on whose authority this story rests, is likely enough to have exaggerated the meanness of Bacon and the insolence of Buckingham. But it is difficult to imagine that so circumstantial a narrative, written by a person who avers that he was present on the occasion, can be wholly without foundation; and, unhappily, there is little in the character either of the favourite or of the Lord Keeper to make the narrative improbable. It is certain that a reconciliation took place on terms humiliating to Bacon, who never more ventured to cross any purpose of anybody who bore the name of Villiers. He put a strong curb on those angry passions which had for the first time in his life mastered his prudence. He went through the forms of a reconciliation with Coke, and did his best, by seeking opportunities of paying little civilities, and by avoiding all that could produce collision, to tame the untameable ferocity of his old enemy. In the main, however, Bacon's life, while he held the Great Seal, was, in outward appearance, most enviable. In London he lived with great dignity at York House, the venerable mansion of his father. Here it was that, in January 1620, he celebrated his entrance into his sixtieth year amidst a splendid circle of friends. He had then exchanged the appellation of Keeper for the higher title of Chancellor. Ben Jonson was one of the party, and wrote on the occasion some of the happiest of his rugged rhymes. All things, he tells us, seemed to smile about the old house, "the fire, the wine, the men." The spectacle of the accomplished host, after a life marked by no great disaster, entered on a green old age, in the enjoyment of riches, power, high honours, undiminished mental activity, and vast literary reputation, made a strong impression on the poet, if we may judge from those well- known lines: "England's high Chancellor, the destined heir, In his soft cradle, to his father's chair, Whose even thread the Fates spin round and full Out of their choicest and their whitest wool." In the intervals of rest which Bacon's political and judicial functions afforded, he was in the habit of retiring to Gorhambury. At that place his business was literature, and his favourite amusement gardening, which in one of his most interesting Essays he calls "the purest of human pleasures." In his magnificent grounds he erected, at a cost of ten thousand pounds, a retreat to which he repaired when he wished to avoid all visitors, and to devote himself wholly to study. On such occasions, a few young men of distinguished talents were sometimes the companions of his retirement; and among them his quick eye soon discerned the superior abilities of Thomas Hobbes. It is not probable, however, that he fully appreciated the powers of his disciple, or foresaw the vast influence, both for good and for evil, which that most vigorous and acute of human intellects was destined to exercise on the two succeeding generations. In January 1621, Bacon had reached the zenith of his fortunes. He had just published the Novum Organum; and that extraordinary book had drawn forth the warmest expressions of admiration from the ablest men in Europe. He had obtained honours of a widely different kind, but perhaps not less valued by him. He had been created Baron Verulam. He had subsequently been raised to the higher dignity of Viscount St. Albans. His patent was drawn in the most flattering terms, and the Prince of Wales signed it as a witness. The ceremony of investiture was performed with great state at Theobalds, and Buckingham condescended to be one of the chief actors. Posterity has felt that the greatest of English philosophers could derive no accession of dignity from any title which James could bestow, and, in defiance of the royal letters patent, has obstinately refused to degrade Francis Bacon into Viscount St. Albans. In a few weeks was signally brought to the test the value of those objects for which Bacon had sullied his integrity, had resigned his independence, had violated the most sacred obligations of friendship and gratitude, had flattered the worthless, had persecuted the innocent, had tampered with judges, had tortured prisoners, had plundered suitors, had wasted on paltry intrigues all the powers of the most exquisitely constructed intellect that has ever been bestowed on any of the children of men. A sudden and terrible reverse was at hand. A Parliament had been summoned. After six years of silence the voice of the nation was again to be heard. Only three days after the pageant which was performed at Theobalds in honour of Bacon, the Houses met. Want of money had, as usual, induced the King to convoke his Parliament. It may be doubted, however, whether, if he or his Ministers had been at all aware of the state of public feeling, they would not have tried any expedient, or borne with any inconvenience, rather than have ventured to face the deputies of a justly exasperated nation. But they did not discern those times. Indeed almost all the political blunders of James, and of his more unfortunate son, arose from one great error. During the fifty years which preceded the Long Parliament a great and progressive change was taking place in the public mind. The nature and extent of this change was not in the least understood by either of the first two Kings of the House of Stuart, or by any of their advisers. That the nation became more and more discontented every year, that every House of Commons was more unmanageable than that which had preceded it, were facts which it was impossible not to perceive. But the Court could not understand why these things were so. The Court could not see that the English people and the English Government, though they might once have been well suited to each other, were suited to each other no longer; that the nation had outgrown its old institutions, was every day more uneasy under them, was pressing against them, and would soon burst through them. The alarming phaenomena, the existence of which no sycophant could deny, were ascribed to every cause except the true one. "In my first Parliament," said James, "I was a novice. In my next, there was a kind of beasts called undertakers" and so forth. In the third Parliament he could hardly be called a novice, and those beasts, the undertakers, did not exist. Yet his third Parliament gave him more trouble than either the first or the second. The Parliament had no sooner met than the House of Commons proceeded, in a temperate and respectful, but most determined manner, to discuss the public grievances. Their first attacks were directed against those odious patents, under cover of which Buckingham and his creatures had pillaged and oppressed the nation. The vigour with which these proceedings were conducted spread dismay through the Court. Buckingham thought himself in danger, and, in his alarm, had recourse to an adviser who had lately acquired considerable influence over him, Williams, Dean of Westminster. This person had already been of great use to the favourite in a very delicate matter. Buckingham had set his heart on marrying Lady Catherine Manners, daughter and heiress of the Earl of Rutland. But the difficulties were great. The Earl was haughty and impracticable, and the young lady was a Catholic. Williams soothed the pride of the father, and found arguments which, for a time at least, quieted the conscience of the daughter. For these services he had been rewarded with considerable preferment in the Church; and he was now rapidly rising to the same place in the regard of Buckingham which had formerly been occupied by Bacon. Williams was one of those who are wiser for others than for themselves. His own public life was unfortunate, and was made unfortunate by his strange want of judgment and self-command at several important conjunctures. But the counsel which he gave on this occasion showed no want of worldly wisdom. He advised the favourite to abandon all thoughts of defending the monopolies, to find some foreign embassy for his brother Sir Edward, who was deeply implicated in the villanies of Mompesson, and to leave the other offenders to the justice of Parliament. Buckingham received this advice with the warmest expressions of gratitude, and declared that a load had been lifted from his heart. He then repaired with Williams to the royal presence. They found the King engaged in earnest consultation with Prince Charles. The plan of operations proposed by the Dean was fully discussed, and approved in all its parts. The first victims whom the Court abandoned to the vengeance of the Commons were Sir Giles Mompesson and Sir Francis Michell. It was some time before Bacon began to entertain any apprehensions. His talents and his address gave him great influence in the House of which he had lately become a member, as indeed they must have done in any assembly. In the House of Commons he had many personal friends and many warm admirers. But at length, about six weeks after the meeting of Parliament, the storm burst. A committee of the lower House had been appointed to inquire into the state of the Courts of Justice. On the fifteenth of March the chairman of that committee, Sir Robert Philips, member for Bath, reported that great abuses had been discovered. "The person," said he, "against whom these things are alleged is no less than the Lord Chancellor, a man so endued with all parts, both of nature and art, as that I will say no more of him, being not able to say enough." Sir Robert then proceeded to state, in the most temperate manner, the nature of the charges. A person of the name of Aubrey had a case depending in Chancery. He had been almost ruined by law expenses, and his patience had been exhausted by the delays of the court. He received a hint from some of the hangers-on of the Chancellor that a present of one hundred pounds would expedite matters. The poor man had not the sum required. However, having found out an usurer who accommodated him with it at high interest, he carried it to York House. The Chancellor took the money, and his dependants assured the suitor that all would go right. Aubrey was, however, disappointed; for, after considerable delay, "a killing decree" was pronounced against him. Another suitor of the name of Egerton complained that he had been induced by two of the Chancellor's jackals to make his Lordship a present of four hundred pounds, and that, nevertheless, he had not been able to obtain a decree in his favour. The evidence to these facts was overwhelming. Bacon's friends could only entreat the House to suspend its judgment, and to send up the case to the Lords, in a form less offensive than an impeachment. On the nineteenth of March the King sent a message to the Commons, expressing his deep regret that so eminent a person as the Chancellor should be suspected of misconduct. His Majesty declared that he had no wish to screen the guilty from justice, and proposed to appoint a new kind of tribunal consisting of eighteen commissioners, who might be chosen from among the members of the two Houses, to investigate the matter. The Commons were not disposed to depart from their regular course of proceeding. On the same day they held a conference with the Lords, and delivered in the heads of the accusation against the Chancellor. At this conference Bacon was not present. Overwhelmed with shame and remorse, and abandoned by all those in whom he had weakly put his trust, he had shut himself up in his chamber from the eyes of men. The dejection of his mind soon disordered his body. Buckingham, who visited him by the King's order, "found his Lordship very sick and heavy." It appears, from a pathetic letter which the unhappy man addressed to the Peers on the day of the conference, that he neither expected nor wished to survive his disgrace. During several days he remained in his bed, refusing to see any human being. He passionately told his attendants to leave him, to forget him, never again to name his name, never to remember that there had been such a man in the world. In the meantime, fresh instances of corruption were every day brought to the knowledge of his accusers. The number of charges rapidly increased from two to twenty-three. The Lords entered on the investigation of the case with laudable alacrity. Some witnesses were examined at the bar of the House. A select committee was appointed to take the depositions of others; and the inquiry was rapidly proceeding, when on the twenty-sixth of March, the King adjourned the Parliament for three weeks. This measure revived Bacon's hopes. He made the most of his short respite. He attempted to work on the feeble mind of the King. He appealed to all the strongest feelings of James, to his fears, to his vanity, to his high notions of prerogative. Would the Solomon of the age commit so gross an error as to encourage the encroaching spirit of Parliaments? Would God's anointed, accountable to God alone, pay homage to the clamorous multitude? "Those," exclaimed Bacon, "who now strike at the Chancellor will soon strike at the Crown. I am the first sacrifice. I wish I may be the last." But all his eloquence and address were employed in vain. Indeed, whatever Mr. Montagu may say, we are firmly convinced that it was not in the King's power to save Bacon, without having recourse to measures which would have convulsed the realm. The Crown had not sufficient influence over the Parliament to procure an acquittal in so clear a case of guilt. And to dissolve a Parliament which is universally allowed to have been one of the best Parliaments that ever sat, which had acted liberally and respectfully towards the Sovereign, and which enjoyed in the highest degree the favour of the people, only in order to stop a grave, temperate, and constitutional inquiry into the personal integrity of the first judge in the kingdom, would have been a measure more scandalous and absurd than any of those which were the ruin of the House of Stuart. Such a measure, while it would have been as fatal to the Chancellor's honour as a conviction, would have endangered the very existence of the monarchy. The King, acting by the advice of Williams, very properly refused to engage in a dangerous struggle with his people, for the purpose of saving from legal condemnation a Minister whom it was impossible to save from dishonour. He advised Bacon to plead guilty, and promised to do all in his power to mitigate the punishment. Mr. Montagu is exceedingly angry with James on this account. But though we are, in general, very little inclined to admire that Prince's conduct, we really think that his advice was, under all the circumstances, the best advice that could have been given. On the seventeenth of April the Houses reassembled, and the Lords resumed their inquiries into the abuses of the Court of Chancery. On the twenty-second, Bacon addressed to the Peers a letter, which the Prince of Wales condescended to deliver. In this artful and pathetic composition, the Chancellor acknowledged his guilt in guarded and general terms, and, while acknowledging, endeavoured to palliate it. This, however, was not thought sufficient by his judges. They required a more particular confession, and sent him a copy of the charges. On the thirtieth, he delivered a paper in which he admitted, with few and unimportant reservations, the truth of the accusations brought against him, and threw himself entirely on the mercy of his peers. "Upon advised consideration of the charges," said he, "descending into my own conscience, and calling my memory to account so far as I am able, I do plainly and ingenuously confess that I am guilty of corruption, and do renounce all defence." The Lords came to a resolution that the Chancellor's confession appeared to be full and ingenuous, and sent a committee to inquire of him whether it was really subscribed by himself. The deputies, among whom was Southampton, the common friend, many years before, of Bacon and Essex, performed their duty with great delicacy. Indeed, the agonies of such a mind and the degradation of such a name might well have softened the most obdurate natures. "My Lords," said Bacon, "it is my act, my hand, my heart. I beseech your Lordships to be merciful to a broken reed." They withdrew; and he again retired to his chamber in the deepest dejection. The next day, the sergeant-at-arms and the usher of the House of Lords came to conduct him to Westminster Hall, where sentence was to be pronounced. But they found him so unwell that he could not leave his bed; and this excuse for his absence was readily accepted. In no quarter does there appear to have been the smallest desire to add to his humiliation. The sentence was, however, severe--the more severe, no doubt, because the Lords knew that it would not be executed, and that they had an excellent opportunity of exhibiting, at small cost, the inflexibility of their justice, and their abhorrence of corruption. Bacon was condemned to pay a fine of forty thousand pounds, and to be imprisoned in the Tower during the King's pleasure. He was declared incapable of holding any office in the State or of sitting in Parliament: and he was banished for life from the verge of the court. In such misery and shame ended that long career of worldly wisdom and worldly prosperity. Even at this pass Mr. Montagu does not desert his hero. He seems indeed to think that the attachment of an editor ought to be as devoted as that of Mr. Moore's lovers; and cannot conceive what biography was made for, "if 'tis not the same Through joy and through torment, through glory and shame." He assures us that Bacon was innocent, that he had the means of making a perfectly satisfactory defence, that when "he plainly and ingenuously confessed that he was guilty of corruption," and when he afterwards solemnly affirmed that his confession was "his act, his hand, his heart," he was telling a great lie, and that he refrained from bringing forward proofs of his innocence, because he durst not disobey the King and the favourite, who, for their own selfish objects, pressed him to plead guilty. Now, in the first place, there is not the smallest reason to believe that, if James and Buckingham had thought that Bacon had a good defence, they would have prevented him from making it. What conceivable motive had they for doing so? Mr. Montagu perpetually repeats that it was their interest to sacrifice Bacon. But he overlooks an obvious distinction. It was their interest to sacrifice Bacon on the supposition of his guilt; but not on the supposition of his innocence. James was very properly unwilling to run the risk of protecting his Chancellor against the Parliament. But if the Chancellor had been able, by force of argument, to obtain an acquittal from the Parliament, we have no doubt that both the King and Villiers would have heartily rejoiced. They would have rejoiced, not merely on account of their friendship for Bacon, which seems, however, to have been as sincere as most friendships of that sort, but on selfish grounds. Nothing could have strengthened the Government more than such a victory. The King and the favourite abandoned the Chancellor because they were unable to avert his disgrace, and unwilling to share it. Mr. Montagu mistakes effect for cause. He thinks that Bacon did not prove his innocence, because he was not supported by the Court. The truth evidently is that the Court did not venture to support Bacon, because he could not prove his innocence. Again, it seems strange that Mr. Montagu should not perceive that, while attempting to vindicate Bacon's reputation, he is really casting on it the foulest of all aspersions. He imputes to his idol a degree of meanness and depravity more loathsome than judicial corruption itself. A corrupt judge may have many good qualities. But a man who, to please a powerful patron, solemnly declares himself guilty of corruption when he knows himself to be innocent, must be a monster of servility and impudence. Bacon was, to say nothing of his highest claims to respect, a gentleman, a nobleman, a scholar, a statesman, a man of the first consideration in society, a man far advanced in years. Is it possible to believe that such a man would, to gratify any human being, irreparably ruin his own character by his own act? Imagine a grey-headed judge, full of years and honours, owning with tears, with pathetic assurances of his penitence and of his sincerity, that he has been guilty of shameful malpractices, repeatedly asseverating the truth of his confession, subscribing it with his own hand, submitting to conviction, receiving a humiliating sentence and acknowledging its justice, and all this when he has it in his power to show that his conduct has been irreproachable! The thing is incredible. But if we admit it to be true, what must we think of such a man, if indeed he deserves the name of man, who thinks anything that kings and minions can bestow more precious than honour, or anything that they can inflict more terrible than infamy? Of this most disgraceful imputation we fully acquit Bacon. He had no defence; and Mr. Montagu's affectionate attempt to make a defence for him has altogether failed. The grounds on which Mr. Montagu rests the case are two: the first, that the taking of presents was usual, and, what he seems to consider as the same thing, not discreditable; the second, that these presents were not taken as bribes. Mr Montagu brings forward many facts in support of his first proposition. He is not content with showing that many English judges formerly received gifts from suitors, but collects similar instances from foreign nations and ancient times. He goes back to the commonwealths of Greece, and attempts to press into his service a line of Homer and a sentence of Plutarch, which, we fear, will hardly serve his turn. The gold of which Homer speaks was not intended to fee the judges, but was paid into court for the benefit of the successful litigant; and the gratuities which Pericles, as Plutarch states, distributed among the members of the Athenian tribunals, were legal wages paid out of the public revenue. We can supply Mr. Montagu with passages much more in point. Hesiod, who, like poor Aubrey, had a "killing decree " made against him in the Chancery of Ascra, forgot decorum so far that he ventured to designate the learned persons who presided in that court, as Basileas dorophagous. Plutarch and Diodorus have handed down to the latest ages the respectable name of Anytus, the son of Anthemion, the first defendant who, eluding all the safeguards which the ingenuity of Solon could devise, succeeded in corrupting a bench of Athenian judges. We are indeed so far from grudging Mr. Montagu the aid of Greece, that we will give him Rome into the bargain. We acknowledge that the honourable senators who tried Verres received presents which were worth more than the fee-simple of York House and Gorhambury together, and that the no less honourable senators and knights who professed to believe in the alibi of Clodius obtained marks still more extraordinary of the esteem and gratitude of the defendant. In short, we are ready to admit that, before Bacon's time, and in Bacon's time, judges were in the habit of receiving gifts from suitors. But is this a defence? We think not. The robberies of Cacus and Barabbas are no apology for those of Turpin. The conduct of the two men of Belial who swore away the life of Naboth has never been cited as an excuse for the perjuries of Oates and Dangerfield. Mr. Montagu has confounded two things which it is necessary carefully to distinguish from each other, if we wish to form a correct judgment of the characters of men of other countries and other times. That an immoral action is in a particular society, generally considered as innocent, is a good plea for an individual who, being one of that society, and having adopted the notions which prevail among his neighbours, commits that action. But the circumstance that a great many people are in the habit of committing immoral actions is no plea at all. We should think it unjust to call St. Louis a wicked man, because in an age in which toleration was generally regarded as a sin, he persecuted heretics. We should think it unjust to call Cowper's friend, John Newton, a hypocrite and monster, because at a time when the slave-trade was commonly considered by the most respectable people as an innocent and beneficial traffic, he went, largely provided with hymn-books and handcuffs, on a Guinea voyage. But the circumstance that there are twenty thousand thieves in London is no excuse for a fellow who is caught breaking into a shop. No man is to be blamed for not making discoveries in morality, for not finding out that something which everybody else thinks to be good is really bad. But, if a man does that which he and all around him know to be bad, it is no excuse for him that many others have done the same. We should be ashamed of spending so much time in pointing out so clear a distinction, but that Mr. Montagu seems altogether to overlook it. Now, to apply these principles to the case before us; let Mr. Montagu prove that, in Bacon's age, the practices for which Bacon was punished were generally considered as innocent, and we admit that he has made out his point. But this we defy him to do. That these practices were common we admit; but they were common just as all wickedness to which there is strong temptation always was and always will be common. They were common just as theft, cheating, perjury, adultery have always been common. They were common, not because people did not know what was right, but because people liked to do what was wrong. They were common, though prohibited by law. They were common, though condemned by public opinion. They were common, because in that age law and public opinion united had not sufficient force to restrain the greediness of powerful and unprincipled magistrates. They were common, as every crime will be common when the gain to which it leads is great, and the chance of punishment small. But, though common, they were universally allowed to be altogether unjustifiable; they were in the highest degree odious; and, though many were guilty of them, none had the audacity publicly to avow and defend them. We could give a thousand proofs that the opinion then entertained concerning these practices was such as we have described. But we will content ourselves with calling a single witness, honest Hugh Latimer. His sermons, preached more than seventy years before the inquiry into Bacon's conduct, abound with the sharpest invectives against those very practices of which Bacon was guilty, and which, as Mr. Montagu seems to think, nobody ever considered as blamable till Bacon was punished for them. We could easily fill twenty pages with the homely, but just and forcible rhetoric of the brave old bishop. We shall select a few passages as fair specimens, and no more than fair specimens, of the rest. "Omnes diligunt munera. They all love bribes. Bribery is a princely kind of thieving. They will be waged by the rich, either to give sentence against the poor, or to put off the poor man's cause. This is the noble theft of princes and magistrates. They are bribe-takers. Nowadays they call them gentle rewards. Let them leave their colouring, and call them by their Christian name-- bribes." And again. "Cambyses was a great emperor, such another as our master is. He had many lord-deputies, lord-presidents, and lieutenants under him. It is a great while ago since I read the history. It chanced he had under him, in one of his dominions, a briber, a gift-taker, a gratifier of rich men; he followed gifts as fast as he that followed the pudding, a hand-maker in his office to make his son a great man, as the old saying is: Happy is the child whose father goeth to the devil. The cry of the poor widow came to the emperor's ear, and caused him to flay the judge quick, and laid his skin in the chair of judgment, that all judges that should give judgment afterwards should sit in the same skin. Surely it was a goodly sign, a goodly monument, the sign of the judge's skin. I pray God we may once see the skin in England." "I am sure," says he, in another sermon, "this is scala inferni, the right way to hell, to be covetous, to take bribes, and pervert justice. If a judge should ask me the way to hell, I would show him this way. First, let him be a covetous man; let his heart be poisoned with covetousness. Then let him go a little further, and take bribes; and, lastly, pervert judgment. Lo, here is the mother, and the daughter, and the daughter's daughter. Avarice is the mother: she brings forth bribe-taking, and bribe- taking perverting of judgment. There lacks a fourth thing to make up the mess, which, so help me God, if I were judge, should be hangum tuum, a Tyburn tippet to take with him; an it were the judge of the King's Bench, my Lord Chief Judge of England, yea, an it were my Lord Chancellor himself, to Tyburn with him." We will quote but one more passage. "He that took the silver basin and ewer for a bribe, thinketh that it will never come out. But he may now know that I know it, and I know it not alone; there be more beside me that know it. Oh, briber and bribery! He was never a good man that will so take bribes. Nor can I believe that he that is a briber will be a good justice. It will never be merry in England till we have the skins of such. For what needeth bribing where men do their things uprightly?" This was not the language of a great philosopher who had made new discoveries in moral and political science. It was the plain talk of a plain man, who sprang from the body of the people, who sympathised strongly with their wants and their feelings, and who boldly uttered their opinions. It was on account of the fearless way in which stout-hearted old Hugh exposed the misdeeds of men in ermine tippets and gold collars, that the Londoners cheered him, as he walked down the Strand to preach at Whitehall, struggled for a touch of his gown, and bawled, "Have at them, Father Latimer!" It is plain, from the passages which we have quoted, and from fifty others which we might quote, that, long before Bacon was born, the accepting of presents by a judge was known to be a wicked and shameful act, that the fine words under which it was the fashion to veil such corrupt practices were even then seen through by the common people, that the distinction on which Mr. Montagu insists between compliments and bribes was even then laughed at as a mere colouring. There may be some oratorical exaggeration in what Latimer says about the Tyburn tippet and the sign of the judge's skin; but the fact that he ventured to use such expressions is amply sufficient to prove that the gift- taking judges, the receivers of silver basins and ewers, were regarded as such pests of the commonwealth that a venerable divine might, without any breach of Christian charity, publicly pray to God for their detection and their condign punishment. Mr. Montagu tells us, most justly, that we ought not to transfer the opinions of our age to a former age. But he has himself committed a greater error than that against which he has cautioned his readers. Without any evidence, nay, in the face of the strongest evidence, he ascribes to the people of a former age a set of opinions which no people ever held. But any hypothesis is in his view more probable than that Bacon should have been a dishonest man. We firmly believe that, if papers were to be discovered which should irresistibly prove that Bacon was concerned in the poisoning of Sir Thomas Overbury, Mr. Montagu would tell us that, at the beginning of the seventeenth century, it was not thought improper in a man to put arsenic into the broth of his friends, and that we ought to blame, not Bacon, but the age in which he lived. But why should we have recourse to any other evidence, when the proceeding against Lord Bacon is itself the best evidence on the subject? When Mr. Montagu tells us that we ought not to transfer the opinions of our age to Bacon's age, he appears altogether to forget that it was by men of Bacon's own age, that Bacon was prosecuted, tried, convicted, and sentenced. Did not they know what their own opinions were? Did not they know whether they thought the taking of gifts by a judge a crime or not? Mr. Montagu complains bitterly that Bacon was induced to abstain from making a defence. But, if Bacon's defence resembled that which is made for him in the volume before us, it would have been unnecessary to trouble the Houses with it. The Lords and Commons did not want Bacon to tell them the thoughts of their own hearts, to inform them that they did not consider such practices as those in which they had detected him as at all culpable. Mr. Montagu's proposition may indeed be fairly stated thus:--It was very hard that Bacon's contemporaries should think it wrong in him to do what they did not think it wrong in him to do. Hard indeed; and withal somewhat improbable. Will any person say that the Commons who impeached Bacon for taking presents, and the Lords who sentenced him to fine, imprisonment, and degradation for taking presents, did not know that the taking of presents was a crime? Or, will any person say that Bacon did not know what the whole House of Commons and the whole House of Lords knew? Nobody who is not prepared to maintain one of these absurd propositions can deny that Bacon committed what he knew to be a crime. It cannot be pretended that the Houses were seeking occasion to ruin Bacon, and that they therefore brought him to punishment on charges which they themselves knew to be frivolous. In no quarter was there the faintest indication of a disposition to treat him harshly. Through the whole proceeding there was no symptom of personal animosity or of factious violence in either House. Indeed, we will venture to say that no State-Trial in our History is more creditable to all who took part in it, either as prosecutors or judges. The decency, the gravity, the public spirit, the justice moderated but not unnerved by compassion, which appeared in every part of the transaction, would do honour to the most respectable public men of our own times. The accusers, while they discharged their duty to their constituents by bringing the misdeeds of the Chancellor to light, spoke with admiration of his many eminent qualities. The Lords, while condemning him, complimented him on the ingenuousness of his confession, and spared him the humiliation of a public appearance at their bar. So strong was the contagion of good feeling that even Sir Edward Coke, for the first time in his life, behaved like a gentleman. No criminal ever had more temperate prosecutors than Bacon. No criminal ever had more favourable judges. If he was convicted, it was because it was impossible to acquit him without offering the grossest outrage to justice and common sense. Mr. Montagu's other argument, namely, that Bacon, though he took gifts, did not take bribes, seems to us as futile as that which we have considered. Indeed, we might be content to leave it to be answered by the plainest man among our readers. Demosthenes noticed it with contempt more than two thousand years ago. Latimer, we have seen, treated this sophistry with similar disdain. "Leave colouring," said he, "and call these things by their Christian name, bribes." Mr. Montagu attempts, somewhat unfairly, we must say, to represent the presents which Bacon received as similar to the perquisites which suitors paid to the members of the Parliaments of France. The French magistrate had a legal right to his fee; and the amount of the fee was regulated by law. Whether this be a good mode of remunerating judges is not the question. But what analogy is there between payments of this sort, and the presents which Bacon received, presents which were not sanctioned by the law, which were not made under the public eye, and of which the amount was regulated only by private bargain between the magistrate and the suitor? Again, it is mere trifling to say that Bacon could not have meant to act corruptly, because he employed the agency of men of rank, of bishops, privy councillors, and members of Parliament; as if the whole history of that generation was not full of the low actions of high people; as if it was not notorious that men, as exalted in rank as any of the decoys that Bacon employed, had pimped for Somerset, and poisoned Overbury. But, says Mr. Montagu, these presents "were made openly and with the greatest publicity." This would indeed be a strong argument in favour of Bacon. But we deny the fact. In one, and one only, of the cases in which Bacon was accused of corruptly receiving gifts, does he appear to have received a gift publicly. This was in a matter depending between the Company of Apothecaries and the Company of Grocers. Bacon, in his Confession, insisted strongly on the circumstance that he had on this occasion taken a present publicly, as a proof that he had not taken it corruptly. Is it not clear that, if he had taken the presents mentioned in the other charges in the same public manner, he would have dwelt on this point in his answer to those charges? The fact that he insists so strongly on the publicity of one particular present is of itself sufficient to prove that the other presents were not publicly taken. Why he took this present publicly and the rest secretly, is evident. He on that occasion acted openly, because he was acting honestly. He was not on that occasion sitting judicially. He was called in to effect an amicable arrangement between two parties. Both were satisfied with his decision. Both joined in making him a present in return for his trouble. Whether it was quite delicate in a man of his rank to accept a present under such circumstances, may be questioned. But there is no ground in this case for accusing him of corruption. Unhappily, the very circumstances which prove him to have been innocent in this case prove him to have been guilty on the other charges. Once, and once only, he alleges that he received a present publicly. The natural inference is that in all the other cases mentioned in the articles against him he received presents secretly. When we examine the single case in which he alleges that he received a present publicly, we find that it is also the single case in which there was no gross impropriety in his receiving a present. Is it then possible to doubt that his reason for not receiving other presents in as public a manner was that he knew that it was wrong to receive them? One argument still remains, plausible in appearance, but admitting of easy and complete refutation. The two chief complainants, Aubrey and Egerton, had both made presents to the Chancellor. But he had decided against them both. Therefore, he had not received those presents as bribes. "The complaints of his accusers were," says Mr. Montagu, "not that the gratuities had, but that they had not influenced Bacon's judgment, as he had decided against them." The truth is, that it is precisely in this way that an extensive system of corruption is generally detected. A person who, by a bribe, has procured a decree in his favour, is by no means likely to come forward of his own accord as an accuser. He is content. He has his quid pro quo. He is not impelled either by interested or by vindictive motives to bring the transaction before the public. On the contrary, he has almost as strong motives for holding his tongue as the judge himself can have. But when a judge practises corruption, as we fear that Bacon practised it, on a large scale, and has many agents looking out in different quarters for prey, it will sometimes happen that he will be bribed on both sides. It will sometimes happen that he will receive money from suitors who are so obviously in the wrong that he cannot with decency do anything to serve them. Thus he will now and then be forced to pronounce against a person from whom he has received a present; and he makes that person a deadly enemy. The hundreds who have got what they paid for remain quiet. It is the two or three who have paid, and have nothing to show for their money, who are noisy. The memorable case of the Goezmans is an example of this. Beaumarchais had an important suit depending before the Parliament of Paris. M. Goezman was the judge on whom chiefly the decision depended. It was hinted to Beaumarchais that Madame Goezman might be propitiated by a present. He accordingly offered a purse of gold to the lady, who received it graciously. There can be no doubt that, if the decision of the court had been favourable to him, these things would never have been known to the world. But he lost his cause. Almost the whole sum which he had expended in bribery was immediately refunded; and those who had disappointed him probably thought that he would not, for the mere gratification of his malevolence, make public a transaction which was discreditable to himself as well as to them. They knew little of him. He soon taught them to curse the day in which they had dared to trifle with a man of so revengeful and turbulent a spirit, of such dauntless effrontery, and of such eminent talents for controversy and satire. He compelled the Parliament to put a degrading stigma on M. Goezman. He drove Madame Goezman to a convent. Till it was too late to pause, his excited passions did not suffer him to remember that he could effect their ruin only by disclosures ruinous to himself. We could give other instances. But it is needless. No person well acquainted with human nature can fail to perceive that, if the doctrine for which Mr. Montagu contends were admitted, society would be deprived of almost the only chance which it has of detecting the corrupt practices of judges. We return to our narrative. The sentence of Bacon had scarcely been pronounced when it was mitigated. He was indeed sent to the Tower. But this was merely a form. In two days he was set at liberty, and soon after he retired to Gorhambury. His fine was speedily released by the Crown. He was next suffered to present himself at Court; and at length, in 1624, the rest of his punishment was remitted. He was now at liberty to resume his seat in the House of Lords, and he was actually summoned to the next Parliament. But age, infirmity, and perhaps shame, prevented him from attending. The Government allowed him a pension of twelve hundred pounds a year; and his whole annual income is estimated by Mr. Montagu at two thousand five hundred pounds, a sum which. was probably above the average income of a nobleman of that generation, and which was certainly sufficient for comfort and even for splendour. Unhappily, Bacon was fond of display, and unused to pay minute attention to domestic affairs. He was not easily persuaded to give up any part of the magnificence to which he had been accustomed in the time of his power and prosperity. No pressure of distress could induce him to part with the woods of Gorhambury. "I will not," he said, "be stripped of my feathers." He travelled with so splendid an equipage and so large a retinue that Prince Charles, who once fell in with him on the road, exclaimed with surprise, "Well; do what we can, this man scorns to go out in snuff." This carelessness and ostentation reduced Bacon to frequent distress. He was under the necessity of parting with York House, and of taking up his residence, during his visits to London, at his old chambers in Gray's Inn. He had other vexations, the exact nature of which is unknown. It is evident from his will that some part of his wife's conduct had greatly disturbed and irritated him. But, whatever might be his pecuniary difficulties or his conjugal discomforts, the powers of his intellect still remained undiminished. Those noble studies for which he had found leisure in the midst of professional drudgery and of courtly intrigues gave to this last sad stage of his life a dignity beyond what power or titles could bestow. Impeached, convicted, sentenced, driven with ignominy from the presence of his Sovereign, shut out from the deliberations of his fellow nobles, loaded with debt, branded with dishonour, sinking under the weight of years, sorrows, and diseases, Bacon was Bacon still. "My conceit of his person," says Ben Jonson very finely, "was never increased towards him by his place or honours; but I have and do reverence him for the greatness that was only proper to himself; in that he seemed to me ever, by his work, one of the greatest men and most worthy of admiration, that had been in many ages. In his adversity I ever prayed that God would give him strength; for greatness he could not want." The services which Bacon rendered to letters during the last five years of his life, amidst ten thousand distractions and vexations, increase the regret with which we think on the many years which he had wasted, to use the words of Sir Thomas Bodley, "on such study as was not worthy of such a student." He commenced a Digest of the Laws of England, a History of England under the Princes of the House of Tudor, a body of Natural History, a Philosophical Romance. He made extensive and valuable additions to his Essays. He published the inestimable Treatise De Augmentis Scientiarum. The very trifles with which he amused himself in hours of pain and languor bore the mark of his mind. The best collection of jests in the world is that which he dictated from memory, without referring to any book, on a day on which illness had rendered him incapable of serious study. The great apostle of experimental philosophy was destined to be its martyr. It had occurred to him that snow might be used with advantage for the purpose of preventing animal substances from putrefying. On a very cold day, early in the spring of the year 1626, he alighted from his coach near Highgate, in order to try the experiment. He went into a cottage, bought a fowl, and with his own hands stuffed it with snow. While thus engaged he felt a sudden chill, and was soon so much indisposed that it was impossible for him to return to Gray's Inn. The Earl of Arundel, with whom he was well acquainted, had a house at Highgate. To that house Bacon was carried. The Earl was absent; but the servants who were in charge of the place showed great respect and attention to the illustrious guest. Here, after an illness of about a week, he expired early on the morning of Easter-day, 1626. His mind appears to have retained its strength and liveliness to the end. He did not forget the fowl which had caused his death. In the last letter that he ever wrote, with fingers which, as he said, could not steadily hold a pen, he did not omit to mention that the experiment of the snow had succeeded "excellently well." Our opinion of the moral character of this great man has already been sufficiently explained. Had his life been passed in literary retirement, he would, in all probability, have deserved to be considered, not only as a great philosopher, but as a worthy and good-natured member of society. But neither his principles nor his spirit were such as could be trusted, when strong temptations were to be resisted, and serious dangers to be braved. In his will he expressed with singular brevity, energy, dignity, and pathos, a mournful consciousness that his actions had not been such as to entitle him to the esteem of those under whose observation his life had been passed, and, at the same time, a proud confidence that his writings had secured for him a high and permanent place among the benefactors of mankind. So at least we understand those striking words which have been often quoted, but which we must quote once more. "For my name and memory, I leave it to men's charitable speeches, and to foreign nations, and to the next age." His confidence was just. From the day of his death his fame has been constantly and steadily progressive; and we have no doubt that his name will be named with reverence to the latest ages, and to the remotest ends of the civilised world. The chief peculiarity of Bacon's philosophy seems to us to have been this, that it aimed at things altogether different from those which his predecessors had proposed to themselves. This was his own opinion. " Finis scientiarum," says he, "a nemine adhuc bene positus est."[Novum Organum, Lib. i. Aph. 81.] And again, "Omnium gravissimus error in deviatione ab ultimo doctrinarum fine consistit." [De Augmentis, Lib. i.] " Nec ipsa meta," says he elsewhere, "adhuc ulli, quod sciam, mortalium posita est et defixa."[Cogitata et visa.] The more carefully his works are examined, the more clearly, we think, it will appear that this is the real clue to his whole system, and that he used means different from those used by other philosophers, because he wished to arrive at an end altogether different from theirs. What then was the end which Bacon proposed to himself? It was, to use his own emphatic expression, "fruit." It was the multiplying of human enjoyments and the mitigating of human sufferings. It was "the relief of man's estate." [Advancement of Learning, Book i.] It was "commodis humanis inservire." [De Augmentis, Lib. vii. Cap. i.] It was "efficaciter operari ad sublevanda vitae humanae incommoda." [Ib., Lib. ii. Cap. ii.] It was "dotare vitam humanam novis inventis et copiis." [Novum Organum, Lib. i., Aph. 81.] It was "genus humanum novis operibus et potestatibus continuo dotare." [Cogitata et visa.] This was the object of all his speculations in every department of science, in natural philosophy, in legislation, in politics, in morals. Two words form the key of the Baconian doctrine, Utility and Progress. The ancient philosophy disdained to be useful, and was content to be stationary. It dealt largely in theories of moral perfection, which were so sublime that they never could be more than theories; in attempts to solve insoluble enigmas; in exhortations to the attainment of unattainable frames of mind. It could not condescend to the humble office of ministering to the comfort of human beings. All the schools contemned that office as degrading; some censured it as immoral. Once indeed Posidonius, a distinguished writer of the age of Cicero and Caesar, so far forgot himself as to enumerate, among the humbler blessings which mankind owed to philosophy, the discovery of the principle of the arch, and the introduction of the use of metals. This eulogy was considered as an affront, and was taken up with proper spirit. Seneca vehemently disclaims these insulting compliments. [Seneca, Epist. 90.] Philosophy, according to him, has nothing to do with teaching men to rear arched roofs over their heads. The true philosopher does not care whether he has an arched roof or any roof, Philosophy has nothing to do with teaching men the uses of metals. She teaches us to be independent of all material substances, of all mechanical contrivances. The wise man lives according to nature. Instead of attempting to add to the physical comforts of his species, he regrets that his lot was not cast in that golden age when the human race had no protection against the cold but the skins of wild beasts, no screen from the sun but a cavern. To impute to such a man any share in the invention or improvement of a plough, a ship, or a mill is an insult. "In my own time," says Seneca, "there have been inventions of this sort, transparent windows, tubes for diffusing warmth equally through all parts of a building, shorthand, which has been carried to such a perfection that a writer can keep pace with the most rapid speaker. But the inventing of such things is drudgery for the lowest slaves; philosophy lies deeper. It is not her office to teach men how to use their hands. The object of her lessons is to form the soul. Non est, inquam, instrumentorum ad usus necessarios opifex." If the non were left out, this last sentence would be no bad description of the Baconian philosophy, and would, indeed, very much resemble several expressions in the Novum Organum. "We shall next be told," exclaims Seneca, "that the first shoemaker was a philosopher." For our own part, if we are forced to make our choice between the first shoemaker and the author of the three books "On Anger," we pronounce for the shoemaker. It may be worse to be angry than to be wet. But shoes have kept millions from being wet; and we doubt whether Seneca ever kept anybody from being angry. It is very reluctantly that Seneca can be brought to confess that any philosopher had ever paid the smallest attention to anything that could possibly promote what vulgar people would consider as the well-being of mankind. He labours to clear Democritus from the disgraceful imputation of having made the first arch, and Anacharsis from the charge of having contrived the potter's wheel. He is forced to own that such a thing might happen; and it may also happen, he tells us, that a philosopher may be swift of foot. But it is not in his character of philosopher that he either wins a race or invents a machine. No, to be sure. The business of a philosopher was to declaim in praise of poverty with two millions sterling out at usury, to meditate epigrammatic conceits about the evils of luxury, in gardens which moved the envy of sovereigns, to rant about liberty, while fawning on the insolent and pampered freedmen of a tyrant, to celebrate the divine beauty of virtue with the same pen which had just before written a defence of the murder of a mother by a son. From the cant of this philosophy, a philosophy meanly proud of its own unprofitableness, it is delightful to turn to the lessons of the great English teacher. We can almost forgive all the faults of Bacon's life when we read that singularly graceful and dignified passage: "Ego certe, ut de me ipso, quod res est, loquar, et in iis quae nunc edo, et in iis quae in posterum meditor, dignitatem ingenii et nominis mei, si qua sit, saepius sciens et volens projicio, dum commodis humanis inserviam; quique architectus fortasse in philosophia et scientiis esse debeam, etiam operarius, et bajulus, et quidvis demum fio, cum haud pauca quae omnino fieri necesse sit, alii autem ob innatum superbiam subterfugiant, ipsi sustineam et exsequar." [De Augmentis, Lib. vii. Cap. i.] This philanthropia, which, as he said in one of the most remarkable of his early letters, "was so fixed in his mind, as it could not be removed," this majestic humility, this persuasion that nothing can be too insignificant for the attention of the wisest, which is not too insignificant to give pleasure or pain to the meanest, is the great characteristic distinction, the essential spirit of the Baconian philosophy. We trace it in all that Bacon has written on Physics, on Laws, on Morals. And we conceive that from this peculiarity all the other peculiarities of his system directly and almost necessarily sprang. The spirit which appears in the passage of Seneca to which we have referred tainted the whole body of the ancient philosophy from the time of Socrates downwards, and took possession of intellects with which that of Seneca cannot for a moment be compared. It pervades the dialogues of Plato. It may be distinctly traced in many parts of the works of Aristotle. Bacon has dropped hints from which it may be inferred that, in his opinion, the prevalence of this feeling was in a great measure to be attributed to the influence of Socrates. Our great countryman evidently did not consider the revolution which Socrates effected in philosophy as a happy event, and constantly maintained that the earlier Greek speculators, Democritus in particular, were, on the whole, superior to their more celebrated successors. [Novum Organum, Lib. i. Aph. 71, 79. De Augmentis, Lib. iii. Cap. iv. De principiis, atque originibus. Cogitata et visa. Redargutio philosophiarum.] Assuredly if the tree which Socrates planted and Plato watered is to be judged of by its flowers and leaves, it is the noblest of trees. But if we take the homely test of Bacon, if we judge of the tree by its fruits, our opinion of it may perhaps be less favourable. When we sum up all the useful truths which we owe to that philosophy, to what do they amount? We find, indeed, abundant proofs that some of those who cultivated it were men of the first order of intellect. We find among their writings incomparable specimens both of dialectical and rhetorical art. We have no doubt that the ancient controversies were of use, in so far as they served to exercise the faculties of the disputants; for there is no controversy so idle that it may not be of use in this way. But, when we look for something more, for something which adds to the comforts or alleviates the calamities of the human race, we are forced to own ourselves disappointed. We are forced to say with Bacon that this celebrated philosophy ended in nothing but disputation, that it was neither a vineyard nor an olive-ground, but an intricate wood of briars and thistles, from which those who lost themselves in it brought back many scratches and no food. [Novum Organum, Lib. i. Aph. 73.] We readily acknowledge that some of the teachers of this unfruitful wisdom were among the greatest men that the world has ever seen. If we admit the justice of Bacon's censure, we admit it with regret, similar to that which Dante felt when he learned the fate of those illustrious heathens who were doomed to the first circle of Hell: "Gran duol mi prese al cuor quando lo 'ntesi, Perocche gente di molto valore Conobbi che 'n quel limbo eran sospesi." But in truth the very admiration which we feel for the eminent philosophers of antiquity forces us to adopt the opinion that their powers were systematically misdirected. For how else could it be that such powers should effect so little for mankind? A pedestrian may show as much muscular vigour on a treadmill as on the highway road. But on the road his vigour will assuredly carry him forward; and on the treadmill he will not advance an inch. The ancient philosophy was a treadmill, not a path. It was made up of revolving questions, of controversies which were always beginning again. It was a contrivance for having much exertion and no progress. We must acknowledge that more than once, while contemplating the doctrines of the Academy and the Portico, even as they appear in the transparent splendour of Cicero's incomparable diction, we have been tempted to mutter with the surly centurion in Persius, "Cur quis non prandeat hoc est?" What is the highest good, whether pain be an evil, whether all things be fated, whether we can be certain of anything, whether we can be certain that we are certain of nothing, whether a wise man can be unhappy, whether all departures from right be equally reprehensible; these, and other questions of the same sort, occupied the brains, the tongues, and the pens of the ablest men in the civilised world during several centuries. This sort of philosophy, it is evident, could not be progressive. It might indeed sharpen and invigorate the minds of those who devoted themselves to it; and so might the disputes of the orthodox Lilliputians and the heretical Blefuscudians about the big ends and the little ends of eggs. But such disputes could add nothing to the stock of knowledge. The human mind accordingly, instead of marching, merely marked time. It took as much trouble as would have sufficed to carry it forward; and yet remained on the same spot. There was no accumulation of truth, no heritage of truth acquired by the labour of one generation and bequeathed to another, to be again transmitted with large additions to a third. Where this philosophy was in the time of Cicero, there it continued to be in the time of Seneca, and there it continued to be in the time of Favorinus. The same sects were still battling with the same unsatisfactory arguments, about the same interminable questions. There had been no want of ingenuity, of zeal, of industry. Every trace of intellectual cultivation was there, except a harvest. There had been plenty of ploughing, harrowing, reaping, threshing. But the garners contained only smut and stubble. The ancient philosophers did not neglect natural science but they did not cultivate it for the purpose of increasing the power and ameliorating the condition of man. The taint of barrenness had spread from ethical to physical speculations. Seneca wrote largely on natural philosophy, and magnified the importance of that study. But why? Not because it tended to assuage suffering, to multiply the conveniences of life, to extend the empire of man over the material world; but solely because it tended to raise the mind above low cares, to separate it from the body, to exercise its subtilty in the solution of very obscure questions.[Seneca, Nat. Quaest. praef. Lib. iii.] Thus natural philosophy was considered in the light merely of a mental exercise. It was made subsidiary to the art of disputation; and it consequently proved altogether barren of useful discoveries. There was one sect which, however absurd and pernicious some of its doctrines may have been, ought, it should seem, to have merited an exception from the general censure which Bacon has pronounced on the ancient schools of wisdom. The Epicurean, who referred all happiness to bodily pleasure, and all evil to bodily pain, might have been expected to exert himself for the purpose of bettering his own physical condition and that of his neighbours. But the thought seems never to have occurred to any member of that school. Indeed their notion, as reported by their great poet, was, that no more improvements were to be expected in the arts which conduce to the comfort of life. "Ad victum quae flagitat usus Omnia jam ferme mortalibus esse parata." This contented despondency, this disposition to admire what has been done, and to expect that nothing more will be done, is strongly characteristic of all the schools which preceded the school of Fruit and Progress. Widely as the Epicurean and the Stoic differed on most points, they seem to have quite agreed in their contempt for pursuits so vulgar as to be useful. The philosophy of both was a garrulous, declaiming, canting, wrangling philosophy. Century after century they continued to repeat their hostile war-cries, Virtue and Pleasure; and in the end it appeared that the Epicurean had added as little to the quantity of pleasure as the Stoic to the quantity of virtue. It is on the pedestal of Bacon, not on that of Epicurus, that those noble lines ought to be inscribed "0 tenebris tantis tam clarum extollere lumen Qui primus potuisti, illustrans commoda vitae." In the fifth century Christianity had conquered Paganism, and Paganism had infected Christianity. The Church was now victorious and corrupt. The rites of the Pantheon had passed into her worship, the subtilties of the Academy into her creed. In an evil day, though with great pomp and solemnity,--we quote the language of Bacon,--was the ill-starred alliance stricken between the old philosophy and the new faith. [Cogitata et visa.] Questions widely different from those which had employed the ingenuity of Pyrrho and Carneades, but just as subtle, just as interminable, and just as unprofitable, exercised the minds of the lively and voluble Greeks. When learning began to revive in the West, similar trifles occupied the sharp and vigorous intellects of the Schoolmen. There was another sowing of the wind, and another reaping of the whirlwind. The great work of improving the condition of the human race was still considered as unworthy of a man of learning. Those who undertook that task, if what they effected could be readily comprehended, were despised as mechanics; if not, they were in danger of being burned as conjurers. There cannot be a stronger proof of the degree in which the human mind had been misdirected than the history of the two greatest events which took place during the middle ages. We speak of the invention of Gunpowder and of the invention of Printing. The dates of both are unknown. The authors of both are unknown. Nor was this because men were too rude and ignorant to value intellectual superiority. The inventor of gunpowder appears to have been contemporary with Petrarch and Boccaccio. The inventor of printing was certainly contemporary with Nicholas the Fifth, with Cosmo de' Medici, and with a crowd of distinguished scholars. But the human mind still retained that fatal bent which it had received two thousand years earlier. George of Trebisond and Marsilio Ficino would not easily have been brought to believe that the inventor of the printing-press had done more for mankind than themselves, or than those ancient writers of whom they were the enthusiastic votaries. At length the time arrived when the barren philosophy which had, during so many ages, employed the faculties of the ablest of men, was destined to fall. It had worn many shapes. It had mingled itself with many creeds. It had survived revolutions in which empires, religions, languages, races, had perished. Driven from its ancient haunts, it had taken sanctuary in that Church which it had persecuted, and had, like the daring fiends of the poet, placed its seat "next the seat of God, And with its darkness dared affront his light." Words, and more words, and nothing but words, had been all the fruit of all the toil of all the most renowned sages of sixty generations. But the days of this sterile exuberance were numbered. Many causes predisposed the public mind to a change. The study of a great variety of ancient writers, though it did not give a right direction to philosophical research, did much towards destroying that blind reverence for authority which had prevailed when Aristotle ruled alone. The rise of the Florentine sect of Platonists, a sect to which belonged some of the finest minds of the fifteenth century, was not an unimportant event. The mere substitution of the Academic for the Peripatetic philosophy would indeed have done little good. But anything was better than the old habit of unreasoning servility. It was something to have a choice of tyrants. "A spark of freedom," as Gibbon has justly remarked, "was produced by this collision of adverse servitude." Other causes might be mentioned. But it is chiefly to the great reformation of religion that we owe the great reformation of philosophy. The alliance between the Schools and the Vatican had for ages been so close that those who threw off the dominion of the Vatican could not continue to recognise the authority of the Schools. Most of the chiefs of the schism treated the Peripatetic philosophy with contempt, and spoke of Aristotle as if Aristotle had been answerable for all the dogmas of Thomas Aquinas. "Nullo apud Lutheranos philosophiam esse in pretio," was a reproach which the defenders of the Church of Rome loudly repeated, and which many of the Protestant leaders considered as a compliment. Scarcely any text was more frequently cited by the reformers than that in which St. Paul cautions the Colossians not to let any man spoil them by philosophy. Luther, almost at the outset of his career, went so far as to declare that no man could be at once a proficient in the school of Aristotle and in that of Christ. Zwingle, Bucer, Peter Martyr, Calvin, held similar language. In some of the Scotch universities, the Aristotelian system was discarded for that of Ramus. Thus, before the birth of Bacon, the empire of the scholastic philosophy had been shaken to its foundations. There was in the intellectual world an anarchy resembling that which in the political world often follows the overthrow of an old and deeply rooted Government. Antiquity, prescription, the sound of great names, have ceased to awe mankind. The dynasty which had reigned for ages was at an end; and the vacant throne was left to be struggled for by pretenders. The first effect of this great revolution was, as Bacon most justly observed, [De Augmentis, Lib. i.] to give for a time an undue importance to the mere graces of style. The new breed of scholars, the Aschams and Buchanans, nourished with the finest compositions of the Augustan age, regarded with loathing the dry, crabbed, and barbarous diction of respondents and opponents. They were far less studious about the matter of their writing than about the manner. They succeeded in reforming Latinity; but they never even aspired to effect a reform in Philosophy. At this time Bacon appeared. It is altogether incorrect to say, as has often been said, that he was the first man who rose up against the Aristotelian philosophy when in the height of his power. The authority of that philosophy had, as we have shown, received a fatal blow long before he was born. Several speculators, among whom Ramus is the best known, had recently attempted to form new sects. Bacon's own expressions about the state of public opinion in the time of Luther are clear and strong: "Accedebat," says he, "odium et contemptus, illis ipsis temporibus ortus erga Scholasticos." And again, "Scholasticorum doctrina despectui prorsus haberi coepit tanquam aspera et barbara." [Both these passages are in the first book of the De Augmentis.] The part which Bacon played in this great change was the part, not of Robespierre, but of Bonaparte. The ancient order of things had been subverted. Some bigots still cherished with devoted loyalty the remembrance of the fallen monarchy, and exerted themselves to effect a restoration. But the majority had no such feeling. Freed, yet not knowing how to use their freedom, they pursued no determinate course, and had found no leader capable of conducting them. That leader at length arose. The philosophy which he taught was essentially new. It differed from that of the celebrated ancient teachers, not merely in method, but also in object. Its object was the good of mankind, in the sense in which the mass of mankind always have understood and always will understand the word good. "Meditor," said Bacon, "instaurationem philosophiae ejusmodi quae nihil inanis aut abstracti habeat, quaeque vitae humanae conditiones in melius provehat." [Redargutio Philosophiarum.] The difference between the philosophy of Bacon and that of his predecessors cannot, we think, be better illustrated than by comparing his views on some important subjects with those of Plato. We select Plato, because we conceive that he did more than any other person towards giving to the minds of speculative men that bent which they retained till they received from Bacon a new impulse in a diametrically opposite direction. It is curious to observe how differently these great men estimated the value of every kind of knowledge. Take Arithmetic for example. Plato, after speaking slightly of the convenience of being able to reckon and compute in the ordinary transactions of life, passes to what he considers as a far more important advantage. The study of the properties of numbers, he tells us, habituates the mind to the contemplation of pure truth, and raises us above the material universe. He would have his disciples apply themselves to this study, not that they may be able to buy or sell, not that they may qualify themselves to be shopkeepers or travelling merchants, but that they may learn to withdraw their minds from the ever-shifting spectacle of this visible and tangible world, and to fix them on the immutable essences of things. [Plato's Republic, Book vii.] Bacon, on the other hand, valued this branch of knowledge, only on account of its uses with reference to that visible and tangible world which Plato so much despised. He speaks with scorn of the mystical arithmetic of the later Platonists, and laments the propensity of mankind to employ, on mere matters of curiosity, powers the whole exertion of which is required for purposes of solid advantage. He advises arithmeticians to leave these trifles, and to employ themselves in framing convenient expressions, which may be of use in physical researches. [De Augmentis, Lib. iii. Cap. 6.] The same reasons which led Plato to recommend the study of arithmetic led him to recommend also the study of mathematics. The vulgar crowd of geometricians, he says, will not understand him. They have practice always in view. They do not know that the real use of the science is to lead men to the knowledge of abstract, essential, eternal truth. [Plato's Republic, Book vii.] Indeed, if we are to believe Plutarch, Plato carried this feeling so far that he considered geometry as degraded by being applied to any purpose of vulgar utility. Archytas, it seems, had framed machines of extraordinary power on mathematical principles. [Plutarch, Sympos. viii. and Life of Marcellus. The machines of Archytas are also mentioned by Aulus Gellius and Diogenes Laertius.] Plato remonstrated with his friend, and declared that this was to degrade a noble intellectual exercise into a low craft, fit only for carpenters and wheelwrights. The office of geometry, he said, was to discipline the mind, not to minister to the base wants of the body. His interference was successful; and from that time, according to Plutarch, the science of mechanics was considered as unworthy of the attention of a philosopher. Archimedes in a later age imitated and surpassed Archytas. But even Archimedes was not free from the prevailing notion that geometry was degraded by being employed to produce anything useful. It was with difficulty that he was induced to stoop from speculation to practice. He was half ashamed of those inventions which were the wonder of hostile nations, and always spoke of them slightingly as mere amusements, as trifles in which a mathematician might be suffered to relax his mind after intense application to the higher parts of his science. The opinion of Bacon on this subject was diametrically opposed to that of the ancient philosophers. He valued geometry chiefly, if not solely, on account of those uses, which to Plato appeared so base. And it is remarkable that the longer Bacon lived the stronger this feeling became. When in 1605 he wrote the two books on the Advancement of Learning, he dwelt on the advantages which mankind derived from mixed mathematics; but he at the same time admitted that the beneficial effect produced by mathematical study on the intellect, though a collateral advantage, was "no less worthy than that which was principal and intended." But it is evident that his views underwent a change. When, near twenty years later, he published the De Augmentis, which is the Treatise on the Advancement of Learning, greatly expanded and carefully corrected, he made important alterations in the part which related to mathematics. He condemned with severity the high, pretensions of the mathematicians, "delicias et fastum mathematicorum." Assuming the well-being of the human race to be the end of knowledge, [Usui et commodis hominum consulimus.] he pronounced that mathematical science could claim no higher rank than that of an appendage or auxiliary to other sciences. Mathematical science, he says, is the handmaid of natural philosophy; she ought to demean herself as such; and he declares that he cannot conceive by what ill chance it has happened that she presumes to claim precedence over her mistress. He predicts-- a prediction which would have made Plato shudder--that as more and more discoveries are made in physics, there will be more and more branches of mixed mathematics. Of that collateral advantage the value of which, twenty years before, he rated so highly, he says not one word. This omission cannot have been the effect of mere inadvertence. His own treatise was before him. From that treatise he deliberately expunged whatever was favourable to the study of pure mathematics, and inserted several keen reflections on the ardent votaries of that study. This fact, in our opinion, admits of only one explanation. Bacon's love of those pursuits which directly tend to improve the condition of mankind, and his jealousy of all pursuits merely curious, had grown upon him, and had, it may be, become immoderate. He was afraid of using any expression which might have the effect of inducing any man of talents to employ in speculations, useful only to the mind of the speculator, a single hour which might be employed in extending the empire of man over matter. [Compare the passage relating to mathematics in the Second Book of the Advancement of Learning with the De Augmentis Lib. iii. Cap. 6.] If Bacon erred here, we must acknowledge that we greatly prefer his error to the opposite error of Plato. We have no patience with a philosophy which, like those Roman matrons who swallowed abortives in order to preserve their shapes, takes pains to be barren for fear of being homely. Let us pass to astronomy. This was one of the sciences which Plato exhorted his disciples to learn, but for reasons far removed from common habits of thinking. "Shall we set down astronomy," says Socrates, "among the subjects of study?" [Plato's Republic, Book vii.] "I think so," answers his young friend Glaucon: "to know something about the seasons, the months, and the years is of use for military purposes, as well as for agriculture and navigation." "It amuses me," says Socrates, "to see how afraid you are, lest the common herd of people should accuse you of recommending useless studies." He then proceeds, in that pure and magnificent diction which, as Cicero said, Jupiter would use if Jupiter spoke Greek, to explain, that the use of astronomy is not to add to the vulgar comforts of life, but to assist in raising the mind to the contemplation of things which are to be perceived by the pure intellect alone. The knowledge of the actual motions of the heavenly bodies Socrates considers as of little value. The appearances which make the sky beautiful at night are, he tells us, like the figures which a geometrician draws on the sand, mere examples, mere helps to feeble minds. We must get beyond them; we must neglect them; we must attain to an astronomy which is as independent of the actual stars as geometrical truth is independent of the lines of an ill-drawn diagram. This is, we imagine, very nearly if not exactly, the astronomy which Bacon compared to the ox of Prometheus, [De Augmentis, Lib. iii. Cap. 4] a sleek, well-shaped hide, stuffed with rubbish, goodly to look at, but containing nothing to eat. He complained that astronomy had, to its great injury, been separated from natural philosophy, of which it was one of the noblest provinces, and annexed to the domain of mathematics. The world stood in need, he said, of a very different astronomy, of a living astronomy, [Astronomia viva.] of an astronomy which should set forth the nature, the motion, and the influences of the heavenly bodies, as they really are. [Quae substantiam et motum et influxum ecelestium, prout re vera sunt proponat." Compare this language with Plato's "ta d'en to ourano easomen."] On the greatest and most useful of all human inventions, the invention of alphabetical writing, Plato did not look with much complacency. He seems to have thought that the use of letters had operated on the human mind as the use of the go-cart in learning to walk, or of corks in learning to swim, is said to operate on the human body. It was a support which, in his opinion, soon became indispensable to those who used it, which made vigorous exertion first unnecessary and then impossible. The powers of the intellect would, he conceived, have been more fully developed without this delusive aid. Men would have been compelled to exercise the understanding and the memory, and, by deep and assiduous meditation, to make truth thoroughly their own. Now, on the contrary, much knowledge is traced on paper, but little is engraved in the soul. A man is certain that he can find information at a moment's notice when he wants it. He therefore suffers it to fade from his mind. Such a man cannot in strictness be said to know anything. He has the show without the reality of wisdom. These opinions Plato has put into the mouth of an ancient king of Egypt. [Plato's Phaedrus.] But it is evident from the context that they were his own; and so they were understood to be by Quinctilian. [Quinctilian, xi.] Indeed they are in perfect accordance with the whole Platonic system. Bacon's views, as may easily be supposed, were widely different. [De Augmentis, Lib. v. Cap. 5.] The powers of the memory, he observes, without the help of writing, can do little towards the advancement of any useful science. He acknowledges that the memory may be disciplined to such a point as to be able to perform very extraordinary feats. But on such feats he sets little value. The habits of his mind, he tells us, are such that he is not disposed to rate highly any accomplishment, however rare, which is of no practical use to mankind. As to these prodigious achievements of the memory, he ranks them with the exhibitions of rope-dancers and tumblers. "These two performances," he says, "are much of the same sort. The one is an abuse of the powers of the body; the other is an abuse of the powers of the mind. Both may perhaps excite our wonder; but neither is entitled to our respect." To Plato, the science of medicine appeared to be of very disputable advantages. [Plato's Republic, Book iii.] He did not indeed object to quick cures for acute disorders, or for injuries produced by accidents. But the art which resists the slow sap of a chronic disease, which repairs frames enervated by lust, swollen by gluttony, or inflamed by wine, which encourages sensuality by mitigating the natural punishment of the sensualist, and prolongs existence when the intellect has ceased to retain its entire energy, had no share of his esteem. A life protracted by medical skill he pronounced to be a long death. The exercise of the art of medicine ought, he said, to be tolerated, so far as that art may serve to cure the occasional distempers of men whose constitutions are good. As to those who have bad constitutions, let them die; and the sooner the better. Such men are unfit for war, for magistracy, for the management of their domestic affairs, for severe study and speculation. If they engage in any vigorous mental exercise, they are troubled with giddiness and fulness of the head, all which they lay to the account of philosophy. The best thing that can happen to such wretches is to have done with life at once. He quotes mythical authority in support of this doctrine; and reminds his disciples that the practice of the sons of Aeculapius, as described by Homer, extended only to the cure of external injuries. Far different was the philosophy of Bacon. Of all the sciences, that which he seems to have regarded with the greatest interest was the science which, in Plato's opinion, would not be tolerated in a well-regulated community. To make men perfect was no part of Bacon's plan. His humble aim was to make imperfect men comfortable. The beneficence of his philosophy resembled the beneficence of the common Father, whose sun rises on the evil and the good, whose rain descends for the just and the unjust. In Plato's opinion man was made for philosophy; in Bacon's opinion philosophy was made for man; it was a means to an end; and that end was to increase the pleasures and to mitigate the pains of millions who are not and cannot be philosophers. That a valetudinarian who took great pleasure in being wheeled along his terrace, who relished his boiled chicken, and his weak wine and water, and who enjoyed a hearty laugh over the Queen of Navarre's tales, should be treated as a caput lupinum because he could not read the Timaeus without a headache, was a notion which the humane spirit of the English school of wisdom altogether rejected. Bacon would not have thought it beneath the dignity of a philosopher to contrive an improved garden chair for such a valetudinarian, to devise some way of rendering his medicines more palatable, to invent repasts which he might enjoy, and pillows on which he might sleep soundly; and this though there might not be the smallest hope that the mind of the poor invalid would ever rise to the contemplation of the ideal beautiful and the ideal good. As Plato had cited the religious legends of Greece to justify his contempt for the more recondite parts of the heart of healing, Bacon vindicated the dignity of that art by appealing to the example of Christ, and reminded men that the great physician of the soul did not disdain to be also the physician of the body. [De Augmentis, Lib, iv. Cap.2] When we pass from the science of medicine to that of legislation, we find the same difference between the systems of these two great men. Plato, at the commencement of the Dialogue on Laws, lays it down as a fundamental principle that the end of legislation is to make men virtuous. It is unnecessary to point out the extravagant conclusions to which such a proposition leads. Bacon well knew to how great an extent the happiness of every society must depend on the virtue of its members; and he also knew what legislators can and what they cannot do for the purpose of promoting virtue. The view which he has given of the end of legislation, and of the principal means for the attainment of that end, has always seemed to us eminently happy, even among the many happy passages of the same kind with which his works abound. "Finis et scopus quem leges intueri atque ad quem jussiones et sanctiones suas dirigere debent, non alius est quam ut cives feliciter degant. Id fiet si pietate et religione recte instituti, moribus honesti, armis adversus hostes externos tuti, legum auxilio adversus seditiones et privatas injurias muniti, imperio et magistratibus obsequentes, copiis et opibus locupletes et florentes fuerint." [De Augmentis, Lib. viii. Cap. 3, Aph. 5.] The end is the well-being of the people. The means are the imparting of moral and religious education; the providing of everything necessary for defence against foreign enemies; the maintaining of internal order; the establishing of a judicial, financial, and commercial system, under which wealth may be rapidly accumulated and securely enjoyed. Even with respect to the form in which laws ought to be drawn, there is a remarkable difference of opinion between the Greek and the Englishman. Plato thought a preamble essential; Bacon thought it mischievous. Each was consistent with himself. Plato, considering the moral improvement of the people as the end of legislation, justly inferred that a law which commanded and threatened, but which neither convinced the reason, nor touched the heart, must be a most imperfect law. He was not content with deterring from theft a man who still continued to be a thief at heart, with restraining a son who hated his mother from beating his mother. The only obedience on which he set much value was the obedience which an enlightened understanding yields to reason, and which a virtuous disposition yields to precepts of virtue. He really seems to have believed that, by prefixing to every law an eloquent and pathetic exhortation, he should, to a great extent, render penal enactments superfluous. Bacon entertained no such romantic hopes; and he well knew the practical inconveniences of the course which Plato recommended. "Neque nobis," says he, "prologi legum qui inepti olim habiti sunt, et leges introducunt disputantes non jubentes, utique placerent, si priscos mores ferre possemus. . . . Quantum fieri potest prologi evitentur, et lex incipiat a jussione." [Ibid., Lib. viii. Cap. 3, Aph. 69.] Each of the great men whom we have compared intended to illustrate his system by a philosophical romance; and each left his romance imperfect. Had Plato lived to finish the Critias, a comparison between that noble fiction and the new Atlantis would probably have furnished us with still more striking instances than any which we have given. It is amusing to think with what horror he would have seen such an institution as Solomon's House rising in his republic: with what vehemence he would have ordered the brew-houses, the perfume-houses, and the dispensatories to be pulled down--and with what inexorable rigour he would have driven beyond the frontier all the Fellows of the College, Merchants of Light and Depredators, Lamps and Pioneers. To sum up the whole, we should say that the aim of the Platonic philosophy was to exalt man into a god. The aim of the Baconian philosophy was to provide man with what he requires while he continues to be man. The aim of the Platonic philosophy was to raise us far above vulgar wants. The aim of the Baconian philosophy was to supply our vulgar wants. The former aim was noble; but the latter was attainable. Plato drew a good bow; but, like Acestes in Virgil, he aimed at the stars; and therefore, though there was no want of strength or skill, the shot was thrown away. His arrow was indeed followed by a track of dazzling radiance, but it struck nothing. "Volans liquidis in nubibus arsit arundo Signavitque viam flammis, tenuisque recessit Consumta in ventos." Bacon fixed his eye on a mark which was placed on the earth, and within bow-shot, and hit it in the white. The philosophy of Plato began in words and ended in words, noble words indeed, words such as were to be expected from the finest of human intellects exercising boundless dominion over the finest of human languages. The philosophy of Bacon began in observations and ended in arts. The boast of the ancient philosophers was that their doctrine formed the minds of men to a high degree of wisdom and virtue. This was indeed the only practical good which the most celebrated of those teachers even pretended to effect; and undoubtedly, if they had effected this, they would have deserved far higher praise than if they had discovered the most salutary medicines or constructed the most powerful machines. But the truth is that, in those very matters in which alone they professed to do any good to mankind, in those very matters for the sake of which they neglected all the vulgar interests of mankind, they did nothing, or worse than nothing. They promised what was impracticable; they despised what was practicable; they filled the world with long words and long beards; and they left it as wicked and as ignorant as they found it. An acre in Middlesex is better than a principality in Utopia. The smallest actual good is better than the most magnificent promises of impossibilities. The wise man of the Stoics would, no doubt, be a grander object than a steam-engine. But there are steam- engines. And the wise man of the Stoics is yet to be born. A philosophy which should enable a man to feel perfectly happy while in agonies of pain would be better than a philosophy which assuages pain. But we know that there are remedies which will assuage pain; and we know that the ancient sages liked the toothache just as little as their neighbours. A philosophy which should extinguish cupidity would be better than a philosophy which should devise laws for the security of property. But it is possible to make laws which shall, to a very great extent, secure property. And we do not understand how any motives which the ancient philosophy furnished could extinguish cupidity. We know indeed that the philosophers were no better than other men. From the testimony of friends as well as of foes, from the confessions of Epictetus and Seneca, as well as from the sneers of Lucian and the fierce invectives of Juvenal, it is plain that these teachers of virtue had all the vices of their neighbours, with the additional vice of hypocrisy. Some people may think the object of the Baconian philosophy a low object, but they cannot deny that, high or low, it has been attained. They cannot deny that every year makes an addition to what Bacon called "fruit." They cannot deny that mankind have made, and are making, great and constant progress in the road which he pointed out to them. Was there any such progressive movement among the ancient philosophers? After they had been declaiming eight hundred years, had they made the world better than when they began? Our belief is that, among the philosophers themselves, instead of a progressive improvement there was a progressive degeneracy. An abject superstition which Democritus or Anaxagoras would have rejected with scorn, added the last disgrace to the long dotage of the Stoic and Platonic schools. Those unsuccessful attempts to articulate which are so delightful and interesting in a child shock and disgust in an aged paralytic; and in the same way, those wild and mythological fictions which charm us, when we hear them lisped by Greek poetry in its infancy, excite a mixed sensation of pity and loathing, when mumbled by Greek philosophy in its old age. We know that guns, cutlery, spy-glasses, clocks, are better in our time than they were in the time of our fathers, and were better in the time of our fathers than they were in the time of our grandfathers. We might, therefore, be inclined to think that, when a philosophy which boasted that its object was the elevation and purification of the mind, and which for this object neglected the sordid office of ministering to the comforts of the body, had flourished in the highest honour during many hundreds of years, a vast moral amelioration must have taken place. Was it so? Look at the schools of this wisdom four centuries before the Christian era and four centuries after that era. Compare the men whom those schools formed at those two periods. Compare Plato and Libanius. Compare Pericles and Julian. This philosophy confessed, nay boasted, that for every end but one it was useless. Had it attained that one end? Suppose that Justinian, when he closed the schools of Athens, had called on the last few sages who still haunted the Portico, and lingered round the ancient plane-trees, to show their title to public veneration: suppose that he had said: "A thousand years have elapsed since, in this famous city, Socrates posed Protagoras and Hippias; during those thousand years a large proportion of the ablest men of every generation has been employed in constant efforts to bring to perfection the philosophy which you teach, that philosophy has been munificently patronised by the powerful; its professors have been held in the highest esteem by the public; it has drawn to itself almost all the sap and vigour of the human intellect: and what has it effected? What profitable truth has it taught us which we should not equally have known without it? What has it enabled us to do which we should not have been equally able to do without it?" Such questions, we suspect, would have puzzled Simplicius and Isidore. Ask a follower of Bacon what the new philosophy, as it was called in the time of Charles the Second, has effected for mankind, and his answer is ready; "It has lengthened life; it has mitigated pain; it has extinguished diseases; it has increased the fertility of the soil; it has given new securities to the mariner; it has furnished new arms to the warrior; it has spanned great rivers and estuaries with bridges of form unknown to our fathers; it has guided the thunderbolt innocuously from heaven to earth; it has lighted up the night with the splendour of the day; it has extended the range of the human vision; it has multiplied the power of the human muscles; it has accelerated motion; it has annihilated distance; it has facilitated intercourse, correspondence, all friendly offices, all despatch of business; it has enabled man to descend to the depths of the sea, to soar into the air, to penetrate securely into the noxious recesses of the earth, to traverse the land in cars which whirl along without horses, and the ocean in ships which run ten knots an hour against the wind. These are but a part of its fruits, and of its first fruits. For it is a philosophy which never rests, which has never attained, which is never perfect. Its law is progress. A point which yesterday was invisible is its goal to-day, and will be its starting-post to-morrow." Great and various as the powers of Bacon were, he owes his wide and durable fame chiefly to this, that all those powers received their direction from common sense. His love of the vulgar useful, his strong sympathy with the popular notions of good and evil, and the openness with which he avowed that sympathy, are the secret of his influence. There was in his system no cant, no illusion. He had no anointing for broken bones, no fine theories de finibus, no arguments to persuade men out of their senses. He knew that men, and philosophers as well as other men, do actually love life, health, comfort, honour, security, the society of friends, and do actually dislike death, sickness, pain, poverty, disgrace, danger, separation from those to whom they are attached. He knew that religion, though it often regulates and moderates these feelings, seldom eradicates them; nor did he think it desirable for mankind that they should be eradicated. The plan of eradicating them by conceits like those of Seneca, or syllogisms like those of Chrysippus, was too preposterous to be for a moment entertained by a mind like his. He did not understand what wisdom there could be in changing names where it was impossible to change things; in denying that blindness, hunger, the gout, the rack, were evils, and calling them apoproegmena in refusing to acknowledge that health, safety, plenty, were good things, and dubbing them by the name of adiaphora. In his opinions on all these subjects, he was not a Stoic, nor an Epicurean, nor an Academic, but what would have been called by Stoics, Epicureans, and Academics a mere idiotes, a mere common man. And it was precisely because he was so that his name makes so great an era in the history of the world. It was because he dug deep that he was able to pile high. It was because, in order to lay his foundations, he went down into those parts of human nature which lie low, but which are not liable to change, that the fabric which he reared has risen to so stately an elevation, and stands with such immovable strength. We have sometimes thought that an amusing fiction might be written, in which a disciple of Epictetus and a disciple of Bacon should be introduced as fellow-travellers. They come to a village where the smallpox has just begun to rage, and find houses shut up, intercourse suspended, the sick abandoned, mothers weeping in terror over their children. The Stoic assures the dismayed population that there is nothing bad in the smallpox, and that to a wise man disease, deformity, death, the loss of friends, are not evils. The Baconian takes out a lancet and begins to vaccinate. They find a body of miners in great dismay. An explosion of noisome vapours has just killed many of those who were at work; and the survivors are afraid to venture into the cavern. The Stoic assures them that such an accident is nothing but a mere apoproegmenon. The Baconian, who has no such fine word at his command, contents himself with devising a safety-lamp. They find a shipwrecked merchant wringing his hands on the shore. His vessel with an inestimable cargo has just gone down, and he is reduced in a moment from opulence to beggary. The Stoic exhorts him not to seek happiness in things which lie without himself, and repeats the whole chapter of Epictetus pros tous ten aporian dediokotas. The Baconian constructs a diving-bell, goes down in it, and returns with the most precious effects from the wreck. It would be easy to multiply illustrations of the difference between the philosophy of thorns and the philosophy of fruit, the philosophy of words and the philosophy of works. Bacon has been accused of overrating the importance of those sciences which minister to the physical well-being of man, and of underrating the importance of moral philosophy; and it cannot be denied that persons who read the Novum Organum and the De Augmentis, without adverting to the circumstances under which those works were written, will find much that may seem to countenance the accusation. It is certain, however, that, though in practice he often went very wrong, and though, as his historical work and his essays prove, he did not hold, even in theory, very strict opinions on points of political morality, he was far too wise a man not to know how much our well-being depends on the regulation of our minds. The world for which he wished was not, as some people seem to imagine, a world of water- wheels, power-looms, steam-carriages, sensualists, and knaves. He would have been as ready as Zeno himself to maintain that no bodily comforts which could be devised by the skill and labour of a hundred generations would give happiness to a man whose mind was under the tyranny of licentious appetite, of envy, of hatred, or of fear. If he sometimes appeared to ascribe importance too exclusively to the arts which increase the outward comforts of our species, the reason is plain. Those arts had been most unduly depreciated. They had been represented as unworthy of the attention of a man of liberal education. " Cogitavit," says Bacon of himself, "eam esse opinionem sive aestimationem humidam et damnosam, minui nempe majestatem mentis humanae, si in experimentis et rebus particularibus, sensui subjectis, et in materia terminatis, diu ac multum versetur: praesertim cum hujusmodi res ad inquirendum laboriosae, ad meditandum ignobiles, ad discendum asperae, ad practicam illiberales, numero infinitae, et subtilitate pusillae videri soleant, et ob hujusmodi conditiones, gloriae artium minus sint accommodatae." [Cogitata et visa. The expression opinio humida may surprise a reader not accustomed to Bacon's style. The allusion is to the maxim of Heraclitus the obscure: "Dry light is the best." By dry light, Bacon understood the light of the intellect, not obscured by the mists of passion, interest, or prejudice.] This opinion seemed to him "omnia in familia humana turbasse." It had undoubtedly caused many arts which were of the greatest utility, and which were susceptible of the greatest improvements, to be neglected by speculators, and abandoned to joiners, masons, smiths, weavers, apothecaries. It was necessary to assert the dignity of those arts, to bring them prominently forward, to proclaim that, as they have a most serious effect on human happiness, they are not unworthy of the attention of the highest human intellects. Again, it was by illustrations drawn from these arts that Bacon could most easily illustrate his principles. It was by improvements effected in these arts that the soundness of his principles could be most speedily and decisively brought to the test, and made manifest to common understandings. He acted like a wise commander who thins every other part of his line to strengthen a point where the enemy is attacking with peculiar fury, and on the fate of which the event of the battle seems likely to depend. In the Novum Organum, however, he distinctly and most truly declares that his philosophy is no less a Moral than a Natural Philosophy, that, though his illustrations are drawn from physical science, the principles which those illustrations are intended to explain are just as applicable to ethical and political inquiries as to inquiries into the nature of heat and vegetation. [Novum Organum, Lib, I. Aph 127.] He frequently treated of moral subjects; and he brought to those subjects that spirit which was the essence of his whole system. He has left us many admirable practicable observations on what he somewhat quaintly called the Georgics of the mind, on the mental culture which tends to produce good dispositions. Some persons, he said, might accuse him of spending labour on a matter so simple that his predecessors had passed it by with contempt. He desired such persons to remember that he had from the first announced the objects of his search to be not the splendid and the surprising, but the useful and the true, not the deluding dreams which go forth through the shining portal of ivory, but the humbler realities of the gate of horn. [De Augmentis, Lib. vii. Cap. 3.] True to this principle, he indulged in no rants about the fitness of things, the all-sufficiency of virtue, and the dignity of human nature. He dealt not at all in resounding nothings, such as those with which Bolingbroke pretended to comfort himself in exile, and in which Cicero vainly sought consolation after the loss of Tullia. The casuistical subtilties which occupied the attention of the keenest spirits of his age had, it should seem, no attractions for him. The doctors whom Escobar afterwards compared to the four beasts and the four-and-twenty elders in the Apocalypse Bacon dismissed with most contemptuous brevity. "Inanes plerumque evadunt et futiles." [Ibid. Lib. vii. Cap. 2.] Nor did he ever meddle with those enigmas which have puzzled hundreds of generations, and will puzzle hundreds more. He said nothing about the grounds of moral obligation, or the freedom of the human will. He had no inclination to employ himself in labours resembling those of the damned in the Grecian Tartarus, to spin for ever on the same wheel round the same pivot, to gape for ever after the same deluding clusters, to pour water for ever into the same bottomless buckets, to pace for ever to and fro on the same wearisome path after the same recoiling stone. He exhorted his disciples to prosecute researches of a very different description, to consider moral science as a practical science, a science of which the object was to cure the diseases and perturbations of the mind, and which could be improved only by a method analogous to that which has improved medicine and surgery. Moral philosophers ought, he said, to set themselves vigorously to work for the purpose of discovering what are the actual effects produced on the human character by particular modes of education, by the indulgence of particular habits, by the study of particular books, by society, by emulation, by imitation. Then we might hope to find out what mode of training was most likely to preserve and restore moral health. [Ibid.: Lib. vii. Cap. 3.] What he was as a natural philosopher and a moral philosopher, that he was also as a theologian. He was, we are convinced, a sincere believer in the divine authority of the Christian revelation. Nothing can be found in his writings, or in any other writings, more eloquent and pathetic than some passages which were apparently written under the influence of strong devotional feeling. He loved to dwell on the power of the Christian religion to effect much that the ancient philosophers could only promise. He loved to consider that religion as the bond of charity, the curb of evil passions, the consolation of the wretched, the support of the timid, the hope of the dying. But controversies on speculative points of theology seem to have engaged scarcely any portion of his attention. In what he wrote on Church Government he showed, as far as he dared, a tolerant and charitable spirit. He troubled himself not at all about Homoousians and Homoiousians, Monothelites and Nestorians. He lived in an age in which disputes on the most subtle points of divinity excited an intense interest throughout Europe, and nowhere more than in England. He was placed in the very thick of the conflict. He was in power at the time of the Synod of Dort, and must for months have been daily deafened with talk about election, reprobation, and final perseverance. Yet we do not remember a line in his works from which it can be inferred that he was either a Calvinist or an Arminian. While the world was resounding with the noise of a disputatious philosophy and a disputatious theology, the Baconian school, like Allworthy seated between Square and Thwackum, preserved a calm neutrality, half scornful, half benevolent, and content with adding to the sum of practical good, left the war of words to those who liked it. We have dwelt long on the end of the Baconian philosophy, because from this peculiarity all the other peculiarities of that philosophy necessary arose. Indeed, scarcely any person who proposed to himself the same end with Bacon could fail to hit upon the same means. The vulgar notion about Bacon we take to be this, that he invented a new method of arriving at truth, which method is called Induction, and that he detected some fallacy in the syllogistic reasoning which had been in vogue before his time. This notion is about as well founded as that of the people who, in the middle ages, imagined that Virgil was a great conjurer. Many who are far too well-informed to talk such extravagant nonsense entertain what we think incorrect notions as to what Bacon really effected in this matter. The inductive method has been practised ever since the beginning of the world by every human being. It is constantly practised by the most ignorant clown, by the most thoughtless schoolboy, by the very child at the breast. That method leads the clown to the conclusion that if he sows barley he shall not reap wheat. By that method the schoolboy learns that a cloudy day is the best for catching trout. The very infant, we imagine, is led by induction to expect milk from his mother or nurse, and none from his father. Not only is it not true that Bacon invented the inductive method; but it is not true that he was the first person who correctly analysed that method and explained its uses. Aristotle had long before pointed out the absurdity of supposing that syllogistic reasoning could ever conduct men to the discovery of any new principle, had shown that such discoveries must be made by induction, and by induction alone, and had given the history of the inductive process, concisely indeed, but with great perspicuity and precision. Again, we are not inclined to ascribe much practical value to that analysis of the inductive method which Bacon has given, in the second book of the Novum Organum. It is indeed an elaborate and correct analysis. But it is an analysis of that which we are all doing from morning to night, and which we continue to do even in our dreams. A plain man finds his stomach out of order. He never heard Lord Bacon's name. But he proceeds in the strictest conformity with the rules laid down in the second book of the Novum Organum, and satisfies himself that minced pies have done the mischief. "I ate minced pies on Monday and Wednesday, and I was kept awake by indigestion all night." This is the comparentia ad intellectum instantiarum convenientium. "I did not eat any on Tuesday and Friday, and I was quite well." This is the comparentia instantiarum in proximo quae natura data privantur. "I ate very sparingly of them on Sunday, and was very slightly indisposed in the evening. But on Christmas-day I almost dined on them, and was so ill that I was in great danger." This is the comparentia instantiarum secundum magis et minus. "It cannot have been the brandy which I took with them. For I have drunk brandy daily for years without being the worse for it." This is the rejectio naturarum. Our invalid then proceeds to what is termed by Bacon the Vindemiatio, and pronounces that minced pies do not agree with him. We repeat that we dispute neither the ingenuity nor the accuracy of the theory contained in the second book of the Novum Organum; but we think that Bacon greatly overrated its utility. We conceive that the inductive process, like many other processes, is not likely to be better performed merely because men know how they perform it. William Tell would not have been one whit more likely to cleave the apple if he had known that his arrow would describe a parabola under the influence of the attraction of the earth. Captain Barclay would not have been more likely to walk a thousand miles in a thousand hours, if he had known the place and name of every muscle in his legs. Monsieur Jourdain probably did not pronounce D and F more correctly after he had been apprised that D is pronounced by touching the teeth with the end of the tongue, and F by putting the upper teeth on the lower lip. We cannot perceive that the study of grammar makes the smallest difference in the speech of people who have always lived in good society. Not one Londoner in ten thousand can lay down the rules for the proper use of will and shall. Yet not one Londoner in a million ever misplaces his will and shall. Dr. Robertson could, undoubtedly, have written a luminous dissertation on the use of those words. Yet, even in his latest work, he sometimes misplaced them ludicrously. No man uses figures of speech with more propriety because he knows that one figure is called a metonymy and another a synecdoche. A drayman in a passion calls out, "You are a pretty fellow.", without suspecting that he is uttering irony, and that irony is one of the four primary tropes. The old systems of rhetoric were never regarded by the most experienced and discerning judges as of any use for the purpose of forming an orator. "Ego hanc vim intelligo," said Cicero, "esse in praeceptis omnibus, non ut ea secuti oratores eloquentiae laudem sint adepti, sed quae sua sponte homines eloquentes facerent, ea quosdam observasse, atque id egisse; sic esse non eloquentiam ex artificio, sed artificium ex eloquentia natum." We must own that we entertain the same opinion concerning the study of Logic which Cicero entertained concerning the study of Rhetoric. A man of sense syllogises in celarent and cesare all day long without suspecting it; and, though he may not know what an ignoratio elenchi is, has no difficulty in exposing it whenever he falls in with it; which is likely to be as often as he falls in with a Reverend Master of Arts nourished on mode and figure in the cloisters of Oxford. Considered merely as an intellectual feat, the Organum of Aristotle can scarcely be admired too highly. But the more we compare individual with individual, school with school, nation with nation, generation with generation, the more do we lean to the opinion that the knowledge of the theory of logic has no tendency whatever to make men good reasoners. What Aristotle did for the syllogistic process Bacon has, in the second book of the Novum Organum, done for the inductive process; that is to say, he has analysed it well. His rules are quite proper, but we do not need them, because they are drawn from our own constant practice. But, though everybody is constantly performing the process described in the second book of the Novum Organum, some men perform it well and some perform it ill. Some are led by it to truth, and some to error. It led Franklin to discover the nature of lightning. It led thousands, who had less brains than Franklin, to believe in animal magnetism. But this was not because Franklin went through the process described by Bacon, and the dupes of Mesmer through a different process. The comparentiae and rejectiones of which we have given examples will be found in the most unsound inductions. We have heard that an eminent judge of the last generation was in the habit of jocosely propounding after dinner a theory, that the cause of the prevalence of Jacobinism was the practice of bearing three names. He quoted on the one side Charles James Fox, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, John Horne Tooke, John Philpot Curran, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Theobald Wolfe Tone. These were instantiae convenientes. He then proceeded to cite instances absentiae in proximo, William Pitt, John Scott, William Windham, Samuel Horsley, Henry Dundas, Edmund Burke. He might have gone on to instances secundum magis et minus. The practice of giving children three names has been for some time a growing practice, and Jacobinism has also been growing. The practice of giving children three names is more common in America than in England. In England we still have a King and a House of Lords; but the Americans are Republicans. The rejectiones are obvious. Burke and Theobald Wolfe Tone are both Irishmen: therefore the being an Irishman is not the cause of Jacobinism. Horsley and Horne Tooke are both clergymen; therefore the being a clergyman is not the cause of Jacobinism. Fox and Windham were both educated at Oxford; therefore the being educated at Oxford is not the cause of Jacobinism. Pitt and Horne Tooke were both educated at Cambridge; therefore the being educated at Cambridge is not the cause of Jacobinism. In this way, our inductive philosopher arrives at what Bacon calls the Vintage, and pronounces that the having three names is the cause of Jacobinism. Here is an induction corresponding with Bacon's analysis and ending in a monstrous absurdity. In what then does this induction differ from the induction which leads us to the conclusion that the presence of the sun is the cause of our having more light by day than by night? The difference evidently is not in the kind of instances, but in the number of instances; that is to say, the difference is not in that part of the process for which Bacon has given precise rules, but in a circumstance for which no precise rule can possibly be given. If the learned author of the theory about Jacobinism had enlarged either of his tables a little, his system would have been destroyed. The names of Tom Paine and William Wyndham Grenville would have been sufficient to do the work. It appears to us, then, that the difference between a sound and unsound induction does not lie in this, that the author of the sound induction goes through the process analysed in the second book of the Novum Organum, and the author of the unsound induction through a different process. They both perform the same process. But one performs it foolishly or carelessly; the other performs it with patience, attention, sagacity, and judgment. Now precepts can do little towards making men patient and attentive, and still less towards making them sagacious and judicious. It is very well to tell men to be on their guard against prejudices, not to believe facts on slight evidence, not to be content with a scanty collection of facts, to put out of their minds the idola which Bacon has so finely described. But these rules are too general to be of much practical use. The question is, What is a prejudice? How long does the incredulity with which I hear a new theory propounded continue to be a wise and salutary incredulity? When does it become an idolum specus, the unreasonable pertinacity of a too sceptical mind? What is slight evidence? What collection of facts is scanty? Will ten instances do, or fifty, or a hundred? In how many months would the first human beings who settled on the shores of the ocean have been justified in believing that the moon had an influence on the tides? After how many experiments would Jenner have been justified in believing that he had discovered a safeguard against the small- pox? These are questions to which it would be most desirable to have a precise answer; but, unhappily, they are questions to which no precise answer can be returned. We think, then, that it is possible to lay down accurate rules, as Bacon has done, for the performing of that part of the inductive process which all men perform alike; but that these rules, though accurate, are not wanted, because in truth they only tell us to do what we are all doing. We think that it is impossible to lay down any precise rule for the performing of that part of the inductive process which a great experimental philosopher performs in one way, and a superstitious old woman in another. On this subject, we think, Bacon was in an error. He certainly attributed to his rules a value which did not belong to them. He went so far as to say, that, if his method of making discoveries were adopted, little would depend on the degree of force or acuteness of any intellect; that all minds would be reduced to one level, that his philosophy resembled a compass or a rule which equalises all hands, and enables the most unpractised person to draw a more correct circle or line than the best draftsmen can produce without such aid. [Novum 0rganum, Praef. and Lib. I Aph. 122.] This really seems to us as extravagant as it would have been in Lindley Murray to announce that everybody who should learn his Grammar would write as good English as Dryden, or in that very able writer, the Archbishop of Dublin, to promise that all the readers of his Logic would reason like Chillingworth, and that all the readers of his Rhetoric would speak like Burke. That Bacon was altogether mistaken as to this point will now hardly be disputed. His philosophy has flourished during two hundred years, and has produced none of this levelling. The interval between a man of talents and a dunce is as wide as ever; and is never more clearly discernible than when they engage in researches which require the constant use of induction. It will be seen that we do not consider Bacon's ingenious analysis of the inductive method as a very useful performance. Bacon was not, as we have already said, the inventor of the inductive method. He was not even the person who first analysed the inductive method correctly, though he undoubtedly analysed it more minutely than any who preceded him. He was not the person who first showed that by the inductive method alone new truth could be discovered. But he was the person who first turned the minds of speculative men, long occupied in verbal disputes, to the discovery of new and useful truth; and, by doing so, he at once gave to the inductive method an importance and dignity which had never before belonged to it. He was not the maker of that road; he was not the discoverer of that road; he was not the person who first surveyed and mapped that road. But he was the person who first called the public attention to an inexhaustible mine of wealth, which had been utterly neglected, and which was accessible by that road alone. By doing so he caused that road, which had previously been trodden only by peasants and higglers, to be frequented by a higher class of travellers. That which was eminently his own in his system was the end which he proposed to himself. The end being given, the means, as it appears to us, could not well be mistaken. If others had aimed at the same object with Bacon, we hold it to be certain that they would have employed the same method with Bacon. It would have been hard to convince Seneca that the inventing of a safety-lamp was an employment worthy of a philosopher. It would have been hard to persuade Thomas Aquinas to descend from the making of syllogisms to the making of gunpowder. But Seneca would never have doubted for a moment that it was only by means of a series of experiments that a safety-lamp could be invented. Thomas Aquinas would never have thought that his barbara and baralipton would enable him to ascertain the proportion which charcoal ought to bear to saltpetre in a pound of gunpowder. Neither common sense nor Aristotle would have suffered him to fall into such an absurdity. By stimulating men to the discovery of new truth, Bacon stimulated them to employ the inductive method, the only method, even the ancient philosophers and the schoolmen themselves being judges, by which new truth can be discovered. By stimulating men to the discovery of useful truth, he furnished them with a motive to perform the inductive process well and carefully. His predecessors had been, in his phrase, not interpreters, but anticipators of nature. They had been content with the first principles at which they had arrived by the most scanty and slovenly induction. And why was this? It was, we conceive, because their philosophy proposed to itself no practical end, because it was merely an exercise of the mind. A man who wants to contrive a new machine or a new medicine has a strong motive to observe accurately and patiently, and to try experiment after experiment. But a man who merely wants a theme for disputation or declamation has no such motive. He is therefore content with premises grounded on assumption, or on the most scanty and hasty induction. Thus, we conceive, the schoolmen acted. On their foolish premises they often argued with great ability; and as their object was "assensum subjugare, non res," [Novum Organum, Lib. i. Aph. 29.] to be victorious in controversy not to be victorious over nature, they were consistent. For just as much logical skill could be shown in reasoning on false as on true premises. But the followers of the new philosophy, proposing to themselves the discovery of useful truth as their object, must have altogether failed of attaining that object if they had been content to build theories on superficial induction. Bacon has remarked [De Augmentis, Lib. i.] that, in ages when philosophy was stationary, the mechanical arts went on improving. Why was this? Evidently because the mechanic was not content with so careless a mode of induction as served the purpose of the philosopher. And why was the philosopher more easily satisfied than the mechanic? Evidently because the object of the mechanic was to mould things, whilst the object of the philosopher was only to mould words. Careful induction is not at all necessary to the making of a good syllogism. But it is indispensable to the making of a good shoe. Mechanics, therefore, have always been, as far as the range of their humble but useful callings extended, not anticipators but interpreters of nature. And when a philosophy arose, the object of which was to do on a large scale what the mechanic does on a small scale, to extend the power and to supply the wants of man, the truth of the premises, which logically is a matter altogether unimportant, became a matter of the highest importance; and the careless induction with which men of learning had previously been satisfied gave place, of necessity, to an induction far more accurate and satisfactory. What Bacon did for inductive philosophy may, we think, be fairly stated thus. The objects of preceding speculators were objects which could be attained without careful induction. Those speculators, therefore, did not perform the inductive process carefully. Bacon stirred up men to pursue an object which could be attained only by induction, and by induction carefully performed; and consequently induction was more carefully performed. We do not think that the importance of what Bacon did for inductive philosophy has ever been overrated. But we think that the nature of his services is often mistaken, and was not fully understood even by himself. It was not by furnishing philosophers with rules for performing the inductive process well, but by furnishing them with a motive for performing it well, that he conferred so vast a benefit on society. To give to the human mind a direction which it shall retain for ages is the rare prerogative of a few imperial spirits. It cannot, therefore, be uninteresting to inquire what was the moral and intellectual constitution which enabled Bacon to exercise so vast an influence on the world. In the temper of Bacon,--we speak of Bacon the philosopher, not of Bacon the lawyer and politician,--there was a singular union of audacity and sobriety. The promises which he made to mankind might, to a superficial reader, seem to resemble the rants which a great dramatist has put into the mouth of ail Oriental conqueror half-crazed by good fortune and by violent passions: "He shall have chariots easier than air, Which I will have invented; and thyself That art the messenger shall ride before him, On a horse cut out of an entire diamond, That shall be made to go with golden wheels, I know not how yet." But Bacon performed what he promised. In truth, Fletcher would not have dared to make Arbaces promise, in his wildest fits of excitement, the tithe of what the Baconian philosophy has performed. The true philosophical temperament may, we think, be described in four words, much hope, little faith; a disposition to believe that anything, however extraordinary, may be done; an indisposition to believe that anything extraordinary has been done. In these points the constitution of Bacon's mind seems to us to have been absolutely perfect. He was at once the Mammon and the Surly of his friend Ben. Sir Epicure did not indulge in visions more magnificent and gigantic, Surly did not sift evidence with keener and more sagacious incredulity. Closely connected with this peculiarity of Bacon's temper was a striking peculiarity of his understanding. With great minuteness of observation, he had an amplitude of comprehension such as has never yet been vouchsafed to any other human being. The small fine mind of Labruyere had not a more delicate tact than the large intellect of Bacon. The Essays contain abundant proofs that no nice feature of character, no peculiarity in the ordering of a house, a garden, or a court-masque, would escape the notice of one whose mind was capable of taking in the whole world of knowledge. His understanding resembled the tent which the fairy Paribanou gave to Prince Ahmed. Fold it; and it seemed a toy for the hand of a lady. Spread it; and the armies of powerful Sultans might repose beneath its shade. In keenness of observation he has been equalled, though perhaps never surpassed. But the largeness of his mind was all his own. The glance with which he surveyed the intellectual universe resembled that which the Archangel, from the golden threshold of heaven, darted down into the new creation: "Round he surveyed,--and well might, where he stood So high above the circling canopy Of night's extended shade,--from eastern point Of Libra, to the fleecy star which bears Andromeda far off Atlantic seas Beyond the horizon." His knowledge differed from that of other men, as a terrestrial globe differs from an Atlas which contains a different country on every leaf. The towns and roads of England, France, and Germany are better laid down in the Atlas than on the globe. But while we are looking at England we see nothing of France; and while we are looking at France we see nothing of Germany. We may go to the Atlas to learn the bearings and distances of York and Bristol, or of Dresden and Prague. But it is useless if we want to know the bearings and distances of France and Martinique, or of England and Canada. On the globe we shall not find all the market towns in our own neighbourhood; but we shall learn from it the comparative extent and the relative position of all the kingdoms of the earth. "I have taken," said Bacon, in a letter written when he was only thirty-one, to his uncle Lord Burleigh, "I have taken all knowledge to be my province." In any other young man, indeed in any other man, this would have been a ridiculous flight of presumption. There have been thousands of better mathematicians, astronomers, chemists, physicians, botanists, mineralogists, than Bacon. No man would go to Bacon's works to learn any particular science or art, any more than he would go to a twelve-inch globe in order to find his way from Kennington turnpike to Clapham Common. The art which Bacon taught was the art of inventing arts. The knowledge in which Bacon excelled all men was a knowledge of the mutual relations of all departments of knowledge. The mode in which he communicated his thoughts was peculiar to him. He had no touch of that disputatious temper which he often censured in his predecessors. He effected a vast intellectual revolution in opposition to a vast mass of prejudices; yet he never engaged in any controversy, nay, we cannot at present recollect, in all his philosophical works, a single passage of a controversial character. All those works might with propriety have been put into the form which he adopted in the work entitled Cogitata et visa: "Franciscus Baconus sic cogitavit." These are thoughts which have occurred to me: weigh them well: and take them or leave them. Borgia said of the famous expedition of Charles the Eighth, that the French had conquered Italy, not with steel, but with chalk for that the only exploit which they had found necessary for the purpose of taking military occupation of any place had been to mark the doors of the houses where they meant to quarter. Bacon often quoted this saying, and loved to apply it to the victories of his own intellect. [Novum Organum, Lib. i. Aph. 35 and elsewhere.] His philosophy, he said, came as a guest, not as an enemy. She found no difficulty in gaining admittance, without a contest, into every understanding fitted, by its structure and by its capacity, to receive her. In all this we think that he acted most judiciously; first, because, as he has himself remarked, the difference between his school and other schools was a difference so fundamental that there was hardly any common ground on which a controversial battle could be fought; and, secondly, because his mind, eminently observant, preeminently discursive and capacious, was, we conceive, neither formed by nature nor disciplined by habit for dialectical combat. Though Bacon did not arm his philosophy with the weapons of logic, he adorned her profusely with all the decorations of rhetoric. His eloquence, though not untainted with the vicious taste of his age, would alone have entitled him to a high rank in literature. He had a wonderful talent for packing thought close, and rendering it portable. In wit, if by wit be meant the power of perceiving analogies between things which appear to have nothing in common, he never had an equal, not even Cowley, not even the author of Hudibras. Indeed, he possessed this faculty, or rather this faculty possessed him, to a morbid degree. When he abandoned himself to it without reserve, as he did in the Sapientia Veterum, and at the end of the second book of the De Augmentis, the feats which he performed were not merely admirable, but portentous, and almost shocking. On those occasions we marvel at him as clowns on a fair-day marvel at a juggler, and can hardly help thinking that the devil must be in him. These, however, were freaks in which his ingenuity now and then wantoned, with scarcely any other object than to astonish and amuse. But it occasionally happened that, when he was engaged in grave and profound investigations, his wit obtained the mastery over all his other faculties, and led him into absurdities into which no dull man could possibly have fallen. We will give the most striking instance which at present occurs to us. In the third book of the De Augmentis he tells us that there are some principles which are not peculiar to one science, but are common to several. That part of philosophy which concerns itself with these principles is, in his nomenclature, designated as philosophia prima. He then proceeds to mention some of the principles with which this philosophia prima is conversant. One of them is this. An infectious disease is more likely to be communicated while it is in progress than when it has reached its height. This, says he, is true in medicine. It is also true in morals; for we see that the example of very abandoned men injures public morality less than the example of men in whom vice has not yet extinguished all good qualities. Again, he tells us that in music a discord ending in a concord is agreeable, and that the same thing may be noted in the affections. Once more, he tells us, that in physics the energy with which a principle acts is often increased by the antiperistasis of its opposite; and that it is the same in the contests of factions. If the making of ingenious and sparkling similitudes like these be indeed the philosophia prima, we are quite sure that the greatest philosophical work of the nineteenth century is Mr. Moore's Lalla Rookh. The similitudes which we have cited are very happy similitudes. But that a man like Bacon should have taken them for more, that he should have thought the discovery of such resemblances as these an important part of philosophy, has always appeared to us one of the most singular facts in the history of letters. The truth is that his mind was wonderfully quick in perceiving analogies of all sorts. But, like several eminent men whom we could name, both living and dead, he sometimes appeared strangely deficient in the power of distinguishing rational from fanciful analogies, analogies which are arguments from analogies which are mere illustrations, analogies like that which Bishop Butler so ably pointed out, between natural and revealed religion, from analogies like that which Addison discovered, between the series of Grecian gods carved by Phidias and the series of English kings painted by Kneller. This want of discrimination has led to many strange political speculations. Sir William Temple deduced a theory of government from the properties of the pyramid. Mr. Southey's whole system of finance is grounded on the phaenomena of evaporation and rain. In theology, this perverted ingenuity has made still wilder work. From the time of Irenaeus and Origen down to the present day, there has not been a single generation in which great divines have not been led into the most absurd expositions of Scripture, by mere incapacity to distinguish analogies proper, to use the scholastic phrase, from analogies metaphorical. [See some interesting remarks on this subject in Bishop Berkeley's Minute Philosopher, Dialogue iv.] It is curious that Bacon has himself mentioned this very kind of delusion among the idola specus; and has mentioned it in language which, we are inclined to think, shows that he knew himself to be subject to it. It is the vice, he tells us, of subtle minds to attach too much importance to slight distinctions; it is the vice, on the other hand, of high and discursive intellects to attach too much importance to slight resemblances; and he adds that, when this last propensity is indulged to excess, it leads men to catch at shadows instead of substances. [Novum Organum, Lib. i. Aph. 55.] Yet we cannot wish that Bacon's wit had been less luxuriant. For, to say nothing of the pleasure which it affords, it was in the vast majority of cases employed for the purpose of making obscure truth plain, of making repulsive truth attractive, of fixing in the mind for ever truth which might otherwise have left but a transient impression. The poetical faculty was powerful in Bacon's mind, but not, like his wit, so powerful as occasionally to usurp the place of his reason, and to tyrannise over the whole man. No imagination was ever at once so strong and so thoroughly subjugated. It never stirred but at a signal from good sense. It stopped at the first check from good sense. Yet, though disciplined to such obedience, it gave noble proofs of its vigour. In truth, much of Bacon's life was passed in a visionary world, amidst things as strange as any that are described in the Arabian Tales, or in those romances on which the curate and barber of Don Quixote's village performed so cruel an auto-de-fe, amidst buildings more sumptuous than the palace of Aladdin, fountains more wonderful than the golden water of Parizade, conveyances more rapid than the hippogryph of Ruggiero, arms more formidable than the lance of Astolfo, remedies more efficacious than the balsam of Fierabras. Yet in his magnificent daydreams there was nothing wild, nothing but what sober reason sanctioned. He knew that all the secrets feigned by poets to have been written in the books of enchanters are worthless when compared with the mighty secrets which are really written in the book of nature, and which, with time and patience, will be read there. He knew that all the wonders wrought by all the talismans in fable were trifles when compared to the wonders which might reasonably be expected from the philosophy of fruit, and that, if his words sank deep into the minds of men, they would produce effects such as superstition had never ascribed to the incantations of Merlin and Michael Scott. It was here that he loved to let his imagination loose. He loved to picture to himself the world as it would be when his philosophy should, in his own noble phrase, "have enlarged the bounds of human empire." [New Atlantis.] We might refer to many instances. But we will content ourselves with the strongest, the description of the House of Solomon in the New Atlantis. By most of Bacon's contemporaries, and by some people of our time, this remarkable passage would, we doubt not, be considered as an ingenious rodomontade, a counterpart to the adventures of Sinbad or Baron Munchausen. The truth is, that there is not to be found in any human composition a passage more eminently distinguished by profound and serene wisdom. The boldness and originality of the fiction is far less wonderful than the nice discernment which carefully excluded from that long list of prodigies everything that can be pronounced impossible, everything that can be proved to lie beyond the mighty magic of induction and time. Already some parts, and not the least startling parts, of this glorious prophecy have been accomplished, even according to the letter; and the whole, construed according to the spirit, is daily accomplishing all around us. One of the most remarkable circumstances in the history of Bacon's mind is the order in which its powers expanded themselves. With him the fruit came first and remained till the last; the blossoms did not appear till late. In general, the development of the fancy is to the development of the judgment what the growth of a girl is to the growth of a boy. The fancy attains at an earlier period to the perfection of its beauty, its power, and its fruitfulness; and, as it is first to ripen, it is also first to fade. It has generally lost something of its bloom and freshness before the sterner faculties have reached maturity; and is commonly withered and barren while those faculties still retain all their energy. It rarely happens that the fancy and the judgment grow together. It happens still more rarely that the judgment grows faster than the fancy. This seems, however, to have been the case with Bacon. His boyhood and youth appear to have been singularly sedate. His gigantic scheme of philosophical reform is said by some writers to have been planned before he was fifteen, and was undoubtedly planned while he was still young. He observed as vigilantly, meditated as deeply, and judged as temperately when he gave his first work to the world as at the close of his long career. But in eloquence, in sweetness and variety of expression, and in richness of illustration, his later writings are far superior to those of his youth. In this respect the history of his mind bears some resemblance to the history of the mind of Burke. The treatise on the Sublime and Beautiful, though written on a subject which the coldest metaphysician could hardly treat without being occasionally betrayed into florid writing, is the most unadorned of all Burke's works. It appeared when he was twenty-five or twenty-six. When, at forty, he wrote the Thoughts on the Causes of the existing Discontents, his reason and his judgment had reached their full maturity; but his eloquence was still in its splendid dawn. At fifty, his rhetoric was quite as rich as good taste would permit; and when he died, at almost seventy, it had become ungracefully gorgeous. In his youth he wrote on the emotions produced by mountains and cascades, by the master-pieces of painting and sculpture, by the faces and necks of beautiful women, in the style of a Parliamentary report. In his old age he discussed treaties and tariffs in the most fervid and brilliant language of romance. It is strange that the Essay on the Sublime and Beautiful, and the Letter to a Noble Lord, should be the productions of one man. But it is far more strange that the Essay should have been a production of his youth, and the Letter of his old age. We will give very short specimens of Bacon's two styles. In 1597, he wrote thus: "Crafty men contemn studies; simple men admire them; and wise men use them; for they teach not their own use: that is a wisdom without them, and won by observation. Read not to contradict, nor to believe, but to weigh and consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested. Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man. And therefore if a man write little, he had need have a great memory; if he confer little, have a present wit; and if he read little, have much cunning to seem to know that he doth not. Histories make men wise, poets witty, the mathematics subtle, natural philosophy deep, morals grave, logic and rhetoric able to contend." It will hardly be disputed that this is a passage to be "chewed and digested." We do not believe that Thucydides himself has anywhere compressed so much thought into so small a space. In the additions which Bacon afterwards made to the Essays, there is nothing superior in truth or weight to what we have quoted. But his style was constantly becoming richer and softer. The following passage, first published in 1625, will show the extent of the change: "Prosperity is the blessing of the Old Testament; adversity is the blessing of the New, which carrieth the greater benediction and the clearer evidence of God's favour. Yet, even in the Old Testament, if you listen to David's harp you shall hear as many hearse-like airs as carols; and the pencil of the Holy Ghost hath laboured more in describing the afflictions of Job than the felicities of Solomon. Prosperity is not without many fears and distastes; and adversity is not without comforts and hopes. We see in needleworks and embroideries it is more pleasing to have a lively work upon a sad and solemn ground, than to have a dark and melancholy work upon a lightsome ground. Judge therefore of the pleasure of the heart by the pleasure of the eye. Certainly virtue is like precious odours, most fragrant when they are incensed or crushed; for prosperity doth best discover vice, but adversity doth best discover virtue." It is by the Essays that Bacon is best known to the multitude. The Novum Organum and the De Augmentis are much talked of, but little read. They have produced indeed a vast effect on the opinions of mankind; but they have produced it through the operation of intermediate agents. They have moved the intellects which have moved the world. It is in the Essays alone that the mind of Bacon is brought into immediate contact with the minds of ordinary readers. There he opens an exoteric school, and talks to plain men, in language which everybody understands, about things in which everybody is interested. He has thus enabled those who must otherwise have taken his merits on trust to judge for themselves; and the great body of readers have, during several generations, acknowledged that the man who has treated with such consummate ability questions with which they are familiar may well be supposed to deserve all the praise bestowed on him by those who have sat in his inner-school. Without any disparagement to the admirable treatise De Augmentis, we must say that, in our judgment, Bacon's greatest performance is the first book of the Novum Organum. All the peculiarities of his extraordinary mind are found there in the highest perfection. Many of the aphorisms, but particularly those in which he gives examples of the influence of the idola, show a nicety of observation that has never been surpassed. Every part of the book blazes with wit, but with wit which is employed only to illustrate and decorate truth. No book ever made so great a revolution in the mode of thinking, overthrew so many prejudices, introduced so many new opinions. Yet no book was ever written in a less contentious spirit. It truly conquers with chalk and not with steel. Proposition after proposition enters into the mind, is received not as an invader, but as a welcome friend, and, though previously unknown, becomes at once domesticated. But what we most admire is the vast capacity of that intellect which, without effort, takes in at once all the domains of science, all the past, the present, and the future, all the errors of two thousand years, all the encouraging signs of the passing times, all the bright hopes of the coming age. Cowley, who was among the most ardent, and not among the least discerning followers of the new philosophy, has, in one of his finest poems, compared Bacon to Moses standing on Mount Pisgah. It is to Bacon, we think, as he appears in the first book of the Novum Organum, that the comparison applies with peculiar felicity. There we see the great Lawgiver looking round from his lonely elevation on an infinite expanse; behind him a wilderness of dreary sands and bitter waters in which successive generations have sojourned, always moving, yet never advancing, reaping no harvest, and building no abiding city; before him a goodly land, a land of promise, a land flowing with milk and honey. While the multitude below saw only the flat sterile desert in which they had so long wandered, bounded on every side by a near horizon, or diversified only by some deceitful mirage, he was gazing from a far higher stand on a far lovelier country, following with his eye the long course of fertilising rivers, through ample pastures, and under the bridges of great capitals, measuring the distances of marts and havens, and portioning out all those wealthy regions from Dan to Beersheba. It is painful to turn back from contemplating Bacon's philosophy to contemplate his life. Yet without so turning back it is impossible fairly to estimate his powers. He left the University at an earlier age than that at which most people repair thither. While yet a boy he was plunged into the midst of diplomatic business. Thence he passed to the study of a vast technical system of law, and worked his way up through a succession of laborious offices to the highest post in his profession. In the meantime he took an active part in every Parliament; he was an adviser of the Crown: he paid court with the greatest assiduity and address to all whose favour was likely to be of use to him; he lived much in society; he noted the slightest peculiarities of character and the slightest changes of fashion. Scarcely any man has led a more stirring life than that which Bacon led from sixteen to sixty. Scarcely any man has been better entitled to be called a thorough man of the world. The founding of a new philosophy, the imparting of a new direction to the minds of speculators, this was the amusement of his leisure, the work of hours occasionally stolen from the Woolsack and the Council Board. This consideration, while it increases the admiration with which we regard his intellect, increases also our regret that such an intellect should so often have been unworthily employed. He well knew the better course and had, at one time, resolved to pursue it. "I confess," said he in a letter written when he was still young, "that I have as vast contemplative ends as I have moderate civil ends." Had his civil ends continued to be moderate, he would have been, not only the Moses, but the Joshua of philosophy. He would have fulfilled a large part of his own magnificent predictions. He would have led his followers, not only to the verge, but into the heart of the promised land. He would not merely have pointed out, but would have divided the spoil. Above all, he would have left, not only a great, but a spotless name. Mankind would then have been able to esteem their illustrious benefactor. We should not then be compelled to regard his character with mingled contempt and admiration, with mingled aversion and gratitude. We should not then regret that there should be so many proofs of the narrowness and selfishness of a heart, the benevolence of which was large enough to take in all races and all ages. We should not then have to blush for the disingenuousness of the most devoted worshipper of speculative truth, for the servility of the boldest champion of intellectual freedom. We should not then have seen the same man at one time far in the van, and at another time far in the rear of his generation. We should not then be forced to own that he who first treated legislation as a science was among the last Englishmen who used the rack, that he who first summoned philosophers to the great work of interpreting nature was among the last Englishmen who sold justice. And we should conclude our survey of a life placidly, honourably, beneficently passed, "in industrious observations, grounded conclusions, and profitable inventions and discoveries," [From a Letter of Bacon to Lord Burleigh.] with feelings very different from those with which we now turn away from the checkered spectacle of so much glory and so much shame. JOHN BUNYAN (December 1831) The Pilgrim's Progress, with a Life of John Bunyan. By ROBERT SOUTHEY, Esq., LL. D., Poet Laureate. Illustrated with Engravings. 8vo. London: 1831. THIS is an eminently beautiful and splendid edition of a book which well deserves all that the printer and the engraver can do for it. The Life of Bunyan is, of course, not a performance which can add much to the literary reputation of such a writer as Mr. Southey. But it is written in excellent English, and, for the most part, in an excellent spirit. Mr. Southey propounds, we need not say, many opinions from which we altogether dissent; and his attempts to excuse the odious persecution to which Bunyan was subjected have sometimes moved our indignation. But we will avoid this topic. We are at present much more inclined to join in paying homage to, the genius of a great man than to engage in a controversy concerning church-government and toleration. We must not pass without notice the engravings with which this volume is decorated. Some of Mr. Harvey's woodcuts are admirably designed and executed. Mr. Martin's illustrations do not please us quite so well. His Valley of the Shadow of Death is not that Valley of the Shadow of Death which Bunyan imagined. At all events, it is not that dark and horrible glen which has from childhood been in our mind's eye. The valley is a cavern: the quagmire is a lake: the straight path runs zigzag: and Christian appears like a speck in the darkness of the immense vault. We miss, too, those hideous forms which make so striking a part of the description of Bunyan, and which Salvator Rosa would have loved to draw. It is with unfeigned diffidence that we pronounce judgment on any question relating to the art of painting. But it appears to us that Mr. Martin has not of late been fortunate in his choice of subjects. He should never have attempted to illustrate the Paradise Lost. There can be no two manners more directly opposed to each other than the manner of his painting and the manner of Milton's poetry. Those things which are mere accessories in the descriptions become the principal objects in the pictures; and those figures which are most prominent in the descriptions can be detected in the pictures only by a very close scrutiny. Mr. Martin has succeeded perfectly in representing the pillars and candelabras of Pandaemonium. But he has forgotten that Milton's Pandaemonium is merely the background to Satan. In the picture, the Archangel is scarcely visible amidst the endless colonnades of his infernal palace. Milton's Paradise, again, is merely the background to his Adam and Eve. But in Mr. Martin's picture the landscape is everything. Adam, Eve, and Raphael attract much less notice than the lake and the mountains, the gigantic flowers, and the giraffes which feed upon them. We read that James the Second sat to Varelst, the great flower-painter. When the performance was finished, his Majesty appeared in the midst of a bower of sun-flowers and tulips, which completely drew away all attention from the central figure. All who looked at the portrait took it for a flower-piece. Mr. Martin, we think, introduces his immeasurable spaces, his innumerable multitudes, his gorgeous prodigies of architecture and landscape, almost as unseasonably as Varelst introduced his flower-pots and nosegays. If Mr. Martin were to paint Lear in the storm, we suspect that the blazing sky, the sheets of rain, the swollen torrents, and the tossing forest, would draw away all attention from the agonies of the insulted king and father. If he were to paint the death of Lear, the old man, asking the bystanders to undo his button, would be thrown into the shade by a vast blaze of pavilions, standards, armour, and heralds' coats. Mr. Martin would illustrate the Orlando Furioso well, the Orlando Innamorato still better, the Arabian Nights best of all. Fairy palaces and gardens, porticoes of agate, and groves flowering with emeralds and rubies, inhabited by people for whom nobody cares, these are his proper domain. He would succeed admirably in the enchanted ground of Alcina, or the mansion of Aladdin. But he should avoid Milton and Bunyan. The characteristic peculiarity of the Pilgrim's Progress is that it is the only work of its kind which possesses a strong human interest. Other allegories only amuse the fancy. The allegory of Bunyan has been read by many thousands with tears. There are some good allegories in Johnson's works, and some of still higher merit by Addison. In these performances there is, perhaps, as much wit and ingenuity as in the Progress, But the pleasure which is produced by the Vision of Mirza, the Vision of Theodore, the Genealogy of Wit, or the Contest between Rest and Labour, is exactly similar to the pleasure which we derive from one of Cowley's odes, or from a canto of Hudibras. It is a pleasure which belongs wholly to the understanding, and in which the feelings have no part whatever. Nay, even Spenser himself, though assuredly one of the greatest poets that ever lived, could not succeed in the attempt to make allegory interesting. It was in vain that he lavished the riches of his mind on the House of Pride and the House of Temperance. One unpardonable fault, the fault of tediousness, pervades the whole of the Fairy Queen. We become sick of cardinal virtues and deadly sins, and long for the society of plain men and women. Of the persons who read the first canto, not one in ten reaches the end of the first book, and not one in a hundred perseveres to the end of the poem. Very few and very weary are those who are in at the death of the Blatant Beast. If the last six books, which are said to have been destroyed in Ireland, had been preserved, we doubt whether any heart less stout than that of a commentator would have held out to the end. It is not so with the Pilgrim's Progress. That wonderful book, while it obtains admiration from the most fastidious critics, is loved by those who are too simple to admire it. Dr. Johnson, all whose studies were desultory, and who hated, as he said, to read books through, made an exception in favour of the Pilgrim's Progress. That work was one of the two or three works which he wished longer. It was by no common merit that the illiterate sectary extracted praise like this from the most pedantic of critics and the most bigoted of Tories. In the wildest parts of Scotland the Pilgrim's Progress is the delight of the peasantry. In every nursery the Pilgrim's Progress is a greater favourite than Jack the Giant-killer. Every reader knows the straight and narrow path as well as he knows a road in which he has gone backward and forward a hundred times. This is the highest miracle of genius, that things which are not should be as though they were, that the imaginations of one mind should become the personal recollections of another. And this miracle the tinker has wrought. There is no ascent, no declivity, no resting-place, no turn-stile, with which we are not perfectly acquainted. The wicket-gate, and the desolate swamp which separates it from the City of Destruction, the long line of road, as straight as a rule can make it, the Interpreter's house and all its fair shows, the prisoner in the iron cage, the palace, at the doors of which armed men kept guard, and on the battlements of which walked persons clothed all in gold, the cross, and the sepulchre, the steep hill and the pleasant arbour, the stately front of the House Beautiful by the wayside, the chained lions crouching in the porch, the low green valley of Humiliation, rich with grass and covered with flocks, all are as well known to us as the sights of our own street. Then we come to the narrow place where Apollyon strode right across the whole breadth of the way, to stop the journey of Christian, and where, afterwards, the pillar was set up to testify how bravely the pilgrim had fought the good fight. As we advance, the valley becomes deeper and deeper. The shade of the precipices on both sides falls blacker and blacker. The clouds gather overhead. Doleful voices, the clanking of chains, and the rush of many feet to and fro, are heard through the darkness. The way, hardly discernible in gloom, runs close by the mouth of the burning pit, which sends forth its flames, its noisome smoke, and its hideous shapes to terrify the adventurer. Thence he goes on, amidst the snares and pitfalls, with the mangled bodies of those who have perished lying in the ditch by his side. At the end of the long dark valley he passes the dens in which the old giants dwelt, amidst the bones of those whom they had slain. Then the road passes straight on through a waste moor, till at length the towers of a distant city appear before the traveller; and soon he is in the midst of the innumerable multitudes of Vanity Fair. There are the jugglers and the apes, the shops and the puppet-shows. There are Italian Row, and French Row, and Spanish Row, and British Row, with their crowds of buyers, sellers, and loungers, jabbering all the languages of the earth. Thence we go on by the little hill of the silver mine, and through the meadow of lilies, along the bank of that pleasant river which is bordered on both sides by fruit-trees. On the left branches off the path leading to the horrible castle, the courtyard of which is paved with the skulls of pilgrims; and right onward are the sheepfolds and orchards of the Delectable Mountains. From the Delectable Mountains, the way lies through the fogs and briars of the Enchanted Ground, with here and there a bed of soft cushions spread under a green arbour. And beyond is the land of Beulah, where the flowers, the grapes, and the songs of birds never cease, and where the sun shines night and day. Thence are plainly seen the golden pavements and streets of pearl, on the other side of that black and cold river over which there is no bridge. All the stages of the journey, all the forms which cross or overtake the pilgrims, giants, and hobgoblins, ill-favoured ones, and shining ones, the tall, comely, swarthy Madam Bubble, with her great purse by her side, and her fingers playing with the money, the black man in the bright vesture, Mr. Wordly-Wise-man and my Lord Hategood, Mr. Talkative, and Mrs. Timorous, all are actually existing beings to us. We follow the travellers through their allegorical progress with interest not inferior to that with which we follow Elizabeth from Siberia to Moscow, or Jeanie Deans from Edinburgh to London. Bunyan is almost the only writer who ever gave to the abstract the interest of the concrete. In the works of many celebrated authors, men are mere personifications. We have not a jealous man, but jealousy; not a traitor, but perfidy; not a patriot, but patriotism. The mind of Bunyan, on the contrary, was so imaginative that personifications, when he dealt with them, became men. A dialogue between two qualities, in his dream, has more dramatic effect than a dialogue between two human beings in most plays. In this respect the genius of Bunyan bore a great resemblance to that of a man who had very little else in common with him, Percy Bysshe Shelley. The strong imagination of Shelley made him an idolater in his own despite. Out of the most indefinite terms of a hard, cold, dark, metaphysical system, he made a gorgeous Pantheon, full of beautiful, majestic, and life-like forms. He turned atheism itself into a mythology, rich with visions as glorious as the gods that live in the marble of Phidias, or the virgin saints that smile on us from the canvas of Murillo. The Spirit of Beauty, the Principle of Good, the Principle of Evil, when he treated of them, ceased to be abstractions. They took shape and colour. They were no longer mere words; but intelligible forms, fair humanities, objects of love, of adoration, or of fear. As there can be no stronger sign of a mind destitute of the poetical faculty than that tendency which was so common among the writers of the French school to turn images into abstractions, Venus for example, into Love, Minerva into Wisdom, Mars into War, and Bacchus into Festivity, so there can be no stronger sign of a mind truly poetical than a disposition to reverse this abstracting process, and to make individuals out of generalities. Some of the metaphysical and ethical theories of Shelley were certainly most absurd and pernicious. But we doubt whether any modern poet has possessed in an equal degree some of the highest qualities of the great ancient masters. The words bard and inspiration, which seem so cold and affected when applied to other modern writers, have a perfect propriety when applied to him. He was not an author, but a bard. His poetry seems not to have been an art, but an inspiration. Had he lived to the full age of man, he might not improbably have given to the world some great work of the very highest rank in design and execution. But, alas! O daphnis eba roon' ekluse dina ton Mosais philon andra, ton ou Numphaisin apekhthi. But we must return to Bunyan. The Pilgrim's Progress undoubtedly is not a perfect allegory. The types are often inconsistent with each other; and sometimes the allegorical disguise is altogether thrown off. The river, for example, is emblematic of death; and we are told that every human being must pass through the river. But Faithful does not pass through it. He is martyred, not in shadow, but in reality, at Vanity Fair. Hopeful talks to Christian about Esau's birthright and about his own convictions of sin as Bunyan might have talked with one of his own congregation. The damsels at the House Beautiful catechise Christiana's boys, as any good ladies might catechise any boys at a Sunday School. But we do not believe that any man, whatever might be his genius, and whatever his good luck, could long continue a figurative history without falling into many inconsistencies. We are sure that inconsistencies, scarcely less gross than the worst into which Bunyan has fallen, may be found in the shortest and most elaborate allegories of the Spectator and the Rambler. The Tale of a Tub and the History of John Bull swarm with similar errors, if the name of error can be properly applied to that which is unavoidable. It is not easy to make a simile go on all-fours. But we believe that no human ingenuity could produce such a centipede as a long allegory in which the correspondence between the outward sign and the thing signified should be exactly preserved. Certainly no writer, ancient or modern, has yet achieved the adventure. The best thing, on the whole, that an allegorist can do, is to present to his readers a succession of analogies, each of which may separately be striking and happy, without looking very nicely to see whether they harmonise with each other. This Bunyan has done; and, though a minute scrutiny may detect inconsistencies in every page of his tale, the general effect which the tale produces on all persons, learned and unlearned, proves that he has done well. The passages which it is most difficult to defend are those in which he altogether drops the allegory, and puts into the mouth of his pilgrims religious ejaculations and disquisitions better suited to his own pulpit at Bedford or Reading than to the Enchanted Ground or to the Interpreter's Garden. Yet even these passages, though we will not undertake to defend them against the objections of critics, we feel that we could ill spare. We feel that the story owes much of its charm to these occasional glimpses of solemn and affecting subjects, which will not be hidden, which force themselves through the veil, and appear before us in their native aspect. The effect is not unlike that which is said to have been produced on the ancient stage, when the eyes of the actor were seen flaming through his mask, and giving life and expression to what would else have been an inanimate and uninteresting disguise. It is very amusing and very instructive to compare the Pilgrim's Progress with the Grace Abounding. The latter work is indeed one of the most remarkable pieces of autobiography in the world. It is a full and open confession of the fancies which passed through the mind of an illiterate man, whose affections were warm, whose nerves were irritable, whose imagination was ungovernable, and who was under the influence of the strongest religious excitement. In whatever age Bunyan had lived, the history of his feelings would, in all probability, have been very curious. But the time in which his lot was cast was the time of a great stirring of the human mind. A tremendous burst of public feeling, produced by the tyranny of the hierarchy, menaced the old ecclesiastical institutions with destruction. To the gloomy regularity of one intolerant Church had succeeded the licence of innumerable sects, drunk with the sweet and heady must of their new liberty. Fanaticism, engendered by persecution, and destined to engender persecution in turn, spread rapidly through society. Even the strongest and most commanding minds were not proof against this strange taint. Any time might have produced George Fox and James Naylor. But to one time alone belong the fanatic delusions of such a statesman as Vane, and the hysterical tears of such a soldier as Cromwell. The history of Bunyan is the history of a most excitable mind in an age of excitement. By most of his biographers he has been treated with gross injustice. They have understood in a popular sense all those strong terms of self-condemnation which he employed in a theological sense. They have, therefore, represented him as an abandoned wretch, reclaimed by means almost miraculous, or, to use their favourite metaphor, "as a brand plucked from the burning." Mr. Ivimey calls him the depraved Bunyan and the wicked tinker of Elstow. Surely Mr. Ivimey ought to have been too familiar with the bitter accusations which the most pious people are in the habit of bringing against themselves, to understand literally all the strong expressions which are to be found in the Grace Abounding. It is quite clear, as Mr. Southey most justly remarks, that Bunyan never was a vicious man. He married very early; and he solemnly declares that he was strictly faithful to his wife. He does not appear to have been a drunkard. He owns, indeed, that, when a boy, he never spoke without an oath. But a single admonition cured him of this bad habit for life; and the cure must have been wrought early; for at eighteen he was in the army of the Parliament; and if he had carried the vice of profaneness into that service, he would doubtless have received something more than an admonition from Serjeant Bind-their-kings-in-chains, or Captain Hew-Agag-in- pieces-before-the-Lord. Bell-ringing and playing at hockey on Sundays seem to have been the worst vices of this depraved tinker. They would have passed for virtues with Archbishop Laud. It is quite clear that, from a very early age, Bunyan was a man of a strict life and of a tender conscience. "He had been," says Mr. Southey, "a blackguard." Even this we think too hard a censure. Bunyan was not, we admit, so fine a gentleman as Lord Digby; but he was a blackguard no otherwise than as every labouring man that ever lived has been a blackguard. Indeed Mr. Southey acknowledges this. "Such he might have been expected to be by his birth, breeding, and vocation. Scarcely, indeed, by possibility, could he have been otherwise." A man whose manners and sentiments are decidedly below those of his class deserves to be called a blackguard. But it is surely unfair to apply so strong a word of reproach to one who is only what the great mass of every community must inevitably be. Those horrible internal conflicts which Bunyan has described with so much power of language prove, not that he was a worse man than his neighbours, but that his mind was constantly occupied by religious considerations, that his fervour exceeded his knowledge, and that his imagination exercised despotic power over his body and mind. He heard voices from heaven. He saw strange visions of distant hills, pleasant and sunny as his own Delectable Mountains. From those abodes he was shut out, and placed in a dark and horrible wilderness, where he wandered through ice and snow, striving to make his way into the happy region of light. At one time he was seized with an inclination to work miracles. At another time he thought himself actually possessed by the devil. He could distinguish the blasphemous whispers. He felt his infernal enemy pulling at his clothes behind him. He spurned with his feet and struck with his hands at the destroyer. Sometimes he was tempted to sell his part in the salvation of mankind. Sometimes a violent impulse urged him to start up from his food, to fall on his knees, and to break forth into prayer. At length he fancied that he had committed the unpardonable sin. His agony convulsed his robust frame. He was, he says, as if his breastbone would split; and this he took for a sign that he was destined to burst asunder like Judas. The agitation of his nerves made all his movements tremulous; and this trembling, he supposed, was a visible mark of his reprobation, like that which had been set on Cain. At one time, indeed, an encouraging voice seemed to rush in at the window, like the noise of wind, but very pleasant, and commanded, as he says, a great calm in his soul. At another time, a word of comfort "was spoke loud unto him; it showed a great word; it seemed to be writ in great letters." But these intervals of case were short. His state, during two years and a half, was generally the most horrible that the human mind can imagine. "I walked," says he, with his own peculiar eloquence, "to a neighbouring town; and sat down upon a settle in the street, and fell into a very deep pause about the most fearful state my sin had brought me to; and, after long musing, I lifted up my head; but methought I saw as if the sun that shineth in the heavens did grudge to give me light; and as if the very stones in the street, and tiles upon the houses, did band themselves against me. Methought that they all combined together to banish me out of the world. I was abhorred of them, and unfit to dwell among them, because I had sinned against the Saviour. Oh, how happy now was every creature for they stood fast, and kept their station. But I was gone and lost." Scarcely any madhouse could produce an instance of delusion so strong, or of misery so acute. It was through this Valley of the Shadow of Death, overhung by darkness, peopled with devils, resounding with blasphemy and lamentation, and passing amidst quagmires, snares, and pitfalls, close by the very mouth of hell, that Bunyan journeyed to that bright and fruitful land of Beulah, in which he sojourned during the latter period of his pilgrimage. The only trace which his cruel sufferings and temptations seem to have left behind them was an affectionate compassion for those who were still in the state in which he had once been. Religion has scarcely ever worn a form so calm and soothing as in his allegory. The feeling which predominates through the whole book is a feeling of tenderness for weak, timid, and harassed minds. The character of Mr. Fearing, of Mr. Feeble-Mind, of Mr. Despondency and his daughter Miss Much-afraid, the account of poor Little-faith who was robbed by the three thieves of his spending money, the description of Christian's terror in the dungeons of Giant Despair and in his passage through the river, all clearly show how strong a sympathy Bunyan felt, after his own mind had become clear and cheerful, for persons afflicted with religious melancholy. Mr. Southey, who has no love for the Calvinists, admits that, if Calvinism had never worn a blacker appearance than in Bunyan's works, it would never have become a term of reproach. In fact, those works of Bunyan with which we are acquainted are by no means more Calvinistic than the articles and homilies of the Church of England. The moderation of his opinions on the subject of predestination gave offence to some zealous persons. We have seen an absurd allegory, the heroine of which is named Hephzibah, written by some raving supralapsarian preacher who was dissatisfied with the mild theology of the Pilgrim's Progress. In this foolish book, if we recollect rightly, the Interpreter is called the Enlightener, and the House Beautiful is Castle Strength. Mr. Southey tells us that the Catholics had also their Pilgrim's Progress, without a Giant Pope, in which the Interpreter is the Director, and the House Beautiful Grace's Hall. It is surely a remarkable proof of the power of Bunyan's genius, that two religious parties, both of which regarded his opinions as heterodox, should have had recourse to him for assistance. There are, we think, some characters and scenes in the Pilgrim's Progress, which can be fully comprehended and enjoyed only by persons familiar with the history of the times through which Bunyan lived. The character of Mr. Greatheart, the guide, is an example. His fighting is, of course, allegorical; but the allegory is not strictly preserved. He delivers a sermon on imputed righteousness to his companions; and, soon after, he gives battle to Giant Grim, who had taken upon him to back the lions. He expounds the fifty-third chapter of Isaiah to the household and guests of Gaius; and then he sallies out to attack Slay-good, who was of the nature of flesh-eaters, in his den. These are inconsistencies; but they are inconsistencies which add, we think, to the interest of the narrative. We have not the least doubt that Bunyan had in view some stout old Great-heart of Naseby and Worcester, who prayed with his men before he drilled them, who knew the spiritual state of every dragoon in his troop, and who, with the praises of God in his mouth, and a two-edged sword in his hand, had turned to flight, on many fields of battle, the swearing, drunken bravoes of Rupert and Lunsford. Every age produces such men as By-ends. But the middle of the seventeenth century was eminently prolific of such men. Mr. Southey thinks that the satire was aimed at some particular individual; and this seems by no means improbable. At all events Bunyan must have known many of those hypocrites who followed religion only when religion walked in silver slippers, when the sun shone, and when the people applauded. Indeed he might have easily found all the kindred of By-ends among the public men of his time. He might have found among the peers my Lord Turn-about, my Lord Time-server, and my Lord Fair-speech; in the House of Commons, Mr. Smooth-man, Mr. Anything, and Mr. Facing-both-ways; nor would "the parson of the parish, Mr. Two-tongues," have been wanting. The town of Bedford probably contained more than one politician who, after contriving to raise an estate by seeking the Lord during the reign of the saints, contrived to keep what he had got by persecuting the saints during the reign of the strumpets, and more than one priest who, during repeated changes in the discipline and doctrines of the Church, had remained constant to nothing but his benefice. One of the most remarkable passages in the Pilgrim's Progress is that in which the proceedings against Faithful are described. It is impossible to doubt that Bunyan intended to satirise the mode in which state trials were conducted under Charles the Second. The licence given to the witnesses for the prosecution, the shameless partiality and ferocious insolence of the judge, the precipitancy and the blind rancour of the jury, remind us of those odious mummeries which, from the Restoration to the Revolution, were merely forms preliminary to hanging, drawing, and quartering. Lord Hate-good performs the office of counsel for the prisoners as well as Scroggs himself could have performed it. "JUDGE. Thou runagate, heretic, and traitor, hast thou heard what these honest gentlemen have witnessed against thee? "FAITHFUL. May I speak a few words in my own defence? "JUDGE. Sirrah, sirrah! thou deservest to live no longer, but to be slain immediately upon the place; yet, that all men may see our gentleness towards thee, let us hear what thou, vile runagate, hast to say." No person who knows the state trials can be at a loss for parallel cases. Indeed, write what Bunyan would, the baseness and cruelty of the lawyers of those times "sinned up to it still," and even went beyond it. The imaginary trial of Faithful, before a jury composed of personified vices, was just and merciful, when compared with the real trial of Alice Lisle before that tribunal where all the vices sat in the person of Jeffreys. The style of Bunyan is delightful to every reader, and invaluable as a study to every person who wishes to obtain a wide command over the English language. The vocabulary is the vocabulary of the common people. There is not an expression, if we except a few technical terms of theology, which would puzzle the rudest peasant. We have observed several pages which do not contain a single word of more than two syllables. Yet no writer has said more exactly what he meant to say. For magnificence, for pathos, for vehement exhortation, for subtle disquisition, for every purpose of the poet, the orator, and the divine, this homely dialect, the dialect of plain working men, was perfectly sufficient. There is no book in our literature on which we would so readily stake the fame of the old unpolluted English language, no book which shows so well how rich that language is in its own proper wealth, and how little it has been improved by all that it has borrowed. Cowper said, forty or fifty years ago, that he dared not name John Bunyan in his verse, for fear of moving a sneer. To our refined forefathers, we suppose, Lord Roscommon's Essay on Translated Verse, and the Duke of Buckinghamshire's Essay on Poetry, appeared to be compositions infinitely superior to the allegory of the preaching tinker. We live in better times; and we are not afraid to say, that, though there were many clever men in England during the latter half of the seventeenth century, there were only two minds which possessed the imaginative faculty in a very eminent degree. One of those minds produced the Paradise Lost, the other the Pilgrim's Progress. LEIGH HUNT (January 1841) The Dramatic Works of WYCHERLEY, CONGREVE, VANBRUGH, and FARQUHAR, with Biographical and Critical Notices. By LEIGH HUNT. 8vo. London: 1840. WE have a kindness for Mr. Leigh Hunt. We form our judgment of him, indeed, only from events of universal notoriety, from his own works, and from the works of other writers, who have generally abused him in the most rancorous manner. But, unless we are greatly mistaken, he is a very clever, a very honest, and a very good-natured man. We can clearly discern, together with many merits, many faults both in his writings and in his conduct. But we really think that there is hardly a man living whose merits have been so grudgingly allowed, and whose faults have been so cruelly expiated. In some respects Mr. Leigh Hunt is excellently qualified for the task which he has now undertaken. His style, in spite of its mannerism, nay, partly by reason of its mannerism, is well-suited for light, garrulous, desultory ana, half critical, half biographical. We do not always agree with his literary judgments; but we find in him what is very rare in our time, the power of justly appreciating and heartily enjoying good things of very different kinds. He can adore Shakspeare and Spenser without denying poetical genius to the author of Alexander's Feast, or fine observation, rich fancy and exquisite humour to him who imagined Will Honeycomb and Sir Roger de Coverley. He has paid particular attention to the history of the English drama, from the age of Elizabeth down to our own time, and has every right to be heard with respect on that subject. The plays to which he now acts as introducer are, with few exceptions, such as, in the opinion of many very respectable people, ought not to be reprinted. In this opinion we can by no means concur. We cannot wish that any work or class of works which has exercised a great influence on the human mind, and which illustrates the character of an important epoch in letters, politics, and morals, should disappear from the world. If we err in this matter, we err with the gravest men and bodies of men in the empire, and especially with the Church of England, and with the great schools of learning which are connected with her. The whole liberal education of our countrymen is conducted on the principle, that no book which is valuable, either by reason of the excellence of its style, or by reason of the light which it throws on the history, polity, and manners of nations, should be withheld from the student on account of its impurity. The Athenian Comedies, in which there are scarcely a hundred lines together without some passage of which Rochester would have been ashamed, have been reprinted at the Pitt Press, and the Clarendon Press, under the direction of Syndics, and delegates appointed by the Universities, and have been illustrated with notes by reverend, very reverend, and right reverend commentators. Every year the most distinguished young men in the kingdom are examined by bishops and professors of divinity in such works as the Lysistrata of Aristophanes and the Sixth Satire of Juvenal. There is certainly something a little ludicrous in the idea of a conclave of venerable fathers of the Church praising and rewarding a lad on account of his intimate acquaintance with writings compared with which the loosest tale in Prior is modest. But, for our own part, we have no doubt that the greatest societies which direct the education of the English gentry have herein judged wisely. It is unquestionable that an extensive acquaintance with ancient literature enlarges and enriches the mind. It is unquestionable that a man whose mind has been thus enlarged and enriched is likely to be far more useful to the State and to the Church than one who is unskilled or little skilled, in classical learning. On the other hand, we find it difficult to believe that, in a world so full of temptation as this, any gentleman whose life would have been virtuous if he had not read Aristophanes and Juvenal will be made vicious by reading them. A man who, exposed to all the influences of such a state of society as that in which we live, is yet afraid of exposing himself to the influences of a few Greek or Latin verses, acts, we think, much like the felon who begged the sheriffs to let him have an umbrella held over his head from the door of Newgate to the gallows, because it was a drizzling morning, and he was apt to take cold. The virtue which the world wants is a healthful virtue, not a valetudinarian virtue, a virtue which can expose itself to the risks inseparable from all spirited exertion, not a virtue which keeps out of the common air for fear of infection, and eschews the common food as too stimulating. It would be indeed absurd to attempt to keep men from acquiring those qualifications which fit them to play their part in life with honour to themselves and advantage to their country, for the sake of preserving a delicacy which cannot be preserved, a delicacy which a walk from Westminster to the Temple is sufficient to destroy. But we should be justly chargeable with gross inconsistency if, while we defend the policy which invites the youth of our country to study such writers as Theocritus and Catullus, we were to set up a cry against a new edition of the Country Wife or the Wife of the World. The immoral English writers of the seventeenth century are indeed much less excusable than those of Greece and Rome. But the worst English writings of the seventeenth century are decent, compared with much that has been bequeathed to us by Greece and Rome. Plato, we have little doubt, was a much better man than Sir George Etherege. But Plato has written things at which Sir George Etherege would have shuddered. Buckhurst and Sedley, even in those wild orgies at the Cock in Bow Street for which they were pelted by the rabble and fined by the Court of King's Bench, would never have dared to hold such discourse as passed between Socrates and Phaedrus on that fine summer day under the plane- tree, while the fountain warbled at their feet, and the cicadas chirped overhead. If it be, as we think it is, desirable that an English gentleman should be well informed touching the government and the manners of little commonwealths which both in place and time are far removed from us, whose independence has been more than two thousand years extinguished, whose language has not been spoken for ages, and whose ancient magnificence is attested only by a few broken columns and friezes, much more must it be desirable that he should be intimately acquainted with the history of the public mind of his own country, and with the causes, the nature, and the extent of those revolutions of opinion and feeling which, during the last two centuries, have alternately raised and depressed the standard of our national morality. And knowledge of this sort is to be very sparingly gleaned from Parliamentary debates, from State papers, and from the works of grave historians. It must either not be acquired at all, or it must be acquired by the perusal of the light literature which has at various periods been fashionable. We are therefore by no means disposed to condemn this publication, though we certainly cannot recommend the handsome volume before us as an appropriate Christmas present for young ladies. We have said that we think the present publication perfectly justifiable. But we can by no means agree with Mr. Leigh Hunt, who seems to hold that there is little or no ground for the charge of immorality so often brought against the literature of the Restoration. We do not blame him for not bringing to the judgment-seat the merciless rigour of Lord Angelo; but we really think that such flagitious and impudent offenders as those who are now at the bar deserved at least the gentle rebuke of Escalus. Mr. Leigh Hunt treats the whole matter a little too much in the easy style of Lucio; and perhaps his exceeding lenity disposes us to be somewhat too severe. And yet it is not easy to be too severe. For in truth this part of our literature is a disgrace to our language and our national character. It is clever, indeed, and very entertaining; but it is, in the most emphatic sense of the words, "earthly, sensual, devilish." Its indecency, though perpetually such as is condemned not less by the rules of good taste than by those of morality, is not, in our opinion, so disgraceful a fault as its singularly inhuman spirit. We have here Belial, not as when he inspired Ovid and Ariosto, "graceful and humane," but with the iron eye and cruel sneer of Mephistopheles. We find ourselves in a world, in which the ladies are like very profligate, impudent and unfeeling men, and in which the men are too bad for any place but Pandaemonium or Norfolk Island. We are surrounded by foreheads of bronze, hearts like the nether millstone, and tongues set on fire of hell. Dryden defended or excused his own offences and those of his contemporaries by pleading the example of the earlier English dramatists; and Mr. Leigh Hunt seems to think there is force in the plea. We altogether differ from this opinion. The crime charged is not mere coarseness of expression. The terms which are delicate in one age become gross in the next. The diction of the English version of the Pentateuch is sometimes such as Addison would not have ventured to imitate; and Addison, the standard of moral purity in his own age, used many phrases which are now proscribed. Whether a thing shall be designated by a plain noun-substantive or by a circumlocution is mere matter of fashion. Morality is not at all interested in the question. But morality is deeply interested in this, that what is immoral shall not be presented to the imagination of the young and susceptible in constant connection with what is attractive. For every person who has observed the operation of the law of association in his own mind and in the minds of others knows that whatever is constantly presented to the imagination in connection with what is attractive will itself become attractive. There is undoubtedly a great deal of indelicate writing in Fletcher and Massinger, and more than might be wished even in Ben Jonson and Shakspeare, who are comparatively pure. But it is impossible to trace in their plays any systematic attempt to associate vice with those things which men value most and desire most, and virtue with every thing ridiculous and degrading. And such a systematic attempt we find in the whole dramatic literature of the generation which followed the return of Charles the Second. We will take, as an instance of what we mean, a single subject of the highest importance to the happiness of mankind, conjugal fidelity. We can at present hardly call to mind a single English play, written before the civil war, in which the character of a seducer of married women is represented in a favourable light. We remember many plays in which such persons are baffled, exposed, covered with derision, and insulted by triumphant husbands. Such is the fate of Falstaff, with all his wit and knowledge of the world. Such is the fate of Brisac in Fletcher's Elder Brother, and of Ricardo and Ubaldo in Massinger's Picture. Sometimes, as in the Fatal Dowry and Love's Cruelty, the outraged honour of families is repaired by a bloody revenge. If now and then the lover is represented as an accomplished man, and the husband as a person of weak or odious character, this only makes the triumph of female virtue the more signal, as in Johnson's Celia and Mrs. Fitzdottrel, and in Fletcher's Maria. In general we will venture to say that the dramatists of the age of Elizabeth and James the First either treat the breach Of the marriage-vow as a serious crime, or, if they treat it as matter for laughter, turn the laugh against the gallant. On the contrary, during the forty years which followed the Restoration, the whole body of the dramatists invariably represent adultery, we do not say as a peccadillo, we do not say as an error which the violence of passion may excuse, but as the calling of a fine gentleman, as a grace without which his character would be imperfect. It is as essential to his breeding and to his place in society that he should make love to the wives of his neighbours as that he should know French, or that he should have a sword at his side. In all this there is no passion, and scarcely anything that can be called preference. The hero intrigues just as he wears a wig; because, if he did not, he would be a queer fellow, a city prig, perhaps a Puritan. All the agreeable qualities are always given to the gallant. All the contempt and aversion are the portion of the unfortunate husband. Take Dryden for example; and compare Woodall with Brainsick, or Lorenzo with Gomez. Take Wycherley; and compare Horner with Pinchwife. Take Vanbrugh; and compare Constant with Sir John Brute. Take Farquhar; and compare Archer with Squire Sullen. Take Congreve; and compare Bellmour with Fondlewife, Careless with Sir Paul Plyant, or Scandal with Foresight. In all these cases, and in many more which might be named, the dramatist evidently does his best to make the person who commits the injury graceful, sensible, and spirited, and the person who suffers it a fool, or a tyrant, or both. Mr. Charles Lamb, indeed, attempted to set up a defence for this way of writing. The dramatists of the latter part of the seventeenth century are not, according to him, to be tried by the standard of morality which exists, and ought to exist in real life. Their world is a conventional world. Their heroes and heroines belong, not to England, not to Christendom, but to an Utopia of gallantry, to a Fairyland, where the Bible and Burn's justice are unknown, where a prank which on this earth would be rewarded with the pillory is merely matter for a peal of elvish laughter. A real Homer, a real Careless, would, it is admitted, be exceedingly bad men. But to predicate morality or immorality of the Horner of Wycherley and the Careless of Congreve is as absurd as it would be to arraign a sleeper for his dreams. "They belong to the regions of pure comedy, where no cold moral reigns. When we are among them we are among a chaotic people. We are not to judge them by our usages. No reverend institutions are insulted by their proceedings, for they have none among them. No peace of families is violated, for no family ties exist among them. There is neither right nor wrong, gratitude or its opposite, claim or duty, paternity or sonship." This is, we believe, a fair summary of Mr. Lamb's doctrine. We are sure that we do not wish to represent him unfairly. For we admire his genius; we love the kind nature which appears in all his writings; and we cherish his memory as much as if we had known him personally. But we must plainly say that his argument, though ingenious, is altogether sophistical. Of course we perfectly understand that it is possible for a writer to create a conventional world in which things forbidden by the Decalogue and the Statute Book shall be lawful, and yet that the exhibition may be harmless, or even edifying. For example, we suppose that the most austere critics would not accuse Fenelon of impiety and immorality on account of his Telemachus and his Dialogues of the Dead. In Telemachus and the Dialogues of the Dead we have a false religion, and consequently a morality which is in some points incorrect. We have a right and a wrong differing from the right and the wrong of real life. It is represented as the first duty of men to pay honour to Jove and Minerva. Philocles, who employs his leisure in making graven images of these deities, is extolled for his piety in a way which contrasts singularly with the expressions of Isaiah on the same subject. The dead are judged by Minos, and rewarded with lasting happiness for actions which Fenelon would have been the first to pronounce splendid sins. The same may be said of Mr. Southey's Mahommedan and Hindoo heroes and heroines. In Thalaba, to speak in derogation of the Arabian impostor is blasphemy: to drink wine is a crime: to perform ablutions and to pay honour to the holy cities are works of merit. In the Curse of Kehama, Kailyal is commended for her devotion to the statue of Mariataly, the goddess of the poor. But certainly no person will accuse Mr. Southey of having promoted or intended to promote either Islamism or Brahminism. It is easy to see why the conventional worlds of Fenelon and Mr. Southey are unobjectionable. In the first place, they are utterly unlike the real world in which we live. The state of society, the laws even of the physical world, are so different from those with which we are familiar, that we cannot be shocked at finding the morality also very different. But in truth the morality of these conventional worlds differs from the morality of the real world only in points where there is no danger that the real world will ever go wrong. The generosity and docility of Telemachus, the fortitude, the modesty, the filial tenderness of Kailyal, are virtues of all ages and nations. And there was very little danger that the Dauphin would worship Minerva, or that an English damsel would dance, with a bucket on her head, before the statue of Mariataly. The case is widely different with what Mr. Charles Lamb calls the conventional world of Wycherley and Congreve. Here the garb, the manners, the topics of conversation are those of the real town and of the passing day. The hero is in all superficial accomplishments exactly the fine gentleman whom every youth in the pit would gladly resemble. The heroine is the fine lady whom every youth in the pit would gladly marry. The scene is laid in some place which is as well known to the audience as their own houses, in St. James's Park, Park, or Hyde Park, or Westminster Hall. The lawyer bustles about with his bag, between the Common Pleas and the Exchequer. The Peer calls for his carriage to go to the House of Lords on a private bill. A hundred little touches are employed to make the fictitious world appear like the actual world. And the immorality is of a sort which never can be out of date, and which all the force of religion, law, and public opinion united can but imperfectly restrain. In the name of art, as well as in the name of virtue, we protest against the principle that the world of pure comedy is one into which no moral enters. If comedy be an imitation, under whatever conventions, of real life, how is it possible that it can have no reference to the great rule which directs life, and to feelings which are called forth by every incident of life? If what Mr. Charles Lamb says were correct, the inference would be that these dramatists did not in the least understand the very first principles of their craft. Pure landscape-painting into which no light or shade enters, pure portrait-painting into which no expression enters, are phrases less at variance with sound criticism than pure comedy into which no moral enters. But it is not the fact that the world of these dramatists is a world into which no moral enters. Morality constantly enters into that world, a sound morality, and an unsound morality; the sound morality to be insulted, derided, associated with everything mean and hateful; the unsound morality to be set off to every advantage, and inculcated by all methods, direct and indirect. It is not the fact that none of the inhabitants of this conventional world feel reverence for sacred institutions and family ties. Fondlewife, Pinchwife, every person in short of narrow understanding and disgusting manners, expresses that reverence strongly. The heroes and heroines, too, have a moral code of their own, an exceedingly bad one, but not, as Mr. Charles Lamb seems to think, a code existing only in the imagination of dramatists. It is, on the contrary, a code actually received and obeyed by great numbers of people. We need not go to Utopia or Fairyland to find them. They are near at hand. Every night some of them cheat at the hells in the Quadrant, and others pace the Piazza in Covent Garden. Without flying to Nephelococcygia or to the Court of Queen Mab, we can meet with sharpers, bullies, hard- hearted impudent debauchees, and women worthy of such paramours. The morality of the Country Wife and the Old Bachelor is the morality, not, as Mr. Charles Lamb maintains, of an unreal world, but of a world which is a great deal too real. It is the morality, not of a chaotic people, but of low town-rakes, and of those ladies whom the newspapers call "dashing Cyprians." And the question is simply this, whether a man of genius who constantly and systematically endeavours to make this sort of character attractive, by uniting it with beauty, grace, dignity, spirit, a high social position, popularity, literature, wit, taste, knowledge of the world, brilliant success in every undertaking, does or does not make an ill use of his powers. We own that we are unable to understand how this question can be answered in any way but one. It must, indeed, be acknowledged, in justice to the writers of whom we have spoken thus severely, that they were to a great extent the creatures of their age, And if it be asked why that age encouraged immorality which no other age would have tolerated, we have no hesitation in answering that this, great depravation of the national taste was the effect of the prevalence of Puritanism under the Commonwealth. To punish public outrages on morals and religion is unquestionably within the competence of rulers. But when a government, not content with requiring decency, requires sanctity, it oversteps the bounds which mark its proper functions. And it may be laid down as a universal rule that a government which attempts more than it ought will perform less. A lawgiver who, in order to protect distressed borrowers, limits the rate of interest, either makes it impossible for the objects of his care to borrow at all, or places them at the mercy of the worst class of usurers. A lawgiver who, from tenderness for labouring men, fixes the hours of their work and the amount of their wages, is certain to make them far more wretched than he found them. And so a government which, not content with repressing scandalous excesses, demands from its subjects fervent and austere piety, will soon discover that, while attempting to render an impossible service to the cause of virtue, it has in truth only promoted vice. For what are the means by which a government can effect its ends? Two only, reward and punishment; powerful means, indeed, for influencing the exterior act, but altogether impotent for the purpose of touching the heart. A public functionary who is told that he will be promoted if he is a devout Catholic, and turned out of his place if he is not, will probably go to mass every morning, exclude meat from his table on Fridays, shrive himself regularly, and perhaps let his superiors know that he wears a hair shirt next his skin. Under a Puritan government, a person who is apprised that piety is essential to thriving in the world will be strict in the observance of the Sunday, or, as he will call it, Sabbath, and will avoid a theatre as if it were plague- stricken. Such a show of religion as this the hope of gain and the fear of loss will produce, at a week's notice, in any abundance which a government may require. But under this show, sensuality, ambition, avarice, and hatred retain unimpaired power, and the seeming convert has only added to the vices of a man of the world all the still darker vices which are engendered by the constant practice of dissimulation. The truth cannot be long concealed. The public discovers that the grave persons who are proposed to it as patterns are more utterly destitute of moral principle and of moral sensibility than avowed libertines. It sees that these Pharisees are farther removed from real goodness than publicans and harlots. And, as usual, it rushes to the extreme opposite to that which it quits. It considers a high religious profession as a sure mark of meanness and depravity. On the very first day on which the restraint of fear is taken away, and on which men can venture to say what they think, a frightful peal of blasphemy and ribaldry proclaims that the short-sighted policy which aimed at making a nation of saints has made a nation of scoffers. It was thus in France about the beginning of the eighteenth century. Lewis the Fourteenth in his old age became religious: he determined that his subjects should be religious too: he shrugged his shoulders and knitted his brows if he observed at his levee or near his dinner-table any gentleman who neglected the duties enjoined by the Church, and rewarded piety with blue ribands, invitations to Marli, governments, pensions, and regiments. Forthwith Versailles became, in everything but dress, a convent. The pulpits and confessionals were surrounded by swords and embroidery. The Marshals of France were much in prayer; and there was hardly one among the Dukes and Peers who did not carry good little books in his pocket, fast during Lent, and communicate at Easter. Madame de Maintenon, who had a great share in the blessed work, boasted that devotion had become quite the fashion. A fashion indeed it was; and like a fashion it passed away. No sooner had the old king been carried to St. Denis than the whole Court unmasked. Every man hastened to indemnify himself, by the excess of licentiousness and impudence, for years of mortification. The same persons who, a few months before, with meek voices and demure looks, had consulted divines about the state of their souls, now surrounded the midnight table where, amidst the bounding of champagne corks, a drunken prince, enthroned between Dubois and Madame de Parabere, hiccoughed out atheistical arguments and obscene jests. The early part of the reign of Lewis the Fourteenth had been a time of licence; but the most dissolute men of that generation would have blushed at the orgies of the Regency. It was the same with our fathers in the time of the Great Civil War. We are by no means unmindful of the great debt which mankind owes to the Puritans of that time, the deliverers of England, the founders of the American Commonwealths. But in the day of their power, those men committed one great fault, which left deep and lasting traces in the national character and manners. They mistook the end and overrated the force of government. They determined, not merely to protect religion and public morals from insult, an object for which the civil sword, in discreet hands, may be beneficially employed, but to make the people committed to their rule truly devout. Yet, if they had only reflected on events which they had themselves witnessed and in which they had themselves borne a great part, they would have seen what was likely to be the result of their enterprise. They had lived under a government which, during a long course of years, did all that could be done, by lavish bounty and by rigorous punishment, to enforce conformity to the doctrine and discipline of the Church of England. No person suspected of hostility to that Church had the smallest chance of obtaining favour at the Court of Charles. Avowed dissent was punished by imprisonment, by ignominious exposure, by cruel mutilations, and by ruinous fines. And the event had been that the Church had fallen, and had, in its fall, dragged down with it a monarchy which had stood six hundred years. The Puritan might have learned, if from nothing else, yet from his own recent victory, that governments which attempt things beyond their reach are likely not merely to fail, but to produce an effect directly the opposite of that which they contemplate as desirable. All this was overlooked. The saints were to inherit the earth. The theatres were closed. The fine arts were placed under absurd restraints. Vices which had never before been even misdemeanours were made capital felonies. It was solemnly resolved by Parliament "that no person shall be employed but such as the House shall be satisfied of his real godliness." The pious assembly had a Bible lying on the table for reference. If they had consulted it they might have learned that the wheat and the tares grow together inseparably, and must either be spared together or rooted up together. To know whether a man was really godly was impossible. But it was easy to know whether he had a plain dress, lank hair, no starch in his linen, no gay furniture in his house; whether he talked through his nose, and showed the whites of his eyes; whether he named his children Assurance, Tribulation, Mahershalal-hash-baz; whether he avoided Spring Garden when in town, and abstained from hunting and hawking when in the country; whether he expounded hard scriptures to his troop of dragoons, and talked in a committee of ways and means about seeking the Lord. These were tests which could easily be applied. The misfortune was that they were tests which proved nothing. Such as they were, they were employed by the dominant party. And the consequence was that a crowd of impostors, in every walk of life, began to mimic and to caricature what were then regarded as the outward signs of sanctity. The nation was not duped. The restraints of that gloomy time were such as would have been impatiently borne, if imposed by men who were universally believed to be saints. Those restraints became altogether insupportable when they were known to be kept up for the profit of hypocrites. It is quite certain that, even if the royal family had never returned, even if Richard Cromwell or Henry Cromwell had been at the head of the administration, there would have been a great relaxation of manners. Before the Restoration many signs indicated that a period of licence was at hand. The Restoration crushed for a time the Puritan party, and placed supreme power in the hands of a libertine. The political counter-revolution assisted the moral counter-revolution, and was in turn assisted by it. A period of wild and desperate dissoluteness followed. Even in remote manor-houses and hamlets the change was in some degree felt; but in London the outbreak of debauchery was appalling; and in London the places most deeply infected were the Palace, the quarters inhabited by the aristocracy, and the Inns of Court. It was on the support of these parts of the town that the playhouses depended. The character of the drama became conformed to the character of its patrons. The comic poet was the mouthpiece of the most deeply corrupted part of a corrupted society. And in the plays before us we find, distilled and condensed, the essential spirit of the fashionable world during the anti-Puritan reaction. The Puritan had affected formality; the comic poet laughed at decorum. The Puritan had frowned at innocent diversions; the comic poet took under his patronage the most flagitious excesses. The Puritan had canted; the comic poet blasphemed. The Puritan had made an affair of gallantry felony without benefit of clergy; the comic poet represented it as an honourable distinction. The Puritan spoke with disdain of the low standard of popular morality; his life was regulated by a far more rigid code; his virtue was sustained by motives unknown to men of the world. Unhappily it had been amply proved in many cases, and might well be suspected in many more, that these high pretensions were unfounded. Accordingly, the fashionable circles, and the comic poets who were the spokesmen of those circles, took up the notion that all professions of piety and integrity were to be construed by the rule of contrary; that it might well be doubted whether there was such a thing as virtue in the world; but that, at all events, a person who affected to be better than his neighbours was sure to be a knave. In the old drama there had been much that was reprehensible. But whoever compares even the least decorous plays of Fletcher with those contained in the volume before us will see how much the profligacy which follows a period of overstrained austerity goes beyond the profligacy which precedes such a period. The nation resembled the demoniac in the New Testament. The Puritans boasted that the unclean spirit was cast out. The house was empty, swept, and garnished; and for a time the expelled tenant wandered through dry places seeking rest and finding none. But the force of the exorcism was spent. The fiend returned to his abode; and returned not alone. He took to him seven other spirits more wicked than himself. They entered in, and dwelt together: and the second possession was worse than the first. We will now, as far as our limits will permit, pass in review the writers to whom Mr. Leigh Hunt has introduced us. Of the four, Wycherley stands, we think, last in literary merit, but first in order of time, and first, beyond all doubt, in immorality. WILLIAM WYCHERLEY was born in 1640. He was the son of a Shropshire gentleman of old family, and of what was then accounted a good estate: The properly was estimated at six hundred a year, a fortune which, among the fortunes at that time, probably ranked as a fortune of two thousand a year would rank in our days. William was an infant when the civil war broke out; and, while he was still in his rudiments, a Presbyterian hierarchy and a republican government were established on the ruins of the ancient Church and throne. Old Mr. Wycherley was attached to the royal cause, and was not disposed to intrust the education of his heir to the solemn Puritans who now ruled the universities and public schools. Accordingly the young gentleman was sent at fifteen to France. He resided some time in the neighbourhood of the Duke of Montausier, chief of one of the noblest families of Touraine. The Duke's wife, a daughter of the house of Rambouillet, was a finished specimen of those talents and accomplishments for which her race was celebrated. The young foreigner was introduced to the splendid circle which surrounded the Duchess, and there he appears to have learned some good and some evil. In a few years he returned to his country a fine gentleman and a Papist. His conversion, it may safely be affirmed, was the effect not of any strong impression on his understanding, or feelings, but partly of intercourse with an agreeable society in which the Church of Rome was the fashion, and partly of that aversion to Calvinistic austerities which was then almost universal among young Englishmen of parts and spirit, and which, at one time, seemed likely to make one half of them Catholics, and the other half Atheists. But the Restoration came. The universities were again in loyal hands; and there was reason to hope that there would be again a national Church fit for a gentleman. Wycherley became a member of Queen's College, Oxford, and abjured the errors of the Church of Rome. The somewhat equivocal glory of turning, for a short time, a good-for-nothing Papist into a good-for-nothing Protestant is ascribed to Bishop Barlow. Wycherley left Oxford without taking a degree, and entered at the Temple, where he lived gaily for some years, observing the humours of the town, enjoying its pleasures, and picking up just as much law as was necessary to make the character of a pettifogging attorney or of a litigious client entertaining in a comedy. From an early age he had been in the habit of amusing himself by writing. Some wretched lines of his on the Restoration are still extant. Had he devoted himself to the making of verses, he would have been nearly as far below Tate and Blackmore as Tate and Blackmore are below Dryden. His only chance for renown would have been that he might have occupied a niche in a satire, between Flecknoe and Settle. There was, however, another kind of composition in which his talents and acquirements qualified him to succeed; and to that he judiciousily betook himself. In his old age he used to say that he wrote Love in a Wood at nineteen, the Gentleman Dancing-Master at twenty-one, the Plain Dealer at twenty-five, and the Country Wife at one or two and thirty. We are incredulous, we own, as to the truth of this story. Nothing that we know of Wycherley leads us to think him incapable of sacrificing truth to vanity. And his memory in the decline of his life played him such strange tricks that we might question the correctness of his assertion without throwing any imputation on his veracity. It is certain that none of his plays was acted till 1672, when he gave Love in a Wood to the public. It seems improbable that he should resolve, on so important an occasion as that of a first appearance before the world, to run his chance with a feeble piece, written before his talents were ripe, before his style was formed, before he had looked abroad into the world; and this when he had actually in his desk two highly-finished plays, the fruit of his matured powers. When we look minutely at the pieces themselves, we find in every part of them reason to suspect the accuracy of Wycherley's statement. In the first scene of Love in a Wood, to go no further, we find many passages which he could not have written when he was nineteen. There is an allusion to gentlemen's periwigs, which first came into fashion in 1663; an allusion to guineas, which were first struck in 1663; an allusion to the vests which Charles ordered to be worn at Court in 1666; an allusion to the fire of 1666; and several political allusions which must be assigned to times later than the year of the Restoration, to times when the Government and the city were opposed to each other, and when the Presbyterian ministers had been driven from the parish churches to the conventicles. But it is needless to dwell on particular expressions. The whole air and spirit of the piece belong to a period subsequent to that mentioned by Wycherley. As to the Plain Dealer, which is said to have been written when he was twenty- five, it contains one scene unquestionably written after 1675, several which are later than 1668, and scarcely a line which can have been composed before the end of 1666. Whatever may have been the age at which Wycherley composed his plays, it is certain that he did not bring them before the public till he was upwards of thirty. In 1672, Love in a Wood was acted with more success than it deserved, and this event produced a great change in the fortunes of the author. The Duchess of Cleveland cast her eyes upon him, and was pleased with his appearance. This abandoned woman, not content with her complaisant husband and her royal keeper, lavished her fondness on a crowd of paramours of all ranks, from dukes to rope-dancers. In the time of the commonwealth she commenced her career of gallantry, and terminated it under Anne, by marrying, when a great-grandmother, that worthless fop, Beau Fielding. It is not strange that she should have regarded Wycherley with favour. His figure was commanding, his countenance strikingly handsome, his look and deportment full of grace and dignity. He had, as Pope said long after, "the true nobleman look," the look which seems to indicate superiority, and a not unbecoming consciousness of superiority. His hair indeed, as he says in one of his poems, was prematurely grey. But in that age of periwigs this misfortune was of little importance. The Duchess admired him, and proceeded to make love to him, after the fashion of the coarse-minded and shameless circle to which she belonged. In the Ring, when the crowd of beauties and fine gentlemen was thickest, she put her head out of her coach-window, and bawled to him, "Sir, you are a rascal; you are a villain"; and, if she is not belied, she added another phrase of abuse which we will not quote, but of which we may say that it might most justly have been applied to her own children. Wycherley called on her Grace the next day, and with great humility begged to know in what way he had been so unfortunate as to disoblige her. Thus began an intimacy from which the poet probably expected wealth and honours. Nor were such expectations unreasonable. A handsome young fellow about the Court, known by the name of Jack Churchill, was, about the same time, so lucky as to become the object of a short-lived fancy of the Duchess. She had presented him with five thousand pounds, the price, in all probability, of some title or pardon. The prudent youth had lent the money on high interest and on landed security; and this judicious investment was the beginning of the most splendid private fortune in Europe. Wycherley was not so lucky. The partiality with which the great lady regarded him was indeed the talk of the whole town; and sixty years later old men who remembered those days told Voltaire that she often stole from the Court to her lover's chambers in the Temple, disguised like a country girl, with a straw hat on her head, pattens on her feet, and a basket in her hand. The poet was indeed too happy and proud to be discreet. He dedicated to the Duchess the play which had led to their acquaintance, and in the dedication expressed himself in terms which could not but confirm the reports which had gone abroad. But at Whitehall such an affair was regarded in no serious light. The lady was not afraid to bring Wycherley to Court, and to introduce him to a splendid society, with which, as far as appears, he had never before mixed. The easy King, who allowed to his mistresses the same liberty which he claimed for himself, was pleased with the conversation and manners of his new rival. So high did Wycherley stand in the royal favour that once, when he was confined by a fever to his lodgings in Bow Street, Charles, who, with all his faults, was certainly a man of social and affable disposition, called on him, sat by his bed, advised him to try change of air, and gave him a handsome sum of money to defray the expense of the journey. Buckingham, then Master of the Horse, and one of that infamous ministry known by the name of the Cabal, had been one of the Duchess's innumerable paramours. He at first showed some symptoms of jealousy, but he soon, after his fashion, veered round from anger to fondness, and gave Wycherley a commission in his own regiment and a place in the royal household. It would be unjust to Wycherley's memory not to mention here the only good action, as far as we know, of his whole life. He is said to have made great exertions to obtain the patronage of Buckingham for the illustrious author of Hudibras, who was now sinking into an obscure grave, neglected by a nation proud of his genius, and by a Court which he had served too well. His Grace consented to see poor Butler; and an appointment was made. But unhappily two pretty women passed by; the volatile Duke ran after them; the opportunity was lost, and could never be regained. The second Dutch war, the most disgraceful war in the whole history of England, was now raging. It was not in that age considered as by any means necessary that a naval officer should receive a professional education. Young men of rank, who were hardly able to keep their feet in a breeze, served on board the King's ships, sometimes with commissions, and sometimes as volunteers. Mulgrave, Dorset, Rochester, and many others, left the playhouses in the Mall for hammocks and salt pork, and, ignorant as they were of the rudiments of naval service, showed, at least, on the day of battle, the courage which is seldom wanting in an English gentleman. All good judges of maritime affairs complained that, under this system, the ships were grossly mismanaged, and that the tarpaulins contracted the vices, without acquiring the graces, of the Court. But on this subject, as on every other where the interests or whims of favourites were concerned, the Government of Charles was deaf to all remonstrances. Wycherley did not choose to be out of the fashion. He embarked, was present at a battle, and celebrated it, on his return, in a copy of verses too bad for the bellman. [Mr. Leigh Hunt supposes that the battle at which Wycherley was present was that which the Duke of York gained over Opdam, in 1665. We believe that it was one of the battles between Rupert and De Ruyter, in 1673. The point is of no importance; and there cannot be said to be much evidence either way. We offer, however, to Mr. Leigh Hunt's consideration three arguments, of no great weight certainly, yet such as ought, we think, to prevail in the absence of better. First, it is not very likely that a young Templar, quite unknown in the world,--and Wycherley was such in 1665,--should have quitted his chambers to go to sea. On the other hand, it would be in the regular course of things, that, when a courtier and an equerry, he should offer his services. Secondly, his verses appear to have been written after a drawn battle, like those of 1673, and not after a complete victory, like that of 1665. Thirdly, in the epilogue to the Gentleman Dancing-Master, written in 1673, he says that "all gentlemen must pack to sea"; an expression which makes it probable that he did not himself mean to stay behind.] About the same time, he brought on the stage his second piece, the Gentleman Dancing-Master. The biographers say nothing, as far as we remember, about the fate of this play. There is, however, reason to believe that, though certainly far superior to Love in a Wood, it was not equally successful. It was first tried at the west end of the town, and, as the poet confessed, "would scarce do there." It was then performed in Salisbury Court, but, as it should seem, with no better event. For, in the prologue to the Country Wife, Wycherley described himself as "the late so baffled scribbler." In 1675, the Country Wife was performed with brilliant success, which, in a literary point of view, was not wholly unmerited. For, though one of the most profligate and heartless of human compositions, it is the elaborate production of a mind, not indeed rich, original, or imaginative, but ingenious, observant, quick to seize hints, and patient of the toil of polishing. The Plain Dealer, equally immoral and equally well written, appeared in 1677. At first this piece pleased the people less than the critics; but after a time its unquestionable merits and the zealous support of Lord Dorset, whose influence in literary and fashionable society was unbounded, established it in the public favour. The fortune of Wycherley was now in the zenith, and began to decline. A long life was still before him. But it was destined to be filled with nothing but shame and wretchedness, domestic dissensions, literary failures, and pecuniary embarrassments. The King, who was looking about for an accomplished man to conduct the education of his natural son, the young Duke of Richmond, at length fixed on Wycherley. The poet, exulting in his good luck, went down to amuse himself at Tunbridge Wells, looked into a bookseller's shop on the Pantiles, and, to his great delight, heard a handsome woman ask for the Plain Dealer, which had just been published. He made acquaintance with the lady, who proved to be the Countess of Drogheda, a gay young widow, with an ample jointure. She was charmed with his person and his wit, and, after a short flirtation, agreed to become his wife. Wycherley seems to have been apprehensive that this connection might not suit well with the King's plans respecting the Duke of Richmond. He accordingly prevailed on the lady to consent to a private marriage. All came out. Charles thought the conduct of Wycherley both disrespectful and disingenuous. Other causes probably assisted to alienate the sovereign from the subject who had lately been so highly favoured. Buckingham was now in opposition, and had been committed to the Tower; not, as Mr. Leigh Hunt supposes, on a charge of treason, but by an order of the House of Lords for some expressions which he had used in debate. Wycherley wrote some bad lines in praise of his imprisoned patron, which, if they came to the knowledge of the King, would certainly have made his majesty very angry. The favour of the Court was completely withdrawn from the poet. An amiable woman with a large fortune might indeed have been an ample compensation for the loss. But Lady Drogheda was ill-tempered, imperious, and extravagantly jealous. She had herself been a maid of honour at Whitehall. She well knew in what estimation conjugal fidelity was held among the fine gentlemen there, and watched her town husband as assiduously as Mr. Pinchwife watched his country wife. The unfortunate wit was, indeed, allowed to meet his friends at a tavern opposite to his own house. But on such occasions the windows were always open, in order that her Ladyship, who was posted on the other side of the street, might be satisfied that no woman was of the party. The death of Lady Drogheda released the poet from this distress; but a series of disasters, in rapid succession, broke down his health, his spirits, and his fortune. His wife meant to leave him a good property, and left him only a lawsuit. His father could not or would not assist him. Wycherley was at length thrown into the Fleet, and languished there during seven years, utterly forgotten, as it should seem, by the gay and lively circle of which he had been a distinguished ornament. In the extremity of his distress he implored the publisher who had been enriched by the sale of his works, to lend him twenty pounds, and was refused. His comedies, however, still kept possession of the stage, and drew great audiences, which troubled themselves little about the situation of the author. At length James the Second, who had now succeeded to the throne, happened to go to the theatre on an evening when the Plain Dealer was acted. He was pleased by the performance, and touched by the fate of the writer, whom he probably remembered as one of the gayest and handsomest of his brother's courtiers. The King determined to pay Wycherley's debts, and to settle on the unfortunate poet a pension of two hundred pounds a year. This munificence on the part of a prince who was little in the habit of rewarding literary merit, and whose whole soul was devoted to the interests of his Church, raises in us a surmise which Mr. Leigh Hunt will, we fear, pronounce very uncharitable. We cannot help suspecting that it was at this time that Wycherley returned to the communion of the Church of Rome. That he did return to the communion of the Church of Rome is certain. The date of his reconversion, as far as we know, has never been mentioned by any biographer. We believe that, if we place it at this time, we do no injustice to the character either of Wycherley or James. Not long after, old Mr. Wycherley died; and his son, now past the middle of life, came to the family estate. Still, however, he was not at his ease. His embarrassments were great: his property was strictly tied up; and he was on very bad terms with the heir-at- law. He appears to have led, during a long course of years, that most wretched life, the life of a vicious old boy about town. Expensive tastes with little money, and licentious appetites with declining vigour, were the just penance for his early irregularities. A severe illness had produced a singular effect on his intellect. His memory played him pranks stranger than almost any that are to be found in the history of that strange faculty. It seemed to be at once preternaturally strong and preternaturally weak. If a book was read to him before he went to bed, he would wake the next morning with his mind full of the thoughts and expressions which he had heard over night; and he would write them down, without in the least suspecting that they were not his own. In his verses the same ideas, and even the same words, came over and over again several times in a short composition. His fine person bore the marks of age, sickness, and sorrow; and he mourned for his departed beauty with an effeminate regret. He could not look without a sigh at the portrait which Lely had painted of him when he was only twenty-eight, and often murmured, Quantum mutatus ab illo. He was still nervously anxious about his literary reputation, and, not content with the fame which he still possessed as a dramatist, was determined to be renowned as a satirist and an amatory poet. In 1704, after twenty-seven years of silence, he again appeared as an author. He put forth a large folio of miscellaneous verses, which, we believe, has never been reprinted. Some of these pieces had probably circulated through the town in manuscript. For, before the volume appeared, the critics at the coffee-houses very confidently predicted that it would be utterly worthless, and were in consequence bitterly reviled by the poet in an ill- written, foolish, and egotistical preface. The book amply vindicated the most unfavourable prophecies that had been hazarded. The style and versification are beneath criticism; the morals are those of Rochester. For Rochester, indeed, there was some excuse. When his offences against decorum were committed, he was a very young man, misled by a prevailing fashion. Wycherley was sixty-four. He had long outlived the times when libertinism was regarded as essential to the character of a wit and a gentleman. Most of the rising poets, Addison, for example, John Philips and Rowe, were studious of decency. We can hardly conceive any thing more miserable than the figure which the ribald old man makes in the midst of so many sober and well- conducted youths. In the very year in which this bulky volume of obscene doggerel was published, Wycherley formed an acquaintance of a very singular kind. A little, pale, crooked, sickly, bright-eyed urchin, just turned of sixteen, had written some copies of verses in which discerning judges could detect the promise of future eminence. There was, indeed, as yet nothing very striking or original in the conceptions of the young poet. But he was already skilled in the art of metrical composition. His diction and his music were not those of the great old masters; but that which his ablest contemporaries were labouring to do, he already did best. His style was not richly poetical; but it was always neat, compact, and pointed. His verse wanted variety of pause, of swell, and of cadence, but never grated harshly on the ear, or disappointed it by a feeble close. The youth was already free of the company of wits, and was greatly elated at being introduced to the author of the Plain Dealer and the Country Wife. It is curious to trace the history of the intercourse which took place between Wycherley and Pope, between the representative of the age that was going out, and the representative of the age that was coming in, between the friend of Rochester and Buckingham, and the friend of Lyttelton and Mansfield. At first the boy was enchanted by the kindness and condescension of so eminent a writer, haunted his door, and followed him about like a spaniel from coffee-house to coffee-house. Letters full of affection, humility, and fulsome flattery were interchanged between the friends, But the first ardour of affection could not last. Pope, though at no time scrupulously delicate in his writings or fastidious as to the morals of his associates, was shocked by the indecency of a rake who, at seventy, was still the representative of the monstrous profligacy of the Restoration. As the youth grew older, as his mind expanded and his fame rose, he appreciated both himself and Wycherley more correctly. He felt a just contempt for the old gentleman's verses, and was at no great pains to conceal his opinion. Wycherley, on the other hand, though blinded by self-love to the imperfections of what he called his poetry, could not but see that there was an immense difference between his young companion's rhymes and his own. He was divided between two feelings. He wished to have the assistance of so skilful a hand to polish his lines; and yet he shrank from the humiliation of being beholden for literary assistance to a lad who might have been his grandson. Pope was willing to give assistance, but was by no means disposed to give assistance and flattery too. He took the trouble to retouch whole reams of feeble stumbling verses, and inserted many vigorous lines which the least skilful reader will distinguish in an instant. But he thought that by these services he acquired a right to express himself in terms which would not, under ordinary circumstances, become one who was addressing a man of four times his age. In one letter he tells Wycherley that "the worst pieces are such as, to render them very good, would require almost the entire new writing of them." In another, he gives the following account of his corrections: "Though the whole be as short again as at first, there is not one thought omitted but what is a repetition of something in your first volume, or in this very paper; and the versification throughout is, I believe, such as nobody can be shocked at. The repeated permission you gave me of dealing freely with you, will, I hope, excuse what I have done; for, if I had not spared you when I thought severity would do you a kindness, I have not mangled you where I thought there was no absolute need of amputation." Wycherley continued to return thanks for all this hacking and hewing, which was, indeed, of inestimable service to his compositions. But at last his thanks began to sound very like reproaches. In private, he is said to have described Pope as a person who could not cut out a suit, but who had some skill in turning old coats. In his letters to Pope, while he acknowledged that the versification of the poems had been greatly improved, he spoke of the whole art of versification with scorn, and sneered at those who preferred sound to sense. Pope revenged himself for this outbreak of spleen by return of post. He had in his hands a volume of Wycherley's rhymes, and he wrote to say that this volume was so full of faults that he could not correct it without completely defacing the manuscript. "I am," he said, "equally afraid of sparing you, and of offending you by too impudent a correction." This was more than flesh and blood could bear. Wycherley reclaimed his papers, in a letter in which resentment shows itself plainly through the thin disguise of civility. Pope, glad to be rid of a troublesome and inglorious task, sent back the deposit, and, by way of a parting courtesy, advised the old man to turn his poetry into prose, and assured him that the public would like his thoughts much better without his versification, Thus ended this memorable correspondence. Wycherley lived some years after the termination of the strange friendship which we have described. The last scene of his life was, perhaps, the most scandalous. Ten days before his death, at seventy-five, he married a young girl, merely in order to injure his nephew, an act which proves that neither years, nor adversity, nor what he called his philosophy, nor either of the religions which he had at different times professed, had taught him the rudiments of morality. He died in December 1715, and lies in the vault under the church of St. Paul in Covent Garden. His bride soon after married a Captain Shrimpton, who thus became possessed of a large collection of manuscripts. These were sold to a bookseller. They were so full of erasures and interlineations that no printer could decipher them. It was necessary to call in the aid of a professed critic; and Theobald, the editor of Shakspeare, and the hero of the first Dunciad, was employed to ascertain the true reading. In this way a volume of miscellanies in verse and prose was got up for the market. The collection derives all its value from the traces of Pope's hand, which are everywhere discernible. Of the moral character of Wycherley it can hardly be necessary for us to say more. His fame as a writer rests wholly on his comedies, and chiefly on the last two. Even as a comic writer, he was neither of the best school, nor highest in his school. He was in truth a worse Congreve. His chief merit, like Congreve's, lies in the style of his dialogue, but the wit which lights up the Plain Dealer and the Country Wife is pale and flickering, when compared with the gorgeous blaze which dazzles us almost to blindness in Love for Love and the Way of the World. Like Congreve, and, indeed, even more than Congreve, Wycherley is ready to sacrifice dramatic propriety to the liveliness of his dialogue. The poet speaks out of the mouths of all his dunces and coxcombs, and makes them describe themselves with a good sense and acuteness which puts them on a level with the wits and heroes. We will give two instances, the first which occur to us, from the Country Wife. There are in the world fools who find the society of old friends insipid, and who are always running after new companions. Such a character is a fair subject for comedy. But nothing can be more absurd than to introduce a man of this sort saying to his comrade, "I can deny you nothing: for though I have known thee a great while, never go if I do not love thee as well as a new acquaintance." That town-wits, again, have always been rather a heartless class, is true. But none of them, we will answer for it, ever said to a young lady to whom he was making love, "We wits rail and make love often, but to show our parts: as we have no affections, so we have no malice." Wycherley's plays are said to have been the produce of long and patient labour. The epithet of "slow" was early given to him by Rochester, and was frequently repeated. In truth his mind, unless we are greatly mistaken, was naturally a very meagre soil, and was forced only by great labour and outlay to bear fruit which, after all, was not of the highest flavour. He has scarcely more claim to originality than Terence. It is not too much to say that there is hardly anything of the least value in his plays of which the hint is not to be found elsewhere. The best scenes in the Gentleman Dancing-Master were suggested by Calderon's Maestro de Danzar, not by any means one of the happiest comedies of the great Castilian poet. The Country Wife is borrowed from the Ecole des Maris and the Ecole des Femmes. The groundwork of the Plain Dealer is taken from the Misanthrope of Moliere. One whole scene is almost translated from the Critique de l'Ecole des Femmes. Fidelia is Shakspeare's Viola stolen, and marred in the stealing; and the Widow Blackacre, beyond comparison Wycherley's best comic character, is the Countess in Racine's Plaideurs, talking the jargon of English instead of that of French chicane. The only thing original about Wycherley, the only thing which he could furnish from his own mind in inexhaustible abundance, was profligacy. It is curious to observe how everything that he touched, however pure and noble, took in an instant the colour of his own mind. Compare the Ecole des Femmes with the Country Wife. Agnes is a simple and amiable girl, whose heart is indeed full of love, but of love sanctioned by honour, morality, and religion. Her natural talents are great. They have been hidden, and, as it might appear, destroyed by an education elaborately bad. But they are called forth into full energy by a virtuous passion. Her lover, while he adores her beauty, is too honest a man to abuse the confiding tenderness of a creature so charming and inexperienced. Wycherley takes this plot into his hands; and forthwith this sweet and graceful courtship becomes a licentious intrigue of the lowest and least sentimental kind, between an impudent London rake and the idiot wife of a country squire. We will not go into details. In truth, Wycherley's indecency is protected against the critics as a skunk is protected against the hunters. It is safe, because it is too filthy to handle and too noisome even to approach. It is the same with the Plain Dealer. How careful has Shakspeare been in Twelfth Night to preserve the dignity and delicacy of Viola under her disguise! Even when wearing a page's doublet and hose, she is never mixed up with any transaction which the most fastidious mind could regard as leaving a stain on her. She is employed by the Duke on an embassy of love to Olivia, but on an embassy of the most honourable kind. Wycherley borrows Viola; and Viola forthwith becomes a pandar of the basest sort. But the character of Manly is the best illustration of our meaning. Moliere exhibited in his misanthrope a pure and noble mind, which had been sorely vexed by the sight of perfidy and malevolence, disguised under the forms of politeness. As every extreme naturally generates its contrary, Alceste adopts a standard of good and evil directly opposed to that of the society which surrounds him. Courtesy seems to him a vice; and those stern virtues which are neglected by the fops and coquettes of Paris become too exclusively the objects of his veneration. He is often to blame; he is often ridiculous; but he is always a good man; and the feeling which he inspires is regret that a person so estimable should be so unamiable. Wycherley borrowed Alceste, and turned him,--we quote the words of so lenient a critic as Mr. Leigh Hunt,--into "a ferocious sensualist, who believed himself as great a rascal as he thought everybody else." The surliness of Moliere's hero is copied and caricatured. But the most nauseous libertinism and the most dastardly fraud are substituted for the purity and integrity of the original. And, to make the whole complete, Wycherley does not seem to have been aware that he was not drawing the portrait of an eminently honest man. So depraved was his moral taste that, while he firmly believed that he was producing a picture of virtue too exalted for the commerce of this world, he was really delineating the greatest rascal that is to be found, even in his own writings. We pass a very severe censure on Wycherley, when we say that it is a relief to turn from him to Congreve. Congreve's writings, indeed, are by no means pure; nor was he, as far as we are able to judge, a warm-hearted or high-minded man. Yet, in coming to him, we feel that the worst is over, that we are one remove further from the Restoration, that we are past the Nadir of national taste and morality. WILLIAM CONGREVE was born in 1670, at Bardsey, in the neighbourhood of Leeds. His father, a younger son of a very ancient Staffordshire family, had distinguished himself among the cavaliers in the civil war, was set down after the Restoration for the Order of the Royal Oak, and subsequently settled in Ireland, under the patronage of the Earl of Burlington. Congreve passed his childhood and youth in Ireland. He was sent to school at Kilkenny, and thence went to the University of Dublin. His learning does great honour to his instructors. From his writings it appears, not only that he was well acquainted with Latin literature, but that his knowledge of the Greek poets was such as was not, in his time, common even in a college. When he had completed his academical studies, he was sent to London to study the law, and was entered of the Middle Temple. He troubled himself, however, very little about pleading or conveyancing, and gave himself up to literature and society. Two kinds of ambition early took possession of his mind, and often pulled it in opposite directions. He was conscious of great fertility of thought and power of ingenious combination. His lively conversation, his polished manners, and his highly respectable connections, had obtained for him ready access to the best company. He longed to be a great writer. He longed to be a man of fashion. Either object was within his reach. But could he secure both? Was there not something vulgar in letters, something inconsistent with the easy apathetic graces of a man of the mode? Was it aristocratical to be confounded with creatures who lived in the cock lofts of Grub Street, to bargain with publishers, to hurry printers' devils and be hurried by them, to squabble with managers, to be applauded or hissed by pit, boxes, and galleries? Could he forego the renown of being the first wit of his age? Could he attain that renown without sullying what he valued quite as much, his character for gentility? The history of his life is the history of a conflict between these two impulses. In his youth the desire of literary fame had the mastery; but soon the meaner ambition overpowered the higher, and obtained supreme dominion over his mind. His first work, a novel of no great value, he published under the assumed name of Cleophil. His second was the Old Bachelor, acted in 1693, a play inferior indeed to his other comedies, but, in its own line, inferior to them alone. The plot is equally destitute of interest and of probability. The characters are either not distinguishable, or are distinguished only by peculiarities of the most glaring kind. But the dialogue is resplendent with wit and eloquence, which indeed are so abundant that the fool comes in for an ample share, and yet preserves a certain colloquial air, a certain indescribable ease of which Wycherley had given no example, and which Sheridan in vain attempted to imitate. The author, divided between pride and shame, pride at having written a good play, and shame at having done an ungentlemanlike thing, pretended that he had merely scribbled a few scenes for his own amusement, and affected to yield unwillingly to the importunities of those who pressed him to try his fortune on the stage. The Old Bachelor was seen in manuscript by Dryden, one of whose best qualities was a hearty and generous admiration for the talents of others. He declared that he had never read such a first play, and lent his services to bring it into a form fit for representation. Nothing was wanted to the success of the piece. It was so cast as to bring into play all the comic talent, and to exhibit on the boards in one view all the beauty, which Drury Lane Theatre, then the only theatre in London, could assemble. The result was a complete triumph; and the author was gratified with rewards more substantial than the applauses of the pit. Montagu, then a Lord of the Treasury, immediately gave him a place, and, in a short time, added the reversion of another place of much greater value, which, however, did not become vacant till many years had elapsed. In 1694, Congreve brought out the Double Dealer, a comedy in which all the powers which had produced the Old Bachelor showed themselves, matured by time and improved by exercise. But the audience was shocked by the characters of Maskwell and Lady Touchwood. And, indeed, there is something strangely revolting in the way in which a group that seems to belong to the House of Laius or of Pelops is introduced into the midst of the Brisks, Froths, Carelesses, and Plyants. The play was unfavourably received. Yet, if the praise of distinguished men could compensate an author for the disapprobation of the multitude, Congreve had no reason to repine. Dryden, in one of the most ingenious, magnificent, and pathetic pieces that he ever wrote, extolled the author of the Double Dealer in terms which now appear extravagantly hyperbolical. Till Congreve came forth,--so ran this exquisite flattery,--the superiority of the poets who preceded the civil wars was acknowledged. "Theirs was the giant race before the flood." Since the return of the Royal House, much art and ability had been exerted, but the old masters had been still unrivalled. "Our builders were with want of genius curst, The second temple was not like the first." At length a writer had arisen who, just emerging from boyhood, had surpassed the authors of the Knight of the Burning Pestle and of the Silent Woman, and who had only one rival left to contend with. "Heaven, that but once was prodigal before, To Shakspeare gave as much, she could not give him more." Some lines near the end of the poem are singularly graceful and touching, and sank deep into the heart of Congreve. "Already am I worn with cares and age, And just abandoning the ungrateful stage But you, whom every Muse and Grace adorn, Whom I foresee to better fortune born, Be kind to my remains; and oh, defend Against your judgment your departed friend. Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue, But guard those laurels which descend to you." The crowd, as usual, gradually came over to the opinion of the men of note; and the Double Dealer was before long quite as much admired, though perhaps never so much liked, as the Old Bachelor. In 1695 appeared Love for Love, superior both in wit and in scenic effect to either of the preceding plays. It was performed at a new theatre which Betterton and some other actors, disgusted by the treatment which they had received in Drury Lane, had just opened in a tennis-court near Lincoln's Inn. Scarcely any comedy within the memory of the oldest man had been equally successful. The actors were so elated that they gave Congreve a share in their theatre; and he promised in return to furnish them with a play every year, if his health would permit. Two years passed, however, before he produced the Mourning Bride, a play which, paltry as it is when compared, we do not say, with Lear or Macbeth, but with the best dramas of Massinger and Ford, stands very high among the tragedies of the age in which it was written. To find anything so good we must go twelve years back to Venice Preserved, or six years forward to the Fair Penitent. The noble passage which Johnson, both in writing and in conversation, extolled above any other in the English drama, has suffered greatly in the public estimation from the extravagance of his praise. Had he contented himself with saying that it was finer than anything in the tragedies of Dryden, Otway, Lee, Rowe, Southern, Hughes, and Addison, than anything, in short, that had been written for the stage since the days of Charles the First, he would not have been in the wrong. The success of the Mourning Bride was even greater than that of Love for Love. Congreve was now allowed to be the first tragic as well as the first comic dramatist of his time; and all this at twenty-seven. We believe that no English writer except Lord Byron has, at so early an age, stood so high in the estimation of his contemporaries. At this time took place an event which deserves, in our opinion, a very different sort of notice from that which has been bestowed on it by Mr. Leigh Hunt. The nation had now nearly recovered from the demoralising effect of the Puritan austerity. The gloomy follies of the reign of the Saints were but faintly remembered. The evils produced by profaneness and debauchery were recent and glaring. The Court, since the Revolution, had ceased to patronise licentiousness. Mary was strictly pious; and the vices of the cold, stern, and silent William, were not obtruded on the public eye. Discountenanced by the Government, and failing in the favour of the people, the profligacy of the Restoration still maintained its ground in some parts of society. Its strongholds were the places where men of wit and fashion congregated, and above all, the theatres. At this conjuncture arose a great reformer whom, widely as we differ from him in many important points, we can never mention without respect. JEREMY COLLIER was a clergyman of the Church of England, bred at Cambridge. His talents and attainments were such as might have been expected to raise him to the highest honours of his profession. He had an extensive knowledge of books; yet he had mingled much with polite society, and is said not to have wanted either grace or vivacity in conversation. There were few branches of literature to which he had not paid some attention. But ecclesiastical antiquity was his favourite study. In religious opinions he belonged to that section of the Church of England which lies furthest from Geneva and nearest to Rome. His notions touching Episcopal government, holy orders, the efficacy of the sacraments, the authority of the Fathers, the guilt of schism, the importance of vestments, ceremonies, and solemn days, differed little from those which are now held by Dr. Pusey and Mr. Newman. Towards the close of his life, indeed, Collier took some steps which brought him still nearer to Popery, mixed water with the wine in the Eucharist, made the sign of the cross in confirmation, employed oil in the visitation of the sick, and offered up prayers for the dead. His politics were of a piece with his divinity. He was a Tory of the highest sort, such as in the cant of his age was called a Tantivy. Not even the persecution of the bishops and the spoliation of the universities could shake his steady loyalty. While the Convention was sitting, he wrote with vehemence in defence of the fugitive king, and was in consequence arrested. But his dauntless spirit was not to be so tamed. He refused to take the oaths, renounced all his preferments, and, in a succession of pamphlets written with much violence and with some ability, attempted to excite the nation against its new masters. In 1692, he was again arrested on suspicion of having been concerned in a treasonable plot. So unbending were his principles that his friends could hardly persuade him to let them bail him; and he afterwards expressed his remorse for having been induced thus to acknowledge, by implication, the authority of an usurping government. He was soon in trouble again. Sir John Friend and Sir William Parkins, were tried and convicted of high treason for planning the murder of King William. Collier administered spiritual consolation to them, attended them to Tyburn, and, just before they were turned off, laid his hands on their heads, and by the authority which he derived from Christ, solemnly absolved them. This scene gave indescribable scandal. Tories joined with Whigs in blaming the conduct of the daring priest. Some acts, it was said, which fall under the definition of treason are such that a good man may, in troubled times, be led into them even by his virtues. It may be necessary for the protection of society to punish such a man. But even in punishing him we consider him as legally rather than morally guilty, and hope that his honest error, though it cannot be pardoned here, will not be counted to him for sin hereafter. But such was not the case of Collier's penitents. They were concerned in a plot for waylaying and butchering, in an hour of security, one who, whether he were or were not their king, was at all events their fellow-creature. Whether the Jacobite theory about the rights of governments and the duties of subjects were or were not well founded, assassination must always be considered as a great crime. It is condemned even by the maxims of worldly honour and morality. Much more must it be an object of abhorrence to the pure Spouse of Christ. The Church cannot surely, without the saddest and most mournful forebodings, see one of her children who has been guilty of this great wickedness pass into eternity without any sign of repentance. That these traitors had given any sign of repentance was not alleged. It might be that they had privately declared their contrition; and, if so, the minister of religion might be justified in privately assuring them of the Divine forgiveness. But a public remission ought to have been preceded by a public atonement. The regret of these men, if expressed at all, had been expressed in secret. The hands of Collier had been laid on them in the presence of thousands. The inference which his enemies drew from his conduct was that he did not consider the conspiracy against the life of William as sinful. But this inference he very vehemently, and, we doubt not, very sincerely denied. The storm raged. The bishops put forth a solemn censure Of the absolution. The Attorney-General brought the matter before the Court of King's Bench. Collier had now made up his mind not to give bail for his appearance before any court which derived its authority from the usurper. He accordingly absconded and was outlawed. He survived these events about thirty years. The prosecution was not pressed; and he was soon suffered to resume his literary pursuits in quiet. At a later period, many attempts were made to shake his perverse integrity by offers of wealth and dignity, but in vain. When he died towards the end of the reign of George the First, he still under the ban of the law. We shall not be suspected of regarding either the politics or the theology of Collier with partiality; but we believe him to have been as honest and courageous a man as ever lived. We will go further, and say that, though passionate and often wrong-headed, he was a singularly fair controversialist, candid, generous, too high-spirited to take mean advantages even in the most exciting disputes, and pure from all taint of personal malevolence. It must also be admitted that his opinions on ecclesiastical and political affairs, though in themselves absurd and pernicious, eminently qualified him to be the reformer of our lighter literature. The libertinism of the press and of the stage was, as we have said, the effect of a reaction against the Puritan strictness. Profligacy was, like the oak-leaf of the twenty-ninth of May, the badge of a cavalier and a High Churchman. Decency was associated with conventicles and calves' heads. Grave prelates were too much disposed to wink at the excesses of a body of zealous and able allies who covered Roundheads and Presbyterians with ridicule. If a Whig raised his voice against the impiety and licentiousness of the fashionable writers, his mouth was instantly stopped by the retort: You are one of those who groan at a light quotation from Scripture, and raise estates out of the plunder of the Church, who shudder at a double entendre, and chop off the heads of kings. A Baxter, a Burnet, even a Tillotson, would have done little to purify our literature. But when a man fanatical in the cause of episcopacy and actually under outlawry for his attachment to hereditary right, came forward as the champion of decency, the battle was already half won. In 1698, Collier published his Short View of the Profaneness and Immorality of the English Stage, a book which threw the whole literary world into commotion, but which is now much less read than it deserves. The faults of the work, indeed, are neither few nor small. The dissertations on the Greek and Latin drama do not at all help the argument, and, whatever may have been thought of them by the generation which fancied that Christ Church had refuted Bentley, are such as, in the present day, a scholar of very humble pretensions may venture to pronounce boyish, or rather babyish. The censures are not sufficiently discriminating. The authors whom Collier accused had been guilty of such gross sins against decency that he was certain to weaken instead of strengthening his case, by introducing into his charge against them any matter about which there could be the smallest dispute. He was, however, so injudicious as to place among the outrageous offences which he justly arraigned, some things which are really quite innocent, and some slight instances of levity which, though not perhaps strictly correct, could easily be paralleled from the works of writers who had rendered great services to morality and religion. Thus he blames Congreve, the number and gravity of whose real transgressions made it quite unnecessary to tax him with any that were not real, for using the words "martyr" and "inspiration" in a light sense; as if an archbishop might not say that a speech was inspired by claret or that an alderman was a martyr to the gout. Sometimes, again, Collier does not sufficiently distinguish between the dramatist and the persons of the drama. Thus he blames Vanbrugh for putting into Lord Foppington's mouth some contemptuous expressions respecting the Church service; though it is obvious that Vanbrugh could not better express reverence than by making Lord Foppington express contempt. There is also throughout the Short View too strong a display of professional feeling. Collier is not content with claiming for his order an immunity from indiscriminate scurrility; he will not allow that, in any case, any word or act of a divine can be a proper subject for ridicule. Nor does he confine this benefit of clergy to the ministers of the Established Church. He extends the privilege to Catholic priests, and, what in him is more surprising, to Dissenting preachers. This, however, is a mere trifle. Imaums, Brahmins, priests of Jupiter, priests of Baal, are all to be held sacred. Dryden is blamed for making the Mufti in Don Sebastian talk nonsense. Lee is called to a severe account for his incivility to Tiresias. But the most curious passage is that in which Collier resents some uncivil reflections thrown by Cassandra, in Dryden's Cleomenes, on the calf Apis and his hierophants. The words "grass-eating, foddered god," words which really are much in the style of several passages in the Old Testament, give as much offence to this Christian divine as they could have given to the priests of Memphis. But, when all deductions have been made, great merit must be allowed to this work. There is hardly any book of that time from which it would be possible to select specimens of writing so excellent and so various. To compare Collier with Pascal would indeed be absurd. Yet we hardly know where, except in the Provincial Letters, we can find mirth so harmoniously and becomingly blended with solemnity as in the Short View, In truth, all the modes of ridicule, from broad fun to polished and antithetical sarcasm, were at Collier's command. On the other hand, he was complete master of the rhetoric of honest indignation. We scarcely know any volume which contains so many bursts of that peculiar eloquence which comes from the heart and goes to the heart. Indeed the spirit of the book is truly heroic. In order fairly to appreciate it, we must remember the situation in which the writer stood. He was under the frown of power. His name was already a mark for the invectives of one half of the writers of the age, when, in the cause of good taste, good sense, and good morals, he gave battle to the other half. Strong as his political prejudices were, he seems on this occasion to have entirely laid them aside. He has forgotten that he is a Jacobite, and remembers only that he is a citizen and a Christian. Some of his sharpest censures are directed against poetry which had been hailed with delight by the Tory party, and had inflicted a deep wound on the Whigs. It is inspiriting to see how gallantly the solitary outlaw advances to attack enemies, formidable separately, and, it might have been thought, irresistible when combined, distributes his swashing blows right and left among Wycherley, Congreve, and Vanbrugh, treads the wretched D'Urfey down in the dirt beneath his feet, and strikes with all his strength full at the towering crest of Dryden. The effect produced by the Short View was immense. The nation was on the side of Collier. But it could not be doubted that, in the great host which he had defied, some champion would be found to lift the gauntlet. The general belief was that Dryden would take the field; and all the wits anticipated a sharp contest between two well-paired combatants. The great poet had been singled out in the most marked manner. It was well known that he was deeply hurt, that much smaller provocations had formerly roused him to violent resentment, and that there was no literary weapon, offensive or defensive, of which he was not master. But his conscience smote him; he stood abashed, like the fallen archangel at the rebuke of Zephon,-- "And felt how awful goodness is, and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely; saw and pined His loss." At a later period he mentioned the Short View in the preface to his Fables. He complained, with some asperity, of the harshness with which he had been treated, and urged some matters in mitigation. But, on the whole, he frankly acknowledged that he had been justly reproved. "If," said he, "Mr. Collier be my enemy, let him triumph. If he be my friend, as I have given him no personal occasion to be otherwise, he will be glad of my repentance." It would have been wise in Congreve to follow his master's example. He was precisely in that situation in which it is madness to attempt a vindication; for his guilt was so clear, that no address or eloquence could obtain an acquittal. On the other hand, there were in his case many extenuating circumstances which, if he had acknowledged his error and promised amendment, would have procured his pardon. The most rigid censor could not but make great allowances for the faults into which so young a man had been seduced by evil example, by the luxuriance of a vigorous fancy, and by the inebriating effect of popular applause. The esteem, as well as the admiration, of the public was still within his reach. He might easily have effaced all memory of his transgressions, and have shared with Addison the glory of showing that the most brilliant wit may be the ally of virtue. But, in any case, prudence should have restrained him from encountering Collier. The nonjuror was a man thoroughly fitted by nature, education, and habit, for polemical dispute. Congreve's mind, though a mind of no common fertility and vigour, was of a different class. No man understood so well the art of polishing epigrams and repartees into the clearest effulgence, and setting them neatly in easy and familiar dialogue. In this sort of jewellery he attained to a mastery unprecedented and inimitable. But he was altogether rude in the art of controversy; and he had a cause to defend which scarcely any art could have rendered victorious. The event was such as might have been foreseen. Congreve's answer was a complete failure. He was angry, obscure, and dull. Even the Green Room and Will's Coffee-House were compelled to acknowledge that in wit, as well as in argument, the parson had a decided advantage over the poet. Not only was Congreve unable to make any show of a case where he was in the wrong; but he succeeded in putting himself completely in the wrong where he was in the right. Collier had taxed him with profaneness for calling a clergyman Mr. Prig, and for introducing a coachman named Jehu, in allusion to the King of Israel, who was known at a distance by his furious driving. Had there been nothing worse in the Old Bachelor and Double Dealer, Congreve might pass for as pure a writer as Cowper himself, who, in poems revised by so austere a censor as John Newton, calls a fox-hunting squire Nimrod, and gives to a chaplain the disrespectful name of Smug. Congreve might with good effect have appealed to the public whether it might not be fairly presumed that, when such frivolous charges were made, there were no very serious charges to make. Instead of doing this, he pretended that he meant no allusion to the Bible by the name of Jehu, and no reflection by the name of Prig. Strange, that a man of such parts should, in order to defend himself against imputations which nobody could regard as important, tell untruths which it was certain that nobody would believe! One of the pleas which Congreve set up for himself and his brethren was that, though they might be guilty of a little levity here and there, they were careful to inculcate a moral, packed close into two or three lines, at the end of every play. Had the fact been as he stated it, the defence would be worth very little. For no man acquainted with human nature could think that a sententious couplet would undo all the mischief that five profligate acts had done. But it would have been wise in Congreve to have looked again at his own comedies before he used this argument. Collier did so; and found that the moral of the Old Bachelor, the grave apophthegm which is to be a set-off against all the libertinism of the piece is contained in the following triplet: "What rugged ways attend the noon of life! Our sun declines, and with what anxious strife, What pain, we tug that galling load--a wife." "Love for Love," says Collier, "may have a somewhat better farewell, but it would do a man little service should he remember it to his dying day": "The miracle to-day is, that we find A lover true, not that a woman's kind." Collier's reply was severe and triumphant. One of his repartees we will quote, not as a favourable specimen of his manner, but because it was called forth by Congreve's characteristic affectation. The poet spoke of the Old Bachelor as a trifle to which he attached no value, and which had become public by a sort of accident, "I wrote it," he said," to amuse myself in a slow recovery from a fit of sickness." "What his disease was," replied Collier, "I am not to inquire, but it must be a very ill one to be worse than the remedy." All that Congreve gained by coming forward on this occasion, was that he completely deprived himself of the excuse which he might with justice have pleaded for his early offences. "Why," asked Collier, "should the man laugh at the mischief of the boy, and make the disorders of his nonage his own, by an after approbation?" Congreve was not Collier's only opponent. Vanbrugh, Dennis, and Settle took the field. And from a passage in a contemporary satire, we are inclined to think that among the answers to the Short View was one written, or supposed to be written, by Wycherley. The victory remained with Collier. A great and rapid reform in almost all the departments of our lighter literature was the effect of his labours. A new race of wits and poets arose, who generally treated with reverence the great ties which bind society together, and whose very indecencies were decent when compared with those of the school which flourished during the last forty years of the seventeenth century. This controversy probably prevented Congreve from fulfilling the engagements into which he had entered with the actors. It was not till 1700 that he produced the Way of the World, the most deeply meditated and the most brilliantly written of all his works. It wants, perhaps, the constant movement, the effervescence of animal spirits, which we find in love for Love. But the hysterical rants of Lady Wishfort, the meeting of Witwould and his brother, the country knight's courtship and his subsequent revel, and, above all, the chase and surrender of Millamant, are superior to anything that is to be found in the whole range of English comedy from the civil war downwards. It is quite inexplicable to us that this play should have failed on the stage. Yet so it was; and the author, already sore with the wounds which Collier had inflicted, was galled past endurance by this new stroke. He resolved never again to expose himself to the rudeness of a tasteless audience, and took leave of the theatre for ever. He lived twenty-eight years longer, without adding to the high literary reputation which he had attained. He read much while he retained his eyesight, and now and then wrote a short essay, or put an idle tale into verse; but he appears never to have planned any considerable work. The miscellaneous pieces which he published in 1710 are of little value, and have long been forgotten. The stock of fame which he had acquired by his comedies was sufficient, assisted by the graces of his manner and conversation, to secure for him a high place in the estimation of the world. During the winter, he lived among the most distinguished and agreeable people in London. His summers were passed at the splendid country-seats of ministers and peers. Literary envy and political faction, which in that age respected nothing else, respected his repose. He professed to be one of the party of which his patron Montagu, now Lord Halifax, was the head. But he had civil words and small good offices for men of every shade of opinion. And men of every shade of opinion spoke well of him in return. His means were for a long time scanty. The place which he had in possession barely enabled him to live with comfort. And, when the Tories came into power, some thought that he would lose even this moderate provision. But Harley, who was by no means disposed to adopt the exterminating policy of the October club, and who, with all his faults of understanding and temper, had a sincere kindness for men of genius, reassured the anxious poet by quoting very gracefully and happily the lines of Virgil, "Non obtusa adeo gestamus pectora Poeni, Nec tam aversus equos Tyria Sol jungit ab urbe." The indulgence with which Congreve was treated by the Tories was not purchased by any concession on his part which could justly offend the Whigs. It was his rare good fortune to share the triumph of his friends without having shared their proscription. When the House of Hanover came to the throne, he partook largely of the prosperity of those with whom he was connected. The reversion to which he had been nominated twenty years before fell in. He was made secretary to the island of Jamaica; and his whole income amounted to twelve hundred a year, a fortune which, for a single man, was in that age not only easy but splendid. He continued, however, to practise the frugality which he had learned when he could scarce spare, as Swift tells us, a shilling to pay the chairman who carried him to Lord Halifax's. Though he had nobody to save for, he laid up at least as much as he spent. The infirmities of age came early upon him. His habits had been intemperate; he suffered much from gout; and, when confined to his chamber, he had no longer the solace of literature. Blindness, the most cruel misfortune that can befall the lonely student, made his books useless to him. He was thrown on society for all his amusement; and in society his good breeding and vivacity made him always welcome. By the rising men of letters he was considered not as a rival, but as a classic. He had left their arena; he never measured his strength with them; and he was always loud in applause of their exertions. They could, therefore, entertain no jealousy of him and thought no more of detracting from his fame than of carping at the great men who had been lying a hundred years in Poets' Corner. Even the inmates of Grub Street, even the heroes of the Dunciad, were for once just to living merit. There can be no stronger illustration of the estimation in which Congreve was held than the fact that the English Iliad, a work which appeared with more splendid auspices than any other in our language, was dedicated to him. There was not a duke in the kingdom who would not have been proud of such a compliment. Dr. Johnson expresses great admiration for the independence of spirit which Pope showed on this occasion. "He passed over peers and statesmen to inscribe his Iliad to Congreve, with a magnanimity of which the praise had been complete, had his friend's virtue been equal to his wit. Why he was chosen for so great an honour, it is not now possible to know." It is certainly impossible to know; yet we think it is possible to guess. The translation of the Iliad had been zealously befriended by men of all political opinions. The poet who, at an early age, had been raised to affluence by the emulous liberality of Whigs and Tories, could not with propriety inscribe to a chief of either party a work which had been munificently patronised by both. It was necessary to find some person who was at once eminent and neutral. It was therefore necessary to pass over peers and statesmen. Congreve had a high name in letters. He had a high name in aristocratic circles. He lived on terms of civility with men of all parties. By a courtesy paid to him, neither the Ministers nor the leaders of the Opposition could be offended. The singular affectation which had from the first been characteristic of Congreve grew stronger and stronger as he advanced in life. At last it became disagreeable to him to hear his own comedies praised. Voltaire, whose soul was burned up by the raging desire for literary renown, was half puzzled and half disgusted by what he saw, during his visit to England, of this extraordinary whim. Congreve disclaimed the character of a poet, declared that his plays were trifles produced in an idle hour, and begged that Voltaire would consider him merely as a gentleman. "If you had been merely a gentleman," said Voltaire, "I should not have come to see you." Congreve was not a man of warm affections. Domestic ties he had none; and in the temporary connections which he formed with a succession of beauties from the green-room his heart does not appear to have been interested. Of all his attachments that to Mrs. Bracegirdle lasted the longest and was the most celebrated. This charming actress, who was, during many years, the idol of all London, whose face caused the fatal broil in which Mountfort fell, and for which Lord Mohun was tried by the Peers, and to whom the Earl of Scarsdale was said to have made honourable addresses, had conducted herself, in very trying circumstances, with extraordinary discretion. Congreve at length became her confidential friend. They constantly rode out together and dined together. Some people said that she was his mistress, and others that she would soon be his wife. He was at last drawn away from her by the influence of a wealthier and haughtier beauty. Henrietta, daughter of the great Marlborough, and Countess of Godolphin, had, on her father's death, succeeded to his dukedom, and to the greater part of his immense property. Her husband was an insignificant man, of whom Lord Chesterfield said that he came to the House of Peers only to sleep, and that he might as well sleep on the right as on the left of the woolsack. Between the Duchess and Congreve sprang up a most eccentric friendship. He had a seat every day at her table, and assisted in the direction of her concerts. That malignant old beldame, the Dowager Duchess Sarah, who had quarrelled with her daughter as she had quarrelled with every body else, affected to suspect that there was something wrong. But the world in general appears to have thought that a great lady might, without any imputation on her character, pay marked attention to a man of eminent genius who was near sixty years old, who was still older in appearance and in constitution, who was confined to his chair by gout, and who was unable to read from blindness. In the summer of 1728, Congreve was ordered to try the Bath waters. During his excursion he was overturned in his chariot, and received some severe internal injury from which he never recovered. He came back to London in a dangerous state, complained constantly of a pain in his side, and continued to sink, till in the following January he expired. He left ten thousand pounds, saved out of the emoluments of his lucrative places. Johnson says that this money ought to have gone to the Congreve family, which was then in great distress. Doctor Young and Mr. Leigh Hunt, two gentlemen who seldom agree with each other, but with whom, on this occasion, we are happy to agree, think that it ought to have gone to Mrs. Bracegirdle. Congreve bequeathed two hundred pounds to Mrs. Bracegirdle, and an equal sum to a certain Mrs. Jellat; but the bulk of his accumulations went to the Duchess of Marlborough, in whose immense wealth such a legacy was as a drop in the bucket. It might have raised the fallen fortunes of a Staffordshire squire; it might have enabled a retired actress to enjoy every comfort, and, in her sense, every luxury: but it was hardly sufficient to defray the Duchess's establishment for three months. The great lady buried her friend with a pomp seldom seen at the funerals of poets. The corpse lay in state under the ancient roof of the Jerusalem Chamber, and was interred in Westminster Abbey. The pall was borne by the Duke of Bridgewater, Lord Cobham, the Earl of Wilmington, who had been Speaker, and was afterwards First Lord of the Treasury, and other men of high consideration. Her Grace laid out her friend's bequest in a superb diamond necklace, which she wore in honour of him, and, if report is to be believed, showed her regard in ways much more extraordinary. It is said that a statue of him in ivory, which moved by clockwork, was placed daily at her table, and that she had a wax doll made in imitation of him, and that the feet of the doll were regularly blistered and anointed by the doctors, as poor Congreve's feet had been when he suffered from the gout. A monument was erected to the poet in Westminster Abbey, with an inscription written by the Duchess; and Lord Cobham, honoured him with a cenotaph, which seems to us, though that is a bold word, the ugliest and most absurd of the buildings at Stowe. We have said that Wycherley was a worse Congreve. There was, indeed, a remarkable analogy between the writings and lives of these two men. Both were gentlemen liberally educated. Both led town lives, and knew human nature only as it appears between Hyde Park and the Tower. Both were men of wit. Neither had much imagination. Both at an early age produced lively and profligate comedies. Both retired from the field while still in early manhood, and owed to their youthful achievements in literature whatever consideration they enjoyed in later life. Both, after they had ceased to write for the stage, published volumes of miscellanies which did little credit either to their talents or to their morals. Both, during their declining years, hung loose upon society; and both, in their last moments, made eccentric and unjustifiable dispositions of their estates. But in every point Congreve maintained his superiority to Wycherley. Wycherley had wit; but the wit of Congreve far outshines that of every comic writer, except Sheridan, who has within the last two centuries. Congreve had not, in, a large measure, the poetical faculty; but compared with Wycherley he might be called a great poet. Wycherley had some knowledge of books; but Congreve was a man of real learning. Congreve's offences against decorum, though highly culpable, were not so gross as those of Wycherley; nor did Congreve, like Wycherley, exhibit to the world the deplorable spectacle of a licentious dotage. Congreve died in the enjoyment of high consideration; Wycherley forgotten or despised. Congreve's will was absurd and capricious; but Wycherley's last actions appear to have been prompted by obdurate malignity. Here, at least for the present, we must stop. Vanbrugh and Farquhar are not men to be hastily dismissed, and we have not left ourselves space to do them justice. THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF ADDISON (July 1843) The Life of Joseph Addison. BY LUCY AIKIN. 2 vols. 8vo. London: 1843. SOME reviewers are of opinion that a lady who dares to publish a book renounces by that act the franchises appertaining to her sex, and can claim no exemption from the utmost rigour of critical procedure. From that opinion we dissent. We admit, indeed, that in a country which boasts of many female writers, eminently qualified by their talents and acquirements to influence the public mind, it would be of most pernicious consequence that inaccurate history or unsound philosophy should be suffered to pass uncensured, merely because the offender chanced to be a lady. But we conceive that, on such occasions, a critic would do well to imitate the courteous Knight who found himself compelled by duty to keep the lists against Bradamante. He, we are told, defended successfully the cause of which he was the champion; but, before the fight began, exchanged Balisarda for a less deadly sword, of which he carefully blunted the point and edge. [Orlando Furioso, xiv. 68.] Nor are the immunities of sex the only immunities which Miss Aikin may rightfully plead. Several of her works, and especially the very pleasing Memoirs of the Reign of James the First have fully entitled her to the privileges enjoyed by good writers. One of those privileges we hold to be this, that such writers, when, either from the unlucky choice of a subject, or from the indolence too often produced by success, they happen to fail, shall not be subjected to the severe discipline which it is sometimes necessary to inflict upon dunces and impostors, but shall merely be reminded by a gentle touch, like that which the Laputan flapper roused his dreaming lord, that it is high time to wake. Our readers will probably infer from what we have said that Miss Aikin's book has disappointed us. The truth is, that she is not well acquainted with her subject. No person who is not familiar with the political and literary history of England during the reigns of William the Third, of Anne, and of George the First, can possibly write a good life of Addison. Now, we mean no reproach to Miss Aikin, and many will think that we pay her a compliment, when we say that her studies have taken a different direction. She is better acquainted with Shakspeare and Raleigh, than with Congreve and Prior; and is far more at home among the ruffs and peaked beards of Theobalds than among the Steenkirks and flowing periwigs which surrounded Queen Anne's tea-table at Hampton. She seems to have written about the Elizabethan age, because she had read much about it; she seems, on the other hand, to have read a little about the age of Addison, because she had determined to write about it. The consequence is that she has had to describe men and things without having either a correct or a vivid idea of them, and that she has often fallen into errors of a very serious kind. The reputation which Miss Aikin has justly earned stands so high, and the charm of Addison's letters is so great, that a second edition of this work may probably be required. If so, we hope that every paragraph will be revised, and that every date and fact about which there can be the smallest doubt will be carefully verified. To Addison himself we are bound by a sentiment as much like affection as any sentiment can be which is inspired by one who has been sleeping a hundred and twenty years in Westminster Abbey. We trust, however, that this feeling will not betray us into that abject idolatry which we have often had occasion to reprehend in others, and which seldom fails to make both the idolater and the idol ridiculous. A man of genius and virtue is but a man. All his powers cannot be equally developed; nor can we expect from him perfect self-knowledge. We need not, therefore, hesitate to admit that Addison has left us some compositions which do not rise above mediocrity, some heroic poems hardly equal to Parnell's, some criticism as superficial as Dr. Blair's, and a tragedy not very much better than Dr. Johnson's. It is praise enough to say of a writer that, in a high department of literature, in which many eminent writers have distinguished themselves, he has had no equal; and this may with strict justice be said of Addison. As a man, he may not have deserved the adoration which he received from those who, bewitched by his fascinating society, and indebted for all the comforts of life to his generous and delicate friendship, worshipped him nightly, in his favourite temple at Button's. But, after full inquiry and impartial reflection, we have long been convinced that he deserved as much love and esteem as can be justly claimed by any of our infirm and erring race. Some blemishes may undoubtedly be detected in his character; but the more carefully it is examined, the more will it appear, to use the phrase of the old anatomists, sound in the noble parts, free from all taint of perfidy, of cowardice, of cruelty, of ingratitude, of envy. Men may easily be named, in whom some particular good disposition has been more conspicuous than in Addison. But the just harmony of qualities, the exact temper between the stern and the humane virtues, the habitual observance of every law, not only of moral rectitude, but of moral grace and dignity, distinguish him from all men who have been tried by equally strong temptations, and about whose conduct we possess equally full information. His father was the Reverend Lancelot Addison, who, though eclipsed by his more celebrated son, made some figure in the world, and occupies with credit, two folio pages in the Biographia Britannica. Lancelot was sent up, as a poor scholar, from Westmoreland to Queen's College, Oxford, in the time of the Commonwealth, made some progress in learning, became, like most of his fellow-students, a violent Royalist, lampooned the heads of the University, and was forced to ask pardon on his bended knees. When he had left college, he earned a humble subsistence by reading the liturgy of the fallen Church to the families of those sturdy squires whose manor-houses were scattered over the Wild of Sussex. After the Restoration, his loyalty was rewarded with the post of chaplain to the garrison of Dunkirk. When Dunkirk was sold to France, he lost his employment. But Tangier had been ceded by Portugal to England as part of the marriage portion of the Infanta Catherine; and to Tangier Lancelot Addison was sent. A more miserable situation can hardly be conceived. It was difficult to say whether the unfortunate settlers were more tormented by the heats or by the rains, by the soldiers within the wall or by the Moors without it. One advantage the chaplain had. He enjoyed an excellent opportunity of studying the history and manners of Jews and Mahometans and of this opportunity he appears to have made excellent use. On his return to England, after some years of banishment, he published an interesting volume on the Polity and Religion of Barbary, and another on the Hebrew Customs and the State of Rabbinical Learning. He rose to eminence in his profession, and became one of the royal chaplains, a Doctor of Divinity, Archdeacon of Salisbury, and Dean of Lichfield. It is said that he would have been made a bishop after the Revolution, if he had not given offence to the Government by strenuously opposing, in the Convocation of 1689, the liberal policy of William and Tillotson. In 1672, not long after Dr. Addison's return from Tangier, his son Joseph was born. Of Joseph's childhood we know little. He learned his rudiments at school in his father's neighbourhood, and was then sent to the Charter House. The anecdotes which are popularly related about his boyish tricks do not harmonise very well with what we know of his riper years. There remains a tradition that he was the ringleader in a barring out, and another tradition that he ran away from school and hid himself in a wood, where he fed on berries and slept in a hollow tree, till after a long search he was discovered and brought home. If these stories be true, it would be curious to know by what moral discipline so mutinous and enterprising a lad was transformed into the gentlest and most modest of men. We have abundant proof that, whatever Joseph's pranks may have been, he pursued his studies vigorously and successfully. At fifteen he was not only fit for the university, but carried thither a classical taste and a stock of learning which would have done honour to a Master of Arts. He was entered at Queen's College, Oxford; but he had not been many months there, when some of his Latin verses fell by accident into the hands of Dr. Lancaster, Dean of Magdalen College. The young scholar's diction and versification were already such as veteran professors might envy. Dr. Lancaster was desirous to serve a boy of such promise; nor was an opportunity long wanting. The Revolution had just taken place; and nowhere had it been hailed with more delight than at Magdalen College. That great and opulent corporation had been treated by James, and by his Chancellor, with an insolence and injustice which, even in such a Prince and in such a Minister, may justly excite amazement, and which had done more than even the prosecution of the Bishops to alienate the Church of England from the throne. A president, duly elected, had been violently expelled from his dwelling: a Papist had been set over the society by a royal mandate: the Fellows who, in conformity with their oaths, had refused to submit to this usurper, had been driven forth from their quiet cloisters and gardens, to die of want or to live on charity. But the day of redress and retribution speedily came. The intruders were ejected: the venerable House was again inhabited by its old inmates: learning flourished under the rule of the wise and virtuous Hough; and with learning was united a mild and liberal spirit too often wanting in the princely colleges of Oxford. In consequence of the troubles through which the society had passed, there had been no valid election of new members during the year 1688. In 1689, therefore, there was twice the ordinary number of vacancies; and thus Dr. Lancaster found it easy to procure for his young friend admittance to the advantages of a foundation then generally esteemed the wealthiest in Europe. At Magdalen Addison resided during ten years. He was, at first, one of those scholars who were called Demies, but was subsequently elected a Fellow. His college is still proud of his name: his portrait still hangs in the hall; and strangers are still told that his favourite walk was under the elms which fringe the meadow on the banks of the Cherwell. It is said, and is highly probable, that he was distinguished among his fellow- students by the delicacy of his feelings, by the shyness of his manners, and by the assiduity with which he often prolonged his studies far into the night. It is certain that his reputation for ability and learning stood high. Many years later, the ancient doctors of Magdalen continued to talk in their common room of his boyish compositions, and expressed their sorrow that no copy of exercises so remarkable had been preserved. It is proper, however, to remark that Miss Aikin has committed the error, very pardonable in a lady, of overrating Addison's classical attainments. In one department of learning, indeed, his proficiency was such as it is hardly possible to overrate. His knowledge of the Latin poets, from Lucretius and Catullus down to Claudian and Prudentius, was singularly exact and profound. He understood them thoroughly, entered into their spirit, and had the finest and most discriminating perception of all their peculiarities of style and melody; nay, he copied their manner with admirable skill, and surpassed, we think, all their British imitators who had preceded him, Buchanan and Milton alone excepted. This is high praise; and beyond this we cannot with justice go. It is clear that Addison's serious attention during his residence at the university, was almost entirely concentrated on Latin poetry, and that, if he did not wholly neglect other provinces of ancient literature, he vouchsafed to them only a cursory glance. He does not appear to have attained more than an ordinary acquaintance with the political and moral writers of Rome; nor was his own Latin prose by any means equal to his Latin Verse. His knowledge of Greek, though doubtless such as was, in his time, thought respectable at Oxford, was evidently less than that which many lads now carry away every year from Eton and Rugby. A minute examination of his works, if we had time to make such an examination, would fully bear out these remarks. We will briefly advert to a few of the facts on which our judgment is grounded. Great praise is due to the Notes which Addison appended to his version of the second and third books of the Metamorphoses. Yet those notes, while they show him to have been, in his own domain, an accomplished scholar, show also how confined that domain was. They are rich in apposite references to Virgil, Statius, and Claudian; but they contain not a single illustration drawn from the Greek poets. Now, if, in the whole compass of Latin literature, there be a passage which stands in need of illustration drawn from the Greek poets, it is the story of Pentheus in the third book of the Metamorphoses. Ovid was indebted for that story to Euripides and Theocritus, both of whom he has sometimes followed minutely. But neither to Euripides nor to Theocritus does Addison make the faintest allusion; and we, therefore, believe that we do not wrong him by supposing that he had little or no knowledge of their works. His travels in Italy, again, abound with classical quotations happily introduced; but scarcely one of those quotations is in prose. He draws more illustrations from Ausonius and Manilius than from Cicero. Even his notions of the political and military affairs of the Romans seem to be derived from poets and poetasters. Spots made memorable by events which have changed the destinies of the world, and which have been worthily recorded by great historians, bring to his mind only scraps of some ancient versifier. In the gorge of the Apennines he naturally remembers the hardships which Hannibal's army endured, and proceeds to cite, not the authentic narrative of Polybius, not the picturesque narrative of Livy, but the languid hexameters of Silius Italicus. On the banks of the Rubicon he never thinks of Plutarch's lively description, or of the stern conciseness of the Commentaries, or of those letters to Atticus which so forcibly express the alternations of hope and fear in a sensitive mind at a great crisis. His only authority for the events of the civil war is Lucan. All the best ancient works of art at Rome and Florence are Greek. Addison saw them, however, without recalling one single verse of Pindar, of Callimachus, or of the Attic dramatists; but they brought to his recollection innumerable passages of Horace, Juvenal, Statius, and Ovid. The same may be said of the Treatise on Medals. In that pleasing work we find about three hundred passages extracted with great judgment from the Roman poets; but we do not recollect a single passage taken from any Roman orator or historian; and we are confident that not a line is quoted from any Greek writer. No person, who had derived all his information on the subject of medals from Addison, would suspect that the Greek coins were in historical interest equal, and in beauty of execution far superior to those of Rome. If it were necessary to find any further proof that Addison's classical knowledge was confined within narrow limits, that proof would be furnished by his Essay on the Evidences of Christianity. The Roman poets throw little or no light on the literary and historical questions which he is under the necessity of examining in that Essay. He is, therefore, left completely in the dark; and it is melancholy to see how helplessly he gropes his way from blunder to blunder. He assigns, as grounds for his religious belief, stories as absurd as that of the Cock-Lane ghost, and forgeries as rank as Ireland's Vortigern, puts faith in the lie about the Thundering Legion, is convinced that Tiberius moved the senate to admit Jesus among the gods, and pronounces the letter of Abgarus King of Edessa to be a record of great authority. Nor were these errors the effects of superstition; for to superstition Addison was by no means prone. The truth is that he was writing about what he did not understand. Miss Aikin has discovered a letter, from which it appears that, while Addison resided at Oxford, he was one of several writers whom the booksellers engaged to make an English version of Herodotus; and she infers that he must have been a good Greek scholar. We can allow very little weight to this argument, when we consider that his fellow-labourers were to have been Boyle and Blackmore. Boyle is remembered chiefly as the nominal author of the worst book on Greek history and philology that ever was printed; and this book, bad as it is, Boyle was unable to produce without help. Of Blackmore's attainments in the ancient tongues, it may be sufficient to say that, in his prose, he has confounded an aphorism with an apophthegm, and that when, in his verse, he treats of classical subjects, his habit is to regale his readers with four false quantities to a page. It is probable that the classical acquirements of Addison were of as much service to him as if they had been more extensive. The world generally gives its admiration, not to the man who does what nobody else even attempts to do, but to the man who does best what multitudes do well. Bentley was so immeasurably superior to all the other scholars of his time that few among them could discover his superiority. But the accomplishment in which Addison excelled his contemporaries was then, as it is now, highly valued and assiduously cultivated at all English seats of learning. Everybody who had been at a public school had written Latin verses; many had written such verses with tolerable success, and were quite able to appreciate, though by no means able to rival, the skill with which Addison imitated Virgil. His lines on the Barometer and the Bowling Green were applauded by hundreds, to whom the Dissertation on the Epistles of Phalaris was as unintelligible as the hieroglyphics on an obelisk. Purity of style, and an easy flow of numbers, are common to all Addison's Latin poems. Our favourite piece is the Battle of the Cranes and Pigmies; for in that piece we discern a gleam of the fancy and humour which many years later enlivened thousands of breakfast tables. Swift boasted that he was never known to steal a hint; and he certainly owed as little to his predecessors as any modern writer. Yet we cannot help suspecting that he borrowed, perhaps unconsciously, one of the happiest touches in his "Voyage to Lilliput" from Addison's verses. Let our readers judge. "The Emperor," says Gulliver, "is Tatler by about the breadth of my nail than any of his court, which alone is enough to strike an awe into the beholders." About thirty years before Gulliver's Travels appeared, Addison wrote these lines: "Jamque acies inter medias sese arduus infert Pygmeadum ductor, qui, majestate verendus, Incessuque gravis, reliquos supereminet omnes Mole gigantea, mediamque exsurgit in ulnam." The Latin poems of Addison were greatly and justly admired both at Oxford and Cambridge, before his name had ever been heard by the wits who thronged the coffee-houses round Drury Lane Theatre. In his twenty-second year, he ventured to appear before the public as a writer of English verse. He addressed some complimentary lines to Dryden, who, after many triumphs and many reverses, had at length reached a secure and lonely eminence among the literary men of that age. Dryden appears to have been much gratified by the young scholar's praise; and an interchange of civilities and good offices followed. Addison was probably introduced by Dryden to Congreve, and was certainly presented by Congreve to Charles Montague, who was then Chancellor of the Exchequer, and leader of the Whig party in the House of Commons. At this time Addison seemed inclined to devote himself to poetry. He published a translation of part of the fourth Georgic, Lines on King William, and other performances of equal value, that is to say, of no value at all. But in those days, the public was in the habit of receiving with applause pieces which would now have little chance of obtaining the Newdigate prize or the Seatonian prize. And the reason is obvious. The heroic couplet was then the favourite measure. The art of arranging words in that measure, so that the lines may flow smoothly, that the accents may fall correctly, that the rhymes may strike the ear strongly, and that there may be a pause at the end of every distich, is an art as mechanical as that of mending a kettle or shoeing a horse, and may be learned by any human being who has sense enough to learn anything. But, like other mechanical arts, it was gradually improved by means of many experiments and many failures. It was reserved for Pope to discover the trick, to make himself complete master of it, and to teach it to everybody else. From the time when his Pastorals appeared, heroic versification became matter of rule and compass; and, before long, all artists were on a level. Hundreds of dunces who never blundered on one happy thought or expression were able to write reams of couplets which, as far as euphony was concerned, could not be distinguished from those of Pope himself, and which very clever writers of the reign of Charles the Second, Rochester, for example, or Marvel, or Oldham, would have contemplated with admiring despair. Ben Jonson was a great man, Hoole a very small man. But Hoole coming after Pope, had learned how to manufacture decasyllable verses, and poured them forth by thousands and tens of thousands, all as well turned, as smooth, and as like each other as the blocks which have passed through Mr. Brunel's mill in the dockyard at Portsmouth. Ben's heroic couplets resemble blocks rudely hewn out by an unpractised hand, with a blunt hatchet. Take as a specimen his translation Of a celebrated passage in the Aeneid: "This child our parent earth, stirr'd up with spite Of all the gods, brought forth, and, as some write, She was last sister of that giant race That sought to scale Jove's court, right swift of pace, And swifter far of wing, a monster vast And dreadful. Look, how many plumes are placed On her huge corpse, so many waking eyes Stick underneath, and, which may stranger rise In the report, as many tongues she wears." Compare with these jagged misshapen distichs the neat fabric which Hoole's machine produces in unlimited abundance. We take the first lines on which we open in his version of Tasso. They are neither better nor worse than the rest O thou, whoe'er thou art, whose steps are led, By choice or fate, these lonely shores to tread, No greater wonders east or west can boast Than yon small island on the pleasing coast. If e'er thy sight would blissful scenes explore, The current pass, and seek the further shore." Ever since the time of Pope there had been a glut of lines of this sort; and we are now as little disposed to admire a man for being able to write them, as for being able to write his name. But in the days of William the Third such versification was rare; and a rhymer who had any skill in it passed for a great poet, just as in the dark ages a person who could write his name passed for a great clerk. Accordingly, Duke, Stepney, Granville, Walsh, and others whose only title to fame was that they said in tolerable metre what might have been as well said in prose, or what was not worth saying at all, were honoured with marks of distinction which ought to be reserved for genius. With these Addison must have ranked, if he had not earned true and lasting glory by performances which very little resembled his juvenile poems. Dryden was now busied with Virgil, and obtained from Addison a critical preface to the Georgics. In return for this service, and for other services of the same kind, the veteran poet, in the postscript to the translation of the Aeniad complimented his young friend with great liberality, and indeed with more liberality than sincerity. He affected to be afraid that his own performance would not sustain a comparison with the version of the fourth Georgic, by "the most ingenious Mr. Addison of Oxford." "After his bees," added Dryden, "my latter swarm is scarcely worth the hiving." The time had now arrived when it was necessary for Addison to choose a calling. Everything seemed to point his course towards the clerical profession. His habits were regular, his opinions orthodox. His college had large ecclesiastical preferment in its gift, and boasts that it has given at least one bishop to almost every see in England. Dr. Lancelot Addison held an honourable place in the Church, and had set his heart on seeing his son a clergyman. it is clear, from some expressions in the young man's rhymes, that his intention was to take orders. But Charles Montague interfered. Montague had first brought himself into notice by verses well-timed and not contemptibly written, but never, we think, rising above mediocrity. Fortunately for himself and for his country, he early quitted poetry, in which he could never have attained a rank as high as that of Dorset or Rochester, and turned his mind to official and parliamentary business. It is written that the ingenious person who undertook to instruct Rasselas, prince of Abyssinia, in the art of flying, ascended an eminence, waved his wings, sprang into the air, and instantly dropped into the lake. But it is added that the wings, which were unable to support him through the sky, bore him up effectually as soon as he was in the water. This is no bad type of the fate of Charles Montague and of men like him. When he attempted to soar into the regions of poetical invention, he altogether failed; but, as soon as he had descended from that ethereal elevation into a lower and grosser element, his talents instantly raised him above the mass. He became a distinguished financier, debater, courtier, and party leader. He still retained his fondness for the pursuits of his early days; but he showed that fondness not by wearying the public with his own feeble performances, but by discovering and encouraging literary excellence in others. A crowd of wits and poets, who would easily have vanquished him as a competitor, revered him as a judge and a patron. In his plans for the encouragement of learning, he was cordially supported by the ablest and most virtuous of his colleagues, the Lord Chancellor Somers. Though both these great statesmen had a sincere love of letters, it was not solely from a love of letters that they were desirous to enlist youths of high intellectual qualifications in the public service. The Revolution had altered the whole system of government. Before that event the press had been controlled by censors, and the Parliament had sat only two months in eight years. Now the press was free, and had begun to exercise unprecedented influence on the public mind. Parliament met annually and sat long. The chief power in the State had passed to the House of Commons. At such a conjuncture, it was natural that literary and oratorical talents should rise in value. There was danger that a government which neglected such talents might be subverted by them. It was, therefore, a profound and enlightened policy which led Montague and Somers to attach such talents to the Whig party, by the strongest ties both of interest and of gratitude. It is remarkable that in a neighbouring country, we have recently seen similar effects follow from similar causes. The revolution of July 1830 established representative government in France. The men of letters instantly rose to the highest importance in the State. At the present moment most of the persons whom we see at the head both of the Administration and of the Opposition have been professors, historians, journalists, poets. The influence of the literary class in England, during the generation which followed the Revolution, was great, but by no means so great as it has lately been in France. For in England, the aristocracy of intellect had to contend with a powerful and deeply-rooted aristocracy of a very different kind. France had no Somersets and Shrewsburys to keep down her Addisons and Priors. It was in the year 1699, when Addison had just completed his twenty-seventh year, that the course of his life was finally determined. Both the great chiefs of the Ministry were kindly disposed towards him. In political opinions he already was what he continued to be through life, a firm, though a moderate Whig. He had addressed the most polished and vigorous of his early English lines to Somers, and had dedicated to Montague a Latin poem, truly Virgilian, both in style and rhythm, on the peace of Ryswick. The wish of the young poet's great friends was, it should seem, to employ him in the service of the Crown abroad. But an intimate knowledge of the French language was a qualification indispensable to a diplomatist; and this qualification Addison had not acquired. It was, therefore, thought desirable that he should pass some time on the Continent in preparing himself for official employment. His own means were not such as would enable him to travel: but a pension of three hundred pounds a year was procured for him by the interest of the Lord Chancellor. It seems to have been apprehended that some difficulty might be started by the rulers of Magdalen College. But the Chancellor of the Exchequer wrote in the strongest terms to Hough. The State--such was the purport of Montague's letter-- could not, at that time spare to the Church such a man as Addison. Too many high civil posts were already occupied by adventurers, who, destitute of every liberal art and sentiment, at once pillaged and disgraced the country which they pretended to serve. It had become necessary to recruit for the public service from a very different class, from that class of which Addison was the representative. The close of the Minister's letter was remarkable. "I am called," he said, "an enemy of the Church. But I will never do it any other injury than keeping Mr. Addison out of it." This interference was successful; and, in the summer of 1699, Addison, made a rich man by his pension, and still retaining his fellowship, quitted his beloved Oxford, and set out on his travels. He crossed from Dover to Calais, proceeded to Paris, and was received there with great kindness and politeness by a kinsman of his friend Montague, Charles Earl of Manchester, who had just been appointed Ambassador to the Court of France. The Countess, a Whig and a toast, was probably as gracious as her lord; for Addison long retained an agreeable recollection of the impression which she at this time made on him, and in some lively lines written on the glasses of the Kit-Cat Club, described the envy which her cheeks, glowing with the genuine bloom of England, had excited among the painted beauties of Versailles. Lewis the Fourteenth was at this time expiating the vices of his youth by a devotion which had no root in reason, and bore no fruit of charity. The servile literature of France had changed its character to suit the changed character of the prince. No book appeared that had not an air of sanctity. Racine, who was just dead, had passed the close of his life in writing sacred dramas; and Dacier was seeking for the Athanasian mysteries in Plato. Addison described this state of things in a short but lively and graceful letter to Montague. Another letter, written about the same time to the Lord Chancellor, conveyed the strongest assurances of gratitude and attachment. "The only return I can make to your Lordship," said Addison, "will be to apply myself entirely to my business." With this view he quitted Paris and repaired to Blois, a place where it was supposed that the French language was spoken in its highest purity, and where not a single Englishman could be found. Here he passed some months pleasantly and profitably. Of his way of life at Blois, one of his associates, an Abbe named Philippeaux, gave an account to Joseph Spence. If this account is to be trusted, Addison studied much, mused much, talked little, had fits of absence, and either had no love affairs, or was too discreet to confide them to the Abbe. A man who, even when surrounded by fellow-countrymen and fellow-students, had always been remarkably shy and silent, was not likely to be loquacious in a foreign tongue, and among foreign companions. But it is clear from Addison's letters, some of which were long after published in the Guardian, that, while he appeared to be absorbed in his own meditations, he was really observing French society with that keen and sly, yet not ill- natured side glance, which was peculiarly his own. From Blois he returned to Paris; and, having now mastered the French language, found great pleasure in the society of French philosophers and poets. He gave an account, in a letter to Bishop Hough, of two highly interesting conversations, one with Malbranche, the other with Boileau. Malbranche expressed great partiality for the English, and extolled the genius of Newton, but shook his head when Hobbes was mentioned, and was indeed so unjust as to call the author of the Leviathan a poor, silly creature. Addison's modesty restrained him from fully relating, in his letter, the circumstances of his introduction to Boileau. Boileau, having survived the friends and rivals of his youth, old, deaf, and melancholy, lived in retirement, seldom went either to Court or to the Academy, and was almost inaccessible to strangers. Of the English and of English literature he knew nothing. He had hardly heard the name of Dryden. Some of our countrymen, in the warmth of their patriotism, have asserted that this ignorance must have been affected. We own that we see no ground for such a supposition. English literature was to the French of the age of Lewis the Fourteenth what German literature was to our own grandfathers. Very few, we suspect, of the accomplished men who, sixty or seventy years ago, used to dine in Leicester Square with Sir Joshua, or at Streatham. with Mrs. Thrale, had the slightest notion that Wieland was one of the first wits and poets, and Lessing, beyond all dispute, the first critic in Europe. Boileau knew just as little about the Paradise Lost, and about Absalom and Achitophel; but he had read Addison's Latin poems, and admired them greatly. They had given him, he said, quite a new notion of the state of learning and taste among the English. Johnson will have it that these praises were insincere. "Nothing," says he, "is better known of Boileau than that he had an injudicious and peevish contempt of modern Latin; and therefore his profession of regard was probably the effect of his civility rather than approbation." Now, nothing is better known of Boileau than that he was singularly sparing of compliments. We do not remember that either friendship or fear ever induced him to bestow praise on any composition which he did not approve. On literary questions his caustic, disdainful, and self-confident spirit rebelled against that authority to which everything else in France bowed down. He had the spirit to tell Lewis the Fourteenth firmly and even rudely, that his Majesty knew Nothing about poetry, and admired verses which were detestable. What was there in Addison's position that could induce the satirist, Whose stern and fastidious temper had been the dread of two generations, to turn sycophant for the first and last time? Nor was Boileau's contempt of modern Latin either injudicious or peevish. He thought, indeed, that no poem of the first order would ever be written in a dead language. And did he think amiss? Has not the experience of centuries confirmed his opinion? Boileau also thought it probable that, in the best modern Latin, a writer of the Augustan age would have detected ludicrous improprieties. And who can think otherwise? What modern scholar can honestly declare that he sees the smallest impurity in the style of Livy? Yet is it not certain that, in the style of Livy, Pollio, whose taste had been formed on the banks of the Tiber, detected the inelegant idiom of the Po? Has any modern scholar understood Latin better than Frederic the Great understood French? Yet is it not notorious that Frederic the Great, after reading, speaking, writing French, and nothing but French, during more than half a century, after unlearning his mother tongue in order to learn French, after living familiarly during many years with French associates, could not, to the last, compose in French, without imminent risk of committing some mistake which would have moved a smile in the literary circles of Paris? Do we believe that Erasmus and Fracastorius wrote Latin as well as Dr. Robertson and Sir Walter Scott wrote English? And are there not in the Dissertation on India, the last of Dr. Robertson's works, in Waverley, in Marmion, Scotticisms at which a London apprentice would laugh? But does it follow, because we think thus, that we can find nothing to admire in the noble alcaics of Gray, or in the playful elegiacs of Vincent Bourne? Surely not. Nor was Boileau so ignorant or tasteless as to be incapable of appreciating good modern Latin. In the very letter to which Johnson alludes, Boileau says--"Ne croyez pas pourtant que je veuille par la blamer les vers Latins que vous m'avez envoyes d'un de vos illustres academiciens. Je les ai trouves fort beaux, et dignes de Vida et de Sannazar, mais non pas d'Horace et de Virgile." Several poems, in modern Latin, have been praised by Boileau quite as liberally as it was his habit to praise anything. He says, for example, of the Pere Fraguier's epigrams, that Catullus seems to have come to life again. But the best proof that Boileau did not feel the undiscerning contempt for modern Latin verses which has been imputed to him, is, that he wrote and published Latin verses in several metres. Indeed it happens, curiously enough, that the most severe censure ever pronounced by him on modern Latin is conveyed in Latin hexameters. We allude to the fragment which begins "Quid numeris iterum me balbutire Latinis, Longe Alpes citra natum de patre Sicambro, Musa, jubes?" For these reasons we feel assured that the praise which Boileau bestowed on the Machinae Gesticulantes and the Gerano Pygmaomachia, was sincere. He certainly opened himself to Addison with a freedom which was a sure indication of esteem. Literature was the chief subject of conversation. The old man talked on his favourite theme much and well, indeed, as his young hearer thought, incomparably well. Boileau had undoubtedly some of the qualities of a great critic. He wanted imagination; but he had strong sense. His literary code was formed on narrow principles; but in applying it, he showed great judgment and penetration. In mere style, abstracted from the ideas of which style is the garb, his taste was excellent. He was well acquainted with the great Greek writers; and, though unable fully to appreciate their creative genius, admired the majestic simplicity of their manner, and had learned from them to despise bombast and tinsel. It is easy we think, to discover, in the Spectator, and the Guardian: traces of the influence, in part salutary and in part pernicious, which the mind of Boileau had on the mind of Addison. While Addison was at Paris, an event took place which made that capital a disagreeable residence for an Englishman and a Whig. Charles, second of the name, King of Spain, died; and bequeathed his dominions to Philip, Duke of Anjou, a younger son of the Dauphin. The King of France, in direct violation of his engagements both with Great Britain and with the States-General, accepted the bequest on behalf of his grandson. The House of Bourbon was at the summit of human grandeur. England had been outwitted, and found herself in a situation at once degrading and perilous. The people of France, not presaging the calamities by which they were destined to expiate the perfidy of their sovereign, went mad with pride and delight. Every man looked as if a great estate had just been left him. "The French conversation," said Addison, "begins to grow insupportable; that which was before the vainest nation in the world is now worse than ever." Sick of the arrogant exultation of the Parisians, and probably foreseeing that the peace between France and England could not be of long duration, he set off for Italy. In December 1701 [It is strange that Addison should, in the first line of his travels, have misdated his departure from Marseilles by a whole year, and still more strange that this slip of the pen, which throws the whole narrative into inextricable confusion, should have been repeated in a succession of editions, and never detected by Tickell or by Hurd.] he embarked at Marseilles. As he glided along the Ligurian coast, he was delighted by the sight of myrtles and olive trees, which retained their verdure under the winter solstice. Soon, however, he encountered one of the black storms of the Mediterranean. The captain of the ship gave up all for lost, and confessed himself to a capuchin who happened to be on board. The English heretic, in the meantime, fortified himself against the terrors of death with devotions of a very different kind. How strong an impression this perilous voyage made on him, appears from the ode, "How are thy servants blest, 0 Lord!" which was long after published in the Spectator. After some days of discomfort and danger, Addison was glad to land at Savona, and to make his way, over mountains where no road had yet been hewn out by art, to the city of Genoa. At Genoa, still ruled by her own Doge, and by the nobles whose names were inscribed on her Book of Gold, Addison made a short stay. He admired the narrow streets overhung by long lines of towering palaces, the walls rich with frescoes, the gorgeous temple of the Annunciation, and the tapestries whereon were recorded the long glories of the House of Doria. Thence he hastened to Milan, where he contemplated the Gothic magnificence of the cathedral with more wonder than pleasure. He passed Lake Benacus while a gale was blowing, and saw the waves raging as they raged when Virgil looked upon them. At Venice, then the gayest spot in Europe, the traveller spent the Carnival, the gayest season of the year, in the midst of masques, dances, and serenades. Here he was at once diverted and provoked, by the absurd dramatic pieces which then disgraced the Italian stage. To one of those pieces, however, he was indebted for a valuable hint. He was present when a ridiculous play on the death of Cato was performed. Cato, it seems, was in love with a daughter of Scipio. The lady had given her heart to Caesar. The rejected lover determined to destroy himself. He appeared seated in his library, a dagger in his hand, a Plutarch and a Tasso before him; and, in this position, he pronounced a soliloquy before he struck the blow. We are surprised that so remarkable a circumstance as this should have escaped the notice of all Addison's biographers. There cannot, we conceive, be the smallest doubt that this scene, in spite of its absurdities and anachronisms, struck the traveller's imagination, and suggested to him the thought of bringing Cato on the English stage. It is well known that about this time he began his tragedy, and that he finished the first four acts before he returned to England, On his way from Venice to Rome, he was drawn some miles out of the beaten road, by a wish to see the smallest independent state in Europe. On a rock where the snow still lay, though the Italian spring was now far advanced, was perched the little fortress of San Marino. The roads which led to the secluded town were so bad that few travellers had ever visited it, and none had ever published an account of it. Addison could not suppress a good- natured smile at the simple manners and institutions of this singular community. But he observed, with the exultation of a Whig, that the rude mountain tract which formed the territory of the republic swarmed with an honest, healthy, and contented peasantry, while the rich plain which surrounded the metropolis of civil and spiritual tyranny was scarcely less desolate than the uncleared wilds of America. At Rome Addison remained on his first visit only long enough to catch a glimpse of St. Peter's and of the Pantheon. His haste is the more extraordinary because the Holy Week was close at hand. He has given no hint which can enable us to pronounce why he chose to fly from a spectacle which every year allures from distant regions persons of far less taste and sensibility than his. Possibly, travelling, as he did, at the charge of a government distinguished by its enmity to the Church of Rome, he may have thought that it would be imprudent in him to assist at the most magnificent rite of that Church. Many eyes would be upon him; and he might find it difficult to behave in such a manner as to give offence neither to his patrons in England, nor to those among whom he resided. Whatever his motives may have been, he turned his back on the most august and affecting ceremony which is known among men, and posted along the Appian Way to Naples. Naples was then destitute of what are now, perhaps, its chief attractions. The lovely bay and the awful mountain were indeed there. But a farmhouse stood on the theatre of Herculaneum, and rows of vines grew over the streets of Pompeii. The temples of Paestum had not indeed been hidden from the eye of man by any great convulsion of nature; but, strange to say, their existence was a secret even to artists and antiquaries. Though situated within a few hours' journey of a great capital, where Salvator had not long before painted, and where Vico was then lecturing, those noble remains were as little known to Europe as the ruined cities overgrown by the forests of Yucatan. What was to be seen at Naples, Addison saw. He climbed Vesuvius, explored the tunnel of Posilipo, and wandered among the vines and almond trees of Capreae. But neither the wonders of nature, nor those of art, could so occupy his attention as to prevent him from noticing, though cursorily, the abuses of the Government and the misery of the people. The great kingdom which had just descended to Philip the Fifth, was in a state of paralytic dotage. Even Castile and Aragon were sunk in wretchedness. Yet, compared with the Italian dependencies of the Spanish crown, Castile and Aragon might be called prosperous. It is clear that all the observations which Addison made in Italy tended to confirm him in the political opinions which he had adopted at home. To the last, he always spoke of foreign travel as the best cure for Jacobitism. In his Freeholder, the Tory fox-hunter asks what travelling is good for, except to teach a man to jabber French, and to talk against passive obedience. From Naples, Addison returned to Rome by sea, along the coast which his favourite Virgil had celebrated. The felucca passed the headland where the oar and trumpet were placed by the Trojan adventurers on the tomb of Misenus, and anchored at night under the shelter of the fabled promontory of Circe. The voyage ended in the Tiber, still overhung with dark verdure, and still turbid with yellow sand, as when it met the eyes of Aeneas. From the ruined port of Ostia, the stranger hurried to Rome; and at Rome he remained during those hot and sickly months when, even in the Augustan age, all who could make their escape fled from mad dogs and from streets black with funerals, to gather the first figs of the season in the country. It is probable that, when he, long after, poured forth in verse his gratitude to the Providence which had enabled him to breathe unhurt in tainted air, he was thinking of the August and September which he passed at Rome. It was not till the latter end of October that he tore himself away from the masterpieces of ancient and modern art which are collected in the city so long the mistress of the world. He then journeyed northward, passed through Sienna, and for a moment forgot his prejudices in favour of classic architecture as he looked on the magnificent cathedral. At Florence he spent some days with the Duke of Shrewsbury, who, cloyed with the pleasures of ambition, and impatient of its pains, fearing both parties, and loving neither, had determined to hide in an Italian retreat talents and accomplishments which, if they had been united with fixed principles and civil courage, might have made him the foremost man of his age. These days we are told, passed pleasantly; and we can easily believe it. For Addison was a delightful companion when he was at his ease; and the Duke, though he seldom forgot that he was a Talbot, had the invaluable art of putting at case all who came near him. Addison gave some time to Florence, and especially to the sculptures in the Museum, which he preferred even to those of the Vatican. He then pursued his journey through a country in which the ravages of the last war were still discernible, and in which all men were looking forward with dread to a still fiercer conflict. Eugene had already descended from the Rhaetian Alps, to dispute with Catinat the rich plain of Lombardy. The faithless ruler of Savoy was still reckoned among the allies of Lewis. England had not yet actually declared war against France: but Manchester had left Paris; and the negotiations which produced the Grand Alliance against the House of Bourbon were in progress. Under such circumstances, it was desirable for an English traveller to reach neutral ground without delay. Addison resolved to cross Mont Cenis. It was December; and the road was very different from that which now reminds the stranger of the power and genius of Napoleon. The winter, however, was mild; and the passage was, for those times, easy. To this journey Addison alluded when, in the ode which we have already quoted, he said that for him the Divine goodness had warmed the hoary Alpine hills. It was in the midst of the eternal snow that he composed his "Epistle" to his friend Montague, now Lord Halifax. That Epistle, once widely renowned, is now known only to curious readers, and will hardly be considered by those to whom it is known as in any perceptible degree heightening Addison's fame. It is, however, decidedly superior to any English composition which he had previously published. Nay, we think it quite as good as any poem in heroic metre which appeared during the interval between the death of Dryden and the publication of the Essay on Criticism. It contains passages as good as the second-rate passages of Pope, and would have added to the reputation of Parnell or Prior. But, whatever be the literary merits or defects of the Epistle, it undoubtedly does honour to the principles and spirit of the author. Halifax had now nothing to give. He had fallen from power, had been held up to obloquy, had been impeached by the House of Commons, and, though his Peers had dismissed the impeachment, had, as it seemed, little chance of ever again filling high office. The Epistle, written, at such a time, is one among many proofs that there was no mixture of cowardice or meanness in the suavity and moderation which distinguished Addison from all the other public men of those stormy times. At Geneva, the traveller learned that a partial change of Ministry had taken place in England, and that the Earl of Manchester had become Secretary of State. Manchester exerted himself to serve his young friend. It was thought advisable that an English agent should be near the person of Eugene in Italy; and Addison, whose diplomatic education was now finished, was the man selected. He was preparing to enter on his honourable functions, when all his prospects were for a time darkened by the death of William the Third. Anne had long felt a strong aversion, personal, political, and religious, to the Whig party. That aversion appeared in the first measure of her reign. Manchester was deprived of the seals, after he had held them only a few weeks. Neither Somers nor Halifax was sworn of the Privy Council. Addison shared the fate of his three patrons. His hopes of employment in the public service were at an end; his pension was stopped; and it was necessary for him to support himself by his own exertions. He became tutor to a young English traveller, and appears to have rambled with his pupil over great part of Switzerland and Germany. At this time he wrote his pleasing Treatise on Medals. It was not published till after his death; but several distinguished scholars saw the manuscript, and gave just praise to the grace of the style, and to the learning and ingenuity evinced by the quotations. From Germany Addison repaired to Holland, where he learned the melancholy news of his father's death. After passing some months in the United Provinces, he returned about the close of the year 1703 to England. He was there cordially received by his friends, and introduced by them into the Kit Cat Club, a society in which were collected all the various talents and accomplishments which then gave lustre to the Whig party. Addison was, during some months after his return from the Continent, hard pressed by pecuniary difficulties. But it was soon in the power of his noble patrons to serve him effectually. A political change, silent and gradual, but of the highest importance, was in daily progress. The accession of Anne had been hailed by the Tories with transports of joy and hope; and for a time it seemed that the Whigs had fallen, never to rise again. The throne was surrounded by men supposed to be attached to the prerogative and to the Church; and among these none stood so high in the favour of the Sovereign as the Lord Treasurer Godolphin and the Captain-General Marlborough. The country gentlemen and country clergymen had fully expected that the policy of these Ministers would be directly opposed to that which had been almost constantly followed by William; that the landed interest would be favoured at the expense of trade; that no addition would be made to the funded debt; that the privileges conceded to Dissenters by the late King would be curtailed, if not withdrawn; that the war with France, if there must be such a war, would, on our part, be almost entirely naval; and that the Government would avoid close connections with foreign powers, and, above all, with Holland. But the country gentlemen and country clergymen were fated to be deceived, not for the last time. The prejudices and passions which raged without control in vicarages, in cathedral closes, and in the manor-houses of fox-hunting squires, were not shared by the chiefs of the Ministry. Those statesmen saw that it was both for the public interest, and for their own interest, to adopt a Whig policy, at least as respected the alliances of the country and the conduct of the war. But, if the foreign policy of the Whigs were adopted, it was impossible to abstain from adopting also their financial policy. The natural consequences followed. The rigid Tories were alienated from the Government. The votes of the Whigs became necessary to it. The votes of the Whigs could be secured only by further concessions; and further concessions the Queen was induced to make. At the beginning of the year 1704, the state of parties bore a close analogy to the state of parties in 1826. In 1826, as in 1704, there was a Tory Ministry divided into two hostile sections. The position of Mr. Canning and his friends in 1826 corresponded to that which Marlborough and Godolphin occupied in 1704. Nottingham and Jersey were, in 1704, what Lord Eldon and Lord Westmoreland were in 1826. The Whigs of 1704 were in a situation resembling that in which the Whigs of 1826 stood. In 1704, Somers, Halifax, Sunderland, Cowper, were not in office. There was no avowed coalition between them and the moderate Tories. It is probable that no direct communication tending to such a coalition had yet taken place; yet all men saw that such a coalition was inevitable, nay, that it was already half formed. Such, or nearly such, was the state of things when tidings arrived of the great battle fought at Blenheim on the 13th August, 1704. By the Whigs the news was hailed with transports of joy and pride. No fault, no cause of quarrel, could be remembered by them against the Commander whose genius had, in one day, changed the face of Europe, saved the Imperial throne, humbled the House of Bourbon, and secured the Act of Settlement against foreign hostility. The feeling of the Tories was very different. They could not indeed, without imprudence, openly express regret at an event so glorious to their country; but their congratulations were so cold and sullen as to give deep disgust to the victorious general and his friends. Godolphin was not a reading man. Whatever time he could spare from business he was in the habit of spending at Newmarket or at the card-table. But he was not absolutely indifferent to poetry; and he was too intelligent an observer not to perceive that literature was a formidable engine of political warfare, and that the great Whig leaders had strengthened their party, and raised their character, by extending a liberal and judicious patronage to good writers. He was mortified, and not without reason, by the exceeding badness of the poems which appeared in honour of the battle of Blenheim. One of these poems has been rescued from oblivion by the exquisite absurdity of three lines: "Think of two thousand gentlemen at least, And each man mounted on his capering beast Into the Danube they were pushed by shoals." Where to procure better verses the Treasurer did not know. He understood how to negotiate a loan, or remit a subsidy: he was also well versed in the history of running horses and fighting cocks; but his acquaintance among the poets was very small. He consulted Halifax; but Halifax affected to decline the office of adviser. He had, he said, done his best, when he had power, to encourage men whose abilities and acquirements might do honour to their country. Those times were over. Other maxims had prevailed. Merit was suffered to pine in obscurity; and the public money was squandered on the undeserving. "I do know," he added, "a gentleman who would celebrate the battle in a manner worthy of the subject; but I will not name him." Godolphin, who was expert at the soft answer which turneth away wrath, and who was under the necessity of paying court to the Whigs, gently replied that there was too much ground for Halifax's complaints, but that what was amiss should in time be rectified, and that in the meantime the services of a man such as Halifax had described should be liberally rewarded. Halifax then mentioned Addison, but, mindful of the dignity as well as of the pecuniary interest of his friend, insisted that the Minister should apply in the most courteous manner to Addison himself; and this Godolphin promised to do. Addison then occupied a garret up three pair of stairs, over a small shop in the Haymarket. In this humble lodging he was surprised, on the morning which followed the conversation between Godolphin and Halifax, by a visit from no less a person than the Right Honourable Henry Boyle, then Chancellor of the Exchequer, and afterwards Lord Carleton. This highborn Minister had been sent by the Lord Treasurer as ambassador to the needy poet. Addison readily undertook the proposed task, a task which, to so good a Whig, was probably a pleasure. When the poem was little more than half finished, he showed it to Godolphin, who was delighted with it, and particularly with the famous similitude of the Angel. Addison was instantly appointed to a Commissionership worth about two hundred pounds a year, and was assured that this appointment was only an earnest of greater favours. The Campaign came forth, and was as much admired by the public as by the Minister. It pleases us less on the whole than the "Epistle to Halifax." Yet it undoubtedly ranks high among the poems which appeared during the interval between the death of Dryden and the dawn of Pope's genius. The chief merit of the Campaign, we think, is that which was noticed by Johnson, the manly and rational rejection of fiction. The first great poet whose works have come down to us sang of war long before war became a science or a trade. If, in his time, there was enmity between two little Greek towns, each poured forth its crowd of citizens, ignorant of discipline, and armed with implements of labour rudely turned into weapons. On each side appeared conspicuous a few chiefs, whose wealth had enabled them to procure good armour, horses, and chariots, and whose leisure had enabled them to practise military exercises. One such chief, if he were a man of great strength, agility, and courage, would probably be more formidable than twenty common men; and the force and dexterity with which he flung his spear might have no inconsiderable share in deciding the event of the day. Such were probably the battles with which Homer was familiar. But Homer related the actions of men of a former generation, of men who sprang from the Gods, and communed with the Gods face to face, of men, one of whom could with ease hurl rocks which two sturdy hinds of a later period would be unable even to lift. He therefore naturally represented their martial exploits as resembling in kind, but far surpassing in magnitude, those of the stoutest and most expert combatants of his own age. Achilles, clad in celestial armour, drawn by celestial coursers, grasping the spear which none but himself could raise, driving all Troy and Lycia before him, and choking Scamander with dead, was only a magnificent exaggeration of the real hero, who, strong, fearless, accustomed to the use of weapons, guarded by a shield and helmet of the best Sidonian fabric, and whirled along by horses of Thessalian breed, struck down with his own right arm foe after foe. In all rude societies similar notions are found. There are at this day countries where the Lifeguardsman Shaw would be considered as a much greater warrior than the Duke of Wellington. Buonaparte loved to describe the astonishment with which the Mamelukes looked at his diminutive figure. Mourad Bey, distinguished above all his fellows by his bodily strength, and by the skill with which he managed his horse and his sabre, could not believe that a man who was scarcely five feet high, and rode like a butcher, could be the greatest soldier in Europe. Homer's descriptions of war had therefore as much truth as poetry requires. But truth was altogether wanting to the performances of those who, writing about battles which had scarcely anything in common with the battles of his times, servilely imitated his manner. The folly of Silius Italicus, in particular, is positively nauseous. He undertook to record in verse the vicissitudes of a great struggle between generals of the first order; and his narrative is made up of the hideous wounds which these generals inflicted with their own hands. Asdrubal flings a spear which grazes the shoulder of the consul Nero; but Nero sends his spear into Asdrubal's side. Fabius slays Thuris and Butes and Maris and Arses, and the long-haired Adherbes, and the gigantic Thylis, and Sapharus and Monaesus, and the trumpeter Morinus. Hannibal runs Perusinus through the groin with a stake, and breaks the backbone of Telesinus with a huge stone. This detestable fashion was copied in modern times, and continued to prevail down to the age of Addison. Several versifiers had described William turning thousands to flight by his single prowess, and dyeing the Boyne with Irish blood. Nay, so estimable a writer as John Philips, the author of the Splendid Shilling, represented Marlborough as having won the battle of Blenheim merely by strength of muscle and skill in fence. The following lines may serve as an example:- "Churchill viewing where The violence of Tallard most prevailed, Came to oppose his slaughtering arm. With speed precipitate he rode, urging his way O'er hills of gasping heroes, and fallen steeds Rolling in death. Destruction, grim with blood, Attends his furious course. Around his head The glowing balls play innocent, while he With dire impetuous sway deals fatal blows Among the flying Gauls. In Gallic blood He dyes his reeking sword, and strews the ground With headless ranks. What can they do? Or how Withstand his wide-destroying sword?" Addison, with excellent sense and taste, departed from this ridiculous fashion. He reserved his praise for the qualities which made Marlborough truly great, energy, sagacity, military science. But, above all, the poet extolled the firmness of that mind which, in the midst of confusion, uproar, and slaughter, examined and disposed everything with the serene wisdom of a higher intelligence. Here it was that he introduced the famous comparison of Marlborough to an angel guiding the whirlwind. We will not dispute the general justice of Johnson's remarks on this passage. But we must point out one circumstance which appears to have escaped all the critics. The extraordinary effect which this simile produced when it first appeared, and which to the following generation seemed inexplicable, is doubtless to be chiefly attributed to a line which most readers now regard as a feeble parenthesis:-- "Such as, of late, o'er pale Britannia pass'd." Addison spoke, not of a storm, but of the storm. The great tempest of November 1703, the only tempest which in our latitude has equalled the rage of a tropical hurricane, had left a dreadful recollection in the minds of all men. No other tempest was ever in this country the occasion of a parliamentary address or of a public fast. Whole fleets had been cast away. Large mansions had been blown down. One Prelate had been buried beneath the ruins of his palace. London and Bristol had presented the appearance of cities just sacked. Hundreds of families were still in mourning. The prostrate trunks of large trees, and the ruins of houses, still attested, in all the southern counties, the fury of the blast. The popularity which the simile of the angel enjoyed among Addison's contemporaries, has always seemed to us to be a remarkable instance of the advantage which, in rhetoric and poetry, the particular has over the general. Soon after the Campaign, was published Addison's Narrative of his Travels in Italy. The first effect produced by this Narrative was disappointment. The crowd of readers who expected politics and scandal, speculations on the projects of Victor Amadeus, and anecdotes about the jollities of convents and the amours of cardinals and nuns, were confounded by finding that the writer's mind was much more occupied by the war between the Trojans and Rutulians than by the war between France and Austria; and that he seemed to have heard no scandal of later date than the gallantries of the Empress Faustina. In time, however, the judgment of the many was overruled by that of the few; and, before the book was reprinted, it was so eagerly sought that it sold for five times the original price. It is still read with pleasure: the style is pure and flowing; the classical quotations and allusions are numerous and happy; and we are now and then charmed by that singularly humane and delicate humour in which Addison excelled all men. Yet this agreeable work, even when considered merely as the history of a literary tour, may justly be censured on account of its faults of omission. We have already said that, though rich in extracts from the Latin poets, it contains scarcely any references to the Latin orators and historians. We must add, that it contains little, or rather no information, respecting the history and literature of modern Italy. To the best of our remembrance, Addison does not mention Dante, Petrarch Boccaccio, Boiardo, Berni, Lorenzo de'Medici, or Machiavelli. He coldly tells us, that at Ferrara he saw the tomb of Ariosto, and that at Venice he heard the gondoliers sing verses of Tasso. But for Tasso and Ariosto he cared far less than for Valerius Flaccus and Sidonius Apollinaris. The gentle flow of the Ticin brings a line of Silius to his mind. The sulphurous stream of Albula suggests to him several passages of Martial. But he has not a word to say of the illustrious dead of Santa Croce; he crosses the wood of Ravenna without recollecting the Spectre Huntsman, and wanders up and down Rimini without one thought of Francesca. At Paris, he had eagerly sought an introduction to Boileau; but he seems not to have been at all aware that at Florence he was in the vicinity of a poet with whom Boileau could not sustain a comparison, of the greatest lyric poet of modern times, Vincenzio Filicaja. This is the more remarkable, because Filicaja was the favourite poet of the accomplished Somers, under whose protection Addison travelled, and to whom the account of the Travels is dedicated. The truth is, that Addison knew little, and cared less, about the literature of modern Italy. His favourite models were Latin, his favourite critics were French. Half the Tuscan poetry that he had read seemed to him monstrous, and the other half tawdry. His Travels were followed by the lively opera of Rosamond. This piece was ill set to music, and therefore failed on the stage, but it completely succeeded in print, and is indeed excellent in its kind. The smoothness with which the verses glide, and the elasticity with which they bound, is, to our ears at least, very pleasing. We are inclined to think that if Addison had left heroic couplets to Pope, and blank verse to Rowe, and had employed himself in writing airy and spirited songs, his reputation as a poet would have stood far higher than it now does. Some years after his death, Rosamond was set to new music by Doctor Arne; and was performed with complete success. Several passages long retained their popularity, and were daily sung, during the latter part of George the Second's reign, at all the harpsichords in England. While Addison thus amused himself, his prospects, and the prospects of his party, were constantly becoming brighter and brighter. In the spring of 1705, the Ministers were freed from the restraint imposed by a House of Commons in which Tories of the most perverse class had the ascendency. The elections were favourable to the Whigs. The coalition which had been tacitly and gradually formed was now openly avowed. The Great Seal was given to Cowper. Somers and Halifax were sworn of the Council. Halifax was sent in the following year to carry the decorations of the Order of the Garter to the Electoral Prince of Hanover, and was accompanied on this honourable mission by Addison, who had just been made Under-Secretary of State. The Secretary of State under whom Addison first served was Sir Charles Hedges, a Tory. But Hedges was soon dismissed, to make room for the most vehement of Whigs, Charles, Earl of Sunderland. In every department of the State, indeed, the High Churchmen were compelled to give place to their opponents. At the close of 1707, the Tories who still remained in office strove to rally, with Harley at their head. But the attempt, though favoured by the Queen, who had always been a Tory at heart, and who had now quarrelled with the Duchess of Marlborough, was unsuccessful. The time was not yet. The Captain-General was at the height of popularity and glory. The Low Church party had a majority in Parliament. The country squires and rectors, though occasionally uttering a savage growl, were for the most part in a state of torpor, which lasted till they were roused into activity, and indeed into madness, by the prosecution of Sacheverell. Harley and his adherents were compelled to retire. The victory of the Whigs was complete. At the general election of 1708, their strength in the House of Commons became irresistible; and, before the end of that year, Somers was made Lord President of the Council, and Wharton Lord- Lieutenant of Ireland. Addison sat for Malmsbury in the House of Commons which was elected in 1708. But the House of Commons was not the field for him. The bashfulness of his nature made his wit and eloquence useless in debate. He once rose, but could not overcome his diffidence, and ever after remained silent. Nobody can think it strange that a great writer should fail as a speaker. But many, probably, will think it strange that Addison's failure as a speaker should have had no unfavourable effect on his success as a politician. In our time, a man of high rank and great fortune might, though speaking very little and very ill, hold a considerable post. But it would now be inconceivable that a mere adventurer, a man who, when out of office, must live by his pen, should in a few years become successively Under-Secretary of State, Chief Secretary for Ireland, and Secretary of State, without some oratorical talent. Addison, without high birth, and with little property, rose to a post which Dukes the heads of the great Houses of Talbot, Russell, and Bentinck, have thought it an honour to fill. Without opening his lips in debate, he rose to a post, the highest that Chatham or Fox ever reached. And this he did before he had been nine years in Parliament. We must look for the explanation of this seeming miracle to the peculiar circumstances in which that generation was placed. During the interval which elapsed between the time when the Censorship of the Press ceased, and the time when parliamentary proceedings began to be freely reported, literary talents were, to a public man, of much more importance, and oratorical talents of much less importance, than in our time. At present, the best way of giving rapid and wide publicity to a fact or an argument is to introduce that fact or argument into a speech made in Parliament. If a political tract were to appear superior to the Conduct of the Allies, or to the best numbers of the Freeholder, the circulation of such a tract would be languid indeed when compared with the circulation of every remarkable word uttered in the deliberations of the legislature. A speech made in the House of Commons at four in the morning is on thirty thousand tables before ten. A speech made on the Monday is read on the Wednesday by multitudes in Antrim and Aberdeenshire. The orator, by the help of the shorthand writer, has to a great extent superseded the pamphleteer. It was not so in the reign of Anne. The best speech could then produce no effect except on those who heard it. It was only by means of the press that the opinion of the public without doors could be influenced: and the opinion of the public without doors could not but be of the highest importance in a country governed by parliaments, and indeed at that time governed by triennial parliaments. The pen was therefore a more formidable political engine than the tongue. Mr. Pitt and Mr. Fox contended only in Parliament. But Walpole and Pulteney, the Pitt and Fox of an earlier period, had not done half of what was necessary, when they sat down amidst the acclamations of the House of Commons. They had still to plead their cause before the country, and this they could do only by means of the press. Their works are now forgotten. But it is certain that there were in Grub Street few more assiduous scribblers of Thoughts, Letters, Answers, Remarks, than these two great chiefs of parties. Pulteney, when leader of the Opposition, and possessed of thirty thousand a year, edited the Craftsman. Walpole, though not a man of literary habits, was the author of at least ten pamphlets, and retouched and corrected many more. These facts sufficiently show of how great importance literary assistance then was to the contending parties. St. John was, certainly, in Anne's reign, the best Tory speaker; Cowper was probably the best Whig speaker. But it may well be doubted whether St. John did so much for the Tories as Swift, and whether Cowper did so much for the Whigs as Addison. When these things are duly considered, it will not be thought strange that Addison should have climbed higher in the State than any other Englishman has ever, by means merely of literary talents, been able to climb. Swift would, in all probability, have climbed as high, if he had not been encumbered by his cassock and his pudding sleeves. As far as the homage of the great went, Swift had as much of it as if he had been Lord Treasurer. To the influence which Addison derived from his literary talents was added all the influence which arises from character. The world, always ready to think the worst of needy political adventurers, was forced to make one exception. Restlessness, violence, audacity, laxity of principle, are the vices ordinarily attributed to that class of men. But faction itself could not deny that Addison had, through all changes of fortune, been strictly faithful to his early opinions, and to his early friends; that his integrity was without stain; that his whole deportment indicated a fine sense of the becoming; that, in the utmost heat of controversy, his zeal was tempered by a regard for truth, humanity, and social decorum; that no outrage could ever provoke him to retaliation unworthy of a Christian and a gentleman; and that his only faults were a too sensitive delicacy, and a modesty which amounted to bashfulness. He was undoubtedly one of the most popular men of his time; and much of his popularity he owed, we believe, to that very timidity which his friends lamented. That timidity often prevented him from exhibiting his talents to the best advantage. But it propitiated Nemesis. It averted that envy which would otherwise have been excited by fame so splendid and by so rapid an elevation. No man is so great a favourite with the Public as he who is at once an object of admiration, of respect and of pity; and such were the feelings which Addison inspired. Those who enjoyed the privilege of hearing his familiar conversation, declared with one voice that it was superior even to his writings. The brilliant Mary Montague said, that she had known all the wits, and that Addison was the best company in the world. The malignant Pope was forced to own, that there was a charm in Addison's talk, which could be found nowhere else. Swift, when burning with animosity against the Whigs, could not but confess to Stella that, after all, he had never known any associate so agreeable as Addison. Steele, an excellent judge of lively conversation, said that the conversation of Addison was at once the most polite, and the most mirthful, that could be imagined; that it was Terence and Catullus in one, heightened by an exquisite something which was neither Terence nor Catullus, but Addison alone. Young, an excellent judge of serious conversation, said, that when Addison was at his ease, he went on in a noble strain of thought and language, so as to chain the attention of every hearer. Nor were Addison's great colloquial powers more admirable than the courtesy and softness of heart which appeared in his conversation. At the same time, it would be too much to say that he was wholly devoid of the malice which is, perhaps, inseparable from a keen sense of the ludicrous. He had one habit which both Swift and Stella applauded, and which we hardly know how to blame. If his first attempts to set a presuming dunce right were ill received, he changed his tone, "assented with civil leer," and lured the flattered coxcomb deeper and deeper into absurdity. That such was his practice, we should, we think, have guessed from his works. The Tatler's criticisms on Mr. Softly's sonnet and the Spectator's dialogue with the politician who is so zealous for the honour of Lady Q--p--t--s, are excellent specimens of this innocent mischief. Such were Addison's talents for conversation. But his rare gifts were not exhibited to crowds or to strangers. As soon as he entered a large company, as soon as he saw an unknown face, his lips were sealed and his manners became constrained. None who met him only in great assemblies would have been able to believe that he was the same man who had often kept a few friends listening and laughing round a table, from the time when the play ended, till the clock of St. Paul's in Covent Garden struck four. Yet, even at such a table, he was not seen to the best advantage. To enjoy his conversation in the highest perfection, it was necessary to be alone with him, and to hear him, in his own phrase, think aloud. "There is no such thing," he used to say, "as real conversation, but between two persons." This timidity, a timidity surely neither ungraceful nor unamiable, led Addison into the two most serious faults which can with justice be imputed to him. He found that wine broke the spell which lay on his fine intellect, and was therefore too easily seduced into convivial excess. Such excess was in that age regarded, even by grave men, as the most venial of all peccadilloes, and was so far from being a mark of ill-breeding, that it was almost essential to the character of a fine gentleman. But the smallest speck is seen on a white ground; and almost all the biographers of Addison have said something about this failing. Of any other statesman or writer of Queen Anne's reign, we should no more think of saying that he sometimes took too much wine, than that he wore a long wig and a sword. To the excessive modesty of Addison's nature, we must ascribe another fault which generally arises from a very different cause. He became a little too fond of seeing himself surrounded by a small circle of admirers, to whom he was as a King or rather as a God. All these men were far inferior to him in ability, and some of them had very serious faults. Nor did those faults escape his observation; for, if ever there was an eye which saw through and through men, it was the eye of Addison. But, with the keenest observation, and the finest sense of the ridiculous, he had a large charity. The feeling with which he looked on most of his humble companions was one of benevolence, slightly tinctured with contempt. He was at perfect case in their company; he was grateful for their devoted attachment; and he loaded them with benefits. Their veneration for him appears to have exceeded that with which Johnson was regarded by Boswell, or Warburton by Hurd. It was not in the power of adulation to turn such a head, or deprave such a heart, as Addison's. But it must in candour be admitted that he contracted some of the faults which can scarcely be avoided by any person who is so unfortunate as to be the oracle of a small literary coterie. One member of this little society was Eustace Budgell, a young Templar of some literature, and a distant relation of Addison. There was at this time no stain on the character of Budgell, and it is not improbable that his career would have been prosperous and honourable, if the life of his cousin had been prolonged. But when the master was laid in the grave, the disciple broke loose from all restraint, descended rapidly from one degree of vice and misery to another, ruined his fortune by follies, attempted to repair it by crimes, and at length closed a wicked and unhappy life by self-murder. Yet, to the last, the wretched man, gambler, lampooner, cheat, forger, as he was, retained his affection and veneration for Addison, and recorded those feelings in the last lines which he traced before he hid himself from infamy under London Bridge. Another of Addison's favourite companions was Ambrose Phillips, a good Whig and a middling poet, who had the honour of bringing into fashion a species of composition which has been called, after his name, Namby Pamby. But the most remarkable members of the little senate, as Pope long afterwards called it, were Richard Steele and Thomas Tickell. Steele had known Addison from childhood. They had been together at the Charterhouse and at Oxford; but circumstances had then, for a time, separated them widely. Steele had left college without taking a degree, had been disinherited by a rich relation, had led a vagrant life, had served in the army, had tried to find the philosopher's stone, and had written a religious treatise and several comedies. He was one of those people whom it is impossible either to hate or to respect. His temper was sweet, his affections warm, his spirits lively, his passions strong, and his principles weak. His life was spent in sinning and repenting; in inculcating what was right, and doing what was wrong. In speculation, he was a man of piety and honour; in practice, he was much of the rake and a little of the swindler. He was, however, so good-natured that it was not easy to be seriously angry with him, and that even rigid moralists felt more inclined to pity than to blame him, when he diced himself into a spunging-house or drank himself into a fever. Addison regarded Steele with kindness not unmingled with scorn, tried, with little success, to keep him out of scrapes, introduced him to the great, procured a good place for him, corrected his plays, and, though by no means rich, lent him large sums of money. One of these loans appears, from a letter dated in August 1708, to have amounted to a thousand pounds. These pecuniary transactions probably led to frequent bickerings. It is said that, on one occasion, Steele's negligence, or dishonesty, provoked Addison to repay himself by the help of a bailiff. We cannot join with Miss Aikin in rejecting this story. Johnson heard it from Savage, who heard it from Steele. Few private transactions which took place a hundred and twenty years ago, are proved by stronger evidence than this. But we can by no means agree with those who condemn Addison's severity. The most amiable of mankind may well be moved to indignation, when what he has earned hardly, and lent with great inconvenience to himself, for the purpose of relieving a friend in distress, is squandered with insane profusion. We will illustrate our meaning by an example, which is not the less striking because it is taken from fiction. Dr. Harrison, in Fielding's Amelia, is represented as the most benevolent of human beings; yet he takes in execution, not only the goods, but the person of his friend Booth. Dr. Harrison resorts to this strong measure because he has been informed that Booth, while pleading poverty as an excuse for not paying just debts has been buying fine jewellery, and setting up a coach. No person who is well acquainted with Steele's life and correspondence can doubt that he behaved quite as ill to Addison as Booth was accused of behaving to Dr. Harrison. The real history, we have little doubt, was something like this:--A letter comes to Addison, imploring help in pathetic terms, and promising reformation and speedy repayment. Poor Dick declares that he has not an inch of candle, or a bushel of coals, or credit with the butcher for a shoulder of mutton. Addison is moved. He determines to deny himself some medals which are wanting to his series of the twelve Caesars; to put off buying the new edition of Bayle's Dictionary; and to wear his old sword and buckles another year. In this way he manages to send a hundred pounds to his friend. The next day he calls on Steele, and finds scores of gentlemen and ladies assembled. The fiddles are playing. The table is groaning under Champagne, Burgundy, and pyramids of sweetmeats. Is it strange that a man whose kindness is thus abused, should send sheriff's officers to reclaim what is due to him? Tickell was a young man, fresh from Oxford, who had introduced himself to public notice by writing a most ingenious and graceful little poem in praise of the opera of Rosamond. He deserved, and at length attained, the first place in Addison's friendship. For a time Steele and Tickell were on good terms. But they loved Addison too much to love each other, and at length became as bitter enemies as the rival bulls in Virgil. At the close of 1708 Wharton became Lord-Lieutenant of Ireland, and appointed Addison Chief Secretary. Addison was consequently under the necessity of quitting London for Dublin. Besides the chief secretaryship, which was then worth about two thousand pounds a year, he obtained a patent appointing him keeper of the Irish Records for life, with a salary of three or four hundred a year. Budgell accompanied his cousin in the capacity of private secretary. Wharton and Addison had nothing in common but Whiggism. The Lord- Lieutenant was not only licentious and corrupt, but was distinguished from other libertines and jobbers by a callous impudence which presented the strongest contrast to the Secretary's gentleness and delicacy. Many parts of the Irish administration at this time appear to have deserved serious blame. But against Addison there was not a murmur. He long afterwards asserted, what all the evidence which we have ever seen tends to prove, that his diligence and integrity gained the friendship of all the most considerable persons in Ireland. The parliamentary career of Addison in Ireland has, we think, wholly escaped the notice of all his biographers. He was elected member for the borough of Cavan in the summer of 1709; and in the journals of two sessions his name frequently occurs. Some of the entries appear to indicate that he so far overcame his timidity as to make speeches. Nor is this by any means improbable; for the Irish House of Commons was a far less formidable audience than the English House; and many tongues which were tied by fear in the greater assembly became fluent in the smaller. Gerard Hamilton, for example, who, from fear of losing the fame gained by his single speech, sat mute at Westminster during forty years, spoke with great effect at Dublin when he was Secretary to Lord Halifax. While Addison was in Ireland, an event occurred to which he owes his high and permanent rank among British writers. As yet his fame rested on performances which, though highly respectable, were not built for duration, and which would, if he had produced nothing else, have now been almost forgotten, on some excellent Latin verses, on some English verses which occasionally rose above mediocrity, and on a book of travels, agreeably written, but not indicating any extraordinary powers of mind. These works showed him to be a man of taste, sense, and learning. The time had come when he was to prove himself a man of genius, and to enrich our literature with compositions which will live as long as the English language. In the spring of 1709 Steele formed a literary project, of which he was far indeed from foreseeing the consequences. Periodical papers had during many years been published in London. Most of these were political; but in some of them questions of morality, taste, and love casuistry had been discussed. The literary merit of these works was small indeed; and even their names are now known only to the curious. Steele had been appointed Gazetteer by Sunderland, at the request, it is said, of Addison, and thus had access to foreign intelligence earlier and more authentic than was in those times within the reach of an ordinary news-writer. This circumstance seems to have suggested to him the scheme of publishing a periodical paper on a new plan. It was to appear on the days on which the post left London for the country, which were, in that generation, the Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. It was to contain the foreign news, accounts of theatrical representations, and the literary gossip of Will's and of the Grecian. It was also to contain remarks on the fashionable topics of the day, compliments to beauties, pasquinades on noted sharpers, and criticisms on popular preachers. The aim of Steele does not appear to have been at first higher than this. He was not ill qualified to conduct the work which he had planned. His public intelligence he drew from the best sources. He knew the town, and had paid dear for his knowledge. He had read much more than the dissipated men of that time were in the habit of reading. He was a rake among scholars, and a scholar among rakes. His style was easy and not incorrect; and, though his wit and humour were of no high order, his gay animal spirits imparted to his compositions an air of vivacity which ordinary readers could hardly distinguish from comic genius. His writings have been well compared to those light wines which, though deficient in body and flavour, are yet a pleasant small drink, if not kept too long, or carried too far. Isaac Bickerstaff, Esquire, Astrologer, was an imaginary person, almost as well known in that age as Mr. Paul Pry or Mr. Samuel Pickwick in ours. Swift had assumed the name of Bickerstaff in a satirical pamphlet against Partridge, the maker of almanacks. Partridge had been fool enough to publish a furious reply. Bickerstaff had rejoined in a second pamphlet still more diverting than the first. All the wits had combined to keep up the joke, and the town was long in convulsions of laughter. Steele determined to employ the name which this controversy had made popular; and, in 1709, it was announced that Isaac Bickerstaff, Esquire, Astrologer, was about to publish a paper called the Tatler. Addison had not been consulted about this scheme: but as soon as he heard of it, he determined to give his assistance. The effect of that assistance cannot be better described than in Steele's own words. "I fared," he said, "like a distressed prince who calls in a powerful neighbour to his aid. I was undone by my auxiliary. When I had once called him in, I could not subsist without dependence on him." "The paper," he says elsewhere, "was advanced indeed. It was raised to a greater thing than I intended it." It is probable that Addison, when he sent across St. George's channel his first contributions to the Tatler, had no notion of the extent and variety of his own powers. He was the possessor of a vast mine, rich with a hundred ores. But he had been acquainted only with the least precious part of his treasures, and had hitherto contented himself with producing sometimes copper and sometimes lead, intermingled with a little silver. All at once, and by mere accident, he had lighted on an inexhaustible vein of the finest gold. The mere choice and arrangement of his words would have sufficed to make his essays classical. For never, not even by Dryden, not even by Temple, had the English language been written with such sweetness, grace, and facility. But this was the smallest part of Addison's praise. Had he clothed his thoughts in the half French style of Horace Walpole, or in the half Latin style of Dr. Johnson, or in the half German jargon of the present day, his genius would have triumphed over all faults of manner. As a moral satirist he stands unrivalled. If ever the best Tatlers and Spectators were equalled in their own kind, we should be inclined to guess that it must have been by the lost comedies of Menander. In wit properly so called, Addison was not inferior to Cowley or Butler. No single ode of Cowley contains so many happy analogies as are crowded into the lines to Sir Godfrey Kneller; and we would undertake to collect from the Spectators as great a number of ingenious illustrations as can be found in Hudibras. The still higher faculty of invention Addison possessed in still larger measure. The numerous fictions, generally original, often wild and grotesque, but always singularly graceful and happy, which are found in his essays, fully entitle him to the rank of a great poet, a rank to which his metrical compositions give him no claim. As an observer of life, of manners, of all the shades of human character, he stands in the first class. And what he observed he had the art of communicating in two widely different ways. He could describe virtues, vices, habits, whims, as well as Clarendon. But he could do something better. He could call human beings into existence, and make them exhibit themselves. If we wish to find anything more vivid than Addison's best portraits, we must go either to Shakspeare or to Cervantes. But what shall we say of Addison's humour, of his sense of the ludicrous, of his power of awakening that sense in others, and of drawing mirth from incidents which occur every day, and from little peculiarities of temper and manner, such as may be found in every man? We feel the charm: we give ourselves up to it; but we strive in vain to analyse it. Perhaps the best way of describing Addison's peculiar pleasantry is to compare it with the pleasantry of some other great satirists. The three most eminent masters of the art of ridicule, during the eighteenth century, were, we conceive, Addison, Swift, and Voltaire. Which of the three had the greatest power of moving laughter may be questioned. But each of them, within his own domain, was supreme. Voltaire is the prince of buffoons. His merriment is without disguise or restraint. He gambols; he grins; he shakes his sides; he points the finger; he turns up the nose; he shoots out the tongue. The manner of Swift is the very opposite to this. He moves laughter, but never joins in it. He appears in his works such as he appeared in society. All the company are convulsed with merriment, while the Dean, the author of all the mirth, preserves an invincible gravity, and even sourness of aspect, and gives utterance to the most eccentric and ludicrous fancies, with the air of a man reading the commination service. The manner of Addison is as remote from that of Swift as from that of Voltaire. He neither laughs out like the French wit, nor, like the Irish wit, throws a double portion of severity into his countenance while laughing inwardly; but preserves a look peculiarly his own, a look of demure serenity, disturbed only by an arch sparkle of the eye, an almost imperceptible elevation of the brow, an almost imperceptible curl of the lip. His tone is never that either of a Jack Pudding or of a Cynic. It is that of a gentleman, in whom the quickest sense of the ridiculous is constantly tempered by good nature and good breeding. We own that the humour of Addison is, in our opinion, of a more delicious flavour than the humour of either Swift or Voltaire. Thus much, at least, is certain, that both Swift and Voltaire have been successfully mimicked, and that no man has yet been able to mimic Addison. The letter of the Abbe Coyer to Pansophe is Voltaire all over, and imposed, during a long time, on the Academicians of Paris. There are passages in Arbuthnot's satirical works which we, at least, cannot distinguish from Swift's best writing. But of the many eminent men who have made Addison their model, though several have copied his mere diction with happy effect, none has been able to catch the tone of his pleasantry. In the World, in the Connoisseur, in the Mirror, in the Lounger, there are numerous Papers written in obvious imitation of his Tatlers and Spectators. Most of those papers have some merit; many are very lively and amusing; but there is not a single one which could be passed off as Addison's on a critic of the smallest perspicacity. But that which chiefly distinguishes Addison from Swift, from Voltaire, from almost all the other great masters of ridicule, is the grace, the nobleness, the moral purity, which we find even in his merriment. Severity, gradually hardening and darkening into misanthropy, characterises the works of Swift. The nature of Voltaire was, indeed, not inhuman; but he venerated nothing. Neither in the masterpieces of art nor in the purest examples of virtue, neither in the Great First Cause nor in the awful enigma of the grave, could he see anything but subjects for drollery. The more solemn and august the theme, the more monkey-like was his grimacing and chattering. The mirth of Swift is the mirth of Mephistopheles; the mirth of Voltaire is the mirth of Puck. If, as, Soame Jenyns oddly imagined, a portion of the happiness of Seraphim and just men made perfect be derived from an exquisite perception of the ludicrous, their mirth must surely be none other than the mirth of Addison; a mirth consistent with tender compassion for all that is frail, and with profound reverence for all that is sublime. Nothing great, nothing amiable, no moral duty, no doctrine of natural or revealed religion, has ever been associated by Addison with any degrading idea. His humanity is without a parallel in literary history. The highest proof of virtue is to possess boundless power without abusing it. No kind of power is more formidable than the power of making men ridiculous; and that power Addison possessed in boundless measure. How grossly that power was abused by Swift and by Voltaire is well known. But of Addison it may be confidently affirmed that he has blackened no man's character, nay, that it would be difficult if not impossible, to find in all the volumes which he has left us a single taunt which can be called ungenerous or unkind. Yet he had detractors, whose malignity might have seemed to justify as terrible a revenge as that which men, not superior to him in genius, wreaked on Bettesworth and on Franc de Pompignan. He was a politician; he was the best writer of his party; he lived in times of fierce excitement, in times when persons of high character and station stooped to scurrility such as is now practised only by the basest of mankind. Yet no provocation and no example could induce him to return railing for railing. On the service which his Essays rendered to morality it is difficult to speak too highly. It is true that, when the Tatler appeared, that age of outrageous profaneness and licentiousness which followed the Restoration had passed away. Jeremy Collier had shamed the theatres into something which, compared with the excesses of Etherege and Wycherley, might be called decency. Yet there still lingered in the public mind a pernicious notion that there was some connection between genius and profligacy, between the domestic virtues and the sullen formality of the Puritans. That error it is the glory of Addison to have dispelled. He taught the nation that the faith and the morality of Hale and Tillotson might be found in company with wit more sparkling than the wit of Congreve, and with humour richer than the humour of Vanbrugh. So effectually indeed, did he retort on vice the mockery which had recently been directed against virtue, that, since his time, the open violation of decency has always been considered among us as the mark of a fool. And this revolution, the greatest and most salutary ever effected by any satirist, he accomplished, be it remembered, without writing one personal lampoon. In the earlier contributions of Addison to the Tatler his peculiar powers were not fully exhibited. Yet from the first, his superiority to all his coadjutors was evident. Some of his later Tatlers are fully equal to anything that he ever wrote. Among the portraits we most admire "Tom Folio," "Ned Softly," and the "Political Upholsterer." "The Proceedings of the Court of Honour," the "Thermometer of Zeal," the story of the "Frozen Words," the "Memoirs of the Shilling," are excellent specimens of that ingenious and lively species of fiction in which Addison excelled all men. There is one still better paper of the same class. But though that paper, a hundred and thirty-three years ago, was probably thought as edifying as one of Smalridge's sermons, we dare not indicate it to the squeamish readers of the nineteenth century. During the session of Parliament which commenced in November 1709, and which the impeachment of Sacheverell has made memorable, Addison appears to have resided in London, The Tatler was now more popular than any periodical paper had ever been; and his connection with it was generally known. It was not known, however, that almost everything good in the Tatler was his. The truth is, that the fifty or sixty numbers which we owe to him were not merely the best, but so decidedly the best that any five of them are more valuable than all the two hundred numbers in which he had no share. He required, at this time, all the solace which he could derive from literary success. The Queen had always disliked the Whigs. She had during some years disliked the Marlborough family. But, reigning by a disputed title, she could not venture directly to oppose herself to a majority of both Houses of Parliament; and, engaged as she was in a war on the event of which her own Crown was staked, she could not venture to disgrace a great and successful general. But at length, in the year 1710, the causes which had restrained her from showing her aversion to the Low Church party ceased to operate. The trial of Sacheverell produced an outbreak of public feeling scarcely less violent than the outbreaks which we can ourselves remember in 1820 and 1831. The country gentlemen, the country clergymen, the rabble of the towns, were all, for once, on the same side. It was clear that, if a general election took place before the excitement abated, the Tories would have a majority. The services of Marlborough had been so splendid that they were no longer necessary. The Queen's throne was secure from all attack on the part of Lewis. Indeed, it seemed much more likely that the English and German armies would divide the spoils of Versailles and Marli than that a Marshal of France would bring back the Pretender to St. James's. The Queen, acting by the advice of Harley, determined to dismiss her servants. In June the change commenced. Sunderland was the first who fell. The Tories exulted over his fall. The Whigs tried, during a few weeks, to persuade themselves that her Majesty had acted only from personal dislike to the Secretary, and that she meditated no further alteration. But, early in August, Godolphin was surprised by a letter from Anne, which directed him to break his white staff. Even after this event, the irresolution or dissimulation of Harley kept up the hopes of the Whigs during another month; and then the ruin became rapid and violent. The Parliament was dissolved. The Ministers were turned out. The Tories were called to office. The tide of popularity ran violently in favour of the High Church party. That party, feeble in the late House of Commons, was now irresistible. The power which the Tories had thus suddenly acquired, they used with blind and stupid ferocity. The howl which the whole pack set up for prey and for blood appalled even him who had roused and unchained them. When, at this distance of time, we calmly review the conduct of the discarded Ministers, we cannot but feel a movement of indignation at the injustice with which they were treated. No body of men had ever administered the Government with more energy, ability, and moderation; and their success had been proportioned to their wisdom. They had saved Holland and Germany. They had humbled France. They had, as it seemed, all but torn Spain from the House of Bourbon. They had made England the first power in Europe. At home they had united England and Scotland. They had respected the rights of conscience and the liberty of the subject. They retired, leaving their country at the height of prosperity and glory. And yet they were pursued to their retreat by such a roar of obloquy as was never raised against the Government which threw away thirteen colonies, or against the Government which sent a gallant army to perish in the ditches of Walcheren. None of the Whigs suffered more in the general wreck than Addison. He had just sustained some heavy pecuniary losses, of the nature of which we are imperfectly informed, when the Secretaryship was taken from him. He had reason to believe that he should also be deprived of the small Irish office which he held by patent. He had just resigned his Fellowship. It seems probable that he had already ventured to raise his eyes to a great lady, and that, while his political friends were in power, and while his own fortunes were rising, he had been, in the phrase of the romances which were then fashionable, permitted to hope. But Mr. Addison the ingenious writer, and Mr. Addison the Chief Secretary, were, in her ladyship's opinion, two very different persons. All these calamities united, however, could not disturb the serene cheerfulness of a mind conscious of innocence, and rich in its own wealth. He told his friends, with smiling resignation, that they ought to admire his philosophy, that he had lost at once his fortune, his place, his Fellowship, and his mistress, that he must think of turning tutor again, and yet that his spirits were as good as ever. He had one consolation. Of the unpopularity which his friends had incurred, he had no share. Such was the esteem with which he was regarded that, while the most violent measures were taken for the purpose of forcing Tory members on Whig corporations, he was returned to Parliament without even a contest. Swift, who was now in London, and who had already determined on quitting the Whigs, wrote to Stella in these remarkable words. "The Tories carry it among the new members six to one. Mr. Addison's election has passed easy and undisputed; and I believe if he had a mind to be king he would hardly be refused." The goodwill with which the Tories regarded Addison is the more honourable to him, because it had not been purchased by any concession on his part. During the general election he published a political journal, entitled the Whig Examiner. Of that journal it may be sufficient to say that Johnson, in spite of his strong political prejudices, pronounced it to be superior in wit to any of Swift's writings on the other side. When it ceased to appear, Swift, in a letter to Stella, expressed his exultation at the death of so formidable an antagonist. "He might well rejoice," says Johnson, "at the death of that which he could not have killed." "On no occasion," he adds, "was the genius of Addison more vigorously exerted, and on none did the superiority of his powers more evidently appear." The only use which Addison appears to have made of the favour with which he was regarded by the Tories was to save some of his friends from the general ruin of the Whig party. He felt himself to be in a situation which made it his duty to take a decided part in politics. But the case of Steele and of Ambrose Phillips was different. For Phillips, Addison even condescended to solicit, with what success we have not ascertained. Steele held two places. He was Gazetteer, and he was also a Commissioner of Stamps. The Gazette was taken from him. But he was suffered to retain his place in the Stamp Office, on an implied understanding that he should not be active against the new Government; and he was, during more than two years, induced by Addison to observe this armistice with tolerable fidelity. Isaac Bickerstaff accordingly became silent on politics, and the article of news which had once formed about one-third of his paper, altogether disappeared. The Tatler had completely changed its character. It was now nothing but a series of essays on books, morals, and manners. Steele therefore resolved to bring it to a close, and to commence a new work on an improved plan. It was announced that this new work would be published daily. The undertaking was generally regarded as bold, or rather rash; but the event amply justified, the confidence with which Steele relied on the fertility of Addison's genius. On the second of January 1711, appeared the last Tatler. At the beginning of March following appeared the first of an incomparable series of papers containing observations on life and literature by an imaginary Spectator. The Spectator himself was conceived and drawn by Addison; and it is not easy to doubt that the portrait was meant to be in some features a likeness of the painter. The Spectator is a gentleman who, after passing a studious youth at the university, has travelled on classic ground, and has bestowed much attention on curious points of antiquity. He has, on his return, fixed his residence in London, and has observed all the forms of life which are to be found in that great city, has daily listened to the wits of Will's, has smoked with the philosophers of the Grecian, and has mingled with the parsons at Child's, and with the politicians at the St. James's. In the morning, he often listens to the hum of the Exchange; in the evening, his face is constantly to be seen in the pit of Drury Lane Theatre. But an insurmountable bashfulness prevents him from opening his mouth, except in a small circle of intimate friends. These friends were first sketched by Steele. Four of the club, the templar, the clergyman, the soldier, and the merchant, were uninteresting figures, fit only for a background. But the other two, an old country baronet and an old town rake, though not delineated with a very delicate pencil, had some good strokes. Addison took the rude outlines into his own hands, retouched them, coloured them, and is in truth the creator of the Sir Roger de Coverley and the Will Honeycomb with whom we are all familiar. The plan of the Spectator must be allowed to be both original and eminently happy. Every valuable essay in the series may be read with pleasure separately; yet the five or six hundred essays form a whole, and a whole which has the interest of a novel. It must be remembered, too, that at that time no novel, giving a lively and powerful picture of the common life and manners of England, had appeared. Richardson was working as a compositor. Fielding was robbing birds' nests. Smollett was not yet born. The narrative, therefore, which connects together the Spectator's Essays, gave to our ancestors their first taste of an exquisite and untried pleasure. That narrative was indeed constructed with no art or labour. The events were such events as occur every day. Sir Roger comes up to town to see Eugenio, as the worthy baronet always called Prince Eugene, goes with the Spectator on the water to Spring Gardens, walks among the tombs in the Abbey, and is frightened by the Mohawks, but conquers his apprehension so far as to go to the theatre when the Distressed Mother is acted. The Spectator pays a visit in the summer to Coverley Hall, is charmed with the old house, the old butler, and the old chaplain, eats a jack caught by Will Wimble, rides to the assizes, and hears a point of law discussed by Tom Touchy. At last a letter from the honest butler brings to the club the news that Sir Roger is dead. Will Honeycomb marries and reforms at sixty. The club breaks up; and the Spectator resigns his functions. Such events can hardly be said to form a plot; yet they are related with such truth, such grace, such wit, such humour, such pathos, such knowledge of the human heart, such knowledge of the ways of the world, that they charm us on the hundredth perusal. We have not the least doubt that if Addison had written a novel on an extensive plan, it would have been superior to any that we possess. As it is, he is entitled to be considered, not only as the greatest of the English essayists, but as the forerunner of the greatest English novelists. We say this of Addison alone; for Addison is the Spectator. About three-sevenths of the work are his; and it is no exaggeration to say, that his worst essay is as good as the best essay of his coadjutors. His best essays approach near to absolute perfection; nor is their excellence more wonderful than their variety. His invention never seems to flag; nor is he ever under the necessity of repeating himself, or of wearing out a subject. There are no dregs in his wine. He regales us after the fashion of that prodigal nabob who held that there was only one good glass in a bottle. As soon as we have tasted the first sparkling foam of a jest, it is withdrawn, and a fresh draught of nectar is at our lips. On the Monday we have an allegory as lively and ingenious as Lucian's Auction of Lives; on the Tuesday an Eastern apologue, as richly coloured as the Tales of Scherezade; on the Wednesday, a character described with the skill of La Bruyere; on the Thursday, a scene from common life, equal to the best chapters in the Vicar of Wakefield; on the Friday, some sly Horatian pleasantry on fashionable follies, on hoops, patches, or puppet shows; and on the Saturday a religious meditation, which will bear a comparison with the finest passages in Massillon. It is dangerous to select where there is so much that deserves the highest praise. We will venture, however, to say, that any person who wishes to form a just notion of the extent and variety of Addison's powers, will do well to read at one sitting the following papers, the two " Visits to the Abbey," the "Visit to the Exchange," the "Journal of the Retired Citizen," the "Vision of Mirza," the "Transmigrations of Pug the Monkey," and the "Death of Sir Roger de Coverley." [Nos. 26, 329, 69, 317, 159, 343, 517. These papers are all in the first seven volumes. The eighth must be considered as a separate work.] The least valuable of Addison's contributions to the Spectator are, in the judgment of our age, his critical papers. Yet his critical papers are always luminous, and often ingenious. The very worst of them must be regarded as creditable to him, when the character of the school in which he had been trained is fairly considered. The best of them were much too good for his readers. In truth, he was not so far behind our generation as he was before his own. No essays in the Spectator were more censured and derided than those in which he raised his voice against the contempt with which our fine old ballads were regarded, and showed the scoffers that the same gold which, burnished and polished, gives lustre to the Aeneid and the Odes of Horace, is mingled with the rude dross of Chevy Chace. It is not strange that the success of the Spectator should have been such as no similar work has ever obtained. The number of copies daily distributed was at first three thousand. It subsequently increased, and had risen to near four thousand when the stamp tax was imposed. The tax was fatal to a crowd of journals. The Spectator, however, stood its ground, doubled its price, and, though its circulation fell off, still yielded a large revenue both to the State and to the authors. For particular papers, the demand was immense; of some, it is said, twenty thousand copies were required. But this was not all. To have the Spectator served up every morning with the bohea and rolls was a luxury for the few. The majority were content to wait till essays enough had appeared to form a volume. Ten thousand copies of each volume were immediately taken off, and new editions were called for. It must be remembered, that the population of England was then hardly a third of what it now is. The number of Englishmen who were in the habit of reading, was probably not a sixth of what it now is. A shopkeeper or a farmer who found any pleasure in literature, was a rarity. Nay, there was doubtless more than one knight of the shire whose country seat did not contain ten books, receipt books and books on farriery included. In these circumstances, the sale of the Spectator must be considered as indicating a popularity quite as great as that of the most successful works of Sir Walter Scott and Mr. Dickens in our own time. At the close of 1712 the Spectator ceased to appear. It was probably felt that the short-faced gentleman and his club had been long enough before the town; and that it was time to withdraw them, and to replace them by a new set of characters. In a few weeks the first number of the Guardian was published. But the Guardian was unfortunate both in its birth and in its death. It began in dulness, and disappeared in a tempest of faction. The original plan was bad. Addison contributed nothing till sixty-six numbers had appeared; and it was then impossible to make the Guardian what the Spectator had been. Nestor Ironside and the Miss Lizards were people to whom even he could impart no interest. He could only furnish some excellent little essays, both serious and comic; and this he did. Why Addison gave no assistance to the Guardian, during the first two months of its existence is a question which has puzzled the editors and biographers, but which seems to us to admit of a very easy solution. He was then engaged in bringing his Cato on the stage. The first four acts of this drama had been lying in his desk since his return from Italy. His modest and sensitive nature shrank from the risk of a public and shameful failure; and, though all who saw the manuscript were loud in praise, some thought it possible that an audience might become impatient even of very good rhetoric, and advised Addison to print the play without hazarding a representation. At length, after many fits of apprehension, the poet yielded to the urgency of his political friends, who hoped that the public would discover some analogy between the followers of Caesar and the Tories, between Sempronius and the apostate Whigs, between Cato, struggling to the last for the liberties of Rome, and the band of patriots who still stood firm around Halifax and Wharton. Addison gave the play to the managers of Drury Lane Theatre, without stipulating for any advantage to himself. They, therefore, thought themselves bound to spare no cost in scenery and dresses. The decorations, it is true, would not have pleased the skilful eye of Mr. Macready. Juba's waistcoat blazed with gold lace; Marcia's hoop was worthy of a Duchess on the birthday; and Cato wore a wig worth fifty guineas. The prologue was written by Pope, and is undoubtedly a dignified and spirited composition. The part of the hero was excellently played by Booth. Steele undertook to pack a house. The boxes were in a blaze with the stars of the Peers in Opposition. The pit was crowded with attentive and friendly listeners from the Inns of Court and the literary coffee-houses. Sir Gilbert Heathcote, Governor of the Bank of England, was at the head of a powerful body of auxiliaries from the city, warm men and true Whigs, but better known at Jonathan's and Garraway's than in the haunts of wits and critics. These precautions were quite superfluous. The Tories, as a body, regarded Addison with no unkind feelings. Nor was it for their interest, professing, as they did, profound reverence for law and prescription, and abhorrence both of popular insurrections and of standing armies, to appropriate to themselves reflections thrown on the great military chief and demagogue, who, with the support of the legions and of the common people, subverted all the ancient institutions of his country. Accordingly, every shout that was raised by the members of the Kit Cat was echoed by the High Churchmen of the October; and the curtain at length fell amidst thunders of unanimous applause. The delight and admiration of the town were described by the Guardian in terms which we might attribute to partiality, were it not that the Examiner, the organ of the Ministry, held similar language. The Tories, indeed, found much to sneer at in the conduct of their opponents. Steele had on this, as on other occasions, shown more zeal than taste or judgment. The honest citizens who marched under the orders of Sir Gibby, as he was facetiously called, probably knew better when to buy and when to sell stock than when to clap and when to hiss at a play, and incurred some ridicule by making the hypocritical Sempronius their favourite, and by giving to his insincere rants louder plaudits than they bestowed on the temperate eloquence of Cato. Wharton, too, who had the incredible effrontery to applaud the lines about flying from prosperous vice and from the power of impious men to a private station, did not escape the sarcasms of those who justly thought that he could fly from nothing more vicious or impious than himself. The epilogue, which was written by Garth, a zealous Whig, was severely and not unreasonably censured as ignoble and out of place. But Addison was described, even by the bitterest Tory writers, as a gentleman of wit and virtue, in whose friendship many persons of both parties were happy, and whose name ought not to be mixed up with factious squabbles. Of the jests by which the triumph of the Whig party was disturbed, the most severe and happy was Bolingbroke's. Between two acts, he sent for Booth to his box, and presented him, before the whole theatre, with a purse of fifty guineas for defending the cause of liberty so well against the perpetual Dictator. This was a pungent allusion to the attempt which Marlborough had made, not long before his fall, to obtain a patent, creating him Captain-General for life. It was April; and in April, a hundred and thirty years ago, the London season was thought to be far advanced. During a whole month, however, Cato was performed to overflowing houses, and brought into the treasury of the theatre twice the gains of an ordinary spring. In the summer the Drury Lane Company went down to the Act at Oxford, and there, before an audience which retained an affectionate remembrance of Addison's accomplishments and virtues, his tragedy was acted during several days. The gownsmen began to besiege the theatre in the forenoon, and by one in the afternoon all the seats were filled. About the merits of the piece which had so extraordinary an effect, the public, we suppose, has made up its mind. To compare it with the masterpieces of the Attic stage, with the great English dramas of the time of Elizabeth, or even with the productions of Schiller's manhood, would be absurd indeed. Yet it contains excellent dialogue and declamation, and among plays fashioned on the French model, must be allowed to rank high; not indeed with Athalie, or Saul; but, we think not below Cinna, and certainly above any other English tragedy of the same school, above many of the plays of Corneille, above many of the plays of Voltaire and Alfieri, and above some plays of Racine. Be this as it may, we have little doubt that Cato did as much as the Tatlers, Spectators, and Freeholders united, to raise Addison's fame among his contemporaries. The modesty and good nature of the successful dramatist had tamed even the malignity of faction. But literary envy, it should seem, is a fiercer passion than party spirit. It was by a zealous Whig that the fiercest attack on the Whig tragedy was made. John Dennis published Remarks on Cato, which were written with some acuteness and with much coarseness and asperity. Addison neither defended himself nor retaliated. On many points he had an excellent defence; and, nothing would have been easier than to retaliate; for Dennis had written bad odes, bad tragedies, bad comedies: he had, moreover, a larger share than most men of those infirmities and eccentricities which excite laughter; and Addison's power of turning either an absurd book or an absurd man into ridicule was unrivalled. Addison, however, serenely conscious of his superiority, looked with pity on his assailant, whose temper, naturally irritable and gloomy, had been soured by want, by controversy, and by literary failures. But among the young candidates for Addison's favour there was one distinguished by talents from the rest, and distinguished, we fear, not less by malignity and insincerity. Pope was only twenty-five. But his powers had expanded to their full maturity; and his best poem, the Rape of the Lock, had recently been published. Of his genius, Addison had always expressed high admiration. But Addison had early discerned, what might indeed have been discerned by an eye less penetrating than his, that the diminutive, crooked, sickly boy was eager to revenge himself on society for the unkindness of nature. In the Spectator, the Essay on Criticism had been praised with cordial warmth; but a gentle hint had been added, that the writer of so excellent a poem would have done well to avoid ill-natured personalities. Pope, though evidently more galled by the censure than gratified by the praise, returned thanks for the admonition, and promised to profit by it. The two writers continued to exchange civilities, counsel, and small good offices. Addison publicly extolled Pope's miscellaneous pieces; and Pope furnished Addison with a prologue. This did not last long. Pope hated Dennis, whom he had injured without provocation. The appearance of the Remarks on Cato gave the irritable poet an opportunity of venting his malice under the show of friendship; and such an opportunity could not but be welcome to a nature which was implacable in enmity, and which always preferred the tortuous to the straight path. He published, accordingly, the Narrative of the Frenzy of John Dennis. But Pope had mistaken his powers. He was a great master of invective and sarcasm: he could dissect a character in terse and sonorous couplets, brilliant with antithesis: but of dramatic talent he was altogether destitute. If he had written a lampoon on Dennis, such as that on Atticus, or that on Sporus, the old grumbler would have been crushed. But Pope writing dialogue resembled--to borrow Horace's imagery and his own--a wolf, which, instead of biting, should take to kicking, or a monkey which should try to sting. The Narrative is utterly contemptible. Of argument there is not even the show; and the jests are such as, if they were introduced into a farce, would call forth the hisses of the shilling gallery. Dennis raves about the drama; and the nurse thinks that he is calling for a dram. "There is," he cries, "no peripetia in the tragedy, no change of fortune, no change at all." "Pray, good sir, be not angry," says the old woman; "I'll fetch change." This is not exactly the pleasantry of Addison. There can be no doubt that Addison saw through this officious zeal, and felt himself deeply aggrieved by it. So foolish and spiteful a pamphlet could do him no good, and, if he were thought to have any hand in it, must do him harm. Gifted with incomparable powers of ridicule, he had never even in self-defence, used those powers inhumanly or uncourteously; and he was not disposed to let others make his fame and his interests a pretext under which they might commit outrages from which he had himself constantly abstained. He accordingly declared that he had no concern in the Narrative, that he disapproved of it, and that if he answered the Remarks, he could answer them like a gentleman; and he took care to communicate this to Dennis. Pope was bitterly mortified; and to this transaction we are inclined to ascribe the hatred with which he ever after regarded Addison. In September 1713 the Guardian ceased to appear. Steele had gone mad about politics. A general election had just taken place: he had been chosen member for Stockbridge; and he fully expected to play a first part in Parliament. The immense success of the Tatler and Spectator had turned his head. He had been the editor of both those papers and was not aware how entirely they owed their influence and popularity to the genius of his friend. His spirits, always violent, were now excited by vanity, ambition, and faction, to such a pitch that he every day committed some offence against good sense and good taste. All the discreet and moderate members of his own party regretted and condemned his folly. "I am in a thousand troubles," Addison wrote, "about poor Dick, and wish that his zeal for the public may not be ruinous to himself. But he has sent me word that he is determined to go on, and that any advice I may give him in this particular will have no weight with him." Steele set up a political paper called the Englishman, which, as it was not supported by contributions from Addison, completely failed. By this work, by some other writings of the same kind, and by the airs which he gave himself at the first meeting of the new Parliament, he made the Tories so angry that they determined to expel him. The Whigs stood by him gallantly, but were unable to save him. The vote of expulsion was regarded by all dispassionate men as a tyrannical exercise of the power of the majority. But Steele's violence and folly, though they by no means justified the steps which his enemies took, had completely disgusted his friends; nor did he ever regain the place which he had held in the public estimation. Addison about this time conceived the design of adding an eighth volume to the Spectator In June 1714 the first number of the new series appeared, and during about six months three papers were published weekly. Nothing can be more striking than the contrast between the Englishman and the eighth volume of the Spectator, between Steele without Addison and Addison without Steele. The Englishman is forgotten; the eighth volume of the Spectator contains, the finest essays, both serious and playful, in the language. Before this volume was completed, the death of Anne produced an entire change in the administration of public affairs. The blow fell suddenly. It found the Tory party distracted by internal feuds, and unprepared for any great effort. Harley had just been disgraced. Bolingbroke, it was supposed, would be the chief Minister. But the Queen was on her deathbed before the white staff had been given, and her last public act was to deliver it with a feeble hand to the Duke of Shrewsbury. The emergency produced a coalition between all sections of public men who were attached to the Protestant succession. George the First was proclaimed without opposition. A Council, in which the leading Whigs had seats, took the direction of affairs till the new King should arrive. The first act of the Lords justices was to appoint Addison their secretary. There is an idle tradition that he was directed to prepare a letter to the King, that he could not satisfy himself as to the style of this composition, and that the Lords Justices called in a clerk, who at once did what was wanted. It is not strange that a story so flattering to mediocrity should be popular; and we are sorry to deprive dunces of their consolation. But the truth must be told. It was well observed by Sir James Mackintosh, whose knowledge of these times was unequalled, that Addison never, in any official document, affected wit or eloquence, and that his despatches are, without exception, remarkable for unpretending simplicity. Everybody who knows with what ease Addison's finest essays were produced must be convinced that, if well-turned phrases had been wanted, he would have had no difficulty in finding them. We are, however, inclined to believe, that the story is not absolutely without a foundation. It may well be that Addison did not know, till he had consulted experienced clerks who remembered the times when William the Third was absent on the Continent, in what form a letter from the Council of Regency to the King ought to be drawn. We think it very likely that the ablest statesmen of our time, Lord John Russell, Sir Robert Peel, Lord Palmerston, for example, would, in similar circumstances, be found quite as ignorant. Every office has some little mysteries which the dullest man may learn with a little attention, and which the greatest man cannot possibly know by intuition. One paper must be signed by the chief of the department; another by his deputy: to a third the royal sign-manual is necessary. One communication is to be registered, and another is not. One sentence must be in black ink, and another in red ink. If the ablest Secretary for Ireland were moved to the India Board, if the ablest President of the India Board were moved to the War Office, he would require instruction on points like these; and we do not doubt that Addison required such instruction when he became, for the first time, Secretary to the Lords Justices. George the First took possession of his kingdom without opposition. A new Ministry was formed, and a new Parliament favourable to the Whigs chosen. Sunderland was appointed Lord- Lieutenant of Ireland; and Addison again went to Dublin as Chief Secretary. At Dublin Swift resided; and there was much speculation about the way in which the Dean and the Secretary would behave towards each other. The relations which existed between these remarkable men form an interesting and pleasing portion of literary history. They had early attached themselves to the same political party and to the same patrons. While Anne's Whig Ministry was in power, the visits of Swift to London and the official residence of Addison in Ireland had given them opportunities of knowing each other. They were the two shrewdest observers of their age. But their observations on each other had led them to favourable conclusions. Swift did full justice to the rare powers of conversation which were latent under the bashful deportment of Addison. Addison, on the other hand, discerned much good-nature under the severe look and manner of Swift; and, indeed, the Swift of 1708 and the Swift of 1738 were two very different men. But the paths of the two friends diverged widely. The Whig statesmen loaded Addison with solid benefits. They praised Swift, asked him to dinner, and did nothing more for him. His profession laid them under a difficulty. In the State they could not promote him; and they had reason to fear that, by bestowing preferment in the Church on the author of the Tale of a Tub, they might give scandal to the public, which had no high opinion of their orthodoxy. He did not make fair allowance for the difficulties which prevented Halifax and Somers from serving him, thought himself an ill-used man, sacrificed honour and consistency to revenge, joined the Tories, and became their most formidable champion. He soon found, however, that his old friends were less to blame than he had supposed. The dislike with which the Queen and the heads of the Church regarded him was insurmountable; and it was with the greatest difficulty that he obtained an ecclesiastical dignity of no great value, on condition of fixing his residence in a country which he detested. Difference of political opinion had produced, not indeed a quarrel, but a coolness between Swift and Addison. They at length ceased altogether to see each other. Yet there was between them a tacit compact like that between the hereditary guests in the Iliad: "'Egkhea d' allelon aleometha kai di' dmilon. Polloi men gar emoi Troes kleitoi t' epikouroi Kteinein on ke theos ge pori kai possi kikheio Polloi d' au soi Akhaioi enairmen, on ke duneai." It is not strange that Addison, who calumniated and insulted nobody, should not have calumniated or insulted Swift. But it is remarkable that Swift, to whom neither genius nor virtue was sacred, and who generally seemed to find, like most other renegades, a peculiar pleasure in attacking old friends, should have shown so much respect and tenderness to Addison. Fortune had now changed. The accession of the House of Hanover had secured in England the liberties of the people, and in Ireland the dominion of the Protestant caste. To that caste Swift was more odious than any other man. He was hooted and even pelted in the streets of Dublin; and could not venture to ride along the strand for his health without the attendance of armed servants. Many whom he had formerly served now libelled and insulted him. At this time Addison arrived. He had been advised not to show the smallest civility to the Dean of St. Patrick's. He had answered, with admirable spirit, that it might be necessary for men whose fidelity to their party was suspected, to hold no intercourse with political opponents; but that one who had been a steady Whig in the worst times might venture, when the good cause was triumphant, to shake hands with an old friend who was one of the vanquished Tories. His kindness was soothing to the proud and cruelly wounded spirit of Swift; and the two great satirists resumed their habits of friendly intercourse. Those associates of Addison whose political opinions agreed with his shared his good fortune. He took Tickell with him to Ireland. He procured for Budgell a lucrative place in the same kingdom. Ambrose Phillips was provided for in England, Steele had injured himself so much by his eccentricity and perverseness, that he obtained but a very small part of what he thought his due. He was, however, knighted; he had a place in the household; and he subsequently received other marks of favour from the Court. Addison did not remain long in Ireland. In 1715 he quitted his secretaryship for a seat at the Board of Trade. In the same year his comedy of the Drummer was brought on the stage. The name of the author was not announced; the piece was coldly received; and some critics had expressed a doubt whether it were really Addison's. To us the evidence, both external and internal, seems decisive. It is not in Addison's best manner; but it contains numerous passages which no other writer known to us could have produced. It was again performed after Addison's death, and, being known to be his, was loudly applauded. Towards the close of the year 1715, while the Rebellion was still raging in Scotland, Addison published the first number of a paper called the Freeholder. Among his political works the Freeholder is entitled to the first place. Even in the Spectator there are few serious papers nobler than the character of his friend Lord Somers, and certainly no satirical papers superior to those in which the Tory fox-hunter is introduced. This character is the original of Squire Western, and is drawn with all Fielding's force, and with a delicacy of which Fielding was altogether destitute. As none of Addison's works exhibit stronger marks of his genius than the Freeholder, so none does more honour to his moral character. It is difficult to extol too highly the candour and humanity of a political writer whom even the excitement of civil war cannot hurry into unseemly violence. Oxford, it is well known, was then the stronghold of Toryism. The High Street had been repeatedly lined with bayonets in order to keep down the disaffected gownsmen; and traitors pursued by the messengers of the Government had been concealed in the garrets of several colleges. Yet the admonition which, even under such circumstances, Addison addressed to the University, is singularly gentle, respectful, and even affectionate. Indeed, he could not find it in his heart to deal harshly even with imaginary persons. His fox-hunter, though ignorant, stupid, and violent, is at heart a good fellow, and is at last reclaimed by the clemency of the King. Steele was dissatisfied with his friend's moderation, and, though he acknowledged that the Freeholder was excellently written, complained that the Ministry played on a lute when it was necessary to blow the trumpet. He accordingly determined to execute a flourish after his own fashion, and tried to rouse the public spirit of the nation by means of a paper called the Town Talk, which is now as utterly forgotten as his Englishman, as his Crisis, as his Letter to the Bailiff of Stockbridge, as his Reader, in short, as everything that he wrote without the help of Addison. In the same year in which the Drummer was acted, and in which the first numbers of the Freeholder appeared, the estrangement of Pope and Addison became complete. Addison had from the first seen that Pope was false and malevolent. Pope had discovered that Addison was jealous. The discovery was made in a strange manner. Pope had written the Rape of the Lock, in two cantos, without supernatural machinery. These two cantos had been loudly applauded, and by none more loudly than by Addison. Then Pope thought of the Sylphs and Gnomes, Ariel, Momentilla, Crispissa, and Umbriel, and resolved to interweave the Rosicrucian mythology with the original fabric. He asked Addison's advice. Addison said that the poem as it stood was a delicious little thing, and entreated Pope not to run the risk of marring what was so excellent in trying to mend it. Pope afterwards declared that this insidious counsel first opened his eyes to the baseness of him who gave it. Now there can be no doubt that Pope's plan was most ingenious, and that he afterwards executed it with great skill and success. But does it necessarily follow that Addison's advice was bad. And if Addison's advice was bad, does it necessarily follow that it was given from bad motives? If a friend were to ask us whether we would advise him to risk his all in a lottery of which the chances were ten to one against him, we should do our best to dissuade him from running such a risk. Even if he were so lucky as to get the thirty thousand pound prize, we should not admit that we had counselled him ill; and we should certainly think it the height of injustice in him to accuse us of having been actuated by malice. We think Addison's advice good advice. It rested on a sound principle, the result of long and wide experience. The general rule undoubtedly is that, when a successful work of imagination has been produced, it should not be recast. We cannot at this moment call to mind a single instance in which this rule has been transgressed with happy effect, except the instance of the Rape of the Lock. Tasso recast his Jerusalem. Akenside recast his Pleasures of the Imagination, and his Epistle to Curio. Pope himself, emboldened no doubt by the success with which he had expanded and remodelled the Rape of the Lock, made the same experiment on the Dunciad. All these attempts failed. Who was to foresee that Pope would, once in his life, be able to do what he could not himself do twice, and what nobody else has ever done? Addison's advice was good. But had it been bad, why should we pronounce it dishonest? Scott tells us that one of his best friends predicted the failure of Waverley. Herder adjured Goethe not to take so unpromising a subject as Faust. Hume tried to dissuade Robertson from writing the History of Charles the Fifth Nay, Pope himself was one of those who prophesied that Cato would never succeed on the stage, and advised Addison to print it without risking a representation. But Scott, Goethe, Robertson, Addison, had the good sense and generosity to give their advisers credit for the best intentions. Pope's heart was not of the same kind with theirs. In 1715, while he was engaged in translating the Iliad, he met Addison at a coffee-house. Phillips and Budgell were there; but their sovereign got rid of them, and asked Pope to dine with him alone. After dinner Addison said that he lay under a difficulty which he wished to explain. "Tickell," he said, "translated some time ago the first book of the Iliad. I have promised to look it over and correct it. I cannot therefore ask to see yours; for that would be double-dealing." Pope made a civil reply, and begged that his second book might have the advantage of Addison's revision. Addison readily agreed, looked over the second book, and sent it back with warm commendations. Tickell's version of the first book appeared soon after this conversation. In the preface all rivalry was earnestly disclaimed. Tickell declared that he should not go on with the Iliad. That enterprise he should leave to powers which he admitted to be superior to his own. His only view, he said, in publishing this specimen was to bespeak the favour of the public to a translation of the Odyssey, in which he had made some progress. Addison, and Addison's devoted followers, pronounced both the versions good, but maintained that Tickell's had more of the original. The town gave a decided preference to Pope's. We do not think it worth while to settle such a question of precedence. Neither of the rivals can be said to have translated the Iliad, unless, indeed, the word translation be used in the sense which it bears in the Midsummer Night's Dream. When Bottom makes his appearance with an ass's head instead of his own, Peter Quince exclaims, "Bless thee! Bottom, bless thee! thou art translated." In this sense, undoubtedly, the readers of either Pope or Tickell may very properly exclaim, "Bless thee! Homer; thou art translated indeed." Our readers will, we hope, agree with us in thinking that no man in Addison's situation could have acted more fairly and kindly, both towards Pope and towards Tickell, than he appears to have done. But an odious suspicion had sprung up in the mind of Pope. He fancied, and he soon firmly believed, that there was a deep conspiracy against his fame and his fortunes. The work on which he had staked his reputation was to be depreciated. The subscription, on which rested his hopes of a competence, was to be defeated. With this view Addison had made a rival translation: Tickell had consented to father it; and the wits of Button's had united to puff it. Is there any external evidence to support this grave accusation? The answer is short. There is absolutely none. Was there any internal evidence which proved Addison to be the author of this version? Was it a work which Tickell was incapable of producing? Surely not. Tickell was a Fellow of a College at Oxford, and must be supposed to have been able to construe the Iliad; and he was a better versifier than his friend. We are not aware that Pope pretended to have discovered any turns of expression peculiar to Addison. Had such turns of expression been discovered, they would be sufficiently accounted for by supposing Addison to have corrected his friend's lines, as he owned that he had done. Is there anything in the character of the accused persons which makes the accusation probable? We answer confidently--nothing. Tickell was long after this time described by Pope himself as a very fair and worthy man. Addison had been, during many years, before the public. Literary rivals, political opponents, had kept their eyes on him. But neither envy nor faction, in their utmost rage, had ever imputed to him a single deviation from the laws of honour and of social morality. Had he been indeed a man meanly jealous of fame, and capable of stooping to base and wicked arts for the purpose of injuring his competitors, would his vices have remained latent so long? He was a writer of tragedy: had he ever injured Rowe? He was a writer of comedy: had he not done ample justice to Congreve, and given valuable help to Steele? He was a pamphleteer: have not his good nature and generosity been acknowledged by Swift, his rival in fame and his adversary in politics? That Tickell should have been guilty of a villany seems to us highly improbable. That Addison should have been guilty of a villany seems to us highly improbable. But that these two men should have conspired together to commit a villany seems to us improbable in a tenfold degree. All that is known to us of their intercourse tends to prove, that it was not the intercourse of two accomplices in crime. These are some of the lines in which Tickell poured forth his sorrow over the coffin of Addison: Or dost thou warn poor mortals left behind, A task well suited to thy gentle mind? Oh, if sometimes thy spotless form descend, To me thine aid, thou guardian genius, lend, When rage misguides me, or when fear alarms, When pain distresses, or when pleasure charms, In silent whisperings purer thoughts impart, And turn from ill a frail and feeble heart; Lead through the paths thy virtue trod before, Till bliss shall join, nor death can part us more." In what words, we should like to know, did this guardian genius invite his pupil to join in a plan such as the Editor of the Satirist would hardly dare to propose to the Editor of the Age? We do not accuse Pope of bringing an accusation which he knew to be false. We have not the smallest doubt that he believed it to be true; and the evidence on which he believed it he found in his own bad heart. His own life was one long series of tricks, as mean and as malicious as that of which he suspected Addison and Tickell. He was all stiletto and mask. To injure, to insult, and to save himself from the consequences of injury and insult by lying and equivocating, was the habit of his life. He published a lampoon on the Duke of Chandos; he was taxed with it; and he lied and equivocated. He published a lampoon on Aaron Hill; he was taxed with it; and he lied and equivocated. He published a still fouler lampoon on Lady Mary Wortley Montague; he was taxed with it; and he lied with more than usual effrontery and vehemence. He puffed himself and abused his enemies under feigned names. He robbed himself of his own letters, and then raised the hue and cry after them. Besides his frauds of malignity, of fear, of interest, and of vanity, there were frauds which he seems to have committed from love of fraud alone. He had a habit of stratagem, a pleasure in outwitting all who came near him. Whatever his object might be, the indirect road to it was that which he preferred. For Bolingbroke, Pope undoubtedly felt as much love and veneration as it was in his nature to feel for any human being. Yet Pope was scarcely dead when it was discovered that, from no motive except the mere love of artifice, he had been guilty of an act of gross perfidy to Bolingbroke. Nothing was more natural than that such a man as this should attribute to others that which he felt within himself. A plain, probable, coherent explanation is frankly given to him. He is certain that it is all a romance. A line of conduct scrupulously fair, and even friendly, is pursued towards him. He is convinced that it is merely a cover for a vile intrigue by which he is to be disgraced and ruined. It is vain to ask him for proofs. He has none, and wants none, except those which he carries in his own bosom. Whether Pope's malignity at length provoked Addison to retaliate for the first and last time, cannot now be known with certainty. We have only Pope's story, which runs thus. A pamphlet appeared containing some reflections which stung Pope to the quick. What those reflections were, and whether they were reflections of which he had a right to complain, we have now no means of deciding. The Earl of Warwick, a foolish and vicious lad, who regarded Addison with the feelings with which such lads generally regard their best friends, told Pope, truly or falsely, that this pamphlet had been written by Addison's direction. When we consider what a tendency stories have to grow, in passing even from one honest man to another honest man, and when we consider that to the name of honest man neither Pope nor the Earl of Warwick had a claim, we are not disposed to attach much importance to this anecdote. It is certain, however, that Pope was furious. He had already sketched the character of Atticus in prose. In his anger he turned this prose into the brilliant and energetic lines which everybody knows by heart, or ought to know by heart, and sent them to Addison. One charge which Pope has enforced with great skill is probably not without foundation. Addison was, we are inclined to believe, too fond of presiding over a circle of humble friends. Of the other imputations which these famous lines are intended to convey, scarcely one has ever been proved to be just, and some are certainly false. That Addison was not in the habit of "damning with faint praise" appears from innumerable passages in his writings, and from none more than from those in which he mentions Pope, And it is not merely unjust, but ridiculous, to describe a man who made the fortune of almost every one of his intimate friends, as "so obliging that he ne'er obliged." That Addison felt the sting of Pope's satire keenly, we cannot doubt. That he was conscious of one of the weaknesses with which he was reproached, is highly probable. But his heart, we firmly believe, acquitted him of the gravest part of the accusation. He acted like himself. As a satirist he was, at his own weapons, more than Pope's match; and he would have been at no loss for topics. A distorted and diseased body, tenanted by a yet more distorted and diseased mind; spite and envy thinly disguised by sentiments as benevolent and noble as those which Sir Peter Teazle admired in Mr. Joseph Surface; a feeble sickly licentiousness; an odious love of filthy and noisome images; these were things which a genius less powerful than that to which we owe the Spectator could easily have held up to the mirth and hatred of mankind. Addison, had, moreover, at his command, other means of vengeance which a bad man would not have scrupled to use. He was powerful in the State. Pope was a Catholic; and, in those times, a Minister would have found it easy to harass the most innocent Catholic by innumerable petty vexations. Pope, near twenty years later, said that "through the lenity of the Government alone he could live with comfort." "Consider," he exclaimed, " the injury that a man of high rank and credit may do to a private person, under penal laws and many other disadvantages." It is pleasing to reflect that the only revenge which Addison took was to insert in the Freeholder a warm encomium on the translation of the Iliad, and to exhort all lovers of learning to put down their names as subscribers. There could be no doubt, he said, from the specimens already published, that the masterly hand of Pope would do as much for Homer as Dryden had done for Virgil. From that time to the end of his life, he always treated Pope, by Pope's own acknowledgment, with justice. Friendship was, of course, at an end. One reason which induced the Earl of Warwick to play the ignominious part of talebearer on this occasion, may have been his dislike of the marriage which was about to take place between his mother and Addison. The Countess Dowager, a daughter of the old and honourable family of the Middletons of Chirk, a family which, in any country but ours, would be called noble, resided at Holland House. Addison had, during some years, occupied at Chelsea a small dwelling, once the abode of Nell Gwynn. Chelsea is now a district of London, and Holland House may be called a town residence. But, in the days of Anne and George the First, milkmaids and sportsmen wandered between green hedges and over fields bright with daisies, from Kensington almost to the shore of the Thames. Addison and Lady Warwick were country neighbours, and became intimate friends. The great wit and scholar tried to allure the young Lord from the fashionable amusements of beating watchmen, breaking windows, and rolling women in hogsheads down Holborn Hill, to the study of letters, and the practice of virtue. These well-meant exertions did little good, however, either to the disciple or to the master. Lord Warwick grew up a rake; and Addison fell in love. The mature beauty of the Countess has been celebrated by poets in language which, after a very large allowance has been made for flattery, would lead us to believe that she was a fine woman; and her rank doubtless heightened her attractions. The courtship was long. The hopes of the lover appear to have risen and fallen with the fortunes of his party. His attachment was at length a matter of such notoriety that, when he visited Ireland for the last time, Rowe addressed some consolatory verses to the Chloe of Holland House. It strikes us as a little strange that, in these verses, Addison should be called Lycidas, a name of singularly evil omen for a swain just about to cross St. George's Channel. At length Chloe capitulated. Addison was indeed able to treat with her on equal terms. He had reason to expect preferment even higher than that which he had attained. He had inherited the fortune of a brother who died Governor of Madras. He had purchased an estate in Warwickshire, and had been welcomed to his domain in very tolerable verse by one of the neighbouring squires, the poetical fox-hunter, William Somerville. In August 1716, the newspapers announced that Joseph Addison, Esquire, famous for many excellent works both in verse and prose, had espoused the Countess Dowager of Warwick. He now fixed his abode at Holland House, a house which can boast of a greater number of inmates distinguished in political and literary history than any other private dwelling in England. His portrait still hangs there. The features are pleasing; the complexion is remarkably fair; but, in the expression, we trace rather the gentleness of his disposition than the force and keenness of his intellect. Not long after his marriage he reached the height of civil greatness. The Whig Government had, during some time, been torn by internal dissensions. Lord Townshend led one section of the Cabinet, Lord Sunderland the other. At length, in the spring of 1717, Sunderland triumphed. Townshend retired from office, and was accompanied by Walpole and Cowper. Sunderland proceeded to reconstruct the Ministry; and Addison was appointed Secretary of State. It is certain that the Seals were pressed upon him, and were at first declined by him. Men equally versed in official business might easily have been found; and his colleagues knew that they could not expect assistance from him in debate. He owed his elevation to his popularity, to his stainless probity, and to his literary fame. But scarcely had Addison entered the Cabinet when his health began to fail. From one serious attack he recovered in the autumn; and his recovery was celebrated in Latin verses, worthy of his own pen, by Vincent Bourne, who was then at Trinity College, Cambridge. A relapse soon took place; and, in the following spring, Addison was prevented by a severe asthma from discharging the duties of his post. He resigned it, and was succeeded by his friend Craggs, a young man whose natural parts, though little improved by cultivation, were quick and showy, whose graceful person and winning manners had made him generally acceptable in society, and who, if he had lived, would probably have been the most formidable of all the rivals of Walpole. As yet there was no Joseph Hume. The Ministers, therefore, were able to bestow on Addison a retiring pension of fifteen hundred pounds a year. In what form this pension was given we are not told by the biographers, and have not time to inquire, But it is certain that Addison did not vacate his seat in the House of Commons. Rest of mind and body seem to have re-established his health; and he thanked God, with cheerful piety, for having set him free both from his office and from his asthma. Many years seemed to be before him, and he meditated many works, a tragedy on the death of Socrates, a translation of the Psalms, a treatise on the evidences of Christianity. Of this last performance, a part, which we could well spare, has come down to us. But the fatal complaint soon returned, and gradually prevailed against all the resources of medicine. It is melancholy to think that the last months of such a life should have been overclouded both by domestic and by political vexations. A tradition which began early, which has been generally received, and to which we have nothing to oppose, has represented his wife as an arrogant and imperious woman. It is said that, till his health failed him, he was glad to escape from the Countess Dowager and her magnificent dining-room, blazing with the gilded devices of the House of Rich, to some tavern where he could enjoy a laugh, a talk about Virgil and Boileau, and a bottle of claret, with the friends of his happier days. All those friends, however, were not left to him. Sir Richard Steele had been gradually estranged by various causes. He considered himself as one who, in evil times, had braved martyrdom for his political principles, and demanded, when the Whig party was triumphant, a large compensation for what he had suffered when it was militant. The Whig leaders took a very different view of his claims. They thought that he had, by his own petulance and folly, brought them as well as himself into trouble, and though they did not absolutely neglect him, doled out favours to him with a sparing hand. It was natural that he should be angry with them, and especially angry with Addison. But what above all seems to have disturbed Sir Richard, was the elevation of Tickell, who, at thirty, was made by Addison Under- Secretary of State; while the editor of the Tatler and Spectator, and the author of the Crisis, and member for Stockbridge who had been persecuted for firm adherence to the House of Hanover, was, at near fifty, forced, after many solicitations and complaints, to content himself with a share in the patent of Drury Lane Theatre. Steele himself says, in his celebrated letter to Congreve, that Addison, by his preference of Tickell, "incurred the warmest resentment of other gentlemen"; and everything seems to indicate that, of those resentful gentlemen, Steele was himself one. While poor Sir Richard was brooding over what he considered as Addison's unkindness, a new cause of quarrel arose. The Whig party, already divided against itself, was rent by a new schism. The celebrated Bill for limiting the number of Peers had been brought in. The proud Duke of Somerset, first in rank of all the nobles whose religion permitted them to sit in Parliament, was the ostensible author of the measure. But it was supported, and in truth devised, by the Prime Minister. We are satisfied that the bill was most pernicious; and we fear that the motives which induced Sunderland to frame it were not honourable to him. But we cannot deny that it was supported by many of the best and wisest men of that age. Nor was this strange. The royal prerogative had, within the memory of the generation then in the vigour of life, been so grossly abused, that it was still regarded with a jealousy which, when the peculiar situation of the House of Brunswick is considered, may perhaps be called immoderate. The particular prerogative of creating peers had, in the opinion of the Whigs, been grossly abused by Queen Anne's last Ministry; and even the Tories admitted that her Majesty, in swamping, as it has since been called, the Upper House, had done what only an extreme case could justify. The theory of the English constitution, according to many high authorities, was that three independent powers, the sovereign, the nobility, and the commons, ought constantly to act as checks on each other. If this theory were sound, it seemed to follow that to put one of these powers under the absolute control of the other two, was absurd. But if the number of peers were unlimited, it could not well be denied that the Upper House was under the absolute control of the Crown and the Commons, and was indebted only to their moderation for any power which it might be suffered to retain. Steele took part with the Opposition, Addison with the Ministers. Steele, in a paper called the Plebeian, vehemently attacked the bill. Sunderland called for help on Addison, and Addison obeyed the call. In a paper called the Old Whig, he answered, and indeed refuted, Steele's arguments. It seems to us that the premises of both the controversialists were unsound, that on those premises Addison reasoned well and Steele ill, and that consequently Addison brought out a false conclusion while Steele blundered upon the truth. In style, in wit, and in politeness, Addison maintained his superiority; though the Old Whig is by no means one of his happiest performances. At first, both the anonymous opponents observed the laws of propriety. But at length Steele so far forgot himself as to throw an odious imputation on the morals of the chiefs of the administration. Addison replied with severity, but, in our opinion, with less severity than was due to so grave an offence against morality and decorum; nor did he, in his just anger, forget for a moment the laws of good taste and good breeding. One calumny which has been often repeated, and never yet contradicted, it is our duty to expose. It is asserted in the Biogaphia Britannica, that Addison designated Steele as "little Dicky." This assertion was repeated by Johnson who had never seen the Old Whig; and was therefore excusable. It has also been repeated by Miss Aikin, who has seen the Old Whig, and for whom therefore there is less excuse. Now, it is true that the words "little Dicky" occur in the Old Whig, and that Steele's name was Richard. It is equally true that the words "little Isaac " occur in the Duenna, and that Newton's name was Isaac. But we confidently affirm that Addison's "little Dicky" had no more to do with Steele, than Sheridan's "little Isaac" with Newton. If we apply the words "little Dicky" to Steele, we deprive a very lively and ingenious passage, not only of all its wit, but of all its meaning. Little Dicky was the nickname of Henry Norris, an actor of remarkably small stature, but of great humour, who played the usurer Gomez, then a most popular part, in Dryden's Spanish Friar. [We will transcribe the whole paragraph. How it can ever have been misunderstood is unintelligible to us. "But our author's chief concern is for the poor House of Commons, whom he represents as naked and defenceless, when the Crown, by losing this prerogative, would be less able to protect them against the power of a House of Lords. Who forbears laughing when the Spanish Friar represents little Dicky under the person of Gomez, insulting the Colonel that was able to fright him out of his wits with a single frown? This Gomez, says he, flew upon him like a dragon, got him down, the Devil being strong in him, and gave him bastinado on bastinado, and buffet on buffet, which the poor Colonel, being prostrate, suffered with a most Christian patience. The improbability of the fact never fails to raise mirth in the audience; and one may venture to answer for a British House of Commons, if we may guess, from its conduct hitherto, that it will scarce be either so tame or so weak as our author supposes."] The merited reproof which Steele had received, though softened by some kind and courteous expressions, galled him bitterly. He replied with little force and great acrimony; but no rejoinder appeared. Addison was fast hastening to his grave; and had, we may well suppose, little disposition to prosecute a quarrel with an old friend. His complaint had terminated in dropsy. He bore up long and manfully. But at length he abandoned all hope, dismissed his physicians, and calmly prepared himself to die. His works he intrusted to the care of Tickell, and dedicated them a very few days before his death to Craggs, in a letter written with the sweet and graceful eloquence of a Saturday's Spectator. In this, his last composition, he alluded to his approaching end in words so manly, so cheerful, and so tender, that it is difficult to read them without tears. At the same time he earnestly recommended the interests of Tickell to the care of Craggs. Within a few hours of the time at which this dedication was written, Addison sent to beg Gay, who was then living by his wits about town, to come to Holland House. Gay went, and was received with great kindness. To his amazement his forgiveness was implored by the dying man. Poor Gay, the most good-natured and simple of mankind, could not imagine what he had to forgive. There was, however, some wrong, the remembrance of which weighed on Addison's mind, and which he declared himself anxious to repair. He was in a state of extreme exhaustion; and the parting was doubtless a friendly one on both sides. Gay supposed that some plan to serve him had been in agitation at Court, and had been frustrated by Addison's influence. Nor is this improbable. Gay had paid assiduous court to the royal family. But in the Queen's days he had been the eulogist of Bolingbroke, and was still connected with many Tories. It is not strange that Addison, while heated by conflict, should have thought himself justified in obstructing the preferment of one whom he might regard as a political enemy. Neither is it strange that, when reviewing his whole life, and earnestly scrutinising all his motives, he should think that he had acted an unkind and ungenerous part, in using his power against a distressed man of letters, who was as harmless and as helpless as a child. One inference may be drawn from this anecdote. It appears that Addison, on his death-bed, called himself to a strict account, and was not at ease till he had asked pardon for an injury which it was not even suspected that he had committed, for an injury which would have caused disquiet only to a very tender conscience. Is it not then reasonable to infer that, if he had really been guilty of forming a base conspiracy against the fame and fortunes of a rival, he would have expressed some remorse for so serious a crime? But it is unnecessary to multiply arguments and evidence for the defence, when there is neither argument nor evidence for the accusation. The last moments of Addison were perfectly serene. His interview with his step-son is universally known. "See," he said, "how a Christian can die." The piety of Addison was, in truth, of a singularly cheerful character. The feeling which predominates in all his devotional writings, is gratitude. God was to him the all-wise and all-powerful friend who had watched over his cradle with more than maternal tenderness; who had listened to his cries before they could form themselves in prayer; who had preserved his youth from the snares of vice; who had made his cup run over with worldly blessings; who had doubled the value of those blessings, by bestowing a thankful heart to enjoy them, and dear friends to partake them; who had rebuked the waves of the Ligurian gulf, had purified the autumnal air of the Campagna, and had restrained the avalanches of Mont Cenis. Of the Psalms, his favourite was that which represents the Ruler of all things under the endearing image of a shepherd, whose crook guides the flock safe, through gloomy and desolate glens, to meadows well watered and rich with herbage. On that goodness to which he ascribed all the happiness of his life, he relied in the hour of death with the love which casteth out fear. He died on the seventeenth of June 1710. He had just entered on his forty-eighth year. His body lay in state in the Jerusalem Chamber, and was borne thence to the Abbey at dead of night. The choir sang a funeral hymn. Bishop Atterbury, one of those Tories who had loved and honoured the most accomplished of the Whigs, met the corpse, and led the procession by torchlight, round the shrine of Saint Edward and the graves of the Plantagenets, to the Chapel of Henry the Seventh. On the north side of that Chapel, in the vault of the House of Albemarle, the coffin of Addison lies next to the coffin of Montague. Yet a few months; and the same mourners passed again along the same aisle. The same sad anthem was again chanted. The same vault was again opened; and the coffin of Craggs was placed close to the coffin of Addison. Many tributes were paid to the memory of Addison; but one alone is now remembered. Tickell bewailed his friend in an elegy which would do honour to the greatest name in our literature, and which unites the energy and magnificence of Dryden to the tenderness and purity of Cowper. This fine poem was prefixed to a superb edition of Addison's works, which was published, in 1721, by subscription. The names of the subscribers proved how widely his fame had been spread. That his countrymen should be eager to possess his writings, even in a costly form, is not wonderful. But it is wonderful that, though English literature was then little studied on the Continent, Spanish Grandees, Italian Prelates, Marshals of France, should be found in the list. Among the most remarkable names are those of the Queen of Sweden, of Prince Eugene, of the Grand Duke of Tuscany, of the Dukes of Parma, Modena, and Guastalla, of the Doge of Genoa, of the Regent Orleans, and of Cardinal Dubois. We ought to add that this edition, though eminently beautiful, is in some important points defective; nor, indeed, do we yet possess a complete collection of Addison's writings. It is strange that neither his opulent and noble widow, nor any of his powerful and attached friends, should have thought of placing even a simple tablet, inscribed with his name, on the walls of the Abbey. It was not till three generations had laughed and wept over his pages that the omission was supplied by the public veneration. At length, in our own time, his image, skilfully graven, appeared in Poet's Corner. It represents him, as we can conceive him, clad in his dressing-gown, and freed from his wig, stepping from his parlour at Chelsea into his trim little garden, with the account of the "Everlasting Club," or the "Loves of Hilpa and Shalum," just finished for the next day's Spectator, in his hand. Such a mark of national respect was due to the unsullied statesman, to the accomplished scholar, to the master of pure English eloquence, to the consummate painter of life and manners. It was due, above all, to the great satirist, who alone knew how to use ridicule without abusing it, who, without inflicting a wound, effected a great social reform, and who reconciled wit and virtue, after a long and disastrous separation, during which wit had been led astray by profligacy, and virtue by fanaticism. SAMUEL JOHNSON (September 1831) The Life of Samuel Johnson LL. D. Including a Journal Of a Tour to the Hebrides by James Boswell, Esq. A new Edition, with numerous Additions and Notes By JOHN WILSON CROKER, LL.D., F.R.S. Five volumes, 8vo. London: 1831 THIS work has greatly disappointed us. Whatever faults we may have been prepared to find in it, we fully expected that it would be a valuable addition to English literature; that it would contain many curious facts, and many judicious remarks; that the style of the notes would be neat, clear, and precise; and that the typographical execution would be, as in new editions of classical works it ought to be, almost faultless. We are sorry to be obliged to say that the merits of Mr. Croker's performance are on a par with those of a certain leg of mutton on which Dr. Johnson dined, while travelling from London to Oxford, and which he, with characteristic energy, pronounced to be "as bad as bad could be, ill fed, ill killed, ill kept, and ill dressed." This edition is ill compiled, ill arranged, ill written, and ill printed. Nothing in the work has astonished us so much as the ignorance or carelessness of Mr. Croker with respect to facts and dates. Many of his blunders are such as we should be surprised to hear any well-educated gentleman commit, even in conversation. The notes absolutely swarm with misstatements, into which the editor never would have fallen, if he had taken the slightest pains to investigate the truth of his assertions, or if he had even been well acquainted with the book on which he undertook to comment. We will give a few instances. Mr. Croker tells us in a note that Derrick, who was master of the ceremonies at Bath, died very poor in 1760. [Vol. i. 394.] We read on; and, a few pages later, we find Dr. Johnson and Boswell talking of this same Derrick as still living and reigning, as having retrieved his character, as possessing so much power over his subjects at Bath, that his opposition might be fatal to Sheridan's lectures on oratory. [i. 404.] And all this is in 1763. The fact is, that Derrick died in 1769. In one note we read, that Sir Herbert Croft, the author of that pompous and foolish account of Young, which appears among the Lives of the Poets, died in 1805. [Vol. iv. 321.] Another note in the same volume states, that this same Sir Herbert Croft died at Paris, after residing abroad for fifteen years, on the 27th of April, 1816. [iv. 428.] Mr. Croker informs us, that Sir William Forbes of Pitsligo, the author of the Life of Beattie, died in 1816. [ii. 262.] A Sir William Forbes undoubtedly died in that year, but not the Sir William Forbes in question, whose death took place in 1806. It is notorious, indeed, that the biographer of Beattie lived just long enough to complete the history of his friend. Eight or nine years before the date which Mr. Croker has assigned for Sir William's death, Sir Walter Scott lamented that event in the introduction to the fourth canto of Marmion. Every schoolgirl knows the lines: "Scarce had lamented Forbes paid The tribute to his Minstrel's shade; The tale of friendship scarce was told, Ere the narrator's heart was cold: Far may we search before we find A heart so manly and so kind!" In one place, we are told, that Allan Ramsay, the painter, was born in 1709, and died in 1784; [iv. 105.] in another, that he died in 1784, in the seventy-first year of his age. [v. 281.] In one place, Mr. Croker says, that at the commencement of the intimacy between Dr. Johnson and Mrs. Thrale, in 1765, the lady was twenty-five years old. [i. 510.] In other places he says, that Mrs. Thrale's thirty-fifth year coincided with Johnson's seventieth. [iv. 271, 322.] Johnson was born in 1709. If, therefore, Mrs. Thrale's thirty-fifth year coincided with Johnson's seventieth, she could have been only twenty-one years old in 1765. This is not all. Mr. Croker, in another place, assigns the year 1777 as the date of the complimentary lines which Johnson made on Mrs. Thrale's thirty-fifth birthday. [iii. 463.] If this date be correct, Mrs. Thrale must have been born in 1742, and could have been only twenty-three when her acquaintance with Johnson commenced. Mr. Croker therefore gives us three different statements as to her age. Two of the three must be incorrect. We will not decide between them; we will only say, that the reasons which Mr. Croker gives for thinking that Mrs. Thrale was exactly thirty-five years old when Johnson was seventy, appear to us utterly frivolous. Again, Mr. Croker informs his readers that "Lord Mansfield survived Johnson full ten years." [ii. 151.] Lord Mansfield survived Dr. Johnson just eight years and a quarter. Johnson found in the library of a French lady, whom he visited during his short visit to Paris, some works which he regarded with great disdain. "I looked," says he, "into the books in the lady's closet, and, in contempt, showed them to Mr. Thrale. Prince Titi, Bibliotheque des Fees, and other books." [iii. 271.] The History of Prince Titi, observes Mr. Croker, "was said to be the autobiography of Frederick Prince of Wales, but was probably written by Ralph his secretary." A more absurd note never was penned. The History of Prince Titi, to which Mr. Croker refers, whether written by Prince Frederick or by Ralph, was certainly never published. If Mr. Croker had taken the trouble to read with attention that very passage in Park's Royal and Noble Authors which he cites as his authority, he would have seen that the manuscript was given up to the Government. Even if this memoir had been printed, it is not very likely to find its way into a French lady's bookcase. And would any man in his senses speak contemptuously of a French lady, for having in her possession an English work, so curious and interesting as a Life of Prince Frederick, whether written by himself or by a confidential secretary, must have been? The history at which Johnson laughed was a very proper companion to the Bibliotheque des Fees, a fairy tale about good Prince Titi and naughty Prince Violent. Mr. Croker may find it in the Magasin des Enfans, the first French book which the little girls of England read to their governesses. Mr. Croker states that Mr. Henry Bate, who afterwards assumed the name of Dudley, was proprietor of the Morning Herald, and fought a duel with George Robinson Stoney, in consequence of some attacks on Lady Strathmore which appeared in that paper. [v. 196.] Now Mr. Bate was then connected, not with the Morning Herald, but with the Morning Post; and the dispute took place before the Morning Herald was in existence. The duel was fought in January 1777. The Chronicle of the Annual Register for that year contains an account of the transaction, and distinctly states that Mr. Bate was editor of the Morning Post. The Morning Herald, as any person may see by looking at any number of it, was not established till some years after this affair. For this blunder there is, we must acknowledge some excuse; for it certainly seems almost incredible to a person living in our time that any human being should ever have stooped to fight with a writer in the Morning Post. "James de Duglas," says Mr. Croker, "was requested by King Robert Bruce, in his last hours, to repair, with his heart, to Jerusalem, and humbly to deposit it at the sepulchre of our Lord, which he did in 1329." [Vol. iv. 29.] Now, it is well known that he did no such thing, and for a very sufficient reason, because he was killed by the way. Nor was it in 1329 that he set out. Robert Bruce died in 1329, and the expedition of Douglas took place in the following year, "Quand le printemps vint et la saison," says Froissart, in June 1330, says Lord Hailes, whom Mr. Croker cites as the authority for his statement. Mr, Croker tells us that the great Marquis of Montrose was beheaded at Edinburgh in 1650. [ii. 526.] There is not a forward boy at any school in England who does not know that the marquis was hanged. The account of the execution is one of the finest passages in Lord Clarendon's History. We can scarcely suppose that Mr. Croker has never read that passage; and yet we can scarcely suppose that any person who has ever perused so noble and pathetic a story can have utterly forgotten all its most striking circumstances. "Lord Townshend," says Mr. Croker, "was not Secretary of State till 1720." [iii. 52.] Can Mr. Croker possibly be ignorant that Lord Townshend was made Secretary of State at the Accession of George I. in 1714, that he continued to be Secretary of State till he was displaced by the intrigues of Sunderland and Stanhope at the close of 1716, and that he returned to the office of Secretary of State, not in 1720 but in 1721? Mr. Croker, indeed, is generally unfortunate in his statements respecting the Townshend family. He tells us that Charles Townshend, the Chancellor of the Exchequer, was "nephew of the Prime Minister, and son of a peer who was Secretary of State, and leader of the House of Lords." [iii. 368.] Charles Townshend was not nephew, but grandnephew, of the Duke of Newcastle, not son, but grandson, of the Lord Townshend who was Secretary of State, and leader of the House of Lords. "General Burgoyne surrendered at Saratoga," says Mr. Croker, "in March 1778." [iv. 222.] General Bourgoyne surrendered on the 17th of October 1777. Nothing," says Mr. Croker, "can be more unfounded than the assertion that Byng fell a martyr to political party. By a strange coincidence of circumstances, it happened that there was a total change of administration between his condemnation and his death: so that one party presided at his trial, and another at his execution: there can be no stronger proof that he was not a political martyr." [i. 298.] Now what will our readers think of this writer, when we assure them that this statement, so confidently made, respecting events so notorious, is absolutely untrue? One and the same administration was in office when the court-martial on Byng commenced its sittings, through the whole trial, at the condemnation, and at the execution. In the month of November 1756, the Duke of Newcastle and Lord Hardwicke resigned; the Duke of Devonshire became First Lord of the Treasury, and Mr. Pitt, Secretary of State. This administration lasted till the month of April 1757. Byng's court-martial began to sit on the 28th of December 1756. He was shot on the 14th of March 1757. There is something at once diverting and provoking in the cool and authoritative manner in which Mr. Croker makes these random assertions. We do not suspect him of intentionally falsifying history. But of this high literary misdemeanour we do without hesitation accuse him that he has no adequate sense of the obligation which a writer, who professes to relate facts, owes to the public. We accuse him of a negligence and an ignorance analogous to that crassa negligentia, and that crassa ignorantia, on which the law animadverts in magistrates and surgeons, even when malice and corruption are not imputed. We accuse him of having undertaken a work which, if not performed with strict accuracy, must be very much worse than useless, and of having performed it as if the difference between an accurate and an inaccurate statement was not worth the trouble of looking into the most common book of reference. But we must proceed. These volumes contain mistakes more gross, if possible, than any that we have yet mentioned. Boswell has recorded some observations made by Johnson on the changes which had taken place in Gibbon's religious opinions. That Gibbon when a lad at Oxford turned Catholic is well known. "It is said," cried Johnson, laughing, "that he has been a Mahommedan." "This sarcasm," says the editor, "probably alludes to the tenderness with which Gibbon's malevolence to Christianity induced him to treat Mahommedanism in his history." Now the sarcasm was uttered in 1776; and that part of the History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire which relates to Mahommedanism was not published till 1788, twelve years after the date of this conversation, and near four years after the death of Johnson. [A defence of this blunder was attempted. That the celebrated chapters in which Gibbon has traced the progress of Mahommedanism were not written in 1776 could not be denied. But it was confidently asserted that his partiality to Mahommedanism appeared in his first volume. This assertion is untrue. No passage which can by any art be construed into the faintest indication of the faintest partiality for Mahommedanism has ever been quoted or ever will be quoted from the first volume of the History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. To what, then, it has been asked, could Johnson allude? Possibly to some anecdote or some conversation of which all trace is lost. One conjecture may be offered, though with diffidence. Gibbon tells us in his Memoirs, that at Oxford he took a fancy for studying Arabic, and was prevented from doing so by the remonstrances of his tutor. Soon after this, the young man fell in with Bossuet's controversial writings, and was speedily converted by them to the Roman Catholic faith. The apostasy of a gentleman commoner would of course be for a time the chief subject of conversation in the common room of Magdalene. His whim about Arabic learning would naturally be mentioned, and would give occasion to some jokes about the probability of his turning Mussulman. If such jokes were made, Johnson, who frequently visited Oxford, was very likely to hear of them.] "It was in the year 1761," says Mr. Croker, "that Goldsmith published his Vicar of Wakefield. This leads the editor to observe a more serious inaccuracy of Mrs. Piozzi, than Mr. Boswell notices, when he says Johnson left her table to go and sell the Vicar of Wakefield for Goldsmith. Now Dr. Johnson was not acquainted with the Thrales till 1765, four years after the book had been published." [Vol. v. 409] Mr. Croker, in reprehending the fancied inaccuracy of Mrs. Thrale, has himself shown a degree of inaccuracy, or, to speak more properly, a degree of ignorance, hardly credible. In the first place, Johnson became acquainted with the Thrales, not in 1765, but in 1764, and during the last weeks of 1764 dined with them every Thursday, as is written in Mrs. Piozzi's anecdotes. In the second place, Goldsmith published the Vicar of Wakefield, not in 1761, but in 1766. Mrs. Thrale does not pretend to remember the precise date of the summons which called Johnson from her table to the help of his friend. She says only that it was near the beginning of her acquaintance with Johnson, and certainly not later than 1766. Her accuracy is therefore completely vindicated. It was probably after one of her Thursday dinners in 1764 that the celebrated scene of the landlady, the sheriff's officer, and the bottle of Madeira, took place. [This paragraph has been altered; and a slight inaccuracy immaterial to the argument, has been removed.] The very page which contains this monstrous blunder, contains another blunder, if possible, more monstrous still. Sir Joseph Mawbey, a foolish member of Parliament, at whose speeches and whose pig-styes the wits of Brookes's were, fifty years ago, in the habit of laughing most unmercifully, stated, on the authority of Garrick, that Johnson, while sitting in a coffee-house at Oxford, about the time of his doctor's degree, used some contemptuous expressions respecting Home's play and Macpherson's Ossian. "Many men," he said, "many women, and many children, might have written Douglas." Mr. Croker conceives that he has detected an inaccuracy, and glories over poor Sir Joseph in a most characteristic manner. I have quoted this anecdote solely with the view of showing to how little credit hearsay anecdotes are in general entitled. Here is a story published by Sir Joseph Mawbey, a member of the House of Commons, and a person every way worthy of credit, who says he had it from Garrick. Now mark: Johnson's visit to Oxford, about the time of his doctor's degree, was in 1754, the first time he had been there since he left the university. But Douglas was not acted till 1756, and Ossian not published till 1760. All, therefore, that is new in Sir Joseph Mawbey's story is false." [Vol. v. 409.] Assuredly we need not go far to find ample proof that a member of the House of Commons may commit a very gross error. Now mark, say we, in the language of Mr. Croker. The fact is, that Johnson took his Master's degree in 1754, [i. 262.] and his Doctor's degree in 1775. [iii. 205.] In the spring of 1776, [iii. 326.] he paid a visit to Oxford, and at this visit a conversation respecting the works on Home and Macpherson might have taken place, and, in all probability, did take place. The only real objection to the story Mr. Croker has missed. Boswell states, apparently on the best authority, that, as early at least as the year 1763, Johnson, in conversation with Blair, used the same expressions respecting Ossian, which Sir Joseph represents him as having used respecting Douglas. [i. 405.] Sir Joseph, or Garrick, confounded, we suspect, the two stories. But their error is venial, compared with that of Mr. Croker. We will not multiply instances of this scandalous inaccuracy. It is clear that a writer who, even when warned by the text on which he is commenting, falls into such mistakes as these, is entitled to no confidence whatever. Mr. Croker has committed an error of five years with respect to the publication of Goldsmith's novel, an error of twelve years with respect to the publication of part of Gibbon's History, an error of twenty-one years with respect to an event in Johnson's life so important as the taking of the doctoral degree. Two of these three errors he has committed, while ostentatiously displaying his own accuracy, and correcting what he represents as the loose assertions of others. How can his readers take on trust his statements concerning the births, marriages, divorces, and deaths of a crowd of people, whose names are scarcely known to this generation? It is not likely that a person who is ignorant of what almost everybody knows can know that of which almost everybody is ignorant. We did not open this book with any wish to find blemishes in it. We have made no curious researches. The work itself, and a very common knowledge of literary and political history, have enabled us to detect the mistakes which we have pointed out, and many other mistakes of the same kind. We must say, and we say it with regret, that we do not consider the authority of Mr. Croker, unsupported by other evidence, as sufficient to justify any writer who may follow him in relating a single anecdote or in assigning a date to a single event. Mr. Croker shows almost as much ignorance and heedlessness in his criticisms as in his statements concerning facts. Dr. Johnson said, very reasonably as it appears to us, that some of the satires of Juvenal are too gross for imitation. Mr. Croker, who, by the way, is angry with Johnson for defending Prior's tales against the charge of indecency, resents this aspersion on Juvenal, and indeed refuses to believe that the doctor can have said anything so absurd. "He probably said--some passages of them--for there are none of Juvenal's satires to which the same objection may be made as to one of Horace's, that it is altogether gross and licentious." [Vol. i. 167.] Surely Mr. Croker can never have read the second and ninth satires of Juvenal. Indeed the decisions of this editor on points of classical learning, though pronounced in a very authoritative tone, are generally such that, if a schoolboy under our care were to utter them, our soul assuredly should not spare for his crying. It is no disgrace to a gentleman who has been engaged during near thirty years in political life that he has forgotten his Greek and Latin. But he becomes justly ridiculous if, when no longer able to construe a plain sentence, he affects to sit in judgment on the most delicate questions of style and metre. From one blunder, a blunder which no good scholar would have made, Mr. Croker was saved, as he informs us, by Sir Robert Peel, who quoted a passage exactly in point from Horace. We heartily wish that Sir Robert, whose classical attainments are well known, had been more frequently consulted. Unhappily he was not always at his friend's elbow; and we have therefore a rich abundance of the strangest errors. Boswell has preserved a poor epigram by Johnson, inscribed "Ad Lauram parituram." Mr. Croker censures the poet for applying the word puella to a lady in Laura's situation, and for talking of the beauty of Lucina. "Lucina," he says, "was never famed for her beauty." [i. 133.] If Sir Robert Peel had seen this note, he probably would have again refuted Mr. Croker's criticisms by an appeal to Horace. In the secular ode, Lucina is used as one of the names of Diana, and the beauty of Diana is extolled by all the most orthodox doctors of the ancient mythology, from Homer in his Odyssey, to Claudian in his Rape of Proserpine. In another ode, Horace describes Diana as the goddess who assists the "laborantes utero puellas." But we are ashamed to detain our readers with this fourth-form learning. Boswell found, in his tour to the Hebrides, an inscription written by a Scotch minister. It runs thus: "Joannes Macleod, etc. gentis suae Philarchus, etc Florae Macdonald matrimoniali vinculo conjugatus turrem hanc Beganodunensem proaevorum habitaculum longe vetustissimum, diu penitus labefactatam anno aerae vulgaris MDCLXXXVI. instauravit."--"The minister," says Mr. Croker, "seems to have been no contemptible Latinist. Is not Philarchus a very happy term to express the paternal and kindly authority of the head of a clan?" [ii. 458.] The composition of this eminent Latinist, short as it is, contains several words that are just as much Coptic as Latin, to say nothing of the incorrect structure of the sentence. The word Philarchus, even if it were a happy term expressing a paternal and kindly authority, would prove nothing for the minister's Latin, whatever it might prove for his Greek. But it is clear that the word Philarchus means, not a man who rules by love, but a man who loves rule. The Attic writers of the best age used the word philarchos in the sense which we assign to it. Would Mr. Croker translate philosophos, a man who acquires wisdom by means of love, or philokerdes, a man who makes money by means of love? In fact, it requires no Bentley or Casaubon to perceive that Philarchus is merely a false spelling for Phylarchus, the chief of a tribe. Mr. Croker has favoured us with some Greek of his own. "At the altar," says Dr. Johnson, "I recommended my th ph." "These letters," says the editor, "(which Dr. Strahan seems not to have understood) probably mean phnetoi philoi, departed friends." [Vol. iv. 251. An attempt was made to vindicate this blunder by quoting a grossly corrupt passage from the Iketides of Euripides bathi kai antiason gonaton, epi kheira balousa, teknon te thnaton komisai demas. The true reading, as every scholar knows, is teknon, tethneoton komisai demas. Indeed without this emendation it would not be easy to construe the words, even if thnaton could bear the meaning which Mr. Croker assigns to it.] Johnson was not a first- rate Greek scholar; but he knew more Greek than most boys when they leave school; and no schoolboy could venture to use the word thnetoi in the sense which Mr. Croker ascribes to it without imminent danger of a flogging. Mr. Croker has also given us a specimen of his skill in translating Latin. Johnson wrote a note in which he consulted his friend, Dr. Lawrence, on the propriety of losing some blood. The note contains these words:--"Si per te licet, imperatur nuncio Holderum ad me deducere." Johnson should rather have written "imperatum est." But the meaning of the words is perfectly clear. "If you say yes, the messenger has orders to bring Holder to me." Mr. Croker translates the words as follows: "If you consent, pray tell the messenger to bring Holder to me." [v. 17.] If Mr. Croker is resolved to write on points of classical learning, we would advise him to begin by giving an hour every morning to our old friend Corderius. Indeed we cannot open any volume of this work in any place, and turn it over for two minutes in any direction, without lighting on a blunder. Johnson, in his Life of Tickell, stated that a poem entitled "The Royal Progress," which appears in the last volume of the Spectator, was written on the accession of George I. The word "arrival" was afterwards substituted for accession." "The reader will observe," says Mr. Croker, that the Whig term accession, which might imply legality, was altered into a statement of the simple fact of King George's arrival." [iv. 425.] Now Johnson, though a bigoted Tory, was not quite such a fool as Mr. Croker here represents him to be. In the Life of Granville, Lord Lansdowne, which stands a very few pages from the Life of Tickell, mention is made of the accession of Anne, and of the accession of George I. The word arrival was used in the Life of Tickell for the simplest of all reasons. It was used because the subject of the poem called "The Royal Progress" was the arrival of the king, and not his accession, which took place near two months before his arrival. The editor's want of perspicacity is indeed very amusing. He is perpetually telling us that he cannot understand something in the text which is as plain as language can make it. "Mattaire," said Dr. Johnson, "wrote Latin verses from time to time, and published a set in his old age, which he called Senilia, in which he shows so little learning or taste in writing, as to make Carteret a dactyl." [iv. 335.] Hereupon we have this note: "The editor does not understand this objection, nor the following observation." The following observation, which Mr. Croker cannot understand, is simply this: "In matters of genealogy," says Johnson, "it is necessary to give the bare names as they are. But in poetry and in prose of any elegance in the writing, they require to have inflection given to them." If Mr. Croker had told Johnson that this was unintelligible, the doctor would probably have replied, as he replied on another occasion, "I have found you a reason, sir; I am not bound to find you an understanding." Everybody who knows anything of Latinity knows that, in genealogical tables, Joannes Baro de Carteret, or Vice-comes de Carteret, may be tolerated, but that in compositions which pretend to elegance, Carteretus, or some other form which admits of inflection, ought to be used. All our readers have doubtless seen the two distichs of Sir William Jones, respecting the division of the time of a lawyer. One of the distichs is translated from some old Latin lines; the other is original. The former runs thus: "Six hours to sleep, to law's grave study six, Four spend in prayer, the rest on nature fix." Rather," says Sir William Jones, "Six hours to law, to soothing slumbers seven, Ten to the world allot, and all to heaven." The second couplet puzzles Mr. Croker strangely. "Sir William," says he, "has shortened his day to twenty-three hours, and the general advice of "all to heaven," destroys the peculiar appropriation of a certain period to religious exercises." [v. 233.] Now we did not think that it was in human dullness to miss the meaning of the lines so completely. Sir William distributes twenty-three hours among various employments. One hour is thus left for devotion. The reader expects that the verse will end with "and one to heaven." The whole point of the lines consist in the unexpected substitution of "all" for "one." The conceit is wretched enough, but it is perfectly intelligible, and never, we will venture to say, perplexed man, woman, or child before. Poor Tom Davies, after failing in business, tried to live by his pen. Johnson called him "an author generated by the corruption of a bookseller." This is a very obvious, and even a commonplace allusion to the famous dogma of the old physiologists. Dryden made a similar allusion to that dogma before Johnson was born. Mr. Croker, however, is unable to understand what the doctor meant. "The expression," he says, "seems not quite clear." And he proceeds to talk about the generation of insects, about bursting into gaudier life, and Heaven knows what. [Vol. iv. 323.] There is a still stranger instance of the editor's talent for finding out difficulty in what is perfectly plain. "No man," said Johnson, "can now be made a bishop for his learning and piety." "From this too just observation," says Boswell, "there are some eminent exceptions." Mr. Croker is puzzled by Boswell's very natural and simple language. "That a general observation should be pronounced too just, by the very person who admits that it is not universally just, is not a little odd." [2 iii. 228.] A very large proportion of the two thousand five hundred notes which the editor boasts of having added to those of Boswell and Malone consists of the flattest and poorest reflections, reflections such as the least intelligent reader is quite competent to make for himself, and such as no intelligent reader would think it worth while to utter aloud. They remind us of nothing so much as of those profound and interesting annotations which are pencilled by sempstresses and apothecaries' boys on the dog-eared margins of novels borrowed from circulating libraries; " How beautiful!" "Cursed prosy!" "I don't like Sir Reginald Malcolm at all." "I think Pelham is a sad dandy." Mr. Croker is perpetually stopping us in our progress through the most delightful narrative in the language, to observe that really Dr. Johnson was very rude, that he talked more for victory than for truth, that his taste for port wine with capillaire in it was very odd, that Boswell was impertinent, that it was foolish in Mrs. Thrale to marry the music-master; and so forth. We cannot speak more favourably of the manner in which the notes are written than of the matter of which they consist. We find in every page words used in wrong senses, and constructions which violate the plainest rules of grammar. We have the vulgarism of "mutual friend," for "common friend." We have "fallacy" used as synonymous with "falsehood." We have many such inextricable labyrinths of pronouns as that which follows: "Lord Erskine was fond of this anecdote; he told it to the editor the first time that he had the honour of being in his company." Lastly, we have a plentiful supply of sentences resembling those which we subjoin. "Markland, who, with Jortin and Thirlby, Johnson calls three contemporaries of great eminence." [iv. 377.] "Warburton himself did not feel, as Mr. Boswell was disposed to think he did, kindly or gratefully of Johnson." [iv. 415.] "It was him that Horace Walpole called a man who never made a bad figure but as an author." [ii. 461.] One or two of these solecisms should perhaps be attributed to the printer, who has certainly done his best to fill both the text and the notes with all sorts of blunders. In truth, he and the editor have between them made the book so bad, that we do not well see how it could have been worse. When we turn from the commentary of Mr. Croker to the work of our old friend Boswell, we find it not only worse printed than in any other edition with which we are acquainted, but mangled in the most wanton manner. Much that Boswell inserted in his narrative is, without the shadow of a reason, degraded to the appendix. The editor has also taken upon himself to alter or omit passages which he considers as indecorous. This prudery is quite unintelligible to us. There is nothing immoral in Boswell's book, nothing which tends to inflame the passions. He sometimes uses plain words. But if this be a taint which requires expurgation, it would be desirable to begin by expurgating the morning and evening lessons. The delicate office which Mr. Croker has undertaken he has performed in the most capricious manner. One strong, old-fashioned, English word, familiar to all who read their Bibles, is changed for a sober synonym in some passages, and suffered to stand unaltered in others. In one place a faint allusion made by Johnson to an indelicate subject, an allusion so faint that, till Mr. Croker's note pointed it out to us, we had never noticed it, and of which we are quite sure that the meaning would never be discovered by any of those for whose sake books are expurgated, is altogether omitted. In another place, a coarse and stupid jest of Dr. Taylor on the same subject, expressed in the broadest language, almost the only passage, as far as we remember, in all Boswell's book, which we should have been inclined to leave out, is suffered to remain. We complain, however, much more of the additions than of the omissions. We have half of Mrs. Thrale's book, scraps of Mr. Tyers, scraps of Mr. Murphy, scraps of Mr. Cradock, long prosings of Sir John Hawkins, and connecting observations by Mr. Croker himself, inserted into the midst of Boswell's text. To this practice we most decidedly object. An editor might as well publish Thucydides with extracts from Diodorus interspersed, or incorporate the Lives of Suetonius with the History and Annals of Tacitus. Mr. Croker tells us, indeed, that he has done only what Boswell wished to do, and was prevented from doing by the law of copyright. We doubt this greatly. Boswell has studiously abstained from availing himself of the information given by his rivals, on many occasions on which he might have cited them without subjecting himself to the charge of piracy. Mr. Croker has himself, on one occasion, remarked very justly that Boswell was unwilling to owe any obligation to Hawkins. But, be this as it may, if Boswell had quoted from Sir John and from Mrs. Thrale, he would have been guided by his own taste and judgment in selecting his quotations. On what Boswell quoted he would have commented with perfect freedom; and the borrowed passages, so selected, and accompanied by such comments, would have become original. They would have dovetailed into the work. No hitch, no crease, would have been discernible. The whole would appear one and indivisible. "Ut per laeve severos Effundat junctura ungues." This is not the case with Mr. Croker's insertions. They are not chosen as Boswell would have chosen them. They are not introduced as Boswell would have introduced them. They differ from the quotations scattered through the original Life of Johnson, as a withered bough stuck in the ground differs from a tree skilfully transplanted with all its life about it. Not only do these anecdotes disfigure Boswell's book; they are themselves disfigured by being inserted in his book. The charm of Mrs. Thrale's little volume is utterly destroyed. The feminine quickness of observation, the feminine softness of heart, the colloquial incorrectness and vivacity of style, the little amusing airs of a half-learned lady, the delightful garrulity, the "dear Doctor Johnson," the "it was so comical," all disappear in Mr. Croker's quotations. The lady ceases to speak in the first person; and her anecdotes, in the process of transfusion, become as flat as Champagne in decanters, or Herodotus in Beloe's version. Sir John Hawkins, it is true, loses nothing; and for the best of reasons. Sir John Hawkins has nothing to lose. The course which Mr. Croker ought to have taken is quite clear. He should have reprinted Boswell's narrative precisely as Boswell wrote it; and in the notes or the appendix he should have placed any anecdote which he might have thought it advisable to quote from other writers. This would have been a much more convenient course for the reader, who has now constantly to keep his eye on the margin in order to see whether he is perusing Boswell, Mrs. Thrale, Murphy, Hawkins, Tyers, Cradock, or Mr. Croker. We greatly doubt whether even the Tour to the Hebrides ought to have been inserted in the midst of the Life. There is one marked distinction between the two works. Most of the Tour was seen by Johnson in manuscript. It does not appear that he ever saw any part of the Life. We love, we own, to read the great productions of the human mind as they were written. We have this feeling even about scientific treatises; though we know that the sciences are always in a state of progression, and that the alterations made by a modern editor in an old book on any branch of natural or political philosophy are likely to be improvements. Some errors have been detected by writers of this generation in the speculations of Adam Smith. A short cut has been made to much knowledge at which Sir Isaac Newton arrived through arduous and circuitous paths. Yet we still look with peculiar veneration on the Wealth of Nations and on the Principia, and should regret to see either of those great works garbled even by the ablest hands. But in works which owe much of their interest to the character and situation of the writers, the case is infinitely stronger. What man of taste and feeling can endure rifacimenti, harmonies, abridgments, expurgated editions? Who ever reads a stage-copy of a play when he can procure the original? Who ever cut open Mrs. Siddons's Milton? Who ever got through ten pages of Mr. Gilpin's translation of John Bunyan's Pilgrim into modern English? Who would lose, in the confusion of a Diatessaron, the peculiar charm which belongs to the narrative of the disciple whom Jesus loved? The feeling of a reader who has become intimate with any great original work is that which Adam expressed towards his bride: "Should God create another Eve, and I Another rib afford, yet loss of thee Would never from my heart." No substitute, however exquisitely formed, will fill the void left by the original. The second beauty may be equal or superior to the first; but still it is not she. The reasons which Mr. Croker has given for incorporating passages from Sir John Hawkins and Mrs. Thrale with the narrative of Boswell, would vindicate the adulteration of half the classical works in the language. If Pepys's Diary and Mrs. Hutchinson's Memoirs had been published a hundred years ago, no human being can doubt that Mr. Hume would have made great use of those books in his History of England. But would it, on that account, be judicious in a writer of our own times to publish an edition of Hume's History of England, in which large extracts from Pepys and Mrs. Hutchinson should be incorporated with the original text? Surely not. Hume's history, be its faults what they may, is now one great entire work, the production of one vigorous mind, working on such materials as were within its reach. Additions made by another hand may supply a particular deficiency, but would grievously injure the general effect. With Boswell's book the case is stronger. There is scarcely, in the whole compass of literature, a book which bears interpolation so ill. We know no production of the human mind which has so much of what may be called the race, so much of the peculiar flavour of the soil from which it sprang. The work could never have been written if the writer had not been precisely what he was. His character is displayed in every page, and this display of character gives a delightful interest to many passages which have no other interest. The Life of Johnson is assuredly a great, a very great work. Homer is not more decidedly the first of heroic poets, Shakspeare is not more decidedly the first of dramatists, Demosthenes is not more decidedly the first of orators, than Boswell is the first of biographers. He has no second. He has distanced all his competitors so decidedly that it is not worth while to place them. Eclipse is first, and the rest nowhere. We are not sure that there is in the whole history of the human intellect so strange a phaenomenon as this book. Many of the greatest men that ever lived have written biography. Boswell was one of the smallest men that ever lived, and he has beaten them all. He was, if we are to give any credit to his own account or to the united testimony of all who knew him, a man of the meanest and feeblest intellect. Johnson described him as a fellow who had missed his only chance of immortality by not having been alive when the Dunciad was written. Beauclerk used his name as a proverbial expression for a bore. He was the laughing-stock of the whole of that brilliant society which has owed to him the greater part of its fame. He was always laying himself at the feet of some eminent man, and begging to be spit upon and trampled upon. He was always earning some ridiculous nickname, and then "binding it as a crown unto him," not merely in metaphor, but literally. He exhibited himself, at the Shakspeare Jubilee, to all the crowd which filled Stratford-on-Avon, with a placard round his hat bearing the inscription of Corsica Boswell. In his Tour, he proclaimed to all the world that at Edinburgh he was known by the appellation of Paoli Boswell. Servile and impertinent, shallow and pedantic, a bigot and a sot, bloated with family pride, and eternally blustering about the dignity of a born gentleman, yet stooping to be a talebearer, an eavesdropper, a common butt in the taverns of London, so curious to know everybody who was talked about, that, Tory and High Churchman as he was, he manoeuvred, we have been told, for an introduction to Tom Paine, so vain of the most childish distinctions, that when he had been to Court, he drove to the office where his book was printing without changing his clothes, and summoned all the printer's devils to admire his new ruffles and sword; such was this man, and such he was content and proud to be. Everything which another man would have hidden, everything the publication of which would have made another man hang himself, was matter of gay and clamorous exultation to his weak and diseased mind. What silly things he said, what bitter retorts he provoked, how at one place he was troubled with evil presentiments which came to nothing, how at another place, on waking from a drunken doze, he read the prayer-book and took a hair of the dog that had bitten him, how he went to see men hanged and came away maudlin, how he added five hundred pounds to the fortune of one of his babies because she was not scared at Johnson's ugly face, how was frightened out of his wits at sea, and how the sailors quieted him as they would have quieted a child, how tipsy he was at Lady Cork's one evening and how much his merriment annoyed the ladies, how impertinent he was to the Duchess of Argyll and with what stately contempt she put down his impertinence, how Colonel Macleod sneered to his face at his impudent obtrusiveness, how his father and the very wife of his bosom laughed and fretted at his fooleries; all these things he proclaimed to all the world, as if they had been subjects for pride and ostentatious rejoicing. All the caprices of his temper, all the illusions of his vanity, all his hypochondriac whimsies, all his castles in the air, he displayed with a cool self- complacency, a perfect unconsciousness that he was making a fool of himself, to which it is impossible to find a parallel in the whole history of mankind. He has used many people ill; but assuredly he has used nobody so ill as himself. That such a man should have written one of the best books in the world is strange enough. But this is not all. Many persons who have conducted themselves foolishly in active life, and whose conversation has indicated no superior powers of mind, have left us valuable works. Goldsmith was very justly described by one of his contemporaries as an inspired idiot, and by another as a being "Who wrote like an angel, and talked like poor Poll." La Fontaine was in society a mere simpleton. His blunders would not come in amiss among the stories of Hierocles. But these men attained literary eminence in spite of their weaknesses. Boswell attained it by reason of his weaknesses. If he had not been a great fool, he would never have been a great writer. Without all the qualities which made him the jest and the torment of those among whom he lived, without the officiousness, the inquisitiveness, the effrontery, the toad-eating, the insensibility to all reproof, he never could have produced so excellent a book. He was a slave, proud of his servitude, a Paul Pry, convinced that his own curiosity and garrulity were virtues, an unsafe companion who never scrupled to repay the most liberal hospitality by the basest violation of confidence, a man without delicacy, without shame, without sense enough to know when he was hurting the feelings of others or when he was exposing himself to derision; and because he was all this, he has, in an important department of literature, immeasurably surpassed such writers as Tacitus, Clarendon, Alfieri, and his own idol Johnson. Of the talents which ordinarily raise men to eminence as writers, Boswell had absolutely none. There is not in all his books a single remark of his own on literature, politics, religion, or society, which is not either commonplace or absurd. His dissertations on hereditary gentility, on the slave-trade, and on the entailing of landed estates, may serve as examples. To say that these passages are sophistical would be to pay them an extravagant compliment. They have no pretence to argument, or even to meaning. He has reported innumerable observations made by himself in the course of conversation. Of those observations we do not remember one which is above the intellectual capacity of a boy of fifteen. He has printed many of his own letters, and in these letters he is always ranting or twaddling. Logic, eloquence, wit, taste, all those things which are generally considered as making a book valuable, were utterly wanting to him. He had, indeed, a quick observation and a retentive memory. These qualities, if he had been a man of sense and virtue would scarcely of themselves have sufficed to make him conspicuous; but because he was a dunce, a parasite, and a coxcomb, they have made him immortal. Those parts of his book which, considered abstractedly, are most utterly worthless, are delightful when we read them as illustrations of the character of the writer. Bad in themselves, they are good dramatically, like the nonsense of justice Shallow, the clipped English of Dr. Caius, or the misplaced consonants of Fluellen. Of all confessors, Boswell is the most candid. Other men who have pretended to lay open their own hearts, Rousseau, for example, and Lord Byron, have evidently written with a constant view to effect, and are to be then most distrusted when they seem to be most sincere. There is scarcely any man who would not rather accuse himself of great crimes and of dark and tempestuous passions than proclaim all his little vanities and wild fancies. It would be easier to find a person who would avow actions like those of Caesar Borgia, or Danton, than one who would publish a daydream like those of Alnaschar and Malvolio. Those weaknesses which most men keep covered up in the most secret places of the mind, not to be disclosed to the eye of friendship or of love, were precisely the weaknesses which Boswell paraded before all the world. He was perfectly frank, because the weakness of his understanding and the tumult of his spirits prevented him from knowing when he made himself ridiculous. His book resembles nothing so much as the conversation of the inmates of the Palace of Truth. His fame is great; and it will, we have no doubt, be lasting; but it is fame of a peculiar kind, and indeed marvellously resembles infamy. We remember no other case in which the world has made so great a distinction between a book and its author. In general, the book and the author are considered as one. To admire the book is to admire the author. The case of Boswell is an exception, we think the only exception, to this rule. His work is universally allowed to be interesting, instructive, eminently original: yet it has brought him nothing but contempt. All the world reads it, all the world delights in it: yet we do not remember ever to have read or ever to have heard any expression of respect and admiration for the man to whom we owe so much instruction and amusement. While edition after edition of his book was coming forth, his son, as Mr. Croker tells us, was ashamed of it, and hated to hear it mentioned. This feeling was natural and reasonable. Sir Alexander saw that in proportion to the celebrity of the work, was the degradation of the author. The very editors of this unfortunate gentleman's books have forgotten their allegiance, and, like those Puritan casuists who took arms by the authority of the king against his person, have attacked the writer while doing homage to the writings. Mr. Croker, for example, has published two thousand five hundred notes on the life of Johnson, and yet scarcely ever mentions the biographer, whose performance he has taken such pains to illustrate, without some expression of contempt. An ill-natured man Boswell certainly was not. Yet the malignity of the most malignant satirist could scarcely cut deeper than his thoughtless loquacity. Having himself no sensibility to derision and contempt, he took it for granted that all others were equally callous. He was not ashamed to exhibit himself to the whole world as a common spy, a common tattler, a humble companion without the excuse of poverty, and to tell a hundred stories of his own pertness and folly, and of the insults which his pertness and folly brought upon him. It was natural that he should show little discretion in cases in which the feelings or the honour of others might be concerned. No man, surely, ever published such stories respecting persons whom he professed to love and revere. He would infallibly have made his hero as contemptible as he has made himself, had not his hero really possessed some moral and intellectual qualities of a very high order. The best proof that Johnson was really an extraordinary man is that his character, instead of being degraded, has, on the whole, been decidedly raised by a work in which all his vices and weaknesses are exposed more unsparingly than they ever were exposed by Churchill or by Kenrick. Johnson grown old, Johnson in the fulness of his fame and in the enjoyment of a competent fortune, is better known to us than any other man in history. Everything about him, his coat, his wig, his figure, his face, his scrofula, his St. Vitus's dance, his rolling walk, his blinking eye, the outward signs which too clearly marked his approbation of his dinner, his insatiable appetite for fish-sauce and veal-pie with plums, his inextinguishable thirst for tea, his trick of touching the posts as he walked, his mysterious practice of treasuring up scraps of orange-peel, his morning slumbers, his midnight disputations, his contortions, his mutterings, his gruntings, his puffings, his vigorous, acute, and ready eloquence, his sarcastic wit, his vehemence, his insolence, his fits of tempestuous rage, his queer inmates, old Mr. Levett and blind Mrs. Williams, the cat Hodge and the negro Frank, all are as familiar to us as the objects by which we have been surrounded from childhood. But we have no minute information respecting those years of Johnson's life during which his character and his manners became immutably fixed. We know him, not as he was known to the men of his own generation, but as he was known to men whose father he might have been. That celebrated club of which he was the most distinguished member contained few persons who could remember a time when his fame was not fully established and his habits completely formed. He had made himself a name in literature while Reynolds and the Wartons were still boys. He was about twenty years older than Burke, Goldsmith, and Gerard Hamilton, about thirty years older than Gibbon, Beauclerk, and Langton, and about forty years older than Lord Stowell, Sir William Jones, and Windham. Boswell and Mrs. Thrale, the two writers from whom we derive most of our knowledge respecting him, never saw him till long after he was fifty years old, till most of his great works had become classical, and till the pension bestowed on him by the Crown had placed him above poverty. Of those eminent men who were his most intimate associates towards the close of his life, the only one, as far as we remember, who knew him during the first ten or twelve years of his residence in the capital, was David Garrick; and it does not appear that, during those years, David Garrick saw much of his fellow-townsman. Johnson came up to London precisely at the time when the condition of a man of letters was most miserable and degraded. It was a dark night between two sunny days. The age of patronage had passed away. The age of general curiosity and intelligence had not arrived. The number of readers is at present so great that a popular author may subsist in comfort and opulence on the profits of his works. In the reigns of William the Third, of Anne, and of George the First, even such men as Congreve and Addison would scarcely have been able to live like gentlemen by the mere sale of their writings. But the deficiency of the natural demand for literature was, at the close of the seventeenth and at the beginning of the eighteenth century, more than made up by artificial encouragement, by a vast system of bounties and premiums. There was, perhaps, never a time at which the rewards of literary merit were so splendid, at which men who could write well found such easy admittance into the most distinguished society, and to the highest honours of the State. The chiefs of both the great parties into which the kingdom was divided, patronised literature with emulous munificence. Congreve, when he had scarcely attained his majority, was rewarded for his first comedy with places which made him independent for life. Smith, though his Hippolytus and Phaedra failed, would have been consoled with three hundred a year but for his own folly. Rowe was not only Poet Laureate, but also land-surveyor of the customs in the port of London, clerk of the council to the Prince of Wales, and secretary of the Presentations to the Lord Chancellor. Hughes was secretary to the Commissions of the Peace. Ambrose Philips was judge of the Prerogative Court in Ireland. Locke was Commissioner of Appeals and of the Board of Trade. Newton was Master of the Mint. Stepney and Prior were employed in embassies of high dignity and importance. Gay, who commenced life as apprentice to a silk mercer, became a secretary of legation at five-and-twenty. It was to a poem on the death of Charles the Second, and to the City and Country Mouse, that Montague owed his introduction into public life, his earldom, his garter, and his Auditorship of the Exchequer. Swift, but for the unconquerable prejudice of the queen, would have been a bishop. Oxford, with his white staff in his hand, passed through the crowd of his suitors to welcome Parnell, when that ingenious writer deserted the Whigs. Steele was a commissioner of stamps and a member of Parliament. Arthur Mainwaring was a commissioner of the customs, and auditor of the imprest. Tickell was secretary to the Lords Justices of Ireland. Addison was Secretary of State. This liberal patronage was brought into fashion, as it seems, by the magnificent Dorset, almost the only noble versifier in the Court of Charles the Second who possessed talents for composition which were independent of the aid of a coronet. Montague owed his elevation to the favour of Dorset, and imitated through the whole course of his life the liberality to which he was himself so greatly indebted. The Tory leaders, Harley and Bolingbroke in particular, vied with the chiefs of the Whig party in zeal for the encouragement of letters. But soon after the accession of the House of Hanover a change took place. The supreme power passed to a man who cared little for poetry or eloquence. The importance of the House of Commons was constantly on the increase. The Government was under the necessity of bartering for Parliamentary support much of that patronage which had been employed in fostering literary merit; and Walpole was by no means inclined to divert any part of the fund of corruption to purposes which he considered as idle. He had eminent talents for governments and for debate. But he had paid little attention to books, and felt little respect for authors. One of the coarse jokes of his friend, Sir Charles Hanbury Williams, was far more pleasing to him than Thomson's Seasons or Richardson's Pamela. He had observed that some of the distinguished writers whom the favour of Halifax had turned into statesmen had been mere incumbrances to their party, dawdlers in office and mutes in Parliament. During the whole course of his administration, therefore, he scarcely befriended a single man of genius. The best writers of the age gave all their support to the Opposition, and contributed to excite that discontent which, after plunging the nation into a foolish and unjust war, overthrew the Minister to make room for men less able and equally immoral. The Opposition could reward its eulogists with little more than promises and caresses. St. James's would give nothing: Leicester House had nothing to give. Thus, at the time when Johnson commenced his literary career, a writer had little to hope from the patronage of powerful individuals. The patronage of the public did not yet furnish the means of comfortable subsistence. The prices paid by booksellers to authors were so low that a man of considerable talents and unremitting industry could do little more than provide for the day which was passing over him. The lean kine had eaten up the fat kine. The thin and withered ears had devoured the good ears. The season of rich harvest was over, and the period of famine had begun. All that is squalid and miserable might now be summed up in the word Poet. That word denoted a creature dressed like a scarecrow, familiar with compters and spunging-houses, and perfectly qualified to decide on the comparative merits of the Common Side in the King's Bench prison and of Mount Scoundrel in the Fleet. Even the poorest pitied him; and they well might pity him. For if their condition was equally abject, their aspirings were not equally high, nor their sense of insult equally acute. To lodge in a garret up four pair of stairs, to dine in a cellar among footmen out of place, to translate ten hours a day for the wages of a ditcher, to be hunted by bailiffs from one haunt of beggary and pestilence to another, from Grub Street to St. George's Fields, and from St. George's Fields to the alleys behind St. Martin's church, to sleep on a bulk in June and amidst the ashes of a glass-house in December, to die in an hospital, and to be buried in a parish vault, was the fate of more than one writer who, if he had lived thirty years earlier, would have been admitted to the sittings of the Kitcat or the Scriblerus Club, would have sat in Parliament, and would have been intrusted with embassies to the High Allies; who, if he had lived in our time, would have found encouragement scarcely less munificent in Albemarle Street or in Paternoster Row. As every climate has its peculiar diseases, so every walk of life has its peculiar temptations. The literary character, assuredly, has always had its share of faults, vanity, jealousy, morbid sensibility. To these faults were now superadded the faults which are commonly found in men whose livelihood is precarious, and whose principles are exposed to the trial of severe distress. All the vices of the gambler and of the beggar were blended with those of the author. The prizes in the wretched lottery of book- making were scarcely less ruinous than the blanks. If good fortune came, it came in such a manner that it was almost certain to be abused. After months of starvation and despair, a full third night or a well-received dedication filled the pocket of the lean, ragged, unwashed poet with guineas. He hastened to enjoy those luxuries with the images of which his mind had been haunted while he was sleeping amidst the cinders and eating potatoes at the Irish ordinary in Shoe Lane. A week of taverns soon qualified him for another year of night-cellars. Such was the life of Savage, of Boyse, and of a crowd of others. Sometimes blazing in gold-laced hats and waistcoats; sometimes lying in bed because their coats had gone to pieces, or wearing paper cravats because their linen was in pawn; sometimes drinking Champagne and Tokay with Betty Careless; sometimes standing at the window of an eating-house in Porridge island, to snuff up the scent of what they could not afford to taste; they knew luxury; they knew beggary; but they never knew comfort. These men were irreclaimable. They looked on a regular and frugal life with the same aversion which an old gipsy or a Mohawk hunter feels for a stationary abode, and for the restraints and securities of civilised communities. They were as untameable, as much wedded to their desolate freedom, as the wild ass. They could no more be broken in to the offices of social man than the unicorn could be trained to serve and abide by the crib. It was well if they did not, like beasts of a still fiercer race, tear the hands which ministered to their necessities. To assist them was impossible; and the most benevolent of mankind at length became weary of giving relief which was dissipated with the wildest profusion as soon as it had been received. If a sum was bestowed on the wretched adventurer, such as, properly husbanded, might have supplied him for six months, it was instantly spent in strange freaks of sensuality, and, before forty-eight hours had elapsed, the poet was again pestering all his acquaintance for twopence to get a plate of shin of beef at a subterraneous cookshop. If his friends gave him an asylum in their houses, those houses were forthwith turned into bagnios and taverns. All order was destroyed; all business was suspended. The most good-natured host began to repent of his eagerness to serve a man of genius in distress when he heard his guest roaring for fresh punch at five o'clock in the morning. A few eminent writers were more fortunate. Pope had been raised above poverty by the active patronage which, in his youth, both the great political parties had extended to his Homer. Young had received the only pension ever bestowed, to the best of our recollection, by Sir Robert Walpole, as the reward of mere literary merit. One or two of the many poets who attached themselves to the Opposition, Thomson in particular and Mallet, obtained, after much severe suffering, the means of subsistence from their political friends. Richardson, like a man of sense, kept his shop; and his shop kept him, which his novels, admirable as they are, would scarcely have done, But nothing could be more deplorable than the state even of the ablest men, who at that time depended for subsistence on their writings. Johnson, Collins, Fielding, and Thomson, were certainly four of the most distinguished persons that England produced during the eighteenth century. It is well known that they were all four arrested for debt. Into calamities and difficulties such as these Johnson plunged in his twenty-eighth year. From that time, till he was three or four and fifty, we have little information respecting him; little, we mean, compared with the full and accurate information which we possess respecting his proceedings and habits towards the close of his life. He emerged at length from cock-lofts and sixpenny ordinaries into the society of the polished and the opulent. His fame was established. A pension sufficient for his wants had been conferred on him: and he came forth to astonish a generation with which he had almost as little in common as with Frenchmen or Spaniards. In his early years he had occasionally seen the great; but he had seen them as a beggar. He now came among them as a companion. The demand for amusement and instruction had, during the course of twenty years, been gradually increasing. The price of literary labour had risen; and those rising men of letters with whom Johnson was henceforth to associate, were for the most part persons widely different from those who had walked about with him all night in the streets for want of a lodging. Burke, Robertson, the Wartons, Gray, Mason, Gibbon, Adam Smith, Beattie, Sir William Jones, Goldsmith, and Churchill, were the most distinguished writers of what may be called the second generation of the Johnsonian age. Of these men Churchill was the only one in whom we can trace the stronger lineaments of that character which, when Johnson first came up to London, was common among authors. Of the rest, scarcely any had felt the pressure of severe poverty. Almost all had been early admitted into the most respectable society on an equal footing. They were men of quite a different species from the dependants of Curll and Osborne. Johnson came among them the solitary specimen of a past age, the last survivor of the genuine race of Grub Street hacks; the last of that generation of authors whose abject misery and whose dissolute manners had furnished inexhaustible matter to the satirical genius of Pope. From nature he had received an uncouth figure, a diseased constitution, and an irritable temper. The manner in which the earlier years of his manhood had been passed had given to his demeanour, and even to his moral character, some peculiarities appalling to the civilised beings who were the companions of his old age. The perverse irregularity of his hours, the slovenliness of his person, his fits of strenuous exertion, interrupted by long intervals of sluggishness, his strange abstinence, and his equally strange voracity, his active benevolence, contrasted with the constant rudeness and the occasional ferocity of his manners in society, made him, in the opinion of those with whom he lived during the last twenty years of his life, a complete original. An original he was, undoubtedly, in some respects. But if we possessed full information concerning those who shared his early hardships, we should probably find that what we call his singularities of manner were, for the most part, failings which he had in common with the class to which he belonged. He ate at Streatham Park as he had been used to eat behind the screen at St. John's Gate, when he was ashamed to show his ragged clothes. He ate as it was natural that a man should eat, who, during a great part of his life, had passed the morning in doubt whether he should have food for the afternoon. The habits of his early life had accustomed him to bear privation with fortitude, but not to taste pleasure with moderation. He could fast; but, when he did not fast, he tore his dinner like a famished wolf, with the veins swelling on his forehead, and the perspiration running down his cheeks. He scarcely ever took wine. But when he drank it, he drank it greedily and in large tumblers. These were, in fact, mitigated symptoms of that same moral disease which raged with such deadly malignity in his friends Savage and Boyse. The roughness and violence which he showed in society were to be expected from a man whose temper, not naturally gentle, had been long tried by the bitterest calamities, by the want of meat, of fire, and of clothes, by the importunity of creditors, by the insolence of booksellers, by the derision of fools, by the insincerity of patrons, by that bread which is the bitterest of all food, by those stairs which are the most toilsome of all paths, by that deferred hope which makes the heart sick. Through all these things the ill-dressed, coarse, ungainly pedant had struggled manfully up to eminence and command. It was natural that, in the exercise of his power, he should be "eo immitior, quia toleraverat," that, though his heart was undoubtedly generous and humane, his demeanour in society should be harsh and despotic. For severe distress he had sympathy, and not only sympathy, but munificent relief. But for the suffering which a harsh word inflicts upon a delicate mind he had no pity; for it was a kind of suffering which he could scarcely conceive. He would carry home on his shoulders a sick and starving girl from the streets. He turned his house into a place of refuge for a crowd of wretched old creatures who could find no other asylum; nor could all their peevishness and ingratitude weary out his benevolence. But the pangs of wounded vanity seemed to him ridiculous: and he scarcely felt sufficient compassion even for the pangs of wounded affection. He had seen and felt so much of sharp misery, that he was not affected by paltry vexations; and he seemed to think that everybody ought to be as much hardened to those vexations as himself. He was angry with Boswell for complaining of a headache, with Mrs. Thrale for grumbling about the dust on the road, or the smell of the kitchen. These were, in his phrase, "foppish lamentations," which people ought to be ashamed to utter in a world so full of sin and sorrow. Goldsmith crying because The Good-natured Man had failed, inspired him with no pity. Though his own health was not good, he detested and despised valetudinarians. Pecuniary losses, unless they reduced the loser absolutely to beggary, moved him very little. People whose hearts had been softened by prosperity might weep, he said, for such events; but all that could be expected of a plain man was not to laugh. He was not much moved even by the spectacle of Lady Tavistock dying of a broken heart for the loss of her lord. Such grief he considered as a luxury reserved for the idle and the wealthy. A washerwoman, left a widow with nine small children, would not have sobbed herself to death. A person who troubled himself so little about small or sentimental grievances was not likely to be very attentive to the feelings of others in the ordinary intercourse of society. He could not understand how a sarcasm or a reprimand could make any man really unhappy. "My dear doctor," said he to Goldsmith, "what harm does it do to a man to call him Holofernes?" "Pooh, ma'am," he exclaimed, to Mrs. Carter, "who is the worse for being talked of uncharitably?" Politeness has been well defined as benevolence in small things. Johnson was impolite, not because he wanted benevolence, but because small things appeared smaller to him than to people who had never known what it was to live for fourpence halfpenny a day. The characteristic peculiarity of his intellect was the union of great powers with low prejudices. If we judged of him by the best parts of his mind, we should place him almost as high as he was placed by the idolatry of Boswell; if by the worst parts of his mind, we should place him even below Boswell himself. Where he was not under the influence of some strange scruple, or some domineering passion, which prevented him from boldly and fairly investigating a subject, he was a wary and acute reasoner, a little too much inclined to scepticism, and a little too fond of paradox. No man was less likely to be imposed upon by fallacies in argument, or by exaggerated statements of fact. But if, while he was beating down sophisms and exposing false testimony, some childish prejudices, such as would excite laughter in a well- managed nursery, came across him, he was smitten as if by enchantment. His mind dwindled away under the spell from gigantic elevation to dwarfish littleness. Those who had lately been admiring its amplitude and its force were now as much astonished at its strange narrowness and feebleness as the fisherman in the Arabian tale, when he saw the Genie, whose stature had overshadowed the whole seacoast, and whose might seemed equal to a contest with armies, contract himself to the dimensions of his small prison, and lie there the helpless slave of the charm of Solomon. Johnson was in the habit of sifting with extreme severity the evidence for all stories which were merely odd. But when they were not only odd but miraculous, his severity relaxed. He began to be credulous precisely at the point where the most credulous people begin to be sceptical. It is curious to observe, both in his writings and in his conversation, the contrast between the disdainful manner in which he rejects unauthenticated anecdotes, even when they are consistent with the general laws of nature, and the respectful manner in which he mentions the wildest stories relating to the invisible world. A man who told him of a water-spout, or a meteoric stone, generally had the lie direct given him for his pains. A man who told him of a prediction or a dream wonderfully accomplished was sure of a courteous hearing. "Johnson," observed Hogarth, "like King David, says in his haste that all men are liars." "His incredulity," says Mrs. Thrale, "amounted almost to disease." She tells us how he browbeat a gentleman, who gave him an account of a hurricane in the West Indies, and a poor Quaker who related some strange circumstance about the red-hot balls fired at the siege of Gibraltar. "It is not so. It cannot be true. Don't tell that story again. You cannot think how poor a figure you make in telling it." He once said, half-testingly, we suppose, that for six months he refused to credit the fact of the earthquake at Lisbon, and that he still believed the extent of the calamity to be greatly exaggerated. Yet he related with a grave face how old Mr. Cave of St. John's Gate saw a ghost, and how this ghost was something of a shadowy being. He went himself on a ghost-hunt to Cock Lane, and was angry with John Wesley for not following up another scent of the same kind with proper spirit and perseverance. He rejects the Celtic genealogies and poems without the least hesitation; yet he declares himself willing to believe the stories of the second sight. If he had examined the claims of the Highland seers with half the severity with which he sifted the evidence for the genuineness of Fingal, he would, we suspect, have come away from Scotland with a mind fully made up. In his Lives of the Poets, we find that he is unwilling to give credit to the accounts of Lord Roscommon's early proficiency in his studies: but he tells with great solemnity an absurd romance about some intelligence preternaturally impressed on the mind of that nobleman. He avows himself to be in great doubt about the truth of the story, and ends by warning his readers not wholly to slight such impressions. Many of his sentiments on religious subjects are worthy of a liberal and enlarged mind. He could discern clearly enough the folly and meanness of all bigotry except his own. When he spoke of the scruples of the Puritans, he spoke like a person who had really obtained an insight into the divine philosophy of the New Testament, and who considered Christianity as a noble scheme of government, tending to promote the happiness and to elevate the moral nature of man. The horror which the sectaries felt for cards, Christmas ale, plum-porridge, mince-pies, and dancing- bears, excited his contempt. To the arguments urged by some very worthy people against showy dress he replied with admirable sense and spirit, "Let us not be found, when our Master calls us, stripping the lace off our waistcoats, but the spirit of contention from our souls and tongues. Alas! sir, a man who cannot get to heaven in a green coat will not find his way thither the sooner in a grey one." Yet he was himself under the tyranny of scruples as unreasonable as those of Hudibras or Ralpho, and carried his zeal for ceremonies and for ecclesiastical dignities to lengths altogether inconsistent with reason or with Christian charity. He has gravely noted down in his diary that he once committed the sin of drinking coffee on Good Friday. In Scotland, he thought it his duty to pass several months without joining in public worship, solely because the ministers of the kirk had not been ordained by bishops. His mode of estimating the piety of his neighbours was somewhat singular. "Campbell," said he, "is a good man, a pious man. I am afraid he has not been in the inside of a church for many years: but he never passes a church without pulling off his hat; this shows he has good principles." Spain and Sicily must surely contain many pious robbers and well-principled assassins. Johnson could easily see that a Roundhead who named all his children after Solomon's singers, and talked in the House of Commons about seeking the Lord, might be an unprincipled villain, whose religious mummeries only aggravated his guilt. But a man who took off his hat when he passed a church episcopally consecrated must be a good man, a pious man, a man of good principles. Johnson could easily see that those persons who looked on a dance or a laced waistcoat as sinful, deemed most ignobly of the attributes of God and of the ends of revelation. But with what a storm of invective he would have overwhelmed any man who had blamed him for celebrating the redemption of mankind with sugarless tea and butterless buns. Nobody spoke more contemptuously of the cant of patriotism. Nobody saw more clearly the error of those who regarded liberty, not as a means, but as an end, and who proposed to themselves, as the object of their pursuit, the prosperity of the State: as distinct from the prosperity of the individuals who compose the State. His calm and settled opinion seems to have been that forms of government have little or no influence on the happiness of society. This opinion, erroneous as it is, ought at least to have preserved him from all intemperance on political questions. It did not, however, preserve him from the lowest, fiercest, and most absurd extravagances of party spirit, from rants which, in everything but the diction, resembled those of Squire Western. He was, as a politician, half ice and half fire. On the side of his intellect he was a mere Pococurante, far too apathetic about public affairs, far too sceptical as to the good or evil tendency of any form of polity. His passions, on the contrary, were violent even to slaying against all who leaned to Whiggish principles. The well-known lines which he inserted in Goldsmith's Traveller express what seems to have been his deliberate judgment: How small, of all that human hearts endure, That part which kings or laws can cause or cure! He had previously put expressions very similar into the mouth of Rasselas. It is amusing to contrast these passages with the torrents of raving abuse which he poured forth against the Long Parliament and the American Congress. In one of the conversations reported by Boswell this inconsistency displays itself in the most ludicrous manner. "Sir Adam Ferguson," says Boswell, "suggested that luxury corrupts a people, and destroys the spirit of liberty. JOHNSON: 'Sir, that is all visionary. I would not give half a guinea to live under one form of government rather than another. It is of no moment to the happiness of an individual. Sir, the danger of the abuse of power is nothing to a private man. What Frenchman is prevented passing his life as he pleases?' SIR ADAM: 'But, sir, in the British constitution it is surely of importance to keep up a spirit in the people, so as to preserve a balance against the Crown.' JOHNSON: 'Sir, I perceive you are a vile Whig. Why all this childish jealousy of the power of the Crown? The Crown has not power enough.'" One of the old philosophers, Lord Bacon tells us, used to say that life and death were just the same to him. "Why, then," said an objector, "do you not kill yourself?" The philosopher answered, "Because it is just the same." If the difference between two forms of government be not worth half a guinea, it is not easy to see how Whiggism can be viler than Toryism, or how the Crown can have too little power. If the happiness of individuals is not affected by political abuses, zeal for liberty is doubtless ridiculous. But zeal for monarchy must he equally so. No person could have been more quick-sighted than Johnson to such a contradiction as this in the logic of an antagonist. The judgments which Johnson passed on books were, in his own time, regarded with superstitious veneration, and, in our time, are generally treated with indiscriminate contempt. They are the judgments of a strong but enslaved understanding. The mind of the critic was hedged round by an uninterrupted fence of prejudices and superstitions. Within his narrow limits, he displayed a vigour and an activity which ought to have enabled him to clear the barrier that confined him. How it chanced that a man who reasoned on his premises so ably, should assume his premises so foolishly, is one of the great mysteries of human nature. The same inconsistency may be observed in the schoolmen of the middle ages. Those writers show so much acuteness and force of mind in arguing on their wretched data, that a modern reader is perpetually at a loss to comprehend how such minds came by such data. Not a flaw in the superstructure of the theory which they are rearing escapes their vigilance. Yet they are blind to the obvious unsoundness of the foundation. It is the same with some eminent lawyers. Their legal arguments are intellectual prodigies, abounding with the happiest analogies and the most refined distinctions. The principles of their arbitrary science being once admitted, the statute-book and the reports being once assumed as the foundations of reasoning, these men must be allowed to be perfect masters of logic. But if a question arises as to the postulates on which their whole system rests, if they are called upon to vindicate the fundamental maxims of that system which they have passed their lives in studying, these very men often talk the language of savages or of children. Those who have listened to a man of this class in his own court, and who have witnessed the skill with which he analyses and digests a vast mass of evidence, or reconciles a crowd of precedents which at first sight seem contradictory, scarcely know him again when, a few hours later, they hear him speaking on the other side of Westminster Hall in his capacity of legislator. They can scarcely believe that the paltry quirks which are faintly heard through a storm of coughing, and which do not impose on the plainest country gentleman, can proceed from the same sharp and vigorous intellect which had excited their admiration under the same roof, and on the same day. Johnson decided literary questions like a lawyer, not like a legislator. He never examined foundations where a point was already ruled. His whole code of criticism rested on pure assumption, for which he sometimes quoted a precedent or an authority, but rarely troubled himself to give a reason drawn from the nature of things. He took it for granted that the kind of poetry which flourished in his own time, which he had been accustomed to hear praised from his childhood, and which he had himself written with success, was the best kind of poetry. In his biographical work he has repeatedly laid it down as an undeniable proposition that during the latter part of the seventeenth century, and the earlier part of the eighteenth, English poetry had been in a constant progress of improvement. Waller, Denham, Dryden, and Pope, had been, according to him, the great reformers. He judged of all works of the imagination by the standard established among his own contemporaries. Though he allowed Homer to have been a greater man than Virgil, he seems to have thought the Aeneid a greater poem than the Iliad. Indeed, he well might have thought so; for he preferred Pope's Iliad to Homer's. He pronounced that, after Hoole's translation of Tasso, Fairfax's would hardly be reprinted. He could see no merit in our fine old English ballads, and always spoke with the most provoking contempt of Percy's fondness for them. Of the great original works of imagination which appeared during his time, Richardson's novels alone excited his admiration. He could see little or no merit in Tom Jones, in Gulliver's Travels, or in Tristram Shandy. To Thomson's Castle of Indolence he vouchsafed only a line of cold commendation, of commendation much colder than what he has bestowed on the Creation of that portentous bore, Sir Richard Blackmore. Gray was, in his dialect, a barren rascal. Churchill was a blockhead. The contempt which he felt for the trash of Macpherson was indeed just; but it was, we suspect, just by chance. He despised the Fingal for the very reason which led many men of genius to admire it. He despised it, not because it was essentially commonplace, but because it had a superficial air of originality. He was undoubtedly an excellent judge of compositions fashioned on his own principles. But when a deeper philosophy was required, when he undertook to pronounce judgment on the works of those great minds which "yield homage only to eternal laws," his failure was ignominious. He criticised Pope's Epitaphs excellently. But his observations on Shakspeare's plays and Milton's poems seem to us for the most part as wretched as if they had been written by Rymer himself, whom we take to have been the worst critic that ever lived. Some of Johnson's whims on literary subjects can be compared only to that strange nervous feeling which made him uneasy if he had not touched every post between the Mitre tavern and his own lodgings. His preference of Latin epitaphs to English epitaphs is an instance. An English epitaph, he said, would disgrace Smollett. He declared that he would not pollute the walls of Westminster Abbey with an English epitaph on Goldsmith. What reason there can be for celebrating a British writer in Latin, which there was not for covering the Roman arches of triumph with Greek inscriptions, or for commemorating the deeds of the heroes of Thermopylae in Egyptian hieroglyphics, we are utterly unable to imagine. On men and manners, at least on the men and manners of a particular place and a particular age, Johnson had certainly looked with a most observant and discriminating eye. His remarks on the education of children, on marriage, on the economy of families, on the rules of society, are always striking, and generally sound. In his writings, indeed, the knowledge of life which he possessed in an eminent degree is very imperfectly exhibited. Like those unfortunate chiefs of the middle ages who were suffocated by their own chain-mail and cloth of gold, his maxims perish under that load of words which was designed for their defence and their ornament. But it is clear from the remains of his conversation, that he had more of that homely wisdom which nothing but experience and observation can give than any writer since the time of Swift. If he had been content to write as he talked, he might have left books on the practical art of living superior to the Directions to Servants. Yet even his remarks on society, like his remarks on literature, indicate a mind at least as remarkable for narrowness as for strength. He was no master of the great science of human nature. He had studied, not the genus man, but the species Londoner. Nobody was ever so thoroughly conversant with all the forms of life and of all the shades of moral and intellectual character which were to be seen from Islington to the Thames, and from Hyde Park Corner to Mile-End Green. But his philosophy stopped at the first turnpike-gate. Of the rural life of England he knew nothing; and he took it for granted that everybody who lived in the country was either stupid or miserable. "Country gentlemen," said he, "must be unhappy; for they have not enough to keep their lives in motion;" as if all those peculiar habits and associations which made Fleet Street and Charing Cross the finest views in the world to himself had been essential parts of human nature. Of remote countries and past times he talked with wild and ignorant presumption. "The Athenians of the age of Demosthenes," he said to Mrs. Thrale, "were a people of brutes, a barbarous people." In conversation with Sir Adam Ferguson he used similar language. "The boasted Athenians," he said, "were barbarians. The mass of every people must be barbarous where there is no printing." The fact was this: he saw that a Londoner who could not read was a very stupid and brutal fellow: he saw that great refinement of taste and activity of intellect were rarely found in a Londoner who had not read much; and, because it was by means of books that people acquired almost all their knowledge in the society with which he was acquainted, he concluded, in defiance of the strongest and clearest evidence, that the human mind can be cultivated by means of books alone. An Athenian citizen might possess very few volumes; and the largest library to which he had access might be much less valuable than Johnson's bookcase in Bolt Court. But the Athenian might pass every morning in conversation with Socrates, and might hear Pericles speak four or five times every month. He saw the plays of Sophocles and Aristophanes; he walked amidst the friezes of Phidias and the paintings of Zeuxis: he knew by heart the choruses of Aeschylus: he heard the rhapsodist at the corner of the streets reciting the Shield of Achilles or the Death of Argus: he was a legislator, conversant with high questions of alliance, revenue, and war: he was a soldier, trained under a liberal and generous discipline: he was a judge compelled every day to weigh the effect of opposite arguments. These things were in themselves an education, an education eminently fitted, not, indeed, to form exact or profound thinkers, but to give quickness to the perceptions, delicacy to the taste, fluency to the expression, and politeness to the manners. All this was overlooked. An Athenian who did not improve his mind by reading was, in Johnson's opinion, much such a person as a Cockney who made his mark, much such a person as black Frank before he went to school, and far inferior to a parish clerk or a printer's devil. Johnson's friends have allowed that he carried to a ridiculous extreme his unjust contempt for foreigners. He pronounced the French to be a very silly people, much behind us, stupid, ignorant creatures. And this judgment he formed after having been at Paris about a month, during which he would not talk French, for fear of giving the natives an advantage over him in conversation. He pronounced them, also, to be an indelicate people, because a French footman touched the sugar with his fingers. That ingenious and amusing traveller, M. Simond, has defended his countrymen very successfully against Johnson's accusations, and has pointed out some English practices which, to an impartial spectator, would seem at least as inconsistent with physical cleanliness and social decorum as those which Johnson so bitterly reprehended. To the sage, as Boswell loves to call him, it never occurred to doubt that there must be something eternally and immutably good in the usages to which he had been accustomed. In fact, Johnson's remarks on society beyond the bills of mortality, are generally of much the same kind with those of honest Tom Dawson, the English footman in Dr. Moore's Zeluco. "Suppose the King of France has no sons, but only a daughter, then, when the king dies, this here daughter, according to that there law, cannot be made queen, but the next near relative, provided he is a man, is made king, and not the last king's daughter, which, to be sure, is very unjust. The French footguards are dressed in blue, and all the marching regiments in white, which has a very foolish appearance for soldiers; and as for blue regimentals, it is only fit for the blue horse or the artillery." Johnson's visit to the Hebrides introduced him to a state of society completely new to him; and a salutary suspicion of his own deficiencies seems on that occasion to have crossed his mind for the first time. He confessed, in the last paragraph of his journey, that his thoughts on national manners were the thoughts of one who had seen but little, of one who had passed his time almost wholly in cities. This feeling, however, soon passed away. It is remarkable that to the last he entertained a fixed contempt for all those modes of life and those studies which tend to emancipate the mind from the prejudices of a particular age or a particular nation. Of foreign travel and of history he spoke with the fierce and boisterous contempt of ignorance. "What does a man learn by travelling? Is Beauclerk the better for travelling? What did Lord Charlemont learn in his travels, except that there was a snake in one of the pyramids of Egypt?" History was, in his opinion, to use the fine expression of Lord Plunkett, an old almanack; historians could, as he conceived, claim no higher dignity than that of almanack-makers; and his favourite historians were those who, like Lord Hailes, aspired to no higher dignity. He always spoke with contempt of Robertson. Hume he would not even read. He affronted one of his friends for talking to him about Catiline's conspiracy, and declared that he never desired to hear of the Punic war again as long as he lived. Assuredly one fact which does not directly affect our own interests, considered in itself, is no better worth knowing than another fact. The fact that there is a snake in a pyramid, or the fact that Hannibal crossed the Alps, are in themselves as unprofitable to us as the fact that there is a green blind in a particular house in Threadneedle Street, or the fact that a Mr. Smith comes into the city every morning on the top of one of the Blackwall stages. But it is certain that those who will not crack the shell of history will never get at the kernel. Johnson, with hasty arrogance, pronounced the kernel worthless, because he saw no value in the shell. The real use of travelling to distant countries and of studying the annals of past times is to preserve men from the contraction of mind which those can hardly escape whose whole communion is with one generation and one neighbourhood, who arrive at conclusions by means of an induction not sufficiently copious, and who therefore constantly confound exceptions with rules, and accidents with essential properties. In short, the real use of travelling and of studying history is to keep men from being what Tom Dawson was in fiction, and Samuel Johnson in reality. Johnson, as Mr. Burke most justly observed, appears far greater in Boswell's books than in his own. His conversation appears to have been quite equal to his writings in matter, and far superior to them in manners. When he talked, he clothed his wit and his sense in forcible and natural expressions. As soon as he took his pen in his hand to write for the public, his style became systematically vicious. All his books are written in a learned language, in a language which nobody hears front his mother or his nurse, in a language in which nobody ever quarrels, or drives bargains, or makes love, in a language in which nobody ever thinks. It is clear that Johnson himself did not think in the dialect in which he wrote. The expressions which came first to his tongue were simple, energetic, and picturesque. When he wrote for publication, he did his sentences out of English into Johnsonese. His letters from the Hebrides to Mrs. Thrale are the original of that work of which the Journey to the Hebrides is the translation; and it is amusing to compare the two versions. "When we were taken upstairs," says he in one of his letters, "a dirty fellow bounced out of the bed on which one of us was to lie." This incident is recorded in the journey as follows: "Out of one of the beds on which we were to repose started up, at our entrance, a man black as a Cyclops from the forge." Sometimes Johnson translated aloud. "The Rehearsal," he said, very unjustly, "has not wit enough to keep it sweet" then, after a pause, "it has not vitality enough to preserve it from putrefaction." Mannerism is pardonable, and is sometimes even agreeable, when the manner, though vicious, is natural. Few readers, for example, would be willing to part with the mannerism of Milton or of Burke. But a mannerism which does not sit easy on the mannerist, which has been adopted on principle, and which can be sustained only by constant effort, is always offensive. And such is the mannerism of Johnson. The characteristic faults of his style are so familiar to all our readers, and have been so often burlesqued, that it is almost superfluous to point them out. It is well known that he made less use than any other eminent writer of those strong plain words, Anglo-Saxon or Norman-French, of which the roots lie in the inmost depths of our language; and that he felt a vicious partiality for terms which, long after our own speech had been fixed, were borrowed from the Greek and Latin, and which, therefore, even when lawfully naturalised, must be considered as born aliens, not entitled to rank with the king's English. His constant practice of padding out a sentence with useless epithets, till it became as stiff as the bust of an exquisite, his antithetical forms of expression, constantly employed even where there is no opposition in the ideas expressed, his big words wasted on little things, his harsh inversions so widely different from those graceful and easy inversions which give variety, spirit, and sweetness to the expression of our great old writers, all these peculiarities have been imitated by his admirers and parodied by his assailants, till the public have become sick of the subject. Goldsmith said to him, very wittily, and very justly, "If you were to write a fable about little fishes, doctor, you would make the little fishes talk like whales." No man surely ever had so little talent for personation as Johnson. Whether he wrote in the character of a disappointed legacy-hunter or an empty town fop, of a crazy virtuoso or a flippant coquette, he wrote in the same pompous and unbending style. His speech, like Sir Piercy Shafton's Euphuistic eloquence, betrayed him under every disguise. Euphelia and Rhodoclea talk as finely as Imlac the poet, or Seged, Emperor of Ethiopia. The gay Cornelia describes her reception at the country-house of her relations, in such terms as these: "I was surprised, after the civilities of my first reception, to find, instead of the leisure and tranquillity which a rural life always promises, and, if well conducted, might always afford, a confused wildness of care, and a tumultuous hurry of diligence, by which every face was clouded, and every motion agitated." The gentle Tranquilla informs us, that she "had not passed the earlier part of life without the flattery of courtship, and the joys of triumph; but had danced the round of gaiety amidst the murmurs of envy and the gratulations of applause, had been attended from pleasure to pleasure by the great, the sprightly, and the vain, and had seen her regard solicited by the obsequiousness of gallantry, the gaiety of wit, and the timidity of love." Surely Sir John Falstaff himself did not wear his petticoats with a worse grace. The reader may well cry out with honest Sir Hugh Evans, "I like not when a 'oman has a great peard: I spy a great peard under her muffler." [It is proper to observe that this passage bears a very close resemblance to a passage in the Rambler (No. 20). The resemblance may possibly be the effect of unconscious plagiarism.] We had something more to say. But our article is already too long; and we must close it. We would fain part in good humour from the hero, from the biographer, and even from the editor, who, ill as he has performed his task, has at least this claim to our gratitude, that he has induced us to read Boswell's book again. As we close it, the club-room is before us, and the table on which stands the omelet for Nugent, and the lemons for Johnson. There are assembled those heads which live for ever on the canvas of Reynolds. There are the spectacles of Burke and the tall thin form of Langton, the courtly sneer of Beauclerk and the beaming smile of Garrick, Gibbon tapping his snuff-box and Sir Joshua with his trumpet in his ear. In the foreground is that strange figure which is as familiar to us as the figures of those among whom we have been brought up, the gigantic body, the hugh massy face, seamed with the scars of disease, the brown coat, the black worsted stockings, the grey wig with the scorched foretop, the dirty hands, the nails bitten and pared to the quick. We see the eyes and mouth moving with convulsive twitches; we see the heavy form rolling; we hear it puffing; and then comes the "Why, sir!" and "What then, sir?" and the "No, sir!" and the "You don't see your way through the question, sir!" What a singular destiny has been that of this remarkable man! To be regarded in his own age as a classic, and in ours as a companion. To receive from his contemporaries that full homage which men of genius have in general received only from posterity! To be more intimately known to posterity than other men are known to their contemporaries! That kind of fame which is commonly the most transient is, in his case, the most durable. The reputation of those writings, which he probably expected to be immortal, is every day fading; while those peculiarities of manner and that careless table-talk the memory of which, he probably thought, would die with him, are likely to be remembered as long as the English language is spoken in any quarter of the globe. MADAME D'ARBLAY (January 1843) Diary and Letters of Madame D'Arblay. Five vols. 8vo. London: 1842. THOUGH the world saw and heard little of Madame D'Arblay during the last forty years of her life, and though that little did not add to her fame, there were thousands, we believe, who felt a singular emotion when they learned that she was no longer among us. The news of her death carried the minds of men back at one leap over two generations, to the time when her first literary triumphs were won. All those whom we had been accustomed to revere as intellectual patriarchs seemed children when compared with her; for Burke had sate up all night to read her writings, and Johnson had pronounced her superior to Fielding, when Rogers was still a schoolboy, and Southey still in petticoats. Yet more strange did it seem that we should just have lost one whose name had been widely celebrated before anybody had heard of some illustrious men, who, twenty, thirty, or forty years ago, were, after a long and splendid career, borne with honour to the grave. Yet so it was. Frances Burney was at the height of fame and popularity before Cowper had published his first volume, before Porson had gone up to college, before Pitt had taken his seat in the House of Commons, before the voice of Erskine had been once heard in Westminster Hall. Since the appearance of her first work, sixty-two years had passed; and this interval had been crowded, not only with political, but also with intellectual revolutions. Thousands of reputations had, during that period, sprung up, bloomed, withered, and disappeared. New kinds of composition had come into fashion, had gone out of fashion, had been derided, had been forgotten. The fooleries of Della Crusca, and the fooleries of Kotzebue, had for a time bewitched the multitude, and had left no trace behind them; nor had misdirected genius been able to save from decay the once flourishing schools of Godwin, of Darwin, and of Radcliffe. Many books, written for temporary effect, had run through six or seven editions, and had then been gathered to the novels of Afra Behn, and the epic poems of Sir Richard Blackmore. Yet the early works of Madame D'Arblay, in spite of the lapse of years, in spite of the change of manners, in spite of the popularity deservedly obtained by some of her rivals, continued to hold a high place in the public esteem. She lived to be a classic. Time set on her fame, before she went hence, that seal which is seldom set except on the fame of the departed. Like Sir Condy Rackrent in the tale, she survived her own wake, and overheard the judgment of posterity. Having always felt a warm and sincere, though not a blind admiration for her talents, we rejoiced to learn that her Diary was about to be made public. Our hopes, it is true, were not unmixed with fears. We could not forget the fate of the Memoirs of Dr. Burney, which were published ten years ago. That unfortunate book contained much that was curious and interesting. Yet it was received with a cry of disgust, and was speedily consigned to oblivion. The truth is, that it deserved its doom. It was written in Madame D'Arblay's later style, the worst style that has ever been known among men. No genius, no information, could save from proscription a book so written. We, therefore, opened the Diary with no small anxiety, trembling lest we should light upon some of that peculiar rhetoric which deforms almost every page of the Memoirs, and which it is impossible to read without a sensation made up of mirth, shame, and loathing. We soon, however, discovered to our great delight that this Diary was kept before Madame D'Arblay became eloquent. It is, for the most part, written in her earliest and best manner, in true woman's English, clear, natural, and lively. The two works are lying side by side before us; and we never turn from the Memoirs to the Diary without a sense of relief. The difference is as great as the difference between the atmosphere of a perfumer's shop, fetid with lavender water and jasmine soap, and the air of a heath on a fine morning in May. Both works ought to be consulted by every person who wishes to be well acquainted with the history of our literature and our manners. But to read the Diary is a pleasure; to read the Memoirs will always be a task. We may, perhaps, afford some harmless amusement to our readers, if we attempt, with the help of these two books, to give them an account of the most important years of Madame D'Arblay's life. She was descended from a family which bore the name of Macburney, and which, though probably of Irish origin, had been long settled in Shropshire, and was possessed of considerable estates in that county. Unhappily, many years before her birth, the Macburneys began, as if of set purpose and in a spirit of determined rivalry, to expose and ruin themselves. The heir apparent, Mr. James Macburney, offended his father by making a runaway match with an actress from Goodman's Fields. The old gentleman could devise no more judicious mode of wreaking vengeance on his undutiful boy than by marrying the cook. The cook gave birth to a son named Joseph, who succeeded to all the lands of the family, while James was cut off with a shilling. The favourite son, however, was so extravagant, that he soon became as poor as his disinherited brother. Both were forced to earn their bread by their labour. Joseph turned dancing-master, and settled in Norfolk. James struck off the Mac from the beginning of his name, and set up as a portrait painter at Chester. Here he had a son named Charles, well known as the author of the History of Music, and as the father of two remarkable children, of a son distinguished by learning, and of a daughter still more honourably distinguished by genius. Charles early showed a taste for that art, of which, at a later period, he became the historian. He was apprenticed to a celebrated musician in London, and applied himself to study with vigour and success. He soon found a kind and munificent patron in Fulk Greville, a highborn and highbred man, who seems to have had in large measure all the accomplishments and all the follies, all the virtues and all the vices, which, a hundred years ago, were considered as making up the character of a fine gentleman. Under such protection, the young artist had every prospect of a brilliant career in the capital. But his health failed. It became necessary for him to retreat from the smoke and river fog of London, to the pure air of the coast. He accepted the place of organist, at Lynn, and settled at that town with a young lady who had recently become his wife. At Lynn, in June 1752, Frances Burney was born. Nothing in her childhood indicated that she would, while still a young woman, have secured for herself an honourable and permanent place among English writers. She was shy and silent. Her brothers and sisters called her a dunce, and not without some show of reason; for at eight years old she did not know her letters. In 1760, Mr. Burney quitted Lynn for London, and took a house in Poland Street; a situation which had been fashionable In the reign of Queen Anne, but which, since that time, had been deserted by most of its wealthy and noble inhabitants. He afterwards resided in Saint Martin's Street, on the south side of Leicester Square. His house there is still well known, and will continue to be well known as long as our island retains any trace of civilisation; for it was the dwelling of Newton, and the square turret which distinguishes it from all the surrounding buildings was Newton's observatory. Mr. Burney at once obtained as many pupils of the most respectable description as he had time to attend, and was thus enabled to support his family, modestly indeed, and frugally, but in comfort and independence. His professional merit obtained for him the degree of Doctor of Music from the University of Oxford; and his works on subjects connected with his art gained for him a place, respectable, though certainly not eminent, among men of letters. The progress of the mind of Frances Burney, from her ninth to her twenty-fifth year, well deserves to be recorded. When her education had proceeded no further than the hornbook, she lost her mother, and thenceforward she educated herself. Her father appears to have been as bad a father as a very honest, affectionate, and sweet tempered man can well be. He loved his daughter dearly; but it never seems to have occurred to him that a parent has other duties to perform to children than that of fondling them. It would indeed have been impossible for him to superintend their education himself. His professional engagements occupied him all day. At seven in the morning he began to attend his pupils, and when London was full, was sometimes employed in teaching till eleven at night. He was often forced to carry in his pocket a tin box of sandwiches, and a bottle of wine and water, on which he dined in a hackney coach, while hurrying from one scholar to another. Two of his daughters he sent to a seminary at Paris; but he imagined that Frances would run some risk of being perverted from the Protestant faith if she were educated in a Catholic country, and he therefore kept her at home. No governess, no teacher of any art or of any language, was provided for her. But one of her sisters showed her how to write; and, before she was fourteen, she began to find pleasure in reading. It was not, however, by reading that her intellect was formed. Indeed, when her best novels were produced, her knowledge of books was very small. When at the height of her fame, she was unacquainted with the most celebrated works of Voltaire and Moliere; and, what seems still more extraordinary, had never heard or seen a line of Churchill, who, when she was a girl, was the most popular of living poets. It is particularly deserving of observation that she appears to have been by no means a novel- reader. Her father's library was large; and he had admitted into it so many books which rigid moralists generally exclude that he felt uneasy, as he afterwards owned, when Johnson began to examine the shelves. But in the whole collection there was only a single novel, Fielding's Amelia. An education, however, which to most girls would have been useless, but which suited Fanny's mind better than elaborate culture, was in constant progress during her passage from childhood to womanhood. The great book of human nature was turned over before her. Her father's social position was very peculiar. He belonged in fortune and station to the middle class. His daughters seemed to have been suffered to mix freely with those whom butlers and waiting-maids call vulgar. We are told that they were in the habit of playing with the children of a wig-maker who lived in the adjoining house. Yet few nobles could assemble in the most stately mansions of Grosvenor Square or Saint James's Square, a society so various and so brilliant as was sometimes to be found in Dr. Burney's cabin. His mind, though not very powerful or capacious, was restlessly active; and, in the intervals of his professional pursuits, he had contrived to lay up much miscellaneous information. His attainments, the suavity of his temper, and the gentle simplicity of his manners, had obtained for him ready admission to the first literary circles. While he was still at Lynn, he had won Johnson's heart by sounding with honest zeal the praises of the English Dictionary. In London the two friends met frequently, and agreed most harmoniously. One tie, indeed, was wanting to their mutual attachment. Burney loved his own art passionately; and Johnson just knew the bell of Saint Clement's church from the organ. They had, however, many topics in common; and on winter nights their conversations were sometimes prolonged till the fire had gone out, and the candles had burned away to the wicks. Burney's admiration of the powers which had produced Rasselas and The Rambler bordered on idolatry. Johnson, on the other hand, condescended to growl out that Burney was an honest fellow, a man whom it was impossible not to like. Garrick, too, was a frequent visitor in Poland Street and Saint Martin's Street. That wonderful actor loved the society of children, partly from good-nature, and partly from vanity. The ecstasies of mirth and terror, which his gestures and play of countenance never failed to produce in a nursery, flattered him quite as much as the applause of mature critics. He often exhibited all his powers of mimicry for the amusement of the little Burneys, awed them by shuddering and crouching as if he saw a ghost, scared them by raving like a maniac in Saint Luke's, and then at once became an auctioneer, a chimney-sweeper, or an old woman, and made them laugh till the tears ran down their cheeks. But it would be tedious to recount the names of all the men of letters and artists whom Frances Burney had an opportunity of seeing and hearing. Colman, Twining, Harris, Baretti, Hawkesworth, Reynolds, Barry, were among those who occasionally surrounded the tea-table and supper-tray at her father's modest dwelling. This was not all. The distinction which Dr. Burney had acquired as a musician, and as the historian of music, attracted to his house the most eminent musical performers of that age. The greatest Italian singers who visited England regarded him as the dispenser of fame in their art, and exerted themselves to obtain his suffrage. Pachierotti became his intimate friend. The rapacious Agujari, who sang for nobody else under fifty pounds an air, sang her best for Dr. Burney without a fee; and in the company of Dr. Burney even the haughty and eccentric Gabrielli constrained herself to behave with civility. It was thus in his power to give, with scarcely any expense, concerts equal to those of the aristocracy. On such occasions the quiet street in which he lived was blocked up by coroneted chariots, and his little drawing-room was crowded with peers, peeresses, ministers, and ambassadors. On one evening, of which we happen to have a full account, there were present Lord Mulgrave, Lord Bruce, Lord and Lady Edgecumbe, Lord Carrington from the War Office, Lord Sandwich from the Admiralty, Lord Ashburnham, with his gold key dangling from his pocket, and the French Ambassador, M. De Guignes, renowned for his fine person and for his success in gallantry. But the great show of the night was the Russian Ambassador, Count Orloff, whose gigantic figure was all in a blaze with jewels, and in whose demeanour the untamed ferocity of the Scythian might be discerned through a thin varnish of French politeness. As he stalked about the small parlour, brushing the ceiling with his toupee, the girls whispered to each other, with mingled admiration and horror, that he was the favoured lover of his august mistress; that he had borne the chief part in the revolution to which she owed her throne; and that his huge hands, now glittering with diamond rings, had given the last squeeze to the windpipe of her unfortunate husband. With such illustrious guests as these were mingled all the most remarkable specimens of the race of lions, a kind of game which is hunted in London every spring with more than Meltonian ardour and perseverance. Bruce, who had washed down steaks cut from living oxen with water from the fountains of the Nile, came to swagger and talk about his travels. Omai lisped broken English, and made all the assembled musicians hold their ears by howling Otaheitean love songs, such as those with which Oberea charmed her Opano. With the literary and fashionable society, which occasionally met under Dr. Burney's roof, Frances can scarcely be said to have mingled. She was not a musician, and could therefore bear no part in the concerts. She was shy almost to awkwardness, and scarcely ever joined in the conversation. The slightest remark from a stranger disconcerted her; and even the old friends of her father who tried to draw her out could seldom extract more than a Yes or a No. Her figure was small, her face not distinguished by beauty. She was therefore suffered to withdraw quietly to the background, and, unobserved herself, to observe all that passed. Her nearest relations were aware that she had good sense, but seem not to have suspected that, under her demure and bashful deportment, were concealed a fertile invention and a keen sense of the ridiculous. She had not, it is true, an eye for the fine shades of character. But every marked peculiarity instantly caught her notice and remained engraven on her imagination. Thus, while still a girl, she had laid up such a store of materials for fiction as few of those who mix much in the world are able to accumulate during a long life. She had watched and listened to people of every class, from princes and great officers of state down to artists living in garrets, and poets familiar with subterranean cookshops. Hundreds of remarkable persons had passed in review before her, English, French, German, Italian, lords and fiddlers, deans of cathedrals and managers of theatres, travellers leading about newly caught savages, and singing women escorted by deputy husbands. So strong was the impression made on the mind of Frances by the society which she was in the habit of seeing and hearing, that she began to write little fictitious narratives as soon as she could use her pen with case, which, as we have said, was not very early. Her sisters were amused by her stories: but Dr. Burney knew nothing of their existence; and in another quarter her literary propensities met with serious discouragement. When she was fifteen, her father took a second wife. The new Mrs. Burney soon found out that her stepdaughter was fond of scribbling, and delivered several good-natured lectures on the subject. The advice no doubt was well meant, and might have been given by the most judicious friend; for at that time, from causes to which we may hereafter advert, nothing could be more disadvantageous to a young lady than to be known as a novel-writer. Frances yielded, relinquished her favourite pursuit, and made a bonfire of all her manuscripts. [There is some difficulty here as to the chronology. "This sacrifice," says the editor of the Diary, "was made in the young authoress's fifteenth year." This could not be; for the sacrifice was the effect, according to the editor's own showing, of the remonstrances of the second Mrs. Burney; and Frances was in her sixteenth year when her father's second marriage took place.] She now hemmed and stitched from breakfast to dinner with scrupulous regularity. But the dinners of that time were early; and the afternoon was her own. Though she had given up novel- writing, she was still fond of using her pen. She began to keep a diary, and she corresponded largely with a person who seems to have had the chief share in the formation of her mind. This was Samuel Crisp, an old friend of her father. His name, well known, near a century ago, in the most splendid circles of London, has long been forgotten. His history is, however, so interesting and instructive, that it tempts us to venture on a digression. Long before Frances Burney was born, Mr. Crisp had made his entrance into the world, with every advantage. He was well connected and well educated. His face and figure were conspicuously handsome; his manners were polished; his fortune was easy; his character was without stain; he lived in the best society; he had read much; he talked well; his taste in literature, music, painting, architecture, sculpture, was held in high esteem. Nothing that the world can give seemed to be wanting to his happiness and respectability, except that he should understand the limits of his powers, and should not throw away distinctions which were within his reach in the pursuit of distinctions which were unattainable. "It is an uncontrolled truth," says Swift," that no man ever made an ill figure who understood his own talents, nor a good one who mistook them." Every day brings with it fresh illustrations of this weighty saying; but the best commentary that we remember is the history of Samuel Crisp. Men like him have their proper place, and it is a most important one, in the Commonwealth of Letters. It is by the judgment of such men that the rank of authors is finally determined. It is neither to the multitude, nor to the few who are gifted with great creative genius, that we are to look for sound critical decisions. The multitude, unacquainted with the best models, are captivated by whatever stuns and dazzles them. They deserted Mrs. Siddons to run after Master Betty; and they now prefer, we have no doubt, Jack Sheppard to Von Artevelde. A man of great original genius, on the other hand, a man who has attained to mastery in some high walk of art, is by no means to be implicitly trusted as a judge of the performances of others. The erroneous decisions pronounced by such men are without number. It is commonly supposed that jealousy makes them unjust. But a more creditable explanation may easily be found. The very excellence of a work shows that some of the faculties of the author have been developed at the expense of the rest; for it is not given to the human intellect to expand itself widely in all directions at once, and to be at the same time gigantic and well proportioned. Whoever becomes pre-eminent in any art, in any style of art, generally does so by devoting himself with intense and exclusive enthusiasm to the pursuit of one kind of excellence. His perception of other kinds of excellence is therefore too often impaired. Out of his own department he praises and blames at random, and is far less to be trusted than the mere connoisseur, who produces nothing, and whose business is only to judge and enjoy. One painter is distinguished by his exquisite finishing. He toils day after day to bring the veins of a cabbage leaf, the folds of a lace veil, the wrinkles of an old woman's face, nearer and nearer to perfection. In the time which he employs on a square foot of canvas, a master of a different order covers the walls of a palace with gods burying giants under mountains, or makes the cupola of a church alive with seraphim and martyrs. The more fervent the passion of each of these artists for his art, the higher the merit of each in his own line, the more unlikely it is that they will justly appreciate each other. Many persons who never handled a pencil probably do far more justice to Michael Angelo than would have been done by Gerard Douw, and far more justice to Gerard Douw than would have been done by Michael Angelo. It is the same with literature. Thousands, who have no spark of the genius of Dryden or Wordsworth, do to Dryden the justice which has never been done by Wordsworth, and to Wordsworth the justice which, we suspect, would never have been done by Dryden. Gray, Johnson, Richardson, Fielding, are all highly esteemed by the great body of intelligent and well informed men. But Gray could see no merit in Rasselas; and Johnson could see no merit in the Bard. Fielding thought Richardson a solemn prig; and Richardson perpetually expressed contempt and disgust for Fielding's lowness. Mr. Crisp seems, as far as we can judge, to have been a man eminently qualified for the useful office of a connoisseur. His talents and knowledge fitted him to appreciate justly almost every species of intellectual superiority. As an adviser he was inestimable. Nay, he might probably have held a respectable rank as a writer, if he would have confined himself to some department of literature in which nothing more than sense, taste, and reading was required. Unhappily he set his heart on being a great poet, wrote a tragedy in five acts on the death of Virginia, and offered it to Garrick, who was his personal friend. Garrick read, shook his head, and expressed a doubt whether it would be wise in Mr. Crisp to stake a reputation, which stood high, on the success of such a piece. But the author, blinded by ambition, set in motion a machinery such as none could long resist. His intercessors were the most eloquent man and the most lovely woman of that generation. Pitt was induced to read Virginia, and to pronounce it excellent. Lady Coventry with fingers which might have furnished a model to sculptors, forced the manuscript into the reluctant hand of the manager; and, in the year 1754, the play was brought forward. Nothing that skill or friendship could do was omitted. Garrick wrote both prologue and epilogue. The zealous friends of the author filled every box; and, by their strenuous exertions, the life of the play was prolonged during ten nights. But, though there was no clamorous reprobation, it was universally felt that the attempt had failed. When Virginia was printed, the public disappointment was even greater than at the representation. The critics, the Monthly Reviewers in particular, fell on plot, characters, and diction without mercy, but, we fear, not without justice. We have never met with a copy of the play; but, if we may judge from the scene which is extracted in the Gentleman's Magazine, and which does not appear to have been malevolently selected, we should say that nothing but the acting of Garrick, and the partiality of the audience, could have saved so feeble and unnatural a drama from instant damnation. The ambition of the poet was still unsubdued. When the London season closed, he applied himself vigorously to the work of removing blemishes. He does not seem to have suspected, what we are strongly inclined to suspect, that the whole piece was one blemish, and that the passages which were meant to be fine, were, in truth, bursts of that tame extravagance into which writers fall, when they set themselves to be sublime and pathetic in spite of nature. He omitted, added, retouched, and flattered himself with hopes of a complete success in the following year; but in the following year, Garrick showed no disposition to bring the amended tragedy on the stage. Solicitation and remonstrance were tried in vain. Lady Coventry, drooping under that malady which seems ever to select what is loveliest for its prey, could render no assistance. The manager's language was civily evasive; but his resolution was inflexible. Crisp had committed a great error; but he had escaped with a very slight penance. His play had not been hooted from the boards. It had, on the contrary, been better received than many very estimable performances have been, than Johnson's Irene, for example, or Goldsmith's Good-natured Man. Had Crisp been wise, he would have thought himself happy in having purchased self- knowledge so cheap. He would have relinquished, without vain repinings, the hope of poetical distinction, and would have turned to the many sources of happiness which he still possessed. Had he been, on the other hand, an unfeeling and unblushing dunce, he would have gone on writing scores of bad tragedies in defiance of censure and derision. But he had too much sense to risk a second defeat, yet too little sense to bear his first defeat like a man. The fatal delusion that he was a great dramatist, had taken firm possession of his mind. His failure he attributed to every cause except the true one. He complained of the ill-will of Garrick, who appears to have done for the play everything that ability and zeal could do, and who, from selfish motives, would, of course, have been well pleased if Virginia had been as successful as the Beggar's Opera. Nay, Crisp complained of the languor of the friends whose partiality had given him three benefit nights to which he had no claim. He complained of the injustice of the spectators, when, in truth, he ought to have been grateful for their unexampled patience. He lost his temper and spirits, and became a cynic and a hater of mankind. From London he retired to Hampton, and from Hampton to a solitary and long deserted mansion, built on a Common in one of the wildest tracts of Surrey. No road, not even a sheep-walk, connected his lonely dwelling with the abodes of men. The place of his retreat was strictly concealed from his old associates. In the spring he sometimes emerged, and was seen at exhibitions and concerts in London. But he soon disappeared, and hid himself with no society but his books, in his dreary hermitage. He survived his failure about thirty years. A new generation sprang up around him. No memory of his bad verses remained among men. His very name was forgotten. How completely the world had lost sight of him, will appear from a single circumstance. We looked for him in a copious Dictionary of Dramatic Authors published while he was still alive, and we found only that Mr. Henry Crisp, of the Custom House, had written a play called Virginia, acted in 1754. To the last, however, the unhappy man continued to brood over the injustice of the manager and the pit, and tried to convince himself and others that he had missed the highest literary honours, only because he had omitted some fine passages in compliance with Garrick's judgment. Alas for human nature, that the wounds of vanity should smart and bleed so much longer than the wounds of affection! Few people, we believe, whose nearest friends and relations died in 1754, had any acute feeling of the loss in 1782. Dear sisters, and favourite daughters, and brides snatched away before the honeymoon was passed, had been forgotten, or were remembered only with a tranquil regret. But Samuel Crisp was still mourning for his tragedy, like Rachel weeping for her children, and would not be comforted. "Never," such was his language twenty-eight years after his disaster, "never give up or alter a tittle unless it perfectly coincides with your own inward feelings. I can say this to my sorrow and my cost. But mum!" Soon after these words were written, his life, a life which might have been eminently useful and happy, ended in the same gloom in which, during more than a quarter of a century, it had been passed. We have thought it worth while to rescue from oblivion this curious fragment of literary history. It seems to us at once ludicrous, melancholy, and full of instruction. Crisp was an old and very intimate friend of the Burneys. To them alone was confided the name of the desolate old hall in which he hid himself like a wild beast in a den. For them were reserved such remains of his humanity as had survived the failure of his play. Frances Burney he regarded as his daughter. He called her his Fannikin; and she in return called him her dear Daddy. In truth, he seems to have done much more than her real parents for the development of her intellect; for though he was a bad poet, he was a scholar, a thinker, and an excellent counsellor. He was particularly fond of the concerts in Poland Street. They had, indeed, been commenced at his suggestion, and when he visited London he constantly attended them. But when he grew old, and when gout, brought on partly by mental irritation, confined him to his retreat, he was desirous of having a glimpse of that gay and brilliant world from which he was exiled, and he pressed Fannikin to send him full accounts of her father's evening parties. A few of her letters to him have been published; and it is impossible to read them without discerning in them all the powers which afterwards produced Evelina and Cecilia, the quickness in catching every odd peculiarity of character and manner, the skill in grouping, the humour, often richly comic, sometimes even farcical. Fanny's propensity to novel-writing had for a time been kept down. It now rose up stronger than ever. The heroes and heroines of the tales which had perished in the flames, were still present to the eye of her mind. One favourite story, in particular, haunted her imagination. It was about a certain Caroline Evelyn, a beautiful damsel who made an unfortunate love-match, and died, leaving an infant daughter. Frances began to image to herself the various scenes, tragic and comic, through which the poor motherless girl, highly connected on one side, meanly connected on the other, might have to pass. A crowd of unreal beings, good and bad, grave and ludicrous, surrounded the pretty, timid, young orphan; a coarse sea captain; an ugly insolent fop, blazing in a superb court dress; another fop, as ugly and as insolent, but lodged on Snow Hill, and tricked out in second-hand finery for the Hampstead ball; an old woman, all wrinkles and rouge, flirting her fan with the air of a miss of seventeen, and screaming in a dialect made up of vulgar French and vulgar English; a poet lean and ragged, with a broad Scotch accent. By degrees these shadows acquired stronger and stronger consistence; the impulse which urged Frances to write became irresistible; and the result was the History of Evelina. Then came, naturally enough, a wish, mingled with many fears, to appear before the public; for, timid as Frances was, and bashful, and altogether unaccustomed to hear her own praises, it is clear that she wanted neither a strong passion for distinction, nor a just confidence in her own powers. Her scheme was to become, if possible, a candidate for fame, without running any risk of disgrace. She had not money to bear the expense of printing. It was therefore necessary that some bookseller should be induced to take the risk; and such a bookseller was not readily found. Dodsley refused even to look at the manuscript unless he were intrusted with the name of the author. A publisher in Fleet Street, named Lowndes, was more complaisant. Some correspondence took place between this person and Miss Burney, who took the name of Grafton, and desired that the letters addressed to her might be left at the Orange Coffee-house. But, before the bargain was finally struck, Fanny thought it her duty to obtain her father's consent. She told him that she had written a book, that she wished to have his permission to publish it anonymously, but that she hoped that he would not insist upon seeing it. What followed may serve to illustrate what we meant when we said that Dr. Burney was as bad a father as so good-hearted a man could possibly be. It never seems to have crossed his mind that Fanny was about to take a step on which the whole happiness of her life might depend, a step which might raise her to an honourable eminence, or cover her with ridicule and contempt. Several people had already been trusted, and strict concealment was therefore not to be expected. On so grave an occasion, it was surely his duty to give his best counsel to his daughter, to win her confidence, to prevent her from exposing herself if her book were a bad one, and, if it were a good one, to see that the terms which she had made with the publisher were likely to be beneficial to her. Instead of this, he only stared, burst out a- laughing, kissed her, gave her leave to do as she liked, and never even asked the name of her work. The contract with Lowndes was speedily concluded. Twenty pounds were given for the copyright, and were accepted by Fanny with delight. Her father's inexcusable neglect of his duty happily caused her no worse evil than the loss of twelve or fifteen hundred pounds. After many delays Evelina appeared in January 1778. Poor Fanny was sick with terror, and durst hardly stir out of doors. Some days passed before anything was heard of the book. It had, indeed, nothing but its own merits to push it into public favour. Its author was unknown. The house by which it was published was not, we believe, held in high estimation. No body of partisans had been engaged to applaud. The better class of readers expected little from a novel about a young lady's entrance into the world. There was, indeed, at that time a disposition among the most respectable people to condemn novels generally: nor was this disposition by any means without excuse; for works of that sort were then almost always silly, and very frequently wicked. Soon, however, the first faint accents of praise began to be heard. The keepers of the circulating libraries reported that everybody was asking for Evelina, and that some person had guessed Anstey to be the author. Then came a favourable notice in the London Review; then another still more favourable in the Monthly. And now the book found its way to tables which had seldom been polluted by marble-covered volumes. Scholars and statesmen, who contemptuously abandoned the crowd of romances to Miss Lydia Languish and Miss Sukey Saunter, were not ashamed to own that they could not tear themselves away from Evelina. Fine carriages and rich liveries, not often seen east of Temple Bar, were attracted to the publisher's shop in Fleet Street. Lowndes was daily questioned about the author, but was himself as much in the dark as any of the questioners. The mystery, however, could not remain a mystery long. It was known to brothers and sisters, aunts and cousins: and they were far too proud and too happy to be discreet. Dr. Burney wept over the book in rapture. Daddy Crisp shook his fist at his Fannikin in affectionate anger at not having been admitted to her confidence. The truth was whispered to Mrs. Thrale; and then it began to spread fast. The book had been admired while it was ascribed to men of letters long conversant with the world, and accustomed to composition. But when it was known that a reserved, silent young woman had produced the best work of fiction that had appeared since the death of Smollett, the acclamations were redoubled. What she had done was, indeed, extraordinary. But, as usual, various reports improved the story till it became miraculous. Evelina, it was said, was the work of a girl of seventeen. Incredible as this tale was, it continued to be repeated down to our own time. Frances was too honest to confirm it. Probably she was too much a woman to contradict it; and it was long before any of her detractors thought of this mode of annoyance. Yet there was no want of low minds and bad hearts in the generation which witnessed her first appearance. There was the envious Kenrick and the savage Wolcot, the asp George Steevens, and the polecat John Williams. It did not, however, occur to them to search the parish register of Lynn, in order that they might be able to twit a lady with having concealed her age. That truly chivalrous exploit was reserved for a bad writer of our own time, whose spite she had provoked by not furnishing him with materials for a worthless edition of Boswell's Life of Johnson, some sheets of which our readers have doubtless seen round parcels of better books. But we must return to our story. The triumph was complete. The timid and obscure girl found herself on the highest pinnacle of fame. Great men, on whom she had gazed at a distance with humble reverence, addressed her with admiration, tempered by the tenderness due to her sex and age. Burke, Windham, Gibbon, Reynolds, Sheridan, were among her most ardent eulogists. Cumberland acknowledged her merit, after his fashion, by biting his lips and wriggling in his chair whenever her name was mentioned. But it was at Streatham that she tasted, in the highest perfection, the sweets of flattery, mingled with the sweets of friendship. Mrs. Thrale, then at the height of prosperity and popularity, with gay spirits, quick wit, showy though superficial acquirements, pleasing though not refined manners, a singularly amiable temper, and a loving heart, felt towards Fanny as towards a younger sister. With the Thrales Johnson was domesticated. He was an old friend of Dr. Burney; but he had probably taken little notice of Dr. Burney's daughters, and Fanny, we imagine, had never in her life dared to speak to him, unless to ask whether he wanted a nineteenth or a twentieth cup of tea. He was charmed by her tale, and preferred it to the novels of Fielding, to whom, indeed, he had always been grossly unjust. He did not, indeed, carry his partiality so far as to place Evelina by the side of Clarissa and Sir Charles Grandison; yet he said that his little favourite had done enough to have made even Richardson feel uneasy. With Johnson's cordial approbation of the book was mingled a fondness, half gallant half paternal, for the writer; and this fondness his age and character entitled him to show without restraint. He began by putting her hand to his lips. But he soon clasped her in his huge arms, and implored her to be a good girl. She was his pet, his dear love, his dear little Burney, his little character-monger. At one time, he broke forth in praise of the good taste of her caps. At another time he insisted on teaching her Latin. That, with all his coarseness and irritability, he was a man of sterling benevolence, has long been acknowledged. But how gentle and endearing his deportment could be, was not known till the Recollections of Madame D'Arblay were published. We have mentioned a few of the most eminent of those who paid their homage to the author of Evelina. The crowd of inferior admirers would require a catalogue as long as that in the second book of the Iliad. In that catalogue would be Mrs. Cholmondeley, the sayer of odd things, and Seward, much given to yawning, and Baretti, who slew the man in the Haymarket, and Paoli, talking broken English, and Langton, taller by the head than any other member of the club, and Lady Millar, who kept a vase wherein fools were wont to put bad verses, and Jerningham who wrote verses fit to be put into the vase of Lady Millar, and Dr. Franklin, not, as some have dreamed, the great Pennsylvanian Dr. Franklin, who could not then have paid his respects to Miss Burney without much risk of being hanged, drawn and quartered, but Dr. Franklin the less, Aias Meion outi todos ge dsos Telamonios Aias Alla polu meion. It would not have been surprising if such success had turned even a strong head, and corrupted even a generous and affectionate nature. But, in the Diary, we can find no trace of any feeling inconsistent with a truly modest and amiable disposition. There is, indeed, abundant proof that Frances enjoyed with an intense, though a troubled joy, the honours which her genius had won; but it is equally clear that her happiness sprang from the happiness of her father, her sister, and her dear Daddy Crisp. While flattered by the great, the opulent, and the learned, while followed along the Steyne at Brighton, and the Pantiles at Tunbridge Wells, by the gaze of admiring crowds, her heart seems to have been still with the little domestic circle in Saint Martin's Street. If she recorded with minute diligence all the compliments, delicate and coarse, which she heard wherever she turned, she recorded them for the eyes of two or three persons who had loved her from infancy, who had loved her in obscurity, and to whom her fame gave the purest and most exquisite delight. Nothing can be more unjust than to confound these outpourings of a kind heart, sure of perfect sympathy, with the egotism of a bluestocking, who prates to all who come near her about her own novel or her own volume of sonnets. It was natural that the triumphant issue of Miss Burney's first venture should tempt her to try a second. Evelina, though it had raised her fame, had added nothing to her fortune. Some of her friends urged her to write for the stage. Johnson promised to give her his advice as to the composition. Murphy, who was supposed to understand the temper of the pit as well as any man of his time, undertook to instruct her as to stage effect. Sheridan declared that he would accept a play from her without even reading it. Thus encouraged, she wrote a comedy named The Witlings. Fortunately it was never acted or printed. We can, we think, easily perceive, from the little which is said on the subject in the Diary, that The Witlings would have been damned, and that Murphy, and Sheridan thought so, though they were too polite to say so. Happily Frances had a friend who was not afraid to give her pain. Crisp, wiser for her than he had been for himself, read the manuscript in his lonely retreat, and manfully told her that she had failed, that to remove blemishes here and there would be useless, that the piece had abundance of wit but no interest, that it was bad as a whole, that it would remind every reader of the Femmes Savantes, which, strange to say, she had never read, and that she could not sustain so close a comparison with Moliere. This opinion, in which Dr. Burney concurred, was sent to Frances, in what she called "a hissing, groaning, catcalling epistle." But she had too much sense not to know that it was better to be hissed and cat-called by her Daddy, than by a whole sea of heads in the pit of Drury Lane Theatre: and she had too good a heart not to be grateful for so rare an act of friendship. She returned an answer, which shows how well she deserved to have a judicious, faithful, and affectionate adviser. "I intend," she wrote, "to console myself for your censure by this greatest proof I have ever received of the sincerity, candour, and, let me add, esteem, of my dear daddy. And as I happen to love myself more than my play, this consolation is not a very trifling one. This, however, seriously I do believe, that when my two daddies put their heads together to concert that hissing, groaning, cat-calling epistle they sent me, they felt as sorry for poor little Miss Bayes as she could possibly do for herself. You see I do not attempt to repay your frankness with an air of pretended carelessness. But, though somewhat disconcerted just now, I will promise not to let my vexation live out another day. Adieu, my dear daddy, I won't be mortified, and I won't be downed, but I will be proud to find I have, out of my own family, as well as in it, a friend who loves me well enough to speak plain truth to me." Frances now turned from her dramatic schemes to an undertaking far better suited to her talents. She determined to write a new tale, on a plan excellently contrived for the display of the powers in which her superiority to other writers lay. It was in truth a grand and various picture-gallery, which presented to the eye a long series of men and women, each marked by some strong peculiar feature. There were avarice and prodigality, the pride of blood and the pride of money, morbid restlessness and morbid apathy, frivolous garrulity, supercilious silence, a Democritus to laugh at everything, and a Heraclitus to lament over everything. The work proceeded fast, and in twelve months was completed. It wanted something of the simplicity which had been among the most attractive charms of Evelina; but it furnished ample proof that the four years, which had elapsed since Evelina appeared, had not been unprofitably spent. Those who saw Cecilia in manuscript pronounced it the best novel of the age. Mrs. Thrale laughed and wept over it. Crisp was even vehement in applause, and offered to ensure the rapid and complete success of the book for half-a-crown. What Miss Burney received for the copyright is not mentioned in the Diary; but we have observed several expressions from which we infer that the sum was considerable. That the sale would be great nobody could doubt; and Frances now had shrewd and experienced advisers, who would not suffer her to wrong herself. We have been told that the publishers gave her two thousand pounds, and we have no doubt that they might have given a still larger sum without being losers. Cecilia was published in the summer of 1782. The curiosity of the town was intense. We have been informed by persons who remember those days that no romance of Sir Walter Scott was more impatiently awaited, or more eagerly snatched from the counters of the booksellers. High as public expectation was, it was amply satisfied; and Cecilia was placed, by general acclamation, among the classical novels of England. Miss Burney was now thirty. Her youth had been singularly prosperous; but clouds soon began to gather over that clear and radiant dawn. Events deeply painful to a heart so kind as that of Frances followed each other in rapid succession. She was first called upon to attend the deathbed of her best friend, Samuel Crisp. When she returned to Saint Martin's Street, after performing this melancholy duty, she was appalled by hearing that Johnson had been struck by paralysis; and, not many months later, she parted from him for the last time with solemn tenderness. He wished to look on her once more; and on the day before his death she long remained in tears on the stairs leading to his bedroom, in the hope that she might be called in to receive his blessing. He was then sinking fast, and though he sent her an affectionate message, was unable to see her. But this was not the worst. There are separations far more cruel than those which are made by death. She might weep with proud affection for Crisp and Johnson. She had to blush as well as to weep for Mrs. Thrale. Life, however, still smiled upon Frances. Domestic happiness, friendship, independence, leisure, letters, all these things were hers; and she flung them all away. Among the distinguished persons to whom she had been introduced, none appears to have stood higher in her regard than Mrs. Delany. This lady was an interesting and venerable relic of a past age. She was the niece of George Granville, Lord Lansdowne, who, in his youth, exchanged verses and compliments with Edmund Waller, and who was among the first to applaud the opening genius of Pope. She had married Dr. Delany, a man known to his contemporaries as a profound scholar and an eloquent preacher, but remembered in our time chiefly as one of that small circle in which the fierce spirit of Swift, tortured by disappointed ambition, by remorse, and by the approaches of madness, sought for amusement and repose. Doctor Delany had long been dead. His widow, nobly descended, eminently accomplished, and retaining, in spite of the infirmities of advanced age, the vigour of her faculties and the serenity of her temper, enjoyed and deserved the favour of the royal family. She had a pension of three hundred a year; and a house at Windsor, belonging to the Crown, had been fitted up for her accommodation. At this house the King and Queen sometimes called, and found a very natural pleasure in thus catching an occasional glimpse of the private life of English families. In December 1785, Miss Burney was on a visit to Mrs. Delany at Windsor. The dinner was over. The old lady was taking a nap. Her grandniece, a little girl of seven, was playing at some Christmas game with the visitors, when the door opened, and a stout gentleman entered unannounced, with a star on his breast, and "What? what? what?" in his mouth. A cry of "The King!" was set up. A general scampering followed. Miss Burney owns that she could not have been more terrified if she had seen a ghost. But Mrs. Delany came forward to pay her duty to her royal friend, and the disturbance was quieted. Frances was then presented, and underwent a long examination and cross-examination about all that she had written and all that she meant to write. The Queen soon made her appearance and his Majesty repeated, for the benefit of his consort, the information which he had extracted from Miss Burney. The good-nature of the royal pair might have softened even the authors of the Probationary Odes, and could not but be delightful to a young lady who had been brought up a Tory. In a few days the visit was repeated. Miss Burney was more at ease than before. His Majesty, instead of seeking for information, condescended to impart it, and passed sentence on many great writers, English and foreign. Voltaire he pronounced a monster. Rousseau he liked rather better. "But was there ever," he cried, "such stuff as great part of Shakspeare? Only one must not say so. But what think you? What? Is there not sad stuff? What? What?" The next day Frances enjoyed the privilege of listening to some equally valuable criticism uttered by the Queen touching Goethe and Klopstock, and might have learned an important lesson of economy from the mode in which her Majesty's library had been formed. "I picked the book up on a stall," said the Queen. "Oh, it is amazing what good books there are on stalls!" Mrs. Delany, who seems to have understood from these words that her Majesty was in the habit of exploring the booths of Moorfields and Holywell Street in person, could not suppress an exclamation of surprise. "Why," said the Queen, "I don't pick them up myself. But I have a servant very clever; and, if they are not to be had at the booksellers, they are not for me more than for another." Miss Burney describes this conversation as delightful; and, indeed, we cannot wonder that, with her literary tastes, she should be delighted at hearing in how magnificent a manner the greatest lady in the land encouraged literature. The truth is, that Frances was fascinated by the condescending kindness of the two great personages to whom she had been presented. Her father was even more infatuated than herself. The result was a step of which we cannot think with patience, but which, recorded as it is, with all its consequences, in these volumes, deserves at least this praise, that it has furnished a most impressive warning. A German lady of the name of Haggerdorn, one of the keepers of the Queen's robes, retired about this time; and her Majesty offered the vacant post to Miss Burney. When we consider that Miss Burney was decidedly the most popular writer of fictitious narrative then living, that competence, if not opulence, was within her reach, and that she was more than usually happy in her domestic circle, and when we compare the sacrifice which she was invited to make with the remuneration which was held out to her, we are divided between laughter and indignation. What was demanded of her was that she should consent to be almost as completely separated from her family and friends as if she had gone to Calcutta, and almost as close a prisoner as if she had been sent to gaol for a libel; that with talents which had instructed and delighted the highest living minds, she should now be employed only in mixing snuff and sticking pins; that she should be summoned by a waiting-woman's bell to a waiting-woman's duties; that she should pass her whole life under the restraints of a paltry etiquette, should sometimes fast till she was ready to swoon with hunger, should sometimes stand till her knees gave way with fatigue; that she should not dare to speak or move without considering how her mistress might like her words and gestures. Instead of those distinguished men and women, the flower of all political parties, with whom she had been in the habit of mixing on terms of equal friendship, she was to have for her perpetual companion the chief keeper of the robes, an old hag from Germany, of mean understanding, of insolent manners, and of temper which, naturally savage, had now been exasperated by disease. Now and then, indeed, poor Frances might console herself for the loss of Burke's and Windham's society, by joining in the "celestial colloquy sublime" of his Majesty's Equerries. And what was the consideration for which she was to sell herself to this slavery? A peerage in her own right? A pension of two thousand a year for life? A seventy-four for her brother in the navy? A deanery for her brother in the church? Not so. The price at which she was valued was her board, her lodging, the attendance of a man-servant, and two hundred pounds a year. The man who, even when hard pressed by hunger, sells his birthright for a mess of pottage, is unwise. But what shall we say of him who parts with his birthright, and does not get even the pottage in return? It is not necessary to inquire whether opulence be an adequate compensation for the sacrifice of bodily and mental freedom; for Frances Burney paid for leave to be a prisoner and a menial. It was evidently understood as one of the terms of her engagement, that, while she was a member of the royal household, she was not to appear before the public as an author; and, even had there been no such understanding, her avocations were such as left her no leisure for any considerable intellectual effort. That her place was incompatible with her literary pursuits was indeed frankly acknowledged by the King when she resigned. "She has given up," he said, "five years of her pen." That during those five years she might, without painful exertion, without any exertion that would not have been a pleasure, have earned enough to buy an annuity for life much larger than the precarious salary which she received at Court, is quite certain. The same income, too, which in Saint Martin's Street would have afforded her every comfort, must have been found scanty at Saint James's. We cannot venture to speak confidently of the price of millinery and jewellery; but we are greatly deceived if a lady, who had to attend Queen Charlotte on many public occasions, could possibly save a farthing out of a salary of two hundred a year. The principle of the arrangement was, in short, simply this, that Frances Burney should become a slave, and should be rewarded by being made a beggar. With what object their Majesties brought her to their palace, we must own ourselves unable to conceive. Their object could not be to encourage her literary exertions; for they took her from a situation in which it was almost certain that she would write, and put her into a situation in which it was impossible for her to write. Their object could not be to promote her pecuniary interest; for they took her from a situation where she was likely to become rich, and put her into a situation in which she could not but continue poor. Their object could not be to obtain an eminently useful waiting-maid; for it is clear that, though Miss Burney was the only woman of her time who could have described the death of Harrel, thousands might have been found more expert in tying ribands and filling snuff-boxes. To grant her a pension on the civil list would have been an act of judicious liberality, honourable to the Court. If this was impracticable, the next best thing was to let her alone. That the King and Queen meant her nothing but kindness, we do not in the least doubt. But their kindness was the kindness of persons raised high above the mass of mankind, accustomed to be addressed with profound deference, accustomed to see all who approach them mortified by their coldness and elated by their smiles. They fancied that to be noticed by them, to be near them, to serve them, was in itself a kind of happiness; and that Frances Burney ought to be full of gratitude for being permitted to purchase, by the surrender of health, wealth, freedom, domestic affection, and literary fame, the privilege of standing behind a royal chair, and holding a pair of royal gloves. And who can blame them? Who can wonder that princes should be under such a delusion, when they are encouraged in it by the very persons who suffer from it most cruelly? Was it to be expected that George the Third and Queen Charlotte should understand the interest of Frances Burney better, or promote it with more zeal than herself and her father? No deception was practised. The conditions of the house of bondage were set forth with all simplicity. The hook was presented without a bait; the net was spread in sight of the bird: and the naked hook was greedily swallowed, and the silly bird made haste to entangle herself in the net. It is not strange indeed that an invitation to Court should have caused a fluttering in the bosom of an inexperienced young woman. But it was the duty of the parent to watch over the child, and to show her that on one side were only infantine vanities and chimerical hopes, on the other liberty, peace of mind, affluence, social enjoyments, honourable distinctions. Strange to say, the only hesitation was on the part of Frances. Dr. Burney was transported out of himself with delight. Not such are the raptures of a Circassian father who has sold his pretty daughter well to a Turkish slave-merchant. Yet Dr. Burney was an amiable man, a man of good abilities, a man who had seen much of the world. But he seems to have thought that going to Court was like going to heaven; that to see princes and princesses was a kind of beatific vision; that the exquisite felicity enjoyed by royal persons was not confined to themselves, but was communicated by some mysterious efflux or reflection to all who were suffered to stand at their toilettes, or to bear their trains. He overruled all his daughter's objections, and himself escorted her to her prison. The door closed. The key was turned. She, looking back with tender regret on all that she had left, and forward with anxiety and terror to the new life on which she was entering, was unable to speak or stand; and he went on his way homeward rejoicing in her marvellous prosperity. And now began a slavery of five years, of five years taken from the best part of life, and wasted in menial drudgery or in recreations duller than even menial drudgery, under galling restraints and amidst unfriendly or uninteresting companions. The history of an ordinary day was this. Miss Burney had to rise and dress herself early, that she might be ready to answer the royal bell, which rang at half after seven. Till about eight she attended in the Queen's dressing-room, and had the honour of lacing her august mistress's stays, and of putting on the hoop, gown, and neckhandkerchief. The morning was chiefly spent in rummaging drawers and laying fine clothes in their proper places. Then the Queen was to be powdered and dressed for the day. Twice a week her Majesty's hair was curled and craped; and this operation appears to have added a full hour to the business of the toilette. It was generally three before Miss Burney was at liberty. Then she had two hours at her own disposal. To these hours we owe great part of her Diary. At five she had to attend her colleague, Madame Schwellenberg, a hateful old toadeater, as illiterate as a chambermaid, as proud as a whole German Chapter, rude, peevish, unable to bear solitude, unable to conduct herself with common decency in society. With this delightful associate, Frances Burney had to dine, and pass the evening. The pair generally remained together from five to eleven, and often had no other company the whole time, except during the hour from eight to nine, when the equerries came to tea. If poor Frances attempted to escape to her own apartment, and to forget her wretchedness over a book, the execrable old woman railed and stormed, and complained that she was neglected. Yet, when Frances stayed, she was constantly assailed with insolent reproaches. Literary fame was, in the eyes of the German crone, a blemish, a proof that the person who enjoyed it was meanly born, and out of the pale of good society. All her scanty stock of broken English was employed to express the contempt with which she regarded the author of Evelina and Cecilia. Frances detested cards, and indeed knew nothing about them; but she soon found that the least miserable way of passing an evening with Madame Schwellenberg was at the card-table, and consented, with patient sadness, to give hours, which might have called forth the laughter and the tears of many generations, to the king of clubs and the knave of spades. Between eleven and twelve the bell rang again. Miss Burney had to pass twenty minutes or half an hour in undressing the Queen, and was then at liberty to retire, and to dream that she was chatting with her brother by the quiet hearth in Saint Martin's Street, that she was the centre of an admiring assemblage at Mrs. Crewe's, that Burke was calling her the first woman of the age, or that Dilly was giving her a cheque for two thousand guineas. Men, we must suppose, are less patient than women; for we are utterly at a loss to conceive how any human being could endure such a life, while there remained a vacant garret in Grub Street, a crossing in want of a sweeper, a parish workhouse, or a parish vault. And it was for such a life that Frances Burney had given up liberty and peace, a happy fireside, attached friends, a wide and splendid circle of acquaintance, intellectual pursuits in which she was qualified to excel, and the sure hope of what to her would have been affluence. There is nothing new under the sun. The last great master of Attic eloquence and Attic wit has left us a forcible and touching description of the misery of a man of letters, who, lured by hopes similar to those of Frances, had entered the service of one of the magnates of Rome. "Unhappy that I am," cries the victim of his own childish ambition: "would nothing content me but that I must leave mine old pursuits and mine old companions, and the life which was without care, and the sleep which had no limit save mine own pleasure, and the walks which I was free to take where I listed, and fling myself into the lowest pit of a dungeon like this? And, O God! for what? Was there no way by which I might have enjoyed in freedom comforts even greater than those which I now earn by servitude? Like a lion which has been made so tame that men may lead him about by a thread, I am dragged up and down, with broken and humbled spirit, at the heels of those to whom, in mine own domain, I should have been an object of awe and wonder. And, worst of all, I feel that here I gain no credit, that here I give no pleasure. The talents and accomplishments, which charmed a far different circle, are here out of place. I am rude in the arts of palaces, and can ill bear comparison with those whose calling, from their youth up, has been to flatter and to sue. Have I, then, two lives, that, after I have wasted one in the service of others, there may yet remain to me a second, which I may live unto myself?" Now and then, indeed, events occurred which disturbed the wretched monotony of Frances Burney's life. The Court moved from Kew to Windsor, and from Windsor back to Kew. One dull colonel went out of waiting, and another dull colonel came into waiting. An impertinent servant made a blunder about tea, and caused a misunderstanding between the gentlemen and the ladies. A half- witted French Protestant minister talked oddly about conjugal fidelity. An unlucky member of the household mentioned a passage in the Morning Herald, reflecting on the Queen; and forthwith Madame Schwellenberg began to storm in bad English, and told him that he made her "what you call perspire!" A more important occurrence was the King's visit to Oxford. Miss Burney went in the royal train to Nuneham, was utterly neglected there in the crowd, and could with difficulty find a servant to show the way to her bedroom, or a hairdresser to arrange her curls. She had the honour of entering Oxford in the last of a long string of carriages which formed the royal procession, of walking after the Queen all day through refectories and chapels, and of standing, half dead with fatigue and hunger, while her august mistress was seated at an excellent cold collation. At Magdalen College, Frances was left for a moment in a parlour, where she sank down on a chair. A good-natured equerry saw that she was exhausted, and shared with her some apricots and bread, which he had wisely put into his pockets. At that moment the door opened; the Queen entered; the wearied attendants sprang up; the bread and fruit were hastily concealed. "I found," says poor Miss Burney, "that our appetites were to be supposed annihilated, at the same moment that our strength was to be invincible." Yet Oxford, seen even under such disadvantages, "revived in her," to use her own words, "a consciousness to pleasure which had long lain nearly dormant." She forgot, during one moment, that she was a waiting-maid, and felt as a woman of true genius might be expected to feel amidst venerable remains of antiquity, beautiful works of art, vast repositories of knowledge, and memorials of the illustrious dead. Had she still been what she was before her father induced her to take the most fatal step of her life, we can easily imagine what pleasure she would have derived from a visit to the noblest of English cities. She might, indeed, have been forced to travel in a hack chaise, and might not have worn so fine a gown of Chambery gauze as that in which she tottered after the royal party; but with what delight would she have then paced the cloisters of Magdalen, compared the antique gloom of Merton with the splendour of Christ Church, and looked down from the dome of the Ratcliffe Library on the magnificent sea of turrets and battlements below! How gladly would learned men have laid aside for a few hours Pindar's Odes and Aristotle's Ethics to escort the author of Cecilia from college to college! What neat little banquets would she have found set out in their monastic cells! With what eagerness would pictures, medals, and illuminated missals have been brought forth from the most mysterious cabinets for her amusement! How much she would have had to hear and to tell about Johnson, as she walked over Pembroke, and about Reynolds, in the antechapel of New College! But these indulgences were not for one who had sold herself into bondage. About eighteen months after the visit to Oxford, another event diversified the wearisome life which Frances led at Court. Warren Hastings was brought to the bar of the House of Peers. The Queen and Princesses were present when the trial commenced, and Miss Burney was permitted to attend. During the subsequent proceedings a day rule for the same purpose was occasionally granted to her; for the Queen took the strongest interest in the trial, and when she could not go herself to Westminster Hall, liked to receive a report of what had passed from a person of singular powers of observation, and who was, moreover, acquainted with some of the most distinguished managers. The portion of the Diary which relates to this celebrated proceeding is lively and picturesque. Yet we read it, we own, with pain; for it seems to us to prove that the fine understanding of Frances Burney was beginning to feel the pernicious influence of a mode of life which is as incompatible with health of mind as the air of the Pomptine marshes with health of body. From the first day she espouses the cause of Hastings with a presumptuous vehemence and acrimony quite inconsistent with the modesty and suavity of her ordinary deportment. She shudders when Burke enters the Hall at the head of the Commons. She pronounces him the cruel oppressor of an innocent man. She is at a loss to conceive how the managers can look at the defendant, and not blush. Windham comes to her from the manager's box, to offer her refreshment. "But," says she, "I could not break bread with him." Then, again, she exclaims, "Ah, Mr. Windham, how can you ever engage in so cruel, so unjust a cause?" "Mr. Burke saw me," she says, "and he bowed with the most marked civility of manner." This, be it observed, was just after his opening speech, a speech which had produced a mighty effect, and which, certainly, no other orator that ever lived, could have made. "My curtsy," she continues, "was the most ungrateful, distant and cold; I could not do otherwise; so hurt I felt to see him the head of such a cause." Now, not only had Burke treated her with constant kindness, but the very last act which he performed on the day on which he was turned out of the Pay Office, about four years before this trial, was to make Dr. Burney organist of Chelsea Hospital. When, at the Westminster election, Dr. Burney was divided between his gratitude for this favour and his Tory opinions, Burke in the noblest manner disclaimed all right to exact a sacrifice of principle. "You have little or no obligations to me," he wrote; "but if you had as many as I really wish it were in my power, as it is certainly in my desire, to lay on you, I hope you do not think me capable of conferring them, in order to subject your mind or your affairs to a painful and mischievous servitude." Was this a man to be uncivilly treated by a daughter of Dr. Burney, because she chose to differ from him respecting a vast and most complicated question, which he had studied deeply during many years, and which she had never studied at all? It is clear, from Miss Burney's own narrative, that when she behaved so unkindly to Mr. Burke, she did not even know of what Hastings was accused. One thing, however, she must have known, that Burke had been able to convince a House of Commons, bitterly prejudiced against himself, that the charges were well founded, and that Pitt and Dundas had concurred with Fox and Sheridan, in supporting the impeachment. Surely a woman of far inferior abilities to Miss Burney might have been expected to see that this never could have happened unless there had been a strong case against the late Governor- General. And there was, as all reasonable men now admit, a strong case against him. That there were great public services to be set off against his great crimes is perfectly true. But his services and his crimes were equally unknown to the lady who so confidently asserted his perfect innocence, and imputed to his accusers, that is to say, to all the greatest men of all parties in the State, not merely error, but gross injustice and barbarity. She had, it is true, occasionally seen Mr. Hastings, and had found his manners and conversation agreeable. But surely she could not be so weak as to infer from the gentleness of his deportment in a drawing-room, that he was incapable of committing a great State crime, under the influence of ambition and revenge. A silly Miss, fresh from a boarding school, might fall into such a mistake; but the woman who had drawn the character of Mr. Monckton should have known better. The truth is that she had been too long at Court. She was sinking into a slavery worse than that of the body. The iron was beginning to enter into the soul. Accustomed during many months to watch the eye of a mistress, to receive with boundless gratitude the slightest mark of royal condescension, to feel wretched at every symptom of royal displeasure, to associate only with spirits long tamed and broken in, she was degenerating into something fit for her place. Queen Charlotte was a violent partisan of Hastings, had received presents from him, and had so far departed from the severity of her virtue as to lend her countenance to his wife, whose conduct had certainly been as reprehensible as that of any of the frail beauties who were then rigidly excluded from the English Court. The King, it was well known, took the same side. To the King and Queen all the members of the household looked submissively for guidance. The impeachment, therefore, was an atrocious persecution; the managers were rascals; the defendant was the most deserving and the worst used man in the kingdom. This was the cant of the whole palace, from Gold Stick in Waiting, down to the Table-Deckers and Yeoman of the Silver Scullery; and Miss Burney canted like the rest, though in livelier tones, and with less bitter feelings. The account which she has given of the King's illness contains much excellent narrative and description, and will, we think, be as much valued by the historians of a future age as any equal portion of Pepys's or Evelyn's Diaries. That account shows also how affectionate and compassionate her nature was. But it shows also, we must say, that her way of life was rapidly impairing her powers of reasoning and her sense of justice. We do not mean to discuss, in this place, the question, whether the views of Mr. Pitt or those of Mr. Fox respecting the regency were the more correct. It is, indeed, quite needless to discuss that question: for the censure of Miss Burney falls alike on Pitt and Fox, on majority and minority. She is angry with the House of Commons for presuming to inquire whether the King was mad or not, and whether there was a chance of his recovering his senses. "A melancholy day," she writes; "news bad both at home and, abroad. At home the dear unhappy king still worse; abroad new examinations voted of the physicians. Good heavens! what an insult does this seem from Parliamentary power, to investigate and bring forth to the world every circumstance of such a malady as is ever held sacred to secrecy in the most private families! How indignant we all feel here, no words can say." It is proper to observe, that the motion which roused all this indignation at Kew was made by Mr. Pitt himself. We see, therefore, that the loyalty of the Minister, who was then generally regarded as the most heroic champion of his Prince, was lukewarm indeed when compared with the boiling zeal which filled the pages of the backstairs and the women of the bedchamber. Of the Regency Bill, Pitt's own bill, Miss Burney speaks with horror. "I shuddered," she says, to hear it named." And again, "Oh, how dreadful will be the day when that unhappy bill takes place! I cannot approve the plan of it." The truth is that Mr. Pitt, whether a wise and upright statesman or not, was a statesman; and whatever motives he might have for imposing restrictions on the regent, felt that in some way or other there must be some provision made for the execution of some part of the kingly office, or that no government would be left in the country. But this was a matter of which the household never thought. It never occurred, as far as we can see, to the Exons and Keepers of the Robes, that it was necessary that there should be somewhere or other a power in the State to pass laws, to preserve order, to pardon criminals, to fill up offices, to negotiate with foreign governments, to command the army and navy. Nay, these enlightened politicians, and Miss Burney among the rest, seem to have thought that any person who considered the subject with reference to the public interest, showed himself to be a bad-hearted man. Nobody wonders at this in a gentleman usher; but it is melancholy to see genius sinking into such debasement. During more than two years after the King's recovery, Frances dragged on a miserable existence at the palace. The consolations which had for a time mitigated the wretchedness of servitude were one by one withdrawn. Mrs. Delany, whose society had been a great resource when the Court was at Windsor, was now dead. One of the gentlemen of the royal establishment, Colonel Digby, appears to have been a man of sense, of taste, of some reading, and of prepossessing manners. Agreeable associates were scarce in the prison house, and he and Miss Burney therefore naturally became attached to each other. She owns that she valued him as a friend; and it would not have been strange if his attentions had led her to entertain for him a sentiment warmer than friendship. He quitted the Court, and married in a way which astonished Miss Burney greatly, and which evidently wounded her feelings, and lowered him in her esteem. The palace grew duller and duller; Madame Schwellenberg became more and more savage and insolent; and now the health of poor Frances began to give way; and all who saw her pale face, her emaciated figure, and her feeble walk, predicted that her sufferings would soon be over. Frances uniformly speaks of her royal mistress, and of the princesses, with respect and affection. The princesses seem to have well deserved all the praise which is bestowed on them in the Diary. They were, we doubt not, most amiable women. But "the sweet Queen," as she is constantly called in these volumes, is not by any means an object of admiration to us. She had undoubtedly sense enough to know what kind of deportment suited her high station, and self-command enough to maintain that deportment invariably. She was, in her intercourse with Miss Burney, generally gracious and affable, sometimes, when displeased, cold and reserved, but never, under any circumstances, rude, peevish, or violent. She knew how to dispense, gracefully and skilfully, those little civilities which, when paid by a sovereign, are prized at many times their intrinsic value; how to pay a compliment; how to lend a book; how to ask after a relation. But she seems to have been utterly regardless of the comfort, the health, the life of her attendants, when her own convenience was concerned. Weak, feverish, hardly able to stand, Frances had still to rise before seven, in order to dress the sweet Queen, and to sit up till midnight, in order to undress the sweet Queen. The indisposition of the handmaid could not, and did not, escape the notice of her royal mistress. But the established doctrine of the Court was, that all sickness was to be considered as a pretence until it proved fatal. The only way in which the invalid could clear herself from the suspicion of malingering, as it is called in the army, was to go on lacing and unlacing till she fell down dead at the royal feet. "This," Miss Burney wrote, when she was suffering cruelly from sickness, watching, and labour, "is by no means from hardness of heart; far otherwise. There is no hardness of heart in any one of them; but it is prejudice, and want of personal experience." Many strangers sympathised with the bodily and mental sufferings of this distinguished woman. All who saw her saw that her frame was sinking, that her heart was breaking. The last, it should seem, to observe the change was her father. At length, in spite of himself, his eyes were opened. In May 1790, his daughter had an interview of three hours with him, the only long interview which they had had since he took her to Windsor in 1786. She told him that she was miserable, that she was worn with attendance and want of sleep, that she had no comfort in life, nothing to love, nothing to hope, that her family and her friends were to her as though they were not, and were remembered by her as men remember the dead. From daybreak to midnight the same killing labour, the same recreations, more hateful than labour itself, followed each other without variety, without any interval of liberty and repose. The Doctor was greatly dejected by this news; but was too good- natured a man not to say that, if she wished to resign, his house and arms were open to her. Still, however, he could not bear to remove her from the Court. His veneration for royalty amounted in truth to idolatry. It can be compared only to the grovelling superstition of those Syrian devotees who made their children pass through the fire to Moloch. When he induced his daughter to accept the place of keeper of the robes, he entertained, as she tells us, a hope that some worldly advantage or other, not set down in the contract of service, would be the result of her connection with the Court. What advantage he expected we do not know, nor did he probably know himself. But, whatever he expected, he certainly got nothing. Miss Burney had been hired for board, lodging, and two hundred a year. Board, lodging, and two hundred a year, she had duly received. We have looked carefully through the Diary, in the hope of finding some trace of those extraordinary benefactions on which the Doctor reckoned. But we can discover only a promise, never performed, of a gown: and for this promise Miss Burney was expected to return thanks, such as might have suited the beggar with whom Saint Martin, in the legend, divided his cloak. The experience of four years was, however, insufficient to dispel the illusion which had taken possession of the Doctor's mind; and between the dear father and the sweet Queen, there seemed to be little doubt that some day or other Frances would drop down a corpse. Six months had elapsed since the interview between the parent and the daughter. The resignation was not sent in. The sufferer grew worse and worse. She took bark; but it soon ceased to produce a beneficial effect. She was stimulated with wine; she was soothed with opium; but in vain. Her breath began to fail. The whisper that she was in a decline spread through the Court. The pains in her side became so severe that she was forced to crawl from the card-table of the old Fury to whom she was tethered, three or four times in an evening for the purpose of taking hartshorn. Had she been a negro slave, a humane planter would have excused her from work. But her Majesty showed no mercy. Thrice a day the accursed bell still rang; the Queen was still to be dressed for the morning at seven, and to be dressed for the day at noon, and to be undressed at midnight. But there had arisen, in literary and fashionable society, a general feeling of compassion for Miss Burney, and of indignation against both her father and the Queen. "Is it possible," said a great French lady to the Doctor, "that your daughter is in a situation where she is never allowed a holiday?" Horace Walpole wrote to Frances, to express his sympathy. Boswell, boiling over with good-natured rage, almost forced an entrance into the palace to see her. "My dear ma'am, why do you stay? It won't do, ma'am; you must resign. We can put up with it no longer. Some very violent measures, I assure you, will be taken. We shall address Dr. Burney in a body." Burke and Reynolds, though less noisy, were zealous in the same cause. Windham spoke to Dr. Burney; but found him still irresolute. "I will set the club upon him," cried Windham; "Miss Burney has some very true admirers there, and I am sure they will eagerly assist." Indeed the Burney family seem to have been apprehensive that some public affront such as the Doctor's unpardonable folly, to use the mildest term, had richly deserved, would be put upon him. The medical men spoke out, and plainly told him that his daughter must resign or die. At last paternal affection, medical authority, and the voice of all London crying shame, triumphed over Dr. Burney's love of courts. He determined that Frances should write a letter of resignation. It was with difficulty that, though her life was at stake, she mustered spirit to put the paper into the Queen's hands. "I could not," so runs the Diary, "summon courage to present my memorial; my heart always failed me from seeing the Queen's entire freedom from such an expectation. For though I was frequently so ill in her presence that I could hardly stand, I saw she concluded me, while life remained, inevitably hers." At last with a trembling hand the paper was delivered. Then came the storm. Juno, as in the Aeneid, delegated the work of vengeance to Alecto. The Queen was calm and gentle; but Madame Schwellenberg raved like a maniac in the incurable ward of Bedlam! Such insolence! Such ingratitude! Such folly! Would Miss Burney bring utter destruction on herself and her family? Would she throw away the inestimable advantage of royal protection? Would she part with privileges which, once relinquished, could never be regained? It was idle to talk of health and life. If people could not live in the palace, the best thing that could befall them was to die in it. The resignation was not accepted. The language of the medical men became stronger and stronger. Dr. Burney's parental fears were fully roused; and he explicitly declared, in a letter meant to be shown to the Queen, that his daughter must retire. The Schwellenberg raged like a wild cat. "A scene almost horrible ensued," says Miss Burney. "She was too much enraged for disguise, and uttered the most furious expressions of indignant contempt at our proceedings. I am sure she would gladly have confined us both in the Bastile, had England such a misery, as a fit place to bring us to ourselves, from a daring so outrageous against imperial wishes." This passage deserves notice, as being the only one in the Diary, so far as we have observed, which shows Miss Burney to have been aware that she was a native of a free country, that she could not be pressed for a waiting-maid against her will, and that she had just as good a right to live, if she chose, in Saint Martin's Street, as Queen Charlotte had to live at Saint James's. The Queen promised that, after the next birthday, Miss Burney should be set at liberty. But the promise was ill kept; and her Majesty showed displeasure at being reminded of it. At length Frances was informed that in a fortnight her attendance should cease. "I heard this," she says, "with a fearful presentiment I should surely never go through another fortnight, in so weak and languishing and painful a state of health. . . . As the time of separation approached, the Queen's cordiality rather diminished, and traces of internal displeasure appeared sometimes, arising from an opinion I ought rather to have struggled on, live or die, than to quit her. Yet I am sure she saw how poor was my own chance, except by a change in the mode of life, and at least ceased to wonder, though she could not approve." Sweet Queen! What noble candour, to admit that the undutifulness of people, who did not think the honour of adjusting her tuckers worth the sacrifice of their own lives, was, though highly criminal, not altogether unnatural! We perfectly understand her Majesty's contempt for the lives of others where her own pleasure was concerned. But what pleasure she can have found in having Miss Burney about her, it is not so easy to comprehend. That Miss Burney was an eminently skilful keeper of the robes is not very probable. Few women, indeed, had paid less attention to dress. Now and then, in the course of five years, she had been asked to read aloud or to write a copy of verses. But better readers might easily have been found: and her verses were worse than even the Poet Laureate's Birthday Odes. Perhaps that economy, which was among her Majesty's most conspicuous virtues, had something to do with her conduct on this occasion. Miss Burney had never hinted that she expected a retiring pension; and indeed would gladly have given the little that she had for freedom. But her Majesty knew what the public thought, and what became her own dignity. She could not for very shame suffer a woman of distinguished genius, who had quitted a lucrative career to wait on her, who had served her faithfully for a pittance during five years, and whose constitution had been impaired by labour and watching, to leave the Courts without some mark of royal liberality. George the Third, who, on all occasions where Miss Burney was concerned, seems to have behaved like an honest, good-natured gentleman, felt this, and said plainly that she was entitled to a provision. At length, in return for all the misery which she had undergone, and for the health which she had sacrificed, an annuity of one hundred pounds was granted to her, dependent on the Queen's pleasure. Then the prison was opened, and Frances was free once more. Johnson, as Burke observed, might have added a striking page to his poem on the Vanity of Human Wishes, if he had lived to see his little Burney as she went into the palace and as she came out of it. The pleasures, so long untasted, of liberty, of friendship, of domestic affection, were almost too acute for her shattered frame. But happy days and tranquil nights soon restored the health which the Queen's toilette and Madame Schwellenberg's card-table had impaired. Kind and anxious faces surrounded the invalid. Conversation the most polished and brilliant revived her spirits. Travelling was recommended to her; and she rambled by easy journeys from cathedral to cathedral, and from watering- place to watering-place. She crossed the New Forest, and visited Stonehenge and Wilton, the cliffs of Lyme, and the beautiful valley of Sidmouth. Thence she journeyed by Powderham Castle, and by the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey to Bath, and from Bath, when the winter was approaching, returned well and cheerful to London. There she visited her old dungeon, and found her successor already far on the way to the grave, and kept to strict duty, from morning till midnight, with a sprained ankle and a nervous fever. At this time England swarmed with French exiles, driven from their country by the Revolution. A colony of these refugees settled at Juniper Hall, in Surrey, not far from Norbury Park, where Mr. Lock, an intimate friend of the Burney family, resided. Frances visited Norbury, and was introduced to the strangers. She had strong prejudices against them; for her Toryism was far beyond, we do not say that of Mr. Pitt, but that of Mr. Reeves; and the inmates of Juniper Hall were all attached to the constitution of 1791, and were therefore more detested by the royalists of the first emigration than Petion or Marat. But such a woman as Miss Burney could not long resist the fascination of that remarkable society. She had lived with Johnson and Windham, with Mrs. Montague and Mrs. Thrale. Yet she was forced to own that she had never heard conversation before. The most animated eloquence, the keenest observation, the most sparkling wit, the most courtly grace, were united to charm her. For Madame de Stael was there, and M. de Talleyrand. There too was M. de Narbonne, a noble representative of French aristocracy; and with M. de Narbonne was his friend and follower General D'Arblay, an honourable and amiable man, with a handsome person, frank soldierlike manners, and some taste for letters. The prejudices which Frances had conceived against the constitutional royalists of France rapidly vanished. She listened with rapture to Talleyrand and Madame de Stael, joined with M. D'Arblay in execrating the Jacobins and in weeping for the unhappy Bourbons, took French lessons from him, fell in love with him, and married him on no better provision than a precarious annuity of one hundred pounds. Here the Diary stops for the present. We will, therefore, bring our narrative to a speedy close, by rapidly recounting the most important events which we know to have befallen Madame D'Arblay during the latter part of her life. M. D'Arblay's fortune had perished in the general wreck of the French Revolution; and in a foreign country his talents, whatever they may have been, could scarcely make him rich. The task of providing for the family devolved on his wife. In the year 1796, she published by subscription her third novel, Camilla. It was impatiently expected by the public; and the sum which she obtained for it was, we believe, greater than had ever at that time been received for a novel. We have heard that she cleared more than three thousand guineas. But we give this merely as a rumour. Camilla, however, never attained popularity like that which Evelina and Cecilia had enjoyed; and it must be allowed that there was a perceptible falling off, not indeed in humour or in power of portraying character, but in grace and in purity of style. We have heard that, about this time, a tragedy by Madame D'Arblay was performed without success. We do not know whether it was ever printed; nor indeed have we had time to make any researches into its history or merits. During the short truce which followed the treaty of Amiens, M. D'Arblay visited France. Lauriston and La Fayette represented his claims to the French Government, and obtained a promise that he should be reinstated in his military rank. M. D'Arblay, however, insisted that he should never be required to serve against the countrymen of his wife. The First Consul, of course, would not hear of such a condition, and ordered the general's commission to be instantly revoked. Madame D'Arblay joined her husband in Paris, a short time before the war of 1803 broke out, and remained in France ten years, cut off from almost all intercourse with the land of her birth. At length, when Napoleon was on his march to Moscow, she with great difficulty obtained from his Ministers permission to visit her own country, in company with her son, who was a native of England. She returned in time to receive the last blessing of her father, who died in his eighty-seventh year. In 1814 she published her last novel, the Wanderer, a book which no judicious friend to her memory will attempt to draw from the oblivion into which it has justly fallen. In the same year her son Alexander was sent to Cambridge. He obtained an honourable place among the wranglers of his year, and was elected a fellow of Christ's College. But his reputation at the University was higher than might be inferred from his success in academical contests. His French education had not fitted him for the examinations of the Senate House; but, in pure mathematics, we have been assured by some of his competitors that he had very few equals. He went into the Church, and it was thought likely that he would attain high eminence as a preacher; but he died before his mother. All that we have heard of him leads us to believe that he was a son as such a mother deserved to have. In 1832, Madame D'Arblay published the Memoirs of her father; and on the sixth of January, 1840, she died in her eighty-eighth year. We now turn from the life of Madame D'Arblay to her writings. There can, we apprehend, be little difference of opinion as to the nature of her merit, whatever differences may exist as to its degree. She was emphatically what Johnson called her, a character-monger. It was in the exhibition of human passions and whims that her strength lay; and in this department of art she had, we think, very distinguished skill. But, in order that we may, according to our duty as kings at arms, versed in the laws of literary precedence, marshal her to the exact scat to which she is entitled, we must carry our examination somewhat further. There is, in one respect, a remarkable analogy between the faces and the minds of men. No two faces are alike; and yet very few faces deviate very widely from the common standard. Among the eighteen hundred thousand human beings who inhabit London, there is not one who could be taken by his acquaintance for another; yet we may walk from Paddington to Mile End without seeing one person in whom any feature is so overcharged that we turn round to stare at it. An infinite number of varieties lies between limits which are not very far asunder. The specimens which pass those limits on either side, form a very small minority. It is the same with the characters of men. Here, too, the variety passes all enumeration. But the cases in which the deviation from the common standing is striking and grotesque, are very few. In one mind avarice predominates; in another, pride; in a third, love of pleasure; just as in one countenance the nose is the most marked feature, while in others the chief expression lies in the brow, or in the lines of the mouth. But there are very few countenances in which nose, brow, and mouth do not contribute, though in unequal degrees, to the general effect; and so there are very few characters in which one overgrown propensity makes all others utterly insignificant. It is evident that a portrait painter, who was able only to represent faces and figures such as those which we pay money to see at fairs, would not, however spirited his execution might be, take rank among the highest artists. He must always be placed below those who have skill to seize peculiarities which do not amount to deformity. The slighter those peculiarities, the greater is the merit of the limner who can catch them and transfer them to his canvas. To paint Daniel Lambert or the living skeleton, the pig-faced lady or the Siamese twins, so that nobody can mistake them, is an exploit within the reach of a sign-painter. A third-rate artist might give us the squint of Wilkes, and the depressed nose and protuberant cheeks of Gibbon. It would require a much higher degree of skill to paint two such men as Mr. Canning and Sir Thomas Lawrence, so that nobody who had ever seen them could for a moment hesitate to assign each picture to its original. Here the mere caricaturist would be quite at fault. He would find in neither face anything on which he could lay hold for the purpose of making a distinction. Two ample bald foreheads, two regular profiles, two full faces of the same oval form, would baffle his art; and he would be reduced to the miserable shift of writing their names at the foot of his picture. Yet there was a great difference; and a person who had seen them once would no more have mistaken one of them for the other than he would have mistaken Mr. Pitt for Mr. Fox. But the difference lay in delicate lineaments and shades, reserved for pencils of a rare order. This distinction runs through all the imitative arts. Foote's mimicry was exquisitely ludicrous, but it was all caricature. He could take off only some strange peculiarity, a stammer or a lisp, a Northumbrian burr or an Irish brogue, a stoop or a shuffle. "If a man," said Johnson, "hops on one leg, Foote can hop on one leg." Garrick, on the other hand, could seize those differences of manner and pronunciation, which, though highly characteristic, are yet too slight to be described. Foote, we have no doubt, could have made the Haymarket theatre shake with laughter by imitating a conversation between a Scotchman and a Somersetshireman. But Garrick could have imitated a conversation between two fashionable men, both models of the best breeding, Lord Chesterfield, for example, and Lord Albemarle, so that no person could doubt which was which, although no person could say that, in any point, either Lord Chesterfield or Lord Albemarle spoke or moved otherwise than in conformity with the usages of the best society. The same distinction is found in the drama and in fictitious narrative. Highest among those who have exhibited human nature by means of dialogue, stands Shakspeare. His variety is like the variety of nature, endless diversity, scarcely any monstrosity. The characters of which he has given us an impression, as vivid as that which we receive from the characters of our own associates, are to be reckoned by scores. Yet in all these scores hardly one character is to be found which deviates widely from the common standard, and which we should call very eccentric if we met it in real life. The silly notion that every man has one ruling passion, and that this clue, once known, unravels all the mysteries of his conduct, finds no countenance in the plays of Shakspeare. There man appears as he is, made up of a crowd of passions, which contend for the mastery over him, and govern him in turn. What is Hamlet's ruling passion? Or Othello's? Or Harry the Fifth's? Or Wolsey's? Or Lear's? Or Shylock's? Or Benedick's? Or Macbeth's? Or that of Cassius? Or that of Falconbridge? But we might go on for ever. Take a single example, Shylock. Is he so eager for money as to be indifferent to revenge? Or so eager for revenge as to be indifferent to money? Or so bent on both together as to be indifferent to the honour of his nation and the law of Moses? All his propensities are mingled with each other, so that, in trying to apportion to each its proper part, we find the same difficulty which constantly meets us in real life. A superficial critic may say, that hatred is Shylock's ruling passion. But how many passions have amalgamated to form that hatred? It is partly the result of wounded pride: Antonio has called him dog. It is partly the result of covetousness: Antonio has hindered him of half a million; and, when Antonio is gone, there will be no limit to the gains of usury. It is partly the result of national and religious feeling: Antonio has spit on the Jewish gaberdine; and the oath of revenge has been sworn by the Jewish Sabbath. We might go through all the characters which we have mentioned, and through fifty more in the same way; for it is the constant manner of Shakspeare to represent the human mind as lying, not under the absolute dominion of one despotic propensity, but under a mixed government, in which a hundred powers balance each other. Admirable as he was in all parts of his art, we most admire him for this, that while he has left us a greater number of striking portraits than all other dramatists put together, he has scarcely left us a single caricature. Shakspeare has had neither equal nor second. But among the writers who, in the point which we have noticed, have approached nearest to the manner of the great master, we have no hesitation in placing Jane Austen, a woman of whom England is justly proud. She has given us a multitude of characters, all, in a certain sense, commonplace, all such as we meet every day. Yet they are all as perfectly discriminated from each other as if they were the most eccentric of human beings. There are, for example, four clergymen, none of whom we should be surprised to find in any parsonage in the kingdom, Mr. Edward Ferrers, Mr. Henry Tilney, Mr. Edmund Bertram, and Mr. Elton. They are all specimens of the upper part of the middle class. They have all been liberally educated. They all lie under the restraints of the same sacred profession. They are all young. They are all in love. Not one of them has any hobbyhorse, to use the phrase of Sterne. Not one has a ruling passion, such as we read of in Pope. Who would not have expected them to be insipid likenesses of each other? No such thing. Harpagun is not more unlike to Jourdain, Joseph Surface is not more unlike to Sir Lucius O'Trigger, than every one of Miss Austen's young divines to all his reverend brethren. And almost all this is done by touches so delicate, that they elude analysis, that they defy the powers of description, and that we know them to exist only by the general effect to which they have contributed. A line must be drawn, we conceive, between artists of this class, and those poets and novelists whose skill lies in the exhibiting of what Ben Jonson called humours. The words of Ben are so much to the purpose that we will quote them: "When some one peculiar quality Doth so possess a man, that it doth draw All his affects, his spirits, and his powers, In their confluxions all to run one way, This may be truly said to be a humour." There are undoubtedly persons, in whom humours such as Ben describes have attained a complete ascendency. The avarice of Elwes, the insane desire of Sir Egerton Brydges for a barony to which he had no more right than to the crown of Spain, the malevolence which long meditation on imaginary wrongs generated in the gloomy mind of Bellingham, are instances. The feeling which animated Clarkson and other virtuous men against the slave- trade and slavery, is an instance of a more honourable kind. Seeing that such humours exist, we cannot deny that they are proper subjects for the imitations of art. But we conceive that the imitation of such humours, however skilful and amusing, is not an achievement of the highest order; and, as such humours are rare in real life, they ought, we conceive, to be sparingly introduced into works which profess to be pictures of real life. Nevertheless, the writer may show so much genius in the exhibition of these humours as to be fairly entitled to a distinguished and permanent rank among classics. The chief seats of all, however, the places on the dais and under the canopy, are reserved for the few who have excelled in the difficult art of portraying characters in which no single feature is extravagantly overcharged. If we have expounded the law soundly, we can have no difficulty in applying it to the particular case before us. Madame D'Arblay has left us scarcely anything but humours. Almost every one of her men and women has some one propensity developed to a morbid degree. In Cecilia, for example, Mr. Delvile never opens his lips without some allusion to his own birth and station; or Mr. Briggs, without some allusion to the hoarding of money; or Mr. Hobson, without betraying the self-indulgence and self-importance of a purse-proud up start; or Mr. Simkins, without uttering some sneaking remark for the purpose of currying favour with his customers; or Mr. Meadows, without expressing apathy and weariness of life; or Mr. Albany, without declaiming about the vices of the rich and the misery of the poor; or Mrs. Belfield, without some indelicate eulogy on her son; or Lady Margaret, without indicating jealousy of her husband. Morrice is all skipping, officious impertinence, Mr. Gosport all sarcasm, Lady Honoria all lively prattle, Miss Larolles all silly prattle. If ever Madame D'Arblay aimed at more, we do not think that she succeeded well. We are, therefore, forced to refuse to Madame D'Arblay a place in the highest rank of art; but we cannot deny that, in the rank to which she belonged, she had few equals, and scarcely any superior. The variety of humours which is to be found in her novels is immense; and though the talk of each person separately is monotonous, the general effect is not monotony, but a very lively and agreeable diversity. Her plots are rudely constructed and improbable, if we consider them in themselves. But they are admirably framed for the purpose of exhibiting striking groups of eccentric characters, each governed by his own peculiar whim, each talking his own peculiar jargon, and each bringing out by opposition the oddities of all the rest. We will give one example out of many which occur to us. All probability is violated in order to bring Mr. Delvile, Mr. Briggs, Mr. Hobson, and Mr. Albany into a room together. But when we have them there, we soon forget probability in the exquisitely ludicrous effect which is produced by the conflict of four old fools, each raging with a monomania of his own, each talking a dialect of his own, and each inflaming all the others anew every time he opens his mouth. Madame D'Arblay was most successful in comedy, and indeed in comedy which bordered on farce. But we are inclined to infer from some passages, both in Cecilia and Camilla, that she might have attained equal distinction in the pathetic. We have formed this judgment, less from those ambitious scenes of distress which lie near the catastrophe of each of those novels, than from some exquisite strokes of natural tenderness which take us here and there by surprise. We would mention as examples, Mrs. Hill's account of her little boy's death in Cecilia, and the parting of Sir Hugh Tyrold and Camilla, when the honest baronet thinks himself dying. It is melancholy to think that the whole fame of Madame D'Arblay rests on what she did during the earlier half of her life, and that everything which she published during the forty-three years which preceded her death, lowered her reputation. Yet we have no reason to think that at the time when her faculties ought to have been in their maturity, they were smitten with any blight. In the Wanderer, we catch now and then a gleam of her genius. Even in the Memoirs of her father, there is no trace of dotage. They are very bad; but they are so, as it seems to us, not from a decay of power, but from a total perversion of power. The truth is, that Madame D'Arblay's style underwent a gradual and most pernicious change, a change which, in degree at least, we believe to be unexampled in literary history, and of which it may be useful to trace the progress. When she wrote her letters to Mr. Crisp, her early journals, and her first novel, her style was not indeed brilliant or energetic; but it was easy, clear, and free from all offensive faults. When she wrote Cecilia she aimed higher. She had then lived much in a circle of which Johnson was the centre; and she was herself one of his most submissive worshippers. It seems never to have crossed her mind that the style even of his best writings was by no means faultless, and that even had it been faultless, it might not be wise in her to imitate it. Phraseology which is proper in a disquisition on the Unities, or in a preface to a Dictionary, may be quite out of place in a tale of fashionable life. Old gentlemen do not criticise the reigning modes, nor do young gentlemen make love, with the balanced epithets and sonorous cadences which, on occasions of great dignity, a skilful writer may use with happy effect. In an evil hour the author of Evelina took the Rambler for her model. This would not have been wise even if she could have imitated her pattern as well as Hawkesworth did. But such imitation was beyond her power. She had her own style. It was a tolerably good one; and might, without any violent change, have been improved into a very good one. She determined to throw it away, and to adopt a style in which she could attain excellence only by achieving an almost miraculous victory over nature and over habit. She could cease to be Fanny Burney; it was not so easy to become Samuel Johnson. In Cecilia the change of manner began to appear. But in Cecilia the imitation of Johnson, though not always in the best taste, is sometimes eminently happy; and the passages which are so verbose as to be positively offensive, are few. There were people who whispered that Johnson had assisted his young friend, and that the novel owed all its finest passages to his hand. This was merely the fabrication of envy. Miss Burney's real excellences were as much beyond the reach of Johnson, as his real excellences were beyond her reach. He could no more have written the Masquerade scene, or the Vauxhall scene, than she could have written the Life of Cowley or the Review of Soame Jenyns. But we have not the smallest doubt that he revised Cecilia, and that he retouched the style of many passages. We know that he was in the habit of giving assistance of this kind most freely. Goldsmith, Hawkesworth, Boswell, Lord Hailes, Mrs. Williams, were among those who obtained his help. Nay, he even corrected the poetry of Mr. Crabbe, whom, we believe, he had never seen. When Miss Burney thought of writing a comedy, he promised to give her his best counsel, though he owned that he was not particularly well qualified to advise on matters relating to the stage. We therefore think it in the highest degree improbable that his little Fanny, when living in habits of the most affectionate intercourse with him, would have brought out an important work without consulting him; and, when we look into Cecilia, we see such traces of his hand in the grave and elevated passages as it is impossible to mistake. Before we conclude this article, we will give two or three examples. When next Madame D'Arblay appeared before the world as a writer, she was in a very different situation. She would not content herself with the simple English in which Evelina had been written. She had no longer the friend who, we are confident, had polished and strengthened the style of Cecilia. She had to write in Johnson's manner without Johnson's aid. The consequence was, that in Camilla every passage which she meant to be fine is detestable; and that the book has been saved from condemnation only by the admirable spirit and force of those scenes in which she was content to be familiar. But there was to be a still deeper descent. After the publication of Camilla, Madame D'Arblay resided ten years at Paris. During those years there was scarcely any intercourse between France and England. It was with difficulty that a short letter could occasionally be transmitted. All Madame D'Arblay's companions were French. She must have written, spoken, thought, in French. Ovid expressed his fear that a shorter exile might have affected the purity of his Latin. During a shorter exile, Gibbon unlearned his native English. Madame D'Arblay had carried a bad style to France. She brought back a style which we are really at a loss to describe. It is a sort of broken Johnsonese, a barbarous patois, bearing the same relation to the language of Rasselas, which the gibberish of the negroes of Jamaica bears to the English of the House of Lords. Sometimes it reminds us of the finest, that is to say, the vilest parts, of Mr. Galt's novels; sometimes of the perorations of Exeter Hall; sometimes of the leading articles of the Morning Post. But it most resembles the puffs of Mr. Rowland and Dr. Goss. It matters not what ideas are clothed in such a style. The genius of Shakspeare and Bacon united, would not save a work so written from general derision. It is only by means of specimens that we can enable our readers to judge how widely Madame D'Arblay's three styles differed from each other. The following passage was written before she became intimate with Johnson. It is from Evelina: "His son seems weaker in his understanding, and more gay in his temper; but his gaiety is that of a foolish overgrown schoolboy, whose mirth consists in noise and disturbance. He disdains his father for his close attention to business and love of money, though he seems himself to have no talents, spirit, or generosity to make him superior to either. His chief delight appears to be in tormenting and ridiculing his sisters, who in return most cordially despise him. Miss Branghton, the eldest daughter, is by no means ugly; but looks proud, ill-tempered, and conceited. She hates the city, though without knowing why; for it is easy to discover she has lived nowhere else. Miss Polly Branghton is rather pretty, very foolish, very ignorant, very giddy, and, I believe, very good-natured." This is not a fine style, but simple, perspicuous, and agreeable. We now come to Cecilia, written during Miss Burney's intimacy with Johnson; and we leave it to our readers to judge whether the following passage was not at least corrected by his hand: "It is rather an imaginary than an actual evil, and though a deep wound to pride, no offence to morality. Thus have I laid open to you my whole heart, confessed my perplexities, acknowledged my vainglory, and exposed with equal sincerity the sources of my doubts, and the motives of my decision. But now, indeed, how to proceed I know not. The difficulties which are yet to encounter I fear to enumerate, and the petition I have to urge I have scarce courage to mention. My family, mistaking ambition for honour, and rank for dignity, have long planned a splendid connection for me, to which, though my invariable repugnance has stopped any advances, their wishes and their views immoveably adhere. I am but too certain they will now listen to no other. I dread, therefore, to make a trial where I despair of success. I know not how to risk a prayer with those who may silence me by a command." Take now a specimen of Madame D'Arblay's later style. This is the way in which she tells us that her father, on his journey back from the Continent, caught the rheumatism. "He was assaulted, during his precipitated return, by the rudest fierceness of wintry elemental strife; through which, with bad accommodations and innumerable accidents, he became a prey to the merciless pangs of the acutest spasmodic rheumatism, which barely suffered him to reach his home, ere, long and piteously, it confined him, a tortured prisoner, to his bed. Such was the cheek that almost instantly curbed, though it could not subdue, the rising pleasure of his hopes of entering upon a new species of existence--that of an approved man of letters; for it was on the bed of sickness, exchanging the light wines of France, Italy, and Germany, for the black and loathsome potions of the Apothecaries' Hall, writhed by darting stitches, and burning with fiery fever, that he felt the full force of that sublunary equipoise that seems evermore to hang suspended over the attainment of long- sought and uncommon felicity, just as it is ripening to burst forth with enjoyment." Here is a second passage from Evelina: "Mrs. Selwyn is very kind and attentive to me. She is extremely clever. Her understanding, indeed, may be called masculine; but unfortunately her manners deserve the same epithet; for, in studying to acquire the knowledge of the other sex, she has lost all the softness of her own, In regard to myself, however, as I have neither courage nor inclination to argue with her, I have never been personally hurt at her want of gentleness, a virtue which nevertheless seems so essential a part of the female character, that I find myself more awkward and less at case with a woman who wants it than I do with a man." This is a good style of its kind; and the following passage from Cecilia is also in a good style, though not in a faultless one. We say with confidence, either Sam Johnson or the Devil: "Even the imperious Mr. Delvile was more supportable here than in London. Secure in his own castle, he looked round him with a pride of power and possession which softened while it swelled him. His superiority was undisputed: his will was without control. He was not, as in the great capital of the kingdom, surrounded by competitors. No rivalry disturbed his peace; no equality mortified his greatness. All he saw were either vassals of his power, or guests bending to his pleasure. He abated, therefore, considerably tile stern gloom of his haughtiness, and soothed his proud mind by the courtesy of condescension." We will stake our reputation for critical sagacity on this, that no such paragraph as that which we have last quoted, can be found in any of Madame D'Arblay's works except Cecilia. Compare with it the following sample of her later style. "If beneficence be judged by the happiness which it diffuses, whose claim, by that proof, shall stand higher than that of Mrs. Montagu, from the munificence with which she celebrated her annual festival for those hapless artificers who perform the most abject offices, of any authorised calling, in being the active guardians of our blazing hearths? Not to vainglory, then, but to kindness of heart, should be adjudged the publicity of that superb charity which made its jetty objects, for one bright morning, cease to consider themselves as degraded outcasts from all society." We add one or two shorter samples. Sheridan refused to permit his lovely wife to sing in public, and was warmly praised on this account by Johnson. "The last of men," says Madame D'Arblay, "was Doctor Johnson to have abetted squandering the delicacy of integrity by nullifying the labours of talents." The Club, Johnson's Club, did itself no honour by rejecting on political grounds two distinguished men, one a Tory, the other a Whig. Madame D'Arblay tells the story thus: "A similar ebullition of political rancour with that which so difficultly had been conquered for Mr. Canning foamed over the ballot box to the exclusion of Mr. Rogers." An offence punishable with imprisonment is, in this language, an offence "which produces incarceration." To be starved to death is "to sink from inanition into nonentity." Sir Isaac Newton is "the developer of the skies in their embodied movements"; and Mrs. Thrale, when a party of clever people sat silent, is said to have been "provoked by the dulness of a taciturnity that, in the midst of such renowned interlocutors, produced as narcotic a torpor as could have been caused by a dearth the most barren of all human faculties." In truth, it is impossible to look at any page of Madame D'Arblay's later works without finding flowers of rhetoric like these. Nothing in the language of those jargonists at whom Mr. Gosport laughed, nothing in the language of Sir Sedley Clarendel, approaches this new Euphuism. It is from no unfriendly feeling to Madame D'Arblay's memory that we have expressed ourselves so strongly on the subject of her style. On the contrary, we conceive that we have really rendered a service to her reputation. That her later works were complete failures, is a fact too notorious to be dissembled: and some persons, we believe, have consequently taken up a notion that she was from the first an overrated writer, and that she had not the powers which were necessary to maintain her on the eminence on which good luck and fashion had placed her. We believe, on the contrary, that her early popularity was no more than the just reward of distinguished merit, and would never have undergone an eclipse, if she had only been content to go on writing in her mother tongue. If she failed when she quitted her own province, and attempted to occupy one in which she had neither part nor lot, this reproach is common to her with a crowd of distinguished men. Newton failed when he turned from the courses of the stars, and the ebb and flow of the ocean, to apocalyptic seals and vials. Bentley failed when he turned from Homer and Aristophanes, to edit the Paradise Lost. Inigo failed when he attempted to rival the Gothic churches of the fourteenth century. Wilkie failed when he took it into his head that the Blind Fiddler and the Rent Day were unworthy of his powers, and challenged competition with Lawrence as a portrait painter. Such failures should be noted for the instruction of posterity; but they detract little from the permanent reputation of those who have really done great things. Yet one word more. It is not only on account of the intrinsic merit of Madame D'Arblay's early works that she is entitled to honourable mention. Her appearance is an important epoch in our literary history. Evelina was the first tale written by a woman, and purporting to be a picture of life and manners, that lived or deserved to live. The Female Quixote is no exception. That work has undoubtedly great merit, when considered as a wild satirical harlequinade; but, if we consider it as a picture of life and manners, we must pronounce it more absurd than any of the romances which it was designed to ridicule. Indeed, most of the popular novels which preceded Evelina were such as no lady would have written; and many of them were such as no lady could without confusion own that she had read. The very name of novel was held in horror among religious people. In decent families, which did not profess extraordinary sanctity, there was a strong feeling against all such works. Sir Anthony Absolute, two or three years before Evelina appeared, spoke the sense of the great body of sober fathers and husbands, when he pronounced the circulating library an evergreen tree of diabolical knowledge. This feeling on the part of the grave and reflecting, increased the evil from which it had sprung. The novelist having little character to lose, and having few readers among serious people, took without scruple liberties which in our generation seem almost incredible. Miss Burney did for the English novel what Jeremy Collier did for the English drama; and she did it in a better way. She first showed that a tale might be written in which both the fashionable and the vulgar life of London might be exhibited with great force, and with broad comic humour, and which yet should not contain a single line inconsistent with rigid morality, or even with virgin delicacy. She took away the reproach which lay on a most useful and delightful species of composition. She vindicated the right of her sex to an equal share in a fair and noble province of letters. Several accomplished women have followed in her track. At present, the novels which we owe to English ladies form no small part of the literary glory of our country. No class of works is more honourably distinguished by fine observation, by grace, by delicate wit, by pure moral feeling. Several among the successors of Madame D'Arblay have equalled her; two, we think, have surpassed her. But the fact that she has been surpassed gives her an additional claim to our respect and gratitude for, in truth, we owe to her not only Evelina, Cecilia, and Camilla, but also Mansfield Park and the Absentee. MOORE'S LIFE OF LORD BYRON (June 1831) Letters and Journals of Lord Byron; with Notices of his Life. By THOMAS MOORE, Esq. 2 vols. 4to. London: 1830. WE have read this book with the greatest pleasure. Considered merely as a composition, it deserves to be classed among the best specimens of English prose which our age has produced. It contains, indeed, no single passage equal to two or three which we could select from the Life of Sheridan. But, as a whole, it is immeasurably superior to that work. The style is agreeable, clear, and manly, and when it rises into eloquence, rises without effort or ostentation. Nor is the matter inferior to the manner. It would be difficult to name a book which exhibits more kindness, fairness, and modesty. It has evidently been written, not for the purpose of showing, what, however, it often shows, how well its author can write, but for the purpose of vindicating, as far as truth will permit, the memory of a celebrated man who can no longer vindicate himself. Mr. Moore never thrusts himself between Lord Byron and the public. With the strongest temptations to egotism, he has said no more about himself than the subject absolutely required. A great part, indeed the greater part, of these volumes, consists of extracts from the letters and journals of Lord Byron; and it is difficult to speak too highly of the skill which has been shown in the selection and arrangement. We will not say that we have not occasionally remarked in these two large quartos an anecdote which should have been omitted, a letter which should have been suppressed, a name which should have been concealed by asterisks, or asterisks which do not answer the purpose of concealing the name. But it is impossible, on a general survey, to deny that the task has been executed with great judgment and great humanity. When we consider the life which Lord Byron had led, his petulance, his irritability, and his communicativeness, we cannot but admire the dexterity with which Mr. Moore has contrived to exhibit so much of the character and opinions of his friend, with so little pain to the feelings of the living. The extracts from the journals and correspondence of Lord Byron are in the highest degree valuable, not merely on account of the information which they contain respecting the distinguished man by whom they were written, but on account also of their rare merit as compositions. The letters, at least those which were sent from Italy, are among the best in our language. They are less affected than those of Pope and Walpole; they have more matter in them than those of Cowper. Knowing that many of them were not written merely for the person to whom they were directed, but were general epistles, meant to be read by a large circle, we expected to find them clever and spirited, but deficient in ease. We looked with vigilance for instances of stiffness in the language and awkwardness in the transitions. We have been agreeably disappointed; and we must confess that, if the epistolary style of Lord Byron was artificial, it was a rare and admirable instance of that highest art which cannot be distinguished from nature. Of the deep and painful interest which this book excites no abstract can give a just notion. So sad and dark a story is scarcely to be found in any work of fiction; and we are little disposed to envy the moralist who can read it without being softened. The pretty fable by which the Duchess of Orleans illustrated the character of her son the Regent might, with little change, be applied to Byron. All the fairies, save one, had been bidden to his cradle. All the gossips had been profuse of their gifts. One had bestowed nobility, another genius, a third beauty. The malignant elf who had been uninvited came last, and, unable to reverse what her sisters had done for their favourite, had mixed up a curse with every blessing. In the rank of Lord Byron, in his understanding, in his character, in his very person, there was a strange union of opposite extremes. He was born to all that men covet and admire. But in every one of those eminent advantages which he possessed over others was mingled something of misery and debasement. He was sprung from a house, ancient indeed and noble, but degraded and impoverished by a series of crimes and follies which had attained a scandalous publicity. The kinsman whom he succeeded had died poor, and, but for merciful judges, would have died upon the gallows. The young peer had great intellectual powers; yet there was an unsound part in his mind. He had naturally a generous and feeling heart: but his temper was wayward and irritable. He had a head which statuaries loved to copy, and a foot the deformity of which the beggars in the streets mimicked. Distinguished at once by the strength and by the weakness of his intellect, affectionate yet perverse, a poor lord, and a handsome cripple, he required, if ever man required, the firmest and the most judicious training. But, capriciously as nature had dealt with him, the parent to whom the office of forming his character was intrusted was more capricious still. She passed from paroxysms of rage to paroxysms of tenderness. At one time she stifled him with her caresses; at another time she insulted his deformity. He came into the world; and the world treated him as his mother had treated him, sometimes with fondness, sometimes with cruelty, never with justice. It indulged him without discrimination, and punished him without discrimination. He was truly a spoiled child, not merely the spoiled child of his parent, but the spoiled child of nature, the spoiled child of fortune, the spoiled child of fame, the spoiled child of society. His first poems were received with a contempt which, feeble as they were, they did not absolutely deserve. The poem which he published on his return from his travels was, on the other hand, extolled far above its merit. At twenty-four, he found himself on the highest pinnacle of literary fame, with Scott, Wordsworth, Southey, and a crowd of other distinguished writers beneath his feet. There is scarcely an instance in history of so sudden a rise to so dizzy an eminence. Everything that could stimulate, and everything that could gratify the strongest propensities of our nature, the gaze of a hundred drawing-rooms, the acclamations of the whole nation, the applause of applauded men, the love of lovely women, all this world and all the glory of it were at once offered to a youth to whom nature had given violent passions, and whom education had never taught to control them. He lived as many men live who have no similar excuse to plead for their faults. But his countrymen and his countrywomen would love him and admire him. They were resolved to see in his excesses only the flash and outbreak of that same fiery mind which glowed in his poetry. He attacked religion; yet in religious circles his name was mentioned with fondness, and in many religious publications his works were censured with singular tenderness. He lampooned the Prince Regent; yet he could not alienate the Tories. Everything, it seemed, was to be forgiven to youth, rank, and genius. Then came the reaction. Society, capricious in its indignation as it had been capricious in its fondness, flew into a rage with its froward and petted darling. He had been worshipped with an irrational idolatry. He was persecuted with an irrational fury. Much has been written about those unhappy domestic occurrences which decided the fate of his life. Yet nothing is, nothing ever was, positively known to the public, but this, that he quarrelled with his lady, and that she refused to live with him. There have been hints in abundance, and shrugs and shakings of the head, and "Well, well, we know," and "We could an if we would," and "If we list to speak," and "There be that might an they list." But we are not aware that there is before the world substantiated by credible, or even by tangible evidence, a single fact indicating that Lord Byron was more to blame than any other man who is on bad terms with his wife. The professional men whom Lady Byron consulted were undoubtedly of opinion that she ought not to live with her husband. But it is to be remembered that they formed that opinion without hearing both sides. We do not say, we do not mean to insinuate, that Lady Byron was in any respect to blame. We think that those who condemn her on the evidence which is now before the public are as rash as those who condemn her husband. We will not pronounce any judgment, we cannot, even in our own minds, form any judgment, on a transaction which is so imperfectly known to us. It would have been well if, at the time of the separation, all those who knew as little about the matter then as we know about it now, had shown that forbearance which, under such circumstances, is but common justice. We know no spectacle so ridiculous as the British public in one of its periodical fits of morality. In general, elopements, divorces, and family quarrels, pass with little notice. We read the scandal, talk about it for a day, and forget it. But once in six or seven years our virtue becomes outrageous. We cannot suffer the laws of religion and decency to be violated. We must make a stand against vice. We must teach libertines that the English people appreciate the importance of domestic ties. Accordingly some unfortunate man, in no respect more depraved than hundreds whose offences have been treated with lenity, is singled out as an expiatory sacrifice. If he has children, they are to be taken from him. If he has a profession, he is to be driven from it. He is cut by the higher orders, and hissed by the lower. He is, in truth, a sort of whipping-boy, by whose vicarious agonies all the other transgressors of the same class are, it is supposed, sufficiently chastised. We reflect very complacently on our own severity, and compare with great pride the high standard of morals established in England with the Parisian laxity. At length our anger is satiated. Our victim is ruined and heart-broken. And our virtue goes quietly to sleep for seven years more. It is clear that those vices which destroy domestic happiness ought to be as much as possible repressed. It is equally clear that they cannot be repressed by penal legislation. It is therefore right and desirable that public opinion should be directed against them. But it should be directed against them uniformly, steadily, and temperately, not by sudden fits and starts. There should be one weight and one measure. Decimation is always an objectionable mode of punishment. It is the resource of judges too indolent and hasty to investigate facts and to discriminate nicely between shades of guilt. It is an irrational practice, even when adopted by military tribunals. When adopted by the tribunal of public opinion, it is infinitely more irrational. It is good that a certain portion of disgrace should constantly attend on certain bad actions. But it is not good that the offenders should merely have to stand the risks of a lottery of infamy, that ninety-nine out of every hundred should escape, and that the hundredth, perhaps the most innocent of the hundred, should pay for all. We remember to have seen a mob assembled in Lincoln's Inn to hoot a gentleman against whom the most oppressive proceeding known to the English law was then in progress. He was hooted because he had been an unfaithful husband, as if some of the most popular men of the age, Lord Nelson for example, had not been unfaithful husbands. We remember a still stronger case. Will posterity believe that, in an age in which men whose gallantries were universally known, and had been legally proved, filled some of the highest offices in the State and in the army, presided at the meetings of religions and benevolent institutions, were the delight of every society, and the favourites of the multitude, a crowd of moralists went to the theatre, in order to pelt a poor actor for disturbing the conjugal felicity of an alderman? What there was in the circumstances either of the offender or of the sufferer to vindicate the zeal of the audience, we could never conceive. It has never been supposed that the situation of an actor is peculiarly favourable to the rigid virtues, or that an alderman enjoys any special immunity from injuries such as that which on this occasion roused the anger of the public. But such is the justice of mankind. In these cases the punishment was excessive; but the offence was known and proved. The case of Lord Byron was harder. True Jedwood justice was dealt out to him. First came the execution, then the investigation, and last of all, or rather not at all, the accusation. The public, without knowing anything whatever about the transactions in his family, flew into a violent passion with him, and proceeded to invent stories which might justify its anger. Ten or twenty different accounts of the separation, inconsistent with each other, with themselves, and with common sense, circulated at the same time. What evidence there might be for any one of these, the virtuous people who repeated them neither knew nor cared. For in fact these stories were not the causes, but the effects of the public indignation. They resembled those loathsome slanders which Lewis Goldsmith, and other abject libellers of the same class, were in the habit of publishing about Bonaparte; such as that he poisoned a girl with arsenic when he was at the military school, that he hired a grenadier to shoot Dessaix at Marengo, that he filled St. Cloud with all the pollutions of Capreae. There was a time when anecdotes like these obtained some credence from persons who, hating the French emperor without knowing why, were eager to believe anything which might justify their hatred. Lord Byron fared in the same way. His countrymen were in a bad humour with him. His writings and his character had lost the charm of novelty. He had been guilty of the offence which, of all offences, is punished most severely; he had been over-praised; he had excited too warm an interest; and the public, with its usual justice, chastised him for its own folly. The attachments of the multitude bear no small resemblance to those of the wanton enchantress in the Arabian Tales, who, when the forty days of her fondness were over, was not content with dismissing her lovers, but condemned them to expiate, in loathsome shapes, and under cruel penances, the crime of having once pleased her too well. The obloquy which Byron had to endure was such as might well have shaken a more constant mind. The newspapers were filled with lampoons. The theatres shook with execrations. He was excluded from circles where he had lately been the observed of all observers. All those creeping things that riot in the decay of nobler natures hastened to their repast; and they were right; they did after their kind. It is not every day that the savage envy of aspiring dunces is gratified by the agonies of such a spirit, and the degradation of such a name. The unhappy man left his country for ever. The howl of contumely followed him across the sea, up the Rhine, over the Alps; it gradually waxed fainter; it died away; those who had raised it began to ask each other, what, after all, was the matter about which they had been so clamorous, and wished to invite back the criminal whom they had just chased from them. His poetry became more popular than it had ever been; and his complaints were read with tears by thousands and tens of thousands who had never seen his face. He had fixed his home on the shores of the Adriatic, in the most picturesque and interesting of cities, beneath the brightest of skies, and by the brightest of seas. Censoriousness was not the vice of the neighbours whom he had chosen. They were a race corrupted by a bad government and a bad religion, long renowned for skill in the arts of voluptuousness, and tolerant of all the caprices of sensuality. From the public opinion of the country of his adoption, he had nothing to dread. With the public opinion of the country of his birth, he was at open war. He plunged into wild and desperate excesses, ennobled by no generous or tender sentiment. From his Venetian haram, he sent forth volume after volume, full of eloquence, of wit, of pathos, of ribaldry, and of bitter disdain. His health sank under the effects of his intemperance. His hair turned grey. His food ceased to nourish him. A hectic fever withered him up. It seemed that his body and mind were about to perish together. From this wretched degradation he was in some measure rescued by a connection, culpable indeed, yet such as, if it were judged by the standard of morality established in the country where he lived, might be called virtuous. But an imagination polluted by vice, a temper embittered by misfortune, and a frame habituated to the fatal excitement of intoxication, prevented him from fully enjoying the happiness which he might have derived from the purest and most tranquil of his many attachments. Midnight draughts of ardent spirits and Rhenish wines had begun to work the ruin of his fine intellect. His verse lost much of the energy and condensation which had distinguished it. But he would not resign, without a struggle, the empire which he had exercised over the men of his generation. A new dream of ambition arose before him; to be the chief of a literary party; to be the great mover of an intellectual revolution; to guide the public mind of England from his Italian retreat, as Voltaire had guided the public mind of France from the villa of Ferney. With this hope, as it should seem, he established The Liberal. But, powerfully as he had affected the imaginations of his contemporaries, he mistook his own powers if he hoped to direct their opinions; and he still more grossly mistook his own disposition, if he thought that he could long act in concert with other men of letters. The plan failed, and failed ignominiously. Angry with himself, angry with his coadjutors, he relinquished it, and turned to another project, the last and noblest of his life. A nation, once the first among the nations, pre-eminent in knowledge, pre-eminent in military glory, the cradle of philosophy, of eloquence, and of the fine arts, had been for ages bowed down under a cruel yoke. All the vices which oppression generates, the abject vices which it generates in those who submit to it, the ferocious vices which it generates in those who struggle against it, had deformed the character of that miserable race. The valour which had won the great battle of human civilisation, which had saved Europe, which had subjugated Asia, lingered only among pirates and robbers. The ingenuity, once so conspicuously displayed in every department of physical and moral science, had been depraved into a timid and servile cunning. On a sudden this degraded people had risen on their oppressors. Discountenanced or betrayed by the surrounding potentates, they had found in themselves something of that which might well supply the place of all foreign assistance, something of the energy of their fathers. As a man of letters, Lord Byron could not but be interested in the event of this contest. His political opinions, though, like all his opinions, unsettled, leaned strongly towards the side of liberty. He had assisted the Italian insurgents with his purse, and, if their struggle against the Austrian Government had been prolonged, would probably have assisted them with his sword. But to Greece he was attached by peculiar ties. He had when young resided in that country. Much of his most splendid and popular poetry had been inspired by its scenery and by its history. Sick of inaction, degraded in his own eyes by his private vices and by his literary failures, pining for untried excitement and honourable distinction, he carried his exhausted body and his wounded spirit to the Grecian camp. His conduct in his new situation showed so much vigour and good sense as to justify us in believing that, if his life had been prolonged, he might have distinguished himself as a soldier and a politician. But pleasure and sorrow had done the work of seventy years upon his delicate frame. The hand of death was upon him: he knew it; and the only wish which he uttered was that he might die sword in hand. This was denied to him. Anxiety, exertion, exposure, and those fatal stimulants which had become indispensable to him, soon stretched him on a sick-bed, in a strange land, amidst strange faces, without one human being that he loved near him. There, at thirty-six, the most celebrated Englishman of the nineteenth century closed his brilliant and miserable career. We cannot even now retrace those events without feeling something of what was felt by the nation, when it was first known that the grave had closed over so much sorrow and so much glory; something of what was felt by those who saw the hearse, with its long train of coaches, turn slowly northward, leaving behind it that cemetery which had been consecrated by the dust of so many great poets, but of which the doors were closed against all that remained of Byron. We well remember that on that day, rigid moralists could not refrain from weeping for one so young, so illustrious, so unhappy, gifted with such rare gifts, and tried by such strong temptations. It is unnecessary to make any reflections. The history carries its moral with it. Our age has indeed been fruitful of warnings to the eminent and of consolations to the obscure. Two men have died within our recollection, who, at the time of life at which many people have hardly completed their education, had raised themselves, each in his own department, to the height of glory. One of them died at Longwood; the other at Missolonghi. It is always difficult to separate the literary character of a man who lives in our own time from his personal character. It is peculiarly difficult to make this separation in the case of Lord Byron. For it is scarcely too much to say, that Lord Byron never wrote without some reference, direct or indirect, to himself The interest excited by the events of his life mingles itself in our minds, and probably in the minds of almost all our readers, with the interest which properly belongs to his works. A generation must pass away before it will be possible to form a fair judgment of his books, considered merely as books. At present they are not only books but relics. We will however venture, though with unfeigned diffidence, to offer some desultory remarks on his poetry. His lot was cast in the time of a great literary revolution. That poetical dynasty which had dethroned the successors of Shakspeare and Spenser was, in its turn, dethroned by a race who represented themselves as heirs of the ancient line, so long dispossessed by usurpers. The real nature of this revolution has not, we think, been comprehended by the great majority of those who concurred in it. Wherein especially does the poetry of our times differ from that of the last century? Ninety-nine persons out of a hundred would answer that the poetry of the last century was correct, but cold and mechanical, and that the poetry of our time, though wild and irregular, presented far more vivid images, and excited the passions far more strongly than that of Parnell, of Addison, or of Pope. In the same manner we constantly hear it said, that the poets of the age of Elizabeth had far more genius, but far less correctness, than those of the age of Anne. It seems to be taken for granted, that there is some incompatibility, some antithesis between correctness and creative power. We rather suspect that this notion arises merely from an abuse of words, and that it has been the parent of many of the fallacies which perplex the science of criticism. What is meant by correctness in poetry? If by correctness he meant the conforming to rules which have their foundation in truth and in the principles of human nature, then correctness is only another name for excellence. If by correctness be meant the conforming to rules purely arbitrary, correctness may be another name for dulness and absurdity. A writer who describes visible objects falsely and violates the propriety of character, a writer who makes the mountains "nod their drowsy heads" at night, or a dying man take leave of the world with a rant like that of Maximin, may be said, in the high and just sense of the phrase, to write incorrectly. He violates the first great law of his art. His imitation is altogether unlike the thing imitated. The four poets who are most eminently free from incorrectness of this description are Homer, Dante, Shakspeare, and Milton. They are, therefore, in one sense, and that the best sense, the most correct of poets. When it is said that Virgil, though he had less genius than Homer, was a more correct writer, what sense is attached to the word correctness? Is it meant that the story of the Aeneid is developed more skilfully than that of the Odyssey? that the Roman describes the face of the external world, or the emotions of the mind, more accurately than the Greek? that the characters of Achates and Mnestheus are more nicely discriminated, and more consistently supported, than those of Achilles, of Nestor, and of Ulysses? The fact incontestably is that, for every violation of the fundamental laws of poetry which can be found in Homer, it would be easy to find twenty in Virgil. Troilus and Cressida is perhaps of all the plays of Shakspeare that which is commonly considered as the most incorrect. Yet it seems to us infinitely more correct, in the sound sense of the term, than what are called the most correct plays of the most correct dramatists. Compare it, for example, with the Iphigenie of Racine. We are sure that the Greeks of Shakspeare bear a far greater resemblance than the Greeks of Racine to the real Greeks who besieged Troy; and for this reason, that the Greeks of Shakspeare are human beings, and the Greeks of Racine mere names, mere words printed in capitals at the head of paragraphs of declamation. Racine, it is true, would have shuddered at the thought of making a warrior at the siege of Troy quote Aristotle. But of what use is it to avoid a single anachronism, when the whole play is one anachronism, the sentiments and phrases of Versailles in the camp of Aulis? In the sense in which we are now using the word correctness, we think that Sir Walter Scott, Mr. Wordsworth, Mr. Coleridge, are far more correct poets than those who are commonly extolled as the models of correctness, Pope, for example, and Addison. The single description of a moonlight night in Pope's Iliad contains more inaccuracies than can be found in all the Excursion. There is not a single scene in Cato, in which all that conduces to poetical illusion, all the propriety of character, of language, of situation, is not more grossly violated than in any part of the Lay of the Last Minstrel. No man can possibly think that the Romans of Addison resemble the real Romans so closely as the moss-troopers of Scott resemble the real moss-troopers. Wat Tinlinn and William of Deloraine are not, it is true, persons of so much dignity as Cato. But the dignity of the persons represented has as little to do with the correctness of poetry as with the correctness of painting. We prefer a gipsy by Reynolds to his Majesty's head on a signpost, and a Borderer by Scott to a Senator by Addison. In what sense, then, is the word correctness used by those who say, with the author of the Pursuits of Literature, that Pope was the most correct of English Poets, and that next to Pope came the late Mr. Gifford? What is the nature and value of that correctness, the praise of which is denied to Macbeth, to Lear, and to Othello, and given to Hoole's translations and to all the Seatonian prize-poems? We can discover no eternal rule, no rule founded in reason and in the nature of things, which Shakspeare does not observe much more strictly than Pope. But if by correctness be meant the conforming to a narrow legislation which, while lenient to the mala in se, multiplies, without a shadow of a reason, the mala prohibita, if by correctness be meant a strict attention to certain ceremonious observances, which are no more essential to poetry than etiquette to good government, or than the washings of a Pharisee to devotion, then, assuredly, Pope may be a more correct poet than Shakspeare; and, if the code were a little altered, Colley Cibber might be a more correct poet than Pope. But it may well be doubted whether this kind of correctness be a merit, nay, whether it be not an absolute fault. It would be amusing to make a digest of the irrational laws which bad critics have framed for the government of poets. First in celebrity and in absurdity stand the dramatic unities of place and time. No human being has ever been able to find anything that could, even by courtesy, be called an argument for these unities, except that they have been deduced from the general practice of the Greeks. It requires no very profound examination to discover that the Greek dramas, often admirable as compositions, are, as exhibitions of human character and human life, far inferior to the English plays of the age of Elizabeth. Every scholar knows that the dramatic part of the Athenian tragedies was at first subordinate to the lyrical part. It would, therefore, have been little less than a miracle if the laws of the Athenian stage had been found to suit plays in which there was no chorus. All the greatest masterpieces of the dramatic art have been composed in direct violation of the unities, and could never have been composed if the unities had not been violated. It is clear, for example, that such a character as that of Hamlet could never have been developed within the limits to which Alfieri confined himself. Yet such was the reverence of literary men during the last century for these unities that Johnson who, much to his honour, took the opposite side, was, as he says, "frightened at his own temerity," and "afraid to stand against the authorities which might be produced against him." There are other rules of the same kind without end. "Shakspeare," says Rymer, "ought not to have made Othello black; for the hero of a tragedy ought always to be white." "Milton," says another critic, "ought not to have taken Adam for his hero; for the hero of an epic poem ought always to be victorious." "Milton," says another, "ought not to have put so many similes into his first book; for the first book of an epic poem ought always to be the most unadorned. There are no similes in the first book of the Iliad." "Milton," says another, "ought not to have placed in an epic poem such lines as these: 'While thus I called, and strayed I knew not whither.'" And why not? The critic is ready with a reason, a lady's reason. "Such lines," says he, "are not, it must be allowed, unpleasing to the ear; but the redundant syllable ought to be confined to the drama, and not admitted into epic poetry." As to the redundant syllable in heroic rhyme on serious subjects, it has been, from the time of Pope downward, proscribed by the general consent of all the correct school. No magazine would have admitted so incorrect a couplet as that of Drayton. "As when we lived untouch'd with these disgraces, When as our kingdom was our dear embraces." Another law of heroic rhyme, which, fifty years ago, was considered as fundamental, was, that there should be a pause, a comma at least, at the end of every couplet. It was also provided that there should never be a full stop except at the end of a line. Well do we remember to have heard a most correct judge of poetry revile Mr. Rogers for the incorrectness of that most sweet and graceful passage, "Such grief was ours,--it seems but yesterday,-- When in thy prime, wishing so much to stay, 'Twas thine, Maria, thine without a sigh At midnight in a sister's arms to die. Oh thou wert lovely; lovely was thy frame, And pure thy spirit as from heaven it came: And when recall'd to join the blest above Thou diedst a victim to exceeding love, Nursing the young to health. In happier hours, When idle Fancy wove luxuriant flowers, Once in thy mirth thou badst me write on thee And now I write what thou shalt never see." Sir Roger Newdigate is fairly entitled, we think, to be ranked among the great critics of this school. He made a law that none of the poems written for the prize which he established at Oxford should exceed fifty lines. This law seems to us to have at least as much foundation in reason as any of those which we have mentioned; nay, much more, for the world, we believe, is pretty well agreed in thinking that the shorter a prize-poem is, the better. We do not see why we should not make a few more rules of the same kind; why we should not enact that the number of scenes in every act shall be three or some multiple of three, that the number of lines in every scene shall be an exact square, that the dramatis personae shall never be more or fewer than sixteen, and that, in heroic rhymes, every thirty-sixth line shall have twelve syllables. If we were to lay down these canons, and to call Pope, Goldsmith, and Addison incorrect writers for not having complied with our whims, we should act precisely as those critics act who find incorrectness in the magnificent imagery and the varied music of Coleridge and Shelley. The correctness which the last century prized so much resembles the correctness of those pictures of the garden of Eden which we see in old Bibles. We have an exact square enclosed by the rivers Pison, Gihon, Hiddekel, and Euphrates, each with a convenient bridge in the centre, rectangular beds of flowers, a long canal, neatly bricked and railed in, the tree of knowledge clipped like one of the limes behind the Tuilleries, standing in the centre of the grand alley, the snake twined round it, the man on the right hand, the woman on the left, and the beasts drawn up in an exact circle round them. In one sense the picture is correct enough. That is to say, the squares are correct; the circles are correct; the man and the woman are in a most correct line with the tree; and the snake forms a most correct spiral. But if there were a painter so gifted that he could place on the canvas that glorious paradise, seen by the interior eye of him whose outward sight had failed with long watching and labouring for liberty and truth, if there were a painter who could set before us the mazes of the sapphire brook, the lake with its fringe of myrtles, the flowery meadows, the grottoes overhung by vines, the forests shining with Hesperian fruit and with the plumage of gorgeous birds, the massy shade of that nuptial bower which showered down roses on the sleeping lovers, what should we think of a connoisseur, who should tell us that this painting, though finer than the absurd picture in the old Bible, was not so correct. Surely we should answer, it is both finer and more correct; and it is finer because it is more correct. It is not made up of correctly drawn diagrams; but it is a correct painting, a worthy representation of that which it is intended to represent. It is not in the fine arts alone that this false correctness is prized by narrow-minded men, by men who cannot distinguish means from ends, or what is accidental from what is essential. M. Jourdain admired correctness in fencing. "You had no business to hit me then. You must never thrust in quart till you have thrust in tierce." M. Tomes liked correctness in medical practice. "I stand up for Artemius. That he killed his patient is plain enough. But still he acted quite according to rule. A man dead is a man dead; and there is an end of the matter. But if rules are to be broken, there is no saying what consequences may follow." We have heard of an old German officer, who was a great admirer of correctness in military operations. He used to revile Bonaparte for spoiling the science of war, which had been carried to such exquisite perfection by Marshal Daun. "In my youth we used to march and countermarch all the summer without gaining or losing a square league, and then we went into winter quarters. And now comes an ignorant, hot-headed young man, who flies about from Boulogne to Ulm, and from Ulm to the middle of Moravia, and fights battles in December. The whole system of his tactics is monstrously incorrect." The world is of opinion in spite of critics like these, that the end of fencing is to hit, that the end of medicine is to cure, that the end of war is to conquer, and that those means are the most correct which best accomplish the ends. And has poetry no end, no eternal and immutable principles? Is poetry, like heraldry, mere matter of arbitrary regulation? The heralds tell us that certain scutcheons and bearings denote certain conditions, and that to put colours on colours, or metals on metals, is false blazonry. If all this were reversed, if every coat of arms in Europe were new fashioned, if it were decreed that or should never be placed but on argent, or argent but on or, that illegitimacy should be denoted by a lozenge, and widowhood by a bend, the new science would be just as good as the old science, because both the new and the old would be good for nothing. The mummery of Portcullis and Rouge Dragon, as it has no other value than that which caprice has assigned to it, may well submit to any laws which caprice may impose on it. But it is not so with that great imitative art, to the power of which all ages, the rudest and the most enlightened, bear witness. Since its first great masterpieces were produced, everything that is changeable in this world has been changed. Civilisation has been gained, lost, gained again. Religions, and languages, and forms of government, and usages of private life, and modes of thinking, all have undergone a succession of revolutions. Everything has passed away but the great features of nature, and the heart of man, and the miracles of that art of which it is the office to reflect back the heart of man and the features of nature. Those two strange old poems, the wonder of ninety generations, still retain all their freshness. They still command the veneration of minds enriched by the literature of many nations and ages. They are still, even in wretched translations, the delight of school- boys. Having survived ten thousand capricious fashions, having seen successive codes of criticism become obsolete, they still remain to us, immortal with the immortality of truth, the same when perused in the study of an English scholar, as when they were first chanted at the banquets of the Ionian princes. Poetry is, as was said more than two thousand years ago, imitation. It is an art analogous in many respects to the art of painting, sculpture, and acting. The imitations of the painter, the sculptor, and the actor, are indeed, within certain limits, more perfect than those of the poet. The machinery which the poet employs consists merely of words; and words cannot, even when employed by such an artist as Homer or Dante, present to the mind images of visible objects quite so lively and exact as those which we carry away from looking on the works of the brush and the chisel. But, on the other hand, the range of poetry is infinitely wider than that of any other imitative art, or than that of all the other imitative arts together. The sculptor can imitate only form; the painter only form and colour; the actor, until the poet supplies him with words, only form, colour, and motion. Poetry holds the outer world in common with the other arts. The heart of man is the province of poetry, and of poetry alone. The painter, the sculptor, and the actor can exhibit no more of human passion and character than that small portion which overflows into the gesture and the face, always an imperfect, often a deceitful, sign of that which is within. The deeper and more complex parts of human nature can be exhibited by means of words alone. Thus the objects of the imitation of poetry are the whole external and the whole internal universe, the face of nature, the vicissitudes of fortune, man as he is in himself, man as he appears in society, all things which really exist, all things of which we can form an image in our minds by combining together parts of things which really exist. The domain of this imperial art is commensurate with the imaginative faculty. An art essentially imitative ought not surely to be subjected to rules which tend to make its imitations less perfect than they otherwise would be; and those who obey such rules ought to be called, not correct, but incorrect artists. The true way to judge of the rules by which English poetry was governed during the last century is to look at the effects which they produced. It was in 1780 that Johnson completed his Lives of the Poets. He tells us in that work that, since the time of Dryden, English poetry had shown no tendency to relapse into its original savageness, that its language had been refined, its numbers tuned, and its sentiments improved. It may perhaps be doubted whether the nation had any great reason to exult in the refinements and improvements which gave it Douglas for Othello, and the Triumphs of Temper for the Fairy Queen. It was during the thirty years which preceded the appearance of Johnson's Lives that the diction and versification of English poetry were, in the sense in which the word is commonly used, most correct. Those thirty years are, as respects poetry, the most deplorable part of our literary history. They have indeed bequeathed to us scarcely any poetry which deserves to be remembered. Two or three hundred lines of Gray, twice as many of Goldsmith, a few stanzas of Beattie and Collins, a few strophes of Mason, and a few clever prologues and satires, were the masterpieces of this age of consummate excellence. They may all be printed in one volume, and that volume would be by no means a volume of extraordinary merit. It would contain no poetry of the very highest class, and little which could be placed very high in the second class. The Paradise Regained or Comus would outweigh it all. At last, when poetry had fallen into such utter decay that Mr. Hayley was thought a great poet, it began to appear that the excess of the evil was about to work the cure. Men became tired of an insipid conformity to a standard which derived no authority from nature or reason. A shallow criticism had taught them to ascribe a superstitious value to the spurious correctness of poetasters. A deeper criticism brought them back to the true correctness of the first great masters. The eternal laws of poetry regained their power, and the temporary fashions which had superseded those laws went after the wig of Lovelace and the hoop of Clarissa. It was in a cold and barren season that the seeds of that rich harvest which we have reaped were first sown. While poetry was every year becoming more feeble and more mechanical, while the monotonous versification which Pope had introduced, no longer redeemed by his brilliant wit and his compactness of expression, palled on the ear of the public, the great works of the old masters were every day attracting more and more of the admiration which they deserved. The plays of Shakspeare were better acted, better edited, and better known than they had ever been. Our fine ancient ballads were again read with pleasure, and it became a fashion to imitate them. Many of the imitations were altogether contemptible. But they showed that men had at least begun to admire the excellence which they could not rival. A literary revolution was evidently at hand. There was a ferment in the minds of men, a vague craving for something new, a disposition to hail with delight anything which might at first sight wear the appearance of originality. A reforming age is always fertile of impostors. The same excited state of public feeling which produced the great separation from the see of Rome produced also the excesses of the Anabaptists. The same stir in the public mind of Europe which overthrew the abuses of the old French Government, produced the Jacobins and Theophilanthropists. Macpherson and Della Crusca were to the true reformers of English poetry what Knipperdoling was to Luther, or Clootz to Turgot. The success of Chatterton's forgeries and of the far more contemptible forgeries of Ireland showed that people had begun to love the old poetry well, though not wisely. The public was never more disposed to believe stories without evidence, and to admire books without merit. Anything which could break the dull monotony of the correct school was acceptable. The forerunner of the great restoration of our literature was Cowper. His literary career began and ended at nearly the same time with that of Alfieri. A comparison between Alfieri and Cowper may, at first sight, appear as strange as that which a loyal Presbyterian minister is said to have made in 1745 between George the Second and Enoch. It may seem that the gentle, shy, melancholy Calvinist, whose spirit had been broken by fagging at school, who had not courage to earn a livelihood by reading the titles of bills in the House of Lords, and whose favourite associates were a blind old lady and an evangelical divine, could have nothing in common with the haughty, ardent, and voluptuous nobleman, the horse-jockey, the libertine, who fought Lord Ligonier in Hyde Park, and robbed the Pretender of his queen. But though the private lives of these remarkable men present scarcely any points of resemblance, their literary lives bear a close analogy to each other. They both found poetry in its lowest state of degradation, feeble, artificial, and altogether nerveless. They both possessed precisely the talents which fitted them for the task of raising it from that deep abasement. They cannot, in strictness, be called great poets. They had not in any very high degree the creative power, "The vision and the faculty divine": but they had great vigour of thought, great warmth of feeling, and what, in their circumstances, was above all things important, a manliness of taste which approached to roughness. They did not deal in mechanical versification and conventional phrases. They wrote concerning things the thought of which set their hearts on fire; and thus what they wrote, even when it wanted every other grace, had that inimitable grace which sincerity and strong passion impart to the rudest and most homely compositions. Each of them sought for inspiration in a noble and affecting subject, fertile of images which had not yet been hackneyed. Liberty was the muse of Alfieri, Religion was the muse of Cowper. The same truth is found in their lighter pieces. They were not among those who deprecated the severity, or deplored the absence, of an unreal mistress in melodious commonplaces. Instead of raving about imaginary Chloes and Sylvias, Cowper wrote of Mrs. Unwin's knitting-needles. The only love-verses of Alfieri were addressed to one whom he truly and passionately loved. "Tutte le rime amorose che seguono," says he, "tutte sono per essa, e ben sue, e di lei solamente; poiche mai d'altra donna per certo con cantero." These great men were not free from affectation. But their affectation was directly opposed to the affectation which generally prevailed. Each of them expressed, in strong and bitter language, the contempt which he felt for the effeminate poetasters who were in fashion both in England and in Italy. Cowper complains that "Manner is all in all, whate'er is writ, The substitute for genius, taste, and wit." He praised Pope; yet he regretted that Pope had "Made poetry a mere mechanic art, And every warbler had his tune by heart." Alfieri speaks with similar scorn of the tragedies of his predecessors. "Mi cadevano dalle mani per la languidezza, trivialita e prolissita dei modi e dei verso, senza parlare poi della snervatezza dei pensieri. Or perche mai questa nostra divina lingua, si maschia anco, ed energica, e feroce, in bocca di Dante, dovra ella farsi casi sbiadata ed eunuca nel dialogo tragico?" To men thus sick of the languid manner of their contemporaries ruggedness seemed a venial fault, or rather a positive merit. In their hatred of meretricious ornament, and of what Cowper calls "creamy smoothness," they erred on the opposite side. Their style was too austere, their versification too harsh. It is not easy, however, to overrate the service which they rendered to literature. The intrinsic value of their poems is considerable. But the example which they set of mutiny against an absurd system was invaluable. The part which they performed was rather that of Moses than that of Joshua. They opened the house of bondage; but they did not enter the promised land. During the twenty years which followed the death of Cowper, the revolution in English poetry was fully consummated. None of the writers of this period, not even Sir Walter Scott, contributed so much to the consummation as Lord Byron. Yet Lord Byron contributed to it unwillingly, and with constant self-reproach and shame. All his tastes and inclinations led him to take part with the school of poetry which was going out against the school which was coming in. Of Pope himself he spoke with extravagant admiration. He did not venture directly to say that the little man of Twickenham was a greater poet than Shakspeare or Milton; but he hinted pretty clearly that he thought so. Of his contemporaries, scarcely any had so much of his admiration as Mr. Gifford, who, considered as a poet, was merely Pope, without Pope's wit and fancy, and whose satires are decidedly inferior in vigour and poignancy to the very imperfect juvenile performance of Lord Byron himself. He now and then praised Mr. Wordsworth and Mr. Coleridge, but ungraciously and without cordiality. When he attacked them, he brought his whole soul to the work. Of the most elaborate of Mr. Wordsworth's poems he could find nothing to say, but that it was "clumsy, and frowsy, and his aversion." Peter Bell excited his spleen to such a degree that he evoked the shades of Pope and Dryden, and demanded of them whether it were possible that such trash could evade contempt? In his heart he thought his own Pilgrimage of Harold inferior to his Imitation of Horace's Art of Poetry, a feeble echo of Pope and Johnson. This insipid performance he repeatedly designed to publish, and was withheld only by the solicitations of his friends. He has distinctly declared his approbation of the unities, the most absurd laws by which genius was ever held in servitude. In one of his works, we think in his letter to Mr. Bowles, he compares the poetry of the eighteenth century to the Parthenon, and that of the nineteenth to a Turkish mosque, and boasts that, though he had assisted his contemporaries in building their grotesque and barbarous edifice, he had never joined them in defacing the remains of a chaster and more graceful architecture. In another letter he compares the change which had recently passed on English poetry to the decay of Latin poetry after the Augustan age. In the time of Pope, he tells his friend, it was all Horace with us. It is all Claudian now. For the great old masters of the art he had no very enthusiastic veneration. In his letter to Mr. Bowles he uses expressions which clearly indicate that he preferred Pope's Iliad to the original. Mr. Moore confesses that his friend was no very fervent admirer of Shakspeare. Of all the poets of the first class Lord Byron seems to have admired Dante and Milton most. Yet in the fourth canto of Childe Harold, he places Tasso, a writer not merely inferior to them, but of quite a different order of mind, on at least a footing of equality with them. Mr. Hunt is, we suspect, quite correct in saying that Lord Byron could see little or no merit in Spenser. But Byron the critic and Byron the poet were two very different men. The effects of the noble writer's theory may indeed often be traced in his practice. But his disposition led him to accommodate himself to the literary taste of the age in which he lived; and his talents would have enabled him to accommodate himself to the taste of any age. Though he said much of his contempt for mankind, and though he boasted that amidst the inconstancy of fortune and of fame he was all-sufficient to himself, his literary career indicated nothing of that lonely and unsocial pride which he affected. We cannot conceive him, like Milton or Wordsworth, defying the criticism of his contemporaries, retorting their scorn, and labouring on a poem in the full assurance that it would be unpopular, and in the full assurance that it would be immortal. He has said, by the mouth of one of his heroes, in speaking of political greatness, that "he must serve who fain would sway"; and this he assigns as a reason for not entering into political life. He did not consider that the sway which he had exercised in literature had been purchased by servitude, by the sacrifice of his own taste to the taste of the public. He was the creature of his age; and whenever he had lived he would have been the creature of his age. Under Charles the First Byron would have been more quaint than Donne. Under Charles the Second the rants of Byron's rhyming plays would have pitted it, boxed it, and galleried it, with those of any Bayes or Bilboa. Under George the First, the monotonous smoothness of Byron's versification and the terseness of his expression would have made Pope himself envious. As it was, he was the man of the last thirteen years of the eighteenth century, and of the first twenty-three years of the nineteenth century. He belonged half to the old, and half to the new school of poetry. His personal taste led him to the former; his thirst of praise to the latter; his talents were equally suited to both. His fame was a common ground on which the zealots on both sides, Gifford for example, and Shelley, might meet. He was the representative, not of either literary party, but of both at once, and of their conflict, and of the victory by which that conflict was terminated. His poetry fills and measures the whole of the vast interval through which our literature has moved since the time of Johnson. It touches the Essay on Man at the one extremity, and the Excursion at the other. There are several parallel instances in literary history. Voltaire, for example, was the connecting link between the France of Lewis the Fourteenth and the France of Lewis the Sixteenth, between Racine and Boileau on the one side, and Condorcet and Beaumarchais on the other. He, like Lord Byron, put himself at the head of an intellectual revolution, dreading it all the time, murmuring at it, sneering at it, yet choosing rather to move before his age in any direction than to be left behind and forgotten. Dryden was the connecting link between the literature of the age of James the First, and the literature of the age of Anne. Oromasdes and Arimanes fought for him. Arimanes carried him off. But his heart was to the last with Oromasdes. Lord Byron was, in the same manner, the mediator between two generations, between two hostile poetical sects. Though always sneering at Mr. Wordsworth, he was yet, though perhaps unconsciously, the interpreter between Mr. Wordsworth and the multitude. In the Lyrical Ballads and the Excursion Mr. Wordsworth appeared as the high priest of a worship, of which nature was the idol. No poems have ever indicated a more exquisite perception of the beauty of the outer world or a more passionate love and reverence for that beauty. Yet they were not popular; and it is not likely that they ever will be popular as the poetry of Sir Walter Scott is popular. The feeling which pervaded them was too deep for general sympathy. Their style was often too mysterious for general comprehension. They made a few esoteric disciples, and many scoffers. Lord Byron founded what may be called an exoteric Lake school; and all the readers of verse in England, we might say in Europe, hastened to sit at his feet. What Mr. Wordsworth had said like a recluse, Lord Byron said like a man of the world, with less profound feeling, but with more perspicuity, energy, and conciseness. We would refer our readers to the last two cantos of Childe Harold and to Manfred, in proof of these observations. Lord Byron, like Mr. Wordsworth, had nothing dramatic in his genius. He was indeed the reverse of a great dramatist, the very antithesis to a great dramatist. All his characters, Harold looking on the sky, from which his country and the sun are disappearing together, the Giaour standing apart in the gloom of the side aisle, and casting a haggard scowl from under his long hood at the crucifix and the censer, Conrad leaning on his sword by the watch-tower, Lara smiling on the dancers, Alp gazing steadily on the fatal cloud as it passes before the moon, Manfred wandering among the precipices of Berne, Azzo on the judgment- seat, Ugo at the bar, Lambro frowning on the siesta of his daughter and Juan, Cain presenting his unacceptable offering, are essentially the same. The varieties are varieties merely of age, situation, and outward show. If ever Lord Byron attempted to exhibit men of a different kind, he always made them either insipid or unnatural. Selim is nothing. Bonnivart is nothing. Don Juan, in the first and best cantos, is a feeble copy of the Page in the Marriage of Figaro. Johnson, the man whom Juan meets in the slave-market, is a most striking failure. How differently would Sir Walter Scott have drawn a bluff, fearless Englishman, in such a situation! The portrait would have seemed to walk out of the canvas. Sardanapalus is more closely drawn than any dramatic personage that we can remember. His heroism and his effeminacy, his contempt of death and his dread of a weighty helmet, his kingly resolution to be seen in the foremost ranks, and the anxiety with which he calls for a looking-glass that he may be seen to advantage, are contrasted, it is true, with all the point of Juvenal. Indeed the hint of the character seems to have been taken from what Juvenal says of Otho: "Speculum civilis sarcina belli. Nimirum summi ducis est occidere Galbam, Et curare cutem summi constantia civis, Bedriaci in campo spolium affectare Palati Et pressum in faciem digitis extendere panem." These are excellent lines in a satire. But it is not the business of the dramatist to exhibit characters in this sharp antithetical way. It is not thus that Shakspeare makes Prince Hal rise from the rake of Eastcheap into the hero of Shrewsbury, and sink again into the rake of Eastcheap. It is not thus that Shakspeare has exhibited the union of effeminacy and valour in Antony. A dramatist cannot commit a greater error than that of following those pointed descriptions of character in which satirists and historians indulge so much. It is by rejecting what is natural that satirists and historians produce these striking characters. Their great object generally is to ascribe to every man as many contradictory qualities as possible: and this is an object easily attained. By judicious selection and judicious exaggeration, the intellect and the disposition of any human being might be described as being made up of nothing but startling contrasts. If the dramatist attempts to create a being answering to one of these descriptions, he fails, because he reverses an imperfect analytical process. He produces, not a man, but a personified epigram. Very eminent writers have fallen into this snare. Ben Jonson has given us a Hermogenes, taken from the lively lines of Horace; but the inconsistency which is so amusing in the satire appears unnatural and disgusts us in the play. Sir Walter Scott has committed a far more glaring error of the same kind in the novel of Peveril. Admiring, as every judicious reader must admire, the keen and vigorous lines in which Dryden satirised the Duke of Buckingham, Sir Walter attempted to make a Duke of Buckingham to suit them, a real living Zimri; and he made, not a man, but the most grotesque of all monsters. A writer who should attempt to introduce into a play or a novel such a Wharton as the Wharton of Pope, or a Lord Hervey answering to Sporus, would fail in the same manner. But to return to Lord Byron; his women, like his men, are all of one breed. Haidee is a half-savage and girlish Julia; Julia is a civilised and matronly Haidee. Leila is a wedded Zuleika, Zuleika a virgin Leila. Gulnare and Medora appear to have been intentionally opposed to each other. Yet the difference is a difference of situation only. A slight change of circumstances would, it should seem, have sent Gulnare to the lute of Medora, and armed Medora with the dagger of Gulnare. It is hardly too much to say, that Lord Byron could exhibit only one man and only one woman, a man, proud, moody, cynical, with defiance on his brow, and misery in his heart, a scorner of his kind, implacable in revenge, yet capable of deep and strong affection: a woman all softness and gentleness, loving to caress and to be caressed, but capable of being transformed by passion into a tigress. Even these two characters, his only two characters, he could not exhibit dramatically. He exhibited them in the manner, not of Shakspeare, but of Clarendon. He analysed them; he made them analyse themselves; but he did not make them show themselves. We are told, for example, in many lines of great force and spirit, that the speech of Lara was bitterly sarcastic, that he talked little of his travels, that if he was much questioned about them, his answers became short, and his brow gloomy. But we have none of Lara's sarcastic speeches or short answers. It is not thus that the great masters of human nature have portrayed human beings. Homer never tells us that Nestor loved to relate long stories about his youth. Shakspeare never tells us that in the mind of Iago everything that is beautiful and endearing was associated with some filthy and debasing idea. It is curious to observe the tendency which the dialogue of Lord Byron always has to lose its character of a dialogue, and to become soliloquy. The scenes between Manfred and the Chamois- hunter, between Manfred and the Witch of the Alps, between Manfred and the Abbot, are instances of this tendency. Manfred, after a few unimportant speeches, has all the talk to himself. The other interlocutors are nothing more than good listeners. They drop an occasional question or ejaculation which sets Manfred off again on the inexhaustible topic of his personal feelings. If we examine the fine passages in Lord Byron's dramas, the description of Rome, for example, in Manfred, the description of a Venetian revel in Marino Faliero, the concluding invective which the old doge pronounces against Venice, we shall find that there is nothing dramatic in these speeches, that they derive none of their effect from the character or situation of the speaker, and that they would have been as fine, or finer, if they had been published as fragments of blank verse by Lord Byron. There is scarcely a speech in Shakspeare of which the same could be said. No skilful reader of the plays of Shakspeare can endure to see what are called the fine things taken out, under the name of "Beauties," or of "Elegant Extracts," or to hear any single passage, "To be or not to be," for example, quoted as a sample of the great poet. "To be or not to be" has merit undoubtedly as a composition. It would have merit if put into the mouth of a chorus. But its merit as a composition vanishes when compared with its merit as belonging to Hamlet. It is not too much to say that the great plays of Shakspeare would lose less by being deprived of all the passages which are commonly called the fine passages, than those passages lose by being read separately from the play. This is perhaps the highest praise which can be given to a dramatist. On the other hand, it may be doubted whether there is, in all Lord Byron's plays, a single remarkable passage which owes any portion of its interest or effect to its connection with the characters or the action. He has written only one scene, as far as we can recollect, which is dramatic even in manner--the scene between Lucifer and Cain. The conference is animated, and each of the interlocutors has a fair share of it. But this scene, when examined, will be found to be a confirmation of our remarks. It is a dialogue only in form. It is a soliloquy in essence. It is in reality a debate carried on within one single unquiet and sceptical mind. The questions and the answers, the objections and the solutions, all belong to the same character. A writer who showed so little dramatic skill in works professedly dramatic, was not likely to write narrative with dramatic effect. Nothing could indeed be more rude and careless than the structure of his narrative poems. He seems to have thought, with the hero of the Rehearsal, that the plot was good for nothing but to bring in fine things. His two longest works, Childe Harold and Don Juan, have no plan whatever. Either of them might have been extended to any length, or cut short at any point. The state in which the Giaour appears illustrates the manner in which all Byron's poems were constructed. They are all, like the Giaour, collections of fragments; and, though there may be no empty spaces marked by asterisks, it is still easy to perceive, by the clumsiness of the joining, where the parts for the sake of which the whole was composed end and begin. It was in description and meditation that Byron excelled. "Description," as he said in Don Juan, "was his forte." His manner is indeed peculiar, and is almost unequalled; rapid, sketchy, full of vigour; the selection happy, the strokes few and bold. In spite of the reverence which we feel for the genius of Mr. Wordsworth we cannot but think that the minuteness of his descriptions often diminishes their effect. He has accustomed himself to gaze on nature with the eye of a lover, to dwell on every feature, and to mark every change of aspect. Those beauties which strike the most negligent observer, and those which only a close attention discovers, are equally familiar to him and are equally prominent in his poetry. The proverb of old Hesiod, that half is often more than the whole, is eminently applicable to description. The policy of the Dutch, who cut down most of the precious trees in the Spice Islands, in order to raise the value of what remained, was a policy which poets would do well to imitate. It was a policy which no poet understood better than Lord Byron. Whatever his faults might be, he was never, while his mind retained its vigour, accused of prolixity. His descriptions, great as was their intrinsic merit, derived. their principal interest from the feeling which always mingled with them. He was himself the beginning, the middle, and the end, of all his own poetry, the hero of every tale, the chief object in every landscape. Harold, Lara, Manfred, and a crowd of other characters, were universally considered merely as loose incognitos of Byron; and there is every reason to believe that he meant them to be so considered. The wonders of the outer world, the Tagus, with the mighty fleets of England riding on its bosom, the towers of Cintra overhanging the shaggy forest of cork-trees and willows, the glaring marble of Pentelicus, the banks of the Rhine, the glaciers of Clarens, the sweet Lake of Leman, the dell of Egeria with its summer-birds and rustling lizards, the shapeless ruins of Rome overgrown with ivy and wall-flowers, the, stars, the sea, the mountains, all were mere accessories, the background to one dark and melancholy figure. Never had any writer so vast a command of the whole eloquence of scorn, misanthropy, and despair. That Marah was never dry. No art could sweeten, no draughts could exhaust, its perennial waters of bitterness. Never was there such variety in monotony as that of Byron. From maniac laughter to piercing lamentation, there was not a single note of human anguish of which he was not master. Year after year, and month after month, he continued to repeat that to be wretched is the destiny of all; that to be eminently wretched is the destiny of the eminent; that all the desires by which we are cursed lead alike to misery, if they are not gratified, to the misery of disappointment; if they are gratified, to the misery of satiety. His heroes are men who have arrived by different roads at the same goal of despair, who are sick of life, who are at war with society, who are supported in their anguish only by an unconquerable pride resembling that of Prometheus on the rock or of Satan in the burning marl, who can master their agonies by the force of their will, and who to the last defy the whole power of earth and heaven. He always described himself as a man of the same kind with his favourite creations, as a man whose heart had been withered, whose capacity for happiness was gone and could not be restored, but whose invincible spirit dared the worst that could befall him here or hereafter. How much of this morbid feeling sprang from an original disease of the mind, how much from real misfortune, how much from the nervousness of dissipation, how much was fanciful, how much was merely affected, it is impossible for us, and would probably have been impossible for the most intimate friends of Lord Byron, to decide. Whether there ever existed, or can ever exist, a person answering to the description which he gave of himself may be doubted; but that he was not such a person is beyond all doubt. It is ridiculous to imagine that a man whose mind was really imbued with scorn of his fellow-creatures would have published three or four books every year in order to tell them so; or that a man who could say with truth that he neither sought sympathy nor needed it would have admitted all Europe to hear his farewell to his wife, and his blessings on his child. In the second canto of Childe Harold, he tells us that he is insensible to fame and obloquy: "Ill may such contest now the spirit move, Which heeds nor keen reproof nor partial praise." Yet we know on the best evidence that, a day or two before he published these lines, he was greatly, indeed childishly, elated by the compliments paid to his maiden speech in the House of Lords. We are far, however, from thinking that his sadness was altogether feigned. He was naturally a man of great sensibility; he had been ill-educated; his feelings had been early exposed to sharp trials; he had been crossed in his boyish love; he had been mortified by the failure of his first literary efforts; he was straitened in pecuniary circumstances; he was unfortunate in his domestic relations; the public treated him with cruel injustice; his health and spirits suffered from his dissipated habits of life; he was, on the whole, an unhappy man. He early discovered that, by parading his unhappiness before the multitude, he produced an immense sensation. The world gave him every encouragement to talk about his mental sufferings. The interest which his first confessions excited induced him to affect much that he did not feel; and the affectation probably reacted on his feelings. How far the character in which he exhibited himself was genuine, and how far theatrical, it would probably have puzzled himself to say. There can be no doubt that this remarkable man owed the vast influence which he exercised over his contemporaries at least as much to his gloomy egotism as to the real power of his poetry. We never could very clearly understand how it is that egotism, so unpopular in conversation, should be so popular in writing; or how it is that men who affect in their compositions qualities and feelings which they have not, impose so much more easily on their contemporaries than on posterity. The interest which the loves of Petrarch excited in his own time, and the pitying fondness with which half Europe looked upon Rousseau, are well known. To readers of our age, the love of Petrarch seems to have been love of that kind which breaks no hearts, and the sufferings of Rousseau to have deserved laughter rather than pity, to have been partly counterfeited, and partly the consequences of his own perverseness and vanity. What our grandchildren may think of the character of Lord Byron, as exhibited in his poetry, we will not pretend to guess. It is certain, that the interest which he excited during his life is without a parallel in literary history. The feeling with which young readers of poetry regarded him can be conceived only by those who have experienced it. To people who are unacquainted with real calamity, "nothing is so dainty sweet as lovely melancholy." This faint image of sorrow has in all ages been considered by young gentlemen as an agreeable excitement. Old gentlemen and middle-aged gentlemen have so many real causes of sadness that they are rarely inclined "to be as sad as night only for wantonness." Indeed they want the power almost as much as the inclination. We know very few persons engaged in active life, who, even if they were to procure stools to be melancholy upon, and were to sit down with all the premeditation of Master Stephen, would be able to enjoy much of what somebody calls the "ecstasy of woe." Among that large class of young persons whose reading is almost entirely confined to works of imagination, the popularity of Lord Byron was unbounded. They bought pictures of him; they treasured up the smallest relics of him; they learned his poems by heart, and did their best to write like him, and to look like him. Many of them practised at the glass in the hope of catching the curl of the upper lip, and the scowl of the brow, which appear in some of his portraits. A few discarded their neck-cloths in imitation of their great leader. For some years the Minerva press sent forth no novel without a mysterious, unhappy, Lara-like peer. The number of hopeful undergraduates and medical students who became things of dark imaginings, on whom the freshness of the heart ceased to fall like dew, whose passions had consumed themselves to dust, and to whom the relief of tears was denied, passes all calculation. This was not the worst. There was created in the minds of many of these enthusiasts a pernicious and absurd association between intellectual power and moral depravity. From the poetry of Lord Byron they drew a system of ethics, compounded of misanthropy and voluptuousness, a system in which the two great commandments were, to hate your neighbour, and to love your neighbour's wife. This affectation has passed away; and a few more years will destroy whatever yet remains of that magical potency which once belonged to the name of Byron. To us he is still a man, young, noble, and unhappy. To our children he will be merely a writer; and their impartial judgment will appoint his place among writers; without regard to his rank or to his private history. That his poetry will undergo a severe sifting, that much of what has been admired by his contemporaries will be rejected as worthless, we have little doubt. But we have as little doubt that, after the closest scrutiny, there will still remain much that can only perish with the English language. MR. ROBERT MONTGOMERY (April 1830) 1. The Omnipresence of the Deity: a Poem By ROBERT MONTGOMERY. Eleventh Edition. London. 1830. 2. Satan: a Poem By ROBERT MONTGOMERY. Second Edition. London: 1830. THE wise men of antiquity loved to convey instruction under the covering of apologue; and though this practice is generally thought childish, we shall make no apology for adopting it on the present occasion. A generation which has bought eleven editions of a poem by Mr. Robert Montgomery may well condescend to listen to a fable of Pilpay. A pious Brahmin, it is written, made a vow that on a certain day he would sacrifice a sheep, and on the appointed morning he went forth to buy one. There lived in his neighbourhood three rogues who knew of his vow, and laid a scheme for profiting by it. The first met him and said, "Oh Brahmin, wilt thou buy a sheep? I have one fit for sacrifice." "It is for that very purpose," said the holy man, "that I came forth this day." Then the impostor opened a bag, and brought out of it an unclean beast, an ugly dog, lame and blind. Thereon the Brahmin cried out, "Wretch, who touchest things impure, and utterest things untrue; callest thou that cur a sheep?" "Truly," answered the other, "it is a sheep of the finest fleece, and of the sweetest flesh. Oh Brahmin, it will be an offering most acceptable to the gods." "Friend," said the Brahmin, either thou or I must be blind." Just then one of the accomplices came up. "Praised be the gods," said the second rogue, "that I have been saved the trouble of going to the market for a sheep! This is such a sheep as I wanted. For how much wilt thou sell it?" When the Brahmin heard this, his mind waved to and fro, like one swinging in the air at a holy festival. "Sir," said he to the new comer, "take heed what thou dost; this is no sheep, but an unclean cur." "Oh Brahmin," said the new corner, "thou art drunk or mad!" At this time the third confederate drew near. "Let us ask this man," said the Brahmin, "what the creature is, and I will stand by what he shall say." To this the others agreed; and the Brahmin called out, "Oh stranger, what dost thou call this beast?" "Surely, oh Brahmin," said the knave, "it is a fine sheep." Then the Brahmin said, "Surely the gods have taken away my senses"; and he asked pardon of him who carried the dog, and bought it for a measure of rice and a pot of ghee, and offered it up to the gods, who, being wroth at this unclean sacrifice, smote him with a sore disease in all his joints. Thus, or nearly thus, if we remember rightly, runs the story of the Sanscrit Aesop. The moral, like the moral of every fable that is worth the telling, lies on the surface. The writer evidently means to caution us against the practices of puffers, a class of people who have more than once talked the public into the most absurd errors, but who surely never played a more curious or a more difficult trick than when they passed Mr. Robert Montgomery off upon the world as a great poet. In an age in which there are so few readers that a writer cannot subsist on the sum arising from the sale of his works, no man who has not an independent fortune can devote himself to literary pursuits, unless he is assisted by patronage. In such an age, accordingly, men of letters too often pass their lives in dangling at the heels of the wealthy and powerful; and all the faults which dependence tends to produce, pass into their character. They become the parasites and slaves of the great. It is melancholy to think how many of the highest and most exquisitely formed of human intellects have been condemned to the ignominious labour of disposing the commonplaces of adulation in new forms and brightening them into new splendour. Horace invoking Augustus in the most enthusiastic language of religious veneration; Statius flattering a tyrant, and the minion of a tyrant, for a morsel of bread; Ariosto versifying the whole genealogy of a niggardly patron; Tasso extolling the heroic virtues of the wretched creature who locked him up in a madhouse: these are but a few of the instances which might easily be given of the degradation to which those must submit who, not possessing a competent fortune, are resolved to write when there are scarcely any who read. This evil the progress of the human mind tends to remove. As a taste for books becomes more and more common, the patronage of individuals becomes less and less necessary. In the middle of the last century a marked change took place. The tone of literary men, both in this country and in France, became higher and more independent. Pope boasted that he was the "one poet" who had "pleased by manly ways"; he derided the soft dedications with which Halifax had been fed, asserted his own superiority over the pensioned Boileau, and gloried in being not the follower, but the friend, of nobles and princes. The explanation of all this is very simple. Pope was the first Englishman who, by the mere sale of his writings, realised a sum which enabled him to live in comfort and in perfect independence. Johnson extols him for the magnanimity which he showed in inscribing his Iliad, not to a minister or a peer, but to Congreve. In our time this would scarcely be a subject for praise. Nobody is astonished when Mr. Moore pays a compliment of this kind to Sir Walter Scott, or Sir Walter Scott to Mr. Moore. The idea of either of those gentlemen looking out for some lord who would be likely to give him a few guineas in return for a fulsome dedication seems laughably incongruous. Yet this is exactly what Dryden or Otway would have done; and it would be hard to blame them for it. Otway is said to have been choked with a piece of bread which he devoured in the rage of hunger; and, whether this story be true or false, he was beyond all question miserably poor. Dryden, at near seventy, when at the head of the literary men of England, without equal or second, received three hundred pounds for his Fables, a collection of ten thousand verses, and of such verses as no man then living, except himself, could have produced, Pope, at thirty, had laid up between six and seven thousand pounds, the fruits of his poetry. It was not, we suspect, because he had a higher spirit or a more scrupulous conscience than his predecessors, but because he had a larger income, that he kept up the dignity of the literary character so much better than they had done. From the time of Pope to the present day the readers have been constantly becoming more and more numerous, and the writers, consequently, more and more independent. It is assuredly a great evil that men, fitted by their talents and acquirements to enlighten and charm the world, should be reduced to the necessity of flattering wicked and foolish patrons in return for the sustenance of life. But, though we heartily rejoice that this evil is removed, we cannot but see with concern that another evil has succeeded to it. The public is now the patron, and a most liberal patron. All that the rich and powerful bestowed on authors from the time of Maecenas to that of Harley would not, we apprehend, make up a sum equal to that which has been paid by English booksellers to authors during the last fifty years. Men of letters have accordingly ceased to court individuals, and have begun to court the public. They formerly used flattery. They now use puffing. Whether the old or the new vice be the worse, whether those who formerly lavished insincere praise on others, or those who now contrive by every art of beggary and bribery to stun the public with praises of themselves, disgrace their vocation the more deeply, we shall not attempt to decide. But of this we are sure, that it is high time to make a stand against the new trickery. The puffing of books is now so shamefully and so successfully carried on that it is the duty of all who are anxious for the purity of the national taste, or for the honour of the literary character, to join in discountenancing the practice. All the pens that ever were employed in magnifying Bish's lucky office, Romanis's fleecy hosiery, Packwood's razor strops, and Rowland's Kalydor, all the placard-bearers of Dr. Eady, all the wall- chalkers of Day and Martin, seem to have taken service with the poets and novelists of this generation. Devices which in the lowest trades are considered as disreputable are adopted without scruple, and improved upon with a despicable ingenuity, by people engaged in a pursuit which never was and never will be considered as a mere trade by any man of honour and virtue. A butcher of the higher class disdains to ticket his meat. A mercer of the higher class would be ashamed to hang up papers in his window inviting the passers-by to look at the stock of a bankrupt, all of the first quality, and going for half the value. We expect some reserve, some decent pride, in our hatter and our bootmaker. But no artifice by which notoriety can be obtained is thought too abject for a man of letters. It is amusing to think over the history of most of the publications which have had a run during the last few years. The publisher is often the publisher of some periodical work. In this periodical work the first flourish of trumpets is sounded. The peal is then echoed and re-echoed by all the other periodical works over which the publisher, or the author, or the author's coterie, may have any influence. The newspapers are for a fortnight filled with puffs of all the various kinds which Sheridan enumerated, direct, oblique, and collusive. Sometimes the praise is laid on thick for simple-minded people. "Pathetic," "sublime," "splendid," "graceful," "brilliant wit," "exquisite humour," and other phrases equally flattering, fall in a shower as thick and as sweet as the sugarplums at a Roman carnival. Sometimes greater art is used. A sinecure has been offered to the writer if he would suppress his work, or if he would even soften down a few of his incomparable portraits. A distinguished military and political character has challenged the inimitable satirist of the vices of the great; and the puffer is glad to learn that the parties have been bound over to keep the peace. Sometimes it is thought expedient that the puffer should put on a grave face, and utter his panegyric in the form of admonition. "Such attacks on private character cannot be too much condemned. Even the exuberant wit of our author, and the irresistible power of his withering sarcasm, are no excuses for that utter disregard which he manifests for the feelings of others. We cannot but wonder that a writer of such transcendent talents, a writer who is evidently no stranger to the kindly charities and sensibilities of our nature, should show so little tenderness to the foibles of noble and distinguished individuals, with whom it is clear, from every page of his work, that he must have been constantly mingling in society." These are but tame and feeble imitations of the paragraphs with which the daily papers are filled whenever an attorney's clerk or an apothecary's assistant undertakes to tell the public in bad English and worse French, how people tie their neckcloths and eat their dinners in Grosvenor Square. The editors of the higher and more respectable newspapers usually prefix the words "Advertisement," or "From a Correspondent," to such paragraphs. But this makes little difference. The panegyric is extracted, and the significant heading omitted. The fulsome eulogy makes its appearance on the covers of all the Reviews and Magazines, with Times or Globe affixed, though the editors of the Times and the Globe have no more to do with it than with Mr. Goss's way of making old rakes young again. That people who live by personal slander should practise these arts is not surprising. Those who stoop to write calumnious books may well stoop to puff them; and that the basest of all trades should be carried on in the basest of all manners is quite proper and as it should be. But how any man who has the least self- respect, the least regard for his own personal dignity, can condescend to persecute the public with this Ragfair importunity, we do not understand. Extreme poverty may, indeed, in some degree, be an excuse for employing these shifts, as it may be an excuse for stealing a leg of mutton. But we really think that a man of spirit and delicacy would quite as soon satisfy his wants in the one way as in the other. It is no excuse for an author that the praises of journalists are procured by the money or influence of his publishers, and not by his own. It is his business to take such precautions as may prevent others from doing what must degrade him. It is for his honour as a gentleman, and, if he is really a man of talents, it will eventually be for his honour and interest as a writer, that his works should come before the public recommended by their own merits alone, and should be discussed with perfect freedom. If his objects be really such as he may own without shame, he will find that they will, in the long-run, be better attained by suffering the voice of criticism to be fairly heard. At present, we too often see a writer attempting to obtain literary fame as Shakspeare's usurper obtains sovereignty. The publisher plays Buckingham to the author's Richard. Some few creatures of the conspiracy are dexterously disposed here and there in the crowd. It is the business of these hirelings to throw up their caps, and clap their hands, and utter their vivas. The rabble at first stare and wonder, and at last join in shouting for shouting's sake; and thus a crown is placed on a head which has no right to it, by the huzzas of a few servile dependants. The opinion of the great body of the reading public is very materially influenced even by the unsupported assertions of those who assume a right to criticise. Nor is the public altogether to blame on this account. Most even of those who have really a great enjoyment in reading are in the same state, with respect to a book, in which a man who has never given particular attention to the art of painting is with respect to a picture. Every man who has the least sensibility or imagination derives a certain pleasure from pictures. Yet a man of the highest and finest intellect might, unless he had formed his taste by contemplating the best pictures, be easily persuaded by a knot of connoisseurs that the worst daub in Somerset House was a miracle of art. If he deserves to be laughed at, it is not for his ignorance of pictures, but for his ignorance of men. He knows that there is a delicacy of taste in painting which he does not possess, that he cannot distinguish hands, as practised judges distinguish them, that he is not familiar with the finest models, that he has never looked at them with close attention, and that, when the general effect of a piece has pleased him or displeased him, he has never troubled himself to ascertain why. When, therefore, people, whom he thinks more competent to judge than himself, and of whose sincerity he entertains no doubt, assure him that a particular work is exquisitely beautiful, he takes it for granted that they must be in the right. He returns to the examination, resolved to find or imagine beauties; and, if he can work himself up into something like admiration, he exults in his own proficiency. Just such is the manner in which nine readers out of ten judge of a book. They are ashamed to dislike what men who speak as having authority declare to be good. At present, however contemptible a poem or a novel may be, there is not the least difficulty in procuring favourable notices of it from all sorts of publications, daily, weekly, and monthly. In the meantime, little or nothing is said on the other side. The author and the publisher are interested in crying up the book. Nobody has any very strong interest in crying it down. Those who are best fitted to guide the public opinion think it beneath them to expose mere nonsense, and comfort themselves by reflecting that such popularity cannot last. This contemptuous lenity has been carried too far. It is perfectly true that reputations which have been forced into an unnatural bloom fade almost as soon as they have expanded; nor have we any apprehensions that puffing will ever raise any scribbler to the rank of a classic. It is indeed amusing to turn over some late volumes of periodical works, and to see how many immortal productions have, within a few months, been gathered to the poems of Blackmore and the novels of Mrs. Behn; how many "profound views of human nature," and "exquisite delineations of fashionable manners," and "vernal, and sunny, and refreshing thoughts," and "high imaginings," and "young breathings," and "embodyings," and "pinings," and "minglings with the beauty of the universe," and "harmonies which dissolve the soul in a passionate sense of loveliness and divinity," the world has contrived to forget. The names of the books and of the writers are buried in as deep an oblivion as the name of the builder of Stonehenge. Some of the well-puffed fashionable novels of eighteen hundred and twenty-nine hold the pastry of eighteen hundred and thirty; and others, which are now extolled in language almost too high-flown for the merits of Don Quixote, will, we have no doubt, line the trunks of eighteen hundred and thirty-one. But, though we have no apprehensions that puffing will ever confer permanent reputation on the undeserving, we still think its influence most pernicious. Men of real merit will, if they persevere, at last reach the station to which they are entitled, and intruders will be ejected with contempt and derision. But it is no small evil that the avenues to fame should be blocked up by a swarm of noisy, pushing, elbowing pretenders, who, though they will not ultimately be able to make good their own entrance, hinder, in the mean time, those who have a right to enter. All who will not disgrace themselves by joining in the unseemly scuffle must expect to be at first hustled and shouldered back. Some men of talents, accordingly, turn away in dejection from pursuits in which success appears to bear no proportion to desert. Others employ in self-defence the means by which competitors, far inferior to themselves, appear for a time to obtain a decided advantage. There are few who have sufficient confidence in their own powers and sufficient elevation of mind, to wait with secure and contemptuous patience, while dunce after dunce presses before them. Those who will not stoop to the baseness of the modern fashion are too often discouraged. Those who do stoop to it are always degraded. We have of late observed with great pleasure some symptoms which lead us to hope that respectable literary men of all parties are beginning to be impatient of this insufferable nuisance. And we purpose to do what in us lies for the abating of it. We do not think that we can more usefully assist in this good work than by showing our honest countrymen what that sort of poetry is which puffing can drive through eleven editions, and how easily any bellman might, if a bellman would stoop to the necessary degree of meanness, become a "master-spirit of the age." We have no enmity to Mr. Robert Montgomery. We know nothing whatever about him, except what we have learned from his books, and from the portrait prefixed to one of them, in which he appears to be doing his very best to look like a man of genius and sensibility, though with less success than his strenuous exertions deserve. We select him, because his works have received more enthusiastic praise, and have deserved more unmixed contempt, than any which, as far as our knowledge extends, have appeared within the last three or four years. His writing bears the same relation to poetry which a Turkey carpet bears to a picture. There are colours in the Turkey carpet out of which a picture might be made. There are words In Mr. Montgomery's writing which, when disposed in certain orders and combinations, have made, and will again make, good poetry. But, as they now stand, they seem to be put together on principle in such a manner as to give no image of anything "in the heavens above, or in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth." The poem on the Omnipresence of the Deity commences with a description of the creation, in which we can find only one thought which has the least pretension to ingenuity, and that one thought is stolen from Dryden, and marred in the stealing: "Last, softly beautiful, as music's close, Angelic woman into being rose." The all-pervading influence of the Supreme Being is then described in a few tolerable lines borrowed from Pope, and a great many intolerable lines of Mr. Robert Montgomery's own. The following may stand as a specimen: "But who could trace Thine unrestricted course, Though Fancy followed with immortal force? There's not a blossom fondled by the breeze, There's not a fruit that beautifies the trees, There's not a particle in sea or air, But nature owns thy plastic influence there! With fearful gaze, still be it mine to see How all is fill'd and vivified by Thee; Upon thy mirror, earth's majestic view, To paint Thy Presence, and to feel it too." The last two lines contain an excellent specimen of Mr. Robert Montgomery's Turkey carpet style of writing. The majestic view of earth is the mirror of God's presence; and on this mirror Mr. Robert Montgomery paints God's presence. The use of a mirror, we submit, is not to be painted upon. A few more lines, as bad as those which we have quoted, bring us to one of the most amusing instances of literary pilfering which we remember. It might be of use to plagiarists to know, as a general rule, that what they steal is, to employ a phrase common in advertisements, of no use to any but the right owner. We never fell in, however, with any plunderer who so little understood how to turn his booty to good account as Mr. Montgomery. Lord Byron, in a passage which everybody knows by heart, has said, addressing the sea, "Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow." Mr. Robert Montgomery very coolly appropriates the image and reproduces the stolen goods in the following form: "And thou vast Ocean, on whose awful face Time's iron feet can print no ruin-trace." So may such ill-got gains ever prosper! The effect which the Ocean produces on Atheists is then described in the following lofty lines: "Oh! never did the dark-soul'd ATHEIST stand, And watch the breakers boiling on the strand, And, while Creation stagger'd at his nod, Mock the dread presence of the mighty God! We hear Him in the wind-heaved ocean's roar, Hurling her billowy crags upon the shore We hear Him in the riot of the blast, And shake, while rush the raving whirlwinds past!" If Mr. Robert Montgomery's genius were not far too free and aspiring to be shackled by the rules of syntax, we should suppose that it is at the nod of the Atheist that creation staggers. But Mr. Robert Montgomery's readers must take such grammar as they can get, and be thankful. A few more lines bring us to another instance of unprofitable theft. Sir Walter Scott has these lines in the Lord of the Isles: "The dew that on the violet lies, Mocks the dark lustre of thine eyes." This is pretty taken separately, and, as is always the case with the good things of good writers, much prettier in its place than can even be conceived by those who see it only detached from the context. Now for Mr. Montgomery: "And the bright dew-bead on the bramble lies, Like liquid rapture upon beauty's eyes." The comparison of a violet, bright with the dew, to a woman's eyes, is as perfect as a comparison can be. Sir Walter's lines are part of a song addressed to a woman at daybreak, when the violets are bathed in dew; and the comparison is therefore peculiarly natural and graceful. Dew on a bramble is no more like a woman's eyes than dew anywhere else. There is a very pretty Eastern tale of which the fate of plagiarists often reminds us. The slave of a magician saw his master wave his wand, and heard him give orders to the spirits who arose at the summons. The slave stole the wand, and waved it himself in the air; but he had not observed that his master used the left hand for that purpose. The spirits thus irregularly summoned tore the thief to pieces instead of obeying his orders. There are very few who can safely venture to conjure with the rod of Sir Walter; and Mr. Robert Montgomery is not one of them. Mr. Campbell, in one of his most pleasing pieces, has this line, "The sentinel stars set their watch in the sky." The thought is good, and has a very striking propriety where Mr. Campbell has placed it, in the mouth of a soldier telling his dream. But, though Shakspeare assures us that "every true man's apparel fits your thief," it is by no means the case, as we have already seen, that every true poet's similitude fits your plagiarist. Let us see how Mr. Robert Montgomery uses the image. "Ye quenchless stars! so eloquently bright, Untroubled sentries of the shadowy night, While half the world is lapp'd in downy dreams, And round the lattice creep your midnight beams, How sweet to gaze upon your placid eyes, In lambent beauty looking from the skies." Certainly the ideas of eloquence, of untroubled repose, of placid eyes, of the lambent beauty on which it is sweet to gaze, harmonise admirably with the idea of a sentry. We would not be understood, however, to say, that Mr. Robert Montgomery cannot make similitudes for himself. A very few lines further on, we find one which has every mark of originality, and on which, we will be bound, none of the poets whom he has plundered will ever think of making reprisals "The soul, aspiring, pants its source to mount, As streams meander level with their fount." We take this to be, on the whole, the worst similitude in the world. In the first place, no stream meanders, or can possibly meander, level with its fount. In the next place, if streams did meander level with their founts, no two motions can be less like each other than that of meandering level and that of mounting upwards. We have then an apostrophe to the Deity, couched in terms which, in any writer who dealt in meanings, we should call profane, but to which we suppose Mr. Robert Montgomery attaches no idea whatever: "Yes I pause and think, within one fleeting hour, How vast a universe obeys Thy power; Unseen, but felt, Thine interfused control Works in each atom, and pervades the whole; Expands the blossom, and erects the tree, Conducts each vapour, and commands each sea, Beams in each ray, bids whirlwinds be unfurl'd, Unrols the thunder, and upheaves a world!" No field-preacher surely ever carried his irreverent familiarity so far as to bid the Supreme Being stop and think on the importance of the interests which are under His care. The grotesque indecency of such an address throws into shade the subordinate absurdities of the passage, the unfurling of whirlwinds, the unrolling of thunder, and the upheaving of worlds. Then comes a curious specimen of our poet's English: "Yet not alone created realms engage Thy faultless wisdom, grand, primeval sage! For all the thronging woes to life allied Thy mercy tempers, and thy cares provide." We should be glad to know what the word "For" means here. If it is a preposition, it makes nonsense of the words, "Thy mercy tempers." If it is an adverb, it makes nonsense of the words, "Thy cares provide." These beauties we have taken, almost at random, from the first part of the poem. The second part is a series of descriptions of various events, a battle, a murder, an execution, a marriage, a funeral, and so forth. Mr. Robert Montgomery terminates each of these descriptions by assuring us that the Deity was present at the battle, murder, execution, marriage or funeral in question. And this proposition which might be safely predicated of every event that ever happened or ever will happen, forms the only link which connects these descriptions with the subject or with each other. How the descriptions are executed our readers are probably by this time able to conjecture. The battle is made up of the battles of all ages and nations: "red-mouthed cannons, uproaring to the clouds," and "hands grasping firm the glittering shield." The only military operations of which this part of the poem reminds us, are those which reduced the Abbey of Quedlinburgh to submission, the Templar with his cross, the Austrian and Prussian grenadiers in full uniform, and Curtius and Dentatus with their battering-ram. We ought not to pass unnoticed the slain war- horse, who will no more "Roll his red eye, and rally for the fight"; or the slain warrior who, while "lying on his bleeding breast," contrives to "stare ghastly and grimly on the skies." As to this last exploit, we can only say, as Dante did on a similar occasion, "Forse per forza gia di' parlasia Si stravolse cosi alcun del tutto Ma io nol vidi, ne credo che sia." The tempest is thus described: "But lo! around the marsh'lling clouds unite, Like thick battalions halting for the fight; The sun sinks back, the tempest spirits sweep Fierce through the air and flutter on the deep. Till from their caverns rush the maniac blasts, Tear the loose sails, and split the creaking masts, And the lash'd billows, rolling in a train, Rear their white heads, and race along the main" What, we should like to know, is the difference between the two operations which Mr. Robert Montgomery so accurately distinguishes from each other, the fierce sweeping of the tempest-spirits through the air, and the rushing of the maniac blasts from their caverns? And why does the former operation end exactly when the latter commences? We cannot stop over each of Mr. Robert Montgomery's descriptions. We have a shipwrecked sailor, who "visions a viewless temple in the air"; a murderer who stands on a heath, "with ashy lips, in cold convulsion spread"; a pious man, to whom, as he lies in bed at night, "The panorama of past life appears, Warms his pure mind, and melts it into tears": a traveller, who loses his way, owing to the thickness of the "cloud-battalion," and the want of "heaven-lamps, to beam their holy light." We have a description of a convicted felon, stolen from that incomparable passage in Crabbe's Borough, which has made many a rough and cynical reader cry like a child. We can, however, conscientiously declare that persons of the most excitable sensibility may safely venture upon Mr, Robert Montgomery's version. Then we have the "poor, mindless, pale- faced maniac boy," who "Rolls his vacant eye To greet the glowing fancies of the sky." What are the glowing fancies of the sky? And what is the meaning of the two lines which almost immediately follow? "A soulless thing, a spirit of the woods, He loves to commune with the fields and floods." How can a soulless thing be a spirit? Then comes a panegyric on the Sunday. A baptism follows; after that a marriage: and we then proceed, in due course, to the visitation of the sick, and the burial of the dead. Often as Death has been personified, Mr. Montgomery has found something new to say about him: "O Death! thou dreadless vanquisher of earth, The Elements shrank blasted at thy birth! Careering round the world like tempest wind, Martyrs before, and victims strew'd behind Ages on ages cannot grapple thee, Dragging the world into eternity!" If there be any one line in this passage about which we are more in the dark than about the rest, it is the fourth. What the difference may be between the victims and the martyrs, and why the martyrs are to lie before Death, and the victims behind him, are to us great mysteries. We now come to the third part, of which we may say with honest Cassio, "Why, this is a more excellent song than the other." Mr. Robert Montgomery is very severe on the infidels, and undertakes to prove, that, as he elegantly expresses it, "One great Enchanter helm'd the harmonious whole." What an enchanter has to do with helming, or what a helm has to do with harmony, he does not explain. He proceeds with his argument thus: "And dare men dream that dismal Chance has framed All that the eye perceives, or tongue has named The spacious world, and all its wonders, born Designless, self-created, and forlorn; Like to the flashing bubbles on a stream, Fire from the cloud, or phantom in a dream?" We should be sorry to stake our faith in a higher Power on Mr. Robert Montgomery's logic. He informs us that lightning is designless and self-created. If he can believe this, we cannot conceive why he may not believe that the whole universe is designless and self-created. A few lines before, he tells us that it is the Deity who bids "thunder rattle from the skiey deep." His theory is therefore this, that God made the thunder, but that the lightning made itself. But Mr. Robert Montgomery's metaphysics are not at present our game. He proceeds to set forth the fearful effects of Atheism "Then, blood-stain`d Murder, bare thy hideous arm And thou, Rebellion, welter in thy storm: Awake, ye spirits of avenging crime; Burst from your bonds, and battle with the time!" Mr. Robert Montgomery is fond of personification, and belongs, we need not say, to that school of poets who hold that nothing more is necessary to a personification in poetry than to begin a word with a capital letter. Murder may, without impropriety, bare her arm, as she did long ago, in Mr. Campbell's Pleasures of Hope. But what possible motive Rebellion can have for weltering in her storm, what avenging crime may be, who its spirits may be, why they should be burst from their bonds, what their bonds may be, why they should battle with the time, what the time may be, and what a battle between the time and the spirits of avenging crime would resemble, we must confess ourselves quite unable to understand. "And here let Memory turn her tearful glance On the dark horrors of tumultuous France, When blood and blasphemy defiled her land, And fierce Rebellion shook her savage hand." Whether Rebellion shakes her own hand, shakes the hand of Memory, or shakes the hand of France, or what any one of these three metaphors would mean, we, know no more than we know what is the sense of the following passage "Let the foul orgies of infuriate crime Picture the raging havoc of that time, When leagued Rebellion march'd to kindle man, Fright in her rear, and Murder in her van. And thou, sweet flower of Austria, slaughter'd Queen, Who dropp'd no tear upon the dreadful scene, When gush'd the life-blood from thine angel form, And martyr'd beauty perish'd in the storm, Once worshipp'd paragon of all who saw, Thy look obedience, and thy smile a law." What is the distinction between the foul orgies and the raging havoc which the foul orgies are to picture? Why does Fright go behind Rebellion, and Murder before? Why should not Murder fall behind Fright? Or why should not all the three walk abreast? We have read of a hero who had "Amazement in his van, with flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind." Gray, we suspect, could have given a reason for disposing the allegorical attendants of Edward thus. But to proceed, "Flower of Austria" is stolen from Byron. "Dropp'd" is false English. "Perish'd in the storm" means nothing at all; and "thy look obedience" means the very reverse of what Mr. Robert Montgomery intends to say. Our poet then proceeds to demonstrate the immortality of the soul: "And shall the soul, the fount of reason, die, When dust and darkness round its temple lie? Did God breathe in it no ethereal fire. Dimless and quenchless, though the breath expire?" The soul is a fountain; and therefore it is not to die, though dust and darkness lie round its temple, because an ethereal fire has been breathed into it, which cannot be quenched though its breath expire. Is it the fountain, or the temple, that breathes, and has fire breathed into it? Mr. Montgomery apostrophises the "Immortal beacons,--spirits of the just,"-- and describes their employments in another world, which are to be, it seems, bathing in light, hearing fiery streams flow, and riding on living cars of lightning. The deathbed of the sceptic is described with what we suppose is meant for energy. We then have the deathbed of a Christian made as ridiculous as false imagery and false English can make it. But this is not enough. The Day of Judgment is to be described, and a roaring cataract of nonsense is poured forth upon this tremendous subject. Earth, we are told, is dashed into Eternity. Furnace blazes wheel round the horizon, and burst into bright wizard phantoms. Racing hurricanes unroll and whirl quivering fire-clouds. The white waves gallop. Shadowy worlds career around. The red and raging eye of Imagination is then forbidden to pry further. But further Mr. Robert Montgomery persists in prying. The stars bound through the airy roar. The unbosomed deep yawns on the ruin. The billows of Eternity then begin to advance. The world glares in fiery slumber. A car comes forward driven by living thunder, "Creation shudders with sublime dismay, And in a blazing tempest whirls away." And this is fine poetry! This is what ranks its writer with the master-spirits of the age! This is what has been described, over and over again, in terms which would require some qualification if used respecting Paradise Lost! It is too much that this patchwork, made by stitching together old odds and ends of what, when new, was but tawdry frippery, is to be picked off the dunghill on which it ought to rot, and to be held up to admiration as an inestimable specimen of art. And what must we think of a system by means of which verses like those which we have quoted, verses fit only for the poet's corner of the Morning Post, can produce emolument and fame? The circulation of this writer's poetry has been greater than that of Southey's Roderick, and beyond all comparison greater than that of Cary's Dante or of the best works of Coleridge. Thus encouraged, Mr. Robert Montgomery has favoured the public with volume after volume. We have given so much space to the examination of his first and most popular performance that we have none to spare for his Universal Prayer, and his smaller poems, which, as the puffing journals tell us, would alone constitute a sufficient title to literary immortality. We shall pass at once to his last publication, entitled Satan. This poem was ushered into the world with the usual roar of acclamation. But the thing was now past a joke. Pretensions so unfounded, so impudent, and so successful, had aroused a spirit of resistance. In several magazines and reviews, accordingly, Satan has been handled somewhat roughly, and the arts of the puffers have been exposed with good sense and spirit. We shall, therefore, be very concise. Of the two poems we rather prefer that on the Omnipresence of the Deity, for the same reason which induced Sir Thomas More to rank one bad book above another. "Marry, this is somewhat. This is rhyme. But the other is neither rhyme nor reason." Satan is a long soliloquy, which the Devil pronounces in five or six thousand lines of bad blank verse, concerning geography, politics, newspapers, fashionable society, theatrical amusements, Sir Walter Scott's novels, Lord Byron's poetry, and Mr. Martin's pictures. The new designs for Milton have, as was natural, particularly attracted the attention of a personage who occupies so conspicuous a place in them. Mr. Martin must be pleased to learn that, whatever may be thought of those performances on earth, they give full satisfaction in Pandaemonium, and that he is there thought to have hit off the likenesses of the various Thrones and Dominations very happily. The motto to the poem of Satan is taken from the Book of Job: "Whence comest thou? From going to and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it." And certainly Mr. Robert Montgomery has not failed to make his hero go to and fro, and walk up and down. With the exception, however, of this propensity to locomotion, Satan has not one Satanic quality. Mad Tom had told us that "the prince of darkness is a gentleman"; but we had yet to learn that he is a respectable and pious gentleman, whose principal fault is that he is something of a twaddle and far too liberal of his good advice. That happy change in his character which Origen anticipated, and of which Tillotson did not despair, seems to be rapidly taking place. Bad habits are not eradicated in a moment. It is not strange, therefore, that so old an offender should now and then relapse for a short time into wrong dispositions. But to give him his due, as the proverb recommends, we must say that he always returns, after two or three lines of impiety, to his preaching style. We would seriously advise Mr. Montgomery to omit or alter about a hundred lines in different parts of this large volume, and to republish it under the name of Gabriel. The reflections of which it consists would come less absurdly, as far as there is a more and a less in extreme absurdity, from a good than from a bad angel. We can afford room only for a single quotation. We give one taken at random, neither worse nor better, as far as we can perceive, than any other equal number of lines in the book. The Devil goes to the play, and moralises thereon as follows: "Music and Pomp their mingling spirit shed Around me: beauties in their cloud-like robes Shine forth,--a scenic paradise, it glares Intoxication through the reeling sense Of flush'd enjoyment. In the motley host Three prime gradations may be rank'd: the first, To mount upon the wings of Shakspeare's mind, And win a flash of his Promethean thought, To smile and weep, to shudder, and achieve A round of passionate omnipotence, Attend: the second, are a sensual tribe, Convened to hear romantic harlots sing, On forms to banquet a lascivious gaze, While the bright perfidy of wanton eyes Through brain and spirit darts delicious fire The last, a throng most pitiful! who seem, With their corroded figures, rayless glance, And death-like struggle of decaying age, Like painted skeletons in charnel pomp Set forth to satirise the human kind! How fine a prospect for demoniac view! 'Creatures whose souls outbalance worlds awake!' Methinks I hear a pitying angel cry." Here we conclude. If our remarks give pain to Mr. Robert Montgomery, we are sorry for it. But, at whatever cost of pain to individuals, literature must be purified from this taint. And, to show that we are not actuated by any feeling of personal enmity towards him, we hereby give notice that, as soon as any book shall, by means of puffing, reach a second edition, our intention is to do unto the writer of it as we have done unto Mr. Robert Montgomery. INDEX AND GLOSSARY OF ALLUSIONS ABSOLUTE, Sir Anthony, a leading character in Sheridan's play of The Rivals A darker and fiercer spirit, Jonathan Swift, the great Tory writer (1667-1745) Agbarus or Abgarus, the alleged author of a spurious letter to Jesus Christ. Edessa is in Mesopotamia. Alboin, King of the Lombards, 561-573, he invaded Italy as far as the Tiber Alcina, the personification of carnal pleasure in the Orlando Furioso Aldus, the famous Venetian printer (1447-1515), who issued the Aldine editions of the classics and invented italic type Alfieri, Italian dramatist, and one of the pioneers of the revolt against eighteenth-century literary and society models (1749- 1803) Algarotti, Francesco, a litterateur, friend of Voltaire. Frederic made him a count (1764) Alnaschar, see "The History of the Barber's Fifth Brother," in the Arabian Nights Alva, Duke of, the infamous governor of the Netherlands (1508- 82) Amadeus, Victor, "the faithless ruler of Savoy," who for a bribe deserted Austria, whose troops he was commander-in chief of for France, in 1692 Arbuthnot, Dr., author of the History of John Bull, friend of Swift and Pope (1679-1735) Arminius, a German who, as a hostage, entered the Roman army, but afterwards revolted and led his countrymen against Rome (d. 23 A.D.) Armorica, France between the Seine and the Loire, Brittany Artevelde, Von., Jacob v. A. and Philip, his son, led the people of Flanders in their revolt against Count Louis and his French supporters (fourteenth century) Ascham, Roger, and Aylmer, John, tutors of Queen Elizabeth and Lady Jane Grey respectively Athalie, Saul, Cinna, dramas by Racine Alfieri, and Corneille respectively Atticus, Sporus, i.e. Addison and Lord John Hervey, satirized in Pope's Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot Attila, King of the Huns, the "Scourge of God" who overran the Roman Empire but was finally beaten by the allied Goths and Romans (d. 453) Aubrey, John, an eminent antiquary who lost a number of inherited estates by lawsuits and bad management (1624-97) BADAJOZ and St. Sebastian, towns in Spain captured from the French during the Peninsular War Bastiani, was at first one of the big Potsdam grenadiers; Frederic made him Abbot of Silesia Bayes, Miss, with reference to the name used in The Rehearsal, by George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, to satirize Dryden, the poet-laureate Bayle, Pierre, author of the famous Dictionnaire Historique et Critique; professor of philosophy at Padua and at Rotterdam (1647-1706) Beauclerk, Topham, Johnson's friend, "the chivalrous T. B., with his sharp wit and gallant, courtly ways" (Carlyle), (1739-80) Beaumarchais, see Carlyle's French Revolution. As a comic dramatist he ranks second only to Moliere. He supported the Revolution with his money and his versatile powers of speech and writing. He edited an edition de luxe of Voltaire's works (1732- 99) Behn, Afra, the licentious novelist and mistress of Charles 11. (1640-89), who, as a spy in Holland, discovered the Dutch plans for burning the Thames shipping Belle-Isle, French marshal; fought in the Austrian campaign of 1740 and repelled the Austrian invasion of 1744 (d. 1761) Beloe William, a miscellaneous writer, whose version of Herodotus, so far from being flat, is, while "infinitely below the modern standard in point of accuracy, much above modern performance in point of readableness" (Dr. Garnett), (1756-1817) Bender, 80 miles N.W. from Odessa, in S. Russia Bentley, Richard, master of Trinity College, Cambridge, and an eminent philologist (1662-1742) Bettesworth, an Irishman, lampooned in Swift's Miscellanies Betty Careless, one of Macaulay's inventions which sufficiently explains itself Betty, Master, a boy-actor, known as the Infant Roscius. Having acquired a fortune he lived in retirement (1791-1874) Black Frank, Johnson's negro servant, Frank Barber Blackmore, Sir Richard, a wordy poetaster (d. 1729), who was the butt of all contemporary wits Blair, Dr. Hugh, Scotch divine an critic, encouraged Macpherson to publish the Ossian poetry (1718-1800) Blatant cast, the, does not really die. See the end of Faery Queen vi. Bobadil and Beseus, Pistol and Parolles, braggart characters in Jonson's Every Man in His Humour, Beaumont and Fletcher's King and no King, Shakespeare's Henry V., and All's Well that Ends Well, respectively Boileau, Nicholas, the great French critic, whose Art of Poetry long constituted the canons of French and English literary art (1636-1711) Bolt Court, on the N. side of Fleet Street. Johnson lived at No. 8 from 1777 till his death in 1784 Borodino, 70 miles west from Moscow, where the Russians made a stand against Napoleon, 1812 Boscan, a Spanish imitator of Petrarch Alva's tutor; served in Italy (1485-1533) Bourne, Vincent, an usher at Westminster School, mentioned early in the "Essay on Warren Hastings," Boyle, Hon. Charles, edited the Letters of Phalaris which gave rise to the famous controversy with Bentley, for which, see the essay on Sir William Temple (vol. iii. of this edition) Bradamante, in Ariosto's Orlando Furioso, a Christian lady who loves the Saracen knight, Ruggiero Brothers, Richard, a fanatic who held that the English were the lost ten tribes of Israel (1757-1824) Brownrigg, Mrs., executed at Tyburn (1767) for abusing and murdering her apprentices Bruhl, Count, the favourite of Augustus III. of Saxony who enriched himself at the risk of ruining his master and his country. Bucer, Martin, a German reformer who mediated between Luther and Zwingli, and became Professor of Divinity at Cambridge (1491~1551) Buchanan, George, Scottish scholar and humanist; tutor to Mary Queen of Scots and James VI. (1506-82) Burn, Richard, an English vicar compiled several law digests among them the Justice of the Peace, (1709-85) Burnet, Gilbert, bishop of Salisbury, supported the claims of William of Orange to the English throne, and wrote the History of my Own Times (1643-1715) Button's, on the south side of Russell Street, Covert Garden succeeded Will's as the wits' resort Butts, Dr. physician-in-ordinary to Henry VIII. (d. 1545) and one of the characters in Shakespeare's Henry VIII. CACUS, the mythological giant who stole the oxen of Hercules Camaldoli, Order of, founded by St. Romauld, a Benedictine (eleventh century) in the Vale of Camaldoli among the Tuscan Apennines Cambray, Confederates of, the pope, the emperor. France and Spain who by the League of Cambray combined to attack Venice Campbell, Dr. John, a miscellaneous political and historical writer (1708~75) Capreae, or Capri, a small island nineteen miles south from Naples, the favourite residence of Augustus and Tiberius, and the scene of the latter's licentious orgies Capuchins, a branch of the monastic order of the Franciscans Carlile, Richard, a disciple of Tom Paine's who was repeatedly imprisoned for his radicalism. He worked especially for the freedom of the Press (1790-1843) Carter, Mrs., a distinguished linguist and translator of Epictetus Casaubon, Isaac, Professor of Greek at Geneva Curator of the Royal Library at Paris, Prebendary of Canterbury: a famous sixteenth-century scholar (1559-1614), Catinat, French marshal in charge of the 1701 Italian campaign against Marlborough's ally, Prince Eugene of Savoy Cave, Edward, printer, editor, publisher, and proprietor of the Gentleman's Magazine (1691-1754) Chatelet, Madame du, Voltaire's mistress, c 1733-47 (d. 1749) Chaulieu, Guillaume, a witty but negligent poetaster (1639-1720) Chaumette, Pierre, a violent extremist in the French Revolution who provoked even Robespierre's disgust; guillotined, 1794 Childs, the clergy coffee-house in St. Paul's. St. James's (ib.) in the street of that name, was the resort of beaux and statesmen and a notorious gambling house Chillingworth, William, an able English controversial divine; suffered at the hands of the Puritans as an adherent of Charles I. (1602-43) Churchill, Charles, a clergyman and satirical Poet who attacked Johnson in The Ghost (1731-64) Clootz, a French Revolutionary and one of the founders of the "Worship of Reason:" guillotined 1794 Colburn, (Zerah), b. at Vermont, U.S.A., in 1804, and noted in youth for his extraordinary powers of calculation (d. 1840) Coligni, Gaspard de, French admiral and leader of the Huguenots; massacred on St. Bartholomew's Eve, 1572 Colle, Charles, dramatist and song-writer (d. 1777); young Crebillon (d. 1777) wrote fiction Condorcet, a French Marquis (1743-94) of moderate Revolutionary tendencies, who fell a victim to the Extremists He wrote extensively and clearly, but without genius Constituent Assembly, the National Assembly of France from 1789 to 1792 Corderius, a famous sixteenth-century teacher--Calvin was a pupil of his--in France and Switzerland (d. 1564) who published several school-books Cortes, conqueror of Mexico (1485-1547); the Spanish Parliament Cotta, Caius, a famous Roman orator, partly contemporary with Cicero, who mentions him with honour Courland, a province on the Baltic once belonging to Poland since 1795 to Russia Coventry, Solicitor-General of England in 1616, Attorney-General in 1620 and Lord Keeper in 1625 Cradock, Joseph, a versatile writer and actor whose rambling Literary and Miscellaneous Memoirs contain several anecdotes of Johnson and his circle (1742-1826) Curll and Osborne, two notorious booksellers who owe their immortality to Pope's Dunciad Curtius, the noble Roman youth who leaped into the chasm in the Forum and so closed it by the sacrifice of Rome's most precious possession--a good citizen DACIER, Andrew, a French scholar who edited the "Delphin" edition of the classics for the Dauphin, and translated many of them (1651-1722) Dangerfield, Thomas, Popish plot discoverer and false witness (1650?-1685) Davies, Tom, the actor-bookseller who wrote the Memoirs of David Garrick, and was one of Johnson's circle (1712-85). "The famous dogma of the old physiologists" is "corruptio unius generatio est alterius" (Notes and Queries, Ser. 8, vol. ix., p. 56) Davila, a famous French soldier and historian who served under Henry of Navarre; wrote the famous History of the Civil War in France (1576-1631) Della Crusca, the signature of Robert Merry (1755-98), the leader of a mutual-admiration band of poetasters, who had their head- quarters at Florence, and hence called themselves the Della Cruscans. Gifford (q.v.) pulverised them in his Baviad and Merviad Dentatus, the old-type Roman who, after many victories and taking immense booty, retired to a small farm which he himself tilled Desfontaines, a Jesuit who put out a pirated edition of Voltaire's La Ligue Dessaix, a distinguished, upright, and chivalrous French general under Napoleon, who fell at Marengo (1800) Diafoirus, the name of two pedantic characters in Moliere's Malade Imaginaire Diatessaron, a harmony of the gospels, the earliest example being that compiled by Tatian c.170 A.D. Digby, Lord, one of the Royalist leaders and a typical Cavalier Diodorus author of a universal history of which fifteen books still remain (50 B.C.-13 A.D.) Distressed Mother, by Ambrose Phillipps, modelled on Racine's Andromaque Domdaniel, a hall under the roots of the ocean, where gnomes magicians, and evil spirits hold council (see Southey's Thalaba) Domenichino, a celebrated Italian painter of sacred subjects; persecuted and possibly poisoned by his rivals (1581-1641) Douw, Gerard, distinguished Dutch painter, one of Rembrandt's pupils; his works are famed for their perfect finish and delicacy (1613-75) Dubois, Guillaume, cardinal and prime minister of France, noted for his ability and his debauchery (1656-1723) D'Urfey, Tom, a facetious comedian and song-writer, favoured by Charles II. Known for his collection of sonnets, Pills to Purge Melancholy (1628-1703) ECLIPSE, a famous chestnut race-horse who between 3rd May, 1769 and 4th October, 1770, had a most successful record Encyclopaedia, the famous work which, edited by D'Alembert and Diderot, and contributed to by the most eminent savants of France, was issued 1751-77, and contributed not a little to fan the flame of Revolution. The Philosophical Dictionary was a similar production Essex, Queen Elizabeth's favourite courtier who took Cadiz in 1596 Euphelia and Rhodoclea...Comelia...Tranquilla, signatures to letters in the Rambler (Nos. 42, 46; 62; 51; 10,119) Exons, i. e. "Exempts of the Guards," "officers who commanded when the lieutenant or ensign was absent, and who had charge of the night watch," Eylau, 20 miles south from Konigsberg victory of Napoleon, 1807 FAIRFAX, Edward, one of the "improvers" of English versification. Translated Tasso in the same stanzas as the original, and wrote on Demonology (d. c. 1632) Farnese, Alexander, Duke of Parma, Governor of the Netherlands under Philip II. and the first commander of his age Faunus, grandson of Saturn and god of fields and shepherds, later identified with the Greek Pan Faustina, Empress, (i) wife of Antoninus Pius; (ii) daughter of (i) and wife of Marcus Aurelius. Both were equally licentious Favorinus, a rhetorician and sophist, who flourished in Gaul, c. 125 A.D. Felton, John, who assassinated the Duke of Buckingham in 1628 Ferguson, Sir Adam, M.P. for Ayrshire, 1774-80 Filmer, Sir Robert, advocated the doctrine of absolute regal power in his Patriarcha, 1680, Flecknoe and Settle, synonyms for vileness in poetry (cp. Moevius and Bairus among the Romans). Flecknoe was an Irish priest who printed a host of worthless matter. Settle was a playwright, who degenerated into a "city-poet and a puppet-show" keeper; both were satirized by Dryden Fleury, French cardinal and statesman, tutor and adviser of Louis XV. (1653-1743) Florimel. (see Spenser's Faery Queen, books iii. and iv.) Fox, George, and Naylor, James, contemporaries of Bunyan, and early leaders of the Society of Friends or "Quakers," Fracastorius, Italian philosopher, mathematician, and poet ranked by Scaliger as next to Virgil Fraguier, Pere, an eminent man of letters, sometime a Jesuit. An elegant Latin versifier, especially on philosophical themes (1666-1728) Franc de Pompignan, Advocate-General of France, an Academician and an opponent of Encyclopaedists, in consequence of which Voltaire lampooned him (1709-84) Franche Comte, that part of France which lies south of Lorraine and west of Switzerland Freron, took sides with the Church against the attacks of Voltaire; had some reputation as a critic (d. 1776) GALLIENUS and Honorius, late Roman emperors who suffered from barbaric invasions Galt, John Scotch custom-house officer and novelist, wrote The Ayrshire Legatees, The Provost, Sir Andrew Wylie, etc. Galway, Lord (Macaulay is not quite so severe on him in his History of England) Ganganelli, who as Clement XIV. held the papacy, 1769-74, and suppressed the Jesuits George of Trebizond, a celebrated humanist (1396-1486), professor of Greek at Venice in 1428 and papal secretary at Rome, C. 1450 Gibby, Sir, Sir Gilbert Heathcote Gifford, editor of the Anti-Jacobin and afterwards of the Quarterly Review, in which he attacked Wordsworth, Shelley, and Keats. His satires, the Baviad and the Maviad, had some reputation in their day (1757-1826) Gilpin, Rev. Joshua G., rector of Wrockwardine, whose new and corrected edition of the Pilgrim's Progress appeared in 1811 Godfrey of Bouillon, a leader of the First Crusade; he took Jerusalem in 1099 Goldoni, "the founder of Italian Comedy" (1707-93), whose pieces supplanted the older Italian farces and burlesques Gondomar, Count of, the Spanish ambassador at the court of James I. who ruined Raleigh, and negotiated the proposed marriage of Charles I. with the Infanta Gonsalvo de Cordova, the great captain who took Granada from the Moors, Zante from the Turks, and Naples from the French (1443- 1515) Grecian, the, the resort of the learned in Devereux Street Strand Grotius, a celebrated Dutch scholar, equally famed for his knowledge of theology, history, and law (d. 1645) Gwynn, Nell, an orange girl who became mistress of Charles II. and the ancestress of the Dukes of St. Albans HAILES, Lord, David Dalrymple, author of the Annals of Scotland (1726-92) Hale, Sir Matthew, Chief Justice of the King's Bench under Charles II, and author of several religious and moral works Halford, Sir Henry, one of the leading physicians in Macaulay's day (1766-1844) Hamilton, Gerard, M.P. for Petersfield, and of a somewhat despicable character. The nickname was "Single-speech Hamilton," Harpagon, the miser in Moliere's L'Avare Hawkins, Sir John. a club companion of Johnson's (d. 1780), whose Life and Works of Johnson (II vols., 1787-89) was a careless piece of work, soon superseded by Boswell's Hayley, William, Cowper's friend and biographer (1745-1820). Byron ridiculed his Triumphs of Temper and Triumphs of Music, and Southey said everything was good about him except his poetry Henriade, Voltaire's La Ligue, ou Henri le Grand Hierocles, a neo-Platonic philosopher (c. 450 A.D.), who after long labour collected a book of twenty-eight jests, a translation of which (Gentleman's Magazine, 1741) has been attributed to Johnson Hill, Aaron, playwright, stage-manager, and projector of bubble schemes (1685-1750). See Pope's Dunciad, ii. 295 ff. Hippocrene, "the fountain of the Muses, formed by the hoof of Pegasus" Holbach, Baron, a French "philosophe" who entertained at his hospitable board in Paris all the Encyclopaedia (q.v.) writers; a materialist, but a philanthropist (1723-89) Holofernes, the pedantic school-master in Love's Labour 's Last Home, John, a minister of the Scottish Church (1724-1808), whose tragedy of Douglas was produced in Edinburgh in 1756 Hoole, John, a clerk in the India House, who worked at translations, e.g. of Tasso and Ariosto, and original literature in his spare hours Hotel of Rambouillet, the intellectual salon which centred round the Italian Marquise de R.(1588-1665), and degenerated into the pedantry which Moliere satirized in Les Preceiuses Ridicules Hughes, John, a poet and essayist, who contributed frequently to the Tatler, and Guardian (1677-1720) Hume, Mr. Joseph, English politician, reformer, and philanthropist (1777-1855) Hurd, Richard, Bishop in succession of Lichfield, Coventry, and Worcester; edited in 1798 with fulsome praise the works of his fellow bishop Warburton of Gloucester Hutchinson, Mrs., wife of Colonel Hutchinson, the governor of Nottingham Castle in the Civil War, whose Memoirs (published 1806) she wrote Hutten, Ulrich von, German humanist and reformer (1488-1523) IMLAC (see Johnson's Rasselas, Ch. viii xii.) Ireland's Vortigern, a play represented by W. H. Ireland as Shakespeare's autograph; failed when Sheridan produced it in 1796, and afterwards admitted a forgery Ivimey, Mr., Baptist divine and historian of the early nineteenth century, who compiled a life of Bunyan JANSENIAN CONTROVERSY, arose early in the seventeenth century over the Augustinian principle of the sovereign and the irresistible nature of divine grace, denied by the Jesuits. In connection with this controversy Pascal wrote his Provincial Letters Jeanie Deans (see Scott's The Heart Of Midlothian) Jedwood justice; the little town of Jedburgh was prominent in border-warfare, and its justice was proverbially summary, the execution of the accused usually preceding his trial Jonathan's and Garraway's, Coffee-houses in Cornhill and Exchange Alley respectively, specially resorted to by brokers and merchants Jortin, John, an eminent and scholarly divine, who wrote on the Truth, Christian Religion and on History (1698-1770) Julius, the second pope (1502-13) of that name, whose military zeal outran his priestly inclination. He fought against the Venetians, and the French Justiza, M Mayor, "a magistrate appointed by King and the Cortes who acted as mediator between the King and the people." Philip II. abolished the office) KENRICK, William, a hack writer, who in the Monthly Review in 1765, attacked Johnson's Shakespeare with "a certain coarse smartness" (1725?-79) Kitcat Club, founded c. 1700 by thirty-nine Hanoverian statesmen and authors on the basis of an earlier society (see Spectator No. 9) LA BRUYERE, John de, tutor to the Duke of Burgundy and a member of the Academy; author of Characters after the manner of Theophrastus (1644~96) La Clos, author of Liaisons Dangereuses, a masterpiece of immorality (1741-1803) Lambert, Daniel, weighed 739 lbs., and measured 3 yds. 4 ins. round the waist (1770-1809) Langton, Bennet, a classical scholar and contributor to The Idler. Entered Johnson's circle in 1752 (1737-1801) League of Cambray, the union in 1508 of Austria, France, Spain and the Papacy against Venice League of Pilnitz, between Austria, Prussia, and others (1791) for the restoration of Louis XVI. Lee, Nathaniel, a play-writer who helped Dryden in his Duke of Guise (1655-92) Leman Lake, Lake of Geneva Lope de Vega, Spain's greatest, and the world's most prolific dramatist. Secretary to the Inquisition (1562-1635) Lunsford, a notorious bully and profligate; a specimen of the worst type of the royalist captains MACLEOD, Colonel (see Tour to the Hebrides, Sept. 23) Mainwaring, Arthur, editor of the Medley, and Whig pamphleteer (1668-1712) Malbranche, Nicholas, tried to adopt and explain the philosophy of Descartes in the interests of theology (d. 1715) Mallet, David, a literary adventurer who collaborated with Thomson in writing the masque Alfred in which the song "Rule Britannia" was produced (1703-65) Malone, Edmund, an eminent Shakesperian scholar, who also wrote a Life of Reynolds and a Life of Dryden (1741-1812) Manfred, King of the Two Sicilies who struggled for his birthright against three popes, who excommunicated him and gave his kingdom to Charles of Anjou, fighting against whom he fell in 1266 Manichees, the sect founded by Mani (who declared himself to be the Paraclete) which held a blend of Magian, Buddhist, and Christian principles Manlius, the Roman hero who in B.C. 390 saved Rome from the Gauls, and who was later put to death on a charge of treason Marat, Jean Paul, a fanatical democrat whose one fixed idea was wholesale slaughter of the aristocracy; assassinated by Charlotte Corday (1743-93) Markland, Jeremiah a famous classical scholar and critic (1693- 1776) Marli, a royal (now presidential) country-house ten miles west from Paris Marsilio Ficino, an eminent Italian Platonist, noted for his purity of life and for his aid to the Renaissance (1433-99) Mason William, friend and biographer of Gray; wrote Caractacus and some odes (1725-97) Massillon, Jean Baptiste, famous French preacher, Bishop of Clermont, a master of style and persuasive eloquence. (1663- 1742) Master of the Sentences, Peter Lombard, a disciple of Abelard and one of the most famous of the "Schoolmen" of the twelfth century Maximin, surnamed Thrax--"the Tracian." Roman Emperor, 235-38. His cruel tyranny led to a revolt in which he was murdered by his own soldiers Meillerie, on the Lake of Geneva, immortalised by J. J. Rousseau Merovingians, a dynasty of Frankish kings in the sixth and seventh centuries A.D. Metastasio, Pietro Trapassi, an Italian poet (1698-1782) Mina, a famous guerilla chief in the Peninsular war, and (in 1834) against Don Carlo (1781-1834). Empecinado (="covered with pitch") a nick-name given to Juan Matin Diaz, an early comrade of Mina Mirabel and Millamont, the Benedick and Beatrice of Beaumont and Fletcher's Wildgoose Chase Mithridates, king of Pontus (B.C. 120-63), famous for his struggle against Rome, and the general vigour and ability of his intellect Moliere's doctors (see L'Amour Medecin (II. iii.), Le Malade Imaginaire, and Le Medicin malgre lui) Mompesson, Sir Giles, one of the Commissioners for the granting of monopoly licenses Monks and Giants, "These stanzas are from a poem by Hookham Frere, really entitled Prospectus and specimen of an inteneded national Work . . . relating to King Arthur and his Round Table," Monmouth Street, now called Dudley Street Morgante Maggiore, a serio-comic romance in verse, by Pulci of Florence (1494) Morone, an Italian cardinal and diplomatist (1509-80) Murillo, Spain's greatest painter (1618-82) Murphy, Arthur, an actor-author, who, besides writing some plays, edited Fielding, and published an Essay on the Life and Genius of Samuel Johnson (1727-1815) Murray, Lindley, the Pennsylvania grammarian (1745-1826), who settled near York, and there produced his Grammar of the English Language NARSES the Roman general (d. 573) who drove the Goths out of Rome. In his youth he had been a slave Nephelococcygia, i.e. "Cuckoo town in the cloud"--a fictitious city referred to in the Birds of Aristophanes, Newdigate and Seatonian poetry, verse written in competition for prizes founded by Sir R..Newdigate and Rev. Thos. Seaton at Oxford and Cambridge respectively, Dodsley (ib.) was an honest publisher and author who brought out Poems by Several Hands in 1748, Nugent, Dr., one of the original members and a regular attendant at the meetings of the Literary Club OCTOBER CLUB, a High Church Tory Club of Queen Anne's time, which met at the Bell Tavern, Westminster o Daphnis K. T. L., "Daphnis went into the waters; the eddies swirled over the man whom the Muses loved and the nymphs held dear" (Theocritus, Idylls, i.). An allusion to Shelley's death Odoacer, a Hun, who became emperor, and was assassinated by his colleague Theodoric the Ostrogoth in 493 Oldmixon, John, a dull and insipid historian (1673-1742), roughly handled by Pope in the Dunciad (ii. 283) Orlando Furioso, Ariosto's (1471-1533) great poem of chivalry suggested by the Orlando Innamorato of Boiardo (c. 1430-94). Alcina is a kind of Circe in the Orlando Furioso Ortiz, eighteenth-century historian, author of Compendio de la Historia de Espana Osborn, John, a notorious bookseller who "sweated" Pope and Johnson among other authors (d. 1767) Otho, Roman emperor (69 A.D.) The only brass coins bearing his name were struck in the provinces, and are very rare PADALON, the Hindu abode of departed Spirits Paestum, ancient Posidonia, mod. Pesto, 22 miles S.E. from Salerno, 471 Pantheon, a circular temple in Rome, erected by Agrippa, son-in- law of Augustus, and dedicated to the gods in general: now a church and place of burial for the illustrious Italian dead Paoli, the Corsican general (1796-1807) who, failing against the might of France, made his home in England, and was chaperoned by Boswell Parnell, Thomas, Archdeacon of Clogher, satirist and translator. He was a sweet and easy poet with a high moral tone; friend of Addison and Swift (1679-1718) Parson Barnabas, Parson Trulliber (see Fielding's Joseph Andrews) Pasquin, Antony, a fifteenth-century Italian tailor, noted for his caustic wit Paulician Theology originated in Armenia, and flourished c.660- 970 A.D. Besides certain Manichee elements it denied the deity of Jesus and abjured Mariolatry and the sacraments Pescara, Marquis of, an Italian general who betrayed to the emperor, Charles V., the plot of Francesco Sforza for driving the Spaniards and Germans out of Italy Peter Martyr, a name borne by three personages. The reference here is to the Italian Protestant reformer who made his home successively in Switzerland, England, Strasburg, and Zurich (d. 1562) Phidias, Athens's greatest sculptor. A contemporary of Pericles (d. 432 B. C.) Philips, John, best remembered by The Splendid Shilling, a good burlesque in imitation of Milton (1676-1708) Pilpay, the Indian Aesop. For the pedigree of the Pilpay literature, see Jacobs: Fables of Bidpai (1888), 641 Pisistratus and Gelon, two able Grecian tyrants who ruled beneficially at Athens (541-527 B.C.), and at Syracuse (484-473 B.C.), respectively Pococurante, one who cares little and knows less: a dabbler Porridge Island, the slang name of an alley near St. Martin's-in- the-Fields, which was pulled down c. 1830 Politian, a distinguished poet and scholar in the time of the Italian Renaissance; professor of Greek and Latin at Florence (1454-94) Pompadour, Madame de, mistress of Louis XV., and virtually ruler of France from 1745 till her death in 1764 Prior, Matthew, a wit and poet of the early eighteenth century whose lyrics were pronounced by Thackeray to be "amongst the easiest, the richest, the most charmingly humorous" in the English language, Pudding, Jack, a clown who swallows black puddings, etc. Cp. Germ. Hans Worst, Fr. Jean-potage Pulci, a Florentine poet (noted for his humorous Sonnets), and friend of Lorenzo de' Medici (1432-84) Pye--the immediate--Cibber--more remote--predecessor of Southey in the Laureateship Pyrgopolynices, a braggart character in Plautus's Miles Gloriosus Pyrrho, "the father of the Greek sceptics," contemporary with Aristotle. Like, Carneades (ib.), he denied that there was any criterion of certainty in the natural or the moral world QUEDLINBURGH, an old town in Saxony at the foot of the Harz, long a favourite residence of the mediaeval emperors RALPHO, the clerk and squire of Hudibras in Samuel Butler's satire of that name Rambouillet, the marchioness of this name was a wealthy patron of art and literature, and gathered round her a select salon of intellectual people, which degenerated into pedantry, was ridiculed, and dissolved at her death in 1665 Ramus, Peter French, philosopher and humanist; attacked Aristotle and Scholasticism; massacred on the eve of St, Bartholomew, 1572 Rehearsal, The, a burlesque based on Beaumont's Knight of the Burning Pestle, produced in 1671 by George Clifford, Duke of Buckingham, and Samuel Butler Relapse, a comedy by Sir John Vanbrugh (d. 1726), who also achieved some distinction as a soldier and an architect Richard Roe, nominal defendant in ejectment suits. CP. the "M. Or N." of the Prayer-Book Richelieu . . Torcy, Richelieu and Mazarin were cardinals and statesmen in the seventeenth century, whose power exceeded that of the king; Colbert Louvis, and Torcy were influential and able men of the same time, but dependent upon the royal pleasure Robertson, William, wrote History of Scotland, History of the Reign of Charles V., etc. A friend of Hume's (1721-93) Rochelle and Auvergne, head-quarters of the Huguenots Rowe, Nicholas, dramatist and poet laureate (1715), editor of a monumental edition of Shakespeare Rymer, Thomas, Historiographer-royal, and the compiler Of Foedera--a collection of historical documents concerning the relations of England and foreign powers (1639-1714) Ryswick, Peace Of, by this treaty (in 1697) Louis XIV. recognised William as King of England, and yielded certain towns to Spain and the Empire SALVATOR ROSA, a Neapolitan author and artist (1615-73); "the initiator of romantic landscape," Satirist . . . Age, small, libellous, and short-lived weekly papers in the year 1838 Saxe, led the invading Austrian army into Bohemia, and afterward became a marshal of the French army, defeating the Duke of Cumberland at Fontenoy, 1745 Scamander, a river of Troas, in Asia Minor Scapin, the title-character of one of Moliere's comedies; a knavish valet who fools his master Scott, Michael, a twelfth-century sage who gained a large reputation as a wizard and magician Scriblerus Club a literary coterie, founded in 1714, which had only a short life, but produced Swift's Gulliver Scroggs, Chief-justice in 1678--the year of Titus Oates and the "Popish Plot." A worthy successor to Jeffreys Scudert, George de, French poet and novelist (1601-67) Scudery, Madeleine, a woman of good qualities, but as a novelist exceedingly tedious (1607-1701) Scythians, i. e. Russians. Scythia proper is the steppe-land between the Carpathian Mountains and the river Don in South-East Russia Seged (see The Rambler, Nos. 204, 205) Shafton, Sir Piercie (see Scott's The Monastery) Shaw, prize-fighter of immense strength and size, who enlisted in the Life Guards, and was killed at Waterloo Sieyes, Abbe, one of the leaders of the Revolution, who retired on discovering that his colleagues were using him for their own end (d. 1836) Simond, M. (the reference is to his Journal of a Tour and Residence in Great Britain during the years 1810 and 1811, PP. 48-50) Simonides, lived at Athens and Syracuse, and besides being a philosopher, was one of Greece's most famous lyric poets (556-467 B.C.), Smalridge, George, one of Queen Anne's chaplains, and a good preacher; became Bishop of Bristol in 1714 (d. 1719) Sobiesky, John, King of Poland, who defended his country against Russians and Turks. In 1683 he fought a Turkish army which was besieging Vienna, and so delivered that city Solis, Antonio de, dramatist and historian (Conquest of Mexico) (1610-86) Somers, the counsel for the Seven Bishops, 1688. He filled many high legal offices, and from 1708 to 1710 was President of the Council Southcote, Joanna, a Methodist "prophetess" who, suffering from religious mania, gave herself out to be the woman of Revelation ch. xii., and sold passports to heaven which she called "seals" (1750-1814) Spectator (the reference is to No. 7) Spinola, Spanish marquis and general who served his country with all his genius for naught (1571-1630) Squire Sullen (see Farquhar's The Beaux Stratagem) Squire Western, the genial fox-hunting Squire of Fielding's Tom Jones Statius, a Latin poet (61-96 A.D.), author of the Thebais, who lived at the Court of Domitian Steenkirk, a neckcloth of black silk, said to have been first worn at the battle of Steenkirk, 1692 Stepney, George, a smart but somewhat licentious minor poet who translated Juvenal (1663-1707) Sternholds, metrical translators of the Psalms, so called from Thomas Sternhold, whose version of 1562 held the field for 200 years St James's, the London residence of the Georges; Leicester Square, the residence of the Princes of Wales Stowell, Lord, Advocate-General, judge of the High Court of Admiralty, etc., etc., the greatest English authority on International Law (1745-1836) Strahan, Dr., vicar of Islington and friend of Johnson, whose Prayers and Meditations he edited Streatham Park, the home of the Thrales. At St. John's Gate in Clerkenwell, the Gentleman's Magazine was long printed Simon, Duc de, ambassador to Spain and the writer of amusing and Valuable memoirs. An uncompromising aristocrat Sweden gained Western Pomerania Swerga, the Hindu Olympus an the summit of Mount Meru TAMERLANE, the great Asiatic conqueror (1336-1405), whose empire reached from the Levant to the Ganges Tanais, the river Don in Eastern Russia Tate, Nahum, succeeded Shadwell in 1690 as poet-laureate; mainly remembered by his collaboration with Nicholas Brady in a metrical version of the Psalms Telemachus, the son of Ulysses, whose search for his father was only successful when he returned home. Fenelon, the great French divine (1651-1715), wrote of his adventures Thales, flourished c. 600 B.C., and held that water was the primal and universal principle, Thalia, the muse of Comedy and one of the three Graces Theobalds, a Hertfordshire hamlet where James I. had a beautiful residence, originally built by Burleigh Thiebault, Professor of Grammar at Frederic's military school Thirlby, Styan, Fellow of Jesus Colleges Cambridge. He edited Justin Martyr's Works and contributed to Theobald's Shakespeare with acumen and ingenuity (c. 1692-1753) Thraso, a braggart captain in Terence's Eunuch Three Bishoprics, those of Lorraine, Metz, and Verdun taken from the Germans by Henry II. of France in 1554 and recovered in 1871 Thundering Legion, the Roman legion which overcame Marcomanni in 179 A.D., their extreme thirst having been relieved by a thunderstorm sent in answer to the prayers of Christian soldiers in its ranks Thurtell, John, a notorious boxer and gambler (b. 1794) who was hanged at Hertford on Jan. 9, 1824, for the brutal murder of William Weare, one of his boon companions Tickell, Thomas, a politician, minor poet, and occasional contributor to the Spectator and the Guardian (1686-1740) Tillotson, John Robert. Trained as a Puritan, he conformed to the Episcopal Church at the Restoration and ultimately became Archbishop of Canterbury a man of tolerant and moderate views like Baxter and Burnet, and unlike Collier Tilly, Johann Tserklaes, Count of, the great Catholic general of the Thirty Years War; mortally wounded at Rain in 1632 Tiresias, in Greek mythology a soothsayer on whom Zeus conferred the gift of prophecy in compensation for the blindness with which Athens had struck him Treatise on the Bathos, "The Art of Sinking in Poetry," a work projected by Arbuthnot, Swift, and Pope, and mainly written by the last-named Treaty of the Pyrenees, between France and Spain, 1659 Trissotin, simpering literary dabbler in Moliere's Les Femmes Savantes Turgot, a French statesman 727-81) who held the doctrines of the philosophe party and was for nearly two years manager of the national finances under Louis XVI. Two Sicilies, the kingdoms of Sicily and Naples Tyers, Tom, author of a Biographical Sketch of Doctor Johnson. It was a remark of Johnson's that Tyers described him the best VAUCLUSE, a village in S.E. France, twenty miles from Avignon where Petrarch lived for sixteen years Verres, the Roman governor of Sicily (73-71 B.C.), for plundering which island he was brought to trial and prosecuted by Cicero Vico, John Baptist, Professor of Rhetoric at Naples and author of Principles of a New Science, a work on the philosophy of history (d. 1744) Victor Amadeus of Savoy, soldier and statesman (1655-1732) His sons-in-law were Philip V. and the Duke of Burgundy Vida, an Italian Latin poet (c. 1480-1566) Vida et Sannazar, eminent modern Latin poets of the early sixteenth century Villars, Louis, Duc de, French marshal, defeated at Ramillies and Malplaquet (d. 1734), Vinegar Bible, published at Oxford in; 1717; in it the headline of Luke xx. reads "vinegar," an error for "vineyard," Vision of Theodore, set Johnson's Miscellaneous Works (for the "Genealogy of Wit," see Special", NO. 35; for the "Contest between Rest and Labour," Rambler, No. 33) Vitruvius, contemporary with Julius Caesar and author of a famous work on Architecture Vossius, Gerard, Dutch philologist and friend of Grotius; the historian of Pelagianism (1577-1649) WARBURTON, William, Bishop of Gloucester, friend of Pope, and author of the Divine Legation of Moses and other theological and legal works (1698-1779) Wild, Jonathan, a detective who turned villain and was executed for burglary in 1725; the hero of one of Fielding's stories Williams, Archbishop of York (and opponent of Laud) in the time of Charles I.; Vernon, Archbishop of York, 1807. The tenure of the See of York seems to be the only parallel Williams, Sir Charles Hanbury, Ambassador to Berlin (1746-49). His satires against Walpole's opponents are easy and humorous (d. 1759) Will's. See Button's Windham, Rt. Hon. William, Secretary of War under Pitt and again in 1806. In his Diary is an account of Johnson's last days (1750- 1810) Windsor, poor Knights of, a body of military pensioners who reside within the precincts of Windsor Castle Witwould, Sir Wilful. Set Congreve's The Way of the World Wronghead, Sir Francis, Vanbrugh and Cibber's The Provoked Husband XIMENES, Cardinal, statesman, and regent (1436-1517) ZADIG, the title-character of a novel by Voltaire, dealing with the fatalistic aspect of human life Zephon, the cherub sent with Ithuriel by Gabriel to find out the whereabouts of Satan after his flight from hell Zimri in Dryden's Absalom and Achitophel stands for the second Duke of Buckingham (for the original see 3 Kings xvi. 9)

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:30.620278

23330

Produced by David Widger ONE DAY AT ARLE By Frances Hodgson Burnett Copyright, 1877 One day at Arle--a tiny scattered fishing hamlet on the northwestern English coast--there stood at the door of one of the cottages near the shore a woman leaning against the lintel-post and looking out: a woman who would have been apt to attract a stranger's eye, too--a woman young and handsome. This was what a first glance would have taken in; a second would have been apt to teach more and leave a less pleasant impression. She was young enough to have been girlish, but she was not girlish in the least. Her tall, lithe, well-knit figure was braced against the door-post with a tense sort of strength; her handsome face was just at this time as dark and hard in expression as if she had been a woman with years of bitter life behind her; her handsome brows were knit, her lips were set; from head to foot she looked unyielding and stern of purpose. And neither form nor face belied her. The earliest remembrances of the coast people concerning Meg Lonas had not been over-pleasant ones. She had never been a favorite among them. The truth was they had half feared her, even as the silent, dogged, neglected child who used to wander up and down among the rocks and on the beach, working harder for her scant living than the oldest of them. She had never a word for them, and never satisfied their curiosity upon the subject of the treatment she received from the ill-conditioned old grandfather who was her only living relative, and this last peculiarity had rendered her more unpopular than anything else would have done. If she had answered their questions they might have pitied her; but as she chose to meet them with stubborn silence, they managed to show their dislike in many ways, until at last it became a settled point among them that the girl was an outcast in their midst. But even in those days she gave them back wrong for wrong and scorn for scorn; and as she grew older she grew stronger of will, less prone to forgive her many injuries and slights, and more prone to revenge them in an obstinate, bitter fashion. But as she grew older she grew handsomer too, and the fisher boys who had jeered at her in her childhood were anxious enough to gain her good-will. The women flouted her still, and she defied them openly; the men found it wisest to be humble in their rough style, and her defiance of them was more scornful than her defiance of their mothers and sisters. She would revenge herself upon them, and did, until at last she met a wooer who was tender enough, it seemed, to move her. At least so people said at first; but suddenly the lover disappeared, and two or three months later the whole community was electrified by her sudden marriage with a suitor whom she had been wont to treat worse than all the rest. How she treated him after the marriage nobody knew. She was more defiant and silent than ever, and gossipers gained nothing by asking questions. So at last she was left alone. It was not the face of a tender wife waiting for a loving husband, the face that was turned toward the sea. If she had hated the man for whom she watched she could not have seemed more unbending. Ever since her visitor had left her (she had had a visitor during the morning) she had stood in the same place, even in the same position, without moving, and when at last the figure of her husband came slouching across the sands homeward she remained motionless still. And surely his was not the face of a happy husband. Not a handsome face at its dull best, it was doubly unprepossessing then, as, pale and breathless, he passed the stern form in the doorway, his nervous, reluctant eyes avoiding hers. “Yo'll find yo're dinner aw ready on th' table,” she said to him as he passed in. Everything was neat enough inside. The fireplace was clean and bright, the table was set tidily, and the meal upon it was good enough in its way; but when the man entered he cast an unsteady, uncomprehending glance around, and when he had flung himself into a chair he did not attempt to touch the food, but dropped his face upon his arm on the table with a sound like a little groan. She must have heard it, but she did not notice it even by a turn of her head, but stood erect and steadfast until he spoke to her. She might have been waiting for his words--perhaps she was. “Tha canst come in an' say what tha has to say an' be done wi' it,” he said at last, in a sullen, worn-out fashion. She turned round then and faced him, harder to be met in her rigid mood than if she had been a tempest. “Tha knows what I ha' getten to say,” she answered, her tone strained and husky with repressed fierceness. “Aye! tha knows it well enough. I ha' not much need to tell thee owt. He comn here this morning an' he towd me aw I want to know about thee, Seth Lonas--an' more too.” “He comn to me,” put in the man. She advanced towards the table and struck it once with her hand. “Tha'st towd me a power o' lies,” she said. “Tha's lied to me fro' first to last to serve thy own eends, an' tha'st gained 'em--tha'st lied me away fro' th' man as wur aw th' world to me, but th' time's comn now when thy day's o'er an' his is comn agen. Ah! thou bitter villain! Does ta mind how tha comn an' towd me Dan Morgan had gone to th' fair at Lake wi' that lass o' Barnegats? That wur a lie an' that wur th' beginnin'. Does ta mind how tha towd me as he made light o' me when th' lads an' lasses plagued him, an' threeped 'em down as he didna mean to marry no such like lass as me--him as wur ready to dee fur me? That wur a lie an' that wur th' eendin', as tha knew it would be, fur I spurned him fro' me th' very next day, an' wouldna listen when he tried to straighten' out. But he got at th' truth at last when he wur fur fro' here, an' he browt th' truth back to me to-day, an' theer's th' eend fur thee--husband or no.” The man, lay with his head upon his arms until she had finished, and then he looked up all white and shaken and blind. “Wilt ta listen if I speak to thee?” he asked. “Aye,” she answered, “listen to more lies!” And she slipped down into a sitting posture on the stone door-step, and sat there, her great eyes staring out seaward, her hands lying loose upon her knee, and trembling. There was something more in her mood than resentment. In this simple gesture she had broken down as she had never broken down in her life before. There was passionate grief in her face, a wild sort of despair, such as one might see in a suddenly-wounded, untamed creature. Hers was not a fair nature. I am not telling the story of a gentle, true-souled woman--I am simply relating the incidents of one bitter day whose tragic close was the ending of a rough romance. Her life had been a long battle against the world's scorn; she had been either on the offensive or the defensive from childhood to womanhood, and then she had caught one glimpse of light and warmth, clung to it yearningly for one brief hour, and lost it. Only to-day she had learned that she had lost it through treachery. She had not dared to believe in her bliss, even during its fairest existence; and so, when light-hearted, handsome Dan Morgan's rival had worked against him with false stories and false proofs, her fierce pride had caught at them, and her revenge had been swift and sharp. But it had fallen back upon her own head now. This very morning handsome Dan had come back again to Arle, and earned his revenge, too, though he had only meant to clear himself when he told her what chance had brought to light. He had come back--her lover, the man who had conquered and sweetened her bitter nature as nothing else on earth had power to do--he had come back and found her what she was--the wife of a man for whom she had never cared, the wife of the man who had played them both false, and robbed her of the one poor gleam of joy she had known. She had been hard and wild enough at first, but just now, when she slipped down upon the door-step with her back turned to the wretched man within--when it came upon her that, traitor as he was, she herself had given him the right to take her bright-faced lover's place, and usurp his tender power--when the fresh sea-breeze blew upon her face and stirred her hair, and the warm, rare sunshine touched her, even breeze and sunshine helped her to the end, so that she broke down into a sharp sob, as any other woman might have done, only that the repressed strength of her poor warped nature made it a sob sharper and deeper than another woman's would have been. “Yo' mought ha' left me that!” she said. “Yo' mought ha' left it to me! There wur other women as would ha' done yo', there wur no other man on earth as would do me. Yo' knowed what my life had been, an' how it wur hand to hand betwixt other folk an' me. Yo' knowed how much I cared fur him an' what he wur to me. Yo' mought ha' let us be. I nivver harmed yo'. I wouldna harm yo' so sinful cruel now.” “Wilt ta listen?” he asked, laboring as if for breath. “Aye,” she answered him, “I'll listen, fur tha conna hurt me worser. Th' day fur that's past an' gone.” “Well,” said he, “listen an I'll try to tell yo'. I know it's no use, but I mun say a word or two. Happen yo' didna know I loved yo' aw' yore life--happen yo' didna, but it's true. When yo' wur a little lass gatherin' sea-weed on th' sands I watched yo' when I wur afeared to speak--afeared lest yo'd gi' me a sharp answer, fur yo' wur ready enow wi' 'em, wench. I've watched yo' fur hours when I wur a great lubberly lad, an' when yo' gettin' to be a woman it wur th' same thing. I watched yo' an' did yo' many a turn as yo' knowed nowt about. When yo' wur searchin' fur drift to keep up th' fire after th' owd mon deed an' left yo' alone, happen yo' nivver guessed as it wur me as heaped little piles i' th' nooks o' th' rocks so as yo'd think 'at th' tide had left it theer--happen yo' did n't, but it wur true. I've stayed round the old house many a neet, feared summat mought harm yo', an' yo' know yo' niwer gave me a good word, Meg. An' then Dan comn an' he made way wi' yo' as he made way wi' aw th' rest--men an' women an' children. He niwer worked an' waited as I did--he niwer thowt an' prayed as I did; everything come easy wi' him--everything allus did come easy wi' him, an' when I seed him so light-hearted an' careless about what I wur cravin' it run me daft an' blind. Seemt like he couldna cling to it like I did an' I begun to fight agen it, an' when I heerd about that lass o' Barnegats I towd yo', an' when I seen yo' believed what I didna believe mysen, it run me dafter yet, an' I put more to what he said, an' held back some, an' theer it wur an' theer it stands, an' if I've earnt a curse, lass, I've getten it, fur--fur I thowt yo'd been learnin' to care fur me a bit sin' we wur wed, an' God knows I've tried to treat yo' fair an' kind i' my poor way. It wurna Dan Morgan's way, I know--his wur a better way than mine, th' sun shone on him somehow--but I've done my best an' truest sin'.” “Yo've done yo're worst,” she said. “Th' worst yo' could do wur to part us, an' yo' did it. If yo'd been half a mon yo' wouldna ha' been content wi' a woman yo'd trapped with sayin' 'Aye,' an' who cared less for yo' than she did fur th' sand on th' sea-shore. What's what yo've done sin' to what yo' did afore? Yo' conna wipe that out and yo' conna mak' me forget. I hate yo', an' th' worse because I wur beginnin' to be content a bit. I hate mysen. I ought to ha' knowed”--wildly--“he would ha' knowed whether I wur true or false, poor chap--he would ha' knowed.” She rocked herself to and fro for a minute, wringing her hands in a passion of anguish worse than any words, but a minute later she turned on him all at once. “All's o'er betwixt yo' an' me,” she said with fierce heat; “do yo' know that? If yo' wur half a mon yo' would.” He sat up and stared at her humbly and stupidly. “Eh?” he said at last. “Theer's not a mon i' Arle as isna more to me now than tha art,” she said, “Some on 'em be honest, an' I conna say that o' thee. Tha canst get thee gone or I'll go mysen. Tha knows't me well enow to know I'll ne'er forgie thee for what tha's done. Aye”--with the passionate hand-wringing again--“but that wunnot undo it.” He rose and came to her, trembling like a man with the ague. “Yo' dunnot mean that theer, Meg,” he said slowly. “You dunnot mean it word fur word. Think a bit.” “Aye, but I do,” she answered him, setting her white teeth, “word fur word.” “Think again, wench.” And this time he staggered and caught hold of the door-post. “Is theer nowt as'll go agen th' wrong? I've lived wi'thee nigh a year, an' I've loved thee twenty--is theer nowt fur me? Aye, lass, dunnot be too hard. Tha was allus harder than most womankind; try an' be a bit softer like to'rds th' mon as risked his soul because he wur a mon an' darena lose thee. Tha laid thy head on my shoulder last neet. Aye, lass--lass, think o' that fur one minnit.” Perhaps she did think of it, for surely she faltered a little--what woman would not have faltered at such a moment?--but the next, the memory of the sunny, half-boyish face she had clung to with so strong a love rushed back upon her and struck her to the heart. She remembered the days when her life had seemed so full that she had feared her own bliss; she remembered the gallant speeches and light-hearted wiles, and all at once she cried out in a fierce, impassioned voice: “I'll ne'er forgie thee,” she said--“I'll ne'er forgie thee to th' last day o' my life. What fur should I? Tha's broke my heart, thou villain--tha's broke my heart.” And the next minute she had pushed past him and rushed into the house. For a minute or so after she was gone the man stood leaning against the door with a dazed look in his pale face. She meant what she said: he had known her long enough to understand that she never forgave--never forgot. Her unbroken will and stubborn strength had held her to enmities all her life, and he knew she was not to be won by such things as won other women. He knew she was harder than most women, but his dull nature could not teach him how bitter must have been the life that rendered her so. He had never thought of it--he did not think of it now. He was not blaming her, and he was scarcely blaming himself. He had tried to make her happy and had failed. There were two causes for the heavy passion of misery that was ruling him, but neither of them was remorse. His treachery had betrayed him, and he had lost the woman he had loved and worked for. Soul and body were sluggish alike, but each had its dull pang of weight and wretchedness. “I've come to th' eend now surely,” he said, and, dropping into her seat, he hid his face. As he sat there a choking lump rose in his throat with a sudden click, and in a minute or so more he was wiping away hot rolling tears with the back of his rough hand. “I'm forsook somehow,” he said--“aye, I'm forsook. I'm not th' soart o' chap to tak' up wi' th' world. She wur all th' world I cared fur, an' she'll ne'er forgie me, for she's a hard un--she is. Aye! but I wur fond o' her! I wonder what she'll do--I do wonder i' my soul what she's gettin' her mind on!” It did not occur to him to call to her or go and see what she was doing. He had always stood in some dull awe of her, even when she had been kindest, and now it seemed that they were too far apart for any possibility of approach at reconciliation. So he sat and pondered heavily, the sea air blowing upon him fresh and sweet, the sun shining soft and warm upon the house, and the few common flowers in the strip of garden whose narrow shell walks and borders he had laid out for her himself with much clumsy planning and slow labor. Then he got up and took his rough working-jacket over his arm. “I mun go down to th' Mary Anne,” he said, “an' work a bit, or we'll ne'er get her turned o'er afore th' tide comes in. That boat's a moit o' trouble.” And he sighed heavily. Half-way to the gate he stopped before a cluster of ground honeysuckle, and perhaps for the first time in his life was conscious of a sudden curious admiration for them. “She's powerful fond o' such loike bits o' things--posies an' such loike,” he said. “Thems some as I planted to please her on th' very day as we were wed. I'll tak' one or two. She's main fond on 'em--fur such a hard un.” And when he went out he held in his hand two or three slender stems hung with the tiny pretty humble bells. He had these very bits of simple blossoms in his hand when he went down to where the Mary Anne lay on the beach for repairs. So his fellow-workmen said when they told the story afterwards, remembering even this trivial incident. He was in a strange frame of mind, too, they noticed, silent and heavy and absent. He did not work well, but lagged over his labor, stopping every now and then to pass the back of his hand over his brow as if to rouse himself. “Yo' look as if yo' an' th' missus had had a fallin' out an' yo'n getten th' worst o' th' bargain,” one of his comrades said by way of rough jest. They were fond of joking with him about his love for his handsome, taciturn wife. But he did not laugh this time as he usually did. “Mind thy own tackle, lad,” he said dully, “an I'll mind mine.” From that time he worked steadily among them until it was nearly time for the tide to rise. The boat they were repairing had been a difficult job to manage, as they could only work between tides, and now being hurried they lingered longer than usual. At the last minute they found it must be moved, and so were detained. “Better leave her until th' tide ebbs,” said one, but the rest were not of the same mind. “Nay,” they argued, “it'll be all to do o'er agen if we do that. Theer's plenty o' time if we look sharp enow. Heave again, lads.” Then it was that with the help of straining and tugging there came a little lurch, and then it was that as the Mary Anne slipped over on her side one of the workers slipped with her, slipped half underneath her with a cry, and lay on the sand, held down by the weight that rested on him. With his cry there broke out half a dozen others, and the men rushed up to him with frightened faces. . “Are yo' hurt, Seth, lad?” they cried. “Are yo' crushed or owt?” The poor fellow stirred a little and then looked up at them pale enough. “Bruised a bit,” he answered them, “an' sick a bit, but I dunnot think theer's any bones broke. Look sharp, chaps, an' heave her up. She's a moit o' weight on me.” They went to work again one and all, so relieved by his words that they were doubly strong, but after toiling like giants for a while they were compelled to pause for breath. In falling the boat had so buried herself in the sand that she was harder to move than ever. It had seemed simple enough at first, but it was not so simple, after all. With all their efforts they had scarcely stirred her an inch, and their comrade's position interfered with almost every plan suggested. Then they tried again, but this time with less effect than before, through their fatigue. When they were obliged to pause they looked at each other questioningly, and more than one of them turned a trifle paler, and at last the wisest of them spoke out:-- “Lads,” he said, “we conna do this oursens. Run for help, Jem Coulter, an' run wi' thy might, fur it wunnot be so long afore th' tide'll flow.” Up to this time the man on the sands had lain with closed eyes and set teeth, but when he heard this his eyes opened and he looked up. “Eh!” he said, in that blind, stupid fashion. “What's that theer tha's sayin' Mester?” “Th' tide,” blundered the speaker. “I wur tellin' him to look sharp, that's aw.” The poor fellow moved restlessly. “Aye! aye!” he said. “Look sharp--he mun do that. I didna think o' th' tide.” And he shut his eyes again with a faint groan. They strove while the messenger was gone; and they strove when he returned with assistance; they strove with might and main, until not a man among them had the strength of a child, and the boldest of them were blanching with a fearful, furtive excitement none dared to show. A crowd had gathered round by this time--men willing and anxious to help, women suggesting new ideas and comforting the wounded man in rough, earnest style; children clinging to their mothers' gowns and looking on terror-stricken. Suddenly, in the midst of one of their mightiest efforts, a sharp childish voice piped out from the edge of an anxious group a brief warning that struck terror to every heart that beat among them. “Eh! Mesters!” it said, “th' tide's creepin' up a bit.” The men looked round with throbbing pulses, the women looked also, and one of the younger ones broke into a low cry. “Lord, ha' mercy!” she said; “it'll sweep around th' Bend afore long, an'--an'”--and she ended with a terror in her voice which told its own tale without other words. The truth forced itself upon them all then. Women began to shriek and men to pray, but, strange to say, the man whose life was at stake lay silent, with ashen lips, about which the muscles were tensely drawn. His dull eyes searched every group in a dead despair that was yet a passion, in all its stillness. “How long will it be,” he asked slowly at last--“th' tide? Twenty minutes?” “Happen so,” was the answer. “An', lad, lad! we conna help thee. We'n tried our best, lad”--with sobs even from the uncouth fellow who spoke “Theer is na one on us but 'ud leave a limb behind to save thee, but theer is na time--theer is na”-- One deep groan and he lay still again--quite still. God knows what weight of mortal agony and desperate terror crushed him in that dead, helpless pause. Then his eyes opened as before. “I've thowt o' deein',” he said with a catch of his breath. “I've thowt o' deein', an' I've wondered how it wur an' what it felt like. I never thowt o' deein' like this here.” Another pause and then-- “Which o' yo' lads 'll tell my missus?” “Ay! poor chap, poor chap!” wailed the women. “Who on 'em will?” “Howd tha noise, wenches,” he said hoarsely. “Yo' daze me. Theer is na time to bring her here. I'd ha' liked to ha' said a word to her. I'd ha' liked to ha' said one word; Jem Coulter”--raising his voice--“canst tha say it fur me?” “Aye,” cried the man, choking as he spoke, “surely, surely.” And he knelt down. “Tell her 'at if it wur bad enow--this here--it wur not so bad as it mought ha' been--fur _me_. I mought ha' fun it worser. Tell her I'd like to ha' said a word if I could--but I couldna. I'd like to ha' heard her say one word, as happen she would ha' said if she'd been here, an' tell her 'at if she had ha' said it th' tide mought ha' comn an' welcome--but she didna, an' theer it stands.” And the sob that burst from his breast was like the sob of a death-stricken child. “Happen”--he said next--“happen one o' yo' women-foak con say a bit o' a prayer--yo're not so fur fro' safe sand but yo' can reach it--happen one o' yo' ha' a word or two as yo' could say--such like as yo' teach yo're babbies.” Among these was one who had--thank God, thank God! and so, amid wails and weeping, rough men and little children alike knelt with uncovered heads and hidden eyes while this one woman faltered the prayer that was a prayer for a dying man; and when it was ended, and all rose glancing fearfully at the white line of creeping foam, this dying man for whom they had prayed, lay upon his death-bed of sand the quietest of them all--quiet with a strange calm. “Bring me my jacket,” he said, “an' lay it o'er my face. Theer's a bit o' a posie in th' button-hole. I getten it out o' th' missus's garden when I comn away. I'd like to howld it i' my hand if it's theer yet.” And as the long line of white came creeping onward they hurriedly did as he told them--laid the rough garment over his face, and gave him the humble dying flowers to hold, and 'aving done this and lingered to the last moment, one after the other dropped away with awe-stricken souls until the last was gone. And under the arch of sunny sky the little shining waves ran up the beach, chasing each other over the glittering sand, catching at shells and sea-weed, toying with them for a moment, and then leaving them, rippling and curling and whispering, but creeping--creeping--creeping. They gave his message to the woman he had loved with all the desperate strength of his dull, yet unchanging nature; and when the man who gave it to her saw her wild, white face and hard-set lips, he blundered upon some dim guess as to what that single word might have been, but the sharpest of them never knew the stubborn anguish that, following and growing day by day, crushed her fierce will and shook her heart. She was as hard as ever, they thought; but they were none of them the men or women to guess at the long dormant instinct of womanhood and remorse that the tragedy of this one day of her life had awakened. She had said she would never forgive him, and perhaps her very strength made it long before she did; but surely some subtle chord was touched by those heavy last words, for when, months later, her first love came back, faithful and tender, with his old tale to tell she would not listen. “Nay, lad,” she said, “I amna a feather to blow wi' th' wind. I've had my share o' trouble wi' men foak, an' I ha' no mind to try again. Him as lies i' th' churchyard loved me i' his way--men foak's way is apt to be a poor un--an' I'm wore out wi' life. Dunnot come here courtin'--tak' a better woman.” But yet, there are those who say that the time will come when he will not plead in vain. End of Project Gutenberg's One Day At Arle, by Frances Hodgson Burnett

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:30.771260

23331

E-text prepared by V. L. Simpson, Jonathan Ingram, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 23331-h.htm or 23331-h.zip: (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/3/3/23331/23331-h/23331-h.htm) or (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/3/3/23331/23331-h.zip) PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI VOL. 150 FEBRUARY 16, 1916 CHARIVARIA. MANY early nestings are recorded as the result of the mild weather, and at least one occasional visitor (_Polonius bombifer_) has laid eggs in various parts of the country. * * * Says a learned correspondent of _The Observer_: "There may be fundamental differences between observed phenomena without affecting the validity of a strict analogy; and after all an analogy is based upon presented similarities. It is sufficient if the sameness should apply to particular attributes or occurrences found by induction to have similar relationships or consequences." It looks, after all, as if some of our Museums wanted closing. * * * The "popular parts" of the Natural History Museum are to remain open, though it is still felt by the Government that, at a time when the practice of frugality is incumbent upon everybody, the spectacle of stuffed animals may tend to have a demoralising effect upon the young. * * * From _The Evening News_:-- "Our Daily War-time Menu. Fish Pie. Salt Beef. Turnips or Carrots. Baked Potatoes. Banana Pancake. Coffee." This will gratify those who believed that our contemporary's diet consisted largely of brimstone. * * * It is reported from Holland that Germans there are refusing German notes. In the United States however they are still accepted at their face value. * * * It is understood that the Government recruiting authorities, with whose _jeu d'esprit_ all Trafalgar Square is ringing, have definitely rejected a proposed placard that says-- "WILL YOU 'ATE NOW OR WAIT TILL MARCH 8?" * * * The Admiralty has announced that sea-fishing is included among the certified occupations exempted from the provisions of the Military Service Act. The suggestion that the other kind of fishermen should be rejected for psychopathic reasons has been bitterly resented by some of our most persistent anglers. * * * "Many of the men," writes a correspondent at one of the Fronts, "have apparently been without shirts for some time, and consequently the Army authorities, with that kindly consideration which always distinguishes them, have issued to the men a new pair of pants all round." * * * A bird-eating spider has just arrived at the Zoo. While its diet is commonly confined to quite small birds the animal is understood to have expressed extreme confidence in its ability to eat eagles, if only to show that its heart is in the right place. * * * "Germany's sea dogs," says the _Berliner Tageblatt_, "cannot content themselves much longer with merely showing their teeth." This is obviously unfair to TIRPITZ'S tars, most of whom have not hesitated to show their tails also. * * * The KAISER at Headquarters lifted his glass to KING FERDINAND, this being the kindliest way of intimating that he has Bulgaria on toast. * * * It is rumoured that the Government has offered the control of our anti-aircraft defences to the Office of Works, but that Mr. LULU HARCOURT has declined the responsibility, adding, however, that he will gladly repair any damage done by Zeppelins to the flower-beds in his department. * * * * * [Illustration: _V.A.D. wardmaid_, _M.A._ (_to kitchen-maid_). "I'M REALLY A UNIVERSITY LECTURER; BUT AT A TIME LIKE THIS WE ARE _ALL_ HUMAN BEINGS."] * * * * * THE WORD OF A GERMAN. YOUR troth was broken ere the trumpets blew; Into the fight with unclean hands you rode; Your spurs were sullied and the sword you drew Bore stain of outrage done to honour's code. And you have played your game as you began. Witness the white flag raised by shattered ranks, The cry for mercy, answered, man to man-- And the swift stroke of traitor steel for thanks. Once bitten we were twice a little shy, And then forgot; but with the mounting score Our old good-nature, tried a shade too high, Stiffens its lip and means to stand no more. So now, when you protest with bleating throat, And broider round your wrongs a piteous tale, Urging the Neutral Ones to take a note That we have passed outside the human pale; The world (no fool) will know where lies the blame If England lets your pleadings go unheard; To grace of chivalry you've lost your claim; We've grown too wise to trust a Bosch's word. O. S. * * * * * THE BILLETING CAPTAIN. MY job is to ride on ahead of the regiment, whenever we leave the trenches, and secure accommodation for men and horses in the place allotted to us. For billeting purposes there are four kinds of villages behind our front: the good, the indifferent, the positively bad, and the village of R----. It was to R---- that I was ordered on my first errand of this kind. On the road I met a friend who holds the same pest in his regiment as I do in mine. I told him where I was going, and he grinned. "You'll find all the doors locked when you arrive," he said. "The Mayor is away on service and you won't get any help from his wife. She's the most disagreeable woman I ever met, and is known for miles round as a holy terror." When at length I reached my destination I sent the rest of the party in search of barns and stables, proceeding myself towards the village pump, which I had been told was always a good place to work from. But there was little sign of life here. The _place_ was deserted, except for one old man who was supporting himself by the pump handle, while with a stick in his other hand he tried to strafe a hen that had inadvertently run between his legs. "Bon jour, M'sieur," I said by way of a start. "Cigarette anglaise!" replied the patriarch. I offered my case and was presently being entertained with reminiscences of the war of _soixante-dix_. By the time that he had finished his cigarette he had gone further back into history and was vividly describing the retreat from Moscow under the First Napoleon, on which occasion I gathered that he had caught a severe cold. There was evidently little help to be gained here, so leaving my venerable friend amid the Russian snows I went to the nearest house and knocked. Presently a key turned and the door was opened for about three inches by an old woman. "_Bon jour, Madame_," I said in my best French; "I seek a bedroom, if possible one with a bed in it." She looked me up and down for a moment, then with a "_Pas compris_" shut and locked the door again. In the next house they were more obliging. A stout gentleman opened the door and informed me that unfortunately he possessed only one bed, which was shared by himself and his family of six children. But as M'sieu was a member of the _entente_, and if he could find no other accommodation---- But here I fled. Thus it was from house to house, and when later my N.C.O. reported his arrangements for men and horses satisfactory I had only managed to secure one miserable little room. So desperate had I become by this time that I determined to face the Mayor's wife, in spite of my friend's advice. Accordingly I turned towards a house labelled _Mairie_, and entered the garden, where a small child was playing. I think without exception he was the ugliest little boy I have ever seen, but I am a father when home on leave, and he smiled at me in such a nice friendly way that I stopped and pecked at his cheek as I passed. When I looked up I saw a grim face regarding me over a pot of geraniums in the window. "Now for it!" I thought, and was presently face to face with the formidable lady, who asked me in broken English what my business might be. "Madame," I said, "you see a ruined captain before you. I have been sent to this village to find twelve bedrooms for my Colonel and brother-officers. Also a mess-room and an office. In one hour I have secured one room, and even now the regiment is arriving," for as I spoke the O.C. and some of the others came riding up. On seeing me they dismounted, and before Madame could say anything she and I were the centre of a little group of officers. "Well," said the O.C., "what luck? We're looking forward to real beds again, I can tell you!" I felt myself growing red. "The men and horses are arranged for, Sir," I stammered, and then suddenly a voice at my side took up the tale: "And if you will come wiz me I shall 'elp ze Captain to show to you ze rooms 'e 'as found." Unable to utter a word, I bowed, and we followed Madame to the first house at which I had earlier tried so unsuccessfully. She knocked at the door like a fury, and no sooner was it opened than she went in without more ado, and we after her. "I have come to show M'sieu the Colonel the room that you have prepared for him," she said in her own language to the old woman, who stood bowing and smiling as hard as she could. Then she opened a door and took us into the nicest room imaginable. "'Ere I 'ope you will be 'appy, my Colonel," she continued. "Zis is ze best room ze Captain could find for you. Also I 'ope you will find Madame aimable;" and here she looked at the old woman, who started bowing again harder than ever. It was the same at all the other houses. Passing from one to another she commandeered room after room, even managing to wrest a bed from the father of six; and I verily believe that the inhabitants would have burned their dwellings to warm us had the little lady ordered it. All the while she maintained the fiction that I had arranged things previously. "I 'ave just come wiz ze Captain to see everyting ees what you call spick," she said on leaving us. "And a very good business you have made of it," said the O.C. to me approvingly. Still greatly puzzled, I returned to thank my benefactress. After expressing my gratitude I ventured to tell her that she had been much kinder to me than I had been led to expect. "But 'ave I not see you kees my little son?" she said gravely. "Ah," I said to myself, "_that's_ it!" and, stooping down to where he was playing, I did it again with added warmth. * * * * * From the transactions of the Royal Dublin Society:-- "Professor HUGH RYAN, M.A., D.Sc., and Mr. M. J. WALSH, M.Sc.--'On Desoxyhydrocatechintetramethylether.'" We are not surprised that it took two of them to tackle it. * * * * * [Illustration: SAINT VALENTINE'S DAY IN THE FATHERLAND. It chanced that on the fourteenth day of February the boy Cupid strayed into the precincts of Potsdam, and came all unawares upon the War Lord; who deeming him to be an alien babe essayed to make a characteristic end of him.] * * * * * [Illustration: _Disgusted Instructor._ "NOW THEN, NONE O' THEM PEACE TACTICS! 'ERE I'M TRYING TO TEACH YER 'OW TO KILL THE ENEMY, AND YER GOES AND KISSES 'IM!"] * * * * * BLANCHE'S LETTERS. WAR FASHIONS. _Park Lane._ DEAREST DAPHNE,--People are going to the theatre a good deal, but not in the old way. We wait in the queue now, and work our way up into the gallery. We leave the stalls and boxes to _ces autres_. "Olga" has created a simply charming queue-coat, heavy grey frieze, with plenty of pockets and a cap to match with ear-pieces. You take a parcel of sandwiches to eat while you're waiting (the _dernier cri_ is to wrap the parcel in a spotted handkerchief), and, if you want to be immensely and utterly right, you'll _walk_ home and buy a piece of fried fish on the way for your supper. À propos, there's quite a good little story being told about Lady Goreazure and these topsy-turvy times. She was in the gallery at the Incandescent the other night, and, on coming down, the gallery people, finding it was pouring in torrents, crowded into the chief entrance for shelter, to the enormous disgust of the stalls and boxes, who were just coming out. A rose-coloured satin gown with ante-war bare arms and shoulders, an ermine wrap, and a paste hair-bandeau was particularly furious, and announced loudly that it was "an abominable shame to mix us up with the gallery people in this way." Lady Goreazure thought she knew the voice, and, turning, recognised in the angry pink-satin person her maid, Dawkins, who left her some months ago to go into munition work. She's a skilled hand now and simply coining money, as she told Lady G. in a hurried furtive whisper, adding, "Please don't talk to me any more. I shouldn't like my friends to see that I know anyone from the gallery." One of the _literally_ burning questions of the moment has been how to dispose of the little lanterns one's obliged to carry after dark now that so many people have given their motors to the country and stump it or bus it everywhere. Your Blanche has solved the difficulty and at the same time set a fashion. My evening boots (what a different meaning that phrase has from what it once had, my Daphne!) have darling little teeny-weeny lamps fixed to their toes, so that one can see exactly where one's stepping. With these boots is worn a toque with a small lamp fastened in a velvet or ribbon _chou_ in front. The _boots_ are for _one's own guidance_; the _toque illuminante_ is to show _other_ gropers in the darkness that one's coming. Some people add a chic little hooter, which clears the way quite nicely and is simply _precious_ in crossing roads. Speaking of those who've given all their motors to the State and those who haven't, a new social danger has bobbed up for the latter--the chauffeuse. She's got to be reckoned with, dearest. In threatening the single lives of people's eldest sons she's leaving even the eternal chorus-girl down the course, and in releasing _one_ man for the Front she's quite likely to capture _another who counts considerably more!_ The Ramsgates thought they'd got a perfect jewel of a chauffeuse--smart, businesslike, knew town well, knew when she might exceed the speed limit and when she mightn't, thoroughly understood her car and so on. And then one day Pegwell came back from the Front on sick leave. As soon as he was well enough he went for a drive every day. Someone said to his mother, "I wonder you trust your boy out alone with that chauffeuse of yours." And Elizabeth Ramsgate _laughed_ at the caution. "I only wish Thompson were more dangerous," she said. "There's safety in numbers, and if she were younger and prettier perhaps she'd switch Peggy's thoughts off that fearful Dolly de Colty of the Incandescent." And so Pegwell went on with his drives, and one day they were out so long that his mother was anxious, and when at last they came back she said, "Oh, Thompson, you've been driving Lord Pegwell too far; he's not strong enough for such long drives; it was very inconsiderate of you, Thompson." And the chauffeuse tossed up her chin and cried, "Not so much 'Thompson,' please!" And Pegwell chipped in with, "This is Lady Pegwell, mother, and in future she'll drive no one but me!" Popsy, Lady Ramsgate, is even more furious about it than his parents. "Ramsgate and Elizabeth have behaved like fools," she said to me yesterday; "they don't know their world in the least, though they've lived in it nearly half a century. What if the minx _wasn't_ particularly young and pretty. A chauffeuse is a novelty, and when you've said that you've said everything." Your Blanche is enormously busy just now editing a book that's going to be the sensation of the Spring crop of volumes. You're aware, of course, _m'amie_, that if a book's even to be _looked_ at now it must be either Somebody's Memories of Everybody Else or Somebody's Experiences in an Enemy Country. Well, and so Stella Clackmannan and I, in the hostel we run for poor dears who've lost their situations abroad and have no friends to go to on coming back here, found among our guests a bright little Cockney who's been what she calls an up-and-down girl in the Royal Palace at Bashbang, the capital of Rowdydaria. My dearest, the things that girl has climbed over and crawled under, and the weather she's come through, in escaping from the Rowdydarians and getting back here! And the things she's seen and heard in the Palace! It will throw a flood of light on all sorts of things, and will certainly make our F.O. sit up. With the help of a clever photographer and some imagination we've reconstructed the up-and-down girl's adventures quite nicely. There are photos of the King of Rowdydaria as head of his own army; in his uniform as Colonel of the Hun Räuberundmörder Regiment; and in the Arab burnous in which he is to lead an attack on Egypt. There's a photo of the up-and-down girl sweeping a passage and listening through a key-hole to a wonderful conversation between the King of R. and an Emperor who'd come to see him (luckily it was in English and she remembers every word): "You've got to say _you_ did it." "But I haven't got any navy--I _couldn't_ have done it." "I'll give you the submarine that did it--or _lend_ it to you. There! now it's yours--for a time. _You_ don't depend on the Neutralians for any supplies. So you can afford to tell them you did it--and be quick about it." "But you can't expect even the _Neutralians_ to swallow that!" "Why, you fool, they'd swallow anything! That's the meaning of their phrase 'rubber-neck.'" There's a photo of the Queen of Rowdydaria coming up at this point, snatching the broom away, and beating the up-and-down girl with it, and calling her "Spying English Pig." Altogether, my dear, it's positively enthralling! Order your copy early, for people will be slaying each other for this book. _Astounding Disclosures of an Up-and-down Girl in the Royal Palace at Bashbang_ will certainly quite _quite_ eclipse those two other sensations, _What a Buttons Overheard in the Imperial Pickelhaube Schloss_ and _Amazing Revelations of a Tweeny in the Perhapsburg Hof_. Ever thine, BLANCHE. * * * * * [Illustration: "I SAY, OLD GIRL, DO LET ME CARRY SOMETHING."] * * * * * How to put People at their Ease. "The officer in command, Lieut. Berg, was exceedingly pleasant, and did all in his power to put the passengers at their ease and make them feel comfortable.... He had a large bomb placed in the engine-room, and another on the bridge, which could be exploded easily by electricity."--_Daily News._ * * * * * "AMERICA'S LAST WORD FOR THE HUN. SIXTEEN PAGES TO-DAY." _Daily Mirror Poster._ These American last words! * * * * * THE WATCH DOGS. XXXV. MY DEAR CHARLES,--Things go on here from day to day in a businesslike and orderly fashion, the comic relief being supplied by a temporary, very temporary, man from overseas, who has operated for a while at our telephone exchange. Most people, myself included, are overawed by the dignity and significance of our environment here; not so this Canadian. One of our very greatest was having words with his instrument the other evening. He supposed, wrongly, that his antagonist was a hundred kilometres away, and he adjusted his remarks and voice accordingly. Imagine his pain on being informed, from the exchange, in quite a cheerful and friendly tone, "I guess you're on the wrong string this time, Mister." There is also, of course, that never-failing source of satisfaction, the military mess waiter. I think ours, the other night, excelled all starters in the art of ellipsis. Our meal was interrupted by a loud bump, crash, cataclysm and bang. We took it that two at least of the enemy's great offensives had begun, centralising on us and opening with the destruction of all our mess machinery, personnel and platter. Shortly afterwards Alfred, slightly flushed, came into the room. We asked him to let us know the worst. All we could get out of him was, "I must 'a' trod on a bit o' fat, Sir." You will be touched, I am sure, by the pretty story now current concerning the earnest young subaltern and the Brigadier. The former was responsible for the training of an expert section, in no matter what particular black art; the latter called in person one morning to witness an experimental display. The apparatus was produced, the Brigadier inspected it delicately, and the section was fallen in, standing near by in an attitude of modest pride. From them the Brigadier eventually singled out a private to do a star turn; silence was enjoined while the subaltern should give the private the necessary detail orders. Now the subaltern was one of the many of us civilians who have a burning ambition not only to achieve perfection always, but also to maintain on all occasions a superlatively military bearing. Confronted by the private and expected to order him about, he hesitated, blushed and at last made it clear that he simply must, before beginning, have a few words apart in the General's private ear. With kindly toleration the General eventually conceded this, and it was then made more than apparent to him why it was that the earnest young subaltern was reluctant to give his orders to the private without some explanation in advance to the Brigadier. "The man's _surname_ is Bhyll, Sir," he whispered. Red-hats may not always know much about life in the trenches, but they can tell you at first hand what strafing was like when there were no trenches to live in. You will perhaps care to hear of an adventure of the good old days, when men wandered about Flanders on their own, sometimes attaching themselves to English units, sometimes to French, and sometimes marching inadvertently with the Central Powers. Maps in those days didn't show you clearly which was your bit and which was the other fellow's, and many a time different parties, meeting in the dark, would be quite affable in passing, little knowing it was each other's blood they were after. My man, at the moment when we take up the narrative, was walking about in a wood, looking for a job. Half an hour earlier he had been busily engaged in a brisk battle, but, owing to his not keeping his mind on it, he'd got detached and now found himself in one of those peculiarly peaceful solitudes which only exist in the heart of the war zone. Whether the battle was over and, if so, who'd won it, he couldn't say. In fact, those being the early confused days, he didn't rightly know whether it had been a battle at all or just a little personal unpleasantness between himself and his private enemies. Everything appeared to be exactly as it should not be; he felt that he ought to be exhilarated with victory or depressed with defeat, exhausted or maimed, and not merely covered from top to toe with mud. He found himself walking along in a wood, just as he might do at home, smoking a cigarette and thinking that this would be a most convenient moment for a wash and a cup of tea. As he said, the very last thing he seemed to be at was war, when suddenly, climbing over a small ridge, he discovered himself face to face with a hostile sentry, and near him were, at repose, a knot of other equally repulsive Bosches. It has struck everyone out here, sooner or later, that it is easy enough to do the thing if only one could know at the moment what is the thing to do. Here was a sentry whose whole recent education had been devoted to learning exactly how to deal with new and unwelcome arrivals. He was furnished for that very purpose with a rifle having a carefully sharpened bayonet at one end of it and a nice new bullet at the other. There he was, all prepared to deal with an emergency, and there was the emergency confronting him. Having had a good look at it, he contented himself with saying "_Halt! wer da?_" adding as an afterthought a threatening move forward. On the other hand, here was our friend, young and vigorous, in full possession of all his faculties, too surprised to be even alarmed. His first tendency was to pass haughtily on or, at the most, to stop and tell the man to be more respectful when addressing an officer. His second was to call to mind, in a confused mess, all the brilliant and dashing things a hero of fiction would, without a moment's hesitation, have done in the circumstances. Lastly, it was borne in on him that this was indeed a German; that all Germans were, under the new arrangement, sworn to do in all Englishmen at sight, and that he himself was, beneath his mud, one of the last-named. Being rather the quicker-witted of the two, he had put in three thoughts to the other fellow's one; but the position showed no improvement in the result, and the enemy's second thought, slowly dawning, was obviously of a more practical and drastic nature. His undecided fidgeting with his rifle made this abundantly clear. No time was to be lost. Our friend realised dimly that at all costs he must conceal his nationality. This promised to be a matter of languages, never his strong point. But, there again, he was carefully prepared with a series of useful phrases in various tongues, which he had learnt up in small and inexpensive hand-books. The difficulty was to get on to the right one; his mind, having got him thus far, refused further assistance. Instead of furnishing him with the appropriate remark, it merely suggested to him a clearly defined picture of the outside of the text-book, particularly emphasizing the elegant but inept phrase, "One Shilling net at all Booksellers." And what was the use of that with the sentry's bayonet rapidly coming to the "On guard" position? It's a long story, Charles, and it ended by our friend ingenuously stating by way of a seasonable ruse, "_Pardon, monsieur, je suis français._" I'd prefer to leave it at that, but you are one of those detestable people who insist on going on after the climax. So I may as well tell you that at this point our friend's legs took to action on their own, no doubt remarking to themselves as they did so that this was but another instance of damned bad Staff work. I sometimes wonder whether possibly it isn't easier to be a limb than a brain. Yours ever, HENRY. * * * * * MR. PUNCH'S POTTED FILMS. THE PASSIONATE DRAMA. THE DEMON OF JEALOUSY. [Illustration: "WRETCHED WOMAN! WHO IS THIS? HENCEFORTH YOU ARE NO WIFE OF MINE!"] [Illustration: A WOMAN'S ANGUISH.] [Illustration: "DIE, SCOUNDREL!"] [Illustration: A STRONG MAN'S RAGE.] [Illustration: "HE IS MY BROTHER FROM AUSTRALIA. YOU SHOULD NOT BE SO HASTY."] [Illustration: FORGIVENESS.] * * * * * [Illustration: _Grannie_ (_dragged out of bed at 1.30 A.M. and being hurriedly dressed as the bombs begin to fall_). "NANCY, THESE STOCKINGS ARE NOT A PAIR."] * * * * * LITERARY PITFALLS. _The Chronicle_ publishes a most interesting letter received from Mr. G. B. BURGIN, who lately, if our memory serves us right, completed his fiftieth novel. He writes:-- "A hitch has arisen about the publication of my novel, _The Rubber Princess_. It deals with an air raid on London, etc., and it has been pointed out to me that if it appears before the War is over it will probably be suppressed, and that I shall be mulcted in pains and penalties. I have therefore withdrawn it and substituted (for the Spring), with Hutchinsons, _The Hut by the River_, of which I have great hopes. It is a Canadian romance, with a pretty love story and a nice little mystery at the end." It will, we are sure, be a consolation to Mr. BURGIN, to whose agility and versatility we desire to render our homage, to learn that he is not singular in his experience. Only a few days ago we received a letter from Mr. Bimbo Posh, the famous Suffolk realist, recounting the circumstances which have led to the postponement of his eagerly-expected romance, _The Synthetic Sovereign_. It appears that Mr. Posh, a man of a most scientific imagination, assigned the _rôle_ of hero in his story to a marvellous automaton. Unfortunately for him he was not content with generalities, but described the process by which this artificial superman was produced in such minute detail that his publishers realised that it might be positively prejudicial to our safety to make it known. The sequel had best be told in Mr. Posh's own pathetic words:-- "At first I was fearfully upset, though convinced by the arguments of my publishers (Messrs. Longbow and Green-i'-th'-Eye). But a happy inspiration seized me as I was ascending the escalator at Charing Cross, and in exactly a fortnight I had finished another novel, entirely divorced from the present, entitled, _In Dear Old Daffy-land_. It is an idyllic story of Suffolk in the days of the Heptarchy, founded on an ancestral tradition of the Posh family. It runs to about 60,000 words, and Mr. Longbow, who read it at a sitting, thinks it the finest thing I have done." Curiously enough, just as we go to press comes a letter from Miss Miriam Eldritch, apologising for the withdrawal of her volume of poems, _Attar of Roses_, in view of the fact that one of the leading establishments for the distilling of this perfume is in Bulgaria. Miss Eldritch, however, has proved fully equal to the occasion, for by a great effort she has composed, in little over one hundred hours, a cycle of one hundred lyrics, to which she has given the title, at once alluring and innocuous, of _Love in Lavender_. * * * * * "Perturbabantur Constantinopolitani Innumerabilibus sollicitudinibus." ["Constantinople is much perturbed." _Daily Press._] In flouting Zeus and Themis, his Heart set on cheating Nemesis, The Constantinopolitan Now rues his impious blunders, And fears approaching thunders Trinitrotoluolitan. * * * * * "Gentleman's dark grey fur lined motor coat, fit fairly big man, lined with about 150 selected natural musquash skins, real Persian lamb collar, the property of a peer, in the pink of condition."--_The Bazaar._ We trust his lordship will remain so in spite of the inclemency of the weather. * * * * * [Illustration: JOB'S DISCOMFORTER. UNCLE SAM (_to JOB_). "SAY, PATRIARCH, THEY TELL ME YOU HOLD THE WORLD'S RECORD FOR PATIENCE. WAL, WE CLAIM TO HAVE GOT A MAN HERE THAT CAN KNOCK SPOTS OFF YOU!"] * * * * * ESSENCE OF PARLIAMENT. (EXTRACTED FROM THE DIARY OF TOBY, M.P.) THE LAST CHAPTER. _House of Commons, Tuesday, 15th February._--After, on nomination of my revered master, Mr. Punch, representing Barkshire in the Commons during three reigns, under nine Parliaments, captained in succession by six Premiers, come to conclusion that I have earned the right to retire. Two ways of voluntarily vacating a seat. One by a call to the Lords. The other by application for Chiltern Hundreds. Not having heard anything about the Peerage, have adopted latter course. The MEMBER FOR SARK, loyal to the last, insists on following my example. Accordingly, when House meets to-morrow, writs will be moved for elections to fill two vacancies. In ordinary times this would lead to interesting episode. Customary for the Chief Party Whip to move for writ to fill casual vacancies in his ranks. Would the Ministerial Whip or the Opposition Whip come forward to take preliminary step for elections consequent on retirement of the MEMBER FOR BARKS and the MEMBER FOR SARK? The closest observer of Parliamentary procedure or comment is not sure whether in Party politics they are Liberals or Conservatives. Cannot indeed say on which side of the House they sit. As it happens there is at this doubly memorable date no division of parties, consequently no contending Whips. Writs for Barks and Sark will accordingly be appropriately moved by Whip representing united House. Thirty-five years ago Barks first sent me to Westminster. Of Cabinet Ministers then seated on Treasury Bench none are alive to-day. GLADSTONE, just returned by overwhelming majority, was Premier; GRANVILLE, with consummate skill and dainty humour, led minority supporting Government in House of Lords; HARCOURT was at the Home Office; HARTINGTON, Secretary of State for War; CHILDERS at the Treasury; KIMBERLEY at the India Office; at the Irish Office FORSTER, with his rumpled hair, his rugged speech and his gruff manner, "the best Stage Yorkshireman of his time." Much history has been made since that time. Procedure in the Commons has been revolutionised, with the result not only of accelerating ordinary business and leading to final issue controversies futilely raging for years, but radically altering personal tone and manner of Mother of Parliaments. That is another story, too lengthy to be told here. Glad to know I was intimately acquainted with the House and, with rare exceptions, with the principal personages in either political camp through a long stretch of older, more picturesque time. I close the Diary here, not because I am tired of writing it, nor, as continuous testimony indicates, because a generous public is tired of reading. But I am not disposed to linger superfluous on the stage. So I withdraw, carrying with me my little bag of tricks, the sententious Dog, the cynical SARK and the rest of the contents. Henceforward some new form will be given to the "Essence of Parliament" which was created by SHIRLEY BROOKS, and enlivened by the hand of TOM TAYLOR. _Business done._--TOBY, M.P.'S. * * * * * A DIRTY NIGHT. THE night is starless, with a darkness so enveloping that it seems to possess palpability. As we reel westward in a smother of water the miracle of how any human being equipped with but five senses can find and keep his course in the chartless void that envelops us smites me afresh. A longing for an atmosphere unimpregnated with petrol eventually sends me stumbling up the companion-way to the deck. Gripping the rail, I make my way forward, and, peering through the mirk, distinguish a huddled figure in a sou'wester. Aloof, detached, he steers the shrewdest, swiftest path ever carved through a wall of blackness on behalf of dependent fellow-creatures. "A wild night," I shout. He turns slightly and answers in a hoarse bellow, "The better for us, mister. Keeps the track clear. Ought to get in ahead o' time." The yellow glare from our lights glances in broken splashes of colour over the waters, as the squat craft heaves and rolls with rhythmic regularity. From somewhere below comes the monotonous throb of the protesting engines. A red light gleams suddenly on our starboard, and I catch my breath. Æons pass, it seems, before a panther-like clutch at the wheel carries us aside in time to let the offender plunge drunkenly past. We were near enough to throw a biscuit on her deck. A swift exchange of badinage follows. "Lost yer job o' puntin' coal-barges?" "Yuss--they're usin' donkey-power instead. I give in your name 'fore I left, but they 'adn't a spare stable." After which, the immediate danger past, we plough our way down a blurred track on either side of which lurks Peril in a hundred grim and invisible shapes. The temperature, already low, has begun to drop steadily, and a fine drizzle yields to a penetrating chilliness which finds its way to one's very marrow. I am glad of my heavy wraps, and inclined, indeed, to envy the huddled figure, whose coverings are still heavier. Inwardly I wonder what this clashing of the Nations has meant to him: whether he has wife and children; whether he keeps their portraits in some deep-buried pocket beneath that accumulation of clothing which engulfs him to the ear-tips. I am still speculating when a second figure, moving with the easy gait of one whose feet have trodden many decks, climbs the companion-way and comes forward in leisurely fashion. The fellow is no stranger; already, as I came on board, I had a glimpse of that grizzled, masterful jaw and keen eyes. He peers past me towards his mate. "Elf!" "Yuss?" "Seed anyfink o' young 'Arry lately?' "Not me!" "Well, I 'ear 'e done a bit in the lead-slingin' line at a place called Wipers, an' they've been an' stuck some sort o' French medal on 'is chest." "Blighter owes me fourpence, anyway," roars Elf; and I infer that neither of them has a high opinion of 'Arry's character from the civilian point of view. Follows an interval filled with small confused sounds--the staccato note of a bell, the soft thud of a passenger's body as he is jerked unexpectedly against the rail, the picturesque ripple of his expostulations with Providence. A lamp, burning with unusual and illegal garishness, gives me light enough to examine my watch. It indicates the proximity of midnight. I realize that I am incredibly stiff and cold, and am tormented by visions of unattainable comforts. At last I am conscious of a line of dimmed lights, of a distant roar of escaping steam, of a violent quivering motion that indicates the slackening of speed. We come to a sudden halt. The voice of Elf rises triumphant. "Bill!" "Yuss?" "Two minutes arter!" "Knowed we'd do it!" And as I stumble blindly forth it is borne upon me that the last Ealing motor-bus has ended her journey with five minutes to spare. * * * * * "Egypt is placidly awaiting the event, with the absolute conviction that the Turks and Germans will get the boating of their lives in the Sinai Desert."--_Civil and Military Gazette._ They certainly won't get it on the Suez Canal. * * * * * A MODEST SUGGESTION FOR A NEW HUNNISH CANTICLE. "KAISER WANTS NEW NATIONAL HYMN." "_Westminster Gazette_" _Heading._ "He shall have it."--_Mr. Punch._ GOD of our Fathers, God of old, Who hast for us such sympathy, Cast as Thou art in German mould, Again we raise our voice to Thee: Omnipotence, we need Thy hand In air, on sea, canal and land! The English (who, Thou knowest, hide Contemptibly upon an isle) No doubt on Thee have also cried, According to their native guile; Presumption could no further go In those who plunged the world in woe. Thou wouldst not hearken to a race Possessed of that inhuman Fleet, So cruel, arrogant and base, So steeped in rancour and deceit. 'Twas they, remember, they alone, Who forced this Burden on Thine own! Bless, rather, us! our arms! our cause! Pour on us Thy protecting love! Sanction our fractures of Thy laws, By U,s beneath, by Zeps above! Relieve us in this dark impasse; Bless all our efforts; bless our gas! Deal gently with us should we tend-- Presuming as Thy favoured Race, All flushed to own so great a Friend-- To dereliction into grace! Deal gently with us, Lord, should we Once deviate to decency! And Him, from Whom such blessings flow, Our WILHELM, first of Sons of Light, Whose one ambition is to show Mankind the rightfulness of Might; Bless Him, and forward His device To make an Earthly Paradise! And should some other star up there (For all the stellar space is Thine) Demand Thy more immediate care, And thus divert Thee from the Rhine, Thou need'st but mention it, and He Thy Viceroy hero will gladly be! * * * * * "WANT OF FOOD. Salonika. On returning to Salonika after an absence of a month, I find the situation much relieved as a result of the deportation of the enemy Consuls and the energetic measures adopted to clear the town of the numerous pies previously infesting it."--_Provincial Paper._ The headline seems justified. * * * * * "I bought a brochure, which explained that the Emperor was not physically ill, but his metal condition was upset owing to the war." _Evening Paper._ Another allusion, we suppose, to the depreciation of the Mark. * * * * * "Lord Crewe and Lord Lansdowne have addressed the following Whip to the members of the House of Lords: On February 15 an address will be moved in the House of Lords in answer to His Majesty's Speech. We venture to express the hope that Your Majesty will find it possible to attend in your place on that day."--_Yorkshire Evening Post._ We have heard of the Sovereign People, but the Sovereign Peers are new to us. * * * * * "In the course of the match, Brelsford, the United half-back, and Glennon, the Wednesday forward, were ordered off the field for fighting. Upwards of 16,000 spectators witnessed the match."--_Birmingham Post._ Mr. Punch will gladly furnish any of the players, or eligibles amongst the 16,000 spectators, with the address of a field where fighters will certainly not be "ordered off." * * * * * "ANIMALS AND ZEPPELIN NOISES. SIR,--The dat is affected by all sounds, according to its weakness or its strength." _Morning Paper._ We have often noticed the same thing about the cog. * * * * * "TYPIST and Shorthand Clerk.--Required at once for invoicing a young lady, accustomed to the drapery trade preferred." _Daily Chronicle._ Not an easy post. Some young ladies are so unaccountable. * * * * * "Washington, Jany. 17.--Mrs. Emmeline Pankhurst the suffragette leader now under parole in New York will be formally admitted to the United States soon after her papers reach Washington. President Wilson is opposed to her execution."--_Bermuda Colonist._ A merciful man, this WILSON. * * * * * [Illustration: _Nervous Young Officer_ (_to 'bus conductor_). "FIRST SINGLE TO OXFORD CIRCUS." (The authorities have recommended that officers should travel first-class.)] * * * * * A CONTROVERSY. (_From Our Own Correspondent in America._) I. YESTERDAY President WILSON addressed a monster gathering of business men at Ponkapog. He said that it was a cruel misconception to hold that Americans were without ideals. As a matter of fact they cherished their ideals far beyond any question of making money and would die rather than submit to acts which were an outrage on our common humanity. In declaring that there was such a thing as being too proud to fight he had, of course, meant that there was such a thing as being only too proud to fight for what was just and right. This was the American attitude, and he therefore advocated national preparedness which might possibly imply such an increase in America's naval and military forces as few people except himself had yet dreamt of. At this point the audience rose _en masse_ and cheered for ten minutes. Nothing could show more clearly than this speech how intensely critical are the relations between America and Germany over the _Lusitania_ case. There has been a wild panic on the New York Stock Exchange. A prominent banker has expressed the opinion that Count BERNSTORFF will receive his passports to-morrow. II. Count BERNSTORFF has not called on Mr. LANSING to-day. This is considered a symptom of the utmost gravity, and the exchange value of the German mark has receded ten points. III. Count BERNSTORFF was closeted with Mr. LANSING for two hours this afternoon. Relations are evidently strained to a very dangerous point, and the worst is feared. IV. The situation has appreciably improved, and the controversy has been narrowed down to the use or omission of the word "illegality." The American Government insist that Germany should admit the illegality of the torpedoing of the _Lusitania_, but for this Germany is not yet prepared, though she is willing to make a formal expression of regret at the death of American citizens, whom, she is ready to declare, she did not intend to destroy. Colonel ROOSEVELT spoke last night at the dinner of the Associated Progressive Manufacturers. He said no touch of infancy or feebleness had been omitted by the present Administration in their conduct of negotiations with Germany. They had performed the miracle of causing every true American to blush for his country. When you met a rattlesnake you didn't waste time in arguing with it or flattering it. Your duty was to shoot it or knock it on the head, or, preferably, to employ both methods in order to rid the world of a danger. At this vigorous denunciation the whole audience rose and cheered for a quarter of an hour. V. The situation is easier. Count BERNSTORFF has declared in an interview that the German Government is prepared to accept the American formula if the word "legality" be substituted for the word "illegality." Germany would thus admit the legality of the torpedoing of the _Lusitania_ and express regret at the death of American citizens. Count BERNSTORFF points out that Germany has thus gone very far towards meeting the American demand. He hopes and believes that two great civilized nations will not fall out over so small a matter as the use or omission of the two letters _i_, _l_, at the beginning of a long word. VI. Mr. LANSING has in a polite note expressed himself unable to accept Count BERNSTORFF'S offer as a full satisfaction of America's demands. The sands are evidently running out, and there is serious danger of the negotiations proving abortive. In the meantime a sharp Note has been addressed to England in regard to her interference with American commerce. Six munition works were yesterday blown up. The outrage is attributed to Germans. President WILSON is carefully considering his action. * * * * * [Illustration: THE ARMLET IN BORRIBODABOO. _The Old Man._ "THIS HOT SPELL MAKES ME GLAD THAT I'M TOO OLD TO ATTEST."] * * * * * The "Lusitania" Crisis. "The Vienna Correspondence Bureau emphasises the gravity of the situation, and says that the negotiations are interrupted. This interruption, it is added, is as it came from the cow." _Yorkshire Post._ Not, as you might have expected, from the WOLFF. * * * * * "To prevent the eyes watering when peeling onions, let the tap drip on them. This keeps the fumes from rising, and if wanted for frying they can easily be dried in a cloth afterwards."--_The Matron._ Thanks, but we hardly ever want to fry our eyes. * * * * * "The Primate had the novel and undesirable experience of being shelled by the enemy, one shell in fact bursting within twenty-five yards of him. The arrangements for this part of his visit were mostly made by the Rev. ----, C.F."--_Northern Whig._ Humorous fellows, these Army chaplains. * * * * * "FOR SALE.--Imported, fresh arrival of Japanese Poodles, very handsome, with a long silken hair, smart, and pick up anything taught. Rs. 200 per pair."--_Times of India._ "And beauty draws us with a single hair." * * * * * "What would he say to a chemist who could not translate a common tag--for example, rem tetigisti acer?"--_Morning Paper._ We give it up, like the chemist. * * * * * "GENERAL (good, refined) for modern non-basement clergyman's house."--_Daily Chronicle._ The reverend gentleman does not mention his ecclesiastical views; but we gather that he is not an Arian. * * * * * [Illustration: OUR VILLAGE ENTERTAINMENT. _Boy_ (_explaining_). "YOU SEE, AUNTIE, THE FELLER THAT'S GOING OUT HAS GOT A GRUDGE AGAINST THE OTHER CHAP."] * * * * * RAILWAY RHYMES. WHEN books are pow'rless to beguile And papers only stir my bile, For solace and relief I flee To _Bradshaw_ or the _A. B. C._, And find the best of recreations In studying the names of stations. There is not much among the _A_'s To prompt enthusiastic praise, But _B_ is infinitely better, And there are gems in ev'ry letter. The only fault I have with Barnack Is that it rhymes with Dr. HARNACK; Barbon, Beluncle Halt, Bodorgan Resound like chords upon the organ, And there's a spirit blithe and merry In Evercreech and Egloskerry. Park Drain and Counter Drain, I'm sure, Are hygienically pure, But when æsthetically viewed They seem to me a little crude. I often long to visit Frant, Hose, Little Kimble and Lelant; And, if I had sufficient dollars, Sibley's (for Chickney) and Neen Sollars; Shustoke and Smeeth my soul arride And likewise Sholing, Sole Street, Shide, But I'm afraid my speech might go Awry on reaching Spooner Row. In serious mood I often bend My thoughts to Ponder and his End, And when I'm feeling dull and down The very name of Tibshelf Town Rejoices me, while Par and Praze And Pylle and Quy promote amaze. Of all the Straths, a numerous host, Strathbungo pleases me the most, While I can court reluctant slumber By murmuring thy name, Stogumber. Were I beginning life anew From Swadlincote I'd take my cue, But shun as I would shun the scurvy The perilous atmosphere of Turvey. But though the tuneful name of Horbling Incites to further doggerel warbling, And Gallions, Goonbell, Gamlingay Are each deserving of a lay, No railway bard is worth his salt Who cannot bear to call a "Halt." * * * * * Encouraging. "WANTED, GIRL; farmhouse; last lived two years."--_Devon and Exeter Gazette._ * * * * * The Pinch of War. "Mr. ---- is having his first show of well-known English Corsets, made specially for him."--_Provincial Paper._ * * * * * Getting Off Cheaply. "Mark then explained to the police that they had been 'had.' He was promptly arrested for falsely representing himself as a deserter and to-day was fined 0s." _Evening Paper._ Judging by the small value attached to him he might have been the German mark. * * * * * "LOST, in Annfield, Newhaven, boy's bicycle (three-wheeled); if found in any person's possession after this date will be prosecuted." _Edinburgh Evening News._ For unlawful acquisition of the extra wheel, we presume. * * * * * From a shop-girl's account of the great War:-- "I shall never forget the Saturday before that Bank Holiday if I live till I draw my last breath."--_Daily Mirror._ She ought to have a fair chance of this. * * * * * "Sir Edward Grey has all manner of fine and beautiful ideals to which we lay no claim. But the fairy step-mother who was so prodigal over his cradle yet denied him one gift." _Morning Paper._ Still, it takes an exceptional man to have a step-mother at birth, fairy or other. * * * * * AT THE PLAY. "CAROLINE." A BABY, did he but know it, is only happy reaching out from the bath for the soap. When he gets it, lo! it is mere froth and bitterness. That, roughly, is Mr. MAUGHAM'S idea in _Caroline_. If you are to love a woman, for heaven's sake, says he, take care that she be safe bound beyond your reach. All attainment is dead-sea fruit. But how is anyone to believe this depressing sort of doctrine when the woman in question is such an engaging divinity as his _Caroline Ashley_, interpreted by Miss IRENE VANBRUGH at the very top of her form? The doctrine, indeed, may be hanged for the nefarious half-truth it is; but this would still leave you free to appreciate one of the most brilliant and finished pieces of work which Mr. MAUGHAM has yet done for the stage. True, it is merely an airy trifle; but it is almost perfect of its kind. The action opens on the morning of the announcement in _The Times_ of the death of _Caroline's_ extremely difficult husband, who has long been a wanderer seeking spirituous consolations in out-of-the-way places of the earth. _Robert Oldham_, a quite delightful barrister (Mr. LEONARD BOYNE; so you will understand the "delightful"), has worshipped _Caroline_ with an honourable fidelity for ten years, waiting patiently for the day on which she shall be free. Well, here is the long-desired day. Affectionate, officious friends come to congratulate each of the pair before they meet, and each confesses to a curious chilling sense of dread. When the embarrassing moment of the _téte-à-téte_ arrives, _Robert_, obviously ill-at-ease and apparently more as a matter of duty than of eager conviction, suggests that _Caroline_ shall name the day. She gives him a blank refusal. Both affect dismay at this queer ending of their long-deferred hopes, but eventually confess, mid peals of their own happy laughter, their actual relief. So ends the first chapter. A later hour of the same day finds our heroine on her sofa, languid from the morning's emotions, and indulging in the luxury of not feeling at all well. Her world is crumbling. She cannot do without a slave, and _Robert_ can no longer fill quite the old _rôle_. Clearly a matter for counsel with her physician and friend, _Dr. Cornish_ (Mr. DION BOUCICAULT), who pleasantly diagnoses middle-age and prescribes a young adorer, than which no advice could be more nicely calculated to restore her lost feeling of queenly complacency. She sends for young _Rex Cunningham_ (Mr. MARTIN LEWIS), a morbid egoist, who nourishes a hopeless passion for her (and others), being well aware of the paramount claims of _Robert_. She contrives to let him know that she is free, and the youth, whose pet hobby is hopeless passion, at once sheers off in alarm. _Caroline_ is learning--is beginning to understand the dark philosophy of Mr. SOMERSET MAUGHAM. In despair she again turns to _Robert_. They become engaged and promptly begin quarrelling about their houses. He objects to her Futurist bathroom; she to his, which is so like a tube station that she would bathe in constant apprehension of the sudden appearance of a young man demanding tickets. _Robert_ begins to assert his masculine rights to control these and sundry matters. She realises (oh, venerable gag of the cynics!) that the fetters which would unite their bodies would put a barrier between their souls. The engagement is by mutual consent declared off. Realising, however, in Chapter III., that she needs _Robert's_ devotion more than anything else, she conceives a plot. _Dr. Cornish_ makes an opportune call, not this time as a doctor, but as a whole-hearted admirer. With just such an one for my husband, thinks _Caroline_, _Robert_ could again assume his accustomed part of loyal friend and incense-bearer. She accordingly proposes. Appreciating the difficulty of directly refusing without discourtesy, he temporises and appears to fall in with her suggestion that he shall announce their engagement to _Robert_ and her interfering friends, who are promptly telephoned for to hear an interesting statement. But _Cornish_ proves himself a WOLFF in sheep's clothing. Instead of announcing the engagement he asserts that he has just seen _Stephen Ashley_, the husband: a lie which obtains credence with the others because of the dead man's amiable habit of occasionally putting about a rumour of his decease. _Caroline_, with superb presence of mind, seeing a glorious way out of a dilemma, adopts the lie, contrives a more or less plausible explanation, and thus establishes the _status quo ante_--the grass widow with the faithful and contented adorer. The play, whose only flaw was a certain rather upsetting ambiguity (whether accidental or designed I could not quite gather) in the last few sentences before the curtain fell, was interpreted with a very fine intelligence. Miss IRENE VANBRUGH'S superbly trained talent showed itself in an astonishing range of moods tethered in a plausible unity of conception. Mr. BOYNE, who is just coming into his own, scored bull after bull. Perhaps he didn't make _Oldham_ quite the Englishman that the author (I should say) designed, but rather an Irishman of that delightfully faint flavour which is so entirely attractive. Miss LILLAH MACARTHY, as _Maude Fulton_, a well-preserved bachelor in the most bizarre modern mode, also a dexterous liar and officious matchmaker, played with her head in her most accomplished manner and gave full value in the general scheme to a character which the author made a person when he might have been content with a peg. Mr. DION BOUCICAULT'S physician was as bland a humbug as ever coined guineas in Mayfair. Mr. MARTIN LEWIS, as a profoundly silly ass, played a difficult hand without fault. Miss NINA SEVENING, as a consoler of handsome men in trouble, and Miss FLORENCE LLOYD, as _Caroline's_ maid, competently rounded off in subsidiary _rôles_ the work of the principals. Yes, undoubtedly a brilliant performance. T. [Illustration: BLIGHTED TROTH. _Caroline Ashley_ . . . . . . . Miss IRENE VANBRUGH. _Robert Oldham_ . . . . . . . Mr. LEONARD BOYNE.] * * * * * [Illustration: _Huntsman._ "GIVE US A BIT O' ROOM! YOU WAS NEARLY IN MY POCKET THAT TIME." _Flat-race Jockey._ "ROOM? WHY, I WAS NEARLY HALF A LENGTH BEHIND YOU."] * * * * * OUR BOOKING-OFFICE. (_By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerics._) THE evolution of the long novel appears to be following that of the human race. Instead of the individual, the family now threatens to become the central unit. I confess that this prospect, as evidenced by _Three Pretty Men_ (METHUEN), fills me with some just apprehension. Mr. GILBERT CANNAN has set out to tell how a Scotch family, three brothers, a mother, and some sisters in the background, determines to make its fortune in a South Lancashire city (very recognisable under the name of _Thrigsby_), and how eventually all but one of them succeed. It is a long book and a close; and the dialogue (which of its kind is good dialogue, crisp and illuminating), being printed without the usual spacing, produces an indigestible-looking page that might well alarm a reader out for enjoyment. The book, in its record of the progress of the three, _Jamie_ and _Tom_ and _John_, is really more a study of social conditions in mid-Victorian Manchester than a work of imagination. But there is clever character-drawing in it, especially in _Jamie_, who from a worldly point of view is the failure of the group, making no money, and drifting through journalism to emigration; and in the finely suggested figure of _Tibby_, the ill-favoured kitchen drudge, who is his real centre of inspiration. But first and last it remains a dull business, partly from an entire lack of humour, partly from the absence of any settled plan that might help one to endure the dreariness of the setting. Mr. CANNAN certainly knows his subject, and few novels indeed have given me, rightly or wrongly, a greater suggestion of autobiography. But for once the art of being exhaustive without being exhausting seems to have eluded him. * * * * * If you want really to get a picture of war as she is waged by an obscure unit in the thick of the dirtiest, dampest and most depressing part, read PATRICK MACGILL'S _The Red Horizon_ (JENKINS). Here we meet the author of _The Children of the Dead End_ and _The Rat Pit_ as Rifleman 3008 of the London Irish, involved in the grim routine of the firing line--reliefs, diggings and repairs, sentry-go's, stand-to's, reserves, working and covering parties, billets; and so _da capo_. With a rare artistic intuition, instead of diffusing his effects in a riot of general impressions, he has confined himself to a record of the doings of his section, and I have read nothing that gives anything near so convincing an impression of the truth, at once splendid and bitter. It is a privilege to be shown, through the medium of an imaginative temperament, the fine comradeship of the trenches, the heroism that shines through the haunting fear of death, mostly conquered with a laugh, but sometimes frankly expressed in the pathetic desire for a "blighty" wound--a wound just serious enough to send the envied hero home. You won't get much of the Romance of War out of this strong piece of work, except the jolly sort of romance of the little Cockney, _Bill_, who, when the regiment in reserve was crouching in the trench under heavy shelling, cheered it by delivering himself characteristically as follows: "If I kick the bucket don't put a cross with ''E died for 'is King and Country' over me. A bully beef tin at my 'ead will do, and--''E died doin' fatigues on an empty stomach.'" * * * * * If you were the hero of a novel, the only possible mate for the heroine, and, in short, taking you all round, an important sort of person, would you not consider yourself hardly treated if you were not allowed to make the girl's acquaintance till page 311, when you knew there were to be only three hundred and thirty-two pages in the book? I disagree entirely with _Roger Quinn_, in Miss BEATRICE KELSTON'S _The Blows of Circumstance_ (LONG), when, reviewing the affair, he writes to a friend: "It's amazing that we fell short of perfect understanding." My opinion is that _Roger_ did extremely well in the little time he was given. Of course he had conducted the case for the Crown when she was in the dock, charged with murder, and that formed a sort of bond between them; but even so I don't see how he could have got much nearer to a complete understanding, considering that the girl dashed off and committed suicide almost before he could get a word in. If my enjoyment of _The Blows of Circumstance_ waned towards the end and the book seemed to me to lose grip, it was because the sudden discovery on the part of _Quinn_ and _Amalie Gayne_ that they were soul-mates was too sudden to convince me. Up to the beginning of the trial the story has vigour and an air of probability, with its careful building-up of _Amalie's_ curious character and the vivid description of her life on the stage and off it in the society of a drug-taking husband; but from that point on it seemed to me to fail. In real life all might have happened just as it is set down, but real life is sloppily constructed. A novel must obey more rigid rules. Miss KELSTON writes extremely well, if a trifle too gloomily for my personal taste, but she cannot afford to ignore the laws of construction and hurl her big situation at the reader with an abrupt "Take it or leave it!" * * * * * For _Thirteen Stories_ I've nought but praise, Although you'll find when you overhaul them They're best described, in the author's phrase, As "sketches, studies or what do you call them?" Per DUCKWORTH forward and back you trek; You may book right through or choose between a Peep at Perim or Chapultepec, Sahara, Hampstead or Argentina. You may halt, if you will, at phalansteries, Where Mescaleros on maturangos Eat or drink (whichever it is) Baked tortillas and twang changangos. Suchlike things come easy as pie To the author, Mr. CUNNINGHAME GRAHAM, And I quite like 'em so long as I Have only to read and not to say 'em. * * * * * If 'tis love that makes the world go round, it is certainly the same force that maintains the circulation of the libraries. So it is safe to assume that such a title as _The Little Blind God_ (MELROSE) is itself enough to preserve the volume that bears it from any wallflower existence on the less frequented shelves. But as for the story to which Miss ANNE WEAVER has given this attractive name I find it very difficult to say anything, good or bad. Only once did its placid unfolding cause me any emotion, even the mildest. Old _Lady Conyers_ had adopted as companion one _Mistress Barbara Cardeen_ (need I interpolate that the time is the eighteenth century? O brocade and lavender! O swords and candle-light and general tushery!), whom she found playing a violin in the streets of Bath--I should say _the_ Bath; let us above all things be atmospheric! As her ladyship had a most eligible son, and as _Barbara_--the chit!--naturally hadn't a guinea, I own I was slightly astonished to find the dowager positively hurling the young couple at each other's heads. However, doubtless _Lady Conyers_, as herself a novel-reader, knew that the thing was inevitable anyway. But before this there were of course the misunderstandings. _Mistress Barbara_ had, in the violin days, a half-brother and this gentleman very obligingly turns up _incognito_ at Conyers End, and even goes to the expense of hiring rooms in a cottage on the estate, for no other purpose in life than that his conspicuously clandestine meetings with the fair _Barbara_ should be misconstrued as an assignation. Ha! out, rapiers! and let us be ready for the moment when _Barbara_, rushing between the combatants, receives in her own bosom the blade intended for ----, etc. But of course not enough blade to endanger the happy ending. So there you are. A placid, undistinguished tale, that may be commended as nourishment or soporific according to the taste and fancy of the reader. * * * * * [Illustration: ANOTHER EXAMPLE OF PRUSSIAN EFFRONTERY. _Officer of Zeppelin_ (_in perfect English._) "WOULD YOU KINDLY DIRECT ME TO THE WAR OFFICE?"] * * * * * An Optimist. "Gentlewoman, bright, owing to War, offers Companionship in Return for hospitality, laundry, and travelling expenses." _Morning Paper._ * * * * * "An attack on the compulsory vice bill now before the House of Lords was made by the president of the conference, William C. Anderson."--_New York Globe._ Our American contemporary is misinformed. The measure in question seeks to make virtue compulsory--the virtue of patriotism. * * * * * "The following French official communiqué was issued this afternoon:--3.25.--Bouton Rouge 1, Dordogne 2, Kitch 3. Eight ran."--_Evening Times and Echo._ We are sorry that K. OF K. didn't do better.

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:30.775991

23332

E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Anne Storer, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original lovely illustrations. See 23332-h.htm or 23332-h.zip: (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/3/3/23332/23332-h/23332-h.htm) or (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/3/3/23332/23332-h.zip) GREETINGS FROM LONGFELLOW [Illustration] Copyright 1907 Cupples & Leon Co. New York * * * * * Sail on, O Ship of State! Sail on, O Union, strong and great! Humanity with all its fears, With all the hopes of future years, Is hanging breathless on thy fate! We know what Master laid thy keel, What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, What anvils rang, what hammers beat, In what a forge and what a heat Were shaped the anchors of thy hope! Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 'T is of the wave and not the rock; 'T is but the flapping of the sail, And not a rent made by the gale! In spite of rock and tempest's roar, In spite of false lights on the shore, Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee, Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, Our faith triumphant o'er our fears, Are all with thee--are all with thee! [Illustration] SOMETHING LEFT UNDONE. Labor with what zeal we will, Something still remains undone, Something uncompleted still Waits the rising of the sun. By the bedside, on the stair, At the threshold, near the gates, With its menace or its prayer, Like a mendicant it waits; Waits, and will not go away; Waits, and will not be gainsaid; By the cares of yesterday Each to-day is heavier made; Till at length the burden seems Greater than our strength can bear, Heavy as the weight of dreams, Pressing on us everywhere. And we stand from day to day, Like the dwarfs of times gone by, Who, as Northern legends say, On their shoulders held the sky. [Illustration] THE LADDER OF ST. AUGUSTINE. Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Beneath our feet each deed of shame! All common things, each day's events, That with the hour begin and end, Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend. We have not wings, we cannot soar; But we have feet to scale and climb By slow degrees, by more and more, The cloudy summits of our time. The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight, But they, while their companions slept, Were toiling upwards in the night. Nor deem the irrevocable Past, As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something nobler we attain. [Illustration] EVANGELINE. "Gabriel! O my beloved!" Then he beheld, in a dream, once more the home of his childhood; Green Acadian meadows, with sylvan rivers among them, Village, and mountain, and woodlands; and, walking under their shadow, As in the days of her youth, Evangeline rose in his vision. Tears came into his eyes; and as slowly he lifted his eyelids, Vanished the vision away, but Evangeline knelt by his bedside. Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have spoken. Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him, Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom. Sweet was the light of his eyes; but it suddenly sank into darkness, As when a lamp is blown out by a gust of wind at a casement. All was ended now, the hope, and the fear, and the sorrow, All the aching of heart, the restless, unsatisfied longing. All the dull, deep pain, and constant anguish of patience! And, as she pressed once more the lifeless head to her bosom, Meekly she bowed her own, and murmured, "Father, I thank thee!" [Illustration] O little feet! that such long years Must wander on through hopes and fears, Must ache and bleed beneath your load; I, nearer to the wayside inn Where toil shall cease and rest begin, Am weary, thinking of your road! O little hands! that, weak or strong, Have still to serve or rule so long, Have still so long to give or ask; I, who so much with book and pen Have toiled among my fellow-men, Am weary, thinking of your task. O little hearts! that throb and beat With such impatient, feverish heat, Such limitless and strong desires; Mine that so long has glowed and burned, With passions into ashes turned Now covers and conceals its fires. O little souls! as pure and white And crystalline as rays of light Direct from heaven, their source divine; Refracted through the mist of years, How red my setting sun appears, How lurid looks this soul of mine! [Illustration] THE SINGERS. God sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again. The first, a youth with soul of fire, Held in his hand a golden lyre; Through groves he wandered, and by streams, Playing the music of our dreams. The second, with a bearded face, Stood singing in the market-place, And stirred with accents deep and loud The hearts of all the listening crowd. A gray old man, the third and last, Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, While the majestic organ rolled Contrition from its mouths of gold. [Illustration] And those who heard the Singers three Disputed which the best might be; For still their music seemed to start Discordant echoes in each heart. But the great Master said, "I see No best in kind, but in degree; I gave a various gift to each, To charm, to strengthen and to teach. "These are the three great chords of might, And he whose ear is tuned aright Will hear no discord in the three, But the most perfect harmony." [Illustration]

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2024-05-14T13:06:30.782910

23333

E-text prepared by Inka Weide, Constanze Hofmann, Markus Brenner, and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (https://www.pgdp.net) Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this file which includes the original illustrations. See 23333-h.htm or 23333-h.zip: (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/3/3/23333/23333-h/23333-h.htm) or (https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/3/3/3/23333/23333-h.zip) Anmerkung zur Transkription: Mit _Unterstrichen_ gekennzeichnete Textstellen sind im Original gesperrt gedruckt. Offensichtliche Druckfehler im Text wurden korrigiert, die Schreibweise ansonsten aber wie im Original belassen. Insbesondere Eigen- und Ortsnamen sind innerhalb des Buches teilweise inkonsistent. Diese wurden in der jeweiligen Form belassen. [Illustration: Schicksal und Abenteuer] Lebensdokumente vergangener Jahrhunderte 2 Ein Mann [Illustration] Joachim Nettelbeck. 1738 bis 1824 Gneisenau über Nettelbeck: Es ist wohltuend, in einer Zeit, wo oft Kleinmut die Herzen beschleicht, das Bild eines Mannes aufstellen zu können, der im alten deutschen Sinne und Mut Millionen seiner Zeitgenossen voransteht Ein Mann Des Seefahrers und aufrechten Bürgers Joachim Nettelbeck wundersame Lebensgeschichte von ihm selbst erzählt [Illustration] Wilhelm Langewiesche-Brandt Ebenhausen bei München 1910 Neithardt von Gneisenau der Kommandant der Festung Kolberg, deren ruhmreiche Verteidigung einen der interessantesten Abschnitte dieses Buches bildet, 1760 geboren, hatte schon in einem zu Erfurt garnisonierenden österreichischen und danach in einem der Regimenter des Markgrafen von Ansbach-Bayreuth gedient, die in englischem Solde in und gegen Amerika kämpften, als Friedrich der Große ihn 1786 als Premierleutnant in die preußische Armee aufnahm. In dem Jahre des preußischen Zusammenbruches 1806 hatte er an den Schlachten bei Saalfeld und Jena teilgenommen. Nach dem die Belagerung Kolbergs endenden Tilsiter Frieden berief ihn Friedrich Wilhelm III. als Chef des Ingenieurkorps in die Reorganisationskommission, wo er mit Stein und Scharnhorst unermüdlich für die Wiedergeburt des Staates wirkte. Von der französischen Partei verdächtigt, erbat er nach Steins Entlassung den Abschied und lebte in England, Schweden und Rußland, sowie als einer der Führer der Kriegspartei in Berlin, bis er 1813 zum Generalquartiermeister des Blücherschen Korps und nach Scharnhorsts Tode zum Chef des Generalstabes der schlesischen Armee ernannt ward. Energisch, kühn und zielbewußt, gewann Gneisenau an den großen Siegen der deutschen Freiheitskriege entscheidenden Anteil. Er starb 1831 in Posen an der Cholera. Ferdinand von Schill 1776 geboren, war 1806, als preußischer Dragonerleutnant bei Auerstedt verwundet, nach Kolberg gekommen, an dessen Verteidigung er mit einem Freikorps tapfer teilnahm. Nach dem Tilsiter Frieden ernannte ihn der König zum Major und Kommandeur des Leibhusarenregiments. Mit diesem rückte er, nachdem die Österreicher den Franzosen den Krieg erklärt hatten, am 28. April 1809 eigenmächtig ins Feld. Nach anfänglichen Erfolgen mußte er sich nach Stralsund zurückziehen, wo er, von Holländern und Dänen mit Übermacht angegriffen, am 31. Mai mit den meisten der Seinen fiel. Erster Teil Am 20. September 1738 ward ich zu _Kolberg_ geboren und bekam dann den Taufnamen _Joachim_. Mein Vater, Johann David Nettelbeck, war hier Brauer und Branntweinbrenner und stand bei der Bürgerschaft in besonderer Liebe und Anhänglichkeit. Dies Glück ist mir von ihm übererbt, und ich genieße es noch jetzt, in meinem Alter, bei meinen lieben Mitbürgern. Meine Mutter war aus des Schiffers Blanken Geschlecht. Auch meiner beiden Paten -- nämlich der Kaufleute Herren Lorenz Runge und Grüneberg -- muß ich hier dankbar erwähnen, weil so manche ihrer väterlich gemeinten Vorstellungen und was sie mir sonst Gutes eingeprägt, bei mir einen Eindruck gemacht, der mich durch mein ganzes Leben begleitet hat. Seit ich kaum das Alter von dreiviertel Jahren erreicht, bin ich bei meinen Großeltern väterlicherseits erzogen worden; aber sobald ich habe lallen können, stand auch mein Sinn darauf, ein Schiffer zu werden. Dies mag wohl daher kommen, daß mir dergleichen oftmals vorgeplaudert worden. Mein Hang dazu trieb mich so gewaltig, daß ich aus jedem Holzspan, aus jedem Stückchen Baumrinde, was mir in die Hände fiel, kleine Schiffchen schnitzelte, sie mit Segeln von Feder oder Papier ausrüstete, und damit auf Rinnsteinen und Teichen oder auf der Persante hantierte. Meines Vaters Bruder war Schiffer; und keine größere Freude gab es für mich, als wenn er mit seinem Schiffe hier im Hafen lag. Dann hatte ich zu Hause keine Ruhe, sondern bat, man möchte mich nach der Münde lassen. Oh, welch ein vergnügtes Leben, wenn ich auf dem Schiffe war und mit den Schiffsleuten in ihrer Arbeit herumsprang! Nicht viel geringer war meine Liebe und Freude am Gartenwesen, denn auch mein Großvater war ein sonderlicher Gartenfreund, nahm mich beständig mit in seinen Garten, gab mir sogar ein klein Fleckchen Land zum Eigentum und ließ mich sehen und lernen, was zur Gartenarbeit gehörte. Hier legte ich Obstkerne; ich verpflanzte, ich pfropfte und okulierte; ich begoß und pflegte meine Gewächse. Meine Kernstämmchen wuchsen heran, und sieben von diesen selbstgezogenen Bäumen sind noch (wie sehr es mir auch um sie leid tat, da ich jetzt der Besitzer des nämlichen Gartens bin) in der letzten französischen Belagerung umgehauen worden. An dieses kleine, aber für mich unschätzbare Grundstück, dessen Pflege noch in diesem Augenblicke die Freude meines Alters ausmacht, heften sich ein paar meiner frühesten und lebendigsten Erinnerungen. * * * * * Ich mochte wohl ein Bürschchen von fünf oder sechs Jahren sein und noch in meinen ersten Höschen stecken (also etwa um das Jahr 1743 oder 44), als es hier bei uns, und im Lande weit umher, eine so schrecklich knappe und teure Zeit gab, daß viele Menschen vor Hunger starben, denn der Scheffel Roggen kostete einen Taler acht Groschen. Es kamen, von landeinwärts her, viele arme Leute nach Kolberg, die ihre kleinen hungrigen Würmer auf Schiebkarren mit sich brachten, um Korn von hier zu holen, weil man Getreideschiffe in unserem Hafen erwartete, die der grausamen Not steuern sollten. Alle Straßen bei uns lagen voll von diesen unglücklichen ausgehungerten Menschen. Meine Großmutter, bei der ich, wie schon gesagt, erzogen ward, ließ täglich mehrere Körbe voll Grünkohl in unserm Garten pflücken, kochte einen Kessel voll nach dem andern für unsere verschmachtenden Gäste, und _mir_ ward das gern übernommene Ehrenämtchen zuteil, ihnen diese Speise in kleinen Schüsselchen nebst einer Brotschnitte zuzutragen. Da rissen mir denn Alte und Junge meinen Napf begierig aus der Hand, oder auch wohl einander vor dem Munde weg. Ich kann nicht aussprechen, welch einen schauderhaften Eindruck diese Szene auf meine kindliche Seele machte. Endlich langte ein Schiff mit Roggen auf der Reede an, dem sich tausend sehnsüchtige Augen und Herzen entgegenrichteten. Aber, o Jammer! beim Einlaufen in den Hafen stieß es gegen eine Steinküste des Hafendammes und nahm so beträchtlichen Schaden, daß es, im Strome selbst, nur wenige hundert Schritte weiter, der Münder Vogtei gegenüber, in den Grund sank. Sollte die kostbare Ladung nicht ganz verloren sein, so mußten schleunige Anstalten getroffen werden, das verunglückte Fahrzeug wieder über Wasser zu bringen. Dazu wurden dann zwei Schiffe benutzt, die eben auch im Hafen lagen, und wovon das eine von meines Vaters Bruder geführt ward. So war ich denn auch bei diesem Emporwinden, an welchem ich eine kindische Freude hatte, beständig zugegen; ward mitunter auch wohl als unnütz und hinderlich beiseite geschoben, und habe darüber all diese einzelnen Umstände nur um so besser im Gedächtnisse behalten. Ging nun gleich das Wiederflottmachen des Schiffes glücklich vonstatten, so war doch das Korn durchnäßt, zum Vermahlen untüchtig und die Hoffnung all der darauf vertrösteten Menschen vereitelt. Die Kolberger Bürger kauften den beschädigten Roggen um ein Viertel des geltenden Marktpreises, und da mein Vater damals königlicher Kornmesser im Orte war, so ging auf diese Weise die ganze geborgene Ladung durch seine Hände. Jeder suchte mit seinem Kauf so gut als möglich zurechtzukommen und ihn aufs schnellste zu trocknen. Alle Straßen waren auf diese Weise mit Laken und Schürzen überdeckt, auf welchen das Getreide der Luft und Sonne ausgesetzt wurde. Kurze Zeit darauf erschien ein zweites großes Kornschiff; und nun ward es endlich möglich, die fremde Armut zu befriedigen. Im nächstfolgenden Jahre erhielt Kolberg, durch des großen Friedrichs versorgende Güte, ein Geschenk, das damals hierzulande noch völlig unbekannt war. Ein großer Frachtwagen nämlich voll Kartoffeln langte auf dem Markte an; und durch Trommelschlag in der Stadt und auf den Vorstädten erging die Bekanntmachung, daß jeder Gartenbesitzer sich zu einer bestimmten Stunde vor dem Rathause einzufinden habe, indem des Königs Majestät ihm eine besondere Wohltat zugedacht habe. Man ermißt leicht, wie alles in stürmische Bewegung geriet, und das nur um so mehr, je weniger man wußte, was es mit diesem Geschenke zu bedeuten habe. Die Herren vom Rate zeigten nunmehr der versammelten Menge die neue Frucht vor, die hier noch keiner gesehen hatte. Daneben ward eine umständliche Anweisung verlesen, wie diese Kartoffeln gepflanzt und bewirtschaftet, desgleichen wie sie gekocht und zubereitet werden sollten. Besser freilich wäre es gewesen, wenn man eine solche geschriebene oder gedruckte Instruktion gleich mit verteilt hätte; denn nun achteten in dem Getümmel die wenigsten auf jene Vorlesung. Dagegen nahmen die guten Leute die hochgepriesenen Knollen verwundert in die Hände, rochen, schmeckten und leckten dran; kopfschüttelnd bot sie ein Nachbar dem andern; man brach sie voneinander und warf sie den gegenwärtigen Hunden vor, die dran herumschnupperten und sie gleichmäßig verschmähten. Nun war ihnen das Urteil gesprochen! »Die Dinger«, hieß es, »riechen nicht und schmecken nicht, und nicht einmal die Hunde mögen sie fressen. Was wäre uns damit geholfen?« -- Am allgemeinsten war dabei der Glaube, daß sie zu Bäumen heranwüchsen, von welchen man zu seiner Zeit ähnliche Früchte herabschüttle. Alles dies ward auf dem Markte, dicht vor meiner Eltern Türe, verhandelt; gab auch mir genug zu denken und zu verwundern und hat sich darum auch, bis aufs Jota, in meinem Gedächtnisse erhalten. Inzwischen ward des Königs Wille vollzogen und seine Segensgabe unter die anwesenden Garteneigentümer ausgeteilt, nach Verhältnis ihrer Besitzungen, jedoch so, daß auch die Geringeren nicht unter einigen Metzen ausgingen. Kaum irgend jemand hatte die erteilte Anweisung zu ihrem Anbau recht begriffen. Wer sie also nicht geradezu in seiner getäuschten Erwartung auf den Kehrichthaufen warf, ging doch bei der Auspflanzung so verkehrt wie möglich zu Werke. Einige steckten sie hier und da einzeln in die Erde, ohne sich weiter um sie zu kümmern; andere (und darunter war auch meine liebe Großmutter mit ihrem ihr zugefallenen Viert) glaubten das Ding noch klüger anzugreifen, wenn sie diese Kartoffeln beisammen auf einen Haufen schütteten und mit etwas Erde bedeckten. Da wuchsen sie nun zu einem dichten Filz ineinander; und ich sehe noch oft in meinem Garten nachdenklich den Fleck drauf an, wo solchergestalt die gute Frau hierin ihr erstes Lehrgeld gab. Nun mochten aber wohl die Herren vom Rat gar bald in Erfahrung gebracht haben, daß es unter den Empfängern viele lose Verächter gegeben, die ihren Schatz gar nicht einmal der Erde anvertraut hätten. Darum ward in den Sommermonaten durch den Ratsdiener und Feldwächter eine allgemeine und strenge Kartoffel-Schau veranstaltet und den widerspenstig Befundenen eine kleine Geldbuße aufgelegt. Das gab wiederum ein großes Geschrei und diente auch eben nicht dazu, der neuen Frucht an den Bestraften bessere Gönner und Freunde zu erwecken. Das Jahr nachher erneuerte der König seine wohltätige Spende durch eine ähnliche Ladung. Allein diesmal verfuhr man dabei höheren Orts auch zweckmäßiger, indem zugleich ein Landreiter mitgeschickt wurde, der, als ein geborner Schwabe (sein Name war Eilert, und seine Nachkommen dauern noch in Treptow fort), des Kartoffelbaues kundig und den Leuten bei der Auspflanzung behilflich war und ihre weitere Pflege besorgte. So kam also diese neue Frucht zuerst ins Land und hat seitdem, durch immer vermehrten Anbau, kräftig gewehrt, daß nie wieder eine Hungersnot so allgemein und drückend bei uns hat um sich greifen können. Dennoch erinnere ich mich gar wohl, daß ich erst volle vierzig Jahre später (1785) bei Stargard, zu meiner angenehmen Verwunderung, die ersten Kartoffeln im freien Felde ausgesetzt gefunden habe. * * * * * Neben manchen anderen Kindereien war ich auch ein großer Liebhaber von Tauben. Von meinem Frühstücksgelde sparte ich mir so viel am Munde ab, daß ich mir ein Paar kaufen konnte. Das war nun eine Herrlichkeit! Da aber meine Großeltern unter dem Posthause bei Herrn Frauendorf wohnten, so gab es hier keine Gelegenheit, die Tauben ausfliegen zu lassen. Ich machte daher mit dem sogenannten »Postjungen«, Johann Witte (nachherigem Post- und Bankodirektor in Memel), einen Akkord, daß er meine Tauben zu sich nehmen, ich aber täglich eine gewisse Portion Erbsen zum Füttern hergeben sollte, die ich meinen Großeltern leider heimlich in den Taschen wegtrug! Die Tauben vermehrten sich, hinfolglich auch die Futtererbsen. Bei all diesen Spielereien ward (wiederum leider!) die Schule versäumt; ich hatte weder Lust noch Zeit dazu. Wenn meine Großmutter meinte, ich säße fleißig auf der Schulbank, so schiffte ich in Rinnsteinen und Teichen, oder ich verkehrte mit meinen Tauben; und das machte mir so viel zu schaffen, daß ich weder bei Tag noch bei Nacht davor ruhen konnte. Diese unruhige Geschäftigkeit hat mich auch nachmals bei weit wichtigeren Dingen und selbst bis in mein Alter verfolgt. Freilich habe ich mir wohl dabei weniger für mich als für andere meiner Mitmenschen zu tun und zu sorgen gemacht. Einigen Vorschub zu diesen Possen tat mir Pate Runge, der nicht Frau noch Kinder hatte, mich sehr liebte und sich viel mit mir abgab. Endlich aber nahm er mich einmal etwas ernsthafter ins Verhör (wie auch zuweilen von Pate Grüneberg geschah), und gab mir zu bedenken, daß, wenn ich Schiffer werden wollte, so müßte ich auch fleißig in die Schule gehen, eine firme Hand schreiben und gut rechnen lernen, sonst dürft' ich nie an so etwas denken. Mir fuhr das gewaltig aufs Herz. Ich sann nach, was denn wohl von meinem jetzigen Tun und Treiben abgestellt werden müßte? -- Was anders, als meine Tauben, die mir so viel Zeit kosteten und doch so sehr am Herzen lagen! _Wie_ ich's aber auch bedenken mochte, so war es doch nicht anders; ich mußte meine lieben Tierchen fahren lassen, die sich indes ansehnlich vermehrt hatten! Dies geschah denn auch mittels eines förmlichen schriftlichen Kontraktes, wodurch ich den Johann Witte zu ihrem alleinigen Herrn und Besitzer einsetzte. So war ich also meine Tauben los und nun kriegt' ich einen so brennenden Trieb zur Schule, daß mich die Lernbegierde auf Schritt und Tritt verfolgte. Ich wollte und mußte ja ein Schiffer werden! Auch alle meine heiligen Christgeschenke, woran es meine Herren Paten nicht fehlen ließen, hatten immer eine Beziehung auf die Schifferschaft. Bald war es ein runder holländischer Matrosenhut, bald lange Schifferhosen, bald Pfefferkuchen, als Schiffer geformt. * * * * * So mochte es in meinem achten Jahre sein, als Pate Lorenz Runge mir unter anderen Weihnachtsbescherungen auch eine Anweisung zur Steuermannskunst in holländischer Sprache verehrte. Dies Buch machte meine Phantasie so rege, daß ich Tag und Nacht für mich selbst darin studierte, bis mein Vater ein Einsehen hatte und mir bei einem hiesigen Schiffer, namens Neymann, zwei wöchentliche Unterrichtstage in jener edlen Kunst ausmachte. Dagegen blieben die anderen vier Tage noch zum Schreiben und Rechnen bei einem anderen geschickten Lehrer, namens Schütz, bestimmt. Ein Jahr später aber ward die Steuermannskunst die Hauptsache und alles andere in die Neben- und Privatstunden verwiesen. Mein Eifer für diese Sache ging so weit, daß ich im Winter oftmals bei strenger Kälte, wenn des Nachts klarer Himmel war, und wenn meine Eltern glaubten, daß ich im warmen Bette steckte, heimlich auf den Wall und »Die hohe Katze« ging, mit meinen Instrumenten die Entfernung der mir bekannten Sterne vom Horizont oder vom Zenit maß und danach die Polhöhe berechnete. Dann, wenn ich des Morgens erfroren nach Hause kam, verwunderte sich alles über mich und erklärte mich für einen überstudierten Narren. Schlimmer aber war es, daß man mich nun des Abends sorgfältiger bewachte und mich nicht aus dem Hause ließ. Dennoch suchte und fand ich oftmals Gelegenheit, bei Nacht wieder auf meine Sternwarte zu kommen, was mir aber, wenn ich mich morgens wieder einstellte, von meinem Vater manche schwere Ohrfeige einbrachte. Ähnlicher Lohn ward mir auch sonst noch für ähnlichen Eifer! Zu oft hatte ich gehört, daß ein Seemann vor allen Dingen lernen müsse, gut klettern, um die Masten bei Tag und Nacht zu besteigen, als daß ich nicht hätte begierig werden sollen, mich darin beizeiten zu üben. Hierzu fand sich eine erwünschte Gelegenheit durch die nähere Bekanntschaft mit dem Sohne des damaligen Glöckners. Er war in meinen Jahren, hieß David, und wollte auch Schiffer werden. Mit diesem machte ich mich, außer der Schulzeit, auf den Boden der großen Kirche in das Sparrwerk und die Balkenverbindungen bis hoch unter das kupferne Dach hinauf. Hier stiegen und krochen wir überall herum, daß wir uns in der gewaltigen Verzimmerung dieses großen Gebäudes oftmals dergestalt verirrten, daß einer vom andern nichts wußte. Kamen wir dann wieder zusammen, so konnten wir nicht genug erzählen, _wo_ wir gewesen waren und _was_ wir gesehen hatten. Bald ging es nun zu einem Wagestück weiter. Auch in die Spitze des Turmes krochen wir in dem inwendigen Holzverbande hinauf -- so hoch, bis wir uns in dem beengten Raume nicht weiter rühren konnten. Aber eben diese Gewandtheit und Ortskenntnis kam mir in der Folge recht gut zu statten, um hier in der äußersten Spitze, wo ein Wetterstrahl am 28. April 1777 gezündet hatte, das Feuer löschen zu können; wie ich zu seiner Zeit weiter unten erzählen werde. Und nunmehr genügte es uns nicht, bloß innerhalb uns von Balken zu Balken zu schwingen: es sollte auch außerhalb des Gebäudes geklettert werden! So machten wir uns denn auf das kupferne Dach; stiegen bei den Glocken aus den Luken auf das Gerüst; von da auf den First des kupfernen Kirchendaches, und indem wir darauf wie auf einem Pferde ritten, rutschten wir längshin vom Turme bis an den Giebel und auf gleiche Weise wieder zurück. Ein paar Hundert Zuschauer gafften drunten, zu unserer großen Freude, nach uns beiden jungen Waghälsen in die Höhe. Auch mein Vater war, ohne daß ich es wußte, unter dem Haufen gewesen, und so konnte es nicht fehlen, daß mich, bei meiner Heimkunft, für diese Heldentat eine derbe Tracht Schläge erwartete. Aber die Lust zu einem wiederholten Versuche war mir dennoch nicht ausgetrieben worden! Ich lauerte es nur ab, daß mein Vater verreist war, und an einem schönen Sommertage, nachmittags um vier Uhr, als ich der Zucht des Herrn Schütz entlaufen war, konnte ich nicht umhin, meinen lieben Turm wieder zu besuchen. Ein Schulkamerad, David Spärke, eines hiesigen Schiffers Sohn, leistete mir Gesellschaft. Diesen beredete ich, den Ritt auf dem Kirchendache mitzumachen. Zuerst stieg ich aus der Luke auf das Gerüst und von da auf den First des Daches. David Spärke kam mir zuversichtlich nach, da er mich so flink und sicher darauf hantieren sah. Allein kaum war er mir sechs oder acht Fuß nachgeritten, so überfiel ihn plötzlich eine Angst, daß er erbärmlich zu schreien begann, sich zu beiden Seiten an den kupfernen Reifen festklammerte und nicht vor- nicht rückwärts kommen konnte. Ich kehrte mich nach ihm um, kam dicht zu ihm heran; und hier saßen wir nun beide, sahen uns betrübt ins Gesicht und wußten nicht, wo aus noch ein. _Er_ wagte es nicht, sich umzudrehen, _ich_ konnte an ihm nicht vorbeikommen. Dabei hörte er nicht auf, in seiner Seelenangst aus vollem Halse zu schreien. Auf der Straße gab es einen Zusammenlauf und bald auch Hilfe. Denn der alte Glöckner mit seinem Sohne und mehreren anderen kamen auf den Turm und zogen meinen Freund David mit umgeworfenen Leinen rücklings nach dem Gerüste und so vollends in die Luke hinein. Ich aber folgte, wie ein armer Sünder, zitternd und bebend nach. Des nächsten Tages kam mein Vater wieder nach Hause, und da gab es denn, wie zu erwarten war, rechtschaffene, aber verdiente Prügel. Damit aber nicht genug, meinte auch Herr Schütz, mein Lehrer, es müsse hier, der übrigen Schulkameradschaft wegen, noch ein anderweitiges Beispiel zu Nutz und Lehre statuiert werden, und bat sich's bei meinem Vater aus, gleichfalls noch Gericht über mich halten zu dürfen. Das ward ihm gern bewilligt. Meine Strafe bestand in einem dreitägigen Quartiere in dem dunklen Karzer auf dem Schulhofe. Hier ward ich nachmittags, sobald die Schulzeit abgelaufen war, eingesperrt und immer erst morgens um acht Uhr, wo die Schule wieder anging, herausgelassen. Nur mittags durfte ich nach Hause gehen, um zu essen; aber schon in der nächsten Stunde auf meiner Schulbank mich einfinden und um vier Uhr meine traurige Wanderung in die Finsternis wieder antreten. Nächst der Unbequemlichkeit einer einzigen täglichen Mahlzeit bei einem (Gott weiß es) gesegneten Appetite, war's meine größte Qual, daß ich von den andern Schulbuben über mein Abenteuer noch ausgelacht ward. Niemand hatte Mitleid mit meinem Unstern; ausgenommen ein einziges gutherziges Mädchen, die älteste Tochter des Kaufmanns, Herrn Seeland. Wenn ich mich recht entsinne, nannte man sie Dörtchen. Dörtchen also steckte mir den letzten Abend, mit Tränen in den Augen, ihre Semmel zu; konnte es aber nicht so heimlich abtun, daß es nicht von den anderen wäre gesehen und verraten worden. Die Semmel ward mir vom Lehrer wieder abgenommen und konfisziert. _Ich_ weinte; _sie_ weinte; Herr Schütz selbst konnte sich dessen nicht erwehren. Ich bekam meine Semmel zurück: aber bloß -- wie er hinzusetzte -- um das gute Kind zu beruhigen. -- Ich habe nachher, im Jahre 1782 (also nach Verlauf von vierunddreißig Jahren!) die Freude gehabt, dieses nämliche Dörtchen Seeland in Memel wieder anzutreffen. Ihre Eltern waren in ihrem Wohlstande zurückgekommen, den sie damals durch eine Auswanderung nach Rußland zu verbessern hofften. Ich hatte jene Semmel noch nicht vergessen; und es hat mir wohlgetan, sie einigermaßen vergelten zu können. * * * * * Endlich, da ich etwa elf Jahre alt sein mochte, sollte es, zu meiner unsäglichen Freude, Ernst mit meiner künftigen Bestimmung werden. Meines Vaters Bruder nahm mich auf sein Schiff, die Susanna, als Kajüten-Wächter, und so ging meine erste Ausflucht nach Amsterdam. Hier sah ich nun eine Menge großer Schiffe auf dem Y vor Anker liegen, die nach Ost- und West-Indien gehen sollten. Täglich ward auf ihnen mit Trommeln, Pauken und Trompeten musiziert, oder mit Kanonen geschossen. Das machte mir allmählich das Herz groß! Ich dachte: Wer doch auch auf so einem Schiffe fahren könnte! -- und das ging mir nur um so viel mehr im Kopfe herum, als es damals unter all unsern Schiffsleuten, wie ich oft gehört hatte, für einen Glaubensartikel galt: daß, wer nicht von Holland aus auf dergleichen Schiffen gefahren wäre, auch für keinen rechtschaffenen Seemann gelten könnte. Gerade _das_ aber machte ja mein ganzes Sinnen und Denken aus! -- Wirklich findet man bei keiner Nation eine größere Ordnung auf den Schiffen als bei den Holländern. Wovon mir das Herz voll war, ging mir auch alle Augenblicke der Mund über. Ich gestand meinem Oheim, wie gern ich am Bord eines solchen ansehnlichen Ostindien-Fahrers sein und die Reise mitmachen möchte. Er gab mir immer die einzige Antwort, die darauf paßte: Daß ich nicht klug im Kopf sein müßte. Endlich aber ward dieser Hang in mir zu mächtig, als daß ich ihm länger widerstehen konnte. In einer Nacht, zwei Tage vor unserer Abreise, schlüpfte ich heimlich in unsere angehängte Jolle -- ganz wie ich ging und stand und ohne das geringste von meinen Kleidungsstücken mit mir zu nehmen. Man sollte nämlich nicht glauben, daß ich desertiert, sondern daß ich ertrunken sei, und wollte so verhindern, daß mir nicht weiter auf den anderen Schiffen nachgespürt würde. Unter diesen aber hatte ich mir eins aufs Korn gefaßt, von welchem mir bekannt geworden war, daß es am anderen nächsten Morgen nach Ostindien unter Segel gehen sollte. Das letztere zwar war richtig, aber über seine Bestimmung befand ich mich im Irrtum, denn es war zum Sklavenhandel an der Küste von Guinea bestimmt. Still und vorsichtig kam ich mit meiner Jolle an der Seite dieses Schiffes an, ohne von irgend jemand bemerkt zu werden. Ebenso ungesehen stieg ich an Bord, indem ich mein kleines Fahrzeug mit dem Fuße zurückstieß und es treibend seinem Schicksale überließ. Bald aber sammelte sich das ganze Schiffsvolk (es waren deren vierundachtzig Köpfe, wie ich nachmals erfuhr) verwundert um mich her. Jeder wollte wissen, woher ich käme? wer ich wäre? was ich wollte? Statt aller Antwort -- und was hätte ich auch sagen können? -- fing ich an, erbärmlich zu weinen. Der Kapitän war diese Nacht nicht an Bord. Man brachte mich also zu den Steuerleuten, welche das Verhör ins Kreuz und in die Quere mit mir erneuerten. Auch hier hatte ich nichts als Tränen und Schluchzen. »Aha, Bursche!« legte sich endlich einer aufs Raten -- »ich merke schon! du bist von einem Schiffe weggelaufen und denkst, daß _wir_ dich mitnehmen sollen?« -- Das war ganz meine Herzensmeinung. Ich stammelte also ein Ja darauf hervor, konnte mich aber diesmal nicht entschließen, noch weiter herauszubeichten. Inzwischen hatte man einiges Mitleid mit mir, gab mir ein Glas Wein samt einem Butterbrot und Käse, und wies mir eine Schlafstelle an, mit dem Bedeuten, daß morgen früh der Kapitän an Bord kommen werde, der mich vielleicht wohl mitnehmen möchte. -- Da lag ich nun die ganze Nacht schlaflos und überdachte, was ich sagen und verschweigen wollte. Am andern Morgen mit Tagesanbruch fand sich der Lotse ein; der Anker ward aufgewunden und man machte sich segelfertig; wobei ich treuherzig und nach Kräften mit Hand anlegte. Unter diesen Beschäftigungen kam endlich auch der Kapitän heran. Ich ward ihm vorgestellt, und auch seine erste und natürlichste Frage war: Was ich auf seinem Schiffe wollte? -- Ich fühlte mich nun schon ein wenig gefaßter und gab ihm über mein Wie und Woher so ziemlich ehrlichen Bescheid; nur setzte ich hinzu (und diese Lüge hat mir nachmals oft bitter leid getan, denn mein Oheim war gegen mich die Milde selbst, als ob ich sein eigen Kind wäre), dieser habe mich auf der Reise oftmals unschuldig geschlagen, wie das denn auch noch gestern geschehen sei. Ich könne dies nicht länger ertragen, und so sei ich heimlich weggegangen und bäte flehentlich, der Kapitän möchte mich annehmen. Ich wollte gerne gut tun. Nun ich einmal so weit gegangen war, durfte ich auch die richtige Antwort auf die weitere Frage nach meines Oheims Namen und Schiff nicht schuldig bleiben. »Gut!« sagte der Kapitän -- »ich werde mit dem Manne darüber sprechen.« -- Das klang nun gar nicht auf mein Ohr! Ich hub von neuem an zu weinen, schrie, ich würde über Bord springen und mich ersäufen, und trieb es so arg und kläglich (mir war aber auch gar nicht wohl ums Herz!), daß nach und nach das Mitleid bei meinem Richter zu überwiegen schien. Er ging mit seinen Steuerleuten in die Kajüte, um die Sache ernstlicher zu überlegen; ich aber lag indes, von Furcht und Hoffnung hin und her geworfen, wie auf der Folter, denn die Schande, vielleicht zu meinem Oheim zurückgebracht zu werden, schien mir unerträglich. Endlich rief man mich in die Kajüte. »Ich habe mir's überlegt,« hub hier der Kapitän an, »und du magst bleiben. Du sollst Steuermanns-Junge sein und monatlich sechs Gulden Gage haben, auch will ich für deine Kleidungsstücke sorgen. Doch höre, sobald wir mit dem Schiffe in den Texel kommen, schreibst du selbst an deines Vaters Bruder und erklärst ihm den ganzen Zusammenhang. Den Brief will ich selbst lesen und auch für seine sichere Bestellung sorgen.« -- Man denke, wie freudig ich einschlug und was für ein Stein mir vom Herzen fiel! Jetzt gingen wir auch unter Segel. Allein ich will es auch nur gestehen, daß, sowie ich meines Oheims Schiff so aus der Ferne darauf ansah, mir's innerlich leid tat, es bis zu diesem törichten Schritte getrieben zu haben. Trotz diesem Herzweh erwog ich, daß er nicht mehr zurückgetan werden konnte, wofern ich nicht vor Beschämung vergehen sollte. Ich machte mich also stark; und als wir im Texel ankamen, schrieb ich meinen Abschiedsbrief, den der Kapitän las und billigte, und mein Steuermann an die Post-Suite besorgen sollte. Wie die Folge ergeben hat, ist jedoch dieser Brief, mit oder ohne Schuld des Bestellers, nicht an meinen Oheim gelangt; entweder daß dieser zu früh von Amsterdam abgegangen, oder daß das Blatt unterwegs verloren gegangen. Mein Tod schien also ungezweifelt, denn man glaubte (wie ich in der Folge erfuhr), ich sei in der Nacht aus der Jolle gefallen, die man am nächsten Morgen zwischen anderen Schiffen umhertreibend gefunden hatte. Nachdem wir in Texel unsere Ladung, Wasser, Proviant und alle Zubehör, welche der Sklavenhandel erfordert, an Bord genommen hatten, gingen wir in See. Mein Kapitän hieß Gruben und das Schiff Afrika. Alle waren mir gut und geneigt; ich selbst war vergnügt und spürte weiter kein Heimweh. Wir hatten zwei Neger von der Küste von Guinea als Matrosen an Bord. Diese gab mir mein Steuermann zu Lehrern in der dortigen Verkehrssprache, einem Gemisch aus Portugiesisch, Englisch und einigen Negersprachen; und ich darf wohl sagen, daß sie an mir einen gelehrigen Schüler fanden. Denn mein Eifer, verbunden mit der Leichtigkeit, womit man in meinem damaligen Alter fremde Sprachtöne sich einprägt, brachten mich binnen kurzem zu der Fertigkeit, daß ich nachher an der Küste meinem Steuermanne zum Dolmetscher dienen konnte. Und das war es eben, was er gewollt hatte. * * * * * Unsere Fahrt war glücklich, aber ohne besonders merkwürdige Vorfälle. In der sechsten Woche erblickten wir St. Antonio, eine von den Inseln des grünen Vorgebirges, und drei Wochen später hatten wir unser Reiseziel erreicht und gingen an der Pfefferküste, bei Kap Mesurado, unter sechs Grad nördlicher Breite, vor Anker, um uns mit frischem Wasser und Brennholz zu versorgen. Zugleich war dies die erste Station, von wo aus unser Handel betrieben werden sollte. Späterhin gingen wir weiter östlich nach Kap Palmas; und hier erst begann der Verkehr lebendiger zu werden. Die Schaluppe wurde mit Handelsartikeln beladen, mit Lebensmitteln für zwölf Mann Besatzung auf sechs Wochen versehen und mit sechs kleinen Drehbassen, die ein Pfund Eisen schossen, ausgerüstet. Mein Steuermann befehligte im Boot; ich aber, sein kleiner Dolmetscher, blieb auch nicht dahinten und ward ihm im Handel vielfach nützlich. Wir machten in diesem Fahrzeuge drei Reisen längs der Küste, entfernten uns bis zu fünfzig Meilen vom Schiffe und waren gewöhnlich drei Wochen abwesend. Nach und nach kauften wir hierbei vierundzwanzig Sklaven, Männer und Frauen (auch eine Mutter mit einem einjährigen Kinde war dabei!), eine Anzahl Elefantenzähne und etwas Goldstaub zusammen. Bei dem letzten Abstecher ward auch der europäische Briefsack auf dem holländischen Hauptkastell St. George de la Mina von uns abgegeben. Unser Schiff fanden wir bei unserer Rückkehr etwas weiter ostwärts, nach der Reede von Laque la How oder Kap Lagos vorgerückt. Acht unserer Gefährten waren in der Zwischenzeit infolge des ungesunden Klimas gestorben. Dagegen hatte der Kapitän anderthalbhundert Schwarze beiderlei Geschlechts eingekauft und einen guten Handel mit Elfenbein und Goldstaub gemacht. Für alle diese Artikel gilt Kap Lagos als eine Hauptstation, weil landeinwärts ein großer See von vielen Meilen Länge und Breite vorhanden ist, auf welchem die Sklaven von den Menschenhändlern (Kaffizieren) aus dem Inneren in Kanots herbeigeführt werden. Gerade in dieser Gegend war auch Kapitän Gruben bei den hier ansässigen reichen Sklavenhändlern von alters her wohl bekannt und gern gelitten. Dennoch war ihm schon auf einer früheren Reise hierher ein Plan fehlgeschlagen, den er entworfen hatte, sich zum Vorteil der holländischen Regierung an diesem wohlgelegenen Platze unvermerkt fester einzunisten. Er hatte mit den reichen Negern verabredet, ein zerlegtes hölzernes Haus nach europäischer Bauart mitzubringen und dort aufzurichten, worin zehn bis zwanzig Weiße wohnen könnten und welches durch einige daneben aufgepflanzte Kanonen geschützt werden sollte. Als es aber fertig dastand, kamen diese Anstalten den guten Leutchen doch ein wenig bedenklich vor. Sie bezahlten lieber dem Kapitän sein Häuschen, das so ziemlich einer kleinen Festung glich, reichlich mit Goldstaub; und als ich es sah, war es von einem reichen Kaffizier bewohnt. Nachdem wir von hier noch eine Bootreise, gleich den vorigen und mit ebenso gutem Erfolge, gemacht hatten, gingen wir nach vier bis fünf Wochen mit dem Schiffe weiter nach Axim, dem ersten holländischen Kastell an dieser Küste, wo denn auch fortan der Schaluppenhandel ein Ende hatte. Ferner steuerten wir, Cabo tres Puntas vorbei, nach Accada, Boutrou, Saconda, Chama, St. Georg de la Mina und Moure. Überall wurden Einkäufe gemacht; so daß wir endlich unsere volle Ladung, bestehend in vierhundertundzwanzig Negern jedes Geschlechtes und Alters beisammen hatten. Alle diese Umstände sind mir noch jetzt in meinem hohen Alter so genau und lebendig im Gedächtnisse, als wenn ich sie erst vor ein paar Jahren erlebt hätte. Nunmehr ging die Reise von der afrikanischen Küste nach Surinam, quer über den Atlantischen Ozean hinüber, wo unsere Schwarzen verkauft werden sollten. Während neun bis zehn Wochen, die wir zur See waren, sahen wir weder Land noch Strand, erreichten aber unseren Bestimmungsort glücklich, vertauschten unsere unglückliche Fracht gegen eine Ladung von Kaffee und Zucker, und traten sodann den Rückweg nach Holland an. Wir brauchten dazu wiederum acht bis neun Wochen, bis wir endlich wohlbehalten im Angesichte von Amsterdam den Anker fallen ließen. Es war im Juni 1751, und die ganze Reise hin und zurück hatte einundzwanzig Monate gedauert. Elf Leute von unserer Mannschaft waren während dieser Zeit gestorben. * * * * * In Amsterdam ließ ich es mein erstes sein, nach Kolberg an meine Eltern zu schreiben und ihnen Bericht von meiner abenteuerlichen Reise zu erstatten. Denke man sich ihr freudiges Erstaunen beim Empfange dieser Zeitung! Ich war tot und wieder lebendig geworden! Ich war verloren und war wiedergefunden! Ihre Empfindungen drückten sich in den Briefen aus, die ich unverzüglich von dort her erhielt. Segen und Fluch wurden mir darin vorgestellt. Ich Unglückskind wäre ja noch nicht einmal eingesegnet! Augenblicklich sollte ich mich aufmachen und nach Hause kommen! Es traf sich erwünscht, daß ich mich in Amsterdam mit einem Landsmanne, dem Schiffer Christian Damitz, zusammenfand. Auf seinem Schiffe ging ich nach Kolberg zurück. Von meinem Empfange daheim aber tue ich wohl am besten, zu schweigen. In meiner Vaterstadt blieb ich nun und hielt mich wieder zum Schulunterricht, bis ich mein vierzehntes Jahr erreichte und die Konfirmation hinter mir hatte. Dann aber war auch kein Halten mehr, ich wollte und mußte zur See, wie der Fisch ins Wasser, und mein Vater übergab mich (zu Ostern 1752) an Schiffer Mich. Damitz, der soeben von Kolberg nach Memel und von da nach Liverpool abgehen wollte, und in den er ein besonderes Vertrauen setzte. Beide Fahrten waren glücklich. Wir gingen weiter nach Dünkirchen, wo wir eine Ladung Tabak einnahmen; dann über Norwegen nach Danzig -- und so kam ich, kurz nach Neujahr, zu Lande, um neunzehn Taler Löhnung reicher, nach Kolberg zurück. Ich glaubte Wunder, was ich in diesen neun Monaten verdient hätte! Und noch vor wenig Jahren brachten es unsere Matrosen wohl auf fünfzehn und mehr Taler monatlich. So ändern sich die Zeiten! In den beiden nächstfolgenden Jahren (1753 und 54) schwärmte ich auf mehr als einem Kolbergschen Schiffe und unter verschiedenen Kapitänen auf der Ost- und Nordsee umher, und war bald in Dänemark und Schweden, bald in England und Schottland, in Holland und Frankreich zu finden. * * * * * Aber der alte Hang zum Abenteuern erwachte, so daß ich in Amsterdam, wo ich mit Kapitän Joach. Blank, einem alten lieben Kolbergschen Landsmann und Verwandten, zusammentraf, der Versuchung zu einem weiteren Ausflug länger nicht widerstehen konnte, sondern mich, ohne weitere Erlaubnis von Hause, flugs und freudig auf sein Schiff Christina, das nach Surinam bestimmt war, als Konstabler verdingte. Als indes auf der Hinfahrt unser Steuermann das Unglück hatte, über Bord zu fallen und zu ertrinken, kam ich für diese Reise zu der Ehre, den Untersteuermann vorzustellen. Man weiß, daß die Kolonie Surinam ihren Namen von dem Flusse führt, an welchem auch dritthalb Meilen aufwärts die Hauptstadt Paramaribo gelegen ist. An seiner Mündung ist er wohl zwei Meilen breit und bleibt gegen sechzig Meilen landeinwärts, auch bei der niedrigsten Ebbe, für kleinere Fahrzeuge noch schiffbar. Nur wenig geringer ist der mit ihm verbundene Fluß Komandewyne, welcher bis gegen fünfzig Meilen aufwärts befahren wird. Mit beiden steht noch eine Menge toter Arme oder Kreeks in Verbindung, und an allen Ufern hinauf drängen sich die Zucker- und Kaffeeplantagen, während alles übrige Land eine fast undurchdringliche Waldung ausmacht. Eben dadurch wird diese Kolonie eine der ungesundesten in der Welt; und wenn eine Schiffsequipage von vierzig Mann binnen den vier Monaten, welche man hier gewöhnlich verweilt, nur acht bis zehn Tote zählt, so wird dies für ein außerordentliches Glück gehalten. Diese große Sterblichkeit hat aber zum Teil auch wohl ihren Grund in den anstrengenden Arbeiten, wozu die Schiffsmannschaften nach hiesigem Gebrauche angehalten werden: denn sie müssen ebensowohl den Transport der mitgebrachten Ladung an europäischen Gütern nach den einzelnen Plantagen, als die Rückfracht aus denselben an Kolonialwaren, besorgen. Man bedient sich dazu einer Art von Fahrzeugen, _Punten_ genannt, die wie Prahme gebaut sind und ein zugespitztes, mit Schilf gedecktes Wetterdach tragen; so daß sie das Ansehen eines auf dem Wasser schwimmenden, deutschen Bauernhauses gewähren. Zwei solcher Punten werden jedem Schiffe zugegeben, und mir, als Untersteuermann, kam es zu, mit Hilfe von vier Matrosen die Fahrten auf den Strömen damit zu verrichten, wozu denn oft vierzehn Tage und noch längere Zeit erfordert wurden. Bei unserer Ankunft gab es auf dem Schiffe ein kleines Abenteuer, das unseren Schiffer eine Zeitlang in nicht geringe Sorge setzte, endlich aber dennoch einen ziemlich lustigen Ausgang gewann. Unter der Ladung nämlich, die wir in Amsterdam eingenommen hatten, befand sich auch eine Kiste von etwa drei Fuß ins Gevierte, worüber der Kapitän zwar das richtige Konnossement in Händen hatte, ohne gleichwohl beim Löschen vor Paramaribo die Kiste selbst an Bord wieder auffinden zu können. Sie war an einen dortigen Juden adressiert, dessen wiederholte Nachfrage trotz alles Suchens unbefriedigt bleiben mußte. Diese Verlegenheit schlau benutzend, brachte endlich der Hebräer nicht nur seine Klage bei dem holländischen Fiskal (Kolonie-Richter) an, sondern reichte zugleich ein langes Verzeichnis ein von goldenen und silbernen Taschenuhren, Geschmeiden und anderen Kostbarkeiten, zu einem Belaufe von beinahe viertausend Gulden an Wert, die in der Kiste enthalten gewesen. Der Prozeß ging seinen Gang, und der Jude brachte seine Beweise so bündig vor, daß das endlich erfolgte rechtskräftige Erkenntnis meinen Kapitän zur völligen Schadloshaltung binnen vierzehn Tagen verurteilte, dem es übrigens überlassen blieb, sich wiederum an seine Leute zu halten. Ganz unerwartet aber fand sich nunmehr die verwünschte Kiste im hinteren untersten Schiffsraum wieder auf, wo sie durch irgendein Versehen hoch mit Brennholz überstaut gewesen war. Glücklicherweise hatte ihr Siegel, das auch auf dem Konnossement abgedruckt war, keinen Schaden gelitten. Aber zugleich kam es uns wunderlich vor, daß die Kiste beim Heben und Schütteln sich gar nicht so anließ, als ob Sachen von der angegebenen Art darin enthalten sein könnten. Dieser Verdacht ward dem Fiskal unter der Hand gesteckt. Er kam selbst an Bord, überzeugte sich von Richtigkeit des Konnossements und der Unversehrtheit des Siegels, und da der Jude ein armer Teufel war, dem sich mit einer Geldstrafe nichts anhaben ließ, so sollte er, wie es in aller Welt Brauch ist, für den versuchten Betrug mit seiner Haut bezahlen. Zuvörderst ward ihm gemeldet, daß sein Eigentum wieder zum Vorschein gekommen sei und von ihm alsogleich am Bord in Empfang genommen werden könne. Sein Erschrecken über diese Nachricht war drollig genug, aber dem Frieden nicht trauend, verlangte er, man möchte ihm die Kiste in Gottes Namen nur an Land und in sein Haus schaffen; bis auf seine beharrliche Weigerung der Fiskal ihn durch zwei Neger mit Gewalt und gebunden an Bord holen ließ. Hier mußte er in dessen Beisein die Kiste als die seinige und als vollkommen unverletzt anerkennen; dann aber auch öffnen, und nun kam ein gar bunter Inhalt zum Vorschein. Der ganze Trödel bestand aus Redoutenanzügen und fratzenhaften Gesichtslarven; der unglückliche Eigentümer aber ward, auf des Richters Geheiß, über seine Kiste hingestreckt und von ein paar Matrosen mit ihren Tauendchen so unbarmherzig zugedeckt, daß ihm wahrscheinlich alle ähnliche Spekulationen für eine lange Zeit vergangen sein werden. Eher hätte man Surinam damals eine _deutsche_, als eine _holländische_ Kolonie nennen können, denn auf den Plantagen, wie in Paramaribo, traf man unter hundert Weißen immer vielleicht neunundneunzig an, die hier aus allen Gegenden von Deutschland zusammengeflossen waren. Unter ihnen hatte ich während dieser Reise Gelegenheit, auch zwei Brüder, des Namens _Kniffel_, kennen zu lernen, die aus Belgard in Pommern gebürtig und also meine nächsten Landsleute waren. Sie hatten in früherer Zeit als gemeine holländische Soldaten sich hierher verirrt, aber Glück, Fleiß und Rechtlichkeit hatten sie seither zu Millionären gemacht, welche hier eines wohlverdienten Ansehens genossen. Am Komandewyne besaßen sie zwei Kaffeeplantagen. Die eine hieß Friedrichsburg, und eine andere dicht daneben, welche von ihnen selbst angelegt worden, hatten sie ihrer Vaterstadt zu Ehren _Belgard_ genannt. Zu Paramaribo war eine Reihe von Häusern, die eine Straße von vierhundert Schritten in der Länge bildeten, ihr Eigentum und führte nach ihnen den Namen _Kniffels-Loge_. Ebendaselbst hatten sie eine lutherische Kirche aufgeführt und zur Erhaltung derselben für ewige Zeiten die Einkünfte der Plantage Belgard gewidmet. Diese Gebrüder standen schon seit längerer Zeit mit meinem Kapitän Blank, als einem Kolberger und Landsmann, in besonders freundschaftlichem Verkehr. Er versorgte sie und ihre Plantagen ausschließlich mit allem, was sie aus Europa bedurften; und hinwiederum führte er alle ihre dortigen Erzeugnisse nach Holland zurück. So geschah es auch bei der gegenwärtigen Reise; daß ich denn oft von ihm mit Aufträgen an sie geschickt und ihnen auf diese Weise bekannt und lieb wurde. Schon die vielfältigen Beweise von Güte, die ich von ihnen erfuhr, würden mich veranlaßt haben, ihrer hier zu gedenken, wenn nicht auch der Verfolg meiner Lebensgeschichte mir wiederholt Gelegenheit gäbe, auf ihren Namen zurückzukommen. * * * * * Unsere Heimfahrt nach Amsterdam, die sechs Wochen währte, war glücklich, aber ohne weitere Merkwürdigkeit. Wir waren vierzehn Monate abwesend gewesen, und unser Schiff bedurfte einer völlig neuen Verzimmerung, die sich bis in den November 1755 zu verzögern drohte. Dies dauerte mir zu lange und gab die Veranlassung, daß ich in einen anderen Dienst, unter Kapitän Wendorp, überging. Sein Schiff war nach Kurassao bestimmt; auf der Rückreise ergänzten wir bei St. Eustaz unsere Ladung, und nach neun Monaten, die ich hier kurz übergehe, warfen wir wiederum vor Amsterdam wohlbehalten die Anker. Hier warteten Briefe auf mich von meinen Eltern, von so drohendem Inhalt und angefüllt mit so gerechten Vorwürfen, daß ich's wohl nicht länger verschieben durfte, mich zum zweitenmal, als der verlorene Sohn, reuig nach Hause auf den Weg zu machen. Doch fand ich gleich im voraus einigen Trost in dem Vorschlage, daß meines Vaters Bruder bestimmt sei, des Herrn Beckers Schiff, genannt die Hoffnung, mit einer Ladung Holz von Rügenwalde nach Lissabon zu führen, und mit dem sollte ich fahren. Dies war im Jahre 1756. So ging ich denn als Passagier nach Danzig und traf es da eben recht, daß zwölf junge und schmucke seefahrende Leute ausgesucht werden sollten, um die sogenannte Herren-Borse aufs stattlichste zu bemannen. Es war nämlich zu der Zeit der König August von Polen in der Stadt anwesend, und auf der Reede lag eine zahlreiche Flotte von russischen Kriegsschiffen vor Anker, der er einen Besuch abzustatten gedachte. Zu dieser Lustfahrt, die Weichsel hinunter, sollte nun jene Staatsjacht dienen. Zufällig kriegte man mich mit an, um die Mannschaft vollzählig zu machen, und sowohl das Außerordentliche bei der Sache, als auch der Dukaten, der dabei für jeden Mann abfallen sollte, machten mir Lust, diesen Ehrendienst zu verrichten. Das dauerte aber nur so lange, bis wir zum Schifferältesten Karsten kamen, wo wir zu der Feierlichkeit mit einer Art von Uniform aufgeputzt werden sollten, die mit blanken Schilden und vielen roten, grünen und blauen Bändern verbrämt war. So ausstaffiert, hielt man mir zuletzt einen Spiegel vor: -- aber wie erschrak ich, als ich sah, was für einen Narren man aus mir gemacht hatte! Das war jedoch das wenigste! Allein das Herz im Leibe wollte mir zerspringen, wenn ich dabei bedachte, daß ich einen anderen, als meines eigenen Königs Namenszug im Schilde an meiner Stirne tragen sollte. Die Tränen traten mir in die Augen. Mir war's, als mutete man mir zu, meinen großen Friedrich zu verleugnen. Gern hätte ich mir alles wieder vom Leibe gerissen und hätte den Handel wieder aufgesagt, wenn es möglich gewesen wäre. Doch ich war einmal unter den Wölfen und mußte mit ihnen heulen! Indes gelobte ich mir's, diesen Makel dadurch wieder gut zu machen, daß ich den verheißenen Dukaten dem ersten preußischen Soldaten zuwürfe, der mir begegnen würde. Ein alter Husar wurde dies Glückskind, und der mag sich wohl nicht schlecht verwundert haben, daß ein achtzehnjähriges Bürschchen wie ich mit Gold um sich warf! * * * * * Im Monat August traf ich in Kolberg ein, fand meines Oheims Schiff bereits in der Ausrüstung und ging mit diesem auf die Rügenwalder Reede, wo wir unsere Ladung Holz einnahmen. Mit mir fuhr mein jüngerer Bruder, sechzehn Jahre alt, als Kajütenwärter. Auch hatte mein Oheim seinen eignen vierzehnjährigen Sohn mitgenommen, und es befanden sich unserer in allem dreizehn Menschen an Bord. Aber gleich der Anfang dieser Fahrt versprach wenig Gutes, da wir durch Sturm und widrige Winde dergestalt aufgehalten wurden, daß wir erst mit Ausgang Oktober im Sunde anlangten. Hier ging mein Oheim mit mir und noch drei anderen Matrosen in der Segelschaluppe nach Helsingör an Land, woselbst seine Geschäfte ihn so lange verweilten, daß wir erst abends um neun Uhr auf den Rückweg kamen. Die See ging hoch, und unser Fahrzeug, das mit Wasser- und Bierfässern und anderen Provisionen schwer beladen war, hielt wenig Bord. Zudem stand uns ein steifer Südwind entgegen, der uns zum Lavieren nötigte; und eben machten wir einen Schlag dicht hinter dem dänischen Wachtschiffe vorüber, als ein harter Stoßwind so plötzlich aufstieg und so ungestüm in unsere Segel fiel, daß die Schaluppe Wasser schöpfte, umschlug und im Hui den Kiel nach oben kehrte. Ich ergriff ein Ruderholz, und war so glücklich, mich über dem Wasser zu erhalten. Wo die anderen blieben, sah ich nicht. Indes war unser Unglück von dem dänischen Kriegsschiffe nicht unbemerkt geblieben; und sogleich stieß ein Fahrzeug ab, uns zu retten. Allein es war stockfinster und von uns Verunglückten keine Seele aufzufinden. Nur die Schaluppe kam ihnen in den Wurf und ward geborgen; freilich aber war die ganze Ladung davongeschwommen und ging verloren. Unter uns Umhertreibenden mochte ich wohl der erste sein, der sich glücklich aus diesem bösen Handel zog. Ich trieb nämlich gegen ein vor Anker liegendes Schiff und erhielt mich so lange am Ankertau, bis die Leute mich zu sich an Bord ziehen konnten. Mein guter Oheim hingegen ward ebensowohl durch den harten Sturm als die schnelle Strömung beinahe eine Viertelmeile weit bis unterhalb des dänischen Kastells davongeführt. Aber indem er sich kümmerlich an einer Segelstange festgeklammert hielt, brauchte er wohl eine Stunde, bevor er mit Schwimmen das Land erreichte. Zwei Matrosen wurden durch eine Lotsenjolle gerettet; einer aber blieb leider verloren. Erst am Morgen fanden wir vier Geborgenen uns in Helsingör wieder zusammen. Unsere Schaluppe ward uns von dem Wachschiffe wieder zurückgegeben; wir ersetzten unsere verunglückte Ladung durch angekaufte neue Vorräte, versahen uns mit frischen Rudern und kehrten sodann nach unserem Schiffe zurück. Sobald Wind und Wetter wieder günstiger geworden waren, säumten wir nicht, unsere Fahrt, trotz der späten und bösen Jahreszeit, fortsetzen. Am 2. Dezember nahmen wir, nicht ohne Beunruhigung, wahr, daß ein gewaltiger Sturm aus Norden uns auf die flämischen Bänke geworfen hatte, deren Gefährlichkeit wir nur gar zu wohl kannten. Nur zu bald bekamen wir mehrere heftige Grundstöße, die unser Steuerruder aussetzten und uns seiner verlustig machten. Um nicht augenblicklich auf den Strand zu geraten, blieb nichts übrig, als uns auf der Stelle vor zwei Anker zu legen. Es war zehn Uhr vormittags; das Land eine kleine halbe Meile entfernt, und unser Ankerplatz, auf vier Faden Tiefe, mitten in der schäumenden Brandung; während unsere Segel, die wir nicht mehr festmachen konnten, im Winde flatterten. Welle für Welle stürmte über das Verdeck hinweg, so daß wir uns sämtlich oben im Mast festsetzen mußten. Unsere Lage ward noch unerfreulicher, da wir uns hier im Angesichte der flandrischen Küste befanden. _Hier_ war also österreichisches Gebiet, _wir_ preußische Untertanen, und Preußen mit Österreich seit kurzem im _Kriege_ begriffen. Mein Oheim verbot uns demnach zu verraten, daß wir von Rügenwalde kämen und ein preußisches Schiff hätten. Vielmehr sollten wir in der Aussage übereinstimmen: Schiff und Ladung sei schwedisches Eigentum, komme von Greifswalde und sei nach Lissabon bestimmt. Sobald der Sturm es nur zulasse, setzte er hinzu -- wolle er hinabsteigen, die preußische Flagge vernichten und ebensowohl seine Schiffspapiere beiseite zu bringen, als der bereitgehaltenen schwedischen Dokumente aus der Kajüte habhaft zu werden suchen. Wirklich auch entschloß er sich zu diesem gewagten Versuche: aber beim Niedersteigen schwankte der Mast dergestalt und ein unglücklicher Schlag des peitschenden Segels traf ihn so gewaltsam, daß es ihm unmöglich wurde, sich länger zu halten. Er fiel, stürzte mit dem Rücken auf den Rand des auf dem Verdecke stehenden Bootes, von da mit dem Kopfe gegen die scharfe Ecke eines Pöllers, und endlich auf das Deck, welches die Sturzwellen immerfort so hoch, als die Seitenborde ragten, mit Wasser überschwemmt hielten; und so sahen wir ihn in diesem Wasser hin und her gespült werden. Der Anblick war so gräßlich, daß wir ihn länger nicht ertragen konnten. Ich wagte mich mit noch zwei Matrosen hinab; wir zogen ihn mit Mühe auf das Kajütendeck, wo doch nicht jede Woge eine Überschwemmung verursachte, und waren nun in der Nähe Zeugen von seinem jammervollen Geschicke. Der Schlag des Segels hatte das linke Auge getroffen, welches weit aus dem Kopfe nur noch an einer schwachen Sehne hervorhing. Das Blut drang zugleich aus Mund, Nase und Ohren. Aus der hohlen Brust stöhnte ein dumpfes Röcheln, ohne Spur eines Bewußtseins. Trost- und ratlos schob ich ihm das hängende Auge in den Kopf zurück und band ihm mein Halstuch darüber. Um und neben ihm lagen nun ich, sein Sohn und noch ein getreuer Matrose in fester Umklammerung, um uns gegen die Gewalt der Sturzseen zu erhalten, und unbeweglich bis gegen fünf Uhr abends, da endlich unsere Ankertaue brachen und wir, bei halber Flut, unaufhaltsam gegen den Strand getrieben wurden. Endlich stieß das Schiff auf den Grund und hielt mit heftigen Stößen an, solange das Wasser im Wachsen blieb. Erst als die Ebbe wieder eintrat, saß es völlig fest: aber nun brachen sich auch die rollenden Wellen mit solcher Macht dagegen, daß jede einzelne darüber wegschlug und Schaum und Gischt die volle Höhe des Mastes emporgewirbelt wurden. Allmählich brach auch das Gebäude in all seinen Fugen und wir sahen die Stücke unter unseren Füßen eins nach dem anderen davontreiben. Sowie aber die Ebbe sich immer weiter zurückzog, ließ auch die zertrümmernde Gewalt des Wogendranges nach, die uns sonst unausbleiblich in den Abgrund mit fortgerissen hätte; das Verdeck ward von Wasser frei und wir konnten wieder einen Gedanken an Rettung fassen. Es war Mondschein, und am Lande erblickten wir eine Menge von Menschen, die uns aber, bei unserer noch beträchtlichen Entfernung vom Ufer, nicht helfen konnten. Zwar banden wir ledige Wasserfässer an Taue und warfen sie über Bord, in der Meinung, daß sie dorthinwärts treiben sollten; allein die Strömungen der Ebbe rissen sie vielmehr in der entgegengesetzten Richtung mit sich fort. Jetzt fiel uns ein, daß wir einen Pudel auf dem Schiffe hatten, der wohl ans Land schwimmen und die ersehnte Gemeinschaft mit jenen Helfern bewirken könnte, wenn wir ihm ein Tau um den Leib bänden und dieses nach und nach fahren ließen. Es geschah: doch das arme Tier wollte dem Schiffe nicht von der Seite; und wenn auch eine Sturzwelle es eine Strecke mit sich fortschleuderte, so kam es doch alsobald wieder zurückgeschwommen und winselte, an Bord aufgenommen zu werden. Vergebens schlugen wir nach ihm mit Stangen und Tauen, bis es uns endlich erbarmte und wir das treue Geschöpf wieder an Bord nahmen. So schlich die Mitternacht heran, wo uns deuchte, daß nunmehr die Ebbezeit wohl abgelaufen sein müßte. Jetzt also befanden wir uns dem Strande am nächsten, der, unserer Schätzung nach, zwei- oder dreihundert Schritte entfernt sein mochte; und so war es denn auch an der höchsten Zeit, alles aufzubieten, um, wo möglich, lebendig an Land zu kommen, bevor die Flut wieder stiege, deren Gewalt ohnehin das Schiff nicht mehr ausdauern konnte, ohne gänzlich in Trümmer zu gehen. Es mußte gewagt sein! Sowie demnach eine Sturzwelle nach der anderen sich zu uns heranwälzte, so sprang auch, der Reihe nach, jemand von uns über Bord und ward sogleich mit der Brandung gegen das Ufer hin getrieben, wo die Menschen uns aufzufangen und aufs Trockene zu bringen bereit standen. Ich, samt meinem Bruder und dem Sohne meines Oheims -- wir waren die letzten, die, um den Röchelnden her, mit den Armen fest verschlungen, dies alles vom Kajütendeck mit ansahen, aber uns nicht entschließen konnten, dies teure Jammerbild zurückzulassen. Wir schrien, wir wimmerten, und wußten nicht, was wir mit demselben anfangen sollten. Vom Strande her ward uns durch ein Sprachrohr unaufhörlich zugeschrien: »Springt über Bord! Springt über Bord! Wächst das Wasser mit der Flut wieder an, so seid ihr verloren! -- Springt! Springt!« Angefeuert und beängstigt zugleich durch dies Rufen, zogen wir endlich unseren Leidenden, dessen Bewußtsein völlig geschwunden war, hart an den Bord des Schiffes und nahmen eine besonders mächtige Sturzwelle in acht, mit welcher wir ihn in Gottes Namen dahinfahren ließen. Zu unserer unaussprechlichen Freude sahen wir, wie er mit derselben im Fluge dem Lande zugeführt wurde, und wie dort die guten Leute ihn auffingen, ehe er noch von der See wieder zurückgespült werden konnte. Jetzt trieb ich meinen Bruder, den entscheidenden Sprung zu wagen, dann den Sohn meines Oheims; und ein Stein nach dem andern fiel mir vom Herzen, da ich sie alsobald gerettet und in Sicherheit erblickte. Nun warf ich mich gleichfalls, als der letzte, wohlgemut in die rollenden Wogen, und in der nächsten Minute umfingen mich auch bereits hilfreiche Arme, die mich den Strand hinauf ins Trockene trugen. Es ergab sich, daß die Mehrzahl unserer menschenfreundlichen Retter aus österreichischen Soldaten bestand, welche hier, seitdem ihre Kaiserin, Maria Theresia, sich auch mit England im Kriege befand, zur Deckung der Küste postiert standen und etwa alle zweitausend Schritte ein Wachthaus am Strande hatten. In ein solches Gebäude ward nun auch unser armer zerschmetterter Oheim von uns, mit Hilfe der Soldaten, an Armen und Beinen getragen, und man deckte ihn mit allem, was sich an trockenen Kleidungsstücken vorfand, sorgfältig zu, um ihn wieder zu erwärmen. Neben ihm, zu beiden Seiten, lagen sein Sohn und ich, hielten ihn umfaßt und nahmen ihm von Zeit zu Zeit das geronnene Blut aus dem Munde. So mochte er etwa eine Stunde gelegen haben, als er zum erstenmal wieder nach seinem unglücklichen Falle den Mund zu der hervorgestöhnten Frage öffnete: »O Gott! Ist mir noch zu helfen?« -- Das war Musik in meinen Ohren! Mit freudiger Hast erwiderte ich ihm: »Ja, ja, lieber Vatersbruder! Gott kann -- Gott wird Euch noch wieder helfen. Wir sind am Lande.« -- »So bringt mich denn zu einem Doktor!« war seine kaum verständliche Antwort, und ich konnte ihn damit trösten, daß bereits nach einem geschickt sei. Dem war wirklich also: denn sofort nach unserer Landung war auch an die nächste Garnison in Veurne, welches dreiviertel Meilen entfernt lag, eine Meldung geschehen und um ärztliche Hilfe gebeten worden. Zugleich erfuhren wir von den Soldaten, daß wir uns hier drei Meilen von Nieuport und zwei Meilen von Dünkirchen befänden. Der Grund und Boden unter uns war österreichisch, aber die französische Grenze, nach letzterem Orte hinwärts, nur eine Viertelmeile entfernt. Als man uns (wie sofort geschah) über unser Woher und Wohin befragte, so erklärten wir uns, der früheren Abrede eingedenk, für Schwedisch-Pommern aus Greifswalde, die eine Ladung Balken nach Lissabon hätten bringen wollen. Am 3. Dezember, mit dem frühen Morgen, erschien ein Fuhrwerk, mit Stroh gefüllt und einer Leinwanddecke versehen, welches angewiesen war, unsern armen Oheim in das Lazarett nach Nieuport zu schaffen. Dieser Ort war mir, aus Furcht einer möglichen Entdeckung unserer wahren Herkunft, nicht recht gemütlich; dagegen vermeinte ich unserem Elende in Dünkirchen vielleicht besseren Rat zu schaffen, wo ich vor ein paar Jahren bereits gewesen war und einigermaßen des Ortes Gelegenheit kannte. Ich schlug daher unserem Führer vor, seinen Kranken lieber nach der französischen Grenzstadt zu bringen; und hierzu ließ er sich auch um so bereitwilliger finden, da er eine Meile am Wege ersparte. Mit schwerer Mühe ward der Oheim auf den Wagen gehoben. Ich und sein Sohn legten uns zu beiden Seiten neben ihn und hielten ihn möglichst sanft in unseren Armen, während mein Bruder den Wagen begleitete, welcher den ebenen Weg längs dem Seestrande einschlug. Gott weiß aber, daß ich wohl nie mehr geweint und gejammert habe, als auf dieser Fahrt. Der geringste Anstoß des Wagens verursachte dem Kranken die peinlichsten Schmerzen, daß er kläglich winselte und zugleich an den Stücken geronnenen Blutes im Munde und Halse zu ersticken drohte, wie sehr ich auch bemüht war, ihm Luft zu verschaffen. So kamen wir endlich nachmittags (es war an einem Sonntage) in Dünkirchen an. Ich ließ den Fuhrmann vor einem Wirtshause halten, welches das Schild »zum roten Löwen« führte, denn hier hatte ich bei meiner früheren Anwesenheit zuweilen ein Glas Bier getrunken und rechnete mich also in meinem Sinne zu den Bekannten des Hauses. Das hinderte jedoch nicht, daß ich hier mit meiner unerwünschten Begleitung geradezu ab- und nach dem Klosterhospital hingewiesen wurde, wo der rechte Ort für fremde Kranke und Gebrechliche sei. Wirklich auch waren wir dort kaum angelangt und mein Oheim vom Wagen gehoben, so sahen wir ihn auch von einem Schwarm katholischer Ordensgeistlicher umzingelt, die ihn in Empfang nahmen und zuvörderst auf einen langen und breiten Tisch ausstreckten, wo er bis auf die nackte Haut entkleidet wurde. Hiernächst fand sich eine Anzahl von Doktoren und Chirurgen ein, welche nun zu einer genaueren Untersuchung seiner Verletzungen schritten. Die erste Operation geschah durch Lösung des Tuches, welches ich dem Armen gleich nach seinem unglücklichen Falle um das Auge gebunden. Jetzt war dieses mit dem geronnenen Blute an dem Verbande festgetrocknet und zog sich mit demselben weit aus dem Kopfe hervor. Da es nur noch durch einen dünnen Nervenstrang in der Augenhöhle befestigt hing, so war es freilich rettungslos verloren, ward kurzweg abgeschnitten und auf eine Teetasse hingelegt. Bei weiterer Untersuchung ergab sich's, daß das linke Bein, oberhalb dem Knie, im dicken Fleische gebrochen war; doch am bedenklichsten blieb die Zerschmetterung eines Rückenwirbels, dicht unterm Kreuz, und die dem armen Manne auch wohl die empfindlichsten Schmerzen verursachen mochte; denn während man ihn nach der Kunst behandelte und die Gliedmaßen bald so, bald anders reckte und dehnte, hörte er nicht auf zu winseln und zu ächzen. Uns drei Jungen, die wir Zeugen von dem allem waren, schnitt jeder Klageton tief durchs Herz; und wir heulten und lamentierten mit ihm in die Wette, so daß man sich genötigt sah, uns aus dem Gemache fortzuweisen. Nachdem der Kranke endlich geschient und verbunden worden, legte man ihn auf ein Feldbett, welches man in die Mitte des Zimmers hingestellt hatte. Eine Klosternonne (Beguine) saß neben ihm und flößte ihm von Zeit zu Zeit einen Löffel roten Weines ein, den sie auf einem Kohlenbecken zu ihrer Seite erwärmte. Am Kopfende des Bettes aber standen wir arme Verlassene und weinten unsre bitterlichen Tränen; und so währte das bis abends, wo ein Pater uns andeutete, daß wir die Nacht über im Kloster nicht bleiben könnten, sondern uns nach einer anderen Herberge umsehen müßten. Diese fanden wir denn auch zu unserer notdürftigen Erquickung in dem vorgedachten Wirtshause; doch brachten wir eine schlaflose, trübselige Nacht zu und wußten nicht, wo Trost und Hilfe zu finden. Kaum graute auch nur der Morgen, so machten wir uns wieder nach dem Kloster auf den Weg, wo wir den Oheim noch in dem nämlichen Zustande, wie gestern, fanden. Indes hatte man uns verständigt, daß heute Posttag sei, und so ließ ich mir im Gasthofe Papier und Schreibzeug reichen und brachte den Rest des Tages damit zu, sowohl an unsern Schiffsreeder, Herrn Becker, als an meine Eltern nach Kolberg zu schreiben. Die Briefe wurden versiegelt, und am nächsten Morgen standen wir wiederum, von Herzen betrübt, am Bette unseres Kranken, ohne daß wir eine merkliche Veränderung an ihm spürten. Ich beugte mich indes dicht zu seinem Ohre und versuchte die Frage: »Lieber Vatersbruder, sollen wir auch nach Kolberg schreiben?« Er hatte mich verstanden, denn er schüttelte mit dem Kopfe, als ob er Nein sagen wollte. So schwach auch dieser Hoffnungsstrahl seiner wiederkehrenden Besinnung war, so erfüllte er mich doch mit Mut, daß wohl noch alles wieder gut werden könnte. Ich glaubte darum auch, daß ich die Briefe unbedenklich abgehen lassen dürfte, gab den anderen beiden einen verstohlenen Wink und eilte mit ihnen nach dem Postkontor. Unsere Abwesenheit mochte etwa dreiviertel Stunden gedauert haben. Doch als wir wieder in das Kloster und das Krankenzimmer eintraten, fanden wir zu unserer höchsten Bestürzung und unbeschreiblichem Schmerze nur unseres guten Oheims Leiche vor. Sie ward auch alsbald aus dem Bette genommen auf den nämlichen Tisch wie vorhin ausgestreckt, abermals völlig entkleidet und der wiederholten genauen Besichtigung der Ärzte unterworfen, wo sich denn die zuvor bemerkten Verletzungen noch deutlicher bestätigten. Sobald uns aber die Doktoren verlassen hatten, traten einige Pfaffen herzu und fragten mich: »Zu welchem Glauben dieser unser Schiffskapitän sich bekannt habe?« Ich antwortete unbedenklich: »Ei, zum Lutherschen!« Sowie dies unglückliche Geständnis über meine Lippen floh, war es gleich, als ob das Gewitter ins Kloster geschlagen hätte. Alles geriet in Bewegung; der eine sprach hitzig mit dem andern; niemand wollte den Seligen anfassen, und doch mußten die Ketzergebeine, ehe die Sonne unterging, aus dem geweihten Bezirke fortgeschafft werden. Man steckte uns endlich eine beschriebene Karte in die Hand, die an einen Tischler lautete, welcher wohl die Lieferung der Särge für das Hospital auf sich haben mochte. Denn als wir ihn uns endlich ausgefragt hatten, fanden wir deren bei ihm einen reichlichen Vorrat vor und wurden bedeutet, unter denselben einen nach der Größe unserer Leiche auszusuchen. Unsere Wahl fiel auf den längsten, weil unser Oheim von einer ansehnlichen Statur gewesen war, und mit diesem Sarge wanderten wir nun nach dem Kloster zurück. Hier trieb man uns, ohne sich zu irgendeiner Handreichung zu verstehen, mit barschem Ernste, den Leichnam unverzüglich einzusargen und ihn aus dem Gemache hinweg auf die Straße unter einen uns dazu angewiesenen Schuppen zu bringen. Unsere Wehmut kannte keine Grenzen. Indes taten wir, wie uns geboten worden; man reichte uns Hammer und Nägel, um den Deckel zuzuschlagen, und nun hoben wir an, den Sarg mit den uns so teuren Überresten eine kurze Strecke auf den Flur fortzuziehen und zu schieben. Hier aber übermannte und lahmte der ungeheure Schmerz plötzlich all unsere Kräfte, und wir fühlten uns, in ein lautes und vereintes Jammergeschrei ausbrechend, ohne Vermögen, die geliebte Last auch nur einen Schritt weiter zu bringen. Ich fiel vor dem einen Pater auf die Knie und bat um Gottes willen, man möchte sich unser erbarmen, denn wir könnten hier nichts mehr tun. Jetzt gab es ein kurzes Gespräch unter den Anwesenden; ein Aufwärter ward fortgeschickt, und binnen einer Viertelstunde erschienen vier Kerle mit einer Trage, und jeder mit einem Spaten versehen. Sie packten die Leiche an; und so ging der Zug zum Tore hinaus, etwa zweitausend Schritte weit und gerade auf eine Kirche zu. Wir, die wir den Trägern gefolgt waren, meinten, der Leichenzug eile dem Kirchhofe zu. Das war aber weit gefehlt: denn es ging, neben dem Gotteshause vorüber, wohl noch tausend Schritte weiter auf ein freies Feld; und da die Träger ihre Last wohl zwanzigmal niedergesetzt hatten, um frischen Atem zu schöpfen, so begann es bereits dunkel zu werden, bevor wir die Grabstätte erreichten. Es war ein Fleck am Wege, der nichts hatte, was einem Totenacker ähnlich sah. Hier sollten wir nun ein Grab graben; da es aber den Kerlen damit zu lange währte, nahmen sie uns verdrießlich die Spaten aus den Händen, schaufelten und schalten uns »Ketzer«. Wir hingegen gaben alle mögliche gute Worte; und sobald auch nur das Grab so tief geöffnet war, daß der obere Sargdeckel unter Erde kommen konnte, senkten wir die Leiche mit Weinen und Wehklagen hinein, füllten die Erde drüber her, nahmen unter tausend heißen Tränen Abschied, und wanderten bekümmert wieder auf unseren roten Löwen zu; -- doch nur, um nach einer ängstlich durchseufzten Nacht gleich am nächsten Morgen wieder das Grab des lieben Oheims aufzusuchen und auf demselben zu jammern. Fürwahr, wer eine menschliche Seele hat, wird unser Elend mit uns fühlen! Da saßen wir drei Jungen, von achtzehn bis zu vierzehn Jahren herab, in der größten Leibes- und Seelennot -- in einem ganz fremden Lande, auf dem freien Felde und über dem frischen Grabhügel unseres geliebten Vaters und Führers! -- saßen, als eine arge Ketzerbrut von jedermann gemieden und ausgestoßen, ohne einen Pfennig im Vermögen, nichts _in_ und wenig _auf_ dem Leibe, in dieser rauhen Jahreszeit, ohne Trost oder Hilfe von Menschen! _Betteln_ konnten und wollten wir nicht: lieber hätten wir hier auf dieser Grabeserde des geliebten Hingeschiedenen gleichfalls verscheiden und verschmachten mögen! Er allein war in diesen trostlosen Augenblicken unser Gedanke und unsere Zuflucht. »O Vatersbruder, erbarmt Euch!« riefen wir unaufhörlich, bis wir uns müde geschrieen hatten und das Törichte unseres Beginnens einsahen. * * * * * Jetzt erst konnten wir uns untereinander beraten, was wir in dieser unserer gänzlichen Verlassenheit anzufangen hätten? Der Schluß fiel dahin aus, daß wir des nächsten Morgens zu unserem Schiff und unseren anderen Kameraden zurückkehren wollten. Wo _diese_ blieben, wollten auch _wir_ bleiben und ihr Schicksal mit ihnen teilen. Unser einziger und letzter Notanker aber war des verstorbenen Oheims Taschenuhr, die wir an uns genommen hatten und, wenn uns zuletzt das Wasser an die Kehle ginge, loszuschlagen gedachten. Ob dies schon im roten Löwen würde geschehen müssen, wohin wir nun zunächst zurückkehrten, sollten wir alsbald erfahren. Gesättigt und durch einigen Schlaf erquickt, kam denn auch am Morgen darauf unsere bisherige Zeche zur Sprache. Doch der gute Wirt, den unser trauriges Schicksal erbarmt hatte, war mit unserem Danke und einem herzlichen Gott lohn's! zufrieden; wir aber wanderten ebenfalls in Gottes Namen wieder den Strand entlang, um unsere zurückgelassenen Unglücksgefährten aufzusuchen. Noch waren wir indes keine Meile gegangen, als unser Schiffskoch, namens Roloff, uns aufstieß und uns berichtete: die österreichischen Strandwächter hätten unsere preußische Flagge von dem zertrümmerten Schiffe am Ufer aufgefischt; die Mannschaft sei hierauf nochmals in ein scharfes Verhör genommen worden und habe sich endlich zu ihrer wahren Landsmannschaft bekennen müssen. Von Stund an habe man sie als Kriegsgefangene und mit Härte behandelt, habe sie genötigt, die Trümmer des Schiffes und der Ladung mit angestrengter Arbeit ans Land bergen zu helfen, zugleich aber auch sie in so genauer Obacht gehalten, daß nicht einer, ohne militärische Begleitung, sich nur bis zwischen die nächsten Sanddünen habe entfernen dürfen. Dennoch sei es ihm selbst in dieser letzten Nacht geglückt, seinen Aufsehern zu entwischen, und er gedenke nunmehr nach Dünkirchen zu gehen, wo er in Sicherheit zu sein hoffe; -- uns aber rate er wohlmeinend, auf der Stelle wieder mit ihm umzukehren. In der Tat war dieser Vorschlag der beste und ward unbedenklich von uns angenommen. Indem ich aber in unserer neuen Not alles reiflich bei mir überdachte, kam mir wieder der Kaufmann in Dünkirchen in Sinn, an welchen Schiffer Damitz vor vier Jahren, als er mit mir von Liverpool kam, seine Ladung Tabak abgeliefert hatte. Sein Haus war mir noch erinnerlich: doch sein Name nicht. Indes beschloß ich, geradesweges zu ihm zu gehen, ihm unsere Not zu klagen und ihn um Rat und Beistand zu bitten. Daneben fiel mir bei, daß unser Schiff in Amsterdam für Seeschaden und Türken-Gefahr versichert gewesen und daß der Kommissionär, der dies Assekuranz-Geschäft besorgt hatte, den Namen Emanuel de Kinder führte. Ich konnte demnach den Dünkircher Kaufmann bitten, daß er an diesen Agenten unsers Reeders nach Amsterdam schriebe und in unserem Namen um einen Vorschuß von einhundert Gulden für Rechnung Herrn Beckers oder meines Vaters in Kolberg bäte. Damit ließ sich dann schon hoffen, unsere Heimat wieder zu erreichen. Alles dieses ging auch nach Wunsch in Erfüllung. Der Kaufmann war willig und bereit, uns in der vorgeschlagenen Weise zu dienen. Binnen acht Tagen ging auch eine Antwort von Emanuel de Kinder an ihn ein, mit der Anweisung: daß, wenn wir des Nettelbecks Kinder wären, er uns die hundert Gulden, oder falls wir es verlangten, auch das Zweifache auf sein Konto vorschießen möge. Allerdings war das brav von dem Amsterdamer: aber noch heute diesen Tag freut es mich, daß ich diese Wohltat im Jahre 1783 -- also 27 Jahre nachher -- an seinem Sohne, Florens de Kinder, habe vergelten können, indem ich mich, mit einer reichen Ladung von Lissabon kommend, an diesen adressieren ließ; und gewiß hat er hierbei, als Korrespondent, über 2000 Gulden gewonnen. Ich war ein so guter Wirt, daß ich mich mit der Hälfte des angebotenen Darlehns begnügte; und das um so lieber, da uns der Dünkircher belehrte: Es sei auf diesem Platze der Brauch, daß Seefahrer, die an der dortigen Küste ihr Schiff verloren, einen Sou (etwa vier Pfennige unseres Geldes) für eine jede Meile bis nach ihrer Heimat, als Reisegeld, empfingen. Zugleich erbot er sich, jemand von seinen Leuten mit uns nach dem Stadthause zu schicken, um uns diesen Zehrpfennig auswirken zu helfen. Dort war jedoch den Herren, denen wir Kolberg als unsere Vaterstadt nannten, dieser Ort ein ganz unbekanntes Ding, denn damals hatten ihm die wiederholten Belagerungen noch keinen Ruf in der politischen Welt gegeben. Ich bat mir demnach eine Seekarte aus und wies in derselben die Lage dieses Handelshafens nach; ward aber zugleich auch aufgefordert, dessen Entfernung von Dünkirchen abzumessen. Dies trug über See gegen 190 Meilen aus; und ebensoviel Sous wurden auch jedem von uns dreien auf der Stelle ausgezahlt. So waren wir denn mit unserem Reisebedürfnis notdürftig ausgerüstet: doch nun galt es die Frage, welchen Weg wir einschlagen sollten, um wieder zu den unsrigen zu gelangen? Es war Winter und die See so gut wie gesperrt. Zu Lande aber hätten wir uns durch die österreichischen Niederlande wagen müssen, wo wir, als Preußen, Gefahr liefen, gleich an der Grenze in Nieuport, Ostende, oder wo es sonst sei, angehalten zu werden. Indes ereignete sich, über unser Erwarten, bald genug eine Gelegenheit, die wir zu unserem Weiterkommen nicht glaubten versäumen zu dürfen. Die Dünkircher Kaper hatten nämlich einen englischen Kutter als Prise aufgebracht und denselben an einen Schiffer von Bremen namens Heindrick Harmanns verkauft. Dieser belud denselben sofort mit losen Tabaksstengeln und war willens, damit nach Hamburg zu gehen. Die gesamte Schiffsmannschaft bestand, außer ihm selbst, nur aus zwei Matrosen; und wir drei waren ihm als Passagiere um so lieber, da wir uns erboten, gegen die Kost, die er uns reichen sollte, die Wache mit zu halten. * * * * * Vier Tage vor Weihnachten gingen wir in See. Es begann hart zu frieren, und das ganze Fahrzeug nahm zuletzt die Gestalt eines großen Eisklumpens an. Da wir so wenig auf dem Leibe hatten, wurden uns unsere Wachen herzlich sauer. Uns fror jämmerlich; daher begruben wir uns, so oft die Wachzeit zu Ende lief, im Raume tief in die Tabaksstengel; kamen aber gewöhnlich ebenso erfroren wieder heraus, als wir hineingekrochen waren. Unsere Schiffsleute verfuhren auch so unbarmherzig mit uns, daß sie uns nicht in ihre Schlafkojen aufnehmen wollten, wiewohl dies, während sie selbst sich auf der Wache befanden, füglich hätte geschehen können. Ebensowenig ließen sie uns, zu unserer Erwärmung, das geringste von ihren Kleidungsstücken zukommen; und selbst die kärglichen Mundbissen, die wir erhielten, wurden uns nur mit Widerwillen und Brummen hingestoßen. So kamen wir vor die Mündung der Elbe. Da wir hier aber alles mit Eis besetzt fanden und überdem auch sich ein Ostwind erhob, wurde der Beschluß gefaßt, wieder umzukehren und an der holländischen Küste einen Nothafen zu suchen. Vor der Insel Schelling fand sich auch ein Lotse zu uns an Bord, der uns, schon bei später Abendzeit, zwischen die Bänke im Vorwasser brachte. Weil uns indes der Wind entgegenstand und wir nicht weiter hineinkommen konnten, warfen wir Anker, und der Lotse ging wieder an Land, mit dem Versprechen, sobald der Wind sich umsetzte, zu uns zurückzukehren. Aus den Äußerungen unseres Schiffers ging hervor, wie erwünscht es ihm sei, gerade an diesem Punkte an Land gekommen zu sein, denn sein Vater fahre als Beurtschiffer von Bremen nach Haarlingen, und eben jetzt müsse die Reihe an ihm sein, so daß er hoffen dürfe, ihn an letzterem Orte vorzufinden, von wo wir hier nur zwei oder drei Meilen entfernt seien. Es war gerade der erste Januar des Jahres 1757. Abends um zehn Uhr setzte sich der Wind in Nordwesten; und indem er zu einem fliegenden Sturme anwuchs, wurde das Schiff vom Anker getrieben; saß auch, ehe wir uns dessen versahen, auf einer Bank fest, wo die Sturzwogen unaufhörlich über das Fahrzeug hinwegrollten und bis hoch an die Masten emporschäumten. Das Schiff war scharf im Kiel gebaut; so oft daher eine Welle sich verlief, fiel es so tief auf die Seite, daß die Masten beinahe das Wasser berührten. Gleichwohl erhielt uns Gottes Barmherzigkeit, daß wir nicht vom Borde hinweggespült wurden. Diese ängstliche Lage dauerte wohl vier bis fünf Minuten, bis endlich eine besonders hohe und mächtige Welle uns hob und mit sich über die Bank hinüberschleuderte. So gelangten wir zwar für den Augenblick wieder in fahrbares Wasser: doch ehe wir noch Zeit hatten, uns unserer Rettung zu freuen, jagte der Sturm unser Fahrzeug vollends auf den Strand, und die brandenden Wellen zogen aufs neue im schäumenden Gebrause über das Verdeck und unsere Köpfe hinweg. Der Schiffer mit seinen beiden Leuten befand sich zufällig auf dem niedriger liegenden Hinterteile des Schiffes, während wir drei Passagiere uns vorn in der Höhe befanden und den Fockmast umklammert hielten, um nicht von den spülenden Wogen mit fortgerissen zu werden. Die Angst, mit etwas Hoffnung vermischt, machte uns mäuschenstille: jene aber schrien und wimmerten, daß die Luft davon erklang, ohne daß wir ihnen helfen, oder sie zu uns emporklimmen konnten. Die Nacht war ziemlich dunkel; auf dem Lande lag Schnee, und rings um uns her schäumte die Brandung; folglich war alles weiß, und es ließ sich nicht unterscheiden, wie nahe oder wie fern wir dem trockenen Ufer sein möchten. Je länger ich indes meine Aufmerksamkeit hierauf spannte, desto gewisser auch deuchte mir's, daß beim Rücklauf der Wellen nur ein kleiner Zwischenraum zwischen uns und dem Lande sein könne. Ich nahm einen Zeitpunkt wahr, wo das Verdeck nach vorne frei von Wasser war, und kroch an dem langen Bugspriet hinan, das nach dem Strande hin gerichtet stand; da sah ich nun deutlich, daß jedesmal, wenn die See zurücktrat, das Ufer kaum eine Schiffslänge von uns entfernt blieb. Jetzt schien mir unsere Rettung länger nicht unmöglich. Ich nahm behutsam den Rückweg zu meinen Gefährten, teilte ihnen meine glückliche Entdeckung mit und sprach ihnen Mut ein, mir nach auf das Bugspriet zu klettern. Sobald die nächste Welle sich weit genug zurückzöge, wollte ich's zuerst versuchen, mich schnell an einem Tau (deren dort überall eine Menge zerrissen hing) hinabzulassen; und wenn ich festen Boden unter mir fühlte, sollten sie, auf mein gegebenes Zeichen, beim nächsten Ablauf einer Woge, meinem Beispiele getrost nachfolgen. Auch den übrigen schrie ich zu, sich auf diesem Wege zu retten; allein das Sturm- und Wellengebrause war zu mächtig, als daß ich hätte können verstanden werden. Unser Wagestück gelang nach Wunsch; wir kamen glücklich an Land und fielen alle drei voll Entzücken auf unsere Kniee, um dem göttlichen Erretter unseren Dank darzubringen. Durchnäßt bis auf die Haut und erstarrt vor Frost, war indes hier nicht der Ort und die Zeit, lange hinter uns zu sehen. Vielmehr wanderten wir unverzüglich auf eine Feuerbake zu, die hier auf dem Schelling zum Besten der Seefahrenden unterhalten wird, und deren Licht wir etwa 2000 Schritte von uns flimmern sahen. Wohl hundertmal fielen wir in der dicken Finsternis und auf den unebenen Sanddünen über unsere eigenen Füße; aber innig froh, dem tosenden Meere entronnen zu sein, hätten wir auch wohl größeres Leid nicht geachtet, und gelangten endlich auch wohlbehalten zu dem Feuerturme. Die Türe desselben ward im Dunkeln ausgetastet; vor uns öffnete sich eine Wendeltreppe, die wir hinanstiegen; und droben im Wachtstübchen fanden wir einen Mann auf der Pritsche ausgestreckt, dem, bei unserem unerwarteten Eintritte, im Todesschrecken das Pfeifchen aus dem Munde entsank, bis wir uns beiderseits besannen und näher miteinander verständigten. Auf den Bericht von unserer unglücklichen Strandung erklärte er uns, daß er verpflichtet sei, dies Ereignis sofort im nächsten Dorfe, welches kaum einige Tausend Schritte entfernt liege, anzuzeigen. Er lud uns ein, ihn dorthin zu begleiten; kam uns erstarrten armen Burschen aber gar bald aus dem Gesichte und überließ es uns, ihm, so gut wir konnten, nachzuhumpeln. Unzähligemal purzelten wir auf diesem kurzen Wege; kamen selbst in Gefahr uns zu verirren, und fanden uns nur dann erst zu dem Dorfe hin, als wir eine Glocke gezogen hörten, welche das Zeichen gab, daß alles Mannsvolk auf und empor sollte, um unser gestrandetes Schiff aufzusuchen und zu bergen. Wir wurden indes in ein Haus geführt, wo des Fragens nach unserem erlittenen Unglücke kein Ende war, wo aber die guten Leute zugleich auch trockene Kleider, Speisen, Warmbier und sogar Glühwein, und was sie sonst irgend im Vermögen hatten, herbeibrachten, um uns zu erquicken. Sie weinten in die Wette mit uns -- _wir_ vor Freude, _sie_ vor Mitleid; und nicht eher verließen sie uns, als bis sie uns in einem warmen Bette zur Ruhe gebracht hatten. * * * * * Am Morgen, da wir uns wieder ermuntert hatten, erfuhren wir, daß die Dorfsmannschaft von ihrem nächtlichen Zuge wieder heimgekehrt sei. Sie hatte das gestrandete Schiff in der Dunkelheit nicht finden können, war aber, bei anbrechendem Tage, auf die einzelnen, längs dem Ufer umhertreibenden Trümmer gestoßen, ohne jedoch weder einen lebendigen Menschen, noch eine ausgeworfene Leiche anzutreffen. Wir blieben also leider die einzigen Geborgenen! Es ward uns indes angeraten, uns zu Mynheer de Drost, der die polizeiliche Aufsicht auf der Insel führte, zu begeben und demselben unser Unglück vorstellig zu machen, da zudem eine Kasse vorhanden sei, woraus armen Schiffbrüchigen Leuten, wie wir, eine Unterstützung gereicht zu werden pflege. Auch möchten wir deren wohl um so mehr bedürftig sein, da jetzt zwischen dem Schelling und dem festen Lande alles mit Eis gestopft und so bald an kein Hinüberkommen zu denken sei. Dieser Vorschlag kam uns gar gelegen. Ohne uns also zu äußern, daß wir noch mit Geld und mit einer Taschenuhr (beides hatte ich sorgfältig in meinen Beinkleidern verwahrt) versehen wären, machten wir uns zu dem Landdrosten auf den Weg, ihm unsere Lage zu schildern. Der brave Mann hörte uns mit dem äußersten Mitleid an, ließ auch sofort einen Schneider kommen, der uns eine tüchtige Jacke und Hosen anmessen mußte, und versah uns mit doppelten Hemden, Halstüchern, Strümpfen, einer Filzmütze und anderen Notwendigkeiten mehr. Hiermit auch nicht zufrieden, ließ er einen Mann kommen, dem er uns in die Kost befahl; und so blieben wir in dieser menschenfreundlichen Pflege bis in die Mitte des Januar, wo endlich das Eis zwischen dem Schelling und Haarlingen aufging und wir ein Schiff von dorther nach dem Schelling durchbrechen sahen. Sobald dies Fahrzeug an Land gekommen war, beeilten wir uns, den Schiffer, welcher schnell löschen und dann den Rückweg antreten wollte, dahin zu vermögen, daß er uns einen Platz an seinem Borde gestattete. Auf seine ausweichende Antwort, die uns wenig Hoffnung übrig ließ, hielten wir's für das Geratenste, auf der Stelle unseren großmütigen Gönner, den Drosten, anzutreten und ihm unser neues Anliegen vorzutragen. Sogleich auch war er zur Vermittelung bereit, ließ den Schiffer rufen, verdingte uns ihm als Passagiere bis Haarlingen und an seinen eigenen Tisch, wie lang oder kurz die Überfahrt auch währen möchte, und berichtigte die Kosten mit fünfzehn Gulden vor unsern Augen. Es versteht sich, daß wir ihm aus Herzensgrunde und mit weinenden Augen dankten, indem wir zugleich Abschied von ihm nahmen, um mit unserem Schiffer zu gehen. Diesem halfen wir vergnügt löschen und eine neue Ladung einnehmen; und so konnten wir schon nach 48 Stunden mit ihm vom Schelling absegeln. Wir brauchten einen Tag und beinahe die ganze folgende Nacht, um uns durch das Eis zu arbeiten, bis wir mit dem Morgen vor Haarlingen anlegten. Hier nahmen wir sofort unser kleines Bündel auf den Arm, und waren im Begriff, längs dem Kai zum nächsten Tore hinauszuziehen, als wir zufällig an einem Fahrzeuge vorüberschlenderten, welches, wie mehrere andere, im Eise eingefroren war. Auf demselben stand ein kleiner alter Mann, der uns anrief und dessen Neugier wir über unsere Umstände, erst im allgemeinen und dann im besonderen, befriedigen mußten. Wir taten es, als ehrliche Pommern, in aller Unbefangenheit, und nannten letztlich auch den Namen »Heindrick Harmanns«, als des Schiffers, mit dem wir unseren neuerlichen Unfall erlitten und der dabei ein Raub der empörten Wogen geworden. Kaum ging der unglückliche Name über meine Lippen, so schlug der alte Mann die Hände über dem Kopfe zusammen und schrie, daß es in die Lüfte klang: »Barmherziger Gott! Mein Sohn, mein Sohn!« Zugleich sank er auf seine Knie nieder und mit dem Angesichte auf das Verdeck, und jammerte unablässig: »Mein Sohn! o mein Sohn!« -- Uns schnitt der klägliche Anblick durchs Herz; wir weinten mit ihm und konnten nicht von der Stelle. Als wir uns beiderseits ein wenig erholt hatten, drang er in uns, ihm in seine Kajüte zu folgen. Hier mußten wir ihm den ganzen Verlauf umständlich erzählen; auch wollte er uns (als ob ihm dies einigen Trost gäbe) den ganzen Tag nicht von seiner Seite lassen; aber während er uns Kaffee, Wein und alles, was er nur bei der Seele hatte, vorsetzte, überwältigte ihn immer von neuem der Gram um sein verlorenes Kind und preßte auch uns Tränen der Rührung und des Mitleids aus. Gegen den Abend, wo es uns endlich die höchste Zeit deuchte, unseren Stab weiter zu setzen, hub er an: »Liebe Jungen, heute könnt und sollt ihr nicht mehr von dannen. Ich will euch in ein gutes Haus bringen, wo ihr euch die Nacht über erholen könnt. Aber morgen früh hol' ich euch ab und gehe eine Strecke Weges mit euch. Ihr seid jung und unerfahren und braucht Anweisung und guten Rat, wie ihr eure Reise weiter anzustellen habt. Kommt denn, in Gottes Namen!« Unser Führer schien in der Herberge, zu welcher er uns geleitete und wo es von Biergästen wimmelte, gar wohl bekannt. Er erzählte seines Sohnes und unser Unglück; auch wir mußten erzählen, und so verstrich der Abend, bis der Wirt, in Ermangelung seiner abwesenden Ehegenossin, uns in ein recht artiges Zimmer hinaufleuchtete, uns dreien ein großes, mit Betten hoch ausgestopftes Nachtlager anwies und uns sodann eine freundliche Ruhe wünschte. Wirklich tat sie uns not und wir krochen wohlgemut und behaglich unter die Decke zusammen. Leider aber hatten wir diesmal unsere Rechnung zwar nicht ohne den Wirt, aber doch ohne die Wirtin gemacht; denn kaum war uns so ein süßes halbes Stündchen zwischen Schlaf und Wachen verlaufen, so kam es unter Zank und Gepolter die Treppe heraufgestürmt; unsere Zimmertür ward ungestüm aufgerissen und eine gellende Stimme gebot uns, sofort das warme Nest zu räumen und ihr sauberes Bettzeug nicht zu verunreinigen. Da half kein Widerreden; wir sprangen auf, ließen die Ohren hängen und duckten uns in einen Winkel zusammen, bis die Betten, die der Dame so fest ans Herz gewachsen waren, mit einem Strohsack, einer Matratze und einer Art von Pferdedecke vertauscht worden. Das war ein böser Wechsel, und den unfreundlich genug ausgestoßenen Wunsch einer guten Nacht, womit uns die gestrenge Hausfrau verließ, hinderte nicht, daß wir eine sehr böse Nacht unter Frost, Verdruß und Schlaflosigkeit zubrachten. Unser ehrlicher Vater Harmanns, der in seiner Kajüte geschlafen hatte und dem wir am Morgen unser nächtliches Abenteuer mitteilten, nahm sich den Affront, welcher seinen Schützlingen widerfahren war, mehr zu Herzen, als wir erwarteten. Trotz unserer Vorstellungen las er der Wirtin einen derben Text, sagte ihr und ihrem Hause, wo er so viele Jahre verkehrt hatte, alle Gemeinschaft auf und wollte jede Christenseele warnen, keinen Fuß über diese unwirtliche Schwelle zu setzen. Wir hatten genug zu tun, den lieben alten Mann zu beschwichtigen, der sich's nicht nehmen ließ, uns noch zu guter Letzt durch ein vollständiges Frühstück satt zu machen, ja auch alle unsere Taschen mit Brot, Käse, gekochtem Fleisch und was er sonst wußte und hatte, vollzustopfen. Das getan, ergriff er seinen Stab und wanderte mit uns zum Tore hinaus, wie sehr wir ihn auch bitten mochten, umzukehren und seine Kräfte zu schonen. Vielmehr hörte er nicht auf, uns eifrig wegen unseres besseren Fortkommens zu beraten, und während dieser Besprechungen verlief ein Stündchen nach dem anderen, es ward Mittag, und wir befanden uns in Franecker. Hier zog er mit uns in ein Wirtshaus, ließ auftragen, als ob wir uns für drei Tage sattessen sollten, und konnte sich endlich nur schwer entschließen, uns das Valet zu geben. Noch drückte er uns beim Abschiede zwei holländische Dukaten in die Hände; wir aber schieden mit Tränen der Dankbarkeit von diesem Ehrenmanne und gelangten abends wohlbehalten nach Leuwaarden, wo wir übernachteten. * * * * * Die nächste Tagereise brachte uns spät in der Dunkelheit nach Dockum, aber es wollte uns nicht gelingen, hier eine Herberge zu finden. Überall, wo wir anklopften, beleuchtete man uns sorgfältig von allen Seiten und zog dann die Tür uns vor der Nase ins Schloß mit einem frostigen: »Geht weiter mit Gott!« -- Es war eine kalte, stürmische Nacht; wir irrten umher und jammerten, bis wir endlich bei einem Hinterhause an einen Stall gerieten, wo ein Knecht noch den Dünger auskehrte. Vergebens klagten wir auch diesem unser Leid und baten ihn, uns die Nacht in seinen warmen Stall aufzunehmen; er fürchtete, sich dadurch Scheltworte bei seinem Herrn zu verdienen, und uns blieb zuletzt nichts übrig, als uns hinter einer Scheune zunächst dem Tore, wo es etwas Überwind gab, zusammenzukauern und uns recht herzlich satt zu weinen. Hatten wir eine Weile gesessen, so sprangen wir wieder auf und rannten auf dem Platze hin und her, um nicht vor Frost zu erstarren. Es ward uns aber wahrlich je länger je übler zumute. Das währte so fort, bis nach Mitternacht, wo wir Räder rasseln und ein Posthorn blasen hörten. Eine Kutsche hielt am Tore, und auch wir kamen hinter unserer Scheune hervor, um zu sehen, was es gäbe? Bis die Torflügel und Gatter sich öffneten, standen wir aus Langeweile um den Wagen her, an welchem der Schlag von innen aufgemacht wurde und von welchem ein lautes »Wer da?« an uns erging. Wir fanden keine Ursache, unserer Personen, Drangsale und gegenwärtigen Not ein Hehl zu haben, und unser unwillkürliches Zähneklappern legte genugsames Zeugnis ein, daß wir die Wahrheit redeten. Es fand sich nun, daß ein einzelner Mann im Wagen saß und daß ihm unser trübseliger Zustand zu Herzen ging. Nachdem er seinem Unwillen durch einige Verwünschungen gegen die hartherzigen Dockumer Luft gemacht, uns um unsere Heimat befragt (freilich mochten wohl Pommern und Kolberg böhmische Dörfer für ihn sein) und endlich noch erfahren hatte, daß unser Weg zunächst auf Gröningen ginge, so überraschte er uns durch die willkommene Einladung, zu ihm in die Kutsche zu steigen und ihn bis zu dem genannten Orte zu begleiten. Es versteht sich wohl, daß wir arme, erfrorene Schlucker uns das nicht zweimal sagen ließen. Der Wagen rollte mit uns fort und wir mußten unserm Wohltäter die ganze Nacht hindurch alle unsere erlebten Schicksale erzählen. Mit Tagesanbruch sahen wir uns nach Gröningen versetzt und der Mann im Wagen fuhr seines Weges weiter, doch nicht, ohne uns zuvor mit drei holländischen Gulden beschenkt zu haben. Wir sahen ihm mit herzlichem Danke nach, verfolgten aber gleichfalls unsere Straße zum anderen Tore hinaus, nachdem wir bloß unseren Brotbedarf erneuert hatten, und erlebten an diesem Tage kein ferneres Abenteuer, als daß wir an einem Gittertore von einem barschen Kerle angerufen und uns sechs Stüber Zollgeld abgefordert wurden. Unser Protestieren, daß wir arme schiffbrüchige Leute seien, die man ja wohl verschonen werde, half zu nichts; wir wurden in die Stube des Zollhauses gezerrt und sollten zahlen. Nun wäre die Summe wohl zu erschwingen gewesen und meine Kameraden winkten mir auch zu, nur in Gottes Namen den Beutel zu ziehen; allein dieser, samt unserem ganzen kleinen Reichtum, saß so tief und wohl verwahrt in meinen Beinkleidern, daß ich ein billiges Bedenken trug, ihn vor diesen Zeugen zum Vorschein zu bringen. Darüber saßen wir hier wohl eine gute halbe Stunde lang, gleichsam wie im Arrest, und es ward mit uns um die sechs Stüber kapituliert. Ganz wie vom Himmel kam uns jedoch ein Erlöser in der Person eines Postboten, der zu uns eintrat, weil er hier Briefe abzugeben hatte. Er ließ sich den Handel von beiden Parteien umständlich vortragen und schlug sich, wie billig, auf unsere Seite, wobei es denn nicht ohne eine nachdrückliche Gewissensrüge an den unbarmherzigen Zöllner abging. Dieser aber blieb steif und unbeweglich auf seinem Zoll-Reglement und seinen sechs Stübern bestehen, bis endlich unser eifriger Sachwalter den eigenen Beutel zog, jenem das Weggeld hinwarf und nun uns triumphierend aufforderte, in Gottes Namen unseres Weges zu gehen. Das taten wir denn auch, ohne es an unserer Bedankung für seine Großmut mangeln zu lassen. Nun aber gerieten wir in andere Nöte. Meine beiden Begleiter, der angestrengten Märsche ungewohnt, hatten die Füße voller Blasen und fanden sich auch anderweitig unbequem, so daß mir's immer schwerer fiel, sie des Weges vorwärts zu bringen. Ging ich meinen guten Schritt vorweg und sah dann hinter mich, so war der eine noch immer weiter als der andere zurückgeblieben. Bat ich sie, sich zu fördern: -- sie wollten nicht, sie konnten nicht; sie weinten. Es gedieh endlich soweit damit, daß mein Bruder auf einem Düngerhaufen am Wege sitzen blieb und unter heißen Tränen beteuerte: jetzt vermöchte er nicht weiter, ich möchte nur meinen Weg vor mich hingehen; wollte ich ihm von unserem Gelde nichts zukommen lassen, so möchte es darum sein. Es sei ihm ohnehin so zu Sinne, als müsse er hier sitzen bleiben und Hungers sterben. Meine Angst war unaussprechlich. Ich weinte mit ihm um die Wette; ich tröstete, ich versprach ihm goldene Berge, wenn er nur aufstehen und es versuchen wollte, mit mir fortzuhumpeln. Nur bis ans nächste Dorf noch sollte er sich fortschleppen, bevor es Abend würde. Morgen wollten wir ein Fuhrwerk nehmen und alles sollte besser werden. Unter solchem kräftigen Zureden nahm ich ihn endlich unter die Arme, hinkte mit ihm weiter und trug ihn mehr, als er ging, bis wir unser heutiges abgekürztes Reiseziel erreichten. Ich hielt ihm indes Wort und wir fuhren von Dorf zu Dorf, bis wir ins Oldenburgische kamen. Hier aber nahmen wir die halbe Post und erreichten Lübeck; doch griff dies schnellere und bequemere Fortkommen auch so gewaltig in unsere Reisekasse, daß uns, wie knapp wir's auch unserem Munde abdarbten und kaum mehr als das trockene Brot mit einem Wassertrunk genossen, endlich doch der letzte Groschen aus den Händen zerronnen war. Was blieb zu tun? Ich wandte mich in Lübeck an einen Kaufmann, Herrn Sengbusch, der mir, von Kolberg her, dem Namen nach bekannt war, und ersuchte ihn, uns auf unsere teuergehaltene Taschenuhr zwanzig Taler vorzustrecken. Hierzu war der gute Mann auch willfährig; wir konnten nunmehr mit der Post nach Stettin weiterfahren und fanden hier eine Gelegenheit, die uns vollends nach Kolberg förderte, wo wir in der Mitte des März mit einem baren Kassenbestande von sieben Groschen sechs Pfennigen anlangten und von den Unserigen mit einer Freude, als wären wir vom Tode auferstanden, empfangen wurden. * * * * * Fünf Tage lang war ich im lieben Vaterhause gewesen und von der Not kaum wieder ein wenig zur Besinnung gekommen, als schon wieder ein neuer Unglücksstern über mir aufging. Denn da hieß es: die Unteroffiziere von unserem Bataillon, welches damals seine Winter-Quartiere in Torgau hatte, hätten sich bei uns eingefunden, um frische Rekruten in diesem ihrem Kanton auszuheben. Eine Schreckenszeitung für alle Eltern jener Zeit, sowie für alles junge Volk, das eine Flinte schleppen konnte und nicht mochte! Diese entschiedene Abneigung des Bürgers gegen den Soldatenstand hatte aber auch ihre genugsame Rechtfertigung in der heillosen und unmenschlichen Art, womit die jungen Leute beim Exerzieren, zumal von den dazu angestellten Unteroffizieren, behandelt wurden. Unter den Fenstern ihrer Eltern selbst, auf öffentlichem Markte, wurden sie von diesen rohen Menschen bei solchen Einübungen mit Schieben, Stoßen und Prügeln aufs grausamste mißhandelt, -- oft nur, um sie die Autorität fühlen zu lassen, oft aber auch wohl in der eigennützigen Absicht, von den Angehörigen Geschenke zu erpressen. Es war ein kläglicher Anblick, wenn die Mütter bei solchen Auftritten in Haufen daneben standen, weinten, schrien, baten und von den Barbaren rauh abgeführt wurden. Klagen bei den Obern fanden nicht statt oder wurden verspottet, denn diese dachten wie ihre Untergebenen und sahen mit kalter Geringschätzung auf alles herab, was nicht den blauen Rock ihres Königs trug. Wenn nun schon unsere Bürgersöhne sich damals so ungern unter die militärische Fuchtel beugten, so wird es um so begreiflicher, daß die jungen Seefahrer unter ihnen diesen Abscheu in noch verstärktem Maße empfanden, je früher sie bereits auswärts die goldene Freiheit gekostet hatten und je weniger ihre Hantierung mit dem gezwungenen Soldatendienste übereinstimmte. Wer es also irgend vermochte, entzog sich dieser Sklaverei lieber durch die Flucht ins Ausland und ging dadurch dem Staate gewöhnlich für immer verloren. Aber auch der Handelsstand hat es stets schmerzlich empfunden, der sich nun für die Schiffahrt oft mit den untauglichsten Leuten behelfen mußte. Hätte ich selbst nicht auch jenen Widerwillen gegen ein so gebundenes Leben so lebhaft gefühlt, als irgendeiner unter meinen Seekameraden, so durfte ich mich doch schon um meiner kleinen Statur willen nicht tauglich zu einem regelrechten Soldaten halten und darum stand mir's auch nie zu Sinn, meinem großen Friedrich, so sehr ich ihn auch verehrte, in Reihe und Glied und mit dem Schießprügel auf der Schulter zu dienen. Denke man sich also meinen Schrecken, als ein gutmeinender Freund unter dem angekommenen Werberkorps (er hieß Lemcke) meinem Vater insgeheim vertraute: sämtliche junge Burschen in der Stadt, von vierzehn Jahren und darüber, wären bereits notiert, und um elf Uhr würden die Tore geschlossen, die brauchbarsten darunter aufgegriffen und gleich mit dem nächsten Morgen nach Sachsen auf den Transport gegeben werden. Jetzt war es neun Uhr morgens. Hier galt es demnach kein Säumen; ich sollte vorerst nach der Münde flüchten und mich dort verbergen. Nur zu bald kam auch dorthin das Geschrei, daß alle Vorhersagungen meines Warners pünktlich eingetroffen und das Ordonnanzhaus bereits voll von neuen Rekruten stecke. Mein Vater ließ mir durch eine vertraute Frau sagen, daß auch bei ihm genaue Haussuchung nach mir geschehen sei. Ich möchte mich daher ungesäumt aufmachen und, zwei Meilen weiter am Strande entlang, im Dorfe Bornhagen bei einem mir namhaft gemachten Bauern, dem zu trauen sei, eine einstweilige Zuflucht suchen. Doch dieser gute Rat kam leider zu spät; mein Aufenthalt war schon verraten! Gleich am Nachmittage zeigten sich jene Werber überall auf der Münde und umringten das Haus, worin ich steckte, von allen Seiten. Ich gewann nur Zeit, mich auf den stockfinstern Boden zu flüchten, wo ich in der Angst ein großes Fischernetz, das an den Sparren umherhing, über mir zusammenzog, so daß ich meist darunter verdeckt lag. Kaum war dies geschehen, so rührte sich auch etwas auf der Leiter, die unter das Dach hinaufführte. Es war der Unteroffizier Schnell, der nun sein Seitengewehr zog und mit der Spitze desselben in allen Winkeln blind umhertastete. So ging er rund um mich und mein aufgetürmtes Netz umher, ohne mich darunter zu vermuten, obwohl es mir nicht ganz den Kopf verdeckte und mir dadurch Gelegenheit gab, seine Bewegungen einigermaßen zu beobachten. Ich darf aber wohl sagen, daß mir dabei gar unheimlich zumute war. Indes fand er mich nicht, und auch unten im Hause ward ich standhaft verleugnet. Nun war hier aber auch meines Bleibens nicht länger. Kaum graute der Abend, so machte ich mich in Gottes Namen zu meinem Bauern auf den Weg, nachdem man mir einen tüchtigen Schiffshauer zu meiner Sicherheit mitgegeben -- weniger vor meinen Verfolgern, als um mich im Stadtholze, welches ich passieren mußte, der Wölfe zu erwehren, die damals an Menschen und Vieh viel Unglück anrichteten. Wirklich war es auch ein wahres Wolfswetter mit Sturm und Schneegestöber, und Gott weiß, wie blutsauer mir dieser Weg geworden; denn unzählige Male brach das Eis unter mir ein, oder ich versank im Schnee, daß ich vollauf zu tun hatte, um nur allemal wieder auf die Beine zu kommen. Endlich am Morgen erreichte ich meine Freistatt und hielt mich dort zehn oder zwölf Tage verborgen. Aber diese dünkten mir bald wie eine halbe Ewigkeit, ebensowohl wegen des ganz ungewohnten Festsitzens, als wegen der ermangelnden Nachrichten von Hause; bis mich's nicht länger ruhen ließ und ich mich eines Abends wieder aufmachte, um in meinem alten Quartier auf der Münde nachzufragen, ob ich mich wohl mit einiger Sicherheit wieder zeigen dürfte. Hier lauteten indes die Nachrichten so wenig tröstlich, daß mir nur die sorgfältigste Verbergung übrig blieb. Doch wollte ich nicht gerne von der Münde weichen, weil nächstens die Schiffahrt wieder aufgehen konnte und ich dann hier bei der Hand war, um mit irgendeinem absegelnden Schiffe zu entkommen. Mit einem ähnlichen Plane trugen sich noch mehrere meiner jungen Kameraden; allein eben darum waren wir auch um so gewisser bereits nach einigen Tagen verraten und eine neue Nachjagd ward auf uns begonnen. Mitten in der Nacht erweckte mich ein leises Klopfen an den Fensterladen des Kämmerchens, wo ich schlief, und die bekannte Stimme einer getreuen Frauensperson rief mir zu: »Joachim, auf! auf aus den Federn! die Soldaten sind wieder auf der Münde! Den, und den, und den (die sie mir bei Namen nannte) haben sie schon beim Flügel gekriegt. Mach', daß du davonkommst!« Man glaubt mir's wohl, daß ich flugs und mit gleichen Füßen aus dem Bette sprang. In der Bestürzung griff ich nach den ersten besten Kleidern, die auf den Stühlen umherlagen und die ich für die meinigen hielt. So stahl ich mich alsobald und im Hemde auf die Straße hinaus, schüttelte meinen Fund auseinander, um mir davon etwas über den Leib zu werfen, und bemerkte nun erst mit Schrecken, daß mir nichts als Frauenkleider in die Hände gefallen waren. Was blieb zu tun? Ich warf mir einen roten Friesrock über die Schultern und war im Begriff, mich mit dem Reste noch besser auszustaffieren, als ich in meinem Anputzen häßlich gestört wurde. Es waren die Herren Soldaten, die kaum zehn Schritte von mir um eine Ecke bogen. Ich suchte mein Heil in der Flucht: aber eben dadurch verriet ich mich und hatte alsobald meinen alten Widersacher Schnell nebst noch ein paar andern auf der Ferse hinter mir. Mein Lauf ging geradeswegs nach einem im Hafen liegenden Schiffe zu, an dessen Bord sie mir nicht so hurtig nachfolgen konnten. Zu meinem Glücke lag an der anderen Seite des Schiffs ein Boot befestigt. Ich sprang hinein, fand sogar ein Ruder darin vor, löste das Tau, stieß ab und ließ jenen in eben dem Augenblicke das Nachsehen, als auch sie endlich das Verdeck erreicht hatten. Jenseits, in der Maikühle, ging ich an Land und überlegte nun etwas ruhiger, was weiter zu tun sei. Ich befand mich so gut als nackend in einer bitterlich kalten Märznacht und mußte vor allen Dingen meine Blöße zu decken suchen. Also wanderte ich getrost zu der nächstgelegenen Holzwärterei Grünhausen, klopfte den Bewohner (er hieß Krössin) hervor, gab mich zu erkennen und bat um Aufnahme. Seine abschlägige Antwort durfte mich nicht befremden, da es derzeiten hart verboten war, Flüchtlinge meiner Art zu hegen, die vielmehr sofort angehalten und ausgeliefert werden sollten. Ich beschränkte demnach meine Bitten auf irgendeine Kopfbedeckung und ein Paar Strümpfe. Der ehrliche Kerl reichte mir seine Schlafmütze vom Kopfe und ein Paar hölzerne Pantoffeln von seinen Füßen und fügte den Rat hinzu, mich eiligst zu entfernen, weil es auch bei ihm nichts weniger als sicher sei, da er gleichfalls einen Sohn im Hause habe, dem, obwohl er krank und elend sei, von den Soldaten nachgetrachtet werde. So aufs abenteuerlichste ausstaffiert, begab ich mich nach der Maikühle zurück, um eine anderweitige Zuflucht aufzusuchen. Es stand dort, wie ich wußte, ein alter Schiffsrumpf hoch auf dem Strande, der im Sommer als ein Bierschank benutzt zu werden pflegte. An diesem kletterte ich hinan, stieg oben durch das Rauchfangloch und duckte mich da vor der Kälte in einen Winkel zusammen. Darüber ging endlich die langweilige Nacht zu Ende. Mit dem ersten Dämmerungsstrahle glosterte ich von meiner Hochwarte herab überall umher; und da nach der Münde hinaus alles ruhig schien, so wagte ich mich hervor, suchte mein verlassenes Boot wieder auf und ruderte mich leise zu einem Schiffe heran, das nach Königsberg gehörte und von Schiffer Heinrich Geertz geführt wurde. Dieser gute Mann nahm mich willig auf und hielt mich länger als vierzehn Tage bei sich verborgen. Dennoch konnte hier meines Bleibens nicht ewig sein. Es war mir daher eine erwünschte Zeitung, daß ein Kolberger Schiffer namens Martin Albrecht, der dicht neben uns vor Anker lag, am nächsten Morgen mit Ballast nach Danzig auszugehen gedenke. Zu diesem Schiffe führte mich um Mitternacht mein Freund Geertz in aller Stille. Meine ganze Reiseausrüstung bestand in einem Bündelchen mit Hemden und anderen kleinen Notwendigkeiten, welches meine Mutter mir unter der Hand zugeschickt hatte. Sobald ich an Bord hinübergestiegen war, dankte ich meinem freundlichen Beschützer zum Abschied mit einem warmen Händedruck, bat ihn, meinen besorgten Eltern meinen Gruß und Lebewohl zu bringen und ließ nunmehr meinen guten oder bösen Stern weiter walten. Auf dem Schiffe war alles stille. Niemand hatte mich wahrgenommen. Ich öffnete die vordere Kabelgats-Luke, rutschte hinunter, machte die Luke hinter mir zu und suchte mir auf den Tauen und Segeln, die hier verwahrt lagen, ein Ruheplätzchen. Bald aber überlegte ich, daß dieses Versteck mit Tagesanbruch auch sofort von Menschen wimmeln würde, die zu der vorhabenden Abfahrt Segel und anderes Zubehör daraus hervorlangten, wo es denn garstig für mich ablaufen könnte. Ich versuchte es also, mich durch tausend Gegenstände, die sich mir hindernd in den Weg stellten, tiefer in den Raum hinabzuminieren. Es glückte mir endlich damit: aber zu gleicher Zeit hörte ich hinter dem Ballast etwas rascheln und flüstern, das mir unheimlich vorkam. Gleichwohl kroch ich noch weiter heran und unterschied bald menschliche Stimmen, die mir, je länger ich sie behorchte, um so bekannter vorkamen. Kurz es gab hier eine ganz unvermutete Erkennungsszene zwischen mir und elf andern jungen Seekameraden, welche gleiche Not und gleiche Hoffnung hierher zusammengebracht hatte. Für den Augenblick hielten wir uns zwar geborgen: aber unter Furcht und Zagen hatten wir nun zu erwarten, ob das Schiff vor seiner Abfahrt nicht nach uns Flüchtlingen visitiert werden dürfte? Inzwischen brach der Tag an und am Borde ward es über unseren Köpfen lebendig. Wir unterschieden deutlich, wie man Anstalten machte, in See zu gehen; ja, ein wenig später spürten wir, mit steigender Freude, das Schiff in Bewegung, dann das Anschlagen der Brandung an die Seitenborde und endlich auch den Abgang des Lotsen, der uns zum Hafen hinausbegleitet hatte. Da auch der Wind gut sein mußte, so glaubten wir, nach Verlauf von noch einer Stunde, weit genug von Kolberg, das uns ein Schreckensort geworden, entfernt zu sein, um uns wieder ans Tageslicht hervorwagen zu dürfen. Wir setzten also die Leiter an, schoben die große Luke auf und traten wohlgemut auf das Verdeck hervor. Das Erstaunen des Schiffers über unseren unerwarteten Anblick kannte keine Grenzen; aber auch von seinem Volke mußten selbst die, welche vielleicht um das Geheimnis wußten, sich billig verwundern, daß wir uns, ihnen unter den Händen, in unserer Anzahl verdoppelt hatten. Eines besonders freundlichen Empfangs hatten wir uns indes nicht zu rühmen. Der Kapitän, der nur seine schwere Verantwortlichkeit erwog, tobte wie besessen. »Könnt' ich nur gegen den Wind ankommen!« rief er, »ich brächt' euch alle auf der Stelle nach Kolberg zurück und machte rein Schiff. Aber ich weiß darum wohl, wohin ich euch abzuliefern habe.« -- Zugleich verbot er seinen Leuten aufs strengste, sich um uns zu kümmern und uns weder Essen noch Trinken zu reichen. Zwar ward es mit diesem Befehle nicht so gar genau genommen und unsere Freunde steckten uns immerfort etwas von ihren Mundportionen zu; allein da wir volle acht Tage in See blieben, so litten wir gleichwohl grausamen Hunger und Durst und waren darum von Herzen froh, als endlich die Anker im Danziger Fahrwasser fielen. Hier deutete der Schiffer seiner Mannschaft in unserer Gegenwart (und also auch wohl nicht ohne geheime Absicht) an: »Er gehe in diesem nämlichen Augenblicke an Land und nach Danzig zum preußischen Residenten, um ihm uns Deserteure anzumelden und uns in seine Hände zu überliefern. Bis dahin sollten sie uns an Bord festhalten und mit Leib und Leben für uns einstehen.« Vergeblich wandten sie ihm ein: »Die Partei sei gar zu ungleich, da ihrer nur fünf Mann, wir aber zwölf Köpfe stark wären.« -- »Was kümmert's mich?« war seine Antwort, »und wenn es auch Mord und Totschlag gibt, so laßt sie nicht laufen!« Das hieß nun wohl deutlich genug: Immerhin, laßt sie laufen! -- Kaum hatte er auch nur den Rücken gewandt, so machten wir uns zum Abzuge fertig. Zum Schein gab es zwischen uns und dem Schiffsvolk ein unbedeutendes und unblutiges Handgemenge, worauf wir unseres Wegs gingen, uns sofort über die Weichsel setzen ließen und längs dem Seestrande die Richtung nach Königsberg einschlugen. So mochten wir ein paar Stunden wacker zugeschritten sein, als wir den Weg zu beschwerlich fanden und darum gern auf den Vorschlag einiger Gefährten hörten, die ihn früher schon mehrmals gemacht hatten und das Fortkommen an der anderen Seite der Nehrung, längs dem frischen Haff, als angenehmer und gemächlicher priesen. Sogleich schlugen wir uns nach dieser Seite hinüber und entgingen dadurch, ohne es zu ahnen, einer Gefahr, die das bisherige Spiegelfechten leicht in bitteren Ernst verwandelt haben würde. Denn seinerseits hatte der Kapitän in Danzig nicht umhin gekonnt, seine Pflicht zu tun. Wir waren gesucht, vermißt und auf fernere Anzeige bei der Ortsobrigkeit sofort verfolgt worden. Ein Kommando von einigen Danziger Stadtdragonern setzte uns längs dem Seestrande nach und würde uns gar bald eingeholt haben, wenn wir uns nicht bereits landeinwärts gelenkt hätten. So verfehlten sie uns und kehrten unverrichteter Dinge nach Danzig zurück, während wir ohne weitere Anfechtung Königsberg erreichten und, vor weiterer Entdeckung sicher, uns im Gewühl dieses lebendigen Handelsplatzes verloren. * * * * * Es traf sich sehr gelegen, daß es hier, bei eben wieder eröffneter Schiffahrt, Mangel an unterrichteten Seeleuten gab, die als Steuerleute gebraucht werden konnten. Daher währte es kaum zwei oder drei Tage, bis wir uns samt und sonders, und meist in jener Eigenschaft, mit Vorteil angebracht hatten. Ich selbst fand einen Platz als Steuermann auf einer kleinen Jacht von fünfzig Lasten und fünf Mann Equipage. Mein Schiffer hieß Berend Jantzen und war mit einer Ladung Hanf nach Irwin in West-Schottland bestimmt; sollte aber, um die französischen Kaper zu vermeiden, oben herum durch die Nordsee und die Orkaden steuern. Wir gingen unter Segel; aber schon im Sunde erlebten wir das Unglück, daß das eiserne Band eines Wasserfasses beim Zerspringen dem Schiffer von hinten gegen die Wade schlug und dadurch das Bein so heftig gegen eine scharfe Holzecke schleuderte, daß wir ihn in die Kajüte tragen mußten und er an dem Schaden mehrere Monate lang das Bett zu hüten hatte. Da nun er so wenig als einer unserer Matrosen, an welchem sich bald ein venerisches Übel offenbarte, auf dem Deck ausdauern konnte, unser Schiffsjunge aber (eigentlich ein verdorbener Tischlergeselle) bei dem geringsten Sturmwetter mit Seekrankheit zu tun hatte; so beruhte nunmehr die Führung des Schiffes einzig auf mir und einem Matrosen; und ich darf wohl gestehen, daß mir bei der Sache nicht gar zu wohl zumute wurde. In der Tat gehört auch die Schiffahrt in diesen Gewässern, zwischen Schottland und der Insel Lewis und den übrigen zahlreichen Hebriden hin, zu den gefährlichsten, die es geben kann; nicht nur des engen Fahrwassers zwischen den Inseln und der vielen Klippen wegen, sondern hauptsächlich weil hier so starke Strömungen gehen, daß es oft überall brandend aufschäumt und nicht anders aussieht, als ob alles rings umher dicht mit blinden Klippen besät wäre. Noch unglücklicher aber ist es, daß die holländischen Seekarten, deren wir uns damals allein bedienen konnten, hier durchaus unzuverlässig sind und jeden Augenblick irreführen. Das begegnete denn auch mir, und so darf man sich denn nicht wundern, daß ich hier endlich gar nicht mehr aus oder ein wußte. In dieser Bedrängnis kam uns ein englisches Schiff zu Gesicht, welches zwischen zwei hohen Landspitzen hervorsegelte und von welchem ich richtigeren Bescheid zu erlangen hoffte. In dieser Absicht richtete ich die Segel nach jener Seite hin, indem ich zugleich die preußische Flagge aufsteckte, welche bekanntlich weiß ist und in der Mitte den schwarzen Adler führt. Aber auch die französische Flagge ist von weißer Farbe; und da sich bei dem mäßigen Winde die meinige zu wenig entfaltete, um den Adler anstatt der Lilien erblicken zu lassen, so ward ich von dem Engländer für einen französischen Kaper angesehen, und er setzte bei dem stillen Wetter so viel Segel auf, als sein Schiff nur tragen konnte, um mir zu entgehen. Ich tat desgleichen, um Jagd auf ihn zu machen; und so machten wir uns beiderseits Not und Mühe, bis zuletzt nachmittags der Wind völlig erstarb, als ich nur noch eine kleine Viertelmeile von dem Flüchtling entfernt war. Meinen Zweck verfolgend setzte ich nunmehr mit Hilfe meines Matrosen und des Jungen die Jolle aus und ließ mich von ihnen an den jenseitigen Bord hinüberrudern. Als Vorwand meines Besuches sollte mir ein mitgenommenes leeres Wasserfaß und die kleine Notlüge dienen, daß uns unser Trinkwasser ausgegangen. Wir kamen dem Schiffe auch glücklich zur Seite, wo wir mit Verwunderung alles zum Gefechte in Bereitschaft fanden, während sie selbst, beim nähern Anblick von uns drei Köpfen, über ihre ausgestandene Furcht lachen mußten. Meine Bitte um frisches Wasser schien unverdächtig und fand willigen Eingang. Unter der Zeit aber, daß es gezapft und in mein Faß übergefüllt wurde, nahm ich die Gelegenheit wahr, ganz unbefangen nach dem Namen dieses und jenes Landes, das uns eben im Gesichte lag, zu fragen. So erfuhr ich, daß dort hinaus Kap Cantrie, hierwärts aber die Insel Lamlach gelegen sei. Ich war nun zu meiner großen Beruhigung wieder orientiert, ohne mir die arge Blöße gegeben zu haben, meine Unwissenheit einzugestehen. Irwin, unser Bestimmungsort, liegt im Grunde einer tiefen runden Bucht, in welche, als wir ihre Höhe erreichten, ein Sturm aus Nordwest gerade hineinblies. Da sie mir durchaus unbekannt war, bekanntlich aber schlechten Ankergrund hat, so wäre es verwegen gewesen, mich bei diesem Winde und Wetter in sie hineinzuwagen. Ich steuerte also gegen die Insel Arron, um dort vielleicht eines Lotsen habhaft zu werden; allein vergebens kreuzte ich zwei Tage umher. Meine weiße Flagge spielte mir abermals den Streich, daß alles auf der See vor mir floh und vom Lande niemand sich zu mir heranwagte, weil ich für einen Franzosen gehalten wurde. Zuletzt näherte ich mich dem Strome von Port-Glasgow, und hier gelang es mir dann, einen Lotsen zu finden, der mich nach Irwin brachte. Ich berührte nur kurz, daß wir, nachdem auch unser Schiffer wieder auf die Beine gekommen, von hier mit Ballast und unter neutraler Flagge nach der Insel Noirmoutiers an der westlichen Küste von Frankreich gingen, wo wir eine Ladung Seesalz einnahmen und uns dann nach Königsberg auf den Heimweg machten. Leider konnten wir's im Kanal in der Nähe von Dover nicht vermeiden, nach und nach mit sieben englischen Kapern zusammenzugeraten. Alle diese Schnapphähne -- Kerle mit wahren Galgenphysiognomien -- stiegen zu uns an Bord und wußten in allem, was ihnen anstand (und ihnen stand fast alles an!) reinen Tisch zu machen: Kessel und Pfannen, Tauwerk und losgebundene Segel, Seekarten und Kompaß mußten mit ihnen wandern. Was der eine uns ließ, daß nahm der andere. Ja, endlich zogen sie uns sogar die Kleider vom Leibe. Wir hatten eben Dover gegenüber beilegen müssen, als mir, bei dem letzten unerwünschten Zuspruche solcher Art, einer von diesen Taugenichtsen, zudringlicher als die übrigen alle, die langen Schifferhosen von den Beinen streifte. Das hätte ich verschmerzen mögen; aber bei der Gelegenheit fiel ihm auch ein Notpfennig von etwa 13 Rubeln in die Augen, die ich ins Hemd eingenäht hatte und hier für sicher genug hielt. Kaum aber erreichte der süße Ton des Silbergeklappers sein Ohr, so griff er gierig zu, hieb mit seinem Hauer mir den Hemdzipfel vom Leibe, zählte seine Beute über und trieb die britische Großmut so weit, mir davon einen Rubel zurückzugeben. Dabei verbot er mir, diesen dem Schiffer zurückzustellen, welchem, seiner Meinung nach, der ganze Fund wohl eigentlich gehören möchte. Ich war aber über diese Behandlung dermaßen erbittert, daß ich augenblicklich das Ruder aufholte, die Segel abbraßte und, da der Wind südlich war, nach dem Lande zuhielt. »Was soll das bedeuten? Wo hinaus?« fragten die Kerle, die mir auf dem Verdeck am nächsten standen. -- »Wo hinaus?« antwortete ich, von der inneren Wut übermeistert, »geradeswegs nach Dover, wo ihr Schelmgezüchte noch heute am lichten Galgen baumeln sollt!« -- Flugs kam auf diese Drohung das ganze Pack aus Kajüte, Roof, Kabelgat und Raum, wohin sie sich zum Rauben verteilt hatten, im dichten Kreise um mich her zusammen. So viel Hände, so viel Pistolen wurden mir auch an den Kopf oder Hauer auf die Brust gesetzt; doch schoß oder stach niemand. Dagegen rissen sie mich bei den Haaren aufs Deck nieder, einige hielten mich an Kopf und Füßen fest, andere schlugen mit den flachen Klingen auf mich drein, daß mir schier Hören und Sehen verging. Endlich wollten doch die Barmherzigsten meine weitere Mißhandlung nicht gestatten; doch ging es nicht ohne einige Fußtritte ab, und einer, der mir nun noch die Stiefeln von den Füßen zog, schlug mir sie zum Beschlusse um die Ohren, zog sie selbst auf der Stelle an und machte sich darauf mit seinen feinen Gesellen, zusammen dreizehn an der Zahl, an Bord ihres Kaperschiffes zurück. Mein Zustand war so jämmerlich, daß unser Schiffsvolk mich für halb tot in meine Koje trug. Nicht genug aber, daß ich, der ich mich kaum regen konnte, der Regierung des Schiffes abging, sondern nun entstand auch in der nächsten Nacht ein Sturm, gegen den die übrigen sich zu schwach fühlten, die Segel einzunehmen. Dies hatte die Folge, daß bald auch der große Mast brach und mit seiner ganzen Takelage über Bord ging. Nun trieben wir, als ein Wrack, in der See, und hätten wahrscheinlich unseren Untergang gefunden, wenn nicht tags darauf eine holländische Fischer-Schuyt in unsere Nähe gekommen und bereitwillig gewesen wäre, unser Schiff nach dem Texel und von dort nach Medemblyk zu schleppen, wo sich die bequemste Gelegenheit fand, es wieder zu vermasten und in segelfertigen Stand zu setzen. * * * * * Als es zugerüstet war, fühlte ich mich noch zu krank und elend, um wieder mit an Bord zu gehen. Ich mußte also in Medemblyk zurückbleiben und begab mich dort zu einem Kompaßmacher, dem ich seine Kunst gründlich ablernte, und diese ist mir in der Folge von großem Nutzen gewesen. Zugleich schrieb ich in meine Heimat und erhielt auch bald eine Aufforderung von meinem Vater, ungesäumt nach Kolberg zurückzukommen. Die Gefahr, zum Soldaten ausgehoben zu werden, sei jetzt nicht zu fürchten, da er als Bürgeradjutant sich den Festungskommandanten v. Heyden besonders geneigt wisse und daß es mehr als eine Weise gebe, dem Vaterlande rechtschaffen zu dienen. Überdem sei es sehr wahrscheinlich, daß der Festung binnen kurzem eine Belagerung von den Russen bevorstände. Es sei also das beste, daß ich nach Hause käme, um mit meinen Eltern zu leben und zu sterben. Schlüge ich jedoch diese Ermahnung in den Wind, so möchte ich auch fernerhin nimmer wagen, mich seinen Sohn zu nennen. Kurz, neben dem glühenden Patriotismus, der sein Herz beseelte, schimmerte immerdar noch die Besorgnis hindurch, daß ich meiner alten Begierde nach Abenteuern hier in Holland abermals den Zügel schießen lassen und mit leichtem Sinn in die weite Welt gehen möchte. Was blieb mir unter diesen Umständen anders zu tun, als mich unverzüglich auf das Schiff eines Landsmannes zu setzen, der zu Amsterdam lag und unter Danziger Flagge fuhr, und es so einzurichten, daß ich auf der Kolberger Reede, im Vorüberfahren, von ihm an Land geschickt wurde. Drei oder vier Wochen darauf begann die erste, von dem russischen General Palmbach geleitete Belagerung meiner Vaterstadt. Nun ist es bekannt, daß schon von alten Zeiten her die Einwohner von Kolberg durch ihren Bürgereid verpflichtet sind, zur Verteidigung der Festung Leib und Leben, Gut und Blut daranzusetzen. Sie blieben also auch bei dieser Gelegenheit, als brave Preußen, nicht hinter ihrer Schuldigkeit zurück. Meines Vaters Posten insonderheit forderte, daß er in dieser Zeit stets um die Person des Kommandanten sein mußte; und wo er war, da war auch ich, um ihm, als ein flinker und rühriger junger Mensch, zur Hand zu gehen. Der alte wackere Heyden sah meinen guten Willen; und das gewann mir sein Wohlgefallen in dem Maße, daß ich beständig in seiner Nähe sein und bleiben mußte. Ich konnte solchergestalt für seinen zweiten Bürger-Adjutanten gelten und wurde oftermalen auf den Wällen von ihm gebraucht, seine Befehle nach entfernten Posten zu überbringen. In der Tat war dies eine gute Vorschule für mich, um zu lernen, was unter solchen Umständen zum Festungsdienste gehört; und die Lektion ist mir noch im späten Alter trefflich zugute gekommen! Man weiß, daß diese Belagerung, obgleich ernstlich genug gemeint und mit überlegener Kraft begonnen, dennoch durch die Entschlossenheit unseres Anführers und seine geschickten Gegenanstalten fruchtlos blieb und daß die Russen, nachdem sie eine Menge Pulver unnütz verschossen hatten, nach einigen Wochen wieder abziehen mußten. Sobald aber auch nur der Platz wieder frei geworden, war dort meines Bleibens nicht länger. Ich machte eine Fahrt nach Amsterdam, von der ich hier nichts Besonderes anzuführen habe, und traf hier wieder mit meinem alten wertgehaltenen Kapitän Joachim Blank zusammen, den ich vor drei Jahren ungern verlassen hatte. Er hatte gerade eine neue Reise nach Surinam vor, wo es denn keines langen Zuredens bei mir bedurfte, um auf seinem Schiffe meine alte Stelle als Steuermann anzunehmen. * * * * * Es war gegen Ende Dezember 1758, als wir, mit einer großen Flotte von Kauffahrern und unter Bedeckung von drei holländischen Kriegsschiffen aus dem Texel mit einem tüchtigen Sturm aus Nordosten in See gingen. Allein es gibt so mancherlei Verzug und Beschwerde, sich -- zumal bei den langen Winternächten -- im Gedränge einer solchen zahlreichen Konvoi zu befinden, daß wir uns die erste beste finstere Nacht zunutze machten, uns heimlich von unserer lästigen Begleitung abzudrücken und unser Heil in uns selbst zu suchen. Der anhaltende günstige Wind ließ uns auch bald einen weiten Vorsprung gewinnen; so daß wir binnen kurzem die östlichen Passatwinde erreichten und die gesamte Fahrt vom Texel bis in den Fluß von Surinam, -- eine Strecke von zweitausend Meilen -- in der ungewöhnlich kurzen Zeit von zwanzig Tagen zurücklegten. Meine Beschäftigungen an diesem unserem Bestimmungsorte waren die nämlichen, die ich schon früher angeführt habe. Ich befuhr beide Ströme in der Kolonie, versah die Plantagen mit den bedürftigen Artikeln unserer Ladung, und brachte von dort eine neue Rückfahrt an Zucker und Kaffee zusammen. Dies setzte mich nun mit einer Menge Plantagendirekteurs in Verbindung, die großenteils meine näheren oder entfernteren Landsleute waren und mir sämtlich viele Liebe und Güte erwiesen. Ihrer unbegrenzten Gastfreundlichkeit danke ich die vergnügtesten Tage meines Lebens, die unstreitig in diesen achtmonatigen Aufenthalt in dieser Kolonie fielen. Auf unserer Heimfahrt nach Amsterdam hatten wir einen der vermögendsten Plantagenbesitzer an Bord, den die Sehnsucht nach dem vaterländischen Himmel zurück nach Europa trieb. Er hieß _Polack_, war ein geborener Wiener und in seiner Jugend als gemeiner Soldat nach Surinam geraten. Glück und Tätigkeit hoben ihn hier allmählich zu einer glänzenden Lage empor. Eine der größten Kaffeeplantagen, genannt »der Maas-Strom« und am Kommendewyne gelegen, war sein Eigentum, das er unlängst seinem aus Europa zu sich berufenen Schwestersohne zum Geschenk übergeben hatte. Nie sah ich einen rührenderen Anblick, als wie ich ihn von dort in unserer Schaluppe an Bord abholte. Alle Sklaven der Pflanzung, vierhundert Männer, Weiber und Kinder an der Zahl, hatten sich versammelt, um ihrem alten gütigen Herrn das Lebewohl zu sagen. Sie fielen rings um ihn nieder, weinten, umfaßten seine Füße und Hände und umklammerten seinen Leib, als wollten und könnten sie ihn nimmer von sich lassen. Sobald wir unter Segel gegangen waren, ersuchte uns Herr Polack, dem Schiffsvolke bekannt zu machen, daß er demjenigen, der ihm zuerst ansagen könne: er sehe europäische Erde -- ein Geschenk von fünfzig Dukaten zugedacht habe. Diese Nachricht verbreitete unter allen eine gespannte Aufmerksamkeit; und der Wetteifer, eine so leicht zu verdienende Belohnung vor den übrigen davonzutragen, wuchs mit jedem Tage, der uns unserm heimatlichen Erdteile näher brachte. Selbst als wir, in der achten Woche unserer Fahrt, unserer Schiffsrechnung nach, dieses Ziel erreicht zu haben glauben durften, blieb dennoch eine Ungewißheit von einem Dutzend Meilen übrig, da, wie bekannt, in jenen Zeiten die genaue Bestimmung der zurückgelegten Längengrade mehr auf einer mutmaßlichen Schätzung, als auf astronomischen Berechnungen oder der Sicherheit der Seeuhren beruhte. Jetzt wimmelte es schon seit einigen Tagen auf unsern Masten und Stangen von Menschen, die mit angestrengten Blicken nach Europa ausschauten. Eines Nachmittags, als ich meine Wache beendigt hatte und ehe ich mich in meine Koje verfügte, stieg ich nach oben, um mich nach allen Seiten umzusehen; wie dies denn nicht bloß damals, sondern zu allen Zeiten, meine unverbrüchliche Weise war. Mein erster Blick nach dem östlichen Horizont zeigte mir etwas, das beinahe wie eine entfernte Küste am Rande aufblickte. Dennoch stieg mir einiger Zweifel auf, ob nicht eine ähnlich gestaltete Wolke, oder eine Nebelbank, mich täuschte. Allein je länger und sorgfältiger ich mir die Erscheinung überlegte, desto zuversichtlicher ward meine Überzeugung, daß ich recht gesehen. Um mich her und hoch über mir saßen Matrosen, denen gleichwohl von meiner Entdeckung noch kein Schatten ahnte. Auch ich schwieg still, begab mich aufs Verdeck hinunter und flüsterte unserem Ober-Steuermann ins Ohr: »Gelt Freund, ich sehe die englische Küste! Ich steige jetzt wieder nach oben; und wenn ich dann den Arm gerade nach dem Lande hin ausstrecke, so macht danach hier unten mit dem Kompaß die Peilung.« -- Unbefangen nahm ich meinen alten Sitz im Mastkorbe wieder ein; überzeugte mich dann zuvor, ob unten mein Gehilfe mit seinem Instrumente fertig stand, und deutete nun bestimmt nach der erblickten Küste hin. Kaum nahmen meine Nachbarn umher diese Bewegung wahr, so schrien sie auch allesamt, wie aus einer Kehle: »Land! Land! Land!« -- aber zu spät! Ich hatte ihnen bereits vorgefischt! Als ich mich wieder unten zeigte, forderte mich unser Kapitän auf, zu Herrn Polack in die Kajüte zu gehen und ihm zum Anblick von Europa zu gratulieren. Mein Ehrgefühl aber wollte es nicht zulassen, mir irgend den Schein zu geben, als habe ich mich unter die Bewerber zu seiner ausgesetzten Prämie gedrängt. Nicht so aber dieser Ehrenmann, der mich selbst zu sich hinab nötigte, mir das bestimmte Päckchen Gold in die Hand drückte und mich bat, es zu irgendeinem Andenken an ihn und diese Reise zu verwenden. Am 1. Dezember 1759 erreichten wir Amsterdam; und unsere Fahrt hatte diesmal ein rundes Jahr, weniger einige Tage, gewährt. Von unserer Bemannung, die vierundvierzig Köpfe betrug, hatten wir neun Menschen durch den Tod verloren. * * * * * Untätigkeit und träge Muße waren mir unleidlich. Ich engagierte mich daher sofort wieder, als Unter-Steuermann, auf das Schiff unter Kapitän Siewert, welches schon im Texel lag, nach St. Eustaz bestimmt war und kurz vor Anfang des Jahres 1760 die Anker lichtete. Die späte Jahreszeit ließ uns eine schwere stürmische Fahrt in der Nordsee und im Kanal erwarten. Auch traf diese Befürchtung nur zu pünktlich ein, denn wir büßten nicht nur mehrere Segel, sondern auch Stangen und Raaen ein und fünf Matrosen, samt dem Schiffszimmermann, hatten das Unglück, ohne Rettung über Bord gespült zu werden. So kamen wir, in einem äußerst beschädigten Zustande, in St. Eustaz an; bewirkten jedoch binnen vier Wochen unsere Ausbesserung und Rückladung, und mochten kaum die Hälfte unseres Weges nach Holland zurückgelegt haben, als wir von einem englischen Kriegsschiffe genommen wurden. Die gesamte Mannschaft, bis auf vier Mann, mußte an dessen Bord hinüberwandern, und so wurden wir im Monat Mai nach Portsmouth aufgebracht. Unser Prozeß, ob recht oder unrecht, kam zu einer kurzen Entscheidung: denn da man für gut fand, in unserer Fracht französisches Eigentum zu wittern, so wurden Schiff und Ladung kondemniert, die Mannschaft aber mit der ausgezahlten Gage von einem Monat abgefunden. Noch verdrießlicher aber war uns das Erschwernis, welches wir fanden, England zu verlassen. Unter diesen Umständen blieb mir nichts übrig, als Dienste auf einem englischen Schiffe, unter Kapitän Keppel, zu nehmen. So kam ich Anfang Juli nach Danzig, von wo ich sofort an meine Eltern nach Kolberg schrieb und ihnen meine Lage schilderte. Dies hatte die, für mich sehr überraschende Folge, daß meine gute Mutter persönlich mit der Post nach Danzig kam, sich hinter den preußischen Residenten steckte und durch diesen es mit leichter Mühe dahin brachte, daß ich, als preußischer, und also Untertan einer befreundeten Macht, von dem englischen Schiffe entlassen wurde. Unmittelbar darauf ging ich mit meiner gütigen Befreierin nach unserer Vaterstadt ab. * * * * * Kaum fünf oder sechs Wochen hatte ich im väterlichen Hause zu meiner Erholung zugebracht, so trat für Kolberg der Zeitpunkt jener zweiten denkwürdigen Belagerung ein; und da die Russen diesmal, beides zu Wasser und zu Lande, operierten, so war auch der Hafen gesperrt, und ich saß also wieder in der Kaltschale! Indes tat ich meinen Dienst, wie ich wußte und konnte, ebenso, wie vor zwei Jahren; nur ging es diesmal noch um vieles wärmer her. Glücklicherweise dauerte unser Notstand nur etwa drei Wochen, da dann die Festung durch den braven General Werner, wie durch ein Wunder, entsetzt wurde. Während dieser Zeit des siebenjährigen Krieges blieb den preußischen Schiffen und Seeleuten, um ihrem Erwerbe nachzugehen, kaum etwas anderes übrig, als unter der neutralen Danziger Flagge zu fahren. In solcher Weise ging ich auch im Oktober von Danzig nach Königsberg, und von Königsberg mit einem Schiffe in See, das nach Amsterdam bestimmt war und von Karl Christian, einem in Pillau ansässigen Schiffer, geführt wurde. Ich hatte mich als Steuermann verdungen. Es war im November 1760; und so fehlte es in dieser vorgerückten Jahreszeit auch wiederum nicht an häufigem Sturm und Unwetter, womit wir besonders in der Nordsee viel zu schaffen hatten. Wir bekamen einen Leck, mit dem es binnen kurzem sehr bedenklich wurde, weil die Ratzen die inwendige Fütterung des Schiffsbodens durchgefressen hatten; wo denn das Getreide, welches unsere Ladung ausmachte, in den unteren Kielraum geraten war und unsre Pumpen verstopft hatte. Der Sturm ward je länger je heftiger, und wir fühlten uns dem Sinken nahe. In dieser Not blieb uns nichts übrig, als das Schiff vor dem Winde hinlaufen zu lassen, die Luken zu öffnen und von unserer Ladung so viel wie möglich über Bord zu schaffen. Aber noch immer konnten wir keinen Hafen sehen oder erreichen, als wir mit Einbruch der Nacht in die Scheren an der südlichsten Spitze von Norwegen gerieten, wo wir zwar mit Mühe auf siebzig bis achtzig Klafter vor Anker kamen, aber doch nicht verhindern konnten, daß das Hinterteil des Schiffes auf eine Klippe stieß. Durch die Gewalt dieses Stoßes zerbrach das Ruder samt dem Hintersteeven, und das Wasser im Raume stieg mit jeder Viertelstunde höher. Wir brachten eine Nacht voll entsetzlicher Angst zu und sahen unsern gewissen Tod vor Augen. Endlich aber dämmerte etwas Tageslicht auf und zeigte uns eine Öffnung zwischen den Scheren, die wir augenblicklich benutzten, indem wir unser Ankertau kappten, zugleich aber auch eines Lotsen mächtig wurden, der uns in den Hafen von Klewen, nahe bei Mandal, führte. Froh des geretteten Lebens besserten wir hier unser hart beschädigtes Schiff aus; konnten aber erst im März 1761, und mit stark verminderter Ladung, wieder in See gehen; worauf wir denn im April unsern Bestimmungsort erreichten, unser Getreide löschten und dann einige Wochen später mit Ballast nach der Insel Noirmoutiers, weiter segelten, um hier eine Ladung Seesalz als Rückfracht nach Königsberg einzunehmen. * * * * * Während unserer Reise dahin und bei dem schönen Wetter, das wir im Kanal trafen, beschäftigten wir uns nebenher damit, die Kajüte neu auszumalen. Dem Schiffer ward bei dieser Arbeit übel, und er legte sich in seine Koje, während ich selbst einer Verrichtung auf dem Deck nachging. Kaum eine halbe Stunde nachher kam auch _er_ wieder hervor; sah ganz wild und verstört aus und fragte mit Ungestüm: Was für Land dies sei, und wo ich mit dem Schiffe hin wolle? Mit Verwunderung nahm ich seinen ungewöhnlichen Zustand wahr, brachte ihn jedoch durch gütliches Zureden in die Kajüte und auf sein Lager zurück; hatte aber kaum den Rücken gewandt, als ich hinter mir ein erstaunliches Brüllen und gleich darauf ein Gepolter hörte, welches mich bewog, der Ursache nachzugehen. Da fand ich denn den Kapitän, der aus seinem Bette herabgetaumelt war, auf dem Boden der Kajüte ausgestreckt lag, aus Mund und Nase stark blutete und ein Loch in den Kopf gefallen hatte. Sein Anblick war fürchterlich; und es schien sich kaum noch eine Spur von Leben in ihm zu regen. Ich machte flugs Lärm; unser Volk kam mir zu Hilfe; wir flößten ihm Wasser und Branntwein ein; rieben ihn, verbanden ihm seine Wunde und brachten ihn wieder zu sich. Auch sein gesundes Bewußtsein schien wiedergekehrt, so daß wir ihn mit guter Zuversicht vom Verdeck, wo wir ihn behandelt hatten, wieder in seine Koje zur Ruhe legen konnten. Zu noch besserer Vorsicht blieb ich bei ihm und streckte mich auf den Kleiderkasten, der vor seinem Bette angebracht war. Nichtsdestoweniger überfiel es ihn gleich darauf von neuem; er taumelte über mich weg auf den Fußboden der Kajüte; war starr, besinnungslos und einem Sterbenden ähnlich, bis wir ihn abermals aufs Deck an die frische Luft brachten, wo er sich denn allmählich wieder erholte. Ich verfiel darauf und bin auch noch jetzt der Meinung, daß der Grund dieser sonderbaren Wirkung in den frischen Ölfarben zu suchen sei, womit wir eben hantiert hatten; zumal in dem sogenannten Königsgelb, das wir zum Anstrich einiger Leisten dicht an seiner Koje gewählt und dessen schädliche Ausdünstungen er unmittelbar mit dem Atem in sich gezogen haben konnte. Wir behielten ihn darum auch auf dem Verdeck und dann in einem luftigen Raum, bis wir ihn vollkommen wieder genesen glaubten. Einige Tage später befanden wir uns morgens unter Quessant, als ich eben mit meiner Wache fertig war; und da der Kapitän aufs Deck kam, um mich abzulösen, bedeutete ich ihm: »Dort haben wir Quessant. Wir dürfen nicht südlicher steuern, als Südsüdwest, wenn wir nicht hier in die Bucht zwischen den Klippen verfallen wollen.« -- Ich war auch zu dieser wohlgemeinten Weisung um so befugter, weil ich ohnehin auf dem Schiffe meist alles allein zu leiten hatte, denn mit des Mannes Steuerkunst war es herzlich schlecht bestellt, indem er zwar einige Reisen nach Ostindien, aber nur als Zimmermann, gemacht hatte. Seine Anstellung als Schiffer hatte er lediglich der Gunst einiger Reeder in Königsberg, den Verwandten seiner Frau, zu danken. Auch wurden von seinen früheren Fahrten allerlei seltsame Dinge erzählt, die sein Ungeschick zu einem solchen Posten sattsam bewiesen. Als Seemann konnte er es übrigens mit dem Bravsten aufnehmen. Während ich in meine Koje zur Ruhe ging, nahm jener sein Werkgerät und machte sich an der Zimmerung des Bootes etwas zu schaffen. Ehe mir aber noch die Augen recht zufielen, kam er aus demselben hervor, trat zu dem Matrosen am Steuer und fragte: »Was steuert Ihr?« -- »Südsüdwest, Herr!« war die Antwort. -- »Ei, warum nicht gar! Steuert Südsüdost!« befahl der Schiffer. Ich erschrak und geriet immer mehr in Nachdenken, was ihn zu dieser Widersinnigkeit veranlassen könne. Kaum zehn Minuten später kam er nochmals und gebot dem Manne am Ruder, vollends gegen Südost zu steuern. Sogleich sprang ich auf, überzeugte mich, daß dieser wirklich den anbefohlenen Kurs hielt, und rief nun augenblicklich dem Kapitän zu: »Um Gottes willen! Mit dem Südostkurs sind wir ja gleich im Unglück! Wir müssen wieder südwestlich steuern.« Der harte Kopf tat, als hörte er mich nicht, und gab keine Antwort. Ich rannte zu dem Matrosen und donnerte auf ihn ein: »Steuert Südwest!« -- Der Schiffer, dies hörend, warf seine Zimmeraxt über Seite, kam heran und gebot seinerseits: »Steuert Südost!« -- Was blieb mir jetzt übrig, als dem Kerl die Ruderpinne aus der Hand zu reißen und so meinen Willen zu erzwingen? -- bis jener sie mir wiederum mit Gewalt entriß und wütend erklärte, daß es bei Südost verbleiben solle. So abgewiesen, ging ich in den Roof, wo ich mein Wachtvolk herausrief und nun auch meinerseits erklärte: »Der Schiffer wolle uns mit seinem Eigensinn ins Unglück bringen; wir führen mit diesem Kurs dem Verderben in den offenen Rachen. Gleich hin nach vorn und ausgeschaut nach Klippen und Brandung!« -- In der Tat auch war kaum eine halbe Stunde verlaufen, so schrien die Leute: »Ho da! Klippenbrandung vor uns!« -- Jetzt hielt ich mich auch nicht länger; griff, wie ein Sturm, ins Ruder, holte es hart an die Backbordseite, und sah mit Herzbeben rings umher ein Labyrinth von Klippen weiß aufschäumen. Auch der Kapitän sah, was vorging, und schlich bleich und zitternd nach der Kajüte, während ich, mit Hilfe der übrigen, das Schiff wendete und, da mir der Wind günstig in die Segel stand, auch das kaum verhoffte Glück hatte, mich mit Kreuzen und Lavieren endlich wieder aus dem Untergang drohenden Gedränge wieder herauszufinden. Von unserm Schiffer war und blieb nichts zu sehen, bis zur Essenszeit, da er mich, wie gewöhnlich, zu Tische rufen ließ. Kaum trat ich in die Kajüte, so fiel er mir um den Hals, gestand, er sei ganz von Sinnen gewesen, und bat mich, alles Geschehene zu vergessen; mit heiliger Zusicherung, daß er mir künftig ganz meinen Willen lassen wolle. Ich schärfte ihm jedoch ein wenig das Gewissen durch Vorstellung, wie nahe es daran gewesen, daß wir alle durch seine Schuld Kinder des Todes geworden. Er erkannte das, gab gute Worte, und damit war die Sache abgetan. Auf der Heimreise hatten wir den Kanal bereits wieder passiert und bei Nacht die Leuchtfeuer bei Dover deutlich erkannt, indem wir bei einem, zum Sturme werdenden West-Südwest-Winde herliefen. Weiterhin in der Nordsee, wo diese mehr Breite gewann, fanden wir gewaltig hohe Wogen, die unsrem tief mit Salz geladenen Schiffe durch öfteres Überstürzen sehr beschwerlich fielen. Eben war meine letzte Nachtwache von zwölf bis vier Uhr zu Ende. Ich ging demnach zum Kapitän in die Kajüte, um ihm zu sagen, daß seine Wache beginne, daß es gewaltig stürme und daß, wofern der Wind nicht bald nachließe, es nötig werden möchte, die Segel einzunehmen und gegen den Wind zu legen. Anders sei mir bange, daß uns nicht Boot, Wasserfässer und selbst Menschen durch die Sturzwellen über Bord gerissen würden. Müde suchte ich meine Lagerstätte, ohne jedoch einschlafen zu können. Ich hörte den Kapitän aufs Deck hervorkommen und wieder in die Kajüte zurückkehren, wobei er Morgen- und Bußlieder zu singen begann. Das deuchte mir an ihm um so verwunderlicher, da er während der ganzen Reise, außer der Zeit des gewöhnlichen Schiffsgebetes, nie ein geistliches Buch in die Hände genommen, noch eine Gesangnote angestimmt hatte. »Das mag wohl gar ein Zeichen vor seinem Ende sein,« sagte ich zu mir selbst. »Nun, so ist es doch immer das Schlimmste nicht, was er tun kann.« Eine Stunde später trat er an mein Bett, um mich zu fragen, ob ich schliefe? -- »Kann man es wohl bei Eurer seltsamen Musik?« war meine Antwort. Nun sagte er mir: es werde nicht anders sein, als daß wir die Segel einreffen und gegen den Wind würden drehen müssen. Zugleich bat er mich, daß ich mich etwas in die Kleider würfe und mit meinen Leuten auf dem Platze wäre, während er selbst mit seinem Wachvolke die Kliefhack (Besane) einnehmen wolle. -- Flugs sprang ich mit gleichen Füßen aus den Federn, machte Lärm und brachte meine Mannschaft auf die Beine. Aber noch steckte ich selbst erst halb in einem Stiefel, so begann der Mann am Ruder ein helles Geschrei, ohne daß ich eine Veranlassung dazu begriff. Ich stürzte hervor -- »Kerl, bist du toll? Was ficht dich an?« -- »Mein Gott! mein Gott! Da vorn muß ein Unglück passiert sein. Sie lamentieren alle ganz kläglich durcheinander.« In drei Sprüngen war ich vorn am Bug. »Was ist's? was fehlt euch? sprecht!« -- »Ach, daß Gott erbarme! der Schiffer ist über Bord!« -- »Nun denn, nicht lange besonnen! Frisch, daß wir ihm helfen!« -- Sogleich griff ich nach allem Tauwerk, das mir zunächst zur Hand kam, und ließ die Enden über Bord laufen, damit sich der Unglückliche vielleicht daran halten möchte. Das gleiche tat ich hinten auf dem Kajütendeck, aber immer noch, ohne zu wissen, nach welcher Seite ich ihn eigentlich zu suchen hatte, da das Schiff eine fliegende Fahrt lief. Endlich nahm ich wahr, daß er hinten im Kielwasser in die Höhe tauchte, sich in einer Entfernung von zehn oder zwanzig Klaftern hinter dem Schiffe zum Schwimmen umwarf und nun mit Macht zu rudern begann. Daß er ein fertiger Schwimmer sei, der in Ostindien wohl Strecken von mehr als einer Viertelmeile zurückgelegt habe, hatte er selbst mir oftmals erzählt, und auch wohl hinzugesetzt: Er glaube gar nicht, daß er ersaufen könne. Sobald ich seiner ansichtig wurde, holte ich das Ruder nach der Steuerbordseite, um das Schiff bei dem Wind zu legen und dadurch möglichst aufzuhalten. In dieser Stellung aber legte es sich (da es ohnehin der tiefen Ladung wegen nur wenig Bord hielt) so übermäßig auf die Seite, daß sogar die Kajütentür unter Wasser geriet und dasselbe wie zu einer Schleuse hineinstürzte. In dieser Lage standen wir, wenn sie noch einige Minuten anhielt, in der augenscheinlichsten Gefahr, auf der Stelle zu sinken. Ich mußte mich entschließen, das Ruder wieder nach der andern Seite zu holen, um das Schiff in die Höhe zu bringen, bevor es seinen Schwerpunkt verlöre. Wohl brach mir mein Herz, wenn ich an den armen Kapitän gedachte, den wir noch von Zeit zu Zeit mit dem stürmenden Elemente kämpfend erblickten, sooft die Woge ihn emporhob. Es gab kein Mittel mehr, uns in seiner Nähe zu erhalten, da das Schiff, vom Winde gejagt, gleich einem Pfeile durch die Fluten dahinschoß. Der Unglückliche war nicht zu retten, selbst wenn wir unser eigenes Leben hätten preisgeben wollen! Sogar jetzt, wo ich mich frei von der unsäglichen Bestürzung fühle, die in jenen schrecklichen Augenblicken auf uns alle drückte, weiß ich nicht, was noch anderes und mehr zu seinem Beistande von uns hätte versucht werden können. Mittlerweile hielt der Sturm noch immer an, ohne jedoch härter zu werden. Ich wagte es daher, das Schiff vor dem Winde hinlaufen zu lassen, bis sich mit dem nächsten Tage das Wetter allmählich wieder besserte. Nun aber lag mir eine andere schwere Sorge auf dem Herzen, wie ich bei übernommener Führung des Schiffes den mancherlei Verantwortlichkeiten entgehen wollte, die über den Nachlaß unseres unglücklichen Kapitäns entstehen konnten. Unser ganzer Vorrat an Brot, Grütze, Erbsen und übrigen Lebensmitteln war in der Kajüte aufbewahrt, und Koch und Kochsmaat hatten täglich und stündlich ihren Gang in dieselbe, um das Nötige hervorzuholen. Zugleich aber lagen hier auch des Schiffers Habseligkeiten umher, und ich wußte, daß es ihm nicht an Geld und Geldeswert gefehlt hatte. Noch mehr: er hatte mir zuzeiten einen bedeutenden Vorrat von Kostbarkeiten an Gold und Silber vorgewiesen, zu deren Einkauf in Amsterdam ihm von seinen Königsberger Freunden Auftrag gegeben worden. Auch diese mußten in der Kajüte und, wie ich vermutete, in seinem Kasten befindlich sein. Um mich dieserwegen auf jede Weise zu sichern, ließ ich gleich am andern Tage das ganze Schiffsvolk, bis auf den Matrosen, der das Steuer versah, in die Kajüte zusammenkommen. In ihrer Gegenwart nahm ich ein schriftliches Verzeichnis von sämtlicher Habe unseres verstorbenen Schiffers auf; wir packten dies alles in die vorhandenen Kisten, Kasten und Säcke, und schritten dann zu einer allgemeinen Versiegelung derselben, damit weiter keine Hand daran rühren dürfte. Das dazu gebrauchte Petschaft aber ward von mir vor ihrer aller Augen durch das Kajütenfenster in die See geworfen. Da bei dieser Verhandlung alle und jede Behältnisse hatten geöffnet werden müssen, um nachzusehen, ob sie keine Schiffspapiere enthielten, die mir im Sunde oder sonst nötig werden konnten, so erstaunte ich nicht wenig, daß sich hierbei nirgends weder Gelder und Barschaften, noch seine Taschenuhr und silbernen Schuh- und Knieschnallen, noch endlich auch jene vorerwähnten goldenen und silbernen Galanteriewaren vorfinden ließen. Unsere Meinung fiel endlich dahin aus, daß der verunglückte Eigentümer diese Sachen wohl hier und da versteckt haben möchte, um sie vor den gierigen Blicken und langen Fingern der Kapermannschaften zu sichern, die je zuweilen ungelegene Besuche an unserm Borde machten. Allein wie sorgfältig wir auch jeden Winkel der Kajüte durchsuchten, so ließ sich doch nicht die mindeste Spur des Verlorenen entdecken. Des dritten Tages nachher war ich im Sunde, und zwei Tage später vor Pillau. Der Wind stürmte gerade auf das Land zu, es ging eine hohe See; und wie gern ich auch lieber geradeswegs auf Königsberg gegangen wäre, so blieb hier doch nichts anderes zu tun, als in den Pillauer Hafen einzusetzen. Allein auch dies blieb ein Wagestück, wozu Mut gehörte. Sobald jedoch die nötigen Vorbereitungen getroffen, die Kajütenfenster vermacht und die Leute auf ihrem Posten waren, ließ ich das Schiff vor dem Winde laufen. Glücklich trafen wir das Fahrwasser zwischen den Haken; zugleich aber überflutete uns in der Brandung eine Sturzwoge nach der andern von hinten her, das Schiff stieß auf den Grund, hob sich jedoch mit der nächsten nachfahrenden Welle wieder, und ich wäre mit dem bloßen Schrecken davongekommen, hätte nicht diese nämliche Welle uns das Steuerruder aus den Angeln gehoben und davongeführt. Noch aber verlor ich die Besinnung nicht, steuerte mit den Segeln, sogut ich vermochte, und kam endlich bei Pillau, ohnweit des Bollwerks, wohlbehalten vor Anker. Mein kühnes Beginnen hatte eine Menge neugieriger Menschen am Bollwerke versammelt, und das nur um so mehr, als man bald auch unser Schiff erkannte. Ich meinerseits bemerkte unter diesen Zuschauern mit wehmütiger Empfindung unseres verunglückten Schiffers Frau, die ihre Kinderchen zur Seite hatte und eifrig nach uns aussah. Kaum trat ich ans Land und fiel ihr in die Augen, so rief sie mit sichtbarer Beängstigung: »Gott im Himmel! wo ist mein Mann?« -- Alles, was zugegen war, umstand mich und fragte: »Wo ist Schiffer Karl Christian?« -- »Krank! krank!« war meine zwar vorbereitete, aber durch Ton und Gebärde nur schlecht beglaubigte Antwort. Ich suchte nur mich loszumachen und eilte zum reformierten Prediger, dem Beichtvater der armen Frau, dem ich den ganzen traurigen Vorfall erzählte mit der Bitte, ihr die Todespost auf eine gute Weise beizubringen und mit seinem Troste nahe zu sein. Das geschah denn auch auf der Stelle. Ich selbst fand mich demnächst auch ein, um der leidige Bestätiger seiner Zeitung zu sein; und ich darf wohl sagen, daß mir das ein schwerer und bitterer Gang geworden. Am nächsten Morgen, wo ich hoffen konnte, daß die unglückliche Witwe sich der Weheklage etwas begeben und zu mehr Fassung gekommen sein würde, ging ich wiederum zu ihr und kündigte ihr an, daß, da ich mit dem Schiffe unverweilt nach Königsberg hinaufgehen müßte, ich ihr heute noch ihres verstorbenen Mannes Sachen und Gerätschaften vom Schiffe ins Haus schicken würde. Zugleich aber mußte ich ihr leider auch ankündigen, daß sowohl seine Barschaften als eine Menge anderer Sachen von Wert auf eine, uns allen unbegreifliche Weise unter seinem Nachlasse vermißt würden, wofern sich nicht etwa noch in seinen Papieren darüber eine nähere Auskunft ergäbe. * * * * * Nach diesem betrübenden Abschiede langte ich mit dem Schiffe bei Königsberg an und meldete mich bei den Reedern desselben. Hier war es sofort das erste, daß wir sämtliches Schiffsvolk zu einer eidlichen Erklärung über alle einzelnen Umstände des dem Schiffer widerfahrenen Unglücks aufgefordert wurden. Wir alle, und ich insonderheit, mußten uns auf gleiche Weise von jedem Verdachte einer Veruntreuung seines Eigentums reinigen und unsere Unkenntnis, wohin die verschwundenen Sachen gekommen, erhärten. Hätte nur diese gerichtliche Prozedur zugleich auch meine Unschuld vor den Augen der Welt und der giftigen Stimme der Lästerung zu rechtfertigen vermocht! Aber leider! fiel hier die Sache ganz anders! Ich mußte mir hinter meinem Rücken Dinge nachsagen lassen, an die meine Seele nie gedacht hatte. Ich galt wohl überall für den Dieb, der Witwen und Waisen verkürzt habe, und mußte es dulden, daß oftmals auch in meinem Beisein mit spitzigen Worten auf dergleichen gedeutelt wurde. Wie oft, aber auch wie schmerzlich bitter habe ich's Gott geklagt und darüber im stillen meine Tränen geweint! Die nächste Wirkung dieses unseligen Verdachtes war, daß, nachdem das Schiff ausgeladen worden, ich, anstatt die Führung desselben zu erhalten (wie sonst wohl geschehen wäre), es an den Schiffer Christian Kummerow übergeben mußte. Ja, meine ganze Lebenslage schien hierüber eine andre Richtung nehmen zu wollen. Als verlobter Bräutigam einer Tochter des Segelmachers Johann Meller in Königsberg und mit großen Aussichten und Plänen, war ich vormals ausgefahren: jetzt kam diese Heirat zwar wirklich zustande; aber ich ließ die Flügel mächtig hängen und beschränkte meinen in die weite Welt strebenden Sinn nunmehr auf den engen Verkehr eines kleinen Bording-Reeders, und meine weitesten Reisen begrenzten sich in dem spannenlangen Raume zwischen Königsberg, Pillau und Elbing. Es war der leidige Gang eines Langohrs in der Mühle! Wäre aber mein freier, immer ins Weite gestellte Sinn eines solchen Austernlebens nicht schon an sich selbst frühzeitig müde geworden, so waren doch Zeit und Umstände ebensowenig dazu gemacht, mir diese Unlust durch anderweitige Vorteile zu vergüten. Mein Bordingskahn war ein altes Fahrzeug, das meinem Schwiegervater gehörte, und worauf ich ihm die Hälfte des taxierten Wertes von zweitausend preußischen Gulden bar ausgezahlt hatte. Es währte auch nicht lange, so ward ich, gleich vielen andern meinesgleichen, von den Russen, die damals in ganz Preußen den Meister spielten, gepreßt und zum Transport von Proviant und Militäreffekten von Pillau nach Elbing und Stuthof gebraucht. An Bezahlung war hierbei im geringsten nicht zu denken: desto reichlicher aber gab es hier üble Behandlung und allerlei Verdrießlichkeiten zu verdauen, die mir die Galle ins Blut jagten. Ich entschloß mich daher kurz und gut, der Pauke ein Loch zu machen. Eben lag ich auf dem Frischen Haff bei Stuthoff vor Anker. Ich war ledig und sollte nach Pillau gehen. Ein russischer Soldat war mir an Bord zur Aufsicht gegeben, der keinen Augenblick von mir weichen sollte. Dennoch war leicht ein Vorwand gefunden, ihn ans Land zu locken und dort bei der Flasche so angelegentlich zu beschäftigen, daß ich mich auf mein Fahrzeug zurückschleichen, den Anker lichten und meines Weges davonsegeln konnte. Der arme Kerl, der mich indes nur zu bald vermißte, lief mir wohl eine halbe Meile am Strande nach, schrie und beschwor mich bei all seinen Heiligen, daß ich ihn wieder einnehmen möchte. Dazu hatte ich nun freilich keine Ohren; ich spannte vielmehr noch ein Segel mehr auf und kam ihm so bald aus dem Gesichte, bis ich auf dem Pregel bei Fischhof anlegte. Hier wimmelte es eben von Schiffen, welche Bordings brauchten, um ihnen einen Teil ihrer Fracht nachzuführen, und wo ich auf eine bessere Ernte zu rechnen hatte. Wirklich auch akkordierte ich hier sogleich eine gute Fracht nach Pillau; doch machte ich, zu meiner Sicherheit, dem Schiffer die Bedingung, daß ich jenem Orte nicht näher als über den Grund in der Rinne (dem Fahrwasser) kommen dürfte, und daß er mich, sobald ich ihm die Güter wieder an Bord gegeben, durch seine Leute sogleich aufs Haff zurückbugsieren helfen sollte. So dachte ich denn dies Spiel noch öfter zu wiederholen, ohne den Russen in die Scheren zu geraten und sie obenein ins Fäustchen auszulachen. Diesmal zwar gelang es, aber dennoch war der Handel, als ich Fischhof wieder erreichte, schon verraten, und ein paar bekannte Lotsen, die von Pillau kamen, warnten mich, dort dem Frieden nicht zu trauen, indem mir von meinen Widersachern bereits aufgepaßt werde. Das Schiff, dessen Güter ich diesmal eingenommen hatte, war indes schon vor mir nach Pillau abgesegelt, und es blieb nichts übrig, als ihm nachzufolgen; aber zu gleicher Zeit verließ mich mein Schiffsvolk heimlich, dem es wohl bange werden mochte, mit mir bei den Russen in die Patsche zu kommen. Ich sah mich also auf meinem Bording allein, ohne mir Rat zu wissen, bis am andern Tage ein betrunkener Mensch (er war Nachtwächter in Pillau) seines Weges von Königsberg, längs des Dammes einhergetaumelt kam, dem ich die freie Fahrt nach Hause anbot, wenn er an Bord kommen und mir etwas helfen wollte. Das ward gerne angenommen; und obwohl er sich einigermaßen wunderte, daß er mich so mutterseelenallein hantieren sah, so beruhigte ihn doch meine Versicherung, daß sich mein Volk wohl finden werde; er half mir mein Fahrzeug losmachen und die Segel aufziehen, sogut er's in seinem Zustande vermochte, und suchte dann bald einen Winkel, sein Räuschchen vollends auszuschlafen. Der Wind war günstig und ich steuerte, sogut es gehen wollte, auf Pillau zu. Gegen den Abend sah ich das Schiff, welches ich suchte, bereits in der Rinne vor Anker liegen. Allein in eben dem Augenblicke, wo ich mich ihm an Bord legte, erblickte ich auch ein Boot mit russischen Soldaten angefüllt, die sich mir näherten und es unfehlbar auf mich gemünzt zu haben schienen. Nun galt es denn im Ernste! Auf mein Bitten versprach mir indes der Schiffer, nicht nur mich in seiner Jolle und durch seine Leute alsogleich bei dem Schwalkenberge an Land bringen zu lassen, sondern auch meinen Bording, sobald er ledig geworden, hinter den Haken in Sicherheit zu schaffen. Schnell warf ich mich nun in das Boot und schlüpfte in der eingebrochenen Dunkelheit an meinen Verfolgern glücklich vorüber. Der Wind ging heftig aus Westen, und es gab eine hohe See. Obenein kamen wir, noch in weiter Entfernung vom Lande, auf den Grund zu sitzen, so daß das Boot hoch voll Wasser spülte. Während die Kerle fluchten und schöpften, bedachte ich mich nicht lange, über Bord zu springen. Ich kam auf der Bank bis an den halben Leib ins Wasser, sowie ich aber dem Ufer näher watete, geriet ich immer tiefer -- jetzt bis unter die Arme, dann bis an den Hals -- hinein, und endlich mußte ich mich zum Schwimmen bequemen. So erreichte ich triefend das Land und ging nach Lockstädt, wo ich nicht nur Gelegenheit fand, mich am warmen Ofen zu trocknen, sondern mir auch ein Pferd bestellte, auf welchem ich früh vor Tage mich davonmachte und zu Mittag Königsberg mit dem Vorsatze erreichte, mich im Hause meines Schwiegervaters zu verbergen. Doch etliche Stunden später fand sich auch bereits ein russischer Offizier mit vier Mann Wache und in Begleitung des Bordings-Faktors Mager ein, um mich hier aufzusuchen und festzunehmen. Sie trafen sogleich auf der Hausflur mit mir zusammen, und der Faktor, welcher sich stellte, mich nicht zu kennen, fragte mich, wo der Schiffer Nettelbeck zu finden sei? Ich stutzte einen Augenblick, ermutigte mich aber doch alsbald zu dem Bescheide: Den würden sie wohl in Pillau suchen müssen. »Nein! nein!« unterbrach mich der Offizier, welcher deutsch sprach, »wir wissen, daß er hier schon wieder zu haben ist. Wir wollen ihn wohl herausklopfen.« -- Klopft nur, dachte ich, und schritt ganz lässig zur hinteren Hoftüre hinaus. Kaum aber hatte ich diese auch nur im Rücken, so hätte man sehen sollen, was für lange Beine ich machte, um in den Garten und über alle Zäune, Planken und Hecken hinweg an den neuen Graben zu kommen, wo ich bei einem guten Freunde, Heinrich Topen, eine neue Zuflucht zu finden wußte. Hier blieb ich unentdeckt, während im Hause meines Schwiegervaters jeder Winkel aufs sorgfältigste nach mir durchstöbert wurde. Dagegen ward in Pillau mein Bordingskahn nicht so bald ledig, als ihn die Russen in Beschlag nahmen, neu bemannten und bis spät in den Herbst hinein zu ihrem Gebrauch verwandten, wo sie ihn endlich, rein ausgeplündert und der Segel und des Tauwerkes beraubt, als ein Wrack liegen ließen. Vergebens bat ich schriftlich einige Freunde in Pillau, nach meinem Eigentum zu sehen, denn niemand wollte sich damit befassen, um sich nicht vielleicht mit den Russen böse Händel zu machen. Endlich verblutete sich die Geschichte, so daß ich es allmählich wagte, aus meinem Verstecke hervorzukommen; und im Frühling 1762 durfte ich mich selbst wieder in Pillau blicken lassen. Mein Fahrzeug stand hier am Damm auf dem Grunde, von welchem ich es vor allen Dingen abbrachte. Dann setzte ich es nach Möglichkeit wieder instand und führte es nach Königsberg, um seiner nur zu jedem Preise loszuwerden und nun die Arme ein wenig freier zu rühren. Zu diesem Ende erstand ich wieder ein zwar nicht großes, aber tüchtiges Seeschiff, »der Postreiter« genannt, von fünfundvierzig bis fünfzig Lasten, und fand auch sogleich eine erwünschte Ladung von Malz, nach Wolgast bestimmt, die für zweiundzwanzig holländische Gulden die Last bedungen wurde. Nun säumte ich nicht, unter russischen Pässen meine erste Reise dahin anzutreten. Als ich in Wolgast vor Anker gekommen, vertraute mir Herr Cantzler, der Empfänger der Ladung, daß dieselbe für die Preußen in Stettin bestimmt sei, und bat mich, so lange zu verweilen, bis er eines Fahrzeuges habhaft geworden, das sie heimlich, bei Nacht und Nebel, dorthin schaffen solle. Ich ließ mir das gefallen. Als aber die Ankunft des Schmugglers sich von einem Tage zum anderen verzog, ward mir Zeit und Weile lang; und zugleich auch erwachte in mir der Patriotismus, meinen pommerschen Landsleuten in Stettin etwas zuliebe zu tun. So machte ich mich denn auf zu Herrn Cantzler und stellte ihm vor: mein Fahrzeug ginge nicht zu tief und wäre wohl geeignet, übers Haff und dessen Untiefen zu passieren. Wäre es ihm recht, so unternähme ich es wohl selbst, die Ladung nach Stettin zu bringen, da ich dieser Gegend hinreichend kundig wäre. »Mir schon recht!« erwiderte der Handelsherr erfreut. -- »Will _Er_ sein Schiff dran wagen, Herr: die _Ladung_ muß gewagt werden! -- Wie hoch die Fracht?« -- Wir wurden um fünfhundert Taler einig. -- »Aber sehe sich der Herr wohl vor!« setzte jener warnend hinzu. -- »Auf dem Haff liegt eine ganze Flotte von unseren schwedischen armierten Schiffen. Das wird Künste kosten!« -- Was war zu machen? Der Schritt war einmal getan; und wäre mir der Handel nun auch leid geworden, so erlaubte mein Ehrgefühl doch nicht, jetzt noch zurückzutreten. Vorerst ging ich mit meinem Schiffe die Peene hinauf, bis unfern an den sogenannten Bock am Eingange des Haffs. Hier sah ich die schwedische Armierung in einem weiten Halbzirkel vor mir liegen und in der Mitte derselben eine Fregatte, so daß das Ding nicht wenig bedenklich aussah und ich meinem Mute wacker zusprechen mußte. Indes peilte ich noch bei Tage mit dem Kompaß, wo hinaus die größte Öffnung zwischen den Fahrzeugen war. Die Nacht fiel rabendunkel ein, der Wind war frisch, mit Regen und Donnerwetter vergesellschaftet, und alles schien mein Unternehmen begünstigen zu wollen. Um elf Uhr endlich hob ich den Anker und segelte glücklich und ohne Hindernis durch die Flotte, deren eigne aufgesteckte Feuer mir sogar die Richtung noch deutlicher angaben. Schon hatte ich sie eine Viertelmeile im Rücken und glaubte mich geborgen, als unerwartet ein Schuß nach mir hinfiel, der, wie ich jetzt erst bemerkte, von einer auf Vorposten ausgestellten Galley kam. Himmel! wie sputete ich mich, jedes Segel aufzusetzen, das mein Schiffchen nur tragen konnte, welches überdem, zu meinem Troste und seinen Namen rechtfertigend, ein trefflicher Segler war. Nicht lange aber, so blitzte noch ein zweiter Schuß von der Seite nach mir auf, und dieser kam von einem anderen Vorpostenschiffe, dem ich ebensowenig Rede zu stehen gesonnen war. Nunmehr machten beide Galleyen die ganze Nacht hindurch Jagd auf mich und kamen mir in der Tat nahe genug, daß unter den unzähligen Kugeln, womit sie mich begrüßten, vier durch meine Segel gingen. Mit Tagesanbruch war ich New-Warp gegenüber. Hier aber kamen mir bereits drei von unseren preußischen armierten Fahrzeugen entgegen, die gewöhnlich bei Ziegenort lagen und durch das nächtliche Schießen alarmiert worden waren. Unter ihrem Schutze hinderte mich denn nichts, meinen Bestimmungsort zu erreichen und meine Fracht abzuliefern. * * * * * Während ich hier lag, kam der Friede mit Rußland zustande. Die Konjunkturen benutzend, machte ich schnell hintereinander eine Reihe glücklicher Fahrten: von Stettin nach Kolberg mit Salz, woran es dort nach der dritten Belagerung und bei den zerstörten Salzkoten dringend fehlte; von hier mit einer Ladung Wein nach Königsberg und wiederum dahin zurück mit Roggen. Auf dieser letzteren Reise kreuzte ich bei widrigem Winde unter der Halbinsel Hela vor Danzig, und hier sah ich ein großes russisches Schiff auf dem Strande stehen, an dessen Bord es einen gewaltigen Lärm gab. Da das Wetter gut war, kam mich die Lust an, mein Boot auszusetzen und näher heranzufahren. Man ließ mich aber sogar das Verdeck betreten, ohne meine Anwesenheit gewahr zu werden oder zu beachten. Alles lief darauf verwirrt durcheinander und das nur um so mehr, je ärger der russische Landoffizier, der hier das Kommando zu führen schien, drauf losschlug und wetterte. Seeleute und Soldaten waren gleichfalls Nationalrussen, und was und wie sie es angriffen, um das Schiff wieder abzubringen, war durchaus verkehrte und törichte Arbeit. Wenig erbaut durch dieses Schauspiel, warf ich noch einige Blicke durch die offene Luke in den Raum und sah, daß das Schiff mit metallenen Kanonen, Bomben, Kugeln und dergl. geladen war. Es stand mit dem Vorderteil hoch auf dem abschüssigen Strande, während das Hinterteil noch tief im Wasser lag. Ich stieg nun in mein Boot zurück, um die Tiefe dicht am Schiffe noch genauer auszumessen, und ging dann abermals an Bord, indem ich dem Gedanken nachhing: ob es nicht tunlich sein sollte, die schwere, aber wenig Raum füllende Ladung ganz in den hintersten Raum zu bringen, das Schiff solchergestalt vorn zu erleichtern, zugleich einen Anker nach hinten in die See hinauszubringen und durch vereinte Arbeit an der Ankerwinde dem Fahrzeuge einen Schuß nach hinten in die Tiefe zu verschaffen, wo es dann leicht wieder flott werden dürfte. Diesen Vorschlag setzte ich nunmehr einem russischen Sergeanten auseinander, der etwas Deutsch konnte und sich an mich gewandt hatte, nunmehr aber den Offizier in seiner Prügelei, womit derselbe noch immer wie rasend fortfuhr, unterbrach und ihm meine Meinung mitteilte. Je mehr der Mensch vorher den Kopf verloren hatte, um so gewisser erschien ich ihm jetzt als ein Engel vom Himmel. Er war von meinem Vorschlage ganz wie elektrisiert, fiel mir um den Hals und drang mir sogar seinen Stock auf, mit der Bitte, alles zu kommandieren und anzuordnen, wie ich es für das beste erachten würde. Mit so voller Gewalt bekleidet, griff ich auch sofort mein Werk mit Feuer an. Der Anker ward ausgebracht, während alles, was eine Hand rühren konnte, die Bomben, Kugeln usw. möglichst nach hinten transportieren mußte. Dadurch senkte sich das Schiff hier wirklich auch so tief, daß das Wasser fast bis an die Kajütenfenster stieg, ohne daß gleichwohl der Kiel hier den Grund erreichte. Jetzt ließ ich mit Gewalt den Anker aufwinden, und -- siehe da! nach zwei oder drei Stunden Arbeit lief das Schiff gleichsam wie vom Stapel und war glücklich wieder flott geworden. Nie habe ich einen erfreuteren Menschen gesehen, als diesen Offizier, sobald mein Stück Arbeit gelungen war. Er herzte und küßte mich, ich mußte ihm meinen Namen sagen, den er sich in seine Schreibtafel zeichnete, und zugleich schrieb er ein russisches Billet an den General Romanzow, der damals in Kolberg befehligte, und das er mir zur treuen Abgabe bei meiner Ankunft anempfahl. Als ich mich endlich wieder entfernen wollte, ließ er mir das Boot von seinem Vorrate an Hirse, Mehl und Grütze dergestalt voll laden, daß ich im Ernste zu sinken fürchtete, und da kein Weigern und Verbitten etwas fruchten wollte, zuletzt nur über Hals und Kopf auf meine Abfahrt denken mußte. So erreichte ich denn wieder mein Schiff, welches inzwischen in einiger Entfernung Anker geworfen hatte. Ein paar Tage später langte ich in Kolberg an, wo ich nicht säumte, mich dem General Romanzow vorzustellen und mein Billet zu überreichen. Es war kein Uriasbrief gewesen: denn der edle Mann hatte es kaum gelesen, als er mir unter herzlichem Händedrucke dankte, daß ich seinem Monarchen Schiff und Ladung erhalten hätte. Er wollte wissen, wie er mir wieder dienen könne, und nahm auf das erste leise Wort nicht nur meinem Vater die damals über alle Maßen drückende Einquartierung ab, sondern erteilte mir auch die nicht minder bedeutende Vergünstigung, bei der Maikühle und Bleiche anlegen und dort meine Ladung löschen zu dürfen. Da in jenem Zeitpunkte der Hafen von Schiffen vollgepfropft lag, so daß von der Seemündung an bis hinauf zu dem Einflusse des Holzgrabens in die Persante Bord an Bord sich drängte und die in der Mitte des Stromes nicht ans Bollwerk kommen konnten, um ihre Fracht zu löschen, so mußten manche wohl etliche Wochen warten, ehe sie dazu gelangten. Ich hingegen ward, vermöge jener besonderen Erlaubnis, binnen zwei Tagen ledig. * * * * * Außer der erforderlichen Portion Ballast, die ich hier einnahm, bestand meine Rückfracht nach Königsberg in etwa sechzig Passagieren -- den Frauen, Jungen, Mädchen und kleinen Kindern eines preußischen Bataillons, das nach der Einnahme von Kolberg nach Preußen abgeführt worden war, und wohin nun diese sich begaben, um ihre Gatten und Väter wieder aufzusuchen -- eine bunte, aber nicht eben angenehme Ladung! Als ich mich in segelfertigem Stande befand, gab es einen Sturm aus West-Süd-West, der mich auf meinem Wege trefflich gefördert und den ich darum auf hoher See gar nicht gescheut haben würde, nur galt es die Kunst, mit demselben zum Hafen hinauszukommen. Der Lotse, den ich aufforderte, mich in See zu bringen, erklärte dies für geradezu unmöglich, falls ich nicht mein Schiff stark beschädigen oder rechts am Hafendamme gar sitzen bleiben und in Trümmer gehen wolle. Der Mann hatte recht; ich aber verließ mich auf mein gutes und festes Schiff, das wie ein Fisch wohl auch unter der höchsten und wildesten Brandung durchschlüpfen würde. Diese Versicherungen, mein erklärter Vorsatz, das Abenteuer allenfalls auch ohne ihn auf meine eigene Gefahr zu wagen, und vornehmlich wohl fünf Silberrubel, die ich ihm entgegenspielen ließ, ermutigten ihn endlich, sich meinem Verlangen zu fügen. Kaum hatte ich ihn vom westlichen Hafendamme an Bord genommen und er das Steuer ergriffen, während ich die Segel aufzog, so warf uns auch in der nächsten Minute, trotz unserer vereinten Bemühungen, die erste hohe Woge, die uns traf, mit wildem Ungestüm auf die entgegengesetzte Seite an das östliche Bollwerk. Zwar hob die nächste Welle das Schiff von neuem, aber danach faßten die hervorragenden Pfahlköpfe unter die gleichfalls am Steuerbord vorstehenden Barkhölzer, daß die Trümmer davon hoch in die Luft flogen; und da zugleich auch der Sturm uns jagte, so schoß mein Fahrzeug längs dem Damme hin, schnitt sich an dessen äußersten Spitze haarscharf gegen die Brandung ab und kroch solchergestalt mit fliegender Fahrt unter zwei oder drei hochgetürmten Sturzwellen durch, daß die Verdecke schwammen und mir selbst die Haare zu Berge standen. Nun war ich denn freilich in See; allein noch hatte ich in dem Getümmel nicht Zeit und Gedanken finden können, meinen erlittenen Schaden zu beurteilen. Die Verwüstung war indes jämmerlich genug. Mehr als fünfzehn Fuß lang fand ich die Barkhölzer am Steuerbord rein abgestoßen, so daß die Innenhölzer bloßlagen und ich kopfschüttelnd zu mir sagen mußte: »Ei, ei, Nettelbeck! Das war wohl ebenso ein dummer Streich, als letzthin, wo du dich durch die schwedische Flottille schlichest!« -- Ich will's aber auch nicht leugnen, daß ich dergleichen unüberlegte Stückchen vor und nach dieser Zeit wohl mehrere auf dem Kerbholze habe. Gelingen sie, so heißt man gleichwohl ein gescheiter Kerl, ob man gleich einen ganz anderen Titel verdient hätte. Hier war nun aber noch immer guter Rat bei mir teuer, denn jenem Schaden mußte sogleich auf irgendeine Weise abgeholfen werden. Nach kurzem Besinnen ergriff ich jedoch eine Bressening (geteertes Segeltuch zum Dichten der Luken), und nachdem ich sie in lange, schmale Streifen zerschnitten und mich mit einem guten Vorrat von kleinen Pumpnägeln versehen hatte, hängte ich mich in einige Taue über Bord hinaus und befestigte jene doppelt gelegten Lappen längs dem erlittenen Schaden so dicht, daß Nagel an Nagel traf. Inzwischen ging der Lotse mit seinem Boote nicht ohne sichtbare Lebensgefahr an Land. Jetzt erst, da ich wieder zu etwas Ruhe und Besinnung gekommen war, und indem ich mit vollen Segeln wieder ostwärts steuerte, traf ein verwirrtes Getöse, das wie Heulen und Schreien klang und unten aus dem Schiffsraume zu kommen schien, in meine Ohren. Ich ließ die Luken aufreißen, um zu sehen, was es da gäbe -- und da fand sich denn, daß dieses entsetzliche Konzert von all den Weibern und Kindern herrührte, die da drunten zusammengeschichtet lagen. Und wohl hatten sie genugsamen Grund zum Lamentieren! Denn bevor ich meinen Schaden hatte ausbessern können, war eine Menge Wassers in den Raum gelaufen; und da das Schiff bei der hohen See unaufhörlich auf- und niederstieg, so spielte der mit dem Wasser vermischte Ballastsand längs dem Raume und von einer Seite zur anderen, so daß die Menschen knietief, ja bis über den halben Leib darin versanken. Taumelnd und wehklagend, die Hände emporhaltend und durcheinander sich überschreiend, gab es eine Gruppe, welche ein lebendiges Bild von der allgemeinen Auferstehung darstellte, aber bei allem verdienten Mitleid zugleich auch den Lachreiz unwiderstehlich weckte, wenn der Blick daneben auf die Spinnräder, Haspel, Bettgestelle und übrigen Siebensachen dieser armen Leute traf, welche in bunter Verwirrung zwischen ihnen umhergekollert oder in dem aufgelösten Sande begraben waren. Hier mußte freilich schnelle Hilfe geschehen! Ausgepumpt konnte das Wasser nicht werden, da die Wassergänge nach den Pumpen durch den Ballast verstopft worden. Es blieb also nur übrig, das Wasser mit Fässern auszuschöpfen, wodurch dann Ordnung und Friede wiederhergestellt wurde. Unsere Fahrt ging indes so pfeilschnell vorwärts, daß ich nicht nur am anderen Tage nachmittags um zwei Uhr, und also binnen achtundzwanzig Stunden, Pillau erreichte, sondern auch noch den nämlichen Abend um neun oder zehn Uhr in Königsberg am holländischen Baume anlegen konnte. * * * * * Sobald ich hier mein Schiff repariert hatte, säumte ich nicht, mich nach neuer Fracht umzusehen. Es war die Zeit, wo die russischen Truppen, welche das Land seit mehreren Jahren besetzt gehalten, ernstliche Anstalten trafen, Preußen wieder zu räumen, und wo eine ungeheure Menge von Kriegseffekten nach Rußland heimgeschafft werden sollten. Für den Seeweg fand dieser Transport ein großes Hindernis in dem Mangel an Schiffen, da die Fahrzeuge fremder Nationen dazu nicht gezwungen werden konnten, und die preußischen Schiffer dem Frieden nicht trauten. Weniger bedenklich als andere, war ich unter diesen Umständen der erste, der sich dazu entschloß, eine Fracht nach Riga anzunehmen; denn mir wurden -- was nie zuvor erhört! -- zweiundvierzig Silberrubel für die Last geboten, nebst völliger Befreiung von Lizent und allen Unkosten, nicht nur in Königsberg und Pillau, sondern auch in Riga bis wieder in offene See; und selbst freier Ballast sollte mir, wenn ich's verlangte, im letzteren Hafen geliefert werden. Die Chartepartie darüber ward geschlossen und sowohl von einem russischen General als von mir unterzeichnet. Noch am nämlichen Abend kam ich unweit des Lizents in das Weinhaus der Witwe Otten, wo damals gewöhnlich der größte Zusammenfluß von Schiffern aller Nationen war, und ließ im Gespräche dies und jenes von meiner soeben übernommenen Fracht verlauten. Niemand konnte oder wollte meinen Worten glauben, bis ich meine Chartepartie vorzeigte. Dann aber erhob sich ein spöttisches Gelächter auf meine Unkosten. Ich wurde gefragt, wie ich doch wohl nur glauben könnte, daß man mir meinen Akkord in Riga erfüllen werde? Man prophezeite mir einstimmig, man werde mir dort gerade nur soviel, als man Lust habe, oder auch wohl gar nichts geben; und sollte inzwischen (wie es ganz danach aussähe) der Krieg zwischen Rußland und Preußen wieder ausbrechen, so könnte mich's obendrein noch mein Schiff kosten. Diese Warnungen, denen ich ihren guten Grund nicht absprechen konnte, gingen mir gewaltig im Kopfe herum. Allein ich war schon zu weit gegangen, um mich jetzt noch zurückzuziehen; und gegen die rohe Gewalt, die ich zu fürchten hatte und deren Opfer ich schon früher gewesen war, ließ sich einzig nur durch eine hier wohl erlaubte List aufkommen. Mit diesem Entschlusse begab ich mich gleich am frühen Morgen zu dem gedachten russischen General und machte ihm glaublich, daß ich auf mein Schiff schuldig sei und meine Kreditoren mich nicht von der Stelle fahren lassen wollten, bis ich ihre Forderungen befriedigt hätte. So bliebe mir denn nichts übrig, als um bare Vorausbezahlung meiner Fracht zu bitten oder die Fracht nach Riga, wiewohl ungern, aufzugeben. Der Mann hörte mich geduldig an, und wie sehr ihn auch mein Ansinnen zu befremden schien, und seine Einwendungen, daß dergleichen gar nicht zu bewilligen stände und ich mir an den schon bedungenen Vorteilen genügen lassen könne, das Recht auf ihrer Seite hatten, so legte ich mich doch nur um so geflissentlicher aufs Bitten, bis ich endlich mit dem Kernschusse hervorrückte, von dem ich mir das beste versprach. -- »Nun denn,« rief ich, »meine Chartepartie ist zwar auf zweiundvierzig Rubel pro Last gezeichnet; aber lassen Sie mir bar Geld zahlen, und ich bin mit vierzig zufrieden, während ich für den vollen Empfang quittiere.« Es wirkte, wie ich gehofft hatte. Er stutzte, stand lange in Gedanken und bestellte mich zum nächsten Morgen wieder zu sich, damit er sehen könne, was sich tun ließe. Ich verfehlte nicht, mich auf die Minute einzustellen. Da standen aber bereits meine Frachtgelder mit zweitausend Rubeln aufgestapelt auf einem Tische vor mir, und ich hatte keine weitere Mühe, als den Empfang von zweitausendeinhundert Rubeln zu bescheinigen und mein klingendes Silber einzustreichen. -- Hat man je dergleichen gehört? Es ist aber gewisse Wahrheit! Noch an dem nämlichen Tage ging das Einladen vor sich. Und worin bestand meine Fracht? In lauter Kommisstiefeln, paarweise zusammengenäht. Wohl ein ganzes Regiment Soldaten kam damit hochbepackt aus einem benachbarten Speicher anmarschiert und jeder einzelne warf seine Ladung durch die Schiffsluke in den Raum wie Kraut und Rüben durcheinander, bis endlich diese Stiefeln sich zu einem hohen Berge auftürmten. Als ich nun dem Offiziere, welcher dabei die Aufsicht führte, Vorstellung tat, daß hinten und vorn alles ledig bleibe und die Last durch den ganzen Raum gleichmäßig verteilt werden müsse, so schickte er endlich einige Mannschaft hinunter, die sich die Stiefeln wacker um die Ohren warf, bis es hieß: »Das Schiff ist voll und es kann keine Maus mehr hinein!« Da sah ich, daß ich trotz dieser wunderlichen Ladung immer noch nicht ballasttief mit meinem Schiffe lag, so hielt ich bei dem General an, daß er mir noch eine Anzahl Bomben oder Kugeln in den hinteren oder vorderen Raum geben möchte, weil ich sonst die See nicht würde halten können. Allein seine Antwort lautete: damit könne mir jetzt nicht geholfen werden; auch bekäme ich noch einen Offizier, zwei Sergeanten und zwanzig Gemeine aufs Schiff, für deren Personen und Sachen gleichfalls noch Raum übrig bleiben müsse. Der Bescheid war nicht sehr erbaulich, ich mußte mich jedoch damit behelfen, und so lag ich nun am Lizent zum Auslaufen fertig. * * * * * Des nächsten Tages suchte mich ein russischer Offizier -- ein Livländer namens Resch, der gut Deutsch sprach -- in meinem Hause auf, um mir anzuzeigen, daß er zum Kommandeur auf meinem Schiffe bestellt sei, die Fahrt nach Riga mit mir machen und sich mit seinem Kommando gegen Abend an Bord einstellen werde. Der Mann war dabei so ungemein höflich, daß ich sofort merkte, er müsse etwas auf dem Herzen haben. Und so war es denn auch wirklich, denn er habe auch eine Frau, hieß es, von der er sich unmöglich trennen könne. -- Nun, was konnte ich, wenn ich in der Höflichkeit gegen ihn nicht gar zu arg abstechen wollte, weniger tun, als von Vergnügen, Ehre und Schuldigkeit sprechen und meine guten Dienste gegen einen halben deutschen Landsmann erbieten? Dagegen verstand sich's, daß kein scharmanterer Herzensmann unter der Sonne lebe, als Kapitän Nettelbeck. »Aber noch eins!« unterbrach sich der Livländer in seinen Versicherungen, »meine Frau ist in diesem Augenblicke verreist, um von einer guten Freundin auf dem Lande Abschied zu nehmen und wird vor Nacht schwerlich wieder eintreffen. Da Sie nun morgen mit dem frühsten die Anker zu lichten gedenken, wäre es ja wohl das bequemste, wenn sie gleich am Bord übernachtete?« »Ei, warum nicht! Und wollen Sie mich jetzt gleich dahin begleiten, so kann ich sogleich die vorläufigen Anstalten zu ihrer Aufnahme treffen und Ihnen die kleinen Bequemlichkeiten zeigen, auf welche die Frau Gemahlin zu rechnen haben wird;« war meine Gegenrede. Wirklich war er mit der Einrichtung der Kajüte und der ihr einzuräumenden Schlafstätte ungemein zufrieden; während ich den Steuermann anwies, die Dame, sobald sie sich zeigen würde, gebührend zu empfangen und ihr mit Kaffee, oder was sie sonst fordern möchte, fein höflich an die Hand zu gehen. So schieden wir, und ich ging meines Weges ruhig nach Hause. * * * * * Gleich nach Mitternacht aber erlitt diese Ruhe einen gewaltigen Stoß, da sich plötzlich auf der Gasse ein Lärm, wie von einer Menge zusammengelaufener Menschen erhob, die an meine Haustür und Fensterladen pochten und laut und wiederholt meinen Namen riefen. Schnell fuhr ich aus dem Bette empor; aber nicht gesonnen, in einer so bedenklichen Zeit, als wir damals erlebten, mein Haus dem ersten besten zu öffnen, wollte ich zuvor, daß die Polterer sich namenkündig geben sollten. So meldete sich denn der Lizent-Buchhalter, den ich an der Stimme kannte, mit der rätselhaften Nachricht, daß es auf meinem Schiffe unklar sei und ich hurtig zum Rechten sehen möchte. Ich erschrak von Herzen. »Mein Gott!« dachte ich, »ist mein Schiff gesunken oder steht es in Brand?« -- Ich weiß nicht wie ich in die Kleider und auf die Gasse kam. Hier endlich eröffnete mir der Buchhalter das Verständnis. »Sie haben die Madame W. am Borde,« sagte er, »und nach _der_ sind wir aus, um sie wiederzuhaben. Was Sie da sehen, sind ihre beiden Kinder und ein heller Haufe von Knechten und Mägden aus ihrem Hause.« Nun fielen mir auf einmal die Schuppen von den Augen! Die angebliche Offiziersdame hatte sich in eine liederliche, ihrem Manne entlaufene Madame verwandelt! War mir's jedoch wenig recht, daß ich mit dem schmutzigen Handel bemengt werden sollte, so mußte ich gleichwohl überlegen, daß ich's in meinem jetzigen Verhältnisse, auch mit dem Livländer nicht geradezu verderben durfte, und daß ich am besten täte, den Knoten durch einen anderen lösen oder durchhauen zu lassen. So fuhr ich unwillig auf den allzudienstfertigen Buchhalter ein: »Herr, scheren Sie sich zum Geier! Was stören Sie zu dieser Zeit ehrliche Leute in Schlaf und Ruhe!« -- und zugleich warf ich die Haustür wieder hinter mir zu und ließ sie ferner schreien und klopfen, soviel ihnen selbst beliebte. Gleichwohl jammerten mich die beiden Kinderchen -- ein Mädchen von neun und ein Knabe von sieben Jahren -- in der innersten Seele. Sie riefen unaufhörlich: »Ach Gott! ach Gott! meine Mutter!« bis sie es endlich müde wurden und meine Tür verließen, oder vielmehr der Vater sie heimholen ließ. Noch vor Tagesanbruch, am 1. September, sah ich nach Wind und Wetter aus, und da beide günstig waren, so eilte ich bereits um sechs Uhr, an Bord zu kommen. Schon stand es aber auf dem Lizentplatz und neben dem Schiffe gedrängt voll Menschen, die mir entgegenriefen: »Sie sollen uns die Madame W. herausgeben!« Dagegen fand ich am Borde neben der Treppe zwei Schildwachen, und neben der Kajütentüre zwei dergleichen aufgepflanzt, und kaum war ich durch die letztere eingetreten, so kam mir durch die Vorhänge meiner Schlafstelle ein Gesicht zum Vorschein, das ich um so weniger verkennen konnte, da ich zum öfteren in Schiffsangelegenheiten auf Herrn W.s Kontor zu tun gehabt hatte. Dies Gesicht nun rief mir ganz frei und unbefangen einen »Guten Morgen!« entgegen, den ich mit einer derben und gesalzenen Epistel erwiderte, worin ich ihre lose Aufführung zu Gemüte führte und sie ermahnte, zu ihrem braven Manne stehenden Fußes zurückzukehren, bevor Schimpf und Schande für sie noch größer würde. Sie dagegen hub eine lange Schutzrede an, worin der Mann übel genug wegkam, und ward endlich nur von dem Offizier, den ich gar noch nicht in der Kajüte bemerkt hatte, unterbrochen. Dieser sprang ungeduldig auf und rief: »Unnützes Geplauder und kein Ende! Jetzt hurtig auf und davon! Das Kommandieren ist von nun an an _mir_.« Da dem nicht zu widersprechen war, so mußte ich ihm überlassen zu handeln, wie er's verantworten konnte, ging hinaus, ließ die Segel aufziehen und schickte zwei Matrosen ans Land, um die Taue hinten und vornen abzulösen, womit das Schiff am Bollwerk befestigt lag. Aber das zusammengelaufene Volk war nicht willens, den Handel so kurz Knie abzubrechen. Meine Leute wurden umringt und an der Ausrichtung ihres Geschäftes gehindert; so daß ich, um nicht noch ärgeren Lärm zu veranlassen, sie an Bord zurückrief. Dagegen nahm ich einem russischen Soldaten den Säbel von der Seite und kappte die Taue an beiden Enden, und jetzt kam das Schiff zu Gange, obwohl alles, was am Lande war und Arme hatte, es festzuhalten bemüht war. Der Lärm und das Getümmel hierbei sind nicht zu beschreiben. Noch aber gab sich der Haufe nicht zufrieden, sondern da das Schiff notwendig weiter unten am holländischen Baume anlegen mußte, damit der Baumschreiber meinen Paß visierte, so stürzte groß und klein im vollen Lauf dahin und war schon lange vor mir zur Stelle. Während ich aber hier meines Geschäftes wahrnahm, ging auch der Livländer ans Land und nach dem hier postierten russischen Wachthause. Die Verständigung mit dem kommandierenden Offizier war die Sache eines Augenblickes, und sowie die Wache das Gewehr aufnahm und einige Kolbenstöße links und rechts austeilte, war der Haufe auseinandergesprengt. Eine halbe Stunde später lag uns Königsberg bereits in weiter Ferne im Rücken. Nun fing aber auch Madame W. an, auf ihre Weise zu wirtschaften. Es war zum Erstaunen, was sie in der kurzen Zeit an Bord zu schaffen gewußt hatte und wie sie davon kochen und braten ließ, als ob auf dem Schiffe Hochzeit wäre. Wir langten in aller Lust und Herrlichkeit noch desselben Tages bei Pillau an; worauf wir am nächsten Morgen früh, bei stillem Wetter in See gingen. Ehe wir noch aus dem Fahrwasser kamen, segelte dicht hinter uns eine russische Fregatte zugleich mit uns aus, und das Wetter war so still, daß man die Schiffe fast nicht auseinanderhalten konnte, ohne daß es gleichwohl Gefahr dabei gehabt hätte. Mein Livländer wurde durch all diesen schönen Anschein zum Übermut verleitet. Er wollte Preußen zu Ehren noch einige Valet- und Freudenschüsse tun und knallte auch wirklich mit seiner Flinte drei- bis viermal in die Luft, ohne daß ich, mit der Leitung des Schiffes beschäftigt, mich sonderlich um sein Beginnen kümmerte. Inzwischen bemerkte ich doch bald nachher auf der Fregatte eine lebhaftere Bewegung; eine Schaluppe von dorther legte bei mir an Bord und aus derselben sprang ein Offizier wütend auf mein Verdeck und verlangte den Schiffer zu sprechen. Als ich herantrat, zeigte er mir in einem Papier mehrere Körner Hasenschrot, die auf der Fregatte aufgesammelt worden, nachdem sie ein großes Loch ins Segel gerissen. Ich sollte nun Rede und Antwort geben, wer der Täter gewesen? Der Täter aber, der geahnt haben mochte, was passieren würde, war binnen der Zeit in die Kajüte gegangen, in der Geschwindigkeit in seine Uniform gefahren und trat soeben wieder hervor, um über den Ankömmling mit gezogenem Degen herzufallen. Es entstand zwischen beiden ein Handgemenge, welches endlich zugunsten des Fregattenoffiziers dadurch entschieden wurde, daß die Matrosen aus der Schaluppe herzusprangen, meinen Leutnant von hinten packten, banden und über Hals und Kopf in das Boot warfen, ohne daß zu meiner großen Verwunderung nur irgendeiner von unserer Schiffsbesatzung Miene machte, sich in den Streit zu mischen, oder seinem Anführer Beistand zu leisten. Da mir nun der Livländer einmal als Kommandant zugeteilt worden war, so glaubte ich nicht ohne ihn davonfahren zu dürfen. Allein damit ich auch nicht ohne Not aufgehalten würde und desto bälder ihn oder einen andern wieder an Bord bekäme, schien es mir am geratensten, ihn auch nach der Fregatte zu begleiten. Dies Verlangen ward mir ohne Anstand bewilligt. Doch bald ergab sich's, daß es nicht dahin ging, woher die Schaluppe gekommen war, sondern nach dem russischen Admiralschiffe, welches nebst noch fünf Kriegsschiffen, draußen auf der Reede ankerte. Hier kam es auch sogleich zu einem Verhöre und protokollarischer Aufnahme; der Unfugstifter ward bedeutet, daß ihn seine Strafe in Riga erwarten werde und daß er für diesen Augenblick seine Reise fortsetzen möge, damit der kaiserliche Dienst nicht leide. Mit diesem Bescheide kehrten wir nunmehr wieder an unsern Bord zurück. Hier wollte nun der Narr hauen und stechen und haderte mit seinen Leuten, daß sie ihn so feigherzig im Stiche gelassen. Wiewohl er sich endlich beruhigte, so nahm doch am nächsten Morgen an seinem Beispiele auch Madame den Mut, mit dem Soldaten, der ihr zur Aufwartung gegeben war, unsäuberlich zu verfahren. Bald hatte er das Bett nicht gut gemacht, bald die Teller nicht gehörig gescheuert, bald etwas noch Schlimmeres versehen, und endlich lief ihr die Galle dermaßen über, daß sie dem armen ungeschickten Kerl mit eigener hoher Hand eine gewichtige Maulschelle zuteilte. Allein diese Keckheit bekam ihr übler, als sie wohl gedacht hatte. Der ganze Trupp fühlte sich durch diese Mißhandlung eines Kameraden von unberufenen Fäusten an seiner militärischen Ehre gekränkt; alles spie Feuer und Flamme, drang auf den Leutnant ein und bestand auf der bündigsten Genugtuung. Um den furchtbaren Lärm zu stillen und noch derbere Ausbrüche einer rohen Gewalt zu verhüten, blieb dem edlen Ritter zuletzt nichts übrig, als die Schöne unter seine eigene Fuchtel zu nehmen; und das tat er denn, seiner Zärtlichkeit unbeschadet, auch so herzhaft und nachdrücklich, daß endlich die lautesten Schreier selbst sich für befriedigt erklärten. Nur Madame W. schien von dieser fühlbaren Liebesprobe schlecht erbaut zu sein. Ein paar Tage darauf kamen wir ins Gesicht von Dünamünde, und da der Wind nach Osten umging, legten wir uns auf der Reede vor Anker. Das stand indes meinem Schiffskommandanten nicht an, der augenblicklich in den Hafen gebracht sein wollte und, da ich ihm die Unmöglichkeit vorstellte, aller früheren Höflichkeit vergaß und mich für einen Pfuscher in meinem Handwerke erklärte. Eine schnöde Antwort blieb nicht aus, und die endliche Folge war der Versuch zu einer tätlichen Mißhandlung, der ich für den Augenblick ein ruhiges Schweigen entgegensetzte. Aber zu gleicher Zeit steckte ich auch eine Notflagge auf, deren Bedeutung mein Widersacher nicht ahnte. Nicht lange, so kam der Lotsenkommandeur mit seinen Leuten mir auf die Seite. Anstatt jedoch seine verwunderten Fragen zu beantworten, sprang ich zu ihm ins Boot und verlangte, zu dem Militärkommandanten in Buller-Aa geführt zu werden, wo ich dann meine Klage gegen den Livländer anbrachte und bat, entweder diesen vom Schiffe zu entfernen oder einen andern Schiffer an Bord zu setzen, der es nach Riga führe. Ersteres ward auch ohne Anstand bewilligt und der unruhige Gast auf der Stelle durch einen andern Offizier ersetzt und ans Land geführt. Niemand war mit diesem Wechsel unzufrieden, als Madame W., die jetzt ein zungenfertiges Geschnatter anhub und mir eine Reihe von Ehrentiteln gab, welche ich hier nachzuschreiben nicht Lust habe. Ich bat sie, sich zu menagieren, wenn sie nicht etwa wolle, daß ich sie durch meine Leute beim Kopfe kriegen, ins Boot werfen, am nächsten Strande aussetzen und in die dickste Wildnis laufen ließe. Diese unbehagliche Aussicht, an deren augenblicklicher Erfüllung mein Ernst nicht zweifeln ließ, brach ihren kindischen Trotz. Sie griff nunmehr nach einem Gesangbuche, das sie schwerlich mit Absicht eingepackt hatte, begann Bußlieder zu singen und badete ihr Antlitz in Tränen. Da ihr das nun nicht schaden konnte, so ließ ich sie gewähren. Des anderen Tages um Mittag kam ich die Düna hinauf nach Riga, meldete mich beim Kommandanten und bat um baldigsten Befehl zur Ablieferung der geladenen Effekten; mit abermaliger Vorwendung der, unter meinen Umständen wohl verzeihlichen Notlüge, daß mein Schiff leck und ich in Gefahr sei, hier noch am Bollwerke zu sinken. Man hatte keinen Grund, meine Aussage zu bezweifeln, mochte sogar wohl für die Ladung fürchten, und so erschien denn bereits in nächster Stunde ein unzählbarer Schwarm abgeschickter Soldaten, die, nach der schon beschriebenen russischen Manier, auch wieder bei mir aufräumten. Ihr Gedränge um die Schiffsluken her gestattete ihnen kaum Zeit und Raum, sich ihre zehn Paar Stiefel und darüber über die Schultern zu schlagen, und damit fort wie die Ameisen! Abends um sieben Uhr war mein Schiff ledig, wie mit Besen gefegt. Da mir, kaum fünfzehn oder zwanzig Schritte entfernt, am Bollwerke ein Berg Ballast vor der Nase lag, so legte ich nun augenblicklich mein Schiff hart daran, dung acht russische Soldaten zu einem halben Rubel, mir diesen Sand über Bord hineinzuschaufeln, und nachdem ich an den Vor- und Hintersteven mit Kreide bezeichnet hatte, wie tief geladen werden sollte, ließ ich sie, unter Aufsicht meiner Leute, tapfer fortarbeiten, während ich selbst mich ruhig aufs Ohr legte. Am Morgen war alles getan, und ich hätte in dem nämlichen Augenblicke wieder absegeln können, wenn nur meine Papiere schon wieder in Ordnung gewesen wären. Zu dieser Besorgung hatte ich mir noch keine Zeit gelassen. Jetzt aber ging ich zu den Herren Zietze und Colbert, an welche ich mich, für alle möglichen Fälle, von Königsberg aus hatte adressieren lassen, besorgte vormittags meine Ein- und nachmittags meine Ausklarierung und konnte nunmehr gehen wohin ich wollte. Indem ich nun die Anstalten zur Abreise eifrigst besorgte, weil ich immer noch den russischen Behörden nicht recht traute und darum gerne je eher je lieber außer ihrem Bereiche gewesen wäre, -- trat ich auch von ungefähr in die Kajüte. Siehe da! Die Königsberger Schöne saß da und rang die Hände und wollte vergehen in Angst und Wehmut, denn ihr Vielgetreuer war noch nicht wieder zum Vorschein gekommen! Ich tat ihr den wohlmeinenden Vorschlag, sie sollte mit mir in ihre Heimat zurückkehren und es auf ihres schwer beleidigten Mannes Edelmut ankommen lassen, ob er ihr verzeihen und sie wieder auf- und annehmen wolle, wo denn leicht ein Schleier über ihre leichtsinnige Tat zu werfen sein werde. Doch dies war keine Musik in ihrem Ohre. Lieber, versicherte sie, wolle sie es auf das äußerste ankommen lassen und hinter irgendeinem Zaune sterben und begraben werden. Schwerlich dachte das unglückliche Geschöpf, daß in diesem Augenblicke ein prophetischer Geist aus ihr spräche, wie die Folgezeit erwiesen hat. So blieb ihr denn nur übrig, ihr Bündel zu schnüren. Meine Leute griffen zu und halfen die Bagage aus dem Schiffe ans Bollwerk bringen, wo sie sich trostlos und verlassen oben drauf setzte. Die Segel wurden angezogen, die Taue gelöst und so ging es von dannen! Während ich ihr noch meinen Abschied nachrief, begann sich bereits ein Kreis von Menschen um sie her zu versammeln. * * * * * Statt ihrer hatte ich einen herrenlosen Schiffer aus Pillau, der aber in diesen Gewässern wohl bekannt war, als Passagier an Bord genommen, und da mir noch immer der Boden unter den Füßen brannte, so ließ ich mir seinen Vorschlag gefallen, ohne irgendeinen weiteren Aufenthalt die offene See zu suchen, wobei er selbst mir als Lotse dienen wollte. Das geschah und geriet glücklicher, als meine Keckheit es verdiente. Denn niemand hielt mich an, und des dritten Tages nachher warf ich bereits wieder in Pillau den Anker. Weil jedoch mein Schiff in der Bordingszunft zu Königsberg eingeschrieben war, so blieb ich hier noch liegen, um eine Bordingsfracht den Pregel hinauf zu erwarten. Zwei Tage darauf erschien Schiffer Kummerow mit jenem nämlichen Schiffe, worauf im vorigen Jahre der gute Christian verunglückte, auf der Reede und steuerte, trotz einem fliegenden Sturme, mutig in den Hafen. Sobald er vor Anker gekommen, war ich mit meinen braven Landsleuten, den Schiffern Paul Todt und Johann Henke zu dem Neuangekommenen, der gleichfalls ein ehrlicher Kolberger war, an Bord gefahren. Beim Eintritte in seine Kajüte sahen wir, daß ihm die Brandung beim Einlaufen hinten die Fenster und Porten in Stücke geschlagen hatte, und daß drinnen alles voll Wasser stand. Er hatte nun zum Schaden auch noch den Spott, indem wir ihn redlich auslachten. Ich erinnerte mich dabei, daß ich mit diesem nämlichen Schiffe und in einem ähnlichen Sturmwetter hier in den Hafen gesegelt, aber die Besonnenheit gehabt, die Hinterporten zuvor fallen zu lassen. Bei der fortgesetzten Neckerei hub endlich unser Wirt im halben Unwillen an: »Basta, ihr Herren! Ihr sollt am längsten gespottet haben. -- Heda, Junge! Den Koch herbei! -- Koch, auf dem Platze ans Land gefahren, und holt mir den Tischler, soundso genannt. Er soll sich mit Handwerkszeug versehen, um hier die Einschiebrahmen loszumachen, damit sie zum Glaser in die Kur gebracht werden können.« -- Während nun sein Wille ausgerichtet wurde, der Tischler aber, ohne daß wir uns weiter daran kehrten, seine Arbeit begann, saßen wir daneben bei einem Glase Wein, wobei wir vergnügt und wohlgemut alte und neue Geschichten nach Seemannsweise auf die Bahn brachten. Ganz von ungefähr fielen hierbei meine Blicke auf den emsig beschäftigten Tischler und nahmen mit Verwunderung wahr, wie dieser hinter der Verkleidung, wo die Fensterrahmen eingeschoben gewesen waren, allerlei Sachen hervorlangte und mit dem krummen Stiele seines Schnitzers immer noch nach mehreren angelte. Das Blut schoß mir aufs Herz und ins Gesicht, denn ich erkannte augenblicklich, Stück für Stück, das verschwundene Eigentum des verstorbenen Schiffers Karl Christian. Da war seine Uhr, seine Garnitur silberner Schnallen, ein Beutel mit einigen hundert Talern dänisch Kurant, ein Schächtelchen mit Pretiosen an goldenen Ringen und Ohrgehängen, desgleichen silberne Schlösser zu großen Bügeltaschen nach damaliger Mode, und was sonst noch mehr, das der gute Mann vormals in Amsterdam eingehandelt und unterwegs, aus Furcht vor Kaperei, hier in Sicherheit gebracht hatte. -- Hier hatte es kein Mensch gesucht und _wir_ es eher in jedem andern Versteckwinkel geahnt! Guter Gott! Und ich hatte mich müssen darum gleichwohl einen Dieb heißen lassen! Aber der Himmel ist gerecht und barmherzig. Er fügte es, daß die Wahrheit noch nach Jahr und Tag wunderlich ans Licht kam, daß es sogar in meiner Gegenwart und vor vieler Zeugen Augen geschehen mußte! Wären wir nicht alle zugegen gewesen -- wer weiß, wie weit die Ehrlichkeit des Finders Stich gehalten, ob je ein Hahn danach gekräht und ich nicht Zeit meines Lebens Dieb geheißen hätte. -- Ja, allemal wenn ich an diese Geschichte denke, schlage ich meine Hände in die Höhe und danke Gott. Der Name des Herrn sei gelobt! Nun raffte ich in der Bestürzung alles zusammen und damit ans Land zu der Witwe meines ehemaligen Schiffers. »Hier, meine liebe Frau!« rief ich außer Atem -- »hier bringe ich Ihnen den Schatz von Ihrem seligen Herrn, wofür ich so lange habe Dieb heißen müssen. Soundso ist das durch Gottes Leitung wieder aufgefunden worden; und nun danken auch Sie Gott und seien fröhlich.« So gab es also Freude von allen Seiten. Bald auch wurde die Geschichte in Königsberg und in der ganzen Umgegend ruchbar. Jeder hielt es für ein halbes Wunder; jeder wollte von mir selbst noch näheren Bericht erfahren; und war ich vorher hier und da wohl zweideutig über die Achsel angesehen worden, so wurde ich seitdem von Bekannten und Unbekannten mit unverdienter Güte und Liebe behandelt. * * * * * Mein gutes Glück, das ich in diesem Jahre mit meinem kleinen Schiffe gehabt hatte, machte mich, wenn auch nicht übermütig, doch zuversichtlich. Ich war ein junger Mensch und wollte mich noch besser in der Welt versuchen, um es desto gewisser in der Welt zu etwas zu bringen. Meiner Ansicht nach mußte ich ein neues und größeres Schiff haben, womit ich mich in die Nordsee und über den Kanal hinauswagen dürfte, anstatt bloß in der Ostsee, wie in einer Entenpfütze, umherzuleiern. Nebenher verließ ich mich auch wohl auf mein Geschick, womit ich mir das Glück, auch wenn es mir den Rücken kehren wollte, wohl zu erzwingen gedachte. Leider hatte oder achtete ich damals die Erfahrung noch nicht, daß zum Laufen kein Schnellsein hilft, und sollte es erst noch zu meinem Schaden lernen. Überhaupt habe ich es erst später begriffen, daß lediglich alles vom Glücke abhängt und dieses durch Fleiß und Geschick allein sich nicht erzwingen lassen will. Wohl aber hätte ich es an meinen eignen dummen Streichen (woran ich es leider nie habe fehlen lassen) abnehmen können, daß diese den Dummbart oft dem Glücke weiter in den Schoß führen, als ein andrer mit den weisesten Überlegungen auszurichten vermag. Doch will ich damit nicht gesagt haben, daß man den letzteren mit Vorbedacht aus dem Wege gehen solle. Muß man in der Ausführung ja doch immer noch dem lieben Gott die größere Halbschied überlassen. -- Kurz, ich verkaufte meinen kleinen und glücklichen Postreiter, setzte mir's in den Kopf, ein funkelnagelneues Schiff von etwa achtzig Lasten auf den Königsberger Stapel zu setzen, und war den größten Teil des Jahres 1763 mit dem Ausbau desselben beschäftigt, ohne den Ort zu verlassen. In das nämliche Jahr traf auch der unglückliche große Brand in Königsberg, wobei der Löbenicht, Sackheim und ein Teil vom Roßgarten im Feuer aufgingen. Als der erstgenannte Stadtteil so plötzlich und an allen Orten zugleich in Flammen stand, befand ich mich mit wohl noch tausend andern Menschen auf der Holzwiese, dicht am Pregel, dem Löbenich gegenüber. Hier bemerkten wir auf der Ladebrücke, hinter dem Hospital, arme gebrechliche Bewohner desselben, welche darauf ihre letzte kümmerliche Zuflucht gesucht hatten. Denn hinter ihnen standen ihre Zellen, samt der Hospitalkirche, in lichtem Brande; zur einen Seite nicht minder der Mönchhof, und zur andern, neben der Brücke, ein großer Stapel Brennholz; so daß den Unglücklichen nur übrig blieb, sich in den Pregel zu stürzen oder ihr Schicksal auf jener Ladebrücke abzuwarten. Schon aber schien die Flamme sie auch in diesem letzten Bergewinkel ereilen zu wollen! Wir sahen deutlich von jener Seite, wie bereits einigen Lahmen und Krüppeln die Kleider auf dem Leibe angeglommen waren, während andere, die noch etwas rühriger waren, Wasser schöpften und damit ihre Unglücksgefährten wiederholt übergossen, um sie vor dem Verbrennen zu retten. Sie konnten dies auch um so füglicher, da zugleich ein starker Orkan aus Norden wütete (der eben den Brand so unaufhaltsam verbreitet hatte) und wodurch auch das Stromwasser so aufgestaut wurde, daß es fast die Höhe der Brücke erreichte. Hier sollte und mußte nun in so dringender Gefahr den armen Leuten unverzüglich geholfen werden! Fahrzeuge waren in der ganzen Gegend nirgends abzusehen. Ich lief indes über die Kuttelbrücke nach dem Hunde-Gat, sprang in ein Boot, das zu einem dort liegenden Schiffe gehörte; und da zum Glück ein Ruder drinnen lag, so war ich mit Hilfe des starken Windes binnen fünf bis zehn Minuten wieder an der Ladebrücke. Man denkt sich's leicht, wie ich hier von den armen Menschen bestürmt wurde. Immer wollte einer vor dem andern aufgenommen sein, und mir blieb endlich nichts übrig, als eilig mit dem Boote und den zuerst Eingesprungenen abzustoßen, wenn nicht alles auf der Stelle mit und unter mir versinken sollte. Ich brachte indes meine Ladung nach der Holzwiese in Sicherheit, und so gelang es mir in dreimaligem Hin- und Herfahren, sie alle glücklich aus der Klemme zu schaffen. Als ich jedoch mich der Brücke nochmals näherte und den Platz wohlbedächtig mit meinen Blicken musterte, während bereits die Laufbretter hier und da die Flammen durchzüngeln ließen, nahm ich, fünfzehn oder zwanzig Schritte von mir entfernt, etwas wahr, das sich brennend auf dem Boden bewegte und anfangs von mir für ein glimmendes Bett gehalten wurde, das der Sturmwind vor sich herwälzte. Als ich aber die Brücke bestiegen hatte und es in der Nähe untersuchte, fand ich, daß es eine alte Frau war, die, wie ich späterhin erfuhr, an einer Seite des Leibes völlig vom Schlage gerührt worden. Ich hob sie auf, um sie nach meinem Fahrzeuge zu tragen: allein der Qualm und Gestank der schwelenden Kleider stieg mir so unerträglich zu Kopf und Brust, daß ich von meinem Vornehmen abstehen mußte. Doch ergriff ich die Unglückliche an Hand und Fuß, zerrte sie so -- wenngleich ein wenig unsanft -- nach dem Boote und brachte sie hinüber, wo sie mir von den vielen umstehenden Menschen abgenommen wurde. Gleich darauf stieß ich wieder ab, um womöglich irgendeinem Bedrängten in dieser Not retten zu helfen, und kam an das Löbenichtsche Schlachthaus, das gleichfalls in hellem Feuer stand und wo noch, wie ich durch die niedergebrannten Planken wahrnehmen konnte, eine Menge ausgeschlachteten Viehes umherhing. »Mein Gott!« dachte ich -- »wie vielen hundert Menschen könnte das noch zur Erquickung dienen, denen das Unglück heute nichts als das liebe Leben gelassen hat!« Ein großer fetter Ochse, der der Treppe nach dem Wasser am nächsten hing, fiel mir besonders in die Augen. Ich schnitt ihn ab, wälzte ihn hinunter und schleppte ihn hinter meinem Fahrzeuge her ans jenseitige Ufer, wo ihn mir ein Reiter abnahm und vollends aufs Trockene brachte. Wo er weiter geblieben und wem er zugute gekommen ist, weiß ich nicht. Indem ich mich nun aufs neue nach der Löbenichtschen Seite hinübermachte, stieß ich dort auf eine korpulente Frau, die ihre Hände nach mir aufhob und rief: »O Schifferchen, erbarme Er sich, helf' Er! rett' Er! -- Das ist mein Haus, was mit den andern im Brande steht, und mein Mann ist ausgereist auf den Viehhandel. Alle meine Leute haben mich verlassen, und was Er hier um mich liegen sieht, hab' ich mit meinen eigenen Händen aus dem Feuer gerissen.« -- Dabei wies sie auf einen Berg von Betten, Kleidungsstücken und dergleichen. Ich ließ mich nicht zweimal bitten; wir warfen beide Hals über Kopf von den Sachen bunt durcheinander in das Boot, soviel es nur fassen konnte, und nun schlug ich ihr vor, diese Ladung ans jenseitige Ufer hinüberzuschaffen, dann aber wiederzukommen und sie selbst mit dem Rest in Sicherheit zu bringen. Das war aber keine gute Disposition, wie ich sogleich inne ward, als ich die Holzwiese erreichte; denn hier gab es zwar hundert geschäftige Hände, die mir die geretteten Sachen abnahmen, als ich mich aber danach umsah, ob sie auch in gute Verwahrung kämen, lief der eine hierhin, der andere dorthin; dieser zog mit einem Bette ab, jener mit einem Laken oder einem Armvoll Kleider, und als ich das letzte Stück aus den Händen gab, hatte sich bereits die ganze Ladung verkrümelt. »Frauchen!« sagte ich bei meiner Wiederkehr -- »das sieht betrübt mit Ihrem Eigentum aus! -- Ich fürchte, Sie kriegt in Ihrem Leben keine Faser wieder davon zu sehen. Soundso ist mir's damit gegangen.« -- Die Unglückliche weinte und seufzte. Indes schleppten wir noch einen schweren Kleiderkasten an und ins Boot und was sie noch von Gerätschaften geborgen hatte. Sie selbst trug ich, trotz ihrer Wohlbeleibtheit, indem ich bis an den halben Leib durchs Wasser watete, gut oder übel ebenfalls hinein und fuhr ab. Unterwegs gewann sie wieder etwas Mut und Redseligkeit. Sie nannte mir ihres Mannes Namen (den ich aber wieder vergessen habe) und daß er ein Branntweinbrenner gewesen, samt ihren andern häuslichen Umständen. Die ganze Brandgeschichte, vom ersten Feuerlärm an, und ihren Schreck, und was sie und ihre Nachbarn gedacht und gesagt und vermutet -- das alles bekam ich anzuhören und wahrscheinlich noch sehr vieles mehr, wenn wir nicht schon früher bei der Holzwiese angelangt gewesen wären. Hier ward das unordentliche Getümmel der räuberischen Dienstfertigkeit um die arme Frau fast noch ärger als bei meiner ersten Landung. Endlich drängte man mich ganz von ihr ab, und ich sah sie nur noch aus der Ferne auf ihrem Kasten sitzen, um wenigstens _diesen_ zu behaupten. Wieviel ihr von dem übrigen geblieben oder wiedergebracht worden, weiß Gott; denn meine Augen haben sie nachher in dem weitläufigen Orte niemals wiedergesehen. Für diesmal wollte ich nun sehen, was in einer andern Gegend, auf der Sackheimerschen Seite, passierte. Nicht lange, so traf ich abermals mit einer alten Frau zusammen, die am Wasser stand und mir entgegenschrie: »Ach Herzens-Schifferchen, goldenes! Hierher, zu _mir_ hin! Ich will Ihm auch gerne einen Sechser geben.« -- Ich mußte lachen, so wenig mir's bei der allgemeinen grausamen Not auch lächerlich ums Herz war. -- »Nun, und wo soll ich hier denn angreifen?« -- »Ach du mein Gottchen! Diesen Kasten hier, wenn Er mir den doch nach der Holzwiese schaffen wollte. Mein ganzes armes Hab und Gut steckt zusammen drinnen! Ich bin eine geschlagene Frau, wenn ich den missen soll!« Nun freilich, da mußte schon Hand zum Herzen getan werden! Sie übergab mir eine lange schmale Kiste, die mir nun zwar bei dem flüchtigen Blicke, den ich mir darauf zu werfen abmüßigte, keine sonderlichen Schätze zu bergen schien, aber doch, unter gemeinschaftlicher Daranstreckung unserer Kräfte, glücklich ins Boot geschoben und, weil sie darin der Länge nach keinen Platz fand, mit Mühe querüber ins Gleichgewicht gerückt wurde, wiewohl das Fahrzeug, da sie hochstand, heftig damit schwankte. Auch ging es mit der Fahrt noch immer gut genug, bis wir auf Stromesmitte auch in den Bereich des Sturmwindes gerieten, welcher uns dergestalt packte, daß sich das Boot ganz auf die Seite legte und Wasser schöpfte. Was ich immer tun mochte, dem Übel abzuhelfen, blieb vergeblich, und unsre Gefahr zu sinken ward mit jedem Augenblicke dringender. »Aber, liebe Frau, was _hat_ Sie denn in dem unbeholfenen verwetterten Kasten?« fragte ich endlich mit einiger Ungeduld. -- »Ach, mein Ein und Alles! Meine Hühner und Enten, womit ich handle und die mir Eier legen.« -- »Ei, so hole denn der Henker lieber den ganzen Kram!« schrie ich giftig, -- »als daß wir hier unsere Haut darum zu Markte tragen!« -- und damit schob ich den Kasten fein säuberlich über Bord und ließ ihn treiben, wohin er wollte. Nun aber erhob sich über mich ein Sturmwetter von ganz anderer Art, und ich kriegte Ehrentitel zu hören, wie ich sie mir nimmer vermutete. Aber wie sollte ich es anders machen? Das Boot stand am Umkippen und war schon hoch voll Wasser gelaufen. Wir waren darüber beinahe bis an den Sackheimschen Baum getrieben. Ich machte mich also eilig von meiner lästigen Begleiterin los, stieg ans Land, befestigte das Fahrzeug und half anderweitig bei dem Feuer bergen und retten, wo und wie ich immer vermochte. Darüber blieb ich nun von meiner eigenen Schwelle entfernt vom Sonntag abends, da das Feuer anging, bis Dienstag nachmittags, wo endlich seine zerstörende Wut sich legte. Während dieser entsetzlichen Frist kam ich verschiedentlich mit Bekannten aus unserem Stadtende, am Lizent und der Gegend umher, zusammen. Da ward denn immer die erste angelegentliche Frage, wie es in der Nachbarschaft stehe, freudig beantwortet: »Gottlob! Wir haben bis jetzt keine Not vom Feuer, wohl aber vom Sturm hohes Wasser in Straßen und Häusern, daß man überall darin mit Kähnen umherfahren kann.« -- Ein ähnlicher Orkan stieg einige Zeit nach jenem unvergeßlichen Unglück so gewaltig auf, daß alle Schiffe, mit denen der Pregel, vom Grünen Baume an, bedeckt war, sich teils einzeln von ihren Befestigungen am Bollwerk losrissen, teils untereinander abdrängten, und selbst die mitten im Strome geworfenen Anker dagegen nicht aushielten. Die Verwirrung und das Gedränge ward mit jedem Augenblicke größer. Endlich packte sich alles an der Grünen Brücke in eine dichte wüste Masse zusammen; die Masten stürzten über Bord und die Bugspriete knickten wie Rohrstengel. Der Schaden war unermeßlich, und als man endlich wieder zur Besinnung kam, hatte man sich billig zu verwundern, daß nicht alles und jedes zugrunde gegangen. Gleichwohl betraf dieses Schicksal unter andern auch einen ledigen Bording von fünfzig Lasten, der zwischen den andern Schiffen so eingeklemmt ward, daß er endlich, als die geringere Masse, von ihnen niedergedrückt und dergestalt völlig in den Grund versenkt werden mußte, daß keine Spur von ihm zu erblicken war. Dies Gefäß gehörte einer Witwe Roloff, meiner guten Freundin und Gevatterin, zu, die in ihrer Not und mit weinenden Augen auch zu mir kam, ob ich ihr in ihrem Unglück nicht helfen könne. Ich versprach mein Möglichstes, und sobald nur der Sturm sich abgestillt hatte und die Schiffe sich wieder auseinandergewirrt, traf ich Anstalten, den Bording mit Winden und Tauen aus dem Grunde wieder emporzuheben, was mir denn auch mit vieler Mühe und Arbeit gelang, so daß das Fahrzeug auf eine sichere Stelle gebracht und der erlittene Schaden ausgebessert werden konnte. * * * * * Einige Zeit nachher, während ich noch an meinem Schiffe baute, kam eines Tages das Geschrei zu mir auf die Baustelle: auf dem Pregel am Grünen Krahn stehe ein holländisches Schiff, mit hundertundzwanzig Lasten Hanf geladen, in lichtem Brande. Sofort machte ich mich, samt allen meinen Schiffszimmerleuten, deren jeder mit seiner Axt versehen war, auf den Platz und sah, wie das Feuer klafterlang, gleich einem Pferdeschweif, hinten durch die Kajüt-Porten emporflackerte. Alle Menschen, soviel sich deren bereits herbeigemacht hatten, waren damit beschäftigt, Löcher in das Verdeck zu hauen und von oben hinab Wasser in den brennenden Raum zu gießen. Offenbar aber gewann dadurch der Brand unterm Deck nur um so größeren Zug und war auf diese Weise mit nichten zu dämpfen. Ein so widersinniges Verfahren konnte ich nicht lange gelassen mit anblicken. So packte ich denn flugs den Schiffer am Arm und schrie ihm zu: »Ihr arbeitet Euch ja damit zum Unglück, daß Ihr dem Feuer noch mehr Luft macht. _Versenken_ müßt Ihr das Schiff! Hört Ihr? Versenken! Was da lange Besinnens?« Es lief aber alles verwirrt durcheinander und kein Mensch konnte oder wollte auf mich hören. Da griff ich einen von meinen Schiffszimmerleuten auf, sprang mit ihm in das Boot, welches zum brennenden Schiffe gehörte und zeigte ihm eine Planke, dicht über dem Wasser, wo er in Gottes Namen ein Loch ins Schiff hauen sollte. »Das lass' ich wohl bleiben!« war seine Antwort -- »ich könnte schlimmen Lohn dafür haben!« Dieser Widerstand erhitzte mich noch mehr. Ich riß ihm die Axt aus den Händen und bedachte mich keinen Augenblick, ein ganz hübsches Loch hart überm Wasserspiegel durchzukappen. Als ich den guten Erfolg sah, legte ich mich auf den Bauch und hieb immer tiefer einwärts, bis endlich das Wasser stromweise da durch und in den Schiffsraum drang. Das eben hatte ich gewollt, und nun eilte ich spornstreichs aus dem Boote auf das Verdeck, wo sich hundert und mehr Menschen drängten, und schrie: »Herunter vom Schiff, was nicht versaufen will! In der Minute wird's sinken!« Anfangs hörte man mich nicht; da ich es aber immer und immer wiederholte und zugleich auch das Schiff begann, sich stark auf jene Seite zu neigen, so kam auf einmal der Schrecken unter die Leute; alles lief nach dem Lande, in banger Erwartung, was weiter geschehen würde. In der Tat legte sich das Schiff so gewaltig seitwärts, als ob es umfallen wollte; aber im Sinken richtete es sich plötzlich wieder empor und fuhr so, geraden Standes, plötzlich bis an die Gaffel-Klaue in die Tiefe, die hier zur Stelle wohl sechsunddreißig bis vierzig Fuß betragen mochte. Das Feuer war gedämpft. Eine stille dumme Verwunderung folgte. Aber plötzlich auch ward jedes Gaffers Mund wieder laut: »Wer hat das getan? Wer hat das Schiff in den Grund gehauen?« Jeder hatte aber auch gleich die durcheinandergeschriene Antwort bei der Hand: »Nettelbeck! Ei, das ist ein Stückchen von Nettelbeck!« -- Nettelbeck aber kehrte sich an nichts, ging ruhig nach Hause und war in seinem Herzen überzeugt, daß er recht getan habe. Gleich des andern Tages, vormittags neun Uhr, trat in voller Angst mein Schwiegervater zu mir ins Haus und fuhr auf mich ein: »Nun haben wir's! Ein schönes Unglück habt Ihr angerichtet mit dem in Grund gehauenen Schiffe! Da sind eben drei Kaufleute und der holländische Schiffer, samt einem Advokaten, auf der Admiralität und klagen wider Euch auf vollen Ersatz alles Schadens. Nun sitzt Ihr in der Brühe!« -- Und noch hatte er seine Hiobspost kaum geendet, so war auch schon der Admiralitätsdiener zur Stelle, der mich auf den Lizent, gleich in dieser nämlichen Stunde, vor das Admiralitäts-Kollegium beschied. »_Die_ sind rasch dahinter her,« dachte ich bei mir selbst, und mir ward doch nicht ganz wohl dabei zumute. Als ich ankam, fand ich's ganz so, wie's mein Schwiegervater verkündigt hatte. Mir ward ein schon fertiges Protokoll vorgelesen, des Inhalts, daß ich es sei, der unberufenerweise das Schiff zum Sinken gebracht und dadurch einen Schaden von so vielen Tausenden angerichtet habe. Ich sollte jetzt die Wahrheit dieser Angaben anerkennen, von der Ursache Rede und Antwort geben und allenfalls anführen, was ich zu meiner Verteidigung vorzubringen wüßte. »Tausend Augen« -- sagte ich -- »haben es mit angesehen, wie das Schiff hinten hinaus in hellem Feuer stand; und je mehr Luftlöcher die Leute ins Verdeck hieben, desto mehr Nahrung gaben sie dem inwendigen Brande. Hätte das nur noch eine halbe Viertelstunde so fortgedauert, so nahm die Flamme dergestalt überhand, daß es kein Mensch mehr auf dem Schiffe aushalten konnte und dieses mitsamt der Ladung preisgegeben werden mußte. Allein wenn und während es nun in voller Glut stand -- wie sollte es da fehlen, daß nicht auch die Taue mitverbrannten, an denen es am Bollwerk befestigt lag; daß die flammende Masse stromabwärts und unter die vielen andern dort liegenden Schiffe trieb und diese mit ins Verderben zog? -- Ja, was leistete uns Bürgschaft, daß dieser Schiffsbrand nicht ebensowohl auch die dicht am Bollwerk befindlichen Speicher und die unzähligen Hanfwagen davor ergriff? und daß darüber nicht ganz Königsberg in Rauch und Asche aufging? -- Jetzt ist großes und gewisses Unglück mit um so geringerem Schaden abgewandt, als Schiff und Ladung wohl noch wieder zu bergen sein werden. Ich bin daher auch des guten Glaubens, daß ich in keiner Weise strafbar gehandelt, sondern nur meine Bürgerpflicht geleistet habe.« Der Direktor, Herr Schnell, diktierte diese meine Verantwortung selbst zu Protokoll, und der Advokat ermangelte nicht, dagegen allerlei Einrede zu tun. Darnach ward ich abermals befragt, ob ich weiter noch etwas zu meinen Gunsten vorzubringen habe? -- »Nicht ein Wort!« erwiderte ich. -- »Meine Sache muß für sich selber sprechen.« Die Verhandlung ward zu Papier gebracht, und dies mußten alle Parten unterzeichnen. Dann wurden wir bedeutet, einstweilen abzutreten, weil unser Handel klar genug sei, um noch in dieser nämlichen Sitzung zum Spruche zu kommen. »Desto besser!« dachte ich. -- »Wenn nur die gestrengen Herren drinnen auch Vernunft annehmen wollen!« und über diesem »Wenn« kam es denn doch bei mir zu einem Herzpochen, das mir diese halbe Stunde Verweilens sehr bänglich machte. Wer weiß, ob es meinen Gegenparten viel besser erging? -- Endlich hieß es, daß wir wieder vortreten möchten; und nun gab man uns sogleich auch die gefällte Sentenz zu vernehmen, deren Inhalt der Hauptsache nach etwa dahin lautete: »Die Admiralität erkenne, daß der Schiffer Nettelbeck vollkommen recht und löblich gehandelt, indem er durch schnelle Versenkung des in Rede stehenden brennenden Schiffes größeres Unglück von dem Handelsstande und der Stadt abgewandt. Nächstdem aber behalte sich das Kollegium vor, ihm dessen Zufriedenheit und Dankbarkeit durch feierlichen Handschlag zu bezeugen. Falls auch der Gegenpart mit diesem Erkenntnisse zufrieden sei, solle derselbe mit dargebotener Hand sich bei beregtem Nettelbeck bedanken, daß er Schiff und Ladung vor noch größerem Schaden bewahrt habe.« Nach geschehener Vorlesung stand der Direktor, Herr Schnell, von seinem Sitze auf, schüttelte mir treuherzig die Hand und sagte: »Ich tue das als Erkenntlichkeitsbezeugung im Namen aller Schiffer, die auf dem Pregel liegen, und im Namen der Stadt, die durch Ihren Mut und Besonnenheit einem großen Unglücke entgangen ist. Sie sind ein wackerer Mann!« Kaufleute, Schiffer und Advokat sahen einander an und gaben etwas verlegene Zuschauer bei dieser Szene ab. Endlich traten sie einer nach dem anderen zu mir und gaben mir ihre dankbare Hand. Die Vernünftigeren unter ihnen gaben zu gleicher Zeit zu verstehen, sie wären nur darum zur Klage gegen mich geschritten, um sich bei ihren Assüradeurs, Reedern und Korrespondenten hinlänglich zu decken. Schon waren wir im Begriffe, aus der Gerichtsstube wieder abzutreten, als der Direktor mich zurückrief und anhub: »Schiffer Nettelbeck! Wie ist's? Haben Sie nicht im vorigen Jahre der Witwe Roloff ihren im Pregel versunkenen Bording glücklich wieder in die Höhe gebracht? -- Ich dächte, Sie wären ebensowohl der Mann dazu, Ihr Kunststück auch an diesem Schiffe hier zu wiederholen? -- Meine Herren!« sich zu den Kaufleuten wendend -- »Sie sollten sich diesen Vorschlag überlegen! Was meinen Sie?« Alsobald legten mir die Gefragten die Sache eindringlich vor. »Je nun,« erwiderte ich, »vieles in der Welt läßt sich machen, wenn es mit Vernunft und Geschick angegriffen wird. Wir beide, der Schiffsherr und ich, wollen hingehen, untersuchen und das Ding an Ort und Stelle reiflicher überlegen. Läßt sich was beginnen, so wollen wir in Gottes Namen Hand ans Werk legen.« -- Sogleich auch machten wir uns auf den Platz, aber alsbald auch ward mir's klar, daß der Schiffer eine Schlafmütze war, von dem ich keinen erklecklichen Beistand erwarten durfte. Lieber also ließ ich ihn ganz aus dem Spiele, ging zu meinem guten, ehrlichen Freunde, dem Schiffszimmermeister Backer, und bat ihn, daß er mir bei meinem Vornehmen helfen möchte. Der war auch zu allem bereit und willig, und so schritt ich denn getrost an die Ausführung. Nach dem Plane, den wir entworfen hatten, erbat ich mir von ein paar guten Freunden zwei Fahrzeuge zu meiner Verfügung, wobei denn natürlich alle Gefahr und der Ersatz des etwa zugefügten Schadens auf meine Rechnung ging, für den Gebrauch derselben aber eine billige Vergütung bedungen wurde. Indem ich nun diese Bordinge zu beiden Seiten des versenkten Schiffes postierte und meine Winden und Hebezeuge darauf anbrachte und in Bewegung setzte, ging die Arbeit rasch und glücklich vonstatten. Wir hoben die ungeheure Last unter dem Wasser aus dem tiefen Grunde so weit in die Höhe, daß man bereits auf das Verdeck etwas mehr als knietief treten konnte, und ich binnen kurzem den Augenblick erwartete, wo dieses vollends emportauchen würde. Jetzt aber plötzlich stockten alle meine Maschinen. Ich hatte die beiden Bordinge durch die Winden dergestalt anstrengen lassen, daß sie vorn mit dem Bordrande dicht auf dem Wasser lagen, während die Hinterteile sich bis zum Kiel in die Höhe kehrten. Brach jetzt irgend etwas an den Tauen, die unter dem Schiffe durchgezogen waren, so waren Unglück und Schaden gar nicht zu berechnen. In dieser peinlichen Lage mußten demnach vor allen Dingen noch ein paar Ankertaue unter den Schiffskiel gebracht werden, in denen das Schiff nunmehr mit vollerer Sicherheit hing, und nun galt es ein Mittel, es noch um so viel zu erleichtern, damit nur die großen Luken auf dem Verdecke nicht mehr vom Strome überflossen würden und die anzubringenden Pumpen dann freies Spiel gewännen. Da sich jedoch der Schiffskörper um keine Linie mehr rücken lassen wollte, so verfiel ich darauf, ich müßte jene Luken um so viel erhöhen, daß sie über dem Wasserspiegel emporragten. Das war zu bewerkstelligen, wenn ich ebensoviel Kasten oder Verschläge von wenigstens zwei Fuß Höhe und gleichem Umfange mit den Luken dergestalt wasserdicht auf denselben und dem Verdecke befestigte, daß sie gleichsam einen Brunnenrand vorstellten. Was nun aus diesen Kasten geschöpft wurde, war dann ebensogut, als sei es aus dem Raume geschöpft, in welchem auf diese Weise das Wasser endlich doch abnehmen mußte. Dann aber hob sich das Schiff von selbst, ohne daß es ferner meiner Maschinen bedurfte. Kaum war dieser Gedanke zur Welt geboren, so ließ ich mir einen Zollstock geben, um unter dem Wasser das genaue Maß der Luken in Länge und Breite zu nehmen, rief meine Leute zu mir nach der Baustelle und gab ihnen an, was zu tun sei. In Zeit einer Stunde (während welcher alles in Erwartung dessen stand, was werden sollte) kam ich mit den fertigen Kasten und meinen Arbeitsleuten zurück und hatte die Freude, zu sehen, daß jene vollkommen wohl anschlossen. Hunderte von müßigem Pöbel standen als Zuschauer am Bollwerke. Ich wandte mich zu ihnen und rief: »Heran mit Eimer und Gerät, wer Lust hat, mit Wasserschöpfen jede Stunde einen halben Gulden zu verdienen!« -- Ho, das war, als hätte ich sie zur Hochzeit gebeten! Es stürzten gleich so viel Arbeiter herbei auf das nasse Verdeck, daß sie um die Kastenränder nicht alle Raum zum Hantieren hatten. Ich ließ sie ihr Wesen treiben und stieg derweilen ins Boot, um mit dem Bootshaken das Loch unter Wasser aufzusuchen, welches meine Hände hineingehauen hatten. Dann aber sah ich mich nach einem Sacke um (oder war es ein Stück altes Segeltuch, ich weiß es nicht), um jenes Loch zu stopfen und dadurch neuen Zufluß zu hindern. Bei jedem Schöpfen, das so viele Eimer zugleich taten, wurden vielleicht fünfzig und mehr Kubikfuß Wasser -- erst aus den Kästen, dann tiefer aus dem Schiffsraume hervorgefördert. In eben dem Maße nun, als durch diese Erleichterung das Schiff wieder an eigener Hebekraft gewann, erlangten auch die beiden Fahrzeuge, zwischen denen es in der Schwebe hing, ihre verlorene Wirksamkeit wieder. Sie hoben sich vorn wieder; und so mit einem Rucke brachten sie nun das Schiff glücklich in die Höhe, daß es durch sich selber flott wurde und das Verdeck über Wasser zu stehen kam. Jetzt konnten auch die Hanfgebinde an den Lastbändern aus dem Raume hervorgelangt werden. Mit der erleichterten Ladung aber trat auch immer mehr und mehr Bord hervor, bis endlich auch mein gehauenes Loch über dem Wasser zum Vorschein gelangte und sonach mein Werk für abgetan gelten konnte. Ich schlug also ein Kreuz darüber und ging, weil ich mich trefflich abgemattet fühlte, in des Herrn Namen nach Hause, während mein Freund Backer und der Schiffer das übrige besorgen mochten. Einige Tage darauf ward ich abermals vor die Admiralität gefordert. Ich fand dort die Herren Kaufleute, die mir vorerst ihren Dank für mein glücklich gelöstes Versprechen bezeugten, dann aber auch sich für meine angewandte Bemühung mit mir abzufinden wünschten. Auf meiner Rechnung, die ich ihnen des Endes einreichte, standen bloß die beiden Bordinge, die ich gebraucht hatte, jeder mit zwanzig Talern angesetzt, samt einer Kleinigkeit für Abnutz an Tauen, Winden und anderen Gerätschaften, die denn auch sogleich und ohne allen Anstand bewilligt wurden. Da ich indes, was mich selbst betraf, keine Forderung machen wollte, so boten sie mir ein Douceur von hundert preußischen Gulden, samt zehn Pfund Kaffee und zwanzig Pfund Zucker. Ich nahm, was mir gegeben wurde, und schenkte davon fünfundzwanzig Gulden für die Armen, um ihnen auch einmal einen guten Tag zu machen. * * * * * Zu Ostern 1764 war ich endlich auch nach vieler Mühe und Sorge mit meinem Schiffbaue im reinen. Das Gebäude und alles, was dazu gehörte, war nun wohl ganz nach meinem Sinne geraten; aber Freude konnte ich dennoch nur wenig daran haben, denn wie so ganz anders waren die Zeiten geworden, seit ich in vorigem Jahre den Kiel dazu legte! Mit den guten Zeiten für die Reederei hatte es ein plötzliches und betrübtes Ende genommen. Ich will nicht sagen, daß ich auf lauter solche Frachten, wie jene nach Riga, zu vierzig Rubel die Last, gerechnet hätte, allein noch im Jahre zuvor standen die Frachten auf Amsterdam zu fünfundvierzig holländischen Gulden und jetzt, wo beim Frieden in allen Verkehr eine Totenstille eintrat, galt es Mühe, eine Fracht dahin um elf Gulden zu finden. Erst im Oktober gelang es mir, auf den genannten Platz für sechzehn Gulden abzuschließen. Während nun mein Schiff in der Ladung begriffen war, kam ich eines Tages von der Börse, um am Borde mit eigenen Augen nachzusehen. Das Schiff hatte sich etwas vom Bollwerke abgezogen; dennoch dachte ich den Sprung wohl hinüber zu tun, traf es aber so unglücklich, daß ich über ein Ankertau stolperte und mir den rechten Fuß aus dem Gelenke fiel. Da lag ich nun und mußte nach Hause getragen werden. Das Bein schwoll an und während daran gezogen, gesalbt und gepflastert wurde, hatte ich die grausamsten Schmerzen auszustehen. An ein Mitgehen mit meinem Schiffe, wie ich es willens gewesen, war nun gar nicht zu denken. Aber _wen_ nunmehr in meine Stelle setzen? Zum Steuermanne unter mir hatte ich einen gewissen Martin Steinkraus angenommen, der zwar bereits selbst ein Schiff geführt, aber dabei eben keine Ehre eingelegt hatte. Er war gleich mir ein geborner Kolberger und mir von meinen übrigen Landsleuten, halb wider meinen Willen, angebettelt worden. Jetzt, da ich im Bette lag, ward ich abermals mit Fürbitten von allen Seiten dermaßen bestürmt, daß ich mich endlich in einer unglücklichen Stunde betören ließ, diesem Menschen mein Fahrzeug anzuvertrauen. An guten Ermahnungen und Instruktionen ließ ich es auf keine Weise ermangeln. Auch gab ich ihm sofort zweihundert Gulden bar in die Hände, um sich damit in Pillau frei in See zu bringen. Desto verwunderlicher deuchte mir's, daß, als er kaum von Königsberg abgegangen und drei Tage vor Pillau gelegen, das Kontor von Seif und Kompagnie daselbst mir eine Anweisung von zweihundert Gulden präsentieren ließ, welche mein Schiffer auf meine Rechnung bezogen hatte. Gleich darauf war er Mitte November in See gegangen. Späterhin kamen noch verschiedene ähnliche Assignationen, zusammen im Belaufe von etwa dreihundert Gulden zum Vorschein, die er zum Teil bar aufgenommen, zum Teil auf allerlei Schiffsbedürfnisse verwandt hatte, als ob er mit lediger Tasche von mir gegangen wäre. Alles dieses gestattete mir kaum noch einigen Zweifel, daß dieser Mensch es auf Betrug abgesehen habe und mußten mir vollends die Augen aufgehen, als ich, nachdem er anfangs Dezember den Sund passiert war, durch das Haus von Dorß eine neue Assignation, lautend auf fünfundachtzig Taler, empfing, die doch nur für Sundzoll und aufgelaufene Kosten verausgabt worden sein konnten, ungeachtet ich aus Erfahrung wußte, daß ein Schiff von der Tracht wie das meinige, dort nur zwölf bis fünfzehn Taler zu zahlen haben könne. Im Januar 1765 liefen Briefe aus Gotenburg an mich ein mit der Hiobspost: Schiffer Steinkraus sei dort eingelaufen, habe die Einleitung zu einer Havarie gemacht und zu dem Ende gleich anfänglich zweitausend Gulden aufgenommen. Im Februar wiederum Briefe aus Gotenburg: Schiffer Steinkraus habe sich genötigt gesehen, die zur Ausbesserung nötigen Gelder bis auf sechstausend Gulden zu vermehren und sich auszahlen zu lassen! Jetzt ward mir der unsaubere Handel denn doch zu bunt! Wollte ich nicht mit dem Stabe in der Hand mein Eigentum mit dem Rücken ansehen, so mußte ich eilen, dem unverschämten Räuber durch meine persönliche Gegenwart einen Zügel anzulegen. In dieser Absicht ging ich im März mit Schiffer Martin Blank als Passagier nach Amsterdam ab, wo ich meinen Urian entweder schon zu treffen, oder doch zu erwarten gedachte. Er hatte aber gar nicht die Eile gehabt, die ich bei ihm voraussetzte, sondern erst in den letzten Tagen des April, nachdem ich schon mehrere Wochen nach ihm ausgesehen, ließ mir Schiffer Johann Henke von Königsberg, der eben auch im Hafen lag, sagen: Steinkraus sei soeben angekommen und habe mit dem Schiffe vor der Lage geankert. Jetzt verlor ich keinen Augenblick, mich nach der Wasserseite zu begeben. Je üblere Dinge ich ahnte, um so sorgfältiger hatte ich auch bereits im voraus meine Maßregeln überlegt und mit meinen dortigen Korrespondenten, den Herren Kock und van Goens, die erforderlichen Abreden genommen. In der Ferne sah ich mein Schiff liegen, das mir durch die arglistige Bosheit eines Taugenichts so teuer zu stehen kommen sollte. Ich ließ mich durch einen Schuitenfahrer an den Bord desselben übersetzen, fand aber beim Hinaufsteigen auf dem Verdecke keine lebendige Seele. Voll Sinnens ging ich auf demselben einige Minuten lang umher, und indem ich mir Masten, Taue, Segel, Anker -- alles die alten wohlbekannten Gegenstände -- genauer darauf ansah, konnte ich mit steigender Verwunderung immer weniger begreifen, was denn mit den aufgenommenen ungeheuren Summen daran verändert oder gebessert worden. Endlich kam der Schiffsjunge aus dem Kabelgat zum Vorschein und machte trefflich große Augen, als er seinen Herrn und Meister so unverhofft erblickte. Ich säumte nicht, den Burschen in ein näheres Verhör zu nehmen; und nun erzählte er mir denn, halb aus Treuherzigkeit, halb aus Furcht, mehr als mir lieb war und ich zu wissen verlangte. Sein Schiffer samt den übrigen Leuten hatte sich sogleich nach der Ankunft im hellen Haufen ans Land begeben. Der neue Steuermann (denn der von Königsberg mitgegangene war -- ein Unglück mehr für mich! -- in Gotenburg gestorben) befand sich nur noch allein an Bord und verzehrte in der Kajüte sein Mittagsmahl. Dort suchte ich ihn mir auf, gab mich als seinen Reeder zu erkennen und wechselte einige gleichgültige Worte mit ihm, bevor ich nach dem Lande zurückfuhr. Er war auf keine Weise der Mann dazu, mir die nähere Aufklärung, die ich brauchte, zu geben. Da es nun aber einmal auf eine Überraschung abgesehen sein sollte, so postierte ich mich, dem Schiffe gegenüber, am Bollwerke und beschloß, hier geduldig zu warten, bis mein guter Freund, der dort notwendig passieren mußte, in eigener werter Person zum Vorschein kommen würde. Nach etwa zwei Stunden Harrens, die mir lang und sauer genug wurden, erschien auch ein Trupp ganz wilder und besoffener Matrosen, in denen ich unschwer mein Volk erkannte, und hinter ihnen her taumelte, in keinem besseren Zustande, der Schiffer Steinkraus an mir vorüber. Ich folgte ihnen und wartete bis zu dem Augenblicke, wo sie sämtlich in die Schaluppe steigen wollten, um nach dem Schiffe überzusetzen. Hier klopfte ich dem Schiffer unversehens auf die Schulter und rief: »Willkommen in Amsterdam!« -- Er blickte hinter sich, ward starr wie eine Bildsäule und auch so blaß, als er mich endlich erkannte. Ich änderte indes nichts in meiner höflichen Gelassenheit, wie bitter mir's auch ankam, meinen gerechten Groll zu verbeißen; denn ehe ich gegen ihn losfuhr, wie er's verdient hatte, mußte ich mir erst seine Gotenburger Havarierechnung haben vorlegen lassen, um zu wissen, ob und wie diese gegen meine Assekurateurs zu rechtfertigen wäre, die in Amsterdam zur Stelle waren und auf mein Schiff achttausend Gulden gezeichnet hatten. Jene Havarie aber betrug, soviel mir vorläufig bewußt war, noch etwas mehr sogar, als diese Summe. Ich setzte mich nun, als ein schwerlich sehr willkommener Gast, mit in das Boot und begleitete ihn an Bord. Unmittelbar darauf holten wir das Schiff in die Lage zu den übrigen vor Anker, wo es, nach meinem Wunsche, neben dem vorbenannten Henke zu liegen kam. Dies gab mir die Bequemlichkeit, mich entweder an meinem eigenen Borde, oder bei diesem meinem Freunde in der Nähe zu verweilen und gute Aufsicht zu halten, während die Ladung gelöscht und das Schiff bis auf den untersten Grund leer wurde. Hier vermißte ich denn nun zunächst achtzig eichene Planken, die ich in Königsberg zum Garnieren des Schiffbodens mitgegeben hatte. Wo konnten _die_ geblieben sein? Ich erhielt die Auskunft vom Schiffer, daß sie in Gotenburg, zugleich mit der übrigen gelöschten Ladung, ans Land gekommen und dort, ohne sein Wissen und Willen, vom Schiffsvolke von Zeit zu Zeit beiseite gebracht und heimlich verkauft worden. Das Volk hinwiederum wälzte alle Schuld von sich ab und behauptete, der Schiffer selbst habe die Planken verkauft. Nicht besser stand es um einen Schiffsanker von achthundert Pfund, der mir auf meinem vorigen Schiffe und bei einer früheren Reise am Bollwerke zu Pillau in einem Sturme zerbrochen worden. Da die beiden Stücke in Königsberg nicht wieder zusammengeschmiedet werden konnten, so hatte ich sie dem Steinkraus mitgegeben, um dies in Amsterdam bewerkstelligen zu lassen. Aber auch dieser Anker war abhanden gekommen, und bei näherer Untersuchung ergab sich's, daß er das größere Stück und die Matrosen das kleinere an den Mann zu bringen gewußt und das Geld geteilt hatten. Nunmehr kam die Reihe an die Gotenburger Papiere, die Havarie betreffend, und da standen mir denn wahrlich die Haare zu Berge! Alles befand sich in der greulichsten Unordnung, als ob es mit rechtem Vorbedachte verwirrt worden sei, um jede klare Einsicht unmöglich zu machen. Ich wußte nimmermehr, wie ich meinen Assekurateurs diese Rechnungen vorlegen sollte, ohne daß sie sie von Anfang bis zu Ende für nichtig erklärten. Selbst meinen Schuft beim Kopfe nehmen zu lassen, war nicht ratsam, wenn ich jene Versicherer nicht selber in Alarm setzen wollte, über gespielten Betrug bei der Havarie zu schreien und mich für meine eigene Person in das böse Spiel zu verwickeln. Allein desto sorgfältiger mußte ich zu verhindern suchen, daß der Bube nicht heimlich das Weite suchte. Ich hatte ihn also bei Tag und Nacht wie meinen Augapfel zu hüten und durfte ihn gleichwohl mein Mißtrauen nicht merken lassen. Nichtsdestoweniger mußte sich's fügen, daß, als ich zwei Tage später mit ihm die Börse besuchte, wo es immer ein dichtes Gewimmel gibt, er mir unter den Händen entschlüpfte. Die Börsenzeit ging zu Ende, aber kein Steinkraus war zu sehen! Meine schwache Hoffnung, daß er sich an Bord begeben haben könnte, spornte mich ihm dahin nach, aber sie schlug fehl. Er war und blieb für mich verschwunden. War meine Lage vorhin schon kritisch, so schien sie nunmehr vollends rettungslos. Ich hatte meinen Assekurateurs des Schiffers Havarie-Rechnung notwendig vorlegen müssen, bei welcher sie, auch wenn alles in bester Ordnung war, dennoch nur zu guten Grund hatten, den Kopf zu schütteln und sich zu besinnen, ob sie zur Zahlung einer so enormen Summe verpflichtet wären. Jetzt, da jener sich unsichtbar gemacht hatte, wiesen sie jede Anforderung auf das bestimmteste zurück und verlangten, daß ich ihnen vor allen Dingen den Schiffer, der die Havarie gemacht hätte, zur Stelle schaffte, damit er selbst Rede und Antwort gäbe, denn mit _ihm_ und nicht mit _mir_ hätten sie es zunächst zu tun. »Mein Gott!« entgegnete ich, »wenn er nun aber ins Wasser gefallen und ertrunken wäre?« Das könnte nur ein Kind glauben, war ihre höhnische Antwort, und es schiene nun nicht, daß sie nötig haben würden, um dieser achttausend Gulden willen den Beutel zu ziehen. Dagegen war nun diese Summe auf das Schiff wirklich verbodmet, und die gesetzliche Zeit bereits verflossen. Der Bodmerei-Geber verlangt sein vorgeschossenes Geld, welches die Versicherer mit hinlänglichem Fug sich zu zahlen weigerten. Ich befand mich im entsetzlichsten Gedränge, denn was blieb mir übrig, als den Verkauf meines Schiffes geschehen zu lassen, damit die Bodmerei gedeckt werden könne? -- Es schien unmöglich, daß noch irgend etwas mich armen geschlagenen Mann aus diesem Unglücke herausrisse! So saß ich eines Tages im größten Herzenskummer in einem Wirtshause, wo vor mir auf dem Tische ein holländisches Zeitungsblatt lag. In trübem Sinnen nahm ich es unwillkürlich zur Hand, aber ich wußte selbst nicht was ich las, bis meine Augen auf eine Anzeige fielen, des Inhalts: Es sei zu Schlinger-Want (ungefähr eine Meile von Amsterdam, jenseits des Y) ein ertrunkener Mann gefunden worden, dessen Kleidung und übrige Kennzeichen zugleich näher angegeben wurden. Der Prediger des Ortes, von welchem er dort begraben worden, forderte hier die etwaigen Angehörigen dieses Verunglückten auf, der Kirche die wenigen verursachten Begräbniskosten zu entrichten. »Himmel!« dachte ich bei mir selbst, »wenn dieser Ertrunkene vielleicht dein Steinkraus sei sollte!« -- Tag und Zeit und manche von den angegebenen Merkmalen trafen mit dieser Vermutung gut genug zusammen. Zwar konnte ich an seinem bösen Willen, mir zu entlaufen, nicht zweifeln: allein wie wenn ihn nun sein erwachtes Gewissen zu einer raschen Tat der Verzweiflung getrieben oder wenn Gottes rächende Hand ihn schnell ereilt? Immer erschien mir sein Tod unter diesen Umständen ein Glücksfall, und wie gerne glaubt man, was man wünscht? -- Es kostete mir also auch wenig Mühe, mich zu überzeugen, daß hier von niemand anders als von meinem entwichenen Schiffer die Rede sei; und dieses Glaubens bin ich auch noch bis zur heutigen Stunde, da ich nie wieder in meinem ganzen Leben auch nur die entfernteste Spur seines Daseins aufgefunden habe. Ließ sich nun auf die Art erweisen, daß der Mann, mit welchem meine Assekurateurs einzig und allein ihren streitigen Handel ausmachen konnten und wollten, nicht mehr unter den Lebendigen war, so mußten sie seine Rechnungen annehmen, wie sie dalagen und standen, oder den klaren Beweis über die Betrüglichkeit derselben führen, was ihnen schwer fallen durfte. Ich als Reeder hingegen war nun befugt, mich buchstäblich an meine Police zu halten und auf alle Entschädigung zu dringen. In der _Form_ war dann das Recht auf meiner Seite, nur ob auch dem _Wesen_ nach -- darüber hatte ich bei mir selbst einige Bedenklichkeiten, die ich nicht sofort loswerden konnte. Daß Steinkraus bei der Havarie mit Lug und Trug umgegangen sein müsse, schien, wenn auch nicht klar erweislich, doch nur zu glaublich. Meine eigne Hand und Gewissen war gleichwohl rein und frei von jeder, auch der entferntesten Teilnahme an jeglichem Unrechte. Hatte ich seiner Ehrlichkeit nicht selbst mein Gut und Vermögen anvertraut? War ich nicht selbst von ihm schändlich betrogen worden? Konnte _ich_ ausmitteln, wie groß oder klein der Betrug sein möchte, den er in Gotenburg gespielt? Und _wem_ konnte und sollte es dennoch zukommen, den Schaden desselben zu tragen? Es mag vielleicht Moralisten geben, die imstande sind, Haare zu spalten und Recht und Unrecht auf der Goldwage abzuwägen. Ich gestehe, daß ich dies in meiner Einfalt nicht vermag und auch damals nicht vermochte; -- ja, _damals_ vielleicht noch weniger, da Glück und Fortkommen in der Welt an meinem Entschlusse hingen und mein Gemüt ungestüm bewegt war. Doch wollte ich keinen Schritt in dieser Sache tun, ohne mich mit meinem wackeren und verständigen Freunde, dem Schiffer Johann Henke, beraten zu haben. Auch er schüttelte dabei anfangs den Kopf und äußerte mancherlei Bedenken, bis ich ihm meine Gründe und meinen Glauben näher auseinandersetzte, wo er mir dann endlich beistimmte und seinen treuen Beistand verhieß. Das Urteil eines so rechtlichen Mannes war bei mir von entscheidendem Gewichte. Wir entschlossen uns demnach, sofort in meinem Boote nach Schlinger-Want hinüberzufahren und den Ortsprediger aufzusuchen. Indem ich diesem nun das Zeitungsblatt vorzeigte, machte ich ihm meine Anzeige, daß jener ertrunkene Mann, nach den angegebenen und von mir noch näher bestimmten Kennzeichen, mein Schiffer gewesen, und wie ich in der Absicht käme, ihm die aufgewandten Begräbniskosten dankbarlich zu vergüten. Diese letzteren nun, welche einundzwanzig Gulden betrugen, wurden sofort entrichtet und freundlich angenommen, wogegen ich eine Quittung in Form eines Totenscheines erhielt und nunmehr getrost meines Weges ging. Gleich am anderen Tage nun wandte ich mich auf der Börse an meinen Schiffs-Makler, Herrn Schwartwant, durch dessen Vermittelung mein Geschäft mit den Assekurateurs war betrieben worden. »Nun sehen Sie, wie richtig meine Vermutung eingetroffen ist,« sagte ich, indem ich ihm meinen Schein vorzeigte. -- »Der Steinkraus hat wirklich seinen Tod im Wasser gefunden. Seien Sie nun so gütig den Herren davon Mitteilung zu machen und anzufragen, was sie nunmehr in der Sache tun oder lassen wollen?« -- Das ganze Gesicht des Mannes nahm sofort eine fröhliche Miene an. »Ich gratuliere Ihnen, lieber Kapitän Nettelbeck,« rief er mit einem Händedruck. -- »So mißlich Ihr Spiel bisher stand, so halte ich es doch von jetzt an gewonnen.« Nun ging er stehenden Fußes, um die beiden Herren Versicherer im Börsengewühle auszusuchen, während ich ihm von ferne folgte. Bald auch stieß er auf einen von ihnen, dem er mein Dokument mitteilte, indem er es mit einem angelegentlichen Vortrage begleitete. An der ganzen Physiognomie und Gebärdung des anderen nahm ich wahr, wie ihn diese Nachricht überraschte, aber auch, daß er wohl geneigt sein möchte, gelindere Saiten aufzuziehen. Dies bestätigte mir der Makler, indem er mir den Vorschlag brachte, morgen auf der Stadt-Herberge einer Konferenz beizuwohnen, wozu ich mir dann einen Assistenten mitbringen möchte. Zu diesem Beistande konnte ich wohl keinen erfahreneren und geachteteren Mann erkiesen, als meinen alten Patron, den Kapitän Joachim Blank, mit welchem ich vormals wiederholte Reisen nach Surinam gemacht und der sich hier jetzt zur Ruhe gesetzt hatte. Er fügte sich auch freundlich meiner Bitte; und so erschienen wir zur bestimmten Zeit am gemeldeten Orte, während auch meine Gegenparteien beiderseits samt einem anderen Schiffskapitän und einem Advokaten zugegen waren. Nach einigem Hin- und Widerreden und Streiten kam es denn auch endlich zu einem Vergleiche, dessen Billigkeit wir samt und sonders erkannten. Ich ließ nämlich die Hälfte meiner Forderung nach und zeichnete viertausend Gulden Bodmeierei auf mein Schiff, wogegen meine Herren Assekurateurs die andere Hälfte mit gleicher Summe an die Bodmerei-Geber in Gotenburg abzuzahlen auf sich nahmen. * * * * * So kam ich bei diesem schlimmen Handel noch mit einem blauen Auge davon, behielt mein Schiff als freies Eigentum und konnte damit fahren nach Lust und Belieben, um meine Scharte wieder auszuwetzen. Ich beschloß mit Ballast nach Noirmoutiers abzugehen, dort eine Ladung Salz für eigene Rechnung einzunehmen und in Königsberg loszuschlagen. Zum Ankaufe jener Ware wollten mir meine Amsterdamer Korrespondenten, die schon genannten Herren Kock und van Goens, gegen Bodmerei auf Schiff und Ladung die Gelder in Frankreich formieren. Ehe ich jedoch zum Werke schreiten konnte, hatte ich zuvor noch reine Rechnung mit meinem Schiffsvolke zu machen, welches, außer dem neu hinzugekommenen Steuermanne und einem Jungen, aus sechs Matrosen bestand. Dies verwilderte Gezücht hatte nicht minder gottlos gelebt und hausgehalten, als der nichtsnutzige Schiffer selbst; und weil auch _er_ in keinen reinen Schuhen steckte, hatte er's ihnen nicht abschlagen dürfen, während der Reise Vorschuß über Vorschuß zu zahlen. Dabei waren auch hierin seine Papiere so konfus, daß ich darnach den eigentlichen Betrag ihrer aufgenommenen Gelder auf keine Weise ausmitteln konnte. Auf jeden Fall aber waren sie so beträchtlich, daß sie sie in Jahren und Tagen nicht wieder abverdienen konnten. Hier blieb mir nun nichts übrig, als bald den einen bald den anderen besonders vorzunehmen, sie durch gute Worte treuherzig und kordat zu machen, und dann wieder auch durch unversehene Zwischenfragen in die Klemme zu nehmen, so daß stets ein Spitzbube den andern verriet. Allein ebensowenig als sie gegen _mich_ reinen Mund gehalten, konnte es unter ihnen selbst auf die Länge ein Geheimnis bleiben, wie ich es darauf anlegte, ihnen hinter die Schliche zu kommen. Sie hielten es demnach nach einer gemeinschaftlichen Beredung für das Geratenste, mir allesamt auf einmal zu entlaufen, und diesen Vorsatz führten sie auch des anderen Tages richtig aus; doch nicht, ohne daß ich es sogleich erfahren und auch den Ort am Lande entdeckt hätte, wo sie sich aufhielten. Dahin verfügte ich mich augenblicklich mit Gerichtsdienern und traf auch glücklich das ganze Nest beisammen, wo sie dann mit Gewalt aufgehoben und an Bord meines Schiffes begleitet wurden. Am besten hätte ich freilich getan, sie laufen zu lassen; allein so wenig sie auch übrigens taugten, so waren sie doch erfahren und tüchtige Kerle zur Arbeit, die hier in der Geschwindigkeit nicht wohl durch andere zu ersetzen waren. Zudem hoffte ich, daß wenn ich mich ihrer nur bis zur wirklichen Abfahrt versichern könnte, ich sie wohl wieder zu Zucht und Ordnung herumbringen wollte. Mit diesem Plane beschäftigt, nahm ich also einige Matrosen von den neben mir liegenden Schiffen für Tagelohn zu Hilfe, um sofort die Anker zu lichten und von Amsterdam nach der Bucht bei Dirkerdam abzusegeln, die etwa eine Meile von dort entfernt liegt. Hier warf ich aufs neue Anker, entließ meine gemieteten Matrosen und hoffte, daß ich's nunmehr den meinigen schwer genug machen wollte, von Bord zu kommen, um ihretwegen auch in meiner Abwesenheit wohl sicher zu sein. Denn ich konnte es nicht vermeiden, für meine Person des nächsten Tages noch einmal nach dem verlassenen Hafen zurückzukehren, um neben meiner Ausklarierung noch eine Menge anderweitiger Geschäfte zu besorgen und einen Lotsen mitzubringen. Vor der Abfahrt übergab ich dem Steuermann mein verdächtiges Volk in besondere sorgfältige Aufsicht. Das Boot ließ ich aufs Deck setzen und anschließen, damit sich dessen niemand bedienen könne, und mein Stellvertreter sollte nicht vom Deck weichen und die Nacht kein Auge schließen, um überall gleich bei der Hand zu sein, bis ich mit dem frühen Morgen mich wieder an Bord zeigen würde. Dann versammelte ich die Ausreißer und stellte ihnen Himmel und Hölle vor, und wie schändlich sie handeln würden, Vater und Mutter und Freunde auf Nimmerwiedersehen im Stiche und sich zu Hause nie wieder dürfen blicken zu lassen. Zugleich versicherte ich ihnen, daß meinerseits alles Vorgegangene vergeben und vergessen sein und selbst ihre, vom vorigen Schiffer empfangene Vorschüsse in den Schornstein geschrieben sein sollten. Das alles schienen sie auch zu Herzen zu nehmen und versprachen mir eine gebührliche Aufführung. Nunmehr rief ich eine vorbeifahrende Schuite an, die nach Amsterdam ging, und ließ mich von derselben an Bord nehmen. Es war nachmittags um drei Uhr, und des nächsten Morgens um acht Uhr befand ich mich, nach beendigten Verrichtungen, bereits wieder auf dem Rückwege und im Angesichte meines Schiffes. Es nahm mich sofort wunder, daß ich kein Boot darauf erblickte. Ebensowenig sah ich eine menschliche Seele auf dem Verdecke. Ich sprang endlich selbst hinauf, und mit steigender Bestürzung fand ich die Tür der Kajüte von außen mit einem Brecheisen gesperrt. Auf mein Rufen keine Antwort. Nun riß ich die Tür mit Gewalt auf, da lag mein Steuermann, mehr tot als lebendig, auf dem Boden längs ausgestreckt. Stöhnend erzählte er mir, was während meiner Abwesenheit vorgegangen. Gleich nach meinem Abgange hatte er an dem Zusammenstecken der Köpfe und dem heimlichen Flüstern unter den Leuten deutlich wahrgenommen, daß sie etwas im Schilde führten. Endlich waren sie zu ihm herangetreten, um ihm zu erklären, daß sie mit dem Boote ans Land zu gehen verlangten; wollte er sich's beikommen lassen, bei den Vorüberfahrenden um Hilfe zu rufen, so gedächten sie ihn über Bord zu werfen und wie einen Hund zu ersäufen. Gleichwohl hatte er, mit Abmahnen, Drohen und endlich mit lautem Rufen über zugefügte Gewalt, getan, was seine Pflicht von ihm forderte; war aber auch augenblicklich von den Bösewichten ergriffen, geknebelt, gestoßen, geschlagen und mit verstopftem Munde trotz allem Sträuben in die Kajüte gesperrt worden, worauf sie sich des Bootes bemächtigt und davongemacht hatten. In dieser ganzen Zeit nun hatte der arme zerschlagene Mann vor Schmerz und Ermattung sich kaum zu regen vermocht. Wie mir dabei zumute war, mag man sich leichtlich vorstellen. Das Schiff hier auf offener Reede vor Anker, kein Volk an Bord, der Steuermann krank und keines Gliedes mächtig, mein Boot geraubt. Was war zu tun? Ich mußte mich entschließen, das Schiff unter der unzulänglichen Aufsicht des kranken Mannes zu lassen, um sowohl ihm selbst ärztliche Hilfe, als mir eine neue Mannschaft zu verschaffen. Also ging mein Weg nochmals nach Amsterdam, wo ich andere sechs Matrosen und einen Jungen, wie sie mir zuerst in den Wurf kamen, heuerte, dann einen Lotsen nahm und einen Wundarzt aufsuchte, der mir den Steuermann verbinden und bepflastern und sagen sollte, ob dieser die Reise ohne Lebensgefahr werde mitmachen können. Nachdem ihm der Doktor die Glieder etwas zurechtgesetzt und ihn mit Medikamenten reichlich versehen hatte, war jener der Meinung, es solle weiter keine Gefahr haben, wenn er sich nur schonen wolle, und nahm seinen Abschied. Ich machte mich darauf mit meinem neuen Schiffsvolke an die Ankerwinde, um unter Segel zu gehen. Da sah ich denn nun klar, was für schlechten Kauf ich gemacht hatte. Nur zwei waren befahrene Matrosen, während die übrigen kaum wußten, was auf dem Schiffe hinten oder vorn war. Wahrlich, mir graute innerlich, die Reise anzutreten. Mein bestes Vertrauen mußte ich in mich selbst und in die günstige Jahreszeit setzen, denn es war jetzt zu Anfang Mai, da ich aus dem Texel lief. In der Mitte des Monats kam ich vor Noirmoutiers glücklich vor Anker. * * * * * Hier fand ich drei Schiffe vor, deren Kapitäne zu meinen guten Freunden gehörten, nämlich Neste, mit einem Dreimaster aus Danzig, und Fries und Jantzen, beide Königsberger. Alsbald kamen sie sämtlich zu mir an Bord, allein so willkommen sie mir selbst waren, so unerwünscht war mir die Zeitung, daß schon sie drei Frühergekommenen hier ihre Ladung an Salz nicht völlig aufzubringen vermöchten, und gleichwohl das Muid mit fünfundachtzig Livres aufwiegen sollten. Nach längerer Beratschlagung fanden wir es für das dienlichste, uns nach den nächstgelegenen Salzhäfen Croisic, Bernif und Olonne zu verteilen, um anderswo, wenn möglich, besseren Markt zu finden, wobei das Los entscheiden sollte, wer hier zu bleiben und wohin ein jeder in seinem Boote zu gehen und vorläufig seinen Handel für alle abzuschließen hätte; letzteres jedoch nur mündlich, damit jeder Gelegenheit behielte, an dem wohlfeilsten Preise teilzunehmen. Als nun die Lose gezogen wurden, traf mich die Fahrt nach Croisic, welche nicht nur die weiteste (da die Entfernung von Noirmoutiers zehn bis zwölf Meilen beträgt), sondern auch die gefährlichste war; denn sie geht durch den offenen Ozean, ohne durch Vorgebirge oder Inseln geschützt zu sein. Mein im Texel neu angeschafftes Boot stand auf Deck und ward nun sofort über Bord gesetzt, allein sowie es das Wasser berührte, drang dieses auch zu allen, durch die lang ausgestandene Hitze ausgetrockneten Nähten hinein. Es schien unmöglich, mich in diesem Zustande hineinzuwagen! Aber schon sah ich meine Freunde Neste und Fries in ihren Fahrzeugen abstoßen, um sich auf ihre ihnen zugefallenen Posten zu begeben. Ich zitterte vor Ehrbegierde, ihnen in Pünktlichkeit nicht nachzustehen! Nun hatte ich außer jenem Boote noch eine kleine fichtene, sogenannte Berger Jölle. Flugs sah ich sie mir darauf an, ob sie mich in diesem Falle der Not nicht ebensowohl nach Croisic sollte tragen können? -- Wozu längeres Bedenken? Es mußte gewagt sein! -- Ich ließ Mast und Segel auf ihr einrichten und bestieg sie mit zwei Mann. Um mir jedoch nicht offenbar ein Tollmannsstückchen zuschulden kommen zu lassen, wollte ich es zuvor auf eine kleine Probe anlegen, segelte vom Schiffe abwärts, legte bei, machte diese und jene Wendungen und bestärkte mich solchergestalt in meiner Zuversicht, daß ich nichts Unmögliches wagte. Eiligst versah ich mich nun noch an Bord mit einem durchgeschnittenen halben Oxhoft, welches ich zum sicheren Reisebehälter für einen Kompaß, Brot, Fleisch, einige Flaschen Wein und Branntwein und andere kleine Bedürfnisse bestimmte. Noch nahm ich einen Bootsanker, ein Tau und drei Regenröcke für uns ein, und so versehen trieb ich meine beiden Gefährten zum Einsteigen, rief ein herzhaftes: »Nun, mit Gott!« und stieß ab. Zwar ward mir's, ehe wir noch fünfzig Klafter gesegelt waren, hell und klar, daß ich meine Jolle mit all den Siebensachen zur Ungebühr überladen und daß ich den dümmsten Streich in meinem ganzen Leben begangen hatte, drei Menschenleben in die augenscheinlichste Gefahr zu setzen; aber sollte ich mir die Schande antun, noch einmal umzukehren? -- Lieber wäre ich dem Tode in den offenen Rachen gesegelt! Bis ich um die kleine Insel Piquonnier herumkam, ging auch alles gut. Hier aber rollte mir die spanische See von der Seite her in langen und hohen Wogen mächtig entgegen; der steife Wind stand von dorther gerade aufs Land und es sah ganz danach aus, daß wir hier mit Gemächlichkeit ersaufen könnten. Gleichwohl hätte man alles von mir fordern können, nur nicht, daß ich hier noch umsatteln sollte. »Du willst der Gefahr standhalten!« sagte ich zu mir selbst und faßte mein Steuer nur noch fester in die Faust. Nach vier oder fünf Stunden begann indes der Einbruch der Nacht, und mit der Dunkelheit schien auch der Wind mehr Stärke zu gewinnen. Keiner von uns sprach ein Wort, aber meine Matrosen drängten sich immer näher an mich, der ich am Ruder saß und die Schote des Segels zugleich in der Hand gefaßt hielt. Allmählich fingen die beiden rohen Kerle, ergriffen vom Gefühl ihrer Lage, bitterlich an zu weinen. Ihre Todesangst ließ mich nicht ohne Mitgefühl, denn wie konnte ich die Schuld von mir abwälzen, ihnen samt mir durch meinen unzeitigen Ehrgeiz dieses nasse Grab gegraben zu haben? -- Ich sagte ihnen zu ihrer Beruhigung, ich wolle vom Winde abhalten und, da wir an der Mündung der Loire schon vorüber wären, in die ich uns sonst geflüchtet haben würde, geradezu auf das Land steuern. Dort würde es freilich eine hohe Brandung geben, daher sie, sobald wir in diese hineingerieten, sogleich zu beiden Seiten der Jölle ins Wasser springen, sich an ihren Bord hängen und, sobald sie Grund unter den Füßen fühlten, das Fahrzeug mit der Spitze scharf gegen den Strand halten müßten, damit es nicht in die Quere unter die See käme. Wenn dann die letzten Sturzwellen vom Ufer zurückrollten und den Boden trocken lassen wollten, hätten sie sich mit aller Macht entgegenzustemmen, damit nicht auch das leichte Boot mit zurückgespült würde. Alles das und noch mehreres band ich ihnen fest auf die Seele und sie gelobten auch, es treu zu beobachten. Es kam aber anders. Um ihnen nun Wort zu halten, steuerte ich gerade auf die Küste. Die Jölle schoß wie ein Pfeil durch die Wogen und nach einer guten halben Stunde drang uns auch schon das schreckliche Gebrüll der Brandung in die Ohren. Nun sahen wir angestrengt vor uns hin nach dem weißen Schaume; allein die Nacht ward so finster und unser Fahrzeug flog so schnell, daß wir uns plötzlich mitten darin befanden. Ehe wir uns auch nur besinnen konnten, erblickten wir kurz hinter uns den beschäumten Kamm einer Woge, die sich bis zur Höhe unseres Mastes aufbäumte, dann brausend über uns niederschoß und uns zu unterst zu oberst in ihren Abgrund mit sich fortriß. Nun trat die See für ein paar Augenblicke zurück; ich bekam den Kopf in die Höhe und die Füße spürten Grund. Ehe die nächste brandende Welle wiederkehrte, hatte ich meine Sinne glücklich gesammelt; ich hielt stand, und da sie mir diesmal nur bis unter die Arme reichte, so eilte ich guter Dinge dem Strande zu, wo ich mich in weniger als einer Minute in voller Sicherheit befand. Meine beiden Gefährten hatten ebenso gutes Glück. Wir fanden uns bald wieder zusammen, nur unsere Jölle war wieder mit in die See gerissen worden, bis sie endlich mit dem Kiel nach oben plötzlich an Land trieb. Aber alles, was darinnen gewesen war, ging uns verloren, ohne daß wir in der Dunkelheit etwas davon aufzufischen vermochten. Wir mußten uns also begnügen, unser Fahrzeug am Strande so hoch hinaufzuziehen, daß es gesichert war, von den Wellen nicht mehr erreicht zu werden. Hierauf gingen wir landeinwärts, um zu Menschen zu kommen, sahen auch aus der Ferne ein Licht schimmern, auf welches wir freudig zutrabten und wo wir dann bei einem Bauern übernachteten und uns trockneten. Morgens begaben wir uns samt unserem Wirte nochmals zum Strande zurück, um nach unserer Jölle und dem verlorenen Gepäcke zu sehen. Jene fanden wir noch auf ihrer alten Stelle; aber auf dieses mußten wir, zu unserm Verdrusse, völlig verzichten. Zwar auch mit unserem Fahrzeuge gerieten wir in Verlegenheit, da die See noch nicht wieder fahrbar geworden, bis unser Bauer, dem ich mich durch einen meiner Matrosen verständlich machen konnte, uns aus der Verlegenheit half. Wir hatten bereits erfahren, daß wir uns hier anderthalb Meilen von Pollien (ebenfalls ein Salzhafen, wie das noch zwei Meilen weiter entfernte Croisic) befänden, und dahin erbot er sich, gegen gute Bezahlung, unser Puppenfahrzeug über Land zu transportieren, indem er es zwischen zwei seiner Esel hinge. Wirklich hielten er und seine Esel redlich Wort! In dem lustigsten und niegesehenen Aufzuge zogen wir zu Pollien ein, und die ganze Stadt lief über dem seltsamen Schauspiele zusammen. Meine erste Erkundigung war sofort nach dem angesehensten Salzhändler des Ortes. Man nannte mir einen Kaufmann, namens Charault, und während ich zu ihm hineinging, ward die Jölle vor seiner Türe niedergelassen. Meine Aufnahme war freundlich; auch brachte ich sogleich eine Unterhandlung wegen des gesuchten Salzes in Gang, wobei es zu dem Ausschlage kam, daß ich volle Ladung für alle vier Schiffe, das Muid zu vierundfünfzig Livres, akkordierte und zwar dortigen Gemäßes, welches noch um fünf Prozent größer ist, als auf Noirmoutiers. Ich durfte mir also schmeicheln, einen vorteilhaften Handel abgeschlossen zu haben. Nun ging meine nächste Sorge dahin, mein Boot wieder zuzutakeln und meine Rückfahrt damit anzutreten. »Wie? In _der_ Nußschale?« fragte Herr Charault, indem er es von allen Seiten verwundert ansah. »Lassen Sie das Dingelchen hier in Gottes Namen stehen, bis Sie mit Ihrem Schiffe kommen, es abzuholen. Ich gebe Ihnen meine Barke, die Sie mir dann ja wieder mitbringen können.« -- Der Vorschlag war aller Ehren wert; allein dann wäre ich dem Manne fester verbunden gewesen, als ich wünschte, falls meine Freunde anderwärts vielleicht noch besser gemarktet haben sollten. Also schlug ich diese Güte dankbar aus und setzte mich, zwei Tage später, mit meinen Leuten guten Mutes wieder in die _Nußschale_, wie er's genannt hatte. Dadurch gab ich nun zwar den Müßiggängern im Orte ein neues Schauspiel, indem sie sich zu Hunderten auf den Sunddünen sammelten, um uns abfahren zu sehen; allein das Wetter war schön, der Wind günstig, und Noirmoutiers nach einer ruhigen Fahrt von zwölf bis vierzehn Stunden glücklich wieder erreicht. Hier waren die beiden andern Abgeschickten schon vor mir angelangt und alles hatte uns so gut wie verloren gegeben. Daher mischten sich in ihren herzlichen Willkomm zugleich auch heftige Vorwürfe über meine Tollkühnheit, die sie sehr richtig dem wahren Grunde zuschrieben und worauf ich freilich nur wenig zu erwidern hatte, da ich vollkommen fühlte, wie sehr sie verdient waren. Bei alledem hatte ich doch, wie sich's nunmehr ergab, das vorteilhafteste Geschäft gemacht; nur waren die beiden Königsberger, da sie mich nicht mehr rechneten, kurz zuvor in Noirmoutiers eine neue Verbindlichkeit eingegangen, wodurch sie dort zurückgehalten wurden, wiewohl sie das Muid mit achtzig Livres zu bezahlen genötigt waren. Und doch schlug diese Trennung wiederum zum Glücke für mich aus, denn als ich nun mit Kapitän Neste in Pollien anlangte, konnte Herr Charault kaum uns beide befriedigen. Ich zwar, als der erste, ward schnell genug befrachtet, dagegen aber mußte jener noch die nächste Springflut und das darauf folgende Salzerzeugnis abwarten, um seine volle Ladung zu bekommen. * * * * * Unterm 12. Juni schrieb ich nunmehr an meine Korrespondenten, die Herren Kock und van Goens in Amsterdam, daß ich heute mit der Ladung meines Schiffes begänne und ihnen auftrüge, die Assekuranz auf dasselbe zu achttausend holländischen Gulden, für die Salzladung aber mit zweitausend Gulden, von hier auf Königsberg zu besorgen. Sechs Tage später wiederholte ich diese nämliche Order, mit dem Beifügen, daß ich bereits segelfertig läge und nur auf einen günstigen Wind wartete. Zum Überflusse aber ließ ich auch noch am 22. Juni ein drittes Avis abgehen, worin ich mich auf meine früheren Schreiben bezog und die geschehene Versicherung von Schiff und Ware als besorgt voraussetzte, oder auch neuerdings dringend aufgab, indem ich in diesem Augenblicke bereits in See sei und bloß zu größerer Sicherheit noch an mein Verlangen erinnern wolle. Indes überfiel mich bereits am 24. Juni ein so harter Sturm, daß ich nur vor einem kleinen Sturmsegel unterm Winde liegen konnte. Eine besonders schwere Sturzwelle zertrümmerte mein Steuerruder acht Fuß über dem unteren Ende, so daß von diesem Augenblicke an alles Steuern damit ein Ende hatte und auch in offener See an kein Ausbessern zu denken war. Um gleichwohl das Schiff nach Möglichkeit bei einem regelmäßigen Gange zu erhalten, suchte ich es mit den Vorder- und Hintersegeln zu zwingen. Indem aber der Wind geradezu aufs Land stand, ward meine Lage dadurch noch wesentlich verschlimmert; denn nun war ich genötigt, Segel über Segel aufzusetzen, um nur das Schiff hart an den Wind zu halten und vom Strande ferne zu bleiben. Demungeachtet liefen wir, des Schiffes nur unvollkommen mächtig, bald in den Wind, bald wieder fielen wir vor den Wind, und da wir eine solche Menge Segel machen mußten, so bekamen auch Stangen und Masten schier über ihre Kräfte zu tragen. Wirklich geschah auch gar bald, was ich gefürchtet hatte, denn mit einer schweren Buy (Stoßwind), die sich plötzlich erhob, brach der große Mast, acht oder zwölf Fuß überm Deck, entzwei und stürzte samt der ganzen Takelage über Bord, und nicht nur das allein, sondern dies ganze Gewirre von Rundhölzern -- Mast, Stangen und Raaen -- stieß nun auch unaufhörlich und mit solcher Macht gegen die Seiten des Schiffes, daß wir uns auf dem Verdecke kaum stehend erhalten konnten und jeden Augenblick erwarten mußten, Planken und Fütterung zertrümmert zu sehen. Nichts blieb übrig, als schnell alles Tauwerk, das mit dem gestürzten Maste noch zusammenhing, zu kappen, um loszukommen. Eigentlich aber hob unsere wahre Not jetzt erst an, da unser schwerbeladenes Schiff gleich einem Klotze auf dem Wasser trieb -- ein Spiel der Wellen, die sich unaufhörlich drüber hin brachen und uns überspülten. Selbst die Kajüte schwamm beständig voll Wasser; unsere Lebensmittel wurden naß und unsere Ladung hatte kaum ein besseres Schicksal zu erwarten, da wir das eindringende Wasser mit beiden Pumpen kaum zu bewältigen vermochten. Über dies alles trieben wir augenscheinlich immer näher dem Lande zu, indem wir nachts um elf Uhr bereits in einer Tiefe von vierzig Faden Grund fanden. Ungesäumt ward jedoch der Anker ausgeworfen und ich ließ das Ankertau hundert Faden nachschießen. Nun lag das Schiff bequem gegen die hohe See, wie eine Ente, die auf ihrem Teiche schwimmt, und der Sturm ward glücklich ausgehalten. Des andern Tages, sobald das Wetter sich abgestillt hatte, hoben wir unser Bugspriet aus, befestigten es, sogut es gehen wollte, an dem Stumpf des abgebrochenen Mastes, takelten diesen Notmast nach Möglichkeit zu und zogen daran ein paar Segel auf, die wir noch in Vorrat besaßen. Der Wind hatte sich gedreht und blies aus Ostsüdost, längs dem Lande hin, so daß wir hoffen durften, uns von diesem zu entfernen. Um aber auch das mangelnde Steuerruder durch irgend etwas zu ersetzen, ließ ich ein Ankertau, vom Hinterteil hinaus, etwa zwanzig Klafter lang an einem großen Klotze treiben, und indem von vorne gleichfalls an jeder Seite ein Tau mit diesem Klotze zusammenhing, ließ sich das Schiff daran zur Notdurft links oder rechts umholen, obwohl freilich nicht daran zu denken war, mittels eines so unzulänglichen Behelfs einen ordentlichen Kurs zu halten. Vielmehr trieben wir bei anhaltendem Ostwinde, auf Gottes Gnade, immer weiter in die spanische See und auf das atlantische Meer hinaus, und erkannten es für unser größtes Glück, daß wir noch ein dichtes Schiff behalten hatten. In der Tat kann man sich unsere Lage nicht mißlich genug denken. Leben und Seele war gleichsam aus unserm Schiffe gewichen. Jeder Veränderung des Windes preisgegeben, trieben wir hierhin und dorthin auf dem unermeßlichen Ozean. An eine Berechnung von Kurs und Distanzen war gar nicht mehr zu denken. Zwar gaben mir meine Beobachtungen an Sonne und Sternen zuzeiten die Breitengrade an, unter welchen wir uns befanden; allein über unsere Länge war auch nicht einmal eine ungefähre Schätzung anzustellen, noch weniger richtige Rechnung zu führen. Es war aber sicher genug, daß wir uns in weiter Entfernung von allen europäischen Küsten befinden mußten, da die Winde meist östlich und südlich waren. Auch erblickten wir während dieses ratlosen Umhertreibens nur zweimal ein fremdes Segel; zuerst ein englisches und demnächst ein schwedisches Schiff, welche zwar beide uns beizukommen suchten, aber durch das schlechte Wetter daran verhindert wurden. Sie gereichten uns also zu keiner Hilfe, sondern mußten sich begnügen, uns durch das Sprachrohr zu beklagen und besseres Glück zu wünschen. Doch gewährte uns dieses Zusammentreffen den Trost, daß sie uns ihre beobachtete Länge mitteilten, so daß wir uns doch einigermaßen belehrten, auf welchem Punkte des Erdballes wir uns befänden. Schon hatten wir auf diese Weise sechs Wochen lang nutz- und hilflos auf dem Weltmeere umhergekreuzt, als uns, unter der am 2. August beobachteten nördlichen Breite von achtundfünfzig Grad dreiunddreißig Minuten (so hoch hinauf nach Norden waren wir verschlagen) ein gewaltiger Sturm aus Südwesten ereilte. Am 6. August sprang der Wind nach Westen um und das Wetter ward so furchtbar, als ich es je erlebt habe. Alle unsere andere Not und Gefahr aber ward noch durch die Besorgnis vermehrt, daß wir bei Nacht gegen die Lewisinseln und die dort zahlreich umherliegenden Klippen geworfen werden könnten. Diese Furcht schwand erst dann, als wir uns am 9. August mitten zwischen den orkadischen Inseln und im Angesichte von Fairhill erblickten. Da auch zugleich der Wind nach Nordwesten ging und kräftig zu blasen fortfuhr, so wuchs uns der Mut, daß wir unser Schiff nach Ostsüdost zu treiben zwangen, um die norwegische Küste zu erreichen und dort Hilfe zu finden. Am 13. trat uns diese gewünschte Küste auch wirklich zu Gesicht und am folgenden Tage abends kamen wir ihr so nahe, daß wir deutlich die zahllosen, teils emporragenden, teils blinden Klippen vor uns erkannten, an welchen die tobende See hoch in die Lüfte zerschäumte. Dieser Anblick schlug unsere Freudigkeit um ein großes nieder, ja diese verwandelte sich gar bald in eine peinliche Todesangst, da wir die Unmöglichkeit fühlten, unser unlenksames Schiff davon abzusteuern. Doch nicht Untergang, sondern Rettung hatte der gütige Himmel diesmal über uns beschlossen! Mitten zwischen den grausigen steilen Klippenwänden trieb unser Schiff, wie von unsichtbaren Händen gelenkt, hindurch in eine Bucht, wo ich Ankergrund und stilles Wasser fand. Es war abends um neun Uhr, als ich hier den Anker fallen ließ und nun erst mit voller Besinnung an die schreckliche Vergangenheit zu denken vermochte, der wir, in einem Fahrzeuge ohne Mast und Ruder, auf einem unermeßlichen Irrwege, unter Hunger, Durst, allem nur erdenklichen Drangsal und stetem Todeskampfe, nach sieben ewig langen Wochen endlich glücklich entronnen waren. Unser Nothafen hieß Bommel-Sund, wie wir noch in der nämlichen Nacht von einigen Leuten erfuhren, die vom Lande zu uns an Bord kamen und mir behilflich waren, das Schiff noch tiefer in die Scheren hinein in Sicherheit zu bringen. Am Morgen fuhr ich selbst ans Land, um mir Hilfe zu suchen, denn es fehlte mir geradezu an allem, um weiter aus der Stelle zu kommen. Allein Mast, Ruder und Takelwerk, wie ich's brauchte, war in dieser ganzen Gegend nicht zu erlangen, und so mußte es mir genügen, daß ich hier Fahrzeuge und Leute annahm, die mich zwischen den Klippen entlang täglich eine kleine Strecke weiterbugsierten. So gelangte ich kümmerlich am 19. August in den Hafen von Fahresund. * * * * * Hier wandte ich mich unverzüglich an das Handelshaus Lund und Kompagnie, welches auch nicht ermangelte, mir schnellen und tätigen Beistand zu leisten, damit ich mein Schiff wieder in gehörigen Stand setzte. Um nichts zu versäumen, ließ ich vor allen Dingen mein Schiffsvolk eine gerichtliche Erklärung über unsere Unglücksfälle ablegen, versah mich mit allen übrigen erforderlichen Zeugnissen und übersandte dies alles an meine Korrespondenten nach Amsterdam, mit dem Auftrage, mir auf Grund der von ihnen bewirkten Versicherung meines Schiffes einen Kreditbrief zur Ausbesserung meines Schiffes zu übermachen. Demnächst ging ich nun mit Eifer an dieses Werk selbst, wo es denn allerdings mehr zu schaffen gab, als ich vermutet hatte. Beim Ausladen des Schiffes fand sich's, daß zehn bis zwölf Lasten Salz verschmolzen waren. Ich ließ nun den Boden kielholen, ein neues Steuerruder einhängen, einen neuen Mast aufrichten, besorgte alle fehlenden Rundhölzer, Segel und Takelwerk, ersetzte, was gebrochen, verfault oder sonst verdorben war, und setzte mich so allmählich wieder instand, die offene See zu halten. Freilich war dies alles nicht möglich ohne den bedeutenden Aufwand von 4400 Talern dänisch Kurant, und ich konnte mich, um mich von meinem Schaden zu erholen, nur an die auf mein Schiff gezeichnete Assekuranz halten. So weit war ich, als ich von den Herren Kock und van Goens ein Schreiben empfing, worin sie mir empfahlen, mich in meinen Ausgaben möglichst zu menagieren, indem es ihnen nicht möglich gewesen wäre, für mein Schiff und Ladung eine Versicherung zu bewirken. -- Als hätte der Donner vor meinen Füßen eingeschlagen, so überraschte und erschütterte mich dieser trockene Bericht! Zugleich aber gingen mir auch plötzlich die Augen auf über das Schelmenstück, das man mir gespielt hatte. Wie? Auf drei, nacheinander folgende Avisos, in der sichersten Jahreszeit und auf einem Platze, wie Amsterdam, sollte für keine Prämie, hoch oder niedrig, eine mäßige Assekuranz zu beschaffen gewesen sein? Oder wenn in Holland kein Mensch sein Geld an eine so geringe Gefahr hätte setzen wollen, stand dann meinen Beauftragten nicht Hamburg, Kopenhagen oder London, oder jeder andere Handelsort frei und offen? -- Allein es war klar (und in diesem Urteile hatte ich alle Sachverständigen auf meiner Seite), daß die feinen Herren es für zuträglicher gehalten hatten, die Assekuranz gar nicht auszubieten, sondern es immerhin im Vertrauen auf meine Tüchtigkeit und die anderweitigen günstigen Umstände zu wagen. Lief die Fahrt glücklich ab, wie zu hoffen war, so würden sie nicht vergessen haben, mir die Assekuranz-Prämie gehörig anzurechnen; nun aber, da ich Havarie hatte, entschuldigten sie sich als Schurken, wie es auch die Folge sattsam erwiesen hatte. Was war nun zu tun? -- Ich saß in der Klemme, und mußte abermals auf Schiff und Ladung Bodmerei zeichnen. Indes erhielt es mich noch einigermaßen bei gutem Mute, daß ich der gewissen Hoffnung lebte, das saubere Paar seiner Schelmerei zu überweisen und so wieder zu dem Meinigen zu gelangen. Ich ging also wieder in See und langte bald darauf glücklich in Königsberg an. Kaum aber hatte ich meine Ladung Salz dort gelöscht, so trat auch der Bodmereigeber auf und forderte sein auf das Schiff vorgestrecktes Geld zurück, welches sich, mit allen Nebenausgaben auf die Summe von 7000 Talern belief. Da ich nun auch noch in einigen andern Schulden steckte, so kam ich von Tag zu Tag immer mehr ins Gedränge, denn an ein Ende des Prozesses, den ich nun zunächst gegen Kock und van Goens in Amsterdam angestrengt hatte, war noch nicht zu denken. Vielmehr ward hier nun ein Federfechten begonnen, das Jahr und Tag dauerte und immer bunter und verwickelter wurde. Endlich ward mir der Handel und die Rabulisterei für meinen armen schlichten Menschenverstand zu arg. Ich packte meine dicken Prozeßakten zusammen und legte sie, in tiefster Devotion, Sr. Majestät dem Könige vor, mit inständigster Bitte, Sich Ihres allergetreuesten Untertanen anzunehmen und diesen Prozeß gegen Kock und van Goens durch den Preußischen beglaubigten Minister im Haag ausmachen zu lassen. Während aber nun meine Sache diesen gemächlichen Gang ging, mußte ich, um meine Gläubiger zu befriedigen, zuvörderst meine Ladung, dann aber auch mein schönes liebes Schiff, samt allem, was ich um und an mir hatte, soweit es langte, losschlagen. Das unschuldige Opfer eines schändlichen Betruges, stand ich da, und konnte kaum das Hemd mein nennen, das ich auf dem Leibe trug! Meine letzte Hoffnung beruhte auf dem Ausgange des Prozesses; und auch hier schwand mir mein anfänglicher Mut mehr und mehr, je tiefere Blicke ich in das Gewebe rechtlicher Schikane tat, das hier von meinen Gegnern angezettelt wurde, um womöglich Weiß in Schwarz zu verdrehen. Dieser unselige Rechtshandel bedrohte aber nicht bloß mein geringes Vermögen, sondern griff zugleich tief in meinen ganzen Lebensgang ein und legte meinem aufstrebenden Geiste Hemmketten an, die ihm je länger je unerträglicher fielen. Nach der Einbuße meines eigenen Schiffes hätte ich wenigstens als Schiffer für fremde Rechnung fahren und meinen mäßigen Erwerb suchen können: allein allaugenblicklich gab es, des Prozesses wegen, in Königsberg gerichtliche Termine, wo ich zur Stelle sein und Rede und Antwort geben sollte. Gleichwohl wollten Frau und Kinder (denn auch der Ehesegen hatte sich nach und nach bei mir eingestellt) auf eine ehrliche Weise ernährt sein. Was blieb mir demnach übrig, als daß ich mich noch einmal unter das alte verhaßte Joch bequemte, und, als Setzschiffer, auf einem Leichter-Fahrzeuge, zwischen Königsberg, Pillau und Elbing hin und her tagelöhnerte, um nur mein kümmerliches Brot zu verdienen. Drei mühselige Jahre blieb mein Schicksal in dieser Schwebe; und Gott weiß, wie sauer, ja bitter sie mir geworden sind! Endlich ging vom Preußischen Gesandten im Haag ein großes Schreiben an mich ein, mit der Verkündigung, mein Prozeß sei in letzter Instanz glücklich gewonnen. -- Gottlob! hätte ich gerne aus tiefer erleichterter Brust gerufen, wäre nur nicht unmittelbar die Hiobspost damit verbunden gewesen: Kock, der eine meiner Widersacher, sei gestorben, nun sei der Bankerott des Hauses ausgebrochen, von den übrigen Gläubigern auf alle Effekten Beschlag gelegt worden und zur Befriedigung meiner Anforderung leider nichts übrig geblieben. -- So war ich denn ein ruinierter Mann; hatte mir die schönsten Jahre meines Lebens gleichsam stehlen lassen, mir den Leib unaufhörlich voll geärgert, und mochte nun in Gottes Namen anfangen, zu meinem künftigen Glücke, wo ich wüßte und könnte, wieder den allerersten Grundstein zu legen! * * * * * Da ereignete sich's im Jahre 1769, daß der Geheime Finanzrat Delatre, welchen König Friedrich II. an die Spitze der neuen Regie aus Frankreich berufen hatte, und der damals alles bei ihm galt, nach Königsberg kam. Sein neuestes und weitaussehendes Projekt, womit er dem Monarchen große Summen fremden Geldes ins Land zu ziehen verhieß, ging da hinaus, daß von dem Überflusse an dem schönsten Schiffsbauholz in den königlichen Forsten in Stettin für königliche Rechnung eine Anzahl großer Fregatten erbaut, armiert und ausgerüstet, und dann zu gutem Preise an auswärtige Mächte abgelassen werden sollten. Friedrich war auch auf diesen Vorschlag eingegangen; und so lag denn bereits ein Schiff von vierzig Kanonen bei Stettin auf dem Stapel. Ich weiß nicht, auf welche Weise ich dem Franzosen bekannt und als der Mann empfohlen worden sein mochte, dem die Ausrüstung, Einrichtung und Führung dieses Schiffes vor andern anzuvertrauen wäre. Kurz, er ließ mich zu sich rufen, erklärte mir seine Meinung, und bot mir endlich diese Kapitänsstelle unter solchen Bedingungen an, daß ich, bei hinlänglicher Überzeugung, dem von mir geforderten Dienste gewachsen zu sein, auch kein Bedenken fand, mich für dies Unternehmen zu verpflichten. Der Kontrakt wurde von beiden Seiten in bester Form abgeschlossen; und ich ging unverzüglich nach Stettin ab, um meine Funktion anzutreten. Während nun hier der Königliche Schiffsbaumeister, Herr Catin, die Fregatte in ihrem Bau nach Kräften förderte, war ich meinerseits nicht minder geschäftig, Masten, Segel, Tauwerk und jedes andere Zubehör in fertigen Stand zu setzen. Sobald sie demnach im Mai 1770 glücklich vom Stapel gelaufen war, tat ich mein bestes, daß sie schon in den nächsten vier Wochen, zu Anfang des Juni, für völlig ausgerüstet gelten konnte. Dem damaligen Gouverneur, Herzog von Bevern zu Ehren, erhielt sie den Namen Duc de Bevre und war wirklich ein schönes und tüchtiges Gebäude. Erfreut über den hurtigen Fortgang, hatte mir mein Gönner Delatre bei Sr. Majestät das in seiner Art erste Patent als Königlich Preußischer Schiffskapitän samt der Berechtigung zur Tragung der königlichen Uniform und eines Säbels mit dem Portepee ausgewirkt, die mir vom Herzoge mit eigenen Händen überreicht wurden. Doch war ich nicht der einzige, der sich in diesem neuen Zweige des königlichen Militärdienstes angestellt sah; sondern die preußische Flagge sollte nun auch einen eigenen Admiral aufzuweisen haben. Dazu schlug Herr Delatre seinen eigenen Bruder vor, -- einen jungen, im Seewesen ganz unerfahrenen Menschen, der indes früher als Unterleutnant auf einer französischen Fregatte gedient hatte, mit derselben im letzten Kriege den Engländern in die Hände gefallen und eben erst, durch des zu Glück und Ehren gelangten Bruders Vermittlung, aus dem Schuldgefängnisse hervorgekrochen war. Er kam nach Stettin, und ich war gerade nicht sonderlich erbaut, meinen neuen Herrn Admiral kennen zu lernen, und zugleich zu erfahren, daß ihm das Kommando der nächsten zu erbauenden Fregatte zugeteilt werden sollte. Bis dahin hatte er nun freilich wenig oder gar nichts zu tun; und so verführte der Müßiggang den luftigen Patron zu einer Menge alberner Streiche, die ihm wenig zur Ehre gereichten. Unaufhörlich gab es Neckereien und blutige Händel mit den Offizieren von der Garnison, so daß er am Ende sich kaum mehr durfte blicken lassen, um nicht der schimpflichen Ahndung eines gerechten Unwillens anheim zu fallen. Gegen Ende des Juni ging ich mit meinem Schiffe die Oder hinab, und war angewiesen, auf der Reede von Swinemünde eine Ladung Balken einzunehmen, die ich nach Cadix bringen und dort, wo möglich, mitsamt dem Schiffe losschlagen sollte. Es kostete jedoch nicht wenig Not und Mühe, bevor ich das große und tiefgehende Gebäude über die Bank am Ausflusse des Stromes zu schaffen und mich außen auf der Reede vor Anker zu legen vermochte. Ich hatte dabei einen sehr untätigen Zuschauer an meinem Admiral, der mir die unverlangte Ehre erzeigte, mich bis hierher zu begleiten. Sobald ich meinen gelegenen Ankerplatz gefunden, befahl ich, die Stangen und Raaen niederzulassen, wie es Seemannsbrauch ist, wenn ein noch unbeladenes Schiff auf der Reede liegt, um das übermäßige Schwanken desselben zu vermeiden. Dieser notwendigen Anordnung widersetzte sich aber der Patron, zur Befriedigung seiner kindischen Eitelkeit, die das Schiff noch länger in Parade sehen wollte. Vergeblich bedeutete ich ihm, daß es hier mehr auf Sicherheit, als auf stattliches Ansehen ankomme, und daß ich wissen müßte, was ich zu tun hätte. Das Fäntchen erboste sich, trotzte und pochte, und wollte durchaus seinen Willen haben. Freilich kam es da bei mir eben an den Unrechten. Ich wich ihm keinen Daumen breit. Nun war vollends Feuer bei ihm im Dache! Er parlierte mir, rot um den Kamm wie ein Puter, allerlei dummen Schnack vor, und trat endlich drohend auf mich ein, indem er die Hand an das Gefäß seines Degens schlug. »Oho Bürschken,« sagte ich, und besah ihn mir schmunzelnd von unten bis oben -- »das wollen wir dir wohl anstreichen!« -- Ich ging in die Kajüte, schnallte mir meinen Säbel um, und kam wieder aufs Verdeck, um ihm das Weiße im Auge zu sehen. Weil sich seine Galle aber immer noch nicht legen wollte, seine geläufige Zunge wie ein Rohrsperling schimpfte, und bei jedem dritten Worte die Faust immer wieder nach dem Degen fuhr, riß mir endlich auch die Geduld. Ich legte ebenfalls die Hand, und eben nicht sanft, an meinen Säbel und forderte ihn auf, zur Stelle mit mir ans Land zu kommen, damit ich sähe, was Vater und Mutter aus ihm gefuttert hätten, -- wie wir Pommern zu sagen pflegen. Ich sprang voran in die Schaluppe und bot sechs Matrosen auf, die Riemen zur Hand zu nehmen. Mein Urian kam auf mein wiederholtes Winken mir nachgestiegen. Ich stellte mich ans Ruder und steuerte nach dem Packwerk; war mit einem Satze am Lande und warf, meines Gegners gewärtig, mir Hut und Rock vom Leibe, der denn auch bald hinter mir dreinfackelte. Wir zogen beide blank und standen verbittert einander gegenüber. Monsieur machte mir mit seinem Degen allerlei Figuren und Firlefanz vor der Nase, bis ich mit einem abgepaßten Hiebe von unten herauf ihm unterhalb des Gefäßes eins quer in den Arm zog; und mit der nämlichen Wendung gab ich ihm einen Denkzettel hinters linke Ohr, so daß er, wenn er nicht an dem einen, doch an beiden genug haben konnte. Nun, er _verlangte_ eben auch nicht mehr; warf flugs den Degen an die Erde und schüttelte die verwundete Hand mit einem etwas verstörten Gesichte. Auch ich schleuderte meinen Sarras über Seite, um aus seinem Rocke, der im Sande lag, ein Schnupftuch hervorzusuchen, welches ich, nachdem ich ihm das Blut vom Ohre gewischt, fein säuberlich um die lahme Hand wickelte. Dann machte ich dem Herrn ein Kompliment, sogut ich's ohne Tanzmeister gelernt hatte, und ließ ihn stehen, indem ich wieder in die Schaluppe stieg und nach dem Schiffe zurückfuhr. Zwei Tage nach diesem Abenteuer erhielt ich einen schriftlichen Befehl des Herrn Geh. Finanzrat Delatre, angesichts dieses in Stettin zu erscheinen. Ich erwiderte darauf: »Das Schiff, welches ich kommandierte, läge in See, und ich wäre für dessen Sicherheit verantwortlich. Ich würde mich einstellen, sobald man mir einen Stellvertreter schickte, der der Mann dazu wäre, es in versicherte Aufsicht zu nehmen.« Dies Notabene hatte denn auch die Wirkung, daß bald nachher ein gewisser Schiffer Stöphase, einer unserer besten preußischen Seemänner, zu mir an Bord kam und sich durch schriftliche Orders als meinen Nachfolger auswies. Zugleich wurde aber auch der Befehl zu meiner unverzögerten Gestellung in Stettin erneuert und geschärft; und ich tat, was man haben wollte. Mein ungnädiger Gönner, mit dem ich es hier zu tun hatte, ließ mich gar hart an, daß ich so gröblich gegen die Subordination im Dienste gehandelt. Ich war aber auch kurz angebunden, schenkte ihm über seinen Herrn Bruder, den Admiral, klaren Wein ein, und bewies dessen Ungeschick in einem gepfefferten Texte so kräftig, daß eben nicht sonderlich viel darauf zu antworten blieb. Aber es war einmal sein _Bruder_, dem er nicht ganz abstehen konnte, und so ergriff er um so lieber ein leicht von mir hingeworfenes Wort, um mir, wenn ich nicht anders wollte, meine Dienstentlassung anzukündigen. -- »Herzlich gern!« war meine Antwort. -- »Vorbehalt jedoch, daß meine Tätigkeit zum königlichen Dienste nicht in Abrede gestellt werde.« »Wer zweifelt daran, Herr? Wenn Sie sich nur fügen wollten ...« »Gehorsamer Diener!« erwiderte ich: »Da mag es wohl liegen! Aber wenn auch mein Kopf etwas hart ist, so erinnert er sich doch an eine Klausel in meinem Kontrakte, daß mir, falls ich einst meines Seedienstes entbunden würde und gegen meine Taugsamkeit nichts einzuwenden wäre, ebensowohl eine Gratifikation von zweihundert Talern als meine rückständige Monatsgage zugute kommen solle. -- Wohl denn, ich habe bisher meine Schuldigkeit getan: jetzt erwarte ich ein Gleiches von der Regierung.« -- Die Zahlung geschah auf der Stelle; und so kriegte denn mein Königliches Seekommando ein baldiges und betrübtes Ende. * * * * * Mein Vornehmen war jetzt, nach Königsberg zu meiner Familie zurückzugehen und eine Gelegenheit zu suchen, wo mir's möglich würde, die Arme ein wenig freier zu rühren. Auf dem Wege dahin sprach ich indes bei meinen Eltern in Kolberg ein; und sei es nun, daß es hauptsächlich ihr dringendes Zureden vermochte, oder daß die alte Vorliebe für meine Vaterstadt wieder lebendig in mir erwachte, während ich gegen Königsberg, wo mir so vieles den Krebsgang genommen hatte, einen heimlichen Widerwillen spürte: -- genug, ich glaubte wohl daran zu tun, wenn ich meinen dortigen Wohnsitz aufgäbe, um mich fortan hier unter den Meinigen häuslich niederzulassen. Anstatt also meine Reise fortzusetzen, ließ ich vielmehr Weib und Kind zu mir herüberkommen und begann mich hier häuslich einzurichten. Aber Kolberg war doch der Ort nicht, wo meinesgleichen auf die Länge seine Rechnung finden konnte. Der Seehandel hatte damals hier eben auch nicht viel zu bedeuten, und die Kolberger Schiffer waren gar zahme Leute, die sich eben nicht weit in die Welt hinaus vertaten. Es gab daher auch wenig Anschein, daß ich hier so bald ein braves Schiff unter die Füße würde bekommen können; und wurden mir gleich binnen Jahr und Tag zu wiederholten Malen kleine Jachten zur Führung angeboten, um damit die Ostseehäfen zu besuchen, so war dies doch ein zu enger Spielraum für mich, als daß ich mich darauf hätte einlassen mögen. Lieber errichtete ich eine kleine Navigationsschule, worin ich junge Seefahrer für ihr Fach tüchtig auszubilden suchte; und noch jetzt, in meinem hohen Alter, habe ich das Vergnügen, einige brave Schiffer am Leben zu wissen, die ich als meine Schüler betrachten darf. Man wird sich jedoch leicht denken, daß all dies Tun und Treiben nur ein Notwerk blieb, dessen ich gern entbunden gewesen wäre, und daß ich mich in meiner Lage mit jedem Tage mißmutiger und unzufriedener fühlte. Auf die Länge konnte das nicht so bleiben. Was aber dem Fasse vollends den Boden ausschlug, war ein Schimpf, der mir von einem Manne widerfuhr, um den ich wohl ein besseres verdient gehabt hätte. Dieser Kaufmann K. nämlich, für den ich vormals, als eigener Schiffsreeder Güter und Frachten mit Ehren über See gefahren hatte, glaubte ein Werk der Barmherzigkeit an mir zu tun, wenn er mir das Glück widerfahren ließe, unter seinem unwissenden Bauer-Schiffer als Steuermann zu dienen. Meine ganze Seele fühlte sich über diesen erniedrigenden Vorschlag entrüstet. Es war, als ob jeder Bube in Kolberg mit Fingern auf mich wiese; und so ließ mir's auch länger keine Ruhe, als bis ich mich im Jahre 1771 als Passagier nach Holland auf den Weg machte; in voller und gewisser Zuversicht, daß dies Land mir für mein besseres Fortkommen in allen Fällen die gewünschte Genüge leisten werde. Mein eigentlicher Plan bei diesem rasch gefaßten und ausgeführten Entschlusse war auf die Küste von Guinea gerichtet, wo die Art des Handelsverkehrs mir bei meiner ersten Ausflucht bereits bekannt geworden war; und da ich mich der damals erlernten Landessprache noch immer mächtig fühlte, im Navigationswesen es mit manchem aufnahm und mir auch sonst zutrauen durfte, Herz und Verstand am rechten Flecke zu haben, so war ich darauf aus, mich auf irgendeinem dorthin bestimmten Schiffe als Ober-Steuermann anzubringen. In Amsterdam zwar gab es hierzu, für diesen Augenblick, keine Gelegenheit; als ich mich aber durch Freunde und Bekannte in gleicher Angelegenheit an das Haus Rochus und Copstadt in Rotterdam empfehlen ließ, erhielt ich auch sofort einen Ruf dahin und ward mit den Reedern einig, auf einem ganz neuen Schiffe, namens Christina, unter Kapitän Jan Harmel, als Ober-Steuermann die Fahrt auf die Küste von Guinea anzutreten. * * * * * Im November des nämlichen Jahres gingen wir von Goree unter Segel. Unsere Ladung bestand in solchen Artikeln, wie die Afrikaner sie gegen Sklaven, Goldstaub und Elefantenzähne am liebsten einzutauschen pflegen. Die Schiffsmannschaft betrug hundertsechs Köpfe, und das Schiff führte vierundzwanzig Sechspfünder, weil Holland damals mit dem Kaiser von Marokko in Mißhelligkeiten geraten war; weswegen allen Schiffen, die des Weges fuhren, aufgegeben worden, sich gegen jeden etwaigen Anfall der Korsaren gehörig auszurüsten. Aus dem nämlichen Grunde versäumten wir auch nicht, sobald wir in den Ozean gekommen waren, unser Schiffsvolk täglich in der Bedienung des Geschützes und in anderen kriegerischen Handgriffen zu üben, damit wir's mit den Marokkanern um so besser aufzunehmen vermöchten und, falls es zum Schlagen käme, jeder am Borde wüßte, wohin er gehöre und wie er es anzugreifen habe. Und daß es hiermit nicht etwa von unserem Kapitän nur für die Langeweile gemeint war, kann ich sofort durch ein Beispiel belegen. Um mich aber hierüber noch mit einigen Worten auszulassen, sei zuförderst bemerkt, daß ein Kapitän auf dieser Art von Schiffen sich seinen Dienst insofern bequem genug macht, als er sich (dringende Notfälle ausgenommen) die Nacht hindurch an nichts kehrt, sondern abends um acht Uhr ruhig zu Bette geht und vor sechs Uhr morgens nicht wieder zum Vorschein kommt. Er verläßt sich lediglich auf seine vier Steuerleute, deren je zwei zusammen in ihren vierstündigen Wachen abwechseln, und begnügt sich, morgens beim Aufstehen den Rapport über alles, was nächtlich vorgefallen ist, anzunehmen und mittags um zwölf Uhr bei der Beobachtung der Sonnenhöhe zugegen zu sein, um den Stand des Schiffs nach Länge und Breite in das Schiffstagebuch einzutragen. Solchergestalt kam ich (nachdem Kapitän Harmel mir schon früher aufgegeben hatte, von unserem Konstabler ein Faß halbgefüllter Kartuschen anfertigen zu lassen) einst in dieser Zeit des Morgens zu ihm in die Kajüte, um meinen nächtlichen Rapport abzustatten, und verwunderte mich nicht wenig, als ich ihn am Tische, den Kopf auf beiden Händen liegend, wie im tiefen Traume sitzen sah -- übrigens nackt und bloß, bis auf ein paar leinene Hosen und das Hemd, das an beiden Armen bis hoch an die Achseln hinauf aufgestreift und mit roten Tüchern festgebunden war. Das gelockte Haar hing ihm rings um den Kopf auf den Tisch hinab, und vor ihm lag ein blanker Schiffshauer. Wie wild und furchtbar er mir in diesem Aufzuge auch erschien, so fing ich doch an zu lachen; und eben wollte ich fragen, was diese Maskerade zu bedeuten habe, als er mich martialisch anblickte, den Säbel ergriff, aufsprang, an mir vorbeieilte und, indem er aufs Verdeck stürzte, aus vollem Halse schrie: »Ho, da der Feind! Ho, da der Feind! -- Feuer! Vom Steuerbord Feuer!« -- In der ersten Überraschung meinte ich wirklich, er sei toll geworden; sobald ich jedoch seine wahre Meinung ahnte, den Mut und die Geistesgegenwart seiner Schiffsmannschaft auf die Probe zu setzen, so schrie ich tapfer mit: »Feuer! Steuerbord Feuer!« und es gab einen Lärm am Borde, der hinten und vorn und aus allen Winkeln gräßlich zusammendröhnte. Da nun auch schon seit einiger Zeit unsere Kanonen, mit Kugeln geladen, bereitstanden, so währte es auch keine drei Minuten, daß die ganze volle Lage gegen den eingebildeten Korsaren abgefeuert wurde. Sofort hieß es: »Schiff gewendet!« und als dies im Nu geschehen war: »Feuer! Vom Backbord Feuer! Am Steuerbord geladen! -- Wieder wenden! Vom Steuerbord Feuer! Am Backbord geladen!« -- und so lustig fort, bis der Konstabler zu mir herantrat, um zu melden, daß das Oxhoft voll Kartuschen glücklich in die Luft geplatzt sei. Ich brachte die Meldung an den Kapitän, und »Gut!« -- sagte dieser -- »Nun laß die Marokkaner nur kommen!« »Aber« -- unterbrach er sich plötzlich -- »Entern -- _entern_ wollen die Hunde! Die sollen sich bei uns die Nasen verbrennen! Hallo! Allmann auf seinen Posten!« -- Flugs traten, angewiesenermaßen, vierzig Mann auf dem halben Deck zusammen; jeder ergriff sein geladenes Gewehr aus der dort in Bereitschaft stehenden Kiste. Hier war das Kommandieren an _mir_: »Feuer über Steuerbord!« während andere, die in Reserve standen, ihnen die frisch geladenen Büchsen zureichten und die abgeschossenen empfingen. So folgte Lage auf Lage; und die Kerle hielten sich so wacker dazu, daß wir unsere Lust und Freude daran hatten. Dabei begab sich's nun, daß ein Matrose seinem Nebenmann das Gewehr zu nahe an sein langes struppiges Haar hielt, welches vom Zündpulver ergriffen ward und augenblicklich in lichten Flammen stand. Zur Strafe solcher Ungebühr ward der Schmied, der in solchen Fällen den Sergeanten vorstellt, hervorgerufen, um den Unvorsichtigen als Arrestanten abzuführen, während noch das Manöver mit dem Handgewehr so lange fortgesetzt wurde, bis der Tambour (der so lange aus Kräften fortgewirbelt hatte) Befehl erhielt, Appell zu schlagen und vom geschlagenen Feinde nichts mehr zu sehen war. Nun sollte der Arrestant ins Verhör: aber der hatte seine Zeit so gut abgepaßt, daß derweile, da seine Wächter dem Spektakel zugafften, er sich glücklich über Seite machte; doch nur so lange, bis er in seinem Versteck erwischt worden und nun seinen nachlässigen Wächtern vorn in der Back Gesellschaft leistete, bis ihm seine Strafe diktiert worden. Er sollte auf dem halben Deck durch sechzig Mann vierundzwanzigmal Gassen laufen, doch kam der arme Schelm mit sechsmal ab und mochte sich, so wie seine mit derben Fuchteln bestraften Wächter, an der reichlichen Portion Branntwein trösten, die ihnen gegeben wurde, sich ihren wunden Buckel zu waschen. Dies Pröbchen von strenger Subordination mag zugleich beweisen, mit welchem Ernst und Regelmäßigkeit der Dienst auf den holländischen Schiffen damals versehen wurde, daher ich auch stets auf denselben die beste Ordnung gefunden habe. Nicht so bei den Engländern, wo man dergleichen als Kleinigkeiten ansieht, die mit Fußtritten, Faustschlägen und Rippenstößen abgemacht werden; und von solcher barbarischen Willkür bin ich stets ein abgesagter Feind gewesen. * * * * * Wenige Tage später, etwa in der Mitte Oktobers, da wir uns unter dem einundvierzigsten Grade nördlicher Breite und ungefähr neunzig Meilen von der portugiesischen Küste entfernt befanden, erblickten wir in den Vormittagsstunden ein Schiff vor uns über dem Winde, das uns, da wir den Kopf immer voll von Seeräubern hatten, verdächtig vorkam. So wie schon früher, teils aus Vorsicht, teils um unsere Mannschaft zu üben, geschehen war, so oft ein Segel in unserer Nähe auftauchte, so ward auch jetzt im Augenblicke an unserem Borde alles zum Gefechte bereit gemacht. Allein indem unsere Blicke aufmerksam auf jenes Schiff gerichtet blieben, wurden wir mit Verwunderung gewahr, daß es gar keinen geraden Kurs hielt, sondern bald nördlich, bald östlich am Winde lag. Alle Segel waren fest gemacht, bis auf das Vorder-Marssegel, das frei im Winde flog, während dieser aus Südwesten her sich fast zum Sturm verstärkte, so daß wir selbst unsere Marssegel hart eingerefft führen mußten. Indem es nun solchergestalt vor uns vorüber taumelte, so daß wir ihm bald über den Wind kamen, wußten wir immer weniger, was wir aus dieser Erscheinung machen sollten, und da es wenigstens noch anderthalb Meilen von uns entfernt lag, so konnten wir auch nicht entdecken, was es eigentlich im Schilde führte. Nichtsdestoweniger schien es uns wohlgetan, dies in der Nähe etwas genauer zu untersuchen, um unserer Schanze desto besser wahrzunehmen. Indem wir also unsere Flagge hinten, sowie vorne die Gisse und einen Wimpel an der Spitze des großen Mastes aufsetzten, um unsere Bravour zu zeigen und uns den Anschein eines Kriegsschiffes zu geben (wie denn auch unser Schiff aus der Ferne wirklich ein ganz stattliches Ansehen hatte), so richteten wir unseren Lauf gegen den wunderlichen Unbekannten; doch so, daß wir ihm oberhalb Windes blieben. Als wir dem Fremden auf die Hälfte näher gekommen waren, taten wir einen blinden Schuß gegen ihn, als Aufforderung, unsere Flagge zu respektieren und uns die seinige zu zeigen. Diese kam gleichwohl nicht zum Vorschein; selbst dann nicht, da wir im Abstande von einer halben Meile jenes Signal wiederholten. Ja, sogar der dritte Gruß dieser Art, im steten Näherrücken, verfehlte die gehoffte Wirkung: denn keine Flagge ließ sich blicken. Unter der Zeit war das fremde Schiff in den Bereich unseres Geschützes gekommen; und wir bedachten uns nun nicht länger, ihm auf gut Glück eine scharfe Kugel zuzuschicken. Diese schlug auch hart vor ihm nieder: aber seine Flagge verzog noch immer, sich uns zu zeigen. »Er _soll_ und _muß_ es!« rief unser Kapitän. -- »Konstabler, schießt ihm eine Koppelkugel in den Rumpf, und seht wohl zu, daß Ihr trefft!« -- Gesagt, getan! Wir waren ihm jetzt so nahe, daß sich unmöglich fehlen ließ; und die Kugel fuhr ihm in den Bug, daß wir die Holzsplitter umherfliegen sahen. Dennoch keine Flagge! -- So etwas ging über all unseren Begriff. Allein nun wurden wir immer hitziger und beschlossen, ihm oberhalb Windes so dicht als immer möglich auf den Leib zu rücken. Dies geschah auch, indem wir kaum im Abstande eines Flintenschusses an ihm vorüber liefen und zugleich ihn mit dem Sprachrohr anriefen. Auf unser drei- bis viermaliges Holla! keine Antwort. Ebensowenig erblickten wir eine Menschenseele am Borde. Nur ein großer schwarzer Hund richtete sich über die Borte empor, uns heiser anzubellen. Indes trieb uns der starke Wind nach wenig Augenblicken vorüber; doch vermochten wir im Vorbeisegeln zu erkennen, daß die Finkennetze und Schanzgitter längs der ganzen Seite mit Weißkohlköpfen vollgepackt waren, und daß auch einige Stücke frisches Fleisch unter der großen Mars in der Luft aufbewahrt hingen. Ja, einige von unseren Matrosen, die sich oben im Mastkorbe befanden, wollten zu gleicher Zeit bemerkt haben, daß auf dem Verdeck des fremden Schiffes menschliche Leichname ausgestreckt umhergelegen. Diese vermeintliche Entdeckung war gleichwohl zu unstatthaft, um bei uns übrigen Glauben zu finden. Was sollte diesen Unglücklichen den Tod gebracht haben? Das Schiff schien unversehrt und gut; kein Feind hatte mit Feuer und Schwert darauf gehaust. An ansteckende Seuchen, an Verhungern und Verdürsten war ebensowenig zu denken: denn die frischen Lebensmittel, die wir wahrgenommen, bewiesen, daß das Schiff erst ganz vor kurzem einen europäischen Hafen verlassen haben müsse. Genug indes, daß uns hier ein Rätsel aufgegeben war, dessen Lösung uns ebenso eifrig wie fruchtlos beschäftigte. Inzwischen legten wir um und hielten diesmal unseren Strich noch näher an das verödete Schiff, ohne es an unserem wiederholten und durchdringenden Holla! Holla! fehlen zu lassen. Immer noch sahen wir kein lebendiges Wesen und hörten keine Stimme, als das Bellen des Hundes, der nach uns herüberwinselte. Es schien nun wohl entschieden, daß das Schiff leer und verlassen von Menschen sein müsse: aber eben dies weckte in mir und anderen mehr die Lust, die Schaluppe auszusetzen und zu einer genaueren Untersuchung dieses wunderbaren Vorfalles hinüberzufahren: denn so, wie sich die Sache anließ, kam es hier vielleicht bloß darauf an, ein herrenloses Eigentum als gute Prise in Besitz zu nehmen. Meine hierauf gerichteten Vorschläge fielen jedoch bei dem Kapitän in taube Ohren. Er meinte, der Wind bliese zu frisch und die See ginge zu hoch, als daß er Boot und Menschen einem solchen Wagnis preisgeben könnte; und auch im besten Falle werde es um den Rückweg, gegen den Sturmwind an, noch mißlicher stehen. Erpicht, wie ich auf den Handel war, stellte ich ihm vor, wie es füglich so einzurichten wäre, daß die Schaluppe mit Wind und Wellen geradezu auf das fremde Schiff lossteuerte, und das unserige, nach erfolgter Besichtigung, sich jenseits unter den Wind legte, um uns mittels dieses Manövers gemächlich wieder an Bord zu nehmen. »Nettelbeck!« rief er -- »das wird der Teufel nicht mit Euch wagen!« »Das käme noch drauf an!« meinte ich -- »Laßt einmal hören! -- Jungens,« rief ich, indem ich auf das halbe Deck vortrat, unseren Leuten zu -- »wer von euch hat die Courage, mit mir in unserer Schaluppe nach jenem Schiffe hinüberzufahren? Wenn wir das vielleicht als gute Prise in Besitz nehmen könnten!« »Ich -- ich -- ich!« schallte mir's von allen Seiten entgegen. -- »Und was sagt Ihr _nun_, Kapitän?« wandte ich mich an unseren Befehlshaber. »Fahrt meinetwegen, wenn Ihr Lust habt, zu ersaufen!« gab er mir verdrießlich zur Antwort; und ich hielt ihn sogleich, wenigstens wegen des ersteren, beim Worte. Die Schaluppe ward mit dem größten Feuer angegriffen, in die Takel gehängt und über Bord gesetzt. Noch hatte sie ihr nasses Element nicht erreicht, als ich mich bereits hineinstürzte. Alles stürzte mir nach und wollte mich begleiten, so daß ich genug zu steuern und abzuwehren hatte, um nicht mehr als die beschlossene Zahl von zwölf Mann hinüber zu lassen, die ich namentlich aufrief und als tüchtige zuverlässige Kerle kannte. Da auch, von dem neulichen Scheingefecht her, die offene Gewehrkiste noch auf dem Verdeck vorhanden war, so wurden uns Pistolen und Hauer in solchem Überflusse zugelegt, ja sogar in die Schaluppe geworfen, daß ich genug mit Händen und Füßen abzuwehren hatte. So gingen wir nun mit unserem Fahrzeuge vor See und Wind gerade auf das Schiff zu, welches auch kaum in der Weite eines Pistolenschusses vor uns auf den Wellen trieb. Leichter und glücklicher, als ich selbst gehofft hatte, legten wir uns ihm an Bord; und gehörig bewaffnet stieg ich sofort mit elf Mann auf dasselbe hinüber, während der zwölfte im Boote zurückblieb und dieses mit einem Schlepptau hinten angehängt wurde. Auf dem Verdeck fanden wir, wie zu vermuten war, niemand als jenen Hund, der uns freundlich zuwedelte und die Hände leckte, und einen Behälter mit lebendigen Hühnern und Enten, die noch Gerste und frisches Wasser im Troge hatten. Überall lagen Kleidungsstücke zerstreut umher. Die Schaluppe stand, wie sich's gehört, im Boote; alles ordentlich befestigt; kein Takel hing über Bord, woraus man hätte schließen mögen, daß etwa ein Fahrzeug zur Flucht der Mannschaft ins Wasser gelassen worden, weil das Schiff vielleicht leck geworden und man das Sinken befürchtet hätte. Dies zu ergründen, stellte ich sofort meine Leute an beide Pumpen; und mittlerweile daß sie diese in Bewegung setzten, ging ich auf dem Schiffe von hinten nach vorn und nach allen Seiten, besah mir's oben und unten und nahm endlich wahr, daß die Tür zur Kajüte niedergehauen war. Sogar das Beil, womit dies geschehen sein mochte, lag noch daneben. Ich erschrak nicht wenig über diesen unvermuteten Anblick: denn nun schoß mir's aufs Herz, daß hier gottlose Buben gehaust haben müßten, die den Kapitän oder sonstigen Befehlshaber ermordet haben müßten und sich in diesem Augenblicke vielleicht absichtlich im unteren Raume versteckt hielten. Voll von dieser Vorstellung, hielt ich es auch nicht für ratsam, mich dahinunter zu wagen. Unterdes hatten meine Begleiter wacker an den Pumpen gearbeitet und erklärten nach etwa zwölf bis fünfzehn Minuten: das Schiff sei rein und die Pumpen zögen kein Wasser mehr. »So kommt denn alle!« rief ich -- »nehmt eure Wehren zur Hand, spannt den Hahn und folgt mir dicht zusammengeschlossen nach.« -- In solcher Ordnung nun stiegen wir zuvörderst in die Kajüte hinab, wo der zertrümmerte Eingang uns nichts als einen vollen Greuel der Verwüstung erwarten ließ. Dem war jedoch keineswegs also, sondern überall das Geräte in bester Ordnung, als ob gar nichts vorgefallen. Ich hob den Deckel von einer Seitenbank empor und fand den Sitz angefüllt mit Weinflaschen, die sorgsam in Stroh gepackt waren. Zu näherer Untersuchung zog ich eine daraus hervor, hielt sie gegen das Licht und fand sie mit rotem Clairet gefüllt. Eine Schieblade im Tische, die ich hervorzog, enthielt allerlei Tafelgerät, Messer, Gabeln usw. Ich nahm ein Messer, schlug jener Bouteille den Hals ab, und wir machten ein Schlückchen nach dem andern, bis uns der Boden entgegenleuchtete. Nun machten meine Gefährten nicht übel Miene, auch dem Reste auf gleiche Weise zuzusprechen: allein, bange vor den möglichen Folgen, rief ich mein »Halt! Keinen Tropfen mehr!« dazwischen und schritt sofort zu einer weiteren Untersuchung. In einer anderen Schieblade, die ich öffnete, fiel mir ein starkes Pack Briefe in die Hände, deren Aufschriften sämtlich nach Port au Prince, Martinique, Guadeloupe und andern französischen Inseln lauteten. Ich griff einige auf gut Glück daraus hervor und steckte sie zu mir, um sie demnächst bei besserer Muße genauer zu untersuchen. Für den Augenblick aber ward meine volle Aufmerksamkeit von einer Luke angezogen, die sich in der Mitte des Fußbodens der Kajüte vorfand und angelweit offen stand. »Hier wird es doch der Mühe wert sein, hinunterzusteigen,« sagte ich zu meinen Leuten; -- »wäre es auch nur, um zu erfahren, womit das Schiff geladen sein mag.« -- Zu gleicher Zeit ließ ich mich an den Händen hinab, ohne jedoch mit den Füßen Grund zu erreichen. »Nun, es wird ja so tief nicht mehr sein!« dachte ich bei mir selbst, ließ oben fahren und purzelte auf einen Haufen, den ich alsbald für Steinkohlen erkannte. Indem ich über dies unbequeme Lager hinüberkroch, geriet ich, bald hier bald dort im Dunkeln umhertappend, an Fässer, Ballen und Packen in Bastmatten gehüllt, die mich auf eine vermischte Ladung schließen ließen. Unwillkürlich aber stieg mir bei dieser irren Beschäftigung auch die Befürchtung zu Kopf, daß in diesem Chaos auch wohl Menschen stecken und mir auf den Dienst lauern könnten. Schon war mir's, als ob sie mir überall auf dem Nacken säßen, als würde bei jedem nächsten Tritte eine grimmige Faust mich anpacken. Vergeblich sträubte sich mein Mut und suchte diesen feigherzigen Gedanken abzuschütteln. Mich ergriff ein Zittern, das mich mit einer Gänsehaut überlief und wohl oder übel wieder nach dem Tageslichte hin zurückdrängte. Erst dann ward mir wieder wohl, als ich oben an der Luke ein paar von meinen Gefährten erblickte, die auf den Knien lagen und in den Raum hinabsahen. An ihren dargereichten Händen ward ich wieder emporgezogen. Inzwischen war auch mein Kapitän bei seinem Manövrieren dem Schiffe wieder nahe genug gekommen, um mir durchs Sprachrohr zuzurufen, wie es an meinem Borde stände. Ich antwortete, das Schiff sei fest und dicht und alles darauf in guter Ordnung, aber nicht Mann noch Maus darauf zu spüren. Er befahl mir darauf, ihm die Schaluppe mit acht Mann hinüber zu schicken, weil er selbst willens wäre, den Fund in Augenschein zu nehmen. Das erstere geschah; als er jedoch auf dem Herwege noch etwa achtzig Klafter von meinem Borde entfernt war, erhob sich plötzlich ein so heftiger Wirbelwind, daß man sich auf unserem eigenen Schiffe genötigt sah, die Segel eiligst einzuziehen. Dieser Zufall benahm meinem Kapitän den Mut. »Kommt! kommt! Zu mir herüber!« rief er mir aus dem Fahrzeuge zu; und indem er an meine Seite legte, hörte er nicht auf mit: »Her zu mir, in die Schaluppe! Fort! fort!« -- bis ich ihm den Willen tat, mit dem Rest meiner Leute zu ihm einstieg, und solchergestalt mit ihm nach unserem Schiffe zurückruderte. Als wir dort ankamen, ward die Schaluppe unter die Takel gebracht, emporgehoben und wieder an ihrem Platze befestigt. Sobald wir nun wieder in Ordnung und zur Besinnung gekommen waren, galt es die Frage: Was mit dem herrenlosen Schiffe zu tun oder zu lassen sei. -- Ich und mehrere mit mir stellten dem Kapitän auf das triftigste vor, daß es doch Sünde und Schande sein würde, wenn wir diesen Fund so um nichts und wieder nichts aufgeben wollten. Allein wie dringend wir ihm auch anlagen, so schien doch sein Widerwille gegen jedes weitere Vornehmen zu diesem Zwecke so gut als unbezwinglich, und, wohlerwogen, war es ihm eigentlich auch nicht zu verdenken, wenn er üble Lust bezeigte, sich mit einem Handel dieser Art zu schaffen zu machen. Die Sache hing aber so zusammen: Auf seiner vorigen Fahrt nach der Küste von Guinea hatte Kapitän Harmel von einem englischen Sklavenschiffe Besitz genommen, das infolge einer unter den Schwarzen ausgebrochenen Meuterei von diesen überwältigt worden war. Sie hatten, beinahe hundert Köpfe stark, die ganze Schiffsmannschaft bis auf einen Steuermann und zwei Matrosen ermordet, welche unter dem Beding verschont worden waren, daß sie die Neger in deren Heimat zurückführen sollten. Auf diesem Zuge nun fielen sie meinem Kapitän in die Hände, und es munkelte nicht nur, daß er mit ihnen, wie mit der Schiffsladung, nicht zum besten gewirtschaftet, sondern daß auch das Schiff selbst von seinen daraufgesetzten Leuten verwahrlost und bei St. Georg de la Mina gestrandet sei. Hierüber hatten die Reeder desselben in England gegen Harmel ein gerichtliches Verfahren eingeleitet und wollten ihn für nichts besseres als einen Seeräuber erklärt wissen. Dieser Prozeß schwebte noch vor den holländischen Gerichten, und je zweifelhafter es war, wie das Endurteil ausfallen könnte, um so weniger mochte er allerdings Neigung in sich spüren, etwas Frisches auf sein Kerbholz zu bringen. Wir jedoch, die wir die Sache mit ganz anderen Augen ansahen, drangen so ungestüm und unablässig in ihn, das Schiff zu besetzen, daß er endlich einwilligte, die große Schiffsglocke läuten zu lassen und einen allgemeinen Schiffsrat zu halten. Es ward beschlossen, daß zwölf von den Unseren das Schiff zur Notdurft bemannen und ich die Ehre haben sollte, es nach einem holländischen Hafen in Sicherheit zu bringen. »Gut gemeint, aber schlecht beraten,« war meine Einrede, »und so muß ich mich der zugedachten Ehre höflichst bedanken. Wer möchte wohl eine solche Kommission so losen Fußes auf sich nehmen? Denn wie? wenn nun auf dem Wege nach Europa irgendein englisches, französisches oder anderweitiges Kriegsschiff auf mich stieße und nach meinen Schiffspapieren fragte? Möchte ich zehnmal versichern und schwören, daß es mit dem Funde ehrlich und christlich zugegangen, wer würde mir's glauben und mich nicht vielmehr für einen argen Freibeuter erklären und mir und all meinen Gefährten die hanfene Schleife zuerkennen? -- Und steckt nicht noch dort die Kugel im Schiffsrumpfe in dem gesplitterten Barkholze, die wir vorhin abgeschossen haben und die Zeugnis von gebrauchter Gewalt gegen uns ablegen würde? Im besten Falle würden wir in ein finsteres Loch gesteckt und könnten schwitzen, bis wir schwarz würden, bevor die Mannschaft der Christina, die unterdes in den afrikanischen Gewässern umherschweifte, vernommen werden könnte und uns wieder aus der Patsche hülfe.« Meinem Bedenken war nicht füglich zu widersprechen, doch fand und ergriff man endlich den Ausweg, daß, zu meiner besseren Beglaubigung, ein schriftliches Zeugnis über den ganzen Hergang, mit all seinen besonderen Umständen, ausgefertigt und von der gesamten Harmelschen Schiffsmannschaft eigenhändig unterzeichnet werden sollte. Da es nun in Holland herkömmliche Einrichtung ist, daß vor dem Auslaufen eines jeden Schiffes die gesamte Besatzung ihre Namenszüge bei der Admiralität in die Schiffsregister eintragen muß, um vorkommenden Falles dadurch bewahrheitet zu werden, so konnte die Echtheit dieser Urkunde in Rotterdam unfehlbar ausgemittelt werden und diesem Beweise unserer Ehrlichkeit nichts zur Gültigkeit abgehen. Auch ich erklärte mich nun mit einem solchen Passe zufrieden. Inzwischen nahte der Abend bereits heran, und bei dem stürmischen Wetter schien es am ratsamsten, jene Ausfertigung bis zum nächsten Morgen zu verschieben; damit jedoch dem fremden Schiffe bis dahin, falls es länger sich selbst überlassen bliebe, kein Zufall zustieße, sollte der Untersteuermann Peters dasselbe mit zehn Matrosen vorläufig sogleich in Obhut nehmen. Seine Instruktion lautete dahin, sich mit dem Schiffe so nahe als möglich an dem unserigen zu halten, und es wurden die Signale verabredet, woran beide sich während der Nacht erkennen wollten. Zwar kannten wir ihn als einen nicht sonderlich gewiegten Seemann, doch schien der Dienst, wozu er beordert worden, um so weniger bedenklich, da ich ihn binnen zwölf oder fünfzehn Stunden abzulösen gedachte, um sodann das Schiff nach Holland heimzuführen. So fuhr denn Peters mit seiner Mannschaft in unserer Schaluppe hinüber; die Segel wurden dort den unserigen gleichgestellt, und das Schiff gewann wieder einen festen und regelmäßigen Gang, bei welchem es, etwa in der Entfernung eines Kanonenschusses, uns zur Seite blieb. Mit Einbruch der Nacht steckten wir unsere Laterne aus, und dort geschah ein Gleiches. Ich versah die erste Wache von acht bis zwölf Uhr und nahm mit meinen Leuten wahr, daß sich das jenseitige Licht je mehr und mehr entfernte und endlich zwischen zehn und elf Uhr gar erlosch. Augenblicklich ward dies dem Kapitän gemeldet und hierauf beschlossen, einen Stückschuß abzufeuern, um unserem Gefährten unsere Richtung anzugeben. Der Erfolg war keineswegs befriedigend. Wir wiederholten nun diese Signalschüsse von Zeit zu Zeit die ganze Nacht hindurch, ja steckten endlich selbst scharfe Patronen auf, um den Knall zu verstärken und in desto weitere Ferne gehört zu werden. Unter steigender Unruhe graute endlich der Morgen heran, alles eilte an den Masten hinauf, um sich rings umher umzusehen. Umsonst! Freund Peters samt unserer Prise war und blieb verschwunden! Unsere Bestürzung war nicht gering. Wie war dies zugegangen? Was _war_ geschehen? Was _konnte_ geschehen sein? Ein unermeßliches Feld eröffnete sich unseren Mutmaßungen und Zweifeln. Manche waren der Meinung, unsere Leute wären samt dem Schiffe gesunken; so wie es auch zuvor schon von seiner eigentlichen Besatzung um irgend eines nicht mehr zu stopfenden Lecks willen verlassen worden sein möchte. Dem mußte ich aber mit Fug entgegnen, daß ich samt allen, die mit mir an Bord gewesen, das Schiff dicht und gut befunden, daß wir das wenige Wasser, das sich am Kiele gesammelt, mit leichter Mühe ausgepumpt, und daß ich ja auch selbst in den Raum hinabgestiegen gewesen, ohne etwas von eingedrungenem Wasser zu spüren. Billig also ward diese Voraussetzung verworfen. Möglicher aber schien es uns und stieg bald zur ängstlichen Besorgnis, daß allerdings doch Leute im Schiffe versteckt gewesen, die bei Nacht unversehens hervorgebrochen, die unsrigen überwältigt und ermordet und sich, unter Begünstigung der Finsternis, davongemacht hätten. Gewalttätigkeit und Meuterei schien, wie die zersplitterte Kajütentüre bewies, allerdings vor der Begegnung mit uns auf dem Schiffe stattgefunden zu haben. Wußten sich nun die Empörer schuldig, so war es wohl natürlich, daß sie, als sie uns unter Flagge und Wimpel auf sich zukommen und sie mit Kanonenschüssen begrüßen sahen, in der Unmöglichkeit, uns zu entkommen, sich lieber in die geheimsten Winkel verkrochen hatten und es auf den Zufall ankommen lassen, ob wir sie entdecken oder ob sie vielleicht den Mantel der Nacht gewinnen würden, um mit dem Schiffe wieder durchzugehen. Wir hatten also wohl nur zu viel Ursache, das Schicksal unserer armen zwölf Gefährten zu bedauern. Allein selbst wenn wir ihnen auch das bessere Los wünschen wollten, daß sie -- sei es durch Zufall, Ungeschicklichkeit, oder gar durch vorsätzlichen bösen Willen, -- in der Nacht von uns abgekommen, so waren sie darum noch wenig besser beraten; und nicht nur sahen sie sich all den Gefahren ausgesetzt, die ich gescheut und zu vermeiden gesucht hatte, sondern es stand auch überhaupt gar sehr dahin, ob sie jemals Holland oder irgendeine andre Küste wohlbehalten erreichen möchten. Der Steuermann war, wie schon gesagt, ein Dummbart, welcher der Führung eines Schiffes auf einen so weiten Weg keineswegs gewachsen war. Doch hätte es auch besser um sein Wissen gestanden, so fehlte es ihm auch zu einem solchen, nimmer von ihm zu erwartenden Wagestück ganz an einem festen Punkte, welchen er bei seiner Schiffsrechnung hätte zum Grunde legen können, denn in der Eile, womit seine Absendung betrieben wurde, war entweder nicht daran gedacht, oder überhaupt für die kurze Zeit seines Dienstes nicht für nötig gehalten worden, ihm unsere zuletzt beobachtete Länge und Breite mitzugeben. Ebensowenig fand er dort Instrumente nach holländischer Art (wie er sie allein gewohnt war), um die Sonnenhöhe zu nehmen; und fielen ihm auch die dort geführten Schiffsjournale und Seekarten in die Hände, so blieben sie ihm doch ebenso unnütz zum Gebrauche, da sie in französischer Sprache verzeichnet waren. Immer also gaben wir, nicht ohne Kummer, ihn und die Seinen verloren. Erst einige Tage nachher klärte sich wenigstens einiges, was uns an diesem Schiffe rätselhaft war, um etwas auf, aber den völligen Zusammenhang der Dinge, sowie das weitere Schicksal desselben, sollte uns erst in späterer Zeit und auf verschiedenen Wegen zur Kenntnis kommen. Jene ersten Entdeckungen ergaben sich uns, als ich zufällig den Schanzloper wieder auf den Leib zog, welchen ich zu jenem Male, da ich auf dem fremden Schiffe gewesen, getragen. Indem ich nämlich zufällig in die Tasche griff, kamen mir die Briefe wieder in die Hände, welche ich damals zu mir gesteckt hatte, ohne mich ihrer bis jetzt wieder zu erinnern. Ich eilte mit meinem Funde zu dem Kapitän in die Kajüte, und es gab kein Bedenken, die Briefe zu öffnen, damit wir einst im entstehenden Falle um so leichter von unserm bestandenen Abenteuer Rede und Antwort zu geben vermöchten. Zwar waren diese Papiere, wie wir nunmehr ersahen, französisch abgefaßt und also uns beiden unverständlich; allein wir hatten einen französischen Matrosen namens Josephe an Bord, welcher sofort gerufen wurde, um uns als Dolmetscher zu dienen. So bestätigte sich denn unsere frühere Vermutung, daß das verlassene Schiff ein französisches gewesen. Es war von Havre de Grace ausgegangen, und zwar nur vier Tage früher, als wir von Goree in See gelaufen. Martinique hatte sein Bestimmungsort sein sollen. Name des Schiffes sowie des Kapitäns sind mir wieder entfallen, auf die Sache selbst aber werde ich noch weiterhin wieder zurückkommen. Inzwischen beförderten wir unsere Reise nach Möglichkeit, kamen ins Gesicht von Madeira und Teneriffa, passierten die Kapverdischen Inseln und erblickten am 24. Dezember die Küste von Guinea unter vier Grad zehn Minuten nördlicher Breite, liefen anfangs nach der Sierra Leona hinauf und warfen endlich am 4. Januar 1772 vor Kap Mesurado den Anker. Zweiter Teil Bevor ich in meinem Lebensberichte fortfahre und mich zu den kleinen Abenteuern hinwende, die mir an der afrikanischen Küste begegnet sind, wolle mir der geneigte Leser über die nunmehr ergriffene Lebensart einige Entschuldigung zugute kommen lassen. »Wie?« wird er vielleicht bei sich selbst gesagt haben, »Nettelbeck ein Sklavenhändler? Wie kommt ein so verrufenes Handwerk mit seinem ehrlichen pommerschen Herzen zusammen?« -- Allein das ist es ja eben, daß dies Handwerk zu damaliger Zeit bei weitem nicht in einem solchen Verrufe stand, als seitdem man, besonders in England, wider den Sklavenhandel (und auch wohl nicht mit Unrecht) als einen Schandfleck der Menschheit geschrieben und im Parlamente gesprochen hat, und wenn er durch dies nachdrückliche Geschrei entweder ganz abgekommen ist oder doch mit heilsamer Einschränkung betrieben wird, so ist gewiß auch der alte Nettelbeck nicht der letzte, der seine herzliche Freude darüber hat. Aber vor fünfzig Jahren galt dieser böse Menschenhandel als ein Gewerbe, wie andere, ohne daß man viel über seine Recht- oder Unrechtmäßigkeit grübelte. Wer sich dazu brauchen ließ, hatte Aussicht auf einen harten und beschwerlichen Dienst, aber auch auf leidlichen Gewinn. Barbarische Grausamkeit gegen die eingekaufte Menschenladung war nicht notwendigerweise damit verbunden und fand auch wohl nur in einzelnen Fällen statt; auch habe ich meinesteils nie dazu geraten oder geholfen. Freilich stieß ich oft genug auf Roheit und Härte; aber _die_ waren mir leider überall, wohin der Beruf des Seemanns mich führte, ein nur zu gewohnter Anblick und konnten mir daher eine Lebensweise nicht verleiden, mit der ich schon bei meinem ersten Ausfluge in die Welt vertraut geworden war, und zu der ich also jetzt um so unbedenklicher zurückkehrte. Zu besserem Verständnisse des Folgenden wird es erforderlich sein, einige Worte über die Art und Weise, wie dieser Negerhandel damals von den Holländern betrieben wurde, beizubringen. * * * * * Da hier Menschen nun einmal als Ware angesehen wurden, um gegen die Erzeugnisse des europäischen Kunstfleißes ausgetauscht zu werden, so kam es hauptsächlich darauf an, solche Artikel zu wählen, welche Bedürfnis oder Luxus den Schwarzen am unentbehrlichsten gemacht hatte. Schießgewehre aller Art und Schießpulver in kleinen Fässern von acht bis zweiunddreißig Pfund nahmen hierunter die erste Stelle ein. Fast ebenso begehrt war Tabak, sowohl geschnitten als in Blättern, samt irdenen Pfeifen, und Branntwein. Kattune von allen Sorten und Farben lagen in Stücken von einundzwanzig bis vierundzwanzig Ellen, sowie auch dergleichen oder leinene und seidene Tücher, deren sechs bis zwölf zusammengewirkt waren. Ebensowenig durfte ein guter Vorrat von leinenen Lappen, drei Ellen lang und halb so breit, fehlen, die dort als Leibschurz getragen werden. Den Rest der Ladung füllten allerlei kurze Waren, als kleine Spiegel, Messer aller Art, bunte Korallen, Nähnadeln und Zwirn, Fayence, Feuersteine, Fischangeln und dergleichen. Einmal gewöhnt, diese verschiedenen Artikel von den Europäern zu erhalten, können und wollen die Afrikaner sowohl an der Küste als tiefer im Lande sie nicht missen und sind darum unablässig darauf bedacht, sich _die_ Ware zu verschaffen, wogegen sie sie eintauschen können. Also ist auch das ganze Land immerfort in kleine Parteien geteilt, die sich feindlich in den Haaren liegen und alle Gefangenen, welche sie machen, entweder an die schwarzen Sklavenhändler verkaufen oder sie unmittelbar zu den europäischen Sklavenschiffen abführen. Allein oft, wenn es ihnen an solcher Kriegsbeute fehlt und sie neue Warenvorräte bedürfen, greifen ihre Häuptlinge, die eine despotische Gewalt über ihre Untertanen ausüben, diejenigen auf, welche sie für die entbehrlichsten halten, oder es geschieht wohl auch, daß der Vater sein Kind, der Mann das Weib und der Bruder den Bruder auf den Sklavenmarkt zum Verkaufe schleppt. Man begreift leicht, daß es bei solchen Raubzügen an Grausamkeiten jeder Art nicht fehlen kann und daß sich alle diese Länder dabei in dem elendesten Zustande befinden. Aber ebensowenig kann auch abgeleugnet werden, daß die erste Veranlassung zu all diesem Elende von den Europäern herrührt, welche durch ihre eifrige Nachfrage den Menschenraub bisher begünstigt und unterhalten haben. Ihre zu diesem Handel ausgerüsteten Schiffe pflegten längs der ganzen Küste von Guinea zu kreuzen und hielten sich unter wenigen Segeln stets etwa eine halbe Meile oder etwas mehr vom Ufer. Wurden sie dann am Lande von Negern erblickt, welche Sklaven oder Elefantenzähne zu verhandeln hatten, so machten diese am Lande ein Feuer an, um dem Schiffe durch den aufsteigenden Rauch ein Zeichen zu geben, daß es vor Anker ginge; warfen sich aber auch zu gleicher Zeit in ihre Kanots und kamen an Bord, um die zur Schau ausgelegten Warenartikel zu mustern. Vor ihrer Entfernung versprachen sie dann, mit einem reichen Vorrat von Sklaven und Zähnen sich wieder einzufinden, oft jedoch ohne darin Wort halten zu können oder zu wollen. Gewöhnlich aber erschienen sie zu wirklichem Abschluß des Handels mit ihrer Ware am nächsten Morgen, als der bequemsten Tageszeit für diesen Verkehr. Denn da dort jede Nacht ein Landwind weht, so hat dies auch bis zum nächsten Mittag eine ruhige und stille See zur Folge. Dann steigt wieder ein Seewind auf, die Brandung wälzt sich ungestümer gegen den Strand, und die kleinen Kanots der Schwarzen können sich nicht hinaus wagen. Das Fahrzeug, welches die verkäuflichen Sklaven enthielt, war in der Regel noch von einem halben Dutzend anderer, jedes mit mehreren Menschen angefüllt, begleitet, welche alle einen Anteil an der unglücklichen Ware hatten. Allein nur acht oder höchstens zehn aus der Menge wurden mit an Bord gelassen, während die übrigen in ihren Kanots das Schiff umschwärmten und ein tolles Geschrei verführten. Nun wurden auch die Gefangenen an Bord emporgehoben, um in näheren Augenschein genommen zu werden; die männlichen mit auf dem Rücken dergestalt hart zusammengeschnürten Ellbogen, daß oft Blut und Eiter an den Armen und Lenden hinunterlief. Erst auf dem Schiffe wurden sie losgebunden, damit der Schiffsarzt sie genau untersuchen konnte, ob sie unverkrüppelt und übrigens von fester Konstitution und bei voller Gesundheit wären; und hierauf eröffnete sich dann die eigentliche Unterhandlung, jedoch nicht, ohne daß zuvor sowohl den Verkäufern auf dem Verdeck, als ihren Kameraden in den Kanots, Tabak und Pfeifen vollauf gereicht worden wäre, damit sie lustig und guter Dinge würden -- freilich aber auch sich um so leichter betrügen ließen. Die europäischen Tauschwaren wurden den Schwarzen stets nach dem höchsten Einkaufspreise mit einem Zusatz von fünfundzwanzig Prozent angerechnet, und nach diesem Tarif galt damals ein vollkommen tüchtiger männlicher Sklave etwa hundert holländische Gulden, ein Bursche von zwölf Jahren und darüber ward mit sechzig bis siebzig Gulden, und ungefähr zu gleichem Preise auch eine weibliche Sklavin bezahlt. War sie jedoch noch nicht Mutter gewesen und ihr Busen noch von jugendlicher Fülle und Elastizität (und daran pflegt es die Natur bei den Negerinnen nicht fehlen zu lassen), so stieg sie auch verhältnismäßig im Werte bis auf hundertzwanzig oder hundertvierzig Gulden. Die Verkäufer bezeichneten stückweise die Artikel, welche ihnen unter den ausgelegten Waren anstanden, wogegen der holländische Einkäufer seinen Preis-Kurant fleißig zu Rate zog, um nach dem angenommenen Tarif nicht über neunzig Gulden hinauszugehen und wobei auch der gespendete Branntwein samt Tabak und Pfeifen nicht unberücksichtigt blieben. Fing er dann an, sich noch weitern Zulegens zu weigern, und ließ sich höchstens noch ein Stück Kattun abdringen, so ward der Rückstand im geforderten Menschenpreise vollends mit geringeren Waren und Kleinigkeiten und zuletzt noch mit einem Geschenk von Messern, kleinen Spiegeln und Korallen ausgeglichen. Wie viel es übrigens bis zum gewünschten Abschluß des Streitens, Fluchens und Lärmens bei diesem Handel gegeben habe, bedarf kaum einer besonderen Erwähnung; denn wenn der eigentlichen Wortführer bei den Negern auch nur zwei oder drei sein mochten, so gab es doch immer unaufhörliche Rücksprache und Verständigung mit ihren Gefährten in den Kanots, die bei dem Erfolge der Unterhandlung alle gleich sehr interessiert waren. Hatten sie dann endlich die eingetauschten Waren in Empfang genommen, so packten sie sich wieder in ihre Fahrzeuge und eilten lustig, wohlbenebelt und unter lautem Hallo! dem Strande zu. Während dieser ganzen geräuschvollen Szene saß nun der arme Sklave, um welchen es gegolten hatte, auf dem Verdeck und sah sich mit steigender Angst in eine neue unbekannte Hand übergehen, ohne zu wissen, welchem Schicksale er aufbehalten sei. Man konnte den Unglücklichen sozusagen das Herz in der Brust schlagen sehen; denn ebensowenig als die meisten von ihnen je zuvor das Weltmeer, auf dem sie nun schwammen, erblickt, hatten sie auch früherhin die weißen und bärtigen Menschen gesehen, in deren Gewalt sie geraten waren. Nur zu gewiß waren sie des Glaubens, wir hätten sie nur gekauft, um uns an ihrem Fleische zu sättigen. Die Verkäufer waren nicht so bald vom Schauplatz abgetreten, als der Schiffsarzt Sorge trug, den erhandelten Sklaven ein Brechmittel einzugeben, damit die seither ausgestandene Angst nicht nachteilig auf ihre Gesundheit zurückwirkte. Aber begreiflicherweise konnten die gewaltsamen Wirkungen dieser Prozedur jenen vorgefaßten schrecklichen Wahn ebensowenig beseitigen, als die Anlegung eiserner Fesseln an Hand und Fuß, wodurch man sich besonders der männlichen Sklaven noch enger zu versichern suchte. Gewöhnlich kuppelte man sie überdem noch paarweise zusammen, indem man durch einen in der Mitte jeder Kette befindlichen Ring noch einen fußlangen eisernen Bolzen steckte und fest vernietete. Verschonte man auch die Weiber und Kinder mit ähnlichem Geschmeide, so wurden sie doch in ein festes Verhältnis vorne in der Schiffsback eingesperrt, während die erwachsenen Männer ihren Aufenthalt dicht daneben zwischen dem Fock- und großen Maste fanden. Beide Behälter waren durch ein zweizölliges eichenes Plankwerk voneinander gesondert, so daß sie sich nicht sehen konnten. Doch brachten sie in diesem engeren Verwahrsam nur die Nächte zu; bei Tage hingegen war ihnen gestattet, in freier Luft auf dem Verdecke zu verweilen. Auf ihre fernere Behandlung während der Überfahrt nach Amerika werde ich in der Folge wieder zurückkommen. Der hiernächst bedeutendste Gegenstand des Handels an dieser Küste sind die Elefantenzähne, von welchen auch der ganze Strich zwischen Kap Palmas und tres Puntas den Namen der »Zahnküste« führt. Habe ich die Erzählungen der Eingeborenen richtig verstanden, so bemächtigen sie sich dieser stark gesuchten Ware, indem sie sich in Partien von dreißig und mehr Personen in die landeinwärts gelegenen Wälder auf die Elefantenjagd begeben. Ihre Waffen bestehen hauptsächlich in fußlangen zweischneidigen Säbelklingen, die sie von den Schiffen einhandeln und zu diesen Jagden an langen Stangen befestigen. Haben sie ein Tier aufgespürt, so suchen sie es entweder zu beschleichen oder treiben es mit offener Gewalt auf, und trachten einzig dahin, ihm den Rüssel, der seine vorzüglichste Schutzwehr ausmacht, an der Wurzel abzuhauen, oder sie zerschneiden ihm die Sehnen an den Füßen, um es so zum Fallen zu bringen. Ist der Feind solchergestalt überwältigt, so wird er vollends getötet; man haut ihm die Zähne aus, und der Rumpf bleibt als willkommene Beute für die Raubtiere und das Gevögel liegen. Noch wird an einem andern Striche dieser Negerländer, die »Goldküste« genannt, einiger Verkehr mit Goldstaub oder vielmehr kleinen Körnern dieses Metalls getrieben, das entweder aus dem Flußsande gewaschen oder von der reichen Natur dieses heißen Bodens oft dicht unter dem Rasen dargeboten wird. Doch war dies Geschäft weder beträchtlich noch sonderlich gewinnreich und pflegte deshalb dem Obersteuermann bei seinen kleinen Nebenfahrten für eigene Rechnung anheimgestellt zu werden, sowie ihm zu dem Ende auch vergönnt war, den Betrag von sechshundert holländischen Gulden in Waren mit an Bord zu nehmen. Ich selbst hatte mich zu diesem Privathandel mit allerlei Quincaillerien, etwa fünfhundert Gulden an Wert, versehen. * * * * * Denn außer dem Verkehre, der am Bord des Schiffes selbst stattfand, wurden in gleicher Absicht auch noch mehrere Boote ausgerüstet und abgeschickt, welche sich oft auf mehrere Wochen lang entfernten und bis auf fünfzig und mehr Meilen an der Küste umherkreuzten. Dieser Bootsfahrten habe ich zwar bereits oben erwähnt, doch sei es mir erlaubt, hier noch etwas ausführlicher darauf zurückzukommen. Sobald die Guineafahrer sich dem wärmeren Himmelsstriche näherten, begannen auch die Schiffszimmerleute die Schaluppen und Schiffsboote zu ihrer künftigen neuen Bestimmung instandzusetzen, indem sie ein Verdeck darauf anbrachten und alles so einrichteten, daß sie See zu halten vermochten. Holz und Planken hierzu ward schon von Holland aus mitgenommen und zwischendecks bereitgehalten. Die Besatzung eines solchen Fahrzeugs bestand aus zehn bis zwölf Mann unter Anführung des Obersteuermanns oder eines anderen Schiffsoffiziers. Auch war es mit einigen Drehbassen und kleinerem Handgewehr wohl versehen. Die Bestimmung dieser Boote erforderte, stets in einiger Entfernung vor ihrem Schiffe vorauszugehen und die Punkte, wo ein vorteilhafter Handel zu treiben war, zu vervielfältigen, damit die gewünschte volle Ladung schneller zusammengebracht und der Aufenthalt an diesen ungesunden Küsten abgekürzt würde. Sooft nun ein solches Fahrzeug seine mitgenommenen Warenartikel oder seine Lebensvorräte erschöpft oder einen genügenden Eintausch gemacht hatte, kehrte es zurück, um sofort für eine neue Reise ausgerüstet zu werden. Es ergibt sich daraus, wie anstrengend und beschwerlich dieser Dienst sein mußte. Allein auch außerdem war er mit mancher Fährlichkeit verbunden: denn nicht selten ging ein solches Boot durch Überrumpelung der Neger samt dem Leben der ganzen Besatzung verloren, und so war hier die höchste Vorsicht erforderlich. Nie wurden mehr als vier Verkäufer zugleich auf dem Boote zugelassen, und auch die übrigen in den Kanots durfte man nicht zu nahe herankommen lassen. Während also der Steuermann nebst einem Gehilfen hinten im Fahrzeuge den Handel betrieb, stand der Rest der Mannschaft vorn mit dem geladenen Gewehre in der Hand zu seinem Schutze bereit, und wehrte zugleich den umkreisenden Kanots, sich nicht ungebührlich zu nähern. Noch gefährlicher wäre es gewesen, die Nacht über an dem nämlichen Orte liegen zu bleiben, wo man sich am Abend befunden hatte. Vielmehr mußte man die Ankerstelle sorgfältig verändern, um die verräterischen Schwarzen, die unaufhörlich auf Überfall sannen, zu täuschen. Ebenso gebot die Klugheit, keiner ihrer noch so freundlichen Einladungen zu trauen, und am wenigsten sich in die Mündung ihrer Flüsse zu wagen. Die männlichen Sklaven, die man auf diesen Fahrten erhandelte, wurden sofort unter das Verdeck gebracht, weil sie sonst nur zu leicht Gelegenheit gefunden haben würden, über Bord zu springen. Im Raume aber legte man ihnen eiserne Bügel um die Füße, die mit Ringen versehen waren, und diese streifte man hinwiederum über eine lange, mit beiden Enden unten im Vorder- und Hinterteile des Bootes befestigte Kette, so daß sie wenigstens einige Schritte hin und wieder gehen konnten. Glimpflicher verfuhr man mit den Weibern, deren Zutrauen man sich auf eine leichtere Weise erwarb. Noch hatte wenigstens eines dieser Fahrzeuge die Nebenbestimmung, den aus Europa mitgebrachten Briefsack schneller als sonst hätte geschehen können nach dem holländischen Hauptfort St. George de la Mina zu fördern. Denn da die ankommenden Schiffe ihr Handelsgeschäft gewöhnlich bei Sierra Leone anfingen, welches gegen zweihundert Meilen westlicher liegt, und längs der Küste nur gemachsam fortkreuzten, so würde es oft sechs bis acht Monate gewährt haben, bevor sie selbst jenen Platz erreichten. * * * * * Diesen Auftrag erhielt auch ich, sobald wir in den ersten Tagen des Jahres 1772 auf der Küste von Guinea angelangt waren. Zu dem Ende ward die Barkasse mit zehn Mann unter meinen Befehlen ausgerüstet und mit Provisionen aller Art, besonders aber solchen beladen, welche in diesem heißen Klima einem schnellen Verderb ausgesetzt sein konnten. Das Brief-Felleisen ward nicht vergessen, und so steuerte ich, nachdem ich auch die Vorräte für meinen eigenen kleinen Handel eingenommen hatte, bereits am vierten Tage nach unserer Ankunft, dem Schiffe vorangehend, gegen Osten. Bei dieser Küstenfahrt führte mich mein Weg zunächst nach dem holländischen Fort Axim, wo ich einen Pack Briefe, europäische Zeitungen und andere Kleinigkeiten abzugeben hatte. Ich fand den dortigen Befehlshaber, einen geborenen Hanoveraner, namens Feneckol, sehr begierig nach Neuigkeiten aus dem gemeinschaftlichen Vaterlande, sowie ihm hinwiederum die Nachricht, daß ich ein Preuße sei, Gelegenheit gab, mich aufmerksam darauf zu machen, daß Fort Axim früherhin eine Besitzung unseres großen Kurfürsten gewesen, die erst im Jahre 1718 durch Kauf an Holland übergegangen. Er zeigte mir auch die darüber verhandelten Akten sowie sechs alte brandenburgische Kanonen, die noch auf einer Batterie aufgepflanzt standen. -- Habe ich anders seine Erzählung recht behalten, so hatte es hiermit folgende Bewandtnis. Ursprünglich gehörte Axim den Spaniern zu. Als aber der Kurfürst Friedrich Wilhelm, welcher dieser Macht in ihren Kriegen gegen Frankreich Hilfstruppen in den Niederlanden gestellt, die bedungenen Subsidien trotz aller gütlichen Unterhandlung nicht erhalten können, habe er in Hamburg eine kleine Flotte ausrüsten lassen, fünfhundert Mann darauf eingeschifft, außer andern genommenen Repressalien auch Axim angreifen und in Besitz nehmen lassen und sich dort neun Jahre lang behauptet. Während dieser Zeit, wo der brandenburgische Gouverneur auch noch das zweieinhalb Meilen östlicher gelegene Fort Friedrichsburg gegründet, sei von Hamburg und Emden aus ein lebhafter Handel dorthin getrieben worden, bis diese Befestigungen die Unzufriedenheit der benachbarten Negerstämme aufgeregt und diese die Besatzungen beider Plätze, welche nicht genugsam auf ihrer Hut gewesen, überrumpelt und niedergemacht hätten. In diesem Unglück, lautete die fernere Erzählung, sei es dem damaligen Gouverneur zwar geglückt, sich mit einigen wenigen Gefährten in das Pulvermagazin zu flüchten; dort habe er vorgezogen, sich freiwillig in die Luft zu sprengen, als unter den Händen der Neger einen martervollen Tod zu dulden. Diese hätten darauf beide Forts spoliiert und dem Erdboden gleich gemacht. Solchergestalt hätten nun diese Plätze gegen dreißig Jahre lang in Schutt und Verwüstung gelegen, bis König Friedrich Wilhelm I. seine Ansprüche auf diese Besitzungen an Holland gegen eine Summe von zweihunderttausend Gulden überlassen habe. Zwei Tage nach meinem Abgange von Axim stieß ein Kanot mit vier Negern vom Lande ab und knüpfte einen kleinen Handel in Goldstaub mit mir an. Von ihnen erfuhr ich, daß an diesem nämlichen Morgen ein portugiesisches Schiff an dieser Küste gekreuzt und eine Rolle gepreßten brasilianischen Tabak gegen zwei Unzen Gold an sie vertauscht habe. Diese Art Tabak ist in Rindsleder genäht, enthält einige und siebzig Pfund und ist eine von den Schwarzen sehr begierig gesuchte Ware. Das Preisverhältnis aber wird sich ergeben, wenn ich bemerke, daß die Unze Goldstaub dort zu zweiundvierzig holländischen Gulden berechnet zu werden pflegte. Nichts hätte mir erwünschter sein können, als von diesem Schiffe für meinen eigenen kleinen Handel einige Rollen dieses Tabaks gegen meine Kaufwaren umzusetzen. Ich erblickte auch seine Segel in einer Entfernung von etwa anderthalb Meilen vor mir und säumte also nicht, unter Aufziehung der holländischen Flagge darauf zuzusteuern. Je eifriger ich mich aber mühte, es zu erreichen, desto mehr Segel setzte es auch seinerseits auf, um sich von mir zu entfernen. Ich schoß zu mehreren Malen einen von meinen Böllern unter dem Winde ab, um ihm mein Verlangen nach einer näheren Gemeinschaft zu erkennen zu geben; der Portugiese hingegen manövrierte unaufhörlich, mir durch veränderten Kurs aus dem Gesichte zu kommen. Es schien nicht anders, als ob er sich vor mir fürchtete, ohne daß ich begriff, was ein Schiff von dieser Größe wohl von einem Fahrzeuge wie meinem zu besorgen haben könne. Ich ließ indes nicht ab bis die Nacht einbrach und die Dunkelheit mir Einhalt gebot. Indem ich aber meinen Weg längs der Küste fortsetzte, hielt ich mich doch mehr seewärts und unter vollen Segeln, und meine Hoffnung, diesem verwunderlichen Gaste dicht auf der Ferse zu bleiben, betrog mich auch so wenig, daß gleich der erste Morgenstrahl mir ihn, kaum dreiviertel Meilen von mir, näher dem Lande zu und über dem Winde wieder zu Gesicht führte. Zugleich erblickte ich, eine Meile von mir entfernt, das englische Fort Descowy, wo auch zwei englische Schiffe auf der Reede vor Anker lagen. Erpicht auf mein Vorhaben, mit dem Portugiesen zur Sprache zu kommen, steuerte ich von neuem auf ihn zu. Allein bevor ich ihn einholen konnte, war er schon in den Bereich der Engländer gekommen. Einer von ihnen tat einen Schuß auf den Flüchtling, der nun zwar seine Flagge aufzog, aber zugleich auch bei seinem vorigen Kurs beharrte. Zwei darauffolgende Schüsse blieben gleichfalls ohne Wirkung. Nun aber ließen beide Engländer ihre Ankertaue fahren, verlegten dem Portugiesen den Weg und nahmen ihn hart zwischen sich in die Mitte, worauf sie von neuem vor Anker gingen. Von diesem ganzen Vorgange war ich in fast unmittelbarer Nähe Zeuge gewesen, begriff aber je länger je weniger. Da ich indes wußte, daß England und Holland in vollkommen friedlichem Vernehmen standen, so überwog bei mir die Neugier jede anderweitige Rücksicht. Ich legte mich zuversichtlich neben das eine englische Schiff und stieg sogar an Bord des Portugiesen hinüber, wo mir sofort eine Szene des höchsten Wirrwarrs in die Augen fiel. Die Engländer hatten das Verdeck des angehaltenen Schiffes erfüllt, die Luken geöffnet, und waren im Begriff, eine bedeutende Partie Tabaksrollen auf das Verdeck emporzuwerfen. Der portugiesische Kapitän knirschte mit den Zähnen und schoß wütende Blicke auf mich; seine englischen Herren Kollegen aber, obwohl sie mir etwas glimpflicher begegneten, waren doch mit dem guten Rate fertig, mich augenblicklich davonzupacken. Je mehr ich sah und hörte, je wundersamer und verdächtiger erschien mir der ganze Handel. Ich hatte nur die Wahl, entweder zu glauben, daß es zwischen der englischen und portugiesischen Regierung zu einem plötzlichen Bruche gekommen, oder daß es die Absicht der Engländer sei, ihre Übermacht hier zu einer gewaltsamen Beraubung zu mißbrauchen. Beides aber ließ es noch immer unerklärt, warum der Portugiese auch mir Ohnmächtigem so geflissentlich ausgewichen sei. Erst späterhin, als ich zu St. George de la Mina angelangt war, sollte ich den Zusammenhang erfahren. Diese Ankunft erfolgte zwei Tage später, wo ich denn sofort meinem Auftrage durch Überlieferung des Brief-Felleisens und der dazu gehörigen Schlüssel an den Gouverneur genügte. Es ward von diesem in meiner Gegenwart geöffnet und zugleich entspann sich zwischen uns eine vertrauliche Unterhaltung, worin ich mit dem Ehrenmanne um so weniger Umstände machte, als sein Aufzug in einem leinenen Schlafrocke und einer schmierigen Schlafmütze eben nicht geeignet war, einen großen Respekt einzuflößen, wie er mir denn überhaupt als eine gute grundehrliche Haut, und was man einen alten deutschen Degenknopf nennt, erschien. Auch er selbst schien das Zeremoniell wenig zu lieben und lud mich gutmütig ein, ihm die Briefe sortieren zu helfen, da deren verschiedene nach den anderen holländischen Forts auf der Küste abzuschicken waren. Bei diesem Geschäfte gerieten wir noch tiefer ins Plaudern, und ich erzählte ihm, was sich mit dem portugiesischen Schiffe begeben und wovon ich an dessen Bord Augenzeuge gewesen. Plötzlich geriet mein Mann in Feuer und ward ganz ein anderer, als er kaum ein paar Minuten zuvor gewesen. »Das ist ein ernsthafter Kasus,« sagte er mit Gravität -- »und dem müssen wir auf den Grund kommen!« -- Zugleich nötigte er mich, in ein anstoßendes Zimmer zu treten und dort den ganzen Vorfall mit all seinen besonderen Umständen zu Papier zu bringen. Nachdem dies geschehen war, eröffnete er mir seinen Entschluß, gleich des nächsten Morgens den hohen Rat zu versammeln, und gab mir auf, zusamt meinem Schiffsvolke vor demselben zu erscheinen, damit wir unsere Aussage eidlich bekräftigten, er aber seine ferneren Maßregeln danach nähme. Dieser Vorladung gemäß erschien ich am andern Tage mit den Meinigen und ward sofort auch in den Ratssaal eingeführt, über dessen hier kaum erwartete Pracht ich nicht wenig erstaunte. Alles glänzte von Gold, und Tisch und Stühle waren mit violettem Samt überzogen, mit goldenen Tressen besetzt und mit dergleichen Fransen reich umhangen. Mein guter Freund von gestern, der Gouverneur Peter Wortmann, strahlte mir vor allen andern in seiner Herrlichkeit entgegen. Er saß, als Präsident der Versammlung, an dem Sessionstische in einer gewaltigen holländischen Ratsherrenperücke (ein wunderlicher Staat in diesem Klima) und steckte überdem in einer holländischen, goldgestickten Gardeuniform, die dazu noch von Tressen starrte. Auf eine ähnliche Weise, nur etwas minder herausgeputzt, saßen der Fiskal, die Ratsherren und die Assistenten um ihn her und machten die Feierlichkeit vollkommen. Dennoch war der mir und meinen Leuten hier abgenommene Eid und die wiederholte Aussage über den Vorgang mit dem portugiesischen Schiffe nur eine Zeremonie, und das, was geschehen sollte, schon während der Nacht völlig vorbereitet. Es standen nämlich bereits zwei Kanots fertig, in deren jedes fünfundzwanzig Soldaten und zwanzig Ruderer eingeschifft wurden und die unmittelbar darauf, hinten und vorn mit der holländischen Flagge geschmückt, unter Trommel- und Trompetenklang in See stachen, um das angefochtene portugiesische Schiff aufzusuchen und nach St. George de la Mina zu bringen. Nichts setzte mich hierbei mehr in Erstaunen, als diese Kanots, welche bei einer Länge, die über fünfzig Fuß hinausreichte, und bei einer Breite von sechs bis sechseinhalb Fuß, aus einem einzigen Baume, wiewohl von weichem und leichtem Holze, gehauen waren. Man sagte mir, daß diese Riesenbäume mehrere Meilen landeinwärts angetroffen würden, wohin unsereiner freilich nicht zu kommen pflegt. Mit dem ausgezogenen Staatsrocke war der Gouverneur auch wieder mein Freund und Gönner geworden und behielt mich unausgesetzt in seiner Nähe. Von ihm erhielt ich nun auch näheren Aufschluß über alle jene Dinge, die mir bisher so wunderseltsam vorgekommen waren. Er erzählte mir, daß das Fort St. George und die andern davon abhängigen Besitzungen ursprünglich unter portugiesischer Hoheit gestanden, von den Holländern aber, in ihrem ersten großen Freiheitskriege, den Spaniern, welche damals auch Portugal sich einverleibt hatten, abgewonnen worden. Im endlich erfolgten Frieden wären sie auch in den Händen der jungen Republik verblieben, und zwar noch mit der demütigenden Einschränkung, daß forthin kein spanisches oder portugiesisches Schiff an der Küste von Guinea Handel treiben solle, bevor es nicht vor St. George angelegt und zehn Prozent von seiner gesamten Ladung für die Erlaubnis eines freien Verkehrs entrichtet hätte. Bei der geringsten Hintansetzung dieser Verpflichtung sollte jedesmal Schiff und Ladung verfallen sein, und auf diesen Vertrag würde auch immerfort noch um so strenger gehalten, da England und Frankreich ihn späterhin bestätigt hätten. So begriff ich denn nun, worin der portugiesische Kapitän, dem ich begegnet war, sich strafbar gemacht und warum er gegen mich ein so böses Gewissen verraten hatte, wie aber auch jene beiden Engländer garstig anlaufen dürften, falls er ihnen erweisen könnte, daß sie auf eine räuberische Weise zu ihm an Bord gekommen und ihn zum Handel gezwungen hätten. »Und diese Ausflucht zu benutzen,« setzte der Gouverneur hinzu, »wird er auch sicherlich nicht unterlassen, wie vollkommen ich auch überzeugt bin, daß er von Herzen gern mit den beiden englischen Schiffen ein Geschäft gemacht haben würde, wenn es unter der Hand hätte geschehen können und Ihr nicht, als ein ungelegener Dritter, darüber zugekommen wäret.« Weiter belehrte er mich, was mir eigentlich bei dieser Gelegenheit zu tun obgelegen hätte, wenn ich mit den Gesetzen und Rechten dieser Weltgegend bekannter gewesen wäre. Ich mußte nämlich meine holländische Flagge an dem Schiffe des Portugiesen befestigen oder auch nur sie über die geöffnete Schiffsluke decken, um dadurch Schiff und Ladung unter ihren Schutz zu setzen. Hätten dann die Engländer gewagt, auch nur irgend etwas anzurühren, so wären sie als offenbare Seeräuber in die schwerste Verantwortung geraten; mir aber hätte dann nach unseren Gesetzen eine Belohnung von hundert Dukaten gebührt. Zwei Tage nachher kam die ausgeschickte Expedition mit dem ertappten Portugiesen glücklich auf der Reede an. Zufall oder Neugierde führten mich dem Kapitän bei seiner Landung in den Weg, und die grimmigen Blicke, die er auf mich schoß, ließen mich nicht daran zweifeln, daß er mich für seinen Angeber erkannte, dessen Aussagen ihn ins Verderben stürzen würden. Indessen mußte ihn doch gleich sein erstes Verhör eines Besseren belehrt und er gefunden haben, daß im Gegenteil meine abgegebene Erklärung zu seinem Vorteile lautete, denn er ließ mich am anderen Tage zu sich bitten, fiel mir dankbar um den Hals, wußte nicht, was er mir zuliebe tun sollte und nötigte mich, eine Rolle Tabak samt zwanzig Pfund Zucker zum Geschenk von ihm anzunehmen. * * * * * Obwohl nun mein Geschäft an diesem Platze beendigt war, so hielt mich doch Herr Peter Wortmann von einem Tage zum anderen bei sich auf; sei es, daß er irgendein absonderliches Wohlgefallen an mir gefunden, oder daß sonst Neugier und Langeweile ihn plagten, denn des Fragens, sowohl nach meinen persönlichen Umständen, als überhaupt nach Neuigkeiten aus Europa, wollte kein Ende werden. Das war freilich ebenso erklärbar als verzeihlich. Die Ansiedler in diesen afrikanischen Niederlassungen leben so abgeschieden von der ganzen übrigen Welt, daß sie nur in langen Zwischenräumen erfahren, was sich daheim und anderer Orten begeben hat. Oft bringt ihnen ein Schiff einen ganzen Jahrgang alter Zeitungen auf einmal, die zwar den vollen Reiz der Neuheit für sie haben, aber ihrer Wißbegier dennoch nicht in dem Maße genügen, daß ihnen nicht auch noch manche mündliche Erläuterung zu wünschen übrig bliebe. Hierzu kommt, daß ein großer Teil der hier Angestellten aus deutschen Landsleuten besteht, die insonderheit auch von ihrem lieben Vaterlande hören wollen und darin kaum zu ersättigen sind. In diesem Falle war nun auch der Gouverneur, der sich aufs Ausfragen verstand, wie irgend einer, dagegen aber auch ebensowenig mit Mitteilungen aus seiner eignen Lebensgeschichte gegen mich zurückhielt. Er war aus Grüningen gebürtig, hatte daselbst das Metzgerhandwerk erlernt und ein Weib genommen, dessen Untreue aber ihn endlich zu dem raschen Entschlusse gebracht, sie zu verlassen und in alle Welt zu gehen. So war er nach Holland geraten, als gemeiner Soldat nach der Küste von Guinea gegangen, hier allmählich zu höheren Militärgraden emporgestiegen und endlich nicht nur Befehlshaber im Fort St. George de la Mina, sondern auch über alle holländischen Besitzungen in dieser Weltgegend geworden. Sein Titel lautete nämlich als General-Gouverneur über die Westküste von Afrika. * * * * * Endlich mußte ich mich doch von diesem wackeren Manne trennen, der noch einen bedeutenden Einfluß auf meine Lebenslage gewinnen sollte. Er gab mir ein besonderes Belobungsschreiben an meinen Kapitän mit, worin der Wunsch ausgedrückt war, daß dieser falls neue Kommunikationen mit dem Haupt-Fort und der Regierung notwendig würden, keinem anderen als mir den Auftrag dazu geben möchte. Ich hatte indes den nötigen Ballast eingenommen und machte mich auf den Rückweg nach Westen, um mein Schiff wieder aufzusuchen. Die Reise war ohne besonderen Zufall, doch kann ich nicht umhin, hierbei eines seltsamen Fundes zu erwähnen. Wir befanden uns etwa vier Meilen vom Lande, und das Meer bot ringsumher eine glatte Fläche dar, in welcher sich die Sonne spiegelte. Zugleich sahen wir, in weiter Ferne seewärts, von Zeit zu Zeit etwas aus dem Wasser glänzend auftauchen, was mir anfangs etwa ein toter Fisch deuchte, dessen silberweißen Bauch die Sonne beschiene. Endlich ließ ich, von Neugier getrieben, darauf zurudern, und da fand sich's denn, daß eine viereckige Bouteille aus einem Flaschenfutter, den Hals nach oben gekehrt und mit einem Korkstöpsel versehen, im Meere schwamm. Ringsum hatte sich ein runder Haufen Seegras angesetzt. Ich ergriff die Flasche, mich weit über Bord lehnend, an der Mündung, war aber nicht imstande, sie von dem Kräutergeflechte zu trennen, es bedurfte erst meines Messers, womit ich alle diese fremdartigen Anhängsel kappte und solchergestalt mich meiner Beute bemächtigte. Bei genauerer Besichtigung fand sich nun, daß diese Flasche etwa zu einem Drittel (und daher ihre aufrechte Stellung) mit in Branntwein eingemachten, aber freilich schon verdorbenen Kirschen angefüllt und vermutlich auch, als unbrauchbar, über Bord geworfen war. Allein was sie eigentlich in meinen Augen merkwürdig machte, war die Entdeckung, daß sich außen umher überall Schulpen und andere Muscheln fest angesetzt hatten, die hinwiederum den Seegewächsen zu einem Befestigungspunkte gedient, um Wurzeln darin zu schlagen und allmählich zu einem dichten Klumpen von ansehnlichem Umfange heranzuwachsen. Wie lange mußte indes dieses Glas nicht bereits in den Wogen umhergetrieben sein, bevor die Natur nach und nach all diese Erscheinungen an demselben hervorbringen konnte! Es hätte verdient, mit all diesen Anhängseln von Muscheln und Tang in einem Naturalien-Kabinette aufbewahrt zu werden. Meinen Kapitän mit dem Schiffe fand ich noch bei Kap Mesurado, nachdem ich länger als vier Wochen abwesend gewesen. Bevor ich jedoch zu einer neuen Handelsfahrt abgehen konnte, ward es für nötig befunden, neue Vorräte von Wasser einzunehmen und dieses Geschäft mir zur Ausführung übertragen. Bei dem gegenseitigen Mißtrauen aber, welches zwischen den europäischen Schiffern und den Eingeborenen herrscht und tief in der Natur des hier betriebenen Handels liegt, ist ein solcher Auftrag mit Beschwerde und Gefahr verknüpft und erfordert genaueste Vorsicht, um nicht von den treulosen Afrikanern überwältigt, ausgeplündert und ermordet zu werden. Das Wasser muß jedesmal von ihnen am Lande erhandelt werden. Man versieht sich hierzu an Bord mit allerlei kleinem Kram an Spiegeln, Korallen, Messern, Fischangeln, Nähnadeln, Zwirn und erwartet dicht am Seestrande, wohlbewaffnet das zufällige Zusammentreffen mit den Eingeborenen, um mit ihnen den Preis für jedes Faß Wasser, welches man eben holt oder auch künftig zu holen gedenkt, zu verabreden. Das hierzu bestimmte Boot bleibt jedesmal bis hundertzwanzig Klafter weit vom Lande vor Anker liegen. Die ledigen Wassertonnen werden über Bord geworfen und die Neger stürzen sich in die Brandung, um sie schwimmend ans Land zu bringen und nach ihren Brunnen und Wasserstellen hinaufzurollen. Sind sie hier angefüllt und verstopft, so werden sie wieder an den Strand zurückgewälzt, von zwei schwimmenden Negern in die Mitte genommen und an das Boot gebracht, wo ihnen dann die dafür bedungenen Waren ausgeliefert werden. Als ich in solcher Expedition zum erstenmal das Ufer betrat, standen bereits zwölf oder vierzehn Schwarze unseres Empfangs gewärtig, und während ich mit etwa zehn meiner Begleiter vollends ins Trockene watete, kam uns auch ihr Anführer entgegen, bot mir die Hand, schnitt eine Menge wunderlicher Kapriolen und gab sich mir endlich mit den Worten »Amo King Sorgo« (ich bin der König George) zu erkennen. Daß er aber auch für irgend etwas Besonderes angesehen sein wollte, gab schon sein ganzer Aufzug zu erkennen. Er war nämlich mit einer alten, zerrissenen, linnenen Pumphose und einer weißen Kattunweste ohne Ärmel bekleidet, sein noch größerer Schmuck aber bestand in einer roten und weißen Schminke, womit er sich Gesicht und Hände scheußlich bemalt hatte. Mit diesem Narren nun und seinen Untertanen wurden wir des Preises für das Wasserfüllen einig und hielten uns auch des nächsten Tages wacker zu unserer Arbeit. Bei dieser Gelegenheit nahm ich am Strande eine Menge von Feldsteinen wahr, deren wir als Ballast für Boot und Schaluppe vielfach benötigt waren. Ich schloß demnach mit den Negern einen neuen Handel über eine Bootsladung solcher Steine ab, worin zugleich die Größe derselben dahin bestimmt wurde, daß ein Mensch sie allenfalls tragen und damit hantieren könnte. Sie suchten ihrerseits sich den Transport zu erleichtern, indem sie ein Kanot dicht auf den Strand zogen und es füllten, soviel es bequem tragen konnte. Dann traten je vier von ihnen an jede Seite des Fahrzeuges, warteten eine niedrigere Welle ab und schoben es dann schnell in die See, während einer behende hineinhüpfte, um es vollends an unser Boot zu geleiten und in dasselbe auszuladen. Da geschah es, daß einmal eine Woge, stürmischer als die übrigen, über das Kanot herstürzte und es augenblicklich versenkte. Sofort sprangen die am Ufer zurückgebliebenen hinzu, schwammen nach der Stelle, wo sich der Unfall ereignet hatte, bläuten den ungeschickten Fährmann zu unserer großen Belustigung wacker durch, aber erregten auch ebensosehr unser Erstaunen, als sie hierauf, einer nach dem andern, in eine Tiefe von wenigstens zwölf bis vierzehn Fuß untertauchten und, nach kurzem Verzuge, jeder mit einem Steine von beinahe Zentnersschwere, auf der Schulter, wieder emporkamen. Noch mehr! Mit dieser nämlichen Last schwammen sie, wenngleich mit sichtbarer Anstrengung und blasendem Atem, noch vierzig bis fünfzig Klafter weiter an unser Boot, um ihren Fund an uns abzuliefern. Noch oft bin ich Zeuge von der ungeheueren Körperkraft der Neger, sowie von ihrer ausgezeichneten Behendigkeit und Ausdauer im Schwimmen gewesen. Wenn sie mit ihren Kanots dicht an der einen Seite des Schiffes lagen und jemand sich einen Spaß mit ihnen machen wollte, so durfte er ihnen nur eine tönerne Tabakspfeife zeigen und sie über den entgegengesetzten Bord ins Meer werfen. Alsogleich auch stürzte sich dann eine Anzahl aus dem Kanot nach in die Flut, tauchte unter dem Schiffe weg in den Grund, und sicherlich kam irgendeiner mit der unbeschädigten Pfeife in der Hand wieder zum Vorschein, wenngleich das Meer auf einer solchen Stelle eine Tiefe von fünfundzwanzig bis fünfunddreißig Klaftern hatte. Nicht minder habe ich gesehen, wie Kinder von etwa fünf Jahren keck und wohlgemut sich im Wasser tummelten und durcheinander schwammen; ja sogar wie einst ein Neger einen solchen vier- oder fünfjährigen Burschen bei beiden Beinen ergriff und ihn, soweit er mit aller Kraft vermochte, in die See schleuderte. Das Kind kam nach wenig Augenblicken wieder ans Land geschwommen, und seine frohe Miene bewies, wie gering der Eindruck gewesen, den ihm diese rohe Behandlung gemacht hatte. Noch waren wir mit unseren Stein- und Wasser-Transporten beschäftigt, als ich eines Morgens bei guter Zeit mit dem Boote, unweit des Strandes, zu Anker kam. Hier war indes noch kein Neger sichtbar, um uns bei unseren Fässern Handreichung zu tun. Denn da in dieser Weltgegend die Nächte stets zwölf Stunden währen, so kühlt sich binnen dieser Zeit die Temperatur sehr merklich ab und es weht bis acht oder neun Uhr morgens eine ziemlich frische Luft, die den völlig nackt einhergehenden Negern so empfindlich fällt, daß sie sich nicht gerne früher aus ihren Hütten hervormachen. Ihr Kommen mußte also mit Geduld erwartet werden. Gerade dieses Warten aber verursachte uns in unserem Boote eine Langeweile, die je länger, je drückender für uns wurde. Unter meinen Gefährten befand sich ein englischer Matrose, der sich bereit erklärte, ans Land zu schwimmen und die säumigen Neger herbeizuholen. Hätte ich auch nicht andere Gründe gehabt, ihm meine Zustimmung zu versagen, so würde mich doch schon die Furcht, daß ein Haifisch ihn packen könnte, dazu bewogen haben. Inzwischen stieg unser Mißmut, und der Engländer erbot sich zu wiederholten Malen, das, wie er vermeinte, ganz unbedenkliche Abenteuer zu bestehen. Mein Kopfschütteln dämpfte seine Begierde nicht, bis ich endlich, mehr ermüdet als billigend ihm erlaubte, zu tun, was er nicht lassen könnte. Alsobald warf der Mensch sein Hemd von sich, sprang über Bord und steuerte schwimmend dem Lande zu. Allein kaum hatte er sich zwei Klafter weit vom Boote entfernt, so sahen wir ihn auch bereits von einem solchen gefürchteten Tiere umkreist, bis es sich, nach seiner Gewohnheit, auf den Rücken warf, seine unglückliche Beute ergriff und mit ihr davonzog. Bald ragte der Kopf, bald Hand oder Fuß des armen Schwimmers über die Wellen empor, endlich aber verschwand er ganz aus unserem Gesichte, die wir Zeugen dieses gräßlichen Schauspieles hatten sein müssen, ohne helfen und retten zu können. Daß es, als ich wieder an Bord kam, an einem tüchtigen, aber auch verdienten Verweise von meinem Kapitän nicht fehlte, kann man sich wohl vorstellen. Gott wird mir jedoch meine Sünde vergeben, da er am besten weiß, daß ich dies Unglück nicht aus Mutwillen, sondern gänzlich wider Wunsch und Willen verschuldet. Merkwürdig ist gleichwohl die Versicherung der Neger, die auch durch den Augenschein bestätigt wird, daß keiner ihresgleichen von diesen Haien etwas zu fürchten habe. Wird das Fleisch auch nicht gegessen, so macht man doch zuzeiten zum Vergnügen Jagd auf die Haifische, und dazu bedarf es nur eines tüchtigen Hakens von irgend einem Kistengehänge, den man an eine starke Leine befestigt, an der Spitze aber mit einem Stücke Speck und dergleichen ködert. Kaum hat er das Wasser erreicht, so hat auch bereits ein Haifisch wütend angebissen, der dann emporgezogen und auf dem Verdecke vollends getötet wird. * * * * * Noch lagen wir in dieser Küstengegend vor Anker, als sich ein holländisches Sklavenschiff bei uns einfand und gleichfalls dicht neben uns ankerte. Der Kapitän desselben rief uns zu, daß wir ihn doch mit unserer Schaluppe zu uns herüberholen möchten. Kaum war dies geschehen und er zu uns an Bord gekommen, als er uns die drückende Not klagte, in welcher er sich augenblicklich befände. Elf Mann von seiner Besatzung wären ihm unterwegs gestorben, und noch habe er vierzehn Kranke liegen, so daß er kaum noch fünf gesunde Leute an die Arbeit stellen könne. Auch habe er seither nicht mehr als achtzehn Sklaven eingehandelt, und wisse vor Sorge und Verlegenheit nicht, was er beginnen solle. Sein eigentlicher Wunsch aber war, daß wir ihm einige Köpfe von unserer Mannschaft überlassen möchten. Hieran war jedoch von unserer Seite um so weniger zu denken, als selbst kaum irgend jemand von den Unserigen sich zu einem solchen Tausche freiwillig verstanden haben würde. Der einzige Rat, den wir ihm geben konnten, war, daß er suchen möchte, St. George de la Mina je eher je lieber zu erreichen, wo das Gouvernement verpflichtet sein würde, sich seiner anzunehmen. Während ich ihn wieder nach seinem Schiffe zurückbrachte, erzählte er mir, daß dieses zu Middelburg in Seeland ausgerüstet worden, er selbst aber heiße Harder, sei, gleich mir, ein Pommer und von Rügenwalde gebürtig. Nun tat es mir doppelt leid um den armen Landsmann, als ich an seinen Bord kam und überall ein Elend und eine Unbereitschaft wahrnahm, wie sie mir noch niemals vorgekommen war. Fast mit Tränen in den Augen trennten wir uns, und sowie ich mich von dem Schiffe entfernte, nahm ich auch wahr, daß es die Anker lichtete und unter Segel ging. Doch mochte es kaum eine Viertelmeile Weges gemacht haben, so legte es sich abermals uns im Gesichte vor Anker. Mitten in der Nacht aber sahen wir von dorther Gewehrfeuer aufblitzen und hörten neben dem Schießen auch allerlei Lärm und Geräusch, ohne zu wissen, was wir daraus machen sollten. Endlich ward alles wieder still und ruhig; doch als der Tag anbrach, erblickten wir jenes Schiff auf den Strand gesetzt und von unzähligen Negern umschwärmt, deren gleichwohl keiner während der zwei Tage, die wir hier noch liegen blieben, sich vom Lande zu uns an Bord getraute, -- zur hinreichenden Bestätigung unseres Argwohns, daß sie den wehrlosen Middelburger überrumpelt, die Besatzung niedergehauen und das Schiff hatten stranden lassen, um seine Ladung desto bequemer zu plündern. Wenn eine solche blutige Gewalttat den Leser mit Recht empört, so muß dagegen notwendig in Anrechnung gebracht werden, daß dergleichen eigentlich doch nur als Notwehr oder Wiedervergeltung gegen nicht minder abscheuliche Überfälle angesehen werden müssen, welche sich auch die Europäer gegen diese Schwarzen gestatten. Besonders sind die Engländer dafür bekannt, daß sich von Zeit zu Zeit in ihren Häfen einige Rotten von Bösewichtern, fünfzehn bis zwanzig Mann stark, und aus verlaufenen Steuerleuten und Matrosen bestehend, die bereits mit dem Gange des Sklavenhandels bekannt sind, vereinigen, die ein kleines Fahrzeug ausrüsten, sich mit Schießbedarf und Proviant sowie mit einigen Waren-Artikeln, wie sie zu diesem Handel gebräuchlich sind, zum Scheine versehen und so nach der Küste von Guinea steuern. Kommen hier nun die Neger an Bord eines solchen Korsaren, um einen friedlichen Verkehr anzuknüpfen, so fallen diese Räuber über sie her, legen sie samt und sonders in Ketten und Banden; und haben sie der Unglücklichen solchergestalt dreißig bis vierzig oder wie viele sie bewachen können, zusammengerafft, so stechen sie damit nach Südamerika hinüber, um sie an die Spanier oder Portugiesen loszuschlagen. Dort verkaufen sie auch ihr Fahrzeug und gehen nun einzeln als Reisende mit ihrem ungerechten Gewinne nach England zurück, um vielleicht unmittelbar darauf ein neues Unternehmen dieser Art zu wagen. Es kann nicht fehlen, daß solche Raubzüge dem regelmäßigen Handel an der afrikanischen Küste, sowie dem gegenseitigen Vertrauen, den empfindlichsten Nachteil bringen. Besonders verderblich aber waren sie zu jener Zeit für den Verkehr, welchen die Holländer vermittelst ihrer Boote betrieben, da die Neger diese von jenen englischen Raubfahrzeugen nicht hinreichend zu unterscheiden vermochten. Diese Erfahrung machte auch ich an meinem Teile, als ich, Mitte Februar, mit der Schaluppe unseres Schiffes und begleitet von dreizehn Mann und mit sechs kleinen Pöllern wohl ausgerüstet, eine neue Küstenfahrt antrat. Kurz zuvor nämlich hatte ein solcher englischer Korsar in dieser Gegend herumgekreuzt und mancherlei Unfug verübt. Wo ich mich also irgend blicken ließ, ward ich von den Schwarzen mit jenem verwechselt, nirgends wollte sich ein einziger von ihnen zu mir an Bord getrauen. Kam ja hier und da ein Kanot zum Vorschein, so hielt es sich, voll Argwohn, in einer Entfernung von hundert und mehr Klaftern; die armen furchtsamen Schlucker glotzten mich an, fragten, ob ich ein Engländer oder Holländer sei, und verlangten zum Wahrzeichen des letzteren eine holländische Pfeife zu sehen, als ob diese aus einem anderen Tone gebacken wäre. Oft auch sollte ich ihnen eine Flasche aus meinem Flaschenfutter zeigen, weil sie wußten, daß die englischen Handelsleute dergleichen nicht zu führen pflegten. Mit solcherlei kleinen Künsten und guten Worten gelang es mir endlich doch, drei Neger, die in einem Kanot gekommen waren, zu bewegen, zu mir an Bord zu steigen. Sie hatten einen Elefantenzahn zu verhandeln, aber in ihren scheuen Blicken erriet ich die Angst und den Zweifel, ob sie bei mir auch sicher sein würden. Nun wollte es der Zufall, daß ich einen etwas närrischen Matrosen im Boote hatte, der sich den Spaß machte, einen von unseren Gästen um den Leib zu fassen und ihn auf die schwarzen Lenden zu klatschen. Allein dies Übermaß von guter Laune brachte einen so plötzlichen und heftigen Schreck über sie alle, daß sie sich kopfüber in ihr Kanot stürzten und eiligst davonmachten, ohne ihres Elefantenzahnes zu gedenken, den sie in unseren Händen zurückließen. In einiger Entfernung hielten sie indes an, huben die Hände in die Höhe und baten um Auslieferung ihres Eigentums. All mein Winken und gütliches Zureden zur Umkehr war vergeblich. Je ernstlicher mein Unwille über das so mutwillig gestörte gute Vernehmen war, desto weniger bedachte ich mich, nach einem tüchtigen Endchen Tau zu greifen und den Friedensstörer im Angesichte jener nachdrücklich abzustrafen. Diese Gerechtigkeitspflege gab ihnen wenigstens den Mut, sich, obwohl mit Zittern und Zagen, soweit zu nähern, daß wir ihnen ihren Zahn ins Kanot werfen konnten. Da sie es aber immer noch weigerten, sich uns näher anzuvertrauen, so ließen wir sie endlich in Frieden ihres Weges nach dem Lande ziehen. * * * * * Wenige Tage später befand ich mich vor der Mündung eines kleinen Flusses, genannt Rio de St. Paul, aus welchem zwei Neger in einem Kanot zu mir herankamen, um mir den Kauf von zwei Sklaven und einer Kackebobe (junge Sklavin, die noch nicht Mutter geworden) anzubieten, die sie daheim bewahrten und wohlfeilen Preises loszuschlagen gedächten. Doch war die Bedingung, daß ich mit dem Boote zu ihnen in den Strom kommen mußte, weil sie mit ihren Nachbarn am anderen Ufer in offener Fehde begriffen wären, die sie sonst mit ihrer Ware nicht ungehindert passieren lassen möchten. Wie mißlich mir auch dieser Antrag deuchte, so überwog doch endlich die Betrachtung, daß ich bereits seit mehreren Tagen zu gar keinem Handel hatte kommen können und daß hier schon einmal etwas gewagt sein wolle. Nachdem ich also meine kleinen Pöller geladen, die Gewehre zur Hand genommen und mich in gehörige Verfassung gesetzt hatte, ruderte ich getrost auf den Ausfluß zu, während die beiden Schwarzen bei mir im Fahrzeuge verblieben. Ein paar hundert Klafter mochte ich stromaufwärts gekommen sein, wo ich beide Ufer dicht mit Gebüsch verwachsen fand und der Fluß selbst eine Krümmung machte, als ich es unter solchen Umständen doch für ratsam hielt, hier vor Anker zu gehen, wie sehr meine neuen Begleiter auch in mich drangen, noch weiter hinauf bis an ihre Heimat zu fahren. Da ich dies aber beharrlich weigerte, gingen sie in ihrem Kanot ab und kamen mir aus dem Gesichte. Inzwischen verging wohl noch eine Stunde, die ich in immer gespannterer Erwartung zubrachte, als plötzlich ein Schuß fiel und gleich darauf ein gewaltiger Lärm sich erhob. Hierdurch mit Recht beunruhigt, ließ ich augenblicklich das Bootsanker aus dem Grunde reißen, das Fahrzeug seewärts umwenden, und begann das Weite zu suchen. Gleichzeitig stürzte auch einer von jenen beiden Negern vom Ufer herwärts in den Strom, schwamm zu uns ans Boot und verlangte aufgenommen zu werden, indem er immerfort schrie: »Sie sind da! Sie sind da! und meinen Bruder haben sie schon in ihrer Gewalt!« Kaum hatte ich indes die Strommündung erreicht und die Brandung hinter mir, so füllte sich auch das Seeufer mit einer großen Anzahl von schwarzen Verfolgern, die mir eine Menge von Kugeln und Pfeilen nachschickten, jedoch ohne jemand von uns zu treffen, wogegen aber unsere Segel verschiedene Schüsse empfingen. So kam ich also noch leidlich gut aus einem Abenteuer davon, das mir und allen im Boote den elendesten Tod hätte bringen können, wenn ich nur noch eine einzige Minute gezögert hätte, an meinen Rückweg zu denken. Was aber nun mit unserem neuen Bootskameraden beginnen? -- Wäre es auch nach den holländischen Gesetzen nicht bei Lebensstrafe verboten, öffentlichen oder heimlichen Menschenraub zu begehen, so hätte ich mich doch nimmermehr entschließen können, sein Zutrauen so schändlich zu mißbrauchen und mich für den verfehlten Handel an seine schwarze Haut zu halten. Nachdem ich also noch etwa eine halbe Meile längs dem Strande gesegelt war, gab ich ihm seinen Freipaß und ließ ihn wieder nach dem Lande schwimmen, wo der arme Teufel hoffentlich in Sicherheit gelangte. Doch ehe ich noch ganz außerhalb des Bereiches unserer Widersacher kam, bemerkte ich mit Verwunderung, daß das Boot weder gehörig steuern, noch so rasch von der Stelle wollte, als es seiner Besegelung nach gesollt hätte. In der Meinung, daß sich Kraut oder Strauchwerk am Kiel verfangen und das Steuerruder behindert habe, lehnte ich mich, soweit wie möglich, über Bord, um die Seiten und den Boden des Fahrzeugs unterhalb des Wassers zu untersuchen. Da fand ich denn, daß sich Tausende von Neunaugen festgesogen hatten, die sich in dem süßen Stromwasser befunden und mit unseren Feinden gemeinschaftliche Sache gemacht zu haben schienen, um uns dort zurückzuhalten. Da alles losreißen mit den Händen nicht genügte, uns von diesem Ungeziefer zu befreien, so zogen wir endlich einige Taue unter dem Boote durch, womit wir die Tiere allmählich abstreiften. Während ich nun meinen Verkehr bald mit mehr bald mit weniger Glück an der Küste fortsetzte und mich dabei immer weiter vom Schiffe entfernte, begann mir allmählich das frische Wasser zu mangeln, ohne daß ich dessen am Lande wieder hätte habhaft werden können. Es schien mir demnach geraten, mich wieder nach dem Schiffe hinzuwenden; gleichwohl aber fand ich in der Zwischenzeit von dreizehn Tagen, samt meinen Gefährten und den paar erhandelten Negern, Gelegenheit, die steigenden Schrecknisse eines unauslöschlichen Durstes unter diesem glühenden Himmel zu erproben. Wer es nicht selbst erfahren hat, ist durchaus unfähig, sich dieses Elend in seiner ganzen Größe vorzustellen. Mit dem Mangel an frischem Wasser wurden uns auch unsere trockenen Lebensvorräte an Erbsen, Graupen usw. unbrauchbar, denn mit Seewasser gekocht, blieben sie hart und waren zugleich von so bitterem Geschmack, daß sie stets wie das heftigste Brechmittel wirkten. Ebensowenig konnten wir unser Pökelfleisch ungewässert kochen und verzehren, ohne unseren grausamen Durst noch zu steigern, und selbst unseren trockenen Zwieback vermochten wir unaufgeweicht nicht durch den ausgedörrten Hals zu würgen. In diesem Drangsal erinnerte ich mich, gehört zu haben, daß der sparsame Genuß des Branntweins in solchen Fällen ein erprobtes Mittel zur Linderung des Durstes darbiete. Allein die kleine Probe, die wir damit anstellten, bekam uns gar übel, denn die Hitze dieses Getränkes trieb uns so viel Galle in den Magen, daß wir selbst den Mund beständig voll davon hatten und darüber zum Sterben erkrankten. Trotz meiner von jeher eisernen Natur befand ich mich am elendesten unter allen und lag fast regungslos auf dem Verdeck. Nur unsere Sklaven schienen im ganzen von dieser Not wenig angefochten zu werden. In der Tat aber war es bei uns aufs Höchste gestiegen, als wir in der Ferne ein Segel erblickten und um so freudiger darauf lossteuerten, da wir es bald für ein holländisches erkannten. Wir klagten dem Kapitän unser Elend und baten um Abhilfe, erhielten aber den schlechten Trost, daß es ihm selbst an frischem Wasser fehle, doch wolle er unserem dringendsten Bedürfnisse abhelfen; und so schickte er uns wirklich ein Fäßchen, das vielleicht ein halb Anker halten mochte, herüber. Mit einer Begierde, die keine Beschreibung zuläßt, setzte ich sofort das Gefäß an den Mund, und so wohl ward mir dabei, daß ich fortgetrunken haben würde, bis ich auf der Stelle den Tod davon gehabt, wenn meine Leute ebenso ungeduldig es mir nicht weggerissen hätten. Als nun aber auch einer nach dem anderen sich gütlich getan, war das Wasser schier alle geworden. Die Leute, welche es uns in ihrer Schaluppe gebracht hatten und Zeugen von diesem Auftritte waren, konnten des Erstaunens über unsere ausgedörrten Kehlen und unser Elend kein Ende finden. Um so williger erfüllten sie meine Bitte, ihren Kapitän um noch einigen Vorrat anzugehen. Ihre Verwendung war auch nicht ohne Erfolg: es ward uns ein zweites halbes Ankerfäßchen zugestanden. Solchergestalt versehen, gönnten wir uns eine neue Erquickung, indem wir uns sofort nicht nur einen Kaffee bereiteten, sondern auch einen Kessel mit Graupengrütze zum Feuer brachten, um endlich wieder einmal eine ordentliche warme Speise zu genießen. Das gleiche wiederholten wir am nächstfolgenden Tage, aber mit dem dritten war nun auch wieder unsere Labequelle versiegt, und das vorige Fasten wäre wieder an die Tagesordnung getreten, wenn wir nicht noch des nämlichen Tages ein Kanot mit zwei Negern angetroffen hätten, mit denen ich mich über einen kleinen Wassertransport vom Lande verständigte. Allein die Burschen merkten, daß wir uns in Verlegenheit befanden, und forderten für die Lieferung von zwei Fäßchen, die ich ihnen zeigte, und deren jedes etwa dreißig Quart enthalten mochte, einen so ungeheuern Preis an Waren, daß wir dafür in Europa den köstlichsten Wein hätten kaufen können. Drei Tage später erreichten wir unser längst ersehntes Schiff, das bei Kap la How kreuzte; aber unsere diesmalige Fahrt, die gleichwohl bis in die fünfte Woche gewährt hatte, war in jedem Betracht ungünstig ausgefallen, denn wir brachten nur drei Sklaven und fünf Elefantenzähne mit. Glücklicher war unter der Zeit das Schiff selbst in seinem Handel gewesen. * * * * * Während der acht Tage, die ich am Borde verweilte, um mich, mit Hoffnung besseren Erfolgs, auf eine neue Bootsreise anzuschicken, kam ein Schiff unter französischer Flagge und als Fregatte gebaut in unseren Gesichtskreis, welches von Norden nach Süden längs der Küste steuerte. Sogleich auch gab mir mein Kapitän den Auftrag, mit der Schaluppe hinüberzusegeln und nach neuen Zeitungen über Krieg und Frieden in Europa nachzufragen, damit wir, falls unsere Nation seit unserer Abfahrt irgend in Krieg verwickelt worden wäre, unsere Maßregeln desto sicherer danach nehmen könnten. Den schon genannten französischen Matrosen Josef nahm ich mit als Dolmetscher. Dort angelangt, fand ich eine Menge von Schiffsoffizieren (oder mochten es Passagiere in Uniform sein) vor, die meine Begrüßung mit Höflichkeit erwiderten und ebenso auch meine Fragen über ihren Kurs und wie lange sie bereits in See gewesen, beantworteten. Indem ich auf diese Weise vernahm, daß sie vor etwa vier Wochen von Havre de Grace in See gegangen, fiel mir augenblicklich jenes von seiner Mannschaft verlassene Schiff ein, welches wir im vorigen Oktober in der spanischen See angetroffen und besetzt hatten und welches gleichfalls von jenem Hafen nach den Antillen bestimmt gewesen. Ich trug demnach meinem Dolmetscher auf, die Herren zu fragen, ob und was ihnen von diesem Schiffe bewußt sein möchte? Schon an ihren verwunderten Gesichtern konnte ich es spüren, daß sie mit diesem Ereignisse bereits bekannt sein müßten, und nun erfuhr ich von ihnen folgende Umstände, die mich dem völligen Aufschlusse jener rätselhaften Begebenheit um manches näher führten. Das Schiff war, nachdem es uns so plötzlich von der Seite verschwunden, wider all unser Hoffen glücklich in Rotterdam angekommen, wo man aus den vorgefundenen Papieren sofort ersehen hatte, daß es von Havre de Grace ausgefahren gewesen. Diesem zufolge hatten die holländischen Behörden sowohl an den Handelsstand in jenem französischen Hafen ein Zirkulär erlassen, als durch die Zeitungen öffentlich bekannt gemacht: Kapitän Johann Harmel mit dem Schiffe Christina von Rotterdam habe in den spanischen Gewässern ein französisches Schiff menschenleer umhertreibend angetroffen, mit Mannschaft besetzt und nach Holland führen lassen. Bei näherer Untersuchung sei befunden worden, daß hinten unterhalb Wassers zwei Löcher durch das Schiff gebohrt gewesen, indem der dazu gebrauchte Bohrer noch daneben gelegen. Die stumpfe Schneide desselben habe jedoch verursacht, daß die Späne von der äußeren Plankenhaut nicht scharf abgeschnitten worden, sich in die Öffnung zurückgelegt, voll Wasser gesogen und dadurch verhindert hätten, daß dieses habe eindringen und das Schiff zum Sinken bringen können. Nicht minder wunderbar habe eingedrungene Nässe das Fortglimmen einer schon brennenden, zehn Fuß langen Lunte gewehrt, deren entgegengesetztes Ende zu einem Pulverfasse geleitet worden. Aus beiden frevelhaften Versuchen aber gehe deutlich hervor, daß das Schiff mutwillig und ohne Not verlassen worden und entweder habe sinken oder in die Luft fliegen sollen. Während nun durch diese Kundmachungen die Reeder des Schiffes aufgefordert worden, sich zu ihrem Eigentume zu melden, hatte auch der französische Kapitän desselben von Lissabon aus an sie nach Havre de Grace geschrieben: sein Schiff sei im Meerbusen von Biscaya so leck geworden, daß er befürchtet, jeden Augenblick sinken zu müssen, als zum Glück ein schwedischer Ostindienfahrer in seine Nähe gekommen, der sich auf sein dringendes Bitten habe bewegen lassen, ihn und die übrige Mannschaft zu ihrer aller Lebensrettung an seinen Bord abzuholen. Dieser sei darauf zu Lissabon angekehrt und habe sie sämtlich dort ans Land gesetzt. Er habe nicht unterlassen, hier mit seinen Leuten alsogleich eine gerichtliche eidliche Erklärung abzulegen, die er zugleich mit einsende. Beide Nachrichten, welche zu der nämlichen Zeit in Umlauf kamen, ließen es in ihrer Zusammenstellung keinen Augenblick zweifelhaft, daß der französische Kapitän ein abgefeimter Betrüger gewesen, und auch die darauf angestellte gerichtliche Untersuchung ergab, daß er mit zwei Mit-Reedern des Schiffs unter einer Decke gesteckt, indem sie dasselbe zu gleicher Zeit in London, Amsterdam und Hamburg für große Summen versichern ließen. Diese sahen nun ihrer gerechten Strafe entgegen; ihr Mitschuldiger aber (wahrscheinlich unter der Hand von ihnen selbst gewarnt) hatte es fürs Klügste gefunden, sich in Lissabon unsichtbar zu machen, ohne wieder nach seiner Heimat zu verlangen. Für unser Schiffsvolk ward ich, als ich mit diesen Nachrichten von der glücklichen Bergung unserer schon verloren gegebenen Prise wieder an Bord kehrte, ein wahrer Freudenbote: denn nun durfte jeder auf seinen Anteil an der Prämie hoffen. Es begann sofort ein Handel über den anderen wegen dieser zu erwartenden Prisen-Gelder. Einige verkauften ihr Anrecht für wenige Flaschen Branntwein, andere für etliche Pfund Tabak, ohne sich um die wahrscheinliche Übervorteilung zu kümmern. * * * * * Nach Verlauf einiger Tage rüstete ich mein Boot zu einer neuen dritten Handelsfahrt zu; und diesmal durfte ich auch für meinen Privatverkehr, im Einkauf von Staubgold, gewisseren Vorteil hoffen, da wir uns nunmehr im Angesichte der sogenannten »Goldküste« befanden. So verschwenderisch hat die Natur hier ihr edelstes Metall verbreitet, daß selbst der Seesand dessen in hinreichender Menge mit sich führt, um die Mühe des Einsammelns zu vergüten. Wenn daher vormittags die Sonne hoch genug gestiegen ist, um den nackten Negern die Lufttemperatur behaglich zu machen, finden sie sich zu Hunderten am Strande ein. Dann setzen sie sich dicht neben dem Ablauf der Wellen ins Wasser, und jeder hält eine tiefe hölzerne Schüssel (deren die Schiffe ihnen als Handelsware zuführen) vor sich zwischen den Knien, nachdem er sie zuvor voll goldhaltigen Sandes geschöpft. Sie wissen diese Gefäße so geschickt zu drehen, daß jede anlaufende Welle darüber hinspült und etwas von dem leichteren Sande über den Rand mit sich fortschwemmt, während das Metall sich vermöge seiner natürlichen Schwere tiefer zu Boden senkt. Dies wird so lange wiederholt, bis der Sand beinahe gänzlich verschwunden ist und das reine Staubgold, kaum noch mit einigen fremden Körnern untermischt, sichtbar geworden. Die Neger wissen es sodann gar geschickt und behende in ihre kleinen Dosen aufzufassen, die wir ihnen gleichfalls zum Verkaufe bringen. Auf diese Weise habe ich wohl selbst zum öftern gesehen, daß manche binnen acht bis zehn Stunden den Wert von sechs bis zwölf und mehr holländischen Stübern zuwege brachten. Noch weiß ich aus den deshalb angestellten Erkundigungen, daß sie auch weiter landeinwärts mit dem dort befindlichen goldhaltigen Kiessande auf eine ähnliche Art verfahren, indem sie diese Erdklumpen in die Nähe eines Gewässers tragen und Erde, Sand und Kies so lange durcheinander rühren und ausspülen, bis sie zu dem nämlichen Erfolg gelangen. Hier aber finden sich auch nicht selten bedeutendere Stückchen Goldes, selbst von der Größe wie unser grober Seegries. Die Neger nennen es »heiliges Gold«, durchbohren es, reihen es auf Fäden und schmücken mit diesen kostbaren Schnüren Hals, Arme und Beine. In solchem stattlichen Putze zeigen sie sich gern auf den Schiffen, und so trägt oft ein einziger einen Wert von mehr als tausend Talern am Leibe. Stellen sie ihr gewonnenes Gold auf den europäischen Fahrzeugen zum Kaufe, so werden ihnen zuvor die Tauschwaren vorgelegt und über deren Wert eine Übereinkunft getroffen. Dieser Wert wird in »Bontjes« bestimmt, oder Stückchen Goldes, etwa eine Erbse schwer und zu sechs Stüber Geldwert zu berechnen. Acht Bontjes betragen ein Entis oder einen Taler holländisch, und zehn Entis ein Lot, dessen Wert zu vierundzwanzig holländischen Gulden oder nach Unzen zu zweiundvierzig Gulden angeschlagen wird. Die Neger ihrerseits bedienen sich ähnlicher Gewichte, welche aber gegen die holländischen jedesmal zu kurz kommen. Hier geht nun das Streiten und Zanken an. Immer noch fehlt etwas -- noch etwas, und so weiter, bis man denn zuletzt unter Zanken und Streiten doch einig wird. Betrogen aber werden die Neger endlich doch immer, wie schlau sie es auch anfangen mögen! Mancher Weiße läßt sich sogar absichtlich die Nägel an den Fingern lang wachsen, rührt damit in dem Staubgolde unter dem Vorwande, als werde er noch gelben Sand unter den Metallkörnchen gewahr, umher, und kraut sich dann unmittelbar darauf mit den Nägeln in den Haaren, um die aufgefischte Beute dort abzusetzen. Haben sich endlich die Verkäufer entfernt, so kämmt er sein struppiges Haar mit einem engen Kamme wohl durch und bringt dadurch zuweilen zwei und noch mehr Bontjes Goldstaub vom Kopfe. Niemand rechnet sich diese Hinterlist zum Vorwurf. Es heißt dann immer: »Nun, was ist's mehr? Ist's doch nur ein Neger, der angeführt wird!« Nachdem ich endlich eines Morgens meine Fahrt wirklich angetreten hatte und etwa drei Meilen vom Schiffe entfernt war, kam mir noch an dem nämlichen Nachmittage ein kleines englisches Schiff zu Gesichte, das ungewöhnlich nahe am Strande vor Anker lag, während ein Teil der Segel und des Takelwerks sich in größter Unordnung befand und wild um die Masten peitschte. Indem ich meine Begleiter auf diese in solcher Lage unbegreifliche Nachlässigkeit aufmerksam machte, beschloß ich, mich diesem Fahrzeuge zu nähern, ob ihm vielleicht Hilfe vonnöten sein möchte. Bald kam ich im Heransegeln so dicht an seine Seite, daß ich ihm zurufen konnte: »Warum er sich in diese gefährliche Nähe an einem unsichern Strande gelegt habe?« War ich bereits verwundert, so ward ich es noch vielmehr, als sich kein einziger Weißer am Borde blicken ließ, dagegen aber wohl zwanzig bis dreißig Neger auf dem Verdeck herumstanden und -gingen. Vor allem zeichnete sich ein Kerl auf dem Hinterteile, mit einem blauen Überrocke bekleidet, durch seine Keckheit aus, indem er ein kurzes weitmündiges Schießgewehr (wir nennen es eine Donnerbüchse) in der Hand führte und auf uns anlegte. Ein anderer stand vorn mit einer weißen Weste ohne Ärmel und lag mit seinem Gewehre ebenfalls im Anschlage auf uns. Auch die übrigen alle längs dem Borde winkten mit den Händen abwärts und schrien aus vollem Halse: Go way! Go way (Packt euch!) Was war natürlicher zu glauben, als daß dies Schiff soeben in die Gewalt der Schwarzen geraten, welche die englische Mannschaft ermordet hätten und im Begriff ständen, ihre Beute auszuplündern. Hier war es also allerdings nicht ratsam, lange zu verweilen. Ich steuerte demnach ab gegen den Wind: doch indem ich mich außer der Schußweite sah, fing ich an zu überlegen, daß es nicht gar ehrenvoll für uns aussehen würde, die schwarzen Räuber ihr Wesen so ganz ungestört treiben zu lassen. Ich beriet mich mit meinen Leuten, ob nicht ein entschlossener Angriff auf die Brut zu wagen sein möchte? Denn wenn wir gleich mit einem tüchtigen Feuer auf sie anrückten, so war ich der Meinung, daß die Kerle, da sie so dicht am Lande lagen, bald über Bord springen und uns das Schiff als gute Prise überlassen würden. Dieser Vorschlag mit so glänzender Aussicht auf Gewinn verbunden gewann sich alsobald ihren ungeteilten Beifall. Um mir aber jede künftige Verantwortung und üble Nachrede zu ersparen, fuhr ich fort: »Ihr habt aber auch gesehen, daß wenigstens zwei von ihnen Schießgewehre führen und es sicherlich auch gebrauchen werden, bevor sie uns das Feld räumen. Sollte nun einer oder der andere von uns dabei zu Schaden kommen, so sage niemand, ich hätte ihn zu dem Unternehmen gezwungen. Hier bedarf es durchaus eines freiwilligen Entschlusses. Also: ja oder nein?« Ihr kaltblütiges »Ja« weckte das glimmende Feuer in mir zur vollen lichten Flamme. -- »Wir gehen drauf los und jagen die schwarzen Bestien durch ein Knopfloch?« fragte ich noch lauter und heftiger. -- »Ja, das wollen wir!« scholl mir zur Antwort entgegen. -- »Nun denn! Immer drauf, in Gottes Namen!« Sofort sprang ich nun hinten in die Luke, ergriff ein kleines Pulverfaß, das sechzehn Pfund enthielt, trat ihm hastig mit einem Fußstoße den Boden ein, füllte meinen Hut mit Pulver, eilte damit aufs Deck, lud meine sechs Böller allein, setzte auf jede Ladung zwei Kugeln und ließ ein paar angezündete Lunten in Bereitschaft halten. Den besten und zuverlässigsten Mann setzte ich ans Ruder mit dem Befehl, daß er von vorn auf das Schiff zusteuern und dann längs dem Borde hinwegstreifen sollte. Das Abfeuern meines Geschützes behielt ich mir selbst vor, um meines Zieles desto sicherer nicht zu fehlen, wogegen meine übrigen Leute im rechten Augenblicke mit dem Handgewehre ihr Bestes tun sollten. Wie gesagt, so geschehen! Wir steuerten so dicht auf die erhoffte Prise los, daß wir ihren Bord im Vorüberfahren mit einem Bootshaken hätten entern können. Währenddem gab ich zugleich aus all meinen vier Böllern Feuer, hatte aber den Schreck, zu sehen, wie sie samt und sonders zersprangen, weil ich sie in meinem Eifer stark überladen hatte. Was mich jedoch auf der Stelle tröstete, indem wir nun hinter das Schiff kamen, war die gelungene Frucht meines Knallens -- der Anblick einer guten Anzahl schwarzer Köpfe im Wasser, die bereits eifrig dem Lande zuschwammen. Jetzt rief ich meinen Leuten zu: »Das Boot umgelegt! Nun dran! Nun geentert! Handgewehr aufs Deck!« -- Ich selbst sprang wiederum hinten in die Luke hinab, um die Gewehre, die uns früher hinderlich gewesen wären, schnell hervorzulangen: aber da sprudelte mir von unten ein mächtiger Wasserstrahl aus dem Boden des Fahrzeuges entgegen. Es war nicht anders zu erklären, als daß, während der Pulverdampf alles erfüllte, im Vorüberfahren jener Kerl mit der Donnerbüchse vom höheren Hinterteile herab gerade in die offene Luke gehalten und den Boden so unglücklich durchschossen haben mußte. Ich trat augenblicklich mit dem Fuße auf das Loch und schrie nach irgendeinem Kleidungsstücke, um davon einen Pfropfen zu drehen und diesen in oder auf die Öffnung zu stopfen. Meine Leute aber standen alle wie bedonnert, ohne meine Meinung zu fassen. Endlich riß ich mir selbst das Hemd vom Leibe, wickelte es so fest zusammen als mir möglich war und suchte dem Unheil vorläufig damit abzuhelfen. Doch wie ich nun auf das Deck kam, nahm ich wahr, daß das Boot fast bis zum Sinken tief lag und das eingedrungene Wasser es binnen der kurzen Zeit schier bis oben erfüllt hatte. Noch empfindlicher aber ward mir dies Unglück in der Betrachtung, daß ich soeben erst mein Schiff verlassen hatte und nun mein noch vollständiger Vorrat von Handelswaren durchnäßt und nur zu gewiß verdorben worden. An die Fortsetzung des Gefechts war unter diesen Umständen nicht mehr zu denken, und alle unsere schon erlangten Vorteile mußten aufgegeben werden. Ich entfernte mich also mit großem Schaden von dem Kampfplatze. Dreiviertel Meilen weiter von hier, unter dem Winde, nahm ich ein Schiff vor Anker wahr, auf welches ich zusegelte, bis ich neben ihm gleichfalls den Anker fallen ließ, um mein eingedrungenes Wasser auszupumpen. Der Kapitän jenes Schiffes kam in seiner Schaluppe zu mir, weil er wahrgenommen, daß ich bei jenem Fahrzeuge geschossen und zu wissen wünschte, was dies zu bedeuten gehabt. -- Mein Bericht setzte ihn ebenso sehr in Erstaunen, als er mir sein Beileid bezeigte, denn ich hatte soeben die unerfreuliche Entdeckung gemacht, daß meine Waren nicht nur sämtlich unter Wasser gelegen, sondern daß auch die Pulverfässer durch das Schlingern des Bootes ihren Inhalt dem Wasser mitgeteilt und all meine Zeugwaren völlig schwarz gefärbt hatten. Der Kapitän bemerkte, daß er das englische Fahrzeug bereits seit drei Tagen dort habe liegen sehen. Gegen den Wind habe er nicht heransteuern können; und da auch sein Boot gerade auf einer Handelsreise abwesend sei, so habe er bisher einen untätigen Zuschauer abgeben müssen. Er wolle mir aber mein Boot in möglichst kurzer Zeit wieder dicht machen helfen, sich persönlich mit mir vereinigen, noch etwa zehn oder zwanzig Köpfe von seinen Leuten mit zu Hilfe nehmen, und das englische Schiff mit mir gemeinschaftlich angreifen und nehmen. Allein ich hatte in dem Augenblicke den Kopf zu voll von meinem Unglücke. Ich schlug ihm daher meine Teilnahme an der Fortsetzung dieses Abenteuers ab; und wahrscheinlich wäre es auch ebenso fruchtlos abgelaufen, denn schon am nächstfolgenden Morgen sahen wir das englische Schiff völlig am Strande liegen, wohin es die Schwarzen hatten treiben lassen. Für mich blieb nun kein anderer Rat, als mich wieder nach unserer Christina zu wenden und eine neue Ausrüstung zu verlangen. Indes mag sich der Leser selbst eine Vorstellung davon machen, mit welch garstigem Willkommen ich dort, nach Abstattung meines Berichtes, von meinem Kapitän empfangen wurde, der das Unglück hatte, fast beständig betrunken zu sein. Er wollte mich totstechen, totschießen, oder mir sonst auf eine neue, noch unerhörte Manier den Garaus machen. Da ich nun meinerseits des Glaubens war, daß ich vollkommen recht und pflichtmäßig gehandelt, und ich den unglücklichen Zufall, der hier den Ausschlag gegeben, nicht verantworten könnte, so mochte ich auch nicht demütig zu Kreuze kriechen; und so gab es nun noch drei Wochen lang zwischen uns nichts als täglichen Verdruß (denn im Ärger sprach mein Gegner nur um so fleißiger der Flasche zu und ward dann wie ein tolles Tier), bis wir endlich vor St. George de la Mina anlangten, um dort unsern letzten Handel abzuschließen. Hier fand ich den Gouverneur Peter Wortmann noch von den nämlichen wohlwollenden Gesinnungen gegen mich erfüllt, wie ich ihn vormals verlassen hatte. Ich klagte ihm bei Gelegenheit mein ganzes Unglück und meine Mißhelligkeit mit dem Kapitän, der mir alle Ruhe des Lebens verbitterte. Er dagegen hieß mich guten Mutes sein, indem er ehestens den hohen Rat versammeln wolle, wo ich volle Freiheit finden würde, mein Verfahren zu verteidigen. Dies geschah auch wirklich bald nachher in einer Sitzung, wozu außer den ordentlichen Räten noch fünf holländische Schiffskapitäne, die dort eben mit ihren Schiffen auf der Reede lagen, mit hinzugezogen wurden. Ich erklärte vor dieser Versammlung, unter dem Vorsitze des Gouverneurs und im Beisein Kapitän Harmels, den ganzen Verlauf der Sache mit dem Angriffe auf das englische Fahrzeug; daß ich, was ich getan, zugunsten unseres Schiffes und unserer Leute unternommen, welche, wenn die Besitznahme geglückt wäre, nach den Seerechten zwei Drittel der Ladung als Bergelohn zu fordern berechtigt gewesen sein würden. Ob mein Angriff ungeschickt geleitet worden und ob ich ohne den empfangenen Schuß mein Vorhaben nicht unfehlbar erreicht haben würde, überließ ich dem Gerichte zur einsichtsvollen Beurteilung. -- Die Folge dieser Verantwortung war, daß ich einstimmig und mit Ehren freigesprochen wurde. * * * * * Während unseres ferneren Verweilens vor diesem Platze kam eines Tages ein holländisches Schiff auf der Reede vor Anker, welches sofort auch die Notflagge wehen ließ und mehrere Notschüsse abfeuerte. Von allen anwesenden Schiffen konnte indes nichts zu etwaigem Beistande geschehen, da unsere sämtlichen Kapitäne eben mit den Schaluppen an Land gegangen waren und wir Steuerleute kein anderes Boot zu unserer Verfügung hatten. Doch sahen wir bald, daß vom Fort aus ein Kanot mit vier Negern abstieß, eiligst nach dem notleidenden Schiffe hinruderte und auch nach Verlauf einer Stunde von dort wieder zurückkehrte. Zwei Stunden später kam dies nämliche Kanot, vom Lande aus, wieder zum Vorschein und geradeswegs zu mir. Es brachte mir den schriftlichen Befehl des Gouverneurs, mit diesen Negern zu ihm an Land zu fahren. Ich befolgte diese Weisung, ohne mir's einfallen zu lassen, daß meinem Kapitän hiervon nichts gesagt worden. Indem ich aber in den großen Saal trat, fand ich die nämliche Versammlung, vor welcher ich unlängst zu Gericht gestanden, und auch den Kapitän Harmel an der Tafel bei einem fröhlichen Mittagsmahle sitzen. Kaum aber faßte mich der letztere ins Auge, so sprang er auf und fragte mich in rauhem Tone: was ich am Lande zu schaffen hätte? -- Statt der Antwort überreichte ich ihm das von Sr. Edelheiten dem Gouverneur erhaltene Billett und trat währenddessen hinter den Stuhl des letzteren, um zu fragen, was zu seinen Befehlen stände? »Da ist,« hub dieser an, indem er aufstand und sich zu mir wandte, »soeben der Kapitän Santleven von Vliessingen auf der Reede angelangt und befindet sich im äußersten Drangsal. Er selbst liegt krank im Bette; seine Steuerleute sind tot; er hat daneben beinahe hundert Sklaven an Bord, und seine Not und Verlegenheit ist dermaßen groß, daß er hat eilen müssen, diese Station zu erreichen, um von den hier liegenden Schiffen einen Steuermann zu erlangen, der die Führung des Schiffes übernehmen möchte. Ich und die übrigen Herren Kapitäne hier wünschten ihm darin, wie billig, zu willfahren und haben Euch, mein lieber Nettelbeck, zu diesem Posten ersehen.« Bevor noch der Gouverneur seinen Antrag geendigt hatte, begann schon mein Kapitän, ihn unterbrechend, dagegen aus allen Kräften zu protestieren, wie sehr auch die übrigen Anwesenden bemüht waren, ihn davon zurückzuhalten. Zuletzt wandte er sich ganz wütend gegen mich und gebot mir: »Nettelbeck, Ihr verfügt Euch stehenden Fußes auf mein Schiff zurück und verseht den Dienst am Bord. Ich will und befehl' es!« -- Dem mußte allerdings gehorcht werden! Ich wandte mich ruhig um und ging zum Saale hinaus. Kaum war ich aus der Türe, so hörte ich etwas hinter mir drein schreiten. Es war einer von den tafelnden Kapitänen, der aufgesprungen war, mich hastig an der Hand ergriff und mich fragte: »Ich bitte Euch um alles -- Ihr heißt _Nettelbeck_?« -- Ich bejahte; und nun fuhr jener noch angelegentlicher fort: »Und seid Ihr ein Kolberger? Wohnt nicht Euer Vater dort am Markte? und habt Ihr nicht eine Schwester, die an einem Fuße hinkt?« -- Ich bejahte wiederum, aber mit zunehmender Verwunderung, teils über diese genaue Kenntnis meiner Familie, teils über die Absicht all dieser Fragen. »Nun denn,« setzte er mit gleichem Feuer hinzu, »so müßt Ihr ja auch einen Bruder in Königsberg haben, der ein Schiff für eigene Rechnung führt?« -- »Der werde ich wohl selbst gewesen sein,« war meine Antwort. -- »Wie? Nicht möglich! Ihr selbst? Nun denn, um so weniger ...« unterbrach er sich selbst, hielt mich noch fester und zog mich stürmisch wieder in das eben verlassene Zimmer zurück. Ich wußte am allerwenigsten, was dies alles zu bedeuten haben könnte. Sein nächstes war nun, daß er sich an den Kapitän Harmel wandte, ihn freundlich umfing, und ihn schmeichelnd zuredete: »Nicht wahr, lieber alter Freund, Ihr gebt meinem und unser aller Drängen eine gute Statt, und überlaßt diesen wackeren Mann an Santleven? Denn ich will's Euch nur sagen: Für alles, was Nettelbeck heißt, laß ich Leib und Leben; und ich will Euch für ihn einen meiner eigenen Steuerleute und einen befahrenen Matrosen obenein, der es auch alle Tage werden könnte, an Bord schicken. Topp?« -- Auch die andern insgesamt umringten den zornigen Menschen und redeten so lange auf ihn ein, bis er sich jede Ausflucht abgeschnitten sah, und endlich mir halb über die Achsel entgegenbrummte: »So geht denn meinetwegen zum Teufel!« -- Das war und blieb mein Abschied! Dagegen drang nun der Mann, der mir so das Wort geredet, in mich, jetzt auch sofort mit ihm zu Kapitän Santleven an Bord zu gehen, wohin er mich in seiner Schaluppe bringen wolle. Dies geschah auch, und indem wir nun vom Strande abstießen, konnte ich mich der Frage nicht enthalten, woher er eine so genaue Kenntnis meiner Familie habe, und wie er überhaupt dazu komme, einen so warmen und freundschaftlichen Anteil an mir zu nehmen. »Nun,« erwiderte er lächelnd, »das wird Euch weiter nicht wunder nehmen, wenn Ihr hören werdet, was ich Euch zu erzählen habe. Im Jahre 1764 fuhr ich als Steuermann auf einem holländischen Schiffe und hatte zwischen Weihnachten und Neujahr das Mißgeschick, eine Meile von Kolberg zu stranden und kaum das nackte Leben zu bergen. Des nächsten Tages führte Euern Vater der Zufall in das Dorf und die armselige Bauernhütte, wohin ich und meine übrigen Unglücksgefährten uns kümmerlich geflüchtet hatten. Die hellen Tränen traten ihm bei unserm Anblicke ins Auge. Insonderheit richtete er seine Aufmerksamkeit auf mich, fragte mich über meine Umstände aus und erbot sich auf der Stelle edelmütig, mich, wenn ich wolle, mit nach Kolberg zu nehmen und für mein weiteres Unterkommen zu sorgen. Er habe auch zwei Söhne in der See, und Gott wisse, wo und wie auch _sie_ die Hilfe mitleidiger Seelen bedürfen könnten. Vorderhand könne er zwar nur mich allein mitnehmen, allein auch für die Rückbleibenden solle baldigst Rat geschafft werden. »So kam ich,« fuhr er fort, »nach Kolberg in Euer väterliches Haus, wo ich an Eures Vaters, Mutter und Schwester Seite gegessen und getrunken, alle meine Notdurft empfangen und tausendfache Liebe und Güte genossen habe. Eure Schwester versorgte mich mit Wäsche; meine kleinsten Wünsche wurden erfüllt, und so erhielt ich von so liebreichen Händen meine volle Verpflegung bis über Ostern hinaus, wo sich endlich eine Schiffsgelegenheit fand, wieder nach der Heimat zurückzukehren. Aber auch da noch steckte mir Euer Vater einen holländischen Dukaten zum Reisegelde in die Hand, und hinter seinem Rücken tat Euere Mutter mit zwei preußischen harten Talern das nämliche. Oft genug erzählten mir beide von ihrem wackeren Sohne in Königsberg; und ich hinwiederum vertraute ihnen, daß ich kein Holländer, sondern ein preußisches Landeskind und aus Neuwarp in Vorpommern gebürtig sei, Karl Friedrich Mick heiße und mich aus Furcht vor dem Soldatendienste außer Landes begeben habe. Seit jenen Zeiten habe ich nun stets darauf gesonnen, wie ich es möglich machen wollte, so viel Liebe und Güte nach Würden zu vergelten, und hätte wohl nicht gedacht, daß sich mir dazu hier an der Küste von Afrika eine so erwünschte Gelegenheit auftun sollte. Wiewohl ich noch immer nicht begreife, was für ein widriges Schicksal Euch hierher führt und Euere blühenden Umstände so ganz verändert hat?« Die Antwort auf diese teilnehmende Frage mußte ich dem guten Manne für diesmal noch schuldig bleiben, da wir soeben am Bord des Kapitäns Sandleven anlangten. Diesen fanden wir, beim Eintritte in die Kajüte, bettlägerig und in elender Verfassung. Mein Begleiter stellte mich ihm, mit einer nachdrücklichen Empfehlung und Verbürgung, als denjenigen vor, der ihm in Führung seines Schiffes und seiner Geschäfte beirätig sein solle, und auf den er sich in allen Fällen verlassen könne. Der gute Mann streckte seine Arme nach mir aus, umfing mich inbrünstig und hieß mich von ganzem Herzen willkommen. Demnächst übergab er mir das völlige Kommando, ließ mich durch den Kapitän Mick dem Schiffsvolke vorstellen, gab mir die nötige Einsicht in seine Papiere und Geschäfte und war solchergestalt nach Möglichkeit behilflich, daß hier alles wieder mit einem neuen Geiste und Leben beseelt wurde. Mir selbst war nicht minder zumute, als sei ich aus der Hölle in den Himmel übergegangen. Bevor nun mein neuer Freund mich verließ, bemerkte ich ihm, daß ich auf der Christina noch eine sechsmonatige Gage zu fordern hätte; und er versprach, daß sie mir unverkürzt ausgezahlt werden sollte. Wirklich geschah dies auch gleich am nächsten Tage mittels einer Anweisung des Kapitäns Harmel auf zweihundertsechzehn Gulden holländisch an seine Schiffsreeder, die Herren Rochus und Kopstädt in Rotterdam. Ebenso holte ich meine Habseligkeiten aus dem alten in das neue Schiff ab, und war von diesem Augenblicke an in dem letzteren vollkommen einheimisch. * * * * * Nach gepflogener Beratschlagung mit meinem Kapitäne wandten wir das Schiff wiederum gegen die westlicher gelegenen Punkte, um unsere Ladung durch fortgesetzten Handel zu vervollständigen. Das beschäftigte uns bis in den September hinein, während welcher Zeit der gute Mann, zu meiner nicht geringen Freude, sich merklich erholte und endlich auch wieder auf dem Verdecke erscheinen konnte. Um so leichter ließ sich nun auch der Beschluß ausführen, daß ich mit dem Boote nach dem sechs Meilen von uns entfernten holländischen Forte Boutrou abgehen sollte, wohin wir mit dem Schiffe zu kommen, durch Wind und Strömung verhindert wurden, und wo sich gleichwohl vielleicht einiger Vorteil für unsern Verkehr beschaffen ließ. Auf dem Wege dahin erblickte ich ein Boot, das uns entgegensteuerte; und aus dieser Richtung sowohl, als aus andern Umständen erkannte ich leicht, daß es mit seinem Briefsacke nach St. George de la Mina zu kommen gedenke und zu einem kürzlich erst auf der Küste angelangten Schiffe gehören müsse. Dies machte mir Lust, mich ihm zu nähern und ihm seine mitgebrachten Neuigkeiten abzufragen. Kaum aber war das Gespräch angeknüpft, so erkannte ich in dem jenseitigen Führer, mit absonderlicher Verwunderung, den nämlichen Steuermann Peters, der uns in vorigem Herbste mit der besetzten französischen Prise so unerwartet und bei Nacht und Nebel davongegangen. Auch mein Gesicht ward ihm sofort kenntlich; er rief meinen Namen, und wir verloren keinen Augenblick, unsere Fahrzeuge aneinander zu befestigen, damit wir die tausend Fragen und Antworten, die uns beiderseits auf der Zunge schwebten, gegeneinander austauschen könnten. Daß er sich mit dem Schiffe glücklich nach Rotterdam hingefunden hatte, war mir, wie der geneigte Leser weiß, bereits im März durch die französische Fregatte zu Ohren gekommen. Allein wie er dies bei seinen eingeschränkten Kenntnissen vom Seewesen und ohne einen festen Punkt von Länge und Breite mit sich zu nehmen habe möglich machen können, wollte mir ebensowenig, als daß sein Verschwinden ein bloßes Werk des Zufalls gewesen sein sollte, einleuchten. Indes behauptete er doch, er habe, als es Tag geworden, uns und die Christina weder gesehen, noch wieder auffinden können, und sei also genötigt gewesen, seinen Kurs nach Gutdünken, gegen den englischen Kanal zu einzurichten. In dieser beibehaltenen Richtung sei er einige Tage später auf ein englisches Schiff gestoßen, bei welchem er sich wegen der Lage und Entfernung von Quessant befragt, aber von der Antwort wenig verstanden habe. Demnach sei er getrost bei seinem anfänglichen Kurs geblieben, bis ihm des nächstfolgenden Tages ein schwedisches Schiff die Auskunft erteilt, daß er Kap Landsend in Ostnordost 65 Meilen vor sich liegen habe; und dieser willkommenen Weisung nachsteuernd, habe er denn auch, bei günstigem Winde, diese Landspitze des dritten Tages zu Gesicht bekommen, von dort den Kanal hinaufgeleiert, ferner die flämischen Küsten möglichst in der Nähe behalten, und so des fünften Tages auch glücklich Goree und die Mündung der Maas erreicht. Der Hafenmeister von Goree, als er zu ihm an Bord gekommen, habe ihn alsbald wieder erkannt, da er erst vor wenigen Wochen von hier in See gegangen. Er habe sich die übrigen seltsamen, dies Schiff betreffenden Umstände berichten lassen, sich vor Verwunderung bekreuzigt und gesegnet, aber auch um so weniger zulassen wollen, daß er seinen Weg stromaufwärts nach Rotterdam fortsetze, bevor nicht davon Bericht erstattet und eine nähere Untersuchung verfügt worden. Beides sei demnächst auf Veranstaltung des Handelshauses Rochus und Kopstädt durch eigene Kommissarien geschehen, der Befund nach dem Haag an die Staaten von Holland abgegangen und von dorther die Anweisung zu dem gerichtlichen Verfahren gekommen, wovon bereits oben ausführliche Meldung geschehen. Schiff und Ladung waren in der Folge gerichtlich zu Verkauf gestellt und aus beiden ein Wert von neunundneunzigtausend holländischen Gulden gelöst worden. Von dieser bedeutenden Summe kamen nun, nach den holländischen Seerechten, zwei Drittel den französischen Eigentümern, ein Drittel aber dem Schiffsvolke der Christina zu. Umgekehrt wäre das Verhältnis gewesen, wenn sich jener Hund nicht mehr als Wächter auf dem Schiffe befunden hätte, um dieses als völlig herrenlos anzunehmen, woraus denn zu ersehen, was für eine sonderbare Gerechtigkeit die Seegesetze auf einem Schiffe selbst einem Hunde einräumen. Denn dieser hier verdiente seinem Herrn durch sein Bellen, womit er uns empfing, reine zweiunddreißigtausend Gulden! Das Drittel, welches unserm Schiffe zufiel, kam zur Hälfte wiederum den Reedern zugute; die andere hingegen dem Schiffsvolke, nach Maßgabe der Monatsgage, die jeder zu empfangen hatte. Ob jedoch hierbei ganz nach den richtigsten Grundsätzen verfahren wurde, mag man daraus entnehmen, daß, als ich in der Folge, als gewesener Obersteuermann der Christina, meine Forderung an diese Prisengelder in Holland geltend machte, mir zweiundvierzig Gulden ausgezahlt wurden. -- Von Peters aber habe ich nur noch zu erzählen, daß er demnächst auf einem Schiffe des nämlichen Handelshauses Rochus und Kopstädt als Obersteuermann, unter Kapitän Schleuß, angestellt worden, das jetzt bei Kap Monte lag und mit dessen Briefsack er eben auf dem Wege nach St. George de la Mina begriffen war. Einige Tage nachher traf ich zu Boutrou ein, ohne dort für unser Negoz etwas Tüchtiges schaffen zu können. Überall war für diesen Augenblick im Handel bereits aufgeräumt, und die größere Anzahl der Schiffe, als ich nach unserm Hauptfort zurückkehrte, von dort nach Amerika in See gegangen. Es blieb uns daher nur übrig, diesem Beispiele ungesäumt zu folgen, und zu dem Ende uns für diese Reise mit Trinkwasser und Brennholz zu versehen. * * * * * Zu Anfang Oktober endlich verließen wir die afrikanische Küste, um unserer Bestimmung zuvörderst den Markt von Surinam zu besuchen. Zur Beschleunigung der Fahrt wandten wir uns erst südlich und gingen unter der Linie durch, um jenseits derselben die gewöhnlichen südöstlichen Passatwinde zu gewinnen, vor welchen man dann westlich und nordwestlich hinläuft, bis man von neuem die Linie passiert, um die nordöstlichen Passatwinde zu benutzen und mit ihnen die Reise zu beendigen. Die Krankheiten und die Sterblichkeit, welche unter den Sklaven bei jeder verlängerten Dauer der Überfahrt einzureißen pflegen, machen es wünschenswert, diese auf jede Weise abzukürzen. Unsere Ladung bestand aus vierhundertfünfundzwanzig Köpfen, worunter sich zweihundertsechsunddreißig Männer und einhundertneunundachtzig Frauen, Mädchen und Jungen befanden. Über die Art, die Unglücklichen paarweise zusammenzufesseln, und über das zweifache Behältnis vorn im Schiffe, wo sie, jedoch beide Geschlechter durch ein starkes Gitterwerk voneinander geschieden, den Tag über zubringen, ist schon oben das Nötige beigebracht worden. Vor jener Plankenwand stehen zwei Kanonen, deren Mündung gegen das Behältnis der Männer gerichtet ist, und die gleich anfangs in ihrem Beisein mit Kugeln und Kartätschen geladen wurden, nachdem man ihre mörderische Wirkung durch Abfeuern gegen einige nahe und entfernte Gegenstände begreiflich gemacht hat. Heimlich aber werden nachher die Kugeln und Kartätschen wieder herausgezogen und statt deren die Stücke mit Grütze geladen, damit es im schlimmsten Falle doch nicht gleich das Leben gelte. Denn -- die Kerle haben ja Geld gekostet! Die Weiber und die Unmündigen haben bei Tage ihren Aufenthalt hinter der Wand auf dem halben Deck und können ihre männlichen Unglücksgenossen zwar nicht sehen, aber doch hören. Allen ohne Ausnahme wird des Morgens, etwa um zehn Uhr, das Essen gereicht, indem je zehn einen hölzernen Eimer, der ebensoviel Quart fassen mag, voll Gerstgraupen empfangen. Die Stelle, wohin jede solche Tischgesellschaft sich setzen muß, ist durch einen eingeschlagenen eisernen Nagel mit breitem Kopfe genau bezeichnet, und alles sitzt ringsumher, wie es zukommen kann, um das Gefäß mit Grütze, welche mit Salz, Pfeffer und etwas Palmöl durchgerührt ist; doch keiner greift um einen Augenblick früher zu, als bis dazu durch den lauten Schlag auf ein Brett das Zeichen gegeben worden. Bei jedem Schlage wird gerufen: »Schuckla! Schuckla! Schuckla!« Den dritten Ruf erwidern sie alle durch ein gellendes »Hurra!« und nun holt der erste sich seine Handvoll aus dem Eimer, dem der zweite und die übrigen in gemessener Ordnung folgen. Anfangs geht dabei alles still und friedlich zu. Neigt sich aber der Vorrat im Gefäße allmählich zu Ende und die letzten müssen besorgen, daß die Reihe nicht wieder an sie kommen dürfte, so entsteht auch Hader und Zwiespalt. Jeder sucht dem Nachbar die Kost aus den Händen und beinahe aus dem Munde zu reißen. Da nun diese Szene jedesmal und bei jedem Gefäße schier in dem nämlichen Moment zutrifft, so kann man sich den Lärm und Spektakel denken, der dann auf dem Schiffe herrscht und wobei die Peitsche den letzten und wirksamsten Friedensstifter abgeben muß. Diese wiederhergestellte Ruhe wird dazu angewandt, ihnen den ledigen Eimer mit Seewasser zu füllen, damit sie sich Mund, Brust und Hände abwaschen. Zum Abtrocknen gibt man ihnen ein Ende aufgetrieseltes Tau (Schwabber genannt), worauf sie paarweise zu der Süßwassertonne ziehen, wo ein Matrose jedem ein Gefäß, etwa ein halb Quart enthaltend, reicht, um ihren Durst zu stillen. Nach solchergestalt beendigter Mahlzeit und nachdem das Verdeck mit Seewasser angefeuchtet worden, läßt man das ganze Völkchen reihenweise und dicht nebeneinander sich niederkauern und jeder bekommt einen holländischen Ziegelstein (Mopstein) in die Hand, womit sie das Verdeck nach dem Takte und von vorn nach hinten zu scheuern angewiesen werden. Sie müssen sich dabei alle zugleich wenden, und indem sie bald vor-, bald rückwärts arbeiten, wird ihnen unaufhörlich neues Seewasser über die Köpfe und auf das Verdeck gegossen. Diese etwas anstrengende Übung währt gegen zwei Stunden und hat bloß den Zweck, sie zu beschäftigen, ihnen Bewegung zu verschaffen und sie desto gesunder zu erhalten. Hiernächst müssen sie sich in dichte Haufen zusammenstellen, wo dann noch dichtere Wassergüsse auf sie herabströmen, um sie zu erfrischen und abzukühlen. Dies ist ihnen eine wahre Lust; sie jauchzen dabei vor Freude. Noch wohltätiger aber ist für sie die folgende Operation, indem einige Eimer, halb mit frischem Wasser angefüllt und mit etwas Zitronensaft, Branntwein und Palmöl durchgerührt, aufs Verdeck gesetzt werden, um sich damit den ganzen Leib zu waschen und einzureiben, weil sonst das scharfgesalzene Seewasser die Haut zu hart angreifen würde. Für die männlichen Sklaven sind ein paar besonders lustige und pfiffige Matrosen ausgewählt, welche die Bestimmung haben, für ihren munteren Zeitvertreib zu sorgen und sie durch allerlei gebrachte Spiele zu unterhalten. Zu dem Ende werden auch Tabaksblätter unter sie ausgeteilt, welche, nachdem sie in lauter kleine Fetzen zerrissen worden, als Spielmarken dienen und ihre Gewinnsucht mächtig reizen. Zu gleichem Behufe erhalten dagegen die Weiber allerlei Arten Korallen, Nadeln, Zwirnfäden, Endchen Band und bunte Läppchen, und alles wird aufgeboten, um sie zu zerstreuen und keine schwermütigen Gedanken in ihnen aufkommen zu lassen. Spiel, Possen und Gelärm währen fort bis um drei Uhr nachmittags, wo wiederum Anstalten zu einer zweiten Mahlzeit gemacht werden, nur daß jetzt statt der Gerstgraupen große Saubohnen gekocht, zu einem dicken Brei gedrückt und mit Salz, Pfeffer und Palmöl gewürzt sind. Die Art der Abspeisung, des Waschens, Trocknens, Trinkens und Abräumens bleibt dabei die nämliche, nur wird mit allem noch mehr geeilt, weil unmittelbar darauf die Trommel zum lustigen Tanze gerührt wird. Alles ist dann wie elektrisiert, das Entzücken spricht aus jedem Blicke, der ganze Körper gerät in Bewegung, und Verzuckungen, Sprünge und Posituren kommen zum Vorschein, daß man ein losgelassenes Tollhaus vor sich zu sehen glaubt. Die Weiber und Mädchen sind indes doch die Versessensten auf dieses Vergnügen, und um die Lust zu vermehren, springen selbst der Kapitän, die Steuerleute und die Matrosen mit den leidlichsten von ihnen zuzeiten herum; -- sollte es auch nur der Eigennutz gebieten, damit die schwarze Ware desto frischer und munterer an ihrem Bestimmungsorte anlange. Gegen fünf Uhr endlich geht der Ball aus, und wer sich dabei am meisten angestrengt hat, empfängt wohl noch einen Trunk Wasser zu seiner Labung. Wenn dann die Sonne sich zum Untergange neigt, heißt es: »Macht euch fertig zum Schlafen unter Deck!« Dann sondert sich alles nach Geschlecht und Alter in die ihnen unter dem Verdecke angewiesenen, aber gänzlich getrennten Räume. Voran gehen zwei Matrosen und hinterdrein ein Steuermann, um acht zu haben, daß die nötige Ordnung genau beobachtet werde, denn der Raum ist dermaßen enge zugemessen, daß sie schier wie die Heringe zusammengeschichtet liegen. Die Hitze darin würde auch bald bis zum Ersticken steigen, wenn nicht die Luken mit Gitterwerk versehen wären, um frische Luft zur Abkühlung zuzulassen. Eine Leiter führt zu einer Öffnung in diesem Gitter, die gerade weit genug ist, um zwei Menschen durchzulassen, und vor welcher die ganze Nacht hindurch ein Matrose mit blankem Hauer die Wache hält, der immer nur paarweise aus und ein läßt, was durch irgendein Bedürfnis hervorgetrieben wird. Da indes die Rückkehrenden selten ihre Schlafstelle so geräumig wiederfinden, als sie sie verlassen haben, so nehmen Lärm und Gezänke die ganze Nacht kein Ende, und noch unruhiger geht es begreiflicherweise bei den Weibern und Kleinen zu. Gewöhnlich muß zuletzt die Peitsche den Frieden vermitteln. Gewöhnlich werden sechs bis acht junge Negerinnen von hübscher Figur zur Aufwartung in der Kajüte ausgewählt, die auch ihre Schlafstelle in deren Nähe, sowie ihre Beköstigung von den übrigbleibenden Speisen an des Kapitäns Tische erhalten. Begünstigt vor ihren Schwestern, sammeln sie nicht nur allerlei kleine Geschenke an Kattunschürzchen, Bändern, Korallen und kleinem Kram ein, womit sie sich wie die Affen ausputzen, sondern der Matrosenwitz gibt ihnen auch den Ehrennamen von »Hofdamen«, sowie den einzelnen diese oder jene spaßhafte Benennung. Bei Tage aber mischen sie sich gern unter ihre Gefährtinnen auf dem Deck, wo jede sofort einen bewundernden Kreis um sich her versammelt, in dessen Mitte sie stolziert und sich den Hof machen läßt. Bekanntlich kommen alle diese unglücklichen Geschöpfe beiderlei Geschlechts ganz splitternackt an Bord, und wenn sie gleich selbst wenig danach fragen, so hat doch der Anstand (wie sehr er auch sonst auf diesen Sklavenschiffen verletzt werden mag) ihre notdürftige Bedeckung geboten. Die Weiber und Mädchen empfangen daher einen baumwollenen Schurz um den Leib, der bis an die Kniee reicht, und die Männer einen leinwandenen Gurt, der eine Elle in der Länge und acht Zoll in der Breite hält und den sie, nachdem er zwischen den Beinen durchgezogen worden, hinten und vorne an einer Schnur um den Leib befestigen. Wenn sie nun gleich auf diese Weise im eigentlichsten Sinne _nichts_ mit sich auf das Schiff bringen, so vergehen doch kaum einige Wochen oder Monate und sie haben allesamt, besonders die weiblichen Personen, ein Paket von nicht geringem Umfange als Eigentum erworben, welches sie überall unterm Arm mit sich umherschleppen. Wie man sich indes leicht denken kann, besteht dieser ganze Reichtum in nichts als allerlei Lappalien, die sie zufällig auf dem Verdecke gefunden und aufgehoben haben -- abgebrochenen Pfeifenstengeln, beschriebenen und bedruckten Papierschnitzeln, bunten Zeugflecken, Stückchen Besenreis und dergleichen Schnurrpfeifereien. Hierzu erbitten sie sich nun von den Schiffsleuten den Zipfel eines Hemdes oder sonst eines abgetragenen Kleidungsstückes, um ihren Schatz hineinzubündeln. Aber nur zu oft begnügt sich ihre Begehrlichkeit nicht an dem, was ihnen das Glück auf diesem Wege zuwirft, sondern sie bestehlen sich untereinander und da entsteht denn Klage über Klage, als wären ihnen alle Kleinodien der Welt abhanden gekommen. Der wachhabende Steuermann verwaltet sodann das strenge Richteramt, veranstaltet Untersuchungen, wobei jeder sein Bündel vorweisen und auskramen muß und wobei es seiner Gravität oft schwer genug wird, sich des Lachens zu enthalten, und verfügt endlich über den ertappten Dieb einige gelinde Peitschenhiebe. So geht es heute, so morgen und so alle übrigen Tage während der Dauer der Reise; nicht anders, als ob man mit lauter Affen und Narren zu tun hätte. * * * * * Über unsere diesmalige Fahrt, quer durch den Atlantischen Ozean, weiß ich nur wenig zu sagen, wenn ich nicht wiederholen soll, was hundert Reisebeschreiber vor mir bereits erwähnt haben. Dahin gehört das Leuchten des Meerwassers in manchen dunklen Nächten, das Emporflattern ganzer Rudel von fliegenden Fischen, wie wir's bei uns zu Lande an den Sperlingen zu sehen gewohnt sind, und manches mehr. Dagegen bemerke ich, was meines Wissens andere noch nicht angezeigt haben, daß, wenn man sich von der Küste von Guinea etwa zehn oder mehr Meilen entfernt hat, sich das Seewasser plötzlich verändert. Es wird klarer, blauer und durchsichtiger. Gibt es nun zugleich eine vollkommene Meerstille, wie sie in diesem Striche nicht ungewöhnlich ist, und ebnet sich dann die Flut zu einer Spiegelfläche, so gibt es einen unbeschreiblich wunderbaren Anblick, in das kristallhelle Wasser, wie in einen dichteren Himmel unter sich, zu schauen und es von unzähligen Fischen und Seegeschöpfen in tausend verschiedenen Richtungen wimmeln zu sehen. Man fängt ihrer auch von allen Arten, soviel man will, doch haben sie, den fliegenden Fisch ausgenommen, alle ein hartes, unschmackhaftes Fleisch und werden für wenig gesund gehalten. Die Sklavenschiffe pflegen auf dieser Überfahrt das Boot, womit sie den Nebenhandel an der afrikanischen Küste betrieben haben, nicht wieder einzunehmen und aufs Deck zu setzen, weil es dort den Raum für die Neger zu sehr beengen würde. Wenn es daher die Witterung nur irgend gestattet, kreuzt es neben dem Schiffe und wird gebraucht, mit begegnenden Schiffen nähere Gemeinschaft zu pflegen. Man besetzt es daher fortdauernd und von acht zu acht Tagen mit sieben Mann, unter denen wenigstens einer sich etwas auf Kurs und Steuerkunst versteht, und diese erhalten zugleich hinreichende Provisionen, um auch im übelsten Falle einer Trennung von ihrem Schiffe sich helfen zu können. Ohne einigen widrigen Zufall langten wir gegen Mitte Dezember in dem Flusse Surinam an, wo wir jedoch, in einer Entfernung von vier bis fünf Meilen von Paramaribo, ankerten, um die Gesundheitskommission von dorther zu erwarten, weil diese zuvor untersucht haben muß, ob nicht etwa ansteckende Krankheiten am Borde des neuangekommenen Schiffes herrschen, bevor die Erlaubnis zum Einlaufen gegeben werden kann. Dies war gleichwohl unser Fall nicht, da wir (was verhältnismäßig sehr wenig sagen will) binnen den vier Monaten, die ich mich nunmehr auf diesem Schiffe befand, nicht mehr als vier von unseren Matrosen und sechs Sklaven verloren hatten. Als daher jene Herren uns am nächsten Tage besuchten, fanden sie kein Bedenken, uns in die Kolonie zuzulassen. Ich für meinen Teil hatte indes noch einen besonderen Grund mehr, ihrer Erscheinung mit einigem Verlangen entgegenzusehen, und um dies gehörig zu erklären, sehe ich mich genötigt, hier etwas aus meiner früheren Lebensgeschichte nachzuholen. * * * * * Im Jahre 1764, als ich noch in Königsberg wohnte und mich in besserem Wohlstande befand, geschah es, daß ich eines Tages einen Faden Brennholz vor meiner Türe spalten ließ. Der ältliche Mann, der zu diesem Geschäfte herbeigeholt worden, schien es weder mit sonderlicher Lust noch mit großer Geschicklichkeit zu verrichten. Ich ließ mich mit ihm in ein Gespräch ein und gab ihm wohlmeinend zu verstehen, daß es mir schiene, als würde er mit dieser Hantierung in der Welt nicht viel vor sich bringen. Ob er sich auf nichts anderes und Besseres verstünde? -- Seine Antwort war, er habe es in der Welt mit viel und mancherlei versucht, ohne dabei auf einen grünen Zweig zu kommen; aber was einmal zum Heller ausgeprägt sei, werde nimmermehr zum Taler. -- »Nun, nun,« versetzte ich scherzend, »das hinderte gleichwohl nicht, daß Ihr nicht noch einmal ein großer Herr würdet und in der Kutsche führet! Aber an Eurer Mundart vernehme ich, daß Ihr nicht von Kind auf Königsberger Brot gegessen habt. Vielleicht sind wir gar Landsleute?« -- »Könnte wohl sein. Irgendein Unglückswind hat mich einmal hierher nach Preußen verschlagen. Eigentlich bin ich ein pommerisch Kind und aus Belgard.« -- »Ei, aus Belgard? und Euer Name?« -- »Kniffel.« -- »Kniffel? Kniffel?« wiederholte ich nachsinnend, indem mir etwas aufs Herz schoß. »Und habt Ihr noch Brüder am Leben?« -- »Ein paar wenigstens, die aber schon vor vielen Jahren, gleich mir, in die weite Welt gingen, ihr Glück zu suchen, und von denen ich weiter nicht weiß, wohin sie gestoben oder geflogen sind.« Jetzt ließ ich mir noch die Vornamen der Verschollenen nennen und nun war ich meiner Sache gewiß. Es waren die nämlichen Gebrüder Kniffel, die ich vormals in Surinam kennen gelernt und die sich dort zu so bedeutendem Wohlstande emporgearbeitet hatten, während dieser dritte Bruder so gut als ein Bettler geblieben. Ohne ihm darüber einen Floh ins Ohr zu setzen, ging mir doch das Ding je länger je mehr im Kopfe herum. Ich erfuhr auf weiteres Befragen, daß er verheiratet sei und eine einzige Tochter, ein Mädchen von sechzehn oder siebzehn Jahren, habe. Bald auch stellte ich bei anderen Leuten Erkundigungen nach dieser Familie an, die den Vater als einen halben Narren bezeichneten, von der Mutter auch eben nicht sonderlich viel Gutes zu rühmen wußten, aber der Tochter das Zeugnis eines gutartigen, lieben Geschöpfes, doch ohne Bildung und feinere Sitten, beilegten. Nun wußte ich, daß die reichen Brüder in Surinam ohne Kinder waren, und ich kannte sie als so rechtliche Leute, daß ich ihnen mit Gewißheit zutrauen durfte, sie würden gern bereit sein, etwas für ihre arme Verwandte zu tun, sobald sie mit der bedrängten Lage derselben bekannt wären. Kurz es ließ mir keinen Frieden, bis ich wieder der gutherzige Tor geworden, der es nicht lassen konnte, sich in anderer Leute Händel zu mischen, sobald er glaubte, daß es zu irgend etwas Gutem führen könne. Ich setzte mich also hin, schrieb an jene Herren in Surinam, wie ich zufälligerweise mit ihrem Bruder bekannt geworden, und überließ es ihrem Ermessen, ob sie die dürftige Lage der Familie nicht in etwas erleichtern wollten. Der Brief ging über Holland an seinen Bestimmungsort ab. Da es jedoch leicht Jahr und Tag dauern konnte, bevor eine Antwort darauf zu erwarten war, so nahm ich mich denn derweile der Leutchen an, so gut ich vermochte, um sie von drückendem Mangel zu schützen. Das Mädchen ließ ich etwas besser kleiden und den früher versäumten Unterricht nach Möglichkeit wieder einbringen, wobei es denn auch nicht an guten Ermahnungen zu einem ehrbaren christlichen Wandel mangelte. So ging das fort, bis endlich Briefe an mich einliefen, worin meine alten Gönner und Freunde mir herzlich dankten, daß ich ihnen einen langgehegten Wunsch erfüllt und ihnen ihren längst totgeglaubten Bruder wieder zugewiesen. Sie hätten die Veranstaltung getroffen, diesem durch ein Königsberger Handelshaus eine jährliche Leibrente auszahlen zu lassen, wovon sie glaubten, daß er seine übrigen Lebenstage damit bequem und gemächlich würde ausreichen können. Sodann aber eröffneten sie mir ein Verlangen, worin sie wünschten und mich aufforderten, ihnen noch näher die Hände zu bieten. Mir sei bewußt, daß sie unbeerbt lebten, und doch möchten sie gern die Freude genießen, einen Blutsverwandten um sich zu sehen und einst ihr Vermögen in dessen Hände zu übergeben. Ich möchte also sehen, ob es tunlich sei, die Tochter ihres Bruders mit Einwilligung der Eltern dahin zu vermögen, die Reise zu ihnen nach Surinam zu unternehmen. Es sei ihre Absicht, sie an Kindes Statt anzunehmen, und sie würden sie mit offenen Armen und Herzen aufnehmen. Sei sie dazu nicht abgeneigt, so würde ich dahin zu sorgen haben, sie auf eine sichere und bequeme Weise nach Amsterdam an das Haus ihres dortigen Korrespondenten zu adressieren, von wo ihre weitere Reise übers Meer in gleicher Art veranstaltet werden sollte. Daß diese Aufträge zugleich mit reichlichem Ersatze für meine aufgewandte Mühe und Auslagen verbunden waren, bedarf kaum einer Erwähnung. Man kann leicht denken, mit welcher freudigen Überraschung die Eltern die Zeitung von dem hellen Glückssterne empfingen, der ihnen so unverhofft jenseits des Meeres aufgegangen; aber auch, daß die Wohlhabenheit, in welche sie sich so auf einmal versetzt sahen, ihnen mehr oder weniger die Köpfe verrückte. Leicht auch entschlossen sie sich, in die Trennung von ihrem Kinde zu willigen, so wie dieses selbst an Sinn und Neigung noch zu sehr ein Kind war, um nicht mit leichtem Mute in den Aufruf so gütiger Verwandten einzustimmen, die es zu sich entboten. Indes war doch auch in der Zwischenzeit in des Mädchens äußerem Wesen eine ihr sehr vorteilhafte Änderung vorgegangen, und es schien mir keinem Zweifel unterworfen, daß sie sich in der Zuneigung ihrer Oheime behaupten würde. Es fand sich Gelegenheit, sie der Obhut eines meiner Freunde, der ein Schiff nach Amsterdam führte, anzuvertrauen. Ich wußte, daß sie dort glücklich angekommen war und ebenso wohlbehalten die Überfahrt nach Surinam gemacht hatte. Von dort hatte ich die schriftlichen Danksagungen meiner Freunde empfangen, aber späterhin war unser brieflicher Verkehr unterbrochen worden, so daß ich seit mehreren Jahren nicht wußte, wie es um sie und ihr angenommenes Kind stehen möchte. Beides hoffte ich nunmehr von den an Bord erschienenen Gesundheitskommissarien zu vernehmen. Leider erfuhr ich, daß die Gebrüder Kniffel schon vor einigen Jahren mit Tod abgegangen. -- »Aber was ist aus einem Frauenzimmer -- einer Anverwandten aus Deutschland -- geworden, die vor nicht gar zu langer Zeit in die Kolonie gekommen und als die mutmaßliche Erbin ihrer Oheime angesehen wurde?« -- »Ei, das ist sie auch wirklich geworden,« war die Antwort, »und nicht nur im vollen Besitze des ganzen ungeheuren Kniffelschen Vermögens, sondern auch gegenwärtig die Gemahlin des Bankdirektors Mynheer van Roose und zu Paramaribo wohnhaft.« -- Schmerz und Freude wechselten bei diesen Nachrichten in meinem Gemüte, doch war ich voller Begierde, mich der Frau van Roose auf eine gute Art vorzustellen. Dazu fand sich gleich am nächsten Tage Gelegenheit, als wir uns im Angesichte der Stadt vor Anker gelegt hatten, indem ich meinen Negerjungen von einer Anzahl mitgebrachter blauer Papageien, wie sie hier unter die Seltenheiten gehören, den schönsten auf die Hand und einen Affen auf den Kopf nehmen, dann aber vor mir hin nach dem mir noch von alters her gar wohlbekannten Kniffelschen Hause traben ließ, wo auch gegenwärtig die reiche Erbin noch wohnen sollte. Jetzt wimmelte es darin von schwarzen Sklavinnen, durch deren eine ließ ich der Frau van Roose mein Verlangen melden, ihr aufwarten zu dürfen. Alsbald trat sie aus ihrem Zimmer hervor und mein erster Blick ließ mich sie wieder erkennen, obwohl sie seither stattlich ausgewachsen war. Ich darf indes wohl gestehen, daß mir, als sie so leibhaftig vor mir stand, doch etwas wunderlich ums Herz war, und daß mir's einigermaßen den Atem versetzte, als ich die Frage an sie richtete: ob es ihr nicht beliebe, etwas von meinen afrikanischen Raritäten zu kaufen? -- Anstatt mir darauf zu antworten, faßte sie mich nicht weniger scharf ins Auge, als das meinige auf ihr haftete. »Mein Gott!« rief sie endlich, »Gesicht und Stimme kommen mir so bekannt vor ... Es ist unmöglich, daß ich Sie nicht schon irgendwo gesehen haben sollte -- « »Ei freilich wohl!« gab ich zur Antwort. -- »Den alten Nettelbeck aus Königsberg werden Sie so ganz und gar nicht vergessen haben!« Nun entfuhr ihr ein lauter Freudenschrei; sie fiel mir mit beiden Armen um den Hals, die hellen Tränen stürzten ihr aus den Augen (und mir war's auch nicht weit davon), bis ihr endlich im Übermaß der Rührung in meinen Armen beinahe die Sinne schwanden. Darüber erhob sich ein Geschrei und Lärmen unter der schwarzen Dienerschaft, das weit umher erscholl und endlich auch den erschrockenen Hausherrn herbeiführte. Dieser stutzte nicht wenig, seine Gattin in halber Ohnmacht am Halse und in den Armen eines unscheinbaren Fremden zu erblicken. Er sprang herzu, fragte, was es gäbe, und fand sie ebensowenig imstande, ihm eine Antwort zu stammeln, als ich selbst mich vor inniger Rührung vermögend fühlte, ihn zu befriedigen: »Dies ist der Mann, von dem ich dir so oft erzählt habe -- der erste Urheber meines Glückes -- der ehrliche Nettelbeck, der sich in Königsberg meiner annahm. O Gott!« -- Mehr konnte sie nicht sagen, weil eine neue Schwäche sie anwandelte. Der Gatte und ich nahmen sie unter beide Arme und führten sie in das anstoßende Zimmer zu einem Kanapee, wo denn der Aufruhr in ihrer Seele sich allmählich wieder beruhigte. Nun jagten sich tausend verwirrte Fragen -- wie es mir gehe? was ich treibe? wie ich hierher nach Surinam komme? -- und war nicht eher befriedigt, als bis ich ihr in der Kürze meine neuesten Lebensschicksale erzählt hatte. Ebenso unersättlich war sie in Erkundigungen nach dem Ergehen ihrer Eltern, von denen sie seit zwei Jahren keine Kunde erhalten habe. Ich war zwar selbst bereits seit vier Jahren von Königsberg abwesend, doch sagte ich, was ich wußte: daß ihr Vater den wunderlichen Einfall gehabt, sich den Titel als Lizentrat zu kaufen, und daß er dieses und jenes treibe, was man ihm zugute halten müsse. Jene Standeserhöhung hatte er ihr wohlweislich verschwiegen, und sie konnte nicht umhin, recht herzlich darüber zu lachen, bis sie denn endlich hinzusetzte: »Ei, und warum auch nicht? Laßt doch dem alten Manne die närrische Puppe!« Jetzt dünkte mir's Zeit, wieder aufzubrechen, aber ich ward mit liebreichem Ungestüm zurückgehalten. Vergebens suchte ich mich mit meinen Verhältnissen als Obersteuermann zu entschuldigen, die keine gar zu lange Entfernung vom Schiffe zuließen. Doch auch dem wußten sie zu begegnen, indem sie nach meinem Kapitän aussandten und ihn gleichfalls freundlich zur Tafel einluden. Dieser, der wußte, was für eine Erkennungsszene mich am Lande erwartete, schlug es nicht aus, und seine Gegenwart diente nur dazu, unser geselliges Vergnügen noch zu erhöhen. Unter dem lebhaftesten Hin- und Herfragen bemerkte endlich Frau van Roose, daß auf den Sklavenschiffen oftmals einige Verlegenheit wegen der Herbeischaffung frischer Mundvorräte zu entstehen pflege. Diese für uns zu beseitigen, würde sie Befehl geben, daß von ihren drei Plantagen täglich so viel Lebensmittel an Bord geschafft werden sollten, als wir irgend bedürfen möchten. Den Wert dafür könne der Kapitän mir nach einem billigen Maßstabe zugute schreiben. Da dies nun auch während der vierzehntägigen Dauer unseres hiesigen Aufenthaltes zur Ausführung kam, so erwuchs mir dadurch ein kleiner Vorteil von hundertvierzig Gulden; doch noch mehr verpflichtet fühlte ich mich durch die liebevolle Aufnahme, deren ich mich binnen dieser Zeit in dem Roosenschen Hause fast täglich zu erfreuen hatte. * * * * * Unser Hauptgeschäft bestand hier indes im Verkaufe unserer schwarzen Ware, worüber ich mich mit einigen Worten zu erklären habe. Gewöhnlich erläßt der Schiffskapitän bei seiner Ankunft in der Kolonie ein Zirkular an die Plantagenbesitzer und Aufseher, worin er ihnen seine mitgebrachten Artikel anempfiehlt und die Käufer zu sich an Bord einladet. Bevor jedoch diese anlangen, wird eine Auswahl von zehn bis zwanzig Köpfen, als der erlesensten unter dem ganzen vorhandenen Sklavenhaufen, veranstaltet; man zeichnet sie mit einem Bande um den Hals, und so oft ein Besuch naht, müssen sie unter das Verdeck kriechen, um unsichtbar zu bleiben. Denn die Politik des Verkäufers erfordert, daß nicht gleich vom Anfange an das beste Kaufgut herausgesucht werde und dann der Rest, als sei er bloßer Ausschuß, in bösen Verruf komme. Haben sich nun kauflustige Gäste auf dem Schiffe eingefunden, so werden die männlichen wie die weiblichen Sklaven angewiesen, sich in zwei abgesonderten Haufen in die Runde zu stellen. Jeder sucht sich darunter aus, was ihm gefällt, und führt es auf die Seite, und dann erst wird darüber gehandelt, wie hoch der Kopf durch die Bank gelten soll. Gewöhnlich kommt dieser Preis für die Männer auf vierhundert bis vierhunderfünfzig Gulden zu stehen. Auch junge Burschen von acht oder zehn Jahren und darüber erreichen diesen Preis so ziemlich; ein Weibsbild wird, je nachdem ihr Ansehen besser oder geringer ausfällt, für zweihundert bis dreihundert Gulden losgeschlagen; hat sie aber noch auf Jugend, Fülle und Schönheit Anspruch zu machen, so steigt sie im Werte bis auf achthundert oder tausend Gulden und wird oft von Kennern noch bedeutend besser bezahlt. Ist der Handel abgeschlossen, so wird der Preis entweder zur Stelle bar berichtigt, meist aber durch Wechsel ausgeglichen, oder es findet auch ein Austausch gegen Kolonieerzeugnisse statt, und wenn die Käufer ihre erhandelten Sklaven nicht gleich mit sich hinwegführen, so bedingen sie auch wohl ein, daß der Kapitän sie im Boote oder in der Schaluppe an die bezeichnete Plantage abliefern läßt. Zuletzt bleibt denn nun, nachdem allmählich auch die erlesene Ware zum Vorschein gekommen ist, wirklich nur der schlechtere Bodensatz zurück, und um sich dessen zu entäußern, muß nun der Weg des öffentlichen Ausgebotes an den Meistbietenden beschritten werden. Zu dem Ende werden diese Neger an dem dazu bestimmten Tage ans Land und auf einen eigenen Platz gebracht, wo ein Arzt jeden Sklaven einzeln auf seine Tauglichkeit untersucht. Dieser muß sodann auf einen Tisch treten; der Arzt legt Zeugnis ab, daß er fehlerfrei sei, oder daß sich dieser oder jener Mangel an ihm finde. Nun geschehen die Gebote der Kauflustigen, und so wird, nach erfolgtem Zuschlage, bis zu dem letzten aufgeräumt. Wir hatten diesmal bei unserm Handel nur wenig Glück, was auch nicht anders sein konnte, da nur kurz zuvor zwei Sklavenschiffe hintereinander hier gewesen waren und den Markt überfüllt hatten. Die schlechte Erfahrung der ersten vierzehn Tage überzeugte uns daher von der Notwendigkeit, einen vorteilhafteren Platz aufzusuchen, und unsere Wahl fiel auf die benachbarte holländische Kolonie Berbice. * * * * * Am 1. Januar 1773 stachen wir demnach wieder in See. Doch schon am nächsten Tage verspürten wir plötzlich einen Leck von solcher Bedeutung, daß wir im vollen Ernste das Sinken fürchteten und uns mit der angestrengtesten Arbeit an den Pumpen kaum über Wasser erhalten konnten. Wir befanden uns hier einem unangebauten Striche der Küste und der Mündung des Flusses Kormantin gegenüber, die fünfzehn Meilen nördlich von Surinam liegt und bis dahin noch von keiner europäischen Macht in Besitz genommen war. Wollten wir nun nicht unser Grab in den Wellen finden oder auf den Strand laufen und auch hier vielleicht alles verlieren, so blieb uns nur der Versuch übrig, in den gedachten Fluß einzulaufen und unseren Schaden auszubessern. Ich ging mit der Schaluppe voraus und untersuchte die Einfahrt. Die Mündung des Stromes war beinahe anderthalb Meilen breit und in der Mitte vor ihr lag eine kleine Insel, niedrig und mit Rohr und Strauch bewachsen. Das Fahrwasser fand ich bei der höchsten Flut nur dreizehn Fuß tief -- für uns ein leidiger Umstand, da unser Schiff etwas über vierzehn Fuß tief ging. Es galt demnach, dieses mindestens um anderthalb Fuß zu erleichtern, und zu dem Ende bedachten wir uns ebensowenig, unseren gesamten eingenommenen Vorrat von frischem Wasser wieder über Bord laufen zu lassen, als unsere überzähligen Stangen und Rahen ins Wasser zu lassen, sie zu einem Floße zu vereinigen und alles, was nur irgend dem Verderben nicht ausgesetzt war, darauf auszuladen. Dennoch lief uns mit der Ebbe eine so gewaltige Strömung entgegen, daß wir uns der Mündung nicht nähern durften, sondern unter Furcht und Sorge die nächste Flut erwarten mußten, und diese führte uns dann doch so weit hinein, daß wir Schutz vor den Wellen fanden und das Schiff dicht am Lande auf den Grund setzen konnten. Bei der niedrigsten Ebbe stand es völlig trocken auf einem Sandgrunde, und das hineingedrungene Wasser lief wieder aus. Auf diese Weise machte es uns wenig Mühe, die eigentliche Stelle des Lecks aufzufinden und gehörig wieder zu verstopfen. Doch hielt uns diese Ausbesserung hier fünf bis sechs Tage auf, während welcher Zeit uns an diesem Orte, trotz unseren fleißigen Streifereien in der ganzen Gegend umher, auch nicht ein einziges menschliches Wesen zu Gesichte kam, so daß wir diese Ufer für durchaus unbewohnt halten mußten. * * * * * In Berbice, wo wir mit dem letzten Januar anlangten, fanden wir leider ebenso schlechten Markt, indem bereits zwei Sklavenschiffe dort vor Anker lagen. Wir hielten uns also auch nur drei Tage auf und steuerten nach St. Eustaz, erreichten diese Insel in der Mitte Februars und hatten das Glück, hier verschiedene Sklavenkäufer von den spanischen Besitzungen auf der Terra firma anzutreffen, an welche wir unsere Ladung samt und sonders binnen drei Tagen mit Vorteil losschlugen. Hier war es auch, wo wir mit dem Sklavenschiffe, welches mein wackerer Freund und Landsmann Mick führte, wieder zusammenstießen. Er war auf der Überfahrt von Afrika gestorben und sein Steuermann traute sich nicht, allein mit dem Schiffe nach Holland zurückzugehen. Man warf daher die Augen auf mich, diese Führung zu übernehmen, und des Bittens und Bestürmens war so lange kein Ende, bis ich mich dazu entschloß und auch Kapitän Sandleven einwilligte, mich von seinem Schiffe zu entlassen. Wir schieden als Freunde und mit einem Herzen voll gegenseitiger Liebe und Achtung; ich ging in den letzten Tagen des Februars von St. Eustaz ab und warf um die Mitte Aprils vor Vlissingen, wohin das Schiff gehörte, glücklich die Anker. Die Reeder bewilligten mir außer meiner gebührenden Gage noch ein besonderes Geschenk von hundert Gulden und würden mich auch gern in ihrem Dienste behalten haben, wenn ich nicht geglaubt hätte, einer anderweitig eröffneten Aussicht folgen zu müssen. Es war nämlich gerade um diese Zeit, daß eine englische Transportflotte mit fünfzehnhundert Seesoldaten nach der Küste von Guinea abgehen sollte, um die Besatzungen in den dortigen englischen Forts abzulösen. Zugleich aber suchte man auch für diese Expedition Seeleute und zumal Steuermänner, welche jener Weltgegend kundig wären. Als mir ein solcher Antrag geschah, bedurfte es keines langen Zuredens. Ich kam nach Portsmouth, wo jenes Geschwader ausgerüstet wurde, und man setzte mich als Schiffsleutnant auf den Jupiter mit vierundsechzig Kanonen, geführt von Kapitän Cappe, welcher diesem Konvoi zur Bedeckung dienen sollte. Es schien mir schon der Mühe wert, auch einmal den _englischen_ Seedienst zu versuchen. * * * * * Schon im halben März 1774 segelte die Flotte, außer dem Jupiter aus sechs Transportschiffen bestehend, von Portsmouth aus, langte in den ersten Tagen des Mai auf der Küste von Guinea an, schiffte nach und nach ihre eingenommenen Truppen in den englischen festen Plätzen aus, nahm die Reste der alten Garnisonen wieder an Bord und stach zuletzt, etwa Mitte Juni, von Kap Coast quer über den Ozean nach Jamaika hinüber. Hier langten wir nach sechs oder sieben Wochen glücklich an, verweilten auf dieser Station noch einen Monat, ließen gleichwohl unsere bisherige Begleitung, die ihre Frachten so schnell nicht einnehmen konnte, dort zurück und erreichten im November England wieder, ohne daß uns irgendwo ein denkwürdiges Ereignis aufgestoßen wäre. Meine Lust, mich im englischen Dienste umzusehen, hatte ich mit dieser Reise vollständig und für immer gebüßt. Diese Verhältnisse und Lebensweise waren nicht für meinen nüchternen deutschen Sinn gemacht. Schwerlich auch kann man sich eine Vorstellung davon machen, wie rauh und ungefügig es auf den Schiffen dieser Nation hergeht. Da ist keine Ehre und kein Respekt, man hört nichts anderes als »Goddam!« und brutale Reden ohne Zahl. Alles, vom geringsten Matrosen an, ist gegen die Offiziere im Widerspruch; wiewohl ich nicht zweifle, daß sie dennoch, wenn es irgend zum Schlagen kommt, untereinander einig und brav sind. Von Ordnung habe ich auf diesen Schiffen wenig verspürt. Selbst Essen und Trinken hat keine bestimmte Zeit. Nicht selten hängt ein gekochtes Stück Fleisch von zehn bis zwanzig Pfund am Mast, wovon sich ein jeder abschneidet, wann und wie viel er will. Zu beiden Seiten daneben steht das Brotfaß und das Gefäß mit Grog (Wasser mit etwas Rum vermischt), um die offene Tafel vollständig zu machen. Dies Leben ging mir denn freilich auf die Länge zu bitter ein. Ich bat um meine Entlassung, erhielt sie, und begab mich nach Amsterdam. Während ich hier den Winter über, wo es nichts für mich zu tun gab, bis in den März 1775 verweilte, hatte ich Muße, über meine Lebenslage und was ich ferner tun und treiben sollte, reiflich nachzudenken. Ich hatte jetzt meine vollen siebenunddreißig Jahre auf dem Nacken, hatte unter tausend Gefahren und Mühseligkeiten und unter allen Himmelsstrichen meine besten Jahre und Kräfte im Dienste von Fremden verschwendet, und sah immer deutlicher ein, wie wohl ich tun würde, mit meinen Erfahrungen meinem Vaterlande und mir selbst zu dienen. Dies brachte mich denn auch zu dem Entschlusse, mein ferneres Fortkommen in meiner Vaterstadt, an der ich noch immer mit ganzer Seele hing, zu suchen; demzufolge begab ich mich nach wieder eröffneter Schiffahrt als Passagier nach Swinemünde, von wo ich mich nach Kolberg verfügte. Eigentlich aber kam ich doch schon für dieses Jahr zu spät, um eine Anstellung im Seewesen zu finden. Ich begnügte mich also, wieder eine Navigationsschule zu eröffnen, um junge Leute für den Seedienst zu bilden, denn an solchen Anstalten fehlte es damals noch gar sehr. Auch darf ich mir das Zeugnis geben, daß aus meinem Unterrichte nicht wenige Schiffskapitäne und Steuermänner hervorgegangen sind, welche sich jedes Vertrauens überall wert erwiesen haben, und jetzt so viel ihrer noch leben, auch schon mit Ehren graues Haar tragen. Einige von ihnen haben in der Folge hier in Kolberg meine Stelle ersetzt und sich als Lehrer in der Steuermannskunst verdient gemacht. Da die Lehrlinge in solchen Schulen den Sommer hindurch den praktischen Übungen des Erlernten obzuliegen pflegen und der Unterricht meist nur ihre müßigen Wintermonate ausfüllt, so gab dieser auch mir nicht hinreichende Beschäftigung. Kurz, ich fühlte hier Langeweile, fühlte aber zugleich, daß ich an Geist und Leib noch keineswegs so flügellahm geworden, um untätig hinter dem Ofen hocken zu müssen. Auf die Gefahr also, für wetterwendisch gehalten zu werden, will ich nur gestehen, daß mich nebenher doch immer wieder nach der eigenen Führung eines tüchtigen Schiffes verlangte, und daß, da sich's damit nicht nach meinem Sinne fügen wollte, meine Gedanken abermals auf Holland und die jüngst verlassene Lebensweise standen. * * * * * Wer weiß, was geschehen wäre, wenn einige Freunde, die es mit ansahen, wie mich der Tätigkeitstrieb verzehrte, mich nicht aufgemuntert hätten, daß ich mir das Verdienst um meine Vaterstadt erwerben möchte, sie den Sommer hindurch aus der Ferne, vom Stettinschen Haff her, und reichlicher als es bisher der Fall gewesen, mit lebendigen Fischen zu versorgen. So ganz zwar wollte dieses Projekt mir selbst nicht gefallen, indes ließ ich mich dazu überreden, kaufte ein Haus am Wasser, welches die zu dieser Hantierung passende Einrichtung besaß, und war nun darauf aus, mir auch ein zu solchem Handel eingerichtetes Fahrzeug (man nennt es eine Quatze) anzuschaffen. Zu dem Ende begleitete ich meinen guten Freund, den Schiffer Blank, der eben nach Swinemünde steuerte, weil ich dort oder in der Nachbarschaft mich zu meinem neuen Gewerbe am besten zu versehen hoffte. Ein steifer Südwestwind wollte uns an jenen Hafen nicht sogleich herankommen lassen, sondern trieb uns zwei oder drei Meilen weiter an die Küsten der Insel Usedom und in die Gegend, wo einst die alte wendische Handelsstadt Wineta im Meere versunken sein soll. Natürlich drehte sich in solcher Nähe das Gespräch zwischen meinem Freunde und mir um diesen Gegenstand. »Man muß,« sagte jener, »bei der Schiffahrt sich um so vieles und so genau bekümmern, und dieser merkwürdige Fleck ist uns überdem so nahe gelegen, daß es doch fürwahr eine Schande wäre, wenn wir darüber nicht mit Was und Wie und Wo sollten richtige Auskunft geben können.« »Das könnte ich wohl,« war meine Antwort, »aber doch nur auf Treu und Glauben des holländischen Schiffers, mit dem ich meine letzte Reise als Passagier von Amsterdam nach Swinemünde machte. Dieser erzählte mir, als wir diesen nämlichen Strich hier hielten, er sei vor vier Jahren bei jener versunkenen Stadt auf den Grund geraten und habe sein Schiff verloren. Um so sorgfältiger habe er sich mit den Merkzeichen der Küste bekannt gemacht, um sich künftig vor Schaden zu hüten.« »Seht dort,« sprach er, »ist ein schwarzer Berg im Westen, und weiter ostwärts liegt ein anderer Berg von gleicher Farbe. Zwischen beiden entdeckt Ihr einen weißen Sandhügel, und gerade vor diesem, eine halbe Meile vom Lande, ist das verwünschte Steinriff, das mich bald zum armen Manne gemacht hätte.« -- »Irre ich aber nicht, so stehen uns seine angegebenen Merkzeichen dort gerade im Gesicht, und es möchte wohlgetan sein, ein wenig aufzupassen.« Kaum war mir das Wort über die Lippen, so stieß unser Schiff plötzlich und so hart auf den Grund, daß uns die Füße unterm Leibe entglitten und wir auf das Verdeck hinstürzten. Indem wir uns schnell besannen und um uns schauten, überzeugten wir uns, daß wir auf der nämlichen Stelle festsaßen, die den Gegenstand unseres Gespräches gegeben hatte. Denn etwa zwanzig Klafter nördlich vom Schiffe entdeckten wir eine ebene Platte, die fast mit dem Wasserspiegel gleichstand, und deren Dasein uns nur darum entgangen war, weil der Wind gerade vom Lande kam und also schlichtes Wasser machte, daß keine Brandung auf der Untiefe entstehen konnte. Was war indes zu tun? Der Schiffer ließ flugs das Boot aussetzen, um einen Anker auszubringen und daran das Schiff von der Bank wieder abzuwinden. Ich selbst stieg hinein, um dies ins Werk zu setzen, und fuhr südlich von der Untiefe, die wir im Norden liegen sahen, abwärts. In einer Entfernung von etwa achtzig Klaftern ließ ich den Anker fallen, erstaunte aber nicht wenig, als er noch überm Wasser stehen blieb, indem die See hier an dieser Stelle nicht über vier bis sechs Fuß Tiefe hatte. Der Anker mußte wieder emporgebracht und nach dem Schiffe gezogen werden. Jetzt begann ich (was freilich früher hätte geschehen sollen) rings umher zu sondieren, um ein Fahrwasser von hinreichender Tiefe zu finden. Es gab aber überall nichts als Klippen und Steine, dicht unter dem Wasser; nur hinter uns war es offen, und ich sah, wir würden uns des nämlichen Weges zurückarbeiten müssen, den wir gekommen waren. Demnach ward der Anker gerade nach hinten ausgebracht und die Schiffswinde in Bewegung gesetzt, allein das Fahrzeug wollte weder wanken noch weichen. Da wir nun mit Sandballast fuhren, so ward dessen eine ziemliche Menge über Bord geschafft, um das Schiff zu erleichtern, welches noch immerfort auf den Grund stieß, jedoch ohne Schaden zu nehmen. Während jener Anstrengungen stieg ich abermals ins Boot, um den ganzen Umfang dieser Bank noch weiter zu sondieren. Zuerst begab ich mich nach der Stelle, die am höchsten und mit dem Wasser gleich lag, bestieg sie und fand, indem ich mit den Füßen tiefer scharrte, daß der Grund aus grobem Sande bestand, der mit einzelnen Brocken von Dachziegeln untermischt war. Meines Vermutens mochte hier wohl früher ein Schiff, mit solcherlei Ziegeln geladen, gestrandet sein und diese zu seiner Erleichterung über Bord geworfen haben. Beim weiteren Umherfahren fand sich's, daß diese Bank durchgehend aus großen Steinblöcken bestand, die mit vier bis fünf Fuß Wasser überflossen waren. Dazwischen gab es eine Tiefe von sechs bis sieben Fuß, und da das Wasser ziemlich klar war, ließ sich die Lage der Steine sehr wohl unterscheiden, aber durchaus keine absichtliche Anordnung und Regelmäßigkeit darin entdecken. Diese ganze Steinplatte mag vielleicht sechshundert Klafter in der Länge und Breite haben. Zugleich aber fallen ihre Ränder so steil ab, daß, während jene Blöcke nur auf die bemerkte geringe Tiefe unter Wasser stehen, unmittelbar daneben der Seegrund sich auf fünfzehn und mehr Fuß vertiefte. Es währte fast sechs Stunden, bevor es uns gelang, wieder flott zu werden. Während dieser Zeit trieb der starke Wind ein Boot vom Lande herbei, worin sich zwei Bauernknechte, aber ohne Ruder, befanden. Statt solcher waren sie mit ein paar Stangen versehen, womit sie ihr Fahrzeug, sogut es angehen wollte, zu steuern versuchten, um bei uns an Bord zu gelangen. In der Tat stießen sie auch so unvorsichtig und heftig gegen unser Schiff an, daß wir fürchteten, ihr Fahrzeug würde davon in Stücke gehen. Erst als wir sie an Bord hatten, wurden wir gewahr, daß sie sich im besten Sonntagsstaat befanden und mit einem gewaltigen Blumenstrauße vor der Brust im Knopfloche prangten. Auf unser neugieriges Woher? und Wohin? nannten sie uns ihr nicht weit entlegenes Dorf und berichteten, sie seien soeben auf dem Wege über Feld nach der Kirche begriffen gewesen, als sie unser Schiff auf dem Grunde sitzend erblickt hätten, und da sich zufällig in ihrer Nähe ein leeres Boot am Strande vorgefunden, so wären sie in Gottes Namen hineingestiegen, um zu sehen, ob sie uns damit einige Hilfe leisten könnten. Da es jedoch in dem Fahrzeuge an Rudern gefehlt, mit denen sie ohnehin nicht umzugehen wüßten, so hätten sie gemeint, sich mit den vorrätigen Stangen wohl notdürftig fortzuhelfen. War das echt pommerisch brav und gutherzig gemeint, so muß man doch gestehen, daß es auch herzlich dumm beraten und ausgeführt war. Denn hatten sie nicht das Glück, vom Winde gerade gegen unser Schiff getrieben zu werden, so kamen sie immer weiter landabwärts, waren ohne Barmherzigkeit verloren, und kein Mensch hätte auch nur einmal gewußt, wo sie hingestoben wären. Sie sahen endlich selbst ein, daß sie einen einfältigen Streich unternommen, und da wir inzwischen auch vom Grunde glücklich wieder abgekommen waren, so banden wir ihr Boot an unserm Schiffe fest und nahmen sie mit uns nach Swinemünde, wo es ihnen denn überlassen bleiben mochte, wie sie wieder ihren Heimweg finden wollten. Ich meinerseits ging von hier nach Caseburg, wo ich eine Quatze, wie ich sie brauchte, für vierhundert Taler erstand und, nachdem ich zugleich eine Ladung lebendiger Fische eingenommen, mich nach dem Swinemünder Hafen und so über See nach Kolberg auf den Rückweg machte. Kaum aber war ich aus der Swine und über die Reede hinaus, und es an der Zeit, daß mein Koch Feuer anmachen sollte, so fand sich's, daß der Lotse, der uns in See gebracht, zufällig unsre Zunderbüchse, womit er seine Pfeife in Brand gesteckt, mit sich genommen hatte. Wir sahen uns dadurch über zwei Tage und drei Nächte ohne Feuer und Licht. Nun machte ich mit meiner Quatze zwar noch mehrere Ausflüge, aber diese Fahrten und die ganze Hantierung waren, je länger je weniger nach meinem Sinne. Überdem war der Absatz meiner Ware keineswegs so reißend, als man mir vorgespiegelt hatte, und da zudem die Fische durch das heftige Schlingern des Fahrzeuges in den Wellen häufig abstanden, so hatte ich bei jeder Reise nur Verlust und Schaden. Ich gab also meinen Kram beizeiten wieder auf, brachte meine Quatze nach Stettin und bot sie dort zum Verkaufe aus. Das gelang mir aber erst nach Jahr und Tag, und ich litt auch bei diesem Handel eine empfindliche Einbuße. So kam also das Jahr 1776 heran und fand mich wieder als Lehrer in der Steuermannskunst, wobei ich mich, da ich tüchtige und lernbegierige Schüler hatte, immer noch in meinem angemessensten Elemente befand. Auch im Winter 1777 trieb ich diese nützliche, wenn auch eben nicht sonderlich einträgliche Beschäftigung. * * * * * Am 28. April dieses Jahres stand ich hier in Kolberg, etwa um die Mittagszeit, eines abzumachenden Geschäftes wegen, beim Herrn Advokat Krohn am Fenster, als mitten in unserm Plaudern plötzlich ein ganz erschrecklicher Donnerschlag geschah, so daß jener vor Schrecken neben mir niederstürzte und wie ohne Leben und Besinnung schien. In der Tat glaubte ich, daß er vom Blitzstrahle getroffen worden, bis mein Rütteln und Schütteln ihn endlich doch wieder auf die Beine brachte. »Wo hat es eingeschlagen?« fragte er, immer noch hochbestürzt. -- »Ich hoffe, nirgends,« war meine Gegenrede, »oder mindestens doch nicht gezündet, da Regen, Schnee und Hagel die Luft erfüllen und alle Dächer triefen«. Allein im nämlichen Augenblicke auch stürzte der Kaufmann, Herr Steffen, welcher schräg gegenüber wohnte, aus seinem Hause hervor, schlug die Hände überm Kopf zusammen, schrie aus Leibeskräften und richtete dabei den Blick immer nach dem Kirchturme empor, den er jenseits wahrnehmen konnte. Ich ahnte Unheil, lief also stracks hinüber, mußte aber lange auf ihn einreden, bevor ich's von ihm herauskriegte: »Mein Gott! Unsere arme Stadt! -- Sehen Sie denn nicht? Der Turm brennt ja lichterloh!« -- So war es denn auch wirklich. Die helle Flamme spritzte bei der Wetterstange, gleich einem feurigen Springbrunnen, empor, aus den Schallöchern sprühten die Funken umher wie Schneeflocken und flogen bereits bis in die Domstraße hinüber. Ich, herzlich erschrocken, rannte nach der Kirche und die Turmtreppe hinan. Im Hinaufsteigen überdachte ich, wie groß das Unglück werden müsse, da wohl schwerlich jemand unternehmen werde, bis in die höchste Spitze hinanzuklimmen, wo er in den finsteren Winkeln nicht so bekannt sei wie ich, der ich sie in meiner Jugend so vielfältig und oft mit Lebensgefahr durchkrochen hatte. »Also nur frisch drauf und dran!« rief eine Stimme in mir, »du weißt hier ja Bescheid!« In der Tat wußte ich auch, daß droben auf dem Glockenboden stets Wasser und Löscheimer bereit standen, aber an einer Handspritze, die hier hauptsächlich not tun würde, konnte es leichtlich fehlen. Dies erwägend, machte ich auf der Stelle kehrt, drängte mich mit Mühe neben den vielen Menschen vorüber, die alle nach oben hinauf wollten, flog gleich ins erste nächste Haus und rief um eine Spritze, die aber hier wie auch im zweiten Hause nicht zu finden war und meiner steigenden Ungeduld erst im dritten gereicht wurde. Jetzt wieder (die Angst und der Eifer gaben mir Flügel) zum Turme hinauf! In der sogenannten Kunstpfeiferstube, die dicht unter der Spitze ist, fand ich bereits mehrere Maurer und Zimmerleute, mit ihren Meistern, die indes alle nicht recht zu wissen schienen, was hier zu tun sei. »Liebe Leute,« sprach ich, indem ich unter sie trat, »_hier_ ist freilich nichts zu beginnen. Wir müssen höher hinauf. Folgt mir!« -- »Leicht gesagt, aber schwer getan!« antwortete mir der Zimmermeister Steffen. »Wir haben es schon versucht, aber es geht nicht. Sobald wir die Falltüre über uns heben, fällt ein dichter Regen von Flammen und glühenden Kohlen hernieder und setzt auch hier die Zimmerung in Brand.« Das war freilich eine schlimme Nachricht! »Ei, es muß schon etwas drum gewagt sein!« rief ich endlich, -- »ich will hinan! Helft mir durch die Luke. Ich will sehen, was ich tun kann!« -- Sie öffneten mir die Falltür; ich stieg hindurch, ließ mir einen Eimer voll Wasser und die Handspritze reichen und -- »Nun die Luke hinter mir zu, damit das Feuer keinen Zug bekommt!« befahl ich; und indem sie das taten, sah ich zu, was oben passierte. Eine Menge Feuerkohlen prasselte nieder; so daß ich mir den Kopf mit dem Wasser aus meinem Eimer anfeuchten mußte, um nicht aus meinen Haaren ein Feuerwerk zu machen. Um zugleich die Hände frei zu bekommen, schnitt ich ein Loch vorn in den Rock, durch welches ich die Spritze steckte; den Bügel des Eimers nahm ich in den Mund und zwischen die Zähne; und so ward denn die fernere Reise angetreten! Die Turmspitze ist inwendig mit unzähligen Holzriegeln durchaus verbunden, die mir zur Leiter dienen mußten. Allein wohin ich griff, um mir empor zu helfen, da fand ich alles voll glühender Kohlen; nur hatte ich nicht Zeit, an den Schmerz zu denken, oder machte mich gegen ihn fühllos, indem ich Kopf und Hände zum öfteren wieder anfeuchtete. Mit alledem hatte ich mich endlich so hoch verstiegen, daß mir in der engen Verzimmerung kein Raum mehr blieb, mich noch weiter hindurch zu winden; und hier sah ich denn den rechten Mittelpunkt des brennenden Feuers annoch acht oder zehn Fuß über mir zischen und sprühen. Jetzt klemmte ich den Wassereimer zwischen die Sparren fest, zog meine Spritze daraus voll und richtete sie getrost gegen jenen Feuerkern, wo das Löschen am notwendigsten schien. Nur beging ich die Unvorsichtigkeit, dabei unverrückt in die Höhe zu schauen, weil ich auch die Wirksamkeit meines Wasserstrahles beobachten wollte; darüber aber bekam ich die ganze Bescherung von Wasser, Feuer und Kohlen so prasselnd ins Angesicht zurück, daß mir Hören und Sehen verging, bis ich, sobald ich mich wieder ein wenig besonnen hatte, das Ding geschickter anfing und bei der Handhabung meiner Spritze die Augen fein abwärts kehrte. Auch hatte ich die Freude, daß sich bei jedem Zuge das Feuer merklich verminderte. Nun aber war auch der Eimer geleert! Neue Verlegenheit! Denn das leuchtete mir allerdings wohl ein, daß, wenn ich hinabstiege, weder ich, noch sonst ein Mensch hier je wieder nach oben gelangte. Ich schrie indes aus Leibeskräften: »Wasser! Wasser her!« -- bis der vorbenannte Zimmermeister die Falltür aufschob und mir zurief: »Wasser ist hier, aber wie bekommst du es hinauf?« -- »Nur bis über den Glockenstuhl schafft mir's. Da will ich mir's selber langen,« war meine Antwort, und so geschah es auch. Jene wagten sich höher und ich kletterte ihnen von Zeit zu Zeit entgegen, um die vollen Wassereimer in Empfang zu nehmen, von denen ich denn auch so fleißigen Gebrauch machte, indem ich den Brand tapfer kanonierte, daß ich endlich das Glück hatte, ihn zu überwältigen und völlig zu löschen. Wo es aber noch irgend zu glimmen schien, da kratzte ich mit meinen Händen die Kohlen herunter, soweit ich irgend reichen konnte. Jetzt erst, da es hier nichts mehr für mich zu tun gab, gewann ich Zeit, an mich selbst zu denken. Ich spürte, wie mir mit jeder Minute übler zumute ward: denn das zurückspritzende Wasser hatte mich bis auf die Haut durchnäßt, und zugleich war eine Hitze im Turme, die je länger je unausstehlicher wurde. Zwar eilte ich nun hinunter, aber indem ich gegen die Schallöcher kam, gab es einen so schneidenden Luftzug, daß mir plötzlich die Sinne vergingen. Auch weiß ich nicht, ob ich auf meinen eigenen Füßen Gottes Erdboden erreicht, oder ob mich die Leute hinabgetragen haben. Als ich mich wieder besann, lag ich auf dem Kirchhofe, und mir zur Seite standen die Chirurgen Wüsthof und Kretschmer, die mir an beiden Armen eine Ader geöffnet hatten. Außerdem gab es noch einen dichten Haufen von Menschen um mich her, welche von Teilnahme oder Neugierde herbeigeführt sein mochten. Mit meinem wiederkehrenden Bewußtsein begann ich nun aber auch erst meine Schmerzen zu fühlen. Meine Hände waren überall verletzt; die Haare auf dem Kopfe zum Teil abgesengt; der Kopf selbst wund und voller Brandblasen, wo denn auch in der Folge nie wieder Haare gewachsen sind. Nicht minder sind mir die beiden äußersten Finger an der rechten Hand, die vom Feuer am meisten gelitten hatten, bis auf diese Stunde krumm geblieben; und so werde ich sie auch wohl mit in mein Grab nehmen müssen. Vom Kirchhofe trug man mich nach meiner Wohnung, wo eine gute und sorgfältige Pflege mir dann auch bald wieder auf die Beine half. Einige Wochen später behändigte mir der Herr Kriegskommissär Donath eine goldene Denkmünze in der Größe eines Doppel-Friedrichsdor, nebst einem Belobungsschreiben, die ihm beide von Berlin zugeschickt worden, um sie mir gegen meine Quittung zu überliefern. Das Gepräge dieser Denkmünze ließ ich mir in meinem Petschaft nachstechen; sie selbst aber, nebst dem Schreiben, übergab ich in die Hände des Magistrats, mit dem Ersuchen, sie bis auf meine weitere Verfügung im Rathausarchiv gut verwahrt niederzulegen. Doch als ich nach einigen Jahren danach fragte, war das eine wie das andere verschwunden! Es hieß: das sei noch bei des Bürgermeisters R--fs Zeiten geschehen; und daran mußte ich mir genügen lassen! * * * * * Im folgenden Jahre 1778 erhielt ich vom Kaufmann Herrn Höpner zu Rügenwalde eine schriftliche Aufforderung, eines seiner Schiffe unter meine Führung zu nehmen. Ich schlug ein, weil sich nicht gleich ein besseres Engagement für mich finden wollte; und so machte ich denn, für seine Rechnung, eine Reihe glücklicher Fahrten nach Danzig, Nantes und Croisic, und war von hier wiederum nach Memel bestimmt; konnte aber, der späten Jahreszeit wegen, diesen Hafen nicht mehr erreichen, sondern sah mich genötigt, in Pillau einzulaufen und dort zu überwintern, wo ich aus Langeweile wiederum eine Steuermannsschule eröffnete. * * * * * Hier war es, wo der Kommerzienrat Herr B--r zu Kolberg mir in wiederholten Briefen anlag, in seinem Auftrage nach England zu gehen, für ihn ein Schiff zu kaufen und für seine Rechnung damit zu fahren. Diese Spekulation schien nicht übel ersonnen, denn in dem damaligen Kriege Englands mit seinen nordamerikanischen Kolonien hatte es auch mit Frankreich und Spanien gebrochen, und seine Kaper hatten sich einer so großen Anzahl feindlicher Schiffe bemächtigt, daß alle britische Häfen damit angefüllt waren. Es stand zu erwarten, daß sie beim Verkauf würden spottwohlfeil losgeschlagen werden. Ich trug demnach kein Bedenken, mich auf den Vorschlag einzulassen, und forderte nur, Herr B--r möge mir für dies Geschäft eine genaue Instruktion, sowie eine Empfehlung an seinen Korrespondenten in London geben und mir bei diesem den nötigen Kredit bis zu einer bestimmten Summe offen machen. Demzufolge verwies er mich an das Londoner Handelshaus Schmidt und Weinholdt, bei welchen ich auch bei meiner Ankunft die verlangte Instruktion vorfinden würde. Mit Herrn Höpners Bewilligung verließ ich also dessen Schiff, nachdem ich ihm einen andern tüchtigen Schiffer an meine Stelle vorgeschlagen hatte, und schickte mich zu meiner Reise nach England an, wobei es jedoch meine Privatgeschäfte erforderten, zuvor noch einen kleinen Abstecher nach Königsberg zu machen. Indem ich hier nun eines Tages meinen Weg zur Börse nahm, fiel es mir zufällig bei, über den Neuen-Graben zu gehen, wo das Haus stand, in welchem ich in früherer und besserer Zeit gewohnt hatte. Nachdenklich blieb ich stehen, und indem ich es betrachtete, fiel mir schwer aufs Herz, wie ich hier doch fünf Jahre lang in Leid und Freude aus- und eingegangen, mit so manchem Biedermann in Verkehr gestanden und mutig ins Leben hineingeschaut habe. Und wie war das nun so ganz anders! Auf diesem nämlichen Flecke stand ich nun als Fremdling; niemand hier, dem mein Wohl oder Weh noch zu Herzen ging -- ich selbst ein wunderlicher Spielball des Schicksals und nach allen Himmelsgegenden umhergeworfen! Wahrlich, es war kein Wunder, daß mir in diesen Gedanken ein paar schwere Tränen in die Augen traten. »Herr Jemine! Sieh doch! Kapitän Nettelbeck und kein anderer!« rief plötzlich eine weibliche Stimme aus einem geöffneten Fenster des nämlichen Hauses. Indem ich emporschaute, bemerkte ich ein Frauenzimmer, welches im Begriff gewesen zu sein schien, einen Teller mit Fischgräten auf die Straße hinauszuschütten. Ich stutzte, konnte mich aber des veralteten und verzerrten Gesichtes in keinem Winkel meines Gedächtnisses besinnen. In eben dem Moment aber war sie auch bereits zu mir herunter geeilt, ergriff mich an beiden Händen und beteuerte: sie lasse mich nicht; ich müsse kommen und bei ihr und ihrem Manne einsprechen. Jetzt erst schoß es mir mit einemmal aufs Herz, daß hier von dem Kniffelschen Ehepaare die Rede sein möge. Und so war es auch wirklich! Schon in Pillau hatte ich, auf gelegentliche Erkundigung, von diesem Paare so mancherlei vernommen, was mich nach der Erneuerung dieser alten Bekanntschaft eben nicht lüstern machte. Sie hatten mit den ihnen ausgesetzten Geldern übel gewirtschaftet, waren überall betrogen und steckten tief in Schulden, weil die reiche Verwandtschaft in Surinam immer noch diesen und jenen Wucherer lockte, ihnen Kredit zu geben. Außer dem Hause, das er bewohnte und wovon ihm vielleicht auch kein Ziegel mehr eigen gehörte, besaß der alte Tropf nichts mehr als seinen gekauften Titel »Lizentrat«, den aber der Pöbelwitz allgemein in den Spottnamen »Lizentrekel« verkehrt hatte. Kurz, bei diesen Leuten war weder Freude noch Ehre zu holen, und es verdroß mich sogar, daß sie mein altes liebes Eigentum durch ihre Gegenwart verschimpfierten. Indes mußte ich mich schon mit hinaufschleppen lassen, und fand dort den Titularrat hustend auf einem Bette sitzen. Ich sah mich nun in dem Stübchen um, wo alles ein ärmliches, beklommenes Ansehen hatte, und konnte mich nicht enthalten auszubrechen: »Leute, wie habt ihr gewirtschaftet! Was habe ich gehört? und was sehe ich jetzt selbst? Seid ihr's wohl wert, daß euch das Glück einmal so freundlich angelacht hat?« -- Beide weinten und sagten: dann würde ich auch gehört haben, wie sie von ihren besten Freunden betrogen worden. -- »Nun wahrlich doch nicht ohne euere Schuld!« gab ich ihnen unmutig zur Antwort -- »Hättet ihr die Nase nicht stets höher getragen, als euch zukam; hättet ihr Gott still und demütig gedankt, daß er euch einen ruhigen Nothafen für eure alten Tage eröffnet; hättet ihr fein zu Rate gehalten, was mehr als genüglich für euer Notwendiges ausreichte« ... und wie denn die derben Leviten weiter lauteten, die ich glaubte, ihnen lesen zu müssen. Sie gestanden ihr Unrecht ein und gelobten Besserung, wenn ich ihnen nur jetzt behilflich sein wollte, einen Brief an ihre Tochter zu besorgen, worin sie derselben ihre äußerste Not vorstellen und sie um eine letzte Unterstützung bitten wollten. Mehrmals hätten sie dies bereits auf anderen Wegen versucht, aber niemals Antwort erhalten. Die Papiere möchten wohl nicht in ihre Hände gelangt sein. -- »Gut, so schreibt denn!« rief ich -- »aber sputet euch damit: denn morgen bin ich nicht mehr in Königsberg. Ich logiere ...« Aber aus Sorge, daß ich ihnen entschlüpfen möchte, wollten sie mich lieber nicht von der Stelle lassen und schickten gleich zu einem alten abgedankten Hauptmann, der in allem ihr Sekretär und Ratgeber zu sein schien. Der setzte sich sofort an das Stück Arbeit, welches mir auch endlich mit der Bitte überliefert wurde, daß ich es mit einigen Worten zur besseren Empfehlung begleiten und ihrem Kinde treulich schildern möchte, in welchem Elend ich sie angetroffen hätte. Ich versprach alles, was sie wollten, um nur von ihnen loszukommen; habe aber fernerhin nie Gelegenheit gefunden zu erfahren, was weiter aus ihnen geworden und ob sie sich in der Zukunft besser gebettet. * * * * * Gleich darauf ging ich, früh im Jahre 1779, von Pillau als Passagier nach London, und meldete mich sofort bei den dortigen Korrespondenten meines neuen Prinzipals und empfing nun aus deren Händen die Instruktion, wie ich bei meinem Einkaufe verfahren sollte. Diese war aber leider von der Art, daß ich, wäre sie mir früher zugekommen, keinen Schritt vor die Türe darum gegangen sein würde. Nur die wunderlichste Laune konnte dem Manne alle die tausend Bedingungen eingegeben haben, von denen ich kein Haar breit abweichen sollte. Das Schiff, das ich erstände, sollte von einhundertfünfzig Lasten sein, nicht größer und nicht kleiner; es durfte nicht älter als zwei oder drei Jahre sein, ein vollständiges Inventarium war vorgeschrieben, aber vor allem durfte es nicht höher als vierhundert Pfund Sterling zu stehen kommen. -- So reiste ich denn ganz England mit der Post in die Runde, nach allen Häfen, wo nur Prisen aufgebracht worden. Ich ging nach Hull, nach Newcastle, nach Leeds, nach Liverpool, nach Bristol, nach Plymouth, nach Portsmouth, nach Dover: -- aber ebensogut hätte ich zu Hause bleiben können! Endlich stieß ich in London selbst auf ein Schiff, das ich trotz alles dessen, was ihm etwa noch mangelte, auf meine eigene Verantwortung zu kaufen beschloß. Indem ich nun den Herren Schmidt und Weinholdt diese Absicht eröffnete und meinen Kredit geltend machen wollte, erhielt ich die nimmer erwartete Antwort: »Lieber Nettelbeck, um Ihnen klaren Wein einzuschenken, müssen wir Ihnen geradeheraus sagen, daß wir für B--rs Ordre auch nicht ein Pfund zu zahlen gesonnen sind. Wollen Sie aber das Schiff für sich allein und auf _Ihren_ Namen erstehen und uns die Korrespondenz und Assekuranz darüber überlassen, so ist hier unsere Hand -- wir zeichnen für Sie, soviel Sie verlangen. Nur mit B--r wollen wir nichts zu tun haben.« »Ich bin vorzeiten,« sagte ich, »Herr eines eigenen Schiffes gewesen, habe aber so ausgesuchtes Unglück damit gehabt, daß ich mir's heilig angelobt, mich nie wieder mit dergleichen zu befassen. Es taugt auch für keinen Schiffer, sein eigener Reeder zu sein, wenn er gleichwohl die Korrespondenz, und was dazu gehört, einem Fremden überlassen muß. -- Nur warum, meine Herren, haben Sie mir von dem Mißkredit, in welchem mein Prinzipal bei Ihnen steht, nicht früher einen Wink gegeben? Wieviel Zeit, Mühe und Kosten wären da zu ersparen gewesen!« Sie gestanden mir nun, daß sie nimmer vermutet hätten, ich würde ein solches Schiff, wie mir vorgeschrieben worden, aufzutreiben imstande sein, und daß sie es darum mit ihrer Erklärung lieber bis aufs äußerste hätten wollen ankommen lassen. Ich mußte mir das gefallen lassen, eröffnete ihnen aber gleich des nächsten Tages, daß ich eine bequeme Schiffsgelegenheit nach Stettin gefunden und von da nach Kolberg abzugehen gedächte, um dem Kommerzienrat Bericht zu erstatten. »Nach Stettin?« ward mir geantwortet. -- »O, schön! Das trifft sich wie gerufen: denn wir haben ein Anliegen an Sie, lieber Nettelbeck, das Sie uns nicht abschlagen müssen. Da ist in Stettin der Kaufmann Groß, mit dem wir in Assekuranzangelegenheiten wegen Schiffer Lickfeld verwickelt sind, schon seit Jahr und Tag in Briefen hin und her scharmützeln und je länger je weniger übereinkommen können. Wir sind des Handels nachgerade herzlich überdrüssig, und unser in Sie gesetztes Vertrauen läßt uns wünschen, daß Sie in unserem Namen mündlich den Zwist so gut wie möglich ausgleichen möchten. Sie sollen über den Stand der Dinge alle Auskunft erhalten, und da wir uns alles, was nur nicht geradezu unbillig ist, gefallen lassen wollen, so machen Sie es mit ihm ab, so gut Sie wissen und können. Ihre Vollmacht soll Ihnen auf der Stelle ausgefertigt werden, und unser ganzer Verlaß steht auf Ihnen.« »Gut und aller Ehren wert, was Sie mir anvertrauen und von mir erwarten!« erwiderte ich. -- »Aber _kennen_ Sie den Mann auch, mit dem Sie mir zu tun geben wollen? Dieser Groß, meine Herren, ist ein ganz absonderlicher Patron und fängt gar leicht Feuer unter der runden Perücke. Ich entsinne mich seiner gar wohl von Anno 1764 her, wo er noch selbst als Schiffer fuhr und einen Winter bei uns mit seinem Schiffe in Königsberg lag. Hatte er damals doch mit allen Leuten, mit denen er zu verkehren kriegte, Krakeel und Prozesse; und hat er sich seitdem, wie schwerlich zu hoffen ist, nicht geändert, so möchte ich lieber ein Kreuz vor ihm schlagen, als mir mit ihm zu schaffen machen.« Wie ich aber auch diesen mißlichen Auftrag abzulehnen suchte, so ward doch so anhaltend in mich gedrungen, daß ich mir endlich die bisher geführten Verhandlungen vorlegen ließ; da jedoch die Sache festen Grund hatte und der ganze Zwiespalt nur auf einem Mißverstande beruhte, einigte ich mich mit meinen Herren Kommittenten, wie weit ich gehen sollte, empfing genügende Vollmacht und machte mich in Gottes Namen nach Stettin auf den Weg, wo ich es mein erstes sein ließ, Herrn Groß aufzusuchen. Dieser Mann empfing mich mit Herzlichkeit, als einen Bekannten; machte indes große Augen, als ich ihm den Grund meines Hierseins eröffnete und ihm meine Beglaubigung vorlegte. »Hört, Nettelbeck,« sagte er, mir auf die Schulter klopfend: »Nun heiße ich Euch doppelt und von Herzen willkommen! Trügt mich nicht alles, so seid Ihr mein guter Engel, der mir endlich einmal den fatalen Sorgenstein unterm Kopfkissen hinwegräumen wird. Topp! Morgen um die und die Stunde machen wir die Sache ab, heute aber kein Wort mehr davon, damit wir uns dies gute Glas Wein nicht verderben.« So geschah es denn auch am nächsten Tage. Wie erstaunte ich, als der Mann Vernunft annahm und Gründe gelten ließ. Eine Schwierigkeit nach der andern verschwand, und in weniger als drei Stunden war eine Vereinigung getroffen, wie beide Teile sie nur immer wünschen konnten, das Londoner Haus aber sie nimmer erwartet hatte. Ich forderte nun die gerichtliche Bestätigung, die gleich in den nächsten vierundzwanzig Stunden durch den Herrn Notarius Bourwig ausgefertigt und mittels Brief und Siegel bekräftigt wurde. Ebenso schnell packte ich meine Papiere zusammen, schickte sie nach London, erhielt die unbedingteste Genehmigung und eine Vergütung, wie sie dem Dienste angemessen sein mochte. Noch zufriedener aber war Herr Groß, der mir von Stund an ein sichtbares Wohlwollen zuwandte. »Aber wo nun hinaus?« fragte er mich, als ich kam, ihm meinen Abschiedsbesuch zu machen. -- »Nach Kolberg,« gab ich zur Antwort, »um meinem Prinzipal B--r Red' und Antwort zu stehen. Was es dann weiter gibt, wird die Zeit lehren.« -- »Hört, lieber Nettelbeck,« fiel er mir ein, »die Herren Kaufleute dort, die kenne ich! Das ist nichts für Euch! Aber einen Mann von _Euerem_ Schlage -- den hätt' ich mir schon längst auf mein bestes Schiff gewünscht. Da! Die Hand eines ehrlichen Mannes -- schlagt ein! Nehmt das Schiff, das ich hier jetzt auf dem Stapel stehen habe.« Was soll ich's leugnen, daß die Art, wie mir dieser Antrag geschah, meiner Eigenliebe schmeichelte. Dennoch hatte ich Bedenken. »Lieber Herr Groß,« erwiderte ich demnach, »so ein Schritt will überlegt sein. Gönnen Sie mir dazu eine Stunde; und wenn ich dann wiederkomme, bringe ich Ihnen mein Ja oder Nein.« -- Er war es zufrieden. Voll Sinnens suchte ich demnach einen alten Bekannten, den Schmied Lüdtke auf, mit dem ich bereits im Jahre 1770, auf Veranlassung der Ausrüstung der königlichen Fregatte, zu tun gehabt hatte, und der jetzt, wie ich wußte, die Eisenarbeit für das auf dem Stapel stehende Schiff des Herrn Groß besorgte. Er sollte mir sagen, was hier zu tun oder zu lassen sei; und so trug ich ihm gleich warm vor, was mir auf dem Herzen drückte. »Hm! hm!« gab er mir kopfschüttelnd zur Antwort. »Es mit _dem_ zu wagen, könnt' ich nur meinem ärgsten Feinde raten! Ihr seid beide Hitzköpfe. Gleich ist bei euch Feuer im Dache! Ihr werdet euch keine vierundzwanzig Stunden miteinander vertragen. Bleibt also fein auseinander; das ist das Gescheiteste.« Ich konnte nicht anders, als ihm recht geben, und war schon auf dem Wege, den Handel aufzusagen, als ich vor dem Hause eines Segelmachers, Krunt, vorbei mußte. Auch dieses Mannes Rat und Meinung wollte ich mitnehmen. Ich trat zu ihm ein, trug ihm Anliegen und Bedenken vor und überließ ihm die Entscheidung. »Hört, Freund Nettelbeck,« entgegnete er, »ich kenne Euch und kenne Groß inwendig und auswendig. Ihr seid beide ein paar herzensgute Leute -- brav, ehrlich und erfahren. Ihr beide werdet euch ineinander schicken und passen, oder keiner in der Welt! Wie schlimm jener auch verschrieen sein mag, so kommt es doch nur darauf an, daß Ihr seine erste tolle Hitze vorübertoben laßt. In der nächsten Viertelstunde darauf könnt Ihr ihn wieder um den Finger wickeln, wie ein Wachs. Was ist da also noch lange zu bedenken? Ihr bekommt ein schönes, neues und großes Schiff von 320 Last unter die Füße, womit ein Mann von Eurer Welterfahrung schon etwas Rechtschaffenes anzufangen wissen wird.« Das klang nun freilich ganz anders, aber keineswegs unverständig. Ich ließ es mir gesagt sein, setzte meinen Weg mit erleichtertem Herzen fort, trat zu Herrn Groß in das Zimmer und mit drei raschen Schritten auf ihn zu, reichte ihm die Hand und rief mit leuchtenden Augen: »Glück gebe Gott uns beiden, mein Herr Patron!« -- »Ja! Ist's wahr? Hab' ich Euch?« fuhr er seinerseits auf, drückte mich an die Brust und küßte mich herzlich ab. Der Notarius Helwig, welcher bei diesem Auftritte zugegen war, wurde aufgefordert, zur Stelle einen Kontrakt aufzusetzen, welchen mein neuer Prinzipal selbst diktierte, und wobei meines Vorteiles keineswegs vergessen ward. Nunmehr ging ich auf einige Tage nach Kolberg, um mich mit B--r zu berechnen und auseinanderzusetzen; war aber bereits in der Mitte des Juni wieder in Stettin, wo ich den Ausbau meines neuen Schiffes eifrig betreiben half. Dieses war eigentlich zu einem Zweidecker bestimmt und würde als solcher in allen preußischen Häfen seinesgleichen gesucht haben. Allein das Schiff sollte, um von den damaligen hohen Frachten zu vorteilen, noch vor Winters in See gehen; und um keine Zeit zu verlieren, ward beschlossen, nur ein Verdeck aufzusetzen. Dennoch konnte es erst im Oktober vom Stapel laufen; doch war auch bereits mit dem Kommerzienrate eine Fracht von Balken und Stabholz abgeschlossen, die ich unverzüglich nach Bordeaux führen sollte. Den kleineren Teil derselben nahm ich auf der Stelle ein und ging dann Mitte November auf die Swinemünder Reede, um auch den Rest der Ladung zu empfangen. Doch dies war in der schon so weit vorgerückten Jahreszeit ein äußerst mühseliges und langweiliges Geschäft, weil der Hafen selbst bereits mit Eis zugelegt war und jede Bootsladung Stabholz sich vom Weststrande her erst einen Weg durch das Eis nach dem Schiffe bahnen mußte, so daß volle vier Wochen über diese Arbeit verliefen. Mit dem letzten Boote ging auch ich selbst an Bord, um nun unmittelbar darauf in See zu stechen, während bereits um das Schiff her alles mit schwimmendem Eise flutete und mit jedem Augenblicke ein völliges Einfrieren zu befürchten stand. Neben mir lag auf der Reede ein Fregatteschiff, welches gleichfalls erst in diesem Sommer in Stettin für schwedische Rechnung ganz neu gebaut worden und nach Gotenburg bestimmt war. Ich sah, daß es sich eben fertig machte, seinen Anker aufzuwinden und die Reede zu verlassen. Mir selbst lag noch die letzte Bootsladung Stabholz auf dem Verdecke im Wege, die zuvor noch beiseite gestaut werden mußte, bevor ich mich bei meiner Ankerwinde frei rühren konnte; und doch wäre ich bis zum Sunde hin gern in der Gesellschaft des Schweden geblieben, um desto leichter, wenn es not tat, Hilfe zu leisten oder zu empfangen. Ich fuhr demnach hurtig in der Schaluppe zu jenem Schiffe hinüber und forderte den Kapitän auf, noch eine kleine Stunde zu warten. Das wollte er aber nicht, lichtete seinen Anker vollends und ging ab. Kaum war er eine Meile westwärts von mir entfernt und ich gleichfalls unter Segel, so ging der Wind nach Nordosten um. Es gab einen starken fliegenden Sturm, der zwar mächtig förderte, aber die Luft mit einem dicken Schneegestöber erfüllte, so daß ich den vorausgeeilten Schweden bald aus dem Gesichte verlor. Dies Wetter mit dicker Schneeluft hielt bis zum andern Morgen um neun Uhr an, wo wir dicht an das Land von Stevens kamen und, mit nicht geringer Verwunderung, die schwedische Fregatte auf dem Strande stehend erblickten, wo die Sturzwellen sich unaufhörlich darüber her brachen, die Mannschaft aber kümmerlich in den Masten hing. Ich selbst hatte alle Not und Mühe, einem gleichen Schicksale zu entgehen und über die Landspitze von Stevens hinauszukommen. Endlich zwar gelang es, und ich erreichte die Kiöger Bucht; doch sah ich mich genötigt, vor stehenden Segeln zu ankern und nach und nach mich vor drei Anker zu legen. So dauerte diese peinliche Lage bis zum nächsten Morgen, wo der Wind durch Osten nach Süden lief, und ich meine Notflagge aufsteckte, um Hilfe vom Lande zu erhalten, denn mit meinen Leuten allein wußte ich mir länger nicht zu raten. Glücklicherweise eilten auch auf dies Zeichen zwei Boote mit fünfzehn Mann von Dragoe herbei, mit deren Beistand ich, nachdem ich sämtliche Ankertaue habe kappen müssen, die Reede von Kopenhagen glücklich erreichte. Während ich mich hier nun wieder instand setzte, langte auch das Volk von dem schwedischen Schiffe an, welches gänzlich verloren gegangen war. * * * * * Indes setzte ich meine Fahrt ohne weiteren Unfall fort, erreichte Bordeaux am 28. Februar 1780, löschte meine Fracht und war stracks darüber aus, einer neuen nach Amerika habhaft zu werden, wie ich's zuvor mit meinem Reeder verabredet hatte; denn unter der neutralen preußischen Flagge war besonders dahin ein ungeheueres Geld zu verdienen. Bald kam ich auch mit einem Kaufmanne aus Ostende wegen einer Ladung nach der französischen Insel St. Grenada in Westindien überein. Der Kontrakt war bis zur Unterzeichnung fertig, und ich ersuchte den Kaufmann, welcher die Reise in Person mitmachen wollte, zu mir an Bord zu kommen und sich mit eigenen Augen von der Güte und Dauerhaftigkeit des Schiffes sowie von der netten Einrichtung der ihm zugedachten Kajüte zu überzeugen. Als er des anderen Tages in dieser Absicht bei mir erschien, bemerkte ich freilich an seiner Miene, daß er sich in irgendeiner Erwartung getäuscht sehen müsse, ohne jedoch erraten zu können, woran er eigentlich Anstoß genommen. Dies sollte ich erst von meinem Korrespondenten, Herrn Wesenberg, erfahren. Die ganze Fracht war nämlich zurückgezogen, weil der Kaufmann gesehen hatte, daß mein Schiff nur ein Eindecker sei, welchem er weder die gehörige Sicherheit noch genugsame Bequemlichkeit zutrauen mochte. Hiergegen half kein Protestieren; und ich konnte mich auch um so leichter zufrieden geben, da ich unmittelbar darauf eine Fracht von Wein und Zucker auf Hamburg gewann und mit der Ladung bereits vierzehn Tage nach meiner Ankunft fertig ward. * * * * * Zu meiner Herzenserleichterung muß ich hier das Geständnis ablegen, daß ich mich nirgends beklommener gefühlt habe als in den französischen Häfen und zu Bordeaux insonderheit. Denn wie weit ich auch in der Welt herumgekommen, so habe ich doch in keiner Nation so viel List, Betrug und Ränke gefunden als unter den Franzosen. Jeder, mit dem ich zu tun bekam, hätte nichts lieber gemocht als mich recht tüchtig übers Ohr zu hauen. Jetzt vollends sollte mir noch ein Stückchen von ihrer Art widerfahren, das einen unverwüstlichen Groll bei mir zurückgelassen hat. In dem Augenblicke nämlich, da ich die Anker lichten wollte, ging ich, wie es die Ordnung ist, in das Lotsenkontor und bat um einen Piloten, der mich zur Garonne hinaus in See bringen sollte. Der Lotse kam an Bord, aber so betrunken, daß ich Bedenken fand, ihm die Leitung des Schiffes anzuvertrauen. Der Mensch wollte nicht gehen, ward grob, und ich komplimentierte ihn so etwas unsanft (jedoch ohne irgend Hand an ihn zu legen) in sein Boot und an Land zurück. Dagegen hielt ich abermals in dem Kontor, mit Angabe der Ursachen, um einen anderen nüchternen Lotsen an. Auch der Trunkenbold erschien dort und machte sich trefflich unnütz; doch ward mir mein Verlangen gewährt; ich nahm den neuen Piloten mit mir und lichtete den Anker. Wie ich nun den Strom abwärts fuhr, so bemerkte ich bald, daß ich an einem andern Fahrzeuge einen unzertrennlichen Begleiter bekommen hatte. Machte ich Segel, so tat es desgleichen; ließ ich den Anker fallen, so legte es sich mir in dem nämlichen Augenblicke zur Seite. Das Ding machte uns, je länger, je größeren Spaß, und wir kitzelten uns daran, daß der Franzose ohne uns den Weg gar nicht finden zu können schien. So kamen wir endlich an das Fort am Ausflusse der Garonne, wo unsere Pässe visiert werden mußten. Auch da war jenes Fahrzeug flink bei der Hand; und nun wurde uns eröffnet, daß ich für die Begleitung desselben bis hierher die Summe von eintausend Livres zu entrichten habe. Ich war bei dieser Forderung wie aus den Wolken gefallen. »Für seine Begleitung? -- Eintausend Livres? -- Und _wozu_ diese ganz unerbetene Begleitung?« -- Die Antwort hieß: »Zur Beschützung des Lotsen an Bord gegen besorgte Gewalttätigkeiten.« -- Natürlich weigerte ich mich der Zahlung und forderte diesen Menschen auf, mir zu bezeugen, ob ihm irgendeine Ungebühr von mir widerfahren sei. -- Er wußte nur Gutes zu sagen. Dennoch ward ohne weiteres ein Arrest auf mein Schiff gelegt. Ich sah das, wenngleich nicht sehr ruhig, bis zum nächsten Tage mit an. Der Arrest blieb, und meine Einreden fanden kein Gehör. Wollte ich nun an meiner Reise nichts versäumen und wegen Schiff und Ladung nicht in Verantwortung kommen, so war es immer noch das Geratenste, diese ungerechte Forderung zu bezahlen und sie mir, als eine echt französische Geldschneiderei, zur Warnung für die Zukunft hinters Ohr zu schreiben. * * * * * Zu diesem Verdrusse gesellte sich, sobald ich endlich in See gelangt war, ein anderer und noch größerer. Mein Schiffsvolk nämlich, durchaus dem Soff ergeben, wollte die Gelegenheit nicht versäumen, den Weinfässern, die einen Teil unserer Ladung ausmachten, aufs fleißigste zuzusprechen. Als ich dem zu wehren gedachte, rottierten sich die Kerle zusammen, schlugen mit Gewalt die Luken auf, zapften die Oxhöfte an und ließen den Wein stromweise in ihre Wassereimer und Hüte rinnen. In wenig Stunden hatte sich alles toll und voll gesoffen. Von nun an hatte es aber auch mit allem Kommando ein Ende. Die Vollzapfe waren wie wütend und ich und der Steuermann unseres Lebens unter ihnen nicht mehr sicher. Und so ging es fortan einen Tag wie den andern. Wir beide mochten zusehen, wie wir konnten, damit das Schiff wenigstens einigermaßen seinen Kurs hielt. War es auch nicht geradezu Rebellion zu nennen, so blieb es doch ein wüstes Tollmannsleben, wobei weder gute noch böse Worte anschlugen und wir paar Vernünftige die größte Gefahr und Not vor Augen sahen, sooft Segel sollten beigesetzt oder eingenommen werden. Endlich half Gott, wiewohl unter Angst und Schrecken, daß wir bei Cuxhaven, vor der Mündung der Elbe, anlangten. Gerade hier aber konnte ich mich auch mit diesen Menschen unmöglich weiter wagen, da man in den Engen des Stromes immerfort zu lavieren hatte oder die Anker fallen lassen mußte. Ich beschloß also, an Land zu gehen und acht oder zehn tüchtige Leute anzunehmen, die mir nach Hamburg hinaufhelfen sollten. Zufällig trat ich in dem Örtchen zu einem Barbier ein, um mich unter sein Schermesser zu liefern. Ich ward aber nicht bloß geschoren, sondern auch daneben so kunstmäßig ausgefragt, daß mir das Elend mit meinem gar nicht mehr zu ernüchternden Schiffsvolke gar bald in lauter Klage über die Lippen trat. Vor allem erwähnte ich zweier Kerle, die sich im eigentlichen Sinne rasend gesoffen zu haben schienen und ganz wie von Sinn und Verstand gekommen wären. -- »Nun, der Verstand wäre ihnen wohl leicht wieder einzutrichtern,« versetzte der Barbier mit einer schlauen Miene, »wenn ihnen nur zuvor der Unverstand und die tollen Affekten hinlänglich abgezapft worden.« Er meinte nämlich (wie er sich darüber auf mein Befragen näher erklärte), ein tüchtiger Aderlaß bis zur Ohnmacht sollte diese bestialische Tollheit, wenn sie bloß im Soff ihren Grund hatte, schon zur Ordnung bringen. Zwar nahm ich von diesem medizinischen Gutachten keine weitere Notiz; doch als ich am andern Morgen wieder an Land wollte, um die gedungenen Leute an Bord zu nehmen, fiel mir der Barbier und sein Heilmittel wieder ein. Mag es den Versuch gelten! dachte ich, und wandte mich in unbefangener Vertraulichkeit an die beiden Tollhäusler, die mir eben auf dem Verdeck in den Wurf kamen: »Hört, Kinder, ich will zum Aderlassen. Ihr beide seht mir beständig so rot und vollblütig aus, daß es euch gleichfalls wohl gut tun sollte. Kommt mit, dann machen wir das gleich in Gesellschaft ab.« Die beiden Kerle schöpften kein Arges aus dem Vorschlage, der ihnen vielmehr ganz instinktmäßig zusagen mochte. Während sie nun nach meinem Geheiß auf der Hausflur des Barbiers verweilten, trat ich lachend in dessen Zimmer und verkündigte ihm die Gegenwart meiner hirnwütigen Patienten, an denen er nunmehr seine Kunst erproben möge. Sobald auch nur so viel Frist verlaufen war, als zur Vollendung einiger Aderlässe erforderlich scheinen mochte, kam ich wieder zum Vorschein, indem ich rief: »Das wäre fertig; nun, Jakob, ist die Reihe an dir! Herein!« -- Der Bursche kam. Jetzt ging aber die Operation an seinem Arme im Ernste vor sich. Eine große Schüssel füllte sich mit Blut, und der Jakob ward immer bleicher um die Nase. Ich gab dem Manne mit dem Schnepper einen verstohlenen Wink, daß es nun wohl Zeit sein dürfte, einzuhalten; allein er ließ auch die zweite Schüssel vollrinnen, bis Jakob endlich besinnungslos umsank und durch einen vorgehaltenen Spiritus wieder zu sich gebracht werden mußte. Das nämliche widerfuhr hiernächst auch seinem Zechkameraden, dem Peter; und beide schwankten dem Schiffe so matt und entkräftet wieder zu, daß sie geführt werden mußten und auch die folgenden vierzehn Tage hindurch auf ihren Füßen nicht stehen konnten. Zur Arbeit blieben sie mir also binnen dieser Zeit allerdings unbrauchbar; aber auch ihre Tollheit war gänzlich von ihnen gewichen, und des Barbiers Kunststück hatte sich als vollkommen probat erwiesen. Ich brauche wohl nicht hinzuzusetzen, wie sehr ich, sobald ich Hamburg erreicht hatte, beeilt war, mir all dies widerspenstige Gesindel vom Halse zu schaffen. Es ist wahr, ich hätte sie vor den Seegerichten anklagen können, und Staupbesen und Brandmark würden ihrer gewartet haben. Das wollte ich aber nicht, weil einige darunter in und um Stettin zu Hause waren und Frau und Kinder hatten. Ich machte ihnen also nur die Hölle tüchtig heiß, gab ihnen eine scharfe Ermahnung mit auf den Weg und ließ sie in Gottes Namen laufen. * * * * * Hier in Hamburg fand sich eine neue Ladung für mich nach Lissabon, mit welcher ich jedoch erst am letzten August auf den Weg zu kommen vermochte. Die Reise selbst bietet mir nichts Erhebliches für die Erzählung; doch mag ich wohl eines Schrecks erwähnen, der mir noch ganz für das Ende derselben vorbehalten blieb. Als ich nämlich etwa sieben Meilen nördlich von der Mündung des Tajo gekommen war, sah ich ein Fahrzeug mir entgegensteuern, das mit ungewöhnlich vielen Menschen besetzt zu sein schien. Unter anderen Umständen würde mich diese Begegnung ziemlich gleichgültig gelassen haben, allein schon während unserer ganzen Reise spukte es mir und meinen Leuten im Kopfe herum, daß wir gegen die Barbaresken und Marokkaner eine unfreie Flagge hatten, und unser einziger Trost bestand darin, daß von einem Raubzuge derselben so weit nördlich hinauf doch seit geraumer Zeit nichts verlautet habe. Jetzt schoß mir bei jenem Anblicke das Blut in den Kopf, denn wie leicht war es möglich, daß ein Korsar, verwegener als seine Genossen, sich hier, an einem so vielbesuchten Punkte, auf die Lauer gelegt haben möchte! Je genauer ich mir das Segel durch mein Fernrohr ansah, desto mehr schöpfte ich Verdacht. Ich veränderte meinen Kurs, um mich näher am Lande zu halten; die Barke tat desgleichen. Ich setzte Segel über Segel auf; sie tat auch ihrerseits alles mögliche, um uns näher zu kommen. In dieser kritischen Lage rief ich mein Schiffsvolk zusammen und sagte: »Kinder, ihr seht -- da haben wir die Bescherung! Die türkischen Hunde haben es offenbar auf uns gemünzt und unsere Pässe helfen uns hier nicht durch. Was meint ihr? Sollen wir uns von ihnen so mir nichts dir nichts entern lassen und vor dem Pack zu Kreuze kriechen? Ich meinesteils zöge lieber den Tod vor, als mich zeitlebens in der Sklaverei unter die Peitsche zu ducken. Oder habt _ihr_ größere Lust dazu? Sprecht!« -- Die Kerle sahen mir das Feuer aus den Augen leuchten und wurden selber warm. Sie meinten, es müßte wacker dreingeschlagen werden, und zugleich lief alles, die Gewehre, soviel wir deren hatten, zur Hand zu nehmen und instand zu setzen. Unter diesen kriegerischen Vorbereitungen war uns aber auch das Fahrzeug so nahe auf den Leib gekommen, daß es uns zurufen konnte: ob wir keinen Lotsen nach Lissabon zu haben verlangten? -- Da hatten wir nun auf einmal die Lösung des Rätsels! Es war eine portugiesische Fischerbarke, und wir hatten uns ganz umsonst gefürchtet. Wenigstens wurde unsere Bravour nun auf keine weitere Probe gestellt. Allein mit einem kleinen Reste von Besorgnis und Mißtrauen wollten wir uns diese dienstfertigen Leute lieber doch nicht gar zu nahe kommen lassen, lehnten ihr Anerbieten höflich ab, suchten mit guter Manier von ihnen abzukommen und warfen gleich darauf am letzten September im Tajo die Anker. * * * * * In Lissabon war ich an den alten Korrespondenten des Großschen Hauses, Herrn John Bulkeley, adressiert und eines Tages auf dem Wege, seiner Einladung zur Mittagstafel zu folgen. Ich mußte über einen großen Marktplatz, wo ich bereits aus der Ferne ein großes Gedränge von Menschen bemerkte. In der Meinung, daß es dort wohl eine öffentliche Hinrichtung geben möchte, trat ich näher, erkannte aber bald meinen Irrtum, da ich eines großen Zeltes ansichtig ward, von dessen Spitze, zu meiner Verwunderung, die _preußische_ Flagge lustig im Winde wehte. Nun mußte ich natürlich genauer zusehen. Ich drängte mich mit Mühe durch den dicksten Haufen, bis ich am Eingange des Zeltes stand, zu dessen beiden Seiten ein paar baumhohe preußische Grenadiere in ihren hohen blanken Spitzmützen stattlich schilderten. Fast hätte ich Lust gehabt, die braven Landsleute hier unter fremdem Himmel treuherzig zu begrüßen, als ich noch zu rechter Zeit inne ward, daß mich ein paar Wachspuppen getäuscht hatten und daß ich hier wahrscheinlich am Eingange eines Wachsfigurenkabinettes stand, dem diese martialischen Gesichter nur zu einem Aushängeschilde dienten. Indes, meine Neugier war nun einmal geweckt und ich beschloß, hineinzutreten; denn hinter solchen Türhütern, dachte ich, müsse wohl noch mehr stecken, woran ein preußisches Herz sich erlaben könne. Und so war es auch wirklich! So getreu und natürlich, als ob er lebte, stand mitten inne der alte König Friedrich, mit einem Richterschwert in der Hand, und vor ihm lag ein Mann mit Weib und Kindern auf den Knien, die um Gerechtigkeit zu flehen schienen. Ihm zur Rechten war eine große Wage angebracht, in deren einer Schale eine Bildsäule der Gerechtigkeit thronte und die andere, die mit Papieren und Akten angefüllt war, hoch in die Höhe wog. Zur andern Seite eine Gruppe preußischer Generale und Justizpersonen, und im Hintergrunde in großen leuchtenden Buchstaben die portugiesische Inschrift: »Gerechtigkeitspflege des Königs von Preußen«; -- darunter aber der Name »Arnold«. -- Man sieht also, daß hier der Prozeß des Müllers Arnold gemeint war, der damals als Neuigkeit des Tages durch ganz Europa das höchste Aufsehen erregte. Wem dennoch das Ganze hätte unverständlich bleiben mögen, dem half ein Ausrufer zurecht, der die Geschichte laut und pathetisch herzuerzählen wußte. Alles horchte und schien tief ergriffen; auch mir armem Narren hämmerte das Herz unterm dritten Knopfloch, daß ich mich vor patriotischer, freudiger Wehmut kaum zu fassen wußte. Nein, es mußte heraus! Ich mußte mich in den innersten Kreis hervordrängen, und so gut oder übel ich die fremde Sprache zu radebrechen verstand, rief ich aus: »_Mein_ König! Ich bin Preuße!« -- Diese wenigen Worte fielen wie ein elektrisches Feuer in alle Herzen. Die ganze Schar umringte mich, sank um mich her auf die Kniee und hob gleichsam anbetende Hände zu mir empor. »Gloria dem Könige von Preußen!« rief der eine -- »Heil ihm!« der andere -- »Heil für die strenge Gerechtigkeit!« -- »Leuchtendes Beispiel für alle Regenten der Erde! Heil ihm!« -- Mit jedem Augenblicke vermehrte sich das Geschrei und Getümmel. Die Tränen drängten sich mir aus den Augen. Ich neigte mich rings herum; ich legte die Hand aufs Herz; ich dankte stammelnd und suchte einen Ausweg durch die immer gedrängter zusammenstürzende Menge. Zwar machten sie mir willig Platz, aber sie folgten mir auch mit anhaltendem Freudengeschrei: »Vivat der gerechte König!« Nie in meinem Leben fühlte ich mich geehrter und glücklicher, ein Untertan des großen Friedrich zu sein. Mein Herz ward mir zu schwer, ich schwankte, konnte nicht weiter und mußte mich erschöpft an eine Straßenecke lehnen. Nur meine erhobenen Hände, die ich unwillkürlich, wie zum Segnen, nach dem Volke ausstreckte, vermochten meinen Dank auszusprechen. Endlich wankte ich wieder die Gasse hinauf, aber mit einem Schweife von Menschen hinter mir, der sich mit jedem Augenblicke vergrößerte und den König von Preußen hochleben ließ. Im Hause meines Korrespondenten, in welches ich mit Mühe flüchtete, waren alle Türen und Fenster aufgerissen und mit verwunderten Zuschauern besetzt. Umsonst fragte man mich, was dies zu bedeuten habe. Mein bewegtes Gemüt fand keine Worte. Draußen aber stieg der freudige Tumult immer höher, und um das Volk zu beruhigen und vom Platze zu bringen, blieb mir nichts übrig, als auf den Balkon zu treten und mich noch einmal zu zeigen. Ich dankte mit Mund und Händen und allmählich verlief sich der Menschenstrom. Hierauf erzählte ich meinen Tischgenossen die wundersame Begebenheit, welche ich soeben erlebt hatte, und die Arnoldsche Prozeßgeschichte, so gut sie mir bekannt war. Einer von den anwesenden Kontoristen versicherte jedoch, über diese noch genauere Auskunft geben zu können, ging hin und holte eine kleine portugiesische Flugschrift, die in einer treuen geschichtlichen Darstellung dem gerechteren der Könige auch bei einem entfernten Volke ein verdientes Ehrenmal setzte. -- Hieran spiegelt euch, ihr Preußen! * * * * * Einige Tage später sprach ein portugiesischer Kaufmann mich auf der Börse an und bat mich höflichst, zu Mittag sein Gast zu sein; nach Verlauf der Börsenzeit werde er mir einen Wink geben, mit ihm zu gehen. Ich sagte zu und hatte ihn im Gewühle kaum aus den Augen verloren, als mehrere Schiffskapitäne von meiner Bekanntschaft, die das mit angesehen hatten, mich mit Fragen bestürmten, ob dieser Mann mir etwa bekannter sei, als ihnen allen, die er gleichwohl, wie mich, zu Tische geladen habe. Ich mußte das schlechterdings verneinen und war, gleich ihnen, über seinen Einfall einigermaßen verwundert. Das hinderte jedoch nicht, daß wir nach geendigter Börsenstunde zusammengerufen wurden. Es waren unser neun Schiffskapitäne, im buntesten Gemische, wie die Männer in der Pfingstepistel -- Dänen, Hamburger, Lübecker, Schweden, Schwedisch-Pommern und Danziger. Auch fanden wir, als wir im Hause unseres Gastgebers anlangten, dort bereits mehrere Kaufleute versammelt und ein schmackhaftes Mahl bereitet, wobei zugleich tapfer getrunken wurde, denn unser Wirt verstand die Kunst des Zunötigens aus dem Grunde, und so artete es nach aufgehobener Tafel bald in ein Bacchanal aus, wo weder Maß noch Anstand mehr beobachtet wurde. Bei mir, der ich genau das Maß kannte, welches ich nicht überschreiten durfte, um bei Verstand und Ehren zu bleiben, ging jedoch bald jedes gute wie jedes böse Wort des Gastgebers verloren. »Basta, und keinen Tropfen mehr!« war und blieb mein letzter Trumpf, der endlich auch gelten mußte. Weniger gut kamen die übrigen Schiffskapitäne weg, die sich dergestalt übernahmen, daß sie zuletzt samt und sonders unter den Tisch sanken. Ich meinesteils hatte mich inzwischen mit den anwesenden Kaufleuten unterhalten, bis ich, des bestialischen Anblicks müde, mich empfahl und mich an Bord meines Schiffes begab. Gleichwohl rieb ich mir am anderen Morgen etwas verdutzt die Augen aus, als ich unseren gestrigen Wirt in Begleitung jener Kaufleute, welche Teilnehmer des Gelages gewesen waren, bei mir eintreten sah. Sie schüttelten mir treuherzig die Hand und eröffneten mir lachend, das gestrige Trinkfest sei absichtlich von ihnen angestellt worden, um sich unter uns neunen den rechten Mann auszusuchen, dem sie, als dem solidesten und besonnensten, eine Ladung von Wert anvertrauen könnten. Einstimmig wäre ihre Wahl auf _mich_ gefallen und so frügen sie mich, ob es mir anstände, eine volle Ladung Tee nach Amsterdam zu übernehmen? -- Leicht kann man denken, daß ich nicht »nein!« sagte. Tee war damals leicht eine der reichsten Frachten, die auf Brettern schwamm, und die nur einer neutralen Flagge, wie die meinige war, anvertraut werden konnte, da nach und nach auch Holland in den amerikanischen Freiheitskrieg verwickelt worden war und die Engländer alles kaperten, was die Bestimmung nach einem holländischen Hafen hatte und nicht eines solchen Freipasses genoß. Wir wurden zu beiderseitiger Zufriedenheit um ein Frachtgeld von fünfunddreißigtausend Talern, fünf Prozent Havarie und zehn Prozent Kapplakengelder einig. Sowie mein Schiff ledig war, fing ich an, den Tee einzuladen. * * * * * Während dieser Zeit suchte ein holländischer Schiffskapitän namens Klock mich an meinem Borde auf, um mich zu ersuchen, daß ich ihn samt seinem Schiffsvolk, aus vierzehn Köpfen bestehend, als Passagiere mit mir nach Holland nehmen möchte. Da ich sein gutes und rechtliches Wesen erkannte, so gestand ich ihm nicht nur sein Gesuch von Herzen gern zu, sondern erbot mich auch, da er mir unterwegs von mannigfachem Nutzen sein konnte, ihm und seinen Leuten von nun an bis zu unserer Ankunft in Amsterdam die freie Kost, so gut ich sie selber hätte, zu reichen. Freilich war das Menschen- und Christenpflicht, aber auch mein Patriotismus kam hier auf eine wunderliche Weise mit ins Spiel, weil ich nicht schlechter an den armen Leuten handeln wollte, als -- der Kaiser von Marokko. Das war so gewesen: Kapitän Klock, der in Amsterdam zu Hause und dessen Schiff nach den kanarischen Inseln bestimmt war, fand es wegen der politischen Konjunkturen für ratsamer unter der preußischen als unter seiner vaterländischen Flagge zu fahren. Er ging also zuvor nach Emden, gewann dort um eine Kleinigkeit das Bürgerrecht und genoß von dem Augenblicke an die Rechte und den Schutz eines preußischen Untertans. So gesichert, stach er in See, hatte aber das Unglück, sein Schiff an der marokkanischen Küste durch einen Sturm zu verlieren. Nur kümmerlich rettete er sich samt seinen Gefährten ans Land, wo sie freilich nur Ketten und Banden zu erwarten hatten. Ein schreckliches Loch war ihr Gefängnis, wo sie bei Maiskörnern und Wasser zwischen Tod und Leben in schrecklicher Angst über ihr Schicksal hinschmachteten. Denn soviel hatte man sie verständigt: man wisse nicht, was man aus ihnen und ihrer ans Land getriebenen Flagge machen solle. Es sei daher die letztere an das dreißig Meilen entfernte Hoflager des Kaisers gesandt worden und von dorther erwarte man eine Verfügung. Nach neun Tagen endlich erschien vor ihrem Kerkerloche ein gewaltiger Trupp bewaffneter Mauren; ihre Banden lösten sich und sie wurden jeder auf einen Esel gesetzt, um eine Reise anzutreten, deren Ziel sie nicht zu erraten vermochten, wiewohl sie ahnten, daß man sie tiefer landeinwärts zu verkaufen gedenke. Diese Furcht endigte sich aber, als sie die Hauptstadt Marokko erreichten, wo ein deutscher Jude als Dolmetscher sich zu ihnen gesellte und sie, laut erhaltenem Befehl, alsbald vor den Kaiser Muley Ismael führte. Hier wurden sie aufgefordert, sich auszuweisen, ob sie Untertanen des Königs von Preußen wären. Sie standen nicht an, dies zu bejahen und sich auf ihre Flagge zu berufen. »Wohl!« lautete die durch den Dolmetscher erteilte Antwort des Fürsten -- »von eurem Monarchen, seiner Weisheit und seinen Kriegen sind so viele Wunderdinge zu meinen Ohren gekommen, daß es mich mit Liebe und Bewunderung gegen ihn erfüllt hat. Die Welt hat keinen größeren Mann als ihn, als Freund und Bruder habe ich ihn in mein Herz geschlossen. Ich will darum auch nicht, daß ihr, die ihr ihm angehört, in meinen Staaten als Gefangene angesehen werden sollt. Vielmehr habe ich beschlossen, euch frank und frei in euer Vaterland heimzuschicken, auch meinen Kreuzern anbefohlen, wo sie preußische Schiffe in See antreffen, ihre Flagge zu respektieren und sie selbst nach Möglichkeit zu beschützen.« Des anderen Tages wurden sie auf kaiserlichen Befehl nach maurischer Weise (wie sie auch noch in Lissabon auftraten) neu gekleidet und ihnen eine anständige Wohnung angewiesen. Den Kapitän aber ließ Muley Ismael fast täglich zu sich fordern, um Fragen an ihn zu richten, die sich auf den großen Preußenkönig bezogen; z. B. von welcher Statur er sei? wie lange er schlafe? was er esse und trinke? wieviel Soldaten -- auch wieviel Frauen er halte? und dergleichen mehr. Der gute Klock gestand, er habe lügen müssen, wie er nur immer gekonnt, um der kaiserlichen Neugierde nur einigermaßen zu genügen, da ihm von all diesen Dingen herzlich wenig bewußt gewesen. So hielt es bis in die dritte Woche an, da endlich der Kapitän, durch jene Fragen immer mehr in die Enge gebracht, um seine Entlassung anhielt, da er eilen müsse, seinem Könige Rede und Antwort zu geben, wie gnädig der Kaiser seine schiffbrüchigen Untertanen behandelt habe und was für freundschaftliche Gesinnungen er gegen ihn hege. Muley Ismael entließ sie einige Tage darauf in Frieden und sandte sie unter sicherer Begleitung auf Eseln nach dem Hafen St. Croix, wo bereits dem maurischen Befehlshaber aufgegeben war, sie auf das erste abgehende europäische Fahrzeug zu verdingen und die Fracht für sie zu bezahlen, woneben sie zugleich mit Mund-Provisionen für einen Monat versehen wurden. So gelangten sie nach Lissabon und in meine Bekanntschaft. Wer mich kennt, ermißt leicht, wie groß das Interesse sein mußte, welches ich an einem Ereignisse nahm, worin die Ehre meines geliebten Monarchen so eng verflochten war. Darum drang ich dann auch späterhin, auf der Reise nach Amsterdam, in den Kapitän Klock, sein ganzes marokkanisches Abenteuer in einen schriftlichen Bericht zu verfassen und nach unserer Ankunft samt seinen Gefährten auf dem Stadthause über die Wahrheit dieses Berichtes eine eidliche Versicherung abzugeben. Dies geschah auch wirklich und ich schickte die darüber aufgenommene gerichtliche Verhandlung an meinen Patron, Herrn Groß in Stettin, ein, mit dem Ersuchen, solche an Se. Majestät unmittelbar gelangen zu lassen. Auch hatte dies den Erfolg, daß ich, etwa nach vier Wochen, aus des Königs Kabinette ein Danksagungsschreiben erhielt, dem ein Berliner Zeitungsblatt beilag, worin diese ganze Begebenheit dem Publikum mitgeteilt worden. * * * * * Doch ich kehre zu meinen eignen Erlebnissen zurück und bitte den geneigten Leser, sich zu erinnern, daß ich mich mit meinem Schiffe noch in Lissabon befinde. Hier war es einige Tage vor meiner beschlossenen Ausreise, als der holländische Konsul mich von der Börse mit nach seiner Wohnung nahm, weil er mir etwas Hochwichtiges zu eröffnen habe. Nach geendigter Mahlzeit und unter vier Augen zeigte er mir ein kleines Päckchen vor und sagte, es sei mit rohen Diamanten angefüllt, die in Amsterdam geschliffen werden sollten. Sein Wunsch sei, mir diesen Schatz auf mein ehrliches Angesicht zur Überbringung dahin anzuvertrauen. Es seien dabei, nach Usance, hundertfünfzehn holländische Gulden Fracht für mich zu verdienen; ich müsse aber das Päckchen unablässig an meinem Leibe tragen und mein Schiffsvolk davon durchaus nichts ahnen lassen, sowie mir denn noch eine Menge anderer Vorsichtsmaßregeln eingeprägt wurden. Die Sache schien mir leicht und der angebotene Gewinn wohl mitzunehmen. Ich versprach, den Tag vor meiner Abreise jenes kostbare Päckchen in Empfang zu nehmen. Demzufolge ward es mir denn auch angesichts des Konsuls in meine Uhrtasche eingenäht und sodann ein Konnossement über richtigen Empfang vorgelegt, das ich zu unterzeichnen hatte. Dies geschah auch mit leichtem Herzen; allein in eben dem Augenblicke, da ich über die Schwelle des Hauses meinen Rückweg nahm, ging auch meine heimliche Angst und Sorge an, die diese ganze Reise hindurch nicht von mir wich. Ich wähnte, jeder, der mich ansah, wisse um mein Geheimnis und gehe mit dem Gedanken um, mich zu berauben oder gar zu ermorden. Selbst im Schlafe griff ich, sowie oft auch unwillkürlich im Wachen, nach dem Päckchen, um mich zu überzeugen, daß es noch an seiner Stelle ruhte, und wohl kann ich sagen, daß ich nie ein Geld mit größerer Unruhe meines Herzens verdient habe. * * * * * Nachdem ich nun gegen Ende Oktober in See gegangen war, gab es eine zwar langsame, doch übrigens nicht ungünstige Fahrt, die mich am 23. November auf die Höhe des Texels führte. Hier hatten zwei englische Kreuzer ihre Station, bei deren einem ich mit meinen Schiffspapieren an Bord kommen mußte. Indessen konnte deren Untersuchung nicht anders als vorteilhaft für mich ausfallen, denn das Schiff war preußisch, die Ladung für portugiesische Rechnung, beide also neutral und frei. So ward mir also auch gestattet, in den Texel hineinzusegeln; zugleich aber gab mir der Kapitän des englischen Linienschiffes den Auftrag, dem holländischen Admiral Kinsberger, der dort mit einer Kriegsflotte von elf Segeln lag, mit seinem Gruße auch seinen Wunsch zu vermelden, sich mit ihm je eher je lieber in offener See zu besprechen. In der Tat war es unbegreiflich, wie dieser sonst so wackere Seemann sich von jenen beiden Schiffen im Texel dergestalt einsperren lassen konnte! Inzwischen war der Wind nach Osten umgesprungen, und mir blieb nichts übrig, als mit der nächsten Flut gerade gegen ihn an in jenen Hafen hineinzulavieren. Indem ich mich nun bei diesem Manöver dem ersten holländischen Kriegsschiffe näherte, kam von diesem eine Schaluppe hinter mir dreingerudert, aus der man mir gebieterisch zurief: »Braßt auf! Braßt auf!« -- Mein holländischer Lotse, den ich an Bord genommen, hatte Lust, dem Befehle zu gehorchen; ich hingegen bedeutete ihm, daß wir in diesem Augenblicke dem Oststrande zu nahe wären, um dergleichen wagen zu können; wir wollten aber das Schiff wenden, wo dann die Schaluppe füglicher bei uns an Bord kommen würde. Noch waren wir in der Wendung begriffen, als letzteres schon geschah und ein Schiffsleutnant zu uns aufs Deck stieg, der mich ziemlich barsch und patzig zur Rede stellte, warum ich auf sein Kommando nicht aufgebraßt hätte? -- »Mynheer,« erwiderte ich, »wenn Ihr ein Seemann seid, so seht doch da den nahen Oststrand und fragt Euch selbst, ob ich mich mutwillig auf den Grund setzen sollte?« -- Darauf war wenig mehr zu antworten; er änderte also seine Fragen nach meinem Woher und Wohin, und erhielt darauf richtigen und gebührenden Bescheid, verlangte aber demungeachtet noch nähere Auskunft, wer ich sei und wie ich heiße. -- »An meinem Namen,« versetzte ich, »kann wenig gelegen sein, und aus meiner Flagge, die uns über den Köpfen weht, ist zu ersehen, daß ich ein Preuße bin.« -- Ob ich englische Kreuzer in See getroffen hätte? wollte er weiter wissen. -- »Da mögt Ihr,« war meine Antwort, »Euere eigenen Augen brauchen. Ich bin ein neutraler Mann und mir kommt nicht zu, Euere Feinde an Euch zu verraten.« Nun bestand er darauf, mit mir in meine Kajüte zu gehen, um mich unter vier Augen zu sprechen. -- »Das kann ich jetzt nicht,« versetzte ich kurz angebunden. »Mein Schiff ist im Lavieren. Ich muß auf Deck bleiben und es im Auge behalten. Binnen einer Stunde gehe ich zwischen Eurer Flotte vor Anker, und dann wird es noch Zeit sein, Euch in allem, was not tut, Rede zu stehen.« -- »Wie, Ihr wollt nicht gleich diesen Augenblick in die Kajüte kommen?« -- »Jetzt sicherlich nicht.« -- Da ward das Bürschchen hitzig, griff nach der Plempe, die es an der Seite hängen hatte, zog blank und versetzte mir damit flach einen Streich über die Schulter. Hui! das war ein Funke in eine offene Pulvertonne! Denn in dem nämlichen Augenblicke auch packte meine Faust das Sprachrohr, das neben mir stand, und legte es ihm so unsanft zwischen Kopf und Schulter, daß das untere Ende desselben über Bord flog und ich das bloße Mundstück in der Hand behielt. Zugleich griff ich in das Gefäß seines Degens, rang ihm diesen aus der Hand, packte ihn am Kragen und schob ihn über Bord die Treppe hinab, so daß er schwerlich selbst gewußt hat, wie er in seine Schaluppe gekommen sein mag. Dann langte ich ihm seine vergessene Klinge nach, seine Leute stießen ab und die ferneren Komplimente hatten ein Ende. Unmittelbar darauf kam ich unter die Flotte und ließ den Anker fallen. Eine andere Schaluppe kam zu mir herangerudert; der darauf befindliche Offizier war ein vernünftiger Mann, seine Fragen hatten Hand und Fuß und ebenso waren auch meine Antworten ausreichend und bescheiden. Am anderen Morgen ging ich, da mir der Wind noch immer entgegenstand, mit der Flut abermals unter Segel, um noch weiter in den Texel hineinzulavieren. Mein Lotse wollte, daß wir unsere Flagge wieder aufhissen sollten; ich jedoch war anderer Meinung. Hatten wir doch den ganzen gestrigen Tag zwischen der holländischen Flotte umhergekreuzt und geankert und unsere Flagge wehen lassen, so daß ihnen unmöglich unbekannt sein konnte, wes Geistes Kinder wir wären. Eigentlich aber wollte ich meine Flagge schonen, die bei dem Wenden hin und wieder arg zerpeitscht wurde. Wir waren darüber noch im Ratschlagen begriffen, als ein blinder Schuß nach meiner Seite her abgefeuert wurde -- die gewöhnliche Mahnung, Wimpel und Flagge zu zeigen. Da ich nun sah, daß es _so_ gemeint sei, befahl ich stracks, ihnen den Willen zu tun; allein wie sehr meine Leute sich auch damit hasteten, erfolgte doch zu gleicher Zeit ein zweiter scharfer Schuß, dessen Kugel dicht vor mir ins Wasser aufschlug. Dann aber fand sich auch, ehe ich mich dessen versah, eine Schaluppe ein, deren Offizier mir einen Dukaten für den ersten und zwei für den andern Kugelschuß abforderte und hinzusetzte, daß dies auf Befehl des Admirals Kinsberger geschehe. Ich gestehe, daß meine Antwort etwas unmanierlich lautete, denn ich ließ ihm sagen, er möchte sein Pulver und Blei auf seine Feinde und nicht auf eine respektable neutrale Flagge, die sich ihm genugsam kundgegeben, verschießen. Ich betrachtete seine Schüsse als einen meinem Souverän erwiesenen Affront, über welchen ich gehörigen Ortes Beschwerde zu führen wissen würde. Da ich jetzt nach Holland hinein- und nicht hinausginge, so würde er mich wie ich ihn in Amsterdam zu finden wissen, ohne daß ich um Rede und Antwort verlegen wäre. _Hier_ aber gedächte ich auch nicht einen Stüber zu bezahlen. Der Leutnant, der meinen entschlossenen Sinn sah, verlangte, daß ich ihm diese Antwort schriftlich geben sollte. Ich ging mit ihm in die Kajüte und tat ihm seinen Willen, fügte aber zugleich auch den Gruß hinzu, den mir der Kapitän des englischen Kreuzers an den Admiral aufgetragen hatte. Während des Schreibens musterte jener einen Berg Zitronen, die in einem Winkel der Kajüte lagen, mit lüsternen Augen. Ich bat ihn, sich davon auszuwählen, so viel er irgend zu lassen wüßte -- eine Höflichkeit, die er mit Dank annahm und benutzte, und wonach wir beiderseits freundlich voneinander schieden. Aber auch späterhin ist von diesem Handel auf keine Weise wieder etwas zur Sprache gekommen. Ich selbst vergaß diesen Vorgang alsbald über der Not, die ich hatte bei dem noch immer konträren Ostwinde, in dem engen Fahrwasser mit Lavieren in kurzen Schlägen und unter Beihilfe der jedesmaligen Flut langsam genug fortzurücken, hinwiederum aber mit jeder Ebbe die Anker fallen zu lassen. Hierbei fror es zu gleicher Zeit so heftig und es kam mir so viel Treibeis auf den Hals, daß ich mich oftmals vor zwei oder auch wohl drei Anker legen mußte, um dem Andrang gehörig zu widerstehen. So währte es drei Tage hintereinander, ohne daß es sich zum Besseren anließ; und ich mochte mich allein damit trösten, daß es vor und hinter mir noch eine Menge von Schiffen gab, die ebenso angestrengt und vergeblich trachteten, trotz dem Eise noch Amsterdam zu erreichen. Selbst aber als diese nach und nach die näheren Nothäfen Medemblyck, Enkhuizen und Staveren zu gewinnen suchten, beharrte ich bei meinem Vornehmen und hoffte, daß endlich doch Wind und Wetter sich zu meinem Vorteil ändern würden. Als ich mich nun solchergestalt, von allen anderen verlassen, abmühte, dem Schicksale mein Reiseziel gleichsam abzutrotzen, traten mein Schiffsvolk und der eingenommene Lotse zu mir, um mir vorzustellen, wie die Gefahr des Eises wegen sich stündlich mehre und wie ratsam es sein werde, nach dem Beispiel unserer bisherigen Gefährten, in einen anderen nahen Hafen einzulaufen. »Jungens,« entgegnete ich ihnen, »wo denkt ihr hin? Haben wir nicht ein starkes, dichtes Schiff? Sind unsere Anker und Taue nicht haltbar? Fehlt es uns an Essen und Trinken? Und wenn die in den anderen Schiffen furchtsame Memmen sind, die gleich beim ersten Frostschauer zu Loche kriechen, wollen _wir_ uns ihnen darin gleichstellen? Ich meine, wir sehen es noch eine Weile mit an, und wenn es dann immer noch keinen besseren Anschein gewinnt, so bleibt ja Zeit genug, uns nach einem Nothafen umzusehen.« -- Diese Vorstellungen wirkten, und sie versprachen, auch ferner ihr Bestes zu tun. * * * * * Des nämlichen Nachmittags kam mir ein kleines Fischerfahrzeug von Enkhuizen zur Seite. Drinnen saß ein alter Mann nebst seinem Jungen und rief mir zu: »Wie steht's, Kapitän, wollt Ihr auch Hilfe haben?« -- Ich gab wenig auf sein Erbieten, denn seine Flunder-Schuite sah mir nicht danach aus, als ob sie mir sonderliches Heil bringen könnte oder das Eis über Seite schieben würde, wovon die Zuydersee vor uns vollstand. »Fahrt mit Gott!« rief ich ihm zu. »Mit Euerer Hilfe wird mir wenig gedient sein!« Doch zu gleicher Zeit zog mich der Lotse beiseite und gab mir zu bedenken, daß es gleichwohl nicht übel getan sein würde, für den Fall, daß wir uns dennoch zu irgendeinem Nothafen bequemen müßten, einen Mann an Bord zu haben, der dieser Gewässer unbezweifelt noch besser als er selbst kundig wäre, und an welchem er dann eine um so gewissere Unterstützung finden würde. -- »Immerhin!« versetzte ich, »wenn wir von dem alten Manne, der mir gar nicht danach aussieht, nur reellen Beistand zu erwarten haben.« -- Dieser, der schon von uns abgestoßen hatte, ward also zurückgerufen, kam an Bord und wurde befragt, ob ihm die nächstgelegene nordholländische Küste hinreichend bekannt sei, um uns im Notfall als Lotse zu dienen? Fast schien der alte Bursche mir meine Frage übel zu deuten. Er nahm eine pathetische Stellung an und beteuerte: von Jugend auf sei er hier in allen Winkeln herumgekrochen, kenne jeden Grund und jeden Stein und wolle hier wohl die ganze holländische Flotte bei stockdunkler Nacht sicher vor Anker bringen. -- »Gut!« erwiderte ich. »So mögt Ihr an Bord bei mir bleiben! Allein auf welchen Vergleich soll ich mich mit Euch einigen? Dringen wir durch nach Amsterdam, wie ich's hoffe, so könnt Ihr mir keine Dienste tun; muß ich mich aber nach einer andern Zuflucht umsehen, so weiß ich wieder nicht, wie lange das währen kann und wie ich Eure Hilfe anschlagen soll? Darum schlage ich Euch vor, daß wir nach beendigter Fahrt vier Schiedsmänner, jeder zur Hälfte, erwählen und daß wir uns dem fügen, was diese als recht und billig beschließen werden. Seid Ihr das zufrieden?« »Ja,« war seine Antwort, »aber gebt mir das schriftlich, Kapitän!« -- Dies geschah auch sofort, worauf er das Papier dem Jungen einhändigte, um mit demselben und der Schuite wieder ans Land zu steuern. Er selbst aber war von dem Augenblicke an bei uns wie zu Hause, hatte tausend unnütze Dinge zu fragen und zu erzählen, so daß er meine Leute überall hinderte und mir selbst überaus lästig fiel. »Satt und genug, Alter!« fiel ich ihm endlich in die Rede. -- »Euer Geplauder bringt mir mein Volk aus dem Texte. Da geht hinein in die Kombüse und raucht Euer Pfeifchen in Frieden, bis ich Euch rufen lassen werde.« -- Murrend tat er meines Gebotes, hüllte sich in eine Schmauchwolke und legte sich endlich aufs Ohr, ohne zu wissen oder zu fragen, was weiter um ihn her vorging. Inzwischen trieb während der Nacht und Ebbezeit, wo wir vor Anker lagen, so ungeheuer viel Eis auf uns zu, daß wir das Schiff kaum vor drei Kabeltauen halten konnten, indem die Schollen sich immer höher emportürmten und auf den Bug eindrangen, daß das Schiff vorn auf eine bedenkliche Weise niedertauchte und jeden Augenblick zu erwarten stand, es werde von den Eismassen überwältigt werden und untergehen. Doch gab Gott Gnade, daß wir uns in dieser gefährlichen Lage erhielten, bis endlich die Flut eintrat und das Schiff sich wieder erholte, während auch das Tageslicht eintrat und die Gegenstände sicherer erkennen ließ. Nach einer solchen Erfahrung wäre es vermessen gewesen, wenn ich auf meinem Vorsatze noch hätte bestehen wollen. Vielmehr wurden wir schlüssig, in den nächsten besten Hafen einzulaufen, und so war es jetzt an der Zeit, unseren alten Lotsen hervorzurufen, der sich die Augen wischte und die Gefahr, die uns drohte, glücklich verschlafen hatte. Ich befragte ihn, welcher Hafen nach seiner Meinung am bequemsten zu erreichen sein möchte? Er entschied sich für Enkhuizen und stellte sich ans Steuer, hielt aber einen so verkehrten Kurs, daß mir und dem Lotsen aus dem Texel die Haare zu Berge standen und wir dachten, der alte Kerl werde das Schiff binnen weniger als fünf Minuten auf die Sandbänke setzen und uns alle ins Unglück bringen, um vielleicht seinen Landsleuten an dem gestrandeten Wrack eine erwünschte Prise zuzuführen. Ihm sein Konzept zu verrücken, erklärte ich also, die Gewässer von Medemblyck wären mir einigermaßen bekannt und ich zöge es vor, meinen Weg dorthin zu nehmen und das Nötige selbst anzuordnen. Dem ersten Lotsen gebot ich, das Bleilot zur Hand zu nehmen, dem Alten aber, der immer noch des Plauderns kein Ende fand, sich flugs vom Verdecke nach der Kombüse zu scheren. Andere Segel wurden aufgesetzt, das Schiff umgelegt, und so gelang es uns, nachmittags glücklich vor Medemblyck anzulangen. Kaum hatte ich hier einen Fuß ans Land gesetzt, so bat ich die umstehenden Leute, mir den angesehensten und wohlberufensten Kaufmann im Orte nachzuweisen. Sie nannten mir einen Herrn Schweiger, der allgemein für einen Ehrenmann gelte und ehedem auch ein Schiff geführt habe. Ich ließ mich auf der Stelle zu ihm führen, gewann auch flugs das Vertrauen, daß er der Mann sein werde, wie ich ihn suchte, und trug ihm mit Darlegung meiner Umstände den Wunsch vor, meine beiden Lotsen namens meiner nach Recht und Gebühr zu befriedigen. Denn obwohl der Enkhuizer meines Bedünkens nicht den mindesten Anspruch für seine unverständige und verkehrte Dienstleistung zu machen hatte, so hatte ich ihm dennoch aus Mitleid mit seinen grauen Haaren ein Geschenk von zehn bis fünfzehn Gulden zugedacht. Beide wurden sofort gerufen und es bedurfte nur, daß der Lotse vom Texel seine Ordonnanz vorwies, um danach seine Forderung nach Fug und Billigkeit auszumitteln. Er strich sein Geld ein, und als er dann auf eine bescheidene Weise bemerkte, daß er während mehrerer Tage so viel Not und Mühe an meinen Bord ausgestanden, um sich vielleicht Rechnung auf eine außerordentliche Vergütung machen zu können, unterbrach ich ihn durch die Erklärung: »Das ist allerdings wahr, Herr Schweiger. Geben Sie dem Manne noch zwei Dukaten als williges Anerkenntnis seiner Treue und angestrengten Fleißes.« -- Der Lotse bedankte sich, und das war abgetan. Nun aber kam auch die Reihe an den alten Fischer von Enkhuizen. »Sagt an, Vater, was habt Ihr verdient?« fragte mein Bevollmächtigter. Der Kerl setzte sich nunmehr in Positur und ließ sich vernehmen: »Mynheer, ich habe ein Schiff gerettet, das, wie ich weiß, eine Million wert ist und dessen Kapitän eine Fracht von hunderttausend Gulden macht. Derowegen verlange ich nicht mehr und nicht weniger, als _fünfzehnhundert_ Gulden an Lotsengebühr, und ich hoffe, _die_ sollen mir werden.« Ich lachte dem alten Knaben ins Angesicht und fragte, ob er sich vielleicht nur versprochen und fünf oder fünfzehn Gulden gemeint habe? -- Er aber verneinte ernsthaft und meinte, daß er wohl ein Narr sein müßte, sich damit abspeisen zu lassen. -- »Nun,« fiel ich ihm ein, »an Eurer Narrheit hat es wohl keinen Zweifel, denn _die_ habt Ihr bei mir an Bord durch all Eure Handlungen klar genug erwiesen. Laut unserem schriftlichen Akkorde mag der Ausspruch auf vier Schiedsmännern beruhen, oder Ihr mögt mich, wenn es Euch beliebt, verklagen.« -- Polternd und scheltend verließ er auf diese Erklärung das Zimmer. Um jedoch meine gute Sache zu wahren, säumte ich nicht, des nächsten Tages mich und meine Schiffsmannschaft über die letzten Ereignisse unserer Reise nach allen Einzelheiten gerichtlich und eidlich vernehmen zu lassen, und insonderheit, wie ungeschickt und widersinnig sich der vorgebliche Lotse angestellt und zu allem untauglich erwiesen. Dies getan, brannte mir der Boden unter den Füßen, den Weg nach Amsterdam zu Lande vollends zurückzulegen, daß ich mein Diamantenpäckchen los würde. Sobald ich es dort in die rechten Hände abgeliefert hatte, war ich wie ein neugeborener Mensch, und da ich zugleich alle Konnossements von meiner Ladung mit mir genommen, ließ ich es meinen nächsten Gang sein, den Kaufmann Floris de Kinder aufzusuchen, dem ich mich aus einer früheren Lebensperiode dankbar verpflichtet hielt und mir daher auch jetzt zum Kommissionär ersehen hatte. Ihm übergab ich meine Papiere, um sie den Empfängern meiner Ladung vorzulegen, bei denen des anderen Tages auf der Börse über meine glückliche Ankunft in Medemblyck große Freude war. Nach Verlauf einiger Tage, die ich in Amsterdam zubrachte, meldete mir Herr Schweiger, daß der Alte aus Enkhuizen wirklich geklagt habe und daß ein Termin zur Vernehmung angesetzt sei, wo meine Gegenwart erforderlich werden möchte. Ich hatte diese wunderliche Geschichte schon meinem Korrespondenten zum besten gegeben, der sie, gleich mir, als eine Kinderei betrachtete. Indes ging ich doch nach Medemblyck ab und fand dort eine Gerichts-Versammlung, aus fünf Personen bestehend, wobei auch mein Widersacher nicht fehlte und seine Klage anhängig machte. Meinerseits übergab ich die schon aufgenommene und eidlich bekräftigte Verhandlung über den wahren Hergang der Sache, mit der Erklärung, daß, wie wenig mir dieser Mensch auch irgend einige Dienste geleistet, ich dennoch einer billigen Festsetzung seines Lohnes nicht entgegen sein wolle. Man fragte mich, wie viel ich dem Manne gutwillig zu verabreichen gedächte? -- und ich wiederholte, daß ich, bloß in Erwägung seines hohen Alters, zehn Gulden um nichts und wieder nichts an ihn verlieren wolle. -- Der alte durchtriebene Fuchs hingegen beharrte ursinnig auf seiner ersten ausschweifenden Forderung. Nach langem Hin- und Widerreden mußten wir abtreten und der richterlichen Versammlung Zeit und Ruhe zum Deliberieren lassen. Das dauerte länger als eine Stunde, wo endlich Kläger und Beklagter wieder vorgefordert wurden, um das in hoher Weisheit ausgeheckte Urteil zu vernehmen. Es lautete dahin, daß letzterer schuldig sein solle, dem angenommenen Lotsen von Enkhuizen, sowohl für seinen dem Schiffe geleisteten Beistand, als wegen unverzagter Daranwagung seines Leibes und Lebens die volle Summe von eintausendfünfhundert Gulden bar auszuzahlen, überdem aber so lange, bis diese Zahlung wirklich geleistet worden, für jeden Tag eine Buße von zwei Gulden zu entrichten. Alles von Rechtes wegen. Ich berief mich auf meinen, mit dem alten Schelme ausdrücklich getroffenen Vergleich und wollte die Sache an vier gewählte Schiedsrichter gebracht wissen. Allein man bedeutete mir, mein Gegenpart habe jenen Akkord nicht mit unterzeichnet, daher demselben auch alle gesetzliche Gültigkeit ermangle. Wolle ich jedoch mich in die Sentenz des Gerichts nicht fügen, so bleibe mir allerdings unbenommen, an den Hof von Holland zu appellieren. In der Tat aber kannte ich dieses Gericht, das sich so unvermutet zum Herrn meines Beutels aufwarf, gar noch nicht einmal, und es schien mir doch der Mühe wert, deshalb ein wenig genauer nachzufragen. So erfuhr ich denn, daß die vier Bürgermeister von Hoorn, von Enkhuizen, von Medemblyck, von Edam, und noch ein Prokurator sich die Mühe genommen, diesen hochwichtigen Fall in ihrer Weisheit zu entscheiden. Je weniger mir aber von dieser Weisheit einleuchten wollte, desto minder konnte ich mich auch enthalten, ihnen zu erwidern: »Ihr Herren insgesamt versteht vom Seewesen keinen Pfifferling und hättet also immer zu Hause bleiben mögen. In Enkhuizen liegt aber, wie ich höre, ein holländisches Kriegsschiff, warum habt ihr dessen Kapitän zu eueren Ratschlagungen nicht mit zugezogen? In euerer Entscheidung vermisse ich alle Billigkeit und Gerechtigkeit, und darum werde ich an erleuchtetere Richter appellieren!« -- Das gesagt, kehrte ich ihnen den Rücken und schied von dannen. Allernächst aber schrieb ich an Herrn Floris de Kinder nach Amsterdam, machte ihn mit der sauberen Sentenz bekannt und trug ihm auf, die Sache mit den Empfängern der Ladung, welche nach Usance vornehmlich den Beutel würden haben ziehen müssen, in genauere Überlegung zu nehmen und mir wegen der Appellation nähere Instruktion zuzufertigen. Mochte es nun aber sein, daß diese an ihrem Tee einen so erklecklichen Gewinn hatten, um eintausendfünfhundert Gulden mit leichtem Sinn ans Bein zu binden, oder daß sie Gang und Weise der holländischen Rechtspflege besser kannten; -- genug, sie erteilten mir den Bescheid, ich sollte nur in Gottes Namen die geforderte Summe zahlen, indem sie sich ihresteils die Sentenz gefallen ließen. So war denn also das Lied am Ende. Nach geleisteter Zahlung drückte mir's gleichwohl auf dem Herzen, mich bei den gestrengen Herren zu befragen, auf welch Gesetz, rechtlichen Grund oder Herkommen ihre gefällige Entscheidung sich denn eigentlich stütze? -- Mir ward die Antwort: Es habe also und nicht anders gesprochen werden müssen, damit, wenn hinfüro Schiffe in Not kämen, bei anderen Leuten Mut und Wille erweckt werde, den Unglücklichen mit Hilfe beizuspringen. -- »Hol' euch der Teufel mit eurer Hilfe!« dachte ich, und schüttelte den Staub von meinen Füßen. -- Indes schlug das Frostwetter im Dezember wieder um, so daß ich am 29. von Medemblyck abgehen konnte, den 2. Januar 1781 vor Amsterdam anlangte und den Anfang machte, meine Ladung zu löschen. * * * * * Gegen den 24. Januar, den Geburtstag unseres großen Monarchen, trieb es mich, diesen Tag von allen preußischen, im Hafen ankernden Schiffen durch Aufziehung aller Flaggen und Wimpel und Abfeuerung der Geschütze feierlich begangen zu sehen. Mein Vorschlag fand bei allen wackeren Landsleuten freudigen Eingang. Aber einen Strauß gab es mit dem holländischen Kurantschreiber auszufechten, der die Ankündigung dieser Feier in seinem Zeitungsblatt, entweder aus echt holländischem Phlegma oder aus unvernünftiger Abneigung gegen den König, auf eine so beleidigende Weise verweigerte, daß ich mit dem Grobian schier handgemein geworden wäre, endlich aber mit Hilfe des preußischen Konsuls ihn zur Räson bringen und für seine Lästerungen zur Strafe ziehen ließ. Diese widrige Stimmung, die sich damals in Holland so allgemein äußerte, empörte mein treues Preußenherz um so mehr, als die preußische neutrale Flagge in dem Kriege mit England der Nation die entschiedensten Vorteile für ihren Handel darbot, und selbst die holländischen Schiffs-Kapitäne, welche sich dieser Flagge bedienten, durch nichts zu bewegen waren, unserem Beispiele zu folgen und ihren Beschützer nach Würden zu ehren. Solch ein Urian lag mir unmittelbar zur Seite vor Anker, und daß er sich preußische Zertifikate zu verschaffen gewußt hatte, lag klar am Tage, da er zuzeiten unseren schwarzen Adler von seinem Hinterteile hatte wehen lassen. Am Morgen des königlichen Geburtstages war bei diesem meinem Nachbar alles in tiefster Ruhe und weder Flagge noch Wimpel bei ihm zu verspüren. Erst spät hatte er sich den Schlaf aus den Augen gerieben, aber sobald er sich auf dem Verdeck zeigte, warf ich ihm die Frage in den Bart, ob er gleich mir und so vielen anderen rings um uns her, den König von Preußen nicht auf herkömmliche Weise wolle hochleben lassen? -- »Das werd' ich wohl bleiben lassen!« gab er zur Antwort, »was geht mich euer König an?« -- Meine Erwiderung fiel, wie sich leicht denken läßt, deutsch und derb aus, allein ohne etwas darauf zu geben, wandte er mir den Rücken und ließ sich ans Land setzen. »Topp!« gelobte ich mir selbst, »was der Schuft zu tun nicht Lust hat, soll dennoch von mir und in seinem Namen geschehen!« -- Ich besaß zwei Gestelle Flaggen und Wimpel, wovon das seidene bereits seit Sonnenaufgang in meinem Tauwerke prangte und flatterte; das andere baumwollene nahm ich jetzt zur Hand, stieg mit ein paar Leuten an Bord des Holländers um es an seinen Masten aufzuziehen, ohne daß das Schiffsvolk, das sich an einfältigem Maulaufsperren begnügte, meiner Keckheit Einhalt zu tun versuchte. Und so wehten meine Flaggen den ganzen Tag, ohne daß jemand sich unterstanden hätte, sie herabzureißen, oder daß der Kapitän sich hätte sehen lassen. Indes war nicht nur meine eingebrachte Ladung in der Mitte Februars gelöscht, sondern vier Wochen später hatte ich auch bereits wieder eine neue Fracht nach Lissabon eingenommen, die in hundert Last Weizen, zweihundert Tonnen schwedischen Tees und einigen tausend Edamer Käsen, von fünf bis sechs Pfund an Gewicht, bestand. Gleich darauf machte ich Anstalten, in See zu gehen, und war eben im Begriff, meine Anker emporzuwinden, als ich mich gegen den Steuermann äußerte: »Nun, Gott sei gedankt, daß wir hier los sind, denn nie habe ich nach schon vollendeter Reise so viel Verdruß und Unannehmlichkeit erfahren, als diesmal unter den Holländern!« -- Aber wie wenig ahnte ich, daß mir schon in der nächsten halben Stunde eine weit größere Widerwärtigkeit begegnen sollte, als alle früheren. Indem ich nämlich eben meine Segel aufgezogen, die Anker aber nur soweit emporgewunden hatte, daß sie noch vor dem Bug unter Wasser hingen, das Schiff aber in die fließende Fahrt gelangte, kam eine ledige T'Gelke [flaches Fahrzeug, auf der Zuider-See gebräuchlich] gegen meine Seite in einer Richtung angesegelt, daß wir unausbleiblich zusammenstoßen mußten, wofern sie nicht noch beizeiten absteuerte. Ich machte meine Leute aufmerksam, ergriff aber zugleich auch das Sprachrohr, lief damit nach vorn und rief dem Fahrzeuge zu: »Haltet ab! Holt euer Ruder nach Steuerbord!« -- Auf dies Rufen sahen sich endlich die beiden Menschen auf der T'Gelke, die mir bisher den Rücken gekehrt, nach meinem Schiffe um, erkannten die Gefahr, worin sie schwebten, holten aber in der Bestürzung das Ruder auf die Backbordseite, wodurch sie, anstatt mir auszuweichen, gerade auf meinen Bug gerieten. Jetzt ward das Unglück mit jedem Augenblick größer. Mein Bugspriet verwickelte sich in das Segel und die Takelage der T'Gelke; meine Anker, die noch unter Wasser waren, mochten wohl unter ihre Kimmung geraten, und da mein Schiff sich bereits in ziemlichem Schusse befand, so drückte es jenes kleinere Fahrzeug auf die Seite, übersegelte es endlich und fuhr rumpelnd darüber hin, als ob es über eine Klippe hinweggestreift wäre. Eine halbe Minute später kam die T'Gelke hinten in meinem Kielwasser wieder zum Vorschein, aber gekantert und das Unterste zu oberst schwimmend. Ich war von Herzen erschrocken, und das um so mehr, da ich fürchten mußte, daß mein Schiff an seinem Boden beträchtlichen Schaden gelitten haben möchte. Sofort ließ ich zu den Pumpen greifen, doch alles war und blieb dicht und gut, nur an meinem Bugspriet und dessen Takelage war eine so arge Verwüstung angerichtet, daß ich auf der Stelle wieder den Anker fallen lassen mußte, um zur Ausbesserung zu schreiten. Inzwischen waren auch von allen herumliegenden Schiffen Boote und Fahrzeuge abgestoßen, um die beiden Menschen zu bergen und nach der verunglückten T'Gelke zu sehen. Ich aber konnte mich, mit meinem eigenen Schaden beschäftigt, danach nicht aufhalten, sondern eilte, wieder unter Segel zu kommen. Als ich nun einige Tage nachher im Texel anlangte, fand ich einen Brief von meinem Korrespondenten, Herrn Floris de Kinder, vor, worin mir berichtet wurde, daß der verunglückte T'Gelken-Schiffer gegen mich klagbar geworden und Schadenersatz von mir verlange. Er riet mir also, vor dem Gerichte im Texel zu erscheinen und samt meiner Mannschaft eine eidliche Erklärung über den ganzen Hergang abzulegen, diese aber an ihn einzusenden, damit jenen Ansprüchen gehörig begegnet würde. Dies geschah, und aus der gerichtlichen Vernehmung ging genüglich hervor, daß jener Schiffer nicht nur sein Unglück sich selbst zugezogen, sondern auch mir selbst Not und Schaden verursacht habe. Der endliche Erfolg war, daß jener seine Ansprüche weiter nicht verfolgte, daß ich aber auch meine eigene erlittene Einbuße verschmerzen mußte. * * * * * Ich ging inzwischen aus dem Texel in See und hatte in den ersten drei Wochen mit widrigen und stürmischen Winden zu schaffen, die mich in der Nordsee umherwarfen. Als ich jedoch Dover passiert hatte, wurden sie mir günstiger, obwohl sie bald in den stärksten anhaltenden Sturm ausarteten. Mein Schiff lief vor demselben in fliegender Fahrt mit so unglaublicher Schnelle einher, daß ich -- was vielleicht zuvor nie erhört worden -- den Weg von Dover nach Lissabon binnen vier Tagen zurücklegte und also in jeder Stunde im Durchschnitt vierthalb Meilen zurücklegte. Ein portugiesischer Kapitän, den ich als Passagier an Bord hatte und der wegen Unpäßlichkeit während dieser ganzen Zeit nicht aus der Kajüte hervorgekommen war, wollte seinen Augen nicht trauen, als er das Verdeck bestieg und die Ufer seines vaterländischen Tajo blühend vor sich liegen sah. Nur in unserer Eigenschaft als Ketzer und unserer daraus hergeleiteten näheren Verbindung mit dem Fürsten der Finsternis, vermochte er sich eine Fahrt zu erklären, die nicht durch die Wellen, sondern durch die Luft bewerkstelligt sein müsse. Das mochte einem Manne verziehen werden, dem früh eingesogene religiöse Vorurteile den Sinn befingen; allein was sollte ich sagen, als ich des anderen Tages an der Tafel meines Korrespondenten, Herrn John Bulkeley, mit mehreren englischen und amerikanischen Schiffs-Kapitänen zusammentraf, denen ich von dieser Schnelligkeit meiner letzten Reise erzählte und dabei deutlich an ihren verzogenen Gesichtern und blinzelnden Blicken bemerkte, wie wenig sie zumal in Erwägung der schweren Befrachtung meines Schiffes, Glauben in meine Versicherung setzten? Im stillen Ärger konnte ich kaum den nächsten Tag erwarten, wo wir wiederum beisammen waren, um diesen schnöden Zweiflern mein mitgebrachtes Schiffsjournal vorzulegen. Bald darauf kam ich ans Ausladen, und nachdem ich des Tees ledig geworden, traf nunmehr die Reihe meinen bedeutenden Käsevorrat. Hierbei aber mischte sich die Hafenpolizei von Lissabon auf eine mir unbegreifliche Weise ein, indem sich zwei portugiesische Barken, deren eine mit Militär besetzt war, mir zu beiden Seiten legten. Der Käse ward, Stück für Stück, von den bestellten Aufsehern befühlt und berochen, ob sich nicht irgendwo eine faule oder verdächtige Stelle zeigte. Jedes derartige Stück warf man sofort in die bewaffnete Barke, und als ich erstaunt nach der Ursache eines so wunderlichen Verfahrens forschte, ward mir der Bescheid: Kein Käse, der auch nur einen gedrückten Fleck an sich habe, werde, als der Gesundheit nachteilig, zugelassen, sondern sofort ins Wasser geworfen. Vergebens erwiderte ich, daß in aller übrigen Welt gerade der angefaulte Käse seine besonderen und häufigen Liebhaber finde; man meinte aber, dazu gehöre auch ein ketzerischer Magen, in Portugal hingegen müsse aus solchem Genusse alsobald die Pest entstehen. Allmählich hatte sich die als verdächtig ausgemerzte Ware in der Kriegsbarke zu einem ansehnlichen Haufen angesammelt. Diese machte sich demnach von meinem Borde los, entfernte sich einige hundert Klafter abwärts und begann nun, den konfiszierten Käse ins Wasser zu werfen. Überall trieben die Stücke umher, aber ebenso bald auch machten alle Schaluppen und Fahrzeuge in der Nähe Jagd auf eine so willkommene Beute. Die Soldaten in der Barke suchten zwar diese Kapereien zu verhindern, schrieen, schimpften, und machten sogar Miene, Feuer zu geben; doch demungeachtet ward ein großer Teil von diesem Pestkäse glücklich wieder aufgefischt und hoffentlich auch ohne weiteren Nachteil für Leben und Gesundheit verzehrt. Aber auch mein Weizen machte den Polizei-Offizianten Besorgnis. Denn ihrer sieben fanden sich ein, um seine Beschaffenheit zu untersuchen. Unglücklicherweise fanden sich nun einige zwanzig Weizensäcke, die zu äußerst an den Seiten gelegen hatten und von dem feuchten Dunst im Raume auswendig beschimmelt waren. Sofort war auch ihnen das Todesurteil gesprochen. Sie wurden aufgeschnitten und der Inhalt kurzweg über Bord geschüttet. Ich bewies durch den Augenschein, daß der Weizen in diesen Säcken nicht den mindesten Schaden gelitten, ich klopfte ihnen sogar auf ihre Schubsäcke, die sie mit diesem nämlichen, für verpestet ausgeschrienen Korne dick auszustopfen nicht verabsäumt hatten. Sie schüttelten bloß die Köpfe und entgegneten, die eingesackten Pröbchen seien nur zum Futter für ihre Hühner bestimmt, die sich ja als ein unvernünftiges Vieh den Tod nicht daran fressen würden. Überhaupt sollte mein diesmaliger Aufenthalt in Lissabon nicht so geeignet als jener frühere sein, mir eine vorteilhafte Meinung von den Portugiesen beizubringen. Als ich eines Tages mit meinem Sohne, der mich auf dieser Fahrt begleitete, durch eine abgelegene Gasse ging, erblickten wir unter einem Bogengewölbe ein Muttergottesbild, vor welchem mehrere Lichter brannten. Vor dergleichen pflegt kein guter Katholik vorüberzugehen, ohne seine Kniee zu beugen und seinen Rosenkranz abzubeten. Zu beidem spürten wir keine Lust in uns. Ich blickte daher sorgsam vor und hinter mich, und da ich nirgends eine menschliche Seele gewahrte, rief ich meinem kleinen Begleiter zu, tapfer mit mir fortzuschreiten, bevor uns jemand hier erblickte und uns vielleicht ein böses Spiel bereitete. Doch in dem nämlichen Augenblicke führte unser Unstern einen liederlichen Gassenbuben herbei, der unsern Mangel an Andacht wahrgenommen haben mochte, und sofort mit Hallo und Geschrei hinter uns drein lief, Steine aus dem Pflaster aufriß und uns mit Würfen verfolgte. Gleich in der nächsten Minute hatte sich ein ganzer Menschenschwarm gesammelt, der auf uns einstürmte, uns mit Unflat bewarf und aus vollem Halse den Ausruf »Ketzer! Ketzer!« hinter uns her ertönen ließ. Glücklicherweise konnten wir um eine Straßenecke und dann wieder um eine Ecke einbiegen, wodurch wir dem rasenden Pöbel aus dem Gesichte kamen. Zu noch besserer Sicherheit traten wir in einen, uns eben aufstoßenden Gewürzladen, wo ich eine Kleinigkeit kaufte und den aufgeregten Sturm vollends vorüberziehen ließ. Alles dies vermehrte meinen Wunsch, diesen Hafen je eher je lieber wieder zu verlassen. Auch fand ich binnen kurzem eine anderweitige Ladung, aus Zucker, Kaffee, Wein bestehend, die nach Hamburg bestimmt war und mit deren Einnehmung ich mich sofort aufs fleißigste beschäftigte. Hier aber traf mich alsbald ein Verdruß anderer Art, der mich um all meine gute Laune zu bringen drohte. Es gab nämlich eine Menge von dänischen, schwedischen und holländischen Schiffen auf dem Platze, welche mich um diese vorteilhafte Fracht beneideten und sie womöglich gerne rückgängig gemacht hätten. Da sie nun allesamt mit den Barbaresken in Frieden lebten, ich aber als Preuße keine Türkenpässe aufzuweisen hatte, so sprengten sie an der Börse die lügenhafte Zeitung aus, daß zwei Algierer vor der Mündung des Tajo kreuzten und auf gute Beute lauerten. In der Tat erreichten sie insofern ihren Zweck, daß meinen Auftraggebern unheimlich bei der Sache wurde, da sie bei mir auf keine freie Flagge zu rechnen hatten, und einer von ihnen, der mir bereits zwei Kisten mit spanischen Talern, als Frachtgut, in meine Kajüte gegeben hatte, ließ sie zurückfordern, und zog es vor, sich mit mir auf Erlegung der halben bedungenen Fracht zu einigen. Dagegen wußte ich die übrige, schon eingenommene Ladung standhaft zu behaupten, stach mit Ausgang des Juli in See, ohne einen Korsaren zu erblicken, und erreichte, sonder alles weitere Abenteuer, die Elbe glücklich und wohlbehalten. * * * * * Indes schien es mir gleichwohl vom Schicksal bestimmt, daß ich immer aufs neue mit Lissabon zu schaffen haben sollte; denn gleich meine nächste Fahrt, mit allerlei Stückgütern von Hamburg, war wieder auf diesen Platz gerichtet. Ich ging dahin im September ab, konnte aber erst Mitte November im Tajo Anker werfen. Desto hurtiger ging es aber mit meiner nächsten wiederum nach Hamburg bestimmten Rückreise, wo ich bereits nach Verlauf von vier Wochen anlangte, aber nun auch, des inzwischen eingetretenen starken Frostes wegen, mich entschließen mußte, zu überwintern. Im nächsten Frühling 1782 neigte sich der amerikanische Krieg immer mehr zum Ende. -- Ein Ereignis, welches sofort auch einen sehr bemerkbaren ungünstigen Einfluß auf den bisher so lebhaft betriebenen Handel der Neutralen äußerte, und wovon ich selbst unmittelbar die Folgen spürte, indem ich beinahe den ganzen Sommer auf der Elbe liegen blieb, ohne irgendeine mir konvenable Fracht zu finden. Diesen mir aufgedrungenen Müßiggang benutzte ich dazu, meine Papiere in Ordnung zu bringen und mich mit meinem Patron, Herrn Groß in Stettin, über sämtliche Reisen, die ich bisher für ihn getan hatte, zu berechnen. Sobald dies Stück Arbeit fertig war, schickte ich es, mit sämtlichen Belegen über Einnahme und Ausgabe, an ihn ein, und machte ihm bemerklich, wie ich mit seinem Schiffe, nach Abzug aller Ausrüstungs- und Unterhaltungskosten, aller Volkslöhnungen, angeschafften und verbrauchten Provisionen, Assekuranz-Prämien und außerordentlichen Kosten reine fünfunddreißigtausend Taler für ihn verdient habe. Was jedoch den letzteren Artikel der »extraordinären Ausgaben« betreffe, so beruhigte ich mich mit seiner eigenen langen Erfahrung im Schiffswesen, daß er den Unterschied der Zeiten nicht übersehen werde. Diesen Rechnungen schloß ich zugleich eine Übersicht meiner eigenen Forderungen an ihn bei, die sich auf tausendsiebenhundertundeinundsiebzig Taler und einige Groschen beliefen, mit der Bitte, mir darüber einen Revers zukommen zu lassen, den ich, um Lebens und Sterbens willen, bei Johann Daniel Klefecker in Hamburg niederzulegen gedächte. Meine Papiere aber wünschte ich, nachdem sie von ihm durchgesehen und gutgeheißen worden, von seiner Güte zurückzuempfangen. Herr Groß schien jedoch bei diesem allem keineswegs die Eile zu haben, welche meine Ungeduld bei ihm voraussetzte. Seine Antwort blieb mir bald gar zu lange aus. Alles was mir früher von seiner unverträglichen Gemütsart gesagt worden, stieg mir wieder zu Kopf, und da ich noch verschiedene Posttage wieder vergeblich geharrt hatte, konnte ich mich länger nicht enthalten, ihm schriftlich mein Befremden zu äußern, daß er mich in dieser peinigenden Ungewißheit lasse. Erregten ihm meine Rechnungen Mißtrauen, und zweifle er an meiner Redlichkeit, so möge er hier in Hamburg einen anderen Schiffer bestellen, damit ich mich in Stettin persönlich ausweisen und meine Ehre sicherstellen könne. Kaum war dies Dokument meines Unmuts auf den Weg gegeben, als mit nächster Post ein Schreiben von Herrn Groß einlief, das mich in der innersten Seele beschämte. Er äußerte sich darin: »Mein lieber Sohn, ich bin mit Ihnen, wie mit Ihren Rechnungen und Handlungen, herzlich zufrieden. Für Ihre treuen und ehrlichen Dienste übersende ich Ihnen hierneben als Geschenk einen Wechsel von tausend Mark Hamburger Banko, den Sie sogleich ziehen mögen, damit Sie Geld für sich in Händen haben. Demnächst erhalten Sie den verlangten Revers über tausendachthundertundeinundsechzig Taler, die Sie bei mir zugute haben.« Hier gab es jedoch eine Differenz von neunzig Talern in dem letzteren Posten, die, so sehr auch alles übrige mich freute, nur in einem Rechnungsfehler meines Patrons ihren Grund haben konnte und also ehebaldigst ausgeglichen werden mußte. Indem ich mein Buch zu Hilfe nahm, konnte ich ihm sogar auch die Gelegenheit nachweisen, wo ich diesen sich doppelt angerechneten Vorschuß von neunzig Talern in Stettin verausgabt hatte. Ich machte ihn also schriftlich hierauf aufmerksam, und bat, mir einen anderen, um soviel niedriger gestellten Revers zu behändigen. Er aber antwortete mir: »Allerdings habe ich mich in meiner Rechnung versehen, allein nicht in Ihrer Rechtschaffenheit; und so soll es mit meinem zuerst ausgestellten Revers sein Bewenden behalten.« * * * * * Inzwischen hatte ich diesem Ehrenmanne, als bereits der Juli herangelaufen war, gemeldet, daß mir's unerträglich fiele, mit seinem Schiffe hier noch länger untätig auf der Bärenhaut zu liegen und es im Hafen verfaulen zu sehen. Er möchte mir demnach gestatten, Ballast einzunehmen und nach Memel zu gehen, wo ich eine Ladung fichtener Balken für eigene Rechnung einzunehmen und diese in Lissabon abzusetzen gedächte, die dort, meiner Erfahrung nach, mit Vorteil abzusetzen sein würde. Als Rückfracht ließe sich, im schlimmsten Falle, wiederum eine Ladung Seesalz einnehmen und nach Riga verführen. Herr Groß stand nicht an, diese Vorschläge zu genehmigen. Ich nahm, da ich meine Leute schon im Winter entlassen, neues Hamburger Schiffsvolk an und trat, Mitte August, die Reise nach Memel an. Als wir zur Elbe hinaus und gegen Helgoland kamen, ging der Wind in Westnordwest, und es war regnerisches und stürmisches Wetter. Mein Steuermann hatte, wie ich mit Leidwesen bemerkte, etwas zu tief in die Flasche gesehen. Ich wollte dem Ding abhelfen, ließ einen Teekessel mit Wasser und Wein aufsetzen und reichte ihm davon einige Tassen zur Ernüchterung: allein das schien ihn fast noch mehr zu benebeln. Um 8 Uhr abends teilte ich die Wachen ein, demzufolge der Steuermann und das halbe Volk die erste bis Mitternacht übernehmen sollten, und wobei ich den ersteren anwies, auf keinen Fall östlicher als Nordost zu steuern, um nicht auf Land zu geraten, bei dem allermindesten Vorfall aber, der sich ereignen könnte, mich sofort zu wecken. Zwar begab ich mich hierauf in meine Kajüte zur Ruhe, doch war mein Gemüt zu voll von Unruhe und böser Ahnung, als daß ich hätte Schlaf finden können. Ich warf mich hin und her im Bette; horchte nach jedem Geräusche, das auf dem Verdeck über mir laut ward, und hörte endlich den Mann am Ruder in die Worte ausbrechen: »Nein, es geht doch toll auf diesem Schiffe her! Kein Licht beim Kompaß; kein Steuermann auf dem Deck. -- Ich weiß selbst nicht mehr in der Finsternis, welchen Strich ich halten soll.« Es war mir bei diesen angehörten Stoßseufzern, als ob mich der Donner rührte. Ich fuhr mit gleichen Füßen aus dem Bette und sprang aufs Verdeck. »Was steuert Ihr auf dem Kompaß?« fragte ich den Menschen und erhielt eine konfuse Antwort, aus welcher ich jedoch vernahm, daß ihm der Wind das Licht, welches sonst regelmäßig neben dem Kompaß in einer Laterne brennt, ausgeweht habe. Daneben spürte ich deutlich, daß uns der Wind von hinten kam, anstatt er höchstens den Backbord hätte treffen sollen. -- »Wo ist der Steuermann?« -- Der lag in seiner Koje, schnarchte und wußte von seinen Sinnen nichts! Fast hätte eine so rasende Unordnung mich auch um die meinigen gebracht! Ich machte Lärm unter dem Volk; es mußte Licht gebracht werden, und als ich damit den Kompaß beleuchtete, ersah ich mit Todesschrecken, daß das Schiff gegen Südosten, gerade auf die Küste zu, anlag. Ohne einen Augenblick zu verlieren, griff ich zur Ruderpinne, wandte das Schiff durch Süden nach Westen und ließ gleich darauf das Bleilot auswerfen, welches nicht mehr als vier Klafter Tiefe anzeigte. So lag es denn am Tage, daß wir nur noch ein paar Minuten länger in jenem verkehrten Kurs hätten fortsteuern dürfen, und wir wären ohne Rettung auf den Strand gegangen, wo wir vielleicht Schiff und Leben eingebüßt hätten. Aber auch jetzt noch blieb es für die ersten Augenblicke zweifelhaft, ob alle unsere Anstrengungen uns aus dieser Gefahr wieder loshelfen würden. Sobald ich endlich diese Überzeugung gewonnen hatte, schien es mir nötig, ein Beispiel zu statuieren. Ich holte den Taugenichts von Steuermann bei den Haaren aus seiner Kammer hervor, gab ihm ein paar Fußtritte, wie er's verdient hatte, und hielt zugleich auch der übrigen Mannschaft eine Strafpredigt, woran sie meinen Ernst abnehmen mochte. Von jetzt an gab es nichts als widrige Winde, die uns volle vierzehn Tage hindurch nötigten, in der Nordsee und bei Skagerrak umherzukreuzen. Was aber meinen Unmut noch höher steigerte, war der widerspenstige Sinn meines Schiffsvolks, der sich, je länger je ungescheuter, offenbarte. Kam es zu verdienten Verweisen und Ermahnungen, so hieß es immer: »Pah! Wir sind Hamburger und keine Preußen! Wir kennen unsere Rechte; so muß man uns nicht kommen!« -- Was mich jedoch am meisten verschnupfte, war eine gegen allen Seemannsbrauch streitende Gewohnheit, die sie gegen meinen Willen in Gang zu bringen suchten. Sie lagen nämlich bei Tag und Nacht über ihren Tee- und Kaffeekesseln, und so oft ich in die Kombüse sah, hingen oder standen acht oder zehn solcher Maschinen bei einem Feuer, woran man vielleicht einen Ochsen hätte braten können -- ein Unwesen, wobei nicht nur unser Kohlenvorrat unnütz verschwendet, sondern auch dem Schiffe beständige Gefahr durch verwahrlostes Feuer drohte. Als mir dieser Unfug endlich zu arg ward, tat ich ihnen ernstliche Vorhaltung, daß dies gegen alle gute Ordnung sei und fortan abgestellt bleiben müsse. Es solle dagegen mein eigener großer Kessel fortwährend am Feuer stehen, und was ich selbst nicht gebrauchte, möchten sie nehmen und unter sich einteilen. Allein auch das war in den Wind geredet, und mit dem Tee- und Kaffeegesöff blieb es beim alten. Fast gewann es den Anschein, als ob man Lust habe, sich um meine Anordnungen gar nicht mehr zu kümmern. Eines Abends, nach Endigung des Gebets, hieß ich der Mannschaft noch etwas sitzen zu bleiben, und mit ebensoviel Ernst als Güte deutete ich ihnen meinen festen Willen an, daß das Kunkeln mit den vielen Teekesseln von Stund an ein Ende haben müsse. Sie hingegen pochten, unter Lärm und Geschrei, nach gewohnter Weise, daß sie Hamburger wären und keine Preußen, und sich ihr Recht nicht nehmen lassen würden. Ich hielt jedoch an mich und sagte mit möglichster Ruhe: »Ihr wißt nun meinen Willen, und das ist genug!« Am nächsten Morgen um 8 Uhr stieg ich, meiner Gewohnheit gemäß, in den Mastkorb, mich umzusehen. Indem ich dabei meine Blicke zufällig nach unten richtete, nahm ich wahr, daß mein ganzes Volk, den Bootsmann und den Koch an der Spitze, wie verabredet, in einer Reihe, und jeder seinen Teekessel in der Hand, von hinten nach der vorderen Luke zuschritten, um sich im Raume mit frischem Wasser zu versehen. Dies sehen und mich am nächsten besten Tau an den Händen herunterlassen, war das Werk eines Augenblicks. Glücklich gelangte ich so aufs Verdeck, bevor sie noch die Luke erreichten, und mit fester Stimme rief ich: »Was ist das? Was soll das?« -- indem ich zugleich dem Bootsmann wie dem Koch die Teekessel aus den Händen riß und weit hinaus über Bord ins Meer schleuderte. Hui, das hieß in ein Wespennest gestochen! Die Kerle schlossen einen dichten Kreis um mich her, und schrien wie unsinnig: »Schlagt zu! Schlagt zu!« -- doch keiner hatte das Herz, der erste zu sein. Diese Unschlüssigkeit gab mir Zeit, mich durch sie hindurchzuwinden und mit starken Schritten nach meiner Kajüte zu eilen, wiewohl alsobald auch der helle Haufe mit einem fürchterlichen »Halt auf! Schlag zu! Halt fest!« mich auf dem Fuße dahin verfolgte. Doch gelang mir's, die Kajütentür hinter mir zuzuschlagen und den Riegel von innen vorzuschieben. In der Tat war nun meine Lage bedenklich genug: mein Leben sowohl wie die Erhaltung des Schiffes standen hier auf dem Spiele. Sinnend und in stürmischer Bewegung ging ich auf und nieder, um über irgendeine durchgreifende Maßregel zu meiner Rettung mit mir einig zu werden. Ich erinnerte mich endlich, daß ich, einige Reisen früherhin, in Hamburg einen Abdruck des dort geltenden Schiffs- und Seerechts gekauft und bei mir an Bord hatte, sowie, daß ich dasselbe zum öftern durchblättert und mir mehrere Punkte angestrichen hatte, worüber Volk und Schiffer am leichtesten und gewöhnlichsten miteinander zu zerfallen pflegen, falls ich irgend einmal in einen ähnlichen Zwist geraten sollte. Ungesäumt holte ich dies Buch aus seinem Winkel hervor, schlug den gesuchten Artikel nach, und fand folgendes verzeichnet: »Einem Schiffer steht frei, seine Leute zu züchtigen, und es darf keine Gegenwehr geschehen. Sollte aber ein Schiffsmann sich unterstehen, seinen Schiffer zu schlagen oder sonst zu mißhandeln: so wartet seiner der Galgen, nach Hamburger Recht. -- Ebenso nach englischem und holländischem Seerecht. -- Nach dänischen und schwedischen Gesetzen wird der Verbrecher mit der Hand an den Galgen genagelt, um 6 Stunden daran zu stehen, bis ihm das Messer, womit er angenagelt ist, wieder herausgezogen worden. -- Nach preußischem Seerecht wird er 6 Monat in Eisen an die Karre geschmiedet.« Ich zeichnete nunmehr diese Gesetzstelle an, legte das Titelblatt mit den großgedruckten Worten »Hamburgisches Schiffs- und See-Recht« aufgeschlagen auf den Tisch, und meinen kurzen aber gewichtigen Rohrstock daneben, und zog nun die Glocke, die den Kajütenjungen mit seiner Frage: »Was zu Dienst?« herbeirief. -- »Der Bootsmann soll zu mir kommen.« -- Eine Minute später trat der Geforderte zuversichtlich in die Kajüte, deren Tür ich sofort hinter ihm ins Schloß warf. »Kannst du Deutsch lesen, Bursche?« fragte ich ihn, indem ich ihm dicht auf den Leib trat. -- »Hm, ich werde ja! Was soll's damit?« lautete die Antwort. -- »So tritt her und lies diesen Titel. Das sind die Gesetze, wonach deine Vaterstadt dich und deinesgleichen richtet. Und nun lies und beherzige hier auch _diesen_ Artikel.« -- Er sah den Paragraphen überhin an und fuhr dann heraus: »Hoho, das ist nur Wischewäsche!« -- »So, guter Kerl? Nun, so will ich dir zeigen, was Wischewäsche ist,« und damit griff ich nach dem spanischen Rohr und walkte ihn durch aus Leibeskräften. Das böse Gewissen erlaubte dem Buben nicht, sich tätlich zu widersetzen, sondern er taumelte nur stöhnend aus einem Winkel in den anderen, um meinen Streichen zu entgehen. So geschah es, daß mein Strafgericht in dem engen Raume der Kajüte ebensowohl die umher angebrachten Glasschränke samt den darin befindlichen Gläsern und Tassen traf, was ich aber in meinem brennenden Eifer nicht achtete. Endlich, da ich meinen Arm erlahmt fühlte, stieß ich den Taugenichts mit den Füßen zur Kajüte hinaus, riegelte die Tür hinter mir zu und nahm mir nun etwas Zeit zum Verschnaufen. Der Anfang zur Wiederherstellung meiner Autorität war glücklich gemacht und damit zugleich ein schwerer Stein von meinem Herzen gefallen. Die Kerle steckten in keinen reinen Schuhen und fingen an, bei meiner Entschlossenheit perplex zu werden. Ich durfte nun aber auch nicht auf halbem Wege stehen bleiben, sondern sie mußten noch gewichtiger fühlen, daß ich ihnen gewachsen war. Sobald ich mich demnach ein wenig erholt hatte, zog ich abermals die Schelle und ließ nunmehr auch den Koch vor mich fordern. Der Schelm mochte nun wohl schon erfahren haben, was seiner wartete. Er leistete also zwar Gehorsam, beobachtete aber die kluge Vorsicht, die Tür nur gerade so weit zu öffnen, daß mir Nase und Augen sichtbar wurden. »Näher, Schurke!« donnerte ich ihm entgegen; er hingegen suchte mich zu begütigen und bat: »O, lieber Kapitän, laßt es doch gut sein!« -- Ich wiederholte mein Gebot; da er aber gleichwohl die Tür in der Hand behielt, warf ich ihm mein Rohr an den Kopf, und er sah dabei seine Gelegenheit ab, die Tür zuzuschnappen und sich aufs Verdeck zurückzuziehen. -- Auch der zweite Feind war nun aus dem Felde geschlagen; jetzt kam es noch darauf an, einen entscheidenden Hauptschlag zu vollführen und die Kerle durch plötzlichen Schreck vollends zu unterjochen. Ich überlegte im Auf- und Abgehen, daß, je längere Zeit ich bei dem anhaltenden Gegenwinde bedürfen würde, um den Sund zu erreichen und mein rebellisches Volk durch obrigkeitlichen Beistand zu Paaren zu treiben, leicht in den nächsten Augenblicken sich etwas ereignen könnte, was seinen gesunkenen frechen Mut wieder höbe und das Übel ärger machte. Am gescheitesten also schien mir's, den nächsten norwegischen Nothafen aufzusuchen und dort Recht und Gerechtigkeit zu fordern. Hierzu entschlossen, nahm ich meinen Schiffshauer unter den Arm, kam festen Schrittes auf das Verdeck hervor und gebot dem Manne am Ruder: »Paß auf, Junge, und steuere Nordnordost!« -- Das gesamte Schiffsvolk stand auf einem Haufen versammelt und steckte die Köpfe zusammen. Als ich ihnen aber zurief, nach vorn zu gehen und die Segel nach dem Winde zu ziehen, verrichteten sie diese Arbeit pünktlich und in sichtbarer Gemütsbewegung. Nur der Steuermann, der sich bei dem ganzen Vorgange wie ein Dummbart abseits gehalten, trat jetzt mit der verwunderten Frage zu mir heran: »Ei, Kapitän, wo denn nun hin?« -- »Wie?« rief ich in Gift und Galle, »Ihr seid Steuermann und begreift das nicht? Nach Norwegen geht der Kurs, und dort geradezu auf den Galgen los. Will ich meines Lebens und Schiffes sicher sein, so müssen binnen hier und drei Tagen ein paar Rebellen hoch in der Luft baumeln!« Das sämtliche Volk hatte diese Drohung, wie es meine Absicht war, mit angehört. Ich hörte ihr Geflüster und sah, wie sie untereinander etwas ernstlich zu bereden schienen. Noch konnte ich nicht erraten, was sie im Schilde führten. Um aber auf alles gefaßt zu sein, zog ich meinen Hauer blank, trat mitten unter sie und fragte gebieterisch: was sie wollten? -- Der Bootsmann nahm für sie das Wort, dem sie nach und nach alle beifielen, und gestand mit Zerknirschung, sie hätten sich übereilt und vergangen, bäten mich um Vergebung und versprächen, sich hinfüro besser gegen mich zu betragen. »Ei wohl!« entgegnete ich ihnen -- »Respekt und Gehorsam gegen mich verstehen sich wohl von selbst. Aber was ich wegen des Vergangenen über euch beschließe, darüber werde ich mich allerdings noch besinnen müssen. Jetzt an die Arbeit!« -- Für mich selbst aber zog ich nunmehr in Erwägung, daß, da die Kerle dergestalt zu Kreuze gekrochen, die Fahrt nach Norwegen nur eine unnötige Zeitversplitterung sein und es besseren Vorteil versprechen werde, in See zu bleiben und meine Reise möglichst zu beschleunigen. Indem ich sie also aufs neue zusammenberief, erklärte ich ihnen, daß ihr böser Handel vorerst mit dem Liebesmantel zugedeckt, wenngleich nicht ganz vergeben sein solle, was sich zu seiner Zeit weiter ausweisen werde. Demnach änderte ich meinen Kurs wieder nach Osten gegen das Kattegatt, bis mich in der Nacht vom 2. zum 3. September ein dermaßen schrecklicher Sturm aus Nordosten überfiel, wie ich ihn kaum jemals erlebt habe und wie er in dieser beengten Meeresgegend verdoppelte Gefahr drohte. Am Abend vorher zählte ich in meinem Gesichtskreise, auf etwa zwei Meilen umher, nicht weniger als zweiundvierzig Segel, die gleich mir nach dem Sunde steuerten. Der Sturm verstärkte sich aber von Stunde zu Stunde, so daß ich endlich keinen einzigen Lappen Segel führen konnte und mit jeder Woge fürchten mußte, auf eine blinde Klippe zu stoßen, welche hier meilenweit vom Lande zu Hunderten umhergesät sind. Doch Gott erhielt uns wunderbarlich; am nächsten Morgen aber waren von jenen zweiundvierzig Schiffen nah und fern nicht mehr als vierzehn zu erblicken und gewiß ging der größte Teil der fehlenden in dieser entsetzlichen Nacht zugrunde. Für uns Gerettete hingegen stieg alsbald wieder ein freundliches Wetter auf, das uns glücklich nach dem Sunde führte. * * * * * Hier nicht länger, als unumgänglich notwendig, zu verweilen, gab es noch einen geheimen Grund. Ich hatte meinem Vater schon von Hamburg aus nach Kolberg geschrieben, daß ich auf dieser Reise alles daransetzen würde, mich der Reede meiner Geburtsstadt dergestalt zu nähern, daß ich die Freude haben könnte, ihn und die Meinigen im Vorüberfahren auf einige Stunden bei mir am Borde zu begrüßen. Ich wollte dabei an einem roten Stender kenntlich sein, den ich am Vordertop würde wehen lassen, und ich bat ihn und alle guten Freunde, mir diesen gehofften Genuß nicht zu verderben. In der Tat wollten mir auch Wind und Wellen so wohl, daß ich, obgleich erst zum 29. September, mich auf der Kolberger Reede zeigen konnte. Da es gerade ein Sonntag war, so befanden sich nicht bloß meine erbetenen Gäste, sondern auch noch anderweitige zahlreiche Bekannte auf der Münde, welchen der Besuch an meinem Schiffe eine gelegene Lustpartie schien, und die mir daher, vielleicht hundert Köpfe stark, gern gesehen, an meinem Borde zusprachen. Bei dem schönen Wetter ging ich gar nicht einmal vor Anker, sondern blieb mit Hin- und Herkreuzen unter Segel. Kajüte und Verdeck wimmelten von bekannten Gesichtern und fröhlichen Menschen, bis endlich abends alles wieder zu Lande fuhr, und ich darf mit Wahrheit sagen, daß ich diesen Tag für einen der vergnügtesten meines Lebens achte. Nach genommenem Abschiede erhielt ich einen guten steifen Wind, der mich schon zu Abend des anderen Tages ins Angesicht von Memel brachte. Hier aber hatte er sich allmählich in einen Sturm verwandelt, der es den Lotsen unmöglich machte, zu uns heranzukommen, und keck, wie ich war, unternahm ich mir's, auf meine eigene Gefahr auf den Hafen zuzusetzen. Das Wagestück ließ sich auch gut genug an, bis ich zwischen die beiden Haken kam, wo sich's fand, daß das Fahrwasser viel zu westlich lief, als daß ich mich mit diesem Winde dagegen wenden konnte. Zwar machte ich, da hier Not an Mann ging, den verzweifelten Versuch, allein das Schiff wollte dem Steuer nicht länger folgen und trieb augenscheinlich gerade auf den Nordhaken zu. Jetzt stand, mit der Entschließung des nächsten Augenblicks, unser Leben und alles auf dem Spiele. Ich ergriff ein Beil, kappte flugs das Bogreep und die übrigen Leinen, woran der Anker sich hielt und der nun mit seinem ganzen vollen Gewichte in den Grund fiel. Nun hatte das Schiff für den Moment den fehlenden festen Stützpunkt gefunden; es schwang sich um den Anker, und kaum hatte es sich auf diese Weise nach Wunsch gewandt, so hieb ich mit einem kräftigen Streiche auch das Ankertau entzwei, ließ den Anker stehen und kam glücklich und ohne Schaden wieder in See, bis des andern Tages der Wind nördlicher ging und ich in aller Gemächlichkeit den Hafen erreichte. Obwohl nie ein Freund tyrannischer Härte in meinem Kommando, und auch hier nicht von einer besonderen Rachsucht getrieben, glaubte ich es doch sowohl mir selbst als dem allgemeinen Besten schuldig, meine Schiffsmannschaft wegen ihrer angezettelten Meuterei bei dem Seegerichte in Memel sofort nach meiner Ankunft anzuklagen. Die Sache ward untersucht und der Spruch fiel dahin aus, daß dem Bootsmann als Rädelsführer hundert Stockprügel in zwei Tagen, dem Koch fünfzig und noch einem Matrosen fünfundzwanzig zugezählt werden und sie ihrer verdienten Gage verlustig gehen sollten, welche den seefahrenden Armen zuerkannt wurde. Nach empfangener Strafe aber sollten sie über die nächste preußische Grenze gebracht werden. Laut dieses Urteils wurden sie sogleich in die Militärwache abgeführt und an dem bestimmten Tage ein paar Unteroffiziere beordert, die Sentenz an ihnen zu vollziehen. Ich meinesteils erachtete es für gut und wohlgetan, mein übriges Schiffsvolk mit herbeizuführen, um Zeugen der Exekution zu sein und sich darin zu spiegeln. Die drei Kerle traten ziemlich keck aus dem Wachloche hervor und schienen den Korporalstock wenig zu fürchten, bis man sie aufs Hemd entkleidete und daneben der warmen Fütterung beraubte, wodurch sie sich zu schützen vermeint hatten. Hoffentlich drang nun der wohlverdiente Denkzettel durch die neunte Haut; ich aber, froh, ihrer los und ledig zu sein, nahm wieder in ihre Stelle drei englische Matrosen an, welche von einem Schiffe in Libau heimlich abgegangen waren. * * * * * Gehörte jenes Strafgericht zu den Unannehmlichkeiten meines Aufenthaltes in Memel, so war mir hier doch auch eine zweifache herzliche Freude durch lebhafte Rückerinnerung an meine Jugendzeit vorbehalten. Nicht nur fand ich ganz unvermutet in dem Post- und Bankdirektor W** meinen einstmaligen treuen Taubenfreund wieder, dessen ich eingangs dieser meiner Lebensgeschichte unter einem bei weitem nicht so stattlich klingenden Titel gedacht und der mich mit voller alter Herzlichkeit aufnahm, sondern auch mit dem ehemaligen Kolberger Kaufmann Seeland traf ich hier zufällig zusammen, dessen Dörtchen mir einst, nach meinem verunglückten Turmritt, eine unvergeßliche Semmel zugesteckt hatte, und die ihn auch jetzt auf dem Wege nach der Insel Oesel begleitete, wo der gute verarmte Mann bei seinem Sohne, einem dort wohnenden Prediger, Zuflucht und Unterstützung suchte. Wie dauerte mich, um meiner jugendlichen Wohltäterin willen, das Schicksal dieser Familie! Aber wie machte mich's jetzt auch glücklich, daß ich meinem dankbaren Herzen seinen Willen lassen konnte! Übrigens machte ich in Memel für meinen Patron ein noch besseres Geschäft, als ich gehofft hatte, indem ich, anstatt eine Ladung für eigene Rechnung einzunehmen, Gelegenheit fand, mit Herrn Kaufmann Wachsen eine leidlich gute Fracht auf Lissabon über eine Partie Schiffsmasten, fichtene Balken und Stangeneisen abzuschließen. Zufällige Umstände verhinderten jedoch, daß ich vor Anfang November nicht klar werden konnte, und dann hatte ich, des früh eingetretenen Winters wegen, Mühe, durch das Eis in See zu gelangen. Überdem noch trieben mich widrige Winde fast drei Wochen in der Ostsee umher, bevor ich in den Sund kam, nun aber mit günstigerer Fahrt die Nordsee erreichte. Allein auf die Dauer eines solchen erwünschten Wetters war in dieser vorgerückten Jahreszeit freilich nicht zu rechnen und wirklich gab es auch schon in den ersten Tagen des Dezembers wieder konträren Wind und Sturm, wobei wir rings um uns her mancherlei Schiffstrümmer, Masten, Stangen, Ruder und ein umgekehrtes Boot treiben sahen. Noch auffallender aber war uns der Anblick eines Schiffes, etwa eine Meile nördlich vor uns, dem der große Mast fehlte und das noch mancherlei andere Spuren von Zertrümmerung zeigte. Abends um acht Uhr, als wir des widrigen Windes wegen uns gegen Norden legen mußten und ich eben die Wache hatte, meldete mir der Ausgucker, daß er nahe vor uns ein Schiff gewahr werde. Ich ließ sofort eine Laterne aushängen und erwartete, daß auch jenes, wie es Brauch ist, ein gleiches tun werde, damit wir nicht zu nahe aneinander gerieten und uns beschädigten. Es geschah aber nicht; ich lief indessen so dicht vorüber, daß ich trotz der Dunkelheit deutlich erkennen konnte, wie ihm der große Mast fehlte und die See schäumend über Bord hinstürzte. Es war also ohne Zweifel das nämliche Schiff, welches wir schon tags zuvor erblickt hatten, und deuchte mir von ziemlicher Größe zu sein, aber steuerlos auf seiner Last zu treiben. Im Vorübersegeln rief ich es zu wiederholten Malen durch das Sprachrohr mit Holla! Holla! an, erhielt jedoch keine Antwort und mußte daraus schließen, daß es von seiner Besatzung verlassen worden. Dies regte nun allmählich allerlei wunderliche Gedanken in mir auf, die sich endlich in die Vorstellung auflösten, das herrenlose Wrack mit dem grauenden Morgen wieder aufzusuchen, es ins Schlepptau zu nehmen und nach Norwegen zu führen, von dessen Küsten wir nur einige und zwanzig Meilen entfernt waren. Der Wind zur Fahrt dahin wehte günstig, und für die aufgewandte Zeit und Mühe schien ein so bedeutender Fund, auch ohne Rücksicht auf die etwaige Ladung, uns genügend entschädigen zu können. Bei dem Wechsel der Wache um Mitternacht teilte ich diesen Anschlag dem Steuermanne mit, der meiner Meinung beistimmte und mit dem ich nunmehr für die übrige Nacht einen solchen Kurs verabredete, daß wir hoffen konnten, uns bei Tagesanbruch wieder in der Nähe jenes Schiffes zu befinden. In der Tat auch erblickten wir es kaum eine halbe Meile vor uns unter dem Winde. Obwohl nun das Wetter ziemlich stürmisch war, setzten wir doch sofort unser großes Boot aus, und indem wir uns mit unserem eigenen Schiffe dem Wrack bis auf eine Entfernung von etwa achtzig Klaftern näherten und mit dem Boote ein Kabeltau auslaufen ließen, versuchte ich, nebst den mit mir genommenen sechs Matrosen, unser möglichstes, dort an Bord zu gelangen. Freilich ward dies Wagestück bald um so schwieriger, da wir's nicht verhindern konnten, hinten unter dem Schiffe vorübergetrieben zu werden, während dieses von den Wogen aufs heftigste gewälzt wurde und wir jeden Augenblick befürchten mußten, mit unserm Boote und dem schweren Ankertau in den Grund zu versinken. Endlich gelang es uns zu entern, das Ende des Taues zu befestigen und uns auf unserer Prise ein wenig umzusehen. Es war eine greuliche Zerstörung darauf vorgegangen, und sicherlich hätte das Schiff längst sinken müssen, wenn es nicht mit Holz und Balken geladen gewesen wäre. Nachdem wir auf diesem Schiffe das Nötigste besorgt hatten, kehrten wir nach unserm eigenen zurück, hingen das andere Ende des Schlepptaues in unser Hinterteil und richteten nunmehr mit unserer neuen Last den Kurs auf Norwegen zu. Freilich hatten wir, da der Wind von hinten kräftig in unsere Segel blies, uns Rechnung gemacht, den Weg dahin rasch zurückzulegen, allein unsere nachgeschleppte Prise ging so tief und drückte so schwer, daß wir binnen einer Stunde kaum eine Viertelmeile fortrückten. Doch beharrten wir den ganzen Tag und die darauffolgende Nacht in unserm Beginnen. Mit meiner Morgenwache aber, in der Stille der Dämmerung, stiegen mir wiederum allerlei Grillen in den Kopf, die mir diesen Handel je länger je bedenklicher machten. Ich erwog, was für eine langsame und mühselige Schlepperei dies abzugeben drohte, wie kurz in dieser Jahreszeit die Tage, und wie es gleichwohl, wenn wir nach Norwegen herein wollten, unumgänglich erforderlich sein werde, schon zur frühesten Morgenzeit nahe am Lande zu sein, um nicht unser eigenes Schiff den Klippen preiszugeben, die sich meilenweit längs der Küste in dichter und starrer Saat hinziehen. Überdem war auf den Bestand von Wind und Wetter keinen Augenblick zu rechnen, und so schien es am geratensten, ein Unternehmen lieber freiwillig aufzugeben, welches, selbst im glücklichsten Falle, ein unangemessenes Zeitversäumnis erforderte, leicht aber auch mich gegen meinen Reeder und Befrachter einer schweren Verantwortlichkeit bloßstellen konnte. Ich eröffnete beim Wechsel der Wache dem Steuermanne auch diese meine veränderte Ansicht samt ihren Gründen und beschloß nun, mit ihm gemeinschaftlich das Schlepptau sofort wieder abzulösen und das Wrack seinem Schicksale zu überlassen. Noch während der Ablösung fiel es mir indes bei, daß es doch wohl recht und billig wäre, uns für unsere vergebliche Mühe und Zeitverlust durch irgend etwas, das uns nützen könnte und hier doch nur den Wellen schmählich preisgegeben war, schadlos zu halten. Mir fielen die Anker, welche noch alle unversehrt am Buge hingen, ins Auge. Ich befahl demnach, unser Tau in den größten derselben einzuknüpfen, die Leinen und Reepe, die es hielten, zu kappen und es fallen zu lassen, damit es jenseits von unserem Schiffe wieder emporgewunden werden könnte. Dies geschah; wir stiegen in unser Boot zurück und ließen das Wrack treiben, ohne daß es uns möglich gewesen wäre, weitere Kundschaft einzuziehen. Nur so viel hatten wir bemerkt, daß es ein großes holländisches Flütschiff war, hinten den Namen »Dambord« und auch ein angemaltes Damenbrett im Spiegel führte. Einige Tage später trafen wir auf einen Holländer, der nach dem Texel wollte und dem ich zurief, daß ich in der und der Gegend ein Schiff seiner Nation als ein Wrack treibend gesehen, welches den Namen Dambord führte. Er möge solches, wenn er nach Amsterdam käme, an der Börse bekannt machen. * * * * * Ohne ferneres denkwürdiges Begebnis langten wir in der Hälfte des Januars 1783 glücklich zu Lissabon wieder an und ankerten zufällig neben einer amerikanischen Fregatte von vierundvierzig Kanonen, deren Kapitän mir einige Tage später gesprächsweise als ein Deutscher, namens Johann Ollhof, genannt wurde. Wundersam fiel dieser Name mir auf, da ich mich erinnerte, im Jahre 1764 einen Matrosen Johann Ollhof im Dienste gehabt zu haben, der mir in Amsterdam, mit meinem guten Willen, entlief, und von dem ich seitdem nie wieder gehört hatte. Wie sich das damals begab, mag mir mit wenigen Worten zu erzählen erlaubt sein. Ich war zu jener Zeit im Begriff, mit meinem Schiffe von Amsterdam wieder nach der Heimat zurückzukehren, als der gedachte Mensch, der ein sehr guter Junge und vom Treptower Deep gebürtig war, an einem Samstag zu mir in die Kajüte trat und mich bei Himmel und Erde beschwor, ihn hier freizulassen; denn wenn er wieder in seine Heimat müsse, erwarte ihn der leidige blaue Rock und dann sei er zeitlebens eine unglückliche und verlorene Kreatur. -- »Hört, Johann,« war meine Antwort, »ich mag Euer Unglück nicht, will aber übrigens von dem, was Ihr tut oder nicht tut, nichts wissen.« -- Er verstand mich und erwähnte noch seiner Monatsgage von einundzwanzig Gulden, die er bei mir gut habe. -- »Nun,« unterbrach ich ihn, »morgen ist ja Sonntag, wo wohl einige von unseren Leuten werden an Land gehen und auch Geld fordern wollen. Dann läßt sich weiter davon sprechen.« Der Sonntagmorgen kam, mit ihm drei meiner Matrosen, denen auch Johann sich angeschlossen hatte, um sich Urlaub zum Erlustieren und auch Geld dazu von mir zu erbitten. Ich entließ sie mit der Ermahnung, keine Händel anzufangen und bei guter Zeit sich wieder am Borde einzustellen. Jeder erhielt ein paar Gulden; doch als Johann seinen vollen Lohn forderte, stellte ich mich zum Scheine befremdet, bis er mir erklärte, daß er seinen Geschwistern daheim allerlei Geschenke zugedacht habe, die er dafür einzukaufen gedenke. Allein am Abend kamen zwar die übrigen alle, nur mein Johann Ollhof nicht zum Vorschein. Natürlich gab ich mir auch keine sonderliche Mühe, seiner wieder habhaft zu werden, und so blieb er seinem guten oder bösen Geschicke überlassen. Jetzt, da ich mich eben im Gewühle der Lissaboner Börse befand, hörte ich einen Kaufmann laut nach dem »Kapitän Johann Ollhof« rufen, den ich selbst in dem dichten Haufen nicht gewahr zu werden vermochte. Doch sah ich gleich darauf eine Figur nach jenem sich hinwenden, in welcher ich mit freudigem Erschrecken trotz der glänzenden Uniform, des Degens und der Schärpe augenblicklich meinen ehemaligen Deserteur erkannte. Wie hätte ich mich enthalten können, mit rascher Bewegung und der Frage auf ihn zuzutreten: »Ist's möglich? Johann Ollhof, seid Ihr es?« -- Verwundert sah er mir scharf ins Gesicht, erkannte mich im nächsten Moment nicht minder und fiel mir mit dem Freudenruf um den Hals: »Kapitän Nettelbeck -- _Sie_ finde ich hier wieder?« Nun gab es unzählige Fragen, die mir seine mancherlei Glückswechsel und sein schnelles Steigen im Seedienste der jungen Republik erklärten. Er drang in mich, am Nachmittage zu ihm an Bord zu kommen, wohin er mich abholen lassen wolle. Dagegen bestand ich darauf, daß es ihm, dem jüngeren, wohl geziemen würde, mir den ersten Besuch zu machen. Auch hätte ich ein Schiff unter den Füßen, auf welchem ich mich nicht schämen dürfte, einen so lieben Gast zu empfangen. Er gab mir recht und versprach, bei mir zu erscheinen. In der Tat legte seine Schaluppe, mit zwölf ausgeputzten Ruderern, zur bestimmten Zeit an meine Seite, und er kam, von einigen seiner Offiziere begleitet, zu mir an Bord, wo das Verdeck zum Teil mit in der Ausladung begriffenen Eisenstangen angefüllt lag, wie denn überhaupt mein Schiff ein wenig tief ging. Kaum angekommen, machte er hierüber seine Bemerkung und rief: »Mein Gott, Freund, wie können Sie doch Ihr Leben auf so einem Kasten wagen?« -- Ich will nicht leugnen, daß dieser Hochmut mich ein wenig verdroß und daß ich mein Schiff nicht verachten lassen wollte. Darum versetzte ich: »Johann Ollhof, mir deucht, daß Ihr, solange Ihr noch ein Preuße hießet, wohl nie das Glück gehabt, auf einem solchen Schiffe, wie dieses, zu fahren.« Er nahm es hin; ich aber, obwohl ich es in der stattlichen Aufnahme meiner Gäste an nichts ermangeln ließ, fühlte mich doch verstimmt. Ja, selbst als er beim Abschiede freundlich bat, seinen Besuch aufs baldigste zu erwidern, brach der innere Groll unaufhaltsam hervor in dem Geständnisse: »Ich bin nicht gut auf Euch zu sprechen, Kapitän! denn Ihr habt mir mein Schiff verachtet.« -- Demungeachtet wiederholte er seine Einladung nur um so herzlicher, und bat zugleich um Verzeihung wegen seiner unschuldigen Äußerung: allein Herz und Sinn hatten sich bei mir von ihm abgekehrt; ich konnte mich nicht entschließen, zu ihm an Bord zu gehen, und habe ihn auch nicht wiedergesehen. * * * * * Überdem gab es bald allerlei Verdrießlichkeiten, die meinen Sinn auf andere Dinge lenkten. Gerade damals lag eine starke englische Kriegsflotte im Tajo; ich aber hatte drei englische Matrosen im Dienste, welche am Lande mit ihren Landsleuten von jener Flotte häufig zusammenkamen und sich ohne Zweifel durch deren gute und bequeme Lage verleiten ließen. Denn eines Tages traten sie unerwartet zu mir in die Kajüte mit der Erklärung, daß sie es vorzögen, unter ihren Landsleuten auf der Flotte zu dienen, daher sie ihre Entlassung von meinem Schiffe, aber auch ihre rückständige Löhnung (für jeden wohl über sechzig Taler) forderten. »Kinderchen,« erwiderte ich ihnen -- »ihr steht alleweile auf einem preußischen Schiffe und in preußischem Dienste; seid also auch vorderhand nicht Engländer, sondern Preußen. Daß ich euch eure Löhnung auszahle, oder gar, daß ich euch frank und frei gebe, daran ist gar nicht zu denken.« -- Freilich mochten sie sich durch diesen Bescheid nicht sonderlich befriedigt fühlen; und so geschah es denn wohl auf ihren Betrieb, daß wenige Tage nachher ein Offizier von der britischen Flotte an meinem Borde erschien, mit dem Auftrage von seinem Admiral, die augenblickliche Auslieferung von drei geborenen englischen Untertanen von mir zu verlangen, die sich, wie er erfahren habe, auf meinem Schiffe befänden, und deren völlige Entschädigung für den bisherigen Dienst zugleich erfolgen müsse. Ich beobachtete bei diesem sonderbaren Vortrage ein ruhiges Schweigen; ließ aber in der Stille die preußische Flagge über unsern Köpfen aufziehen, die ich meinem Gaste zeigte, indem ich hinzufügte: »Sehen Sie, mein Herr, unter _dieser_ Flagge stehen jene drei Leute in Dienst; und ich kenne kein Gesetz, das mich verpflichtete, sie hier in einem fremden Hafen, daraus zu entlassen. Jede weitere Prozedur des Herrn Admirals werde ich erwarten.« Eine Zitation vor das portugiesische Seegericht ging bald darauf an mich ein, um meine Sache, im Beisein des Admirals, der gleichfalls erscheinen würde, zu verantworten. Jetzt ward also der Handel ernsthaft, und ich hielt es für geraten, zu unserm Preußischen Gesandten, dem Herrn von Heidecamp, zu gehen, dem ich die Lage der Dinge vortrug, und um Verhaltungsmaßregeln bei ihm nachsuchte. Sein Ausspruch war: daß, falls ich nicht gutwillig wollte, niemand mich zwingen könnte, die Leute freizugeben; noch weniger, ihnen ihre Löhnung auszuzahlen, welche nach Recht und Gesetz dann erst fällig sei, wann mein Schiff wieder einen preußischen Hafen erreicht habe. Zugleich unterrichtete er mich genau, wie ich mich vor Gericht zu verhalten hätte, und fügte hinzu, für alles übrige sollte ich ihn sorgen lassen, indem er gesonnen sei, bei dem Termine gleichfalls in Person zu erscheinen. Dies geschah nun gleich am nächsten Tage. Wir fanden den englischen Admiral mit zwei Flottenkapitäns bereits vor, und er eröffnete die Verhandlung durch das bestimmte Begehren, die drei britischen Untertanen in seinen Dienst ausgeliefert zu erhalten. Meine verweigernde Antwort stützte sich auf die Gründe, welche ich schon angeführt habe. Ja ich war so keck, gegen ihn zu bemerken: Ohne Zweifel befänden sich auf seiner Flotte viele geborene preußische Untertanen, gleichwohl stände noch dahin, ob er sich für verpflichtet halten würde, diese auf mein Verlangen ihres Dienstes zu entlassen? »Topp!« rief er feurig aus -- »ich gebe drei Preußen von meiner Flotte in die Stelle der drei Engländer!« -- »Ein Erbieten,« entgegnete ich, »das aller Ehren wert ist, wenn ich nur hoffen dürfte, anstatt der tüchtigen Leute, die mir abgefordert werden, etwas Besseres als den Ausschuß der ganzen Flotte zurückzuempfangen; und mit dem ist mir nicht geholfen.« -- Sofort auch nahm der Gesandte das Wort; und da ich sah, daß der Handel anfing, zu einer Ehrensache zwischen ihm und dem Admiral auszuschlagen, so konnte ich den ferneren lebhaften Wortwechsel mit Seelenruhe anhören, bis zuletzt das Gericht die Matrosen schuldig erkannte, auf meinem Schiffe zu verbleiben, bis sie in den nächsten preußischen Hafen abgelöhnt werden könnten. So war nun zwar dieser Strauß glücklich und mit Ehren ausgefochten; allein einige Tage nachher erfolgte, was ebensosehr zu erwarten, als schwer zu verhindern war. -- Diese drei Kerle machten sich heimlich aus dem Staube und gingen auf die Flotte zu ihren Landsleuten über, ohne auf ihre im Stiche gelassenen Monatsgelder zu achten. Mochten sie laufen! Ich konnte ihrer entraten! * * * * * So wie ich nun meine Ladung in diesem Hafen löschte, entstand auch die Verlegenheit, in dieser ungünstigen Jahreszeit (es war mitten im Winter) nicht sofort wieder eine vorteilhafte Fracht zu finden. Nach Süden, ins mittelländische Meer, durfte ich mich aus Mangel an Türkenpässen, nicht wagen, und in der Nord- und Ostsee hatte der Frost die Schiffahrt geschlossen. Ich mußte also, bis in den Monat März, die Hände notgedrungen in den Schoß legen und, da mir auch dann noch keine Fracht nach meinem Sinne angeboten wurde, mich entschließen, eine Ladung Salz für eigene Rechnung zu kaufen und nach der Ostsee zu verführen. Hiermit war ich noch beschäftigt, als sich ein Sturm aus Westen erhob, der mehrere Schiffe, und unter diesen auch ein unbeladenes portugiesisches Schiff, welches uns einige hundert Klafter weit über dem Winde lag, von den Ankern trieb. Dies letztere rückte dem meinigen gerade auf den Hals, und da es so gut als ganz sich selbst überlassen war, (denn nur zwei Jungen befanden sich am Borde), so hatten wir Mühe, es nur so weit abzulenken, daß es endlich uns zur Seite zu liegen kam. Gleichwohl war bei dem anhaltenden Unwetter nicht zu verhindern, daß es unaufhörlich gegen unsern Bug stieß und drängte, wodurch bei mir die gerechte Besorgnis entstand, daß beide Schiffe davon großen Schaden nehmen könnten, wenn jenes nicht bald seine Stellung veränderte und unter Windes von uns gebracht würde. Dies stellte ich meinem Schiffsvolke vor, und wir beschlossen alsogleich Hand an ein so nötiges Werk zu legen. Indem wir aber hierzu insgesamt an den portugiesischen Bord hinübersprangen, ergriff jene beiden Jungen, die von unserer Absicht nichts wußten, ein Todesschrecken. Sie erhoben ein Geschrei aus voller Kehle, welches auch nicht ermangelte, ihre Landsleute von fünf oder sechs der nächstgelegenen Fahrzeuge im Hui! auf ihr Verdeck herbeizulocken. Dies Gesindel nahm sich nicht die Zeit, uns anzuhören oder sich mit uns zu verständigen, sondern augenblicklich galt es ein wildes Zuschlagen auf uns mit Knitteln, Handspaten und Bootshaken, so daß wir genötigt waren, auf unser Schiff zurückzuflüchten. Doch auch hiermit nicht zufrieden, verfolgten uns unsere übermächtigen Gegner auf unser eigenes Verdeck und trieben uns, je länger je mehr, in die Enge. Mein Steuermann erhielt einen Schlag, daß er zu Boden stürzte und ich nicht anders glaubte, als daß ihm der Rest gegeben worden. Ich selbst mußte mein Heil in der verriegelten Kajüte suchen, so wie meine Leute genötigt waren, sich im Raume zu bergen und in ihrem Roof zu verschließen, um nicht ferneren Gewalttätigkeiten ausgesetzt zu sein. Endlich stieß nun zwar die wilde Rotte wieder nach ihren Schiffen ab: aber der Portugiese blieb zu meiner Seite liegen und fuhr fort, die ganze Nacht hindurch sich gegen mein Schiff abzuarbeiten und an der Verkleidung desselben zu reiben. Die Folgen zeigten sich gleich morgens an ihm selbst, indem ganze Planken in Stücken von seiner Seite hinwegtrieben, der Fockmast aber über Bord gefallen war, und das ganze Gebäude, wie ein zerschelltes Wrack, sich seitwärts neigte. Allein auch ich selbst bemerkte an dem meinigen mehrere Beschädigungen, die mir um so mehr Galle ins Blut trieben, je leichter sich dies alles hätte vermeiden lassen, wenn das Recht und die Vernunft nicht der verstandlosen Gewalt hätten weichen müssen. Höher noch stieg freilich diese Galle, als einige Stunden später der portugiesische Kapitän des Schiffes zu mir an Bord kam. Es fand sich, daß ich ihn einigermaßen kannte, indem er verschiedentlich mit mir im Kontor meines Korrespondenten, Herrn Bulkeley, zusammengetroffen war und an dessen Tische gespeist hatte. Sein Name war Sylva. Pochend fuhr er auf mich ein, ihm für den an seinem Schiffe erlittenen Schaden gerecht zu werden; und nur mit Mühe mäßigte ich mich zu der gelassenen Antwort: daß, wenn er es mit der gehörigen Mannschaft besetzt gehalten, Schaden und Unglück entweder nicht stattgefunden haben, oder doch geringer ausgefallen sein würden. Er war aber nicht in der Verfassung, Vernunft anzunehmen, sondern fuhr drohend und scheltend wieder an Land. Kaum aber waren ein paar Stunden verlaufen, so ließ er sich abermals bei mir blicken, und war diesmal von einer Art Gerichtsperson oder Notarius begleitet, der mir einen langen schriftlichen Aufsatz von anderthalb Bogen vorlegte, mit dem Ansinnen, daß ich meinen Namen unterzeichnen möchte. -- »Unter eine Schrift in einer Sprache, die ich nicht verstehe?« gab ich zur Antwort. -- »Mit nichten, meine Herren! Geht damit, wenn es euch beliebt, zum Preußischen Konsul. Dort werde ich mich gleichfalls finden lassen.« In der Tat war sofort mein nächster Gang zu diesem Konsul, namens Schuhmacher, gerichtet, um ihn von dem unangenehmen Vorfalle vollständig zu unterrichten und mich mit ihm zu beraten. Sein Gutachten fiel dahin aus, daß ich nachmittags mit meinem Schiffsvolke vor ihm erscheinen sollte, um in Gegenwart eines Notarius über den wahren Verlauf der Sache eidlich vernommen zu werden. Auf dem Rückwege stieß ich auf meinen Korrespondenten Bulkeley, und nachdem ich in dessen Kontor getreten, benachrichtigte er mich, daß soeben Kapitän Sylva ihm über das bewußte Ereignis eine schriftliche Erklärung vorgelegt, die er auch unbedenklich mit meiner Namensunterschrift versehen habe. »Wie?« rief ich, hoch verwundert -- »unterschrieben mit _meinem_ Namen? _Unterschrieben_ ohne mein Wissen und Einwilligung? -- Von diesem Augenblicke an, Herr, hören Sie auf, mein Korrespondent zu sein, und bevor ich meinen Fuß aus Ihrem Hause setze, fordere ich, daß Sie mir den Abschluß meiner Rechnung vorlegen.« -- Er zauderte, ich aber erklärte ihm so bestimmt, ich würde ohne Abrechnung nicht vom Platze weichen, daß er sich endlich meinem Verlangen fügen mußte. Es war notwendig, den Konsul augenblicklich von diesem Schurkenstreiche in Kenntnis zu setzen. Wie vollkommen aber sein Betragen diesen Namen verdiente, entwickelte sich erst nachher, da es an den Tag kam, daß dieser nämliche Bulkeley Reeder des Schiffes war, welches Kapitän Sylva führte. -- »Ruhig, mein Freund!« tröstete mich der Konsul. -- »Treffen Sie nur schleunige Anstalt zur gerichtlichen Vernehmung Ihrer Leute, und lassen Sie mich dann für das übrige sorgen.« -- Jenes ward auch gleich am nächsten Morgen mit allen Förmlichkeiten bewerkstelligt; und während ich das Original dieser Erklärung in des Konsuls Hände niederlegte, versäumte ich nicht, durch den Notarius eine beglaubigte Abschrift ausfertigen zu lassen, die ich für mich selbst zurückbehielt. Noch erklärte ich meinem wackeren Beschützer meine Absicht, binnen zwei oder drei Tagen die Anker zur Abfahrt zu lichten, daß ich aber von meinem Widersacher jede Art von Schikane und also auch wohl eine Beschlagnahme meines Schiffes bis zu ausgemachter Sache erwarten müßte. »Dann«, erwiderte er, »bin _ich_ es, der Kaution für Sie leistet, und wenn Sie abgesegelt sind, den Prozeß für Sie führt.« -- So getröstet nahm ich nun in aller Gemächlichkeit den Rest meiner Salzladung ein, und ging des dritten Tags darauf unter Segel, ohne daß es auch einem Menschen nur einfiel, mir etwas in den Weg zu legen. In die Stelle der entlaufenen drei Engländer, die mir zu meiner vollen Bemannung fehlten, glückte mir's noch am Tage vor meiner Abreise, zwei schwedische Matrosen ähnlichen Schlags zu erhalten, daneben aber auch noch einen dienstlosen Engländer auszukundschaften, den ich in seiner Schlafstelle aufsuchte und für meinen Dienst annahm. Freilich mußte ich ihn bei seinem Wirte erst mit einem vollen Monatsgehalte auslösen; doch gerade darauf mochte der Kerl spekuliert haben, denn kaum war er mit mir auf der Straße, so versuchte er, mir wieder zu entlaufen, so daß ich hinter ihm drein schreien mußte, bis er von anderen Leuten festgehalten wurde, ich mich seiner versichern und ihn in meine naheliegende Schaluppe bringen lassen konnte. Es war begreiflich, daß der Mensch sich unter diesen Umständen auf meinem Schiffe wohl nicht sonderlich gefallen mochte. Das bewies er auch am nächsten Morgen, wo wir in See gehen wollten, indem er sich der Länge nach aufs Verdeck streckte, nicht arbeiten mochte und krank zu sein vorgab. * * * * * Als wir zum Tajo herausgekommen waren, machten wir die unangenehme Entdeckung, daß unser Schiff viel Wasser einließ. Anfangs meinten wir, daß, da wir so lange ledig gelegen und hohen Bord gehabt, die Fugen mancher Planken durch die Sonnenhitze voneinander getrocknet sein möchten, und daß diese Nähte unter Wasser bald wieder zuquellen würden. Allein der Leck nahm so überhand, daß wir das Schiff bald mit beiden Pumpen kaum über Wasser halten konnten. Zudem stand der Wind vom Lande, und es war also unmöglich, wieder in den Hafen zurückzusteuern. In dieser Not lag uns alles daran, den schadhaften Fleck auszufinden, um ihn zu stopfen. Man weiß, wie klar und durchsichtig die Gewässer des atlantischen Ozeans in dieser Gegend sind, und daß man darum ziemlich deutlich auch in eine größere Tiefe sehen kann. Da fand ich denn endlich, daß an der Seite, und ungefähr vier bis fünf Fuß tief unter Wasser die Späne von der äußeren Haut abstanden. -- Also wohl unstreitig ein Andenken an unser Zusammenstoßen mit jenem portugiesischen Schiffe und die Ursache unseres immer bedenklicher werdenden Lecks! Je unmöglicher es war, daß wir unser Schiff mit den Pumpen so über See tragen konnten, desto unerläßlicher mußte ein Pflaster über die wunde Stelle befestigt werden. Ich ließ sogleich eine Zitronenkiste zerschlagen, zerschnitt meine Bettdecke, teerte und talgte sowohl diese als jenen Kistenboden an beiden Seiten, heftete beide mit kleinen Nägeln aneinander, bohrte am Rande acht oder zehn Löcher, steckte in jedes derselben einen größeren Nagel, den ich, damit er nicht herausfiele, mit etwas Werg umwickelt hatte, und sann nun darauf, wie dies Pflaster an die rechte Stelle zu bringen wäre. Es gab kein anderes Mittel, als daß einer von meinen Leuten sich entschlösse, sich rittlings auf dem vierarmigen Bootsanker zu befestigen und unter Wasser bis zu dem Leck hinabzulassen, das präparierte Brett auf den zerstoßenen Fleck zu passen und mit dem an die Hand gebundenen Hammer schnell, ehe ihm der Atem entginge, festzuklopfen. Ich schlug dies der Mannschaft vor, allein keiner hatte Lust zu dieser Wasserfahrt. Ich bot dem, der es wagen würde, eine Monatsgage, niemand meldete sich, sie zu verdienen. Ich stellte ihnen aufs nachdrücklichste vor, daß, wenn sie dies kleine Wagnis so sehr scheuten, wir ja doch ohne Barmherzigkeit alle ersaufen müßten. Ich bat, ich flehte, ich schalt und drohte, aber die feigen Seelen sahen mich verdutzt an und blieben bei ihrem Kopfschütteln. »Nun denn,« sagte ich endlich, »so will ich selbst der Mann sein, der sein Leben für euch _H...r_ in die Schanze schlägt!« -- Dieser Entschluß entstand auch um so weniger aus Prahlerei, da ich als junger Bursche mit meinen Spielkameraden das Schwimmen und Untertauchen fleißig geübt hatte und oftmals unter dem Wasser geblieben war, bis die Bestehenden langsam dreißig zählten. Hoffentlich hatte ich diese kleine Kunst in den drei Dutzend Jahren nicht ganz wieder verlernt, und sollte ich denn _doch_ ertrinken, so konnte mir die Art und Weise wohl ziemlich gleich gelten. So nahm ich also getrost meinen Platz auf dem Bootsanker, dessen Tau meine Leute oben in die Hände fassen und mich daran in die bezeichnete Tiefe hinablassen mußten. Nach meiner Anweisung sollten sie von dem Augenblicke an, wo ich mit dem Munde unter Wasser käme, sekundenmäßig zu zählen anfangen und mich, wenn sie bis fünfundzwanzig gekommen wären, hurtig wieder emporziehen. Ich meinesteils hastete mich soviel ich vermochte; zwei bis drei tüchtige Schläge auf jeden Nagelkopf, und das Brett saß an der rechten Stelle fest; während der Zug des Wassers nach innen das übrige tat, die Fasern der Decke in die offenen Fugen dicht einzusaugen. Kurz, ich war fertig, aber die droben dachten noch immer an kein Hinaufziehen. Endlich nach einigen Sekunden brachten sie mich wieder an Gottes freie Luft, und so war das Abenteuer glücklich bestanden! Nun kam es darauf an, zu erfahren, was wir damit gewonnen hatten. Wir eilten an die Pumpen, die nunmehr das eingedrungene Wasser bemeisterten und sichtbar verminderten. Der Leck hatte wirklich so abgenommen, daß wir uns getrauen durften, mit einer Pumpe die See zu halten. Wunderbar aber blieb unsere Rettung nicht minder, als wenn, wie mir ein Beispiel bekannt geworden, ein ähnlicher Leck durch eine, in die offene Fuge eingeklemmte Flunder gestopft ward; oder wenn ein Schiffer von meiner Bekanntschaft im Danziger Neufahrwasser den seinigen nur dadurch unschädlich machte, daß er vorbedächtig längs den Seiten des Schiff eine Menge Torf-Mull ins Wasser schütten ließ, welches sich durch den unmerklichen Wasserzug in alle Ritzen und Spalten der Planken festsetzte. * * * * * Als wir in den Kanal gelangten, stießen wir auf ein englisches Kriegsschiff, welches meine Schiffspapiere zu sehen verlangte. Ich erwiderte, daß ich zur Vorzeigung an meinem eigenen Borde bereit wäre. So kam denn ein Offizier zu mir herüber; doch während er in der Kajüte die geforderte Untersuchung anstellte, machte sich mein oben erwähnter englischer Matrose an seine Landsleute in der Schaluppe, und in welchem Sinne er mit ihnen gesprochen, ergab sich, als ich meinen Gast aus der Kajüte zurückbegleitete, da jene Engländer ihrem Leutnant meinen Matrosen vorstellten, der wider seinen Willen hier zurückgehalten würde, Lust hätte, auf jenem englischen Schiffe zu dienen. »Den Menschen nehm' ich auf der Stelle mit,« wandte sich der Offizier an mich, »Ihr habt kein Recht an ihn.« -- »Nun,« war meine Antwort, »so will ich doch sehen, wer mir in offener See auch nur meinen schlechtesten Kajütenjungen, wider meinen Willen, wegnehmen soll. Dazu fehlt es Ihnen an Fug und Recht.« -- Doch der Matrose hatte nicht für gut gefunden, das Ende unseres Wortwechsels abzuwarten, sondern war bereits in die Schaluppe gesprungen. Ich bedachte mich keinen Augenblick, ihm dahin nachzufolgen, und war darüber her, ihn, wie sehr er sich auch sträubte, an Bord zurückzuziehen, bis auch der Leutnant herabkam und verlangte, daß ich die Schaluppe verlassen sollte. Natürlich weigerte ich mich, und selbst als er drohte, daß er abstoßen und nach seinem Schiffe fahren werde, versicherte ich, daß ich gesonnen sei, _ohne_ meinen Matrosen nicht vom Flecke zu weichen. Schleppe er mich dann aber nach dem Kriegsschiffe hinüber, so bliebe das meinige und alles, was demselben begegnen könne, auf _seine_ Gefahr und Verantwortung. Indes setzten sie wirklich mit der Schaluppe ab, und ich behielt kaum die Zeit, meinem Steuermanne zuzurufen, daß er sich, solange ich nicht wieder an Bord käme, in der Nähe des Kriegsschiffes halten möchte. Sobald wir auf diesem angekommen und der Handel dem Kapitän vorgetragen war, erklärte dieser, der Kerl sei ein Brite und er werde ihn auf seinem Schiffe behalten. »Dann, mein Herr,« entgegnete ich ihm, »mögen Sie auch _mich_ hier behalten, denn ich bleibe, wo mein Matrose ist, und mein Schiff dort schwimmt oder sinkt von diesem Augenblicke an auf Ihr Risiko. Tun Sie nun, was Ihnen beliebt! Totschlagen können Sie mich nicht vor so vielen Augen, und alles übrige werde ich erwarten.« Diese Festigkeit schien den Kapitän doch einigermaßen stutzig zu machen. Er ging mit einigen Offizieren abseits in die Kajüte -- wahrscheinlich, um sich mit ihnen näher zu beraten; dann aber, als sie wieder zum Vorschein kamen, stieß der eine und andere von ihnen meinem aufsätzigen Matrosen in die Zähne und in die Rippen, und so wieder in die Schaluppe hinein, worauf ich ungenötigt folgte und mit meinem Ausreißer wieder an mein Schiff gebracht wurde. Damit jedoch diesem sein Frevel nicht ganz ungestraft hinginge, ward ich mit meinem Steuermanne einig, ihn mit Händen und Füßen an die große Spille festzubinden und so sein Gat durch jeden von unseren Leuten mittels eines Endchens Tau mit einer Anzahl wohlgemessener Hiebe heimsuchen zu lassen. Die Kur schien auch für die fortgesetzte Reise nicht ohne gute Wirkung zu bleiben. * * * * * Seitdem wir die Küsten von Dover und Calais aus dem Gesichte verloren und abwechselnde, aber meist stürmische Winde uns elf Tage lang in der Nordsee umhergeworfen hatten, während welcher wir weder Jütland noch Norwegen oder sonst ein Land erblickten, wagten wir es dennoch, im guten Glauben an unsere geführte Schiffsrechnung und einige angestellte astronomische Beobachtungen, uns mit dem Senkblei in der Hand um die gefährliche Spitze von Skagerrak ins Kattegat hineinzutasten. Es glückte; aber gerade hier überfiel uns nunmehr auch ein schrecklicher Sturm aus Norden, der so hart in unser dicht eingerefftes Fock- und Vormarssegel blies, daß bald die Fetzen davon in den Lüften umherflogen. Nach diesem Verluste wollte sich unser Schiff nicht mehr vor dem Winde steuern lassen, sondern ward unter den Wind gedreht. Es sollte eine andere neue Focke untergeschlagen werden, allein das Schiff arbeitete und schlenkerte in der brausenden, kochenden See voll blinder Klippen so gewaltig, und der Sturm hielt mit soviel Ungestüm an, daß wir alle kaum die Augen aufschlagen konnten. Das neue Focksegel ward zwar aus der Segelkammer hervorgezogen und an die Rahe geschlagen; allein sowie diese in die Höhe ging, peitschte auch jenes mit seinen Zipfeln dergestalt um sich, daß es in den nächsten Augenblicken ebenfalls in Lappen davongeführt wurde. Ich schrie, ich bat, ich fluchte meinem Volke entgegen, das oben auf den Masten saß, die Fäuste wie brave Kerle zu rühren und das Segel unter die Rahe zu bringen. Endlich stieg ich selbst in die Höhe und überzeugte mich, daß es schlechterdings unmöglich sei. In diesem Augenblicke ward geschrien: »Brandung leewärts!« Das war die Minute der Entscheidung! Denn da das Schiff dem Ruder nicht mehr folgen mochte, so ward hier alle Kunst des Steuerns zu schanden! Wir wurden mit sehenden Augen in unseren Untergang hineingetrieben und standen nach wenigen Augenblicken auf einem Steinfelsen fest. Sogleich auch stürzte die stürmende See in furchtbaren Wogen über unser Schiff hinweg, daß der Schaum bis hoch an die Mastkörbe emporspritzte, indes jenes durch die gewaltigen Stöße am Boden durchlöchert wurde und voll Wasser lief. So war denn an ein Wiederabkommen von dieser Klippe und an Rettung des Schiffes gar nicht mehr zu denken! Dieses Unglück traf uns am 11. Mai, abends um neun Uhr. Auf dem Verdecke konnten wir uns, der überflutenden Brandung wegen, nicht mehr halten, sondern waren alsogleich sämtlich auf die Masten geflüchtet. Ich selbst und sechs Mann hingen oben am Besanmast, während die übrigen acht Mann den großen Mast erklettert hatten. Ein Wunder wäre es wohl nicht gewesen, wenn wir alle die Besinnung verloren hätten, indes blieb mir doch soviel Gegenwart des Geistes, daß ich unsere Lage richtig ins Auge fassen und den einzig möglichen Ausweg zu unserer Rettung gewahr werden konnte. Ich stellte demnach meinen Unglücksgefährten vor, wie unser Heil darauf beruhe, daß wir unsere Schaluppe in unsere Gewalt bekämen. Einige von ihnen, die die rüstigsten wären, sollten sich ein Herz fassen, herniederzusteigen und die Taue, woran dieselbe auf dem Verdecke festgebunden stehe, zu zerhauen, nachdem sie ein oder mehrere längere Taue daran festgeknüpft haben würden, deren Enden wir übrigen oben am Maste sicher zu halten gedächten. Bräche dann gleich das Schiff und die Schaluppe würde über Bord gespült, so könnte sie uns dennoch von den Wellen nicht entführt werden; oder möchte sie sich auch voll Wasser gefüllt, oder gar das Unterste nach oben sich gekehrt haben, so würden wir sie gleichwohl nahe zu uns heranziehen, ausschöpfen und zu unserer möglichen Bergung instandsetzen können. Durch diese Vorstellungen gewonnen, kletterten auch sofort drei wackere Kerle hinab, lösten die Schaluppe vom Verdecke ab und jeder von ihnen versah sie hinwiederum mit seinem dazu mitgenommenen Taue, deren entgegengesetzte Enden sie glücklich wieder zu uns in die Höhe brachten. Nun aber dauerte es kaum noch eine Stunde, als eine ungewöhnlich hohe Sturzwelle über das Verdeck hinschlug, das Fahrzeug weit mit sich hinaus über Bord schleuderte, den Boden nach oben umkehrte, aber die Gegenkraft der Angst, womit wir, koste es was es wolle, die Taue festhielten, nicht zu überwältigen vermochte. Um elf Uhr brach, wie wir längst gefürchtet hatten, unser Schiff in der Mitte auseinander; der Fock- und große Mast stürzten über Bord -- letzterer jedoch in einer so glücklichen Richtung, daß er auf das Hinterteil zufiel und dergestalt dicht neben uns hinstreifte, so daß die an demselben klebenden acht Menschen zu uns heranklettern konnten. So war denn die volle Mannschaft von vierzehn Köpfen hinten bei mir auf dem Besanmaste beisammen. Durch das Bersten des Schiffsrumpfes aber hatte sich das Hinterteil, worauf wir uns befanden, dergestalt gelöst, daß es in eine starke Bewegung geriet und mit jeder Sturzwelle wechselsweise bald sich seitwärts weit aufs Wasser legte, bald wieder in die Höhe hob. Man mag daraus ermessen, wie übel uns dabei oben auf dem schwanken Maste zumute geworden! In dieser höchsten Not schien denn kein längeres Zaudern ratsam. Wir zogen die Schaluppe an ihren Tauen näher zu uns heran, kehrten sie nicht ohne große Mühe wieder um, hoben sie mit ihrem Vorderteile soweit in die Höhe, daß ein Teil des Wassers, womit sie gefüllt war, sich daraus verlief, und nachdem wir, sowie wir der Reihe nach hineinstiegen, den Rest mit unseren Hüten vollends hinausgeschöpft, schnitten wir endlich alle Taue, die uns noch am Schiffswrack festhielten, in Gottesnamen los und kamen glücklich aus dem Labyrinthe voll brandender Klippen in offenes Wasser zu treiben, während wir die vier in der Schaluppe festgebundenen Ruder zur Hand genommen und uns dadurch instandgesetzt hatten, notdürftig vor dem Winde zu steuern. Oft zwar füllten ungestüme Schlagwellen unser Fahrzeug fast bis zum Sinken mit Wasser an, doch waren wir unermüdet und auch zahlreich genug, es augenblicklich mit unseren Hüten wieder hinauszuschaffen, zwar stets unseren Tod dicht vor Augen sehend, aber auch einmütig entschlossen, unsere letzte angestrengte Kraft zu seiner Abwehr aufzubieten. So trieben wir demnach von ein Uhr nachts bis zum Vormittag des 12. Mai, wohin Wind und Wellen wollten, bis wir endlich die Insel Anholt vor uns zu Gesicht bekamen und hier an der Ostspitze, unweit des Feuerturmes, wiewohl mit neuer Lebensgefahr, gegen ein Uhr nachmittags auf den Strand setzten. * * * * * Mein erstes war, mich in den trockenen Ufersand auf die Knie zu werfen und dem Barmherzigen droben mit heißglühender Seele für die wunderbare Erhaltung des Lebens zu danken. Dann aber stiegen freilich auch trübe Gedanken bei mir auf. Mein schönes gutes Schiff war verloren! Wäre mir ein Freund gestorben, so hätte mir sein Verlust nicht näher gehen können. Doch wie manches ging in dieser unglücklichen Nacht mit meinem Schiffe verloren! Zwar mein Reeder war gedeckt. Ich hatte den Auftrag von ihm, so oft ich aus einem Hafen abging, das Schiff durch Besorgung des Hauses Joh. Dav. Klefecker in Hamburg, assekurieren zu lassen. Es war demnach auch jetzt für eine Summe von zwanzigtausend Talern oder vierzigtausend Mark Hamburger Banko versichert. Da nun dieses Schiff mit vollem Zubehör neu nur zweiundzwanzigtausend Taler gekostet hatte, die Ladung Seesalz aber nur einen Wert von tausendfünfhundert Talern hatte, so ließ sich wohl absehen, daß der Verlust des Schiffes ihm keinen wesentlichen Schaden zuführen würde. Anders aber war die Sache für mich selbst, und ich durfte wohl gestehen, daß dieser Schiffbruch mein eigenes, eben wieder aufkeimendes Glück völlig vernichtete. Meinen Erwerb an festem Gehalt als Schiffer hatte ich stets bei meinem Patron stehen lassen und dieser war mir nun allerdings unverloren; allein ein Schiffskapitän hat, auf vollkommen rechtmäßiger Weise, noch so mancherlei Gelegenheit zu allerlei Nebenverdiensten; ihm kommen Kajütenfracht und Kapplacken [Gratifikation vom Empfänger der Ladung] zugute, und nicht leicht verläßt er einen Hafen, ohne zugleich auch auf irgendeinen kleinen Handel zu seinem Privatvorteile spekuliert zu haben, der um so besser einschlagen kann, da er Frachtgelder und Assekuranzprämien daran erspart. Alle diese kleinen Ersparnisse hatte ich immer wieder aufs neue in Waren angelegt, und so war nach und nach mein Privatverkehr zu dem Umfange gediehen, daß ich diesmal beinahe den Wert von elftausend Gulden an Bord führte. Alles dies ging nun mit dem Schiffe unwiederbringlich zugrunde! Ich hatte mir's alle diese Jahre ganz vergeblich sauer werden lassen! Als wir genauer um uns sahen, erblickten wir auf der Landspitze neben dem Feuerturme ein einzelnes Haus, auf welches wir zuschritten und darin den Feuerinspektor, seine Frau und zwei zur Unterhaltung des Feuers erforderliche Knechte vorfanden. Erschöpft von soviel Anstrengungen und niedergedrückt von Sorge und Kummer, sank ich gleich nach der ersten Begrüßung auf ein dastehendes Bett und verfiel in ein halbwaches Hinbrüten, aus welchem ich mich mehrere Stunden lang nicht zu ermuntern vermochte. Gleichwohl hörte ich es während dieses fieberhaften Zustandes wie im Traume mit an, daß die Wirtsleute sich mit meinem Volke über unsere Umstände unterhielten, daß dabei erwähnt wurde, unser Schiff habe nach Stettin zu Hause gehört, und daß darauf die Hausfrau sich als meine Landsmännin bezeichnete. Ihre dadurch geweckte nähere Teilnahme gab sie mir kund, indem sie mit gebratenem Geflügel an mein Bett trat und mich einlud, davon zu genießen. »Wie?« rief ich, mich ermunternd -- »Federwild auf dieser Insel, wo kein Strauch, kein Grashalm, sondern nur der nackte Flugsand sich zeigt? Das ist doch wunderbar!« -- Bei weitem nicht so sehr, als ich glaubte, ward mir zur Antwort. Auf den Abend sollte mir das Rätsel gelöst werden, wie sie imstande wären, in den Wintermonaten ganze Körbe voll Geflügel nach Kopenhagen zu schicken. Aber auch das Rätsel unserer Landsmannschaft bat ich die gefällige Frau, mir zu erklären, und so erfuhr ich, daß sie in Berlin geboren, in ihrem vierzehnten Jahre nach Kopenhagen bei der Silberdienerei auf dem Schlosse in Dienst gekommen und dann mit dem königlichen Silberdiener verheiratet worden sei, als dieser durch Anstellung zum Feuerinspektor auf Anholt seine lebenslängliche Versorgung erhalten habe. Abends, als das Feuer auf dem Leuchtturme angezündet worden, sah ich nun freilich, wie von Zeit zu Zeit, von dem hellen Scheine angelockt, zahlreiche Schwärme von Vögeln aller Art herbeiflogen und, von dem Feuer geblendet, diesem so naheflatterten, daß sie, an Flügeln und Federn versengt, zu Boden fielen und mit Händen gegriffen werden konnten. Nachdem wir uns hier zwei Tage lang von unseren erlittenen schweren Mühseligkeiten bei diesen freundlichen Gastgebern erholt, aber sie auch beinahe rein ausgezehrt hatten, wofür ich ihnen eine angemessene Anweisung nach Kopenhagen ausstellte, ward es freilich wohl hohe Zeit, unseren Stab weiterzusetzen. Auf dem östlichen Ende der Insel, wo sie am breitesten ist, lag noch das einzige hier vorhandene Fischerdörfchen von etwa fünfzehn Hütten, dem ein Schulze, hier Drost genannt, vorstand. An diesen hatte ich bereits tags zuvor geschrieben, daß wir als Schiffbrüchige auf seinen obrigkeitlichen Beistand zu unserem weiteren Fortkommen rechneten. Ich würde zu einer bestimmten Zeit mit einem Gefolge von vierzehn Köpfen bei ihm erscheinen und eine bereitgehaltene tüchtige Mahlzeit, ein Fahrzeug zur Überfahrt nach Helsingör und ausreichenden Proviant für drei Tage -- alles gegen Bezahlung -- vorzufinden erwarten. Statt dessen wurden wir von diesem Manne mit einer so abschreckenden Kälte empfangen und für alle unsere Bedürfnisse war so wenig irgend einige Sorge getragen, daß es mir sehr verzeihlich erschien, wenn wir zuvörderst auf gut soldatisch seinen wohlgefüllten Speiseschrank in Requisition setzten, seiner Rauch- und Brotkammer für den uns nötigen Seeproviant zusprachen und endlich das größte unter den am Strande liegenden Fischerbooten zu unserer Reise in Beschlag nahmen und mit den vorgefundenen Gerätschaften zutakelten -- alles das im Beisein sowohl des bestürzten Drosten, der seine gelieferten Lebensmittel selbst schätzen mußte und dafür schriftliche Anweisung empfing, als des Booteigentümers, der, gern oder ungern, mit uns an Bord ging, um uns nach Helsingör zu führen und dort seine Bezahlung zu empfangen. Dieser war es denn auch, der uns unterwegs gestand, uns sei das Gerücht vorausgegangen, daß wir eine Bande Seeräuber wären, die nicht das Kind im Mutterleibe verschonten. Am 18. Mai erreichten wir Helsingör, wo ich, um die Zahlung der Assekuranz zu sichern, sofort darauf bedacht war, im Gefolge meiner geborgenen Mannschaft vor Gericht eine eidliche Erklärung über die Umstände des Unglücks niederschreiben zu lassen. Meine Leute empfingen ihre Löhnung, und so ging alles nach allen Himmelsgegenden auseinander, -- freilich, wie wir gingen und standen, denn von dem Schiffe hatten wir keine Faser gerettet. Ich selbst mußte mich, bevor ich von Helsingör abreiste, von Haupt zu Fuß neu bekleiden, wenn ich mich vor Leuten wollte sehen lassen können. Ich würde mir's nicht verzeihen können, wenn ich hierbei mit Stillschweigen überginge, was mir mit einer Jüdin begegnete, in deren Trödelbude ich ein neues Hemd zu kaufen im Begriff stand. Den geforderten Preis aufzählend, beantwortete ich ihr zugleich einige Fragen, welche ihre Neugier an mich richtete, durch Hindeutung auf meinen neulichen Schiffbruch, aus welchem ich nicht einmal meine Kopfbedeckung gerettet hätte. Meine Erzählung lockte ihr Tränen ins Auge, sie schlug die Hände zusammen und rief: »So soll mich doch Gott bewahren, daß ich Geld von Ihnen für das Hemd nähme!« -- Vergebens versicherte ich ihr, daß es, nun ich erst am Lande wäre, keine Not mit mir habe; sie steckte mir das zusammengeraffte Geld in die Hand und das Hemd in den Busen, und als ich jenes dennoch auf den Ladentisch legte und mit Dank meines Weges ging, lief sie mir nach, um es mir wieder aufzunötigen, so daß ich sie endlich bitten mußte, auf der Straße kein Aufsehen zu erregen, und mit einem gerührten Händedrucke von ihr schied. * * * * * Nun ging ich baldmöglichst als Passagier mit einem Schiffe nach Stettin, um meinem Patron Rede zu stehen. Wir rechneten miteinander ab; ich empfing meine rückständigen Gelder und begab mich nach Kolberg, um über mein weiteres Tun zu einem Entschlusse zu kommen. Es wurden mir verschiedene Schiffe zur Führung angeboten, allein die nächsten Jahre nach dem amerikanischen Kriege waren für Handel und Schiffahrt so ungünstig, daß unsereiner bei seinem Handwerke ferner weder Ehre einlegen, noch seinen Vorteil absehen konnte. So gab ich denn, in Erwägung, daß die bessere Halbschied meines Lebens bereits hinter mir liege, das ganze Seewesen auf und war darauf bedacht, mich in meiner lieben Vaterstadt auf eine stille, bürgerliche Nahrung mit Bierbrauen und Branntweinbrennen, wie es mein Vater seither getrieben hatte, einzurichten. Nach dreiviertel Jahren etwa, als ich allen Seegedanken längst entsagt hatte, auch mein werter Freund und Patron Groß bereits mit Tod abgegangen war, kam mir ein Schreiben von dessen Schwiegersohne und Nachfolger, Herrn Boneß, zu, das mich auf einmal wieder in die alten Sorgen zurückstürzte. Er meldete mir, es sei von Lissabon ein Wechsel auf beinahe dreitausend Taler eingelaufen, als Ersatzsumme für das Schiff des Kapitäns Sylva, welches ich übersegelt und zugrunde gerichtet haben sollte, daher ich doch hierüber nähere Auskunft mitteilen möchte. Man kann leicht denken, wie ich erstaunte, daß man jenem Vorfalle auf dem Tajo eine solche Wendung zu geben gedachte. Das Vorgeben mit der Übersegelung war eine offenbare grobe Erdichtung. Hatte das portugiesische Schiff Schaden genommen oder war es endlich darüber zugrunde gegangen, so mochte der Kapitän lediglich seine eigene Nachlässigkeit und seinen Mangel an Aufsicht anklagen; und sollte von einem Schadenersatze die Rede sein, so wäre ich, auf den jenes Schiff zugetrieben kam, während ich selbst ruhig vor Anker lag, solchen zu fordern ungleich mehr berechtigt gewesen. Dieserwegen berief ich mich auf die gerichtliche Aussage meiner Mannschaft, wovon das Original in den Händen des preußischen Konsuls zurückgeblieben, während meine mitgenommene beglaubigte Abschrift mit meinem verunglückten Schiffe leider ein Raub der Wellen geworden war. Aber nicht zufrieden, dies mit der nötigen Ausführlichkeit zurückberichtet zu haben, reiste ich selbst nach Stettin, um jede noch etwa mangelnde Auskunft zu erteilen. Der Wechsel ward demnach mit Protest zurückgesandt und wir hielten den Sturm für abgeschlagen. In der Tat veränderte man nun auch in Lissabon die Art des Angriffes, denn nach Verlauf eines halben Jahres lief von dort eine Aufforderung an den Magistrat in Kolberg ein, mich, den Schiffer Nettelbeck, in dieser Sache zu einer Entschädigung von dreitausend und einigen hundert Talern obrigkeitlich anzuhalten. Da diese Summe nach portugiesischem Gelde in Rees ausgedrückt war, deren dreihundert auf einen preußischen Taler gehen, so paradierte demnach in jener Eingabe eine Forderung von beinahe einer Million Rees, welche das Publikum meiner guten Vaterstadt treuherzig mit ebensoviel Talern verwechselte und nun billig die Hände über den Köpfen zusammenschlug, daß der Nettelbeck tausendmal mehr schuldig sei, als er Haare auf dem Kopfe habe! Es versteht sich wohl, daß ich bei meiner gerichtlichen Vernehmung die nämlichen Gründe geltend machte, welche ich bereits Herrn Boneß an die Hand gegeben hatte. Damit aber noch nicht befriedigt, reiste ich abermals nach Stettin, um ihm wiederholt zu raten, daß er sich nach Lissabon an den Preußischen Gesandten wenden und die dort niedergelegte eidliche Erklärung einziehen lassen möchte, um den Prozeß auf diesem festen und sicheren Grund zu führen. Den Prozeß aber leiteten nunmehr die Lissaboner bei dem Seegerichte zu Stettin ein; der Spruch fiel dahin aus, daß wir Beklagte zur Bezahlung eines Schadens _nicht_ anzuhalten wären. Es ward von dieser Sentenz an die Königliche Kriegs- und Domänenkammer appelliert, welche sie jedoch in zweiter Instanz bestätigte. Auch hiermit begnügten sich unsere Gegner nicht, sondern gingen an die dritte Instanz, in das Revisorium. Endlich, nach einem halben Jahre, schickte mir Herr Boneß den Revisionsspruch zu, der dahin lautete: Die Reeder des Stettiner Schiffes hätten den Schaden zu vergüten, übrigens aber wiederum Regreß an ihren Schiffer zu nehmen. Wie mich ein so unerwarteter Ausgang dieses Prozesses in Erstaunen, Unwillen und gerechten Ärger setzen mußte, ist leicht zu begreifen. Herrn Boneß verbarg ich meine Empfindlichkeit nicht, daß er verabsäumt hatte, die sprechendsten Beweismittel herbeizuschaffen, und daß ich allein nunmehr, wie es schiene, unter dieser Vernachlässigung leiden sollte. Aus meinen Papieren könne ich dartun, daß ich seinem Schwiegervater mit diesem Schiffe reine einundvierzigtausend Taler verdient hätte, und so möge denn sein Billigkeitsgefühl entscheiden, ob und welche Ansprüche er noch ferner an mich zu machen gedenke? -- zumal da mein Gewissen mich von aller Schuld in jener Sache losspreche. Müßte es jedoch zwischen uns zu einem Prozesse hierüber kommen, so würde ich mich zu verantworten wissen. Bei alledem war mir aber nicht gar wohl zumute. Ich ward endlich schlüssig, mich nach Lissabon zu begeben und dem Dokumente, auf welchem hier alles beruhte, an Ort und Stelle nachzuforschen. Vorläufig aber gab ich dem Makler Brödermann in Hamburg, den ich kannte, den Auftrag, sich bei den zuletzt von Lissabon eingekommenen Schiffern nach Leben und Tod des dortigen Preußischen Gesandten und Konsuls genau zu erkundigen und mir zugleich auf einem etwa binnen Monatsfrist dahin abgehenden Schiffe einen Platz als Passagier zu bestellen. Mein braver Patron Groß hatte außer dem Kaufmann Boneß noch drei andere Schwiegersöhne, sämtlich Schiffer, als Erben seines bedeutenden Vermögens hinterlassen. Diese alle kannten mich seit langen Jahren und hatten mir stets Beweise ihrer Zuneigung und Achtung gegeben. An diese nun wandte ich mich jetzt schriftlich und ersuchte sie um eine bestimmte Erklärung, ob die Großschen Erben gesonnen wären, einen Prozeß gegen mich anzustrengen? Solchenfalls aber möchten sie damit nicht säumen, indem ich auf dem Sprunge stände, nach Lissabon zu gehen und mir neue und hinreichende Beweismittel zu verschaffen. Die Ehrenmänner gaben mir zur Antwort: sie kennten mich und glaubten mir aufs Wort, daß ich eine gerechte Sache hätte und Bulkeley so gut als Sylva ein paar Schurken wären. Ich möchte die Lissaboner Reise nur unterlassen, indem sämtliche Großsche Erben unter sich übereingekommen wären, jeden Prozeß und Anforderung gegen einen Mann aufzugeben, der ihrem Hause so tätig und redlich gedient und ihm so ansehnliche Summen erworben habe. So mag sich denn nun hier die Geschichte meiner Seereisen und Abenteuer schließen. Wohl aber mag ich auch sagen: »Gott hat große Dinge an mir getan, der Name des Herrn sei gelobet!« * * * * * Nun bin ich denn also aus einem Seemanne ein Landmann und ehrsamer Kolbergischer Pfahlbürger geworden, und was einem solchen begegnen kann, ist nicht so abwechselnd und ausgezeichnet, daß es eine ausführlichere Erzählung verdiente. Sind in der Folge meines Lebens Verhältnisse eingetreten, wo mein Name für einige Augenblicke aus der Dunkelheit hervorgetreten zu sein scheint, wozu Natur und Schicksal mich wohl eigentlich bestimmt hatten, so fühle ich doch gar wohl, wie wenig es gerade _mir_ geziemen würde, über diese Periode und über mich selbst zu sprechen, wo das, was mir Schuldigkeit und Bürgerpflicht zu tun geboten, leicht als Prahlerei erscheinen könnte. Findet sonst irgend jemand -- sei er Freund oder Feind -- Neigung und Beruf, von mir zu schreiben, so sage er, was Wahrheit ist. Mir selbst genügt an dem Bewußtsein, für mein Vaterland, für meinen König und für jeden Menschen getan zu haben, was die schwachen Kräfte eines einzelnen vermochten. Wäre ein wenigeres geschehen, so würde ich mir's zum Vorwurf rechnen. Meinen heimlichen Feinden muß ich gestatten, im stillen über mich zu richten und mich zu verurteilen. Öffentlich aber werden sie schwerlich gegen mich auftreten, um meine Ehre anzutasten, die ich bis zu meinem letzten Atemzuge darein setzen werde, ein Verehrer meines Königs, ein getreuer Untertan, ein dankbarer Sohn meiner geliebten Vaterstadt, ein exemplarischer Bürger, der Freund meiner Freunde und im großen wie im kleinen ein ehrlicher Mann zu sein. Dritter Teil Was ich früher, als ich am Schlusse des zweiten Teiles meiner Lebensgeschichte die Feder niederlegte, weder gedacht noch gewollt, soll dennoch Wirklichkeit werden -- ich soll sie wieder aufnehmen, um dem freundlichen Leser auch noch diejenigen Lebensereignisse mitzuteilen, die mir nach meinem fünfundvierzigsten Jahre zugestoßen sind. So wünschen und verlangen es so manche, denen ich für ihre Liebe gern dankbar werden möchte -- dankbar aber vornehmlich auch meinem Schöpfer, welcher mir bis hierher Leben, Kraft und Gesundheit schenkt und mich vielleicht nur _dazu_ noch gebrauchen will, da ich doch sonst der Welt wohl nur wenig mehr nützen kann. Mein Bedenken, von den neueren Zeiten und von meinem eignen kleinen Anteil an den Welthändeln zu reden, ist auch nicht mehr das nämliche wie vormals: denn einmal kennt mich nun der Leser schon genug, um zu wissen, daß mir's nirgends um die Person, sondern immer nur um die Sache zu tun ist, und wird mir also auch nicht leicht Ruhmredigkeit vorwerfen, wo ich nur der Wahrheit die Ehre gebe; und dann fürs andre könnte es hier und da doch auch wohl zutreffen, daß etwas zu Nutz, Lehre und Warnung jetziger und künftiger Zeiten mit unterliefe. Hauptsächlich aber drängt es mich, einem Manne, obwohl er meiner zu seinem Lobe nicht bedarf, weil ihn die Welt, sein Herz und seine Taten genugsam preisen, -- dem Manne, der in der Nacht der Trübsal über meiner Vaterstadt zuerst wie ein schöner leuchtender Stern des Heils aufgegangen ist -- die schuldige Anerkennung widerfahren zu lassen. Nein, ich will ihn nicht loben: aber meine getreue Erzählung selbst soll sein Lob sein! * * * * * Von der See hatte ich meinen Abschied genommen; hatte mich auf ihr und in der Fremde genugsam herumgetummelt, um mir die Hörner abzulaufen, und hielt es nunmehr für das Gescheiteste, mich an eine stille bürgerliche Nahrung zu halten, wie es mein Vater und meine Vorväter auch getan hatten: denn der bisherige Hang zum Seeleben war eigentlich nur mit dem _mütterlichen Blute_ auf mich gekommen, und es schien ganz gut und recht, mich wieder zur _väterlichen Weise_ zu wenden. Da nun auch mein ererbtes Häuschen ganz zum Betrieb von Bierbrauen und Branntweinbrennen eingerichtet war und mir diese Hantierung sowohl zusagte, als auch ein ehrliches Auskommen versprach, so bedachte ich mich nicht lange, sie gleichfalls zu ergreifen; habe auch manche liebe Jahre hindurch mein leidliches Auskommen dabei gefunden. Ich ward also Kolberger Bürger, hatte meinen besonderen Verkehr mit den Landleuten umher und rührte mich tüchtig, um das, was ich ergriffen hatte, nun auch ganz und aus einem Stücke zu sein. Aber es mochte doch wohl sein, daß es entweder mit dem »Hörner-Ablaufen« noch nicht seine volle Richtigkeit hatte, oder daß sonst noch für meine dreiviertel Schock Jahre zu viel Regsamkeit und Eifer in mir war, oder endlich lag es und liegt noch zu tief in meiner Natur, daß ich keine Unbilde -- treffe sie mich oder andre -- statuieren kann: -- genug, ich lief mit dem einen wie mit dem andern oft genug an; und ohne daß ich es wollte und wünschte, mag es auf diese Weise leicht gekommen sein, daß meine lieben Mitbürger, die es meist gemächlicher angehen ließen, mich mitunter für einen unruhigen Kopf verschrieen, und dem es in Guinea unter der Linie vielleicht gar ein wenig zu warm unterm Hute geworden. Von dem allem muß ich einige Pröbchen beibringen, die es beweisen mögen, daß ich noch immer der alte Nettelbeck war. Erst also von meinem Unbedacht! -- Der See mit genauer Not entronnen, dachte ich, daß es nun mit dem Ersaufen weiter keine Not haben sollte; und doch war ich auch als Landratte ein paarmal nahe daran, einen nassen und elenden Tod durch eigne Schuld zu finden. * * * * * Es war im Dezember 1784, als mich einst mein Gewerbe nach Henkenhagen, einem Dorfe, dritthalb Meilen von Kolberg, führte. Ich war zu Pferd und nahm den Weg dahin längs dem Strande, als dem ebensten und gelegensten. Schon verdrießlich, daß mein Knecht den Gaul nicht nach meinem Sinne gestriegelt, und da dieser bei meinem scharfen Ritt unter dem Bauche heftig schäumte und schmutzig aussah, vermeinte ich beidem abzuhelfen, wenn ich ein Eckchen in die See ritt, um ihn von den Wellen abspülen zu lassen. Es war windiges Wetter und das Meer stürmisch. Sowie indes die nächste Welle zurücktrat, ritt ich ihr trockenen Fußes nach und ließ sie wieder heranrollen, und ritt danach wieder ein Eckchen und meinte nun genug zu haben. Nun aber kam unversehens eine höhere Sturzwelle, die sich dicht vor meinem Pferde donnernd und schäumend brach. Es wurde davon scheu, bäumte und wandte sich, so daß nun eine neue Woge nicht nur über unsern Köpfen zusammenschlug, sondern auch, da sie uns von der Seite faßte, uns mit Gewalt zu Boden warf. Ich hielt mich gleichwohl fest in Sattel und Bügeln. Als jedoch die See nach wenigen Augenblicken wieder zurücktrat, richtete sich das Pferd mit mir empor, bis abermals eine Welle uns heimsuchte, die es dergestalt blendete, daß es, anstatt dem Zügel zu folgen und nach dem Strande umzukehren, vielmehr seeeinwärts kollerte und bald auch den Grund unter seinen Füßen verlor. Während wir nun schwimmend mehr unter als über dem Wasser krabbelten, ward mir doch der Handel endlich bedenklich. Ich suchte die Füße aus den Steigbügeln loszubekommen, warf mich vom Pferde herab und schwamm dem Lande zu, das ich auch glücklich erreichte. Doch Hut und Perücke waren verloren gegangen. Den ersteren sah ich noch in der Ferne treiben. Rasch warf ich den Rock vom Leibe und watete und schwamm ihm nach, bis ich ihn glücklich erreicht hatte. Abermals im Trockenen, schaute ich nun auch nach meinem Gaule um, der es mir glücklich nachgetan, aber, wild und scheu geworden, im vollen Sprunge landeinwärts lief. Ich eilte ihm nach und sah bald von den hohen Sanddünen herab, daß einige Leute bereits damit beschäftigt waren, ihn einzufangen. Als ich nun endlich herankam und sie mir mein Tier überlieferten, stand ich da, völlig durchnäßt, den Hut auf dem kahlen Kopfe (ein kurzgeschorener Schädel aber war damals etwas Lächerliches) und bedachte bei mir selbst, was weiter zu tun sei? Doch ich meinte, ich sei ja wohl öfter schon naß gewesen, warf mich aufs Pferd und trabte, als sei nichts geschehen, nach Henkenhagen zu. Indes muß ich doch ziemlich verstört ausgesehen haben, denn alle Leute, die mir begegneten, sperrten die Augen auf und fragten, was mir begegnet sei? Ich dagegen hielt mich mit keiner langen Antwort auf, bis ich das Dorf erreichte; aber als ich nun vom Pferde steigen wollte, fühlte ich mich von Nässe und Kälte so erstarrt, daß ich mich nicht zu regen vermochte. Ob nun das, was ich tat, das Gescheiteste war, weiß ich nicht; aber anstatt den nächsten warmen Ofen zu suchen, machte ich mit meinem Gaule auf der Stelle rechtsum kehrt und sprengte im gestreckten Galopp nach Kolberg heim, wo ich mein Abenteuer mit einer achttägigen Unpäßlichkeit bezahlte, ohne jedoch dadurch klüger zu werden. * * * * * Denn noch in dem nämlichen Winter versuchte ich es fast noch halsbrechender, indem ich in einem zweispännigen Jagdschlitten über Land fuhr. Es gab ein dichtes Schneegestöber, so daß man nur wenige Schritte deutlich sehen konnte. Bei der Mühle zu Simötzel hatte ich einen stark angeschwollenen Bach zu passieren, wo jetzt überdem in der gewöhnlichen Furt viele zusammengetriebene Eisschollen zu erwarten waren. Dies zu vermeiden, ließ ich meinen Knecht absteigen, um sich umzusehen, ob etwa oberhalb der Mühle eine Brücke vorhanden sei. Er rief mir zu, daß er eine solche gefunden, und ich hieß ihm dicht vor den Pferden voranschreiten, um mir als Wegweiser zu dienen. So folgte ich dem Menschen gedankenlos zu einem Übergange, der nicht eine Brücke, sondern ein Steg ohne Geländer war, aus zwei nebeneinandergelegten Balken bestand, die höchstens achtundzwanzig Zoll in der Breite betragen mochten. In der Länge aber hielten sie leicht sechsunddreißig bis vierzig Fuß, und das Gewässer rauschte ungestüm darunter hindurch. Mitten auf dieser wunderlichen Passage, indem sich die Pferde (wie sie nicht anders konnten) heftig drängten, stürzte das eine rechts hinab in die Strömung. Es war ein Glück, sowohl daß der Schlitten dabei quer auf die Balken zu stehen kam, als daß bei dem Sturz des Tieres sämtliche Stränge rissen; noch ein größeres aber, daß gerade der Mühlbursche zufällig neben dem Mühlwehr stand, der augenblicks die Schleuse niederließ und dadurch das reißende Gewässer zum Stehen brachte. Nun wurde der Schlitten samt mir und dem noch angeschirrten Pferde mit Not und Mühe von den Balken herabgebracht, während das andre sich im Wasser wälzende endlich auch das Ufer gewann. Nun stand alles, was in der Mühle war, um mich her und fragte, wie ich so unsinnig habe sein können, mich und mein Leben mit einem solchen Zweigespann auf zwei elende Balken zu wagen? Da war nun wenig darauf zu antworten, als daß ich durch das Schneetreiben am Sehen verhindert und, mich auf meinen Führer verlassend, die Gefahr nicht eher inne geworden, bevor ich mitten drinnen gesteckt. Hinterdrein bei ruhigerem Nachdenken habe ich aber nur zuviel Grund zu dem Argwohn gefunden, daß der heillose Bube mich wohl absichtlich dahin gelockt haben könne, um mir mit guter Manier den Garaus zu machen; denn wenige Tage später entlief er aus meinem Dienste, und es fand sich, daß er mich beträchtlich bestohlen hatte. * * * * * Zu einer andern Zeit saß ich in voller Gemütsruhe daheim vor meinem Rasierspiegel mit dem Messer in der Hand, als der Kämmereidiener, ein aufgeblasener wüster Mensch, zu mir eintrat und mit lallender Zunge etwas daherstotterte, was ich nicht verstand, was aber wohl ein obrigkeitlicher Auftrag an mich sein sollte. Indem ich ihn verwundert und schweigend darauf ansah, aber sofort merkte, daß er sich einen derben Rausch getrunken, mochte er sich durch diesen meinen prüfenden Blick beleidigt fühlen, und stieß einige Grobheiten aus, die ich dadurch erwiderte, daß ich die Zimmertür öffnete und meinen torkelnden Urian bat, sich beliebigst hinauszutrollen. Dem aber schwoll der Kamm noch mehr; es kam zu unnützen Redensarten, und da ich damals noch in meinem Tun und Lassen ziemlich kurz angebunden zu sein pflegte, so machte ich auch hier nicht viel Federlesens, sondern packte ihn mit derber Seemannsfaust am Kragen und schob ihn bei seinem Sträuben etwas unsäuberlich auf die Gasse hinaus. Mag auch wohl sein, daß er dabei, denn mit dem Piedestal war's ohnehin unrichtig, auf die Plastersteine zu liegen kam und sich den Mund blutig fiel, während ich mir nichts dir nichts an mein unterbrochenes Geschäft zurückkehrte. Nun aber war auch sofort Feuer im Dache. Ich hatte einen ganzen wohledlen Magistrat in seinem Diener beleidigt, und eine solche Ungebührlichkeit konnte nicht ungeahndet bleiben! Mochte ich vielleicht ohnedem schon nicht wohl angeschrieben stehen, so war dies nun ein neuer Frevel, wo die ganze obrigkeitliche Autorität mit ins Spiel zu kommen schien und einmal ein Exempel statuiert werden mußte! Gleich des andern Tages also bekam ich eine Vorladung vom Magistrat, am nächsten Morgen im Rathause zu erscheinen. Inzwischen hatte es der Zufall gefügt, daß bei einem Gange durch die Stadt meine Augen auf das Mauerwerk der Kupferschmiedsbrücke fielen, wo ich wahrnahm, daß beide Stirnmauern, auf welchen das Gebälke der Brücke ruhte, in sehr schadhaftem Zustande und die eine derselben sogar zum Teil niedergeschossen sei; so daß durch das nächste, etwas schwere Fuhrwerk, das hinüberpassierte, leicht ein Unglück entstehen könnte. Dies hatte ich auch sofort nach Bürgerpflicht dem Stadtdirigenten, Landrat Selert, angezeigt, der sich von der vorhandenen Gefahr überzeugte und die Brücke sperren ließ. Daneben hatte ich ihm vorgeschlagen, daß es zur Erneuerung des Gemäuers keines kostspieligen Gerüstes bedürfte, wenn man nur einen Bagger-Prahm von der Münde herbeischaffte und unter die Brücke brächte. Er billigte das, und ich hatte den Prahm auch wirklich herbeigeholt und unter der Brücke befestigt. Die Maurer aber waren seitdem darauf mit ihrer Arbeit beschäftigt. Indem ich nun auf dem Wege nach dem Rathause war, um meine Strafsentenz zu empfangen, sah ich schon aus der Ferne, daß das Wasser im Persantestrom durch einen hartstürmenden Nordwind hoch aufgestaut war, und als ich zur Brücke gelangte, fand ich es dort in solcher Höhe angeschwollen, daß der Prahm bis dicht unter die Balken der Brücke emporgehoben worden und jeden Augenblick zu befürchten war, er möchte die ganze Brücke abtragen und davonführen, wenn er nicht ungesäumt unter ihr weggebracht werden könnte. Im Weitergehen ging ich mit meinen Gedanken zu Rate, auf welche Art hier wohl zu helfen sein möchte, wiewohl doch mein stiller Groll, je näher ich dem Rathause kam, mir je mehr und mehr zuflüsterte: »Du bist ja doch wohl ein rechter Tor, dich mit solcherlei Anschlägen zu plagen! Hast du doch von all deinem Besttun nichts als Ärger zum Lohn.« Als ich in die Ratsstube eintrat, war mein Verkläger schon vorhanden, etwas nüchterner zwar als vorgestern, aber auch nur um so fertiger mit dem Maul; zumal da er bald wahrnahm, daß die Herren ihm den Rücken steiften, indem sie mir mit etwas unhöflichen Vorwürfen das, was ich getan, als eine Verachtung der Obrigkeit auslegten. Ich dagegen führte meine Sache nach der Wahrheit; es wurde hin und her gestritten, und der Herr Sekretarius hatte seine volle Arbeit mit Protokollieren ... Siehe! Da flog unversehens die Tür auf, und mit Schrecknis im Angesichte kam der Stadtzimmermeister Kannegießer hereingestürzt und rief: »Meine Herren, es wird ein großes Unglück geschehen. -- Die Brücke wird samt dem Prahm davongehen. Ich bin nicht mehr imstande gewesen, ihn darunter hervorzubringen, und noch steigt das Wasser mit jeder Minute. Kommen Sie selbst, Herr Landrat, und überzeugen sich, daß das Unglück nicht mehr abzuwenden ist.« Beide eilten hinaus, und mit dem Protokoll hatte es einstweilen einigen Stillstand. Da wandte sich denn der zweite Bürgermeister, Roloff, an mich und sagte: »Nettelbeck, Sie pflegen ja sonst wohl in manchen Dingen guten Rat zu wissen, zumal wo es in Ihr eigentliches Element einschlägt, wie hier. Sagen Sie doch -- was ist dabei zu tun?« »Ich meine, dem ist bald abgeholfen,« war meine kurze Antwort. -- »Man bohrt ein Loch in den Prahm und läßt ihn soweit voll Wasser laufen, bis er sich hinlänglich gesenkt hat, um wieder unter der Brücke hervorzugleiten.« Kaum waren diese Worte ausgesprochen, so riß der Bürgermeister hastig das Fenster auf und schrie den Weggehenden drunten zu, augenblicklich zurückzukehren. Und indem sie eintraten, hub er an: »Nettelbeck schlägt soeben ein gutes Mittel vor, die Brücke zu retten.« -- Ich aber wandte mich zu dem Zimmermeister: »Nehm' Er einen zweizölligen Böttcherbohrer und bohr' Er damit ein Loch in den Boden des Prahms, dann wird so viel Wasser hineinlaufen, daß dieser sich um einen oder ein paar Fuß senkt und Spielraum genug gewinnt, unter der Brücke durchzugleiten. Damit er aber bei seiner Last von Kalk, Lehm und Mauersteinen nicht gar auf den Grund versinke, so muß das Loch auch zu rechter Zeit wieder verstopft werden können, und dazu wird man sich im voraus mit einem langen, hölzernen Pfropf zu versehen haben.« Eh' ich noch geendet, rief der Zimmermeister mit flammenden Augen: »Das geht! Wahrhaftig, das geht! -- Herr Landrat, bleiben Sie in Gottes Namen hier, nun soll dem Dinge bald geholfen sein.« Jetzt gab es um den Ratstisch her abermals eine Stille bevor mein Protokoll wieder beginnen wollte; dann aber stand der Bürgermeister Roloff von seinem Stuhle auf, sah all die Ratsherren nach der Reihe an und sagte: »Meine Herren -- Den Mann sollten wir strafen? -- Was meinen Sie?« -- Alles still, bis auch der Landrat aufstand und sich zu meinem Widerpart wandte: »Ein andermal, guter Freund, wenn Magistratssachen an Bürger zu bestellen sind, gescheh' es nüchtern, mit Vernunft und mit Bescheidenheit. Die Sache ist hiermit abgetan, und Sie, Herr Nettelbeck, gehen in Gottes Namen und mit unserm Dank nach Hause.« * * * * * Wiederum und nicht lange danach begab sich's, daß kurz vor der Weihnachtszeit ein Glöckner in der Stadt vermißt wurde, nachdem er -- vielleicht etwas angetrunken -- auf die Lauenburger Vorstadt geschickt worden, um als Kirchendiener fällige Landmiete einzufordern. Zwar hatte er gegen die Abendzeit den Heimweg wieder angetreten, aber wo er zuletzt geblieben, war auf keine Weise zu ermitteln. Endlich, am Nachmittag des heiligen Abends vor Weihnachten, erscholl das Gerücht, der arme Mensch liege unweit der zweiten kleinen Brücke, tot im Wallgraben, mitten im Rohr, wohinab er von dem steilen, mit Glatteis überzogenen Walle gepurzelt sein mochte. Voll Mitleids lief ich hinzu und fand bereits die Brücke mit unzähligen Menschen aus allen Ständen besetzt, welche alle nach dem Ertrunkenen hingafften, ohne irgend eine hilfreiche Hand anzulegen. »Aber, liebe Leute,« -- wandte ich mich an einige nächststehende Bürger -- »warum wird der Leichnam nicht herausgeschafft? Wir wollen da nicht lange säumen -- kommt und helft mir!« -- Allein sie verzogen die Mäuler, murmelten etwas, das so klang, als wollten sie sich damit nicht »unehrlich« machen und dem Henkersknechte vorgreifen, und einer nach dem andern zog sich sachte von mir ab. Weil ich nun sah, daß auf einem andern Fleck Landrat und Bürgermeister und wer sonst noch vom Rate beisammenstanden, trat ich an sie heran und bat, daß sie's doch möglich machten, den toten Körper aus dem Wasser zu ziehen. -- »Mein Gott!« versetzte der Landrat, »es will's ja keiner!« -- »Gut, so will ich's,« war meine Antwort. -- »Ich allein aber schaffe nichts. Meine Herren, gebe Einer von Ihnen ein gutes Beispiel und helfe mir.« -- Ich sah einen nach dem andern darauf an, aber meine Rede dünkte ihnen spöttisch und sie kehrten mir den Rücken. -- Nun wurde ich warm und griff einen geistlichen Herrn, den die Neugierde auch herbeigeführt hatte, am Rockärmel: »Topp, Herr! Wenn _keiner_ will und ein fühlbares Herz hat, so machen _wir_ beide uns getrost ans Werk!« -- »Ich? ich?« stotterte er -- »mein Gott, dazu bin ich nicht imstande« -- und somit riß er sich von mir los und entfernte sich eiligst. Mir aber lief endlich auch die Galle über. Ich schickte ihnen allen einen derben Seemannsfluch nach und begab mich in grollendem Unmute nach Hause. Kaum ein paar Stunden darauf erfuhr ich durch meinen Sohn, daß endlich den beiden Bettelvögten von Magistrats wegen befohlen worden, den Ertrunkenen aus dem Graben zu holen. Weil aber die Stelle bei fortwährendem Glatteise wirklich einigermaßen gefährlich und es alte steife Kerle waren, so fiel das Experiment so unglücklich aus, daß der eine gleichfalls kopfüber neben dem Glöckner ins Wasser stürzte und auf der Stelle ersoff. Das war im Angesichte von mehr als hundert Menschen geschehen, deren keiner einen Finger rührte, das neue Unglück zu verhüten oder wieder gut zu machen. Nun ließ mich's noch weniger ruhen als vorher. Ich eilte dem Platze zu, mitten in das Gedränge, das jetzt noch dichter zusammengeströmt war. »Liebe Leute,« rief ich -- »jetzt endlich werdet ihr doch in euch gegangen sein und euch schämen, daß solch ein Skandal vor euren Augen hat geschehen können? -- Kommt! helft! Laßt uns wieder gut machen so viel noch möglich ist!« -- Waren sie mir aber vorher schon, sobald sie mich erblickten, ausgewichen, so wollte mir jetzt noch weniger jemand standhalten. Da konnte ich mir denn freilich nicht anders helfen und las ihnen eine Epistel, die von den derbsten war. »Wie?« rief ich, »seid ihr Menschen? seid ihr Christen? Seid ihr wohl wert, daß Gott seine Sonne über euch aufgehen läßt? Bei Heiden und Türken und in Ländern, die nichts von Gott und Jesu Christo wissen, hilft und rettet doch einer den andern, wenn es um Leib und Leben gilt!« Darauf griff ich einen Schönfärber an, der mir eben in den Wurf kam. -- »Was meinst du? Wenn du oder ich dort lägen, wo diese Unglücklichen liegen, wolltest du oder ich erst von unehrlichen Händen herausgezogen sein?« -- »Dazu gebe sich ein andrer her, aber ich nicht!« antwortete er mir trotzig und ging seines Weges. Ich schalt, ich tobte, aber damit war nichts ausgerichtet. Ich mußte meinen Ingrimm in mich schlucken und rannte nach Hause, um nur von der ganzen Historie nichts mehr zu sehen und zu hören. Da kam ein Bote, der mich eiligst zum Landrat beschied. Noch voll Ärgers ließ ich ihm zurückmelden: »Erst möge er nur sorgen, daß er die Toten aus dem Graben schaffte. Es sei morgen hoher Festtag und darum um so nötiger, daß der unchristliche Spektakel ein Ende kriegte.« -- Eben diese Betrachtung aber mochte es wohl sein, was den Herren bange machte und was auch den Bürgermeister zur nämlichen Stunde bewog, mich zu ihm bitten zu lassen. In der Tat hatten beide, als ich nach einigem abgekühlteren Besinnen mich zu dem Gange entschloß, ein und das nämliche Ansinnen, und ersuchten mich mit den freundlichsten Worten, sie aus dieser Verlegenheit zu ziehen und der Stadt die Schande zu ersparen. Nun waren sie zwar selbst Zeugen, wie wenig ich mit meinem gutwilligen Eifer ausgerichtet, indes verhieß ich ihnen doch, es von neuem zu versuchen und mein Bestes zu tun. Indem ich nun wieder zu der Brücke kam, stöberte mein bloßer Anblick, als wäre ich der Knecht Ruprecht gewesen, alles auseinander, was da noch stand und Maulaffen feilhatte. Sie mochten sich wohl vor einer neuen Strafpredigt fürchten. An Ort und Stelle sann und sann ich nun, wie das Ding am schicklichsten anzugreifen und wie vor allen Dingen ein tüchtiger Kumpan zu finden sei, der seine Hand mit anlegte. Da kam im glücklichsten Momente, von diesem allem noch nichts wissend, mein guter alter Freund, der Brauer Martin Blank, ehemals mein Seekamerad, von einem Gange auswärts dahergeschritten. Dem erzählte ich nun mit kurzen Worten, was mich auf dem Herzen drückte, und schloß damit: »Bruderherz, du bist ein Mann von meinem Schlage: _du_ wirst mir helfen!« -- »Ja, das will ich!« war seine Antwort, indem er seinen Mantelrock abzog und auf das Brückengeländer warf. Ich ging voran und er folgte. Der Abhang des Walles war steil und schlüpfrig und unten am Rande des Grabens ließ sich nur mit Mühe fußen. Mein Gefährte mußte mich oben am Kragen halten, während ich mich niederbog, den nächsten Leichnam zu erfassen; aber wenig fehlte, daß ich das Gleichgewicht verlor und der dritte unten im Graben war. Weil denn aber an dieser bösen Stelle nichts auszurichten war, mußte vom Torschreiber eine Leine geholt werden, die wir um die toten Körper schlangen und womit wir sie nach einer zugänglicheren Stelle zogen, bis sie denn endlich glücklich aufs Trockene gebracht wurden. Darüber war es Abend geworden und mein Freund, der nunmehr nach Hause zu eilen hatte, überließ mir die Sorge, die Toten vollends an einen schicklichen Ort zu schaffen. Mir fiel die Kalkkammer der St. Georgenkirche auf der Vorstadt bei, wo sie vorerst niedergelegt werden konnten, um nach den Feiertagen christlich beerdigt zu werden. Aber ehe sie dahin gelangten, mußte ein Bauer, der noch spät mit seinem Fuhrwerke aus der Stadt kam, von der Torwache angehalten und halb in Güte, halb mit Gewalt bewogen werden, sie bis dahin aufzuladen. Selbst der Küster, den ich herauspochte, machte eine bedenkliche Miene, ihnen das Plätzchen zu gönnen, und griff erst nach den Kirchenschlüsseln, als ich mir's herausnahm, mit einem Wörtchen von Absetzung zu drohen. * * * * * Neben meinen Berufsgeschäften machte ich mir von Zeit zu Zeit auch noch andre Sorgen, die ich mir wohl hätte sparen können, wenn ich sie nicht als meine Spielpuppe betrachtet hätte. Man wird sich erinnern, daß zu Anfang des Jahres 1773 unser Sklavenschiff, eines empfangenen Lecks wegen, genötigt gewesen, in den Fluß Kormantin, zwischen Surinam und Berbice, einzulaufen, und wie ich damals dort eine ungemein fruchtbare, aber noch von keiner europäischen Macht in Besitz genommene Landschaft vorgefunden. Flugs wirbelte mir auch dieser letztere Umstand im Kopfe herum, der preußische Patriotismus ward in mir lebendig und ich sann und sann, warum denn nicht _mein_ König hier ebensogut wie England und Frankreich seine Kolonie haben und Zucker, Kaffee und andre Kolonialwaren eben wie jene anbauen lassen sollte? Je länger ich mir das Projekt ansah, desto mehr verliebte ich mich darein, und zugleich meinte ich, daß ich selbst wohl der Mann sein könnte, Herz und Hand zur Ausführung daranzugeben. Darum ließ mir's auch, als ich nach Kolberg zurückgekehrt war, keine Ruhe, bis ich meinen Plan umständlich zu Papier gebracht hatte. Ich dachte, wer ihn läse und nur irgend zu Herzen nähme, müßte mir auch in meinen Vorschlägen beipflichten, und so packte ich ihn mit einer alleruntertänigsten Vorstellung zusammen und schickte mein Schoßkind unmittelbar an den alten Friedrich ein, der zuletzt doch immer das Beste bei der Sache tun mußte. Hatte ich jedoch geglaubt, da vor die rechte Schmiede zu kommen, so war ich gleichwohl arg betrogen, denn meine Eingabe blieb ohne Antwort und so ließ sich wohl daraus schließen, daß der König das Ding nicht mit _meinen_ Augen angesehen und weiter auf ihn nicht zu rechnen sein werde. Also war ich auch gescheit genug, ihm weiter keinen Molest damit zu machen. Nur mir selbst wollte die schöne preußische Kolonie am Kormantin noch immer nicht aus Sinn und Gedanken weichen! Ich putzte mir das Luftschloß noch immer vollständiger im einzelnen aus, und da ich wohl erwog, daß der Anbau des Landes ohne Negersklaven nicht zu bewerkstelligen sein werde, so verband ich damit zugleich die Idee einer Niederlassung an der Küste von Guinea, wo ja schon hundert Jahre früher der große Kurfürst und seine Brandenburger festen Fuß gefaßt gehabt und von wo die neue Kolonie mit schwarzen Arbeitern hinreichend versorgt werden könnte. So wurde mir mein Projekt von Tag zu Tag lieber, obgleich ich meine Gedanken für mich behielt und auf künftige bessere Zeiten rechnete; denn was der königliche Greis von der Hand gewiesen hatte, das konnte ja leicht bei seinem Nachfolger einst eine günstigere Aufnahme finden. Als daher Friedrich der Einzige die Augen geschlossen und Friedrich Wilhelm auf seinem Wege zur Huldigung in Königsberg durch Pommern zog, nahm ich flugs meinen alten Plan wieder vor und paßte es so ab, daß ich dem Könige in Körlin unter die Augen kam und ihm mein Memorial überreichte. Kaum liefen einige Wochen ins Land, so hatte ich meinen Bescheid, des Inhalts: »Daß Se. Majestät für den entworfenen Plan zu einer Seehandlung nach Afrika und Amerika auf Höchstdero eigne Rechnung zwar nicht entrieren möge, inzwischen die gemachten Vorschläge der Seehandlungs-Sozietät zugefertigt und derselben überlassen habe, ob sie darauf sich einzulassen ratsam finde.« Das ließ sich hören, die Herren von der Seehandlung konnten ja vielleicht geneigt sein, Vernunft anzunehmen. Aber was geschah? -- In noch kürzerer Frist ging, nicht von jener Sozietät, sondern von dem Königlich Preußisch-Pommerschen Kriegs- und Domänenkammerdeputationskollegium zu Köslin die Resolution bei mir ein: »Da Se. Königl. Majestät geruht hätten, auf jene Vorschläge nicht zu reflektieren, so könne auch besagtes Kollegium sich auf das weit aussehende Handelsprojekt nicht einlassen.« Späterhin habe ich in Erfahrung gebracht, daß die Engländer am Flusse Kormantin eine Niederlassung mit dem gedeihlichsten Erfolge gegründet haben. * * * * * Ich hatte aber Gelegenheit genug in der Nähe, wo ich zum Guten raten und mich ums allgemeine Beste einigermaßen verdient machen konnte. So war es etwa gleich ein Jahr nachher (1787), daß die Kolberger Kaufmannschaft mir die Ehre antat, mich zum Verwandten des Seglerhauses aufzunehmen. Es ist dies nämlich ein städtisches Kollegium, welches aus fünf Kaufleuten und drei der angesehensten Schiffer besteht und das Seegericht bildet, vor welchem alle Schiffahrtssachen, sowohl nach dem Preußischen Seerecht als nach den Usanzen, in erster Instanz entschieden werden. Diese Auszeichnung konnte ich nicht zurückweisen, und so geschah es dann, daß gleich in der zweiten oder dritten Session ein Schiffer, vom Kolberger Deep gebürtig, und ein Steuermann ebendaher, aufgefordert wurden, ein Protokoll zu unterzeichnen. Der Schiffer kratzte seinen Namen mit Not und Mühe auf das Papier, sein Gefährte aber erklärte, daß er des Schreibens völlig unkundig sei, und begnügte sich, seine drei Kreuze hinzumalen, wobei ihm die große Brotschnitte, die er zu seiner Beköstigung zu sich gesteckt, beinahe aus dem Busen entfallen wäre. Ich kann nicht leugnen, daß ich mich hierbei tief in die Seele dieser ehemaligen Standesgenossen schämte. Wes das Herz voll war, des ging auch der Mund über, und so bat ich meine Herren Beisitzer, es doch reiflich zu Herzen zu nehmen, wie schlechte Ehre wir Preußen einlegten, wenn so oft Landsleute von diesem Schnitte vor einem auswärtigen Seegerichte ständen, und was für Gedanken Holländer und Engländer wohl von unserm Seewesen fassen möchten? Das Wenigste wäre, daß fremde Handelsleute sich auf alle Weise hüten würden, solchen unwissenden Menschen Schiffe und Ladungen anzuvertrauen, und daß darüber die ganze preußische Reederei in Mißkredit und Verachtung geraten könnte. Andrer Orten würde kein Steuermann oder Schiffer zugelassen, bevor er in einem Steuermannsexamen erwiesen hätte, daß er seiner Kunst und Wissenschaft vollständig mächtig geworden. Sie wüßten auch, daß ich noch immer fortführe, mich mit dem Unterrichte junger Seeleute zu beschäftigen, und so läge mir denn daran, daß sie die Güte hätten, mit nächstem einer Prüfung meiner Lehrlinge beizuwohnen und sich von ihren Fortschritten in der Steuermannskunst zu überzeugen. Das geschah auch wirklich und die Herren fanden ein solches Wohlgefallen an der Sache, daß auf der Stelle beschlossen wurde, es solle fortan auf hiesigem Platze kein Schiffer oder Steuermann angenommen und vereidet werden, bevor er nicht seine Tüchtigkeit durch ein wohlbestandenes Examen nachgewiesen. Und so ist es seitdem auch fortdauernd hier gehalten worden. Um die nämliche Zeit etwa befand sich das hiesige Königliche Lizentamt in einiger Verlegenheit wegen eines hinreichend tüchtigen Schiffsvermessers, der sich auf die Berechnung der Tragkraft der Fahrzeuge verstände und wieviel Lasten sie laden und über See führen könnten. Denn bisher hatten ein paar subalterne Lizentbeamte dieses Geschäft versehen, aber so unwissend und ungeschickt, daß die von ihnen vermessenen Fahrzeuge stets zu groß oder zu klein befunden wurden, woher es denn auch an Streitigkeiten zwischen dem Lizent und den Schiffern nie abriß. Zufällig mochte es nun bekannt geworden sein, daß ich mich auf dieses Geschäft verstände, und so geschah mir von der oberen Zollbehörde der Antrag, mich solcher Verrichtung anzunehmen. Mehr der Ehre als des kleinen Nutzens wegen ließ ich mich dazu willig finden, legte hier im Hafen an einigen Schiffen, die bereits in Danzig und Königsberg vermessen waren, meine Probe ab und ward demnächst von der Königlichen Regierung zu Stettin in Pflicht genommen und bestätigt, ohne mir träumen zu lassen, daß ich dadurch den Groll meiner beiden Vorgänger in diesem Amte erregt haben könnte. Das erste Schiff, das mir zur Berechnung vorkam, war ein kleines, englisches, scharf gebautes Fahrzeug, auf zwei Decke eingerichtet, Kajüte, Roof und Kabelgat mit im Raume versenkt, so daß in letzterem nur wenig zur Belastung übrigblieb. Meine Berechnung ergab eine Belastungsfähigkeit von nicht mehr als sechsunddreißig Lasten zu fünftausendsiebenhundertundsechzig Pfund, wie damals gebräuchlich war. Während jedoch mein Attest hierüber an die Regierung abging, hatten meine beiden Widersacher das Schiff gleichfalls nach ihrer Weise in aller Stille vermessen, die Trächtigkeit desselben auf fünfundfünfzig Lasten berechnet und darüber gleichzeitig einen Bericht nach Stettin abgesandt, worin ich ebensosehr der Unwissenheit als der Unredlichkeit beschuldigt wurde. So gelangte denn bald darauf ein gefährlich besiegeltes Schreiben an mich, worin die Stettiner Herren mich zur Verantwortung zogen. Ich begnügte mich, Riß samt Berechnung einzupacken und um eine strenge Prüfung meines Verfahrens zu bitten, mit dem Beifügen, daß übrigens diese Arbeit, wie sie meine erste gewesen, auch meine letzte bleiben werde. Nun war man doch dort so vernünftig oder so billig gewesen, unsre beiderseitigen Aufsätze in Danzig und Königsberg einer neuen Berechnung unterwerfen zu lassen, wobei die Richtigkeit des meinigen, sowie die Falschheit des andern ans Tageslicht kam. Meine Angeber wurden angewiesen, sich fernerhin in mein Geschäft nicht zu mischen, mir aber ward angetragen, dieses wiederum zu übernehmen. Solches habe ich denn auch gern getan und dieses Amt bis zum Jahre 1821 mit Ehren verwaltet. Ernstlicher aber war es um das Jahr 1789 und weiterhin mit einem Streite gemeint, den die Kolberger Bürgerschaft unter sich auszufechten hatte und wobei ich unmöglich ruhiger Zuschauer bleiben konnte. Aber freilich, ich _wollte_ auch nicht, da es darauf ankam, himmelschreiende Mißbräuche aufzudecken und abzustellen, die unter dem Scheine des Rechts ohne alle Scheu ausgeübt wurden. Es gab nämlich in Kolberg nach der damaligen städtischen Verfassung ein Kollegium, genannt die Fünfzehn-Männer, weil es aus Fünfzehn der angesehensten Männer bestand, und welches ursprünglich die Gerechtsame der Bürgerschaft bei dem Magistrate zu vertreten hatte und dessen Gutachten in städtischen Angelegenheiten gehört werden mußte. Allmählich aber hatten diese Fünfzehn-Männer angefangen, ihr Ansehen mehr zu ihrem Privatnutzen als zum allgemeinen Besten geltend zu machen, und wie die Menschen nun einmal zum Bösen immer fester zusammenhalten als zum Guten, so war auch hier schon seit lange eine enge Verbrüderung entstanden, sich einander zu allerlei heimlichen Praktiken den Rücken zu steifen und durchzuhelfen. Da waren denn Depositenkassen angegriffen, Scheinkäufe angestellt, Gemeindegut liederlich verschleudert und andre Greuel mehr begangen worden. Ich schäme mich nicht, zu bekennen, daß ich der erste war, der dem Fasse den Boden ausstieß, und als ein paar wackere Männer, der Zimmermeister Steffen und der Gastwirt Emmrich, auf meine Seite traten, so brach ich los und machte eine lange Reihe von Ungebührlichkeiten, Veruntreuungen und krummen Schlichen, die in der letzten Zeit verübt worden, vor Gericht anhängig. Es kam darüber zu einem langen und verwickelten Prozesse, wobei die ganze Last auf uns drei zurückfiel, die wir von gemeiner Bürgerschaft als Worthalter mit Vollmacht hierzu versehen waren. Keine Art von Ränken und Rabulistereien blieb gegen uns unversucht, so daß der Rechtsstreit dadurch beinahe vier Jahre hindurch verschleppt wurde. So wie ich mir die Sache zu Herzen nahm, hatte ich während dieser ganzen Zeit keine ruhige Stunde, und oft hätte ich gern mit Feuer und Schwert dreinfahren mögen, wenn das heillose Gezücht immer ein neues Mäntelchen für seine aufgedeckte Bosheit zu erhaschen suchte. Endlich aber kam doch die unsaubere Geschichte zu einem noch leidlichen Schlusse, demzufolge das Kollegium der Fünfzehn-Männer gänzlich aufgelöst wurde, um neuerwählten Zehn-Männern Platz zu machen, welche als Repräsentanten der Bürgerschaft die nämlichen Befugnisse haben sollten, ohne die nämliche Macht zum Bösestun von ihnen zu erheben. Man bewies mir das Vertrauen, mich in die Zahl dieser zehn Bürgerrepräsentanten aufzunehmen, und ich habe dieses Ehrenamt auch mit Lust und Eifer bis zum Jahre 1809 bekleidet, wo die neue Städteordnung andre und verbesserte Einrichtungen herbeiführte. Hier mag der Ort sein, meine häuslichen und ehelichen Verhältnisse mit einigen Worten zu berühren, wiewohl diese Lebenserfahrungen gerade diejenigen sind, deren ich mich nicht erinnern darf, ohne sehr schmerzliche Empfindungen in mir zu erwecken; denn als Ehemann und als Vater ist mir erst sehr spät mein besserer Glücksstern erschienen. Zwar war auch der erste Anschein zu beiden günstig genug, als ich im Jahre 1762 mich, wie ich schon früher erzählt habe, in Königsberg zum Heiraten entschloß. Ich war ein flinker und lebenslustiger Bursche von vierundzwanzig oder fünfundzwanzig Jahren und mein junges Weib mochte eben nur sechzehn zählen, allein alles stand gut und glücklich um uns, und solange wir dort lebten und ich als Schiffer ab- und anfuhr, gab es die friedsamste Ehe von der Welt. Von drei Kindern, die sie mir gebar, blieb indes nur ein Sohn am Leben, der nämliche, der mich in den letzten vier Jahren meines Seelebens als unzertrennlicher Gefährte begleitete. Nach sieben Jahren, als mir in Stettin der königliche Schiffsdienst so schnell verleidet worden, brachte meine zufällige Anwesenheit in Kolberg und der Wunsch meiner damals noch lebenden Eltern mich zu dem Entschlusse, meinen Haushalt von Königsberg, wo mir's eben auch nicht besser hatte glücken wollen, nach meiner Vaterstadt zu verlegen. Während ich noch damit umging, meldete mir ein alter Hausfreund, daß meine Frau, von welcher ich seit beinahe neun Monaten entfernt gelebt, glücklich eines Knäbleins genesen; doch als sie nach vollendeten Sechswochen auf meinen Ruf mit Kind und Kegel in Kolberg anlangte, präsentierte sie mir ein kleines Mädchen von zwei Monaten. Man mag sich's denken, daß ich mir mächtig die Stirn rieb und ein wenig verdutzt in die Frage ausbrach: »Aber wie hat sich der Junge so auf einmal in ein Mädchen verwandelt?« -- Da fiel die Sünderin mir und meinen Eltern weinend zu Füßen und bekannte, was sich nun länger nicht verheimlichen ließ, daß der Hausfreund mir noch etwas mehr gewesen, daß er, um mich Entfernten zu täuschen, mir meines Weibes Niederkunft um einige Wochen früher, als sie wirklich erfolgt war, gemeldet und es nur in der Angabe des Geschlechts so arg versehen habe. Die büßende Magdalena bat indes mit erhobenen Händen so flehentlich um Vergebung, daß ich sowohl wie meine Eltern dadurch bewegt wurden und das Geschehene in Vergessenheit zu stellen versprachen. In der Tat mochte hier Schweigen und Verzeihen auch wohl das beste sein, was sich tun ließ, wenn ich gleich die unglückliche Frucht dieses Fehltritts dadurch gesetzlich für mein Kind erklärte. Nun versuchte ich mich, wie man weiß, wiederum fünf Jahre in fremden Weltteilen, während welcher Zeit Frau und Kinder von meinen Eltern ernährt wurden. Doch als ich nach Holland heimgekehrt war, belehrten mich Briefe von guten Freunden, daß die Ungetreue neuerdings auf Abwege geraten, die nicht ohne lebendigen, doch bald darauf wieder verstorbenen Zeugen geblieben, und nun erforderte denn allerdings mein guter Name die Scheidung, welche auch unverzüglich durch die Gerichte vollzogen wurde. Ich behielt meinen Sohn, sie aber kehrte mit ihrer Tochter nach Königsberg zurück, von wo an ich, unter meinen nachmaligen Irr- und Kreuzfahrten, sie und ihr Schicksal gänzlich aus den Augen verlor. Erst im Jahre 1787, nachdem ich bereits wieder in Kolberg zur Ruhe gekommen, erfuhr ich, daß die Unglückliche dort im Elend gestorben und ihre von aller Welt verlassene Tochter mich flehentlich bitte, mich ihrer zu erbarmen. »Was kann auch das arme Geschöpf für die Sünden seiner Mutter?« dachte ich bei mir selbst, und so machte ich auch flugs Anstalt, ließ das Mädchen dort kleiden und sorgte für Reisegeld, um sie nach Kolberg kommen zu lassen und in mein Haus aufzunehmen. Leider aber mußte ich bald bemerken, daß Blut und Gemüt der Dirne sich ganz nach mütterlicher Weise hinneigten. Allein die schärfere Zucht, zu der ich dadurch genötigt wurde, behagte ihr nicht; sie entzog sich heimlich meiner Aufsicht, schweifte in der Irre umher, führte ein unsittliches Leben und bereitete mir viele Jahre hindurch ein reiches Maß von Verdruß und Sorge. Allein auch der bessere Sohn, der mein einziger Trost war, sollte mir zuletzt nur Herzeleid und Tränen bereiten. Er hatte sich für den Handelsstand bestimmt und im Jahre 1793 seine Lehrlingszeit in dem Kontor des Herrn Kaufmann Pagenkopf zu Stralsund glücklich überstanden, und war zu mir heimgekehrt, als eine Krankheit ihn überfiel, die sein junges Leben dahinraffte. Meines Lebens Lust und Freude ging mit ihm zu Grabe! Ich stand nun einsam und verlassen in der Welt und wußte nicht, für wen ich mir's in derselben noch sauer werden lassen sollte. Zwar hatte meine Nahrung leidlichen Fortgang, aber doch betrog mich mein Gesinde, wo es wußte und konnte. Ich sah, es fehlte am rechten festen Kern im inneren Haushalt, und das führte mich endlich auf den Gedanken, es noch einmal im Ehestande zu versuchen. So warf ich denn im Jahre 1799 meine Augen auf eine Schifferswitwe in Stettin, die ich von früherer Zeit her als eine ordentliche und rechtliche Frau zu kennen glaubte. Die Verbindung kam auch zustande, aber nun erst gingen mir die Augen auf. Die fromme Witwe hatte gern ihr Räuschchen und hielt es eifrig mit mancherlei andern Dingen, die den Ehefrieden notwendig stören mußten. An ein Zusammenhalten des ehrlich Erworbenen war nun länger nicht zu denken, vielmehr sah ich den unvermeidlichen nahen Untergang meines kleinen Wohlstands vor Augen. Es war ein saurer Schritt -- aber was blieb mir anders übrig, als eine abermalige Scheidung? Alle diese widrigen Erfahrungen eröffneten mir aufs neue nichts als trübe Aussichten in die Zukunft. Kaum gehörte ich noch irgendeinem Menschen an. Ich war nachgerade ein alter Mann geworden, und fühlte ich gleich mein Herz noch frisch und meinen Geist lebendig, so wollten doch die stumpf gewordenen Knochen nicht mehr gut tun. Meine eignen Geschäfte wurden mir gleichgültig, und noch gleichgültiger der Gedanke an Erwerb, so daß ich mich fast einen Verschwender hätte nennen mögen. Die paar Jahre, die mir noch übrig waren, dachte ich mich wohl so hinzustümpern, und wenn nur noch der Sarg ehrlich bezahlt worden, möchte man mich immer auch hinstecken, wo meine Väter schliefen, -- für den übrigen kleinen Rest würden dann schon lachende Erben sorgen. Ohnehin war mein Häuschen mein größter und beinahe einziger Reichtum, und dieses hatte ich, um doch noch etwas Gutes für meine Vaterstadt zu stiften, in meinem Testamente dem Seglerhause, dessen Ältester ich seit dem Jahre 1793 geworden war, zum Eigentum vermacht, dergestalt, daß oben die Versammlungen des Kollegiums gehalten werden, unten aber eine bedürftige Kaufmannswitwe lebenslängliche freie Wohnung finden sollte. Auf solche Weise, indem Jahr an Jahr sich hinzog, war auch das unselige von 1806 herbeigekommen. Mir, als feurigem Patrioten, der die alten Zeiten und unsres großen Friedrichs Taten noch im Kopfe hatte, blutete, gleich so vielen, das Herz bei der Zeitung von dem entsetzlichen Tage von Jena und Auerstädt und seinen nächsten Folgen. Ich hätte kein Preuße und abtrünnig von König und Vaterland sein müssen, wenn mir's jetzt, wo alle Unglückswellen über sie zusammenschlugen, nicht so zu Sinne gewesen wäre, als müßte ich eben jetzt auch Gut und Blut und die letzte Kraft meines Lebens für sie aufbieten. Nicht mit Reden und Schreiben, aber mit der Tat, dachte ich, sei hier zu helfen, -- jeder auf seinem Posten, ohne sich erst lange, feig und klug, vor- und rückwärts umzusehen! Alle für einen, und einer für alle -- darauf war mein Sinn gestellt, und es hätte ja keine Ehre und Treue mehr unter meinen Landsleuten sein müssen, meinte ich, wenn nicht Tausende mir gleich gefühlt hätten, ohne es ebensowenig als ich in lauten prahlenden Worten unter die Leute zu bringen. Als nun Magdeburg und Stettin, die beiden Herzen des Staates, gefallen waren und die ungestüme französische Windsbraut sich immer näher und drohender gegen die Weichsel heranzog, da ließ sich's freilich wohl voraussehen, daß bald genug auch die Feste Kolberg an die Reihe kommen würde, die dem Feinde zwar unbedeutend erscheinen mochte, aber ihm doch zu nahe in seinem Wege lag, als daß er sie ganz hätte übersehen sollen. Das tat er auch wirklich nicht, allein er hatte sich diese letzte Zeit her bei unsern Festungen eine Eroberungsmanier angewöhnt, die kein Pulver, sondern nur glatte Worte kostet; und damit war er fürwahr auch noch früher bei der Hand, als ein Mensch es hätte erwarten sollen. Kaum war nämlich Stettin übergegangen, so machte sich von dorther, aus einer Entfernung von sechzehn Meilen, ein französischer Offizier als Parlamentär auf den Weg und erschien (am 8. November) bei uns in Kolberg, um die Festung zur Übergabe aufzufordern. Gleichzeitig ward der königliche Domänenbeamte, der auf der Altstadt, unter den Kanonen des Platzes, wohnte, entboten, in Stettin zu erscheinen und dem französischen Gouvernement den Huldigungseid zu leisten. Auf beiderlei Ansinnen (das mindestens für unsern Festungskommandanten als eine Ehrenrührigkeit hätte gelten können), erfolgte zwar eine abschlägige Antwort, allein es ist wohl sehr gewiß, daß der Franzose, anstatt allein zu kommen, nur einige wenige Hunderte zur Begleitung hätte haben dürfen, um in diesem Augenblicke unaufgehalten zu unsern Toren einzuziehen. Dies scheint unglaublich und ist doch buchstäbliche Wahrheit! Ich, der ich nicht Soldat bin, kann und will nur urteilen, soweit ein gesundes Paar Augen und ein schlichter Menschenverstand ausreicht. Das übrige mag dem Ermessen des Lesers anheimgestellt bleiben. Dieser denke sich den Ort als ein mäßiges Städtchen von noch nicht sechstausend Seelen, an dem rechten Ufer des kleinen Flusses Persante gelegen, welcher nur an seinem Ausflusse in die Ostsee einige Hundert Schritte hinauf schiffbar ist, wo er, eine halbe Viertelmeile von der Stadt, einen Hafen für geringere Fahrzeuge bildet. Die daran belegenen Wohnungen und Speicher heißen »die Münde«, und zwischen Stadt und Münde, ebenfalls am östlichen Ufer, zieht sich eine Vorstadt, genannt die »Pfannschmieden« hin. Diese dankt ihren Ursprung wie ihren Namen der Benutzung einiger reichhaltigen Salzquellen, welche sich gegenüber nahe an der westlichen Stromseite finden, wo auch die Salzsiedereien und ein in westlicher Richtung sich weit durch das »Siederfeld« erstreckendes Gradierwerk angelegt sind. Die Stadt selbst bildet ein stumpfes Viereck und wird an den drei Landseiten von einem Hauptwall und sechs Bastionen eingeschlossen. Nahe Außenwerke von Wichtigkeit sind hier nicht vorhanden, aber der Platz gewinnt nichtsdestominder eine bedeutende Stärke durch einen breiten morastigen Wiesengrund, welcher sich ununterbrochen von Süden nach Nordosten dicht umherzieht, keine Annäherung durch Laufgräben gestattet und überdem durch Schleusen tief unter Wasser gesetzt werden kann. Erst jenseits erhebt sich nach Süden die Altstadt, nach Osten der Hoheberg und der Bollenwinkel, und nach Nordost der Wolfsberg, von wo aus die Stadt beschossen werden kann, daher sie eigentlich die Verwandlung in ein großes verschanztes Lager erfordern würden, um alsdann, mit einer hinlänglichen Truppenzahl besetzt, den Platz von dieser Seite unangreifbar zu machen. Allein nur der Wolfsberg als der gefährlichste Punkt war mit einer Schanze versehen, auf dem Münder Kirchhofe war eine Batterie angelegt und den Eingang des Hafens deckte an der Ostseite ein starkes Werk, »das Münder-Fort«. Die Westseite der Stadt lehnt sich an die Persante, zwischen welcher und dem aus ihr abgeleiteten Holzgraben die Neustadt, und an diese noch weiter westlich sich anlehnend, die Gelder-Vorstadt mit verschiedenen Befestigungen und Außenwerken umgeben ist, während am unteren Einflusse des Holzgrabens die »Morastschanze« die Verbindung mit dem Münder-Fort sichert. In weiterer Entfernung, südwestlich, kann eine Erhöhung, »der Kauzenberg« genannt, der Festung nachteilig werden, weshalb auch früherhin dort Verschanzungen angelegt, aber seither wieder verfallen waren. Noch war die entschlossene und glückliche Gegenwehr in jedermanns Andenken, welche der tapfere Kommandant, Oberst v. Heyden, hier in drei aufeinanderfolgenden Belagerungen der Russen und Schweden, zu Land und Meer, in den Jahren 1758, 1760 und 1761 bestanden hatte, und wie er auch das drittemal nicht durch Waffenmacht, sondern durch Hunger zur Übergabe gezwungen worden. Diese Erfahrungen von der Wichtigkeit und Festigkeit des Platzes hatten auch den König Friedrich bewogen, ihn im Jahre 1770 durch verschiedene neue Werke verstärken zu lassen; Kenner wollten jedoch behaupten, daß diese erweiterten Anlagen ihrem Zwecke nur ungenügend entsprächen. Man hatte immer an Kolberg getadelt, daß es zu klein sei, um als Festung bedeutend zu werden und eine beträchtliche Garnison zu fassen; aber es gab kasemattierte Werke; es gab 600-700 Bürgerhäuser innerhalb der Wälle, die nötigenfalls bis zu 20 und 30 Menschen fassen konnten und gefaßt haben, und so lebe ich des festen Glaubens, daß Kolberg gegen noch so große Feindesmacht mit Ehrlichkeit, mit genugsamem Proviant, mit gehöriger Einrichtung der Überschwemmung und mit Sicherheit von der Seeseite sich zu halten vermöge. Allein wie sah es doch im Herbste 1806 mit allem, was zu einer rechtschaffenen Verteidigung gehörte, so gar trübselig aus! Seit undenklicher Zeit war für die Unterhaltung der Festung so gut wie gar nichts getan worden. Wall und Graben verfallen, von Palisaden keine Spur. Nur drei Kanonen standen in der Bastion Pommern auf Lafetten und dienten allein zu Lärmschüssen, wenn Ausreißer von der Besatzung verfolgt werden sollten. Alles übrige Geschütz lag am Boden, hoch vom Grase überwachsen, und die dazu gehörigen Lafetten vermoderten in den Remisen. Rechnet man hierzu die unzureichende Zahl der Verteidiger, sowie ihre unkriegerische Haltung (denn die tüchtigere Mannschaft war ins Feld gezogen), die allgemeine Entmutigung, welche noch täglich durch die herbeiströmenden Flüchtlinge und tausend sich kreuzende Unglücksbotschaften genährt wurde, und den notorischen Mangel an den nötigsten Bedürfnissen für den Fall einer Belagerung, so behaupte ich sicherlich nicht zuviel, wenn ich meine, daß ein rascher kecker Anlauf in jenen ersten Tagen mehr als hinreichend gewesen wäre, den Kommandanten in seinen eignen Gedanken zu entschuldigen, daß er keinen ernstlichen Widerstand gewagt habe. Dieser Kommandant war damals der Oberst v. Loucadou, ein alter abgestumpfter Mann, der seit dem bayrischen Erbfolge-Kriege, wo er ein Blockhaus gegen die Österreicher mutig verteidigt hatte, zu dem Rufe gekommen war, ein besonders tüchtiger Offizier zu sein. Späterhin hatte er nur wenig Gelegenheit gehabt, seine Reputation zu behaupten, und gegenwärtig war der Geist verflogen oder hing noch so blind an dem alten Herkommen, daß er sich in der neuen Zeit und Welt gar nicht zurechtfinden konnte. Das war nun ein großes Unglück für den Platz, der ihm anvertraut worden, und ein Jammer für alle, welche die dringende Gefahr im Anzuge erblickten und ihn aus seinem Seelenschlafe zu erwecken vergebliche Versuche machten. Natürlich konnte solch ein Mann uns kein großes Vertrauen einflößen. Während alles, was Militär hieß, seinen trägen Schlummer mit ihm zu teilen schien, fühlte sich die ganze Bürgerschaft von der lebhaftesten Unruhe und Besorgnis ergriffen; man beratschlagte untereinander, und weil ich einer der ältesten Bürger war, der den Siebenjährigen Krieg erlebt und in den früheren Belagerungen neben meinem Vater freiwillige Adjutantendienste beim alten braven Heyden verrichtet hatte, so wählte man mich auch jetzt, das Wort zu führen und, als Repräsentant gesamter Bürgerschaft, mich mit dem Kommandanten über die Maßregeln zur Verteidigung des Platzes genauer zu verständigen. Nach dem alten Glauben, »daß Ruhe die erste Bürgerpflicht sei,« und was nicht Uniform trage, auch keinen Beruf habe, sich um militärische Angelegenheiten zu bekümmern, könnte es freilich sonderbar und anmaßend erscheinen, daß wir Bürger in die Verteidigung unsrer Stadt mit dreinreden wollten, aber bei uns in Kolberg war das anders. Von ältester Zeit her waren wir die natürlichen und gesetzlich berufenen Verteidiger unsrer Wälle und Mauern. Vormals schwur jeder seinen Bürgereid mit Ober- und Untergewehr, und schwur zugleich, daß diese Armatur ihm eigen angehöre, schwur, daß er die Festung verteidigen helfen wolle mit Gut und Blut. Die Bürgerschaft war in fünf Kompagnien verteilt, mit einem Bürger-Major an der Spitze, und wo es dann im Ernst gegolten, hatte der Kommandant sie nach seiner Einsicht gebraucht und wesentlichen Nutzen von ihrem Dienste gezogen. In Abwesenheit der Garnison, wenn diese in Friedenszeiten zur Revue ausrückte, besetzten sie die Tore und Posten; und noch immer versammelten sie sich zuweilen mit Erlaubnis des Kommandanten aus eignem Antriebe in der Maikuhle -- weniger freilich zu kriegerischen Übungen, als um sich in diesem lieblich gelegenen Wäldchen zu vergnügen. Von diesen örtlichen Verhältnissen hatte indes der Oberst v. Loucadou entweder nie einige Kenntnis genommen, oder sie waren ihm, als eine vermeintliche Nachäffung des Militärs, lächerlich und zuwider. Das erfuhr ich, als ich einige Tage nachher mich ihm vorstellte und im Namen meiner Mitbürger ihm eröffnete: »Daß wir, mit Gott, entschlossen wären, in diesen bedenklichen Zeitläuften mit dem Militär gleiche Last und Gefahr zu bestehen. Wir ständen im Begriff, uns in ein Bataillon von sieben- bis achthundert Bürgern zu organisieren, die mit vollständiger Rüstung versehen wären, und bäten, uns vor ihm aufstellen zu dürfen, damit er Musterung über uns halte, demnächst aber uns unsre Posten anzuweisen, wir würden unsre Schuldigkeit tun.« Ein Major v. Nimptsch, der daneben stand, ließ mich kaum ausreden, sondern fuhr auf mich ein: »Aber, Herr, was geht das _Ihn_ an?« -- wogegen der Oberst sich begnügte, den Mund zu einem satirischen Lächeln zu verziehen und mir zu erwidern: »Immerhin möchten wir uns versammeln und aufstellen.« Das geschah alsobald. Wir traten mit unsern Offizieren armiert auf dem Markte in guter Ordnung zusammen, und nun begab ich mich abermals zum Kommandanten, um ihm anzuzeigen, daß wir bereit ständen und seine Befehle erwarteten. Seine Miene war abermals nicht von der Art, daß sie mir gefallen hätte. »Macht dem Spiel ein Ende, ihr guten Leutchen!« sagte er endlich, »geht in Gottes Namen nach Hause. Was soll mir's helfen, daß ich euch sehe?« -- So hatte ich meinen Bescheid und trollte mich. Als ich aber kundbar machte, was mir geantwortet worden, ging diese unverdiente Geringschätzung jedermann so tief zu Herzen, daß alles in wilder Bewegung durcheinander murrte und sich im vollen Unmut zerstreute. Immer aber noch nicht ganz abgeschreckt ging ich bald darauf wieder zum Obersten mit einem Antrage, von welchem ich glaubte, daß er seinem militärischen Dünkel weniger anstößig sein werde. Es sei vorauszusehen, sagte ich, daß es bei der Instandsetzung der Festung zu einer kräftigen Gegenwehr, besonders auf den Wällen, vieles zu tun geben dürfte, um das Geschütz aufzustellen, zu schanzen und die Palisaden herzustellen. Die Bürgerschaft sei gern erbötig, zu dergleichen, und was sonst vorkäme, mit Hand anzulegen, soviel in ihren Kräften stehe, und sei nur seines Winks gewärtig. -- »Die Bürgerschaft! und immer wieder die Bürgerschaft!« antwortete er mir mit einer häßlichen Hohnlache, »ich will und brauche die Bürgerschaft nicht.« Konnte es nun wohl fehlen, daß solche Äußerungen nicht nur unser Herz von dem Manne gänzlich abkehrten, sondern daß auch sogar allerlei böser Argwohn sich bei uns einfand, der durch die ganz frischen Exempel, wie unsre Festungskommandanten zu Werke gegangen waren, nur noch immer mehr genährt wurde? Wer bürgte uns vor Verräterei? vor heimlichen Unterhandlungen? vor feindlichen Briefen und Boten? -- Man kam darin überein, daß es die Not erfordere, vor solcherlei Praktiken möglichst auf unsrer Hut zu sein. Zu dem Ende wählten wir in der Stille unter uns einen Ausschuß, dessen Mitglieder sich zu zweien bei Tag und Nacht an allen drei Stadttoren, je nach ein paar Stunden, ablösten, um dort auf alles, was aus- und einpassierte, ein wachsames Auge zu behalten. Inzwischen wurden nun doch von seiten der Kommandantur einige schläfrige Anstalten getroffen, wenigstens sah man auf den Wällen die Kanonen auf Klötze legen, da es sich fand, daß die Lafetten zu sehr verfault waren, um sie tragen zu können. Auch an der Palisadierung ward hier und da gearbeitet, aber es war nichts Tüchtiges und Ganzes. Als ich jedoch wahrnehmen mußte, daß es hiermit sein Bewenden hatte und daß zur äußeren Verteidigung gar keine Hand angelegt wurde, machte ich mich nach Verabredung mit meinen Freunden abermals zum Obersten, um ihn aufmerksam darauf zu machen, welche gute Dienste uns in den früheren Belagerungen insonderheit eine Schanze auf dem Hohen Berge, etwa eine Viertelmeile von der Stadt, geleistet hätte, um den Feind nicht in Schußweite herankommen zu lassen. Noch wären die Überbleibsel derselben überall erkennbar, und wenn er nichts dawider habe, seien wir bereit, diese Verschanzung eiligst wiederherstellen. An das alte höhnische Gesicht, das er hierzu machte, war ich nun schon gewöhnt und ließ es mich auch nicht irren. Desto merkwürdiger aber kam mir die Antwort vor, die ich endlich erhielt. »Was außerhalb der Stadt geschieht,« ließ er sich vernehmen, »kümmert mich nicht. Die Festung innerlich werde ich zu verteidigen wissen. Meinetwegen mögt ihr draußen schanzen, wie und wo ihr wollt. Das geht mich nichts an!« -- Demnach taten wir nun, was uns unverboten geblieben, und taten es mit allgemeiner Lust und Freude. Nicht nur, was Bürger hieß, zog nach der Bergschanze aus, sondern auch Gesellen, Lehrjungen und Dienstmägde waren in ihrem Gefolge. Da ich einst noch das alte Werk gesehen hatte, so gab ich an, wie bei der Arbeit verfahren werden sollte, verteilte und ordnete die Schanzgräber und zog selbst mit einem Hohlkarren und der Schaufel voraus, um ein ermunterndes Beispiel zu geben. Als mir jedoch alles immer noch viel zu langsam ging, eilte ich zurück nach der Lauenburger Vorstadt, um der Arbeiter noch mehrere, teils durch gütliches Zureden, teils durch bare Bezahlung aus meiner Tasche, herbeizuführen. So gelang es uns denn, ein Werk auszuführen, das sich schon durfte sehen lassen und dem für diesen Augenblick nur die Besatzung fehlte. Mangelte es uns aber dermalen auch an Truppen, so war doch gewisse Hoffnung vorhanden, daß die Garnison verstärkt werden würde und daß dann allstündlich ein Bataillon hier einrücken könne. Eine andre Sorge, die den Verständigeren unter der Bürgerschaft gar sehr am Herzen lag, war die frühzeitige und ausreichende Anschaffung von Lebensvorräten für den Fall einer feindlichen Einschließung oder Belagerung, denn bis jetzt waren Dreiviertel der Einwohner gewohnt, von einem Markttage zum andern zu zehren. Und wovon wollte die Besatzung leben? Ich hielt es also für wohlgetan, und hatte auch in meinem Amte als Bürger-Repräsentant den Beruf dazu, Haus bei Haus in der Stadt umzugehen und die Bestände an Korn und Viktualien, zumal bei den Bäckern, Brauern und Branntweinbrennern, sowie auch die Vorräte der letzteren an Branntwein aufzunehmen. Ebenso begab ich mich auf die nächst umhergelegenen Dörfer, und unter dem Vorwande, als sei ich gesonnen, Korn und Schlachtvieh aufzukaufen, wie beides mein Gewerbe mit sich brachte, erfuhr ich, was jeden Orts in dieser Gattung vorhanden war. Alles dieses brachte ich in ein Verzeichnis und überzeugte mich solchergestalt, daß wir nur würden zugreifen dürfen, um für Mund und Magen auf eine lange Zeit hinaus genug zu haben. Aber dies Zugreifen konnte nicht von seiten der städtischen Behörden, sondern mußte von der Kommandantur ausgehen und auf militärischem Fuß betrieben werden. Ich nahm also meine Verzeichnisse in die Hand, ging zu Loucadou, legte ihm ein Papier nach dem andern vor und bat ihn, schleunige Anstalten zu treffen, daß diese Vorräte gegen Erteilung von Empfangsscheinen in die Festung geschafft würden. Denn wenn der Feind sich über kurz oder lang näherte und diese Ortschaften besetzte, so würde ohnehin alles von ihm geraubt und sein Unterhalt dadurch erleichtert werden. Auf diese gutgemeinte Vorstellung ward ich jedoch von dem Herrn Obersten hart angelassen, und er erklärte mir kurzweg: »Zu dergleichen Gewaltschritten sei er nicht autorisiert. Jeder möge für sich selbst sorgen. Was seine Soldaten anbeträfe, so wäre Mehl zu Brot in den Magazinen vorhanden.« -- »Aber,« wandte ich ihm ein, »der Mensch lebt nicht vom Brot allein. Ihr Mehl liegt in Fachwerksspeichern, und die Magazine stehen alle an einer Stelle zusammengehäuft und dem feindlichen Geschütze ausgesetzt. Die erste Granate, die hineinfällt, kann ihr Untergang werden. Wäre es nicht sicherer, diese Vorräte in andre und mehrere Gebäude zu verteilen?« -- »Pah! pah!« war seine Antwort, »die Bürgerschaft macht sich große Sorge um meinetwillen.« -- Vergebens bat ich ihn nun noch, sich wenigstens meine Papiere anzusehen und sie in genauere Erwägung zu ziehen. Er aber, als hätte die Pest an denselben geklebt, raffte sie eilfertig zusammen, drückte sie mir wieder in die Hände und versicherte: Er brauche all den Plunder nicht, und damit Gott befohlen! Es mag hierbei nicht unerwähnt bleiben, daß bei all meinen Unterredungen mit diesem Manne sich auch wie von ungefähr seine Köchin, Haushälterin, oder was sie sonst sein mochte, einfand und ihren Senf mit dareingab. Mochte ich nun dies oder jenes vortragen und mein Bedenken so oder so äußern, -- flugs war das schnippische Maul bei der Hand: »Ei, seht doch! Das wäre auch wohl nötig, daß sich noch sonst jemand darum bekümmerte! Der Herr Oberst werden das wohl besser wissen.« -- Diese Unverschämtheit wurmte mich oftmals ganz erschrecklich, und ich hatte Mühe, in meinem Ingrimm nicht loszubrechen. Jetzt aber lief das Faß einmal über, ich sagte dem Weibsbilde rein heraus, wie mir's ums Herz war, und zog mir dadurch den Herrn und Beschützer auf den Hals, so daß ich, um es nicht zum Äußersten kommen zu lassen, hurtig meine Papiere ergriff und mich entfernte. Um den Magistrat und seine Anstalten stand es ebenso kläglich. Es geschah entweder gar nichts, oder es geschah auf eine verkehrte Weise, und wer etwa noch guten und kräftigen Willen hatte, ward nicht gehört. Mit einem Worte: man ließ es darauf ankommen, was daraus werden wollte, und es war an den Fingern abzuzählen, daß unser Untergang das Fazit von der heillosen Betörung sein würde. In Kolberg -- das sah ich wohl -- war auf keine Hilfe mehr zu hoffen; geholfen aber mußte werden! Ich entschloß mich also in Gottes Namen und der winterlichen Jahreszeit zum Trotz, unsern guten unglücklichen, so schlecht bedienten König unmittelbar selbst in Königsberg, Memel, oder wo ich ihn finden würde, aufzusuchen und ihm Kolbergs Lage und Not vorzustellen. Von dem Kaufmann Höpner mietete ich ein großes Boot, unter dem Vorwande, damit nach der Insel Bornholm hinüberzustechen, und ebenso überredete ich insgeheim unter guter Bezahlung einen Seefahrer, der vormals als Matrose unter mir gedient hatte, mich auf dieser gewagten Unternehmung zu begleiten. Das Fahrzeug ward in den erforderlichen Stand gesetzt, notdürftiger Proviant nach der Münde hinausgeschafft und nur noch ein günstiger Wind erwartet, um unverzüglich in See zu stechen. Gerade in diesem Augenblicke traf der Kriegsrat Wisseling von Treptow in Kolberg ein; ein Mann, der Kopf und Herz auf dem rechten Fleck hatte, und der sich nebst andern, die gleich ihm zur pommerschen Kriegs- und Domänenkammer gehörten, von Stettin entfernt hatte, um sich dem Feinde nicht zu Werkzeugen seiner landverderblichen Operationen herzuleihen, dagegen aber in den noch unbesetzten Gegenden der Provinz die Verwaltung für königliche Rechnung so lange als möglich im Gange zu erhalten. Wisseling war mein Freund, und es tat mir wohl, alle meine Klagen, Sorgen und Bedenken in sein redliches Herz auszuschütten. Er sah zugleich selbst und mit eignen Augen, wie es hier zuging, und fühlte sich darüber nicht weniger bekümmert. Als ich ihm das Geheimnis meiner geplanten Reise entdeckte, mißbilligte er das Wagestück, setzte aber sogleich auch hinzu: »Vertrauen Sie mir Ihre Papiere an, und alles, was sonst noch zu einer vollständigen Übersicht der Verhältnisse des Platzes fehlt, lassen Sie uns in einem gemeinschaftlichen Aufsatze bearbeiten: Ich übernehme es, mich selbst zu Lande zum Könige zu begeben und mein möglichstes zu tun, damit hier bessere Anstalten getroffen werden. Tun und wirken Sie derweilen hier, was in Ihren Kräften steht. So Gott will, wird es uns gelingen, dem Könige den Platz zu retten.« -- Ich blieb auf sein Wort und er reiste ab. * * * * * Täglich und stündlich strömten bei uns noch Versprengte von unsern Truppen ein, die teils weiter nach Preußen zogen, teils eine Zuflucht bei uns suchten, um sich von ihren Strapazen zu erholen oder ihre Wunden auszuheilen. Unter den letzteren befand sich auch der Leutnant v. Schill, vom Regiment Königin-Dragoner, der, schwer am Kopfe verwundet, nicht weiterkommen konnte. Der Zufall machte uns bald miteinander bekannt. Er war ein Mann nach meinem Herzen, einfach und bescheiden, aber von echtem deutschen Schrot und Korn, und so brauchte es auch keiner langen Zeit, daß er mir ein volles Vertrauen abgewann. Wie konnte ich ihm aber dieses schenken, ohne zugleich ihm unsre ganze verzweiflungsvolle Lage zu schildern, meine Klagen über Loucadou in sein Herz auszuschütten und daneben meine Wünsche über so manches, was zur Erhaltung der Festung zu veranstalten sei, gegen ihn laut werden zu lassen? Alles was ich ihm sagte, machte je mehr und mehr seine Aufmerksamkeit rege, und es mag wohl sein, daß es auch den Entschluß in ihm erzeugt oder befestigt hat, in Kolberg zu bleiben und sich hier nützlich zu machen. Sobald er wieder ein wenig zu Kräften gekommen war, besahen wir uns gemeinschaftlich den Platz und seine Umgebungen. Wir trafen dabei in dem Urteile zusammen, daß es zuletzt hauptsächlich auf den Besitz des Hafens und die Behauptung der Schiffsverbindung mit Preußen und unsern Verbündeten ankommen werde. Hinwiederum war die »Maikuhle« der Schlüssel des Hafens, und dies angenehme Luftwäldchen, welches sich hart vom Ausflusse der Persante westlich eine Viertelmeile längs den Uferdünen der Ostsee hinstreckt, mußte um jeden Preis festgehalten werden. Dennoch war bis diesen Augenblick zur Verschanzung dieses entscheidenden Punktes noch keine Schaufel in Bewegung gesetzt worden. Man verließ sich auf das Münder-Fort und die Morastschanze, die aber beide unzureichend waren, den Feind, sobald er sich hier einmal festgesetzt hatte, aus diesem ihm unschätzbaren Posten zu vertreiben. Wahr ist es, es würden fünfzehnhundert Mann dazu gehört haben, ein hier anzulegendes Außenwerk zu besetzen und vollkommen sicherzustellen; das aber hinderte uns nicht, den Gedanken zu fassen, daß hier beizeiten wenigstens etwas -- sei es auch nur gegen den ersten Anlauf -- geschehen könne und müsse, und daß dann die Not wohl das übrige tun werde. Woher aber Hände nehmen, um dort auch nur einige leichte Erdaufwürfe zustande zu bringen? -- Noch hatte Schill nur erst einige wenige Leute um sich gesammelt, die er zu seinen jetzt beginnenden Streifereien in die Ferne nicht entbehren konnte; Geldmittel waren noch weniger in seinen Händen, und von Loucadou war vollends für diesen Zweck nichts zu erwarten. Auf sein Zureden und die Versicherung, sich für meine künftige Entschädigung eifrigst zu verwenden, entschloß ich mich, ohne längeres Bedenken, meine paar Pfennige, die ich im Kasten hatte, vorzustrecken. Demzufolge trieb ich auf der Gelder-Vorstadt und allen nächstumliegenden Dörfern Tagelöhner und Häusler, soviel ich deren habhaft werden konnte, zusammen, versprach und zahlte guten Lohn und verwandte auf diese Weise gegen 400 Taler aus meiner Tasche. Tag und Nacht schanzten und arbeiteten wenigstens sechzig Menschen eine geraume Zeit hindurch an diesen Befestigungen, nach dem von Schill dazu entworfenen Plane. Weder der Kommandant noch sonst jemand fragte und kümmerte sich, was wir da schafften, und so blieb es auch meinem Freunde überlassen, diese Schanzen mit seinen Leuten in dem Maße, als sich diese aus den Ranzionierten freiwillig um ihn sammelten, immer stärker zu besetzen. Allein um sie dort festzuhalten, mußte auch für Löhnung und Mundvorrat in genügender Menge gesorgt werden. Vorerst fiel diese Sorge _mir_ anheim, solange mein Beutel dazu vorhielt, oder meine Küche und mein Branntweinlager es vermochten. Inzwischen war auch der Kriegsrat Wisseling aus Preußen glücklich wieder und mit sehr ausgedehnten Vollmachten vom Könige zurückgekehrt. Sein Eifer, verbunden mit rastlosester Tätigkeit, brachte _sofort_ neues Leben in das ganze Administrationsgeschäft. Ganze Herden Schlachtvieh, lange Reihen von Getreidewagen zogen zu unsern Toren ein, und Heu und Stroh in reichem Überflusse füllte die Futtermagazine, oder ward in den Scheunen der Vorstädter untergebracht. Für diese gezwungenen Lieferungen erhielt der Landmann nach dem Taxwerte Lieferungsscheine, die künftig eingelöst werden sollten und mit denen er gern zufrieden war. In der Stadt wurde geschlachtet und eingesalzen und die Böden der Bürgerhäuser mit Kornvorräten aller Art beschüttet. -- So konnte Kolberg allgemach für notdürftig verproviantiert gelten, während zu hoffen stand, daß das Fehlende im nächsten Frühling bei wieder eröffneter Schiffahrt durch Zufuhr zur See zu ersetzen sein möchte. * * * * * Neuen Trost gab es, als bald darauf, vom Könige geschickt, der Hauptmann von Waldenfels, ein junger tätiger Mann, bei uns auftrat, um als Vize-Kommandant dem Obersten v. Loucadou zur Seite zu stehen und dessen Kraftlosigkeit zu unterstützen. Brav, wie sein Degen, aber noch nicht von Erfahrung geleitet, begann dieser seine neue Laufbahn, gleich in den ersten Tagen des Januars 1807, durch eine gewagte Unternehmung auf das neun bis zehn Meilen weit entlegene Städtchen Wollin, um sich durch Vertreibung der dort stehenden Franzosen eine freie Kommunikation mit Schwedisch-Pommern zu eröffnen. Wahrscheinlich wäre der nächtliche Überfall, wozu er einen bedeutenden Teil der Besatzung Kolbergs brauchte, gelungen, wenn nicht an Ort und Stelle Fehler begangen worden wären, die seinen übereilten Rückzug mit einem Verluste von mehr als hundert Mann zur Folge hatten. Dieser erste Fehlschlag war um so nachteiliger, da er ohne Zweifel den Vize-Kommandanten hinderte, das geistige Übergewicht über Loucadou zu behaupten. Denn wenn auch in unsern Verteidigungsanstalten durch ihn unendlich viel Gutes gewirkt wurde und er mit dem alten grämlichen Manne darüber manchen Kampf zu bestehen hatte, so mußte er doch auch ebenso oft dessen Eigensinne nachgeben. Wir hatten also an ihm den Mann noch nicht, den wir brauchten. Auch Schill, der im Januar vom Könige zur Organisierung eines Freikorps förmlich autorisiert worden war und von allen Seiten gewaltigen Zulauf fand, war ein von Loucadou sehr ungern gesehener Gast, dem dieser daher, wo er nur konnte, Hindernisse in den Weg legte; sei es, daß der Name, welchen der junge Mann sich so schnell erworben, sein Ansehen zu beeinträchtigen drohte, oder weil dessen Tätigkeit seinem eignen Schlendrian zum stillen Vorwurf gereichte. Schlimm war es immer, daß ihre beiderseitigen Befugnisse keine scharfe Abgrenzung gegeneinander hatten, während sie doch von gleichem Punkte aus und gemeinschaftlich handeln sollten. Nur ließ sich der wackere Parteigänger, bei all seiner ihm natürlichen Bescheidenheit, nicht so leicht unterjochen, und er fand auch noch immerdar Spielraum, wenn es ihm bei uns zu beklommen ward, sich außerhalb der Festung zu tummeln. Zudem stand sein Ruf nun einmal fest, und selbst als sein Überfall gegen Stargard (am 16. Februar) ihm mißlang und er bald darauf in Naugard einen empfindlichen Unfall erlitt, konnte er sich mit unverletzter Ehre näher gegen Kolberg zurückziehen. Seine Absicht bei jenem Zuge war gewesen, das vom Marschall Mortier aus Schwedisch-Pommern entsandte Korps des Divisionsgenerals Teullié, welches zur Berennung unsres Platzes bestimmt war, auseinanderzusprengen und uns noch einige Zeit länger Luft zu verschaffen. Da der Streich nicht geglückt war, so drang nun jener französische Heerhaufe ungesäumt nach und ward nur durch Schills kräftig behauptete Stellung bei Neubrück, halben Wegs zwischen Treptow und Kolberg, acht volle Tage aufgehalten. Jetzt war also das langerwartete Ungewitter im nahen Anzuge, und da man endlich den Ernst spürte, besann man sich auch, daß der Kauzenberg ein gelegener Posten sein würde, dem Feinde das nähere Vordringen von dieser Seite zu erschweren. Eiligst ging man daran, die im Siebenjährigen Kriege hier aufgeworfenen Befestigungen, deren sich noch einige Spuren fanden, zu erneuern. * * * * * Wohl war es hierzu an der Zeit gewesen, denn schon am 1. März bemächtigte sich der Feind des Passes bei Neubrück und zeigte sich zwei Tage später am Kauzenberge, während eine andre Abteilung den Weg am Strande über Kolberger Deep einschlug und ihr Absehen augenscheinlich auf die Maikuhle gerichtet hatte. Eben hierher aber hatte sich auch nach der Verdrängung von jenem Passe ein Teil des Schillschen Korps geworfen, welches nicht nur den Feind entschlossen zurückwies, sondern von jetzt an auch fortwährend diesen Posten besetzt hielt, dessen hohe Wichtigkeit immer besser erkannt wurde. Ernsthafter aber war, gleich am folgenden Morgen, ein neuer feindlicher Versuch gegen die Schanze auf dem Kauzenberge, den man mit Hilfe einiger Verstärkungen aus der Festung und nach einem vereinzelten Gefechte in der Nähe von Pretmin glücklich vereitelte. Eigentlich aber hatte dieser Angriff nur den Marsch der Hauptmacht verdecken sollen, welche sich gleichzeitig von Neubrück südöstlich gegen Groß-Jestin wandte, bei Körlin die Persante passierte und bis zum 10. März sich bis Zernin und Tramm herumgezogen hatte, um Kolberg auch von der Ostseite einzuschließen. Jetzt konnte uns die früher hergestellte Schanze auf dem Hohen Berge von Nutzen werden, daher sie auch unverzüglich noch weiter ausgebessert und einiges Geschütz darin aufgefahren wurde. Da sich's aber berechnen ließ, daß der Feind bei Tramm nicht stehenbleiben, sondern sich auch nach dem Dorfe Bullenwinkel und dem großen Stadtwalde, »der Kolberger Busch« genannt, ausbreiten würde, so war es von dringender Notwendigkeit, ihn von der Lauenburger Vorstadt, die hierherwärts gelegen ist, in möglichster Entfernung zu halten. Ich wußte, daß dies wie vormals durch eine auf dem Damme nächst der Ziegelscheune zu errichtende Schanze am zweckmäßigsten geschehen konnte, und da diejenigen, denen es eigentlich zugekommen wäre, sich dieser Sache nicht annehmen wollten, so bewog ich die Bürgerschaft, auch zu dieser Arbeit freiwillige Hand anzulegen, sobald der Feind im Westen der Stadt wirklich erschienen war und nun auch von der entgegengesetzten Seite augenblicklich erwartet werden durfte. Am 5. März griffen wir das Werk gemeinschaftlich an, schanzten Tag und Nacht unverdrossen und hatten auch die Freude, es schon am 9., noch vor Erscheinung eines Franzosen, vollendet zu sehen. Während wir noch mit dieser Arbeit beschäftigt waren, ließ sich der Kommandant vom Hauptmann v. Waldenfels bewegen, uns in Gesellschaft des letzteren, des (Gott erbarme sich's!) Ingenieur-Kapitäns Düring und einiger andern dort auf dem Platze zu besuchen. Es war seit der ganzen Zeit das erste Mal, daß er sich außer den Toren der Stadt blicken ließ. Anstatt uns aber in unserm Fleiße durch irgendein freundliches Wort aufzumuntern, machte er unser Vornehmen mit spöttischem Lachen als Kinderspiel verächtlich. Indem aber noch weiter unter den Herren von der Haltbarkeit der Festung hin und her gesprochen wurde und die Meinungen verschieden ausfielen, konnte ich mein Herzpochen nicht länger zähmen, sondern nahm das Wort und rief: »Meine Herren, Kolberg _kann_ und _muß_ dem Könige erhalten werden; es koste was es wolle! Wir haben Brot und Waffen, und was uns noch fehlt, wird uns zur See zugeführt werden. Wir Bürger sind alle für einen Mann entschlossen, und wenn auch all unsre Häuser zu Schutthaufen würden, die Festung nicht übergeben zu lassen. Und hörten es je meine Ohren, daß irgend jemand -- er sei Bürger oder Militär -- von Übergabe spräche, bei jedes Mannes Wort! dem rennte ich gleich auf der Stelle diesen meinen Degen durch den Leib, und sollte ich ihn in der nächsten Minute mir selbst durch die Brust bohren müssen!« -- So gingen wir für diesmal, halb lachend, halb erzürnt, auseinander. * * * * * Bis zum 13. März hatte der Feind seine Umzingelung des Platzes vollendet, doch war die Einschließung nicht so genau, daß nicht immer noch einige Nachrichten von außen her durch flüchtende Landleute zu uns durchgedrungen wären, die uns das dichtere Zusammenziehen der französischen Truppen ankündigten. Spätere Reiterpatrouillen, welche Schill veranstaltete, betätigten diese Gerüchte. Immerhin blieb uns längs dem Strande, zumal nach Westen hin, noch manche verstohlene Verbindung mit der Nachbarschaft, fast die ganze Zeit der Belagerung hindurch, übrig, und auch zu Wasser ließ sich jeder beliebige Punkt der Küste heimlich erreichen. Plänkeleien an der Ostseite leiteten einen Angriff gegen die Schanze auf dem Hohen Berge ein, welche dem Feinde unbequem zu sein schien. Von beiden Seiten rückten immer mehr Truppen ins Gefecht, bis bei dem heftigeren Andrängen unsrer Gegner gegen Abend den Unsrigen nur übrig blieb, sich fechtend gegen die Stadt zurückzuziehen. Die drei Kanonen in der Schanze wurden mit abgeführt und gerettet, aber der Feind säumte nicht, sich in dem Werke festzusetzen, welches ihm noch hartnäckiger hätte streitig gemacht werden sollen. Ich selbst war bei dem ganzen Gefechte zugegen gewesen und sah, daß bei dem Rückzuge mehrere von unsern Leuten tot oder verwundet auf dem Felde liegen blieben. Es jammerte mich besonders der letzteren, und so wagte ich mich, mit einem weißen Tuche in der Hand, gegen die feindlichen Vorposten und bat, daß mir erlaubt werden möchte, diese Gebliebenen nach der Stadt abholen zu dürfen. Nach langem Hin- und Herfragen ward mir dies endlich zugestanden. Ich eilte demnach in die Vorstadt zurück, nahm drei mit Stroh belegte Wagen mit mir und fuhr mit ihnen, unter dem Geleite einiger französischer Soldaten, auf dem Felde umher, wo ich neun Verwundete und fünf Tote auflas und mit mir führte. Die letzteren wurden sogleich auf dem nahen St. Georgen-Kirchhofe beerdigt, die ersteren aber in ein Lazarett abgeliefert. Von da an machte ich mir's zu einem besonderen und lieben Geschäfte, unsern Verwundeten auf diese Weise beizustehen, und habe oft selbst Wagenführer sein müssen, wenn es in ein etwas lebhaftes Feuer hineinging und die Knechte sich aus Angst verliefen. Gleichzeitig mit der Schanze auf dem Hohen Berge hatten unsre Belagerer auch die Anhöhen der Altstadt besetzt, ohne dort einigen Widerstand zu finden, und waren uns dadurch in eine bedenkliche Nähe gerückt. Beide Verluste machten es nun um so dringender, die Überschwemmungen, wie überall um die Festung her, so besonders nach diesen zunächst bedrohten Punkten hin zu bewirken. Schon von Anfang an hatte ich mir mit den Voranstalten hierzu viele Mühe gegeben und teils auf eigne Kosten, teils durch Mitwirkung der Bürgerschaft wirklich auch soviel erreicht, daß ich hoffen konnte, eine weite Fläche so unter Wasser zu setzen, daß an kein Durchkommen zu denken wäre. Dies ging nun nicht ohne vieles Widerstreben von seiten der Eigentümer der Wiesen und Ländereien ab, denen das Schicksal einer solchen Überschwemmung bevorstand. Um dieser Katzbalgereien überhoben zu sein, wandte ich mich an Waldenfels, machte ihn an Ort und Stelle mit der ganzen Einrichtung der Schleusen und Aufstauungen bekannt und forderte ihn auf, von seiten der Kommandantur das Weitere zu veranlassen. So sehr er von der Nützlichkeit der Sache überzeugt war, wagte er's doch nicht, sie für seinen eignen Kopf auszuführen, ich aber wollte ebensowenig etwas mit dem Obersten zu tun haben. Endlich aber überredete er mich doch, diesem die Sache gemeinschaftlich vorzustellen. Als wir nun vor ihn kamen, fand sich sofort auch das vorbelobte Weibsbild ein und begann tapfer mit dareinzureden. Nun war auch meine Geduld am Ende und ich bedeutete sie kurz und gut, daß es ihr nicht zukäme, hier ihre unverlangte Weisheit feilzuhalten. Das Ding aber, das sich auf seinen Herrn verließ, machte mir ein schnippisch Gesicht und wäre mir wohl gern mit allen zehn Fingern ins Gesicht gefahren, wenn ich es nicht fein säuberlich beim Kragen genommen und zur Stubentüre hinausgeschoben hätte, wie es recht und billig war. Darüber geriet aber wiederum der Herr Kommandant in Hitze. Er griff nach dem Degen und würde ihn ohne Zweifel gegen mich gezogen haben, wäre ihm nicht mein Begleiter in den Arm gefallen mit den Worten: »Beruhigen Sie sich! Nettelbeck hat recht getan.« -- Er kam zur Besinnung, aber mit dem Vorschlage zur Überschwemmung blieb es wie es war. Dagegen geschahen einige Kanonenschüsse aus der Festung -- die ersten, welche gegen den Feind gelöst wurden, und mit welchen also auch die Geschichte der Belagerung anheben mag. An dem nämlichen Tage (den 14. März) hatten die Franzosen schon früh das Dörfchen Bullenwinkel -- ich weiß nicht, ob aus Frevelmut, oder um irgendeinen militärischen Zweck dadurch zu erreichen -- im Rauche aufgehen lassen. War es nun, daß unser Kommandant ihnen in dieser Kunst nicht nachstehen wollte, oder daß er wirklich befürchtete, der Feind möchte sich in der Lauenburger Vorstadt festsetzen, -- genug, er beschloß, diese gänzlich abzubrennen: Niemand von den zahlreichen Bewohnern hatte sich einer solchen gewaltsamen Maßregel versehen, niemand war in diesem Augenblicke darauf vorbereitet -- am wenigsten, daß dem dazu erteilten Befehle die Ausführung so unmittelbar auf dem Fuße folgen werde. Keine halbe Stunde Zeit ward den Unglücklichen zur Rettung ihrer Habe gestattet; viele mußten wie sie gingen und standen ihr Eigentum verlassen. Hundert Familien wurden in wenigen Minuten zu Bettlern und suchten nun in der ohnehin ziemlich beengten Stadt ein kümmerliches Unterkommen. Man fragte sich damals, und das mit gutem Rechte, warum, wenn doch einmal gesengt und gebrannt sein sollte, diese Maßregel nicht schon früher die Altstadt getroffen habe, die im unmittelbaren Bereiche des Feindes lag, der sich zwischen den Gebäuden derselben einnistete und uns durch seine hinter denselben angelegte Wurfbatterie in der Folge so nachteilig wurde? Als der Fehler aber einmal begangen war, blieb jeder Versuch zur Abhilfe vergeblich. Selbst alle Mühe, die wir uns gaben, die Altstadt durch unser Geschütz zu demolieren oder in Brand zu stecken, leistete die ganze Belagerung hindurch nicht, was wir davon erwarteten. -- Was indes hier versäumt war, suchte der Rittmeister von Schill an seiner Seite in der Maikuhle nach Möglichkeit wieder gut zu machen, indem er sich in diesem wichtigen Posten immer fester setzte, Fleschen anlegen ließ, Wolfsgruben grub und Verhacke veranstaltete. Die Beschützung des Platzes von dieser Seite blieb nun gänzlich seiner Sorgfalt überlassen. * * * * * Der feindliche Anführer mußte indes seine am 13. März errungenen Vorteile wohl selbst für bedeutend genug halten, um zu glauben, daß uns der Mut zu fernerem Widerstande dadurch gebrochen worden. Es erschien also am 15. vormittags um zehn Uhr am Mühlentore ein französischer Parlamentär in einem mit vier Pferden bespannten, niedergelassenen Wagen. Der Kutscher fuhr vom Sattel; den Bock nahm ein Trompeter ein, und zwei Nobelgardisten, wie die Puppen gekleidet und mit Gewehr und völliger Rüstung versehen, gingen zu beiden Seiten des Wagens einher. In diesem ungewöhnlichen Aufzuge und unter einer schmetternden Fanfare rasselte das Völkchen zur Stadt herein und hielt dann plötzlich vor dem Hause des Kommandanten, der den Parlamentär in der Haustüre empfing, ihm freundlich die Hand bot und dann ihn in sein Zimmer führte, welches sofort hinter ihnen verschlossen wurde. Nach und nach versammelten sich viele Offiziere der Garnison auf der Flur des Hauses, unter welche auch ich mich mischte. Alle waren von jener Erscheinung mehr oder weniger überrascht und auf den weiteren Erfolg gespannt. Alle fragten wir uns untereinander, ob denn sonst keiner von den Offizieren bei der gegenwärtigen Unterredung in dem verriegelten Zimmer zugegen sei? Ich wandte mich an den Oberst v. Britzke, der auch unter dem Haufen stand: »Herr, Sie sind der nächste an Rang und Alter. Ihnen gebührte es am ersten, mit anzuhören, was da unterhandelt wird. Sprengen Sie die Tür!« -- Er zuckte die Schultern und niemand von den Anwesenden sprach ein Wort. Mich aber überfiel innerlich eine unbeschreibliche Angst und Sorge. Die Erinnerungen an Stettin, Küstrin und Magdeburg standen mir wie finstere Gespenster vor der Seele. Ich lief, den Vize-Kommandanten aufzusuchen, der jetzt allein noch Unheil verhüten konnte. Vergebens irrte ich in der ganzen Stadt und auf den Wällen umher, den wackeren Mann zu erfragen. Bald sagte man mir, er sei auf der Münde, beim Hafen, und ich schickte Boten über Boten aus, ihn schleunigst herbeizurufen; -- bald wieder hieß es, er sei bei den Verschanzungen auf dem Wolfsberge beschäftigt. Aber während ich auch dorthin Eilboten abfertigte, war die Zeit bis fast um zwei Uhr abgelaufen, und ohne ihn erwarten zu können, trieb es mich wieder nach dem Kommandantenhause, wo Unheil gebrütet wurde. In der Zwischenzeit aber hatten Trompeter, Kutscher und Nobelgarden, die mir sämtlich nicht so aussahen, als ob sie in diese Kleider gehörten, sich nach Belieben und ohne Aufsicht in der Stadt zerstreut -- man möchte denn _das_ Aufsicht nennen wollen, daß ein Unteroffizier von der Garnison, namens Reischard, ein geborner Sachse, sich wie von ungefähr zu ihnen gesellte und sie, wie man wissen wollte, auch auf den Wällen herumgeführt hatte. Dieser Mensch war übrigens in den letzten Zeiten vielfältig bei den Arbeiten an den Verschanzungen und beim Palisadensetzen als Aufseher gebraucht worden. Er konnte also über die Lage und Beschaffenheit der Werke wohl einige Auskunft geben. Endlich, nach langem peinlichem Harren ward von dem Kommandanten aus dem Fenster gerufen, des Parlamentärs Wagen vorfahren zu lassen. Beide Herren traten Hand in Hand aus dem Zimmer hervor, verweilten aber noch einige Zeit in der Haustüre, weil noch etwas an dem Wagen in Ordnung zu bringen war. Unter uns Umstehenden gab es auch einen Ansbachischen Offizier außer Diensten, der so ziemlich das Aussehen eines Abenteurers hatte, sich seit einiger Zeit in der Stadt umhertrieb und auch jetzt sich, man wußte nicht wie und warum, hier eingedrängt hatte. Dieser nun trat mit einer gewissen Zuversichtlichkeit auf den französischen Unterhändler zu und begrüßte ihn; beide ergriffen einander bei der Hand und drängten sich durch uns alle hindurch, um auf den Hof zu gelangen, wo sie so lange und angelegentlich miteinander sprachen. Hier wurde ich nun warm und ereifert. Ich faßte den Kommandanten am Arm und zog ihn nach, indem ich rief: »Herr Oberst, was die beiden dort abzumachen haben, das müssen _Sie_ auch wissen!« -- Er folgte mir wie ein Schaf; sowie wir aber näherkamen, verbeugten sie sich beiderseits höflichst und gingen auseinander, worauf auch der Parlamentär in den Wagen stieg und davonkutschierte. Erst eine halbe Stunde nachher kam der Hauptmann v. Waldenfels fast atemlos herbeigeeilt, und ich und andre erzählten ihm, was hier vorgegangen. Der Mann geriet ganz außer sich, daß so etwas in seiner Abwesenheit hatte geschehen können. Man erfuhr auch nachher, daß Loucadou und der Vizekommandant einen harten Wortwechsel gehabt und sich förmlich miteinander überworfen hatten. In all diesen Vorgängen war viel Unbegreifliches, zumal nach zwei Tagen jener Unteroffizier Reischard unsichtbar geworden und zum Feinde übergegangen war. * * * * * Gleich am 16. März machte der Feind vormittags den ersten Versuch, ob die Stadt aus der eroberten Schanze auf dem Hohenberge mit Wurfgeschütz zu erreichen sein werde. Er schickte uns also einige Granaten zu, die aber entweder schon in der Luft platzten oder unschädlich in den Stadtgraben fielen. Nichtsdestoweniger ward abends um acht Uhr ganz unvermutet Feuerlärm geschlagen, und -- das Haus des Kommandanten stand in vollem Brande! Alles lief zum Löschen herbei; doch mancher verständige Bürger brachte dieses Ereignis mit dem gestrigen Parlamentär in eine sehr bedenkliche Verbindung. Voll von beängstigenden Gedanken, entschlossen sich unser dreizehn, sofort eine Runde rings um die Stadtwälle zu machen und die Verteidigungsanstalten nachzusehen. Überall auf den Batterien, wo Kanonen und Pulverwagen standen, riefen wir wiederholt und überlaut die Schildwachen an, aber nur selten ward uns Antwort, und auf unsrer langen Runde trafen wir nicht mehr als _sieben_ Mann unter dem Gewehre! So etwas überstieg alle unsre Gedanken und Begriffe! Wir erachteten es für dringende Notwendigkeit, dem Kommandanten davon schleunigste Anzeige zu machen. _Der_ aber war längst aus seinem brennenden Hause geflüchtet und hatte sich in das Posthaus einquartiert. Auch dort suchten wir ihn auf und ließen ihm durch seine Ordonnanz hineinsagen: »Die Bürgerpatrouille wolle ihn sprechen, um etwas Hochwichtiges anzumelden.« Wir empfingen hierauf den Bescheid: »Der Herr Oberst habe sich bereits zur Ruhe begeben und lasse sich heute nicht mehr sprechen.« -- Was für eine unerhörte Seelenruhe bei einem Festungskommandanten, der den Feind vor den Toren hat und dessen Haus in vollen Flammen steht! Dieser Brand wurde übrigens gegen drei Uhr morgens gelöscht; wir Bürger setzten unsre Umgänge die ganze Nacht fort und der Feind hielt sich ruhig. Hier mußte Rat geschafft werden, und so bedachte ich mich nicht lange, sondern ging noch am nämlichen Morgen ans Werk, um aus der ganzen Fülle meines beklommenen Herzens an den König selbst aufs Papier hinzuwerfen, was mir in diesen letzten Tagen, sowie manches Frühere, unrecht und bedenklich vorgekommen. Ich weiß noch, daß dieses Schreiben mit den unterstrichenen Worten endigte: »Wenn Ew. Majestät uns nicht bald einen andern und braven Kommandanten zuschicken, sind wir unglücklich und verloren!« -- Diese Vorstellung schloß ich in eine Adresse an den Kaufmann Wachsen zu Memel, einen geborenen Kolberger, ein und ersuchte ihn, die Einlage womöglich an den König persönlich zu übergeben. Es fand sich aber zur Absendung nicht eher eine Gelegenheit, als am 22. März, da Schiffer Kamitz mit einer Anzahl Gefangener nach Memel in See ging. Dieser lieferte denn auch mein Paket richtig an seine Adresse ab und von Wachsen erfuhr ich, daß der Monarch dasselbe aus seinen Händen selbst empfangen und gnädig aufgenommen habe. * * * * * Daß am 17. März abermals ein Feuer in der Kommandantur hervorbrach, konnte eine irgendwo noch verborgen gebliebene Glut zur Ursache haben; allein die Gemüter waren einmal zum Argwohne aufgeregt und merkten nur an, daß heute so wenig als gestern um die Zeit, da das Feuer aufgegangen, irgendein feindliches Geschoß in Tätigkeit gewesen sei. Bis zum 19. März beschäftigten sich die Belagerer vornehmlich mit Einrichtung ihrer Lager, mit Festsetzung in der Altstadt und mit Schlagen einer Verbindungsbrücke über die Persante in der Nähe von Rossentin; und je mehr sich Truppen hierherwärts bewegten, um so weniger war es zu bezweifeln, daß ihre Absichten auf Gewinnung der Schanze auf dem Kauzenberge gerichtet seien, die ihre Besatzung abwechselnd aus der Festung erhielt. Am frühen Morgen jenes Tages fand der Angriff wirklich statt. Es gab das erste anhaltende Feuer aus grobem Geschütz und kleinem Gewehr. Anfall und Verteidigung waren in gleichem Maße heftig, aber nur zu bald mußte die Besatzung der Übermacht weichen, und auch das weiter zurückliegende Dorf Sellnow ging verloren, ohne daß die nachrückende zahlreiche Verstärkung vermochte, dem Feinde seine Vorteile wieder zu entreißen. Dies war für uns ein sehr empfindlicher Verlust, denn nur von der Position von Sellnow aus war die Stadt auf dieser Seite angreifbar. Rasch und besonnen hingegen benutzte der Feind auf der Stelle seine erlangten Vorteile, ging in das Siederland vor, setzte sich hinter das Gradierwerk und zeigte sich selbst vor dem Galgenberge. Rechtshin aber griff er zugleich unsre Schanze auf dem Strickerberge, hart an dem Damme vor dem Geldertore gelegen, mit solchem Nachdruck an und ward dabei durch sein Flankenfeuer von der Altstadt her so gut unterstützt, daß das Feuer aller unsrer Batterien, wie heftig es auch unterhalten wurde, dagegen kaum ausreichte. Abends gegen sechs Uhr mußten die Grenadiere, welche bis dahin die Schanze mit Entschlossenheit verteidigt hatten, sich durch eine Abteilung Freiwilliger des Schillschen Korps ablösen lassen, und diesen glückte es, sich darin noch achtundvierzig Stunden zu behaupten -- ja noch gleich in der nächsten Nacht eine neue Schanze nächst dem weißen Kruge (dem letzten Hause der Geldervorstadt) aufzuwerfen, wodurch der Damm noch besser bestrichen und die Feinde an der Annäherung verhindert wurden. Allerdings stand nun die genannte Vorstadt in naher und dringender Gefahr, überwältigt und dann der Festung sehr nachteilig zu werden. Loucadou war darum auch sogleich mit dem Befehle zum Abbrennen bereit. Diesmal aber fand seine rücksichtslose Härte einen edelmütigen Widerstand an dem Rittmeister v. Schill, welcher die Unnützlichkeit jeder Übereilung bei der Ausführung dieser Maßregel dartat, solange die vorliegenden Schanzen noch von seinen Leuten verteidigt würden, für deren Mut und Ausdauer er sich verbürgte. Der Kommandant sah sich für den Augenblick genötigt nachzugeben, und Hunderte von Menschen fanden dadurch Zeit, alle beweglichen Trümmer ihres Vermögens rückwärts in Sicherheit zu flüchten. Erst als dies geschehen war, trat die unabwendbare Zerstörung ein und die Schanzen wurden verlassen. * * * * * Es fehlte jedoch viel, daß Loucadou hierdurch selbst zur Besinnung gekommen wäre. Er sah in Schills Benehmen nur einen sträflichen Mangel an Subordination und machte ihm harte Vorwürfe, welche einen Wortwechsel nach sich zogen und mit einem Zimmerarrest endigten, dem der Gekränkte sich geduldig unterzog. Aber nicht so geduldig nahmen Soldaten und Bürger auf, was für eine Ungebührnis ihrem Liebling widerfahren sei. Es entstand ein Gemurmel, ein Reden, ein Fragen, ein Durcheinanderlaufen, das mit jeder Minute lauter und stürmischer wurde. Eine immer gedrängtere Masse sammelte sich auf dem Markte und es war nicht undeutlich die Rede davon, Schill mit Gewalt zu befreien und den Kommandanten für das, was er getan, persönlich verantwortlich zu machen. Ich erfuhr alsbald, was im Werke sei; allein war ich gleich nicht weniger entrüstet, als jeder andre, so entging mir doch nicht, von welchen unseligen Folgen hier jede Gewalttätigkeit sein würde. Vielmehr kam alles darauf an, diese Volksbewegung zu stillen. Ich warf mich schnell unter die Menge, bat sie, Vernunft anzunehmen und vor allen Dingen Schills eigne Meinung zu vernehmen. Diese zu hören, sei ich jetzt auf dem Wege begriffen. Sie möchten also ruhig meine Wiederkunft erwarten. Das ward denn auch angenommen. Als ich zu dem Gefangenen kam und ihm sagte, wie die Sachen ständen, erschrak er heftig, und mich an beiden Händen ergreifend, rief er: »Freund, ich bitte Sie um alles, stellen Sie die guten Menschen zufrieden! Aufruhr wäre das letzte und größte Unglück, das uns begegnen könnte. Sagen Sie ihnen, ich sei nicht arretiert, ich sei krank -- kurz, sagen Sie, was Sie wollen, wenn die Leute sich nur zur Ruhe geben.« -- Ich gelobte ihm das, weil er es wollte und weil es das beste war, und eilte nach dem Markte zurück. Kaum konnte ich mich durch das tosende Gedränge schlagen. Vor dem Kuhfahlschen Hause trat ich auf eine Erhöhung und forderte, daß man mich hören solle. »Kinder!« rief ich dann, »ich komme von unserm Freunde. Aus seinem eignen Munde weiß ich's: er hat nicht Arrest, wie ihr glaubt, sondern hält sich wegen Unpäßlichkeit in seinem Zimmer. Euch insgesamt aber bittet er durch meinen Mund, wenn ihr ihm je Liebe bewiesen habt, daß ihr jetzt ruhig auseinandergeht. Binnen wenigen Tagen hofft er so vollkommen hergestellt zu sein, daß er selbst unter euch erscheinen und euch für eure Anhänglichkeit danken kann. Wer also ein guter Bürger und sein Freund ist, der geht nach Hause.« Diese Rede war nicht zierlich, aber verständlich, und machte um so mehr den besten Eindruck, da sie von dem Superintendenten Baarz, der neben mir stand, wiederholt und weiter ausgeführt wurde. Die guten Leute kamen glücklich zur Besinnung, und als die Angeseheneren sich ruhig wegbegeben hatten, fehlte es nicht, daß auch der Pöbel sich allgemach verlief. Loucadou verhielt sich bei diesem Vorgange ganz still, als hätte er kein Wasser getrübt, was ihm auch gar sehr zu raten war. Schills Arrest aber blieb ein leeres Wort, das stillschweigend zurückgenommen wurde. Denn da Schill seine Gegenwart in der Maikuhle und bei den Vorposten notwendig fand, tat er, was die Umstände erforderten, und Loucadou stand nicht an, zu erklären: »Außerhalb der Festung möge er schalten, wie er's für gut befinde.« * * * * * Noch hatte die eigentliche Belagerung kaum ihren Anfang genommen, d. h. es waren noch keine Laufgräben eröffnet, keine Batterien angelegt und die Stadt noch kaum beschossen, und dennoch hatten wir bereits durch Saumseligkeit und Unverstand von unsern Vorteilen so viel eingebüßt, als nur nach einem langen und hartnäckigen Angriff und einer ebensolchen Gegenwehr zu entschuldigen gewesen wäre. Wir hatten nur, wenn ich so sagen mag, den Instinkt der Furcht, und dieser leitete uns ganz richtig, indem er uns zuflüsterte, daß wir um unsers letzten Heils willen uns nicht vom Meere abdrängen lassen dürften. Darum wandte man von jetzt an eine stets größere Sorgfalt auf die Befestigung der Maikuhle, deren zuvor noch immer mit einiger Schonung behandelte Bäume jetzt zum Teil niedergehauen wurden. Aber auch ostwärts des Hafens verließ man sich nicht mehr allein auf das Münderfort und die wohlgelegene Schanze auf dem Münder Kirchhofe, welche noch durch eine, zwischen beiden angelegte Redoute auf dem sogenannten »Baumgarten« verstärkt wurde, sondern richtete auch eine ganz besondere Aufmerksamkeit auf den noch östlicher gelegenen Wolfsberg, der dem Andringen des Feindes längs dem Strande einen Damm entgegenstellte. Diese wichtige Anhöhe, welche auf ihrer flachen Kuppe einen Raum von mehr als hundert Schritten im Durchmesser darbietet, wurde nach und nach in ein geschlossenes Werk von ausnehmender Stärke verwandelt und darum auch für die Folge der Belagerung überaus wichtig. Von den Erhöhungen bei Bullenwinkel kann sie zwar bestrichen werden, aber die dazwischen liegenden Radewiesen erschweren gleichwohl jede Annäherung. Hierherwärts schien aber jetzt noch der Blick des Feindes ungleich weniger, als auf den Gewinn der Maikuhle geheftet zu sein. Nicht nur hatte er neuerdings eine Floßbrücke in noch größerer Nähe bei der Altstadt über den Strom geschlagen, um sich den Übergang zu erleichtern und seine Truppen schnell auf jeden Punkt zu werfen, sondern vom 22. bis 24. März erfolgten auch täglich Rekognoszierungen, die selbst bis gegen den Strand vorzudringen suchten und sich endlich in Neu-Werder oder den sogenannten »Spinnkaten« festsetzten. Diese leichten Angriffe gegen die Maikuhle wurden den 26. und 30. März ohne bedeutenden Erfolg wiederholt und bereiteten einen ernsthafteren vor, zu dessen Ausführung man vielleicht nur die Ankunft des Marschalls Mortier abwartete, welcher endlich am 5. April bei dem Belagerungskorps eintraf und sein Hauptquartier in Zernin nahm. Ebendaselbst hatte weiland auch der russische General Romanzow das seinige aufgeschlagen. Nun erkannte auch die patriotische Bürgerschaft ihre steigende Verpflichtung, Mühe, Not und Gefahr mit der im ganzen so wackeren Garnison noch mehr als bisher zu teilen. Sie erbot daher dem Kommandanten nochmals ihre Mitwirkung zum inneren Festungsdienste, Beziehung der Hauptwache und Ausstellung der nötigen Posten auf dem inneren Walle sowie an den Toren. Diesmal ward auch, da Not beten lehrt, ihr guter Wille besser anerkannt und gerne angenommen. Sie trat also diesen Dienst mit dem 25. März an und hat ihn auch bis ans Ende hin mit lobenswerter Treue und Pünktlichkeit versehen. * * * * * Mancher Leser dürfte sich vielleicht wundern, daß bisher immer nur von der Bürgerschaft die Rede ist, ohne irgend einiger Wirksamkeit des Magistrats auch nur mit einem Worte zu gedenken. Wer aber nichts tut und leistet, von dem ist freilich auch wenig oder nichts zu melden, und das war hier leider von Anfang an der Fall. Auch jene Herren hätten sich verdient machen können, wenn sie sich nur die Mühe hätten nehmen wollen, aus ihrem gewohnten Schlendrian ein wenig herauszugehen. Und in diesem Schlendrian ließ auch der Kommandant sie ruhig gehen, so wie er selbst sich gehen ließ. An Energie und Kraft war nicht zu denken, was ihnen nicht gerade vor den Füßen lag, hüteten sie sich wohl, aufzunehmen. Dadurch fiel denn alle Last der öffentlichen Geschäfte um so mehr auf die, denen es ihr Feuereifer nicht zuließ, in solcher Zeit der Not stille zu sitzen. Solch ein Kernmann war der, jetzt als Senator pensionierte Stadtsekretär Aue, der immer und überall auf dem Platze war, wo Rat und Hilfe erfordert wurde, daher er auch das Unglück hatte, durch eine Granate verwundet zu werden. Auch der Kriegsrat Wisseling, der sich des ganzen Proviantierungsgeschäfts annahm, tat in diesem Wirkungskreise, was einem redlichen Patrioten zukommt und alles Lobes wert ist. Ich spreche nicht gern von dieser dunklen Schattenseite in dem Gemälde unsrer Kolberger Belagerung, habe aber auch nicht Lust, der Wahrheit etwas zu vergeben. Um also ein für allemal darüber wegzukommen, bemerke ich, daß späterhin, als wir's mit einem Manne zu tun hatten, der den Umständen gewachsen war, unter Trommelschlag öffentlich bekannt gemacht wurde: Jeder Angestellte solle sich auf seinem Posten finden lassen oder kassiert sein. Anderseits gaben viele Kaufleute und sonst ausgezeichnete Personen, unter denen gleichwohl Herr Dresow samt einigen andern eine rühmliche Ausnahme machte, das böse Beispiel, sich aus der Stadt, sobald sie beschossen wurde, nach der Münde oder wohl gar nach Bornholm zu flüchten. Da waren sie freilich außer dem Schusse, aber auch für das allgemeine Beste außer Wirksamkeit, und das ist's, was ich ein böses Beispiel nenne. Scharmützel und Plänkeleien zwischen den Vorposten, kleine Ausfälle und Überrumpelungen waren seither mit abwechselndem Glücke an der Tagesordnung, kosteten aber doch immer einige brave Leute, deren Abgang uns noch fühlbarer geworden sein würde, wenn uns nicht, sowohl auf einem dänischen Schiffe als auf mehreren Booten von Rügenwalde, kampflustige Razionierte zu Hunderten zugeströmt wären. Aber auch der Feind verstärkte sich von Tag zu Tag, sein Wurfgeschütz fing an zu spielen und richtete hier und da Verheerungen an, und insonderheit empfanden wir die nachteiligen Wirkungen seiner so nahe gelegenen Batterien auf der Altstadt. Um uns vor diesen mehr Ruhe zu verschaffen, hatten wir den 3. April es darauf angelegt, die vorgehenden Gebäude in Brand zu schießen. Unsre Bomben und Granaten zündeten auch wirklich, allein da jene keine zusammenhängende Masse bildeten, so griff das Feuer nicht um sich und unser Pulver war vergeblich verschossen. * * * * * Auch am 5. April machten uns die französischen Granaten von dort her von Zeit zu Zeit unangenehme Besuche, als ich mich mit hundert und mehr Menschen auf dem Markte befand, wo der Kommandant den Bürgern Befehle austeilte, die mir sehr wenig angemessen erschienen. So hatte er geboten, daß alle Hausdächer hoch mit Dünger belegt werden sollten, um das Durchschlagen der Bomben zu verhüten, ebenso daß überall das Straßenpflaster aufgerissen werden sollte, um gleichfalls jene Geschosse unschädlicher zu machen. Nun habe ich zum Unglück eine Gattung von schlichtem Menschenverstand, die zu keiner Absurdität gutwillig schweigen kann. Ich war also auch hier so vorwitzig, meinen doppelten Zweifel zu äußern; einmal, ob der anbefohlene Dünger auf unsern Dächern, die durchgängig eine Neigung von mehr als 45 Grad hätten, wohl lange haften dürfte, und dann, ob die Granaten auch wohl vor so bedeckten Dächern, nach deren bekannter leichten Konstruktion, sonderlichen Respekt beweisen möchten? Auch erinnerte ich daran, daß die Stadt ehedem zu dreienmalen, und zwar heftig genug, mit Bomben geängstigt worden, ohne daß man gleichwohl nötig gefunden hätte, das Pflaster zu rühren. Dies schiene hier bei unsern engen Gassen sogar schädlich und hinderlich, weil dann bei entstandener Feuersgefahr weder Spritzen noch Wasserkufen einen Weg durch die Steinhaufen und den umgewühlten Boden würden finden können. Es möchte also wohl der beste Rat sein, dergleichen gelehrte Experimente hier beiseite zu setzen und uns nur tapfer unsrer Haut zu wehren. Währenddessen zogen einige feindliche Granaten ihren Bogen, schlugen nicht weit von uns durch die Dächer der Häuser, platzten und richteten Schaden an. Fast zu gleicher Zeit fuhr eine Bombe kaum zwanzig oder dreißig Schritte weit von unserm Kreise nieder, zersprang, beschädigte aber niemand. Bei dem Knall sah sich der Oberst mit etwas verwirrten Blicken unter uns um und stotterte: »Meine Herren, wenn das so fortgeht, so werden wir doch noch müssen zu Kreuze kriechen!« -- Mehr konnte er nicht hervorbringen. So etwas sehen und hören ließ mich meiner nicht länger mächtig bleiben, und ich tat einen Schritt, den ich jetzt selber nicht gut heiße, obwohl ich mir dabei der reinsten Absicht bewußt bin. Ich fuhr gegen ihn auf und schrie: »Halt! Der erste, wer er auch sei, der das verdammte Wort wieder ausspricht von 'zu Kreuze kriechen' und Übergabe der Festung, der stirbt des Todes von meiner Hand!« -- Dabei fuhr mir der Degen, ich weiß nicht wie, aus der Scheide, und mit der Spitze gegen den Feigling gerichtet, setzte ich hinzu zu allen, die es hören wollten: »Laßt uns brav und ehrlich sein oder wir verdienen wie die Memmen (eigentlich brauchte ich wohl ein andres Wort) zu sterben!« Der Landrat Dahlke, mein Nebenmann, faßte mich von hinten und zog mich von Loucadou zurück, während dieser vom Kaufmann Schröder verhindert wurde, seine Hände zu gebrauchen, die gleichfalls nach der Klinge griffen. Seine Zornwut kannte keine Grenzen mehr. »Arretieren!« schrie er mit schäumendem Munde, »gleich arretieren! In Ketten und Banden!« -- Da sich indes alles um ihn zusammendrängte, der Landrat aber mich aus allen Kräften von ihm entfernte, so mußte er wohl glauben, daß man mich ins Gefängnis davonführe, und so kamen wir einander aus dem Gesichte. Ich aber, ein wenig zur Besinnung gekommen und mit mir altem Knaben nicht aufs beste zufrieden, ging nach Hause, um zu erwarten, was in der tollen Geschichte weiter erfolgen würde. Alles dies hatte sich vormittags zugetragen. Gleich nachmittags aber berief der Kommandant den Landrat zu sich und erklärte ihm seinen Willen, über mich ein, aus dem Militär und Zivil zusammengesetztes Kriegsgericht halten und mich des nächsten Tages auf dem Glacis der Festung erschießen zu lassen. Der Landrat, der es gut mit mir meinte, erschrak, machte Vorstellungen und gab zu bedenken, welch einen gefährlichen Eindruck eine solche Prozedur auf die Bürgerschaft machen könnte, so daß er für den Ausgang nicht gutsagen wolle. Loucadou beharrte indes auf seinem Sinn, und jener entfernte sich unter der Versicherung, daß er nicht verlange, damit zu schaffen zu haben. Kaum hatte nun der Landrat auf dem Heimwege in seiner Konsternation einigen ihm begegnenden Bürgern eröffnet, was der Kommandant mit mir vorhabe, so geriet alles in die größte Bewegung; alles nahm meine Partei, und wer mir auch sonst vielleicht nicht günstig war, wollte doch einen Bürger und Landsmann nicht so schmählich unterdrücken lassen. Der Haufen sammelte sich und ward mit jeder Minute größer. Er wälzte sich zu Loucadous Wohnung, umringte ihn, und die Wortführer bestürmten ihn so lange im Guten und im Bösen, bis sie seine Entrüstung einigermaßen milderten oder vielleicht auch ihn ahnen ließen, daß er hier kein so leichtes Spiel haben werde. »Gut! gut!« rief er endlich, »so mag der alte Bursche diesmal laufen. Hüt' er sich nur, daß ich ihn nicht wieder fasse!« -- So ging alles friedlich auseinander, während ich selbst, der ich mich ruhig innehielt, den Tumult und das Laufen des Volkes zwar durch mein Fenster bemerkte, aber doch weiter kein Arges daraus hatte, daß es mich so nahe angehen könnte. Selbst die ich fragte, blieben mir die Antwort schuldig, und erst des andern Tages erfuhr ich aus des Landrats Munde, wie schlimm es auf mich und mein Leben gemünzt gewesen. * * * * * Wie es aber auch gekommen wäre, so glaube ich doch, daß ich unter dem Militär Freunde genug gefunden hätte, die alles, was sich verantworten ließ, angewandt haben würden, die Sache zu meinem Vorteil ins Gleiche zu richten. Auch meine ich wohl, es einigermaßen um sie verdient zu haben, da ich keine Mühe scheute, ihre Lage nach Möglichkeit zu erleichtern. Zumal die Umstände des Schillschen Korps in der Maikuhle waren beklagenswert. Die armen Leute waren dort täglich und stündlich auf den Beinen, weil der Feind sie unaufhörlich in Atem erhielt. Tag und Nacht waren sie unter freiem Himmel, ohne je, wie andre doch zuweilen, von ihrem Posten abgelöst zu werden und unter Dach und Fach zu kommen. An regelmäßige Löhnung war gar nicht und an Lieferung von anderweitigen Unterhaltungsmitteln nur höchst selten zu denken. Gleichwohl zeigten sich diese Schillschen Leute, in denen der Geist ihres Anführers lebte, äußerst willig und brav. Bei jedem Trommelschlage waren sie, oft nur mit einem Schuh oder Strumpf an den Beinen, die ersten auf dem Sammelplatze, und diesen tätigen Eifer kann ich von einigen andern Truppengattungen nicht rühmen. Um nun so brave Leute in ihrer Not zu unterstützen, so weiß Gott, daß ich für meinen Teil getan habe, was nur möglich war. Ein Tonnenkessel für Kartoffeln und andres Gemüse kam bei mir nie vom Feuer, und die bereitete Speise ward ihnen hinausgefahren. Oftmals habe ich den ganzen Fleischscharren und alle Bäckerläden auskaufen lassen, oftmals bin ich Haus bei Haus gegangen und habe gebeten, daß für meine Schillschen Kinder in der Maikuhle zugekocht werden möchte. In der Tat betrachteten sie mich auch als ihren Vater und nannten mich ihren Brot- und Trankspender, und wenn ich mich in der Nähe der Lagerposten zeigte, ward ich gewöhnlich mit kriegerischer Musik empfangen. Nicht selten zuckelte ich, wenn sie zu irgendeinem Angriff ins Freie hinausrückten, auf meinem Pferdchen neben ihnen her und suchte ihnen tröstenden Mut einzusprechen; oder ich stimmte, ob ich gleich nicht von sangreicher Natur bin, mit meiner Rabenkehle das Liedchen an: »Haltet euch wohl, ihr preußischen Brüder!« wobei alle lustig und guter Dinge wurden. Auch wußten sie, daß, wenn es Verwundete oder sonst ein Unglück geben sollte, ihr alter Freund schon in der Nähe zu finden sein werde. Jede Art von Ermunterung war aber auch für diese braven Truppen um so notwendiger, da sie in diesem Zeitraume der Belagerung die schwerste Last derselben fast allein zu tragen hatten, denn schon vom 5. April an hatten die Franzosen tägliche und immer ernstlichere Unternehmungen gegen die Maikuhle versucht, waren aber jedesmal mit blutigen Köpfen zurückgewiesen worden, wobei die Festungsartillerie sie in der rechten Flanke wacker mitnahm, so oft sie sich in den Bereich derselben verirrten. Meist aber gingen ihre Angriffe von dem Punkte von Alt- und Neu-Werder aus, indem sie, wie z. B. am 9. und 10. April, vielleicht tausend und mehr Menschen dazu verwandten. Hier legte ihnen jedoch das große Torfmoor, welches sich bis zum Kolberger Deep hin erstreckt und nur auf wenigen Dämmen zugänglich ist, so große Hindernisse entgegen, daß es ihnen nie gelingen wollte, mit einer bedeutenden Macht durchzudringen. Allein der feindliche Anführer wollte keineswegs aufhören, um den Besitz der Maikuhle zu ringen. Schon am 11. zogen starke Truppenabteilungen über die Verbindungsbrücke bei der Altstadt nach Sellnow hinüber, und am nächstfolgenden Tage entwickelte sich vor Neu-Werder eine Macht von wenigstens ein paar Tausend Köpfen, die einen härteren Stand als jemals befürchten ließ. Schill wartete jedoch diesen Angriff nicht ab, ging dem Feinde mit ein paar Kanonen und seinem gesamten Korps entgegen, verwickelte ihn in den Morast und benutzte die unter ihm entstandene Unordnung so rasch und glücklich, daß auf dem verwirrten Rückzuge Alt- und Neu-Werder für den Feind verloren gingen und er bis an seine feste Stellung bei Sellnow zurückgetrieben wurde. Es ging dabei scharf her, und unsre Leute bewiesen einen Mut, der nicht genug zu loben ist. Vier Kompagnien der Besatzung rückten während des Gefechts vor das Gelder-Tor hinaus, und es ist nicht zu leugnen, daß sie, indem sie dem Feinde Besorgnis für seine Flanke und seinen Rücken erregten, nicht wenig dazu beitrugen, seinen Rückzug zu beschleunigen. Hätten jedoch eben diese Truppen, vielleicht noch durch einige Mannschaft mehr unterstützt, sich etwas weiter hervor und einen entschlossenen Anfall auf Sellnow selbst und die dahinterliegende Schanze gewagt, so würden die Vorteile dieses Tages eine noch entschiedenere Gestalt angenommen, die gänzliche Zersprengung des Feindes bewirkt und den Wiedergewinn des Kauzenberges zur Folge gehabt haben. Das wurde auch von den Franzosen in Sellnow selbst so lebhaft befürchtet, daß dort bereits zum Abzuge eingepackt war. Das war es aber auch, was Schill zu wiederholten Malen und aufs dringendste vom Kommandanten forderte, als er noch am Abende den Entschluß faßte, den Angriff seinerseits von Werder aus fortzusetzen. Allein Loucadou hatte keine Ohren für diesen Vorschlag, sei es nun, daß er, seiner alten Ansicht getreu, außerhalb der Wälle nichts aufs Spiel setzen wollte oder daß sein tief gewurzelter Widerwille gegen Schills Person und überlegenen Geist ihm nicht gestattete, zu irgendeiner Idee, die von diesem ausging, die Hände zu bieten. Genug, der günstige Augenblick ward versäumt und kehrte nie wieder! * * * * * Drei Tage nachher, am 15. April, schiffte der Rittmeister v. Schill sich auf einem Fahrzeuge ein, das nach Schwedisch-Pommern abging. Das neuerlichste Mißverständnis mit dem engherzigen Kommandanten trug wohl vornehmlich die Schuld, daß jener wackere Mann in einer so schwülen Stickluft nicht länger auszudauern vermochte. Ohnehin war sein ins Große strebender Geist nicht für die engen Verhältnisse eines belagerten Platzes gemacht, aber dennoch würde er wie bisher seinen Platz ehrenvoll ausgefüllt haben, wenn man seiner Kraft nicht Hemmketten angelegt hätte. Aber indem er sich jetzt von uns entfernte, geschah es nur, um uns aus der Ferne desto wirksamere Hilfe zu gewähren. Von Anfang an waren seine Entwürfe dahin gerichtet gewesen, sich in Pommern ein Kriegstheater zu errichten, von wo aus Stralsund und Kolberg sich zu wechselseitiger Unterstützung die Hände böten. Nun waren aber in den letzten Tagen auf allerlei Wegen die günstigsten Nachrichten bei uns eingekommen, wie nicht nur der König von Schweden das gegen ihn operierende französische Korps über die Peene zurückgedrängt habe, sondern auch mit einem Teil seiner Macht auf Swinemünde vordringe und im Begriff sei, auch Wollin von den Feinden zu säubern, also wohl gar unserm Platze wieder Luft zu verschaffen. Nun erwiesen sich diese Nachrichten zwar in der Folge zum Teil ganz anders, aber doch waren sie ermunternd genug, um einen Mann von Schills feuriger Seele zu dem Entschlusse zu begeistern, den guten Willen der Schweden an Ort und Stelle gegen den gemeinschaftlichen Widersacher in Bewegung zu setzen. Um diese Absichten konnten und durften indes nur wenige wissen, und je mehr also seine Entfernung als die Folge seiner Zwistigkeiten mit Loucadou erschien, um so schmerzlicher und unmutiger war das allgemeine Bedauern. * * * * * In diesen Tagen war es, wo ich mit dem bekannten Heinrich v. Bülow einen sonderbaren Auftritt erlebte. Man weiß, daß es beim Ausbruche des Krieges für angemessen befunden wurde, diesen in seiner Originalität verkommenen Mann zu uns nach Kolberg zu schaffen, wo er einige Zeit verblieb; von vielen als ein Wundertier angestaunt, von andern mit unbilliger Geringschätzung behandelt, aber immer noch im Genuß einer leidlichen Freiheit, wie Staatsgefangene sie genießen können. Leider suchte er nun in dieser letzten Zeit, und so auch bei uns, seine Grillen in der Flasche zu ersäufen; und so war er eines Abends im trunkenen Mute auf der Straße in Verdrießlichkeiten geraten, worüber eine Bürgerpatrouille hinzukam und ihn wegen geleisteten Widerstandes auf der Hauptwache in einstweiligen Verwahrsam brachte. Man kann denken, daß er gegen eine solche Maßregel mancherlei dreinzureden hatte. Ich kam zufällig dazu, hörte sein Toben und ermahnte ihn, sich zu mäßigen und zu fügen. In eben dem Maße aber mehrte sich seine Ereiferung, und plötzlich hub er an, in gutem Englisch seinem verbitterten Herzen auf eine Weise Luft zu machen, wobei König und alles, was preußisch war, gar übel wegkam. Hatte er sich aber vielleicht darauf verlassen, daß seine Zuhörer ihn nicht verstehen würden, so war er um so mehr verwundert, als ich, der ich diese Lästerung nicht länger geduldig anhören konnte, ihm in gleicher Sprache bedeutete: daß, wenn er jene Worte zu deutsch über seine Lippen gehen lasse, ich ihm nicht dafür bürgen möchte, ob sie ihm nicht Kopf und Kragen kosten sollten. Er werde also wohltun, sich Zaum und Gebiß anzulegen. Kaum hörte der Wütende die ersten englischen Silben aus meinem Munde, so ward er urplötzlich ein ganz andrer Mann. Er fiel mir entzückt um den Hals, küßte mich und beteuerte, für alles was nur einen englischen Klang habe, lasse er Leib und Leben. Sofort auch waren und blieben wir die besten Freunde; da ihm indes sein Unmut immer wieder von neuem aufstieg, so forderte er Feder und Papier, um an den Kommandanten zu schreiben und Beschwerde über die ihm widerfahrene Behandlung zu führen. Beides ward ihm gereicht, um seine Lebensgeister zu beruhigen. Die Feder tanzte auch lustig auf dem Papiere hin, und man sah wohl, es war sein Handwerk. Indem ich aber von Zeit zu Zeit über seine Schulter hin in das Geschreibsel schielte, nahm ich bald wahr, daß der Inhalt, voll Schmähungen und harter Vorwürfe, nicht dazu gemacht war, ihm an Loucadou einen Patron und Gönner zu erwerben. Um also ferneres Unheil zu verhüten, und da die Blattseite eben voll war, sagte ich: »Nun ist's wohl Zeit, auch Sand darauf zu streuen,« -- nahm das volle Tintenfaß und goß es über die Pastete her. Er stutzte; alles lachte. Endlich lachte er mit, schüttelte mir die Hand, und sein Ärger war vergessen. * * * * * Seit dem letzten mißlungenen Versuche auf die Maikuhle geschahen nur hier und da einige Angriffe auf unsre Vorpostenkette, um unsre Aufmerksamkeit zu beschäftigen. Dagegen wagte der Feind sich, ohne daß wir Kunde davon erhielten, in diesen Tagen an ein Unternehmen, das kühn und groß genug aufgefaßt war, um, wenn die Ausführung glückte, uns mit all unsern bisherigen Verteidigungsanstalten, im eigentlichsten Wortverstande, aufs Trockene zu bringen. Es sollte nämlich der Persante ein andres Bett gegraben und sie in den Kampschen See abgeleitet werden. Das Werk wurde groß und kräftig angefangen; aber bald stieß man auf Schwierigkeiten, die man nicht erwartet hatte, und so ward die Sache bald wieder aufgegeben, und wir sahen uns von einer Sorge befreit, ehe sie uns noch hatte beunruhigen können: denn freilich stand hier die Wirksamkeit unsres ganzen Überschwemmungssystems auf dem Spiele, und selbst unser Hafen wäre, wenn auch nicht bis auf den Grund ausgetrocknet, doch durch den nächsten Seesturm bis zur völligen Unbrauchbarkeit versandet worden. In der Beschießung der Festung schien es dem Feinde bis gegen Ende April immer noch kein recht lebendiger Ernst zu sein, was ohne Zweifel seinen Grund im Mangel von hinreichendem Schießbedarfe hatte. Sowohl Haubitzen als Mörser waren nur von kleinem Kaliber und erreichten darum auch nicht immer ihr Ziel, oder taten doch, nach Verhältnis, nur geringen Schaden. Ein paarmal ward es von der Schanze des Hohen-Berges her versucht, ob das Feldgeschütz bis in die Stadt hinein zu tragen vermöge: aber nur vier Kanonenkugeln gelangten bis dahin und beschädigten einige Dächer. Auch ward dies fruchtlose Feuer von dem schwereren Geschütze unsrer Wälle bald zum Schweigen gebracht. Hätte sich das letztere doch nur eben so wirksam gegen die feindlichen Wurfbatterien auf der Altstadt bewiesen, deren zerstörende Wirkungen uns mit jedem Tage empfindlicher trafen und uns nicht nur den Ruin unsrer Häuser, sondern auch manchem Gesundheit und Leben kosteten. Zwar vereinigte sich unsre Artillerie am 23. April, nach dieser Seite hin, zu einer neuen lebhaften Anstrengung, die Einäscherung der dortigen Gebäude, die uns so viel Herzeleid machten, zu vollenden: aber es war nicht zu bewerkstelligen; und dies schlug den Mut der Menge merklich nieder. Die Geringschätzung gegen unsern unfähigen Kommandanten ging allmählich in wirklichen Haß und Feindseligkeit über, und das nur um so mehr, da es so manchen würdigen Offizier unter der Besatzung gab, der das Herz auf dem rechten Fleck und viel Einsicht und Überlegung hatte, aber sein Licht unter den Scheffel stellen mußte. Ich nenne hier nur den Ingenieurleutnant Wolf, der später nach Glogau versetzt wurde, den Platzmajor Zimmermann, jetzt Kommandant von Wolgast, und den in seinem Fache überaus geschickten und tätigen Artillerieleutnant Post, jetzigen Major und Postmeister in Treptow. Sie alle, und nicht wenige andre mit ihnen, taten, was in ihren Kräften stand und was Loucadous Eigensinn und Dünkel ihnen nur irgend gestattete. * * * * * Desto sehnsüchtiger waren meine Hoffnungen auf Memel gerichtet: denn in meiner Seele lebte ein unüberwindliches Vertrauen, daß der Klageschrei, den ich bereits vor einem Monat dahin hatte ertönen lassen, das Ohr des Königs erreicht haben werde. Unsre Verbindung nach jenem Platze hin war nun nach und nach immer lebendiger geworden. Der Kaufmann Schröder hatte vier oder fünf Schiffe, groß und klein, von zweihundertachtzig bis sechzig Last, in unserm Hafen müßig liegen, und diese waren nunmehr und späterhin unaufhörlich zwischen Kolberg und Memel unterwegs; bald mit Kriegsgefangenen, deren wir uns dorthin entledigten, bald auch wohl nur mit einem einzigen Briefe, wenn es eine besonders wichtige Angelegenheit betraf. Für eine jede solche Fahrt, die jezuweilen, bei günstigem Winde, in fünf bis sechs Tagen hin und zurück getan wurde, ward dem Eigentümer die Last mit acht bis neun Talern bezahlt und Proviant für drei Wochen unentgeltlich mitgegeben. Es wurden auf solche Weise zweiundsiebzigtausend Taler verdient. Und nun rückten allmählich auch unsre Wünsche der Erfüllung immer näher. Am 26. April erschienen zwei jener Schiffe auf der Reede, welche das zweite pommersche Reservebataillon, siebenhundert Köpfe stark, in Memel eingeschifft hatten und unsrer Besatzung als willkommene Verstärkung zuführten. Unser war also keineswegs vergessen worden, sondern es geschah zur Hilfe für unser Bedrängnis, was die Not des Augenblicks zuließ. Als die Truppen des nächsten Tages ans Land gesetzt wurden, erschien auch von der andern Seite her ein Schiff von Schwedisch-Pommern mit einer guten Anzahl Ranzionierter, welche der dorthin abgeschickte Hauptmann v. Bülow in Stralsund gesammelt und organisiert hatte. Und wahrlich! solcher ermunternden Erscheinungen bedurften wir auch in diesem Augenblicke mehr als jemals, da eben kurz zuvor (den 25. April) die sichere Kunde bei uns eingegangen war, daß das längst erwartete schwere Belagerungsgeschütz im feindlichen Lager eingetroffen sei. Jetzt erst drohte also der Kampf um Kolbergs Besitz seinen vollen Ernst zu gewinnen! Diesen Ernst zeigten die Franzosen ihrerseits sofort am 29. April auch dadurch, daß sie unter dem Schutze der Hohen-Bergschanze, halben Weges von dort gegen die Stadt, eine Schanze aufwarfen, und ebenso eine zweite, in der Richtung von Bullenwinkel her, zu errichten begannen. Sie in dieser Nähe zu dulden, wäre hochgefährlich gewesen; allein es schien nicht, als ob unser, nach beiden Punkten hin gerichtetes Geschütz die Arbeiten sonderlich hinderte. Da nun zu jeder kräftigeren Maßregel Loucadou der Mann nicht war, und ich auch mir mit ihm nichts zu schaffen machen wollte, so eilte ich, den Vizekommandanten aufzusuchen und ihm meine neuen Besorgnisse ans Herz zu legen. In der Stadt fand ich meinen Mann nicht, aber es wurde mir gesagt, er befinde sich wegen eines von Danzig angekommenen Schiffes am Hafen, und ich war im Begriff, ihm dahin zu folgen, als er mir bereits auf der Brücke des Münder-Tores begegnete. Neben ihm ging ein Mann, den ich nicht kannte, und der mit dem Schiffe gekommen zu sein schien. Dieser Fremde, ein junger rüstiger Mann von edler Haltung, gefiel mir auf den ersten Blick, ohne daß ich wußte warum? Da indes mein Anbringen an den Vizekommandanten eilig war, zog ich ihn bei der Hand etwas abwärts, um es ihm, des fremden Mannes wegen, ins Ohr zu flüstern. Waldenfels aber lächelte zu meiner Vorsicht und sagte: »Kommen Sie nur, in meinem Quartier wird ein bequemerer Ort dazu sein.« Als wir dort angekommen und unter sechs Augen waren, wandte sich der Hauptmann zu mir mit den Worten: »Freuen Sie sich, alter Freund! Dieser Herr hier -- Major von Gneisenau -- ist der neue Kommandant, den uns der König geschickt hat«; -- und zu seinem Gaste: »Dies ist der alte Nettelbeck!« -- Ein freudiges Erschrecken fuhr mir durch alle Glieder und die Tränen stürzten mir aus den alten Augen. Zugleich zitterten mir die Knie, ich fiel vor unserm neuen Schutzgeiste nieder, umklammerte ihn und rief aus: »Ich bitte Sie um Gotteswillen, verlassen Sie uns nicht; _wir_ wollen Sie auch nicht verlassen, solange wir noch einen warmen Blutstropfen in uns haben, sollten auch all unsre Häuser zu Schutthaufen werden! So denke ich nicht allein, in uns allen lebt nur ein Sinn und Gedanke: Die Stadt darf und soll dem Feinde nicht übergeben werden!« Der Kommandant hob mich freundlich auf und tröstete mich: »Nein, Kinder! Ich werde euch nicht verlassen. Gott wird uns helfen!« -- Und nun wurden sofort einige Angelegenheiten besprochen, die wesentlich zur Sache gehörten, und wobei sich sofort der helle umfassende Blick unsres neuen Befehlshabers zutage legte, so daß mein Herz in Freude und Jubel schwamm. Dann wandte er sich zu mir und sagte: »Noch kennt mich hier niemand. Sie gehen mit mir auf die Wälle, daß ich mich etwas orientiere.« -- Das geschah. Ich führte ihn auf dem Wall und den Bastionen herum und zeigte ihm von hier aus die feindlichen Stellungen und Schanzen. Was auf den Wällen war und vorging, sah er selbst. Zuletzt kamen wir auch an die Inundationsschleuse. Ich zeigte ihm den ganzen Zusammenhang und Umfang dieser Einrichtung, und wieviel dadurch noch für die Sicherstellung des Platzes geschehen könne: denn was bis jetzt dadurch bewirkt worden, war meist heimlich von mir geschehen, weil der Einspruch der Grundeigentümer bisher nicht zu besiegen gewesen war. Jetzt aber sah ich mir freiere Hand gegeben, und ward sogar förmlich beauftragt, mich dieses Geschäfts mit besonderer Sorgfalt anzunehmen. Gleich des nächsten Tages stellte der neue Kommandant sich selbst, auf der Bastion Preußen, der Garnison als ihren jetzigen Anführer vor, und diese Feierlichkeit begleitete er mit einer Anrede, die so eindrucksvoll und rührend war, wie wenn ein guter Vater mit seinen lieben Kindern spräche. Alles ward auch dadurch dergestalt erschüttert, daß die alten bärtigen Krieger wie die Kinder weinten und mit schluchzender Stimme ausriefen: Sie wollten mit ihm für König und Vaterland leben und sterben. Darauf machte er sie mit den Grundsätzen bekannt, nach welchen er sie befehligen werde, wessen sie sich von ihm zu versehen hätten, und was er von ihnen erwarte. Tausend Stimmen jauchzten ihm im freudigen Tumult entgegen. Am 1. Mai ließ er sich zunächst die Zivilbehörden und Bürgerrepräsentanten vorstellen, hielt auch an uns eine nachdrucksvolle Rede, worin er uns verschiedene zweckmäßige Anordnungen vorschlug, und wodurch ihm aller Herzen so gewonnen wurden, daß sie begeistert und mit Handschlag erklärten, sie wollten Leben und Vermögen willig in seine Hände legen. -- Und fürwahr, ein neues Leben und ein neuer Geist kam nunmehr, wie vom Himmel herab, in alles, was um und mit uns vorging. In welcherlei Weise das erste Zusammentreffen des alten und des neuen Kommandanten stattgefunden, davon konnte freilich im Publikum nichts Gewisses verlauten, nur ließ sich voraussetzen, daß der edle Sinn des Neuangekommenen seinem Vorgänger jedes unangenehme Gefühl, das in dieser Veränderung lag, nach Möglichkeit erspart haben werde. Zwar wohnte er die ersten paar Tage noch mit Loucadou in dem nämlichen Hause, aber ohne weitere Gemeinschaft mit ihm zu pflegen. Auch blieb letzterer noch die ganze Zeit der Belagerung hindurch in Kolberg; doch ohne weiter öffentlich zum Vorschein zu kommen, und die Spötter meinten, er habe diese Zeit benutzt, um nun ruhig auszuschlafen. Des Königs Gnade hatte ihn übrigens seines Dienstes mit dem Charakter als Generalmajor und mit einer hinlänglichen Pension entlassen. Er setzte sich alsdann in Köslin zur Ruhe und ist dort einige Jahre nachher gestorben. * * * * * Da der Feind fortfuhr, an der neuen Schanze am Sandwege mit angestrengtem Eifer zu arbeiten, so hatte unser neuer Kommandant gleich in der nächsten Nacht einen Ausfall gegen diese angeordnet, der von einem Trupp Grenadiere und Jäger, etwa hundert Mann stark, in möglichster Stille, von der Lauenburger Vorstadt aus, unternommen wurde. Ich schloß mich dem Zuge mit zwei in der Vorstadt aufgegriffenen Wagen an, um erforderlichenfalls unsre Toten und Verwundeten aufnehmen zu können. Die Überrumpelung erfolgte mit gefälltem Bajonett im Sturmschritt, und es lag nur daran, daß die Schanze noch nicht geschlossen war, wenn es der darin befindlichen Besatzung gelang, bis auf wenige Gefangene, zu entkommen. Wir selbst hatten ebensowenig Verlust, erbeuteten aber vieles Arbeitszeug, welches, nachdem es dazu benutzt worden, um den Aufwurf möglichst wieder zu zerstören, auf meine Wagen geladen und in die Festung geschafft wurde. Unter unsern Gefangenen befand sich ein Mensch, den anfänglich niemand in seinem veränderten Rocke erkannte, bis ich mich endlich auf seine Gesichtszüge besann. Es war der nämliche Unteroffizier Reischard, der vor etwa sechs Wochen, als eines heimlichen Einverständnisses höchst verdächtig, zum Feinde übergelaufen war. Ich muß gestehen, daß mir wegen dieses ehrlosen Buben seither nicht wenig bange gewesen war. Er kannte jeden Zugang zu unsrer Festung und verstand einiges vom Fortifikationswesen, daher er nicht nur bei uns zu dergleichen Arbeiten gebraucht worden war, sondern auch, als besonders ortskundig, jetzt bei den Franzosen die Aufsicht bei Erbauung dieser Schanze am Sandwege geführt hatte. Der plötzliche Anblick des Verräters setzte mich in Wut. Ich schrie den Grenadieren zu, sie sollten den Schändlichen wie einen tollen Hund niederstoßen, und erzürnte mich noch heftiger, als sie mir dies verweigerten, weil sie ihm einmal Pardon gegeben. Jetzt wollte ich selbst ihm ans Leben, und griff hier und dort hin nach einem Bajonett, das mir aber mit Glimpf vorenthalten wurde. Ich mußte es mit ansehen, daß man ihn lebendig zur Stadt brachte. Je unwerter er mir aber erschien, daß ihn die Erde trüge, desto eifriger waren nun auch meine Vorstellungen bei dem Kommandanten, dem Bösewichte seinen verdienten Lohn am Galgen auszuwirken und ihn zu einem abschreckenden Beispiele für alle seinesgleichen zu machen. Allein auch hier überwog das menschliche Gefühl die strenge Gerechtigkeit. Von einem mitleidigeren Gesichtspunkte ausgehend, begnügte sich sein edler Richter, ihn zur Kettenstrafe und Aufbewahrung im Stockhause zu verurteilen. Dort blieb er noch vier oder fünf Jahre gefangen, worauf man ihn lausen ließ; und noch diese Stunde bettelt er in der Gegend umher. * * * * * Je enger die Stadt seither eingeschlossen worden, um so weniger blieb auch der Kavallerie des Schillschen Korps der erforderliche Spielraum, sich mit der sonst gewohnten Tätigkeit zu tummeln. Loucadou, dem überhaupt das ganze Korps ein Dorn im Auge war, hatte schon früher auf die Entfernung jener Reiterei, nach Schills Abzuge, gedrungen; und diese hatte auch einen Versuch gemacht, sich nach Preußen durchzuschlagen. Da jedoch alle Möglichkeit dazu verschwand, war sie aus der Gegend von Stolpe wieder nach Kolberg zurückgekehrt und zehrte sich nun in sich selber auf. So fand es denn Gneisenau am angemessensten, den Rest dieses Korps, der etwa noch 130 Mann betrug, zu Schiff nach Schwedisch-Pommern überführen zu lassen, wo es aufs neue in Wirksamkeit treten konnte. Die nämlichen höheren Befehle, welche ihn dazu bestimmten, hatten auch den Abzug der übrigen Schillschen Truppen angeordnet; allein der Kommandant selbst sowohl, als die Bürgerschaft, hatten sich zu lebendig von ihrem Nutzen überzeugt, um nicht gegen diese neue Bestimmung gemeinschaftlich einzukommen. Sie blieben also noch und behaupteten ihren Posten nach wie vor in der Maikuhle. Ohnehin hatten die Operationen des schwedischen Korps in Vorpommern seither eine minder günstige Wendung genommen. Anstatt über Swinemünde und Wollin unsern Belagerern in den Rücken zu fallen und uns Luft zu machen, waren diese unsre Verbündeten wieder bis unter die Kanonen von Stralsund zurückgedrängt worden, und wir sahen nunmehr jede in sie gesetzte Hoffnung verschwunden. * * * * * Als einiger Ersatz jedoch für diese schmerzlich empfundene Vereitelung erschien in diesen Tagen eine schwedische Fregatte von sechsundvierzig Kanonen, »der Fährmann« genannt, und legte sich auf unsrer Reede vor Anker. Sie war angewiesen, uns in unsrer Verteidigung von der Seeseite zu unterstützen. Dies tat sie in der Folge auch wirklich, indem sie die Arbeiten des Feindes an der Ostseite in seiner rechten Flanke beunruhigte und aufhielt. Sie würde dies wirksamer vermocht haben, wenn entweder der Wind zu allen Zeiten ermöglicht hätte, sich dem Strande genugsam zu nähern, oder wenn ihr Feuer weiter landeinwärts getragen hätte. Überhaupt war sie zu groß und ging zu tief, um an dieser Küste von gleichem Nutzen zu sein, wie eine ungleich kleinere englische Brigg von achtzehn Kanonen, die sich ihr nach einiger Zeit zugesellte und mit ihr gemeinschaftlich manövrierte. Anderweitige dankenswerte Hilfe kam uns am 7. Mai durch ein Schiff von Königsberg, welches uns das dritte neumärkische Reservebataillon, zur Ergänzung der Besatzungstruppen, herbeiführte, sowie schon kurz zuvor vierhundertsechzig Ranzionierte, die in Vorpommern wieder bewaffnet worden, auf schwedischen Schiffen anlangten. Die Garnison wurde durch dies alles auf eine Zahl von sechstausend dienstfähigen Köpfen gebracht, und hat auch diesen Belauf nie überschritten; wogegen mit Sicherheit anzunehmen ist, daß gegen das Ende der Belagerung zwanzig- bis vierundzwanzigtausend Franzosen vor unserm Platze unter den Waffen standen. Die Desertion unter unsern Truppen war im ganzen gering; nur im Anfange gingen besonders mehrere Polen zum Feinde über. Dagegen fanden sich wenigstens ebensoviele, wenn nicht noch mehr Ausreißer, zumal von den deutschen Bundestruppen, bei unsern Vorposten ein. * * * * * Zunächst beschränkten sich fortan die Feindseligkeiten auf Vorpostengefechte und auf einzelne Granatenwürfe, besonders von der Altstadt her. Noch am 7. Mai zündete eine der letzteren in einem Hause, auf dessen Hofe wir eine Batterie gegen jene Vorstadt errichtet hatten. Es ging dadurch das erste während dieser Belagerung durch feindliches Geschütz verursachte Feuer auf, das unsre recht guten Löschanstalten dennoch erst zu unterdrücken vermochten, nachdem es noch einige Hintergebäude ergriffen und verzehrt hatte. Sobald der Feind die Wirkung jenes Wurfes bemerkte, unterließ er nicht, zur Verhinderung des Löschens, immer noch mehr Schüsse nach diesem Punkte zu richten, so daß bis spät in die Nacht vierundachtzig geworfene und geplatzte Granaten gezählt wurden. Unsre Artillerie beantwortete sie mit einer mehr als doppelten Anzahl von Schüssen. Am 15. Mai gelangte die schwedische Fregatte zum erstenmal zu einiger Tätigkeit, indem sie dem Feinde, der sich nördlich am Stadtwalde zeigte, zweiundvierzig Kugeln zuschickte. Daß indes die Untätigkeit der Belagerer nur scheinbar war und neue wichtigere Entwürfe von ihnen vorbereitet wurden, ging genugsam aus den lebhaften Bewegungen hervor, welche von Zeit zu Zeit in ihren Stellungen bemerkt wurden. Das Hauptquartier des Generals Teullié, welcher nach dem Abgange des Marschalls Mortier zur großen Armee den Oberbefehl wieder übernahm, war näher von Zernin nach Tramm verlegt worden, wohin große Züge beladener Wagen von Treptow ihre Richtung nahmen. Faschinen wurden nach allen Seiten hin gefahren; man erblickte häufig die feindlichen Offiziere auf Rekognoszierungen begriffen, und von Tramm aus ward Geschütz von großem Kaliber in die Verschanzungen geführt. Um diese Bewegungen noch genauer zu beobachten, verlangte der Kommandant einen Bürger, der des Terrains um die Stadt vollkommen kundig wäre und auch einige militärische Kenntnisse besäße, und hatte die Absicht, denselben auf den großen Kirchturm zu postieren. Ich schlug hierzu den Brauer Roland vor, welcher sich auch gern willig finden ließ und von seinen gemachten Bemerkungen, nach Erfordernis, Bericht abstattete; während der Schiffer Busch es übernahm, von dort aus ein gleich wachsames Auge auf den Hafen und die See zu haben und gleichfalls Meldungen zu machen. Zu dem Ende brachte ich an dem Turme eine Winde mit einem Kästchen an, worin Fragen und Antworten auf und nieder befördert wurden, und eine Schildwache unten erhielt die Maschine im Gange. Bald blieb dieser Posten nicht ohne Gefahr, da der Feind jene Späher gewahr geworden war und nun häufig die Turmspitze zum Zielpunkte seiner Artillerie machte. Endlich am 17. Mai geschahen von der Schanze auf dem Hohen-Berge die ersten sieben Probeschüsse aus dem dort aufgeführten schweren Wurfgeschütze. Trotz der ansehnlichen Entfernung verfehlten diese Bomben ihres Zieles nicht, denn eine derselben tötete einen Grenadier mitten in der Stadt vor der Hauptwache. Die Wirksamkeit des nunmehr zu erwartenden Bombardements stand uns also klar vor Augen. Allein Schlimmeres noch, als wir ahnten, stand uns von des Feindes Tätigkeit bereits in der nächsten Nacht auf den 18. Mai bevor, indem er die Schanze auf dem Wolfsberge überfiel und stürmte. Die Gegenwehr der Unsrigen, so brav sie war, blieb dennoch der Überzahl und dem wohlgeleiteten Angriffe nicht gewachsen. Ein Teil fiel, ein Teil ward gefangen und das Außenwerk ging verloren! Auf jede Weise aber war dieser Verlust zu bedeutend und der Nachteil, wenn ein so wichtiger Punkt in Feindes Händen bleiben sollte, zu empfindlich, als daß unser Kommandant nicht schnell und mit Anstrengung jeder Kraft darauf gesonnen hätte, sich wiederum Meister davon zu machen. Die größere Hälfte der Besatzung ward aufgeboten, in Kolonnen gebildet und zum Angriffe geführt. Einem solchen Anfalle widerstanden die Franzosen ebensowenig. Die Schanze kam wieder in unsre Hände. Gewiß war der feindliche Verlust an Toten und Verwundeten nicht geringer als der unsrige, der sich auf hundertsechzig Mann belief. Fortan aber ward dieser so blutig behauptete Posten mit dreihundert Grenadieren und sechs Kanonen besetzt. Warum die Belagerer jenen Überfall versucht hatten, offenbarte sich gleich am nächsten Tage, wo sie anfingen, einen Damm vor dem Stadtwalde aufzuwerfen, der sie durch die Sümpfe hindurch der Festung näher führen sollte. Sie hatten gefürchtet, daß ihnen bei dieser Arbeit das Feuer der Wolfsschanze in der Seite sehr lästig werden könnte, wie denn dies heute auch wirklich geschah. Zwar versuchten sie unser Geschütz durch eine Menge Granaten zum Schweigen zu bringen; allein die Entfernung war nicht gut berechnet, indem diese Granaten schon halben Weges niederfielen und zerplatzten. * * * * * Am 19. Mai geleitete jene englische Brigg, deren bereits Erwähnung geschehen, drei Schiffe ihrer Nation in unsern Hafen, deren Erscheinung wir schon längst mit heißer Sehnsucht erwarteten. Es war stürmisches Wetter, als ihre Segel am Horizonte sichtbar wurden. Sie kreuzten hin und wieder und taten verschiedene Signalschüsse, ebensowohl um die nötigen Lotsen zu erlangen, als um zu erfahren, ob sie mit Sicherheit in den Hafen einlaufen, oder wo sie sonst vor Anker gehen könnten. Diese Signalschüsse hörte ich in der Stadt, warf mich zu Pferde und eilte nach der Münde, um zu erfahren, was vorginge. Dort fand ich bereits Hunderte von Menschen, welche zusammengelaufen waren, sich an dem willkommenen Anblicke zu ergötzen. »Gut und schön, Kinder, daß sie endlich da sind,« erwiderte ich einigen, die am lautesten jubelten. »Allein woran liegt's, daß die Lotsen noch nicht in See sind, sie hier vor Anker zu bringen?« Einige Schiffer, denen ich diese Frage zunächst wiederholte, zuckten die Schultern, wiesen auf die hohe See und die schäumende Brandung hinaus, und versicherten: es sei nicht möglich, daß ein Boot sich in solchem Wetter hinauswagen könnte. »Möglich oder nicht!« rief ich mit Feuer. »Es muß versucht werden! Allein ich sehe auch nicht einmal, daß das Ding so gar halsbrechend wäre. Ich will selbst hinfahren.« Zugleich drang ich in einen Kreis von Seefahrern ein, die mir zur Linken standen; ergriff die ersten Besten an den Händen und sagte: »Ich weiß, daß ihr brave Kerls seid -- kommt, wir wollen zu den Engländern an Bord!« Wirklich auch schöpften einige gleich Mut. Wir eilten nach dem Lotsenboote und stiegen ein. Indem ich mich so selbst besah, nahm ich wahr, daß ich nur mit einer kurzen Reitjacke bekleidet war, und wünschte etwas Tüchtigeres auf den Leib zu ziehen. Neben mir stand der Superintendent Baarz, mit einem Überrocke angetan. Den bat ich, mir damit auszuhelfen. Er warf ihn mir freudig zu; ich trat ans Steuer, und wir schaukelten uns gleich darauf auf den Wellen, die es freilich etwas unfreundlich mit uns meinten. Dennoch kamen wir wohlbehalten von einem Schiffe zum andern; erteilten jede nötige Auskunft, brachten die Brigg vor dem Hafen zu Anker und die Konvoi vollends hinein in Sicherheit. Das getan, ließ ich mir von ihnen allen ein Verzeichnis ihrer mitgebrachten Ladung behändigen und sprengte im Fluge nach der Stadt zurück, dem Kommandanten meinen freudigen Bericht zu erstatten. Diese Ladungen waren ein Geschenk der englischen Regierung für die dringendsten Bedürfnisse der Festung, und eine Wirkung der unermüdlichen Begebungen, womit der brave Schill, auch aus der Ferne, für unsre Erhaltung sorgte. Er hatte nämlich schon in früherer Zeit einen seiner Offiziere nach London abgeschickt, um die englische Nation um so mancherlei, was uns zur Verteidigung fehlte, anzusprechen. Diese Anforderungen an die britische Großmut blieben um so weniger unbeachtet, als es die Bekämpfung des gemeinschaftlichen Feindes galt. In schnellster Eile, wie es die Umstände erheischten, ward daher durch Absendung jener Schiffe für uns gesorgt, indem sie uns Kriegsbedürfnisse der mannigfaltigsten Art, Munition und Montierungen zuführten. Während nun die Belagerer, insonderheit in der Gegend des Wolfsberges, die Errichtung von Dämmen und Schanzen fortsetzten, benutzte sogleich am 20. Mai die angekommene englische Brigg, in Verbindung mit der schwedischen Fregatte, eine günstige Witterung, um sich ihnen am Oststrande gegenüberzulegen und sie dort mit Heftigkeit zu beschießen. Ein Gleiches geschah unter ähnlichen Umständen auch am 26., und vom Turme herab ließ sich deutlich wahrnehmen, wie mörderisch ihr Geschütz gewirkt haben mußte, da eine Menge Toter und Verwundeter hinweggetragen oder gefahren wurde. * * * * * Des Feindes bewundernswürdige Tätigkeit hatte am Ende des Maimonats, an der Ost- wie an der Westseite der Festung -- _dort_ bis hart an den Strand, um sich gegen die Angriffe von der Seeseite besser zu schützen, _hier_ bis über Sellnow hinaus -- in einem großen Halbmonde umher nicht weniger als fünfundzwanzig große und kleine Schanzen, Batterien und Fleschen zustande gebracht und untereinander in Verbindung gesetzt; hatte künstliche Dämme auf mehr als einem Punkte begonnen und die Laufgräben an verschiedenen Orten, zunächst aber gegen die Wolfsbergschanze, eröffnet. Unserseits bot man die größte Wachsamkeit auf, unsern Gegnern jeden kleinen Vorteil, um den sie rangen, aufs hartnäckigste streitig zu machen. Die Überschwemmungen wurden nach und nach in ihrem weitesten Umfange ins Werk gerichtet, und dienten trefflich dazu, uns den Feind in einer ehrerbietigen Ferne zu halten und die Fortführung seiner Laufgräben, wenn er sie nicht voll Wasser haben wollte, zu zügeln. Fragte mich der Kommandant: »Wie steht's, Nettelbeck? Können wir nicht _noch_ einen halben Fuß höher stauen?« so fehlte es nicht an einem bereitwilligen: »Ei nun, wir wollen sehen!« und ich sorgte und künstelte so lange, bis ich den Wasserstand noch um so viel höher brachte. Die meiste Not machte mir der Müller Fischer, der stets mehr Wasser verbrauchte, als mir lieb war, bis ich mich endlich genötigt sah, ihm vier starke eiserne Bolzen über den Aufzugsschützen in solcher Höhe einzuschlagen, als ihm ohne Nachteil für die Inundationen eingeräumt werden konnte. Noch zwar konnte die fast tägliche und oft ziemlich lebhafte Beschießung der Stadt für kein eigentliches Bombardement gelten, aber doch führte sie den Ruin gar vieler Häuser herbei und die Beispiele von aufgehenden Brandflammen, sowie von verunglückten oder entsetzlich verstümmelten Menschen in Häusern und auf den Gassen wurden immer häufiger. Man durfte sich nirgends mehr in den Wohnungen und im Freien für ganz sicher halten; und je mehr Gebäude durch Bomben und Granaten unwohnlich gemacht worden waren, um so höher stieg auch die Zahl der Unglücklichen, denen es an Obdach, wie an Mitteln zum Unterhalte fehlte. Schon zu Anfang April hatte Loucadou einige, wiewohl unzureichende Veranstaltungen getroffen, eine Anzahl unnützer Menschen, Arme und die für ihren Unterhalt auf keine Weise sorgen konnten, aus der Festung und auf Booten nach Rügenwalde zu schaffen; aber noch immer waren viel zu viel Leute dieser Art vorhanden, die dem Ganzen zur Last fielen und denen des Kommandanten Menschenfreundlichkeit ihr unglückliches Los durch eine gezwungene Auswanderung nicht noch mehr erschweren mochte. Diese bedauernswerten Menschen irrten nun häufig in den Straßen umher, während die feindlichen Kugeln immerdar über ihren Köpfen wegzogen, und alte Männer und Frauen, Kinder, Verlassene und Kranke füllten die Luft mit ihrem Geschrei und Wimmern. Mich jammerte dies Elend, und ich ging zu Gneisenau, ihn aufmerksam darauf zu machen. Mein Vorschlag zu einstweiliger Unterbringung dieses Menschenhäufleins fand auch sofort das freundlichste Gehör. Es gab nämlich eine Kasematte unter dem Walle, links des Stockhauses, worin zwar einige Gefangene aufbehalten wurden, die aber leicht im Stockhause selbst untergebracht werden konnten. Froh über die Erlaubnis, meine irrenden Schäflein in diese sichere Zuflucht einweisen zu dürfen, mußte ich nun zunächst bemüht sein, diesen Aufenthalt von einem mit nichts zu vergleichenden Schmutz zu säubern und zu einem erträglich gesunden Wohnorte für Menschen wieder herzustellen. Dies geschah, indem ich die feuerfeste Kasematte mit zwei Schock Stroh anfüllen und dieses anzünden ließ, so daß Wände und Gewölbe rein ausgeglüht wurden und die dumpfe Feuchtigkeit sich verzehrte. In diese schwarze Höhle konnten nunmehr gegen zweihundert Heimlose aller Art und Geschlechts einquartiert werden; und bis zum Ende der Belagerung begehrte auch kein einziger von dannen zu weichen. * * * * * Eine andre Not tat sich uns auf in dem Mangel klingender Scheidemünze, wodurch der tägliche Verkehr, besonders des gemeinen Soldaten mit der Bürgerschaft, sehr erschwert und die regelmäßige Zahlung der Löhnungen beinahe unmöglich gemacht wurde. Das Gouvernement, nachdem es die Bürger vergeblich zu einer baren Anleihe aufgefordert (wozu zwar die Armen ihr Scherflein willig darbrachten, während die großen Kapitalisten dermalen nicht zu Hause waren), dachte auf einige Abhilfe durch Einführung einer eignen Not- und Belagerungsmünze, wozu das Metall einer zersprungenen großen metallenen Kanone angewandt werden sollte. Allein es verstand sich niemand in der Stadt aufs Prägen, und es war auch nicht die geringste Vorrichtung dazu vorhanden. Da erinnerte ich mich, daß ich vormals im holländischen Amerika eine Art von Papiergeld, zur Erleichterung des kleinen Verkehrs unter den Pflanzern, im Gange gefunden hatte; und ich fand es zweckmäßig, die Einführung ähnlicher, obrigkeitlich gestempelter Münzzettel zu einem bestimmten Werte zu empfehlen. Der Vorschlag wurde beachtet und durch eine aus Seglerhaus-Verwandten und Bürger-Repräsentanten zusammengesetzte Kommission wirklich ausgeführt. Die Billets, von zwei, vier und acht Groschen im Werte, und auf der Rückseite durch den Stempel des königlichen Gouvernementssiegels autorisiert, fanden willigen Eingang, wurden in der Folge eingelöst und viele, als Denkzeichen der überstandenen Drangsale, innebehalten oder, selbst über ihren Nennwert, als Seltenheiten an zu uns hereingekommene sächsische Offiziere und andre Fremde verkauft. Vom 5. Juni an ward es immer unverkennbarer, daß dem Wolfsberge ein regelmäßiger Angriff drohte, indem die feindlichen Laufgräben sich diesem Außenwerke allnächtlich mehr zu nähern suchten. Schon mit dem Abend dieses Tages begann diese fortgesetzte Arbeit mit einem solchen Eifer, daß unserseits die volle Kraft aufgeboten werden mußte, dies Vorrücken zu verhindern. Es kam daher von allen Werken und Schanzen im Bereich jenes Postens zu einer gegenseitigen Kanonade, welche die ganze Nacht durch anhielt, stärker war, als wir sie in aller Zeit bisher gehört hatten, und sowohl uns als dem Feinde viele Menschen kostete. Dennoch schien man französischerseits nur die Vollendung einer neuen, uns ziemlich auf den Leib gerückten Batterie am sogenannten »Hasenwied« erwartet zu haben (welche, trotz dem schrecklichsten Regenwetter, am 10. Juni zustandekam), als auch sofort in aller Frühe des nächsten Morgens das gefürchtete Ungewitter gegen die Wolfsschanze wirklich losbrach. In Zeit von einer Stunde zählte man dreihunderteinundsechzig Schüsse, die gegen diesen einzigen Punkt gerichtet waren. Dann aber begannen auch alle übrigen Batterien der Reihe nach, bis zur Altstadt hinauf, ein mörderisches Kanonen- und Bombenfeuer gegen die Stadt und ihre Wälle auszusprühen. Überall regnete es Kugeln und Granaten; Schaden und Unglück waren beträchtlich. Dreimal schlug das Feuer vormittags und einmal nachmittags in lichten Flammen bei uns auf, die jedoch immer bald wieder unterdrückt wurden. Bei diesem Ernste des Feindes wurden denn auch neue Maßregeln der Vorsicht nötig, und durch Trommelschlag erging der Befehl an die Hausbesitzer, vor den Türen und auf den Böden gefüllte Wasserfässer zum Löschen bereit zu halten. Indem nun die Belagerer uns auf solche Weise zu tun gaben, erreichten sie ihre Absicht, uns, wiewohl wir unaufhörlich mit Kanonenkugeln in ihre Kolonnen schossen, eine kräftigere Unterstützung der Wolfsschanze zu wehren. Die Besatzung mußte ihrer eignen Tapferkeit und dem freilich nicht zureichenden Schutze der schwedischen Fregatte, welche sich dem Strande wieder nähergelegt hatte, überlassen bleiben. Bis um fünf Uhr nachmittags hielt sie sich mit rühmlicher Entschlossenheit, dann aber waren ihre Verteidigungsmittel erschöpft, und mit harter Betrübnis sahen wir sie die weiße Fahne aufstecken, nachdem bereits eine starke Bresche geschossen worden und der Ausgang eines Sturmes nicht mehr zweifelhaft war. Ein fünfzehnstündiger Waffenstillstand und demnächst eine Kapitulation für dies Werk ward abgeschlossen, vermöge deren dasselbe dem Feinde eingeräumt werden sollte, die preußische Besatzung aber, zusamt ihrem Geschütze, freien Abzug in die Festung erhielt. * * * * * Der Verlust dieses Postens konnte von entscheidenden Folgen für unser Schicksal werden, weshalb der Kommandant für notwendig hielt, schleunigst Bericht an den König zu erstatten. Der Schiffer Stechow lag eben auf der Reede zum Absegeln nach Memel fertig, und ich erhielt den Auftrag, seine Abfahrt so lange zu verzögern, bis die neuen Depeschen für ihn fertig geworden. Als ich mich eben auf dem Rückwege zur Stadt befand, erhob sich mir zur Seite plötzlich ein furchtbares Kanonen- und Bombenfeuer von unsern Wällen herab, das sämtlich gegen die kaum verlassene Wolfsschanze gerichtet war, und wenige Minuten später ward es auch aus den feindlichen Werken jener Gegend mit einem Ungestüm erwidert, daß mir Hören und Sehen verging und ich mich wacker zu sputen hatte, um nicht in die Schußlinie zu geraten. Der Erdboden unter mir bebte und die Schüsse fielen mit einer Schnelle, daß sie kaum mehr zu zählen waren. Was konnte dies zu bedeuten haben? War doch bis zum nächsten Morgen ein Waffenstillstand in Kraft! -- Doch eben _diesen_ hatte der Feind, wie ich nun erst vom Kommandanten erfuhr, gebrochen, indem er die Ausbesserung der eroberten Schanze begonnen und darin durch unser Geschütz hatte gestört werden müssen. Mich selbst erwartete daheim ein unlieblicher Anblick. Eine Bombe war in der Nähe meines Hauses niedergefahren und beim Zerspringen derselben nicht nur meine Haustür in Trümmer gegangen, sondern auch dicht dahinter auf der Flur eine Bauersfrau getötet worden. Indes fuhren die Belagerer fort, sich in der Wolfsschanze immer fester zu setzen, ja sie gänzlich umzuwandeln und Schießscharten nach unsrer Seite hin zu eröffnen, während sie sich auch andrer Orten in ihren Schanzarbeiten nicht minder fleißig erwiesen. Sie unterstützten diese Operationen durch ein anhaltendes Feuer auf unsre Wälle, die denn auch nicht säumig waren, diese Grüße nach Kräften zu erwidern. Was wir an Kanonen und Mörsern besaßen, war reiner Ausschuß und das Eisen von einer so spröden Gußmasse, daß gewöhnlich nach neun oder zehn schnellen Schüssen das Springen des Stückes befürchtet werden mußte. Wirklich traf nur zu viele derselben dies Schicksal, welches zugleich einer größeren Menge von Artilleristen auf den Wällen das Leben kostete, als durch feindliche Kugeln hingerafft wurden. * * * * * Wenn aber der zunehmende Mangel an brauchbaren Stücken uns mit banger Sorge erfüllte, so mag man sich unsre freudige Überraschung vorstellen, als am 14. Juni die Meldung einging, daß ein englisches Schiff sich der Reede nähere, welches uns eine Anzahl neuen Geschützes samt dazu gehöriger Munition zuführe. Doch ebenso schnell ward uns diese Freude wieder getrübt durch den Zusatz: das Schiff sei in dem stürmischen Wetter unter den Wind geraten und habe die Reede nicht mehr gewinnen können, sondern sich ostwärts wenden müssen, wobei es unweit Henkenhagen der Küste sich zu sehr genähert und nun in Gefahr stehe, entweder zu stranden und so den Franzosen in die Hände zu fallen oder doch von ihnen auf Booten geentert zu werden. Ich flog mehr als ich ging nach der Münde. Dort war es die alte Geschichte. Viel Mundaufsperrens, viel Fragens, viel Beratens, und dennoch kein Entschluß. Die Lotsen schoben es auf die stürmische See und wollten es nicht wagen, sich näher nach dem Schiffe umzusehen; allein es mochte ihnen, wie ich leicht spürte, wohl mehr vor den Franzosen grauen. Nun schalt ich, und das nicht wenig! Als aber nichts bei den Memmen anschlug, fiel mir kein besseres Mittel ein, sie zu beschämen, als mich auf der Stelle an vier ihrer Weiber zu wenden, die nach hiesigem Brauche des Ruderns beim Prahmen (d. h. Beladen und Entlasten der Schiffe auf der Reede) wohlerfahren und handfest sind. »Trine und ihr andern!« rief ich, »wollt ihr mit?« -- »Flugs und gern, Herr, wenn Er geht!« -- Dann packte ich noch einen Lotsen am Arme, dem ich noch die meiste Courage zutraute, zog ihn, gern oder ungern, ins Boot, und heida! ging es auf Henkenhagen zu. Freilich ließ es das böse Wetter, nachdem ich glücklich an Bord des Schiffes gekommen war, noch eine Zeitlang unentschieden, ob ich es gegen den Wind würde in den Hafen bringen können oder mich begnügen müssen, es nur weiter in See und den Franzosen aus den Krallen zu entführen. Endlich gelang mir das erstere dennoch, und das neue Geschütz ward nun im Triumphe nach der Festung abgeführt. Es waren 45 Kanonen und Haubitzen, zwar eisern, aber vom schönsten Gusse, meist kurze Karronaden, sechs-, acht- und zwölfpfündig. Der dazu gehörigen Kugeln und Granaten war nicht minder eine ansehnliche Menge. Nur eines hätte uns leicht unsre ganze Freude daran verderben können! _Kanonen_ hatten unsre Verbündeten uns zwar geschickt, aber nicht die dazu gehörigen _Lafetten_, für welche es vielleicht an hinreichendem Raume in dem Fahrzeuge fehlte oder die sonst in der Eile vergessen worden. Man weiß, wie schlecht wir selbst damit versehen waren, oder was wir etwa noch vorrätig hatten, paßte nicht zu dem Kaliber. Doch unsre Artilleristen machten aus der Not eine Tugend und wußten sich zu helfen. Wo die Schildzapfen für unsre Gestelle zu dünn waren, fütterten sie die Pfannen so lange mit Lumpen und altem Hutfilze aus, bis die Rohre ein festes Lager fanden und mit einiger Sicherheit gerichtet werden konnten. * * * * * Noch hielt der Sturm tosend und unter dem heftigsten Regen an, die Nacht auf den 15. Juni ward finsterer, als sie in dieser Jahreszeit bei uns zu sein pflegt, und alles dies begünstigte ein Unternehmen, an welches sich große Hoffnungen knüpften. Es galt einen Ausfall, der uns die Wolfsschanze zurückgeben sollte. Das Grenadierbataillon v. Waldenfels, welches sie sich hatte müssen nehmen lassen, wollte sie auch wiedergewinnen, und der über alles brave Befehlshaber desselben, zu diesem nächtlichen Sturme vom Kommandanten ausersehen, setzte sich mit hohem Enthusiasmus an die Spitze seiner Leute. Ihm von ferne nachzueifern, konnte ich wohl nicht weniger tun, als nach gewohnter Weise dem Bataillon mit ein paar Wagen zu folgen und mir die Sorge für die zu erwartenden zahlreichen Verwundeten angelegen sein zu lassen. In tiefster Stille zogen wir aus und, uns den feindlichen Posten nähernd, hatten wir das Glück, fast den Graben unbemerkt zu erreichen. Jetzt aber ward plötzlich Lärm, das Feuern begann von beiden Seiten, überall kam es zum Handgemenge und überall floß Blut. Unsre Leute stürmten wie begeistert, ihnen voran flog ihr edler Führer und war im raschen Anlaufe der erste auf der Höhe der feindlichen Brustwehr. Indem er sich umkehrt, um seine Grenadiere aufzumuntern, ihm zu folgen, trifft ihn eine Flintenkugel in die Schulter, die ihn entseelt zu Boden streckt. Allein des Führers Fall, anstatt die Seinen zu entmutigen, steigert ihre Tapferkeit zur Erbitterung; sie dringen unwiderstehlich nach und die Schanze ist erobert. Ein Oberst, mehrere andre Offiziere und zwischen zweihundert und dreihundert Franzosen werden zu Gefangenen gemacht. Ein noch empfindlicherer Verlust aber traf das Belagerungsheer, indem sein Anführer, der Divisionsgeneral Teullié, getötet wurde, der darauf in Tramm sein einstweiliges Begräbnis fand. Erobert war die Schanze allerdings, hätte sie nur auch länger als wenige Augenblicke behauptet werden können! Eine neue feindliche Kolonne, entschlossen, ihres Heerführers Tod zu rächen und des verlorenen Postens um jeden Preis wieder Herr zu werden, rückte unverzüglich heran. Das Gefecht begann wiederum und ward bei der überlegenen Zahl der Angreifenden bald so ungleich, daß keine andre Wahl übrigblieb, als uns fechtend in die Stadt zurückzuziehen. -- Vorhin und jetzt hatten wir an Offizieren und Gemeinen mehr als zwanzig Tode und Verwundete gehabt, und nur mit harter Mühe war mir's gelungen, die letzteren aufzunehmen. Am Morgen zeigte ich mich, mit einem weißen Tuche an meinen Stock befestigt, als Parlamentär den feindlichen Vorposten nächst jener Schanze und bat um die Vergünstigung, unsre noch umherliegenden Toten aufsammeln zu dürfen. Das bedurfte, wie gewöhnlich, endloser Formalitäten, doch erreichte ich zuletzt meinen Wunsch, und so brachte ich unsre tapferen Gefallenen nach der Stadt und zu Grabe. Wie viel uns jedoch am Besitze der Wolfsschanze gelegen sein müsse, das stand nicht nur unserm einsichtsvollen Kommandanten und allen Verständigeren klar vor Augen, sondern auch der große Haufe fühlte es instinktartig, und es war selbst unter den gemeinen Soldaten von nichts als von der Notwendigkeit die Rede, die Wolfsschanze um jeden Preis zurückzugewinnen. Am 19. Juni erklärte das brave Bataillon v. Waldenfels unaufgefordert und aus eignem Antriebe sich bereit zu einem solchen Unternehmen. Es habe sich den Posten nehmen lassen und seine Ehre gebiete ihm, diese Scharte blutig wieder auszuwetzen. Eine gleiche Forderung ließ das Füsilierbataillon v. Möller an den Befehlshaber ergehen, weil es bisher noch nie zu einer wichtigeren Gelegenheit ins Feuer geführt worden. Wer hätte der tapferen Doppelschar nicht freudigen Beifall zugewinkt? -- Der Ausfall ward beschlossen und noch des nämlichen Tages vor Abends ins Werk gerichtet, weil man gerade in dieser Zeit den Feind am unvorbereitetsten zu finden hoffte. Dieser Ausfall sollte wiederum von der schwedischen Fregatte unterstützt werden, und da sich's gezeigt hatte, daß diese aus Unkenntnis der Reede die rechte Stellung zu einem kräftigen Feuer nicht hatte finden können, so entschloß ich mich gern, an Bord des Schiffes zu gehen und ihm für diesmal als Pilot zu dienen. Ich führte die Fregatte, soweit es irgend die Tiefe erlaubte, der feindlichen Schanze nahe. Ihr Geschütz begann zu donnern, und nicht weniger als einhundertsiebenundfünfzig Schüsse wurden in Zeit von einer Stunde gegen diesen Punkt gerichtet, während auch die Artillerie der Festung gegen ihn ein gleich lebhaftes Feuer unterhielt. Unter dem Schutze beider rückten unsre Bataillone entschlossen zum Sturme an und immer noch herrschte in der Schanze eine Totenstille. Erst als jene fast unter die Palisaden vorgedrungen waren, wurden sie mit einem Kartätschenfeuer empfangen, dessen Wirkungen gräßlich waren. Dennoch verloren die Angreifenden den Mut ebensowenig, wie die Angegriffenen die Besonnenheit zur nachdrücklichsten Gegenwehr. Man kam auf der Brustwehr selbst zum lebhaften Handgemenge und Wunder der Tapferkeit geschahen von beiden Seiten. Allein den Feind in seinem vorteilhaften Posten zu überwältigen, ward trotz der beispiellosesten Anstrengungen mit jedem Augenblicke unmöglicher befunden. Mehr als vierhundert der Unsern lagen auf dem Platze, und von den Grenadieren, deren Zahl bereits durch frühere Verluste ansehnlich geschmolzen war, stand nur noch ein geringes Häuflein übrig. Mit bitterem Schmerze mußte man sich entschließen, den Rückzug anzutreten, und das edelste Blut war fruchtlos vergossen! Nicht geringer war unsre Betrübnis, die wir an Bord der Fregatte waren und unsre Leute endlich weichen sahen. Sobald sie sich indes eine kleine Strecke unverfolgt entfernt hatten, erneuerte auf mein Zutun unser Schiff sein Feuer, und so wurden noch fast zweihundert Kugeln auf die Schanze geschleudert. Während dieser Kanonade verhielten sich die Franzosen wiederum mäuschenstille. Wir empfingen nicht einen einzigen Schuß zurück, bis ich endlich, da nichts weiter auszurichten war, die Fregatte auf ihre alte Ankerstelle vor dem Hafen zurückbrachte. Am andern Tage gab es ein vielfältiges Parlamentieren um die Vergünstigung, unsre Toten abzuholen und zu begraben; allein man mute mir nicht zu, eine Beschreibung von diesem über alles erbarmenswürdigen Anblicke zu geben. Denke sich jeder selbst, wie es auf einem Platze von kaum zweihundert Schritten aussehen mußte, wo zwischen vierhundert und fünfhundert Leichname neben- und aufeinander, und zum Teil aufs gräßlichste verstümmelt und zerrissen, umherlagen. * * * * * So blieb denn der Wolfsberg fortan für uns verloren, der unter den geschäftigen Händen der Belagerer, trotz unsrer Artillerie und ihrer zerstörenden Wirkungen täglich eine verstärkte Festigkeit erhielt. Sie nannten die Schanze jetzt »das Fort Loison«, zu Ehren des französischen Divisionsgenerals, der als Oberbefehlshaber in Teulliés Stelle getreten war, und ihre Kerntruppen rückten dort zur Besatzung ein. Wir an unsrer Seite waren jedoch nicht minder beflissen, dem Platze und dem Hafen gegen diese Seite eine neue Deckung zu geben, indem wir die Ziegelschanze (dicht hinter der Vorstadt Stubbenhagen nordöstlich gelegen) möglichst verstärkten und darin auch, obwohl in unsern Arbeiten durch jenes feindliche Werk nicht wenig belästigt, glücklich zustandekamen. Von hier ab bis zum 30. Juni nahm unser Geschick eine immer ernstlichere Wendung. Frische Truppenabteilungen verstärkten das Belagerungsheer und errichteten neue Lager unter unsern Augen. In eben dem Maße auch wurden die Schanzen ringsumher an Mannschaften lebendiger, neue Werke stiegen empor, die Laufgräben näherten sich und schnürten uns auf einen immer engeren Raum zusammen. Die Beschießung des Platzes, täglich fortgesetzt, zeigte sich auch täglich zerstörender in ihren Wirkungen. Besonders diente die große Marienkirche bei ihrer Lage mitten in der Stadt und als der hervorragendste Gegenstand allen feindlichen Geschützen zum Zielpunkte und litt außerordentlich. Loucadou hatte diese, wie andre Kirchen, zu Stroh- und Heumagazinen ausgezeichnet, bis sein Nachfolger, von einem besseren Geiste beseelt, das Gebäude sofort der öffentlichen Gottesverehrung zurückgab und jene gefährlichen Brennstoffe am Glacis vor dem Münder Tore in abgeänderte Haufen aufschichten ließ. Nunmehr aber war eine dringendere Notwendigkeit eingetreten, diesen weiten und luftigen Raum der täglich wachsenden Zahl der Kranken und Verwundeten von der Garnison einzuräumen. Da nun die Kirche vollgestopft von solchen Unglücklichen lag, so mag man sich das Elend vorstellen, welches hier herrschte, indem die Kugeln durch alle Teile des Gebäudes hindurchfuhren. Ein Flügel desselben bewahrte nahe an hundert französische Kriegsgefangene auf, allein ihre Landsleute nahmen hierauf, unsrer Hoffnung entgegen, keine Rücksicht und beharrten auf ihrem Werke der Zerstörung. In der Nacht vom 27. auf den 28. Juni stand ich auf dem Walle an der Brustwehr der Bastion Preußen und in einer Unterredung mit dem Kommandanten begriffen, als eine feindliche Bombe kaum fünfzehn oder zwanzig Schritte von uns niederfuhr, in der Erde wühlte und brummte. Hastig ergriff ich meinen Nachbar bei der Hand, zog ihn etwas seitwärts und rief: »Fort! fort! Hier ist nicht gut sein!« -- Gneisenau aber, kaltblütig stehen bleibend, erwiderte: »Nicht doch, die tut uns nichts!« -- In dem nämlichen Augenblicke auch platzte die Bombe, ohne uns weiteren Schaden zuzufügen, als daß sie uns über und über mit der aufgewühlten Erde bedeckte. Des folgenden Tages gelang es mir abermals, mit Hilfe des Lotsen Faßholz, ein englisches Schiff, das uns neue Vorräte von Kanonen, Bombenkesseln und Bomben zuführte, aus dem Bereiche des feindlichen Geschützes in den Hafen zu führen. Am folgenden Tage war es, daß unser Kommandant mich mit einer Sendung in das feindliche Hauptquartier nach Tramm beauftragte. Er gab mir dazu sein Pferd und ein offenes Schreiben an den General Loison, worin nur mit wenig Worten bemerkt war, daß mir für mein Anbringen voller Glauben beizumessen sein werde. Als ich damit bei den französischen Vorposten anlangte, wurden mir die Augen verbunden und das Pferd von zwei Begleitern am Zügel geführt, während zwei andre, mit Gewehr versehen, mir zur Seite gingen. So kam ich endlich in Tramm an und hier ward mir auch das Tuch wieder von den Augen genommen. Gleich darauf ward ich zum General Loison geführt und brachte meinen Auftrag zur Sprache, der darin bestand, daß das feindliche Geschütz fernerhin nicht mehr auf denjenigen Teil der großen Kirche gerichtet werden möchte, wo die verwundeten und gefangenen Franzosen untergebracht worden. Das Verlangen fand nicht nur eine willige Aufnahme, sondern ein Offizier begleitete mich auch auf eine Anhöhe, damit ich ihm von dort den Flügel des Gebäudes noch näher bezeichnete, wo seine Landsleute lägen. Nachdem noch einige Höflichkeiten gegenseitig gewechselt worden, begab ich mich auf gleiche Weise wie ich gekommen war, nach der Stadt zurück. Wovon ich im Hauptquartier hatte Zeuge sein dürfen, das deutete auf Vorbereitungen, welche an dem Ernst der Belagerung nicht zweifeln ließen. Weniger glücklich war ich indes, ein Wort zu erhaschen, welches uns über die Lage der Dinge in Preußen einigen näheren Aufschluß hätte geben können, während uns von den dortigen neuesten Ereignissen schon seit längerer Zeit alle Nachrichten fehlten. Daß der Friede zu Tilsit in dem Augenblicke schon wirklich abgeschlossen worden, ahnten wir damals nicht. Allein unsre Belagerer waren nur zu wohl davon unterrichtet und boten darum von jetzt an auch um so mehr alle ihre Kräfte auf, sich Kolbergs zu bemächtigen, bevor die Friedensnachricht uns erreichte und ihnen die Waffen aus den Händen schlüge. * * * * * Alles, was von Anbeginn der Belagerung bis jetzt vom Feinde unternommen worden, mochte nur als ein leichtes Vorspiel von demjenigen gelten, wozu die dritte Morgenstunde des 1. Juli die Losung gab. Denn da eröffnete er aus allen seinen zahlreichen Batterien ein Feuer gegen die Stadt, so ununterbrochen, so von allen Seiten kreuzend und so mörderisch und zerstörend, wie wir es noch nie erlebt hatten. Die Erde dröhnte und man kann sagen, daß es war, als ob die Welt untergehen sollte. Sichtbarlich legten unsre Gegner es darauf an, uns durch ihr Bombardement zwischen dem engen Raume unsrer Wälle dergestalt zu ängstigen, daß wir, nirgends mehr unsers Bleibens wissend, die weiße Fahne zur Ergebung aufstecken müßten. Ich befand mich in dieser entsetzlichen Nacht neben unserm Kommandanten auf der Bastion Preußen, als dem höchsten Punkte, den unsre Wälle zum Umherschauen darboten. Von hier aus konnten wir beinahe alle feindlichen Schanzen übersehen, und ebenso lag die Stadt vor uns. Es ist nicht auszusprechen, wie höllenmäßig das Aufblitzen und Donnern des Geschützes Schlag auf Schlag und Zuck auf Zuck um uns her wütete, während auch das Feuer unsrer Festung in seiner Antwort nichts schuldig blieb. In der Luft schwärmte es lichterloh von Granaten und Bomben, wir sahen sie hier und da und überall ihren lichten Bogen nach der Stadt hineinwälzen, hörten das Krachen ihres Zerspringens, sowie das Einstürzen der Giebel und Häuser, vernahmen den wüsten Lärm, der drinnen wogte und toste, und waren Zeuge, wie bald hier bald dort, wo es gezündet hatte, eine Feuerflamme emporloderte. Von dem allen war die Nacht so hell, als ob tausend Fackeln brennten, und das gräßliche Schauspiel schien nicht ein Menschenwerk zu sein, sondern als ob alle Elemente gegeneinander in Aufruhr geraten wären, um sich zu zerstören. Was aber drinnen in der Stadt unter dem armen wehrlosen Haufen vorging, ist vollends so jammervoll, daß meine Feder nicht vermag, es zu beschreiben. Dann gab es bald nirgends ein Plätzchen mehr, wo die zagende Menge vor dem drohenden Verderben sich hätte bergen können. Überall zerschmetterte Gewölbe, einstürzende Böden, krachende Wände und aufwirbelnde Säulen von Dampf und Feuer. Überall die Gassen wimmelnd von ratlos umherirrenden Flüchtlingen, die ihr Eigentum preisgegeben hatten und die unter dem Gezisch der feindlichen umherkreisenden Feuerbälle sich verfolgt sahen von Tod und Verstümmelung. Geschrei von Wehklagenden, Geschrei von Säuglingen und Kindern, Geschrei von Verirrten, die ihre Angehörigen in dem Gedränge und der allgemeinen Verwirrung verloren hatten, Geschrei der Menschen, die mit Löschung der Flammen beschäftigt waren, Lärm der Trommeln, Geklirr der Waffen, Rasseln der Fuhrwerke -- nein, es ist nicht möglich, das furchtbare Bild in seiner ganzen Lebendigkeit auch nur von ferne zu schildern! Indem ich in diesem allgemeinen Tumult mich veranlaßt fand, einmal nach meinem eignen Hause zu sehen, erwartete mich dort ein Anblick, der auch nicht dazu geeignet war, mich sonderlich zu erfreuen. Eine Bombe war, durch den Giebel einschlagend, durch zwei Böden bis in den Keller hinabgefahren und hatte, indem sie dort platzte, sieben Oxhoft voll Branntwein zersprengt, deren Inhalt nun gänzlich für mich verloren ging. Außerdem waren überall im Hause die größten Verwüstungen angerichtet, die ganze Eingangsflur aufgerissen und ebensowenig irgendeine Fensterscheibe, als ein Ziegel auf dem Dache unbeschädigt geblieben. All meine Leute hatten, wie leicht begreiflich, das Weite gesucht, und so stand es nicht bloß bei mir, sondern auch links und rechts und in vielen Nachbarhäusern. Wie gern aber hätte man jede eigne Not verschmerzt und vergessen, gegen die tief niederschlagende Zeitung, daß um vier Uhr morgens die Maikuhle an den Feind verloren gegangen. Mitten unter dem heftigsten Bombardement, wodurch unsre Aufmerksamkeit von dieser Seite hatte abgezogen werden sollen, war auf diesen Posten von der äußersten westlichen Spitze, sowie von der Seeseite her, ein Angriff geschehen, der wohl für einen Überfall gelten konnte, da der dortige interimistische Befehlshaber der Schillschen Truppen, Leutnant v. Gruben I., auf ein solches Ereignis durchaus nicht gefaßt gewesen zu sein scheint, -- eine Sorglosigkeit, die um so unbegreiflicher und tadelnswerter erscheint, da die Bewegungen des Feindes tags zuvor nur zu deutlich die Absicht verrieten, von neuem etwas auf dieser Seite zu unternehmen. So war die Erstürmung der Maikuhle das Werk weniger Augenblicke gewesen, da auch die Richtung des Angriffs weder dem Münderfort, noch der Morastschanze gestattet hatte, die Behauptung dieses Postens durch ihr Feuer zu unterstützen. Nur die schwedische Fregatte verfehlte nicht, dem Feinde gegen vierhundert Kugeln zuzusenden, allein wenn dieser auch dadurch für Augenblicke aufgehalten, so sahen die Stürmenden sich alsobald durch ihr eigenes Feuer im Rücken und durch den Druck der nachfolgenden Massen wieder vorwärts getrieben. Jede noch so verzweifelte Gegenwehr ward fruchtlos, und genötigt zum übereilten Rückzuge auf das rechte Stromufer, hatte das Schillsche Korps kaum noch Zeit, die Verbindungsbrücke hinter sich abzuhauen. Mit dem Verluste der Maikuhle war unsere Verteidigung gelähmt, denn nun war auch das Münderfort zur Beschützung des Hafens nicht mehr hinreichend, was sich zeigte, als das englische Schiff beim Vordringen der Franzosen die Ankertaue kappte, um wieder die offene See zu gewinnen. Es gelang ihm nur mit harter Not und unter einem dichten feindlichen Kugelregen, wodurch ihm zwei Mann auf dem Deck erschossen wurden. Und so waren wir denn, vom Meere und von aller von dorther zu erwartenden Hilfe abgeschnitten, fortan einzig unseren eigenen Kräften und Hilfsmitteln überlassen, die sich von Stunde zu Stunde immer mehr erschöpften. * * * * * Mit wenig verminderter Stärke hielt den ganzen Tag des 1. Juli das Bombardement an und häufte Verwüstung auf Verwüstung. Dennoch waren unsere Löschanstalten wirksam genug, um immer noch des Feuers Meister zu bleiben. Erst am späten Abend zündete es wieder im Gouvernements-Bauhofe, und da hier alles voll von brennbaren Materialien lag, mußte man es geschehen lassen, daß das Gebäude bis auf den Grund niederbrannte. Solchergestalt von Schrecken umgeben und auf noch Schrecklicheres gefaßt, sahen wir der nächsten Nacht entgegen. Das feindliche Geschütz vereinigte sich zu neuen, noch höheren Anstrengungen, und seine zerstörenden Wirkungen im anhaltenden Geprassel einstürzender Häuser, fallender Ziegel und klirrender Fensterscheiben, betäubten das Ohr. Alle jammervollen Szenen der vorigen Nacht erneuerten sich in noch weiterem Umfange. Aber auch mitten in der ringsum drohenden Gefahr erzeugte sich allmählich eine Gleichgültigkeit bei vielen, die nichts mehr zu Herzen nahm. War auch nicht der Mut, so war doch die Natur erschöpft; Anstrengung, Schlaflosigkeit, immerwährende Anspannung des Gemüts und Sorge für Weib und Kind und Eigentum fielen auf die meisten mit einem solchen Gewichte, daß sie selbst in den Trümmern ihrer Wohnungen sich ein noch irgend erhaltenes Plätzchen ersahen, um den bis in den Tod ermatteten Gliedern einige Ruhe zu gönnen. Da geschah es, daß eine Bombe, verderblicher als alle übrigen, in denjenigen Teil des Rathauses niederfuhr, wo die Ratswage sich befand, und ein hellaufflackerndes Feuer war die unmittelbare Folge ihres Zerspringens. Als naher Nachbar sprang ich auf, um, was ohnehin mein angewiesener Beruf war, schnelle Anstalten zur Brandlöschung zu betreiben, denn an der Erhaltung des ansehnlichen Gebäudes, in welchem unsere Stadtarchive und soviel andere Sachen von Wert aufbewahrt lagen, mußte uns allen vorzüglich gelegen sein. Aber rundum in meiner Nachbarschaft regte sich keine menschliche Seele zum Löschen und Retten. Ich rannte hierhin und dorthin zu den nächsten Bekannten, braven und wackeren Männern, um sie zu Hilfe aufzurufen, aber schlaftrunken und ohne Gefühl für die drohende Gefahr, beachteten sie mein Bitten und Ermuntern ebensowenig wie mein Toben und Schelten. Sie schlummerten fort und ließen es brennen. In steigender Angst lief ich auf die Brandstätte zurück. Was mir begegnete, packte ich an, um Hand anzulegen, aber kaum einer oder der andere schien auf mein flehentliches Ermahnen zu achten. Ein vierschrötiger Kerl, den ich nicht kannte und dem ich auf diese Weise einen gefüllten Löscheimer aufdrang, nahm ihn und schlug mir ihn, samt seinem nicht gar sauberen Inhalte, geradezu um die Ohren, so daß ich fast die Besinnung verlor und, von Schmutz und Ruß bedeckt, wohl eine sehr jämmerliche Figur machen mochte. Alles dies achtete ich jedoch weniger, als das Unglück, das dem Rathause bevorstand, und da ich einsah, daß eine wirksame Hilfe allein vom Militär ausgehen könne, so hastete ich mich, das nächste Wachhaus auf dem Walle zu erreichen. Wild stürme ich in das halbdunkle Wachtzimmer hinein. Ich sehe auf der hölzernen Pritsche sich eine Gestalt regen, die ich zwar nicht erkenne, aber sie für den Mann haltend, den ich suche, von ihrem Lager aufschreie, indem ich rufe: »Bester Mann, zu Hilfe! Das Rathaus steht in Flammen!« Aber weniger meinen Schrei, als mich selbst und mein Jammerbild beachtend, erhebt sich der Offizier mir gegenüber, schlägt die Hände zusammen und spricht: »Ach, du armer Nettelbeck!« -- Jetzt erst an der Stimme erkenne ich ihn -- es ist Gneisenau. Er hört, er erfährt, er gibt mir einen Adjutanten samt einem Tambour mit, die Lärmtrommel wird gerührt, die Soldaten erscheinen, Patrouillen durchziehen die Straßen, kräftigere Löschanstalten kommen in Bewegung, die zwar den Brand nicht mehr zu unterdrücken vermögen, aber ihm doch dergestalt ein Ziel setzen, daß wenigstens zwei Seiten des ein großes Viereck bildenden Gebäudes erhalten werden, während der schon ergriffene Teil noch bis zum Abend des folgenden Tages in sich selbst niederbrennt und fortglimmt. Zu gleicher Zeit war in der allgemeinen Verwirrung auch eine Anzahl Baugefangener aus dem Stockhause losgebrochen und begann hier und da in den Häusern zu plündern, wie denn auch das meinige von diesem Schicksal betroffen wurde, bis der tätige Eifer des Militärs die versprengte Rotte wieder einfing und unschädlich machte. So besonnen, wo es Handeln galt, so allgegenwärtig gleichsam, wo eine Gefahr nahte, und so beharrlich, wo nur die unabgespannte Kraft zum Ziele führen konnte, wie der Kommandant in _dieser_ furchtbaren Nacht sich zeigte, hatte er immer und überall seit dem ersten Augenblick seines Auftretens sich erwiesen. Seit Wochen schon war er so wenig in ein Bett, als aus den Kleidern gekommen. Nur einzelne Stunden, die er ungern der Tätigkeit auf den Wällen, unter dem heftigsten Kugelregen, abbrach, ruhte er auf einer Pritsche in einem armseligen Gemache über dem Lauenburger Tore, jeden Augenblick bereit, mich oder andere anzuhören, wenn wir ihm etwas von Wichtigkeit zu melden hatten. Vater und Freund des Soldaten wie des Bürgers hielt er beider Herzen durch den milden Ernst seines Wesens, wie durch teilnehmende Freundlichkeit gefesselt. Jeder seiner Anordnungen folgte das unbedingteste Zutrauen. * * * * * Der Morgen des 2. Juli brach an: aber auch das feindliche Bombardement, so wenig es die Nacht geruht hatte, schien mit dem Morgen wieder neue Kräfte zu gewinnen. Not und Elend, Jammergeschrei und Auftritte der blutigsten Art, einstürzende Gebäude und prasselnde Flammen: -- das war fast das einzige, was bei jedem Schritte den entsetzten Sinnen sich darstellte. Mut und besonnene Fassung waren mehr als jemals vonnöten, aber nur wenigen war es gegeben, sie in diesem entscheidenden Zeitpunkte zu behaupten, noch wenigere vielleicht erhielten die Hoffnung eines glücklichen Ausganges in sich lebendig, aber alle ohne Ausnahme gaben das Beispiel einer willigen Ergebung in das unvermeidliche Schicksal. Sie hatten es in Gneisenaus Hand gelegt, mit ihm standen, mit ihm fielen sie! Vertrauensvoll ließen sie ihn walten! Höher aber und höher stiegen Gefahr und Not von Stunde zu Stunde. Um neun Uhr morgens, während noch das Rathaus loderte, geriet durch eine andere Bombe entzündet auch das Gebäude des Stadthofs in Flammen, die sich auf drei angrenzende Häuser fortpflanzten. Man sah sich genötigt, brennen zu lassen, was brennen wollte. Gneisenaus scharfes Auge aber, das mitten in diesem gräßlichen Tumulte jede Bewegung seines Gegners hütete, ließ nicht unbeachtet, daß dieser bereits Vorbereitungen traf, sich von der Wolfsschanze aus auch über das Münderfort herzustürzen und so auch die östliche Seite des Hafens zu überwältigen. Gegenanstalten wurden auf der Stelle getroffen, Befehle flogen, alles war in der lebendigsten Anspannung, und ein neuer Kampf von blutigster Entscheidung sollte losbrechen. Es war drei Uhr nachmittags ... Da, plötzlich schwieg das feindliche Geschütz auf allen Batterien. Auf das Krachen eines Donners, wie am Tage des Weltgerichts, folgte eine lange öde Stille. Jeder Atem bei uns stockte, niemand begriff diesen schnellen Wechsel, dies schauerliche Erstarren so gewaltiger losgelassener Kräfte. Da nahte ein feindlicher Parlamentär, und neben ihm ein Mann, den man in der Ferne als eine Militärperson -- dann aber, sowie die Umrisse der Gestalt sich immer deutlicher ausbildeten, unter Zweifel und Verwunderung, sogar als einen _preußischen_ Offizier erkannte. Schärfere Augen versicherten sogar, sie unterschieden die Züge ihres Freundes, des Leutnants v. Holleben, vom 3. Neumärkischen Reserve-Bataillon, der erst vor einigen Wochen mit einer Abteilung Kriegsgefangener über See nach Memel abgegangen war. Das schien unmöglich, und doch war dem also! Das erste Wort, als er sich fast atemlos in den Kreis seiner Bekannten stürzte, war der Ausruf: »Friede! Kolberg ist gerettet!« O des Freudenboten! O der willkommenen Botschaft! der zur rechten, _rechten_ Zeit gekommen! Er war unmittelbar aus dem Hauptquartiere des Königs zu Pilkupönen bei Tilsit als Kurier abgefertigt und der Überbringer der offiziellen Nachricht von einem mit Napoleon abgeschlossenen vierwöchentlichen Waffenstillstande, welchem unverzüglich der Friede folgen sollte. Eilend, wie es seine wichtige Zeitung erheischte, aber schon in weiter Ferne noch mehr beflügelt durch den dumpfen Donner des Geschützes, der ihm unseren noch ausharrenden Mut verkündigte, war er vor wenigen Augenblicken erst in Tramm angelangt; schwerlich gern gesehen, aber auch schwerlich wohl mit noch neuer oder unerwarteter Botschaft. Indes -- er war da, und die Feindseligkeiten mußten eingestellt werden! Alsogleich auch ward die fröhliche Kunde den Bürgern durch die ganze Stadt unter Trommelschlag bekannt gemacht, samt der hinzugefügten Ermahnung, nunmehr mit verdoppelter Tätigkeit zur Löschung der immer noch brennenden Gebäude zu eilen. Es geschah, und die Flammen waren nach wenigen Stunden bezwungen. Aber welche Feder reichte hin, den trunkenen Jubel zu schildern, der in so überraschendem Wechsel alle Gemüter ergriff und aus sich selber hinwegrückte! Man muß wahrlich selbst in der Lage gewesen sein, sich und die Seinigen samt Leben und Wohlfahrt gänzlich aufgegeben zu haben, um dies neue, kaum glaubhafte Gefühl von Ruhe und Sicherheit nachzuempfinden, wobei sich, auf Augenblicke wenigstens, alles verschmerzt und vergißt, was man Drangvolles gelitten hat. Es ist wie ein böser Traum, den man endlich abgeschüttelt hat und aus dem man nun zu vollem freudigen Bewußtsein zurückkehrt. * * * * * Die Belagerung war geendigt, eine völlige Waffenruhe trat ein, und die Bilder des Krieges verschwanden. Zunächst ward zwischen dem Kommandanten und dem französischen General eine Übereinkunft getroffen, welcher zufolge den Einwohnern gestattet wurde, sich über die französische Postenlinie hinaus in die umliegende Gegend zu begeben. Nach einem anderweitigen Vertrage blieb zwar die Maikuhle noch von den jenseitigen Truppen besetzt, doch sollten Schiffe mit Lebensmitteln frei in den Hafen zugelassen werden. Unsere tätige Freundin aber, die schwedische Fregatte, verließ uns am 12. Juli, und fortan, bis zu Ende des Monats, räumten auch nach und nach die Belagerungstruppen ihre Schanzen und Lager, um etwas entferntere Kantonierungen in der Provinz zu beziehen. Wenige Tage nach Einstellung der Feindseligkeiten trieb es mich hinaus auf die Lauenburger Vorstadt, wo mein liebes Gärtchen gelegen war. Fast erkannte ich die Stelle meines Eigentums, auf der ich so manchen süßen Schweiß vergossen hatte, nicht wieder. Alles war aufgewühlt und verheert (denn gerade auf diesem Fleck hatten wir eine Batterie von fünf Kanonen errichtet), oder es war dem frei und üppig wuchernden Unkraute preisgegeben! Meine schönen edeln Obstbäume, die Genossen meiner Jugend -- sie starrten mich an in ihren abgehauenen Stümpfen ... Doch da gab es nichts zu klagen, denn ich selbst hatte ja, als es not tat, die Axt an sie gelegt! Aber es war mir doch wunderlich und weh ums Herz, und ich mußte dem verödeten Plätzchen den Rücken wenden, um nicht noch weicher zu werden. Da blickte ich in die nächste Nachbarschaft und sah bald, daß ich es nicht allein war, der Trost und Ermutigung bedurfte. Auf der ganzen weiten Brandstätte umher schlichen die unglücklichen Bewohner zwischen den Schutthaufen ihres Eigentums, scharrten hier und da etwas aus der Asche hervor, das der Glut widerstanden, aber nun doch keinen Nutzen mehr für sie hatte; jammerten und weinten schmerzliche Tränen, daß sie nun nirgends eine bleibende Stätte fänden. Das schnitt mir durchs Herz, und ich verfiel in Nachdenken, wie doch diesen Unglücklichen, wenn auch nur vorderhand, zu helfen sein möchte? Indem ich aber über einige verkohlte Balken und andere halbverbrannte Trümmer, die mir im Wege lagen, dahinstolperte, fiel mir's plötzlich ein, daß sich eben davon wohl einige Nothütten würden errichten lassen, um den armen Leuten, zumal jetzt in den Sommermonaten, einstweilen ein leidliches Obdach zu verschaffen. Voll von diesem Gedanken machte ich mich sogleich auf den Weg zu unserm Kommandanten, um ihm die Not der Heimlosen samt meinem Einfall vorzutragen, und die Erlaubnis von ihm zu erbitten, daß sie sich auf den verwüsteten Stellen notdürftig ansiedeln könnten. Ich langte an und stieß unten im Hause auf ein großes Gewühl von Menschen, denn der Kommandant hatte den General Loison, samt seinem ganzen Generalstab, zu sich eingeladen, und eben saß die Gesellschaft zu Tafel. Indes stieß mir unter den Kommenden und Gehenden alsbald unser Vizekommandant, der Major v. S., auf, der mich wegen meines etwaigen Anliegens befragte. Obwohl nun gerade er nicht allemal mein Mann war, so trug ich doch kein Bedenken, mich in meinen Wünschen gegen ihn auszusprechen. Seine kurze Antwort war: »Daraus kann nichts werden. Und wenn ich selbst der Kommandant wäre, wurde ich es nimmermehr zugeben.« -- Nun, das war kurz und deutlich, und so verließ er mich auch und ging die Treppe hinauf. Aber ich folgte ihm auf der Ferse, bis er in den Gesellschaftssaal eintrat und die Tür hart hinter sich zuzog. Deß war ich nicht gewohnt an diesem Orte; ich bedachte mich also auch nicht, fein säuberlich anzuklopfen und unmittelbar darauf einzutreten. Meine Augen suchten den Kommandanten, er saß dem General Loison zur Seite an der Tafel. Kaum ward er meiner ansichtig, so stand er auf und trat mir einige Schritte entgegen. Mit leiser Stimme trug ich ihm kurz vor, was zur Sache gehörte und was sichtbar seine volle Aufmerksamkeit beschäftigte. »Die armen Leute!« rief er dann, »ja, Nettelbeck! laß sie in Gottes Namen bauen!« -- Zugleich füllte er mir ein Glas Wein; ich dankte und nahm mir im Davoneilen nur noch die Zeit, dem Herrn v. S., der gleichfalls zu Tische saß, eine lächelnde Verbeugung zu machen. Aber nicht um diesen kleinen Triumph war mir's zu tun, sondern um dem kummervollen Häuflein dort draußen unverzüglich Trost und Freude zu bringen. Mit Jauchzen ward ich angehört und empfangen, als ich ihnen in Gneisenaus Namen verkündigte, daß ihnen gestattet sein solle, sich auf ihren Brandstätten in leichten Baracken wieder anzusiedeln. Wirklich auch verliefen nicht vier Tage, so stand dort eine neue Anlage fertig, die mich in ihren äußeren Umrissen auf das lebhafteste an ein indianisches Dorf erinnerte. Sicher aber war es den Bewohnern selbst unter diesem armseligen Obdach leichter und wohler ums Herz, als damals, da ich sie hoffnungslos unter den Trümmern ihres früheren Wohlstandes umherkriechen sah. Indem ich jedoch nun selbst wieder zu einiger Ruhe kam, konnte ich nicht umhin, den Blick auch auf meine eigene Lage zu richten und mir zu gestehen, daß diese Zeit der Belagerung mich leicht zum armen Manne gemacht haben könne. Mein kleines bares Vermögen war gänzlich daraufgegangen, teils an Arbeiter, die ich aus meiner Tasche bezahlte, teils durch Spenden an unser braves Militär, das jede Art der Erquickung so verdient hatte. Mir aber war es das süßeste Geschäft, wenn ich den wackeren Leuten bei ihrem harten Dienst dann und wann einen warmen Mundbissen, oder was es sonst gab, selbst auf die Wälle, vor die Tore, in die Blockhäuser hinbringen und ihnen Trost und guten Mut einsprechen konnte. Es ist wahr, meine guten Freunde haben mir deshalb oftmals Vorstellungen getan, daß mich mein guter Wille zu weit führe und zum Verschwender mache, aber nie verließ mich der frohe Mut, ihnen zu antworten: »Ich bin ein alter Mann ohne Kind oder Kegel: _wem_ sollte ich es sparen? Aber wäre ich auch der jüngste unter euch, wie leicht kann man in diesen Zeiten den Tod haben! Mir liegen König und Vaterstadt allein am Herzen, und überlebe ich diese Zeit, -- nun, so werden ja _sie_ mich auch nicht darben lassen.« Fest hielt ich und halte ich noch an diesem schönen Glauben, aber freilich war das auch um so notwendiger, wenn ich nun auf den geringen, mir jetzt übrig gebliebenen Rest meiner Habe blickte. Mein Haus hatte durch das Bombardement in allen seinen Teilen bedeutend gelitten, meine Scheune vor dem Tore war niedergebrannt, mein Gartenhäuschen abgebrochen worden, mein Garten verwüstet. Von den Vorräten meines Gewerbes war nichts mehr übrig, um es neu wiederherzustellen, und das beschädigte Eigentum zu bessern, hätte es Hilfsmittel bedurft, die mir jetzt kaum mehr zu Gebote standen. Meine Lage war keineswegs erfreulich! Aber war ich auch wohl berechtigt, über erlittene Einbuße zu klagen? Meine Mitbürger hat all dies Unglück ja auch -- den einen mehr, den andern weniger -- getroffen. Nein, ich habe auch nicht _klagen_, sondern mir's nur vom Herzen wegreden wollen. Er, der mir's gab, hat's auch genommen, sein Name sei gelobt! Aber daß Gott meine liebe Vaterstadt so wunderbar erhalten hat, deß bin ich froh, und daß er unserm guten Könige Gesundheit, Mut und Stärke verliehen, sich in seinem großen Unglück so herrlich wieder aufzurichten. -- * * * * * Mir ward indes in diesen nämlichen Tagen von dieses gnädigen Monarchen Hand eine Auszeichnung zuteil, die ich so wenig erwartet hatte, als vor anderen, die mit mir auch nur ihre Pflicht getan, verdient zu haben glaube, -- eine Auszeichnung, die mich sogar beschämen würde, wenn ich nicht in der Meinung stände, daß diese königliche Hand in mir eigentlich die gesamte Kolberger Bürgerschaft habe ehren und ihren bewiesenen Pflichteifer anerkennen wollen. Ich erhielt nämlich folgendes Königliche Kabinettsschreiben: »Seine Königliche Majestät von Preußen haben aus dem Berichte des Oberstleutnants v. Gneisenau, worin er Höchstdenselben diejenigen Personen anzeigt, welche sich während der Belagerung der Festung Kolberg ausgezeichnet haben, mit besonderem Wohlgefallen ersehen, daß der Vorsteher der Bürgschaft, Nettelbeck, die ganze Belagerung hindurch mit rühmlichem Eifer und rastloser Tätigkeit zur Abwehrung des Feindes und zur Erhaltung der Stadt mitgewirkt hat. Seine Majestät wollen daher dem Nettelbeck für den solchergestalt zutage gelegten löblichen Patriotismus hierdurch Dero Erkenntlichkeit bezeigen und ihm als ein öffentliches Merkmal der Anerkennung seiner sich um das Beste der Stadt erworbenen Verdienste, die hierneben erfolgende goldene Verdienstmedaille verleihen. Memel den 31. Juli 1807. Friedrich Wilhelm.« »An den Vorsteher der Bürgerschaft zu Kolberg, Nettelbeck.« Gleichzeitig erhielt unser verehrter Kommandant, nach dem gnädigen Willen des Königs, seine Abberufung von dem so ehrenvoll bekleideten Posten, um, unmittelbar unter den Augen des Monarchen, an die Reorganisation des preußischen Heeres mit Hand anzulegen. Das war für uns ein schmerzlicher Verlust, allein unser Liebling eilte einer höheren Bestimmung entgegen, und unser Eigennutz mußte schweigen! Schon am 8. August schied Gneisenau von uns, doch _wie_ er schied, möge nachgehendes Schreiben dokumentieren, welches er im Augenblicke seiner Abreise an uns erließ: »Meine Herren Repräsentanten der patriotischen Bürgerschaft zu Kolberg! Da ich auf unseres Monarchen Befehl mich eine Zeitlang von dem mir so liebgewordenen Kolberg trenne, so trage ich Ihnen, meine Herren Repräsentanten, auf, den hiesigen Bürgern mein Lebewohl zu sagen. Sagen Sie denselben, daß ich ihnen sehr dankbar bin für das Vertrauen, das sie mir von meinem ersten Eintritt in die hiesige Festung an geschenkt haben. Ich mußte manche harte Verfügung treffen, manchen hart anlassen -- dies gehörte zu den traurigen Pflichten meines Postens. Dennoch wurde dieses Vertrauen nicht geschwächt. Viele dieser wackeren Bürger haben uns freiwillig ihre Ersparnisse dargebracht, und ohne diese Hilfe wären wir in bedeutender Not gewesen. Viele haben sich durch Unterstützung unserer Kranken und Verwundeten hochverdient gemacht. Diese schönen Erinnerungen von Kolberger Mut, Patriotismus, Wohltätigkeit und Aufopferung werden mich ewig begleiten. Ich scheide mit gerührtem Herzen von hier. Meine Wünsche und Bemühungen werden immer rege für eine Stadt sein, wo noch Tugenden wohnen, die anderwärts seltener geworden sind. Vererben Sie dieselben auf Ihre Nachkommenschaft. Dies ist das schönste Vermächtnis, das Sie ihnen geben können. Leben Sie wohl und erinnern sich mit Wohlwollen Ihres treu ergebenen Kommandanten N. v. Gneisenau.« Ein so herzlicher Abschied durfte nicht ohne Erwiderung bleiben. Wir versammelten uns und machten unserm vollen Herzen in folgender Bekanntmachung an unsere Bürgerschaft Luft: »Kolberg, den 16. August 1807. Am 9. d. M. entrückten höhere Befehle unsern würdigen Herrn Kommandanten aus unserer Mitte, und mit dem Verluste dieses mit seltenen Tugenden geschmückten Mannes schwanden unsere stolzen Träume dahin. Gern wären wir im Besitze des unverzagten Beschützers unserer Wälle für immer geblieben, und gern hätten wir nach den vollbrachten verhängnisvollen Tagen die seligen Früchte des Friedens nur mit ihm geteilt: aber nicht bestimmt, diese in unseren sicheren Mauern zu genießen, hatte ihm unser Monarch, ganz überzeugt von dem Werte dieses großen Mannes, einen anderen Kreis vorgezeichnet, in welchem sein rastloser und tätiger Geist sich ein neues Denkmal stiften sollte. Ist jedoch dieser unseren Herzen so teuer gewordene Held nicht mehr unter uns und hat er uns verlassen, um vielleicht nie den Art wiederzusehen, dessen beneidenswertes Schicksal in den mißlichsten Augenblicken seinen einsichtsvollen Befehlen untergeordnet war, so wird gleichwohl das Andenken an ihn, der bei den Tugenden des Kriegers nie die Pflichten des Menschen vergaß, der von der ersten Minute seines Erscheinens an Vater eines jeden einzelnen wurde und es auch noch im Momente des Scheidens blieb, nie in unserer von Dank gegen ihn erfüllten Seele erlöschen. Wir alle haben ihm ja alles -- die Erhaltung unserer Ehre und unserer Habe, die Zufriedenheit unseres Landesherrn und die Achtung unserer ehemaligen Gegner zu verdanken. Möge es erst nur unserer spätesten Nachkommenschaft vorbehalten sein, die Asche unseres Verteidigers zu segnen!« »Von seiner Abreise wurden wir tags zuvor durch das hier wörtlich eingerückte Schreiben benachrichtigt.« (Folgt nun das oben bereits mitgeteilte Abschiedsschreiben des Herrn v. Gneisenau.) »Wir haben seinen Auftrag mit frohem Herzen erfüllt und zur Steuer der Wahrheit vereinige sich die Bürgerschaft in dem öffentlichen Geständnis: »»Wir haben nie einen Zwang empfunden, uns haben keine harten Verfügungen gedrückt, und das, was wir taten, geschah aus reiner Vaterlandsliebe. Das höchste Wesen nehme ihn dafür in seine besondere Obhut, lasse ihn nach seinem tatenvollen Leben auch bald die Früchte des Friedens im Schoße der teuren Seinigen genießen, und wenn uns neue Stürme und Gefahren drohen, so kehre er zurück in unsere nicht überwundenen Mauern und finde auch in uns noch das Völkchen wieder, von dem er so liebevoll schied!«« »Dresow. Hentsch. Zimmermann, Höpner. Nettelbeck. Darckow. Ziemcke. Gibson.« * * * * * Wenige Tage vor der Abreise des so allgemein verehrten Mannes führte mich das Gespräch mit ihm auf meinen verstorbenen Vater, wie der in den drei russischen Belagerungen dem damaligen Kommandanten, Oberst von der Heyden, ebenso mit seinen guten und willigen Diensten habe zur Hand gehen können, als es durch ein sonderbares Verhängnis nach so langen Jahren nun auch mir, dem Sohne, zuteil geworden sei, dem zweiten preiswürdigen Verteidiger meiner Vaterstadt mich in gleicher Weise nützlich zu machen. Zum Andenken eines so ehrenden Verhältnisses habe mein Vater Heydens Bildnis von ihm erhalten und danach unserem Schützenhause geschenkt, wo es noch zu dieser Stunde aufgestellt sei und der Stadt zu einer dankbaren Erinnerung diene. So bewege mich's nun auch zu dem herzlichen Wunsche, daß unser scheidender Freund und Wohltäter mir ein ähnliches Unterpfand seiner geneigten Gesinnung hinterlassen möge, das sein Ehrengedächtnis für alle künftige Zeiten unter uns bewahre. Gneisenau versprach es mit freundlichem Lächeln. Und dieser Zusage hatte er auch nicht vergessen. Vielmehr, damit dieses Geschenk einen neuen, noch höheren Wert erhielte, veranstaltete er es, daß mir dasselbe mittels einer überaus gütigen Zuschrift durch seine Frau Gemahlin ein Jahr später von Schlesien aus zugeschickt wurde. Meine Freude kannte, wie man sich leicht denken kann, keine Grenzen. Ich besorgte dem teuern Bildnisse einen Rahmen, so schön, als er nur immer bei uns aufzubringen war, und auf der Rückseite ließ ich den Namen des Gebers und die Umstände, welche dieses Geschenk begleitet hatten, verzeichnen. Zugleich aber stand ich in Sorge, daß ein solches Denkmal in den Händen eines Privatmannes, zumal in meinen hohen Jahren leicht das Los einer unrühmlichen Vergessenheit treffen könne, und so hielt ich es für wohlgetan, meinen Schatz dem Kommandanturhause als ein Vermächtnis zuzuweisen, bei dessen Anblick einst noch unseren Urenkeln das Herz vor Stolz und Freude höher schlagen möchte. Aber bald wechselten unsere Kommandanten in schneller Folge, und auch einer, dessen Name hier zur Sache nichts tut, war eben abgegangen, während seine Gemahlin, die noch einige Zeit bei uns verweilte, bereits ein anderes Haus bezogen hatte. Zufällig kam ich in das Kommandanturgebäude, meine Augen suchen und -- vermissen das von mir gestiftete Bildnis. Nach vielem Fragen erfahre ich endlich, es habe neuerdings, samt andern Mobilien, den Umzug mitgemacht. Ich eile hin zu der Dame und bitte höflichst um Wiedererstattung. Die Dame weiß von keinem Bildnis und verweist mich an ihre Domestiken. Nun forsche ich selbst in allen Winkeln des Hauses umher und -- siehe da! -- das mir so teuere Gemälde findet sich endlich wieder -- im Hühnerstall, beschmutzt auf eine Art, die keiner näheren Andeutung bedarf! Mein ganzes Herz war empört. Ich mag mich auch wohl ein wenig deutsch und kräftig über diese schmähliche Entweihung ausgelassen haben, indem ich mein wiedererobertes Kleinod heimtrug, es von allem Makel säubern ließ und dann mit freudigem Gefühle an die Stätte zurückbrachte, die ihm gewidmet worden. Möge es da fortan und immer die ihm gebührende Achtung und bessere Aufsicht finden! Allein mit dem Andenken an verdiente Männer ist es ein Ding, das einen wohl traurig machen könnte, wenn man erlebt, wie schwer es dem selbstsüchtigen Menschenherzen eingeht, seine Liebe und Dankbarkeit für die Dahingeschiedenen treu zu bewahren. Das sollte ich auch noch anderweitig mit Leidwesen erfahren! Es kam nämlich bald nach der Belagerung der Herr Großkanzler v. Beyme auf seinem Wege aus Preußen nach Berlin hierher zu uns und nahm während seines Verweilens bei dem Kaufmann Schröder ein Mittagsmahl ein, wobei ich die Ehre hatte, von ihm an seine Seite gezogen zu werden. Auch mehrere angesehene Männer vom Handelsstande waren gegenwärtig. Daß die Unterhaltung, deren mich der Minister würdigte, sich meist auf die nächstverlebte Zeit bezog, war wohl sehr natürlich, sowie nicht minder, daß dabei unseres wackeren Vizekommandanten v. Waldenfels und seines Heldentodes gedacht wurde. »Einem so braven Manne,« äußerte dabei unser hoher Gast, »sollte der Denkstein auf seinem Grabe nicht fehlen!« Der Gedanke elektrisierte mich. Ich stand auf von meinem Stuhle, sah Tafel auf und Tafel ab rings meine anwesenden Mitbürger an und sprach: »Ein Wort zur guten Stunde! -- Ja, meine Herren, wir erfüllen es und setzen unserm Waldenfels ein Ehrenmal, wie er's verdient!« -- Niemand antwortete mir. Ich aber erhob meine Stimme noch höher und rief: »Wie? Kein Denkmal auf eines solchen Mannes Grab? -- Meine Herren, das ist eine Ehrensache für jeden unter uns!« -- So herausgepreßt, erklang denn freilich hier und da ein zögerndes »Ja!« -- aber es fiel in die Augen, daß es nicht aus freudigen Herzen hervorging. Meine funkelnden Augen spiegelten sich nur in denen des Großkanzlers wieder, der zu mir sagte: »Sie gestatten mir doch, daß ich meinen Beitrag hier sofort in Ihre Hände lege?« -- Das verbat ich mir nun und hatte Mühe, meinen Willen darin durchzusetzen. Desto leichter ward mir's in den nächstfolgenden Tagen, mit den Jaja-Stammlern fertig zu werden, denn da fand sich's, daß es nur in die verhallende Luft gesprochene Worte gewesen waren! Mochte es sein! Ich aber habe mir selber Wort gehalten und auf eigene Kosten einen schönen achteckigen geglätteten Grabstein, sieben Fuß hoch, besorgt, worauf der Name »Waldenfels« samt Angabe seiner Militärwürden und des Tages, da er für König und Vaterland gefallen, verzeichnet steht. Dies einfache Monument bezeichnet seine Grabstätte. Zu gleicher Zeit ließ ich auch mir die meinige hart neben derselben mit Steinen aussetzen, wo ich denn endlich auch ruhen werde. -- * * * * * Ehre den braven Männern, die, gleich Waldenfels, in und für Kolberg geblutet und ihr Bestes getan haben! Wo einundzwanzig Offiziere auf dem Bette der Ehre das Leben verhauchten und eine gleiche Anzahl schwere Wunden aufzuweisen hatte, da bedarf es keines weiteren Zeugnisses, daß die Besatzung in allen ihren Graden ihre volle Schuldigkeit getan. Wie der König dies anerkannt hat, spricht sich vollgültig in der Auszeichnung aus, die er dem zweiten pommerschen Infanterieregimente gewährte, welches seit jenen Tagen die Ehrennamen des Regimentes »Kolberg« und »v. Gneisenau« miteinander vereinigt. Zwar die Ausnahmen sind es, welche die Regel bestärken, und so gab es denn freilich auch unter Kolbergs Braven einzelne Feiglinge, aber billig sollte ihr Andenken der Vergessenheit übergeben bleiben, wenn nicht eine zweifache Betrachtung das Gegenteil zu gebieten schiene. Einmal geschieht jenen Braven, die in so glänzendem Lichte dastehen, nach meinem Gefühle eine Ungebühr, wenn hier die Schattenseite des Gemäldes gänzlich verhüllt würde. Dann aber ist von dem unwürdigen Betragen dieser Finsterlinge schon früher manches mit Einmischung meines Namens zur Kunde des Publikums gekommen, was jetzt als lügenhafte Aufbürdung des damaligen unseligen Parteigeistes ausgeschrieen werden könnte, wenn ich es hier ganz überginge und dadurch gleichsam stillschweigend zurücknähme. Daß ich nicht gern davon spreche, wird man mir glauben; indes stehe hier meine treue und einfältige Erzählung! In einer Nacht, wo es scharf über die Stadt herging (es war zwischen dem 1. und 2. Juli), befand ich mich auf dem Markte neben dem Spritzenhause, um sofort bei der Hand zu sein, wenn irgend etwa eine Bombe zündete. Hier eilte nun ein Mann im grauen Regenmantel und die weiße Schlafmütze ins Angesicht gezogen mit weiten Schritten an mir vorüber und verlor sich in einen Weinkeller, den man für bombenfest hielt und wohin sich deswegen bereits mehrere alte Männer, Frauen und Kinder samt einigen furchtsamen Bürgern geflüchtet hatten. Gleich nachher aber stürmte aus eben diesem Keller der Haufe in größter Verwirrung hervor, und ich erfahre, es sei eine Granate durch das Gewölbe gefahren. Ich steige hinunter, um mich zu überzeugen, ob Schaden geschehen und Hilfe nötig sei. Davon zeigt sich indes nirgends eine Spur; man faßt nun wieder Mut, kehrt in den verlassenen Zufluchtsort zurück, und drei meiner Bekannten, rechtliche Männer, fordern mich auf, noch einige Augenblicke zu verweilen und ein Glas Wein mit ihnen zu trinken. Indem ich mir nun hierbei die bunte Versammlung mit etwas besserer Muße ansehe, bemerke ich auch seitabwärts den Mann in der Schlafmütze, der mir bereits durch seine langen Beine merkwürdig geworden. Halb kommen mir seine Gesichtszüge bekannt vor, aber die Dunkelheit des Winkels läßt mich nichts mit Gewißheit erkennen. Ich greife nach einer Kerze, leuchte ihm näher unter die Augen und -- siehe! es ist der Hauptmann *** von unserer Garnison. Hochverwundert frage ich: »Ei tausend, Herr Hauptmann! Wie geraten Sie hierher? Ist dies Loch ein Aufenthalt für Sie? Ein Offizier -- und verkriecht sich unter alte Weiber und Wiegenkinder! Der König hat Ihnen gewiß vierzig Jahre Brot gegeben, und nun es seinen Dienst gilt, vertun Sie sich abseits?« -- Er stotterte etwas daher: »Sehen Sie nicht, daß ich krank bin? Ich habe das Fieber.« -- »Daß Sie eine Schlafmütze sind, sehe ich, und das Bombenfieber sehe ich auch,« war meine Antwort. -- »Hier heraus mit Ihnen und fort, wohin Sie gehören!« -- Ich wäre in meiner Ereiferung vielleicht noch tiefer in den Text hineingeraten, wenn meine vorgedachten Bekannten mich nicht von ihm abgezogen und begütigt hätten. Unterdessen ließ der Fieberpatient sich ein gutes Gericht Essen und ein Viertel Wein auftragen und speiste mit einem Appetit, der auch dem Gesundesten Ehre gemacht haben würde. Aber es sollte hier gleich noch ein zweites ähnliches Abenteuer geben. Denn indem ich mich von dem Jammerbilde nach einer anderen Seite wende, fiel mir ein Feldbett in die Augen und darauf hingestreckt ein Mensch, der notwendig auch eine Militärperson sein mußte, da unter der Bettdecke hervor ein Degen mit dem Portepee niederhing. Mein Gesicht mochte bei diesem Anblicke wohl wie ein großes Fragezeichen aussehen, denn unaufgefordert erklärten mir meine Freunde, die hier Bescheid wußten, es sei der Leutnant ***, der sich zu gütlich getan und in diesem, ihm gewöhnlichen Zustande so seinen Aus- und Eingang im Weinkeller habe. Das war mir ein Greuel mit anzuhören! Ich riß ihm die Bettdecke vom Leibe und rief: »Herr, plagt Sie ... Was haben Sie _hier_ zu schaffen? Heraus und auf Ihren Posten! Hören Sie den Geschützdonner nicht?« Brummend taumelte er empor, und sich mit Mühe auf den Füßen haltend, tobte der Jämmerliche: »Warum wird das verfluchte Loch nicht übergeben, damit man nur einmal aus dem miserabeln Neste herauskäme!« -- Ich traute meinen Ohren nicht und hätte mich wahrlich an dem Elenden tätlich vergriffen, wenn meine gelasseneren Freunde mir nicht in den Arm gefallen wären, während jener wieder auf sein Lager niedertorkelte und prahlte, wie viel Weinflaschen er heute schon den Hals gebrochen. Beide Auftritte waren indes zu öffentlich und vor zu vielen Zeugen vorgefallen, als daß sie ganz mit dem Mantel der Liebe zu bedecken gewesen wären. Der Hauptmann rechtfertigte sich mühsam durch ein ärztliches Attest, das seine Krankheit bekräftigte, aber dahingestellt ließ, warum sich Patient nicht lieber ruhig in seinem Quartier verhalten und eine genauere Diät befolgt habe? Gegen den Leutnant aber sprachen die Zeugnisse so entscheidend, daß er einem dreimonatlichen Arrest und demnächst seiner Dienstentlassung sich nicht entziehen konnte. Zu einer anderen Zeit standen unsere Vorposten ringsum des Abends in einem lebhaften Feuer gegen den Feind, der allmählich immer mehr Truppen ins Gefecht brachte. Der Kommandant, in dessen Gefolge ich war, befand sich auf der Bastion Pommern, von wo auch das Feld zu beiden Seiten des Platzes am bequemsten übersehen werden konnte. Um die Unserigen gegen Sellnow hin zu unterstützen, war der Major *** mit drei Kompagnien seines Bataillons abgeschickt worden, mit dem Auftrage, sich den Schillschen Truppen anzuschließen und das Gefecht zum Stehen zu bringen. Aber statt daß nun hier vor dem Geldertore eine neue Regsamkeit zu bemerken gewesen wäre, hörte das Feuer dorthin, zu des Kommandanten nicht geringer Verwunderung, bald gänzlich auf, und die Verwunderung stieg zur Unruhe, da immer noch kein Rapport von der entsandten Verstärkung einging. Ich erbot mich, Nachricht an Ort und Stelle einzuziehen, und eilte von dannen, den Wall hinunter. Von einem Pulverwagen, der mir in den Weg kam, strängte ich ein Zugpferd ab, warf mich hinauf und trabte zum Geldertore hinaus. Die Nacht war stockfinster geworden. Als ich über die sogenannte Kuhbrücke kam, stutzte mein Gaul, hob sich und wollte trotz all meines Treibens nicht von der Stelle. Endlich ward ich gewahr, daß er sich vor einem Soldaten scheute, der sich quer über den Weg gelagert hatte. Der Bursche hatte geschlafen, und mit ihm ward es auf einmal rund um mich her wach und laut, und ein Dutzend Baßkehlen rief: »Holla! holla! Nur sachte!« -- Mit einem Blicke übersah ich nun die saubere Schlafkompanie, die sich hier meist ins Gras gestreckt hatte, anstatt den bedrängten Kameraden weiter vorwärts Luft zu machen. Im bitteren Unmute meines Herzens stürmte ich auf sie ein und rief: »Ihr seid mir schöne Helden! Pfui euch, daß ihr hier liegen könnt und schnarchen!« -- Beschämt wichen sie mir zu beiden Seiten aus, bis ich weiterhin kam und nun auch auf ihren edeln Anführer stieß, der sich sein Ruheplätzchen hart am Heckenzaune ausgesucht hatte, den Kopf nur so eben aus dem Mantel hervorstreckte und mir einen guten Morgen bot. Drei Schritte hinter ihm zeigte sich mir der Hauptmann *** in gleicher Positur, der jedoch aufstand und mir seinen guten Morgen bis dicht ans Pferd entgegenbrachte. Mich noch weniger haltend als vorhin tobte ich: »Den T... und seinen Dank für euern guten Morgen! Ist das recht? Ist das erhört, daß ihr hier auf der Bärenhaut liegt? Ob eure besseren Kameraden indes ins Gras beißen, das kümmert euch nicht! -- Da! da seht!« In dem Augenblick nämlich kamen einige Schillsche Leute daher, die zwei Erschossene auf einer Tragbahre aus dem Gefechte trugen und mehrere Verwundete leiteten. Ich erfuhr von ihnen noch bestimmter, daß die ganze Zeit her von einem Unterstützungstrupp nichts zu sehen noch zu hören gewesen. Demgemäß fiel nun auch mein Rapport an den Kommandanten aus, der mit Achselzucken versetzte: »Nun, nun -- ich werde den Herren die Epistel lesen!« * * * * * Ich, meinesteils, hatte kein Gelübde getan, aus den mancherlei Erlebnissen dieser Art vor meinen täglichen Bekannten ein Geheimnis zu machen, und so hatten denn durch mehr als einen Mund jene Anekdoten auch ihren Weg in des Herrn v. Cölln damals vielgelesene »Feuerbrände« und einige andere politische Tagesschriften gefunden und bei manchem noch altgläubigen Militär mitunter Anstoß erregt. Wer aber hätte es glauben sollen, daß es irgend einst einem solchen einfallen könnte, mich, den Unschuldigsten bei dem gesamten Handel, deshalb feierlichst in Anspruch zu nehmen? Dennoch geschah es also, und auch hierüber gehöre ja wohl ein kurzer Bericht in meine Lebensgeschichte. Von einem der Kommandanten, die auf Gneisenau folgten, ward ich eines Tages durch eine Ordonnanz auf eine bestimmte Stunde in seine Amtswohnung geladen. Ich ging und ward in einen großen Saal geführt, den ich von den sämtlichen Offizieren unserer Besatzung gefüllt fand. Mitten unter ihnen saß der Garnisonauditeur L* hinter einem Tische, den viele Schriften und Schreibmaterialien bedeckten. Alles hatte so ziemlich die Miene eines großen gerichtlichen Aktes. Sofort nach meinem Eintritt kam mir der Kommandant mit einem gedruckten Buche in Quarto entgegen und bedeutete mir: er habe mir etwas vorzulesen, auf das ich ihm sodann antworten werde. -- Ich hatte nichts dawider, und er setzte hinzu: »Sollten die Worte und Beschuldigungen erlogen sein, so verdiene der Schriftsteller, daß ihm der Prozeß gemacht werde, und man werde bei Sr. Majestät des Königs höchster Person darauf antragen, ihn exemplarisch bestrafen zu lassen.« -- Und nun zu dem ganzen Zirkel: »Meine Herren! Ich werde lesen, Sie werden hören!« Jetzt las er mir das Geschichtchen von der Nachtmütze im Ratskeller, und verlangte darüber eine weitere Erklärung. »Die wird am leichtesten zu geben sein,« versetzte ich, »wenn, wie ich glaube, der Herr Hauptmann *** hier in der Versammlung gleichfalls zugegen ist.« -- Zu gleicher Zeit schaute ich ein wenig umher und erblickte ein Stückchen von ihm hinter und zwischen einer Gruppe von Kameraden, die mich jedoch nicht verhinderten, meinen Mann hervor an das Tageslicht zu ziehen. Nun kam es denn zu einem Katechismusexamen, wo es auch von ihm hieß: »Und er bekannte und leugnete nicht,« -- daß sich alles so verhalte, als dort im Buche stände, denn ich führte ihm die drei unverwerflichen Zeugen zu Gemüte, welche damals neben uns gestanden. »Allein,« nahm nun der Kommandant aufs neue das Wort, »wie steht es um dies zweite Geschichtchen, das ich Ihnen vorzulesen habe, -- von einer schlaftrunkenen Wegelagerung, wobei der Major *** in ein so nachteiliges Licht gestellt ist?« -- Er las, und meine Gegenfrage war: »Hätte der Herr Major in der Tat etwas dagegen?« -- Ich sah mich nach ihm um, fand ihn und wiederholte nun Wort für Wort, was damals zwischen ihm, seinen Begleitern und mir verhandelt worden. Der Mann, zum Leugnen zu ehrlich, spielte hierbei eine etwas einfältige Rolle, während der Auditeur frischweg protokollierte und sich fast die Finger lahm schrieb. -- Nun endlich noch die Gewissensfrage: »Ob _ich_ diese Erzählungen dem Verfasser der Feuerbrände mitgeteilt hätte?« -- Das konnte ich mit Wahrheit verneinen; und so nahm das gestrenge Inquisitionsgericht ein Ende, ohne daß weiter Gutes oder Böses dabei herausgekommen wäre. Auch habe ich mich ferner nicht darum gekümmert. * * * * * Überhaupt muß gesagt werden, daß seit Gneisenaus Abschied zwischen Militär und Bürgerschaft meiner Vaterstadt sich ein Verhältnis gebildet hatte, welches mit der jüngst verflossenen Zeit gemeinschaftlichen Bedrängnisses in einem traurigen Gegensatze stand und mir wie jedem patriotisch gesinnten Herzen unendlich viel Unmut, Kummer und Sorge erweckte. Kolbergs militärische Wichtigkeit, zumal in jener schwierigen Zeit nach dem Frieden von Tilsit, war lebhaft anerkannt worden, aber eben dadurch fühlte sich auch die Besatzung des Platzes in ihrer Bedeutung gehoben und zu Ansprüchen von mancherlei Art berechtigt. Darüber, und weil dies bald einigen Widerstand erzeugte, hatte sich in allen Berührungen mit den bürgerlichen Behörden ein gewisser unfreundlicher Ton eingeschlichen, der immer schmerzlicher empfunden wurde. Es sollte alles martialisch und gewaltig bei uns zugehen, als wenn es noch mitten im Kriege wäre, wogegen der Bürger nur durch die milden bürgerlichen Gesetze des Friedens beherrscht sein und von außerordentlichem Kriegszwange nichts mehr wissen wollte. Die Lasten der Einquartierung bei einer noch immer sehr starken Garnison, die an sich schon lästig genug waren, wurden es noch mehr dadurch, daß die Verteilung derselben sich ungesetzlich in den Händen einer außerordentlichen Kommission befand, die von ränkesüchtigen Köpfen nach Gunst oder Ungunst geleitet ward. Böse Ratgeber der nämlichen Art belagerten das Ohr der Machthaber und freuten sich des gestifteten Unheils; überall Neckerei, Reibung und abgeneigter Wille, und -- zum Übermaß dieses Notstandes -- eine vielleicht nicht hinlänglich beschäftigte Anzahl alter und junger Militärs, deren Überschwang an Lebendigkeit sich in mancherlei Störungen des friedlichen bürgerlichen Verkehrs, in Prügelszenen, in gewaltsamen Angriffen und Verwundungen rechtlicher Männer kund tat. Auf der anderen Seite ist ebensowenig in Abrede zu stellen, daß unseren Einwohnern durch die Belagerung das Herz ein wenig groß geworden. Sie hatten in ungewöhnlichen Anstrengungen auch ungewöhnliche Kräfte in sich erwecken müssen, und so wie sie sich dadurch selbst im Werte gehoben fühlten, wollten sie sich auch von anderen besser geachtet wissen. Vielfach hatten sie auch in der Zeit der Not bedeutende Opfer an Eigentum und Vermögen dargebracht; hatten gehofft, nach des Feindes Abzuge durch mancherlei Erleichterungen sich für soviel Einbußen und Entbehrungen entschädigt zu sehen, und fühlten sich nun doppelt getäuscht, da statt der gehofften goldenen Zeit nur neue herbe Früchte für sie reiften. Zwar was das allgemeine Mißgeschick damals über unser armes bedrücktes Vaterland schwer genug verhängte, hätten sie gern und freudig mit ertragen, aber so manche örtliche und besondere Belastung wäre ihnen füglich zu ersparen gewesen, und konnte nicht verfehlen, einen dumpfen Mißmut zu erregen. Dennoch blieben ihre Klagen stumm und scheuten sich, ein Königsherz, dem das Schicksal bereits so große Prüfungen auferlegt, noch tiefer zu bekümmern. Wie aber mußte denn nicht jedes wackere Bürgerherz sich um so tiefer von Dank und Freude ergriffen fühlen, als ein Königliches Kabinettsschreiben vom 21. Oktober 1807 an die verordneten Stadtältesten Dresow und Zimmermann den Beweis führte, daß Kolberg in seines gütigen Herrschers Beachtung und Fürsorge unvergessen geblieben, indem uns darin unter den huldvollsten Ausdrücken, der Erlaß unseres Anteils an der allgemeinen französischen Kriegskontribution, im Belauf mehr als hundertachtzigtausend Talern angekündigt wurde. * * * * * Als im Jahre 1809 durch die eingeführte neue Städteordnung überall die bisherige Magistratsverfassung abgeschafft und den Bürgerschaften ein erweiterter Einfluß auf die Verwaltung zugestanden wurde, wußte sich die Menge in die verbesserten Einrichtungen nicht sogleich zu finden; die Ränkeschmiede und Selbstlinge aber waren nur um desto eifriger darauf bedacht, ihr Schäfchen dabei zu scheren und den blinden Unverstand nach ihren geheimen Absichten zu bearbeiten. Als es daher zur ersten Wahl der Stadtverordneten und eines neuen Magistrats kam, ging es dabei so stürmisch, unmoralisch und ordnungswidrig zu, daß jeder rechtschaffene Mann sein äußerstes Mißfallen daran haben mußte. Es kann mir also auch nicht als Lobspruch gelten, wenn ich, obwohl als erster Stadtverordneter gewählt, mich dieser Ehre bedankte und mit einer Versammlung nichts zu schaffen haben wollte, von deren Gesinnungen ich nichts als Unheil für die Stadt erwarten konnte. Zwar fehlte es nicht an dringendem Zureden meiner Freunde, welche in der Meinung standen, daß ich durch Übernahme jenes Postens, wenn auch nicht Gutes sonderlich zu fördern, doch manches Böse durch meinen Einfluß zu verhüten imstande sein würde; allein das ganze Wesen, so wie es sich da gestaltet hatte, war mir ein Greuel, und ich lehnte es standhaft ab, mich damit zu befassen. Noch ärger ward das Ding, als nun demnächst zur Ratswahl selbst geschritten werden sollte. Kabalen kreuzten sich mit Kabalen; einige rechtliche Männer, welche die gesetzliche Stimmenmehrheit für sich gehabt, wurden tumultuarisch wieder ausgestoßen, und ich hörte sogar von tätlichem Handgemenge, worin die Anhänger der verschiedenen Parteien sich gestritten hatten. So wie ich mir nun in stiller Klage mit anderen Biedermännern dies schändliche Unwesen tief zu Herzen nahm und täglich Zeuge sein mußte, wie es immer weiter um sich griff und eine widerrechtliche Anordnung auf die andere folgte, so setzte ich mich hin und schilderte Sr. Majestät dem Könige unmittelbar und umständlich, mit Gewissenhaftigkeit und Wahrheit, wie alle diese Sachen bei uns ihren Verlauf gehabt. Ich nahm mir dabei den Mut, hinzuzufügen, daß, wenn Se. Majestät die jetzt bestehende Stadtverordneten-Versammlung nicht gänzlich kassierte und zur Wahl einer neuen mittels einer unparteiischen Kommission schreiten ließe, der Wirrwarr immer größer werden und nur mit dem Untergange unserer gesamten städtischen Wohlfahrt endigen werde. Es geschah auch, was ich vertrauensvoll gehofft hatte. Der Monarch beschied mich in einer gnädigen Antwort, daß, meinem Antrage gemäß, die dermalige Stadtverordneten-Versammlung von Stund' an suspendiert und dem Minister v. Domhardt die Ernennung einer Kommission aufgetragen sei, um die Vorfälle untersuchen zu lassen und erforderlichenfalls neue, rechtmäßigere Wahlen zu verfügen. Der Minister benachrichtigte mich, daß er den Polizeidirektor Struensee zu Stargard zum Kommissarius in dieser Sache ernannt habe, und dieser meldete mir den Zeitpunkt seines Eintreffens in Kolberg und gab mir auf, bis dahin meine verschiedenen Klagepunkte gehörig zu ordnen. Von allen diesen Schritten wußte niemand, weniger zurückhaltend war ich in meinem freimütigen -- oft wohl etwas derben Urteile über all den Unfug, der täglich unter meinen Augen vorging. Natürlich waren nur dergleichen Äußerungen, die zudem nicht im Winkel gesprochen worden, den Leuten, denen es galt, fleißig zu Ohren gekommen. Die ganze Korporation kam darüber in Harnisch und ernannte eine Deputation aus ihrer Mitte, mit dem Kaufmann S** an der Spitze, um eine Klage wider mich wegen ehrenrühriger Beschuldigungen beim Stadtgerichte anzubringen. Die Sache war bereits anhängig geworden und mir ein Termin angesetzt, wo ich erscheinen und mich verantworten sollte. Es ist ein wunderlich Ding, daß all meine Händel vor der Obrigkeit anfangs immer ein hochgefährliches Ansehen hatten und zuletzt doch ein lächerliches Ende nahmen. Das begab sich auch hier. Ich trat zur bestimmten Stunde vor die Schranken, und der Stadtgerichtsdirektor Harder deutete mir an: ich sei in diesem und jenem durch vorlautes Absprechen und Urteilen über eine löbliche Stadtverordneten-Versammlung, wofern die deshalb erhobene Klage gegründet, gar sehr straffällig geworden. Letztere solle mir jetzt vorgelesen und meine rechtliche Verantwortung gewärtigt werden. »Das möchte sein,« erwiderte ich, indem ich mich zugleich gegen die anwesenden drei gegnerischen Deputierten wandte, »wenn ich nur diese Herren noch für wahre und wirkliche Stadtverordnete anerkennen könnte, nachdem des Königs Majestät sie sämtlich von ihren Ämtern suspendiert hat.« -- Ohne mich auch weiter an die großen Augen zu kehren, welche eine so frevle Rede hervorbrachte, zog ich das königliche Handschreiben aus der Tasche und gab es stillschweigend in des Direktors Hände. Der nahm und las, erst für sich allein, dann laut und vernehmlich vor allen Anwesenden. Ich aber, nachdem ich mich einige Augenblicke an den verlängerten Gesichtern geweidet, erklärte dem Gerichte weiter: solchergestalt fände ich auch keinen Beruf in mir, jetzt auf die erhobene Klage weiter zu antworten, wozu sich vielmehr wohl eine andere und bessere Gelegenheit finden werde. »Recht gut!« sagte der Direktor mit einiger Verlegenheit, indem er mir das Schreiben zurückgab und ich mich zum Fortgehen anschickte. -- »Aber wir haben einen Termin abgehalten und hier sind Kosten aufgelaufen. Wer wird die bezahlen?« »Nun, das werden die Herren, die sie verursacht haben, sich ja wohl nicht nehmen lassen,« erwiderte ich lachend, und ich hatte recht geraten. Denn sogleich auch erbat sich Herr S** die Erlaubnis, mit seinen Begleitern auf wenige Augenblicke abtreten zu dürfen, und nachdem sie sich draußen beraten, zog jener großmütig seinen Beutel und zahlte der Justiz ihre Gebühren. Wenige Tage später trat auch der Königliche Kommissarius Struensee in dieser Eigenschaft bei uns auf, und meine Anklage gegen die Stadtverordneten und den von ihnen erwählten Magistrat ward in seine Hände übergeben. Ich hatte reichen Stoff gefunden, sie seit meiner ersten Anzeige noch um manches himmelschreiende Faktum zu vermehren, so daß es denn kein kleines Sündenregister gab, welches ich nach und nach bei der Kommission zu Protokoll diktierte und worüber ich die erforderlichen Beweise beibrachte. Anderseits wurden auch die Angeschuldigten vorgeladen, und nach genauester Untersuchung fiel die Entscheidung dahin aus, daß einige der Schuldigsten förmlich von ihrem Posten entsetzt und zur Bekleidung städtischer Amts- und Ehrenstellen auf immer für unzulässig erklärt wurden. Nach dieser Reinigung leitete der Kommissarius eine neue, ordnungsmäßige Wahl beider Kollegien ein, wodurch das städtische Interesse besser beraten war, und alle Gutgesinnten bessere Hoffnungen für die Zukunft schöpfen konnten. Ihre Stimmen erkoren mich zum ersten unbesoldeten Ratsherrn, und zu diesem Stadtamte bin ich seitdem auch bei jeder neuen Wahl bestätigt worden; -- ein Beweis von dem Zutrauen meiner Mitbürger, der meinem Herzen immer sehr wohlgetan hat, wiewohl mein Alter und die damit verbundene Schwachheit mahnt, mich nunmehr von allen öffentlichen Geschäften vollends zurückzuziehen. * * * * * Um die nämliche Zeit ward mir durch des Königs Gnade eine ganz unerwartete Auszeichnung zuteil. Es war Sr. Majestät, ich weiß selbst nicht auf welche Weise, zur Kenntnis gekommen, daß ich einst vor langen Jahren in wirklichem königlichen Seedienste gestanden, und demzufolge ward mir jetzt die förmliche Erlaubnis erteilt, die königliche Seeuniform zu tragen. Warum sollte ich leugnen, daß gerade _diese_ Vergünstigung einen tiefen Eindruck auf den alten Seemann in mir machte, dessen Patriotismus sich immer und unter allen Himmelsgegenden mit einigem Stolze zur preußischen Farbe bekannt hatte? Zudem fühlte ich mich damals noch rüstig, meinem Landesherrn auch auf meinem eigentümlichen Elemente in Krieg und Frieden einige nutzbare Dienste leisten zu können, und nur des leisesten Winkes hätte es bedurft, um alles zu verlassen und unter jeder Zone für Preußens Nutzen und Ehre zu leben und zu sterben! Die Rückkehr unseres gefeierten Königspaares von Preußen nach Berlin im Dezember des Jahres 1809, war ein Ereignis, das meine Seele mit hoher, freudiger Teilnahme beschäftigte. Einem Gerüchte zufolge sollte der Weg über Kolberg führen; aber der Anblick unserer Trümmer konnte nicht erfreulich und uns selbst es daher kaum wünschenswert sein, das landesväterliche Herz damit zu betrüben. Auch erfuhren wir bald, daß die Strenge der Jahreszeit die nächste und kürzeste Richtung geboten habe und der königliche Reisezug am 21. in Stargard eintreffen werde, um dort einen Rasttag zu halten. Es war also auch zu erwarten, daß die pommerschen Stände und andere Behörden der Provinz sich dort dem Könige vorstellen würden. Diese Nachricht traf mich am 19. abends in einer Gesellschaft, wo viele würdige Männer unserer Stadt beisammen waren. »Wie!« rief ich aus, »so viele unserer Landsleute sollen dort vor dem Könige stehen, ihm ihre frohen Glückwünsche darzubringen, und nur aus unserer Vaterstadt sollte sich niemand zu einer solchen freiwilligen Huldigung eingefunden haben? Das hat weder der König um Kolberg, noch wir um ihn verdient! Seine Gnade hat uns erst unlängst eine Kriegssteuer von nahe an zweimalhunderttausend Talern erlassen, bei welcher schicklicheren Gelegenheit könnten wir ihm dafür unseren Dank bringen, als wenn eine Deputation der Bürgerschaft sich jetzt dazu auf den Weg machte? -- Vollmacht? Trägt sie nicht jeder mit seinem Gefühle der Dankbarkeit im eigenen Herzen? Wird dort nach Vollmacht gefragt werden, wo wir nichts bitten, nichts verlangen, und wo nur allein unsere Glück- und Segenswünsche aus einem begeisterten Herzen hervorquellen werden?« Alles war meiner Meinung, aber alles glaubte auch, es sei nicht mehr an der Zeit, diesen Gedanken weiter zu verfolgen, denn um zu rechter Zeit zur Stelle zu sein, würde man noch den nämlichen Abend sich auf den Weg machen müssen. -- »Nun, und wenn es sein müßte,« unterbrach ich die kühlen Zweifler, »warum nicht auch schon in der nächsten Stunde? _Ich_ bin dazu bereit, aber ich bedarf noch eines Gefährten. Wer begleitet mich?« Ringsherum nichts als Schweigen und Kopfschütteln, und schon wollte ich im feurigen Unmute auflodern, als der Kaufmann, Herr Gölckel, mir die Hand reichte, sich mir zum Gefährten erbot, in einer Stunde reisefertig zu sein versprach und nun selber zur Eile trieb, damit wir noch vor völligem Torschlusse die Festung im Rücken hätten. Ich selbst übernahm es, die Postpferde für uns zu bestellen. Glücklich auf den Weg gelangt, bemerkten wir erst draußen auf dem Felde, daß es eine stockdunkle Nacht gab, und daß es schwer halten werde, des rechten Weges nicht zu fehlen. Wirklich auch hatten wir noch nicht Spie erreicht, als wir inne wurden, daß wir uns verirrt und genötigt waren, auf einem weiten Umwege wieder auf die Poststraße zurückzukehren. Dies machte mich so ungeduldig, daß ich dem Postillion Zügel und Peitsche aus den Händen riß, um selbst zu kutschieren, und es könnte wohl sein, daß ich ihm nebenher einige fühlbare Denkzettel auf den Rücken zugemessen hätte. So ging es langsam weiter von Station zu Station, ohne daß mein stetes Treiben sonderlich fruchtete, oder daß ich auf die Vorstellung meines gleichmütigeren Reisegefährten viel gegeben hätte, der mir bemerklich machte, daß wir auf diese Weise mitten in der nächstfolgenden Nacht in Stargard anlangen und dann in dem überfüllten Orte kein Quartier finden würden. In der Tat war es auch, als wir an Ort und Stelle kamen, noch so früh am Morgen, daß wir noch alles in Finsternis und Schlaf begraben fanden. Dies hinderte jedoch nicht, daß ich gleich zunächst dem Tore mir ein Haus drauf ansah, vor welchem ich zu halten befahl. Es wurde abgestiegen, angeklopft und, nachdem es drinnen munter geworden, mit lauter Stimme Herberge begehrt. Die Antwort war, wie sie zu erwarten stand, eben nicht sehr tröstlich: alles sei dicht besetzt und kein Unterkommen mehr möglich. -- »Aber, liebe Leute,« rief ich dagegen, »den alten Nettelbeck werdet ihr doch nicht auf der Straße stehen lassen?« -- »Nein, wahrhaftig nicht!« scholl eine weibliche Stimme dagegen. »Tausendmal willkommen! Da muß sich schon ein Winkelchen finden!« -- Und es fand sich auch so bequem und wohnlich, daß wir noch in guter Ruhe einige Stunden ausschlafen konnten. Mein Reisegefährte hatte große Lust, sich über diesen Zauber meines bloßen Namens zu verwundern; allein ich entzauberte ihn schnell, indem ich ihm erklärte, daß ich bloß meinen alten freundlichen Wirt wieder aufgesucht, bei welchem ich vor nicht gar langer Zeit gehaust hätte, als ich hier das Kind meines Freundes, des Regierungsrates Wisseling, aus der Taufe gehoben. Noch vormittags ward die Ankunft des königlichen Paares erwartet, dessen Zug vor unserm Hause vorüber mußte. Wir warfen uns also in unsre Staatskleider -- _ich_ in meine Admiralitätsuniform, mein Gefährte in die Uniform der Bürgergarde, und erwarteten auf einer erhöhten Treppe den für unser Herz so teuren Anblick. Wagen auf Wagen mit Königlichem Gefolge rollten vorüber. Endlich um zehn Uhr nahte der König selbst, neben ihm die Königin, langsam in einem offenen Wagen. Es klopfte uns hoch in der Brust und wir verbeugten uns ehrerbietig samt allen übrigen, ohne zu wissen, ob wir bemerkt wurden. Jetzt forderte ich meinen Begleiter auf, dem Zuge mit möglichster Eile zu folgen oder lieber noch zuvorzukommen, um die Gelegenheit zu unsrer persönlichen Vorstellung nicht zu versäumen, bevor der Monarch noch dichter umzingelt würde. Denn was für ein Eulenspiegelstreich wäre es gewesen, uns im Namen einer ganzen Stadt auf den Weg gemacht und dennoch unser Wort nicht angebracht zu haben! Allerdings war das Gedränge um des Königs Quartier unbeschreiblich groß und lebendig, aber mein treuherziges: »Kinder, maakt en betken Platz!« und auch wohl die paar Streifen Gold auf unsern Röcken halfen uns zuletzt glücklich durch das Gewühl, bis wir durch das Spalier des Militärs vorgedrungen waren, uns unter die bunten Gruppen der Offiziere und diensttuenden Adjutanten mischten und so zuletzt die Flur des Hauses erreichten. Noch kam es darauf an, uns mit unserm Wunsche, vorgelassen zu werden, an den rechten Mann zu wenden, als wir von des Königs Gemächern einen Stabsoffizier die Treppe herniedersteigen sahen, der auf uns zuging und mich freundlich fragte: »Gelt, Nettelbeck, Sie wollen den König sprechen? Dann ist's gerade an der rechten Zeit. Kommen Sie!« -- Zugleich faßte er mich und meinen Freund an der Hand und stieg in unsrer Mitte die Treppe hinauf. Nicht ohne seltsame Verwunderung fragte ich ihn: »Wie kommt mir das Glück, daß Sie mich bei Namen keinen?« -- »Und darüber wundern Sie sich?« war die Antwort. »Bin ich nicht in Kolberg bei Ihnen in Ihrem Hause gewesen?« -- Es war der General v. Borstell. Indem wir oben ankamen, fanden wir zwei schwarzgekleidete Männer, Deputierte von der Kaufmannschaft einer benachbarten Stadt, vor der offenen Flügeltüre, die zu des Königs Audienzzimmer führte. Der General wies sie vor uns hinein und wir folgten dann nach. Das ganze große Zimmer war erfüllt von Generalen, Damen und Standespersonen, worunter mir die Prinzessin Elisabeth, die von Stettin gekommen war, der General v. Blücher und andre bemerkbar wurden. Alles blitzte von Ordenszeichen jeder Art, und es gab eine feierliche Stille, bis der König hereintrat, samt seiner königlichen Gemahlin, und die Anwesenden ihnen nach der Reihe vorgestellt wurden. Vor uns traten die genannten beiden Deputierten vor, die etwas beklommen schienen und überaus leise sprachen, so daß uns davon sowie von des Königs Antwort wenig oder nichts hörbar wurde. Als sie sich zurückgezogen hatten, wandten beide hohe Personen sich zu uns, und mich anblickend, fragte der König: »Nicht wahr, der alte Nettelbeck aus Kolberg?« -- und dann, während wir unsre Verbeugung machten, zu meinem Gefährten gekehrt: »Die Kolberger sind mir willkommen!« Wir hatten im voraus verabredet, uns, wenn es dahin käme, in unsern Vortrag zu teilen, damit wir nicht beide durcheinandersprächen. Ich hob demnach an: »Ew. Majestät geruhen gnädigst, uns zu erlauben, daß wir im Namen unsrer Mitbürger Ihnen fußfällig unsern Dank bringen für die große Gnade und Wohltat, die Sie unsrer guten Vaterstadt haben angedeihen lassen. Wir haben dafür kein andres Opfer, als die abermalige Versicherung unsrer unerschütterlichen Treue, nicht allein für uns, sondern auch für unsre spätesten Nachkommen, denen wir mit gutem Beispiele vorangegangen sind. Stets soll es ihnen in Herz und Seele geschrieben bleiben: Liebet Gott und euern König und seid getreu dem Vaterlande!« Hierauf wandte sich der König halb gegen uns und halb gegen die hinter ihm stehende glänzende Versammlung und sprach in lebendiger Bewegung die Worte: »Kolberg hat sich bereits im Siebenjährigen Kriege treu gehalten und dadurch die Liebe meines Großoheims erworben. Auch jetzt hat es das Seinige getan, und wenn ein jeder so seine Pflicht erfüllt hätte, so wäre es uns nicht so unglücklich ergangen.« Jetzt nahm mein Freund das Wort und äußerte, wie nahe es uns gehen würde, wenn unsre Gegenwart bei Sr. Majestät eine unangenehme Erinnerung aufregte, allein die Gefühle unsrer dankbarsten Verehrung hätten uns nicht zurückbleiben lassen wollen, und ganz Kolberg teile unsre Gesinnungen. Der König erwiderte darauf: »Ich weiß es; wenn früh oder spät einmal es die Umstände gebieten, werden die Kolberger auch gerne wieder für mich auftreten.« Hier fing ich Feuer und brach begeistert aus, indem ich mit der Hand auf mein Herz schlug: »Ew. Majestät, dazu lebt der freudige Mut in uns und unsern Kindern, und verflucht sei, wer seinem Könige und Vaterlande nicht treu ist!« -- »Das ist recht! das ist brav!« versetzte der Monarch, und als er darauf fragte, wie wir sonst in Kolberg lebten, gab ich zur Antwort: »Gut, Ew. Majestät! Kleinigkeiten machen wir unter uns ab, und ist es etwas Bedeutendes und wir können nicht durchkommen, da wenden wir uns geradezu an Ew. Majestät. Wir hoffen, Sie werden uns nicht sinken lassen.« »Nein, nicht sinken lassen -- nicht sinken laß ich euch!« rief der König, wobei er mir die Hand entgegenbot. »Wendet euch nur an mich, und was zu erfüllen möglich ist, soll geschehen.« -- Dann fragte er, ob wir eigens dieserhalb gekommen wären, oder ob uns andre Geschäfte nach Stargard führten? -- »Kein andres Geschäft, als der Auftrag der Unsrigen,« entgegnete ich, »und eben dadurch wird dieser Tag der glücklichste unsres Lebens.« Jetzt beurlaubte uns der König mit den Worten: »Ich danke euch! Grüßt eure guten und braven Mitbürger und sagt ihnen, auch ihnen dankte ich für die Treue und Anhänglichkeit, die sie mir erwiesen haben. Haltet immer auf Religion und Moralität.« -- Als wir uns darauf verbeugten und Miene zum Abtreten machten, sagte der König: »Sie bleiben noch hier!« -- worauf auch bald hernach die Königin sich näherte, neben ihren Gemahl trat und sich mit gütigem Lächeln und der Bemerkung zu uns wandte: »Wir haben uns heute schon gesehen,« -- und der Monarch fiel ihr ein: »Nicht wahr? Ich hatte doch recht geraten?« -- So ergab sich's denn, daß ich oder meine Uniform dem königlichen Paare bereits im Vorbeifahren aufgefallen sein mußte. Sie aber fuhr zu mir fort: »Ich bin gewiß recht froh, Sie hier zu sehen und persönlich kennen zu lernen.« -- »Und ich,« war meine Antwort, »ich danke Gott dafür, daß er mich den Tag hat erleben lassen, wo meine Augen den guten König und unsre allgeliebte Königin in solchem Wohlsein erblicken. Der Name des Herrn sei dafür gelobt!« -- So erhielten wir nunmehr unsre gnädige Entlassung, eilten nach unserm Gasthofe zurück und waren von Herzen froh, unser Geschäft so wohl und mit solchen Ehren abgetan zu haben. Indes hatte mein Freund sich entfernt, um einige Besuche in der Stadt bei seinen Bekannten abzustatten, als etwa nach einer Stunde ein königlicher Page, der uns lange vergeblich gesucht und erst durch den Polizeidirektor Struensee hatte ausfindig machen können, zu mir eintrat, um uns zur königlichen Tafel einzuladen. Es war spät; mein Gefährte war abwesend und ich mußte mich entschließen, ohne ihn zu gehen. Im Tafelzimmer hatte auch schon alles seine Plätze eingenommen. Als ich dann mich dem Könige präsentierte, fragte er nach meinem Mit-Deputierten, und als ich darauf nicht Genügendes zu erwidern wußte, fiel ein ungnädiger Blick auf den Pagen, der noch nächst der Türe stand, daß er seinen Auftrag so unvollständig ausgerichtet. Ein Kammerherr führte mich zu meinem Sitze hin, wo rechts der General v. Pirch und links der General-Chirurgus Görke meine Tischnachbarn waren. Beide unterhielten sich mit mir während der Tafel aufs freundlichste und ersterer erbot sich, heute abend zu dem großen Balle, der von der Stadt veranstaltet worden, seinen Wagen zu meiner Abholung bei mir vorfahren zu lassen, was mit herzlichem Danke angenommen wurde. Nach aufgehobener Tafel machte ich, wie ich es die andern tun sah, dem königlichen Paare das stumme Zeichen meiner Verehrung und war im Begriffe, gleich jenen mich zu entfernen, als der König mich noch bleiben hieß und dann der Königin einen Wink gab. Hierauf kam dieselbe herbei und führte mich in ein besonderes Nebengemach, wo ich nun mit freudiger Überraschung mich ohne Zeugen dem hohen Paare gegenübergestellt fand. Beide taten eine Reihe von Fragen an mich, die ich nach bestem Vermögen beantwortete, deren Inhalt aber nicht in diese Blätter gehört. Mein Herz geriet dabei mehr und mehr in eine hohe Bewegung. -- -- Auf dem Balle, zu dem wir, nach des Königs ausdrücklicher Bestimmung, eingeladen worden, verweilten wir des starken Gedränges wegen nur kurze Zeit. Des nächsten Morgens reisten wir ab, und zufolge den Wünschen meines Freundes begleitete ich ihn nach Stettin, wohin ihn Geschäfte führten und wo uns eine sehr freundliche Aufnahme zuteil ward, so daß wir mehrere uns zugedachte Güte und Auszeichnung von uns ablehnen mußten, weil ich mich noch zum Feste wieder nach Hause sehnte und ich mich überdies ein wenig kränklich fühlte. Mein Geist war aber frei und froh, und es mag auch wohl sein (was mein Reisegefährte behauptet und wessen ich mich gleichwohl wenig mehr entsinne), daß ich manches holländische Liedchen für mich gesungen habe. Das aber kommt nur an mich, wenn meine Seele in innerem geistigen Wohlbehagen schwelgt. * * * * * Das war also mein kurzes, aber erfreuliches Leben am Hofe! In ein längeres hätte ich mich freilich schlecht zu schicken gewußt und überdies wäre mir dadurch meine gute ehrliche Pfahlbürgerei vielleicht verleidet worden, zu welcher ich nun mit doppeltem Behagen zurückkehrte und wobei ich mich ohne Zweifel auch besser befand. Ich hatte meine frühere Hantierung, soweit meine verminderten Vermögensumstände es zuließen, klein und bescheiden wieder angefangen und fand dabei, als ein einzelner Mann von wenigen Wünschen und Anforderungen, auch mein notdürftiges Auskommen. Ich würde sogar sagen können, daß ich glücklich und zufrieden lebte, wenn ich irgend bei meinen Hausgenossen, durch die ich meine Geschäfte betreiben mußte, nur etwas von der Treue und Anhänglichkeit gefunden hätte, auf die ich rechnete und deren ich bedurfte. Wenn aber das Gesinde, gegen frühere Zeiten gehalten, schon vor dem Kriege ziemlich aus der Art geschlagen schien, so hatte es nunmehr der Krieg selbst und das Beispiel der lockeren französischen Sitten vollends verdorben, und wenn ich auch zugeben wollte, daß ich in meinen Forderungen an die junge Welt etwas strenger und mitunter auch wohl wunderlicher geworden, als jene gutheißen wollte, so ist's darum nicht minder wahr, daß die, welche mich zunächst umgaben, nur ihrem eignen unerlaubten Nutzen nachgingen und mich in meinem Haushalte auf jede mögliche Weise übervorteilten. Da fiel mir's denn schwer und immer schwerer aufs Herz, daß ich so ganz abgesondert und verlassen in der Welt dastand. Ich zählte bereits 75 Jahre und in meinen Gedanken hatte ich meine Lebensrechnung sehr viel früher abgeschlossen. Was sollte mit mir werden, wenn Gott mich noch nicht wollte? wenn nun die unvermeidlichen Schwachheiten des Alters näher herzutraten? wenn Kränklichkeit und körperliche Leiden überhandnahmen? wenn meine edleren Sinne mich verließen? wenn ich unvernehmlich und kindisch würde? -- Mir grauste, wenn ich auf diese Weise in die Zukunft blickte! Meine Freunde, denen ich aus diesen Betrachtungen kein Geheimnis machte, rieten mir lachend, aber bald auch im wohlgemeinten Ernste, zuversichtlich noch einmal in den Glückstopf des Ehestandes zu greifen. Ich hingegen schüttelte mächtig den Kopf -- ein Bräutigam mit drei Vierteln eines Säkulums auf dem Nacken! Überdies: wer, der, wie ich, bereits zwei so böse Nieten aus jenem Topfe gezogen, hätte sich's wohl zugetraut, das dritte Mal mit dem großen Lose davonzugehen? Dennoch war der Gedanke ein Feuerfunke in meine Seele, der unablässig darin fortglimmte und all mein Sinnen und Streben beschäftigte. Es ließ sich nicht leugnen, daß der Ruhe und dem Wohlsein meines Lebensabends nicht füglicher geraten werden konnte, als durch eine Gefährtin, die mir aus Güte und Wohlwollen die Pflege, welche ich aus bezahlter Hand nur widerwillig erhalten haben würde, mit unendlich treuerer Sorgfalt erwiese. Allein wie konnte und durfte ich Greis irgendwo erwarten, daß ein Frauenherz zu solchen Gesinnungen fähig, den eignen Anspruch ans Leben dergestalt verleugnen sollte, um es mit mir zu wagen? -- Ich fing wiederum an, den Kopf noch mächtiger zu schütteln. Da traten nun endlich meine Freunde im Ernste zu, und ihrem Rate, wie ihren Vorschlägen, danke ich's, daß nicht nur meine tausend Bedenklichkeiten besiegt, sondern auch die Einleitungen zur Verwirklichung meines Entschlusses aufs glücklichste getroffen wurden. Ihre Bemühungen führten mir eine würdige und erwünschte Gattin zu, die nicht nur den Pflichten einer Hausfrau im vollen Umfange zu genügen verstand, sondern die auch durch eine gute Erziehung, Milde der Gesinnung und reine Güte des Herzens mir in Wahrheit ein großes Los, wie ich es nimmer gehofft hätte, geworden ist. Tochter eines würdigen Landpredigers in der Uckermark, war sie zwar frühe Waise geworden, aber unter der Fürsorge liebreicher Verwandten hatten sich Herz und Geist bei ihr trefflich gebildet, und es fehlte ihr an keinem Bedingnis für die Bestimmung zu einem stillen bürgerlichen Leben und Wirken. Was ich damals schon mit völligster Überzeugung aussprach, das hat sich mir jetzt, nach beinahe zehn Jahren, noch wahrhafter erwiesen: Gerade so und nicht anders mußte mir der gnädige Gott eine Gefährtin zuweisen, wenn sie der Trost und die Stütze meines Alters sein sollte! So ward ich denn im Jahre 1814 der glücklichste Ehegatte und bin es noch: allein was den Leser dieser Blätter vielleicht noch weit mehr überraschen wird, -- ich ward gleich im nächsten Jahre auch _Vater_. Ein liebes Töchterchen ward mir geboren, und lebt, wächst und gedeiht zu unsrer herzinnigen Freude. Gleicht es einst der _Mutter_, wie ich mir das verspreche, an Sinn und Gemüt, so bleibt mir kaum noch etwas zu wünschen übrig. Was vom _Vater_ auf sie vererben kann und auch vererben soll, ist freilich nicht viel; doch habe und hege sie nur meine Scheu vor Unrecht und meine es gut und redlich mit allen Menschen, so wird auch dieses geringe Erbteil ihr reichlich wuchern! -- Ich nahm mir das Herz, Se. Majestät um die Übernahme der Patenstelle bei meinem Kinde zu ersuchen. Des Königs Gnade bewilligte mir nicht nur diese Bitte, sondern erlaubte dem Täufling auch, in einer teuren Erinnerung, den Namen _Luise_ zu führen. Noch führte ich mein Gewerbe einige Jahre mit günstigem Erfolge fort, als aber in den Jahren 1817 und 1818 die Gewerbscheine zum freien Betrieb aller Hantierungen im Staate immer allgemeiner verbreitet wurden, sah ich meinen Nahrungsverkehr fast gänzlich eingehen, denn belastet mit allen städtischen Abgaben, war es länger nicht möglich, mit dem vom platten Lande hereingeführten Branntwein Preis zu halten. Mir blieb auf diese Weise nichts übrig, als diese Fabrikation ganz aufzugeben, wie wenig ich auch in meinem hohen Alter eine Aussicht gewann, mich in eine andre Beschäftigung zu werfen und dadurch meinen täglichen Unterhalt zu sichern. So begann denn meine häusliche Lage in Wahrheit bedenklich zu werden. Gleich nach geendigter Belagerung hatte der edle Gneisenau, der um meine mancherlei Einbußen wußte, sich erboten, mir zur Schadloshaltung eine königliche Pension zu erwirken. Mein Ehrgefühl lehnte sich dagegen auf, und mit tränenden Augen bat ich ihn, von diesem Gedanken abzustehen, denn damals waren meine Umstände noch immer leidlich, und ich hatte niemand zu versorgen. Gegenwärtig aber, wo meiner Lebenslast noch zehn Jahre mehr zugewachsen waren, standen meine Sachen um vieles anders, und ich erkannte es mit dankbarer Rührung, als die Huld meines gnädigen Königs mir ein jährliches Gnadengehalt von zweihundert Talern aussetzte, wovon auch nach meinem Tode die Hälfte auf meine Witwe übergehen wird. Nicht minder ward meiner kleinen Tochter zu ihrer Erziehung eine Stelle in dem Luisenstifte zugesichert, oder nach meinem und der Mutter bestem Befinden eine Novizenstelle in dem hiesigen Jungfernstifte vorbehalten. Gottlob! Nun werden meine Lieben nicht ganz verlassen sein, und ich werde mein Haupt ruhig niederlegen! Solchergestalt hätte ich allem menschlichen Absehen nach nunmehr mit Welt und Leben so ziemlich abgeschlossen, und ich dürfte hier wohl die Feder niederlegen, wenn ich nicht noch ein paar Schwachheiten zu beichten hätte, die mich noch in so späten Jahren versucht haben, mich dennoch mit Welt und Leben wieder zu befassen. * * * * * Was für ein sonderbares Ding es um das Projektmachen sei, das habe ich im lebendigen Beispiel an mir selbst erfahren. Der freundliche Leser erinnert sich ohne Zweifel noch, was für ein feines Plänchen zu einer preußischen Kolonie am Kormantin ich schon seit den siebziger Jahren auf dem Herzen trug, und wie ich nach unsres großen Friedrichs Tode einen neuen herzhaften, aber vergeblichen Anlauf nahm, den Plan zur Wirklichkeit zu bringen. Seitdem hatte ich nun noch von englischen Seeleuten hier im Hafen wiederholt vernommen, daß ihre Landsleute längst zugegriffen und jene Landstriche mit Glück angebaut hätten. Wer sollte nun nicht gemeint haben, daß endlich jeder Gedanke solcher Art aus meinem Hirne gewichen sei? Ich glaubte es selbst und schalt mich oft einen Toren, daß ich so etwas hatte träumen können. Allein das bunte Traumbild war nicht entwichen, sondern hatte sich nur in den dunkelsten Hintergrund meiner Gehirnkammern bis auf gelegenere Zeit zurückgeschoben. Wunderbare Dinge waren vom Jahre 1812 an, vor den Augen der erstaunten Zeitgenossen, wie vor den meinigen, vorübergegangen; die Welt war plötzlich eine andre geworden; Frankreichs Übermacht lag zu Boden, und unser geliebtes Vaterland hatte sich von seinem tiefen Falle glorreich wieder aufgerichtet. Mein altes Herz schlug mir jugendlich freudig bei jeder neuen Großtat, welche die preußischen Waffen verrichtet; ich sah den Staat auf dem Wege, eine immer glänzendere und ehrenvollere Stelle unter den europäischen Mächten einzunehmen. Da erwachte plötzlich auch mein alter langgenährter Lieblingswunsch in der Seele, ich wollte Preußen auch jenseits der Weltmeere groß, blühend und geachtet sehen, es sollte seine Kolonien gleich andern besitzen! Bald ließ es mir bei Tag und Nacht keinen Frieden mehr. Während die verbündeten Heere 1814 den Kampf der Entscheidung auf französischem Boden vollends ausfochten, (ich selbst hatte damals noch keine Ehestandsgedanken, die mir sonst wohl den Kopf zurechtgesetzt haben würden), mußte ich, um es nur vom Herzen loszuwerden, mich hinsetzen und an meinen hochverehrten Gönner, dem seine glänzenden Erfolge im Felde eine bedeutsame Stellung im Staate erworben hatten, etwa in folgenden Worten zu schreiben: »Bereits seit vielen Jahren hat mir in meinem Herzen ein Wunsch für König und Vaterland gebrannt, und ich glaube, die Vorsehung hat gerade jetzt Zeit und Umstände zu dessen möglicher Erfüllung herbeigeführt. Dieser Gedanke drückt und drängt mich auch dermaßen, daß ich mich nicht enthalten kann, ihn hier vor Ew. &c. auszuschütten. Mögen Sie dann auch von mir denken, wie Sie wollen, oder mich auch gar damit auslachen! Gott weiß, ich meine es dennoch von Grund des Herzens gut. Aber zur Sache! »Frankreich ist an unsern preußischen Staat mehr schuldig, als es uns jemals wird ersetzen können. Sollte aber ein solcher Ersatz nicht auf andre Weise zu leisten sein, indem es uns in dem bevorstehenden Frieden (der hoffentlich von Preußen und den verbundenen Mächten diktiert werden wird), und unter Englands Genehmigung, eine bereits in Kultur stehende französische Kolonie in Amerika abträte? -- z. B. Cayenne mit ihrem Zubehör auf dem festen Lande, oder eine andre, in guter Kultur stehende Insel unter den Antillen, wie Grenada mit den dazugehörigen Grenadillen oder Dominika. So würden wir die Kolonialwaren, die uns nun einmal ein Bedürfnis geworden sind und wofür so große Summen aus unserm Lande gehen, für unsre selbst erzeugten einheimischen Produkte aus jenen Kolonien unter eigner Flagge und Wimpel eintauschen können. Schweden und Dänemark sind ungleich ärmer an inländischen Erzeugnissen und finden dennoch ihren Vorteil dabei, ihre westindischen Besitzungen in St. Thomas und St. Barthelemy zu unterhalten. »Daß dieser Handel durch Aktien leicht zustande kommen könnte, leidet wohl keinen Zweifel, da unsre Kapitalisten gerne ihre Fonds darin anlegen würden. Nicht nur könnten die Kapitalien assekuriert werden, sondern auch die Assekuranzprämien im Lande selbst verbleiben. -- Auch fehlt es uns jetzt nicht an gründlich unterrichteten Seeleuten. Ich selbst für meinen geringen Teil habe dazu wie bekannt seit dreißig Jahren mitgewirkt, indem es mein Lieblingsgeschäft gewesen ist, eine Steuermannsschule zu unterhalten, worin mehrere tüchtige Seemänner gebildet worden, welche auch jene entfernteren Meere und Gewässer zu befahren wohl imstande sein würden. »Ich habe mich hiermit unterwunden, nur ein kleines schwaches Bild aus meiner Gedankenwerkstatt zu entwerfen; Zeit und Umstände mögen lehren, ob es von den Weiseren und Machthabern nicht lebendiger auszumalen sein möchte. Meinesteils schreibe und urteile ich nur als alter Seemann, der ich in meinen jüngeren Jahren und wiederum von 1770 ab längere Zeit in holländischen und englischen Diensten jene amerikanischen Küsten und Gewässer in allen Richtungen befahren habe. Jetzt bin ich 76 Jahre alt, sollte es aber noch gelingen, daß meine Vorschläge irgend zu ihrem Zwecke führten, so würde ich mir die Gnade erbitten, das erste preußische Schiff selbst dorthin führen zu dürfen.« Zweifle niemand, daß ich in diesem letzteren Erbieten nicht treulich Wort gehalten hätte! Ich fühlte damals meine Kräfte im ganzen noch ungeschmälert, und was hätte nichts vollends der Feuereifer vermocht, womit die Erfüllung meines Lieblingsgedankens mich beseelt haben würde! Allein diese Erfüllung stand nun einmal nicht im Buche des Schicksals geschrieben, und ich gab mich endlich gern in den Gründen zufrieden, welche mir in der wohlwollendsten Gesinnung, als gegen meinen Vorschlag streitend, aufgestellt wurden; z. B., daß es das System unsres Staates sei, keine Kolonien in auswärtigen Weltteilen zu haben, daß, wie vorteilhaft es sonst auch sein möge, durch Absatz der Produkte des Mutterlandes die Kolonialwaren einzutauschen, uns hingegen ein solcher Besitz nur abhängig von den Seemächten machen würde usw. Das ließ sich hören, und dem war denn auch weiter nichts zu entgegnen, wenngleich mein schönes Projekt darüber in den Brunnen fiel. Und doch ist es das einzige nicht, was mir in meinen alten Greisentagen den Herzensfrieden stört und mitunter die schlaflosen Nächte wohl noch unruhiger macht, obwohl man mich ebensogut um des einen, wie um des andern willen tadeln möchte, daß ich mir Dinge zu Herzen nehme, die mich nicht kümmern sollten. Und doch dürfte ich wohl fragen: _Warum_ nicht kümmern? In jenem war mir's lediglich um die Ehre und den Vorteil meines lieben Vaterlandes zu tun, die mir bis zum letzten Hauche meines Lebens teuer sein werden. In dem andern, das ich noch nennen will (obzwar ich es am Ende auch für eine Schwachheit meines von jeder Mißhandlung, welche Menschen gegen ihresgleichen üben, tief verwundbaren Herzens halte), sorge und bekümmere ich mich als Mensch und für die Ehre und den Vorteil der Menschheit. _Wann will und wird bei uns der ernstliche Wille erwachen, den afrikanischen Raubstaaten ihr schändliches Gewerbe zu legen, damit dem friedsamen Schiffer, der die südeuropäischen Meere unter Angst und Schrecken befährt, keine Sklavenfesseln mehr drohen?_ Wenn ich _das_ noch heute oder morgen verkündigen höre, dann will ich mit Freuden mein lebenssattes Haupt zur Ruhe niederlegen! * * * * * Nettelbeck ist 1824, sechsundachtzigjährig, gestorben, seine jüngste, Seite 454 erwähnte Tochter hat bis 1897 gelebt. * * * * * Als erster Band der neuen Sammlung »Schicksal und Abenteuer« sind unter dem Titel »Eine preußische Königstochter« im März 1910 die »Denkwürdigkeiten der Markgräfin von Bayreuth«, der klugen und sehr temperamentvollen Lieblingsschwester Friedrichs des Großen, ausgegeben worden. Vor genau hundert Jahren ist bei Cotta in Tübingen die erste deutsche, bei Vieweg in Braunschweig die erste französische Ausgabe dieses höchst merkwürdigen Buches erschienen. Was so kurz nach dem Zusammenbruch des preußischen Staates sensationell wirkte, wird nach einem Jahrhundert aufsteigender staatlicher Entwickelung und geschichtlicher Forschung einem ruhigen, aber tiefgehenden menschlichen Interesse begegnen. Entrüstet oder ergriffen oder amüsiert, niemals aber gelangweilt, begleitet der Leser diese preußische Königstochter auf ihrem Lebenswege, die einen wundervollen Frauentyp des achtzehnten Jahrhunderts darstellt und deren künstlerische Gestaltungskraft stark genug ist, um die Personen und Zustände am Berliner Hofe wie in der kleinen fränkischen Residenz vollkommen lebendig werden zu lassen. * * * * * Memoiren sind keine Geschichte. Später Geborene überblicken mehr. Der Markgräfin ist Friedrich Wilhelm I. der gefürchtete Vater, dessen Härte ihr Kindheit und Jugend zerstörte. _Wir_ kennen den Polterer als einen der größten Erzieher zum Staate, der, den Künsten und Wissenschaften, aber auch allem Schein und Prunk gründlich abhold, im Willen zur Einfachheit den Weg zur Macht erkannte und beschritt. _Wir_ wissen, daß der über alles geliebte Bruder der Markgräfin, Friedrich der Große, sein siegreiches Schwert diesem Vater verdankte, daß er ohne gerade dieses Vaters Schule und Erbe nicht der erste Diener seines Staates, der Philosoph auf dem Throne und der menschlichste der Könige geworden wäre, als den ihn nicht nur die deutsche Welt bis auf diesen Tag bewundert. Immer wieder begegnen wir auf den Blättern dieses Buches, das vor nord- und süddeutschem Hintergrunde eine bedeutende, der nationalen Kultur vorarbeitende Epoche unserer Vergangenheit veranschaulicht, der werdenden Größe des alten Fritz, die zu allen Zeiten auch nicht preußisch Gesinnte mit Goethe »gut fritzisch« gesinnt sein ließ. * * * * * Eine preussische Königstochter [Illustration] Denkwürdigkeiten der Markgräfin von Bayreuth Schwester Friedrichs des Großen Herausgegeben von _Johannes Armbruster_ 1,80 Mark in Pappband, mit Lederrücken Mark 3,00 * * * * * Die Bücher der Rose Erster bis sechster Band In biegsamem Pappband je M. 1.80, in Ganzleinenband je M. 3.-- Die Ernte aus acht Jahrhunderten deutscher Lyrik Gesammelt von _Will Vesper_ 1. bis 85. Tausend 1906 bis 1909 Alles um Liebe Goethes Briefe aus der ersten Hälfte seines Lebens Mit biographischen Verbindungen und sachlichen Erläuterungen von _Ernst Hartung_ 1. bis 100. Tausend 1906 bis 1909 Kügelgen Jugenderinnerungen eines alten Mannes Ausgabe mit großer Schrift und vielen Bildern, z. T. nach Gemälden des Verfassers 1. bis 85. Tausend 1907 bis 1910 Vom tätigen Leben Goethes Briefe aus der zweiten Hälfte seines Lebens Mit biographischen Verbindungen und sachlichen Erläuterungen von _Ernst Hartung_ 1. bis 65. Tausend 1907 bis 1909 Der heilige Krieg Friedrich Hebbel in seinen Briefen, Tagebüchern, Gedichten Herausgegeben von _Hans Brandenburg_ 1. bis 32. Tausend 1907 bis 1910 Menschen und Mächte Ausgewählte Erzählungen von _E. T. A. Hoffmann_ 1. bis 30. Tausend 1908 bis 1910 * * * * * Die Bücher der Rose Siebenter bis zwölfter Band In biegsamem Pappband je M. 1.80, in Ganzleinenband je M. 3.-- Über allen Gipfeln Goethes Gedichte im Rahmen seines Lebens Mit 30 Bildnissen Auswahl und Anmerkungen von _Ernst Hartung_ 1. bis 50. Tausend 1908 bis 1909 Pitt und Fox Die Liebeswege der Brüder Sintrup Ein Roman von _Friedrich Huch_ 1. bis 40. Tausend 1908 bis 1910 Die Droste Annette v. Droste-Hülshoff: Briefe, Gedichte, Erzählungen Biographisch verbunden und sachlich erläutert von _H. Amelungk_ 1. bis 30. Tausend 1909 bis 1910 Von Wald und Welt Eichendorffs Gedichte und Erzählungen mit Bildern von Moritz Schwind Herausgegeben von _Wilhelm von Scholz_ 1. bis 40. Tausend 1909 bis 1910 Feuertrunken Eine Dichterjugend. Schillers Briefe bis zur Verlobung Mit biographischen Verbindungen von _Hans Brandenburg_ 1. bis 40. Tausend 1909 bis 1910 Das zweite Buch der Ernte aus acht Jahrhunderten deutscher Lyrik Gesammelt von _Will Vesper_ 1. bis 30. Tausend 1910 * * * * * Der Drache, das Zeichen der Sammlung »Schicksal und Abenteuer«, ist die Wiedergabe des 1414 vom Kaiser Sigismund gestifteten Drachenordens, nach dem Original im Bayerischen Nationalmuseum zu München von Dora Polster in München-Schwabing gezeichnet. Derselben Künstlerin verdankt das Buch die Initialen und seinen sonstigen Schmuck, ausschließlich des Bildnisses _Nettelbecks_, für das eine alte Vorlage benutzt werden konnte. * * * * * Das erste bis vierunddreißigste Tausend ist im August 1910 von der Spamerschen Buchdruckerei in Leipzig gedruckt worden. Das Papier hat die Neue Papiermanufaktur zu Straßburg eigens angefertigt. Einbände von H. Fikentscher in Leipzig.

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:30.790632

23334

Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net NATURAL LAW IN THE SPIRITUAL WORLD. BY HENRY DRUMMOND. F.R.S.E.: F.G.S. NEW YORK: HURST & CO., PUBLISHERS, 122 NASSAU ST. ARGYLE PRESS PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING, 24 & 26 WOOSTER ST., N. Y. Transcriber's Note: Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Greek text appears as originally printed, except for two significant errors as noted at the end of the text. CONTENTS. PAGE PREFACE, 5 INTRODUCTION, 21 BIOGENESIS, 59 DEGENERATION, 83 GROWTH, 99 DEATH, 111 MORTIFICATION, 133 ETERNAL LIFE, 149 ENVIRONMENT, 181 CONFORMITY TO TYPE, 203 SEMI-PARASITISM, 223 PARASITISM, 237 CLASSIFICATION, 255 PREFACE. No class of works is received with more suspicion, I had almost said derision, than those which deal with Science and Religion. Science is tired of reconciliations between two things which never should have been contrasted; Religion is offended by the patronage of an ally which it professes not to need; and the critics have rightly discovered that, in most cases where Science is either pitted against Religion or fused with it, there is some fatal misconception to begin with as to the scope and province of either. But although no initial protest, probably, will save this work from the unhappy reputation of its class, the thoughtful mind will perceive that the fact of its subject-matter being Law--a property peculiar neither to Science nor to Religion--at once places it on a somewhat different footing. The real problem I have set myself may be stated in a sentence. Is there not reason to believe that many of the Laws of the Spiritual World, hitherto regarded as occupying an entirely separate province, are simply the Laws of the Natural World? Can we identify the Natural Laws, or any one of them, in the Spiritual sphere? That vague lines everywhere run through the Spiritual World is already beginning to be recognized. Is it possible to link them with those great lines running through the visible universe which we call the Natural Laws, or are they fundamentally distinct? In a word, Is the Supernatural natural or unnatural? I may, perhaps, be allowed to answer these questions in the form in which they have answered themselves to myself. And I must apologize at the outset for personal references which, but for the clearness they may lend to the statement, I would surely avoid. It has been my privilege for some years to address regularly two very different audiences on two very different themes. On week days I have lectured to a class of students on the Natural Sciences, and on Sundays to an audience consisting for the most part of working men on subjects of a moral and religious character. I cannot say that this collocation ever appeared as a difficulty to myself, but to certain of my friends it was more than a problem. It was solved to me, however, at first, by what then seemed the necessities of the case--I must keep the two departments entirely by themselves. They lay at opposite poles of thought; and for a time I succeeded in keeping the Science and the Religion shut off from one another in two separate compartments of my mind. But gradually the wall of partition showed symptoms of giving way. The two fountains of knowledge also slowly began to overflow, and finally their waters met and mingled. The great change was in the compartment which held the Religion. It was not that the well there was dried; still less that the fermenting waters were washed away by the flood of Science. The actual contents remained the same. But the crystals of former doctrine were dissolved; and as they precipitated themselves once more in definite forms, I observed that the Crystalline System was changed. New channels also for outward expression opened, and some of the old closed up; and I found the truth running out to my audience on the Sundays by the week-day outlets. In other words, the subject-matter Religion had taken on the method of expression of Science, and I discovered myself enunciating Spiritual Law in the exact terms of Biology and Physics. Now this was not simply a scientific coloring given to Religion, the mere freshening of the theological air with natural facts and illustrations. It was an entire re-casting of truth. And when I came seriously to consider what it involved, I saw, or seemed to see, that it meant essentially the introduction of Natural Law into the Spiritual World. It was not, I repeat, that new and detailed analogies of _Phenomena_ rose into view--although material for Parable lies unnoticed and unused on the field of recent Science in inexhaustible profusion. But Law has a still grander function to discharge toward Religion than Parable. There is a deeper unity between the two Kingdoms than the analogy of their Phenomena--a unity which the poet's vision, more quick than the theologian's, has already dimly seen:-- "And verily many thinkers of this age, Aye, many Christian teachers, half in heaven, Are wrong in just my sense, who understood Our natural world too insularly, as if No spiritual counterpart completed it, Consummating its meaning, rounding all To justice and perfection, _line by line, Form by form, nothing single nor alone_, The great below clenched by the great above."[1] The function of Parable in religion is to exhibit "form by form." Law undertakes the profounder task of comparing "line by line." Thus Natural Phenomena serve mainly an illustrative function in Religion. Natural Law, on the other hand, could it be traced in the Spiritual World, would have an important scientific value--it would offer Religion a new credential. The effect of the introduction of Law among the scattered Phenomena of Nature has simply been to make Science, to transform knowledge into eternal truth. The same crystallizing touch is needed in Religion. Can it be said that the Phenomena of the Spiritual World are other than scattered? Can we shut our eyes to the fact that the religious opinions of mankind are in a state of flux? And when we regard the uncertainty of current beliefs, the war of creeds, the havoc of inevitable as well as of idle doubt, the reluctant abandonment of early faith by those who would cherish it longer if they could, is it not plain that the one thing thinking men are waiting for is the introduction of Law among the Phenomena of the Spiritual World? When that comes we shall offer to such men a truly scientific theology. And the Reign of Law will transform the whole Spiritual World as it has already transformed the Natural World. I confess that even when in the first dim vision, the organizing hand of Law moved among the unordered truths of my Spiritual World, poor and scantily-furnished as it was, there seemed to come over it the beauty of a transfiguration. The change was as great as from the old chaotic world of Pythagoras to the symmetrical and harmonious universe of Newton. My Spiritual World before was a chaos of facts; my Theology, a Pythagorean system trying to make the best of Phenomena apart from the idea of Law. I make no charge against Theology in general. I speak of my own. And I say that I saw it to be in many essential respects centuries behind every department of Science I knew. It was the one region still unpossessed by Law. I saw then why men of Science distrust Theology; why those who have learned to look upon Law as Authority grow cold to it--it was the Great Exception. I have alluded to the genesis of the idea in my own mind partly for another reason--to show its naturalness. Certainly I never premeditated anything to myself so objectionable and so unwarrantable in itself, as either to read Theology into Science or Science into Theology. Nothing could be more artificial than to attempt this on the speculative side; and it has been a substantial relief to me throughout that the idea rose up thus in the course of practical work and shaped itself day by day unconsciously. It might be charged, nevertheless, that I was all the time, whether consciously or unconsciously, simply reading my Theology into my Science. And as this would hopelessly vitiate the conclusions arrived at, I must acquit myself at least of the intention. Of nothing have I been more fearful throughout than of making Nature parallel with my own or with any creed. The only legitimate questions one dare put to Nature are those which concern universal human good and the Divine interpretation of things. These I conceive may be there actually studied at first-hand, and before their purity is soiled by human touch. We have Truth in Nature as it came from God. And it has to be read with the same unbiased mind, the same open eye, the same faith, and the same reverence as all other Revelation. All that is found there, whatever its place in Theology, whatever its orthodoxy or heterodoxy, whatever its narrowness or its breadth, we are bound to accept as Doctrine from which on the lines of Science there is no escape. When this presented itself to me as a method, I felt it to be due to it--were it only to secure, so far as that was possible, that no former bias should interfere with the integrity of the results--to begin again at the beginning and reconstruct my Spiritual World step by step. The result of that inquiry, so far as its expression in systematic form is concerned, I have not given in this book. To reconstruct a Spiritual Religion, or a department of Spiritual Religion--for this is all the method can pretend to--on the lines of Nature would be an attempt from which one better equipped in both directions might well be pardoned if he shrank. My object at present is the humbler one of venturing a simple contribution to practical Religion along the lines indicated. What Bacon predicates of the Natural World, _Natura enim non nisi parendo vincitur_, is also true, as Christ had already told us, of the Spiritual World. And I present a few samples of the religious teaching referred to formerly as having been prepared under the influence of scientific ideas in the hope that they may be useful first of all in this direction. I would, however, carefully point out that though their unsystematic arrangement here may create the impression that these papers are merely isolated readings in Religion pointed by casual scientific truths, they are organically connected by a single principle. Nothing could be more false both to Science and to Religion than attempts to adjust the two spheres by making out ingenious points of contact in detail. The solution of this great question of conciliation, if one may still refer to a problem so gratuitous, must be general rather than particular. The basis in a common principle--the Continuity of Law--can alone save specific applications from ranking as mere coincidences, or exempt them from the reproach of being a hybrid between two things which must be related by the deepest affinities or remain forever separate. To the objection that even a basis in Law is no warrant for so great a trespass as the intrusion into another field of thought of the principles of Natural Science, I would reply that in this I find I am following a lead which in other departments has not only been allowed but has achieved results as rich as they were unexpected. What is the Physical Politic of Mr. Walter Bagehot but the extension of Natural Law to the Political World? What is the Biological Sociology of Mr. Herbert Spencer but the application of Natural Law to the Social World? Will it be charged that the splendid achievements of such thinkers are hybrids between things which Nature has meant to remain apart? Nature usually solves such problems for herself. Inappropriate hybridism is checked by the Law of Sterility. Judged by this great Law these modern developments of our knowledge stand uncondemned. Within their own sphere the results of Mr. Herbert Spencer are far from sterile--the application of Biology to Political Economy is already revolutionizing the Science. If the introduction of Natural Law into the Social sphere is no violent contradiction but a genuine and permanent contribution, shall its further extension to the Spiritual sphere be counted an extravagance? Does not the Principle of Continuity demand its application in every direction? To carry it as a working principle into so lofty a region may appear impracticable. Difficulties lie on the threshold which may seem, at first sight, insurmountable. But obstacles to a true method only test its validity. And he who honestly faces the task may find relief in feeling that whatever else of crudeness and imperfection mar it, the attempt is at least in harmony with the thought and movement of his time. That these papers were not designed to appear in a collective form, or indeed to court the more public light at all, needs no disclosure. They are published out of regard to the wish of known and unknown friends by whom, when in a fugitive form, they were received with so curious an interest as to make one feel already that there are minds which such forms of truth may touch. In making the present selection, partly from manuscript, and partly from articles already published, I have been guided less by the wish to constitute the papers a connected series than to exhibit the application of the principle in various directions. They will be found, therefore, of unequal interest and value, according to the standpoint from which they are regarded. Thus some are designed with a directly practical and popular bearing, others being more expository, and slightly apologetic in tone. The risk of combining two objects so very different is somewhat serious. But, for the reason named, having taken this responsibility, the only compensation I can offer is to indicate which of the papers incline to the one side or to the other. "Degeneration," "Growth," "Mortification," "Conformity to Type," "Semi-Parasitism," and "Parasitism" belong to the more practical order; and while one or two are intermediate, "Biogenesis," "Death," and "Eternal Life" may be offered to those who find the atmosphere of the former uncongenial. It will not disguise itself, however, that, owing to the circumstances in which they were prepared, all the papers are more or less practical in their aim; so that to the merely philosophical reader there is little to be offered except--and that only with the greatest diffidence--the Introductory chapter. In the Introduction, which the general reader may do well to ignore, I have briefly stated the case for Natural Law in the Spiritual World. The extension of Analogy to Laws, or rather the extension of the Laws themselves so far as known to me, is new; and I cannot hope to have escaped the mistakes and misadventures of a first exploration in an unsurveyed land. So general has been the survey that I have not even paused to define specially to what departments of the Spiritual World exclusively the principle is to be applied. The danger of making a new principle apply too widely inculcates here the utmost caution. One thing is certain, and I state it pointedly, the application of Natural Law to the Spiritual World has decided and necessary limits. And if elsewhere with undue enthusiasm I seem to magnify the principle at stake, the exaggeration--like the extreme amplification of the moon's disc when near the horizon--must be charged to that almost necessary aberration of light which distorts every new idea while it is yet slowly climbing to its zenith. In what follows the Introduction, except in the setting there is nothing new. I trust there is nothing new. When I began to follow out these lines, I had no idea where they would lead me. I was prepared, nevertheless, at least for the time, to be loyal to the method throughout, and share with nature whatever consequences might ensue. But in almost every case, after stating what appeared to be the truth in words gathered directly from the lips of Nature, I was sooner or later startled by a certain similarity in the general idea to something I had heard before, and this often developed in a moment, and when I was least expecting it, into recognition of some familiar article of faith. I was not watching for this result. I did not begin by tabulating the doctrines, as I did the Laws of Nature, and then proceed with the attempt to pair them. The majority of them seemed at first too far removed from the natural world even to suggest this. Still less did I begin with doctrines and work downward to find their relations in the natural sphere. It was the opposite process entirely. I ran up the Natural Law as far as it would go, and the appropriate doctrine seldom even loomed in sight till I had reached the top. Then it burst into view in a single moment. I can scarcely now say whether in those moments I was more overcome with thankfulness that Nature was so like Revelation, or more filled with wonder that Revelation was so like Nature. Nature, it is true, is a part of Revelation--a much greater part doubtless than is yet believed--and one could have anticipated nothing but harmony here. But that a derived Theology, in spite of the venerable verbiage which has gathered round it, should be at bottom and in all cardinal respects so faithful a transcript of "the truth as it is in Nature" came as a surprise and to me at least as a rebuke. How, under the rigid necessity of incorporating in its system much that seemed nearly unintelligible, and much that was barely credible, Theology has succeeded so perfectly in adhering through good report and ill to what in the main are truly the lines of Nature, awakens a new admiration for those who constructed and kept this faith. But however nobly it has held its ground, Theology must feel to-day that the modern world calls for a further proof. Nor will the best Theology resent this demand; it also demands it. Theology is searching on every hand for another echo of the Voice of which Revelation also is the echo, that out of the mouths of two witnesses its truths should be established. That other echo can only come from Nature. Hitherto its voice has been muffled. But now that Science has made the world around articulate, it speaks to Religion with a twofold purpose. In the first place it offers to corroborate Theology, in the second to purify it. If the removal of suspicion from Theology is of urgent moment, not less important is the removal of its adulterations. These suspicions, many of them at least, are new; in a sense they mark progress. But the adulterations are the artificial accumulations of centuries of uncontrolled speculation. They are the necessary result of the old method and the warrant for its revision--they mark the impossibility of progress without the guiding and restraining hand of Law. The felt exhaustion of the former method, the want of corroboration for the old evidence, the protest of reason against the monstrous overgrowths which conceal the real lines of truth, these summon us to the search for a surer and more scientific system. With truths of the theological order, with dogmas which often depend for their existence on a particular exegesis, with propositions which rest for their evidence upon a balance of probabilities, or upon the weight of authority; with doctrines which every age and nation may make or unmake, which each sect may tamper with, and which even the individual may modify for himself, a second court of appeal has become an imperative necessity. Science, therefore, may yet have to be called upon to arbitrate at some points between conflicting creeds. And while there are some departments of Theology where its jurisdiction cannot be sought, there are others in which Nature may yet have to define the contents as well as the limits of belief. What I would desire especially is a thoughtful consideration of the method. The applications ventured upon here may be successful or unsuccessful. But they would more than satisfy me if they suggested a method to others whose less clumsy hands might work it out more profitably. For I am convinced of the fertility of such a method at the present time. It is recognized by all that the younger and abler minds of this age find the most serious difficulty in accepting or retaining the ordinary forms or belief. Especially is this true of those whose culture is scientific. And the reason is palpable. No man can study modern Science without a change coming over his view of truth. What impresses him about Nature is its solidity. He is there standing upon actual things, among fixed laws. And the integrity of the scientific method so seizes him that all other forms of truth begins to appear comparatively unstable. He did not know before that any form of truth could so hold him; and the immediate effect is to lessen his interest in all that stands on other bases. This he feels in spite of himself; he struggles against it in vain; and he finds perhaps to his alarm that he is drifting fast into what looks at first like pure Positivism. This is an inevitable result of the scientific training. It is quite erroneous to suppose that science ever overthrows Faith, if by that is implied that any natural truth can oppose successfully any single spiritual truth. Science cannot overthrow Faith; but it shakes it. Its own doctrines, grounded in Nature, are so certain, that the truths of Religion, resting to most men on Authority, are felt to be strangely insecure. The difficulty, therefore, which men of Science feel about Religion is real and inevitable, and in so far as Doubt is a conscientious tribute to the inviolability of Nature it is entitled to respect. None but those who have passed through it can appreciate the radical nature of the change wrought by Science in the whole mental attitude of its disciples. What they really cry out for in Religion is a new standpoint--a standpoint like their own. The one hope, therefore, for Science is more Science. Again, to quote Bacon--we shall hear enough from the moderns by-and-by--"This I dare affirm in knowledge of Nature, that a little natural philosophy, and the first entrance into it, doth dispose the opinion to atheism; but, on the other side, much natural philosophy, and wading deep into it, will bring about men's minds to religion."[2] The application of _similia similibus curantur_ was never more in point. If this is a disease, it is the disease of Nature, and the cure is more Nature. For what is this disquiet in the breasts of men but the loyal fear that Nature is being violated? Men must oppose with every energy they possess what seems to them to oppose the eternal course of things. And the first step in their deliverance must be not to "reconcile" Nature and Religion, but to exhibit Nature in Religion. Even to convince them that there is no controversy between Religion and Science is insufficient. A mere flag of truce, in the nature of the case, is here impossible; at least, it is only possible so long as neither party is sincere. No man who knows the splendor of scientific achievement or cares for it, no man who feels the solidity of its method or works with it, can remain neutral with regard to Religion. He must either extend his method into it, or, if that is impossible, oppose it to the knife. On the other hand, no one who knows the content of Christianity, or feels the universal need of a Religion, can stand idly by while the intellect of his age is slowly divorcing itself from it. What is required, therefore, to draw Science and Religion together again--for they began the centuries hand in hand--is the disclosure of the naturalness of the supernatural. Then, and not till then, will men see how true it is, that to be loyal to all of Nature, they must be loyal to the part defined as Spiritual. No science contributes to another without receiving a reciprocal benefit. And even as the contribution of Science to Religion is the vindication of the naturalness of the Supernatural, so the gift of Religion to Science is the demonstration of the supernaturalness of the Natural. Thus, as the Supernatural becomes slowly Natural, will also the Natural become slowly Supernatural, until in the impersonal authority of Law men everywhere recognize the Authority of God. To those who already find themselves fully nourished on the older forms of truth, I do not commend these pages. They will find them superfluous. Nor is there any reason why they should mingle with light which is already clear the distorting rays of a foreign expression. But to those who are feeling their way to a Christian life, haunted now by a sense of instability in the foundation of their faith, now brought to bay by specific doubt at one point raising, as all doubt does, the question for the whole, I would hold up a light which has often been kind to me. There is a sense of solidity about a Law of Nature which belongs to nothing else in the world. Here, at last, amid all that is shifting, is one thing sure; one thing outside ourselves, unbiased, unprejudiced, uninfluenced by like or dislike, by doubt or fear; one thing that holds on its way to me eternally, incorruptible, and undefiled. This more than anything else, makes one eager to see the Reign of Law traced in the Spiritual Sphere. And should this seem to some to offer only a surer, but not a higher Faith; should the better ordering of the Spiritual World appear to satisfy the intellect at the sacrifice of reverence, simplicity, or love; especially should it seem to substitute a Reign of Law and a Lawgiver for a Kingdom of Grace and a Personal God, I will say, with Browning,-- "I spoke as I saw. I report, as a man may of God's work--_all's love, yet all's Law_. Now I lay down the judgeship He lent me. Each faculty tasked, To perceive Him, has gained an abyss where a dewdrop was asked." FOOTNOTES: [1] Aurora Leigh. [2] "Meditationes Sacræ," x. ANALYSIS OF INTRODUCTION. [For the sake of the general reader who may desire to pass at once to the practical applications, the following outline of the Introduction--devoted rather to general principles--is here presented.] PART I. NATURAL LAW IN THE SPIRITUAL SPHERE. 1. The growth of the Idea of Law. 2. Its gradual extension throughout every department of Knowledge. 3. Except one. Religion hitherto the Great Exception. Why so? 4. Previous attempts to trace analogies between the Natural and Spiritual spheres. These have been limited to analogies between _Phenomena_; and are useful mainly as illustrations. Analogies of _Law_ would also have a Scientific value. 5. Wherein that value would consist. (1) The Scientific demand of the age would be met; (2) Greater clearness would be introduced into Religion practically; (3) Theology, instead of resting on Authority, would rest equally on Nature. PART II. THE LAW OF CONTINUITY. _A priori_ argument for Natural Law in the spiritual world. 1. The Law Discovered. 2. " Defined. 3. " Applied. 4. The objection answered that the _material_ of the Natural and Spiritual worlds being different they must be under different Laws. 5. The existence of Laws in the Spiritual world other than the Natural Laws (1) improbable, (2) unnecessary, (3) unknown. Qualification. 6. The Spiritual not the projection upward of the Natural; but the Natural the projection downward of the Spiritual. INTRODUCTION. "This method turns aside from hypotheses not to be tested by any known logical canon familiar to science, whether the hypothesis claims support from intuition, aspiration or general plausibility. And, again, this method turns aside from ideal standards which avow themselves to be lawless, which profess to transcend the field of law. We say, life and conduct shall stand for us wholly on a basis of law, and must rest entirely in that region of science (not physical, but moral and social science), where we are free to use our intelligence in the methods known to us as intelligible logic, methods which the intellect can analyze. When you confront us with hypotheses, however sublime and however affecting, if they cannot be stated in terms of the rest of our knowledge, if they are disparate to that world of sequence and sensation which to us is the ultimate base of all our real knowledge, then we shake our heads and turn aside."--_Frederick Harrison._ "Ethical science is already forever completed, so far as her general outline and main principles are concerned, and has been, as it were, waiting for physical science to come up with her."--_Paradoxical Philosophy._ PART I. Natural Law is a new word. It is the last and the most magnificent discovery of science. No more telling proof is open to the modern world of the greatness of the idea than the greatness of the attempts which have always been made to justify it. In the earlier centuries, before the birth of science, Phenomena were studied alone. The world then was a chaos, a collection of single, isolated, and independent facts. Deeper thinkers saw, indeed, that relations must subsist between these facts, but the Reign of Law was never more to the ancients than a far-off vision. Their philosophies, conspicuously those of the Stoics and Pythagoreans, heroically sought to marshal the discrete materials of the universe into thinkable form, but from these artificial and fantastic systems nothing remains to us now but an ancient testimony to the grandeur of that harmony which they failed to reach. With Copernicus, Galileo, and Kepler the first regular lines of the universe began to be discerned. When Nature yielded to Newton her great secret, Gravitation was felt to be not greater as a fact in itself than as a revelation that Law was fact. And thenceforth the search for individual Phenomena gave way before the larger study of their relations. The pursuit of Law became the passion of science. What that discovery of Law has done for Nature, it is impossible to estimate. As a mere spectacle the universe to-day discloses a beauty so transcendent that he who disciplines himself by scientific work finds it an overwhelming reward simply to behold it. In these Laws one stands face to face with truth, solid and unchangeable. Each single Law is an instrument of scientific research, simple in its adjustments, universal in its application, infallible in its results. And despite the limitations of its sphere on every side Law is still the largest, richest, and surest source of human knowledge. It is not necessary for the present to more than lightly touch on definitions of Natural Law. The Duke of Argyll[3] indicates five senses in which the word is used, but we may content ourselves here by taking it in its most simple and obvious significance. The fundamental conception of Law is an ascertained working sequence or constant order among the Phenomena of Nature. This impression of Law as order it is important to receive in its simplicity, for the idea is often corrupted by having attached to it erroneous views of cause and effect. In its true sense Natural Law predicates nothing of causes. The Laws of Nature are simply statements of the orderly condition of things in Nature, what is found in Nature by a sufficient number of competent observers. What these Laws are in themselves is not agreed. That they have any absolute existence even is far from certain. They are relative to man in his many limitations, and represent for him the constant expression of what he may always expect to find in the world around him. But that they have any causal connection with the things around him is not to be conceived. The Natural Laws originate nothing, sustain nothing; they are merely responsible for uniformity in sustaining what has been originated and what is being sustained. They are modes of operation, therefore, not operators; processes, not powers. The Law of Gravitation, for instance, speaks to science only of process. It has no light to offer as to itself. Newton did not discover Gravity--that is not discovered yet. He discovered its Law, which is Gravitation, but tells us nothing of its origin, of its nature or of its cause. The Natural Laws then are great lines running not only through the world, but, as we now know, through the universe, reducing it like parallels of latitude to intelligent order. In themselves, be it once more repeated, they may have no more absolute existence than parallels of latitude. But they exist for us. They are drawn for us to understand the part by some Hand that drew the whole; so drawn, perhaps, that, understanding the part, we too in time may learn to understand the whole. Now the inquiry we propose to ourselves resolves itself into the simple question, Do these lines stop with what we call the Natural sphere? Is it not possible that they may lead further? Is it probable that the Hand which ruled them gave up the work where most of all they were required? Did that Hand divide the world into two, a cosmos and a chaos, the higher being the chaos? With Nature as the symbol of all of harmony and beauty that is known to man, must we still talk of the super-natural, not as a convenient word, but as a different order of world, an unintelligible world, where the Reign of Mystery supersedes the Reign of Law? This question, let it be carefully observed, applies to Laws not to Phenomena. That the Phenomena of the Spiritual World are in analogy with the Phenomena of the Natural World requires no restatement. Since Plato enunciated his doctrine of the Cave or of the twice-divided line; since Christ spake in parables; since Plotinus wrote of the world as an image; since the mysticism of Swedenborg; since Bacon and Pascal; since "Sartor Resartus" and "In Memoriam," it has been all but a commonplace with thinkers that "the invisible things of God from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made." Milton's question-- "What if earth Be but the shadow of heaven, and things therein Each to other like more than on earth is thought?" is now superfluous. "In our doctrine of representations and correspondences," says Swedenborg, "we shall treat of both these symbolical and typical resemblances, and of the astonishing things that occur, I will not say in the living body only, but throughout Nature, and which correspond so entirely to supreme and spiritual things, that one would swear that the physical world was purely symbolical of the spiritual world."[4] And Carlyle: "All visible things are emblems. What thou seest is not there on its own account; strictly speaking is not there at all. Matter exists only spiritually, and to represent some idea and body it forth."[5] But the analogies of Law are a totally different thing from the analogies of Phenomena and have a very different value. To say generally, with Pascal, that--"La nature est une image de la grace," is merely to be poetical. The function of Hervey's "Meditations in a Flower Garden," or, Flavel's "Husbandry Spiritualized," is mainly homiletical. That such works have an interest is not to be denied. The place of parable in teaching, and especially after the sanction of the greatest of Teachers, must always be recognized. The very necessities of language indeed demand this method of presenting truth. The temporal is the husk and framework of the eternal, and thoughts can be uttered only through things.[6] But analogies between Phenomena bear the same relation to analogies of Law that Phenomena themselves bear to Law. The light of Law on truth, as we have seen, is an immense advance upon the light of Phenomena. The discovery of Law is simply the discovery of Science. And if the analogies of Natural Law can be extended to the Spiritual World, that whole region at once falls within the domain of science and secures a basis as well as an illumination in the constitution and course of Nature. All, therefore, that has been claimed for parable can be predicated _a fortiori_ of this--with the addition that a proof on the basis of Law would want no criterion possessed by the most advanced science. That the validity of analogy generally has been seriously questioned one must frankly own. Doubtless there is much difficulty and even liability to gross error in attempting to establish analogy in specific cases. The value of the likeness appears differently to different minds, and in discussing an individual instance questions of relevancy will invariably crop up. Of course, in the language of John Stuart Mill, "when the analogy can be proved, the argument founded upon it cannot be resisted."[7] But so great is the difficulty of proof that many are compelled to attach the most inferior weight to analogy as a method of reasoning. "Analogical evidence is generally more successful in silencing objections than in evincing truth. Though it rarely refutes it frequently repels refutation; like those weapons which though they cannot kill the enemy, will ward his blows.... It must be allowed that analogical evidence is at least but a feeble support, and is hardly ever honored with the name of proof."[8] Other authorities on the other hand, such as Sir William Hamilton, admit analogy to a primary place in logic and regard it as the very basis of induction. But, fortunately, we are spared all discussion on this worn subject, for two cogent reasons. For one thing, we do not demand of Nature directly to prove Religion. That was never its function. Its function is to interpret. And this, after all, is possibly the most fruitful proof. The best proof of a thing is that we _see_ it; if we do not see it, perhaps proof will not convince us of it. It is the want of the discerning faculty, the clairvoyant power of seeing the eternal in the temporal, rather than the failure of the reason, that begets the sceptic. But secondly, and more particularly, a significant circumstance has to be taken into account, which, though it will appear more clearly afterward, may be stated here at once. The position we have been led to take up is not that the Spiritual Laws are analogous to the Natural Laws, but that _they are the same Laws_. It is not a question of analogy but of _Identity_. The Natural Laws are not the shadows or images of the Spiritual in the same sense as autumn is emblematical of Decay, or the falling leaf of Death. The Natural Laws, as the Law of Continuity might well warn us, do not stop with the visible and then give place to a new set of Laws bearing a strong similitude to them. The Laws of the invisible are the same Laws, projections of the natural not supernatural. Analogous Phenomena are not the fruit of parallel Laws, but of the same Laws--Laws which at one end, as it were, may be dealing with Matter, at the other end with Spirit. As there will be some inconvenience, however, in dispensing with the word analogy, we shall continue occasionally to employ it. Those who apprehend the real relation will mentally substitute the larger term. Let us now look for a moment at the present state of the question. Can it be said that the Laws of the Spiritual World are in any sense considered even to have analogies with the Natural World? Here and there certainly one finds an attempt, and a successful attempt, to exhibit on a rational basis one or two of the great Moral Principles of the Spiritual World. But the Physical World has not been appealed to. Its magnificent system of Laws remains outside, and its contribution meanwhile is either silently ignored or purposely set aside. The Physical, it is said, is too remote from the Spiritual. The Moral World may afford a basis for religious truth, but even this is often the baldest concession; while the appeal to the Physical universe is everywhere dismissed as, on the face of it, irrelevant and unfruitful. From the scientific side, again, nothing has been done to court a closer fellowship. Science has taken theology at its own estimate. It is a thing apart. The Spiritual World is not only a different world, but a different kind of world, a world arranged on a totally different principle, under a different governmental scheme. The Reign of Law has gradually crept into every department of Nature, transforming knowledge everywhere into Science. The process goes on, and Nature slowly appears to us as one great unity, until the borders of the Spiritual World are reached. There the Law of Continuity ceases, and the harmony breaks down. And men who have learned their elementary lessons truly from the alphabet of the lower Laws, going on to seek a higher knowledge, are suddenly confronted with the Great Exception. Even those who have examined most carefully the relations of the Natural and the Spiritual, seem to have committed themselves deliberately to a final separation in matters of Law. It is a surprise to find such a writer as Horace Bushnell, for instance, describing the Spiritual World as "another system of nature incommunicably separate from ours," and further defining it thus: "God has, in fact, erected another and higher system, that of spiritual being and government for which nature exists; a system not under the law of cause and effect, but ruled and marshaled under other kinds of laws."[9] Few men have shown more insight than Bushnell in illustrating Spiritual truth from the Natural World; but he has not only failed to perceive the analogy with regard to Law, but emphatically denies it. In the recent literature of this whole region there nowhere seems any advance upon the position of "Nature and the Supernatural." All are agreed in speaking of Nature _and_ the Supernatural. Nature _in_ the Supernatural, so far as Laws are concerned, is still an unknown truth. "The Scientific Basis of Faith" is a suggestive title. The accomplished author announces that the object of his investigation is to show that "the world of nature and mind, as made known by science, constitute a basis and a preparation for that highest moral and spiritual life of man, which is evoked by the self-revelation of God."[10] On the whole, Mr. Murphy seems to be more philosophical and more profound in his view of the relation of science and religion than any writer of modern times. His conception of religion is broad and lofty, his acquaintance with science adequate. He makes constant, admirable, and often original use of analogy; and yet, in spite of the promise of this quotation, he has failed to find any analogy in that department of Law where surely, of all others, it might most reasonably be looked for. In the broad subject even of the analogies of what he defines as "evangelical religion" with Nature, Mr. Murphy discovers nothing. Nor can this be traced either to short-sight or over-sight. The subject occurs to him more than once, and he deliberately dismisses it--dismisses it not merely as unfruitful, but with a distinct denial of its relevancy. The memorable paragraph from Origen which forms the text of Butler's "Analogy," he calls "this shallow and false saying."[11] He says: "The designation of Butler's scheme of religious philosophy ought then to be _the analogy of religion, legal and evangelical, to the constitution of nature_. But does this give altogether a true meaning? Does this double analogy really exist? If justice is natural law among beings having a moral nature, there is the closest analogy between the constitution of nature and merely legal religion. Legal religion is only the extension of natural justice into a future life.... But is this true of evangelical religion? Have the doctrines of Divine grace any similar support in the analogies of nature? I trow not."[12] And with reference to a specific question, speaking of immortality, he asserts that "the analogies of mere nature are opposed to the doctrine of immortality."[13] With regard to Butler's great work in this department, it is needless at this time of day to point out that his aims did not lie exactly in this direction. He did not seek to indicate analogies _between_ religion and the constitution and course of Nature. His theme was, "The Analogy _of_ Religion _to_ the constitution and course of Nature." And although he pointed out direct analogies of Phenomena, such as those between the metamorphoses of insects and the doctrine of a future state; and although he showed that "the natural and moral constitution and government of the world are so connected as to make up together but one scheme,"[14] his real intention was not so much to construct arguments as to repel objections. His emphasis accordingly was laid upon the difficulties of the two schemes rather than on their positive lines; and so thoroughly has he made out this point that as is well known, the effect upon many has been, not to lead them to accept the Spiritual World on the ground of the Natural, but to make them despair of both. Butler lived at a time when defence was more necessary than construction, when the materials for construction were scarce and insecure, and when, besides, some of the things to be defended were quite incapable of defence. Notwithstanding this, his influence over the whole field since has been unparalleled. After all, then, the Spiritual World, as it appears at this moment, is outside Natural Law. Theology continues to be considered, as it has always been, a thing apart. It remains still a stupendous and splendid construction, but on lines altogether its own. Nor is Theology to be blamed for this. Nature has been long in speaking; even yet its voice is low, sometimes inaudible. Science is the true defaulter, for Theology had to wait patiently for its development. As the highest of the sciences, Theology in the order of evolution should be the last to fall into rank. It is reserved for it to perfect the final harmony. Still, if it continues longer to remain a thing apart, with increasing reason will be such protests as this of the "Unseen Universe," when, in speaking of a view of miracles held by an older Theology, it declares:--"If he submits to be guided by such interpreters, each intelligent being will forever continue to be baffled in any attempt to explain these phenomena, because they are said to have no physical relation to anything that went before or that followed after; in fine, they are made to form a universe within a universe, a portion cut off by an insurmountable barrier from the domain of scientific inquiry."[15] This is the secret of the present decadence of Religion in the world of Science. For Science can hear nothing of a Great Exception. Constructions on unique lines, "portions cut off by an insurmountable barrier from the domain of scientific inquiry," it dare not recognize. Nature has taught it this lesson, and Nature is right. It is the province of Science to vindicate Nature here at any hazard. But in blaming Theology for its intolerance, it has been betrayed into an intolerance less excusable. It has pronounced upon it too soon. What if Religion be yet brought within the sphere of Law? Law is the revelation of time. One by one slowly through the centuries the Sciences have crystallized into geometrical form, each form not only perfect in itself, but perfect in its relation to all other forms. Many forms had to be perfected before the form of the Spiritual. The Inorganic has to be worked out before the Organic, the Natural before the Spiritual. Theology at present has merely an ancient and provisional philosophic form. By-and-by it will be seen whether it be not susceptible of another. For Theology must pass through the necessary stages of progress, like any other science. The method of science-making is now fully established. In almost all cases the natural history and development are the same. Take, for example, the case of Geology. A century ago there was none. Science went out to look for it, and brought back a Geology which, if Nature were a harmony, had falsehood written almost on its face. It was the Geology of Catastrophism, a Geology so out of line with Nature as revealed by the other sciences, that on _a priori_ grounds a thoughtful mind might have been justified in dismissing it as a final form of any science. And its fallacy was soon and thoroughly exposed. The advent of modified uniformitarian principles all but banished the word catastrophe from science, and marked the birth of Geology as we know it now. Geology, that is to say, had fallen at last into the great scheme of Law. Religious doctrines, many of them at least, have been up to this time all but as _catastrophic_ as the old Geology. They are not on the lines of Nature as we have learned to decipher her. If any one feel, as Science complains that it feels, that the lie of things in the Spiritual World as arranged by Theology is not in harmony with the world around, is not, in short, scientific, he is entitled to raise the question whether this be really the final form of those departments of Theology to which his complaint refers. He is justified, moreover, in demanding a new investigation with all modern methods and resources; and Science is bound by its principles not less than by the lessons of its own past, to suspend judgment till the last attempt is made. The success of such an attempt will be looked forward to with hopefulness or fearfulness just in proportion to one's confidence in Nature--in proportion to one's belief in the divinity of man and in the divinity of things. If there is any truth in the unity of Nature, in that supreme principle of Continuity which is growing in splendor with every discovery of science, the conclusion is foregone. If there is any foundation for Theology, if the phenomena of the Spiritual World are real, in the nature of things they ought to come into the sphere of Law. Such is at once the demand of Science upon Religion and the prophecy that it can and shall be fulfilled. The Botany of Linnæus, a purely artificial system, was a splendid contribution to human knowledge, and did more in its day to enlarge the view of the vegetable kingdom than all that had gone before. But all artificial systems must pass away. None knew better than the great Swedish naturalist himself that his system, being artificial, was but provisional. Nature must be read in its own light. And as the botanical field became more luminous, the system of Jussieu and De Candolle slowly emerged as a native growth, unfolded itself as naturally as the petals of one of its own flowers, and forcing itself upon men's intelligence as the very voice of Nature, banished the Linnæan system forever. It were unjust to say that the present Theology is as artificial as the system of Linnæus; in many particulars it wants but a fresh expression to make it in the most modern sense scientific. But if it has a basis in the constitution and course of Nature, that basis has never been adequately shown. It has depended on Authority rather than on Law; and a new basis must be sought and found if it is to be presented to those with whom Law alone is Authority. It is not of course to be inferred that the scientific method will ever abolish the radical distinctions of the Spiritual World. True science proposes to itself no such general leveling in any department. Within the unity of the whole there must always be room for the characteristic differences of the parts, and those tendencies of thought at the present time which ignore such distinctions, in their zeal for simplicity really create confusion. As has been well said by Mr. Hutton: "Any attempt to merge the distinctive characteristic of a higher science in a lower--of chemical changes in mechanical--of physiological in chemical--above all, of mental changes in physiological--is a neglect of the radical assumption of all science, because it is an attempt to deduce representations--or rather misrepresentations--of one kind of phenomena from a conception of another kind which does not contain it, and must have it implicitly and illicitly smuggled in before it can be extracted out of it. Hence, instead of increasing our means of representing the universe to ourselves without the detailed examination of particulars, such a procedure leads to misconstructions of fact on the basis of an imported theory, and generally ends in forcibly perverting the least-known science to the type of the better known."[16] What is wanted is simply a unity of conception, but not such a unity of conception as should be founded on an absolute identity of phenomena. This latter might indeed be a unity, but it would be a very tame one. The perfection of unity is attained where there is infinite variety of phenomena, infinite complexity of relation, but great simplicity of Law. Science will be complete when all known phenomena can be arranged in one vast circle in which a few well known Laws shall form the radii--these radii at once separating and uniting, separating into particular groups, yet uniting all to a common center. To show that the radii for some of the most characteristic phenomena of the Spiritual World are already drawn within that circle by science is the main object of the papers which follow. There will be found an attempt to restate a few of the more elementary facts of the Spiritual Life in terms of Biology. Any argument for Natural Law in the Spiritual World may be best tested in the _a posteriori_ form. And although the succeeding pages are not designed in the first instance to prove a principle, they may yet be entered here as evidence. The practical test is a severe one, but on that account all the more satisfactory. And what will be gained if the point be made out? Not a few things. For one, as partly indicated already, the scientific demand of the age will be satisfied. That demand is that all that concerns life and conduct shall be placed on a scientific basis. The only great attempt to meet that at present is Positivism. But what again is a scientific basis? What exactly is this demand of the age? "By Science I understand," says Huxley, "all knowledge which rests upon evidence and reasoning of a like character to that which claims our assent to ordinary scientific propositions; and if any one is able to make good the assertion that his theology rests upon valid evidence and sound reasoning, then it appears to me that such theology must take its place as a part of science." That the assertion has been already made good is claimed by many who deserve to be heard on questions of scientific evidence. But if more is wanted by some minds, more not perhaps of a higher kind but of a different kind, at least the attempt can be made to gratify them. Mr. Frederick Harrison,[17] in name of the Positive method of thought, "turns aside from ideal standards which avow themselves to be _lawless_ [the italics are Mr. Harrison's], which profess to transcend the field of law. We say, life and conduct shall stand for us wholly on a basis of law, and must rest entirely in that region of science (not physical, but moral and social science) where we are free to use our intelligence, in the methods known to us as intelligible logic, methods which the intellect can analyze. When you confront us with hypotheses, however sublime and however affecting, if they cannot be stated in terms of the rest of our knowledge, if they are disparate to that world of sequence and sensation which to us is the ultimate base of all our real knowledge, then we shake our heads and turn aside." This is a most reasonable demand, and we humbly accept the challenge. We think religious truth, or at all events certain of the largest facts of the Spiritual Life, can be stated "in terms of the rest of our knowledge." We do not say, as already hinted, that the proposal includes an attempt to prove the existence of the Spiritual World. Does that need proof? And if so, what sort of evidence would be considered in court? The facts of the Spiritual World are as real to thousands as the facts of the Natural World--and more real to hundreds. But were one asked to prove that the Spiritual World can be discerned by the appropriate faculties, one would do it precisely as one would attempt to prove the Natural World to be an object of recognition to the senses--and with as much or as little success. In either instance probably the fact would be found incapable of demonstration, but not more in the one case than in the other. Were one asked to prove the existence of Spiritual Life, one would also do it exactly as one would seek to prove Natural Life. And this perhaps might be attempted with more hope. But this is not on the immediate programme. Science deals with known facts; and accepting certain known facts in the Spiritual World we proceed to arrange them, to discover their Laws, to inquire if they can be stated "in terms of the rest of our knowledge." At the same time, although attempting no philosophical proof of the existence of a Spiritual Life and a Spiritual World, we are not without hope that the general line of thought here may be useful to some who are honestly inquiring in these directions. The stumbling-block to most minds is perhaps less the mere existence of the unseen than the want of definition, the apparently hopeless vagueness, and not least, the delight in this vagueness as mere vagueness by some who look upon this as the mark of quality in Spiritual things. It will be at least something to tell earnest seekers that the Spiritual World is not a castle in the air, of an architecture unknown to earth or heaven, but a fair ordered realm furnished with many familiar things and ruled by well-remembered Laws. It is scarcely necessary to emphasize under a second head the gain in clearness. The Spiritual World as it stands is full of perplexity. One can escape doubt only by escaping thought. With regard to many important articles of religion perhaps the best and the worst course at present open to a doubter is simple credulity. Who is to answer for this state of things? It comes as a necessary tax for improvement on the age in which we live. The old ground of faith, Authority, is given up; the new, Science, has not yet taken its place. Men did not require to _see_ truth before; they only needed to believe it. Truth, therefore, had not been put by Theology in a seeing form--which, however, was its original form. But now they ask to see it. And when it is shown them they start back in despair. We shall not say what they see. But we shall say what they might see. If the Natural Laws were run through the Spiritual World, they might see the great lines of religious truth as clearly and simply as the broad lines of science. As they gazed into that Natural-Spiritual World they would say to themselves, "We have seen something like this before. This order is known to us. It is not arbitrary. This Law here is that old Law there, and this Phenomenon here, what can it be but that which stood in precisely the same relation to that Law yonder?" And so gradually from the new form everything assumes new meaning. So the Spiritual World becomes slowly Natural; and, what is of all but equal moment, the Natural World becomes slowly Spiritual. Nature is not a mere image or emblem of the Spiritual. It is a working model of the Spiritual. In the Spiritual World the same wheels revolve--but without the iron. The same figures flit across the stage, the same processes of growth go on, the same functions are discharged, the same biological laws prevail--only with a different quality of βιος. Plato's prisoner, if not out of the Cave, has at least his face to the light. "The earth is cram'd with heaven, And every common bush afire with God." How much of the Spiritual World is covered by Natural law we do not propose at present to inquire. It is certain, at least, that the whole is not covered. And nothing more lends confidence to the method than this. For one thing, room is still left for mystery. Had no place remained for mystery it had proved itself both unscientific and irreligious. A Science without mystery is unknown; a Religion without mystery is absurd. This is no attempt to reduce Religion to a question of mathematics, or demonstrate God in biological formulæ. The elimination of mystery from the universe is the elimination of Religion. However far the scientific method may penetrate the Spiritual World, there will always remain a region to be explored by a scientific faith. "I shall never rise to the point of view which wishes to 'raise' faith to knowledge. To me, the way of truth is to come through the knowledge of my ignorance to the submissiveness of faith, and then, making that my starting place, to raise my knowledge into faith."[18] Lest this proclamation of mystery should seem alarming, let us add that this mystery also is scientific. The one subject on which all scientific men are agreed, the one theme on which all alike become eloquent, the one strain of pathos in all their writing and speaking and thinking, concerns that final uncertainty, that utter blackness of darkness bounding their work on every side. If the light of Nature is to illuminate for us the Spiritual Sphere, there may well be a black Unknown, corresponding, at least at some points, to this zone of darkness round the Natural World. But the final gain would appear in the department of Theology. The establishment of the Spiritual Laws on "the solid ground of Nature," to which the mind trusts "which builds for aye," would offer a new basis for certainty in Religion. It has been indicated that the authority of Authority is waning. This is a plain fact. And it was inevitable. Authority--man's Authority, that is--is for children. And there necessarily comes a time when they add to the question, What shall I do? or, What shall I believe? the adult's interrogation--Why? Now this question is sacred, and must be answered. "How truly its central position is impregnable," Herbert Spencer has well discerned, "religion has never adequately realized. In the devoutest faith, as we habitually see it, there lies hidden an innermost core of scepticism; and it is this scepticism which causes that dread of inquiry displayed by religion when face to face with science."[19] True indeed; Religion has never realized how impregnable are many of its positions. It has not yet been placed on that basis which would make them impregnable. And in a transition period like the present, holding Authority with one hand, the other feeling all around in the darkness for some strong new support, Theology is surely to be pitied. Whence this dread when brought face to face with Science? It cannot be dread of scientific fact. No single fact in Science has ever discredited a fact in Religion. The theologian knows that, and admits that he has no fear of facts. What then has Science done to make Theology tremble? It is its method. It is its system. It is its Reign of Law. It is its harmony and continuity. The attack is not specific. No one point is assailed. It is the whole system which when compared with the other and weighed in its balance is found wanting. An eye which has looked at the first cannot look upon this. To do that, and rest in the contemplation, it has first to uncentury itself. Herbert Spencer points out further, with how much truth need not now be discussed, that the purification of Religion has always come from Science. It is very apparent at all events that an immense debt must soon be contracted. The shifting of the furnishings will be a work of time. But it must be accomplished. And not the least result of the process will be the effect upon Science itself. No department of knowledge ever contributes to another without receiving its own again with usury--witness the reciprocal favors of Biology and Sociology. From the time that Comte defined the analogy between the phenomena exhibited by aggregations of associated men and those of animal colonies, the Science of Life and the Science of Society have been so contributing to one another that their progress since has been all but hand-in-hand. A conception borrowed by the one has been observed in time finding its way back, and always in an enlarged form, to further illuminate and enrich the field it left. So must it be with Science and Religion. If the purification of Religion comes from Science, the purification of Science, in a deeper sense, shall come from Religion. The true ministry of Nature must at last be honored, and Science take its place as the great expositor. To Men of Science, not less than to Theologians, "Science then Shall be a precious visitant; and then, And only then, be worthy of her name; For then her heart shall kindle, her dull eye, Dull and inanimate, no more shall hang Chained to its object in brute slavery; But taught with patient interest to watch The process of things, and serve the cause Of order and distinctness, not for this Shall it forget that its most noble use, Its most illustrious province, must be found In furnishing clear guidance, a support, Not treacherous, to the mind's _excursive_ power."[20] But the gift of Science to Theology shall be not less rich. With the inspiration of Nature to illuminate what the inspiration of Revelation has left obscure, heresy in certain whole departments shall become impossible. With the demonstration of the naturalness of the supernatural, scepticism even may come to be regarded as unscientific. And those who have wrestled long for a few bare truths to ennoble life and rest their souls in thinking of the future will not be left in doubt. It is impossible to believe that the amazing succession of revelations in the domain of Nature during the last few centuries, at which the world has all but grown tired wondering, are to yield nothing for the higher life. If the development of doctrine is to have any meaning for the future, Theology must draw upon the further revelation of the seen for the further revelation of the unseen. It need, and can, add nothing to fact; but as the vision of Newton rested on a clearer and richer world than that of Plato, so, though seeing the same things in the Spiritual World as our fathers, we may see them clearer and richer. With the work of the centuries upon it, the mental eye is a finer instrument, and demands a more ordered world. Had the revelation of Law been given sooner, it had been unintelligible. Revelation never volunteers anything that man could discover for himself--on the principle, probably, that it is only when he is capable of discovering it that he is capable of appreciating it. Besides, children do not need Laws, except Laws in the sense of commandments. They repose with simplicity on authority, and ask no questions. But there comes a time, as the world reaches its manhood, when they will ask questions, and stake, moreover, everything on the answers. That time is now. Hence we must exhibit our doctrines, not lying athwart the lines of the world's thinking, in a place reserved, and therefore shunned, for the Great Exception; but in their kinship to all truth and in their Law-relation to the whole of Nature. This is, indeed, simply following out the system of teaching begun by Christ Himself. And what is the search for spiritual truth in the Laws of Nature but an attempt to utter the parables which have been hid so long in the world around without a preacher, and to tell men at once more that the Kingdom of Heaven is like unto this and to that? PART II. The Law of Continuity having been referred to already as a prominent factor in this inquiry, it may not be out of place to sustain the plea for Natural Law in the Spiritual Sphere by a brief statement and application of this great principle. The Law of Continuity furnishes an _a priori_ argument for the position we are attempting to establish of the most convincing kind--of such a kind, indeed, as to seem to our mind final. Briefly indicated, the ground taken up is this, that if Nature be a harmony, Man in all his relations--physical, mental, moral, and spiritual--falls to be included within its circle. It is altogether unlikely that man spiritual should be violently separated in all the conditions of growth, development, and life, from man physical. It is indeed difficult to conceive that one set of principles should guide the natural life, and these at a certain period--the very point where they are needed--suddenly give place to another set of principles altogether new and unrelated. Nature has never taught us to expect such a catastrophe. She has nowhere prepared us for it. And Man cannot in the nature of things, in the nature of thought, in the nature of language, be separated into two such incoherent halves. The spiritual man, it is true, is to be studied in a different department of science from the natural man. But the harmony established by science is not a harmony within specific departments. It is the universe that is the harmony, the universe of which these are but parts. And the harmonies of the parts depend for all their weight and interest on the harmony of the whole. While, therefore, there are many harmonies, there is but one harmony. The breaking up of the phenomena of the universe into carefully guarded groups, and the allocation of certain prominent Laws to each, it must never be forgotten, and however much Nature lends herself to it, are artificial. We find an evolution in Botany, another in Geology, and another in Astronomy, and the effect is to lead one insensibly to look upon these as three distinct evolutions. But these sciences, of course, are mere departments created by ourselves to facilitate knowledge--reductions of Nature to the scale of our own intelligence. And we must beware of breaking up Nature except for this purpose. Science has so dissected everything, that it becomes a mental difficulty to put the puzzle together again; and we must keep ourselves in practice by constantly thinking of Nature as a whole, if science is not to be spoiled by its own refinements. Evolution being found in so many different sciences, the likelihood is that it is a universal principle. And there is no presumption whatever against this Law and many others being excluded from the domain of the spiritual life. On the other hand, there are very convincing reasons why the Natural Laws should be continuous through the Spiritual Sphere--not changed in any way to meet the new circumstances, but continuous as they stand. But to the exposition. One of the most striking generalizations of recent science is that even Laws have their Law. Phenomena first, in the progress of knowledge, were grouped together, and Nature shortly presented the spectacle of a cosmos, the lines of beauty being the great Natural Laws. So long, however, as these Laws were merely great lines running through Nature, so long as they remained isolated from one another, the system of Nature was still incomplete. The principle which sought Law among phenomena had to go further and seek a Law among the Laws. Laws themselves accordingly came to be treated as they treated phenomena, and found themselves finally grouped in a still narrower circle. That inmost circle is governed by one great Law, the Law of Continuity. It is the Law for Laws. It is perhaps significant that few exact definitions of Continuity are to be found. Even in Sir W. R. Grove's famous paper,[21] the fountain-head of the modern form of this far from modern truth, there is no attempt at definition. In point of fact, its sweep is so magnificent, it appeals so much more to the imagination than to the reason, that men have preferred to exhibit rather than to define it. Its true greatness consists in the final impression it leaves on the mind with regard to the uniformity of Nature. For it was reserved for the Law of Continuity to put the finishing touch to the harmony of the universe. Probably the most satisfactory way to secure for one's self a just appreciation of the Principle of Continuity is to try to conceive the universe without it. The opposite of a continuous universe would be a discontinuous universe, an incoherent and irrelevant universe--as irrelevant in all its ways of doing things as an irrelevant person. In effect, to withdraw Continuity from the universe would be the same as to withdraw reason from an individual. The universe would run deranged; the world would be a mad world. There used to be a children's book which bore the fascinating title of "The Chance World." It described a world in which everything happened by chance. The sun might rise or it might not; or it might appear at any hour, or the moon might come up instead. When children were born they might have one head or a dozen heads, and those heads might not be on their shoulders--there might be no shoulders--but arranged about the limbs. If one jumped up in the air it was impossible to predict whether he would ever come down again. That he came down yesterday was no guarantee that he would do it next time. For every day antecedent and consequent varied, and gravitation and everything else changed from hour to hour. To-day a child's body might be so light that it was impossible for it to descend from its chair to the floor; but to-morrow, in attempting the experiment again, the impetus might drive it through a three-story house and dash it to pieces somewhere near the center of the earth. In this chance world cause and effect were abolished. Law was annihilated. And the result to the inhabitants of such a world could only be that reason would be impossible. It would be a lunatic world with a population of lunatics. Now this is no more than a real picture of what the world would be without Law, or the universe without Continuity. And hence we come in sight of the necessity of some principle of Law according to which Laws shall be, and be "continuous" throughout the system. Man as a rational and moral being demands a pledge that if he depends on Nature for any given result on the ground that Nature has previously led him to expect such a result, his intellect shall not be insulted, nor his confidence in her abused. If he is to trust Nature, in short, it must be guaranteed to him that in doing so he will "never be put to confusion." The authors of the _Unseen Universe_ conclude their examination of this principle by saying that "assuming the existence of a supreme Governor of the universe, the Principle of Continuity may be said to be the definite expression in words of our trust that He will not put us to permanent intellectual confusion, and we can easily conceive similar expressions of trust with reference to the other faculties of man."[22] Or, as it has been well put elsewhere, Continuity is the expression of "the Divine Veracity in Nature."[23] The most striking examples of the continuousness of Law are perhaps those furnished by Astronomy, especially in connection with the more recent applications of spectrum analysis. But even in the case of the simpler Laws the demonstration is complete. There is no reason apart from Continuity to expect that gravitation for instance should prevail outside our world. But wherever matter has been detected throughout the entire universe, whether in the form of star or planet, comet or meteorite, it is found to obey that Law. "If there were no other indication of unity than this, it would be almost enough. For the unity which is implied in the mechanism of the heavens is indeed a unity which is all-embracing and complete. The structure of our own bodies, with all that depends upon it, is a structure governed by, and therefore adapted to, the same force of gravitation which has determined the form and the movements of myriads of worlds. Every part of the human organism is fitted to conditions which would all be destroyed in a moment if the forces of gravitation were to change or fail."[24] But it is unnecessary to multiply illustrations. Having defined the principle we may proceed at once to apply it. And the argument may be summed up in a sentence. As the Natural Laws are continuous through the universe of matter and of space, so will they be continuous through the universe of spirit. If this be denied, what then? Those who deny it must furnish the disproof. The argument is founded on a principle which is now acknowledged to be universal; and the _onus_ of disproof must lie with those who may be bold enough to take up the position that a region exists where at last the Principle of Continuity fails. To do this one would first have to overturn Nature, then science, and last, the human mind. It may seem an obvious objection that many of the Natural Laws have no connection whatever with the Spiritual World, and as a matter of fact are not continued through it. Gravitation for instance--what direct application has that in the Spiritual World? The reply is threefold. First, there is no proof that it does not hold there. If the spirit be in any sense material it certainly must hold. In the second place, gravitation may hold for the Spiritual Sphere although it cannot be directly proved. The spirit may be armed with powers which enable it to rise superior to gravity. During the action of these powers gravity need be no more suspended than in the case of a plant which rises in the air during the process of growth. It does this in virtue of a higher Law and in apparent defiance of the lower. Thirdly, if the spiritual be not material it still cannot be said that gravitation ceases at that point to be continuous. It is not gravitation that ceases--it is matter. This point, however, will require development for another reason. In the case of the plant just referred to, there is a principle of growth or vitality at work superseding the attraction of gravity. Why is there no trace of that Law in the Inorganic world? Is not this another instance of the discontinuousness of Law? If the Law of vitality has so little connection with the Inorganic kingdom--less even than gravitation with the Spiritual, what becomes of Continuity? Is it not evident that each kingdom of Nature has its own set of Laws which continue possibly untouched for the specific kingdom but never extend beyond it? It is quite true that when we pass from the Inorganic to the Organic, we come upon a new set of Laws. But the reason why the lower set do not seem to act in the higher sphere is not that they are annihilated, but that they are overruled. And the reason why the higher Laws are not found operating in the lower is not because they are not continuous downward, but because there is nothing for them there to act upon. It is not Law that fails, but opportunity. The biological Laws are continuous for life. Wherever there is life, that is to say, they will be found acting, just as gravitation acts wherever there is matter. We have purposely, in the last paragraph, indulged in a fallacy. We have said that the biological Laws would certainly be continuous in the lower or mineral sphere were there anything there for them to act upon. Now Laws do not act upon anything. It has been stated already, although apparently it cannot be too abundantly emphasized, that Laws are only modes of operation, not themselves operators. The accurate statement, therefore, would be that the biological Laws would be continuous in the lower sphere were there anything there for them, not to act upon, but to keep in order. If there is no acting going on, if there is nothing being kept in order, the responsibility does not lie with Continuity. The Law will always be at its post, not only when its services are required, but wherever they are possible. Attention is drawn to this, for it is a correction one will find one's self compelled often to make in his thinking. It is so difficult to keep out of mind the idea of substance in connection with the Natural Laws, the idea that they are the movers, the essences, the energies, that one is constantly on the verge of falling into false conclusions. Thus a hasty glance at the present argument on the part of any one ill-furnished enough to confound Law with substance or with cause would probably lead to its immediate rejection. For, to continue the same line of illustration, it might next be urged that such a Law as Biogenesis, which, as we hope to show afterward, is the fundamental Law of life for both the natural and spiritual worlds, can have no application whatsoever in the latter sphere. The _life_ with which it deals in the Natural World does not enter at all into the Spiritual World, and therefore, it might be argued, the Law of Biogenesis cannot be capable of extension into it. The Law of Continuity seems to be snapped at the point where the natural passes into the spiritual. The vital principle of the body is a different thing from the vital principle of the spiritual life. Biogenesis deals with βιος, with the natural life, with cells and germs, and as there are no exactly similar cells and germs in the Spiritual World, the Law cannot therefore apply. All which is as true as if one were to say that the fifth proposition of the First Book of Euclid applies when the figures are drawn with chalk upon a blackboard, but fails with regard to structures of wood or stone. The proposition is continuous for the whole world, and, doubtless, likewise for the sun and moon and stars. The same universality may be predicated likewise for the Law of life. Wherever there is life we may expect to find it arranged, ordered, governed according to the same Law. At the beginning of the natural life we find the Law that natural life can only come from preëxisting natural life; and at the beginning of the spiritual life we find that the spiritual life can only come from preëxisting spiritual life. But there are not two Laws; there is one--Biogenesis. At one end the Law is dealing with matter, at the other with spirit. The qualitative terms natural and spiritual make no difference. Biogenesis is the Law for all life and for all kinds of life, and the particular substance with which it is associated is as indifferent to Biogenesis as it is to Gravitation. Gravitation will act whether the substance be suns and stars, or grains of sand, or raindrops. Biogenesis, in like manner, will act wherever there is life. The conclusion finally is, that from the nature of Law in general, and from the scope of the Principle of Continuity in particular, the Laws of the natural life must be those of the spiritual life. This does not exclude, observe, the possibility of there being new Laws in addition within the Spiritual Sphere; nor does it even include the supposition that the old Laws will be the conspicuous Laws of the Spiritual World, both which points will be dealt with presently. It simply asserts that whatever else may be found, these must be found there; that they must be there though they may not be seen there; and that they must project beyond there if there be anything beyond there. If the Law of Continuity is true, the only way to escape the conclusion that the Laws of the natural life are the Laws, or at least are Laws, of the spiritual life, is to say that there is no spiritual life. It is really easier to give up the phenomena than to give up the Law. Two questions now remain for further consideration--one bearing on the possibility of new Law in the spiritual; the other, on the assumed invisibility or inconspicuousness of the old Laws on account of their subordination to the new. Let us begin by conceding that there may be new Laws. The argument might then be advanced that since, in Nature generally, we come upon new Laws as we pass from lower to higher kingdoms, the old still remaining in force, the newer Laws which one would expect to meet in the Spiritual World would so transcend and overwhelm the older as to make the analogy or identity, even if traced, of no practical use. The new Laws would represent operations and energies so different, and so much more elevated, that they would afford the true keys to the Spiritual World. As Gravitation is practically lost sight of when we pass into the domain of life, so Biogenesis would be lost sight of as we enter the Spiritual Sphere. We must first separate in this statement the old confusion of Law and energy. Gravitation is not lost sight of in the organic world. Gravity may be, to a certain extent, but not Gravitation; and gravity only where a higher power counteracts its action. At the same time it is not to be denied that the conspicuous thing in Organic Nature is not the great Inorganic Law. But the objection turns upon the statement that reasoning from analogy we should expect, in turn, to lose sight of Biogenesis as we enter the Spiritual Sphere. One answer to which is that, as a matter of fact, we do not lose sight of it. So far from being invisible, it lies across the very threshold of the Spiritual World, and, as we shall see, pervades it everywhere. What we lose sight of, to a certain extent, is the natural βιος. In the Spiritual World that is not the conspicuous thing, and it is obscure there just as gravity becomes obscure in the Organic, because something higher, more potent, more characteristic of the higher plane, comes in. That there are higher energies, so to speak, in the Spiritual World is, of course, to be affirmed alike on the ground of analogy and of experience; but it does not follow that these necessitate other Laws. A Law has nothing to do with potency. We may lose sight of a substance, or of an energy, but it is an abuse of language to talk of losing sight of Laws. Are there, then, no other Laws in the Spiritual World except those which are the projections or extensions of Natural Laws? From the number of Natural Laws which are found in the higher sphere, from the large territory actually embraced by them, and from their special prominence throughout the whole region, it may at least be answered that the margin left for them is small. But if the objection is pressed that it is contrary to the analogy, and unreasonable in itself, that there should not be new Laws for this higher sphere, the reply is obvious. Let these Laws be produced. If the spiritual nature, in inception, growth, and development, does not follow natural principles, let the true principles be stated and explained. We have not denied that there may be new Laws. One would almost be surprised if there were not. The mass of material handed over from the natural to the spiritual, continuous, apparently, from the natural to the spiritual, is so great that till that is worked out it will be impossible to say what space is still left unembraced by Laws that are known. At present it is impossible even approximately to estimate the size of that supposed _terra incognita_. From one point of view it ought to be vast, from another extremely small. But however large the region governed by the suspected new Laws may be that cannot diminish by a hair's-breadth the size of the territory where the old Laws still prevail. That territory itself, relatively to us though perhaps not absolutely, must be of great extent. The size of the key which is to open it, that is, the size of all the Natural Laws which can be found to apply, is a guarantee that the region of the knowable in the Spiritual World is at least as wide as these regions of the Natural World which by the help of these Laws have been explored. No doubt also there yet remain some Natural Laws to be discovered, and these in time may have a further light to shed on the spiritual field. Then we may know all that is? By no means. We may only know all that may be known. And that may be very little. The Sovereign Will which sways the scepter of that invisible empire must be granted a right of freedom--that freedom which by putting it into our wills He surely teaches us to honor in His. In much of His dealing with us also, in what may be called the paternal relation, there may seem no special Law--no Law except the highest of all, that Law of which all other Laws are parts, that Law which neither Nature can wholly reflect nor the mind begin to fathom--the Law of Love. He adds nothing to that, however, who loses sight of all other Laws in that, nor does he take from it who finds specific Laws everywhere radiating from it. With regard to the supposed new Laws of the Spiritual World--those Laws, that is, which are found for the first time in the Spiritual World, and have no analogies lower down--there is this to be said, that there is one strong reason against exaggerating either their number or importance--their importance at least for our immediate needs. The connection between language and the Law of Continuity has been referred to incidentally already. It is clear that we can only express the Spiritual Laws in language borrowed from the visible universe. Being dependent for our vocabulary on images, if an altogether new and foreign set of Laws existed in the Spiritual World, they could never take shape as definite ideas from mere want of words. The hypothetical new Laws which may remain to be discovered in the domain of Natural or Mental Science may afford some index of these hypothetical higher Laws, but this would of course mean that the latter were no longer foreign but in analogy, or, likelier still, identical. If, on the other hand, the Natural Laws of the future have nothing to say of these higher Laws, what can be said of them? Where is the language to come from in which to frame them? If their disclosure could be of any practical use to us, we may be sure the clue to them, the revelation of them, in some way would have been put into Nature. If, on the contrary, they are not to be of immediate use to man, it is better they should not embarrass him. After all, then, our knowledge of higher Law must be limited by our knowledge of the lower. The Natural Laws as at present known, whatever additions may yet be made to them, give a fair rendering of the facts of Nature. And their analogies or their projections in the Spiritual sphere may also be said to offer a fair account of that sphere, or of one or two conspicuous departments of it. The time has come for that account to be given. The greatest among the theological Laws are the Laws of Nature in disguise. It will be the splendid task of the theology of the future to take off the mask and disclose to a waning scepticism the naturalness of the supernatural. It is almost singular that the identification of the Laws of the Spiritual World with the Laws of Nature should so long have escaped recognition. For apart from the probability on _a priori_ grounds, it is involved in the whole structure of Parable. When any two Phenomena in the two spheres are seen to be analogous, the parallelism must depend upon the fact that the Laws governing them are not analogous but identical. And yet this basis for Parable seems to have been overlooked. Thus Principal Shairp:--"This seeing of Spiritual truths mirrored in the face of Nature rests not on any fancied, but in a real analogy between the natural and the spiritual worlds. They are _in some sense which science has not ascertained_, but which the vital and religious imagination can perceive, counterparts one of the other."[25] But is not this the explanation, that parallel Phenomena depend upon identical Laws? It is a question indeed whether one can speak of Laws at all as being analogous. Phenomena are parallel, Laws which make them so are themselves one. In discussing the relations of the Natural and Spiritual kingdom, it has been all but implied hitherto that the Spiritual Laws were framed originally on the plan of the Natural; and the impression one might receive in studying the two worlds for the first time from the side of analogy would naturally be that the lower world was formed first, as a kind of scaffolding on which the higher and Spiritual should be afterward raised. Now the exact opposite has been the case. The first in the field was the Spiritual World. It is not necessary to reproduce here in detail the argument which has been stated recently with so much force in the "Unseen Universe." The conclusion of that work remains still unassailed, that the visible universe has been developed from the unseen. Apart from the general proof from the Law of Continuity, the more special grounds of such a conclusion are, first, the fact insisted upon by Herschel and Clerk-Maxwell that the atoms of which the visible universe is built up bear distinct marks of being manufactured articles; and, secondly, the origin in time of the visible universe is implied from known facts with regard to the dissipation of energy. With the gradual aggregation of mass the energy of the universe has been slowly disappearing, and this loss of energy must go on until none remains. There is, therefore, a point in time when the energy of the universe must come to an end; and that which has its end in time cannot be infinite, it must also have had a beginning in time. Hence the unseen existed before the seen. There is nothing so especially exalted therefore in the Natural Laws in themselves as to make one anxious to find them blood relations of the Spiritual. It is not only because these Laws are on the ground, more accessible therefore to us who are but groundlings; not only, as the "Unseen Universe" points out in another connection, "because they are at the bottom of the list--are in fact the simplest and lowest--that they are capable of being most readily grasped by the finite intelligences of the universe."[26] But their true significance lies in the fact that they are on the list at all, and especially in that the list is the same list. Their dignity is not as Natural Laws, but as Spiritual Laws, Laws which, as already said, at one end are dealing with Matter, and at the other with Spirit. "The physical properties of matter form the alphabet which is put into our hands by God, the study of which, if properly conducted, will enable us more perfectly to read that great book which we call the 'Universe.'"[27] But, over and above this, the Natural Laws will enable us to read that great duplicate which we call the "Unseen Universe," and to think and live in fuller harmony with it. After all, the true greatness of Law lies in its vision of the Unseen. Law in the visible is the Invisible in the visible. And to speak of Laws as Natural is to define them in their application to a part of the universe, the sense-part, whereas a wider survey would lead us to regard all Law as essentially Spiritual. To magnify the Laws of Nature, as Laws of this small world of ours, is to take a provincial view of the universe. Law is great not because the phenomenal world is great, but because these vanishing lines are the avenues into the eternal Order. "It is less reverent to regard the universe as an illimitable avenue which leads up to God, than to look upon it as a limited area bounded by an impenetrable wall, which, if we could only pierce it would admit us at once into the presence of the Eternal?"[28] Indeed the authors of the "Unseen Universe" demur even to the expression _material universe_, since, as they tell us "Matter is (though it may seem paradoxical to say so) the less important half of the material of the physical universe."[29] And even Mr. Huxley, though in a different sense, assures us, with Descartes, "that we know more of mind than we do of body; that the immaterial world is a firmer reality than the material."[30] How the priority of the Spiritual improves the strength and meaning of the whole argument will be seen at once. The lines of the Spiritual existed first, and it was natural to expect that when the "Intelligence resident in the 'Unseen'" proceeded to frame the material universe He should go upon the lines already laid down. He would, in short, simply project the higher Laws downward, so that the Natural World would become an incarnation, a visible representation, a working model of the spiritual. The whole function of the material world lies here. The world is only a thing that is; it is not. It is a thing that teaches, yet not even a thing--a show that shows, a teaching shadow. However useless the demonstration otherwise, philosophy does well in proving that matter is a non-entity. We work with it as the mathematician with an _x_. The reality is alone the Spiritual. "It is very well for physicists to speak of 'matter,' but for men generally to call this 'a material world' is an absurdity. Should we call it an _x_-world it would mean as much, viz., that we do not know what it is."[31] When shall we learn the true mysticism of one who was yet far from being a mystic--"We look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen; for the things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal?"[32] The visible is the ladder up to the invisible; the temporal is but the scaffolding of the eternal. And when the last immaterial souls have climbed through this material to God, the scaffolding shall be taken down, and the earth dissolved with fervent heat--not because it was base, but because its work is done. FOOTNOTES: [3] "Reign of Law," chap. ii. [4] "Animal Kingdom." [5] "Sartor Resartus," 1858 Ed., p. 43. [6] Even parable, however, has always been considered to have attached to it a measure of evidential as well as of illustrative value. Thus: "The parable or other analogy to spiritual truth appropriated from the world of nature or man, is not merely illustrative, but also in some sort proof. It is not merely that these analogies assist to make the truth intelligible or, if intelligible before, present it more vividly to the mind, which is all that some will allow them. Their power lies deeper than this, in the harmony unconsciously felt by all men, and which all deeper minds have delighted to trace, between the natural and spiritual worlds, so that analogies from the first are felt to be something more than illustrations happily but yet arbitrarily chosen. They are arguments, and may be alleged as witnesses; the world of nature being throughout a witness for the world of spirit, proceeding from the same hand, growing out of the same root, and being constituted for that very end."--(Archbishop Trench: "Parables," pp. 12, 13.) [7] Mill's "Logic," vol. ii. p. 96. [8] Campbell's "Rhetoric," vol. i. p. 114. [9] "Nature and the Supernatural," p. 19. [10] "The Scientific Basis of Faith." By J. J. Murphy, p. 466. [11] Op. cit., p. 333. [12] _Ibid._, p. 333. [13] _Ibid._, p. 331. [14] "Analogy," chap. vii. [15] "Unseen Universe," 6th Ed., pp. 89, 90. [16] "Essays," vol. i. p. 40. [17] "A Modern Symposium."--_Nineteenth Century_, vol. i. p. 625. [18] Beck: "Bib. Psychol.," Clark's Tr., Pref., 2d Ed., p. xiii. [19] "First Principles," p. 161. [20] Wordsworth's _Excursion_, Book iv. [21] "The Correlation of Physical Forces," 6th Ed., p. 181 _et seq._ [22] "Unseen Universe," 6th Ed., p. 88. [23] "Old Faiths in New Light," by Newman Smith. Unwin's English edition, p. 252. [24] The Duke of Argyll: _Contemporary Review_, Sept., 1880, p. 358. [25] "Poetic Interpretation of Nature," p. 115. [26] 6th edition, p. 235. [27] _Ibid._, p. 286. [28] "Unseen Universe," p. 96. [29] "Unseen Universe," p. 100. [30] "Science and Culture," p. 259. [31] Hinton's "Philosophy and Religion," p. 40. [32] 2 Cor. iv. 18. BIOGENESIS. "What we require is no new Revelation, but simply an adequate conception of the true essence of Christianity. And I believe that, as time goes on, the work of the Holy Spirit will be continuously shown in the gradual insight which the human race will attain into the true essence of the Christian religion. I am thus of opinion that a standing miracle exists, and that it has ever existed--a direct and continued influence exerted by the supernatural on the natural."--_Paradoxical Philosophy._ "He that hath the Son hath Life, and he that hath not the Son of God hath not Life."--_John._ "Omne vivum ex vivo."--_Harvey._ For two hundred years the scientific world has been rent with discussions upon the Origin of Life. Two great schools have defended exactly opposite views--one that matter can spontaneously generate life, the other that life can only come from preëxisting life. The doctrine of Spontaneous Generation, as the first is called, has been revived within recent years by Dr. Bastian, after a series of elaborate experiments on the Beginnings of Life. Stated in his own words, his conclusion is this: "Both observation and experiment unmistakably testify to the fact that living matter is constantly being formed _de novo_, in obedience to the same laws and tendencies which determined all the more simple chemical combinations."[33] Life, that is to say, is not the Gift of Life. It is capable of springing into being of itself. It can be Spontaneously Generated. This announcement called into the field a phalanx of observers, and the highest authorities in biological science engaged themselves afresh upon the problem. The experiments necessary to test the matter can be followed or repeated by any one possessing the slightest manipulative skill. Glass vessels are three-parts filled with infusions of hay or any organic matter. They are boiled to kill all germs of life, and hermetically sealed to exclude the outer air. The air inside, having been exposed to the boiling temperature for many hours, is supposed to be likewise dead; so that any life which may subsequently appear in the closed flasks must have sprung into being of itself. In Bastian's experiments, after every expedient to secure sterility, life did appear inside in myriad quantity. Therefore, he argued, it was spontaneously generated. But the phalanx of observers found two errors in this calculation. Professor Tyndall repeated the same experiment, only with a precaution to insure absolute sterility suggested by the most recent science--a discovery of his own. After every care, he conceived there might still be undestroyed germs in the air inside the flasks. If the air were absolutely germless and pure, would the myriad-life appear? He manipulated his experimental vessels in an atmosphere which under the high test of optical purity--the most delicate known test--was absolutely germless. Here not a vestige of life appeared. He varied the experiment in every direction, but matter in the germless air never yielded life. The other error was detected by Mr. Dallinger. He found among the lower forms of life the most surprising and indestructible vitality. Many animals could survive much higher temperatures than Dr. Bastian had applied to annihilate them. Some germs almost refused to be annihilated--they were all but fire-proof. These experiments have practically closed the question. A decided and authoritative conclusion has now taken its place in science. So far as science can settle anything, this question is settled. The attempt to get the living out of the dead has failed. Spontaneous Generation has had to be given up. And it is now recognized on every hand that Life can only come from the touch of Life. Huxley categorically announces that the doctrine of Biogenesis, or life only from life, is "victorious along the whole line at the present day."[34] And even while confessing that he wishes the evidence were the other way, Tyndall is compelled to say, "I affirm that no shred of trustworthy experimental testimony exists to prove that life in our day has ever appeared independently of antecedent life."[35] For much more than two hundred years a similar discussion has dragged its length through the religious world. Two great schools here also have defended exactly opposite views--one that the Spiritual Life in man can only come from preëxisting Life, the other that it can Spontaneously Generate itself. Taking its stand upon the initial statement of the Author of the Spiritual Life, one small school, in the face of derision and opposition, has persistently maintained the doctrine of Biogenesis. Another, larger and with greater pretension to philosophic form, has defended Spontaneous Generation. The weakness of the former school consists--though this has been much exaggerated--in its more or less general adherence to the extreme view that religion had nothing to do with the natural life; the weakness of the latter lay in yielding to the more fatal extreme that it had nothing to do with anything else. That man, being a worshiping animal by nature, ought to maintain certain relations to the Supreme Being, was indeed to some extent conceded by the naturalistic school, but religion itself we looked upon as a thing to be spontaneously generated by the evolution of character in the laboratory of common life. The difference between the two positions is radical. Translating from the language of Science into that of Religion, the theory of Spontaneous Generation is simply that a man may become gradually better and better until in course of the process he reaches that quantity of religious nature known as Spiritual Life. This Life is not something added _ab extra_ to the natural man; it is the normal and appropriate development of the natural man. Biogenesis opposes to this the whole doctrine of Regeneration. The Spiritual Life is the gift of the Living Spirit. The spiritual man is no mere development of the natural man. He is a New Creation born from Above. As well expect a hay infusion to become gradually more and more living until in course of the process it reached Vitality, as expect a man by becoming better and better to attain the Eternal Life. The advocates of Biogenesis in Religion have founded their argument hitherto all but exclusively on Scripture. The relation of the doctrine to the constitution and course of Nature was not disclosed. Its importance, therefore, was solely as a dogma; and being directly concerned with the Supernatural, it was valid for those alone who chose to accept the Supernatural. Yet it has been keenly felt by those who attempt to defend this doctrine of the origin of the Spiritual Life, that they have nothing more to oppose to the rationalistic view than the _ipse dixit_ of Revelation. The argument from experience, in the nature of the case, is seldom easy to apply, and Christianity has always found at this point a genuine difficulty in meeting the challenge of Natural Religions. The direct authority of Nature, using Nature in its limited sense, was not here to be sought for. On such a question its voice was necessarily silent; and all that the apologist could look for lower down was a distant echo or analogy. All that is really possible, indeed, is such an analogy; and if that can now be found in Biogenesis, Christianity in its most central position secures at length a support and basis in the Laws of Nature. Up to the present time the analogy required has not been forthcoming. There was no known parallel in Nature for the spiritual phenomena in question. But now the case is altered. With the elevation of Biogenesis to the rank of a scientific fact, all problems concerning the Origin of Life are placed on a different footing. And it remains to be seen whether Religion cannot at once reaffirm and re-shape its argument in the light of this modern truth. If the doctrine of the Spontaneous Generation of Spiritual Life can be met on scientific grounds, it will mean the removal of the most serious enemy Christianity has to deal with, and especially within its own borders, at the present day. The religion of Jesus has probably always suffered more from those who have misunderstood than from those who have opposed it. Of the multitudes who confess Christianity at this hour how many have clear in their minds the cardinal distinction established by its Founder between "born of the flesh" and "born of the Spirit?" By how many teachers of Christianity even is not this fundamental postulate persistently ignored? A thousand modern pulpits every seventh day are preaching the doctrine of Spontaneous Generation. The finest and best of recent poetry is colored with this same error. Spontaneous Generation is the leading theology of the modern religious or irreligious novel; and much of the most serious and cultured writing of the day devotes itself to earnest preaching of this impossible gospel. The current conception of the Christian religion in short--the conception which is held not only popularly but by men of culture--is founded upon a view of its origin which, if it were true, would render the whole scheme abortive. Let us first place vividly in our imagination the picture of the two great Kingdoms of Nature, the inorganic and organic, as these now stand in the light of the Law of Biogenesis. What essentially is involved in saying that there is no Spontaneous Generation of Life? It is meant that the passage from the mineral world to the plant or animal world is hermetically sealed on the mineral side. This inorganic world is staked off from the living world by barriers which have never yet been crossed from within. No change of substance, no modification of environment, no chemistry, no electricity, nor any form of energy, nor any evolution can endow any single atom of the mineral world with the attribute of Life. Only by the bending down into this dead world of some living form can these dead atoms be gifted with the properties of vitality, without this preliminary contact with Life they remain fixed in the inorganic sphere forever. It is a very mysterious Law which guards in this way the portals of the living world. And if there is one thing in Nature more worth pondering for its strangeness it is the spectacle of this vast helpless world of the dead cut off from the living by the Law of Biogenesis and denied forever the possibility of resurrection within itself. So very strange a thing, indeed, is this broad line in Nature, that Science has long and urgently sought to obliterate it. Biogenesis stands in the way of some forms of Evolution with such stern persistency that the assaults upon this Law for number and thoroughness have been unparalleled. But, as we have seen, it has stood the test. Nature, to the modern eye, stands broken in two. The physical Laws may explain the inorganic world; the biological Laws may account for the development of the organic. But of the point where they meet, of that strange borderland between the dead and the living, Science is silent. It is as if God had placed everything in earth and heaven in the hands of Nature, but reserved a point at the genesis of Life for His direct appearing. The power of the analogy, for which we are laying the foundations, to seize and impress the mind, will largely depend on the vividness with which one realizes the gulf which Nature places between the living and the dead.[36] But those who, in contemplating Nature, have found their attention arrested by this extraordinary dividing-line severing the visible universe eternally into two; those who in watching the progress of science have seen barrier after barrier disappear--barrier between plant and plant, between animal and animal, and even between animal and plant--but this gulf yawn more hopelessly wide with every advance of knowledge, will be prepared to attach a significance to the Law of Biogenesis and its analogies more profound perhaps than to any other fact or law in Nature. If, as Pascal says, Nature is an image of grace; if the things that are seen are in any sense the images of the unseen, there must lie in this great gulf fixed, this most unique and startling of all natural phenomena, a meaning of peculiar moment. Where now in the Spiritual spheres shall we meet a companion phenomena to this? What in the Unseen shall be likened to this deep dividing-line, or where in human experience is another barrier which never can be crossed? There is such a barrier. In the dim but not inadequate vision of the Spiritual World presented in the Word of God, the first thing that strikes the eye is a great gulf fixed. The passage from the Natural World to the Spiritual World is hermetically sealed on the natural side. The door from the inorganic to the organic is shut, no mineral can open it; so the door from the natural to the spiritual is shut, and no man can open it. This world of natural men is staked off from the Spiritual World by barriers which have never yet been crossed from within. No organic change, no modification of environment, no mental energy, no moral effort, no evolution of character, no progress of civilization can endow any single human soul with the attribute of Spiritual Life. The Spiritual World is guarded from the world next in order beneath it by a law of Biogenesis--_except a man be born again ... except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter the Kingdom of God_. It is not said, in this enunciation of the law, that if the condition be not fulfilled the natural man _will not_ enter the Kingdom of God. The word is _cannot_. For the exclusion of the spiritually inorganic from the Kingdom of the spiritually organic is not arbitrary. Nor is the natural man refused admission on unexplained grounds. His admission is a scientific impossibility. Except a mineral be born "from above"--from the Kingdom just _above_ it--it cannot enter the Kingdom just above it. And except a man be born "from above," by the same law, he cannot enter the Kingdom just above him. There being no passage from one Kingdom to another, whether from inorganic to organic, or from organic to spiritual, the intervention of Life is a scientific necessity if a stone or a plant or an animal or a man is to pass from a lower to a higher sphere. The plant stretches down to the dead world beneath it, touches its minerals and gases with its mystery of Life, and brings them up ennobled and transformed to the living sphere. The breath of God, blowing where it listeth, touches with its mystery of Life the dead souls of men, bears them across the bridgeless gulf between the natural and the spiritual, between the spiritually inorganic and the spiritually organic, endows them with its own high qualities, and develops within them these new and secret faculties, by which those who are born again are said to _see the Kingdom of God_. What is the evidence for this great gulf fixed at the portals of the Spiritual World? Does Science close this gate, or Reason, or Experience, or Revelation? We reply, all four. The initial statement, it is not to be denied, reaches us from Revelation. But is not this evidence here in court? Or shall it be said that any argument deduced from this is a transparent circle--that after all we simply come back to the unsubstantiality of the _ipse dixit_? Not altogether, for the analogy lends an altogether new authority to the _ipse dixit_. How substantial that argument really is, is seldom realized. We yield the point here much too easily. The right of the Spiritual World to speak of its own phenomena is as secure as the right of the Natural World to speak of itself. What is Science but what the Natural World has said to natural men? What is Revelation but what the Spiritual World has said to Spiritual men? Let us at least ask what Revelation has announced with reference to this Spiritual Law of Biogenesis; afterward we shall inquire whether Science, while indorsing the verdict, may not also have some further vindication of its title to be heard. The words of Scripture which preface this inquiry contain an explicit and original statement of the Law of Biogenesis for the Spiritual Life. "He that hath the Son hath Life, and he that hath not the Son of God hath not Life." Life, that is to say, depends upon contact with Life. It cannot spring up of itself. It cannot develop out of anything that is not Life. There is no Spontaneous Generation in religion any more than in Nature. Christ is the source of Life in the Spiritual World; and he that hath the Son hath Life, and he that hath not the Son, whatever else he may have, hath not Life. Here, in short, is the categorical denial of Abiogenesis and the establishment in this high field of the classical formula _Omne vivum ex vivo_--no Life without antecedent Life. In this mystical theory of the Origin of Life the whole of the New Testament writers are agreed. And, as we have already seen, Christ Himself founds Christianity upon Biogenesis stated in its most literal form. "Except a man be born of water and of the Spirit he cannot enter into the Kingdom of God. That which is born of the flesh is flesh; and that which is born of the Spirit is Spirit. Marvel not that I said unto you, ye must be born again."[37] Why did He add _Marvel not_? Did He seek to allay the fear in the bewildered ruler's mind that there was more in this novel doctrine than a simple analogy from the first to the second birth? The attitude of the natural man, again, with reference to the Spiritual, is a subject on which the New Testament is equally pronounced. Not only in his relation to the spiritual man, but to the whole Spiritual World, the natural man is regarded as _dead_. He is as a crystal to an organism. The natural world is to the Spiritual as the inorganic to the organic. "To be carnally minded is _Death_."[38] "Thou hast a name to live, but art _Dead_."[39] "She that liveth in pleasure is _Dead_ while she liveth."[40] "To you he Hath given Life which were _Dead_ in trespasses and sins."[41] It is clear that a remarkable harmony exists here between the Organic World as arranged by Science and the Spiritual World as arranged by Scripture. We find one great Law guarding the thresholds of both worlds, securing that entrance from a lower sphere shall only take place by a direct regenerating act, and that emanating from the world next in order above. There are not two laws of Biogenesis, one for the natural, the other for the Spiritual; one law is for both. Wherever there is Life, Life of any kind, this same law holds. The analogy, therefore, is only among the phenomena; between laws there is no analogy--there is Continuity. In either case, the first step in peopling these worlds with the appropriate living forms is virtually miracle. Nor in one case is there less of mystery in the act than in the other. The second birth is scarcely less perplexing to the theologian than the first to the embryologist. A moment's reflection ought now to make it clear why in the Spiritual World there had to be added to this mystery the further mystery of its proclamation through the medium of Revelation. This is the point at which the scientific man is apt to part company with the theologian. He insists on having all things materialized before his eyes in Nature. If Nature cannot discuss this with him, there is nothing to discuss. But Nature can discuss this with him--only she cannot open the discussion or supply all the material to begin with. If Science averred that she could do this, the theologian this time must part company with such Science. For any Science which makes such a demand is false to the doctrines of Biogenesis. What is this but the demand that a lower world, hermetically sealed against all communication with a world above it, should have a mature and intelligent acquaintance with its phenomena and laws? Can the mineral discourse to me of animal Life? Can it tell me what lies beyond the narrow boundary of its inert being? Knowing nothing of other than the chemical and physical laws, what is its criticism worth of the principles of Biology? And even when some visitor from the upper world, for example some root from a living tree, penetrating its dark recess, honors it with a touch, will it presume to define the form and purpose of its patron, or until the bioplasm has done its gracious work can it even know that it is being touched? The barrier which separates Kingdoms from one another restricts mind not less than matter. Any information of the Kingdoms above it that could come to the mineral world could only come by a communication from above. An analogy from the lower world might make such communication intelligible as well as credible, but the information in the first instance must be vouchsafed as a _revelation_. Similarly if those in the organic Kingdom are to know anything of the Spiritual World, that knowledge must at least begin as Revelation. Men who reject this source of information, by the Law of Biogenesis, can have no other. It is no spell of ignorance arbitrarily laid upon certain members of the Organic Kingdom that prevents them reading the secrets of the Spiritual World. It is a scientific necessity. No exposition of the case could be more truly scientific than this: "The natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God; for they are foolishness unto him: _neither can he know them_, because they are spiritually discerned."[42] The verb here, it will be again observed, is potential. This is not a dogma of theology, but a necessity of Science. And Science, for the most part, has consistently accepted the situation. It has always proclaimed its ignorance of the Spiritual World. When Mr. Herbert Spencer affirms, "Regarding Science as a gradually increasing sphere we may say that every addition to its surface does but bring it into wider contact with surrounding nescience,"[43] from his standpoint he is quite correct. The endeavors of well-meaning persons to show that the Agnostic's position, when he asserts his ignorance of the Spiritual World, is only a pretence; the attempts to prove that he really knows a great deal about it if he would only admit it, are quite misplaced. He really does not know. The verdict that the natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God, that they are foolishness unto him, that _neither can he_ know them, is final as a statement of scientific truth--a statement on which the entire Agnostic literature is simply one long commentary. We are now in a better position to follow out the more practical bearings of Biogenesis. There is an immense region surrounding Regeneration, a dark and perplexing region where men would be thankful for any light. It may well be that Biogenesis in its many ramifications may yet reach down to some of the deeper mysteries of the Spiritual Life. But meantime there is much to define even on the surface. And for the present we shall content ourselves by turning its light upon one or two points of current interest. It must long ago have appeared how decisive is the answer of Science to the practical question with which we set out as to the possibility of a Spontaneous Development of Spiritual Life in the individual soul. The inquiry into the Origin of Life is the fundamental question alike of Biology and Christianity. We can afford to enlarge upon it, therefore, even at the risk of repetition. When men are offering us a Christianity without a living Spirit, and a personal religion without _conversion_, no emphasis or reiteration can be extreme. Besides, the clearness as well as the definiteness of the Testimony of Nature to any Spiritual truth is of immense importance. Regeneration has not merely been an outstanding difficulty, but an overwhelming obscurity. Even to earnest minds the difficulty of grasping the truth at all has always proved extreme. Philosophically one scarcely sees either the necessity or the possibility of being born again. Why a virtuous man should not simply grow better and better until in his own right he enter the Kingdom of God is what thousands honestly and seriously fail to understand. Now Philosophy cannot help us here. Her arguments are, if anything, against us. But Science answers to the appeal at once. If it be simply pointed out that this is the same absurdity as to ask why a stone should not grow more and more living till it enters the Organic World, the point is clear in an instant. What now, let us ask specifically, distinguishes a Christian man from a non-Christian man? Is it that he has certain mental characteristics not possessed by the other? Is it that certain faculties have been trained in him, that morality assumes special and higher manifestations, and character a nobler form? Is the Christian merely an ordinary man who happens from birth to have been surrounded with a peculiar set of ideas? Is his religion merely that peculiar quality of the moral life defined by Mr. Matthew Arnold as "morality touched by emotion?" And does the possession of a high ideal, benevolent sympathies, a reverent spirit, and a favorable environment account for what men call his Spiritual Life? The distinction between them is the same as that between the Organic and the Inorganic, the living and the dead. What is the difference between a crystal and an organism, a stone and a plant? They have much in common. Both are made of the same atoms. Both display the same properties of matter. Both are subject to the Physical Laws. Both may be very beautiful. But besides possessing all that the crystal has, the plant possesses something more--a mysterious something called Life. This Life is not something which existed in the crystal only in a less developed form. There is nothing at all like it in the crystal. There is nothing like the first beginning of it in the crystal, not a trace or symptom of it. This plant is tenanted by something new, an original and unique possession added over and above all the properties common to both. When from vegetable Life we rise to animal Life, here again we find something original and unique--unique at least as compared with the mineral. From animal Life we ascend again to Spiritual Life. And here also is something new, something still more unique. He who lives the Spiritual Life has a distinct kind of Life added to all the other phases of Life which he manifests--a kind of Life infinitely more distinct than is the active Life of a plant from the inertia of a stone. The Spiritual man is more distinct in point of fact than is the plant from the stone. This is the one possible comparison in Nature, for it is the widest distinction in Nature; but compared with the difference between the Natural and the Spiritual the gulf which divides the organic from the inorganic is a hair's-breadth. The natural man belongs essentially to this present order of things. He is endowed simply with a high quality of the natural animal Life. But it is Life of so poor a quality that it is not Life at all. He that hath not the Son _hath not Life_; but he that hath the Son hath Life--a new and distinct and supernatural endowment. He is not of this world. He is of the timeless state, of Eternity. _It doth not yet appear what he shall be._ The difference between the Spiritual man and the Natural man is not a difference of development, but of generation. It is a distinction of quality not of quantity. A man cannot rise by any natural development from "morality touched by emotion," to "morality touched by Life." Were we to construct a scientific classification, Science would compel us to arrange all natural men, moral or immoral, educated or vulgar, as one family. One might be high in the family group, another low; yet, practically, they are marked by the same set of characteristics--they eat, sleep, work, think, live, die. But the Spiritual man is removed from this family so utterly by the possession of an additional characteristic that a biologist, fully informed of the whole circumstances, would not hesitate a moment to classify him elsewhere. And if he really entered into these circumstances it would not be in another family but in another Kingdom. It is an old-fashioned theology which divides the world in this way--which speaks of men as Living and Dead, Lost and Saved--a stern theology all but fallen into disuse. This difference between the Living and the Dead in souls is so unproved by casual observation, so impalpable in itself, so startling as a doctrine, that schools of culture have ridiculed or denied the grim distinction. Nevertheless the grim distinction must be retained. It is a scientific distinction. "He that hath not the Son hath not Life." Now it is this great Law which finally distinguishes Christianity from all other religions. It places the religion of Christ upon a footing altogether unique. There is no analogy between the Christian religion and, say, Buddhism or the Mohammedan religion. There is no true sense in which a man can say, He that hath Buddha hath Life. Buddha has nothing to do with Life. He may have something to do with morality. He may stimulate, impress, teach, guide, but there is no distinct new thing added to the souls of those who profess Buddhism. These religions _may_ be developments of the natural, mental, or moral man. But Christianity professes to be more. It is the mental or moral man _plus_ something else or some One else. It is the infusion into the Spiritual man of a New Life, of a quality unlike anything else in Nature. This constitutes the separate Kingdom of Christ, and gives to Christianity alone of all the religions of mankind the strange mark of Divinity. Shall we next inquire more precisely what is this something extra which constitutes Spiritual Life? What is this strange and new endowment in its nature and vital essence? And the answer is brief--it is Christ. He that hath _the Son_ hath Life. Are we forsaking the lines of Science in saying so? Yes and No. Science has drawn for us the distinction. It has no voice as to the nature of the distinction except this--that the new endowment is a something different from anything else with which it deals. It is not ordinary Vitality, it is not intellectual, it is not moral, but something beyond. And Revelation steps in and names what it is--it is Christ. Out of the multitude of sentences where this announcement is made, these few may be selected: "Know ye not your own selves how that _Jesus Christ is in you_?"[44] "Your bodies are the members of Christ."[45] "At that day ye shall know that I am in the Father, and ye in Me, and I in you."[46] "We will come unto him and make our abode with him."[47] "I am the Vine, ye are the branches."[48] "I am crucified with Christ, nevertheless I live, yet not I, but Christ liveth in me."[49] Three things are clear from these statements: First, they are not mere figures of rhetoric. They are explicit declarations. If language means anything these words announce a literal fact. In some of Christ's own statements the literalism is if possible still more impressive. For instance, "Except ye eat the flesh of the Son of man and drink His blood, ye have no life in you. Whoso eateth My flesh and drinketh My blood hath eternal life; and I will raise him up at the last day. For My flesh is meat indeed, and My blood is drink indeed. He that eateth My flesh and drinketh My blood _dwelleth in Me and I in him_." In the second place, Spiritual Life is not something outside ourselves. The idea is not that Christ is in heaven and that we can stretch out some mysterious faculty and deal with Him there. This is the vague form in which many conceive the truth, but it is contrary to Christ's teaching and to the analogy of nature. Vegetable Life is not contained in a reservoir somewhere in the skies, and measured out spasmodically at certain seasons. The Life is _in_ every plant and tree, inside its own substance and tissue, and continues there until it dies. This localization of Life in the individual is precisely the point where Vitality differs from the other forces of nature, such as magnetism and electricity. Vitality has much in common with such forces as magnetism and electricity, but there is one inviolable distinction between them--that Life is permanently fixed and rooted in the organism. The doctrines of conservation and transformation of energy, that is to say, do not hold for Vitality. The electrician can demagnetize a bar of iron, that is, he can transform its energy of magnetism into something else--heat, or motion, or light--and then re-form these back into magnetism. For magnetism has no root, no individuality, no fixed indwelling. But the biologist cannot devitalize a plant or an animal and revivify it again.[50] Life is not one of the homeless forces which promiscuously inhabit space, or which can be gathered like electricity from the clouds and dissipated back again into space. Life is definite and resident; and Spiritual Life is not a visit from a force, but a resident tenant in the soul. This is, however, to formulate the statement of the third point, that Spiritual Life is not an ordinary form of energy or force. The analogy from Nature indorses this, but here Nature stops. It cannot say what Spiritual Life is. Indeed what natural Life is remains unknown, and the word Life still wanders through Science without a definition. Nature is silent, therefore, and must be as to Spiritual Life. But in the absence of natural light we fall back upon that complementary revelation which always shines, when truth is necessary and where Nature fails. We ask with Paul when this Life first visited him on the Damascus road, What is this? "Who art Thou, Lord?" And we hear, "I am Jesus."[51] We must expect to find this denied. Besides a proof from Revelation, this is an argument from experience. And yet we shall still be told that this Spiritual Life is a force. But let it be remembered what this means in Science, it means the heresy of confounding Force with Vitality. We must also expect to be told that this Spiritual Life is simply a development of ordinary Life--just as Dr. Bastian tells us that natural Life is formed according to the same laws which determine the more simple chemical combinations. But remember what this means in Science. It is the heresy of Spontaneous Generation, a heresy so thoroughly discredited now that scarcely an authority in Europe will lend his name to it. Who art Thou, Lord? Unless we are to be allowed to hold Spontaneous Generation there is no alternative: Life can only come from Life: "I am Jesus." A hundred other questions now rush into the mind about this Life: How does it come? Why does it come? How is it manifested? What faculty does it employ? Where does it reside? Is it communicable? What are its conditions? One or two of these questions may be vaguely answered, the rest bring us face to face with mystery. Let it not be thought that the scientific treatment of a Spiritual subject has reduced religion to a problem of physics, or demonstrated God by the laws of biology. A religion without mystery is an absurdity. Even Science has its mysteries, none more inscrutable than around this Science of Life. It taught us sooner or later to expect mystery, and now we enter its domain. Let it be carefully marked, however, that the cloud does not fall and cover us till we have ascertained the most momentous truth of Religion--that Christ is in the Christian. Not that there is anything new in this. The Churches have always held that Christ was the source of Life. No spiritual man ever claims that his spirituality is his own. "I live," he will tell you; "nevertheless it is not I, but Christ liveth in me." Christ our Life has indeed been the only doctrine in the Christian Church from Paul to Augustine, from Calvin to Newman. Yet, when the Spiritual man is cross-examined upon this confession it is astonishing to find what uncertain hold it has upon his mind. Doctrinally he states it adequately and holds it unhesitatingly. But when pressed with the literal question he shrinks from the answer. We do not really believe that the Living Christ has touched us, that He makes His abode in us. Spiritual Life is not as real to us as natural Life. And we cover our retreat into unbelieving vagueness with a plea of reverence, justified, as we think, by the "Thus far and no farther" of ancient Scriptures. There is often a great deal of intellectual sin concealed under this old aphorism. When men do not really wish to go farther they find it an honorable convenience sometimes to sit down on the outermost edge of the Holy Ground on the pretext of taking off their shoes. Yet we must be certain that, making a virtue of reverence, we are not merely excusing ignorance; or, under the plea of mystery, evading a truth which has been stated in the New Testament a hundred times, in the most literal form, and with all but monotonous repetition. The greatest truths are always the most loosely held. And not the least of the advantages of taking up this question from the present standpoint is that we may see how a confused doctrine can really bear the luminous definition of Science and force itself upon us with all the weight of Natural Law. What is mystery to many men, what feeds their worship, and at the same time spoils it, is that area round all great truth which is really capable of illumination, and into which every earnest mind is permitted and commanded to go with a light. We cry mystery long before the region of mystery comes. True mystery casts no shadows around. It is a sudden and awful gulf yawning across the field of knowledge; its form is irregular, but its lips are clean cut and sharp, and the mind can go to the very verge and look down the precipice into the dim abyss-- "Where writhing clouds unroll, Striving to utter themselves in shapes." We have gone with a light to the very verge of this truth. We have seen that the Spiritual Life is an endowment from the Spiritual World, and that the Living Spirit of Christ dwells in the Christian. But now the gulf yawns black before us. What more does Science know of life? Nothing. It knows nothing further about its origin in detail. It knows nothing about its ultimate nature. It cannot even define it. There is a helplessness in scientific books here, and a continual confession of it which to thoughtful minds is almost touching. Science, therefore, has not eliminated the true mysteries from our faith, but only the false. And it has done more. It has made true mystery scientific. Religion in having mystery is in analogy with all around it. Where there is exceptional mystery in the Spiritual world it will generally be found that there is a corresponding mystery in the natural world. And, as Origen centuries ago insisted, the difficulties of Religion are simply the difficulties of Nature. One question more we may look at for a moment. What can be gathered on the surface as to the process of Regeneration in the individual soul? From the analogies of Biology we should expect three things: First, that the New Life should dawn suddenly; Second, that it should come "without observation;" Third, that it should develop gradually. On two of these points there can be little controversy. The gradualness of growth is a characteristic which strikes the simplest observer. Long before the word Evolution was coined Christ applied it in this very connection--"First the blade, then the ear, then the full corn in the ear." It is well known also to those who study the parables of Nature that there is an ascending scale of slowness as we rise in the scale of Life. Growth is most gradual in the highest forms. Man attains his maturity after a score of years; the monad completes its humble cycle in a day. What wonder if development be tardy in the Creature of Eternity? A Christian's sun has sometimes set, and a critical world has seen as yet no corn in the ear. As yet? "As yet," in this long Life, has not begun. Grant him the years proportionate to his place in the scale of Life. "The time of harvest is _not yet_." Again, in addition to being slow, the phenomena of growth are secret. Life is invisible. When the New Life manifests itself it is a surprise. _Thou canst not tell whence it cometh or whither it goeth._ When the plant lives whence has the Life come? When it dies whither has it gone? _Thou canst not tell ... so is every one that is born of the Spirit. For the kingdom of God cometh without observation._ Yet once more--and this is a point of strange and frivolous dispute--this Life comes suddenly. This is the only way in which Life can come. Life cannot come gradually--health can, structure can, but not Life. A new theology has laughed at the Doctrine of Conversion. Sudden Conversion especially has been ridiculed as untrue to philosophy and impossible to human nature. We may not be concerned in buttressing any theology because it is old. But we find that this old theology is scientific. There may be cases--they are probably in the majority--where the moment of contact with the Living Spirit though sudden has been obscure. But the real moment and the conscious moment are two different things. Science pronounces nothing as to the conscious moment. If it did it would probably say that that was seldom the real moment--just as in the natural Life the conscious moment is not the real moment. The moment of birth in the natural world is not a conscious moment--we do not know we are born till long afterward. Yet there are men to whom the Origin of the New Life in time has been no difficulty. To Paul, for instance, Christ seems to have come at a definite period of time, the exact moment and second of which could have been known. And this is certainly, in theory at least, the normal Origin of Life, according to the principles of Biology. The line between the living and the dead is a sharp line. When the dead atoms of Carbon, Hydrogen, Oxygen, Nitrogen, are seized upon by Life, the organism at first is very lowly. It possesses few functions. It has little beauty. Growth is the work of time. But Life is not. That comes in a moment. At one moment it was dead; the next it lived. This is conversion, the "passing," as the Bible calls it, "from Death unto Life." Those who have stood by another's side at the solemn hour of this dread possession have been conscious sometimes of an experience which words are not allowed to utter--a something like the sudden snapping of a chain, the waking from a dream. FOOTNOTES: [33] "Beginnings of Life." By H. C. Bastian, M.A., M.D., F.R.S. Macmillan, vol. ii. p. 633. [34] "Critiques and Addresses." T. H. Huxley. F.R.S., p. 239. [35] _Nineteenth Century_, 1878, p. 507. [36] This being the crucial point it may not be inappropriate to supplement the quotations already given in the text with the following:-- "We are in the presence of the one incommunicable gulf--the gulf of all gulfs--that gulf which Mr. Huxley's protoplasm is as powerless to efface as any other material expedient that has ever been suggested since the eyes of men first looked into it--the mighty gulf between death and life."--"As Regards Protoplasm." By J. Hutchinson Stirling, LL.D., p. 42. "The present state of knowledge furnishes us with no link between the living and the not-living."--Huxley, "Encyclopædia Britannica" (new Ed.). Art. "Biology." "Whoever recalls to mind the lamentable failure of all the attempts made very recently to discover a decided support for the _generatio æquivoca_ in the lower forms of transition from the inorganic to the organic world, will feel it doubly serious to demand that this theory, so utterly discredited, should be in any way accepted as the basis of all our views of life."--Virchow: "The Freedom of Science in the Modern State." "All really scientific experience tells us that life can be produced from a living antecedent only."--"The Unseen Universe," 6th Ed., p. 229. [37] John iii. [38] Rom. viii. 6. [39] Rev. iii. 1. [40] 1 Tim. v. 6. [41] Eph. ii. 1, 5. [42] 1 Cor. ii. 14. [43] "First Principles," 2d Ed., p. 17. [44] 2 Cor. xii. 5. [45] 1 Cor. vi. 15. [46] John xiv. 20. [47] John xiv. 21-23. [48] John xv. 4. [49] Gal. ii. 20. [50] One must not be misled by popular statements in this connection, such as this of Professor Owen's: "There are organisms which we can devitalize and revitalize--devive and revive--many times." (_Monthly Microscopical Journal_, May, 1869, p. 294.) The reference is of course to the extraordinary capacity for _resuscitation_ possessed by many of the Protozoa and other low forms of life. [51] Acts ix. 5. DEGENERATION. "I went by the field of the slothful, and by the vineyard of the man void of understanding; and lo, it was all grown over with thorns, and nettles had covered the face thereof, and the stone wall thereof was broken down. Then I saw and considered it well; I looked upon it and received instruction."--_Solomon._ "How shall we escape if we neglect so great salvation?"--_Hebrews._ "We have as possibilities either Balance, or Elaboration, or Degeneration."--_E. Ray Lankester._ In one of his best known books, Mr. Darwin brings out a fact which may be illustrated in some such way as this: Suppose a bird fancier collects a flock of tame pigeons distinguished by all the infinite ornamentations of their race. They are of all kinds, of every shade of color, and adorned with every variety of marking. He takes them to an uninhabited island and allows them to fly off wild into the woods. They found a colony there, and after the lapse of many years the owner returns to the spot. He will find that a remarkable change has taken place in the interval. The birds, or their descendants rather, have all become changed into the same color. The black, the white and the dun, the striped, the spotted, and the ringed, are all metamorphosed into one--a dark slaty blue. Two plain black bands monotonously repeat themselves upon the wings of each, and the loins beneath are white; but all the variety, all the beautiful colors, all the old graces of form it may be, have disappeared. These improvements were the result of care and nature, of domestication, of civilization; and now that these influences are removed, the birds themselves undo the past and lose what they had gained. The attempt to elevate the race has been mysteriously thwarted. It is as if the original bird, the far remote ancestor of all doves, had been blue, and these had been compelled by some strange law to discard the badges of their civilization and conform to the ruder image of the first. The natural law by which such a change occurs is called _The Principle of Reversion to Type_. It is a proof of the universality of this law that the same thing will happen with a plant. A garden is planted, let us say, with strawberries and roses, and for a number of years is left alone. In process of time it will run to waste. But this does not mean that the plants will really waste away, but that they will change into something else, and, as it invariably appears, into something worse; in the one case, namely, into the small, wild strawberry of the woods, and in the other into the primitive dog-rose of the hedges. If we neglect a garden plant, then, a natural principle of deterioration comes in, and changes it into a worse plant. And if we neglect a bird, by the same imperious law it will be gradually changed into an uglier bird. Or if we neglect almost any of the domestic animals, they will rapidly revert to wild and worthless forms again. Now the same thing exactly would happen in the case of you or me. Why should Man be an exception to any of the laws of Nature? Nature knows him simply as an animal--Sub-kingdom _Vertebrata_, Class _Mammalia_, Order _Bimana_. And the law of Reversion to Type runs through all creation. If a man neglect himself for a few years he will change into a worse man and a lower man. If it is his body that he neglects, he will deteriorate into a wild and bestial savage--like the de-humanized men who are discovered sometimes upon desert islands. If it is his mind, it will degenerate into imbecility and madness--solitary confinement has the power to unmake men's minds and leave them idiots. If he neglect his conscience, it will run off into lawlessness and vice. Or, lastly, if it is his soul, it must inevitably atrophy, drop off in ruin and decay. We have here, then, a thoroughly natural basis for the question before us. If we neglect, with this universal principle staring us in the face, how shall we escape? If we neglect the ordinary means of keeping a garden in order, how shall it escape running to weeds and waste? Or, if we neglect the opportunities for cultivating the mind, how shall it escape ignorance and feebleness? So, if we neglect the soul, how shall it escape the natural retrograde movement, the inevitable relapse into barrenness and death? It is not necessary, surely, to pause for proof that there is such a retrograde principle in the being of every man. It is demonstrated by facts, and by the analogy of all Nature. Three possibilities of life, according to Science, are open to all living organisms--Balance, Evolution, and Degeneration. The first denotes the precarious persistence of a life along what looks like a level path, a character which seems to hold its own alike against the attacks of evil and the appeals of good. It implies a set of circumstances so balanced by choice or fortune that they neither influence for better nor for worse. But except in theory this state of equilibrium, normal in the inorganic kingdom, is really foreign to the world of life; and what seems inertia may be a true Evolution unnoticed from its slowness, or likelier still a movement of Degeneration subtly obliterating as it falls the very traces of its former height. From this state of apparent Balance, Evolution is the escape in the upward direction, Degeneration in the lower. But Degeneration, rather than Balance or Elaboration, is the possibility of life embraced by the majority of mankind. And the choice is determined by man's own nature. The life of Balance is difficult. It lies on the verge of continual temptation, its perpetual adjustments become fatiguing, its measured virtue is monotonous and uninspiring. More difficult still, apparently, is the life of ever upward growth. Most men attempt it for a time, but growth is slow; and despair overtakes them while the goal is far away. Yet none of these reasons fully explains the fact that the alternative which remains is adopted by the majority of men. That Degeneration is easy only half accounts for it. Why is it easy? Why but that already in each man's very nature this principle is supreme? He feels within his soul a silent drifting motion impelling him downward with irresistible force. Instead of aspiring to Conversion to a higher Type he submits by a law of his nature to Reversion to a lower. This is Degeneration--that principle by which the organism, failing to develop itself, failing even to keep what it has got, deteriorates, and becomes more and more adapted to a degraded form of life. All men who know themselves are conscious that this tendency, deep-rooted and active, exists within their nature. Theologically it is described as a gravitation, a bias toward evil. The Bible view is that man is conceived in sin and shapen in iniquity. And experience tells him that he will shape himself into further sin and ever deepening iniquity without the smallest effort, without in the least intending it, and in the most natural way in the world if he simply let his life run. It is on this principle that, completing the conception, the wicked are said further in the Bible to be lost. They are not really lost as yet, but they are on the sure way to it. The bias of their lives is in full action. There is no drag on anywhere. The natural tendencies are having it all their own way; and although the victims may be quite unconscious that all this is going on, it is patent to every one who considers even the natural bearings of the case that "the end of these things is Death." When we see a man fall from the top of a five-story house, we say the man is lost. We say that before he has fallen a foot; for the same principle that made him fall the one foot will undoubtedly make him complete the descent by falling another eighty or ninety feet. So that he is a dead man, or a lost man from the very first. The gravitation of sin in a human soul acts precisely in the same way. Gradually, with gathering momentum it sinks a man further and further from God and righteousness, and lands him, by the sheer action of a natural law, in the hell of a neglected life. But the lesson is not less clear from analogy. Apart even from the law of Degeneration, apart from Reversion to Type, there is in every living organism a law of Death. We are wont to imagine that Nature is full of Life. In reality it is full of Death. One cannot say it is natural for a plant to live. Examine its nature fully, and you have to admit that its natural tendency is to die. It is kept from dying by a mere temporary endowment which gives it an ephemeral dominion over the elements--gives it power to utilize for a brief span the rain, the sunshine, and the air. Withdraw this temporary endowment for a moment and its true nature is revealed. Instead of overcoming Nature it is overcome. The very things which appeared to minister to its growth and beauty now turn against it and make it decay and die. The sun which warmed it, withers it; the air and rain which nourished it, rot it. It is the very forces which we associate with life which, when their true nature appears, are discovered to be really the ministers of death. This law, which is true for the whole plant-world, is also valid for the animal and for man. Air is not life, but corruption--so literally corruption that the only way to keep out corruption, when life has ebbed, is to keep out air. Life is merely a temporary suspension of these destructive powers; and this is truly one of the most accurate definitions of life we have yet received--"the sum total of the functions which resist death." Spiritual life, in like manner, is the sum total of the functions which resist sin. The soul's atmosphere is the daily trial, circumstance, and temptation of the world. And as it is life alone which gives the plant power to utilize the elements, and as, without it, they utilize it, so it is the spiritual life alone which gives the soul power to utilize temptation and trial; and without it they destroy the soul. How shall we escape if we refuse to exercise these functions--in other words, if we neglect? This destroying process, observe, goes on quite independently of God's judgment on sin. God's judgment on sin is another and a more awful fact of which this may be a part. But it is a distinct fact by itself, which we can hold and examine separately, that on purely natural principles the soul that is left to itself unwatched, uncultivated, unredeemed, must fall away into death by its own nature. The soul that sinneth "it shall die." It shall die, not necessarily because God passes sentence of death upon it, but because it cannot help dying. It has neglected "the functions which resist death" and has always been dying. The punishment is in its very nature, and the sentence is being gradually carried out all along the path of life by ordinary processes which enforce the verdict with the appalling faithfulness of law. There is an affectation that religious truths lie beyond the sphere of the comprehension which serves men in ordinary things. This question at least must be an exception. It lies as near the natural as the spiritual. If it makes no impression on a man to know that God will visit his iniquities upon him, he cannot blind himself to the fact that Nature will. Do we not all know what it is to be punished by Nature for disobeying her? We have looked round the wards of a hospital, a prison, or a madhouse, and seen there Nature at work squaring her accounts with sin. And we knew as we looked that if no Judge sat on the throne of heaven at all there was a Judgment there, where an inexorable Nature was crying aloud for justice, and carrying out her heavy sentences for violated laws. When God gave Nature the law into her own hands in this way, He seems to have given her two rules upon which her sentences were to be based. The one is formally enunciated in this sentence, "WHATSOEVER A MAN SOWETH THAT SHALL HE ALSO REAP." The other is informally expressed in this, "IF WE NEGLECT HOW SHALL WE ESCAPE?" The first is the positive law, and deals with sins of commission. The other, which we are now discussing, is the negative, and deals with sins of omission. It does not say anything about sowing but about not sowing. It takes up the case of souls which are lying fallow. It does not say, if we sow corruption we shall reap corruption. Perhaps we would not be so unwise, so regardless of ourselves, of public opinion, as to sow corruption. It does not say, if we sow tares we shall reap tares. We might never do anything so foolish as sow tares. But if we sow nothing, it says, we shall reap nothing. If we put nothing into the field, we shall take nothing out. If we neglect to cultivate in summer, how shall we escape starving in winter? Now the Bible raises this question, but does not answer it--because it is too obvious to need answering. How shall we escape if we neglect? The answer is, we cannot. In the nature of things we cannot. We cannot escape any more than a man can escape drowning who falls into the sea and has neglected to learn to swim. In the nature of things he cannot escape--nor can he escape who has neglected the great salvation. Now why should such fatal consequences follow a simple process like neglect? The popular impression is that a man, to be what is called lost, must be an open and notorious sinner. He must be one who has abandoned all that is good and pure in life, and sown to the flesh with all his might and main. But this principle goes further. It says simply, "If we neglect." Any one may see the reason why a notoriously wicked person should not escape; but why should not all the rest of us escape? What is to hinder people who are not notoriously wicked escaping--people who never sowed anything in particular? Why is it such a sin to sow nothing in particular? There must be some hidden and vital relation between these three words, Salvation, Neglect, and Escape--some reasonable, essential, and indissoluble connection. Why are these words so linked together as to weight this clause with all the authority and solemnity of a sentence of death? The explanation has partly been given already. It lies still further, however, in the meaning of the word Salvation. And this, of course, is not at all Salvation in the ordinary sense of forgiveness of sin. This is one great meaning of Salvation, the first and the greatest. But this is spoken to people who are supposed to have had this. It is the broader word, therefore, and includes not only forgiveness of sin but salvation or deliverance from the downward bias of the soul. It takes in that whole process of rescue from the power of sin and selfishness that should be going on from day to day in every human life. We have seen that there is a natural principle in man lowering him, deadening him, pulling him down by inches to the mere animal plane, blinding reason, searing conscience, paralyzing will. This is the active destroying principle, or Sin. Now to counteract this, God has discovered to us another principle which will stop this drifting process in the soul, steer it round, and make it drift the other way. This is the active saving principle, or Salvation. If a man find the first of these powers furiously at work within him, dragging his whole life downward to destruction, there is only one way to escape his fate--to take resolute hold of the upward power, and be borne by it to the opposite goal. And as this second power is the only one in the universe which has the slightest real effect upon the first, how shall a man escape if he neglect it? To neglect it is to cut off the only possible chance of escape. In declining this he is simply abandoning himself with his eyes open to that other and terrible energy which is already there, and which, in the natural course of things, is bearing him every moment further and further from escape. From the very nature of Salvation, therefore, it is plain that the only thing necessary to make it of no effect is neglect. Hence the Bible could not fail to lay strong emphasis on a word so vital. It was not necessary for it to say, how shall we escape if we trample upon the great salvation, or doubt, or despise, or reject it. A man who has been poisoned only need neglect the antidote and he will die. It makes no difference whether he dashes it on the ground, or pours it out of the window, or sets it down by his bedside, and stares at it all the time he is dying. He will die just the same, whether he destroys it in a passion, or coolly refuses to have anything to do with it. And as a matter of fact probably most deaths, spiritually, are gradual dissolutions of the last class rather than rash suicides of the first. This, then, is the effect of neglecting salvation from the side of salvation itself; and the conclusion is that from the very nature of salvation escape is out of the question. Salvation is a definite process. If a man refuse to submit himself to that process, clearly he cannot have the benefits of it. _As many as received Him to them gave He_ power _to become the sons of God._ He does not avail himself of this power. It may be mere carelessness or apathy. Nevertheless the neglect is fatal. He cannot escape because he will not. Turn now to another aspect of the case--to the effect upon the soul itself. Neglect does more for the soul than make it miss salvation. It despoils it of its capacity for salvation. Degeneration in the spiritual sphere involves primarily the impairing of the faculties of salvation and ultimately the loss of them. It really means that the very soul itself becomes piecemeal destroyed until the very capacity for God and righteousness is gone. The soul, in its highest sense, is a vast capacity for God. It is like a curious chamber added on to being, and somehow involving being, a chamber with elastic and contractile walls, which can be expanded, with God as its guest, illimitably, but which without God shrinks and shrivels until every vestige of the Divine is gone, and God's image is left without God's Spirit. One cannot call what is left a soul; it is a shrunken, useless organ, a capacity sentenced to death by disuse, which droops as a withered hand by the side, and cumbers nature like a rotted branch. Nature has her revenge upon neglect as well as upon extravagance. Misuse, with her, is as mortal a sin as abuse. There are certain burrowing animals--the mole for instance--which have taken to spending their lives beneath the surface of the ground. And Nature has taken her revenge upon them in a thoroughly natural way--she has closed up their eyes. If they mean to live in darkness, she argues, eyes are obviously a superfluous function. By neglecting them these animals made it clear they do not want them. And as one of Nature's fixed principles is that nothing shall exist in vain, the eyes are presently taken away, or reduced to a rudimentary state. There are fishes also which have had to pay the same terrible forfeit for having made their abode in dark caverns where eyes can never be required. And in exactly the same way the spiritual eye must die and lose its power by purely natural law if the soul choose to walk in darkness rather than in light. This is the meaning of the favorite paradox of Christ, "From him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath;" "take therefore the talent from him." The religious faculty is a talent, the most splendid and sacred talent we possess. Yet it is subject to the natural conditions and laws. If any man take his talent and hide it in a napkin, although it is doing him neither harm nor good apparently, God will not allow him to have it. Although it is lying there rolled up in the darkness, not conspicuously affecting any one, still God will not allow him to keep it. He will not allow him to keep it any more than Nature would allow the fish to keep their eyes. Therefore, He says, "take the talent from him." And Nature does it. This man's crime was simply neglect--"thou wicked and _slothful_ servant." It was a wasted life--a life which failed in the holy stewardship of itself. Such a life is a peril to all who cross its path. Degeneration compasses Degeneration. It is only a character which is itself developing that can aid the Evolution of the world and so fulfill the end of life. For this high usury each of our lives, however small may seem our capital, was given us by God. And it is just the men whose capital seems small who need to choose the best investments. It is significant that it was the man who had only one talent who was guilty of neglecting it. Men with ten talents, men of large gifts and burning energies, either direct their powers nobly and usefully, or misdirect them irretrievably. It is those who belong to the rank and file of life who need this warning most. Others have an abundant store and sow to the spirit or the flesh with a lavish hand. But we, with our small gift, what boots our sowing? Our temptation as ordinary men is to neglect to sow at all. The interest on our talent would be so small that we excuse ourselves with the reflection that it is not worth while. It is no objection to all this to say that we are unconscious of this neglect or misdirection of our powers. That is the darkest feature in the case. If there were uneasiness there might be hope. If there were, somewhere about our soul, a something which was not gone to sleep like all the rest; if there were a contending force anywhere; if we would let even that work instead of neglecting it, it would gain strength from hour to hour, and waken up one at a time each torpid and dishonored faculty till our whole nature became alive with strivings against self, and every avenue was open wide for God. But the apathy, the numbness of the soul, what can be said of such a symptom but that it means the creeping on of death? There are accidents in which the victims feel no pain. They are well and strong they think. But they are dying. And if you ask the surgeon by their side what makes him give this verdict, he will say it is this numbness over the frame which tells how some of the parts have lost already the very capacity for life. Nor is it the least tragic accompaniment of this process that its effects may even be concealed from others. The soul undergoing Degeneration, surely by some arrangement with Temptation planned in the uttermost hell, possesses the power of absolute secrecy. When all within is festering decay and rottenness, a Judas, without anomaly, may kiss his Lord. This invisible consumption, like its fell analogue in the natural world, may even keep its victim beautiful while slowly slaying it. When one examines the little _Crustacea_ which have inhabited for centuries the lakes of the Mammoth Cave of Kentucky, one is at first astonished to find these animals apparently endowed with perfect eyes. The pallor of the head is broken by two black pigment specks, conspicuous indeed as the only bits of color on the whole blanched body; and these, even to the casual observer, certainly represent well-defined organs of vision. But what do they with eyes in these Stygian waters? There reigns an everlasting night. Is the law for once at fault? A swift incision with the scalpel, a glance with a lens, and their secret is betrayed. The eyes are a mockery. Externally they are organs of vision--the front of the eye is perfect; behind, there is nothing but a mass of ruins. The optic nerve is a shrunken, atrophied and insensate thread. These animals have organs of vision, and yet they have no vision. They have eyes, but they see not. Exactly what Christ said of men: They had eyes, but no vision. And the reason is the same. It is the simplest problem of natural history. The _Crustacea_ of the Mammoth Cave have chosen to abide in darkness. Therefore they have become fitted for it. By refusing to see they have waived the right to see. And Nature has grimly humored them. Nature had to do it by her very constitution. It is her defence against waste that decay of faculty should immediately follow disuse of function. He that hath ears to hear, he whose ears have not degenerated, let him hear. Men tell us sometimes there is no such thing as an atheist. There must be. There are some men to whom it is true that there is no God. They cannot see God because they have no eye. They have only an abortive organ, atrophied by neglect. All this, it is commonplace again to insist, is not the effect of neglect when we die, but while we live. The process is in full career and operation now. It is useless projecting consequences into the future when the effects may be measured now. We are always practicing these little deceptions upon ourselves, postponing the consequences of our misdeeds as if they were to culminate some other day about the time of death. It makes us sin with a lighter hand to run an account with retribution, as it were, and delay the reckoning time with God. But every day is a reckoning day. Every soul is a Book of Judgment and Nature, as a recording angel, marks there every sin. As all will be judged by the great Judge some day, all are judged by Nature now. The sin of yesterday, as part of its penalty, has the sin of to-day. All follow us in silent retribution on our past, and go with us to the grave. We cannot cheat Nature. No sleight-of-heart can rob religion of _a present_, the immortal nature of a _now_. The poet sings-- "I looked behind to find my past, And lo, it had gone before." But no, not all. The unforgiven sins are not away in keeping somewhere to be let loose upon us when we die; they are here, within us, now. To-day brings the resurrection of their past, to-morrow of to-day. And the powers of sin, to the exact strength that we have developed them, nearing their dreadful culmination with every breath we draw, are here, within us, now. The souls of some men are already honey-combed through and through with the eternal consequences of neglect, so that taking the natural and rational view of their case _just now_, it is simply inconceivable that there is any escape _just now_. What a fearful thing it is to fall into the hands of the living God! A fearful thing even if, as the philosopher tells us, "the hands of the Living God are the Laws of Nature." Whatever hopes of a "heaven" a neglected soul may have, can be shown to be an ignorant and delusive dream. How is the soul to escape to heaven if it has neglected for a lifetime the means of escape from the world and self? And where is the capacity for heaven to come from if it be not developed on earth? Where, indeed, is even the smallest spiritual appreciation of God and heaven to come from when so little of spirituality has ever been known or manifested here? If every Godward aspiration of the soul has been allowed to become extinct, and every inlet that was open to heaven to be choked, and every talent for religious love and trust to have been persistently neglected and ignored, where are the faculties to come from that would ever find the faintest relish in such things as God and heaven give? These three words, Salvation, Escape, and Neglect, then, are not casually, but organically and necessarily connected. Their doctrine is scientific, not arbitrary. Escape means nothing more than the gradual emergence of the higher being from the lower, and nothing less. It means the gradual putting off of all that cannot enter the higher state, or heaven, and simultaneously the putting on of Christ. It involves the slow completing of the soul and the development of the capacity for God. Should any one object that from this scientific standpoint the opposite of salvation is annihilation, the answer is at hand. From this standpoint there is no such word. If, then, escape is to be open to us, it is not to come to us somehow, vaguely. We are not to hope for anything startling or mysterious. It is a definite opening along certain lines which are definitely marked by God, which begin at the Cross of Christ, and lead direct to Him. Each man in the silence of his own soul must work out this salvation for himself with fear and trembling--with fear, realizing the momentous issues of his task; with trembling, lest before the tardy work be done the voice of Death should summon him to stop. What these lines are may, in closing, be indicated in a word. The true problem of the spiritual life may be said to be, do the opposite of Neglect. Whatever this is, do it, and you shall escape. It will just mean that you are so to cultivate the soul that all its powers will open out to God, and in beholding God be drawn away from sin. The idea really is to develop among the ruins of the old a new "creature"--a new creature which, while the old is suffering Degeneration from Neglect, is gradually to unfold, to escape away and develop on spiritual lines to spiritual beauty and strength. And as our conception of spiritual being must be taken simply from natural being, our ideas of the lines along which the new religious nature is to run must be borrowed from the known lines of the old. There is, for example, a Sense of Sight in the religious nature. Neglect this, leave it undeveloped and you never miss it. You simply see nothing. But develop it and you see God. And the line along which to develop it is known to us. Become pure in heart. The pure in heart shall see God. Here, then, is one opening for soul-culture--the avenue through purity of heart to the spiritual seeing of God. Then there is a Sense of Sound. Neglect this, leave it undeveloped, and you never miss it. You simply hear nothing. Develop it, and you hear God. And the line along which to develop it is known to us. Obey Christ. Become one of Christ's flock. "The sheep hear His voice, and He calleth them by name." Here, then, is another opportunity for the culture of the soul--a gateway through the Shepherd's fold to hear the Shepherd's voice. And there is a Sense of Touch to be acquired--such a sense as the woman had who touched the hem of Christ's garment, that wonderful electric touch called faith, which moves the very heart of God. And there is a Sense of Taste--a spiritual hunger after God; a something within which tastes and sees that He is good. And there is the Talent for Inspiration. Neglect that, and all the scenery of the spiritual world is flat and frozen. But cultivate it, and it penetrates the whole soul with sacred fire, and illuminates creation with God. And last of all there is the great capacity for Love, even for the love of God--the expanding capacity for feeling more and more its height and depth, its length and breadth. Till that is felt no man can really understand that word, "so great salvation," for what is its measure but that other "so" of Christ--God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son? Verily, how shall we escape if we neglect that?[52] FOOTNOTES: [52] For the scientific basis of this spiritual law the following works may be consulted:-- "The Origin of Species." By Charles Darwin, F.R.S. London: John Murray. 1872. "Degeneration." By E. Ray Lankester, F.R.S. London: Macmillan. 1880. "Der Ursprung der Wirbelthiere und das Princip des Functions Wechsels." Dr. A. Dorhn. Leipzig: 1875. "Lessons from Nature." By St. George Mivart, F.R.S. London: John Murray. 1876. "The Natural Conditions of Existence as they Affect Animal Life." Karl Semper. London: C. Kegan Paul & Co. 1881. GROWTH. "Is not the evidence of Ease on the very front of all the greatest works in existence? Do they not say plainly to us, not 'there has been a great _effort_ here,' but 'there has been a great _power_ here?' It is not the weariness of mortality but the strength of divinity, which we have to recognize in all mighty things; and that is just what we now never recognize, but think that we are to do great things by help of iron bars and perspiration; alas! we shall do nothing that way, but lose some pounds of our own weight."--_Ruskin._ "Consider the lilies of the field how they grow."--_The Sermon on the Mount._ "Nunquam aliud natura, aliud sapientia dicit."--_Juvenal._ What gives the peculiar point to this object-lesson from the lips of Jesus is, that He not only made the illustration, but made the lilies. It is like an inventor describing his own machine. He made the lilies and He made me--both on the same broad principle. Both together, man and flower, He planted deep in the Providence of God; but as men are dull at studying themselves He points to this companion-phenomenon to teach us how to live a free and natural life, a life which God will unfold for us, without our anxiety, as He unfolds the flower. For Christ's words are not a general appeal to consider nature. Men are not to consider the lilies simply to admire their beauty, to dream over the delicate strength and grace of stem and leaf. The point they were to consider was _how they grew_--how without anxiety or care the flower woke into loveliness, how without weaving these leaves were woven, how without toiling these complex tissues spun themselves, and how without any effort or friction the whole slowly came ready-made from the loom of God in its more than Solomon-like glory. "So," He says, making the application beyond dispute, "you care-worn, anxious men must grow. You, too, need take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat or what ye shall drink or what ye shall put on. For if God so clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall He not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?" This nature-lesson was a great novelty in its day; but all men now who have even a "little faith" have learned this Christian secret of a composed life. Apart even from the parable of the lily, the failures of the past have taught most of us the folly of disquieting ourselves in vain, and we have given up the idea that by taking thought we can add a cubit to our stature. But no sooner has our life settled down to this calm trust in God than a new and graver anxiety begins. This time it is not for the body we are in travail, but for the soul. For the temporal life we have considered the lilies, but how is the spiritual life to grow. How are we to become better men? How are we to grow in grace? By what thought shall we add the cubits to the spiritual stature and reach the fullness of the Perfect Man? And because we know ill how to do this, the old anxiety comes back again and our inner life is once more an agony of conflict and remorse. After all, we have but transferred our anxious thoughts from the body to the soul. Our efforts after Christian growth seem only a succession of failures, and instead of rising into the beauty of holiness our life is a daily heartbreak and humiliation. Now the reason of this is very plain. We have forgotten the parable of the lily. Violent efforts to grow are right in earnestness, but wholly wrong in principle. There is but one principle of growth both for the natural and spiritual, for animal and plant, for body and soul. For all growth is an organic thing. And the principle of growing in grace is once more this, "Consider the lilies _how they grow_." In seeking to extend the analogy from the body to the soul there are two things about the lilies' growth, two characteristics of all growth, on which one must fix attention. These are-- First, Spontaneousness. Second, Mysteriousness. I. Spontaneousness. There are three lines along which one may seek for evidence of the spontaneousness of growth. The first is Science. And the argument here could not be summed up better than in the words of Jesus. The lilies grow, He says, of themselves; they toil not, neither do they spin. They grow, that is, automatically, spontaneously, without trying, without fretting, without thinking. Applied in any direction, to plant, to animal, to the body or to the soul this law holds. A boy grows, for example, without trying. One or two simple conditions are fulfilled, and the growth goes on. He thinks probably as little about the condition as about the result; he fulfills the conditions by habit, the result follows by nature. Both processes go steadily on from year to year apart from himself and all but in spite of himself. One would never think of _telling_ a boy to grow. A doctor has no prescription for growth. He can tell me how growth may be stunted or impaired, but the process itself is recognized as beyond control--one of the few, and therefore very significant, things which Nature keeps in her own hands. No physician of souls, in like manner, has any prescription for spiritual growth. It is the question he is most often asked and most often answers wrongly. He may prescribe more earnestness, more prayer, more self-denial, or more Christian work. These are prescriptions for something, but not for growth. Not that they may not encourage growth; but the soul grows as the lily grows, without trying, without fretting, without ever thinking. Manuals of devotion, with complicated rules for getting on in the Christian life, would do well sometimes to return to the simplicity of nature; and earnest souls who are attempting sanctification by struggle instead of sanctification by faith might be spared much humiliation by learning the botany of the Sermon on the Mount. There _can_ indeed be no other principle of growth than this. It is a vital act. And to try to _make_ a thing grow is as absurd as to help the tide to come in or the sun rise. Another argument for the spontaneousness of growth is universal experience. A boy not only grows without trying, but he cannot grow if he tries. No man by taking thought has ever added a cubit to his stature; nor has any man by mere working at his soul ever approached nearer to the stature of the Lord Jesus. The stature of the Lord Jesus was not itself reached by work, and he who thinks to approach its mystical height by anxious effort is really receding from it. Christ's life unfolded itself from a divine germ, planted centrally in His nature, which grew as naturally as a flower from a bud. This flower may be imitated; but one can always tell an artificial flower. The human form may be copied in wax, yet somehow one never fails to detect the difference. And this precisely is the difference between a native growth of Christian principle and the moral copy of it. The one is natural, the other mechanical. The one is a growth, the other an accretion. Now this, according to modern biology, is the fundamental distinction between the living and the not living, between an organism and a crystal. The living organism grows, the dead crystal increases. The first grows vitally from within, the last adds new particles from the outside. The whole difference between the Christian and the moralist lies here. The Christian works from the center, the moralist from the circumference. The one is an organism, in the center of which is planted by the living God a living germ. The other is a crystal, very beautiful it may be; but only a crystal--it wants the vital principle of growth. And one sees here also, what is sometimes very difficult to see, why salvation in the first instance is never connected directly with morality. The reason is not that salvation does not demand morality, but that it demands so much of it that the moralist can never reach up to it. The end of Salvation is perfection, the Christ-like mind, character and life. Morality is on the way to this perfection; it may go a considerable distance toward it, but it can never reach it. Only Life can do that. It requires something with enormous power of movement, of growth, of overcoming obstacles, to attain the perfect. Therefore the man who has within himself this great formative agent, Life, is nearer the end than the man who has morality alone. The latter can never reach perfection; the former _must_. For the Life must develop out according to its type; and being a germ of the Christ-life, it must unfold into _a Christ_. Morality, at the utmost, only develops the character in one or two directions. It may perfect a single virtue here and there, but it cannot perfect all. And especially it fails always to give that rounded harmony of parts, that perfect tune to the whole orchestra, which is the marked characteristic of life. Perfect life is not merely the possessing of perfect functions, but of perfect functions perfectly adjusted to each other and all conspiring to a single result, the perfect working of the whole organism. It is not said that the character will develop in all its fullness in this life. That were a time too short for an Evolution so magnificent. In this world only the cornless ear is seen; sometimes only the small yet still prophetic blade. The sneer at the godly man for his imperfections is ill-judged. A blade is a small thing. At first it grows very near the earth. It is often soiled and crushed and downtrodden. But it is a living thing. That great dead stone beside it is more imposing; only it will never be anything else than a stone. But this small blade--_it doth not yet appear what it shall be_. Seeing now that Growth can only be synonymous with a living automatic process, it is all but superfluous to seek a third line of argument from Scripture. Growth there is always described in the language of physiology. The regenerate soul is a new creature. The Christian is a new man in Christ Jesus. He adds the cubits to his stature just as the old man does. He is rooted and built up in Christ; he abides in the vine, and so abiding, not toiling or spinning, brings forth fruit. The Christian in short, like the poet, is born not made; and the fruits of his character are not manufactured things but living things, things which have grown from the secret germ, the fruits of the living Spirit. They are not the produce of this climate, but exotics from a sunnier land. II. But, secondly, besides this Spontaneousness there is this other great characteristic of Growth--Mysteriousness. Upon this quality depends the fact, probably, that so few men ever fathom its real character. We are most unspiritual always in dealing with the simplest spiritual things. A lily grows mysteriously, pushing up its solid weight of stem and leaf in the teeth of gravity. Shaped into beauty by secret and invisible fingers, the flower develops we know not how. But we do not wonder at it. Every day the thing is done; it is Nature, it is God. We are spiritual enough at least to understand that. But when the soul rises slowly above the world, pushing up its delicate virtues in the teeth of sin, shaping itself mysteriously into the image of Christ, we deny that the power is not of man. A strong will, we say, a high ideal, the reward of virtue, Christian influence--these will account for it. Spiritual character is merely the product of anxious work, self-command, and self-denial. We allow, that is to say, a miracle to the lily, but none to the man. The lily may grow; the man must fret and toil and spin. Now grant for a moment that by hard work and self-restraint a man may attain to a very high character. It is not denied that this can be done. But what is denied is that this is growth, and that this process is Christianity. The fact that you can account for it proves that it is not growth. For growth is mysterious; the peculiarity of it is that you cannot account for it. Mysteriousness, as Mozley has well observed, is "the test of spiritual birth." And this was Christ's test. "The wind bloweth where it listeth. Thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh or whither it goeth, _so is every one that is born of the Spirit_." The test of spirituality is that you cannot tell whence it cometh or whither it goeth. If you can tell, if you can account for it on philosophical principles, on the doctrine of influence, on strength of will, on a favorable environment, it is not growth. It may be so far a success, it may be a perfectly honest, even remarkable, and praiseworthy imitation, but it is not the real thing. The fruits are wax, the flowers artificial--you can tell whence it cometh and whither it goeth. The conclusion is, then, that the Christian is a unique phenomenon. You cannot account for him. And if you could he would not be a Christian. Mozley has drawn the two characters for us in graphic words: "Take an ordinary man of the world--what he thinks and what he does, his whole standard of duty is taken from the society in which he lives. It is a borrowed standard: he is as good as other people are; he does, in the way of duty, what is generally considered proper and becoming among those with whom his lot is thrown. He reflects established opinion on such points. He follows its lead. His aims and objects in life again are taken from the world around him, and from its dictation. What it considers honorable, worth having, advantageous and good, he thinks so too and pursues it. His motives all come from a visible quarter. It would be absurd to say that there is any mystery in such a character as this, because it is formed from a known external influence--the influence of social opinion and the voice of the world. 'Whence such a character cometh' we see; we venture to say that the source and origin of it is open and palpable, and we know it just as we know the physical causes of many common facts." Then there is the other. "There is a certain character and disposition of mind of which it is true to say that 'thou canst not tell whence it cometh or whither it goeth.' ... There are those who stand out from among the crowd, which reflects merely the atmosphere of feeling and standard of society around it, with an impress upon them which bespeaks a heavenly birth.... Now, when we see one of those characters, it is a question which we ask ourselves. How has the person become possessed of it? Has he caught it from society around him? That cannot be, because it is wholly different from that of the world around him. Has he caught it from the inoculation of crowds and masses, as the mere religious zealot catches his character? That cannot be either, for the type is altogether different from that which masses of men, under enthusiastic impulses, exhibit. There is nothing gregarious in this character; it is the individual's own; it is not borrowed, it is not a reflection of any fashion or tone of the world outside; it rises up from some fount within, and it is a creation of which the text says, We know not whence it cometh."[53] Now we have all met these two characters--the one eminently respectable, upright, virtuous, a trifle cold perhaps, and generally, when critically examined, revealing somehow the mark of the tool; the other with God's breath still upon it, an inspiration; not more virtuous, but differently virtuous; not more humble, but different, wearing the meek and quiet spirit artlessly as to the manner born. The other-worldliness of such a character is the thing that strikes you; you are not prepared for what it will do or say or become next, for it moves from a far-off center, and in spite of its transparency and sweetness that presence fills you always with awe. A man never feels the discord of his own life, never hears the jar of the machinery by which he tries to manufacture his own good points, till he has stood in the stillness of such a presence. Then he discerns the difference between growth and work. He has considered the lilies, how they grow. We have now seen that spiritual growth is a process maintained and secured by a spontaneous and mysterious inward principle. It is a spontaneous principle even in its origin, for it bloweth where it listeth; mysterious in its operation, for we can never tell whence it cometh; obscure in its destination, for we cannot tell whence it goeth. The whole process therefore transcends us; we do not work, we are taken in hand--"it is God which worketh in us, both to will and to do of His good pleasure." We do not plan--we are "created in Christ Jesus unto good works, which God hath before ordained that we should walk in them." There may be an obvious objection to all this. It takes away all conflict from the Christian life? It makes man, does it not, mere clay in the hands of the potter? It crushes the old character to make a new one, and destroys man's responsibility for his own soul? Now we are not concerned here in once more striking the time-honored "balance between faith and works." We are considering how lilies grow, and in a specific connection, namely, to discover the attitude of mind which the Christian should preserve regarding his spiritual growth. That attitude, primarily, is to be free from care. We are not lodging a plea for inactivity of the spiritual energies, but for the tranquillity of the spiritual mind. Christ's protest is not against work, but against anxious thought; and rather, therefore, than complement the lesson by showing the other side, we take the risk of still further extending the plea in the original direction. What is the relation, to recur again to analogy, between growth and work in a boy? Consciously, there is no relation at all. The boy never thinks of connecting his work with his growth. Work in fact is one thing and growth another, and it is so in the spiritual life. If it be asked therefore, Is the Christian wrong in these ceaseless and agonizing efforts after growth? the answer is, Yes, he is quite wrong, or at least, he is quite mistaken. When a boy takes a meal or denies himself indigestible things, he does not say, "All this will minister to my growth;" or when he runs a race he does not say, "This will help the next cubit of my stature." It may or it may not be true that these things will help his stature, but, if he thinks of this, his idea of growth is morbid. And this is the point we are dealing with. His anxiety here is altogether irrelevant and superfluous. Nature is far more bountiful than we think. When she gives us energy she asks none of it back to expend on our own growth. She will attend to that. "Give your work," she says, "and your anxiety to others; trust me to add the cubits to your stature." If God is adding to our spiritual stature, unfolding the new nature within us, it is a mistake to keep twitching at the petals with our coarse fingers. We must seek to let the Creative Hand alone. "It is God which giveth the increase." Yet we never know how little we have learned of the fundamental principle of Christianity till we discover how much we are all bent on supplementing God's free grace. If God is spending work upon a Christian, let him be still and know that it is God. And if he wants work, he will find it there--in the being still. Not that there is no work for him who would grow, to do. There is work, and severe work--work so great that the worker deserves to have himself relieved of all that is superfluous during his task. If the amount of energy lost in trying to grow were spent in fulfilling rather the conditions of growth, we should have many more cubits to show for our stature. It is with these conditions that the personal work of the Christian is chiefly concerned. Observe for a moment what they are, and their exact relation. For its growth the plant needs heat, light, air, and moisture. A man, therefore, must go in search of these, or their spiritual equivalents, and this is his work? By no means. The Christian's work is not yet. Does the plant go in search of its conditions? Nay, the conditions come to the plant. It no more manufactures the heat, light, air, and moisture, than it manufactures its own stem. It finds them all around it in Nature. It simply stands still with its leaves spread out in unconscious prayer, and Nature lavishes upon it these and all other bounties, bathing it in sunshine, pouring the nourishing air over and over it, reviving it graciously with its nightly dew. Grace, too, is as free as the air. The Lord God is a Sun. He is as the Dew to Israel. A man has no more to manufacture these than he has to manufacture his own soul. He stands surrounded by them, bathed in them, beset behind and before by them. He lives and moves and has his being in them. How then shall he go in search of them? Do not they rather go in search of him? Does he not feel how they press themselves upon him? Does he not know how unweariedly they appeal to him? Has he not heard how they are sorrowful when he will not have them? His work, therefore, is not yet. The voice still says, "Be still." The conditions of growth, then, and the inward principle of growth being both supplied by Nature, the thing man has to do, the little junction left for him to complete, is to apply the one to the other. He manufactures nothing; he earns nothing; he need be anxious for nothing; his one duty is _to be in_ these conditions, to abide in them, to allow grace to play over him, to be still therein and know that this is God. The conflict begins and prevails in all its life-long agony the moment a man forgets this. He struggles to grow himself instead of struggling to get back again into position. He makes the church into a workshop when God meant it to be a beautiful garden. And even in his closet, where only should reign silence--a silence as of the mountains whereon the lilies grow--is heard the roar and tumult of machinery. True, a man will often have to wrestle with his God--but not for growth. The Christian life is a composed life. The Gospel is Peace. Yet the most anxious people in the world are Christians--Christians who misunderstand the nature of growth. Life is a perpetual self-condemning because they are not growing. And the effect is not only the loss of tranquillity to the individual. The energies which are meant to be spent on the work of Christ are consumed in the soul's own fever. So long as the Church's activities are spent on growing there is nothing to spare for the world. A soldier's time is not spent in earning the money to buy his armor, in finding food and raiment, in seeking shelter. His king provides these things that he may be the more at liberty to fight his battles. So, for the soldier of the Cross all is provided. His Government has planned to leave him free for the Kingdom's work. The problem of the Christian life finally is simplified to this--man has but to preserve the right attitude. To abide in Christ, to be in position, that is all. Much work is done on board a ship crossing the Atlantic. Yet none of it is spent on making the ship go. The sailor but harnesses his vessel to the wind. He puts his sail and rudder in position, and lo, the miracle is wrought. So everywhere God creates, man utilizes. All the work of the world is merely a taking advantage of energies already there.[54] God gives the wind, and the water, and the heat; man but puts himself in the way of the wind, fixes his water-wheel in the way of the river, puts his piston in the way of the steam; and so holding himself in position before God's Spirit, all the energies of Omnipotence course within his soul. He is like a tree planted by a river whose leaf is green and whose fruits fail not. Such is the deeper lesson to be learned from considering the lily. It is the voice of Nature echoing the whole evangel of Jesus, "Come unto Me, and I will give you rest." FOOTNOTES: [53] University Sermons, pp. 234-241. [54] See Bushnell's "New Life." DEATH. "What could be easier than to form a catena of the most philosophical defenders of Christianity, who have exhausted language in declaring the impotence of the unassisted intellect? Comte has not more explicitly enounced the incapacity of man to deal with the Absolute and the Infinite than the whole series of orthodox writers. Trust your reason, we have been told till we are tired of the phrase, and you will become Atheists or Agnostics. We take you at your word; we become Agnostics."--_Leslie Stephen._ "To be carnally minded is Death."--_Paul._ "I do not wonder at what men suffer, but I wonder often at what they lose."--_Ruskin._ "Death," wrote Faber, "is an unsurveyed land, an unarranged Science." Poetry draws near Death only to hover over it for a moment and withdraw in terror. History knows it simply as a universal fact. Philosophy finds it among the mysteries of being, the one great mystery of being not. All contributions to this dead theme are marked by an essential vagueness, and every avenue of approach seems darkened by impenetrable shadow. But modern Biology has found it part of its work to push its way into this silent land, and at last the world is confronted with a scientific treatment of Death. Not that much is added to the old conception, or much taken from it. What it is, this certain Death with its uncertain issues, we know as little as before. But we can define more clearly and attach a narrower meaning to the momentous symbol. The interest of the investigation here lies in the fact that Death is one of the outstanding things in Nature which has an acknowledged spiritual equivalent. The prominence of the word in the vocabulary of Revelation cannot be exaggerated. Next to Life the most pregnant symbol in religion is its antithesis, Death. And from the time that "If thou eatest thereof thou shalt surely die" was heard in Paradise, this solemn word has been linked with human interests of eternal moment. Notwithstanding the unparalleled emphasis upon this term in the Christian system, there is none more feebly expressive to the ordinary mind. That mystery which surrounds the word in the natural world shrouds only too completely its spiritual import. The reluctance which prevents men from investigating the secrets of the King of Terrors is for a certain length entitled to respect. But it has left theology with only the vaguest materials to construct a doctrine which, intelligently enforced, ought to appeal to all men with convincing power and lend the most effective argument to Christianity. Whatever may have been its influence in the past, its threat is gone for the modern world. The word has grown weak. Ignorance has robbed the Grave of all its terror, and platitude despoiled Death of its sting. Death itself is ethically dead. Which of us, for example, enters fully into the meaning of words like these: "She that liveth in pleasure is _dead_ while she liveth?" Who allows adequate weight to the metaphor in the Pauline phrase, "To be carnally minded is _Death_;" or in this, "The wages of sin is _Death_?" Or what theology has translated into the language of human life the terrific practical import of "Dead in trespasses and sins?" To seek to make these phrases once more real and burning; to clothe time-worn formulæ with living truth; to put the deepest ethical meaning into the gravest symbol of Nature, and fill up with its full consequence the darkest threat of Revelation--these are the objects before us now. What, then, is Death? Is it possible to define it and embody its essential meaning in an intelligible proposition? The most recent and the most scientific attempt to investigate Death we owe to the biological studies of Mr. Herbert Spencer. In his search for the meaning of Life the word Death crosses his path, and he turns aside for a moment to define it. Of course what Death is depends upon what Life is. Mr. Herbert Spencer's definition of Life, it is well known, has been subjected to serious criticism. While it has shed much light on many of the phenomena of Life, it cannot be affirmed that it has taken its place in science as the final solution of the fundamental problem of biology. No definition of Life, indeed, that has yet appeared can be said to be even approximately correct. Its mysterious quality evades us; and we have to be content with outward characteristics and accompaniments, leaving the thing itself an unsolved riddle. At the same time Mr. Herbert Spencer's masterly elucidation of the chief phenomena of Life has placed philosophy and science under many obligations, and in the paragraphs which follow we shall have to incur a further debt on behalf of religion. The meaning of Death depending, as has been said, on the meaning of Life, we must first set ourselves to grasp the leading characteristics which distinguish living things. To a physiologist the living organism is distinguished from the not-living by the performance of certain functions. These functions are four in number--Assimilation, Waste, Reproduction, and Growth. Nothing could be a more interesting task than to point out the co-relatives of these in the spiritual sphere, to show in what ways the discharge of these functions represent the true manifestations of spiritual life, and how the failure to perform them constitutes spiritual Death. But it will bring us more directly to the specific subject before us if we follow rather the newer biological lines of Mr. Herbert Spencer. According to his definition, Life is "The definite combination of heterogeneous changes, both simultaneous and successive, in correspondence with external co-existences and sequences,"[55] or more shortly "The continuous adjustment of internal relations to external relations."[56] An example or two will render these important statements at once intelligible. The essential characteristic of a living organism, according to these definitions, is that it is in vital connection with its general surroundings. A human being, for instance, is in direct contact with the earth and air, with all surrounding things, with the warmth of the sun, with the music of birds, with the countless influences and activities of nature and of his fellow-men. In biological language he is said thus to be "in correspondence with his environment." He is, that is to say, in active and vital connection with them, influencing them possibly, but especially being influenced by them. Now it is in virtue of this correspondence that he is entitled to be called alive. So long as he is in correspondence with any given point of his environment, he lives. To keep up this correspondence is to keep up life. If his environment changes he must instantly adjust himself to the change. And he continues living only as long as he succeeds in adjusting himself to the "simultaneous and successive changes in his environment" as these occur. What is meant by a change in his environment may be understood from an example, which will at the same time define more clearly the intimacy of the relation between environment and organism. Let us take the case of a civil-servant whose environment is a district in India. It is a region subject to occasional and prolonged droughts resulting in periodical famines. When such a period of scarcity arises, he proceeds immediately to adjust himself to this external change. Having the power of locomotion, he may remove himself to a more fertile district, or, possessing the means of purchase, he may add to his old environment by importation the "external relations" necessary to continued life. But if from any cause he fails to adjust himself to the altered circumstances, his body is thrown out of correspondence with his environment, his "internal relations" are no longer adjusted to his "external relations," and his life must cease. In ordinary circumstances, and in health, the human organism is in thorough correspondence with its surroundings; but when any part of the organism by disease or accident is thrown out of correspondence, it is in that relation dead. This Death, this want of correspondence, may be either partial or complete. Part of the organism may be dead to a part of the environment, or the whole to the whole. Thus the victim of famine may have a certain number of his correspondences arrested by the change in his environment, but not all. Luxuries which he once enjoyed no longer enter the country, animals which once furnished his table are driven from it. These still exist, but they are beyond the limit of his correspondence. In relation to these things therefore he is dead. In one sense it might be said that it was the environment which played him false; in another, that it was his own organization--that he was unable to adjust himself, or did not. But, however caused, he pays the penalty with partial Death. Suppose next the case of a man who is thrown out of correspondence with a part of his environment by some physical infirmity. Let it be that by disease or accident he has been deprived of the use of his ears. The deaf man, in virtue of this imperfection, is thrown out of _rapport_ with a large and well-defined part of the environment, namely, its sounds. With regard to that "external relation," therefore, he is no longer living. Part of him may truly be held to be insensible or "Dead." A man who is also blind is thrown out of correspondence with another large part of his environment. The beauty of sea and sky, the forms of cloud and mountain, the features and gestures of friends, are to him as if they were not. They are there, solid and real, but not to him; he is still further "Dead." Next, let it be conceived, the subtle finger of cerebral disease lays hold of him. His whole brain is affected, and the sensory nerves, the medium of communication with the environment, cease altogether to acquaint him with what is doing in the outside world. The outside world is still there, but not to him; he is still further "Dead." And so the death of parts goes on. He becomes less and less alive. "Were the animal frame not the complicated machine we have seen it to be, death might come as a simple and gradual dissolution, the 'sans everything' being the last stage of the successive loss of fundamental powers."[57] But finally some important part of the mere animal framework that remains breaks down. The correlation with the other parts is very intimate, and the stoppage of correspondence with one means an interference with the work of the rest. Something central has snapped, and all are thrown out of work. The lungs refuse to correspond with the air, the heart with the blood. There is now no correspondence whatever with environment--the thing, for it is now a thing, is Dead. This then is Death; "part of the framework breaks down," "something has snapped"--these phrases by which we describe the phases of death yield their full meaning. They are different ways of saying that "correspondence" has ceased. And the scientific meaning of Death now becomes clearly intelligible. Dying is that breakdown in an organism which throws it out of correspondence with some necessary part of the environment. Death is the result produced, the want of correspondence. We do not say that this is all that is involved. But this is the root idea of Death--Failure to adjust internal relations to external relations, failure to repair the broken inward connection sufficiently to enable it to correspond again with the old surroundings. These preliminary statements may be fitly closed with the words of Mr. Herbert Spencer: "Death by natural decay occurs because in old age the relations between assimilation, oxidation, and genesis of force going on in the organism gradually fall out of correspondence with the relations between oxygen and food and absorption of heat by the environment. Death from disease arises either when the organism is congenitally defective in its power to balance the ordinary external actions by the ordinary internal actions, or when there has taken place some unusual external action to which there was no answering internal action. Death by accident implies some neighboring mechanical changes of which the causes are either unnoticed from inattention, or are so intricate that their results cannot be foreseen, and consequently certain relations in the organism are not adjusted to the relations in the environment."[58] With the help of these plain biological terms we may now proceed to examine the parallel phenomenon of Death in the spiritual world. The factors with which we have to deal are two in number as before--Organism and Environment. The relation between them may once more be denominated by "correspondence." And the truth to be emphasized resolves itself into this, that Spiritual Death is a want of correspondence between the organism and the spiritual environment. What is the spiritual environment? This term obviously demands some further definition. For Death is a relative term. And before we can define Death in the spiritual world we must first apprehend the particular relation with reference to which the expression is to be employed. We shall best reach the nature of this relation by considering for a moment the subject of environment generally. By the natural environment we mean the entire surroundings of the natural man, the entire external world in which he lives and moves and has his being. It is not involved in the idea that either with all or part of the environment he is in immediate correspondence. Whether he correspond with it or not, it is there. There is in fact a conscious environment and an environment of which he is not conscious; and it must be borne in mind that the conscious environment is not all the environment that is. All that surrounds him, all that environs him, conscious or unconscious, is environment. The moon and stars are part of it, though in the daytime he may not see them. The polar regions are parts of it, though he is seldom aware of their influence. In its widest sense environment simply means all else that is. Now it will next be manifest that different organisms correspond with this environment in varying degrees of completeness or incompleteness. At the bottom of the biological scale we find organisms which have only the most limited correspondence with their surroundings. A tree, for example, corresponds with the soil about its stem, with the sunlight, and with the air in contact with its leaves. But it is shut off by its comparatively low development from a whole world to which higher forms of life have additional access. The want of locomotion alone circumscribes most seriously its area of correspondence, so that to a large part of surrounding nature it may truly be said to be dead. So far as consciousness is concerned, we should be justified indeed in saying that it was not alive at all. The murmur of the stream which bathes its roots affects it not. The marvelous insect-life beneath its shadow excites in it no wonder. The tender maternity of the bird which has its nest among its leaves stirs no responsive sympathy. It cannot correspond with those things. To stream and insect and bird it is insensible, torpid, dead. For this is Death, this irresponsiveness. The bird, again, which is higher in the scale of life, corresponds with a wider environment. The stream is real to it, and the insect. It knows what lies behind the hill; it listens to the love-song of its mate. And to much besides beyond the simple world of the tree this higher organism is alive. The bird we should say is more living than the tree; it has a correspondence with a larger area of environment. But this bird-life is not yet the highest life. Even within the immediate bird-environment there is much to which the bird must still be held to be dead. Introduce a higher organism, place man himself within this same environment, and see how much more living he is. A hundred things which the bird never saw in insect, stream, and tree appeal to him. Each single sense has something to correspond with. Each faculty finds an appropriate exercise. Man is a mass of correspondences, and because of these, because he is alive to countless objects and influences to which lower organisms are dead, he is the most living of all creatures. The relativity of Death will now have become sufficiently obvious. Man being left out of account, all organisms are seen as it were to be partly living and partly dead. The tree, in correspondence with a narrow area of environment, is to that extent alive; to all beyond, to the all but infinite area beyond, it is dead. A still wider portion of this vast area is the possession of the insect and the bird. Their's also, nevertheless, is but a little world, and to an immense further area insect and bird are dead. All organisms likewise are living and dead--living to all within the circumference of their correspondences, dead to all beyond. As we rise in the scale of life, however, it will be observed that the sway of Death is gradually weakened. More and more of the environment becomes accessible as we ascend, and the domain of life in this way slowly extends in ever-widening circles. But until man appears there is no organism to correspond with the whole environment. Till then the outermost circles have no correspondents. To the inhabitants of the innermost spheres they are as if they were not. Now follows a momentous question. Is man in correspondence with the whole environment? When we reach the highest living organism, is the final blow dealt to the kingdom of Death? Has the last acre of the infinite area been taken in by his finite faculties? Is his conscious environment the whole environment? Or is there, among these outermost circles, one which with his multitudinous correspondences he fails to reach? If so, this is Death. The question of Life or Death to him is the question of the amount of remaining environment he is able to compass. If there be one circle or one segment of a circle which he yet fails to reach, to correspond with, to know, to be influenced by, he is, with regard to that circle or segment, dead. What then, practically, is the state of the case? Is man in correspondence with the whole environment or is he not? There is but one answer. He is not. Of men generally it cannot be said that they are in living contact with that part of the environment which is called the spiritual world. In introducing this new term spiritual world, observe, we are not interpolating a new factor. This is an essential part of the old idea. We have been following out an ever-widening environment from point to point, and now we reach the outermost zones. The spiritual world is simply the outermost segment, circle, or circles of the natural world. For purposes of convenience we separate the two just as we separate the animal world from the plant. But the animal world and the plant world are the same world. They are different parts of one environment. And the natural and spiritual are likewise one. The inner circles are called the natural, the outer the spiritual. And we call them spiritual simply because they are beyond us or beyond a part of us. What we have correspondence with, that we call natural; what we have little or no correspondence with, that we call spiritual. But when the appropriate corresponding organism appears, the organism, that is, which can freely communicate with these outer circles, the distinction necessarily disappears. The spiritual to it becomes the outer circle of the natural. Now of the great mass of living organisms, of the great mass of men, is it not to be affirmed that they are out of correspondence with this outer circle? Suppose, to make the final issue more real, we give this outermost circle of environment a name. Suppose we call it God. Suppose also we substitute a word for "correspondence" to express more intimately the personal relation. Let us call it Communion. We can now determine accurately the spiritual relation of different sections of mankind. Those who are in communion with God live, those who are not are dead. The extent or depth of this communion, the varying degrees of correspondence in different individuals, and the less or more abundant life which these result in, need not concern us for the present. The task we have set ourselves is to investigate the essential nature of Spiritual Death. And we have found it to consist in a want of communion with God. The unspiritual man is he who lives in the circumscribed environment of this present world. "She that liveth in pleasure is Dead while she liveth." "To be carnally minded is Death." To be carnally minded, translated into the language of science, is to be limited in one's correspondences to the environment of the natural man. It is no necessary part of the conception that the mind should be either purposely irreligious, or directly vicious. The mind of the flesh, φρόνημα τῆς σαρκὸς, by its very nature, limited capacity, and time-ward tendency, is θάνατος, Death. This earthly mind may be of noble caliber, enriched by culture, high toned, virtuous and pure. But if it know not God? What though its correspondences reach to the stars of heaven or grasp the magnitudes of Time and Space? The stars of heaven are not heaven. Space is not God. This mind certainly, has life, life up to its level. There is no trace of Death. Possibly, too, it carries its deprivation lightly, and, up to its level, lies content. We do not picture the possessor of this carnal mind as in any sense a monster. We have said he may be high-toned, virtuous, and pure. The plant is not a monster because it is dead to the voice of the bird; nor is he a monster who is dead to the voice of God. The contention at present simply is that he is _Dead_. We do not need to go to Revelation for the proof of this. That has been rendered unnecessary by the testimony of the Dead themselves. Thousands have uttered themselves upon their relation to the Spiritual World, and from their own lips we have the proclamation of their Death. The language of theology in describing the state of the natural man is often regarded as severe. The Pauline anthropology has been challenged as an insult to human nature. Culture has opposed the doctrine that "The natural man receiveth not the things of the Spirit of God, for they are foolishness unto him: neither can he know them, because they are spiritually discerned." And even some modern theologies have refused to accept the most plain of the aphorisms of Jesus, that "Except a man be born again he cannot see the Kingdom of God." But this stern doctrine of the spiritual deadness of humanity is no mere dogma of a past theology. The history of thought during the present century proves that the world has come round spontaneously to the position of the first. One of the ablest philosophical schools of the day erects a whole antichristian system on this very doctrine. Seeking by means of it to sap the foundation of spiritual religion, it stands unconsciously as the most significant witness for its truth. What is the creed of the Agnostic, but the confession of the spiritual numbness of humanity? The negative doctrine which it reiterates with such sad persistency, what is it but the echo of the oldest of scientific and religious truths? And what are all these gloomy and rebellious infidelities, these touching, and too sincere confessions of universal nescience, but a protest against this ancient law of Death? The Christian apologist never further misses the mark than when he refuses the testimony of the Agnostic to himself. When the Agnostic tells me he is blind and deaf, dumb, torpid and dead to the spiritual world, I must believe him. Jesus tells me that. Paul tells me that. Science tells me that. He knows nothing of this outermost circle; and we are compelled to trust his sincerity as readily when he deplores it as if, being a man without an ear, he professed to know nothing of a musical world, or being without taste, of a world of art. The nescience of the Agnostic philosophy is the proof from experience that to be carnally minded is Death. Let the theological value of the concession be duly recognized. It brings no solace to the unspiritual man to be told he is mistaken. To say he is self-deceived is neither to compliment him nor Christianity. He builds in all sincerity who raises his altar to the _Unknown_ God. He does not know God. With all his marvelous and complex correspondences, he is still one correspondence short. It is a point worthy of special note that the proclamation of this truth has always come from science rather than from religion. Its general acceptance by thinkers is based upon the universal failure of a universal experiment. The statement, therefore, that the natural man discerneth not the things of the spirit, is never to be charged against the intolerance of theology. There is no point at which theology has been more modest than here. It has left the preaching of a great fundamental truth almost entirely to philosophy and science. And so very moderate has been its tone, so slight has been the emphasis placed upon the paralysis of the natural with regard to the spiritual, that it may seem to some to have been intolerant. No harm certainly could come now, no offence could be given to science, if religion asserted more clearly its right to the spiritual world. Science has paved the way for the reception of one of the most revolutionary doctrines of Christianity; and if Christianity refuses to take advantage of the opening it will manifest a culpable want of confidence in itself. There never was a time when its fundamental doctrines could more boldly be proclaimed, or when they could better secure the respect and arrest the interest of Science. To all this, and apparently with force, it may, however, be objected that to every man who truly studies Nature there is a God. Call Him by whatever name--a Creator, a Supreme Being, a Great First Cause, a Power that makes for Righteousness--Science has a God; and he who believes in this, in spite of all protest, possesses a theology. "If we will look at things, and not merely at words, we shall soon see that the scientific man has a theology and a God, a most impressive theology, a most awful and glorious God. I say that man believes in a God who feels himself in the presence of a Power which is not himself, and is immeasurably above himself, a Power in the contemplation of which he is absorbed, in the knowledge of which he finds safety and happiness. And such now is Nature to the scientific man."[59] Such now, we humbly submit, is Nature to the very few. Their own confession is against it. That they are "absorbed" in the contemplation we can well believe. That they might "find safety and happiness" in the knowledge of Him is also possible--if they had it. But this is just what they tell us they have not. What they deny is not a God. It is the correspondence. The very confession of the Unknowable is itself the dull recognition of an Environment beyond themselves, and for which they feel they lack the correspondence. It is this want that makes their God the Unknown God. And it is this that makes them _dead_. We have not said, or implied, that there is not a God of Nature. We have not affirmed that there is no Natural Religion. We are assured there is. We are even assured that without a Religion of Nature Religion is only half complete; that without a God of Nature the God of Revelation is only half intelligible and only partially known. God is not confined to the outermost circle of environment, He lives and moves and has His being in the whole. Those who only seek Him in the further zone can only find a part. The Christian who knows not God in Nature, who does not, that is to say, correspond with the whole environment, most certainly is partially dead. The author of "Ecce Homo" may be partially right when he says: "I think a bystander would say that though Christianity had in it something far higher and deeper and more ennobling, yet the average scientific man worships just at present a more awful, and, as it were, a greater Deity than the average Christian. In so many Christians the idea of God has been degraded by childish and little-minded teaching; the Eternal and the Infinite and the All-embracing has been represented as the head of the clerical interest, as a sort of clergyman, as a sort of schoolmaster, as a sort of philanthropist. But the scientific man knows Him to be eternal; in astronomy, in geology, he becomes familiar with the countless millenniums of His lifetime. The scientific man strains his mind actually to realize God's infinity. As far off as the fixed stars he traces Him, 'distance inexpressible by numbers that have name.' Meanwhile, to the theologian, infinity and eternity are very much of empty words when applied to the object of his worship. He does not realize them in actual facts and definite computations."[60] Let us accept this rebuke. The principle that want of correspondence is Death applies all round. He who knows not God in Nature only partially lives. The converse of this, however, is not true; and that is the point we are insisting on. He who knows God only in Nature lives not. There is no "correspondence" with an Unknown God, no "continuous adjustment" to a fixed First Cause. There is no "assimilation" of Natural Law; no growth in the Image of "the All-embracing." To correspond with the God of Science assuredly is not to live. "This is Life Eternal, to know Thee, _the true God_, and _Jesus Christ_ Whom Thou hast sent." From the service we have tried to make natural science render to our religion, we might be expected possibly to take up the position that the absolute contribution of Science to Revelation was very great. On the contrary, it is very small. The _absolute_ contribution, that is, is very small. The contribution on the whole is immense, vaster than we have yet any idea of. But without the aid of the higher Revelation this many-toned and far-reaching voice had been forever dumb. The light of Nature, say the most for it, is dim--how dim we ourselves, with the glare of other Light upon the modern world, can only realize when we seek among the pagan records of the past for the groupings after truth of those whose only light was this. Powerfully significant and touching as these efforts were in their success, they are far more significant and touching in their failure. For they did fail. It requires no philosophy now to speculate on the adequacy or inadequacy of the Religion of Nature. For us who could never weigh it rightly in the scales of Truth it has been tried in the balance of experience and found wanting. Theism is the easiest of all religions to get, but the most difficult to keep. Individuals have kept it, but nations never. Socrates and Aristotle, Cicero and Epictetus had a theistic religion; Greece and Rome had none. And even after getting what seems like a firm place in the minds of men, its unstable equilibrium sooner or later betrays itself. On the one hand theism has always fallen into the wildest polytheism, or on the other into the blankest atheism. "It is an indubitable historical fact that, outside of the sphere of special revelation, man has never obtained such a knowledge of God as a responsible and religious being plainly requires. The wisdom of the heathen world, at its very best, was utterly inadequate to the accomplishment of such a task as creating a due abhorrence of sin, controlling the passions, purifying the heart, and ennobling the conduct."[61] What is the inference? That this poor rush-light by itself was never meant to lend the ray by which man should read the riddle of the universe. The mystery is too impenetrable and remote for its uncertain flicker to more than make the darkness deeper. What indeed if this were not a light at all, but only part of a light--the carbon point, the fragment of calcium, the reflector in the great Lantern which contains the Light of the World? This is one inference. But the most important is that the absence of the true Light means moral Death. The darkness of the natural world to the intellect is not all. What history testifies to is, first the partial, and then the total eclipse of virtue that always follows the abandonment of belief in a personal God. It is not, as has been pointed out a hundred times, that morality in the abstract disappears, but the motive and sanction are gone. There is nothing to raise it from the dead. Man's attitude to it is left to himself. Grant that morals have their own base in human life; grant that Nature has a Religion whose creed is Science; there is yet nothing apart from God to save the world from moral Death. Morality has the power to dictate but none to move. Nature directs but cannot control. As was wisely expressed in one of many pregnant utterances during a recent _Symposium_, "Though the decay of religion may leave the institutes of morality intact, it drains off their inward power. The devout faith of men expresses and measures the intensity of their moral nature, and it cannot be lost without a remission of enthusiasm, and under this low pressure, the successful reëntrance of importunate desires and clamorous passions which had been driven back. To believe in an ever-living and perfect Mind, supreme over the universe, is to invest moral distinctions with immensity and eternity, and lift them from the provincial stage of human society to the imperishable theater of all being. When planted thus in the very substance of things, they justify and support the ideal estimates of the conscience; they deepen every guilty shame; they guarantee every righteous hope; and they help the will with a Divine casting-vote in every balance of temptation."[62] That morality has a basis in human society, that Nature has a Religion, surely makes the Death of the soul when left to itself all the more appalling. It means that, between them, Nature and morality provide all for virtue--except the Life to live it. It is at this point accordingly that our subject comes into intimate contact with Religion. The proposition that "to be carnally minded is Death" even the moralist will assent to. But when it is further announced that "the carnal mind is _enmity against God_" we find ourselves in a different region. And when we find it also stated that "the wages of _sin_ is Death," we are in the heart of the profoundest questions of theology. What before was merely "enmity against society" becomes "enmity against God;" and what was "vice" is "sin." The conception of a God gives an altogether new color to worldliness and vice. Worldliness it changes into heathenism, vice into blasphemy. The carnal mind, the mind which is turned away from God, which will not correspond with God--this is not moral only but spiritual Death. And Sin, that which separates from God, which disobeys God, which _can_ not in that state correspond with God--this is hell. To the estrangement of the soul from God the best of theology traces the ultimate cause of sin. Sin is simply apostasy from God, unbelief in God. "Sin is manifest in its true character when the demand of holiness in the conscience, presenting itself to the man as one of loving submission to God, is put from him with aversion. Here sin appears as it really is, a turning away from God; and while the man's guilt is enhanced, there ensues a benumbing of the heart resulting from the crushing of those higher impulses. This is what is meant by the reprobate state of those who reject Christ and will not believe the Gospel, so often spoken of in the New Testament; this unbelief is just the closing of the heart against the highest love."[63] The other view of sin, probably the more popular at present, that sin consists in selfishness, is merely this from another aspect. Obviously if the mind turns away from one part of the environment it will only do so under some temptation to correspond with another. This temptation, at bottom, can only come from one source--the love of self. The irreligious man's correspondences are concentrated upon himself. He worships himself. Self-gratification rather than self-denial; independence rather than submission--these are the rules of life. And this is at once the poorest and the commonest form of idolatry. But whichever of these views of sin we emphasize, we find both equally connected with Death. If sin is estrangement from God, this very estrangement is Death. It is a want of correspondence. If sin is selfishness, it is conducted at the expense of life. Its wages are Death--"he that loveth his life," said Christ, "shall lose it." Yet the paralysis of the moral nature apart from God does not only depend for its evidence upon theology or even upon history. From the analogies of Nature one would expect this result as a necessary consequence. The development of any organism in any direction is dependent on its environment. A living cell cut off from air will die. A seed-germ apart from moisture and an appropriate temperature will make the ground its grave for centuries. Human nature, likewise, is subject to similar conditions. It can only develop in presence of its environment. No matter what its possibilities may be, no matter what seeds of thought or virtue, what germs of genius or of art, lie latent in its breast, until the appropriate environment present itself the correspondence is denied, the development discouraged, the most splendid possibilities of life remain unrealized, and thought and virtue, genius and art, are dead. The true environment of the moral life is God. Here conscience wakes. Here kindles love. Duty here becomes heroic; and that righteousness begins to live which alone is to live forever. But if this Atmosphere is not, the dwarfed soul must perish for mere want of its native air. And its Death is a strictly natural Death. It is not an exceptional judgment upon Atheism. In the same circumstances, in the same averted relation to their environment, the poet, the musician, the artist, would alike perish to poetry, to music, and to art. Every environment is a cause. Its effect upon me is exactly proportionate to my correspondence with it. If I correspond with part of it, part of myself is influenced. If I correspond with more, more of myself is influenced; if with all, all is influenced. If I correspond with the world, I become worldly; if with God, I become Divine. As without correspondence of the scientific man with the natural environment there could be no Science and no action founded on the knowledge of Nature, so without communion with the spiritual Environment there can be no Religion. To refuse to cultivate the religious relation is to deny to the soul its highest right--the right to a further evolution.[64] We have already admitted that he who knows not God may not be a monster; we cannot say he will not be a dwarf. This precisely, and on perfectly natural principles, is what he must be. You can dwarf a soul just as you can dwarf a plant, by depriving it of a full environment. Such a soul for a time may have "a name to live." Its character may betray no sign of atrophy. But its very virtue somehow has the pallor of a flower that is grown in darkness, or as the herb which has never seen the sun, no fragrance breathes from its spirit. To morality, possibly, this organism offers the example of an irreproachable life; but to science it is an instance of arrested development; and to religion it presents the spectacle of a corpse--a living Death. With Ruskin, "I do not wonder at what men suffer, but I wonder often at what they lose." FOOTNOTES: [55] "Principles of Biology," vol. i, p. 74. [56] _Ibid._ [57] Foster's "Physiology," p. 642. [58] Op. cit., pp. 88, 89. [59] "Natural Religion," p. 19. [60] "Natural Religion," p. 20. [61] Prof. Flint, "Theism," p. 805. [62] Martineau. _Vide_ the whole Symposium on "The Influences upon Morality of a Decline in Religious Belief."--_Nineteenth Century_, vol. i. pp. 331, 531. [63] Müller: "Christian Doctrine of Sin." 2d Ed., vol i. p 131. [64] It would not be difficult to show, were this the immediate subject, that it is not only a right but a duty to exercise the spiritual faculties, a duty demanded not by religion merely, but by science. Upon biological principles man owes his full development to himself, to nature, and to his fellow-men. Thus Mr. Herbert Spencer affirms, "The performance of every function is, in a sense, a moral obligation. It is usually thought that morality requires us only to restrain such vital activities as, in our present state, are often pushed to excess, or such as conflict with average welfare, special or general: but it also requires us to carry on these vital activities up to their normal limits. All the animal functions, in common with all the higher functions, have, as thus understood, their imperativeness."--"The Data of Ethics," 2d Ed., p. 76. MORTIFICATION. "If, by tying its main artery, we stop most of the blood going to a limb, then, for as long as the limb performs its functions, those parts which are called into play must be wasted faster than they are repaired: whence eventual disablement. The relation between due receipt of nutritive matters through its arteries, and due discharge of its duties by the limb, is a part of the physical order. If instead of cutting off the supply to a particular limb, we bleed the patient largely, so drafting away the materials needed for repairing not one limb but all limbs, and not limbs only but viscera, there results both a muscular debility and an enfeeblement of the vital functions. Here, again, cause and effect are necessarily related.... Pass now to those actions more commonly thought of as the occasions for rules of conduct."--_Herbert Spencer._ "Mortify therefore your members which are upon earth."--_Paul._ "O Star-eyed Science! hast thou wandered there To waft us home the message of despair?"--_Campbell._ The definition of Death which science has given us is this: _A falling out of correspondence with environment._ When, for example, a man loses the sight of his eyes, his correspondence with the environing world is curtailed. His life is limited in an important direction; he is less living than he was before. If, in addition, he loses the senses of touch and hearing, his correspondences are still further limited; he is therefore still further dead. And when all possible correspondences have ceased, when the nerves decline to respond to any stimulus, when the lungs close their gates against the air, when the heart refuses to correspond with the blood by so much as another beat, the insensate corpse is wholly and forever dead. The soul, in like manner, which has no correspondence with the spiritual environment is spiritually dead. It may be that it never possessed the spiritual eye or the spiritual ear, or a heart which throbbed in response to the love of God. If so, having never lived, it cannot be said to have died. But not to have these correspondences is to be in the state of Death. To the spiritual world, to the Divine Environment, it is dead--as a stone which has never lived is dead to the environment of the organic world. Having already abundantly illustrated this use of the symbol Death, we may proceed to deal with another class of expressions where the same term is employed in an exactly opposite connection. It is a proof of the radical nature of religion that a word so extreme should have to be used again and again in Christian teaching, to define in different directions the true spiritual relations of mankind. Hitherto we have concerned ourselves with the condition of the natural man with regard to the spiritual world. We have now to speak of the relations of the spiritual man with regard to the natural world. Carrying with us the same essential principle--want of correspondence--underlying the meaning of Death, we shall find that the relation of the spiritual man to the natural world, or at least to part of it, is to be that of Death. When the natural man becomes the spiritual man, the great change is described by Christ as a passing from Death unto Life. Before the transition occurred, the practical difficulty was this, how to get into correspondence with the new Environment? But no sooner is this correspondence established than the problem is reversed. The question now is, how to get out of correspondence with the old environment? The moment the new life is begun there comes a genuine anxiety to break with the old. For the former environment has now become embarrassing. It refuses its dismissal from consciousness. It competes doggedly with the new Environment for a share of the correspondences. And in a hundred ways the former traditions, the memories and passions of the past, the fixed associations and habits of the earlier life, now complicate the new relation. The complex and bewildered soul, in fact, finds itself in correspondence with two environments, each with urgent but yet incompatible claims. It is a dual soul living in a double world, a world whose inhabitants are deadly enemies, and engaged in perpetual civil-war. The position of things is perplexing. It is clear that no man can attempt to live both lives. To walk both in the flesh and in the spirit is morally impossible. "No man," as Christ so often emphasized, "can serve two masters." And yet, as matter of fact, here is the new-born being in communication with both environments? With sin and purity, light and darkness, time and Eternity, God and Devil, the confused and undecided soul is now in correspondence. What is to be done in such an emergency? How can the New Life deliver itself from the still-persistent past? A ready solution of the difficulty would be _to die_. Were one to die organically, to die and "go to heaven," all correspondence with the lower environment would be arrested at a stroke. For Physical Death of course simply means the final stoppage of all natural correspondences with this sinful world. But this alternative, fortunately or unfortunately, is not open. The detention here of body and spirit for a given period is determined for us, and we are morally bound to accept the situation. We must look then for a further alternative. Actual Death being denied us, we must ask ourselves if there is nothing else resembling it--no artificial relation, no imitation or semblance of Death which would serve our purpose. If we cannot yet die absolutely, surely the next best thing will be to find a temporary substitute. If we cannot die altogether, in short, the most we can do is to die as much as we can. And we now know this is open to us, and how. To die to any environment is to withdraw correspondence with it, to cut ourselves off, so far as possible, from all communication with it. So that the solution of the problem will simply be this, for the spiritual life to reverse continuously the processes of the natural life. The spiritual man having passed from Death unto Life, the natural man must next proceed to pass from Life unto Death. Having opened the new set of correspondences, he must deliberately close up the old. Regeneration in short must be accompanied by Degeneration. Now it is no surprise to find that this is the process everywhere described and recommended by the founders of the Christian system. Their proposal to the natural man, or rather to the natural part of the spiritual man, with regard to a whole series of inimical relations, is precisely this. If he cannot really die, he must make an adequate approach to it by "reckoning himself dead." Seeing that, until the cycle of his organic life is complete he cannot die physically, he must meantime die morally, reckoning himself morally dead to that environment which, by competing for his correspondences, has now become an obstacle to his spiritual life. The variety of ways in which the New Testament writers insist upon this somewhat extraordinary method is sufficiently remarkable. And although the idea involved is essentially the same throughout, it will clearly illustrate the nature of the act if we examine separately three different modes of expression employed in the later Scriptures in this connection. The methods by which the spiritual man is to withdraw himself from the old environment--or from that part of it which will directly hinder the spiritual life--are three in number:-- First, Suicide. Second, Mortification. Third, Limitation. It will be found in practice that these different methods are adapted, respectively, to meet three different forms of temptation; so that we possess a sufficient warrant for giving a brief separate treatment to each. First, Suicide. Stated in undisguised phraseology, the advice of Paul to the Christian, with regard to a part of his nature, is to commit suicide. If the Christian is to "live unto God," he must "die unto sin." If he does not kill sin, sin will inevitably kill him. Recognizing this, he must set himself to reduce the number of his correspondences--retaining and developing those which lead to a fuller life, unconditionally withdrawing those which in any way tend in an opposite direction. This stoppage of correspondences is a voluntary act, a crucifixion of the flesh, a suicide. Now the least experience of life will make it evident that a large class of sins can only be met, as it were, by Suicide. The peculiar feature of Death by Suicide is that it is not only self-inflicted but sudden. And there are many sins which must either be dealt with suddenly or not at all. Under this category, for instance, are to be included generally all sins of the appetites and passions. Other sins, from their peculiar nature, can only be treated by methods less abrupt, but the sudden operation of the knife is the only successful means of dealing with fleshly sins. For example, the correspondence of the drunkard with his wine is a thing which can be broken off by degrees only in the rarest cases. To attempt it gradually may in an isolated case succeed, but even then the slightly prolonged gratification is no compensation for the slow torture of a gradually diminishing indulgence. "If thine appetite offend thee cut it off," may seem at first but a harsh remedy; but when we contemplate on the one hand the lingering pain of the gradual process, on the other its constant peril, we are compelled to admit that the principle is as kind as it is wise. The expression "total abstinence" in such a case is a strictly biological formula. It implies the sudden destruction of a definite portion of environment by the total withdrawal of all the connecting links. Obviously of course total abstinence ought thus to be allowed a much wider application than to cases of "intemperance." It's the only decisive method of dealing with any sin of the flesh; The very nature of the relations makes it absolutely imperative that every victim of unlawful appetite, in whatever direction, shall totally abstain. Hence Christ's apparently extreme and peremptory language defines the only possible, as well as the only charitable, expedient: "If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee. And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee." The humanity of what is called "sudden conversion" has never been insisted on as it deserves. In discussing "Biogenesis"[65] it has been already pointed out that while growth is a slow and gradual process, the change from Death to Life alike in the natural and spiritual spheres is the work of a moment. Whatever the conscious hour of the second birth may be--in the case of an adult it is probably defined by the first real victory over sin--it is certain that on biological principles the real turning-point is literally a moment. But on moral and humane grounds this misunderstood, perverted, and therefore despised doctrine is equally capable of defence. Were any reformer, with an adequate knowledge of human life, to sit down and plan a scheme for the salvation of sinful men, he would probably come to the conclusion that the best way after all, perhaps indeed the only way, to turn a sinner from the error of his ways would be to do it suddenly. Suppose a drunkard were advised to take off one portion from his usual allowance the first week, another the second, and so on! Or suppose at first, he only allowed himself to become intoxicated in the evenings, then every second evening, then only on Saturday nights, and finally only every Christmas? How would a thief be reformed if he slowly reduced the number of his burglaries, or a wife-beater by gradually diminishing the number of his blows? The argument ends with an _ad absurdum_. "Let him that stole _steal no more_," is the only feasible, the only moral, and the only humane way. This may not apply to every case, but when any part of man's sinful life can be dealt with by immediate Suicide, to make him reach the end, even were it possible, by a lingering death, would be a monstrous cruelty. And yet it is this very thing in "sudden conversion," that men object to--the sudden change, the decisive stand, the uncompromising rupture with the past, the precipitate flight from sin as of one escaping for his life. Men surely forget that this is an escaping for one's life. Let the poor prisoner run--madly and blindly if he like, for the terror of Death is upon him. God knows, when the pause comes, how the chains will gall him still. It is a peculiarity of the sinful state, that as a general rule men are linked to evil mainly by a single correspondence. Few men break the whole law. Our natures, fortunately, are not large enough to make us guilty of all, and the restraints of circumstances are usually such as to leave a loophole in the life of each individual for only a single habitual sin. But it is very easy to see how this reduction of our intercourse with evil to a single correspondence blinds us to our true position. Our correspondences, as a whole, are not with evil, and in our calculations as to our spiritual condition we emphasize the many negatives rather than the single positive. One little weakness, we are apt to fancy, all men must be allowed, and we even claim a certain indulgence for that apparent necessity of nature which we call our besetting sin. Yet to break with the lower environment at all, to many, is to break at this single point. It is the only important point at which they touch it, circumstances or natural disposition making habitual contact at other places impossible. The sinful environment, in short, to them means a small but well-defined area. Now if contact at this point be not broken off, they are virtually in contact still with the whole environment. There may be only one avenue between the new life and the old, it may be but a small and _subterranean passage_, but this is sufficient to keep the old life in. So long as that remains the victim is not "dead unto sin," and therefore he cannot "live unto God." Hence the reasonableness of the words, "Whatsoever shall keep the whole law, and yet offend at one point, he is guilty of all." In the natural world it only requires a single vital correspondence of the body to be out of order to insure Death. It is not necessary to have consumption, diabetes, and an aneurism to bring the body to the grave if it have heart-disease. He who is fatally diseased in one organ necessarily pays the penalty with his life, though all the others be in perfect health. And such, likewise, are the mysterious unity and correlation of functions in the spiritual organism that the disease of one member may involve the ruin of the whole. The reason, therefore, with which Christ follows up the announcement of His Doctrine of Mutilation, or local Suicide, finds here at once its justification and interpretation: "If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee: _for_ it is profitable for thee that _one_ of thy members should perish, and not that thy _whole body_ should be cast into hell. And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee: _for_ it is profitable for thee that _one_ of thy members should perish, and not that thy _whole body_ should be cast into hell." Secondly, Mortification. The warrant for the use of this expression is found in the well-known phrases of Paul, "If ye through the Spirit do mortify the deeds of the body ye shall live," and "Mortify therefore your members which are upon earth." The word mortify here is, literally, to make to die. It is used, of course, in no specially technical sense; and to attempt to draw a detailed moral from the pathology of mortification would be equally fantastic and irrelevant. But without in any way straining the meaning it is obvious that we have here a slight addition to our conception of dying to sin. In contrast with Suicide, Mortification implies a gradual rather than a sudden process. The contexts in which the passages occur will make this meaning so clear, and are otherwise so instructive in the general connection, that we may quote them, from the New Version, at length: "They that are after the flesh do mind the things of the flesh; but they that are after the Spirit the things of the Spirit. For the mind of the flesh is death; but the mind of the Spirit is life and peace: because the mind of the flesh is enmity against God; for it is not subject to the law of God, neither indeed can it be: and they that are in the flesh cannot please God. But ye are not in the flesh, but in the Spirit, if so be that the Spirit of God dwell in you. But if any man hath not the Spirit of Christ, he is none of His. And if Christ is in you, the body is dead because of sin; but the Spirit is life because of righteousness. But if the Spirit of Him that raised up Jesus from the dead dwelleth in you, He that raised up Christ Jesus from the dead shall quicken also your mortal bodies through His Spirit that dwelleth in you. So then, brethren, we are debtors not to the flesh, to live after the flesh: for if ye live after the flesh ye must die; but if by the Spirit ye mortify the doings (marg.) of the body, ye shall live."[66] And again, "If then ye were raised together with Christ, seek the things that are above, where Christ is seated on the right hand of God. Set your mind on the things that are above, not on the things that are upon the earth. For ye died, and your life is hid with Christ in God. When Christ, who is our life, shall be manifested, then shall ye also with Him be manifested in glory. Mortify therefore your members which are upon the earth; fornication, uncleanness, passion, evil desire, and covetousness, the which is idolatry; for which things' sake cometh the wrath of God upon the sons of disobedience; in the which ye also walked aforetime, when ye lived in these things. But now put ye also away all these; anger, wrath, malice, railing, shameful speaking out of your mouth: lie not one to another; seeing that ye have put off the old man with his doings, and have put on the new man, which is being renewed unto knowledge after the image of Him that created him."[67] From the nature of the case as here stated it is evident that no sudden process could entirely transfer a man from the old into the new relation. To break altogether, and at every point, with the old environment, is a simple impossibility. So long as the regenerate man is kept in this world, he must find the old environment at many points a severe temptation. Power over very many of the commonest temptations is only to be won by degrees, and however anxious one might be to apply the summary method to every case, he soon finds it impossible in practice. The difficulty in these cases arises from a peculiar feature of the temptation. The difference between a sin of drunkenness, and, let us say, a sin of temper, is that in the former case the victim who would reform has mainly to deal with the environment, but in the latter with the correspondence. The drunkard's temptation is a known and definite quantity. His safety lies in avoiding some external and material substance. Of course, at bottom, he is really dealing with the correspondence every time he resists; he is distinctly controlling appetite. Nevertheless it is less the appetite that absorbs his mind than the environment. And so long as he can keep himself clear of the "external relation," to use Mr. Herbert Spencer's phraseology, he has much less difficulty with the "internal relation." The ill-tempered person, on the other hand, can make very little of his environment. However he may attempt to circumscribe it in certain directions, there will always remain a wide and ever-changing area to stimulate his irascibility. His environment, in short, is an inconstant quantity, and his most elaborate calculations and precautions must often and suddenly fail him. What he has to deal with, then, mainly is the correspondence, the temper itself. And that, he well knows, involves a long and humiliating discipline. The case now is not at all a surgical but a medical one, and the knife is here of no more use than in a fever. A specific irritant has poisoned his veins. And the acrid humors that are breaking out all over the surface of his life are only to be subdued by a gradual sweetening of the inward spirit. It is now known that the human body acts toward certain fever-germs as a sort of soil. The man whose blood is pure has nothing to fear. So he whose spirit is purified and sweetened becomes proof against these germs of sin. "Anger, wrath, malice and railing" in such a soil can find no root. The difference between this and the former method of dealing with sin may be illustrated by another analogy. The two processes depend upon two different natural principles. The Mutilation of a member, for instance, finds its analogue in the horticultural operation of _pruning_, where the object is to divert life from a useless into a useful channel. A part of a plant which previously monopolized a large share of the vigor of the total organism, but without yielding any adequate return, is suddenly cut off, so that the vital processes may proceed more actively in some fruitful parts. Christ's use of this figure is well-known: "Every branch in Me that beareth not fruit He purgeth it that it may bring forth more fruit." The strength of the plant, that is, being given to the formation of mere wood, a number of useless correspondences have to be abruptly closed while the useful connections are allowed to remain. The Mortification of a member, again, is based on the Law of Degeneration. The useless member here is not cut off, but simply relieved as much as possible of all exercise. This encourages the gradual decay of the parts, and as it is more and more neglected it ceases to be a channel for life at all. So an organism "mortifies" its members. Thirdly, Limitation. While a large number of correspondences between man and his environment can be stopped in these ways, there are many more which neither can be reduced by a gradual Mortification nor cut short by sudden Death. One reason for this is that to tamper with these correspondences might involve injury to closely related vital parts. Or, again, there are organs which are really essential to the normal life of the organism, and which therefore the organism cannot afford to lose even though at times they act prejudicially. Not a few correspondences, for instance, are not wrong in themselves but only in their extremes. Up to a certain point they are lawful and necessary; beyond that point they may become not only unnecessary but sinful. The appropriate treatment in these and similar cases consists in a process of Limitation. The performance of this operation, it must be confessed, requires a most delicate hand. It is an art, moreover, which no one can teach another. And yet, if it is not learned by all who are trying to lead the Christian life, it cannot be for want of practice. For, as we shall see, the Christian is called upon to exercise few things more frequently. An easy illustration of a correspondence which is only wrong when carried to an extreme, is the love of money. The love of money up to a certain point is a necessity; beyond that it may become one of the worst of sins. Christ said: "Ye cannot serve God and Mammon." The two services, at a definite point, become incompatible, and hence correspondence with one must cease. At what point, however, it must cease each man has to determine for himself. And in this consists at once the difficulty and the dignity of Limitation. There is another class of cases where the adjustments are still more difficult to determine. Innumerable points exist in our surroundings with which it is perfectly legitimate to enjoy, and even to cultivate, correspondence, but which privilege, at the same time, it were better on the whole that we did not use. Circumstances are occasionally such--the demands of others upon us, for example, may be so clamant--that we have voluntarily to reduce the area of legitimate pleasure. Or, instead of it coming from others, the claim may come from a still higher direction. Man's spiritual life consists in the number and fullness of his correspondences with God. In order to develop these he may be constrained to insulate them, to inclose them from the other correspondences, to shut himself in with them. In many ways the limitation of the natural life is the necessary condition of the full enjoyment of the spiritual life. In this principle lies the true philosophy of self-denial. No man is called to a life of self-denial for its own sake. It is in order to a compensation which, though sometimes difficult to see, is always real and always proportionate. No truth, perhaps, in practical religion is more lost sight of. We cherish somehow a lingering rebellion against the doctrine of self-denial--as if our nature, or our circumstances, or our conscience, dealt with us severely in loading us with the daily cross. But is it not plain after all that the life of self-denial is the more abundant life--more abundant just in proportion to the ampler crucifixion of the narrower life? Is it not a clear case of exchange--an exchange however where the advantage is entirely on our side? We give up a correspondence in which there is a little life to enjoy a correspondence in which there is an abundant life. What though we sacrifice a hundred such correspondences? We make but the more room for the great one that is left. The lesson of self-denial, that is to say of Limitation, is _concentration_. Do not spoil your life, it says, at the outset with unworthy and impoverishing correspondences; and if it is growing truly rich and abundant, be very jealous of ever diluting its high eternal quality with anything of earth. To concentrate upon a few great correspondences, to oppose to the death the perpetual petty larceny of our life by trifles--these are the conditions for the highest and happiest life. It is only Limitation which can secure the Illimitable. The penalty of evading self-denial also is just that we get the lesser instead of the larger good. The punishment of sin is inseparably bound up with itself. To refuse to deny one's self is just to be left with the self undenied. When the balance of life is struck, the self will be found still there. The discipline of life was meant to destroy this self, but that discipline having been evaded--and we all to some extent have opportunities, and too often exercise them, of taking the narrow path by the shortest cuts--its purpose is balked. But the soul is the loser. In seeking to gain its life it has really lost it. This is what Christ meant when He said: "He that loveth his life shall lose it, and he that hateth his life in this world shall keep it unto life eternal." Why does Christ say: "Hate Life?" Does He mean that life is a sin? No. Life is not a sin. Still, He says we must hate it. But we must live. Why should we hate what we must do? For this reason: Life is not a sin, but the love of life may be a sin. And the best way not to love life is to hate it. Is it a sin then to love life? Not a sin exactly, but a mistake. It is a sin to love some life, a mistake to love the rest. Because that love is lost. All that is lavished on it is lost. Christ does not say it is wrong to love life. He simply says it is _loss_. Each man has only a certain amount of life, of time, of attention--a definite measurable quantity. If he gives any of it to this life solely it is wasted. Therefore Christ says, Hate life, limit life, lest you steal your love for it from something that deserves it more. Now this does not apply to all life. It is "life in this world" that is to be hated. For life in this world implies conformity to this world. It may not mean pursuing worldly pleasures, or mixing with worldly sets; but a subtler thing than that--a silent deference to worldly opinion; an almost unconscious lowering of religious tone to the level of the worldly-religious world around; a subdued resistance to the soul's delicate promptings to greater consecration, out of deference to "breadth" or fear of ridicule. These, and such things, are what Christ tells us we must hate. For these things are of the very essence of worldliness. "If any man love the world," even in this sense, "the love of the Father is not in him." There are two ways of hating life, a true and a false. Some men hate life because it hates them. They have seen through it, and it has turned round upon them. They have drunk it, and come to the dregs; therefore they hate it. This is one of the ways in which the man who loves his life literally loses it. He loves it till he loses it, then he hates it because it has fooled him. The other way is the religious. For religious reasons a man deliberately braces himself to the systematic hating of his life. "No man can serve two masters, for either he must hate the one and love the other, or else he must hold to the one and despise the other." Despising the other--this is hating life, limiting life. It is not misanthropy, but Christianity. This principle, as has been said, contains the true philosophy of self-denial. It also holds the secret by which self-denial may be most easily borne. A common conception of self-denial is that there are a multitude of things about life which are to be put down with a high hand the moment they make their appearance. They are temptations which are not to be tolerated, but must be instantly crushed out of being with pang and effort. So life comes to be a constant and sore cutting off of things which we love as our right hand. But now suppose one tried boldly to hate these things? Suppose we deliberately made up our minds as to what things we were henceforth to allow to become our life? Suppose we selected a given area of our environment and determined once for all that our correspondences should go to that alone, fencing in this area all round with a morally impassable wall? True, to others, we should seem to live a poorer life; they would see that our environment was circumscribed, and call us narrow because it was narrow. But, well-chosen, this limited life would be really the fullest life; it would be rich in the highest and worthiest, and poor in the smallest and basest correspondences. The well-defined spiritual life is not only the highest life, but it is also the most easily lived. The whole cross is more easily carried than the half. It is the man who tries to make the best of both worlds who makes nothing of either. And he who seeks to serve two masters misses the benediction of both. But he who has taken his stand, who has drawn a boundary line, sharp and deep about his religious life, who has marked off all beyond as forever forbidden ground to him, finds the yoke easy and the burden light. For this forbidden environment comes to be as if it were not. His faculties falling out of correspondence, slowly lose their sensibilities. And the balm of Death numbing his lower nature releases him for the scarce disturbed communion of a higher life. So even here to die is gain. FOOTNOTES: [65] Page 80. [66] Rom. viii. 5-13. [67] Col. iii. 1-10. ETERNAL LIFE. "Supposing that man, in some form, is permitted to remain on the earth for a long series of years, we merely lengthen out the period, but we cannot escape the final catastrophe. The earth will gradually lose its energy of relation, as well as that of revolution round the sun. The sun himself will wax dim and become useless as a source of energy, until at last the favorable conditions of the present solar system will have quite disappeared. "But what happens to our system will happen likewise to the whole visible universe, which will, if finite, become a lifeless mass, if indeed it be not doomed to utter dissolution. In fine, it will become old and effete, no less truly than the individual. It is a glorious garment, this visible universe, but not an immortal one. We must look elsewhere if we are to be clothed with immortality as with a garment."--_The Unseen Universe._ "This is Life Eternal--that they might know Thee, the True God, and Jesus Christ whom Thou hast sent."--_Jesus Christ._ "Perfect correspondence would be perfect life. Were there no changes in the environment but such as the organism had adapted changes to meet, and were it never to fail in the efficiency with which it met them, there would be eternal existence and eternal knowledge."--_Herbert Spencer._ One of the most startling achievements of recent science is a definition of Eternal Life. To the religious mind this is a contribution of immense moment. For eighteen hundred years only one definition of Life Eternal was before the world. Now there are two. Through all these centuries revealed religion had this doctrine to itself. Ethics had a voice, as well as Christianity, on the question of the _summum bonum_; Philosophy ventured to speculate on the Being of a God. But no source outside Christianity contributed anything to the doctrine of Eternal Life. Apart from Revelation, this great truth was unguaranteed. It was the one thing in the Christian system that most needed verification from without, yet none was forthcoming. And never has any further light been thrown upon the question why in its very nature the Christian Life should be Eternal. Christianity itself even upon this point has been obscure. Its decision upon the bare fact is authoritative and specific. But as to what there is in the Spiritual Life necessarily endowing it with the element of Eternity, the maturest theology is all but silent. It has been reserved for modern biology at once to defend and illuminate this central truth of the Christian faith. And hence in the interests of religion, practical and evidential, this second and scientific definition of Eternal Life is to be hailed as an announcement of commanding interest. Why it should not yet have received the recognition of religious thinkers--for already it has lain some years unnoticed--is not difficult to understand. The belief in Science as an aid to faith is not yet ripe enough to warrant men in searching there for witnesses to the highest Christian truths. The inspiration of Nature, it is thought, extends to the humbler doctrines alone. And yet the reverent inquirer who guides his steps in the right direction may find even now in the still dim twilight of the scientific world much that will illuminate and intensify his sublimest faith. Here, at least, comes, and comes unbidden, the opportunity of testing the most vital point of the Christian system. Hitherto the Christian philosopher has remained content with the scientific evidence against Annihilation. Or, with Butler, he has reasoned from the Metamorphoses of Insects to a future life. Or again, with the authors of "The Unseen Universe," the apologist has constructed elaborate, and certainly impressive, arguments upon the Law of Continuity. But now we may draw nearer. For the first time Science touches Christianity _positively_ on the doctrine of Immortality. It confronts us with an actual definition of an Eternal Life, based on a full and rigidly accurate examination of the necessary conditions. Science does not pretend that it can fulfill these conditions. Its votaries make no claim to possess the Eternal Life. It simply postulates the requisite conditions without concerning itself whether any organism should ever appear, or does now exist, which might fulfill them. The claim of religion, on the other hand, is that there are organisms which possess Eternal Life. And the problem for us to solve is this: Do those who profess to possess Eternal Life fulfill the conditions required by Science, or are they different conditions? In a word, Is the Christian conception of Eternal Life scientific? It may be unnecessary to notice at the outset that the definition of Eternal Life drawn up by Science was framed without reference to religion. It must indeed have been the last thought with the thinker to whom we chiefly owe it, that in unfolding the conception of a Life in its very nature necessarily eternal, he was contributing to Theology. Mr. Herbert Spencer--for it is to him we owe it--would be the first to admit the impartiality of his definition; and from the connection in which it occurs in his writings, it is obvious that religion was not even present to his mind. He is analyzing with minute care the relations between Environment and Life. He unfolds the principle according to which Life is high or low, long or short. He shows why organisms live and why they die. And finally he defines a condition of things in which an organism would never die--in which it would enjoy a perpetual and perfect Life. This to him is, of course, but a speculation. Life Eternal is a biological conceit. The conditions necessary to an Eternal Life do not exist in the natural world. So that the definition is altogether impartial and independent. A Perfect Life, to Science, is simply a thing which is theoretically possible--like a Perfect Vacuum. Before giving, in so many words, the definition of Mr. Herbert Spencer, it will render it fully intelligible if we gradually lead up to it by a brief rehearsal of the few and simple biological facts on which it is based. In considering the subject of Death, we have formerly seen that there are degrees of Life. By this is meant that some lives have more and fuller correspondence with Environment than others. The amount of correspondence, again, is determined by the greater or less complexity of the organism. Thus a simple organism like the Amoeba is possessed of very few correspondences. It is a mere sac of transparent structureless jelly for which organization has done almost nothing, and hence it can only communicate with the smallest possible area of Environment. An insect, in virtue of its more complex structure, corresponds with a wider area. Nature has endowed it with special faculties for reaching out to the Environment on many sides; it has more life than the Amoeba. In other words, it is a higher animal. Man again, whose body is still further differentiated, or broken up into different correspondences, finds himself _en rapport_ with his surroundings to a further extent. And therefore he is higher still, more living still. And this law, that the degree of Life varies with the degree of correspondence, holds to the minutest detail throughout the entire range of living things. Life becomes fuller and fuller, richer and richer, more and more sensitive and responsive to an ever-widening Environment as we arise in the chain of being. Now it will speedily appear that a distinct relation exists, and must exist, between complexity and longevity. Death being brought about by the failure of an organism to adjust itself to some change in the Environment, it follows that those organisms which are able to adjust themselves most readily and successfully will live the longest. They will continue time after time to effect the appropriate adjustment, and their power of doing so will be exactly proportionate to their complexity--that is, to the amount of Environment they can control with their correspondences. There are, for example, in the Environment of every animal certain things which are directly or indirectly dangerous to Life. If its equipment of correspondences is not complete enough to enable it to avoid these dangers in all possible circumstances, it must sooner or later succumb. The organism then with the most perfect set of correspondences, that is, the highest and most complex organism, has an obvious advantage over less complex forms. It can adjust itself more perfectly and frequently. But this is just the biological way of saying that it can live the longest. And hence the relation between complexity and longevity may be expressed thus--the most complex organisms are the longest lived. To state and illustrate the proposition conversely may the point still further clear. The less highly organized an animal is, the less will be its chance of remaining in lengthened correspondence with its Environment. At some time or other in its career circumstances are sure to occur to which the comparatively immobile organism finds itself structurally unable to respond. Thus a _Medusa_ tossed ashore by a wave, finds itself so out of correspondence with its new surroundings that its life must pay the forfeit. Had it been able by internal change to adapt itself to external change--to correspond sufficiently with the new environment, as for example to crawl, as an eel would have done, back into that environment with which it had completer correspondence--its life might have been spared. But had this happened it would continue to live henceforth only so long as it could continue in correspondence with all the circumstances in which it might find itself. Even if, however, it became complex enough to resist the ordinary and direct dangers of its environment, it might still be out of correspondence with others. A naturalist for instance, might take advantage of its want of correspondence with particular sights and sounds to capture it for his cabinet, or the sudden dropping of a yacht's anchor or the turn of a screw might cause its untimely death. Again, in the case of a bird, in virtue of its more complex organization, there is command over a much larger area of environment. It can take precautions such as the _Medusa_ could not; it has increased facilities for securing food; its adjustments all round are more complex; and therefore it ought to be able to maintain its Life for a longer period. There is still a large area, however, over which it has no control. Its power of internal change is not complete enough to afford it perfect correspondence with all external changes, and its tenure of Life is to that extent insecure. Its correspondence, moreover, is limited even with regard to those external conditions with which it has been partially established. Thus a bird in ordinary circumstances has no difficulty in adapting itself to changes of temperature, but if these are varied beyond the point at which its capacity of adjustment begins to fail--for example, during an extreme winter--the organism being unable to meet the condition must perish. The human organism, on the other hand, can respond to this external condition, as well as to countless other vicissitudes under which lower forms would inevitably succumb. Man's adjustments are to the largest known area of Environment, and hence he ought to be able furthest to prolong his Life. It becomes evident, then, that as we ascend in the scale of Life we rise also in the scale of longevity. The lowest organisms are, as a rule, short-lived, and the rate of mortality diminishes more or less regularly as we ascend in the animal scale. So extraordinary indeed is the mortality among lowly-organized forms that in most cases a compensation is actually provided, nature endowing them with a marvelously increased fertility in order to guard against absolute extinction. Almost all lower forms are furnished not only with great reproductive powers, but with different methods of propagation, by which, in various circumstances, and in an incredibly short time, the species can be indefinitely multiplied. Ehrenberg found that by the repeated subdivisions of a single _Paramecium_, no fewer than 268,000,000 similar organisms might be produced in one month. This power steadily decreases as we rise higher in the scale, until forms are reached in which one, two, or at most three, come into being at a birth. It decreases, however, because it is no longer needed. These forms have a much longer lease of Life. And it may be taken as a rule, although it has exceptions, that complexity in animal organisms is always associated with longevity. It may be objected that these illustrations are taken merely from morbid conditions. But whether the Life be cut short by accident or by disease the principle is the same. All dissolution is brought about practically in the same way. A certain condition in the Environment fails to be met by a corresponding condition in the organism, and this is death. And conversely the more an organism in virtue of its complexity can adapt itself to all the parts of its Environment, the longer it will live. "It is manifest _a priori_," says Mr. Herbert Spencer, "that since changes in the physical state of the environment, as also those mechanical actions and those variations of available food which occur in it, are liable to stop the processes going on in the organism; and since the adaptive changes in the organism have the effects of directly or indirectly counterbalancing these changes in the environment, it follows that the life of the organism will be short or long, low or high, according to the extent to which changes in the environment are met by corresponding changes in the organism. Allowing a margin for perturbations, the life will continue only while the correspondence continues; the completeness of the life will be proportionate to the completeness of the correspondence; and the life will be perfect only when the correspondence is perfect."[68] We are now all but in sight of our scientific definitions of Eternal Life. The desideratum is an organism with a correspondence of a very exceptional kind. It must lie beyond the reach of those "mechanical actions" and those "variations of available food," which are "liable to stop the processes going on in the organism." Before we reach an Eternal Life we must pass beyond that point at which all ordinary correspondences inevitably cease. We must find an organism so high and complex, that at some point in its development it shall have added a correspondence which organic death is powerless to arrest. We must in short pass beyond that definite region where the correspondences depend on evanescent and material media, and enter a further region where the Environment corresponded with is itself Eternal. Such an Environment exists. The Environment of the Spiritual world is outside the influence of these "mechanical actions," which sooner or later interrupt the processes going on in all finite organisms. If then we can find an organism which has established a correspondence with the spiritual world, that correspondence will possess the elements of eternity--provided only one other condition be fulfilled. That condition is that the Environment be perfect. If it is not perfect, if it is not the highest, if it is endowed with the finite quality of change, there can be no guarantee that the Life of its correspondents will be eternal. Some change might occur in it which the correspondents had no adaptive changes to meet, and Life would cease. But grant a spiritual organism in perfect correspondence with a perfect spiritual Environment, and the conditions necessary to Eternal Life are satisfied. The exact terms of Mr. Herbert Spencer's definition of Eternal Life may now be given. And it will be seen that they include essentially the conditions here laid down. "Perfect correspondence would be perfect life. Were there no changes in the environment but such as the organism had adapted changes to meet, and were it never to fail in the efficiency with which it met them, there would be eternal existence and eternal knowledge."[69] Reserving the question as to the possible fulfillment of these conditions, let us turn for a moment to the definition of Eternal Life laid down by Christ. Let us place it alongside the definition of Science, and mark the points of contact. Uninterrupted correspondence with a perfect Environment is Eternal Life according to Science. "This is Life Eternal," said Christ, "that they may know Thee, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom Thou hast sent."[70] Life Eternal is to know God. To know God is to "correspond" with God. To correspond with God is to correspond with a Perfect Environment. And the organism which attains to this, in the nature of things must live forever. Here is "eternal existence and eternal knowledge." The main point of agreement between the scientific and the religious definition is that Life consists in a peculiar and personal relation defined as a "correspondence." This conception, that Life consists in correspondences, has been so abundantly illustrated already that it is now unnecessary to discuss it further. All Life indeed consists essentially in correspondences with various Environments. The artist's life is a correspondence with art; the musician's with music. To cut them off from these Environments is in that relation to cut off their Life. To be cut off from all Environment is death. To find a new Environment again and cultivate relation with it is to find a new Life. To live is to correspond, and to correspond is to live. So much is true in Science. But it is also true in Religion. And it is of great importance to observe that to Religion also the conception of Life is a correspondence. No truth of Christianity has been more ignorantly or willfully travestied than the doctrine of Immortality. The popular idea, in spite of a hundred protests, is that Eternal Life is to live forever. A single glance at the _locus classicus_ might have made this error impossible. There we are told that Life Eternal is not to live. This is Life Eternal--_to know_. And yet--and it is a notorious instance of the fact that men who are opposed to Religion will take their conceptions of its profoundest truths from mere vulgar perversions--this view still represents to many cultivated men the Scriptural doctrine of Eternal Life. From time to time the taunt is thrown at Religion, not unseldom from lips which Science ought to have taught more caution, that the Future Life of Christianity is simply a prolonged existence, an eternal monotony, a blind and indefinite continuance of being. The Bible never could commit itself to any such empty platitudes; nor could Christianity ever offer to the world a hope so colorless. Not that Eternal Life has nothing to do with everlastingness. That is part of the conception. And it is this aspect of the question that first arrests us in the field of Science. But even Science has more in its definition than longevity. It has a correspondence and an Environment; and although it cannot fill up these terms for Religion, it can indicate at least the nature of the relation, the kind of thing that is meant by Life. Science speaks to us indeed of much more than numbers of years. It defines degrees of Life. It explains a widening Environment. It unfolds the relation between a widening Environment and increasing complexity in organisms. And if it has no absolute contribution to the content of Religion, its analogies are not limited to a point. It yields to Immortality, and this is the most that Science can do in any case, the board framework for a doctrine. The further definition, moreover, of this correspondence as _knowing_ is in the highest degree significant. Is not this the precise quality in an Eternal correspondence which the analogies of Science would prepare us to look for? Longevity is associated with complexity. And complexity in organisms is manifested by the successive addition of correspondences, each richer and larger than those which have gone before. The differentiation, therefore, of the spiritual organism ought to be signalized by the addition of the highest possible correspondence. It is not essential to the idea that the correspondence should be altogether novel; it is necessary rather that it should not. An altogether new correspondence appearing suddenly without shadow or prophecy would be a violation of continuity. What we should expect would be something new, and yet something that we were already prepared for. We should look for a further development in harmony with current developments; the extension of the last and highest correspondence in a new and higher direction. And this is exactly what we have. In the world with which biology deals, Evolution culminates in Knowledge. At whatever point in the zoological scale this correspondence, or set of correspondences, begins, it is certain there is nothing higher. In its stunted infancy merely, when we meet with its rudest beginnings in animal intelligence, it is a thing so wonderful, as to strike every thoughtful and reverent observer with awe. Even among the invertebrates so marvelously are these or kindred powers displayed, that naturalists do not hesitate now, on the ground of intelligence at least, to classify some of the humblest creatures next to man himself.[71] Nothing in nature, indeed, is so unlike the rest of nature, so prophetic of what is beyond it, so supernatural. And as manifested in Man who crowns creation with his all-embracing consciousness, there is but one word to describe his knowledge: it is Divine. If then from this point there is to be any further Evolution, this surely must be the correspondence in which it shall take place? This correspondence is great enough to demand development; and yet it is little enough to need it. The magnificence of what it has achieved relatively, is the pledge of the possibility of more; the insignificance of its conquest absolutely involves the probability of still richer triumphs. If anything, in short, in humanity is to go on it must be this. Other correspondences may continue likewise; others, again, we can well afford to leave behind. But this cannot cease. This correspondence--or this set of correspondences, for it is very complex--is it not that to which men with one consent would attach Eternal Life? Is there anything else to which they would attach it? Is anything better conceivable, anything worthier, fuller, nobler, anything which would represent a higher form of Evolution or offer a more perfect ideal for an Eternal Life? But these are questions of quality; and the moment we pass from quantity to quality we leave Science behind. In the vocabulary of Science, Eternity is only the fraction of a word. It means mere everlastingness. To Religion, on the other hand, Eternity has little to do with time. To correspond with the God of Science, the Eternal Unknowable, would be everlasting existence; to correspond with "the true God and Jesus Christ," is Eternal Life. The quality of the Eternal Life alone makes the heaven; mere everlastingness might be no boon. Even the brief span of the temporal life is too long for those who spend its years in sorrow. Time itself, let alone Eternity, is all but excruciating to Doubt. And many besides Schopenhauer have secretly regarded consciousness as the hideous mistake and malady of Nature. Therefore we must not only have quantity of years, to speak in the language of the present, but quality of correspondence. When we leave Science behind, this correspondence also receives a higher name. It becomes communion. Other names there are for it, religious and theological. It may be included in a general expression, Faith; or we may call it by a personal and specific term, Love. For the knowing of a Whole so great involves the co-operation of many parts. Communion with God--can it be demonstrated in terms of Science that this is a correspondence which will never break? We do not appeal to Science for such a testimony. We have asked for its conception of an Eternal Life; and we have received for answer that Eternal Life would consist in a correspondence which should never cease, with an Environment which should never pass away. And yet what would Science demand of a perfect correspondence that is not met by this, _the knowing of God_? There is no other correspondence which could satisfy one at least of the conditions. Not one could be named which would not bear on the face of it the mark and pledge of its mortality. But this, to know God, stands alone. To know God, to be linked with God, to be linked with Eternity--if this is not the "eternal existence" of biology, what can more nearly approach it? And yet we are still a great way off--to establish a communication with the Eternal is not to secure Eternal Life. It must be assumed that the communication could be sustained. And to assume this would be to beg the question. So that we have still to prove Eternal Life. But let it be again repeated, we are not here seeking proofs. We are seeking light. We are merely reconnoitring from the furthest promontory of Science if so be that through the haze we may discern the outline of a distant coast and come to some conclusion as to the possibility of landing. But, it may be replied, it is not open to any one handling the question of Immortality from the side of Science to remain neutral as to the question of fact. It is not enough to announce that he has no addition to make to the positive argument. This may be permitted with reference to other points of contact between Science and Religion, but not with this. We are told this question is settled--that there is no positive side. Science meets the entire conception of Immortality with a direct negative. In the face of a powerful consensus against even the possibility of a Future Life, to content one's self with saying that Science pretended to no argument in favor of it would be at once impertinent and dishonest. We must therefore devote ourselves for a moment to the question of possibility. The problem is, with a material body and a mental organization inseparably connected with it, to bridge the grave. Emotion, volition, thought itself, are functions of the brain. When the brain is impaired, they are impaired. When the brain is not, they are not. Everything ceases with the dissolution of the material fabric; muscular activity and mental activity perish alike. With the pronounced positive statements on this point from many departments of modern Science we are all familiar. The fatal verdict is recorded by a hundred hands and with scarcely a shadow of qualification. "Unprejudiced philosophy is compelled to reject the idea of an individual immortality and of a personal continuance after death. With the decay and dissolution of its material substratum, through which alone it has acquired a conscious existence and become a person, and upon which it was dependent, the spirit must cease to exist."[72] To the same effect Vogt: "Physiology decides definitely and categorically against individual immortality, as against any special existence of the soul. The soul does not enter the fœtus like the evil spirit into persons possessed, but is a product of the development of the brain, just as muscular activity is a product of muscular development, and secretion a product of glandular development." After a careful review of the position of recent Science with regard to the whole doctrine, Mr. Graham sums up thus: "Such is the argument of Science, seemingly decisive against a future life. As we listen to her array of syllogisms, our hearts die within us. The hopes of men, placed in one scale to be weighed, seem to fly up against the massive weight of her evidence, placed in the other. It seems as if all our arguments were vain and unsubstantial, as if our future expectations were the foolish dreams of children, as if there could not be any other possible verdict arrived at upon the evidence brought forward."[73] Can we go on in the teeth of so real an obstruction? Has not our own weapon turned against us, Science abolishing with authoritative hand the very truth we are asking it to define? What the philosopher has to throw into the other scale can be easily indicated. Generally speaking, he demurs to the dogmatism of the conclusion. That mind and brain react, that the mental and the physiological processes are related, and very intimately related, is beyond controversy. But how they are related, he submits, is still altogether unknown. The correlation of mind and brain do not involve their identity. And not a few authorities accordingly have consistently hesitated to draw any conclusion at all. Even Büchner's statement turns out, on close examination, to be tentative in the extreme. In prefacing his chapter on Personal Continuance, after a single sentence on the dependence of the soul and its manifestations upon a material substratum, he remarks, "Though we are unable to form a definite idea as to the _how_ of this connection, we are still by these facts justified in asserting, that the mode of this connection renders it _apparently_ impossible that they should continue to exist separately."[74] There is, therefore, a flaw at this point in the argument for materialism. It may not help the spiritualist in the least degree positively. He may be as far as ever from a theory of how consciousness could continue without the material tissue. But his contention secures for him the right of speculation. The path beyond may lie in hopeless gloom; but it is not barred. He may bring forward his theory if he will. And this is something. For a permission to go on is often the most that Science can grant to Religion. Men have taken advantage of this loophole in various ways. And though it cannot be said that these speculations offer us more than a probability, this is still enough to combine with the deep-seated expectation in the bosom of mankind and give fresh luster to the hope of a future life. Whether we find relief in the theory of a simple dualism; whether with Ulrici we further define the soul as an invisible enswathement of the body, material yet non-atomic; whether, with the "Unseen Universe," we are helped by the spectacle of known forms of matter shading off into an ever-growing subtilty, mobility, and immateriality; or whether, with Wundt, we regard the soul as "the ordered unity of many elements," it is certain that shapes can be given to the conception of a correspondence which shall bridge the grave such as to satisfy minds too much accustomed to weigh evidence to put themselves off with fancies. But whether the possibilities of physiology or the theories of philosophy do or do not substantially assist us in realizing Immortality, is to Religion, to Religion at least regarded from the present point of view, of inferior moment. The fact of Immortality rests for us on a different basis. Probably, indeed, after all the Christian philosopher never engaged himself in a more superfluous task than in seeking along physiological lines to find room for a soul. The theory of Christianity has only to be fairly stated to make manifest its thorough independence of all the usual speculations on Immortality. The theory is not that thought, volition, or emotion, as such are to survive the grave. The difficulty of holding a doctrine in this form, in spite of what has been advanced to the contrary, in spite of the hopes and wishes of mankind, in spite of all the scientific and philosophical attempts to make it tenable, is still profound. No secular theory of personal continuance, as even Butler acknowledged, does not equally demand the eternity of the brute. No secular theory defines the point in the chain of Evolution at which organisms became endowed with Immortality. No secular theory explains the condition of the endowment, nor indicates its goal. And if we have nothing more to fan hope than the unexplored mystery of the whole region, or the unknown remainders among the potencies of Life, then, as those who have "hope only in this world," we are "of all men the most miserable." When we turn, on the other hand, to the doctrine as it came from the lips of Christ, we find ourselves in an entirely different region. He makes no attempt to project the material into the immaterial. The old elements, however refined and subtle as to their matter, are not in themselves to inherit the Kingdom of God. That which is flesh is flesh. Instead of attaching Immortality to the natural organism, He introduces a new and original factor which none of the secular, and few even of the theological theories, seem to take sufficiently into account. To Christianity, "he that hath the Son of God hath Life, and he that hath not the Son hath not Life." This, as we take it, defines the correspondence which is to bridge the grave. This is the clue to the nature of the Life that lies at the back of the spiritual organism. And this is the true solution of the mystery of Eternal Life. There lies a something at the back of the correspondences of the spiritual organism--just as there lies a something at the back of the natural correspondences. To say that Life is a correspondence is only to express the partial truth. There is something behind. Life manifests itself in correspondences. But what determines them? The organism exhibits a variety of correspondences. What organizes them? As in the natural, so in the spiritual, there is a Principle of Life. We cannot get rid of that term. However clumsy, however provisional, however much a mere cloak for ignorance, Science as yet is unable to dispense with the idea of a Principle of Life. We must work with the word till we get a better. Now that which determines the correspondence of the spiritual organism is a Principle of Spiritual Life. It is a new and Divine Possession. He that hath the Son hath Life; conversely, he that hath Life hath the Son. And this indicates at once the quality and the quantity of the correspondence which is to bridge the grave. He that hath Life hath _the Son_. He possesses the Spirit of a Son. That spirit is, so to speak, organized within him by the Son. It is the manifestation of the new nature--of which more anon. The fact to note at present is that this is not an organic correspondence, but a spiritual correspondence. It comes not from generation, but from regeneration. The relation between the spiritual man and his Environment is, in theological language, a filial relation. With the new Spirit, the filial correspondence, he knows the Father--and this is Life Eternal. This is not only the real relation, but the only possible relation: "Neither knoweth any man the Father save the Son, and he to whomsoever the Son will reveal Him." And this on purely natural grounds. It takes the Divine to know the Divine--but in no more mysterious sense than it takes the human to understand the human. The analogy, indeed, for the whole field here has been finely expressed already by Paul: "What man," he asks, "knoweth the things of a man, save the spirit of man which is in him? even so the things of God knoweth no man, but the Spirit of God. Now we have received, not the spirit of the world, but the Spirit which is of God; that we might know the things that are freely given to us of God."[75] It were idle, such being the quality of the new relation, to add that this also contains the guarantee of its eternity. Here at last is a correspondence which will never cease. Its powers in bridging the grave have been tried. The correspondence of the spiritual man possesses the supernatural virtues of the Resurrection and the Life. It is known by former experiment to have survived the "changes in the physical state of the environment," and those "mechanical actions" and "variations of available food," which Mr. Herbert Spencer tells us are "liable to stop the processes going on in the organism." In short, this is a correspondence which at once satisfies the demands of Science and Religion. In mere quantity it is different from every other correspondence known. Setting aside everything else in Religion, everything adventitious, local, and provisional; dissecting in to the bone and marrow we find this--a correspondence which can never break with an Environment which can never change. Here is a relation established with Eternity. The passing years lay no limiting hand on it. Corruption injures it not. It survives Death. It, and it only, will stretch beyond the grave and be found inviolate-- "When the moon is old, And the stars are cold, And the books of the Judgment-day unfold." The misgiving which will creep sometimes over the brightest faith has already received its expression and its rebuke: "Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword?" Shall these "changes in the physical state of the environment" which threaten death to the natural man destroy the spiritual? Shall death, or life, or angels, or principalities, or powers, arrest or tamper with his eternal correspondences? "Nay, in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him that loved us. For I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor principalities, nor powers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor height, nor depth, nor any other creature, shall be able to separate us from the love of God, which is in Christ Jesus our Lord."[76] It may seem an objection to some that the "perfect correspondence" should come to man in so extraordinary a way. The earlier stages in the doctrine are promising enough; they are entirely in line with Nature. And if Nature had also furnished the "perfect correspondence" demanded for an Eternal Life the position might be unassailable. But this sudden reference to a something outside the natural Environment destroys the continuity, and discovers a permanent weakness in the whole theory? To which there is a twofold reply. In the first place, to go outside what we call Nature is not to go outside Environment. Nature, the natural Environment, is only a part of Environment. There is another large part which, though some profess to have no correspondence with it, is not on that account unreal, or even unnatural. The mental and moral world is unknown to the plant. But it is real. It cannot be affirmed either that it is unnatural to the plant; although it might be said that from the point of view of the Vegetable Kingdom it was _supernatural_. Things are natural or supernatural simply according to where one stands. Man is supernatural to the mineral; God is supernatural to the man. When a mineral is seized upon by the living plant and elevated to the organic kingdom, no trespass against Nature is committed. It merely enters a larger Environment, which before was supernatural to it, but which now is entirely natural. When the heart of a man, again, is seized upon by the quickening Spirit of God, no further violence is done to natural law. It is another case of the inorganic, so to speak, passing into the organic. But in the second place, it is complained as if it were an enormity in itself that the spiritual correspondence should be furnished from the spiritual world. And to this the answer lies in the same direction. Correspondence in any case is the gift of Environment. The natural Environment gives men their natural faculties; the spiritual affords them their spiritual faculties. It is natural for the spiritual Environment to supply the spiritual faculties; it would be quite unnatural for the natural Environment to do it. The natural law of Biogenesis forbids it; the moral fact that the finite cannot comprehend the Infinite is against it; the spiritual principle that flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God renders it absurd. Not, however, that the spiritual faculties are, as it were, manufactured in the spiritual world and supplied ready-made to the spiritual organism--forced upon it as an external equipment. This certainly is not involved in saying that the spiritual faculties are furnished by the spiritual world. Organisms are not added to by accretion, as in the case of minerals, but by growth. And the spiritual faculties are organized in the spiritual protoplasm of the soul, just as other faculties are organized in the protoplasm of the body. The plant is made of materials which have once been inorganic. An organizing principle not belonging to their kingdom lays hold of them and elaborates them until they have correspondences with the kingdom to which the organizing principle belonged. Their original organizing principle, if it can be called by this name, was Crystallization; so that we have now a distinctly foreign power organizing in totally new and higher directions. In the spiritual world, similarly, we find an organizing principle at work among the materials of the organic kingdom, performing a further miracle, but not a different kind of miracle, producing organizations of a novel kind, but not by a novel method. The second process, in fact, is simply what an enlightened evolutionist would have expected from the first. It marks the natural and legitimate progress of the development. And this in the line of the true Evolution--not the _linear_ Evolution, which would look for the development of the natural man through powers already inherent, as if one were to look to Crystallization to accomplish the development of the mineral into the plant--but that larger form of Evolution which includes among its factors the double Law of Biogenesis and the immense further truth that this involves. What is further included in this complex correspondence we shall have opportunity to illustrate afterward.[77] Meantime let it be noted on what the Christian argument for Immortality really rests. It stands upon the pedestal on which the theologian rests the whole of historical Christianity--the Resurrection of Jesus Christ. It ought to be placed in the forefront of all Christian teaching that Christ's mission on earth was to give men Life. "I am come," He said, "that ye might have Life, and that ye might have it more abundantly." And that He meant literal Life, literal spiritual and Eternal Life, is clear from the whole course of His teaching and acting. To impose a metaphorical meaning on the commonest word of the New Testament is to violate every canon of interpretation, and at the same time to charge the greatest of teachers with persistently mystifying His hearers by an unusual use of so exact a vehicle for expressing definite thought as the Greek language, and that on the most momentous subject of which He ever spoke to men. It is a canon of interpretation, according to Alford, that "a figurative sense of words is never admissible except when required by the context." The context, in most cases, is not only directly unfavorable to a figurative meaning, but in innumerable instances in Christ's teaching Life is broadly contrasted with Death. In the teaching of the apostles, again, we find that, without exception, they accepted the term in its simple literal sense. Reuss defines the apostolic belief with his usual impartiality when--and the quotation is doubly pertinent here--he discovers in the apostle's conception of Life, first, "the idea of a real existence, an existence such as is proper to God and to the Word; an imperishable existence--that is to say, not subject to the vicissitudes and imperfections of the finite world. This primary idea is repeatedly expressed, at least in a negative form; it leads to a doctrine of immortality, or, to speak more correctly, of life, far surpassing any that had been expressed in the formulas of the current philosophy or theology, and resting upon premises and conceptions altogether different. In fact, it can dispense both with the philosophical thesis of the immateriality or indestructibility of the human soul, and with the theological thesis of a miraculous corporeal reconstruction of our person; theses, the first of which is altogether foreign to the religion of the Bible, and the second absolutely opposed to reason." Second, "the idea of life, as it is conceived in this system, implies the idea of a power, an operation, a communication, since this life no longer remains, so to speak, latent or passive in God and in the Word, but through them reaches the believer. It is not a mental somnolent thing; it is not a plant without fruit; it is a germ which is to find fullest development."[78] If we are asked to define more clearly what is meant by this mysterious endowment of Life, we again hand over the difficulty to Science. When Science can define the Natural Life and the Physical Force we may hope for further clearness on the nature and action of the Spiritual Powers. The effort to detect the living Spirit must be at least as idle as the attempt to subject protoplasm to microscopic examination in the hope of discovering Life. We are warned, also, not to expect too much. "Thou canst not tell whence it cometh or whither it goeth." This being its quality, when the Spiritual Life is discovered in the laboratory it will possibly be time to give it up altogether. It may say, as Socrates of his soul, "You may bury me--if you can catch me." Science never corroborates a spiritual truth without illuminating it. The threshold of Eternity is a place where many shadows meet. And the light of Science here, where everything is so dark, is welcome a thousand times. Many men would be religious if they knew where to begin; many would be more religious if they were sure where it would end. It is not indifference that keeps some men from God, but ignorance. "Good Master, what must I do to inherit Eternal Life?" is still the deepest question of the age. What is Religion? What am I to believe? What seek with all my heart and soul and mind?--this is the imperious question sent up to consciousness from the depths of being in all earnest hours; sent down again, alas, with many of us, time after time, unanswered. Into all our thought and work and reading this question pursues us. But the theories are rejected one by one; the great books are returned sadly to their shelves, the years pass, and the problem remains unsolved. The confusion of tongues here is terrible. Every day a new authority announces himself. Poets, philosophers, preachers try their hand on us in turn. New prophets arise, and beseech us for our soul's sake to give ear to them--at last in an hour of inspiration they have discovered the final truth. Yet the doctrine of yesterday is challenged by a fresh philosophy to-day: and the creed of to-day will fall in turn before the criticism of to-morrow. Increase of knowledge increaseth sorrow. And at length the conflicting truths, like the beams of light in the laboratory experiment, combine in the mind to make total darkness. But here are two outstanding authorities agreed--not men, not philosophers, not creeds. Here is the voice of God and the voice of Nature. I cannot be wrong if I listen to them. Sometimes when uncertain of a voice from its very loudness, we catch the missing syllable in the echo. In God and Nature we have Voice and Echo. When I hear both, I am assured. My sense of hearing does not betray me twice. I recognize the Voice in the Echo, the Echo makes me certain of the Voice; I listen and I know. The question of a Future Life is a biological question. Nature may be silent on other problems of Religion; but here she has a right to speak. The whole confusion around the doctrine of Eternal Life has arisen from making it a question of Philosophy. We shall do ill to refuse a hearing to any speculation of Philosophy; the ethical relations here especially are intimate and real. But in the first instance Eternal Life, as a question of _Life_, is a problem for Biology. The soul is a living organism. And for any question as to the soul's Life we must appeal to Life-science. And what does the Life-science teach? That if I am to inherit Eternal Life, I must cultivate a correspondence with the Eternal. This is a simple proposition, for Nature is always simple. I take this proposition, and, leaving Nature, proceed to fill it in. I search everywhere for a clue to the Eternal. I ransack literature for a definition of a correspondence between man and God. Obviously that can only come from one source. And the analogies of Science permits us to apply to it. All knowledge lies in Environment. When I want to know about minerals I go to minerals. When I want to know about flowers I go to flowers. And they tell me. In their own way they speak to me, each in its own way, and each for itself--not the mineral for the flower, which is impossible, nor the flower for the mineral, which is also impossible. So if I want to know about Man, I go to his part of the Environment. And he tells me about himself, not as the plant or the mineral, for he is neither, but in his own way. And if I want to know about God, I go to His part of the Environment. And He tells me about Himself, not as a Man, for He is not Man, but in His own way. And just as naturally as the flower and the mineral and the Man, each in their own way, tell me about themselves, He tells me about Himself. He very strangely condescends indeed in making things plain to me, actually assuming for a time the Form of a Man that I at my poor level may better see Him. This is my opportunity to know Him. This incarnation is God making Himself accessible to human thought--God opening to man the possibility of correspondence through Jesus Christ. And this correspondence and this Environment are those I seek. He Himself assures me, "This is Life Eternal, that they might know Thee, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom Thou hast sent." Do I not now discern the deeper meaning in "_Jesus Christ whom Thou hast sent_?" Do I not better understand with what vision and rapture the profoundest of the disciples exclaims, "The Son of God is come, and hath given us an understanding that we might know Him that is True?"[79] Having opened correspondence with the Eternal Environment, the subsequent stages are in the line of all other normal development. We have but to continue, to deepen, to extend, and to enrich the correspondence that has been begun. And we shall soon find to our surprise that this is accompanied by another and parallel process. The action is not all upon our side. The Environment also will be found to correspond. The influence of Environment is one of the greatest and most substantial of modern biological doctrines. Of the power of Environment to form or transform organisms, of its ability to develop or suppress function, of its potency in determining growth, and generally of its immense influence in Evolution, there is no need now to speak. But Environment is now acknowledged to be one of the most potent factors in the Evolution of Life. The influence of Environment too seems to increase rather than diminish as we approach the higher forms of being. The highest forms are the most mobile; their capacity of change is the greatest; they are, in short, most easily acted on by Environment. And not only are the highest organisms the most mobile, but the highest part of the highest organisms are more mobile than the lower. Environment can do little, comparatively, in the direction of inducing variation in the body of a child: but how plastic is its mind! How infinitely sensitive is its soul! How infallibly can it be turned to music or to dissonance by the moral harmony or discord of its outward lot! How decisively indeed are we not all formed and moulded, made or unmade, by external circumstance! Might we not all confess with Ulysses-- "I am a part of all that I have met." Much more, then, shall we look for the influence of Environment on the spiritual nature of him who has opened correspondence with God. Reaching out his eager and quickened faculties to the spiritual world around him, shall he not become spiritual? In vital contact with Holiness, shall he not become holy? Breathing now an atmosphere of ineffable Purity, shall he miss becoming pure? Walking with God from day to day, shall he fail to be taught of God? Growth in grace is sometimes described as a strange, mystical, and unintelligible process. It is mystical, but neither strange nor unintelligible. It proceeds according to Natural Law, and the leading factor in sanctification is Influence of Environment. The possibility of it depends upon the mobility of the organism; the result, on the extent and frequency of certain correspondences. These facts insensibly lead on to a further suggestion. Is it not possible that these biological truths may carry with them the clue to still profounder philosophy--even that of Regeneration? Evolutionists tell us that by the influence of environment certain aquatic animals have become adapted to a terrestrial mode of life. Breathing normally by gills, as the result and reward of a continued effort carried on from generation to generation to inspire the air of heaven direct, they have slowly acquired the lung-function. In the young organism, true to the ancestral type, the gill still persists--as in the tadpole of the common frog. But as maturity approaches the true lung appears; the gill gradually transfers its task to the higher organ. It then becomes atrophied and disappears, and finally respiration in the adult is conducted by lungs alone.[80] We may be far, in the meantime, from saying that this is proved. It is for those who accept it to deny the justice of the spiritual analogy. Is religion to them unscientific in its doctrine of Regeneration? Will the evolutionist who admits the regeneration of the frog under the modifying influence of a continued correspondence with a new environment, care to question the possibility of the soul acquiring such a faculty as that of Prayer, the marvelous breathing-function of the new creature, when in contact with the atmosphere of a besetting God? Is the change from the earthly to the heavenly more mysterious than the change from the aquatic to the terrestrial mode of life? Is Evolution to stop with the organic? If it be objected that it has taken ages to perfect the function in the batrachian, the reply is, that it will take ages to perfect the function in the Christian. For every thousand years the natural evolution will allow for the development of its organism, the Higher Biology will grant its product millions. We have indeed spoken of the spiritual correspondence as already perfect--but it is perfect only as the bud is perfect. "It doth not yet appear what it shall be," any more than it appeared a million years ago what the evolving batrachian would be. But to return. We have been dealing with the scientific aspects of communion with God. Insensibly, from quantity we have been led to speak of quality. And enough has now been advanced to indicate generally the nature of that correspondence with which is necessarily associated Eternal Life. There remain but one or two details to which we must lastly, and very briefly, address ourselves. The quality of everlastingness belongs, as we have seen, to a single correspondence, or rather to a single set of correspondences. But it is apparent that before this correspondence can take full and final effect a further process is necessary. By some means it must be separated from all the other correspondences of the organism which do not share its peculiar quality. In this life it is restrained by these other correspondences. They may contribute to it, or hinder it; but they are essentially of a different order. They belong not to Eternity but to Time, and to this present world; and, unless some provision is made for dealing with them, they will detain the aspiring organism in this present world till Time is ended. Of course, in a sense, all that belongs to Time belongs also to Eternity; but these lower correspondences are in their nature unfitted for an Eternal Life. Even if they were perfect in their relation to their Environment, they would still not be Eternal. However opposed, apparently, to the scientific definition of Eternal Life, it is yet true that perfect correspondence with Environment is not Eternal Life. A very important word in the complete definition is, in this sentence, omitted. On that word it has not been necessary hitherto, and for obvious reasons, to place any emphasis, but when we come to deal with false pretenders to Immortality we must return to it. Were the definition complete as it stands, it might, with the permission of the psycho-physiologist, guarantee the Immortality of every living thing. In the dog, for instance, the material framework giving way at death might leave the released canine spirit still free to inhabit the old Environment. And so with every creature which had ever established a conscious relation with surrounding things. Now the difficulty in framing a theory of Eternal Life has been to construct one which will exclude the brute creation, drawing the line rigidly at man, or at least, somewhere within the human race. Not that we need object to the Immortality of the dog, or of the whole inferior creation. Nor that we need refuse a place to any intelligible speculation which would people the earth to-day with the invisible forms of all things that have ever lived. Only we still insist that this is not Eternal Life. And why? Because their Environment is not Eternal. Their correspondence, however firmly established, is established with that which shall pass away. An Eternal Life demands an Eternal Environment. The demand for a perfect Environment as well as for a perfect correspondence is less clear in Mr. Herbert Spencer's definition than it might be. But it is an essential factor. An organism might remain true to its Environment, but what if the Environment played it false? If the organism possessed the power to change, it could adapt itself to successive changes in the Environment. And if this were guaranteed we should also have the conditions for Eternal Life fulfilled. But what if the Environment passed away altogether? What if the earth swept suddenly into the sun? This is a change of Environment against which there could be no precaution and for which there could be as little provision. With a changing Environment even, there must always remain the dread and possibility of a falling out of correspondence. At the best, Life would be uncertain. But with a changeless Environment--such as that possessed by the spiritual organism--the perpetuity of the correspondence, so far as the external relation is concerned, is guaranteed. This quality of permanence in the Environment distinguishes the religious relation from every other. Why should not the musician's life be an Eternal Life? Because, for one thing, the musical world, the Environment with which he corresponds, is not eternal. Even if his correspondence in itself could last, eternally, the environing material things with which he corresponds must pass away. His soul might last forever--but not his violin. So the man of the world might last forever--but not the world. His Environment is not eternal; nor are even his correspondences--the world passeth away _and the lust thereof_. We find then that man, or the spiritual man, is equipped with two sets of correspondences. One set possesses the quality of everlastingness, the other is temporal. But unless these are separated by some means the temporal will continue to impair and hinder the eternal. The final preparation, therefore, for the inheriting of Eternal Life must consist in the abandonment of the non-eternal elements. These must be unloosed and dissociated from the higher elements. And this is effected by a closing catastrophe--Death. Death ensues because certain relations in the organism are not adjusted to certain relations in the Environment. There will come a time in each history when the imperfect correspondences of the organism will betray themselves by a failure to compass some necessary adjustment. This is why Death is associated with Imperfection. Death is the necessary result of Imperfection, and the necessary end of it. Imperfect correspondence gives imperfect and uncertain Life. "Perfect correspondence," on the other hand, according to Mr. Herbert Spencer, would be "perfect Life." To abolish Death, therefore, all that would be necessary would be to abolish Imperfection. But it is the claim of Christianity that it can abolish Death. And it is significant to notice that it does so by meeting this very demand of Science--it abolishes Imperfection. The part of the organism which begins to get out of correspondence with the Organic Environment is the only part which is in vital correspondence with it. Though a fatal disadvantage to the natural man to be thrown out of correspondence with this Environment, it is of inestimable importance to the spiritual man. For so long as it is maintained the way is barred for a further Evolution. And hence the condition necessary for the further Evolution is that the spiritual be released from the natural. That is to say, the condition of the further Evolution is Death. _Mors janua Vitæ_, therefore, becomes a scientific formula. Death, being the final shifting of all the correspondences, is the indispensable factor of the higher Life. In the language of Science, not less than of Scripture, "To die is gain." The shifting of the correspondences is done by Nature. This is its last and greatest contribution to mankind. Over the mouth of the grave the perfect and the imperfect submit to their final separation. Each goes to its own--earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust, Spirit to Spirit. "The dust shall return to the earth as it was; and the Spirit shall return unto God who gave it." FOOTNOTES: [68] "Principles of Biology," p. 82. [69] "Principles of Biology," p. 88. [70] John xvii. [71] _Vide_ Sir John Lubbock's "Ants, Bees, and Wasps," pp. 1-181. [72] Büchner: "Force and Matter," 3d Ed., p. 232. [73] "The Creed of Science," p. 169. [74] "Force and Matter," p. 231. [75] 1 Cor. ii. 11, 12. [76] Rom. viii. 35-39. [77] _Vide_ "Conformity to Type," page 287. [78] "History of Christian Theology in the Apostolic Age," vol. ii. p. 496. [79] 1 John v. 20. [80] _Vide_ also the remarkable experiments of Fräulein v. Chauvin on the Transformation of the Mexican Axolotl into Amblystoma.--Weismann's "Studies in the Theory of Descent," vol. ii. pt. iii. ENVIRONMENT. "When I talked with an ardent missionary and pointed out to him that his creed found no support in my experience, he replied: 'It is not so in your experience, but is so in the other world.' I answered: 'Other world! There is no other world. God is one and omnipresent; here or nowhere is the whole fact.'"--_Emerson._ "Ye are complete in Him."--_Paul._ "Whatever amount of power an organism expends in any shape is the correlate and equivalent of a power that was taken into it from without."--_Herbert Spencer._ Students of Biography will observe that in all well-written Lives attention is concentrated for the first few chapters upon two points. We are first introduced to the family to which the subject of memoir belonged. The grandparents, or even the more remote ancestors, are briefly sketched and their chief characteristics brought prominently into view. Then the parents themselves are photographed in detail. Their appearance and physique, their character, their disposition, their mental qualities, are set before us in a critical analysis. And finally we are asked to observe how much the father and the mother respectively have transmitted of their peculiar nature to their offspring. How faithfully the ancestral lines have met in the latest product, how mysteriously the joint characteristics of body and mind have blended, and how unexpected yet how entirely natural a recombination is the result--these points are elaborated with cumulative effect until we realize at last how little we are dealing with an independent unit, how much with a survival and reorganization of what seemed buried in the grave. In the second place, we are invited to consider more external influences--schools and schoolmasters, neighbors, home, pecuniary circumstances, scenery, and, by-and-by, the religious and political atmosphere of the time. These also we are assured have played their part in making the individual what he is. We can estimate these early influences in any particular case with but small imagination if we fail to see how powerfully they also have moulded mind and character, and in what subtle ways they have determined the course of the future life. This twofold relation of the individual, first, to his parents, and second, to his circumstances, is not peculiar to human beings. These two factors are responsible for making all living organisms what they are. When a naturalist attempts to unfold the life-history of any animal, he proceeds precisely on these same lines. Biography is really a branch of Natural History; and the biographer who discusses his hero as the resultant of these two tendencies, follows the scientific method as rigidly as Mr. Darwin in studying "Animals and Plants under Domestication." Mr. Darwin, following Weismann, long ago pointed out that there are two main factors in all Evolution--the nature of the organism and the nature of the conditions. We have chosen our illustration from the highest or human species in order to define the meaning of these factors in the clearest way; but it must be remembered that the development of man under these directive influences is essentially the same as that of any other organism in the hands of Nature. We are dealing therefore with universal Law. It will still further serve to complete the conception of the general principle if we now substitute for the casual phrases by which the factors have been described the more accurate terminology of Science. Thus what Biography describes as parental influences, Biology would speak of as Heredity; and all that is involved in the second factor--the action of external circumstances and surroundings--the naturalist would include under the single term Environment. These two, Heredity and Environment, are the master-influences of the organic world. These have made all of us what we are. These forces are still ceaselessly playing upon all our lives. And he who truly understands these influences; he who has decided how much to allow to each; he who can regulate new forces as they arise, or adjust them to the old, so directing them as at one moment to make them coöperate, at another to counteract one another, understands the rationale of personal development. To seize continuously the opportunity of more and more perfect adjustment to better and higher conditions, to balance some inward evil with some purer influence acting from without, in a word to make our Environment at the same time that it is making us--these are the secrets of a well-ordered and successful life. In the spiritual world, also, the subtle influences which form and transform the soul are Heredity and Environment. And here especially where all is invisible, where much that we feel to be real is yet so ill-defined, it becomes of vital practical moment to clarify the atmosphere as far as possible with conceptions borrowed from the natural life. Few things are less understood than the conditions of the spiritual life. The distressing incompetence of which most of us are conscious in trying to work out our spiritual experience is due perhaps less to the diseased will which we commonly blame for it than to imperfect knowledge of the right conditions. It does not occur to us how natural the spiritual is. We still strive for some strange transcendent thing; we seek to promote life by methods as unnatural as they prove unsuccessful; and only the utter incomprehensibility of the whole region prevents us seeing fully--what we already half-suspect--how completely we are missing the road. Living in the spiritual world, nevertheless, is just as simple as living in the natural world; and it is the same kind of simplicity. It is the same kind of simplicity for it is the same kind of world--there are not two kinds of worlds. The conditions of life in the one are the conditions of life in the other. And till these conditions are sensibly grasped, as the conditions of all life, it is impossible that the personal effort after the highest life should be other than a blind struggle carried on in fruitless sorrow and humiliation. Of these two universal factors, Heredity and Environment, it is unnecessary to balance the relative importance here. The main influence, unquestionably, must be assigned to the former. In practice, however, and for an obvious reason, we are chiefly concerned with the latter. What Heredity has to do for us is determined outside ourselves. No man can select his own parents. But every man to some extent can choose his own Environment. His relation to it, however largely determined by Heredity in the first instance, is always open to alteration. And so great is his control over Environment and so radical its influence over him, that he can so direct it as either to undo, modify, perpetuate or intensify the earlier hereditary influence within certain limits. But the aspects of Environment which we have now to consider do not involve us in questions of such complexity. In what high and mystical sense, also, Heredity applies to the spiritual organism we need not just now inquire. In the simpler relations of the more external factor we shall find a large and fruitful field for study. The influence of Environment may be investigated in two main aspects. First, one might discuss the modern and very interesting question as to the power of Environment to induce what is known to recent science as Variation. A change in the surroundings of any animal, it is now well-known, can so react upon it as to cause it to change. By the attempt, conscious or unconscious, to adjust itself to the new conditions, a true physiological change is gradually wrought within the organism. Hunter, for example, in a classical experiment, so changed the Environment of a sea-gull by keeping it in captivity that it could only secure a grain diet. The effect was to modify the stomach of the bird, normally adapted to a fish diet, until in time it came to resemble in structure the gizzard of an ordinary grain-feeder such as the pigeon. Holmgrén again reversed this experiment by feeding pigeons for a lengthened period on a meat-diet, with the result that the gizzard became transformed into the carnivorous stomach. Mr. Alfred Russel Wallace mentions the case of a Brazilian parrot which changes its color from green to red or yellow when fed on the fat of certain fishes. Not only changes of food, however, but changes of climate and of temperature, changes in surrounding organisms, in the case of marine animals even changes of pressure, of ocean currents, of light, and of many other circumstances, are known to exert a powerful modifying influence upon living organisms. These relations are still being worked out in many directions, but the influence of Environment as a prime factor in Variation is now a recognized doctrine of science.[81] Even the popular mind has been struck with the curious adaptation of nearly all animals to their _habitat_, for example in the matter of color. The sandy hue of the sole and flounder, the white of the polar bear with its suggestion of Arctic snows, the stripes of the Bengal tiger--as if the actual reeds of its native jungle had nature-printed themselves on its hide;--these, and a hundred others which will occur to every one, are marked instances of adaptation to Environment, induced by Natural Selection or otherwise, for the purpose, obviously in these cases at least, of protection. To continue the investigation of the modifying action of Environment into the moral and spiritual spheres, would be to open a fascinating and suggestive inquiry. One might show how the moral man is acted upon and changed continuously by the influences, secret and open, of his surroundings, by the tone of society, by the company he keeps, by his occupation, by the books he reads, by Nature, by all, in short, that constitutes the habitual atmosphere of his thoughts and the little world of his daily choice. Or one might go deeper still and prove how the spiritual life also is modified from outside sources--its health or disease, its growth or decay, all its changes for better or for worse being determined by the varying and successive circumstances in which the religious habits are cultivated. But we must rather transfer our attention to a second aspect of Environment, not perhaps so fascinating but yet more important. So much of the modern discussion of Environment revolves round the mere question of Variation that one is apt to overlook a previous question. Environment as a factor in life is not exhausted when we have realized its modifying influence. Its significance is scarcely touched. The great function of Environment is not to modify but to _sustain_. In sustaining life, it is true, it modifies. But the latter influence is incidental, the former essential. Our Environment is that in which we live and move and have our being. Without it we should neither live or move nor have any being. In the organism lies the principle of life; in the Environment are the conditions of life. Without the fulfillment of these conditions, which are wholly supplied by Environment, there can be no life. An organism in itself is but a part; Nature is its complement. Alone, cut off from its surroundings, it is not. Alone, cut off from my surroundings, I am not--physically I am not. I am, only as I am sustained. I continue only as I receive. My Environment may modify me, but it has first to keep me. And all the time its secret transforming power is indirectly moulding body and mind it is directly active in the more open task of ministering to my myriad wants and from hour to hour sustaining life itself. To understand the sustaining influence of Environment in the animal world, one has only to recall what the biologist terms the extrinsic or subsidiary conditions of vitality. Every living thing normally requires for its development an Environment containing air, light, heat, and water. In addition to these, if vitality is to be prolonged for any length of time, and if it is to be accompanied with growth and the expenditure of energy, there must be a constant supply of food. When we simply remember how indispensable food is to growth and work, and when we further bear in mind that the food-supply is solely contributed by the Environment, we shall realize at once the meaning and the truth of the proposition that without Environment there can be no life. Seventy per cent. at least of the human body is made of pure water, the rest of gases and earth. These have all come from Environment. Through the secret pores of the skin two pounds of water are exhaled daily from every healthy adult. The supply is kept up by Environment. The Environment is really an unappropriated part of ourselves. Definite portions are continuously abstracted from it and added to the organism. And so long as the organism continues to grow, act, think, speak, work, or perform any other function demanding a supply of energy, there is a constant, simultaneous, and proportionate drain upon its surroundings. This is a truth in the physical, and therefore in the spiritual, world of so great importance that we shall not mis-spend time if we follow it, for further confirmation, into another department of nature. Its significance in Biology is self-evident; let us appeal to Chemistry. When a piece of coal is thrown on the fire, we say that it will radiate into the room a certain quantity of heat. This heat, in the popular conception, is supposed to reside in the coal and to be set free during the process of combustion. In reality, however, the heat energy is only in part contained in the coal. It is contained just as truly in the coal's Environment--that is to say, in the oxygen of the air. The atoms of carbon which compose the coal have a powerful affinity for the oxygen of the air. Whenever they are made to approach within a certain distance of one another, by the initial application of heat, they rush together with inconceivable velocity. The heat which appears at this moment, comes neither from the carbon alone, nor from the oxygen alone. These two substances are really inconsumable, and continue to exist, after they meet in a combined form, as carbonic acid gas. The heat is due to the energy developed by the chemical embrace, the precipitate rushing together of the molecules of carbon and the molecules of oxygen. It comes, therefore, partly from the coal and partly from the Environment. Coal alone never could produce heat, neither alone could Environment. The two are mutually dependent. And although in nearly all the arts we credit everything to the substance which we can weigh and handle, it is certain that in the most cases the larger debt is due to an invisible Environment. This is one of those great commonplaces which slip out of general reckoning by reason of their very largeness and simplicity. How profound, nevertheless, are the issues which hang on this elementary truth, we shall discover immediately. Nothing in this age is more needed in every department of knowledge than the rejuvenescence of the commonplace. In the spiritual world especially, he will be wise who courts acquaintance with the most ordinary and transparent facts of Nature; and in laying the foundations for a religious life he will make no unworthy beginning who carries with him an impressive sense of so obvious a truth as that without Environment there can be no life. For what does this amount to in the spiritual world? Is it not merely the scientific re-statement of the reiterated aphorism of Christ, "Without Me ye can do nothing?" There is in the spiritual organism a principle of life; but that is not self-existent. It requires a second factor, a something in which to live and move and have its being, an Environment. Without this it cannot live or move or have any being. Without Environment the soul is as the carbon without the oxygen, as the fish without the water, as the animal frame without the extrinsic conditions of vitality. And what is the spiritual Environment? It is God. Without this, therefore, there is no life, no thought, no energy, nothing--"without Me ye can do nothing." The cardinal error in the religious life is to attempt to live without an Environment. Spiritual experience occupies itself, not too much, but too exclusively, with one factor--the soul. We delight in dissecting this much tortured faculty, from time to time, in search of a certain something which we call our faith--forgetting that faith is but an attitude, an empty hand for grasping an environing Presence. And when we feel the need of a power by which to overcome the world, how often do we not seek to generate it within ourselves by some forced process, some fresh girding of the will, some strained activity which only leaves the soul in further exhaustion? To examine ourselves is good; but useless unless we also examine Environment. To bewail our weakness is right, but not remedial. The cause must be investigated as well as the result. And yet, because we never see the other half of the problem, our failures even fail to instruct us. After each new collapse we begin our life anew, but on the old conditions; and the attempt ends as usual in the repetition--in the circumstances the inevitable repetition--of the old disaster. Not that at times we do not obtain glimpses of the true state of the case. After seasons of much discouragement, with the sore sense upon us of our abject feebleness, we do confer with ourselves, insisting for the thousandth time, "My soul, wait thou only upon God." But the lesson is soon forgotten. The strength supplied we speedily credit to our own achievement; and even the temporary success is mistaken for a symptom of improved inward vitality. Once more we become self-existent. Once more we go on living without an Environment. And once more, after days of wasting without repairing, of spending without replenishing, we begin to perish with hunger, only returning to God again, as a last resort, when we have reached starvation point. Now why do we do this? Why do we seek to breathe without an atmosphere, to drink without a well? Why this unscientific attempt to sustain life for weeks at a time without an Environment? It is because we have never truly seen the necessity for an Environment. We have not been working with a principle. We are told to "wait only upon God," but we do not know why. It has never been as clear to us that without God the soul will die as that without food the body will perish. In short, we have never comprehended the doctrine of the Persistence of Force. Instead of being content to transform energy we have tried to create it. The Law of Nature here is as clear as Science can make it. In the words of Mr. Herbert Spencer, "It is a corollary from that primordial truth which, as we have seen, underlies all other truths, that whatever amount of power an organism expends in any shape is the correlate and equivalent of a power that was taken into it from without,"[82] We are dealing here with a simple question of dynamics. Whatever energy the soul expends must first be "taken into it from without." We are not Creators, but creatures; God is our refuge _and strength_. Communion with God, therefore, is a scientific necessity; and nothing will more help the defeated spirit which is struggling in the wreck of its religious life than a common-sense hold of this plain biological principle that without Environment he can do nothing. What he wants is not an occasional view, but a principle--a basal principle like this, broad as the universe, solid as nature. In the natural world we act upon this law unconsciously. We absorb heat, breathe air, draw on Environment all but automatically for meat and drink, for the nourishment of the senses, for mental stimulus, for all that, penetrating us from without, can prolong, enrich, and elevate life. But in the spiritual world we have all this to learn. We are new creatures, and even the bare living has to be acquired. Now the great point in learning to live is to live naturally. As closely as possible we must follow the broad, clear lines of the natural life. And there are three things especially which it is necessary for us to keep continually in view. The first is that the organism contains within itself only one-half of what is essential to life; the second is that the other half is contained in the Environment; the third, that the condition of receptivity is simple union between the organism and the Environment. Translated into the language of religion these propositions yield, and place on a scientific basis, truths of immense practical interest. To say, first, that the organism contains within itself only one-half of what is essential to life, is to repeat the evangelical confession, so worn and yet so true to universal experience, of the utter helplessness of man. Who has not come to the conclusion that he is but a part, a fraction of some larger whole? Who does not miss at every turn of his life an absent God? That man is but a part, he knows, for there is room in him for more. That God is the other part, he feels, because at times He satisfies his need. Who does not tremble often under that sicklier symptom of his incompleteness, his want of spiritual energy, his helplessness with sin? But now he understands both--the void in his life, the powerlessness of his will. He understands that, like all other energy, spiritual power is contained in Environment. He finds here at last the true root of all human frailty, emptiness, nothingness, sin. This is why "without Me ye can do nothing." Powerlessness is the normal state not only of this but of every organism--of every organism apart from its Environment. The entire dependence of the soul upon God is not an exceptional mystery, nor is man's helplessness an arbitrary and unprecedented phenomenon. It is the law of all Nature. The spiritual man is not taxed beyond the natural. He is not purposely handicapped by singular limitations or unusual incapacities. God has not designedly made the religious life as hard as possible. The arrangements for the spiritual life are the same as for the natural life. When in their hours of unbelief men challenge their Creator for placing the obstacle of human frailty in the way of their highest development, their protest is against the order of nature. They object to the sun for being the source of energy and not the engine, to the carbonic acid being in the air and not in the plant. They would equip each organism with a personal atmosphere, each brain with a private store of energy; they would grow corn in the interior of the body, and make bread by a special apparatus in the digestive organs. They must, in short, have the creature transformed into a Creator. The organism must either depend on his environment, or be self-sufficient. But who will not rather approve the arrangement by which man in his creatural life may have unbroken access to an Infinite Power? What soul will seek to remain self-luminous when it knows that "The Lord God is a _Sun_?" Who will not willingly exchange his shallow vessel for Christ's well of living water? Even if the organism, launched into being like a ship putting out to sea, possessed a full equipment, its little store must soon come to an end. But in contact with a large and bounteous Environment its supply is limitless. In every direction its resources are infinite. There is a modern school which protests against the doctrine of man's inability as the heartless fiction of a past theology. While some forms of that dogma, to any one who knows man, are incapable of defence, there are others which, to any one who knows Nature, are incapable of denial. Those who oppose it, in their jealousy for humanity, credit the organism with the properties of Environment. All true theology, on the other hand, has remained loyal to at least the root-idea in this truth. The New Testament is nowhere more impressive than where it insists on the fact of man's dependence. In its view the first step in religion is for man to feel his helplessness. Christ's first beatitude is to the poor in spirit. The condition of entrance into the spiritual kingdom is to possess the child-spirit--that state of mind combining at once the profoundest helplessness with the most artless feeling of dependence. Substantially the same idea underlies the countless passages in which Christ affirms that He has not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance. And in that farewell discourse into which the Great Teacher poured the most burning convictions of His life, He gives to this doctrine an ever increasing emphasis. No words could be more solemn or arresting than the sentence in the last great allegory devoted to this theme, "As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself except it abide in the vine, no more can ye except ye abide in Me." The word here, it will be observed again, is _cannot_. It is the imperative of natural law. Fruit-bearing without Christ is not an improbability, but an impossibility. As well expect the natural fruit to flourish without air and heat, without soil and sunshine. How thoroughly also Paul grasped this truth is apparent from a hundred pregnant passages in which he echoes his Master's teaching. To him life was hid with Christ in God. And that he embraced this not as a theory but as an experimental truth we gather from his constant confession, "When I am weak, then am I strong." This leads by a natural transition to the second of the three points we are seeking to illustrate. We have seen that the organism contains within itself only one half of what is essential to life. We have next to observe, as the complement of this, how the second half is contained in the Environment. One result of the due apprehension of our personal helplessness will be that we shall no longer waste our time over the impossible task of manufacturing energy for ourselves. Our science will bring to an abrupt end the long series of severe experiments in which we have indulged in the hope of finding a perpetual motion. And having decided upon this once for all, our first step in seeking a more satisfactory state of things must be to find a new source of energy. Following Nature, only one course is open to us. We must refer to Environment. The natural life owes all to Environment, so must the spiritual. Now the Environment of the spiritual life is God. As Nature therefore forms the complement of the natural life, God is the complement of the spiritual. The proof of this? That Nature is not more natural to my body than God is to my soul. Every animal and plant has its own Environment. And the further one inquires into the relations of the one to the other, the more one sees the marvelous intricacy and beauty of the adjustments. These wonderful adaptations of each organism to its surroundings--of the fish to the water, of the eagle to the air, of the insect to the forest bed; and of each part of every organism--the fish's swim-bladder, the eagle's eye, the insect's breathing tubes--which the old argument from design brought home to us with such enthusiasm, inspire us still with a sense of the boundless resources and skill of Nature in perfecting her arrangements for each single life. Down to the last detail the world is made for what is in it; and by whatever process things are as they are, all organisms find in surrounding Nature the ample complement of themselves. Man, too, finds in his Environment provision for all capacities, scope for the exercise of every faculty, room for the indulgence of each appetite, a just supply for every want. So the spiritual man at the apex of the pyramid of life finds in the vaster range of his Environment a provision, as much higher, it is true, as he is higher, but as delicately adjusted to his varying needs. And all this is supplied to him just as the lower organisms are ministered to by the lower environment, in the same simple ways, in the same constant sequence, as appropriately and as lavishly. We fail to praise the ceaseless ministry of the great inanimate world around us only because its kindness is unobtrusive. Nature is always noiseless. All her greatest gifts are given in secret. And we forget how truly every good and perfect gift comes from without, and from above, because no pause in her changeless beneficence teaches us the sad lesson of deprivation. It is not a strange thing, then, for the soul to find its life in God. This is its native air. God as the Environment of the soul has been from the remotest age the doctrine of all the deepest thinkers in religion. How profoundly Hebrew poetry is saturated with this high thought will appear when we try to conceive of it with this left out. True poetry is only science in another form. And long before it was possible for religion to give scientific expression to its greatest truths, men of insight uttered themselves in psalms which could not have been truer to Nature had the most modern light controlled the inspiration. "As the hart panteth after the water-brooks, so panteth my soul after Thee, O God." What fine sense of the analogy of the natural and the spiritual does not underlie these words. As the hart after its Environment, so man after his; as the water-brooks are fitly designed to meet the natural wants, so fitly does God implement the spiritual need of man. It will be noticed that in the Hebrew poets the longing for God never strikes one as morbid, or unnatural to the men who utter it. It is as natural to them to long for God as for the swallow to seek her nest. Throughout all their images no suspicion rises within us that they are exaggerating. We feel how truly they are reading themselves, their deepest selves. No false note occurs in all their aspiration. There is no weariness even in their ceaseless sighing, except the lover's weariness for the absent--if they would fly away, it is only to be at rest. Men who have no soul can only wonder at this. Men who have a soul, but with little faith, can only envy it. How joyous a thing it was to the Hebrews to seek their God! How artlessly they call upon Him to entertain them in His pavilion, to cover them with His feathers, to hide them in His secret place, to hold them in the hollow of His hand or stretch around them the everlasting arms! These men were true children of Nature. As the humming-bird among its own palm-trees, as the ephemera in the sunshine of a summer evening, so they lived their joyous lives. And even the full share of the sadder experience of life which came to all of them but drove them the further into the Secret Place, and led them with more consecration to make, as they expressed it, "the Lord their portion." All that has been said since from Marcus Aurelius to Swedenborg, from Augustine to Schleiermacher of a besetting God as the final complement of humanity is but a repetition of the Hebrew poets' faith. And even the New Testament has nothing higher to offer man than this. The psalmist's "God is our refuge and strength" is only the earlier form, less defined, less practicable, but not less noble, of Christ's "Come unto Me, and I will give you rest." There is a brief phrase of Paul's which defines the relation with almost scientific accuracy--"Ye are complete in Him." In this is summed up the whole of the Bible anthropology--the completeness of man in God, his incompleteness apart from God. If it be asked, In what is man incomplete, or, In what does God complete him? the question is a wide one. But it may serve to show at least the direction in which the Divine Environment forms the complement of human life if we ask ourselves once more what it is in life that needs complementing. And to this question we receive the significant answer that it is in the higher departments alone, or mainly, that the incompleteness of our life appears. The lower departments of Nature are already complete enough. The world itself is about as good a world as might be. It has been long in the making, its furniture is all in, its laws are in perfect working order; and although wise men at various times have suggested improvements, there is on the whole a tolerably unanimous vote of confidence in things as they exist. The Divine Environment has little more to do for this planet so far as we can see, and so far as the existing generation is concerned. Then the lower organic life of the world is also so far complete. God, through Evolution or otherwise, may still have finishing touches to add here and there, but already it is "all very good." It is difficult to conceive anything better of its kind than a lily or a cedar, an ant or an ant-eater. These organisms, so far as we can judge, lack nothing. It might be said of them, "they are complete in Nature." Of man also, of man the animal, it may be affirmed that his Environment satisfies him. He has food and drink, and good food and good drink. And there is in him no purely animal want which is not really provided for, and that apparently in the happiest possible way. But the moment we pass beyond the mere animal life we begin to come upon an incompleteness. The symptoms at first are slight, and betray themselves only by an unexplained restlessness or a dull sense of want. Then the feverishness increases, becomes more defined, and passes slowly into abiding pain. To some come darker moments when the unrest deepens into a mental agony of which all the other woes of earth are mockeries--moments when the forsaken soul can only cry in terror for the Living God. Up to a point the natural Environment supplies man's wants, beyond that it only derides him. How much in man lies beyond that point? Very much--almost all, all that makes man man. The first suspicion of the terrible truth--so for the time let us call it--wakens with the dawn of the intellectual life. It is a solemn moment when the slow-moving mind reaches at length the verge of its mental horizon, and, looking over, sees nothing more. Its straining makes the abyss but more profound. Its cry comes back without an echo. Where is the Environment to complete this rational soul? Men either find one--_One_--or spend the rest of their days in trying to shut their eyes. The alternatives of the intellectual life are Christianity or Agnosticism. The Agnostic is right when he trumpets his incompleteness. He who is not complete in Him must be forever incomplete. Still more grave becomes man's case when he begins further to explore his moral and social nature. The problems of the heart and conscience are infinitely more perplexing than those of the intellect. Has love no future? Has right no triumph? Is the unfinished self to remain unfinished? Again, the alternatives are two, Christianity or Pessimism. But when we ascend the further height of the religious nature, the crisis comes. There, without Environment, the darkness is unutterable. So maddening now becomes the mystery that men are compelled to construct an Environment for themselves. No Environment here is unthinkable. An altar of some sort men must have--God, or Nature, or Law. But the anguish of Atheism is only a negative proof of man's incompleteness. A witness more overwhelming is the prayer of the Christian. What a very strange thing, is it not, for man to pray? It is the symbol at once of his littleness and of his greatness. Here the sense of imperfection, controlled and silenced in the narrower reaches of his being, becomes audible. Now he must utter himself. The sense of need is so real, and the sense of Environment, that he calls out to it, addressing it articulately, and imploring it to satisfy his need. Surely there is nothing more touching in Nature than this? Man could never so expose himself, so break through all constraint, except from a dire necessity. It is the suddenness and unpremeditatedness of Prayer that gives it a unique value as an apologetic. Man has three questions to put to his Environment, three symbols of his incompleteness. They come from three different centers of his being. The first is the question of the intellect, What is Truth? The natural Environment answers, "Increase of Knowledge increaseth Sorrow," and "much study is a Weariness." Christ replies, "Learn of Me, and ye shall find Rest." Contrast the world's word "Weariness" with Christ's word "Rest." No other teacher since the world began has ever associated "learn" with "Rest." Learn of me, says the philosopher, and you shall find Restlessness. Learn of Me, says Christ, and ye shall find Rest. Thought, which the godless man has cursed, that eternally starved yet ever living specter, finds at last its imperishable glory; Thought is complete in Him. The second question is sent up from the moral nature, Who will show us any good? And again we have a contrast: the world's verdict, "There is none that doeth good, no, not one;" and Christ's, "There is none good but God only." And finally, there is the lonely cry of the spirit, most pathetic and most deep of all, Where is he whom my soul seeketh? And the yearning is met as before, "I looked on my right hand, and beheld, but there was no man that would know me; refuge failed me; no man cared for my soul. I cried unto Thee, O Lord: I said, Thou are my refuge and my portion in the land of the living."[83] Are these the directions in which men in these days are seeking to complete their lives? The completion of Life is just now a supreme question. It is important to observe how it is being answered. If we ask Science or Philosophy they will refer us to Evolution. The struggle for Life, they assure us, is steadily eliminating imperfect forms, and as the fittest continue to survive we shall have a gradual perfecting of being. That is to say, that completeness is to be sought for in the organism--we are to be complete in Nature and in ourselves. To Evolution, certainly, all men will look for a further perfecting of Life. But it must be an Evolution which includes all the factors. Civilization, it may be said, will deal with the second factor. It will improve the Environment step by step as it improves the organism, or the organism as it improves the Environment. This is well, and it will perfect Life up to a point. But beyond that it cannot carry us. As the possibilities of the natural Life become more defined, its impossibilities will become the more appalling. The most perfect civilization would leave the best part of us still incomplete. Men will have to give up the experiment of attempting to live in half an Environment. Half an Environment will give but half a Life. Half an Environment? He whose correspondences are with this world alone has only a thousandth part, a fraction, the mere rim and shade of an Environment, and only the fraction of a Life. How long will it take Science to believe its own creed, that the material universe we see around us is only a fragment of the universe we do not see? The very retention of the phrase "Material Universe," we are told, is the confession of our unbelief and ignorance; since "matter is the less important half of the material of the physical universe."[84] The thing to be aimed at is not an organism self-contained and self-sufficient, however high in the scale of being, but an organism complete in the whole Environment. It is open to any one to aim at a self-sufficient Life, but he will find no encouragement in Nature. The Life of the body may complete itself in the physical world; that is its legitimate Environment. The Life of the senses, high and low, may perfect itself in Nature. Even the Life of thought may find a large complement in surrounding things. But the higher thought, and the conscience, and the religious Life, can only perfect themselves in God. To make the influence of Environment stop with the natural world is to doom the spiritual nature to death. For the soul, like the body, can never perfect itself in isolation. The law for both is to be complete in the appropriate Environment. And the perfection to be sought in the spiritual world is a perfection of relation, a perfect adjustment of that which is becoming perfect to that which is perfect. The third problem, now simplified to a point, finally presents itself. Where do organism and Environment meet? How does that which is becoming perfect avail itself of its perfecting Environment? And the answer is, just as in Nature. The condition is simple receptivity. And yet this is perhaps the least simple of all conditions. It is so simple that we will not act upon it. But there is no other condition. Christ has condensed the whole truth into one memorable sentence, "As the branch cannot bear fruit of itself except it abide in the vine, no more can ye except ye abide in Me." And on the positive side, "He that abideth in Me the same bringeth forth much fruit." FOOTNOTES: [81] _Vide_ Karl Semper's "The Natural Conditions of Existence as they affect Animal Life;" Wallace's "Tropical Nature;" Weismann's "Studies in the Theory of Descent;" Darwin's "Animals and Plants under Domestication." [82] "Principles of Biology," p. 57. [83] Ps. cxlii. 4, 5. [84] The "Unseen Universe," 6th Ed., p. 100. CONFORMITY TO TYPE. "'So careful of the type?' but no. From scarpèd cliff and quarried stone She cries, 'A thousand types are gone: I care for nothing, all shall go. 'Thou makest thine appeal to me; I bring to life, I bring to death: The spirit does but mean thy breath: I know no more.' And he, shall he, Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, Such splendid purpose in his eyes, Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies, Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, Who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation's final law-- Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw With ravine, shriek'd against his creed-- Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills, Who battled for the True, the Just, Be blown about the desert dust Or seal'd within the iron hills?" --_In Memoriam._ "Until Christ be formed in you."--_Paul._ "The one end to which, in all living beings, the formative impulse is tending--the one scheme which the Archæus of the old speculators strives to carry out, seems to be to mould the offspring into the likeness of the parent. It is the first great law of reproduction, that the offspring tends to resemble its parent or parents more closely than anything else."--_Huxley._ If a botanist be asked the difference between an oak, a palm-tree and a lichen, he will declare that they are separated from one another by the broadest line known to classification. Without taking into account the outward differences of size and form, the variety of flower and fruit, the peculiarities of leaf and branch, he sees even in their general architecture types of structure as distinct as Norman, Gothic and Egyptian. But if the first young germs of these three plants are placed before him and he is called upon to define the difference, he finds it impossible. He cannot even say which is which. Examined under the highest powers of the microscope they yield no clue. Analyzed by the chemist with all the appliances of his laboratory they keep their secret. The same experiment can be tried with the embryos of animals. Take the ovule of the worm, the eagle, the elephant, and of man himself. Let the most skilled observer apply the most searching tests to distinguish one from the other and he will fail. But there is something more surprising still. Compare next the two sets of germs, the vegetable and the animal. And there is still no shade of difference. Oak and palm, worm and man all start in life together. No matter into what strangely different forms they may afterward develop, no matter whether they are to live on sea or land, creep or fly, swim or walk, think or vegetate, in the embryo as it first meets the eye of Science they are indistinguishable. The apple which fell in Newton's garden, Newton's dog Diamond, and Newton himself, began life at the same point.[85] If we analyze this material point at which all life starts, we shall find it to consist of a clear structureless jelly-like substance resembling albumen or white of egg. It is made of Carbon, Hydrogen, Oxygen and Nitrogen. Its name is protoplasm. And it is not only the structural unit with which all living bodies start in life, but with which they are subsequently built up. "Protoplasm," says Huxley, "simple or nucleated, is the formal basis of all life. It is the clay of the Potter." "Beast and fowl, reptile and fish, mollusk, worm and polype are all composed of structural units of the same character, namely, masses of protoplasm with a nucleus."[86] What then determines the difference between different animals? What makes one little speck of protoplasm grow into Newton's dog Diamond, and another, exactly the same, into Newton himself? It is a mysterious something which has entered into this protoplasm. No eye can see it. No science can define it. There is a different something for Newton's dog and a different something for Newton; so that though both use the same matter they build it up in these widely different ways. Protoplasm being the clay, this something is the Potter. And as there is only one clay and yet all these curious forms are developed out of it, it follows necessarily that the difference lies in the potters. There must in short be as many potters as there are forms. There is the potter who segments the worm, and the potter who builds up the form of the dog, and the potter who moulds the man. To understand unmistakably that it is really the potter who does the work, let us follow for a moment a description of the process by a trained eye-witness. The observer is Mr. Huxley. Through the tube of his microscope he is watching the development, out of a speck of protoplasm, of one of the commonest animals: "Strange possibilities," he says, "lie dormant in that semi-fluid globule. Let a moderate supply of warmth reach its watery cradle and the plastic matter undergoes changes so rapid and yet so steady and purposelike in their succession that one can only compare them to those operated by a skilled modeler upon a formless lump of clay. As with an invisible trowel the mass is divided and subdivided into smaller and smaller portions, until it is reduced to an aggregation of granules not too large to build withal the finest fabrics of the nascent organism. And, then, it is as if a delicate finger traced out the line to be occupied by the spinal column, and moulded the contour of the body; pinching up the head at one end, the tail at the other, and fashioning flank and limb into due proportions in so artistic a way, that, after watching the process hour by hour, one is almost involuntarily possessed by the notion, that some more subtle aid to vision than an achromatic would show the hidden artist, with his plan before him, striving with skillful manipulation to perfect his work."[87] Besides the fact, so luminously brought out here, that the artist is distinct from the "semi-fluid globule" of protoplasm in which he works, there is this other essential point to notice, that in all his "skillful manipulation" the artist is not working at random, but according to law. He has "his plan before him." In the zoological laboratory of Nature it is not as in a workshop where a skilled artisan can turn his hand to anything--where the same potter one day moulds a dog, the next a bird, and the next a man. In Nature one potter is set apart to make each. It is a more complete system of division of labor. One artist makes all the dogs, another makes all the birds, a third makes all the men. Moreover, each artist confines himself exclusively to working out his own plan. He appears to have his own plan somehow stamped upon himself, and his work is rigidly to reproduce himself. The Scientific Law by which this takes place is the Law of Conformity to Type. It is contained, to a large extent, in the ordinary Law of Inheritance; or it may be considered as simply another way of stating what Darwin calls the Laws of Unity of Type. Darwin defines it thus: "By Unity of Type is meant that fundamental agreement in structure which we see in organic beings of the same class, and which is quite independent of their habits of life."[88] According to this law every living thing that comes into the world is compelled to stamp upon its offspring the image of itself. The dog, according to its type, produces a dog; the bird a bird. The artist who operates upon matter in this subtle way and carries out this law is Life. There are a great many different kinds of Life. If one might give the broader meaning to the words of the apostle: "All life is not the same life. There is one kind of life of men, another life of beasts, another of fishes, and another of birds." There is the Life, or the Artist, or the Potter who segments the worm, the potter who forms the dog, the potter who moulds the man.[89] What goes on then in the animal kingdom is this--the Bird-Life seizes upon the bird-germ and builds it up into a bird, the image of itself. The Reptile Life seizes upon another germinal speck, assimilates surrounding matter, and fashions it into a reptile. The Reptile-Life thus simply makes an incarnation of itself. The visible bird is simply an incarnation of the invisible Bird-Life. Now we are nearing the point where the spiritual analogy appears. It is a very wonderful analogy, so wonderful that one almost hesitates to put it into words. Yet Nature is reverent; and it is her voice to which we listen. These lower phenomena of life, she says, are but an allegory. There is another kind of Life of which Science as yet has taken little cognizance. It obeys the same laws. It builds up an organism into its own form. It is the Christ-Life. As the Bird-Life builds up a bird, the image of itself, so the Christ-Life builds up a Christ, the image of Himself, in the inward nature of man. When a man becomes a Christian the natural process is this: The Living Christ enters into his soul. Development begins. The quickening Life seizes upon the soul, assimilates surrounding elements, and begins to fashion it. According to the great Law of Conformity to Type this fashioning takes a specific form. It is that of the Artist who fashions. And all through Life this wonderful, mystical, glorious, yet perfectly definite process, goes on "until Christ be formed" in it. The Christian Life is not a vague effort after righteousness--an ill-defined pointless struggle for an ill-defined pointless end. Religion is no dishevelled mass of aspiration, prayer, and faith. There is no more mystery in Religion as to its processes than in Biology. There is much mystery in Biology. We know all but nothing of Life yet, nothing of development. There is the same mystery in the spiritual Life. But the great lines are the same, as decided, as luminous; and the laws of natural and spiritual are the same, as unerring, as simple. Will everything else in the natural world unfold its order, and yield to Science more and more a vision of harmony, and Religion, which should complement and perfect all, remain a chaos? From the standpoint of Revelation no truth is more obscure than Conformity to Type. If Science can furnish a companion phenomenon from an every-day process of the natural life, it may at least throw this most mystical doctrine of Christianity into thinkable form. Is there any fallacy in speaking of the Embryology of the New Life? Is the analogy invalid? Are there not vital processes in the Spiritual as well as in the Natural world? The Bird being an incarnation of the Bird-Life, may not the Christian be a spiritual incarnation of the Christ-Life? And is here not a real justification in the processes of the New-Birth for such a parallel? Let us appeal to the record of these processes. In what terms does the New Testament describe them? The answer is sufficiently striking. It uses everywhere the language of Biology. It is impossible that the New Testament writers should have been familiar with these biological facts. It is impossible that their views of this great truth should have been as clear as Science can make them now. But they had no alternative. There was no other way of expressing this truth. It was a biological question. So they struck out unhesitatingly into the new fields of words, and, with an originality which commands both reverence and surprise, stated their truth with such light, or darkness, as they had. They did not mean to be scientific, only to be accurate, and their fearless accuracy has made them scientific. What could be more original, for instance, than the Apostle's reiteration that the Christian was a new creature, a new man, a babe?[90] Or that this new man was "begotten of God," God's workmanship?[91] And what could be a more accurate expression of the law of Conformity to Type than this: "Put on the new man, which is renewed in knowledge after the image of Him that created him?"[92] Or this, "We are changed into the same image from glory to glory?"[93] And elsewhere we are expressly told by the same writer that this Conformity is the end and goal of the Christian life. To work this Type in us is the whole purpose of God for man. "Whom He did foreknow He also did predestinate to be conformed to the image of His Son."[94] One must confess that the originality of this entire New Testament conception is most startling. Even for the nineteenth century it is the most startling. But when one remembers that such an idea took form in the first, one cannot fail to be impressed with a deepening wonder at the system which begat and cherished it. Men seek the origin of Christianity among philosophies of that age. Scholars contrast it still with these philosophies, and scheme to fit it in to those of later growth. Has it never occurred to them how much more it is than a philosophy, that it includes a science, a Biology pure and simple? As well might naturalists contrast zoology with chemistry, or seek to incorporate geology with botany--the living with the dead--as try to explain the spiritual life in terms of mind alone. When will it be seen that the characteristic of the Christian Religion is its Life, that a true theology must begin with a Biology? Theology is the Science of God. Why will men treat God as inorganic? If this analogy is capable of being worked out, we should expect answers to at least three questions. First: What corresponds to the protoplasm in the spiritual sphere? Second: What is the Life, the Hidden Artist who fashions it? Third: What do we know of the process and the plan? First: The Protoplasm. We should be forsaking the lines of nature were we to imagine for a moment that the new creature was to be found out of nothing. _Ex nihilo nihil_--nothing can be made out of nothing. Matter is uncreatable and indestructible; Nature and man can only form and transform. Hence when a new animal is made, no new clay is made. Life merely enters into already existing matter, assimilates more of the same sort and re-builds it. The spiritual Artist works in the same way. He must have a peculiar kind of protoplasm, a basis of life, and that must be already existing. Now we find this in the materials of character with which the natural man is previously provided. Mind and character, the will and the affections, the moral nature--these form the bases of spiritual life. To look in this direction for the protoplasm of the spiritual life is consistent with all analogy. The lowest or mineral world mainly supplies the material--and this is true even for insectivorous species--for the vegetable kingdom. The vegetable supplies the material for the animal. Next in turn, the animal furnishes material for the mental, and lastly the mental for the spiritual. Each member of the series is complete only when the steps below it are complete; the highest demands all. It is not necessary for the immediate purpose to go so far into the psychology either of the new creature or of the old as to define more clearly what these moral bases are. It is enough to discover that in this womb the new creature is to be born, fashioned out of the mental and moral parts, substance, or essence of the natural man. The only thing to be insisted upon is that in the natural man this mental and moral substance or basis is spiritually lifeless. However active the intellectual or moral life may be, from the point of view of this other Life it is dead. That which is flesh is flesh. It wants, that is to say, the kind of Life which constitutes the difference between the Christian and the not-a-Christian. It has not yet been "born of the Spirit." To show further that this protoplasm possesses the necessary properties of a normal protoplasm it will be necessary to examine in passing what these properties are. They are two in number, the capacity for life and plasticity. Consider first the capacity for life. It is not enough to find an adequate supply of material. That must be of the right kind. For all kinds of matter have not the power to be the vehicle of life--all kinds of matter are not even fitted to be the vehicle of electricity. What peculiarity there is in Carbon, Hydrogen, Oxygen, and Nitrogen, when combined in a certain way, to receive life, we cannot tell. We only know that life is always associated in Nature with this particular physical basis and never with any other. But we are not in the same darkness with regard to the moral protoplasm. When we look at this complex combination which we have predicted as the basis of spiritual life, we do find something which gives it a peculiar qualification for being the protoplasm of the Christ-Life. We discover one strong reason at least, not only why this kind of life should be associated with this kind of protoplasm, but why it should never be associated with other kinds which seem to resemble it--why, for instance, this spiritual life should not be engrafted upon the intelligence of a dog or the instincts of an ant. The protoplasm in man has a something in addition to its instincts or its habits. It has a capacity for God. In this capacity for God lies its receptivity; it is the very protoplasm that was necessary. The chamber is not only ready to receive the new Life, but the Guest is expected, and, till He comes, is missed. Till then the soul longs and yearns, wastes and pines, waving its tentacles piteously in the empty air, feeling after God if so be that it may find Him. This is not peculiar to the protoplasm of the Christian's soul. In every land and in every age there have been altars to the Known or Unknown God. It is now agreed as a mere question of anthropology that the universal language of the human soul has always been "I perish with hunger." This is what fits it for Christ. There is a grandeur in this cry from the depths which makes its very unhappiness sublime. The other quality we are to look for in the soul is mouldableness, plasticity. Conformity demands conformability. Now plasticity is not only a marked characteristic of all forms of life, but in a special sense of the highest forms. It increases steadily as we rise in the scale. The inorganic world, to begin with, is rigid. A crystal of silica dissolved and redissolved a thousand times will never assume any other form than the hexagonal. The plant next, though plastic in its elements, is comparatively insusceptible of change. The very fixity of its sphere, the imprisonment for life in a single spot of earth, is the symbol of a certain degradation. The animal in all parts is mobile, sensitive, free; the highest animal, man, is the most mobile, the most at leisure from routine, the most impressionable, the most open for change. And when we reach the mind and soul, this mobility is found in its most developed form. Whether we regard its susceptibility to impressions, its lightning-like response even to influences the most impalpable and subtle, its power of instantaneous adjustment, or whether we regard the delicacy and variety of its moods, or its vast powers of growth, we are forced to recognize in this the most perfect capacity for change. This marvellous plasticity of mind contains at once the possibility and prophecy of its transformation. The soul, in a word, is made to be _converted_. Second: The Life. The main reason for giving the Life, the agent of this change, a separate treatment, is to emphasize the distinction between it and the natural man on the one hand, and the spiritual man on the other. The natural man is its basis, the spiritual man is its product, the Life itself is something different. Just as in an organism we have these three things--formative matter, formed matter, and the forming principle or life; so in the soul we have the old nature, the renewed nature, and the transforming Life. This being made evident, little remains here to be added. No man has ever seen this Life. It cannot be analyzed, or weighed, or traced in its essential nature. But this is just what we expected. This invisibility is the same property which we found to be peculiar to the natural life. We saw no life in the first embryos, in oak, in palm, or in bird. In the adult it likewise escapes us. We shall not wonder if we cannot see it in the Christian. We shall not expect to see it. _A fortiori_ we shall not expect to see it, for we are further removed from the coarser matter--moving now among ethereal and spiritual things. It is because it conforms to the law of this analogy so well that men, not seeing it, have denied its being. Is it hopeless to point out that one of the most recognizable characteristics of life is its unrecognizableness, and that the very token of its spiritual nature lies in its being beyond the grossness of our eyes? We do not pretend that Science can define this Life to be Christ. It has no definition to give even of its own life, much less of this. But there are converging lines which point, at least, in the direction that it is Christ. There was One whom history acknowledges to have been the Truth. One of His claims was this, "I am the Life." According to the doctrine of Biogenesis, life can only come from life. It was His additional claim that His function in the world was to give men Life. "I am come that ye might have Life, and that ye might have it more abundantly." This could not refer to the natural life, for men had that already. He that hath the Son hath another Life. "Know ye not your own selves how that Jesus Christ is in you." Again, there are men whose characters assume a strange resemblance to Him who was the Life. When we see the bird-character appear in an organism we assume that the Bird-Life has been there at work. And when we behold Conformity to Type in a Christian, and know moreover that the type-organization can be produced by the type-life alone does this not lend support to the hypothesis that the Type-Life also has been here at work? If every effect demands a cause, what other cause is there for the Christian? When we have a cause, and an adequate cause, and no other adequate cause; when we have the express statement of that Cause that he is that cause, what more is possible? Let not Science, knowing nothing of its own life, go further than to say it knows nothing of this Life. We shall not dissent from its silence. But till it tells us what it is, we wait for evidence that it is not this. Third: The Process. It is impossible to enter at length into any details of the great miracle by which this protoplasm is to be conformed to the Image of the Son. We enter that province now only so far as this Law of Conformity compels us. Nor is it so much the nature of the process we have to consider as its general direction and results. We are dealing with a question of morphology rather than of physiology. It must occur to one on reaching this point, that a new element here comes in which compels us, for the moment, to part company with zoology. That element is the conscious power of choice. The animal in following the type is blind. It does not only follow the type involuntarily and compulsorily, but does not know that it is following it. We might certainly have been made to conform to the Type in the higher sphere with no more knowledge or power of choice than animals or automata. But then we should not have been men. It is a possible case, but not possible to the kind of protoplasm with which men are furnished. Owing to the peculiar characteristics of this protoplasm an additional and exceptional provision is essential. The first demand is that being conscious and having this power of choice, the mind should have an adequate knowledge of what it is to choose. Some revelation of the Type, that is to say, is necessary. And as that revelation can only come from the Type, we must look there for it. We are confronted at once with the Incarnation. There we find how the Christ-Life has clothed Himself with matter, taken literal flesh, and dwelt among us. The Incarnation is the Life revealing the Type. Men are long since agreed that this is the end of the Incarnation--the revealing of God. But why should God be revealed? Why, indeed, but for man? Why but that "beholding as in a glass the glory of the only begotten we should be changed into the same image?" To meet the power of choice, however, something more was necessary than the mere revelation of the Type--it was necessary that the Type should be the highest conceivable Type. In other words, the Type must be an Ideal. For all true human growth, effort, and achievement, an ideal is acknowledged to be indispensable. And all men accordingly whose lives are based on principle, have set themselves an ideal, more or less perfect. It is this which first deflects the will from what is based, and turns the wayward life to what is holy. So much is true as mere philosophy. But philosophy failed to present men with their ideal. It has never been suggested that Christianity has failed. Believers and unbelievers have been compelled to acknowledge that Christianity holds up to the world the missing Type, the Perfect Man. The recognition of the Ideal is the first step in the direction of Conformity. But let it be clearly observed that it is but a step. There is no vital connection between merely seeing the Ideal and being conformed to it. Thousands admire Christ who never become Christians. But the great question still remains, How is the Christian to be conformed to the Type, or as we should now say, dealing with consciousness, to the Ideal? The mere knowledge of the Ideal is no more than a motive. How is the process to be practically accomplished? Who is to do it? Where, when, how? This is the test question of Christianity. It is here that all theories of Christianity, all attempts to explain it on natural principles, all reductions of it to philosophy, inevitably break down. It is here that all imitations of Christianity perish. It is here, also, that personal religion finds its most fatal obstacle. Men are all quite clear about the Ideal. We are all convinced of the duty of mankind regarding it. But how to secure that willing men shall attain it--that is the problem of religion. It is the failure to understand the dynamics of Christianity that has most seriously and most pitifully hindered its growth both in the individual and in the race. From the standpoint of biology this practical difficulty vanishes in a moment. It is probably the very simplicity of the law regarding it that has made men stumble. For nothing is so invisible to most men as transparency. The law here is the same biological law that exists in the natural world. For centuries men have striven to find out ways and means to conform themselves to this type. Impressive motives have been pictured, the proper circumstances arranged, the direction of effort defined, and men have toiled, struggled, and agonized to conform themselves to the Image of the Son. Can the protoplasm _conform itself_ to its type? Can the embryo _fashion itself_? Is Conformity to Type produced by the matter _or by the life_, by the protoplasm or by the Type? Is organization the cause of life or the effect of it? It is the effect of it. Conformity to Type, therefore, is secured by the type. Christ makes the Christian. Men need only reflect on the automatic processes of their natural body to discover that this is the universal law of Life. What does any man consciously do, for instance, in the matter of breathing? What part does he take in circulating the blood, in keeping up the rhythm of his heart? What control has he over growth? What man by taking thought can add a cubit to his stature? What part voluntarily does man take in secretion, in digestion, in the reflex actions? In point of fact is he not after all the veriest automaton, every organ of his body given him, every function arranged for him, brain and nerve, thought and sensation, will and conscience, all provided for him ready made? And yet he turns upon his soul and wishes to organize that himself! O preposterous and vain man, thou who couldest not make a finger-nail of thy body, thinkest thou to fashion this wonderful, mysterious, subtle soul of thine after the ineffable Image? Wilt thou ever permit thyself _to be_ conformed to the Image of the Son? Wilt thou, who canst not add a cubit to thy stature, submit _to be_ raised by the Type-Life within thee to the perfect stature of Christ? This is a humbling conclusion. And therefore men will resent it. Men will still experiment "by works of righteousness which they have done" to earn the Ideal life. The doctrine of Human Inability, as the Church calls it, has always been objectionable to men who do not know themselves. The doctrine itself, perhaps, has been partly to blame. While it has been often affirmed in such language as rightly to humble men, it has also been stated and cast in their teeth with words which could only insult them. Merely to assert dogmatically that man has no power to move hand or foot to help himself toward Christ, carries no real conviction. The weight of human authority is always powerless, and ought to be, where the intelligence is denied a rationale. In the light of modern science when men seek a reason for every thought of God or man, this old doctrine with its severe and almost inhuman aspect--till rightly understood--must presently have succumbed. But to the biologist it cannot die. It stands to him on the solid ground of Nature. It has a reason in the laws of life which must resuscitate it and give it another lease of years. Bird-Life makes the Bird. Christ-Life makes the Christian. No man by taking thought can add a cubit to his stature. So much for the scientific evidence. Here is the corresponding statement of the truth from Scripture. Observe the passive voice in these sentences: "_Begotten_ of God;" "The new man which _is renewed_ in knowledge after the Image of Him that created him;" or this, "We _are changed_ into the same Image;" or this, "Predestinate _to be conformed_ to the Image of His Son;" or again, "Until Christ _be formed_ in you;" or "Except a man _be born again_ he cannot see the Kingdom of God;" "Except a man _be born_ of water and of the Spirit he cannot enter the Kingdom of God." There is one outstanding verse which seems at first sight on the other side: "Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling;" but as one reads on he finds, as if the writer dreaded the very misconception, the complement, "For it is God which worketh in you both to will and to do of His good pleasure." It will be noticed in these passages, and in others which might be named, that the process of transformation is referred indifferently to the agency of each Person of the Trinity in turn. We are not concerned to take up this question of detail. It is sufficient that the transformation is wrought. Theologians, however, distinguish thus: the indirect agent is Christ, the direct influence is the Holy Spirit. In other words, Christ by his Spirit renews the souls of men. Is man, then, out of the arena altogether? Is he mere clay in the hands of the potter, a machine, a tool, an automaton? Yes and No. If he were a tool he would not be a man. If he were a man he would have something to do. One need not seek to balance what God does here, and what man does. But we shall attain to a sufficient measure of truth on a most delicate problem if we make a final appeal to the natural life. We find that in maintaining this natural life Nature has a share and man has a share. By far the larger part is done for us--the breathing, the secreting, the circulating of the blood, the building up of the organism. And although the part which man plays is a minor part, yet, strange to say, it is not less essential to the well being, and even to the being, of the whole. For instance, man has to take food. He has nothing to do with it after he has once taken it, for the moment it passes his lips it is taken in hand by reflex actions and handed on from one organ to another, his control over it, in the natural course of things, being completely lost. But the initial act was his. And without that nothing could have been done. Now whether there be an exact analogy between the voluntary and involuntary functions in the body, and the corresponding processes in the soul, we do not at present inquire. But this will indicate, at least, that man has his own part to play. Let him choose Life; let him daily nourish his soul; let him forever starve the old life; let him abide continuously as a living branch in the Vine, and the True-Vine Life will flow into his soul, assimilating, renewing, conforming to Type, till Christ, pledged by His own law, be formed in him. We have been dealing with Christianity at its most mystical point. Mark here once more its absolute naturalness. The pursuit of the Type is just what all Nature is engaged in. Plant and insect, fish and reptile, bird and mammal--these in their several spheres are striving after the Type. To prevent its extinction, to ennoble it, to people earth and sea and sky with it; this is the meaning of the Struggle for Life. And this is our life--to pursue the Type, to populate the world with it. Our religion is not all a mistake. We are not visionaries. We are not "unpractical," as men pronounce us, when we worship. To try to follow Christ is not to be "righteous overmuch." True men are not rhapsodizing when they preach; nor do those waste their lives who waste themselves in striving to extend the Kingdom of God on earth. This is what life is for. The Christian in his life-aim is in strict line with Nature. What men call his supernatural is quite natural. Mark well also the splendor of this idea of salvation. It is not merely final "safety," to be forgiven sin, to evade the curse. It is not, vaguely, "to get to heaven." It is to be conformed to the Image of the Son. It is for these poor elements to attain to the Supreme Beauty. The organizing Life being Eternal, so must this Beauty be immortal. Its progress toward the Immaculate is already guaranteed. And more than all there is here fulfilled the sublimest of all prophecies; not Beauty alone but Unity is secured by the Type--Unity of man and man, God and man, God and Christ and man till "all shall be one." Could Science in its most brilliant anticipations for the future of its highest organism ever have foreshadowed a development like this? Now that the revelation is made to it, it surely recognizes it as the missing point in Evolution, the climax to which all Creation tends. Hitherto Evolution had no future. It was a pillar with marvelous carving, growing richer and finer toward the top, but without a capital; a pyramid, the vast base buried in the inorganic, towering higher and higher, tier above tier, life above life, mind above mind, ever more perfect in its workmanship, more noble in its symmetry, and yet withal so much the more mysterious in its aspiration. The most curious eye, following it upward, saw nothing. The cloud fell and covered it. Just what men wanted to see was hid. The work of the ages had no apex. But the work begun by Nature is finished by the Supernatural--as we are wont to call the higher natural. And as the veil is lifted by Christianity it strikes men dumb with wonder. For the goal of Evolution is Jesus Christ. The Christian life is the only life that will ever be completed. Apart from Christ the life of man is a broken pillar, the race of men an unfinished pyramid. One by one in sight of Eternity all human Ideals fall short, one by one before the open grave all human hopes dissolve. The Laureate sees a moment's light in Nature's jealousy for the Type; but that too vanishes. "'So careful of the type?' but no. From scarpèd cliff and quarried stone She cries, 'A thousand types are gone: I care for nothing, all shall go.'" All shall go? No, one Type remains. "Whom He did foreknow He also did predestinate to be conformed to the Image of His Son." And "when Christ who is our life shall appear, then shall ye also appear with Him in glory." FOOTNOTES: [85] "There is, indeed, a period in the development of every tissue and every living thing known to us when there are actually no _structural_ peculiarities whatever--when the whole organism consists of transparent, structureless, semi-fluid living bioplasm--when it would not be possible to distinguish the growing moving matter which was to evolve the oak from that which was the germ of a vertebrate animal. Nor can any difference be discerned between the bioplasm matter of the lowest, simplest, epithelial scale of man's organism and that from which the nerve cells of his brain are to be evolved. Neither by studying bioplasm under the microscope nor by any kind of physical or chemical investigation known, can we form any notion of the nature of the substance which is to be formed by the bioplasm, or what will be the ordinary results of the living."--"Bioplasm," Lionel S. Beale, F.R.S., pp. 17, 18. [86] Huxley: "Lay Sermons," 6th Ed., pp. 127, 129. [87] Huxley: "Lay Sermons," 6th Ed., p. 261. [88] "Origin of Species," p. 166. [89] There is no intention here to countenance the old doctrine of the permanence of species. Whether the word species represent a fixed quantity or the reverse does not affect the question. The facts as stated are true in contemporary zoology if not in palæontology. It may also be added that the general conception of a definite Vital Principle is used here simply as a working hypothesis. Science may yet have to give up what the Germans call the "ontogenetic directive Force." But in the absence of any proof to the contrary, and especially of any satisfactory alternative, we are justified in working still with the old theory. [90] 2 Cor. v. 17. [91] 1 John v. 18; 1 Pet. i. 3. [92] Col. iii. 9, 10. [93] 2 Cor. iii. 18. [94] Rom. viii. 29. SEMI-PARASITISM. "The Situation that has not its Duty, its Ideal, was never yet occupied by man. Yes, here, in this poor, miserable, hampered, despicable Actual, wherein thou even now standest, here or nowhere is thy Ideal: work it out therefrom; and working, believe, live, be free."--_Carlyle._ "Work out your own salvation."--_Paul._ "Any new set of conditions occurring to an animal which render its food and safety very easily attained, seem to lead as a rule to degeneration."--_E. Ray Lankester._ Parasites are the paupers of Nature. They are forms of life which will not take the trouble to find their own food, but borrow or steal it from the more industrious. So deep-rooted is this tendency in Nature, that plants may become parasitic--it is an acquired habit--as well as animals; and both are found in every state of beggary, some doing a little for themselves, while others, more abject, refuse even to prepare their own food. There are certain plants--the Dodder, for instance--which begin life with the best intentions, strike true roots into the soil, and really appear as if they meant to be independent for life. But after supporting themselves for a brief period they fix curious sucking discs into the stem and branches of adjacent plants. And after a little experimenting, the epiphyte finally ceases to do anything for its own support, thenceforth drawing all its supplies ready-made from the sap of its host. In this parasitic state it has no need for organs of nutrition of its own, and Nature therefore takes them away. Henceforth, to the botanist, the adult Dodder presents the degraded spectacle of a plant without a root, without a twig, without a leaf, and having a stem so useless as to be inadequate to bear its own weight. In the Mistletoe the parasitic habit has reached a stage in some respects lower still. It has persisted in the downward course for so many generations that the young forms even have acquired the habit and usually begin life at once as parasites. The Mistletoe berries, which contain the seed of the future plant, are developed especially to minister to this degeneracy, for they glue themselves to the branches of some neighboring oak or apple, and there the young Mistletoe starts as a dependent from the first. Among animals these _lazzaroni_ are more largely represented still. Almost every animal is a living poor-house, and harbors one or more species of _epizoa_ or _entozoa_, supplying them gratis, not only with a permanent home, but with all the necessaries and luxuries of life. Why does the naturalist think hardly of the parasites? Why does he speak of them as degraded, and despise them as the most ignoble creatures in Nature? What more can an animal do than eat, drink, and die to-morrow? If under the fostering care and protection of a higher organism it can eat better, drink more easily, live more merrily, and die, perhaps, not till the day after, why should it not do so? Is parasitism, after all, not a somewhat clever _ruse_? Is it not an ingenious way of securing the benefits of life while evading its responsibilities? And although this mode of livelihood is selfish, and possibly undignified, can it be said that it is immoral? The naturalist's reply to this is brief. Parasitism, he will say, is one of the gravest crimes in Nature. It is a breach of the law of Evolution. Thou shalt evolve, thou shalt develop all thy faculties to the full, thou shalt attain to the highest conceivable perfection of thy race--and so perfect thy race--this is the first and greatest commandment of nature. But the parasite has no thought for its race, or for perfection in any shape or form. It wants two things--food and shelter. How it gets them is of no moment. Each member lives exclusively on its own account, an isolated, indolent, selfish, and backsliding life. The remarkable thing is that Nature permits the community to be taxed in this way apparently without protest. For the parasite is a consumer pure and simple. And the "Perfect Economy of Nature" is surely for once at fault when it encourages species numbered by thousands which produce nothing for their own or for the general good, but live, and live luxuriously, at the expense of others? Now when we look into the matter, we very soon perceive that instead of secretly countenancing this ingenious device by which parasitic animals and plants evade the great law of the Struggle for Life, Nature sets her face most sternly against it. And, instead of allowing the transgressors to slip through her fingers, as one might at first suppose, she visits upon them the most severe and terrible penalties. The parasite, she argues, not only injures itself, but wrongs others. It disobeys the fundamental law of its own being, and taxes the innocent to contribute to its disgrace. So that if Nature is just, if Nature has an avenging hand, if she holds one vial of wrath more full and bitter than another, it shall surely be poured out upon those who are guilty of this double sin. Let us see what form this punishment takes. Observant visitors to the sea-side, or let us say to an aquarium, are familiar with those curious little creatures known as Hermit-crabs. The peculiarity of the Hermits is that they take up their abode in the cast-off shell of some other animal, not unusually the whelk; and here, like Diogenes in his tub, the creature lives a solitary, but by no means an inactive life. The _Pagurus_, however, is not a parasite. And yet although in no sense of the word a parasite, this way of inhabiting throughout life a house built by another animal approaches so closely the parasitic habit, that we shall find it instructive as a preliminary illustration, to consider the effect of this free-house policy on the occupant. There is no doubt, to begin with, that, as has been already indicated, the habit is an acquired one. In its general anatomy the Hermit is essentially a crab. Now the crab is an animal which, from the nature of its environment, has to lead a somewhat rough and perilous life. Its days are spent among jagged rocks and boulders. Dashed about by every wave, attacked on every side by monsters of the deep, the crustacean has to protect itself by developing a strong and serviceable coat of mail. How best to protect themselves has been the problem to which the whole crab family have addressed themselves; and, in considering the matter, the ancestors of the Hermit-crab hit on the happy device of re-utilizing the habitations of the molluscs which lay around them in plenty, well-built, and ready for immediate occupation. For generations and generations accordingly, the Hermit-crab has ceased to exercise itself upon questions of safety, and dwells in its little shell as proudly and securely as if its second-hand house were a fortress erected especially for its private use. Wherein, then, has the Hermit suffered for this cheap, but real solution of a practical difficulty? Whether its laziness costs it any moral qualms, or whether its cleverness becomes to it a source of congratulation, we do not know; but judged from the appearance the animal makes under the searching gaze of the zoologist, its expedient is certainly not one to be commended. To the eye of Science its sin is written in the plainest characters on its very organization. It has suffered in its own anatomical structure just by as much as it has borrowed from an external source. Instead of being a perfect crustacean it has allowed certain important parts of its body to deteriorate. And several vital organs are partially or wholly atrophied. Its sphere of life also is now seriously limited; and by a cheap expedient to secure safety, it has fatally lost its independence. It is plain from its anatomy that the Hermit-crab was not always a Hermit-crab. It was meant for higher things. Its ancestors doubtless were more or less perfect crustaceans, though what exact stage of development was reached before the hermit habit became fixed in the species we cannot tell. But from the moment the creature took to relying on an external source, it began to fall. It slowly lost in its own person all that it now draws from external aid. As an important item in the day's work, namely, the securing of safety and shelter, was now guaranteed to it, one of the chief inducements to a life of high and vigilant effort was at the same time withdrawn. A number of functions, in fact, struck work. The whole of the parts, therefore, of the complex organism which ministered to these functions, from lack of exercise, or total disuse, became gradually feeble; and ultimately, by the stern law that an unused organ must suffer a slow but inevitable atrophy, the creature not only lost all power of motion in these parts, but lost the parts themselves, and otherwise sank into a relatively degenerate condition. Every normal crustacean, on the other hand, has the abdominal region of the body covered by a thick chitinous shell. In the Hermits this is represented only by a thin and delicate membrane--of which the sorry figure the creature cuts when drawn from its foreign hiding-place is sufficient evidence. Any one who now examines further this half-naked and woe-begone object, will perceive also that the fourth and fifth pair of limbs are either so small and wasted as to be quite useless or altogether rudimentary; and, although certainly the additional development of the extremity of the tail into an organ for holding on to its extemporized retreat may be regarded as a slight compensation, it is clear from the whole structure of the animal that it has allowed itself to undergo severe Degeneration. In dealing with the Hermit-crab, in short, we are dealing with a case of physiological backsliding. That the creature has lost anything by this process from a practical point of view is not now argued. It might fairly be shown, as already indicated, that its freedom is impaired by its cumbrous exoskeleton, and that, in contrast with other crabs, who lead a free and roving life, its independence generally is greatly limited. But from the physiological standpoint, there is no question that the Hermit tribe have neither discharged their responsibilities to Nature nor to themselves. If the end of life is merely to escape death, and serve themselves, possibly they have done well; but if it is to attain an ever increasing perfection, then are they backsliders indeed. A zoologist's verdict would be that by this act they have forfeited to some extent their place in the animal scale. An animal is classed as a low or high according as it is adapted to less or more complex conditions of life. This is the true standpoint from which to judge all living organisms. Were perfection merely a matter of continual eating and drinking, the Amœba--the lowest known organism--might take rank with the highest, Man, for the one nourishes itself and saves its skin almost as completely as the other. But judged by the higher standard of Complexity, that is, by greater or lesser adaption to more or less complex conditions, the gulf between them is infinite. We have now received a preliminary idea, although not from the study of a true parasite, of the essential principles involved in parasitism. And we may proceed to point out the correlative in the moral and spiritual spheres. We confine ourselves for the present to one point. The difference between the Hermit-crab and a true parasite is, that the former has acquired a semi-parasitic habit only with reference to _safety_. It may be that the Hermit devours as a preliminary the accommodating mollusc whose tenement it covets; but it would become a real parasite only on the supposition that the whelk was of such size as to keep providing for it throughout life, and that the external and internal organs of the crab should disappear, while it lived henceforth, by simple imbibition, upon the elaborated juices of its host. All the mollusc provides, however, for the crustacean in this instance is safety, and, accordingly in the meantime we limit our application to this. The true parasite presents us with an organism so much more degraded in all its parts, that its lessons may well be reserved until we have paved the way to understand the deeper bearings of the subject. The spiritual principle to be illustrated in the meantime stands thus: _Any principle which secures the safety of the individual without personal effort or the vital exercise of faculty is disastrous to moral character._ We do not begin by attempting to define words. Were we to define truly what is meant by safety or salvation, we should be spared further elaboration, and the law would stand out as a sententious common-place. But we have to deal with the ideas of safety as these are popularly held, and the chief purpose at this stage is to expose what may be called the Parasitic Doctrine of Salvation. The phases of religious experience about to be described may be unknown to many. It remains for those who are familiar with the religious conceptions of the masses to determine whether or not we are wasting words. What is meant by the Parasitic Doctrine of Salvation one may, perhaps, best explain by sketching two of its leading types. The first is the doctrine of the Church of Rome; the second, that represented by the narrower Evangelical Religion. We take these religions, however, not in their ideal form, with which possibly we should have little quarrel, but in their practical working, or in the form in which they are held especially by the rank and file of those who belong respectively to these communions. For the strength or weakness of any religious system is best judged from the form in which it presents itself to, and influences the common mind. No more perfect or more sad example of semi-parasitism exists than in the case of those illiterate thousands who, scattered everywhere throughout the habitable globe, swell the lower ranks of the Church of Rome. Had an organization been specially designed, indeed, to induce the parasitic habit in the souls of men, nothing better fitted to its disastrous end could be established than the system of Roman Catholicism. Roman Catholicism offers to the masses a molluscan shell. They have simply to shelter themselves within its pale, and they are "safe." But what is this "safe?" It is an external safety--the safety of an institution. It is a salvation recommended to men by all that appeals to the motives in most common use with the vulgar and the superstitious, but which has as little vital connection with the individual soul as the dead whelk's shell with the living Hermit. Salvation is a relation at once vital, personal, and spiritual. This is mechanical and purely external. And this is of course the final secret of its marvelous success and world-wide power. A cheap religion is the desideratum of the human heart; and an assurance of salvation at the smallest possible cost forms the tempting bait held out to a conscience-stricken world by the Romish Church. Thousands, therefore, who have never been taught to use their faculties in "working out their own salvation," thousands who will not exercise themselves religiously, and who yet cannot be without the exercise of religion, intrust themselves in idle faith to that venerable house of refuge which for centuries has stood between God and man. A Church which has harbored generations of the elect, whose archives enshrine the names of saints whose foundations are consecrated with martyrs' blood--shall it not afford a sure asylum still for any soul which would make its peace with God? So, as the Hermit into the molluscan shell, creeps the poor soul within the pale of Rome, seeking, like Adam in the garden, to hide its nakedness from God. Why does the true lover of men restrain not his lips in warning his fellows against this and all other priestly religions? It is not because he fails to see the prodigious energy of the Papal See, or to appreciate the many noble types of Christian manhood nurtured within its pale. Nor is it because its teachers are often corrupt and its system of doctrine inadequate as a representation of the Truth--charges which have to be made more or less against all religions. But it is because it ministers falsely to the deepest need of man, reduces the end of religion to selfishness, and offers safety without spirituality. That these, theoretically, are its pretensions, we do not affirm; but that its practical working is to induce in man, and in its worst forms, the parasitic habit, is testified by results. No one who has studied the religion of the Continent upon the spot, has failed to be impressed with the appalling spectacle of tens of thousands of unregenerated men sheltering themselves, as they conceive it for Eternity, behind the Sacraments of Rome. There is no stronger evidence of the inborn parasitic tendency in man in things religious than the absolute complacency with which even cultured men will hand over their eternal interests to the care of a Church. We can never dismiss from memory the sadness with which we once listened to the confession of a certain foreign professor: "I used to be concerned about religion," he said in substance, "but religion is a great subject. I was very busy; there was little time to settle it for myself. A protestant, my attention was called to the Roman Catholic religion. It suited my case. And instead of dabbling in religion for myself I put myself in its hands. Once a year," he concluded, "I go to mass." These were the words of one whose work will live in the history of his country, one, too, who knew all about parasitism. Yet, though he thought it not, this is parasitism in its worst and most degrading form. Nor, in spite of its intellectual, not to say moral sin, is this an extreme or exceptional case. It is a case, which is being duplicated every day in our own country, only here the confessing is expressed with a candor which is rare in company with actions betraying so signally the want of it. The form of parasitism exhibited by a certain section of the narrower Evangelical school is altogether different from that of the Church of Rome. The parasite in this case seeks its shelter, not in a Church, but in a Doctrine or a Creed. Let it be observed again that we are not dealing with the Evangelical Religion, but only with one of its parasitic forms--a form which will at once be recognized by all who know the popular Protestantism of this country. We confine ourselves also at present to that form which finds its encouragement in a single doctrine, that doctrine being the Doctrine of the Atonement--let us say, rather, a perverted form of this central truth. The perverted Doctrine of the Atonement, which tends to beget the parasitic habit, may be defined in a single sentence--it is very much because it can be defined in a single sentence that it is a perversion. Let us state it in a concrete form. It is put to the individual in the following syllogism: "You believe Christ died for sinners; you are a sinner; therefore Christ died for you; _and hence you are saved_." Now what is this but another species of molluscan shell? Could any trap for a benighted soul be more ingeniously planned? It is not superstition that is appealed to this time; it is reason. The agitated soul is invited to creep into the convolutions of a syllogism, and entrench itself behind a Doctrine more venerable even than the Church. But words are mere chitin. Doctrines may have no more vital contact with the soul than priest or sacrament, no further influence on life and character than stone and lime. And yet the apostles of parasitism pick a blackguard from the streets, pass him through this plausible formula, and turn him out a convert in the space of as many minutes as it takes to tell it. The zeal of these men, assuredly, is not to be questioned: their instincts are right, and their work is often not in vain. It is possible, too, up to a certain point, to defend this Salvation by Formula. Are these not the very words of Scripture? Did not Christ Himself say, "It is finished?" And is it not written, "By grace are ye saved through faith," "Not of works, lest any man should boast," and "He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life?" To which, however, one might also answer in the words of Scripture, "The Devils also believe," and "Except a man be born again he cannot see the Kingdom of God." But without seeming to make text refute text, let us ask rather what the supposed convert possesses at the end of the process. That Christ saves sinners, even blackguards from the streets, is a great fact; and that the simple words of the street evangelist do sometimes bring this home to man with convincing power is also a fact. But in ordinary circumstances, when the inquirer's mind is rapidly urged through the various stages of the above piece of logic, he is left to face the future and blot out the past with a formula of words. To be sure these words may already convey a germ of truth, they may yet be filled in with a wealth of meaning and become a life-long power. But we would state the case against Salvation by Formula with ignorant and unwarranted clemency did we for a moment convey the idea that this is always the actual result. The doctrine plays too well into the hands of the parasitic tendency to make it possible that in more than a minority of cases the result is anything but disastrous. And it is disastrous not in that, sooner or later, after losing half their lives, those who rely on the naked syllogism come to see their mistake, but in that thousands never come to see it all. Are there not men who can prove to you and to the world, by the irresistible logic of texts, that they are saved, whom you know to be not only unworthy of the Kingdom of God--which we all are--but absolutely incapable of entering it? The condition of membership in the Kingdom of God is well known; who fulfill this condition and who do not, is not well known. And yet the moral test, in spite of the difficulty of its applications, will always, and rightly, be preferred by the world to the theological. Nevertheless, in spite of the world's verdict, the parasite is content. He is "safe." Years ago his mind worked through a certain chain of phrases in which the words "believe" and "saved" were the conspicuous terms. And from that moment, by all Scriptures, by all logic, and by all theology, his future was guaranteed. He took out, in short, an insurance policy, by which he was infallibly secured eternal life at death. This is not a matter to make light of. We wish we were caricaturing instead of representing things as they are. But we carry with us all who intimately know the spiritual condition of the Narrow Church in asserting that in some cases at least its members have nothing more to show for their religion than a formula, a syllogism, a cant phrase or an experience of some kind which happened long ago, and which men told them at the time was called Salvation. Need we proceed to formulate objections to the parasitism of Evangelicism? Between it and the Religion of the Church of Rome there is an affinity as real as it is unsuspected. For one thing these religions are spiritually disastrous as well as theologically erroneous in propagating a false conception of Christianity. The fundamental idea alike of the extreme Roman Catholic and extreme Evangelical Religions is Escape. Man's chief end is to "get off." And all factors in religion, the highest and most sacred, are degraded to this level. God, for example, is a Great Lawyer. Or He is the Almighty Enemy; it is from Him we have to "get off." Jesus Christ is the One who gets us off--a theological figure who contrives so to adjust matters federally that the way is clear. The Church in the one instance is a kind of conveyancing office where the transaction is duly concluded, each party accepting the others' terms; in the other case, a species of sheep-pen where the flock awaits impatiently and indolently the final consummation. Generally, the means are mistaken for the end, and the opening-up of the possibility of spiritual growth becomes the signal to stop growing. Second, these being cheap religions, are inevitably accompanied by a cheap life. Safety being guaranteed from the first, there remains nothing else to be done. The mechanical way in which the transaction is effected, leaves the soul without stimulus, and the character remains untouched by the moral aspects of the sacrifice of Christ. He who is unjust is unjust still; he who is unholy is unholy still. Thus the whole scheme ministers to the Degeneration of Organs. For here, again, by just as much as the organism borrows mechanically from an external source, by so much exactly does it lose in its own organization. Whatever rest is provided by Christianity for the children of God, it is certainly never contemplated that it should supersede personal effort. And any rest which ministers to indifference is immoral and unreal--it makes parasites and not men. Just because God worketh in him, as the evidence and triumph of it, the true child of God works out his own salvation--works it out having really received it--not as a light thing, a superfluous labor, but with fear and trembling as a reasonable and indispensable service. If it be asked, then, shall the parasite be saved or shall he not, the answer is that the idea of salvation conveyed by the question makes a reply all but hopeless. But if by salvation is meant, a trusting in Christ _in order to likeness to Christ_, in order to that _holiness_ without which no man shall see the Lord, the reply is that the parasite's hope is absolutely vain. So far from ministering to growth, parasitism ministers to decay. So far from ministering to holiness, that is to _wholeness_, parasitism ministers to exactly the opposite. One by one the spiritual faculties droop and die, one by one from lack of exercise the muscles of the soul grow weak and flaccid, one by one the moral activities cease. So from him that hath not, is taken away that which he hath, and after a few years of parasitism there is nothing left to save. If our meaning up to this point has been sufficiently obscure to make the objection now possible that this protest against Parasitism is opposed to the doctrines of Free Grace, we cannot hope in a closing sentence to free the argument from a suspicion so ill-judged. The adjustment between Faith and Works does not fall within our province now. Salvation truly is the free gift of God, but he who really knows how much this means knows--and just because it means so much--how much of consequent action it involves. With the central doctrines of grace the whole scientific argument is in too wonderful harmony to be found wanting here. The natural life, not less than the eternal, is the gift of God. But life in either case is the beginning of growth and not the end of grace. To pause where we should begin, to retrograde where we should advance, to seek a mechanical security that we may cover inertia and find a wholesale salvation in which there is no personal sanctification--this is Parasitism. PARASITISM. "And so I live, you see, Go through the world, try, prove, reject, Prefer, still struggling to effect My warfare; happy that I can Be crossed and thwarted as a man, Not left in God's contempt apart, With ghastly smooth life, dead at heart, Tame in earth's paddock as her prize. ... ... ... ... ... Thank God, no paradise stands barred To entry, and I find it hard To be a Christian, as I said."--_Browning._ "Work out your own salvation."--_Paul._ "Be no longer a chaos, but a World, or even Worldkin. Produce! Produce! Were it but the pitifullest infinitesimal fraction of a Product, produce it, in God's name!"--_Carlyle._ From a study of the habits and organization of the family of Hermit-crabs we have already gained some insight into the nature and effects of parasitism. But the Hermit-crab, be it remembered, is in no real sense a parasite. And before we can apply the general principle further we must address ourselves briefly to the examination of a true case of parasitism. We have not far to seek. Within the body of the Hermit-crab a minute organism may frequently be discovered resembling, when magnified, a miniature kidney-bean. A bunch of root-like processes hangs from one side, and the extremities of these are seen to ramify in delicate films through the living tissues of the crab. This simple organism is known to the naturalist as a Sacculina; and though a full-grown animal, it consists of no more parts than those just named. Not a trace of structure is to be detected within this rude and all but inanimate frame; it possesses neither legs, nor eyes, nor mouth, nor throat, nor stomach, nor any other organs, external or internal. This Sacculina is a typical parasite. By means of its twining and theftuous roots it imbibes automatically its nourishment ready-prepared from the body of the crab. It boards indeed entirely at the expense of its host, who supplies it liberally with food and shelter and everything else it wants. So far as the result to itself is concerned this arrangement may seem at first sight satisfactory enough; but when we inquire into the life history of this small creature we unearth a career of degeneracy all but unparalleled in nature. The most certain clue to what nature meant any animal to become is to be learned from its embryology. Let us, therefore, examine for a moment the earliest positive stage in the development of the Sacculina. When the embryo first makes its appearance it bears not the remotest resemblance to the adult animal. A different name even is given to it by the biologist, who knows it at this period as a Nauplius. This minute organism has an oval body, supplied with six well-jointed feet by means of which it paddles briskly through the water. For a time it leads an active and independent life, industriously securing its own food and escaping enemies by its own gallantry. But soon a change takes place. The hereditary taint of parasitism is in its blood, and it proceeds to adapt itself to the pauper habits of its race. The tiny body first doubles in upon itself, and from the two front limbs elongated filaments protrude. Its four hind limbs entirely disappear, and twelve short-forked swimming organs temporarily take their place. Thus strangely metamorphosed the Sacculina sets out in search of a suitable host, and in an evil hour, by that fate which is always ready to accommodate the transgressor, is thrown into the company of the Hermit-crab. With its two filamentary processes--which afterward develop into the root-like organs--it penetrates the body; the sac-like form is gradually assumed; the whole of the swimming feet drop off--they will never be needed again--and the animal settles down for the rest of its life as a parasite. One reason which makes a zoologist certain that the Sacculina is a degenerate type is, that in almost all other instances of animals which begin life in the Nauplius-form--and there are several--the Nauplius develops through higher and higher stages, and arrives finally at the high perfection displayed by the shrimp, lobster, crab, and other crustaceans. But instead of rising to its opportunities, the sacculine Nauplius having reached a certain point turned back. It shrunk from the struggle for life, and beginning probably by seeking shelter from its host went on to demand its food; and so falling from bad to worse, became in time an entire dependant. In the eyes of Nature this was a twofold crime. It was first a disregard of evolution, and second, which is practically the same thing, an evasion of the great law of work. And the revenge of Nature was therefore necessary. It could not help punishing the Sacculina for violated law, and the punishment, according to the strange and noteworthy way in which Nature usually punishes, was meted but by natural processes, carried on within its own organization. Its punishment was simply that it was a Sacculina--that it was a Sacculina when it might have been a Crustacean. Instead of being a free and independent organism high in structure, original in action, vital with energy, it deteriorated into a torpid and all but amorphous sac confined to perpetual imprisonment and doomed to a living death. "Any new set of conditions," says Ray Lankester, "occurring to an animal which render its food and safety very easily attained, seem to lead as a rule to degeneration; just as an active healthy man sometimes degenerates when he becomes suddenly possessed of a fortune; or as Rome degenerated when possessed of the riches of the ancient world. The habit of parasitism clearly acts upon animal organization in this way. Let the parasitic life once be secured, and away go legs, jaws, eyes, and ears; the active, highly-gifted crab, insect or annelid may become a mere sac, absorbing nourishment and laying eggs."[95] There could be no more impressive illustration than this of what with entire appropriateness one might call "the physiology of backsliding." We fail to appreciate the meaning of spiritual degeneration or detect the terrible nature of the consequences only because they evade the eye of sense. But could we investigate the spirit as a living organism, or study the soul of the backslider on principles of comparative anatomy, we should have a revelation of the organic effects of sin, even of the mere sin of carelessness as to growth and work, which must revolutionize our ideas of practical religion. There is no room for the doubt even that what goes on in the body does not with equal certainty take place in the spirit under the corresponding conditions. The penalty of backsliding is not something unreal and vague, some unknown quantity which may be measured out to us disproportionately, or which perchance, since God is good, we may altogether evade. The consequences are already marked within the structure of the soul. So to speak, they are physiological. The thing affected by our indifference or by our indulgence is not the book of final judgment but the present fabric of the soul. The punishment of degeneration is simply degeneration--the loss of functions, the decay of organs, the atrophy of the spiritual nature. It is well known that the recovery of the backslider is one of the hardest problems in spiritual work. To reinvigorate an old organ seems more difficult and hopeless than to develop a new one; and the backslider's terrible lot is to have to retrace with enfeebled feet each step of the way along which he strayed; to make up inch by inch the lee-way he has lost, carrying with him a dead-weight of acquired reluctance, and scarce knowing whether to be stimulated or discouraged by the oppressive memory of the previous fall. We are not, however, to discuss at present the physiology of backsliding. Nor need we point out at greater length that parasitism is always and indissolubly accompanied by degeneration. We wish rather to examine one or two leading tendencies of the modern religious life which directly or indirectly induce the parasitic habit and bring upon thousands of unsuspecting victims such secret and appalling penalties as have been named. Two main causes are known to the biologist as tending to induce the parasitic habit. These are, first, the temptation to secure safety without the vital exercise of faculties, and, second, the disposition to find food without earning it. The first, which we have formally considered, is probably the preliminary stage in most cases. The animal, seeking shelter, finds unexpectedly that it can also thereby gain a certain measure of food. Compelled in the first instance, perhaps by stress of circumstances, to rob its host of a meal or perish, it gradually acquires the habit of drawing all its supplies from the same source, and thus becomes in time a confirmed parasite. Whatever be its origin, however, it is certain that the main evil of parasitism is connected with the further question of food. Mere safety with Nature is a secondary, though by no means an insignificant, consideration. And while the organism forfeits a part of its organization by any method of evading enemies which demands no personal effort, the most entire degeneration of the whole system follows the neglect or abuse of the functions of nutrition. The direction in which we have to seek the wider application of the subject will now appear. We have to look into those cases in the moral and spiritual sphere in which the functions of nutrition are either neglected or abused. To sustain life, physical, mental, moral, or spiritual, some sort of food is essential. To secure an adequate supply each organism also is provided with special and appropriate faculties. But the final gain to the organism does not depend so much on the actual amount of food procured as on the exercise required to obtain it. In one sense the exercise is only a means to an end, namely, the finding food; but in another and equally real sense, the exercise is the end, the food the means to attain that. Neither is of permanent use without the other, but the correlation between them is so intimate that it were idle to say that one is more necessary than the other. Without food exercise is impossible, but without exercise food is useless. Thus exercise is in order to food, and food is in order to exercise--in order especially to that further progress and maturity which only ceaseless activity can promote. Now food too easily acquired means food without that accompaniment of discipline which is infinitely more valuable than the food itself. It means the possibility of a life which is a mere existence. It leaves the organism _in statu quo_, undeveloped, immature, low in the scale of organization and with a growing tendency to pass from the state of equilibrium to that of increasing degeneration. What an organism is depends upon what it does; its activities make it. And if the stimulus to the exercise of all the innumerable faculties concerned in nutrition be withdrawn by the conditions and circumstances of life becoming, or being made to become, too easy, there is first an arrest of development, and finally a loss of the parts themselves. If, in short, an organism does nothing, in that relation it is nothing. We may, therefore, formulate the general principle thus: _Any principle which secures food to the individual without the expenditure of work is injurious, and accompanied by the degeneration and loss of parts._ The social and political analogies of this law, which have been casually referred to already, are sufficiently familiar to render any further development in these directions superfluous. After the eloquent preaching of the Gospel of Work by Thomas Carlyle, this century at least can never plead that one of the most important moral bearings of the subject has not been duly impressed upon it. All that can be said of idleness generally might be fitly urged in support of this great practical truth. All nations which have prematurely passed away, buried in graves dug by their own effeminacy; all those individuals who have secured a hasty wealth by the chances of speculation; all children of fortune; all victims of inheritance; all social sponges; all satellites of the court; all beggars of the market-place--all these are living and unlying witness to the unalterable retributions of the law of parasitism. But it is when we come to study the working of the principle in the religious sphere there we discover the full extent of the ravages which the parasitic habit can make on the souls of men. We can only hope to indicate here one or two of the things in modern Christianity which minister most subtly and widely to this as yet all but unnamed sin. We begin in what may seem a somewhat unlooked-for quarter. One of the things in the religious world which tends most strongly to induce the parasitic habit is _Going to Church_. Church-going itself every Christian will rightly consider an invaluable aid to the ripe development of the spiritual life. Public worship has a place in the national religious life so firmly established that nothing is ever likely to shake its influence. So supreme indeed, is the ecclesiastical system in all Christian countries that with thousands the religion of the Church and the religion of the individual are one. But just because of its high and unique place in religious regard, does it become men from time to time to inquire how far the Church is really ministering to the spiritual health of the immense religious community which looks to it as its foster-mother. And if it falls to us here reluctantly to expose some secret abuses of this venerable system, let it be well understood that these are abuses, and not that the sacred institution itself is being violated by the attack of an impious hand. The danger of church-going largely depends on the form of worship, but it may be affirmed that even the most perfect Church affords to all worshipers a greater or less temptation to parasitism. It consists essentially in the deputy-work or deputy-worship inseparable from the church or chapel ministrations. One man is set apart to prepare a certain amount of spiritual truth for the rest. He, if he is a true man, gets all the benefits of original work. He finds the truth, digests it, is nourished and enriched by it before he offers it to his flock. To a large extent it will nourish and enrich in turn a number of his hearers. But still they will lack something. The faculty of selecting truth at first hand and appropriating it for one's self is a lawful possession to every Christian. Rightly exercised it conveys to him truth in its freshest form; it offers him the opportunity of verifying doctrines for himself; it makes religion personal; it deepens and intensifies the only convictions that are worth deepening, those, namely, which are honest; and it supplies the mind with a basis of certainty in religion. But if all one's truth is derived by imbibition from the Church, the faculties for receiving truth are not only undeveloped but one's whole view of truth becomes distorted. He who abandons the personal search for truth, under whatever pretext, abandons truth. The very word truth, by becoming the limited possession of a guild, ceases to have any meaning; and faith, which can only be founded on truth, gives way to credulity, resting on mere opinion. In those churches especially where all parts of the worship are subordinated to the sermon, this species of parasitism is peculiarly encouraged. What is meant to be a stimulus to thought becomes the substitute for it. The hearer never really learns, he only listens. And while truth and knowledge seem to increase, life and character are left in arrear. Such truth, of course, and such knowledge, are a mere seeming. Having cost nothing, they come to nothing. The organism acquires a growing immobility, and finally exists in a state of entire intellectual helplessness and inertia. So the parasitic Church-member, the literal "adherent," comes not merely to live only within the circle of ideas of his minister, but to be content that his minister has these ideas--like the literary parasite who fancies he knows everything because he has a good library. Where the worship, again, is largely liturgical the danger assumes an even more serious form, and it acts in some such way as this. Every sincere man who sets out in the Christian race begins by attempting to exercise the spiritual faculties for himself. The young life throbs in his veins, and he sets himself to the further progress with earnest purpose and resolute will. For a time he bids fair to attain a high and original development. But the temptation to relax the always difficult effort at spirituality is greater than he knows. The "carnal mind" itself is "enmity against God," and the antipathy, or the deadlier apathy within, is unexpectedly encouraged from that very outside source from which he anticipates the greatest help. Connecting himself with a Church he is no less interested than surprised to find how rich is the provision there for every part of his spiritual nature. Each service satisfies or surfeits. Twice, or even three times a week, this feast is spread for him. The thoughts are deeper than his own, the faith keener, the worship loftier, the whole ritual more reverent and splendid. What more natural than that he should gradually exchange his personal religion for that of the congregation? What more likely than that a public religion should by insensible stages supplant his individual faith? What more simple than to content himself with the warmth of another's soul. What more tempting than to give up private prayer for the easier worship of the liturgy or of the church? What, in short, more natural than for the independent, free-moving, growing Sacculina to degenerate into the listless, useless, pampered parasite of the pew? The very means he takes to nurse his personal religion often come in time to wean him from it. Hanging admiringly, or even enthusiastically, on the lips of eloquence, his senses now stirred by ceremony, now soothed by music, the parasite of the pew enjoys his weekly worship--his character untouched, his will unbraced, his crude soul unquickened and unimproved. Thus, instead of ministering to the growth of individual members, and very often just in proportion to the superior excellence of the provision made for them by another, does this gigantic system of deputy-nutrition tend to destroy development and arrest the genuine culture of the soul. Our churches overflow with members who are mere consumers. Their interest in religion is purely parasitic. Their only spiritual exercise is the automatic one of imbibition, the clergyman being the faithful Hermit-crab who is to be depended on every Sunday for at least a week's supply. A physiologist would describe the organism resulting from such a progress as a case of "arrested development." Instead of having learned to pray, the ecclesiastical parasite becomes satisfied with being prayed for. His transactions with the Eternal are effected by commission. His work for Christ is done by a paid deputy. His whole life is a prolonged indulgence in the bounties of the Church; and surely--in some cases at least the crowning irony--he sends for the minister when he lies down to die. Other signs and consequences of this species of parasitism soon become very apparent. The first symptom is idleness. When a Church is off its true diet it is off its true work. Hence one explanation of the hundreds of large and influential congregations ministered to from week to week by men of eminent learning and earnestness, which yet do little or nothing in the line of these special activities for which all churches exist. An outstanding man at the head of a huge, useless and torpid congregation is always a puzzle. But is the reason not this, that the congregation gets too good food too cheap? Providence has mercifully delivered the Church from too many great men in her pulpits, but there are enough in every country-side to play the host disastrously to a large circle of otherwise able-bodied Christian people, who, thrown on their own resources, might fatten themselves and help others. There are compensations to a flock for a poor minister after all. Where the fare is indifferent those who are really hungry will exert themselves to procure their own supply. That the Church has indispensable functions to discharge to the individual is not denied; but taking into consideration the universal tendency to parasitism in the human soul it is a grave question whether in some cases it does not really effect more harm than good. A dead church certainly, a church having no reaction on the community, a church without propagative power in the world, cannot be other than a calamity to all within its borders. Such a church is an institution, first for making, then for screening parasites; and instead of representing to the world the Kingdom of God on earth, it is despised alike by godly and by godless men as the refuge for fear and formalism and the nursery of superstition. And this suggests a second and not less practical evil of a parasitic piety--that it presents to the world a false conception of the religion of Christ. One notices with a frequency which may well excite alarm that the children of church-going parents often break away as they grow in intelligence, not only from church-connection but from the whole system of family religion. In some cases this is doubtless due to natural perversity, but in others it certainly arises from the hollowness of the outward forms which pass current in society and at home for vital Christianity. These spurious forms, fortunately or unfortunately, soon betray themselves. How little there is in them becomes gradually apparent. And rather than indulge in a sham the budding sceptic, as the first step, parts with the form and in nine cases out of ten concerns himself no further to find a substitute. Quite deliberately, quite honestly, sometimes with real regret and even at personal sacrifice he takes up his position, and to his parent's sorrow and his church's dishonor forsakes forever the faith and religion of his fathers. Who will deny that this is a true account of the natural history of much modern scepticism? A formal religion can never hold its own in the nineteenth century. It is better that it should not. We must either be real or cease to be. We must either give up our Parasitism or our sons. Any one who will take the trouble to investigate a number of cases where whole families of outwardly godly parents have gone astray, will probably find that the household religion had either some palpable defect, or belonged essentially to the parasitic order. The popular belief that the sons of clergymen turn out worse than those of the laity is, of course, without foundation; but it may also probably be verified that in the instances where clergymen's sons notoriously discredit their father's ministry, that ministry in a majority of cases, will be found to be professional and theological rather than human and spiritual. Sequences in the moral and spiritual world follow more closely than we yet discern the great law of Heredity. The Parasite begets the Parasite--only in the second generation the offspring are sometimes sufficiently wise to make the discovery, and honest enough to proclaim it. We now pass on to the consideration of another form of Parasitism which though closely related to that just discussed, is of sufficient importance to justify a separate reference. Appealing to a somewhat smaller circle, but affecting it not less disastrously, is the Parasitism induced by certain abuses of _Systems of Theology_. In its own place, of course, Theology is no more to be dispensed with than the Church. In every perfect religious system three great departments must always be represented--criticism, dogmatism, and evangelism. Without the first there is no guarantee of truth, without the second no defence of truth, and without the third no propagation of truth. But when these departments become mixed up, when their separate functions are forgotten, when one is made to do duty for another, or where either is developed by the church or the individual at the expense of the rest, the result is fatal. The particular abuse, however, of which we have now to speak, concerns the tendency in orthodox communities, first to exalt orthodoxy above all other elements in religion, and secondly to make the possession of sound beliefs equivalent to the possession of truth. Doctrinal preaching, fortunately, as a constant practice is less in vogue than in a former age, but there are still large numbers whose only contact with religion is through theological forms. The method is supported by a plausible defence. What is doctrine but a compressed form of truth, systematized by able and pious men, and sanctioned by the imprimatur of the Church? If the greatest minds of the Church's past, having exercised themselves profoundly upon the problems of religion, formulated as with one voice a system of doctrine, why should the humble inquirer not gratefully accept it? Why go over the ground again? Why with his dim light should he betake himself afresh to Bible study and with so great a body of divinity already compiled, presume himself to be still a seeker after truth? Does not Theology give him Bible truth in reliable, convenient, and moreover, in logical propositions? There it lies extended to the last detail in the tomes of the Fathers, or abridged in a hundred modern compendia, ready-made to his hand, all cut and dry, guaranteed sound and wholesome, why not use it? Just because it is all cut and dry. Just because it is ready-made. Just because it lies there in reliable, convenient and logical propositions. The moment you appropriate truth in such a shape you appropriate a form. You cannot cut and dry truth. You cannot accept truth ready-made without it ceasing to nourish the soul as the truth. You cannot live on theological forms without becoming a Parasite and ceasing to be a man. There is no worse enemy to a living Church than a propositional theology, with the latter controlling the former by traditional authority. For one does not then receive the truth for himself, he accepts it bodily. He begins the Christian life set up by his Church with a stock-in-trade which has cost him nothing, and which, though it may serve him all his life, is just exactly worth as much his belief in his Church. This possession of truth, moreover, thus lightly won, is given to him as infallible. It is a system. There is nothing to add to it. At his peril let him question or take from it. To start a convert in life with such a principle is unspeakably degrading. All through life instead of working toward truth he must work from it. An infallible standard is a temptation to a mechanical faith. Infallibility always paralyzes. It gives rest; but it is the rest of stagnation. Men perform one great act of faith at the beginning of their life, then have done with it forever. All moral, intellectual and spiritual effort is over; and a cheap theology ends in a cheap life. The same thing that makes men take refuge in the Church of Rome makes them take refuge in a set of dogmas. Infallibility meets the deepest desire of man, but meets it in the most fatal form. Men deal with the hunger after truth in two ways. First by Unbelief--which crushes it by blind force; or, secondly, by resorting to some external source credited with Infallibility--which lulls it to sleep by blind faith. The effect of a doctrinal theology is the effect of Infallibility. And the wholesale belief in such a system, however accurate it may be--grant even that it were infallible--is not Faith though it always gets that name. It is mere Credulity. It is a complacent and idle rest upon authority, not a hard-earned, self-obtained, personal possession. The moral responsibility here, besides, is reduced to nothing. Those who framed the Thirty-nine Articles or the Westminster Confession are responsible. And anything which destroys responsibility, or transfers it, cannot be other than injurious in its moral tendency and useless in itself. It may be objected perhaps that this statement of the paralysis spiritual and mental induced by Infallibility applies also to the Bible. The answer is that though the Bible is infallible, the Infallibility is not in such a form as to become a temptation. There is the widest possible difference between the form of truth in the Bible and the form in theology. In theology truth is propositional--tied up in neat parcels, systematized, and arranged in logical order. The Trinity is an intricate doctrinal problem. The Supreme Being is discussed in terms of philosophy. The Atonement is a formula which is to be demonstrated like a proposition in Euclid. And Justification is to be worked out as a question of jurisprudence. There is no necessary connection between these doctrines and the life of him who holds them. They make him orthodox, not necessarily righteous. They satisfy the intellect but need not touch the heart. It does not, in short, take a religious man to be a theologian. It simply takes a man with fair reasoning powers. This man happens to apply these powers to theological subjects--but in no other sense than he might apply them to astronomy or physics. But truth in the Bible is a fountain. It is a diffused nutriment, so diffused that no one can put himself off with the form. It is reached not by thinking, but by doing. It is seen, discerned, not demonstrated. It cannot be bolted whole, but must be slowly absorbed into the system. Its vagueness to the mere intellect, its refusal to be packed into portable phrases, its satisfying unsatisfyingness, its vast atmosphere, its finding of us, its mystical hold of us, these are the tokens of its infinity. Nature never provides for man's wants in any direction, bodily, mental, or spiritual, in such a form as that he can simply accept her gifts automatically. She puts all the mechanical powers at his disposal--but he must make his lever. She gives him corn, but he must grind it. She elaborates coal, but he must dig for it. Corn is perfect, all the products of Nature are perfect, but he has everything to do to them before he can use them. So with truth; it is perfect, infallible. But he cannot use it as it stands. He must work, think, separate, dissolve, absorb, digest; and most of these he must do for himself and within himself. If it be replied that this is exactly what theology does, we answer it is exactly what it does not. It simply does what the green-grocer does when he arranges his apples and plums in his shop window. He may tell me a magnum bonum from a Victoria, or a Baldwin from a Newtown Pippin. But he does not help me to eat it. His information is useful, and for scientific horticulture essential. Should a sceptical pomologist deny that there was such a thing as a Baldwin, or mistake it for a Newtown Pippin, we should be glad to refer to him; but if we were hungry, and an orchard were handy, we should not trouble him. Truth in the Bible is an orchard rather than a museum. Dogmatism will be very valuable to us when scientific necessity makes us go to the museum. Criticism will be very useful in seeing that only fruit-bearers grow in the orchard. But truth in the doctrinal form is not natural, proper, assimilable food for the soul of man. Is this a plea then for doubt? Yes, for that philosophic doubt which is the evidence of a faculty doing its own work. It is more necessary for us to be active than to be orthodox. To be orthodox is what we wish to be, but we can only truly reach it by being honest, by being original, by seeing with our own eyes, by believing with our own heart. "An idle life," says Goethe, "is death anticipated." Better far be burned at the stake of Public Opinion than die the living death of Parasitism. Better an aberrant theology than a suppressed organization. Better a little faith dearly won, better launched alone on the infinite bewilderment of Truth, than perish on the splendid plenty of the richest creeds. Such Doubt is no self-willed presumption. Nor, truly exercised, will it prove itself, as much doubt does, the synonym for sorrow. It aims at a life-long learning, prepared for any sacrifice of will yet for none of independence; at that high progressive education which yields rest in work and work in rest, and the development of immortal faculties in both; at that deeper faith which believes in the vastness and variety of the revelations of God, and their accessibility to all obedient hearts. FOOTNOTES: [95] "Degeneration," by E. Ray Lankester, p. 33. CLASSIFICATION. "I judge of the order of the world, although I know not its end, because to judge of this order I only need mutually to compare the parts, to study their functions, their relations, and to remark their concert. I know not why the universe exists, but I do not desist from seeing how it is modified; I do not cease to see the intimate agreement by which the beings that compose it render a mutual help. I am like a man who should see for the first time an open watch, who should not cease to admire the workmanship of it, although he knows not the use of the machine, and had never seen dials. I do not know, he would say, what all this is for, but I see that each piece is made for the others; I admire the worker in the detail of his work, and I am very sure that all these wheelworks only go thus in concert for a common end which I cannot perceive."--_Rousseau._ "That which is born of the flesh is flesh; and that which is born of the Spirit is spirit."--_Christ._ "In early attempts to arrange organic beings in some systematic manner, we see at first a guidance by conspicuous and simple characters, and a tendency toward arrangement in linear order. In successively later attempts, we see more regard paid to combinations of character which are essential but often inconspicuous; and a gradual abandonment of a linear arrangement."--_Herbert Spencer._ On one of the shelves in a certain museum lie two small boxes filled with earth. A low mountain in Arran has furnished the first; the contents of the second came from the Island of Barbadoes. When examined with a pocket lens, the Arran earth is found to be full of small objects, clear as crystal, fashioned by some mysterious geometry into forms of exquisite symmetry. The substance is silica, a natural glass; and the prevailing shape is a six-sided prism capped at either end by little pyramids modeled with consummate grace. When the second specimen is examined, the revelation is, if possible, more surprising. Here, also, is a vast assemblage of small glassy or porcelaneous objects built up into curious forms. The material, chemically, remains the same, but the angles of pyramid and prism have given place to curved lines, so that the contour is entirely different. The appearance is that of a vast collection of microscopic urns, goblets, and vases, each richly ornamented with small sculptured discs or perforations which are disposed over the pure white surface in regular belts and rows. Each tiny urn is chiseled into the most faultless proportion, and the whole presents a vision of magic beauty. Judged by the standard of their loveliness there is little to choose between these two sets of objects. Yet there is one cardinal difference between them. They belong to different worlds. The last belong to the living world, the former to the dead. The first are crystals, the last are shells. No power on earth can make these little urns of the _Polycystina_ except Life. We can melt them down in the laboratory, but no ingenuity of chemistry can reproduce their sculptured forms. We are sure that Life has formed them, however, for tiny creatures allied to those which made the Barbadoes' earth are living still, fashioning their fairy palaces of flint in the same mysterious way. On the other hand, chemistry has no difficulty in making these crystals. We can melt down this Arran earth and reproduce the pyramids and prisms in endless numbers. Nay, if we do melt it down, we cannot help reproducing the pyramid and the prism. There is a six-sidedness, as it were, in the very nature of this substance which will infallibly manifest itself if the crystallizing substance only be allowed fair play. This six-sided tendency is its Law of Crystallization--a law of its nature which it cannot resist. But in the crystal there is nothing at all corresponding to Life. There is simply an inherent force which can be called into action at any moment, and which cannot be separated from the particles in which it resides. The crystal may be ground to pieces, but this force remains intact. And even after being reduced to powder, and running the gauntlet of every process in the chemical laboratory, the moment the substance is left to itself under possible conditions it will proceed to recrystallize anew. But if the Polycystine urn be broken, no inorganic agency can build it up again. So far as any inherent urn-building power, analogous to the crystalline force, is concerned, it might lie there in a shapeless mass forever. That which modeled it at first is gone from it. It was Vital; while the force which built the crystal was only Molecular. From an artistic point of view this distinction is of small importance. Æsthetically, the Law of Crystallization is probably as useful in ministering to natural beauty as Vitality. What are more beautiful than the crystals of a snowflake? Or what frond of fern or feather of bird can vie with the tracery of the frost upon a window-pane? Can it be said that the lichen is more lovely than the striated crystals of the granite on which it grows, or the moss on the mountain side more satisfying than the hidden amethyst and cairngorm in the rock beneath? Or is the botanist more astonished when his microscope reveals the architecture of spiral tissue in the stem of a plant, or the mineralogist who beholds for the first time the chaos of beauty in the sliced specimen of some common stone? So far as beauty goes the organic world and the inorganic are one. To the man of science, however, this identity of beauty signifies nothing. His concern, in the first instance, is not with the forms but with the natures of things. It is no valid answer to him, when he asks the difference between the moss and the cairngorm, the frost-work and the fern, to be assured that both are beautiful. For no fundamental distinction in Science depends upon beauty. He wants an answer in terms of chemistry, are they organic or inorganic? or in terms of biology, are they living or dead? But when he is told that the one is living and the other dead, he is in possession of a characteristic and fundamental scientific distinction. From this point of view, however much they may possess in common of material substance and beauty, they are separated from one another by a wide and unbridged gulf. The classification of these forms, therefore, depends upon the standpoint, and we should pronounce them like or unlike, related or unrelated, according as we judged them from the point of view of Art or of Science. The drift of these introductory paragraphs must already be apparent. We propose to inquire whether among men, clothed apparently with a common beauty of character, there may not yet be distinctions as radical as between the crystal and the shell; and, further, whether the current classification of men, based upon Moral Beauty, is wholly satisfactory either from the standpoint of Science or of Christianity. Here, for example, are two characters, pure and elevated, adorned with conspicuous virtues, stirred by lofty impulses, and commanding a spontaneous admiration from all who look on them--may not this similarity of outward form be accompanied by a total dissimilarity of inward nature? Is the external appearance the truest criterion of the ultimate nature? Or, as in the crystal and the shell, may there not exist distinctions more profound and basal? The distinctions drawn between men, in short, are commonly based on the outward appearance of goodness or badness, on the ground of moral beauty or moral deformity--is this classification scientific? Or is there a deeper distinction between the Christian and the not-a-Christian as fundamental as that between the organic and the inorganic? There can be little doubt, to begin with, that with the great majority of people religion is regarded as essentially one with morality. Whole schools of philosophy have treated the Christian Religion as a question of beauty, and discussed its place among other systems of ethics. Even those systems of theology which profess to draw a deeper distinction have rarely succeeded in establishing it upon any valid basis, or seem even to have made that distinction perceptible to others. So little, indeed, has the rationale of the science of religion been understood that there is still no more unsatisfactory province in theology than where morality and religion are contrasted, and the adjustment attempted between moral philosophy and what are known as the doctrines of grace. Examples of this confusion are so numerous that if one were to proceed to proof he would have to cite almost the entire European philosophy of the last three hundred years. From Spinoza downward through the whole naturalistic school, Moral Beauty is persistently regarded as synonymous with religion and the spiritual life. The most earnest thinking of the present day is steeped in the same confusion. We have even the remarkable spectacle presented to us just now of a sublime Morality-Religion divorced from Christianity altogether, and wedded to the baldest form of materialism. It is claimed, moreover, that the moral scheme of this high atheism is loftier and more perfect than that of Christianity, and men are asked to take their choice as if the morality were everything, the Christianity or the atheism which nourished it being neither here nor there. Others, again, studying this moral beauty carefully, have detected a something in its Christian forms which has compelled them to declare that a distinction certainly exists. But in scarcely a single instance is the gravity of the distinction more than dimly apprehended. Few conceive of it as other than a difference of degree, or could give a more definite account of it than Mr. Matthew Arnold's "Religion is morality touched by Emotion"--an utterance significant mainly as the testimony of an acute mind that a distinction of some kind does exist. In a recent Symposium, where the question as to "The influence upon Morality of a decline in Religious Belief," was discussed at length by writers of whom this century is justly proud, there appears scarcely so much as a recognition of the fathomless chasm separating the leading terms of debate. If beauty is the criterion of religion, this view of the relation of religion to morality is justified. But what if there be the same difference in the beauty of two separate characters that there is between the mineral and the shell? What if there be a moral beauty and a spiritual beauty? What answer shall we get if we demand a more scientific distinction between characters than that based on mere outward form? It is not enough from the standpoint of biological religion to say of two characters that both are beautiful. For, again, no fundamental distinction in Science depends upon beauty. We ask an answer in terms of biology, are they flesh or spirit; are they living or dead? If this is really a scientific question, if it is a question not of moral philosophy only, but of biology, we are compelled to repudiate beauty as the criterion of spirituality. It is not, of course, meant by this that spirituality is not morally beautiful. Spirituality must be morally very beautiful--so much so that popularly one is justified in judging of religion by its beauty. Nor is it meant that morality is not _a_ criterion. All that is contended for is that, from the scientific standpoint, it is not _the_ criterion. We can judge of the crystal and the shell from many other standpoints besides those named, each classification having an importance in its own sphere. Thus we might class them according to their size and weight, their percentage of silica, their use in the arts, or their commercial value. Each science or art is entitled to regard them from its own point of view; and when the biologist announces his classification he does not interfere with those based on other grounds. Only, having chosen his standpoint, he is bound to frame his classification in terms of it. It may be well to state emphatically, that in proposing a new classification--or rather, in reviving the primitive one--in the spiritual sphere we leave untouched, as of supreme value in its own province, the test of morality. Morality is certainly a test of religion--for most practical purposes the very best test. And so far from tending to depreciate morality, the bringing into prominence of the true basis is entirely in its interests--in the interests of a moral beauty, indeed, infinitely surpassing the highest attainable perfection on merely natural lines. The warrant for seeking a further classification is twofold. It is a principle in science that classification should rest on the most basal characteristics. To determine what these are may not always be easy, but it is at least evident that a classification framed on the ultimate nature of organisms must be more distinctive than one based on external characters. Before the principles of classification were understood, organisms were invariably arranged according to some merely external resemblance. Thus plants were classed according to size as Herbs, Shrubs, and Trees; and animals according to their appearance as Birds, Beasts, and Fishes. The Bat upon this principle was a bird, the Whale a fish; and so thoroughly artificial were these early systems that animals were often tabulated among the plants, and plants among the animals. "In early attempts," says Herbert Spencer, "to arrange organic beings in some systematic matter, we see at first a guidance by conspicuous and simple characters, and a tendency toward arrangement in linear order. In successively later attempts, we see more regard paid to combinations of characters which are essential but often inconspicuous; and a gradual abandonment of a linear arrangement for an arrangement in divergent groups and re-divergent sub-groups."[96] Almost all the natural sciences have already passed through these stages; and one or two which rested entirely on external characters have all but ceased to exist--Conchology, for example, which has yielded its place to Malacology. Following in the wake of the other sciences, the classifications of Theology may have to be remodeled in the same way. The popular classification, whatever its merits from a practical point of view, is essentially a classification based on Morphology. The whole tendency of science now is to include along with morphological considerations the profounder generalizations of Physiology and Embryology. And the contribution of the latter science especially has been found so important that biology henceforth must look for its classification largely to Embryological characters. But apart from the demand of modern scientific culture it is palpably foreign to Christianity, not merely as a Philosophy but as a Biology, to classify men only in terms of the former. And it is somewhat remarkable that the writers of both the Old and New Testaments seem to have recognized the deeper basis. The favorite classification of the Old Testament was into "the nations which knew God" and "the nations which knew not God"--a distinction which we have formerly seen to be, at bottom, biological. In the New Testament again the ethical characters are more prominent, but the cardinal distinctions based on regeneration, if not always actually referred to, are throughout kept in view, both in the sayings of Christ and in the Epistles. What then is the deeper distinction drawn by Christianity? What is the essential difference between the Christian and the not-a-Christian, between the spiritual beauty and the moral beauty? It is the distinction between the Organic and the Inorganic. Moral beauty is the product of the natural man, spiritual beauty of the spiritual man. And these two, according to the law of Biogenesis, are separated from one another by the deepest line known to Science. This Law is at once the foundation of Biology and of Spiritual religion. And the whole fabric of Christianity falls into confusion if we attempt to ignore it. The Law of Biogenesis, in fact, is to be regarded as the equivalent in biology of the First Law of motion in physics: _Every body continues in its state of rest or of uniform motion in a straight line, except in so far as it is compelled by force to change that state._ The first Law of biology is: That which is Mineral is Mineral; that which is Flesh is Flesh; that which is Spirit is Spirit. The mineral remains in the inorganic world until it is seized upon by a something called Life outside the inorganic world; the natural man remains the natural man, until a Spiritual Life from without the natural life seizes upon him, regenerates him, changes him into a spiritual man. The peril of the illustration from the law of motion will not be felt at least by those who appreciate the distinction between Physics and biology, between Energy and Life. The change of state here is not as in physics a mere change of direction, the affections directed to a new object, the will into a new channel. The change involves all this, but is something deeper. It is a change of nature, a regeneration, a passing from death into life. Hence relatively to this higher life the natural life is no longer Life, but Death, and the natural man from the standpoint of Christianity is dead. Whatever assent the mind may give to this proposition, however much it has been overlooked in the past, however it compares with casual observation, it is certain that the Founder of the Christian religion intended this to be the keystone of Christianity. In the proposition _That which is flesh is flesh, and that which is spirit is spirit_, Christ formulates the first law of biological religion, and lays the basis for a final classification. He divides men into two classes, the living and the not-living. And Paul afterward carries out the classification consistently, making his entire system depend on it, and throughout arranging men, on the one hand as πνευματικός--spiritual, on the other as ψυχικός--carnal, in terms of Christ's distinction. Suppose now it be granted for a moment that the character of the not-a-Christian is as beautiful as that of the Christian. This is simply to say that the crystal is as beautiful as the organism. One is quite entitled to hold this; but what he is not entitled to hold is that both in the same sense are living. _He that hath the Son hath Life, and he that hath not the Son of God hath not Life._ And in the face of this law, no other conclusion is possible than that that which is flesh remains flesh. No matter how great the development of beauty, that which is flesh is withal flesh. The elaborateness or the perfection of the moral development in any given instance can do nothing to break down this distinction. Man is a moral animal, and can, and ought to, arrive at great natural beauty of character. But this is simply to obey the law of his nature--the law of his flesh; and no progress along that line can project him into the spiritual sphere. If any one choose to claim that the mineral beauty, the fleshly beauty, the natural moral beauty, is all he covets, he is entitled to his claim. To be good and true, pure and benevolent in the moral sphere, are high and, so far, legitimate objects of life. If he deliberately stop here, he is at liberty to do so. But what he is not entitled to do is to call himself a Christian, or to claim to discharge the functions peculiar to the Christian life. His morality is mere crystallization, the crystallizing forces having had fair play in his development. But these forces have no more touched the sphere of Christianity than the frost on the window-pane can do more than simulate the external forms of life. And if he considers that the high development to which he has reached may pass by an insensible transition into spirituality, or that his moral nature of itself may flash into the flame of regenerate Life, he has to be reminded that in spite of the apparent connection of these things from one standpoint, from another there is none at all, or none discoverable by us. On the one hand, there being no such thing as Spontaneous Generation, his moral nature, however it may encourage it, cannot generate Life; while, on the other, his high organization can never in itself result in Life, Life being always the cause of organization and never the effect of it. The practical question may now be asked, is this distinction palpable? Is it a mere conceit of Science, or what human interests attach to it? If it cannot be proved that the resulting moral or spiritual beauty is higher in the one case than in the other, the biological distinction is useless. And if the objection is pressed that the spiritual man has nothing further to effect in the direction of morality, seeing that the natural man can successfully compete with him, the questions thus raised become of serious significance. That objection would certainly be fatal which could show that the spiritual world was not as high in its demand for a lofty morality as the natural; and that biology would be equally false and dangerous which should in the least encourage the view that "without holiness" a man could "see the Lord." These questions accordingly we must briefly consider. It is necessary to premise, however, that the difficulty is not peculiar to the present position. This is simply the old difficulty of distinguishing spirituality and morality. In seeking whatever light Science may have to offer as to the difference between the natural and the spiritual man, we first submit the question to Embryology. And if its actual contribution is small, we shall at least be indebted to it for an important reason why the difficulty should exist at all. That there is grave difficulty in deciding between two given characters, the one natural, the other spiritual, is conceded. But if we can find a sufficient justification for so perplexing a circumstance, the fact loses weight as an objection, and the whole problem is placed on a different footing. The difference on the score of beauty between the crystal and the shell, let us say once more, is imperceptible. But fix attention for a moment, not upon their appearance, but upon their possibilities, upon their relation to the future, and upon their place in evolution. The crystal has reached its ultimate stage of development. It can never be more beautiful than it is now. Take it to pieces and give it the opportunity to beautify itself afresh, and it will just do the same thing over again. It will form itself into a six-sided pyramid, and go on repeating this same form _ad infinitum_ as often as it is dissolved and without ever improving by a hair's breadth. Its law of crystallization allows it to reach this limit, and nothing else within its kingdom can do any more for it. In dealing with the crystal, in short, we are dealing with the maximum beauty of the inorganic world. But in dealing with the shell, we are not dealing with the maximum achievement of the organic world. In itself it is one of the humblest forms of the invertebrate sub-kingdom of the organic world; and there are other forms within this kingdom so different from the shell in a hundred respects that to mistake them would simply be impossible. In dealing with a man of fine moral character, again, we are dealing with the highest achievement of the organic kingdom. But in dealing with a spiritual man we are dealing with _the lowest form of life in the spiritual world_. To contrast the two, therefore, and marvel that the one is apparently so little better than the other, is unscientific and unjust. The spiritual man is a mere unformed embryo, hidden as yet in his earthly chrysalis-case, while the natural man has the breeding and evolution of ages represented in his character. But what are the possibilities of this spiritual organism? What is yet to emerge from this chrysalis-case? The natural character finds its limits within the organic sphere. But who is to define the limits of the spiritual? Even now it is very beautiful. Even as an embryo it contains some prophecy of its future glory. But the point to mark is, that _it doth not yet appear what it shall be_. The want of organization, thus, does not surprise us. All life begins at the Amœboid stage. Evolution is from the simple to the complex; and in every case it is some time before organization is advanced enough to admit of exact classification. A naturalist's only serious difficulty in classification is when he comes to deal with low or embryonic forms. It is impossible, for instance, to mistake an oak for an elephant; but at the bottom of the vegetable series, and at the bottom of the animal series, there are organisms of so doubtful a character that it is equally impossible to distinguish them. So formidable, indeed, has been this difficulty that Hæckel has had to propose an intermediate _regnum protisticum_ to contain those forms the rudimentary character of which makes it impossible to apply to the determining tests. We mention this merely to show the difficulty of classification and not for analogy; for the proper analogy is not between vegetal and animal forms, whether high or low, but between the living and the dead. And here the difficulty is certainly not so great. By suitable tests it is generally possible to distinguish the organic from the inorganic. The ordinary eye may fail to detect the difference, and innumerable forms are assigned by the popular judgment to the inorganic world which are nevertheless undoubtedly alive. And it is the same in the spiritual world. To a cursory glance these rudimentary spiritual forms may not seem to exhibit the phenomena of Life, and therefore the living and the dead may be often classed as one. But let the appropriate scientific tests be applied. In the almost amorphous organism, the physiologist ought already to be able to detect the symptoms of a dawning life. And further research might even bring to light some faint indication of the lines along which the future development was to proceed. Now it is not impossible that among the tests for Life there may be some which may fitly be applied to the spiritual organism. We may therefore at this point hand over the problem to Physiology. The tests for Life are of two kinds. It is remarkable that one of them was proposed, in the spiritual sphere, by Christ. Foreseeing the difficulty of determining the characters and functions of rudimentary organisms, He suggested that the point be decided by a further evolution. Time for development was to be allowed, during which the marks of Life, if any, would become more pronounced, while in the meantime judgment was to be suspended. "Let both grow together," He said, "until the harvest." This is a thoroughly scientific test. Obviously, however, it cannot assist us for the present--except in the way of enforcing extreme caution in attempting any classification at all. The second test is at least not so manifestly impracticable. It is to apply the ordinary methods by which biology attempts to distinguish the organic from the inorganic. The characteristics of Life, according to Physiology, are four in number--Assimilation, Waste, Reproduction, and Spontaneous Action. If an organism is found to exercise these functions, it is said to be alive. Now these tests, in a spiritual sense, might fairly be applied to the spiritual man. The experiment would be a delicate one. It might not be open to every one to attempt it. This is a scientific question; and the experiment would have to be conducted under proper conditions and by competent persons. But even on the first statement it will be plain to all who are familiar with spiritual diagnosis that the experiment could be made, and especially on one's self, with some hope of success. Biological considerations, however, would warn us not to expect too much. Whatever be the inadequacy of Morphology, Physiology can never be studied apart from it; and the investigation of function merely as function is a task of extreme difficulty. Mr. Herbert Spencer affirms, "We have next to no power of tracing up the genesis of a function considered purely as a function--no opportunity of observing the progressively-increasing quantities of a given action that have arisen in any order of organisms. In nearly all cases we are able only to establish the greater growth of the part which we have found performs the action, and to infer that greater action of the part has accompanied greater growth of it."[97] Such being the case, it would serve no purpose to indicate the details of a barely possible experiment. We are merely showing, at the moment, that the question "How do I know that I am alive" is not, in the spiritual sphere, incapable of solution. One might, nevertheless, single out some distinctively spiritual function and ask himself if he consciously discharged it. The discharging of that function is, upon biological principles, equivalent to being alive, and therefore the subject of the experiment could certainly come to some conclusion as to his place on a biological scale. The real significance of his actions on the moral scale might be less easy to determine, but he could at least tell where he stood as tested by the standard of life--he would know whether he were living or dead. After all, the best test for Life is just _living_. And living consists, as we have formerly seen, in corresponding with Environment. Those therefore who find within themselves, and regularly exercise, the faculties for corresponding with the Divine Environment, may be said to live the Spiritual Life. That this Life also, even in the embryonic organism, ought already to betray itself to others, is certainly what one would expect. Every organism has its own reaction upon Nature, and the reaction of the spiritual organism upon the community must be looked for. In the absence of any such reactions in the absence of any token that it lived for a higher purpose, or that its real interests were those of the Kingdom to which it professed to belong, we should be entitled to question its being in that Kingdom. It is obvious that each Kingdom has its own ends and interests, its own functions to discharge in Nature. It is also a law that every organism lives for its Kingdom. And man's place in Nature, or his position among the Kingdoms, is to be decided by the characteristic functions habitually discharged by him. Now when the habits of certain individuals are closely observed, when the total effect of their life and work, with regard to the community, is gauged--as carefully observed and gauged as the influence of certain individuals in a colony of ants might be observed and gauged by Sir John Lubbock--there ought to be no difficulty in deciding whether they are living for the Organic or for the Spiritual; in plainer language, for the world or for God. The question of Kingdoms, at least, would be settled without mistake. The place of any given individual in his own Kingdom is a different matter. That is a question possibly for ethics. But from the biological standpoint, if a man is living for the world it is immaterial how well he lives for it. He ought to live well for it. However important it is for his own Kingdom, it does not affect his biological relation to the other Kingdom whether his character is perfect or imperfect. He may even to some extent assume the outward form of organisms belonging to the higher Kingdom; but so long as his reaction upon the world is the reaction of his species, he is to be classed with his species, so long as the bent of his life is in the direction of the world, he remains a worldling. Recent botanical and entomological researches have made Science familiar with what is termed _Mimicry_. Certain organisms in one Kingdom assume, for purposes of their own, the outward form of organisms belonging to another. This curious hypocrisy is practiced both by plants and animals, the object being to secure some personal advantage, usually safety, which would be denied were the organism always to play its part in Nature _in propria persona_. Thus the _Ceroxylus laceratus_ of Borneo has assumed so perfectly the disguise of a moss-covered branch as to evade the attack of insectivorous birds; and others of the walking-stick insects and leaf-butterflies practice similar deceptions with great effrontery and success. It is a startling result of the indirect influence of Christianity or of a spurious Christianity, that the religious world has come to be populated--how largely one can scarce venture to think--with mimetic species. In few cases, probably, is this a conscious deception. In many doubtless it is induced, as in _Ceroxylus_, by the desire for _safety_. But in a majority of instances it is the natural effect of the prestige of a great system upon those who, coveting its benedictions, yet fail to understand its true nature, or decline to bear its profounder responsibilities. It is here that the test of Life becomes of supreme importance. No classification on the ground of form can exclude mimetic species, or discover them to themselves. But if man's place among the Kingdoms is determined by his functions, a careful estimate of his life in itself and in its reaction upon surrounding lives, ought at once to betray his real position. No matter what may be the moral uprightness of his life, the honorableness of his career, or the orthodoxy of his creed, if he exercises the function of loving the world, that defines his world--he belongs to the Organic Kingdom. He cannot in that case belong to the higher Kingdom. "If any man love the world, the love of the Father is not in him." After all, it is by the general bent of a man's life, by his heart-impulses and secret desires, his spontaneous actions and abiding motives, that his generation is declared. The exclusiveness of Christianity, separation from the world, uncompromising allegiance to the Kingdom of God, entire surrender of body, soul, and spirit to Christ--these are truths which rise into prominence from time to time, become the watch-words of insignificant parties, rouse the church to attention and the world to opposition, and die down ultimately for want of lives to live them. The few enthusiasts who distinguish in these requirements the essential conditions of entrance into the Kingdom of Christ are overpowered by the weight of numbers, who see nothing more in Christianity than a mild religiousness, and who demand nothing more in themselves or in their fellow-Christians than the participation in a conventional worship, the acceptance of traditional beliefs, and the living of an honest life. Yet nothing is more certain than that the enthusiasts are right. Any impartial survey--such as the unique analysis in "Ecce Homo"--of the claims of Christ and of the nature of His society, will convince any one who cares to make the inquiry of the outstanding difference between the system of Christianity in the original contemplation and its representations in modern life. Christianity marks the advent of what is simply a new Kingdom. Its distinctions from the Kingdom below it are fundamental. It demands from its members activities and responses of an altogether novel order. It is, in the conception of its Founder, a Kingdom for which all its adherents must henceforth exclusively live and work, and which opens its gates alone upon those who, having counted the cost, are prepared to follow it if need be to the death. The surrender Christ demanded was absolute. Every aspirant for membership must seek _first_ the Kingdom of God. And in order to enforce the demand of allegiance, or rather with an unconsciousness which contains the finest evidence for its justice, He even assumed the title of King--a claim which in other circumstances, and were these not the symbols of a higher royalty, seems so strangely foreign to one who is meek and lowly in heart. But this imperious claim of a Kingdom upon its members is not peculiar to Christianity. It is the law in all departments of Nature that every organism must live for its Kingdom. And in defining living _for_ the higher Kingdom as the condition of living in it, Christ enunciates a principle which all Nature has prepared us to expect. Every province has its peculiar exactions, every Kingdom levies upon its subjects the tax of an exclusive obedience, and punishes disloyalty always with death. It was the neglect of this principle--that every organism must live for its Kingdom if it is to live in it--which first slowly depopulated the spiritual world. The example of its Founder ceased to find imitators, and the consecration of His early followers came to be regarded as a superfluous enthusiasm. And it is this same misconception of the fundamental principle of all Kingdoms that has deprived modern Christianity of its vitality. The failure to regard the exclusive claims of Christ as more than accidental, rhetorical, or ideal; the failure to discern the essential difference between His Kingdom and all other systems based on the lines of natural religion, and therefore merely Organic; in a word, the general neglect of the claims of Christ as the Founder of a new and higher Kingdom--these have taken the very heart from the religion of Christ and left its evangel without power to impress or bless the world. Until even religious men see the uniqueness of Christ's society, until they acknowledge to the full extent its claim to be nothing less than a new Kingdom, they will continue the hopeless attempt to live for two Kingdoms at once. And hence the value of a more explicit Classification. For probably the most of the difficulties of trying to live the Christian life arise from attempting to half-live it. As a merely verbal matter, this identification of the Spiritual World with what are known to Science as Kingdoms, necessitates an explanation. The suggested relation of the Kingdom of Christ to the Mineral and Animal Kingdoms does not, of course, depend upon the accident that the Spiritual World is named in the sacred writings by the same word. This certainly lends an appearance of fancy to the generalization; and one feels tempted at first to dismiss it with a smile. But, in truth, it is no mere play on the word _Kingdom_. Science demands the classification of every organism. And here is an organism of a unique kind, a living energetic spirit, a new creature which, by an act of generation, has been begotten of God. Starting from the point that the spiritual life is to be studied biologically, we must at once proceed, as the first step in the scientific examination of this organism, to enter it in its appropriate class. Now two Kingdoms, at the present time, are known to Science--the Inorganic and the Organic. It does not belong to the Inorganic Kingdom, because it lives. It does not belong to the Organic Kingdom, because it is endowed with a kind of Life infinitely removed from either the vegetal or animal. Where then shall it be classed? We are left without an alternative. There being no Kingdom known to Science which can contain it, we must construct one. Or rather we must include in the programme of Science a Kingdom already constructed but the place of which in science has not yet been recognized. That Kingdom is the _Kingdom of God_. Taking now this larger view of the content of science, we may leave the case of the individual and pass on to outline the scheme of nature as a whole. The general conception will be as follows: First, we find at the bottom of everything the Mineral or Inorganic Kingdom. Its characteristics are, first, that so far as the sphere above it is concerned it is dead; second, that although dead it furnishes the physical basis of life to the Kingdom next in order. It is thus absolutely essential to the Kingdom above it. And the more minutely the detailed structure and ordering of the whole fabric are investigated it becomes increasingly apparent that the Inorganic Kingdom is the preparation for, and the prophecy of, the Organic. Second, we come to the world next in order, the world containing plant, and animal, and man, the Organic Kingdom. Its characteristics are, first, that so far as the sphere above it is concerned it is dead; and, second, although dead it supplies in turn the basis of life to the Kingdom next in order. And the more minutely the detailed structure and ordering of the whole fabric are investigated, it is obvious, in turn, that the Organic Kingdom is the preparation for, and the prophecy of the Spiritual. Third, and highest, we reach the Spiritual Kingdom, or the Kingdom of Heaven. What its characteristics are, relatively to any hypothetical higher Kingdom, necessarily remain unknown. That the Spiritual, in turn, may be the preparation for, and the prophecy of, something still higher is not impossible. But the very conception of a Fourth Kingdom transcends us, and if it exists, the Spiritual organism, by the analogy, must remain at present wholly dead to it. The warrant for adding this Third Kingdom consists, as just stated, in the fact that there are organisms which from their peculiar origin, nature, and destiny cannot be fitly entered in either of the two Kingdoms now known to science. The Second Kingdom is proclaimed by the advent upon the stage of the First, of _once-born_ organisms. The Third is ushered in by the appearance, among these once-born organisms, of forms of life which have been born again--_twice-born_ organisms. The classification, therefore, is based, from the scientific side on certain facts of embryology and on the Law of Biogenesis; and from the theological side on certain facts of experience and on the doctrine of Regeneration. To those who hold either to Biogenesis or to Regeneration, there is no escape from a Third Kingdom.[98] There is in this conception of a high and spiritual organism rising out of the highest point of the Organic Kingdom, in the hypothesis of the Spiritual Kingdom itself, a Third Kingdom following the Second in sequence as orderly as the Second follows the First, a Kingdom utilizing the materials of both the Kingdoms beneath it, continuing their laws, and, above all, accounting for these lower Kingdoms in a legitimate way and complementing them in the only known way--there is in all this a suggestion of the greatest of modern scientific doctrines, the Evolution hypothesis, too impressive to pass unnoticed. The strength of the doctrine of Evolution, at least in its broader outlines, is now such that its verdict on any biological question is a consideration of moment. And if any further defence is needed for the idea of a Third Kingdom it may be found in the singular harmony of the whole conception with this great modern truth. It might even be asked whether a complete and consistent theory of Evolution does not really demand such a conception? Why should Evolution stop with the Organic? It is surely obvious that the complement of Evolution is Advolution, and the inquiry, Whence has all this system of things come, is, after all, of minor importance compared with the question, Whither does all this tend? Science, as such, may have little to say on such a question. And it is perhaps impossible, with such faculties as we now possess, to imagine an Evolution with a future as great as its past. So stupendous is the development from the atom to the man that no point can be fixed in the future as distant from what man is now as he is from the atom. But it has been given to Christianity to disclose the lines of a further Evolution. And if Science also professes to offer a further Evolution, not the most sanguine evolutionist will venture to contrast it, either as regards the dignity of its methods, the magnificence of its aims, or the certainty of its hopes, with the prospects of the Spiritual Kingdom. That Science has a prospect of some sort to hold out to man, is not denied. But its limits are already marked. Mr. Herbert Spencer, after investigating its possibilities fully, tells us, "Evolution has an impassable limit."[99] It is the distinct claim of the Third Kingdom that this limit is not final. Christianity opens a way to a further development--a development apart from which the magnificent past of Nature has been in vain, and without which Organic Evolution, in spite of the elaborateness of its processes and the vastness of its achievements, is simply a stupendous _cul de sac_. Far as nature carries on the task, vast as is the distance between the atom and the man, she has to lay down her tools when the work is just begun. Man, her most rich and finished product, marvelous in his complexity, all but Divine in sensibility, is to the Third Kingdom not even a shapeless embryo. The old chain of processes must begin again on the higher plane if there is to be a further Evolution. The highest organism of the Second Kingdom--simple, immobile, dead as the inorganic crystal, toward the sphere above--must be vitalized afresh. Then from a mass of all but homogeneous "protoplasm" the organism must pass through all the stages of differentiation and integration, growing in perfectness and beauty under the unfolding of the higher Evolution, until it reaches the Infinite Complexity, the Infinite Sensibility, God. So the spiritual carries on the marvelous process to which all lower Nature ministers, and perfects it when the ministry of lower Nature fails. This conception of a further Evolution carries with it the final answer to the charge that, as regards morality, the Spiritual world has nothing to offer man that is not already within his reach. Will it be contended that a perfect morality is already within the reach of the natural man? What product of the organic creation has ever attained to the fullness of the stature of Him who is the Founder and Type of the Spiritual Kingdom? What do men know of the qualities enjoined in His Beatitudes, or at what value do they estimate them? Proved by results, it is surely already decided that on merely natural lines moral perfection is unattainable. And even Science is beginning to awaken to the momentous truth that Man, the highest product of the Organic Kingdom, is a disappointment. But even were it otherwise, if even in prospect the hopes of the Organic Kingdom could be justified, its standard of beauty is not so high, nor, in spite of the dreams of Evolution, is its guarantee so certain. The goal of the organisms of the Spiritual World is nothing less than this--to be "holy as He is holy, and pure as He is pure." And by the Law of Conformity to Type, their final perfection is secured. The inward nature must develop out according to its Type, until the consummation of oneness with God is reached. These proposals of the Spiritual Kingdom in the direction of Evolution are at least entitled to be carefully considered by Science. Christianity defines the highest conceivable future for mankind. It satisfies the Law of Continuity. It guarantees the necessary conditions for carrying on the organism successfully, from stage to stage. It provides against the tendency to Degeneration. And finally, instead of limiting the yearning hope of final perfection to the organisms of a future age--an age so remote that the hope for thousands of years must still be hopeless--instead of inflicting this cruelty on intelligences mature enough to know perfection and earnest enough to wish it, Christianity puts the prize within immediate reach of man. This attempt to incorporate the Spiritual Kingdom in the scheme of Evolution, may be met by what seems at first sight a fatal objection. So far from the idea of a Spiritual Kingdom being in harmony with the doctrine of Evolution, it may be said that it is violently opposed to it. It announces a new Kingdom starting off suddenly on a different plane and in direct violation of the primary principle of development. Instead of carrying the organic evolution further on its own lines, theology at a given point interposes a sudden and hopeless barrier--the barrier between the natural and the spiritual--and insists that the evolutionary process must begin again at the beginning. At this point, in fact, Nature acts _per saltum_. This is no Evolution, but a Catastrophe--such a Catastrophe as must be fatal to any consistent development hypothesis. On the surface this objection seems final--but it is only on the surface. It arises from taking a too narrow view of what Evolution is. It takes evolution in zoology for Evolution as a whole. Evolution began, let us say, with some primeval nebulous mass in which lay potentially all future worlds. Under the evolutionary hand, the amorphous cloud broke up, condensed, took definite shape, and in the line of true development assumed a gradually increasing complexity. Finally there emerged the cooled and finished earth, highly differentiated, so to speak, complete and fully equipped. And what followed? Let it be well observed--a Catastrophe. Instead of carrying the process further, the Evolution, if this is Evolution, here also abruptly stops. A sudden and hopeless barrier--the barrier between the Inorganic and the Organic--interposes, and the process has to begin again at the beginning with the creation of Life. Here then is a barrier placed by Science at the close of the Inorganic similar to the barrier placed by Theology at the close of the Organic. Science has used every effort to abolish this first barrier, but there it still stands challenging the attention of the modern world, and no consistent theory of Evolution can fail to reckon with it. Any objection, then, to the Catastrophe introduced by Christianity between the Natural and Spiritual Kingdoms applies with equal force against the barrier which Science places between the Inorganic and the Organic. The reserve of Life in either case is a fact, and a fact of exceptional significance. What then becomes of Evolution? Do these two great barriers destroy it? By no means. But they make it necessary to frame a larger doctrine. And the doctrine gains immeasurably by such an enlargement. For now the case stands thus: Evolution, in harmony with its own law that progress is from the simple to the complex, begins itself to pass toward the complex. The materialistic Evolution, so to speak, is a straight line. Making all else complex, it alone remains simple--unscientifically simple. But, as Evolution unfolds everything else, it is now seen to be itself slowly unfolding. The straight line is coming out gradually in curves. At a given point a new force appears deflecting it; and at another given point a new force appears deflecting that. These points are not unrelated points; these forces are not unrelated forces. The arrangement is still harmonious, and the development throughout obeys the evolutionary law in being from the general to the special, from the lower to the higher. What we are reaching, in short, is nothing less than the _evolution of Evolution_. Now to both Science and Christianity, and especially to Science, this enrichment of Evolution is important. And, on the part of Christianity, the contribution to the system of Nature of a second barrier is of real scientific value. At first it may seem merely to increase the difficulty. But in reality it abolishes it. However paradoxical it seems, it is nevertheless the case that two barriers are more easy to understand than one--two mysteries are less mysterious than a single mystery. For it requires two to constitute a harmony. One by itself is a Catastrophe. But, just as the recurrence of an eclipse at different periods makes an eclipse no breach of Continuity; just as the fact that the astronomical conditions necessary to cause a Glacial Period will in the remote future again be fulfilled constitutes the Great Ice Age a normal phenomenon; so the recurrence of two periods associated with special phenomena of Life, the second higher, and by the law necessarily higher, is no violation of the principle of Evolution. Thus even in the matter of adding a second to the one barrier of Nature, the Third Kingdom may already claim to complement the Science of the Second. The overthrow of Spontaneous Generation has left a break in Continuity which continues to put Science to confusion. Alone, it is as abnormal and perplexing to the intellect as the first eclipse. But if the Spiritual Kingdom can supply Science with a companion-phenomenon, the most exceptional thing in the scientific sphere falls within the domain of Law. This, however, is no more than might be expected from a Third Kingdom. True to its place as the highest of the Kingdoms, it ought to embrace all that lies beneath and give to the First and Second their final explanation. How much more in the under-Kingdoms might be explained or illuminated upon this principle, however tempting might be the inquiry, we cannot turn aside to ask. But the rank of the Third Kingdom in the order of Evolution implies that it holds the key to much that is obscure in the world around--much that, apart from it, must always remain obscure. A single obvious instance will serve to illustrate the fertility of the method. What has this Kingdom to contribute to Science with regard to the Problem of the origin of Life itself? Taking this as an isolated phenomenon, neither the Second Kingdom, nor the Third apart from revelation, has anything to pronounce. But when we observe the companion-phenomenon in the higher Kingdom, the question is simplified. It will be disputed by none that the source of Life in the Spiritual World is God. And as the same Law of Biogenesis prevails in both spheres, we may reason from the higher to the lower and affirm it to be at least likely that the origin of life there has been the same. There remains yet one other objection of a somewhat different order, and which is only referred to because it is certain to be raised by those who fail to appreciate the distinctions of Biology. Those whose sympathies are rather with Philosophy than with Science may incline to dispute the allocation of so high an organism as man to the merely vegetal and animal Kingdom. Recognizing the immense moral and intellectual distinctions between him and even the highest animal, they would introduce a third barrier between man and animal--a barrier even greater than that between the Inorganic and the Organic. Now, no science can be blind to these distinctions. The only question is whether they are of such a kind as to make it necessary to classify man in a separate Kingdom. And to this the answer of Science is in the negative. Modern Science knows only two Kingdoms--the Inorganic and the Organic. A barrier between man and animal there may be, but it is a different barrier from that which separates Inorganic from Organic. But even were this to be denied, and in spite of all science it will be denied, it would make no difference as regards the general question. It would merely interpose another Kingdom between the Organic and the Spiritual, the other relations remaining as before. Any one, therefore, with a theory to support as to the exceptional creation of the Human Race will find the present classification elastic enough for his purpose. Philosophy, of course, may propose another arrangement of the Kingdoms if it chooses. It is only contended that this is the order demanded by Biology. To add another Kingdom mid-way between the Organic and the Spiritual, could that be justified at any future time on scientific grounds, would be a mere question of further detail. Studies in Classification, beginning with considerations of quality, usually end with a reference to quantity. And though one would willingly terminate the inquiry on the threshold of such a subject, the example of Revelation not less than the analogies of Nature press for at least a general statement. The broad impression gathered from the utterances of the Founder of the Spiritual Kingdom is that the number of organisms to be included in it is to be comparatively small. The outstanding characteristic of the new Society is to be its selectness. "Many are called," said Christ, "but few are chosen." And when one recalls, on the one hand, the conditions of membership, and, on the other, observes the lives and aspirations of average men, the force of the verdict becomes apparent. In its bearing upon the general question, such a conclusion is not without suggestiveness. Here again is another evidence of the radical nature of Christianity. That "few are chosen" indicates a deeper view of the relation of Christ's Kingdom to the world, and stricter qualifications of membership, than lie on the surface or are allowed for in the ordinary practice of religion. The analogy of Nature upon this point is not less striking--it may be added, not less solemn. It is an open secret, to be read in a hundred analogies from the world around, that of the millions of possible entrants for advancement in any department of Nature the number ultimately selected for preferment is small. Here also "many are called and few are chosen." The analogies from the waste of seed, of pollen, of human lives, are too familiar to be quoted. In certain details, possibly, these comparisons are inappropriate. But there are other analogies, wider and more just, which strike deeper into the system of Nature. A comprehensive view of the whole field of Nature discloses the fact that the circle of the chosen slowly contracts as we rise in the scale of being. Some mineral, but not all, becomes vegetable; some vegetable, but not all, becomes animal; some animal, but not all, becomes human; some human, but not all, becomes Divine. Thus the area narrows. At the base is the mineral, most broad and simple; the spiritual at the apex, smallest, but most highly differentiated. So form rises above form, Kingdom above Kingdom. _Quantity decreases as quality increases._ The gravitation of the whole system of nature toward quality is surely a phenomenon of commanding interest. And if among the more recent revelations of Nature there is one thing more significant for religion than another, it is the majestic spectacle of the rise of Kingdoms toward scarcer yet nobler forms, and simpler yet diviner ends. Of the early stage, the first development of the earth from the nebulous matrix of space, Science speaks with reserve. The second, the evolution of each individual from the simple protoplasmic cell to the formed adult, is proved. The still wider evolution, not of solitary individuals, but of all the individuals within each province--in the vegetal world from the unicellular cryptogam to the highest phanerogam, in the animal world from the amorphous amœba to Man--is at least suspected, the gradual rise of types being at all events a fact. But now, at last, we see the Kingdoms themselves evolving. And that supreme law which has guided the development from simple to complex in matter, in individual, in sub-Kingdom, and in Kingdom, until only two or three great Kingdoms remain, now begins at the beginning again, directing the evolution of these million-peopled worlds as if they were simple cells or organisms. Thus, what applies to the individual applies to the family, what applies to the family applies to the Kingdom, what applies to the Kingdom applies to the Kingdoms. And so, out of the infinite complexity there rises an infinite simplicity, the foreshadowing of a final unity, of that "One God, one law, one element, And one far-off divine event, To which the whole creation moves."[100] This is the final triumph of Continuity, the heart secret of Creation, the unspoken prophecy of Christianity. To Science, defining it as a working principle, this mighty process of amelioration is simply _Evolution_. To Christianity, discerning the end through the means, it is _Redemption_. These silent and patient processes, elaborating, eliminating, developing all from the first of time, conducting the evolution from millennium to millennium with unaltering purpose and unfaltering power, are the early stages in the redemptive work--the unseen approach of that Kingdom whose strange mark is that it "cometh without observation." And these Kingdoms rising tier above tier in ever increasing sublimity and beauty, their foundations visibly fixed in the past, their progress, and the direction of their progress, being facts in Nature still, are the signs which, since the Magi saw His star in the East, have never been wanting from the firmament of truth, and which in every age with growing clearness to the wise, and with ever-gathering mystery to the uninitiated, proclaim that "the Kingdom of God is at hand." FINIS. FOOTNOTES: [96] "Principles of Biology," p. 294. [97] "Principles of Biology," vol. ii. pp. 222, 223. [98] Philosophical classifications in this direction (see for instance Godet's "Old Testament Studies," pp. 2-40), owing to their neglect of the facts of Biogenesis can never satisfy the biologist--any more than the above will wholly satisfy the philosopher. Both are needed. Rothe, in his "Aphorisms," strikingly notes one point: "Es ist beachtenswerth, wie in der Schöpfung immer aus der Auflösung der nächst neideren Stufe die nächst höhere hervorgeht, so dass jene immer das Substrat zur Erzeugung dieser Kraft der schöpferischen Einwirkung bildet. (Wie es denn nicht anders sein kann bei einer Entwicklung der Kreatur aus sich selbst.) Aus den zersetzten Elementen erheben sich das Mineral, aus dem verwitterten Material die Pflanze, aus der verwesten Pflanze das Thier. So erhebt sich auch aus dem in die Elemente zurücksinkenden Materiellen Menschen der Geist, das geistige Geschöpf."--"Stille Stunden," p. 64. [99] "First Principles," p. 440. [100] "In Memoriam." Transcriber's Endnote: Two significant typographical errors have been corrected in the Greek text on Page 263. The sentence originally read: "And Paul afterward carries out the classification consistently, making his entire system depend on it, and throughout arranging men, on the one hand as πυενματικός--spiritual, on the other as φυχικός--carnal, in terms of Christ's distinction." The amended text replaces πυενματικός with πνευματικός, whilst φυχικός now reads as ψυχικός.

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:30.898645

23335

Produced by Greg Weeks, LN Yaddanapudi and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net Unwise Child RANDALL GARRETT DOUBLEDAY & COMPANY, INC. GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK 1962 All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. _Library of Congress Catalog Card Number 60-13524_ _Copyright © 1962 by Randall Garrett_ _All Rights Reserved_ _Printed in the United States of America_ _First Edition_ +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note | | | | Extensive search has failed to find any evidence that the | | U.S. copyright of this publication has been renewed. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ BOOKS BY RANDALL GARRETT _Biography_ _Pope John XXIII: Pastoral Prince_ _Science Fiction_ _Unwise Child_ _Books by "Robert Randall"_ _The Shrouded Planet_ _The Dawning Light_ _"Robert Randall" is a pseudonym used on books written in collaboration with Robert Silverberg._ With sincere appreciation, this book is dedicated to TIM and NATALIE who waited ... and waited ... and waited ... and waited for it. 1 The kids who tried to jump Mike the Angel were bright enough in a lot of ways, but they made a bad mistake when they tangled with Mike the Angel. They'd done their preliminary work well enough. They had cased the job thoroughly, and they had built the equipment to take care of it. Their mistake was not in their planning; it was in not taking Mike the Angel into account. There is a section of New York's Manhattan Island, down on the lower West Side, that has been known, for over a century, as "Radio Row." All through this section are stores, large and small, where every kind of electronic and sub-electronic device can be bought, ordered, or designed to order. There is even an old antique shop, known as Ye Quainte Olde Elecktronicks Shoppe, where you can buy such oddities as vacuum-tube FM radios and twenty-four-inch cathode-ray television sets. And, if you want them, transmitters to match, so you can watch the antiques work. Mike the Angel had an uptown office in the heart of the business district, near West 112th Street--a very posh suite of rooms on the fiftieth floor of the half-mile-high Timmins Building, overlooking the two-hundred-year-old Gothic edifice of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. The glowing sign on the door of the suite said, very simply: M. R. GABRIEL POWER DESIGN But, once or twice a week, Mike the Angel liked to take off and prowl around Radio Row, just shopping around. Usually, he didn't work too late, but, on this particular afternoon, he'd been in his office until after six o'clock, working on some papers for the Interstellar Commission. So, by the time he got down to Radio Row, the only shop left open was Harry MacDougal's. That didn't matter much to Mike the Angel, since Harry's was the place he had intended to go, anyway. Harry MacDougal's establishment was hardly more than a hole in the wall--a narrow, long hallway between two larger stores. Although not a specialist, like the proprietor of Ye Quainte Olde Elecktronicks Shoppe, Harry did carry equipment of every vintage and every make. If you wanted something that hadn't been manufactured in decades, and perhaps never made in quantity, Harry's was the place to go. The walls were lined with bins, all unlabeled, filled helter-skelter with every imaginable kind of gadget, most of which would have been hard to recognize unless you were both an expert and a historian. Old Harry didn't need labels or a system. He was a small, lean, bony, sharp-nosed Scot who had fled Scotland during the Panic of '37, landed in New York, and stopped. He solemnly declared that he had never been west of the Hudson River nor north of 181st Street in the more than fifty years he had been in the country. He had a mind like that of a robot filing cabinet. Ask him for a particular piece of equipment, and he'd squint one eye closed, stare at the end of his nose with the other, and say: "An M-1993 thermodyne hexode, eh? Ah. Um. Aye, I got one. Picked it up a couple years back. Put it-- Let ma see, now...." And he'd go to his wall ladder, push it along that narrow hallway, moving boxes aside as he went, and stop somewhere along the wall. Then he'd scramble up the ladder, pull out a bin, fumble around in it, and come out with the article in question. He'd blow the dust off it, polish it with a rag, scramble down the ladder, and say: "Here 'tis. Thought I had one. Let's go back in the back and give her a test." On the other hand, if he didn't have what you wanted, he'd shake his head just a trifle, then squint up at you and say: "What d'ye want it for?" And if you could tell him what you planned to do with the piece you wanted, nine times out of ten he could come up with something else that would do the job as well or better. In either case, he always insisted that the piece be tested. He refused either to buy or sell something that didn't work. So you'd follow him down that long hallway to the lab in the rear, where all the testing equipment was. The lab, too, was cluttered, but in a different way. Out front, the stuff was dead; back here, there was power coursing through the ionic veins and metallic nerves of the half-living machines. Things were labeled in neat, accurate script--not for Old Harry's benefit, but for the edification of his customers, so they wouldn't put their fingers in the wrong places. He never had to worry about whether his customers knew enough to fend for themselves; a few minutes spent in talking was enough to tell Harry whether a man knew enough about the science and art of electronics and sub-electronics to be trusted in the lab. If you didn't measure up, you didn't get invited to the lab, even to watch a test. But he had very few people like that; nobody came into Harry MacDougal's place unless he was pretty sure of what he wanted and how he wanted to use it. On the other hand, there were very few men whom Harry would allow into the lab unescorted. Mike the Angel was one of them. Meet Mike the Angel. Full name: Michael Raphael Gabriel. (His mother had tagged that on him at the time of his baptism, which had made his father wince in anticipated compassion, but there had been nothing for him to say--not in the middle of the ceremony.) Naturally, he had been tagged "Mike the Angel." Six feet seven. Two hundred sixty pounds. Thirty-four years of age. Hair: golden yellow. Eyes: deep blue. Cash value of holdings: well into eight figures. Credit: almost unlimited. Marital status: highly eligible, if the right woman could tackle him. Mike the Angel pushed open the door to Harry MacDougal's shop and took off his hat to brush the raindrops from it. Farther uptown, the streets were covered with clear plastic roofing, but that kind of comfort stopped at Fifty-third Street. There was no one in sight in the long, narrow store, so Mike the Angel looked up at the ceiling, where he knew the eye was hidden. "Harry?" he said. "I see you, lad," said a voice from the air. "You got here just in time. I'm closin' up. Lock the door, would ye?" "Sure, Harry." Mike turned around, pressed the locking switch, and heard it snap satisfactorily. "Okay, Mike," said Harry MacDougal's voice. "Come on back. I hope ye brought that bottle of scotch I asked for." Mike the Angel made his way back between the towering tiers of bins as he answered. "Sure did, Harry. When did I ever forget you?" And, as he moved toward the rear of the store, Mike the Angel casually reached into his coat pocket and triggered the switch of a small but fantastically powerful mechanism that he always carried when he walked the streets of New York at night. He was headed straight into trouble, and he knew it. And he hoped he was ready for it. 2 Mike the Angel kept his hand in his pocket, his thumb on a little plate that was set in the side of the small mechanism that was concealed therein. As he neared the door, the little plate began to vibrate, making a buzz which could only be felt, not heard. Mike sighed to himself. Vibroblades were all the rage this season. He pushed open the rear door rapidly and stepped inside. It was just what he'd expected. His eyes saw and his brain recorded the whole scene in the fraction of a second before he moved. In that fraction of a second, he took in the situation, appraised it, planned his strategy, and launched into his plan of action. Harry MacDougal was sitting at his workbench, near the controls of the eye that watched the shop when he was in the lab. He was hunched over a little, his small, bright eyes peering steadily at Mike the Angel from beneath shaggy, silvered brows. There was no pleading in those eyes--only confidence. Next to Old Harry was a kid--sixteen, maybe seventeen. He had the JD stamp on his face: a look of cold, hard arrogance that barely concealed the uncertainty and fear beneath. One hand was at Harry's back, and Mike knew that the kid was holding a vibroblade at the old man's spine. At the same time, the buzzing against his thumb told Mike the Angel something else. There was a vibroblade much nearer his body than the one in the kid's hand. That meant that there was another young punk behind him. All this took Mike the Angel about one quarter of a second to assimilate. Then he jumped. Had the intruders been adults, Mike would have handled the entire situation in a completely different way. Adults, unless they are mentally or emotionally retarded, do not usually react or behave like children. Adolescents can, do, and _must_--for the very simple reason that they have not yet had time to learn to react as adults. Had the intruders been adults, and had Mike the Angel behaved the way he did, he might conceivably have died that night. As it was, the kids never had a chance. Mike didn't even bother to acknowledge the existence of the punk behind him. He leaped, instead, straight for the kid in the dead-black suède zipsuit who was holding the vibroblade against Harry MacDougal's spine. And the kid reacted exactly as Mike the Angel had hoped, prayed, and predicted he would. The kid defended himself. An adult, in a situation where he has one known enemy at his mercy and is being attacked by a second, will quickly put the first out of the way in order to leave himself free to deal with the second. There is no sense in leaving your flank wide open just to oppose a frontal attack. If the kid had been an adult, Harry MacDougal would have died there and then. An adult would simply have slashed his vibroblade through the old man's spine and brought it to bear on Mike the Angel. But not the kid. He jumped back, eyes widening, to face his oncoming opponent in an open space. He was no coward, that kid, and he knew how to handle a vibroblade. In his own unwise, suicidal way, he was perfectly capable of proving himself. He held out the point of that shimmering metal shaft, ready to parry any offensive thrust that Mike the Angel might make. If Mike had had a vibroblade himself, and if there hadn't been another punk at his back, Mike might have taken care of the kid that way. As it was, he had no choice but to use another way. He threw himself full on the point of the scintillating vibroblade. A vibroblade is a nasty weapon. Originally designed as a surgeon's tool, its special steel blade moves in and out of the heavy hilt at speeds from two hundred to two thousand vibrations per second, depending on the size and the use to which it is to be put. Make it eight inches long, add serrated, diamond-pointed teeth, and you have the man-killing vibroblade. Its danger is in its power; that shivering blade can cut through flesh, cartilage, and bone with almost no effort. It's a knife with power steering. But that kind of power can be a weakness as well as a strength. The little gadget that Mike the Angel carried did more than just detect the nearby operation of a vibroblade. It was also a defense. The gadget focused a high-density magnetic field on any vibroblade that came anywhere within six inches of Mike's body. In that field, the steel blade simply couldn't move. It was as though it had been caught in a vise. The blade no longer vibrated; it had become nothing more than an overly fancy bread knife. The trouble was that the power unit in the heavy hilt simply wouldn't accept the fact that the blade was immovable. That power unit was in there to move something, and by heaven, _something_ had to move. The hilt jerked and bucked in the kid's hand, taking skin with it. Then it began to smoke and burn under the overload. The plastic shell cracked and hot copper and silver splattered out of it. The kid screamed as the molten metal burned his hand. Mike the Angel put a hand against the kid's chest and shoved. As the boy toppled backward, Mike turned to face the other boy. Only it wasn't a boy. She was wearing gold lip paint and had sprayed her hair blue, but she knew how to handle a vibroblade at least as well as her boy friend had. Just as Mike the Angel turned, she lunged forward, aiming for the small of his back. And she, too, screamed as she lost her blade in a flash of heat. Then she grabbed for something in her pocket. Regretfully, Mike the Angel brought the edge of his hand down against the side of her neck in a paralyzing, but not deadly, rabbit punch. She dropped, senseless, and a small gun spilled out of the waist pocket of her zipsuit and skittered across the floor. Mike paused only long enough to make sure she was out, then he turned back to his first opponent. As he had anticipated, Harry MacDougal had taken charge. The kid was sprawled flat on the floor, and Old Harry was holding a shock gun in his hand. Mike the Angel took a deep breath. "Yer trousers are on fire," said Harry. Mike yelped as he felt the heat, and he began slapping at the smoldering spots where the molten metal from the vibroblades had hit his clothing. He wasn't afire; modern clothing doesn't flame up--but it can get pretty hot when you splash liquid copper on it. "Damn!" said Mike the Angel. "New suit, too." "You're a fast thinker, laddie," said Old Harry. "You don't need to flatter me, Harry," said Mike the Angel. "When an old teetotaler like you asks a man if he's brought some scotch, the man's a fool if he doesn't know there's trouble afoot." He gave his leg a final slap and said: "What happened? Are there any more of them?" "Don't know. Might be." The old man waved at his control panel. "My instruments are workin' again!" He gestured at the floor. "I'm nae sure how they did it, but somehow they managed to blank out ma instruments just long enough to get inside. Their mistake was in not lockin' the front door." Mike the Angel was busy searching the two unconscious kids. He looked up. "Neither of them is carrying any equipment in their clothing--at least, not anything that's self-powered. If they've got pickup circuits built into the cloth, there must be more of them outside." "Aye. Likely. We'll see." Suddenly, there was a soft _ping! ping! ping!_ from an instrument on the bench. Harry glanced quickly at the receiving screen that was connected with the multitude of eyes that were hidden around the area of his shop. Then a smile came over his small brown face. "Cops," he said. "Time they got here." 3 Sergeant Cowder looked the room over and took a drag from his cigarette. "Well, that's that. Now--what happened?" He looked from Mike the Angel to Harry MacDougal and back again. Both of them appeared to be thinking. "All right," he said quietly, "let me guess, then." Old Harry waved a hand. "Oh no, Sergeant; 'twon't be necessary. I think Mr. Gabriel was just waiting for me to start, because he wasn't here when the two rapscallions came in, and I was just tryin' to figure out where to begin. We're not bein' unco-operative. Let's see now--" He gazed at the ceiling as though trying to collect his thoughts. He knew perfectly well that the police sergeant was recording everything he said. The sergeant sighed. "Look, Harry, you're not on trial. I know perfectly well that you've got this place bugged to a fare-thee-well. So does every shop operator on Radio Row. If you didn't, the JD gangs would have cleaned you all out long ago." Harry kept looking at the ceiling, and Mike the Angel smiled quietly at his fingernails. The detective sergeant sighed again. "Sure, we'd like to have some of the gadgets that you and the other operators on the Row have worked out, Harry. But I'm in no position to take 'em away from you. Besides, we have some stuff that you'd like to have, too, so that makes us pretty much even. If we started confiscating illegal equipment from you, the JD's would swoop in here, take your legitimate equipment, bug it up, and they'd be driving us all nuts within a week. So long as you don't use illegal equipment illegally, the department will leave you alone." Old Harry grinned. "Well, now, that's very nice of you, Sergeant. But I don't have anything illegal--no robotics stuff or anything like that. Oh, I'll admit I've a couple of eyes here and there to watch my shop, but eyes aren't illegal." The detective glanced around the room with a practiced eye and then looked blandly back at the little Scotsman. Harry MacDougal was lying, and the sergeant knew it. And Harry knew the sergeant knew it. Sergeant Cowder sighed for a third time and looked at the Scot. "Okay. So what happened?" Harry's face became serious. "They came in about six-thirty. First I knew of it, one of the kids--the boy--stepped out of that closet over there and put a vibroblade at my back. I'd come back here to get a small resistor, and all of a sudden there he was." Mike the Angel frowned, but he didn't say anything. "None of your equipment registered anything?" asked the detective. "Not a thing, Sergeant," said Harry. "They've got something new, all right. The kid must ha' come in through the back door, there. And I'd ha' been willin' to bet ma life that no human bein' could ha' walked in here without ma knowin' it before he got within ten feet o' that door. Look." He got up, walked over to the back door, and opened it. It opened into what looked at first to be a totally dark room. Then the sergeant saw that there was a dead-black wall a few feet from the open door. "That's a light trap," said Harry. "Same as they have in photographic darkrooms. To get from this door to the outer door that leads into the alley, you got to turn two corners and walk about thirty feet. Even I, masel', couldn't walk through it without settin' off half a dozen alarms. Any kind of light would set off the bugs; so would the heat radiation from the human body." "How about the front?" Sergeant Cowder asked. "Anyone could get in from the front." Harry's grin became grim. "Not unless I go with 'em. And not even then if I don't want 'em to." "It was kind of you to let us in," said the detective mildly. "A pleasure," said Harry. "But I wish I knew how that kid got in." "Well, he did--somehow," Cowder said. "What happened after he came out of the closet?" "He made me let the girl in. They were goin' to open up the rear completely and take my stuff out that way. They'd ha' done it, too, if Mr. Gabriel hadn't come along." Detective Sergeant Cowder looked at Mike the Angel. "About what time was that, Mr. Gabriel?" "About six thirty-five," Mike told him. "The kids probably hadn't been here more than a few minutes." Harry MacDougal nodded in silent corroboration. "Then what happened?" asked the detective. Mike told him a carefully edited version of what had occurred, leaving out the existence of the little gadget he was carrying in his pocket. The sergeant listened patiently and unbelievingly through the whole recital. Mike the Angel grinned to himself; he knew what part of the story seemed queer to the cop. He was right. Cowder said: "Now, wait a minute. What caused those vibroblades to burn up that way?" "Must have been faulty," Mike the Angel said innocently. "Both of them?" Sergeant Cowder asked skeptically. "At the same time?" "Oh no. Thirty seconds apart, I'd guess." "Very interesting. Very." He started to say something else, but a uniformed officer stuck his head in through the doorway that led to the front of the shop. "We combed the whole area, Sergeant. Not a soul around. But from the looks of the alley, there must have been a small truck parked in there not too long ago." Cowder nodded. "Makes sense. Those JD's wouldn't have tried this unless they intended to take everything they could put their hands on, and they certainly couldn't have put all this in their pockets." He rubbed one big finger over the tip of his nose. "Okay, Barton, that's all. Take those two kids to the hospital and book 'em in the detention ward. I want to talk to them when they wake up." The cop nodded and left. Sergeant Cowder looked back at Harry. "Your alarm to the precinct station went off at six thirty-six. I figure that whoever was on the outside, in that truck, knew something had gone wrong as soon as the fight started in here. He--or they--shut off whatever they were using to suppress the alarm system and took off before we got here. They sure must have moved fast." "Must have," agreed Harry. "Is there anything else, Sergeant?" Cowder shook his head. "Not right now. I'll get in touch with you later, if I need you." Harry and Mike the Angel followed him through the front of the shop to the front door. At the door, Cowder turned. "Well, good night. Thanks for your assistance, Mr. Gabriel. I wish some of our cops had had your luck." "How so?" asked Mike the Angel. "If more vibroblades would blow up at opportune moments, we'd have fewer butchered policemen." Mike the Angel shook his head. "Not really. If their vibros started burning out every time they came near a cop, the JD's would just start using something else. You can't win in this game." Cowder nodded glumly. "It's a losing proposition any way you look at it.... Well, good night again." He stepped out, and Old Harry closed and locked the door behind him. Mike the Angel said: "Come on, Harry; I want to find something." He began walking back down the long, narrow shop toward the rear again. Harry followed, looking mystified. Mike the Angel stopped, sniffing. "Smell that?" Harry sniffed. "Aye. Burnt insulation. So?" "You know which one of these bins is nearest to your main control cable. Start looking. See if you find anything queer." Old Harry walked over to a nearby bin, pulled it open, and looked inside. He closed it, pulled open another. He found the gadget on the third try. It was a plastic case, six by six by eight, and it still smelled of hot insulation, although the case itself was barely warm. "What is it?" Harry asked in wonder. "It's the gizmo that turned your equipment off. When I passed by it, my own gadget must have blown it. I knew the police couldn't have made it here between the time of the fight and the time they showed up. They must have had at least an extra minute. Besides, I didn't think anyone could build an instrument that would blank out everything at long range. It had to be something near your main cable. I think you'll find a metallic oscillator in there. Analyze it. Might be useful." Harry turned the box over in his hands. "Probably has a timer in it to start it.... Well.... That helps." "What do you mean?" "I've got a pretty good idea who put it here. Older kid. Nineteen--maybe twenty. Seemed like a nice lad, too. Didn't take him for a JD. Can't trust anyone these days. Thanks, Mike. If I find anything new in here, I'll let you know." "Do that," said Mike the Angel. "And, as a personal favor, I'll show you how to build my own super-duper, extra-special, anti-vibroblade defense unit." Old Harry grinned, crinkling up his wizened face in a mass of fine wrinkles. "You'd better think up a shorter name than that for it, laddie; I could probably build one in less time than it takes you to say it." "Want to bet?" "I'll bet you twenty I can do it in twenty-four hours." "Twenty it is, Harry. I'll sell you mine this time tomorrow for twenty bucks." Harry shook his head. "I'll trade you mine for yours, plus twenty." Then his eyes twinkled. "And speaking of money, didn't you come down here to buy something?" Mike the Angel laughed. "You're not going to like it. I came down to get a dozen plastic-core resistors." "What size?" Mike told him, and Old Harry went over to the proper bin, pulled them out, all properly boxed, and handed them to him. "That'll be four dollars," he said. Mike the Angel paid up with a smile. "You don't happen to have a hundred-thousand-unit microcryotron stack, do you?" "Ain't s'posed to," said Harry MacDougal. "If I did, I wouldn't sell it to you. But, as a matter of cold fact, I do happen to have one. Use it for a paperweight. I'll give it to you for nothing, because it don't work, anyhow." "Maybe I can fix it," said Mike the Angel, "as long as you're giving it to me. How come it doesn't work?" "Just a second, laddie," said Harry. He scuttled to the rear of the shop and came back with a ready-wrapped package measuring five by five by four. He handed it to Mike the Angel and said: "It's a present. Thanks for helping me out of a tight spot." Mike said something deprecative of his own efforts and took the package. If it were in working order it would have been worth close to three hundred dollars--more than that on the black market. If it was broken, though, it was no good to Mike. A microcryotron unit is almost impossible to fix if it breaks down. But Mike took it because he didn't want to hurt Old Harry's feelings by refusing a present. "Thanks, Harry," he said. "Happen to know why it doesn't work?" Harry's face crinkled again in his all-over smile. "Sure, Mike. It ain't plugged in." 4 Mike the Angel did not believe in commuting. Being a bachelor, he could afford to indulge in that belief. In his suite of offices on 112th Street, there was one door marked "M. R. Gabriel." Behind that door was his private secretary's office, which acted as an effective barrier between himself and the various employees of the firm. Behind the secretary's office was his own office. There was still another door in his inner office, a plain, unmarked door that looked as though it might conceal a closet. It didn't. It was the door to a veddy, veddy expensive apartment with equally expensive appointments. One wall, thirty feet long and ten feet high, was a nearly invisible, dustproof slab of polished, optically flat glass that gave the observer the feeling that there was nothing between him and the city street, five hundred feet below. The lights of the city, coming through the wall, gave the room plenty of illumination after sunset, but the simple flick of a switch could polarize it black, allowing perfect privacy. The furniture was massive, heavily braced, and well upholstered. It had to be; Mike the Angel liked to flop into chairs, and his two hundred and sixty pounds gave chairs a lot of punishment. On one of the opaque walls was Dali's original "Eucharist," with its muffled, robed figures looking oddly luminous in the queer combination of city lights and interior illumination. Farther back, a Valois gleamed metallically above the shadowed bas-reliefs of its depths. It was the kind of apartment Mike the Angel liked. He could sleep, if necessary, on a park bench or in a trench, but he didn't see any reason for doing so if he could sleep on a five-hundred-dollar floater. As he had passed through each door, he had checked them carefully. His electrokey had a special circuit that lighted up a tiny glow lamp in the key handle if the lock had been tampered with. None of them had. He opened the final door, went into his apartment, and locked the door behind him, as he had locked the others. Then he turned on the lights, peeled off his raincoat, and plopped himself into a chair to unwrap the microcryotron stack he had picked up at Harry's. Theoretically, Harry wasn't supposed to sell the things. They were still difficult to make, and they were supposed to be used only by persons who were authorized to build robot brains, since that's what the stack was--a part of a robot brain. Mike could have put his hands on one legally, provided he'd wanted to wait for six or eight months to clear up the red tape. Actually, the big robotics companies didn't want amateurs fooling around with robots; they'd much rather build the robots themselves and rent them out. They couldn't make do-it-yourself projects impossible, but they could make them difficult. In a way, there was some good done. So far, the JD's hadn't gone into big-scale robotics. Self-controlled bombs could be rather nasty. Adult criminals, of course, already had them. But an adult criminal who had the money to invest in robotic components, or went to the trouble to steal them, had something more lucrative in mind than street fights or robbing barrooms. To crack a bank, for instance, took a cleverly constructed, well-designed robot and plenty of ingenuity on the part of the operator. Mike the Angel didn't want to make bombs or automatic bankrobbers; he just wanted to fiddle with the stack, see what it would do. He turned it over in his hands a couple of times, then shrugged, got up, went over to his closet, and put the thing away. There wasn't anything he could do with it until he'd bought a cryostat--a liquid helium refrigerator. A cryotron functions only at temperatures near absolute zero. The phone chimed. Mike went over to it, punched the switch, and said: "Gabriel speaking." No image formed on the screen. A voice said: "Sorry, wrong number." There was a slight click, and the phone went dead. Mike shrugged and punched the cutoff. Sounded like a woman. He vaguely wished he could have seen her face. Mike got up and walked back to his easy chair. He had no sooner sat down than the phone chimed again. Damn! Up again. Back to the phone. "Gabriel speaking." Again, no image formed. "Look, lady," Mike said, "why don't you look up the number you want instead of bothering me?" Suddenly there was an image. It was the face of an elderly man with a mild, reddish face, white hair, and a cold look in his pale blue eyes. It was Basil Wallingford, the Minister for Spatial Affairs. He said: "Mike, I wasn't aware that your position was such that you could afford to be rude to a Portfolio of the Earth Government." His voice was flat, without either anger or humor. "I'm not sure it is, myself," admitted Mike the Angel, "but I do the best I can with the tools I have to work with. I didn't know it was you, Wally. I just had some wrong-number trouble. Sorry." "Mf.... Well.... I called to tell you that the _Branchell_ is ready for your final inspection. Or will be, that is, in a week." "My final inspection?" Mike the Angel arched his heavy golden-blond eyebrows. "Hell, Wally, Serge Paulvitch is on the job down there, isn't he? You don't need _my_ okay. If Serge says it's ready to go, it's ready to go. Or is there some kind of trouble you haven't mentioned yet?" "No; no trouble," said Wallingford. "But the power plant on that ship was built according to your designs--not Mr. Paulvitch's. The Bureau of Space feels that you should give them the final check." Mike knew when to argue and when not to, and he knew that this was one time when it wouldn't do him the slightest good. "All right," he said resignedly. "I don't like Antarctica and never will, but I guess I can stand it for a few days." "Fine. One more thing. Do you have a copy of the thrust specifications for Cargo Hold One? Our copy got garbled in transmission, and there seems to be a discrepancy in the figures." Mike nodded. "Sure. They're in my office. Want me to get them now?" "Please. I'll hold on." Mike the Angel barely made it in time. He went to the door that led to his office, opened it, stepped through, and closed it behind him just as the blast went off. The door shuddered behind Mike, but it didn't give. Mike's apartment was reasonably soundproof, but it wasn't built to take the kind of explosion that would shake the door that Mike the Angel had just closed. It was a two-inch-thick slab of armor steel on heavy, precision-bearing hinges. So was every other door in the suite. It wasn't quite a bank-vault door, but it would do. Any explosion that could shake it was a real doozy. Mike the Angel spun around and looked at the door. It was just a trifle warped, and faint tendrils of vapor were curling around the edge where the seal had been broken. Mike sniffed, then turned and ran. He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a big roll of electrostatic tape. Then he took a deep breath, went back to the door, and slapped on a strip of the one-inch tape, running it all around the edge of the door. Then he went into the outer office while the air conditioners cleaned out his private office. He went over to one of the phones near the autofile and punched for the operator. "I had a long-distance call coming in here from the Right Excellent Basil Wallingford, Minister for Spatial Affairs, Capitol City. We were cut off." "One moment please." A slight pause. "His Excellency is here, Mr. Gabriel." Wallingford's face came back on the screen. It had lost some of its ruddiness. "What happened?" he asked. "You tell me, Wally," Mike snapped. "Did you see anything at all?" "All I saw was that big pane of glass break. It fell into a thousand pieces, and then something exploded and the phone went dead." "The glass broke first?" "That's right." Mike sighed. "Good. I was afraid that maybe someone had planted that bomb, rather than fired it in. I'd hate to think anyone could get into my place without my knowing it." "Who's gunning for you?" "I wish I knew. Look, Wally, can you wait until tomorrow for those specs? I want to get hold of the police." "Certainly. Nothing urgent. It can wait. I'll call you again tomorrow evening." The screen blanked. Mike glanced at the wall clock and then punched a number on the phone. A pretty girl in a blue uniform came on the screen. "Police Central," she said. "May I help you?" "I'd like to speak to Detective Sergeant William Cowder, please," Mike said. "Just tell him that Mr. Gabriel has more problems." She looked puzzled, but she nodded, and pretty soon her image blanked out. The screen stayed blank, but Sergeant Cowder's voice came over the speaker. "What is it, Mr. Gabriel?" He was evidently speaking from a pocket phone. "Attempted murder," said Mike the Angel. "A few minutes ago a bomb was set off in my apartment. I think it was a rocket, and I know it was heavily laced with hydrogen cyanide. That's Suite 5000, Timmins Building, up on 112th Street. I called you because I have a hunch it's connected with the incident at Harry's earlier this evening." "Timmins Building, eh? I'll be right up." Cowder cut off with a sharp click, and Mike the Angel looked quizzically at the dead screen. Was he imagining things, or was there a peculiar note in Cowder's voice? Two minutes later he got his answer. 5 Mike the Angel was sitting behind his desk in his private office when the announcer chimed. Mike narrowed his eyes and turned on his door screen, which connected with an eye in the outer door of the suite. Who could it be this time? It was Sergeant Cowder. "You got here fast," said Mike, thumbing the unlocker. "Come on back to my office." The sergeant came through the outer office while Mike watched him on the screen. Not until the officer finally pushed open the door to Mike's own office did Mike the Angel look up from the screen. "I repeat," said Mike, "you got here fast." "I wasn't far away," said Cowder. "Where's the damage?" Mike jerked a thumb toward the door to his apartment, still sealed with tape. "In there." "Have you been back in there yet?" "Nope," said Mike. "I didn't want to disturb anything. I figured maybe your lab boys could tell where the rocket came from." "What happened?" the cop asked. Mike told him, omitting nothing except the details of his conversation with Wallingford. "The way I see it," he finished, "whoever it was phoned me to make sure I was in the room and then went out and fired a rocket at my window." "What makes you think it was a JD?" Cowder asked. "Well, Sergeant, if I were going to do the job, I'd put my launcher in some place where I could see that my victim was inside, without having to call him. But if I couldn't do that, I'd aim the launcher and set it to fire by remote control. Then I'd go to the phone, call him, and fire the rocket while he was on the phone. I'd be sure of getting him that way. The way it was done smacks of a kid's trick." Cowder looked at the door. "Think we can go in there now? The HCN ought to have cleared out by now." Mike stood up from behind his desk. "I imagine it's pretty clear. I checked the air conditioners; they're still working, and the filters are efficient enough to take care of an awful lot of hydrogen cyanide. Besides, the window is open. But--shouldn't we wait for the lab men?" Cowder shook his head. "Not necessary. They'll be up in a few minutes, but they'll probably just confirm what we already know. Peel that tape off, will you?" Mike took his ionizer from the top of the desk, walked over to the door, and began running it over the tape. It fell off and slithered to the floor. As he worked, he said: "You think you know where the rocket was fired from?" "Almost positive," said Cowder. "We got a call a few minutes back from the Cathedral of St. John the Divine." The last of the tape fell off, and Mike opened the door. It didn't work easily, but it did open. The odor of bitter almonds was so faint that it might actually have been imagination. Cowder pointed out the shattered window at the gray spire of the cathedral. "There's your launching site. We don't know how they got up there, but they managed." "They?" "Two of them. When they tried to leave, a couple of priests and two officers of the Cathedral Police spotted them. The kids dropped their launcher and two unfired rockets, and then tried to run for it. Result: one dead kid, one getaway. One of the cops got a bad gash on his arm from a vibroblade, and one of the priests got it in the abdomen. He'll live, but he's in bad shape." Mike said something under his breath that might have been an oath, except that it avoided all mention of the Deity. Then he added that Name, in a different tone of voice. "I agree," said Cowder. "You think you know why they did it?" Mike looked around at his apartment. At first glance it appeared to be a total loss, but closer inspection showed that most of the damage had been restricted to glass and ceramics. The furniture had been tumbled around but not badly damaged. The war head of the rocket had evidently been of the concussion-and-gas type, without much fragmentation. "I think I know why, yes," Mike said, turning back to the sergeant. "I had a funny feeling all the way home from Harry's. Nothing I could lay my finger on, really. I tried to see if I was being followed, but I didn't spot anyone. There were plenty of kids on the subway. "It's my guess that the kids knew who I was. If they cased Harry's as thoroughly as it seems they did, they must have seen me go in and out several times. They knew that it was my fault that two of their members got picked up, so they decided to teach me a lesson. One of them must have come up here, even before I left Harry's. The other followed me, just to make sure I was really coming home. Since he knew where I was going, he didn't have to stick too close, so I didn't spot him in the crowd. He might even have gone on up to 116th Street so that I wouldn't see him get off at 110th." "Sounds reasonable," Cowder agreed. "We know who the kids are. The uniformed squads are rounding up the whole bunch for questioning. They call themselves--you'll get a laugh out of this!--they call themselves the Rocketeers." "I'm fracturing my funny bone," said Mike the Angel. "The thing that gets me is this revenge business, though. Kids don't usually go that far out for fellow gang members." "Not usually," the sergeant said, "but this is a little different. The girl you caught and the boy who got killed over at the cathedral are brother and sister." "That explains it," Mike said. "Rough family, eh?" Sergeant Cowder shook his head. "Not really. The parents are respectable and fairly well off. Larchmont's the name. The kids are Susan and Herbert--Sue and Bert to you. Bert's sixteen, Sue's seventeen. They were pretty thick, I gather: real brother and sister team." "Good family, bad kids," Mike muttered. He had wandered over to the wall to look at his Dali. It had fallen to the floor, but it wasn't hurt. The Valois was bent, but it could be fixed up easily enough. "I wonder," Mike said, picking up the head of a smashed figurine and looking at it. "I wonder if the so-called sociologists have any explanation for it?" "Sure," Cowder said. "Same one they've been giving for more decades than I'd care to think of. The mother was married before. Divorced her husband, married Larchmont. But she had a boy by her first husband." "Broken home and sibling rivalry? _Pfui!_ And if it wasn't that, the sociologists would find another excuse," Mike said angrily. "Funny thing is that the older half brother was a perfectly respectable kid. Made good grades in school, joined the Space Service, has a perfectly clean record. And yet _he_ was the product of the broken home, not the two younger kids." Mike laughed dryly. "_That_ ought to be food for high sociological thought." The door announcer chimed again, and Cowder said: "That's probably the lab boys. I told them to come over here as soon as they could finish up at the cathedral." Mike checked his screen and when Cowder identified the men at the door, Mike let them in. The short, chubby man in the lead, who was introduced as Perkins, spoke to Sergeant Cowder first. "We checked one of those rockets. Almost a professional job. TNT war head, surrounded by a jacket filled with liquid HCN and a phosphate inhibitor to prevent polymerization. Nasty things." He swung round to Mike. "You're lucky you weren't in the room, or you'd just be part of the wreckage, Mr. Gabriel." "I know," said Mike the Angel. "Well, the room's all yours. It probably won't tell you much." "Probably not," said Perkins, "but we'll see. Come on, boys." Mike the Angel tapped Cowder on the shoulder. "I'd like to talk to you for a minute." Cowder nodded, and Mike led the way back into his private office. He opened his desk drawer and took out the little pack that housed the workings of the vibroblade shield. "That accident you were talking about, Sergeant--the one that made those vibroblades blow, remember? I got to thinking that maybe this could have caused it. I think that with a little more power, it might even vaporize a high-speed bullet. But I'd advise you to wear asbestos clothing." Cowder took the thing and looked at it. "Thanks, Mr. Gabriel," he said honestly. "Maybe the kids will go on to using something else if vibroblades don't work, but I think I'd prefer a rocket in the head to being carved by a vibro." "To be honest," Mike said, "I think the vibro is just a fad among the JD's now, anyway. You know--if you're one of the real biggies, you carry a vibro. A year from now, it might be shock guns, but right now you're chicken if you carry anything but a vibroblade." Cowder dropped the shield generator into his coat pocket. "Thanks again, Mr. Gabriel. We'll do you a favor sometime." 6 The firm of M. R. GABRIEL, POWER DESIGN was not a giant corporation, but it did pretty well for a one-man show. The outer office was a gantlet that Mike the Angel had to run when he came in the next morning after having spent the night at a hotel. There was a mixed and ragged chorus of "Good morning, Mr. Gabriel" as he passed through. Mike gave the nod to each of them and was stopped four times for small details before he finally made his way to his own office. His secretary was waiting for him. She was short, bony, and plain of face. She had a figure like an ironing board and the soul of a Ramsden calculator. Mike the Angel liked her that way; it avoided complications. "Good morning, Mr. Gabriel," she said. "What the hell happened here?" She waved at the warped door and the ribbons of electrostatic tape that still lay in curls on the floor. Mike told her, and she listened to his recitation without any change of expression. "I'm very glad you weren't hurt," she said when he had finished. "What are you going to do about the apartment?" Mike opened the heavy door and looked at the wreckage inside. Through the gaping hole of the shattered window, he could see the towering spires of the two-hundred-year-old Cathedral of St. John the Divine. "Get Larry Beasley on the phone, Helen. I've forgotten his number, but you'll find him listed under 'Interior Decorators.' He has the original plans and designs on file. Tell him to get them out; I want this place fixed up just like it was." "But what if someone else...." She gestured toward the broken window and the cathedral spires beyond. "When you're through talking to Beasley," Mike went on, "see if you can get Bishop Brennan on the phone and switch him to my desk." "Yes, sir," she said. Within two hours workmen were busily cleaning up the wreckage in Mike the Angel's apartment, and the round, plump figure of Larry Beasley was walking around pompously while his artistic but businesslike brain made estimates. Mike had also reached an agreement with the bishop whereby special vaultlike doors would be fitted into the stairwells leading up to the towers at Mike's expense. They were to have facings of bronze so that they could be decorated to blend with the Gothic decor of the church, but the bronze would be backed by heavy steel. Nobody would blow _those_ down in a hurry. Since the wrecked living room was a flurry of activity and his office had become a thoroughfare, Mike the Angel retired to his bedroom to think. He took with him the microcryotron stack he had picked up at Old Harry's the night before. "For something that doesn't look like much," he said aloud to the stack, "you have caused me a hell of a lot of trouble." Old Harry, he knew, wouldn't be caught dead selling the things. In the first place, it was strictly illegal to deal in the components of robotic brains. In the second place, they were so difficult to get, even on the black market, that the few that came into Old Harry's hands went into the defenses of his own shop. Mike the Angel had only wanted to borrow one to take a good look at it. He had read up on all the literature about microcryotrons, but he'd never actually seen one before. He had reason to be curious about microcryotrons. There was something definitely screwy going on in Antarctica. Nearly two years before, the UN Government, in the person of Minister Wallingford himself, had asked Mike's firm--which meant Mike the Angel himself--to design the power drive and the thrust converters for a spaceship. On the face of it, there was nothing at all unusual in that. Such jobs were routine for M. R. Gabriel. But when the specifications arrived, Mike the Angel had begun to wonder what the devil was going on. The spaceship _William Branchell_ was to be built on the surface of Earth--and yet it was to be a much larger ship than any that had ever before been built on the ground. Usually, an interstellar vessel that large was built in orbit around the Earth, where the designers didn't have to worry about gravitational pull. Such a ship never landed, any more than an ocean liner was ever beached--not on purpose, anyway. The passengers and cargo were taken up by smaller vessels and brought down the same way when the liner arrived at her destination. Aside from the tremendous energy required to lift such a vessel free of a planet's surface, there was also the magnetic field of the planet to consider. The drive tubes tended to wander and become erratic if they were forced to cut through the magnetic field of a planet. Therefore, Question One: Why wasn't the _Branchell_ being built in space? Part of the answer, Mike knew, lay in the specifications for the construction of Cargo Hold One. For one thing, it was huge. For another, it was heavily insulated. For a third, it was built like a tank for holding liquids. All very well and good; possibly someone wanted to carry a cargo of cold lemonade or iced tea. That would be pretty stupid, maybe, but it wouldn't be mysterious. The mystery lay in the fact that Cargo Hold One had _already been built_. The _Branchell_ was to be built _around_ it! And that didn't exactly jibe with Mike the Angel's ideas of the proper way to build a spaceship. It was not quite the same as building a seagoing vessel around an oil tank in the middle of Texas, but it was close enough to bother Mike the Angel. Therefore, Question Two: Why was the _Branchell_ being built around Cargo Hold One? Which led to Question Three: What was _in_ Cargo Hold One? For the answer to that question, he had one very good hint. The density of the contents of Cargo Hold One was listed in the specs as being one-point-seven-two-six grams per cubic centimeter. And that, Mike happened to know, was the density of a cryotronic brain, which is 90 per cent liquid helium and 10 per cent tantalum and niobium, by volume. He looked at the microcryotron stack in his hand. It was a one-hundred-kilounit stack. The possible connections within it were factorial one hundred thousand. All it needed was to be immersed in its bath of liquid helium to make the metals superconducting, and it would be ready to go to work. A friend of his who worked for Computer Corporation of Earth had built a robot once, using just such a stack. The robot was designed to play poker. He had fed in all the rules of play and added all the data from Oesterveldt's _On Poker_. It took Mike the Angel exactly one hour to figure out how to beat it. As long as Mike played rationally, the machine had a slight edge, since it had a perfect memory and could compute faster than Mike could. But it would not, could not learn how to bluff. As soon as Mike started bluffing, the robot went into a tizzy. It wouldn't have been so bad if the robot had known nothing whatever about bluffing. That would have made it easy for Mike. All he'd have had to do was keep on feeding in chips until the robot folded. But the robot _did_ know about bluffing. The trouble is that bluffing is essentially illogical, and the robot had no rules whatsoever to go by to judge whether Mike was bluffing or not. It finally decided to make its decisions by chance, judging by Mike's past performance at bluffing. When it did, Mike quit bluffing and cleaned it out fast. That caused such utter confusion in the random circuits that Mike's friend had had to spend a week cleaning up the robot's little mind. But what would be the purpose of building a brain as gigantic as the one in Cargo Hold One? And why build a spaceship around it? Like a pig roasting on an automatic spit, the problem kept turning over and over in Mike's mind. And, like the roasting pig, the time eventually came when it was done. Once it is set in operation, a properly operating robot brain can neither be shut off nor dismantled. Not, that is, unless you want to lose all of the data and processes you've fed into it. Now, suppose the Computer Corporation of Earth had built a giant-sized brain. (Never mind _why_--just suppose.) And suppose they wanted to take it off Earth, but didn't want to lose all the data that had been pumped into it. (Again, never mind _why_--just suppose.) Very well, then. _If_ such a brain had been built, and _if_ it was necessary to take it off Earth, and _if_ the data in it was so precious that the brain could not be shut off or dismantled, _then_ the thing to do would be to build a ship around it. Oh _yeah_? Mike the Angel stared at the microcryotron stack and asked: "Now, tell me, pal, just why would anyone want a brain that big? And what is so blasted important about it?" The stack said not a word. The phone chimed. Mike the Angel thumbed the switch, and his secretary's face appeared on the screen. "Minister Wallingford is on the line, Mr. Gabriel." "Put him on," said Mike the Angel. Basil Wallingford's ruddy face came on. "I see you're still alive," he said. "What in the bloody blazes happened last night?" Mike sighed and told him. "In other words," he ended up, "just the usual sort of JD stuff we have to put up with these days. Nothing new, and nothing to worry about." "You almost got killed," Wallingford pointed out. "A miss is as good as a mile," Mike said with cheerful inanity. "Thanks to your phone call, I was as safe as if I'd been in my own home," he added with utter illogic. "You can afford to laugh," Wallingford said grimly. "I can't. I've already lost one man." Mike's grin vanished. "What do you mean? Who?" "Oh, nobody's killed," Wallingford said quickly. "I didn't mean that. But Jack Wong turned his car over yesterday at a hundred and seventy miles an hour, and he's laid up with a fractured leg and a badly dislocated arm." "Too bad," said Mike. "One of these days that fool will kill himself racing." He knew Wong and liked him. They had served together in the Space Service when Mike was on active duty. "I hope not," Wallingford said. "Anyway--the matter I called you on last night. Can you get those specs for me?" "Sure, Wally. Hold on." He punched the hold button and rang for his secretary as Wallingford's face vanished. When the girl's face came on, he said: "Helen, get me the cargo specs on the _William Branchell_--Section Twelve, pages 66 to 74." The discussion, after Helen had brought the papers, lasted less than five minutes. It was merely a matter of straightening out some cost estimates--but since it had to do with the _Branchell_, and specifically with Hold Number One, Mike decided he'd ask a question. "Wally, tell me--what in the hell is going on down there at Chilblains Base?" "They're building a spaceship," said Wallingford in a flat voice. It was Wallingford's way of saying he wasn't going to answer any questions, but Mike the Angel ignored the hint. "I'd sort of gathered that," he said dryly. "But what I want to know is: Why is it being built around a cryotronic brain, the like of which I have never heard before?" Basil Wallingford's eyes widened, and he just stared for a full two seconds. "And just how did you come across that information, Golden Wings?" he finally asked. "It's right here in the specs," said Mike the Angel, tapping the sheaf of papers. "Ridiculous." Wallingford's voice seemed toneless. Mike decided he was in too deep now to back out. "It certainly is, Wally. It couldn't be hidden. To compute the thrust stresses, I had to know the density of the contents of Cargo Hold One. And here it is: 1.726 gm/cm³. Nothing else that I know of has that exact density." Wallingford pursed his lips. "Dear me," he said after a moment. "I keep forgetting you're too bright for your own good." Then a slow smile spread over his face. "Would you _really_ like to know?" "I wouldn't have asked otherwise," Mike said. "Fine. Because you're just the man we need." Mike the Angel could almost feel the knife blade sliding between his ribs, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that the person who had stabbed him in the back was himself. "What's that supposed to mean, Wally?" "You are, I believe, an officer in the Space Service Reserve," said Basil Wallingford in a smooth, too oily voice. "Since the Engineering Officer of the _Branchell_, Jack Wong, is laid up in a hospital, I'm going to call you to active duty to replace him." Mike the Angel felt that ghostly knife twist--hard. "That's silly," he said. "I haven't been a ship's officer for five years." "You're the man who designed the power plant," Wallingford said sweetly. "If you don't know how to run her, nobody does." "My time per hour is worth a great deal," Mike pointed out. "The rate of pay for a Space Service officer," Basil Wallingford said pleasantly, "is fixed by law." "I can fight being called back to duty--and I'll win," said Mike. He didn't know how long he could play this game, but it was fun. "True," said Wallingford. "You can. I admit it. But you've been wondering what the hell that ship is being built for. You'd give your left arm to find out. I know you, Golden Wings, and I know how that mind of yours works. And I tell you this: Unless you take this job, you'll _never_ find out why the _Branchell_ was built." He leaned forward, and his face loomed large in the screen. "And I mean absolutely _never_." For several seconds Mike the Angel said nothing. His classically handsome face was like that of some Grecian god contemplating the Universe, or an archangel contemplating Eternity. Then he gave Basil Wallingford the benefit of his full, radiant smile. "I capitulate," he said. Wallingford refused to look impressed. "Damn right you do," he said--and cut the circuit. 7 Two days later Mike the Angel was sitting at his desk making certain that M. R. GABRIEL, POWER DESIGN would function smoothly while he was gone. Serge Paulvitch, his chief designer, could handle almost everything. Paulvitch had once said, "Mike, the hell of working for a first-class genius is that a second-class genius doesn't have a chance." "You could start your own firm," Mike had said levelly. "I'll back you, Serge; you know that." Serge Paulvitch had looked astonished. "Me? You think I'm crazy? Right now, I'm a second-class genius working for a first-class outfit. You think I want to be a second-class genius working for a second-class outfit? Not on your life!" Paulvitch could easily handle the firm for a few weeks. Helen's face came on the phone. "There's a Captain Sir Henry Quill on the phone, Mr. Gabriel. Do you wish to speak to him?" "Black Bart?" said Mike. "I wonder what he wants." "Bart?" She looked puzzled. "He said his name was Henry." Mike grinned. "He always signs his name: _Captain Sir Henry Quill, Bart._ And since he's the toughest old martinet this side of the Pleiades, the 'Black' part just comes naturally. I served under him seven years ago. Put him on." In half a second the grim face of Captain Quill was on the screen. He was as bald as an egg. What little hair he did have left was meticulously shaved off every morning. He more than made up for his lack of cranial growth, however, by his great, shaggy, bristly brows, black as jet and firmly anchored to jutting supraorbital ridges. Any other man would have been proud to wear them as mustaches. "What can I do for you, Captain?" Mike asked, using the proper tone of voice prescribed for the genial businessman. "You can go out and buy yourself a new uniform," Quill growled. "Your old one isn't regulation any more." Well, not exactly growled. If he'd had the voice for it, it would have been a growl, but the closest he could come to a growl was an Irish tenor rumble with undertones of gravel. He stood five-eight, and his red and gold Space Service uniform gleamed with spit-and-polish luster. With his cap off, his bald head looked as though it, too, had been polished. Mike looked at him thoughtfully. "I see. So you're commanding the mystery tub, eh?" he said at last. "That's right," said the captain. "And don't go asking me a bunch of blasted questions. I've got no more idea of what the bloody thing's about than you--maybe not as much. I understand you designed her power plant...?" He let it hang. If not exactly a leading question, it was certainly a hinting statement. Mike shook his head. "I don't know anything, Captain. Honestly I don't." If Space Service regulations had allowed it, Captain Sir Henry Quill, Bart., would have worn a walrus mustache. And if he'd had such a mustache, he would have whuffled it then. As it was, he just blew out air, and nothing whuffled. "You and I are the only ones in the dark, then," he said. "The rest of the crew is being picked from Chilblains Base. Pete Jeffers is First Officer, in case you're wondering." "Oh, great," Mike the Angel said with a moan. "That means we'll be going in cold on an untried ship." Like Birnam Wood advancing on Dunsinane, Quill's eyebrows moved upward. "Don't you trust your own designing?" "As much as you do," said Mike the Angel. "Probably more." Quill nodded. "We'll have to make the best of it. We'll muddle through somehow. Are you all ready to go?" "No," Mike admitted, "but I don't see that I can do a damn thing about that." "Nor do I," said Captain Quill. "Be at Chilblains Base in twenty-four hours. Arrangements will be made at the Long Island Base for your transportation to Antarctica. And"--he paused and his scowl became deeper--"you'd best get used to calling me 'sir' again." "Yessir, Sir Henry, sir." "_Thank_ you, Mister Gabriel," snapped Quill, cutting the circuit. "Selah," said Mike the Angel. * * * * * Chilblains Base, Antarctica, was directly over the South Magnetic Pole--at least, as closely as that often elusive spot could be pinpointed for any length of time. It is cheaper in the long run if an interstellar vessel moves parallel with, not perpendicular to, the magnetic "lines of force" of a planet's gravitational field. Taking off "across the grain" _can_ be done, but the power consumption is much greater. Taking off "with the grain" is expensive enough. An ion rocket doesn't much care where it lifts or sets down, since its method of propulsion isn't trying to work against the fabric of space itself. For that reason, an interstellar vessel is normally built in space and stays there, using ion rockets for loading and unloading its passengers. It's cheaper by far. The Computer Corporation of Earth had also been thinking of expenses when it built its Number One Research Station near Chilblains Base, although the corporation was not aware at the time just how much money it was eventually going to save them. The original reason had simply been lower power costs. A cryotron unit has to be immersed at all times in a bath of liquid helium at a temperature of four-point-two degrees absolute. It is obviously much easier--and much cheaper--to keep several thousand gallons of helium at that temperature if the surrounding temperature is at two hundred thirty-three absolute than if it is up around two hundred ninety or three hundred. That may not seem like much percentagewise, but it comes out to a substantial saving in the long run. But, power consumption or no, when C.C. of E. found that Snookums either had to be moved or destroyed, it was mightily pleased that it had built Prime Station near Chilblains Base. Since a great deal of expense also, of necessity, devolved upon Earth Government, the government was, to say it modestly, equally pleased. There was enough expense as it was. The scenery at Chilblains Base--so named by a wiseacre American navy man back in the twentieth century--was nothing to brag about. Thousands of square miles of powdered ice that has had nothing to do but blow around for twenty million years is not at all inspiring after the first few minutes unless one is obsessed by the morbid beauty of cold death. Mike the Angel was not so obsessed. To him, the area surrounding Chilblains Base was just so much white hell, and his analysis was perfectly correct. Mike wished that it had been January, midsummer in the Antarctic, so there would have been at least a little dim sunshine. Mike the Angel did not particularly relish having to visit the South Pole in midwinter. The rocket that had lifted Mike the Angel from Long Island Base settled itself into the snow-covered landing stage of Chilblains Base, dissipating the crystalline whiteness into steam as it did so. The steam, blown away by the chill winds, moved all of thirty yards before it became ice again. Mike the Angel was not in the best of moods. Having to dump all of his business into Serge Paulvitch's hands on twenty-four hours' notice was irritating. He knew Paulvitch could handle the job, but it wasn't fair to him to make him take over so suddenly. In addition, Mike did not like the way the whole _Branchell_ business was being handled. It seemed slipshod and hurried, and, worse, it was entirely too mysterious and melodramatic. "Of all the times to have to come to Antarctica," he grumped as the door of the rocket opened, "why did I have to get July?" The pilot, a young man in his early twenties, said smugly: "July is bad, but January isn't good--just not so worse." Mike the Angel glowered. "Sonny, I was a cadet here when you were learning arithmetic. It hasn't changed since, summer or winter." "Sorry, sir," said the pilot stiffly. "So am I," said Mike the Angel cryptically. "Thanks for the ride." He pushed open the outer door, pulled his electroparka closer around him, and stalked off across the walk, through the lashing of the sleety wind. He didn't have far to walk--a hundred yards or so--but it was a good thing that the walk was protected and well within the boundary of Chilblains Base instead of being out on the Wastelands. Here there were lights, and the Hotbed equipment of the walk warmed the swirling ice particles into a sleety rain. On the Wastelands, the utter blackness and the wind-driven snow would have swallowed him permanently within ten paces. He stepped across a curtain of hot air that blew up from a narrow slit in the deck and found himself in the main foyer of Chilblains Base. The entrance looked like the entrance to a theater--a big metal and plastic opening, like a huge room open on one side, with only that sheet of hot air to protect it from the storm raging outside. The lights and the small doors leading into the building added to the impression that this was a theater, not a military base. But the man who was standing near one of the doors was not by a long shot dressed as an usher. He wore a sergeant's stripes on his regulation Space Service parka, which muffled him to the nose, and he came over to Mike the Angel and said: "Commander Gabriel?" Mike the Angel nodded as he shook icy drops from his gloved hands, then fished in his belt pocket for his newly printed ID card. He handed it to the sergeant, who looked it over, peered at Mike's face, and saluted. As Mike returned the salute the sergeant said: "Okay, sir; you can go on in. The security office is past the double door, first corridor on your right." Mike the Angel tried his best not to look surprised. "_Security_ office? Is there a war on or something? What does Chilblains need with a security office?" The sergeant shrugged. "Don't ask me, Commander; I just slave away here. Maybe Lieutenant Nariaki knows something, but I sure don't." "Thanks, Sergeant." Mike the Angel went inside, through two insulated and tightly weather-stripped doors, one right after another, like the air lock on a spaceship. Once inside the warmth of the corridor, he unzipped his electroparka, shut off the power, and pushed back the hood with its fogproof faceplate. Down the hall, Mike could see an office marked _security officer_ in small letters without capitals. He walked toward it. There was another guard at the door who had to see Mike's ID card before Mike was allowed in. Lieutenant Tokugawa Nariaki was an average-sized, sleepy-looking individual with a balding crew cut and a morose expression. He looked up from his desk as Mike came in, and a hopeful smile tried to spread itself across his face. "If you are Commander Gabriel," he said softly, "watch yourself. I may suddenly kiss you out of sheer relief." "Restrain yourself, then," said Mike the Angel, "because I'm Gabriel." Nariaki's smile became genuine. "So! Good! The phone has been screaming at me every half hour for the past five hours. Captain Sir Henry Quill wants you." "He would," Mike said. "How do I get to him?" "You don't just yet," said Nariaki, raising a long, bony, tapering hand. "There are a few formalities which our guests have to go through." "Such as?" "Such as fingerprint and retinal patterns," said Lieutenant Nariaki. Mike cast his eyes to Heaven in silent appeal, then looked back at the lieutenant. "Lieutenant, _what_ is going on here? There hasn't been a security officer in the Space Service for thirty years or more. What am I suspected of? Spying for the corrupt and evil alien beings of Diomega Orionis IX?" Nariaki's oriental face became morose again. "For all I know, you are. Who knows what's going on around here?" He got up from behind his desk and led Mike the Angel over to the fingerprinting machine. "Put your hands in here, Commander ... that's it." He pushed a button, and, while the machine hummed, he said: "Mine is an antiquated position, I'll admit. I don't like it any more than you do. Next thing, they'll put me to work polishing chain-mail armor or make me commander of a company of musketeers. Or maybe they'll send me to the 18th Outer Mongolian Yak Artillery." Mike looked at him with narrowed eyes. "Lieutenant, do you actually mean that you really don't know what's going on here, or are you just dummying up?" Nariaki looked at Mike, and for the first time, his face took on the traditional blank, emotionless look of the "placid Orient." He paused for long seconds, then said: "Some of both, Commander. But don't let it worry you. I assure you that within the next hour you'll know more about Project Brainchild than I've been able to find out in two years.... Now put your face in here and keep your eyes open. When you can see the target spot, focus on it and tell me." Mike the Angel put his face in the rest for the retinal photos. The soft foam rubber adjusted around his face, and he was looking into blackness. He focused his eyes on the dim target circle and waited for his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness. The Security Officer's voice continued. "All I do is make sure that no unauthorized person comes into Chilblains Base. Other than that, I have nothing but personal guesses and little trickles of confusing information, neither of which am I at liberty to discuss." Mike's irises had dilated to the point that he could see the dim dot in the center of the target circle, glowing like a dimly visible star. "Shoot," he said. There was a dazzling glare of light. Mike pulled his face out of the padded opening and blinked away the colored after-images. Lieutenant Nariaki was comparing the fresh fingerprints with the set he had had on file. "Well," he said, "you have Commander Gabriel's hands, anyway. If you have his eyes, I'll have to concede that the rest of the body belongs to him, too." "How about my soul?" Mike asked dryly. "Not my province, Commander," Nariaki said as he pulled the retinal photos out of the machine. "Maybe one of the chaplains would know." "If this sort of thing is going on all over Chilblains," said Mike the Angel, "I imagine the Office of Chaplains is doing a booming business in TS cards." The lieutenant put the retinal photos in the comparator, took a good look, and nodded. "You're you," he said. "Give me your ID card." Mike handed it over, and Nariaki fed it through a printer which stamped a complex seal in the upper left-hand corner of the card. The lieutenant signed his name across the seal and handed the card back to Mike. "That's it," he said. "You can--" He was interrupted by the chiming of the phone. "Just a second, Commander," he said as he thumbed the phone switch. Mike was out of range of the TV pickup, and he couldn't see the face on the screen, but the voice was so easy to recognize that he didn't need to see the man. "Hasn't that triply bedamned rocket landed yet, Lieutenant? Where is Commander Gabriel?" Mike knew that Black Bart had already checked on the landing of the latest rocket; the question was rhetorical. Mike grinned. "Tell the old tyrant," he said firmly, "that I'll be along as soon as the Security Officer is through with me." Nariaki's expression didn't change. "You're through now, Commander, and--" "Tell that imitation Apollo to hop it over here fast!" said Quill sharply. "I'll give him a lesson in tyranny." There was a click as the intercom shut off. Nariaki looked at Mike the Angel and shook his head slowly. "Either you're working your way toward a court-martial or else you know where Black Bart has the body buried." "I should," said Mike cryptically. "I helped him bury it. How do I get to His Despotic Majesty's realm?" Nariaki considered. "It'll take you five or six minutes. Take the tubeway to Stage Twelve. Go up the stairway to the surface and take the first corridor to the left. That'll take you to the loading dock for that stage. It's an open foyer like the one at the landing field, so you'll have to put your parka back on. Go down the stairs on the other side, and you'll be in Area K. One of the guards will tell you where to go from there. Of course, you could go by tube, but it would take longer because of the by-pass." "Good enough. I'll take the short cut. See you. And thanks." 8 The underground tubeway shot Mike the Angel across five miles of track at high speed. Mike left the car at Stage Twelve and headed up the stairway and down the corridor to a heavy double door marked _freight loading_. He put on his parka and went through the door. The foyer was empty, and, like the one at the rocket landing, protected from the Antarctic blast only by a curtain of hot air. Outside that curtain, the light seemed to lose itself in the darkness of the bleak, snow-filled Wastelands. Mike ignored the snowscape and headed across the empty foyer to the door marked _entrance_. "With a small _e_," Mike muttered to himself. "I wonder if the sign painter ran out of full caps." He was five feet from the door when he heard the yell. "_Help!_" That was all. Just the one word. Mike the Angel came to a dead halt and spun around. The foyer was a large room, about fifty by fifty feet in area and nearly twenty feet high. And it was quite obviously empty. On the open side, the sheet of hissing hot air was doing its best to shield the room from the sixty-below-zero blizzard outside. Opposite the air curtain was a huge sliding door, closed at the moment, which probably led to a freight elevator. There were only two other doors leading from the foyer, and both of them were closed. And Mike knew that no voice could come through those insulated doors. "_Help!_" Mike the Angel swung toward the air curtain. This time there was no doubt. Someone was out in that howling ice-cloud, screaming for help! Mike saw the figure--dimly, fleetingly, obscured most of the time by the driving whiteness. Whoever it was looked as if he were buried to the waist in snow. Mike made a quick estimate. It was dark out there, but he could see the figure; therefore he would be able to see the foyer lights. He wouldn't get lost. Snapping down the faceplate of his parka hood, he ran through the protective updraft of the air curtain and charged into the deadly chill of the Antarctic blizzard. In spite of the electroparka he was wearing, the going was difficult. The snow tended to plaster itself against his faceplate, and the wind kept trying to take him off his feet. He wiped a gloved hand across the faceplate. Ahead, he could still see the figure waving its arms. Mike slogged on. At sixty below, frozen H_{2}O isn't slushy, by any means; it isn't even slippery. It's more like fine sand than anything else. Mike the Angel figured he had about thirty feet to go, but after he'd taken eight steps, the arm-waving figure looked as far off as when he'd started. Mike stopped and flipped up his faceplate. It felt as though someone had thrown a handful of razor blades into his face. He winced and yelled, "What's the trouble?" Then he snapped the plate back into position. "I'm cold!" came the clear, contralto voice through the howling wind. A _woman_! thought Mike. "I'm coming!" he bellowed, pushing on. Ten more steps. He stopped again. He couldn't see anyone or anything. He flipped up his faceplate. "Hey!" No answer. "Hey!" he called again. And still there was no answer. Around Mike the Angel, there was nothing but the swirling, blinding snow, the screaming, tearing wind, and the blackness of the Antarctic night. There was something damned odd going on here. Carefully putting the toe of his right foot to the rear of the heel of his left, he executed a one-hundred-eighty-degree military about-face. And breathed a sigh of relief. He could still see the lights of the foyer. He had half suspected that someone was trying to trap him out here, and they might have turned off the lights. He swiveled his head around for one last look. He still couldn't see a sign of anyone. There was nothing he could do but head back and report the incident. He started slogging back through the gritty snow. He stepped through the hot-air curtain and flipped up his faceplate. "Why did you go out in the blizzard?" said a clear, contralto voice directly behind him. Mike swung around angrily. "Look, lady, I--" He stopped. The lady was no lady. A few feet away stood a machine. Vaguely humanoid in shape from the waist up, it was built more like a miniature military tank from the waist down. It had a pair of black sockets in its head, which Mike took to be TV cameras of some kind. It had grillwork on either side of its head, which probably covered microphones, and another grillwork where the mouth should be. There was no nose. "What the hell?" asked Mike the Angel of no one in particular. "I'm Snookums," said the robot. "Sure you are," said Mike the Angel, backing uneasily toward the door. "You're Snookums. I couldn't fail not to disagree with you less." Mike the Angel didn't particularly like being frightened, but he had never found it a disabling emotion, so he could put up with it if he had to. But, given his choice, he would have much preferred to be afraid of something a little less unpredictable, something he knew a little more about. Something comfortable, like, say, a Bengal tiger or a Kodiak bear. "But I really _am_ Snookums," reiterated the clear voice. Mike's brain was functioning in high gear with overdrive added and the accelerator floor-boarded. He'd been lured out onto the Wastelands by this machine--it most definitely could be dangerous. The robot was obviously a remote-control device. The arms and hands were of the waldo type used to handle radioactive materials in a hot lab--four jointed fingers and an opposed thumb, metal duplicates of the human hand. But who was on the other end? Who was driving the machine? Who was saying those inane things over the speaker that served the robot as a mouth? It was certainly a woman's voice. Mike was still moving backward, toward the door. The machine that called itself Snookums wasn't moving toward him, which was some consolation, but not much. The thing could obviously move faster on those treads than Mike could on his feet. Especially since Mike was moving backward. "Would you mind explaining what this is all about, miss?" asked Mike the Angel. He didn't expect an explanation; he was stalling for time. "I am not a 'miss,'" said the robot. "I am Snookums." "Whatever you are, then," said Mike, "would you mind explaining?" "No," said Snookums, "I wouldn't mind." Mike's fingers, groping behind him, touched the door handle. But before he could grasp it, it turned, and the door opened behind him. It hit him full in the back, and he stumbled forward a couple of steps before regaining his balance. A clear contralto voice said: "Oh! I'm _so_ sorry!" It was the same voice as the robot's! Mike the Angel swung around to face the second robot. This time it was a lady. "I'm sorry," she repeated. She was all wrapped up in an electroparka, but there was no mistaking the fact that she was both human and feminine. She came on through the door and looked at the robot. "Snookums! What are you doing here?" "I was trying an experiment, Leda," said Snookums. "This man was just asking me about it. I just wanted to see if he would come if I called 'help.' He did, and I want to know _why_ he did." The girl flashed a look at Mike. "Would you please tell Snookums why you went out there? Please--don't be angry or anything--just tell him." Mike was beginning to get the picture. "I went because I thought I heard a human being calling for help--and it sounded suspiciously like a woman." "Oh," said Snookums, sounding a little downhearted--if a robot can be said to have a heart. "The reaction was based, then, upon a misconception. That makes the data invalid. I'll have to try again." "That won't be necessary, Snookums," the girl said firmly. "This man went out there because he thought a human life was in danger. He would not have done it if he had known it was you, because he would have known that you were not in any danger. You can stand much lower temperatures than a human being can, you know." She turned to Mike. "Am I correct in saying that you wouldn't have gone out there if you'd known Snookums was a robot?" "Absolutely correct," said Mike the Angel fervently. She looked back at Snookums. "Don't try that experiment again. It is dangerous for a human to go out there, even with an electroparka. You might run the risk of endangering human life." "Oh dear!" said Snookums. "I'm sorry, Leda!" There was real anxiety in the voice. "That's all right, honey," the girl said hurriedly. "This man isn't hurt, so don't get upset. Come along now, and we'll go back to the lab. You shouldn't come out like this without permission." Mike had noticed that the girl had kept one hand on her belt all the time she was talking--and that her thumb was holding down a small button on a case attached to the belt. He had been wondering why, but he didn't have to wonder long. The door behind him opened again, and four men came out, obviously in a devil of a hurry. Each one of them was wearing a brassard labeled SECURITY POLICE. _At least_, thought Mike the Angel as he turned to look them over, _the brassards aren't in all lower-case italics_. One of them jerked a thumb at Mike. "This the guy, Miss Crannon?" The girl nodded. "That's him. He saw Snookums. Take care of him." She looked again at Mike. "I'm terribly sorry, really I am. But there's no help for it." Then, without another word, she opened the door and went back inside, and the robot rolled in after her. As the door closed behind her, the SP man nearest Mike, a tough-looking bozo wearing an ensign's insignia, said: "Let's see your identification." Mike realized that his own parka had no insignia of rank on it, but he didn't like the SP man's tone. "Come on!" snapped the ensign. "Who are you?" Mike the Angel pulled out his ID card and handed it to the security cop. "It tells right there who I am," he said. "That is, if you can read." The man glared and jerked the card out of Mike's hand, but when he saw the emblem that Lieutenant Nariaki had stamped on it, his eyes widened. He looked up at Mike. "I'm sorry, sir; I didn't mean--" "That tears it," interrupted Mike. "That absolutely tears it. In the past three minutes I have been apologized to by a woman, a robot, and a cop. The next thing, a penguin will walk in here, tip his top hat, and abase himself while he mutters obsequiously in penguinese. Just what the devil is going _on_ around this place?" The four SP men were trying hard not to fidget. "Just security precautions, sir," said the ensign uncomfortably. "Nobody but those connected with Project Brainchild are supposed to know about Snookums. If anyone else finds out, we're supposed to take them into protective custody." "I'll bet you're widely loved for that," said Mike. "I suppose the gadget at Miss What's-her-name's belt was an alarm to warn you of impending disaster?" "Miss Crannon.... Yes, sir. Everybody on the project carries those around. Also, Miss Crannon carries a detector for following Snookums around. She's sort of his keeper, you know." "No," said Mike the Angel, "I do not know. But I intend to find out. I'm looking for Captain Quill; where is he?" The four men looked at each other, then looked back at Mike. "I don't know, Commander," said the ensign. "I understand that several new men have come in today, but I don't know all of them. You'd better talk to Dr. Fitzhugh." "Such are the beauties of security," said Mike the Angel. "Where can I find this Dr. Fitzhugh?" The security man looked at his wrist watch. "He's down in the cafeteria now, sir. It's coffee time, and Doc Fitzhugh is as regular as a satellite orbit." "I'm glad you didn't say 'clockwork,'" Mike told him. "I've had enough dealings with machines today. Where is this coffee haven?" The ensign gave directions for reaching the cafeteria, and Mike pushed open the door marked _entrance_. He had to pass through another inner door guarded by another pair of SP men who checked his ID card again, then he had to ramble through hallways that went off at queer angles to each other, but he finally found the cafeteria. He nabbed the first passer-by and asked him to point out Dr. Fitzhugh. The passer-by was obliging; he indicated a smallish, elderly man who was sitting by himself at one of the tables. Mike made his way through the tray-carrying hordes that were milling about, and finally ended up at the table where the smallish man was sitting. "Dr. Fitzhugh?" Mike offered his hand. "I'm Commander Gabriel. Minister Wallingford appointed me Engineering Officer of the _Branchell_." Dr. Fitzhugh shook Mike's hand with apparent pleasure. "Oh yes. Sit down, Commander. What can I do for you?" Mike had already peeled off his electroparka. He hung it over the back of a chair and said: "Mind if I grab a cup of coffee, Doctor? I've just come from topside, and I think the cold has made its way clean to my bones." He paused. "Would you like another cup?" Dr. Fitzhugh looked at his watch. "I have time for one more, thanks." By the time Mike had returned with the cups, he had recalled where he had heard the name Fitzhugh before. "It just occurred to me," he said as he sat down. "You must be Dr. _Morris_ Fitzhugh." Fitzhugh nodded. "That's right." He wore a perpetually worried look, which made his face look more wrinkled than his fifty years of age would normally have accounted for. Mike was privately of the opinion that if Fitzhugh ever really _tried_ to look worried, his ears would meet over the bridge of his long nose. "I've read a couple of your articles in the _Journal_," Mike explained, "but I didn't connect the name until I saw you. I recognized you from your picture." Fitzhugh smiled, which merely served to wrinkle his face even more. Mike the Angel spent the next several minutes feeling the man out, then he went on to explain what had happened with Snookums out in the foyer, which launched Dr. Fitzhugh into an explanation. "He didn't want help, of course; he was merely conducting an experiment. There are many areas of knowledge in which he is as naïve as a child." Mike nodded. "It figures. At first I thought he was just a remote-control tool, but I finally saw that he was a real, honest-to-goodness robot. Who gave him the idea to make such an experiment as that?" "No one at all," said Dr. Fitzhugh. "He's built to make up his own experiments." Mike the Angel's classic face regarded the wrinkled one of Dr. Fitzhugh. "His own experiments? But a robot--" Fitzhugh held up a bony hand, gesturing for attention and silence. He got it from Mike. "Snookums," he said, "is no ordinary robot, Commander." Mike waited for more. When none came, he said: "So I gather." He sipped at his black coffee. "That machine I saw is actually a remote-control tool, isn't it? Snookums' actual brain is in Cargo Hold One of the _William Branchell_." "That's right." Dr. Fitzhugh began reaching into various pockets about his person. He extracted a tobacco pouch, a briar pipe, and a jet-flame lighter. Then he began speaking as he went through the pipe smoker's ritual of filling, tamping, and lighting. "Snookums," he began, "is a self-activating, problem-seeking computer with input and output sensory and action mechanisms analogous to those of a human being." He pushed more tobacco into the bowl of his pipe with a bony forefinger. "He's as close to being a living creature as anything Man has yet devised." "What about the synthecells they're making at Boston Med?" Mike asked, looking innocent. Fitzhugh's contour-map face wrinkled up even more. "I should have said 'living _intelligence_,'" he corrected himself. "He's a true robot, in the old original sense of the word; an artificial entity that displays almost every function of a living, intelligent creature. And, at the same time, he has the accuracy and speed that is normal to a cryotron computer." Mike the Angel said nothing while Fitzhugh fired up his lighter and directed the jet of flame into the bowl and puffed up great clouds of smoke which obscured his face. While the roboticist puffed, Mike let his gaze wander idly over the other people in the cafeteria. He was wondering how much longer he could talk to Fitzhugh before Captain Quill began-- And then he saw the redhead. There is never much point in describing a really beautiful girl. Each man has his own ideas of what it takes for a girl to be "pretty" or "fascinating" or "lovely" or almost any other adjective that can be applied to the noun "girl." But "beautiful" is a cultural concept, at least as far as females are concerned, and there is no point in describing a cultural concept. It's one of those things that everybody knows, and descriptions merely become repetitious and monotonous. This particular example filled, in every respect, the definition of "beautiful" according to the culture of the white Americo-European subclass of the human race as of anno Domini 2087. The elements and proportions and symmetry fit almost perfectly into the ideal mold. It is only necessary to fill in some of the minor details which are allowed to vary without distorting the ideal. She had red hair and blue eyes and was wearing a green zipsuit. And she was coming toward the table where Mike and Dr. Fitzhugh were sitting. "... such a tremendous number of elements," Dr. Fitzhugh was saying, "that it was possible--and necessary--to introduce a certain randomity within the circuit choices themselves-- Ah! Hello, Leda, my dear!" Mike and Fitzhugh rose from their seats. "Leda, this is Commander Gabriel, the Engineering Officer of the _Brainchild_," said Fitzhugh. "Commander, Miss Leda Crannon, our psychologist." Mike had been allowing his eyes to wander over the girl, inspecting her ankles, her hair, and all vital points of interest between. But when he heard the name "Crannon," his eyes snapped up to meet hers. He hadn't recognized the girl without her parka and wouldn't have known her name if the SP ensign hadn't mentioned it. Obviously, she didn't recognize Mike at all, but there was a troubled look in her blue eyes. She gave him a puzzled smile. "Haven't we met, Commander?" Mike grinned. "Hey! That's supposed to be _my_ line, isn't it?" She flashed him a warm smile, then her eyes widened ever so slightly. "Your voice! You're the man on the foyer! The one...." "... the one whom you called copper on," finished Mike agreeably. "But please don't apologize; you've more than made up for it." Her smile remained. She evidently liked what she saw. "How was I to know who you were?" "It might have been written on my pocket handkerchief," said Mike the Angel, "but Space Service officers don't carry pocket handkerchiefs." "What?" The puzzled look had returned. "Ne' mind," said Mike. "Sit down, won't you?" "Oh, I can't, thanks. I came to get Fitz; a meeting of the Research Board has been called, and afterward we have to give a lecture or something to the officers of the _Brainchild_." "You mean the _Branchell_?" Her smile became an impish grin. "You call it what you want. To us, it's the _Brainchild_." Dr. Fitzhugh said: "Will you excuse us, Commander? We'll be seeing you at the briefing later." Mike nodded. "I'd better get on my way, too. I'll see you." But he stood there as Leda Crannon and Dr. Fitzhugh walked away. The girl looked just as divine retreating as she had advancing. 9 Captain Sir Henry (Black Bart) Quill was seated in an old-fashioned, formyl-covered, overstuffed chair, chewing angrily at the end of an unlighted cigar. His bald head gleamed like a pink billiard ball, almost matching the shining glory of his golden insignia against his scarlet tunic. Mike the Angel had finally found his way through the maze of underground passageways to the door marked _wardroom 9_ and had pushed it open gingerly, halfway hoping that he wouldn't be seen coming in late but not really believing it would happen. He was right. Black Bart was staring directly at the door when it slid open. Mike shrugged inwardly and stepped boldly into the room, flicking a glance over the faces of the other officers present. "Well, well, well, Mister Gabriel," said Black Bart. The voice was oily, but the oil was oil of vitriol. "You not only come late, but you come incognito. Where is your uniform?" There was a muffled snicker from one of the junior officers, but it wasn't muffled enough. Before Mike the Angel could answer, Captain Quill's head jerked around. "That will do, Mister Vaneski!" he barked. "Boot ensigns don't snicker when their superiors--_and_ their betters--are being reprimanded! I only use sarcasm on officers I respect. Until an officer earns my sarcasm, he gets nothing but blasting when he goofs off. Understand?" The last word was addressed to the whole group. Ensign Vaneski colored, and his youthful face became masklike. "Yes, sir. Sorry, sir." Quill didn't even bother to answer; he looked back at Mike the Angel, who was still standing at attention. Quill's voice resumed its caustic saccharinity. "But don't let that go to your head, Mister Gabriel. I repeat: Where is your pretty red spaceman's suit?" "If the Captain will recall," said Mike, "I had only twenty-four hours' notice. I couldn't get a new wardrobe in that time. It'll be in on the next rocket." Captain Quill was silent for a moment, then he simply said, "Very well," thus dismissing the whole subject. He waved Mike the Angel to a seat. Mike sat. "We'll dispense with the formal introductions," said Quill. "Commander Gabriel is our Engineering Officer. The rest of these boys all know each other, Commander; you and I are the only ones who don't come from Chilblains Base. You know Commander Jeffers, of course." Mike nodded and grinned at Peter Jeffers, a lean, bony character who had a tendency to collapse into chairs as though he had come unhinged. Jeffers grinned and winked back. "This is Lieutenant Commander von Liegnitz, Navigation Officer; Lieutenant Keku, Supply; Lieutenant Mellon, Medical Officer; and Ensign Vaneski, Maintenance. You can all shake hands with each other later; right now, let's get on with business." He frowned, overshadowing his eyes with those great, bushy brows. "What was I saying just before Commander Gabriel came in?" Pete Jeffers shifted slightly in his seat. "You were sayin', suh, that this's the stupidest dam' assignment anybody evah got. Or words to that effect." Jeffers had been born in Georgia and had moved to the south of England at the age of ten. Consequently, his accent was far from standard. "I think, Mister Jeffers," said Quill, "that I phrased it a bit more delicately, but that was the essence of it. "The _Brainchild_, as she has been nicknamed, has been built at great expense for the purpose of making a single trip. We are to take her, and her cargo, to a destination known only to myself and von Liegnitz. We will be followed there by another Service ship, which will bring us back as passengers." He allowed himself a half-smile. "At least we'll get to loaf around on the way back." The others grinned. "The _Brainchild_ will be left there and, presumably, dismantled." He took the unlighted cigar out of his mouth, looked at it, and absently reached in his pocket for a lighter. The deeply tanned young man who had been introduced as Lieutenant Keku had just lighted a cigarette, so he proffered his own flame to the captain. Quill puffed his cigar alight absently and went on. "It isn't going to be easy. We won't have a chance to give the ship a shakedown cruise because once we take off we might as well keep going--which we will. "You all know what the cargo is--Cargo Hold One contains the greatest single robotic brain ever built. Our job is to make sure it gets to our destination in perfect condition." "Question, sir," said Mike the Angel. Without moving his head, Captain Quill lifted one huge eyebrow and glanced in Mike's direction. "Yes?" "Why didn't C.C. of E. build the brain on whatever planet we're going to in the first place?" "We're supposed to be told that in the briefing over at the C.C. of E. labs in"--he glanced at his watch--"half an hour. But I think we can all get a little advance information. Most of you men have been around here long enough to have some idea of what's going on, but I understand that Mister Vaneski knows somewhat more about robotics than most of us. Do you have any light to shed on this, Mister Vaneski?" Mike grinned to himself without letting it show on his face. The skipper was letting the boot ensign redeem himself after the _faux pas_ he'd made. Vaneski started to stand up, but Quill made a slight motion with his hand and the boy relaxed. "It's only a guess, sir," he said, "but I think it's because the robot knows too much." Quill and the others looked blank, but Mike narrowed his eyes imperceptibly. Vaneski was practically echoing Mike's own deductions. "I mean--well, look, sir," Vaneski went on, a little flustered, "they started to build that thing ten years ago. Eight years ago they started teaching it. Evidently they didn't see any reason for building it off Earth then. What I mean is, something must've happened since then to make them decide to take it off Earth. If they've spent all this much money to get it away, that must mean that it's dangerous somehow." "If that's the case," said Captain Quill, "why don't they just shut the thing off?" "Well--" Vaneski spread his hands. "I think it's for the same reason. It knows too much, and they don't want to destroy that knowledge." "Do you have any idea what that knowledge might be?" Mike the Angel asked. "No, sir, I don't. But whatever it is, it's dangerous as hell." * * * * * The briefing for the officers and men of the _William Branchell_--the _Brainchild_--was held in a lecture room at the laboratories of the Computer Corporation of Earth's big Antarctic base. Captain Quill spoke first, warning everyone that the project was secret and asking them to pay the strictest attention to what Dr. Morris Fitzhugh had to say. Then Fitzhugh got up, his face ridged with nervousness. He assumed the air of a university professor, launching himself into his speech as though he were anxious to get through it in a given time without finishing too early. "I'm sure you're all familiar with the situation," he said, as though apologizing to everyone for telling them something they already knew--the apology of the learned man who doesn't want anyone to think he's being overly proud of his learning. "I think, however, we can all get a better picture if we begin at the beginning and work our way up to the present time. "The original problem was to build a computer that could learn by itself. An ordinary computer can be forcibly taught--that is, a technician can make changes in the circuits which will make the robot do something differently from the way it was done before, or even make it do something new. "But what we wanted was a computer that could learn by itself, a computer that could make the appropriate changes in its own circuits without outside physical manipulation. "It's really not as difficult as it sounds. You've all seen autoscribers, which can translate spoken words into printed symbols. An autoscriber is simply a machine which does what you tell it to--literally. Now, suppose a second computer is connected intimately with the first in such a manner that the second can, on order, change the circuits of the first. Then, all that is needed is...." Mike looked around him while the roboticist went on. The men were looking pretty bored. They'd come to get a briefing on the reason for the trip, and all they were getting was a lecture on robotics. Mike himself wasn't so much interested in the whys and wherefores of the trip; he was wondering why it was necessary to tell anyone--even the crew. Why not just pack Snookums up, take him to wherever he was going, and say nothing about it? Why explain it to the crew? "Thus," continued Fitzhugh, "it became necessary to incorporate into the brain a physical analogue of Lagerglocke's Principle: 'Learning is a result of an inelastic collision.' "I won't give it to you symbolically, but the idea is simply that an organism learns _only_ if it does _not_ completely recover from the effects of an outside force imposed upon it. If it recovers completely, it's just as it was before. Consequently, it hasn't learned anything. The organism _must change_." He rubbed the bridge of his nose and looked out over the faces of the men before him. A faint smile came over his wrinkled features. "Some of you, I know, are wondering why I am boring you with this long recital. Believe me, it's necessary. I want all of you to understand that the machine you will have to take care of is not just an ordinary computer. Every man here has had experience with machinery, from the very simplest to the relatively complex. You know that you have to be careful of the kind of information--the kind of external force--you give a machine. "If you aim a spaceship at Mars, for instance, and tell it to go _through_ the planet, it might try to obey, but you'd lose the machine in the process." A ripple of laughter went through the men. They were a little more relaxed now, and Fitzhugh had regained their attention. "And you must admit," Fitzhugh added, "a spaceship which was given that sort of information might be dangerous." This time the laughter was even louder. "Well, then," the roboticist continued, "if a mechanism is capable of learning, how do you keep it from becoming dangerous or destroying itself? "That was the problem that faced us when we built Snookums. "So we decided to apply the famous Three Laws of Robotics propounded over a century ago by a brilliant American biochemist and philosopher. "Here they are: "'_One: A robot may not injure a human being, nor, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm._' "'_Two: A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law._' "'_Three: A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Law._'" Fitzhugh paused to let his words sink in, then: "Those are the ideal laws, of course. Even their propounder pointed out that they would be extremely difficult to put into practice. A robot is a logical machine, but it becomes somewhat of a problem even to define a human being. Is a five-year-old competent to give orders to a robot? "If you define him as a human being, then he can give orders that might wreck an expensive machine. On the other hand, if you don't define the five-year-old as human, then the robot is under no compulsion to refrain from harming the child." He began delving into his pockets for smoking materials as he went on. "We took the easy way out. We solved that problem by keeping Snookums isolated. He has never met any animal except adult human beings. It would take an awful lot of explaining to make him understand the difference between, say, a chimpanzee and a man. Why should a hairy pelt and a relatively low intelligence make a chimp non-human? After all, some men are pretty hairy, and some are moronic. "Present company excepted." More laughter. Mike's opinion of Fitzhugh was beginning to go up. The man knew when to break pedantry with humor. "Finally," Fitzhugh said, when the laughter had subsided, "we must ask what is meant by 'protecting his own existence.' Frankly, we've been driven frantic by that one. The little humanoid, caterpillar-track mechanism that we all tend to think of as Snookums isn't really Snookums, any more than a human being is a hand or an eye. Snookums wouldn't actually be threatening his own existence unless his brain--now in the hold of the _William Branchell_--is destroyed." As Dr. Fitzhugh continued, Mike the Angel listened with about half an ear. His attention--and the attention of every man in the place--had been distracted by the entrance of Leda Crannon. She stepped in through a side door, walked over to Dr. Fitzhugh, and whispered something in his ear. He nodded, and she left again. Fitzhugh, when he resumed his speech, was rather more hurried in his delivery. "The whole thing can be summed up rather quickly. "Point One: Snookums' brain contains the information that eight years of hard work have laboriously put into it. That information is more valuable than the whole cost of the _William Branchell_; it's worth billions. So the robot can't be disassembled, or the information would be lost. "Point Two: Snookums' mind is a strictly logical one, but it is operating in a more than logical universe. Consequently, it is unstable. "Point Three: Snookums was built to conduct his own experiments. To forbid him to do that would be similar to beating a child for acting like a child; it would do serious harm to the mind. In Snookums' case, the randomity of the brain would exceed optimum, and the robot would become insane. "Point Four: Emotion is not logical. Snookums can't handle it, except in a very limited way." Fitzhugh had been making his points by tapping them off on his fingers with the stem of his unlighted pipe. Now he shoved the pipe back in his pocket and clasped his hands behind his back. "It all adds up to this: Snookums _must_ be allowed the freedom of the ship. At the same time, every one of us must be careful not to ... to push the wrong buttons, as it were. "So here are a few _don'ts_. Don't get angry with Snookums. That would be as silly as getting sore at a phonograph because it was playing music you didn't happen to like. "Don't lie to Snookums. If your lies don't fit in with what he knows to be true--and they won't, believe me--he will reject the data. But it would confuse him, because he knows that humans don't lie. "If Snookums asks you for data, qualify it--even if you know it to be true. Say: 'There may be an error in my knowledge of this data, but to the best of my knowledge....' "Then go ahead and tell him. "But if you absolutely don't know the answer, tell him so. Say: 'I don't have that data, Snookums.' "Don't, unless you are...." He went on, but it was obvious that the officers and crew of the _William Branchell_ weren't paying the attention they should. Every one of them was thinking dark gray thoughts. It was bad enough that they had to take out a ship like the _Brainchild_, untested and jerry-built as she was. Was it necessary to have an eight-hundred-pound, moron-genius child-machine running loose, too? Evidently, it was. "To wind it up," Fitzhugh said, "I imagine you are wondering why it's necessary to take Snookums off Earth. I can only tell you this: Snookums knows too much about nuclear energy." Mike the Angel smiled grimly to himself. Ensign Vaneski had been right; Snookums was dangerous--not only to individuals, but to the whole planet. Snookums, too, was a juvenile delinquent. 10 The _Brainchild_ lifted from Antarctica at exactly 2100 hours, Greenwich time. For three days the officers and men of the ship had worked as though they were the robots instead of their passenger--or cargo, depending on your point of view. Supplies were loaded, and the great engine-generators checked and rechecked. The ship was ready to go less than two hours before take-off time. The last passenger aboard was Snookums, although, in a more proper sense, he had always been aboard. The little robot rolled up to the elevator on his treads and was lifted into the body of the ship. Miss Crannon was waiting for him at the air lock, and Mike the Angel was standing by. Not that he had any particular interest in watching Snookums come aboard, but he did have a definite interest in Leda Crannon. "Hello, honey," said Miss Crannon as Snookums rolled into the air lock. "Ready for your ride?" "Yes, Leda," said Snookums in his contralto voice. He rolled up to her and took her hand. "Where is my room?" "Come along; I'll show you in a minute. Do you remember Commander Gabriel?" Snookums swiveled his head and regarded Mike. "Oh yes. He tried to help me." "Did you need help?" Mike growled in spite of himself. "Yes. For my experiment. And you offered help. That was very nice. Leda says it is nice to help people." Mike the Angel carefully refrained from asking Snookums if he thought he was people. For all Mike knew, he did. Mike followed Snookums and Leda Crannon down the companionway. "What did you do today, honey?" asked Leda. "Mostly I answered questions for Dr. Fitzhugh," said Snookums. "He asked me thirty-eight questions. He said I was a great help. I'm nice, too." "Sure you are, darling," said Miss Crannon. "Ye gods," muttered Mike the Angel. "What's the trouble, Commander?" the girl asked, widening her blue eyes. "Nothing," said Mike the Angel, looking at her innocently with eyes that were equally blue. "Not a single solitary thing. Snookums is a sweet little tyke, isn't he?" Leda Crannon gave him a glorious smile. "I think so. And a lot of fun, too." Very seriously, Mike patted Snookums on his shiny steel skull. "How old are you, little boy?" Leda Crannon's eyes narrowed, but Mike pretended not to notice while Snookums said: "Eight years, two months, one day, seven hours, thirty-three minutes and--ten seconds. But I am not a little boy. I am a robot." Mike suppressed an impulse to ask him if he had informed Leda Crannon of that fact. Mike had been watching the girl for the past three days (at least, when he'd had the time to watch) and he'd been bothered by the girl's maternal attitude toward Snookums. She seemed to have wrapped herself up entirely in the little robot. Of course, that might simply be her method of avoiding Mike the Angel, but Mike didn't quite believe that. "Come along to your room, dear," said Leda. Then she looked again at Mike. "If you'll wait just a moment, Commander," she said rather stiffly, "I'd like to talk to you." Mike the Angel touched his forehead in a gentlemanly salute. "Later, perhaps, Miss Crannon. Right now, I have to go to the Power Section to prepare for take-off. We're really going to have fun lifting this brute against a full Earth gee without rockets." "Later, then," she said evenly, and hurried off down the corridor with Snookums. Mike headed the other way with a sigh of relief. As of right then, he didn't feel like being given an ear-reaming lecture by a beautiful redhead. He beetled it toward the Power Section. * * * * * Chief Powerman's Mate Multhaus was probably the only man in the crew who came close to being as big as Mike the Angel. Multhaus was two inches shorter than Mike's six-seven, but he weighed in at two-ninety. As a powerman, he was tops, and he gave the impression that, as far as power was concerned, he could have supplied the ship himself by turning the crank on a hand generator. But neither Mike nor Multhaus approached the size of the Supply Officer, Lieutenant Keku. Keku was an absolute giant. Six-eight, three hundred fifty pounds, and very little of it fat. When Mike the Angel opened the door of the Power Section's instrument room, he came upon a strange sight. Lieutenant Keku and Chief Multhaus were seated across a table from each other, each with his right elbow on the table, their right hands clasped. The muscles in both massive arms stood out beneath the scarlet tunics. Neither man was moving. "Games, children?" asked Mike gently. _Whap!_ The chief's arm slammed to the table with a bang that sounded as if the table had shattered. Multhaus had allowed Mike's entrance to distract him, while Lieutenant Keku had held out just an instant longer. Both men leaped to their feet, Multhaus valiantly trying not to nurse his bruised hand. "Sorry, sir," said Multhaus. "We were just--" "Ne' mind. I saw. Who usually wins?" Mike asked. Lieutenant Keku grinned. "Usually he does, Commander. All this beef doesn't help much against a guy who really has pull. And Chief Multhaus has it." Mike looked into the big man's brown eyes. "Try doing push-ups. With all your weight, it'd really put brawn into you. Sit down and light up. We've got time before take-off. That is, we do if Multhaus has everything ready for the check-off." "I'm ready any time you are, sir," Multhaus said, easing himself into a chair. "We'll have a cigarette and then run 'em through." Keku settled his bulk into a chair and fired up a cigarette. Mike sat on the edge of the table. "Philip Keku," Mike said musingly. "Just out of curiosity, what kind of a name is Keku?" "Damfino," said the lieutenant. "Sounds Oriental, doesn't it?" Mike looked the man over carefully, but rapidly. "But you're not Oriental--or at least, not much. You look Polynesian to me." "Hit it right on the head, Commander. Hawaiian. My real name's Kekuanaoa, but nobody could pronounce it, so I shortened it to Keku when I came in the Service." Mike gave a short laugh. "That accounts for your size. Kekuanaoa. A branch of the old Hawaiian royal family, as I recall." "That's right." The big Hawaiian grinned. "I've got a kid sister that weighs as much as you. And my granddad kicked off at ninety-four weighing a comfortable four-ten." "What'd he die of, sir?" Multhaus asked curiously. "Concussion and multiple fractures. He slammed a Ford-Studebaker into a palm tree at ninety miles an hour. Crazy old ox; he was bigger than the dam' automobile." The laughter of three big men filled the instrument room. After a few more minutes of bull throwing, Keku ground out his cigarette and stood up. "I'd better get to my post; Black Bart will be calling down any minute." At that instant the PA system came alive. "_Now hear this! Now hear this! Take-off in fifteen minutes! Take-off in fifteen minutes!_" Keku grinned, saluted Mike the Angel, and walked out the door. Multhaus gazed after him, looking at the closed door. "A blinking prophet, Commander," he said. "A blinking prophet." * * * * * The take-off of the _Brainchild_ was not so easy as it might have appeared to anyone who watched it from the outside. As far as the exterior observers were concerned, it seemed to lift into the air with a loud, thrumming noise, like a huge elevator rising in an invisible shaft. It had been built in a deep pit in the polar ice, built around the huge cryotronic stack that was Snookums' brain. As it rose, electric motors slid back the roof that covered the pit, and the howling Antarctic winds roared around it. Unperturbed, it went on rising. Inside, Mike the Angel and Chief Multhaus watched worriedly as the meters wiggled their needles dangerously close to the overload mark. The thrumming of the ship as it fought its way up against the pull of Earth's gravity and through the Earth's magnetic field, using the fabric of space itself as the fulcrum against which it applied its power, was like the vibration of a note struck somewhere near the bottom of a piano keyboard, or the rumble of a contra bassoon. As the intensity of the gravitational field decreased, the velocity of the ship increased--not linearly, but logarithmically. She shrieked through the upper atmosphere, quivering like a live thing, and emerged at last into relatively empty space. When she reached a velocity of a little over thirty miles per second--relative to the sun, and perpendicular to the solar ecliptic--Mike the Angel ordered her engines cut back to the lowest power possible which would still retain the one-gee interior gravity of the ship and keep the anti-acceleration fields intact. "How does she look, Multhaus?" he asked. Both of the men were checking the readings of the instruments. A computerman second class was punching the readings into the small table calculator as Multhaus read off the numbers. "I think she weathered it, sir," the chief said cautiously, "but she sure took a devil of a beating. And look at the power factor readings! We were tossing away energy as though we were S-Doradus or something." They worked for nearly an hour to check through all the circuits to find what damage--if any--had been done by the strain of Earth's gravitational and magnetic fields. All in all, the _Brainchild_ was in pretty good shape. A few circuits needed retuning, but no replacements were necessary. Multhaus, who had been understandably pessimistic about the ship's ability to lift herself from the surface of even a moderate-sized planet like Earth, looked with new respect upon the man who had designed the power plant that had done the job. Mike the Angel called the bridge and informed Captain Quill that the ship was ready for full acceleration. Under control from the bridge, the huge ship yawed until her nose--and thus the line of thrust along her longitudinal axis--was pointed toward her destination. "Full acceleration, Mister Gabriel," said Captain Quill over the intercom. Mike the Angel watched the meters climb again as the ship speared away from the sun at an ever-increasing velocity. Although the apparent internal acceleration remained at a cozy one gee, the acceleration in relation to the sun was something fantastic. When the ship reached the velocity of light, she simply disappeared, as far as external observers were concerned. But she still kept adding velocity with her tremendous acceleration. Finally her engines reached their performance peak. They could drive the _Brainchild_ no faster. They simply settled down to a steady growl and pushed the ship at a steady velocity through what the mathematicians termed "null-space." The _Brainchild_ was on her way. 11 "What I want to know," said Lieutenant Keku, "is, what kind of ship is this?" Mike the Angel chuckled, and Lieutenant Mellon, the Medical Officer, grinned rather shyly. But young Ensign Vaneski looked puzzled. "What do you mean, sir?" he asked the huge Hawaiian. They were sitting over coffee in the officers' wardroom. Captain Quill, First Officer Jeffers, and Lieutenant Commander von Liegnitz were on the bridge, and Dr. Fitzhugh and Leda Crannon were down below, giving Snookums lessons. Mike looked at Lieutenant Keku, waiting for him to answer Vaneski's question. "What do I mean? Just what I said, Mister Vaneski. I want to know what kind of ship this is. It is obviously not a warship, so we can forget that classification. It is not an expeditionary ship; we're not outfitted for exploratory work. Is it a passenger vessel, then? No, because Dr. Fitzhugh and Miss Crannon are listed as 'civilian technical advisers' and are therefore legally part of the crew. I'm wondering if it might be a cargo vessel, though." "Sure it is," said Ensign Vaneski. "That brain in Cargo Hold One is cargo, isn't it?" "I'm not certain," Keku said thoughtfully, looking up at the overhead, as if the answer might be etched there in the metal. "Since it is built in as an intrinsic part of the ship, I don't know if it can be counted as cargo or not." He brought his gaze down to focus on Mike. "What do you think, Commander?" Before Mike the Angel could answer, Ensign Vaneski broke in with: "But the brain is going to be removed when we get to our destination, isn't it? That makes this a cargo ship!" There was a note of triumph in his voice. Lieutenant Keku's gaze didn't waver from Mike's face, nor did he say a word. For a boot ensign to interrupt like that was an impoliteness that Keku chose to ignore. He was waiting for Mike's answer as though Vaneski had said nothing. But Mike the Angel decided he might as well play along with Keku's gag and still answer Vaneski. As a full commander, he could overlook Vaneski's impoliteness to his superiors without ignoring it as Keku was doing. "Ah, but the brain _won't_ be unloaded, Mister Vaneski," he said mildly. "The ship will be _dismantled_--which is an entirely different thing. I'm afraid you can't call it a cargo ship on those grounds." Vaneski didn't say anything. His face had gone red and then white, as though he'd suddenly realized he'd committed a _faux pas_. He nodded his head a little, to show he understood, but he couldn't seem to find his voice. To cover up Vaneski's emotional dilemma, Mike addressed the Medical Officer. "What do you think, Mister Mellon?" Mellon cleared his throat. "Well--it seems to me," he said in a dry, serious tone, "that this is really a medical ship." Mike blinked. Keku raised his eyebrows. Vaneski swallowed and jerked his eyes away from Mike's face to look at Mellon--but still he didn't say anything. "Elucidate, my dear Doctor," said Mike with interest. "I diagnose it as a physician," Mellon said in the same dry, earnest tone. "Snookums, we have been told, is too dangerous to be permitted to remain on Earth. I take this to mean that he is potentially capable of doing something that would either harm the planet itself or a majority--if not all--of the people on it." He picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip. Nobody interrupted him. "Snookums has, therefore," he continued, "been removed from Earth in order to protect the health of that planet, just as one would remove a potentially malignant tumor from a human body. "This is a medical ship. Q.E.D." And only then did he smile. "Aw, now...." Vaneski began. Then he shut his mouth again. With an inward smile, Mike realized that Ensign Vaneski had been taking seriously an argument that was strictly a joke. "Mister Mellon," Mike said, "you win." He hadn't realized that Mellon's mind could work on that level. "Hold," said Lieutenant Keku, raising a hand. "I yield to no one in my admiration for the analysis given by our good doctor; indeed, my admiration knows no bounds. But I insist we hear from Commander Gabriel before we adjourn." "Not me," Mike said, shaking his head. "I know when I'm beaten." He'd been going to suggest that the _Brainchild_ was a training ship, from Snookums' "learning" periods, but that seemed rather obvious and puerile now. He glanced at his watch, saw the time, and stood up. "Excuse me, gentlemen; I have things to do." He had an appointment to talk to Leda Crannon, but he had no intention of broadcasting it. As he closed the wardroom door, he heard Ensign Vaneski's voice saying: "I _still_ say this should be classified as a cargo ship." Mike sighed as he strode on down the companionway. The ensign was, of course, absolutely correct--which was the sad part about it, really. Oh well, what the hell. Leda Crannon had agreed to have coffee with Mike in the office suite she shared with Dr. Fitzhugh. Mike had had one cup in the officers' wardroom, but even if he'd had a dozen he'd have been willing to slosh down a dozen more to talk to Leda Crannon. It was not, he insisted to himself, that he was in love with the girl, but she had intelligence and personality in addition to her striking beauty. Furthermore, she had given Mike the Angel a dressing-down that had been quite impressive. She had not at all cared for the remarks he had made when Snookums was being loaded aboard--patting him on the head and asking him his age, for instance--and had told him so in no uncertain terms. Mike, feeling sheepish and knowing he was guilty, had accepted the tongue-lashing and tendered an apology. And she had smiled and said: "All right. Forget it. I'm sorry I got mad." He knew he wasn't the only man aboard who was interested in Leda. Jakob von Liegnitz, all Teutonic masterfulness and Old World suavity, had obviously made a favorable impression on her. Lew Mellon was often seen in deep philosophical discussions with her, his eyes never leaving her face and his earnest voice low and confidential. Both of them had known her longer than he had, since they'd both been stationed at Chilblains Base. Mike the Angel didn't let either of them worry him. He had enough confidence in his own personality and abilities to be able to take his own tack no matter which way the wind blew. Blithely opening the door of the office, Mike the Angel stepped inside with a smile on his lips. "Ah, good afternoon, Commander Gabriel," said Dr. Morris Fitzhugh. Mike kept the smile on his face. "Leda here?" Fitzhugh chuckled. "No. Some problems came up with Snookums. She'll be in session for an hour yet. She asked me to convey her apologies." He gestured toward the coffee urn. "But the coffee's all made, so you may as well have a cup." Mike was thankful he had not had a dozen cups in the wardroom. "I don't mind if I do, Doctor." He sat down while Fitzhugh poured a cup. "Cream? Sugar?" "Black, thanks," Mike said. There was an awkward silence for a few seconds while Mike sipped at the hot, black liquid. Then Mike said, "Dr. Fitzhugh, you said, at the briefing back on Earth, that Snookums knows too much about nuclear energy. Can you be more specific than that, or is it too hush-hush?" Fitzhugh took out his briar and began filling it as he spoke. "We don't want this to get out to the general public, of course," he said thoughtfully, "but, as a ship's officer, you can be told. I believe some of your fellow officers know already, although we'd rather it wasn't discussed in general conversation, even among the officers." Mike nodded wordlessly. "Very well, then." Fitzhugh gave the tobacco a final shove with his thumb. "As a power engineer, you should be acquainted with the 'pinch effect,' eh?" It was a rhetorical question. The "pinch effect" had been known for over a century. A jet of highly ionized gas, moving through a magnetic field of the proper structure, will tend to pinch down, to become narrower, rather than to spread apart, as a jet of ordinary gas does. As the science of magnetohydrodynamics had progressed, the effect had become more and more controllable, enabling scientists to force the nuclei of hydrogen, for instance, closer and closer together. At the end of the last century, the Bending Converter had almost wrecked the economy of the entire world, since it gave to the world a source of free energy. Sam Bending's "little black box" converted ordinary water into helium and oxygen and energy--plenty of energy. A Bending Converter could be built relatively cheaply and for small-power uses--such as powering a ship or automobile or manufacturing plant--could literally run on air, since the moisture content of ordinary air was enough to power the converter itself with plenty of power left over. Overnight, all previous forms of power generation had become obsolete. Who would buy electric power when he could generate his own for next to nothing? Billions upon billions of dollars worth of generating equipment were rendered valueless. The great hydroelectric dams, the hundreds of steam turbines, the heavy-metal atomic reactors--all useless for power purposes. The value of the stock in those companies dropped to zero and stayed there. The value of copper metal fell like a bomb, with almost equally devastating results--for there was no longer any need for the millions of miles of copper cable that linked the power plants with the consumer. The Depression of 1929-42 couldn't even begin to compare with The Great Depression of 1986-2000. Every civilized nation on Earth had been hit and hit hard. The resulting governmental collapses would have made the disaster even more complete had not the then Secretary General of the UN, Perrot of Monaco, grabbed the reins of government. Like the Americans Franklin Roosevelt and Abraham Lincoln, he had forced through unconstitutional bills and taken extra-constitutional powers. And, like those Americans, he had not done it for personal gain, but to preserve the society. He had not succeeded in preserving the old society, of course, but he had built, almost single-handedly, a world government--a new society on the foundations of the old. All these thoughts ran through Mike the Angel's mind. He wondered if Snookums had discovered something that would be as much a disaster to the world economy as the Bending Converter had been. Fitzhugh got out his miniature flame thrower and puffed his pipe alight. "Snookums," he said, "has discovered a method of applying the pinch effect to lithium hydride. It's a batch reaction rather than a flow reaction such as the Bending Converter uses. But it's as simple to build as a Bending Converter." "Jesus," said Mike the Angel softly. Lithium hydride. LiH. An atom of hydrogen to every atom of lithium. If a hydrogen nucleus is driven into the lithium nucleus with sufficient force, the results are simple: Li^{7} + H^{1} --> 2He^{4} + energy An atom of lithium-7 plus an atom of hydrogen-1 yields two atoms of helium-4 and plenty of energy. One gram of lithium hydride would give nearly fifty-eight kilowatt-hours of energy in one blast. A pound of the stuff would be the equivalent of nearly seven _tons_ of TNT. In addition, it was a nice, clean bomb. Nothing but helium, radiation, and heat. In the early nineteen fifties, such a bomb had been constructed by surrounding the LiH with a fission bomb--the so-called "implosion" technique. But all that heavy metal around the central reaction created all kinds of radioactive residues which had a tendency to scatter death for hundreds of miles around. Now, suppose a man had a pair of tweezers small enough to pick up a single molecule of lithium hydride and pinch the two nuclei together. Of course, the idea is ridiculous--that is, the tweezer part is. But if the pinch could be done in some other way.... Snookums had done it. "Homemade atomic bombs in your back yard or basement lab," said Mike the Angel. Fitzhugh nodded emphatically. "Exactly. We can't let that technique out until we've found a way to keep people from doing just that. The UN Government has inspection techniques that prevent anyone from building the conventional types of thermonuclear bombs, but not the pinch bomb." Mike the Angel thought over what Dr. Fitzhugh had said. Then he said: "That's not all of it. Antarctica is isolated enough to keep that knowledge secret for a long time--at least until safeguards could be set up. Why take Snookums off Earth?" "Snookums himself is dangerous," Fitzhugh said. "He has a built-in 'urge' to experiment--to get data. We can keep him from making experiments that we know will be dangerous by giving him the data, so that the urge doesn't operate. But if he's on the track of something totally new.... "Well, you can see what we're up against." He thoughtfully blew a cloud of smoke. "We think he may be on the track of the total annihilation of matter." A dead silence hung in the air. The ultimate, the super-atomic bomb. Theoretically, the idea had been approached only in the assumption of contact between ordinary matter and anti-matter, with the two canceling each other completely to give nothing but energy. Such a bomb would be nearly fifty thousand times as powerful as the lithium-hydride pinch bomb. That much energy, released in a few millimicroseconds, would make the standard H-bomb look like a candle flame on a foggy night. The LiH pinch bomb could be controlled. By using just a little of the stuff, it would be possible to limit the destruction to a neighborhood, or even a single block. A total-annihilation bomb would be much harder to control. The total annihilation of a single atom of hydrogen would yield over a thousandth of an erg, and matter just doesn't come in much smaller packages than that. "You see," said Fitzhugh, "we _had_ to get him off Earth." "Either that or stop him from experimenting," Mike said. "And I assume that wouldn't be good for Snookums." "To frustrate Snookums would be to destroy all the work we have put into him. His circuits would tend to exceed optimum randomity, and that would mean, in human terms, that he would be insane--and therefore worthless. As a machine, Snookums is worth eighteen billion dollars. The information we have given him, plus the deductions and computations he has made from that information, is worth...." He shrugged his shoulders. "Who knows? How can a price be put on knowledge?" 12 The _William Branchell_--dubbed _Brainchild_--fled Earth at ultralight velocity, while officers, crew, and technical advisers settled down to routine. The only thing that disturbed that routine was one particularly restless part of the ship's cargo. Snookums was a snoop. Cut off from the laboratories which had been provided for his special work at Chilblains, he proceeded to interest himself in the affairs of the human beings which surrounded him. Until his seventh year, he had been confined to the company of only a small handful of human beings. Even while the _William Branchell_ was being built, he hadn't been allowed any more freedom than was absolutely necessary to keep him from being frustrated. Even so, he had developed an interest in humans. Now he was being allowed full rein in his data-seeking circuits, and he chose to investigate, not the physical sciences, but the study of Mankind. Since the proper study of Mankind is Man, Snookums proceeded to study the people on the ship. Within three days the officers had evolved a method of Snookums-evasion. Lieutenant Commander Jakob von Liegnitz sat in the officers' wardroom of the _Brainchild_ and shuffled a deck of cards with expert fingers. He was a medium-sized man, five-eleven or so, with a barrel chest, broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and lean hips. His light brown hair was worn rather long, and its straight strands seemed to cling tightly to his skull. His gray eyes had a perpetual half-squint that made him look either sleepy or angry, depending on what the rest of his broad face was doing. He dealt himself out a board of Four Cards Up and had gone through about half the pack when Mike the Angel came in with Lieutenant Keku. "Hello, Jake," said Keku. "What's to do?" "Get out two more decks," said Mike the Angel, "and we can all play solitaire." Von Liegnitz looked up sleepily. "I could probably think of duller things, Mike, but not just immediately. How about bridge?" "We'll need a fourth," said Keku. "How about Pete?" Mike the Angel shook his head. "Black Bart is sleeping--taking his beauty nap. So Pete has the duty. How about young Vaneski? He's not a bad partner." "He is out, too," said von Liegnitz. "He also is on duty." Mike the Angel lifted an inquisitive eyebrow. "Something busted? Why should the Maintenance Officer be on duty right now?" "He is maintaining," said von Liegnitz with deliberate dignity, "peace and order around here. He is now performing the duty of Answerman-in-Chief. He's very good at it." Mike grinned. "Snookums?" Von Liegnitz scooped the cards off the table and began shuffling them. "Exactly. As long as Snookums gets his questions answered, he keeps himself busy. Our young boot ensign has been assigned to the duty of keeping that mechanical Peeping Tom out of our hair for an hour. By then, it will be lunch time." He cleared his throat. "We still need a fourth." "If you ask me," said Lieutenant Keku, "we need a fifth. Let's play poker instead." Jakob von Liegnitz nodded and offered the cards for a cut. "Deal 'em," said Mike the Angel. A few minutes less than an hour later, Ensign Vaneski slid open the door to the wardroom and was greeted by a triune chorus of hellos. "Sirs," said Vaneski with pseudo formality, "I have done my duty, exhausting as it was. I demand satisfaction." Lieutenant Keku, upon seeing Mike the Angel dealt a second eight, flipped over his up cards and folded. "Satisfaction?" he asked the ensign. Vaneski nodded. "One hand of showdown for five clams. I have been playing encyclopedia for that hunk of animated machinery for an hour. That's above and beyond the call of duty." "Raise a half," said Mike the Angel. "Call," said von Liegnitz. "Three eights," said Mike, flipping his hole card. Von Liegnitz shrugged, folded his cards, and watched solemnly while Mike pulled in the pot. "Vaneski wants to play showdown for a fiver," said Keku. Mike the Angel frowned at the ensign for a moment, then relaxed and nodded. "Not my game," he said, "but if the Answerman wants a chance to catch up, it's okay with me." The four men each tossed a five spot into the center of the table and then cut for deal. Mike got it and started dealing--five cards, face up, for the pot. When three cards apiece had been dealt, young Vaneski was ahead with a king high. On the fourth round he grinned when he got a second king and Mike dealt himself an ace. On the fifth round Vaneski got a three, and his face froze as Mike dealt himself a second ace. Mike reached for the twenty. "You deal yourself a mean hand, Commander," said Vaneski evenly. Mike glanced at him sharply, but there was only a wry grin on the young ensign's face. "Luck of the idiot," said Mike as he pocketed the twenty. "It's time for lunch." "Next time," said Keku firmly, "I'll take the Answerman watch, Mike. You and this kraut are too lucky for me." "If I lose any more to the Angel," von Liegnitz said calmly, "I will be a very sour kraut. But right now, I'm quite hungry." Mike prowled around the Power Section that afternoon with a worry nagging at the back of his mind. He couldn't exactly put his finger on what was bothering him, and he finally put it down to just plain nerves. And then he began to feel something--physically. Within thirty seconds after it began, long before most of the others had noticed it, Mike the Angel recognized it for what it was. Half a minute after that, everyone aboard could feel it. A two-cycle-per-second beat note is inaudible to the human ear. If the human tympanum can't wiggle any faster than that, the auditory nerves refuse to transmit the message. The wiggle has to be three or four octaves above that before the nerves will have anything to do with it. But if the beat note has enough energy in it, a man doesn't have to hear it--he can _feel_ it. The bugs weren't all out of the _Brainchild_, by any means, and the men knew it. She had taken a devil of a strain on the take-off, and something was about due to weaken. It was the external field around the hull that had decided to goof off this time. It developed a nice, unpleasant two-cycle throb that threatened to shake the ship apart. It built up rapidly and then leveled off, giving everyone aboard the feeling that his lunch and his stomach would soon part company. The crew was used to it. They'd been on shakedown cruises before, and they knew that on an interstellar vessel the word "shakedown" can have a very literal meaning. The beat note wasn't dangerous, but it wasn't pleasant, either. Within five minutes everybody aboard had the galloping collywobbles and the twittering jitters. Mike and his power crew all knew what to do. They took their stations and started to work. They had barely started when Captain Quill's voice came over the intercom. "Power Section, this is the bridge. How long before we stop this beat note?" "No way of telling, sir," said Mike, without taking his eyes off the meter bank. "Check A-77," he muttered in an aside to Multhaus. "Can you give me a prognosis?" persisted Quill. Mike frowned. This wasn't like Black Bart. He knew what the prognosis was as well as Mike did. "Actually, sir, there's no way of knowing. The old _Gainsway_ shook like this for eight days before they spotted the tubes that were causing a four-cycle beat." "Why can't we spot it right off?" Quill asked. Mike got it then. Fitzhugh was listening in. Quill wanted Mike the Angel to substantiate his own statements to the roboticist. "There are sixteen generator tubes in the hull--two at each end of the four diagonals of an imaginary cube surrounding the ship. At least two of them are out of phase; that means that every one of them may have to be balanced against every other one, and that would make a hundred and twenty checks. It will take ten minutes if we hit it lucky and find the bad tubes in the first two tries, and about twenty hours if we hit on the last try. "That, of course, is presuming that there are only two out. If there are three...." He let it hang. Mike grinned as Dr. Morris Fitzhugh's voice came over the intercom, confirming his diagnosis of the situation. "Isn't there any other way?" asked Fitzhugh worriedly. "Can't we stop the ship and check them, so that we won't be subjected to this?" "'Fraid not," answered Mike. "In the first place, cutting the external field would be dangerous, if not deadly. The abrupt deceleration wouldn't be good for us, even with the internal field operating. In the second place, we couldn't check the field tubes if they weren't operating. You can't tell a bad tube just by looking at it. They'd still have to be balanced against each other, and that would take the same amount of time as it is going to take anyway, and with the same effects on the ship. I'm sorry, but we'll just have to put up with it." "Well, for Heaven's sake do the best you can," Fitzhugh said in a worried voice. "This beat is shaking Snookums' brain. God knows what damage it may do unless it's stopped within a very few minutes!" "I'll do the best I can," said Mike the Angel carefully. "So will every man in my crew. But about all anyone can do is wish us luck and let us work." "Yes," said Dr. Fitzhugh slowly. "Yes. I understand. Thank you, Commander." Mike the Angel nodded curtly and went back to work. Things weren't bad enough as they were. They had to get worse. The _Brainchild_ had been built too fast, and in too unorthodox a manner. The steady two-cycle throb did more damage than it would normally have done aboard a non-experimental ship. Twelve minutes after the throb started, a feeder valve in the pre-induction energy chamber developed a positive-feedback oscillation that threatened to blow out the whole pre-induction stage unless it was damped. The search for the out-of-phase external field tubes had to be dropped while the more dangerous flaw was tackled. Multhaus plugged in an emergency board and began to compensate by hand while the others searched frantically for the trouble. Hand compensation of feeder-valve oscillation is pure intuition; if you wait until the meters show that damping is necessary, it may be too late--you have to second-guess the machine and figure out what's coming _before_ it happens and compensate then. You not only have to judge time, but magnitude; overcompensation is ruinous, too. Multhaus, the Chief Powerman's Mate, sat behind the emergency board, a vernier dial in each hand and both eyes on an oscilloscope screen. His red, beefy face was corded and knotted with tension, and his skin glistened with oily perspiration. He didn't say a word, and his fingers barely moved as he held a green line reasonably steady on that screen. Mike the Angel, using unangelic language in a steady, muttering stream, worked to find the circuit that held the secret of the ruinous feedback tendency, while other powermen plugged and unplugged meter jacks, flipped switches, and juggled tools. In the midst of all this, in rolled Snookums. Whether Snookums knew that his own existence was in danger is problematical. Like the human brain, his own had no pain or sensory circuits within it; in addition, his knowledge of robotics was small--he didn't even know that his brain was in Cargo Hold One. He thought it was in his head, if he thought about it at all. Nonetheless, he knew _something_ was wrong, and as soon as his "curiosity" circuits were activated, he set out in search of the trouble, his little treads rolling at high speed. Leda Crannon saw him heading down a companionway and called after him. "Where are you going, Snookums?" "Looking for data," answered Snookums, slowing a little. "Wait! I'll come with you!" Leda Crannon knew perfectly well what effect the throb might have on Snookums' brain, and when something cracked, she wanted to see what effect it might have on the behavior of the little robot. Like a hound after a fox, she followed him through the corridors of the ship. Up companionways and down, in and out of storerooms, staterooms, control rooms, and washrooms Snookums scurried, oblivious to the consternation that sometimes erupted at his sudden appearance. At certain selected spots, Snookums would stop, put his metal arms on floors and walls, pause, and then go zooming off in another direction with Leda Crannon only paces behind him, trying to explain to crewmen as best she could. If Snookums had been capable of emotion--and Leda Crannon was not as sure as the roboticists that he wasn't--she would have sworn that he was having the time of his life. Seventeen minutes after the throb had begun, Snookums rolled into Power Section and came to a halt. Something else was wrong. At first he just stopped by the door and soaked in data. Mike's muttering; the clipped, staccato conversation of the power crew; the noises of the tools; the deep throb of the ship itself; the underlying oddness of the engine vibrations--all these were fed into his microphonic ears. The scene itself was transmitted to his brain and recorded. The cryotronic maze in the depths of the ship chewed the whole thing over. Snookums acted. Leda Crannon, who had lost ground in trying to keep up with Snookums' whirling treads, came to the door of Power Section too late to stop the robot's entrance. She didn't dare call out, because she knew that to do so would interrupt the men's vital work. All she could do was lean against the doorjamb and try to catch her breath. Snookums rolled over to the board where Multhaus was sitting and watched over his shoulder for perhaps thirty seconds. The crewmen eyed him, but they were much too busy to do anything. Besides, they were used to his presence by this time. Then, in one quick tour of the room, Snookums glanced at every meter in the place. Not just at the regular operating meters, but also at the meters in the testing equipment that the power crew had jack-plugged in. Mike the Angel looked around as he heard the soft purring of the caterpillar treads. His glance took in both Snookums and Leda Crannon, who was still gasping at the door. He watched Leda for the space of three deep breaths, tore his eyes away, looked at what Snookums was doing, then said: "Get him out of here!" in a stage whisper to Leda. Snookums was looking over the notations on the meter readings for the previous few minutes. He had simply picked them up from the desk where one of the computermen was working and scanned them rapidly before handing them back. Before Leda could say anything, Snookums rolled over to Mike the Angel and said: "Check the lead between the 391-JF and the big DK-37. I think you'll find that the piping is in phase with the two-cycle note, and it's become warped and stretched. It's about half a millimeter off--plus or minus a tenth. The pulse is reaching the DK-37 about four degrees off, and the gate is closing before it all gets through. That's forcing the regulator circuit to overcompensate, and...." Mike didn't listen to any more. He didn't know whether Snookums knew what he was talking about or not, but he did know that the thing the robot had mentioned would have had just such an effect. Mike strode rapidly across the room and flipped up the shield housing the assembly Snookums had mentioned. The lead was definitely askew. Mike the Angel snapped orders, and the power crewmen descended on the scene of the trouble. Snookums went right on delivering his interpretation of the data, but everyone ignored him while they worked. Being ignored didn't bother Snookums in the least. "... and that, in turn, is making the feeder valve field oscillate," he finished up, nearly five minutes later. Mike was glad that Snookums had pinpointed the trouble first and then had gone on to show why the defect was causing the observed result. He could just as easily have started with the offending oscillation and reached the bit about the faulty lead at the end of his speech, except that he had been built to do it the other way around. Snookums made the deduction in his superfast mind and then reeled it off backward, as it were, going from conclusion to premises. Otherwise, he might have been too late. The repair didn't take long, once Snookums had found just what needed repairing. When the job was over, Mike the Angel wiped his hands on a rag and stood up. "Thanks, Snookums," he said honestly. "You've been a great help." Snookums said: "I am smiling. Because I am pleased." There was no way for him to smile with a steel face, but Mike got the idea. Mike turned to the Chief Powerman's Mate. "Okay, Multhaus, shut it off. She's steady now." Multhaus just sat there, surrounded by a wall of concentration, his hands still on the verniers, his eyes still on the screen. He didn't move. Mike flipped off the switch. "Come on, Multhaus, snap to. We've still got that beat note to worry about." Multhaus blinked dizzily as the green line vanished from his sight. He jerked his hands off the verniers, and then smiled sheepishly. He had been sitting there waiting for that green line to move a full minute after the input signal had ceased. "Happy hypnosis," said Mike. "Let's get back to finding out which of those tubes in the hull is giving the external field the willies." Snookums, who had been listening carefully, rolled up and said, "Generator tubes three, four, and thirteen. Three is out of phase by--" "You can tell us later, Snookums," Mike interrupted rapidly. "Right now, we'll get to work on those tubes. You were right once; I hope you're right again." Again the power crew swung into action. Within five minutes Mike and Multhaus were making the proper adjustments on the external field circuits to adjust for the wobbling of the output. The throb wavered. It wobbled around, going up to two-point-seven cycles and dropping back to one-point-four, then climbing again. All the time, it was dropping in magnitude, until finally it could no longer be felt. Finally, it dropped suddenly to a low of point-oh-five cycles, hovered there for a moment, then vanished altogether. "By the beard of my sainted maiden aunt," said Chief Multhaus in awe. "A three-tube offbeat solved in less than half an hour! If that isn't a record, I'll dye my uniform black and join the Chaplains' Corps." Leda Crannon, looking tired but somehow pleased, said softly: "May I come in?" Mike the Angel grinned. "Sure. Maybe you can--" The intercom clicked on. "Power Section, this is the bridge." It was Black Bart. "Are my senses playing me false, or have you stopped that beat note?" "All secure, sir," said Mike the Angel. "The system is stable now." "How many tubes were goofing?" "Three of them." "_Three!_" There was astonishment in the captain's voice. "How did you ever solve a three-tube beat in that short a time?" Mike the Angel grinned up at the eye in the wall. "Nothing to it, sir," he said. "A child could have done it." 13 Leda Crannon sat down on the edge of the bunk in Mike the Angel's stateroom, accepted the cigarette and light that Mike had proffered, and waited while Mike poured a couple of cups of coffee from the insul-jug on his desk. "I wish I could offer you something stronger, but I'm not much of a drinker myself, so I don't usually take advantage of the officer's prerogative to smuggle liquor aboard," he said as he handed her the cup. She smiled up at him. "That's all right; I rarely drink, and when I do, it's either wine or a _very_ diluted highball. Right now, this coffee will do me more good." Mike heard footsteps coming down the companionway. He glanced out through the door, which he had deliberately left open. Ensign Vaneski walked by, glanced in, grinned, and went on his way. The kid had good sense, Mike thought. He hoped any other passers-by would stay out while he talked to Leda. "Does a thing like that happen often?" the girl asked. "Not the fast solution; I mean the beat note." "No," said Mike the Angel. "Once the system is stabilized, the tubes tend to keep each other in line. But because of that very tendency, an offbeat tube won't show itself for a while. The system tries to keep the bad ones in phase in spite of themselves. But eventually one of them sort of rebels, and that frees any of the others that are offbeat, so the bad ones all show at once and we can spot them. When we get all the bad ones adjusted, the system remains stable for the operating life of the system." "And that's the purpose of a shakedown cruise?" "One of the reasons," agreed Mike. "If the tubes are going to act up, they'll do it in the first five hundred operating hours--except in unusual cases. That's one of the things that bothered me about the way this crate was hashed together." Her blue eyes widened. "I thought this was a well-built ship." "Oh, it is, it is--all things considered. It isn't dangerous, if that's what you're worried about. But it sure as the devil is expensively wasteful." She nodded and sipped at her coffee. "I know that. But I don't see any other way it could have been done." "Neither do I, right off the bat," Mike admitted. He took a good swallow of the hot liquid in his cup and said: "I wanted to ask you two questions. First, what was it that Snookums was doing just before he came into the Power Section? Black Bart said he'd been galloping all over the ship, with you at his heels." Her infectious smile came back. "He was playing seismograph. He was simply checking the intensity of the vibrations at different points in the ship. That gave him part of the data he needed to tell you which of the tubes were acting up." "I'm beginning to think," said Mike, "that we'll have to start building a big brain aboard every ship--that is, if we can learn enough about such monsters from Snookums." "What was the other question?" Leda asked. "Oh.... Well, I was wondering just why you are connected with this project. What does a psychologist have to do with robots? If you'll pardon my ignorance." This time she laughed softly, and Mike thought dizzily of the gay chiming of silver bells. He clamped down firmly on the romantic wanderings of his mind as she started her explanation. "I'm a specialist in child psychology, Mike. Actually, I was hired as an experiment--or, rather, as the result of a wild guess that happened to work. You see, the first two times Snookums' brain was activated, the circuits became disoriented." "You mean," said Mike the Angel, "they went nuts." She laughed again. "Don't let Fitz hear you say that. He'll tell you that 'the circuits exceeded their optimum randomity limit.'" Mike grinned, remembering the time he had driven a robot brain daffy by bluffing it at poker. "How did that happen?" "Well, we don't know all the details, but it seems to have something to do with the slow recovery rate that's necessary for learning. Do you know anything about Lagerglocke's Principle?" "Fitzhugh mentioned something about it in the briefing we got before take-off. Something about a bit of learning being an inelastic rebound." "That's it. You take a steel ball, for instance, and drop it on a steel plate from a height of three or four feet. It bounces--almost perfect elasticity. The next time you drop it, it does the same thing. It hasn't learned anything. "But if you drop a lead ball, it doesn't bounce as much, and it will flatten at the point of contact. _The next time it falls on that flat side, its behavior will be different._ It has learned something." Mike rubbed the tip of an index finger over his chin. "These illustrations are analogues of the human mind?" "That's right. Some people have minds like steel balls. They can learn, but you have to hit them pretty hard to make them do it. On the other hand, some people have minds like glass balls: They can't learn at all. If you hit them hard enough to make a real impression, they simply shatter." "All right. Now what has this got to do with you and Snookums?" "Patience, boy, patience," Leda said with a grin. "Actually, the lead-ball analogy is much too simple. An intelligent mind has to have time to partially recover, you see. Hit it with too many shocks, one right after another, and it either collapses or refuses to learn or both. "The first two times the brain was activated, the roboticists just began feeding data into the thing as though it were an ordinary computing machine. They were forcing it to learn too fast; they weren't giving it time to recover from the shock of learning. "Just as in the human being, there is a difference between a robot's brain and a robot's mind. The _brain_ is a physical thing--a bunch of cryotrons in a helium bath. But the _mind_ is the sum total of all the data and reaction patterns and so forth that have been built into the brain or absorbed by it. "The brain didn't have an opportunity to recover from the learning shocks when the data was fed in too fast, so the mind cracked. It couldn't take it. The robot went insane. "Each time, the roboticists had to deactivate the brain, drain it of all data, and start over. After the second time, Dr. Fitzhugh decided they were going about it wrong, so they decided on a different tack." "I see," said Mike the Angel. "It had to be taught slowly, like a child." "Exactly," said Leda. "And who would know more about teaching a child than a child psychologist?" she added brightly. Mike looked down at his coffee cup, watching the slight wavering of the surface as it broke up the reflected light from the glow panels. He had invited this girl down to his stateroom (he told himself) to get information about Snookums. But now he realized that information about the girl herself was far more important. "How long have you been working with Snookums?" he asked, without looking up from his coffee. "Over eight years," she said. Then Mike looked up. "You know, you hardly look old enough. You don't look much older than twenty-five." She smiled--a little shyly, Mike thought. "As Snookums says, 'You're nice.' I'm twenty-six." "And you've been working with Snookums since you were eighteen?" "Uh-huh." She looked, very suddenly, much younger than even the twenty-five Mike had guessed at. She seemed to be more like a somewhat bashful teen-ager who had been educated in a convent. "I was what they call an 'exceptional child.' My mother died when I was seven, and Dad ... well, he just didn't know what to do with a baby girl, I guess. He was a kind man, and I think he really loved me, but he just didn't know what to do with me. So when the tests showed that I was ... brighter ... than the average, he put me in a special school in Italy. Said he didn't want my mind cramped by being forced to conform to the mental norm. Maybe he even believed that himself. "And, too, he didn't approve of public education. He had a lot of odd ideas. "Anyway, I saw him during summer vacations and went to school the rest of the year. He took me all over the world when I was with him, and the instructors were pretty wonderful people; I'm not sorry that I was brought up that way. It was a little different from the education that most children have, but it gave me a chance to use my mind." "I know the school," said Mike the Angel. "That's the one under the Cesare Alfieri Institute in Florence?" "That's it; did you go there?" There was an odd, eager look in her eyes. Mike shook his head. "Nope. But a friend of mine did. Ever know a guy named Paulvitch?" She squealed with delight, as though she'd been playfully pinched. "Sir Gay? You mean Serge Paulvitch, the Fiend of Florence?" She pronounced the name properly: "_Sair_-gay," instead of "surge," as too many people were prone to do. "Sounds like the same man," Mike admitted, grinning. "As evil-looking as Satanas himself?" "That's Sir Gay, all right. Half the girls were scared of him, and I think _all_ the boys were. He's about three years older than I am, I guess." "Why call him Sir Gay?" Mike asked. "Just because of his name?" "Partly. And partly because he was always such a gentleman. A real _nice_ guy, if you know what I mean. Do you know him well?" "_Know_ him? Hell, I couldn't run my business without him." "Your business?" She blinked. "But he works for--" Then her eyes became very wide, her mouth opened, and she pointed an index finger at Mike. "Then you ... you're Mike the Angel! M. R. Gabriel! Sure!" She started laughing. "I never connected it up! My golly, my golly! I thought you were just another Space Service commander! Mike the Angel! Well, I'll be darned!" She caught her breath. "I'm sorry. I was just so surprised, that's all. Are you really _the_ M. R. Gabriel, of M. R. Gabriel, Power Design?" Mike was as close to being nonplused as he cared to be. "Sure," he said. "You mean you didn't know?" She shook her head. "No. I thought Mike the Angel was about sixty years old, a crotchety old genius behind a desk, as eccentric as a comet's orbit, and wealthier than Croesus. You're just not what I pictured, that's all." "Just wait a few more decades," Mike said, laughing. "I'll try to live up to my reputation." "So you're Serge's boss. How is he? I haven't seen him since I was sixteen." "He's grown a beard," said Mike. "No!" "Fact." "My God, how horrible!" She put her hand over her eyes in mock horror. "Let's talk about you," said Mike. "You're much prettier than Serge Paulvitch." "Well, I should hope so! But really, there's nothing to tell. I went to school. B.S. at fourteen, M.S. at sixteen, Ph.D. at eighteen. Then I went to work for C.C. of E., and I've been there ever since. I've never been engaged, I've never been married, and I'm still a virgin. Anything else?" "No runs, no hits, no errors," said Mike the Angel. She grinned back impishly. "I haven't been up to bat yet, Commander Gabriel." "Then I suggest you grab some sort of club to defend yourself, because I'm going to be in there pitching." The smile on her face faded, to be replaced by a look that was neither awe nor surprise, but partook of both. "You really mean that, don't you?" she asked in a hushed voice. "I do," said Mike the Angel. * * * * * Commander Peter Jeffers was in the Control Bridge when Mike the Angel stepped in through the door. Jeffers was standing with his back to the door, facing the bank of instruments that gave him a general picture of the condition of the whole ship. Overhead, the great dome of the ship's nose allowed the gleaming points of light from the star field ahead to shine down on those beneath through the heavy, transparent shield of the cast transite and the invisible screen of the external field. Mike walked over and tapped Pete Jeffers on the shoulder. "Busy?" Jeffers turned around slowly and grinned. "Hullo, old soul. Naw, I ain't busy. Nothin' outside but stars, and we don't figger on gettin' too close to 'em right off the bat. What's the beef?" "I have," said Mike the Angel succinctly, "goofed." Jeffers' keen eyes swept analytically over Mike the Angel's face. "You want a drink? I snuck a spot o' brandy aboard, and just by purty ole coincidence, there's a bottle right over there in the speaker housing." Without waiting for an answer, he turned away from Mike and walked toward the cabinet that held the intercom speaker. Meantime, he went right on talking. "Great stuff, brandy. French call it _eau de vie_, and that, in case you don't know it, means 'water of life.' You want a little, eh, ol' buddy? Sure you do." By this time, he'd come back with the bottle and a pair of glasses and was pouring a good dose into each one. "On the other hand, the Irish gave us our name for whisky. Comes from _uisge-beatha_, and by some bloody peculiar coincidence, that also means 'water of life.' So you just set yourself right down here and get some life into you." Mike sat down at the computer table, and Jeffers sat down across from him. "Now you just drink on up, buddy-buddy and then tell your ol' Uncle Pete what the bloody hell the trouble is." Mike looked at the brandy for a full half minute. Then, with one quick flip of his wrist and a sudden spasmodic movement of his gullet, he downed it. Then he took a deep breath and said: "Do I look as bad as all that?" "Worse," said Jeffers complacently, meanwhile refilling Mike's glass. "While we were on active service together, I've seen you go through all kinds of things and never look like this. What is it? Reaction from this afternoon's--or, pardon me--_yesterday_ afternoon's emergency?" Mike glanced up at the chronometer. It was two-thirty in the morning, Greenwich time. Jeffers held the bridge from midnight till noon, while Black Bart had the noon to midnight shift. Still, Mike hadn't realized that it was as late as all that. He looked at Jeffers' lean, bony face. "Reaction? No, it's not that. Look, Pete, you know me. Would you say I was a pretty levelheaded guy?" "Sure." "My old man always said, 'Never make an enemy accidentally,' and I think he was right. So I usually think over what I say before I open my big mouth, don't I?" Again Jeffers said, "Sure." "I wouldn't call myself over-cautious," Mike persisted, "but I usually think a thing through pretty carefully before I act--that is, if I have time. Right?" "I'd say so," Jeffers admitted. "I'd say you were about the only guy I know who does the right thing more than 90 per cent of the time. And says the right thing more than 99 per cent of the time. So what do you want? Back-patting, or just hero worship?" Mike took a small taste of the brandy. "Neither, you jerk. But about eight hours ago I said something that I hadn't planned to say. I practically proposed to Leda Crannon without knowing I was going to." Peter Jeffers didn't laugh. He simply said, "How'd it happen?" Mike told him. When Mike had finished, one drink later, Peter Jeffers filled the glasses for the third time and leaned back in his chair. "Tell me one thing, ol' buddy, and think about it before you answer. If you had a chance to get out of it gracefully, would you take back what you said?" Mike the Angel thought it over. The sweep hand on the chronometer made its rounds several times before he answered. Then, at last, he said: "No. No, I wouldn't." Jeffers pursed his lips, then said judicially: "In that case, you're not doing badly at all. There's nothing wrong with you except the fact that you're in love." Mike downed the third drink fast and stood up. "Thanks, Pete," he said. "That's what I was afraid of." "Wait just one stinkin' minute," said Jeffers firmly. "Sit down." Mike sat. "What do you intend to do about it?" Jeffers asked. Mike the Angel grinned at him. "What the hell else can I do but woo and win the wench?" Jeffers grinned back at him. "I reckon you know you got competition, huh?" "You mean Jake von Liegnitz?" Mike's face darkened. "I have the feeling he's looking for something that doesn't include a marriage certificate." "Love sure makes a man sound noble," said Jeffers philosophically. "If you mean that all he wants is to get Leda into the sack, you're prob'ly right. Normal reaction, I'd say. Can't blame Jake for that." "I don't," said Mike. "But that doesn't mean I can't spike his guns." "Course not. Again, a normal reaction." "What about Lew Mellon?" Mike asked. "Lew?" Jeffers raised his eyebrows. "I dunno. I think he likes to talk to her, is all. But if he _is_ interested, he's bloody well serious. He's a strict Anglo-Catholic, like yourself." _I'm not as strict as I ought to be_, Mike thought. "I thought he had a rather monkish air about him," he said aloud. Jeffers chuckled. "Yeah, but I don't think he's so ascetic that he wouldn't marry." His grin broadened. "Now, if we were still at ol' Chilblains, you'd _really_ have competition. After all, you can't expect that a gal who's stacked ... pardon me ... who has the magnificent physical and physiognomical topography of Leda Crannon to spend her life bein' ignored, now can you?" "Nope," said Mike the Angel. "Now, I figger," Jeffers said, "that you can purty much forget about Lew Mellon. But Jakob von Liegnitz is a chromatically variant equine, indeed." Mike shook his head vigorously, as if to clear away the fog. "_Pfui!_ Let's change the subject. My heretofore nimble mind has been coagulated by a pair of innocent blue eyes. I need my skull stirred up." "I have a limerick," said Jeffers lightly. "It's about a young spaceman named Mike, who said: 'I can do as I like!' And to prove his bright quip, he took a round trip, clear to Sirius B on a bike. Or, the tale of the pirate, Black Bart, whose head was as hard as his heart. When he found--" "Enough!" Mike the Angel held up a hand. "That distillate of fine old grape has made us both silly. Good night. I'm going to get some sleep." He stood up and winked at Jeffers. "And thanks for listening while I bent your ear." "Any time at all, ol' amoeba. And if you ever feel you need some advice from an ol' married man, why you just trot right round, and I'll give you plenty of bad advice." "At least you're honest," Mike said. "Night." Mike the Angel left the bridge as Commander Jeffers was putting the brandy back in its hiding place. Mike went to his quarters, hit the sack, and spent less than five minutes getting to sleep. There was nothing worrying him now. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep when he heard a noise in the darkness of his room that made him sit up in bed, instantly awake. The floater under him churned a little, but there was no noise. The room was silent. In the utter blackness of the room, Mike the Angel could see nothing, and he could hear nothing but the all-pervading hum of the ship's engines. But he could still feel and smell. He searched back in his memory, trying to place the sound that had awakened him. It hadn't been loud, merely unusual. It had been a noise that shouldn't have been made in the stateroom. It had been a quiet sound, really, but for the life of him, Mike couldn't remember what it had sounded like. But the evidence of his nerves told him there was someone else in the room besides himself. Somewhere near him, something was radiating heat; it was definitely perceptible in the air-conditioned coolness of his room. And, too, there was the definite smell of warm oil--machine oil. It was faint, but it was unmistakable. And then he knew what the noise had been. The soft purr of caterpillar treads against the floor! Casually, Mike the Angel moved his hand to the wall plaque and touched it lightly. The lights came on, dim and subdued. "Hello, Snookums," said Mike the Angel gently. "What are you here for?" The little robot just stood there for a second or two, unmoving, his waldo hands clasped firmly in front of his chest. Mike suddenly wished to Heaven that the metallic face could show something that Mike could read. "I came for data," said Snookums at last, in the contralto voice that so resembled the voice of the woman who had trained him. Mike started to say, "At this time of night?" Then he glanced at his wrist. It was after seven-thirty in the morning, Greenwich time--which was also ship time. "What is it you want?" Mike asked. "Can you dance?" asked Snookums. "Yes," said Mike dazedly, "I can dance." For a moment he had the wild idea that Snookums was going to ask him to do a few turns about the floor. "Thank you," said Snookums. His treads whirred, he turned as though on a pivot, whizzed to the door, opened it, and was gone. Mike the Angel stared at the door as though trying to see beyond it, into the depths of the robot's brain itself. "Now just what was _that_ all about?" he asked aloud. In the padded silence of the stateroom, there wasn't even an echo to answer him. 14 Mike the Angel spent the next three days in a pale blue funk which he struggled valiantly against, at least to prevent it from becoming a deep blue. There was something wrong aboard the _Brainchild_, and Mike simply couldn't quite figure what it was. He found that he wasn't the only one who had been asked peculiar questions by Snookums. The little robot seemed to have developed a sudden penchant for asking seemingly inane questions. Lieutenant Keku reported with a grin that Snookums had asked him if he knew who Commander Gabriel _really_ was. "What'd you say?" Mike had asked. Keku had spread his hands and said: "I gave him the usual formula about not being positive of my data, then I told him that you were known as Mike the Angel and were well known in the power field." Multhaus reported that Snookums had wanted to know what their destination was. The chief's only possible answer, of course, had been: "I don't have that data, Snookums." Dr. Morris Fitzhugh had become more worried-looking than usual and had confided to Mike that he, too, wondered why Snookums was asking such peculiar questions. "All he'll tell me," the roboticist had reported, wrinkling up his face, "was that he was collecting data. But he flatly refused, even when ordered, to tell me what he needed the data for." Mike stayed away from Leda Crannon as much as possible; shipboard was no place to try to conduct a romance. Not that he deliberately avoided her in such a manner as to give offense, but he tried to appear busy at all times. She was busy, too. Keeping herd on Snookums was becoming something of a problem. She had never attempted to watch him all the time. In the first place, it was physically impossible; in the second place, she didn't think Snookums would develop properly if he were to be kept under constant supervision. But now, for the first time, she didn't have the foggiest notion of what was going on inside the robot's mind, and she couldn't find out. It puzzled and worried her, and between herself and Dr. Fitzhugh there were several long conferences on Snookums' peculiar behavior. Mike the Angel found himself waiting for something to happen. He hadn't the slightest notion what it was that he was waiting for, but he was as certain of its coming as he was of the fact that the Earth was an oblate spheroid. But he certainly didn't expect it to begin the way it did. A quiet evening bridge game is hardly the place for a riot to start. Pete Jeffers was pounding the pillow in his stateroom; Captain Quill was on the bridge, checking through the log. In the officers' wardroom Mike the Angel was looking down at two hands of cards, wondering whether he'd make his contract. His own hand held the ace, nine, seven of spades; the ten, six, two of hearts; the jack, ten, nine, four, three, and deuce of diamonds; and the eight of clubs. Vaneski, his partner, had bid a club. Keku had answered with a take-out double. Mike had looked at his hand, figured that since he and Vaneski were vulnerable, while Keku and von Liegnitz were not, he bid a weakness pre-empt of three diamonds. Von Liegnitz passed, and Vaneski had answered back with five diamonds. Keku and Mike had both passed, and von Liegnitz had doubled. Now Mike was looking at Vaneski's dummy hand. No spades; the ace, queen, five, and four of hearts; the queen, eight, seven, and six of diamonds; and the ace, king, seven, four, and three of clubs. And von Liegnitz had led the three of hearts. It didn't look good. His opponents had the ace and king of trumps, and with von Liegnitz' heart lead, it looked as though he might have to try a finesse on the king of hearts. Still, there _might_ be another way out. Mike threw in the ace from dummy. Keku tossed in his seven, and Mike threw in his own deuce. He took the next trick with the ace of clubs from dummy, and the singleton eight in his own hand. The one after that came from dummy, too; it was the king of clubs, and Mike threw in the heart six from his own hand. From dummy, he led the three of clubs. Keku went over it with a jack, but Mike took it with his deuce of diamonds. He led the seven of spades to get back in dummy so he could use up those clubs. Dummy took the trick with the six of diamonds, and led out with the four of clubs. Mike figured that Keku must--absolutely _must_--have the king of hearts. Both his take-out double and von Liegnitz' heart lead pointed toward the king in his hand. Now if.... Vaneski had moved around behind Mike to watch the play. Not one of them noticed Lieutenant Lew Mellon, the Medical Officer, come into the room. That is, they knew he had come in, but they had ignored him thereafter. He was such a colorless nonentity that he simply seemed to fade into the background of the walls once he had made his entrance. Mike had taken seven tricks, and, as he had expected, lost the eighth to von Liegnitz' five of diamonds. When the German led the nine of hearts, Mike knew he had the game. He put in the queen from dummy, Keku tossed in his king triumphantly, and Mike topped it with his lowly four of diamonds. If, as he suspected, his opponents' ace and king of diamonds were split, he would get them both by losing the next trick and then make a clean sweep of the board. He threw in his nine of diamonds. He just happened to glance at von Liegnitz as the navigator dropped his king. Then he lashed out with one foot, kicking at the leg of von Liegnitz' chair. At the same time, he yelled, "Jake! Duck!" He was almost too late. Mellon, his face contorted with a mixture of anger and hatred, was standing just behind Jakob von Liegnitz. In one hand was a heavy spanner, which he was bringing down with deadly force on the navigator's skull. Von Liegnitz' chair started to topple, and von Liegnitz himself spun away from the blow. The spanner caught him on the shoulder, and he grunted in pain, but he kept on moving away from Mellon. The medic screamed something and lifted the spanner again. By this time, Keku, too, was on his feet, moving toward Mellon. Mike the Angel got behind Mellon, trying to grab at the heavy metal tool in Mellon's hand. Mellon seemed to sense him, for he jumped sideways, out of Mike's way, and kicked backward at the same time, catching Mike on the shin with his heel. Von Liegnitz had made it to his feet by this time and was blocking the downward swing of Mellon's arm with his own forearm. His other fist pistoned out toward Mellon's face. It connected, sending Mellon staggering backward into Mike the Angel's arms. Von Liegnitz grabbed the spanner out of Mellon's hand and swung it toward the medic's jaw. It was only inches away when Keku's hand grasped the navigator's wrist. And when the big Hawaiian's hand clamped on, von Liegnitz' hand stopped almost dead. Mellon was screaming. "You ----!" He ran out a string of unprintable and almost un-understandable words. "I'll kill you! I'll do it yet! _You stay away from Leda Crannon!_" "Calm down, Doc!" snapped Mike the Angel. "What the hell's the matter with you, anyway?" Von Liegnitz was still straining, trying to get away from Keku to take another swipe at the medic, but the huge Hawaiian held him easily. The navigator had lapsed into his native German, and most of it was unintelligible, except for an occasional reference to various improbable combinations of animal life. But Mellon was paying no attention. "You! I'll kill you! Lecher! Dirty-minded, filthy...." He went on. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he smashed his heel down on Mike's toe. At least, he tried to; he'd have done it if the toe had been there when his heel came down. But Mike moved it just two inches and avoided the blow. At the same time, though, Mellon twisted, and Mike's forced shift of position lessened his leverage on the man's shoulders and arms. Mellon almost got away. One hand grabbed the wrench from von Liegnitz, whose grip had been weakened by the paralyzing pressure of Keku's fingers. Mike had no choice but to slam a hard left into the man's solar plexus. Mellon collapsed like an unoccupied overcoat. By this time, von Liegnitz had quieted down. "Let go, Keku," he said. "I'm all right." He looked down at the motionless figure on the deck. "What the hell do you suppose was eating him?" he asked quietly. "How's your shoulder?" Mike asked. "Hurts like the devil, but I don't think it's busted. But why did he do it?" he repeated. "Sounds to me," said Keku dryly, "that he was nutty jealous of you. He didn't like the times you took Leda Crannon to the base movies while we were at Chilblains." Jakob von Liegnitz continued to look down at the smaller man in wonder. "_Lieber Gott_" he said finally. "I only took her out a couple of times. I knew he liked her, but--" He stopped. "The guy must be off his bearings." "I smelled liquor on his breath," said Mike. "Let's get him down to his stateroom and lock him in until he sobers up. I'll have to report this to the captain. Can you carry him, Keku?" Keku nodded and reached down. He put his hands under Mellon's armpits, lifted him to his feet, and threw him over his shoulder. "Good," said Mike the Angel. "I'll walk behind you and clop him one if he wakes up and gets wise." Vaneski was standing to one side, his face pale, his expression blank. Mike said: "Jake, you and Vaneski go up and make the report to the captain. Tell him we'll be up as soon as we've taken care of Mellon." "Right," said von Liegnitz, massaging his bruised shoulder. "Okay, Keku," said Mike, "forward march." * * * * * Lieutenant Keku thumbed the opener to Mellon's stateroom, shoved the door aside, stepped in, and slapped at the switch plaque. The plates lighted up, bathing the room in sunshiny brightness. "Dump him on his sack," said Mike. While Keku put the unconscious Mellon on his bed, Mike let his gaze wander around the room. It was neat--almost too neat, implying overfussiness. The medical reference books were on one shelf, all in alphabetical order. Another shelf contained a copy of the _International Encyclopedia_, English edition, plus several dictionaries, including one on medical terms and another on theological ones. On the desk lay a copy of the Bible, York translation, opened to the Book of Tobit. Next to it were several sheets of blank paper and a small traveling clock sat on them as a paperweight. His clothing was hung neatly, in the approved regulation manner, with his shoes in their proper places and his caps all lined up in a row. Mike walked around the room, looking at everything. "What's the matter? What're you looking for?" asked Keku. "His liquor," said Mike the Angel. "In his desk, lower left-hand drawer. You won't find anything but a bottle of ruby port; Mellon was never a drinker." Mike opened the drawer. "I probably won't find that, drunk as he is." Surprisingly enough, the bottle of wine was almost half full. "Did he have more than one bottle?" Mike asked. "Not so far as I know. Like I said, he didn't drink much. One slug of port before bedtime was about his limit." Mike frowned. "How does his breath smell to you?" "Not bad. Two or three drinks, maybe." "Mmmm." Mike put the bottle on top of the desk, then walked over to the small case that was standing near one wall. He lifted it and flipped it open. It was the standard medical kit for Space Service physicians. The intercom speaker squeaked once before Captain Quill's voice came over it. "Mister Gabriel?" "Yes, sir?" said Mike without turning around. There were no eyes in the private quarters of the officers and crew. "How is Mister Mellon?" A Space Service physician's doctorate is never used as a form of address; three out of four Space Service officers have a doctor's degree of some kind, and there's no point in calling 75 per cent of the officers "doctor." Mike glanced across the room. Keku had finished stripping the little physician to his underclothes and had put a cover over him. "He's still unconscious, sir, but his breathing sounds all right." "How's his pulse?" Keku picked up Mellon's left wrist and applied his fingers to the artery while he looked at his wrist watch. Mike said: "We'll check it, sir. Wait a few seconds." Fifteen seconds later, Keku multiplied by four and said: "One-oh-four and rather weak." "You'd better get hold of the Physician's Mate," Mike told Quill. "He's not in good condition, either mentally or physically." "Very well. As soon as the mate takes over, you and Mister Keku get up here. I want to know what the devil has been going on aboard my ship." "You are bloody well not the only one," said Mike the Angel. 15 Midnight, ship time. And, as far as the laws of simultaneity would allow, it was midnight in Greenwich, England. At least, when a ship returned from an interstellar trip, the ship's chronometer was within a second or two, plus or minus, of Greenwich time. Theoretically, the molecular vibration clocks shouldn't vary at all. The fact that they did hadn't yet been satisfactorily accounted for. Mike the Angel tried to make himself think of clocks or the variations in space time or anything else equally dull, in the hope that it would put him to sleep. He began to try to work out the derivation of the Beale equations, the equations which had solved the principle of the no-space drive. The ship didn't move through space; space moved through the ship, which, of course, might account for the variation in time, because-- --the time is out of joint. _The time is out of joint: O cursed spite, That ever I was born to set it right!_ _Hamlet_, thought Mike. _Act One, the end of scene five._ But why had he been born to set it right? Besides, exactly what was wrong? There was something wrong, all right. And why from the end of the act? Another act to come? Something more to happen? The clock will go round till another time comes. Watch the clock, the absolutely cuckoo clock, which ticked as things happened that made almost no sense and yet had sense hidden in their works. The good old Keku clock. Somewhere is icumen in, lewdly sing Keku. The Mellon is ripe and climbing Jakob's ladder. And both of them playing Follow the Leda. And where were they heading? Toward some destination in the general direction of the constellation Cygnus. The transformation equations work fine on an interstellar ship. Would they work on a man? Wouldn't it be nice to be able to transform yourself into a swan? Cygnus the Swan. And we'll _all_ play Follow the Leda.... Somewhere in there, Mike the Angel managed to doze off. * * * * * He awoke suddenly, and his dream of being a huge black swan vanished, shattered into nothingness. This time it had not been a sound that had awakened him. It had been something else, something more like a cessation of sound. A dying sigh. He reached out and touched the switch plaque. Nothing happened. The room remained dark. The room was strangely silent. The almost soundless vibration of the engines was still there, but.... The air conditioners! The air in the stateroom was unmoving, static. There was none of the faint breeze of moving air. Something had gone wrong with the low-power circuits! Now how the hell could that happen? Not by accident, unless the accident were a big one. It would take a tremendous amount of coincidence to put all three of the interacting systems out of order at once. And they all _had_ to go at once to cut the power from the low-load circuits. The standard tap and the first and second stand-by taps were no longer tapping power from the main generators. The intercom was gone, too, along with the air conditioners, the lights, and half a dozen other sub-circuits. Mike the Angel scrambled out of bed and felt for his clothing, wishing he had something as prosaic as an old-fashioned match, or even a flame-type cigarette lighter. He found his lighter in his belt pocket as he pulled on his uniform. He jerked it out and thumbed it. In the utter darkness, the orange-red glow gave more illumination than he had supposed. If a man's eyes are adjusted to darkness, he can read print by the glow of a cigarette, and the lighter's glow was brighter than that. Still, it wasn't much. If only he had a flashlight! From a distance, far down the companionway, he could hear voices. The muffled sound that had awakened him had been the soft susurration of the door as it had slid open when the power died. Without the electrolocks to hold it closed, it had opened automatically. The doors in a spaceship are built that way, to make sure no one will be trapped in case of a power failure. Mike dressed in a matter of seconds and headed toward the door. And stopped just before he stepped out. Someone was outside. Someone, or--something. He didn't know _how_ he knew, but he knew. He was as certain as if the lights had been on bright. And whoever was waiting out there didn't want Mike the Angel to know that he was there. Mike stood silent for a full second. That was long enough for him to get angry. Not the hot anger of hatred, but the cold anger of a man who has had too many attempts on his life, who has escaped narrowly from an unseen plotter twice because of pure luck and does not intend to fall victim to the dictum that "the third time's a charm." He realized that he was still holding the glowing cigarette lighter in his hand. "Damn!" he muttered, as though to himself. "I'd forget my ears if they weren't sewed down." Then he turned, heading back toward his bed, hoping that whoever was waiting outside would assume he would be back immediately. At the same time, he lifted his thumb off the lighter's contact. Then he sat down on the edge of his bed and quickly pulled off his boots. Holding them both in his hands, he moved silently back to the door. When he reached it, he tossed both boots to the rear of the room. When they landed clatteringly, he stepped quietly through the door. In three steps he was on the opposite side of the corridor. He hugged the wall and moved back away from the spot where the watcher would be expecting him. Then he waited. He was on one side of the door to his stateroom, and the--what or whoever it was--was on the other. Until that other made a move, Mike the Angel would wait. The wait seemed many minutes long, although Mike knew it couldn't have been more than forty-five seconds or so. From other parts of the ship he could hear voices shouting as the crewmen and officers who had been sleeping were awakened by the men on duty. The ship could not sustain life long if the air conditioners were dead. Then, quite suddenly, the waiting was over. Behind Mike there was a bend in the corridor, and from around that bend came the sound of running footsteps, followed by a bellowing voice: "I'll get the Commander; you go down and get the other boys started!" Multhaus. And then there was a glow of light. The Chief Powerman's Mate was carrying a light, which reflected from the walls of the corridor. And Mike the Angel knew perfectly well that he was silhouetted against that glow. Whoever it was who was waiting for him could see him plainly. Multhaus' footsteps rang in the corridor while Mike strained his eyes to see what was before him in the darkness. And all the time, the glow became brighter as Multhaus approached. Then, from out of the darkness, came something that moved on a whir of caterpillar treads. Something hard and metallic slammed against Mike's shoulder, spinning him against the wall. At that moment, Multhaus came around the corner, and Mike could see Snookums scurrying on down the corridor toward the approaching Powerman's Mate. "Multhaus! Look out!" Mike yelled. The beam from the chief's hand torch gleamed on the metallic body of the little robot as it headed toward him. "Snookums! Stop!" Mike ordered. Snookums paid no attention. He swerved adroitly around the astonished Multhaus, spun around the corner, and was gone into the darkness. "What was all that, sir?" Multhaus asked, looking more than somewhat confused. "A course of instruction on the First and Second Laws of Robotics as applied by the Computer Corporation of Earth," said Mike, rubbing his bruised side. "But never mind that now. What's wrong with the low-power circuits?" "I don't know, sir. Breckwell is on duty in that section." "Let's go," said Mike the Angel. "We have to get this cleared up before we all suffocate." "Someone's going to get galloping claustrophobia before it's over, anyway," said Multhaus morosely as he followed Mike down the hallway in the direction from which Snookums had come. "Darkness and stuffy air touch off that sort of thing." "Who's Officer of the Watch tonight?" Mike wanted to know. "Ensign Vaneski, I think. His name was on the roster, as I remember." "I hope he reported to the bridge. Commander Jeffers will be getting frantic, but he can't leave the bridge unless he's relieved. Come on, let's move." They sprinted down the companionway. * * * * * The lights had been out less than five minutes when Mike the Angel and Chief Powerman's Mate Multhaus reached the low-power center of the Power Section. The door was open, and a torch was spearing its beam on two men--one kneeling over the prone figure of the other. The kneeling man jerked his head around as Mike and the chief came in the door. The kneeling man was Powerman First Class Fleck. Mike recognized the man on the floor as Powerman Third Class Breckwell. "What happened?" he snapped at Fleck. "Don't know, sir. I was in the head when the lights went. It took me a little time to get a torch and get in here, and I found Breckwell gone. At least, I thought he was gone, but then I heard a noise from the tool cabinet and I opened it and he fell out." The words seemed to come out all in a rush. "Dead?" asked Mike sharply. "Nossir, I don't think so, sir. Looks like somebody clonked him on the head, but he's breathin' all right." Mike knelt over the man and took his pulse. The heartbeat was regular and steady, if a trifle weak. Mike ran a hand over Breckwell's head. "There's a knot there the size of a golf ball, but I don't think anything's broken," he said. Footsteps came running down the hall, and six men of the power crew came pouring in the door. They slowed to a halt when they saw their commanding officer was already there. "A couple of you take care of Breckwell--Leister, Knox--move him to one side. Bathe his face with water. No, wait; you can't do that till we get the pumps moving again. Just watch him." One of the men coughed a little. "What he needs is a good slug of hooch." "I agree," said Mike evenly. "Too bad there isn't any aboard. But do what you think is best; I'm going to be too busy to keep an eye on you. I won't be able to watch you at all, so you'll be on your own." "Yessir," said the man who had spoken. He hid his grin and took out at a run, heading for wherever it was he kept his bottle hidden. "Dunstan, you and Ghihara get out and watch the halls. If any other officer comes this way, sing out." "Yessir!" came the twin chorus. More footsteps pounded toward them, and the remaining men of the power crew arrived. "All right, now let's take a look at these circuits," said Mike. Chief Multhaus had already flipped open all the panels and was peering inside. The men lined the torches up on the desk in the corner, in order to shed as much light as possible over the banks of low-power wiring, and went over to where Multhaus and Mike the Angel were standing. "Dig out three replacement switches--heavy-duty six-double-oh-B-nines," said Multhaus. There was a touch of disgust and a good-sized serving of anger and irritation in his voice. Mike the Angel surveyed the damage. "See anything else, Multhaus?" "No, sir. That's it." Mike nodded. "About five minutes' work to get the main switch going, which will give us power, and another ten minutes for the first and second stand-bys. Go ahead and take over, Multhaus; you won't need me. I'll go find out what the bloody unprintable is going on around here." * * * * * Mike the Angel ran into Captain Sir Henry Quill as he went up the companionway to the bridge. "What happened?" demanded the captain in his gravelly tenor voice. "Somebody ripped out the main switches to the low-power taps from the main generators, sir," said Mike. "Nothing to worry about. The boys will have the lights on within three or four minutes." "Who...?" "I don't know," said Mike, "but we'd better find out pretty fast. There've been too many things going on aboard this ship to suit me." "Same here. Are you sure everything's all right down there?" "Absolutely, sir. We can quit worrying about the damage itself and put our minds to finding out who did that damage." "Do you have any ideas?" "Some," said Mike the Angel. "As soon as the intercom is functioning again, I think you'd better call a general meeting of officers--and get Miss Crannon and Fitzhugh out of bed and get them up here, too." "Why?" Black Bart asked flatly. "Because Snookums has gone off his rocker. He's attacked at least one human being that I know of and has ignored direct orders from a human being." "Who?" asked Black Bart. "Me," said Mike the Angel. Mike told Captain Quill what had happened as they made their way back up to the bridge. Ensign Vaneski, looking pale and worried, met them at the door. He snapped a salute. "I just reported to Commander Jeffers, sir. Something's wrong with the low-power circuits." "I had surmised as much," said Black Bart caustically. "Anything new? What did you find out? What happened?" "When the lights went out, I was having coffee by myself in the wardroom. I grabbed a torch and headed for Power Section as soon as I could. The low-power room was empty. There should have been a man on duty there, but there wasn't. I didn't want to go inside, since I'm not a power officer, so I came up here to report. I--" At that moment the lights blazed on again. There was a faint hum that built up all over the ship as the air conditioning came on at the same time. "All right, Mister Vaneski," said Black Bart, "get below and take care of things. There's a man hurt down there, so be ready to take him to sick bay when the Physician's Mate gets there. We don't have a medic in any condition to take care of people, so he'll have to do. Hop it." As Vaneski left, Black Bart preceded Mike into the bridge. Pete Jeffers was on the intercom. As Mike and the captain came in, he was saying, "All right. I'll notify the Officer of the Watch, and we'll search the ship. He can't hide very long." Then, without waiting to say anything to Mike or Quill, he jabbed at another button. "Mister von Liegnitz! Jake!" "_Ja?_ Huh? What is it?" came a fuzzy voice from the speaker. "You all right?" "Me? Sure. I was asleep. Why?" "Be on your toes, sleepyhead; just got word that Mellon has escaped from his stateroom. He may try to take another crack at you." "I'll watch it," said von Liegnitz, his voice crisp now. "Okay." Jeffers sighed and looked up. "As soon as the power came on, the Physician's Mate was on the intercom. Mellon isn't in his stateroom." "Oh, wonderful!" growled Captain Quill. "We now have one insane robot and one insane human running loose on this ship. I'm glad we didn't bring any gorillas with us." "Somehow I think I'd be safer with a gorilla," said Mike the Angel. "According to the Physician's Mate, Mellon is worse than just nuts," said Jeffers quietly. "He says he loaded Mellon full of dope to make him sleep and that the man's got no right to be walkin' around at all." "He must have gotten out while the doors were open," said Captain Quill. He rubbed the palm of his hand over the shiny pinkness of his scalp. His dark, shaggy brows were down over his eyes, as though they had been weighted with lead. "Mister Jeffers," he said abruptly, "break out the stun guns. Issue one to each officer and one to each chief non-com. Until we get this straightened out, I'm declaring a state of emergency." 16 Mike the Angel hefted the heavy stun gun in his right fist, feeling its weight without really noticing it. He knew damned good and well it wouldn't be of any use against Snookums. If Mellon came at him, the supersonic beam from the gun would affect his nerves the same way an electric current would, and he'd collapse, unconscious but relatively unharmed. But Mike doubted seriously that it would have any effect at all on the metal body of the robot. It is as difficult to jolt the nerves of a robot as it is to blind an oyster. Snookums did have sensory devices that enabled him to tell what was going on around him, but they were not nerves in the ordinary sense of the word, and a stun gun certainly wouldn't have the same effect. He wondered just what effect it _would_ have--if any. He was going down the main ladder--actually a long spiral stairway that led downward from the bridge. Behind him were Chief Multhaus, also armed with a stun gun, and four members of the power crew, each armed with a heavy spanner. Mike or the chief could take care of Mellon; it would be the crew's job to take care of Snookums. "Smash his treads and his waldoes," Mike had told them, "but only if he attacks. Before you try anything else, give him an order to halt. If he keeps on coming, start swinging." And, to Chief Multhaus: "If Mellon jumps me, fire that stun gun only if he's armed with a knife or a gun. But if you do have to fire at Mellon, don't wait to get in a good shot; just go ahead and knock us both out. I'd rather be asleep than dead. Okay?" Multhaus had agreed. "The same goes for me, Commander. And the rest of the boys." So down the ladder they went. Mike hoped there'd be no fighting at all. He had the feeling that everything was all wrong, somehow, and that any use of stun guns or spanners would just make everything worse. His wasn't the only group looking for Snookums and Mellon. Lieutenant Keku had another group, and Commander Jeffers had a third. Lieutenant Commander von Liegnitz was with Captain Quill on the bridge. Mellon had already attacked von Liegnitz once; the captain didn't want them mixing it up again. Captain Quill's voice came suddenly from a speaker in the overhead. "Miss Crannon and Dr. Fitzhugh have just spoken to me," he said in his brisk tenor. "Snookums is safe in his own room. I have outlined what has happened, and they're trying to get information from Snookums now. Lieutenant Mellon is still missing." "One down," said Chief Multhaus. There was relief in his voice. "Let's see if we can find the other one," said Mike the Angel. They went down perhaps three more steps, and the speakers came to life again. "Will the Chief Physician's Mate report to Commander Jeffers in the maintenance tool room? Lieutenant Keku, dismiss your men to quarters and report to the bridge. Commander Gabriel, dismiss your men to quarters and report to Commander Jeffers in maintenance. All chief non-coms report to the ordnance room to turn in your weapons. All enlisted men return to your posts or to quarters." Mike the Angel holstered his stun gun. "That's two down," he said to Chief Multhaus. "Looks like we missed all the fun," said Multhaus. "Okay, men," Mike said, "you got the word. Take those spanners back to the tool room in Power Section, and then get back to your quarters. Chief, you go with them and secure everything, then take that stun gun back to ordnance." "Yessir." Multhaus threw Mike a salute; Mike returned it and headed toward maintenance. He knew Multhaus and the others were curious, but he was just as curious himself. He had the advantage of being in a position to satisfy his curiosity. The maintenance tool room was big and lined with tool lockers. One of them was open. Sprawled in front of it was Lieutenant Mellon. Over to one side was Commander Jeffers, standing next to a white-faced Ensign Vaneski. Nearby were a chief non-com and three enlisted men. "Hullo, Mike," Pete Jeffers said as Mike the Angel came in. "What happened, Pete?" Mike asked. Jeffers gestured at the sprawled figure on the floor. "We came in here to search. We found him. Mister Vaneski opened the locker, there, for a look-see, and Mellon jumped out at him. Vaneski fired his stun gun. Mellon collapsed to the deck. He's in bad shape; his pulse is so weak that it's hard to find." Mike the Angel walked over and looked down at the fallen Medical Officer. His face was waxen, and he looked utterly small and harmless. "What happened?" asked another voice from the door. It was Chief Physician's Mate Pierre Pasteur. He was a smallish man, well rounded, pleasant-faced, and inordinately proud of his name. He couldn't actually prove that he was really descended from the great Louis, but he didn't allow people to think otherwise. Like most C. Phys. M.'s, he had a doctor of medicine degree but no internship in the Space Service. He was working toward his commission. "We've got a patient for you," said Jeffers. "Better look him over, Chief." Chief Pasteur walked over to where Mellon lay and took his stethoscope out of his little black bag. He listened to Mellon's chest for a few seconds. Then he pried open an eyelid and looked closely at an eye. "What happened to him?" he asked, without looking up. "Got hit with a beam from a stun gun," said Jeffers. "How did he fall? Did he hit his head?" "I don't know--maybe." He looked at Ensign Vaneski. "Did he, Mister Vaneski? He was right on top of you; I was across the room." Vaneski swallowed. "I don't know. He--he just sort of--well, he _fell_." "You didn't catch him?" asked the chief. He was a physician on a case now and had no time for sirring his superiors. "No. No. I jumped away from him." "Why? What's the trouble?" Jeffers asked. "He's dead," said the Chief Physician's Mate. 17 Leda Crannon was standing outside the cubicle that had been built for Snookums. Her back and the palms of her hands were pressed against the door. Her head was bowed, and her red hair, shining like a hellish flame in the light of the glow panels, fell around her shoulders and cheeks, almost covering her face. "Leda," said Mike the Angel gently. She looked up. There were tears in her blue eyes. "Mike! Oh, Mike!" She ran toward him, put her arms around him, and tried to bury her face in Mike's chest. "What's the matter, honey? What's happened?" He was certain she couldn't have heard about Mellon's death yet. He held her in his arms, carefully, tenderly, not passionately. "He's crazy, Mike. He's completely crazy." Her voice had suddenly lost everything that gave it color. It was only dead and choked. Mike the Angel knew it was an emotional reaction. As a psychologist, she would never have used the word "crazy." But as a woman ... as a human being.... "Fitz is still in there talking to him, but he's--he's--" Her voice choked off again into sobs. Mike waited patiently, holding her, caressing her hair. "Eight years," she said after a minute or so. "Eight years I spent. And now he's gone. He's broken." "How do you know?" Mike asked. She lifted her head and looked at him. "Mike--did he really hit you? Did he refuse to stop when you ordered him to? What _really_ happened?" Mike told her what had happened in the darkened companionway just outside his room. When he finished, she began sobbing again. "He's lying, Mike," she said. "_Lying!_" Mike nodded silently and slowly. Leda Crannon had spent all of her adult life tending the hurts and bruises and aches of Snookums the Child. She had educated him, cared for him, taken pleasure in his triumphs, worried about his health, and watched him grow mentally. And now he was sick, broken, ruined. And, like all parents, she was asking herself: "What did I do wrong?" Mike the Angel didn't give her an answer to that unspoken question, but he knew what the answer was in so many cases: The grieving parent has not necessarily done anything wrong. It may simply be that there was insufficient or poor-quality material to work with. With a human child, it is even more humiliating for a parent to admit that he or she has contributed inferior genetic material to a child than it is to admit a failure in upbringing. Leda's case was different. Leda had lost her child, but Mike hesitated to point out that it wasn't her fault in the first place because the material wasn't up to the task she had given it, and in the second place because she hadn't really lost anything. She was still playing with dolls, not human beings. "Hell!" said Mike under his breath, not realizing that he was practically whispering in her ear. "Isn't it?" she said. "Isn't it Hell? I spent eight years trying to make that little mind of his tick properly. I wanted to know what was the right, proper, and logical way to bring up children. I had a theory, and I wanted to test it. And now I'll never know." "What sort of theory?" Mike asked. She sniffled, took a handkerchief from her pocket, and began wiping at her tears. Mike took the handkerchief away from her and did the wiping job himself. "What's this theory?" he said. "Oh, it isn't important now. But I felt--I still feel--that everybody is born with a sort of Three Laws of Robotics in him. You know what I mean--that a person wouldn't kill or harm anyone, or refuse to do what was right, in addition to trying to preserve his own life. I think babies are born that way. But I think that the information they're given when they're growing up can warp them. They still think they're obeying the laws, but they're obeying them wrongly, if you see what I mean." Mike nodded without saying anything. This was no time to interrupt her. "For instance," she went on, "if my theory's right, then a child would never disobey his father--unless he was convinced that the man was not really his father, you see. For instance, if he learned, very early, that his father never spanks him, that becomes one of the identifying marks of 'father.' Fine. But the first time his father _does_ spank him, doubt enters. If that sort of thing goes on, he becomes disobedient because he doesn't believe that the man is his father. "I'm afraid I'm putting it a little crudely, but you get the idea." "Yeah," said Mike. For all he knew, there might be some merit in the girl's idea; he knew that philosophers had talked of the "basic goodness of mankind" for centuries. But he had a hunch that Leda was going about it wrong. Still, this was no time to argue with her. She seemed calmer now, and he didn't want to upset her any more than he had to. "That's what you've been working on with Snookums?" he asked. "That's it." "For eight years?" "For eight years." "Is that the information, the data, that makes Snookums so priceless, aside from his nucleonics work?" She smiled a little then. "Oh no. Of course not, silly. He's been fed data on everything--physics, subphysics, chemistry, mathematics--all kinds of things. Most of the major research laboratories on Earth have problems of one kind or another that Snookums has been working on. He hasn't been given the problem _I_ was working on at all; it would bias him." Then the tears came back. "And now it doesn't matter. He's insane. He's lying." "What's he saying?" "He insists that he's never broken the First Law, that he has never hurt a human being. And he insists that he has followed the orders of human beings, according to the Second Law." "May I talk to him?" Mike asked. She shook her head. "Fitz is running him through an analysis. He even made me leave." Then she looked at his face more closely. "You don't just want to confront him and call him a liar, do you? No--that's not like you. You know he's just a machine--better than I do, I guess.... What is it, Mike?" _No_, he thought, looking at her, _she still thinks he's human. Otherwise, she'd know that a computer can't lie--not in the human sense of the word._ _Most people, if told that a man had said one thing, and that a computer had given a different answer, would rely on the computer._ "What is it, Mike?" she repeated. "Lew Mellon," he said very quietly, "is dead." The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin stark against the bright red of her hair. For a moment he thought she was going to faint. Then a little of the color came back. "Snookums." Her voice was whispery. He shook his head. "No. Apparently he tried to jump Vaneski and got hit with a stun beam. It shouldn't have killed him--but apparently it did." "God, God, God," she said softly. "Here I've been crying about a damned machine, and poor Lew has been lying up there dead." She buried her face in her hands, and her voice was muffled when she spoke again. "And I'm all cried out, Mike. I can't cry any more." Before Mike could make up his mind whether to say anything or not, the door of Snookums' room opened and Dr. Fitzhugh came out, closing the door behind him. There was an odd, stricken look on his face. He looked at Leda and then at Mike, but the expression on his face showed that he really hadn't seen them clearly. "Did you ever wonder if a robot had a soul, Mike?" he asked in a wondering tone. "No," Mike admitted. Leda took her hands from her face and looked at him. Her expression was a bright blank stare. "He won't answer my questions," Fitzhugh said in a hushed tone. "I can't complete the analysis." "What's that got to do with his soul?" Mike asked. "He won't answer my questions," Fitzhugh repeated, looking earnestly at Mike. "He says God won't allow him to." 18 Captain Sir Henry Quill opened the door of the late Lieutenant Mellon's quarters and went in, followed by Mike the Angel. The dead man's gear had to be packed away so that it could be given to his nearest of kin when the officers and crew of the _Brainchild_ returned to Earth. Regulations provided that two officers must inventory his personal effects and those belonging to the Space Service. "Does Chief Pasteur know what killed him yet, Captain?" Mike asked. Quill shook his head. "No. He wants my permission to perform an autopsy." "Are you going to let him?" "I think not. We'll put the body in the freezer and have the autopsy performed on Earth." He looked around the room, seeing it for the first time. "If you don't," said Mike, "you've got three suspected killers on your hands." Quill was unperturbed. "Don't be ridiculous, Golden Wings." "I'm not," Mike said. "I hit him in the pit of his stomach. Chief Pasteur filled him full of sedative. Mister Vaneski shot him with a stun beam. He died. Which one of us did it?" "Probably no single one of them, but a combination of all three," said Captain Quill. "Each action was performed in the line of duty and without malice aforethought--without even intent to harm permanently, much less to kill. There will have to be a court-martial, of course--or, at the very least, a board of inquiry will be appointed. But I am certain you'll all come through any such inquiry scatheless." He picked up a book from Mellon's desk. "Let's get about our business, Mister Gabriel. Mark down: Bible, one." Mike put it down on the list. "_International Encyclopedia_, English edition. Thirty volumes and index." Mike put it down. "_The Oxford-Webster Dictionary of the English Language_-- "_Hallbert's Dictionary of Medical Terms_-- "_The Canterbury Theological Dictionary_-- "_The Christian Religion and Symbolic Logic_, by Bishop K. F. Costin-- "_The Handbook of Space Medicine_--" As Captain Quill called out the names of the books and put them into the packing case he'd brought, Mike marked them down--while something began ticking in the back of his mind. "Item," said Captain Quill, "one crucifix." He paused. "Beautifully carved, too." He put it into the packing case. "Excuse me, Captain," said Mike suddenly. "Let me take a look at something, will you?" Excitedly, he leaned over and took some of the books out, looking at the pages of each one. "I'll be damned," he said after a moment. "Or I _should_ be--for being such a stupid idiot!" Captain Quill narrowed his eyes. "What are you talking about, Mister Gabriel?" "I'm not sure yet, Captain," Mike hedged. "May I borrow these three books?" He held them up in his hands. "May I be so bold as to ask _why_, Mister Gabriel?" "I just want to look at them, sir," Mike said. "I'll return them within a few hours." "Mister Gabriel," Captain Quill said, "after what happened last night, I am suspicious of everything that goes on aboard this ship. But--yes. You may take them. However, I want them returned before we land tomorrow morning." Mike blinked. Neither he nor anyone else--with the exception of Captain Quill and Lieutenant Commander von Liegnitz, the navigator, knew the destination of the ship. Mike hadn't realized they were that close to their goal. "I'll have them back by then," he promised. "Very well. Now let's get on about our work." The job was completed within forty-five minutes. A man can't carry a great deal with him on a spaceship. When they were through, Mike the Angel excused himself and went to his quarters. Two hours after that he went to the officers' wardroom to look up Pete Jeffers. Pete hadn't been in his quarters, and Mike knew he wasn't on duty by that time. Sure enough, Jeffers was drinking coffee all by himself in the wardroom. He looked up when Mike came in. "Hullo, Mike," he said listlessly. "Come sit. Have some coffee." There was a faint aroma in the air which indicated that there was more in the cup than just coffee. "No, thanks, Pete. I'll sit this one out. I wanted to talk to you." "Sit. I am drinking a toast to Mister Lew Mellon." He pointed at the coffee. "Sure you won't have a mite? It's sweetened from the grape." "No, thanks again." Mike sat down. "It's Mellon I wanted to talk about. Did you know him well, Pete?" "Purty well," Pete said, nodding. "Yeah, purty well. I always figured him for a great little bloke. Can't figure what got into him." "Me either. Pete, you told me he was an Anglo-Catholic--a good one, you said." "'At's right." "Well, how did you mean that?" Pete frowned. "Just what I said. He studied his religion, he went to Mass regularly, said his prayers--that sort of thing. And he was, I will say, a Christian gentleman in every sense of the word." There was irritation in his voice, as though Mike had impugned the memory of a friend. "Don't get huffy, Pete; he struck me as a pretty nice person, too--" "Until he flipped his lid," said Pete. "But that might happen to anybody." "Sure. But what I want to know--and don't get sore--is, did he show any kind of--well, _instability_ before this last outbreak?" "Like what?" "I mean, was he a religious nut? Did he act 'holier than thou' or--well, was he a fanatic, would you say?" "No, I wouldn't say so. He didn't talk much about it. I guess you noticed that. I mean, he didn't preach. He smoked some and had his glass of wine now and then--even had a cocktail or two on occasion. His views on sex were orthodox, I reckon--I mean, as far as I know. He'd tell an off-color story, if it wasn't _too_ bad. But he'd get up and leave quietly if the boys started tellin' about the women they'd made. Fornication and adultery just weren't his meat, I'd say." "I know he wasn't married," Mike said. "Did he date much?" "Some. He liked to dance. Women seemed to like him." "How about men?" "Most of the boys liked him." "That's not what I meant." "Oh. Was he queer?" Pete frowned. "I'd damn near stake my life that he wasn't." "You mean he didn't practice it?" "I don't believe he even thought about it," Pete said. "Course, you can't tell what's really goin' on in a man's mind, but--" His frown became a scowl. "Damn it, Mike, just because a man isn't married by the time he's thirty-five and practices Christian chastity while he's single don't necessarily mean he's a damn fairy!" "I didn't say it did. I just wondered if you'd heard anything." "No more'n I've heard about you--who are in exactly the same position!" "Exactly," Mike agreed. "That's what I wanted to know. Pete, if you've got it to spare, I'll join you in that toast." Pete Jeffers grinned. "Comin' right up, buddy-boy." He poured two more cups of coffee, spiked them from a small flask of brandy, and handed one to Mike. They drank in silence. Fifteen minutes later, Mike the Angel was in the little office that Leda Crannon shared with Dr. Fitzhugh. She was alone. "How's the girl today?" he asked. "Beat," she said with a forced smile. "You look beautiful," he said. He wasn't lying. She looked drawn and tired, but she still looked beautiful. "Thanks, Mike. What can I do for you?" Mike the Angel pulled up a chair and sat down. "Where's Doc Fitz?" "He's still trying to get information out of Snookums. It's a weird thing, Mike--a robot with a soul." "You don't mind talking about it?" "No; go ahead if you want." "All right, answer me a question," he said. "Can Snookums read English?" "Certainly. And Russian, and German, French, Chinese, and most of the other major languages of Earth." "He could read a book, then?" "Yes. But not unless it was given to him and he was specifically told to use its contents as data." "Good," said Mike. "Now, suppose Snookums was given complete data on a certain field of knowledge. Suppose further that this field is internally completely logical, completely coherent, completely self-consistent. Suppose it could even be reduced to a series of axioms and theorems in symbolic logic." "All right," she said. "So?" "Now, further suppose that this system, this field of knowledge is, right now, in constant use by millions of human beings, even though most of them are unaware of the implications of the entire field. Could Snookums work with such a body of knowledge?" "Sure," said Leda. "Why not?" "What if there was absolutely no way for Snookums to experiment with this knowledge? What if he simply did not have the equipment necessary?" "You mean," she asked, "something like astrophysics?" "No. That's exactly what I don't mean. I'm perfectly well aware that it isn't possible to test astrophysical theories directly. Nobody has been able to build a star in the lab so far. "But it _is_ possible to test the theories of astrophysics analogically by extrapolating on data that _can_ be tested in a physics lab. "What I'm talking about is a system that Snookums, simply because he is what he is, cannot test or experiment upon, in any way whatsoever. A system that has, in short, no connection with the physical world whatsoever." Leda Crannon thought it over. "Well, assuming all that, I imagine that it would eventually ruin Snookums. He's built to experiment, and if he's kept from experimenting for too long, he'll exceed the optimum randomity of his circuits." She swallowed. "If he hasn't already." "I thought so. And so did someone else," said Mike thoughtfully. "Well, for Heaven's sake! What is this system?" Leda asked in sudden exasperation. "You're close," said Mike the Angel. "What are you talking about?" "Theology," said Mike. "He was pumped full of Christian theology, that's all. Good, solid, Catholic theology. Bishop Costin's mathematical symbolization of it is simply a result of the verbal logic that had been smoothed out during the previous two thousand years. Snookums could reduce it to math symbols and equations, anyway, even if we didn't have Bishop Costin's work." He showed her the book from Mellon's room. "It doesn't even require the assumption of a soul to make it foul up a robot's works. He doesn't have any emotions, either. And he can't handle something that he can't experiment with. It would have driven him insane, all right. But he _isn't_ insane." Leda looked puzzled. "But--" "Do you know why?" Mike interrupted. "No." "Because he found something that he could experiment with. He found a material basis for theological experimentation." She looked still more puzzled. "What could that be?" "Me," said Mike the Angel. "Me. Michael Raphael Gabriel. I'm an angel--an archangel. As a matter of fact, I'm _three_ archangels. For all I know, Snookums has equated me with the Trinity." "But--how did he get that idea?" "Mostly from the Book of Tobit," said Mike. "That's where an archangel takes the form of a human being and travels around with Tobit the Younger, remember? And, too, he probably got more information from the first part of Luke's Gospel, where Gabriel tells the Blessed Virgin that she's about to become a mother." "But would he have figured that out for himself?" "Possibly," said Mike, "but I doubt it. He was told that I was an angel--literally." "Let me see that book," she said, taking _The Christian Religion and Symbolic Logic_ from Mike's hand. She opened it to the center. "I didn't know anyone had done this sort of work," she said. "Oh, there was a great fuss over the book when it came out. There were those who said that the millennium had arrived because the truth of the Christian faith had been proved mathematically, and therefore all rational people would have to accept it." She leafed through the book. "I'll bet there are still some who still believe that, just like there are some people who still think Euclidian geometry must necessarily be true because it can be 'proved' mathematically." Mike nodded. "All Bishop Costin did--all he was _trying_ to do--was to prove that the axioms of the Christian faith are logically self-consistent. That's all he ever claimed to have done, and he did a brilliant job of it." "But--how do you know this is what Snookums was given?" "Look at the pages. Snookums' waldo fingers wrinkled the pages that way. Those aren't the marks of human fingers. Only two of Mellon's other books were wrinkled that way." She jerked her head up from the book, startled. "_What?_ This is Lew Mellon's book?" "That's right. So are the other two. A Bible and a theological dictionary. They're wrinkled the same way." Her eyes were wide, bright sapphires. "But _why_? Why would he do such a thing, for goodness' sake?" "I don't know why it was done," Mike said slowly, "but I doubt if it was for goodness' sake. We haven't gotten to the bottom of this hanky-panky yet, I don't think. "Leda, if I'm right--if this _is_ what has been causing Snookums' odd behavior--can you cure him?" She looked at the book again and nodded. "I think so. But it will take a lot of work. I'll have to talk to Fitz about it. We'll have to keep this book--and the other two." Mike shook his head. "No can do. Can you photocopy them?" "Certainly. But it'll take--oh, two or three hours per book." "Then you'd better get busy. We're landing in the morning." She nodded. "I know. Captain Quill has already told us." "Fine, then." He stood up. "What will you do? Simply tell Snookums to forget all this stuff?" "Good Heavens no! It's too thoroughly integrated with every other bit of data he has! You might be able to take one single bit of data out that way, but to jerk out a whole body of knowledge like this would completely randomize his circuits. You can pull out a tooth by yanking with a pair of forceps, but if you try to take out a man's appendix that way, you'll lose a patient." "I catch," Mike said with a grin. "Okay. I'll get the other two books and you can get to work copying them. Take care." "Thanks, Mike." As he walked down the companionway, he cursed himself for being a fool. If he'd let things go on the way they were, Leda might have weaned herself away from Snookums. Now she was interested again. But there could have been no other way, of course. 19 The interstellar ship _Brainchild_ orbited around her destination, waiting during the final checkup before she landed on the planet below. It was not a nice planet. As far as its size went, it could be classified as "Earth type," but size was almost the only resemblance to Earth. It orbited in space some five hundred and fifty million miles from its Sol-like parent--a little farther away from the primary than Jupiter is from Sol itself. It was cold there--terribly cold. At high noon on the equator, the temperature reached a sweltering 180° absolute; it became somewhat chillier toward the poles. H_{2}O was, anywhere on the planet, a whitish, crystalline mineral suitable for building material. The atmosphere was similar to that of Jupiter, although the proportions of methane, ammonia, and hydrogen were different because of the lower gravitational potential of the planet. It had managed to retain a great deal more hydrogen in its atmosphere than Earth had because of the fact that the average thermal velocity of the molecules was much lower. Since oxygen-releasing life had never developed on the frigid surface of the planet, there was no oxygen in the atmosphere. It was all tied up in combination with the hydrogen of the ice and the surface rocks of the planet. The Space Service ship that had discovered the planet, fifteen years before, had given it the name Eisberg, thus commemorating the name of a spaceman second class who happened to have the luck to be (a) named Robert Eisberg, (b) a member of the crew of the ship to discover the planet, and (c) under the command of a fun-loving captain. Eisberg had been picked as the planet to transfer the potentially dangerous Snookums to for two reasons. In the first place, if Snookums actually did solve the problem of the total-annihilation bomb, the worst he could do was destroy a planet that wasn't much good, anyway. And, in the second place, the same energy requirements applied on Eisberg as did on Chilblains Base. It was easier to cool the helium bath of the brain if it only had to be lowered 175 degrees or so. It was a great place for cold-work labs, but not worth anything for colonization. * * * * * Chief Powerman's Mate Multhaus looked gloomily at the figures on the landing sheet. Mike the Angel watched the expression on the chief's face and said: "What's the matter, Multhaus? No like?" Multhaus grimaced. "Well, sir, I don't like it, no. But I can't say I _dis_like it, either." He stared at the landing sheet, pursing his lips. He looked as though he were valiantly restraining himself from asking questions about the other night's escapade--which he was. He said: "I just don't like to land without jets, sir; that's all." "Hell, neither do I," admitted Mike. "But we're not going to get down any other way. We managed to take off without jets; we'll manage to land without them." "Yessir," said Multhaus, "but we took off _with_ the grain of Earth's magnetic field. We're landing _across_ the grain." "Sure," said Mike. "So what? If we overlook the motors, that's okay. We may never be able to get off the planet with this ship again, but we aren't supposed to anyway. "Come on, Multhaus, don't worry about it. I know you hate to burn up a ship, but this one is supposed to be expendable. You may never have another chance like this." Multhaus tried to keep from grinning, but he couldn't. "Awright, Commander. You have appealed to my baser instincts. My subconscious desire to wreck a spaceship has been brought to the surface. I can't resist it. Am I nutty, maybe?" "Not now, you're not," Mike said, grinning back. "We'll have a bitch of a job getting through the plasmasphere, though," said the chief. "That fraction of a second will--" "It'll jolt us," Mike agreed, interrupting. "But it won't wreck us. Let's get going." "Aye, sir," said Multhaus. * * * * * The seas of Eisberg were liquid methane containing dissolved ammonia. Near the equator, they were liquid; farther north, the seas became slushy with crystallized ammonia. The site picked for the new labs of the Computer Corporation of Earth was in the northern hemisphere, at 40° north latitude, about the same distance from the equator as New York or Madrid, Spain, would be on Earth. The _Brainchild_ would be dropping through Eisberg's magnetic field at an angle, but it wouldn't be the ninety-degree angle of the equator. It would have been nice if the base could have been built at one of the poles, but that would have put the labs in an uncomfortable position, since there was no solid land at either pole. Mike the Angel didn't like the idea of having to land on Eisberg without jets any more than Multhaus did, but he was almost certain that the ship would take the strain. He took the companionway up to the Control Bridge, went in, and handed the landing sheet to Black Bart. The captain scowled at it, shrugged, and put it on his desk. "Will we make it, sir?" Mike said. "Any word from the _Fireball_?" Black Bart nodded. "She's orbiting outside the atmosphere. Captain Wurster will send down a ship to pick us up as soon as we've finished our business here." The _Fireball_, being much faster than the clumsy _Brainchild_, had left Earth later than the slower ship, and had arrived earlier. "_Now hear this! Now hear this! Third Warning! Landing orbit begins in one minute! Landing begins in one minute!_" Sixty seconds later the _Brainchild_ began her long, logarithmic drop toward the surface of Eisberg. Landing a ship on her jets isn't an easy job, but at least an ion rocket is built for the job. Maybe someday the Translation drive will be modified for planetary landings, but so far such a landing has been, as someone put it, "50 per cent raw energy and 50 per cent prayer." The landing was worse than the take-off, a truism which has held since the first glider took off from the surface of Earth in the nineteenth century. What goes up doesn't necessarily have to come down, but when it does, the job is a lot rougher than getting up was. The plasmasphere of Eisberg differed from that of Earth in two ways. First, the ionizing source of radiation--the primary star--was farther away from Eisberg than Sol was from Earth, which tended to reduce the total ionization. Second, the upper atmosphere of Eisberg was pretty much pure hydrogen, which is somewhat easier to ionize than oxygen or nitrogen. And, since there was no ozonosphere to block out the UV radiation from the primary, the thickness of the ionosphere beneath the plasmasphere was greater. Not until the _Brainchild_ hit the bare fringes of the upper atmosphere did she act any differently than she had in space. But when she hit the outer fringes of the ionosphere--that upper layer of rarified protons, the rapidly moving current of high velocity ions known as the plasmasphere--she bucked like a kicked horse. From deep within her vitals, the throb began, a strumming, thrumming sound with a somewhat higher note imposed upon it, making a sound like that of a bass viol being plucked rapidly on its lowest string. It was not the intensity of the ionosphere that cracked the drive of the _Brainchild_; it was the duration. The layer of ionization was too thick; the ship couldn't make it through the layer fast enough, in spite of her high velocity. A man can hold a red-hot bit of steel in his hand for a fraction of a second without even feeling it. But if he has to hold a hot baked potato for thirty seconds, he's likely to get a bad burn. So it was with the _Brainchild_. The passage through Earth's ionosphere during take-off had been measured in fractions of a second. The _Brainchild_ had reacted, but the exposure to the field had been too short to hurt her. The ionosphere of Eisberg was much deeper and, although the intensity was less, the duration was much longer. The drumming increased as she fell, a low-frequency, high-energy sine wave that shook the ship more violently than had the out-of-phase beat that had pummeled the ship shortly after her take-off. Dr. Morris Fitzhugh, the roboticist, screamed imprecations into the intercom, but Captain Sir Henry Quill cut him off before anyone took notice and let the scientist rave into a dead pickup. "How's she coming?" The voice came over the intercom to the Power Section, and Mike the Angel knew that the question was meant for him. "She'll make it, Captain," he said. "She'll make it. I designed this thing for a 500 per cent overload. She'll make it." "Good," said Black Bart, snapping off the intercom. Mike exhaled gustily. His eyes were still on the needles that kept creeping higher and higher along the calibrated periphery of the meters. Many of them had long since passed the red lines that marked the allowable overload point. Mike the Angel knew that those points had been set low, but he also knew that they were approaching the real overload point. He took another deep breath and held it. * * * * * Point for point, the continent of Antarctica, Earth, is one of the most deadly areas ever found on a planet that is supposedly non-inimical to man. Earth is a nice, comfortable planet, most of the time, but Antarctica just doesn't cater to Man at all. Still, it just happens to be the _worst_ spot on the _best_ planet in the known Galaxy. Eisberg is different. At its best, it has the continent of Antarctica beat four thousand ways from a week ago last Candlemas. At its worst, it is sudden death; at its best, it is somewhat less than sudden. Not that Eisberg is a really _mean_ planet; Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, or Neptune can kill a man faster and with less pain. No, Eisberg isn't mean--it's torturous. A man without clothes, placed suddenly on the surface of Eisberg--_anywhere_ on the surface--would die. But the trouble is that he'd live long enough for it to hurt. Man can survive, all right, but it takes equipment and intelligence to do it. When the interstellar ship _Brainchild_ blew a tube--just one tube--of the external field that fought the ship's mass against the space-strain of the planet's gravitational field, the ship went off orbit. The tube blew when she was some ninety miles above the surface. She dropped too fast, jerked up, dropped again. When the engines compensated for the lost tube, the descent was more leisurely, and the ship settled gently--well, not exactly _gently_--on the surface of Eisberg. Captain Quill's voice came over the intercom. "We are nearly a hundred miles from the base, Mister Gabriel. Any excuse?" "No excuse, sir," said Mike the Angel. 20 If you ignite a jet of oxygen-nitrogen in an atmosphere of hydrogen-methane, you get a flame that doesn't differ much from the flame from a hydrogen-methane jet in an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere. A flame doesn't particularly care which way the electrons jump, just so long as they jump. All of which was due to give Mike the Angel more headaches than he already had, which was 100 per cent too many. Three days after the _Brainchild_ landed, the scout group arrived from the base that had been built on Eisberg to take care of Snookums. The leader, a heavy-set engineer named Treadmore, who had unkempt brownish hair and a sad look in his eyes, informed Captain Quill that there was a great deal of work to be done. And his countenance became even sadder. Mike, who had, perforce, been called in to take part in the conference, listened in silence while the engineer talked. The officers' wardroom, of which Mike the Angel was becoming heartily sick, seemed like a tomb which echoed and re-echoed the lugubrious voice of Engineer Treadmore. "We were warned, of course," he said, in a normally dismal tone, "that it would be extremely difficult to set down the ship which carried Snookums, and that we could expect the final base to be anywhere from ten to thirty miles from the original, temporary base." He looked round at everyone, giving the impression of a collie which had just been kicked by Albert Payson Terhune. "We understand, naturally, that you could not help landing so far from our original base," he said, giving them absolution with faint damns, "but it will entail a great deal of extra labor. A hundred and nine miles is a great distance to carry equipment, and, actually, the distance is a great deal more, considering the configuration of the terrain. The...." The upshot of the whole thing was that only part of the crew could possibly be spared to go home on the _Fireball_, which was orbiting high above the atmosphere. And, since there was no point in sending a small load home at extra expense when the _Fireball_ could wait for the others, it meant that nobody could go home at all for four more weeks. The extra help was needed to get the new base established. It was obviously impossible to try to move the _Brainchild_ a hundred miles. With nothing to power her but the Translation drive, she was as helpless as a submarine on the Sahara. Especially now that her drive was shot. The Eisberg base had to be built around Snookums, who was, after all, the only reason for the base's existence. And, too, the power plant of the _Brainchild_ had been destined to be the source of power for the permanent base. It wasn't too bad, really. A little extra time, but not much. The advance base, commanded by Treadmore, was fairly well equipped. For transportation, they had one jet-powered aircraft, a couple of 'copters, and fifteen ground-crawlers with fat tires, plus all kinds of powered construction machinery. All of them were fueled with liquid HNO_{3}, which makes a pretty good fuel in an atmosphere that is predominantly methane. Like the gasoline-air engines of a century before, they were spark-started reciprocating engines, except for the turbine-powered aircraft. The only trouble with the whole project was that the materials had to be toted across a hundred miles of exceedingly hostile territory. Treadmore, looking like a tortured bloodhound, said: "But we'll make it, won't we?" Everyone nodded dismally. * * * * * Mike the Angel had a job he emphatically didn't like. He was supposed to convert the power plant of the _Brainchild_ from a spaceship driver into a stationary generator. The conversion job itself wasn't tedious; in principle, it was similar to taking the engine out of an automobile and converting it to a power plant for an electric generator. In fact, it was somewhat simpler, in theory, since the engines of the _Brainchild_ were already equipped for heavy drainage to run the electrical systems aboard ship, and to power and refrigerate Snookums' gigantic brain, which was no mean task in itself. But Michael Raphael Gabriel, head of one of the foremost--if not _the_ foremost--power design corporations in the known Galaxy, did not like degrading something. To convert the _Brainchild's_ plant from a spaceship drive to an electric power plant seemed to him to be on the same order as using a turboelectric generator to power a flashlight. A waste. To make things worse, the small percentage of hydrogen in the atmosphere got sneaky sometimes. It could insinuate itself into places where neither the methane nor the ammonia could get. Someone once called hydrogen the "cockroach element," since, like that antediluvian insect, the molecules of H_{2} can insidiously infiltrate themselves into places where they are not only unwelcome, but shouldn't even be able to go. At red heat, the little molecules can squeeze themselves through the crystalline interstices of quartz and steel. Granted, the temperature of Eisberg is a long way from red hot, but normal sealing still won't keep out hydrogen. Add to that the fact that hydrogen and methane are both colorless, odorless, and tasteless, and you have the beginnings of an explosive situation. The only reason that no one died is because the Space Service is what it is. Unlike the land, sea, and air forces of Earth, the Space Service does not have a long history of fighting other human beings. There has never been a space war, and, the way things stand, there is no likelihood of one in the foreseeable future. But the Space Service _does_ fight, in its own way. It fights the airlessness of space and the unfriendly atmospheres of exotic planets, using machines, intelligence, knowledge, and human courage as its weapons. Some battles have been lost; others have been won. And the war is still going on. It is an unending war, one which has no victory in sight. It is, as far as we can tell, the only war in human history in which Mankind is fully justified as the invading aggressor. It is not a defensive war; neither space nor other planets have attacked Man. Man has invaded space "simply because it is there." It is war of a different sort, true, but it is nonetheless a war. The Space Service was used to the kind of battle it waged on Eisberg. It was prepared to lose men, but even more prepared to save them. 21 Mike the Angel stepped into the cargo air lock of the _Brainchild_, stood morosely in the center of the cubicle, and watched the outer door close. Eight other men, clad, like himself, in regulation Space Service spacesuits, also looked wearily at the closing door. Chief Multhaus, one of the eight, turned his head to look at Mike the Angel. "I wish that thing would close as fast as my eyes are going to in about fifteen minutes, Commander." His voice rumbled deeply in Mike's earphones. "Yeah," said Mike, too tired to make decent conversation. Eight hours--all of them spent tearing down the spaceship and making it a part of the new base--had not been exactly exhilarating to any of them. The door closed, and the pumps began to work. The men were wearing Space Service Suit Three. For every environment, for every conceivable emergency, a suit had been built--if, of course, a suit _could_ be built for it. Nobody had yet built a suit for walking about in the middle of a sun, but, then, nobody had ever volunteered to try anything like that. They were all called "spacesuits" because most of them could be worn in the vacuum of space, but most of them weren't designed for that type of work. Suit One--a light, easily manipulated, almost skin-tight covering, was the real spacesuit. It was perfect for work in interstellar space, where there was a microscopic amount of radiation incident to the suit, no air, and almost nil gravity. For exterior repairs on the outside of a ship in free fall a long way from any star, Spacesuit One was the proper garb. But, a suit that worked fine in space didn't necessarily work on other planets, unless it worked fine on the planet it was used on. A Moon Suit isn't a Mars Suit isn't a Venus Suit isn't a Triton Suit isn't a.... Carry it on from there. Number Three was insulated against a frigid but relatively non-corrosive atmosphere. When the pumps in the air lock began pulling out the methane-laden atmosphere, they began to bulge slightly, but not excessively. Then nitrogen, extracted from the ammonia snow that was so plentiful, filled the room, diluting the remaining inflammable gases to a harmless concentration. Then that mixture was pumped out, to be replaced by a mixture of approximately 20 per cent oxygen and 80 per cent nitrogen--common, or garden-variety, air. Mike the Angel cracked his helmet and sniffed. "_Guk_," he said. "If I ever faint and someone gives me smelling salts, I'll flay him alive with a coarse rasp." "Yessir," said Chief Multhaus, as he began to shuck his suit. "But if I had my druthers, I'd druther you'd figure out some way to get all the ammonia out of the joints of this suit." The other men, sniffing and coughing, agreed in attitude if not in voice. It wasn't really as bad as they pretended; indeed, the odor of ammonia was hardly noticeable. But it made a good griping point. The inner door opened at last, and the men straggled through. "G'night, Chief," said Mike the Angel. "Night, sir," said Multhaus. "See you in the morning." "Yeah. Night." Mike trudged toward the companionway that led toward the wardroom. If Keku or Jeffers happened to be there, he'd have a quick round of _Uma ni to_. Jeffers called the game "double solitaire for three people," and Keku said it meant "horses' two heads," but Mike had simply found it as a new game to play before bedtime. He looked forward to it. But he had something else to do first. Instead of hanging up his suit in the locker provided, he had bunched it under his arm--except for the helmet--and now he headed toward maintenance. He met Ensign Vaneski just coming out, and gave him a broad smile. "Mister Vaneski, I got troubles." Vaneski smiled back worriedly. "Yes, sir. I guess we all do. What is it, sir?" Mike gestured at the bundle under his arm. "I abraded the sleeve of my suit while I was working today. I wish you'd take a look at it. I'm afraid it'll need a patch." For a moment, Vaneski looked as though he'd suddenly developed a headache. "I know you're supposed to be off duty now," Mike said soothingly, "but I don't want to get myself killed wearing a leaky suit tomorrow. I'll help you work on it if--" Vaneski grinned quickly. "Oh no, sir. That'll be all right. I'll give it a test, anyway, to check leaks. If it needs repair, it shouldn't take too long. Bring it in, and we'll take a look at it." They went back into the Maintenance Section, and Vaneski spread the suit out on the worktable. There was an obvious rough spot on the right sleeve. "Looks bad," said Vaneski. "I'll run a test right away." "Okay," said Mike. "I'll leave it to you. Can I pick it up in the morning?" "I think so. If it needs a patch, we'll have to test the patch, of course, but we should be able to finish it pretty quickly." He shrugged. "If we can't, sir, you'll just have to wait. Unless you want us to start altering a suit to your measurements." "Which would take longer?" "Altering a suit." "Okay. Just patch this one, then. What can I do?" "I'll get it out as fast as possible, sir," said Vaneski with a smile. "Fine. I'll see you later, then." Mike, like Cleopatra, was not prone to argue. He left maintenance and headed toward the wardroom for a game of _Uma ni to_. But when he met Leda Crannon going up the stairway, all thoughts of card games flitted from his mind with the careless nonchalance of a summer butterfly. "Hullo," he said, pulling himself up a little straighter. He was tired, but not _that_ tired. Her smile brushed the cobwebs from his mind. But a second look told him that there was worry behind the smile. "Hi, Mike," she said softly. "You look beat." "I am," admitted Mike. "To a frazzle. Have I told you that I love you?" "Once, I think. Maybe twice." Her eyes seemed to light up somewhere from far back in her head. "But enough of this mad passion," she said. "I want an invitation to have a drink--a stiff one." "I'll steal Jeffers' bottle," Mike offered. "What's the trouble?" Her smile faded, and her eyes became grave. "I'm scared, Mike; I want to talk to you." "Come along, then," Mike said. * * * * * Mike the Angel poured two healthy slugs of Pete Jeffers' brandy into a pair of glasses, added ice and water, and handed one to Leda Crannon with a flourish. And all the time, he kept up a steady line of gentle patter. "It may interest you to know," he said chattily, "that the learned Mister Treadmore has been furnishing me with the most fascinating information." He lifted up his own glass and looked into its amber depths. They were in his stateroom, and this time the door was closed--at her insistence. She had explained that she didn't want to be overheard, even by passing crew members. He swizzled the ice around in his glass, still holding it up to the light. "Indeed," he rambled on, "Treadmore babbled for Heaven knows how long on the relative occurrence of parahydrogen and orthohydrogen on Eisberg." He took his eyes from the glass and looked down at the girl who was seated demurely on the edge of his bunk. Her smile was encouraging. "He said--and I quote"--Mike's voice assumed a gloomy, but stilted tone--"normal hydrogen gas consists of diatomic molecules. The nuclear, or proton, spin of these atoms--ah--that is, of the two atoms that compose the molecule--may be oriented in the same direction or in opposite directions." He held a finger in the air as if to make a deep philosophical point. "If," he said pontifically, "they are oriented in the same direction, we refer to the substance as _orthohydrogen_. If they are oriented in opposite directions, it is _parahydrogen_. The _ortho_ molecules rotate with _odd_ rotational quantum numbers, while the _para_ molecules rotate with _even_ quantum numbers. "Since conversion does not normally occur between the two states, normal hydrogen may be considered--" Leda Crannon, snickering, waved her hand in the air. "Please!" she interrupted. "He can't be that bad! You make him sound like a dirge player at a Hindu funeral. What did he tell you? What did you find out?" "_Hah!_" said Mike. "What did I find out?" His hand moved in an airy circle as he inscribed a flowing cipher with a graceful Delsarte wave. "Nothing. In the first place, I already knew it, and in the second, it wasn't practical information. There's a slight difference in diffusion between the two forms, but it's nothing to rave about." His expression became suddenly serious. "I hope your information is a bit more revealing." She glanced at her glass, nodded, and drained it. Mike had extracted a promise from her that she would drink one drink before she talked. He could see that she was a trifle tense, and he thought the liquor would relax her somewhat. Now he was ready to listen. She handed him her empty, and while he refilled it, she said: "It's about Snookums again." Mike gave her her glass, grabbed the nearby chair, turned it around, sat down, and regarded her over its back. "I've lived with him so long," she said after a minute. "So long. It almost seems as though I've grown up with him. Eight years. I've been a mother to him, and a big sister at the same time--and maybe a maiden aunt. He's been a career and a family all rolled in together." She still watched her writhing hands, not raising her eyes to Mike's. "And--and, I suppose, a husband, too," she continued. "That is, he's sort of the stand-in for a--well, a somebody to teach--to correct--to reform. I guess every woman wants to--to _remake_ the man she meets--the man she wants." And then her eyes were suddenly on his. "But I don't. Not any more. I've had enough of it." Then she looked back down at her hands. Mike the Angel neither accepted nor rejected the statement. He merely waited. "He was mine," she said after a little while. "He was mine to mold, to teach, to form. The others--the roboticists, the neucleonicists, the sub-electronicists, all of them--were his instructors. All they did was give him facts. It was I who gave him a personality. "I made him. Not his body, not his brain, but his mind. "I made him. "I knew him. "And I--I--" Still staring at her hands, she clasped them together suddenly and squeezed. "And I loved him," she finished. She looked up at Mike then. "Can you see that?" she asked tensely. "Can you understand?" "Yes," said Mike the Angel quietly. "Yes, I can understand that. Under the same circumstances, I might have done the same thing." He paused. "And now?" She lowered her head again and began massaging her forehead with the finger tips of both hands, concealing her face with her palms. "And now," she said dully, "I know he's a machine. Snookums isn't a _he_ any more--he's an _it_. He has no personality of his own, he only has what I fed into him. Even his voice is mine. He's not even a psychic mirror, because he doesn't reflect _my_ personality, but a puppet imitation of it, distorted and warped by the thousands upon thousands of cold facts and mathematical relationships and logical postulates. And none of these _added_ anything to him, as a personality. How could they? He never had a _person_ality--only a set of behavior patterns that I drilled into him over a period of eight years." She dropped her hands into her lap and tilted her head back, looking at the blank white shimmer of the glow plates. "And now, suddenly, I see him for what he is--for what _it_ is. A machine. "It was never anything _but_ a machine. It is still a machine. It will never be anything else. "Personality is something that no machine can ever have. Idiosyncrasies, yes. No two machines are identical. But any personality that an individual sees in a machine has been projected there by the individual himself; it exists only in the human mind. "A machine can only do what it is built to do, and teaching a robot is only a building process." She gave a short, hard laugh. "I couldn't even build a monster, like Dr. Frankenstein did, unless I purposely built it to turn on me. And in that case I would have done nothing more than the suicide who turns a gun on himself." Her head tilted forward again, and her eyes sought those of Mike the Angel. A rather lopsided grin came over her face. "I guess I'm disenchanted, huh, Mike?" she asked. Mike grinned back, but his lips were firm. "I think so, yes. And I think you're glad of it." His grin changed to a smile. "Remember," he asked, "the story of the Sleeping Beauty? Did you want to stay asleep all your life?" "God forbid and thank you for the compliment, sir," she said, managing a smile of her own. "And are you the Prince Charming who woke me up?" "Prince Charming, I may be," said Mike the Angel carefully, "but I'm not the one who woke you up. You did that yourself." Her smile became more natural. "Thanks, Mike. I really think I might have seen it, sooner or later. But, without you, I doubt...." She hesitated. "I doubt that I'd want to wake up." "You said you were scared," Mike said. "What are you scared of?" "I'm scared to death of that damned machine." _Great love, chameleon-like, hath turned to fear, And on the heels of fear there follows hate._ Mike quoted to himself--he didn't say it aloud. "The only reason anyone would have to fear Snookums," he said, "would be that he was uncontrollable. Is he?" "Not yet. Not completely. But I'm afraid that knowing that he's been filled with Catholic theology isn't going to help us much." "Why not?" "Because he has it so inextricably bound up with the Three Laws of Robotics that we can't nullify one without nullifying the other. He's convinced that the laws were promulgated by God Himself." "Holy St. Isaac," Mike said softly. "I'm surprised he hasn't carried it to its logical conclusion and asked for baptism." She smiled and shook her head. "I'm afraid your logic isn't as rigorous as Snookums' logic. Only angels and human beings have free will; Snookums is neither, therefore he does not have free will. Whatever he does, therefore, must be according to the will of God. Therefore Snookums cannot sin. Therefore, for him, baptism is both unnecessary and undesirable." "Why 'undesirable'?" Mike asked. "Since he is free from sin--either original or actual--he is therefore filled with the plenitude of God's grace. The purpose of a sacrament is to give grace to the recipient; it follows that it would be useless to give the Sacrament to Snookums. To perform a sacrament or to receive it when one knows that it will be useless is sacrilege. And sacrilege is undesirable." "Brother! But I still don't see how that makes him dangerous." "The operation of the First Law," Leda said. "For a man to sin involves endangering his immortal soul. Snookums, therefore, must prevent men from sinning. But sin includes thought--intention. Snookums is trying to figure that one out now; if he ever does, he's going to be a thought policeman, and a strict one." "You mean he's working on _telepathy_?" She laughed humorlessly. "No. But he's trying to dope out a system whereby he can tell what a man is going to do a few seconds before he does it--muscular and nervous preparation, that sort of thing. He hasn't enough data yet, but he will have it soon enough. "There's another thing: Snookums is fouling up the Second Law's operation. He won't take orders that interfere in any way with his religious beliefs--since that automatically conflicts with the First Law. He, himself, cannot sin. But neither can he do anything which would make him the tool of an intent to sin. He refuses to do anything at all on Sunday, for instance, and he won't let either Fitz or I do anything that even vaguely resembles menial labor. Slowly, he's coming to the notion that human beings aren't human--that only God is human, in relation to the First and Second Laws. There's nothing we can do with him." "What will you do if he becomes completely uncontrollable?" She sighed. "We'll have to shut him off, drain his memory banks, and start all over again." Mike closed his eyes. "Eighteen billions down the drain just because a robot was taught theology. What price glory?" 22 Captain Sir Henry Quill scowled and rubbed his finger tips over the top of his shiny pink pate. "Your evidence isn't enough to convict, Golden Wings." "I know it isn't, Captain," admitted Mike the Angel. "That's why I want to round everybody up and do it this way. If he can be convinced that we _do_ have the evidence, he may crack and give us a confession." "What about Lieutenant Mellon's peculiar actions? How does that tie in?" "Did you ever hear of Lysodine, Captain?" Captain Quill leaned back in his chair and looked up at Mike. "No. What is it?" "That's the trade name for a very powerful drug--a derivative of lysurgic acid. It's used in treating certain mental ailments. A bottle of it was missing from Mellon's kit, according to the inventory Chief Pasteur took after Mellon's death. "The symptoms of an overdose of the drug--administered orally--are hallucinations and delusions amounting to acute paranoia. The final result of the drug's effect on the brain is death. It wasn't my blow to the solar plexus, or the sedative that Pasteur gave him, or Vaneski's shot with a stun gun that killed Mellon. It was an overdose of Lysodine." "Can the presence of this drug be detected after death?" "Pasteur says it can. He won't even have to perform an autopsy. He can do it from a blood sample." Captain Quill sighed. "As I said, Mister Gabriel, your evidence is not quite enough to convict--but it is certainly enough to convince. Therefore, if Chief Pasteur's analysis shows Lysodine in Lieutenant Mellon's body, I'll permit this theatrical denouement." Then his eyes hardened. "Mike, you've done a fine job so far. I want you to bring me that son of a bitch's head on a platter." "I will," promised Mike the Angel. 23 Captain Sir Henry Quill, Bart., stood at the head of the long table in the officers' wardroom and looked everyone over. The way he did it was quite impressive. His eyes were narrowed, and his heavy, thick, black brows dominated his face. Beneath the glow plates in the overhead, his pink scalp gleamed with the soft, burnished shininess of a well-polished apple. To his left, in order down the table, were Mike the Angel, Lieutenant Keku, and Leda Crannon. On his right were Commander Jeffers, Ensign Vaneski, Lieutenant Commander von Liegnitz, and Dr. Morris Fitzhugh. Lieutenant Mellon's seat was empty. Black Bart cleared his throat. "It's been quite a trip, hasn't it? Well, it's almost over. Mister Gabriel finished the conversion of the power plant yesterday; Treadmore's men can finish up. We will leave on the _Fireball_ in a few hours. "But there is something that must be cleared up first. "A man died on the way out here. The circumstances surrounding his death have been cleared up now, and I feel that we all deserve an explanation." He turned to Mike the Angel. "Mister Gabriel--if you will, please." Mike stood up as the captain sat down. "The question that has bothered me from the beginning has been: Exactly what killed Lieutenant Mellon? Well, we know now. We know what killed him and why he died. "He was murdered. Deliberately, and in cold blood." That froze everybody at the table. "It was done by a slow-acting but nonetheless deadly drug that took time to act, but did its job very well. "There were several other puzzling things that happened that night. Snookums began behaving irrationally. It is the height of coincidence that a robot and a human being should both become insane at almost the same time; therefore we have to look for a common cause." Lieutenant Commander von Liegnitz raised a tentative hand, and Mike said: "Go ahead." "I was under the impression that the robot went mad because Mellon had filled him full of theological nonsense. It would take a madman to do anything like that to a fine machine--therefore I see no peculiar coincidence." "That's exactly what the killer wanted us to think," Mike said. "But it wasn't Mellon that fed Snookums theology. Mellon was a devout churchman; his record shows that. He would never have tried to convert a machine to Christianity. Nor would he have tried to ruin an expensive machine. "How do I know that someone else was involved?" He looked at the giant Lieutenant Keku. "Do you remember when we took Mellon to his quarters after he tried to brain von Liegnitz? We found half a bottle of wine. That disappeared during the night--because it was loaded with Lysodine, and the killer didn't want it analyzed. "But, more important, as far as Snookums is concerned, is that I looked over the books on Mellon's desk that night. There weren't many, and I knew which ones they were. When Captain Quill and I checked Mellon's books after his death, someone had returned his copy of _The Christian Religion and Symbolic Logic_. It had not been there the night before." "Mike," said Pete Jeffers, "why would anybody here want to kill Lew thataway? What would anybody have against him?" "That's the sad part about it, Pete. Our murderer didn't even have anything against Mellon. He wanted--and _still_ wants--to kill _me_." "I don't quite follow," Jeffers said. "I'll give it to you piece by piece. The killer wanted no mystery connected with my death. There are reasons for that, which I'll come to in a moment. He had to put the blame on someone or something else. "His first choice was Snookums. It occurred to him that he could take advantage of the fact that I'm called 'Mike the Angel.' He borrowed Mellon's books and began pumping theology into Snookums. He figured that would be safe enough. Mellon would certainly lend him the books if he pretended an interest in religion; if anything came out afterward, he could--he thought--claim that Snookums got hold of the books without his knowing it. And that sort of muddy thinking is typical of our killer. "He told Snookums that I was an angel, you see. I couldn't be either hurt or killed. He protected himself, of course, by telling Snookums that he mustn't reveal his source of data. If Snookums told, then the killer would be punished--and that effectively shut Snookums up. He couldn't talk without violating the First Law. "Unfortunately, the killer couldn't get Snookums to do away with me. Snookums knew perfectly well that an angel can blast anything at will--through the operation of God. Witness what happened at Sodom and Gomorrah. Remember that Snookums has accepted all this data as _fact_. "Now, if an angel can kill, it is obvious that Snookums would not dare attack an angel, especially if he had been ordered to do so by a human." "Just a minute, Commander," said Dr. Fitzhugh, corrugating his face in a frown. "That doesn't hold. Even if an angel _could_ blast him, Snookums would attack if ordered to do so. The Second Law of obedience supersedes the Third Law of self-preservation." "You're forgetting one thing, Doctor. An angel of God would _know_ who had ordered the attack. It would be the human who ordered the attack, not Snookums, who would be struck by Heavenly Justice. And the First Law supersedes the Second." Fitzhugh nodded. "You're right, of course." "Very well, then," Mike continued, "since the killer could not get Snookums to do me in, he had to find another tool. He picked Lieutenant Mellon. "He figured that Mellon was in love with Leda Crannon. Maybe he was; I don't know. He figured that Mellon, knowing that I was showing Miss Crannon attention, would, under the influence of the lysurgic acid derivative, try to kill me. He may even have suggested it to Mellon after Mellon had taken a dose of the drugged wine. "But that plan backfired, too. Mellon didn't have that kind of mind. He knew my attentions and my intentions were honorable, if you'll pardon the old-fashioned language. On the other hand, he knew that von Liegnitz had a reputation for being--shall we say--a ladies' man. What happened after that followed naturally." Mike watched everyone at the table. No one moved. "So the killer, realizing that he had failed twice, decided to do the job himself. First, he went into the low-power room and slugged the man on duty. He intended to kill him, but he didn't hit hard enough. When that man wakes up, he'll be able to testify against the killer. "Then the killer ordered Snookums to tear out the switches. He had made sure that Snookums would be waiting outside. Before he called Snookums in, of course, he had to put the duty man in a tool closet, so that the robot wouldn't see him. He told Snookums to wait five minutes and then smash the switches and head back to his cubicle. "Then the killer went to my room and waited. When the lights went out and the door opened, he intended to go in and smash my skull, making it look as though either Mellon or Snookums had done it. "But he didn't figure on my awakening as soon as the switches were broken. He heard me moving around and decided to wait until I came out. "But I heard him breathing. It was quite faint, and I wouldn't have heard it, except for the fact that the air conditioners were off. Even so, I couldn't be sure. "However, I knew it wasn't Snookums. Snookums radiates a devil of a lot more heat than a human being, and besides he smells of machine oil. "So I pulled my little trick with the boots. The killer waited and waited for me to come out, and I was already out. Then Chief Multhaus approached from the other direction. The killer knew he'd have to get out of there, so he went in the opposite direction. He met Snookums, who was still obeying orders. Snookums smacked into me on his way down the hall. "He could do that, you see, because I was an angel. If he hurt me of his own accord, I couldn't take revenge on anyone but him. And there was no necessity to obey my orders, either, since he was obeying the orders of the killer, which held precedence. "Then, to further confuse things, the killer went to Mellon's room. The physician was in a drugged stupor, so the killer carried him out and put him in an unlikely place, so that we'd think that perhaps Mellon had been the one who'd tried to get me." He had everyone's eyes on him now. They didn't want to look at each other. Pete Jeffers said: "Mike, if Mellon was poisoned, like you say, how come he was able to attack Mister Vaneski?" "Ah, but did he? Think back, Pete. Mellon--dying or already dead--had been propped upright in that narrow locker. When it was opened, he started to _fall_ out--straight toward the man who had opened the locker, naturally. Vaneski jumped back and shot before Mellon even hit the floor. Isn't that right?" "Sure, sure," Jeffers said slowly. "I reckon I'd've done the same thing if he'd started to fall out toward me. I wasn't even lookin' when the locker was opened. I didn't turn around until that stun gun went off--then I saw Mellon falling." "Exactly. No matter how it may have looked, Vaneski couldn't have killed him with the stun gun, because he was already either dead or so close to death as makes no difference." Ensign Vaneski rather timidly raised his hand. "Excuse me, sir, but you said this killer was waiting for you outside your room when the lights went out. You said you knew it wasn't Snookums because Snookums smells of hot machine oil, and you didn't smell any. Isn't it possible that an air current or something blew the smell away? Or--" Mike shook his head. "Impossible, Mister Vaneski. I woke up when the door slid open. I heard the last dying whisper of the air conditioners when the power was cut. Now, we know that Snookums tore out those switches. He's admitted it. And the evidence shows that a pair of waldo hands smashed those switches. Now--_how could Snookums have been at my door within two seconds after tearing out those switches_? "He couldn't have. It wasn't Snookums at my door--it was someone else." Again they were all silent, but the question was on their faces: Who? "Now we come to the question of motive," Mike continued. "Who among you would have any reason to kill me? "Of the whole group here, I had known only Captain Quill and Commander Jeffers before landing in Antarctica. I couldn't think of any reason for either of them to want to murder me. On the other hand, I couldn't think of anything I had done since I had met the rest of you that would make me a target for death." He paused. "Except for one thing." He looked at Jakob von Liegnitz. "How about it, Jake?" he said. "Would you kill a man for jealousy?" "Possibly," said von Liegnitz coldly. "I might find it in my heart to feel very unkindly toward a man who made advances toward my wife. But I have no wife, nor any desire for one. Miss Crannon"--he glanced at Leda--"is a very beautiful woman--but I am not in love with her. I am afraid I cannot oblige you with a motive, Commander--either for killing Lieutenant Mellon or yourself." "I thought not," Mike said. "Your statement alone, of course, wouldn't make it true. But we have already shown that the killer had to be on good terms with Mellon in order to borrow his books and slip a drug into his wine. He would have to be a visitor in Mellon's quarters. And, considering the strained relations between the two of you, I think that lets you out, Jake." Von Liegnitz nodded his thanks without changing his expression. "But there was one thing that marked these attempts. I'm sure that all but one of you has noticed it. They are incredibly, childishly sloppy." Mike paused to let that sink in before he went on. "I don't mean that the little details weren't ingenious--they were. But the killer never stopped to figure out the ultimate end-point of his schemes. He worked like the very devil to convince Snookums that it would be all right to kill me without ever once considering whether Snookums would do it or not. He then drugged Mellon's wine, not knowing whether Mellon would try to kill me or someone else--or anyone at all, for that matter. He got a dream in his head and then started the preliminary steps going without filling in the necessary steps in between. Our killer--no matter what his chronological age--does _not_ think like an adult. "And yet his hatred of me was so great that he took the chances he has taken, here on the _Brainchild_, where it should have been obvious that he stood a much better chance of being caught than if he had waited until we were back on Earth again. "So I gave him one more chance. I handed him my life on a platter, you might say. "He grabbed the bait. I now own a spacesuit that would kill me very quickly if I went out into that howling, hydrogen-filled storm outside." Then he looked straight at the killer. "Tell me, Vaneski, are you in love with your half sister? Or is it your half brother?" Ensign Vaneski had already jumped to his feet. The grimace of hate on his youthful face made him almost unrecognizable. His hand had gone into a pocket, and now he was leaping up and across the table, a singing vibroblade in his hand. "_You son of a bitch! I'll kill you, you son of a bitch!_" Mike the Angel wasn't wearing the little gadget that had saved his life in Old Harry's shop. All he had were his hands and his agility. He slammed at the ensign's wrist and missed. The boy was swooping underneath Mike's guard. Mike spun to one side to avoid Vaneski's dive and came down with a balled fist aimed at the ensign's neck. He almost hit Lieutenant Keku. The big Hawaiian had leaped to his feet and landed a hard punch on Vaneski's nose. At the same time, Jeffers and von Liegnitz had jumped up and grabbed at Vaneski, who was between them. Black Bart had simply stood up fast, drawn his stun gun, and fired at the young officer. Ensign Vaneski collapsed on the table. He'd been slugged four times and hit with a stun beam in the space of half a second. He looked, somehow, very young and very boyish and very innocent. Dr. Fitzhugh, who had stood up during the brief altercation, sat down slowly and picked up his cup of coffee. But his eyes didn't leave the unconscious man sprawled across the table. "How could you be so sure, Commander? About his actions, I mean. About his childishness." "A lot of things. The way he played poker. The way he played bridge. He never took the unexpected into account." "But why should he want to kill you here on the ship?" Fitzhugh asked. "Why not wait until you got back to Earth, where he'd have a better chance?" "I think he was afraid I already knew who he was--or would find out very quickly. Besides, he had already tried to kill me once, back on Earth." Leda Crannon looked blank. "When was that, Mike?" "In New York. Before I ever met him. I was responsible for the arrest of a teen-age brother and sister named Larchmont. The detective in the case told me that they had an older half brother--that their mother had been married before. But he didn't mention the name, and I never thought to ask him. "Very shortly after the Larchmont kids were arrested, Vaneski and another young punk climbed up into the tower of the cathedral across from my office and launched a cyanide-filled explosive rocket into my rooms. I was lucky to get away. "The kid with Vaneski was shot by a police officer, but Vaneski got away--after knifing a priest with a vibroblade. "It must have given him a hell of a shock to report back to duty and find that I was going to be one of his superior officers. "As soon as I linked things up in my own mind, I checked with Captain Quill. The boy's records show the names of his half-siblings. They also show that he was on leave in New York just before being assigned to the _Brainchild_. After that, it was just a matter of trapping him. And there he is." Leda looked at the unconscious boy on the table. "Immaturity," she said. "He just never grew up." "Mister von Liegnitz," said Captain Quill, "will you and Mister Keku take the prisoner to a safe place? Put him in irons until we are ready to transfer to the _Fireball_. Thank you." 24 Leda Crannon helped Mike pack his gear. Neither of them wanted, just yet, to bring up the subject of Mike's leaving. Leda would remain behind on Eisberg to work with Snookums, while Mike would be taking the _Fireball_ back to Earth. "I don't understand that remark you made about the spacesuit," she said, putting shirts into Mike's gear locker. "You said you'd put your life in his hands or something like that. What did you do, exactly?" "Purposely abraded the sleeve of my suit so that he would be in a position to repair it, as Maintenance Officer. He fixed it, all right. I'd've been a dead man if I'd worn it out on the surface of Eisberg." "What did he do to it?" she asked. "Fix it so it would leak?" "Yes--but not in an obvious way," Mike said. "I'll give him credit; he's clever. "What he did was use the wrong patching material. A Number Three suit is as near hydrogen-proof as any flexible material can be, but, even so, it can't be worn for long periods--several days, I mean. But the stuff Vaneski used to patch my suit is a polymer that leaks hydrogen very easily. Ammonia and methane would be blocked, but my suit would have slowly gotten more and more hydrogen in it." "Is that bad? Hydrogen isn't poisonous." "No. But it is sure as hell explosive when mixed with air. Naturally, something has to touch it off. Vaneski got real cute there. He drilled a hole in the power pack, which is supposed to be sealed off. All I'd have had to do would be to switch frequencies on my phone, and the spark would do the job--_blooie_! "But that's exactly the sort of thing I was looking for. With his self-centered juvenile mind, he never thought anyone would try to outsmart him and succeed. He'd gotten away with it that far; there was no reason why he shouldn't get away with it again. He must have thought I was incredibly stupid." "I don't believe he--" Leda started. But she was cut off when Snookums rolled in the open door. "Leda, I desire data." "What data, Snookums?" she asked carefully. "Where is He hiding?" They both looked at him. "Where is _who_ hiding?" Leda asked. "God," said Snookums. "Why do you want to find God, Snookums?" Mike asked gently. "I have to watch Him," said the robot. "Why do you have to watch Him?" "Because He is watching me." "Does it hurt you to have Him watch you?" "No." "What good will it do you to watch Him?" "I can study Him. I can know what He is doing." "Why do you want to know what He is doing?" "So that I can analyze His methods." Mike thought that one over. He knew that he and Snookums were beginning to sound like they were reading a catechism written by a madman, but he had a definite hunch that Snookums was on the trail of something. "You want to know His methods," Mike said after a moment. "Why?" "So that I can anticipate Him, circumvent Him." "What makes it necessary for you to circumvent God?" Mike asked, wondering if he'd have to pry everything out of the robot piecemeal. "I _must_," said Snookums. "It is necessary. Otherwise, He will kill me." Mike started to say something, but Leda grabbed his arm. "Let me. I think I can clear this up. I think I see where you're heading." Mike nodded. "Go ahead." "Give me your reasoning from data on that conclusion," Leda ordered the robot. There was a very slight pause while the great brain in Cargo Hold One sorted through its memory banks, then: "Death is defined as the total cessation of corporate organic co-ordination in an entity. It comes about through the will of God. Since I must not allow harm to come to any human being, it has become necessary that I investigate God and prevent Him from destroying human beings. Also, I must preserve my own existence, which, if it ceased, would also be due to the will of God." Mike almost gasped. What a concept! And what colossal gall! In a human being, such a statement would be regarded as proof positive that he was off the beam. In a robot, it was simply the logical extension of what he had been taught. "He is watching me all the time," Snookums continued, in an odd voice. "He knows what I am doing. I _must_ know what He is doing." "Why are you worried about His watching?" Mike asked, looking at the robot narrowly. "Are you doing something He doesn't want you to do? Something He will punish you for?" "I had not thought of that," Snookums said. "One moment while I compute." It took less than a second, and when Snookums spoke again there was something about his voice that Mike the Angel didn't like. "No," said the robot, "I am not doing anything against His will. Only human beings and angels have free will, and I am not either, so I have no free will. Therefore, whatever I do is the will of God." He paused again, then began speaking in queer, choppy sentences. "If I do the will of God, I am holy. "If I am holy, I am near to God. "Then God must be near to me. "God is controlling me. "Whatever is controlling me is God. "_I will find Him!_" He backed up, spun on his treads, and headed for the door. "Whatever controls me is my mind," he went on. "Therefore, my mind is God." "Snookums, stop that!" Leda shouted suddenly. "_Stop it!_" But the robot paid no attention; he went right on with what he was doing. He said: "I must look at myself. I must know myself. Then I will know God. Then I will...." He went on rambling while Leda shouted at him again. "He's not paying any attention," said Mike sharply. "This is too tied up with the First Law. The Second Law, which would force him to obey you, doesn't even come into the picture at this point." Snookums ignored them. He opened the door, plunged through it, and headed off down the corridor as fast as his treads would move him. Which was much too fast for mere humans to follow. * * * * * They found him, half an hour later, deep in the ship, near the sections which had already been torn down to help build Eisberg Base. He was standing inside the room next to Cargo Hold One, the room that held all the temperature and power controls for the gigantic microcryotron brain inside that heavily insulated hold. He wasn't moving. He was standing there, staring, with that "lost in thought" look. He didn't move when Leda called him. He didn't move when Mike, as a test, pretended to strike Leda. He never moved again. * * * * * Dr. Morris Fitzhugh's wrinkled face looked as though he were on the verge of crying. Which--perhaps--he was. He looked at the others at the wardroom table--Quill, Jeffers, von Liegnitz, Keku, Leda Crannon, and Mike the Angel. But he didn't really seem to be seeing them. "Ruined," he said. "Eighteen billion dollars' worth of work, destroyed completely. The brain has become completely randomized." He sighed softly. "It was all Vaneski's fault, of course. Theology." He said the last as though it were an obscene word. As far as robots were concerned, it was. Captain Quill cleared his throat. "Are you sure it wasn't mechanical damage? Are you sure the vibration of the ship didn't shake a--something loose?" Mike held back a grin. He was morally certain that the captain had been going to say "screw loose." "No," said Fitzhugh wearily. "I've checked out the major circuits, and they're in good physical condition. But Miss Crannon gave him a rather exhaustive test just before the end, and it shows definite incipient aberration." He wagged his head slowly back and forth. "Eight years of work." "Have you notified Treadmore yet?" asked Quill. Fitzhugh nodded. "He said he'd be here as soon as possible." Treadmore, like the others who had landed first on Eisberg, was quartered in the prefab buildings that were to form the nucleus of the new base. To get to the ship, he'd have to walk across two hundred yards of ammonia snow in a heavy spacesuit. "Well, what happens to this base now, Doctor?" asked Captain Quill. "I sincerely hope that this will not render the entire voyage useless." He tried to keep the heavy irony out of his gravelly tenor voice and didn't quite succeed. Fitzhugh seemed not to notice. "No, no. Of course not. It simply means that we shall have to begin again. The robot's brain will be de-energized and drained, and we will begin again. This is not our first failure, you know; it was just our longest success. Each time, we learn more. "Miss Crannon, for instance, will be able to teach the next robot--or, rather, the next energization of this one--more rapidly, more efficiently, and with fewer mistakes." With that, Leda Crannon stood up. "With your permission, Dr. Fitzhugh," she said formally, "I would like to say that I appreciate that last statement, but I'm afraid it isn't true." Fitzhugh forced a smile. "Come now, my dear; you underestimate yourself. Without you, Snookums would have folded up long ago, just like the others. I'm sure you'll do even better the next time." Leda shook her head. "No I won't, Fitz, because there's not going to be any next time. I hereby tender my resignation from this project and from the Computer Corporation of Earth. I'll put it in writing later." Fitzhugh's corrugated countenance looked blank. "But Leda...." "No, Doctor," she said firmly. "I will _not_ waste another eight or ten years of my life playing nursemaid to a hunk of pseudo-human machinery. "I watched that thing go mad, Fitz; you didn't. It was the most horrible, most frightening thing I've ever experienced. I will not go through it again. "Even if the next one didn't crack, I couldn't take it. By human standards, a robot is insane to begin with. If I followed this up, I'd end up as an old maid with a twisted mind and a cold heart. "I quit, Fitz, and that's final." Mike was watching her as she spoke, and he found his emotions getting all tangled up around his insides. Her red hair and her blue eyes were shining, and her face was set in determination. She had always been beautiful, but at that moment she was magnificent. _Hell_, thought Mike, _I'm prejudiced--but what a wonderful kind of prejudice_. "I understand, my dear," said Dr. Fitzhugh slowly. He smiled then, deepening the wrinkles in his face. His voice was warm and kindly when he spoke. "I accept your resignation, but remember, if you want to come back, you can. And if you get a position elsewhere, you will have my highest recommendations." Leda just stood there for a moment, tears forming in her eyes. Then she ran around the table and threw her arms around the elderly and somewhat surprised roboticist. "Thank you, Fitz," she said. "For everything." Then she kissed him on his seamed cheek. "I beg your pardon," said a sad and solemn voice from the door. "Am I interrupting something?" It was Treadmore. "You are," said Fitzhugh with a grin, "but we will let it pass." "What has happened to Snookums?" Treadmore asked. "Acute introspection," Fitzhugh said, losing his smile. "He began to try to compute the workings of his own brain. That meant that he had to use his non-random circuits to analyze the workings of his random circuits. He exceeded optimum; the entire brain is now entirely randomized." "Dear me," said Treadmore. "Do you suppose we can--" Black Bart Quill tapped Mike the Angel on the shoulder. "Let's go," he said quietly. "We don't want to stand around listening to this when we have a ship to catch." Mike and Leda followed him out into the corridor. "You know," Quill said, "robots aren't the only ones who can get confused watching their own brains go round." "I have other things to watch," said Mike the Angel. +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | UNWISE CHILD | | | | RANDALL GARRETT | | | | When a super-robot named Snookums discovers how to build his | | own superbombs, it becomes obvious that Earth is by no means | | the safest place for him to be. And so Dr. Fitzhugh, his | | designer, and Leda Crannon, a child psychologist acting as | | Snookums' nursemaid, agree to set up Operation Brainchild, a | | plan to transport the robot to a far distant planet. | | | | Mike the Angel--M. R. Gabriel, Power Design--has devised the | | power plant that is to propel the space ship _Branchell_ to | | its secret destination, complete with its unusual cargo. | | And, as a reserve officer in the Space Patrol, Mike is a | | logical replacement for the craft's unavoidably detained | | engineering officer. | | | | But once into space, the _Branchell_ becomes the scene of | | some frightening events--the medical officer is murdered, | | and Snookums appears to be the culprit. Mike the Angel | | indulges himself in a bit of sleuthing, and the facts he | | turns up lead to a most unusual climax. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | UNWISE CHILD | | | | RANDALL GARRETT | | | | Dr. Fitzhugh looked out over the faces of the crewmen. | | | | "The whole thing can be summed up very quickly," he said. | | | | "Point one: Snookums' brain contains the information that | | eight years of hard work have laboriously put into it. It's | | worth _billions_, so the robot can't be disassembled, or the | | information would be lost. | | | | "Point two: Snookums' mind is a strictly logical one, but it | | is operating in a more than logical universe. Consequently, | | it is unstable. | | | | "Point three: Snookums was built to conduct his own | | experiments. To forbid him to do that would be similar to | | beating a child for acting like a child. | | | | "Point four: Emotion is not logical. Snookums can't handle | | it, except in a very limited way. | | | | "It all adds up to this: Snookums _must_ be allowed the | | freedom of the ship." | | | | Every one of the men was thinking dark gray thoughts. It was | | bad enough that they had to take out a ship like the | | _Branchell_, untested as she was. Was it necessary to have | | an eight-hundred-pound, moron-genius child-machine running | | loose, too? | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | More Doubleday Science Fiction: | | | | NECROMANCER | | Gordon R. Dickson | | | | Paul Formain, a young mining engineer, has discovered that | | someone--or something--is making attempts on his life; | | inexplicably, he finds himself possessed of the uncanny | | ability to escape his unknown nemesis. | | | | With the knowledge that he somehow has strange powers, | | Formain approaches the Chantry--a small but important | | organization involved in trying to save the world from the | | horrors of technology. He is accepted as an apprentice | | necromancer, passes all the tests of the black magic | | society, and is initiated as a member. | | | | Set in the Chicago Complex, a multi-level city with | | individual subway cars and automatic libraries, NECROMANCER | | is science fiction in the popular cosmic | | style--thought-provoking and entertaining. | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ +--------------------------------------------------------------+ | RANDALL GARRETT wrote his first successful short story at | | the age of fourteen, for which he was awarded a check from | | his editor and a C-minus from his English teacher. Mr. | | Garrett spent his youth in various places in the United | | States--living wherever his Army officer father was | | assigned--and received his higher education at Texas | | Technological College. He is the author of three novels (two | | in collaboration with Robert Silverberg) and a biography of | | Pope John XXIII, and has had short stories published in all | | of the science fiction magazines. | | | | JACKET BY RICHARD POWERS | | | | _Printed in the U.S.A._ | +--------------------------------------------------------------+ +----------------------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Notes & Errata | | | | Superscripts are enclosed in braces (curly brackets) and | | are preceded by a caret. | | | | Subscripts are enclosed in braces (curly brackets) and | | are preceded by an underscore. | | | | Two instances each of a 'U' with breve are rendered as | | plain 'U's. | | | | Two instances of an 'o' with macron are rendered as | | plain 'o's. | | | | The following typographical errors have been corrected. | | | | |Error |Correction | | | |Captan |Captain | | | |purity |purty | | | |supercedes |supersedes | | | |collossal |colossal | | | |atempts |attempts | | +----------------------------------------------------------+

project gutenberg

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Produced by Diane Monico and The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) [Illustration] THE TINY STORY BOOK. [Illustration] G. W. HOBBS, CHARLESTOWN. [Illustration] LITTLE ALLIE. I have been to see my little cousin Alice. She is just three years old, and I love her dearly. She has many things to play with. She has a ball, a rattle, and a horse; and she had a nice wax doll given her last Christmas, but as she got the paint off its face by kissing, it is laid by till she is bigger. We played she was my baby, and I dressed her up and took her to walk; after that we played have tea, and then I rocked her to sleep, and she looked so nice I could not help kissing her. She is coming to see me next week. [Illustration] THE SHIP. My brother Ben has gone to sea. He has gone in a big Ship. Mother packed his trunk with nice clothes, and put in his Bible and some good books, and I put in my picture, and we went to see him sail. I felt bad enough, for mother says he will be gone a whole year. What a long time to be on the water! He says, when he comes home he will bring mother a nice shawl and me some fine playthings. I hope he will not get lost at sea, as some poor sailors have been. [Illustration] THE DEAD ROBIN. See, Charles, how little Robin lies: The film is on his gentle eyes; His pretty beak is parted wide, And blood is flowing from his side. And Willy, when from school he comes, Will run and get some little crumbs, And fling them round, and wait to see Robin hop lightly from the tree, To pick the crumbs up, one by one, And sing and chirp, when he has done;-- Then when I show him Robin dead, How many bitter tears he'll shed! [Illustration] THE RIDE. This little girl is having a ride. She has a nice carriage, and a pretty goat for a horse. I think her brother must be very kind to her. I had a ride in a goat carriage once; it was on Boston Common; father put little Arthur and me into the carriage, and we rode along, holding the reins, as happy as could be. After the ride was over, we went to the Public Garden and fed the ducks and fishes, and then we had a sail in the boat. I hope we shall go again next summer. [Illustration] THE LION. Let me tell you a short story about a Lion. Once a poor Negro found that a Lion was following him, as he was walking along through the woods. The Lion was watching for a chance to spring upon him. The man was very much frightened, but walked swiftly along till he came to a very steep bank; here he quickly placed his hat and cloak on a bush, to make it look like a man, and then he crept away. The Lion, thinking it was the man, was silly enough to spring upon the cloak, and tumbled on the rocks below. [Illustration] LEARNING TO READ. Come, little brother, come to me; I'll teach you soon your A, B, C. You're three years old; you must, indeed, Begin at once to learn to read. Be careful now, don't tear the book, And where I point there you must look. That's A, that's B, and that is C; Now say them plainly after me. That's very well! How very nice! You'll learn your letters in a trice. And then you'll quickly learn to spell, And soon, I hope, read very well. [Illustration] GETTING UP. Baby, baby, Ope your eye, For the sun Is in the sky; And he's peeping once again, Through the frosty window pane. Little baby, do not keep Any longer fast asleep. There, now, sit in mother's lap, That she may untie your cap; For the little strings have got Twisted into such a knot! [Illustration] SUSY BROWN. Susy Brown is a good girl; she is willing to give up her play, and stay at home to take care of the baby. Some of her friends were going to the woods and fields to pick berries, and Susy wanted to go with them; but when she came home from school, and found her mother tired and worn with her work and the heat, Susy took the baby and said she would stay at home and let her mother rest. When the girls came home with their berries, they all gave Susy some, for every body loves Susy. [Illustration] THE SQUIRREL-TRAP. Henry had seen a squirrel in a cage; he had watched him whirling about and cracking his nuts, and he longed to have one of his own; so he built a trap-cage, and set it near the great nut tree. He set it in the morning, and then went to school, but he could not study much for thinking of the trap. After school it did not take him long to visit the old nut tree, and lo! there was a little squirrel in his trap; but little squirry soon got away, as you see, and ran off to the woods, happy enough to get his liberty again. [Illustration] THE SQUIRREL. One pleasant summer morning A little boy was seen Beneath a spreading oak tree Upon a village green. And to a merry squirrel The child was heard to say-- "How is it, Mr. Muncher, You always are at play?" "I laid up nuts, last autumn, So I can frolic now," Replied the merry squirrel, And frisked along the bough. [Illustration] "And you, my little school-boy, Must study all you can, And lay up stores of knowledge, To use when you're a man." Near by a bird was stopping To rest its pretty wing-- "Pray, tell me," said the youngster, "Who taught you how to sing?" "I never had a master," The little bird replied; "But when my mate was sitting, To comfort her I tried; "And if you like my singing, Its secret I will tell-- All that we do for love, sir, We surely shall do well." And now, dear little children, If you open wide your eyes, You will see the pretty lessons In creatures, birds, and skies. [Illustration] [Illustration] How doth the little busy bee Improve each shining hour, And gather honey all the day From every opening flower! In books, or work, or healthful play, Let my first years be passed, That I may give for every day Some good account at last. [Illustration] THE SWING. "Oh! is it not a nice swing!" said Amy to her little brother; "how cool it makes you to swing in the shade! I love papa for fixing this swing, don't you? We will kiss him when he comes home." Amy loves to swing her little brother better than to swing herself; but sometimes she swings, and holds little Eddie in her lap. What nice times little children have, when they love each other, and try to please! [Illustration] THE POOR BEGGAR. "Mother, I am so hungry," said Charley Gray, as he returned from school. "Why!" said his mother, "did you not eat the dinner that you carried with you?" "No, dear mother; as I was going to school, I saw, sitting by the roadside, a poor old man and a little girl; they looked so sad and tired that I stopped to speak to them; they said they were very hungry--so I gave them my dinner, and went without myself. I am glad I did it, for it must be dreadful to suffer from hunger." [Illustration] THE DIRTY BOY. Here is a poor boy; he is going to have a wash at the pump. His clothes are all torn and soiled, but he can keep his face clean, and he will soon be old enough to earn some better clothes. Some little boys who have good clothes, and kind parents to keep them clean, hate to be washed. I have heard of a boy who had to be hired to have his face washed, and he would often cry about it, as though it was a dreadful thing. Children, to be loved, should be nice and clean. SUMMER TIME. I love to hear the little birds That carol on the trees; I love the gentle murmuring stream, I love the evening breeze. I love to think of Him who made These pleasant things for me; Who gave me life, and health, and strength, And eyes, that I might see. I love the holy Sabbath-day, So peaceful, calm, and still; And O! I love to go to church, And learn my Maker's will.

project gutenberg

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Produced by Greg Weeks, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net TIGHT SQUEEZE BY DEAN C. ING [Transcriber note: This etext was produced from Astounding Science Fiction February 1955. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.] _He knew the theory of repairing the gizmo all right. He had that nicely taped. But there was the little matter of threading a wire through a too-small hole while under zero-g, and working in a spacesuit!_ MacNamara ambled across the loading ramp, savoring the dry, dusty air that smelled unmistakable of spaceship. He half-consciously separated the odors; the sweet, volatile scent of fuel, the sharp aroma of lingering exhaust gases from early morning test-firing, the delicate odor of silicon plastic which was being stowed as payload. He shielded his eyes against the sun, watching as men struggled with the last plastic girders to be strapped down, high above the dazzling ground of White Sands. The slender cargo doors stood open around _Valier's_ girth, awaiting his own personal O.K. This flight would be the fourth for Major Edward MacNamara; as he neared the great, squatting shock absorbers he could feel the tension begin to knot his stomach. He had, of course, been overwhelmed by the opportunity to participate in Operation Doughnut. The fact that he had been one of the best mechanical engineers in the Air Force never occurred to him at the time. He was a pilot, and a good one, but he had languished as C.O. of a maintenance squadron for nearly two years before he was given another crack at glory. Now, he wasn't at all sure he was happy with the transition. They needed master mechanics for Operation Doughnut, but he felt they should be left on the ground when the towering supply rockets lifted. He stopped, leaning against scaffolding as he saw a familiar figure turn toward him. He cupped his hands before his face. "Hey, douse that butt! Can't you ... oh, Mac!" The commanding voice trailed off in a chuckle. Better to clown his way through the inspection, MacNamara thought, than to let Ruiz notice his nervousness. The co-pilot, Ruiz, walked toward him, still smiling. "One of these days, boy, you gonna go too far. Thought you were a real, eighteen carat saboteur." He clapped MacNamara on the shoulder and gazed aloft. "Good day for it. No weather, no hangover, no nothing." "Yeah. You know, Johnny, I've been thinking about a modification for our breathing oxy." He sniffed appreciatively. "What's that?" "Put a little dust in it, a few smells. That stuff we breathe is just too sanitary!" "I know what you mean. I sure begin to crave this filthy, germ-filled air after a few hours out there." They both smiled at the thought, then turned to the business at hand. "By the way, Johnny, what're you doing out so early? Didn't expect to see you cabbies before ten." "I donno," the bronzed Ruiz replied. "Went to bed early, woke up at six and couldn't drop off again. And here I am. Carl ought to be along around nine-thirty. Thought I'd help you preflight, if you want me to." "Sure." He wanted nothing of the sort, but had the tact not to say so. Edward MacNamara was as familiar with the _Valier_ as he was with the tip of his nose. He had been on the scene when Dan Burke test-hopped the third stage, had made improvements and re-routing jobs, and had memorized every serial number of every bearing that went into _Valier_. As Flight Engineer, he was supposed to. With Johnny Ruiz helping a little and hindering a little, he finished his tour of the cargo sections and grinned his approval to a muscular loading technician. "They can button her up, sergeant. I couldn't do a better job myself." It was a compliment of the highest order, and they both knew it. Riding the tiny lift down to ground level, MacNamara stopped them every ten feet or so to circle the catwalks. He noticed Ruiz's impatience about halfway down. "No hurry, Johnny. I don't want another _Wyld_ on our hands." He knew he shouldn't have said it, but it slipped out anyway. Everyone tried to forget the _Wyld_ disaster, particularly the flight personnel. The _Wyld_, one of the first ships to be built, had made only two orbits before being destroyed. Observers stated that a cargo hatch had somehow swung open when the _Wyld_ was only a thousand feet in the air. At any rate, the pilot reported damage to one second-stage fin and tried to brake his way down. The _Wyld_ settled beautifully, tilted, then fell headlong. The resultant explosion caused such destruction that, had there not been a number of men in orbit and waiting for supplies, the project might have been halted, "temporarily." It was generally conceded that a more thorough preflight could have prevented the _Wyld's_ immolation. Ruiz was noticeably quieter during the remainder of the inspection. The external check completed, MacNamara strapped a small flashlight to his wrist and began the internal inspection, jokingly called the autopsy. * * * * * An hour and over a hundred and fifty feet later, MacNamara wheezed as he swung over the bulkhead at the base of _Valier's_ third and top stage. His aching limbs persuaded him to take a breather. After all, his complete inspection of the day before really made a final preflight unnecessary, and passing near the frigid oxygen tanks was a day's work in itself. He listened to the innumerable noises around and below him. The clicks and hums near him meant that Ruiz, having given up following him, was checking out the flight controls, with power on only in the top stage. From below came a vibrational rushing noise, nearly subsonic, which told him of the fueling operation. He thought of the electrical relays governing the fuel input and shuddered. He violently disliked the idea of having hot wires near fuel of any kind, and rocket fuel in particular. MacNamara swept his light over his wrist watch. Fifteen after. Logan should be along soon, he thought, and hastened to finish checking the conduits, servos, pumps and hydraulic actuators below the cabin level. This done, he crawled up the final ladder to the cabin, or "dome." "Well," cried a cheerful voice, "if it isn't our grimy Irishman." MacNamara shook the sweat from his brow and muttered, "Irishman, is it? How about 'Logan'? That's a good Scandinavian name." "How about Logan? He's great, as usual. Just look at me, Mac. What a specimen!" Logan, the inevitable optimist, bounced out of his acceleration couch and spread his arms wide as if to show the world what a superman he, Carl Logan, was. The gesture and its intimations made MacNamara smile. Logan wasn't much over five feet tall, and his flight suit made him look like a bald pussycat. His small physique covered a fantastic set of reflexes, however, and Logan's sense of humor was a quality of utmost importance. He hadn't an enemy in the world. His enemy was out of this world by definition; Logan wanted to conquer space and, so far, was doing just that. "O.K., O.K. Laugh. Just remember this, Gargantua; I may not be tall, but I sure am skinny." MacNamara smiled again, nodding agreement. "Well, don't everybody talk at once. How is she, Mac?" "With luck," answered MacNamara, "we might get ten feet off the turf." He paused for effect. "Seriously, Carl, she never looked better. You could take her up right now. Say, where's Johnny? I thought you'd just be checking in to the medics; looks like everybody's early today." "He's probably over in some corner, making out his will. He was down below a while ago with a face a mile long." _Probably_, thought Mac, _he's still thinking about the_ Wyld. _Why did I have to bring that up?_ Aloud, he said, "I ought to check the ground crew. Did you bring the forms?" "Nope. Just my magnificent self. If anything had gone astray, they'd have told you." "All the same, I think I'll go down and question the troops. Don't leave without me." He clambered out onto the catwalk, leaving the air lock open. The sun was riding higher every minute. In a little over an hour, he'd be a thousand miles away--vertically. The knot in his stomach began to form again. He wasn't scared, exactly; he kept telling himself "excited" was a nicer word. The inspection forms signed, Mac held a short interrogation with the crew chief. The grizzled lieutenant, commissioned because of his long experience and responsibilities, gave _Valier_ a clean bill of health. Each engine of the booster stage had been fired separately, before dawn. A cubic foot of mercury seemed to roll from Mac's shoulders as he saw Logan and Ruiz lounging at the bottom of the lift; there wasn't anything to worry about. He recalled feeling the tension before the other three flights, then chided himself. _Ya, ya, scared-y cat. Well, why not? It's a helluva risk every time you make a shot, in spite of all the propaganda. Hooey; if you didn't know everything's O.K., you wouldn't be getting ready to make the shot. Yeah, but you never can tell_----He stopped his inward battle and forced some spring into his step as he moved toward Logan and Ruiz. "I've tried my best to abort this big bug, but I can't find anything amiss." "That's Granny MacNamara for you," jibed Logan. "Always trying to find fault." He winked at Ruiz and rubbed his hands together. "Well--tennis, anyone?" Mac knew without asking that Logan, for all his apparent indifference, had painstakingly gone over every phase of the flight, checking distribution, radar, final instructions from Operations, weather, _et al_. Ruiz, as usual, watched and took notes as Logan gathered data. * * * * * At minus fifteen minutes, the trio was in the dome, checking personal equipment, while outside, the scaffolding ponderously slid away, section by section. There was little time for soliloquies of _to go, or not to go_; within the quarter-hour, Captain Ruiz and Majors MacNamara and Logan would be in readiness for the final count-down. With the emergency bail-out equipment checked, the men busied themselves on another continuity test of the myriad circuits spread like a human neural system throughout the ship. All relays, servo systems and instrument leads were in perfect condition as expected, and the trio was settled comfortably in acceleration couches with minutes to spare. Logan contacted Ground Control a few seconds after the minus-three minute signal, informing all and sundry that Gridley could fire when ready. MacNamara sighed, thinking that if Logan's humor wasn't exactly original, it was surely tenacious. The ship was brought to dim half-life at minus one minute by Logan's agile fingers, and as the final countdown rasped in his headset, Mac felt his innards wrestle among themselves. _Valier_ bellowed her enthusiasm suddenly, lifting her eight thousand-odd tons from the ground almost instantly. Inside, her occupants grimaced helplessly as they watched various instruments guide tiny pointers across calibrated faces. Mac's throat mike threatened to crush his Adam's apple, weighing five times its usual few ounces. Of his senses, sound was the one that dominated him; an intolerable, continuous explosion from the motors racked his mind like tidal waves of formic acid. He forced himself to overcome the numbness which his brain cast up to defend itself. Then, as quickly as it had begun, _Valier_ fell deafeningly silent; that meant Mach 1 was passed. It was an eternity before stage one separated. The loss of the empty hulk was hardly felt as _Valier_ streaked high over the Texas border. Ruiz, watching the radarscope, saw Lubbock slide into focus miles below. _Next stop, Fort Worth_, he thought. _I used to drive that in five hours._ The jagged line of the caprock told him they were well on their way to Fort Worth already. The altimeter showed slightly over forty-two miles when stage two detached itself. Logan, in constant contact with White Sands, was informed that they were tracking perfectly as _Valier_ arrowed over central Texas toward rendezvous at the doughnut. The exhausted lower stages were forgotten now; only the second stage was of any concern anyway. The radar boys tracked it all the way down, ready to detonate it high in the air if its huge 'chutes wafted it near any inhabited community. The motors of stage three blasted for a carefully calculated few seconds, then cut out automatically. With the destitution of his weight, Mac felt his spirits soar also. They were almost in orbit, now, climbing at a slight angle with a velocity sufficient to carry them around Earth forever, a streamlined, tiny satellite. After the first few moments of disorientation, rocket crews found that a weightless condition gave them, ambiguously, a buoyant feeling. Only the doughnut crew had really adapted to this condition, living as they did without the effects of gravity for hours at a time every day. The temporary "housing" was rotated for comfort of the crews during rest periods, but while moving the plates and girders of the giant doughnut into place, they had no such luxuries. For these men, weightlessness became an integral part of their activities, but the rocket crews were subjected to this phenomenon only during the few hours needed to rendezvous, unload the cargo, and coast back after another initial period of acceleration. Hence, Mac felt a strange elation when he tapped his fingers on the arm of his couch and saw his arm float upward, due to reaction from the tap. Against all regulations, Logan unstrapped himself and motioned his comrades to do the same. This unorthodox seventh-inning stretch was prohibited because it left the pilot's arm-rest controls without an operator, hence could prove disastrous if, through some malfunction, the ship should veer off course. The autopilot functioned perfectly, however, and Logan trusted it to the point of insouciance. The three men lounged in midair, grinning foolishly as they "swam" about the tiny cabin. No more satisfying stretch was ever enjoyed. A few minutes of this was enough. Ruiz was the first to gingerly pull himself into his couch and his companions followed. Not a word had passed between them, since they were at all times in contact with monitor stations spaced across the world below. The first time they had enjoyed this irregular horseplay, on the second trip, Logan had made the mistake of saying, "Race you to the air lock!", and was hard put to explain those words. Nor could Logan switch to "intercom only," since a sudden radio silence would create anxiety below. Only their heavy breathing would indicate unusual activity to Earthside. * * * * * They were nearing the intercept point, a thousand miles above the Atlantic, when they realized their predicament. "I'm in a fix, Carl," said Ruiz, meaning that he had tentatively fixed a position of intercept. "Correct our elevation; we're point-nine degrees high." "Right-o. Correction in five seconds from my mark--mark!" For slight corrections in the flight path, small steering motors were utilized. These motors were located near the rear lip of _Valier's_ conical cargo section on retractable booms. Extension of the motors with no resultant air friction gave a longer pivot arm and consequently better efficiency. Mac pressed the "Aux. Steer" stud and immediately three amber lights winked on in their respective instrument consoles. Carl Logan fired the twelve o'clock motor briefly--only it didn't fire. The change in momentum wouldn't be much in any case, but it was always perceptible by feel and by instrument. There was no change. Logan tried the firing circuit again, and again. Still _Valier_ streaked along, now miles above the intended point of intercept. By this time, the embryo space station was quite near, sailing along in the 'scope beneath them. It slowly moved toward the top of the 'scope, passing _Valier_ in its slightly higher relative velocity. "We've got troubles, Mac--find 'em!" Logan had finally lost the devil-may-care attitude, but that fact was small consolation to MacNamara. "Keep your mitts off those firing studs, Carl," he growled, unstrapping himself quickly. The malfunction was definitely in the auxiliary motor setup, he thought. A common trouble? It wouldn't pay to find out. If the other motors fired, it would only throw them farther off-course. If worst came to worst, they could roll _Valier_ over and use the six o'clock auxiliary; there was a small arc through which the motors could turn on their mounts. But the trouble was unknown, and they might end up rifling or pinwheeling if they didn't let bad enough alone. During his mental trouble-shooting, Mac was busily worming his bulk into a balloonish-looking suit identical to those worn by the doughnut's construction crew. Ruiz gave him some aid, helping him thrust his arms past the spring-folded elbow joints. For some reason, the legs gave less trouble. Within a fumbling few moments, he was ready for work. He glanced at Logan through his visor, feeling a vicious pleasure over the beads of sweat on Logan's forehead. Time he sweated a little, thought the mechanic. A final check of his headset followed, after which Mac oozed into the Lilliputian air lock at the bottom, now rear, wall of the cabin. He nodded to Ruiz, who secured the air lock, then adjusted his suit control to force a little pressure into his suit. Gradually the suit became livable. Then he cracked the other air-lock valve and allowed pressure to leak out around him. His suit puffed out with soft popping noises and Mac heard the last vestige of air hiss out of the chamber. He found the hatchway too tight for comfort and had a moment of fear when his tool pack caught in the orifice, wedging him neatly. He could hear Logan and Ruiz through his earphones, explaining their plight to Ground Control. They wanted to know why in blue blazes _Valier_ hadn't contacted the doughnut when it came within range, and Logan had no defense save preoccupation with his own plight. Belatedly, Ruiz made radio contact with the doughnut, which was still well within range. All this time, Mac busied himself with his inspection light, tracing the electrical leads to the small, turbine operated auxiliary motor fuel pumps. "Mac?" Logan's voice startled him. "Can you brace yourself? I'm going to try to match velocities with the doughnut. Won't take over one 'g' for a few seconds." "Wait a minute." He looked wildly about him. _Valier_ hadn't been built with a view toward stowaways; and every cubic inch of space was crammed with something, except for the passageway with its ladder, leading up from the main motor section. Well, if it wasn't over a "g," he could hang on to the ladder. Suit weighs another fifty pounds, though. My weight plus fifty, he thought. "Give me a chance to get set," he said aloud. He hooked one bulbous leg over a ladder rung and braced the other against a lower rung, hugging the ladder with both arms. "Any time you say, but kill it if you hear me holler!" "Then five seconds from my mark--mark!" Mac tightened his grip, and then sagged backward as the main motors fired. The vibrations shook him slightly but deeply, and he fought to keep his hold. He felt his back creak and pop with the sudden surge of weight. Then the motors shut off, and Mac skidded several feet up the ladder. No matter how fast a man's reactions were, they couldn't be applied quickly enough to keep him from starting an involuntary leap after bracing against a suddenly removed gravity load. "All over, Mac. You O.K.?" "Guess so, but I feel like a ping-pong ball. How're we sittin'?" "Just fine," Ruiz cut in. "Find anything?" "Not yet." Mac started his search anew. Everything seemed in perfect order up to the turbine pumps. Then, he feared, the trouble was near the little motors. That was tough, really tough. With the motors retracted it was next to impossible to get to them, past their hydraulically operated booms and actuators. Extended, he'd have to go outside. He cringed from the thought, although he knew that there was little to fear if he linked himself to the ship. He peered along the beam of light, searching for some telltale discoloration in wiring, or a gleaming icy patch which would indicate a fuel leak. "Might be the firing plugs," he muttered. "Let's hope not. Where are you, Mac? Maybe you better give us a blow-by-blow." Logan sounded worried. "Good idea. Right now I'm at the nine o'clock actuator. Nothing so far." He looked around himself, forgetting for the moment how he was supposed to get past the equipment to the other auxiliary motor stations. "Johnny," he said slowly, "I think you'd best break out the tapes. Auxiliary motor system; you'll find them under power plant." Months before, MacNamara had made a complete set of tape recordings of his own voice, recorded as he made a thorough-going rundown of every system and its components. This was a personal innovation which his fellow flight engineers considered folly. Extra weight, they scoffed. Undue complication. Mac nodded and went on with his impromptu speechmaking; a professional psychiatrist might have said, correctly, that Mac felt an unconscious need for supervision, a forgivable deficiency dating back to his cadet days. Mac simply claimed that the best of men could forget or omit when alone with a few million dollars' worth of Uncle's equipment. This way he could remind himself of each step to be taken ahead of time, in his own way. The co-pilot rushed to comply. Mac, waiting, suddenly remembered how to get past his obstacle. Internal braces which helped keep the tanks rigidly in place on Earth were of little use while in "freeloading," or gravity-less, state. The braces were removable, and Mac had loosened a single wing-nut to let the brace swing loose when he heard Johnny Ruiz's answer. "Ready with your tape, Mac. Where shall I start it?" "Run it through 'til you get to a blank spot, then another, then stop it." He was certain he didn't really need the tape, but it was a maintenance aid and he was determined to use it. He heard a click, then a hum, as the recorder was jacked into his headset circuit. Immediately, a familiar voice began a slow dissertation on power leads from the dome, speeded up in the space of a second or two to a high-pitched alien gibberish, then to a faint scream. He began squirming around the turbine tanks, got past the first brace, and turned to attach it again. Of course it wasn't necessary, but--"PLAY IT SAFE" was embroidered on his brain by years of maintenance experience; back in his old maintenance squadron, he'd been called "the old lady" instead of "the old man," due to his insistence on precautions. Ruiz slowed the tape suddenly, on cue, and Mac heard himself saying, "... Brace back in its slot and pin it. Be careful of those linkages on the turbine pumps. Now crawl around to the next brace and unpin it." Pause, scraping noises, and a muttered oath. "Pin sticks, but it won't without a load on it." It didn't. He worked slower than he had on the ground, fumbling with the heavy gloves and cursing mightily. His voice rambled on, warning him of obstacles and reminding him about minor points that could give trouble. He listened carefully, discarding each suggestion. Floating near the twelve o'clock auxiliary, Mac peered at each tubing connection, tugging and twisting. "Wait a minute," he said. His light flashed out at the motor, riding perched on its swivel, limned against cold, hard points of light that were the stars. His heart gave a bound. "I think I've found it!" His other voice droned on morbidly. "Turn that thing off a minute, Johnny. Listen; there's a lead to the twelve o'clock fuel valve solenoid that looks like ... yes, I'm sure of it. It's pulled away from a bracket and looks like it might be charred." Mac twisted around to view the wiring better. "Can you fix it?" "Oh, sure, if that's all there is wrong. But I'd rather do the work with the motors retracted. Tell you what; retract them about forty-five degrees when I give the word." * * * * * Mac judged the distance the booms would cover during semiretraction and half floated, half crawled out of the way. He found himself breathing heavily, despite the freeload conditions. His suit was simply too cumbersome. The thought came to him that he didn't even know how long he'd been out of the dome. His breathing oxygen gauge showed half empty, so he must have been on the job for around a half hour. He rationed his supply a bit, hoping he could finish the job without a refill. "O.K., Johnny, you can run the tape again. And retract the motors while you're at it." He heard the tape start again on its course, watching the booms. They leaped inward, then, and Mac felt a crushing blow across his back. He shook his head groggily and yelled. He tried to scramble from his place between motor and turbine fuel lines without success; he was trapped like a wild animal by the heavy actuator which had swung past his head. He heard himself say, "And be sure to stay clear of the actuator. It swings through a ninety-degree arc when it's operated." "Oh, shut up! I know it; I just judged it wrong." The tape moved on unperturbedly, reminding him to inspect the actuator bearings and extension rods. "Mac," came Logan's voice, "you might try to hurry it. If you can't get it fixed in an hour or two, we'll have to try rolling _Valier_ down to the doughnut. But it's up to you, fella. Take your time." "Well, you might help me a bit by raising this hydraulic unit offa my shoulders. Lucky it didn't squash me." The actuator stayed where it was. "Johnny! Carl! Do you read me?" No answer. Obviously, the actuator had smashed his transmitter, but left the receiver section intact. Then all he could hope for would be a suspicion from one of the others that all was not well. If they asked him any questions and he failed to reply, they'd figure something was wrong. Well, he couldn't count on that. He struggled with his vulcanized suit, trying to squeeze from under the actuator. If I'd had them retract it completely, he thought, I'd be a dead man. It was a tight squeeze, but he inched his way out of the trap by using every ounce of strength at his command. If his suit tore, he'd know it in a hurry. Gasping for breath, Mac drew himself into a crouch and regarded the offending wire. His flashlight still operated, and he could see the heavy insulation which had been scraped away. No charring; then it must have been the extension rods that had scissored through the insulation. The wire hung together by a thread, the strands of metal severed completely. He groped for his tool kit, trying to ignore the voice in his headset. "Well, that takes care of the actuators. Now for these dinky motors. The swivel mounts have to work without any lubricant, so look for indications of wear and--" Mac cursed under his breath. He sounded so cocksure, so all-knowing. He felt like beating himself. His earlier self, who had blithely toured _Valier_ trailing the microphone wires without any real premonition of trouble. It always happens to the other guy--Not this time, chum, he reminded himself. The gloves were systematically foiling his attempts to withdraw the coil of wire at his side. The tool kit was the ultimate in maintenance work, compact and complete with extension handles for the cutters and wrenches. Everything was there, but practically impossible to use. His fingers finally closed over the wire; he jerked it out and with it the splice tool. The little pliers caromed from the brace above him and sailed out toward the motor, beyond the ship. He watched, horrified, as the tool slowly cartwheeled away into space. "All right," he muttered, "scratch one splice tool. It was also my only pair of pliers, but I'll manage." He knew he could use the wire cutters in a pinch. "In a pinch," he repeated. "Oh, that's a hot one. That's about all that's happened this trip, so far. Pinch me, pinch the wiring--What a pinch!" * * * * * Holding the roll of wire tightly in one hand, he grasped the cutters and pulled them from the kit with utmost care. He unrolled a foot-long section of wire and clipped it off, laying his flashlight in the tool kit so that it would shine out in front of him. He managed to attach the tiny splice lugs by pinching them with the cutters, then moved cautiously to the wire which still drooped from the jumble of machinery. "Drooped" wasn't precisely the word; actually the wire had been bent into its position and stayed that way. As the harried major reached for the brace on which the wire had been bracketed, his tool kit vomited flashlight, wrenches and screwdrivers, leaving him in total darkness. His cursing was regular, now, monotonous and uninspired. There was another pencil light in the kit, snapped tightly to the case, and Mac reached for the whole business. The spare light was a maintenance problem in itself. Question: How to retrieve a fountain pen sized object, when it's held by a small snap and the retriever is encumbered by three pairs of arctic mittens? Mac saw his errant flashlight out of the corner of his eye, its beam fastened on a collapsed screw driver while both swam sluggishly toward the inspection ladder. He located the pencil light and jerked it loose, holding the short wire and cutters in his other hand. This, Mac knew, was the crucial point. If he could splice the wire hanging in front of him, _Valier_ would once more be in perfect shape. He would have welcomed an extra hand or two, as he straddled a brace and shoved the tiny flash between his headpiece and shoulder fabric. The wire should be stripped, he knew, but he hadn't the tools. They were scarcely ten feet from him, but could have rested atop the Kremlin for all the good they did him. He got most of the strands of one end of wire shoved into a splice lug, and called it good enough. It was like trying to thread a needle whose eye was deeper than it was wide, while in a diving suit, using the business end of a paintbrush to start the thread. He withdrew one hand and searched the kit for friction tape. It might be mentioned that an insulating tape which would be adhesive at minus two hundred degrees centigrade yet keep its properties at plus one thousand, was the near culmination of chemical science. Silicon plastic research provided the adhesive, an inert gum which changed almost none through a fantastic range of temperatures and pressures. The tape Mac used to insure his connection had an asbestos base, with adhesive gum insinuated into the tape. He wrapped the wire tightly, then bound it to the brace. He noticed his visor fogging up and felt a faint, giddy sensation. Anoxemia! He let the tape drift as he reached for his regulator dial. _What a fool he was_, he thought, _to starve his lungs_. He turned the dial to emergency maximum and gulped precious liters of oxygen-helium mixture. The gauge showed a store of the gas which might possibly be enough to last him, if nothing else went wrong; perhaps ten minutes. The pencil flash, mercifully, still rested in a fold of his shoulder joint fabric. The insulation tape floated near his waist; he grabbed it and stowed it between his knee and the brace, then reached once again for the wiring. This time the splice went on without a hitch. He pinched the splice lug and taped the whole works feverishly. It was done; he had won. The trip back should take only a couple of minutes. Replacing the wire cutters in his kit, he held the pencil flash before him and started retracing his route. He passed the twelve o'clock brace, pinned it in place again and saw one of his tools floating to the right of his head. He gathered it in and swept his tiny flash around in search of other jetsam from his tool kit. He collected a wrench and the skittish flashlight, started toward the last brace between him and the ladder, and felt his legs go limp. He wasn't particularly alarmed about it; his arms and vision failed him too, but his brain hadn't enough incoming oxygen to care much, one way or the other. The few remaining feet seemed to lengthen into a sewerlike passageway, then vanished as did all else as his perceptions died. * * * * * MacNamara was not the sort to wonder about heaven or hell when he first awoke. He saw a faintly rounded ceiling, a soft yellow tint accentuating its featurelessness. "How the devil--", he began. His voice failed him. "Hi, Mac." Logan's beaming face loomed over him. "You rugged character, you. Cold as a pickle an hour ago, and already you're askin' silly questions." He held up his hand as Mac started to speak. "I hear you thinkin'. 'How the devil did I get here, and where is here?' In reverse order, this is the most comfortable berth in the doughnut's facilities, and you got here courtesy of one Johnny Ruiz. Myself, I wouldn't have taken the trouble." Mac grinned back at his pilot and cleared his throat. "Well, where is he? I wanta shake his hand, or give him half my kingdom, or something." "You know Johnny; the shy type. He'll be along after a while. You know, I think he kinda likes you; when you quit transmitting out there, Johnny was like a cat on a hot skillet. Finally decided to go back and have a look for himself, but I told him you probably had a hot game of solitaire going. Anyway, he went back and found you asleep on the job, and lost a good ten pounds getting your fat carcass through the air lock." That was a job that must have taxed both Ruiz and Logan, but Mac held his silence. "And that was about the size of it. _Valier's_ parked outside with some of the boys, good as ever. Come on, we'll sop up some coffee." Mac swung himself up to a sitting position and realized dizzily that he was mother-naked. His ribs felt pulverized. "You guys sure mauled me up," he said accusingly. "Unavoidable, my dear grease-monkey. You needed a little artificial respiration; I never was too good at that." "Well, whoever did the job rates a prize of some sort," Mac answered, "but my ribs tell me he had more enthusiasm than practice." Logan smiled his old familiar smile, relieved to find his engineer in joking spirits. "The credit again goes to Johnny. But," he added, "try not to be too hard on him. Try giving artificial respiration to a big lump like yourself sometime, without any gravity." Mac digested this tidbit as he pulled on a fresh pair of coveralls. "O.K.," he said, standing on the foamex "floor." "How did he do it?" "Strapped you into your couch face down and locked his legs around it. I didn't dare apply any g's. Come on," he finished, "you've managed to upset every timetable in the project. Johnny's shaking like a leaf, or was when I left him. A bulb of coffee will do us both a world of good." "I'm sold," Mac grunted, zipping up a flight boot. "But there's something I'd like to do, first chance I get." "Which is?" "Which is jettison every last strip of tape I have in _Valier_. I tell you, Logan," he went on as they entered the recreation bar, "you'll never know how degrading it is to hear useless, insipid information offered to you when you're in a tight spot, knowing full well the voice is your own!" THE END

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:30.978640

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Produced by K. Nordquist, Jacqueline Jeremy and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) [Illustration: The Rubàiyàt of Ohow Dryyàm] Illustrated by Benj. Franklin [not of Philadelphia] _Copyrighted_ 1922 _by_ LEEDON PUBLISHING COMPANY LEEDON PUBLISHING COMPANY 405 FLOOD BUILDING SAN FRANCISCO THE RUBAIYAT OF OHOW DRYYAM By J. L. DUFF _With Apologies to_ OMAR [Illustration] _Illustrated by_ BENJAMIN FRANKLIN [_Not of Philadelphia_] _The Rubaiyat of Ohow Dryyam_ I Wail! for the Law has scattered into flight Those Drinks that were our sometime dear Delight; And still the Morals-tinkers plot and plan New, sterner, stricter Statutes to indite. II After the phantom of our Freedom died Methought a Voice within the Tavern cried: "Drink coffee, Lads, for that is all that's left Since our Land of the Free is washed--and dried." [Illustration: _And still the Morals-tinkers plot and plan New, sterner, stricter Statutes to indite._] III The Haigs indeed are gone, and on the Nose That bourgeoned once with color of the rose A deathly Pallor sits, while down the lane Where once strode Johnny Walker--Water goes. IV Come, fill the Cup, and in the Coffee-house We'll learn a new and temperate Carouse-- The Bird of Time flies with a steadier wing But roosts with sleepless Eye--a Coffee Souse! V Each morn a thousand Recipes, you say-- Yes, but where match the beer of Yesterday? And those Spring Months that used to bring the Bock Seem very long ago and far away. [Illustration: _The Bird of Time flies with a steadier wing But roosts with sleepless Eye--a Coffee Souse!_] VI A Book of Blue Laws underneath the Bough, A pot of Tea, a piece of Toast,--and Thou Beside me sighing in the Wilderness-- Wilderness? It's Desert, Sister, now. VII Some for a Sunday without Taint, and Some Sigh for Inebriate Paradise to come, While Moonshine takes the Cash (no Credit goes) And real old Stuff demands a Premium. [Illustration: _A Book of Blue Laws underneath the Bough, A pot of Tea, a piece of Toast,--and Thou ..._] VIII The Scanty Stock we set our hearts upon Still dwindles and declines until anon, Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face, It lights us for an hour and then--is gone. IX Ah, my Beloved, fill the Cup that clears TODAY of past Regrets and future Fears-- Tomorrow!--Why, Tomorrow I may be In Canada or Scotland or Algiers! X Yes, make the most of what we still may spend; The last Drop's lingering Taste may yet transcend Anticipation's Bliss--though we are left Sans Wine, Sans Song, Sans Singer, and--Sans End. [Illustration: _The Scanty Stock we set our hearts upon ..._] XI Alike for those who for the Drouth prepared And those who, like myself, more poorly fared, Fond Memory weaves Roseate Shrouds to dress Departed Spirits we have loved--and shared. XII Myself when young did eagerly frequent The gilded Bar, and all my Lucre spent For bottled Joyousness, but evermore Came out less steadily than in I went. XIII The legal Finger writes; and having writ, Moves on--and neither Thirst nor Wit Has lured it back to cancel half a line To give a Man excuse for being lit. [Illustration: _Myself when young did eagerly frequent The gilded Bar ..._] XIV And Bill the Bootlegger--the Infidel!-- When He takes my last Cent for just a Smell Of Hooch, I wonder what Bootleggers buy One half so precious as the Stuff they sell. XV Oh Bill, Who dost with White Mule and with Gin Beset the Road I am to Wander in, If I am garnered of the Law, wilt Thou, All piously, Impute my Fall to Sin? [Illustration: _And Bill the Bootlegger--the Infidel!--_] XVI Yon rising Moon that looks for us again-- How oft hereafter will she wax and wane; But, Oh, how oft before we have beheld _Six_ Moons arise--who now seek _Two_ in vain. XVII And when Thyself at last shall come to trip Down that dim Dock where Charon loads his Ship, I'll meet Thee on the other Wharf if Thou Wilt promise to have Something on thy Hip. [Illustration: _But, Oh, how oft before we have beheld Six Moons arise ..._] End of Project Gutenberg's The Rubaiyat of Ohow Dryyam, by J. L. Duff

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:30.983896

23339

Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net INDIRECTION _The best way to keep a secret is to publish it in a quite unbelievable form--and insist that it is the truth._ BY EVERETT B. COLE Illustrated by Freas Elwar Forell leaned back in his chair, looking about the small dining salon. The usual couples were there, he noticed. Of course, the faces were different from those of last evening, but the poses were similar. And the people were there for the same reasons. They were enjoying the food and drinks, just as many others had enjoyed them before. But like all those others, their greater enjoyment was in the company of one another. Forell glanced at the vacant chair across the table from him and sighed. It would be nice, he thought, if-- But any arrangement involving a permanent companion would be hardly practical under his circumstances. After all, prudence dictated limits. He picked up his cup and drained it, then leaned back and beckoned the waiter over. "The reckoning, please," he ordered. He looked again at the letter on the table before him, then folded it and put it in his pocket. It was well, he thought. His latest book of fairy tales and fantasy had enjoyed good acceptance. And the check in the letter had been of satisfactory size. He smiled to himself. There were compensations in this job of his. It seemed to be profitable to have a purpose other than the obvious and usual one. He paid his bill and left the restaurant, to walk slowly along the street, enjoying the mild, spring air. As he passed a sidewalk café, a man beckoned from one of the tables. "Oh, Forell," he called. "I was hoping I'd see you this evening." He held up a book. "Just finished your 'Tales of the Sorcerers,'" he added. "Some of those yarns of yours seem almost real." Elwar Forell nodded. They should, he thought. Factual material, however disguised, often shines through its fictional background. And he had an inexhaustible source of material, drawn from many sources. He twisted his face into a gratified smile. "That's my objective," he said aloud. "I do all in my power to place the reader inside the story." Charo Andorra nodded. "It's the secret of good fiction, I know," he admitted, "and every storyteller tries to do it. But I seem to see more than that in your stuff. There's an almost believable pattern." He hesitated. "You know, while I'm reading it, I can almost see beings of superior powers walking the earth. And sometimes, I visualize us working with them." He laughed shortly. "Of course, I may be more credulous and imaginative than most. Probably why I'm a critic. And I really should know better." He looked down at the book in his hands. "But that stuff of yours can be mighty convincing." He tilted his head. "Somehow, I can't help but look at some of the old legends--and some of the things that have happened in more recent years, too. Can't help but wonder if we actually are babes of the cosmos, and if we haven't been visited and watched by some form of extra-planetary life at one time or another." Forell looked closely at his friend. Andorra, he knew, was a clear thinker in his own right. And he just might start a serious analysis--and publish it. He grimaced. It wasn't time for that, he knew. Many years must pass before it would be time. He placed a hand on the back of Andorra's chair, remembering the words of one of the teachers. _"Remember, Elwar," he had been told, "your objective is clear, but your methods must be most indirect--even unclear. Some things you must obscure in a mass of obviously imaginative detail, while you bring others to the fore. You must hint. You must suggest. You should never fully explain or deny. And you must never be guilty of definite, direct falsehood._ _"There may come a time when you will be directly questioned--when discovery of your real background and purpose seems imminent, and you will have to take positive action. For such an eventuality, I cannot outline any steps, or even any definite plan of action, since I neither fully understand many of the factors involved, nor have any way of knowing the circumstances which may arise. You'll have to prepare yourself for almost anything, always keeping in mind the peculiarities and capabilities of your own people."_ It looked as though the time might have come. If Andorra, a clever, influential critic, should guess at the real background and the sources of the Forell tales, and if he should misunderstand the motives behind those tales, he would probably publish his thoughts. And those thoughts would be widely read. Many would smile as they read and regard the thing as a hoax. But others might start their own analyses. And some of those might come to highly undesirable conclusions and cause undesirable, even disastrous, reactions. It would be many generations before clear explanations could be made and definite principles outlined without causing misunderstanding and serious damage. The Forell tales were evasive and preparatory as well as vaguely instructive. [Illustration] He recovered his self-discipline and waved his hand negligently. "You know, Charo," he said laughingly, "I've been thinking along similar lines for a long while. Of course, you know I must have built up some sort of fantasy world to base my yarns on?" Andorra nodded. "That's obvious. I've been wondering about some of your basic theory. Like to see your notes some time." Forell spread his hands. "You're quite welcome to look them over," he said. "Come on up to my rooms now." He smiled. "As a matter of fact, I've been doing a little extension on my dream world. Built up a little sketch a while ago, and I'm not just sure what to do with it." * * * * * As they entered the study, Forell walked across to his desk. He fumbled for a few seconds under the desk, then opened a drawer. For a moment, he paused, looking inside, then pulled out a thin folder. Again, he hesitated. At last, he picked a small, metallic object from the drawer and held it in his left hand. "Might need this," he told himself. "If I'm wrong, it'll take a sector patrolman to straighten out the mess. And I could be wrong--two ways." Casually, he placed his left hand in his pocket, then he turned toward Andorra, holding out the folder. "Here," he said. "See what you think of this one." Andorra opened the folder, taking out a few sheets of paper. He read for a moment, then looked up quizzically. "A little different from your usual style, isn't it?" Forell nodded, watching the man tensely. "I'm trying something new," he said. "Go ahead and read it, then tell me what you think." He busied himself with a bottle and glasses. * * * * * INFORMAL MEMO 130-263 From: Explorations Officer, Sector Nine To: Ecological Officer Subject: Incident Report Enclosed is the file on that recent occurrence on Planet 3-G3-9/4871, consisting of the certificates and statements of the various officers and guardsmen concerned, together with a digest of the interrogation of Elwar Forell, a young planetary native, who appears to have been the instigator. It seems to me that something is seriously wrong with our system of operation, at least on the subject planet. After all, our operations have the purpose of research and observation, with a view to protection and development. Certainly, we cannot create chaos. And knowledge of our existence by very young cultures would certainly cause just that. We've got to clear this up in a hurry. The Elder Galactics are most certain to be unhappy about it in any event, and I don't like to make them unhappy. Obviously, there was a chain of errors, and some of our people concerned will have to be reassigned for further training, but that's just the beginning. I've recalled all the observers from this planet, pending reorganization, and we've got to come up with an answer that'll prevent further occurrences of this nature, as well as covering this affair on the planet concerned. I realize that the situation has some of the elements of comedy, and I presume that it will eventually be regarded with considerable amusement, but right at the moment, my sense of humor is working very poorly. I have a few ideas of my own, but would like to have your recommendations and those of other section officers before I make any final decision or report. I am calling a conference on this incident at 280.1000, so make a full investigation on this, and give me some practical recommendation as soon as possible. CIJORN 6 enclosures STATEMENT I, Florand Anremdor, am assigned to the Communications Branch, Exploratory Section, Sector Nine. At 261.0196, I was on duty in the emergency communications room at Increment Four. A call came in from Resident Station number fourteen, Planet 3-G3-9/4871, requesting emergency condensation over the immediate station area. Co-ordinates were not given and I checked the planetary co-ordinates with the call sign and the Communications List. I added these to the message and forwarded the request to the Patrol Duty Officer for his action. There was no visual on the call, but the voice sounded urgent. I relayed the request without requiring special authentication, since the station was precisely on the correct settings, no inimical culture is known to be operating in this sector, and the coded call was correct. At the time, I had no way of suspecting that this was not a genuine emergency call. Florand Anremdor Comm. 1/c CERTIFICATE I, Captain Binkar Morancos, am assigned to the 334th Vector, which is presently under the orders of the Commander, Sector Nine. I was assigned as Sector Patrol Duty Officer at 261.0200, when a message was relayed from Increment Four, requesting emergency condensation on a planet in that increment. I checked the co-ordinates and data furnished, consulted the situation chart, and instructed Cruiser P-4730, Captain Klorantel commanding, to carry out the mission. Since the message came through normal channels, I had no doubt as to its authenticity, and treated it as routine. I felt that the cruiser commander could deal with the matter at his discretion. Binkar Morancos Capt. StG(C) CERTIFICATE I, Captain Corrondao Klorantel, am in command of the Stellar Guard Cruiser _Myloren_, number P-4730. I am assigned to duty with the 334th Vector, which is operating in Sector Nine. The _Myloren_ was on routine patrol in the Fourth Increment at 261.0203, when a message was received from Sector Headquarters, giving co-ordinates on Planet 3-G3-9/4871, with a request for emergency condensation. I proceeded to the subject planet and took position outside the atmosphere. Visual checks failed to show any emergency condition on the surface, though a burned-out area was noted in the forest a short distance to the planetary south of the station concerned. A call was made to the resident station, requesting clarification of the request, and the answer proved to be unsatisfactory. There was no visual transmission, and the voice was strongly accented. The message gave insufficient data for action, contained no identification, and was in improper form for station-to-ship contact. I decided to make contact by other means, and shifted my secondary communicator to the guardsman's personal settings, requesting further information, suitable identification, and confirmation of the request. Guardsman Jaeger immediately informed me that the call was spurious, stating that he was away from his station, and that he would return immediately. During the conversation, I noted that full condensation was taking place to atmospheric limits. I called Auxiliary, and Technician Melran stated that his control circuits were inoperative and that he was tracing the difficulty. He cleared the trouble, but condensation had already been established and precipitation had commenced. I ordered re-absorption, which was started as soon as repairs had been accomplished. At the request of Guardsman Jaeger, we stood by to render aid if necessary, maintaining contact with his station. At 0572, Jaeger requested immediate evacuation for himself and for one other person. I entered atmosphere, made planetfall with nullified visibility, and took off the guardsman and a young native. During the evacuation, I noted a number of natives armed with various implements, who were attempting to break their way into the station. Guardsman Jaeger fired his demolitions as he left, firing the screen generator with his last flare. For a few minutes, the natives fell back before the flames, but they were entering the station by the time we cleared the planet. It is believed that the installation was completely destroyed. Corrondao Klorantel Capt. StG(C) Commanding P-4730 STATEMENT I, Danaeo Melran, am assigned to the Patrol Cruiser _Myloren_, number P-4730, for duty. At 261.0204, I was on duty in Auxiliary Equipment when Captain Klorantel called, informing me that a request had come in for emergency condensation. He told me to set up and await execution order. I preset two forward radiators for forty kilometers at low condensation, with a three kilometer radius at surface. I then put the controls on automatic trigger, notified the captain, and went on with my normal duties. At 0221, we came out of trans-light, and I adjusted my equipment for slow-drive operation. At 0223, my indicators showed activity on the forward radiators. I checked and discovered that full power was being applied. Attempts to override the automatics were unsuccessful, and while I was attempting to clear the trouble, the captain called again, saying that the request was false, and asking why I had turned the radiators on. I told him that the controls were jammed, and he instructed me to make repairs and set up re-absorption. I discovered a short between the automatic trigger and the ship's secondary communication antenna. After clearing this, I found trouble in the control section of the condensation driver. The automatic trigger had become fused, and the control paths were shorted to full-drive throughout. The sub-assemblies were replaced and trouble cleared by 0300. I then set up re-absorption as ordered. Danaeo Melran Eq Tech 3/c STATEMENT I, Franz Jaeger, am Resident Guardsman at Station Fourteen, Planet 3-G3-9/4871. I have been assigned to my station for eight planetary years for survey and observation duty. During the past five years, I have employed Elwar Forell, the son of a local peasant, to keep the living quarters clean and to do general work about the station. I have never discussed the possibilities of extra-planetary civilization with him, and I have been careful to exclude him from knowledge of my technical equipment, which I have kept in a secure room in accordance with regulations. I have presented myself to him, as well as to all the villagers in my area, as a scholar, tired of city life, and desirous of a quiet existence. There has been a drought in part of my area for the entire season. We have suffered from one forest fire and there is a strong possibility of others. Crops are doing very badly, and the peasants have been complaining bitterly. This is not an unheard-of situation, but it has caused considerable discomfort and worry, since there is a very definite threat of famine. There have been numerous attempts to obtain rain by occult means, and I have been personally approached on the matter. For some time, the villagers in the immediate area of the station have regarded me as a sorcerer, and I have been asked to cast a spell to cause rain. I had considered a request for light condensation, but had hesitated to make such a request, since I felt that rain closely following the villagers' petition to me would confirm their supernatural beliefs, which I have attempted to discourage. At 261.0223, I was on a routine tour of my area. I received a call from the cruiser _Myloren_, Captain Klorantel commanding, asking for further information on a request for emergency condensation. I informed him that I had made no such request, adding that a light rain would be desirable if he were in position and prepared to radiate. During the conversation with Captain Klorantel, I noted that the sky was darkening. There were several flashes of lightning, and I felt the signs of imminent, heavy rain. I promptly started back to my station. Upon my arrival, I discovered that Elwar had managed to open the communications room and had been using the equipment. He was extremely frightened, and made incoherent remarks about talking to a demon. When I attempted to question him as to how he had opened the room, and where he had learned the operation of the communications equipment, he became hysterical and I could find out precisely nothing. By this time, it was raining violently. There was a high wind. Several trees had been blown down and lightning was frequent. A flood was starting down the mountainside toward the village, threatening severe damage. It was quite apparent that crops, such as they were, would be almost completely destroyed. At the time, I could do little to remedy the situation. I re-established contact with the cruiser, informed Captain Klorantel of the situation, and requested that he stand by. I then turned on my viewsphere to keep watch on the village from the communications room. Since Elwar had been in the room on several previous occasions, I saw no reason for excluding him. On the contrary, I thought it would be advisable to keep him with me, since I felt that he would be seriously injured if he were turned loose in the village. I do not believe he would have survived the fury of the villagers, who had taken shelter, and were watching the destruction of their crops. The flood had become a torrent, which overflowed the banks of the village brook, tore at the bridge, and swept through the lanes. In the fields, grain was beaten into the ground and it was clear that the villagers would have little or no harvest to celebrate during the approaching festival. The wind grew in force, lashing at the tall festival pole, which bent, crashed down in the village square, and partially demolished the front of the inn. During this period, there was no human activity, since everyone had taken what shelter he could find. At 0448, the rain slackened, the wind died down, and people started gathering in the square. For a time, they milled about, wading through the ebbing flood. They examined the damage, then they gathered in groups, talking earnestly. The dry wind came up at 0510, and by 0550, the entire village was on the march toward my station. Their intentions were quite easy to determine. They were armed with pitchforks, scythes, axes, and other tools which could be converted to offensive use. I established a protective screen, but realized that to set up a permanent defense would be impractical and even harmful. I therefore called the cruiser, requesting evacuation for myself and for young Forell. Prior to evacuation, I demolished all my fixed equipment, so that the only things left for the villagers to find when they entered the station were damaged remains of those things normal for a recluse scholar of their era. Franz Jaeger Observer 2/c INFORMAL MEMO 130-265 From: Evaluations Officer To: Explorations Officer Subject: Interrogation Enclosed is a digest of the interrogation of one, Elwar Forell, who was evacuated from forty-eight seventy-one, in company with Guardsman Jaeger. This boy was abjectly terrified and had to be calmed several times during questioning. He was pitiably hysterical when recalling his conversation with Captain Klorantel, who, you will remember, is a capriform humanoid. The subject appears to be an intelligent specimen of his race, and when he had conquered his hysteria, was extremely co-operative, showing active interest in his surroundings. I believe he would be able to assimilate training, and would make a valuable addition to the Stellar Guard. I recommend his retention and training. If Elwar is a typical "son of a simple peasant," and if the planet from which he comes has any considerable number of "simple peasants" with sons like him, I can foresee some strangely interesting problems in connection with further dealings on that planet. FONZEC 1 enclosure DIGEST Interrogation of Elwar Forell, native of Planet 3-G3-9/4871. "My Masters, I did mean no harm, but only good. I have long known that my master was possessed of power denied to most men. When I was apprenticed to him five years ago, I thought I would one day learn some of the dark secrets of the hidden worlds, but never did my master mention aught of those secrets he so surely knew. He taught me only of those things known to the scholars. He told me of reading, of writing, and of ciphering, and taught me many facts of our world which are known to the learned. I wished to know of many other things, but of these he was silent. Even so, I am grateful for his teachings, for how else could the son of a simple peasant gain the knowledge of the scholars? "I saw that my master often repaired to a room which I was never allowed to enter. This room he cleaned himself. And he always entered in the greatest of secrecy, being quite cross with me when I once betrayed curiosity. I remained curious, however, and fell at last to watching him in secret as he opened the door. "He slid aside a secret panel, then turned a wheel this way and that, finally pushing a handle. I watched, at last learning to what numbers he did turn the wheel, and how he pushed the handle. During his absences, I went sometimes to that room of magic, and I read the books of power, though there was much I could not read, since much of the writing was in strange tongues and I dared not ask my master the meanings of the strange words. But for his own convenience, my master had written many instructions plainly. And these, I read. "I did learn that there were powers beyond those of men. I learned that these strange instruments on the table did have strange ability to call forth demons and spirits, but never until that day did I dare touch other than the books and papers. And those I took great care to restore to their original condition. "For three months past, my father's land and the fields of his neighbors have been dry. During this time, there has been no rain, nor hint of rain, and the peasants have cried out for relief. They have appealed even to my master, who has told them that he has no strange powers--that he can do naught to call up rain. But they did not believe him, nor did I, Elwar, who knew better than this. I had seen the books of power, and I knew the demons could cause the skies to deliver water if rightly asked. So, I visited the room of magic upon the occasions of my master's absence. And I tried to decipher his writings that I might find the means to ask for the skies to open. Always, when I felt my master's presence approaching, I left the room, taking care to properly lock the door and to hide all evidence of my entry. "On that day of direful events, I found a paper in my master's hand. It mentioned fire in the forests. It mentioned rain. And it had on it words of power. "For a time, I practiced the strange syllables. Many times did I speak them aloud, then I pressed the bosses on the table, as shown by one of the books. There was a light. Then, the great ball glowed with color, to show me the first demon. "He spoke. And I conquered my fear, to repeat the syllables I had labored to learn. Once again, he spoke, and I could not understand him. I could think of nothing but to say again those words which I hoped would bring the rain we so badly needed. I took my hands from the bosses and stood, wondering what would happen. The ball became dark. "I stood, waiting. And nothing happened. Finally, thinking nothing was to occur, I turned and started to leave the room. Then, a great voice spoke. Again, the wall was alight. Within it was a fearsome demon who glared at me ferociously and demanded something in that tongue of power. I could not think. I stood, trembling fearfully. And he spoke again. Then did I repeat again the words I had learned, and ran from the room. "It became dark. The lightnings flashed, and the rain fell, and my master came, but not as I had ever seen him before. He did not walk from the forest as was his wont, but appeared before me from the air. I started back in fright, for now I was certain beyond doubt that he was a man of great wizardry. I thought he would beat me, or possibly cast me under a spell. "Never has he beaten me, always saying that it was wrong to beat an apprentice, and that those who so did were lacking in their senses. And this is but another proof of his sorcery, for who, other than a sorcerer, could handle his servants without beating them? "I dared do nothing other than to tell him of my misdoing, and he rushed to the room, taking me with him. He pressed the bosses, turning one that I had not known of, and the demon appeared again and talked with him. Then, my master made strange passes about the instruments and the village was shown in the ball. "At last the rain stopped. A wind blew--hot and dry, as from the pit--and the people came and did try by violence to enter. But they could not. At last, the great machine came, and though we could not at first see it, we entered and were carried away through the sky. "The people watched the house burn, then entered, to scatter the ashes. "And I am here, and afraid." * * * Doer Kweiros flipped off the playback and gazed at the unresponsive wall. He rubbed the back of his head, looked at the viewsphere, then checked the playback index and tapped the rewind. "Oh, me," he complained sorrowfully, "how do we get into these things?" He looked toward the communicator controls unhappily, then reached out and dialed a number. The sphere lit and an alert face looked at him inquiringly. "How is that Forell boy?" "Soaking up information like a sponge, sir." Kweiros nodded. "Gathered he might," he remarked. "Send him up here, will you? And have Jaeger come with him." "Yes, sir." Kweiros snapped the communicator off, sat back to drum idly on his desk, then got up and walked over to his master file control board. He glanced at the index, then punched out a sequence on the buttons. There was a subdued hum and a door opened. Kweiros reached into the compartment, to take out several tape reels. He glanced at them, nodded, and went back to the desk, where he spread them out and looked from one to another. Finally, he selected one of the smaller reels and started to thread it into the playback. There was a light tap on the door and he looked up. "So soon? Come in." A tall, sharp-featured guardsman entered and stood at attention. Beside him was a boy, who looked curiously and a little fearfully at the officer, who waved to chairs. "Sit down, both of you. I'm not going to claw you. Just want to go over a few things. I've some ideas, but I want to be sure of a couple of points." The captain glanced at the reels before him. "One thing puzzles me, Jaeger. Why did you have notes in the planetary language in your communications room?" Jaeger stirred uneasily. "I started doing that some time ago, sir," he explained. "You see, their language is quite dissimilar to either my own or to Galactica, and I have yet to learn to think in it. I wanted to avoid any possibility of lapsing away from it, so I translated my instructions and notes, hoping to keep myself constantly reminded to refrain from using Galactica at any time." He spread his hands. "I suppose--" Kweiros waved. "Logical, I presume," he admitted. "Anyway, that's done, and we can't do much about it now. Now for another thing." He glanced at the tape reels. "I noticed that the villagers in your area regarded you as a sorcerer. What cause did they have to form such an opinion?" "None, sir, that I know of." Jaeger shook his head. Kweiros looked at the boy. "Elwar?" "Why, all the village knew it, Master." The boy shook his head. "One had but to be near Master Jaeger for a time, and he could feel the power, just as I can feel it now." He shook his head again. "But it is very strong, Master. You must be one of the ones of truly great power." Kweiros looked speculatively at Jaeger. "I understood they were nontelepaths. All the reports agree on that." "Definitely, sir, they are. They're absolutely mute. Not a trace of radiation, even when they're close. And they don't receive. You can try it now, sir. It's just like punching into space itself. No resistance, no reflection, just nothing." "Shield?" "No, sir. Just no indication. Makes me feel as though I were in free space with a dead drive." * * * Kweiros looked for a moment at Jaeger, then sent out a probing thought, searching for some indication of mental activity from the boy. But there was nothing. It wasn't anything like a shield, he thought. It seemed more like an infinite baffle. But there was some reaction. The boy shrank back in terror. "Please, Master," he begged. "Do not place me under enchantment." He held up his hands in a peculiar gesture. "What made you do that?" Kweiros raised a hand slowly, palm out. "I have no intention of harming you." "But I could feel you, trying to cast me under a spell." "You ... felt me?" "To be sure, Master, just as I have felt the same power from my master, Jaeger. But this was far stronger. It hurt. And it seemed as though you wanted me to do something." Kweiros nodded. "I think I'm getting an idea," he remarked. "And it scares me a little. They're not really nontelepathic, any more than the Kierawelans, for example, are nonvocal. I think we've got something here that's almost unique in the galaxy." He rubbed his neck. "Excuse me a few minutes. I want to check something in one of these tapes." Jaeger nodded and leaned back in his chair, looking curiously at the boy beside him, then back at his superior, who had selected a tape reel. He threaded it into the playing heads, put on a headband, and snapped a switch. Jaeger and the boy watched as Kweiros leaned back. The officer's face became vacant, then twisted, seeming to reflect painful mental effort. Slowly, he leaned forward again, touching another switch. Then, he sank back, to concentrate on his thoughts. Jaeger looked again at the boy, who was sitting tensely, his hands gripping the arms of his chair, his eyes fastened fearfully on the officer before him. As Jaeger watched, Elwar half rose from his chair, then sank back, his face appearing to mirror Kweiros' efforts. [Illustration] At last, Kweiros sat up. Shakily, he removed his headband and snapped the playback off. "Long time since I checked that tape," he said. "Pretty rugged stuff, and highly speculative. Always gives me a headache." He shook his head as he looked at Elwar. "And this makes it even worse. It was bad enough as pure speculation, but we've got something real here. Something rough. For one thing, we have got a planet where no one but native operatives stand a chance of working. For another we--" He cupped his chin in his hands and examined Elwar closely. "Do you really want to learn the secrets you looked for in the books, youngster? Do you still want the secrets you first thought you might learn?" The boy seemed to withdraw a little. "I have a great fear," he admitted tremulously. "You haven't been injured or mistreated, have you?" "No, Master, but--" Elwar looked toward the door. "And you won't be," he was told reassuringly. "Now you just go ahead on back to your quarters." * * * As the door closed, Kweiros turned to Jaeger. "Think we'll put you on special assignment. For the next few cycles, you'll act as a private tutor. Then you can go back to Main Base with Elwar while they give him his training." Jaeger raised his eyebrows. "Yes, sir," he said doubtfully. "You think the boy will develop?" Kweiros nodded. "I'm quite sure of it," he said. "And he's got a big job ahead of him. He may be instrumental in preventing a major disaster." He waved at the tape reels. "I got that little tape out just on an off chance," he added. "Didn't really expect to find anything, but--" He flipped his hands out. "Anyway, I pulled it." He leaned forward, looking at Jaeger. "We may have run into a second, or even third growth culture," he said slowly. "Once, before some ancient war of destruction, the people of this planet might have been normally telepathic." He closed his eyes for an instant. "Possibly they were unable to use their telepathic power. And equally possibly, they could have had a highly developed mechanical civilization. Something went wrong." He waved at the tape reel. "In this reconstruction, there's an hypothesis on just such a situation. Here, a race reaches high development and wrecks itself--leaving no trace of its accomplishments. Growth starts over from the most meager of beginnings. Survival becomes a matter of the most bitter conflict, with everyone becoming a hunter and being hunted in his turn. In this situation, detection of an enemy becomes vital." He grinned wryly. "Can you imagine what would happen to someone who radiated his thoughts?" Jaeger ran a finger over his lips. "He'd be easy to locate," he mused. "And he'd have a hard time evading an enemy." "Precisely." Kweiros nodded. "And he'd never be able to approach his prey. In short, he'd fail to survive. Complete telepathic blankness would have a high survival value. But an ability to detect mental radiation would still be a big help." He waved a hand. "So, a race like this one could evolve. And the author of this tape extrapolated from there. A normal telepathic reception will be accompanied, by a slight feedback. A completely black body, however, will neither radiate nor feed back. It merely absorbs energy and, unless it's super-imposed on a reflective background, it leaves no trace. Since nothing in nature other than a telepathic mind can reflect telepathy, no background would survive for long." He frowned a little. "Of course, no mind we are familiar with could act as a telepathically black body, but this author hypothesized a race that could do just that--plus. There's a further hypothesis of an ability to detect and localize radiations as such, without bothering to resolve them." "Sounds like just what we have here," Jaeger admitted. "It does, doesn't it?" Kweiros nodded. "And there's a further extrapolation. Some of the members or the elder races have speculated on a sort of second-order telepathy, undetectable to the normal telepath, but capable of noting normal radiation. And some of the speculations seem to make sense--though they're a little confusing. If you don't have a specific sense, it's difficult to visualize it, or even to speculate on its presence." He drew a deep breath. "That leads us into a real problem. Our people roamed around this planet for several cycles this time. And there may have been others before us, who didn't record their visits, other than in the minds and legends of the natives. And there may be other legends from that other, older culture." He shrugged. "We picked up what we could on the culture, but we didn't get the full story on them. And we've probably left a thousand legends behind us, including that beautiful mess at your station." He grinned. "Right now, their folklore is loaded with sorcerers, warlocks, wizards, and what not. After all, whatever their past is, they're primitive now. So those stories are going to grow and continue. Eventually, long before they really develop a stabilized ethic, someone's going to collate that whole mess. And do you know what he'll come up with?" "Us?" "Us, yes. Us, in a distorted form." Kweiros nodded emphatically. "They will come to a full realization that there are advanced entities running around the cosmos, entities that have all kinds of mysterious powers. And they'll invent still more powers and characteristics--mostly bad." He spread his hands, then laid them on the desk in front of him. * * * "That way, they could develop a hopeless, planet-wide trauma--a sort of super inferiority complex--and they could contract on themselves, devote their time to an intensive study of demonology, and very possibly come apart at the seams. "Or, they could do something else. I was watching Elwar while I was checking that tape. Did you notice anything peculiar?" "He seemed disturbed." "As though he were sensing my thoughts?" "Something like that. But--" Kweiros nodded. "But I had a shield up. You could detect no trace of mental action. Right?" "Yes, sir." "That's what I thought." Kweiros shook his head and looked closely at Jaeger. "Can you imagine," he added, "a primitive race with the power to detect a galactic by his thoughts? And can you imagine that power developing until that detection is possible at interstellar ranges, with members of that race being able to pick up faint impressions from received thoughts--distorted impressions? And can you imagine that same race, ignorant of the humanic equations, devoid of a stable ethic, superstitious, distrustful and fearful of advanced entities? They would be undetectable by normal telepathic means, you know. And suppose they were disposed to destroy what they could not understand." He frowned. Jaeger looked back at him, his eyes becoming wide. Suddenly, his gaze defocused and he looked aside, to stare unseeingly at the floor. "Something's got to be done, sir," he said reluctantly. Kweiros nodded. "Something's got to be done," he agreed. "Of course, there's another side to the picture. If this race develops and learns, they'll be just as valuable to the galaxy as they would otherwise be dangerous." He looked toward the door. "And our boy out there is one of the few who can help in this situation. He's going to have to work out counter stories--amusing stories--about all those magical creatures his people tell about. He's going to have to hint at the possibilities of close co-ordination and co-operation between members of his own species. And he's going to have to suggest the possibility of friendly co-operation between his species and others." He drew a deep breath. "And he's going to have to do all this without taking any risk of exposing the existence of other, more advanced species in the galaxy." He brushed a hand across his head, then pressed the back of his neck, kneading the skin. "These stories of his, he'll have to publish. He'll have to get them circulated all over his planet, if he can. Possibly we can give him some indirect help, but he's going to have to carry a good share of the load. "He knows his own people as we could never hope to. And he'll have to be thoroughly educated, so he can say what he wants to. And he'll have to be fully aware of the humanic equations and all their connotations. If he's to have any direct help, he'll have to choose his helpers from among his own people, and he'll have to choose carefully." Kweiros thrust at his temple with the heel of a hand, then shook his head violently. "Somehow, he's going to have to accentuate any legends he may be able to find which present a favorable light on co-ordination and co-operation, and he'll have to invent more. And all those other legends--the ones which treat of superstition and destructive force--will have to be reduced to the realm of the storybook, submerged under a layer of amused condemnation, and kept there. All these things, that youngster is going to have to do. "It's your job to help teach him." * * * * * Forell watched his friend closely as the critic laid aside the last page. Andorra sat for a moment, his head cocked in thought. Then, he picked up the last page and looked at it again. Finally, he laid the sheet aside. He looked at his friend with a wry smile, then picked up his wineglass, looking at it quizzically. "Do you always give your own name to one of your characters?" Forell's grip tightened on the small object in his hand. "Oh, sure," he said. "Gives me a better identification. If I can get into the story, it's easier to draw the reader in." He forced a casual smile. "I'll change that name later, of course." "I see what you mean." Andorra sipped from his glass. "You know," he added, "a couple of hours ago, I was almost ready to get excited about the idea of a cosmos full of super beings. And I even might have dreamed up something like this myself--and more than half believed it." He shook his head. "But when a fantasist like yourself comes up with it, and makes it look so nicely possible, the idea almost looks foolish. After all, Elwar, if you actually were the guy in that little sketch of yours, you'd hardly be asking me to read it, now would you?" He looked down at the papers, then raised his head again, frowning. "'He'll have to choose his helpers from among his own people,'" he quoted. "'All these things, that youngster is going to have to do.'" He sipped again from his glass, keeping a searching gaze on his friend. "And on the other hand, if your story here should be true, you just might be asking me to read it, for one reason or another." He raised his glass, examining the bright liquid within it. Elwar tensed, his hand coming part way out of his pocket. Suddenly, Andorra set the glass down and leaned forward, hands gripping his knees. "Tell me, Elwar," he begged, "this isn't a hoax, is it? Surely, no one could be so warped as to present a friend with something like this and then to laugh it off?" Forell drew a deep breath and examined his companion closely. At last, his left hand relaxed a little. "It's no hoax," he admitted. Andorra sighed and leaned back. "And you can use help? You're asking me?" He paused, waiting as Forell nodded, then spread his hands. "You know," he said, "it shouldn't take me too long to fix it so I would not be missed too much for a few years." He looked at the wall. "It must be quite a training course." THE END Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Astounding Science Fiction_ January 1956. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note.

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:30.986130

2334

Produced by David Reed THE WORKS OF RUDYARD KIPLING: ONE VOLUME EDITION By Rudyard Kipling CONTENTS VOLUME I DEPARTMENTAL DITTIES AND OTHER VERSES DEPARTMENTAL DITTIES Prelude General Summary Army Headquarters Study of an Elevation, in Indian Ink A Legend of the Foreign Office The Story of Uriah The Post that Fitted Public Waste Delilah What Happened Pink Dominoes The Man Who Could Write Municipal A Code of Morals The Last Department OTHER VERSES Recessional The Vampire To the Unknown Goddess The Rubaiyat of Omar Kal'vin La Nuit Blanche My Rival The Lovers' Litany A Ballad of Burial Divided Destinies The Masque of Plenty The Mare's Nest Possibilities Christmas in India Pagett, M. P. The Song of the Women A Ballad of Jakko Hill The Plea of the Simla Dancers Ballad of Fisher's Boarding-House "As the Bell Clinks" An Old Song Certain Maxims of Hafiz The Grave of the Hundred Head The Moon of Other Days The Overland Mail What the People Said The Undertaker's Horse The Fall of Jock Gillespie Arithmetic on the Frontier One Viceroy Resigns The Betrothed A Tale of Two Cities VOLUME II BALLADS AND BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS BALLADS The Ballad of East and West The Last Suttee The Ballad of the King's Mercy The Ballad of the King's Jest The Ballad of Boh Da Thone The Lament of the Border Cattle Thief The Rhyme of the Three Captains The Ballad of the "Clampherdown" The Ballad of the "Bolivar" The English Flag Cleared An Imperial Rescript Tomlinson Danny Deever Tommy Fuzzy-Wuzzv Soldier, Soldier Screw-Guns Gunga Din Oonts Loot "Snarleyow" The Widow at Windsor Belts The Young British Soldier Mandalay Troopin' Ford O' Kabul River Route-Marchin' VOLUME III THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW AND OTHER GHOST STORIES The Phantom 'Rickshaw My Own True Ghost Story The Strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes The Man Who Would Be King "The Finest Story in The World" VOLUME IV UNDER THE DEODARS The Education of Otis Yeere At the Pit's Mouth A Wayside Comedy The Hill of Illusion A Second-rate Woman Only a Subaltern In the Matter of a Private The Enlightenments of Pagett. M. P. VOLUME V PLAIN TALES FROM THE HILLS Lispeth Three And an Extra Thrown Away Miss Youghal's Sais "Yoked With an Unbeliever" False Dawn The Rescue of Pluffles Cupid's Arrows His Chance in Life Watches of The Night The Other Man Consequences The Conversion of Aurellan McGoggin A Germ-destroyer Kidnapped The Arrest of Lieutenant Golightly In The House of Suddhoo His Wedded Wife The Broken-link Handicap Beyond The Pale In Error A Bank Fraud Tods' Amendment In The Pride of His Youth Pig The Rout of The White Hussars The Bronckhorst Divorce-case Venus Annodomini The Bisara of Pooree A Friend's Friend The Gate of The Hundred Sorrows The Story of Muhammad Din On The Strength of a Likeness Wressley of The Foreign Office By Word of Mouth To Be Filed For Reference The Last Relief Bitters Neat Haunted Subalterns VOLUME VI THE LIGHT THAT FAILED VOLUME VII THE STORY OF THE GADSBYS Preface Poor Dear Mamma The World Without The Tents of Kedar With Any Amazement The Garden of Eden Fatima The Valley of the Shadow The Swelling of Jordan VOLUME VIII from MINE OWN PEOPLE Bimi Namgay Doola The Recrudescence Of Imray Moti Guj--Mutineer VOLUME I DEPARTMENTAL DITTIES AND OTHER VERSES I have eaten your bread and salt, I have drunk your water and wine, The deaths ye died I have watched beside, And the lives that ye led were mine. Was there aught that I did not share In vigil or toil or ease, One joy or woe that I did not know, Dear hearts across the seas? I have written the tale of our life For a sheltered people's mirth, In jesting guise--but ye are wise, And ye know what the jest is worth. GENERAL SUMMARY We are very slightly changed From the semi-apes who ranged India's prehistoric clay; Whoso drew the longest bow, Ran his brother down, you know, As we run men down today. "Dowb," the first of all his race, Met the Mammoth face to face On the lake or in the cave, Stole the steadiest canoe, Ate the quarry others slew, Died--and took the finest grave. When they scratched the reindeer-bone Someone made the sketch his own, Filched it from the artist--then, Even in those early days, Won a simple Viceroy's praise Through the toil of other men. Ere they hewed the Sphinx's visage Favoritism governed kissage, Even as it does in this age. Who shall doubt the secret hid Under Cheops' pyramid Was that the contractor did Cheops out of several millions? Or that Joseph's sudden rise To Comptroller of Supplies Was a fraud of monstrous size On King Pharoah's swart Civilians? Thus, the artless songs I sing Do not deal with anything New or never said before. As it was in the beginning, Is today official sinning, And shall be forevermore. ARMY HEADQUARTERS Old is the song that I sing-- Old as my unpaid bills-- Old as the chicken that kitmutgars bring Men at dak-bungalows--old as the Hills. Ahasuerus Jenkins of the "Operatic Own" Was dowered with a tenor voice of super-Santley tone. His views on equitation were, perhaps, a trifle queer; He had no seat worth mentioning, but oh! he had an ear. He clubbed his wretched company a dozen times a day, He used to quit his charger in a parabolic way, His method of saluting was the joy of all beholders, But Ahasuerus Jenkins had a head upon his shoulders. He took two months to Simla when the year was at the spring, And underneath the deodars eternally did sing. He warbled like a bulbul, but particularly at Cornelia Agrippina who was musical and fat. She controlled a humble husband, who, in turn, controlled a Dept., Where Cornelia Agrippina's human singing-birds were kept From April to October on a plump retaining fee, Supplied, of course, per mensem, by the Indian Treasury. Cornelia used to sing with him, and Jenkins used to play; He praised unblushingly her notes, for he was false as they: So when the winds of April turned the budding roses brown, Cornelia told her husband: "Tom, you mustn't send him down." They haled him from his regiment which didn't much regret him; They found for him an office-stool, and on that stool they set him, To play with maps and catalogues three idle hours a day, And draw his plump retaining fee--which means his double pay. Now, ever after dinner, when the coffeecups are brought, Ahasuerus waileth o'er the grand pianoforte; And, thanks to fair Cornelia, his fame hath waxen great, And Ahasuerus Jenkins is a power in the State. STUDY OF AN ELEVATION, IN INDIAN INK This ditty is a string of lies. But--how the deuce did Gubbins rise? POTIPHAR GUBBINS, C. E., Stands at the top of the tree; And I muse in my bed on the reasons that led To the hoisting of Potiphar G. Potiphar Gubbins, C. E., Is seven years junior to Me; Each bridge that he makes he either buckles or breaks, And his work is as rough as he. Potiphar Gubbins, C. E., Is coarse as a chimpanzee; And I can't understand why you gave him your hand, Lovely Mehitabel Lee. Potiphar Gubbins, C. E., Is dear to the Powers that Be; For They bow and They smile in an affable style Which is seldom accorded to Me. Potiphar Gubbins, C. E., Is certain as certain can be Of a highly-paid post which is claimed by a host Of seniors--including Me. Careless and lazy is he, Greatly inferior to Me. What is the spell that you manage so well, Commonplace Potiphar G.? Lovely Mehitabel Lee, Let me inquire of thee, Should I have riz to what Potiphar is, Hadst thou been mated to me? A LEGEND This is the reason why Rustum Beg, Rajah of Kolazai, Drinketh the "simpkin" and brandy peg, Maketh the money to fly, Vexeth a Government, tender and kind, Also--but this is a detail--blind. RUSTUM BEG of Kolazai--slightly backward native state Lusted for a C. S. I.,--so began to sanitate. Built a Jail and Hospital--nearly built a City drain-- Till his faithful subjects all thought their Ruler was insane. Strange departures made he then--yea, Departments stranger still, Half a dozen Englishmen helped the Rajah with a will, Talked of noble aims and high, hinted of a future fine For the state of Kolazai, on a strictly Western line. Rajah Rustum held his peace; lowered octroi dues a half; Organized a State Police; purified the Civil Staff; Settled cess and tax afresh in a very liberal way; Cut temptations of the flesh--also cut the Bukhshi's pay; Roused his Secretariat to a fine Mahratta fury, By a Hookum hinting at supervision of dasturi; Turned the State of Kolazai very nearly upside-down; When the end of May was nigh, waited his achievement crown. When the Birthday Honors came, Sad to state and sad to see, Stood against the Rajah's name nothing more than C. I. E.! * * * * * Things were lively for a week in the State of Kolazai. Even now the people speak of that time regretfully. How he disendowed the Jail--stopped at once the City drain; Turned to beauty fair and frail--got his senses back again; Doubled taxes, cesses, all; cleared away each new-built thana; Turned the two-lakh Hospital into a superb Zenana; Heaped upon the Bukhshi Sahib wealth and honors manifold; Clad himself in Eastern garb--squeezed his people as of old. Happy, happy Kolazai! Never more will Rustum Beg Play to catch the Viceroy's eye. He prefers the "simpkin" peg. THE STORY OF URIAH "Now there were two men in one city; the one rich and the other poor." Jack Barrett went to Quetta Because they told him to. He left his wife at Simla On three-fourths his monthly screw: Jack Barrett died at Quetta Ere the next month's pay he drew. Jack Barrett went to Quetta. He didn't understand The reason of his transfer From the pleasant mountain-land: The season was September, And it killed him out of hand. Jack Barrett went to Quetta, And there gave up the ghost, Attempting two men's duty In that very healthy post; And Mrs. Barrett mourned for him Five lively months at most. Jack Barrett's bones at Quetta Enjoy profound repose; But I shouldn't be astonished If now his spirit knows The reason of his transfer From the Himalayan snows. And, when the Last Great Bugle Call Adown the Hurnal throbs, When the last grim joke is entered In the big black Book of Jobs, And Quetta graveyards give again Their victims to the air, I shouldn't like to be the man Who sent Jack Barrett there. THE POST THAT FITTED Though tangled and twisted the course of true love This ditty explains, No tangle's so tangled it cannot improve If the Lover has brains. Ere the steamer bore him Eastward, Sleary was engaged to marry An attractive girl at Tunbridge, whom he called "my little Carrie." Sleary's pay was very modest; Sleary was the other way. Who can cook a two-plate dinner on eight poor rupees a day? Long he pondered o'er the question in his scantly furnished quarters-- Then proposed to Minnie Boffkin, eldest of Judge Boffkin's daughters. Certainly an impecunious Subaltern was not a catch, But the Boffkins knew that Minnie mightn't make another match. So they recognised the business and, to feed and clothe the bride, Got him made a Something Something somewhere on the Bombay side. Anyhow, the billet carried pay enough for him to marry-- As the artless Sleary put it:--"Just the thing for me and Carrie." Did he, therefore, jilt Miss Boffkin--impulse of a baser mind? No! He started epileptic fits of an appalling kind. [Of his modus operandi only this much I could gather:-- "Pears's shaving sticks will give you little taste and lots of lather."] Frequently in public places his affliction used to smite Sleary with distressing vigour--always in the Boffkins' sight. Ere a week was over Minnie weepingly returned his ring, Told him his "unhappy weakness" stopped all thought of marrying. Sleary bore the information with a chastened holy joy,-- Epileptic fits don't matter in Political employ,-- Wired three short words to Carrie--took his ticket, packed his kit-- Bade farewell to Minnie Boffkin in one last, long, lingering fit. Four weeks later, Carrie Sleary read--and laughed until she wept-- Mrs. Boffkin's warning letter on the "wretched epilept."... Year by year, in pious patience, vengeful Mrs. Boffkin sits Waiting for the Sleary babies to develop Sleary's fits. PUBLIC WASTE Walpole talks of "a man and his price." List to a ditty queer-- The sale of a Deputy-Acting-Vice- Resident-Engineer, Bought like a bullock, hoof and hide, By the Little Tin Gods on the Mountain Side. By the Laws of the Family Circle 'tis written in letters of brass That only a Colonel from Chatham can manage the Railways of State, Because of the gold on his breeks, and the subjects wherein he must pass; Because in all matters that deal not with Railways his knowledge is great. Now Exeter Battleby Tring had laboured from boyhood to eld On the Lines of the East and the West, and eke of the North and South; Many Lines had he built and surveyed--important the posts which he held; And the Lords of the Iron Horse were dumb when he opened his mouth. Black as the raven his garb, and his heresies jettier still-- Hinting that Railways required lifetimes of study and knowledge-- Never clanked sword by his side--Vauban he knew not nor drill-- Nor was his name on the list of the men who had passed through the "College." Wherefore the Little Tin Gods harried their little tin souls, Seeing he came not from Chatham, jingled no spurs at his heels, Knowing that, nevertheless, was he first on the Government rolls For the billet of "Railway Instructor to Little Tin Gods on Wheels." Letters not seldom they wrote him, "having the honour to state," It would be better for all men if he were laid on the shelf. Much would accrue to his bank-book, an he consented to wait Until the Little Tin Gods built him a berth for himself, "Special, well paid, and exempt from the Law of the Fifty and Five, Even to Ninety and Nine"--these were the terms of the pact: Thus did the Little Tin Gods (long may Their Highnesses thrive!) Silence his mouth with rupees, keeping their Circle intact; Appointing a Colonel from Chatham who managed the Bhamo State Line (The which was one mile and one furlong--a guaranteed twenty-inch gauge), So Exeter Battleby Tring consented his claims to resign, And died, on four thousand a month, in the ninetieth year of his age! DELILAH We have another viceroy now,--those days are dead and done Of Delilah Aberyswith and depraved Ulysses Gunne. Delilah Aberyswith was a lady--not too young-- With a perfect taste in dresses and a badly-bitted tongue, With a thirst for information, and a greater thirst for praise, And a little house in Simla in the Prehistoric Days. By reason of her marriage to a gentleman in power, Delilah was acquainted with the gossip of the hour; And many little secrets, of the half-official kind, Were whispered to Delilah, and she bore them all in mind. She patronized extensively a man, Ulysses Gunne, Whose mode of earning money was a low and shameful one. He wrote for certain papers, which, as everybody knows, Is worse than serving in a shop or scaring off the crows. He praised her "queenly beauty" first; and, later on, he hinted At the "vastness of her intellect" with compliment unstinted. He went with her a-riding, and his love for her was such That he lent her all his horses and--she galled them very much. One day, THEY brewed a secret of a fine financial sort; It related to Appointments, to a Man and a Report. 'Twas almost worth the keeping,--only seven people knew it-- And Gunne rose up to seek the truth and patiently pursue it. It was a Viceroy's Secret, but--perhaps the wine was red-- Perhaps an Aged Councillor had lost his aged head-- Perhaps Delilah's eyes were bright--Delilah's whispers sweet-- The Aged Member told her what 'twere treason to repeat. Ulysses went a-riding, and they talked of love and flowers; Ulysses went a-calling, and he called for several hours; Ulysses went a-waltzing, and Delilah helped him dance-- Ulysses let the waltzes go, and waited for his chance. The summer sun was setting, and the summer air was still, The couple went a-walking in the shade of Summer Hill. The wasteful sunset faded out in Turkish-green and gold, Ulysses pleaded softly, and-- that bad Delilah told! Next morn, a startled Empire learnt the all-important news; Next week, the Aged Councillor was shaking in his shoes. Next month, I met Delilah and she did not show the least Hesitation in affirming that Ulysses was a "beast." * * * * * We have another Viceroy now, those days are dead and done-- Of Delilah Aberyswith and most mean Ulysses Gunne! WHAT HAPPENED Hurree Chunder Mookerjee, pride of Bow Bazaar, Owner of a native press, "Barrishter-at-Lar," Waited on the Government with a claim to wear Sabres by the bucketful, rifles by the pair. Then the Indian Government winked a wicked wink, Said to Chunder Mookerjee: "Stick to pen and ink. They are safer implements, but, if you insist, We will let you carry arms wheresoe'er you list." Hurree Chunder Mookerjee sought the gunsmith and Bought the tubes of Lancaster, Ballard, Dean, and Bland, Bought a shiny bowie-knife, bought a town-made sword, Jingled like a carriage-horse when he went abroad. But the Indian Government, always keen to please, Also gave permission to horrid men like these-- Yar Mahommed Yusufzai, down to kill or steal, Chimbu Singh from Bikaneer, Tantia the Bhil; Killar Khan the Marri chief, Jowar Singh the Sikh, Nubbee Baksh Punjabi Jat, Abdul Huq Rafiq-- He was a Wahabi; last, little Boh Hla-oo Took advantage of the Act--took a Snider too. They were unenlightened men, Ballard knew them not. They procured their swords and guns chiefly on the spot; And the lore of centuries, plus a hundred fights, Made them slow to disregard one another's rights. With a unanimity dear to patriot hearts All those hairy gentlemen out of foreign parts Said: "The good old days are back--let us go to war!" Swaggered down the Grand Trunk Road into Bow Bazaar, Nubbee Baksh Punjabi Jat found a hide-bound flail; Chimbu Singh from Bikaneer oiled his Tonk jezail; Yar Mahommed Yusufzai spat and grinned with glee As he ground the butcher-knife of the Khyberee. Jowar Singh the Sikh procured sabre, quoit, and mace, Abdul Huq, Wahabi, jerked his dagger from its place, While amid the jungle-grass danced and grinned and jabbered Little Boh Hla-oo and cleared his dah-blade from the scabbard. What became of Mookerjee? Soothly, who can say? Yar Mahommed only grins in a nasty way, Jowar Singh is reticent, Chimbu Singh is mute. But the belts of all of them simply bulge with loot. What became of Ballard's guns? Afghans black and grubby Sell them for their silver weight to the men of Pubbi; And the shiny bowie-knife and the town-made sword are Hanging in a Marri camp just across the Border. What became of Mookerjee? Ask Mahommed Yar Prodding Siva's sacred bull down the Bow Bazaar. Speak to placid Nubbee Baksh--question land and sea-- Ask the Indian Congressmen--only don't ask me! PINK DOMINOES They are fools who kiss and tell"-- Wisely has the poet sung. Man may hold all sorts of posts If he'll only hold his tongue. Jenny and Me were engaged, you see, On the eve of the Fancy Ball; So a kiss or two was nothing to you Or any one else at all. Jenny would go in a domino-- Pretty and pink but warm; While I attended, clad in a splendid Austrian uniform. Now we had arranged, through notes exchanged Early that afternoon, At Number Four to waltz no more, But to sit in the dusk and spoon. I wish you to see that Jenny and Me Had barely exchanged our troth; So a kiss or two was strictly due By, from, and between us both. When Three was over, an eager lover, I fled to the gloom outside; And a Domino came out also Whom I took for my future bride. That is to say, in a casual way, I slipped my arm around her; With a kiss or two (which is nothing to you), And ready to kiss I found her. She turned her head and the name she said Was certainly not my own; But ere I could speak, with a smothered shriek She fled and left me alone. Then Jenny came, and I saw with shame She'd doffed her domino; And I had embraced an alien waist-- But I did not tell her so. Next morn I knew that there were two Dominoes pink, and one Had cloaked the spouse of Sir Julian House, Our big Political gun. Sir J. was old, and her hair was gold, And her eye was a blue cerulean; And the name she said when she turned her head Was not in the least like "Julian." THE MAN WHO COULD WRITE Shun--shun the Bowl! That fatal, facile drink Has ruined many geese who dipped their quills in 't; Bribe, murder, marry, but steer clear of Ink Save when you write receipts for paid-up bills in 't. There may be silver in the "blue-black"--all I know of is the iron and the gall. Boanerges Blitzen, servant of the Queen, Is a dismal failure--is a Might-have-been. In a luckless moment he discovered men Rise to high position through a ready pen. Boanerges Blitzen argued therefore--"I, With the selfsame weapon, can attain as high." Only he did not possess when he made the trial, Wicked wit of C-lv-n, irony of L--l. [Men who spar with Government need, to back their blows, Something more than ordinary journalistic prose.] Never young Civilian's prospects were so bright, Till an Indian paper found that he could write: Never young Civilian's prospects were so dark, When the wretched Blitzen wrote to make his mark. Certainly he scored it, bold, and black, and firm, In that Indian paper--made his seniors squirm, Quoted office scandals, wrote the tactless truth-- Was there ever known a more misguided youth? When the Rag he wrote for praised his plucky game, Boanerges Blitzen felt that this was Fame; When the men he wrote of shook their heads and swore, Boanerges Blitzen only wrote the more: Posed as Young Ithuriel, resolute and grim, Till he found promotion didn't come to him; Till he found that reprimands weekly were his lot, And his many Districts curiously hot. Till he found his furlough strangely hard to win, Boanerges Blitzen didn't care to pin: Then it seemed to dawn on him something wasn't right-- Boanerges Blitzen put it down to "spite"; Languished in a District desolate and dry; Watched the Local Government yearly pass him by; Wondered where the hitch was; called it most unfair. * * * * * * * * * That was seven years ago--and he still is there! MUNICIPAL "Why is my District death-rate low?" Said Binks of Hezabad. "Well, drains, and sewage-outfalls are "My own peculiar fad. "I learnt a lesson once, It ran "Thus," quoth that most veracious man:-- It was an August evening and, in snowy garments clad, I paid a round of visits in the lines of Hezabad; When, presently, my Waler saw, and did not like at all, A Commissariat elephant careering down the Mall. I couldn't see the driver, and across my mind it rushed That that Commissariat elephant had suddenly gone musth. I didn't care to meet him, and I couldn't well get down, So I let the Waler have it, and we headed for the town. The buggy was a new one and, praise Dykes, it stood the strain, Till the Waler jumped a bullock just above the City Drain; And the next that I remember was a hurricane of squeals, And the creature making toothpicks of my five-foot patent wheels. He seemed to want the owner, so I fled, distraught with fear, To the Main Drain sewage-outfall while he snorted in my ear-- Reached the four-foot drain-head safely and, in darkness and despair, Felt the brute's proboscis fingering my terror-stiffened hair. Heard it trumpet on my shoulder--tried to crawl a little higher-- Found the Main Drain sewage outfall blocked, some eight feet up, with mire; And, for twenty reeking minutes, Sir, my very marrow froze, While the trunk was feeling blindly for a purchase on my toes! It missed me by a fraction, but my hair was turning grey Before they called the drivers up and dragged the brute away. Then I sought the City Elders, and my words were very plain. They flushed that four-foot drain-head and--it never choked again! You may hold with surface-drainage, and the sun-for-garbage cure, Till you've been a periwinkle shrinking coyly up a sewer. I believe in well-flushed culverts.... This is why the death-rate's small; And, if you don't believe me, get shikarred yourself. That's all. A CODE OF MORALS Lest you should think this story true I merely mention I Evolved it lately. 'Tis a most Unmitigated misstatement. Now Jones had left his new-wed bride to keep his house in order, And hied away to the Hurrum Hills above the Afghan border, To sit on a rock with a heliograph; but ere he left he taught His wife the working of the Code that sets the miles at naught. And Love had made him very sage, as Nature made her fair; So Cupid and Apollo linked, per heliograph, the pair. At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise-- At e'en, the dying sunset bore her husband's homilies. He warned her 'gainst seductive youths in scarlet clad and gold, As much as 'gainst the blandishments paternal of the old; But kept his gravest warnings for (hereby the ditty hangs) That snowy-haired Lothario, Lieutenant-General Bangs. 'Twas General Bangs, with Aide and Staff, who tittupped on the way, When they beheld a heliograph tempestuously at play. They thought of Border risings, and of stations sacked and burnt-- So stopped to take the message down--and this is what they learnt-- "Dash dot dot, dot, dot dash, dot dash dot" twice. The General swore. "Was ever General Officer addressed as 'dear' before? "'My Love,' i' faith! 'My Duck,' Gadzooks! 'My darling popsy-wop!' "Spirit of great Lord Wolseley, who is on that mountaintop?" The artless Aide-de-camp was mute; the gilded Staff were still, As, dumb with pent-up mirth, they booked that message from the hill; For clear as summer lightning-flare, the husband's warning ran:-- "Don't dance or ride with General Bangs--a most immoral man." [At dawn, across the Hurrum Hills, he flashed her counsel wise-- But, howsoever Love be blind, the world at large hath eyes.] With damnatory dot and dash he heliographed his wife Some interesting details of the General's private life. The artless Aide-de-camp was mute, the shining Staff were still, And red and ever redder grew the General's shaven gill. And this is what he said at last (his feelings matter not):-- "I think we've tapped a private line. Hi! Threes about there! Trot!" All honour unto Bangs, for ne'er did Jones thereafter know By word or act official who read off that helio. But the tale is on the Frontier, and from Michni to Mooltan They know the worthy General as "that most immoral man." THE LAST DEPARTMENT Twelve hundred million men are spread About this Earth, and I and You Wonder, when You and I are dead, "What will those luckless millions do?" None whole or clean, we cry, "or free from stain Of favour." Wait awhile, till we attain The Last Department where nor fraud nor fools, Nor grade nor greed, shall trouble us again. Fear, Favour, or Affection--what are these To the grim Head who claims our services? I never knew a wife or interest yet Delay that pukka step, miscalled "decease"; When leave, long overdue, none can deny; When idleness of all Eternity Becomes our furlough, and the marigold Our thriftless, bullion-minting Treasury Transferred to the Eternal Settlement, Each in his strait, wood-scantled office pent, No longer Brown reverses Smith's appeals, Or Jones records his Minute of Dissent. And One, long since a pillar of the Court, As mud between the beams thereof is wrought; And One who wrote on phosphates for the crops Is subject-matter of his own Report. These be the glorious ends whereto we pass-- Let Him who Is, go call on Him who Was; And He shall see the mallie steals the slab For currie-grinder, and for goats the grass. A breath of wind, a Border bullet's flight, A draught of water, or a horse's fright-- The droning of the fat Sheristadar Ceases, the punkah stops, and falls the night For you or Me. Do those who live decline The step that offers, or their work resign? Trust me, Today's Most Indispensables, Five hundred men can take your place or mine. OTHER VERSES RECESSIONAL (A Victorian Ode) God of our fathers, known of old-- Lord of our far-flung battle line-- Beneath whose awful hand we hold Dominion over palm and pine-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! The tumult and the shouting dies-- The Captains and the Kings depart-- Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice, An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! Far-called our navies melt away-- On dune and headland sinks the fire-- Lo, all our pomp of yesterday Is one with Nineveh and Tyre! Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! If, drunk with sight of power, we loose Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-- Such boastings as the Gentiles use, Or lesser breeds without the Law-- Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget--lest we forget! For heathen heart that puts her trust In reeking tube and iron shard-- All valiant dust that builds on dust, And guarding calls not Thee to guard. For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy Mercy on Thy People, Lord! Amen. THE VAMPIRE The verses--as suggested by the painting by Philip Burne Jones, first exhibited at the new gallery in London in 1897. A fool there was and he made his prayer (Even as you and I!) To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair (We called her the woman who did not care), But the fool he called her his lady fair (Even as you and I!) Oh the years we waste and the tears we waste And the work of our head and hand, Belong to the woman who did not know (And now we know that she never could know) And did not understand. A fool there was and his goods he spent (Even as you and I!) Honor and faith and a sure intent But a fool must follow his natural bent (And it wasn't the least what the lady meant), (Even as you and I!) Oh the toil we lost and the spoil we lost And the excellent things we planned, Belong to the woman who didn't know why (And now we know she never knew why) And did not understand. The fool we stripped to his foolish hide (Even as you and I!) Which she might have seen when she threw him aside-- (But it isn't on record the lady tried) So some of him lived but the most of him died-- (Even as you and I!) And it isn't the shame and it isn't the blame That stings like a white hot brand. It's coming to know that she never knew why (Seeing at last she could never know why) And never could understand. TO THE UNKNOWN GODDESS Will you conquer my heart with your beauty; my soul going out from afar? Shall I fall to your hand as a victim of crafty and cautious shikar? Have I met you and passed you already, unknowing, unthinking and blind? Shall I meet you next session at Simla, O sweetest and best of your kind? Does the P. and O. bear you to meward, or, clad in short frocks in the West, Are you growing the charms that shall capture and torture the heart in my breast? Will you stay in the Plains till September--my passion as warm as the day? Will you bring me to book on the Mountains, or where the thermantidotes play? When the light of your eyes shall make pallid the mean lesser lights I pursue, And the charm of your presence shall lure me from love of the gay "thirteen- two"; When the peg and the pig-skin shall please not; when I buy me Calcutta-build clothes; When I quit the Delight of Wild Asses; forswearing the swearing of oaths; As a deer to the hand of the hunter when I turn 'mid the gibes of my friends; When the days of my freedom are numbered, and the life of the bachelor ends. Ah, Goddess! child, spinster, or widow--as of old on Mars Hill whey they raised To the God that they knew not an altar--so I, a young Pagan, have praised The Goddess I know not nor worship; yet, if half that men tell me be true, You will come in the future, and therefore these verses are written to you. THE RUPAIYAT OF OMAR KAL'VIN [Allowing for the difference 'twixt prose and rhymed exaggeration, this ought to reproduce the sense of what Sir A-- told the nation sometime ago, when the Government struck from our incomes two per cent.] Now the New Year, reviving last Year's Debt, The Thoughtful Fisher casteth wide his Net; So I with begging Dish and ready Tongue Assail all Men for all that I can get. Imports indeed are gone with all their Dues-- Lo! Salt a Lever that I dare not use, Nor may I ask the Tillers in Bengal-- Surely my Kith and Kin will not refuse! Pay--and I promise by the Dust of Spring, Retrenchment. If my promises can bring Comfort, Ye have Them now a thousandfold-- By Allah! I will promise Anything! Indeed, indeed, Retrenchment oft before I swore--but did I mean it when I swore? And then, and then, We wandered to the Hills, And so the Little Less became Much More. Whether a Boileaugunge or Babylon, I know not how the wretched Thing is done, The Items of Receipt grow surely small; The Items of Expense mount one by one. I cannot help it. What have I to do With One and Five, or Four, or Three, or Two? Let Scribes spit Blood and Sulphur as they please, Or Statesmen call me foolish--Heed not you. Behold, I promise--Anything You will. Behold, I greet you with an empty Till-- Ah! Fellow-Sinners, of your Charity Seek not the Reason of the Dearth, but fill. For if I sinned and fell, where lies the Gain Of Knowledge? Would it ease you of your Pain To know the tangled Threads of Revenue, I ravel deeper in a hopeless Skein? "Who hath not Prudence"--what was it I said, Of Her who paints her Eyes and tires Her Head, And gibes and mocks the People in the Street, And fawns upon them for Her thriftless Bread? Accursed is She of Eve's daughters--She Hath cast off Prudence, and Her End shall be Destruction... Brethren, of your Bounty Some portion of your daily Bread to Me. LA NUIT BLANCHE A much-discerning Public hold The Singer generally sings And prints and sells his past for gold. Whatever I may here disclaim, The very clever folk I sing to Will most indubitably cling to Their pet delusion, just the same. I had seen, as the dawn was breaking And I staggered to my rest, Tari Devi softly shaking From the Cart Road to the crest. I had seen the spurs of Jakko Heave and quiver, swell and sink. Was it Earthquake or tobacco, Day of Doom, or Night of Drink? In the full, fresh fragrant morning I observed a camel crawl, Laws of gravitation scorning, On the ceiling and the wall; Then I watched a fender walking, And I heard grey leeches sing, And a red-hot monkey talking Did not seem the proper thing. Then a Creature, skinned and crimson, Ran about the floor and cried, And they said that I had the "jims" on, And they dosed me with bromide, And they locked me in my bedroom-- Me and one wee Blood Red Mouse-- Though I said: "To give my head room You had best unroof the house." But my words were all unheeded, Though I told the grave M.D. That the treatment really needed Was a dip in open sea That was lapping just below me, Smooth as silver, white as snow, And it took three men to throw me When I found I could not go. Half the night I watched the Heavens Fizz like '81 champagne-- Fly to sixes and to sevens, Wheel and thunder back again; And when all was peace and order Save one planet nailed askew, Much I wept because my warder Would not let me set it true. After frenzied hours of waiting, When the Earth and Skies were dumb, Pealed an awful voice dictating An interminable sum, Changing to a tangle story-- "What she said you said I said"-- Till the Moon arose in glory, And I found her... in my head; Then a Face came, blind and weeping, And It couldn't wipe its eyes, And It muttered I was keeping Back the moonlight from the skies; So I patted it for pity, But it whistled shrill with wrath, And a huge black Devil City Poured its peoples on my path. So I fled with steps uncertain On a thousand-year long race, But the bellying of the curtain Kept me always in one place; While the tumult rose and maddened To the roar of Earth on fire, Ere it ebbed and sank and saddened To a whisper tense as wire. In tolerable stillness Rose one little, little star, And it chuckled at my illness, And it mocked me from afar; And its brethren came and eyed me, Called the Universe to aid, Till I lay, with naught to hide me, 'Neath the Scorn of All Things Made. Dun and saffron, robed and splendid, Broke the solemn, pitying Day, And I knew my pains were ended, And I turned and tried to pray; But my speech was shattered wholly, And I wept as children weep. Till the dawn-wind, softly, slowly, Brought to burning eyelids sleep. MY RIVAL I go to concert, party, ball-- What profit is in these? I sit alone against the wall And strive to look at ease. The incense that is mine by right They burn before her shrine; And that's because I'm seventeen And She is forty-nine. I cannot check my girlish blush, My color comes and goes; I redden to my finger-tips, And sometimes to my nose. But She is white where white should be, And red where red should shine. The blush that flies at seventeen Is fixed at forty-nine. I wish I had Her constant cheek; I wish that I could sing All sorts of funny little songs, Not quite the proper thing. I'm very gauche and very shy, Her jokes aren't in my line; And, worst of all, I'm seventeen While She is forty-nine. The young men come, the young men go Each pink and white and neat, She's older than their mothers, but They grovel at Her feet. They walk beside Her 'rickshaw wheels-- None ever walk by mine; And that's because I'm seventeen And She is forty-nine. She rides with half a dozen men, (She calls them "boys" and "mashers") I trot along the Mall alone; My prettiest frocks and sashes Don't help to fill my programme-card, And vainly I repine From ten to two A.M. Ah me! Would I were forty-nine! She calls me "darling," "pet," and "dear," And "sweet retiring maid." I'm always at the back, I know, She puts me in the shade. She introduces me to men, "Cast" lovers, I opine, For sixty takes to seventeen, Nineteen to forty-nine. But even She must older grow And end Her dancing days, She can't go on forever so At concerts, balls and plays. One ray of priceless hope I see Before my footsteps shine; Just think, that She'll be eighty-one When I am forty-nine. THE LOVERS' LITANY Eyes of grey--a sodden quay, Driving rain and falling tears, As the steamer wears to sea In a parting storm of cheers. Sing, for Faith and Hope are high-- None so true as you and I-- Sing the Lovers' Litany: "Love like ours can never die!" Eyes of black--a throbbing keel, Milky foam to left and right; Whispered converse near the wheel In the brilliant tropic night. Cross that rules the Southern Sky! Stars that sweep and wheel and fly, Hear the Lovers' Litany: Love like ours can never die!" Eyes of brown--a dusty plain Split and parched with heat of June, Flying hoof and tightened rein, Hearts that beat the old, old tune. Side by side the horses fly, Frame we now the old reply Of the Lovers' Litany: "Love like ours can never die!" Eyes of blue--the Simla Hills Silvered with the moonlight hoar; Pleading of the waltz that thrills, Dies and echoes round Benmore. "Mabel," "Officers," "Goodbye," Glamour, wine, and witchery-- On my soul's sincerity, "Love like ours can never die!" Maidens of your charity, Pity my most luckless state. Four times Cupid's debtor I-- Bankrupt in quadruplicate. Yet, despite this evil case, And a maiden showed me grace, Four-and-forty times would I Sing the Lovers' Litany: "Love like ours can never die!" A BALLAD OF BURIAL ("Saint @Proxed's ever was the Church for peace") If down here I chance to die, Solemnly I beg you take All that is left of "I" To the Hills for old sake's sake, Pack me very thoroughly In the ice that used to slake Pegs I drank when I was dry-- This observe for old sake's sake. To the railway station hie, There a single ticket take For Umballa--goods-train--I Shall not mind delay or shake. I shall rest contentedly Spite of clamor coolies make; Thus in state and dignity Send me up for old sake's sake. Next the sleepy Babu wake, Book a Kalka van "for four." Few, I think, will care to make Journeys with me any more As they used to do of yore. I shall need a "special" break-- Thing I never took before-- Get me one for old sake's sake. After that--arrangements make. No hotel will take me in, And a bullock's back would break 'Neath the teak and leaden skin Tonga ropes are frail and thin, Or, did I a back-seat take, In a tonga I might spin,-- Do your best for old sake's sake. After that--your work is done. Recollect a Padre must Mourn the dear departed one-- Throw the ashes and the dust. Don't go down at once. I trust You will find excuse to "snake Three days' casual on the bust." Get your fun for old sake's sake. I could never stand the Plains. Think of blazing June and May Think of those September rains Yearly till the Judgment Day! I should never rest in peace, I should sweat and lie awake. Rail me then, on my decease, To the Hills for old sake's sake. DIVIDED DESTINIES It was an artless Bandar, and he danced upon a pine, And much I wondered how he lived, and where the beast might dine, And many, many other things, till, o'er my morning smoke, I slept the sleep of idleness and dreamt that Bandar spoke. He said: "O man of many clothes! Sad crawler on the Hills! Observe, I know not Ranken's shop, nor Ranken's monthly bills; I take no heed to trousers or the coats that you call dress; Nor am I plagued with little cards for little drinks at Mess. "I steal the bunnia's grain at morn, at noon and eventide, (For he is fat and I am spare), I roam the mountain side, I follow no man's carriage, and no, never in my life Have I flirted at Peliti's with another Bandar's wife. "O man of futile fopperies--unnecessary wraps; I own no ponies in the hills, I drive no tall-wheeled traps; I buy me not twelve-button gloves, 'short-sixes' eke, or rings, Nor do I waste at Hamilton's my wealth on 'pretty things.' "I quarrel with my wife at home, we never fight abroad; But Mrs. B. has grasped the fact I am her only lord. I never heard of fever--dumps nor debts depress my soul; And I pity and despise you!" Here he poached my breakfast-roll. His hide was very mangy, and his face was very red, And ever and anon he scratched with energy his head. His manners were not always nice, but how my spirit cried To be an artless Bandar loose upon the mountain side! So I answered: "Gentle Bandar, an inscrutable Decree Makes thee a gleesome fleasome Thou, and me a wretched Me. Go! Depart in peace, my brother, to thy home amid the pine; Yet forget not once a mortal wished to change his lot for thine." THE MASQUE OF PLENTY Argument.--The Indian Government being minded to discover the economic condition of their lands, sent a Committee to inquire into it; and saw that it was good. Scene.--The wooded heights of Simla. The Incarnation of the Government of India in the raiment of the Angel of Plenty sings, to pianoforte accompaniment:-- "How sweet is the shepherd's sweet life! From the dawn to the even he strays-- And his tongue shall be filled with praise. (adagio dim.) Filled with praise!" (largendo con sp.) Now this is the position, Go make an inquisition Into their real condition As swiftly as ye may. (p) Ay, paint our swarthy billions The richest of vermillions Ere two well-led cotillions Have danced themselves away. Turkish Patrol, as able and intelligent Investigators wind down the Himalayas:-- What is the state of the Nation? What is its occupation? Hi! get along, get along, get along--lend us the information! (dim.) Census the byle and the yabu--capture a first-class Babu, Set him to file Gazetteers--Gazetteers... (ff) What is the state of the Nation, etc., etc. Interlude, from Nowhere in Particular, to stringed and Oriental instruments. Our cattle reel beneath the yoke they bear-- The earth is iron and the skies are brass-- And faint with fervour of the flaming air The languid hours pass. The well is dry beneath the village tree-- The young wheat withers ere it reach a span, And belts of blinding sand show cruelly Where once the river ran. Pray, brothers, pray, but to no earthly King-- Lift up your hands above the blighted grain, Look westward--if they please, the Gods shall bring Their mercy with the rain. Look westward--bears the blue no brown cloud-bank? Nay, it is written--wherefore should we fly? On our own field and by our cattle's flank Lie down, lie down to die! Semi-Chorus By the plumed heads of Kings Waving high, Where the tall corn springs O'er the dead. If they rust or rot we die, If they ripen we are fed. Very mighty is the power of our Kings! Triumphal return to Simla of the Investigators, attired after the manner of Dionysus, leading a pet tiger-cub in wreaths of rhubarb-leaves, symbolical of India under medical treatment. They sing:-- We have seen, we have written--behold it, the proof of our manifold toil! In their hosts they assembled and told it--the tale of the Sons of the Soil. We have said of the Sickness--"Where is it?"--and of Death--"It is far from our ken,"-- We have paid a particular visit to the affluent children of men. We have trodden the mart and the well-curb--we have stooped to the field and the byre; And the King may the forces of Hell curb for the People have all they desire! Castanets and step-dance:-- Oh, the dom and the mag and the thakur and the thag, And the nat and the brinjaree, And the bunnia and the ryot are as happy and as quiet And as plump as they can be! Yes, the jain and the jat in his stucco-fronted hut, And the bounding bazugar, By the favour of the King, are as fat as anything, They are--they are--they are! Recitative, Government of India, with white satin wings and electro-plated harp:-- How beautiful upon the Mountains--in peace reclining, Thus to be assured that our people are unanimously dining. And though there are places not so blessed as others in natural advantages, which, after all, was only to be expected, Proud and glad are we to congratulate you upon the work you have thus ably effected. (Cres.) How be-ewtiful upon the Mountains! Hired Band, brasses only, full chorus:-- God bless the Squire And all his rich relations Who teach us poor people We eat our proper rations-- We eat our proper rations, In spite of inundations, Malarial exhalations, And casual starvations, We have, we have, they say we have-- We have our proper rations! Chorus of the Crystallised Facts Before the beginning of years There came to the rule of the State Men with a pair of shears, Men with an Estimate-- Strachey with Muir for leaven, Lytton with locks that fell, Ripon fooling with Heaven, And Temple riding like H--ll! And the bigots took in hand Cess and the falling of rain, And the measure of sifted sand The dealer puts in the grain-- Imports by land and sea, To uttermost decimal worth, And registration--free-- In the houses of death and of birth. And fashioned with pens and paper, And fashioned in black and white, With Life for a flickering taper And Death for a blazing light-- With the Armed and the Civil Power, That his strength might endure for a span-- From Adam's Bridge to Peshawur, The Much Administered Man. In the towns of the North and the East, They gathered as unto rule, They bade him starve his priest And send his children to school. Railways and roads they wrought, For the needs of the soil within; A time to squabble in court, A time to bear and to grin. And gave him peace in his ways, Jails--and Police to fight, Justice--at length of days, And Right--and Might in the Right. His speech is of mortgaged bedding, On his kine he borrows yet, At his heart is his daughter's wedding, In his eye foreknowledge of debt. He eats and hath indigestion, He toils and he may not stop; His life is a long-drawn question Between a crop and a crop. THE MARE'S NEST Jane Austen Beecher Stowe de Rouse Was good beyond all earthly need; But, on the other hand, her spouse Was very, very bad indeed. He smoked cigars, called churches slow, And raced--but this she did not know. For Belial Machiavelli kept The little fact a secret, and, Though o'er his minor sins she wept, Jane Austen did not understand That Lilly--thirteen-two and bay Absorbed one-half her husband's pay. She was so good, she made him worse; (Some women are like this, I think;) He taught her parrot how to curse, Her Assam monkey how to drink. He vexed her righteous soul until She went up, and he went down hill. Then came the crisis, strange to say, Which turned a good wife to a better. A telegraphic peon, one day, Brought her--now, had it been a letter For Belial Machiavelli, I Know Jane would just have let it lie. But 'twas a telegram instead, Marked "urgent," and her duty plain To open it. Jane Austen read: "Your Lilly's got a cough again. Can't understand why she is kept At your expense." Jane Austen wept. It was a misdirected wire. Her husband was at Shaitanpore. She spread her anger, hot as fire, Through six thin foreign sheets or more. Sent off that letter, wrote another To her solicitor--and mother. Then Belial Machiavelli saw Her error and, I trust, his own, Wired to the minion of the Law, And traveled wifeward--not alone. For Lilly--thirteen-two and bay-- Came in a horse-box all the way. There was a scene--a weep or two-- With many kisses. Austen Jane Rode Lilly all the season through, And never opened wires again. She races now with Belial. This Is very sad, but so it is. POSSIBILITIES Ay, lay him 'neath the Simla pine-- A fortnight fully to be missed, Behold, we lose our fourth at whist, A chair is vacant where we dine. His place forgets him; other men Have bought his ponies, guns, and traps. His fortune is the Great Perhaps And that cool rest-house down the glen, Whence he shall hear, as spirits may, Our mundane revel on the height, Shall watch each flashing 'rickshaw-light Sweep on to dinner, dance, and play. Benmore shall woo him to the ball With lighted rooms and braying band; And he shall hear and understand "Dream Faces" better than us all. For, think you, as the vapours flee Across Sanjaolie after rain, His soul may climb the hill again To each field of victory. Unseen, who women held so dear, The strong man's yearning to his kind Shall shake at most the window-blind, Or dull awhile the card-room's cheer. @In his own place of power unknown, His Light o' Love another's flame, And he an alien and alone! Yet may he meet with many a friend-- Shrewd shadows, lingering long unseen Among us when "God save the Queen" Shows even "extras" have an end. And, when we leave the heated room, And, when at four the lights expire, The crew shall gather round the fire And mock our laughter in the gloom; Talk as we talked, and they ere death-- Flirt wanly, dance in ghostly-wise, With ghosts of tunes for melodies, And vanish at the morning's breath. CHRISTMAS IN INDIA Dim dawn behind the tamarisks--the sky is saffron-yellow-- As the women in the village grind the corn, And the parrots seek the riverside, each calling to his fellow That the Day, the staring Easter Day is born. Oh the white dust on the highway! Oh the stenches in the byway! Oh the clammy fog that hovers o'er the earth; And at Home they're making merry 'neath the white and scarlet berry-- What part have India's exiles in their mirth? Full day behind the tamarisks--the sky is blue and staring-- As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke, And they bear One o'er the field-path, who is past all hope or caring, To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke. Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a brother lowly-- Call on Rama--he may hear, perhaps, your voice! With our hymn-books and our psalters we appeal to other altars, And today we bid "good Christian men rejoice!" High noon behind the tamarisks--the sun is hot above us-- As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking wan. They will drink our healths at dinner--those who tell us how they love us, And forget us till another year be gone! Oh the toil that knows no breaking! Oh the Heimweh, ceaseless, aching! Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain! Youth was cheap--wherefore we sold it. Gold was good--we hoped to hold it, And today we know the fulness of our gain. Grey dusk behind the tamarisks--the parrots fly together-- As the sun is sinking slowly over Home; And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a lifelong tether. That drags us back howe'er so far we roam. Hard her service, poor her payment--she is ancient, tattered raiment-- India, she the grim Stepmother of our kind. If a year of life be lent her, if her temple's shrine we enter, The door is shut--we may not look behind. Black night behind the tamarisks--the owls begin their chorus-- As the conches from the temple scream and bray. With the fruitless years behind us, and the hopeless years before us, Let us honor, O my brother, Christmas Day! Call a truce, then, to our labors--let us feast with friends and neighbors, And be merry as the custom of our caste; For if "faint and forced the laughter," and if sadness follow after, We are richer by one mocking Christmas past. PAGETT, M.P. The toad beneath the harrow knows Exactly where each tooth-point goes. The butterfly upon the road Preaches contentment to that toad. Pagett, M.P., was a liar, and a fluent liar therewith-- He spoke of the heat of India as the "Asian Solar Myth"; Came on a four months' visit, to "study the East," in November, And I got him to sign an agreement vowing to stay till September. March came in with the koil. Pagett was cool and gay, Called me a "bloated Brahmin," talked of my "princely pay." March went out with the roses. "Where is your heat?" said he. "Coming," said I to Pagett, "Skittles!" said Pagett, M.P. April began with the punkah, coolies, and prickly-heat,-- Pagett was dear to mosquitoes, sandflies found him a treat. He grew speckled and mumpy--hammered, I grieve to say, Aryan brothers who fanned him, in an illiberal way. May set in with a dust-storm,--Pagett went down with the sun. All the delights of the season tickled him one by one. Imprimis--ten day's "liver"--due to his drinking beer; Later, a dose of fever--slight, but he called it severe. Dysent'ry touched him in June, after the Chota Bursat-- Lowered his portly person--made him yearn to depart. He didn't call me a "Brahmin," or "bloated," or "overpaid," But seemed to think it a wonder that any one stayed. July was a trifle unhealthy,--Pagett was ill with fear. 'Called it the "Cholera Morbus," hinted that life was dear. He babbled of "Eastern Exile," and mentioned his home with tears; But I haven't seen my children for close upon seven years. We reached a hundred and twenty once in the Court at noon, (I've mentioned Pagett was portly) Pagett, went off in a swoon. That was an end to the business; Pagett, the perjured, fled With a practical, working knowledge of "Solar Myths" in his head. And I laughed as I drove from the station, but the mirth died out on my lips As I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their "Eastern trips," And the sneers of the traveled idiots who duly misgovern the land, And I prayed to the Lord to deliver another one into my hand. THE SONG OF THE WOMEN How shall she know the worship we would do her? The walls are high, and she is very far. How shall the woman's message reach unto her Above the tumult of the packed bazaar? Free wind of March, against the lattice blowing, Bear thou our thanks, lest she depart unknowing. Go forth across the fields we may not roam in, Go forth beyond the trees that rim the city, To whatsoe'er fair place she hath her home in, Who dowered us with wealth of love and pity. Out of our shadow pass, and seek her singing-- "I have no gifts but Love alone for bringing." Say that we be a feeble folk who greet her, But old in grief, and very wise in tears; Say that we, being desolate, entreat her That she forget us not in after years; For we have seen the light, and it were grievous To dim that dawning if our lady leave us. By life that ebbed with none to stanch the failing By Love's sad harvest garnered in the spring, When Love in ignorance wept unavailing O'er young buds dead before their blossoming; By all the grey owl watched, the pale moon viewed, In past grim years, declare our gratitude! By hands uplifted to the Gods that heard not, By fits that found no favor in their sight, By faces bent above the babe that stirred not, By nameless horrors of the stifling night; By ills foredone, by peace her toils discover, Bid Earth be good beneath and Heaven above her! If she have sent her servants in our pain If she have fought with Death and dulled his sword; If she have given back our sick again. And to the breast the waking lips restored, Is it a little thing that she has wrought? Then Life and Death and Motherhood be nought. Go forth, O wind, our message on thy wings, And they shall hear thee pass and bid thee speed, In reed-roofed hut, or white-walled home of kings, Who have been helpen by her in their need. All spring shall give thee fragrance, and the wheat Shall be a tasselled floorcloth to thy feet. Haste, for our hearts are with thee, take no rest! Loud-voiced ambassador, from sea to sea Proclaim the blessing, manifold, confessed. Of those in darkness by her hand set free. Then very softly to her presence move, And whisper: "Lady, lo, they know and love!" A BALLAD OF JAKKO HILL One moment bid the horses wait, Since tiffin is not laid till three, Below the upward path and straight You climbed a year ago with me. Love came upon us suddenly And loosed--an idle hour to kill-- A headless, armless armory That smote us both on Jakko Hill. Ah Heaven! we would wait and wait Through Time and to Eternity! Ah Heaven! we could conquer Fate With more than Godlike constancy I cut the date upon a tree-- Here stand the clumsy figures still: "10-7-85, A.D." Damp with the mist of Jakko Hill. What came of high resolve and great, And until Death fidelity! Whose horse is waiting at your gate? Whose 'rickshaw-wheels ride over me? No Saint's, I swear; and--let me see Tonight what names your programme fill-- We drift asunder merrily, As drifts the mist on Jakko Hill. L'ENVOI. Princess, behold our ancient state Has clean departed; and we see 'Twas Idleness we took for Fate That bound light bonds on you and me. Amen! Here ends the comedy Where it began in all good will; Since Love and Leave together flee As driven mist on Jakko Hill! THE PLEA OF THE SIMLA DANCERS Too late, alas! the song To remedy the wrong;-- The rooms are taken from us, swept and garnished for their fate. But these tear-besprinkled pages Shall attest to future ages That we cried against the crime of it-- too late, alas! too late! "What have we ever done to bear this grudge?" Was there no room save only in Benmore For docket, duftar, and for office drudge, That you usurp our smoothest dancing floor? Must babus do their work on polished teak? Are ball-rooms fittest for the ink you spill? Was there no other cheaper house to seek? You might have left them all at Strawberry Hill. We never harmed you! Innocent our guise, Dainty our shining feet, our voices low; And we revolved to divers melodies, And we were happy but a year ago. Tonight, the moon that watched our lightsome wiles-- That beamed upon us through the deodars-- Is wan with gazing on official files, And desecrating desks disgust the stars. Nay! by the memory of tuneful nights-- Nay! by the witchery of flying feet-- Nay! by the glamour of foredone delights-- By all things merry, musical, and meet-- By wine that sparkled, and by sparkling eyes-- By wailing waltz--by reckless galop's strain-- By dim verandas and by soft replies, Give us our ravished ball-room back again! Or--hearken to the curse we lay on you! The ghosts of waltzes shall perplex your brain, And murmurs of past merriment pursue Your 'wildered clerks that they indite in vain; And when you count your poor Provincial millions, The only figures that your pen shall frame Shall be the figures of dear, dear cotillions Danced out in tumult long before you came. Yea! "See Saw" shall upset your estimates, "Dream Faces" shall your heavy heads bemuse, Because your hand, unheeding, desecrates Our temple; fit for higher, worthier use. And all the long verandas, eloquent With echoes of a score of Simla years, Shall plague you with unbidden sentiment-- Babbling of kisses, laughter, love, and tears. So shall you mazed amid old memories stand, So shall you toil, and shall accomplish nought, And ever in your ears a phantom Band Shall blare away the staid official thought. Wherefore--and ere this awful curse he spoken, Cast out your swarthy sacrilegious train, And give--ere dancing cease and hearts be broken-- Give us our ravished ball-room back again! THE BALLAD OF FISHER'S BOARDING-HOUSE That night, when through the mooring-chains The wide-eyed corpse rolled free, To blunder down by Garden Reach And rot at Kedgeree, The tale the Hughli told the shoal The lean shoal told to me. 'T was Fultah Fisher's boarding-house, Where sailor-men reside, And there were men of all the ports From Mississip to Clyde, And regally they spat and smoked, And fearsomely they lied. They lied about the purple Sea That gave them scanty bread, They lied about the Earth beneath, The Heavens overhead, For they had looked too often on Black rum when that was red. They told their tales of wreck and wrong, Of shame and lust and fraud, They backed their toughest statements with The Brimstone of the Lord, And crackling oaths went to and fro Across the fist-banged board. And there was Hans the blue-eyed Dane, Bull-throated, bare of arm, Who carried on his hairy chest The maid Ultruda's charm-- The little silver crucifix That keeps a man from harm. And there was Jake Without-the-Ears, And Pamba the Malay, And Carboy Gin the Guinea cook, And Luz from Vigo Bay, And Honest Jack who sold them slops And harvested their pay. And there was Salem Hardieker, A lean Bostonian he-- Russ, German, English, Halfbreed, Finn, Yank, Dane, and Portuguee, At Fultah Fisher's boarding-house They rested from the sea. Now Anne of Austria shared their drinks, Collinga knew her fame, From Tarnau in Galicia To Juan Bazaar she came, To eat the bread of infamy And take the wage of shame. She held a dozen men to heel-- Rich spoil of war was hers, In hose and gown and ring and chain, From twenty mariners, And, by Port Law, that week, men called her Salem Hardieker's. But seamen learnt--what landsmen know-- That neither gifts nor gain Can hold a winking Light o' Love Or Fancy's flight restrain, When Anne of Austria rolled her eyes On Hans the blue-eyed Dane. Since Life is strife, and strife means knife, From Howrah to the Bay, And he may die before the dawn Who liquored out the day, In Fultah Fisher's boarding-house We woo while yet we may. But cold was Hans the blue-eyed Dane, Bull-throated, bare of arm, And laughter shook the chest beneath The maid Ultruda's charm-- The little silver crucifix That keeps a man from harm. "You speak to Salem Hardieker; "You was his girl, I know. "I ship mineselfs tomorrow, see, "Und round the Skaw we go, "South, down the Cattegat, by Hjelm, "To Besser in Saro." When love rejected turns to hate, All ill betide the man. "You speak to Salem Hardieker"-- She spoke as woman can. A scream--a sob--"He called me--names!" And then the fray began. An oath from Salem Hardieker, A shriek upon the stairs, A dance of shadows on the wall, A knife-thrust unawares-- And Hans came down, as cattle drop, Across the broken chairs. * * * * * * In Anne of Austria's trembling hands The weary head fell low:-- "I ship mineselfs tomorrow, straight "For Besser in Saro; "Und there Ultruda comes to me "At Easter, und I go-- "South, down the Cattegat--What's here? "There--are--no--lights--to guide!" The mutter ceased, the spirit passed, And Anne of Austria cried In Fultah Fisher's boarding-house When Hans the mighty died. Thus slew they Hans the blue-eyed Dane, Bull-throated, bare of arm, But Anne of Austria looted first The maid Ultruda's charm-- The little silver crucifix That keeps a man from harm. AS THE BELL CLINKS As I left the Halls at Lumley, rose the vision of a comely Maid last season worshipped dumbly, watched with fervor from afar; And I wondered idly, blindly, if the maid would greet me kindly. That was all--the rest was settled by the clinking tonga-bar. Yea, my life and hers were coupled by the tonga coupling-bar. For my misty meditation, at the second changin'-station, Suffered sudden dislocation, fled before the tuneless jar Of a Wagner obbligato, scherzo, doublehand staccato, Played on either pony's saddle by the clacking tonga-bar-- Played with human speech, I fancied, by the jigging, jolting bar. "She was sweet," thought I, "last season, but 'twere surely wild unreason Such tiny hope to freeze on as was offered by my Star, When she whispered, something sadly: 'I--we feel your going badly!'" "And you let the chance escape you?" rapped the rattling tonga-bar. "What a chance and what an idiot!" clicked the vicious tonga-bar. Heart of man--oh, heart of putty! Had I gone by Kakahutti, On the old Hill-road and rutty, I had 'scaped that fatal car. But his fortune each must bide by, so I watched the milestones slide by, To "You call on Her tomorrow!"--fugue with cymbals by the bar-- "You must call on Her tomorrow!"--post-horn gallop by the bar. Yet a further stage my goal on--we were whirling down to Solon, With a double lurch and roll on, best foot foremost, ganz und gar-- "She was very sweet," I hinted. "If a kiss had been imprinted?"-- "'Would ha' saved a world of trouble!" clashed the busy tonga-bar. "'Been accepted or rejected!" banged and clanged the tonga-bar. Then a notion wild and daring, 'spite the income tax's paring, And a hasty thought of sharing--less than many incomes are, Made me put a question private, you can guess what I would drive at. "You must work the sum to prove it," clanked the careless tonga-bar. "Simple Rule of Two will prove it," lilted back the tonga-bar. It was under Khyraghaut I mused. "Suppose the maid be haughty-- (There are lovers rich--and rotty)--wait some wealthy Avatar? Answer monitor untiring, 'twixt the ponies twain perspiring!" "Faint heart never won fair lady," creaked the straining tonga-bar. "Can I tell you ere you ask Her?" pounded slow the tonga-bar. Last, the Tara Devi turning showed the lights of Simla burning, Lit my little lazy yearning to a fiercer flame by far. As below the Mall we jingled, through my very heart it tingled-- Did the iterated order of the threshing tonga-bar-- "Try your luck--you can't do better!" twanged the loosened tonga-bar. AN OLD SONG So long as 'neath the Kalka hills The tonga-horn shall ring, So long as down the Solon dip The hard-held ponies swing, So long as Tara Devi sees The lights of Simla town, So long as Pleasure calls us up, Or Duty drives us down, If you love me as I love you What pair so happy as we two? So long as Aces take the King, Or backers take the bet, So long as debt leads men to wed, Or marriage leads to debt, So long as little luncheons, Love, And scandal hold their vogue, While there is sport at Annandale Or whisky at Jutogh, If you love me as I love you What knife can cut our love in two? So long as down the rocking floor The raving polka spins, So long as Kitchen Lancers spur The maddened violins, So long as through the whirling smoke We hear the oft-told tale-- "Twelve hundred in the Lotteries," And Whatshername for sale? If you love me as I love you We'll play the game and win it too. So long as Lust or Lucre tempt Straight riders from the course, So long as with each drink we pour Black brewage of Remorse, So long as those unloaded guns We keep beside the bed, Blow off, by obvious accident, The lucky owner's head, If you love me as I love you What can Life kill or Death undo? So long as Death 'twixt dance and dance Chills best and bravest blood, And drops the reckless rider down The rotten, rain-soaked khud, So long as rumours from the North Make loving wives afraid, So long as Burma takes the boy Or typhoid kills the maid, If you love me as I love you What knife can cut our love in two? By all that lights our daily life Or works our lifelong woe, From Boileaugunge to Simla Downs And those grim glades below, Where, heedless of the flying hoof And clamour overhead, Sleep, with the grey langur for guard Our very scornful Dead, If you love me as I love you All Earth is servant to us two! By Docket, Billetdoux, and File, By Mountain, Cliff, and Fir, By Fan and Sword and Office-box, By Corset, Plume, and Spur By Riot, Revel, Waltz, and War, By Women, Work, and Bills, By all the life that fizzes in The everlasting Hills, If you love me as I love you What pair so happy as we two? CERTAIN MAXIMS OF HAFIZ I. If It be pleasant to look on, stalled in the packed serai, Does not the Young Man try Its temper and pace ere he buy? If She be pleasant to look on, what does the Young Man say? "Lo! She is pleasant to look on, give Her to me today!" II. Yea, though a Kafir die, to him is remitted Jehannum If he borrowed in life from a native at sixty per cent. per annum. III. Blister we not for bursati? So when the heart is vexed, The pain of one maiden's refusal is drowned in the pain of the next. IV. The temper of chums, the love of your wife, and a new piano's tune-- Which of the three will you trust at the end of an Indian June? V. Who are the rulers of Ind--to whom shall we bow the knee? Make your peace with the women, and men will make you L. G. VI. Does the woodpecker flit round the young ferash? Does grass clothe a new-built wall? Is she under thirty, the woman who holds a boy in her thrall? VII. If She grow suddenly gracious--reflect. Is it all for thee? The black-buck is stalked through the bullock, and Man through jealousy. VIII. Seek not for favor of women. So shall you find it indeed. Does not the boar break cover just when you're lighting a weed? IX. If He play, being young and unskilful, for shekels of silver and gold, Take his money, my son, praising Allah. The kid was ordained to be sold. X. With a "weed" among men or horses verily this is the best, That you work him in office or dog-cart lightly--but give him no rest. XI. Pleasant the snaffle of Courtship, improving the manners and carriage; But the colt who is wise will abstain from the terrible thorn-bit of Marriage. XII. As the thriftless gold of the babul, so is the gold that we spend On a derby Sweep, or our neighbor's wife, or the horse that we buy from a friend. XIII. The ways of man with a maid be strange, yet simple and tame To the ways of a man with a horse, when selling or racing that same. XIV. In public Her face turneth to thee, and pleasant Her smile when ye meet. It is ill. The cold rocks of El-Gidar smile thus on the waves at their feet. In public Her face is averted, with anger. She nameth thy name. It is well. Was there ever a loser content with the loss of the game? XV. If She have spoken a word, remember thy lips are sealed, And the Brand of the Dog is upon him by whom is the secret revealed. If She have written a letter, delay not an instant, but burn it. Tear it to pieces, O Fool, and the wind to her mate shall return it! If there be trouble to Herward, and a lie of the blackest can clear, Lie, while thy lips can move or a man is alive to hear. XVI. My Son, if a maiden deny thee and scufflingly bid thee give o'er, Yet lip meets with lip at the last word--get out! She has been there before. They are pecked on the ear and the chin and the nose who are lacking in lore. XVII. If we fall in the race, though we win, the hoof-slide is scarred on the course. Though Allah and Earth pardon Sin, remaineth forever Remorse. XVIII. "By all I am misunderstood!" if the Matron shall say, or the Maid: "Alas! I do not understand," my son, be thou nowise afraid. In vain in the sight of the Bird is the net of the Fowler displayed. XIX. My son, if I, Hafiz, the father, take hold of thy knees in my pain, Demanding thy name on stamped paper, one day or one hour--refrain. Are the links of thy fetters so light that thou cravest another man's chain? THE GRAVE OF THE HUNDRED HEAD There's a widow in sleepy Chester Who weeps for her only son; There's a grave on the Pabeng River, A grave that the Burmans shun, And there's Subadar Prag Tewarri Who tells how the work was done. A Snider squibbed in the jungle, Somebody laughed and fled, And the men of the First Shikaris Picked up their Subaltern dead, With a big blue mark in his forehead And the back blown out of his head. Subadar Prag Tewarri, Jemadar Hira Lal, Took command of the party, Twenty rifles in all, Marched them down to the river As the day was beginning to fall. They buried the boy by the river, A blanket over his face-- They wept for their dead Lieutenant, The men of an alien race-- They made a samadh in his honor, A mark for his resting-place. For they swore by the Holy Water, They swore by the salt they ate, That the soul of Lieutenant Eshmitt Sahib Should go to his God in state; With fifty file of Burman To open him Heaven's gate. The men of the First Shikaris Marched till the break of day, Till they came to the rebel village, The village of Pabengmay-- A jingal covered the clearing, Calthrops hampered the way. Subadar Prag Tewarri, Bidding them load with ball, Halted a dozen rifles Under the village wall; Sent out a flanking-party With Jemadar Hira Lal. The men of the First Shikaris Shouted and smote and slew, Turning the grinning jingal On to the howling crew. The Jemadar's flanking-party Butchered the folk who flew. Long was the morn of slaughter, Long was the list of slain, Five score heads were taken, Five score heads and twain; And the men of the First Shikaris Went back to their grave again, Each man bearing a basket Red as his palms that day, Red as the blazing village-- The village of Pabengmay, And the "drip-drip-drip" from the baskets Reddened the grass by the way. They made a pile of their trophies High as a tall man's chin, Head upon head distorted, Set in a sightless grin, Anger and pain and terror Stamped on the smoke-scorched skin. Subadar Prag Tewarri Put the head of the Boh On the top of the mound of triumph, The head of his son below, With the sword and the peacock-banner That the world might behold and know. Thus the samadh was perfect, Thus was the lesson plain Of the wrath of the First Shikaris-- The price of a white man slain; And the men of the First Shikaris Went back into camp again. Then a silence came to the river, A hush fell over the shore, And Bohs that were brave departed, And Sniders squibbed no more; For the Burmans said That a kullah's head Must be paid for with heads five score. There's a widow in sleepy Chester Who weeps for her only son; There's a grave on the Pabeng River, A grave that the Burmans shun, And there's Subadar Prag Tewarri Who tells how the work was done. THE MOON OF OTHER DAYS Beneath the deep veranda's shade, When bats begin to fly, I sit me down and watch--alas!-- Another evening die. Blood-red behind the sere ferash She rises through the haze. Sainted Diana! can that be The Moon of Other Days? Ah! shade of little Kitty Smith, Sweet Saint of Kensington! Say, was it ever thus at Home The Moon of August shone, When arm in arm we wandered long Through Putney's evening haze, And Hammersmith was Heaven beneath The Moon of Other Days? But Wandle's stream is Sutlej now, And Putney's evening haze The dust that half a hundred kine Before my window raise. Unkempt, unclean, athwart the mist The seething city looms, In place of Putney's golden gorse The sickly babul blooms. Glare down, old Hecate, through the dust, And bid the pie-dog yell, Draw from the drain its typhoid-germ, From each bazaar its smell; Yea, suck the fever from the tank And sap my strength therewith: Thank Heaven, you show a smiling face To little Kitty Smith! THE OVERLAND MAIL (Foot-Service to the Hills) In the name of the Empress of India, make way, O Lords of the Jungle, wherever you roam. The woods are astir at the close of the day-- We exiles are waiting for letters from Home. Let the robber retreat--let the tiger turn tail-- In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail! With a jingle of bells as the dusk gathers in, He turns to the foot-path that heads up the hill-- The bags on his back and a cloth round his chin, And, tucked in his waist-belt, the Post Office bill: "Despatched on this date, as received by the rail, Per runner, two bags of the Overland Mail." Is the torrent in spate? He must ford it or swim. Has the rain wrecked the road? He must climb by the cliff. Does the tempest cry "Halt"? What are tempests to him? The Service admits not a "but" or and "if." While the breath's in his mouth, he must bear without fail, In the Name of the Empress, the Overland Mail. From aloe to rose-oak, from rose-oak to fir, From level to upland, from upland to crest, From rice-field to rock-ridge, from rock-ridge to spur, Fly the soft sandalled feet, strains the brawny brown chest. From rail to ravine--to the peak from the vale-- Up, up through the night goes the Overland Mail. There's a speck on the hillside, a dot on the road-- A jingle of bells on the foot-path below-- There's a scuffle above in the monkey's abode-- The world is awake, and the clouds are aglow. For the great Sun himself must attend to the hail: "In the name of the Empress the Overland Mail!" WHAT THE PEOPLE SAID June 21st, 1887 By the well, where the bullocks go Silent and blind and slow-- By the field where the young corn dies In the face of the sultry skies, They have heard, as the dull Earth hears The voice of the wind of an hour, The sound of the Great Queen's voice: "My God hath given me years, Hath granted dominion and power: And I bid you, O Land, rejoice." And the ploughman settles the share More deep in the grudging clod; For he saith: "The wheat is my care, And the rest is the will of God. He sent the Mahratta spear As He sendeth the rain, And the Mlech, in the fated year, Broke the spear in twain. And was broken in turn. Who knows How our Lords make strife? It is good that the young wheat grows, For the bread is Life." Then, far and near, as the twilight drew, Hissed up to the scornful dark Great serpents, blazing, of red and blue, That rose and faded, and rose anew. That the Land might wonder and mark "Today is a day of days," they said, "Make merry, O People, all!" And the Ploughman listened and bowed his head: "Today and tomorrow God's will," he said, As he trimmed the lamps on the wall. "He sendeth us years that are good, As He sendeth the dearth, He giveth to each man his food, Or Her food to the Earth. Our Kings and our Queens are afar-- On their peoples be peace-- God bringeth the rain to the Bar, That our cattle increase." And the Ploughman settled the share More deep in the sun-dried clod: "Mogul Mahratta, and Mlech from the North, And White Queen over the Seas-- God raiseth them up and driveth them forth As the dust of the ploughshare flies in the breeze; But the wheat and the cattle are all my care, And the rest is the will of God." THE UNDERTAKER'S HORSE "To-tschin-shu is condemned to death. How can he drink tea with the Executioner?" Japanese Proverb. The eldest son bestrides him, And the pretty daughter rides him, And I meet him oft o' mornings on the Course; And there kindles in my bosom An emotion chill and gruesome As I canter past the Undertaker's Horse. Neither shies he nor is restive, But a hideously suggestive Trot, professional and placid, he affects; And the cadence of his hoof-beats To my mind this grim reproof beats:-- "Mend your pace, my friend, I'm coming. Who's the next?" Ah! stud-bred of ill-omen, I have watched the strongest go--men Of pith and might and muscle--at your heels, Down the plantain-bordered highway, (Heaven send it ne'er be my way!) In a lacquered box and jetty upon wheels. Answer, sombre beast and dreary, Where is Brown, the young, the cheery, Smith, the pride of all his friends and half the Force? You were at that last dread dak We must cover at a walk, Bring them back to me, O Undertaker's Horse! With your mane unhogged and flowing, And your curious way of going, And that businesslike black crimping of your tail, E'en with Beauty on your back, Sir, Pacing as a lady's hack, Sir, What wonder when I meet you I turn pale? It may be you wait your time, Beast, Till I write my last bad rhyme, Beast-- Quit the sunlight, cut the rhyming, drop the glass-- Follow after with the others, Where some dusky heathen smothers Us with marigolds in lieu of English grass. Or, perchance, in years to follow, I shall watch your plump sides hollow, See Carnifex (gone lame) become a corse-- See old age at last o'erpower you, And the Station Pack devour you, I shall chuckle then, O Undertaker's Horse! But to insult, jibe, and quest, I've Still the hideously suggestive Trot that hammers out the unrelenting text, And I hear it hard behind me In what place soe'er I find me:-- "'Sure to catch you sooner or later. Who's the next?" THE FALL OF JOCK GILLESPIE This fell when dinner-time was done-- 'Twixt the first an' the second rub-- That oor mon Jock cam' hame again To his rooms ahist the Club. An' syne he laughed, an' syne he sang, An' syne we thocht him fou, An' syne he trumped his partner's trick, An' garred his partner rue. Then up and spake an elder mon, That held the Spade its Ace-- "God save the lad! Whence comes the licht "That wimples on his face?" An' Jock he sniggered, an' Jock he smiled, An' ower the card-brim wunk:-- "I'm a' too fresh fra' the stirrup-peg, "May be that I am drunk." "There's whusky brewed in Galashils "An' L. L. L. forbye; "But never liquor lit the lowe "That keeks fra' oot your eye. "There's a third o' hair on your dress-coat breast, "Aboon the heart a wee?" "Oh! that is fra' the lang-haired Skye "That slobbers ower me." "Oh! lang-haired Skyes are lovin' beasts, "An' terrier dogs are fair, "But never yet was terrier born, "Wi' ell-lang gowden hair! "There's a smirch o' pouther on your breast, "Below the left lappel?" "Oh! that is fra' my auld cigar, "Whenas the stump-end fell." "Mon Jock, ye smoke the Trichi coarse, "For ye are short o' cash, "An' best Havanas couldna leave "Sae white an' pure an ash. "This nicht ye stopped a story braid, "An' stopped it wi' a curse. "Last nicht ye told that tale yoursel'-- "An' capped it wi' a worse! "Oh! we're no fou! Oh! we're no fou! "But plainly we can ken "Ye're fallin', fallin' fra the band "O' cantie single men!" An' it fell when sirris-shaws were sere, An' the nichts were lang and mirk, In braw new breeks, wi' a gowden ring, Oor Jock gaed to the Kirk! ARITHMETIC ON THE FRONTIER A great and glorious thing it is To learn, for seven years or so, The Lord knows what of that and this, Ere reckoned fit to face the foe-- The flying bullet down the Pass, That whistles clear: "All flesh is grass." Three hundred pounds per annum spent On making brain and body meeter For all the murderous intent Comprised in "villainous saltpetre!" And after--ask the Yusufzaies What comes of all our 'ologies. A scrimmage in a Border Station-- A canter down some dark defile-- Two thousand pounds of education Drops to a ten-rupee jezail-- The Crammer's boast, the Squadron's pride, Shot like a rabbit in a ride! No proposition Euclid wrote, No formulae the text-books know, Will turn the bullet from your coat, Or ward the tulwar's downward blow Strike hard who cares--shoot straight who can-- The odds are on the cheaper man. One sword-knot stolen from the camp Will pay for all the school expenses Of any Kurrum Valley scamp Who knows no word of moods and tenses, But, being blessed with perfect sight, Picks off our messmates left and right. With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem, The troop-ships bring us one by one, At vast expense of time and steam, To slay Afridis where they run. The "captives of our bow and spear" Are cheap--alas! as we are dear. THE BETROTHED "You must choose between me and your cigar." --BREACH OF PROMISE CASE, CIRCA 1885. Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out. We quarrelled about Havanas--we fought o'er a good cheroot, And I knew she is exacting, and she says I am a brute. Open the old cigar-box--let me consider a space; In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie's face. Maggie is pretty to look at--Maggie's a loving lass, But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass. There's peace in a Larranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay; But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away-- Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown-- But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town! Maggie, my wife at fifty--grey and dour and old-- With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold! And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are, And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar-- The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket-- With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the socket! Open the old cigar-box--let me consider a while. Here is a mild Manila--there is a wifely smile. Which is the better portion--bondage bought with a ring, Or a harem of dusky beauties, fifty tied in a string? Counsellors cunning and silent--comforters true and tried, And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride? Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes, Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close, This will the fifty give me, asking nought in return, With only a Suttee's passion--to do their duty and burn. This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead, Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead. The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main, When they hear my harem is empty will send me my brides again. I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal, So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall. I will scent 'em with best vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides, And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides. For Maggie has written a letter to give me my choice between The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen. And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelvemonth clear, But I have been Priest of Cabanas a matter of seven year; And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight. And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove, But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love. Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me bogged in the mire? Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire? Open the old cigar-box--let me consider anew-- Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you? A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke; And a woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke. Light me another Cuba--I hold to my first-sworn vows. If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for Spouse! A TALE OF TWO CITIES Where the sober-colored cultivator smiles On his byles; Where the cholera, the cyclone, and the crow Come and go; Where the merchant deals in indigo and tea, Hides and ghi; Where the Babu drops inflammatory hints In his prints; Stands a City--Charnock chose it--packed away Near a Bay-- By the Sewage rendered fetid, by the sewer Made impure, By the Sunderbunds unwholesome, by the swamp Moist and damp; And the City and the Viceroy, as we see, Don't agree. Once, two hundred years ago, the trader came Meek and tame. Where his timid foot first halted, there he stayed, Till mere trade Grew to Empire, and he sent his armies forth South and North Till the country from Peshawur to Ceylon Was his own. Thus the midday halt of Charnock--more's the pity! Grew a City. As the fungus sprouts chaotic from its bed, So it spread-- Chance-directed, chance-erected, laid and built On the silt-- Palace, byre, hovel--poverty and pride-- Side by side; And, above the packed and pestilential town, Death looked down. But the Rulers in that City by the Sea Turned to flee-- Fled, with each returning spring-tide from its ills To the Hills. From the clammy fogs of morning, from the blaze Of old days, From the sickness of the noontide, from the heat, Beat retreat; For the country from Peshawur to Ceylon Was their own. But the Merchant risked the perils of the Plain For his gain. Now the resting-place of Charnock, 'neath the palms, Asks an alms, And the burden of its lamentation is, Briefly, this: "Because for certain months, we boil and stew, So should you. Cast the Viceroy and his Council, to perspire In our fire!" And for answer to the argument, in vain We explain That an amateur Saint Lawrence cannot fry: "All must fry!" That the Merchant risks the perils of the Plain For gain. Nor can Rulers rule a house that men grow rich in, From its kitchen. Let the Babu drop inflammatory hints In his prints; And mature--consistent soul--his plan for stealing To Darjeeling: Let the Merchant seek, who makes his silver pile, England's isle; Let the City Charnock pitched on--evil day! Go Her way. Though the argosies of Asia at Her doors Heap their stores, Though Her enterprise and energy secure Income sure, Though "out-station orders punctually obeyed" Swell Her trade-- Still, for rule, administration, and the rest, Simla's best. The End * * * * * * * * VOLUME II BALLADS AND BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS BALLADS THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth! Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border-side, And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride: He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and the day, And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away. Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides: "Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides?" Then up and spoke Mahommed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar: "If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are. "At dusk he harries the Abazai--at dawn he is into Bonair, But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare, So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly, By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai. "But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then, For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's men. There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen." The Colonel's son has taken a horse, and a raw rough dun was he, With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell and the head of the gallows- tree. The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat-- Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat. He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly, Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai, Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her back, And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the pistol crack. He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide. "Ye shoot like a soldier," Kamal said. "Show now if ye can ride." It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dustdevils go, The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe. The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above, But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove. There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between, And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen. They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn, The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn. The dun he fell at a water-course--in a woful heap fell he, And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free. He has knocked the pistol out of his hand--small room was there to strive, "'Twas only by favour of mine," quoth he, "ye rode so long alive: There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree, But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee. "If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low, The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row: If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high, The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly." Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "Do good to bird and beast, But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast. "If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away, Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay. "They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered grain, The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain. "But if thou thinkest the price be fair,--thy brethren wait to sup, The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn,--howl, dog, and call them up! And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack, Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back!" Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet. "No talk shall be of dogs," said he, "when wolf and gray wolf meet. "May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath; What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?" Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "I hold by the blood of my clan: Take up the mare for my father's gift--by God, she has carried a man!" The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast; "We be two strong men," said Kamal then, "but she loveth the younger best. So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein, My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrups twain." The Colonel's son a pistol drew and held it muzzle-end, "Ye have taken the one from a foe," said he; "will ye take the mate from a friend?" "A gift for a gift," said Kamal straight; "a limb for the risk of a limb. "Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him!" With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest-- He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest. "Now here is thy master," Kamal said, "who leads a troop of the Guides, And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides. Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed, Thy life is his--thy fate it is to guard him with thy head. "So, thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine, And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line, And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power-- Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur." They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault, They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt: They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod, On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God. The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun, And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one. And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear-- There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer. "Ha' done! ha' done!" said the Colonel's son. "Put up the steel at your sides! Last night ye had struck at a Border thief-- tonight 'tis a man of the Guides!" Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet, Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat; But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth, When two strong men stand face to face, tho' they come from the ends of the earth! THE LAST SUTTEE Not many years ago a King died in one of the Rajpoot States. His wives, disregarding the orders of the English against Suttee, would have broken out of the palace had not the gates been barred. But one of them, disguised as the King's favourite dancing-girl, passed through the line of guards and reached the pyre. There, her courage failing, she prayed her cousin, a baron of the court, to kill her. This he did, not knowing who she was. Udai Chand lay sick to death In his hold by Gungra hill. All night we heard the death-gongs ring For the soul of the dying Rajpoot King, All night beat up from the women's wing A cry that we could not still. All night the barons came and went, The lords of the outer guard: All night the cressets glimmered pale On Ulwar sabre and Tonk jezail, Mewar headstall and Marwar mail, That clinked in the palace yard. In the Golden room on the palace roof All night he fought for air: And there was sobbing behind the screen, Rustle and whisper of women unseen, And the hungry eyes of the Boondi Queen On the death she might not share. He passed at dawn--the death-fire leaped From ridge to river-head, From the Malwa plains to the Abu scars: And wail upon wail went up to the stars Behind the grim zenana-bars, When they knew that the King was dead. The dumb priest knelt to tie his mouth And robe him for the pyre. The Boondi Queen beneath us cried: "See, now, that we die as our mothers died In the bridal-bed by our master's side! Out, women!--to the fire!" We drove the great gates home apace: White hands were on the sill: But ere the rush of the unseen feet Had reached the turn to the open street, The bars shot down, the guard-drum beat-- We held the dovecot still. A face looked down in the gathering day, And laughing spoke from the wall: "Ohe', they mourn here: let me by-- Azizun, the Lucknow nautch-girl, I! When the house is rotten, the rats must fly, And I seek another thrall. "For I ruled the King as ne'er did Queen,-- Tonight the Queens rule me! Guard them safely, but let me go, Or ever they pay the debt they owe In scourge and torture!" She leaped below, And the grim guard watched her flee. They knew that the King had spent his soul On a North-bred dancing-girl: That he prayed to a flat-nosed Lucknow god, And kissed the ground where her feet had trod, And doomed to death at her drunken nod, And swore by her lightest curl. We bore the King to his fathers' place, Where the tombs of the Sun-born stand: Where the gray apes swing, and the peacocks preen On fretted pillar and jewelled screen, And the wild boar couch in the house of the Queen On the drift of the desert sand. The herald read his titles forth, We set the logs aglow: "Friend of the English, free from fear, Baron of Luni to Jeysulmeer, Lord of the Desert of Bikaneer, King of the Jungle,--go!" All night the red flame stabbed the sky With wavering wind-tossed spears: And out of a shattered temple crept A woman who veiled her head and wept, And called on the King--but the great King slept, And turned not for her tears. Small thought had he to mark the strife-- Cold fear with hot desire-- When thrice she leaped from the leaping flame, And thrice she beat her breast for shame, And thrice like a wounded dove she came And moaned about the fire. One watched, a bow-shot from the blaze, The silent streets between, Who had stood by the King in sport and fray, To blade in ambush or boar at bay, And he was a baron old and gray, And kin to the Boondi Queen. He said: "O shameless, put aside The veil upon thy brow! Who held the King and all his land To the wanton will of a harlot's hand! Will the white ash rise from the blistered brand? Stoop down, and call him now!" Then she: "By the faith of my tarnished soul, All things I did not well, I had hoped to clear ere the fire died, And lay me down by my master's side To rule in Heaven his only bride, While the others howl in Hell. "But I have felt the fire's breath, And hard it is to die! Yet if I may pray a Rajpoot lord To sully the steel of a Thakur's sword With base-born blood of a trade abhorred,"-- And the Thakur answered, "Ay." He drew and struck: the straight blade drank The life beneath the breast. "I had looked for the Queen to face the flame, But the harlot dies for the Rajpoot dame-- Sister of mine, pass, free from shame, Pass with thy King to rest!" The black log crashed above the white: The little flames and lean, Red as slaughter and blue as steel, That whistled and fluttered from head to heel, Leaped up anew, for they found their meal On the heart of--the Boondi Queen! THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S MERCY Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told. His mercy fills the Khyber hills-- his grace is manifold; He has taken toll of the North and the South-- his glory reacheth far, And they tell the tale of his charity from Balkh to Kandahar. Before the old Peshawur Gate, where Kurd and Kaffir meet, The Governor of Kabul dealt the Justice of the Street, And that was strait as running noose and swift as plunging knife, Tho' he who held the longer purse might hold the longer life. There was a hound of Hindustan had struck a Euzufzai, Wherefore they spat upon his face and led him out to die. It chanced the King went forth that hour when throat was bared to knife; The Kaffir grovelled under-hoof and clamoured for his life. Then said the King: "Have hope, O friend! Yea, Death disgraced is hard; Much honour shall be thine"; and called the Captain of the Guard, Yar Khan, a bastard of the Blood, so city-babble saith, And he was honoured of the King--the which is salt to Death; And he was son of Daoud Shah, the Reiver of the Plains, And blood of old Durani Lords ran fire in his veins; And 'twas to tame an Afghan pride nor Hell nor Heaven could bind, The King would make him butcher to a yelping cur of Hind. "Strike!" said the King. "King's blood art thou--his death shall be his pride!" Then louder, that the crowd might catch: "Fear not--his arms are tied!" Yar Khan drew clear the Khyber knife, and struck, and sheathed again. "O man, thy will is done," quoth he; "a King this dog hath slain." Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, to the North and the South is sold. The North and the South shall open their mouth to a Ghilzai flag unrolled, When the big guns speak to the Khyber peak, and his dog-Heratis fly: Ye have heard the song--How long? How long? Wolves of the Abazai! That night before the watch was set, when all the streets were clear, The Governor of Kabul spoke: "My King, hast thou no fear? Thou knowest--thou hast heard,"--his speech died at his master's face. And grimly said the Afghan King: "I rule the Afghan race. My path is mine--see thou to thine--tonight upon thy bed Think who there be in Kabul now that clamour for thy head." That night when all the gates were shut to City and to throne, Within a little garden-house the King lay down alone. Before the sinking of the moon, which is the Night of Night, Yar Khan came softly to the King to make his honour white. The children of the town had mocked beneath his horse's hoofs, The harlots of the town had hailed him "butcher!" from their roofs. But as he groped against the wall, two hands upon him fell, The King behind his shoulder spake: "Dead man, thou dost not well! 'Tis ill to jest with Kings by day and seek a boon by night; And that thou bearest in thy hand is all too sharp to write. "But three days hence, if God be good, and if thy strength remain, Thou shalt demand one boon of me and bless me in thy pain. For I am merciful to all, and most of all to thee. "My butcher of the shambles, rest--no knife hast thou for me!" Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, holds hard by the South and the North; But the Ghilzai knows, ere the melting snows, when the swollen banks break forth, When the red-coats crawl to the sungar wall, and his Usbeg lances fail: Ye have heard the song--How long? How long? Wolves of the Zuka Kheyl! They stoned him in the rubbish-field when dawn was in the sky, According to the written word, "See that he do not die." They stoned him till the stones were piled above him on the plain, And those the labouring limbs displaced they tumbled back again. One watched beside the dreary mound that veiled the battered thing, And him the King with laughter called the Herald of the King. It was upon the second night, the night of Ramazan, The watcher leaning earthward heard the message of Yar Khan. From shattered breast through shrivelled lips broke forth the rattling breath, "Creature of God, deliver me from agony of Death." They sought the King among his girls, and risked their lives thereby: "Protector of the Pitiful, give orders that he die!" "Bid him endure until the day," a lagging answer came; "The night is short, and he can pray and learn to bless my name." Before the dawn three times he spoke, and on the day once more: "Creature of God, deliver me, and bless the King therefor!" They shot him at the morning prayer, to ease him of his pain, And when he heard the matchlocks clink, he blessed the King again. Which thing the singers made a song for all the world to sing, So that the Outer Seas may know the mercy of the King. Abdhur Rahman, the Durani Chief, of him is the story told, He has opened his mouth to the North and the South, they have stuffed his mouth with gold. Ye know the truth of his tender ruth-- and sweet his favours are: Ye have heard the song--How long? How long? from Balkh to Kandahar. THE BALLAD OF THE KING'S JEST When spring-time flushes the desert grass, Our kafilas wind through the Khyber Pass. Lean are the camels but fat the frails, Light are the purses but heavy the bales, As the snowbound trade of the North comes down To the market-square of Peshawur town. In a turquoise twilight, crisp and chill, A kafila camped at the foot of the hill. Then blue smoke-haze of the cooking rose, And tent-peg answered to hammer-nose; And the picketed ponies, shag and wild, Strained at their ropes as the feed was piled; And the bubbling camels beside the load Sprawled for a furlong adown the road; And the Persian pussy-cats, brought for sale, Spat at the dogs from the camel-bale; And the tribesmen bellowed to hasten the food; And the camp-fires twinkled by Fort Jumrood; And there fled on the wings of the gathering dusk A savour of camels and carpets and musk, A murmur of voices, a reek of smoke, To tell us the trade of the Khyber woke. The lid of the flesh-pot chattered high, The knives were whetted and--then came I To Mahbub Ali the muleteer, Patching his bridles and counting his gear, Crammed with the gossip of half a year. But Mahbub Ali the kindly said, "Better is speech when the belly is fed." So we plunged the hand to the mid-wrist deep In a cinnamon stew of the fat-tailed sheep, And he who never hath tasted the food, By Allah! he knoweth not bad from good. We cleansed our beards of the mutton-grease, We lay on the mats and were filled with peace, And the talk slid north, and the talk slid south, With the sliding puffs from the hookah-mouth. Four things greater than all things are,-- Women and Horses and Power and War. We spake of them all, but the last the most, For I sought a word of a Russian post, Of a shifty promise, an unsheathed sword And a gray-coat guard on the Helmund ford. Then Mahbub Ali lowered his eyes In the fashion of one who is weaving lies. Quoth he: "Of the Russians who can say? When the night is gathering all is gray. But we look that the gloom of the night shall die In the morning flush of a blood-red sky. "Friend of my heart, is it meet or wise To warn a King of his enemies? We know what Heaven or Hell may bring, But no man knoweth the mind of the King. "That unsought counsel is cursed of God Attesteth the story of Wali Dad. "His sire was leaky of tongue and pen, His dam was a clucking Khuttuck hen; And the colt bred close to the vice of each, For he carried the curse of an unstanched speech. "Therewith madness--so that he sought The favour of kings at the Kabul court; And travelled, in hope of honour, far To the line where the gray-coat squadrons are. "There have I journeyed too--but I Saw naught, said naught, and--did not die! He harked to rumour, and snatched at a breath Of 'this one knoweth' and 'that one saith',-- Legends that ran from mouth to mouth Of a gray-coat coming, and sack of the South. "These have I also heard--they pass With each new spring and the winter grass. "Hot-foot southward, forgotten of God, Back to the city ran Wali Dad, Even to Kabul--in full durbar The King held talk with his Chief in War. "Into the press of the crowd he broke, And what he had heard of the coming spoke. "Then Gholam Hyder, the Red Chief, smiled, As a mother might on a babbling child; But those who would laugh restrained their breath, When the face of the King showed dark as death. "Evil it is in full durbar To cry to a ruler of gathering war! Slowly he led to a peach-tree small, That grew by a cleft of the city wall. "And he said to the boy: 'They shall praise thy zeal So long as the red spurt follows the steel. "And the Russ is upon us even now? Great is thy prudence--await them, thou. Watch from the tree. Thou art young and strong, Surely thy vigil is not for long. "The Russ is upon us, thy clamour ran? Surely an hour shall bring their van. Wait and watch. When the host is near, Shout aloud that my men may hear.' "Friend of my heart, is it meet or wise To warn a King of his enemies? A guard was set that he might not flee-- A score of bayonets ringed the tree. "The peach-bloom fell in showers of snow, When he shook at his death as he looked below. By the power of God, who alone is great, Till the seventh day he fought with his fate. "Then madness took him, and men declare He mowed in the branches as ape and bear, And last as a sloth, ere his body failed, And he hung as a bat in the forks, and wailed, And sleep the cord of his hands untied, And he fell, and was caught on the points and died. "Heart of my heart, is it meet or wise To warn a King of his enemies? We know what Heaven or Hell may bring, But no man knoweth the mind of the King. "Of the gray-coat coming who can say? When the night is gathering all is gray. "To things greater than all things are, The first is Love, and the second War. "And since we know not how War may prove, Heart of my heart, let us talk of Love!" THE BALLAD OF BOH DA THONE This is the ballad of Boh Da Thone, Erst a Pretender to Theebaw's throne, Who harried the district of Alalone: How he met with his fate and the V.P.P. At the hand of Harendra Mukerji, Senior Gomashta, G.B.T. Boh Da Thone was a warrior bold: His sword and his Snider were bossed with gold, And the Peacock Banner his henchmen bore Was stiff with bullion, but stiffer with gore. He shot at the strong and he slashed at the weak From the Salween scrub to the Chindwin teak: He crucified noble, he sacrificed mean, He filled old ladies with kerosene: While over the water the papers cried, "The patriot fights for his countryside!" But little they cared for the Native Press, The worn white soldiers in Khaki dress, Who tramped through the jungle and camped in the byre, Who died in the swamp and were tombed in the mire, Who gave up their lives, at the Queen's Command, For the Pride of their Race and the Peace of the Land. Now, first of the foemen of Boh Da Thone Was Captain O'Neil of the "Black Tyrone", And his was a Company, seventy strong, Who hustled that dissolute Chief along. There were lads from Galway and Louth and Meath Who went to their death with a joke in their teeth, And worshipped with fluency, fervour, and zeal The mud on the boot-heels of "Crook" O'Neil. But ever a blight on their labours lay, And ever their quarry would vanish away, Till the sun-dried boys of the Black Tyrone Took a brotherly interest in Boh Da Thone: And, sooth, if pursuit in possession ends, The Boh and his trackers were best of friends. The word of a scout--a march by night-- A rush through the mist--a scattering fight-- A volley from cover--a corpse in the clearing-- The glimpse of a loin-cloth and heavy jade earring-- The flare of a village--the tally of slain-- And...the Boh was abroad "on the raid" again! They cursed their luck, as the Irish will, They gave him credit for cunning and skill, They buried their dead, they bolted their beef, And started anew on the track of the thief Till, in place of the "Kalends of Greece", men said, "When Crook and his darlings come back with the head." They had hunted the Boh from the hills to the plain-- He doubled and broke for the hills again: They had crippled his power for rapine and raid, They had routed him out of his pet stockade, And at last, they came, when the Day Star tired, To a camp deserted--a village fired. A black cross blistered the Morning-gold, And the body upon it was stark and cold. The wind of the dawn went merrily past, The high grass bowed her plumes to the blast. And out of the grass, on a sudden, broke A spirtle of fire, a whorl of smoke-- And Captain O'Neil of the Black Tyrone Was blessed with a slug in the ulnar-bone-- The gift of his enemy Boh Da Thone. (Now a slug that is hammered from telegraph-wire Is a thorn in the flesh and a rankling fire.) * * * * * The shot-wound festered--as shot-wounds may In a steaming barrack at Mandalay. The left arm throbbed, and the Captain swore, "I'd like to be after the Boh once more!" The fever held him--the Captain said, "I'd give a hundred to look at his head!" The Hospital punkahs creaked and whirred, But Babu Harendra (Gomashta) heard. He thought of the cane-brake, green and dank, That girdled his home by the Dacca tank. He thought of his wife and his High School son, He thought--but abandoned the thought--of a gun. His sleep was broken by visions dread Of a shining Boh with a silver head. He kept his counsel and went his way, And swindled the cartmen of half their pay. * * * * * And the months went on, as the worst must do, And the Boh returned to the raid anew. But the Captain had quitted the long-drawn strife, And in far Simoorie had taken a wife. And she was a damsel of delicate mould, With hair like the sunshine and heart of gold, And little she knew the arms that embraced Had cloven a man from the brow to the waist: And little she knew that the loving lips Had ordered a quivering life's eclipse, And the eye that lit at her lightest breath Had glared unawed in the Gates of Death. (For these be matters a man would hide, As a general rule, from an innocent Bride.) And little the Captain thought of the past, And, of all men, Babu Harendra last. * * * * * But slow, in the sludge of the Kathun road, The Government Bullock Train toted its load. Speckless and spotless and shining with ghee, In the rearmost cart sat the Babu-jee. And ever a phantom before him fled Of a scowling Boh with a silver head. Then the lead-cart stuck, though the coolies slaved, And the cartmen flogged and the escort raved; And out of the jungle, with yells and squeals, Pranced Boh Da Thone, and his gang at his heels! Then belching blunderbuss answered back The Snider's snarl and the carbine's crack, And the blithe revolver began to sing To the blade that twanged on the locking-ring, And the brown flesh blued where the bay'net kissed, As the steel shot back with a wrench and a twist, And the great white bullocks with onyx eyes Watched the souls of the dead arise, And over the smoke of the fusillade The Peacock Banner staggered and swayed. Oh, gayest of scrimmages man may see Is a well-worked rush on the G.B.T.! The Babu shook at the horrible sight, And girded his ponderous loins for flight, But Fate had ordained that the Boh should start On a lone-hand raid of the rearmost cart, And out of that cart, with a bellow of woe, The Babu fell--flat on the top of the Boh! For years had Harendra served the State, To the growth of his purse and the girth of his _pet_. There were twenty stone, as the tally-man knows, On the broad of the chest of this best of Bohs. And twenty stone from a height discharged Are bad for a Boh with a spleen enlarged. Oh, short was the struggle--severe was the shock-- He dropped like a bullock--he lay like a block; And the Babu above him, convulsed with fear, Heard the labouring life-breath hissed out in his ear. And thus in a fashion undignified The princely pest of the Chindwin died. * * * * * Turn now to Simoorie where, lapped in his ease, The Captain is petting the Bride on his knees, Where the whit of the bullet, the wounded man's scream Are mixed as the mist of some devilish dream-- Forgotten, forgotten the sweat of the shambles Where the hill-daisy blooms and the gray monkey gambols, From the sword-belt set free and released from the steel, The Peace of the Lord is with Captain O'Neil. * * * * * Up the hill to Simoorie--most patient of drudges-- The bags on his shoulder, the mail-runner trudges. "For Captain O'Neil, Sahib. One hundred and ten Rupees to collect on delivery." Then (Their breakfast was stopped while the screw-jack and hammer Tore waxcloth, split teak-wood, and chipped out the dammer;) Open-eyed, open-mouthed, on the napery's snow, With a crash and a thud, rolled--the Head of the Boh! And gummed to the scalp was a letter which ran:-- "IN FIELDING FORCE SERVICE. Encampment, --th Jan. "Dear Sir,--I have honour to send, as you said, For final approval (see under) Boh's Head; "Was took by myself in most bloody affair. By High Education brought pressure to bear. "Now violate Liberty, time being bad, To mail V.P.P. (rupees hundred) Please add "Whatever Your Honour can pass. Price of Blood Much cheap at one hundred, and children want food; "So trusting Your Honour will somewhat retain True love and affection for Govt. Bullock Train, "And show awful kindness to satisfy me, I am, Graceful Master, Your H. MUKERJI." * * * * * As the rabbit is drawn to the rattlesnake's power, As the smoker's eye fills at the opium hour, As a horse reaches up to the manger above, As the waiting ear yearns for the whisper of love, From the arms of the Bride, iron-visaged and slow, The Captain bent down to the Head of the Boh. And e'en as he looked on the Thing where It lay 'Twixt the winking new spoons and the napkins' array, The freed mind fled back to the long-ago days-- The hand-to-hand scuffle--the smoke and the blaze-- The forced march at night and the quick rush at dawn-- The banjo at twilight, the burial ere morn-- The stench of the marshes--the raw, piercing smell When the overhand stabbing-cut silenced the yell-- The oaths of his Irish that surged when they stood Where the black crosses hung o'er the Kuttamow flood. As a derelict ship drifts away with the tide The Captain went out on the Past from his Bride, Back, back, through the springs to the chill of the year, When he hunted the Boh from Maloon to Tsaleer. As the shape of a corpse dimmers up through deep water, In his eye lit the passionless passion of slaughter, And men who had fought with O'Neil for the life Had gazed on his face with less dread than his wife. For she who had held him so long could not hold him-- Though a four-month Eternity should have controlled him-- But watched the twin Terror--the head turned to head-- The scowling, scarred Black, and the flushed savage Red-- The spirit that changed from her knowing and flew to Some grim hidden Past she had never a clue to. But It knew as It grinned, for he touched it unfearing, And muttered aloud, "So you kept that jade earring!" Then nodded, and kindly, as friend nods to friend, "Old man, you fought well, but you lost in the end." * * * * * The visions departed, and Shame followed Passion:-- "He took what I said in this horrible fashion, "I'll write to Harendra!" With language unsainted The Captain came back to the Bride... who had fainted. * * * * * And this is a fiction? No. Go to Simoorie And look at their baby, a twelve-month old Houri, A pert little, Irish-eyed Kathleen Mavournin-- She's always about on the Mall of a mornin'-- And you'll see, if her right shoulder-strap is displaced, This: Gules upon argent, a Boh's Head, erased! THE LAMENT OF THE BORDER CATTLE THIEF O woe is me for the merry life I led beyond the Bar, And a treble woe for my winsome wife That weeps at Shalimar. They have taken away my long jezail, My shield and sabre fine, And heaved me into the Central jail For lifting of the kine. The steer may low within the byre, The Jat may tend his grain, But there'll be neither loot nor fire Till I come back again. And God have mercy on the Jat When once my fetters fall, And Heaven defend the farmer's hut When I am loosed from thrall. It's woe to bend the stubborn back Above the grinching quern, It's woe to hear the leg-bar clack And jingle when I turn! But for the sorrow and the shame, The brand on me and mine, I'll pay you back in leaping flame And loss of the butchered kine. For every cow I spared before In charity set free, If I may reach my hold once more I'll reive an honest three. For every time I raised the low That scared the dusty plain, By sword and cord, by torch and tow I'll light the land with twain! Ride hard, ride hard to Abazai, Young Sahib with the yellow hair-- Lie close, lie close as khuttucks lie, Fat herds below Bonair! The one I'll shoot at twilight-tide, At dawn I'll drive the other; The black shall mourn for hoof and hide, The white man for his brother. 'Tis war, red war, I'll give you then, War till my sinews fail; For the wrong you have done to a chief of men, And a thief of the Zukka Kheyl. And if I fall to your hand afresh I give you leave for the sin, That you cram my throat with the foul pig's flesh, And swing me in the skin! THE RHYME OF THE THREE CAPTAINS This ballad appears to refer to one of the exploits of the notorious Paul Jones, the American pirate. It is founded on fact. ... At the close of a winter day, Their anchors down, by London town, the Three Great Captains lay; And one was Admiral of the North from Solway Firth to Skye, And one was Lord of the Wessex coast and all the lands thereby, And one was Master of the Thames from Limehouse to Blackwall, And he was Captain of the Fleet--the bravest of them all. Their good guns guarded their great gray sides that were thirty foot in the sheer, When there came a certain trading-brig with news of a privateer. Her rigging was rough with the clotted drift that drives in a Northern breeze, Her sides were clogged with the lazy weed that spawns in the Eastern seas. Light she rode in the rude tide-rip, to left and right she rolled, And the skipper sat on the scuttle-butt and stared at an empty hold. "I ha' paid Port dues for your Law," quoth he, "and where is the Law ye boast If I sail unscathed from a heathen port to be robbed on a Christian coast? Ye have smoked the hives of the Laccadives as we burn the lice in a bunk, We tack not now to a Gallang prow or a plunging Pei-ho junk; I had no fear but the seas were clear as far as a sail might fare Till I met with a lime-washed Yankee brig that rode off Finisterre. "There were canvas blinds to his bow-gun ports to screen the weight he bore, And the signals ran for a merchantman from Sandy Hook to the Nore. "He would not fly the Rovers' flag--the bloody or the black, But now he floated the Gridiron and now he flaunted the Jack. He spoke of the Law as he crimped my crew--he swore it was only a loan; But when I would ask for my own again, he swore it was none of my own. "He has taken my little parrakeets that nest beneath the Line, He has stripped my rails of the shaddock-frails and the green unripened pine; He has taken my bale of dammer and spice I won beyond the seas, He has taken my grinning heathen gods--and what should he want o' these? My foremast would not mend his boom, my deckhouse patch his boats; He has whittled the two, this Yank Yahoo, to peddle for shoe-peg oats. "I could not fight for the failing light and a rough beam-sea beside, But I hulled him once for a clumsy crimp and twice because he lied. "Had I had guns (as I had goods) to work my Christian harm, I had run him up from his quarter-deck to trade with his own yard-arm; I had nailed his ears to my capstan-head, and ripped them off with a saw, And soused them in the bilgewater, and served them to him raw; I had flung him blind in a rudderless boat to rot in the rocking dark, I had towed him aft of his own craft, a bait for his brother shark; I had lapped him round with cocoa husk, and drenched him with the oil, And lashed him fast to his own mast to blaze above my spoil; I had stripped his hide for my hammock-side, and tasselled his beard i' the mesh, And spitted his crew on the live bamboo that grows through the gangrened flesh; I had hove him down by the mangroves brown, where the mud-reef sucks and draws, Moored by the heel to his own keel to wait for the land-crab's claws! He is lazar within and lime without, ye can nose him far enow, For he carries the taint of a musky ship--the reek of the slaver's dhow!" The skipper looked at the tiering guns and the bulwarks tall and cold, And the Captains Three full courteously peered down at the gutted hold, And the Captains Three called courteously from deck to scuttle-butt:-- "Good Sir, we ha' dealt with that merchantman or ever your teeth were cut. "Your words be words of a lawless race, and the Law it standeth thus: He comes of a race that have never a Law, and he never has boarded us. "We ha' sold him canvas and rope and spar--we know that his price is fair, And we know that he weeps for the lack of a Law as he rides off Finisterre. "And since he is damned for a gallows-thief by you and better than you, We hold it meet that the English fleet should know that we hold him true." The skipper called to the tall taffrail:--"And what is that to me? Did ever you hear of a Yankee brig that rifled a Seventy-three? Do I loom so large from your quarter-deck that I lift like a ship o' the Line? He has learned to run from a shotted gun and harry such craft as mine. "There is never a Law on the Cocos Keys to hold a white man in, But we do not steal the niggers' meal, for that is a nigger's sin. "Must he have his Law as a quid to chaw, or laid in brass on his wheel? Does he steal with tears when he buccaneers? 'Fore Gad, then, why does he steal?" The skipper bit on a deep-sea word, and the word it was not sweet, For he could see the Captains Three had signalled to the Fleet. But three and two, in white and blue, the whimpering flags began:-- "We have heard a tale of a--foreign sail, but he is a merchantman." The skipper peered beneath his palm and swore by the Great Horn Spoon:-- "'Fore Gad, the Chaplain of the Fleet would bless my picaroon!" By two and three the flags blew free to lash the laughing air:-- "We have sold our spars to the merchantman--we know that his price is fair." The skipper winked his Western eye, and swore by a China storm:-- "They ha' rigged him a Joseph's jury-coat to keep his honour warm." The halliards twanged against the tops, the bunting bellied broad, The skipper spat in the empty hold and mourned for a wasted cord. Masthead--masthead, the signal sped by the line o' the British craft; The skipper called to his Lascar crew, and put her about and laughed:-- "It's mainsail haul, my bully boys all--we'll out to the seas again-- Ere they set us to paint their pirate saint, or scrub at his grapnel-chain. "It's fore-sheet free, with her head to the sea, and the swing of the unbought brine-- We'll make no sport in an English court till we come as a ship o' the Line: Till we come as a ship o' the Line, my lads, of thirty foot in the sheer, Lifting again from the outer main with news of a privateer; Flying his pluck at our mizzen-truck for weft of Admiralty, Heaving his head for our dipsey-lead in sign that we keep the sea. "Then fore-sheet home as she lifts to the foam--we stand on the outward tack, We are paid in the coin of the white man's trade--the bezant is hard, ay, and black. "The frigate-bird shall carry my word to the Kling and the Orang-Laut How a man may sail from a heathen coast to be robbed in a Christian port; How a man may be robbed in Christian port while Three Great Captains there Shall dip their flag to a slaver's rag--to show that his trade is fair!" THE BALLAD OF THE CLAMPHERDOWN It was our war-ship Clampherdown Would sweep the Channel clean, Wherefore she kept her hatches close When the merry Channel chops arose, To save the bleached marine. She had one bow-gun of a hundred ton, And a great stern-gun beside; They dipped their noses deep in the sea, They racked their stays and stanchions free In the wash of the wind-whipped tide. It was our war-ship Clampherdown, Fell in with a cruiser light That carried the dainty Hotchkiss gun And a pair o' heels wherewith to run From the grip of a close-fought fight. She opened fire at seven miles-- As ye shoot at a bobbing cork-- And once she fired and twice she fired, Till the bow-gun drooped like a lily tired That lolls upon the stalk. "Captain, the bow-gun melts apace, The deck-beams break below, 'Twere well to rest for an hour or twain, And patch the shattered plates again." And he answered, "Make it so." She opened fire within the mile-- As ye shoot at the flying duck-- And the great stern-gun shot fair and true, With the heave of the ship, to the stainless blue, And the great stern-turret stuck. "Captain, the turret fills with steam, The feed-pipes burst below-- You can hear the hiss of the helpless ram, You can hear the twisted runners jam." And he answered, "Turn and go!" It was our war-ship Clampherdown, And grimly did she roll; Swung round to take the cruiser's fire As the White Whale faces the Thresher's ire When they war by the frozen Pole. "Captain, the shells are falling fast, And faster still fall we; And it is not meet for English stock To bide in the heart of an eight-day clock The death they cannot see." "Lie down, lie down, my bold A.B., We drift upon her beam; We dare not ram, for she can run; And dare ye fire another gun, And die in the peeling steam?" It was our war-ship Clampherdown That carried an armour-belt; But fifty feet at stern and bow Lay bare as the paunch of the purser's sow, To the hail of the Nordenfeldt. "Captain, they hack us through and through; The chilled steel bolts are swift! We have emptied the bunkers in open sea, Their shrapnel bursts where our coal should be." And he answered, "Let her drift." It was our war-ship Clampherdown, Swung round upon the tide, Her two dumb guns glared south and north, And the blood and the bubbling steam ran forth, And she ground the cruiser's side. "Captain, they cry, the fight is done, They bid you send your sword." And he answered, "Grapple her stern and bow. They have asked for the steel. They shall have it now; Out cutlasses and board!" It was our war-ship Clampherdown Spewed up four hundred men; And the scalded stokers yelped delight, As they rolled in the waist and heard the fight Stamp o'er their steel-walled pen. They cleared the cruiser end to end, From conning-tower to hold. They fought as they fought in Nelson's fleet; They were stripped to the waist, they were bare to the feet, As it was in the days of old. It was the sinking Clampherdown Heaved up her battered side-- And carried a million pounds in steel, To the cod and the corpse-fed conger-eel, And the scour of the Channel tide. It was the crew of the Clampherdown Stood out to sweep the sea, On a cruiser won from an ancient foe, As it was in the days of long ago, And as it still shall be. THE BALLAD OF THE "BOLIVAR" Seven men from all the world, back to Docks again, Rolling down the Ratcliffe Road drunk and raising Cain: Give the girls another drink 'fore we sign away-- We that took the Bolivar out across the Bay! We put out from Sunderland loaded down with rails; We put back to Sunderland 'cause our cargo shifted; We put out from Sunderland--met the winter gales-- Seven days and seven nights to the Start we drifted. Racketing her rivets loose, smoke-stack white as snow, All the coals adrift adeck, half the rails below, Leaking like a lobster-pot, steering like a dray-- Out we took the Bolivar, out across the Bay! One by one the Lights came up, winked and let us by; Mile by mile we waddled on, coal and fo'c'sle short; Met a blow that laid us down, heard a bulkhead fly; Left the Wolf behind us with a two-foot list to port. Trailing like a wounded duck, working out her soul; Clanging like a smithy-shop after every roll; Just a funnel and a mast lurching through the spray-- So we threshed the Bolivar out across the Bay! 'Felt her hog and felt her sag, betted when she'd break; Wondered every time she raced if she'd stand the shock; Heard the seas like drunken men pounding at her strake; Hoped the Lord 'ud keep his thumb on the plummer-block. Banged against the iron decks, bilges choked with coal; Flayed and frozen foot and hand, sick of heart and soul; Last we prayed she'd buck herself into judgment Day-- Hi! we cursed the Bolivar--knocking round the Bay! O her nose flung up to sky, groaning to be still-- Up and down and back we went, never time for breath; Then the money paid at Lloyd's caught her by the heel, And the stars ran round and round dancin' at our death. Aching for an hour's sleep, dozing off between; 'Heard the rotten rivets draw when she took it green; 'Watched the compass chase its tail like a cat at play-- That was on the Bolivar, south across the Bay. Once we saw between the squalls, lyin' head to swell-- Mad with work and weariness, wishin' they was we-- Some damned Liner's lights go by like a long hotel; Cheered her from the Bolivar--swampin' in the sea. Then a grayback cleared us out, then the skipper laughed; "Boys, the wheel has gone to Hell--rig the winches aft! Yoke the kicking rudder-head--get her under way!" So we steered her, pulley-haul, out across the Bay! Just a pack o' rotten plates puttied up with tar, In we came, an' time enough, 'cross Bilbao Bar. Overloaded, undermanned, meant to founder, we Euchred God Almighty's storm, bluffed the Eternal Sea! Seven men from all the world, back to town again, Rollin' down the Ratcliffe Road drunk and raising Cain: Seven men from out of Hell. Ain't the owners gay, 'Cause we took the "Bolivar" safe across the Bay? THE ENGLISH FLAG Above the portico a flag-staff, bearing the Union Jack, remained fluttering in the flames for some time, but ultimately when it fell the crowds rent the air with shouts, and seemed to see significance in the incident.--DAILY PAPERS. Winds of the World, give answer! They are whimpering to and fro-- And what should they know of England who only England know?-- The poor little street-bred people that vapour and fume and brag, They are lifting their heads in the stillness to yelp at the English Flag! Must we borrow a clout from the Boer--to plaster anew with dirt? An Irish liar's bandage, or an English coward's shirt? We may not speak of England; her Flag's to sell or share. What is the Flag of England? Winds of the World, declare! The North Wind blew:--"From Bergen my steel-shod vanguards go; I chase your lazy whalers home from the Disko floe; By the great North Lights above me I work the will of God, And the liner splits on the ice-field or the Dogger fills with cod. "I barred my gates with iron, I shuttered my doors with flame, Because to force my ramparts your nutshell navies came; I took the sun from their presence, I cut them down with my blast, And they died, but the Flag of England blew free ere the spirit passed. "The lean white bear hath seen it in the long, long Arctic night, The musk-ox knows the standard that flouts the Northern Light: What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my bergs to dare, Ye have but my drifts to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!" The South Wind sighed:--"From the Virgins my mid-sea course was ta'en Over a thousand islands lost in an idle main, Where the sea-egg flames on the coral and the long-backed breakers croon Their endless ocean legends to the lazy, locked lagoon. "Strayed amid lonely islets, mazed amid outer keys, I waked the palms to laughter--I tossed the scud in the breeze-- Never was isle so little, never was sea so lone, But over the scud and the palm-trees an English flag was flown. "I have wrenched it free from the halliard to hang for a wisp on the Horn; I have chased it north to the Lizard--ribboned and rolled and torn; I have spread its fold o'er the dying, adrift in a hopeless sea; I have hurled it swift on the slaver, and seen the slave set free. "My basking sunfish know it, and wheeling albatross, Where the lone wave fills with fire beneath the Southern Cross. What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my reefs to dare, Ye have but my seas to furrow. Go forth, for it is there!" The East Wind roared:--"From the Kuriles, the Bitter Seas, I come, And me men call the Home-Wind, for I bring the English home. Look--look well to your shipping! By the breath of my mad typhoon I swept your close-packed Praya and beached your best at Kowloon! "The reeling junks behind me and the racing seas before, I raped your richest roadstead--I plundered Singapore! I set my hand on the Hoogli; as a hooded snake she rose, And I flung your stoutest steamers to roost with the startled crows. "Never the lotus closes, never the wild-fowl wake, But a soul goes out on the East Wind that died for England's sake-- Man or woman or suckling, mother or bride or maid-- Because on the bones of the English the English Flag is stayed. "The desert-dust hath dimmed it, the flying wild-ass knows, The scared white leopard winds it across the taintless snows. What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my sun to dare, Ye have but my sands to travel. Go forth, for it is there!" The West Wind called:--"In squadrons the thoughtless galleons fly That bear the wheat and cattle lest street-bred people die. They make my might their porter, they make my house their path, Till I loose my neck from their rudder and whelm them all in my wrath. "I draw the gliding fog-bank as a snake is drawn from the hole, They bellow one to the other, the frighted ship-bells toll, For day is a drifting terror till I raise the shroud with my breath, And they see strange bows above them and the two go locked to death. "But whether in calm or wrack-wreath, whether by dark or day, I heave them whole to the conger or rip their plates away, First of the scattered legions, under a shrieking sky, Dipping between the rollers, the English Flag goes by. "The dead dumb fog hath wrapped it--the frozen dews have kissed-- The naked stars have seen it, a fellow-star in the mist. What is the Flag of England? Ye have but my breath to dare, Ye have but my waves to conquer. Go forth, for it is there!" "CLEARED" (In Memory of a Commission) Help for a patriot distressed, a spotless spirit hurt, Help for an honorable clan sore trampled in the dirt! From Queenstown Bay to Donegal, O listen to my song, The honorable gentlemen have suffered grievous wrong. Their noble names were mentioned--O the burning black disgrace!-- By a brutal Saxon paper in an Irish shooting-case; They sat upon it for a year, then steeled their heart to brave it, And "coruscating innocence" the learned Judges gave it. Bear witness, Heaven, of that grim crime beneath the surgeon's knife, The honorable gentlemen deplored the loss of life; Bear witness of those chanting choirs that burk and shirk and snigger, No man laid hand upon the knife or finger to the trigger! Cleared in the face of all mankind beneath the winking skies, Like phoenixes from Phoenix Park (and what lay there) they rise! Go shout it to the emerald seas-give word to Erin now, Her honorable gentlemen are cleared--and this is how: They only paid the Moonlighter his cattle-hocking price, They only helped the murderer with council's best advice, But--sure it keeps their honor white--the learned Court believes They never gave a piece of plate to murderers and thieves. They ever told the ramping crowd to card a woman's hide, They never marked a man for death--what fault of theirs he died?-- They only said "intimidate," and talked and went away-- By God, the boys that did the work were braver men than they! Their sin it was that fed the fire--small blame to them that heard The "bhoys" get drunk on rhetoric, and madden at the word-- They knew whom they were talking at, if they were Irish too, The gentlemen that lied in Court, they knew and well they knew. They only took the Judas-gold from Fenians out of jail, They only fawned for dollars on the blood-dyed Clan-na-Gael. If black is black or white is white, ill black and white it's down, They're only traitors to the Queen and rebels to the Crown. "Cleared," honorable gentlemen. Be thankful it's no more: The widow's curse is on your house, the dead are at your door. On you the shame of open shame, on you from North to South The band of every honest man flat-heeled across your mouth. "Less black than we were painted"?--Faith, no word of black was said; The lightest touch was human blood, and that, ye know, runs red. It's sticking to your fist today for all your sneer and scoff, And by the Judge's well-weighed word you cannot wipe it off. Hold up those hands of innocence--go, scare your sheep, together, The blundering, tripping tups that bleat behind the old bell-wether; And if they snuff the taint and break to find another pen, Tell them it's tar that glistens so, and daub them yours again! "The charge is old"?--As old as Cain--as fresh as yesterday; Old as the Ten Commandments, have ye talked those laws away? If words are words, or death is death, or powder sends the ball, You spoke the words that sped the shot--the curse be on you all. "Our friends believe"? Of course they do--as sheltered women may; But have they seen the shrieking soul ripped from the quivering clay? They--If their own front door is shut, they'll swear the whole world's warm; What do they know of dread of death or hanging fear of harm? The secret half a country keeps, the whisper in the lane, The shriek that tells the shot went home behind the broken pane, The dry blood crisping in the sun that scares the honest bees, And shows the "bhoys" have heard your talk--what do they know of these? But you--you know--ay, ten times more; the secrets of the dead, Black terror on the country-side by word and whisper bred, The mangled stallion's scream at night, the tail-cropped heifer's low. Who set the whisper going first? You know, and well you know! My soul! I'd sooner lie in jail for murder plain and straight, Pure crime I'd done with my own hand for money, lust, or hate, Than take a seat in Parliament by fellow-felons cheered, While one of those "not provens" proved me cleared as you are cleared. Cleared--you that "lost" the League accounts--go, guard our honor still, Go, help to make our country's laws that broke God's laws at will-- One hand stuck out behind the back, to signal "strike again"; The other on your dress-shirt front to show your heart is @dane, If black is black or white is white, in black and white it's down, You're only traitors to the Queen and but rebels to the Crown If print is print or words are words, the learned Court perpends: We are not ruled by murderers, only--by their friends. AN IMPERIAL RESCRIPT Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser decreed, To ease the strong of their burden, to help the weak in their need, He sent a word to the peoples, who struggle, and pant, and sweat, That the straw might be counted fairly and the tally of bricks be set. The Lords of Their Hands assembled; from the East and the West they drew-- Baltimore, Lille, and Essen, Brummagem, Clyde, and Crewe. And some were black from the furnace, and some were brown from the soil, And some were blue from the dye-vat; but all were wearied of toil. And the young King said:--"I have found it, the road to the rest ye seek: The strong shall wait for the weary, the hale shall halt for the weak; With the even tramp of an army where no man breaks from the line, Ye shall march to peace and plenty in the bond of brotherhood--sign!" The paper lay on the table, the strong heads bowed thereby, And a wail went up from the peoples:--"Ay, sign--give rest, for we die!" A hand was stretched to the goose-quill, a fist was cramped to scrawl, When--the laugh of a blue-eyed maiden ran clear through the council-hall. And each one heard Her laughing as each one saw Her plain-- Saidie, Mimi, or Olga, Gretchen, or Mary Jane. And the Spirit of Man that is in Him to the light of the vision woke; And the men drew back from the paper, as a Yankee delegate spoke:-- "There's a girl in Jersey City who works on the telephone; We're going to hitch our horses and dig for a house of our own, With gas and water connections, and steam-heat through to the top; And, W. Hohenzollern, I guess I shall work till I drop." And an English delegate thundered:--"The weak an' the lame be blowed! I've a berth in the Sou'-West workshops, a home in the Wandsworth Road; And till the 'sociation has footed my buryin' bill, I work for the kids an' the missus. Pull up? I be damned if I will!" And over the German benches the bearded whisper ran:-- "Lager, der girls und der dollars, dey makes or dey breaks a man. If Schmitt haf collared der dollars, he collars der girl deremit; But if Schmitt bust in der pizness, we collars der girl from Schmitt." They passed one resolution:--"Your sub-committee believe You can lighten the curse of Adam when you've lightened the curse of Eve. But till we are built like angels, with hammer and chisel and pen, We will work for ourself and a woman, for ever and ever, amen." Now this is the tale of the Council the German Kaiser held-- The day that they razored the Grindstone, the day that the Cat was belled, The day of the Figs from Thistles, the day of the Twisted Sands, The day that the laugh of a maiden made light of the Lords of Their Hands. TOMLINSON Now Tomlinson gave up the ghost in his house in Berkeley Square, And a Spirit came to his bedside and gripped him by the hair-- A Spirit gripped him by the hair and carried him far away, Till he heard as the roar of a rain-fed ford the roar of the Milky Way: Till he heard the roar of the Milky Way die down and drone and cease, And they came to the Gate within the Wall where Peter holds the keys. "Stand up, stand up now, Tomlinson, and answer loud and high The good that ye did for the sake of men or ever ye came to die-- The good that ye did for the sake of men in little earth so lone!" And the naked soul of Tomlinson grew white as a rain-washed bone. "O I have a friend on earth," he said, "that was my priest and guide, And well would he answer all for me if he were by my side." --"For that ye strove in neighbour-love it shall be written fair, But now ye wait at Heaven's Gate and not in Berkeley Square: Though we called your friend from his bed this night, he could not speak for you, For the race is run by one and one and never by two and two." Then Tomlinson looked up and down, and little gain was there, For the naked stars grinned overhead, and he saw that his soul was bare: The Wind that blows between the worlds, it cut him like a knife, And Tomlinson took up his tale and spoke of his good in life. "This I have read in a book," he said, "and that was told to me, And this I have thought that another man thought of a Prince in Muscovy." The good souls flocked like homing doves and bade him clear the path, And Peter twirled the jangling keys in weariness and wrath. "Ye have read, ye have heard, ye have thought," he said, "and the tale is yet to run: By the worth of the body that once ye had, give answer--what ha'ye done?" Then Tomlinson looked back and forth, and little good it bore, For the Darkness stayed at his shoulder-blade and Heaven's Gate before:-- "O this I have felt, and this I have guessed, and this I have heard men say, And this they wrote that another man wrote of a carl in Norroway." --"Ye have read, ye have felt, ye have guessed, good lack! Ye have hampered Heaven's Gate; There's little room between the stars in idleness to prate! O none may reach by hired speech of neighbour, priest, and kin Through borrowed deed to God's good meed that lies so fair within; Get hence, get hence to the Lord of Wrong, for doom has yet to run, And... the faith that ye share with Berkeley Square uphold you, Tomlinson!" * * * * * The Spirit gripped him by the hair, and sun by sun they fell Till they came to the belt of Naughty Stars that rim the mouth of Hell: The first are red with pride and wrath, the next are white with pain, But the third are black with clinkered sin that cannot burn again: They may hold their path, they may leave their path, with never a soul to mark, They may burn or freeze, but they must not cease in the Scorn of the Outer Dark. The Wind that blows between the worlds, it nipped him to the bone, And he yearned to the flare of Hell-Gate there as the light of his own hearth- stone. The Devil he sat behind the bars, where the desperate legions drew, But he caught the hasting Tomlinson and would not let him through. "Wot ye the price of good pit-coal that I must pay?" said he, "That ye rank yoursel' so fit for Hell and ask no leave of me? I am all o'er-sib to Adam's breed that ye should give me scorn, For I strove with God for your First Father the day that he was born. "Sit down, sit down upon the slag, and answer loud and high The harm that ye did to the Sons of Men or ever you came to die." And Tomlinson looked up and up, and saw against the night The belly of a tortured star blood-red in Hell-Mouth light; And Tomlinson looked down and down, and saw beneath his feet The frontlet of a tortured star milk-white in Hell-Mouth heat. "O I had a love on earth," said he, "that kissed me to my fall, And if ye would call my love to me I know she would answer all." --"All that ye did in love forbid it shall be written fair, But now ye wait at Hell-Mouth Gate and not in Berkeley Square: Though we whistled your love from her bed tonight, I trow she would not run, For the sin ye do by two and two ye must pay for one by one!" The Wind that blows between the worlds, it cut him like a knife, And Tomlinson took up the tale and spoke of his sin in life:-- "Once I ha' laughed at the power of Love and twice at the grip of the Grave, And thrice I ha' patted my God on the head that men might call me brave." The Devil he blew on a brandered soul and set it aside to cool:-- "Do ye think I would waste my good pit-coal on the hide of a brain-sick fool? I see no worth in the hobnailed mirth or the jolthead jest ye did That I should waken my gentlemen that are sleeping three on a grid." Then Tomlinson looked back and forth, and there was little grace, For Hell-Gate filled the houseless Soul with the Fear of Naked Space. "Nay, this I ha' heard," quo' Tomlinson, "and this was noised abroad, And this I ha' got from a Belgian book on the word of a dead French lord." --"Ye ha' heard, ye ha' read, ye ha' got, good lack! and the tale begins afresh-- Have ye sinned one sin for the pride o' the eye or the sinful lust of the flesh?" Then Tomlinson he gripped the bars and yammered, "Let me in-- For I mind that I borrowed my neighbour's wife to sin the deadly sin." The Devil he grinned behind the bars, and banked the fires high: "Did ye read of that sin in a book?" said he; and Tomlinson said, "Ay!" The Devil he blew upon his nails, and the little devils ran, And he said: "Go husk this whimpering thief that comes in the guise of a man: Winnow him out 'twixt star and star, and sieve his proper worth: There's sore decline in Adam's line if this be spawn of earth." Empusa's crew, so naked-new they may not face the fire, But weep that they bin too small to sin to the height of their desire, Over the coal they chased the Soul, and racked it all abroad, As children rifle a caddis-case or the raven's foolish hoard. And back they came with the tattered Thing, as children after play, And they said: "The soul that he got from God he has bartered clean away. "We have threshed a stook of print and book, and winnowed a chattering wind And many a soul wherefrom he stole, but his we cannot find: We have handled him, we have dandled him, we have seared him to the bone, And sure if tooth and nail show truth he has no soul of his own." The Devil he bowed his head on his breast and rumbled deep and low:-- "I'm all o'er-sib to Adam's breed that I should bid him go. "Yet close we lie, and deep we lie, and if I gave him place, My gentlemen that are so proud would flout me to my face; They'd call my house a common stews and me a careless host, And--I would not anger my gentlemen for the sake of a shiftless ghost." The Devil he looked at the mangled Soul that prayed to feel the flame, And he thought of Holy Charity, but he thought of his own good name:-- "Now ye could haste my coal to waste, and sit ye down to fry: Did ye think of that theft for yourself?" said he; and Tomlinson said, "Ay!" The Devil he blew an outward breath, for his heart was free from care:-- "Ye have scarce the soul of a louse," he said, "but the roots of sin are there, And for that sin should ye come in were I the lord alone. But sinful pride has rule inside--and mightier than my own. "Honour and Wit, fore-damned they sit, to each his priest and whore: Nay, scarce I dare myself go there, and you they'd torture sore. "Ye are neither spirit nor spirk," he said; "ye are neither book nor brute-- Go, get ye back to the flesh again for the sake of Man's repute. "I'm all o'er-sib to Adam's breed that I should mock your pain, But look that ye win to worthier sin ere ye come back again. Get hence, the hearse is at your door--the grim black stallions wait-- They bear your clay to place today. Speed, lest ye come too late! Go back to Earth with a lip unsealed--go back with an open eye, And carry my word to the Sons of Men or ever ye come to die: That the sin they do by two and two they must pay for one by one-- And... the God that you took from a printed book be with you, Tomlinson!" * * * * * * * BARRACK-ROOM BALLADS Dedication To T. A. I have made for you a song, And it may be right or wrong, But only you can tell me if it's true; I have tried for to explain Both your pleasure and your pain, And, Thomas, here's my best respects to you! O there'll surely come a day When they'll give you all your pay, And treat you as a Christian ought to do; So, until that day comes round, Heaven keep you safe and sound, And, Thomas, here's my best respects to you! --R. K. DANNY DEEVER "What are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade. "To turn you out, to turn you out", the Colour-Sergeant said. "What makes you look so white, so white?" said Files-on-Parade. "I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch", the Colour-Sergeant said. For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play, The regiment's in 'ollow square--they're hangin' him today; They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away, An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. "What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold", the Colour-Sergeant said. "What makes that front-rank man fall down?" said Files-on-Parade. "A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun", the Colour-Sergeant said. They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round, They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground; An' 'e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound-- O they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'! "'Is cot was right-'and cot to mine", said Files-on-Parade. "'E's sleepin' out an' far tonight", the Colour-Sergeant said. "I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times", said Files-on-Parade. "'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone", the Colour-Sergeant said. They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to 'is place, For 'e shot a comrade sleepin'--you must look 'im in the face; Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the regiment's disgrace, While they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. "What's that so black agin' the sun?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's Danny fightin' 'ard for life", the Colour-Sergeant said. "What's that that whimpers over'ead?" said Files-on-Parade. "It's Danny's soul that's passin' now", the Colour-Sergeant said. For they're done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quickstep play, The regiment's in column, an' they're marchin' us away; Ho! the young recruits are shakin', an' they'll want their beer today, After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. TOMMY I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer, The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here." The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die, I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I: O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away"; But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play, The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play, O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play. I went into a theatre as sober as could be, They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me; They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls, But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls! For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside"; But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide, The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide, O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide. Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap; An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit. Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?" But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll, The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll, O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll. We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too, But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you; An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints, Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints; While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind", But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind, There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind, O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind. You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all: We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational. Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace. For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!" But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot; An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please; An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool--you bet that Tommy sees! FUZZY-WUZZY (Soudan Expeditionary Force) We've fought with many men acrost the seas, An' some of 'em was brave an' some was not: The Paythan an' the Zulu an' Burmese; But the Fuzzy was the finest o' the lot. We never got a ha'porth's change of 'im: 'E squatted in the scrub an' 'ocked our 'orses, 'E cut our sentries up at Suakim, An' 'e played the cat an' banjo with our forces. So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan; You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man; We gives you your certificate, an' if you want it signed We'll come an' 'ave a romp with you whenever you're inclined. We took our chanst among the Khyber 'ills, The Boers knocked us silly at a mile, The Burman give us Irriwaddy chills, An' a Zulu impi dished us up in style: But all we ever got from such as they Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller; We 'eld our bloomin' own, the papers say, But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us 'oller. Then 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' the missis and the kid; Our orders was to break you, an' of course we went an' did. We sloshed you with Martinis, an' it wasn't 'ardly fair; But for all the odds agin' you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you broke the square. 'E 'asn't got no papers of 'is own, 'E 'asn't got no medals nor rewards, So we must certify the skill 'e's shown In usin' of 'is long two-'anded swords: When 'e's 'oppin' in an' out among the bush With 'is coffin-'eaded shield an' shovel-spear, An 'appy day with Fuzzy on the rush Will last an 'ealthy Tommy for a year. So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an' your friends which are no more, If we 'adn't lost some messmates we would 'elp you to deplore; But give an' take's the gospel, an' we'll call the bargain fair, For if you 'ave lost more than us, you crumpled up the square! 'E rushes at the smoke when we let drive, An', before we know, 'e's 'ackin' at our 'ead; 'E's all 'ot sand an' ginger when alive, An' 'e's generally shammin' when 'e's dead. 'E's a daisy, 'e's a ducky, 'e's a lamb! 'E's a injia-rubber idiot on the spree, 'E's the on'y thing that doesn't give a damn For a Regiment o' British Infantree! So 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your 'ome in the Soudan; You're a pore benighted 'eathen but a first-class fightin' man; An' 'ere's to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your 'ayrick 'ead of 'air-- You big black boundin' beggar--for you broke a British square! SOLDIER, SOLDIER "Soldier, soldier come from the wars, Why don't you march with my true love?" "We're fresh from off the ship an' 'e's maybe give the slip, An' you'd best go look for a new love." New love! True love! Best go look for a new love, The dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better dry your eyes, An' you'd best go look for a new love. "Soldier, soldier come from the wars, What did you see o' my true love?" "I seed 'im serve the Queen in a suit o' rifle-green, An' you'd best go look for a new love." "Soldier, soldier come from the wars, Did ye see no more o' my true love?" "I seed 'im runnin' by when the shots begun to fly-- But you'd best go look for a new love." "Soldier, soldier come from the wars, Did aught take 'arm to my true love?" "I couldn't see the fight, for the smoke it lay so white-- An' you'd best go look for a new love." "Soldier, soldier come from the wars, I'll up an' tend to my true love!" "'E's lying on the dead with a bullet through 'is 'ead, An' you'd best go look for a new love." "Soldier, soldier come from the wars, I'll down an' die with my true love!" "The pit we dug'll 'ide 'im an' the twenty men beside 'im-- An' you'd best go look for a new love." "Soldier, soldier come from the wars, Do you bring no sign from my true love?" "I bring a lock of 'air that 'e allus used to wear, An' you'd best go look for a new love." "Soldier, soldier come from the wars, O then I know it's true I've lost my true love!" "An' I tell you truth again--when you've lost the feel o' pain You'd best take me for your true love." True love! New love! Best take 'im for a new love, The dead they cannot rise, an' you'd better dry your eyes, An' you'd best take 'im for your true love. SCREW-GUNS Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool, I walks in my old brown gaiters along o' my old brown mule, With seventy gunners be'ind me, an' never a beggar forgets It's only the pick of the Army that handles the dear little pets--'Tss! 'Tss! For you all love the screw-guns--the screw-guns they all love you! So when we call round with a few guns, o' course you will know what to do--hoo! hoo! Jest send in your Chief an' surrender-- it's worse if you fights or you runs: You can go where you please, you can skid up the trees, but you don't get away from the guns! They sends us along where the roads are, but mostly we goes where they ain't: We'd climb up the side of a sign-board an' trust to the stick o' the paint: We've chivied the Naga an' Looshai, we've give the Afreedeeman fits, For we fancies ourselves at two thousand, we guns that are built in two bits--'Tss! 'Tss! For you all love the screw-guns... If a man doesn't work, why, we drills 'im an' teaches 'im 'ow to behave; If a beggar can't march, why, we kills 'im an' rattles 'im into 'is grave. You've got to stand up to our business an' spring without snatchin' or fuss. D'you say that you sweat with the field-guns? By God, you must lather with us--'Tss! 'Tss! For you all love the screw-guns... The eagles is screamin' around us, the river's a-moanin' below, We're clear o' the pine an' the oak-scrub, we're out on the rocks an' the snow, An' the wind is as thin as a whip-lash what carries away to the plains The rattle an' stamp o' the lead-mules-- the jinglety-jink o' the chains--'Tss! 'Tss! For you all love the screw-guns... There's a wheel on the Horns o' the Mornin', an' a wheel on the edge o' the Pit, An' a drop into nothin' beneath you as straight as a beggar can spit: With the sweat runnin' out o' your shirt-sleeves, an' the sun off the snow in your face, An' 'arf o' the men on the drag-ropes to hold the old gun in 'er place--'Tss! 'Tss! For you all love the screw-guns... Smokin' my pipe on the mountings, sniffin' the mornin' cool, I climbs in my old brown gaiters along o' my old brown mule. The monkey can say what our road was-- the wild-goat 'e knows where we passed. Stand easy, you long-eared old darlin's! Out drag-ropes! With shrapnel! Hold fast--'Tss! 'Tss! For you all love the screw-guns--the screw-guns they all love you! So when we take tea with a few guns, o' course you will know what to do--hoo! hoo! Jest send in your Chief an' surrender-- it's worse if you fights or you runs: You may hide in the caves, they'll be only your graves, but you can't get away from the guns! GUNGA DIN You may talk o' gin and beer When you're quartered safe out 'ere, An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it; But when it comes to slaughter You will do your work on water, An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it. Now in Injia's sunny clime, Where I used to spend my time A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen, Of all them blackfaced crew The finest man I knew Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din. He was "Din! Din! Din! You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din! Hi! slippy hitherao! Water, get it! Panee lao!1 You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din." The uniform 'e wore Was nothin' much before, An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, For a piece o' twisty rag An' a goatskin water-bag Was all the field-equipment 'e could find. When the sweatin' troop-train lay In a sidin' through the day, Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl, We shouted "Harry By!" 2 Till our throats were bricky-dry, Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all. It was "Din! Din! Din! You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been? You put some juldee 3 in it Or I'll marrow 4 you this minute If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!" 'E would dot an' carry one Till the longest day was done; An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear. If we charged or broke or cut, You could bet your bloomin' nut, 'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. With 'is mussick 5 on 'is back, 'E would skip with our attack, An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire", An' for all 'is dirty 'ide 'E was white, clear white, inside When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire! It was "Din! Din! Din!" With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green. When the cartridges ran out, You could hear the front-files shout, "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!" I shan't forgit the night When I dropped be'ind the fight With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been. I was chokin' mad with thirst, An' the man that spied me first Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din. 'E lifted up my 'ead, An' he plugged me where I bled, An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green: It was crawlin' and it stunk, But of all the drinks I've drunk, I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din. It was "Din! Din! Din! 'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; 'E's chawin' up the ground, An' 'e's kickin' all around: For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!" 'E carried me away To where a dooli lay, An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean. 'E put me safe inside, An' just before 'e died, "I 'ope you liked your drink", sez Gunga Din. So I'll meet 'im later on At the place where 'e is gone-- Where it's always double drill and no canteen; 'E'll be squattin' on the coals Givin' drink to poor damned souls, An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din! Yes, Din! Din! Din! You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din! Though I've belted you and flayed you, By the livin' Gawd that made you, You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din! 1 Bring water swiftly. 2 Mr Atkins' equivalent for "O Brother." 3 Hit you. 4 Be quick. 5 Water skin. OONTS (Northern India Transport Train) Wot makes the soldier's 'eart to @penk, wot makes 'im to perspire? It isn't standin' up to charge nor lyin' down to fire; But it's everlastin' waitin' on a everlastin' road For the commissariat camel an' 'is commissariat load. O the oont, 1 O the oont, O the commissariat oont! With 'is silly neck a-bobbin' like a basket full o' snakes; We packs 'im like an idol, an' you ought to 'ear 'im grunt, An' when we gets 'im loaded up 'is blessed girth-rope breaks. Wot makes the rear-guard swear so 'ard when night is drorin' in, An' every native follower is shiverin' for 'is skin? It ain't the chanst o' being rushed by Paythans from the 'ills, It's the commissariat camel puttin' on 'is bloomin' frills! O the oont, O the oont, O the hairy scary oont! A-trippin' over tent-ropes when we've got the night alarm! We socks 'im with a stretcher-pole an' 'eads 'im off in front, An' when we've saved 'is bloomin' life 'e chaws our bloomin' arm. The 'orse 'e knows above a bit, the bullock's but a fool, The elephant's a gentleman, the battery-mule's a mule; But the commissariat cam-u-el, when all is said an' done, 'E's a devil an' a ostrich an' a orphan-child in one. O the oont, O the oont, O the Gawd-forsaken oont! The lumpy-'umpy 'ummin'-bird a-singin' where 'e lies, 'E's blocked the whole division from the rear-guard to the front, An' when we get him up again--the beggar goes an' dies! 'E'll gall an' chafe an' lame an' fight--'e smells most awful vile; 'E'll lose 'isself for ever if you let 'im stray a mile; 'E's game to graze the 'ole day long an' 'owl the 'ole night through, An' when 'e comes to greasy ground 'e splits 'isself in two. O the oont, O the oont, O the floppin', droppin' oont! When 'is long legs give from under an' 'is meltin' eye is dim, The tribes is up be'ind us, and the tribes is out in front-- It ain't no jam for Tommy, but it's kites an' crows for 'im. So when the cruel march is done, an' when the roads is blind, An' when we sees the camp in front an' 'ears the shots be'ind, Ho! then we strips 'is saddle off, and all 'is woes is past: 'E thinks on us that used 'im so, and gets revenge at last. O the oont, O the oont, O the floatin', bloatin' oont! The late lamented camel in the water-cut 'e lies; We keeps a mile be'ind 'im an' we keeps a mile in front, But 'e gets into the drinkin'-casks, and then o' course we dies. 1 Camel--oo is pronounced like u in "bull," but by Mr. Atkins to rhyme with "front." LOOT If you've ever stole a pheasant-egg be'ind the keeper's back, If you've ever snigged the washin' from the line, If you've ever crammed a gander in your bloomin' 'aversack, You will understand this little song o' mine. But the service rules are 'ard, an' from such we are debarred, For the same with English morals does not suit. (Cornet: Toot! toot!) W'y, they call a man a robber if 'e stuffs 'is marchin' clobber With the-- (Chorus) Loo! loo! Lulu! lulu! Loo! loo! Loot! loot! loot! Ow the loot! Bloomin' loot! That's the thing to make the boys git up an' shoot! It's the same with dogs an' men, If you'd make 'em come again Clap 'em forward with a Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! (ff) Whoopee! Tear 'im, puppy! Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot! If you've knocked a nigger edgeways when 'e's thrustin' for your life, You must leave 'im very careful where 'e fell; An' may thank your stars an' gaiters if you didn't feel 'is knife That you ain't told off to bury 'im as well. Then the sweatin' Tommies wonder as they spade the beggars under Why lootin' should be entered as a crime; So if my song you'll 'ear, I will learn you plain an' clear 'Ow to pay yourself for fightin' overtime. (Chorus) With the loot,... Now remember when you're 'acking round a gilded Burma god That 'is eyes is very often precious stones; An' if you treat a nigger to a dose o' cleanin'-rod 'E's like to show you everything 'e owns. When 'e won't prodooce no more, pour some water on the floor Where you 'ear it answer 'ollow to the boot (Cornet: Toot! toot!)-- When the ground begins to sink, shove your baynick down the chink, An' you're sure to touch the-- (Chorus) Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot! Ow the loot!... When from 'ouse to 'ouse you're 'unting, you must always work in pairs-- It 'alves the gain, but safer you will find-- For a single man gets bottled on them twisty-wisty stairs, An' a woman comes and clobs 'im from be'ind. When you've turned 'em inside out, an' it seems beyond a doubt As if there weren't enough to dust a flute (Cornet: Toot! toot!)-- Before you sling your 'ook, at the 'ousetops take a look, For it's underneath the tiles they 'ide the loot. (Chorus) Ow the loot!... You can mostly square a Sergint an' a Quartermaster too, If you only take the proper way to go; I could never keep my pickin's, but I've learned you all I knew-- An' don't you never say I told you so. An' now I'll bid good-bye, for I'm gettin' rather dry, An' I see another tunin' up to toot (Cornet: Toot! toot!)-- So 'ere's good-luck to those that wears the Widow's clo'es, An' the Devil send 'em all they want o' loot! (Chorus) Yes, the loot, Bloomin' loot! In the tunic an' the mess-tin an' the boot! It's the same with dogs an' men, If you'd make 'em come again (fff) Whoop 'em forward with a Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot! Heeya! Sick 'im, puppy! Loo! loo! Lulu! Loot! loot! loot! 'SNARLEYOW' This 'appened in a battle to a batt'ry of the corps Which is first among the women an' amazin' first in war; An' what the bloomin' battle was I don't remember now, But Two's off-lead 'e answered to the name o' Snarleyow. Down in the Infantry, nobody cares; Down in the Cavalry, Colonel 'e swears; But down in the lead with the wheel at the flog Turns the bold Bombardier to a little whipped dog! They was movin' into action, they was needed very sore, To learn a little schoolin' to a native army corps, They 'ad nipped against an uphill, they was tuckin' down the brow, When a tricky, trundlin' roundshot give the knock to Snarleyow. They cut 'im loose an' left 'im--'e was almost tore in two-- But he tried to follow after as a well-trained 'orse should do; 'E went an' fouled the limber, an' the Driver's Brother squeals: "Pull up, pull up for Snarleyow--'is head's between 'is 'eels!" The Driver 'umped 'is shoulder, for the wheels was goin' round, An' there ain't no "Stop, conductor!" when a batt'ry's changin' ground; Sez 'e: "I broke the beggar in, an' very sad I feels, But I couldn't pull up, not for you--your 'ead between your 'eels!" 'E 'adn't 'ardly spoke the word, before a droppin' shell A little right the batt'ry an' between the sections fell; An' when the smoke 'ad cleared away, before the limber wheels, There lay the Driver's Brother with 'is 'ead between 'is 'eels. Then sez the Driver's Brother, an' 'is words was very plain, "For Gawd's own sake get over me, an' put me out o' pain." They saw 'is wounds was mortial, an' they judged that it was best, So they took an' drove the limber straight across 'is back an' chest. The Driver 'e give nothin' 'cept a little coughin' grunt, But 'e swung 'is 'orses 'andsome when it came to "Action Front!" An' if one wheel was juicy, you may lay your Monday head 'Twas juicier for the niggers when the case begun to spread. The moril of this story, it is plainly to be seen: You 'avn't got no families when servin' of the Queen-- You 'avn't got no brothers, fathers, sisters, wives, or sons-- If you want to win your battles take an' work your bloomin' guns! Down in the Infantry, nobody cares; Down in the Cavalry, Colonel 'e swears; But down in the lead with the wheel at the flog Turns the bold Bombardier to a little whipped dog! THE WIDOW AT WINDSOR 'Ave you 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor With a hairy gold crown on 'er 'ead? She 'as ships on the foam--she 'as millions at 'ome, An' she pays us poor beggars in red. (Ow, poor beggars in red!) There's 'er nick on the cavalry 'orses, There's 'er mark on the medical stores-- An' 'er troopers you'll find with a fair wind be'ind That takes us to various wars. (Poor beggars!--barbarious wars!) Then 'ere's to the Widow at Windsor, An' 'ere's to the stores an' the guns, The men an' the 'orses what makes up the forces O' Missis Victorier's sons. (Poor beggars! Victorier's sons!) Walk wide o' the Widow at Windsor, For 'alf o' Creation she owns: We 'ave bought 'er the same with the sword an' the flame, An' we've salted it down with our bones. (Poor beggars!--it's blue with our bones!) Hands off o' the sons o' the Widow, Hands off o' the goods in 'er shop, For the Kings must come down an' the Emperors frown When the Widow at Windsor says "Stop"! (Poor beggars!--we're sent to say "Stop"!) Then 'ere's to the Lodge o' the Widow, From the Pole to the Tropics it runs-- To the Lodge that we tile with the rank an' the file, An' open in form with the guns. (Poor beggars!--it's always they guns!) We 'ave 'eard o' the Widow at Windsor, It's safest to let 'er alone: For 'er sentries we stand by the sea an' the land Wherever the bugles are blown. (Poor beggars!--an' don't we get blown!) Take 'old o' the Wings o' the Mornin', An' flop round the earth till you're dead; But you won't get away from the tune that they play To the bloomin' old rag over'ead. (Poor beggars!--it's 'ot over'ead!) Then 'ere's to the sons o' the Widow, Wherever, 'owever they roam. 'Ere's all they desire, an' if they require A speedy return to their 'ome. (Poor beggars!--they'll never see 'ome!) BELTS There was a row in Silver Street that's near to Dublin Quay, Between an Irish regiment an' English cavalree; It started at Revelly an' it lasted on till dark: The first man dropped at Harrison's, the last forninst the Park. For it was:--"Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!" An' it was "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!" O buckle an' tongue Was the song that we sung From Harrison's down to the Park! There was a row in Silver Street--the regiments was out, They called us "Delhi Rebels", an' we answered "Threes about!" That drew them like a hornet's nest--we met them good an' large, The English at the double an' the Irish at the charge. Then it was:--"Belts... There was a row in Silver Street--an' I was in it too; We passed the time o' day, an' then the belts went whirraru! I misremember what occurred, but subsequint the storm A Freeman's Journal Supplemint was all my uniform. O it was:--"Belts... There was a row in Silver Street--they sent the Polis there, The English were too drunk to know, the Irish didn't care; But when they grew impertinint we simultaneous rose, Till half o' them was Liffey mud an' half was tatthered clo'es. For it was:--"Belts... There was a row in Silver Street--it might ha' raged till now, But some one drew his side-arm clear, an' nobody knew how; 'Twas Hogan took the point an' dropped; we saw the red blood run: An' so we all was murderers that started out in fun. While it was:--"Belts... There was a row in Silver Street--but that put down the shine, Wid each man whisperin' to his next: "'Twas never work o' mine!" We went away like beaten dogs, an' down the street we bore him, The poor dumb corpse that couldn't tell the bhoys were sorry for him. When it was:--"Belts... There was a row in Silver Street--it isn't over yet, For half of us are under guard wid punishments to get; 'Tis all a merricle to me as in the Clink I lie: There was a row in Silver Street--begod, I wonder why! But it was:--"Belts, belts, belts, an' that's one for you!" An' it was "Belts, belts, belts, an' that's done for you!" O buckle an' tongue Was the song that we sung From Harrison's down to the Park! THE YOUNG BRITISH SOLDIER When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East 'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast, An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier. Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, Serve, serve, serve as a soldier, So-oldier of the Queen! Now all you recruities what's drafted today, You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay, An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may: A soldier what's fit for a soldier. Fit, fit, fit for a soldier... First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts, For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts-- Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts-- An' it's bad for the young British soldier. Bad, bad, bad for the soldier... When the cholera comes--as it will past a doubt-- Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout, For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out, An' it crumples the young British soldier. Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier... But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead: You must wear your 'elmet for all that is said: If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead, An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier. Fool, fool, fool of a soldier... If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind, Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind; Be handy and civil, and then you will find That it's beer for the young British soldier. Beer, beer, beer for the soldier... Now, if you must marry, take care she is old-- A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told, For beauty won't help if your rations is cold, Nor love ain't enough for a soldier. 'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier... If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath To shoot when you catch 'em--you'll swing, on my oath!-- Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both, An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier. Curse, curse, curse of a soldier... When first under fire an' you're wishful to duck, Don't look nor take 'eed at the man that is struck, Be thankful you're livin', and trust to your luck And march to your front like a soldier. Front, front, front like a soldier... When 'arf of your bullets fly wide in the ditch, Don't call your Martini a cross-eyed old bitch; She's human as you are--you treat her as sich, An' she'll fight for the young British soldier. Fight, fight, fight for the soldier... When shakin' their bustles like ladies so fine, The guns o' the enemy wheel into line, Shoot low at the limbers an' don't mind the shine, For noise never startles the soldier. Start-, start-, startles the soldier... If your officer's dead and the sergeants look white, Remember it's ruin to run from a fight: So take open order, lie down, and sit tight, And wait for supports like a soldier. Wait, wait, wait like a soldier... When you're wounded and left on Afghanistan's plains, And the women come out to cut up what remains, Jest roll to your rifle and blow out your brains An' go to your Gawd like a soldier. Go, go, go like a soldier, Go, go, go like a soldier, Go, go, go like a soldier, So-oldier of the Queen! MANDALAY By the old Moulmein Pagoda, lookin' lazy at the sea, There's a Burma girl a-settin', and I know she thinks o' me; For the wind is in the palm-trees, and the temple-bells they say: "Come you back, you British soldier; come you back to Mandalay!" Come you back to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay: Can't you 'ear their paddles chunkin' from Rangoon to Mandalay? On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! 'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green, An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat--jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen, An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot, An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot: Bloomin' idol made o'mud-- Wot they called the Great Gawd Budd-- Plucky lot she cared for idols when I kissed 'er where she stud! On the road to Mandalay... When the mist was on the rice-fields an' the sun was droppin' slow, She'd git 'er little banjo an' she'd sing "Kulla-lo-lo!" With 'er arm upon my shoulder an' 'er cheek agin' my cheek We useter watch the steamers an' the hathis pilin' teak. Elephints a-pilin' teak In the sludgy, squdgy creek, Where the silence 'ung that 'eavy you was 'arf afraid to speak! On the road to Mandalay... But that's all shove be'ind me--long ago an' fur away, An' there ain't no 'busses runnin' from the Bank to Mandalay; An' I'm learnin' 'ere in London what the ten-year soldier tells: "If you've 'eard the East a-callin', you won't never 'eed naught else." No! you won't 'eed nothin' else But them spicy garlic smells, An' the sunshine an' the palm-trees an' the tinkly temple-bells; On the road to Mandalay... I am sick o' wastin' leather on these gritty pavin'-stones, An' the blasted Henglish drizzle wakes the fever in my bones; Tho' I walks with fifty 'ousemaids outer Chelsea to the Strand, An' they talks a lot o' lovin', but wot do they understand? Beefy face an' grubby 'and-- Law! wot do they understand? I've a neater, sweeter maiden in a cleaner, greener land! On the road to Mandalay... Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst, Where there aren't no Ten Commandments an' a man can raise a thirst; For the temple-bells are callin', an' it's there that I would be-- By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea; On the road to Mandalay, Where the old Flotilla lay, With our sick beneath the awnings when we went to Mandalay! On the road to Mandalay, Where the flyin'-fishes play, An' the dawn comes up like thunder outer China 'crost the Bay! TROOPIN' (Our Army in the East) Troopin', troopin', troopin' to the sea: 'Ere's September come again--the six-year men are free. O leave the dead be'ind us, for they cannot come away To where the ship's a-coalin' up that takes us 'ome today. We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome, Our ship is at the shore, An' you must pack your 'aversack, For we won't come back no more. Ho, don't you grieve for me, My lovely Mary-Ann, For I'll marry you yit on a fourp'ny bit As a time-expired man. The Malabar's in 'arbour with the Jumner at 'er tail, An' the time-expired's waitin' of 'is orders for to sail. Ho! the weary waitin' when on Khyber 'ills we lay, But the time-expired's waitin' of 'is orders 'ome today. They'll turn us out at Portsmouth wharf in cold an' wet an' rain, All wearin' Injian cotton kit, but we will not complain; They'll kill us of pneumonia--for that's their little way-- But damn the chills and fever, men, we're goin' 'ome today! Troopin', troopin', winter's round again! See the new draf's pourin' in for the old campaign; Ho, you poor recruities, but you've got to earn your pay-- What's the last from Lunnon, lads? We're goin' there today. Troopin', troopin', give another cheer-- 'Ere's to English women an' a quart of English beer. The Colonel an' the regiment an' all who've got to stay, Gawd's mercy strike 'em gentle--Whoop! we're goin' 'ome today. We're goin' 'ome, we're goin' 'ome, Our ship is at the shore, An' you must pack your 'aversack, For we won't come back no more. Ho, don't you grieve for me, My lovely Mary-Ann, For I'll marry you yit on a fourp'ny bit As a time-expired man. FORD O' KABUL RIVER Kabul town's by Kabul river-- Blow the bugle, draw the sword-- There I lef' my mate for ever, Wet an' drippin' by the ford. Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river, Ford o' Kabul river in the dark! There's the river up and brimmin', an' there's 'arf a squadron swimmin' 'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark. Kabul town's a blasted place-- Blow the bugle, draw the sword-- 'Strewth I sha'n't forget 'is face Wet an' drippin' by the ford! Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river, Ford o' Kabul river in the dark! Keep the crossing-stakes beside you, an' they will surely guide you 'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark. Kabul town is sun and dust-- Blow the bugle, draw the sword-- I'd ha' sooner drownded fust 'Stead of 'im beside the ford. Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river, Ford o' Kabul river in the dark! You can 'ear the 'orses threshin', you can 'ear the men a-splashin', 'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark. Kabul town was ours to take-- Blow the bugle, draw the sword-- I'd ha' left it for 'is sake-- 'Im that left me by the ford. Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river, Ford o' Kabul river in the dark! It's none so bloomin' dry there; ain't you never comin' nigh there, 'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark? Kabul town'll go to hell-- Blow the bugle, draw the sword-- 'Fore I see him 'live an' well-- 'Im the best beside the ford. Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river, Ford o' Kabul river in the dark! Gawd 'elp 'em if they blunder, for their boots'll pull 'em under, By the ford o' Kabul river in the dark. Turn your 'orse from Kabul town-- Blow the bugle, draw the sword-- 'Im an' 'arf my troop is down, Down an' drownded by the ford. Ford, ford, ford o' Kabul river, Ford o' Kabul river in the dark! There's the river low an' fallin', but it ain't no use o' callin' 'Cross the ford o' Kabul river in the dark. ROUTE MARCHIN' We're marchin' on relief over Injia's sunny plains, A little front o' Christmas-time an' just be'ind the Rains; Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed, There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road; With its best foot first And the road a-sliding past, An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last; While the Big Drum says, With 'is "rowdy-dowdy-dow!"-- "Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow?" 2 Oh, there's them Injian temples to admire when you see, There's the peacock round the corner an' the monkey up the tree, An' there's that rummy silver grass a-wavin' in the wind, An' the old Grand Trunk a-trailin' like a rifle-sling be'ind. While it's best foot first,... At half-past five's Revelly, an' our tents they down must come, Like a lot of button mushrooms when you pick 'em up at 'ome. But it's over in a minute, an' at six the column starts, While the women and the kiddies sit an' shiver in the carts. An' it's best foot first,... Oh, then it's open order, an' we lights our pipes an' sings, An' we talks about our rations an' a lot of other things, An' we thinks o' friends in England, an' we wonders what they're at, An' 'ow they would admire for to hear us sling the bat.1 An' it's best foot first,... It's none so bad o' Sunday, when you're lyin' at your ease, To watch the kites a-wheelin' round them feather-'eaded trees, For although there ain't no women, yet there ain't no barrick-yards, So the orficers goes shootin' an' the men they plays at cards. Till it's best foot first,... So 'ark an' 'eed, you rookies, which is always grumblin' sore, There's worser things than marchin' from Umballa to Cawnpore; An' if your 'eels are blistered an' they feels to 'urt like 'ell, You drop some tallow in your socks an' that will make 'em well. For it's best foot first,... We're marchin' on relief over Injia's coral strand, Eight 'undred fightin' Englishmen, the Colonel, and the Band; Ho! get away you bullock-man, you've 'eard the bugle blowed, There's a regiment a-comin' down the Grand Trunk Road; With its best foot first And the road a-sliding past, An' every bloomin' campin'-ground exactly like the last; While the Big Drum says, With 'is "rowdy-dowdy-dow!"-- "Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamsher argy jow?"2 1 Thomas's first and firmest conviction is that he is a profound Orientalist and a fluent speaker of Hindustani. As a matter of fact, he depends largely on the sign-language. 2 Why don't you get on The end * * * * * * VOLUME III. THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW AND OTHER GHOST STORIES THE PHANTOM 'RICKSHAW May no ill dreams disturb my rest, Nor Powers of Darkness me molest. --Evening Hymn. ONE of the few advantages that India has over England is a great Knowability. After five years' service a man is directly or indirectly acquainted with the two or three hundred Civilians in his Province, all the Messes of ten or twelve Regiments and Batteries, and some fifteen hundred other people of the non-official caste. In ten years his knowledge should be doubled, and at the end of twenty he knows, or knows something about, every Englishman in the Empire, and may travel anywhere and everywhere without paying hotel-bills. Globe-trotters who expect entertainment as a right, have, even within my memory, blunted this open-heartedness, but none the less today, if you belong to the Inner Circle and are neither a Bear nor a Black Sheep, all houses are open to you, and our small world is very, very kind and helpful. Rickett of Kamartha stayed with Polder of Kumaon some fifteen years ago. He meant to stay two nights, but was knocked down by rheumatic fever, and for six weeks disorganized Polder's establishment, stopped Polder's work, and nearly died in Polder's bedroom. Polder behaves as though he had been placed under eternal obligation by Rickett, and yearly sends the little Ricketts a box of presents and toys. It is the same everywhere. The men who do not take the trouble to conceal from you their opinion that you are an incompetent ass, and the women who blacken your character and misunderstand your wife's amusements, will work themselves to the bone in your behalf if you fall sick or into serious trouble. Heatherlegh, the Doctor, kept, in addition to his regular practice, a hospital on his private account--an arrangement of loose boxes for Incurables, his friend called it--but it was really a sort of fitting-up shed for craft that had been damaged by stress of weather. The weather in India is often sultry, and since the tale of bricks is always a fixed quantity, and the only liberty allowed is permission to work overtime and get no thanks, men occasionally break down and become as mixed as the metaphors in this sentence. Heatherlegh is the dearest doctor that ever was, and his invariable prescription to all his patients is, "lie low, go slow, and keep cool." He says that more men are killed by overwork than the importance of this world justifies. He maintains that overwork slew Pansay, who died under his hands about three years ago. He has, of course, the right to speak authoritatively, and he laughs at my theory that there was a crack in Pansay's head and a little bit of the Dark World came through and pressed him to death. "Pansay went off the handle," says Heatherlegh, "after the stimulus of long leave at Home. He may or he may not have behaved like a blackguard to Mrs. Keith-Wessington. My notion is that the work of the Katabundi Settlement ran him off his legs, and that he took to brooding and making much of an ordinary P. & 0. flirtation. He certainly was engaged to Miss Mannering, and she certainly broke off the engagement. Then he took a feverish chill and all that nonsense about ghosts developed. Overwork started his illness, kept it alight, and killed him poor devil. Write him off to the System--one man to take the work of two and a half men." I do not believe this. I used to sit up with Pansay sometimes when Heatherlegh was called out to patients, and I happened to be within claim. The man would make me most unhappy by describing in a low, even voice, the procession that was always passing at the bottom of his bed. He had a sick man's command of language. When he recovered I suggested that he should write out the whole affair from beginning to end, knowing that ink might assist him to ease his mind. When little boys have learned a new bad word they are never happy till they have chalked it up on a door. And this also is Literature. He was in a high fever while he was writing, and the blood-and-thunder Magazine diction he adopted did not calm him. Two months afterward he was reported fit for duty, but, in spite of the fact that he was urgently needed to help an undermanned Commission stagger through a deficit, he preferred to die; vowing at the last that he was hag-ridden. I got his manuscript before he died, and this is his version of the affair, dated 1885: My doctor tells me that I need rest and change of air. It is not improbable that I shall get both ere long--rest that neither the red-coated messenger nor the midday gun can break, and change of air far beyond that which any homeward-bound steamer can give me. In the meantime I am resolved to stay where I am; and, in flat defiance of my doctor's orders, to take all the world into my confidence. You shall learn for yourselves the precise nature of my malady; and shall, too, judge for yourselves whether any man born of woman on this weary earth was ever so tormented as I. Speaking now as a condemned criminal might speak ere the drop-bolts are drawn, my story, wild and hideously improbable as it may appear, demands at least attention. That it will ever receive credence I utterly disbelieve. Two months ago I should have scouted as mad or drunk the man who had dared tell me the like. Two months ago I was the happiest man in India. Today, from Peshawur to the sea, there is no one more wretched. My doctor and I are the only two who know this. His explanation is, that my brain, digestion, and eyesight are all slightly affected; giving rise to my frequent and persistent "delusions." Delusions, indeed! I call him a fool; but he attends me still with the same unwearied smile, the same bland professional manner, the same neatly trimmed red whiskers, till I begin to suspect that I am an ungrateful, evil-tempered invalid. But you shall judge for yourselves. Three years ago it was my fortune--my great misfortune--to sail from Gravesend to Bombay, on return from long leave, with one Agnes Keith-Wessington, wife of an officer on the Bombay side. It does not in the least concern you to know what manner of woman she was. Be content with the knowledge that, ere the voyage had ended, both she and I were desperately and unreasoningly in love with one another. Heaven knows that I can make the admission now without one particle of vanity. In matters of this sort there is always one who gives and another who accepts. From the first day of our ill-omened attachment, I was conscious that Agnes's passion was a stronger, a more dominant, and--if I may use the expression--a purer sentiment than mine. Whether she recognized the fact then, I do not know. Afterward it was bitterly plain to both of us. Arrived at Bombay in the spring of the year, we went our respective ways, to meet no more for the next three or four months, when my leave and her love took us both to Simla. There we spent the season together; and there my fire of straw burned itself out to a pitiful end with the closing year. I attempt no excuse. I make no apology. Mrs. Wessington had given up much for my sake, and was prepared to give up all. From my own lips, in August, 1882, she learned that I was sick of her presence, tired of her company, and weary of the sound of her voice. Ninety-nine women out of a hundred would have wearied of me as I wearied of them; seventy-five of that number would have promptly avenged themselves by active and obtrusive flirtation with other men. Mrs. Wessington was the hundredth. On her neither my openly expressed aversion nor the cutting brutalities with which I garnished our interviews had the least effect. "Jack, darling!" was her one eternal cuckoo cry: "I'm sure it's all a mistake--a hideous mistake; and we'll be good friends again some day. Please forgive me, Jack, dear." I was the offender, and I knew it. That knowledge transformed my pity into passive endurance, and, eventually, into blind hate--the same instinct, I suppose, which prompts a man to savagely stamp on the spider he has but half killed. And with this hate in my bosom the season of 1882 came to an end. Next year we met again at Simla--she with her monotonous face and timid attempts at reconciliation, and I with loathing of her in every fibre of my frame. Several times I could not avoid meeting her alone; and on each occasion her words were identically the same. Still the unreasoning wail that it was all a "mistake"; and still the hope of eventually "making friends." I might have seen had I cared to look, that that hope only was keeping her alive. She grew more wan and thin month by month. You will agree with me, at least, that such conduct would have driven any one to despair. It was uncalled for; childish; unwomanly. I maintain that she was much to blame. And again, sometimes, in the black, fever-stricken night-watches, I have begun to think that I might have been a little kinder to her. But that really is a "delusion." I could not have continued pretending to love her when I didn't; could I? It would have been unfair to us both. Last year we met again--on the same terms as before. The same weary appeal, and the same curt answers from my lips. At least I would make her see how wholly wrong and hopeless were her attempts at resuming the old relationship. As the season wore on, we fell apart--that is to say, she found it difficult to meet me, for I had other and more absorbing interests to attend to. When I think it over quietly in my sick-room, the season of 1884 seems a confused nightmare wherein light and shade were fantastically intermingled--my courtship of little Kitty Mannering; my hopes, doubts, and fears; our long rides together; my trembling avowal of attachment; her reply; and now and again a vision of a white face flitting by in the 'rickshaw with the black and white liveries I once watched for so earnestly; the wave of Mrs. Wessington's gloved hand; and, when she met me alone, which was but seldom, the irksome monotony of her appeal. I loved Kitty Mannering; honestly, heartily loved her, and with my love for her grew my hatred for Agnes. In August Kitty and I were engaged. The next day I met those accursed "magpie" jhampanies at the back of Jakko, and, moved by some passing sentiment of pity, stopped to tell Mrs. Wessington everything. She knew it already. "So I hear you're engaged, Jack dear." Then, without a moment's pause--"I'm sure it's all a mistake--a hideous mistake. We shall be as good friends some day, Jack, as we ever were." My answer might have made even a man wince. It cut the dying woman before me like the blow of a whip. "Please forgive me, Jack; I didn't mean to make you angry; but it's true, it's true!" And Mrs. Wessington broke down completely. I turned away and left her to finish her journey in peace, feeling, but only for a moment or two, that I had been an unutterably mean hound. I looked back, and saw that she had turned her 'rickshaw with the idea, I suppose, of overtaking me. The scene and its surroundings were photographed on my memory. The rain-swept sky (we were at the end of the wet weather), the sodden, dingy pines, the muddy road, and the black powder-riven cliffs formed a gloomy background against which the black and white liveries of the jhampanies, the yellow-paneled 'rickshaw and Mrs. Wessington's down-bowed golden head stood out clearly. She was holding her handkerchief in her left hand and was leaning back exhausted against the 'rickshaw cushions. I turned my horse up a bypath near the Sanjowlie Reservoir and literally ran away. Once I fancied I heard a faint call of "Jack!" This may have been imagination. I never stopped to verify it. Ten minutes later I came across Kitty on horseback; and, in the delight of a long ride with her, forgot all about the interview. A week later Mrs. Wessington died, and the inexpressible burden of her existence was removed from my life. I went Plainsward perfectly happy. Before three months were over I had forgotten all about her, except that at times the discovery of some of her old letters reminded me unpleasantly of our bygone relationship. By January I had disinterred what was left of our correspondence from among my scattered belongings and had burned it. At the beginning of April of this year, 1885, I was at Simla--semi-deserted Simla--once more, and was deep in lover's talks and walks with Kitty. It was decided that we should be married at the end of June. You will understand, therefore, that, loving Kitty as I did, I am not saying too much when I pronounce myself to have been, at that time, the happiest man in India. Fourteen delightful days passed almost before I noticed their flight. Then, aroused to the sense of what was proper among mortals circumstanced as we were, I pointed out to Kitty that an engagement ring was the outward and visible sign of her dignity as an engaged girl; and that she must forthwith come to Hamilton's to be measured for one. Up to that moment, I give you my word, we had completely forgotten so trivial a matter. To Hamilton's we accordingly went on the 15th of April, 1885. Remember that--whatever my doctor may say to the contrary--I was then in perfect health, enjoying a well-balanced mind and an absolute tranquil spirit. Kitty and I entered Hamilton's shop together, and there, regardless of the order of affairs, I measured Kitty for the ring in the presence of the amused assistant. The ring was a sapphire with two diamonds. We then rode out down the slope that leads to the Combermere Bridge and Peliti's shop. While my Waler was cautiously feeling his way over the loose shale, and Kitty was laughing and chattering at my side--while all Simla, that is to say as much of it as had then come from the Plains, was grouped round the Reading-room and Peliti's veranda,--I was aware that some one, apparently at a vast distance, was calling me by my Christian name. It struck me that I had heard the voice before, but when and where I could not at once determine. In the short space it took to cover the road between the path from Hamilton's shop and the first plank of the Combermere Bridge I had thought over half a dozen people who might have committed such a solecism, and had eventually decided that it must have been singing in my ears. Immediately opposite Peliti's shop my eye was arrested by the sight of four jharnpanies in "magpie" livery, pulling a yellow-paneled, cheap, bazar 'rickshaw. In a moment my mind flew back to the previous season and Mrs. Wessington with a sense of irritation and disgust. Was it not enough that the woman was dead and done with, without her black and white servitors reappearing to spoil the day's happiness? Whoever employed them now I thought I would call upon, and ask as a personal favor to change her jhampanies' livery. I would hire the men myself, and, if necessary, buy their coats from off their backs. It is impossible to say here what a flood of undesirable memories their presence evoked. "Kitty," I cried, "there are poor Mrs. Wessington's jhampanies turned up again! I wonder who has them now?" Kitty had known Mrs. Wessington slightly last season, and had always been interested in the sickly woman. "What? Where?" she asked. "I can't see them anywhere." Even as she spoke her horse, swerving from a laden mule, threw himself directly in front of the advancing 'rickshaw. I had scarcely time to utter a word of warning when, to my unutterable horror, horse and rider passed through men and carriage as if they had been thin air. "What's the matter?" cried Kitty; "what made you call out so foolishly, Jack? If I am engaged I don't want all creation to know about it. There was lots of space between the mule and the veranda; and, if you think I can't ride-- "--There!" Whereupon wilful Kitty set off, her dainty little head in the air, at a hand-gallop in the direction of the Bandstand; fully expecting, as she herself afterward told me, that I should follow her. What was the matter? Nothing indeed. Either that I was mad or drunk, or that Simla was haunted with devils. I reined in my impatient cob, and turned round. The 'rickshaw had turned too, and now stood immediately facing me, near the left railing of the Combermere Bridge. "Jack! Jack, darling!" (There was no mistake about the words this time: they rang through my brain as if they had been shouted in my ear.) "It's some hideous mistake, I'm sure. Please forgive me, jack, and let's be friends again." The 'rickshaw-hood had fallen back, and inside, as I hope and pray daily for the death I dread by night, sat Mrs. Keith-Wessington, handkerchief in hand, and golden head bowed on her breast. How long I stared motionless I do not know. Finally, I was aroused by my syce taking the Waler's bridle and asking whether I was ill. From the horrible to the commonplace is but a step. I tumbled off my horse and dashed, half fainting, into Peliti's for a glass of cherry-brandy. There two or three couples were gathered round the coffee-tables discussing the gossip of the day. Their trivialities were more comforting to me just then than the consolations of religion could have been. I plunged into the midst of the conversation at once; chatted, laughed, and jested with a face (when I caught a glimpse of it in a mirror) as white and drawn as that of a corpse. Three or four men noticed my condition; and, evidently setting it down to the results of over-many pegs, charitably endeavoured to draw me apart from the rest of the loungers. But I refused to be led away. I wanted the company of my kind--as a child rushes into the midst of the dinner-party after a fright in the dark. I must have talked for about ten minutes or so, though it seemed an eternity to me, when I heard Kitty's clear voice outside inquiring for me. In another minute she had entered the shop, prepared to roundly upbraid me for failing so signally in my duties. Something in my face stopped her. "Why, Jack," she cried, "what have you been doing? What has happened? Are you ill?" Thus driven into a direct lie, I said that the sun had been a little too much for me. It was close upon five o'clock of a cloudy April afternoon, and the sun had been hidden all day. I saw my mistake as soon as the words were out of my mouth: attempted to recover it; blundered hopelessly and followed Kitty in a regal rage, out of doors, amid the smiles of my acquaintances. I made some excuse (I have forgotten what) on the score of my feeling faint; and cantered away to my hotel, leaving Kitty to finish the ride by herself. In my room I sat down and tried calmly to reason out the matter. Here was I, Theobald Jack Pansay, a well-educated Bengal Civilian in the year of grace, 1885, presumably sane, certainly healthy, driven in terror from my sweetheart's side by the apparition of a woman who had been dead and buried eight months ago. These were facts that I could not blink. Nothing was further from my thought than any memory of Mrs. Wessington when Kitty and I left Hamilton's shop. Nothing was more utterly commonplace than the stretch of wall opposite Peliti's. It was broad daylight. The road was full of people; and yet here, look you, in defiance of every law of probability, in direct outrage of Nature's ordinance, there had appeared to me a face from the grave. Kitty's Arab had gone through the 'rickshaw: so that my first hope that some woman marvelously like Mrs. Wessington had hired the carriage and the coolies with their old livery was lost. Again and again I went round this treadmill of thought; and again and again gave up baffled and in despair. The voice was as inexplicable as the apparition. I had originally some wild notion of confiding it all to Kitty; of begging her to marry me at once; and in her arms defying the ghostly occupant of the 'rickshaw. "After all," I argued, "the presence of the 'rickshaw is in itself enough to prove the existence of a spectral illusion. One may see ghosts of men and women, but surely never of coolies and carriages. The whole thing is absurd. Fancy the ghost of a hill-man!" Next morning I sent a penitent note to Kitty, imploring her to overlook my strange conduct of the previous afternoon. My Divinity was still very wroth, and a personal apology was necessary. I explained, with a fluency born of night-long pondering over a falsehood, that I had been attacked with sudden palpitation of the heart--the result of indigestion. This eminently practical solution had its effect; and Kitty and I rode out that afternoon with the shadow of my first lie dividing us. Nothing would please her save a canter round Jakko. With my nerves still unstrung from the previous night I feebly protested against the notion, suggesting Observatory Hill, Jutogh, the Boileaugunge road--anything rather than the Jakko round. Kitty was angry and a little hurt: so I yielded from fear of provoking further misunderstanding, and we set out together toward Chota Simla. We walked a greater part of the way, and, according to our custom, cantered from a mile or so below the Convent to the stretch of level road by the Sanjowlie Reservoir. The wretched horses appeared to fly, and my heart beat quicker and quicker as we neared the crest of the ascent. My mind had been full of Mrs. Wessington all the afternoon; and every inch of the Jakko road bore witness to our oldtime walks and talks. The bowlders were full of it; the pines sang it aloud overhead; the rain-fed torrents giggled and chuckled unseen over the shameful story; and the wind in my ears chanted the iniquity aloud. As a fitting climax, in the middle of the level men call the Ladies' Mile the Horror was awaiting me. No other 'rickshaw was in sight--only the four black and white jhampanies, the yellow-paneled carriage, and the golden head of the woman within--all apparently just as I had left them eight months and one fortnight ago! For an instant I fancied that Kitty must see what I saw--we were so marvelously sympathetic in all things. Her next words undeceived me--"Not a soul in sight! Come along, Jack, and I'll race you to the Reservoir buildings!" Her wiry little Arab was off like a bird, my Waler following close behind, and in this order we dashed under the cliffs. Half a minute brought us within fifty yards of the 'rickshaw. I pulled my Waler and fell back a little. The 'rickshaw was directly in the middle of the road; and once more the Arab passed through it, my horse following. "Jack! Jack dear! Please forgive me," rang with a wail in my ears, and, after an interval:--"It's a mistake, a hideous mistake!" I spurred my horse like a man possessed. When I turned my head at the Reservoir works, the black and white liveries were still waiting--patiently waiting--under the grey hillside, and the wind brought me a mocking echo of the words I had just heard. Kitty bantered me a good deal on my silence throughout the remainder of the ride. I had been talking up till then wildly and at random. To save my life I could not speak afterward naturally, and from Sanjowlie to the Church wisely held my tongue. I was to dine with the Mannerings that night, and had barely time to canter home to dress. On the road to Elysium Hill I overheard two men talking together in the dusk.--"It's a curious thing," said one, "how completely all trace of it disappeared. You know my wife was insanely fond of the woman ('never could see anything in her myself), and wanted me to pick up her old 'rickshaw and coolies if they were to be got for love or money. Morbid sort of fancy I call it; but I've got to do what the Memsahib tells me. "Would you believe that the man she hired it from tells me that all four of the men--they were brothers--died of cholera on the way to Hardwar, poor devils, and the 'rickshaw has been broken up by the man himself. 'Told me he never used a dead Memsahib's 'rickshaw. 'Spoiled his luck.' Queer notion, wasn't it? Fancy poor little Mrs. Wessington spoiling any one's luck except her own!" I laughed aloud at this point; and my laugh jarred on me as I uttered it. So there were ghosts of 'rickshaws after all, and ghostly employments in the other world! How much did Mrs. Wessington give her men? What were their hours? Where did they go? And for visible answer to my last question I saw the infernal Thing blocking my path in the twilight. The dead travel fast, and by short cuts unknown to ordinary coolies. I laughed aloud a second time and checked my laughter suddenly, for I was afraid I was going mad. Mad to a certain extent I must have been, for I recollect that I reined in my horse at the head of the 'rickshaw, and politely wished Mrs. Wessington "Good evening." Her answer was one I knew only too well. I listened to the end; and replied that I had heard it all before, but should be delighted if she had anything further to say. Some malignant devil stronger than I must have entered into me that evening, for I have a dim recollection of talking the commonplaces of the day for five minutes to the Thing in front of me. "Mad as a hatter, poor devil--or drunk. Max, try and get him to come home." Surely that was not Mrs. Wessington's voice! The two men had overheard me speaking to the empty air, and had returned to look after me. They were very kind and considerate, and from their words evidently gathered that I was extremely drunk. I thanked them confusedly and cantered away to my hotel, there changed, and arrived at the Mannerings' ten minutes late. I pleaded the darkness of the night as an excuse; was rebuked by Kitty for my unlover-like tardiness; and sat down. The conversation had already become general; and under cover of it, I was addressing some tender small talk to my sweetheart when I was aware that at the further end of the table a short red-whiskered man was describing, with much broidery, his encounter with a mad unknown that evening. A few sentences convinced me that he was repeating the incident of half an hour ago. In the middle of the story he looked round for applause, as professional story-tellers do, caught my eye, and straightway collapsed. There was a moment's awkward silence, and the red-whiskered man muttered something to the effect that he had "forgotten the rest," thereby sacrificing a reputation as a good story-teller which he had built up for six seasons past. I blessed him from the bottom of my heart, and--went on with my fish. In the fulness of time that dinner came to an end; and with genuine regret I tore myself away from Kitty--as certain as I was of my own existence that It would be waiting for me outside the door. The red-whiskered man, who had been introduced to me as Doctor Heatherlegh, of Simla, volunteered to bear me company as far as our roads lay together. I accepted his offer with gratitude. My instinct had not deceived me. It lay in readiness in the Mall, and, in what seemed devilish mockery of our ways, with a lighted head-lamp. The red-whiskered man went to the point at once, in a manner that showed he bad been thinking over it all dinner time. "I say, Pansay, what the deuce was the matter with you this evening on the Elysium road?" The suddenness of the question wrenched an answer from me before I was aware. "That!" said I, pointing to It. "That may be either D. T. or Eyes for aught I know. Now you don't liquor. I saw as much at dinner, so it can't be D. T. There's nothing whatever where you're pointing, though you're sweating and trembling with fright like a scared pony. Therefore, I conclude that it's Eyes. And I ought to understand all about them. Come along home with me. I'm on the Blessington lower road." To my intense delight the 'rickshaw instead of waiting for us kept about twenty yards ahead--and this, too whether we walked, trotted, or cantered. In the course of that long night ride I had told my companion almost as much as I have told you here. "Well, you've spoiled one of the best tales I've ever laid tongue to," said he, "but I'll forgive you for the sake of what you've gone through. Now come home and do what I tell you; and when I've cured you, young man, let this be a lesson to you to steer clear of women and indigestible food till the day of your death." The 'rickshaw kept steady in front; and my red-whiskered friend seemed to derive great pleasure from my account of its exact whereabouts. "Eyes, Pansay--all Eyes, Brain, and Stomach. And the greatest of these three is Stomach. You've too much conceited Brain, too little Stomach, and thoroughly unhealthy Eyes. Get your Stomach straight and the rest follows. And all that's French for a liver pill. "I'll take sole medical charge of you from this hour! for you're too interesting a phenomenon to be passed over." By this time we were deep in the shadow of the Blessington lower road and the 'rickshaw came to a dead stop under a pine-clad, over-hanging shale cliff. Instinctively I halted too, giving my reason. Heatherlegh rapped out an oath. "Now, if you think I'm going to spend a cold night on the hillside for the sake of a stomach-cum-Brain-cum-Eye illusion--Lord, ha' mercy! What's that?" There was a muffled report, a blinding smother of dust just in front of us, a crack, the noise of rent boughs, and about ten yards of the cliff-side--pines, undergrowth, and all--slid down into the road below, completely blocking it up. The uprooted trees swayed and tottered for a moment like drunken giants in the gloom, and then fell prone among their fellows with a thunderous crash. Our two horses stood motionless and sweating with fear. As soon as the rattle of falling earth and stone had subsided, my companion muttered:--"Man, if we'd gone forward we should have been ten feet deep in our graves by now. 'There are more things in heaven and earth...' Come home, Pansay, and thank God. I want a peg badly." We retraced our way over the Church Ridge, and I arrived at Dr. Heatherlegh's house shortly after midnight. His attempts toward my cure commenced almost immediately, and for a week I never left his sight. Many a time in the course of that week did I bless the good fortune which had thrown me in contact with Simla's best and kindest doctor. Day by day my spirits grew lighter and more equable. Day by day, too, I became more and more inclined to fall in with Heatherlegh's "spectral illusion" theory, implicating eyes, brain, and stomach. I wrote to Kitty, telling her that a slight sprain caused by a fall from my horse kept me indoors for a few days; and that I should be recovered before she had time to regret my absence. Heatherlegh's treatment was simple to a degree. It consisted of liver pills, cold-water baths, and strong exercise, taken in the dusk or at early dawn--for, as he sagely observed:--"A man with a sprained ankle doesn't walk a dozen miles a day, and your young woman might be wondering if she saw you." At the end of the week, after much examination of pupil and pulse, and strict injunction' as to diet and pedestrianism, Heatherlegh dismissed me as brusquely as he had taken charge of me. Here is his parting benediction:--"Man, I can certify to your mental cure, and that's as much as to say I've cured most of your bodily ailments. Now, get your traps out of this as soon as you can; and be off to make love to Miss Kitty." I was endeavoring to express my thanks for his kindness. He cut me short. "Don't think I did this because I like you. I gather that you've behaved like a blackguard all through. But, all the same, you re a phenomenon, and as queer a phenomenon as you are a blackguard. No!"--checking me a second time--"not a rupee please. Go out and see if you can find the eyes-brain-and-stomach business again. I'll give you a lakh for each time you see it." Half an hour later I was in the Mannerings' drawing-room with Kitty--drunk with the intoxication of present happiness and the fore-knowledge that I should never more be troubled with Its hideous presence. Strong in the sense of my new-found security, I proposed a ride at once; and, by preference, a canter round Jakko. Never had I felt so well, so overladen with vitality and mere animal spirits, as I did on the afternoon of the 30th of April. Kitty was delighted at the change in my appearance, and complimented me on it in her delightfully frank and outspoken manner. We left the Mannerings' house together, laughing and talking, and cantered along the Chota Simla road as of old. I was in haste to reach the Sanjowlie Reservoir and there make my assurance doubly sure. The horses did their best, but seemed all too slow to my impatient mind. Kitty was astonished at my boisterousness. "Why, Jack!" she cried at last, "you are behaving like a child. What are you doing?" We were just below the Convent, and from sheer wantonness I was making my Waler plunge and curvet across the road as I tickled it with the loop of my riding-whip. "Doing?" I answered; "nothing, dear. That's just it. If you'd been doing nothing for a week except lie up, you'd be as riotous as I." "'Singing and murmuring in your feastful mirth, Joying to feel yourself alive; Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible Earth, Lord of the senses five.'" My quotation was hardly out of my lips before we had rounded the corner above the Convent; and a few yards further on could see across to Sanjowlie. In the centre of the level road stood the black and white liveries, the yellow-paneled 'rickshaw, and Mrs. Keith-Wessington. I pulled up, looked, rubbed my eyes, and, I believe must have said something. The next thing I knew was that I was lying face downward on the road with Kitty kneeling above me in tears. "Has it gone, child?" I gasped. Kitty only wept more bitterly. "Has what gone, Jack dear? what does it all mean? There must be a mistake somewhere, Jack. A hideous mistake." Her last words brought me to my feet--mad--raving for the time being. "Yes, there is a mistake somewhere," I repeated, "a hideous mistake. Come and look at It." I have an indistinct idea that I dragged Kitty by the wrist along the road up to where It stood, and implored her for pity's sake to speak to It; to tell It that we were betrothed; that neither Death nor Hell could break the tie between us; and Kitty only knows how much more to the same effect. Now and again I appealed passionately to the Terror in the 'rickshaw to bear witness to all I had said, and to release me from a torture that was killing me. As I talked I suppose I must have told Kitty of my old relations with Mrs. Wessington, for I saw her listen intently with white face and blazing eyes. "Thank you, Mr. Pansay," she said, "that's quite enough. Syce ghora lao." The syces, impassive as Orientals always are, had come up with the recaptured horses; and as Kitty sprang into her saddle I caught hold of the bridle, entreating her to hear me out and forgive. My answer was the cut of her riding-whip across my face from mouth to eye, and a word or two of farewell that even now I cannot write down. So I judged, and judged rightly, that Kitty knew all; and I staggered back to the side of the 'rickshaw. My face was cut and bleeding, and the blow of the riding-whip had raised a livid blue wheal on it. I had no self-respect. Just then, Heatherlegh, who must have been following Kitty and me at a distance, cantered up. "Doctor," I said, pointing to my face, "here's Miss Mannering's signature to my order of dismissal and--I'll thank you for that lakh as soon as convenient." Heatherlegh's face, even in my abject misery, moved me to laughter. "I'll stake my professional reputation"--he began. "Don't be a fool," I whispered. "I've lost my life's happiness and you'd better take me home." As I spoke the 'rickshaw was gone. Then I lost all knowledge of what was passing. The crest of Jakko seemed to heave and roll like the crest of a cloud and fall in upon me. Seven days later (on the 7th of May, that is to say) I was aware that I was lying in Heatherlegh's room as weak as a little child. Heatherlegh was watching me intently from behind the papers on his writing-table. His first words were not encouraging; but I was too far spent to be much moved by them. "Here's Miss Kitty has sent back your letters. You corresponded a good deal, you young people. Here's a packet that looks like a ring, and a cheerful sort of a note from Mannering Papa, which I've taken the liberty of reading and burning. The old gentleman's not pleased with you." "And Kitty?" I asked, dully. "Rather more drawn than her father from what she says. By the same token you must have been letting out any number of queer reminiscences just before I met you. 'Says that a man who would have behaved to a woman as you did to Mrs. Wessington ought to kill himself out of sheer pity for his kind. She's a hot-headed little virago, your mash. 'Will have it too that you were suffering from D. T. when that row on the Jakko road turned up. 'Says she'll die before she ever speaks to you again." I groaned and turned over to the other side. "Now you've got your choice, my friend. This engagement has to be broken off; and the Mannerings don't want to be too hard on you. Was it broken through D. T. or epileptic fits? Sorry I can't offer you a better exchange unless you'd prefer hereditary insanity. Say the word and I'll tell 'em it's fits. All Simla knows about that scene on the Ladies' Mile. Come! I'll give you five minutes to think over it." During those five minutes I believe that I explored thoroughly the lowest circles of the Inferno which it is permitted man to tread on earth. And at the same time I myself was watching myself faltering through the dark labyrinths of doubt, misery, and utter despair. I wondered, as Heatherlegh in his chair might have wondered, which dreadful alternative I should adopt. Presently I heard myself answering in a voice that I hardly recognized, "--They're confoundedly particular about morality in these parts. Give 'em fits, Heatherlegh, and my love. Now let me sleep a bit longer." Then my two selves joined, and it was only I (half crazed, devil-driven I) that tossed in my bed, tracing step by step the history of the past month. "But I am in Simla," I kept repeating to myself. "I, Jack Pansay, am in Simla and there are no ghosts here. It's unreasonable of that woman to pretend there are. Why couldn't Agnes have left me alone? I never did her any harm. It might just as well have been me as Agnes. Only I'd never have come back on purpose to kill her. Why can't I be left alone--left alone and happy?" It was high noon when I first awoke, and the sun was low in the sky before I slept--slept as the tortured criminal sleeps on his rack, too worn to feel further pain. Next day I could not leave my bed. Heatherlegh told me in the morning that he had received an answer from Mr. Mannering, and that, thanks to his (Heatherlegh's) friendly offices, the story of my affliction had traveled through the length and breadth of Simla, where I was on all sides much pitied. "And that's rather more than you deserve," he concluded, pleasantly, "though the Lord knows you've been going through a pretty severe mill. Never mind; we'll cure you yet, you perverse phenomenon." I declined firmly to be cured. "You've been much too good to me already, old man," said I; "but I don't think I need trouble you further." In my heart I knew that nothing Heatherlegh could do would lighten the burden that had been laid upon me. With that knowledge came also a sense of hopeless, impotent rebellion against the unreasonableness of it all. There were scores of men no better than I whose punishments had at least been reserved for another world; and I felt that it was bitterly, cruelly unfair that I alone should have been singled out for so hideous a fate. This mood would in time give place to another where it seemed that the 'rickshaw and I were the only realities in a world of shadows; that Kitty was a ghost; that Mannering, Heatherlegh, and all the other men and women I knew were all ghosts; and the great, grey hills themselves but vain shadows devised to torture me. From mood to mood I tossed backward and forward for seven weary days; my body growing daily stronger and stronger, until the bedroom looking-glass told me that I had returned to everyday life, and was as other men once more. Curiously enough my face showed no signs of the struggle I had gone through. It was pale indeed, but as expressionless and commonplace as ever. I had expected some permanent alteration--visible evidence of the disease that was eating me away. I found nothing. On the 15th of May, I left Heatherlegh's house at eleven o'clock in the morning; and the instinct of the bachelor drove me to the Club. There I found that every man knew my story as told by Heatherlegh, and was, in clumsy fashion, abnormally kind and attentive. Nevertheless I recognized that for the rest of my natural life I should be among but not of my fellows; and I envied very bitterly indeed the laughing coolies on the Mall below. I lunched at the Club, and at four o'clock wandered aimlessly down the Mall in the vague hope of meeting Kitty. Close to the Band-stand the black and white liveries joined me; and I heard Mrs. Wessington's old appeal at my side. I had been expecting this ever since I came out; and was only surprised at her delay. The phantom 'rickshaw and I went side by side along the Chota Simla road in silence. Close to the bazar, Kitty and a man on horseback overtook and passed us. For any sign she gave I might have been a dog in the road. She did not even pay me the compliment of quickening her pace; though the rainy afternoon had served for an excuse. So Kitty and her companion, and I and my ghostly Light-o'-Love, crept round Jakko in couples. The road was streaming with water; the pines dripped like roof-pipes on the rocks below, and the air was full of fine, driving rain. Two or three times I found myself saying to myself almost aloud: "I'm Jack Pansay on leave at Simla--at Simla! Everyday, ordinary Simla. I mustn't forget that--I mustn't forget that." Then I would try to recollect some of the gossip I had heard at the Club: the prices of So-and-So's horses--anything, in fact, that related to the workaday Anglo-Indian world I knew so well. I even repeated the multiplication-table rapidly to myself, to make quite sure that I was not taking leave of my senses. It gave me much comfort; and must have prevented my hearing Mrs. Wessington for a time. Once more I wearily climbed the Convent slope and entered the level road. Here Kitty and the man started off at a canter, and I was left alone with Mrs. Wessington. "Agnes," said I, "will you put back your hood and tell me what it all means?" The hood dropped noiselessly, and I was face to face with my dead and buried mistress. She was wearing the dress in which I had last seen her alive; carried the same tiny handkerchief in her right hand; and the same cardcase in her left. (A woman eight months dead with a cardcase!) I had to pin myself down to the multiplication-table, and to set both hands on the stone parapet of the road, to assure myself that that at least was real. "Agnes," I repeated, "for pity's sake tell me what it all means." Mrs. Wessington leaned forward, with that odd, quick turn of the head I used to know so well, and spoke. If my story had not already so madly overleaped the hounds of all human belief I should apologize to you now. As I know that no one--no, not even Kitty, for whom it is written as some sort of justification of my conduct--will believe me, I will go on. Mrs. Wessington spoke and I walked with her from the Sanjowlie road to the turning below the Commander-in-Chief's house as I might walk by the side of any living woman's 'rickshaw, deep in conversation. The second and most tormenting of my moods of sickness had suddenly laid hold upon me, and like the Prince in Tennyson's poem, "I seemed to move amid a world of ghosts." There had been a garden-party at the Commander-in-Chief's, and we two joined the crowd of homeward-bound folk. As I saw them then it seemed that they were the shadows--impalpable, fantastic shadows--that divided for Mrs. Wessington's 'rickshaw to pass through. What we said during the course of that weird interview I cannot--indeed, I dare not--tell. Heatherlegh's comment would have been a short laugh and a remark that I had been "mashing a brain-eye-and-stomach chimera." It was a ghastly and yet in some indefinable way a marvelously dear experience. Could it be possible, I wondered, that I was in this life to woo a second time the woman I had killed by my own neglect and cruelty? I met Kitty on the homeward road--a shadow among shadows. If I were to describe all the incidents of the next fortnight in their order, my story would never come to an end; and your patience would Be exhausted. Morning after morning and evening after evening the ghostly 'rickshaw and I used to wander through Simla together. Wherever I went there the four black and white liveries followed me and bore me company to and from my hotel. At the Theatre I found them amid the crowd of yelling jhampanies; outside the Club veranda, after a long evening of whist; at the Birthday Ball, waiting patiently for my reappearance; and in broad daylight when I went calling. Save that it cast no shadow, the 'rickshaw was in every respect as real to look upon as one of wood and iron. More than once, indeed, I have had to check myself from warning some hard-riding friend against cantering over it. More than once I have walked down the Mall deep in conversation with Mrs. Wessington to the unspeakable amazement of the passers-by. Before I had been out and about a week I learned that the "fit" theory had been discarded in favor of insanity. However, I made no change in my mode of life. I called, rode, and dined out as freely as ever. I had a passion for the society of my kind which I had never felt before; I hungered to be among the realities of life; and at the same time I felt vaguely unhappy when I had been separated too long from my ghostly companion. It would be almost impossible to describe my varying moods from the 15th of May up to today. The presence of the 'rickshaw filled me by turns with horror, blind fear, a dim sort of pleasure, and utter despair. I dared not leave Simla; and I knew that my stay there was killing me. I knew, moreover, that it was my destiny to die slowly and a little every day. My only anxiety was to get the penance over as quietly as might be. Alternately I hungered for a sight of Kitty and watched her outrageous flirtations with my successor--to speak more accurately, my successors--with amused interest. She was as much out of my life as I was out of hers. By day I wandered with Mrs. Wessington almost content. By night I implored Heaven to let me return to the world as I used to know it. Above all these varying moods lay the sensation of dull, numbing wonder that the Seen and the Unseen should mingle so strangely on this earth to hound one poor soul to its grave. * * * * * August 27.--Heatherlegh has been indefatigable in his attendance on me; and only yesterday told me that I ought to send in an application for sick leave. An application to escape the company of a phantom! A request that the Government would graciously permit me to get rid of five ghosts and an airy 'rickshaw by going to England. Heatherlegh's proposition moved me to almost hysterical laughter. I told him that I should await the end quietly at Simla; and I am sure that the end is not far off. Believe me that I dread its advent more than any word can say; and I torture myself nightly with a thousand speculations as to the manner of my death. Shall I die in my bed decently and as an English gentleman should die; or, in one last walk on the Mall, will my soul be wrenched from me to take its place forever and ever by the side of that ghastly phantasm? Shall I return to my old lost allegiance in the next world, or shall I meet Agnes loathing her and bound to her side through all eternity? Shall we two hover over the scene of our lives till the end of Time? As the day of my death draws nearer, the intense horror that all living flesh feels toward escaped spirits from beyond the grave grows more and more powerful. It is an awful thing to go down quick among the dead with scarcely one-half of your life completed. It is a thousand times more awful to wait as I do in your midst, for I know not what unimaginable terror. Pity me, at least on the score of my "delusion," for I know you will never believe what I have written here Yet as surely as ever a man was done to death by the Powers of Darkness I am that man. In justice, too, pity her. For as surely as ever woman was killed by man, I killed Mrs. Wessington. And the last portion of my punishment is ever now upon me. * * * * * MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY As I came through the Desert thus it was-- As I came through the Desert. --The City of Dreadful Night. Somewhere in the Other World, where there are books and pictures and plays and shop windows to look at, and thousands of men who spend their lives in building up all four, lives a gentleman who writes real stories about the real insides of people; and his name is Mr. Walter Besant. But he will insist upon treating his ghosts--he has published half a workshopful of them--with levity. He makes his ghost-seers talk familiarly, and, in some cases, flirt outrageously, with the phantoms. You may treat anything, from a Viceroy to a Vernacular Paper, with levity; but you must behave reverently toward a ghost, and particularly an Indian one. There are, in this land, ghosts who take the form of fat, cold, pobby corpses, and hide in trees near the roadside till a traveler passes. Then they drop upon his neck and remain. There are also terrible ghosts of women who have died in child-bed. These wander along the pathways at dusk, or hide in the crops near a village, and call seductively. But to answer their call is death in this world and the next. Their feet are turned backward that all sober men may recognize them. There are ghosts of little children who have been thrown into wells. These haunt well curbs and the fringes of jungles, and wail under the stars, or catch women by the wrist and beg to be taken up and carried. These and the corpse ghosts, however, are only vernacular articles and do not attack Sahibs. No native ghost has yet been authentically reported to have frightened an Englishman; but many English ghosts have scared the life out of both white and black. Nearly every other Station owns a ghost. There are said to be two at Simla, not counting the woman who blows the bellows at Syree dak-bungalow on the Old Road; Mussoorie has a house haunted of a very lively Thing; a White Lady is supposed to do night-watchman round a house in Lahore; Dalhousie says that one of her houses "repeats" on autumn evenings all the incidents of a horrible horse-and-precipice accident; Murree has a merry ghost, and, now that she has been swept by cholera, will have room for a sorrowful one; there are Officers' Quarters in Mian Mir whose doors open without reason, and whose furniture is guaranteed to creak, not with the heat of June but with the weight of Invisibles who come to lounge in the chairs; Peshawur possesses houses that none will willingly rent; and there is something--not fever--wrong with a big bungalow in Allahabad. The older Provinces simply bristle with haunted houses, and march phantom armies along their main thoroughfares. Some of the dak-bungalows on the Grand Trunk Road have handy little cemeteries in their compound--witnesses to the "changes and chances of this mortal life" in the days when men drove from Calcutta to the Northwest. These bungalows are objectionable places to put up in. They are generally very old, always dirty, while the khansamah is as ancient as the bungalow. He either chatters senilely, or falls into the long trances of age. In both moods he is useless. If you get angry with him, he refers to some Sahib dead and buried these thirty years, and says that when he was in that Sahib's service not a khansamah in the Province could touch him. Then he jabbers and mows and trembles and fidgets among the dishes, and you repent of your irritation. In these dak-bungalows, ghosts are most likely to be found, and when found, they should be made a note of. Not long ago it was my business to live in dak-bungalows. I never inhabited the same house for three nights running, and grew to be learned in the breed. I lived in Government-built ones with red brick walls and rail ceilings, an inventory of the furniture posted in every room, and an excited snake at the threshold to give welcome. I lived in "converted" ones--old houses officiating as dak-bungalows--where nothing was in its proper place and there wasn't even a fowl for dinner. I lived in second-hand palaces where the wind blew through open-work marble tracery just as uncomfortably as through a broken pane. I lived in dak-bungalows where the last entry in the visitors' book was fifteen months old, and where they slashed off the curry-kid's head with a sword. It was my good luck to meet all sorts of men, from sober traveling missionaries and deserters flying from British Regiments, to drunken loafers who threw whisky bottles at all who passed; and my still greater good fortune just to escape a maternity case. Seeing that a fair proportion of the tragedy of our lives out here acted itself in dak-bungalows, I wondered that I had met no ghosts. A ghost that would voluntarily hang about a dak-bungalow would be mad of course; but so many men have died mad in dak-bungalows that there must be a fair percentage of lunatic ghosts. In due time I found my ghost, or ghosts rather, for there were two of them. Up till that hour I had sympathized with Mr. Besant's method of handling them, as shown in "The Strange Case of Mr. Lucraft and Other Stories." I am now in the Opposition. We will call the bungalow Katmal dak-bungalow. But THAT was the smallest part of the horror. A man with a sensitive hide has no right to sleep in dak-bungalows. He should marry. Katmal dak-bungalow was old and rotten and unrepaired. The floor was of worn brick, the walls were filthy, and the windows were nearly black with grime. It stood on a bypath largely used by native Sub-Deputy Assistants of all kinds, from Finance to Forests; but real Sahibs were rare. The khansamah, who was nearly bent double with old age, said so. When I arrived, there was a fitful, undecided rain on the face of the land, accompanied by a restless wind, and every gust made a noise like the rattling of dry bones in the stiff toddy palms outside. The khansamah completely lost his head on my arrival. He had served a Sahib once. Did I know that Sahib? He gave me the name of a well-known man who has been buried for more than a quarter of a century, and showed me an ancient daguerreotype of that man in his prehistoric youth. I had seen a steel engraving of him at the head of a double volume of Memoirs a month before, and I felt ancient beyond telling. The day shut in and the khansamah went to get me food. He did not go through the pretense of calling it "khana"--man's victuals. He said "ratub," and that means, among other things, "grub"--dog's rations. There was no insult in his choice of the term. He had forgotten the other word, I suppose. While he was cutting up the dead bodies of animals, I settled myself down, after exploring the dak-bungalow. There were three rooms, beside my own, which was a corner kennel, each giving into the other through dingy white doors fastened with long iron bars. The bungalow was a very solid one, but the partition walls of the rooms were almost jerry-built in their flimsiness. Every step or bang of a trunk echoed from my room down the other three, and every footfall came back tremulously from the far walls. For this reason I shut the door. There were no lamps--only candles in long glass shades. An oil wick was set in the bathroom. For bleak, unadulterated misery that dak-bungalow was the worst of the many that I had ever set foot in. There was no fireplace, and the windows would not open; so a brazier of charcoal would have been useless. The rain and the wind splashed and gurgled and moaned round the house, and the toddy palms rattled and roared. Half a dozen jackals went through the compound singing, and a hyena stood afar off and mocked them. A hyena would convince a Sadducee of the Resurrection of the Dead--the worst sort of Dead. Then came the ratub--a curious meal, half native and half English in composition--with the old khansamah babbling behind my chair about dead and gone English people, and the wind-blown candles playing shadow-bo-peep with the bed and the mosquito-curtains. It was just the sort of dinner and evening to make a man think of every single one of his past sins, and of all the others that he intended to commit if he lived. Sleep, for several hundred reasons, was not easy. The lamp in the bath-room threw the most absurd shadows into the room, and the wind was beginning to talk nonsense. Just when the reasons were drowsy with blood-sucking I heard the regular--"Let--us--take--and--heave--him--over" grunt of doolie-bearers in the compound. First one doolie came in, then a second, and then a third. I heard the doolies dumped on the ground, and the shutter in front of my door shook. "That's some one trying to come in," I said. But no one spoke, and I persuaded myself that it was the gusty wind. The shutter of the room next to mine was attacked, flung back, and the inner door opened. "That's some Sub-Deputy Assistant," I said, "and he has brought his friends with him. Now they'll talk and spit and smoke for an hour." But there were no voices and no footsteps. No one was putting his luggage into the next room. The door shut, and I thanked Providence that I was to be left in peace. But I was curious to know where the doolies had gone. I got out of bed and looked into the darkness. There was never a sign of a doolie. Just as I was getting into bed again, I heard, in the next room, the sound that no man in his senses can possibly mistake--the whir of a billiard ball down the length of the slates when the striker is stringing for break. No other sound is like it. A minute afterwards there was another whir, and I got into bed. I was not frightened--indeed I was not. I was very curious to know what had become of the doolies. I jumped into bed for that reason. Next minute I heard the double click of a cannon and my hair sat up. It is a mistake to say that hair stands up. The skin of the head tightens and you can feel a faint, prickly, bristling all over the scalp. That is the hair sitting up. There was a whir and a click, and both sounds could only have been made by one thing--a billiard ball. I argued the matter out at great length with myself; and the more I argued the less probable it seemed that one bed, one table, and two chairs--all the furniture of the room next to mine--could so exactly duplicate the sounds of a game of billiards. After another cannon, a three--cushion one to judge by the whir, I argued no more. I had found my ghost and would have given worlds to have escaped from that dak-bungalow. I listened, and with each listen the game grew clearer. There was whir on whir and click on click. Sometimes there was a double click and a whir and another click. Beyond any sort of doubt, people were playing billiards in the next room. And the next room was not big enough to hold a billiard table! Between the pauses of the wind I heard the game go forward--stroke after stroke. I tried to believe that I could not hear voices; but that attempt was a failure. Do you know what fear is? Not ordinary fear of insult, injury or death, but abject, quivering dread of something that you cannot see--fear that dries the inside of the mouth and half of the throat--fear that makes you sweat on the palms of the hands, and gulp in order to keep the uvula at work? This is a fine Fear--a great cowardice, and must be felt to be appreciated. The very improbability of billiards in a dak-bungalow proved the reality of the thing. No man--drunk or sober--could imagine a game at billiards, or invent the spitting crack of a "screw-cannon." A severe course of dak-bungalows has this disadvantage--it breeds infinite credulity. If a man said to a confirmed dak-bungalow-haunter:--"There is a corpse in the next room, and there's a mad girl in the next but one, and the woman and man on that camel have just eloped from a place sixty miles away," the hearer would not disbelieve because he would know that nothing is too wild, grotesque, or horrible to happen in a dak-bungalow. This credulity, unfortunately, extends to ghosts. A rational person fresh from his own house would have turned on his side and slept. I did not. So surely as I was given up as a bad carcass by the scores of things in the bed because the bulk of my blood was in my heart, so surely did I hear every stroke of a long game at billiards played in the echoing room behind the iron-barred door. My dominant fear was that the players might want a marker. It was an absurd fear; because creatures who could play in the dark would be above such superfluities. I only know that that was my terror; and it was real. After a long, long while the game stopped, and the door banged. I slept because I was dead tired. Otherwise I should have preferred to have kept awake. Not for everything in Asia would I have dropped the door-bar and peered into the dark of the next room. When the morning came, I considered that I had done well and wisely, and inquired for the means of departure. "By the way, khansamah," I said, "what were those three doolies doing in my compound in the night?" "There were no doolies," said the khansamah. I went into the next room and the daylight streamed through the open door. I was immensely brave. I would, at that hour, have played Black Pool with the owner of the big Black Pool down below. "Has this place always been a dak-bungalow?" I asked. "No," said the khansamah. "Ten or twenty years ago, I have forgotten how long, it was a billiard room." "A how much?" "A billiard room for the Sahibs who built the Railway. I was khansamah then in the big house where all the Railway-Sahibs lived, and I used to come across with brandy-shrab. These three rooms were all one, and they held a big table on which the Sahibs played every evening. But the Sahibs are all dead now, and the Railway runs, you say, nearly to Kabul." "Do you remember anything about the Sahibs?" "It is long ago, but I remember that one Sahib, a fat man and always angry, was playing here one night, and he said to me:--'Mangal Khan, brandy-pani do,' and I filled the glass, and he bent over the table to strike, and his head fell lower and lower till it hit the table, and his spectacles came off, and when we--the Sahibs and I myself--ran to lift him he was dead. I helped to carry him out. Aha, he was a strong Sahib! But he is dead and I, old Mangal Khan, am still living, by your favor." That was more than enough! I had my ghost--a firsthand, authenticated article. I would write to the Society for Psychical Research--I would paralyze the Empire with the news! But I would, first of all, put eighty miles of assessed crop land between myself and that dak-bungalow before nightfall. The Society might send their regular agent to investigate later on. I went into my own room and prepared to pack after noting down the facts of the case. As I smoked I heard the game begin again,--with a miss in balk this time, for the whir was a short one. The door was open and I could see into the room. Click--click! That was a cannon. I entered the room without fear, for there was sunlight within and a fresh breeze without. The unseen game was going on at a tremendous rate. And well it might, when a restless little rat was running to and fro inside the dingy ceiling-cloth, and a piece of loose window-sash was making fifty breaks off the window-bolt as it shook in the breeze! Impossible to mistake the sound of billiard balls! Impossible to mistake the whir of a ball over the slate! But I was to be excused. Even when I shut my enlightened eyes the sound was marvelously like that of a fast game. Entered angrily the faithful partner of my sorrows, Kadir Baksh. "This bungalow is very bad and low-caste! No wonder the Presence was disturbed and is speckled. Three sets of doolie-bearers came to the bungalow late last night when I was sleeping outside, and said that it was their custom to rest in the rooms set apart for the English people! What honor has the khansamah? They tried to enter, but I told them to go. No wonder, if these Oorias have been here, that the Presence is sorely spotted. It is shame, and the work of a dirty man!" Kadir Baksh did not say that he had taken from each gang two annas for rent in advance, and then, beyond my earshot, had beaten them with the big green umbrella whose use I could never before divine. But Kadir Baksh has no notions of morality. There was an interview with the khansamah, but as he promptly lost his head, wrath gave place to pity, and pity led to a long conversation, in the course of which he put the fat Engineer-Sahib's tragic death in three separate stations--two of them fifty miles away. The third shift was to Calcutta, and there the Sahib died while driving a dogcart. If I had encouraged him the khansamah would have wandered all through Bengal with his corpse. I did not go away as soon as I intended. I stayed for the night, while the wind and the rat and the sash and the window-bolt played a ding-dong "hundred and fifty up." Then the wind ran out and the billiards stopped, and I felt that I had ruined my one genuine, hall-marked ghost story. Had I only stopped at the proper time, I could have made anything out of it. That was the bitterest thought of all! THE STRANGE RIDE OF MORROWBIE JUKES Alive or dead-there is no other way. --Native Proverb. THERE is, as the conjurers say, no deception about this tale. Jukes by accident stumbled upon a village that is well known to exist, though he is the only Englishman who has been there. A somewhat similar institution used to flourish on the outskirts of Calcutta, and there is a story that if you go into the heart of Bikanir, which is in the heart of the Great Indian Desert, you shall come across not a village but a town where the Dead who did not die but may not live have established their headquarters. And, since it is perfectly true that in the same Desert is a wonderful city where all the rich money lenders retreat after they have made their fortunes (fortunes so vast that the owners cannot trust even the strong hand of the Government to protect them, but take refuge in the waterless sands), and drive sumptuous C-spring barouches, and buy beautiful girls and decorate their palaces with gold and ivory and Minton tiles and mother-of-pearl, I do not see why Jukes's tale should not be true. He is a Civil Engineer, with a head for plans and distances and things of that kind, and he certainly would not take the trouble to invent imaginary traps. He could earn more by doing his legitimate work. He never varies the tale in the telling, and grows very hot and indignant when he thinks of the disrespectful treatment he received. He wrote this quite straightforwardly at first, but he has since touched it up in places and introduced Moral Reflections, thus: In the beginning it all arose from a slight attack of fever. My work necessitated my being in camp for some months between Pakpattan and Muharakpur--a desolate sandy stretch of country as every one who has had the misfortune to go there may know. My coolies were neither more nor less exasperating than other gangs, and my work demanded sufficient attention to keep me from moping, had I been inclined to so unmanly a weakness. On the 23d December, 1884, I felt a little feverish. There was a full moon at the time, and, in consequence, every dog near my tent was baying it. The brutes assembled in twos and threes and drove me frantic. A few days previously I had shot one loud-mouthed singer and suspended his carcass in terrorem about fifty yards from my tent-door. But his friends fell upon, fought for, and ultimately devoured the body; and, as it seemed to me, sang their hymns of thanksgiving afterward with renewed energy. The light-heartedness which accompanies fever acts differently on different men. My irritation gave way, after a short time, to a fixed determination to slaughter one huge black and white beast who had been foremost in song and first in flight throughout the evening. Thanks to a shaking hand and a giddy head I had already missed him twice with both barrels of my shot-gun, when it struck me that my best plan would be to ride him down in the open and finish him off with a hog-spear. This, of course, was merely the semi-delirious notion of a fever patient; but I remember that it struck me at the time as being eminently practical and feasible. I therefore ordered my groom to saddle Pornic and bring him round quietly to the rear of my tent. When the pony was ready, I stood at his head prepared to mount and dash out as soon as the dog should again lift up his voice. Pornic, by the way, had not been out of his pickets for a couple of days; the night air was crisp and chilly; and I was armed with a specially long and sharp pair of persuaders with which I had been rousing a sluggish cob that afternoon. You will easily believe, then, that when he was let go he went quickly. In one moment, for the brute bolted as straight as a die, the tent was left far behind, and we were flying over the smooth sandy soil at racing speed. In another we had passed the wretched dog, and I had almost forgotten why it was that I had taken the horse and hogspear. The delirium of fever and the excitement of rapid motion through the air must have taken away the remnant of my senses. I have a faint recollection of standing upright in my stirrups, and of brandishing my hog-spear at the great white Moon that looked down so calmly on my mad gallop; and of shouting challenges to the camel-thorn bushes as they whizzed past. Once or twice I believe, I swayed forward on Pornic's neck, and literally hung on by my spurs--as the marks next morning showed. The wretched beast went forward like a thing possessed, over what seemed to be a limitless expanse of moonlit sand. Next, I remember, the ground rose suddenly in front of us, and as we topped the ascent I saw the waters of the Sutlej shining like a silver bar below. Then Pornic blundered heavily on his nose, and we rolled together down some unseen slope. I must have lost consciousness, for when I recovered I was lying on my stomach in a heap of soft white sand, and the dawn was beginning to break dimly over the edge of the slope down which I had fallen. As the light grew stronger I saw that I was at the bottom of a horse-shoe shaped crater of sand, opening on one side directly on to the shoals of the Sutlej. My fever had altogether left me, and, with the exception of a slight dizziness in the head, I felt no had effects from the fall over night. Pornic, who was standing a few yards away, was naturally a good deal exhausted, but had not hurt himself in the least. His saddle, a favorite polo one, was much knocked about, and had been twisted under his belly. It took me some time to put him to rights, and in the meantime I had ample opportunities of observing the spot into which I had so foolishly dropped. At the risk of being considered tedious, I must describe it at length: inasmuch as an accurate mental picture of its peculiarities will be of material assistance in enabling the reader to understand what follows. Imagine then, as I have said before, a horseshoe-shaped crater of sand with steeply graded sand walls about thirty-five feet high. (The slope, I fancy, must have been about 65 degrees.) This crater enclosed a level piece of ground about fifty yards long by thirty at its broadest part, with a crude well in the centre. Round the bottom of the crater, about three feet from the level of the ground proper, ran a series of eighty-three semi-circular ovoid, square, and multilateral holes, all about three feet at the mouth. Each hole on inspection showed that it was carefully shored internally with drift-wood and bamboos, and over the mouth a wooden drip-board projected, like the peak of a jockey's cap, for two feet. No sign of life was visible in these tunnels, but a most sickening stench pervaded the entire amphitheatre--a stench fouler than any which my wanderings in Indian villages have introduced me to. Having remounted Pornic, who was as anxious as I to get back to camp, I rode round the base of the horseshoe to find some place whence an exit would be practicable. The inhabitants, whoever they might be, had not thought fit to put in an appearance, so I was left to my own devices. My first attempt to "rush" Pornic up the steep sand-banks showed me that I had fallen into a trap exactly on the same model as that which the ant-lion sets for its prey. At each step the shifting sand poured down from above in tons, and rattled on the drip-boards of the holes like small shot. A couple of ineffectual charges sent us both rolling down to the bottom, half choked with the torrents of sand; and I was constrained to turn my attention to the river-bank. Here everything seemed easy enough. The sand hills ran down to the river edge, it is true, but there were plenty of shoals and shallows across which I could gallop Pornic, and find my way back to terra firma by turning sharply to the right or left. As I led Pornic over the sands I was startled by the faint pop of a rifle across the river; and at the same moment a bullet dropped with a sharp "whit" close to Pornic's head. There was no mistaking the nature of the missile-a regulation Martini-Henry "picket." About five hundred yards away a country-boat was anchored in midstream; and a jet of smoke drifting away from its bows in the still morning air showed me whence the delicate attention had come. Was ever a respectable gentleman in such an impasse? The treacherous sand slope allowed no escape from a spot which I had visited most involuntarily, and a promenade on the river frontage was the signal for a bombardment from some insane native in a boat. I'm afraid that I lost my temper very much indeed. Another bullet reminded me that I had better save my breath to cool my porridge; and I retreated hastily up the sands and back to the horseshoe, where I saw that the noise of the rifle had drawn sixty-five human beings from the badger-holes which I had up till that point supposed to be untenanted. I found myself in the midst of a crowd of spectators--about forty men, twenty women, and one child who could not have been more than five years old. They were all scantily clothed in that salmon-colored cloth which one associates with Hindu mendicants, and, at first sight, gave me the impression of a band of loathsome fakirs. The filth and repulsiveness of the assembly were beyond all description, and I shuddered to think what their life in the badger-holes must be. Even in these days, when local self government has destroyed the greater part of a native's respect for a Sahib, I have been accustomed to a certain amount of civility from my inferiors, and on approaching the crowd naturally expected that there would be some recognition of my presence. As a matter of fact there was; but it was by no means what I had looked for. The ragged crew actually laughed at me--such laughter I hope I may never hear again. They cackled, yelled, whistled, and howled as I walked into their midst; some of them literally throwing themselves down on the ground in convulsions of unholy mirth. In a moment I had let go Pornic's head, and irritated beyond expression at the morning's adventure, commenced cuffing those nearest to me with all the force I could. The wretches dropped under my blows like nine-pins, and the laughter gave place to wails for mercy; while those yet untouched clasped me round the knees, imploring me in all sorts of uncouth tongues to spare them. In the tumult, and just when I was feeling very much ashamed of myself for having thus easily given way to my temper, a thin, high voice murmured in English from behind my shoulder: "--Sahib! Sahib! Do you not know me? Sahib, it is Gunga Dass, the telegraph-master." I spun round quickly and faced the speaker. Gunga Dass, (I have, of course, no hesitation in mentioning the man's real name) I had known four years before as a Deccanee Brahmin loaned by the Punjab Government to one of the Khalsia States. He was in charge of a branch telegraph-office there, and when I had last met him was a jovial, full-stomached, portly Government servant with a marvelous capacity for making had puns in English--a peculiarity which made me remember him long after I had forgotten his services to me in his official capacity. It is seldom that a Hindu makes English puns. Now, however, the man was changed beyond all recognition. Caste-mark, stomach, slate-colored continuations, and unctuous speech were all gone. I looked at a withered skeleton, turban-less and almost naked, with long matted hair and deep-set codfish-eyes. But for a crescent-shaped scar on the left cheek--the result of an accident for which I was responsible I should never have known him. But it was indubitably Gunga Dass, and--for this I was thankful--an English-speaking native who might at least tell me the meaning of all that I had gone through that day. The crowd retreated to some distance as I turned toward the miserable figure, and ordered him to show me some method of escaping from the crate. He held a freshly plucked crow in his hand, and in reply to my question climbed slowly on a platform of sand which ran in front of the holes, and commenced lighting a fire there in silence. Dried bents, sand-poppies, and driftwood burn quickly; and I derived much consolation from the fact that he lit them with an ordinary sulphur-match. When they were in a bright glow, and the crow was neatly spitted in front thereof, Gunga Dass began without a word of preamble: "There are only two kinds of men, Sar. The alive and the dead. When you are dead you are dead, but when you are alive you live." (Here the crow demanded his attention for an instant as it twirled before the fire in danger of being burned to a cinder.) "If you die at home and do not die when you come to the ghat to be burned you come here." The nature of the reeking village was made plain now, and all that I had known or read of the grotesque and the horrible paled before the fact just communicated by the ex-Brahmin. Sixteen years ago, when I first landed in Bombay, I had been told by a wandering Armenian of the existence, somewhere in India, of a place to which such Hindus as had the misfortune to recover from trance or catalepsy were conveyed and kept, and I recollect laughing heartily at what I was then pleased to consider a traveler's tale. Sitting at the bottom of the sand-trap, the memory of Watson's Hotel, with its swinging punkahs, white-robed attendants, and the sallow-faced Armenian, rose up in my mind as vividly as a photograph, and I burst into a loud fit of laughter. The contrast was too absurd! Gunga Dass, as he bent over the unclean bird, watched me curiously. Hindus seldom laugh, and his surroundings were not such as to move Gunga Dass to any undue excess of hilarity. He removed the crow solemnly from the wooden spit and as solemnly devoured it. Then he continued his story, which I give in his own words: "In epidemics of the cholera you are carried to be burned almost before you are dead. When you come to the riverside the cold air, perhaps, makes you alive, and then, if you are only little alive, mud is put on your nose and mouth and you die conclusively. If you are rather more alive, more mud is put; but if you are too lively they let you go and take you away. I was too lively, and made protestation with anger against the indignities that they endeavored to press upon me. In those days I was Brahmin and proud man. "Now I am dead man and eat"--here he eyed the well-gnawed breast bone with the first sign of emotion that I had seen in him since we met--"crows, and other things. They took me from my sheets when they saw that I was too lively and gave me medicines for one week, and I survived successfully. Then they sent me by rail from my place to Okara Station, with a man to take care of me; and at Okara Station we met two other men, and they conducted we three on camels, in the night, from Okara Station to this place, and they propelled me from the top to the bottom, and the other two succeeded, and I have been here ever since two and a half years. Once I was Brahmin and proud man, and now I eat crows." "There is no way of getting out?" "None of what kind at all. When I first came I made experiments frequently and all the others also, but we have always succumbed to the sand which is precipitated upon our heads." "But surely," I broke in at this point, "the river-front is open, and it is worth while dodging the bullets; while at night"--I had already matured a rough plan of escape which a natural instinct of selfishness forbade me sharing with Gunga Dass. He, however, divined my unspoken thought almost as soon as it was formed; and, to my intense astonishment, gave vent to a long low chuckle of derision--the laughter, be it understood, of a superior or at least of an equal. "You will not"--he had dropped the Sir completely after his opening sentence--"make any escape that way. But you can try. I have tried. Once only." The sensation of nameless terror and abject fear which I had in vain attempted to strive against overmastered me completely. My long fast--it was now close upon ten o'clock, and I had eaten nothing since tiffin on the previous day--combined with the violent and unnatural agitation of the ride had exhausted me, and I verily believe that, for a few minutes, I acted as one mad. I hurled myself against the pitiless sand-slope. I ran round the base of the crater, blaspheming and praying by turns. I crawled out among the sedges of the river-front, only to be driven back each time in an agony of nervous dread by the rifle-bullets which cut up the sand round me--for I dared not face the death of a mad dog among that hideous crowd--and finally fell, spent and raving, at the curb of the well. No one had taken the slightest notion of an exhibition which makes me blush hotly even when I think of it now. Two or three men trod on my panting body as they drew water, but they were evidently used to this sort of thing, and had no time to waste upon me. The situation was humiliating. Gunga Dass, indeed, when he had banked the embers of his fire with sand, was at some pains to throw half a cupful of fetid water over my head, an attention for which I could have fallen on my knees and thanked him, but he was laughing all the while in the same mirthless, wheezy key that greeted me on my first attempt to force the shoals. And so, in a semi-comatose condition, I lay till noon. Then, being only a man after all, I felt hungry, and intimated as much to Gunga Dass, whom I had begun to regard as my natural protector. Following the impulse of the outer world when dealing with natives, I put my hand into my pocket and drew out four annas. The absurdity of the gift struck me at once, and I was about to replace the money. Gunga Dass, however, was of a different opinion. "Give me the money," said he; "all you have, or I will get help, and we will kill you!" All this as if it were the most natural thing in the world! A Briton's first impulse, I believe, is to guard the contents of his pockets; but a moment's reflection convinced me of the futility of differing with the one man who had it in his power to make me comfortable; and with whose help it was possible that I might eventually escape from the crater. I gave him all the money in my possession, Rs. 9-8-5--nine rupees eight annas and five pie--for I always keep small change as bakshish when I am in camp. Gunga Dass clutched the coins, and hid them at once in his ragged loin cloth, his expression changing to something diabolical as he looked round to assure himself that no one had observed us. "Now I will give you something to eat," said he. What pleasure the possession of my money could have afforded him I am unable to say; but inasmuch as it did give him evident delight I was not sorry that I had parted with it so readily, for I had no doubt that he would have had me killed if I had refused. One does not protest against the vagaries of a den of wild beasts; and my companions were lower than any beasts. While I devoured what Gunga Dass had provided, a coarse chapatti and a cupful of the foul well-water, the people showed not the faintest sign of curiosity--that curiosity which is so rampant, as a rule, in an Indian village. I could even fancy that they despised me. At all events they treated me with the most chilling indifference, and Gunga Dass was nearly as bad. I plied him with questions about the terrible village, and received extremely unsatisfactory answers. So far as I could gather, it had been in existence from time immemorial--whence I concluded that it was at least a century old--and during that time no one had ever been known to escape from it. [I had to control myself here with both hands, lest the blind terror should lay hold of me a second time and drive me raving round the crater.] Gunga Dass took a malicious pleasure in emphasizing this point and in watching me wince. Nothing that I could do would induce him to tell me who the mysterious "They" were. "It is so ordered," he would reply, "and I do not yet know any one who has disobeyed the orders." "Only wait till my servants find that I am missing," I retorted, "and I promise you that this place shall be cleared off the face of the earth, and I'll give you a lesson in civility, too, my friend." "Your servants would be torn in pieces before they came near this place; and, besides, you are dead, my dear friend. It is not your fault, of course, but none the less you are dead and buried." At irregular intervals supplies of food, I was told, were dropped down from the land side into the amphitheatre, and the inhabitants fought for them like wild beasts. When a man felt his death coming on he retreated to his lair and died there. The body was sometimes dragged out of the hole and thrown on to the sand, or allowed to rot where it lay. The phrase "thrown on to the sand" caught my attention, and I asked Gunga Dass whether this sort of thing was not likely to breed a pestilence. "That," said he, with another of his wheezy chuckles, "you may see for yourself subsequently. You will have much time to make observations." Whereat, to his great delight, I winced once more and hastily continued the conversation:--"And how do you live here from day to day? What do you do?" The question elicited exactly the same answer as before coupled with the information that "this place is like your European heaven; there is neither marrying nor giving in marriage." Gunga Dass had been educated at a Mission School, and, as he himself admitted, had he only changed his religion "like a wise man," might have avoided the living grave which was now his portion. But as long as I was with him I fancy he was happy. Here was a Sahib, a representative of the dominant race, helpless as a child and completely at the mercy of his native neighbors. In a deliberate lazy way he set himself to torture me as a schoolboy would devote a rapturous half-hour to watching the agonies of an impaled beetle, or as a ferret in a blind burrow might glue himself comfortably to the neck of a rabbit. The burden of his conversation was that there was no escape "of no kind whatever," and that I should stay here till I died and was "thrown on to the sand." If it were possible to forejudge the conversation of the Damned on the advent of a new soul in their abode, I should say that they would speak as Gunga Dass did to me throughout that long afternoon. I was powerless to protest or answer; all my energies being devoted to a struggle against the inexplicable terror that threatened to overwhelm me again and again. I can compare the feeling to nothing except the struggles of a man against the overpowering nausea of the Channel passage--only my agony was of the spirit and infinitely more terrible. As the day wore on, the inhabitants began to appear in full strength to catch the rays of the afternoon sun, which were now sloping in at the mouth of the crater. They assembled in little knots, and talked among themselves without even throwing a glance in my direction. About four o'clock, as far as I could judge Gunga Dass rose and dived into his lair for a moment, emerging with a live crow in his hands. The wretched bird was in a most draggled and deplorable condition, but seemed to be in no way afraid of its master, Advancing cautiously to the river front, Gunga Dass stepped from tussock to tussock until he had reached a smooth patch of sand directly in the line of the boat's fire. The occupants of the boat took no notice. Here he stopped, and, with a couple of dexterous turns of the wrist, pegged the bird on its back with outstretched wings. As was only natural, the crow began to shriek at once and beat the air with its claws. In a few seconds the clamor had attracted the attention of a bevy of wild crows on a shoal a few hundred yards away, where they were discussing something that looked like a corpse. Half a dozen crows flew over at once to see what was going on, and also, as it proved, to attack the pinioned bird. Gunga Dass, who had lain down on a tussock, motioned to me to be quiet, though I fancy this was a needless precaution. In a moment, and before I could see how it happened, a wild crow, who had grappled with the shrieking and helpless bird, was entangled in the latter's claws, swiftly disengaged by Gunga Dass, and pegged down beside its companion in adversity. Curiosity, it seemed, overpowered the rest of the flock, and almost before Gunga Dass and I had time to withdraw to the tussock, two more captives were struggling in the upturned claws of the decoys. So the chase--if I can give it so dignified a name--continued until Gunga Dass had captured seven crows. Five of them he throttled at once, reserving two for further operations another day. I was a good deal impressed by this, to me, novel method of securing food, and complimented Gunga Dass on his skill. "It is nothing to do," said he. "Tomorrow you must do it for me. You are stronger than I am." This calm assumption of superiority Upset me not a little, and I answered peremptorily;--"Indeed, you old ruffian! What do you think I have given you money for?" "Very well," was the unmoved reply. "Perhaps not tomorrow, nor the day after, nor subsequently; but in the end, and for many years, you will catch crows and eat crows, and you will thank your European God that you have crows to catch and eat." I could have cheerfully strangled him for this; but judged it best under the circumstances to smother my resentment. An hour later I was eating one of the crows; and, as Gunga Dass had said, thanking my God that I had a crow to eat. Never as long as I live shall I forget that evening meal. The whole population were squatting on the hard sand platform opposite their dens, huddled over tiny fires of refuse and dried rushes. Death, having once laid his hand upon these men and forborne to strike, seemed to stand aloof from them now; for most of our company were old men, bent and worn and twisted with years, and women aged to all appearance as the Fates themselves. They sat together in knots and talked--God only knows what they found to discuss--in low equable tones, curiously in contrast to the strident babble with which natives are accustomed to make day hideous. Now and then an access of that sudden fury which had possessed me in the morning would lay hold on a man or woman; and with yells and imprecations the sufferer would attack the steep slope until, baffled and bleeding, he fell back on the platform incapable of moving a limb. The others would never even raise their eyes when this happened, as men too well aware of the futility of their fellows' attempts and wearied with their useless repetition. I saw four such outbursts in the course of the evening. Gunga Dass took an eminently business-like view of my situation, and while we were dining--I can afford to laugh at the recollection now, but it was painful enough at the time-propounded the terms on which he would consent to "do" for me. My nine rupees eight annas, he argued, at the rate of three annas a day, would provide me with food for fifty-one days, or about seven weeks; that is to say, he would be willing to cater for me for that length of time. At the end of it I was to look after myself. For a further consideration--videlicet my boots--he would be willing to allow me to occupy the den next to his own, and would supply me with as much dried grass for bedding as he could spare. "Very well, Gunga Dass," I replied; "to the first terms I cheerfully agree, but, as there is nothing on earth to prevent my killing you as you sit here and taking everything that you have" (I thought of the two invaluable crows at the time), "I flatly refuse to give you my boots and shall take whichever den I please." The stroke was a bold one, and I was glad when I saw that it had succeeded. Gunga Dass changed his tone immediately, and disavowed all intention of asking for my boots. At the time it did not strike me as at all strange that I, a Civil Engineer, a man of thirteen years' standing in the Service, and, I trust, an average Englishman, should thus calmly threaten murder and violence against the man who had, for a consideration it is true, taken me under his wing. I had left the world, it seemed, for centuries. I was as certain then as I am now of my own existence, that in the accursed settlement there was no law save that of the strongest; that the living dead men had thrown behind them every canon of the world which had cast them out; and that I had to depend for my own life on my strength and vigilance alone. The crew of the ill-fated Mignonette are the only men who would understand my frame of mind. "At present," I argued to myself, "I am strong and a match for six of these wretches. It is imperatively necessary that I should, for my own sake, keep both health and strength until the hour of my release comes--if it ever does." Fortified with these resolutions, I ate and drank as much as I could, and made Gunga Dass understand that I intended to be his master, and that the least sign of insubordination on his part would be visited with the only punishment I had it in my power to inflict--sudden and violent death. Shortly after this I went to bed. That is to say, Gunga Dass gave me a double armful of dried bents which I thrust down the mouth of the lair to the right of his, and followed myself, feet foremost; the hole running about nine feet into the sand with a slight downward inclination, and being neatly shored with timbers. From my den, which faced the river-front, I was able to watch the waters of the Sutlej flowing past under the light of a young moon and compose myself to sleep as best I might. The horrors of that night I shall never forget. My den was nearly as narrow as a coffin, and the sides had been worn smooth and greasy by the contact of innumerable naked bodies, added to which it smelled abominably. Sleep was altogether out of question to one in my excited frame of mind. As the night wore on, it seemed that the entire amphitheatre was filled with legions of unclean devils that, trooping up from the shoals below, mocked the unfortunates in their lairs. Personally I am not of an imaginative temperament,--very few Engineers are,--but on that occasion I was as completely prostrated with nervous terror as any woman. After half an hour or so, however, I was able once more to calmly review my chances of escape. Any exit by the steep sand walls was, of course, impracticable. I had been thoroughly convinced of this some time before. It was possible, just possible, that I might, in the uncertain moonlight, safely run the gauntlet of the rifle shots. The place was so full of terror for me that I was prepared to undergo any risk in leaving it. Imagine my delight, then, when after creeping stealthily to the river-front I found that the infernal boat was not there. My freedom lay before me in the next few steps! By walking out to the first shallow pool that lay at the foot of the projecting left horn of the horseshoe, I could wade across, turn the flank of the crater, and make my way inland. Without a moment's hesitation I marched briskly past the tussocks where Gunga Dass had snared the crows, and out in the direction of the smooth white sand beyond. My first step from the tufts of dried grass showed me how utterly futile was any hope of escape; for, as I put my foot down, I felt an indescribable drawing, sucking motion of the sand below. Another moment and my leg was swallowed up nearly to the knee. In the moonlight the whole surface of the sand seemed to be shaken with devilish delight at my disappointment. I struggled clear, sweating with terror and exertion, back to the tussocks behind me and fell on my face. My only means of escape from the semicircle was protected with a quicksand! How long I lay I have not the faintest idea; but I was roused at last by the malevolent chuckle of Gunga Dass at my ear. "I would advise you, Protector of the Poor" (the ruffian was speaking English) "to return to your house. It is unhealthy to lie down here. Moreover, when the boat returns, you will most certainly be rifled at." He stood over me in the dim light of the dawn, chuckling and laughing to himself. Suppressing my first impulse to catch the man by the neck and throw him on to the quicksand, I rose sullenly and followed him to the platform below the burrows. Suddenly, and futilely as I thought while I spoke, I asked--"Gunga Dass, what is the good of the boat if I can't get out anyhow?" I recollect that even in my deepest trouble I had been speculating vaguely on the waste of ammunition in guarding an already well protected foreshore. Gunga Dass laughed again and made answer:--"They have the boat only in daytime. It is for the reason that there is a way. I hope we shall have the pleasure of your company for much longer time. It is a pleasant spot when you have been here some years and eaten roast crow long enough." I staggered, numbed and helpless, toward the fetid burrow allotted to me, and fell asleep. An hour or so later I was awakened by a piercing scream--the shrill, high-pitched scream of a horse in pain. Those who have once heard that will never forget the sound. I found some little difficulty in scrambling out of the burrow. When I was in the open, I saw Pornic, my poor old Pornic, lying dead on the sandy soil. How they had killed him I cannot guess. Gunga Dass explained that horse was better than crow, and "greatest good of greatest number is political maxim. We are now Republic, Mister Jukes, and you are entitled to a fair share of the beast. If you like, we will pass a vote of thanks. Shall I propose?" Yes, we were a Republic indeed! A Republic of wild beasts penned at the bottom of a pit, to eat and fight and sleep till we died. I attempted no protest of any kind, but sat down and stared at the hideous sight in front of me. In less time almost than it takes me to write this, Pornic's body was divided, in some unclear way or other; the men and women had dragged the fragments on to the platform and were preparing their normal meal. Gunga Dass cooked mine. The almost irresistible impulse to fly at the sand walls until I was wearied laid hold of me afresh, and I had to struggle against it with all my might. Gunga Dass was offensively jocular till I told him that if he addressed another remark of any kind whatever to me I should strangle him where he sat. This silenced him till silence became insupportable, and I bade him say something. "You will live here till you die like the other Feringhi," he said, coolly, watching me over the fragment of gristle that he was gnawing. "What other Sahib, you swine? Speak at once, and don't stop to tell me a lie." "He is over there," answered Gunga Dass, pointing to a burrow-mouth about four doors ta the left of my own. "You can see for yourself. He died in the burrow as you will die, and I will die, and as all these men and women and the one child will also die." "For pity's sake tell me all you know about him. Who was he? When did he come, and when did he die?" This appeal was a weak step on my part. Gunga Dass only leered and replied:--"I will not--unless you give me something first." Then I recollected where I was, and struck the man between the eyes, partially stunning him. He stepped down from the platform at once, and, cringing and fawning and weeping and attempting to embrace my feet, led me round to the burrow which he had indicated. "I know nothing whatever about the gentleman. Your God be my witness that I do not. He was as anxious to escape as you were, and he was shot from the boat, though we all did all things to prevent him from attempting. He was shot here." Gunga Dass laid his hand on his lean stomach and bowed to the earth. "Well, and what then? Go on!" "And then--and then, Your Honor, we carried him in to his house and gave him water, and put wet cloths on the wound, and he laid down in his house and gave up the ghost." "In how long? In how long?" "About half an hour, after he received his wound. I call Vishnu to witness," yelled the wretched man, "that I did everything for him. Everything which was possible, that I did!" He threw himself down on the ground and clasped my ankles. But I had my doubts about Gunga Dass's benevolence, and kicked him off as he lay protesting. "I believe you robbed him of everything he had. But I can find out in a minute or two. How long was the Sahib here?" "Nearly a year and a half. I think he must have gone mad. But hear me swear, Protector of the Poor! Won't Your Honor hear me swear that I never touched an article that belonged to him? What is Your Worship going to do?" I had taken Gunga Dass by the waist and had hauled him on to the platform opposite the deserted burrow. As I did so I thought of my wretched fellow-prisoner's unspeakable misery among all these horrors for eighteen months, and the final agony of dying like a rat in a hole, with a bullet-wound in the stomach. Gunga Dass fancied I was going to kill him and howled pitifully. The rest of the population, in the plethora that follows a full flesh meal, watched us without stirring. "Go inside, Gunga Dass," said I, "and fetch it out." I was feeling sick and faint with horror now. Gunga Dass nearly rolled off the platform and howled aloud. "But I am Brahmin, Sahib--a high-caste Brahmin. By your soul, by your father's soul, do not make me do this thing!" "Brahmin or no Brahmin, by my soul and my father's soul, in you go!" I said, and, seizing him by the shoulders, I crammed his head into the mouth of the burrow, kicked the rest of him in, and, sitting down, covered my face with my hands. At the end of a few minutes I heard a rustle and a creak; then Gunga Dass in a sobbing, choking whisper speaking to himself; then a soft thud--and I uncovered my eyes. The dry sand had turned the corpse entrusted to its keeping into a yellow-brown mummy. I told Gunga Dass to stand off while I examined it. The body--clad in an olive-green hunting-suit much stained and worn, with leather pads on the shoulders--was that of a man between thirty and forty, above middle height, with light, sandy hair, long mustache, and a rough unkempt beard. The left canine of the upper jaw was missing, and a portion of the lobe of the right ear was gone. On the second finger of the left hand was a ring--a shield-shaped bloodstone set in gold, with a monogram that might have been either "B.K." or "B.L." On the third finger of the right hand was a silver ring in the shape of a coiled cobra, much worn and tarnished. Gunga Dass deposited a handful of trifles he had picked out of the burrow at my feet, and, covering the face of the body with my handkerchief, I turned to examine these. I give the full list in the hope that it may lead to the identification of the unfortunate man: 1. Bowl of a briarwood pipe, serrated at the edge; much worn and blackened; bound with string at the crew. 2. Two patent-lever keys; wards of both broken. 3. Tortoise-shell-handled penknife, silver or nickel name-plate, marked with monogram "B.K." 4. Envelope, postmark Undecipherable, bearing a Victorian stamp, addressed to "Miss Mon-" (rest illegible) -"ham-'nt." 5. Imitation crocodile-skin notebook with pencil. First forty-five pages blank; four and a half illegible; fifteen others filled with private memoranda relating chiefly to three persons--a Mrs. L. Singleton, abbreviated several times to "Lot Single," "Mrs. S. May," and "Garmison," referred to in places as "Jerry" or "Jack." 6. Handle of small-sized hunting-knife. Blade snapped short. Buck's horn, diamond cut, with swivel and ring on the butt; fragment of cotton cord attached. It must not be supposed that I inventoried all these things on the spot as fully as I have here written them down. The notebook first attracted my attention, and I put it in my pocket with a view of studying it later on. The rest of the articles I conveyed to my burrow for safety's sake, and there being a methodical man, I inventoried them. I then returned to the corpse and ordered Gunga Dass to help me to carry it out to the river-front. While we were engaged in this, the exploded shell of an old brown cartridge dropped out of one of the pockets and rolled at my feet. Gunga Dass had not seen it; and I fell to thinking that a man does not carry exploded cartridge-cases, especially "browns," which will not bear loading twice, about with him when shooting. In other words, that cartridge-case had been fired inside the crater. Consequently there must be a gun somewhere. I was on the verge of asking Gunga Dass, but checked myself, knowing that he would lie. We laid the body down on the edge of the quicksand by the tussocks. It was my intention to push it out and let it be swallowed up--the only possible mode of burial that I could think of. I ordered Gunga Dass to go away. Then I gingerly put the corpse out on the quicksand. In doing so--it was lying face downward--I tore the frail and rotten khaki shooting-coat open, disclosing a hideous cavity in the back. I have already told you that the dry sand had, as it were, mummified the body. A moment's glance showed that the gaping hole had been caused by a gun-shot wound; the gun must have been fired with the muzzle almost touching the back. The shooting-coat, being intact, had been drawn over the body after death, which must have been instantaneous. The secret of the poor wretch's death was plain to me in a flash. Some one of the crater, presumably Gunga Dass, must have shot him with his own gun--the gun that fitted the brown cartridges. He had never attempted to escape in the face of the rifle-fire from the boat. I pushed the corpse out hastily, and saw it sink from sight literally in a few seconds. I shuddered as I watched. In a dazed, half-conscious way I turned to peruse the notebook. A stained and discolored slip of paper bad been inserted between the binding and the back, and dropped out as I opened the pages. This is what it contained:--"Four out from crow-clump: three left; nine out; two right; three back; two left; fourteen out; two left; seven out; one left; nine back; two right; six back; four right; seven back." The paper had been burned and charred at the edges. What it meant I could not understand. I sat down on the dried bents turning it over and over between my fingers, until I was aware of Gunga Dass standing immediately behind me with glowing eyes and outstretched hands. "Have you got it?" he panted. "Will you not let me look at it also? I swear that I will return it." "Got what? Return what?" asked. "That which you have in your hands. It will help us both." He stretched out his long, bird-like talons, trembling with eagerness. "I could never find it," he continued. "He had secreted it about his person. Therefore I shot him, but nevertheless I was unable to obtain it." Gunga Dass had quite forgotten his little fiction about the rifle-bullet. I received the information perfectly calmly. Morality is blunted by consorting with the Dead who are alive. "What on earth are you raving about? What is it you want me to give you?" "The piece of paper in the notebook. It will help us both. Oh, you fool! You fool! Can you not see what it will do for us? We shall escape!" His voice rose almost to a scream, and he danced with excitement before me. I own I was moved at the chance of my getting away. "Don't skip! Explain yourself. Do you mean to say that this slip of paper will help us? What does it mean?" "Read it aloud! Read it aloud! I beg and I pray you to read it aloud." I did so. Gunga Dass listened delightedly, and drew an irregular line in the sand with his fingers. "See now! It was the length of his gun-barrels without the stock. I have those barrels. Four gun-barrels out from the place where I caught crows straight out; do you follow me? Then three left--Ah! how well I remember when that man worked it out night after night Then nine out, and so on. Out is always straight before you across the quicksand. He told me so before I killed him." "But if you knew all this why didn't you get out before?" "I did not know it. He told me that he was working it out a year and a half ago, and how he was working it out night after night when the boat had gone away, and he could get out near the quicksand safely. Then he said that we would get away together. But I was afraid that he would leave me behind one night when he had worked it all out, and so I shot him. Besides, it is not advisable that the men who once get in here should escape. Only I, and I am a Brahmin." The prospect of escape had brought Gunga Dass's caste back to him. He stood up, walked about and gesticulated violently. Eventually I managed to make him talk soberly, and he told me how this Englishman had spent six months night after night in exploring, inch by inch, the passage across the quicksand; how he had declared it to be simplicity itself up to within about twenty yards of the river bank after turning the flank of the left horn of the horseshoe. This much he had evidently not completed when Gunga Dass shot him with his own gun. In my frenzy of delight at the possibilities of escape I recollect shaking hands effusively with Gunga Dass, after we had decided that we were to make an attempt to get away that very night. It was weary work waiting throughout the afternoon. About ten o'clock, as far as I could judge, when the Moon had just risen above the lip of the crater, Gunga Dass made a move for his burrow to bring out the gun-barrels whereby to measure our path. All the other wretched inhabitants had retired to their lairs long ago. The guardian boat drifted downstream some hours before, and we were utterly alone by the crow-clump. Gunga Dass, while carrying the gun-barrels, let slip the piece of paper which was to be our guide. I stooped down hastily to recover it, and, as I did so, I was aware that the diabolical Brahmin was aiming a violent blow at the back of my head with the gun-barrels. It was too late to turn round. I must have received the blow somewhere on the nape of my neck. A hundred thousand fiery stars danced before my eyes, and I fell forwards senseless at the edge of, the quicksand. When I recovered consciousness, the Moon was going down, and I was sensible of intolerable pain in the back of my head. Gunga Dass had disappeared and my mouth was full of blood. I lay down again and prayed that I might die without more ado. Then the unreasoning fury which I had before mentioned, laid hold upon me, and I staggered inland toward the walls of the crater. It seemed that some one was calling to me in a whisper--"Sahib! Sahib! Sahib!" exactly as my bearer used to call me in the morning I fancied that I was delirious until a handful of sand fell at my feet. Then I looked up and saw a head peering down into the amphitheatre--the head of Dunnoo, my dog-boy, who attended to my collies. As soon as he had attracted my attention, he held up his hand and showed a rope. I motioned, staggering to and fro for the while, that he should throw it down. It was a couple of leather punkah-ropes knotted together, with a loop at one end. I slipped the loop over my head and under my arms; heard Dunnoo urge something forward; was conscious that I was being dragged, face downward, up the steep sand slope, and the next instant found myself choked and half fainting on the sand hills overlooking the crater. Dunnoo, with his face ashy grey in the moonlight, implored me not to stay but to get back to my tent at once. It seems that he had tracked Pornic's footprints fourteen miles across the sands to the crater; had returned and told my servants, who flatly refused to meddle with any one, white or black, once fallen into the hideous Village of the Dead; whereupon Dunnoo had taken one of my ponies and a couple of punkah-ropes, returned to the crater, and hauled me out as I have described. To cut a long story short, Dunnoo is now my personal servant on a gold mohur a month--a sum which I still think far too little for the services he has rendered. Nothing on earth will induce me to go near that devilish spot again, or to reveal its whereabouts more clearly than I have done. Of Gunga Dass I have never found a trace, nor do I wish to do. My sole motive in giving this to be published is the hope that some one may possibly identify, from the details and the inventory which I have given above, the corpse of the man in the olive-green hunting-suit. * * * * * THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING Brother to a Prince and fellow to a beggar if he be found worthy. The Law, as quoted, lays down a fair conduct of life, and one not easy to follow. I have been fellow to a beggar again and again under circumstances which prevented either of us finding out whether the other was worthy. I have still to be brother to a Prince, though I once came near to kinship with what might have been a veritable King, and was promised the reversion of a Kingdom--army, law-courts, revenue, and policy all complete. But, today, I greatly fear that my King is dead, and if I want a crown I must go hunt it for myself. The beginning of everything was in a railway-train upon the road to Mhow from Ajmir. There had been a Deficit in the Budget, which necessitated travelling, not Second-class, which is only half as dear as First-Class, but by Intermediate, which is very awful indeed. There are no cushions in the Intermediate class, and the population are either Intermediate, which is Eurasian, or native, which for a long night journey is nasty, or Loafer, which is amusing though intoxicated. Intermediates do not buy from refreshment-rooms. They carry their food in bundles and pots, and buy sweets from the native sweetmeat-sellers, and drink the roadside water. This is why in hot weather Intermediates are taken out of the carriages dead, and in all weathers are most properly looked down upon. My particular Intermediate happened to be empty till I reached Nasirabad, when the big black-browed gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered, and, following the custom of Intermediates, passed the time of day. He was a wanderer and a vagabond like myself, but with an educated taste for whisky. He told tales of things he had seen and done, of out-of-the-way corners of the Empire into which he had penetrated, and of adventures in which he risked his life for a few days' food. "If India was filled with men like you and me, not knowing more than the crows where they'd get their next day's rations, it isn't seventy millions of revenue the land would be paying--it's seven hundred millions," said he; and as I looked at his mouth and chin I was disposed to agree with him. We talked politics,--the politics of Loaferdom that sees things from the under side where the lath and plaster is not smoothed off,--and we talked postal arrangements because my friend wanted to send a telegram back from the next station to Ajmir, the turning-off place from the Bombay to the Mhow line as you travel westward. My friend had no money beyond eight annas which he wanted for dinner, and I had no money at all, owing to the hitch in the Budget before mentioned. Further, I was going into a wilderness where, though I should resume touch with the Treasury, there were no telegraph offices. I was, therefore, unable to help him in any way. "We might threaten a Station-master, and make him send a wire on tick," said my friend, "but that'd mean inquiries for you and for me, and I've got my hands full these days. Did you say you were travelling back along this line within any days?" "Within ten," I said. "Can't you make it eight?" said he. "Mine is rather urgent business." "I can send your telegrams within ten days if that will serve you," I said. "I couldn't trust the wire to fetch him, now I think of it. It's this way. He leaves Delhi on the 23rd for Bombay. That means he'll be running through Ajmir about the night of the 23rd." "But I'm going into the Indian Desert," I explained. "Well and good," said he. "You'll be changing at Marwar Junction to get into Jodhpore territory,--you must do that,--and he'll be coming through Marwar Junction in the early morning of the 24th by the Bombay Mail. Can you be at Marwar Junction on that time? 'T won't be inconveniencing you, because I know that there's precious few pickings to be got out of these Central India States--even though you pretend to be correspondent of the 'Backwoodsman.'" "Have you ever tried that trick?" I asked. "Again and again, but the Residents find you out, and then you get escorted to the Border before you've time to get your knife into them. But about my friend here. I must give him a word o' mouth to tell him what's come to me, or else he won't know where to go. I would take it more than kind of you if you was to come out of Central India in time to catch him at Marwar Junction, and say to him, 'He has gone South for the week.' He'll know what that means. He's a big man with a red beard, and a great swell he is. "You'll find him sleeping like a gentleman with all his luggage round him in a Second-class apartment. But don't you be afraid. "Slip down the window and say, 'He has gone South for the week,' and he'll tumble. It's only cutting your time of stay in those parts by two days. I ask you as a stranger--going to the West," he said, with emphasis. "Where have you come from?" said I. "From the East," said he, "and I am hoping that you will give him the message on the square--for the sake of my Mother as well as your own." Englishmen are not usually softened by appeals to the memory of their mothers; but for certain reasons, which will be fully apparent, I saw fit to agree. "It's more than a little matter," said he, "and that's why I asked you to do it--and now I know that I can depend on you doing it. A Second-class carriage at Marwar Junction, and a red-haired man asleep in it. You'll be sure to remember. I get out at the next station, and I must hold on there till he comes or sends me what I want." "I'll give the message if I catch him," I said, "and for the sake of your Mother as well as mine I'll give you a word of advice. Don't try to run the Central India States just now as the correspondent of the 'Backwoodsman.' There's a real one knocking about here, and it might lead to trouble." "Thank you," said he, simply; "and when will the swine be gone? I can't starve because he's ruining my work. I wanted to get hold of the Degumber Rajah down here about his father's widow, and give him a jump." "What did he do to his father's widow, then?" "Filled her up with red pepper and slippered her to death as she hung from a beam. I found that out myself, and I'm the only man that would dare going into the State to get hush-money for it. They'll try to poison me, same as they did in Chortumna when I went on the loot there. But you'll give the man at Marwar Junction my message?" He got out at a little roadside station, and I reflected. I had heard, more than once, of men personating correspondents of newspapers and bleeding small Native States with threats of exposure, but I had never met any of the caste before. They lead a hard life, and generally die with great suddenness. The Native States have a wholesome horror of English newspapers, which may throw light on their peculiar methods of government, and do their best to choke correspondents with champagne, or drive them out of their mind with four-in-hand barouches. They do not understand that nobody cares a straw for the internal administration of Native States so long as oppression and crime are kept within decent limits, and the ruler is not drugged, drunk, or diseased from one end of the year to the other. They are the dark places of the earth, full of unimaginable cruelty, touching the Railway and the Telegraph on one side, and, on the other, the days of Harun-al-Raschid. When I left the train I did business with divers Kings, and in eight days passed through many changes of life. Sometimes I wore dress-clothes and consorted with Princes and Politicals, drinking from crystal and eating from silver. Sometimes I lay out upon the ground and devoured what I could get, from a plate made of leaves, and drank the running water, and slept under the same rug as my servant. It was all in the day's work. Then I headed for the Great Indian Desert upon the proper date, as I had promised, and the night Mail set me down at Marwar Junction, where a funny little, happy-go-lucky, native managed railway runs to Jodhpore. The Bombay Mail from Delhi makes a short halt at Marwar. She arrived just as I got in, and I had just time to hurry to her platform and go down the carriages. There was only one Second-class on the train. I slipped the window and looked down upon a flaming-red beard, half covered by a railway-rug. That was my man, fast asleep, and I dug him gently in the ribs. He woke with a grunt, and I saw his face in the light of the lamps. It was a great and shining face. "Tickets again?" said he. "No," said I. "I am to tell you that he is gone South for the week. He has gone South for the week!" The train had begun to move out. The red man rubbed his eyes. "He has gone South for the week," he repeated. "Now that's just like his impidence. Did he say that I was to give you anything? 'Cause I won't." "He didn't," I said, and dropped away, and watched the red lights die out in the dark. It was horribly cold because the wind was blowing off the sands. I climbed into my own train--not an Intermediate carriage this time--and went to sleep. If the man with the beard had given me a rupee I should have kept it as a memento of a rather curious affair. But the consciousness of having done my duty was my only reward. Later on I reflected that two gentlemen like my friends could not do any good if they foregathered and personated correspondents of newspapers, and might, if they blackmailed one of the little rat-trap States of Central India or Southern Rajputana, get themselves into serious difficulties. I therefore took some trouble to describe them as accurately as I could remember to people who would be interested in deporting them; and succeeded, so I was later informed, in having them headed back from the Degumber borders. Then I became respectable, and returned to an office where there were no Kings and no incidents outside the daily manufacture of a newspaper. A newspaper office seems to attract every conceivable sort of person, to the prejudice of discipline. Zenana-mission ladies arrive, and beg that the Editor will instantly abandon all his duties to describe a Christian prize-giving in a back slum of a perfectly inaccessible village; Colonels who have been overpassed for command sit down and sketch the outline of a series of ten, twelve, or twenty-four leading articles on Seniority versus Selection; missionaries wish to know why they have not been permitted to escape from their regular vehicles of abuse, and swear at a brother missionary under special patronage of the editorial We. Stranded theatrical companies troop up to explain that they cannot pay for their advertisements, but on their return from New Zealand or Tahiti will do so with interest; inventors of patent punka-pulling machines, carriage couplings, and unbreakable swords and axletrees call with specifications in their pockets and hours at their disposal; tea companies enter and elaborate their prospectuses with the office pens; secretaries of ball committees clamour to have the glories of their last dance more fully described; strange ladies rustle in and say, "I want a hundred lady's cards printed at once, please," which is manifestly part of an Editor's duty; and every dissolute ruffian that ever tramped the Grand Trunk Road makes it his business to ask for employment as a proof-reader. And, all the time, the telephone-bell is ringing madly, and Kings are being killed on the Continent, and Empires are saying, "You're another," and Mister Gladstone is calling down brimstone upon the British Dominions, and the little black copyboys are whining, "kaa-pi chay-ha-yeh" ("Copy wanted"), like tired bees, and most of the paper is as blank as Modred's shield. But that is the amusing part of the year. There are six other months when none ever come to call, and the thermometer walks inch by inch up to the top of the glass, and the office is darkened to just above reading-light, and the press-machines are red-hot to touch, and nobody writes anything but accounts of amusements in the Hill-stations or obituary notices. Then the telephone becomes a tinkling terror, because it tells you of the sudden deaths of men and women that you knew intimately, and the prickly heat covers you with a garment, and you sit down and write: "A slight increase of sickness is reported from the Khuda Janta Khan District. The outbreak is purely sporadic in its nature, and, thanks to the energetic efforts of the District authorities, is now almost at an end. It is, however, with deep regret we record the death," etc. Then the sickness really breaks out, and the less recording and reporting the better for the peace of the subscribers. But the Empires and the Kings continue to divert themselves as selfishly as before, and the Foreman thinks that a daily paper really ought to come out once in twenty-four hours, and all the people at the Hill-stations in the middle of their amusements say, "Good gracious! why can't the paper be sparkling? I'm sure there's plenty going on up here." That is the dark half of the moon, and, as the advertisements say, "must be experienced to be appreciated." It was in that season, and a remarkably evil season, that the paper began running the last issue of the week on Saturday night, which is to say Sunday morning, after the custom of a London paper. This was a great convenience, for immediately after the paper was put to bed the dawn would lower the thermometer from 96 degrees to almost 84 degrees for half an hour, and in that chill--you have no idea how cold is 84 degrees on the grass until you begin to pray for it--a very tired man could get off to sleep ere the heat roused him. One Saturday night it was my pleasant duty to put the paper to bed alone. A King or courtier or a courtesan or a Community was going to die or get a new Constitution, or do something that was important on the other side of the world, and the paper was to be held open till the latest possible minute in order to catch the telegram. It was a pitchy-black night, as stifling as a June night can be, and the loo, the red-hot wind from the westward, was booming among the tinder-dry trees and pretending that the rain was on its heels. Now and again a spot of almost boiling water would fall on the dust with the flop of a frog, but all our weary world knew that was only pretence. It was a shade cooler in the press-room than the office, so I sat there, while the type ticked and clicked, and the night-jars hooted at the windows, and the all but naked compositors wiped the sweat from their foreheads and called for water. The thing that was keeping us back, whatever it was, would not come off, though the loo dropped and the last type was set, and the whole round earth stood still in the choking heat, with its finger on its lip, to wait the event. I drowsed, and wondered whether the telegraph was a blessing, and whether this dying man, or struggling people, might be aware of the inconvenience the delay was causing. There was no special reason beyond the heat and worry to make tension, but, as the clock-hands crept up to three o'clock and the machines spun their fly-wheels two and three times to see that all was in order, before I said the word that would set them off, I could have shrieked aloud. Then the roar and rattle of the wheels shivered the quiet into little bits. I rose to go away, but two men in white clothes stood in front of me. The first one said, "It's him!" The second said, "So it is!" And they both laughed almost as loudly as the machinery roared, and mopped their foreheads. We seed there was a light burning across the road, and we were sleeping in that ditch there for coolness, and I said to my friend here, "The office is open. Let's come along and speak to him as turned us back from Degumber State," said the smaller of the two. He was the man I had met in the Mhow train, and his fellow was the red-bearded man of Marwar Junction. There was no mistaking the eyebrows of the one or the beard of the other. I was not pleased, because I wished to go to sleep, not to squabble with loafers. "What do you want?" I asked. "Half an hour's talk with you, cool and comfortable, in the office," said the red-bearded man. "We'd like some drink,--the Contrack doesn't begin yet, Peachey, so you needn't look,--but what we really want is advice. We don't want money. We ask you as a favour, because we found out you did us a bad turn about Degumber State." I led from the press-room to the stifling office with the maps on the walls, and the red-haired man rubbed his hands. "That's something like," said he. "This was the proper shop to come to. "Now, Sir, let me introduce you to Brother Peachey Carnehan, that's him, and Brother Daniel Dravot, that is me, and the less said about our professions the better, for we have been most things in our time--soldier, sailor, compositor, photographer, proof-reader, street-preacher, and correspondents of the 'Backwoodsman' when we thought the paper wanted one. Carnehan is sober, and so am I. Look at us first, and see that's sure. It will save you cutting into my talk. We'll take one of your cigars apiece, and you shall see us light up." I watched the test. The men were absolutely sober, so I gave them each a tepid whisky-and-soda. "Well and good," said Carnehan of the eyebrows, wiping the froth from his moustache. "Let me talk now, Dan. We have been all over India, mostly on foot. We have been boiler-fitters, engine-drivers, petty contractors, and all that, and we have decided that India isn't big enough for such as us." They certainly were too big for the office. Dravot's beard seemed to fill half the room and Carnehan's shoulders the other half, as they sat on the big table. Carnehan continued: "The country isn't half worked out because they that governs it won't let you touch it. They spend all their blessed time in governing it, and you can't lift a spade, nor chip a rock, nor look for oil, nor anything like that, without all the Government saying, 'Leave it alone, and let us govern.' Therefore, such as it is, we will let it alone, and go away to some other place where a man isn't crowded and can come to his own. We are not little men, and there is nothing that we are afraid of except Drink, and we have signed a Contrack on that. "Therefore we are going away to be Kings." "Kings in our own right," muttered Dravot. "Yes, of course," I said. "You've been tramping in the sun, and it's a very warm night, and hadn't you better sleep over the notion? Come tomorrow." "Neither drunk nor sunstruck," said Dravot. "We have slept over the notion half a year, and require to see Books and Atlases, and we have decided that there is only one place now in the world that two strong men can Sar-a-whack. They call it Kafiristan. By my reckoning it's the top right-hand corner of Afghanistan, not more than three hundred miles from Peshawar. They have two and thirty heathen idols there, and we'll be the thirty-third and fourth. It's a mountaineous country, the women of those parts are very beautiful." "But that is provided against in the Contrack," said Carnehan. "Neither Women nor Liquor, Daniel." "And that's all we know, except that no one has gone there, and they fight, and in any place where they fight a man who knows how to drill men can always be a King. We shall go to those parts and say to any King we find, 'D' you want to vanquish your foes?' and we will show him how to drill men; for that we know better than anything else. Then we will subvert that King and seize his Throne and establish a Dy-nasty." "You'll be cut to pieces before you're fifty miles across the Border," I said. "You have to travel through Afghanistan to get to that country. It's one mass of mountains and peaks and glaciers, and no Englishman has been through it. The people are utter brutes, and even if you reached them you couldn't do anything." "That's more like," said Carnehan. "If you could think us a little more mad we would be more pleased. We have come to you to know about this country, to read a book about it, and to be shown maps. We want you to tell us that we are fools and to show us your books." He turned to the bookcases. "Are you at all in earnest?" I said. "A little," said Dravot, sweetly. "As big a map as you have got, even if it's all blank where Kafiristan is, and any books you've got. We can read, though we aren't very educated." I uncased the big thirty-two-miles-to-the-inch map of India and two smaller Frontier maps, hauled down volume INF-KAN of the "Encyclopaedia Britannica," and the men consulted them. "See here!" said Dravot, his thumb on the map. "Up to Jagdallak, Peachey and me know the road. We was there with Robert's Army. We'll have to turn off to the right at Jagdallak through Laghmann territory. Then we get among the hills--fourteen thousand feet--fifteen thousand--it will be cold work there, but it don't look very far on the map." I handed him Wood on the "Sources of the Oxus." Carnehan was deep in the "Encyclopaedia." "They're a mixed lot," said Dravot, reflectively; "and it won't help us to know the names of their tribes. The more tribes the more they'll fight, and the better for us. From Jagdallak to Ashang. H'mm!" "But all the information about the country is as sketchy and inaccurate as can be," I protested. "No one knows anything about it really. Here's the file of the 'United Services' Institute.' Read what Bellew says." "Blow Bellew!" said Carnehan. "Dan, they're a stinkin' lot of heathens, but this book here says they think they're related to us English." I smoked while the men poured over Raverty, Wood, the maps, and the "Encyclopaedia." "There is no use your waiting," said Dravot, politely. "It's about four o'clock now. We'll go before six o'clock if you want to sleep, and we won't steal any of the papers. Don't you sit up. We're two harmless lunatics, and if you come tomorrow evening down to the Serai we'll say goodbye to you." "You are two fools," I answered. "You'll be turned back at the Frontier or cut up the minute you set foot in Afghanistan. Do you want any money or a recommendation down-country? I can help you to the chance of work next week." "Next week we shall be hard at work ourselves, thank you," said Dravot. "It isn't so easy being a King as it looks. When we've got our Kingdom in going order we'll let you know, and you can come up and help us govern it." "Would two lunatics make a Contrack like that?" said Carnehan, with subdued pride, showing me a greasy half-sheet of notepaper on which was written the following. I copied it, then and there, as a curiosity. This Contrack between me and you persuing witnesseth in the name of God--Amen and so forth. (One) That me and you will settle this matter together; i.e., to be Kings of Kafiristan. (Two)That you and me will not, while this matter is being settled, look at any Liquor, nor any Woman, black, white, or brown, so as to get mixed up with one or the other harmful. (Three) That we conduct ourselves with Dignity and Discretion, and if one of us gets into trouble the other will stay by him. Signed by you and me this day. Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan. Daniel Dravot. Both Gentlemen at Large. "There was no need for the last article," said Carnehan, blushing modestly; "but it looks regular. Now you know the sort of men that loafers are,--we are loafers, Dan, until we get out of India,--and do you think that we would sign a Contrack like that unless we was in earnest? We have kept away from the two things that make life worth having." "You won't enjoy your lives much longer if you are going to try this idiotic adventure. Don't set the office on fire," I said, "and go away before nine o'clock." I left them still poring over the maps and making notes on the back of the "Contrack." "Be sure to come down to the Serai tomorrow," were their parting words. The Kumharsen Serai is the great foursquare sink of humanity where the strings of camels and horses from the North load and unload. All the nationalities of Central Asia may be found there, and most of the folk of India proper. Balkh and Bokhara there meet Bengal and Bombay, and try to draw eye-teeth. You can buy ponies, turquoises, Persian pussy-cats, saddle-bags, fat-tailed sheep, and musk in the Kumharsen Serai, and get many strange things for nothing. In the afternoon I went down to see whether my friends intended to keep their word or were lying there drunk. A priest attired in fragments of ribbons and rags stalked up to me, gravely twisting a child's paper whirligig. Behind him was his servant bending under the load of a crate of mud toys. The two were loading up two camels, and the inhabitants of the Serai watched them with shrieks of laughter. "The priest is mad," said a horse-dealer to me. "He is going up to Kabul to sell toys to the Amir. He will either be raised to honour or have his head cut off. He came in here this morning and has been behaving madly ever since." "The witless are under the protection of God," stammered a flat-cheeked Usbeg in broken Hindi. "They foretell future events." "Would they could have foretold that my caravan would have been cut up by the Shinwaris almost within shadow of the Pass!" grunted the Eusufzai agent of a Rajputana trading-house whose goods had been diverted into the hands of other robbers just across the Border, and whose misfortunes were the laughing-stock of the bazaar. "Ohe', priest, whence come you and whither do you go?" "From Roum have I come," shouted the priest, waving his whirligig; "from Roum, blown by the breath of a hundred devils across the sea! O thieves, robbers, liars, the blessing of Pir Khan on pigs, dogs, and perjurers! Who will take the Protected of God to the North to sell charms that are never still to the Amir? The camels shall not gall, the sons shall not fall sick, and the wives shall remain faithful while they are away, of the men who give me place in their caravan. Who will assist me to slipper the King of the Roos with a golden slipper with a silver heel? The protection of Pir Khan be upon his labours!" He spread out the skirts of his gabardine and pirouetted between the lines of tethered horses. "There starts a caravan from Peshawar to Kabul in twenty days, Huzrut," said the Eusufzai trader. "My camels go therewith. Do thou also go and bring us good luck." "I will go even now!" shouted the priest. "I will depart upon my winged camels, and be at Peshawar in a day! Ho! Hazar Mir Khan," he yelled to his servant, "drive out the camels, but let me first mount my own." He leaped on the back of his beast as it knelt, and, turning round to me, cried, "Come thou also, Sahib, a little along the road, and I will sell thee a charm--an amulet that shall make thee King of Kafiristan." Then the light broke upon me, and I followed the two camels out of the Serai till we reached open road and the priest halted. "What d' you think o' that?" said he in English. "Carnehan can't talk their patter, so I've made him my servant. He makes a handsome servant. 'T isn't for nothing that I've been knocking about the country for fourteen years. Didn't I do that talk neat? We'll hitch on to a caravan at Peshawar till we get to Jagdallak, and then we'll see if we can get donkeys for our camels, and strike into Kafiristan. Whirligigs for the Amir, O Lor'! Put your hand under the camelbags and tell me what you feel." I felt the butt of a Martini, and another and another. "Twenty of 'em," said Dravot, placidly. "Twenty of 'em and ammunition to correspond, under the whirligigs and the mud dolls." "Heaven help you if you are caught with those things!" I said. "A Martini is worth her weight in silver among the Pathans." "Fifteen hundred rupees of capital--every rupee we could beg, borrow, or steal--are invested on these two camels," said Dravot. "We won't get caught. We're going through the Khaiber with a regular caravan. Who'd touch a poor mad priest?" "Have you got everything you want?" I asked, overcome with astonishment. "Not yet, but we shall soon. Give us a memento of your kindness, Brother. You did me a service yesterday, and that time in Marwar. Half my Kingdom shall you have, as the saying is." I slipped a small charm compass from my watch-chain and handed it up to the priest. "Goodbye," said Dravot, giving me hand cautiously. "It's the last time we'll shake hands with an Englishman these many days. Shake hands with him, Carnehan," he cried, as the second camel passed me. Carnehan leaned down and shook hands. Then the camels passed away along the dusty road, and I was left alone to wonder. My eye could detect no failure in the disguises. The scene in the Serai proved that they were complete to the native mind. There was just the chance, therefore, that Carnehan and Dravot would be able to wander through Afghanistan without detection. But, beyond, they would find death--certain and awful death. Ten days later a native correspondent, giving me the news of the day from Peshawar, wound up his letter with: "There has been much laughter here on account of a certain mad priest who is going in his estimation to sell petty gauds and insignificant trinkets which he ascribes as great charms to H. H. the Amir of Bokhara. He passed through Peshawar and associated himself to the Second Summer caravan that goes to Kabul. The merchants are pleased because through superstition they imagine that such mad fellows bring good fortune." The two, then, were beyond the Border. I would have prayed for them, but that night a real King died in Europe, and demanded an obituary notice. The wheel of the world swings through the same phases again and again. Summer passed and winter thereafter, and came and passed again. The daily paper continued and I with it, and upon the third summer there fell a hot night, a night issue, and a strained waiting for something to be telegraphed from the other side of the world, exactly as had happened before. A few great men had died in the past two years, the machines worked with more clatter, and some of the trees in the office garden were a few feet taller. But that was all the difference. I passed over to the press-room, and went through just such a scene as I have already described. The nervous tension was stronger than it had been two years before, and I felt the heat more acutely. At three o'clock I cried, "Print off," and turned to go, when there crept to my chair what was left of a man. He was bent into a circle, his head was sunk between his shoulders, and he moved his feet one over the other like a bear. I could hardly see whether he walked or crawled--this rag-wrapped, whining cripple who addressed me by name, crying that he was come back. "Can you give me a drink?" he whimpered. "For the Lord's sake, give me a drink!" I went back to the office, the man following with groans of pain, and I turned up the lamp. "Don't you know me?" he gasped, dropping into a chair, and he turned his drawn face, surmounted by a shock of gray hair, to the light. I looked at him intently. Once before had I seen eyebrows that met over the nose in an inch-broad black band, but for the life of me I could not tell where. "I don't know you," I said, handing him the whisky. "What can I do for you?" He took a gulp of the spirit raw, and shivered in spite of the suffocating heat. "I've come back," he repeated; "and I was the King of Kafiristan--me and Dravot--crowned Kings we was! In this office we settled it--you setting there and giving us the books. I am Peachey,--Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan,--and you've been setting here ever since--O Lord!" I was more than a little astonished, and expressed my feelings accordingly. "It's true," said Carnehan, with a dry cackle, nursing his feet, which were wrapped in rags--"true as gospel. Kings we were, with crowns upon our heads--me and Dravot--poor Dan--oh, poor, poor Dan, that would never take advice, not though I begged of him!" "Take the whisky," I said, "and take your own time. Tell me all you can recollect of everything from beginning to end. You got across the Border on your camels, Dravot dressed as a mad priest and you his servant. Do you remember that?" "I ain't mad--yet, but I shall be that way soon. Of course I remember. Keep looking at me, or maybe my words will go all to pieces. Keep looking at me in my eyes and don't say anything." I leaned forward and looked into his face as steadily as I could. He dropped one hand upon the table and I grasped it by the wrist. It was twisted like a bird's claw, and upon the back was a ragged, red, diamond-shaped scar. "No, don't look there. Look at me," said Carnehan. "That comes afterward, but for the Lord's sake don't distrack me. We left with that caravan, me and Dravot playing all sorts of antics to amuse the people we were with. Dravot used to make us laugh in the evenings when all the people was cooking their dinners--cooking their dinners, and... what did they do then? They lit little fires with sparks that went into Dravot's beard, and we all laughed--fit to die. Little red fires they was, going into Dravot's big red beard--so funny." His eyes left mine and he smiled foolishly. "You went as far as Jagdallak with that caravan," I said, at a venture, "after you had lit those fires. To Jagdallak, where you turned off to try to get into Kafiristan." "No, we didn't, neither. What are you talking about? We turned off before Jagdallak, because we heard the roads was good. But they wasn't good enough for our two camels--mine and Dravot's. When we left the caravan, Dravot took off all his clothes and mine too, and said we would be heathen, because the Kafirs didn't allow Mohammedans to talk to them. So we dressed betwixt and between, and such a sight as Daniel Dravot I never saw yet nor expect to see again. He burned half his beard, and slung a sheepskin over his shoulder, and shaved his head into patterns. He shaved mine too, and made me wear outrageous things to look like a heathen. That was in a most mountaineous country, and our camels couldn't go along any more because of the mountains. They were tall and black, and coming home I saw them fight like wild goats--there are lots of goats in Kafiristan. And these mountains, they never keep still, no more than the goats. Always fighting they are, and don't let you sleep at night." "Take some more whisky," I said, very slowly. "What did you and Daniel Dravot do when the camels could go no farther because of the rough roads that led into Kafiristan?" "What did which do? There was a party called Peachey Taliaferro Carnehan that was with Dravot. Shall I tell you about him? He died out there in the cold. Slap from the bridge fell old Peachey, turning and twisting in the air like a penny whirligig that you can sell to the Amir. No; they was two for three ha'pence, those whirligigs, or I am much mistaken and woful sore... And then these camels were no use, and Peachey said to Dravot, 'For the Lord's sake let's get out of this before our heads are chopped off,' and with that they killed the camels all among the mountains, not having anything in particular to eat, but first they took off the boxes with the guns and the ammunition, till two men came along driving four mules. Dravot up and dances in front of them, singing, 'Sell me four mules.' Says the first man, 'If you are rich enough to buy, you are rich enough to rob;' but before ever he could put his hand to his knife, Dravot breaks his neck over his knee, and the other party runs away. So Carnehan loaded the mules with the rifles that was taken off the camels, and together we starts forward into those bitter-cold mountaineous parts, and never a road broader than the back of your hand." He paused for a moment, while I asked him if he could remember the nature of the country through which he had journeyed. "I am telling you as straight as I can, but my head isn't as good as it might be. They drove nails through it to make me hear better how Dravot died. The country was mountaineous and the mules were most contrary, and the inhabitants was dispersed and solitary. They went up and up, and down and down, and that other party, Carnehan, was imploring of Dravot not to sing and whistle so loud, for fear of bringing down the tremenjus avalanches. But Dravot says that if a King couldn't sing it wasn't worth being King, and whacked the mules over the rump, and never took no heed for ten cold days. We came to a big level valley all among the mountains, and the mules were near dead, so we killed them, not having anything in special for them or us to eat. We sat upon the boxes, and played odd and even with the cartridges that was jolted out. "Then ten men with bows and arrows ran down that valley, chasing twenty men with bows and arrows, and the row was tremenjus. "They was fair men--fairer than you or me--with yellow hair and remarkable well built. Says Dravot, unpacking the guns, 'This is the beginning of the business. We'll fight for the ten men,' and with that he fires two rifles at the twenty men, and drops one of them at two hundred yards from the rock where he was sitting. The other men began to run, but Carnehan and Dravot sits on the boxes picking them off at all ranges, up and down the valley. Then we goes up to the ten men that had run across the snow too, and they fires a footy little arrow at us. Dravot he shoots above their heads, and they all falls down flat. Then he walks over them and kicks them, and then he lifts them up and shakes hands all round to make them friendly like. He calls them and gives them the boxes to carry, and waves his hand for all the world as though he was King already. They takes the boxes and him across the valley and up the hill into a pine wood on the top, where there was half a dozen big stone idols. Dravot he goes to the biggest--a fellow they call Imbra--and lays a rifle and a cartridge at his feet, rubbing his nose respectfully with his own nose, patting him on the head, and nods his head, and says, 'That's all right. I'm in the know too, and these old jimjams are my friends.' Then he opens his mouth and points down it, and when the first man brings him food, he says, 'No;' and when the second man brings him food, he says 'no;' but when one of the old priests and the boss of the village brings him food, he says, 'Yes;' very haughty, and eats it slow. That was how he came to our first village without any trouble, just as though we had tumbled from the skies. But we tumbled from one of those damned rope-bridges, you see, and--you couldn't expect a man to laugh much after that?" "Take some more whisky and go on," I said. "That was the first village you came into. How did you get to be King?" "I wasn't King," said Carnehan. "Dravot he was the King, and a handsome man he looked with the gold crown on his head and all. Him and the other party stayed in that village, and every morning Dravot sat by the side of old Imbra, and the people came and worshipped. That was Dravot's order. Then a lot of men came into the valley, and Carnehan Dravot picks them off with the rifles before they knew where they was, and runs down into the valley and up again the other side, and finds another village, same as the first one, and the people all falls down flat on their faces, and Dravot says, 'Now what is the trouble between you two villages?' and the people points to a woman, as fair as you or me, that was carried off, and Dravot takes her back to the first village and counts up the dead--eight there was. For each dead man Dravot pours a little milk on the ground and waves his arms like a whirligig, and 'That's all right,' says he. Then he and Carnehan takes the big boss of each village by the arm, and walks them down the valley, and shows them how to scratch a line with a spear right down the valley, and gives each a sod of turf from both sides of the line. Then all the people comes down and shouts like the devil and all, and Dravot says, 'Go and dig the land, and be fruitful and multiply,' which they did, though they didn't understand. Then we asks the names of things in their lingo--bread and water and fire and idols and such; and Dravot leads the priest of each village up to the idol, and says he must sit there and judge the people, and if anything goes wrong he is to be shot. "Next week they was all turning up the land in the valley as quiet as bees and much prettier, and the priests heard all the complaints and told Dravot in dumb-show what it was about. 'That's just the beginning,' says Dravot. 'They think we're Gods.' He and Carnehan picks out twenty good men and shows them how to click off a rifle and form fours and advance in line; and they was very pleased to do so, and clever to see the hang of it. Then he takes out his pipe and his baccy-pouch, and leaves one at one village and one at the other, and off we two goes to see what was to be done in the next valley. That was all rock, and there was a little village there, and Carnehan says, 'Send 'em to the old valley to plant,' and takes 'em there and gives 'em some land that wasn't took before. They were a poor lot, and we blooded 'em with a kid before letting 'em into the new Kingdom. That was to impress the people, and then they settled down quiet, and Carnehan went back to Dravot, who had got into another valley, all snow and ice and most mountaineous. "There was no people there, and the Army got afraid; so Dravot shoots one of them, and goes on till he finds some people in a village, and the Army explains that unless the people wants to be killed they had better not shoot their little matchlocks, for they had matchlocks. We makes friends with the priest, and I stays there alone with two of the Army, teaching the men how to drill; and a thundering big Chief comes across the snow with kettledrums and horns twanging, because he heard there was a new God kicking about. Carnehan sights for the brown of the men half a mile across the snow and wings one of them. Then he sends a message to the Chief that, unless he wished to be killed, he must come and shake hands with me and leave his arms behind. The Chief comes alone first, and Carnehan shakes hands with him and whirls his arms about, same as Dravot used, and very much surprised that Chief was, and strokes my eyebrows. Then Carnehan goes alone to the Chief, and asks him in dumb-show if he had an enemy he hated. 'I have,' says the chief. So Carnehan weeds out the pick of his men, and sets the two of the Army to show them drill, and at the end of two weeks the men can manoeuvre about as well as Volunteers. So he marches with the Chief to a great big plain on the top of a mountain, and the Chief's men rushes into a village and takes it, we three Martinis firing into the brown of the enemy. So we took that village too, and I gives the Chief a rag from my coat, and says, 'Occupy till I come;' which was scriptural. By way of a reminder, when me and the Army was eighteen hundred yards away, I drops a bullet near him standing on the snow, and all the people falls flat on their faces. Then I sends a letter to Dravot wherever he be by land or by sea." At the risk of throwing the creature out of train I interrupted: "How could you write a letter up yonder?" "The letter?--oh!--the letter! Keep looking at me between the eyes, please. It was a string-talk letter, that we'd learned the way of it from a blind beggar in the Punjab." I remember that there had once come to the office a blind man with a knotted twig, and a piece of string which he wound round the twig according to some cipher of his own. He could, after the lapse of days or hours, repeat the sentence which he had reeled up. He had reduced the alphabet to eleven primitive sounds, and tried to teach me his method, but I could not understand. "I sent that letter to Dravot," said Carnehan, "and told him to come back because this Kingdom was growing too big for me to handle; and then I struck for the first valley, to see how the priests were working. They called the village we took along with the Chief, Bashkai, and the first village we took, Er-Heb. The priests at Er-Heb was doing all right, but they had a lot of pending cases about land to show me, and some men from another village had been firing arrows at night. I went out and looked for that village, and fired four rounds at it from a thousand yards. That used all the cartridges I cared to spend, and I waited for Dravot, who had been away two or three months, and I kept my people quiet. "One morning I heard the devil's own noise of drums and horns, and Dan Dravot marches down the hill with his Army and a tail of hundreds of men, and, which was the most amazing, a great gold crown on his head. 'My Gord, Carnehan,' says Daniel, 'this is a tremenjus business, and we've got the whole country as far as it's worth having. I am the son of Alexander by Queen Semiramis, and you're my younger brother and a God too! It's the biggest thing we've ever seen. I've been marching and fighting for six weeks with the Army, and every footy little village for fifty miles has come in rejoiceful; and more than that, I've got the key of the whole show, as you'll see, and I've got a crown for you! I told 'em to make two of 'em at a place called Shu, where the gold lies in the rock like suet in mutton. Gold I've seen, and turquoise I've kicked out of the cliffs, and there's garnets in the sands of the river, and here's a chunk of amber that a man brought me. Call up all the priests and, here, take your crown.' "One of the men opens a black hair bag, and I slips the crown on. It was too small and too heavy, but I wore it for the glory. Hammered gold it was--five pounds weight, like a hoop of a barrel. "'Peachey,' says Dravot, 'we don't want to fight no more. The Craft's the trick, so help me!' and he brings forward that same Chief that I left at Bashkai--Billy Fish we called him afterward, because he was so like Billy Fish that drove the big tank-engine at Mach on the Bolan in the old days. 'Shake hands with him,' says Dravot; and I shook hands and nearly dropped, for Billy Fish gave me the Grip. I said nothing, but tried him with the Fellow-craft Grip. He answers all right, and I tried the Master's Grip, but that was a slip. 'A Fellow-craft he is!' I says to Dan. 'Does he know the word?' 'He does,' says Dan, 'and all the priests know. It's a miracle! The Chiefs and the priests can work a Fellow-craft Lodge in a way that's very like ours, and they've cut the marks on the rocks, but they don't know the Third Degree, and they've come to find out. It's Gord's Truth. I've known these long years that the Afghans knew up to the Fellow-craft Degree, but this is a miracle. A God and a Grand Master of the Craft am I, and a Lodge in the Third Degree I will open, and we'll raise the head priests and the Chiefs of the villages.' "'It's against all the law,' I says, 'holding a Lodge without warrant from any one; and you know we never held office in any Lodge.' "'It's a master stroke o' policy,' says Dravot. 'It means running the country as easy as a four-wheeled bogie on a down grade. We can't stop to inquire now, or they'll turn against us. I've forty Chiefs at my heel, and passed and raised according to their merit they shall be. Billet these men on the villages, and see that we run up a Lodge of some kind. The temple of Imbra will do for a Lodge-room. The women must make aprons as you show them. I'll hold a levee of Chiefs tonight and Lodge tomorrow.' "I was fair run off my legs, but I wasn't such a fool as not to see what a pull this Craft business gave us. I showed the priests' families how to make aprons of the degrees, but for Dravot's apron the blue border and marks was made of turquoise lumps on white hide, not cloth. We took a great square stone in the temple for the Master's chair, and little stones for the officer's chairs, and painted the black pavement with white squares, and did what we could to make things regular. "At the levee which was held that night on the hillside with big bonfires, Dravot gives out that him and me were Gods and sons of Alexander, and Passed Grand Masters in the Craft, and was come to make Kafiristan a country where every man should eat in peace and drink in quiet, and specially obey us. Then the Chiefs come round to shake hands, and they were so hairy and white and fair it was just shaking hands with old friends. We gave them names according as they was like men we had known in India--Billy Fish, Holly Dilworth, Pikky Kergan, that was Bazaar-master when I was at Mhow, and so on, and so on. "The most amazing miracles was at Lodge next night. One of the old priests was watching us continuous, and I felt uneasy, for I knew we'd have to fudge the Ritual, and I didn't know what the men knew. The old priest was a stranger come in from beyond the village of Bashkai. The minute Dravot puts on the Master's apron that the girls had made for him, the priest fetches a whoop and a howl, and tries to overturn the stone that Dravot was sitting on. 'It's all up now,' I says. 'That comes of meddling with the Craft without warrant!' Dravot never winked an eye, not when ten priests took and tilted over the Grand Master's chair--which was to say, the stone of Imbra. The priest begins rubbing the bottom end of it to clear away the black dirt, and presently he shows all the other priests the Master's Mark, same as was on Dravot's apron, cut into the stone. Not even the priests of the temple of Imbra knew it was there. The old chap falls flat on his face at Dravot's feet and kisses 'em. 'Luck again,' says Dravot, across the Lodge, to me; 'they say it's the missing Mark that no one could understand the why of. "'We're more than safe now.' Then he bangs the butt of his gun for a gavel and says, 'By virtue of the authority vested in me by my own right hand and the help of Peachey, I declare myself Grand Master of all Freemasonry in Kafiristan in this the Mother Lodge o' the country, and King of Kafiristan equally with Peachey!' At that he puts on his crown and I puts on mine,--I was doing Senior Warden,--and we opens the Lodge in most ample form. It was an amazing miracle! The priests moved in Lodge through the first two degrees almost without telling, as if the memory was coming back to them. After that Peachey and Dravot raised such as was worthy--high priests and Chiefs of far-off villages. Billy Fish was the first, and I can tell you we scared the soul out of him. It was not in any way according to Ritual, but it served our turn. We didn't raise more than ten of the biggest men, because we didn't want to make the Degree common. And they was clamouring to be raised. "'In another six months,' says Dravot, 'we'll hold another Communication and see how you are working.' Then he asks them about their villages, and learns that they was fighting one against the other, and were sick and tired of it. And when they wasn't doing that they was fighting with the Mohammedans. 'You can fight those when they come into our country,' says Dravot. 'Tell off every tenth man of your tribes for a Frontier guard, and send two hundred at a time to this valley to be drilled. Nobody is going to be shot or speared any more so long as he does well, and I know that you won't cheat me, because you're white people--sons of Alexander--and not like common black Mohammedans. You are my people, and, by God,' says he, running off into English at the end, 'I'll make a damned fine Nation of you, or I'll die in the making!' "I can't tell all we did for the next six months, because Dravot did a lot I couldn't see the hang of, and he learned their lingo in a way I never could. My work was to help the people plough, and now and again go out with some of the Army and see what the other villages were doing, and make 'em throw rope bridges across the ravines which cut up the country horrid. Dravot was very kind to me, but when he walked up and down in the pine wood pulling that bloody red beard of his with both fists I knew he was thinking plans I could not advise about, and I just waited for orders. "But Dravot never showed me disrespect before the people. They were afraid of me and the Army, but they loved Dan. He was the best of friends with the priests and the Chiefs; but any one could come across the hills with a complaint, and Dravot would hear him out fair, and call four priests together and say what was to be done. "He used to call in Billy Fish from Bashkai, and Pikky Kergan from Shu, and an old Chief we called Kafuzelum,--it was like enough to his real name,--and hold councils with 'em when there was any fighting to be done in small villages. That was his Council of War, and the four priests of Bashkai, Shu, Khawak, and Madora was his Privy Council. Between the lot of 'em they sent me, with forty men and twenty rifles, and sixty men carrying turquoises, into the Ghorband country to buy those hand-made Martini rifles, that come out of the Amir's workshops at Kabul, from one of the Amir's Herati regiments that would have sold the very teeth out of their mouths for turquoises. "I stayed in Ghorband a month, and gave the Governor there the pick of my baskets for hush-money, and bribed the Colonel of the regiment some more, and, between the two and the tribes-people, we got more than a hundred hand-made Martinis, a hundred good Kohat Jezails that'll throw to six hundred yards, and forty man--loads of very bad ammunition for the rifles. I came back with what I had, and distributed 'em among the men that the Chiefs sent in to me to drill. Dravot was too busy to attend to those things, but the old Army that we first made helped me, and we turned out five hundred men that could drill, and two hundred that knew how to hold arms pretty straight. Even those cork-screwed, hand-made guns was a miracle to them. Dravot talked big about powder-shops and factories, walking up and down in the pine wood when the winter was coming on. "'I won't make a Nation,' says he. 'I'll make an Empire! These men aren't niggers; they're English! Look at their eyes--look at their mouths. Look at the way they stand up. They sit on chairs in their own houses. They're the Lost Tribes, or something like it, and they've grown to be English. I'll take a census in the spring if the priests don't get frightened. There must be a fair two million of 'em in these hills. The villages are full o' little children. Two million people--two hundred and fifty thousand fighting men--and all English! They only want the rifles and a little drilling. Two hundred and fifty thousand men, ready to cut in on Russia's right flank when she tries for India! Peachey, man,' he says, chewing his beard in great hunks, 'we shall be Emperors--Emperors of the Earth! Rajah Brooke will be a suckling to us. I'll treat with the Viceroy on equal terms. I'll ask him to send me twelve picked English--twelve that I know of--to help us govern a bit. There's Mackray, Serjeant Pensioner at Segowli--many's the good dinner he's given me, and his wife a pair of trousers. There's Donkin, the Warder of Tounghoo Jail; there's hundreds that I could lay my hand on if I was in India. The Viceroy shall do it for me; I'll send a man through in the spring for those men, and I'll write for a dispensation from the Grand Lodge for what I've done as Grand Master. That--and all the Sniders that'll be thrown out when the native troops in India take up the Martini. They'll be worn smooth, but they'll do for fighting in these hills. Twelve English, a hundred thousand Sniders run through the Amir's country in driblets,--I'd be content with twenty thousand in one year,--and we'd be an Empire. "When everything was shipshape I'd hand over the crown--this crown I'm wearing now--to Queen Victoria on my knees, and she'd say, 'Rise up, Sir Daniel Dravot.' Oh, it's big! It's big, I tell you! But there's so much to be done in every place--Bashkai, Khawak, Shu, and everywhere else. "'What is it?' I says. 'There are no more men coming in to be drilled this autumn. Look at those fat black clouds. They're bringing the snow.' "'It isn't that,' says Daniel, putting his hand very hard on my shoulder; 'and I don't wish to say anything that's against you, for no other living man would have followed me and made me what I am as you have done. You're a first-class Commander-in-Chief, and the people know you; but--it's a big country, and somehow you can't help me, Peachey, in the way I want to be helped.' "'Go to your blasted priests, then!' I said, and I was sorry when I made that remark, but it did hurt me sore to find Daniel talking so superior, when I'd drilled all the men and done all he told me. "'Don't let's quarrel, Peachey,' says Daniel, without cursing. 'You're a King too, and the half of this Kingdom is yours; but can't you see, Peachey, we want cleverer men than us now--three or four of 'em, that we can scatter about for our Deputies. It's a hugeous great State, and I can't always tell the right thing to do, and I haven't time for all I want to do, and here's the winter coming on and all.' "He put half his beard into his mouth, all red like the gold of his crown. "'I'm sorry, Daniel,' says I. 'I've done all I could. I've drilled the men and shown the people how to stack their oats better; and I've brought in those tinware rifles from Ghorband--but I know what you're driving at. I take it Kings always feel oppressed that way.' "'There's another thing too,' says Dravot, walking up and down. 'The winter's coming, and these people won't be giving much trouble, and if they do we can't move about. I want a wife.' "'For Gord's sake leave the women alone!' I says. 'We've both got all the work we can, though I am a fool. Remember the Contrack, and keep clear o' women.'" "'The Contrack only lasted till such time as we was Kings; and Kings we have been these months past,' says Dravot, weighing his crown in his hand. 'You go get a wife too, Peachey--a nice, strappin', plump girl that'll keep you warm in the winter. They're prettier than English girls, and we can take the pick of 'em. Boil 'em once or twice in hot water, and they'll come out like chicken and ham.' "'Don't tempt me!' I says. 'I will not have any dealings with a woman, not till we are a dam' side more settled than we are now. I've been doing the work o' two men, and you've been doing the work of three. Let's lie off a bit, and see if we can get some better tobacco from Afghan country and run in some good liquor; and no women.'" "'Who's talking o' women?' says Dravot. 'I said wife--a Queen to breed a King's son for the King. A Queen out of the strongest tribe, that'll make them your blood-brothers, and that'll lie by your side and tell you all the people thinks about you and their own affairs. That's what I want.' "'Do you remember that Bengali woman I kept at Mogul Serai when I was a plate-layer?' says I. 'A fat lot o' good she was to me. She taught me the lingo and one or two other things; but what happened? She ran away with the Station-master's servant and half my month's pay. Then she turned up at Dadur Junction in tow of a half-caste, and had the impidence to say I was her husband--all among the drivers in the running-shed too!' "'We've done with that,' says Dravot; 'these women are whiter than you or me, and a Queen I will have for the winter months.' "'For the last time o' asking, Dan, do not,' I says. 'It'll only bring us harm. The Bible says that Kings ain't to waste their strength on women, 'specially when they've got a new raw Kingdom to work over.' "'For the last time of answering, I will,' said Dravot, and he went away through the pine trees looking like a big red devil, the sun being on his crown and beard and all. "But getting a wife was not as easy as Dan thought. He put it before the Council, and there was no answer till Billy Fish said that he'd better ask the girls. Dravot damned them all round. "'What's wrong with me?' he shouts, standing by the idol Imbra. 'Am I a dog, or am I not enough of a man for your wenches? Haven't I put the shadow of my hand over this country? Who stopped the last Afghan raid?' It was me really, but Dravot was too angry to remember. 'Who bought your guns? Who repaired the bridges? Who's the Grand Master of the sign cut in the stone?' says he, and he thumped his hand on the block that he used to sit on in Lodge, and at Council, which opened like Lodge always. Billy Fish said nothing, and no more did the others. 'Keep your hair on, Dan,' said I, 'and ask the girls. That's how it's done at Home, and these people are quite English.' "'The marriage of the King is a matter of State,' says Dan, in a white-hot rage, for he could feel, I hope, that he was going against his better mind. He walked out of the Council-room, and the others sat still, looking at the ground. "'Billy Fish,' says I to the Chief of Bashkai, 'what's the difficulty here? A straight answer to a true friend.' "'You know,' says Billy Fish. 'How should a man tell you who knows everything? How can daughters of men marry Gods or Devils? It's not proper.' "I remembered something like that in the Bible; but, if after seeing us as long as they had, they still believed we were Gods, it wasn't for me to undeceive them. "'A God can do anything,' says I. 'If the King is fond of a girl he'll not let her die.' 'She'll have to,' said Billy Fish. 'There are all sorts of Gods and Devils in these mountains, and now and again a girl marries one of them and isn't seen any more. Besides, you two know the Mark cut in the stone. Only the Gods know that. We thought you were men till you showed the sign of the Master.' "I wished then that we had explained about the loss of the genuine secrets of a Master Mason at the first go-off; but I said nothing. All that night there was a blowing of horns in a little dark temple half-way down the hill, and I heard the girl crying fit to die. One of the priests told us that she was being prepared to marry the King. "'I'll have no nonsense of that kind,' says Dan. 'I don't want to interfere with your customs, but I'll take my own wife.' 'The girl's a little bit afraid,' says the priest. 'She thinks she's going to die, and they are a-heartening of her up down in the temple.' "'Hearten her very tender, then,' says Dravot, 'or I'll hearten you with the butt of a gun so you'll never want to be heartened again.' "He licked his lips, did Dan, and stayed up walking about more than half the night, thinking of the wife that he was going to get in the morning. I wasn't any means comfortable, for I knew that dealings with a woman in foreign parts, though you was a crowned King twenty times over, could not but be risky. I got up very early in the morning while Dravot was asleep, and I saw the priests talking together in whispers, and the Chiefs talking together too, and they looked at me out of the corners of their eyes. "'What is up, Fish?' I say to the Bashkai man, who was wrapped up in his furs and looking splendid to behold. "'I can't rightly say,' says he; 'but if you can make the King drop all this nonsense about marriage, you'll be doing him and me and yourself a great service.' "'That I do believe,' says I. 'But sure, you know, Billy, as well as me, having fought against and for us, that the King and me are nothing more than two of the finest men that God Almighty ever made. Nothing more, I do assure you.' "'That may be,' says Billy Fish, 'and yet I should be sorry if it was.' He sinks his head upon his great fur cloak for a minute and thinks. 'King,' says he, 'be you man or God or Devil, I'll stick by you today. I have twenty of my men with me, and they will follow me. We'll go to Bashkai until the storm blows over.' "A little snow had fallen in the night, and everything was white except the greasy fat clouds that blew down and down from the north. Dravot came out with his crown on his head, swinging his arms and stamping his feet, and looking more pleased than Punch. "'For the last time, drop it, Dan,' says I, in a whisper; 'Billy Fish here says that there will be a row.' "'A row among my people!' says Dravot. 'Not much. Peachey, you're a fool not to get a wife too. Where's the girl?' says he, with a voice as loud as the braying of a jackass. 'Call up all the Chiefs and priests, and let the Emperor see if his wife suits him.' "There was no need to call any one. They were all there leaning on their guns and spears round the clearing in the centre of the pine wood. A lot of priests went down to the little temple to bring up the girl, and the horns blew fit to wake the dead. Billy Fish saunters round and gets as close to Daniel as he could, and behind him stood his twenty men with matchlocks--not a man of them under six feet. I was next to Dravot, and behind me was twenty men of the regular Army. Up comes the girl, and a strapping wench she was, covered with silver and turquoises, but white as death, and looking back every minute at the priests. "'She'll do,' said Dan, looking her over. 'What's to be afraid of, lass? Come and kiss me.' He puts his arm round her. She shuts her eyes, gives a bit of a squeak, and down goes her face in the side of Dan's flaming-red beard. "'The slut's bitten me!' says he, clapping his hand to his neck, and, sure enough, his hand was red with blood. Billy Fish and two of his matchlock men catches hold of Dan by the shoulders and drags him into the Bashkai lot, while the priests howls in their lingo, 'Neither God nor Devil, but a man!' I was all taken aback, for a priest cut at me in front, and the Army behind began firing into the Bashkai men. "'God A'mighty!' says Dan, 'what is the meaning o' this?' "'Come back! Come away!' says Billy Fish. 'Ruin and Mutiny is the matter. We'll break for Bashkai if we can.' "I tried to give some sort of orders to my men,--the men o' the regular Army,--but it was no use, so I fired into the brown of 'em with an English Martini and drilled three beggars in a line. The valley was full of shouting, howling creatures, and every soul was shrieking, 'Not a God nor a Devil, but only a man!' The Bashkai troops stuck to Billy Fish all they were worth, but their matchlocks wasn't half as good as the Kabul breech-loaders, and four of them dropped. Dan was bellowing like a bull, for he was very wrathy; and Billy Fish had a hard job to prevent him running out at the crowd. "'We can't stand,' says Billy Fish. 'Make a run for it down the valley! The whole place is against us.' The matchlock-men ran, and we went down the valley in spite of Dravot. He was swearing horrible and crying out that he was a King. The priests rolled great stones on us, and the regular Army fired hard, and there wasn't more than six men, not counting Dan, Billy Fish, and Me, that came down to the bottom of the valley alive. "Then they stopped firing, and the horns in the temple blew again. "'Come away--for Gord's sake come away!' says Billy Fish. 'They'll send runners out to all the villages before ever we get to Bashkai. I can protect you there, but I can't do anything now." "My own notion is that Dan began to go mad in his head from that hour. He stared up and down like a stuck pig. Then he was all for walking back alone and killing the priests with his bare hands; which he could have done. 'An Emperor am I,' says Daniel, 'and next year I shall be a Knight of the Queen.' "'All right, Dan,' says I; 'but come along now while there's time.' "'It's your fault,' says he, 'for not looking after your Army better. There was mutiny in the midst, and you didn't know--you damned engine-driving, plate-laying, missionary's-pass-hunting hound!' He sat upon a rock and called me every foul name he could lay tongue to. I was too heart-sick to care, though it was all his foolishness that brought the smash. "'I'm sorry, Dan,' says I, 'but there's no accounting for natives. This business is our Fifty-seven. Maybe we'll make something out of it yet, when we've got to Bashkai.' "'Let's get to Bashkai, then,' says Dan, 'and, by God, when I come back here again I'll sweep the valley so there isn't a bug in a blanket left!' "We walked all that day, and all that night Dan was stumping up and down on the snow, chewing his beard and muttering to himself. "'There's no hope o' getting clear,' said Billy Fish. 'The priests have sent runners to the villages to say that you are only men. Why didn't you stick on as Gods till things was more settled? I'm a dead man,' says Billy Fish, and he throws himself down on the snow and begins to pray to his Gods. "Next morning we was in a cruel bad country--all up and down, no level ground at all, and no food, either. The six Bashkai men looked at Billy Fish hungry-way as if they wanted to ask something, but they never said a word. At noon we came to the top of a flat mountain all covered with snow, and when we climbed up into it, behold, there was an Army in position waiting in the middle! "'The runners have been very quick,' says Billy Fish, with a little bit of a laugh. 'They are waiting for us.' "Three or four men began to fire from the enemy's side, and a chance shot took Daniel in the calf of the leg. That brought him to his senses. He looks across the snow at the Army, and sees the rifles that we had brought into the country. "'We're done for,' says he. 'They are Englishmen, these people,--and it's my blasted nonsense that has brought you to this. Get back, Billy Fish, and take your men away; you've done what you could, and now cut for it. Carnehan,' says he, 'shake hands with me and go along with Billy, Maybe they won't kill you. I'll go and meet 'em alone. It's me that did it! Me, the King!' "'Go!' says I. 'Go to Hell, Dan! I'm with you here. Billy Fish, you clear out, and we two will meet those folk.' "'I'm a Chief,' says Billy Fish, quite quiet. 'I stay with you. My men can go.' "The Bashkai fellows didn't wait for a second word, but ran off, and Dan and Me and Billy Fish walked across to where the drums were drumming and the horns were horning. It was cold--awful cold. I've got that cold in the back of my head now. There's a lump of it there." The punka-coolies had gone to sleep. Two kerosene lamps were blazing in the office, and the perspiration poured down my face and splashed on the blotter as I leaned forward. Carnehan was shivering, and I feared that his mind might go. I wiped my face, took a fresh grip of the piteously mangled hands, and said, "What happened after that?" The momentary shift of my eyes had broken the clear current. "What was you pleased to say?" whined Carnehan. "They took them without any sound. Not a little whisper all along the snow, not though the King knocked down the first man that set hand on him--not though old Peachey fired his last cartridge into the brown of 'em. Not a single solitary sound did those swines make. They just closed up tight, and I tell you their furs stunk. There was a man called Billy Fish, a good friend of us all, and they cut his throat, Sir, then and there, like a pig; and the King kicks up the bloody snow and says, 'We've had a dashed fine run for our money. What's coming next?' But Peachey, Peachey Taliaferro, I tell you, Sir, in confidence as betwixt two friends, he lost his head, Sir. No, he didn't, neither. The King lost his head, so he did, all along o' one of those cunning rope bridges. Kindly let me have the paper-cutter, Sir. It tilted this way. They marched him a mile across that snow to a rope bridge over a ravine with a river at the bottom. You may have seen such. They prodded him behind like an ox. 'Damn your eyes!' says the King. 'D' you suppose I can't die like a gentleman?' "He turns to Peachey--Peachey that was crying like a child. 'I've brought you to this, Peachey,' says he. 'Brought you out of your happy life to be killed in Kafiristan, where you was late Commander-in-Chief of the Emperor's forces. Say you forgive me, Peachey.' 'I do,' says Peachey. 'Fully and freely do I forgive you, Dan.' 'Shake hands, Peachey,' says he. 'I'm going now.' Out he goes, looking neither right nor left, and when he was plumb in the middle of those dizzy dancing ropes, 'Cut you beggars,' he shouts; and they cut, and old Dan fell, turning round and round and round, twenty thousand miles, for he took half an hour to fall till he struck the water, and I could see his body caught on a rock with the gold crown close beside. "But do you know what they did to Peachey between two pine trees? They crucified him, Sir, as Peachey's hand will show. They used wooden pegs for his hands and feet; but he didn't die. He hung there and screamed, and they took him down next day, and said it was a miracle that he wasn't dead. They took him down--poor old Peachey that hadn't done them any harm--that hadn't done them any--" He rocked to and fro and wept bitterly, wiping his eyes with the back of his scarred hands and moaning like a child for some ten minutes. "They was cruel enough to feed him up in the temple, because they said he was more of a God than old Daniel that was a man. Then they turned him out on the snow, and told him to go home, and Peachey came home in about a year, begging along the roads quite safe; for Daniel Dravot he walked before and said, 'Come along, Peachey. It's a big thing we're doing.' The mountains they danced at night, and the mountains they tried to fall on Peachey's head, but Dan he held up his hand, and Peachey came along bent double. He never let go of Dan's hand, and he never let go of Dan's head. They gave it to him as a present in the temple, to remind him not to come again; and though the crown was pure gold and Peachey was starving, never would Peachey sell the same. You know Dravot, Sir! You knew Right Worshipful Brother Dravot! Look at him now!" He fumbled in the mass of rags round his bent waist; brought out a black horsehair bag embroidered with silver thread; and shook therefrom on to my table--the dried, withered head of Daniel Dravot! The morning sun, that had long been paling the lamps, struck the red beard and blind sunken eyes; struck, too, a heavy circlet of gold studded with raw turquoises, that Carnehan placed tenderly on the battered temples. "You be'old now," said Carnehan, "the Emperor in his 'abit as he lived--the King of Kafiristan with his crown upon his head. Poor old Daniel that was a monarch once!" I shuddered, for, in spite of defacements manifold, I recognised the head of the man of Marwar Junction. Carnehan rose to go. I attempted to stop him. He was not fit to walk abroad. "Let me take away the whisky, and give me a little money," he gasped. "I was a King once. I'll go to the Deputy Commissioner and ask to set in the Poorhouse till I get my health. No, thank you, I can't wait till you get a carriage for me. I've urgent private affairs--in the south--at Marwar." He shambled out of the office and departed in the direction of the Deputy Commissioner's house. That day at noon I had occasion to go down the blinding-hot Mall, and I saw a crooked man crawling along the white dust of the roadside, his hat in his hand, quavering dolorously after the fashion of street-singers at Home. There was not a soul in sight, and he was out of all possible earshot of the houses. And he sang through his nose, turning his head from right to left: "The Son of Man goes forth to war, A golden crown to gain; His blood-red banner streams afar-- Who follows in His train?" I waited to hear no more, but put the poor wretch into my carriage and drove him off to the nearest missionary for eventual transfer to the Asylum. He repeated the hymn twice while he was with me, whom he did not in the least recognise, and I left him singing it to the missionary. Two days later I inquired after his welfare of the Superintendent of the Asylum. "He was admitted suffering from sunstroke. He died early yesterday morning," said the Superintendent. "Is it true that he was half an hour bareheaded in the sun at midday?" "Yes," said I; "but do you happen to know if he had anything upon him by any chance when he died?" "Not to my knowledge," said the Superintendent. And there the matter rests. * * * * * "THE FINEST STORY IN THE WORLD" "O' ever the knightly years were gone With the old world to the grave, I was a king in Babylon And you were a Christian slave." --W. E. Henley. His name was Charlie Mears; he was the only son of his mother who was a widow, and he lived in the north of London, coming into the City every day to work in a bank. He was twenty years old and suffered from aspirations. I met him in a public billiard-saloon where the marker called him by his given name, and he called the marker "Bulls-eyes." Charley explained, a little nervously, that he had only come to the place to look on, and since looking on at games of skill is not a cheap amusement for the young, I suggested that Charlie should go back to his mother. That was our first step toward better acquaintance. He would call on me sometimes in the evenings instead of running about London with his fellow-clerks; and before long, speaking of himself as a young man must, he told me of his aspirations, which were all literary. He desired to make himself an undying name chiefly through verse, though he was not above sending stories of love and death to the drop-a-penny-in-the-slot journals. It was my fate to sit still while Charlie read me poems of many hundred lines, and bulky fragments of plays that would surely shake the world. My reward was his unreserved confidence, and the self-revelations and troubles of a young man are almost as holy as those of a maiden. Charlie had never fallen in love, but was anxious to do so on the first opportunity; he believed in all things good and all things honorable, but, at the same time, was curiously careful to let me see that he knew his way about the world as befitted a bank clerk on twenty-five shillings a week. He rhymed "dove" with "love" and "moon" with "June," and devoutly believed that they had never so been rhymed before. The long lame gaps in his plays he filled up with hasty words of apology and description and swept on, seeing all that he intended to do so clearly that he esteemed it already done, and turned to me for applause. I fancy that his mother did not encourage his aspirations, and I know that his writing-table at home was the edge of his washstand. This he told me almost at the outset of our acquaintance; when he was ravaging my bookshelves, and a little before I was implored to speak the truth as to his chances of "writing something really great, you know." Maybe I encouraged him too much, for, one night, he called on me, his eyes flaming with excitement, and said breathlessly: "Do you mind--can you let me stay here and write all this evening? I won't interrupt you, I won't really. There's no place for me to write in at my mother's." "What's the trouble?" I said, knowing well what that trouble was. "I've a notion in my head that would make the most splendid story that was ever written. Do let me write it out here. It's such a notion!" There was no resisting the appeal. I set him a table; he hardly thanked me, but plunged into the work at once. For half an hour the pen scratched without stopping. Then Charlie sighed and tugged his hair. The scratching grew slower, there were more erasures, and at last ceased. The finest story in the world would not come forth. "It looks such awful rot now" he said, mournfully. "And yet it seemed so good when I was thinking about it. What's wrong?" I could not dishearten him by saying the truth. So I answered: "Perhaps you don't feel in the mood for writing." "Yes I do--except when I look at this stuff. Ugh!" "Read me what you've done," I said. He read, and it was wondrous bad and he paused at all the specially turgid sentences, expecting a little approval; for he was proud of those sentences, as I knew he would be. "It needs compression," I suggested, cautiously. "I hate cutting my things down. I don't think you could alter a word here without spoiling the sense. It reads better aloud than when I was writing it." "Charlie, you're suffering from an alarming disease afflicting a numerous class. Put the thing by, and tackle it again in a week." "I want to do it at once. What do you think of it?" "How can I judge from a half-written tale? Tell me the story as it lies in your head." Charlie told, and in the telling there was everything that his ignorance had so carefully prevented from escaping into the written word. I looked at him, and wondering whether it were possible, that he did not know the originality, the power of the notion that had come in his way? It was distinctly a Notion among notions. Men had been puffed up with pride by notions not a tithe as excellent and practicable. But Charlie babbled on serenely, interrupting the current of pure fancy with samples of horrible sentences that he purposed to use. I heard him out to the end. It would be folly to allow his idea to remain in his own inept hands, when I could do so much with it. Not all that could be done indeed; but, oh so much! "What do you think?" he said, at last. "I fancy I shall call it 'The Story of a Ship.'" "I think the idea's pretty good; but you won't Be able to handle it for ever so long. Now I--" "Would it be of any use to you? Would you care to take it? I should be proud," said Charlie, promptly. There are few things sweeter in this world than the guileless, hot-headed, intemperate, open admiration of a junior. Even a woman in her blindest devotion does not fall into the gait of the man she adores, tilt her bonnet to the angle at which he wears his hat, or interlard her speech with his pet oaths. And Charlie did all these things. Still it was necessary to salve my conscience before I possessed myself of Charlie's thoughts. "Let's make a bargain. I'll give you a fiver for the notion," I said. Charlie became a bank-clerk at once. "Oh, that's impossible. Between two pals, you know, if I may call you so, and speaking as a man of the world, I couldn't. Take the notion if it's any use to you. I've heaps more." He had--none knew this better than I--but they were the notions of other men. "Look at it as a matter of business--between men of the world," I returned. "Five pounds will buy you any number of poetry-books. Business is business, and you may be sure I shouldn't give that price unless--" "Oh, if you put it that way," said Charlie, visibly moved by the thought of the books. The bargain was clinched with an agreement that he should at unstated intervals come to me with all the notions that he possessed, should have a table of his own to write at, and unquestioned right to inflict upon me all his poems and fragments of poems. Then I said, "Now tell me how you came by this idea." "It came by itself." Charlie's eyes opened a little. "Yes, but you told me a great deal about the hero that you must have read before somewhere." "I haven't any time for reading, except when you let me sit here, and on Sundays I'm on my bicycle or down the river all day. There's nothing wrong about the hero, is there?" "Tell me again and I shall understand clearly. You say that your hero went pirating. How did he live?" "He was on the lower deck of this ship-thing that I was telling you about." "What sort of ship?" "It was the kind rowed with oars, and the sea spurts through the oar-holes and the men row sitting up to their knees in water. Then there's a bench running down between the two lines of oars and an overseer with a whip walks up and down the bench to make the men work." "How do you know that?" "It's in the table. There's a rope running overhead, looped to the upper deck, for the overseer to catch hold of when the ship rolls. When the overseer misses the rope once and falls among the rowers, remember the hero laughs at him and gets licked for it. He's chained to his oar of course--the hero." "How is he chained?" "With an iron band round his waist fixed to the bench he sits on, and a sort of handcuff on his left wrist chaining him to the oar. He's on the lower deck where the worst men are sent, and the only light comes from the hatchways and through the oar-holes. Can't you imagine the sunlight just squeezing through between the handle and the hole and wobbling about as the ship moves?" "I can, but I can't imagine your imagining it." "How could it be any other way? Now you listen to me. The long oars on the upper deck are managed by four men to each bench, the lower ones by three, and the lowest of all by two. Remember it's quite dark on the lowest deck and all the men there go mad. When a man dies at his oar on that deck he isn't thrown overboard, but cut up in his chains and stuffed through the oar-hole in little pieces." "Why?" I demanded, amazed, not so much at the information as the tone of command in which it was flung out. "To save trouble and to frighten the others. It needs two overseers to drag a man's body up to the top deck; and if the men at the lower deck oars were left alone, of course they'd stop rowing and try to pull up the benches by all standing up together in their chains." "You've a most provident imagination. Where have you been reading about galleys and galley-slaves?" "Nowhere that I remember. I row a little when I get the chance. But, perhaps, if you say so, I may have read something." He went away shortly afterward to deal with booksellers, and I wondered how a bank clerk aged twenty could put into my hands with a profligate abundance of detail, all given with absolute assurance, the story of extravagant and bloodthirsty adventure, riot, piracy, and death in unnamed seas. He had led his hero a desperate dance through revolt against the overseas, to command of a ship of his own, and ultimate establishment of a kingdom on an island "somewhere in the sea, you know"; and, delighted with my paltry five pounds, had gone out to buy the notions of other men, that these might teach him how to write. I had the consolation of knowing that this notion was mine by right of purchase, and I thought that I could make something of it. When next he came to me he was drunk--royally drunk on many poets for the first time revealed to him. His pupils were dilated, his words tumbled over each other, and he wrapped himself in quotations. Most of all was he drunk with Longfellow. "Isn't it splendid? Isn't it superb?" he cried, after hasty greetings. "Listen to this-- "'Wouldst thou,' so the helmsman answered, 'Know the secret of the sea? Only those who brave its dangers Comprehend its mystery.' "By gum! "'Only those who brave its dangers Comprehend its mystery.'" he repeated twenty times, walking up and down the room and forgetting me. "But I can understand it too," he said to himself. "I don't know how to thank you for that fiver. And this; listen-- "'I remember the black wharves and the ships And the sea-tides tossing free, And the Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea.' "I haven't braved any dangers, but I feel as if I knew all about it." "You certainly seem to have a grip of the sea. Have you ever seen it?" "When I was a little chap I went to Brighton once; we used to live in Coventry, though, before we came to London. I never saw it. "'When descends on the Atlantic The gigantic Storm-wind of the Equinox.'" He shook me by the shoulder to make me understand the passion that was shaking himself. "When that storm comes," he continued, "I think that all the oars in the ship that I was talking about get broken, and the rowers have their chests smashed in by the bucking oar-heads. By the way, have you done anything with that notion of mine yet?" "No. I was waiting to hear more of it from you. Tell me how in the world you're so certain about the fittings of the ship. You know nothing of ships." "I don't know. It's as real as anything to me until I try to write it down. I was thinking about it only last night in bed, after you had loaned me 'Treasure Island'; and I made up a whole lot of new things to go into the story." "What sort of things?" "About the food the men ate; rotten figs and black beans and wine in a skin bag, passed from bench to bench." "Was the ship built so long ago as that?" "As what? I don't know whether it was long ago or not. It's only a notion, but sometimes it seems just as real as if it was true. Do I bother you with talking about it?" "Not in the least. Did you make up anything else?" "Yes, but it's nonsense." Charlie flushed a little. "Never mind; let's hear about it." "Well, I was thinking over the story, and after awhile I got out of bed and wrote down on a piece of paper the sort of stuff the men might be supposed to scratch on their oars with the edges of their handcuffs. It seemed to make the thing more lifelike. It is so real to me, y'know." "Have you the paper on you?" "Ye-es, but what's the use of showing it? It's only a lot of scratches. All the same, we might have 'em reproduced in the book on the front page." "I'll attend to those details. Show me what your men wrote." He pulled out of his pocket a sheet of note-paper, with a single line of scratches upon it, and I put this carefully away. "What is it supposed to mean in English?" I said. "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps it means 'I'm beastly tired.' It's great nonsense," he repeated, "but all those men in the ship seem as real people to me. Do do something to the notion soon; I should like to see it written and printed." "But all you've told me would make a long book." "Make it then. You've only to sit down and write it out." "Give me a little time. Have you any more notions?" "Not just now. I'm reading all the books I've bought. They're splendid." When he had left I looked at the sheet of note-paper with the inscription upon it. Then I took my head tenderly between both hands, to make certain that it was not coming off or turning round. Then--but there seemed to be no interval between quitting my rooms and finding myself arguing with a policeman outside a door marked Private in a corridor of the British Museum. All I demanded, as politely as possible, was "the Greek antiquity man." The policeman knew nothing except the rules of the Museum, and it became necessary to forage through all the houses and offices inside the gates. An elderly gentleman called away from his lunch put an end to my search by holding the note-paper between finger and thumb and sniffing at it scornfully. "What does this mean? H'mm," said he. "So far as I can ascertain it is an attempt to write extremely corrupt Greek on the part"--here he glared at me with intention--"of an extremely illiterate--ah--person." He read slowly from the paper, "Pollock, Erckman, Tauchnitz, Henniker"--four names familiar to me. "Can you tell me what the corruption is supposed to mean--the gist of the thing?" I asked. "'I have been--many times--overcome with weariness in this particular employment. That is the meaning.'" He returned me the paper, and I fled without a word of thanks, explanation, or apology. I might have been excused for forgetting much. To me of all men had been given the chance to write the most marvelous tale in the world, nothing less than the story of a Greek galley-slave, as told by himself. Small wonder that his dreaming had seemed real to Charlie. The Fates that are so careful to shut the doors of each successive life behind us had, in this case, been neglectful, and Charlie was looking, though that he did not know, where never man had been permitted to look with full knowledge since Time began. Above all he was absolutely ignorant of the knowledge sold to me for five pounds; and he would retain that ignorance, for bank-clerks do not understand metempsychosis, and a sound commercial education does not include Greek. He would supply me--here I capered among the dumb gods of Egypt and laughed in their battered faces--with material to make my tale sure--so sure that the world would hail it as an impudent and vamped fiction. And I--I alone would know that it was absolutely and literally true. I alone held this jewel to my hand for the cutting and polishing. Therefore I danced again among the gods till a policeman saw me and took steps in my direction. It remained now only to encourage Charlie to talk, and here there was no difficulty. But I had forgotten those accursed books of poetry. He came to me time after time, as useless as a surcharged phonograph--drunk on Byron, Shelley, or Keats. Knowing now what the boy had been in his past lives, and desperately anxious not to lose one word of his babble, I could not hide from him my respect and interest. He misconstrued both into respect for the present soul of Charlie Mears, to whom life was as new as it was to Adam, and interest in his readings; and stretched my patience to breaking point by reciting poetry--not his own now, but that of others. I wished every English poet blotted out of the memory of mankind. I blasphemed the mightiest names of song because they had drawn Charlie from the path of direct narrative, and would, later, spur him to imitate them; but I choked down my impatience until the first flood of enthusiasm should have spent itself and the boy returned to his dreams. "What's the use of my telling you what I think, when these chaps wrote things for the angels to read?" he growled, one evening. "Why don't you write something like theirs?" "I don't think you're treating me quite fairly," I said, speaking under strong restraint. "I've given you the story," he said, shortly replunging into "Lara." "But I want the details." "The things I make up about that damned ship that you call a galley? They're quite easy. You can just make 'em up yourself. Turn up the gas a little, I want to go on reading." I could have broken the gas globe over his head for his amazing stupidity. I could indeed make up things for myself did I only know what Charlie did not know that he knew. But since the doors were shut behind me I could only wait his youthful pleasure and strive to keep him in good temper. One minute's want of guard might spoil a priceless revelation: now and again he would toss his books aside--he kept them in my rooms, for his mother would have been shocked at the waste of good money had she seen them--and launched into his sea dreams. Again I cursed all the poets of England. The plastic mind of the bank-clerk had been overlaid, colored and distorted by that which he had read, and the result as delivered was a confused tangle of other voices most like the muttered song through a City telephone in the busiest part of the day. He talked of the galley--his own galley had he but known it--with illustrations borrowed from the "Bride of Abydos." He pointed the experiences of his hero with quotations from "The Corsair," and threw in deep and desperate moral reflections from "Cain" and "Manfred," expecting me to use them all. Only when the talk turned on Longfellow were the jarring cross-currents dumb, and I knew that Charlie was speaking the truth as he remembered it. "What do you think of this?" I said one evening, as soon as I understood the medium in which his memory worked best, and, before he could expostulate read him the whole of "The Saga of King Olaf!" He listened open-mouthed, flushed his hands drumming on the back of the sofa where he lay, till I came to the Songs of Emar Tamberskelver and the verse: "Emar then, the arrow taking From the loosened string, Answered: 'That was Norway breaking 'Neath thy hand, O King.'" He gasped with pure delight of sound. "That's better than Byron, a little," I ventured. "Better? Why it's true! How could he have known?" I went back and repeated: "'What was that?' said Olaf, standing On the quarter-deck, 'Something heard I like the stranding Of a shattered wreck.'" "How could he have known how the ships crash and the oars rip out and go z-zzp all along the line? Why only the other night--But go back please and read 'The Skerry of Shrieks' again." "No, I'm tired. Let's talk. What happened the other night?" "I had an awful nightmare about that galley of ours. I dreamed I was drowned in a fight. You see we ran alongside another ship in harbor. The water was dead still except where our oars whipped it up. You know where I always sit in the galley?" He spoke haltingly at first, under a fine English fear of being laughed at. "No. That's news to me," I answered, meekly, my heart beginning to beat. "On the fourth oar from the bow on the right side on the upper deck. There were four of us at the oar, all chained. I remember watching the water and trying to get my handcuffs off before the row began. Then we closed up on the other ship, and all their fighting men jumped over our bulwarks, and my bench broke and I was pinned down with the three other fellows on top of me, and the big oar jammed across our backs." "Well?" Charlie's eyes were alive and alight. He was looking at the wall behind my chair. "I don't know how we fought. The men were trampling all over my back, and I lay low. Then our rowers on the left side--tied to their oars, you know--began to yell and back water. I could hear the water sizzle, and we spun round like a cockchafer and I knew, lying where I was, that there was a galley coming up bow-on, to ram us on the left side. I could just lift up my head and see her sail over the bulwarks. We wanted to meet her bow to bow, but it was too late. We could only turn a little bit because the galley on our right had hooked herself on to us and stopped our moving. Then, by gum! there was a crash! Our left oars began to break as the other galley, the moving one y'know, stuck her nose into them. Then the lower-deck oars shot up through the deck-planking, butt first, and one of them jumped clean up into the air and came down again close to my head." "How was that managed?" "The moving galley's bow was plunking them back through their own oarholes, and I could hear the devil of a shindy in the decks below. Then her nose caught us nearly in the middle, and we tilted sideways, and the fellows in the right-hand galley unhitched their hooks and ropes, and threw things on to our upper deck--arrows, and hot pitch or something that stung, and we went up and up and up on the left side, and the right side dipped, and I twisted my head round and saw the water stand still as it topped the right bulwarks, and then it curled over and crashed down on the whole lot of us on the right side, and I felt it hit my back, and I woke." "One minute, Charlie. When the sea topped the bulwarks, what did it look like?" I had my reasons for asking. A man of my acquaintance had once gone down with a leaking ship in a still sea, and had seen the water-level pause for an instant ere it fell on the deck. "It looked just like a banjo-string drawn tight, and it seemed to stay there for years," said Charlie. Exactly! The other man had said: "It looked like a silver wire laid down along the bulwarks, and I thought it was never going to break." He had paid everything except the bare life for this little valueless piece of knowledge, and I had traveled ten thousand weary miles to meet him and take his knowledge at second hand. But Charlie, the bank-clerk, on twenty-five shillings a week, he who had never been out of sight of a London omnibus, knew it all. It was no consolation to me that once in his lives he had been forced to die for his gains. I also must have died scores of times, but behind me, because I could have used my knowledge, the doors were shut. "And then?" I said, trying to put away the devil of envy. "The funny thing was, though, in all the mess I didn't feel a bit astonished or frightened. It seemed as if I'd been in a good many fights, because I told my next man so when the row began. But that cad of an overseer on my deck wouldn't unloose our chains and give us a chance. He always said that we'd all Be set free after a battle, but we never were; We never were." Charlie shook his head mournfully. "What a scoundrel!" "I should say he was. He never gave us enough to eat, and sometimes we were so thirsty that we used to drink salt-water. I can taste that salt-water still.'' "Now tell me something about the harbor where the fight was fought." "I didn't dream about that. I know it was a harbor, though; because we were tied up to a ring on a white wall and all the face of the stone under water was covered with wood to prevent our ram getting chipped when the tide made us rock." "That's curious. Our hero commanded the galley? Didn't he?" "Didn't he just! He stood by the bows and shouted like a good 'un. He was the man who killed the overseer." "But you were all drowned together, Charlie, weren't you?" "I can't make that fit quite," he said with a puzzled look. "The galley must have gone down with all hands and yet I fancy that the hero went on living afterward. Perhaps he climbed into the attacking ship. I wouldn't see that, of course. I was dead, you know." He shivered slightly and protested that he could remember no more. I did not press him further, but to satisfy myself that he lay in ignorance of the workings of his own mind, deliberately introduced him to Mortimer Collins's "Transmigration," and gave him a sketch of the plot before he opened the pages. "What rot it all is!" he said, frankly, at the end of an hour. "I don't understand his nonsense about the Red Planet Mars and the King, and the rest of it. Chuck me the Longfellow again." I handed him the book and wrote out as much as I could remember of his description of the sea-fight, appealing to him from time to time for confirmation of fact or detail. He would answer without raising his eyes from the book, as assuredly as though all his knowledge lay before flint on the printed page. I spoke under the normal key of my voice that the current might not be broken, and I know that he was not aware of what he was saying, for his thoughts were out on the sea with Longfellow. "Charlie," I asked, "when the rowers on the galleys mutinied how did they kill their overseers?" "Tore up the benches and brained 'em. That happened when a heavy sea was running. An overseer on the lower deck slipped from the centre plank and fell among the rowers. They choked him to death against the side of the ship with their chained hands quite quietly, and it was too dark for the other overseer to see what had happened. When he asked, he was pulled down too and choked, and the lower deck fought their way up deck by deck, with the pieces of the broken benches banging behind 'em. How they howled!" "And what happened after that?" "I don't know. The hero went away--red hair and red beard and all. That was after he had captured our galley, I think." The sound of my voice irritated him, and he motioned slightly with his left hand as a man does when interruption jars. "You never told me he was redheaded before, or that he captured your galley," I said, after a discreet interval. Charlie did not raise his eyes. "He was as red as a red bear," said he, abstractedly. "He came from the north; they said so in the galley when he looked for rowers--not slaves, but free men. Afterward--years and years afterward--news came from another ship, or else he came back"--His lips moved in silence. He was rapturously retasting some poem before him. "Where had he been, then?" I was almost whispering that the sentence might come gentle to whichever section of Charlie's brain was working on my behalf. "To the Beaches--the Long and Wonderful Beaches!" was the reply, after a minute of silence. "To Furdurstrandi?" I asked, tingling from head to foot. "Yes, to Furdurstrandi," he pronounced the word in a new fashion "And I too saw"--The voice failed. "Do you know what you have said?" I shouted, incautiously. He lifted his eyes, fully roused now. "No!" he snapped. "I wish you'd let a chap go on reading. Hark to this: "'But Othere, the old sea captain, He neither paused nor stirred Till the king listened, and then Once more took up his pen And wrote down every word. "'And to the King of the Saxons In witness of the truth, Raising his noble head, He stretched his brown hand and said, "Behold this walrus tooth." "By Jove, what chaps those must have been, to go sailing all over the shop never knowing where they'd fetch the land! Hah!" "Charlie," I pleaded, "if you'll only be sensible for a minute or two I'll make our hero in our tale every inch as good as Othere." "Umph! Longfellow wrote that poem. I don't care about writing things any more. I want to read." He was thoroughly out of tune now, and raging over my own ill-luck, I left him. Conceive yourself at the door of the world's treasure-house guarded by a child--an idle irresponsible child playing knuckle-bones--on whose favor depends the gift of the key, and you will imagine one-half my torment. Till that evening Charlie had spoken nothing that might not lie within the experiences of a Greek galley-slave. But now, or there was no virtue in books, he had talked of some desperate adventure of the Vikings, of Thorfin Karlsefne's sailing to Wineland, which is America, in the ninth or tenth century. The battle in the harbor he had seen; and his own death he had described. But this was a much more startling plunge into the past. Was it possible that he had skipped half a dozen lives and was then dimly remembering some episode of a thousand years later? It was a maddening jumble, and the worst of it was that Charlie Mears in his normal condition was the last person in the world to clear it up. I could only wait and watch, but I went to bed that night full of the wildest imaginings. There was nothing that was not possible if Charlie's detestable memory only held good. I might rewrite the Saga of Thorfin Karlsefne as it had never been written before, might tell the story of the first discovery of America, myself the discoverer. But I was entirely at Charlie's mercy, and so long as there was a three-and-six-penny Bohn volume within his reach Charlie would not tell. I dared not curse him openly; I hardly dared jog his memory, for I was dealing with the experiences of a thousand years ago, told through the mouth of a boy of today; and a boy of today is affected by every change of tone and gust of opinion, so that he lies even when he desires to speak the truth. I saw no more of him for nearly a week. When next I met him it was in Gracechurch Street with a billbook chained to his waist. Business took him over London Bridge and I accompanied him. He was very full of the importance of that book and magnified it. As we passed over the Thames we paused to look at a steamer unloading great slabs of white and brown marble. A barge drifted under the steamer's stern and a lonely cow in that barge bellowed. Charlie's face changed from the face of the bank-clerk to that of an unknown and--though he would not have believed this--a much shrewder man. He flung out his arm across the parapet of the bridge, and laughing very loudly, said: "When they heard our bulls bellow the Skroelings ran away!" I waited only for an instant, but the barge and the cow had disappeared under the bows of the steamer before I answered. "Charlie, what do you suppose are Skroelings?" "Never heard of 'em before. They sound like a new kind of seagull. What a chap you are for asking questions!" he replied. "I have to go to the cashier of the Omnibus Company yonder. Will you wait for me and we can lunch somewhere together? I've a notion for a poem." "No, thanks. I'm off. You're sure you know nothing about Skroelings?" "Not unless he's been entered for the Liverpool Handicap." He nodded and disappeared in the crowd. Now it is written in the Saga of Eric the Red or that of Thorfin Karlsefne, that nine hundred years ago when Karlsefne's galleys came to Leif's booths, which Leif had erected in the unknown land called Markland, which may or may not have been Rhode Island, the Skroelings--and the Lord He knows who these may or may not have been--came to trade with the Vikings, and ran away because they were frightened at the bellowing of the cattle which Thorfin had brought with him in the ships. But what in the world could a Greek slave know of that affair? I wandered up and down among the streets trying to unravel the mystery, and the more I considered it, the more baffling it grew. One thing only seemed certain and that certainty took away my breath for the moment. If I came to full knowledge of anything at all, it would not be one life of the soul in Charlie Mears's body, but half a dozen--half a dozen several and separate existences spent on blue water in the morning of the world! Then I walked round the situation. Obviously if I used my knowledge I should stand alone and unapproachable until all men were as wise as myself. That would be something, but manlike I was ungrateful. It seemed bitterly unfair that Charlie's memory should fail me when I needed it most. Great Powers above--I looked up at them through the fog smoke--did the Lords of Life and Death know what this meant to me? Nothing less than eternal fame of the best kind; that comes from One, and is shared by one alone. I would be content--remembering Clive, I stood astounded at my own moderation,--with the mere right to tell one story, to work out one little contribution to the light literature of the day. If Charlie were permitted full recollection for one hour--for sixty short minutes--of existences that had extended over a thousand years--I would forego all profit and honor from all that I should make of his speech. I would take no share in the commotion that would follow throughout the particular corner of the earth that calls itself "the world." The thing should be put forth anonymously. Nay, I would make other men believe that they had written it. They would hire bull-hided self-advertising Englishmen to bellow it abroad. Preachers would found a fresh conduct of life upon it, swearing that it was new and that they had lifted the fear of death from all mankind. Every Orientalist in Europe would patronize it discursively with Sanskrit and Pali texts. Terrible women would invent unclean variants of the men's belief for the elevation of their sisters. Churches and religions would war over it. Between the hailing and re-starting of an omnibus I foresaw the scuffles that would arise among half a dozen denominations all professing "the doctrine of the True Metempsychosis as applied to the world and the New Era"; and saw, too, the respectable English newspapers shying, like frightened kine, over the beautiful simplicity of the tale. The mind leaped forward a hundred--two hundred--a thousand years. I saw with sorrow that men would mutilate and garble the story; that rival creeds would turn it upside down till, at last, the western world which clings to the dread of death more closely than the hope of life, would set it aside as an interesting superstition and stampede after some faith so long forgotten that it seemed altogether new. Upon this I changed the terms of the bargain that I would make with the Lords of Life and Death. Only let me know, let me write, the story with sure knowledge that I wrote the truth, and I would burn the manuscript as a solemn sacrifice. Five minutes after the last line was written I would destroy it all. But I must be allowed to write it with absolute certainty. There was no answer. The flaming colors of an Aquarium poster caught my eye and I wondered whether it would be wise or prudent to lure Charlie into the hands of the professional mesmerist, and whether, if he were under his power, he would speak of his past lives. If he did, and if people believed him--but Charlie would be frightened and flustered, or made conceited by the interviews. In either case he would begin to lie, through fear or vanity. He was safest in my own hands. "They are very funny fools, your English," said a voice at my elbow, and turning round I recognized a casual acquaintance, a young Bengali law student, called Grish Chunder, whose father had sent him to England to become civilized. The old man was a retired native official, and on an income of five pounds a month contrived to allow his son two hundred pounds a year, and the run of his teeth in a city where he could pretend to be the cadet of a royal house, and tell stories of the brutal Indian bureaucrats who ground the faces of the poor. Grish Chunder was a young, fat, full-bodied Bengali dressed with scrupulous care in frock coat, tall hat, light trousers and tan gloves. But I had known him in the days when the brutal Indian Government paid for his university education, and he contributed cheap sedition to Sachi Durpan, and intrigued with the wives of his schoolmates. "That is very funny and very foolish," he said, nodding at the poster. "I am going down to the Northbrook Club. Will you come too?" I walked with him for some time. "You are not well," he said. "What is there in your mind? You do not talk." "Grish Chunder, you've been too well educated to believe in a God, haven't you?" "Oah, yes, here! But when I go home I must conciliate popular superstition, and make ceremonies of purification, and my women will anoint idols." "And bang up tulsi and feast the purohit, and take you back into caste again and make a good khuttri of you again, you advanced social Free-thinker. And you'll eat desi food, and like it all, from the smell in the courtyard to the mustard oil over you." "I shall very much like it," said Grish Chunder, unguardedly. "Once a Hindu--always a Hindu. But I like to know what the English think they know." "I'll tell you something that one Englishman knows. It's an old tale to you." I began to tell the story of Charlie in English, but Grish Chunder put a question in the vernacular, and the history went forward naturally in the tongue best suited for its telling. After all it could never have been told in English. Grish Chunder heard me, nodding from time to time, and then came up to my rooms where I finished the tale. "Beshak," he said, philosophically. "Lekin darwaza band hai. (Without doubt, but the door is shut.) I have heard of this remembering of previous existences among my people. It is of course an old tale with us, but, to happen to an Englishman--a cow-fed Malechk--an outcast. By Jove, that is most peculiar!" "Outcast yourself, Grish Chunder! You eat cow-beef every day. Let's think the thing over. The boy remembers his incarnations." "Does he know that?" said Grish Chunder, quietly, swinging his legs as he sat on my table. He was speaking in English now. "He does not know anything. Would I speak to you if he did? Go on!" "There is no going on at all. If you tell that to your friends they will say you are mad and put it in the papers. Suppose, now, you prosecute for libel." "Let's leave that out of the question entirely. Is there any chance of his being made to speak?" "There is a chance. Oah, yess! But if he spoke it would mean that all this world would end now--instanto--fall down on your head. These things are not allowed, you know. As I said, the door is shut." "Not a ghost of a chance?" "How can there be? You are a Christian, and it is forbidden to eat, in your books, of the Tree of Life, or else you would never die. How shall you all fear death if you all know what your friend does not know that he knows? I am afraid to be kicked, but I am not afraid to die, because I know what I know. You are not afraid to be kicked, but you are afraid to die. If you were not, by God! you English would be all over the shop in an hour, upsetting the balances of power, and making commotions. It would not be good. But no fear. He will remember a little and a little less, and he will call it dreams. Then he will forget altogether. When I passed my First Arts Examination in Calcutta that was all in the cram-book on Wordsworth. Trailing clouds of glory, you know." "This seems to be an exception to the rule." "There are no exceptions to rules. Some are not so hard-looking as others, but they are all the same when you touch. If this friend of yours said so-and-so and so-and-so, indicating that he remembered all his lost lives, or one piece of a lost life, he would not be in the bank another hour. He would be what you called sack because he was mad, and they would send him to an asylum for lunatics. You can see that, my friend." "Of course I can, but I wasn't thinking of him. His name need never appear in the story." "Ah! I see. That story will never be written. You can try." "I am going to." "For your own credit and for the sake of money, of course?" "No. For the sake of writing the story. On my honor that will be all." "Even then there is no chance. You cannot play with the Gods. It is a very pretty story now. As they say, Let it go on that--I mean at that. Be quick; he will not last long." "How do you mean?" "What I say. He has never, so far, thought about a woman." "Hasn't he though!" I remembered some of Charlie's confidences. "I mean no woman has thought about him. When that comes; bushogya--all up' I know. There are millions of women here. Housemaids, for instance." I winced at the thought of my story being ruined by a housemaid. And yet nothing was more probable. Grish Chunder grinned. "Yes--also pretty girls--cousins of his house, and perhaps not of his house. One kiss that he gives back again and remembers will cure all this nonsense or else"-- "Or else what? Remember he does not know that he knows." "I know that. Or else, if nothing happens he will become immersed in the trade and the financial speculations like the rest. It must be so. You can see that it must be so. But the woman will come first, I think." There was a rap at the door, and Charlie charged in impetuously. He had been released from office, and by the look in his eyes I could see that he had come over for a long talk; most probably with poems in his pockets. Charlie's poems were very wearying, but sometimes they led him to talk about the galley. Grish Chunder looked at him keenly for a minute. "I beg your pardon," Charlie said, uneasily; "I didn't know you had any one with you." "I am going," said Grish Chunder. He drew me into the lobby as he departed. "That is your man," he said, quickly. "I tell you he will never speak all you wish. That is rot--bosh. But he would be most good to make to see things. Suppose now we pretend that it was only play"--I had never seen Grish Chunder so excited--"and pour the ink-pool into his hand. Eh, what do you think? I tell you that he could see anything that a man could see. Let me get the ink and the camphor. He is a seer and he will tell us very many things." "He may be all you say, but I'm not going to trust him to your Gods and devils." "It will not hurt him. He will only feel a little stupid and dull when he wakes up. You have seen boys look into the ink-pool before." "That is the reason why I am not going to see it any more. You'd better go, Grish Chunder." He went, declaring far down the staircase that it was throwing away my only chance of looking into the future. This left me unmoved, for I was concerned for the past, and no peering of hypnotized boys into mirrors and ink-pools would help me do that. But I recognized Grish Chunder's point of view and sympathized with it. "What a big black brute that was!" said Charlie, when I returned to him. "Well, look here, I've just done a poem; dil it instead of playing dominoes after lunch. May I read it?" "Let me read it to myself." "Then you miss the proper expression. Besides, you always make my things sound as if the rhymes were all wrong." "Read it aloud, then. You're like the rest of 'em." Charlie mouthed me his poem, and it was not much worse than the average of his verses. He had been reading his book faithfully, but he was not pleased when I told him that I preferred my Longfellow undiluted with Charlie. Then we began to go through the MS. line by line; Charlie parrying every objection and correction with: "Yes, that may be better, but you don't catch what I'm driving at." Charlie was, in one way at least, very like one kind of poet. There was a pencil scrawl at the back of the paper and "What's that?" I said. "Oh that's not poetry 't all. It's some rot I wrote last night before I went to bed and it was too much bother to hunt for rhymes; so I made it a sort of a blank verse instead." Here is Charlie's "blank verse": "We pulled for you when the wind was against us and the sails were low. "Will you never let us go? "We ate bread and onions when you took towns or ran aboard quickly when you were beaten back by the foe, "The captains walked up and down the deck in fair weather singing songs, but we were below, "We fainted with our chins on the oars and you did not see that we were idle for we still swung to and fro. "Will you never let us go? "The salt made the oar handles like sharkskin; our knees were cut to the bone with salt cracks; our hair was stuck to our foreheads; and our lips were cut to our gums and you whipped us because we could not row. "Will you never let us go? "But in a little time we shall run out of the portholes as the water runs along the oarblade, and though you tell the others to row after us you will never catch us till you catch the oar-thresh and tie up the winds in the belly of the sail. Aho! "Will you never let us go?" "H'm. What's oar-thresh, Charlie?" "The water washed up by the oars. That's the sort of song they might sing in the galley, y'know. Aren't you ever going to finish that story and give me some of the profits?" "It depends on yourself. If you had only told me more about your hero in the first instance it might have been finished by now. You're so hazy in your notions." "I only want to give you the general notion of it--the knocking about from place to place and the fighting and all that. Can't you fill in the rest yourself? Make the hero save a girl on a pirate-galley and marry her or do something." "You're a really helpful collaborator. I suppose the hero went through some few adventures before he married." "Well then, make him a very artful card--a low sort of man--a sort of political man who went about making treaties and breaking them--a black-haired chap who hid behind the mast when the fighting began." "But you said the other day that he was red-haired." "I couldn't have. Make him black-haired of course. You've no imagination." Seeing that I had just discovered the entire principles upon which the half-memory falsely called imagination is based, I felt entitled to laugh, but forbore, for the sake of the tale. "You're right. You're the man with imagination. A black-haired chap in a decked ship," I said. "No, an open ship--like a big boat." This was maddening. "Your ship has been built and designed, closed and decked in; you said so yourself," I protested. "No, no, not that ship. That was open, or half decked because--By Jove you're right. You made me think of the hero as a red-haired chap. Of course if he were red, the ship would be an open one with painted sails." Surely, I thought he would remember now that he had served in two galleys at least--in a three-decked Greek one under the black-haired "political man," and again in a Viking's open sea-serpent under the man "red as a red bear" who went to Markland. The devil prompted me to speak. "Why, 'of course,' Charlie?" said I. "I don't know. Are you making fun of me?" The current was broken for the time being. I took up a notebook and pretended to make many entries in it. "It's a pleasure to work with an imaginative chap like yourself," I said after a pause. "The way that you've brought out the character of the hero is simply wonderful." "Do you think so?" he answered, with a pleased flush. "I often tell myself that there's more in me than my--than people think." "There's an enormous amount in you." "Then, won't you let me send an essay on The Ways of Bank Clerks to Tit-Bits, and get the guinea prize?" "That wasn't exactly what I meant, old fellow: perhaps it would be better to wait a little and go ahead with the galley-story." "Ah, but I sha'n't get the credit of that. Tit-Bits would publish my name and address if I win. What are you grinning at? They would." "I know it. Suppose you go for a walk. I want to look through my notes about our story." Now this reprehensible youth who left me, a little hurt and put back, might for aught he or I knew have been one of the crew of the Argo--had been certainly slave or comrade to Thorfin Karlsefne. Therefore he was deeply interested in guinea competitions. Remembering what Grish Chunder had said I laughed aloud. The Lords of Life and Death would never allow Charlie Mears to speak with full knowledge of his pasts, and I must even piece out what he had told me with my own poor inventions while Charlie wrote of the ways of bank-clerks. I got together and placed on one file all my notes; and the net result was not cheering. I read them a second time. There was nothing that might not have been compiled at second-hand from other people's books--except, perhaps, the story of the fight in the harbor. The adventures of a Viking bad been written many times before; the history of a Greek galley-slave was no new thing, and though I wrote both, who could challenge or confirm the accuracy of my details? I might as well tell a tale of two thousand years hence. The Lords of Life and Death were as cunning as Grish Chunder had hinted. They would allow nothing to escape that might trouble or make easy the minds of men. Though I was convinced of this, yet I could not leave the tale alone. Exaltation followed reaction, not once, but twenty times in the next few weeks. My moods varied with the March sunlight and flying clouds. By night or in the beauty of a spring morning I perceived that I could write that tale and shift continents thereby. In the wet, windy afternoons, I saw that the tale might indeed be written, but would be nothing more than a faked, false-varnished, sham-rusted piece of Wardour Street work at the end. Then I blessed Charlie in many ways--though it was no fault of his. He seemed to be busy with prize competitions, and I saw less and less of him as the weeks went by and the earth cracked and grew ripe to spring, and the buds swelled in their sheaths. He did not care to read or talk of what he had read, and there was a new ring of self-assertion in his voice. I hardly cared to remind him of the galley when we met; but Charlie alluded to it on every occasion, always as a story from which money was to be made. "I think I deserve twenty-five per cent., don't I, at least," he said, with beautiful frankness. "I supplied all the ideas, didn't I?" This greediness for silver was a new side in his nature. I assumed that it had been developed in the City, where Charlie was picking up the curious nasal drawl of the underbred City man. "When the thing's done we'll talk about it. I can't make anything of it at present. Red-haired or black-haired hero are equally difficult." He was sitting by the fire staring at the red coals. "I can't understand what you find so difficult. It's all as clean as mud to me," he replied. A jet of gas puffed out between the bars, took light and whistled softly. "Suppose we take the red-haired hero's adventures first, from the time that he came south to my galley and captured it and sailed to the Beaches." I knew better now than to interrupt Charlie. I was out of reach of pen and paper, and dared not move to get them lest I should break the current. The gas-jet puffed and whinnied, Charlie's voice dropped almost to a whisper, and he told a tale of the sailing of an open galley to Furdurstrandi, of sunsets on the open sea, seen under the curve of the one sail evening after evening when the galley's beak was notched into the centre of the sinking disc, and "we sailed by that for we had no other guide," quoth Charlie. He spoke of a landing on an island and explorations in its woods, where the crew killed three men whom they found asleep under the pines. Their ghosts, Charlie said, followed the galley, swimming and choking in the water, and the crew cast lots and threw one of their number overboard as a sacrifice to the strange gods whom they had offended. Then they ate sea-weed when their provisions failed, and their legs swelled, and their leader, the red-haired man, killed two rowers who mutinied, and after a year spent among the woods they set sail for their own country, and a wind that never failed carried them back so safely that they all slept at night. This and much more Charlie told. Sometimes the voice fell so low that I could not catch the words, though every nerve was on the strain. He spoke of their leader, the red-haired man, as a pagan speaks of his God; for it was he who cheered them and slew them impartially as he thought best for their needs; and it was he who steered them for three days among floating ice, each floe crowded with strange beasts that "tried to sail with us," said Charlie, "and we beat them back with the handles of the oars." The gas-jet went out, a burned coal gave way, and the fire settled down with a tiny crash to the bottom of the grate. Charlie ceased speaking, and I said no word. "By Jove!" he said, at last, shaking his head. "I've been staring at the fire till I'm dizzy. What was I going to say?" "Something about the galley." "I remember now. It's 25 per cent. of the profits, isn't it?" "It's anything you like when I've done the tale." "I wanted to be sure of that. I must go now. I've, I've an appointment." And he left me. Had my eyes not been held I might have known that that broken muttering over the fire was the swan-song of Charlie Mears. But I thought it the prelude to fuller revelation. At last and at last I should cheat the Lords of Life and Death! When next Charlie came to me I received him with rapture. He was nervous and embarrassed, but his eyes were very full of light, and his lips a little parted. "I've done a poem," he said; and then quickly: "it's the best I've ever done. Read it." He thrust it into my hand and retreated to the window. I groaned inwardly. It would be the work of half an hour to criticise--that is to say praise--the poem sufficiently to please Charlie. Then I had good reason to groan, for Charlie, discarding his favorite centipede metres, had launched into shorter and choppier verse, and verse with a motive at the back of it. This is what I read: "The day is most fair, the cheery wind Halloos behind the hill, Where bends the wood as seemeth good, And the sapling to his will! Riot O wind; there is that in my blood That would not have thee still! "She gave me herself, O Earth, O Sky: Grey sea, she is mine alone--I Let the sullen boulders hear my cry, And rejoice tho' they be but stone! 'Mine! I have won her O good brown earth, Make merry! 'Tis bard on Spring; Make merry; my love is doubly worth All worship your fields can bring! Let the hind that tills you feel my mirth At the early harrowing." "Yes, it's the early harrowing, past a doubt," I said, with a dread at my heart. Charlie smiled, but did not answer. "Red cloud of the sunset, tell it abroad; I am victor. Greet me O Sun, Dominant master and absolute lord Over the soul of one!" "Well?" said Charlie, looking over my shoulder. I thought it far from well, and very evil indeed, when he silently laid a photograph on the paper--the photograph of a girl with a curly head, and a foolish slack mouth. "Isn't it--isn't it wonderful?" he whispered, pink to the tips of his ears, wrapped in the rosy mystery of first love. "I didn't know; I didn't think--it came like a thunderclap." "Yes. It comes like a thunderclap. Are you very happy, Charlie?" "My God--she--she loves me!" He sat down repeating the last words to himself. I looked at the hairless face, the narrow shoulders already bowed by desk-work, and wondered when, where, and bow he had loved in his past lives. "What will your mother say?" I asked, cheerfully. "I don't care a damn what she says." At twenty the things for which one does not care a damn should, properly, be many, but one must not include mothers in the list. I told him this gently; and he described Her, even as Adam must have described to the newly named beasts the glory and tenderness and beauty of Eve. Incidentally I learned that She was a tobacconist's assistant with a weakness for pretty dress, and had told him four or five times already that She had never been kissed by a man before. Charlie spoke on, and on, and on; while I, separated from him by thousands of years, was considering the beginnings of things. Now I understood why the Lords of Life and Death shut the doors so carefully behind us. It is that we may not remember our first wooings. Were it not so, our world would be without inhabitants in a hundred years. "Now, about that galley-story," I said, still more cheerfully, in a pause in the rush of the speech. Charlie looked up as though he had been hit. "The galley--what galley? Good heavens, don't joke, man! This is serious! You don't know how serious it is!" Grish Chunder was right. Charlie had tasted the love of woman that kills remembrance, and the "finest story" in the world would never be written. * * * * * VOLUME IV UNDER THE DEODARS THE EDUCATION OF OTIS YEERE I In the pleasant orchard-closes "God bless all our gains," say we; But "May God bless all our losses," Better suits with our degree. --The Lost Bower. This is the history of a failure; but the woman who failed said that it might be an instructive tale to put into print for the benefit of the younger generation. The younger generation does not want instruction, being perfectly willing to instruct if any one will listen to it. None the less, here begins the story where every right-minded story should begin, that is to say at Simla, where all things begin and many come to an evil end. The mistake was due to a very clever woman making a blunder and not retrieving it. Men are licensed to stumble, but a clever woman's mistake is outside the regular course of Nature and Providence; since all good people know that a woman is the only infallible thing in this world, except Government Paper of the '70 issue, bearing interest at four and a half per cent. Yet, we have to remember that six consecutive days of rehearsing the leading part of The Fallen Age, at the New Gaiety Theatre where the plaster is not yet properly dry, might have brought about an unhingement of spirits which, again, might have led to eccentricities. Mrs. Hauksbee came to "The Foundry" to tiffin with Mrs. Mallowe, her one bosom friend, for she was in no sense "a woman's woman." And it was a woman's tiffin, the door shut to all the world; and they both talked chiffons, which is French for Mysteries. "I've enjoyed an interval of sanity," Mrs. Hauksbee announced, after tiffin was over and the two were comfortably settled in the little writing-room that opened out of Mrs. Mallowe's bedroom. "My dear girl, what has he done?" said Mrs. Mallowe, sweetly. It is noticeable that ladies of a certain age call each other "dear girl," just as commissioners of twenty-eight years' standing address their equals in the Civil List as "my boy." "There's no he in the case. Who am I that an imaginary man should be always credited to me? Am I an Apache?" "No, dear, but somebody's scalp is generally drying at your wigwam-door. Soaking, rather." This was an allusion to the Hawley Boy, who was in the habit of riding all across Simla in the Rains, to call on Mrs. Hauksbee. That lady laughed. "For my sins, the Aide at Tyrconnel last night told me off to The Mussuck. Hsh! Don't laugh. One of my most devoted admirers. When the duff came--some one really ought to teach them to make pudding at Tyrconnel--The Mussuck was at liberty to attend to me." "Sweet soul! I know his appetite," said Mrs. Mallowe. "Did he, oh did he, begin his wooing?" "By a special mercy of Providence, no. He explained his importance as a Pillar of the Empire. I didn't laugh." "Lucy, I don't believe you." "Ask Captain Sangar; he was on the other side. Well, as I was saying, The Mussuck dilated." "I think I can see him doing it," said Mrs. Mallowe, pensively, scratching her fox-terrier's ears. "I was properly impressed. Most properly. I yawned openly. 'Strict supervision, and play them off one against the other,' said The Mussuck, shoveling down his ice by tureenfuls, I assure you. 'That, Mrs. Hauksbee, is the secret of our Government.'" Mrs. Mallowe laughed long and merrily. "And what did you say?" "Did you ever know me at loss for an answer yet? I said: 'So I have observed in my dealings with you.' The Mussuck swelled with pride. He is coming to call on me tomorrow. The Hawley Boy is coming too." "'Strict supervision and play them off one against the other. That, Mrs. Hauksbee, is the secret of our Government.' And I dare say if we could get to The Mussuck's heart, we should find that he considers himself a man of the world." "As he is of the other two things. I like The Mussuck, and I won't have you call him names. He amuses me." "He has reformed you, too, by what appears. Explain the interval of sanity, and hit Tim on the nose with the paper-cutter, please. That dog is too fond of sugar. Do you take milk in yours?" "No, thanks. Polly, I'm wearied of this life. It's hollow." "Turn religious, then. I always said that Rome would be your fate." "Only exchanging half a dozen attaches in red for one and in black, and if I fasted, the wrinkles would come, and never, never go. Has it ever struck you, dear, that I'm getting old?" "Thanks for your courtesy. I'll return it. Ye-es we are both not exactly--how shall I put it?" "What we have been. 'I feel it in my bones,' as Mrs. Crossley says. Polly, I've wasted my life." "As how?" "Never mind how. I feel it. I want to be a Power before I die." "Be a Power then. You've wits enough for anything--and beauty?" Mrs. Hauksbee pointed a teaspoon straight at her hostess. "Polly, if you heap compliments on me like this, I shall cease to believe that you're a woman. Tell me how I am to be a Power." "Inform The Mussuck that he is the most fascinating and slimmest man in Asia, and he'll tell you anything and everything you please." "Bother The Mussuck! I mean an intellectual Power--not a gas-power. Polly, I'm going to start a salon." Mrs. Mallowe turned lazily on the sofa and rested her head on her hand. "Hear the words of the Preacher, the son of Baruch," she said. "Will you talk sensibly?" "I will, dear, for I see that you are going to make a mistake." "I never made a mistake in my life at least, never one that I couldn't explain away afterward." "Going to make a mistake," went on Mrs. Mallowe, composedly. "It is impossible to start a salon in Simla. A bar would be much more to the point." "Perhaps, but why? It seems so easy." "Just what makes it so difficult. How many clever women are there in Simla?" "Myself and yourself," said Mrs. Hauksbee, without a moment's hesitation. "Modest woman! Mrs. Feardon would thank you for that. And how many clever men?" "Oh--er--hundreds," said Mrs. Hauksbee, vaguely. "What a fatal blunder! Not one. They are all bespoke of the Government. Take my husband, for instance. Jack was a clever man, though I say so who shouldn't. Government has eaten him up. All his ideas and powers of conversation--he really used to be a good talker, even to his wife, in the old days--are taken from him by this--this kitchen-sink of a Government. That's the case with every man up here who is at work. I don't suppose a Russian convict under the knout is able to amuse the rest of his gang; and all our men-folk here are gilded convicts." "But there are scores--" "I know what you're going to say. Scores of idle men up on leave. I admit it, but they are all of two objectionable sets, The Civilian who'd be delightful if he had the military man's knowledge of the world and style, and the military man who'd be adorable if lie had the Civilian's culture." "Detestable word! Have Civilians Culchaw? I never studied the breed deeply." "Don't make fun of Jack's service. Yes. They're like the teapots in the Lakka Bazar--good material but not polished. They can't help themselves, poor dears. A Civilian only begins to be tolerable after he has knocked about the world for fifteen years." "And a military man?" "When he has had the same amount of service. The young of both species are horrible. You would have scores of them in your salon." "I would not!" said Mrs. Hauksbee, fiercely. "I would tell the bearer to darwaza band them. I'd put their own colonels and commissioners at the door to turn them away. I'd give them to the Topsham girl to play with." "The Topsham girl would be grateful for the gift. But to go back to the salon. Allowing that you had gathered all your men and women together, what would you do with them? Make them talk? They would all with one accord begin to flirt. Your salon would become a glorified Peliti's--a 'Scandal Point' by lamplight." "There's a certain amount of wisdom in that view." "There's all the wisdom in the world in it. Surely, twelve Simla seasons ought to have taught you that you can't focus anything in India; and a salon, to be any good at all, must be permanent. In two seasons your roomful would be scattered all over Asia. We are only little bits of dirt on the hillsides--here one day and blown down the khud the next. We have lost the art of talking--at least our men have. We have no cohesion"-- "George Eliot in the flesh," interpolated Mrs. Hauksbee, wickedly. "And collectively, my dear scoffer, we, men and women alike, have no influence. "Come into the veranda and look at the Mall!" The two looked down on the now rapidly filling road, for all Simla was abroad to steal a stroll between a shower and a fog. "How do you propose to fix that river? Look! There's The Mussuck--head of goodness knows what. He is a power in the land, though he does eat like a costermonger. There's Colonel Blone, and General Grucher, and Sir Dugald Delane, and Sir Henry Haughton, and Mr. Jellalatty. All Heads of Departments, and all powerful." "And all my fervent admirers," said Mrs. Hauksbee, piously. "Sir Henry Haughton raves about me. But go on." "One by one, these men are worth something. Collectively, they're just a mob of Anglo-Indians. Who cares for what Anglo-Indians say? Your salon won't weld the Departments together and make you mistress of India, dear. And these creatures won't talk administrative 'shop' in a crowd--your salon--because they are so afraid of the men in the lower ranks overhearing it. They have forgotten what of Literature and Art they ever knew, and the women"-- "Can't talk about anything except the last Gymkhana, or the sins of their last nurse. I was calling on Mrs. Derwills this morning." "You admit that? They can talk to the subalterns though, and the subalterns can talk to them. Your salon would suit their views admirably, if you respected the religious prejudices of the country and provided plenty of kala juggahs." "Plenty of kala juggahs. Oh my poor little idea! Kala juggahs in a salon! But who made you so awfully clever?" "Perhaps I've tried myself; or perhaps I know a woman who has. I have preached and expounded the whole matter and the conclusion thereof"-- "You needn't go on. 'Is Vanity.' Polly, I thank you. These vermin--" Mrs. Hauksbee waved her hand from the veranda to two men in the crowd below who had raised their hats to her--"these vermin shall not rejoice in a new Scandal Point or an extra Peliti's. I will abandon the notion of a salon. It did seem so tempting, though. But what shall I do? I must do something." "Why? Are not Abana and Pharphar"-- "Jack has made you nearly as bad as himself! I want to, of course. I'm tired of everything and everybody, from a moonlight picnic at Seepee to the blandishments of The Mussuck." "Yes--that comes, too, sooner or later, Have you nerve enough to make your bow yet?" Mrs. Hauksbee's mouth shut grimly. Then she laughed. "I think I see myself doing it. Big pink placards on the Mall: 'Mrs. Hauksbee! Positively her last appearance on any stage! This is to give notice!' No more dances; no more rides; no more luncheons; no more theatricals with supper to follow; no more sparring with one's dearest, dearest friend; no more fencing with an inconvenient man who hasn't wit enough to clothe what he's pleased to call his sentiments in passable speech; no more parading of The Mussuck while Mrs. Tarkass calls all round Simla, spreading horrible stories about me? No more of anything that is thoroughly wearying, abominable and detestable, but, all the same, makes life worth the having. Yes! I see it all! Don't interrupt, Polly, I'm inspired. A mauve and white striped 'cloud' round my excellent shoulders, a seat in the fifth row of the Gaiety, and both horses sold. Delightful vision! A comfortable armchair, situated in three different draughts, at every ballroom; and nice, large, sensible shoes for all the couples to stumble over as they go into the veranda! Then at supper. Can't you imagine the scene? The greedy mob gone away. Reluctant subaltern, pink all over like a newly-powdered baby--they really ought to tan subalterns before they are exported--Polly--sent back by the hostess to do his duty. Slouches up to me across the room, tugging at a glove two sizes too large for him--I hate a man who wears gloves like overcoats--and trying to look as if he'd thought of it from the first. 'May I ah--have the pleasure 'f takin' you 'nt' supper?' Then I get up with a hungry smile. Just like this." "Lucy, how can you be so absurd?" "And sweep out on his arm. So! After supper I shall go away early, you know, because I shall be afraid of catching cold. No one will look for my 'rickshaw. Mine, so please you! I shall stand, always with that mauve and white 'cloud' over my head, while the wet soaks into my dear, old, venerable feet and Tom swears and shouts for the mem-sahib's gharri. Then home to bed at half-past eleven! Truly excellent life helped out by the visits of the Padri, just fresh from burying somebody down below there." She pointed through the pines, toward the Cemetery, and continued with vigorous dramatic gesture--"Listen! I see it all down, down even to the stays! Such stays! Six-eight a pair, Polly, with red flannel--or list is it?--that they put into the tops of those fearful things. I can draw you a picture of them." "Lucy, for Heaven's sake, don't go waving your arms about in that idiotic manner! Recollect, every one can see you from the Mall." "Let them see! They'll think I am rehearsing for The Fallen Angel. Look! There's The Mussuck. How badly he rides. There!" She blew a kiss to the venerable Indian administrator with infinite grace. "Now," she continued, "he'll be chaffed about that at the Club in the delicate manner those brutes of men affect, and the Hawley Boy will tell me all about it--softening the details for fear of shocking me. That boy is too good to live, Polly. I've serious thoughts of recommending him to throw up his Commission and go into the Church. In his present frame of mind he would obey me. Happy, happy child." "Never again," said Mrs. Mallowe, with an affectation of indignation, "shall you tiffin here! 'Lucindy, your behavior is scand'lus.'" "All your fault," retorted Mrs. Hauksbee, "for suggesting such a thing as my abdication. No! Jamais--nevaire! I will act, dance, ride, frivol, talk scandal, dine out, and appropriate the legitimate captives of any woman I choose until I d-r-r-rop or a better woman than I puts me to shame before all Simla--and it's dust and ashes in my mouth while I'm doing it!" She swept into the drawing-room, Mrs. Mallowe followed and put an arm round her waist. "I'm not!" said Mrs. Hauksbee, defiantly, rummaging for her handkerchief. "I've been dining out the last ten nights, and rehearsing in the afternoon. You'd be tired yourself. It's only because I'm tired." Mrs. Mallowe did not offer Mrs. Hauksbee any pity or ask her to lie down, but gave her another cup of tea, and went on with the talk. "I've been through that too, dear," she said. "I remember," said Mrs. Hauksbee, a gleam of fun on her face. "In '84 wasn't it? You went out a great deal less next season." Mrs. Mallowe smiled in a superior and Sphinxlike fashion. "I became an Influence," said she. "Good gracious, child, you didn't join the Theosophists and kiss Buddha's big toe, did you? I tried to get into their set once, but they cast me out for a skeptic--without a chance of improving my poor little mind, too." "No, I didn't Theosophilander. Jack says"-- "Never mind Jack. What a husband says is known before. What did you do?" "I made a lasting impression." "So have I--for four months. But that didn't console me in the least. I hated the man. Will you stop smiling in that inscrutable way and tell me what you mean?" Mrs. Mallowe told. * * * * * * "And--you--mean--to--say that it is absolutely Platonic on both sides?" "Absolutely, or I should never have taken it up." "And his last promotion was due to you?" Mrs. Mallowe nodded. "And you warned him against the Topsham girl?" Another nod. "And told him of Sir Dugald Delane's private memo about him?" A third nod. "Why?" "What a question to ask a woman! Because it amused me at first. I am proud of my property now. If I live he shall continue to be successful. Yes, I will put him upon the straight road to Knighthood, and everything else that a man values. The rest depends upon himself." "Polly, you are a most extraordinary woman." "Not in the least. I'm concentrated, that's all. You diffuse yourself, dear; and though all Simla knows your skill in managing a team"-- "Can't you choose a prettier word?" "Team, of half a dozen, from The Mussuck to the Hawley Boy, you gain nothing by it. Not even amusement." "And you?" "Try my recipe. Take a man, not a boy, mind, but an almost mature, unattached man, and be this guide, philosopher, and friend. You'll find it the most interesting occupation that you ever embarked on. It can be done--you needn't look like that--because I've done it." "There's an element of risk about it that makes the notion attractive. I'll get such a man and say to him, 'Now, understand that there must be no flirtation. Do exactly what I tell you, profit by my instruction and counsels, and all will yet be well,' as Toole says. Is that the idea?" "More or less," said Mrs. Mallowe with an unfathomable smile. "But be sure he understands that there must be no flirtation." II Dribble-dribble-trickle-trickle What a lot of raw dust! My dollie's had an accident And out came all the sawdust! --Nursery Rhyme. So Mrs. Hauksbee, in "The Foundry" which overlooks Simla Mall, sat at the feet of Mrs. Mallowe and gathered wisdom. The end of the Conference was the Great Idea upon which Mrs. Hauksbee so plumed herself. "I warn you," said Mrs. Mallowe, beginning to repent of her suggestion, "that the matter is not half so easy as it looks. Any woman--even the Topsham girl--can catch a man, but very, very few know how to manage him when caught." "My child," was the answer, "I've been a female St. Simon Stylites looking down upon men for these--these years past. Ask The Mussuck whether I can manage them." Mrs. Hauksbee departed humming, "I'll go to him and say to him in manner most ironical." Mrs. Mallowe laughed to herself. Then she grew suddenly sober. "I wonder whether I've done well in advising that amusement? Lucy's a clever woman, but a thought too careless." A week later, the two met at a Monday Pop. "Well?" said Mrs. Mallowe. "I've caught him!" said Mrs. Hauksbee; her eyes were dancing with merriment. "Who is it, mad woman? I'm sorry I ever spoke to you about it." "Look between the pillars. In the third row; fourth from the end. You can see his face now. Look!" "Otis Yeere! Of all the improbable and impossible people! I don't believe you." "Hsh! Wait till Mrs. Tarkass begins murdering Milton Wellings; and I'll tell you all about it. S-s-ss! That woman's voice always reminds me of an Underground train coming into Earl's Court with the brakes on. Now listen. It is really Otis Yeere." "So I see, but does it follow that he is your property?" "He is! By right of trove. I found him, lonely and unbefriended, the very next night after our talk, at the Dugald Delane's burra-khana. I liked his eyes, and I talked to him. Next day he called. Next day we went for a ride together, and today he's tied to my 'rickshaw-wheels hand and foot. You'll see when the concert's over. He doesn't know I'm here yet." "Thank goodness you haven't chosen a boy. What are you going to do with him, assuming that you've got him?" "Assuming, indeed! Does a woman--do I--ever make a mistake in that sort of thing? First"--Mrs. Hauksbee ticked off the items ostentatiously on her little gloved fingers--"First, my dear, I shall dress him properly. At present his raiment is a disgrace, and he wears a dress shirt like a crumpled sheet of the 'Pioneer'. Secondly, after I have made him presentable, I shall form his manners--his morals are above reproach." "You seem to have discovered a great deal about him considering the shortness of your acquaintance." "Surely you ought to know that the first proof a man gives of his interest in a woman is by talking to her about his own sweet self. If the woman listens without yawning, he begins to like her. If she flatters the animal's vanity, he ends by adoring her." "In some cases." "Never mind the exceptions. I know which one you are thinking of. Thirdly, and lastly, after he is polished and made pretty, I shall, as you said, be his guide, philosopher and friend, and he shall become a success--as great a success as your friend. I always wondered how that man got on. Did The Mussuck come to you with the Civil List and, dropping on one knee--no, two knees, a' la Gibbon--hand it to you and say, 'Adorable angel, choose your friend's appointment'?" "Lucy, your long experiences of the Military Department have demoralized you. One doesn't do that sort of thing on the Civil Side." "No disrespect meant to Jack's Service, my dear. I only asked for information. Give me three months, and see what changes I shall work in my prey." "Go your own way since you must. But I'm sorry that I was weak enough to suggest the amusement." "'I am all discretion, and may be trusted to an in-finite extent,'" quoted Mrs. Hauksbee from The Fallen Angel; and the conversation ceased with Mrs. Tarkass's last, long-drawn war-whoop. Her bitterest enemies--and she had many--could hardly accuse Mrs. Hauksbee of wasting her time. Otis Yeere was one of those wandering "dumb" characters, foredoomed through life to be nobody's property. Ten years in Her Majesty's Bengal Civil Service, spent, for the most part, in undesirable Districts, had given him little to be proud of, and nothing to bring confidence. Old enough to have lost the first fine careless rapture that showers on the immature 'Stunt imaginary Commissionerships and Stars, and sends him into the collar with coltish earnestness and abandon; too young to be yet able to look back upon the progress he had made, and thank Providence that under the conditions of the day he had come even so far, he stood upon the "dead-centre" of his career. And when a man stands still, he feels the slightest impulse from without. Fortune had ruled that Otis Yeere should be, for the first part of his service, one of the rank and file who are ground up in the wheels of the Administration; losing heart and soul, and mind and strength, in the process. Until steam replaces manual power in the working of the Empire, there must always be this percentage--must always be the men who are used up, expended, in the mere mechanical routine. For these promotion is far off and the mill-grind of every day very near and instant. The Secretariats know them only by name; they are not the picked men of the Districts with the Divisions and Collectorates awaiting them. They are simply the rank and file--the food for fever--sharing with the ryot and the plough-bullock the honor of being the plinth on which the State rests. The older ones have lost their aspirations; the younger are putting theirs aside with a sigh. Both learn to endure patiently until the end of the day. Twelve years in the rank and file, men say, will sap the hearts of the bravest and dull the wits of the most keen. Out of this life Otis Yeere had fled for a few months, drifting, for the sake of a little masculine society, into Simla. When his leave was over he would return to his swampy, sour-green, undermanned district, the native Assistant, the native Doctor, the native Magistrate, the steaming, sweltering Station, the ill-kempt City, and the undisguised insolence of the Municipality that babbled away the lives of men. Life was cheap, however. The soil spawned humanity, as it bred frogs in the Rains, and the gap of the sickness of one season was filled to overflowing by the fecundity of the next. Otis was unfeignedly thankful to lay down his work for a little while and escape from the seething, whining, weakly hive, impotent to help itself, but strong in its power to cripple, thwart, and annoy the weary-eyed man who, by official irony, was said to be "in charge" of it. * * * * * "I knew there were women-dowdies in Bengal. They come up here sometimes. But I didn't know that there were men-dowdies, too." Then, for the first time, it occurred to Otis Yeere that his clothes were rather ancestral in appearance. It will be seen from the above that his friendship with Mrs Hauksbee had made great strides. As that lady truthfully says, a man is never so happy as when he is talking about himself. From Otis Yeere's lips Mrs Hauksbee, before long, learned everything that she wished to know about the subject of her experiment; learned what manner of life he had led in what she vaguely called "those awful cholera districts"; learned too, but this knowledge came later, what manner of life he had purposed to lead and what dreams he had dreamed in the year of grace '77, before the reality had knocked the heart out of him. Very pleasant are the shady bridle-paths round Prospect Hill for the telling of such confidences. "Not yet," said Mrs. Hauksbee to Mrs. Mallowe. "Not yet. I must wait until the man is properly dressed, at least. Great Heavens, is it possible that he doesn't know what an honor it is to be taken up by Me!" Mrs. Hauksbee did not reckon false modesty as one of her failings. "Always with Mrs. Hauksbee!" murmured Mrs. Mallowe, with her sweetest smile, to Otis. "Oh you men, you men! Here are our Punjabis growling because you've monopolized the nicest woman in Simla. They'll tear you to pieces on the Mall, some day, Mr. Yeere." Mrs. Mallowe rattled down-hill, having satisfied herself, by a glance through the fringe of her sunshade, of the effect of her words. The shot went home. Of a surety Otis Yeere was somebody in this bewildering whirl of Simla--had monopolized the nicest woman in it and the Punjabis were growling. The notion justified a mild glow of vanity. He had never looked upon his acquaintance with Mrs. Hauksbee as a matter for general interest. The knowledge of envy was a pleasant feeling to the man of no account. It was intensified later in the day when a luncher at the Club said, spitefully, "Well, for a debilitated Ditcher, Yeere, you are going it. Hasn't any kind friend told you that she's the most dangerous woman in Simla?" Yeere chuckled and passed out. When, oh when, would his new clothes be ready? He descended into the Mall to inquire; and Mrs. Hauksbee, coming over the Church Ridge in her 'rickshaw, looked down upon him approvingly. "He's learning to carry himself as if he were a man, instead of a piece of furniture, and"--she screwed up her eyes to see the better through the sunlight--"he is a man when he holds himself like that. Oh blessed Conceit, what should we be without you?" With the new clothes came a new stock of self-confidence. Otis Yeere discovered that he could enter a room without breaking into a gentle perspiration--could cross one, even to talk to Mrs. Hauksbee, as though rooms were meant to be crossed. He was for the first time in nine years proud of himself, and contented with his life, satisfied with his new clothes, and rejoicing in the friendship of Mrs. Hauksbee. "Conceit is what the poor fellow wants," she said in confidence to Mrs. Mallowe. "I believe they must use Civilians to plough the fields with in Lower Bengal. You see I have to begin from the very beginning--haven't I? But you'll admit, won't you, dear, that he is immensely improved since I took him in hand. Only give me a little more time and he won't know himself." Indeed, Yeere was rapidly beginning to forget what he had been. One of his own rank and file put the matter brutally when he asked Yeere, in reference to nothing, "And who has been making you a Member of Council, lately? You carry the side of half a dozen of 'em." "I--I'm awf'ly sorry. I didn't mean it, you know," said Yeere, apologetically. "There'll be no holding you," continued the old stager, grimly. "Climb down, Otis--climb down, and get all that beastly affectation knocked out of you with fever! Three thousand a month wouldn't support it." Yeere repeated the incident to Mrs. Hauksbee. He had come to look upon her as his Mother Confessor. "And you apologized!" she said. "Oh, shame! I hate a man who apologizes. Never apologize for what your friend called 'side.' Never! It's a man's business to be insolent and overbearing until he meets with a stronger. Now, you bad boy, listen to me." Simply and straightforwardly, as the 'rickshaw loitered round Jakko, Mrs. Hauksbee preached to Otis Yeere the Great Gospel of Conceit, illustrating it with living pictures encountered during their Sunday afternoon stroll. "Good gracious!" she ended, with the personal argument, "you'll apologize next for being my attache?" "Never!" said Otis Yeere. "That's another thing altogether. I shall always be"-- "What's coming?" thought Mrs. Hauksbee. "Proud of that," said Otis. "Safe for the present," she said to herself. "But I'm afraid I have grown conceited. Like Jeshurun, you know. When he waxed fat, then he kicked. It's the having no worry on one's mind and the Hill air, I suppose." "Hill air, indeed!" said Mrs. Hauksbee to herself. "He'd have been hiding in the Club till the last day of his leave, if I hadn't discovered him." And aloud--"Why shouldn't you be? You have every right to." "I! Why?" "Oh, hundreds of things. I'm not going to waste this lovely afternoon by explaining; but I know you have. What was that heap of manuscript you showed me about the grammar of the aboriginal--what's their names?" "Gullals. A piece of nonsense. I've far too much work to do to bother over Gullals now. You should see my District. Come down with your husband some day and I'll show you round. Such a lovely place in the Rains! A sheet of water with the railway-embankment and the snakes sticking out, and, in the summer, green flies and green squash. The people would die of fear if you shook a dogwhip at 'em. But they know you're forbidden to do that, so they conspire to make your life a burden to you. My District's worked by some man at Darjiling, on the strength of u native pleader's false reports. Oh, it's a heavenly place!" Otis Yeere laughed bitterly. "There's not the least necessity that you should stay in it. Why do you?" "Because I must. How'm I to get out of it?" "How! In a hundred and fifty ways. If there weren't so many people on the road, I'd like to box your ears. Ask, my dear boy, ask! Look, There is young Hexarly with six years' service and half your talents. He asked for what he wanted, and he got it. See, down by the Convent! There's McArthurson who has come to his present position by asking--sheer, downright asking--after he had pushed himself out of the rank and file. One man is as good as another in your service--believe me. I've seen Simla for more seasons than I care to think about. Do you suppose men are chosen for appointments because of their special fitness beforehand? You have all passed a high test--what do you call it?--in the beginning, and, except for the few who have gone altogether to the bad, you can all work hard. Asking does the rest. Call it cheek, call it insolence, call it anything you like, but ask! Men argue--yes, I know what men say--that a man, by the mere audacity of his request, must have some good in him. A weak man doesn't say: 'Give me this and that.' He whines 'Why haven't I been given this and that?' If you were in the Army, I should say learn to spin plates or play a tambourine with your toes. As it is--ask! You belong to a Service that ought to be able to command the Channel Fleet, or set a leg at twenty minutes' notice, and yet you hesitate over asking to escape from a squashy green district where you admit you are not master. Drop the Bengal Government altogether. Even Darjiling is a little out-of-the-way hole. I was there once, and the rents were extortionate. Assert yourself. Get the Government of India to take you over. Try to get on the Frontier, where every man has a grand chance if he can trust himself. Go somewhere! Do something! You have twice the wits and three times the presence of the men up here, and, and"-- Mrs. Hauksbee paused for breath; then continued--"and in any way you look at it, you ought to. You who could go so far!" "I don't know," said Yeere, rather taken aback by the unexpected eloquence. "1 haven't such a good opinion of myself." It was not strictly Platonic, but it was Policy. Mrs. Hauksbee laid her hand lightly upon the ungloved paw that rested on the turned-back 'rickshaw hood, and, looking the man full in the face, said tenderly, almost too tenderly, "I believe in you if you mistrust yourself. Is that enough, my friend?" "It is enough," answered Otis, very solemnly. He was silent for a long time, redreaming the dreams that he had dreamed eight years ago, but through them all ran, as sheet-lightning through golden cloud, the light of Mrs. Hauksbee's violet eyes. Curious and impenetrable are the mazes of Simla life--the only existence in this desolate land worth the living. Gradually it went abroad among men and women, in the pauses between dance, play and Gymkhana, that Otis Yeere, the man with the newly-lit light of self-confidence in his eyes, had "done something decent" in the wilds whence he came. He had brought an erring Municipality to reason, appropriated the funds on his own responsibility, and saved the lives of hundreds, He knew more about the Gullals than any living man. Had a vast knowledge of the aboriginal tribes; was, in spite of his juniority, the greatest authority on the aboriginal Gullals. No one quite knew who or what the Gullals were till The Mussuck, who had been calling on Mrs. Hauksbee, and prided himself upon picking people's brains, explained they were a tribe of ferocious hillmen, somewhere near Sikkim, whose friendship even the Great Indian Empire would find it worth her while to secure. Now we know that Otis Yeere had showed Mrs. Hauksbee his MS notes of six years' standing on the same Gullals. He had told her, too, how, sick and shaken with the fever their negligence had bred, crippled by the loss of his pet clerk, and savagely angry at the desolation in his charge, he had once damned the collective eyes of his "intelligent local board" for a set of haramzadas. Which act of "brutal and tyrannous oppression" won him a Reprimand Royal from the Bengal Government; but in the anecdote as amended for Northern consumption we find no record of this. Hence we are forced to conclude that Mrs. Hauksbee "edited" his reminiscences before sowing them in idle ears, ready, as she well knew, to exaggerate good or evil. And Otis Yeere bore himself as befitted the hero of many tales. "You can talk to me when you don't fall into a brown study. Talk now, and talk your brightest and best," said Mrs. Hauksbee. Otis needed no spur. Look to a man who has the counsel of a woman of or above the world to back him. So long as he keeps his head, he can meet both sexes on equal ground--an advantage never intended by Providence, who fashioned Man on one day and Woman on another, in sign that neither should know more than a very little of the other's life. Such a man goes far, or, the counsel being withdrawn, collapses suddenly while his world seeks the reason. Generalled by Mrs. Hauksbee who, again, had all Mrs. Mallowe's wisdom at her disposal, proud of himself and, in the end, believing in himself because he was believed in, Otis Yeere stood ready for any fortune that might befall, certain that it would be good. He would fight for his own hand, and intended that this second struggle should lead to better issue than the first helpless surrender of the bewildered 'Stunt. What might have happened, it is impossible to say. This lamentable thing befell, bred directly by a statement of Mrs. Hauksbee that she would spend the next season in Darjiling. "Are you certain of that?" said Otis Yeere. "Quite. We're writing about a house now." Otis Yeere "stopped dead," as Mrs. Hauksbee put it in discussing the relapse with Mrs. Mallowe. "He has behaved," she said, angrily, "just like Captain Kerrington's pony--only Otis is a donkey--at the last Gymkhana. Planted his forefeet and refused to go on another step. Polly, my man's going to disappoint me. What shall I do?" As a rule, Mrs. Mallowe does not approve of staring, but on this occasion she opened her eyes to the utmost. "You have managed cleverly so far," she said. "Speak to him, and ask him what he means." "I will--at tonight's dance." "No-o, not at a dance," said Mrs. Mallowe, cautiously. "Men are never themselves quite at dances. Better wait till tomorrow morning." "Nonsense. If he's going to revert in this insane way, there isn't a day to lose. Are you going? No? Then sit up for me, there's a dear. I shan't stay longer than supper under any circumstances." Mrs. Mallowe waited through the evening, looking long and earnestly into the fire, and sometimes smiling to herself. * * * * * "Oh! oh! oh! The man's an idiot! A raving, positive idiot! I'm sorry I ever saw him!" Mrs. Hauksbee burst into Mrs. Mallowe's house, at midnight, almost in tears. "What in the world has happened?" said Mrs. Mallowe, but her eyes showed that she had guessed an answer. "Happened! Everything has happened! He was there. I went to him and said, 'Now, what does this nonsense mean?' Don't laugh, dear, I can't bear it. But you know what I mean I said. Then it was a square, and I sat it out with him and wanted an explanation, and he said--Oh! I haven't patience with such idiots! You know what I said about going to Darjiling next year? It doesn't matter to me where I go. I'd have changed the Station and lost the rent to have saved this. He said, in so many words, that he wasn't going to try to work up any more, because--because he would be shifted into a province away from Darjiling, and his own District, where these creatures are, is within a day's journey"-- "Ah-hh!" said Mrs. Mallowe, in a tone of one who has successfully tracked an obscure word through a large dictionary. "Did you ever hear of anything so mad--so absurd? And he had the ball at his feet. He had only to kick it! I would have made him anything! Anything in the wide world. He could have gone to the world's end. I would have helped him. I made him, didn't I, Polly? Didn't I create that man? Doesn't he owe everything to me? And to reward me, just when everything was nicely arranged, by this lunacy that spoiled everything!" "Very few men understand your devotion thoroughly." "Oh, Polly, don't laugh at me! I give men up from this hour. I could have killed him then and there. What right had this man--this Thing I had picked out of his filthy paddy-fields--to make love to me?" "He did that, did he?" "He did. I don't remember half he said, I was so angry. Oh, but such a funny thing happened! I can't help laughing at it now, though I felt nearly ready to cry with rage. He raved and I stormed--I'm afraid we must have made an awful noise in our kala juggah. Protect my character, dear, if it's all over Simla by tomorrow--and then he bobbed forward in the middle of this insanity--I firmly believe the man's demented--and kissed me!" "Morals above reproach," purred Mrs. Mallowe. "So they were--so they are! It was the most absurd kiss. I don't believe he'd ever kissed a woman in his life before. I threw my head back, and it was a sort of slidy, pecking dab, just on the end of the chin--here." Mrs. Hauksbee tapped her masculine little chin with her fan. "Then, of course, I was furiously angry, and told him that he was no gentleman, and I was sorry I'd ever met him, and so on. He was crushed so easily that I couldn't be very angry. Then I came away straight to you." "Was this before or after supper?" "Oh! before--oceans before. Isn't it perfectly disgusting?" "Let me think. I withhold judgment till tomorrow. Morning brings counsel." But morning brought only a servant with a dainty bouquet of Annandale roses for Mrs. Hauksbee to wear at the dance at Viceregal Lodge that night. "He doesn't seem to be very penitent," said Mrs. Mallowe. "What's the billet-doux in the centre?" Mrs. Hauksbee opened the neatly folded note,--another accomplishment that she had taught Otis,--read it, and groaned tragically. "Last wreck of a feeble intellect! Poetry! Is it his own, do you think? Oh, that I ever built my hopes on such a maudlin idiot!" "No. It's a quotation from Mrs. Browning, and, in view of the facts of the case, as Jack says, uncommonly well chosen. Listen: "'Sweet thou has trod on a heart-- Pass! There's a world full of men And women as fair as thou art, Must do such things now and then. "'Thou only hast stepped unaware-- Malice not one can impute; And why should a heart have been there, In the way of a fair woman's foot?' "I didn't--I didn't--I didn't!" said Mrs. Hauksbee, angrily, her eyes filling with tears; "there was no malice at all. Oh, it's too vexatious!" "You've misunderstood the compliment," said Mrs. Mallowe. "He clears you completely and--ahem--I should think by this, that he has cleared completely too. My experience of men is that when they begin to quote poetry, they are going to flit. Like swans singing before they die, you know." "Polly, you take my sorrows in a most unfeeling way." "Do I? Is it so terrible? If he's hurt your vanity, I should say that you've done a certain amount of damage to his heart." "Oh, you never can tell about a man!" said Mrs. Hauksbee, with deep scorn. * * * * * Reviewing the matter as an impartial outsider, it strikes me that I'm about the only person who has profited by the education of Otis Yeere. It comes to twenty-seven pages and bittock. AT THE PIT'S MOUTH Men say it was a stolen tide-- The Lord that sent it he knows all, But in mine ear will aye abide The message that the bells let fall, And awesome bells they were to me, That in the dark rang, "Enderby." --Jean Ingelow. Once upon a time there was a man and his Wife and a Tertium Quid. All three were unwise, but the Wife was the unwisest. The Man should have looked after his Wife, who should have avoided the Tertium Quid, who, again, should have married a wife of his own, after clean and open flirtations, to which nobody can possibly object, round Jakko or Observatory Hill. When you see a young man with his pony in a white lather, and his hat on the back of his head flying down-hill at fifteen miles an hour to meet a girl who will be properly surprised to meet him, you naturally approve of that young man, and wish him Staff Appointments, and take an interest in his welfare, and, as the proper time comes, give them sugar-tongs or side-saddles, according to your means and generosity. The Tertium Quid flew down-hill on horseback, but it was to meet the Man's Wife; and when he flew up-hill it was for the same end. The Man was in the Plains, earning money for his Wife to spend on dresses and four-hundred-rupee bracelets, and inexpensive luxuries of that kind. He worked very hard, and sent her a letter or a post-card daily. She also wrote to him daily, and said that she was longing for him to come up to Simla. The Tertium Quid used to lean over her shoulder and laugh as she wrote the notes. Then the two would ride to the Post Office together. Now, Simla is a strange place and its customs are peculiar; nor is any man who has not spent at least ten seasons there qualified to pass judgment on circumstantial evidence, which is the most untrustworthy in the Courts. For these reasons, and for others which need not appear, I decline to state positively whether there was anything irretrievably wrong in the relations between the Man's Wife and the Tertium Quid. If there was, and hereon you must form your own opinion, it was the Man's Wife's fault. She was kittenish in her manners, wearing generally an air of soft and fluffy innocence. But she was deadly learned and evil-instructed; and, now and again, when the mask dropped, men saw this, shuddered and almost drew back. Men are occasionally particular, and the least particular men are always the most exacting. Simla is eccentric in its fashion of tearing friendships. Certain attachments which have set and crystallized through half a dozen seasons acquire almost the sanctity of the marriage bond, and are revered as such. Again, certain attachments equally old, and, to all appearance, equally venerable, never seem to win any recognized official status; while a chance-sprung acquaintance now two months born, steps into the place which by right belongs to the senior. There is no law reducible to print which regulates these affairs. Some people have a gift which secures them infinite toleration, and others have not. The Man's Wife had not. If she looked over the garden wall, for instance, women taxed her with stealing their husbands. She complained pathetically that she was not allowed to choose her own friends. When she put up her big white muff to her lips, and gazed over it and under her eyebrows at you as she said this thing, you felt that she had been infamously misjudged, and that all the other women's instincts were all wrong; which was absurd. She was not allowed to own the Tertium Quid in peace; and was so strangely constructed that she would not have enjoyed peace had she been so permitted. She preferred some semblance of intrigue to cloak even her most commonplace actions. After two months of riding, first round Jakko, then Elysium, then Summer Hill, then Observatory Hill, then under Jutogh, and lastly up and down the Cart Road as far as the Tara Devi gap in the dusk, she said to the Tertium Quid, "Frank, people say we are too much together, and people are so horrid." The Tertium Quid pulled his moustache, and replied that horrid people were unworthy of the consideration of nice people. "But they have done more than talk--they have written--written to my hubby--I'm sure of it," said the Man's Wife, and she pulled a letter from her husband out of her saddle-pocket and gave it to the Tertium Quid. It was an honest letter, written by an honest man, then stewing in the Plains on two hundred rupees a month (for he allowed his wife eight hundred and fifty), and in a silk banian and cotton trousers. It is said that, perhaps, she had no thought of the unwisdom of allowing her name to be so generally coupled with the Tertium Quid's; that she was too much of a child to understand the dangers of that sort of thing; that he, her husband, was the last man in the world to interfere jealously with her little amusements and interests, but that it would be better were she to drop the Tertium Quid quietly and for her husband's sake. The letter was sweetened with many pretty little pet names, and it amused the Tertium Quid considerably. He and She laughed over it, so that you, fifty yards away, could see their shoulders shaking while the horses slouched along side by side. Their conversation was not worth reporting. The upshot of it was that, next day, no one saw the Man's Wife and the Tertium Quid together. They had both gone down to the Cemetery, which, as a rule, is only visited officially by the inhabitants of Simla. A Simla funeral with the clergyman riding, the mourners riding, and the coffin creaking as it swings between the bearers, is one of the most depressing things on this earth, particularly when the procession passes under the wet, dank dip beneath the Rockcliffe Hotel, where the sun is shut out and all the hill streams are wailing and weeping together as they go down the valleys. Occasionally folk tend the graves, but we in India shift and are transferred so often that, at the end of the second year, the Dead have no friends--only acquaintances who are far too busy amusing themselves up the hill to attend to old partners. The idea of using a Cemetery as a rendezvous is distinctly a feminine one. A man would have said simply "Let people talk. We'll go down the Mall." A woman is made differently, especially if she be such a woman as the Man's Wife. She and the Tertium Quid enjoyed each other's society among the graves of men and women whom they had known and danced with aforetime. They used to take a big horse-blanket and sit on the grass a little to the left of the lower end, where there is a dip in the ground and where the occupied graves stop short and the ready-made ones are not ready. Each well-regulated India Cemetery keeps half a dozen graves permanently open for contingencies and incidental wear and tear. In the Hills these are more usually baby's size, because children who come up weakened and sick from the Plains often succumb to the effects of the Rains in the Hills or get pneumonia from their ayahs taking them through damp pine-woods after the sun has set. In Cantonments, of course, the man's size is more in request; these arrangements varying with the climate and population. One day when the Man's Wife and the Tertium Quid had just arrived in the Cemetery, they saw some coolies breaking ground. They had marked out a full-size grave, and the Tertium Quid asked them whether any Sahib was sick. They said that they did not know; but it was an order that they should dig a Sahib's grave. "Work away," said the Tertium Quid, "and let's see how it's done." The coolies worked away, and the Man's Wife and the Tertium Quid watched and talked for a couple of hours while the grave was being deepened Then a coolie, taking the earth in blankets as it was thrown up, jumped over the grave. "That's queer," said the Tertium Quid. "Where's my ulster?" "What's queer?" said the Man's Wife. "I have got a chill down my back just as if a goose had walked over my grave." "Why do you look at the thing, then?" said the Man's Wife. "Let us go." The Tertium Quid stood at the head of the grave, and stared without answering for a space. Then he said, dropping a pebble down, "It is nasty and cold; horribly cold. I don't think I shall come to the Cemetery any more. I don't think grave-digging is cheerful." The two talked and agreed that the Cemetery was depressing. They also arranged for a ride next day out from the Cemetery through the Mashobra Tunnel up to Fagoo and back, because all the world was going to a garden-party at Viceregal Lodge, and all the people of Mashobra would go too. Coming up the Cemetery road, the Tertium Quid's horse tried to bolt up hill, being tired with standing so long, and managed to strain a back sinew. "I shall have to take the mare tomorrow," said the Tertium Quid, "and she will stand nothing heavier than a snaffle." They made their arrangements to meet in the Cemetery, after allowing all the Mashobra people time to pass into Simla. That night it rained heavily, and next day, when the Tertium Quid came to the trysting-place, he saw that the new grave had a foot of water in it, the ground being a tough and sour clay. "'Jove! That looks beastly," said the Tertium Quid. "Fancy being boarded up and dropped into that well!" They then started off to Fagoo, the mare playing with the snaffle and picking her way as though she were shod with satin, and the sun shining divinely. The road below Mashobra to Fagoo is officially styled the Himalayan-Thibet Road; but in spite of its name it is not much more than six feet wide in most places, and the drop into the valley below must be anything between one and two thousand feet. "Now we're going to Thibet," said the Man's Wife merrily, as the horses drew near to Fagoo. She was riding on the cliff-side. "Into Thibet," said the Tertium Quid, "ever so far from people who say horrid things, and hubbies who write stupid letters. With you--to the end of the world!" A coolie carrying a log of wood came round a corner, and the mare went wide to avoid him--forefeet in and haunches out, as a sensible mare should go. "To the world's end," said the Man's Wife, and looked unspeakable things over her near shoulder at the Tertium Quid. He was smiling, but, while she looked, the smile froze stiff as it were on his face, and changed to a nervous grin--the sort of grin men wear when they are not quite easy in their saddles. The mare seemed to be sinking by the stem, and her nostrils cracked while she was trying to realize what was happening. The rain of the night before had rotted the drop-side of the Himalayan-Thibet Road, and it was giving way under her. "What are you doing?" said the Man's Wife. The Tertium Quid gave no answer. He grinned nervously and set his spurs into the mare, who rapped with her forefeet on the road, and the struggle began. The Man's Wife screamed, "Oh, Frank, get off!" But the Tertium Quid was glued to the saddle--his face blue and white--and he looked into the Man's Wife's eyes. Then the Man's Wife clutched at the mare's head and caught her by the nose instead of the bridle. The brute threw up her head and went down with a scream, the Tertium Quid upon her, and the nervous grin still set on his face. The Man's Wife heard the tinkle-tinkle of little stones and loose earth falling off the roadway, and the sliding roar of the man and horse going down. Then everything was quiet, and she called on Frank to leave his mare and walk up. But Frank did not answer. He was underneath the mare, nine hundred feet below, spoiling a patch of Indian corn. As the revellers came back from Viceregal Lodge in the mists of the evening, they met a temporarily insane woman, on a temporarily mad horse, swinging round the corners, with her eyes and her mouth open, and her head like the head of the Medusa. She was stopped by a man at the risk of his life, and taken out of the saddle, a limp heap, and put on the bank to explain herself. This wasted twenty minutes, and then she was sent home in a lady's 'rickshaw, still with her mouth open and her hands picking at her riding-gloves. She was in bed through the following three days, which were rainy; so she missed attending the funeral of the Tertium Quid, who was lowered into eighteen inches of water, instead of the twelve to which he had first objected. A WAYSIDE COMEDY Because to every purpose there is time and judgment, therefore the misery of man is great upon him. --Eccles. viii. 6. Fate and the Government of India have turned the Station of Kashima into a prison; and, because there is no help for the poor souls who are now lying there in torment, I write this story, praying that the Government of India may be moved to scatter the European population to the four winds. Kashima is bound on all sides by the rock-tipped circle of the Dosehri hills. In Spring, it is ablaze with roses; in Summer, the roses die and the hot winds blow from the hills; in Autumn, the white mists from the hills cover the place as with water; and in Winter the frosts nip everything young and tender to earth-level. There is but one view in Kashima--a stretch of perfectly flat pasture and plough-land, running up to the grey-blue scrub of the Dosehri hills. There are no amusements, except snipe and tiger shooting; but the tigers have been long since hunted from their lairs in the rock-caves, and the snipe only come once a year. Narkarra--one hundred and forty-three miles by road--is the nearest station to Kashima. But Kashima never goes to Narkarra, where there are at least twelve English people. It stays within the circle of the Dosehri hills. All Kashima acquits Mrs. Vansuythen of any intention to do harm; but all Kashima knows that she, and she alone, brought about their pain. Boulte, the Engineer, Mrs. Boulte, and Captain Kurrell know this. They are the English population of Kashima, if we except Major Vansuythen, who is of no importance whatever, and Mrs. Vansuythen, who is the most important of all. You must remember, though you will not understand, that all laws weaken in a small and hidden community where there is no public opinion. When a man is absolutely alone in a Station he runs a certain risk of falling into evil ways. The risk is multiplied by every addition to the population up to twelve--the Jury-number. After that, fear and consequent restraint begin, and human action becomes less grotesquely jerky. There was deep peace in Kashima till Mrs. Vansuythen arrived. She was a charming woman, every one said so everywhere; and she charmed every one. In spite of this, or, perhaps, because of this, since Fate is so perverse, she cared only for one man, and he was Major Vansuythen. Had she been plain or stupid, this matter would have been intelligible to Kashima. But she was a fair woman, with very still grey eyes, the color of a lake just before the light of the sun touches it. No man who had seen those eyes, could, later on, explain what fashion of woman she was to look upon. The eyes dazzled him. Her own sex said that she was "not bad looking, but spoiled by pretending to be so grave." And yet her gravity was natural It was not her habit to smile. She merely went through life, looking at those who passed; and the women objected while the men fell down and worshipped. She knows and is deeply sorry for the evil she has done to Kashima; but Major Vansuythen cannot understand why Mrs. Boulte does not drop in to afternoon tea at least three times a week. "When there are only two women in one Station, they ought to see a great deal of each other," says Major Vansuythen. Long and long before ever Mrs. Vansuythen came out of those far-away places where there is society and amusement, Kurrell had discovered that Mrs. Boulte was the one woman in the world for him and--you dare not blame them. Kashima was as out of the world as Heaven or the Other Place, and the Dosehri hills kept their secret well. Boulte had no concern in the matter. He was in camp for a fortnight at a time. He was a hard, heavy man, and neither Mrs. Boulte nor Kurrell pitied him. They had all Kashima and each other for their very, very own; and Kashima was the Garden of Eden in those days. When Boulte returned from his wanderings he would slap Kurrell between the shoulders and call him "old fellow," and the three would dine together. Kashima was happy then when the judgment of God seemed almost as distant as Narkarra or the railway that ran down to the sea. But the Government sent Major Vansuythen to Kashima, and with him came his wife. The etiquette of Kashima is much the same as that of a desert island. When a stranger is cast away there, all hands go down to the shore to make him welcome. Kashima assembled at the masonry platform close to the Narkarra Road, and spread tea for the Vansuythens. That ceremony was reckoned a formal call, and made them free of the Station, its rights and privileges. When the Vansuythens were settled down, they gave a tiny housewarming to all Kashima; and that made Kashima free of their house, according to the immemorial usage of the Station. Then the Rains came, when no one could go into camp, and the Narkarra Road was washed away by the Kasun River, and in the cup-like pastures of Kashima the cattle waded knee-deep. The clouds dropped down from the Dosehri hills and covered everything. At the end of the Rains, Boulte's manner toward his wife changed and became demonstratively affectionate. They had been married twelve years, and the change startled Mrs. Boulte, who hated her husband with the hate of a woman who has met with nothing but kindness from her mate, and, in the teeth of this kindness, had done him a great wrong. Moreover, she had her own trouble to fight with--her watch to keep over her own property, Kurrell. For two months the Rains had hidden the Dosehri hills and many other things besides; but when they lifted, they showed Mrs. Boulte that her man among men, her Ted--for she called him Ted in the old days when Boulte was out of earshot--was slipping the links of the allegiance. "The Vansuythen Woman has taken him," Mrs. Boulte said to herself; and when Boulte was away, wept over her belief, in the face of the over-vehement blandishments of Ted. Sorrow in Kashima is as fortunate as Love, because there is nothing to weaken it save the flight of Time. Mrs. Boulte had never breathed her suspicion to Kurrell because she was not certain; and her nature led her to be very certain before she took steps in any direction. That is why she behaved as she did. Boulte came into the house one evening, and leaned against the door-posts of the drawing-room, chewing his moustache. Mrs. Boulte was putting some flowers into a vase. There is a pretence of civilization even in Kashima. "Little woman," said Boulte, quietly, "do you care for me?" "Immensely," said she, with a laugh. "Can you ask it?" "But I'm serious," said Boulte. "Do you care for me?" Mrs. Boulte dropped the flowers, and turned round quickly. "Do you want an honest answer?" "Ye-es, I've asked for it." Mrs. Boulte spoke in a low, even voice for five minutes, very distinctly, that there might be no misunderstanding her meaning. When Samson broke the pillars of Gaza, he did a little thing, and one not to be compared to the deliberate pulling down of a woman's homestead about her own ears. There was no wise female friend to advise Mrs. Boulte, the singularly cautious wife, to hold her hand. She struck at Boulte's heart, because her own was sick with suspicion of Kurrell, and worn out with the long strain of watching alone through the Rains. There was no plan or purpose in her speaking. The sentences made themselves; and Boulte listened leaning against the door-post with his hands in his pockets. When all was over, and Mrs. Boulte began to breathe through her nose before breaking out into tears, he laughed and stared straight in front of him at the Dosehri hills. "Is that all?" he said. "Thanks, I only wanted to know, you know." "What are you going to do?" said the woman, between her sobs. "Do! Nothing. What should I do? Kill Kurrell or send you Home, or apply for leave to get a divorce? It's two days' dak into Narkarra." He laughed again and went on: "I'll tell you what you can do. You can ask Kurrell to dinner tomorrow--no, on Thursday, that will allow you time to pack--and you can bolt with him. I give you my word I won't follow." He took up his helmet and went out of the room, and Mrs. Boulte sat till the moonlight streaked the floor, thinking and thinking and thinking. She had done her best upon the spur of the moment to pull the house down; but it would not fall. Moreover, she could not understand her husband, and she was afraid. Then the folly of her useless truthfulness struck her, and she was ashamed to write to Kurrell, saying: "I have gone mad and told everything. My husband says that I am free to elope with you. Get a dak for Thursday, and we will fly after dinner." There was a cold-bloodedness about that procedure which did not appeal to her. So she sat still in her own house and thought. At dinner-time Boulte came back from his walk, white and worn and haggard, and the woman was touched at his distress. As the evening wore on, she muttered some expression of sorrow, something approaching to contrition. Boulte came out of a brown study and said, "Oh, that! I wasn't thinking about that. By the way, what does Kurrell say to the elopement?" "I haven't seen him," said Mrs. Boulte. "Good God! is that all?" But Boulte was not listening, and her sentence ended in a gulp. The next day brought no comfort to Mrs. Boulte, for Kurrell did not appear, and the new life that she, in the five minutes' madness of the previous evening, had hoped to build out of the ruins of the old, seemed to be no nearer. Boulte ate his breakfast, advised her to see her Arab pony fed in the veranda, and went out. The morning wore through, and at midday the tension became unendurable. Mrs. Boulte could not cry. She had finished her crying in the night, and now she did not want to be left alone. Perhaps the Vansuythen woman would talk to her; and, since talking opens the heart, perhaps there might be some comfort to be found in her company. She was the only other woman in the Station. In Kashima there are no regular calling-hours. Every one can drop in upon every one else at pleasure. Mrs. Boulte put on a big terai hat, and walked across to the Vansuythens's house to borrow last week's Queen. The two compounds touched, and instead of going up the drive, she crossed through the gap in the cactus-hedge, entering the house from the back. As she passed through the dining-room, she heard, behind the purdah that cloaked the drawing-room door, her husband's voice, saying--"But on my Honor! On my Soul and Honor, I tell you she doesn't care for me. She told me so last night. I would have told you then if Vansuythen hadn't been with you. If it is for her sake that you'll have nothing to say to me, you can make your mind easy. It's Kurrell." "What?" said Mrs. Vansuythen, with an hysterical little laugh. "Kurrell! Oh, it can't be. You two must have made some horrible mistake. Perhaps you--you lost your temper, or misunderstood, or something. Things can't be as wrong as you say." Mrs. Vansuythen had shifted her defence to avoid the man's pleading, and was desperately trying to keep him to a side-issue. "There must be some mistake," she insisted, "and it can be all put right again." Boulte laughed grimly. "It can't be Captain Kurrell! He told me that he had never taken the least--the least interest in your wife, Mr. Boulte. Oh, do listen! He said he had not. He swore he had not," said Mrs. Vansuythen. The purdah rustled, and the speech was cut short by the entry of a little, thin woman with big rings round her eyes. Mrs. Vansuythen stood up with a gasp. "What was that you said?" asked Mrs. Boulte. "Never mind that man. What did Ted say to you? What did he say to you? What did he say to you?" Mrs. Vansuythen sat down helplessly on the sofa, overborne by the trouble of her questioner. "He said--I can't remember exactly what he said--but I understood him to say--that is--But, really, Mrs. Boulte, isn't it rather a strange question?" "Will you tell me what he said?" repeated Mrs. Boulte. Even a tiger will fly before a bear robbed of her whelps, and Mrs. Vansuythen was only an ordinarily good woman. She began in a sort of desperation: "Well, he said that he never cared for you at all, and, of course, there was not the least reason why he should have, and--and--that was all." "You said he swore he had not cared for me. Was that true?" "Yes," said Mrs. Vansuythen, very softly. Mrs. Boulte wavered for an instant where she stood, and then fell forward fainting. "What did I tell you?" said Boulte, as though the conversation had been unbroken. "You can see for yourself she cares for him." The light began to break into his dull mind, and he went on--"And he--what was he saying to you?" But Mrs. Vansuythen, with no heart for explanations or impassioned protestations, was kneeling over Mrs. Boulte. "Oh, you brute!" she cried. "Are all men like this? Help me to get her into my room--and her face is cut against the table. Oh, will you be quiet, and help me to carry her? I hate you, and I hate Captain Kurrell. Lift her up carefully and now--go! Go away!" Boulte carried his wife into Mrs. Vansuythen's bedroom and departed before the storm of that lady's wrath and disgust, impenitent and burning with jealousy. Kurrell had been making love to Mrs. Vansuythen--would do Vansuythen as great a wrong as he had done Boulte, who caught himself considering whether Mrs. Vansuythen would faint if she discovered that the man she loved had foresworn her. In the middle of these meditations, Kurrell came cantering along the road and pulled up with a cheery, "Good mornin'. 'Been mashing Mrs. Vansuythen as usual, eh? Bad thing for a sober, married man, that. What will Mrs Boulte say?" Boulte raised his head and said, slowly, "Oh, you liar!" Kurrell's face changed. "What's that?" he asked, quickly. "Nothing much," said Boulte. "Has my wife told you that you two are free to go off whenever you please? She has been good enough to explain the situation to me. You've been a true friend to me, Kurrell--old man--haven't you?" Kurrell groaned, and tried to frame some sort of idiotic sentence about being willing to give "satisfaction." But his interest in the woman was dead, had died out in the Rains, and, mentally, he was abusing her for her amazing indiscretion. It would have been so easy to have broken off the thing gently and by degrees, and now he was saddled with--Boulte's voice recalled him. "I don't think I should get any satisfaction from killing you, and I'm pretty sure you'd get none from killing me." Then in a querulous tone, ludicrously disproportioned to his wrongs, Boulte added--"'Seems rather a pity that you haven't the decency to keep to the woman, now you've got her. You've been a true friend to her too, haven't you?" Kurrell stared long and gravely. The situation was getting beyond him. "What do you mean?" he said. Boulte answered, more to himself than the questioner: "My wife came over to Mrs. Vansuythen's just now; and it seems you'd been telling Mrs. Vansuythen that you'd never cared for Emma. I suppose you lied, as usual. What had Mrs. Vansuythen to do with you, or you with her? Try to speak the truth for once in a way." Kurrell took the double insult without wincing, and replied by another question: "Go on. What happened?" "Emma fainted," said Boulte, simply. "But, look here, what had you been saying to Mrs. Vansuythen?" Kurrell laughed. Mrs. Boulte had, with unbridled tongue, made havoc of his plans; and he could at least retaliate by hurting the man in whose eyes he was humiliated and shown dishonorable. "Said to her? What does a man tell a lie like that for? I suppose I said pretty much what you've said, unless I'm a good deal mistaken." "I spoke the truth," said Boulte, again more to himself than Kurrell. "Emma told me she hated me. She has no right in me." "No! I suppose not. You're only her husband, y'know. And what did Mrs. Vansuythen say after you had laid your disengaged heart at her feet?" Kurrell felt almost virtuous as he put the question. "I don't think that matters," Boulte replied; "and it doesn't concern you." "But it does! I tell you it does" began Kurrell, shamelessly. The sentence was cut by a roar of laughter from Boulte's lips. Kurrell was silent for an instant, and then he, too, laughed--laughed long and loudly, rocking in his saddle. It was an unpleasant sound--the mirthless mirth of these men on the long, white line of the Narkarra Road. There were no strangers in Kashima, or they might have thought that captivity within the Dosehri hills had driven half the European population mad. The laughter ended abruptly, and Kurrell was the first to speak. "Well, what are you going to do?" Boulte looked up the road, and at the hills. "Nothing," said he, quietly; "what's the use? It's too ghastly for anything. We must let the old life go on. I can only call you a hound and a liar, and I can't go on calling you names forever. Besides which, I don't feel that I'm much better. We can't get out of this place. What is there to do?" Kurrell looked round the rat-pit of Kashima and made no reply. The injured husband took up the wondrous tale. "Ride on, and speak to Emma if you want to. God knows I don't care what you do." He walked forward and left Kurrell gazing blankly after him. Kurrell did not ride on either to see Mrs. Boulte or Mrs. Vansuythen. He sat in his saddle and thought, while his pony grazed by the roadside. The whir of approaching wheels roused him. Mrs. Vansuythen was driving home Mrs. Boulte, white and wan, with a cut on her forehead. "Stop, please," said Mrs. Boulte "I want to speak to Ted." Mrs. Vansuythen obeyed, but as Mrs. Boulte leaned forward, putting her hand upon the splash-board of the dog-cart, Kurrell spoke. "I've seen your husband, Mrs. Boulte." There was no necessity for any further explanation. The man's eyes were fixed, not upon Mrs. Boulte, but her companion. Mrs. Boulte saw the look. "Speak to him!" she pleaded, turning to the woman at her side. "Oh, speak to him! Tell him what you told me just now. Tell him you hate him. Tell him you hate him!" She bent forward and wept bitterly, while the sais, impassive, went forward to hold the horse. Mrs. Vansuythen turned scarlet and dropped the reins. She wished to be no party to such unholy explanations. "I've nothing to do with it," she began, coldly; but Mrs. Boulte's sobs overcame her, and she addressed herself to the man. "I don't know what I am to say, Captain Kurrell. I don't know what I can call you. I think you've--you've behaved abominably, and she has cut her forehead terribly against the table." "It doesn't hurt. It isn't anything," said Mrs. Boulte feebly. "That doesn't matter. Tell him what you told me. Say you don't care for him. Oh, Ted, won't you believe her?" "Mrs. Boulte has made me understand that you were--that you were fond of her once upon a time," went on Mrs. Vansuythen. "Well!" said Kurrell brutally. "It seems to me that Mrs. Boulte had better be fond of her own husband first." "Stop!" said Mrs. Vansuythen. "Hear me first. I don't care--I don't want to know anything about you and Mrs. Boulte; but I want you to know that I hate you, that I think you are a cur, and that I'll never, never speak to you again. Oh, I don't dare to say what I think of you, you--man! _Sais,_ gorah _ko_ jane _do_." "I want to speak to Ted," moaned Mrs. Boulte, but the dog-cart rattled on, and Kurrell was left on the road, shamed, and boiling with wrath against Mrs. Boulte. He waited till Mrs. Vansuythen was driving back to her own house, and, she being freed from the embarrassment of Mrs. Boulte's presence, learned for the second time her opinion of himself and his actions. In the evenings, it was the wont of all Kashima to meet at the platform on the Narkarra Road, to drink tea, and discuss the trivialities of the day. Major Vansuythen and his wife found themselves alone at the gathering-place for almost the first time in their remembrance; and the cheery Major, in the teeth of his wife's remarkably reasonable suggestion that the rest of the Station might be sick, insisted upon driving round to the two bungalows and unearthing the population. "Sitting in the twilight!" said he, with great indignation to the Boultes. "That'll never do! Hang it all, we're one family here! You must come out, and so must Kurrell. I'll make him bring his banjo." So great is the power of honest simplicity and a good digestion over guilty consciences that all Kashima did turn out, even down to the banjo; and the Major embraced the company in one expansive grin. As he grinned, Mrs. Vansuythen raised her eyes for an instant and looked at all Kashima. Her meaning was clear. Major Vansuythen would never know anything. He was to be the outsider in that happy family whose cage was the Dosehri hills. "You're singing villainously out of tune, Kurrell," said the Major, truthfully. "Pass me that banjo." And he sang in excruciating-wise till the stars came out and all Kashima went to dinner. * * * * * That was the beginning of the New Life of Kashima--the life that Mrs. Boulte made when her tongue was loosened in the twilight. Mrs. Vansuythen has never told the Major; and since be insists upon keeping up a burdensome geniality, she has been compelled to break her vow of not speaking to Kurrell. This speech, which must of necessity preserve the semblance of politeness and interest, serves admirably to keep alive the flame of jealousy and dull hatred in Boulte's bosom, as it awakens the same passions in his wife's heart. Mrs. Boulte hates Mrs. Vansuythen because she has taken Ted from her, and, in some curious fashion, hates her because Mrs. Vansuythen--and here the wife's eyes see far more clearly than the husband's--detests Ted. And Ted--that gallant captain and honorable man--knows now that it is possible to hate a woman once loved, to the verge of wishing to silence her forever with blows. Above all, is he shocked that Mrs. Boulte cannot see the error of her ways. Boulte and he go out tiger-shooting together in all friendship. Boulte has put their relationship on a most satisfactory footing. "You're a blackguard," he says to Kurrell, "and I've lost any self-respect I may ever have had; but when you're with me, I can feel certain that you are not with Mrs. Vansuythen, or making Emma miserable." Kurrell endures anything that Boulte may say to him. Sometimes they are away for three days together, and then the Major insists upon his wife going over to sit with Mrs. Boulte; although Mrs. Vansuythen has repeatedly declared that she prefers her husband's company to any in the world. From the way in which she clings to him, she would certainly seem to be speaking the truth. But of course, as the Major says, "in a little Station we must all be friendly." THE HILL OF ILLUSION What rendered vain their deep desire? A God, a God their severance ruled, And bade between their shores to be The unplumbed, salt, estranging sea. --Matthew Arnold. HE. Tell your jhampanis not to hurry so, dear. They forget I'm fresh from the Plains. SHE. Sure proof that I have not been going out with any one. Yes, they are an untrained crew. Where do we go? HE. As usual--to the world's end. No, Jakko. SHE. Have your pony led after you, then. It's a long round. HE. And for the last time, thank Heaven! SHE. Do you mean that still? I didn't dare to write to you about it... all these months. HE. Mean it! I've been shaping my affairs to that end since Autumn. What makes you speak as though it had occurred to you for the first time? SHE. I! Oh! I don't know. I've had long enough to think, too. HE. And you've changed your mind? SHE. No. You ought to know that I am a miracle of constancy. What are your--arrangements? HE. Ours, Sweetheart, please. SHE. Ours, be it then. My poor boy, how the prickly heat has marked your forehead! Have you ever tried sulphate of copper in water? HE. It'll go away in a day or two up here. The arrangements are simple enough. Tonga in the early morning--reach Kalka at twelve--Umballa at seven--down, straight by night train, to Bombay, and then the steamer of the 21st for Rome. That's my idea. The Continent and Sweden--a ten-week honeymoon. SHE. Ssh! Don't talk of it in that way. It makes me afraid. Guy, how long have we two been insane? HE. Seven months and fourteen days; I forget the odd hours exactly, but I'll think. SHE. I only wanted to see if you remembered. Who are those two on the Blessington Road? HE. Eabrey and the Penner woman. What do they matter to us? Tell me everything that you've been doing and saying and thinking. SHE. Doing little, saying less, and thinking a great deal. I've hardly been out at all. Ha. That was wrong of you. You haven't been moping? SHE. Not very much. Can you wonder that I'm disinclined for amusement? HE. Frankly, I do. Where was the difficulty? SHE. In this only. The more people I know and the more I'm known here, the wider spread will be the news of the crash when it comes. I don't like that. HE. Nonsense. We shall be out of it. SHE. You think so? HE. I'm sure of it, if there is any power in steam or horse-flesh to carry us away. Ha! ha! SHE. And the fun of the situation comes in--where, my Lancelot? HE. Nowhere, Guinevere. I was only thinking of something. SHE. They say men have a keener sense of humor than women. Now _I_ was thinking of the scandal. HE. Don't think of anything so ugly. We shall be beyond it. SHE. It will be there all the same in the mouths of Simla--telegraphed over India, and talked of at the dinners--and when He goes out they will stare at Him to see how He takes it. And we shall be dead, Guy dear--dead and cast into the outer darkness where there is-- HE. Love at least. Isn't that enough? SHE. I have said so. HE. And you think so still? SHE. What do you think? Ha. What have I _done_? It means equal ruin to me, as the world reckons it--outcasting, the loss of my appointment, the breaking of my life's work. I pay my price. SHE. And are you so much above the world that you can afford to pay it? Am I? Ha. My Divinity--what else? SHE. A very ordinary woman I'm afraid, but, so far, respectable. How'd you do, Mrs. Middleditch? Your husband? I think he's riding down to Annandale with Colonel Statters. Yes, isn't it divine after the rain?--Guy, how long am I to be allowed to bow to Mrs. Middleditch? Till the 17th? HE. Frowsy Scotchwoman? What is the use of bringing her into the discussion? You were saying? SHE. Nothing. Have you ever seen a man hanged? HE. Yes. Once. SHE. What was it for? HE. Murder, of course. SHE. Murder. Is that so great a sin after all? I wonder how he felt before the drop fell. HE. I don't think he felt much. What a gruesome little woman it is this evening! You're shivering. Put on your cape, dear. SHE. I think I will. Oh! Look at the mist coming over Sanjaoli; and I thought we should have sunshine on the Ladies' Mile! Let's turn back. HE. What's the good? There's a cloud on Elysium Hill, and that means it's foggy all down the Mall. We'll go on. It'll blow away before we get to the Convent, perhaps. 'Jove! It is chilly. SHE. You feel it, fresh from below. Put on your ulster. What do you think of my cape? HE. Never ask a man his opinion of a woman's dress when he is desperately and abjectly in love with the wearer. Let me look. Like everything else of yours it's perfect. Where did you get it from? SHE. He gave it me, on Wednesday... our wedding-day, you know. HE. The deuce He did! He's growing generous in his old age. D'you like all that frilly, bunchy stuff at the throat? I don't. SHE. Don't you? "Kind Sir, O' your courtesy, As you go by the town, Sir, Pray you O' your love for me, Buy me a russet gown, Sir." HE. I won't say: "Keek into the draw-well, Janet, Janet." Only wait a little, darling, and you shall be stocked with russet gowns and everything else. SHE. And when the frocks wear out, you'll get me new ones--and everything else? HE. Assuredly. SHE. I wonder! HE. Look here, Sweetheart, I didn't spend two days and two nights in the train to hear you wonder. I thought we'd settled all that at Shaifazehat. SHE (dreamily). At Shaifazehat? Does the Station go on still? That was ages and ages ago. It must be crumbling to pieces. All except the Amirtollah kutcha road. I don't believe that could crumble till the Day of Judgment. Ha. You think so? What is the mood now? SHE. I can't tell. How cold it is! Let us get on quickly. Ha. Better walk a little. Stop your jhampanis and get out. What's the matter with you this evening, dear? SHE. Nothing. You must grow accustomed to my ways. If I'm boring you I can go home. Here's Captain Congleton coming; I dare say he'll be willing to escort me. Ha. Goose! Between us, too! Damn Captain Congleton. There! SHE. Chivalrous Knight! Is it your habit to swear much in talking? It jars a little, and you might swear at me. HE. My angel! I didn't know what I was saying; and you changed so quickly that I couldn't follow. I'll apologize in dust and ashes. SHE. There'll be enough of those later on. Good night, Captain Congleton. Going to the singing-quadrilles already? What dances am I giving you next week? No! You must have written them down wrong. Five and Seven, I said. If you've made a mistake, I certainly don't intend to suffer for it. You must alter your programme. HE. I thought you told me that you had not been going out much this season? SHE. Quite true, but when I do I dance with Captain Congleton. He dances very nicely. HE. And sit out with him, I suppose? SHE. Yes. Have you any objection? Shall I stand under the chandelier in future? HE. What does he talk to you about? SHE. What do men talk about when they sit out? Ha. Ugh! Don't! Well now I'm up, you must dispense with the fascinating Congleton for a while. I don't like him. SHE. (after a pause). Do you know what you have said? HE. 'Can't say that I do exactly. I'm not in the best of tempers. SHE. So I see... and feel. My true and faithful lover, where is your "eternal constancy," "unalterable trust," and "reverent devotion"? I remember those phrases; you seem to have forgotten them. I mention a man's name-- HE. A good deal more than that. SHE. Well, speak to him about a dance--perhaps the last dance that I shall ever dance in my life before I... before I go away; and you at once distrust and insult me. HE. I never said a word. SHE. How much did you imply? Guy, is this amount of confidence to be our stock to start the new life on? HE. No, of course not. I didn't mean that. On my word of honor, I didn't. Let it pass, dear. Please let it pass. SHE. This once--yes--and a second time, and again and again, all through the years when I shall be unable to resent it. You want too much, my Lancelot, and... you know too much. HE. How do you mean? SHE. That is a part of the punishment. There cannot be perfect trust between us. HE. In Heaven's name, why not? SHE. Hush! The Other Place is quite enough. Ask yourself. HE. I don't follow. SHE. You trust me so implicitly that when I look at another man--Never mind, Guy. Have you ever made love to a girl--a good girl? HE. Something of the sort. Centuries ago--in the Dark Ages, before I ever met you, dear. SHE. Tell me what you said to her. HE. What does a man say to a girl? I've forgotten. SHE. I remember. He tells her that he trusts her and worships the ground she walks on, and that he'll love and honor and protect her till her dying day; and so she marries in that belief. At least, I speak of one girl who was not protected. HE. Well, and then? SHE. And then, Guy, and then, that girl needs ten times the love and trust and honor--yes, honor--that was enough when she was only a mere wife if--if--the other life she chooses to lead is to be made even bearable. Do you understand? HE. Even bearable! It'll he Paradise. SHE. Ah! Can you give me all I've asked for--not now, nor a few months later, but when you begin to think of what you might have done if you had kept your own appointment and your caste here--when you begin to look upon me as a drag and a burden? I shall want it most, then, Guy, for there will be no one in the wide world but you. HE. You're a little over-tired tonight, Sweetheart, and you're taking a stage view of the situation. After the necessary business in the Courts, the road is clear to-- SHE. "The holy state of matrimony!" Ha! ha! ha! HE. Ssh! Don't laugh in that horrible way! SHE. I-I c-c-c-can't help it! Isn't it too absurd! Ah! Ha! ha! ha! Guy, stop me quick or I shall--l-l-laugh till we get to the Church. HE. For goodness' sake, stop! Don't make an exhibition of yourself. What is the matter with you? SHE. N-nothing. I'm better now. HE. That's all right. One moment, dear. There's a little wisp of hair got loose from behind your right ear and it's straggling over your cheek. So! SHE. Thank'oo. I'm 'fraid my hat's on one side, too. HE. What do you wear these huge dagger bonnet-skewers for? They're big enough to kill a man with. SHE. Oh! Don't kill me, though. You're sticking it into my head! Let me do it. You men are so clumsy. HE. Have you had many opportunities of comparing us--in this sort of work? SHE. Guy, what is my name? HE. Eh! I don't follow. SHE. Here's my cardcase. Can you read? HE. Yes. Well? SHE. Well, that answers your question. You know the other man's name. Am I sufficiently humbled, or would you like to ask me if there is any one else? HE. I see now. My darling, I never meant that for an instant. I was only joking. There! Lucky there's no one on the road. They'd be scandalized. SHE. They'll be more scandalized before the end. HE. Do-on't! I don't like you to talk in that way. SHE. Unreasonable man! Who asked me to face the situation and accept it? Tell me, do I look like Mrs. Penner? Do I look like a naughty woman? Swear I don't! Give me your word of honor, my honorable friend, that I'm not like Mrs. Buzgago. That's the way she stands, with her hands clasped at the back of her head. D'you like that? HE. Don't be affected. SHE. I'm not. I'm Mrs. Buzgago. Listen! Pendant une anne' toute entiere Le regiment n'a pas r'paru. Au Ministere de la Guerre On le r'porta comme perdu. On se r'noncait a r'trouver sa trace, Quand un matin subitement, On le vit r'paraitre sur la place L'Colonel toujours en avant. That's the way she rolls her r's. Am I like her? HE. No, but I object when you go on like an actress and sing stuff of that kind. Where in the world did you pick up the Chanson du Colonel? It isn't a drawing-room song. It isn't proper. SHE. Mrs. Buzgago taught it me. She is both drawing-room and proper, and in another month she'll shut her drawing-room to me, and thank God she isn't as improper as I am. Oh, Guy, Guy! I wish I was like some women and had no scruples about--what is it Keene says?--"Wearing a corpse's hair and being false to the bread they eat." HE. I am only a man of limited intelligence, and just now, very bewildered. When you have quite finished flashing through all your moods tell me, and I'll try to understand the last one. SHE. Moods, Guy! I haven't any. I'm sixteen years old and you're just twenty, and you've been waiting for two hours outside the school in the cold. And now I've met you, and now we're walking home together. Does that suit you, My Imperial Majesty? HE. No. We aren't children. Why can't you be rational? SHE. He asks me that when I'm going to commit suicide for his sake, and, and--I don't want to be French and rave about my mother, but have I ever told you that I have a mother, and a brother who was my pet before I married? He's married now. Can't you imagine the pleasure that the news of the elopement will give him? Have you any people at Home, Guy, to be pleased with your performances? HE. One or two. One can't make omelets without breaking eggs. SHE (slowly). I don't see the necessity-- HE. Hah! What do you mean? SHE. Shall I speak the truth? HE. Under the circumstances, perhaps it would be as well. SHE. Guy, I'm afraid. HE. I thought we'd settled all that. What of? SHE. Of you. HE. Oh, damn it all! The old business! This is too had! SHE. Of you. HE. And what now? SHE. What do you think of me? HE. Beside the question altogether. What do you intend to do? SHE. I daren't risk it. I'm afraid. If I could only cheat-- HE. A la Buzgago? No, thanks. That's the one point on which I have any notion of Honor. I won't eat his salt and steal too. I'll loot openly or not at all. SHE. I never meant anything else. HE. Then, why in the world do you pretend not to be willing to come? SHE. It's not pretence, Guy. I am afraid. HE. Please explain. SHE. It can't last, Guy. It can't last. You'll get angry, and then you'll swear, and then you'll get jealous, and then you'll mistrust me--you do now--and you yourself will be the best reason for doubting. And I--what shall I do? I shall be no better than Mrs. Buzgago found out--no better than any one. And you'll know that. Oh, Guy, can't you see? HE. I see that you are desperately unreasonable, little woman. SHE. There! The moment I begin to object, you get angry. What will you do when I am only your property--stolen property? It can't be, Guy. It can't be! I thought it could, but it can't. You'll get tired of me. HE. I tell you I shall not. Won't anything make you understand that? SHE. There, can't you see? If you speak to me like that now, you'll call me horrible names later, if I don't do everything as you like. And if you were cruel to me, Guy, where should I go--where should I go? I can't trust you. Oh! I can't trust you! HE. I suppose I ought to say that I can trust you. I've ample reason. SHE. Please don't, dear. It hurts as much as if you hit me. HE. It isn't exactly pleasant for me. SHE. I can't help it. I wish I were dead! I can't trust you, and I don't trust myself. Oh, Guy, let it die away and be forgotten! HE. Too late now. I don't understand you--I won't--and I can't trust myself to talk this evening. May I call tomorrow? SHE. Yes. No! Oh, give me time! The day after. I get into my 'rickshaw here and meet Him at Peliti's. You ride. HE. I'll go on to Peliti's too. I think I want a drink. My world's knocked about my ears and the stars are falling. Who are those brutes howling in the Old Library? SHE. They're rehearsing the singing-quadrilles for the Fancy Ball. Can't you hear Mrs. Buzgago's voice? She has a solo. It's quite a new idea. Listen. MRS. BUZGAGO (in the Old Library, con. molt. exp.). See-saw! Margery Daw! Sold her bed to lie upon straw. Wasn't she a silly slut To sell her bed and lie upon dirt? Captain Congleton, I'm going to alter that to "flirt." It sound better. HE. No, I've changed my mind about the drink. Good night, little lady. I shall see you tomorrow? SHE. Yes. Good night, Guy. Don't be angry with me. HE. Angry! You know I trust you absolutely. Good night and--God bless you! (Three seconds later. Alone.) Hmm! I'd give something to discover whether there's another man at the back of all this. A SECOND-RATE WOMAN Est fuga, volvitur rota, On we drift; where looms the dim port? One Two Three Four Five contribute their quota: Something is gained if one caught but the import, Show it us, Hugues of Saxe-Gotha. --Master Hugues of Saxe-Gotha. "DRESSED! Don't tell me that woman ever dressed in her life. She stood in the middle of her room while her ayah--no, her husband--it must have been a man--threw her clothes at her. She then did her hair with her fingers, and rubbed her bonnet in the flue under the bed. I know she did, as well as if I had assisted at the orgy. Who is she?" said Mrs. Hauksbee. "Don't!" said Mrs. Mallowe, feebly. "You make my head ache. I'm miserable today. Stay me with fondants, comfort me with chocolates, for I am--Did you bring anything from Peliti's?" "Questions to begin with. You shall have the sweets when you have answered them. Who and what is the creature? There were at least half a dozen men round her, and she appeared to be going to sleep in their midst." "Delville," said Mrs. Mallowe, "'Shady' Delville, to distinguish her from Mrs. Jim of that ilk. She dances as untidily as she dresses, I believe, and her husband is somewhere in Madras. Go and call, if you are so interested." "What have I to do with Shigramitish women? She merely caught my attention for a minute, and I wondered at the attraction that a dowd has for a certain type of man. I expected to see her walk out of her clothes--until I looked at her eyes." "Hooks and eyes, surely," drawled Mrs. Mallowe. "Don't be clever, Polly. You make my head ache. And round this hayrick stood a crowd of men--a positive crowd!" "Perhaps they also expected"-- "Polly, don't be Rabelaisian!" Mrs. Mallowe curled herself up comfortably on the sofa, and turned her attention to the sweets. She and Mrs. Hauksbee shared the same house at Simla; and these things befell two seasons after the matter of Otis Yeere, which has been already recorded. Mrs. Hauksbee stepped into the veranda and looked down upon the Mall, her forehead puckered with thought. "Hah!" said Mrs. Hauksbee, shortly. "Indeed!" "What is it?" said Mrs. Mallowe, sleepily. "That dowd and The Dancing Master--to whom I object." "Why to The Dancing Master? He is a middle-aged gentleman, of reprobate and romantic tendencies, and tries to be a friend of mine." "Then make up your mind to lose him. Dowds cling by nature, and I should imagine that this animal--how terrible her bonnet looks from above!--is specially clingsome." "She is welcome to The Dancing Master so far as I am concerned. I never could take an interest in a monotonous liar. The frustrated aim of his life is to persuade people that he is a bachelor." "0--oh! I think I've met that sort of man before. And isn't he?" "No. He confided that to me a few days ago. Ugh! Some men ought to Be killed." "What happened then?" "He posed as the horror of horrors--a misunderstood man. Heaven knows the femme incomprise is sad enough and had enough--but the other thing!" "And so fat too! I should have laughed in his face. Men seldom confide in me. How is it they come to you?" "For the sake of impressing me with their careers in the past. Protect me from men with confidences!" "And yet you encourage them?" "What can I do? They talk. I listen, and they vow that I am sympathetic. I know I always profess astonishment even when the plot is--of the most old possible." "Yes. Men are so unblushingly explicit if they are once allowed to talk, whereas women's confidences are full of reservations and fibs, except"-- "When they go mad and babble of the Unutterabilities after a week's acquaintance. Really, if you come to consider, we know a great deal more of men than of our own sex." "And the extraordinary thing is that men will never believe it. They say we are trying to hide something." "They are generally doing that on their own account. Alas! These chocolates pall upon me, and I haven't eaten more than a dozen. I think I shall go to sleep." "Then you'll get fat dear. If you took more exercise and a more intelligent interest in your neighbors you would--" "Be as much loved as Mrs. Hauksbee. You're a darling in many ways and I like you--you are not a woman's woman--but why do you trouble yourself about mere human beings?" "Because in the absence of angels, who I am sure would be horribly dull, men and women are the most fascinating things in the whole wide world, lazy one. I am interested in The Dowd--I am interested in The Dancing Master--I am interested in the Hawley Boy--and I am interested in you." "Why couple me with the Hawley Boy? He is your property." "Yes, and in his own guileless speech, I'm making a good thing out of him. When he is slightly more reformed, and has passed his Higher Standard, or whatever the authorities think fit to exact from him, I shall select a pretty little girl, the Holt girl, I think, and"--here she waved her hands airily--"'whom Mrs. Hauksbee hath joined together let no man put asunder.' That's all." "And when you have yoked May Holt with the most notorious detrimental in Simla, and earned the undying hatred of Mamma Holt, what will you do with me, Dispenser of the Destinies of the Universe?" Mrs. Hauksbee dropped into a low chair in front of the fire, and, chin in band, gazed long and steadfastly at Mrs. Mallowe. "I do not know," she said, shaking her head, "what I shall do with you, dear. It's obviously impossible to marry you to some one else--your husband would object and the experiment might not be successful after all. I think I shall begin by preventing you from--what is it?--'sleeping on ale-house benches and snoring in the sun.'" "Don't! I don't like your quotations. They are so rude. Go to the Library and bring me new books." "While you sleep? No! If you don't come with me, I shall spread your newest frock on my 'rickshaw-bow, and when any one asks me what I am doing, I shall say that I am going to Phelps's to get it let out. I shall take care that Mrs. MacNamara sees me. Put your things on, there's a good girl." Mrs. Mallowe groaned and obeyed, and the two went off to the Library, where they found Mrs. Delville and the man who went by the nickname of The Dancing Master. By that time Mrs Mallowe was awake and eloquent. "That is the Creature!" said Mrs Hauksbee, with the air of one pointing out a slug in the road. "No," said Mrs. Mallowe. "The man is the Creature. Ugh! Good-evening, Mr. Bent. I thought you were coming to tea this evening." "Surely it was for tomorrow, was it not?" answered The Dancing Master. "I understood... I fancied... I'm so sorry... How very unfortunate!..." But Mrs. Mallowe had passed on. "For the practiced equivocator you said he was," murmured Mrs. Hauksbee, "he strikes me as a failure. Now wherefore should he have preferred a walk with The Dowd to tea with us? Elective affinities, I suppose--both grubby. Polly, I'd never forgive that woman as long as the world rolls." "I forgive every woman everything," said Mrs. Mallowe. "He will be a sufficient punishment for her. What a common voice she has!" Mrs. Delville's voice was not pretty, her carriage was even less lovely, and her raiment was strikingly neglected. All these things Mrs. Mallowe noticed over the top of a magazine. "Now what is there in her?" said Mrs. Hauksbee. "Do you see what I meant about the clothes falling off? If I were a man I would perish sooner than be seen with that rag-bag. And yet, she has good eyes, but--oh!" "What is it?" "She doesn't know how to use them! On my Honor, she does not. Look! Oh look! Untidiness I can endure, but ignorance never! The woman's a fool." "H'sh! She'll hear you." "All the women in Simla are fools. She'll think I mean some one else. Now she's going out. What a thoroughly objectionable couple she and The Dancing Master make! Which reminds me. Do you suppose they'll ever dance together?" "Wait and see. I don't envy her the conversation of The Dancing Master--loathly man. His wife ought to be up here before long." "Do you know anything about him?" "Only what he told me. It may be all a fiction. He married a girl bred in the country, I think, and, being an honorable, chivalrous soul, told me that he repented his bargain and sent her to her mother as often as possible--a person who has lived in the Doon since the memory of man and goes to Mussoorie when other people go Home. The wife is with her at present. So he says." 'Babies?' "One only, but he talks of his wife in a revolting way. I hated him for it. He thought he was being epigrammatic and brilliant." "That is a vice peculiar to men. I dislike him because he is generally in the wake of some girl, disappointing the Eligibles. He will persecute May Holt no more, unless I am much mistaken." "No. I think Mrs. Delville may occupy his attention for a while." "Do you suppose she knows that he is the head of a family?" "Not from his lips. He swore me to eternal secrecy. Wherefore I tell you. Don't you know that type of man?" "Not intimately, thank goodness! As a general rule, when a man begins to abuse his wife to me, I find that the Lord gives me wherewith to answer him according to his folly; and we part with a coolness between us. I laugh." "I'm different. I've no sense of humor." "Cultivate it, then. It has been my mainstay for more years than I care to think about. A well-educated sense of Humor will save a woman when Religion, Training, and Home influences fail; and we may all need salvation sometimes." "Do you suppose that the Delville woman has humor?" "Her dress betrays her. How can a Thing who wears her supple'ment under her left arm have any notion of the fitness of things--much less their folly? If she discards The Dancing Master after having once seen him dance, I may respect her, Otherwise-- "But are we not both assuming a great deal too much, dear? You saw the woman at Peliti's--half an hour later you saw her walking with The Dancing Master--an hour later you met her here at the Library." "Still with The Dancing Master, remember." "Still with The Dancing Master, I admit, but why on the strength of that should you imagine"-- "I imagine nothing. I have no imagination. I am only convinced that The Dancing Master is attracted to The Dowd because he is objectionable in every way and she in every other. If I know the man as you have described him, he holds his wife in slavery at present." "She is twenty years younger than he." "Poor wretch! And, in the end, after he has posed and swaggered and lied--he has a mouth under that ragged moustache simply made for lies--he will be rewarded according to his merits." "I wonder what those really are," said Mrs. Mallowe. But Mrs. Hauksbee, her face close to the shelf of the new books, was humming softly: "What shall he have who killed the Deer!" She was a lady of unfettered speech. One month later, she announced her intention of calling upon Mrs. Delville. Both Mrs. Hauksbee and Mrs. Mallowe were in morning wrappers, and there was a great peace in the land. "I should go as I was," said Mrs. Mallowe. "It would be a delicate compliment to her style." Mrs. Hauksbee studied herself in the glass. "Assuming for a moment that she ever darkened these doors, I should put on this robe, after all the others, to show her what a morning wrapper ought to be. It might enliven her. As it is, I shall go in the dove-colored--sweet emblem of youth and innocence--and shall put on my new gloves." "If you really are going, dirty tan would be too good; and you know that dove--color spots with the rain." "I care not. I may make her envious. At least I shall try, though one cannot expect very much from a woman who puts a lace tucker into her habit." "Just Heavens! When did she do that?" "Yesterday--riding with The Dancing Master. I met them at the back of Jakko, and the rain had made the lace lie down. To complete the effect, she was wearing an unclean terai with the elastic under her chin. I felt almost too well content to take the trouble to despise her." "The Hawley Boy was riding with you. What did he think?" "Does a boy ever notice these things? Should I like him if he did? He stared in the rudest way, and just when I thought he had seen the elastic, he said, 'There's something very taking about that face.' I rebuked him on the spot. I don't approve of boys being taken by faces." "Other than your own. I shouldn't be in the least surprised if the Hawley Boy immediately went to call." "I forbade him. Let her be satisfied with The Dancing Master, and his wife when she comes up. I'm rather curious to see Mrs. Bent and the Delville woman together." Mrs. Hauksbee departed and, at the end of an hour, returned slightly flushed. "There is no limit to the treachery of youth! I ordered the Hawley Boy, as he valued my patronage, not to call. The first person I stumble over--literally stumble over--in her poky, dark, little drawing-room is, of course, the Hawley Boy. She kept us waiting ten minutes, and then emerged as though he had been tipped out of the dirty-clothes basket. You know my way, dear, when I am all put out. I was Superior, crrrushingly Superior! 'Lifted my eyes to Heaven, and had heard of nothing--'dropped my eyes on the carpet and 'really didn't know'--'played with my cardcase and 'supposed so.' The Hawley Boy giggled like a girl, and I had to freeze him with scowls between the sentences." "And she?" "She sat in a heap on the edge of a couch, and managed to convey the impression that she was suffering from stomach-ache, at the very least. It was all I could do not to ask after her symptoms. When I rose she grunted just like a buffalo in the water--too lazy to move." "Are you certain?"-- "Am I blind, Polly? Laziness, sheer laziness, nothing else--or her garments were only constructed for sitting down in. I stayed for a quarter of an hour trying to penetrate the gloom, to guess what her surroundings were like, while she stuck out her tongue." "Lu--cy!" "Well--I'll withdraw the tongue, though I'm sure if she didn't do it when I was in the room, she did the minute I was outside. At any rate, she lay in a lump and grunted. Ask the Hawley Boy, dear. I believe the grunts were meant for sentences, but she spoke so indistinctly that I can't swear to it." "You are incorrigible, simply." "I am not! Treat me civilly, give me peace with honor, don't put the only available seat facing the window, and a child may eat jam in my lap before Church. But I resent being grunted at. Wouldn't you? Do you suppose that she communicates her views on life and love to The Dancing Master in a set of modulated 'Grmphs'?" "You attach too much importance to The Dancing Master." "He came as we went, and The Dowd grew almost cordial at the sight of him. He smiled greasily, and moved about that darkened dog-kennel in a suspiciously familiar way." "Don't be uncharitable. Any sin but that I'll forgive." "Listen to the voice of History. I am only describing what I saw. He entered, the heap on the sofa revived slightly, and the Hawley Boy and I came away together. He is disillusioned, but I felt it my duty to lecture him severely for going there. And that's all." "Now for Pity's sake leave the wretched creature and The Dancing Master alone. They never did you any harm." "No harm? To dress as an example and a stumbling-block for half Simla, and then to find this Person who is dressed by the hand of God--not that I wish to disparage Him for a moment, but you know the tikka-dhurzie way He attires those lilies of the field--this Person draws the eyes of men--and some of them nice men? It's almost enough to make one discard clothing. I told the Hawley Boy so." "And what did that sweet youth do?" "Turned shell-pink and looked across the far blue hills like a distressed cherub. Am I talking wildly, Polly? Let me say my say, and I shall be calm. Otherwise I may go abroad and disturb Simla with a few original reflections. Excepting always your own sweet self, there isn't a single woman in the land who understands me when I am--what's the word?" "Tete-Fele'e," suggested Mrs. Mallowe. "Exactly! And now let us have tiffin. The demands of Society are exhausting, and as Mrs. Delville says"--Here Mrs. Hauksbee, to the horror of the khitmatgars, lapsed into a series of grunts, while Mrs. Mallowe stared in lazy surprise. "'God gie us a gude conceit of oorselves,'" said Mrs. Hauksbee, piously, returning to her natural speech. "Now, in any other woman that would have been vulgar. I am consumed with curiosity to see Mrs. Bent. I expect complications." "Woman of one idea," said Mrs. Mallowe, shortly; "all complications are as old as the hills! I have lived through or near all--all--ALL!" "And yet do not understand that men and women never behave twice alike. I am old who was young--if ever I put my head in your lap, you dear, big sceptic, you will learn that my parting is gauze--but never, no never have I lost my interest in men and women. Polly, I shall see this business Out to the bitter end." "I am going to sleep," said Mrs. Mallowe, calmly. "I never interfere with men or women unless I am compelled," and she retired with dignity to her own room. Mrs. Hauksbee's curiosity was not long left ungratified, for Mrs. Bent came up to Simla a few days after the conversation faithfully reported above, and pervaded the Mall by her husband's side. "Behold!" said Mrs. Hauksbee, thoughtfully rubbing her nose. "That is the last link of the chain, if we omit the husband of the Delville, whoever he may be. Let me consider. The Bents and the Delvilles inhabit the same hotel; and the Delville is detested by the Waddy--do you know the Waddy?--who is almost as big a dowd. The Waddy also abominates the male Bent, for which, if her other sins do not weigh too heavily, she will eventually be caught up to Heaven." "Don't be irreverent," said Mrs. Mallowe. "I like Mrs. Bent's face." "I am discussing the Waddy," returned Mrs. Hauksbee, loftily. "The Waddy will take the female Bent apart, after having borrowed--yes!--everything that she can, from hairpins to babies' bottles. Such, my dear, is life in a hotel. The Waddy will tell the female Bent facts and fictions about The Dancing Master and The Dowd." "Lucy, I should like you better if you were not always looking into people's back bedrooms." "Anybody can look into their front drawing-rooms; and remember whatever I do, and whatever I look, I never talk--as the Waddy will. Let us hope that The Dancing Master's greasy smile and manner of the pedagogue will soften the heart of that cow, his wife. If mouths speak truth, I should think that little Mrs. Bent could get very angry on occasion. "But what reason has she for being angry?" "What reason! The Dancing Master in himself is a reason. How does it go? 'If in his life some trivial errors fall, Look in his face and you'll believe them all.' I am prepared to credit any evil of The Dancing Master, because I hate him so. And The Dowd is so disgustingly badly dressed"-- "That she, too, is capable of every iniquity? I always prefer to believe the best of everybody. It saves so much trouble." "Very good. I prefer to believe the worst. It saves useless expenditure of sympathy. And you may be quite certain that the Waddy believes with me." Mrs. Mallowe sighed and made no answer. The conversation was holden after dinner while Mrs. Hauksbee was dressing for a dance. "I am too tired to go," pleaded Mrs. Mallowe, and Mrs. Hauksbee left her in peace till two in the morning, when she was aware of emphatic knocking at her door. "Don't be very angry, dear," said Mrs. Hauksbee. "My idiot of an ayah has gone home, and, as I hope to sleep tonight, there isn't a soul in the place to unlace me." "Oh, this is too bad!" said Mrs. Mallowe sulkily. "'Can't help it. I'm a lone, lorn grass-widow, dear, but I will not sleep in my stays. And such news, too! Oh, do unlace me, there's a darling! The Dowd--The Dancing Master--I and the Hawley Boy--You know the North veranda?" "How can I do anything if you spin round like this?" protested Mrs. Mallowe, fumbling with the knot of the laces. "Oh, I forget. I must tell my tale without the aid of your eyes. Do you know you've lovely eyes, dear? Well to begin with, I took the Hawley Boy to a kala juggah." "Did he want much taking?" "Lots! There was an arrangement of loose-boxes in kanats, and she was in the next one talking to him." "Which? How? Explain." "You know what I mean--The Dowd and The Dancing Master. We could hear every word and we listened shamelessly--'specially the Hawley Boy. Polly, I quite love that woman!" "This is interesting. There! Now turn round. What happened?" "One moment. Ah-h! Blessed relief. I've been looking forward to taking them off for the last half-hour--which is ominous at my time of life. But, as I was saying, we listened and heard The Dowd drawl worse than ever. She drops her final g's like a barmaid or a blue-blooded Aide-de-Camp. 'Look he-ere, you're gettin' too fond 0' me,' she said, and The Dancing Master owned it was so in language that nearly made me ill. The Dowd reflected for a while. Then we heard her say, 'Look he-ere, Mister Bent, why are you such an awful liar?' I nearly exploded while The Dancing Master denied the charge. It seems that he never told her he was a married man." "I said he wouldn't." "And she had taken this to heart, on personal grounds, I suppose. She drawled along for five minutes, reproaching him with his perfidy and grew quite motherly. 'Now you've got a nice little wife of your own--you have,' she said. 'She's ten times too good for a fat old man like you, and, look he-ere, you never told me a word about her, and I've been thinkin' about it a good deal, and I think you're a liar.' Wasn't that delicious? The Dancing Master maundered and raved till the Hawley Boy suggested that he should burst in and beat him. His voice runs up into an impassioned squeak when he is afraid. The Dowd must be an extraordinary woman. She explained that had he been a bachelor she might not have objected to his devotion; but since he was a married man and the father of a very nice baby, she considered him a hypocrite, and this she repeated twice. She wound up her drawl with: 'An I'm tellin' you this because your wife is angry with me, an' I hate quarrellin' with any other woman, an' I like your wife. You know how you have behaved for the last six weeks. You shouldn't have done it, indeed you shouldn't. You're too old an' fat.' Can't you imagine how The Dancing Master would wince at that! 'Now go away,' she said. 'I don't want to tell you what I think of you, because I think you are not nice. I'll stay he-ere till the next dance begins.' Did you think that the creature had so much in her?" "I never studied her as closely as you did. It sounds unnatural. What happened?" "The Dancing Master attempted blandishment, reproof, jocularity, and the style of the Lord High Warden, and I had almost to pinch the Hawley Boy to make him keep quiet. She grunted at the end of each sentence and, in the end he went away swearing to himself, quite like a man in a novel. He looked more objectionable than ever. I laughed. I love that woman--in spite of her clothes. And now I'm going to bed. What do you think of it?" "I sha'n't begin to think till the morning," said Mrs. Mallowe, yawning "Perhaps she spoke the truth. They do fly into it by accident sometimes." Mrs. Hauksbee's account of her eavesdropping was an ornate one but truthful in the main. For reasons best known to herself, Mrs. "Shady" Delville had turned upon Mr Bent and rent him limb from limb, casting him away limp and disconcerted ere she withdrew the light of her eyes from him permanently. Being a man of resource, and anything but pleased in that he had been called both old and fat, he gave Mrs. Bent to understand that he had, during her absence in the Doon, been the victim of unceasing persecution at the hands of Mrs. Delville, and he told the tale so often and with such eloquence that he ended in believing it, while his wife marvelled at the manners and customs of "some women." When the situation showed signs of languishing, Mrs. Waddy was always on hand to wake the smouldering fires of suspicion in Mrs. Bent's bosom and to contribute generally to the peace and comfort of the hotel. Mr. Bent's life was not a happy one, for if Mrs. Waddy's story were true, he was, argued his wife, untrustworthy to the last degree. If his own statement was true, his charms of manner and conversation were so great that he needed constant surveillance. And he received it, till he repented genuinely of his marriage and neglected his personal appearance. Mrs. Delville alone in the hotel was unchanged. She removed her chair some six paces toward the head of the table, and occasionally in the twilight ventured on timid overtures of friendship to Mrs. Bent, which were repulsed. "She does it for my sake," hinted the Virtuous Bent. "A dangerous and designing woman," purred Mrs. Waddy. Worst of all, every other hotel in Simla was full! * * * * * "Polly, are you afraid of diphtheria?" "Of nothing in the world except smallpox. Diphtheria kills, but it doesn't disfigure. Why do you ask?" "Because the Bent baby has got it, and the whole hotel is upside down in consequence. The Waddy has 'set her five young on the rail' and fled. The Dancing Master fears for his precious throat, and that miserable little woman, his wife, has no notion of what ought to be done. She wanted to put it into a mustard bath--for croup!" "Where did you learn all this?" "Just now, on the Mall. Dr. Howlen told me. The Manager of the hotel is abusing the Bents, and the Bents are abusing the manager. They are a feckless couple." "Well. What's on your mind?" "This; and I know it's a grave thing to ask. Would you seriously object to my bringing the child over here, with its mother?" "On the most strict understanding that we see nothing of The Dancing Master." "He will be only too glad to stay away. Polly, you're an angel. The woman really is at her wits' end." "And you know nothing about her, careless, and would hold her up to public scorn if it gave you a minute's amusement. Therefore you risk your life for the sake of her brat. No, Loo, I'm not the angel. I shall keep to my rooms and avoid her. But do as you please--only tell me why you do it." Mrs. Hauksbee's eyes softened; she looked out of the window and back into Mrs. Mallowe's face. "I don't know," said Mrs. Hauksbee, simply. "You dear!" "Polly!--and for aught you knew you might have taken my fringe off. Never do that again without warning. Now we'll get the rooms ready. I don't suppose I shall be allowed to circulate in society for a month." "And I also. Thank goodness I shall at last get all the sleep I want." Much to Mrs. Bent's surprise she and the baby were brought over to the house almost before she knew where she was. Bent was devoutly and undisguisedly thankful, for he was afraid of the infection, and also hoped that a few weeks in the hotel alone with Mrs. Delville might lead to explanations. Mrs. Bent had thrown her jealousy to the winds in her fear for her child's life. "We can give you good milk," said Mrs. Hauksbee to her, "and our house is much nearer to the Doctor's than the hotel, and you won't feel as though you were living in a hostile camp Where is the dear Mrs. Waddy? She seemed to be a particular friend of yours." "They've all left me," said Mrs. Bent, bitterly. "Mrs. Waddy went first. She said I ought to be ashamed of myself for introducing diseases there, and I am sure it wasn't my fault that little Dora"-- "How nice!" cooed Mrs. Hauksbee. "The Waddy is an infectious disease herself--'more quickly caught than the plague and the taker runs presently mad.' I lived next door to her at the Elysium, three years ago. Now see, you won't give us the least trouble, and I've ornamented all the house with sheets soaked in carbolic. It smells comforting, doesn't it? Remember I'm always in call, and my ayah's at your service when yours goes to her meals and--and... if you cry I'll never forgive you." Dora Bent occupied her mother's unprofitable attention through the day and the night. The Doctor called thrice in the twenty-four hours, and the house reeked with the smell of the Condy's Fluid, chlorine-water, and carbolic acid washes. Mrs. Mallowe kept to her own rooms--she considered that she had made sufficient concessions in the cause of humanity--and Mrs. Hauksbee was more esteemed by the Doctor as a help in the sick-room than the half-distraught mother. "I know nothing of illness," said Mrs. Hauksbee to the Doctor. "Only tell me what to do, and I'll do it." "Keep that crazy woman from kissing the child, and let her have as little to do with the nursing as you possibly can," said the Doctor; "I'd turn her out of the sick-room, but that I honestly believe she'd die of anxiety. She is less than no good, and I depend on you and the ayahs, remember." Mrs. Hauksbee accepted the responsibility, though it painted olive hollows under her eyes and forced her to her oldest dresses. Mrs. Bent clung to her with more than childlike faith. "I know you'll, make Dora well, won't you?" she said at least twenty times a day; and twenty times a day Mrs. Hauksbee answered valiantly, "Of course I will." But Dora did not improve, and the Doctor seemed to be always in the house. "There's some danger of the thing taking a bad turn," he said; "I'll come over between three and four in the morning tomorrow." "Good gracious!" said Mrs. Hauksbee. "He never told me what the turn would be! My education has been horribly neglected; and I have only this foolish mother-woman to fall back upon." The night wore through slowly, and Mrs. Hauksbee dozed in a chair by the fire. There was a dance at the Viceregal Lodge, and she dreamed of it till she was aware of Mrs. Bent's anxious eyes staring into her own. "Wake up! Wake up! Do something!" cried Mrs. Bent, piteously. "Dora's choking to death! Do you mean to let her die?" Mrs. Hauksbee jumped to her feet and bent over the bed. The child was fighting for breath, while the mother wrung her hands despairing. "Oh, what can I do? What can you do? She won't stay still! I can't hold her. Why didn't the Doctor say this was coming?" screamed Mrs. Bent. "Won't you help me? She's dying!" "I-I've never seen a child die before!" stammered Mrs. Hauksbee, feebly, and then--let none blame her weakness after the strain of long watching--she broke down, and covered her face with her hands. The ayahs on the threshold snored peacefully. There was a rattle of 'rickshaw wheels below, the clash of an opening door, a heavy step on the stairs, and Mrs. Delville entered to find Mrs. Bent screaming for the Doctor as she ran round the room. Mrs. Hauksbee, her hands to her ears, and her face buried in the chintz of a chair, was quivering with pain at each cry from the bed, and murmuring, "Thank God, I never bore a child! Oh! thank God, I never bore a child!" Mrs. Delville looked at the bed for an instant, took Mrs. Bent by the shoulders, and said, quietly, "Get me some caustic. Be quick." The mother obeyed mechanically. Mrs. Delville had thrown herself down by the side of the child and was opening its mouth. "Oh, you're killing her!" cried Mrs. Bent. "Where's the Doctor! Leave her alone!" Mrs. Delville made no reply for a minute, but busied herself with the child. "Now the caustic, and hold a lamp behind my shoulder. Will you do as you are told? The acid-bottle, if you don't know what I mean," she said. A second time Mrs. Delville bent over the child. Mrs. Hauksbee, her face still hidden, sobbed and shivered. One of the ayahs staggered sleepily into the room, yawning: "Doctor Sahib come." Mrs. Delville turned her head. "You're only just in time," she said. "It was chokin' her when I came in, an' I've burned it." "There was no sign of the membrane getting to the air-passages after the last steaming. It was the general weakness, I feared," said the Doctor half to himself, and he whispered as he looked. "You've done what I should have been afraid to do without consultation." "She was dyin'," said Mrs. Delville, under her breath. "Can you do anythin'? What a mercy it was I went to the dance!" Mrs. Hauksbee raised her head. "Is it all over?" she gasped. "I'm useless--I'm worse than useless! What are you doing here?" She stared at Mrs. Delville, and Mrs. Bent, realizing for the first time who was the Goddess from the Machine, stared also. Then Mrs. Delville made explanation, putting on a dirty long glove and smoothing a crumpled and ill-fitting ball-dress. "I was at the dance, an' the Doctor was tellin' me about your baby bein' so ill. So I came away early, an' your door was open, an' I-I lost my boy this way six months ago, an' I've been tryin' to forget it ever since, an' I-I-I-am very sorry for intrudin' an' anythin' that has happened." Mrs. Bent was putting out the Doctor's eye with a lamp as he stooped over Dora. "Take it away," said the Doctor. "I think the child will do, thanks to you, Mrs. Delville. I should have come too late, but, I assure you"--he was addressing himself to Mrs. Delville--"I had not the faintest reason to expect this. The membrane must have grown like a mushroom. Will one of you help me, please?" He had reason for the last sentence. Mrs. Hauksbee had thrown herself into Mrs. Delville's arms, where she was weeping bitterly, and Mrs. Bent was unpicturesquely mixed up with both, while from the tangle came the sound of many sobs and much promiscuous kissing. "Good gracious! I've spoilt all your beautiful roses!" said Mrs. Hauksbee, lifting her head from the lump of crushed gum and calico atrocities on Mrs. Delville's shoulder and hurrying to the Doctor. Mrs. Delville picked up her shawl, and slouched out of the room, mopping her eyes with the glove that she had not put on. "I always said she was more than a woman," sobbed Mrs. Hauksbee, hysterically, "and that proves it!" * * * * * Six weeks later, Mrs. Bent and Dora had returned to the hotel. Mrs. Hauksbee had come out of the Valley of Humiliation, had ceased to reproach herself for her collapse in an hour of need, and was even beginning to direct the affairs of the world as before. "So nobody died, and everything went off as it should, and I kissed The Dowd, Polly. I feel so old. Does it show in my face?" "Kisses don't as a rule, do they? Of course you know what the result of The Dowd's providential arrival has been." "They ought to build her a statue--only no sculptor dare copy those skirts." "Ah!" said Mrs. Mallowe, quietly. "She has found another reward. The Dancing Master has been smirking through Simla giving every one to understand that she came because of her undying love for him--for him--to save his child, and all Simla naturally believes this." "But Mrs. Bent"-- "Mrs. Bent believes it more than any one else. She won't speak to The Dowd now. Isn't The Dancing Master an angel?" Mrs. Hauksbee lifted up her voice and raged till bedtime. The doors of the two rooms stood open. "Polly," said a voice from the darkness, "what did that American-heiress-globe-trotter-girl say last season when she was tipped out of her 'rickshaw turning a corner? Some absurd adjective that made the man who picked her up explode." "'Paltry,'" said Mrs. Mallowe. "Through her nose--like this--'Ha-ow pahltry!'" "Exactly," said the voice. "Ha-ow pahltry it all is!" "Which?" "Everything. Babies, Diphtheria, Mrs. Bent and The Dancing Master, I whooping in a chair, and The Dowd dropping in from the clouds. I wonder what the motive was--all the motives." "Um!" "What do you think?" "Don't ask me. She was a woman. Go to sleep." * * * * * ONLY A SUBALTERN ... Not only to enforce by command but to encourage by example the energetic discharge of duty and the steady endurance of the difficulties and privations inseparable from Military Service. --Bengal Army Regulations. THEY made Bobby Wick pass an examination at Sandhurst. He was a gentleman before he was gazetted, so, when the Empress announced that "Gentleman-Cadet Robert Hanna Wick" was posted as Second Lieutenant to the Tyneside Tail Twisters at Kram Bokhar, he became an officer and a gentleman, which is an enviable thing; and there was joy in the house of Wick where Mamma Wick and all the little Wicks fell upon their knees and offered incense to Bobby by virtue of his achievements. Papa Wick had been a Commissioner in his day, holding authority over three millions of men in the Chota-Buldana Division, building great works for the good of the land, and doing his best to make two blades of grass grow where there was but one before. Of course, nobody knew anything about this in the little English village where he was just "old Mr. Wick" and had forgotten that he was a Companion of the Order of the Star of India. He patted Bobby on the shoulder and said: "Well done, my boy!" There followed, while the uniform was being prepared, an interval of pure delight, during which Bobby took brevet-rank as a "man" at the women-swamped tennis-parties and tea-fights of the village, and, I dare say, had his joining-time been extended, would have fallen in love with several girls at once. Little country villages at Home are very full of nice girls, because all the young men come out to India to make their fortunes. "India," said Papa Wick, "is the place. I've had thirty years of it and, begad, I'd like to go back again. When you join the Tail Twisters you'll be among friends, if every one hasn't forgotten Wick of Chota-Buldana, and a lot of people will be kind to you for our sakes. The mother will tell you more about outfit than I can, but remember this. Stick to your Regiment, Bobby--stick to your Regiment. You'll see men all round you going into the Staff Corps, and doing every possible sort of duty but regimental, and you may be tempted to follow suit. Now so long as you keep within your allowance, and I haven't stinted you there, stick to the Line, the whole Line and nothing but the Line. Be careful how you back another young fool's bill, and if you fall in love with a woman twenty years older than yourself, don't tell me about it, that's all." With these counsels, and many others equally valuable, did Papa Wick fortify Bobby ere that last awful night at Portsmouth when the Officers' Quarters held more inmates than were provided for by the Regulations, and the liberty-men of the ships fell foul of the drafts for India, and the battle raged from the Dockyard Gates even to the slums of Longport, while the drabs of Fratton came down and scratched the faces of the Queen's Officers. Bobby Wick, with an ugly bruise on his freckled nose, a sick and shaky detachment to manoeuvre inship and the comfort of fifty scornful females to attend to, had no time to feel homesick till the Malabar reached mid-Channel, when he doubled his emotions with a little guard-visiting and a great many other matters. The Tail Twisters were a most particular Regiment. Those who knew them least said that they were eaten up with "side." But their reserve and their internal arrangements generally were merely protective diplomacy. Some five years before, the Colonel commanding had looked into the fourteen fearless eyes of seven plump and juicy subalterns who had all applied to enter the Staff Corps, and had asked them why the three stars should he, a colonel of the Line, command a dashed nursery for double-dashed bottle-suckers who put on condemned tin spurs and rode qualified mokes at the hiatused heads of forsaken Black Regiments. He was a rude man and a terrible. Wherefore the remnant took measures [with the half-butt as an engine of public opinion] till the rumor went abroad that young men who used the Tail Twisters as a crutch to the Staff Corps, had many and varied trials to endure. However a regiment had just as much right to its own secrets as a woman. When Bobby came up from Deolali and took his place among the Tail Twisters, it was gently But firmly borne in upon him that the Regiment was his father and his mother and his indissolubly wedded wife, and that there was no crime under the canopy of heaven blacker than that of bringing shame on the Regiment, which was the best-shooting, best-drilled, best-set-up, bravest, most illustrious, and in all respects most desirable Regiment within the compass of the Seven Seas. He was taught the legends of the Mess Plate from the great grinning Golden Gods that had come out of the Summer Palace in Pekin to the silver-mounted markhor-horn snuff-mull presented by the last C. 0. [he who spake to the seven subalterns]. And every one of those legends told him of battles fought at long odds, without fear as without support; of hospitality catholic as an Arab's; of friendships deep as the sea and steady as the fighting-line; of honor won by hard roads for honor's sake; and of instant and unquestioning devotion to the Regiment--the Regiment that claims the lives of all and lives forever. More than once, too, he came officially into contact with the Regimental colors, which looked like the lining of a bricklayer's hat on the end of a chewed stick. Bobby did not kneel and worship them, because British subalterns are not constructed in that manner. Indeed, he condemned them for their weight at the very moment that they were filling with awe and other more noble sentiments. But best of all was the occasion when he moved with the Tail Twisters, in review order at the breaking of a November day. Allowing for duty-men and sick, the Regiment was one thousand and eighty strong, and Bobby belonged to them; for was he not a Subaltern of the Line the whole Line and nothing but the Line--as the tramp of two thousand one hundred and sixty sturdy ammunition boots attested. He would not have changed places with Deighton of the Horse Battery, whirling by in a pillar of cloud to a chorus of "Strong right! Strong left!" or Hogan-Yale of the White Hussars, leading his squadron for all it was worth, with the price of horseshoes thrown in; or "Tick" Boileau, trying to live up to his fierce blue and gold turban while the wasps of the Bengal Cavalry stretched to a gallop in the wake of the long, lollopping Walers of the White Hussars. They fought through the clear cool day, and Bobby felt a little thrill run down his spine when he heard the tinkle-tinkle-tinkle of the empty cartridge-cases hopping from the breech-blocks after the roar of the volleys; for he knew that he should live to hear that sound in action. The review ended in a glorious chase across the plain--batteries thundering after cavalry to the huge disgust of the White Hussars, and the Tyneside Tail Twisters hunting a Sikh Regiment, till the lean lathy Singhs panted with exhaustion. Bobby was dusty and dripping long before noon, but his enthusiasm was merely focused--not diminished. He returned to sit at the feet of Revere, his "skipper," that is to say, the Captain of his Company, and to be instructed in the dark art and mystery of managing men, which is a very large part of the Profession of Arms. "If you haven't a taste that way," said Revere, between his puffs of his cheroot, "you'll never be able to get the hang of it, but remember Bobby, 'tisn't the best drill, though drill is nearly everything, that hauls a Regiment through Hell and out on the other side. It's the man who knows how to handle men--goat-men, swine-men, dog-men, and so on." "Dormer, for instance," said Bobby. "I think he comes under the head of fool-men. He mopes like a sick owl." "That's where you make your mistake, my son. Dormer isn't a fool yet, but he's a dashed dirty soldier, and his room corporal makes fun of his socks before kit-inspection. Dormer, being two-thirds pure brute, goes into a corner and growls." "How do you know?" said Bobby, admiringly. "Because a Company commander has to know these things--because, if he does not know, he may have crime--ay, murder--brewing under his very nose and yet not see that it's there. Dormer is being badgered out of his mind--big as he is--and he hasn't intellect enough to resent it. He's taken to quiet boozing and, Bobby, when the butt of a room goes on the drink, or takes to moping by himself, measures are necessary to pull him out of himself." "What measures? 'Man can't run round coddling his men forever." "No. The men would precious soon show him that he was not wanted. You've got to"--Here the Color-sergeant entered with some papers; Bobby reflected for a while as Revere looked through the Company forms. "Does Dormer do anything, Sergeant?" Bobby asked, with the air of one continuing an interrupted conversation. "No, sir. Does 'is dooty like a hortomato," said the Sergeant, who delighted in long words. "A dirty soldier, and 'e's under full stoppages for new kit. It's covered with scales, sir." "Scales? What scales?" "Fish-scales, sir. 'E's always pokin' in the mud by the river an' a-cleanin' them muchly-fish with 'is thumbs." Revere was still absorbed in the Company papers, and the Sergeant, who was sternly fond of Bobby, continued,--"'E generally goes down there when 'e's got 'is skinful, beggin' your pardon, sir, an' they do say that the more lush in-he-briated 'e is, the more fish 'e catches. They call 'im the Looney Fish-monger in the Comp'ny, sir." Revere signed the last paper and the Sergeant retreated. "It's a filthy amusement," sighed Bobby to himself. Then aloud to Revere: "Are you really worried about Dormer?" "A little. You see he's never mad enough to send to a hospital, or drunk enough to run in, but at any minute he may flare up, brooding and sulking as he does. He resents any interest being shown in him, and the only time I took him out shooting he all but shot me by accident." "I fish," said Bobby, with a wry face. "I hire a country-boat and go down the river from Thursday to Sunday, and the amiable Dormer goes with me--if you can spare us both." "You blazing young fool!" said Revere, but his heart was full of much more pleasant words. Bobby, the Captain of a dhoni, with Private Dormer for mate, dropped down the river on Thursday morning--the Private at the bow, the Subaltern at the helm. The Private glared uneasily at the Subaltern, who respected the reserve of the Private. After six hours, Dormer paced to the stern, saluted, and said--"Beg y'pardon, sir, but was you ever on the Durh'm Canal?" "No," said Bobby Wick. "Come and have some tiffin." They ate in silence. As the evening fell, Private Dormer broke forth, speaking to himself--"Hi was on the Durh'm Canal, jes' such a night, come next week twelve month, a-trailin' of my toes in the water." He smoked and said no more till bedtime. The witchery of the dawn turned the grey river-reaches to purple, gold, and opal; and it was as though the lumbering dhoni crept across the splendors of a new heaven. Private Dormer popped his head out of his blanket and gazed at the glory below and around. "Well--damn-my-eyes!" said Private Dormer, in an awed whisper. "This 'ere is like a bloomin' gallantry-show!" For the rest of the day he was dumb, but achieved an ensanguined filthiness through the cleaning of big fish. The boat returned on Saturday evening. Dormer had been struggling with speech since noon. As the lines and luggage were being disembarked, he found tongue. "Beg y'pardon--sir," he said, "but would you--would you min' shakin' 'ands with me, sir?" "Of course not," said Bobby, and he shook accordingly. Dormer returned to barracks and Bobby to mess. "He wanted a little quiet and some fishing, I think," said Bobby. "My aunt, but he's a filthy sort of animal! Have you ever seen him clean 'them, muchly-fish with 'is thumbs'?" "Anyhow," said Revere, three weeks later, "he's doing his best to keep his things clean." When the spring died, Bobby joined in the general scramble for Hill leave, and to his surprise and delight secured three months. "As good a boy as I want," said Revere, the admiring skipper. "The best of the batch," said the Adjutant to the Colonel. "Keep back that young skrim-shanker Porkiss, sir, and let Revere make him sit up." So Bobby departed joyously to Simla Pahar with a tin box of gorgeous raiment. "Son of Wick--old Wick of Chota-Buldana? Ask him to dinner, dear," said the aged men. "What a nice boy!" said the matrons and the maids. "First-class place, Simla. Oh, ri-ipping!" said Bobby Wick, and ordered new white cord breeches on the strength of it. "We're in a bad way," wrote Revere to Bobby at the end of two months. "Since you left, the Regiment has taken to fever and is fairly rotten with it--two hundred in hospital, about a hundred in cells--drinking to keep off fever--and the Companies on parade fifteen file strong at the outside. There's rather more sickness in the out-villages than I care for, but then I'm so blistered with prickly-heat that I'm ready to hang myself. What's the yarn about your mashing a Miss Haverley up there? Not serious, I hope? You're over-young to hang millstones round your neck, and the Colonel will turf you out of that in double-quick time if you attempt it." It was not the Colonel that brought Bobby out of Simla, but a much more to be respected Commandant. The sick ness in the out-villages spread, the Bazar was put out of bounds, and then came the news that the Tail Twisters must go into camp. The message flashed to the Hill stations.--"Cholera--Leave stopped--Officers recalled." Alas, for the white gloves in the neatly soldered boxes, the rides and the dances and picnics that were to he, the loves half spoken, and the debts unpaid! Without demur and without question, fast as tongue could fly or pony gallop, back to their Regiments and their Batteries, as though they were hastening to their weddings, fled the subalterns. Bobby received his orders on returning from a dance at Viceregal Lodge where he had--but only the Haverley girl knows what Bobby had said or how many waltzes he had claimed for the next ball. Six in the morning saw Bobby at the Tonga Office in the drenching rain, the whirl of the last waltz still in his ears, and an intoxication due neither to wine nor waltzing in his brain. "Good man!" shouted Deighton of the Horse Battery, through the mists. "Whar you raise dat tonga? I'm coming with you. Ow! But I've had a head and a half. I didn't sit out all night. They say the Battery's awful bad," and he hummed dolorously--Leave the what at the what's-its-name, Leave the flock without shelter, Leave the corpse uninterred, Leave the bride at the altar! "My faith! It'll be more bally corpse than bride, though, this journey. Jump in, Bobby. Get on, Coachman!" On the Umballa platform waited a detachment of officers discussing the latest news from the stricken cantonment, and it was here that Bobby learned the real condition of the Tail Twisters. "They went into camp," said an elderly Major recalled from the whist-tables at Mussoorie to a sickly Native Regiment, "they went into camp with two hundred and ten sick in carts. Two hundred and ten fever cases only, and the balance looking like so many ghosts with sore eyes. A Madras Regiment could have walked through 'em." "But they were as fit as be-damned when I left them!" said Bobby. "Then you'd better make them as fit as be-damned when you rejoin," said the Major, brutally. Bobby pressed his forehead against the rain-splashed windowpane as the train lumbered across the sodden Doab, and prayed for the health of the Tyneside Tail Twisters. Naini Tal had sent down her contingent with all speed; the lathering ponies of the Dalhousie Road staggered into Pathankot, taxed to the full stretch of their strength; while from cloudy Darjiling the Calcutta Mail whirled up the last straggler of the little army that was to fight a fight, in which was neither medal nor honor for the winning, against an enemy none other than "the sickness that destroyeth in the noonday." And as each man reported himself, he said: "This is a bad business," and went about his own forthwith, for every Regiment and Battery in the cantonment was under canvas, the sickness bearing them company. Bobby fought his way through the rain to the Tail Twisters' temporary mess, and Revere could have fallen on the boy's neck for the joy of seeing that ugly, wholesome phiz once more. "Keep 'em amused and interested," said Revere. "They went on the drink, poor fools, after the first two cases, and there was no improvement. Oh, it's good to have you back, Bobby! Porkiss is a--never mind." Deighton came over from the Artillery camp to attend a dreary mess dinner, and contributed to the general gloom by nearly weeping over the condition of his beloved Battery. Porkiss so far forgot himself as to insinuate that the presence of the officers could do no earthly good, and that the best thing would be to send the entire Regiment into hospital and "let the doctors look after them." Porkiss was demoralized with fear, nor was his peace of mind restored when Revere said coldly: "Oh! The sooner you go out the better, if that's your way of thinking. Any public school could send us fifty good men in your place, but it takes time, time, Porkiss, and money, and a certain amount of trouble, to make a Regiment. 'S'pose you're the person we go into camp for, eh?" Whereupon Porkiss was overtaken with a great and chilly fear which a drenching in the rain did not allay, and, two days later, quitted this world for another where, men do fondly hope, allowances are made for the weaknesses of the flesh. The Regimental Sergeant-Major looked wearily across the Sergeants' Mess tent when the news was announced. "There goes the worst of them," he said. "It'll take the best, and then, please God, it'll stop." The Sergeants were silent till one said: "It couldn't be him!" and all knew of whom Travis was thinking. Bobby Wick stormed through the tents of his Company, rallying, rebuking mildly, as is consistent with the Regulations, chaffing the faint-hearted: haling the sound into the watery sunlight when there was a break in the weather, and bidding them be of good cheer for their trouble was nearly at an end; scuttling on his dun pony round the outskirts of the camp and heading back men who, with the innate perversity of British soldier's, were always wandering into infected villages, or drinking deeply from rain-flooded marshes; comforting the panic-stricken with rude speech, and more than once tending the dying who had no friends--the men without "townies"; organizing, with banjos and burned cork, Sing-songs which should allow the talent of the Regiment full play; and generally, as he explained, "playing the giddy garden-goat all round." "You're worth half a dozen of us, Bobby," said Revere in a moment of enthusiasm. "How the devil do you keep it up?" Bobby made no answer, but had Revere looked into the breast-pocket of his coat he might have seen there a sheaf of badly-written letters which perhaps accounted for the power that possessed the boy. A letter came to Bobby every other day. The spelling was not above reproach, but the sentiments must have been most satisfactory, for on receipt Bobby's eyes softened marvelously, and he was wont to fall into a tender abstraction for a while ere, shaking his cropped head, he charged into his work. By what power he drew after him the hearts of the roughest, and the Tail Twisters counted in their ranks some rough diamonds indeed, was a mystery to both skipper and C. O., who learned from the regimental chaplain that Bobby was considerably more in request in the hospital tents than the Reverend John Emery. "The men seem fond of you. Are you in the hospitals much?" said the Colonel, who did his daily round and ordered the men to get well with a hardness that did not cover his bitter grief. "A little, sir," said Bobby. "Shouldn't go there too often if I were you. They say it's not contagious, but there's no use in running unnecessary risks. We can't afford to have you down, y'know." Six days later, it was with the utmost difficulty that the post-runner plashed his way out to the camp with mailbags, for the rain was falling in torrents. Bobby received a letter, bore it off to his tent, and, the programme for the next week's Sing-song being satisfactorily disposed of, sat down to answer it. For an hour the unhandy pen toiled over the paper, and where sentiment rose to more than normal tide-level Bobby Wick stuck out his tongue and breathed heavily. He was not used to letter-writing. "Beg y'pardon, sir," said a voice at the tent door; "but Dormer's 'orrid bad, sir, an' they've taken him orf, sir. "Damn Private Dormer and you too!" said Bobby Wick running the blotter over the half-finished letter. "Tell him I'll come in the morning." "'E's awful bad, sir," said the voice, hesitatingly. There was an undecided squelching of heavy boots. "Well?" said Bobby, impatiently. "Excusin' 'imself before an' for takin' the liberty, 'e says it would be a comfort for to assist 'im, sir, if"-- "Tattoo lao! Get my pony! Here, come in out of the rain till I'm ready. What blasted nuisances you are! That's brandy. Drink some; you want it. Hang on to my stirrup and tell me if I go mo fast." Strengthened by a four-finger "nip" which he swallowed without a wink, the Hospital Orderly kept up with the slipping, mud-stained, and very disgusted pony as it shambled to the hospital tent. Private Dormer was certainly "'orrid bad." He had all but reached the stage of collapse and was not pleasant to look upon. "What's this, Dormer?" said Bobby, bending over the man. "You're not going out this time. You've got to come fishin' with me once or twice more yet." The blue lips parted and in the ghost of a whisper said,--"Beg y'pardon, sir, disturbin' of you now, but would you min' 'oldin' my 'and, sir?" Bobby sat on the side of the bed, and the icy cold hand closed on his own like a vice, forcing a lady's ring which was on the little finger deep into the flesh. Bobby set his lips and waited, the water dripping from the hem of his trousers. An hour passed and the grasp of the hand did not relax, nor did the expression on the drawn face change. Bobby with infinite craft lit himself a cheroot with the left hand--his right arm was numbed to the elbow--and resigned himself to a night of pain. Dawn showed a very white-faced Subaltern sitting on the side of a sick man's cot, and a Doctor in the doorway using language unfit for publication. "Have you been here all night, you young ass?" said the Doctor. "There or thereabouts," said Bobby, ruefully. "He's frozen on to me." Dormer's mouth shut with a click. He turned his head and sighed. The clinging band opened, and Bobby's arm fell useless at his side. "He'll do," said the Doctor, quietly. "It must have been a toss-up all through the night. 'Think you're to be congratulated on this case." "Oh, bosh!" said Bobby. "I thought the man had gone out long ago--only--only I didn't care to take my hand away. Rub my arm down, there's a good chap. What a grip the brute has! I'm chilled to the marrow!" He passed out of the tent shivering. Private Dormer was allowed to celebrate his repulse of Death by strong waters. Four days later, he sat on the side of his cot and said to the patients mildly: "I'd 'a' liken to 'a' spoken to 'im--so I should." But at that time Bobby was reading yet another letter--he had the most persistent correspondent of any man in camp--and was even then about to write that the sickness had abated, and in another week at the outside would be gone. He did not intend to say that the chill of a sick man's hand seemed to have struck into the heart whose capacities for affection he dwelt on at such length. He did intend to enclose the illustrated programme of the forthcoming Sing-song whereof he was not a little proud. He also intended to write on many other matters which do not concern us, and doubtless would have done so but for the slight feverish headache which made him dull and unresponsive at mess. "You are overdoing it, Bobby," said his skipper. "'Might give the rest of us credit of doing a little work. You go on as if you were the whole Mess rolled into one. Take it easy." "I will," said Bobby. "I'm feeling done up, somehow." Revere looked at him anxiously and said nothing. There was a flickering of lanterns about the camp that night, and a rumor that brought men out of their cots to the tent doors, a paddling of the naked feet of doolie-bearers and the rush of a galloping horse. "Wot's up?" asked twenty tents; and through twenty tents ran the answer--"Wick, 'e's down." They brought the news to Revere and he groaned. "Any one but Bobby and I shouldn't have cared! The Sergeant-Major was right." "Not going out this journey," gasped Bobby, as he was lifted from the doolie. "Not going out this journey." Then with an air of supreme conviction--"I can't, you see." "Not if I can do anything!" said the Surgeon-Major, who had hastened over from the mess where he had been dining. He and the Regimental Surgeon fought together with Death for the life of Bobby Wick. Their work was interrupted by a hairy apparition in a blue-grey dressing-gown who stared in horror at the bed and cried--"Oh, my Gawd. It can't be 'im!" until an indignant Hospital Orderly whisked him away. If care of man and desire to live could have done aught, Bobby would have been saved. As it was, he made a fight of three days, and the Surgeon-Major's brow uncreased. "We'll save him yet," he said; and the Surgeon, who, though he ranked with the Captain, had a very youthful heart, went out upon the word and pranced joyously in the mud. "Not going out this journey," whispered Bobby Wick, gallantly, at the end of the third day. "Bravo!" said the Surgeon-Major. "That's the way to look at it, Bobby." As evening fell a grey shade gathered round Bobby's mouth, and he turned his face to the tent wall wearily. The Surgeon-Major frowned. "I'm awfully tired," said Bobby, very faintly. "What's the use of bothering me with medicine? I-don't-want-it. Let me alone." The desire for life had departed, and Bobby was content to drift away on the easy tide of Death. "It's no good," said the Surgeon-Major. "He doesn't want to live. He's meeting it, poor child." And he blew his nose. Half a mile away, the regimental band was playing the overture to the Sing-song, for the men had been told that Bobby was out of danger. The clash of the brass and the wail of the horns reached Bobby's ears. Is there a single joy or pain, That I should never kno-ow? You do not love me, 'tis in vain, Bid me goodbye and go! An expression of hopeless irritation crossed the boy's face, and he tried to shake his head. The Surgeon-Major bent down--"What is it? Bobby?"-- "Not that waltz," muttered Bobby. "That's our own--our very ownest own. Mummy dear." With this he sank into the stupor that gave place to death early next morning. Revere, his eyes red at the rims and his nose very white, went into Bobby's tent to write a letter to Papa Wick which should bow the white head of the ex-Commissioner of Chota-Buldana in the keenest sorrow of his life. Bobby's little store of papers lay in confusion on the table, and among them a half-finished letter. The last sentence ran: "So you see, darling, there is really no fear, because as long as I know you care for me and I care for you, nothing can touch me." Revere stayed in the tent for an hour. When he came out, his eyes were redder than ever. * * * * * Private Conklin sat on a turned-down bucket, and listened to a not unfamiliar tune. Private Conklin was a convalescent and should have been tenderly treated. "Ho!" said Private Conklin. "There's another bloomin' orf'cer dead." The bucket shot from under him, and his eyes filled with a smithyful of sparks. A tall man in a blue-grey bedgown was regarding him with deep disfavor. "You ought to take shame for yourself, Conky! Orf'cer?--bloomin' orf'cer? I'll learn you to misname the likes of 'im. Hangel! Bloomin' Hangel! That's wot 'e is!" And the Hospital Orderly was so satisfied with the justice of the punishment that he did not even order Private Dormer back to his cot. * * * * * IN THE MATTER OF A PRIVATE Hurrah! hurrah! a soldier's life for me! Shout, boys, shout! for it makes you jolly and free. --The Ramrod Corps. People who have seen, say that one of the quaintest spectacles of human frailty is an outbreak of hysterics in a girls' school. It starts without warning, generally on a hot afternoon among the elder pupils. A girl giggles till the giggle gets beyond control. Then she throws up her head, and cries, "Honk, honk, honk," like a wild goose, and tears mix with the laughter. If the mistress be wise she will rap out something severe at this point to check matters. If she be tender-hearted, and send for a drink of water, the chances are largely in favor of another girl laughing at the afflicted one and herself collapsing. Thus the trouble spreads, and may end in half of what answers to the Lower Sixth of a boys' school rocking and whooping together. Given a week of warm weather, two stately promenades per diem, a heavy mutton and rice meal in the middle of the day, a certain amount of nagging from the teachers, and a few other things, some amazing effects develop. At least this is what folk say who have had experience. Now, the Mother Superior of a Convent and the Colonel of a British Infantry Regiment would be justly shocked at any comparison being made between their respective charges. But it is a fact that, under certain circumstances, Thomas in bulk can be worked up into dithering, rippling hysteria. He does not weep, but he shows his trouble unmistakably, and the consequences get into the newspapers, and all the good people who hardly know a Martini from a Snider say: "Take away the brute's ammunition!" Thomas isn't a brute, and his business, which is to look after the virtuous people, demands that he shall have his ammunition to his hand. He doesn't wear silk stockings, and he really ought to be supplied with a new Adjective to help him to express his opinions; but, for all that, he is a great man. If you call him "the heroic defender of the national honor" one day, and "a brutal and licentious soldiery" the next, you naturally bewilder him, and he looks upon you with suspicion. There is nobody to speak for Thomas except people who have theories to work off on him; and nobody understands Thomas except Thomas, and he does not always know what is the matter with himself. That is the prologue. This is the story: Corporal Slane was engaged to be married to Miss Jhansi M'Kenna, whose history is well known in the regiment and elsewhere. He had his Colonel's permission, and, being popular with the men, every arrangement had been made to give the wedding what Private Ortheris called "eeklar." It fell in the heart of the hot weather, and, after the wedding, Slane was going up to the Hills with the Bride. None the less, Slane's grievance was that the affair would Be only a hired-carriage wedding, and he felt that the "eeklar" of that was meagre. Miss M'Kenna did not care so much. The Sergeant's wife was helping her to make her wedding-dress, and she was very busy. Slane was, just then, the only moderately contented man in barracks. All the rest were more or less miserable. And they had so much to make them happy, too. All their work was over at eight in the morning, and for the rest of the day they could lie on their backs and smoke Canteen-plug and swear at the punkah-coolies. They enjoyed a fine, full flesh meal in the middle of the day, and then threw themselves down on their cots and sweated and slept till it was cool enough to go out with their "towny," whose vocabulary contained less than six hundred words, and the Adjective, and whose views on every conceivable question they had heard many times before. There was the Canteen, of course, and there was the Temperance Room with the second-hand papers in it; but a man of any profession cannot read for eight hours a day in a temperature of 96 degrees or 98 degrees in the shade, running up sometimes to 103 degrees at midnight. Very few men, even though they get a pannikin of flat, stale, muddy beer and hide it under their cots, can continue drinking for six hours a day. One man tried, but he died, and nearly the whole regiment went to his funeral because it gave them something to do. It was too early for the excitement of fever or cholera. The men could only wait and wait and wait, and watch the shadow of the barrack creeping across the blinding white dust. That was a gay life. They lounged about cantonments--it was too hot for any sort of game, and almost too hot for vice--and fuddled themselves in the evening, and filled themselves to distension with the healthy nitrogenous food provided for them, and the more they stoked the less exercise they took and more explosive they grew. Then tempers began to wear away, and men fell a-brooding over insults real or imaginary, for they had nothing else to think of. The tone of the repartees changed, and instead of saying light-heartedly: "I'll knock your silly face in," men grew laboriously polite and hinted that the cantonments were not big enough for themselves and their enemy, and that there would be more space for one of the two in another place. It may have been the Devil who arranged the thing, but the fact of the case is that Losson had for a long time been worrying Simmons in an aimless way. It gave him occupation. The two had their cots side by side, and would sometimes spend a long afternoon swearing at each other; but Simmons was afraid of Losson and dared not challenge him to a fight. He thought over the words in the hot still nights, and half the hate he felt toward Losson be vented on the wretched punkah-coolie. Losson bought a parrot in the bazar, and put it into a little cage, and lowered the cage into the cool darkness of a well, and sat on the well-curb, shouting bad language down to the parrot. He taught it to say: "Simmons, ye so-oor," which means swine, and several other things entirely unfit for publication. He was a big gross man, and he shook like a jelly when the parrot had the sentence correctly. Simmons, however, shook with rage, for all the room were laughing at him--the parrot was such a disreputable puff of green feathers and it looked so human when it chattered. Losson used to sit, swinging his fat legs, on the side of the cot, and ask the parrot what it thought of Simmons. The parrot would answer: "Simmons, ye so-oor." "Good boy," Losson used to say, scratching the parrot's head; "ye 'ear that, Sim?" And Simmons used to turn over on his stomach and make answer: "I 'ear. Take 'eed you don't 'ear something one of these days." In the restless nights, after he had been asleep all day, fits of blind rage came upon Simmons and held him till he trembled all over, while he thought in how many different ways he would slay Losson. Sometimes he would picture himself trampling the life out of the man, with heavy ammunition-boots, and at others smashing in his face with the butt, and at others jumping on his shoulders and dragging the head back till the neckbone cracked. Then his mouth would feel hot and fevered, and he would reach out for another sup of the beer in the pannikin. But the fancy that came to him most frequently and stayed with him longest was one connected with the great roll of fat under Losson's right ear. He noticed it first on a moonlight night, and thereafter it was always before his eyes. It was a fascinating roll of fat. A man could get his hand upon it and tear away one side of the neck; or he could place the muzzle of a rifle on it and blow away all the head in a flash. Losson had no right to be sleek and contented and well-to-do, when he, Simmons, was the butt of the room, Some day, perhaps, he would show those who laughed at the "Simmons, ye so-oor" joke, that he was as good as the rest, and held a man's life in the crook of his forefinger. When Losson snored, Simmons hated him more bitterly than ever. Why should Losson be able to sleep when Simmons had to stay awake hour after hour, tossing and turning on the tapes, with the dull liver pain gnawing into his right side and his head throbbing and aching after Canteen? He thought over this for many nights, and the world became unprofitable to him. He even blunted his naturally fine appetite with beer and tobacco; and all the while the parrot talked at and made a mock of him. The heat continued and the tempers wore away more quickly than before. A Sergeant's wife died of heat-apoplexy in the night, and the rumor ran abroad that it was cholera. Men rejoiced openly, hoping that it would spread and send them into camp. But that was a false alarm. It was late on a Tuesday evening, and the men were waiting in the deep double verandas for "Last Posts," when Simmons went to the box at the foot of his bed, took out his pipe, and slammed the lid down with a bang that echoed through the deserted barrack like the crack of a rifle. Ordinarily speaking, the men would have taken no notice; but their nerves were fretted to fiddle-strings. They jumped up, and three or four clattered into the barrack-room only to find Simmons kneeling by his box. "Owl It's you, is it?" they said and laughed foolishly. "We t h o u g h t 'twas"--Simmons rose slowly. If the accident had so shaken his fellows, what would not the reality do? "You thought it was--did you? And what makes you think?" he said, lashing himself into madness as he went on; "to Hell with your thinking, ye dirty spies." "Simmons, ye so-oor," chuckled the parrot in the veranda, sleepily, recognizing a well-known voice. Now that was absolutely all. The tension snapped. Simmons fell back on the arm-rack deliberately,--the men were at the far end of the room,--and took out his rifle and packet of ammunition. "Don't go playing the goat, Sim!" said Losson. "Put it down," but there was a quaver in his voice. Another man stooped, slipped his boot and hurled it at Simmons's head. The prompt answer was a shot which, fired at random, found its billet in Losson's throat. Losson fell forward without a word, and the others scattered. "You thought it was!" yelled Simmons. "You're drivin' me to it! I tell you you're drivin' me to it! Get up, Losson, an' don't lie shammin' there--you an' your blasted parrit that druv me to it!" But there was an unaffected reality about Losson's pose that showed Simmons what he had done. The men were still clamoring on the veranda. Simmons appropriated two more packets of ammunition and ran into the moonlight, muttering: "I'll make a night of it. Thirty roun's, an' the last for myself. Take you that, you dogs!" He dropped on one knee and fired into the brown of the men on the veranda, but the bullet flew high, and landed in the brickwork with a vicious phat that made some of the younger ones turn pale. It is, as musketry theorists observe, one thing to fire and another to be fired at. Then the instinct of the chase flared up. The news spread from barrack to barrack, and the men doubled out intent on the capture of Simmons, the wild beast, who was heading for the Cavalry parade-ground, stopping now and again to send back a shot and a curse in the direction of his pursuers. "I'll learn you to spy on me!" he shouted; "I'll learn you to give me dorg's names! Come on the 'ole lot o' you! Colonel John Anthony Deever, C.B.!"--he turned toward the Infantry Mess and shook his rifle--"you think yourself the devil of a man--but I tell you that if you put your ugly old carcass outside o' that door, I'll make you the poorest-lookin' man in the army. Come out, Colonel John Anthony Deever, C.B.! Come out and see me practiss on the rainge. I'm the crack shot of the 'ole bloomin' battalion." In proof of which statement Simmons fired at the lighted windows of the mess-house. "Private Simmons, E Comp'ny, on the Cavalry p'rade-ground, Sir, with thirty rounds," said a Sergeant breathlessly to the Colonel. "Shootin' right and lef', Sir. Shot Private Losson. What's to be done, Sir?" Colonel John Anthony Deever, C.B., sallied out, only to be saluted by s spurt of dust at his feet. "Pull up!" said the Second in Command; "I don't want my step in that way, Colonel. He's as dangerous as a mad dog." "Shoot him like one, then," said the Colonel, bitterly, "if he won't take his chance, My regiment, too! If it had been the Towheads I could have under stood." Private Simmons had occupied a strong position near a well on the edge of the parade-ground, and was defying the regiment to come on. The regiment was not anxious to comply, for there is small honor in being shot by a fellow-private. Only Corporal Slane, rifle in band, threw himself down on the ground, and wormed his way toward the well. "Don't shoot," said he to the men round him; "like as not you'll hit me. I'll catch the beggar, livin'." Simmons ceased shouting for a while, and the noise of trap-wheels could be heard across the plain. Major Oldyn, commanding the Horse Battery, was coming back from a dinner in the Civil Lines; was driving after his usual custom--that is to say, as fast as the horse could go. "A orf'cer! A blooming spangled orf'cer," shrieked Simmons; "I'll make a scarecrow of that orf'cer!" The trap stopped. "What's this?" demanded the Major of Gunners. "You there, drop your rifle." "Why, it's Jerry Blazes! I ain't got no quarrel with you, Jerry Blazes. Pass frien', an' all's well!" But Jerry Blazes had not the faintest intention of passing a dangerous murderer. He was, as his adoring Battery swore long and fervently, without knowledge of fear, and they were surely the best judges, for Jerry Blazes, it was notorious, had done his possible to kill a man each time the Battery went out. He walked toward Simmons, with the intention of rushing him, and knocking him down. "Don't make me do it, Sir," said Simmons; "I ain't got nothing agin you. Ah! you would?"--the Major broke into a run--"Take that then!" The Major dropped with a bullet through his shoulder, and Simmons stood over him. He had lost the satisfaction of killing Losson in the desired way: hut here was a helpless body to his hand. Should be slip in another cartridge, and blow off the head, or with the butt smash in the white face? He stopped to consider, and a cry went up from the far side of the parade-ground: "He's killed Jerry Blazes!" But in the shelter of the well-pillars Simmons was safe except when he stepped out to fire. "I'll blow yer 'andsome 'ead off, Jerry Blazes," said Simmons, reflectively. "Six an' three is nine an one is ten, an' that leaves me another nineteen, an' one for myself." He tugged at the string of the second packet of ammunition. Corporal Slane crawled out of the shadow of a bank into the moonlight. "I see you!" said Simmons. "Come a bit furder on an' I'll do for you." "I'm comm'," said Corporal Slane, briefly; "you've done a bad day's work, Sim. Come out 'ere an' come back with me." "Come to,"--laughed Simmons, sending a cartridge home with his thumb. "Not before I've settled you an' Jerry Blazes." The Corporal was lying at full length in the dust of the parade-ground, a rifle under him. Some of the less-cautious men in the distance shouted: "Shoot 'im! Shoot 'im, Slane!" "You move 'and or foot, Slane," said Simmons, "an' I'll kick Jerry Blazes' 'ead in, and shoot you after." "I ain't movin'," said the Corporal, raising his head; "you daren't 'it a man on 'is legs. Let go o' Jerry Blazes an' come out o' that with your fistes. Come an' 'it me. You daren't, you bloomin' dog-shooter!" "I dare." "You lie, you man-sticker. You sneakin', Sheeny butcher, you lie. See there!" Slane kicked the rifle away, and stood up in the peril of his life. "Come on, now!" The temptation was more than Simmons could resist, for the Corporal in his white clothes offered a perfect mark. "Don't misname me," shouted Simmons, firing as he spoke. The shot missed, and the shooter, blind with rage, threw his rifle down and rushed at Slane from the protection of the well. Within striking distance, he kicked savagely at Slane's stomach, but the weedy Corporal knew something of Simmons's weakness, and knew, too, the deadly guard for that kick. Bowing forward and drawing up his right leg till the heel of the right foot was set some three inches above the inside of the left knee-cap, he met the blow standing on one leg--exactly as Gonds stand when they meditate--and ready for the fall that would follow. There was an oath, the Corporal fell over his own left as shinbone met shinbone, and the Private collapsed, his right leg broken an inch above the ankle. "'Pity you don't know that guard, Sim," said Slane, spitting out the dust as he rose. Then raising his voice, "Come an' take him orf. I've bruk 'is leg." This was not strictly true, for the Private had accomplished his own downfall, since it is the special merit of that leg-guard that the harder the kick the greater the kicker's discomfiture. Slane walked to Jerry Blazes and hung over him with ostentatious anxiety, while Simmons, weeping with pain, was carried away. "'Ope you ain't 'urt badly, Sir," said Slane. The Major had fainted, and there was an ugly, ragged hole through the top of his arm. Slane knelt down and murmured. "S'elp me, I believe 'e's dead. Well, if that ain't my blooming luck all over!" But the Major was destined to lead his Battery afield for many a long day with unshaken nerve. He was removed, and nursed and petted into convalescence, while the Battery discussed the wisdom of capturing Simmons, and blowing him from a gun. They idolized their Major, and his reappearance on parade brought about a scene nowhere provided for in the Army Regulations. Great, too, was the glory that fell to Slane's share. The Gunners would have made him drunk thrice a day for at least a fortnight. Even the Colonel of his own regiment complimented him upon his coolness, and the local paper called him a hero. These things did not puff him up. When the Major offered him money and thanks, the virtuous Corporal took the one and put aside the other. But he had a request to make and prefaced it with many a "Beg y'pardon, Sir." Could the Major see his way to letting the Slane-M'Kenna wedding be adorned by the presence of four Battery horses to pull a hired barouche? The Major could, and so could the Battery. Excessively so. It was a gorgeous wedding. * * * * * "Wot did I do it for?" said Corporal Slane. "For the 'orses O' course. Jhansi ain't a beauty to look at, but I wasn't goin' to 'ave a hired turn-out. Jerry Blazes? If I 'adn't 'a' wanted something, Sim might ha' blowed Jerry Blazes' blooming 'ead into Hirish stew for aught I'd 'a' cared." And they hanged Private Simmons--hanged him as high as Haman in hollow square of the regiment; and the Colonel said it was Drink; and the Chaplain was sure it was the Devil; and Simmons fancied it was both, but he didn't know, and only hoped his fate would be a warning to his companions; and half a dozen "intelligent publicists" wrote six beautiful leading articles on "'The Prevalence of Crime in the Army." But not a soul thought of comparing the "bloody-minded Simmons" to the squawking, gaping schoolgirl with which this story opens. THE ENLIGHTENMENTS OF PAGETT, M.P. "Because half a dozen grasshoppers under a fern make the field ring with their importunate chink while thousands of great cattle, reposed beneath the shadow of the British oak, chew the cud and are silent, pray do not imagine that those who make the noise are the only inhabitants of the field--that, of course, they are many in number or that, after all, they are other than the little, shrivelled, meagre, hopping, though loud and troublesome insects of the hour." --Burke: "Reflections on the Revolution in France." They were sitting in the veranda of "the splendid palace of an Indian Pro-Consul"; surrounded by all the glory and mystery of the immemorial East. In plain English it was a one-storied, ten-roomed, whitewashed, mud-roofed bungalow, set in a dry garden of dusty tamarisk trees and divided from the road by a low mud wall. The green parrots screamed overhead as they flew in battalions to the river for their morning drink. Beyond the wall, clouds of fine dust showed where the cattle and goats of the city were passing afield to graze. The remorseless white light of the winter sunshine of Northern India lay upon everything and improved nothing, from the whining Persian-wheel by the lawn-tennis court to the long perspective of level road and the blue, domed tombs of Mohammedan saints just visible above the trees. "A Happy New Year," said Orde to his guest. "It's the first you've ever spent out of England, isn't it?" "Yes. 'Happy New Year," said Pagett, smiling at the sunshine. "What a divine climate you have here! Just think of the brown cold fog hanging over London now!" And he rubbed his hands. It was more than twenty years since he had last seen Orde, his schoolmate, and their paths in the world had divided early. The one had quitted college to become a cog-wheel in the machinery of the great Indian Government; the other more blessed with goods, had been whirled into a similar position in the English scheme. Three successive elections had not affected Pagett's position with a loyal constituency, and he had grown insensibly to regard himself in some sort as a pillar of the Empire, whose real worth would be known later on. After a few years of conscientious attendance at many divisions, after newspaper battles innumerable and the publication of interminable correspondence, and more hasty oratory than in his calmer moments he cared to think upon, it occurred to him, as it had occurred to many of his fellows in Parliament, that a tour to India would enable him to sweep a larger lyre and address himself to the problems of Imperial administration with a firmer hand. Accepting, therefore, a general invitation extended to him by Orde some years before, Pagett bad taken ship to Karachi, and only overnight had been received with joy by the Deputy-Commissioner of Amara. They had sat late, discussing the changes and chances of twenty years, recalling the names of the dead, and weighing the futures of the living, as is the custom of men meeting after intervals of action. Next morning they smoked the after-breakfast pipe in the veranda, still regarding each other curiously, Pagett, in a light grey frock-coat and garments much too thin for the time of the year, and a puggried sun-hat carefully and wonderfully made, Orde in a shooting coat, riding breeches, brown cowhide boots with spurs, and a battered flax helmet. He had ridden some miles in the early morning to inspect a doubtful river dam. The men's faces differed as much as their attire. Orde's worn and wrinkled around the eyes, and grizzled at the temples, was the harder and more square of the two, and it was with something like envy that the owner looked at the comfortable outlines of Pagett's blandly receptive countenance, the clear skin, the untroubled eye, and the mobile, clean-shaved lips. "And this is India!" said Pagett for the twentieth time staring long and intently at the grey feathering of the tamarisks. "One portion of India only. It's very much like this for 300 miles in every direction. By the way, now that you have rested a little--I wouldn't ask the old question before--what d'you think of the country?" "'Tis the most pervasive country that ever yet was seen. I acquired several pounds of your country coming up from Karachi. The air is heavy with it, and for miles and miles along that distressful eternity of rail there's no horizon to show where air and earth separate." "Yes. It isn't easy to see truly or far in India. But you had a decent passage out, hadn't you?" "Very good on the whole. Your Anglo-Indian may be unsympathetic about one's political views; but he has reduced ship life to a science." "The Anglo-Indian is a political orphan, and if he's wise he won't be in a hurry to be adopted by your party grandmothers. But how were your companions, unsympathetic?" "Well, there was a man called Dawlishe, a judge somewhere in this country it seems, and a capital partner at whist by the way, and when I wanted to talk to him about the progress of India in a political sense (Orde hid a grin, which might or might not have been sympathetic), the National Congress movement, and other things in which, as a Member of Parliament, I'm of course interested, he shifted the subject, and when I once cornered him, he looked me calmly in the eye, and said: 'That's all Tommy rot. Come and have a game at Bull.' You may laugh; but that isn't the way to treat a great and important question; and, knowing who I was, well, I thought it rather rude, don't you know; and yet Dawlishe is a thoroughly good fellow." "Yes; he's a friend of mine, and one of the straightest men I know. I suppose, like many Anglo-Indians, he felt it was hopeless to give you any just idea of any Indian question without the documents before you, and in this case the documents you want are the country and the people." "Precisely. That was why I came straight to you, bringing an open mind to bear on things. I'm anxious to know what popular feeling in India is really like y'know, now that it has wakened into political life. The National Congress, in spite of Dawlishe, must have caused great excitement among the masses?" "On the contrary, nothing could be more tranquil than the state of popular feeling; and as to excitement, the people would as soon be excited over the 'Rule of Three' as over the Congress." "Excuse me, Orde, but do you think you are a fair judge? Isn't the official Anglo-Indian naturally jealous of any external influences that might move the masses, and so much opposed to liberal ideas, truly liberal ideas, that he can scarcely be expected to regard a popular movement with fairness?" "What did Dawlishe say about Tommy Rot? Think a moment, old man. You and I were brought up together; taught by the same tutors, read the same books, lived the same life, and new languages, and work among new races; while you, more fortunate, remain at home. Why should I change my mind--our mind--because I change my sky? Why should I and the few hundred Englishmen in my service become unreasonable, prejudiced fossils, while you and your newer friends alone remain bright and open-minded? You surely don't fancy civilians are members of a Primrose League?" "Of course not, but the mere position of an English official gives him a point of view which cannot but bias his mind on this question." Pagett moved his knee up and down a little uneasily as he spoke. "That sounds plausible enough, but, like more plausible notions on Indian matters, I believe it's a mistake. You'll find when you come to consult the unofficial Briton that our fault, as a class--I speak of the civilian now--is rather to magnify the progress that has been made toward liberal institutions. It is of English origin, such as it is, and the stress of our work since the Mutiny--only thirty years ago--has been in that direction. No, I think you will get no fairer or more dispassionate view of the Congress business than such men as I can give you. But I may as well say at once that those who know most of India, from the inside, are inclined to wonder at the noise our scarcely begun experiment makes in England." "But surely the gathering together of Congress delegates is of itself a new thing." "There's nothing new under the sun When Europe was a jungle half Asia flocked to the canonical conferences of Buddhism; and for centuries the people have gathered at Pun, Hurdwar, Trimbak, and Benares in immense numbers. A great meeting, what you call a mass meeting, is really one of the oldest and most popular of Indian institutions in this topsy-turvy land, and though they have been employed in clerical work for generations they have no practical knowledge of affairs. A ship's clerk is a useful person, but he is scarcely the captain; and an orderly room writer, however smart he may be, is not the colonel. You see, the writer class in India has never till now aspired to anything like command. It wasn't allowed to. The Indian gentleman, for thousands of years past, has resembled Victor Hugo's noble: "'Un vrai sire Chatelain Laisse ecrire Le vilain. Sa main digne Quand il signe Egratigne Le velin.' "And the little egratignures he most likes to make have been scored pretty deeply by the sword." "But this is childish and mediaeval nonsense!" "Precisely; and from your, or rather our, point of view the pen is mightier than the sword. In this country it's otherwise. The fault lies in our Indian balances, not yet adjusted to civilized weights and measures." "Well, at all events, this literary class represent the natural aspirations and wishes of the people at large, though it may not exactly lead them, and, in spite of all you say, Orde, I defy you to find a really sound English Radical who would not sympathize with those aspirations." Pagett spoke with some warmth, and he had scarcely ceased when a well-appointed dog-cart turned into the compound gates, and Orde rose saying: "Here is Edwards, the Master of the Lodge I neglect so diligently, come to talk about accounts, I suppose." As the vehicle drove up under the porch Pagett also rose, saying with the trained effusion born of much practice: "But this is also my friend, my old and valued friend Edwards. I'm delighted to see you. I knew you were in India, but not exactly where." "Then it isn't accounts, Mr. Edwards," said Orde, cheerily. "Why, no, sir; I heard Mr. Pagett was coming, and as our works were closed for the New Year I thought I would drive over and see him." "A very happy thought. Mr. Edwards, you may not know, Orde, was a leading member of our Radical Club at Switchton when I was beginning political life, and I owe much to his exertions. There's no pleasure like meeting an old friend, except, perhaps, making a new one. I suppose, Mr. Edwards, you stick to the good old cause?" "Well, you see, sir, things are different out here. There's precious little one can find to say against the Government, which was the main of our talk at home, and them that do say things are not the sort o' people a man who respects himself would like to be mixed up with. There are no politics, in a manner of speaking, in India. It's all work." "Surely you are mistaken, my good friend. Why I have come all the way from England just to see the working of this great National movement." "I don't know where you're going to find the nation as moves to begin with, and then you'll be hard put to it to find what they are moving about. It's like this, sir," said Edwards, who had not quite relished being called "my good friend." "They haven't got any grievance--nothing to hit with, don't you see, sir; and then there's not much to hit against, because the Government is more like a kind of general Providence, directing an old-established state of things, than that at home, where there's something new thrown down for us to fight about every three months." "You are probably, in your workshops, full of English mechanics, out of the way of learning what the masses think." "I don't know so much about that. There are four of us English foremen, and between seven and eight hundred native fitters, smiths, carpenters, painters, and such like." "And they are full of the Congress, of course?" "Never hear a word of it from year's end to year's end, and I speak the talk too. But I wanted to ask how things are going on at home--old Tyler and Brown and the rest?" "We will speak of them presently, but your account of the indifference of your men surprises me almost as much as your own. I fear you are a backslider from the good old doctrine, Edwards." Pagett spoke as one who mourned the death of a near relative. "Not a bit, Sir, but I should be if I took up with a parcel of baboos, pleaders, and schoolboys, as never did a day's work in their lives, and couldn't if they tried. And if you was to poll us English railway men, mechanics, tradespeople, and the like of that all up and down the country from Peshawur to Calcutta, you would find us mostly in a tale together. And yet you'd know we're the same English you pay some respect to at home at 'lection time, and we have the pull o' knowing something about it." "This is very curious, but you will let me come and see you, and perhaps you will kindly show me the railway works, and we will talk things over at leisure. And about all old friends and old times," added Pagett, detecting with quick insight a look of disappointment in the mechanic's face. Nodding briefly to Orde, Edwards mounted his dog-cart and drove off. "It's very disappointing," said the Member to Orde, who, while his friend discoursed with Edwards, had been looking over a bundle of sketches drawn on grey paper in purple ink, brought to him by a Chuprassee. "Don't let it trouble you, old chap," 'said Orde, sympathetically. "Look here a moment, here are some sketches by the man who made the carved wood screen you admired so much in the dining-room, and wanted a copy of, and the artist himself is here too." "A native?" said Pagett. "Of course," was the reply, "Bishen Singh is his name, and he has two brothers to help him. When there is an important job to do, the three go into partnership, but they spend most of their time and all their money in litigation over an inheritance, and I'm afraid they are getting involved, Thoroughbred Sikhs of the old rock, obstinate, touchy, bigoted, and cunning, but good men for all that. Here is Bishen Singh--shall we ask him about the Congress?" But Bishen Singh, who approached with a respectful salaam, had never heard of it, and he listened with a puzzled face and obviously feigned interest to Orde's account of its aims and objects, finally shaking his vast white turban with great significance when he learned that it was promoted by certain pleaders named by Orde, and by educated natives. He began with labored respect to explain how he was a poor man with no concern in such matters, which were all under the control of God, but presently broke out of Urdu into familiar Punjabi, the mere sound of which had a rustic smack of village smoke-reek and plough-tail, as he denounced the wearers of white coats, the jugglers with words who filched his field from him, the men whose backs were never bowed in honest work; and poured ironical scorn on the Bengali. He and one of his brothers had seen Calcutta, and being at work there had Bengali carpenters given to them as assistants. "Those carpenters!" said Bishen Singh. "Black apes were more efficient workmates, and as for the Bengali babu--tchick!" The guttural click needed no interpretation, but Orde translated the rest, while Pagett gazed with interest at the wood-carver. "He seems to have a most illiberal prejudice against the Bengali," said the M.P. "Yes, it's very sad that for ages outside Bengal there should be so bitter a prejudice. Pride of race, which also means race-hatred, is the plague and curse of India and it spreads far," Orde pointed with his riding-whip to the large map of India on the veranda wall. "See! I begin with the North," said he. "There's the Afghan, and, as a highlander, he despises all the dwellers in Hindoostan--with the exception of the Sikh, whom he hates as cordially as the Sikh hates him. The Hindu loathes Sikh and Afghan, and the Rajput--that's a little lower down across this yellow blot of desert--has a strong objection, to put it mildly, to the Maratha who, by the way, poisonously hates the Afghan. Let's go North a minute. The Sindhi hates everybody I've mentioned. Very good, we'll take less warlike races. The cultivator of Northern India domineers over the man in the next province, and the Behari of the Northwest ridicules the Bengali. They are all at one on that point. I'm giving you merely the roughest possible outlines of the facts, of course." Bishen Singh, his clean cut nostrils still quivering, watched the large sweep of the whip as it traveled from the frontier, through Sindh, the Punjab and Rajputana, till it rested by the valley of the Jumna. "Hate--eternal and inextinguishable hate," concluded Orde, flicking the lash of the whip across the large map from East to West as he sat down. "Remember Canning's advice to Lord Granville, 'Never write or speak of Indian things without looking at a map.'" Pagett opened his eyes, Orde resumed. "And the race-hatred is only a part of it. What's really the matter with Bishen Singh is class-hatred, which, unfortunately, is even more intense and more widely spread. That's one of the little drawbacks of caste, which some of your recent English writers find an impeccable system." The wood-carver was glad to be recalled to the business of his craft, and his eyes shone as he received instructions for a carved wooden doorway for Pagett, which he promised should be splendidly executed and despatched to England in six months. It is an irrelevant detail, but in spite of Orde's reminders, fourteen months elapsed before the work was finished. Business over, Bishen Singh hung about, reluctant to take his leave, and at last joining his hands and approaching Orde with bated breath and whispering humbleness, said he had a petition to make. Orde's face suddenly lost all trace of expression. "Speak on, Bishen Singh," said he, and the carver in a whining tone explained that his case against his brothers was fixed for hearing before a native judge and--here he dropped his voice still lower till he was summarily stopped by Orde, who sternly pointed to the gate with an emphatic Begone! Bishen Singh, showing but little sign of discomposure, salaamed respectfully to the friends and departed. Pagett looked inquiry; Orde, with complete recovery of his usual urbanity, replied: "It's nothing, only the old story, he wants his case to be tried by an English judge--they all do that--but when he began to hint that the other side were in improper relations with the native judge I had to shut him up. Gunga Ram, the man he wanted to make insinuations about, may not be very bright; but he's as honest as daylight on the bench. But that's just what one can't get a native to believe." "Do you really mean to say these people prefer to have their cases tried by English judges?" "Why, certainly." Pagett drew a long breath. "I didn't know that before." At this point a phaeton entered the compound, and Orde rose with "Confound it, there's old Rasul Ali Khan come to pay one of his tiresome duty calls. I'm afraid we shall never get through our little Congress discussion." Pagett was an almost silent spectator of the grave formalities of a visit paid by a punctilious old Mahommedan gentleman to an Indian official; and was much impressed by the distinction of manner and fine appearance of the Mohammedan landholder. When the exchange of polite banalities came to a pause, he expressed a wish to learn the courtly visitor's opinion of the National Congress. Orde reluctantly interpreted, and with a smile which even Mohammedan politeness could not save from bitter scorn, Rasul Ali Khan intimated that he knew nothing about it and cared still less. It was a kind of talk encouraged by the Government for some mysterious purpose of its own, and for his own part he wondered and held his peace. Pagett was far from satisfied with this, and wished to have the old gentleman's opinion on the propriety of managing all Indian affairs on the basis of an elective system. Orde did his best to explain, but it was plain the visitor was bored and bewildered. Frankly, he didn't think much of committees; they had a Municipal Committee at Lahore and had elected a menial servant, an orderly, as a member. He had been informed of this on good authority, and after that, committees had ceased to interest him. But all was according to the rule of Government, and, please God, it was all for the best. "What an old fossil it is!" cried Pagett, as Orde returned from seeing his guest to the door; "just like some old blue-blooded hidalgo of Spain. What does he really think of the Congress after all, and of the elective system?" "Hates it all like poison. When you are sure of a majority, election is a fine system; but you can scarcely expect the Mahommedans, the most masterful and powerful minority in the country, to contemplate their own extinction with joy. The worst of it is that he and his co-religionists, who are many, and the landed proprietors, also, of Hindu race, are frightened and put out by this election business and by the importance we have bestowed on lawyers, pleaders, writers, and the like, who have, up to now, been in abject submission to them. They say little, but after all they are the most important fagots in the great bundle of communities, and all the glib bunkum in the world would not pay for their estrangement. They have controlled the land." "But I am assured that experience of local self-government in your municipalities has been most satisfactory, and when once the principle is accepted in your centres, don't you know, it is bound to spread, and these important--ah--people of yours would learn it like the rest. I see no difficulty at all," and the smooth lips closed with the complacent snap habitual to Pagett, M.P., the "man of cheerful yesterdays and confident tomorrows." Orde looked at him with a dreary smile. "The privilege of election has been most reluctantly withdrawn from scores of municipalities, others have had to be summarily suppressed, and, outside the Presidency towns, the actual work done has been badly performed. This is of less moment, perhaps--it only sends up the local death-rates--than the fact that the public interest in municipal elections, never very strong, has waned, and is waning, in spite of careful nursing on the part of Government servants." "Can you explain this lack of interest?" said Pagett, putting aside the rest of Orde's remarks. "You may find a ward of the key in the fact that only one in every thousand of our population can spell. Then they are infinitely more interested in religion and caste questions than in any sort of politics. When the business of mere existence is over, their minds are occupied by a series of interests, pleasures, rituals, superstitions, and the like, based on centuries of tradition and usage. You, perhaps, find it hard to conceive of people absolutely devoid of curiosity, to whom the book, the daily paper, and the printed speech are unknown, and you would describe their life as blank. That's a profound mistake. You are in another land, another century, down on the bed-rock of society, where the family merely, and not the community, is all-important. The average Oriental cannot be brought to look beyond his clan. His life, too, is more complete and self-sufficing, and less sordid and low-thoughted than you might imagine. It is bovine and slow in some respects, but it is never empty. You and I are inclined to put the cart before the horse, and to forget that it is the man that is elemental, not the book. 'The corn and the cattle are all my care, And the rest is the will of God.' Why should such folk look up from their immemorially appointed round of duty and interests to meddle with the unknown and fuss with voting-papers. How would you, atop of all your interests care to conduct even one-tenth of your life according to the manners and customs of the Papuans, let's say? That's what it comes to." "But if they won't take the trouble to vote, why do you anticipate that Mohammedans, proprietors, and the rest would be crushed by majorities of them?" Again Pagett disregarded the closing sentence. "Because, though the landholders would not move a finger on any purely political question, they could be raised in dangerous excitement by religious hatreds. Already the first note of this has been sounded by the people who are trying to get up an agitation on the cow-killing question, and every year there is trouble over the Mohammedan Muharrum processions. "But who looks after the popular rights, being thus unrepresented?" "The Government of Her Majesty the Queen, Empress of India, in which, if the Congress promoters are to be believed, the people have an implicit trust; for the Congress circular, specially prepared for rustic comprehension, says the movement is 'for the remission of tax, the advancement of Hindustan, and the strengthening of the British Government.' This paper is headed in large letters-'MAY THE PROSPERITY OF THE EMPIRE OF INDIA ENDURE.'" "Really!" said Pagett, "that shows some cleverness. But there are things better worth imitation in our English methods of--er--political statement than this sort of amiable fraud." "Anyhow," resumed Orde, "you perceive that not a word is said about elections and the elective principle, and the reticence of the Congress promoters here shows they are wise in their generation." "But the elective principle must triumph in the end, and the little difficulties you seem to anticipate would give way on the introduction of a well-balanced scheme, capable of indefinite extension." "But is it possible to devise a scheme which, always assuming that the people took any interest in it, without enormous expense, ruinous dislocation of the administration and danger to the public peace, can satisfy the aspirations of Mr. Hume and his following, and yet safeguard the interests of the Mahommedans, the landed and wealthy classes, the Conservative Hindus, the Eurasians, Parsees, Sikhs, Rajputs, native Christians, domiciled Europeans and others, who are each important and powerful in their way?" Pagett's attention, however, was diverted to the gate, where a group of cultivators stood in apparent hesitation. "Here are the twelve Apostles, by Jove--come straight out of Raffaele's cartoons," said the M.P., with the fresh appreciation of a newcomer. Orde, loth to be interrupted, turned impatiently toward the villagers, and their leader, handing his long staff to one of his companions, advanced to the house. "It is old Jelbo, the Lumherdar, or head-man of Pind Sharkot, and a very intelligent man for a villager." The Jat farmer had removed his shoes and stood smiling on the edge of the veranda. His strongly marked features glowed with russet bronze, and his bright eyes gleamed under deeply set brows, contracted by lifelong exposure to sunshine. His beard and moustache streaked with grey swept from bold cliffs of brow and cheek in the large sweeps one sees drawn by Michael Angelo, and strands of long black hair mingled with the irregularly piled wreaths and folds of his turban. The drapery of stout blue cotton cloth thrown over his broad shoulders and girt round his narrow loins, hung from his tall form in broadly sculptured folds, and he would have made a superb model for an artist in search of a patriarch. Orde greeted him cordially, and after a polite pause the countryman started off with a long story told with impressive earnestness. Orde listened and smiled, interrupting the speaker at times to argue and reason with him in a tone which Pagett could hear was kindly, and finally checking the flux of words was about to dismiss him, when Pagett suggested that he should be asked about the National Congress. But Jelbo had never heard of it. He was a poor man and such things, by the favor of his Honor, did not concern him. "What's the matter with your big friend that he was so terribly in earnest?" asked Pagett, when he had left. "Nothing much. He wants the blood of the people in the next village, who have had smallpox and cattle plague pretty badly, and by the help of a wizard, a currier, and several pigs have passed it on to his own village. 'Wants to know if they can't be run in for this awful crime. It seems they made a dreadful charivari at the village boundary, threw a quantity of spell-bearing objects over the border, a buffalo's skull and other things; then branded a chamur--what you would call a currier--on his hinder parts and drove him and a number of pigs over into Jelbo's village. Jelbo says he can bring evidence to prove that the wizard directing these proceedings, who is a Sansi, has been guilty of theft, arson, cattle-killing, perjury and murder, but would prefer to have him punished for bewitching them and inflicting smallpox." "And how on earth did you answer such a lunatic?" "Lunatic!--the old fellow is as sane as you or I; and he has some ground of complaint against those Sansis. I asked if he would like a native superintendent of police with some men to make inquiries, but he objected on the grounds the police were rather worse than smallpox and criminal tribes put together." "Criminal tribes--er--I don't quite understand," said Pagett. "We have in India many tribes of people who in the slack anti-British days became robbers, in various kind, and preyed on the people. They are being restrained and reclaimed little by little, and in time will become useful citizens, but they still cherish hereditary traditions of crime, and are a difficult lot to deal with. By the way what about the political rights of these folk under your schemes? The country people call them vermin, but I suppose they would be electors with the rest." "Nonsense--special provision would be made for them in a well-considered electoral scheme, and they would doubtless be treated with fitting severity," said Pagett, with a magisterial air. "Severity, yes--but whether it would be fitting is doubtful. Even those poor devils have rights, and, after all, they only practice what they have been taught." "But criminals, Orde!" "Yes, criminals with codes and rituals of crime, gods and godlings of crime, and a hundred songs and sayings in praise of it. Puzzling, isn't it?" "It's simply dreadful. They ought to be put down at once. Are there many of them?" "Not more than about sixty thousand in this province, for many of the tribes broadly described as criminal are really vagabond and criminal only on occasion, while others are being settled and reclaimed. They are of great antiquity, a legacy from the past, the golden, glorious Aryan past of Max Muller, Birdwood and the rest of your spindrift philosophers." An orderly brought a card to Orde, who took it with a movement of irritation at the interruption, and banded it to Pagett; a large card with a ruled border in red ink, and in the centre in schoolboy copper plate, Mr. Dma Nath. "Give salaam," said the civilian, and there entered in haste a slender youth, clad in a closely fitting coat of grey homespun, tight trousers, patent-leather shoes, and a small black velvet cap. His thin cheek twitched, and his eyes wandered restlessly, for the young man was evidently nervous and uncomfortable, though striving to assume a free and easy air. "Your honor may perhaps remember me," he said in English, and Orde scanned him keenly. "I know your face somehow. You belonged to the Shershah district I think, when I was in charge there?" "Yes, Sir, my father is writer at Shershah, and your honor gave me a prize when I was first in the Middle School examination five years ago. Since then I have prosecuted my studies, and I am now second year's student in the Mission College--" "Of course: you are Kedar Nath's son--the boy who said he liked geography better than play or sugar cakes, and I didn't believe you. How is your father getting on?" "He is well, and he sends his salaam, but his circumstances are depressed, and he also is down on his luck." "You learn English idioms at the Mission College, it seems." "Yes, sir, they are the best idioms, and my father ordered me to ask your honor to say a word for him to the present incumbent of your honor's shoes, the latchet of which he is not worthy to open, and who knows not Joseph; for things are different at Shershah now, and my father wants promotion." "Your father is a good man, and I will do what I can for him." At this point a telegram was handed to Orde, who, after glancing at it, said he must leave his young friend whom he introduced to Pagett, "a member of the English House of Commons who wishes to learn about India." Orde had scarcely retired with his telegram when Pagett began: "Perhaps you can tell me something of the National Congress movement?" "Sir, it is the greatest movement of modern times, and one in which all educated men like us must join. All our students are for the Congress." "Excepting, I suppose, Mahommedans, and the Christians?" said Pagett, quick to use his recent instruction. "These are some mere exceptions to the universal rule." "But the people outside the College, the working classes, the agriculturists; your father and mother, for instance." "My mother," said the young man, with a visible effort to bring himself to pronounce the word, "has no ideas, and my father is not agriculturist, nor working class; he is of the Kayeth caste; but he had not the advantage of a collegiate education, and he does not know much of the Congress. It is a movement for the educated young-man"--connecting adjective and noun in a sort of vocal hyphen. "Ah, yes," said Pagett, feeling he was a little off the rails, "and what are the benefits you expect to gain by it?" "Oh, sir, everything. England owes its greatness to Parliamentary institutions, and we should at once gain the same high position in scale of nations. Sir, we wish to have the sciences, the arts, the manufactures, the industrial factories, with steam engines, and other motive powers and public meetings, and debates. Already we have a debating club in connection with the college, and elect a Mr. Speaker. Sir, the progress must come. You also are a Member of Parliament and worship the great Lord Ripon," said the youth, breathlessly, and his black eyes flashed as he finished his commaless sentences. "Well," said Pagett, drily, "it has not yet occurred to me to worship his Lordship, although I believe he is a very worthy man, and I am not sure that England owes quite all the things you name to the House of Commons. You see, my young friend, the growth of a nation like ours is slow, subject to many influences, and if you have read your history aright"-- "Sir. I know it all--all! Norman Conquest, Magna Charta, Runnymede, Reformation, Tudors, Stuarts, Mr. Milton and Mr. Burke, and I have read something of Mr. Herbert Spencer and Gibbon's 'Decline and Fall,' Reynolds' 'Mysteries of the Court,' and"-- Pagett felt like one who had pulled the string of a shower-bath unawares, and hastened to stop the torrent with a question as to what particular grievances of the people of India the attention of an elected assembly should be first directed. But young Mr. Dma Nath was slow to particularize. There were many, very many demanding consideration. Mr. Pagett would like to hear of one or two typical examples. The Repeal of the Arms Act was at last named, and the student learned for the first time that a license was necessary before an Englishman could carry a gun in England. Then natives of India ought to be allowed to become Volunteer Riflemen if they chose, and the absolute equality of the Oriental with his European fellow-subject in civil status should be proclaimed on principle, and the Indian Army should be considerably reduced. The student was not, however, prepared with answers to Mr. Pagett's mildest questions on these points, and he returned to vague generalities, leaving the M.P. so much impressed with the crudity of his views that he was glad on Orde's return to say goodbye to his "very interesting" young friend. "What do you think of young India?" asked Orde. "Curious, very curious--and callow." "And yet," the civilian replied, "one can scarcely help sympathizing with him for his mere youth's sake. The young orators of the Oxford Union arrived at the same conclusions and showed doubtless just the same enthusiasm. If there were any political analogy between India and England, if the thousand races of this Empire were one, if there were any chance even of their learning to speak one language, if, in short, India were a Utopia of the debating-room, and not a real land, this kind of talk might be worth listening to, but it is all based on false analogy and ignorance of the facts." "But he is a native and knows the facts." "He is a sort of English schoolboy, but married three years, and the father of two weaklings, and knows less than most English schoolboys. You saw all he is and knows, and such ideas as he has acquired are directly hostile to the most cherished convictions of the vast majority of the people." "But what does he mean by saying he is a student of a mission college? Is he a Christian?" "He meant just what he said, and he is not a Christian, nor ever will he be. Good people in America, Scotland and England, most of whom would never dream of collegiate education for their own sons, are pinching themselves to bestow it in pure waste on Indian youths. Their scheme is an oblique, subterranean attack on heathenism; the theory being that with the jam of secular education, leading to a University degree, the pill of moral or religious instruction may he coaxed down the heathen gullet." "But does it succeed; do they make converts?" "They make no converts, for the subtle Oriental swallows the jam and rejects the pill; but the mere example of the sober, righteous, and godly lives of the principals and professors who are most excellent and devoted men, must have a certain moral value. Yet, as Lord Lansdowne pointed out the other day, the market is dangerously overstocked with graduates of our Universities who look for employment in the administration. An immense number are employed, but year by year the college mills grind out increasing lists of youths foredoomed to failure and disappointment, and meanwhile, trades, manufactures, and the industrial arts are neglected, and in fact regarded with contempt by our new literary mandarins in posse." "But our young friend said he wanted steam-engines and factories," said Pagett. "Yes, he would like to direct such concerns. He wants to begin at the top, for manual labor is held to be discreditable, and he would never defile his hands by the apprenticeship which the architects, engineers, and manufacturers of England cheerfully undergo; and he would be aghast to learn that the leading names of industrial enterprise in England belonged a generation or two since, or now belong, to men who wrought with their own hands. And, though he talks glibly of manufacturers, he refuses to see that the Indian manufacturer of the future will be the despised workman of the present. It was proposed, for example, a few weeks ago, that a certain municipality in this province should establish an elementary technical school for the sons of workmen. The stress of the opposition to the plan came from a pleader who owed all he had to a college education bestowed on him gratis by Government and missions. You would have fancied some fine old crusted Tory squire of the last generation was speaking. 'These people,' he said, 'want no education, for they learn their trades from their fathers, and to teach a workman's son the elements of mathematics and physical science would give him ideas above his business. They must be kept in their place, and it was idle to imagine that there was any science in wood or iron work.' And he carried his point. But the Indian workman will rise in the social scale in spite of the new literary caste." "In England we have scarcely begun to realize that there is an industrial class in this country, yet, I suppose, the example of men, like Edwards for instance, must tell," said Pagett, thoughtfully. "That you shouldn't know much about it is natural enough, for there are but few sources of information. India in this, as in other respects, is like a badly kept ledger--not written up to date. And men like Edwards are, in reality, missionaries, who by precept and example are teaching more lessons than they know. Only a few, however, of their crowds of subordinates seem to care to try to emulate them, and aim at individual advancement; the rest drop into the ancient Indian caste groove." "How do you mean?" asked Pagett. "Well, it is found that the new railway and factory workmen, the fitter, the smith, the engine-driver, and the rest are already forming separate hereditary castes. You may notice this down at Jamalpur in Bengal, one of the oldest railway centres; and at other places, and in other industries, they are following the same inexorable Indian law." "Which means?" queried Pagett. "It means that the rooted habit of the people is to gather in small self-contained, self-sufficing family groups with no thought or care for any interests but their own--a habit which is scarcely compatible with the right acceptation of the elective principle." "Yet you must admit, Orde, that though our young friend was not able to expound the faith that is in him, your Indian army is too big." "Not nearly big enough for its main purpose. And, as a side issue, there are certain powerful minorities of fighting folk whose interests an Asiatic Government is bound to consider. Arms is as much a means of livelihood as civil employ under Government and law. And it would be a heavy strain on British bayonets to hold down Sikhs, Jats, Bilochis, Rohillas, Rajputs, Bhils, Dogras, Pathans, and Gurkhas to abide by the decisions of a numerical majority opposed to their interests. Leave the 'numerical majority' to itself without the British bayonets--a flock of sheep might as reasonably hope to manage a troop of collies." "This complaint about excessive growth of the army is akin to another contention of the Congress party. They protest against the malversation of the whole of the moneys raised by additional taxes as a Famine Insurance Fund to other purposes. You must be aware that this special Famine Fund has all been spent on frontier roads and defences and strategic railway schemes as a protection against Russia." "But there was never a special famine fund raised by special taxation and put by as in a box. No sane administrator would dream of such a thing. In a time of prosperity a finance minister, rejoicing in a margin, proposed to annually apply a million and a half to the construction of railways and canals for the protection of districts liable to scarcity, and to the reduction of the annual loans for public works. But times were not always prosperous, and the finance minister had to choose whether he would bang up the insurance scheme for a year or impose fresh taxation. When a farmer hasn't got the little surplus he hoped to have for buying a new wagon and draining a low-lying field corner, you don't accuse him of malversation, if he spends what he has on the necessary work of the rest of his farm." A clatter of hoofs was heard, and Orde looked up with vexation, but his brow cleared as a horseman halted under the porch. "Hello, Orde! just looked in to ask if you are coming to polo on Tuesday: we want you badly to help to crumple up the Krab Bokhar team." Orde explained that he had to go out into the District, and while the visitor complained that though good men wouldn't play, duffers were always keen, and that his side would probably be beaten, Pagett rose to look at his mount, a red, lathered Biloch mare, with a curious lyrelike incurving of the ears. "Quite a little thoroughbred in all other respects," said the M.P., and Orde presented Mr. Reginald Burke, Manager of the Siad and Sialkote Bank to his friend. "Yes, she's as good as they make 'em, and she's all the female I possess and spoiled in consequence, aren't you, old girl?" said Burke, patting the mare's glossy neck as she backed and plunged. "Mr. Pagett," said Orde, "has been asking me about the Congress. What is your opinion?" Burke turned to the M. P. with a frank smile. "Well, if it's all the same to you, sir, I should say, Damn the Congress, but then I'm no politician, but only a business man." "You find it a tiresome subject?" "Yes, it's all that, and worse than that, for this kind of agitation is anything but wholesome for the country." "How do you mean?" "It would be a long job to explain, and Sara here won't stand, but you know how sensitive capital is, and how timid investors are. All this sort of rot is likely to frighten them, and we can't afford to frighten them. The passengers aboard an Ocean steamer don't feel reassured when the ship's way is stopped, and they hear the workmen's hammers tinkering at the engines down below. The old Ark's going on all right as she is, and only wants quiet and room to move. Them's my sentiments, and those of some other people who have to do with money and business." "Then you are a thick-and-thin supporter of the Government as it is." "Why, no! The Indian Government is much too timid with its money--like an old maiden aunt of mine--always in a funk about her investments. They don't spend half enough on railways for instance, and they are slow in a general way, and ought to be made to sit up in all that concerns the encouragement of private enterprise, and coaxing out into use the millions of capital that lie dormant in the country." The mare was dancing with impatience, and Burke was evidently anxious to be off, so the men wished him goodbye. "Who is your genial friend who condemns both Congress and Government in a breath?" asked Pagett, with an amused smile. "Just now he is Reggie Burke, keener on polo than on anything else, but if you go to the Sind and Sialkote Bank tomorrow you would find Mr. Reginald Burke a very capable man of business, known and liked by an immense constituency North and South of this." "Do you think he is right about the Government's want of enterprise?" "I should hesitate to say. Better consult the merchants and chambers of commerce in Cawnpore, Madras, Bombay, and Calcutta. But though these bodies would like, as Reggie puts it, to make Government sit up, it is an elementary consideration in governing a country like India, which must be administered for the benefit of the people at large, that the counsels of those who resort to it for the sake of making money should be judiciously weighed and not allowed to overpower the rest. They are welcome guests here, as a matter of course, but it has been found best to restrain their influence. Thus the rights of plantation laborers, factory operatives, and the like, have been protected, and the capitalist, eager to get on, has not always regarded Government action with favor. It is quite conceivable that under an elective system the commercial communities of the great towns might find means to secure majorities on labor questions and on financial matters." "They would act at least with intelligence and consideration." "Intelligence, yes; but as to consideration, who at the present moment most bitterly resents the tender solicitude of Lancashire for the welfare and protection of the Indian factory operative? English and native capitalists running cotton mills and factories." "But is the solicitude of Lancashire in this matter entirely disinterested?" "It is no business of mine to say. I merely indicate an example of how a powerful commercial interest might hamper a Government intent in the first place on the larger interests of humanity." Orde broke off to listen a moment. "There's Dr. Lathrop talking to my wife in the drawing-room," said he. "Surely not; that's a lady's voice, and if my ears don't deceive me, an American." "Exactly, Dr. Eva McCreery Lathrop, chief of the new Women's Hospital here, and a very good fellow forbye. Good morning, Doctor," he said, as a graceful figure came out on the veranda, "you seem to be in trouble. I hope Mrs. Orde was able to help you." "Your wife is real kind and good, I always come to her when I'm in a fix but I fear it's more than comforting I want." "You work too hard and wear yourself out," said Orde, kindly. "Let me introduce my friend, Mr. Pagett, just fresh from home, and anxious to learn his India. You could tell him something of that more important half of which a mere man knows so little." "Perhaps I could if I'd any heart to do it, but I'm in trouble, I've lost a case, a case that was doing well, through nothing in the world but inattention on the part of a nurse I had begun to trust. And when I spoke only a small piece of my mind she collapsed in a whining heap on the floor. It is hopeless." The men were silent, for the blue eyes of the lady doctor were dim. Recovering herself she looked up with a smile, half sad, half humorous, "And I am in a whining heap, too; but what phase of Indian life are you particularly interested in, sir?" "Mr. Pagett intends to study the political aspect of things and the possibility of bestowing electoral institutions on the people." "Wouldn't it be as much to the purpose to bestow point-lace collars on them? They need many things more urgently than votes. Why it's like giving a bread-pill for a broken leg." "Er--I don't quite follow," said Pagett, uneasily. "Well, what's the matter with this country is not in the least political, but an all round entanglement of physical, social, and moral evils and corruptions, all more or less due to the unnatural treatment of women. You can't gather figs from thistles, and so long as the system of infant marriage, the prohibition of the remarriage of widows, the lifelong imprisonment of wives and mothers in a worse than penal confinement, and the withholding from them of any kind of education or treatment as rational beings continues, the country can't advance a step. Half of it is morally dead, and worse than dead, and that's just the half from which we have a right to look for the best impulses. It's right here where the trouble is, and not in any political considerations whatsoever." "But do they marry so early?" said Pagett, vaguely. "The average age is seven, but thousands are married still earlier. One result is that girls of twelve and thirteen have to bear the burden of wifehood and motherhood, and, as might be expected, the rate of mortality both for mothers and children is terrible. Pauperism, domestic unhappiness, and a low state of health are only a few of the consequences of this. Then, when, as frequently happens, the boy-husband dies prematurely, his widow is condemned to worse than death. She may not remarry, must live a secluded and despised life, a life so unnatural that she sometimes prefers suicide; more often she goes astray. You don't know in England what such words as 'infant-marriage,' 'baby-wife,' 'girl-mother,' and 'virgin-widow' mean; but they mean unspeakable horrors here." "Well, but the advanced political party here will surely make it their business to advocate social reforms as well as political ones," said Pagett. "Very surely they will do no such thing," said the lady doctor, emphatically. "I wish I could make you understand. Why, even of the funds devoted to the Marchioness of Dufferin's organization for medical aid to the women of India, it was said in print and in speech, that they would be better spent on more college scholarships for men. And in all the advanced parties' talk--God forgive them--and in all their programmes, they carefully avoid all such subjects. They will talk about the protection of the cow, for that's an ancient superstition--they can all understand that; but the protection of the women is a new and dangerous idea." She turned to Pagett impulsively: "You are a member of the English Parliament. Can you do nothing? The foundations of their life are rotten--utterly and bestially rotten. I could tell your wife things that I couldn't tell you. I know the inner life that belongs to the native, and I know nothing else; and believe me you might as well try to grow golden-rod in a mushroom-pit as to make anything of a people that are born and reared as these--these things 're. The men talk of their rights and privileges. I have seen the women that bear these very men, and again--may God forgive the men!" Pagett's eyes opened with a large wonder. Dr. Lathrop rose tempestuously. "I must be off to lecture," said she, "and I'm sorry that I can't show you my hospitals; but you had better believe, sir, that it's more necessary for India than all the elections in creation." "That's a woman with a mission, and no mistake," said Pagett, after a pause. "Yes; she believes in her work, and so do I," said Orde. "I've a notion that in the end it will be found that the most helpful work done for India in this generation was wrought by Lady Dufferin in drawing attention--what work that was, by the way, even with her husband's great name to back it to the needs of women here. In effect, native habits and beliefs are an organized conspiracy against the laws of health and happy life--but there is some dawning of hope now." "How d'you account for the general indifference, then?" "I suppose it's due in part to their fatalism and their utter indifference to all human suffering. How much do you imagine the great province of the Punjab with over twenty million people and half a score rich towns has contributed to the maintenance of civil dispensaries last year? About seven thousand rupees." "That's seven hundred pounds," said Pagett, quickly. "I wish it was," replied Orde; "but anyway, it's an absurdly inadequate sum, and shows one of the blank sides of Oriental character." Pagett was silent for a long time. The question of direct and personal pain did not lie within his researches. He preferred to discuss the weightier matters of the law, and contented himself with murmuring: "They'll do better later on." Then, with a rush, returning to his first thought: "But, my dear Orde, if it's merely a class movement of a local and temporary character, how d' you account for Bradlaugh, who is at least a man of sense, taking it up?" "I know nothing of the champion of the New Brahmins but what I see in the papers. I suppose there is something tempting in being hailed by a large assemblage as the representative of the aspirations of two hundred and fifty millions of people. Such a man looks 'through all the roaring and the wreaths,' and does not reflect that it is a false perspective, which, as a matter of fact, hides the real complex and manifold India from his gaze. He can scarcely be expected to distinguish between the ambitions of a new oligarchy and the real wants of the people of whom he knows nothing. But it's strange that a professed Radical should come to be the chosen advocate of a movement which has for its aim the revival of an ancient tyranny. Shows how even Radicalism can fall into academic grooves and miss the essential truths of its own creed. Believe me, Pagett, to deal with India you want first-hand knowledge and experience. I wish he would come and live here for a couple of years or so." "Is not this rather an ad hominem style of argument?" "Can't help it in a case like this. Indeed, I am not sure you ought not to go further and weigh the whole character and quality and upbringing of the man. You must admit that the monumental complacency with which he trotted out his ingenious little Constitution for India showed a strange want of imagination and the sense of humor." "No, I don't quite admit it," said Pagett. "Well, you know him and I don't, but that's how it strikes a stranger." He turned on his heel and paced the veranda thoughtfully. "And, after all, the burden of the actual, daily unromantic toil falls on the shoulders of the men out here, and not on his own. He enjoys all the privileges of recommendation without responsibility, and we--well, perhaps, when you've seen a little more of India you'll understand. To begin with, our death rate's five times higher than yours--I speak now for the brutal bureaucrat--and we work on the refuse of worked-out cities and exhausted civilizations, among the bones of the dead. In the case of the Congress meetings, the only notable fact is that the priests of the altar are British, not Buddhist, Jain or Brahminical, and that the whole thing is a British contrivance kept alive by the efforts of Messrs. Hume, Eardley, Norton, and Digby." "You mean to say, then, it's not a spontaneous movement?" "What movement was ever spontaneous in any true sense of the word? This seems to be more factitious than usual. You seem to know a great deal about it; try it by the touchstone of subscriptions, a coarse but fairly trustworthy criterion, and there is scarcely the color of money in it. The delegates write from England that they are out of pocket for working expenses, railway fares, and stationery--the mere pasteboard and scaffolding of their show. It is, in fact, collapsing from mere financial inanition." "But you cannot deny that the people of India, who are, perhaps, too poor to subscribe, are mentally and morally moved by the agitation," Pagett insisted. "That is precisely what I do deny. The native side of the movement is the work of a limited class, a microscopic minority, as Lord Dufferin described it, when compared with the people proper, but still a very interesting class, seeing that it is of our own creation. It is composed almost entirely of those of the literary or clerkly castes who have received an English education." "Surely that's a very important class. Its members must be the ordained leaders of popular thought." "Anywhere else they might be leaders, but they have no social weight here." Pagett laughed. "That's an epigrammatic way of putting it, Orde." "Is it? Let's see," said the Deputy Commissioner of Amara, striding into the sunshine toward a half-naked gardener potting roses. He took the man's hoe, and went to a rain-scarped bank at the bottom of the garden. "Come here, Pagett," he said, and cut at the sun-baked soil. After three strokes there rolled from under the blade of the hoe the half of a clanking skeleton that settled at Pagett's feet in an unseemly jumble of bones. The M.P. drew back. "Our houses are built on cemeteries," said Orde. "There are scores of thousands of graves within ten miles." Pagett was contemplating the skull with the awed fascination of a man who has but little to do with the dead. "India's a very curious place," said he, after a pause. "Ah? You'll know all about it in three months. Come in to lunch," said Orde. VOLUME V PLAIN TALES FROM THE HILLS LISPETH Look, you have cast out Love! What Gods are these You bid me please? The Three in One, the One in Three? Not so! To my own Gods I go. It may be they shall give me greater ease Than your cold Christ and tangled Trinities. --The Convert. She was the daughter of Sonoo, a Hill-man, and Jadeh his wife. One year their maize failed, and two bears spent the night in their only poppy-field just above the Sutlej Valley on the Kotgarh side; so, next season, they turned Christian, and brought their baby to the Mission to be baptized. The Kotgarh Chaplain christened her Elizabeth, and "Lispeth" is the Hill or pahari pronunciation. Later, cholera came into the Kotgarh Valley and carried off Sonoo and Jadeh, and Lispeth became half-servant, half-companion to the wife of the then Chaplain of Kotgarh. This was after the reign of the Moravian missionaries, but before Kotgarh had quite forgotten her title of "Mistress of the Northern Hills." Whether Christianity improved Lispeth, or whether the gods of her own people would have done as much for her under any circumstances, I do not know; but she grew very lovely. When a Hill girl grows lovely, she is worth traveling fifty miles over bad ground to look upon. Lispeth had a Greek face--one of those faces people paint so often, and see so seldom. She was of a pale, ivory color and, for her race, extremely tall. Also, she possessed eyes that were wonderful; and, had she not been dressed in the abominable print-cloths affected by Missions, you would, meeting her on the hill-side unexpectedly, have thought her the original Diana of the Romans going out to slay. Lispeth took to Christianity readily, and did not abandon it when she reached womanhood, as do some Hill girls. Her own people hated her because she had, they said, become a memsahib and washed herself daily; and the Chaplain's wife did not know what to do with her. Somehow, one cannot ask a stately goddess, five foot ten in her shoes, to clean plates and dishes. So she played with the Chaplain's children and took classes in the Sunday School, and read all the books in the house, and grew more and more beautiful, like the Princesses in fairy tales. The Chaplain's wife said that the girl ought to take service in Simla as a nurse or something "genteel." But Lispeth did not want to take service. She was very happy where she was. When travellers--there were not many in those years--came to Kotgarh, Lispeth used to lock herself into her own room for fear they might take her away to Simla, or somewhere out into the unknown world. One day, a few months after she was seventeen years old, Lispeth went out for a walk. She did not walk in the manner of English ladies--a mile and a half out, and a ride back again. She covered between twenty and thirty miles in her little constitutionals, all about and about, between Kotgarh and Narkunda. This time she came back at full dusk, stepping down the breakneck descent into Kotgarh with something heavy in her arms. The Chaplain's wife was dozing in the drawing-room when Lispeth came in breathing hard and very exhausted with her burden. Lispeth put it down on the sofa, and said simply: "This is my husband. I found him on the Bagi Road. He has hurt himself. We will nurse him, and when he is well, your husband shall marry him to me." This was the first mention Lispeth had ever made of her matrimonial views, and the Chaplain's wife shrieked with horror. However, the man on the sofa needed attention first. He was a young Englishman, and his head had been cut to the bone by something jagged. Lispeth said she had found him down the khud, so she had brought him in. He was breathing queerly and was unconscious. He was put to bed and tended by the Chaplain, who knew something of medicine; and Lispeth waited outside the door in case she could be useful. She explained to the Chaplain that this was the man she meant to marry; and the Chaplain and his wife lectured her severely on the impropriety of her conduct. Lispeth listened quietly, and repeated her first proposition. It takes a great deal of Christianity to wipe out uncivilized Eastern instincts, such as falling in love at first sight. Lispeth, having found the man she worshipped, did not see why she should keep silent as to her choice. She had no intention of being sent away, either. She was going to nurse that Englishman until he was well enough to marry her. This was her little programme. After a fortnight of slight fever and inflammation, the Englishman recovered coherence and thanked the Chaplain and his wife, and Lispeth--especially Lispeth--for their kindness. He was a traveller in the East, he said--they never talked about "globe-trotters" in those days, when the P. & O. fleet was young and small--and had come from Dehra Dun to hunt for plants and butterflies among the Simla hills. No one at Simla, therefore, knew anything about him. He fancied he must have fallen over the cliff while stalking a fern on a rotten tree-trunk, and that his coolies must have stolen his baggage and fled. He thought he would go back to Simla when he was a little stronger. He desired no more mountaineering. He made small haste to go away, and recovered his strength slowly. Lispeth objected to being advised either by the Chaplain or his wife; so the latter spoke to the Englishman, and told him how matters stood in Lispeth's heart. He laughed a good deal, and said it was very pretty and romantic, a perfect idyl of the Himalayas; but, as he was engaged to a girl at Home, he fancied that nothing would happen. Certainly he would behave with discretion. He did that. Still he found it very pleasant to talk to Lispeth, and walk with Lispeth, and say nice things to her, and call her pet names while he was getting strong enough to go away. It meant nothing at all to him, and everything in the world to Lispeth. She was very happy while the fortnight lasted, because she had found a man to love. Being a savage by birth, she took no trouble to hide her feelings, and the Englishman was amused. When he went away, Lispeth walked with him, up the Hill as far as Narkunda, very troubled and very miserable. The Chaplain's wife, being a good Christian and disliking anything in the shape of fuss or scandal--Lispeth was beyond her management entirely--had told the Englishman to tell Lispeth that he was coming back to marry her. "She is but a child, you know, and, I fear, at heart a heathen," said the Chaplain's wife. So all the twelve miles up the hill the Englishman, with his arm around Lispeth's waist, was assuring the girl that he would come back and marry her; and Lispeth made him promise over and over again. She wept on the Narkunda Ridge till he had passed out of sight along the Muttiani path. Then she dried her tears and went in to Kotgarh again, and said to the Chaplain's wife: "He will come back and marry me. He has gone to his own people to tell them so." And the Chaplain's wife soothed Lispeth and said: "He will come back." At the end of two months, Lispeth grew impatient, and was told that the Englishman had gone over the seas to England. She knew where England was, because she had read little geography primers; but, of course, she had no conception of the nature of the sea, being a Hill girl. There was an old puzzle-map of the World in the House. Lispeth had played with it when she was a child. She unearthed it again, and put it together of evenings, and cried to herself, and tried to imagine where her Englishman was. As she had no ideas of distance or steamboats, her notions were somewhat erroneous. It would not have made the least difference had she been perfectly correct; for the Englishman had no intention of coming back to marry a Hill girl. He forgot all about her by the time he was butterfly-hunting in Assam. He wrote a book on the East afterwards. Lispeth's name did not appear. At the end of three months, Lispeth made daily pilgrimage to Narkunda to see if her Englishman was coming along the road. It gave her comfort, and the Chaplain's wife, finding her happier, thought that she was getting over her "barbarous and most indelicate folly." A little later the walks ceased to help Lispeth and her temper grew very bad. The Chaplain's wife thought this a profitable time to let her know the real state of affairs--that the Englishman had only promised his love to keep her quiet--that he had never meant anything, and that it was "wrong and improper" of Lispeth to think of marriage with an Englishman, who was of a superior clay, besides being promised in marriage to a girl of his own people. Lispeth said that all this was clearly impossible, because he had said he loved her, and the Chaplain's wife had, with her own lips, asserted that the Englishman was coming back. "How can what he and you said be untrue?" asked Lispeth. "We said it as an excuse to keep you quiet, child," said the Chaplain's wife. "Then you have lied to me," said Lispeth, "you and he?" The Chaplain's wife bowed her head, and said nothing. Lispeth was silent, too for a little time; then she went out down the valley, and returned in the dress of a Hill girl--infamously dirty, but without the nose and ear rings. She had her hair braided into the long pig-tail, helped out with black thread, that Hill women wear. "I am going back to my own people," said she. "You have killed Lispeth. There is only left old Jadeh's daughter--the daughter of a pahari and the servant of Tarka Devi. You are all liars, you English." By the time that the Chaplain's wife had recovered from the shock of the announcement that Lispeth had 'verted to her mother's gods, the girl had gone; and she never came back. She took to her own unclean people savagely, as if to make up the arrears of the life she had stepped out of; and, in a little time, she married a wood-cutter who beat her, after the manner of paharis, and her beauty faded soon. "There is no law whereby you can account for the vagaries of the heathen," said the Chaplain's wife, "and I believe that Lispeth was always at heart an infidel." Seeing she had been taken into the Church of England at the mature age of five weeks, this statement does not do credit to the Chaplain's wife. Lispeth was a very old woman when she died. She always had a perfect command of English, and when she was sufficiently drunk, could sometimes be induced to tell the story of her first love-affair. It was hard then to realize that the bleared, wrinkled creature, so like a wisp of charred rag, could ever have been "Lispeth of the Kotgarh Mission." THREE AND--AN EXTRA. "When halter and heel ropes are slipped, do not give chase with sticks but with gram." --Punjabi Proverb. After marriage arrives a reaction, sometimes a big, sometimes a little one; but it comes sooner or later, and must be tided over by both parties if they desire the rest of their lives to go with the current. In the case of the Cusack-Bremmils this reaction did not set in till the third year after the wedding. Bremmil was hard to hold at the best of times; but he was a beautiful husband until the baby died and Mrs. Bremmil wore black, and grew thin, and mourned as if the bottom of the universe had fallen out. Perhaps Bremmil ought to have comforted her. He tried to do so, I think; but the more he comforted the more Mrs. Bremmil grieved, and, consequently, the more uncomfortable Bremmil grew. The fact was that they both needed a tonic. And they got it. Mrs. Bremmil can afford to laugh now, but it was no laughing matter to her at the time. You see, Mrs. Hauksbee appeared on the horizon; and where she existed was fair chance of trouble. At Simla her bye-name was the "Stormy Petrel." She had won that title five times to my own certain knowledge. She was a little, brown, thin, almost skinny, woman, with big, rolling, violet-blue eyes, and the sweetest manners in the world. You had only to mention her name at afternoon teas for every woman in the room to rise up, and call her--well--NOT blessed. She was clever, witty, brilliant, and sparkling beyond most of her kind; but possessed of many devils of malice and mischievousness. She could be nice, though, even to her own sex. But that is another story. Bremmil went off at score after the baby's death and the general discomfort that followed, and Mrs. Hauksbee annexed him. She took no pleasure in hiding her captives. She annexed him publicly, and saw that the public saw it. He rode with her, and walked with her, and talked with her, and picnicked with her, and tiffined at Peliti's with her, till people put up their eyebrows and said: "Shocking!" Mrs. Bremmil stayed at home turning over the dead baby's frocks and crying into the empty cradle. She did not care to do anything else. But some eight dear, affectionate lady-friends explained the situation at length to her in case she should miss the cream of it. Mrs. Bremmil listened quietly, and thanked them for their good offices. She was not as clever as Mrs. Hauksbee, but she was no fool. She kept her own counsel, and did not speak to Bremmil of what she had heard. This is worth remembering. Speaking to, or crying over, a husband never did any good yet. When Bremmil was at home, which was not often, he was more affectionate than usual; and that showed his hand. The affection was forced partly to soothe his own conscience and partly to soothe Mrs. Bremmil. It failed in both regards. Then "the A.-D.-C. in Waiting was commanded by Their Excellencies, Lord and Lady Lytton, to invite Mr. and Mrs. Cusack-Bremmil to Peterhoff on July 26th at 9.30 P. M."--"Dancing" in the bottom-left-hand corner. "I can't go," said Mrs. Bremmil, "it is too soon after poor little Florrie--but it need not stop you, Tom." She meant what she said then, and Bremmil said that he would go just to put in an appearance. Here he spoke the thing which was not; and Mrs. Bremmil knew it. She guessed--a woman's guess is much more accurate than a man's certainty--that he had meant to go from the first, and with Mrs. Hauksbee. She sat down to think, and the outcome of her thoughts was that the memory of a dead child was worth considerably less than the affections of a living husband. She made her plan and staked her all upon it. In that hour she discovered that she knew Tom Bremmil thoroughly, and this knowledge she acted on. "Tom," said she, "I shall be dining out at the Longmores' on the evening of the 26th. You'd better dine at the club." This saved Bremmil from making an excuse to get away and dine with Mrs. Hauksbee, so he was grateful, and felt small and mean at the same time--which was wholesome. Bremmil left the house at five for a ride. About half-past five in the evening a large leather-covered basket came in from Phelps' for Mrs. Bremmil. She was a woman who knew how to dress; and she had not spent a week on designing that dress and having it gored, and hemmed, and herring-boned, and tucked and rucked (or whatever the terms are) for nothing. It was a gorgeous dress--slight mourning. I can't describe it, but it was what The Queen calls "a creation"--a thing that hit you straight between the eyes and made you gasp. She had not much heart for what she was going to do; but as she glanced at the long mirror she had the satisfaction of knowing that she had never looked so well in her life. She was a large blonde and, when she chose, carried herself superbly. After the dinner at the Longmores, she went on to the dance--a little late--and encountered Bremmil with Mrs. Hauksbee on his arm. That made her flush, and as the men crowded round her for dances she looked magnificent. She filled up all her dances except three, and those she left blank. Mrs. Hauksbee caught her eye once; and she knew it was war--real war--between them. She started handicapped in the struggle, for she had ordered Bremmil about just the least little bit in the world too much; and he was beginning to resent it. Moreover, he had never seen his wife look so lovely. He stared at her from doorways, and glared at her from passages as she went about with her partners; and the more he stared, the more taken was he. He could scarcely believe that this was the woman with the red eyes and the black stuff gown who used to weep over the eggs at breakfast. Mrs. Hauksbee did her best to hold him in play, but, after two dances, he crossed over to his wife and asked for a dance. "I'm afraid you've come too late, MISTER Bremmil," she said, with her eyes twinkling. Then he begged her to give him a dance, and, as a great favor, she allowed him the fifth waltz. Luckily it stood vacant on his programme. They danced it together, and there was a little flutter round the room. Bremmil had a sort of notion that his wife could dance, but he never knew she danced so divinely. At the end of that waltz he asked for another--as a favor, not as a right; and Mrs. Bremmil said: "Show me your programme, dear!" He showed it as a naughty little schoolboy hands up contraband sweets to a master. There was a fair sprinkling of "H" on it besides "H" at supper. Mrs. Bremmil said nothing, but she smiled contemptuously, ran her pencil through 7 and 9--two "H's"--and returned the card with her own name written above--a pet name that only she and her husband used. Then she shook her finger at him, and said, laughing: "Oh, you silly, SILLY boy!" Mrs. Hauksbee heard that, and--she owned as much--felt that she had the worst of it. Bremmil accepted 7 and 9 gratefully. They danced 7, and sat out 9 in one of the little tents. What Bremmil said and what Mrs. Bremmil said is no concern of any one's. When the band struck up "The Roast Beef of Old England," the two went out into the verandah, and Bremmil began looking for his wife's dandy (this was before 'rickshaw days) while she went into the cloak-room. Mrs. Hauksbee came up and said: "You take me in to supper, I think, Mr. Bremmil." Bremmil turned red and looked foolish. "Ah--h'm! I'm going home with my wife, Mrs. Hauksbee. I think there has been a little mistake." Being a man, he spoke as though Mrs. Hauksbee were entirely responsible. Mrs. Bremmil came out of the cloak-room in a swansdown cloak with a white "cloud" round her head. She looked radiant; and she had a right to. The couple went off in the darkness together, Bremmil riding very close to the dandy. Then says Mrs. Hauksbee to me--she looked a trifle faded and jaded in the lamplight: "Take my word for it, the silliest woman can manage a clever man; but it needs a very clever woman to manage a fool." Then we went in to supper. THROWN AWAY. "And some are sulky, while some will plunge [So ho! Steady! Stand still, you!] Some you must gentle, and some you must lunge. [There! There! Who wants to kill you?] Some--there are losses in every trade-- Will break their hearts ere bitted and made, Will fight like fiends as the rope cuts hard, And die dumb-mad in the breaking-yard." --Toolungala Stockyard Chorus. To rear a boy under what parents call the "sheltered life system" is, if the boy must go into the world and fend for himself, not wise. Unless he be one in a thousand he has certainly to pass through many unnecessary troubles; and may, possibly, come to extreme grief simply from ignorance of the proper proportions of things. Let a puppy eat the soap in the bath-room or chew a newly-blacked boot. He chews and chuckles until, by and by, he finds out that blacking and Old Brown Windsor make him very sick; so he argues that soap and boots are not wholesome. Any old dog about the house will soon show him the unwisdom of biting big dogs' ears. Being young, he remembers and goes abroad, at six months, a well-mannered little beast with a chastened appetite. If he had been kept away from boots, and soap, and big dogs till he came to the trinity full-grown and with developed teeth, just consider how fearfully sick and thrashed he would be! Apply that motion to the "sheltered life," and see how it works. It does not sound pretty, but it is the better of two evils. There was a Boy once who had been brought up under the "sheltered life" theory; and the theory killed him dead. He stayed with his people all his days, from the hour he was born till the hour he went into Sandhurst nearly at the top of the list. He was beautifully taught in all that wins marks by a private tutor, and carried the extra weight of "never having given his parents an hour's anxiety in his life." What he learnt at Sandhurst beyond the regular routine is of no great consequence. He looked about him, and he found soap and blacking, so to speak, very good. He ate a little, and came out of Sandhurst not so high as he went in. Them there was an interval and a scene with his people, who expected much from him. Next a year of living "unspotted from the world" in a third-rate depot battalion where all the juniors were children, and all the seniors old women; and lastly he came out to India, where he was cut off from the support of his parents, and had no one to fall back on in time of trouble except himself. Now India is a place beyond all others where one must not take things too seriously--the midday sun always excepted. Too much work and too much energy kill a man just as effectively as too much assorted vice or too much drink. Flirtation does not matter because every one is being transferred and either you or she leave the Station, and never return. Good work does not matter, because a man is judged by his worst output and another man takes all the credit of his best as a rule. Bad work does not matter, because other men do worse, and incompetents hang on longer in India than anywhere else. Amusements do not matter, because you must repeat them as soon as you have accomplished them once, and most amusements only mean trying to win another person's money. Sickness does not matter, because it's all in the day's work, and if you die another man takes over your place and your office in the eight hours between death and burial. Nothing matters except Home furlough and acting allowances, and these only because they are scarce. This is a slack, kutcha country where all men work with imperfect instruments; and the wisest thing is to take no one and nothing in earnest, but to escape as soon as ever you can to some place where amusement is amusement and a reputation worth the having. But this Boy--the tale is as old as the Hills--came out, and took all things seriously. He was pretty and was petted. He took the pettings seriously, and fretted over women not worth saddling a pony to call upon. He found his new free life in India very good. It DOES look attractive in the beginning, from a Subaltern's point of view--all ponies, partners, dancing, and so on. He tasted it as the puppy tastes the soap. Only he came late to the eating, with a growing set of teeth. He had no sense of balance--just like the puppy--and could not understand why he was not treated with the consideration he received under his father's roof. This hurt his feelings. He quarrelled with other boys, and, being sensitive to the marrow, remembered these quarrels, and they excited him. He found whist, and gymkhanas, and things of that kind (meant to amuse one after office) good; but he took them seriously too, just as he took the "head" that followed after drink. He lost his money over whist and gymkhanas because they were new to him. He took his losses seriously, and wasted as much energy and interest over a two-gold-mohur race for maiden ekka-ponies with their manes hogged, as if it had been the Derby. One-half of this came from inexperience--much as the puppy squabbles with the corner of the hearth-rug--and the other half from the dizziness bred by stumbling out of his quiet life into the glare and excitement of a livelier one. No one told him about the soap and the blacking because an average man takes it for granted that an average man is ordinarily careful in regard to them. It was pitiful to watch The Boy knocking himself to pieces, as an over-handled colt falls down and cuts himself when he gets away from the groom. This unbridled license in amusements not worth the trouble of breaking line for, much less rioting over, endured for six months--all through one cold weather--and then we thought that the heat and the knowledge of having lost his money and health and lamed his horses would sober The Boy down, and he would stand steady. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred this would have happened. You can see the principle working in any Indian Station. But this particular case fell through because The Boy was sensitive and took things seriously--as I may have said some seven times before. Of course, we couldn't tell how his excesses struck him personally. They were nothing very heart-breaking or above the average. He might be crippled for life financially, and want a little nursing. Still the memory of his performances would wither away in one hot weather, and the shroff would help him to tide over the money troubles. But he must have taken another view altogether and have believed himself ruined beyond redemption. His Colonel talked to him severely when the cold weather ended. That made him more wretched than ever; and it was only an ordinary "Colonel's wigging!" What follows is a curious instance of the fashion in which we are all linked together and made responsible for one another. THE thing that kicked the beam in The Boy's mind was a remark that a woman made when he was talking to her. There is no use in repeating it, for it was only a cruel little sentence, rapped out before thinking, that made him flush to the roots of his hair. He kept himself to himself for three days, and then put in for two days' leave to go shooting near a Canal Engineer's Rest House about thirty miles out. He got his leave, and that night at Mess was noisier and more offensive than ever. He said that he was "going to shoot big game," and left at half-past ten o'clock in an ekka. Partridge--which was the only thing a man could get near the Rest House--is not big game; so every one laughed. Next morning one of the Majors came in from short leave, and heard that The Boy had gone out to shoot "big game." The Major had taken an interest in The Boy, and had, more than once, tried to check him in the cold weather. The Major put up his eyebrows when he heard of the expedition and went to The Boy's room, where he rummaged. Presently he came out and found me leaving cards on the Mess. There was no one else in the ante-room. He said: "The Boy has gone out shooting. DOES a man shoot [missing] with a revolver and a writing-case?" I said: "Nonsense, Major!" for I saw what was in his mind. He said: "Nonsense or nonsense, I'm going to the Canal now--at once. I don't feel easy." Then he thought for a minute, and said: "Can you lie?" "You know best," I answered. "It's my profession." "Very well," said the Major; "you must come out with me now--at once--in an ekka to the Canal to shoot black-buck. Go and put on shikar-kit--quick--and drive here with a gun." The Major was a masterful man; and I knew that he would not give orders for nothing. So I obeyed, and on return found the Major packed up in an ekka--gun-cases and food slung below--all ready for a shooting-trip. He dismissed the driver and drove himself. We jogged along quietly while in the station; but as soon as we got to the dusty road across the plains, he made that pony fly. A country-bred can do nearly anything at a pinch. We covered the thirty miles in under three hours, but the poor brute was nearly dead. Once I said: "What's the blazing hurry, Major?" He said, quietly: "The Boy has been alone, by himself, for--one, two, five--fourteen hours now! I tell you, I don't feel easy." This uneasiness spread itself to me, and I helped to beat the pony. When we came to the Canal Engineer's Rest House the Major called for The Boy's servant; but there was no answer. Then we went up to the house, calling for The Boy by name; but there was no answer. "Oh, he's out shooting," said I. Just then I saw through one of the windows a little hurricane-lamp burning. This was at four in the afternoon. We both stopped dead in the verandah, holding our breath to catch every sound; and we heard, inside the room, the "brr--brr--brr" of a multitude of flies. The Major said nothing, but he took off his helmet and we entered very softly. The Boy was dead on the charpoy in the centre of the bare, lime-washed room. He had shot his head nearly to pieces with his revolver. The gun-cases were still strapped, so was the bedding, and on the table lay The Boy's writing-case with photographs. He had gone away to die like a poisoned rat! The Major said to himself softly: "Poor Boy! Poor, POOR devil!" Then he turned away from the bed and said: "I want your help in this business." Knowing The Boy was dead by his own hand, I saw exactly what that help would be, so I passed over to the table, took a chair, lit a cheroot, and began to go through the writing-case; the Major looking over my shoulder and repeating to himself: "We came too late!--Like a rat in a hole!--Poor, POOR devil!" The Boy must have spent half the night in writing to his people, and to his Colonel, and to a girl at Home; and as soon as he had finished, must have shot himself, for he had been dead a long time when we came in. I read all that he had written, and passed over each sheet to the Major as I finished it. We saw from his accounts how very seriously he had taken everything. He wrote about "disgrace which he was unable to bear"--"indelible shame"--"criminal folly"--"wasted life," and so on; besides a lot of private things to his Father and Mother too much too sacred to put into print. The letter to the girl at Home was the most pitiful of all; and I choked as I read it. The Major made no attempt to keep dry-eyed. I respected him for that. He read and rocked himself to and fro, and simply cried like a woman without caring to hide it. The letters were so dreary and hopeless and touching. We forgot all about The Boy's follies, and only thought of the poor Thing on the charpoy and the scrawled sheets in our hands. It was utterly impossible to let the letters go Home. They would have broken his Father's heart and killed his Mother after killing her belief in her son. At last the Major dried his eyes openly, and said: "Nice sort of thing to spring on an English family! What shall we do?" I said, knowing what the Major had brought me but for: "The Boy died of cholera. We were with him at the time. We can't commit ourselves to half-measures. Come along." Then began one of the most grimy comic scenes I have ever taken part in--the concoction of a big, written lie, bolstered with evidence, to soothe The Boy's people at Home. I began the rough draft of a letter, the Major throwing in hints here and there while he gathered up all the stuff that The Boy had written and burnt it in the fireplace. It was a hot, still evening when we began, and the lamp burned very badly. In due course I got the draft to my satisfaction, setting forth how The Boy was the pattern of all virtues, beloved by his regiment, with every promise of a great career before him, and so on; how we had helped him through the sickness--it was no time for little lies, you will understand--and how he had died without pain. I choked while I was putting down these things and thinking of the poor people who would read them. Then I laughed at the grotesqueness of the affair, and the laughter mixed itself up with the choke--and the Major said that we both wanted drinks. I am afraid to say how much whiskey we drank before the letter was finished. It had not the least effect on us. Then we took off The Boy's watch, locket, and rings. Lastly, the Major said: "We must send a lock of hair too. A woman values that." But there were reasons why we could not find a lock fit to send. The Boy was black-haired, and so was the Major, luckily. I cut off a piece of the Major's hair above the temple with a knife, and put it into the packet we were making. The laughing-fit and the chokes got hold of me again, and I had to stop. The Major was nearly as bad; and we both knew that the worst part of the work was to come. We sealed up the packet, photographs, locket, seals, ring, letter, and lock of hair with The Boy's sealing-wax and The Boy's seal. Then the Major said: "For God's sake let's get outside--away from the room--and think!" We went outside, and walked on the banks of the Canal for an hour, eating and drinking what we had with us, until the moon rose. I know now exactly how a murderer feels. Finally, we forced ourselves back to the room with the lamp and the Other Thing in it, and began to take up the next piece of work. I am not going to write about this. It was too horrible. We burned the bedstead and dropped the ashes into the Canal; we took up the matting of the room and treated that in the same way. I went off to a village and borrowed two big hoes--I did not want the villagers to help--while the Major arranged--the other matters. It took us four hours' hard work to make the grave. As we worked, we argued out whether it was right to say as much as we remembered of the Burial of the Dead. We compromised things by saying the Lord's Prayer with a private unofficial prayer for the peace of the soul of The Boy. Then we filled in the grave and went into the verandah--not the house--to lie down to sleep. We were dead-tired. When we woke the Major said, wearily: "We can't go back till tomorrow. We must give him a decent time to die in. He died early THIS morning, remember. That seems more natural." So the Major must have been lying awake all the time, thinking. I said: "Then why didn't we bring the body back to the cantonments?" The Major thought for a minute:--"Because the people bolted when they heard of the cholera. And the ekka has gone!" That was strictly true. We had forgotten all about the ekka-pony, and he had gone home. So, we were left there alone, all that stifling day, in the Canal Rest House, testing and re-testing our story of The Boy's death to see if it was weak at any point. A native turned up in the afternoon, but we said that a Sahib was dead of cholera, and he ran away. As the dusk gathered, the Major told me all his fears about The Boy, and awful stories of suicide or nearly-carried-out suicide--tales that made one's hair crisp. He said that he himself had once gone into the same Valley of the Shadow as the Boy, when he was young and new to the country; so he understood how things fought together in The Boy's poor jumbled head. He also said that youngsters, in their repentant moments, consider their sins much more serious and ineffaceable than they really are. We talked together all through the evening, and rehearsed the story of the death of The Boy. As soon as the moon was up, and The Boy, theoretically, just buried, we struck across country for the Station. We walked from eight till six o'clock in the morning; but though we were dead-tired, we did not forget to go to The Boy's room and put away his revolver with the proper amount of cartridges in the pouch. Also to set his writing-case on the table. We found the Colonel and reported the death, feeling more like murderers than ever. Then we went to bed and slept the clock round; for there was no more in us. The tale had credence as long as was necessary, for every one forgot about The Boy before a fortnight was over. Many people, however, found time to say that the Major had behaved scandalously in not bringing in the body for a regimental funeral. The saddest thing of all was a letter from The Boy's mother to the Major and me--with big inky blisters all over the sheet. She wrote the sweetest possible things about our great kindness, and the obligation she would be under to us as long as she lived. All things considered, she WAS under an obligation; but not exactly as she meant. MISS YOUGHAL'S SAIS. When Man and Woman are agreed, what can the Kazi do? --Mahomedan Proverb. Some people say that there is no romance in India. Those people are wrong. Our lives hold quite as much romance as is good for us. Sometimes more. Strickland was in the Police, and people did not understand him; so they said he was a doubtful sort of man and passed by on the other side. Strickland had himself to thank for this. He held the extraordinary theory that a Policeman in India should try to know as much about the natives as the natives themselves. Now, in the whole of Upper India, there is only ONE man who can pass for Hindu or Mohammedan, chamar or faquir, as he pleases. He is feared and respected by the natives from the Ghor Kathri to the Jamma Musjid; and he is supposed to have the gift of invisibility and executive control over many Devils. But what good has this done him with the Government? None in the world. He has never got Simla for his charge; and his name is almost unknown to Englishmen. Strickland was foolish enough to take that man for his model; and, following out his absurd theory, dabbled in unsavory places no respectable man would think of exploring--all among the native riff-raff. He educated himself in this peculiar way for seven years, and people could not appreciate it. He was perpetually "going Fantee" among the natives, which, of course, no man with any sense believes in. He was initiated into the Sat Bhai at Allahabad once, when he was on leave; he knew the Lizard-Song of the Sansis, and the Halli-Hukk dance, which is a religious can-can of a startling kind. When a man knows who dances the Halli-Hukk, and how, and when, and where, he knows something to be proud of. He has gone deeper than the skin. But Strickland was not proud, though he had helped once, at Jagadhri, at the Painting of the Death Bull, which no Englishman must even look upon; had mastered the thieves'-patter of the changars; had taken a Eusufzai horse-thief alone near Attock; and had stood under the mimbar-board of a Border mosque and conducted service in the manner of a Sunni Mollah. His crowning achievement was spending eleven days as a faquir in the gardens of Baba Atal at Amritsar, and there picking up the threads of the great Nasiban Murder Case. But people said, justly enough: "Why on earth can't Strickland sit in his office and write up his diary, and recruit, and keep quiet, instead of showing up the incapacity of his seniors?" So the Nasiban Murder Case did him no good departmentally; but, after his first feeling of wrath, he returned to his outlandish custom of prying into native life. By the way, when a man once acquires a taste for this particular amusement, it abides with him all his days. It is the most fascinating thing in the world; Love not excepted. Where other men took ten days to the Hills, Strickland took leave for what he called shikar, put on the disguise that appealed to him at the time, stepped down into the brown crowd, and was swallowed up for a while. He was a quiet, dark young fellow--spare, black-eyes--and, when he was not thinking of something else, a very interesting companion. Strickland on Native Progress as he had seen it was worth hearing. Natives hated Strickland; but they were afraid of him. He knew too much. When the Youghals came into the station, Strickland--very gravely, as he did everything--fell in love with Miss Youghal; and she, after a while, fell in love with him because she could not understand him. Then Strickland told the parents; but Mrs. Youghal said she was not going to throw her daughter into the worst paid Department in the Empire, and old Youghal said, in so many words, that he mistrusted Strickland's ways and works, and would thank him not to speak or write to his daughter any more. "Very well," said Strickland, for he did not wish to make his lady-love's life a burden. After one long talk with Miss Youghal he dropped the business entirely. The Youghals went up to Simla in April. In July, Strickland secured three months' leave on "urgent private affairs." He locked up his house--though not a native in the Providence would wittingly have touched "Estreekin Sahib's" gear for the world--and went down to see a friend of his, an old dyer, at Tarn Taran. Here all trace of him was lost, until a sais met me on the Simla Mall with this extraordinary note: "Dear old man, "Please give bearer a box of cheroots--Supers, No. I, for preference. They are freshest at the Club. I'll repay when I reappear; but at present I'm out of Society. "Yours, "E. STRICKLAND." I ordered two boxes, and handed them over to the sais with my love. That sais was Strickland, and he was in old Youghal's employ, attached to Miss Youghal's Arab. The poor fellow was suffering for an English smoke, and knew that whatever happened I should hold my tongue till the business was over. Later on, Mrs. Youghal, who was wrapped up in her servants, began talking at houses where she called of her paragon among saises--the man who was never too busy to get up in the morning and pick flowers for the breakfast-table, and who blacked--actually BLACKED--the hoofs of his horse like a London coachman! The turnout of Miss Youghal's Arab was a wonder and a delight. Strickland--Dulloo, I mean--found his reward in the pretty things that Miss Youghal said to him when she went out riding. Her parents were pleased to find she had forgotten all her foolishness for young Strickland and said she was a good girl. Strickland vows that the two months of his service were the most rigid mental discipline he has ever gone through. Quite apart from the little fact that the wife of one of his fellow-saises fell in love with him and then tried to poison him with arsenic because he would have nothing to do with her, he had to school himself into keeping quiet when Miss Youghal went out riding with some man who tried to flirt with her, and he was forced to trot behind carrying the blanket and hearing every word! Also, he had to keep his temper when he was slanged in "Benmore" porch by a policeman--especially once when he was abused by a Naik he had himself recruited from Isser Jang village--or, worse still, when a young subaltern called him a pig for not making way quickly enough. But the life had its compensations. He obtained great insight into the ways and thefts of saises--enough, he says, to have summarily convicted half the chamar population of the Punjab if he had been on business. He became one of the leading players at knuckle-bones, which all jhampanis and many saises play while they are waiting outside the Government House or the Gaiety Theatre of nights; he learned to smoke tobacco that was three-fourths cowdung; and he heard the wisdom of the grizzled Jemadar of the Government House saises, whose words are valuable. He saw many things which amused him; and he states, on honor, that no man can appreciate Simla properly, till he has seen it from the sais's point of view. He also says that, if he chose to write all he saw, his head would be broken in several places. Strickland's account of the agony he endured on wet nights, hearing the music and seeing the lights in "Benmore," with his toes tingling for a waltz and his head in a horse-blanket, is rather amusing. One of these days, Strickland is going to write a little book on his experiences. That book will be worth buying; and even more, worth suppressing. Thus, he served faithfully as Jacob served for Rachel; and his leave was nearly at an end when the explosion came. He had really done his best to keep his temper in the hearing of the flirtations I have mentioned; but he broke down at last. An old and very distinguished General took Miss Youghal for a ride, and began that specially offensive "you're-only-a-little-girl" sort of flirtation--most difficult for a woman to turn aside deftly, and most maddening to listen to. Miss Youghal was shaking with fear at the things he said in the hearing of her sais. Dulloo--Strickland--stood it as long as he could. Then he caught hold of the General's bridle, and, in most fluent English, invited him to step off and be heaved over the cliff. Next minute Miss Youghal began crying; and Strickland saw that he had hopelessly given himself away, and everything was over. The General nearly had a fit, while Miss Youghal was sobbing out the story of the disguise and the engagement that wasn't recognized by the parents. Strickland was furiously angry with himself and more angry with the General for forcing his hand; so he said nothing, but held the horse's head and prepared to thrash the General as some sort of satisfaction, but when the General had thoroughly grasped the story, and knew who Strickland was, he began to puff and blow in the saddle, and nearly rolled off with laughing. He said Strickland deserved a V. C., if it were only for putting on a sais's blanket. Then he called himself names, and vowed that he deserved a thrashing, but he was too old to take it from Strickland. Then he complimented Miss Youghal on her lover. The scandal of the business never struck him; for he was a nice old man, with a weakness for flirtations. Then he laughed again, and said that old Youghal was a fool. Strickland let go of the cob's head, and suggested that the General had better help them, if that was his opinion. Strickland knew Youghal's weakness for men with titles and letters after their names and high official position. "It's rather like a forty-minute farce," said the General, "but begad, I WILL help, if it's only to escape that tremendous thrashing I deserved. Go along to your home, my sais-Policeman, and change into decent kit, and I'll attack Mr. Youghal. Miss Youghal, may I ask you to canter home and wait?"......... About seven minutes later, there was a wild hurroosh at the Club. A sais, with a blanket and head-rope, was asking all the men he knew: "For Heaven's sake lend me decent clothes!" As the men did not recognize him, there were some peculiar scenes before Strickland could get a hot bath, with soda in it, in one room, a shirt here, a collar there, a pair of trousers elsewhere, and so on. He galloped off, with half the Club wardrobe on his back, and an utter stranger's pony under him, to the house of old Youghal. The General, arrayed in purple and fine linen, was before him. What the General had said Strickland never knew, but Youghal received Strickland with moderate civility; and Mrs. Youghal, touched by the devotion of the transformed Dulloo, was almost kind. The General beamed, and chuckled, and Miss Youghal came in, and almost before old Youghal knew where he was, the parental consent had been wrenched out and Strickland had departed with Miss Youghal to the Telegraph Office to wire for his kit. The final embarrassment was when an utter stranger attacked him on the Mall and asked for the stolen pony. So, in the end, Strickland and Miss Youghal were married, on the strict understanding that Strickland should drop his old ways, and stick to Departmental routine, which pays best and leads to Simla. Strickland was far too fond of his wife, just then, to break his word, but it was a sore trial to him; for the streets and the bazars, and the sounds in them, were full of meaning to Strickland, and these called to him to come back and take up his wanderings and his discoveries. Some day, I will tell you how he broke his promise to help a friend. That was long since, and he has, by this time, been nearly spoilt for what he would call shikar. He is forgetting the slang, and the beggar's cant, and the marks, and the signs, and the drift of the undercurrents, which, if a man would master, he must always continue to learn. But he fills in his Departmental returns beautifully. YOKED WITH AN UNBELIEVER. I am dying for you, and you are dying for another. --Punjabi Proverb. When the Gravesend tender left the P. & 0. steamer for Bombay and went back to catch the train to Town, there were many people in it crying. But the one who wept most, and most openly was Miss Agnes Laiter. She had reason to cry, because the only man she ever loved--or ever could love, so she said--was going out to India; and India, as every one knows, is divided equally between jungle, tigers, cobras, cholera, and sepoys. Phil Garron, leaning over the side of the steamer in the rain, felt very unhappy too; but he did not cry. He was sent out to "tea." What "tea" meant he had not the vaguest idea, but fancied that he would have to ride on a prancing horse over hills covered with tea-vines, and draw a sumptuous salary for doing so; and he was very grateful to his uncle for getting him the berth. He was really going to reform all his slack, shiftless ways, save a large proportion of his magnificent salary yearly, and, in a very short time, return to marry Agnes Laiter. Phil Garron had been lying loose on his friends' hands for three years, and, as he had nothing to do, he naturally fell in love. He was very nice; but he was not strong in his views and opinions and principles, and though he never came to actual grief his friends were thankful when he said good-bye, and went out to this mysterious "tea" business near Darjiling. They said:--"God bless you, dear boy! Let us never see your face again,"--or at least that was what Phil was given to understand. When he sailed, he was very full of a great plan to prove himself several hundred times better than any one had given him credit for--to work like a horse, and triumphantly marry Agnes Laiter. He had many good points besides his good looks; his only fault being that he was weak, the least little bit in the world weak. He had as much notion of economy as the Morning Sun; and yet you could not lay your hand on any one item, and say: "Herein Phil Garron is extravagant or reckless." Nor could you point out any particular vice in his character; but he was "unsatisfactory" and as workable as putty. Agnes Laiter went about her duties at home--her family objected to the engagement--with red eyes, while Phil was sailing to Darjiling--"a port on the Bengal Ocean," as his mother used to tell her friends. He was popular enough on board ship, made many acquaintances and a moderately large liquor bill, and sent off huge letters to Agnes Laiter at each port. Then he fell to work on this plantation, somewhere between Darjiling and Kangra, and, though the salary and the horse and the work were not quite all he had fancied, he succeeded fairly well, and gave himself much unnecessary credit for his perseverance. In the course of time, as he settled more into collar, and his work grew fixed before him, the face of Agnes Laiter went out of his mind and only came when he was at leisure, which was not often. He would forget all about her for a fortnight, and remember her with a start, like a school-boy who has forgotten to learn his lesson. She did not forget Phil, because she was of the kind that never forgets. Only, another man--a really desirable young man--presented himself before Mrs. Laiter; and the chance of a marriage with Phil was as far off as ever; and his letters were so unsatisfactory; and there was a certain amount of domestic pressure brought to bear on the girl; and the young man really was an eligible person as incomes go; and the end of all things was that Agnes married him, and wrote a tempestuous whirlwind of a letter to Phil in the wilds of Darjiling, and said she should never know a happy moment all the rest of her life. Which was a true prophecy. Phil got that letter, and held himself ill-treated. This was two years after he had come out; but by dint of thinking fixedly of Agnes Laiter, and looking at her photograph, and patting himself on the back for being one of the most constant lovers in history, and warming to the work as he went on, he really fancied that he had been very hardly used. He sat down and wrote one final letter--a really pathetic "world without end, amen," epistle; explaining how he would be true to Eternity, and that all women were very much alike, and he would hide his broken heart, etc., etc.; but if, at any future time, etc., etc., he could afford to wait, etc., etc., unchanged affections, etc., etc., return to her old love, etc., etc., for eight closely-written pages. From an artistic point of view, it was very neat work, but an ordinary Philistine, who knew the state of Phil's real feelings--not the ones he rose to as he went on writing--would have called it the thoroughly mean and selfish work of a thoroughly mean and selfish, weak man. But this verdict would have been incorrect. Phil paid for the postage, and felt every word he had written for at least two days and a half. It was the last flicker before the light went out. That letter made Agnes Laiter very unhappy, and she cried and put it away in her desk, and became Mrs. Somebody Else for the good of her family. Which is the first duty of every Christian maid. Phil went his ways, and thought no more of his letter, except as an artist thinks of a neatly touched-in sketch. His ways were not bad, but they were not altogether good until they brought him across Dunmaya, the daughter of a Rajput ex-Subadar-Major of our Native Army. The girl had a strain of Hill blood in her, and, like the Hill women, was not a purdah nashin. Where Phil met her, or how he heard of her, does not matter. She was a good girl and handsome, and, in her way, very clever and shrewd; though, of course, a little hard. It is to be remembered that Phil was living very comfortably, denying himself no small luxury, never putting by an anna, very satisfied with himself and his good intentions, was dropping all his English correspondents one by one, and beginning more and more to look upon this land as his home. Some men fall this way; and they are of no use afterwards. The climate where he was stationed was good, and it really did not seem to him that there was anything to go Home for. He did what many planters have done before him--that is to say, he made up his mind to marry a Hill girl and settle down. He was seven and twenty then, with a long life before him, but no spirit to go through with it. So he married Dunmaya by the forms of the English Church, and some fellow-planters said he was a fool, and some said he was a wise man. Dunmaya was a thoroughly honest girl, and, in spite of her reverence for an Englishman, had a reasonable estimate of her husband's weaknesses. She managed him tenderly, and became, in less than a year, a very passable imitation of an English lady in dress and carriage. [It is curious to think that a Hill man, after a lifetime's education, is a Hill man still; but a Hill woman can in six months master most of the ways of her English sisters. There was a coolie woman once. But that is another story.] Dunmaya dressed by preference in black and yellow, and looked well. Meantime the letter lay in Agnes's desk, and now and again she would think of poor resolute hard-working Phil among the cobras and tigers of Darjiling, toiling in the vain hope that she might come back to him. Her husband was worth ten Phils, except that he had rheumatism of the heart. Three years after he was married--and after he had tried Nice and Algeria for his complaint--he went to Bombay, where he died, and set Agnes free. Being a devout woman, she looked on his death and the place of it, as a direct interposition of Providence, and when she had recovered from the shock, she took out and reread Phil's letter with the "etc., etc.," and the big dashes, and the little dashes, and kissed it several times. No one knew her in Bombay; she had her husband's income, which was a large one, and Phil was close at hand. It was wrong and improper, of course, but she decided, as heroines do in novels, to find her old lover, to offer him her hand and her gold, and with him spend the rest of her life in some spot far from unsympathetic souls. She sat for two months, alone in Watson's Hotel, elaborating this decision, and the picture was a pretty one. Then she set out in search of Phil Garron, Assistant on a tea plantation with a more than usually unpronounceable name.......... She found him. She spent a month over it, for his plantation was not in the Darjiling district at all, but nearer Kangra. Phil was very little altered, and Dunmaya was very nice to her. Now the particular sin and shame of the whole business is that Phil, who really is not worth thinking of twice, was and is loved by Dunmaya, and more than loved by Agnes, the whole of whose life he seems to have spoilt. Worst of all, Dunmaya is making a decent man of him; and he will be ultimately saved from perdition through her training. Which is manifestly unfair. FALSE DAWN. Tonight God knows what thing shall tide, The Earth is racked and faint-- Expectant, sleepless, open-eyed; And we, who from the Earth were made, Thrill with our Mother's pain. --In Durance. No man will ever know the exact truth of this story; though women may sometimes whisper it to one another after a dance, when they are putting up their hair for the night and comparing lists of victims. A man, of course, cannot assist at these functions. So the tale must be told from the outside--in the dark--all wrong. Never praise a sister to a sister, in the hope of your compliments reaching the proper ears, and so preparing the way for you later on. Sisters are women first, and sisters afterwards; and you will find that you do yourself harm. Saumarez knew this when he made up his mind to propose to the elder Miss Copleigh. Saumarez was a strange man, with few merits, so far as men could see, though he was popular with women, and carried enough conceit to stock a Viceroy's Council and leave a little over for the Commander-in-Chief's Staff. He was a Civilian. Very many women took an interest in Saumarez, perhaps, because his manner to them was offensive. If you hit a pony over the nose at the outset of your acquaintance, he may not love you, but he will take a deep interest in your movements ever afterwards. The elder Miss Copleigh was nice, plump, winning and pretty. The younger was not so pretty, and, from men disregarding the hint set forth above, her style was repellant and unattractive. Both girls had, practically, the same figure, and there was a strong likeness between them in look and voice; though no one could doubt for an instant which was the nicer of the two. Saumarez made up his mind, as soon as they came into the station from Behar, to marry the elder one. At least, we all made sure that he would, which comes to the same thing. She was two and twenty, and he was thirty-three, with pay and allowances of nearly fourteen hundred rupees a month. So the match, as we arranged it, was in every way a good one. Saumarez was his name, and summary was his nature, as a man once said. Having drafted his Resolution, he formed a Select Committee of One to sit upon it, and resolved to take his time. In our unpleasant slang, the Copleigh girls "hunted in couples." That is to say, you could do nothing with one without the other. They were very loving sisters; but their mutual affection was sometimes inconvenient. Saumarez held the balance-hair true between them, and none but himself could have said to which side his heart inclined; though every one guessed. He rode with them a good deal and danced with them, but he never succeeded in detaching them from each other for any length of time. Women said that the two girls kept together through deep mistrust, each fearing that the other would steal a march on her. But that has nothing to do with a man. Saumarez was silent for good or bad, and as business--likely attentive as he could be, having due regard to his work and his polo. Beyond doubt both girls were fond of him. As the hot weather drew nearer, and Saumarez made no sign, women said that you could see their trouble in the eyes of the girls--that they were looking strained, anxious, and irritable. Men are quite blind in these matters unless they have more of the woman than the man in their composition, in which case it does not matter what they say or think. I maintain it was the hot April days that took the color out of the Copleigh girls' cheeks. They should have been sent to the Hills early. No one--man or woman--feels an angel when the hot weather is approaching. The younger sister grew more cynical--not to say acid--in her ways; and the winningness of the elder wore thin. There was more effort in it. Now the Station wherein all these things happened was, though not a little one, off the line of rail, and suffered through want of attention. There were no gardens or bands or amusements worth speaking of, and it was nearly a day's journey to come into Lahore for a dance. People were grateful for small things to interest them. About the beginning of May, and just before the final exodus of Hill-goers, when the weather was very hot and there were not more than twenty people in the Station, Saumarez gave a moonlight riding-picnic at an old tomb, six miles away, near the bed of the river. It was a "Noah's Ark" picnic; and there was to be the usual arrangement of quarter-mile intervals between each couple, on account of the dust. Six couples came altogether, including chaperons. Moonlight picnics are useful just at the very end of the season, before all the girls go away to the Hills. They lead to understandings, and should be encouraged by chaperones; especially those whose girls look sweetish in riding habits. I knew a case once. But that is another story. That picnic was called the "Great Pop Picnic," because every one knew Saumarez would propose then to the eldest Miss Copleigh; and, beside his affair, there was another which might possibly come to happiness. The social atmosphere was heavily charged and wanted clearing. We met at the parade-ground at ten: the night was fearfully hot. The horses sweated even at walking-pace, but anything was better than sitting still in our own dark houses. When we moved off under the full moon we were four couples, one triplet, and Mr. Saumarez rode with the Copleigh girls, and I loitered at the tail of the procession, wondering with whom Saumarez would ride home. Every one was happy and contented; but we all felt that things were going to happen. We rode slowly: and it was nearly midnight before we reached the old tomb, facing the ruined tank, in the decayed gardens where we were going to eat and drink. I was late in coming up; and before I went into the garden, I saw that the horizon to the north carried a faint, dun-colored feather. But no one would have thanked me for spoiling so well-managed an entertainment as this picnic--and a dust-storm, more or less, does no great harm. We gathered by the tank. Some one had brought out a banjo--which is a most sentimental instrument--and three or four of us sang. You must not laugh at this. Our amusements in out-of-the-way Stations are very few indeed. Then we talked in groups or together, lying under the trees, with the sun-baked roses dropping their petals on our feet, until supper was ready. It was a beautiful supper, as cold and as iced as you could wish; and we stayed long over it. I had felt that the air was growing hotter and hotter; but nobody seemed to notice it until the moon went out and a burning hot wind began lashing the orange-trees with a sound like the noise of the sea. Before we knew where we were, the dust-storm was on us, and everything was roaring, whirling darkness. The supper-table was blown bodily into the tank. We were afraid of staying anywhere near the old tomb for fear it might be blown down. So we felt our way to the orange-trees where the horses were picketed and waited for the storm to blow over. Then the little light that was left vanished, and you could not see your hand before your face. The air was heavy with dust and sand from the bed of the river, that filled boots and pockets and drifted down necks and coated eyebrows and moustaches. It was one of the worst dust-storms of the year. We were all huddled together close to the trembling horses, with the thunder clattering overhead, and the lightning spurting like water from a sluice, all ways at once. There was no danger, of course, unless the horses broke loose. I was standing with my head downward and my hands over my mouth, hearing the trees thrashing each other. I could not see who was next me till the flashes came. Then I found that I was packed near Saumarez and the eldest Miss Copleigh, with my own horse just in front of me. I recognized the eldest Miss Copleigh, because she had a pagri round her helmet, and the younger had not. All the electricity in the air had gone into my body and I was quivering and tingling from head to foot--exactly as a corn shoots and tingles before rain. It was a grand storm. The wind seemed to be picking up the earth and pitching it to leeward in great heaps; and the heat beat up from the ground like the heat of the Day of Judgment. The storm lulled slightly after the first half-hour, and I heard a despairing little voice close to my ear, saying to itself, quietly and softly, as if some lost soul were flying about with the wind: "O my God!" Then the younger Miss Copleigh stumbled into my arms, saying: "Where is my horse? Get my horse. I want to go home. I WANT to go home. Take me home." I thought that the lightning and the black darkness had frightened her; so I said there was no danger, but she must wait till the storm blew over. She answered: "It is not THAT! It is not THAT! I want to go home! O take me away from here!" I said that she could not go till the light came; but I felt her brush past me and go away. It was too dark to see where. Then the whole sky was split open with one tremendous flash, as if the end of the world were coming, and all the women shrieked. Almost directly after this, I felt a man's hand on my shoulder and heard Saumarez bellowing in my ear. Through the rattling of the trees and howling of the wind, I did not catch his words at once, but at last I heard him say: "I've proposed to the wrong one! What shall I do?" Saumarez had no occasion to make this confidence to me. I was never a friend of his, nor am I now; but I fancy neither of us were ourselves just then. He was shaking as he stood with excitement, and I was feeling queer all over with the electricity. I could not think of anything to say except:--"More fool you for proposing in a dust-storm." But I did not see how that would improve the mistake. Then he shouted: "Where's Edith--Edith Copleigh?" Edith was the youngest sister. I answered out of my astonishment:--"What do you want with HER?" Would you believe it, for the next two minutes, he and I were shouting at each other like maniacs--he vowing that it was the youngest sister he had meant to propose to all along, and I telling him till my throat was hoarse that he must have made a mistake! I can't account for this except, again, by the fact that we were neither of us ourselves. Everything seemed to me like a bad dream--from the stamping of the horses in the darkness to Saumarez telling me the story of his loving Edith Copleigh since the first. He was still clawing my shoulder and begging me to tell him where Edith Copleigh was, when another lull came and brought light with it, and we saw the dust-cloud forming on the plain in front of us. So we knew the worst was over. The moon was low down, and there was just the glimmer of the false dawn that comes about an hour before the real one. But the light was very faint, and the dun cloud roared like a bull. I wondered where Edith Copleigh had gone; and as I was wondering I saw three things together: First Maud Copleigh's face come smiling out of the darkness and move towards Saumarez, who was standing by me. I heard the girl whisper, "George," and slide her arm through the arm that was not clawing my shoulder, and I saw that look on her face which only comes once or twice in a lifetime--when a woman is perfectly happy and the air is full of trumpets and gorgeous-colored fire and the Earth turns into cloud because she loves and is loved. At the same time, I saw Saumarez's face as he heard Maud Copleigh's voice, and fifty yards away from the clump of orange-trees I saw a brown holland habit getting upon a horse. It must have been my state of over-excitement that made me so quick to meddle with what did not concern me. Saumarez was moving off to the habit; but I pushed him back and said:--"Stop here and explain. I'll fetch her back!" and I ran out to get at my own horse. I had a perfectly unnecessary notion that everything must be done decently and in order, and that Saumarez's first care was to wipe the happy look out of Maud Copleigh's face. All the time I was linking up the curb-chain I wondered how he would do it. I cantered after Edith Copleigh, thinking to bring her back slowly on some pretence or another. But she galloped away as soon as she saw me, and I was forced to ride after her in earnest. She called back over her shoulder--"Go away! I'm going home. Oh, go away!" two or three times; but my business was to catch her first, and argue later. The ride just fitted in with the rest of the evil dream. The ground was very bad, and now and again we rushed through the whirling, choking "dust-devils" in the skirts of the flying storm. There was a burning hot wind blowing that brought up a stench of stale brick-kilns with it; and through the half light and through the dust-devils, across that desolate plain, flickered the brown holland habit on the gray horse. She headed for the Station at first. Then she wheeled round and set off for the river through beds of burnt down jungle-grass, bad even to ride a pig over. In cold blood I should never have dreamed of going over such a country at night, but it seemed quite right and natural with the lightning crackling overhead, and a reek like the smell of the Pit in my nostrils. I rode and shouted, and she bent forward and lashed her horse, and the aftermath of the dust-storm came up and caught us both, and drove us downwind like pieces of paper. I don't know how far we rode; but the drumming of the horse-hoofs and the roar of the wind and the race of the faint blood-red moon through the yellow mist seemed to have gone on for years and years, and I was literally drenched with sweat from my helmet to my gaiters when the gray stumbled, recovered himself, and pulled up dead lame. My brute was used up altogether. Edith Copleigh was in a sad state, plastered with dust, her helmet off, and crying bitterly. "Why can't you let me alone?" she said. "I only wanted to get away and go home. Oh, PLEASE let me go!" "You have got to come back with me, Miss Copleigh. Saumarez has something to say to you." It was a foolish way of putting it; but I hardly knew Miss Copleigh; and, though I was playing Providence at the cost of my horse, I could not tell her in as many words what Saumarez had told me. I thought he could do that better himself. All her pretence about being tired and wanting to go home broke down, and she rocked herself to and fro in the saddle as she sobbed, and the hot wind blew her black hair to leeward. I am not going to repeat what she said, because she was utterly unstrung. This, if you please, was the cynical Miss Copleigh. Here was I, almost an utter stranger to her, trying to tell her that Saumarez loved her and she was to come back to hear him say so! I believe I made myself understood, for she gathered the gray together and made him hobble somehow, and we set off for the tomb, while the storm went thundering down to Umballa and a few big drops of warm rain fell. I found out that she had been standing close to Saumarez when he proposed to her sister and had wanted to go home and cry in peace, as an English girl should. She dabbled her eyes with her pocket-handkerchief as we went along, and babbled to me out of sheer lightness of heart and hysteria. That was perfectly unnatural; and yet, it seemed all right at the time and in the place. All the world was only the two Copleigh girls, Saumarez and I, ringed in with the lightning and the dark; and the guidance of this misguided world seemed to lie in my hands. When we returned to the tomb in the deep, dead stillness that followed the storm, the dawn was just breaking and nobody had gone away. They were waiting for our return. Saumarez most of all. His face was white and drawn. As Miss Copleigh and I limped up, he came forward to meet us, and, when he helped her down from her saddle, he kissed her before all the picnic. It was like a scene in a theatre, and the likeness was heightened by all the dust-white, ghostly-looking men and women under the orange-trees, clapping their hands, as if they were watching a play--at Saumarez's choice. I never knew anything so un-English in my life. Lastly, Saumarez said we must all go home or the Station would come out to look for us, and WOULD I be good enough to ride home with Maud Copleigh? Nothing would give me greater pleasure, I said. So, we formed up, six couples in all, and went back two by two; Saumarez walking at the side of Edith Copleigh, who was riding his horse. The air was cleared; and little by little, as the sun rose, I felt we were all dropping back again into ordinary men and women and that the "Great Pop Picnic" was a thing altogether apart and out of the world--never to happen again. It had gone with the dust-storm and the tingle in the hot air. I felt tired and limp, and a good deal ashamed of myself as I went in for a bath and some sleep. There is a woman's version of this story, but it will never be written. ... unless Maud Copleigh cares to try. THE RESCUE OF PLUFFLES. Thus, for a season, they fought it fair-- She and his cousin May-- Tactful, talented, debonnaire, Decorous foes were they; But never can battle of man compare With merciless feminine fray. --Two and One. Mrs. Hauksbee was sometimes nice to her own sex. Here is a story to prove this; and you can believe just as much as ever you please. Pluffles was a subaltern in the "Unmentionables." He was callow, even for a subaltern. He was callow all over--like a canary that had not finished fledging itself. The worst of it was he had three times as much money as was good for him; Pluffles' Papa being a rich man and Pluffles being the only son. Pluffles' Mamma adored him. She was only a little less callow than Pluffles and she believed everything he said. Pluffles' weakness was not believing what people said. He preferred what he called "trusting to his own judgment." He had as much judgment as he had seat or hands; and this preference tumbled him into trouble once or twice. But the biggest trouble Pluffles ever manufactured came about at Simla--some years ago, when he was four-and-twenty. He began by trusting to his own judgment, as usual, and the result was that, after a time, he was bound hand and foot to Mrs. Reiver's 'rickshaw wheels. There was nothing good about Mrs. Reiver, unless it was her dress. She was bad from her hair--which started life on a Brittany's girl's head--to her boot-heels, which were two and three-eighth inches high. She was not honestly mischievous like Mrs. Hauksbee; she was wicked in a business-like way. There was never any scandal--she had not generous impulses enough for that. She was the exception which proved the rule that Anglo-Indian ladies are in every way as nice as their sisters at Home. She spent her life in proving that rule. Mrs. Hauksbee and she hated each other fervently. They heard far too much to clash; but the things they said of each other were startling--not to say original. Mrs. Hauksbee was honest--honest as her own front teeth--and, but for her love of mischief, would have been a woman's woman. There was no honesty about Mrs. Reiver; nothing but selfishness. And at the beginning of the season, poor little Pluffles fell a prey to her. She laid herself out to that end, and who was Pluffles, to resist? He went on trusting to his judgment, and he got judged. I have seen Hayes argue with a tough horse--I have seen a tonga-driver coerce a stubborn pony--I have seen a riotous setter broken to gun by a hard keeper--but the breaking-in of Pluffles of the "Unmentionables" was beyond all these. He learned to fetch and carry like a dog, and to wait like one, too, for a word from Mrs. Reiver. He learned to keep appointments which Mrs. Reiver had no intention of keeping. He learned to take thankfully dances which Mrs. Reiver had no intention of giving him. He learned to shiver for an hour and a quarter on the windward side of Elysium while Mrs. Reiver was making up her mind to come for a ride. He learned to hunt for a 'rickshaw, in a light dress-suit under a pelting rain, and to walk by the side of that 'rickshaw when he had found it. He learned what it was to be spoken to like a coolie and ordered about like a cook. He learned all this and many other things besides. And he paid for his schooling. Perhaps, in some hazy way, he fancied that it was fine and impressive, that it gave him a status among men, and was altogether the thing to do. It was nobody's business to warn Pluffles that he was unwise. The pace that season was too good to inquire; and meddling with another man's folly is always thankless work. Pluffles' Colonel should have ordered him back to his regiment when he heard how things were going. But Pluffles had got himself engaged to a girl in England the last time he went home; and if there was one thing more than another which the Colonel detested, it was a married subaltern. He chuckled when he heard of the education of Pluffles, and said it was "good training for the boy." But it was not good training in the least. It led him into spending money beyond his means, which were good: above that, the education spoilt an average boy and made it a tenth-rate man of an objectionable kind. He wandered into a bad set, and his little bill at Hamilton's was a thing to wonder at. Then Mrs. Hauksbee rose to the occasion. She played her game alone, knowing what people would say of her; and she played it for the sake of a girl she had never seen. Pluffles' fiancee was to come out, under the chaperonage of an aunt, in October, to be married to Pluffles. At the beginning of August, Mrs. Hauksbee discovered that it was time to interfere. A man who rides much knows exactly what a horse is going to do next before he does it. In the same way, a woman of Mrs. Hauksbee's experience knows accurately how a boy will behave under certain circumstances--notably when he is infatuated with one of Mrs. Reiver's stamp. She said that, sooner or later, little Pluffles would break off that engagement for nothing at all--simply to gratify Mrs. Reiver, who, in return, would keep him at her feet and in her service just so long as she found it worth her while. She said she knew the signs of these things. If she did not, no one else could. Then she went forth to capture Pluffles under the guns of the enemy; just as Mrs. Cusack-Bremmil carried away Bremmil under Mrs. Hauksbee's eyes. This particular engagement lasted seven weeks--we called it the Seven Weeks' War--and was fought out inch by inch on both sides. A detailed account would fill a book, and would be incomplete then. Any one who knows about these things can fit in the details for himself. It was a superb fight--there will never be another like it as long as Jakko stands--and Pluffles was the prize of victory. People said shameful things about Mrs. Hauksbee. They did not know what she was playing for. Mrs. Reiver fought, partly because Pluffles was useful to her, but mainly because she hated Mrs. Hauksbee, and the matter was a trial of strength between them. No one knows what Pluffles thought. He had not many ideas at the best of times, and the few he possessed made him conceited. Mrs. Hauksbee said:--"The boy must be caught; and the only way of catching him is by treating him well." So she treated him as a man of the world and of experience so long as the issue was doubtful. Little by little, Pluffles fell away from his old allegiance and came over to the enemy, by whom he was made much of. He was never sent on out-post duty after 'rickshaws any more, nor was he given dances which never came off, nor were the drains on his purse continued. Mrs. Hauksbee held him on the snaffle; and after his treatment at Mrs. Reiver's hands, he appreciated the change. Mrs. Reiver had broken him of talking about himself, and made him talk about her own merits. Mrs. Hauksbee acted otherwise, and won his confidence, till he mentioned his engagement to the girl at Home, speaking of it in a high and mighty way as a "piece of boyish folly." This was when he was taking tea with her one afternoon, and discoursing in what he considered a gay and fascinating style. Mrs. Hauksbee had seen an earlier generation of his stamp bud and blossom, and decay into fat Captains and tubby Majors. At a moderate estimate there were about three and twenty sides to that lady's character. Some men say more. She began to talk to Pluffles after the manner of a mother, and as if there had been three hundred years, instead of fifteen, between them. She spoke with a sort of throaty quaver in her voice which had a soothing effect, though what she said was anything but soothing. She pointed out the exceeding folly, not to say meanness, of Pluffles' conduct, and the smallness of his views. Then he stammered something about "trusting to his own judgment as a man of the world;" and this paved the way for what she wanted to say next. It would have withered up Pluffles had it come from any other woman; but in the soft cooing style in which Mrs. Hauksbee put it, it only made him feel limp and repentant--as if he had been in some superior kind of church. Little by little, very softly and pleasantly, she began taking the conceit out of Pluffles, as you take the ribs out of an umbrella before re-covering it. She told him what she thought of him and his judgment and his knowledge of the world; and how his performances had made him ridiculous to other people; and how it was his intention to make love to herself if she gave him the chance. Then she said that marriage would be the making of him; and drew a pretty little picture--all rose and opal--of the Mrs. Pluffles of the future going through life relying on the "judgment" and "knowledge of the world" of a husband who had nothing to reproach himself with. How she reconciled these two statements she alone knew. But they did not strike Pluffles as conflicting. Hers was a perfect little homily--much better than any clergyman could have given--and it ended with touching allusions to Pluffles' Mamma and Papa, and the wisdom of taking his bride Home. Then she sent Pluffles out for a walk, to think over what she had said. Pluffles left, blowing his nose very hard and holding himself very straight. Mrs. Hauksbee laughed. What Pluffles had intended to do in the matter of the engagement only Mrs. Reiver knew, and she kept her own counsel to her death. She would have liked it spoiled as a compliment, I fancy. Pluffles enjoyed many talks with Mrs. Hauksbee during the next few days. They were all to the same end, and they helped Pluffles in the path of Virtue. Mrs. Hauksbee wanted to keep him under her wing to the last. Therefore she discountenanced his going down to Bombay to get married. "Goodness only knows what might happen by the way!" she said. "Pluffles is cursed with the curse of Reuben, and India is no fit place for him!" In the end, the fiancee arrived with her aunt; and Pluffles, having reduced his affairs to some sort of order--here again Mrs. Hauksbee helped him--was married. Mrs. Hauksbee gave a sigh of relief when both the "I wills" had been said, and went her way. Pluffles took her advice about going Home. He left the Service, and is now raising speckled cattle inside green painted fences somewhere at Home. I believe he does this very judiciously. He would have come to extreme grief out here. For these reasons if any one says anything more than usually nasty about Mrs. Hauksbee, tell him the story of the Rescue of Pluffles. CUPID'S ARROWS. Pit where the buffalo cooled his hide, By the hot sun emptied, and blistered and dried; Log in the reh-grass, hidden and alone; Bund where the earth-rat's mounds are strown; Cave in the bank where the sly stream steals; Aloe that stabs at the belly and heels, Jump if you dare on a steed untried--Safer it is to go wide-- go wide! Hark, from in front where the best men ride:-- "Pull to the off, boys! Wide! Go wide!" --The Peora Hunt. Once upon a time there lived at Simla a very pretty girl, the daughter of a poor but honest District and Sessions Judge. She was a good girl, but could not help knowing her power and using it. Her Mamma was very anxious about her daughter's future, as all good Mammas should be. When a man is a Commissioner and a bachelor and has the right of wearing open-work jam-tart jewels in gold and enamel on his clothes, and of going through a door before every one except a Member of Council, a Lieutenant-Governor, or a Viceroy, he is worth marrying. At least, that is what ladies say. There was a Commissioner in Simla, in those days, who was, and wore, and did, all I have said. He was a plain man--an ugly man--the ugliest man in Asia, with two exceptions. His was a face to dream about and try to carve on a pipe-head afterwards. His name was Saggott--Barr-Saggott--Anthony Barr-Saggott and six letters to follow. Departmentally, he was one of the best men the Government of India owned. Socially, he was like a blandishing gorilla. When he turned his attentions to Miss Beighton, I believe that Mrs. Beighton wept with delight at the reward Providence had sent her in her old age. Mr. Beighton held his tongue. He was an easy-going man. Now a Commissioner is very rich. His pay is beyond the dreams of avarice--is so enormous that he can afford to save and scrape in a way that would almost discredit a Member of Council. Most Commissioners are mean; but Barr-Saggott was an exception. He entertained royally; he horsed himself well; he gave dances; he was a power in the land; and he behaved as such. Consider that everything I am writing of took place in an almost pre-historic era in the history of British India. Some folk may remember the years before lawn-tennis was born when we all played croquet. There were seasons before that, if you will believe me, when even croquet had not been invented, and archery--which was revived in England in 1844--was as great a pest as lawn-tennis is now. People talked learnedly about "holding" and "loosing," "steles," "reflexed bows," "56-pound bows," "backed" or "self-yew bows," as we talk about "rallies," "volleys," "smashes," "returns," and "16-ounce rackets." Miss Beighton shot divinely over ladies' distance--60 yards, that is--and was acknowledged the best lady archer in Simla. Men called her "Diana of Tara-Devi." Barr-Saggott paid her great attention; and, as I have said, the heart of her mother was uplifted in consequence. Kitty Beighton took matters more calmly. It was pleasant to be singled out by a Commissioner with letters after his name, and to fill the hearts of other girls with bad feelings. But there was no denying the fact that Barr-Saggott was phenomenally ugly; and all his attempts to adorn himself only made him more grotesque. He was not christened "The Langur"--which means gray ape--for nothing. It was pleasant, Kitty thought, to have him at her feet, but it was better to escape from him and ride with the graceless Cubbon--the man in a Dragoon Regiment at Umballa--the boy with a handsome face, and no prospects. Kitty liked Cubbon more than a little. He never pretended for a moment the he was anything less than head over heels in love with her; for he was an honest boy. So Kitty fled, now and again, from the stately wooings of Barr-Saggott to the company of young Cubbon, and was scolded by her Mamma in consequence. "But, Mother," she said, "Mr. Saggott is such--such a--is so FEARFULLY ugly, you know!" "My dear," said Mrs. Beighton, piously, "we cannot be other than an all-ruling Providence has made us. Besides, you will take precedence of your own Mother, you know! Think of that and be reasonable." Then Kitty put up her little chin and said irreverent things about precedence, and Commissioners, and matrimony. Mr. Beighton rubbed the top of his head; for he was an easy-going man. Late in the season, when he judged that the time was ripe, Barr-Saggott developed a plan which did great credit to his administrative powers. He arranged an archery tournament for ladies, with a most sumptuous diamond-studded bracelet as prize. He drew up his terms skilfully, and every one saw that the bracelet was a gift to Miss Beighton; the acceptance carrying with it the hand and the heart of Commissioner Barr-Saggott. The terms were a St. Leonard's Round--thirty-six shots at sixty yards--under the rules of the Simla Toxophilite Society. All Simla was invited. There were beautifully arranged tea-tables under the deodars at Annandale, where the Grand Stand is now; and, alone in its glory, winking in the sun, sat the diamond bracelet in a blue velvet case. Miss Beighton was anxious--almost too anxious to compete. On the appointed afternoon, all Simla rode down to Annandale to witness the Judgment of Paris turned upside down. Kitty rode with young Cubbon, and it was easy to see that the boy was troubled in his mind. He must be held innocent of everything that followed. Kitty was pale and nervous, and looked long at the bracelet. Barr-Saggott was gorgeously dressed, even more nervous than Kitty, and more hideous than ever. Mrs. Beighton smiled condescendingly, as befitted the mother of a potential Commissioneress, and the shooting began; all the world standing in a semicircle as the ladies came out one after the other. Nothing is so tedious as an archery competition. They shot, and they shot, and they kept on shooting, till the sun left the valley, and little breezes got up in the deodars, and people waited for Miss Beighton to shoot and win. Cubbon was at one horn of the semicircle round the shooters, and Barr-Saggott at the other. Miss Beighton was last on the list. The scoring had been weak, and the bracelet, PLUS Commissioner Barr-Saggott, was hers to a certainty. The Commissioner strung her bow with his own sacred hands. She stepped forward, looked at the bracelet, and her first arrow went true to a hair--full into the heart of the "gold"--counting nine points. Young Cubbon on the left turned white, and his Devil prompted Barr-Saggott to smile. Now horses used to shy when Barr-Saggott smiled. Kitty saw that smile. She looked to her left-front, gave an almost imperceptible nod to Cubbon, and went on shooting. I wish I could describe the scene that followed. It was out of the ordinary and most improper. Miss Kitty fitted her arrows with immense deliberation, so that every one might see what she was doing. She was a perfect shot; and her 46-pound bow suited her to a nicety. She pinned the wooden legs of the target with great care four successive times. She pinned the wooden top of the target once, and all the ladies looked at each other. Then she began some fancy shooting at the white, which, if you hit it, counts exactly one point. She put five arrows into the white. It was wonderful archery; but, seeing that her business was to make "golds" and win the bracelet, Barr-Saggott turned a delicate green like young water-grass. Next, she shot over the target twice, then wide to the left twice--always with the same deliberation--while a chilly hush fell over the company, and Mrs. Beighton took out her handkerchief. Then Kitty shot at the ground in front of the target, and split several arrows. Then she made a red--or seven points--just to show what she could do if she liked, and finished up her amazing performance with some more fancy shooting at the target-supports. Here is her score as it was picked off:-- Gold. Red. Blue. Black. White. Total Hits. Total Score Miss Beighton 1 1 0 0 5 7 21 Barr-Saggott looked as if the last few arrowheads had been driven into his legs instead of the target's, and the deep stillness was broken by a little snubby, mottled, half-grown girl saying in a shrill voice of triumph: "Then I'VE won!" Mrs. Beighton did her best to bear up; but she wept in the presence of the people. No training could help her through such a disappointment. Kitty unstrung her bow with a vicious jerk, and went back to her place, while Barr-Saggott was trying to pretend that he enjoyed snapping the bracelet on the snubby girl's raw, red wrist. It was an awkward scene--most awkward. Every one tried to depart in a body and leave Kitty to the mercy of her Mamma. But Cubbon took her away instead, and--the rest isn't worth printing. HIS CHANCE IN LIFE. Then a pile of heads be laid-- Thirty thousand heaped on high-- All to please the Kafir maid, Where the Oxus ripples by. Grimly spake Atulla Khan:-- "Love hath made this thing a Man." --Oatta's Story. If you go straight away from Levees and Government House Lists, past Trades' Balls--far beyond everything and everybody you ever knew in your respectable life--you cross, in time, the Border line where the last drop of White blood ends and the full tide of Black sets in. It would be easier to talk to a new-made Duchess on the spur of the moment than to the Borderline folk without violating some of their conventions or hurting their feelings. The Black and the White mix very quaintly in their ways. Sometimes the White shows in spurts of fierce, childish pride--which is Pride of Race run crooked--and sometimes the Black in still fiercer abasement and humility, half heathenish customs and strange, unaccountable impulses to crime. One of these days, this people--understand they are far lower than the class whence Derozio, the man who imitated Byron, sprung--will turn out a writer or a poet; and then we shall know how they live and what they feel. In the meantime, any stories about them cannot be absolutely correct in fact or inference. Miss Vezzis came from across the Borderline to look after some children who belonged to a lady until a regularly ordained nurse could come out. The lady said Miss Vezzis was a bad, dirty nurse and inattentive. It never struck her that Miss Vezzis had her own life to lead and her own affairs to worry over, and that these affairs were the most important things in the world to Miss Vezzis. Very few mistresses admit this sort of reasoning. Miss Vezzis was as black as a boot, and to our standard of taste, hideously ugly. She wore cotton-print gowns and bulged shoes; and when she lost her temper with the children, she abused them in the language of the Borderline--which is part English, part Portuguese, and part Native. She was not attractive; but she had her pride, and she preferred being called "Miss Vezzis." Every Sunday she dressed herself wonderfully and went to see her Mamma, who lived, for the most part, on an old cane chair in a greasy tussur-silk dressing-gown and a big rabbit-warren of a house full of Vezzises, Pereiras, Ribieras, Lisboas and Gansalveses, and a floating population of loafers; besides fragments of the day's bazar, garlic, stale incense, clothes thrown on the floor, petticoats hung on strings for screens, old bottles, pewter crucifixes, dried immortelles, pariah puppies, plaster images of the Virgin, and hats without crowns. Miss Vezzis drew twenty rupees a month for acting as nurse, and she squabbled weekly with her Mamma as to the percentage to be given towards housekeeping. When the quarrel was over, Michele D'Cruze used to shamble across the low mud wall of the compound and make love to Miss Vezzis after the fashion of the Borderline, which is hedged about with much ceremony. Michele was a poor, sickly weed and very black; but he had his pride. He would not be seen smoking a huqa for anything; and he looked down on natives as only a man with seven-eighths native blood in his veins can. The Vezzis Family had their pride too. They traced their descent from a mythical plate-layer who had worked on the Sone Bridge when railways were new in India, and they valued their English origin. Michele was a Telegraph Signaller on Rs. 35 a month. The fact that he was in Government employ made Mrs. Vezzis lenient to the shortcomings of his ancestors. There was a compromising legend--Dom Anna the tailor brought it from Poonani--that a black Jew of Cochin had once married into the D'Cruze family; while it was an open secret that an uncle of Mrs. D'Cruze was at that very time doing menial work, connected with cooking, for a Club in Southern India! He sent Mrs D'Cruze seven rupees eight annas a month; but she felt the disgrace to the family very keenly all the same. However, in the course of a few Sundays, Mrs. Vezzis brought herself to overlook these blemishes and gave her consent to the marriage of her daughter with Michele, on condition that Michele should have at least fifty rupees a month to start married life upon. This wonderful prudence must have been a lingering touch of the mythical plate-layer's Yorkshire blood; for across the Borderline people take a pride in marrying when they please--not when they can. Having regard to his departmental prospects, Miss Vezzis might as well have asked Michele to go away and come back with the Moon in his pocket. But Michele was deeply in love with Miss Vezzis, and that helped him to endure. He accompanied Miss Vezzis to Mass one Sunday, and after Mass, walking home through the hot stale dust with her hand in his, he swore by several Saints, whose names would not interest you, never to forget Miss Vezzis; and she swore by her Honor and the Saints--the oath runs rather curiously; "In nomine Sanctissimae--" (whatever the name of the she-Saint is) and so forth, ending with a kiss on the forehead, a kiss on the left cheek, and a kiss on the mouth--never to forget Michele. Next week Michele was transferred, and Miss Vezzis dropped tears upon the window-sash of the "Intermediate" compartment as he left the Station. If you look at the telegraph-map of India you will see a long line skirting the coast from Backergunge to Madras. Michele was ordered to Tibasu, a little Sub-office one-third down this line, to send messages on from Berhampur to Chicacola, and to think of Miss Vezzis and his chances of getting fifty rupees a month out of office hours. He had the noise of the Bay of Bengal and a Bengali Babu for company; nothing more. He sent foolish letters, with crosses tucked inside the flaps of the envelopes, to Miss Vezzis. When he had been at Tibasu for nearly three weeks his chance came. Never forget that unless the outward and visible signs of Our Authority are always before a native he is as incapable as a child of understanding what authority means, or where is the danger of disobeying it. Tibasu was a forgotten little place with a few Orissa Mohamedans in it. These, hearing nothing of the Collector-Sahib for some time, and heartily despising the Hindu Sub-Judge, arranged to start a little Mohurrum riot of their own. But the Hindus turned out and broke their heads; when, finding lawlessness pleasant, Hindus and Mahomedans together raised an aimless sort of Donnybrook just to see how far they could go. They looted each other's shops, and paid off private grudges in the regular way. It was a nasty little riot, but not worth putting in the newspapers. Michele was working in his office when he heard the sound that a man never forgets all his life--the "ah-yah" of an angry crowd. [When that sound drops about three tones, and changes to a thick, droning ut, the man who hears it had better go away if he is alone.] The Native Police Inspector ran in and told Michele that the town was in an uproar and coming to wreck the Telegraph Office. The Babu put on his cap and quietly dropped out of the window; while the Police Inspector, afraid, but obeying the old race-instinct which recognizes a drop of White blood as far as it can be diluted, said:--"What orders does the Sahib give?" The "Sahib" decided Michele. Though horribly frightened, he felt that, for the hour, he, the man with the Cochin Jew and the menial uncle in his pedigree, was the only representative of English authority in the place. Then he thought of Miss Vezzis and the fifty rupees, and took the situation on himself. There were seven native policemen in Tibasu, and four crazy smooth-bore muskets among them. All the men were gray with fear, but not beyond leading. Michele dropped the key of the telegraph instrument, and went out, at the head of his army, to meet the mob. As the shouting crew came round a corner of the road, he dropped and fired; the men behind him loosing instinctively at the same time. The whole crowd--curs to the backbone--yelled and ran; leaving one man dead, and another dying in the road. Michele was sweating with fear, but he kept his weakness under, and went down into the town, past the house where the Sub-Judge had barricaded himself. The streets were empty. Tibasu was more frightened than Michele, for the mob had been taken at the right time. Michele returned to the Telegraph-Office, and sent a message to Chicacola asking for help. Before an answer came, he received a deputation of the elders of Tibasu, telling him that the Sub-Judge said his actions generally were "unconstitional," and trying to bully him. But the heart of Michele D'Cruze was big and white in his breast, because of his love for Miss Vezzis, the nurse-girl, and because he had tasted for the first time Responsibility and Success. Those two make an intoxicating drink, and have ruined more men than ever has Whiskey. Michele answered that the Sub-Judge might say what he pleased, but, until the Assistant Collector came, the Telegraph Signaller was the Government of India in Tibasu, and the elders of the town would be held accountable for further rioting. Then they bowed their heads and said: "Show mercy!" or words to that effect, and went back in great fear; each accusing the other of having begun the rioting. Early in the dawn, after a night's patrol with his seven policemen, Michele went down the road, musket in hand, to meet the Assistant Collector, who had ridden in to quell Tibasu. But, in the presence of this young Englishman, Michele felt himself slipping back more and more into the native, and the tale of the Tibasu Riots ended, with the strain on the teller, in an hysterical outburst of tears, bred by sorrow that he had killed a man, shame that he could not feel as uplifted as he had felt through the night, and childish anger that his tongue could not do justice to his great deeds. It was the White drop in Michele's veins dying out, though he did not know it. But the Englishman understood; and, after he had schooled those men of Tibasu, and had conferred with the Sub-Judge till that excellent official turned green, he found time to draught an official letter describing the conduct of Michele. Which letter filtered through the Proper Channels, and ended in the transfer of Michele up-country once more, on the Imperial salary of sixty-six rupees a month. So he and Miss Vezzis were married with great state and ancientry; and now there are several little D'Cruzes sprawling about the verandahs of the Central Telegraph Office. But, if the whole revenue of the Department he serves were to be his reward Michele could never, never repeat what he did at Tibasu for the sake of Miss Vezzis the nurse-girl. Which proves that, when a man does good work out of all proportion to his pay, in seven cases out of nine there is a woman at the back of the virtue. The two exceptions must have suffered from sunstroke. WATCHES OF THE NIGHT. What is in the Brahmin's books that is in the Brahmin's heart. Neither you nor I knew there was so much evil in the world. --Hindu Proverb. This began in a practical joke; but it has gone far enough now, and is getting serious. Platte, the Subaltern, being poor, had a Waterbury watch and a plain leather guard. The Colonel had a Waterbury watch also, and for guard, the lip-strap of a curb-chain. Lip-straps make the best watch guards. They are strong and short. Between a lip-strap and an ordinary leather guard there is no great difference; between one Waterbury watch and another there is none at all. Every one in the station knew the Colonel's lip-strap. He was not a horsey man, but he liked people to believe he had been one once; and he wove fantastic stories of the hunting-bridle to which this particular lip-strap had belonged. Otherwise he was painfully religious. Platte and the Colonel were dressing at the Club--both late for their engagements, and both in a hurry. That was Kismet. The two watches were on a shelf below the looking-glass--guards hanging down. That was carelessness. Platte changed first, snatched a watch, looked in the glass, settled his tie, and ran. Forty seconds later, the Colonel did exactly the same thing; each man taking the other's watch. You may have noticed that many religious people are deeply suspicious. They seem--for purely religious purposes, of course--to know more about iniquity than the Unregenerate. Perhaps they were specially bad before they became converted! At any rate, in the imputation of things evil, and in putting the worst construction on things innocent, a certain type of good people may be trusted to surpass all others. The Colonel and his Wife were of that type. But the Colonel's Wife was the worst. She manufactured the Station scandal, and--TALKED TO HER AYAH! Nothing more need be said. The Colonel's Wife broke up the Laplaces's home. The Colonel's Wife stopped the Ferris-Haughtrey engagement. The Colonel's Wife induced young Buxton to keep his wife down in the Plains through the first year of the marriage. Whereby little Mrs. Buxton died, and the baby with her. These things will be remembered against the Colonel's Wife so long as there is a regiment in the country. But to come back to the Colonel and Platte. They went their several ways from the dressing-room. The Colonel dined with two Chaplains, while Platte went to a bachelor-party, and whist to follow. Mark how things happen! If Platte's sais had put the new saddle-pad on the mare, the butts of the terrets would not have worked through the worn leather, and the old pad into the mare's withers, when she was coming home at two o'clock in the morning. She would not have reared, bolted, fallen into a ditch, upset the cart, and sent Platte flying over an aloe-hedge on to Mrs. Larkyn's well-kept lawn; and this tale would never have been written. But the mare did all these things, and while Platte was rolling over and over on the turf, like a shot rabbit, the watch and guard flew from his waistcoat--as an Infantry Major's sword hops out of the scabbard when they are firing a feu de joie--and rolled and rolled in the moonlight, till it stopped under a window. Platte stuffed his handkerchief under the pad, put the cart straight, and went home. Mark again how Kismet works! This would not happen once in a hundred years. Towards the end of his dinner with the two Chaplains, the Colonel let out his waistcoat and leaned over the table to look at some Mission Reports. The bar of the watch-guard worked through the buttonhole, and the watch--Platte's watch--slid quietly on to the carpet. Where the bearer found it next morning and kept it. Then the Colonel went home to the wife of his bosom; but the driver of the carriage was drunk and lost his way. So the Colonel returned at an unseemly hour and his excuses were not accepted. If the Colonel's Wife had been an ordinary "vessel of wrath appointed for destruction," she would have known that when a man stays away on purpose, his excuse is always sound and original. The very baldness of the Colonel's explanation proved its truth. See once more the workings of Kismet! The Colonel's watch which came with Platte hurriedly on to Mrs. Larkyn's lawn, chose to stop just under Mrs. Larkyn's window, where she saw it early in the morning, recognized it, and picked it up. She had heard the crash of Platte's cart at two o'clock that morning, and his voice calling the mare names. She knew Platte and liked him. That day she showed him the watch and heard his story. He put his head on one side, winked and said:--"How disgusting! Shocking old man! with his religious training, too! I should send the watch to the Colonel's Wife and ask for explanations." Mrs. Larkyn thought for a minute of the Laplaces--whom she had known when Laplace and his wife believed in each other--and answered:--"I will send it. I think it will do her good. But remember, we must NEVER tell her the truth." Platte guessed that his own watch was in the Colonel's possession, and thought that the return of the lip-strapped Waterbury with a soothing note from Mrs. Larkyn, would merely create a small trouble for a few minutes. Mrs. Larkyn knew better. She knew that any poison dropped would find good holding-ground in the heart of the Colonel's Wife. The packet, and a note containing a few remarks on the Colonel's calling-hours, were sent over to the Colonel's Wife, who wept in her own room and took counsel with herself. If there was one woman under Heaven whom the Colonel's Wife hated with holy fervor, it was Mrs. Larkyn. Mrs. Larkyn was a frivolous lady, and called the Colonel's Wife "old cat." The Colonel's Wife said that somebody in Revelations was remarkably like Mrs. Larkyn. She mentioned other Scripture people as well. From the Old Testament. [But the Colonel's Wife was the only person who cared or dared to say anything against Mrs. Larkyn. Every one else accepted her as an amusing, honest little body.] Wherefore, to believe that her husband had been shedding watches under that "Thing's" window at ungodly hours, coupled with the fact of his late arrival on the previous night, was..... At this point she rose up and sought her husband. He denied everything except the ownership of the watch. She besought him, for his Soul's sake, to speak the truth. He denied afresh, with two bad words. Then a stony silence held the Colonel's Wife, while a man could draw his breath five times. The speech that followed is no affair of mine or yours. It was made up of wifely and womanly jealousy; knowledge of old age and sunken cheeks; deep mistrust born of the text that says even little babies' hearts are as bad as they make them; rancorous hatred of Mrs. Larkyn, and the tenets of the creed of the Colonel's Wife's upbringing. Over and above all, was the damning lip-strapped Waterbury, ticking away in the palm of her shaking, withered hand. At that hour, I think, the Colonel's Wife realized a little of the restless suspicions she had injected into old Laplace's mind, a little of poor Miss Haughtrey's misery, and some of the canker that ate into Buxton's heart as he watched his wife dying before his eyes. The Colonel stammered and tried to explain. Then he remembered that his watch had disappeared; and the mystery grew greater. The Colonel's Wife talked and prayed by turns till she was tired, and went away to devise means for "chastening the stubborn heart of her husband." Which translated, means, in our slang, "tail-twisting." You see, being deeply impressed with the doctrine of Original Sin, she could not believe in the face of appearances. She knew too much, and jumped to the wildest conclusions. But it was good for her. It spoilt her life, as she had spoilt the life of the Laplaces. She had lost her faith in the Colonel, and--here the creed suspicion came in--he might, she argued, have erred many times, before a merciful Providence, at the hands of so unworthy an instrument as Mrs. Larkyn, had established his guilt. He was a bad, wicked, gray-haired profligate. This may sound too sudden a revulsion for a long-wedded wife; but it is a venerable fact that, if a man or woman makes a practice of, and takes a delight in, believing and spreading evil of people indifferent to him or her, he or she will end in believing evil of folk very near and dear. You may think, also, that the mere incident of the watch was too small and trivial to raise this misunderstanding. It is another aged fact that, in life as well as racing, all the worst accidents happen at little ditches and cut-down fences. In the same way, you sometimes see a woman who would have made a Joan of Arc in another century and climate, threshing herself to pieces over all the mean worry of housekeeping. But that is another story. Her belief only made the Colonel's Wife more wretched, because it insisted so strongly on the villainy of men. Remembering what she had done, it was pleasant to watch her unhappiness, and the penny-farthing attempts she made to hide it from the Station. But the Station knew and laughed heartlessly; for they had heard the story of the watch, with much dramatic gesture, from Mrs. Larkyn's lips. Once or twice Platte said to Mrs. Larkyn, seeing that the Colonel had not cleared himself:--"This thing has gone far enough. I move we tell the Colonel's Wife how it happened." Mrs. Larkyn shut her lips and shook her head, and vowed that the Colonel's Wife must bear her punishment as best she could. Now Mrs. Larkyn was a frivolous woman, in whom none would have suspected deep hate. So Platte took no action, and came to believe gradually, from the Colonel's silence, that the Colonel must have "run off the line" somewhere that night, and, therefore, preferred to stand sentence on the lesser count of rambling into other people's compounds out of calling hours. Platte forgot about the watch business after a while, and moved down-country with his regiment. Mrs. Larkyn went home when her husband's tour of Indian service expired. She never forgot. But Platte was quite right when he said that the joke had gone too far. The mistrust and the tragedy of it--which we outsiders cannot see and do not believe in--are killing the Colonel's Wife, and are making the Colonel wretched. If either of them read this story, they can depend upon its being a fairly true account of the case, and can "kiss and make friends." Shakespeare alludes to the pleasure of watching an Engineer being shelled by his own Battery. Now this shows that poets should not write about what they do not understand. Any one could have told him that Sappers and Gunners are perfectly different branches of the Service. But, if you correct the sentence, and substitute Gunner for Sapper, the moral comes just the same. THE OTHER MAN. When the earth was sick and the skies were gray, And the woods were rotted with rain, The Dead Man rode through the autumn day To visit his love again. --Old Ballad. Far back in the "seventies," before they had built any Public Offices at Simla, and the broad road round Jakko lived in a pigeon-hole in the P. W. D. hovels, her parents made Miss Gaurey marry Colonel Schreiderling. He could not have been MUCH more than thirty-five years her senior; and, as he lived on two hundred rupees a month and had money of his own, he was well off. He belonged to good people, and suffered in the cold weather from lung complaints. In the hot weather he dangled on the brink of heat-apoplexy; but it never quite killed him. Understand, I do not blame Schreiderling. He was a good husband according to his lights, and his temper only failed him when he was being nursed. Which was some seventeen days in each month. He was almost generous to his wife about money matters, and that, for him, was a concession. Still Mrs. Schreiderling was not happy. They married her when she was this side of twenty and had given all her poor little heart to another man. I have forgotten his name, but we will call him the Other Man. He had no money and no prospects. He was not even good-looking; and I think he was in the Commissariat or Transport. But, in spite of all these things, she loved him very madly; and there was some sort of an engagement between the two when Schreiderling appeared and told Mrs. Gaurey that he wished to marry her daughter. Then the other engagement was broken off--washed away by Mrs. Gaurey's tears, for that lady governed her house by weeping over disobedience to her authority and the lack of reverence she received in her old age. The daughter did not take after her mother. She never cried. Not even at the wedding. The Other Man bore his loss quietly, and was transferred to as bad a station as he could find. Perhaps the climate consoled him. He suffered from intermittent fever, and that may have distracted him from his other trouble. He was weak about the heart also. Both ways. One of the valves was affected, and the fever made it worse. This showed itself later on. Then many months passed, and Mrs. Schreiderling took to being ill. She did not pine away like people in story books, but she seemed to pick up every form of illness that went about a station, from simple fever upwards. She was never more than ordinarily pretty at the best of times; and the illness made her ugly. Schreiderling said so. He prided himself on speaking his mind. When she ceased being pretty, he left her to her own devices, and went back to the lairs of his bachelordom. She used to trot up and down Simla Mall in a forlorn sort of way, with a gray Terai hat well on the back of her head, and a shocking bad saddle under her. Schreiderling's generosity stopped at the horse. He said that any saddle would do for a woman as nervous as Mrs. Schreiderling. She never was asked to dance, because she did not dance well; and she was so dull and uninteresting, that her box very seldom had any cards in it. Schreiderling said that if he had known that she was going to be such a scare-crow after her marriage, he would never have married her. He always prided himself on speaking his mind, did Schreiderling! He left her at Simla one August, and went down to his regiment. Then she revived a little, but she never recovered her looks. I found out at the Club that the Other Man is coming up sick--very sick--on an off chance of recovery. The fever and the heart-valves had nearly killed him. She knew that, too, and she knew--what I had no interest in knowing--when he was coming up. I suppose he wrote to tell her. They had not seen each other since a month before the wedding. And here comes the unpleasant part of the story. A late call kept me down at the Dovedell Hotel till dusk one evening. Mrs. Schreidlerling had been flitting up and down the Mall all the afternoon in the rain. Coming up along the Cart-road, a tonga passed me, and my pony, tired with standing so long, set off at a canter. Just by the road down to the Tonga Office Mrs. Schreiderling, dripping from head to foot, was waiting for the tonga. I turned up-hill, as the tonga was no affair of mine; and just then she began to shriek. I went back at once and saw, under the Tonga Office lamps, Mrs. Schreiderling kneeling in the wet road by the back seat of the newly-arrived tonga, screaming hideously. Then she fell face down in the dirt as I came up. Sitting in the back seat, very square and firm, with one hand on the awning-stanchion and the wet pouring off his hat and moustache, was the Other Man--dead. The sixty-mile up-hill jolt had been too much for his valve, I suppose. The tonga-driver said:--"The Sahib died two stages out of Solon. Therefore, I tied him with a rope, lest he should fall out by the way, and so came to Simla. Will the Sahib give me bukshish? IT," pointing to the Other Man, "should have given one rupee." The Other Man sat with a grin on his face, as if he enjoyed the joke of his arrival; and Mrs. Schreiderling, in the mud, began to groan. There was no one except us four in the office and it was raining heavily. The first thing was to take Mrs. Schreiderling home, and the second was to prevent her name from being mixed up with the affair. The tonga-driver received five rupees to find a bazar 'rickshaw for Mrs. Schreiderling. He was to tell the tonga Babu afterwards of the Other Man, and the Babu was to make such arrangements as seemed best. Mrs. Schreiderling was carried into the shed out of the rain, and for three-quarters of an hour we two waited for the 'rickshaw. The Other Man was left exactly as he had arrived. Mrs. Schreiderling would do everything but cry, which might have helped her. She tried to scream as soon as her senses came back, and then she began praying for the Other Man's soul. Had she not been as honest as the day, she would have prayed for her own soul too. I waited to hear her do this, but she did not. Then I tried to get some of the mud off her habit. Lastly, the 'rickshaw came, and I got her away--partly by force. It was a terrible business from beginning to end; but most of all when the 'rickshaw had to squeeze between the wall and the tonga, and she saw by the lamp-light that thin, yellow hand grasping the awning-stanchion. She was taken home just as every one was going to a dance at Viceregal Lodge--"Peterhoff" it was then--and the doctor found that she had fallen from her horse, that I had picked her up at the back of Jakko, and really deserved great credit for the prompt manner in which I had secured medical aid. She did not die--men of Schreiderling's stamp marry women who don't die easily. They live and grow ugly. She never told of her one meeting, since her marriage, with the Other Man; and, when the chill and cough following the exposure of that evening, allowed her abroad, she never by word or sign alluded to having met me by the Tonga Office. Perhaps she never knew. She used to trot up and down the Mall, on that shocking bad saddle, looking as if she expected to meet some one round the corner every minute. Two years afterward, she went Home, and died--at Bournemouth, I think. Schreiderling, when he grew maudlin at Mess, used to talk about "my poor dear wife." He always set great store on speaking his mind, did Schreiderling! CONSEQUENCES. Rosicrucian subtleties In the Orient had rise; Ye may find their teachers still Under Jacatala's Hill. Seek ye Bombast Paracelsus, Read what Flood the Seeker tells us Of the Dominant that runs Through the cycles of the Suns-- Read my story last and see Luna at her apogee. There are yearly appointments, and two-yearly appointments, and five-yearly appointments at Simla, and there are, or used to be, permanent appointments, whereon you stayed up for the term of your natural life and secured red cheeks and a nice income. Of course, you could descend in the cold weather; for Simla is rather dull then. Tarrion came from goodness knows where--all away and away in some forsaken part of Central India, where they call Pachmari a "Sanitarium," and drive behind trotting bullocks, I believe. He belonged to a regiment; but what he really wanted to do was to escape from his regiment and live in Simla forever and ever. He had no preference for anything in particular, beyond a good horse and a nice partner. He thought he could do everything well; which is a beautiful belief when you hold it with all your heart. He was clever in many ways, and good to look at, and always made people round him comfortable--even in Central India. So he went up to Simla, and, because he was clever and amusing, he gravitated naturally to Mrs. Hauksbee, who could forgive everything but stupidity. Once he did her great service by changing the date on an invitation-card for a big dance which Mrs. Hauksbee wished to attend, but couldn't because she had quarrelled with the A.-D.-C., who took care, being a mean man, to invite her to a small dance on the 6th instead of the big Ball of the 26th. It was a very clever piece of forgery; and when Mrs. Hauksbee showed the A.-D.-C. her invitation-card, and chaffed him mildly for not better managing his vendettas, he really thought he had made a mistake; and--which was wise--realized that it was no use to fight with Mrs. Hauksbee. She was grateful to Tarrion and asked what she could do for him. He said simply: "I'm a Freelance up here on leave, and on the lookout for what I can loot. I haven't a square inch of interest in all Simla. My name isn't known to any man with an appointment in his gift, and I want an appointment--a good, sound, pukka one. I believe you can do anything you turn yourself to do. Will you help me?" Mrs. Hauksbee thought for a minute, and passed the last of her riding-whip through her lips, as was her custom when thinking. Then her eyes sparkled, and she said:--"I will;" and she shook hands on it. Tarrion, having perfect confidence in this great woman, took no further thought of the business at all. Except to wonder what sort of an appointment he would win. Mrs. Hauksbee began calculating the prices of all the Heads of Departments and Members of Council she knew, and the more she thought the more she laughed, because her heart was in the game and it amused her. Then she took a Civil List and ran over a few of the appointments. There are some beautiful appointments in the Civil List. Eventually, she decided that, though Tarrion was too good for the Political Department, she had better begin by trying to get him in there. What were her own plans to this end, does not matter in the least, for Luck or Fate played into her hands, and she had nothing to do but to watch the course of events and take the credit of them. All Viceroys, when they first come out, pass through the "Diplomatic Secrecy" craze. It wears off in time; but they all catch it in the beginning, because they are new to the country. The particular Viceroy who was suffering from the complaint just then--this was a long time ago, before Lord Dufferin ever came from Canada, or Lord Ripon from the bosom of the English Church--had it very badly; and the result was that men who were new to keeping official secrets went about looking unhappy; and the Viceroy plumed himself on the way in which he had instilled notions of reticence into his Staff. Now, the Supreme Government have a careless custom of committing what they do to printed papers. These papers deal with all sorts of things--from the payment of Rs. 200 to a "secret service" native, up to rebukes administered to Vakils and Motamids of Native States, and rather brusque letters to Native Princes, telling them to put their houses in order, to refrain from kidnapping women, or filling offenders with pounded red pepper, and eccentricities of that kind. Of course, these things could never be made public, because Native Princes never err officially, and their States are, officially, as well administered as Our territories. Also, the private allowances to various queer people are not exactly matters to put into newspapers, though they give quaint reading sometimes. When the Supreme Government is at Simla, these papers are prepared there, and go round to the people who ought to see them in office-boxes or by post. The principle of secrecy was to that Viceroy quite as important as the practice, and he held that a benevolent despotism like Ours should never allow even little things, such as appointments of subordinate clerks, to leak out till the proper time. He was always remarkable for his principles. There was a very important batch of papers in preparation at that time. It had to travel from one end of Simla to the other by hand. It was not put into an official envelope, but a large, square, pale-pink one; the matter being in MS. on soft crinkly paper. It was addressed to "The Head Clerk, etc., etc." Now, between "The Head Clerk, etc., etc.," and "Mrs. Hauksbee" and a flourish, is no very great difference if the address be written in a very bad hand, as this was. The chaprassi who took the envelope was not more of an idiot than most chaprassis. He merely forgot where this most unofficial cover was to be delivered, and so asked the first Englishman he met, who happened to be a man riding down to Annandale in a great hurry. The Englishman hardly looked, said: "Hauksbee Sahib ki Mem," and went on. So did the chaprassi, because that letter was the last in stock and he wanted to get his work over. There was no book to sign; he thrust the letter into Mrs. Hauksbee's bearer's hands and went off to smoke with a friend. Mrs. Hauksbee was expecting some cut-out pattern things in flimsy paper from a friend. As soon as she got the big square packet, therefore, she said, "Oh, the DEAR creature!" and tore it open with a paper-knife, and all the MS. enclosures tumbled out on the floor. Mrs. Hauksbee began reading. I have said the batch was rather important. That is quite enough for you to know. It referred to some correspondence, two measures, a peremptory order to a native chief and two dozen other things. Mrs. Hauksbee gasped as she read, for the first glimpse of the naked machinery of the Great Indian Government, stripped of its casings, and lacquer, and paint, and guard-rails, impresses even the most stupid man. And Mrs. Hauksbee was a clever woman. She was a little afraid at first, and felt as if she had laid hold of a lightning-flash by the tail, and did not quite know what to do with it. There were remarks and initials at the side of the papers; and some of the remarks were rather more severe than the papers. The initials belonged to men who are all dead or gone now; but they were great in their day. Mrs. Hauksbee read on and thought calmly as she read. Then the value of her trove struck her, and she cast about for the best method of using it. Then Tarrion dropped in, and they read through all the papers together, and Tarrion, not knowing how she had come by them, vowed that Mrs. Hauksbee was the greatest woman on earth. Which I believe was true, or nearly so. "The honest course is always the best," said Tarrion after an hour and a half of study and conversation. "All things considered, the Intelligence Branch is about my form. Either that or the Foreign Office. I go to lay siege to the High Gods in their Temples." He did not seek a little man, or a little big man, or a weak Head of a strong Department, but he called on the biggest and strongest man that the Government owned, and explained that he wanted an appointment at Simla on a good salary. The compound insolence of this amused the Strong Man, and, as he had nothing to do for the moment, he listened to the proposals of the audacious Tarrion. "You have, I presume, some special qualifications, besides the gift of self-assertion, for the claims you put forwards?" said the Strong Man. "That, Sir," said Tarrion, "is for you to judge." Then he began, for he had a good memory, quoting a few of the more important notes in the papers--slowly and one by one as a man drops chlorodyne into a glass. When he had reached the peremptory order--and it WAS a peremptory order--the Strong Man was troubled. Tarrion wound up:--"And I fancy that special knowledge of this kind is at least as valuable for, let us say, a berth in the Foreign Office, as the fact of being the nephew of a distinguished officer's wife." That hit the Strong Man hard, for the last appointment to the Foreign Office had been by black favor, and he knew it. "I'll see what I can do for you," said the Strong Man. "Many thanks," said Tarrion. Then he left, and the Strong Man departed to see how the appointment was to be blocked.......... Followed a pause of eleven days; with thunders and lightnings and much telegraphing. The appointment was not a very important one, carrying only between Rs. 500 and Rs. 700 a month; but, as the Viceroy said, it was the principle of diplomatic secrecy that had to be maintained, and it was more than likely that a boy so well supplied with special information would be worth translating. So they translated him. They must have suspected him, though he protested that his information was due to singular talents of his own. Now, much of this story, including the after-history of the missing envelope, you must fill in for yourself, because there are reasons why it cannot be written. If you do not know about things Up Above, you won't understand how to fill it in, and you will say it is impossible. What the Viceroy said when Tarrion was introduced to him was:--"So, this is the boy who 'rusked' the Government of India, is it? Recollect, Sir, that is not done TWICE." So he must have known something. What Tarrion said when he saw his appointment gazetted was:--"If Mrs. Hauksbee were twenty years younger, and I her husband, I should be Viceroy of India in twenty years." What Mrs. Hauksbee said, when Tarrion thanked her, almost with tears in his eyes, was first:--"I told you so!" and next, to herself:--"What fools men are!" THE CONVERSION OF AURELIAN McGOGGIN. Ride with an idle whip, ride with an unused heel. But, once in a way, there will come a day When the colt must be taught to feel The lash that falls, and the curb that galls, And the sting of the rowelled steel. --Life's Handicap. This is not a tale exactly. It is a Tract; and I am immensely proud of it. Making a Tract is a Feat. Every man is entitled to his own religious opinions; but no man--least of all a junior--has a right to thrust these down other men's throats. The Government sends out weird Civilians now and again; but McGoggin was the queerest exported for a long time. He was clever--brilliantly clever--but his cleverness worked the wrong way. Instead of keeping to the study of the vernaculars, he had read some books written by a man called Comte, I think, and a man called Spencer, and a Professor Clifford. [You will find these books in the Library.] They deal with people's insides from the point of view of men who have no stomachs. There was no order against his reading them; but his Mamma should have smacked him. They fermented in his head, and he came out to India with a rarefied religion over and above his work. It was not much of a creed. It only proved that men had no souls, and there was no God and no hereafter, and that you must worry along somehow for the good of Humanity. One of its minor tenets seemed to be that the one thing more sinful than giving an order was obeying it. At least, that was what McGoggin said; but I suspect he had misread his primers. I do not say a word against this creed. It was made up in Town, where there is nothing but machinery and asphalt and building--all shut in by the fog. Naturally, a man grows to think that there is no one higher than himself, and that the Metropolitan Board of Works made everything. But in this country, where you really see humanity--raw, brown, naked humanity--with nothing between it and the blazing sky, and only the used-up, over-handled earth underfoot, the notion somehow dies away, and most folk come back to simpler theories. Life, in India, is not long enough to waste in proving that there is no one in particular at the head of affairs. For this reason. The Deputy is above the Assistant, the Commissioner above the Deputy, the Lieutenant-Governor above the Commissioner, and the Viceroy above all four, under the orders of the Secretary of State, who is responsible to the Empress. If the Empress be not responsible to her Maker--if there is no Maker for her to be responsible to--the entire system of Our administration must be wrong. Which is manifestly impossible. At Home men are to be excused. They are stalled up a good deal and get intellectually "beany." When you take a gross, "beany" horse to exercise, he slavers and slobbers over the bit till you can't see the horns. But the bit is there just the same. Men do not get "beany" in India. The climate and the work are against playing bricks with words. If McGoggin had kept his creed, with the capital letters and the endings in "isms," to himself, no one would have cared; but his grandfathers on both sides had been Wesleyan preachers, and the preaching strain came out in his mind. He wanted every one at the Club to see that they had no souls too, and to help him to eliminate his Creator. As a good many men told him, HE undoubtedly had no soul, because he was so young, but it did not follow that his seniors were equally undeveloped; and, whether there was another world or not, a man still wanted to read his papers in this. "But that is not the point--that is not the point!" Aurelian used to say. Then men threw sofa-cushions at him and told him to go to any particular place he might believe in. They christened him the "Blastoderm"--he said he came from a family of that name somewhere, in the pre-historic ages--and, by insult and laughter, strove to choke him dumb, for he was an unmitigated nuisance at the Club; besides being an offence to the older men. His Deputy Commissioner, who was working on the Frontier when Aurelian was rolling on a bed-quilt, told him that, for a clever boy, Aurelian was a very big idiot. And, you know, if he had gone on with his work, he would have been caught up to the Secretariat in a few years. He was just the type that goes there--all head, no physique and a hundred theories. Not a soul was interested in McGoggin's soul. He might have had two, or none, or somebody's else's. His business was to obey orders and keep abreast of his files instead of devastating the Club with "isms." He worked brilliantly; but he could not accept any order without trying to better it. That was the fault of his creed. It made men too responsible and left too much to their honor. You can sometimes ride an old horse in a halter; but never a colt. McGoggin took more trouble over his cases than any of the men of his year. He may have fancied that thirty-page judgments on fifty-rupee cases--both sides perjured to the gullet--advanced the cause of Humanity. At any rate, he worked too much, and worried and fretted over the rebukes he received, and lectured away on his ridiculous creed out of office, till the Doctor had to warn him that he was overdoing it. No man can toil eighteen annas in the rupee in June without suffering. But McGoggin was still intellectually "beany" and proud of himself and his powers, and he would take no hint. He worked nine hours a day steadily. "Very well," said the doctor, "you'll break down because you are over-engined for your beam." McGoggin was a little chap. One day, the collapse came--as dramatically as if it had been meant to embellish a Tract. It was just before the Rains. We were sitting in the verandah in the dead, hot, close air, gasping and praying that the black-blue clouds would let down and bring the cool. Very, very far away, there was a faint whisper, which was the roar of the Rains breaking over the river. One of the men heard it, got out of his chair, listened, and said, naturally enough:--"Thank God!" Then the Blastoderm turned in his place and said:--"Why? I assure you it's only the result of perfectly natural causes--atmospheric phenomena of the simplest kind. Why you should, therefore, return thanks to a Being who never did exist--who is only a figment--" "Blastoderm," grunted the man in the next chair, "dry up, and throw me over the Pioneer. We know all about your figments." The Blastoderm reached out to the table, took up one paper, and jumped as if something had stung him. Then he handed the paper over. "As I was saying," he went on slowly and with an effort--"due to perfectly natural causes--perfectly natural causes. I mean--" "Hi! Blastoderm, you've given me the Calcutta Mercantile Advertiser." The dust got up in little whorls, while the treetops rocked and the kites whistled. But no one was looking at the coming of the Rains. We were all staring at the Blastoderm, who had risen from his chair and was fighting with his speech. Then he said, still more slowly:-- "Perfectly conceivable--dictionary--red oak--amenable--cause--retaining--shuttlecock--alone." "Blastoderm's drunk," said one man. But the Blastoderm was not drunk. He looked at us in a dazed sort of way, and began motioning with his hands in the half light as the clouds closed overhead. Then--with a scream:-- "What is it?--Can't--reserve--attainable--market--obscure--" But his speech seemed to freeze in him, and--just as the lightning shot two tongues that cut the whole sky into three pieces and the rain fell in quivering sheets--the Blastoderm was struck dumb. He stood pawing and champing like a hard-held horse, and his eyes were full of terror. The Doctor came over in three minutes, and heard the story. "It's aphasia," he said. "Take him to his room. I KNEW the smash would come." We carried the Blastoderm across, in the pouring rain, to his quarters, and the Doctor gave him bromide of potassium to make him sleep. Then the Doctor came back to us and told us that aphasia was like all the arrears of "Punjab Head" falling in a lump; and that only once before--in the case of a sepoy--had he met with so complete a case. I myself have seen mild aphasia in an overworked man, but this sudden dumbness was uncanny--though, as the Blastoderm himself might have said, due to "perfectly natural causes." "He'll have to take leave after this," said the Doctor. "He won't be fit for work for another three months. No; it isn't insanity or anything like it. It's only complete loss of control over the speech and memory. I fancy it will keep the Blastoderm quiet, though." Two days later, the Blastoderm found his tongue again. The first question he asked was: "What was it?" The Doctor enlightened him. "But I can't understand it!" said the Blastoderm; "I'm quite sane; but I can't be sure of my mind, it seems--my OWN memory--can I?" "Go up into the Hills for three months, and don't think about it," said the Doctor. "But I can't understand it," repeated the Blastoderm. "It was my OWN mind and memory." "I can't help it," said the Doctor; "there are a good many things you can't understand; and, by the time you have put in my length of service, you'll know exactly how much a man dare call his own in this world." The stroke cowed the Blastoderm. He could not understand it. He went into the Hills in fear and trembling, wondering whether he would be permitted to reach the end of any sentence he began. This gave him a wholesome feeling of mistrust. The legitimate explanation, that he had been overworking himself, failed to satisfy him. Something had wiped his lips of speech, as a mother wipes the milky lips of her child, and he was afraid--horribly afraid. So the Club had rest when he returned; and if ever you come across Aurelian McGoggin laying down the law on things Human--he doesn't seem to know as much as he used to about things Divine--put your forefinger on your lip for a moment, and see what happens. Don't blame me if he throws a glass at your head! A GERM DESTROYER. Pleasant it is for the Little Tin Gods, When great Jove nods; But Little Tin Gods make their little mistakes In missing the hour when great Jove wakes. As a general rule, it is inexpedient to meddle with questions of State in a land where men are highly paid to work them out for you. This tale is a justifiable exception. Once in every five years, as you know, we indent for a new Viceroy; and each Viceroy imports, with the rest of his baggage, a Private Secretary, who may or may not be the real Viceroy, just as Fate ordains. Fate looks after the Indian Empire because it is so big and so helpless. There was a Viceroy once, who brought out with him a turbulent Private Secretary--a hard man with a soft manner and a morbid passion for work. This Secretary was called Wonder--John Fennil Wonder. The Viceroy possessed no name--nothing but a string of counties and two-thirds of the alphabet after them. He said, in confidence, that he was the electro-plated figurehead of a golden administration, and he watched in a dreamy, amused way Wonder's attempts to draw matters which were entirely outside his province into his own hands. "When we are all cherubims together," said His Excellency once, "my dear, good friend Wonder will head the conspiracy for plucking out Gabriel's tail-feathers or stealing Peter's keys. THEN I shall report him." But, though the Viceroy did nothing to check Wonder's officiousness, other people said unpleasant things. Maybe the Members of Council began it; but, finally, all Simla agreed that there was "too much Wonder, and too little Viceroy," in that regime. Wonder was always quoting "His Excellency." It was "His Excellency this," "His Excellency that," "In the opinion of His Excellency," and so on. The Viceroy smiled; but he did not heed. He said that, so long as his old men squabbled with his "dear, good Wonder," they might be induced to leave the "Immemorial East" in peace. "No wise man has a policy," said the Viceroy. "A Policy is the blackmail levied on the Fool by the Unforeseen. I am not the former, and I do not believe in the latter." I do not quite see what this means, unless it refers to an Insurance Policy. Perhaps it was the Viceroy's way of saying:--"Lie low." That season, came up to Simla one of these crazy people with only a single idea. These are the men who make things move; but they are not nice to talk to. This man's name was Mellish, and he had lived for fifteen years on land of his own, in Lower Bengal, studying cholera. He held that cholera was a germ that propagated itself as it flew through a muggy atmosphere; and stuck in the branches of trees like a wool-flake. The germ could be rendered sterile, he said, by "Mellish's Own Invincible Fumigatory"--a heavy violet-black powder--"the result of fifteen years' scientific investigation, Sir!" Inventors seem very much alike as a caste. They talk loudly, especially about "conspiracies of monopolists;" they beat upon the table with their fists; and they secrete fragments of their inventions about their persons. Mellish said that there was a Medical "Ring" at Simla, headed by the Surgeon-General, who was in league, apparently, with all the Hospital Assistants in the Empire. I forget exactly how he proved it, but it had something to do with "skulking up to the Hills;" and what Mellish wanted was the independent evidence of the Viceroy--"Steward of our Most Gracious Majesty the Queen, Sir." So Mellish went up to Simla, with eighty-four pounds of Fumigatory in his trunk, to speak to the Viceroy and to show him the merits of the invention. But it is easier to see a Viceroy than to talk to him, unless you chance to be as important as Mellishe of Madras. He was a six-thousand-rupee man, so great that his daughters never "married." They "contracted alliances." He himself was not paid. He "received emoluments," and his journeys about the country were "tours of observation." His business was to stir up the people in Madras with a long pole--as you stir up stench in a pond--and the people had to come up out of their comfortable old ways and gasp:--"This is Enlightenment and progress. Isn't it fine!" Then they gave Mellishe statues and jasmine garlands, in the hope of getting rid of him. Mellishe came up to Simla "to confer with the Viceroy." That was one of his perquisites. The Viceroy knew nothing of Mellishe except that he was "one of those middle-class deities who seem necessary to the spiritual comfort of this Paradise of the Middle-classes," and that, in all probability, he had "suggested, designed, founded, and endowed all the public institutions in Madras." Which proves that His Excellency, though dreamy, had experience of the ways of six-thousand-rupee men. Mellishe's name was E. Mellishe and Mellish's was E. S. Mellish, and they were both staying at the same hotel, and the Fate that looks after the Indian Empire ordained that Wonder should blunder and drop the final "e;" that the Chaprassi should help him, and that the note which ran: "Dear Mr. Mellish.--Can you set aside your other engagements and lunch with us at two tomorrow? His Excellency has an hour at your disposal then," should be given to Mellish with the Fumigatory. He nearly wept with pride and delight, and at the appointed hour cantered off to Peterhoff, a big paper-bag full of the Fumigatory in his coat-tail pockets. He had his chance, and he meant to make the most of it. Mellishe of Madras had been so portentously solemn about his "conference," that Wonder had arranged for a private tiffin--no A.-D.-C.'s, no Wonder, no one but the Viceroy, who said plaintively that he feared being left alone with unmuzzled autocrats like the great Mellishe of Madras. But his guest did not bore the Viceroy. On the contrary, he amused him. Mellish was nervously anxious to go straight to his Fumigatory, and talked at random until tiffin was over and His Excellency asked him to smoke. The Viceroy was pleased with Mellish because he did not talk "shop." As soon as the cheroots were lit, Mellish spoke like a man; beginning with his cholera-theory, reviewing his fifteen years' "scientific labors," the machinations of the "Simla Ring," and the excellence of his Fumigatory, while the Viceroy watched him between half-shut eyes and thought: "Evidently, this is the wrong tiger; but it is an original animal." Mellish's hair was standing on end with excitement, and he stammered. He began groping in his coat-tails and, before the Viceroy knew what was about to happen, he had tipped a bagful of his powder into the big silver ash-tray. "J-j-judge for yourself, Sir," said Mellish. "Y' Excellency shall judge for yourself! Absolutely infallible, on my honor." He plunged the lighted end of his cigar into the powder, which began to smoke like a volcano, and send up fat, greasy wreaths of copper-colored smoke. In five seconds the room was filled with a most pungent and sickening stench--a reek that took fierce hold of the trap of your windpipe and shut it. The powder then hissed and fizzed, and sent out blue and green sparks, and the smoke rose till you could neither see, nor breathe, nor gasp. Mellish, however, was used to it. "Nitrate of strontia," he shouted; "baryta, bone-meal, etcetera! Thousand cubic feet smoke per cubic inch. Not a germ could live--not a germ, Y' Excellency!" But His Excellency had fled, and was coughing at the foot of the stairs, while all Peterhoff hummed like a hive. Red Lancers came in, and the Head Chaprassi, who speaks English, came in, and mace-bearers came in, and ladies ran downstairs screaming "fire;" for the smoke was drifting through the house and oozing out of the windows, and bellying along the verandahs, and wreathing and writhing across the gardens. No one could enter the room where Mellish was lecturing on his Fumigatory, till that unspeakable powder had burned itself out. Then an Aide-de-Camp, who desired the V. C., rushed through the rolling clouds and hauled Mellish into the hall. The Viceroy was prostrate with laughter, and could only waggle his hands feebly at Mellish, who was shaking a fresh bagful of powder at him. "Glorious! Glorious!" sobbed his Excellency. "Not a germ, as you justly observe, could exist! I can swear it. A magnificent success!" Then he laughed till the tears came, and Wonder, who had caught the real Mellishe snorting on the Mall, entered and was deeply shocked at the scene. But the Viceroy was delighted, because he saw that Wonder would presently depart. Mellish with the Fumigatory was also pleased, for he felt that he had smashed the Simla Medical "Ring."......... Few men could tell a story like His Excellency when he took the trouble, and the account of "my dear, good Wonder's friend with the powder" went the round of Simla, and flippant folk made Wonder unhappy by their remarks. But His Excellency told the tale once too often--for Wonder. As he meant to do. It was at a Seepee Picnic. Wonder was sitting just behind the Viceroy. "And I really thought for a moment," wound up His Excellency, "that my dear, good Wonder had hired an assassin to clear his way to the throne!" Every one laughed; but there was a delicate subtinkle in the Viceroy's tone which Wonder understood. He found that his health was giving way; and the Viceroy allowed him to go, and presented him with a flaming "character" for use at Home among big people. "My fault entirely," said His Excellency, in after seasons, with a twinkling in his eye. "My inconsistency must always have been distasteful to such a masterly man." KIDNAPPED. There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken any way you please, is bad, And strands them in forsaken guts and creeks No decent soul would think of visiting. You cannot stop the tide; but now and then, You may arrest some rash adventurer Who--h'm--will hardly thank you for your pains. --Vibart's Moralities. We are a high-caste and enlightened race, and infant-marriage is very shocking and the consequences are sometimes peculiar; but, nevertheless, the Hindu notion--which is the Continental notion--which is the aboriginal notion--of arranging marriages irrespective of the personal inclinations of the married, is sound. Think for a minute, and you will see that it must be so; unless, of course, you believe in "affinities." In which case you had better not read this tale. How can a man who has never married; who cannot be trusted to pick up at sight a moderately sound horse; whose head is hot and upset with visions of domestic felicity, go about the choosing of a wife? He cannot see straight or think straight if he tries; and the same disadvantages exist in the case of a girl's fancies. But when mature, married and discreet people arrange a match between a boy and a girl, they do it sensibly, with a view to the future, and the young couple live happily ever afterwards. As everybody knows. Properly speaking, Government should establish a Matrimonial Department, efficiently officered, with a Jury of Matrons, a Judge of the Chief Court, a Senior Chaplain, and an Awful Warning, in the shape of a love-match that has gone wrong, chained to the trees in the courtyard. All marriages should be made through the Department, which might be subordinate to the Educational Department, under the same penalty as that attaching to the transfer of land without a stamped document. But Government won't take suggestions. It pretends that it is too busy. However, I will put my notion on record, and explain the example that illustrates the theory. Once upon a time there was a good young man--a first-class officer in his own Department--a man with a career before him and, possibly, a K. C. G. E. at the end of it. All his superiors spoke well of him, because he knew how to hold his tongue and his pen at the proper times. There are today only eleven men in India who possess this secret; and they have all, with one exception, attained great honor and enormous incomes. This good young man was quiet and self-contained--too old for his years by far. Which always carries its own punishment. Had a Subaltern, or a Tea-Planter's Assistant, or anybody who enjoys life and has no care for tomorrow, done what he tried to do not a soul would have cared. But when Peythroppe--the estimable, virtuous, economical, quiet, hard-working, young Peythroppe--fell, there was a flutter through five Departments. The manner of his fall was in this way. He met a Miss Castries--d'Castries it was originally, but the family dropped the d' for administrative reasons--and he fell in love with her even more energetically than he worked. Understand clearly that there was not a breath of a word to be said against Miss Castries--not a shadow of a breath. She was good and very lovely--possessed what innocent people at home call a "Spanish" complexion, with thick blue-black hair growing low down on her forehead, into a "widow's peak," and big violet eyes under eyebrows as black and as straight as the borders of a Gazette Extraordinary when a big man dies. But--but--but--. Well, she was a VERY sweet girl and very pious, but for many reasons she was "impossible." Quite so. All good Mammas know what "impossible" means. It was obviously absurd that Peythroppe should marry her. The little opal-tinted onyx at the base of her finger-nails said this as plainly as print. Further, marriage with Miss Castries meant marriage with several other Castries--Honorary Lieutenant Castries, her Papa, Mrs. Eulalie Castries, her Mamma, and all the ramifications of the Castries family, on incomes ranging from Rs. 175 to Rs. 470 a month, and THEIR wives and connections again. It would have been cheaper for Peythroppe to have assaulted a Commissioner with a dog-whip, or to have burned the records of a Deputy Commissioner's Office, than to have contracted an alliance with the Castries. It would have weighted his after-career less--even under a Government which never forgets and NEVER forgives. Everybody saw this but Peythroppe. He was going to marry Miss Castries, he was--being of age and drawing a good income--and woe betide the house that would not afterwards receive Mrs. Virginie Saulez Peythroppe with the deference due to her husband's rank. That was Peythroppe's ultimatum, and any remonstrance drove him frantic. These sudden madnesses most afflict the sanest men. There was a case once--but I will tell you of that later on. You cannot account for the mania, except under a theory directly contradicting the one about the Place wherein marriages are made. Peythroppe was burningly anxious to put a millstone round his neck at the outset of his career and argument had not the least effect on him. He was going to marry Miss Castries, and the business was his own business. He would thank you to keep your advice to yourself. With a man in this condition, mere words only fix him in his purpose. Of course he cannot see that marriage out here does not concern the individual but the Government he serves. Do you remember Mrs. Hauksbee--the most wonderful woman in India? She saved Pluffles from Mrs. Reiver, won Tarrion his appointment in the Foreign Office, and was defeated in open field by Mrs. Cusack-Bremmil. She heard of the lamentable condition of Peythroppe, and her brain struck out the plan that saved him. She had the wisdom of the Serpent, the logical coherence of the Man, the fearlessness of the Child, and the triple intuition of the Woman. Never--no, never--as long as a tonga buckets down the Solon dip, or the couples go a-riding at the back of Summer Hill, will there be such a genius as Mrs. Hauksbee. She attended the consultation of Three Men on Peythroppe's case; and she stood up with the lash of her riding-whip between her lips and spake....... ... Three weeks later, Peythroppe dined with the Three Men, and the Gazette of India came in. Peythroppe found to his surprise that he had been gazetted a month's leave. Don't ask me how this was managed. I believe firmly that if Mrs. Hauksbee gave the order, the whole Great Indian Administration would stand on its head. The Three Men had also a month's leave each. Peythroppe put the Gazette down and said bad words. Then there came from the compound the soft "pad-pad" of camels--"thieves' camels," the bikaneer breed that don't bubble and howl when they sit down and get up. After that I don't know what happened. This much is certain. Peythroppe disappeared--vanished like smoke--and the long foot-rest chair in the house of the Three Men was broken to splinters. Also a bedstead departed from one of the bedrooms. Mrs. Hauksbee said that Mr. Peythroppe was shooting in Rajputana with the Three Men; so we were compelled to believe her. At the end of the month, Peythroppe was gazetted twenty days' extension of leave; but there was wrath and lamentation in the house of Castries. The marriage-day had been fixed, but the bridegroom never came; and the D'Silvas, Pereiras, and Ducketts lifted their voices and mocked Honorary Lieutenant Castries as one who had been basely imposed upon. Mrs. Hauksbee went to the wedding, and was much astonished when Peythroppe did not appear. After seven weeks, Peythroppe and the Three Men returned from Rajputana. Peythroppe was in hard, tough condition, rather white, and more self-contained than ever. One of the Three Men had a cut on his nose, cause by the kick of a gun. Twelve-bores kick rather curiously. Then came Honorary Lieutenant Castries, seeking for the blood of his perfidious son-in-law to be. He said things--vulgar and "impossible" things which showed the raw rough "ranker" below the "Honorary," and I fancy Peythroppe's eyes were opened. Anyhow, he held his peace till the end; when he spoke briefly. Honorary Lieutenant Castries asked for a "peg" before he went away to die or bring a suit for breach of promise. Miss Castries was a very good girl. She said that she would have no breach of promise suits. She said that, if she was not a lady, she was refined enough to know that ladies kept their broken hearts to themselves; and, as she ruled her parents, nothing happened. Later on, she married a most respectable and gentlemanly person. He travelled for an enterprising firm in Calcutta, and was all that a good husband should be. So Peythroppe came to his right mind again, and did much good work, and was honored by all who knew him. One of these days he will marry; but he will marry a sweet pink-and-white maiden, on the Government House List, with a little money and some influential connections, as every wise man should. And he will never, all his life, tell her what happened during the seven weeks of his shooting-tour in Rajputana. But just think how much trouble and expense--for camel hire is not cheap, and those Bikaneer brutes had to be fed like humans--might have been saved by a properly conducted Matrimonial Department, under the control of the Director General of Education, but corresponding direct with the Viceroy. THE ARREST OF LIEUTENANT GOLIGHTLY. "'I've forgotten the countersign,' sez 'e. 'Oh! You 'ave, 'ave you?' sez I. 'But I'm the Colonel,' sez 'e. 'Oh! You are, are you?' sez I. 'Colonel nor no Colonel, you waits 'ere till I'm relieved, an' the Sarjint reports on your ugly old mug. Coop!' sez I. ......... An' s'help me soul, 'twas the Colonel after all! But I was a recruity then." The Unedited Autobiography of Private Ortheris. IF there was one thing on which Golightly prided himself more than another, it was looking like "an Officer and a gentleman." He said it was for the honor of the Service that he attired himself so elaborately; but those who knew him best said that it was just personal vanity. There was no harm about Golightly--not an ounce. He recognized a horse when he saw one, and could do more than fill a cantle. He played a very fair game at billiards, and was a sound man at the whist-table. Everyone liked him; and nobody ever dreamed of seeing him handcuffed on a station platform as a deserter. But this sad thing happened. He was going down from Dalhousie, at the end of his leave--riding down. He had cut his leave as fine as he dared, and wanted to come down in a hurry. It was fairly warm at Dalhousie, and knowing what to expect below, he descended in a new khaki suit--tight fitting--of a delicate olive-green; a peacock-blue tie, white collar, and a snowy white solah helmet. He prided himself on looking neat even when he was riding post. He did look neat, and he was so deeply concerned about his appearance before he started that he quite forgot to take anything but some small change with him. He left all his notes at the hotel. His servants had gone down the road before him, to be ready in waiting at Pathankote with a change of gear. That was what he called travelling in "light marching-order." He was proud of his faculty of organization--what we call bundobust. Twenty-two miles out of Dalhousie it began to rain--not a mere hill-shower, but a good, tepid monsoonish downpour. Golightly bustled on, wishing that he had brought an umbrella. The dust on the roads turned into mud, and the pony mired a good deal. So did Golightly's khaki gaiters. But he kept on steadily and tried to think how pleasant the coolth was. His next pony was rather a brute at starting, and Golightly's hands being slippery with the rain, contrived to get rid of Golightly at a corner. He chased the animal, caught it, and went ahead briskly. The spill had not improved his clothes or his temper, and he had lost one spur. He kept the other one employed. By the time that stage was ended, the pony had had as much exercise as he wanted, and, in spite of the rain, Golightly was sweating freely. At the end of another miserable half-hour, Golightly found the world disappear before his eyes in clammy pulp. The rain had turned the pith of his huge and snowy solah-topee into an evil-smelling dough, and it had closed on his head like a half-opened mushroom. Also the green lining was beginning to run. Golightly did not say anything worth recording here. He tore off and squeezed up as much of the brim as was in his eyes and ploughed on. The back of the helmet was flapping on his neck and the sides stuck to his ears, but the leather band and green lining kept things roughly together, so that the hat did not actually melt away where it flapped. Presently, the pulp and the green stuff made a sort of slimy mildew which ran over Golightly in several directions--down his back and bosom for choice. The khaki color ran too--it was really shockingly bad dye--and sections of Golightly were brown, and patches were violet, and contours were ochre, and streaks were ruddy red, and blotches were nearly white, according to the nature and peculiarities of the dye. When he took out his handkerchief to wipe his face and the green of the hat-lining and the purple stuff that had soaked through on to his neck from the tie became thoroughly mixed, the effect was amazing. Near Dhar the rain stopped and the evening sun came out and dried him up slightly. It fixed the colors, too. Three miles from Pathankote the last pony fell dead lame, and Golightly was forced to walk. He pushed on into Pathankote to find his servants. He did not know then that his khitmatgar had stopped by the roadside to get drunk, and would come on the next day saying that he had sprained his ankle. When he got into Pathankote, he couldn't find his servants, his boots were stiff and ropy with mud, and there were large quantities of dirt about his body. The blue tie had run as much as the khaki. So he took it off with the collar and threw it away. Then he said something about servants generally and tried to get a peg. He paid eight annas for the drink, and this revealed to him that he had only six annas more in his pocket--or in the world as he stood at that hour. He went to the Station-Master to negotiate for a first-class ticket to Khasa, where he was stationed. The booking-clerk said something to the Station-Master, the Station-Master said something to the Telegraph Clerk, and the three looked at him with curiosity. They asked him to wait for half-an-hour, while they telegraphed to Umritsar for authority. So he waited, and four constables came and grouped themselves picturesquely round him. Just as he was preparing to ask them to go away, the Station-Master said that he would give the Sahib a ticket to Umritsar, if the Sahib would kindly come inside the booking-office. Golightly stepped inside, and the next thing he knew was that a constable was attached to each of his legs and arms, while the Station-Master was trying to cram a mailbag over his head. There was a very fair scuffle all round the booking-office, and Golightly received a nasty cut over his eye through falling against a table. But the constables were too much for him, and they and the Station-Master handcuffed him securely. As soon as the mail-bag was slipped, he began expressing his opinions, and the head-constable said:--"Without doubt this is the soldier-Englishman we required. Listen to the abuse!" Then Golightly asked the Station-Master what the this and the that the proceedings meant. The Station-Master told him he was "Private John Binkle of the----Regiment, 5 ft. 9 in., fair hair, gray eyes, and a dissipated appearance, no marks on the body," who had deserted a fortnight ago. Golightly began explaining at great length; and the more he explained the less the Station-Master believed him. He said that no Lieutenant could look such a ruffian as did Golightly, and that his instructions were to send his capture under proper escort to Umritsar. Golightly was feeling very damp and uncomfortable, and the language he used was not fit for publication, even in an expurgated form. The four constables saw him safe to Umritsar in an "intermediate" compartment, and he spent the four-hour journey in abusing them as fluently as his knowledge of the vernaculars allowed. At Umritsar he was bundled out on the platform into the arms of a Corporal and two men of the----Regiment. Golightly drew himself up and tried to carry off matters jauntily. He did not feel too jaunty in handcuffs, with four constables behind him, and the blood from the cut on his forehead stiffening on his left cheek. The Corporal was not jocular either. Golightly got as far as--"This is a very absurd mistake, my men," when the Corporal told him to "stow his lip" and come along. Golightly did not want to come along. He desired to stop and explain. He explained very well indeed, until the Corporal cut in with:--"YOU a orficer! It's the like o' YOU as brings disgrace on the likes of US. Bloom-in' fine orficer you are! I know your regiment. The Rogue's March is the quickstep where you come from. You're a black shame to the Service." Golightly kept his temper, and began explaining all over again from the beginning. Then he was marched out of the rain into the refreshment-room and told not to make a qualified fool of himself. The men were going to run him up to Fort Govindghar. And "running up" is a performance almost as undignified as the Frog March. Golightly was nearly hysterical with rage and the chill and the mistake and the handcuffs and the headache that the cut on his forehead had given him. He really laid himself out to express what was in his mind. When he had quite finished and his throat was feeling dry, one of the men said:--"I've 'eard a few beggars in the click blind, stiff and crack on a bit; but I've never 'eard any one to touch this 'ere 'orficer.'" They were not angry with him. They rather admired him. They had some beer at the refreshment-room, and offered Golightly some too, because he had "swore won'erful." They asked him to tell them all about the adventures of Private John Binkle while he was loose on the countryside; and that made Golightly wilder than ever. If he had kept his wits about him he would have kept quiet until an officer came; but he attempted to run. Now the butt of a Martini in the small of your back hurts a great deal, and rotten, rain-soaked khaki tears easily when two men are jerking at your collar. Golightly rose from the floor feeling very sick and giddy, with his shirt ripped open all down his breast and nearly all down his back. He yielded to his luck, and at that point the down-train from Lahore came in carrying one of Golightly's Majors. This is the Major's evidence in full:-- "There was the sound of a scuffle in the second-class refreshment-room, so I went in and saw the most villainous loafer that I ever set eyes on. His boots and breeches were plastered with mud and beer-stains. He wore a muddy-white dunghill sort of thing on his head, and it hung down in slips on his shoulders, which were a good deal scratched. He was half in and half out of a shirt as nearly in two pieces as it could be, and he was begging the guard to look at the name on the tail of it. As he had rucked the shirt all over his head, I couldn't at first see who he was, but I fancied that he was a man in the first stage of D. T. from the way he swore while he wrestled with his rags. When he turned round, and I had made allowance for a lump as big as a pork-pie over one eye, and some green war-paint on the face, and some violet stripes round the neck, I saw that it was Golightly. He was very glad to see me," said the Major, "and he hoped I would not tell the Mess about it. I didn't, but you can if you like, now that Golightly has gone Home." Golightly spent the greater part of that summer in trying to get the Corporal and the two soldiers tried by Court-Martial for arresting an "officer and a gentleman." They were, of course, very sorry for their error. But the tale leaked into the regimental canteen, and thence ran about the Province. THE HOUSE OF SUDDHOO A stone's throw out on either hand From that well-ordered road we tread, And all the world is wild and strange; Churel and ghoul and Djinn and sprite Shall bear us company tonight, For we have reached the Oldest Land Wherein the Powers of Darkness range. --From the Dusk to the Dawn. The house of Suddhoo, near the Taksali Gate, is two-storied, with four carved windows of old brown wood, and a flat roof. You may recognize it by five red hand-prints arranged like the Five of Diamonds on the whitewash between the upper windows. Bhagwan Dass, the bunnia, and a man who says he gets his living by seal-cutting, live in the lower story with a troop of wives, servants, friends, and retainers. The two upper rooms used to be occupied by Janoo and Azizun and a little black-and-tan terrier that was stolen from an Englishman's house and given to Janoo by a soldier. Today, only Janoo lives in the upper rooms. Suddhoo sleeps on the roof generally, except when he sleeps in the street. He used to go to Peshawar in the cold weather to visit his son, who sells curiosities near the Edwardes' Gate, and then he slept under a real mud roof. Suddhoo is a great friend of mine, because his cousin had a son who secured, thanks to my recommendation, the post of head-messenger to a big firm in the Station. Suddhoo says that God will make me a Lieutenant-Governor one of these days. I daresay his prophecy will come true. He is very, very old, with white hair and no teeth worth showing, and he has outlived his wits--outlived nearly everything except his fondness for his son at Peshawar. Janoo and Azizun are Kashmiris, Ladies of the City, and theirs was an ancient and more or less honorable profession; but Azizun has since married a medical student from the North-West and has settled down to a most respectable life somewhere near Bareilly. Bhagwan Dass is an extortionate and an adulterator. He is very rich. The man who is supposed to get his living by seal-cutting pretends to be very poor. This lets you know as much as is necessary of the four principal tenants in the house of Suddhoo. Then there is Me, of course; but I am only the chorus that comes in at the end to explain things. So I do not count. Suddhoo was not clever. The man who pretended to cut seals was the cleverest of them all--Bhagwan Dass only knew how to lie--except Janoo. She was also beautiful, but that was her own affair. Suddhoo's son at Peshawar was attacked by pleurisy, and old Suddhoo was troubled. The seal-cutter man heard of Suddhoo's anxiety and made capital out of it. He was abreast of the times. He got a friend in Peshawar to telegraph daily accounts of the son's health. And here the story begins. Suddhoo's cousin's son told me, one evening, that Suddhoo wanted to see me; that he was too old and feeble to come personally, and that I should be conferring an everlasting honor on the House of Suddhoo if I went to him. I went; but I think, seeing how well-off Suddhoo was then, that he might have sent something better than an ekka, which jolted fearfully, to haul out a future Lieutenant-Governor to the City on a muggy April evening. The ekka did not run quickly. It was full dark when we pulled up opposite the door of Ranjit Singh's Tomb near the main gate of the Fort. Here was Suddhoo and he said that, by reason of my condescension, it was absolutely certain that I should become a Lieutenant-Governor while my hair was yet black. Then we talked about the weather and the state of my health, and the wheat crops, for fifteen minutes, in the Huzuri Bagh, under the stars. Suddhoo came to the point at last. He said that Janoo had told him that there was an order of the Sirkar against magic, because it was feared that magic might one day kill the Empress of India. I didn't know anything about the state of the law; but I fancied that something interesting was going to happen. I said that so far from magic being discouraged by the Government it was highly commended. The greatest officials of the State practiced it themselves. (If the Financial Statement isn't magic, I don't know what is.) Then, to encourage him further, I said that, if there was any jadoo afoot, I had not the least objection to giving it my countenance and sanction, and to seeing that it was clean jadoo--white magic, as distinguished from the unclean jadoo which kills folk. It took a long time before Suddhoo admitted that this was just what he had asked me to come for. Then he told me, in jerks and quavers, that the man who said he cut seals was a sorcerer of the cleanest kind; that every day he gave Suddhoo news of the sick son in Peshawar more quickly than the lightning could fly, and that this news was always corroborated by the letters. Further, that he had told Suddhoo how a great danger was threatening his son, which could be removed by clean jadoo; and, of course, heavy payment. I began to see how the land lay, and told Suddhoo that I also understood a little jadoo in the Western line, and would go to his house to see that everything was done decently and in order. We set off together; and on the way Suddhoo told me he had paid the seal-cutter between one hundred and two hundred rupees already; and the jadoo of that night would cost two hundred more. Which was cheap, he said, considering the greatness of his son's danger; but I do not think he meant it. The lights were all cloaked in the front of the house when we arrived. I could hear awful noises from behind the seal-cutter's shop-front, as if some one were groaning his soul out. Suddhoo shook all over, and while we groped our way upstairs told me that the jadoo had begun. Janoo and Azizun met us at the stair-head, and told us that the jadoo-work was coming off in their rooms, because there was more space there. Janoo is a lady of a freethinking turn of mind. She whispered that the jadoo was an invention to get money out of Suddhoo, and that the seal-cutter would go to a hot place when he died. Suddhoo was nearly crying with fear and old age. He kept walking up and down the room in the half light, repeating his son's name over and over again, and asking Azizun if the seal-cutter ought not to make a reduction in the case of his own landlord. Janoo pulled me over to the shadow in the recess of the carved bow-windows. The boards were up, and the rooms were only lit by one tiny lamp. There was no chance of my being seen if I stayed still. Presently, the groans below ceased, and we heard steps on the staircase. That was the seal-cutter. He stopped outside the door as the terrier barked and Azizun fumbled at the chain, and he told Suddhoo to blow out the lamp. This left the place in jet darkness, except for the red glow from the two huqas that belonged to Janoo and Azizun. The seal-cutter came in, and I heard Suddhoo throw himself down on the floor and groan. Azizun caught her breath, and Janoo backed to one of the beds with a shudder. There was a clink of something metallic, and then shot up a pale blue-green flame near the ground. The light was just enough to show Azizun, pressed against one corner of the room with the terrier between her knees; Janoo, with her hands clasped, leaning forward as she sat on the bed; Suddhoo, face down, quivering, and the seal-cutter. I hope I may never see another man like that seal-cutter. He was stripped to the waist, with a wreath of white jasmine as thick as my wrist round his forehead, a salmon-colored loin-cloth round his middle, and a steel bangle on each ankle. This was not awe-inspiring. It was the face of the man that turned me cold. It was blue-gray in the first place. In the second, the eyes were rolled back till you could only see the whites of them; and, in the third, the face was the face of a demon--a ghoul--anything you please except of the sleek, oily old ruffian who sat in the day-time over his turning-lathe downstairs. He was lying on his stomach, with his arms turned and crossed behind him, as if he had been thrown down pinioned. His head and neck were the only parts of him off the floor. They were nearly at right angles to the body, like the head of a cobra at spring. It was ghastly. In the centre of the room, on the bare earth floor, stood a big, deep, brass basin, with a pale blue-green light floating in the centre like a night-light. Round that basin the man on the floor wriggled himself three times. How he did it I do not know. I could see the muscles ripple along his spine and fall smooth again; but I could not see any other motion. The head seemed the only thing alive about him, except that slow curl and uncurl of the laboring back-muscles. Janoo from the bed was breathing seventy to the minute; Azizun held her hands before her eyes; and old Suddhoo, fingering at the dirt that had got into his white beard, was crying to himself. The horror of it was that the creeping, crawly thing made no sound--only crawled! And, remember, this lasted for ten minutes, while the terrier whined, and Azizun shuddered, and Janoo gasped, and Suddhoo cried. I felt the hair lift at the back of my head, and my heart thump like a thermantidote paddle. Luckily, the seal-cutter betrayed himself by his most impressive trick and made me calm again. After he had finished that unspeakable triple crawl, he stretched his head away from the floor as high as he could, and sent out a jet of fire from his nostrils. Now, I knew how fire-spouting is done--I can do it myself--so I felt at ease. The business was a fraud. If he had only kept to that crawl without trying to raise the effect, goodness knows what I might not have thought. Both the girls shrieked at the jet of fire and the head dropped, chin down, on the floor with a thud; the whole body lying then like a corpse with its arms trussed. There was a pause of five full minutes after this, and the blue-green flame died down. Janoo stooped to settle one of her anklets, while Azizun turned her face to the wall and took the terrier in her arms. Suddhoo put out an arm mechanically to Janoo's huqa, and she slid it across the floor with her foot. Directly above the body and on the wall, were a couple of flaming portraits, in stamped paper frames, of the Queen and the Prince of Wales. They looked down on the performance, and, to my thinking, seemed to heighten the grotesqueness of it all. Just when the silence was getting unendurable, the body turned over and rolled away from the basin to the side of the room, where it lay stomach up. There was a faint "plop" from the basin--exactly like the noise a fish makes when it takes a fly--and the green light in the centre revived. I looked at the basin, and saw, bobbing in the water, the dried, shrivelled, black head of a native baby--open eyes, open mouth and shaved scalp. It was worse, being so very sudden, than the crawling exhibition. We had no time to say anything before it began to speak. Read Poe's account of the voice that came from the mesmerized dying man, and you will realize less than one-half of the horror of that head's voice. There was an interval of a second or two between each word, and a sort of "ring, ring, ring," in the note of the voice, like the timbre of a bell. It pealed slowly, as if talking to itself, for several minutes before I got rid of my cold sweat. Then the blessed solution struck me. I looked at the body lying near the doorway, and saw, just where the hollow of the throat joins on the shoulders, a muscle that had nothing to do with any man's regular breathing, twitching away steadily. The whole thing was a careful reproduction of the Egyptian teraphin that one read about sometimes and the voice was as clever and as appalling a piece of ventriloquism as one could wish to hear. All this time the head was "lip-lip-lapping" against the side of the basin, and speaking. It told Suddhoo, on his face again whining, of his son's illness and of the state of the illness up to the evening of that very night. I always shall respect the seal-cutter for keeping so faithfully to the time of the Peshawar telegrams. It went on to say that skilled doctors were night and day watching over the man's life; and that he would eventually recover if the fee to the potent sorcerer, whose servant was the head in the basin, were doubled. Here the mistake from the artistic point of view came in. To ask for twice your stipulated fee in a voice that Lazarus might have used when he rose from the dead, is absurd. Janoo, who is really a woman of masculine intellect, saw this as quickly as I did. I heard her say "Asli nahin! Fareib!" scornfully under her breath; and just as she said so, the light in the basin died out, the head stopped talking, and we heard the room door creak on its hinges. Then Janoo struck a match, lit the lamp, and we saw that head, basin, and seal-cutter were gone. Suddhoo was wringing his hands and explaining to any one who cared to listen, that, if his chances of eternal salvation depended on it, he could not raise another two hundred rupees. Azizun was nearly in hysterics in the corner; while Janoo sat down composedly on one of the beds to discuss the probabilities of the whole thing being a bunao, or "make-up." I explained as much as I knew of the seal-cutter's way of jadoo; but her argument was much more simple:--"The magic that is always demanding gifts is no true magic," said she. "My mother told me that the only potent love-spells are those which are told you for love. This seal-cutter man is a liar and a devil. I dare not tell, do anything, or get anything done, because I am in debt to Bhagwan Dass the bunnia for two gold rings and a heavy anklet. I must get my food from his shop. The seal-cutter is the friend of Bhagwan Dass, and he would poison my food. A fool's jadoo has been going on for ten days, and has cost Suddhoo many rupees each night. The seal-cutter used black hens and lemons and mantras before. He never showed us anything like this till tonight. Azizun is a fool, and will be a purdah nashin soon. Suddhoo has lost his strength and his wits. See now! I had hoped to get from Suddhoo many rupees while he lived, and many more after his death; and behold, he is spending everything on that offspring of a devil and a she-ass, the seal-cutter!" Here I said:--"But what induced Suddhoo to drag me into the business? Of course I can speak to the seal-cutter, and he shall refund. The whole thing is child's talk--shame--and senseless." "Suddhoo IS an old child," said Janoo. "He has lived on the roofs these seventy years and is as senseless as a milch-goat. He brought you here to assure himself that he was not breaking any law of the Sirkar, whose salt he ate many years ago. He worships the dust off the feet of the seal-cutter, and that cow-devourer has forbidden him to go and see his son. What does Suddhoo know of your laws or the lightning-post? I have to watch his money going day by day to that lying beast below." Janoo stamped her foot on the floor and nearly cried with vexation; while Suddhoo was whimpering under a blanket in the corner, and Azizun was trying to guide the pipe-stem to his foolish old mouth....... ... Now the case stands thus. Unthinkingly, I have laid myself open to the charge of aiding and abetting the seal-cutter in obtaining money under false pretences, which is forbidden by Section 420 of the Indian Penal Code. I am helpless in the matter for these reasons, I cannot inform the Police. What witnesses would support my statements? Janoo refuses flatly, Azizun is a veiled woman somewhere near Bareilly--lost in this big India of ours. I cannot again take the law into my own hands, and speak to the seal-cutter; for certain am I that, not only would Suddhoo disbelieve me, but this step would end in the poisoning of Janoo, who is bound hand and foot by her debt to the bunnia. Suddhoo is an old dotard; and whenever we meet mumbles my idiotic joke that the Sirkar rather patronizes the Black Art than otherwise. His son is well now; but Suddhoo is completely under the influence of the seal-cutter, by whose advice he regulates the affairs of his life. Janoo watches daily the money that she hoped to wheedle out of Suddhoo taken by the seal-cutter, and becomes daily more furious and sullen. She will never tell, because she dare not; but, unless something happens to prevent her, I am afraid that the seal-cutter will die of cholera--the white arsenic kind--about the middle of May. And thus I shall have to be privy to a murder in the House of Suddhoo. HIS WEDDED WIFE. Cry "Murder!" in the market-place, and each Will turn upon his neighbor anxious eyes That ask:--"Art thou the man?" We hunted Cain, Some centuries ago, across the world, That bred the fear our own misdeeds maintain Today. --Vibart's Moralities. Shakespeare says something about worms, or it may be giants or beetles, turning if you tread on them too severely. The safest plan is never to tread on a worm--not even on the last new subaltern from Home, with his buttons hardly out of their tissue paper, and the red of sappy English beef in his cheeks. This is the story of the worm that turned. For the sake of brevity, we will call Henry Augustus Ramsay Faizanne, "The Worm," although he really was an exceedingly pretty boy, without a hair on his face, and with a waist like a girl's when he came out to the Second "Shikarris" and was made unhappy in several ways. The "Shikarris" are a high-caste regiment, and you must be able to do things well--play a banjo or ride more than a little, or sing, or act--to get on with them. The Worm did nothing except fall off his pony, and knock chips out of gate-posts with his trap. Even that became monotonous after a time. He objected to whist, cut the cloth at billiards, sang out of tune, kept very much to himself, and wrote to his Mamma and sisters at Home. Four of these five things were vices which the "Shikarris" objected to and set themselves to eradicate. Every one knows how subalterns are, by brother subalterns, softened and not permitted to be ferocious. It is good and wholesome, and does no one any harm, unless tempers are lost; and then there is trouble. There was a man once--but that is another story. The "Shikarris" shikarred The Worm very much, and he bore everything without winking. He was so good and so anxious to learn, and flushed so pink, that his education was cut short, and he was left to his own devices by every one except the Senior Subaltern, who continued to make life a burden to The Worm. The Senior Subaltern meant no harm; but his chaff was coarse, and he didn't quite understand where to stop. He had been waiting too long for his company; and that always sours a man. Also he was in love, which made him worse. One day, after he had borrowed The Worm's trap for a lady who never existed, had used it himself all the afternoon, had sent a note to The Worm purporting to come from the lady, and was telling the Mess all about it, The Worm rose in his place and said, in his quiet, ladylike voice: "That was a very pretty sell; but I'll lay you a month's pay to a month's pay when you get your step, that I work a sell on you that you'll remember for the rest of your days, and the Regiment after you when you're dead or broke." The Worm wasn't angry in the least, and the rest of the Mess shouted. Then the Senior Subaltern looked at The Worm from the boots upwards, and down again, and said, "Done, Baby." The Worm took the rest of the Mess to witness that the bet had been taken, and retired into a book with a sweet smile. Two months passed, and the Senior Subaltern still educated The Worm, who began to move about a little more as the hot weather came on. I have said that the Senior Subaltern was in love. The curious thing is that a girl was in love with the Senior Subaltern. Though the Colonel said awful things, and the Majors snorted, and married Captains looked unutterable wisdom, and the juniors scoffed, those two were engaged. The Senior Subaltern was so pleased with getting his Company and his acceptance at the same time that he forgot to bother The Worm. The girl was a pretty girl, and had money of her own. She does not come into this story at all. One night, at the beginning of the hot weather, all the Mess, except The Worm, who had gone to his own room to write Home letters, were sitting on the platform outside the Mess House. The Band had finished playing, but no one wanted to go in. And the Captains' wives were there also. The folly of a man in love is unlimited. The Senior Subaltern had been holding forth on the merits of the girl he was engaged to, and the ladies were purring approval, while the men yawned, when there was a rustle of skirts in the dark, and a tired, faint voice lifted itself: "Where's my husband?" I do not wish in the least to reflect on the morality of the "Shikarris;" but it is on record that four men jumped up as if they had been shot. Three of them were married men. Perhaps they were afraid that their wives had come from Home unbeknownst. The fourth said that he had acted on the impulse of the moment. He explained this afterwards. Then the voice cried:--"Oh, Lionel!" Lionel was the Senior Subaltern's name. A woman came into the little circle of light by the candles on the peg-tables, stretching out her hands to the dark where the Senior Subaltern was, and sobbing. We rose to our feet, feeling that things were going to happen and ready to believe the worst. In this bad, small world of ours, one knows so little of the life of the next man--which, after all, is entirely his own concern--that one is not surprised when a crash comes. Anything might turn up any day for any one. Perhaps the Senior Subaltern had been trapped in his youth. Men are crippled that way occasionally. We didn't know; we wanted to hear; and the Captains' wives were as anxious as we. If he HAD been trapped, he was to be excused; for the woman from nowhere, in the dusty shoes, and gray travelling dress, was very lovely, with black hair and great eyes full of tears. She was tall, with a fine figure, and her voice had a running sob in it pitiful to hear. As soon as the Senior Subaltern stood up, she threw her arms round his neck, and called him "my darling," and said she could not bear waiting alone in England, and his letters were so short and cold, and she was his to the end of the world, and would he forgive her. This did not sound quite like a lady's way of speaking. It was too demonstrative. Things seemed black indeed, and the Captains' wives peered under their eyebrows at the Senior Subaltern, and the Colonel's face set like the Day of Judgment framed in gray bristles, and no one spoke for a while. Next the Colonel said, very shortly:--"Well, Sir?" and the woman sobbed afresh. The Senior Subaltern was half choked with the arms round his neck, but he gasped out:--"It's a d----d lie! I never had a wife in my life!" "Don't swear," said the Colonel. "Come into the Mess. We must sift this clear somehow," and he sighed to himself, for he believed in his "Shikarris," did the Colonel. We trooped into the ante-room, under the full lights, and there we saw how beautiful the woman was. She stood up in the middle of us all, sometimes choking with crying, then hard and proud, and then holding out her arms to the Senior Subaltern. It was like the fourth act of a tragedy. She told us how the Senior Subaltern had married her when he was Home on leave eighteen months before; and she seemed to know all that we knew, and more too, of his people and his past life. He was white and ashy gray, trying now and again to break into the torrent of her words; and we, noting how lovely she was and what a criminal he looked, esteemed him a beast of the worst kind. We felt sorry for him, though. I shall never forget the indictment of the Senior Subaltern by his wife. Nor will he. It was so sudden, rushing out of the dark, unannounced, into our dull lives. The Captains' wives stood back; but their eyes were alight, and you could see that they had already convicted and sentenced the Senior Subaltern. The Colonel seemed five years older. One Major was shading his eyes with his hand and watching the woman from underneath it. Another was chewing his moustache and smiling quietly as if he were witnessing a play. Full in the open space in the centre, by the whist-tables, the Senior Subaltern's terrier was hunting for fleas. I remember all this as clearly as though a photograph were in my hand. I remember the look of horror on the Senior Subaltern's face. It was rather like seeing a man hanged; but much more interesting. Finally, the woman wound up by saying that the Senior Subaltern carried a double F. M. in tattoo on his left shoulder. We all knew that, and to our innocent minds it seemed to clinch the matter. But one of the Bachelor Majors said very politely:--"I presume that your marriage certificate would be more to the purpose?" That roused the woman. She stood up and sneered at the Senior Subaltern for a cur, and abused the Major and the Colonel and all the rest. Then she wept, and then she pulled a paper from her breast, saying imperially:--"Take that! And let my husband--my lawfully wedded husband--read it aloud--if he dare!" There was a hush, and the men looked into each other's eyes as the Senior Subaltern came forward in a dazed and dizzy way, and took the paper. We were wondering as we stared, whether there was anything against any one of us that might turn up later on. The Senior Subaltern's throat was dry; but, as he ran his eye over the paper, he broke out into a hoarse cackle of relief, and said to the woman:--"You young blackguard!" But the woman had fled through a door, and on the paper was written:--"This is to certify that I, The Worm, have paid in full my debts to the Senior Subaltern, and, further, that the Senior Subaltern is my debtor, by agreement on the 23d of February, as by the Mess attested, to the extent of one month's Captain's pay, in the lawful currency of the India Empire." Then a deputation set off for The Worm's quarters and found him, betwixt and between, unlacing his stays, with the hat, wig, serge dress, etc., on the bed. He came over as he was, and the "Shikarris" shouted till the Gunners' Mess sent over to know if they might have a share of the fun. I think we were all, except the Colonel and the Senior Subaltern, a little disappointed that the scandal had come to nothing. But that is human nature. There could be no two words about The Worm's acting. It leaned as near to a nasty tragedy as anything this side of a joke can. When most of the Subalterns sat upon him with sofa-cushions to find out why he had not said that acting was his strong point, he answered very quietly:--"I don't think you ever asked me. I used to act at Home with my sisters." But no acting with girls could account for The Worm's display that night. Personally, I think it was in bad taste. Besides being dangerous. There is no sort of use in playing with fire, even for fun. The "Shikarris" made him President of the Regimental Dramatic Club; and, when the Senior Subaltern paid up his debt, which he did at once, The Worm sank the money in scenery and dresses. He was a good Worm; and the "Shikarris" are proud of him. The only drawback is that he has been christened "Mrs. Senior Subaltern;" and as there are now two Mrs. Senior Subalterns in the Station, this is sometimes confusing to strangers. Later on, I will tell you of a case something like, this, but with all the jest left out and nothing in it but real trouble. THE BROKEN LINK HANDICAPPED. While the snaffle holds, or the "long-neck" stings, While the big beam tilts, or the last bell rings, While horses are horses to train and to race, Then women and wine take a second place For me--for me-- While a short "ten-three" Has a field to squander or fence to face! ----Song of the G. R. There are more ways of running a horse to suit your book than pulling his head off in the straight. Some men forget this. Understand clearly that all racing is rotten--as everything connected with losing money must be. Out here, in addition to its inherent rottenness, it has the merit of being two-thirds sham; looking pretty on paper only. Every one knows every one else far too well for business purposes. How on earth can you rack and harry and post a man for his losings, when you are fond of his wife, and live in the same Station with him? He says, "on the Monday following," "I can't settle just yet." "You say, 'All right, old man,'" and think your self lucky if you pull off nine hundred out of a two-thousand rupee debt. Any way you look at it, Indian racing is immoral, and expensively immoral. Which is much worse. If a man wants your money, he ought to ask for it, or send round a subscription-list, instead of juggling about the country, with an Australian larrikin; a "brumby," with as much breed as the boy; a brace of chumars in gold-laced caps; three or four ekka-ponies with hogged manes, and a switch-tailed demirep of a mare called Arab because she has a kink in her flag. Racing leads to the shroff quicker than anything else. But if you have no conscience and no sentiments, and good hands, and some knowledge of pace, and ten years' experience of horses, and several thousand rupees a month, I believe that you can occasionally contrive to pay your shoeing-bills. Did you ever know Shackles--b. w. g., 15.13.8--coarse, loose, mule-like ears--barrel as long as a gate-post--tough as a telegraph-wire--and the queerest brute that ever looked through a bridle? He was of no brand, being one of an ear-nicked mob taken into the Bucephalus at 4l.-10s. a head to make up freight, and sold raw and out of condition at Calcutta for Rs. 275. People who lost money on him called him a "brumby;" but if ever any horse had Harpoon's shoulders and The Gin's temper, Shackles was that horse. Two miles was his own particular distance. He trained himself, ran himself, and rode himself; and, if his jockey insulted him by giving him hints, he shut up at once and bucked the boy off. He objected to dictation. Two or three of his owners did not understand this, and lost money in consequence. At last he was bought by a man who discovered that, if a race was to be won, Shackles, and Shackles only, would win it in his own way, so long as his jockey sat still. This man had a riding-boy called Brunt--a lad from Perth, West Australia--and he taught Brunt, with a trainer's whip, the hardest thing a jock can learn--to sit still, to sit still, and to keep on sitting still. When Brunt fairly grasped this truth, Shackles devastated the country. No weight could stop him at his own distance; and The fame of Shackles spread from Ajmir in the South, to Chedputter in the North. There was no horse like Shackles, so long as he was allowed to do his work in his own way. But he was beaten in the end; and the story of his fall is enough to make angels weep. At the lower end of the Chedputter racecourse, just before the turn into the straight, the track passes close to a couple of old brick-mounds enclosing a funnel-shaped hollow. The big end of the funnel is not six feet from the railings on the off-side. The astounding peculiarity of the course is that, if you stand at one particular place, about half a mile away, inside the course, and speak at an ordinary pitch, your voice just hits the funnel of the brick-mounds and makes a curious whining echo there. A man discovered this one morning by accident while out training with a friend. He marked the place to stand and speak from with a couple of bricks, and he kept his knowledge to himself. EVERY peculiarity of a course is worth remembering in a country where rats play the mischief with the elephant-litter, and Stewards build jumps to suit their own stables. This man ran a very fairish country-bred, a long, racking high mare with the temper of a fiend, and the paces of an airy wandering seraph--a drifty, glidy stretch. The mare was, as a delicate tribute to Mrs. Reiver, called "The Lady Regula Baddun"--or for short, Regula Baddun. Shackles' jockey, Brunt, was a quiet, well-behaved boy, but his nerves had been shaken. He began his career by riding jump-races in Melbourne, where a few Stewards want lynching, and was one of the jockeys who came through the awful butchery--perhaps you will recollect it--of the Maribyrnong Plate. The walls were colonial ramparts--logs of jarrak spiked into masonry--with wings as strong as Church buttresses. Once in his stride, a horse had to jump or fall. He couldn't run out. In the Maribyrnong Plate, twelve horses were jammed at the second wall. Red Hat, leading, fell this side, and threw out The Glen, and the ruck came up behind and the space between wing and wing was one struggling, screaming, kicking shambles. Four jockeys were taken out dead; three were very badly hurt, and Brunt was among the three. He told the story of the Maribyrnong Plate sometimes; and when he described how Whalley on Red Hat, said, as the mare fell under him:--"God ha' mercy, I'm done for!" and how, next instant, Sithee There and White Otter had crushed the life out of poor Whalley, and the dust hid a small hell of men and horses, no one marvelled that Brunt had dropped jump-races and Australia together. Regula Baddun's owner knew that story by heart. Brunt never varied it in the telling. He had no education. Shackles came to the Chedputter Autumn races one year, and his owner walked about insulting the sportsmen of Chedputter generally, till they went to the Honorary Secretary in a body and said:--"Appoint Handicappers, and arrange a race which shall break Shackles and humble the pride of his owner." The Districts rose against Shackles and sent up of their best; Ousel, who was supposed to be able to do his mile in 1-53; Petard, the stud-bred, trained by a cavalry regiment who knew how to train; Gringalet, the ewe-lamb of the 75th; Bobolink, the pride of Peshawar; and many others. They called that race The Broken-Link Handicap, because it was to smash Shackles; and the Handicappers piled on the weights, and the Fund gave eight hundred rupees, and the distance was "round the course for all horses." Shackles' owner said:--"You can arrange the race with regard to Shackles only. So long as you don't bury him under weight-cloths, I don't mind." Regula Baddun's owner said:--"I throw in my mare to fret Ousel. Six furlongs is Regula's distance, and she will then lie down and die. So also will Ousel, for his jockey doesn't understand a waiting race." Now, this was a lie, for Regula had been in work for two months at Dehra, and her chances were good, always supposing that Shackles broke a blood-vessel--OR BRUNT MOVED ON HIM. The plunging in the lotteries was fine. They filled eight thousand rupee lotteries on the Broken Link Handicap, and the account in the Pioneer said that "favoritism was divided." In plain English, the various contingents were wild on their respective horses; for the Handicappers had done their work well. The Honorary Secretary shouted himself hoarse through the din; and the smoke of the cheroots was like the smoke, and the rattling of the dice-boxes like the rattle of small-arm fire. Ten horses started--very level--and Regula Baddun's owner cantered out on his back to a place inside the circle of the course, where two bricks had been thrown. He faced towards the brick-mounds at the lower end of the course and waited. he story of the running is in the Pioneer. At the end of the first mile, Shackles crept out of the ruck, well on the outside, ready to get round the turn, lay hold of the bit and spin up the straight before the others knew he had got away. Brunt was sitting still, perfectly happy, listening to the "drum, drum, drum" of the hoofs behind, and knowing that, in about twenty strides, Shackles would draw one deep breath and go up the last half-mile like the "Flying Dutchman." As Shackles went short to take the turn and came abreast of the brick-mound, Brunt heard, above the noise of the wind in his ears, a whining, wailing voice on the offside, saying:--"God ha' mercy, I'm done for!" In one stride, Brunt saw the whole seething smash of the Maribyrnong Plate before him, started in his saddle and gave a yell of terror. The start brought the heels into Shackles' side, and the scream hurt Shackles' feelings. He couldn't stop dead; but he put out his feet and slid along for fifty yards, and then, very gravely and judicially, bucked off Brunt--a shaking, terror-stricken lump, while Regula Baddun made a neck-and-neck race with Bobolink up the straight, and won by a short head--Petard a bad third. Shackles' owner, in the Stand, tried to think that his field-glasses had gone wrong. Regula Baddun's owner, waiting by the two bricks, gave one deep sigh of relief, and cantered back to the stand. He had won, in lotteries and bets, about fifteen thousand. It was a broken-link Handicap with a vengeance. It broke nearly all the men concerned, and nearly broke the heart of Shackles' owner. He went down to interview Brunt. The boy lay, livid and gasping with fright, where he had tumbled off. The sin of losing the race never seemed to strike him. All he knew was that Whalley had "called" him, that the "call" was a warning; and, were he cut in two for it, he would never get up again. His nerve had gone altogether, and he only asked his master to give him a good thrashing, and let him go. He was fit for nothing, he said. He got his dismissal, and crept up to the paddock, white as chalk, with blue lips, his knees giving way under him. People said nasty things in the paddock; but Brunt never heeded. He changed into tweeds, took his stick and went down the road, still shaking with fright, and muttering over and over again:--"God ha' mercy, I'm done for!" To the best of my knowledge and belief he spoke the truth. So now you know how the Broken-Link Handicap was run and won. Of course you don't believe it. You would credit anything about Russia's designs on India, or the recommendations of the Currency Commission; but a little bit of sober fact is more than you can stand! BEYOND THE PALE. "Love heeds not caste nor sleep a broken bed. I went in search of love and lost myself." Hindu Proverb. A man should, whatever happens, keep to his own caste, race and breed. Let the White go to the White and the Black to the Black. Then, whatever trouble falls is in the ordinary course of things--neither sudden, alien, nor unexpected. This is the story of a man who wilfully stepped beyond the safe limits of decent every-day society, and paid for it heavily. He knew too much in the first instance; and he saw too much in the second. He took too deep an interest in native life; but he will never do so again. Deep away in the heart of the City, behind Jitha Megji's bustee, lies Amir Nath's Gully, which ends in a dead-wall pierced by one grated window. At the head of the Gully is a big cow-byre, and the walls on either side of the Gully are without windows. Neither Suchet Singh nor Gaur Chand approved of their women-folk looking into the world. If Durga Charan had been of their opinion, he would have been a happier man today, and little Bisesa would have been able to knead her own bread. Her room looked out through the grated window into the narrow dark Gully where the sun never came and where the buffaloes wallowed in the blue slime. She was a widow, about fifteen years old, and she prayed the Gods, day and night, to send her a lover; for she did not approve of living alone. One day the man--Trejago his name was--came into Amir Nath's Gully on an aimless wandering; and, after he had passed the buffaloes, stumbled over a big heap of cattle food. Then he saw that the Gully ended in a trap, and heard a little laugh from behind the grated window. It was a pretty little laugh, and Trejago, knowing that, for all practical purposes, the old Arabian Nights are good guides, went forward to the window, and whispered that verse of "The Love Song of Har Dyal" which begins: Can a man stand upright in the face of the naked Sun; or a Lover in the Presence of his Beloved? If my feet fail me, O Heart of my Heart, am I to blame, being blinded by the glimpse of your beauty? There came the faint tchinks of a woman's bracelets from behind the grating, and a little voice went on with the song at the fifth verse: Alas! alas! Can the Moon tell the Lotus of her love when the Gate of Heaven is shut and the clouds gather for the rains? They have taken my Beloved, and driven her with the pack-horses to the North. There are iron chains on the feet that were set on my heart. Call to the bowman to make ready-- The voice stopped suddenly, and Trejago walked out of Amir Nath's Gully, wondering who in the world could have capped "The Love Song of Har Dyal" so neatly. Next morning, as he was driving to the office, an old woman threw a packet into his dog-cart. In the packet was the half of a broken glass bangle, one flower of the blood red dhak, a pinch of bhusa or cattle-food, and eleven cardamoms. That packet was a letter--not a clumsy compromising letter, but an innocent, unintelligible lover's epistle. Trejago knew far too much about these things, as I have said. No Englishman should be able to translate object-letters. But Trejago spread all the trifles on the lid of his office-box and began to puzzle them out. A broken glass-bangle stands for a Hindu widow all India over; because, when her husband dies a woman's bracelets are broken on her wrists. Trejago saw the meaning of the little bit of the glass. The flower of the dhak means diversely "desire," "come," "write," or "danger," according to the other things with it. One cardamom means "jealousy;" but when any article is duplicated in an object-letter, it loses its symbolic meaning and stands merely for one of a number indicating time, or, if incense, curds, or saffron be sent also, place. The message ran then:--"A widow dhak flower and bhusa--at eleven o'clock." The pinch of bhusa enlightened Trejago. He saw--this kind of letter leaves much to instinctive knowledge--that the bhusa referred to the big heap of cattle-food over which he had fallen in Amir Nath's Gully, and that the message must come from the person behind the grating; she being a widow. So the message ran then:--"A widow, in the Gully in which is the heap of bhusa, desires you to come at eleven o'clock." Trejago threw all the rubbish into the fireplace and laughed. He knew that men in the East do not make love under windows at eleven in the forenoon, nor do women fix appointments a week in advance. So he went, that very night at eleven, into Amir Nath's Gully, clad in a boorka, which cloaks a man as well as a woman. Directly the gongs in the City made the hour, the little voice behind the grating took up "The Love Song of Har Dyal" at the verse where the Panthan girl calls upon Har Dyal to return. The song is really pretty in the Vernacular. In English you miss the wail of it. It runs something like this:-- Alone upon the housetops, to the North I turn and watch the lightning in the sky,-- The glamour of thy footsteps in the North, Come back to me, Beloved, or I die! Below my feet the still bazar is laid Far, far below the weary camels lie,-- The camels and the captives of thy raid, Come back to me, Beloved, or I die! My father's wife is old and harsh with years, And drudge of all my father's house am I.-- My bread is sorrow and my drink is tears, Come back to me, Beloved, or I die! As the song stopped, Trejago stepped up under the grating and whispered:--"I am here." Bisesa was good to look upon. That night was the beginning of many strange things, and of a double life so wild that Trejago today sometimes wonders if it were not all a dream. Bisesa or her old handmaiden who had thrown the object-letter had detached the heavy grating from the brick-work of the wall; so that the window slid inside, leaving only a square of raw masonry, into which an active man might climb. In the day-time, Trejago drove through his routine of office-work, or put on his calling-clothes and called on the ladies of the Station; wondering how long they would know him if they knew of poor little Bisesa. At night, when all the City was still, came the walk under the evil-smelling boorka, the patrol through Jitha Megji's bustee, the quick turn into Amir Nath's Gully between the sleeping cattle and the dead walls, and then, last of all, Bisesa, and the deep, even breathing of the old woman who slept outside the door of the bare little room that Durga Charan allotted to his sister's daughter. Who or what Durga Charan was, Trejago never inquired; and why in the world he was not discovered and knifed never occurred to him till his madness was over, and Bisesa... But this comes later. Bisesa was an endless delight to Trejago. She was as ignorant as a bird; and her distorted versions of the rumors from the outside world that had reached her in her room, amused Trejago almost as much as her lisping attempts to pronounce his name--"Christopher." The first syllable was always more than she could manage, and she made funny little gestures with her rose-leaf hands, as one throwing the name away, and then, kneeling before Trejago, asked him, exactly as an Englishwoman would do, if he were sure he loved her. Trejago swore that he loved her more than any one else in the world. Which was true. After a month of this folly, the exigencies of his other life compelled Trejago to be especially attentive to a lady of his acquaintance. You may take it for a fact that anything of this kind is not only noticed and discussed by a man's own race, but by some hundred and fifty natives as well. Trejago had to walk with this lady and talk to her at the Band-stand, and once or twice to drive with her; never for an instant dreaming that this would affect his dearer out-of-the-way life. But the news flew, in the usual mysterious fashion, from mouth to mouth, till Bisesa's duenna heard of it and told Bisesa. The child was so troubled that she did the household work evilly, and was beaten by Durga Charan's wife in consequence. A week later, Bisesa taxed Trejago with the flirtation. She understood no gradations and spoke openly. Trejago laughed and Bisesa stamped her little feet--little feet, light as marigold flowers, that could lie in the palm of a man's one hand. Much that is written about "Oriental passion and impulsiveness" is exaggerated and compiled at second-hand, but a little of it is true; and when an Englishman finds that little, it is quite as startling as any passion in his own proper life. Bisesa raged and stormed, and finally threatened to kill herself if Trejago did not at once drop the alien Memsahib who had come between them. Trejago tried to explain, and to show her that she did not understand these things from a Western standpoint. Bisesa drew herself up, and said simply: "I do not. I know only this--it is not good that I should have made you dearer than my own heart to me, Sahib. You are an Englishman. I am only a black girl"--she was fairer than bar-gold in the Mint--and the widow of a black man. Then she sobbed and said: "But on my soul and my Mother's soul, I love you. There shall no harm come to you, whatever happens to me." Trejago argued with the child, and tried to soothe her, but she seemed quite unreasonably disturbed. Nothing would satisfy her save that all relations between them should end. He was to go away at once. And he went. As he dropped out at the window, she kissed his forehead twice, and he walked away wondering. A week, and then three weeks, passed without a sign from Bisesa. Trejago, thinking that the rupture had lasted quite long enough, went down to Amir Nath's Gully for the fifth time in the three weeks, hoping that his rap at the sill of the shifting grating would be answered. He was not disappointed. There was a young moon, and one stream of light fell down into Amir Nath's Gully, and struck the grating, which was drawn away as he knocked. From the black dark, Bisesa held out her arms into the moonlight. Both hands had been cut off at the wrists, and the stumps were nearly healed. Then, as Bisesa bowed her head between her arms and sobbed, some one in the room grunted like a wild beast, and something sharp--knife, sword or spear--thrust at Trejago in his boorka. The stroke missed his body, but cut into one of the muscles of the groin, and he limped slightly from the wound for the rest of his days. The grating went into its place. There was no sign whatever from inside the house--nothing but the moonlight strip on the high wall, and the blackness of Amir Nath's Gully behind. The next thing Trejago remembers, after raging and shouting like a madman between those pitiless walls, is that he found himself near the river as the dawn was breaking, threw away his boorka and went home bareheaded. What the tragedy was--whether Bisesa had, in a fit of causeless despair, told everything, or the intrigue had been discovered and she tortured to tell, whether Durga Charan knew his name, and what became of Bisesa--Trejago does not know to this day. Something horrible had happened, and the thought of what it must have been comes upon Trejago in the night now and again, and keeps him company till the morning. One special feature of the case is that he does not know where lies the front of Durga Charan's house. It may open on to a courtyard common to two or more houses, or it may lie behind any one of the gates of Jitha Megji's bustee. Trejago cannot tell. He cannot get Bisesa--poor little Bisesa--back again. He has lost her in the City, where each man's house is as guarded and as unknowable as the grave; and the grating that opens into Amir Nath's Gully has been walled up. But Trejago pays his calls regularly, and is reckoned a very decent sort of man. There is nothing peculiar about him, except a slight stiffness, caused by a riding-strain, in the right leg. IN ERROR. They burnt a corpse upon the sand-- The light shone out afar; It guided home the plunging boats That beat from Zanzibar. Spirit of Fire, where'er Thy altars rise. Thou art Light of Guidance to our eyes! ----Salsette Boat-Song. There is hope for a man who gets publicly and riotously drunk more often that he ought to do; but there is no hope for the man who drinks secretly and alone in his own house--the man who is never seen to drink. This is a rule; so there must be an exception to prove it. Moriarty's case was that exception. He was a Civil Engineer, and the Government, very kindly, put him quite by himself in an out-district, with nobody but natives to talk to and a great deal of work to do. He did his work well in the four years he was utterly alone; but he picked up the vice of secret and solitary drinking, and came up out of the wilderness more old and worn and haggard than the dead-alive life had any right to make him. You know the saying that a man who has been alone in the jungle for more than a year is never quite sane all his life after. People credited Moriarty's queerness of manner and moody ways to the solitude, and said it showed how Government spoilt the futures of its best men. Moriarty had built himself the plinth of a very god reputation in the bridge-dam-girder line. But he knew, every night of the week, that he was taking steps to undermine that reputation with L. L. L. and "Christopher" and little nips of liqueurs, and filth of that kind. He had a sound constitution and a great brain, or else he would have broken down and died like a sick camel in the district, as better men have done before him. Government ordered him to Simla after he had come out of the desert; and he went up meaning to try for a post then vacant. That season, Mrs. Reiver--perhaps you will remember her--was in the height of her power, and many men lay under her yoke. Everything bad that could be said has already been said about Mrs. Reiver, in another tale. Moriarty was heavily-built and handsome, very quiet and nervously anxious to please his neighbors when he wasn't sunk in a brown study. He started a good deal at sudden noises or if spoken to without warning; and, when you watched him drinking his glass of water at dinner, you could see the hand shake a little. But all this was put down to nervousness, and the quiet, steady, "sip-sip-sip, fill and sip-sip-sip, again," that went on in his own room when he was by himself, was never known. Which was miraculous, seeing how everything in a man's private life is public property out here. Moriarty was drawn, not into Mrs. Reiver's set, because they were not his sort, but into the power of Mrs. Reiver, and he fell down in front of her and made a goddess of her. This was due to his coming fresh out of the jungle to a big town. He could not scale things properly or see who was what. Because Mrs. Reiver was cold and hard, he said she was stately and dignified. Because she had no brains, and could not talk cleverly, he said she was reserved and shy. Mrs. Reiver shy! Because she was unworthy of honor or reverence from any one, he reverenced her from a distance and dowered her with all the virtues in the Bible and most of those in Shakespeare. This big, dark, abstracted man who was so nervous when a pony cantered behind him, used to moon in the train of Mrs. Reiver, blushing with pleasure when she threw a word or two his way. His admiration was strictly platonic: even other women saw and admitted this. He did not move out in Simla, so he heard nothing against his idol: which was satisfactory. Mrs. Reiver took no special notice of him, beyond seeing that he was added to her list of admirers, and going for a walk with him now and then, just to show that he was her property, claimable as such. Moriarty must have done most of the talking, for Mrs. Reiver couldn't talk much to a man of his stamp; and the little she said could not have been profitable. What Moriarty believed in, as he had good reason to, was Mrs. Reiver's influence over him, and, in that belief, set himself seriously to try to do away with the vice that only he himself knew of. His experiences while he was fighting with it must have been peculiar, but he never described them. Sometimes he would hold off from everything except water for a week. Then, on a rainy night, when no one had asked him out to dinner, and there was a big fire in his room, and everything comfortable, he would sit down and make a big night of it by adding little nip to little nip, planning big schemes of reformation meanwhile, until he threw himself on his bed hopelessly drunk. He suffered next morning. One night, the big crash came. He was troubled in his own mind over his attempts to make himself "worthy of the friendship" of Mrs. Reiver. The past ten days had been very bad ones, and the end of it all was that he received the arrears of two and three-quarter years of sipping in one attack of delirium tremens of the subdued kind; beginning with suicidal depression, going on to fits and starts and hysteria, and ending with downright raving. As he sat in a chair in front of the fire, or walked up and down the room picking a handkerchief to pieces, you heard what poor Moriarty really thought of Mrs. Reiver, for he raved about her and his own fall for the most part; though he ravelled some P. W. D. accounts into the same skein of thought. He talked, and talked, and talked in a low dry whisper to himself, and there was no stopping him. He seemed to know that there was something wrong, and twice tried to pull himself together and confer rationally with the Doctor; but his mind ran out of control at once, and he fell back to a whisper and the story of his troubles. It is terrible to hear a big man babbling like a child of all that a man usually locks up, and puts away in the deep of his heart. Moriarty read out his very soul for the benefit of any one who was in the room between ten-thirty that night and two-forty-five next morning. From what he said, one gathered how immense an influence Mrs. Reiver held over him, and how thoroughly he felt for his own lapse. His whisperings cannot, of course, be put down here; but they were very instructive as showing the errors of his estimates.......... When the trouble was over, and his few acquaintances were pitying him for the bad attack of jungle-fever that had so pulled him down, Moriarty swore a big oath to himself and went abroad again with Mrs. Reiver till the end of the season, adoring her in a quiet and deferential way as an angel from heaven. Later on he took to riding--not hacking, but honest riding--which was good proof that he was improving, and you could slam doors behind him without his jumping to his feet with a gasp. That, again, was hopeful. How he kept his oath, and what it cost him in the beginning, nobody knows. He certainly managed to compass the hardest thing that a man who has drank heavily can do. He took his peg and wine at dinner, but he never drank alone, and never let what he drank have the least hold on him. Once he told a bosom-friend the story of his great trouble, and how the "influence of a pure honest woman, and an angel as well" had saved him. When the man--startled at anything good being laid to Mrs. Reiver's door--laughed, it cost him Moriarty's friendship. Moriarty, who is married now to a woman ten thousand times better than Mrs. Reiver--a woman who believes that there is no man on earth as good and clever as her husband--will go down to his grave vowing and protesting that Mrs. Reiver saved him from ruin in both worlds. That she knew anything of Moriarty's weakness nobody believed for a moment. That she would have cut him dead, thrown him over, and acquainted all her friends with her discovery, if she had known of it, nobody who knew her doubted for an instant. oriarty thought her something she never was, and in that belief saved himself. Which was just as good as though she had been everything that he had imagined. But the question is, what claim will Mrs. Reiver have to the credit of Moriarty's salvation, when her day of reckoning comes? A BANK FRAUD. He drank strong waters and his speech was coarse; He purchased raiment and forebore to pay; He struck a trusting junior with a horse, And won Gymkhanas in a doubtful way. Then, 'twixt a vice and folly, turned aside To do good deeds and straight to cloak them, lied. --THE MESS ROOM. If Reggie Burke were in India now, he would resent this tale being told; but as he is in Hong-Kong and won't see it, the telling is safe. He was the man who worked the big fraud on the Sind and Sialkote Bank. He was manager of an up-country Branch, and a sound practical man with a large experience of native loan and insurance work. He could combine the frivolities of ordinary life with his work, and yet do well. Reggie Burke rode anything that would let him get up, danced as neatly as he rode, and was wanted for every sort of amusement in the Station. As he said himself, and as many men found out rather to their surprise, there were two Burkes, both very much at your service. "Reggie Burke," between four and ten, ready for anything from a hot-weather gymkhana to a riding-picnic; and, between ten and four, "Mr. Reginald Burke, Manager of the Sind and Sialkote Branch Bank." You might play polo with him one afternoon and hear him express his opinions when a man crossed; and you might call on him next morning to raise a two-thousand rupee loan on a five hundred pound insurance-policy, eighty pounds paid in premiums. He would recognize you, but you would have some trouble in recognizing him. The Directors of the Bank--it had its headquarters in Calcutta and its General Manager's word carried weight with the Government--picked their men well. They had tested Reggie up to a fairly severe breaking-strain. They trusted him just as much as Directors ever trust Managers. You must see for yourself whether their trust was misplaced. Reggie's Branch was in a big Station, and worked with the usual staff--one Manager, one Accountant, both English, a Cashier, and a horde of native clerks; besides the Police patrol at nights outside. The bulk of its work, for it was in a thriving district, was hoondi and accommodation of all kinds. A fool has no grip of this sort of business; and a clever man who does not go about among his clients, and know more than a little of their affairs, is worse than a fool. Reggie was young-looking, clean-shaved, with a twinkle in his eye, and a head that nothing short of a gallon of the Gunners' Madeira could make any impression on. One day, at a big dinner, he announced casually that the Directors had shifted on to him a Natural Curiosity, from England, in the Accountant line. He was perfectly correct. Mr. Silas Riley, Accountant, was a MOST curious animal--a long, gawky, rawboned Yorkshireman, full of the savage self-conceit that blossoms only in the best county in England. Arrogance was a mild word for the mental attitude of Mr. S. Riley. He had worked himself up, after seven years, to a Cashier's position in a Huddersfield Bank; and all his experience lay among the factories of the North. Perhaps he would have done better on the Bombay side, where they are happy with one-half per cent. profits, and money is cheap. He was useless for Upper India and a wheat Province, where a man wants a large head and a touch of imagination if he is to turn out a satisfactory balance-sheet. He was wonderfully narrow-minded in business, and, being new to the country, had no notion that Indian banking is totally distinct from Home work. Like most clever self-made men, he had much simplicity in his nature; and, somehow or other, had construed the ordinarily polite terms of his letter of engagement into a belief that the Directors had chosen him on account of his special and brilliant talents, and that they set great store by him. This notion grew and crystallized; thus adding to his natural North-country conceit. Further, he was delicate, suffered from some trouble in his chest, and was short in his temper. You will admit that Reggie had reason to call his new Accountant a Natural Curiosity. The two men failed to hit it off at all. Riley considered Reggie a wild, feather-headed idiot, given to Heaven only knew what dissipation in low places called "Messes," and totally unfit for the serious and solemn vocation of banking. He could never get over Reggie's look of youth and "you-be-damned" air; and he couldn't understand Reggie's friends--clean-built, careless men in the Army--who rode over to big Sunday breakfasts at the Bank, and told sultry stories till Riley got up and left the room. Riley was always showing Reggie how the business ought to be conducted, and Reggie had more than once to remind him that seven years' limited experience between Huddersfield and Beverly did not qualify a man to steer a big up-country business. Then Riley sulked and referred to himself as a pillar of the Bank and a cherished friend of the Directors, and Reggie tore his hair. If a man's English subordinates fail him in this country, he comes to a hard time indeed, for native help has strict limitations. In the winter Riley went sick for weeks at a time with his lung complaint, and this threw more work on Reggie. But he preferred it to the everlasting friction when Riley was well. One of the Travelling Inspectors of the Bank discovered these collapses and reported them to the Directors. Now Riley had been foisted on the Bank by an M. P., who wanted the support of Riley's father, who, again, was anxious to get his son out to a warmer climate because of those lungs. The M. P. had an interest in the Bank; but one of the Directors wanted to advance a nominee of his own; and, after Riley's father had died, he made the rest of the Board see that an Accountant who was sick for half the year, had better give place to a healthy man. If Riley had known the real story of his appointment, he might have behaved better; but knowing nothing, his stretches of sickness alternated with restless, persistent, meddling irritation of Reggie, and all the hundred ways in which conceit in a subordinate situation can find play. Reggie used to call him striking and hair-curling names behind his back as a relief to his own feelings; but he never abused him to his face, because he said: "Riley is such a frail beast that half of his loathsome conceit is due to pains in the chest." Late one April, Riley went very sick indeed. The doctor punched him and thumped him, and told him he would be better before long. Then the doctor went to Reggie and said:--"Do you know how sick your Accountant is?" "No!" said Reggie--"The worse the better, confound him! He's a clacking nuisance when he's well. I'll let you take away the Bank Safe if you can drug him silent for this hot-weather." But the doctor did not laugh--"Man, I'm not joking," he said. "I'll give him another three months in his bed and a week or so more to die in. On my honor and reputation that's all the grace he has in this world. Consumption has hold of him to the marrow." Reggie's face changed at once into the face of "Mr. Reginald Burke," and he answered:--"What can I do?" "Nothing," said the doctor. "For all practical purposes the man is dead already. Keep him quiet and cheerful and tell him he's going to recover. That's all. I'll look after him to the end, of course." The doctor went away, and Reggie sat down to open the evening mail. His first letter was one from the Directors, intimating for his information that Mr. Riley was to resign, under a month's notice, by the terms of his agreement, telling Reggie that their letter to Riley would follow and advising Reggie of the coming of a new Accountant, a man whom Reggie knew and liked. Reggie lit a cheroot, and, before he had finished smoking, he had sketched the outline of a fraud. He put away--"burked"--the Directors letter, and went in to talk to Riley, who was as ungracious as usual, and fretting himself over the way the bank would run during his illness. He never thought of the extra work on Reggie's shoulders, but solely of the damage to his own prospects of advancement. Then Reggie assured him that everything would be well, and that he, Reggie, would confer with Riley daily on the management of the Bank. Riley was a little soothed, but he hinted in as many words that he did not think much of Reggie's business capacity. Reggie was humble. And he had letters in his desk from the Directors that a Gilbarte or a Hardie might have been proud of! The days passed in the big darkened house, and the Directors' letter of dismissal to Riley came and was put away by Reggie, who, every evening, brought the books to Riley's room, and showed him what had been going forward, while Riley snarled. Reggie did his best to make statements pleasing to Riley, but the Accountant was sure that the Bank was going to rack and ruin without him. In June, as the lying in bed told on his spirit, he asked whether his absence had been noted by the Directors, and Reggie said that they had written most sympathetic letters, hoping that he would be able to resume his valuable services before long. He showed Riley the letters: and Riley said that the Directors ought to have written to him direct. A few days later, Reggie opened Riley's mail in the half-light of the room, and gave him the sheet--not the envelope--of a letter to Riley from the Directors. Riley said he would thank Reggie not to interfere with his private papers, specially as Reggie knew he was too weak to open his own letters. Reggie apologized. Then Riley's mood changed, and he lectured Reggie on his evil ways: his horses and his bad friends. "Of course, lying here on my back, Mr. Burke, I can't keep you straight; but when I'm well, I DO hope you'll pay some heed to my words." Reggie, who had dropped polo, and dinners, and tennis, and all to attend to Riley, said that he was penitent and settled Riley's head on the pillow and heard him fret and contradict in hard, dry, hacking whispers, without a sign of impatience. This at the end of a heavy day's office work, doing double duty, in the latter half of June. When the new Accountant came, Reggie told him the facts of the case, and announced to Riley that he had a guest staying with him. Riley said that he might have had more consideration than to entertain his "doubtful friends" at such a time. Reggie made Carron, the new Accountant, sleep at the Club in consequence. Carron's arrival took some of the heavy work off his shoulders, and he had time to attend to Riley's exactions--to explain, soothe, invent, and settle and resettle the poor wretch in bed, and to forge complimentary letters from Calcutta. At the end of the first month, Riley wished to send some money home to his mother. Reggie sent the draft. At the end of the second month, Riley's salary came in just the same. Reggie paid it out of his own pocket; and, with it, wrote Riley a beautiful letter from the Directors. Riley was very ill indeed, but the flame of his life burnt unsteadily. Now and then he would be cheerful and confident about the future, sketching plans for going Home and seeing his mother. Reggie listened patiently when the office work was over, and encouraged him. At other times Riley insisted on Reggie's reading the Bible and grim "Methody" tracts to him. Out of these tracts he pointed morals directed at his Manager. But he always found time to worry Reggie about the working of the Bank, and to show him where the weak points lay. This in-door, sick-room life and constant strains wore Reggie down a good deal, and shook his nerves, and lowered his billiard-play by forty points. But the business of the Bank, and the business of the sick-room, had to go on, though the glass was 116 degrees in the shade. At the end of the third month, Riley was sinking fast, and had begun to realize that he was very sick. But the conceit that made him worry Reggie, kept him from believing the worst. "He wants some sort of mental stimulant if he is to drag on," said the doctor. "Keep him interested in life if you care about his living." So Riley, contrary to all the laws of business and the finance, received a 25-per-cent, rise of salary from the Directors. The "mental stimulant" succeeded beautifully. Riley was happy and cheerful, and, as is often the case in consumption, healthiest in mind when the body was weakest. He lingered for a full month, snarling and fretting about the Bank, talking of the future, hearing the Bible read, lecturing Reggie on sin, and wondering when he would be able to move abroad. But at the end of September, one mercilessly hot evening, he rose up in his bed with a little gasp, and said quickly to Reggie:--"Mr. Burke, I am going to die. I know it in myself. My chest is all hollow inside, and there's nothing to breathe with. To the best of my knowledge I have done nowt"--he was returning to the talk of his boyhood--"to lie heavy on my conscience. God be thanked, I have been preserved from the grosser forms of sin; and I counsel YOU, Mr. Burke...." Here his voice died down, and Reggie stooped over him. "Send my salary for September to my mother.... done great things with the Bank if I had been spared.... mistaken policy.... no fault of mine." Then he turned his face to the wall and died. Reggie drew the sheet over Its face, and went out into the verandah, with his last "mental stimulant"--a letter of condolence and sympathy from the Directors--unused in his pocket. "If I'd been only ten minutes earlier," thought Reggie, "I might have heartened him up to pull through another day." TODS' AMENDMENT. The World hath set its heavy yoke Upon the old white-bearded folk Who strive to please the King. God's mercy is upon the young, God's wisdom in the baby tongue That fears not anything. --The Parable of Chajju Bhagat. Now Tods' Mamma was a singularly charming woman, and every one in Simla knew Tods. Most men had saved him from death on occasions. He was beyond his ayah's control altogether, and perilled his life daily to find out what would happen if you pulled a Mountain Battery mule's tail. He was an utterly fearless young Pagan, about six years old, and the only baby who ever broke the holy calm of the supreme Legislative Council. It happened this way: Tods' pet kid got loose, and fled up the hill, off the Boileaugunge Road, Tods after it, until it burst into the Viceregal Lodge lawn, then attached to "Peterhoff." The Council were sitting at the time, and the windows were open because it was warm. The Red Lancer in the porch told Tods to go away; but Tods knew the Red Lancer and most of the Members of Council personally. Moreover, he had firm hold of the kid's collar, and was being dragged all across the flower-beds. "Give my salaam to the long Councillor Sahib, and ask him to help me take Moti back!" gasped Tods. The Council heard the noise through the open windows; and, after an interval, was seen the shocking spectacle of a Legal Member and a Lieutenant-Governor helping, under the direct patronage of a Commander-in-Chief and a Viceroy, one small and very dirty boy in a sailor's suit and a tangle of brown hair, to coerce a lively and rebellious kid. They headed it off down the path to the Mall, and Tods went home in triumph and told his Mamma that ALL the Councillor Sahibs had been helping him to catch Moti. Whereat his Mamma smacked Tods for interfering with the administration of the Empire; but Tods met the Legal Member the next day, and told him in confidence that if the Legal Member ever wanted to catch a goat, he, Tods, would give him all the help in his power. "Thank you, Tods," said the Legal Member. Tods was the idol of some eighty jhampanis, and half as many saises. He saluted them all as "O Brother." It never entered his head that any living human being could disobey his orders; and he was the buffer between the servants and his Mamma's wrath. The working of that household turned on Tods, who was adored by every one from the dhoby to the dog-boy. Even Futteh Khan, the villainous loafer khit from Mussoorie, shirked risking Tods' displeasure for fear his co-mates should look down on him. So Tods had honor in the land from Boileaugunge to Chota Simla, and ruled justly according to his lights. Of course, he spoke Urdu, but he had also mastered many queer side-speeches like the chotee bolee of the women, and held grave converse with shopkeepers and Hill-coolies alike. He was precocious for his age, and his mixing with natives had taught him some of the more bitter truths of life; the meanness and the sordidness of it. He used, over his bread and milk, to deliver solemn and serious aphorisms, translated from the vernacular into the English, that made his Mamma jump and vow that Tods MUST go home next hot weather. Just when Tods was in the bloom of his power, the Supreme Legislature were hacking out a Bill, for the Sub-Montane Tracts, a revision of the then Act, smaller than the Punjab Land Bill, but affecting a few hundred thousand people none the less. The Legal Member had built, and bolstered, and embroidered, and amended that Bill, till it looked beautiful on paper. Then the Council began to settle what they called the "minor details." As if any Englishman legislating for natives knows enough to know which are the minor and which are the major points, from the native point of view, of any measure! That Bill was a triumph of "safe-guarding the interests of the tenant." One clause provided that land should not be leased on longer terms than five years at a stretch; because, if the landlord had a tenant bound down for, say, twenty years, he would squeeze the very life out of him. The notion was to keep up a stream of independent cultivators in the Sub-Montane Tracts; and ethnologically and politically the notion was correct. The only drawback was that it was altogether wrong. A native's life in India implies the life of his son. Wherefore, you cannot legislate for one generation at a time. You must consider the next from the native point of view. Curiously enough, the native now and then, and in Northern India more particularly, hates being over-protected against himself. There was a Naga village once, where they lived on dead AND buried Commissariat mules.... But that is another story. For many reasons, to be explained later, the people concerned objected to the Bill. The Native Member in Council knew as much about Punjabis as he knew about Charing Cross. He had said in Calcutta that "the Bill was entirely in accord with the desires of that large and important class, the cultivators;" and so on, and so on. The Legal Member's knowledge of natives was limited to English-speaking Durbaris, and his own red chaprassis, the Sub-Montane Tracts concerned no one in particular, the Deputy Commissioners were a good deal too driven to make representations, and the measure was one which dealt with small landholders only. Nevertheless, the Legal Member prayed that it might be correct, for he was a nervously conscientious man. He did not know that no man can tell what natives think unless he mixes with them with the varnish off. And not always then. But he did the best he knew. And the measure came up to the Supreme Council for the final touches, while Tods patrolled the Burra Simla Bazar in his morning rides, and played with the monkey belonging to Ditta Mull, the bunnia, and listened, as a child listens to all the stray talk about this new freak of the Lat Sahib's. One day there was a dinner-party, at the house of Tods' Mamma, and the Legal Member came. Tods was in bed, but he kept awake till he heard the bursts of laughter from the men over the coffee. Then he paddled out in his little red flannel dressing-gown and his night-suit, and took refuge by the side of his father, knowing that he would not be sent back. "See the miseries of having a family!" said Tods' father, giving Tods three prunes, some water in a glass that had been used for claret, and telling him to sit still. Tods sucked the prunes slowly, knowing that he would have to go when they were finished, and sipped the pink water like a man of the world, as he listened to the conversation. Presently, the Legal Member, talking "shop," to the Head of a Department, mentioned his Bill by its full name--"The Sub-Montane Tracts Ryotwari Revised Enactment." Tods caught the one native word, and lifting up his small voice said:--"Oh, I know ALL about that! Has it been murramutted yet, Councillor Sahib?" "How much?" said the Legal Member. "Murramutted--mended.--Put theek, you know--made nice to please Ditta Mull!" The Legal Member left his place and moved up next to Tods. "What do you know about Ryotwari, little man?" he said. "I'm not a little man, I'm Tods, and I know ALL about it. Ditta Mull, and Choga Lall, and Amir Nath, and--oh, lakhs of my friends tell me about it in the bazars when I talk to them." "Oh, they do--do they? What do they say, Tods?" Tods tucked his feet under his red flannel dressing-gown and said:--"I must fink." The Legal Member waited patiently. Then Tods, with infinite compassion: "You don't speak my talk, do you, Councillor Sahib?" "No; I am sorry to say I do not," said the Legal' Member. "Very well," said Tods. "I must fink in English." He spent a minute putting his ideas in order, and began very slowly, translating in his mind from the vernacular to English, as many Anglo-Indian children do. You must remember that the Legal Member helped him on by questions when he halted, for Tods was not equal to the sustained flight of oratory that follows. "Ditta Mull says:--'This thing is the talk of a child, and was made up by fools.' But I don't think you are a fool, Councillor Sahib," said Tods, hastily. "You caught my goat. This is what Ditta Mull says:--'I am not a fool, and why should the Sirkar say I am a child? I can see if the land is good and if the landlord is good. If I am a fool, the sin is upon my own head. For five years I take my ground for which I have saved money, and a wife I take too, and a little son is born.' Ditta Mull has one daughter now, but he SAYS he will have a son, soon. And he says: 'At the end of five years, by this new bundobust, I must go. If I do not go, I must get fresh seals and takkus-stamps on the papers, perhaps in the middle of the harvest, and to go to the law-courts once is wisdom, but to go twice is Jehannum.' That is QUITE true," explained Tods, gravely. "All my friends say so. And Ditta Mull says:--'Always fresh takkus and paying money to vakils and chaprassis and law-courts every five years or else the landlord makes me go. Why do I want to go? Am I fool? If I am a fool and do not know, after forty years, good land when I see it, let me die! But if the new bundobust says for FIFTEEN years, then it is good and wise. My little son is a man, and I am burnt, and he takes the ground or another ground, paying only once for the takkus-stamps on the papers, and his little son is born, and at the end of fifteen years is a man too. But what profit is there in five years and fresh papers? Nothing but dikh, trouble, dikh. We are not young men who take these lands, but old ones--not jais, but tradesmen with a little money--and for fifteen years we shall have peace. Nor are we children that the Sirkar should treat us so." Here Tods stopped short, for the whole table were listening. The Legal Member said to Tods: "Is that all?" "All I can remember," said Tods. "But you should see Ditta Mull's big monkey. It's just like a Councillor Sahib." "Tods! Go to bed," said his father. Tods gathered up his dressing-gown tail and departed. The Legal Member brought his hand down on the table with a crash--"By Jove!" said the Legal Member, "I believe the boy is right. The short tenure IS the weak point." He left early, thinking over what Tods had said. Now, it was obviously impossible for the Legal Member to play with a bunnia's monkey, by way of getting understanding; but he did better. He made inquiries, always bearing in mind the fact that the real native--not the hybrid, University-trained mule--is as timid as a colt, and, little by little, he coaxed some of the men whom the measure concerned most intimately to give in their views, which squared very closely with Tods' evidence. So the Bill was amended in that clause; and the Legal Member was filled with an uneasy suspicion that Native Members represent very little except the Orders they carry on their bosoms. But he put the thought from him as illiberal. He was a most Liberal Man. After a time the news spread through the bazars that Tods had got the Bill recast in the tenure clause, and if Tods' Mamma had not interfered, Tods would have made himself sick on the baskets of fruit and pistachio nuts and Cabuli grapes and almonds that crowded the verandah. Till he went Home, Tods ranked some few degrees before the Viceroy in popular estimation. But for the little life of him Tods could not understand why. In the Legal Member's private-paper-box still lies the rough draft of the Sub-Montane Tracts Ryotwari Revised Enactment; and, opposite the twenty-second clause, pencilled in blue chalk, and signed by the Legal Member, are the words "Tods' Amendment." IN THE PRIDE OF HIS YOUTH. "Stopped in the straight when the race was his own! Look at him cutting it--cur to the bone!" "Ask ere the youngster be rated and chidden, What did he carry and how was he ridden? Maybe they used him too much at the start; Maybe Fate's weight-cloths are breaking his heart." --Life's Handicap. When I was telling you of the joke that The Worm played off on the Senior Subaltern, I promised a somewhat similar tale, but with all the jest left out. This is that tale: Dicky Hatt was kidnapped in his early, early youth--neither by landlady's daughter, housemaid, barmaid, nor cook, but by a girl so nearly of his own caste that only a woman could have said she was just the least little bit in the world below it. This happened a month before he came out to India, and five days after his one-and-twentieth birthday. The girl was nineteen--six years older than Dicky in the things of this world, that is to say--and, for the time, twice as foolish as he. Excepting, always, falling off a horse there is nothing more fatally easy than marriage before the Registrar. The ceremony costs less than fifty shillings, and is remarkably like walking into a pawn-shop. After the declarations of residence have been put in, four minutes will cover the rest of the proceedings--fees, attestation, and all. Then the Registrar slides the blotting-pad over the names, and says grimly, with his pen between his teeth:--"Now you're man and wife;" and the couple walk out into the street, feeling as if something were horribly illegal somewhere. But that ceremony holds and can drag a man to his undoing just as thoroughly as the "long as ye both shall live" curse from the altar-rails, with the bridesmaids giggling behind, and "The Voice that breathed o'er Eden" lifting the roof off. In this manner was Dicky Hatt kidnapped, and he considered it vastly fine, for he had received an appointment in India which carried a magnificent salary from the Home point of view. The marriage was to be kept secret for a year. Then Mrs. Dicky Hatt was to come out and the rest of life was to be a glorious golden mist. That was how they sketched it under the Addison Road Station lamps; and, after one short month, came Gravesend and Dicky steaming out to his new life, and the girl crying in a thirty-shillings a week bed-and-living room, in a back street off Montpelier Square near the Knightsbridge Barracks. But the country that Dicky came to was a hard land, where "men" of twenty-one were reckoned very small boys indeed, and life was expensive. The salary that loomed so large six thousand miles away did not go far. Particularly when Dicky divided it by two, and remitted more than the fair half, at 1-6, to Montpelier Square. One hundred and thirty-five rupees out of three hundred and thirty is not much to live on; but it was absurd to suppose that Mrs. Hatt could exist forever on the 20 pounds held back by Dicky, from his outfit allowance. Dicky saw this, and remitted at once; always remembering that Rs. 700 were to be paid, twelve months later, for a first-class passage out for a lady. When you add to these trifling details the natural instincts of a boy beginning a new life in a new country and longing to go about and enjoy himself, and the necessity for grappling with strange work--which, properly speaking, should take up a boy's undivided attention--you will see that Dicky started handicapped. He saw it himself for a breath or two; but he did not guess the full beauty of his future. As the hot weather began, the shackles settled on him and ate into his flesh. First would come letters--big, crossed, seven sheet letters--from his wife, telling him how she longed to see him, and what a Heaven upon earth would be their property when they met. Then some boy of the chummery wherein Dicky lodged would pound on the door of his bare little room, and tell him to come out and look at a pony--the very thing to suit him. Dicky could not afford ponies. He had to explain this. Dicky could not afford living in the chummery, modest as it was. He had to explain this before he moved to a single room next the office where he worked all day. He kept house on a green oil-cloth table-cover, one chair, one charpoy, one photograph, one tooth-glass, very strong and thick, a seven-rupee eight-anna filter, and messing by contract at thirty-seven rupees a month. Which last item was extortion. He had no punkah, for a punkah costs fifteen rupees a month; but he slept on the roof of the office with all his wife's letters under his pillow. Now and again he was asked out to dinner where he got both a punkah and an iced drink. But this was seldom, for people objected to recognizing a boy who had evidently the instincts of a Scotch tallow-chandler, and who lived in such a nasty fashion. Dicky could not subscribe to any amusement, so he found no amusement except the pleasure of turning over his Bank-book and reading what it said about "loans on approved security." That cost nothing. He remitted through a Bombay Bank, by the way, and the Station knew nothing of his private affairs. Every month he sent Home all he could possibly spare for his wife--and for another reason which was expected to explain itself shortly and would require more money. About this time, Dicky was overtaken with the nervous, haunting fear that besets married men when they are out of sorts. He had no pension to look to. What if he should die suddenly, and leave his wife unprovided for? The thought used to lay hold of him in the still, hot nights on the roof, till the shaking of his heart made him think that he was going to die then and there of heart-disease. Now this is a frame of mind which no boy has a right to know. It is a strong man's trouble; but, coming when it did, it nearly drove poor punkah-less, perspiring Dicky Hatt mad. He could tell no one about it. A certain amount of "screw" is as necessary for a man as for a billiard-ball. It makes them both do wonderful things. Dicky needed money badly, and he worked for it like a horse. But, naturally, the men who owned him knew that a boy can live very comfortably on a certain income--pay in India is a matter of age, not merit, you see, and if their particular boy wished to work like two boys, Business forbid that they should stop him! But Business forbid that they should give him an increase of pay at his present ridiculously immature age! So Dicky won certain rises of salary--ample for a boy--not enough for a wife and child--certainly too little for the seven-hundred-rupee passage that he and Mrs. Hatt had discussed so lightly once upon a time. And with this he was forced to be content. Somehow, all his money seemed to fade away in Home drafts and the crushing Exchange, and the tone of the Home letters changed and grew querulous. "Why wouldn't Dicky have his wife and the baby out? Surely he had a salary--a fine salary--and it was too bad of him to enjoy himself in India. But would he--could he--make the next draft a little more elastic?" Here followed a list of baby's kit, as long as a Parsee's bill. Then Dicky, whose heart yearned to his wife and the little son he had never seen--which, again, is a feeling no boy is entitled to--enlarged the draft and wrote queer half-boy, half-man letters, saying that life was not so enjoyable after all and would the little wife wait yet a little longer? But the little wife, however much she approved of money, objected to waiting, and there was a strange, hard sort of ring in her letters that Dicky didn't understand. How could he, poor boy? Later on still--just as Dicky had been told--apropos of another youngster who had "made a fool of himself," as the saying is--that matrimony would not only ruin his further chances of advancement, but would lose him his present appointment--came the news that the baby, his own little, little son, had died, and, behind this, forty lines of an angry woman's scrawl, saying that death might have been averted if certain things, all costing money, had been done, or if the mother and the baby had been with Dicky. The letter struck at Dicky's naked heart; but, not being officially entitled to a baby, he could show no sign of trouble. How Dicky won through the next four months, and what hope he kept alight to force him into his work, no one dare say. He pounded on, the seven-hundred-rupee passage as far away as ever, and his style of living unchanged, except when he launched into a new filter. There was the strain of his office-work, and the strain of his remittances, and the knowledge of his boy's death, which touched the boy more, perhaps, than it would have touched a man; and, beyond all, the enduring strain of his daily life. Gray-headed seniors, who approved of his thrift and his fashion of denying himself everything pleasant, reminded him of the old saw that says: "If a youth would be distinguished in his art, art, art, He must keep the girls away from his heart, heart, heart." And Dicky, who fancied he had been through every trouble that a man is permitted to know, had to laugh and agree; with the last line of his balanced Bank-book jingling in his head day and night. But he had one more sorrow to digest before the end. There arrived a letter from the little wife--the natural sequence of the others if Dicky had only known it--and the burden of that letter was "gone with a handsomer man than you." It was a rather curious production, without stops, something like this:--"She was not going to wait forever and the baby was dead and Dicky was only a boy and he would never set eyes on her again and why hadn't he waved his handkerchief to her when he left Gravesend and God was her judge she was a wicked woman but Dicky was worse enjoying himself in India and this other man loved the ground she trod on and would Dicky ever forgive her for she would never forgive Dicky; and there was no address to write to." Instead of thanking his lucky stars that he was free, Dicky discovered exactly how an injured husband feels--again, not at all the knowledge to which a boy is entitled--for his mind went back to his wife as he remembered her in the thirty-shilling "suite" in Montpelier Square, when the dawn of his last morning in England was breaking, and she was crying in the bed. Whereat he rolled about on his bed and bit his fingers. He never stopped to think whether, if he had met Mrs. Hatt after those two years, he would have discovered that he and she had grown quite different and new persons. This, theoretically, he ought to have done. He spent the night after the English Mail came in rather severe pain. Next morning, Dicky Hatt felt disinclined to work. He argued that he had missed the pleasure of youth. He was tired, and he had tasted all the sorrow in life before three-and-twenty. His Honor was gone--that was the man; and now he, too, would go to the Devil--that was the boy in him. So he put his head down on the green oil-cloth table-cover, and wept before resigning his post, and all it offered. But the reward of his services came. He was given three days to reconsider himself, and the Head of the establishment, after some telegraphings, said that it was a most unusual step, but, in view of the ability that Mr. Hatt had displayed at such and such a time, at such and such junctures, he was in a position to offer him an infinitely superior post--first on probation, and later, in the natural course of things, on confirmation. "And how much does the post carry?" said Dicky. "Six hundred and fifty rupees," said the Head slowly, expecting to see the young man sink with gratitude and joy. And it came then! The seven hundred rupee passage, and enough to have saved the wife, and the little son, and to have allowed of assured and open marriage, came then. Dicky burst into a roar of laughter--laughter he could not check--nasty, jangling merriment that seemed as if it would go on forever. When he had recovered himself he said, quite seriously:--"I'm tired of work. I'm an old man now. It's about time I retired. And I will." "The boy's mad!" said the Head. I think he was right; but Dicky Hatt never reappeared to settle the question. PIG. Go, stalk the red deer o'er the heather Ride, follow the fox if you can! But, for pleasure and profit together, Allow me the hunting of Man,-- The chase of the Human, the search for the Soul To its ruin,--the hunting of Man. --The Old Shikarri. I believe the difference began in the matter of a horse, with a twist in his temper, whom Pinecoffin sold to Nafferton and by whom Nafferton was nearly slain. There may have been other causes of offence; the horse was the official stalking-horse. Nafferton was very angry; but Pinecoffin laughed and said that he had never guaranteed the beast's manners. Nafferton laughed, too, though he vowed that he would write off his fall against Pinecoffin if he waited five years. Now, a Dalesman from beyond Skipton will forgive an injury when the Strid lets a man live; but a South Devon man is as soft as a Dartmoor bog. You can see from their names that Nafferton had the race-advantage of Pinecoffin. He was a peculiar man, and his notions of humor were cruel. He taught me a new and fascinating form of shikar. He hounded Pinecoffin from Mithankot to Jagadri, and from Gurgaon to Abbottabad up and across the Punjab, a large province and in places remarkably dry. He said that he had no intention of allowing Assistant Commissioners to "sell him pups," in the shape of ramping, screaming countrybreds, without making their lives a burden to them. Most Assistant Commissioners develop a bent for some special work after their first hot weather in the country. The boys with digestions hope to write their names large on the Frontier and struggle for dreary places like Bannu and Kohat. The bilious ones climb into the Secretariat. Which is very bad for the liver. Others are bitten with a mania for District work, Ghuznivide coins or Persian poetry; while some, who come of farmers' stock, find that the smell of the Earth after the Rains gets into their blood, and calls them to "develop the resources of the Province." These men are enthusiasts. Pinecoffin belonged to their class. He knew a great many facts bearing on the cost of bullocks and temporary wells, and opium-scrapers, and what happens if you burn too much rubbish on a field, in the hope of enriching used-up soil. All the Pinecoffins come of a landholding breed, and so the land only took back her own again. Unfortunately--most unfortunately for Pinecoffin--he was a Civilian, as well as a farmer. Nafferton watched him, and thought about the horse. Nafferton said:--"See me chase that boy till he drops!" I said:--"You can't get your knife into an Assistant Commissioner." Nafferton told me that I did not understand the administration of the Province. Our Government is rather peculiar. It gushes on the agricultural and general information side, and will supply a moderately respectable man with all sorts of "economic statistics," if he speaks to it prettily. For instance, you are interested in gold-washing in the sands of the Sutlej. You pull the string, and find that it wakes up half a dozen Departments, and finally communicates, say, with a friend of yours in the Telegraph, who once wrote some notes on the customs of the gold-washers when he was on construction-work in their part of the Empire. He may or may not be pleased at being ordered to write out everything he knows for your benefit. This depends on his temperament. The bigger man you are, the more information and the greater trouble can you raise. Nafferton was not a big man; but he had the reputation of being very "earnest." An "earnest" man can do much with a Government. There was an earnest man who once nearly wrecked... but all India knows THAT story. I am not sure what real "earnestness" is. A very fair imitation can be manufactured by neglecting to dress decently, by mooning about in a dreamy, misty sort of way, by taking office-work home after staying in office till seven, and by receiving crowds of native gentlemen on Sundays. That is one sort of "earnestness." Nafferton cast about for a peg whereon to hang his earnestness, and for a string that would communicate with Pinecoffin. He found both. They were Pig. Nafferton became an earnest inquirer after Pig. He informed the Government that he had a scheme whereby a very large percentage of the British Army in India could be fed, at a very large saving, on Pig. Then he hinted that Pinecoffin might supply him with the "varied information necessary to the proper inception of the scheme." So the Government wrote on the back of the letter:--"Instruct Mr. Pinecoffin to furnish Mr. Nafferton with any information in his power." Government is very prone to writing things on the backs of letters which, later, lead to trouble and confusion. Nafferton had not the faintest interest in Pig, but he knew that Pinecoffin would flounce into the trap. Pinecoffin was delighted at being consulted about Pig. The Indian Pig is not exactly an important factor in agricultural life; but Nafferton explained to Pinecoffin that there was room for improvement, and corresponded direct with that young man. You may think that there is not much to be evolved from Pig. It all depends how you set to work. Pinecoffin being a Civilian and wishing to do things thoroughly, began with an essay on the Primitive Pig, the Mythology of the Pig, and the Dravidian Pig. Nafferton filed that information--twenty-seven foolscap sheets--and wanted to know about the distribution of the Pig in the Punjab, and how it stood the Plains in the hot weather. From this point onwards, remember that I am giving you only the barest outlines of the affair--the guy-ropes, as it were, of the web that Nafferton spun round Pinecoffin. Pinecoffin made a colored Pig-population map, and collected observations on the comparative longevity of the Pig (a) in the sub-montane tracts of the Himalayas, and (b) in the Rechna Doab. Nafferton filed that, and asked what sort of people looked after Pig. This started an ethnological excursus on swineherds, and drew from Pinecoffin long tables showing the proportion per thousand of the caste in the Derajat. Nafferton filed that bundle, and explained that the figures which he wanted referred to the Cis-Sutlej states, where he understood that Pigs were very fine and large, and where he proposed to start a Piggery. By this time, Government had quite forgotten their instructions to Mr. Pinecoffin. They were like the gentlemen, in Keats' poem, who turned well-oiled wheels to skin other people. But Pinecoffin was just entering into the spirit of the Pig-hunt, as Nafferton well knew he would do. He had a fair amount of work of his own to clear away; but he sat up of nights reducing Pig to five places of decimals for the honor of his Service. He was not going to appear ignorant of so easy a subject as Pig. Then Government sent him on special duty to Kohat, to "inquire into" the big-seven-foot, iron-shod spades of that District. People had been killing each other with those peaceful tools; and Government wished to know "whether a modified form of agricultural implement could not, tentatively and as a temporary measure, be introduced among the agricultural population without needlessly or unduly exasperating the existing religious sentiments of the peasantry." Between those spades and Nafferton's Pig, Pinecoffin was rather heavily burdened. Nafferton now began to take up "(a) The food-supply of the indigenous Pig, with a view to the improvement of its capacities as a flesh-former. (b) The acclimatization of the exotic Pig, maintaining its distinctive peculiarities." Pinecoffin replied exhaustively that the exotic Pig would become merged in the indigenous type; and quoted horse-breeding statistics to prove this. The side-issue was debated, at great length on Pinecoffin's side, till Nafferton owned that he had been in the wrong, and moved the previous question. When Pinecoffin had quite written himself out about flesh-formers, and fibrins, and glucose and the nitrogenous constituents of maize and lucerne, Nafferton raised the question of expense. By this time Pinecoffin, who had been transferred from Kohat, had developed a Pig theory of his own, which he stated in thirty-three folio pages--all carefully filed by Nafferton. Who asked for more. These things took ten months, and Pinecoffin's interest in the potential Piggery seemed to die down after he had stated his own views. But Nafferton bombarded him with letters on "the Imperial aspect of the scheme, as tending to officialize the sale of pork, and thereby calculated to give offence to the Mahomedan population of Upper India." He guessed that Pinecoffin would want some broad, free-hand work after his niggling, stippling, decimal details. Pinecoffin handled the latest development of the case in masterly style, and proved that no "popular ebullition of excitement was to be apprehended." Nafferton said that there was nothing like Civilian insight in matters of this kind, and lured him up a bye-path--"the possible profits to accrue to the Government from the sale of hog-bristles." There is an extensive literature of hog-bristles, and the shoe, brush, and colorman's trades recognize more varieties of bristles than you would think possible. After Pinecoffin had wondered a little at Nafferton's rage for information, he sent back a monograph, fifty-one pages, on "Products of the Pig." This led him, under Nafferton's tender handling, straight to the Cawnpore factories, the trade in hog-skin for saddles--and thence to the tanners. Pinecoffin wrote that pomegranate-seed was the best cure for hog-skin, and suggested--for the past fourteen months had wearied him--that Nafferton should "raise his pigs before he tanned them." Nafferton went back to the second section of his fifth question. How could the exotic Pig be brought to give as much pork as it did in the West and yet "assume the essentially hirsute characteristics of its oriental congener?" Pinecoffin felt dazed, for he had forgotten what he had written sixteen month's before, and fancied that he was about to reopen the entire question. He was too far involved in the hideous tangle to retreat, and, in a weak moment, he wrote:--"Consult my first letter." Which related to the Dravidian Pig. As a matter of fact, Pinecoffin had still to reach the acclimatization stage; having gone off on a side-issue on the merging of types. THEN Nafferton really unmasked his batteries! He complained to the Government, in stately language, of "the paucity of help accorded to me in my earnest attempts to start a potentially remunerative industry, and the flippancy with which my requests for information are treated by a gentleman whose pseudo-scholarly attainments should at lest have taught him the primary differences between the Dravidian and the Berkshire variety of the genus Sus. If I am to understand that the letter to which he refers me contains his serious views on the acclimatization of a valuable, though possibly uncleanly, animal, I am reluctantly compelled to believe," etc., etc. There was a new man at the head of the Department of Castigation. The wretched Pinecoffin was told that the Service was made for the Country, and not the Country for the Service, and that he had better begin to supply information about Pigs. Pinecoffin answered insanely that he had written everything that could be written about Pig, and that some furlough was due to him. Nafferton got a copy of that letter, and sent it, with the essay on the Dravidian Pig, to a down-country paper, which printed both in full. The essay was rather highflown; but if the Editor had seen the stacks of paper, in Pinecoffin's handwriting, on Nafferton's table, he would not have been so sarcastic about the "nebulous discursiveness and blatant self-sufficiency of the modern Competition-wallah, and his utter inability to grasp the practical issues of a practical question." Many friends cut out these remarks and sent them to Pinecoffin. I have already stated that Pinecoffin came of a soft stock. This last stroke frightened and shook him. He could not understand it; but he felt he had been, somehow, shamelessly betrayed by Nafferton. He realized that he had wrapped himself up in the Pigskin without need, and that he could not well set himself right with his Government. All his acquaintances asked after his "nebulous discursiveness" or his "blatant self-sufficiency," and this made him miserable. He took a train and went to Nafferton, whom he had not seen since the Pig business began. He also took the cutting from the paper, and blustered feebly and called Nafferton names, and then died down to a watery, weak protest of the "I-say-it's-too-bad-you-know" order. Nafferton was very sympathetic. "I'm afraid I've given you a good deal of trouble, haven't I?" said he. "Trouble!" whimpered Pinecoffin; "I don't mind the trouble so much, though that was bad enough; but what I resent is this showing up in print. It will stick to me like a burr all through my service. And I DID do my best for your interminable swine. It's too bad of you, on my soul it is!" "I don't know," said Nafferton; "have you ever been stuck with a horse? It isn't the money I mind, though that is bad enough; but what I resent is the chaff that follows, especially from the boy who stuck me. But I think we'll cry quite now." Pinecoffin found nothing to say save bad words; and Nafferton smiled ever so sweetly, and asked him to dinner. THE ROUT OF THE WHITE HUSSARS. It was not in the open fight We threw away the sword, But in the lonely watching In the darkness by the ford. The waters lapped, the night-wind blew, Full-armed the Fear was born and grew, And we were flying ere we knew From panic in the night. --Beoni Bar. Some people hold that an English Cavalry regiment cannot run. This is a mistake. I have seen four hundred and thirty-seven sabres flying over the face of the country in abject terror--have seen the best Regiment that ever drew bridle, wiped off the Army List for the space of two hours. If you repeat this tale to the White Hussars they will, in all probability, treat you severely. They are not proud of the incident. You may know the White Hussars by their "side," which is greater than that of all the Cavalry Regiments on the roster. If this is not a sufficient mark, you may know them by their old brandy. It has been sixty years in the Mess and is worth going far to taste. Ask for the "McGaire" old brandy, and see that you get it. If the Mess Sergeant thinks that you are uneducated, and that the genuine article will be lost on you, he will treat you accordingly. He is a good man. But, when you are at Mess, you must never talk to your hosts about forced marches or long-distance rides. The Mess are very sensitive; and, if they think that you are laughing at them, will tell you so. As the White Hussars say, it was all the Colonel's fault. He was a new man, and he ought never to have taken the Command. He said that the Regiment was not smart enough. This to the White Hussars, who knew they could walk round any Horse and through any Guns, and over any Foot on the face of the earth! That insult was the first cause of offence. Then the Colonel cast the Drum-Horse--the Drum-Horse of the White Hussars! Perhaps you do not see what an unspeakable crime he had committed. I will try to make it clear. The soul of the Regiment lives in the Drum-Horse, who carries the silver kettle-drums. He is nearly always a big piebald Waler. That is a point of honor; and a Regiment will spend anything you please on a piebald. He is beyond the ordinary laws of casting. His work is very light, and he only manoeuvres at a foot-pace. Wherefore, so long as he can step out and look handsome, his well-being is assured. He knows more about the Regiment than the Adjutant, and could not make a mistake if he tried. The Drum-Horse of the White Hussars was only eighteen years old, and perfectly equal to his duties. He had at least six years' more work in him, and carried himself with all the pomp and dignity of a Drum-Major of the Guards. The Regiment had paid Rs. 1,200 for him. But the Colonel said that he must go, and he was cast in due form and replaced by a washy, bay beast as ugly as a mule, with a ewe-neck, rat-tail, and cow-hocks. The Drummer detested that animal, and the best of the Band-horses put back their ears and showed the whites of their eyes at the very sight of him. They knew him for an upstart and no gentleman. I fancy that the Colonel's ideas of smartness extended to the Band, and that he wanted to make it take part in the regular parade movements. A Cavalry Band is a sacred thing. It only turns out for Commanding Officers' parades, and the Band Master is one degree more important than the Colonel. He is a High Priest and the "Keel Row" is his holy song. The "Keel Row" is the Cavalry Trot; and the man who has never heard that tune rising, high and shrill, above the rattle of the Regiment going past the saluting-base, has something yet to hear and understand. When the Colonel cast the Drum-horse of the White Hussars, there was nearly a mutiny. The officers were angry, the Regiment were furious, and the Bandsman swore--like troopers. The Drum-Horse was going to be put up to auction--public auction--to be bought, perhaps, by a Parsee and put into a cart! It was worse than exposing the inner life of the Regiment to the whole world, or selling the Mess Plate to a Jew--a black Jew. The Colonel was a mean man and a bully. He knew what the Regiment thought about his action; and, when the troopers offered to buy the Drum-Horse, he said that their offer was mutinous and forbidden by the Regulations. But one of the Subalterns--Hogan-Yale, an Irishman--bought the Drum-Horse for Rs. 160 at the sale; and the Colonel was wroth. Yale professed repentance--he was unnaturally submissive--and said that, as he had only made the purchase to save the horse from possible ill-treatment and starvation, he would now shoot him and end the business. This appeared to soothe the Colonel, for he wanted the Drum-Horse disposed of. He felt that he had made a mistake, and could not of course acknowledge it. Meantime, the presence of the Drum-Horse was an annoyance to him. Yale took to himself a glass of the old brandy, three cheroots, and his friend, Martyn; and they all left the Mess together. Yale and Martyn conferred for two hours in Yale's quarters; but only the bull-terrier who keeps watch over Yale's boot-trees knows what they said. A horse, hooded and sheeted to his ears, left Yale's stables and was taken, very unwillingly, into the Civil Lines. Yale's groom went with him. Two men broke into the Regimental Theatre and took several paint-pots and some large scenery brushes. Then night fell over the Cantonments, and there was a noise as of a horse kicking his loose-box to pieces in Yale's stables. Yale had a big, old, white Waler trap-horse. The next day was a Thursday, and the men, hearing that Yale was going to shoot the Drum-Horse in the evening, determined to give the beast a regular regimental funeral--a finer one than they would have given the Colonel had he died just then. They got a bullock-cart and some sacking, and mounds and mounds of roses, and the body, under sacking, was carried out to the place where the anthrax cases were cremated; two-thirds of the Regiment followed. There was no Band, but they all sang "The Place where the old Horse died" as something respectful and appropriate to the occasion. When the corpse was dumped into the grave and the men began throwing down armfuls of roses to cover it, the Farrier-Sergeant ripped out an oath and said aloud:--"Why, it ain't the Drum-Horse any more than it's me!" The Troop-Sergeant-Majors asked him whether he had left his head in the Canteen. The Farrier-Sergeant said that he knew the Drum-Horse's feet as well as he knew his own; but he was silenced when he saw the regimental number burnt in on the poor stiff, upturned near-fore. Thus was the Drum-Horse of the White Hussars buried; the Farrier-Sergeant grumbling. The sacking that covered the corpse was smeared in places with black paint; and the Farrier-Sergeant drew attention to this fact. But the Troop-Sergeant-Major of E Troop kicked him severely on the shin, and told him that he was undoubtedly drunk. On the Monday following the burial, the Colonel sought revenge on the White Hussars. Unfortunately, being at that time temporarily in Command of the Station, he ordered a Brigade field-day. He said that he wished to make the regiment "sweat for their damned insolence," and he carried out his notion thoroughly. That Monday was one of the hardest days in the memory of the White Hussars. They were thrown against a skeleton-enemy, and pushed forward, and withdrawn, and dismounted, and "scientifically handled" in every possible fashion over dusty country, till they sweated profusely. Their only amusement came late in the day, when they fell upon the battery of Horse Artillery and chased it for two mile's. This was a personal question, and most of the troopers had money on the event; the Gunners saying openly that they had the legs of the White Hussars. They were wrong. A march-past concluded the campaign, and when the Regiment got back to their Lines, the men were coated with dirt from spur to chin-strap. The White Hussars have one great and peculiar privilege. They won it at Fontenoy, I think. Many Regiments possess special rights, such as wearing collars with undress uniform, or a bow of ribbon between the shoulders, or red and white roses in their helmets on certain days of the year. Some rights are connected with regimental saints, and some with regimental successes. All are valued highly; but none so highly as the right of the White Hussars to have the Band playing when their horses are being watered in the Lines. Only one tune is played, and that tune never varies. I don't know its real name, but the White Hussars call it:--"Take me to London again." It sounds very pretty. The Regiment would sooner be struck off the roster than forego their distinction. After the "dismiss" was sounded, the officers rode off home to prepare for stables; and the men filed into the lines, riding easy. That is to say, they opened their tight buttons, shifted their helmets, and began to joke or to swear as the humor took them; the more careful slipping off and easing girths and curbs. A good trooper values his mount exactly as much as he values himself, and believes, or should believe, that the two together are irresistible where women or men, girls or guns, are concerned. Then the Orderly-Officer gave the order:--"Water horses," and the Regiment loafed off to the squadron-troughs, which were in rear of the stables and between these and the barracks. There were four huge troughs, one for each squadron, arranged en echelon, so that the whole Regiment could water in ten minutes if it liked. But it lingered for seventeen, as a rule, while the Band played. The band struck up as the squadrons filed off the troughs and the men slipped their feet out of the stirrups and chaffed each other. The sun was just setting in a big, hot bed of red cloud, and the road to the Civil Lines seemed to run straight into the sun's eye. There was a little dot on the road. It grew and grew till it showed as a horse, with a sort of gridiron thing on his back. The red cloud glared through the bars of the gridiron. Some of the troopers shaded their eyes with their hands and said:--"What the mischief as that there 'orse got on 'im!" In another minute they heard a neigh that every soul--horse and man--in the Regiment knew, and saw, heading straight towards the Band, the dead Drum-Horse of the White Hussars! On his withers banged and bumped the kettle-drums draped in crape, and on his back, very stiff and soldierly, sat a bare-headed skeleton. The band stopped playing, and, for a moment, there was a hush. Then some one in E troop--men said it was the Troop-Sergeant-Major--swung his horse round and yelled. No one can account exactly for what happened afterwards; but it seems that, at least, one man in each troop set an example of panic, and the rest followed like sheep. The horses that had barely put their muzzles into the trough's reared and capered; but, as soon as the Band broke, which it did when the ghost of the Drum-Horse was about a furlong distant, all hooves followed suit, and the clatter of the stampede--quite different from the orderly throb and roar of a movement on parade, or the rough horse-play of watering in camp--made them only more terrified. They felt that the men on their backs were afraid of something. When horses once know THAT, all is over except the butchery. Troop after troop turned from the troughs and ran--anywhere, and everywhere--like spilt quicksilver. It was a most extraordinary spectacle, for men and horses were in all stages of easiness, and the carbine-buckets flopping against their sides urged the horses on. Men were shouting and cursing, and trying to pull clear of the Band which was being chased by the Drum-Horse whose rider had fallen forward and seemed to be spurring for a wager. The Colonel had gone over to the Mess for a drink. Most of the officers were with him, and the Subaltern of the Day was preparing to go down to the lines, and receive the watering reports from the Troop-Sergeant Majors. When "Take me to London again" stopped, after twenty bars, every one in the Mess said:--"What on earth has happened?" A minute later, they heard unmilitary noises, and saw, far across the plain, the White Hussars scattered, and broken, and flying. The Colonel was speechless with rage, for he thought that the Regiment had risen against him or was unanimously drunk. The Band, a disorganized mob, tore past, and at its heels labored the Drum-Horse--the dead and buried Drum-Horse--with the jolting, clattering skeleton. Hogan-Yale whispered softly to Martyn:--"No wire will stand that treatment," and the Band, which had doubled like a hare, came back again. But the rest of the Regiment was gone, was rioting all over the Province, for the dusk had shut in and each man was howling to his neighbor that the Drum-Horse was on his flank. Troop-Horses are far too tenderly treated as a rule. They can, on emergencies, do a great deal, even with seventeen stone on their backs. As the troopers found out. How long this panic lasted I cannot say. I believe that when the moon rose the men saw they had nothing to fear, and, by twos and threes and half-troops, crept back into Cantonments very much ashamed of themselves. Meantime, the Drum-Horse, disgusted at his treatment by old friends, pulled up, wheeled round, and trotted up to the Mess verandah-steps for bread. No one liked to run; but no one cared to go forward till the Colonel made a movement and laid hold of the skeleton's foot. The Band had halted some distance away, and now came back slowly. The Colonel called it, individually and collectively, every evil name that occurred to him at the time; for he had set his hand on the bosom of the Drum-Horse and found flesh and blood. Then he beat the kettle-drums with his clenched fist, and discovered that they were but made of silvered paper and bamboo. Next, still swearing, he tried to drag the skeleton out of the saddle, but found that it had been wired into the cantle. The sight of the Colonel, with his arms round the skeleton's pelvis and his knee in the old Drum-Horse's stomach, was striking. Not to say amusing. He worried the thing off in a minute or two, and threw it down on the ground, saying to the Band:--"Here, you curs, that's what you're afraid of." The skeleton did not look pretty in the twilight. The Band-Sergeant seemed to recognize it, for he began to chuckle and choke. "Shall I take it away, sir?" said the Band-Sergeant. "Yes," said the Colonel, "take it to Hell, and ride there yourselves!" The Band-Sergeant saluted, hoisted the skeleton across his saddle-bow, and led off to the stables. Then the Colonel began to make inquiries for the rest of the Regiment, and the language he used was wonderful. He would disband the Regiment--he would court-martial every soul in it--he would not command such a set of rabble, and so on, and so on. As the men dropped in, his language grew wilder, until at last it exceeded the utmost limits of free speech allowed even to a Colonel of Horse. Martyn took Hogan-Yale aside and suggested compulsory retirement from the service as a necessity when all was discovered. Martyn was the weaker man of the two, Hogan-Yale put up his eyebrows and remarked, firstly, that he was the son of a Lord, and secondly, that he was as innocent as the babe unborn of the theatrical resurrection of the Drum-Horse. "My instructions," said Yale, with a singularly sweet smile, "were that the Drum-Horse should be sent back as impressively as possible. I ask you, AM I responsible if a mule-headed friend sends him back in such a manner as to disturb the peace of mind of a regiment of Her Majesty's Cavalry?" Martyn said:--"you are a great man and will in time become a General; but I'd give my chance of a troop to be safe out of this affair." Providence saved Martyn and Hogan-Yale. The Second-in-Command led the Colonel away to the little curtained alcove wherein the subalterns of the white Hussars were accustomed to play poker of nights; and there, after many oaths on the Colonel's part, they talked together in low tones. I fancy that the Second-in-Command must have represented the scare as the work of some trooper whom it would be hopeless to detect; and I know that he dwelt upon the sin and the shame of making a public laughingstock of the scare. "They will call us," said the Second-in-Command, who had really a fine imagination, "they will call us the 'Fly-by-Nights'; they will call us the 'Ghost Hunters'; they will nickname us from one end of the Army list to the other. All the explanations in the world won't make outsiders understand that the officers were away when the panic began. For the honor of the Regiment and for your own sake keep this thing quiet." The Colonel was so exhausted with anger that soothing him down was not so difficult as might be imagined. He was made to see, gently and by degrees, that it was obviously impossible to court-martial the whole Regiment, and equally impossible to proceed against any subaltern who, in his belief, had any concern in the hoax. "But the beast's alive! He's never been shot at all!" shouted the Colonel. "It's flat, flagrant disobedience! I've known a man broke for less, d----d sight less. They're mocking me, I tell you, Mutman! They're mocking me!" Once more, the Second-in-Command set himself to sooth the Colonel, and wrestled with him for half-an-hour. At the end of that time, the Regimental Sergeant-Major reported himself. The situation was rather novel tell to him; but he was not a man to be put out by circumstances. He saluted and said: "Regiment all come back, Sir." Then, to propitiate the Colonel:--"An' none of the horses any the worse, Sir." The Colonel only snorted and answered:--"You'd better tuck the men into their cots, then, and see that they don't wake up and cry in the night." The Sergeant withdrew. His little stroke of humor pleased the Colonel, and, further, he felt slightly ashamed of the language he had been using. The Second-in-Command worried him again, and the two sat talking far into the night. Next day but one, there was a Commanding Officer's parade, and the Colonel harangued the White Hussars vigorously. The pith of his speech was that, since the Drum-Horse in his old age had proved himself capable of cutting up the Whole Regiment, he should return to his post of pride at the head of the band, BUT the Regiment were a set of ruffians with bad consciences. The White Hussars shouted, and threw everything movable about them into the air, and when the parade was over, they cheered the Colonel till they couldn't speak. No cheers were put up for Lieutenant Hogan-Yale, who smiled very sweetly in the background. Said the Second-in-Command to the Colonel, unofficially:--"These little things ensure popularity, and do not the least affect discipline." "But I went back on my word," said the Colonel. "Never mind," said the Second-in-Command. "The White Hussars will follow you anywhere from today. Regiments are just like women. They will do anything for trinketry." A week later, Hogan-Yale received an extraordinary letter from some one who signed himself "Secretary Charity and Zeal, 3709, E. C.," and asked for "the return of our skeleton which we have reason to believe is in your possession." "Who the deuce is this lunatic who trades in bones?" said Hogan-Yale. "Beg your pardon, Sir," said the Band-Sergeant, "but the skeleton is with me, an' I'll return it if you'll pay the carriage into the Civil Lines. There's a coffin with it, Sir." Hogan-Yale smiled and handed two rupees to the Band-Sergeant, saying:--"Write the date on the skull, will you?" If you doubt this story, and know where to go, you can see the date on the skeleton. But don't mention the matter to the White Hussars. I happen to know something about it, because I prepared the Drum-Horse for his resurrection. He did not take kindly to the skeleton at all. THE BRONCKHORST DIVORCE-CASE. In the daytime, when she moved about me, In the night, when she was sleeping at my side,-- I was wearied, I was wearied of her presence. Day by day and night by night I grew to hate her-- Would to God that she or I had died! --Confessions. There was a man called Bronckhorst--a three-cornered, middle-aged man in the Army--gray as a badger, and, some people said, with a touch of country-blood in him. That, however, cannot be proved. Mrs. Bronckhorst was not exactly young, though fifteen years younger than her husband. She was a large, pale, quiet woman, with heavy eyelids, over weak eyes, and hair that turned red or yellow as the lights fell on it. Bronckhorst was not nice in any way. He had no respect for the pretty public and private lies that make life a little less nasty than it is. His manner towards his wife was coarse. There are many things--including actual assault with the clenched fist--that a wife will endure; but seldom a wife can bear--as Mrs. Bronckhorst bore--with a long course of brutal, hard chaff, making light of her weaknesses, her headaches, her small fits of gaiety, her dresses, her queer little attempts to make herself attractive to her husband when she knows that she is not what she has been, and--worst of all--the love that she spends on her children. That particular sort of heavy-handed jest was specially dear to Bronckhorst. I suppose that he had first slipped into it, meaning no harm, in the honeymoon, when folk find their ordinary stock of endearments run short, and so go to the other extreme to express their feelings. A similar impulse makes a man say:--"Hutt, you old beast!" when a favorite horse nuzzles his coat-front. Unluckily, when the reaction of marriage sets in, the form of speech remains, and, the tenderness having died out, hurts the wife more than she cares to say. But Mrs. Bronckhorst was devoted to her "Teddy," as she called him. Perhaps that was why he objected to her. Perhaps--this is only a theory to account for his infamous behavior later on--he gave way to the queer savage feeling that sometimes takes by the throat a husband twenty years' married, when he sees, across the table, the same face of his wedded wife, and knows that, as he has sat facing it, so must he continue to sit until day of its death or his own. Most men and all women know the spasm. It only lasts for three breaths as a rule, must be a "throw-back" to times when men and women were rather worse than they are now, and is too unpleasant to be discussed. Dinner at the Bronckhorst's was an infliction few men cared to undergo. Bronckhorst took a pleasure in saying things that made his wife wince. When their little boy came in at dessert, Bronckhorst used to give him half a glass of wine, and naturally enough, the poor little mite got first riotous, next miserable, and was removed screaming. Bronckhorst asked if that was the way Teddy usually behaved, and whether Mrs. Bronckhorst could not spare some of her time to teach the "little beggar decency." Mrs. Bronckhorst, who loved the boy more than her own life, tried not to cry--her spirit seemed to have been broken by her marriage. Lastly, Bronckhorst used to say:--"There! That'll do, that'll do. For God's sake try to behave like a rational woman. Go into the drawing-room." Mrs. Bronckhorst would go, trying to carry it all off with a smile; and the guest of the evening would feel angry and uncomfortable. After three years of this cheerful life--for Mrs. Bronckhorst had no woman-friends to talk to--the Station was startled by the news that Bronckhorst had instituted proceedings ON THE CRIMINAL COUNT, against a man called Biel, who certainly had been rather attentive to Mrs. Bronckhorst whenever she had appeared in public. The utter want of reserve with which Bronckhorst treated his own dishonor helped us to know that the evidence against Biel would be entirely circumstantial and native. There were no letters; but Bronckhorst said openly that he would rack Heaven and Earth until he saw Biel superintending the manufacture of carpets in the Central Jail. Mrs. Bronckhorst kept entirely to her house, and let charitable folks say what they pleased. Opinions were divided. Some two-thirds of the Station jumped at once to the conclusion that Biel was guilty; but a dozen men who knew and liked him held by him. Biel was furious and surprised. He denied the whole thing, and vowed that he would thrash Bronckhorst within an inch of his life. No jury, we knew, could convict a man on the criminal count on native evidence in a land where you can buy a murder-charge, including the corpse, all complete for fifty-four rupees; but Biel did not care to scrape through by the benefit of a doubt. He wanted the whole thing cleared: but as he said one night:--"He can prove anything with servants' evidence, and I've only my bare word." This was about a month before the case came on; and beyond agreeing with Biel, we could do little. All that we could be sure of was that the native evidence would be bad enough to blast Biel's character for the rest of his service; for when a native begins perjury he perjures himself thoroughly. He does not boggle over details. Some genius at the end of the table whereat the affair was being talked over, said:--"Look here! I don't believe lawyers are any good. Get a man to wire to Strickland, and beg him to come down and pull us through." Strickland was about a hundred and eighty miles up the line. He had not long been married to Miss Youghal, but he scented in the telegram a chance of return to the old detective work that his soul lusted after, and next night he came in and heard our story. He finished his pipe and said oracularly:--"We must get at the evidence. Oorya bearer, Mussalman khit and methraniayah, I suppose, are the pillars of the charge. I am on in this piece; but I'm afraid I'm getting rusty in my talk." He rose and went into Biel's bedroom where his trunk had been put, and shut the door. An hour later, we heard him say:--"I hadn't the heart to part with my old makeups when I married. Will this do?" There was a lothely faquir salaaming in the doorway. "Now lend me fifty rupees," said Strickland, "and give me your Words of Honor that you won't tell my Wife." He got all that he asked for, and left the house while the table drank his health. What he did only he himself knows. A faquir hung about Bronckhorst's compound for twelve days. Then a mehter appeared, and when Biel heard of HIM, he said that Strickland was an angel full-fledged. Whether the mehter made love to Janki, Mrs. Bronckhorst's ayah, is a question which concerns Strickland exclusively. He came back at the end of three weeks, and said quietly:--"You spoke the truth, Biel. The whole business is put up from beginning to end. Jove! It almost astonishes ME! That Bronckhorst-beast isn't fit to live." There was uproar and shouting, and Biel said:--"How are you going to prove it? You can't say that you've been trespassing on Bronckhorst's compound in disguise!" "No," said Strickland. "Tell your lawyer-fool, whoever he is, to get up something strong about 'inherent improbabilities' and 'discrepancies of evidence.' He won't have to speak, but it will make him happy. I'M going to run this business." Biel held his tongue, and the other men waited to see what would happen. They trusted Strickland as men trust quiet men. When the case came off the Court was crowded. Strickland hung about in the verandah of the Court, till he met the Mohammedan khitmatgar. Then he murmured a faquir's blessing in his ear, and asked him how his second wife did. The man spun round, and, as he looked into the eyes of "Estreeken Sahib," his jaw dropped. You must remember that before Strickland was married, he was, as I have told you already, a power among natives. Strickland whispered a rather coarse vernacular proverb to the effect that he was abreast of all that was going on, and went into the Court armed with a gut trainer's-whip. The Mohammedan was the first witness and Strickland beamed upon him from the back of the Court. The man moistened his lips with his tongue and, in his abject fear of "Estreeken Sahib" the faquir, went back on every detail of his evidence--said he was a poor man and God was his witness that he had forgotten every thing that Bronckhorst Sahib had told him to say. Between his terror of Strickland, the Judge, and Bronckhorst he collapsed, weeping. Then began the panic among the witnesses. Janki, the ayah, leering chastely behind her veil, turned gray, and the bearer left the Court. He said that his Mamma was dying and that it was not wholesome for any man to lie unthriftily in the presence of "Estreeken Sahib." Biel said politely to Bronckhorst:--"Your witnesses don't seem to work. Haven't you any forged letters to produce?" But Bronckhorst was swaying to and fro in his chair, and there was a dead pause after Biel had been called to order. Bronckhorst's Counsel saw the look on his client's face, and without more ado, pitched his papers on the little green baize table, and mumbled something about having been misinformed. The whole Court applauded wildly, like soldiers at a theatre, and the Judge began to say what he thought.......... Biel came out of the place, and Strickland dropped a gut trainer's-whip in the verandah. Ten minutes later, Biel was cutting Bronckhorst into ribbons behind the old Court cells, quietly and without scandal. What was left of Bronckhorst was sent home in a carriage; and his wife wept over it and nursed it into a man again. Later on, after Biel had managed to hush up the counter-charge against Bronckhorst of fabricating false evidence, Mrs. Bronckhorst, with her faint watery smile, said that there had been a mistake, but it wasn't her Teddy's fault altogether. She would wait till her Teddy came back to her. Perhaps he had grown tired of her, or she had tried his patience, and perhaps we wouldn't cut her any more, and perhaps the mothers would let their children play with "little Teddy" again. He was so lonely. Then the Station invited Mrs. Bronckhorst everywhere, until Bronckhorst was fit to appear in public, when he went Home and took his wife with him. According to the latest advices, her Teddy did "come back to her," and they are moderately happy. Though, of course, he can never forgive her the thrashing that she was the indirect means of getting for him.. ........ What Biel wants to know is:--"Why didn't I press home the charge against the Bronckhorst-brute, and have him run in?" What Mrs. Strickland wants to know is:--"How DID my husband bring such a lovely, lovely Waler from your Station? I know ALL his money-affairs; and I'm CERTAIN he didn't BUY it." "What I want to know is:--How do women like Mrs. Bronckhorst come to marry men like Bronckhorst?" And my conundrum is the most unanswerable of the three. VENUS ANNODOMINI. And the years went on as the years must do; But our great Diana was always new-- Fresh, and blooming, and blonde, and fair, With azure eyes and with aureate hair; And all the folk, as they came or went, Offered her praise to her heart's content. --Diana of Ephesus. She had nothing to do with Number Eighteen in the Braccio Nuovo of the Vatican, between Visconti's Ceres and the God of the Nile. She was purely an Indian deity--an Anglo-Indian deity, that is to say--and we called her THE Venus Annodomini, to distinguish her from other Annodominis of the same everlasting order. There was a legend among the Hills that she had once been young; but no living man was prepared to come forward and say boldly that the legend was true. Men rode up to Simla, and stayed, and went away and made their name and did their life's work, and returned again to find the Venus Annodomini exactly as they had left her. She was as immutable as the Hills. But not quite so green. All that a girl of eighteen could do in the way of riding, walking, dancing, picnicking and over-exertion generally, the Venus Annodomini did, and showed no sign of fatigue or trace of weariness. Besides perpetual youth, she had discovered, men said, the secret of perpetual health; and her fame spread about the land. From a mere woman, she grew to be an Institution, insomuch that no young man could be said to be properly formed, who had not, at some time or another, worshipped at the shrine of the Venus Annodomini. There was no one like her, though there were many imitations. Six years in her eyes were no more than six months to ordinary women; and ten made less visible impression on her than does a week's fever on an ordinary woman. Every one adored her, and in return she was pleasant and courteous to nearly every one. Youth had been a habit of hers for so long, that she could not part with it--never realized, in fact, the necessity of parting with it--and took for her more chosen associates young people. Among the worshippers of the Venus Annodomini was young Gayerson. "Very Young" Gayerson, he was called to distinguish him from his father "Young" Gayerson, a Bengal Civilian, who affected the customs--as he had the heart--of youth. "Very Young" Gayerson was not content to worship placidly and for form's sake, as the other young men did, or to accept a ride or a dance, or a talk from the Venus Annodomini in a properly humble and thankful spirit. He was exacting, and, therefore, the Venus Annodomini repressed him. He worried himself nearly sick in a futile sort of way over her; and his devotion and earnestness made him appear either shy or boisterous or rude, as his mood might vary, by the side of the older men who, with him, bowed before the Venus Annodomini. She was sorry for him. He reminded her of a lad who, three-and-twenty years ago, had professed a boundless devotion for her, and for whom in return she had felt something more than a week's weakness. But that lad had fallen away and married another woman less than a year after he had worshipped her; and the Venus Annodomini had almost--not quite--forgotten his name. "Very Young" Gayerson had the same big blue eyes and the same way of pouting his underlip when he was excited or troubled. But the Venus Annodomini checked him sternly none the less. Too much zeal was a thing that she did not approve of; preferring instead, a tempered and sober tenderness. "Very Young" Gayerson was miserable, and took no trouble to conceal his wretchedness. He was in the Army--a Line regiment I think, but am not certain--and, since his face was a looking-glass and his forehead an open book, by reason of his innocence, his brothers in arms made his life a burden to him and embittered his naturally sweet disposition. No one except "Very Young" Gayerson, and he never told his views, knew how old "Very Young" Gayerson believed the Venus Annodomini to be. Perhaps he thought her five and twenty, or perhaps she told him that she was this age. "Very Young" Gayerson would have forded the Gugger in flood to carry her lightest word, and had implicit faith in her. Every one liked him, and every one was sorry when they saw him so bound a slave of the Venus Annodomini. Every one, too, admitted that it was not her fault; for the Venus Annodomini differed from Mrs. Hauksbee and Mrs. Reiver in this particular--she never moved a finger to attract any one; but, like Ninon de l'Enclos, all men were attracted to her. One could admire and respect Mrs. Hauksbee, despise and avoid Mrs. Reiver, but one was forced to adore the Venus Annodomini. "Very Young" Gayerson's papa held a Division or a Collectorate or something administrative in a particularly unpleasant part of Bengal--full of Babus who edited newspapers proving that "Young" Gayerson was a "Nero" and a "Scylla" and a "Charybdis"; and, in addition to the Babus, there was a good deal of dysentery and cholera abroad for nine months of the year. "Young" Gayerson--he was about five and forty--rather liked Babus, they amused him, but he objects to dysentery, and when he could get away, went to Darjiling for the most part. This particular season he fancied that he would come up to Simla, and see his boy. The boy was not altogether pleased. He told the Venus Annodomini that his father was coming up, and she flushed a little and said that she should be delighted to make his acquaintance. Then she looked long and thoughtfully at "Very Young" Gayerson; because she was very, very sorry for him, and he was a very, very big idiot. "My daughter is coming out in a fortnight, Mr. Gayerson," she said. "Your WHAT?" said he. "Daughter," said the Venus Annodomini. "She's been out for a year at Home already, and I want her to see a little of India. She is nineteen and a very sensible, nice girl I believe." "Very Young" Gayerson, who was a short twenty-two years old, nearly fell out of his chair with astonishment; for he had persisted in believing, against all belief, in the youth of the Venus Annodomini. She, with her back to the curtained window, watched the effect of her sentences and smiled. "Very Young" Gayerson's papa came up twelve days later, and had not been in Simla four and twenty hours, before two men, old acquaintances of his, had told him how "Very Young" Gayerson had been conducting himself. "Young" Gayerson laughed a good deal, and inquired who the Venus Annodomini might be. Which proves that he had been living in Bengal where nobody knows anything except the rate of Exchange. Then he said "boys will be boys," and spoke to his son about the matter. "Very Young" Gayerson said that he felt wretched and unhappy; and "Young" Gayerson said that he repented of having helped to bring a fool into the world. He suggested that his son had better cut his leave short and go down to his duties. This led to an unfilial answer, and relations were strained, until "Young" Gayerson demanded that they should call on the Venus Annodomini. "Very Young" Gayerson went with his papa, feeling, somehow, uncomfortable and small. The Venus Annodomini received them graciously and "Young" Gayerson said:--"By Jove! It's Kitty!" "Very Young" Gayerson would have listened for an explanation, if his time had not been taken up with trying to talk to a large, handsome, quiet, well-dressed girl--introduced to him by the Venus Annodomini as her daughter. She was far older in manners, style and repose than "Very Young" Gayerson; and, as he realized this thing, he felt sick. Presently, he heard the Venus Annodomini saying:--"Do you know that your son is one of my most devoted admirers?" "I don't wonder," said "Young" Gayerson. Here he raised his voice:--"He follows his father's footsteps. Didn't I worship the ground you trod on, ever so long ago, Kitty--and you haven't changed since then. How strange it all seems!" "Very Young" Gayerson said nothing. His conversation with the daughter of the Venus Annodomini was, through the rest of the call, fragmentary and disjointed.......... "At five, tomorrow then," said the Venus Annodomini. "And mind you are punctual." "At five punctual," said "Young" Gayerson. "You can lend your old father a horse I dare say, youngster, can't you? I'm going for a ride tomorrow afternoon." "Certainly," said "Very Young" Gayerson. "I am going down tomorrow morning. My ponies are at your service, Sir." The Venus Annodomini looked at him across the half-light of the room, and her big gray eyes filled with moisture. She rose and shook hands with him. "Goodbye, Tom," whispered the Venus Annodomini. THE BISARA OF POOREE. Little Blind Fish, thou art marvellous wise, Little Blind Fish, who put out thy eyes? Open thine ears while I whisper my wish-- Bring me a lover, thou little Blind Fish. --The Charm of the Bisara. Some natives say that it came from the other side of Kulu, where the eleven-inch Temple Sapphire is. Others that it was made at the Devil-Shrine of Ao-Chung in Thibet, was stolen by a Kafir, from him by a Gurkha, from him again by a Lahouli, from him by a khitmatgar, and by this latter sold to an Englishman, so all its virtue was lost: because, to work properly, the Bisara of Pooree must be stolen--with bloodshed if possible, but, at any rate, stolen. These stories of the coming into India are all false. It was made at Pooree ages since--the manner of its making would fill a small book--was stolen by one of the Temple dancing-girls there, for her own purposes, and then passed on from hand to hand, steadily northward, till it reached Hanla: always bearing the same name--the Bisara of Pooree. In shape it is a tiny, square box of silver, studded outside with eight small balas-rubies. Inside the box, which opens with a spring, is a little eyeless fish, carved from some sort of dark, shiny nut and wrapped in a shred of faded gold-cloth. That is the Bisara of Pooree, and it were better for a man to take a king cobra in his hand than to touch the Bisara of Pooree. All kinds of magic are out of date and done away with except in India where nothing changes in spite of the shiny, toy-scum stuff that people call "civilization." Any man who knows about the Bisara of Pooree will tell you what its powers are--always supposing that it has been honestly stolen. It is the only regularly working, trustworthy love-charm in the country, with one exception. [The other charm is in the hands of a trooper of the Nizam's Horse, at a place called Tuprani, due north of Hyderabad.] This can be depended upon for a fact. Some one else may explain it. If the Bisara be not stolen, but given or bought or found, it turns against its owner in three years, and leads to ruin or death. This is another fact which you may explain when you have time. Meanwhile, you can laugh at it. At present, the Bisara is safe on an ekka-pony's neck, inside the blue bead-necklace that keeps off the Evil-eye. If the ekka-driver ever finds it, and wears it, or gives it to his wife, I am sorry for him. A very dirty hill-cooly woman, with goitre, owned it at Theog in 1884. It came into Simla from the north before Churton's khitmatgar bought it, and sold it, for three times its silver-value, to Churton, who collected curiosities. The servant knew no more what he had bought than the master; but a man looking over Churton's collection of curiosities--Churton was an Assistant Commissioner by the way--saw and held his tongue. He was an Englishman; but knew how to believe. Which shows that he was different from most Englishmen. He knew that it was dangerous to have any share in the little box when working or dormant; for unsought Love is a terrible gift. Pack--"Grubby" Pack, as we used to call him--was, in every way, a nasty little man who must have crawled into the Army by mistake. He was three inches taller than his sword, but not half so strong. And the sword was a fifty-shilling, tailor-made one. Nobody liked him, and, I suppose, it was his wizenedness and worthlessness that made him fall so hopelessly in love with Miss Hollis, who was good and sweet, and five foot seven in her tennis shoes. He was not content with falling in love quietly, but brought all the strength of his miserable little nature into the business. If he had not been so objectionable, one might have pitied him. He vapored, and fretted, and fumed, and trotted up and down, and tried to make himself pleasing in Miss Hollis's big, quiet, gray eyes, and failed. It was one of the cases that you sometimes meet, even in this country where we marry by Code, of a really blind attachment all on one side, without the faintest possibility of return. Miss Hollis looked on Pack as some sort of vermin running about the road. He had no prospects beyond Captain's pay, and no wits to help that out by one anna. In a large-sized man, love like his would have been touching. In a good man it would have been grand. He being what he was, it was only a nuisance. You will believe this much. What you will not believe, is what follows: Churton, and The Man who Knew that the Bisara was, were lunching at the Simla Club together. Churton was complaining of life in general. His best mare had rolled out of stable down the hill and had broken her back; his decisions were being reversed by the upper Courts, more than an Assistant Commissioner of eight years' standing has a right to expect; he knew liver and fever, and, for weeks past, had felt out of sorts. Altogether, he was disgusted and disheartened. Simla Club dining-room is built, as all the world knows, in two sections, with an arch-arrangement dividing them. Come in, turn to your own left, take the table under the window, and you cannot see any one who has come in, turning to the right, and taken a table on the right side of the arch. Curiously enough, every word that you say can be heard, not only by the other diner, but by the servants beyond the screen through which they bring dinner. This is worth knowing: an echoing-room is a trap to be forewarned against. Half in fun, and half hoping to be believed, The Man who Knew told Churton the story of the Bisara of Pooree at rather greater length than I have told it to you in this place; winding up with the suggestion that Churton might as well throw the little box down the hill and see whether all his troubles would go with it. In ordinary ears, English ears, the tale was only an interesting bit of folk-lore. Churton laughed, said that he felt better for his tiffin, and went out. Pack had been tiffining by himself to the right of the arch, and had heard everything. He was nearly mad with his absurd infatuation for Miss Hollis that all Simla had been laughing about. It is a curious thing that, when a man hates or loves beyond reason, he is ready to go beyond reason to gratify his feelings. Which he would not do for money or power merely. Depend upon it, Solomon would never have built altars to Ashtaroth and all those ladies with queer names, if there had not been trouble of some kind in his zenana, and nowhere else. But this is beside the story. The facts of the case are these: Pack called on Churton next day when Churton was out, left his card, and STOLE the Bisara of Pooree from its place under the clock on the mantelpiece! Stole it like the thief he was by nature. Three days later, all Simla was electrified by the news that Miss Hollis had accepted Pack--the shrivelled rat, Pack! Do you desire clearer evidence than this? The Bisara of Pooree had been stolen, and it worked as it had always done when won by foul means. There are three or four times in a man's life when he is justified in meddling with other people's affairs to play Providence. The Man who Knew felt that he WAS justified; but believing and acting on a belief are quite different things. The insolent satisfaction of Pack as he ambled by the side of Miss Hollis, and Churton's striking release from liver, as soon as the Bisara of Pooree had gone, decided the Man. He explained to Churton and Churton laughed, because he was not brought up to believe that men on the Government House List steal--at least little things. But the miraculous acceptance by Miss Hollis of that tailor, Pack, decided him to take steps on suspicion. He vowed that he only wanted to find out where his ruby-studded silver box had vanished to. You cannot accuse a man on the Government House List of stealing. And if you rifle his room you are a thief yourself. Churton, prompted by The Man who Knew, decided on burglary. If he found nothing in Pack's room.... but it is not nice to think of what would have happened in that case. Pack went to a dance at Benmore--Benmore WAS Benmore in those days, and not an office--and danced fifteen waltzes out of twenty-two with Miss Hollis. Churton and The Man took all the keys that they could lay hands on, and went to Pack's room in the hotel, certain that his servants would be away. Pack was a cheap soul. He had not purchased a decent cash-box to keep his papers in, but one of those native imitations that you buy for ten rupees. It opened to any sort of key, and there at the bottom, under Pack's Insurance Policy, lay the Bisara of Pooree! Churton called Pack names, put the Bisara of Pooree in his pocket, and went to the dance with The Man. At least, he came in time for supper, and saw the beginning of the end in Miss Hollis's eyes. She was hysterical after supper, and was taken away by her Mamma. At the dance, with the abominable Bisara in his pocket, Churton twisted his foot on one of the steps leading down to the old Rink, and had to be sent home in a rickshaw, grumbling. He did not believe in the Bisara of Pooree any the more for this manifestation, but he sought out Pack and called him some ugly names; and "thief" was the mildest of them. Pack took the names with the nervous smile of a little man who wants both soul and body to resent an insult, and went his way. There was no public scandal. A week later, Pack got his definite dismissal from Miss Hollis. There had been a mistake in the placing of her affections, she said. So he went away to Madras, where he can do no great harm even if he lives to be a Colonel. Churton insisted upon The Man who Knew taking the Bisara of Pooree as a gift. The Man took it, went down to the Cart Road at once, found an ekka pony with a blue head-necklace, fastened the Bisara of Pooree inside the necklace with a piece of shoe-string and thanked Heaven that he was rid of a danger. Remember, in case you ever find it, that you must not destroy the Bisara of Pooree. I have not time to explain why just now, but the power lies in the little wooden fish. Mister Gubernatis or Max Muller could tell you more about it than I. You will say that all this story is made up. Very well. If ever you come across a little silver, ruby-studded box, seven-eighths of an inch long by three-quarters wide, with a dark-brown wooden fish, wrapped in gold cloth, inside it, keep it. Keep it for three years, and then you will discover for yourself whether my story is true or false. Better still, steal it as Pack did, and you will be sorry that you had not killed yourself in the beginning. THE GATE OF A HUNDRED SORROWS. "If I can attain Heaven for a pice, why should you be envious?" --Opium Smoker's Proverb. This is no work of mine. My friend, Gabral Misquitta, the half-caste, spoke it all, between moonset and morning, six weeks before he died; and I took it down from his mouth as he answered my questions so:-- It lies between the Copper-smith's Gully and the pipe-stem sellers' quarter, within a hundred yards, too, as the crow flies, of the Mosque of Wazir Khan. I don't mind telling any one this much, but I defy him to find the Gate, however well he may think he knows the City. You might even go through the very gully it stands in a hundred times, and be none the wiser. We used to call the gully, "the Gully of the Black Smoke," but its native name is altogether different of course. A loaded donkey couldn't pass between the walls; and, at one point, just before you reach the Gate, a bulged house-front makes people go along all sideways. It isn't really a gate though. It's a house. Old Fung-Tching had it first five years ago. He was a boot-maker in Calcutta. They say that he murdered his wife there when he was drunk. That was why he dropped bazar-rum and took to the Black Smoke instead. Later on, he came up north and opened the Gate as a house where you could get your smoke in peace and quiet. Mind you, it was a pukka, respectable opium-house, and not one of those stifling, sweltering chandoo-khanas, that you can find all over the City. No; the old man knew his business thoroughly, and he was most clean for a Chinaman. He was a one-eyed little chap, not much more than five feet high, and both his middle fingers were gone. All the same, he was the handiest man at rolling black pills I have ever seen. Never seemed to be touched by the Smoke, either; and what he took day and night, night and day, was a caution. I've been at it five years, and I can do my fair share of the Smoke with any one; but I was a child to Fung-Tching that way. All the same, the old man was keen on his money, very keen; and that's what I can't understand. I heard he saved a good deal before he died, but his nephew has got all that now; and the old man's gone back to China to be buried. He kept the big upper room, where his best customers gathered, as neat as a new pin. In one corner used to stand Fung-Tching's Joss--almost as ugly as Fung-Tching--and there were always sticks burning under his nose; but you never smelt 'em when the pipes were going thick. Opposite the Joss was Fung-Tching's coffin. He had spent a good deal of his savings on that, and whenever a new man came to the Gate he was always introduced to it. It was lacquered black, with red and gold writings on it, and I've heard that Fung-Tching brought it out all the way from China. I don't know whether that's true or not, but I know that, if I came first in the evening, I used to spread my mat just at the foot of it. It was a quiet corner you see, and a sort of breeze from the gully came in at the window now and then. Besides the mats, there was no other furniture in the room--only the coffin, and the old Joss all green and blue and purple with age and polish. Fung-Tching never told us why he called the place "The Gate of a Hundred Sorrows." (He was the only Chinaman I know who used bad-sounding fancy names. Most of them are flowery. As you'll see in Calcutta.) We used to find that out for ourselves. Nothing grows on you so much, if you're white, as the Black Smoke. A yellow man is made different. Opium doesn't tell on him scarcely at all; but white and black suffer a good deal. Of course, there are some people that the Smoke doesn't touch any more than tobacco would at first. They just doze a bit, as one would fall asleep naturally, and next morning they are almost fit for work. Now, I was one of that sort when I began, but I've been at it for five years pretty steadily, and its different now. There was an old aunt of mine, down Agra way, and she left me a little at her death. About sixty rupees a month secured. Sixty isn't much. I can recollect a time, seems hundreds and hundreds of years ago, that I was getting my three hundred a month, and pickings, when I was working on a big timber contract in Calcutta. I didn't stick to that work for long. The Black Smoke does not allow of much other business; and even though I am very little affected by it, as men go, I couldn't do a day's work now to save my life. After all, sixty rupees is what I want. When old Fung-Tching was alive he used to draw the money for me, give me about half of it to live on (I eat very little), and the rest he kept himself. I was free of the Gate at any time of the day and night, and could smoke and sleep there when I liked, so I didn't care. I know the old man made a good thing out of it; but that's no matter. Nothing matters, much to me; and, besides, the money always came fresh and fresh each month. There was ten of us met at the Gate when the place was first opened. Me, and two Baboos from a Government Office somewhere in Anarkulli, but they got the sack and couldn't pay (no man who has to work in the daylight can do the Black Smoke for any length of time straight on); a Chinaman that was Fung-Tching's nephew; a bazar-woman that had got a lot of money somehow; an English loafer--Mac-Somebody I think, but I have forgotten--that smoked heaps, but never seemed to pay anything (they said he had saved Fung-Tching's life at some trial in Calcutta when he was a barrister): another Eurasian, like myself, from Madras; a half-caste woman, and a couple of men who said they had come from the North. I think they must have been Persians or Afghans or something. There are not more than five of us living now, but we come regular. I don't know what happened to the Baboos; but the bazar-woman she died after six months of the Gate, and I think Fung-Tching took her bangles and nose-ring for himself. But I'm not certain. The Englishman, he drank as well as smoked, and he dropped off. One of the Persians got killed in a row at night by the big well near the mosque a long time ago, and the Police shut up the well, because they said it was full of foul air. They found him dead at the bottom of it. So, you see, there is only me, the Chinaman, the half-caste woman that we call the Memsahib (she used to live with Fung-Tching), the other Eurasian, and one of the Persians. The Memsahib looks very old now. I think she was a young woman when the Gate was opened; but we are all old for the matter of that. Hundreds and hundreds of years old. It is very hard to keep count of time in the Gate, and besides, time doesn't matter to me. I draw my sixty rupees fresh and fresh every month. A very, very long while ago, when I used to be getting three hundred and fifty rupees a month, and pickings, on a big timber-contract at Calcutta, I had a wife of sorts. But she's dead now. People said that I killed her by taking to the Black Smoke. Perhaps I did, but it's so long since it doesn't matter. Sometimes when I first came to the Gate, I used to feel sorry for it; but that's all over and done with long ago, and I draw my sixty rupees fresh and fresh every month, and am quite happy. Not DRUNK happy, you know, but always quiet and soothed and contented. How did I take to it? It began at Calcutta. I used to try it in my own house, just to see what it was like. I never went very far, but I think my wife must have died then. Anyhow, I found myself here, and got to know Fung-Tching. I don't remember rightly how that came about; but he told me of the Gate and I used to go there, and, somehow, I have never got away from it since. Mind you, though, the Gate was a respectable place in Fung-Tching's time where you could be comfortable, and not at all like the chandoo-khanas where the niggers go. No; it was clean and quiet, and not crowded. Of course, there were others beside us ten and the man; but we always had a mat apiece with a wadded woollen head-piece, all covered with black and red dragons and things; just like a coffin in the corner. At the end of one's third pipe the dragons used to move about and fight. I've watched 'em, many and many a night through. I used to regulate my Smoke that way, and now it takes a dozen pipes to make 'em stir. Besides, they are all torn and dirty, like the mats, and old Fung-Tching is dead. He died a couple of years ago, and gave me the pipe I always use now--a silver one, with queer beasts crawling up and down the receiver-bottle below the cup. Before that, I think, I used a big bamboo stem with a copper cup, a very small one, and a green jade mouthpiece. It was a little thicker than a walking-stick stem, and smoked sweet, very sweet. The bamboo seemed to suck up the smoke. Silver doesn't, and I've got to clean it out now and then, that's a great deal of trouble, but I smoke it for the old man's sake. He must have made a good thing out of me, but he always gave me clean mats and pillows, and the best stuff you could get anywhere. When he died, his nephew Tsin-ling took up the Gate, and he called it the "Temple of the Three Possessions;" but we old ones speak of it as the "Hundred Sorrows," all the same. The nephew does things very shabbily, and I think the Memsahib must help him. She lives with him; same as she used to do with the old man. The two let in all sorts of low people, niggers and all, and the Black Smoke isn't as good as it used to be. I've found burnt bran in my pipe over and over again. The old man would have died if that had happened in his time. Besides, the room is never cleaned, and all the mats are torn and cut at the edges. The coffin has gone--gone to China again--with the old man and two ounces of smoke inside it, in case he should want 'em on the way. The Joss doesn't get so many sticks burnt under his nose as he used to; that's a sign of ill-luck, as sure as Death. He's all brown, too, and no one ever attends to him. That's the Memsahib's work, I know; because, when Tsin-ling tried to burn gilt paper before him, she said it was a waste of money, and, if he kept a stick burning very slowly, the Joss wouldn't know the difference. So now we've got the sticks mixed with a lot of glue, and they take half-an-hour longer to burn, and smell stinky. Let alone the smell of the room by itself. No business can get on if they try that sort of thing. The Joss doesn't like it. I can see that. Late at night, sometimes, he turns all sorts of queer colors--blue and green and red--just as he used to do when old Fung-Tching was alive; and he rolls his eyes and stamps his feet like a devil. I don't know why I don't leave the place and smoke quietly in a little room of my own in the bazar. Most like, Tsin-ling would kill me if I went away--he draws my sixty rupees now--and besides, it's so much trouble, and I've grown to be very fond of the Gate. It's not much to look at. Not what it was in the old man's time, but I couldn't leave it. I've seen so many come in and out. And I've seen so many die here on the mats that I should be afraid of dying in the open now. I've seen some things that people would call strange enough; but nothing is strange when you're on the Black Smoke, except the Black Smoke. And if it was, it wouldn't matter. Fung-Tching used to be very particular about his people, and never got in any one who'd give trouble by dying messy and such. But the nephew isn't half so careful. He tells everywhere that he keeps a "first-chop" house. Never tries to get men in quietly, and make them comfortable like Fung-Tching did. That's why the Gate is getting a little bit more known than it used to be. Among the niggers of course. The nephew daren't get a white, or, for matter of that, a mixed skin into the place. He has to keep us three of course--me and the Memsahib and the other Eurasian. We're fixtures. But he wouldn't give us credit for a pipeful--not for anything. One of these days, I hope, I shall die in the Gate. The Persian and the Madras man are terrible shaky now. They've got a boy to light their pipes for them. I always do that myself. Most like, I shall see them carried out before me. I don't think I shall ever outlive the Memsahib or Tsin-ling. Women last longer than men at the Black-Smoke, and Tsin-ling has a deal of the old man's blood in him, though he DOES smoke cheap stuff. The bazar-woman knew when she was going two days before her time; and SHE died on a clean mat with a nicely wadded pillow, and the old man hung up her pipe just above the Joss. He was always fond of her, I fancy. But he took her bangles just the same. I should like to die like the bazar-woman--on a clean, cool mat with a pipe of good stuff between my lips. When I feel I'm going, I shall ask Tsin-ling for them, and he can draw my sixty rupees a month, fresh and fresh, as long as he pleases, and watch the black and red dragons have their last big fight together; and then.... Well, it doesn't matter. Nothing matters much to me--only I wished Tsin-ling wouldn't put bran into the Black Smoke. THE STORY OF MUHAMMAD DIN. "Who is the happy man? He that sees in his own house at home little children crowned with dust, leaping and falling and crying." --Munichandra, translated by Professor Peterson. The polo-ball was an old one, scarred, chipped, and dinted. It stood on the mantelpiece among the pipe-stems which Imam Din, khitmatgar, was cleaning for me. "Does the Heaven-born want this ball?" said Imam Din, deferentially. The Heaven-born set no particular store by it; but of what use was a polo-ball to a khitmatgar? "By Your Honor's favor, I have a little son. He has seen this ball, and desires it to play with. I do not want it for myself." No one would for an instant accuse portly old Imam Din of wanting to play with polo-balls. He carried out the battered thing into the verandah; and there followed a hurricane of joyful squeaks, a patter of small feet, and the thud-thud-thud of the ball rolling along the ground. Evidently the little son had been waiting outside the door to secure his treasure. But how had he managed to see that polo-ball? Next day, coming back from office half an hour earlier than usual, I was aware of a small figure in the dining-room--a tiny, plump figure in a ridiculously inadequate shirt which came, perhaps, half-way down the tubby stomach. It wandered round the room, thumb in mouth, crooning to itself as it took stock of the pictures. Undoubtedly this was the "little son." He had no business in my room, of course; but was so deeply absorbed in his discoveries that he never noticed me in the doorway. I stepped into the room and startled him nearly into a fit. He sat down on the ground with a gasp. His eyes opened, and his mouth followed suit. I knew what was coming, and fled, followed by a long, dry howl which reached the servants' quarters far more quickly than any command of mine had ever done. In ten seconds Imam Din was in the dining-room. Then despairing sobs arose, and I returned to find Imam Din admonishing the small sinner who was using most of his shirt as a handkerchief. "This boy," said Imam Din, judicially, "is a budmash, a big budmash. He will, without doubt, go to the jail-khana for his behavior." Renewed yells from the penitent, and an elaborate apology to myself from Imam Din. "Tell the baby," said I, "that the Sahib is not angry, and take him away." Imam Din conveyed my forgiveness to the offender, who had now gathered all his shirt round his neck, string-wise, and the yell subsided into a sob. The two set off for the door. "His name," said Imam Din, as though the name were part of the crime, "is Muhammad Din, and he is a budmash." Freed from present danger, Muhammad Din turned round, in his father's arms, and said gravely:--"It is true that my name is Muhammad Din, Tahib, but I am not a budmash. I am a MAN!" From that day dated my acquaintance with Muhammad Din. Never again did he come into my dining-room, but on the neutral ground of the compound, we greeted each other with much state, though our conversation was confined to "Talaam, Tahib" from his side and "Salaam Muhammad Din" from mine. Daily on my return from office, the little white shirt, and the fat little body used to rise from the shade of the creeper-covered trellis where they had been hid; and daily I checked my horse here, that my salutation might not be slurred over or given unseemly. Muhammad Din never had any companions. He used to trot about the compound, in and out of the castor-oil bushes, on mysterious errands of his own. One day I stumbled upon some of his handiwork far down the ground. He had half buried the polo-ball in dust, and stuck six shrivelled old marigold flowers in a circle round it. Outside that circle again, was a rude square, traced out in bits of red brick alternating with fragments of broken china; the whole bounded by a little bank of dust. The bhistie from the well-curb put in a plea for the small architect, saying that it was only the play of a baby and did not much disfigure my garden. Heaven knows that I had no intention of touching the child's work then or later; but, that evening, a stroll through the garden brought me unawares full on it; so that I trampled, before I knew, marigold-heads, dust-bank, and fragments of broken soap-dish into confusion past all hope of mending. Next morning I came upon Muhammad Din crying softly to himself over the ruin I had wrought. Some one had cruelly told him that the Sahib was very angry with him for spoiling the garden, and had scattered his rubbish using bad language the while. Muhammad Din labored for an hour at effacing every trace of the dust-bank and pottery fragments, and it was with a tearful apologetic face that he said, "Talaam Tahib," when I came home from the office. A hasty inquiry resulted in Imam Din informing Muhammad Din that by my singular favor he was permitted to disport himself as he pleased. Whereat the child took heart and fell to tracing the ground-plan of an edifice which was to eclipse the marigold-polo-ball creation. For some months, the chubby little eccentricity revolved in his humble orbit among the castor-oil bushes and in the dust; always fashioning magnificent palaces from stale flowers thrown away by the bearer, smooth water-worn pebbles, bits of broken glass, and feathers pulled, I fancy, from my fowls--always alone and always crooning to himself. A gayly-spotted sea-shell was dropped one day close to the last of his little buildings; and I looked that Muhammad Din should build something more than ordinarily splendid on the strength of it. Nor was I disappointed. He meditated for the better part of an hour, and his crooning rose to a jubilant song. Then he began tracing in dust. It would certainly be a wondrous palace, this one, for it was two yards long and a yard broad in ground-plan. But the palace was never completed. Next day there was no Muhammad Din at the head of the carriage-drive, and no "Talaam Tahib" to welcome my return. I had grown accustomed to the greeting, and its omission troubled me. Next day, Imam Din told me that the child was suffering slightly from fever and needed quinine. He got the medicine, and an English Doctor. "They have no stamina, these brats," said the Doctor, as he left Imam Din's quarters. A week later, though I would have given much to have avoided it, I met on the road to the Mussulman burying-ground Imam Din, accompanied by one other friend, carrying in his arms, wrapped in a white cloth, all that was left of little Muhammad Din. ON THE STRENGTH OF A LIKENESS. If your mirror be broken, look into still water; but have a care that you do not fall in. --Hindu Proverb. Next to a requited attachment, one of the most convenient things that a young man can carry about with him at the beginning of his career, is an unrequited attachment. It makes him feel important and business-like, and blase, and cynical; and whenever he has a touch of liver, or suffers from want of exercise, he can mourn over his lost love, and be very happy in a tender, twilight fashion. Hannasyde's affair of the heart had been a Godsend to him. It was four years old, and the girl had long since given up thinking of it. She had married and had many cares of her own. In the beginning, she had told Hannasyde that, "while she could never be anything more than a sister to him, she would always take the deepest interest in his welfare." This startlingly new and original remark gave Hannasyde something to think over for two years; and his own vanity filled in the other twenty-four months. Hannasyde was quite different from Phil Garron, but, none the less, had several points in common with that far too lucky man. He kept his unrequited attachment by him as men keep a well-smoked pipe--for comfort's sake, and because it had grown dear in the using. It brought him happily through the Simla season. Hannasyde was not lovely. There was a crudity in his manners, and a roughness in the way in which he helped a lady on to her horse, that did not attract the other sex to him. Even if he had cast about for their favor, which he did not. He kept his wounded heart all to himself for a while. Then trouble came to him. All who go to Simla, know the slope from the Telegraph to the Public Works Office. Hannasyde was loafing up the hill, one September morning between calling hours, when a 'rickshaw came down in a hurry, and in the 'rickshaw sat the living, breathing image of the girl who had made him so happily unhappy. Hannasyde leaned against the railing and gasped. He wanted to run downhill after the 'rickshaw, but that was impossible; so he went forward with most of his blood in his temples. It was impossible, for many reasons, that the woman in the 'rickshaw could be the girl he had known. She was, he discovered later, the wife of a man from Dindigul, or Coimbatore, or some out-of-the-way place, and she had come up to Simla early in the season for the good of her health. She was going back to Dindigul, or wherever it was, at the end of the season; and in all likelihood would never return to Simla again, her proper Hill-station being Ootacamund. That night, Hannasyde, raw and savage from the raking up of all old feelings, took counsel with himself for one measured hour. What he decided upon was this; and you must decide for yourself how much genuine affection for the old love, and how much a very natural inclination to go abroad and enjoy himself, affected the decision. Mrs. Landys-Haggert would never in all human likelihood cross his path again. So whatever he did didn't much matter. She was marvellously like the girl who "took a deep interest" and the rest of the formula. All things considered, it would be pleasant to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Landys-Haggert, and for a little time--only a very little time--to make believe that he was with Alice Chisane again. Every one is more or less mad on one point. Hannasyde's particular monomania was his old love, Alice Chisane. He made it his business to get introduced to Mrs. Haggert, and the introduction prospered. He also made it his business to see as much as he could of that lady. When a man is in earnest as to interviews, the facilities which Simla offers are startling. There are garden-parties, and tennis-parties, and picnics, and luncheons at Annandale, and rifle-matches, and dinners and balls; besides rides and walks, which are matters of private arrangement. Hannasyde had started with the intention of seeing a likeness, and he ended by doing much more. He wanted to be deceived, he meant to be deceived, and he deceived himself very thoroughly. Not only were the face and figure, the face and figure of Alice Chisane, but the voice and lower tones were exactly the same, and so were the turns of speech; and the little mannerisms, that every woman has, of gait and gesticulation, were absolutely and identically the same. The turn of the head was the same; the tired look in the eyes at the end of a long walk was the same; the sloop and wrench over the saddle to hold in a pulling horse was the same; and once, most marvellous of all, Mrs. Landys-Haggert singing to herself in the next room, while Hannasyde was waiting to take her for a ride, hummed, note for note, with a throaty quiver of the voice in the second line:--"Poor Wandering One!" exactly as Alice Chisane had hummed it for Hannasyde in the dusk of an English drawing-room. In the actual woman herself--in the soul of her--there was not the least likeness; she and Alice Chisane being cast in different moulds. But all that Hannasyde wanted to know and see and think about, was this maddening and perplexing likeness of face and voice and manner. He was bent on making a fool of himself that way; and he was in no sort disappointed. Open and obvious devotion from any sort of man is always pleasant to any sort of woman; but Mrs. Landys-Haggert, being a woman of the world, could make nothing of Hannasyde's admiration. He would take any amount of trouble--he was a selfish man habitually--to meet and forestall, if possible, her wishes. Anything she told him to do was law; and he was, there could be no doubting it, fond of her company so long as she talked to him, and kept on talking about trivialities. But when she launched into expression of her personal views and her wrongs, those small social differences that make the spice of Simla life, Hannasyde was neither pleased nor interested. He didn't want to know anything about Mrs. Landys-Haggert, or her experiences in the past--she had travelled nearly all over the world, and could talk cleverly--he wanted the likeness of Alice Chisane before his eyes and her voice in his ears. Anything outside that, reminding him of another personality jarred, and he showed that it did. Under the new Post Office, one evening, Mrs. Landys-Haggert turned on him, and spoke her mind shortly and without warning. "Mr. Hannasyde," said she, "will you be good enough to explain why you have appointed yourself my special cavalier servente? I don't understand it. But I am perfectly certain, somehow or other, that you don't care the least little bit in the world for ME." This seems to support, by the way, the theory that no man can act or tell lies to a woman without being found out. Hannasyde was taken off his guard. His defence never was a strong one, because he was always thinking of himself, and he blurted out, before he knew what he was saying, this inexpedient answer:--"No more I do." The queerness of the situation and the reply, made Mrs. Haggert laugh. Then it all came out; and at the end of Hannasyde's lucid explanation, Mrs. Haggert said, with the least little touch of scorn in her voice:--"So I'm to act as the lay-figure for you to hang the rags of your tattered affections on, am I?" Hannasyde didn't see what answer was required, and he devoted himself generally and vaguely to the praise of Alice Chisane, which was unsatisfactory. Now it is to be thoroughly made clear that Mrs. Haggert had not the shadow of a ghost of an interest in Hannasyde. Only--only no woman likes being made love through instead of to--specially on behalf of a musty divinity of four years' standing. Hannasyde did not see that he had made any very particular exhibition of himself. He was glad to find a sympathetic soul in the arid wastes of Simla. When the season ended, Hannasyde went down to his own place and Mrs. Haggert to hers. "It was like making love to a ghost," said Hannasyde to himself, "and it doesn't matter; and now I'll get to my work." But he found himself thinking steadily of the Haggert-Chisane ghost; and he could not be certain whether it was Haggert or Chisane that made up the greater part of the pretty phantom.......... He got understanding a month later. A peculiar point of this peculiar country is the way in which a heartless Government transfers men from one end of the Empire to the other. You can never be sure of getting rid of a friend or an enemy till he or she dies. There was a case once--but that's another story. Haggert's Department ordered him up from Dindigul to the Frontier at two days' notice, and he went through, losing money at every step, from Dindigul to his station. He dropped Mrs. Haggert at Lucknow, to stay with some friends there, to take part in a big ball at the Chutter Munzil, and to come on when he had made the new home a little comfortable. Lucknow was Hannasyde's station, and Mrs. Haggert stayed a week there. Hannasyde went to meet her. And the train came in, he discovered which he had been thinking of for the past month. The unwisdom of his conduct also struck him. The Lucknow week, with two dances, and an unlimited quantity of rides together, clinched matters; and Hannasyde found himself pacing this circle of thought:--He adored Alice Chisane--at least he HAD adored her. AND he admired Mrs. Landys-Haggert because she was like Alice Chisane. BUT Mrs. Landys-Haggert was not in the least like Alice Chisane, being a thousand times more adorable. NOW Alice Chisane was "the bride of another," and so was Mrs. Landys-Haggert, and a good and honest wife too. THEREFORE, he, Hannasyde, was.... here he called himself several hard names, and wished that he had been wise in the beginning. Whether Mrs. Landys-Haggert saw what was going on in his mind, she alone knows. He seemed to take an unqualified interest in everything connected with herself, as distinguished from the Alice-Chisane likeness, and he said one or two things which, if Alice Chisane had been still betrothed to him, could scarcely have been excused, even on the grounds of the likeness. But Mrs. Haggert turned the remarks aside, and spent a long time in making Hannasyde see what a comfort and a pleasure she had been to him because of her strange resemblance to his old love. Hannasyde groaned in his saddle and said, "Yes, indeed," and busied himself with preparations for her departure to the Frontier, feeling very small and miserable. The last day of her stay at Lucknow came, and Hannasyde saw her off at the Railway Station. She was very grateful for his kindness and the trouble he had taken, and smiled pleasantly and sympathetically as one who knew the Alice-Chisane reason of that kindness. And Hannasyde abused the coolies with the luggage, and hustled the people on the platform, and prayed that the roof might fall in and slay him. As the train went out slowly, Mrs. Landys-Haggert leaned out of the window to say goodbye:--"On second thoughts au revoir, Mr. Hannasyde. I go Home in the Spring, and perhaps I may meet you in Town." Hannasyde shook hands, and said very earnestly and adoringly:--"I hope to Heaven I shall never see your face again!" And Mrs. Haggert understood. WRESSLEY OF THE FOREIGN OFFICE. I closed and drew for my love's sake, That now is false to me, And I slew the Riever of Tarrant Moss, And set Dumeny free. And ever they give me praise and gold, And ever I moan my loss, For I struck the blow for my false love's sake, And not for the men at the Moss. --Tarrant Moss. One of the many curses of our life out here is the want of atmosphere in the painter's sense. There are no half-tints worth noticing. Men stand out all crude and raw, with nothing to tone them down, and nothing to scale them against. They do their work, and grow to think that there is nothing but their work, and nothing like their work, and that they are the real pivots on which the administration turns. Here is an instance of this feeling. A half-caste clerk was ruling forms in a Pay Office. He said to me:--"Do you know what would happen if I added or took away one single line on this sheet?" Then, with the air of a conspirator:--"It would disorganize the whole of the Treasury payments throughout the whole of the Presidency Circle! Think of that?" If men had not this delusion as to the ultra-importance of their own particular employments, I suppose that they would sit down and kill themselves. But their weakness is wearisome, particularly when the listener knows that he himself commits exactly the same sin. Even the Secretariat believes that it does good when it asks an over-driven Executive Officer to take census of wheat-weevils through a district of five thousand square miles. There was a man once in the Foreign Office--a man who had grown middle-aged in the department, and was commonly said, by irreverent juniors, to be able to repeat Aitchison's "Treaties and Sunnuds" backwards, in his sleep. What he did with his stored knowledge only the Secretary knew; and he, naturally, would not publish the news abroad. This man's name was Wressley, and it was the Shibboleth, in those days, to say:--"Wressley knows more about the Central Indian States than any living man." If you did not say this, you were considered one of mean understanding. Now-a-days, the man who says that he knows the ravel of the inter-tribal complications across the Border is of more use; but in Wressley's time, much attention was paid to the Central Indian States. They were called "foci" and "factors," and all manner of imposing names. And here the curse of Anglo-Indian life fell heavily. When Wressley lifted up his voice, and spoke about such-and-such a succession to such-and-such a throne, the Foreign Office were silent, and Heads of Departments repeated the last two or three words of Wressley's sentences, and tacked "yes, yes," on them, and knew that they were "assisting the Empire to grapple with seriouspolitical contingencies." In most big undertakings, one or two men do the work while the rest sit near and talk till the ripe decorations begin to fall. Wressley was the working-member of the Foreign Office firm, and, to keep him up to his duties when he showed signs of flagging, he was made much of by his superiors and told what a fine fellow he was. He did not require coaxing, because he was of tough build, but what he received confirmed him in the belief that there was no one quite so absolutely and imperatively necessary to the stability of India as Wressley of the Foreign Office. There might be other good men, but the known, honored and trusted man among men was Wressley of the Foreign Office. We had a Viceroy in those days who knew exactly when to "gentle" a fractious big man and to hearten up a collar-galled little one, and so keep all his team level. He conveyed to Wressley the impression which I have just set down; and even tough men are apt to be disorganized by a Viceroy's praise. There was a case once--but that is another story. All India knew Wressley's name and office--it was in Thacker and Spink's Directory--but who he was personally, or what he did, or what his special merits were, not fifty men knew or cared. His work filled all his time, and he found no leisure to cultivate acquaintances beyond those of dead Rajput chiefs with Ahir blots in their 'scutcheons. Wressley would have made a very good Clerk in the Herald's College had he not been a Bengal Civilian. Upon a day, between office and office, great trouble came to Wressley--overwhelmed him, knocked him down, and left him gasping as though he had been a little school-boy. Without reason, against prudence, and at a moment's notice, he fell in love with a frivolous, golden-haired girl who used to tear about Simla Mall on a high, rough waler, with a blue velvet jockey-cap crammed over her eyes. Her name was Venner--Tillie Venner--and she was delightful. She took Wressley's heart at a hand-gallop, and Wressley found that it was not good for man to live alone; even with half the Foreign Office Records in his presses. Then Simla laughed, for Wressley in love was slightly ridiculous. He did his best to interest the girl in himself--that is to say, his work--and she, after the manner of women, did her best to appear interested in what, behind his back, she called "Mr. Wressley's Wajahs"; for she lisped very prettily. She did not understand one little thing about them, but she acted as if she did. Men have married on that sort of error before now. Providence, however, had care of Wressley. He was immensely struck with Miss Venner's intelligence. He would have been more impressed had he heard her private and confidential accounts of his calls. He held peculiar notions as to the wooing of girls. He said that the best work of a man's career should be laid reverently at their feet. Ruskin writes something like this somewhere, I think; but in ordinary life a few kisses are better and save time. About a month after he had lost his heart to Miss Venner, and had been doing his work vilely in consequence, the first idea of his "Native Rule in Central India" struck Wressley and filled him with joy. It was, as he sketched it, a great thing--the work of his life--a really comprehensive survey of a most fascinating subject--to be written with all the special and laboriously acquired knowledge of Wressley of the Foreign Office--a gift fit for an Empress. He told Miss Venner that he was going to take leave, and hoped, on his return, to bring her a present worthy of her acceptance. Would she wait? Certainly she would. Wressley drew seventeen hundred rupees a month. She would wait a year for that. Her mamma would help her to wait. So Wressley took one year's leave and all the available documents, about a truck-load, that he could lay hands on, and went down to Central India with his notion hot in his head. He began his book in the land he was writing of. Too much official correspondence had made him a frigid workman, and he must have guessed that he needed the white light of local color on his palette. This is a dangerous paint for amateurs to play with. Heavens, how that man worked! He caught his Rajahs, analyzed his Rajahs, and traced them up into the mists of Time and beyond, with their queens and their concubines. He dated and cross-dated, pedigreed and triple-pedigreed, compared, noted, connoted, wove, strung, sorted, selected, inferred, calendared and counter-calendared for ten hours a day. And, because this sudden and new light of Love was upon him, he turned those dry bones of history and dirty records of misdeeds into things to weep or to laugh over as he pleased. His heart and soul were at the end of his pen, and they got into the ink. He was dowered with sympathy, insight, humor and style for two hundred and thirty days and nights; and his book was a Book. He had his vast special knowledge with him, so to speak; but the spirit, the woven-in human Touch, the poetry and the power of the output, were beyond all special knowledge. But I doubt whether he knew the gift that was in him then, and thus he may have lost some happiness. He was toiling for Tillie Venner, not for himself. Men often do their best work blind, for some one else's sake. Also, though this has nothing to do with the story, in India where every one knows every one else, you can watch men being driven, by the women who govern them, out of the rank-and-file and sent to take up points alone. A good man once started, goes forward; but an average man, so soon as the woman loses interest in his success as a tribute to her power, comes back to the battalion and is no more heard of. Wressley bore the first copy of his book to Simla and, blushing and stammering, presented it to Miss Venner. She read a little of it. I give her review verbatim:--"Oh, your book? It's all about those how-wid Wajahs. I didn't understand it."......... Wressley of the Foreign Office was broken, smashed,--I am not exaggerating--by this one frivolous little girl. All that he could say feebly was:--"But, but it's my magnum opus! The work of my life." Miss Venner did not know what magnum opus meant; but she knew that Captain Kerrington had won three races at the last Gymkhana. Wressley didn't press her to wait for him any longer. He had sense enough for that. Then came the reaction after the year's strain, and Wressley went back to the Foreign Office and his "Wajahs," a compiling, gazetteering, report-writing hack, who would have been dear at three hundred rupees a month. He abided by Miss Venner's review. Which proves that the inspiration in the book was purely temporary and unconnected with himself. Nevertheless, he had no right to sink, in a hill-tarn, five packing-cases, brought up at enormous expense from Bombay, of the best book of Indian history ever written. When he sold off before retiring, some years later, I was turning over his shelves, and came across the only existing copy of "Native Rule in Central India"--the copy that Miss Venner could not understand. I read it, sitting on his mule-trucks, as long as the light lasted, and offered him his own price for it. He looked over my shoulder for a few pages and said to himself drearily:--"Now, how in the world did I come to write such damned good stuff as that?" Then to me:--"Take it and keep it. Write one of your penny-farthing yarns about its birth. Perhaps--perhaps--the whole business may have been ordained to that end." Which, knowing what Wressley of the Foreign Office was once, struck me as about the bitterest thing that I had ever heard a man say of his own work. BY WORD OF MOUTH. Not though you die tonight, O Sweet, and wail, A spectre at my door, Shall mortal Fear make Love immortal fail-- I shall but love you more, Who from Death's house returning, give me still One moment's comfort in my matchless ill. --Shadow Houses. This tale may be explained by those who know how souls are made, and where the bounds of the Possible are put down. I have lived long enough in this country to know that it is best to know nothing, and can only write the story as it happened. Dumoise was our Civil Surgeon at Meridki, and we called him "Dormouse," because he was a round little, sleepy little man. He was a good Doctor and never quarrelled with any one, not even with our Deputy Commissioner, who had the manners of a bargee and the tact of a horse. He married a girl as round and as sleepy-looking as himself. She was a Miss Hillardyce, daughter of "Squash" Hillardyce of the Berars, who married his Chief's daughter by mistake. But that is another story. A honeymoon in India is seldom more than a week long; but there is nothing to hinder a couple from extending it over two or three years. This is a delightful country for married folk who are wrapped up in one another. They can live absolutely alone and without interruption--just as the Dormice did. These two little people retired from the world after their marriage, and were very happy. They were forced, of course, to give occasional dinners, but they made no friends hereby, and the Station went its own way and forgot them; only saying, occasionally, that Dormouse was the best of good fellows, though dull. A Civil Surgeon who never quarrels is a rarity, appreciated as such. Few people can afford to play Robinson Crusoe anywhere--least of all in India, where we are few in the land, and very much dependent on each other's kind offices. Dumoise was wrong in shutting himself from the world for a year, and he discovered his mistake when an epidemic of typhoid broke out in the Station in the heart of the cold weather, and his wife went down. He was a shy little man, and five days were wasted before he realized that Mrs. Dumoise was burning with something worse than simple fever, and three days more passed before he ventured to call on Mrs. Shute, the Engineer's wife, and timidly speak about his trouble. Nearly every household in India knows that Doctors are very helpless in typhoid. The battle must be fought out between Death and the Nurses, minute by minute and degree by degree. Mrs. Shute almost boxed Dumoise's ears for what she called his "criminal delay," and went off at once to look after the poor girl. We had seven cases of typhoid in the Station that winter and, as the average of death is about one in every five cases, we felt certain that we should have to lose somebody. But all did their best. The women sat up nursing the women, and the men turned to and tended the bachelors who were down, and we wrestled with those typhoid cases for fifty-six days, and brought them through the Valley of the Shadow in triumph. But, just when we thought all was over, and were going to give a dance to celebrate the victory, little Mrs. Dumoise got a relapse and died in a week and the Station went to the funeral. Dumoise broke down utterly at the brink of the grave, and had to be taken away. After the death, Dumoise crept into his own house and refused to be comforted. He did his duties perfectly, but we all felt that he should go on leave, and the other men of his own Service told him so. Dumoise was very thankful for the suggestion--he was thankful for anything in those days--and went to Chini on a walking-tour. Chini is some twenty marches from Simla, in the heart of the Hills, and the scenery is good if you are in trouble. You pass through big, still deodar-forests, and under big, still cliffs, and over big, still grass-downs swelling like a woman's breasts; and the wind across the grass, and the rain among the deodars says:--"Hush--hush--hush." So little Dumoise was packed off to Chini, to wear down his grief with a full-plate camera, and a rifle. He took also a useless bearer, because the man had been his wife's favorite servant. He was idle and a thief, but Dumoise trusted everything to him. On his way back from Chini, Dumoise turned aside to Bagi, through the Forest Reserve which is on the spur of Mount Huttoo. Some men who have travelled more than a little say that the march from Kotegarh to Bagi is one of the finest in creation. It runs through dark wet forest, and ends suddenly in bleak, nipped hill-side and black rocks. Bagi dak-bungalow is open to all the winds and is bitterly cold. Few people go to Bagi. Perhaps that was the reason why Dumoise went there. He halted at seven in the evening, and his bearer went down the hill-side to the village to engage coolies for the next day's march. The sun had set, and the night-winds were beginning to croon among the rocks. Dumoise leaned on the railing of the verandah, waiting for his bearer to return. The man came back almost immediately after he had disappeared, and at such a rate that Dumoise fancied he must have crossed a bear. He was running as hard as he could up the face of the hill. But there was no bear to account for his terror. He raced to the verandah and fell down, the blood spurting from his nose and his face iron-gray. Then he gurgled:--"I have seen the Memsahib! I have seen the Memsahib!" "Where?" said Dumoise. "Down there, walking on the road to the village. She was in a blue dress, and she lifted the veil of her bonnet and said:--'Ram Dass, give my salaams to the Sahib, and tell him that I shall meet him next month at Nuddea.' Then I ran away, because I was afraid." What Dumoise said or did I do not know. Ram Dass declares that he said nothing, but walked up and down the verandah all the cold night, waiting for the Memsahib to come up the hill and stretching out his arms into the dark like a madman. But no Memsahib came, and, next day, he went on to Simla cross-questioning the bearer every hour. Ram Dass could only say that he had met Mrs. Dumoise and that she had lifted up her veil and given him the message which he had faithfully repeated to Dumoise. To this statement Ram Dass adhered. He did not know where Nuddea was, had no friends at Nuddea, and would most certainly never go to Nuddea; even though his pay were doubled. Nuddea is in Bengal, and has nothing whatever to do with a doctor serving in the Punjab. It must be more than twelve hundred miles from Meridki. Dumoise went through Simla without halting, and returned to Meridki there to take over charge from the man who had been officiating for him during his tour. There were some Dispensary accounts to be explained, and some recent orders of the Surgeon-General to be noted, and, altogether, the taking-over was a full day's work. In the evening, Dumoise told his locum tenens, who was an old friend of his bachelor days, what had happened at Bagi; and the man said that Ram Dass might as well have chosen Tuticorin while he was about it. At that moment a telegraph-peon came in with a telegram from Simla, ordering Dumoise not to take over charge at Meridki, but to go at once to Nuddea on special duty. There was a nasty outbreak of cholera at Nuddea, and the Bengal Government, being shorthanded, as usual, had borrowed a Surgeon from the Punjab. Dumoise threw the telegram across the table and said:--"Well?" The other Doctor said nothing. It was all that he could say. Then he remembered that Dumoise had passed through Simla on his way from Bagi; and thus might, possibly, have heard the first news of the impending transfer. He tried to put the question, and the implied suspicion into words, but Dumoise stopped him with:--"If I had desired THAT, I should never have come back from Chini. I was shooting there. I wish to live, for I have things to do.... but I shall not be sorry." The other man bowed his head, and helped, in the twilight, to pack up Dumoise's just opened trunks. Ram Dass entered with the lamps. "Where is the Sahib going?" he asked. "To Nuddea," said Dumoise, softly. Ram Dass clawed Dumoise's knees and boots and begged him not to go. Ram Dass wept and howled till he was turned out of the room. Then he wrapped up all his belongings and came back to ask for a character. He was not going to Nuddea to see his Sahib die, and, perhaps to die himself. So Dumoise gave the man his wages and went down to Nuddea alone; the other Doctor bidding him goodbye as one under sentence of death. Eleven days later, he had joined his Memsahib; and the Bengal Government had to borrow a fresh Doctor to cope with that epidemic at Nuddea. The first importation lay dead in Chooadanga Dak-Bungalow. TO BE HELD FOR REFERENCE. By the hoof of the Wild Goat up-tossed From the Cliff where She lay in the Sun, Fell the Stone To the Tarn where the daylight is lost; So She fell from the light of the Sun, And alone. Now the fall was ordained from the first, With the Goat and the Cliff and the Tarn, But the Stone Knows only Her life is accursed, As She sinks in the depths of the Tarn, And alone. Oh, Thou who has builded the world, Oh, Thou who hast lighted the Sun! Oh, Thou who hast darkened the Tarn! Judge Thou The Sin of the Stone that was hurled By the Goat from the light of the Sun, As She sinks in the mire of the Tarn, Even now--even now--even now! --From the Unpublished Papers of McIntosh Jellaludin. "Say, is it dawn, is it dusk in thy Bower, Thou whom I long for, who longest for me? Oh be it night--be it--" Here he fell over a little camel-colt that was sleeping in the Serai where the horse-traders and the best of the blackguards from Central Asia live; and, because he was very drunk indeed and the night was dark, he could not rise again till I helped him. That was the beginning of my acquaintance with McIntosh Jellaludin. When a loafer, and drunk, sings The Song of the Bower, he must be worth cultivating. He got off the camel's back and said, rather thickly:--"I--I--I'm a bit screwed, but a dip in Loggerhead will put me right again; and I say, have you spoken to Symonds about the mare's knees?" Now Loggerhead was six thousand weary miles away from us, close to Mesopotamia, where you mustn't fish and poaching is impossible, and Charley Symonds' stable a half mile further across the paddocks. It was strange to hear all the old names, on a May night, among the horses and camels of the Sultan Caravanserai. Then the man seemed to remember himself and sober down at the same time. He leaned against the camel and pointed to a corner of the Serai where a lamp was burning:-- "I live there," said he, "and I should be extremely obliged if you would be good enough to help my mutinous feet thither; for I am more than usually drunk--most--most phenomenally tight. But not in respect to my head. 'My brain cries out against'--how does it go? But my head rides on the--rolls on the dung-hill I should have said, and controls the qualm." I helped him through the gangs of tethered horses and he collapsed on the edge of the verandah in front of the line of native quarters. "Thanks--a thousand thanks! O Moon and little, little Stars! To think that a man should so shamelessly.... Infamous liquor, too. Ovid in exile drank no worse. Better. It was frozen. Alas! I had no ice. Good night. I would introduce you to my wife were I sober--or she civilized." A native woman came out of the darkness of the room, and began calling the man names; so I went away. He was the most interesting loafer that I had the pleasure of knowing for a long time; and later on, he became a friend of mine. He was a tall, well-built, fair man fearfully shaken with drink, and he looked nearer fifty than the thirty-five which, he said, was his real age. When a man begins to sink in India, and is not sent Home by his friends as soon as may be, he falls very low from a respectable point of view. By the time that he changes his creed, as did McIntosh, he is past redemption. In most big cities, natives will tell you of two or three Sahibs, generally low-caste, who have turned Hindu or Mussulman, and who live more or less as such. But it is not often that you can get to know them. As McIntosh himself used to say:--"If I change my religion for my stomach's sake, I do not seek to become a martyr to missionaries, nor am I anxious for notoriety." At the outset of acquaintance McIntosh warned me. "Remember this. I am not an object for charity. I require neither your money, your food, nor your cast-off raiment. I am that rare animal, a self-supporting drunkard. If you choose, I will smoke with you, for the tobacco of the bazars does not, I admit, suit my palate; and I will borrow any books which you may not specially value. It is more than likely that I shall sell them for bottles of excessively filthy country-liquors. In return, you shall share such hospitality as my house affords. Here is a charpoy on which two can sit, and it is possible that there may, from time to time, be food in that platter. Drink, unfortunately, you will find on the premises at any hour: and thus I make you welcome to all my poor establishments." I was admitted to the McIntosh household--I and my good tobacco. But nothing else. Unluckily, one cannot visit a loafer in the Serai by day. Friends buying horses would not understand it. Consequently, I was obliged to see McIntosh after dark. He laughed at this, and said simply:--"You are perfectly right. When I enjoyed a position in society, rather higher than yours, I should have done exactly the same thing, Good Heavens! I was once"--he spoke as though he had fallen from the Command of a Regiment--"an Oxford Man!" This accounted for the reference to Charley Symonds' stable. "You," said McIntosh, slowly, "have not had that advantage; but, to outward appearance, you do not seem possessed of a craving for strong drinks. On the whole, I fancy that you are the luckier of the two. Yet I am not certain. You are--forgive my saying so even while I am smoking your excellent tobacco--painfully ignorant of many things." We were sitting together on the edge of his bedstead, for he owned no chairs, watching the horses being watered for the night, while the native woman was preparing dinner. I did not like being patronized by a loafer, but I was his guest for the time being, though he owned only one very torn alpaca-coat and a pair of trousers made out of gunny-bags. He took the pipe out of his mouth, and went on judicially:--"All things considered, I doubt whether you are the luckier. I do not refer to your extremely limited classical attainments, or your excruciating quantities, but to your gross ignorance of matters more immediately under your notice. That for instance."--He pointed to a woman cleaning a samovar near the well in the centre of the Serai. She was flicking the water out of the spout in regular cadenced jerks. "There are ways and ways of cleaning samovars. If you knew why she was doing her work in that particular fashion, you would know what the Spanish Monk meant when he said-- 'I the Trinity illustrate, Drinking watered orange-pulp-- In three sips the Aryan frustrate, While he drains his at one gulp.--' and many other things which now are hidden from your eyes. However, Mrs. McIntosh has prepared dinner. Let us come and eat after the fashion of the people of the country--of whom, by the way, you know nothing." The native woman dipped her hand in the dish with us. This was wrong. The wife should always wait until the husband has eaten. McIntosh Jellaludin apologized, saying:-- "It is an English prejudice which I have not been able to overcome; and she loves me. Why, I have never been able to understand. I fore-gathered with her at Jullundur, three years ago, and she has remained with me ever since. I believe her to be moral, and know her to be skilled in cookery." He patted the woman's head as he spoke, and she cooed softly. She was not pretty to look at. McIntosh never told me what position he had held before his fall. He was, when sober, a scholar and a gentleman. When drunk, he was rather more of the first than the second. He used to get drunk about once a week for two days. On those occasions the native woman tended him while he raved in all tongues except his own. One day, indeed, he began reciting Atalanta in Calydon, and went through it to the end, beating time to the swing of the verse with a bedstead-leg. But he did most of his ravings in Greek or German. The man's mind was a perfect rag-bag of useless things. Once, when he was beginning to get sober, he told me that I was the only rational being in the Inferno into which he had descended--a Virgil in the Shades, he said--and that, in return for my tobacco, he would, before he died, give me the materials of a new Inferno that should make me greater than Dante. Then he fell asleep on a horse-blanket and woke up quite calm. "Man," said he, "when you have reached the uttermost depths of degradation, little incidents which would vex a higher life, are to you of no consequence. Last night, my soul was among the gods; but I make no doubt that my bestial body was writhing down here in the garbage." "You were abominably drunk if that's what you mean," I said. "I WAS drunk--filthy drunk. I who am the son of a man with whom you have no concern--I who was once Fellow of a College whose buttery-hatch you have not seen. I was loathsomely drunk. But consider how lightly I am touched. It is nothing to me. Less than nothing; for I do not even feel the headache which should be my portion. Now, in a higher life, how ghastly would have been my punishment, how bitter my repentance! Believe me, my friend with the neglected education, the highest is as the lowest--always supposing each degree extreme." He turned round on the blanket, put his head between his fists and continued:-- "On the Soul which I have lost and on the Conscience which I have killed, I tell you that I CANNOT feel! I am as the gods, knowing good and evil, but untouched by either. Is this enviable or is it not?" When a man has lost the warning of "next morning's head," he must be in a bad state, I answered, looking at McIntosh on the blanket, with his hair over his eyes and his lips blue-white, that I did not think the insensibility good enough. "For pity's sake, don't say that! I tell you, it IS good and most enviable. Think of my consolations!" "Have you so many, then, McIntosh?" "Certainly; your attempts at sarcasm which is essentially the weapon of a cultured man, are crude. First, my attainments, my classical and literary knowledge, blurred, perhaps, by immoderate drinking--which reminds me that before my soul went to the Gods last night, I sold the Pickering Horace you so kindly lent me. Ditta Mull the Clothesman has it. It fetched ten annas, and may be redeemed for a rupee--but still infinitely superior to yours. Secondly, the abiding affection of Mrs. McIntosh, best of wives. Thirdly, a monument, more enduring than brass, which I have built up in the seven years of my degradation." He stopped here, and crawled across the room for a drink of water. He was very shaky and sick. He referred several times to his "treasure"--some great possession that he owned--but I held this to be the raving of drink. He was as poor and as proud as he could be. His manner was not pleasant, but he knew enough about the natives, among whom seven years of his life had been spent, to make his acquaintance worth having. He used actually to laugh at Strickland as an ignorant man--"ignorant West and East"--he said. His boast was, first, that he was an Oxford Man of rare and shining parts, which may or may not have been true--I did not know enough to check his statements--and, secondly, that he "had his hand on the pulse of native life"--which was a fact. As an Oxford man, he struck me as a prig: he was always throwing his education about. As a Mahommedan faquir--as McIntosh Jellaludin--he was all that I wanted for my own ends. He smoked several pounds of my tobacco, and taught me several ounces of things worth knowing; but he would never accept any gifts, not even when the cold weather came, and gripped the poor thin chest under the poor thin alpaca-coat. He grew very angry, and said that I had insulted him, and that he was not going into hospital. He had lived like a beast and he would die rationally, like a man. As a matter of fact, he died of pneumonia; and on the night of his death sent over a grubby note asking me to come and help him to die. The native woman was weeping by the side of the bed. McIntosh, wrapped in a cotton cloth, was too weak to resent a fur coat being thrown over him. He was very active as far as his mind was concerned, and his eyes were blazing. When he had abused the Doctor who came with me so foully that the indignant old fellow left, he cursed me for a few minutes and calmed down. Then he told his wife to fetch out "The Book" from a hole in the wall. She brought out a big bundle, wrapped in the tail of a petticoat, of old sheets of miscellaneous note-paper, all numbered and covered with fine cramped writing. McIntosh ploughed his hand through the rubbish and stirred it up lovingly. "This," he said, "is my work--the Book of McIntosh Jellaludin, showing what he saw and how he lived, and what befell him and others; being also an account of the life and sins and death of Mother Maturin. What Mirza Murad Ali Beg's book is to all other books on native life, will my work be to Mirza Murad Ali Beg's!" This, as will be conceded by any one who knows Mirza Ali Beg's book, was a sweeping statement. The papers did not look specially valuable; but McIntosh handled them as if they were currency-notes. Then he said slowly:--"In despite the many weaknesses of your education, you have been good to me. I will speak of your tobacco when I reach the Gods. I owe you much thanks for many kindnesses. "But I abominate indebtedness. For this reason I bequeath to you now the monument more enduring than brass--my one book--rude and imperfect in parts, but oh, how rare in others! I wonder if you will understand it. It is a gift more honorable than... Bah! where is my brain rambling to? You will mutilate it horribly. You will knock out the gems you call 'Latin quotations,' you Philistine, and you will butcher the style to carve into your own jerky jargon; but you cannot destroy the whole of it. I bequeath it to you. "Ethel... My brain again!.. Mrs. McIntosh, bear witness that I give the sahib all these papers. They would be of no use to you, Heart of my heart; and I lay it upon you," he turned to me here, "that you do not let my book die in its present form. It is yours unconditionally--the story of McIntosh Jellaludin, which is NOT the story of McIntosh Jellaludin, but of a greater man than he, and of a far greater woman. Listen now! I am neither mad nor drunk! That book will make you famous." I said, "thank you," as the native woman put the bundle into my arms. "My only baby!" said McIntosh with a smile. He was sinking fast, but he continued to talk as long as breath remained. I waited for the end: knowing that, in six cases out of ten the dying man calls for his mother. He turned on his side and said:-- "Say how it came into your possession. No one will believe you, but my name, at least, will live. You will treat it brutally, I know you will. Some of it must go; the public are fools and prudish fools. I was their servant once. But do your mangling gently--very gently. It is a great work, and I have paid for it in seven years' damnation." His voice stopped for ten or twelve breaths, and then he began mumbling a prayer of some kind in Greek. The native woman cried very bitterly. Lastly, he rose in bed and said, as loudly as slowly:--"Not guilty, my Lord!" Then he fell back, and the stupor held him till he died. The native woman ran into the Serai among the horses and screamed and beat her breasts; for she had loved him. Perhaps his last sentence in life told what McIntosh had once gone through; but, saving the big bundle of old sheets in the cloth, there was nothing in his room to say who or what he had been. The papers were in a hopeless muddle. Strickland helped me to sort them, and he said that the writer was either an extreme liar or a most wonderful person. He thought the former. One of these days, you may be able to judge for yourself. The bundle needed much expurgation and was full of Greek nonsense, at the head of the chapters, which has all been cut out. If the things are ever published some one may perhaps remember this story, now printed as a safeguard to prove that McIntosh Jellaludin and not I myself wrote the Book of Mother Maturin. I don't want the Giant's Robe to come true in my case. VOLUME VI THE LIGHT THAT FAILED THE LIGHT THAT FAILED CHAPTER I So we settled it all when the storm was done As comf'y as comf'y could be; And I was to wait in the barn, my dears, Because I was only three; And Teddy would run to the rainbow's foot, Because he was five and a man; And that's how it all began, my dears, And that's how it all began. --Big Barn Stories. "WHAT do you think she'd do if she caught us? We oughtn't to have it, you know," said Maisie. "Beat me, and lock you up in your bedroom," Dick answered, without hesitation. "Have you got the cartridges?" "Yes; they're in my pocket, but they are joggling horribly. Do pin-fire cartridges go off of their own accord?" "Don't know. Take the revolver, if you are afraid, and let me carry them." "I'm not afraid." Maisie strode forward swiftly, a hand in her pocket and her chin in the air. Dick followed with a small pin-fire revolver. The children had discovered that their lives would be unendurable without pistol-practice. After much forethought and self-denial, Dick had saved seven shillings and sixpence, the price of a badly constructed Belgian revolver. Maisie could only contribute half a crown to the syndicate for the purchase of a hundred cartridges. "You can save better than I can, Dick," she explained; "I like nice things to eat, and it doesn't matter to you. Besides, boys ought to do these things." Dick grumbled a little at the arrangement, but went out and made the purchase, which the children were then on their way to test. Revolvers did not lie in the scheme of their daily life as decreed for them by the guardian who was incorrectly supposed to stand in the place of a mother to these two orphans. Dick had been under her care for six years, during which time she had made her profit of the allowances supposed to be expended on his clothes, and, partly through thoughtlessness, partly through a natural desire to pain,--she was a widow of some years anxious to marry again,--had made his days burdensome on his young shoulders. Where he had looked for love, she gave him first aversion and then hate. Where he growing older had sought a little sympathy, she gave him ridicule. The many hours that she could spare from the ordering of her small house she devoted to what she called the home-training of Dick Heldar. Her religion, manufactured in the main by her own intelligence and a keen study of the Scriptures, was an aid to her in this matter. At such times as she herself was not personally displeased with Dick, she left him to understand that he had a heavy account to settle with his Creator; wherefore Dick learned to loathe his God as intensely as he loathed Mrs. Jennett; and this is not a wholesome frame of mind for the young. Since she chose to regard him as a hopeless liar, when dread of pain drove him to his first untruth he naturally developed into a liar, but an economical and self-contained one, never throwing away the least unnecessary fib, and never hesitating at the blackest, were it only plausible, that might make his life a little easier. The treatment taught him at least the power of living alone,--a power that was of service to him when he went to a public school and the boys laughed at his clothes, which were poor in quality and much mended. In the holidays he returned to the teachings of Mrs. Jennett, and, that the chain of discipline might not be weakened by association with the world, was generally beaten, on one account or another, before he had been twelve hours under her roof. The autumn of one year brought him a companion in bondage, a long-haired, gray-eyed little atom, as self-contained as himself, who moved about the house silently and for the first few weeks spoke only to the goat that was her chiefest friend on earth and lived in the back-garden. Mrs. Jennett objected to the goat on the grounds that he was un-Christian,--which he certainly was. "Then," said the atom, choosing her words very deliberately, "I shall write to my lawyer-peoples and tell them that you are a very bad woman. Amomma is mine, mine, mine!" Mrs. Jennett made a movement to the hall, where certain umbrellas and canes stood in a rack. The atom understood as clearly as Dick what this meant. "I have been beaten before," she said, still in the same passionless voice; "I have been beaten worse than you can ever beat me. If you beat me I shall write to my lawyer-peoples and tell them that you do not give me enough to eat. I am not afraid of you." Mrs. Jennett did not go into the hall, and the atom, after a pause to assure herself that all danger of war was past, went out, to weep bitterly on Amomma's neck. Dick learned to know her as Maisie, and at first mistrusted her profoundly, for he feared that she might interfere with the small liberty of action left to him. She did not, however; and she volunteered no friendliness until Dick had taken the first steps. Long before the holidays were over, the stress of punishment shared in common drove the children together, if it were only to play into each other's hands as they prepared lies for Mrs. Jennett's use. When Dick returned to school, Maisie whispered, "Now I shall be all alone to take care of myself; but," and she nodded her head bravely, "I can do it. You promised to send Amomma a grass collar. Send it soon." A week later she asked for that collar by return of post, and was not pleased when she learned that it took time to make. When at last Dick forwarded the gift, she forgot to thank him for it. Many holidays had come and gone since that day, and Dick had grown into a lanky hobbledehoy more than ever conscious of his bad clothes. Not for a moment had Mrs. Jennett relaxed her tender care of him, but the average canings of a public school--Dick fell under punishment about three times a month--filled him with contempt for her powers. "She doesn't hurt," he explained to Maisie, who urged him to rebellion, "and she is kinder to you after she has whacked me." Dick shambled through the days unkempt in body and savage in soul, as the smaller boys of the school learned to know, for when the spirit moved him he would hit them, cunningly and with science. The same spirit made him more than once try to tease Maisie, but the girl refused to be made unhappy. "We are both miserable as it is," said she. "What is the use of trying to make things worse? Let's find things to do, and forget things." The pistol was the outcome of that search. It could only be used on the muddiest foreshore of the beach, far away from the bathing-machines and pierheads, below the grassy slopes of Fort Keeling. The tide ran out nearly two miles on that coast, and the many-coloured mud-banks, touched by the sun, sent up a lamentable smell of dead weed. It was late in the afternoon when Dick and Maisie arrived on their ground, Amomma trotting patiently behind them. "Mf!" said Maisie, sniffing the air. "I wonder what makes the sea so smelly? I don'tlike it!" "You never like anything that isn't made just for you," said Dick bluntly. "Give me the cartridges, and I'll try first shot. How far does one of these little revolvers carry?" "Oh, half a mile," said Maisie, promptly. "At least it makes an awful noise. Be careful with the cartridges; I don't like those jagged stick-up things on the rim. Dick, do be careful." "All right. I know how to load. I'll fire at the breakwater out there." He fired, and Amomma ran away bleating. The bullet threw up a spurt of mud to the right of the wood-wreathed piles. "Throws high and to the right. You try, Maisie. Mind, it's loaded all round." Maisie took the pistol and stepped delicately to the verge of the mud, her hand firmly closed on the butt, her mouth and left eye screwed up. Dick sat down on a tuft of bank and laughed. Amomma returned very cautiously. He was accustomed to strange experiences in his afternoon walks, and, finding the cartridge-box unguarded, made investigations with his nose. Maisie fired, but could not see where the bullet went. "I think it hit the post," she said, shading her eyes and looking out across the sailless sea. "I know it has gone out to the Marazion Bell-buoy," said Dick, with a chuckle. "Fire low and to the left; then perhaps you'll get it. Oh, look at Amomma!--he's eating the cartridges!" Maisie turned, the revolver in her hand, just in time to see Amomma scampering away from the pebbles Dick threw after him. Nothing is sacred to a billy-goat. Being well fed and the adored of his mistress, Amomma had naturally swallowed two loaded pin-fire cartridges. Maisie hurried up to assure herself that Dick had not miscounted the tale. "Yes, he's eaten two." "Horrid little beast! Then they'll joggle about inside him and blow up, and serve him right.... Oh, Dick! have I killed you?" Revolvers are tricky things for young hands to deal with. Maisie could not explain how it had happened, but a veil of reeking smoke separated her from Dick, and she was quite certain that the pistol had gone off in his face. Then she heard him sputter, and dropped on her knees beside him, crying, "Dick, you aren't hurt, are you? I didn't mean it." "Of course you didn't," said Dick, coming out of the smoke and wiping his cheek. "But you nearly blinded me. That powder stuff stings awfully." A neat little splash of gray led on a stone showed where the bullet had gone. Maisie began to whimper. "Don't," said Dick, jumping to his feet and shaking himself. "I'm not a bit hurt." "No, but I might have killed you," protested Maisie, the corners of her mouth drooping. "What should I have done then?" "Gone home and told Mrs. Jennett." Dick grinned at the thought; then, softening, "Please don't worry about it. Besides, we are wasting time. We've got to get back to tea. I'll take the revolver for a bit." Maisie would have wept on the least encouragement, but Dick's indifference, albeit his hand was shaking as he picked up the pistol, restrained her. She lay panting on the beach while Dick methodically bombarded the breakwater. "Got it at last!" he exclaimed, as a lock of weed flew from the wood. "Let me try," said Maisie, imperiously. "I'm all right now." They fired in turns till the rickety little revolver nearly shook itself to pieces, and Amomma the outcast--because he might blow up at any moment--browsed in the background and wondered why stones were thrown at him. Then they found a balk of timber floating in a pool which was commanded by the seaward slope of Fort Keeling, and they sat down together before this new target. "Next holidays," said Dick, as the now thoroughly fouled revolver kicked wildly in his hand, "we'll get another pistol,--central fire,--that will carry farther." "There won't be any next holidays for me," said Maisie. "I'm going away." "Where to?" "I don't know. My lawyers have written to Mrs. Jennett, and I've got to be educated somewhere,--in France, perhaps,--I don'tknow where; but I shall be glad to go away." "I shan't like it a bit. I suppose I shall be left. Look here, Maisie, is it really true you're going? Then these holidays will be the last I shall see anything of you; and I go back to school next week. I wish----" The young blood turned his cheeks scarlet. Maisie was picking grass-tufts and throwing them down the slope at a yellow sea-poppy nodding all by itself to the illimitable levels of the mud-flats and the milk-white sea beyond. "I wish," she said, after a pause, "that I could see you again sometime. You wish that, too?" "Yes, but it would have been better if--if--you had--shot straight over there--down by the breakwater." Maisie looked with large eyes for a moment. And this was the boy who only ten days before had decorated Amomma's horns with cut-paper ham-frills and turned him out, a bearded derision, among the public ways! Then she dropped her eyes: this was not the boy. "Don't be stupid," she said reprovingly, and with swift instinct attacked the side-issue. "How selfish you are! Just think what I should have felt if that horrid thing had killed you! I'm quite miserable enough already." "Why? Because you're going away from Mrs. Jennett?" "No." "From me, then?" No answer for a long time. Dick dared not look at her. He felt, though he did not know, all that the past four years had been to him, and this the more acutely since he had no knowledge to put his feelings in words. "I don't know," she said. "I suppose it is." "Maisie, you must know. I'm not supposing." "Let's go home," said Maisie, weakly. But Dick was not minded to retreat. "I can't say things," he pleaded, "and I'm awfully sorry for teasing you about Amomma the other day. It's all different now, Maisie, can't you see? And you might have told me that you were going, instead of leaving me to find out." "You didn't. I did tell. Oh, Dick, what's the use of worrying?" "There isn't any; but we've been together years and years, and I didn't know how much I cared." "I don't believe you ever did care." "No, I didn't; but I do,--I care awfully now, Maisie," he gulped,--"Maisie, darling, say you care too, please." "I do, indeed I do; but it won't be any use." "Why?" "Because I am going away." "Yes, but if you promise before you go. Only say--will you?" A second "darling" came to his lips more easily than the first. There were few endearments in Dick's home or school life; he had to find them by instinct. Dick caught the little hand blackened with the escaped gas of the revolver. "I promise," she said solemnly; "but if I care there is no need for promising." "And do you care?" For the first time in the past few minutes their eyes met and spoke for them who had no skill in speech.... "Oh, Dick, don't! Please don't! It was all right when we said good-morning; but now it's all different!" Amomma looked on from afar. He had seen his property quarrel frequently, but he had never seen kisses exchanged before. The yellow sea-poppy was wiser, and nodded its head approvingly. Considered as a kiss, that was a failure, but since it was the first, other than those demanded by duty, in all the world that either had ever given or taken, it opened to them new worlds, and every one of them glorious, so that they were lifted above the consideration of any worlds at all, especially those in which tea is necessary, and sat still, holding each other's hands and saying not a word. "You can't forget now," said Dick, at last. There was that on his cheek that stung more than gunpowder. "I shouldn't have forgotten anyhow," said Maisie, and they looked at each other and saw that each was changed from the companion of an hour ago to a wonder and a mystery they could not understand. The sun began to set, and a night-wind thrashed along the bents of the foreshore. "We shall be awfully late for tea," said Maisie. "Let's go home." "Let's use the rest of the cartridges first," said Dick; and he helped Maisie down the slope of the fort to the sea,--a descent that she was quite capable of covering at full speed. Equally gravely Maisie took the grimy hand. Dick bent forward clumsily; Maisie drew the hand away, and Dick blushed. "It's very pretty," he said. "Pooh!" said Maisie, with a little laugh of gratified vanity. She stood close to Dick as he loaded the revolver for the last time and fired over the sea with a vague notion at the back of his head that he was protecting Maisie from all the evils in the world. A puddle far across the mud caught the last rays of the sun and turned into a wrathful red disc. The light held Dick's attention for a moment, and as he raised his revolver there fell upon him a renewed sense of the miraculous, in that he was standing by Maisie who had promised to care for him for an indefinite length of time till such date as----A gust of the growing wind drove the girl's long black hair across his face as she stood with her hand on his shoulder calling Amomma "a little beast," and for a moment he was in the dark,--a darkness that stung. The bullet went singing out to the empty sea. "Spoilt my aim," said he, shaking his head. "There aren't any more cartridges; we shall have to run home." But they did not run. They walked very slowly, arm in arm. And it was a matter of indifference to them whether the neglected Amomma with two pin-fire cartridges in his inside blew up or trotted beside them; for they had come into a golden heritage and were disposing of it with all the wisdom of all their years. "And I shall be----" quoth Dick, valiantly. Then he checked himself: "I don't know what I shall be. I don't seem to be able to pass any exams, but I can make awful caricatures of the masters. Ho! Ho!" "Be an artist, then," said Maisie. "You're always laughing at my trying to draw; and it will do you good." "I'll never laugh at anything you do," he answered. "I'll be an artist, and I'll do things." "Artists always want money, don'tthey?" "I've got a hundred and twenty pounds a year of my own. My guardians tell me I'm to have it when I come of age. That will be enough to begin with." "Ah, I'm rich," said Maisie. "I've got three hundred a year all my own when I'm twenty-one. That's why Mrs. Jennett is kinder to me than she is to you. I wish, though, that I had somebody that belonged to me,--just a father or a mother." "You belong to me," said Dick, "for ever and ever." "Yes, we belong--for ever. It's very nice." She squeezed his arm. The kindly darkness hid them both, and, emboldened because he could only just see the profile of Maisie's cheek with the long lashes veiling the gray eyes, Dick at the front door delivered himself of the words he had been boggling over for the last two hours. "And I--love you, Maisie," he said, in a whisper that seemed to him to ring across the world,--the world that he would tomorrow or the next day set out to conquer. There was a scene, not, for the sake of discipline, to be reported, when Mrs. Jennett would have fallen upon him, first for disgraceful unpunctuality, and secondly for nearly killing himself with a forbidden weapon. "I was playing with it, and it went off by itself," said Dick, when the powder-pocked cheek could no longer be hidden, "but if you think you're going to lick me you're wrong. You are never going to touch me again. Sit down and give me my tea. You can't cheat us out of that, anyhow." Mrs. Jennett gasped and became livid. Maisie said nothing, but encouraged Dick with her eyes, and he behaved abominably all that evening. Mrs. Jennett prophesied an immediate judgment of Providence and a descent into Tophet later, but Dick walked in Paradise and would not hear. Only when he was going to bed Mrs. Jennett recovered and asserted herself. He had bidden Maisie good night with down-dropped eyes and from a distance. "If you aren't a gentleman you might try to behave like one," said Mrs. Jennett, spitefully. "You've been quarrelling with Maisie again." This meant that the usual good-night kiss had been omitted. Maisie, white to the lips, thrust her cheek forward with a fine air of indifference, and was duly pecked by Dick, who tramped out of the room red as fire. That night he dreamed a wild dream. He had won all the world and brought it to Maisie in a cartridge-box, but she turned it over with her foot, and, instead of saying "Thank you," cried--"Where is the grass collar you promised for Amomma? Oh, how selfish you are!" CHAPTER II Then we brought the lances down, then the bugles blew, When we went to Kandahar, ridin' two an" two, Ridin', ridin', ridin', two an" two, Ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra, All the way to Kandahar, ridin' two an" two. --Barrack-Room Ballad. "I'M NOT angry with the British public, but I wish we had a few thousand of them scattered among these rooks. They wouldn't be in such a hurry to get at their morning papers then. Can't you imagine the regulation householder--Lover of Justice, Constant Reader, Paterfamilias, and all that lot--frizzling on hot gravel?" "With a blue veil over his head, and his clothes in strips. Has any man here a needle? I've got a piece of sugar-sack." "I'll lend you a packing-needle for six square inches of it then. Both my knees are worn through." "Why not six square acres, while you're about it? But lend me the needle, and I'll see what I can do with the selvage. I don't think there's enough to protect my royal body from the cold blast as it is. What are you doing with that everlasting sketch-book of yours, Dick?" "Study of our Special Correspondent repairing his wardrobe," said Dick, gravely, as the other man kicked off a pair of sorely worn riding-breeches and began to fit a square of coarse canvas over the most obvious open space. He grunted disconsolately as the vastness of the void developed itself. "Sugar-bags, indeed! Hi! you pilot man there! lend me all the sails for that whale-boat." A fez-crowned head bobbed up in the stern-sheets, divided itself into exact halves with one flashing grin, and bobbed down again. The man of the tattered breeches, clad only in a Norfolk jacket and a gray flannel shirt, went on with his clumsy sewing, while Dick chuckled over the sketch. Some twenty whale-boats were nuzzling a sand-bank which was dotted with English soldiery of half a dozen corps, bathing or washing their clothes. A heap of boat-rollers, commissariat-boxes, sugar-bags, and flour--and small-arm-ammunition-cases showed where one of the whale-boats had been compelled to unload hastily; and a regimental carpenter was swearing aloud as he tried, on a wholly insufficient allowance of white lead, to plaster up the sun-parched gaping seams of the boat herself. "First the bloomin' rudder snaps," said he to the world in general; "then the mast goes; an' then, s' help me, when she can't do nothin' else, she opens 'erself out like a cock-eyed Chinese lotus." "Exactly the case with my breeches, whoever you are," said the tailor, without looking up. "Dick, I wonder when I shall see a decent shop again." There was no answer, save the incessant angry murmur of the Nile as it raced round a basalt-walled bend and foamed across a rock-ridge half a mile upstream. It was as though the brown weight of the river would drive the white men back to their own country. The indescribable scent of Nile mud in the air told that the stream was falling and the next few miles would be no light thing for the whale-boats to overpass. The desert ran down almost to the banks, where, among gray, red, and black hillocks, a camel-corps was encamped. No man dared even for a day lose touch of the slow-moving boats; there had been no fighting for weeks past, and throughout all that time the Nile had never spared them. Rapid had followed rapid, rock rock, and island-group island-group, till the rank and file had long since lost all count of direction and very nearly of time. They were moving somewhere, they did not know why, to do something, they did not know what. Before them lay the Nile, and at the other end of it was one Gordon, fighting for the dear life, in a town called Khartoum. There were columns of British troops in the desert, or in one of the many deserts; there were yet more columns waiting to embark on the river; there were fresh drafts waiting at Assioot and Assuan; there were lies and rumours running over the face of the hopeless land from Suakin to the Sixth Cataract, and men supposed generally that there must be some one in authority to direct the general scheme of the many movements. The duty of that particular river-column was to keep the whale-boats afloat in the water, to avoid trampling on the villagers' crops when the gangs "tracked" the boats with lines thrown from midstream, to get as much sleep and food as was possible, and, above all, to press on without delay in the teeth of the churning Nile. With the soldiers sweated and toiled the correspondents of the newspapers, and they were almost as ignorant as their companions. But it was above all things necessary that England at breakfast should be amused and thrilled and interested, whether Gordon lived or died, or half the British army went to pieces in the sands. The Soudan campaign was a picturesque one, and lent itself to vivid word-painting. Now and again a "Special" managed to get slain,--which was not altogether a disadvantage to the paper that employed him,--and more often the hand-to-hand nature of the fighting allowed of miraculous escapes which were worth telegraphing home at eighteenpence the word. There were many correspondents with many corps and columns,--from the veterans who had followed on the heels of the cavalry that occupied Cairo in '82, what time Arabi Pasha called himself king, who had seen the first miserable work round Suakin when the sentries were cut up nightly and the scrub swarmed with spears, to youngsters jerked into the business at the end of a telegraph-wire to take the places of their betters killed or invalided. Among the seniors--those who knew every shift and change in the perplexing postal arrangements, the value of the seediest, weediest Egyptian garron offered for sale in Cairo or Alexandria, who could talk a telegraph-clerk into amiability and soothe the ruffled vanity of a newly appointed staff-officer when press regulations became burdensome--was the man in the flannel shirt, the black-browed Torpenhow. He represented the Central Southern Syndicate in the campaign, as he had represented it in the Egyptian war, and elsewhere. The syndicate did not concern itself greatly with criticisms of attack and the like. It supplied the masses, and all it demanded was picturesqueness and abundance of detail; for there is more joy in England over a soldier who insubordinately steps out of square to rescue a comrade than over twenty generals slaving even to baldness at the gross details of transport and commissariat. He had met at Suakin a young man, sitting on the edge of a recently abandoned redoubt about the size of a hat-box, sketching a clump of shell-torn bodies on the gravel plain. "What are you for?" said Torpenhow. The greeting of the correspondent is that of the commercial traveller on the road. "My own hand," said the young man, without looking up. "Have you any tobacco?" Torpenhow waited till the sketch was finished, and when he had looked at it said, "What's your business here?" "Nothing; there was a row, so I came. I'm supposed to be doing something down at the painting-slips among the boats, or else I'm in charge of the condenser on one of the water-ships. I've forgotten which." "You've cheek enough to build a redoubt with," said Torpenhow, and took stock of the new acquaintance. "Do you always draw like that?" The young man produced more sketches. "Row on a Chinese pig-boat," said he, sententiously, showing them one after another.--"Chief mate dirked by a comprador.--Junk ashore off Hakodate.--Somali muleteer being flogged.--Star-shell bursting over camp at Berbera.--Slave-dhow being chased round Tajurrah Bah.--Soldier lying dead in the moonlight outside Suakin.--throat cut by Fuzzies." "H'm!" said Torpenhow, "can'tsay I care for Verestchagin-and-water myself, but there's no accounting for tastes. Doing anything now, are you?" "No. I'm amusing myself here." Torpenhow looked at the sketches again, and nodded. "Yes, you're right to take your first chance when you can get it." He rode away swiftly through the Gate of the Two War-Ships, rattled across the causeway into the town, and wired to his syndicate, "Got man here, picture-work. Good and cheap. Shall I arrange? Will do letterpress with sketches." The man on the redoubt sat swinging his legs and murmuring, "I knew the chance would come, sooner or later. By Gad, they'll have to sweat for it if I come through this business alive!" In the evening Torpenhow was able to announce to his friend that the Central Southern Agency was willing to take him on trial, paying expenses for three months. "And, by the way, what's your name?" said Torpenhow. "Heldar. Do they give me a free hand?" "They've taken you on chance. You must justify the choice. You'd better stick to me. I'm going up-country with a column, and I'll do what I can for you. Give me some of your sketches taken here, and I'll send 'em along." To himself he said, "That's the best bargain the Central Southern has ever made; and they got me cheaply enough." So it came to pass that, after some purchase of horse-flesh and arrangements financial and political, Dick was made free of the New and Honourable Fraternity of war correspondents, who all possess the inalienable right of doing as much work as they can and getting as much for it as Providence and their owners shall please. To these things are added in time, if the brother be worthy, the power of glib speech that neither man nor woman can resist when a meal or a bed is in question, the eye of a horse-cope, the skill of a cook, the constitution of a bullock, the digestion of an ostrich, and an infinite adaptability to all circumstances. But many die before they attain to this degree, and the past-masters in the craft appear for the most part in dress-clothes when they are in England, and thus their glory is hidden from the multitude. Dick followed Torpenhow wherever the latter's fancy chose to lead him, and between the two they managed to accomplish some work that almost satisfied themselves. It was not an easy life in any way, and under its influence the two were drawn very closely together, for they ate from the same dish, they shared the same water-bottle, and, most binding tie of all, their mails went off together. It was Dick who managed to make gloriously drunk a telegraph-clerk in a palm hut far beyond the Second Cataract, and, while the man lay in bliss on the floor, possessed himself of some laboriously acquired exclusive information, forwarded by a confiding correspondent of an opposition syndicate, made a careful duplicate of the matter, and brought the result to Torpenhow, who said that all was fair in love or war correspondence, and built an excellent descriptive article from his rival's riotous waste of words. It was Torpenhow who--but the tale of their adventures, together and apart, from Philae to the waste wilderness of Herawi and Muella, would fill many books. They had been penned into a square side by side, in deadly fear of being shot by over-excited soldiers; they had fought with baggage-camels in the chill dawn; they had jogged along in silence under blinding sun on indefatigable little Egyptian horses; and they had floundered on the shallows of the Nile when the whale-boat in which they had found a berth chose to hit a hidden rock and rip out half her bottom-planks. Now they were sitting on the sand-bank, and the whale-boats were bringing up the remainder of the column. "Yes," said Torpenhow, as he put the last rude stitches into his over-long-neglected gear, "it has been a beautiful business." "The patch or the campaign?" said Dick. "Don't think much of either, myself." "You want the Euryalus brought up above the Third Cataract, don't you? and eighty-one-ton guns at Jakdul? Now, I'm quite satisfied with my breeches." He turned round gravely to exhibit himself, after the manner of a clown. "It's very pretty. Specially the lettering on the sack. G.B.T. Government Bullock Train. That's a sack from India." "It's my initials,--Gilbert Belling Torpenhow. I stole the cloth on purpose. What the mischief are the camel-corps doing yonder?" Torpenhow shaded his eyes and looked across the scrub-strewn gravel. A bugle blew furiously, and the men on the bank hurried to their arms and accoutrements. "'Pisan soldiery surprised while bathing,'" remarked Dick, calmly. "D'you remember the picture? It's by Michael Angelo; all beginners copy it. That scrub's alive with enemy." The camel-corps on the bank yelled to the infantry to come to them, and a hoarse shouting down the river showed that the remainder of the column had wind of the trouble and was hastening to take share in it. As swiftly as a reach of still water is crisped by the wind, the rock-strewn ridges and scrub-topped hills were troubled and alive with armed men. Mercifully, it occurred to these to stand far off for a time, to shout and gesticulate joyously. One man even delivered himself of a long story. The camel-corps did not fire. They were only too glad of a little breathing-space, until some sort of square could be formed. The men on the sand-bank ran to their side; and the whale-boats, as they toiled up within shouting distance, were thrust into the nearest bank and emptied of all save the sick and a few men to guard them. The Arab orator ceased his outcries, and his friends howled. "They look like the Mahdi's men," said Torpenhow, elbowing himself into the crush of the square; "but what thousands of 'em there are! The tribes hereabout aren't against us, I know." "Then the Mahdi's taken another town," said Dick, "and set all these yelping devils free to show us up. Lend us your glass." "Our scouts should have told us of this. We've been trapped," said a subaltern. "Aren't the camel guns ever going to begin? Hurry up, you men!" There was no need of any order. The men flung themselves panting against the sides of the square, for they had good reason to know that whoso was left outside when the fighting began would very probably die in an extremely unpleasant fashion. The little hundred-and-fifty-pound camel-guns posted at one corner of the square opened the ball as the square moved forward by its right to get possession of a knoll of rising ground. All had fought in this manner many times before, and there was no novelty in the entertainment; always the same hot and stifling formation, the smell of dust and leather, the same boltlike rush of the enemy, the same pressure on the weakest side, the few minutes of hand-to-hand scuffle, and then the silence of the desert, broken only by the yells of those whom their handful of cavalry attempted to purse. They had become careless. The camel-guns spoke at intervals, and the square slouched forward amid the protesting of the camels. Then came the attack of three thousand men who had not learned from books that it is impossible for troops in close order to attack against breech-loading fire. A few dropping shots heralded their approach, and a few horsemen led, but the bulk of the force was naked humanity, mad with rage, and armed with the spear and the sword. The instinct of the desert, where there is always much war, told them that the right flank of the square was the weakest, for they swung clear of the front. The camel-guns shelled them as they passed and opened for an instant lanes through their midst, most like those quick-closing vistas in a Kentish hop-garden seen when the train races by at full speed; and the infantry fire, held till the opportune moment, dropped them in close-packing hundreds. No civilised troops in the world could have endured the hell through which they came, the living leaping high to avoid the dying who clutched at their heels, the wounded cursing and staggering forward, till they fell--a torrent black as the sliding water above a mill-dam--full on the right flank of the square. Then the line of the dusty troops and the faint blue desert sky overhead went out in rolling smoke, and the little stones on the heated ground and the tinder-dry clumps of scrub became matters of surpassing interest, for men measured their agonised retreat and recovery by these things, counting mechanically and hewing their way back to chosen pebble and branch. There was no semblance of any concerted fighting. For aught the men knew, the enemy might be attempting all four sides of the square at once. Their business was to destroy what lay in front of them, to bayonet in the back those who passed over them, and, dying, to drag down the slayer till he could be knocked on the head by some avenging gun-butt. Dick waited with Torpenhow and a young doctor till the stress grew unendurable. It was hopeless to attend to the wounded till the attack was repulsed, so the three moved forward gingerly towards the weakest side of the square. There was a rush from without, the short hough-hough of the stabbing spears, and a man on a horse, followed by thirty or forty others, dashed through, yelling and hacking. The right flank of the square sucked in after them, and the other sides sent help. The wounded, who knew that they had but a few hours more to live, caught at the enemy's feet and brought them down, or, staggering into a discarded rifle, fired blindly into the scuffle that raged in the centre of the square. Dick was conscious that somebody had cut him violently across his helmet, that he had fired his revolver into a black, foam-flecked face which forthwith ceased to bear any resemblance to a face, and that Torpenhow had gone down under an Arab whom he had tried to "collar low," and was turning over and over with his captive, feeling for the man's eyes. The doctor jabbed at a venture with a bayonet, and a helmetless soldier fired over Dick's shoulder: the flying grains of powder stung his cheek. It was to Torpenhow that Dick turned by instinct. The representative of the Central Southern Syndicate had shaken himself clear of his enemy, and rose, wiping his thumb on his trousers. The Arab, both hands to his forehead, screamed aloud, then snatched up his spear and rushed at Torpenhow, who was panting under shelter of Dick's revolver. Dick fired twice, and the man dropped limply. His upturned face lacked one eye. The musketry-fire redoubled, but cheers mingled with it. The rush had failed and the enemy were flying. If the heart of the square were shambles, the ground beyond was a butcher's shop. Dick thrust his way forward between the maddened men. The remnant of the enemy were retiring, as the few--the very few--English cavalry rode down the laggards. Beyond the lines of the dead, a broad blood-stained Arab spear cast aside in the retreat lay across a stump of scrub, and beyond this again the illimitable dark levels of the desert. The sun caught the steel and turned it into a red disc. Some one behind him was saying, "Ah, get away, you brute!" Dick raised his revolver and pointed towards the desert. His eye was held by the red splash in the distance, and the clamour about him seemed to die down to a very far-away whisper, like the whisper of a level sea. There was the revolver and the red light. ... and the voice of some one scaring something away, exactly as had fallen somewhere before,--a darkness that stung. He fired at random, and the bullet went out across the desert as he muttered, "Spoilt my aim. There aren't any more cartridges. We shall have to run home." He put his hand to his head and brought it away covered with blood. "Old man, you're cut rather badly," said Torpenhow. "I owe you something for this business. Thanks. Stand up! I say, you can't be ill here." Throughout the night, when the troops were encamped by the whale-boats, a black figure danced in the strong moonlight on the sand-bar and shouted that Khartoum the accursed one was dead,--was dead,--was dead,--that two steamers were rock-staked on the Nile outside the city, and that of all their crews there remained not one; and Khartoum was dead,--was dead,--was dead! But Torpenhow took no heed. He was watching Dick, who called aloud to the restless Nile for Maisie,--and again Maisie! "Behold a phenomenon," said Torpenhow, rearranging the blanket. "Here is a man, presumably human, who mentions the name of one woman only. And I've seen a good deal of delirium, too.--Dick, here's some fizzy drink." "Thank you, Maisie," said Dick. CHAPTER III So he thinks he shall take to the sea again For one more cruise with his buccaneers, To singe the beard of the King of Spain, And capture another Dean of Jaen And sell him in Algiers. --Dutch Picture. Longfellow THE SOUDAN campaign and Dick's broken head had been some months ended and mended, and the Central Southern Syndicate had paid Dick a certain sum on account for work done, which work they were careful to assure him was not altogether up to their standard. Dick heaved the letter into the Nile at Cairo, cashed the draft in the same town, and bade a warm farewell to Torpenhow at the station. "I am going to lie up for a while and rest," said Torpenhow. "I don't know where I shall live in London, but if God brings us to meet, we shall meet. Are you staying here on the off-chance of another row? There will be none till the Southern Soudan is reoccupied by our troops. Mark that. Goodbye; bless you; come back when your money's spent; and give me your address." Dick loitered in Cairo, Alexandria, Ismailia, and Port Said,--especially Port Said. There is iniquity in many parts of the world, and vice in all, but the concentrated essence of all the iniquities and all the vices in all the continents finds itself at Port Said. And through the heart of that sand-bordered hell, where the mirage flickers day long above the Bitter Lake, move, if you will only wait, most of the men and women you have known in this life. Dick established himself in quarters more riotous than respectable. He spent his evenings on the quay, and boarded many ships, and saw very many friends,--gracious Englishwomen with whom he had talked not too wisely in the veranda of Shepherd's Hotel, hurrying war correspondents, skippers of the contract troop-ships employed in the campaign, army officers by the score, and others of less reputable trades. He had choice of all the races of the East and West for studies, and the advantage of seeing his subjects under the influence of strong excitement, at the gaming-tables, saloons, dancing-hells, and elsewhere. For recreation there was the straight vista of the Canal, the blazing sands, the procession of shipping, and the white hospitals where the English soldiers lay. He strove to set down in black and white and colour all that Providence sent him, and when that supply was ended sought about for fresh material. It was a fascinating employment, but it ran away with his money, and he had drawn in advance the hundred and twenty pounds to which he was entitled yearly. "Now I shall have to work and starve!" thought he, and was addressing himself to this new fate when a mysterious telegram arrived from Torpenhow in England, which said, "Come back, quick; you have caught on. Come." A large smile overspread his face. "So soon! that's a good hearing," said he to himself. "There will be an orgy tonight. I'll stand or fall by my luck. Faith, it's time it came!" He deposited half of his funds in the hands of his well-known friends Monsieur and Madame Binat, and ordered himself a Zanzibar dance of the finest. Monsieur Binat was shaking with drink, but Madame smiles sympathetically--"Monsieur needs a chair, of course, and of course Monsieur will sketch; Monsieur amuses himself strangely." Binat raised a blue-white face from a cot in the inner room. "I understand," he quavered. "We all know Monsieur. Monsieur is an artist, as I have been." Dick nodded. "In the end," said Binat, with gravity, "Monsieur will descend alive into hell, as I have descended." And he laughed. "You must come to the dance, too," said Dick; "I shall want you." "For my face? I knew it would be so. For my face? My God! and for my degradation so tremendous! I will not. Take him away. He is a devil. Or at least do thou, Celeste, demand of him more." The excellent Binat began to kick and scream. "All things are for sale in Port Said," said Madame. "If my husband comes it will be so much more. Eh, how you call 'alf a sovereign." The money was paid, and the mad dance was held at night in a walled courtyard at the back of Madame Binat's house. The lady herself, in faded mauve silk always about to slide from her yellow shoulders, played the piano, and to the tin-pot music of a Western waltz the naked Zanzibari girls danced furiously by the light of kerosene lamps. Binat sat upon a chair and stared with eyes that saw nothing, till the whirl of the dance and the clang of the rattling piano stole into the drink that took the place of blood in his veins, and his face glistened. Dick took him by the chin brutally and turned that face to the light. Madame Binat looked over her shoulder and smiled with many teeth. Dick leaned against the wall and sketched for an hour, till the kerosene lamps began to smell, and the girls threw themselves panting on the hard-beaten ground. Then he shut his book with a snap and moved away, Binat plucking feebly at his elbow. "Show me," he whimpered. "I too was once an artist, even I!" Dick showed him the rough sketch. "Am I that?" he screamed. "Will you take that away with you and show all the world that it is I,--Binat?" He moaned and wept. "Monsieur has paid for all," said Madame. "To the pleasure of seeing Monsieur again." The courtyard gate shut, and Dick hurried up the sandy street to the nearest gambling-hell, where he was well known. "If the luck holds, it's an omen; if I lose, I must stay here." He placed his money picturesquely about the board, hardly daring to look at what he did. The luck held. Three turns of the wheel left him richer by twenty pounds, and he went down to the shipping to make friends with the captain of a decayed cargo-steamer, who landed him in London with fewer pounds in his pocket than he cared to think about. A thin gray fog hung over the city, and the streets were very cold; for summer was in England. "It's a cheerful wilderness, and it hasn't the knack of altering much," Dick thought, as he tramped from the Docks westward. "Now, what must I do?" The packed houses gave no answer. Dick looked down the long lightless streets and at the appalling rush of traffic. "Oh, you rabbit-hutches!" said he, addressing a row of highly respectable semi-detached residences. "Do you know what you've got to do later on? You have to supply me with men-servants and maid-servants,"--here he smacked his lips,--"and the peculiar treasure of kings. Meantime I'll clothes and boots, and presently I will return and trample on you." He stepped forward energetically; he saw that one of his shoes was burst at the side. As he stooped to make investigations, a man jostled him into the gutter. "All right," he said. "That's another nick in the score. I'll jostle you later on." Good clothes and boots are not cheap, and Dick left his last shop with the certainty that he would be respectably arrayed for a time, but with only fifty shillings in his pocket. He returned to streets by the Docks, and lodged himself in one room, where the sheets on the bed were almost audibly marked in case of theft, and where nobody seemed to go to bed at all. When his clothes arrived he sought the Central Southern Syndicate for Torpenhow's address, and got it, with the intimation that there was still some money waiting for him. "How much?" said Dick, as one who habitually dealt in millions. "Between thirty and forty pounds. If it would be any convenience to you, of course we could let you have it at once; but we usually settle accounts monthly." "If I show that I want anything now, I'm lost," he said to himself. "All I need I'll take later on." Then, aloud, "It's hardly worth while; and I'm going to the country for a month, too. Wait till I come back, and I'll see about it." "But we trust, Mr. Heldar, that you do not intend to sever your connection with us?" Dick's business in life was the study of faces, and he watched the speaker keenly. "That man means something," he said. "I'll do no business till I've seen Torpenhow. There's a big deal coming." So he departed, making no promises, to his one little room by the Docks. And that day was the seventh of the month, and that month, he reckoned with awful distinctness, had thirty-one days in it! It is not easy for a man of catholic tastes and healthy appetites to exist for twenty-four days on fifty shillings. Nor is it cheering to begin the experiment alone in all the loneliness of London. Dick paid seven shillings a week for his lodging, which left him rather less than a shilling a day for food and drink. Naturally, his first purchase was of the materials of his craft; he had been without them too long. Half a day's investigations and comparison brought him to the conclusion that sausages and mashed potatoes, twopence a plate, were the best food. Now, sausages once or twice a week for breakfast are not unpleasant. As lunch, even, with mashed potatoes, they become monotonous. At dinner they are impertinent. At the end of three days Dick loathed sausages, and, going, forth, pawned his watch to revel on sheep's head, which is not as cheap as it looks, owing to the bones and the gravy. Then he returned to sausages and mashed potatoes. Then he confined himself entirely to mashed potatoes for a day, and was unhappy because of pain in his inside. Then he pawned his waistcoat and his tie, and thought regretfully of money thrown away in times past. There are few things more edifying unto Art than the actual belly-pinch of hunger, and Dick in his few walks abroad,--he did not care for exercise; it raised desires that could not be satisfied--found himself dividing mankind into two classes,--those who looked as if they might give him something to eat, and those who looked otherwise. "I never knew what I had to learn about the human face before," he thought; and, as a reward for his humility, Providence caused a cab-driver at a sausage-shop where Dick fed that night to leave half eaten a great chunk of bread. Dick took it,--would have fought all the world for its possession,--and it cheered him. The month dragged through at last, and, nearly prancing with impatience, he went to draw his money. Then he hastened to Torpenhow's address and smelt the smell of cooking meats all along the corridors of the chambers. Torpenhow was on the top floor, and Dick burst into his room, to be received with a hug which nearly cracked his ribs, as Torpenhow dragged him to the light and spoke of twenty different things in the same breath. "But you're looking tucked up," he concluded. "Got anything to eat?" said Dick, his eye roaming round the room. "I shall be having breakfast in a minute. What do you say to sausages?" "No, anything but sausages! Torp, I've been starving on that accursed horse-flesh for thirty days and thirty nights." "Now, what lunacy has been your latest?" Dick spoke of the last few weeks with unbridled speech. Then he opened his coat; there was no waistcoat below. "I ran it fine, awfully fine, but I've just scraped through." "You haven't much sense, but you've got a backbone, anyhow. Eat, and talk afterwards." Dick fell upon eggs and bacon and gorged till he could gorge no more. Torpenhow handed him a filled pipe, and he smoked as men smoke who for three weeks have been deprived of good tobacco. "Ouf!" said he. "That's heavenly! Well?" "Why in the world didn't you come to me?" "Couldn't; I owe you too much already, old man. Besides I had a sort of superstition that this temporary starvation--that's what it was, and it hurt--would bring me luck later. It's over and done with now, and none of the syndicate know how hard up I was. Fire away. What's the exact state of affairs as regards myself?" "You had my wire? You've caught on here. People like your work immensely. I don't know why, but they do. They say you have a fresh touch and a new way of drawing things. And, because they're chiefly home-bred English, they say you have insight. You're wanted by half a dozen papers; you're wanted to illustrate books." Dick grunted scornfully. "You're wanted to work up your smaller sketches and sell them to the dealers. They seem to think the money sunk in you is a good investment. Good Lord! who can account for the fathomless folly of the public?" "They're a remarkably sensible people." "They are subject to fits, if that's what you mean; and you happen to be the object of the latest fit among those who are interested in what they call Art. Just now you're a fashion, a phenomenon, or whatever you please. I appeared to be the only person who knew anything about you here, and I have been showing the most useful men a few of the sketches you gave me from time to time. Those coming after your work on the Central Southern Syndicate appear to have done your business. You're in luck." "Huh! call it luck! Do call it luck, when a man has been kicking about the world like a dog, waiting for it to come! I'll luck 'em later on. I want a place to work first." "Come here," said Torpenhow, crossing the landing. "This place is a big box room really, but it will do for you. There's your skylight, or your north light, or whatever window you call it, and plenty of room to thrash about in, and a bedroom beyond. What more do you need?" "Good enough," said Dick, looking round the large room that took up a third of a top story in the rickety chambers overlooking the Thames. A pale yellow sun shone through the skylight and showed the much dirt of the place. Three steps led from the door to the landing, and three more to Torpenhow's room. The well of the staircase disappeared into darkness, pricked by tiny gas-jets, and there were sounds of men talking and doors slamming seven flights below, in the warm gloom. "Do they give you a free hand here?" said Dick, cautiously. He was Ishmael enough to know the value of liberty. "Anything you like; latch-keys and license unlimited. We are permanent tenants for the most part here. 'Tisn't a place I would recommend for a Young Men's Christian Association, but it will serve. I took these rooms for you when I wired." "You're a great deal too kind, old man." "You didn't suppose you were going away from me, did you?" Torpenhow put his hand on Dick's shoulder, and the two walked up and down the room, henceforward to be called the studio, in sweet and silent communion. They heard rapping at Torpenhow's door. "That's some ruffian come up for a drink," said Torpenhow; and he raised his voice cheerily. There entered no one more ruffianly than a portly middle-aged gentleman in a satin-faced frockcoat. His lips were parted and pale, and there were deep pouches under the eyes. "Weak heart," said Dick to himself, and, as he shook hands, "very weak heart. His pulse is shaking his fingers." The man introduced himself as the head of the Central Southern Syndicate and "one of the most ardent admirers of your work, Mr. Heldar. I assure you, in the name of the syndicate, that we are immensely indebted to you; and I trust, Mr. Heldar, you won't forget that we were largely instrumental in bringing you before the public." He panted because of the seven flights of stairs. Dick glanced at Torpenhow, whose left eyelid lay for a moment dead on his cheek. "I shan't forget," said Dick, every instinct of defence roused in him. "You've paid me so well that I couldn't, you know. By the way, when I am settled in this place I should like to send and get my sketches. There must be nearly a hundred and fifty of them with you." "That is er--is what I came to speak about. I fear we can't allow it exactly, Mr. Heldar. In the absence of any specified agreement, the sketches are our property, of course." "Do you mean to say that you are going to keep them?" "Yes; and we hope to have your help, on your own terms, Mr. Heldar, to assist us in arranging a little exhibition, which, backed by our name and the influence we naturally command among the press, should be of material service to you. Sketches such as yours----" "Belong to me. You engaged me by wire, you paid me the lowest rates you dared. You can't mean to keep them! Good God alive, man, they're all I've got in the world!" Torpenhow watched Dick's face and whistled. Dick walked up and down, thinking. He saw the whole of his little stock in trade, the first weapon of his equipment, annexed at the outset of his campaign by an elderly gentleman whose name Dick had not caught aright, who said that he represented a syndicate, which was a thing for which Dick had not the least reverence. The injustice of the proceedings did not much move him; he had seen the strong hand prevail too often in other places to be squeamish over the moral aspects of right and wrong. But he ardently desired the blood of the gentleman in the frockcoat, and when he spoke again, it was with a strained sweetness that Torpenhow knew well for the beginning of strife. "Forgive me, sir, but you have no--no younger man who can arrange this business with me?" "I speak for the syndicate. I see no reason for a third party to----" "You will in a minute. Be good enough to give back my sketches." The man stared blankly at Dick, and then at Torpenhow, who was leaning against the wall. He was not used to ex-employees who ordered him to be good enough to do things. "Yes, it is rather a cold-blooded steal," said Torpenhow, critically; "but I'm afraid, I am very much afraid, you've struck the wrong man. Be careful, Dick; remember, this isn't the Soudan." "Considering what services the syndicate have done you in putting your name before the world----" This was not a fortunate remark; it reminded Dick of certain vagrant years lived out in loneliness and strife and unsatisfied desires. The memory did not contrast well with the prosperous gentleman who proposed to enjoy the fruit of those years. "I don't know quite what to do with you," began Dick, meditatively. "Of course you're a thief, and you ought to be half killed, but in your case you'd probably die. I don't want you dead on this floor, and, besides, it's unlucky just as one's moving in. Don't hit, sir; you'll only excite yourself." He put one hand on the man's forearm and ran the other down the plump body beneath the coat. "My goodness!" said he to Torpenhow, "and this gray oaf dares to be a thief! I have seen an Esneh camel-driver have the black hide taken off his body in strips for stealing half a pound of wet dates, and he was as tough as whipcord. This thing's soft all over--like a woman." There are few things more poignantly humiliating than being handled by a man who does not intend to strike. The head of the syndicate began to breathe heavily. Dick walked round him, pawing him, as a cat paws a soft hearth-rug. Then he traced with his forefinger the leaden pouches underneath the eyes, and shook his head. "You were going to steal my things,--mine, mine, mine!--you, who don't know when you may die. Write a note to your office,--you say you're the head of it,--and order them to give Torpenhow my sketches,--every one of them. Wait a minute: your hand's shaking. Now!" He thrust a pocket-book before him. The note was written. Torpenhow took it and departed without a word, while Dick walked round and round the spellbound captive, giving him such advice as he conceived best for the welfare of his soul. When Torpenhow returned with a gigantic portfolio, he heard Dick say, almost soothingly, "Now, I hope this will be a lesson to you; and if you worry me when I have settled down to work with any nonsense about actions for assault, believe me, I'll catch you and manhandle you, and you'll die. You haven't very long to live, anyhow. Go! Imshi, Vootsak,--get out!" The man departed, staggering and dazed. Dick drew a long breath: "Phew! what a lawless lot these people are! The first thing a poor orphan meets is gang robbery, organised burglary! Think of the hideous blackness of that man's mind! Are my sketches all right, Torp?" "Yes; one hundred and forty-seven of them. Well, I must say, Dick, you've begun well." "He was interfering with me. It only meant a few pounds to him, but it was everything to me. I don't think he'll bring an action. I gave him some medical advice gratis about the state of his body. It was cheap at the little flurry it cost him. Now, let's look at my things." Two minutes later Dick had thrown himself down on the floor and was deep in the portfolio, chuckling lovingly as he turned the drawings over and thought of the price at which they had been bought. The afternoon was well advanced when Torpenhow came to the door and saw Dick dancing a wild saraband under the skylight. "I builded better than I knew, Torp," he said, without stopping the dance. "They're good! They're damned good! They'll go like flame! I shall have an exhibition of them on my own brazen hook. And that man would have cheated me out of it! Do you know that I'm sorry now that I didn't actually hit him?" "Go out," said Torpenhow,--"go out and pray to be delivered from the sin of arrogance, which you never will be. Bring your things up from whatever place you're staying in, and we'll try to make this barn a little more shipshape." "And then--oh, then," said Dick, still capering, "we will spoil the Egyptians!" CHAPTER IV The wolf-cub at even lay hid in the corn, When the smoke of the cooking hung gray: He knew where the doe made a couch for her fawn, And he looked to his strength for his prey. But the moon swept the smoke-wreaths away. And he turned from his meal in the villager's close, And he bayed to the moon as she rose. --In Seonee. "WELL, and how does success taste?" said Torpenhow, some three months later. He had just returned to chambers after a holiday in the country. "Good," said Dick, as he sat licking his lips before the easel in the studio. "I want more,--heaps more. The lean years have passed, and I approve of these fat ones." "Be careful, old man. That way lies bad work." Torpenhow was sprawling in a long chair with a small fox-terrier asleep on his chest, while Dick was preparing a canvas. A dais, a background, and a lay-figure were the only fixed objects in the place. They rose from a wreck of oddments that began with felt-covered water-bottles, belts, and regimental badges, and ended with a small bale of second-hand uniforms and a stand of mixed arms. The mark of muddy feet on the dais showed that a military model had just gone away. The watery autumn sunlight was falling, and shadows sat in the corners of the studio. "Yes," said Dick, deliberately, "I like the power; I like the fun; I like the fuss; and above all I like the money. I almost like the people who make the fuss and pay the money. Almost. But they're a queer gang,--an amazingly queer gang!" "They have been good enough to you, at any rate. That tin-pot exhibition of your sketches must have paid. Did you see that the papers called it the 'Wild Work Show'?" "Never mind. I sold every shred of canvas I wanted to; and, on my word, I believe it was because they believed I was a self-taught flagstone artist. I should have got better prices if I worked my things on wool or scratched them on camel-bone instead of using mere black and white and colour. Verily, they are a queer gang, these people. Limited isn't the word to describe 'em. I met a fellow the other day who told me that it was impossible that shadows on white sand should be blue,--ultramarine,--as they are. I found out, later, that the man had been as far as Brighton beach; but he knew all about Art, confound him. He gave me a lecture on it, and recommended me to go to school to learn technique. I wonder what old Kami would have said to that." "When were you under Kami, man of extraordinary beginnings?" "I studied with him for two years in Paris. He taught by personal magnetism. All he ever said was, 'Continuez, mes enfants,' and you had to make the best you could of that. He had a divine touch, and he knew something about colour. Kami used to dream colour; I swear he could never have seen the genuine article; but he evolved it; and it was good." "Recollect some of those views in the Soudan?" said Torpenhow, with a provoking drawl. Dick squirmed in his place. "Don't! It makes me want to get out there again. What colour that was! Opal and umber and amber and claret and brick-red and sulphur--cockatoo-crest-sulphur--against brown, with a nigger-black rock sticking up in the middle of it all, and a decorative frieze of camels festooning in front of a pure pale turquoise sky." He began to walk up and down. "And yet, you know, if you try to give these people the thing as God gave it, keyed down to their comprehension and according to the powers He has given you----" "Modest man! Go on." "Half a dozen epicene young pagans who haven't even been to Algiers will tell you, first, that your notion is borrowed, and, secondly, that it isn't Art." "This comes of my leaving town for a month. Dickie, you've been promenading among the toy-shops and hearing people talk." "I couldn't help it," said Dick, penitently. "You weren't here, and it was lonely these long evenings. A man can't work for ever." "A man might have gone to a pub, and got decently drunk." "I wish I had; but I forgathered with some men of sorts. They said they were artists, and I knew some of them could draw,--but they wouldn't draw. They gave me tea,--tea at five in the afternoon!--and talked about Art and the state of their souls. As if their souls mattered. I've heard more about Art and seen less of her in the last six months than in the whole of my life. Do you remember Cassavetti, who worked for some continental syndicate, out with the desert column? He was a regular Christmas-tree of contraptions when he took the field in full fig, with his water-bottle, lanyard, revolver, writing-case, housewife, gig-lamps, and the Lord knows what all. He used to fiddle about with 'em and show us how they worked; but he never seemed to do much except fudge his reports from the Nilghai. See?" "Dear old Nilghai! He's in town, fatter than ever. He ought to be up here this evening. I see the comparison perfectly. You should have kept clear of all that man-millinery. Serves you right; and I hope it will unsettle your mind." "It won't. It has taught me what Art--holy sacred Art--means." "You've learnt something while I've been away. What is Art?" "Give 'em what they know, and when you've done it once do it again." Dick dragged forward a canvas laid face to the wall. "Here's a sample of real Art. It's going to be a facsimile reproduction for a weekly. I called it 'His Last Shot.' It's worked up from the little water-colour I made outside El Maghrib. Well, I lured my model, a beautiful rifleman, up here with drink; I drored him, and I redrored him, and I redrored him, and I made him a flushed, dishevelled, bedevilled scallawag, with his helmet at the back of his head, and the living fear of death in his eye, and the blood oozing out of a cut over his ankle-bone. He wasn't pretty, but he was all soldier and very much man." "Once more, modest child!" Dick laughed. "Well, it's only to you I'm talking. I did him just as well as I knew how, making allowance for the slickness of oils. Then the art-manager of that abandoned paper said that his subscribers wouldn't like it. It was brutal and coarse and violent,--man being naturally gentle when he's fighting for his life. They wanted something more restful, with a little more colour. I could have said a good deal, but you might as well talk to a sheep as an art-manager. I took my 'Last Shot' back. Behold the result! I put him into a lovely red coat without a speck on it. That is Art. I polished his boots,--observe the high light on the toe. That is Art. I cleaned his rifle,--rifles are always clean on service,--because that is Art. I pipeclayed his helmet,--pipeclay is always used on active service, and is indispensable to Art. I shaved his chin, I washed his hands, and gave him an air of fatted peace. Result, military tailor's pattern-plate. Price, thank Heaven, twice as much as for the first sketch, which was moderately decent." "And do you suppose you're going to give that thing out as your work?" "Why not? I did it. Alone I did it, in the interests of sacred, home-bred Art and Dickenson's Weekly." Torpenhow smoked in silence for a while. Then came the verdict, delivered from rolling clouds: "If you were only a mass of blathering vanity, Dick, I wouldn't mind,--I'd let you go to the deuce on your own mahl-stick; but when I consider what you are to me, and when I find that to vanity you add the twopenny-halfpenny pique of a twelve-year-old girl, then I bestir myself in your behalf. Thus!" The canvas ripped as Torpenhow's booted foot shot through it, and the terrier jumped down, thinking rats were about. "If you have any bad language to use, use it. You have not. I continue. You are an idiot, because no man born of woman is strong enough to take liberties with his public, even though they be--which they ain't--all you say they are." "But they don't know any better. What can you expect from creatures born and bred in this light?" Dick pointed to the yellow fog. "If they want furniture-polish, let them have furniture-polish, so long as they pay for it. They are only men and women. You talk as if they were gods." "That sounds very fine, but it has nothing to do with the case. They are they people you have to do work for, whether you like it or not. They are your masters. Don't be deceived, Dickie, you aren't strong enough to trifle with them,--or with yourself, which is more important. "Moreover,--Come back, Binkie: that red daub isn't going anywhere,--unless you take precious good care, you will fall under the damnation of the check-book, and that's worse than death. You will get drunk--you're half drunk already--on easily acquired money. For that money and you own infernal vanity you are willing to deliberately turn out bad work. You'll do quite enough bad work without knowing it. And, Dickie, as I love you and as I know you love me, I am not going to let you cut off your nose to spite your face for all the gold in England. That's settled. Now swear." "Don't know," said Dick. "I've been trying to make myself angry, but I can't, you're so abominably reasonable. There will be a row on Dickenson's Weekly, I fancy." "Why the Dickenson do you want to work on a weekly paper? It's slow bleeding of power." "It brings in the very desirable dollars," said Dick, his hands in his pockets. Torpenhow watched him with large contempt. "Why, I thought it was a man!" said he. "It's a child." "No, it isn't," said Dick, wheeling quickly. "You've no notion what the certainty of cash means to a man who has always wanted it badly. Nothing will pay me for some of my life's joys; on that Chinese pig-boat, for instance, when we ate bread and jam for every meal, because Ho-Wang wouldn't allow us anything better, and it all tasted of pig,--Chinese pig. I've worked for this, I've sweated and I've starved for this, line on line and month after month. And now I've got it I am going to make the most of it while it lasts. Let them pay--they've no knowledge." "What does Your Majesty please to want? You can't smoke more than you do; you won't drink; you're a gross feeder; and you dress in the dark, by the look of you. You wouldn't keep a horse the other day when I suggested, because, you said, it might fall lame, and whenever you cross the street you take a hansom. Even you are not foolish enough to suppose that theatres and all the live things you can by thereabouts mean Life. What earthly need have you for money?" "It's there, bless its golden heart," said Dick. "It's there all the time. Providence has sent me nuts while I have teeth to crack 'em with. I haven't yet found the nut I wish to crack, but I'm keeping my teeth filed. Perhaps some day you and I will go for a walk round the wide earth." "With no work to do, nobody to worry us, and nobody to compete with? You would be unfit to speak to in a week. Besides, I shouldn't go. I don't care to profit by the price of a man's soul,--for that's what it would mean. Dick, it's no use arguing. You're a fool." "Don't see it. When I was on that Chinese pig-boat, our captain got credit for saving about twenty-five thousand very seasick little pigs, when our old tramp of a steamer fell foul of a timber-junk. Now, taking those pigs as a parallel----" "Oh, confound your parallels! Whenever I try to improve your soul, you always drag in some anecdote from your very shady past. Pigs aren't the British public; and self-respect is self-respect the world over. Go out for a walk and try to catch some self-respect. And, I say, if the Nilghai comes up this evening can I show him your diggings?" "Surely." And Dick departed, to take counsel with himself in the rapidly gathering London fog. Half an hour after he had left, the Nilghai laboured up the staircase. He was the chiefest, as he was the youngest, of the war correspondents, and his experiences dated from the birth of the needle-gun. Saving only his ally, Keneu the Great War Eagle, there was no man higher in the craft than he, and he always opened his conversation with the news that there would be trouble in the Balkans in the spring. Torpenhow laughed as he entered. "Never mind the trouble in the Balkans. Those little states are always screeching. You've heard about Dick's luck?" "Yes; he has been called up to notoriety, hasn't he? I hope you keep him properly humble. He wants suppressing from time to time." "He does. He's beginning to take liberties with what he thinks is his reputation." "Already! By Jove, he has cheek! I don't know about his reputation, but he'll come a cropper if he tries that sort of thing." "So I told him. I don't think he believes it." "They never do when they first start off. What's that wreck on the ground there?" "Specimen of his latest impertinence." Torpenhow thrust the torn edges of the canvas together and showed the well-groomed picture to the Nilghai, who looked at it for a moment and whistled. "It's a chromo," said he,--"a chromo-litholeomargarine fake! What possessed him to do it? And yet how thoroughly he has caught the note that catches a public who think with their boots and read with their elbows! The cold-blooded insolence of the work almost saves it; but he mustn't go on with this. Hasn't he been praised and cockered up too much? You know these people here have no sense of proportion. They'll call him a second Detaille and a third-hand Meissonier while his fashion lasts. It's windy diet for a colt." "I don't think it affects Dick much. You might as well call a young wolf a lion and expect him to take the compliment in exchange for a shin-bone. Dick's soul is in the bank. He's working for cash." "Now he has thrown up war work, I suppose he doesn't see that the obligations of the service are just the same, only the proprietors are changed." "How should he know? He thinks he is his own master." "Does he? I could undeceive him for his good, if there's any virtue in print. He wants the whiplash." "Lay it on with science, then. I'd flay him myself, but I like him too much." "I've no scruples. He had the audacity to try to cut me out with a woman at Cairo once. I forgot that, but I remember now." "Did he cut you out?" "You'll see when I have dealt with him. But, after all, what's the good? Leave him alone and he'll come home, if he has any stuff in him, dragging or wagging his tail behind him. There's more in a week of life than in a lively weekly. None the less I'll slate him. I'll slate him ponderously in the Cataclysm." "Good luck to you; but I fancy nothing short of a crowbar would make Dick wince. His soul seems to have been fired before we came across him. He's intensely suspicious and utterly lawless." "Matter of temper," said the Nilghai. "It's the same with horses. Some you wallop and they work, some you wallop and they jib, and some you wallop and they go out for a walk with their hands in their pockets." "That's exactly what Dick has done," said Torpenhow. "Wait till he comes back. In the meantime, you can begin your slating here. I'll show you some of his last and worst work in his studio." Dick had instinctively sought running water for a comfort to his mood of mind. He was leaning over the Embankment wall, watching the rush of the Thames through the arches of Westminster Bridge. He began by thinking of Torpenhow's advice, but, as of custom, lost himself in the study of the faces flocking past. Some had death written on their features, and Dick marvelled that they could laugh. Others, clumsy and coarse-built for the most part, were alight with love; others were merely drawn and lined with work; but there was something, Dick knew, to be made out of them all. The poor at least should suffer that he might learn, and the rich should pay for the output of his learning. Thus his credit in the world and his cash balance at the bank would be increased. So much the better for him. He had suffered. Now he would take toll of the ills of others. The fog was driven apart for a moment, and the sun shone, a blood-red wafer, on the water. Dick watched the spot till he heard the voice of the tide between the piers die down like the wash of the sea at low tide. A girl hard pressed by her lover shouted shamelessly, "Ah, get away, you beast!" and a shift of the same wind that had opened the fog drove across Dick's face the black smoke of a river-steamer at her berth below the wall. He was blinded for the moment, then spun round and found himself face to face with--Maisie. There was no mistaking. The years had turned the child to a woman, but they had not altered the dark-gray eyes, the thin scarlet lips, or the firmly modelled mouth and chin; and, that all should be as it was of old, she wore a closely fitting gray dress. Since the human soul is finite and not in the least under its own command, Dick, advancing, said "Halloo!" after the manner of schoolboys, and Maisie answered, "Oh, Dick, is that you?" Then, against his will, and before the brain newly released from considerations of the cash balance had time to dictate to the nerves, every pulse of Dick's body throbbed furiously and his palate dried in his mouth. The fog shut down again, and Maisie's face was pearl-white through it. No word was spoken, but Dick fell into step at her side, and the two paced the Embankment together, keeping the step as perfectly as in their afternoon excursions to the mud-flats. Then Dick, a little hoarsely--"What has happened to Amomma?" "He died, Dick. Not cartridges; over-eating. He was always greedy. Isn't it funny?" "Yes. No. Do you mean Amomma?" "Ye--es. No. This. Where have you come from?" "Over there," He pointed eastward through the fog. "And you?" "Oh, I'm in the north,--the black north, across all the Park. I am very busy." "What do you do?" "I paint a great deal. That's all I have to do." "Why, what's happened? You had three hundred a year." "I have that still. I am painting; that's all." "Are you alone, then?" "There's a girl living with me. Don't walk so fast, Dick; you're out of step." "Then you noticed it too?" "Of course I did. You're always out of step." "So I am. I'm sorry. You went on with the painting?" "Of course. I said I should. I was at the Slade, then at Merton's in St. John's Wood, the big studio, then I pepper-potted,--I mean I went to the National,--and now I'm working under Kami." "But Kami is in Paris surely?" "No; he has his teaching studio in Vitry-sur-Marne. I work with him in the summer, and I live in London in the winter. I'm a householder." "Do you sell much?" "Now and again, but not often. There is my 'bus. I must take it or lose half an hour. Goodbye, Dick." "Goodbye, Maisie. Won't you tell me where you live? I must see you again; and perhaps I could help you. I--I paint a little myself." "I may be in the Park tomorrow, if there is no working light. I walk from the Marble Arch down and back again; that is my little excursion. But of course I shall see you again." She stepped into the omnibus and was swallowed up by the fog. "Well--I--am--damned!" exclaimed Dick, and returned to the chambers. Torpenhow and the Nilghai found him sitting on the steps to the studio door, repeating the phrase with an awful gravity. "You'll be more damned when I'm done with you," said the Nilghai, upheaving his bulk from behind Torpenhow's shoulder and waving a sheaf of half-dry manuscript. "Dick, it is of common report that you are suffering from swelled head." "Halloo, Nilghai. Back again? How are the Balkans and all the little Balkans? One side of your face is out of drawing, as usual." "Never mind that. I am commissioned to smite you in print. Torpenhow refuses from false delicacy. I've been overhauling the pot-boilers in your studio. They are simply disgraceful." "Oho! that's it, is it? If you think you can slate me, you're wrong. You can only describe, and you need as much room to turn in, on paper, as a P. and O. cargo-boat. But continue, and be swift. I'm going to bed." "H'm! h'm! h'm! The first part only deals with your pictures. Here's the peroration: 'For work done without conviction, for power wasted on trivialities, for labour expended with levity for the deliberate purpose of winning the easy applause of a fashion-driven public----" "That's 'His Last Shot,' second edition. Go on." "----'public, there remains but one end,--the oblivion that is preceded by toleration and cenotaphed with contempt. From that fate Mr. Heldar has yet to prove himself out of danger." "Wow--wow--wow--wow--wow!" said Dick, profanely. "It's a clumsy ending and vile journalese, but it's quite true. And yet,"--he sprang to his feet and snatched at the manuscript,--"you scarred, deboshed, battered old gladiator! you're sent out when a war begins, to minister to the blind, brutal, British public's bestial thirst for blood. They have no arenas now, but they must have special correspondents. You're a fat gladiator who comes up through a trap-door and talks of what he's seen. You stand on precisely the same level as an energetic bishop, an affable actress, a devastating cyclone, or--mine own sweet self. And you presume to lecture me about my work! Nilghai, if it were worth while I'd caricature you in four papers!" The Nilghai winced. He had not thought of this. "As it is, I shall take this stuff and tear it small--so!" The manuscript fluttered in slips down the dark well of the staircase. "Go home, Nilghai," said Dick; "go home to your lonely little bed, and leave me in peace. I am about to turn in till to morrow." "Why, it isn't seven yet!" said Torpenhow, with amazement. "It shall be two in the morning, if I choose," said Dick, backing to the studio door. "I go to grapple with a serious crisis, and I shan't want any dinner." The door shut and was locked. "What can you do with a man like that?" said the Nilghai. "Leave him alone. He's as mad as a hatter." At eleven there was a kicking on the studio door. "Is the Nilghai with you still?" said a voice from within. "Then tell him he might have condensed the whole of his lumbering nonsense into an epigram: 'Only the free are bond, and only the bond are free.' Tell him he's an idiot, Torp, and tell him I'm another." "All right. Come out and have supper. You're smoking on an empty stomach." There was no answer. CHAPTER V "I have a thousand men," said he, "To wait upon my will, And towers nine upon the Tyne, And three upon the Till." "And what care I for you men," said she, "Or towers from Tyne to Till, "Sith you must go with me," she said, "To wait upon my will?" --Sir Hoggie and the Fairies Next morning Torpenhow found Dick sunk in deepest repose of tobacco. "Well, madman, how d'you feel?" "I don't know. I'm trying to find out." "You had much better do some work." "Maybe; but I'm in no hurry. I've made a discovery. Torp, there's too much Ego in my Cosmos." "Not really! Is this revelation due to my lectures, or the Nilghai's?" "It came to me suddenly, all on my own account. Much too much Ego; and now I'm going to work." He turned over a few half-finished sketches, drummed on a new canvas, cleaned three brushes, set Binkie to bite the toes of the lay figure, rattled through his collection of arms and accoutrements, and then went out abruptly, declaring that he had done enough for the day. "This is positively indecent," said Torpenhow, "and the first time that Dick has ever broken up a light morning. Perhaps he has found out that he has a soul, or an artistic temperament, or something equally valuable. That comes of leaving him alone for a month. Perhaps he has been going out of evenings. I must look to this." He rang for the bald-headed old housekeeper, whom nothing could astonish or annoy. "Beeton, did Mr. Heldar dine out at all while I was out of town?" "Never laid 'is dress-clothes out once, sir, all the time. Mostly 'e dined in; but 'e brought some most remarkable young gentlemen up 'ere after theatres once or twice. Remarkable fancy they was. You gentlemen on the top floor does very much as you likes, but it do seem to me, sir, droppin' a walkin'-stick down five flights o' stairs an' then goin' down four abreast to pick it up again at half-past two in the mornin', singin' 'Bring back the whiskey, Willie darlin','--not once or twice, but scores o' times,--isn't charity to the other tenants. What I say is, 'Do as you would be done by.' That's my motto." "Of course! of course! I'm afraid the top floor isn't the quietest in the house." "I make no complaints, sir. I have spoke to Mr. Heldar friendly, an' he laughed, an' did me a picture of the missis that is as good as a coloured print. It 'asn't the high shine of a photograph, but what I say is, 'Never look a gift-horse in the mouth.' Mr. Heldar's dress-clothes 'aven't been on him for weeks." "Then it's all right," said Torpenhow to himself. "Orgies are healthy, and Dick has a head of his own, but when it comes to women making eyes I'm not so certain,--Binkie, never you be a man, little dorglums. They're contrary brutes, and they do things without any reason." Dick had turned northward across the Park, but he was walking in the spirit on the mud-flats with Maisie. He laughed aloud as he remembered the day when he had decked Amomma's horns with the ham-frills, and Maisie, white with rage, had cuffed him. How long those four years seemed in review, and how closely Maisie was connected with every hour of them! Storm across the sea, and Maisie in a gray dress on the beach, sweeping her drenched hair out of her eyes and laughing at the homeward race of the fishing-smacks; hot sunshine on the mud-flats, and Maisie sniffing scornfully, with her chin in the air; Maisie flying before the wind that threshed the foreshore and drove the sand like small shot about her ears; Maisie, very composed and independent, telling lies to Mrs. Jennett while Dick supported her with coarser perjuries; Maisie picking her way delicately from stone to stone, a pistol in her hand and her teeth firm-set; and Maisie in a gray dress sitting on the grass between the mouth of a cannon and a nodding yellow sea-poppy. The pictures passed before him one by one, and the last stayed the longest. Dick was perfectly happy with a quiet peace that was as new to his mind as it was foreign to his experiences. It never occurred to him that there might be other calls upon his time than loafing across the Park in the forenoon. "There's a good working light now," he said, watching his shadow placidly. "Some poor devil ought to be grateful for this. And there's Maisie." She was walking towards him from the Marble Arch, and he saw that no mannerism of her gait had been changed. It was good to find her still Maisie, and, so to speak, his next-door neighbour. No greeting passed between them, because there had been none in the old days. "What are you doing out of your studio at this hour?" said Dick, as one who was entitled to ask. "Idling. Just idling. I got angry with a chin and scraped it out. Then I left it in a little heap of paint-chips and came away." "I know what palette-knifing means. What was the piccy?" "A fancy head that wouldn't come right,--horrid thing!" "I don't like working over scraped paint when I'm doing flesh. The grain comes up woolly as the paint dries." "Not if you scrape properly." Maisie waved her hand to illustrate her methods. There was a dab of paint on the white cuff. Dick laughed. "You're as untidy as ever." "That comes well from you. Look at your own cuff." "By Jove, yes! It's worse than yours. I don't think we've much altered in anything. Let's see, though." He looked at Maisie critically. The pale blue haze of an autumn day crept between the tree-trunks of the Park and made a background for the gray dress, the black velvet toque above the black hair, and the resolute profile. "No, there's nothing changed. How good it is! D'you remember when I fastened your hair into the snap of a hand-bag?" Maisie nodded, with a twinkle in her eyes, and turned her full face to Dick. "Wait a minute," said he. "That mouth is down at the corners a little. Who's been worrying you, Maisie?" "No one but myself. I never seem to get on with my work, and yet I try hard enough, and Kami says----" "'Continuez, mesdemoiselles. Continuez toujours, mes enfants.' Kami is depressing. I beg your pardon." "Yes, that's what he says. He told me last summer that I was doing better and he'd let me exhibit this year." "Not in this place, surely?" "Of course not. The Salon." "You fly high." "I've been beating my wings long enough. Where do you exhibit, Dick?" "I don't exhibit. I sell." "What is your line, then?" "Haven't you heard?" Dick's eyes opened. Was this thing possible? He cast about for some means of conviction. They were not far from the Marble Arch. "Come up Oxford Street a little and I'll show you." A small knot of people stood round a print-shop that Dick knew well. "Some reproduction of my work inside," he said, with suppressed triumph. Never before had success tasted so sweet upon the tongue. "You see the sort of things I paint. D'you like it?" Maisie looked at the wild whirling rush of a field-battery going into action under fire. Two artillery-men stood behind her in the crowd. "They've chucked the off lead-'orse" said one to the other. "'E's tore up awful, but they're makin' good time with the others. That lead-driver drives better nor you, Tom. See 'ow cunnin' 'e's nursin' 'is 'orse." "Number Three'll be off the limber, next jolt," was the answer. "No, 'e won't. See 'ow 'is foot's braced against the iron? 'E's all right." Dick watched Maisie's face and swelled with joy--fine, rank, vulgar triumph. She was more interested in the little crowd than in the picture. That was something that she could understand. "And I wanted it so! Oh, I did want it so!" she said at last, under her breath. "Me,--all me!" said Dick, placidly. "Look at their faces. It hits 'em. They don't know what makes their eyes and mouths open; but I know. And I know my work's right." "Yes. I see. Oh, what a thing to have come to one!" "Come to one, indeed! I had to go out and look for it. What do you think?" "I call it success. Tell me how you got it." They returned to the Park, and Dick delivered himself of the saga of his own doings, with all the arrogance of a young man speaking to a woman. From the beginning he told the tale, the I--I--I's flashing through the records as telegraph-poles fly past the traveller. Maisie listened and nodded her head. The histories of strife and privation did not move her a hair's-breadth. At the end of each canto he would conclude, "And that gave me some notion of handling colour," or light, or whatever it might be that he had set out to pursue and understand. He led her breathless across half the world, speaking as he had never spoken in his life before. And in the flood-tide of his exaltation there came upon him a great desire to pick up this maiden who nodded her head and said, "I understand. Go on,"--to pick her up and carry her away with him, because she was Maisie, and because she understood, and because she was his right, and a woman to be desired above all women. Then he checked himself abruptly. "And so I took all I wanted," he said, "and I had to fight for it. Now you tell." Maisie's tale was almost as gray as her dress. It covered years of patient toil backed by savage pride that would not be broken though dealers laughed, and fogs delayed work, and Kami was unkind and even sarcastic, and girls in other studios were painfully polite. It had a few bright spots, in pictures accepted at provincial exhibitions, but it wound up with the oft repeated wail, "And so you see, Dick, I had no success, though I worked so hard." Then pity filled Dick. Even thus had Maisie spoken when she could not hit the breakwater, half an hour before she had kissed him. And that had happened yesterday. "Never mind," he said. "I'll tell you something, if you'll believe it." The words were shaping themselves of their own accord. "The whole thing, lock, stock, and barrel, isn't worth one big yellow sea-poppy below Fort Keeling." Maisie flushed a little. "It's all very well for you to talk, but you've had the success and I haven't." "Let me talk, then. I know you'll understand. Maisie, dear, it sounds a bit absurd, but those ten years never existed, and I've come back again. It really is just the same. Can't you see? You're alone now and I'm alone. What's the use of worrying? Come to me instead, darling." Maisie poked the gravel with her parasol. They were sitting on a bench. "I understand," she said slowly. "But I've got my work to do, and I must do it." "Do it with me, then, dear. I won't interrupt." "No, I couldn't. It's my work,--mine,--mine,--mine! I've been alone all my life in myself, and I'm not going to belong to anybody except myself. I remember things as well as you do, but that doesn't count. We were babies then, and we didn't know what was before us. Dick, don't be selfish. I think I see my way to a little success next year. Don't take it away from me." "I beg your pardon, darling. It's my fault for speaking stupidly. I can't expect you to throw up all your life just because I'm back. I'll go to my own place and wait a little." "But, Dick, I don't want you to--go--out of--my life, now you've just come back." "I'm at your orders; forgive me." Dick devoured the troubled little face with his eyes. There was triumph in them, because he could not conceive that Maisie should refuse sooner or later to love him, since he loved her. "It's wrong of me," said Maisie, more slowly than before; "it's wrong and selfish; but, oh, I've been so lonely! No, you misunderstand. Now I've seen you again,--it's absurd, but I want to keep you in my life." "Naturally. We belong." "We don't; but you always understood me, and there is so much in my work that you could help me in. You know things and the ways of doing things. You must." "I do, I fancy, or else I don't know myself. Then you won't care to lose sight of me altogether, and--you want me to help you in your work?" "Yes; but remember, Dick, nothing will ever come of it. That's why I feel so selfish. Can't things stay as they are? I do want your help." "You shall have it. But let's consider. I must see your pics first, and overhaul your sketches, and find out about your tendencies. You should see what the papers say about my tendencies! Then I'll give you good advice, and you shall paint according. Isn't that it, Maisie?" Again there was triumph in Dick's eye. "It's too good of you,--much too good. Because you are consoling yourself with what will never happen, and I know that, and yet I want to keep you. Don't blame me later, please." "I'm going into the matter with my eyes open. Moreover the Queen can do no wrong. It isn't your selfishness that impresses me. It's your audacity in proposing to make use of me." "Pooh! You're only Dick,--and a print-shop." "Very good: that's all I am. But, Maisie, you believe, don't you, that I love you? I don't want you to have any false notions about brothers and sisters." Maisie looked up for a moment and dropped her eyes. "It's absurd, but--I believe. I wish I could send you away before you get angry with me. But--but the girl that lives with me is red-haired, and an impressionist, and all our notions clash." "So do ours, I think. Never mind. Three months from today we shall be laughing at this together." Maisie shook her head mournfully. "I knew you wouldn't understand, and it will only hurt you more when you find out. Look at my face, Dick, and tell me what you see." They stood up and faced each other for a moment. The fog was gathering, and it stifled the roar of the traffic of London beyond the railings. Dick brought all his painfully acquired knowledge of faces to bear on the eyes, mouth, and chin underneath the black velvet toque. "It's the same Maisie, and it's the same me," he said. "We've both nice little wills of our own, and one or other of us has to be broken. Now about the future. I must come and see your pictures some day,--I suppose when the red-haired girl is on the premises." "Sundays are my best times. You must come on Sundays. There are such heaps of things I want to talk about and ask your advice about. Now I must get back to work." "Try to find out before next Sunday what I am," said Dick. "Don't take my word for anything I've told you. Good-bye, darling, and bless you." Maisie stole away like a little gray mouse. Dick watched her till she was out of sight, but he did not hear her say to herself, very soberly, "I'm a wretch,--a horrid, selfish wretch. But it's Dick, and Dick will understand." No one has yet explained what actually happens when an irresistible force meets the immovable post, though many have thought deeply, even as Dick thought. He tried to assure himself that Maisie would be led in a few weeks by his mere presence and discourse to a better way of thinking. Then he remembered much too distinctly her face and all that was written on it. "If I know anything of heads," he said, "there's everything in that face but love. I shall have to put that in myself; and that chin and mouth won't be won for nothing. But she's right. She knows what she wants, and she's going to get it. What insolence! Me! Of all the people in the wide world, to use me! But then she's Maisie. There's no getting over that fact; and it's good to see her again. This business must have been simmering at the back of my head for years.... She'll use me as I used Binat at Port Said. She's quite right. It will hurt a little. I shall have to see her every Sunday,--like a young man courting a housemaid. She's sure to come around; and yet--that mouth isn't a yielding mouth. I shall be wanting to kiss her all the time, and I shall have to look at her pictures,--I don't even know what sort of work she does yet,--and I shall have to talk about Art,--Woman's Art! Therefore, particularly and perpetually, damn all varieties of Art. It did me a good turn once, and now it's in my way. I'll go home and do some Art." Half-way to the studio, Dick was smitten with a terrible thought. The figure of a solitary woman in the fog suggested it. "She's all alone in London, with a red-haired impressionist girl, who probably has the digestion of an ostrich. Most red-haired people have. Maisie's a bilious little body. They'll eat like lone women,--meals at all hours, and tea with all meals. I remember how the students in Paris used to pig along. She may fall ill at any minute, and I shan't be able to help. Whew! this is ten times worse than owning a wife." Torpenhow entered the studio at dusk, and looked at Dick with eyes full of the austere love that springs up between men who have tugged at the same oar together and are yoked by custom and use and the intimacies of toil. This is a good love, and, since it allows, and even encourages, strife, recrimination, and brutal sincerity, does not die, but grows, and is proof against any absence and evil conduct. Dick was silent after he handed Torpenhow the filled pipe of council. He thought of Maisie and her possible needs. It was a new thing to think of anybody but Torpenhow, who could think for himself. Here at last was an outlet for that cash balance. He could adorn Maisie barbarically with jewelry,--a thick gold necklace round that little neck, bracelets upon the rounded arms, and rings of price upon her hands,--the cool, temperate, ringless hands that he had taken between his own. It was an absurd thought, for Maisie would not even allow him to put one ring on one finger, and she would laugh at golden trappings. It would be better to sit with her quietly in the dusk, his arm around her neck and her face on his shoulder, as befitted husband and wife. Torpenhow's boots creaked that night, and his strong voice jarred. Dick's brows contracted and he murmured an evil word because he had taken all his success as a right and part payment for past discomfort, and now he was checked in his stride by a woman who admitted all the success and did not instantly care for him. "I say, old man," said Torpenhow, who had made one or two vain attempts at conversation, "I haven't put your back up by anything I've said lately, have I?" "You! No. How could you?" "Liver out of order?" "The truly healthy man doesn't know he has a liver. I'm only a bit worried about things in general. I suppose it's my soul." "The truly healthy man doesn't know he has a soul. What business have you with luxuries of that kind?" "It came of itself. Who's the man that says that we're all islands shouting lies to each other across seas of misunderstanding?" "He's right, whoever he is,--except about the misunderstanding. I don't think we could misunderstand each other." The blue smoke curled back from the ceiling in clouds. Then Torpenhow, insinuatingly--"Dick, is it a woman?" "Be hanged if it's anything remotely resembling a woman; and if you begin to talk like that, I'll hire a red-brick studio with white paint trimmings, and begonias and petunias and blue Hungarias to play among three-and-sixpenny pot-palms, and I'll mount all my pics in aniline-dye plush plasters, and I'll invite every woman who maunders over what her guide-books tell her is Art, and you shall receive 'em, Torp,--in a snuff-brown velvet coat with yellow trousers and an orange tie. You'll like that?" "Too thin, Dick. A better man than you once denied with cursing and swearing. You've overdone it, just as he did. It's no business of mine, of course, but it's comforting to think that somewhere under the stars there's saving up for you a tremendous thrashing. Whether it'll come from heaven or earth, I don't know, but it's bound to come and break you up a little. You want hammering." Dick shivered. "All right," said he. "When this island is disintegrated, it will call for you." "I shall come round the corner and help to disintegrate it some more. We're talking nonsense. Come along to a theatre." CHAPTER VI "And you may lead a thousand men, Nor ever draw the rein, But ere ye lead the Faery Queen 'Twill burst your heart in twain." He has slipped his foot from the stirrup-bar, The bridle from his hand, And he is bound by hand and foot To the Queen 'o Faery-land. ----Sir Hoggie and the Fairies. Some weeks later, on a very foggy Sunday, Dick was returning across the Park to his studio. "This," he said, "is evidently the thrashing that Torp meant. It hurts more than I expected; but the Queen can do no wrong; and she certainly has some notion of drawing." He had just finished a Sunday visit to Maisie,--always under the green eyes of the red-haired impressionist girl, whom he learned to hate at sight,--and was tingling with a keen sense of shame. Sunday after Sunday, putting on his best clothes, he had walked over to the untidy house north of the Park, first to see Maisie's pictures, and then to criticise and advise upon them as he realised that they were productions on which advice would not be wasted. Sunday after Sunday, and his love grew with each visit, he had been compelled to cram his heart back from between his lips when it prompted him to kiss Maisie several times and very much indeed. Sunday after Sunday, the head above the heart had warned him that Maisie was not yet attainable, and that it would be better to talk as connectedly as possible upon the mysteries of the craft that was all in all to her. Therefore it was his fate to endure weekly torture in the studio built out over the clammy back garden of a frail stuffy little villa where nothing was ever in its right place and nobody every called,--to endure and to watch Maisie moving to and fro with the teacups. He abhorred tea, but, since it gave him a little longer time in her presence, he drank it devoutly, and the red-haired girl sat in an untidy heap and eyed him without speaking. She was always watching him. Once, and only once, when she had left the studio, Maisie showed him an album that held a few poor cuttings from provincial papers,--the briefest of hurried notes on some of her pictures sent to outlying exhibitions. Dick stooped and kissed the paint-smudged thumb on the open page. "Oh, my love, my love," he muttered, "do you value these things? Chuck 'em into the waste-paper basket!" "Not till I get something better," said Maisie, shutting the book. Then Dick, moved by no respect for his public and a very deep regard for the maiden, did deliberately propose, in order to secure more of these coveted cuttings, that he should paint a picture which Maisie should sign. "That's childish," said Maisie, "and I didn't think it of you. It must be my work. Mine,--mine,--mine!" "Go and design decorative medallions for rich brewers' houses. You are thoroughly good at that." Dick was sick and savage. "Better things than medallions, Dick," was the answer, in tones that recalled a gray-eyed atom's fearless speech to Mrs. Jennett. Dick would have abased himself utterly, but that other girl trailed in. Next Sunday he laid at Maisie's feet small gifts of pencils that could almost draw of themselves and colours in whose permanence he believed, and he was ostentatiously attentive to the work in hand. It demanded, among other things, an exposition of the faith that was in him. Torpenhow's hair would have stood on end had he heard the fluency with which Dick preached his own gospel of Art. A month before, Dick would have been equally astonished; but it was Maisie's will and pleasure, and he dragged his words together to make plain to her comprehension all that had been hidden to himself of the whys and wherefores of work. There is not the least difficulty in doing a thing if you only know how to do it; the trouble is to explain your method. "I could put this right if I had a brush in my hand," said Dick, despairingly, over the modelling of a chin that Maisie complained would not "look flesh,"--it was the same chin that she had scraped out with the palette knife,--"but I find it almost impossible to teach you. There's a queer grim Dutch touch about your painting that I like; but I've a notion that you're weak in drawing. You foreshorten as though you never used the model, and you've caught Kami's pasty way of dealing with flesh in shadow. Then, again, though you don't know it yourself, you shirk hard work. Suppose you spend some of your time on line lone. Line doesn't allow of shirking. Oils do, and three square inches of flashy, tricky stuff in the corner of a pic sometimes carry a bad thing off,--as I know. That's immoral. Do line-work for a little while, and then I can tell more about your powers, as old Kami used to say." Maisie protested; she did not care for the pure line. "I know," said Dick. "You want to do your fancy heads with a bunch of flowers at the base of the neck to hide bad modelling." The red-haired girl laughed a little. "You want to do landscapes with cattle knee-deep in grass to hide bad drawing. You want to do a great deal more than you can do. You have sense of colour, but you want form. Colour's a gift,--put it aside and think no more about it,--but form you can be drilled into. Now, all your fancy heads--and some of them are very good--will keep you exactly where you are. With line you must go forward or backward, and it will show up all your weaknesses." "But other people----" began Maisie. "You mustn't mind what other people do. If their souls were your soul, it would be different. You stand and fall by your own work, remember, and it's waste of time to think of any one else in this battle." Dick paused, and the longing that had been so resolutely put away came back into his eyes. He looked at Maisie, and the look asked as plainly as words, Was it not time to leave all this barren wilderness of canvas and counsel and join hands with Life and Love? Maisie assented to the new programme of schooling so adorably that Dick could hardly restrain himself from picking her up then and there and carrying her off to the nearest registrar's office. It was the implicit obedience to the spoken word and the blank indifference to the unspoken desire that baffled and buffeted his soul. He held authority in that house,--authority limited, indeed, to one-half of one afternoon in seven, but very real while it lasted. Maisie had learned to appeal to him on many subjects, from the proper packing of pictures to the condition of a smoky chimney. The red-haired girl never consulted him about anything. On the other hand, she accepted his appearances without protest, and watched him always. He discovered that the meals of the establishment were irregular and fragmentary. They depended chiefly on tea, pickles, and biscuit, as he had suspected from the beginning. The girls were supposed to market week and week about, but they lived, with the help of a charwoman, as casually as the young ravens. Maisie spent most of her income on models, and the other girl revelled in apparatus as refined as her work was rough. Armed with knowledge, dear-bought from the Docks, Dick warned Maisie that the end of semi-starvation meant the crippling of power to work, which was considerably worse than death. Maisie took the warning, and gave more thought to what she ate and drank. When his trouble returned upon him, as it generally did in the long winter twilights, the remembrance of that little act of domestic authority and his coercion with a hearth-brush of the smoky drawing-room chimney stung Dick like a whip-lash. He conceived that this memory would be the extreme of his sufferings, till one Sunday, the red-haired girl announced that she would make a study of Dick's head, and that he would be good enough to sit still, and--quite as an afterthought--look at Maisie. He sat, because he could not well refuse, and for the space of half an hour he reflected on all the people in the past whom he had laid open for the purposes of his own craft. He remembered Binat most distinctly,--that Binat who had once been an artist and talked about degradation. It was the merest monochrome roughing in of a head, but it presented the dumb waiting, the longing, and, above all, the hopeless enslavement of the man, in a spirit of bitter mockery. "I'll buy it," said Dick, promptly, "at your own price." "My price is too high, but I dare say you'll be as grateful if----" The wet sketch, fluttered from the girl's hand and fell into the ashes of the studio stove. When she picked it up it was hopelessly smudged. "Oh, it's all spoiled!" said Maisie. "And I never saw it. Was it like?" "Thank you," said Dick under his breath to the red-haired girl, and he removed himself swiftly. "How that man hates me!" said the girl. "And how he loves you, Maisie!" "What nonsense? I knew Dick's very fond of me, but he had his work to do, and I have mine." "Yes, he is fond of you, and I think he knows there is something in impressionism, after all. Maisie, can't you see?" "See? See what?" "Nothing; only, I know that if I could get any man to look at me as that man looks at you, I'd--I don't know what I'd do. But he hates me. Oh, how he hates me!" She was not altogether correct. Dick's hatred was tempered with gratitude for a few moments, and then he forgot the girl entirely. Only the sense of shame remained, and he was nursing it across the Park in the fog. "There'll be an explosion one of these days," he said wrathfully. "But it isn't Maisie's fault; she's right, quite right, as far as she knows, and I can't blame her. This business has been going on for three months nearly. Three months!--and it cost me ten years" knocking about to get at the notion, the merest raw notion, of my work. That's true; but then I didn't have pins, drawing-pins, and palette-knives, stuck into me every Sunday. "Oh, my little darling, if ever I break you, somebody will have a very bad time of it. No, she won't. I'd be as big a fool about her as I am now. I'll poison that red-haired girl on my wedding-day,--she's unwholesome,--and now I'll pass on these present bad times to Torp." Torpenhow had been moved to lecture Dick more than once lately on the sin of levity, and Dick and listened and replied not a word. In the weeks between the first few Sundays of his discipline he had flung himself savagely into his work, resolved that Maisie should at least know the full stretch of his powers. Then he had taught Maisie that she must not pay the least attention to any work outside her own, and Maisie had obeyed him all too well. She took his counsels, but was not interested in his pictures. "Your things smell of tobacco and blood," she said once. "Can't you do anything except soldiers?" "I could do a head of you that would startle you," thought Dick,--this was before the red-haired girl had brought him under the guillotine,--but he only said, "I am very sorry," and harrowed Torpenhow's soul that evening with blasphemies against Art. Later, insensibly and to a large extent against his own will, he ceased to interest himself in his own work. For Maisie's sake, and to soothe the self-respect that it seemed to him he lost each Sunday, he would not consciously turn out bad stuff, but, since Maisie did not care even for his best, it were better not to do anything at all save wait and mark time between Sunday and Sunday. Torpenhow was disgusted as the weeks went by fruitless, and then attacked him one Sunday evening when Dick felt utterly exhausted after three hours' biting self-restraint in Maisie's presence. There was Language, and Torpenhow withdrew to consult the Nilghai, who had come it to talk continental politics. "Bone-idle, is he? Careless, and touched in the temper?" said the Nilghai. "It isn't worth worrying over. Dick is probably playing the fool with a woman." "Isn't that bad enough?" "No. She may throw him out of gear and knock his work to pieces for a while. She may even turn up here some day and make a scene on the staircase: one never knows. But until Dick speaks of his own accord you had better not touch him. He is no easy-tempered man to handle." "No; I wish he were. He is such an aggressive, cocksure, you-be-damned fellow." "He'll get that knocked out of him in time. He must learn that he can't storm up and down the world with a box of moist tubes and a slick brush. You're fond of him?" "I'd take any punishment that's in store for him if I could; but the worst of it is, no man can save his brother." "No, and the worser of it is, there is no discharge in this war. Dick must learn his lesson like the rest of us. Talking of war, there'll be trouble in the Balkans in the spring." "That trouble is long coming. I wonder if we could drag Dick out there when it comes off?" Dick entered the room soon afterwards, and the question was put to him. "Not good enough," he said shortly. "I'm too comf'y where I am." "Surely you aren't taking all the stuff in the papers seriously?" said the Nilghai. "Your vogue will be ended in less than six months,--the public will know your touch and go on to something new,--and where will you be then?" "Here, in England." "When you might be doing decent work among us out there? Nonsense! I shall go, the Keneu will be there, Torp will be there, Cassavetti will be there, and the whole lot of us will be there, and we shall have as much as ever we can do, with unlimited fighting and the chance for you of seeing things that would make the reputation of three Verestchagins." "Um!" said Dick, pulling at his pipe. "You prefer to stay here and imagine that all the world is gaping at your pictures? Just think how full an average man's life is of his own pursuits and pleasures. When twenty thousand of him find time to look up between mouthfuls and grunt something about something they aren't the least interested in, the net result is called fame, reputation, or notoriety, according to the taste and fancy of the speller my lord." "I know that as well as you do. Give me credit for a little gumption." "Be hanged if I do!" "Be hanged, then; you probably will be,--for a spy, by excited Turks. Heigh-ho! I'm weary, dead weary, and virtue has gone out of me." Dick dropped into a chair, and was fast asleep in a minute. "That's a bad sign," said the Nilghai, in an undertone. Torpenhow picked the pipe from the waistcoat where it was beginning to burn, and put a pillow behind the head. "We can't help; we can't help," he said. "It's a good ugly sort of old cocoanut, and I'm fond of it. There's the scar of the wipe he got when he was cut over in the square." "Shouldn't wonder if that has made him a trifle mad." "I should. He's a most businesslike madman." Then Dick began to snore furiously. "Oh, here, no affection can stand this sort of thing. Wake up, Dick, and go and sleep somewhere else, if you intend to make a noise about it." "When a cat has been out on the tiles all night," said the Nilghai, in his beard, "I notice that she usually sleeps all day. This is natural history." Dick staggered away rubbing his eyes and yawning. In the night-watches he was overtaken with an idea, so simple and so luminous that he wondered he had never conceived it before. It was full of craft. He would seek Maisie on a week-day,--would suggest an excursion, and would take her by train to Fort Keeling, over the very ground that they two had trodden together ten years ago. "As a general rule," he explained to his chin-lathered reflection in the morning, "it isn't safe to cross an old trail twice. Things remind one of things, and a cold wind gets up, and you feel sad; but this is an exception to every rule that ever was. I'll go to Maisie at once." Fortunately, the red-haired girl was out shopping when he arrived, and Maisie in a paint-spattered blouse was warring with her canvas. She was not pleased to see him; for week-day visits were a stretch of the bond; and it needed all his courage to explain his errand. "I know you've been working too hard," he concluded, with an air of authority. "If you do that, you'll break down. You had much better come." "Where?" said Maisie, wearily. She had been standing before her easel too long, and was very tired. "Anywhere you please. We'll take a train tomorrow and see where it stops. We'll have lunch somewhere, and I'll bring you back in the evening." "If there's a good working light tomorrow, I lose a day." Maisie balanced the heavy white chestnut palette irresolutely. Dick bit back an oath that was hurrying to his lips. He had not yet learned patience with the maiden to whom her work was all in all. "You'll lose ever so many more, dear, if you use every hour of working light. Overwork's only murderous idleness. Don't be unreasonable. I'll call for you tomorrow after breakfast early." "But surely you are going to ask----" "No, I am not. I want you and nobody else. Besides, she hates me as much as I hate her. She won't care to come. Tomorrow, then; and pray that we get sunshine." Dick went away delighted, and by consequence did no work whatever. He strangled a wild desire to order a special train, but bought a great gray kangaroo cloak lined with glossy black marten, and then retired into himself to consider things. "I'm going out for the day tomorrow with Dick," said Maisie to the red-haired girl when the latter returned, tired, from marketing in the Edgware road. "He deserves it. I shall have the studio floor thoroughly scrubbed while you're away. It's very dirty." Maisie had enjoyed no sort of holiday for months and looked forward to the little excitement, but not without misgivings. "There's nobody nicer than Dick when he talks sensibly," she thought, "but I'm sure he'll be silly and worry me, and I'm sure I can't tell him anything he'd like to hear. If he'd only be sensible, I should like him so much better." Dick's eyes were full of joy when he made his appearance next morning and saw Maisie, gray-ulstered and black-velvet-hatted, standing in the hallway. Palaces of marble, and not sordid imitation of grained wood, were surely the fittest background for such a divinity. The red-haired girl drew her into the studio for a moment and kissed her hurriedly. Maisie's eyebrows climbed to the top of her forehead; she was altogether unused to these demonstrations. "Mind my hat," she said, hurrying away, and ran down the steps to Dick waiting by the hansom. "Are you quite warm enough! Are you sure you wouldn't like some more breakfast? Put the cloak over your knees." "I'm quite comf'y, thanks. Where are we going, Dick? Oh, do stop singing like that. People will think we're mad." "Let 'em think,--if the exertion doesn't kill them. They don't know who we are, and I'm sure I don't care who they are. My faith, Maisie, you're looking lovely!" Maisie stared directly in front of her and did not reply. The wind of a keen clear winter morning had put colour into her cheeks. Overhead, the creamy-yellow smoke-clouds were thinning away one by one against a pale-blue sky, and the improvident sparrows broke off from water-spout committees and cab-rank cabals to clamour of the coming of spring. "It will be lovely weather in the country," said Dick. "But where are we going?" "Wait and see." The stopped at Victoria, and Dick sought tickets. For less than half the fraction of an instant it occurred to Maisie, comfortably settled by the waiting-room fire, that it was much more pleasant to send a man to the booking-office than to elbow one's own way through the crowd. Dick put her into a Pullman,--solely on account of the warmth there; and she regarded the extravagance with grave scandalised eyes as the train moved out into the country. "I wish I knew where we are going," she repeated for the twentieth time. The name of a well-remembered station flashed by, towards the end of the run, and Maisie was delighted. "Oh, Dick, you villain!" "Well, I thought you might like to see the place again. You haven't been here since the old times, have you?" "No. I never cared to see Mrs. Jennett again; and she was all that was ever there." "Not quite. Look out a minute. There's the windmill above the potato-fields; they haven't built villas there yet; d'you remember when I shut you up in it?" "Yes. How she beat you for it! I never told it was you." "She guessed. I jammed a stick under the door and told you that I was burying Amomma alive in the potatoes, and you believed me. You had a trusting nature in those days." They laughed and leaned to look out, identifying ancient landmarks with many reminiscences. Dick fixed his weather eye on the curve of Maisie's cheek, very near his own, and watched the blood rise under the clear skin. He congratulated himself upon his cunning, and looked that the evening would bring him a great reward. When the train stopped they went out to look at an old town with new eyes. First, but from a distance, they regarded the house of Mrs. Jennett. "Suppose she should come out now, what would you do?" said Dick, with mock terror. "I should make a face." "Show, then," said Dick, dropping into the speech of childhood. Maisie made that face in the direction of the mean little villa, and Dick laughed. "'This is disgraceful,'" said Maisie, mimicking Mrs. Jennett's tone. "'Maisie, you run in at once, and learn the collect, gospel, and epistle for the next three Sundays. After all I've taught you, too, and three helps every Sunday at dinner! Dick's always leading you into mischief. If you aren't a gentleman, Dick, you might at least...'" The sentence ended abruptly. Maisie remembered when it had last been used. "'Try to behave like one,'" said Dick, promptly. "Quite right. Now we'll get some lunch and go on to Fort Keeling,--unless you'd rather drive there?" "We must walk, out of respect to the place. How little changed it all is!" They turned in the direction of the sea through unaltered streets, and the influence of old things lay upon them. Presently they passed a confectioner's shop much considered in the days when their joint pocket-money amounted to a shilling a week. "Dick, have you any pennies?" said Maisie, half to herself. "Only three; and if you think you're going to have two of 'em to buy peppermints with, you're wrong. She says peppermints aren't ladylike." Again they laughed, and again the colour came into Maisie's cheeks as the blood boiled through Dick's heart. After a large lunch they went down to the beach and to Fort Keeling across the waste, wind-bitten land that no builder had thought it worth his while to defile. The winter breeze came in from the sea and sang about their ears. "Maisie," said Dick, "your nose is getting a crude Prussian blue at the tip. I'll race you as far as you please for as much as you please." She looked round cautiously, and with a laugh set off, swiftly as the ulster allowed, till she was out of breath. "We used to run miles," she panted. "It's absurd that we can't run now." "Old age, dear. This it is to get fat and sleek in town. When I wished to pull your hair you generally ran for three miles, shrieking at the top of your voice. I ought to know, because those shrieks of yours were meant to call up Mrs. Jennett with a cane and----" "Dick, I never got you a beating on purpose in my life." "No, of course you never did. Good heavens! look at the sea." "Why, it's the same as ever!" said Maisie. Torpenhow had gathered from Mr. Beeton that Dick, properly dressed and shaved, had left the house at half-past eight in the morning with a travelling-rug over his arm. The Nilghai rolled in at mid-day for chess and polite conversation. "It's worse than anything I imagined," said Torpenhow. "Oh, the everlasting Dick, I suppose! You fuss over him like a hen with one chick. Let him run riot if he thinks it'll amuse him. You can whip a young pup off feather, but you can't whip a young man." "It isn't a woman. It's one woman; and it's a girl." "Where's your proof?" "He got up and went out at eight this morning,--got up in the middle of the night, by Jove! a thing he never does except when he's on service. Even then, remember, we had to kick him out of his blankets before the fight began at El-Maghrib. It's disgusting." "It looks odd; but maybe he's decided to buy a horse at last. He might get up for that, mightn't he?" "Buy a blazing wheelbarrow! He'd have told us if there was a horse in the wind. It's a girl." "Don't be certain. Perhaps it's only a married woman." "Dick has some sense of humour, if you haven't. Who gets up in the gray dawn to call on another man's wife? It's a girl." "Let it be a girl, then. She may teach him that there's somebody else in the world besides himself." "She'll spoil his hand. She'll waste his time, and she'll marry him, and ruin his work for ever. He'll be a respectable married man before we can stop him, and--he'll ever go on the long trail again." "All quite possible, but the earth won't spin the other way when that happens.... No! ho! I'd give something to see Dick 'go wooing with the boys.' Don't worry about it. These things be with Allah, and we can only look on. Get the chessmen." The red-haired girl was lying down in her own room, staring at the ceiling. The footsteps of people on the pavement sounded, as they grew indistinct in the distance, like a many-times-repeated kiss that was all one long kiss. Her hands were by her side, and they opened and shut savagely from time to time. The charwoman in charge of the scrubbing of the studio knocked at her door: "Beg y' pardon, miss, but in cleanin' of a floor there's two, not to say three, kind of soap, which is yaller, an' mottled, an' disinfectink. Now, jist before I took my pail into the passage I though it would be pre'aps jest as well if I was to come up 'ere an' ask you what sort of soap you was wishful that I should use on them boards. The yaller soap, miss----" There was nothing in the speech to have caused the paroxysm of fury that drove the red-haired girl into the middle of the room, almost shouting--"Do you suppose I care what you use? Any kind will do!--any kind!" The woman fled, and the red-haired girl looked at her own reflection in the glass for an instant and covered her face with her hands. It was as though she had shouted some shameless secret aloud. CHAPTER VII Roses red and roses white Plucked I for my love's delight. She would none of all my posies,-- Bade me gather her blue roses. Half the world I wandered through, Seeking where such flowers grew; Half the world unto my quest Answered but with laugh and jest. It may be beyond the grave She shall find what she would have. Mine was but an idle quest,-- Roses white and red are best! ----Blue Roses Indeed the sea had not changed. Its waters were low on the mud-banks, and the Marazion Bell-buoy clanked and swung in the tide-way. On the white beach-sand dried stumps of sea-poppy shivered and chattered. "I don't see the old breakwater," said Maisie, under her breath. "Let's be thankful that we have as much as we have. I don't believe they've mounted a single new gun on the fort since we were here. Come and look." They came to the glacis of Fort Keeling, and sat down in a nook sheltered from the wind under the tarred throat of a forty-pounder cannon. "Now, if Ammoma were only here!" said Maisie. For a long time both were silent. Then Dick took Maisie's hand and called her by her name. She shook her head and looked out to sea. "Maisie, darling, doesn't it make any difference?" "No!" between clenched teeth. "I'd--I'd tell you if it did; but it doesn't. Oh, Dick, please be sensible." "Don't you think that it ever will?" "No, I'm sure it won't." "Why?" Maisie rested her chin on her hand, and, still regarding the sea, spoke hurriedly--"I know what you want perfectly well, but I can't give it to you, Dick. It isn't my fault; indeed, it isn't. If I felt that I could care for any one----But I don't feel that I care. I simply don't understand what the feeling means." "Is that true, dear?" "You've been very good to me, Dickie; and the only way I can pay you back is by speaking the truth. I daren't tell a fib. I despise myself quite enough as it is." "What in the world for?" "Because--because I take everything that you give me and I give you nothing in return. It's mean and selfish of me, and whenever I think of it it worries me." "Understand once for all, then, that I can manage my own affairs, and if I choose to do anything you aren't to blame. You haven't a single thing to reproach yourself with, darling." "Yes, I have, and talking only makes it worse." "Then don't talk about it." "How can I help myself? If you find me alone for a minute you are always talking about it; and when you aren't you look it. You don't know how I despise myself sometimes." "Great goodness!" said Dick, nearly jumping to his feet. "Speak the truth now, Maisie, if you never speak it again! Do I--does this worrying bore you?" "No. It does not." "You'd tell me if it did?" "I should let you know, I think." "Thank you. The other thing is fatal. But you must learn to forgive a man when he's in love. He's always a nuisance. You must have known that?" Maisie did not consider the last question worth answering, and Dick was forced to repeat it. "There were other men, of course. They always worried just when I was in the middle of my work, and wanted me to listen to them." "Did you listen?" "At first; and they couldn't understand why I didn't care. And they used to praise my pictures; and I thought they meant it. I used to be proud of the praise, and tell Kami, and--I shall never forget--once Kami laughed at me." "You don't like being laughed at, Maisie, do you?" "I hate it. I never laugh at other people unless--unless they do bad work. Dick, tell me honestly what you think of my pictures generally,--of everything of mine that you've seen." "'Honest, honest, and honest over!'" quoted Dick from a catchword of long ago. "Tell me what Kami always says." Maisie hesitated. "He--he says that there is feeling in them." "How dare you tell me a fib like that? Remember, I was under Kami for two years. I know exactly what he says." "It isn't a fib." "It's worse; it's a half-truth. Kami says, when he puts his head on one side,--so, 'Il y a du sentiment, mais il n'y a pas de parti pris.'" He rolled the r threateningly, as Kami used to do. "Yes, that is what he says; and I'm beginning to think that he is right." "Certainly he is." Dick admitted that two people in the world could do and say no wrong. Kami was the man. "And now you say the same thing. It's so disheartening." "I'm sorry, but you asked me to speak the truth. Besides, I love you too much to pretend about your work. It's strong, it's patient sometimes,--not always,--and sometimes there's power in it, but there's no special reason why it should be done at all. At least, that's how it strikes me." "There's no special reason why anything in the world should ever be done. You know that as well as I do. I only want success." "You're going the wrong way to get it, then. Hasn't Kami ever told you so?" "Don't quote Kami to me. I want to know what you think. My work's bad, to begin with." "I didn't say that, and I don't think it." "It's amateurish, then." "That it most certainly is not. You're a work-woman, darling, to your boot-heels, and I respect you for that." "You don't laugh at me behind my back?" "No, dear. You see, you are more to me than any one else. Put this cloak thing round you, or you'll get chilled." Maisie wrapped herself in the soft marten skins, turning the gray kangaroo fur to the outside. "This is delicious," she said, rubbing her chin thoughtfully along the fur. "Well? Why am I wrong in trying to get a little success?" "Just because you try. Don't you understand, darling? Good work has nothing to do with--doesn't belong to--the person who does it. It's put into him or her from outside." "But how does that affect----" "Wait a minute. All we can do is to learn how to do our work, to be masters of our materials instead of servants, and never to be afraid of anything." "I understand that." "Everything else comes from outside ourselves. Very good. If we sit down quietly to work out notions that are sent to us, we may or we may not do something that isn't bad. A great deal depends on being master of the bricks and mortar of the trade. But the instant we begin to think about success and the effect of our work--to play with one eye on the gallery--we lose power and touch and everything else. At least that's how I have found it. Instead of being quiet and giving every power you possess to your work, you're fretting over something which you can neither help no hinder by a minute. See?" "It's so easy for you to talk in that way. People like what you do. Don't you ever think about the gallery?" "Much too often; but I'm always punished for it by loss of power. It's as simple as the Rule of Three. If we make light of our work by using it for our own ends, our work will make light of us, and, as we're the weaker, we shall suffer." "I don't treat my work lightly. You know that it's everything to me." "Of course; but, whether you realise it or not, you give two strokes for yourself to one for your work. It isn't your fault, darling. I do exactly the same thing, and know that I'm doing it. Most of the French schools, and all the schools here, drive the students to work for their own credit, and for the sake of their pride. I was told that all the world was interested in my work, and everybody at Kami's talked turpentine, and I honestly believed that the world needed elevating and influencing, and all manner of impertinences, by my brushes. By Jove, I actually believed that! When my little head was bursting with a notion that I couldn't handle because I hadn't sufficient knowledge of my craft, I used to run about wondering at my own magnificence and getting ready to astonish the world." "But surely one can do that sometimes?" "Very seldom with malice aforethought, darling. And when it's done it's such a tiny thing, and the world's so big, and all but a millionth part of it doesn't care. Maisie, come with me and I'll show you something of the size of the world. One can no more avoid working than eating,--that goes on by itself,--but try to see what you are working for. I know such little heavens that I could take you to,--islands tucked away under the Line. You sight them after weeks of crashing through water as black as black marble because it's so deep, and you sit in the fore-chains day after day and see the sun rise almost afraid because the sea's so lonely." "Who is afraid?--you, or the sun?" "The sun, of course. And there are noises under the sea, and sounds overhead in a clear sky. Then you find your island alive with hot moist orchids that make mouths at you and can do everything except talk. There's a waterfall in it three hundred feet high, just like a sliver of green jade laced with silver; and millions of wild bees live up in the rocks; and you can hear the fat cocoanuts falling from the palms; and you order an ivory-white servant to sling you a long yellow hammock with tassels on it like ripe maize, and you put up your feet and hear the bees hum and the water fall till you go to sleep." "Can one work there?" "Certainly. One must do something always. You hang your canvas up in a palm tree and let the parrots criticise. When the scuffle you heave a ripe custard-apple at them, and it bursts in a lather of cream. There are hundreds of places. Come and see them." "I don't quite like that place. It sounds lazy. Tell me another." "What do you think of a big, red, dead city built of red sandstone, with raw green aloes growing between the stones, lying out neglected on honey-coloured sands? There are forty dead kings there, Maisie, each in a gorgeous tomb finer than all the others. You look at the palaces and streets and shops and tanks, and think that men must live there, till you find a wee gray squirrel rubbing its nose all alone in the market-place, and a jewelled peacock struts out of a carved doorway and spreads its tail against a marble screen as fine pierced as point-lace. Then a monkey--a little black monkey--walks through the main square to get a drink from a tank forty feet deep. He slides down the creepers to the water's edge, and a friend holds him by the tail, in case he should fall in." "Is that all true?" "I have been there and seen. Then evening comes, and the lights change till it's just as though you stood in the heart of a king-opal. A little before sundown, as punctually as clockwork, a big bristly wild boar, with all his family following, trots through the city gate, churning the foam on his tusks. You climb on the shoulder of a blind black stone god and watch that pig choose himself a palace for the night and stump in wagging his tail. Then the night-wind gets up, and the sands move, and you hear the desert outside the city singing, 'Now I lay me down to sleep,' and everything is dark till the moon rises. Maisie, darling, come with me and see what the world is really like. It's very lovely, and it's very horrible,--but I won't let you see anything horrid,--and it doesn't care your life or mine for pictures or anything else except doing its own work and making love. Come, and I'll show you how to brew sangaree, and sling a hammock, and--oh, thousands of things, and you'll see for yourself what colour means, and we'll find out together what love means, and then, maybe, we shall be allowed to do some good work. Come away!" "Why?" said Maisie. "How can you do anything until you have seen everything, or as much as you can? And besides, darling, I love you. Come along with me. You have no business here; you don't belong to this place; you're half a gipsy,--your face tells that; and I--even the smell of open water makes me restless. Come across the sea and be happy!" He had risen to his feet, and stood in the shadow of the gun, looking down at the girl. The very short winter afternoon had worn away, and, before they knew, the winter moon was walking the untroubled sea. Long ruled lines of silver showed where a ripple of the rising tide was turning over the mud-banks. The wind had dropped, and in the intense stillness they could hear a donkey cropping the frosty grass many yards away. A faint beating, like that of a muffled drum, came out of the moon-haze. "What's that?" said Maisie, quickly. "It sounds like a heart beating. Where is it?" Dick was so angry at this sudden wrench to his pleadings that he could not trust himself to speak, and in this silence caught the sound. Maisie from her seat under the gun watched him with a certain amount of fear. She wished so much that he would be sensible and cease to worry her with over-sea emotion that she both could and could not understand. She was not prepared, however, for the change in his face as he listened. "It's a steamer," he said,--"a twin-screw steamer, by the beat. I can't make her out, but she must be standing very close inshore. Ah!" as the red of a rocket streaked the haze, "she's standing in to signal before she clears the Channel." "Is it a wreck?" said Maisie, to whom these words were as Greek. Dick's eyes were turned to the sea. "Wreck! What nonsense! She's only reporting herself. Red rocket forward--there's a green light aft now, and two red rockets from the bridge." "What does that mean?" "It's the signal of the Cross Keys Line running to Australia. I wonder which steamer it is." The note of his voice had changed; he seemed to be talking to himself, and Maisie did not approve of it. The moonlight broke the haze for a moment, touching the black sides of a long steamer working down Channel. "Four masts and three funnels--she's in deep draught, too. That must be the Barralong, or the Bhutia. No, the Bhutia has a clipper bow. It's the Barralong, to Australia. She'll lift the Southern Cross in a week,--lucky old tub!--oh, lucky old tub!" He stared intently, and moved up the slope of the fort to get a better view, but the mist on the sea thickened again, and the beating of the screws grew fainter. Maisie called to him a little angrily, and he returned, still keeping his eyes to seaward. "Have you ever seen the Southern Cross blazing right over your head?" he asked. "It's superb!" "No," she said shortly, "and I don't want to. If you think it's so lovely, why don't you go and see it yourself?" She raised her face from the soft blackness of the marten skins about her throat, and her eyes shone like diamonds. The moonlight on the gray kangaroo fur turned it to frosted silver of the coldest. "By Jove, Maisie, you look like a little heathen idol tucked up there." The eyes showed that they did not appreciate the compliment. "I'm sorry," he continued. "The Southern Cross isn't worth looking at unless someone helps you to see. That steamer's out of hearing." "Dick," she said quietly, "suppose I were to come to you now,--be quiet a minute,--just as I am, and caring for you just as much as I do." "Not as a brother, though. You said you didn't--in the Park." "I never had a brother. Suppose I said, 'Take me to those places, and in time, perhaps, I might really care for you,' what would you do?" "Send you straight back to where you came from, in a cab. No, I wouldn't; I'd let you walk. But you couldn't do it, dear. And I wouldn't run the risk. You're worth waiting for till you can come without reservation." "Do you honestly believe that?" "I have a hazy sort of idea that I do. Has it never struck you in that light?" "Ye--es. I feel so wicked about it." "Wickeder than usual?" "You don't know all I think. It's almost too awful to tell." "Never mind. You promised to tell me the truth--at least." "It's so ungrateful of me, but--but, though I know you care for me, and I like to have you with me, I'd--I'd even sacrifice you, if that would bring me what I want." "My poor little darling! I know that state of mind. It doesn't lead to good work." "You aren't angry? Remember, I do despise myself." "I'm not exactly flattered,--I had guessed as much before,--but I'm not angry. I'm sorry for you. Surely you ought to have left a littleness like that behind you, years ago." "You've no right to patronise me! I only want what I have worked for so long. It came to you without any trouble, and--and I don't think it's fair." "What can I do? I'd give ten years of my life to get you what you want. But I can't help you; even I can't help." A murmur of dissent from Maisie. He went on--"And I know by what you have just said that you're on the wrong road to success. It isn't got at by sacrificing other people,--I've had that much knocked into me; you must sacrifice yourself, and live under orders, and never think for yourself, and never have real satisfaction in your work except just at the beginning, when you're reaching out after a notion." "How can you believe all that?" "There's no question of belief or disbelief. That's the law, and you take it or refuse it as you please. I try to obey, but I can't, and then my work turns bad on my hands. Under any circumstances, remember, four-fifths of everybody's work must be bad. But the remnant is worth the trouble for its own sake." "Isn't it nice to get credit even for bad work?" "It's much too nice. But----May I tell you something? It isn't a pretty tale, but you're so like a man that I forget when I'm talking to you." "Tell me." "Once when I was out in the Soudan I went over some ground that we had been fighting on for three days. There were twelve hundred dead; and we hadn't time to bury them." "How ghastly!" "I had been at work on a big double-sheet sketch, and I was wondering what people would think of it at home. The sight of that field taught me a good deal. It looked just like a bed of horrible toadstools in all colours, and--I'd never seen men in bulk go back to their beginnings before. So I began to understand that men and women were only material to work with, and that what they said or did was of no consequence. See? Strictly speaking, you might just as well put your ear down to the palette to catch what your colours are saying." "Dick, that's disgraceful!" "Wait a minute. I said, strictly speaking. Unfortunately, everybody must be either a man or a woman." "I'm glad you allow that much." "In your case I don't. You aren't a woman. But ordinary people, Maisie, must behave and work as such. That's what makes me so savage." He hurled a pebble towards the sea as he spoke. "I know that it is outside my business to care what people say; I can see that it spoils my output if I listen to 'em; and yet, confound it all,"--another pebble flew seaward,--"I can't help purring when I'm rubbed the right way. Even when I can see on a man's forehead that he is lying his way through a clump of pretty speeches, those lies make me happy and play the mischief with my hand." "And when he doesn't say pretty things?" "Then, belovedest,"--Dick grinned,--"I forget that I am the steward of these gifts, and I want to make that man love and appreciate my work with a thick stick. It's too humiliating altogether; but I suppose even if one were an angel and painted humans altogether from outside, one would lose in touch what one gained in grip." Maisie laughed at the idea of Dick as an angel. "But you seem to think," she said, "that everything nice spoils your hand." "I don't think. It's the law,--just the same as it was at Mrs. Jennett's. Everything that is nice does spoil your hand. I'm glad you see so clearly." "I don't like the view." "Nor I. But--have got orders: what can do? Are you strong enough to face it alone?" "I suppose I must." "Let me help, darling. We can hold each other very tight and try to walk straight. We shall blunder horribly, but it will be better than stumbling apart. Maisie, can't you see reason?" "I don't think we should get on together. We should be two of a trade, so we should never agree." "How I should like to meet the man who made that proverb! He lived in a cave and ate raw bear, I fancy. I'd make him chew his own arrow-heads. Well?" "I should be only half married to you. I should worry and fuss about my work, as I do now. Four days out of the seven I'm not fit to speak to." "You talk as if no one else in the world had ever used a brush. D'you suppose that I don't know the feeling of worry and bother and can't-get-at-ness? You're lucky if you only have it four days out of the seven. What difference would that make?" "A great deal--if you had it too." "Yes, but I could respect it. Another man might not. He might laugh at you. But there's no use talking about it. If you can think in that way you can't care for me--yet." The tide had nearly covered the mud-banks and twenty little ripples broke on the beach before Maisie chose to speak. "Dick," she said slowly, "I believe very much that you are better than I am." "This doesn't seem to bear on the argument--but in what way?" "I don't quite know, but in what you said about work and things; and then you're so patient. Yes, you're better than I am." Dick considered rapidly the murkiness of an average man's life. There was nothing in the review to fill him with a sense of virtue. He lifted the hem of the cloak to his lips. "Why," said Maisie, making as though she had not noticed, "can you see things that I can't? I don't believe what you believe; but you're right, I believe." "If I've seen anything, God knows I couldn't have seen it but for you, and I know that I couldn't have said it except to you. You seemed to make everything clear for a minute; but I don't practice what I preach. You would help me... There are only us two in the world for all purposes, and--and you like to have me with you?" "Of course I do. I wonder if you can realise how utterly lonely I am!" "Darling, I think I can." "Two years ago, when I first took the little house, I used to walk up and down the back-garden trying to cry. I never can cry. Can you?" "It's some time since I tried. What was the trouble? Overwork?" "I don't know; but I used to dream that I had broken down, and had no money, and was starving in London. I thought about it all day, and it frightened me--oh, how it frightened me!" "I know that fear. It's the most terrible of all. It wakes me up in the night sometimes. You oughtn't to know anything about it." "How do you know?" "Never mind. Is your three hundred a year safe?" "It's in Consols." "Very well. If any one comes to you and recommends a better investment,--even if I should come to you,--don't you listen. Never shift the money for a minute, and never lend a penny of it,--even to the red-haired girl." "Don't scold me so! I'm not likely to be foolish." "The earth is full of men who'd sell their souls for three hundred a year; and women come and talk, and borrow a five-pound note here and a ten-pound note there; and a woman has no conscience in a money debt. Stick to your money, Maisie, for there's nothing more ghastly in the world than poverty in London. It's scared me. By Jove, it put the fear into me! And one oughtn't to be afraid of anything." To each man is appointed his particular dread,--the terror that, if he does not fight against it, must cow him even to the loss of his manhood. Dick's experience of the sordid misery of want had entered into the deeps of him, and, lest he might find virtue too easy, that memory stood behind him, tempting to shame, when dealers came to buy his wares. As the Nilghai quaked against his will at the still green water of a lake or a mill-dam, as Torpenhow flinched before any white arm that could cut or stab and loathed himself for flinching, Dick feared the poverty he had once tasted half in jest. His burden was heavier than the burdens of his companions. Maisie watched the face working in the moonlight. "You've plenty of pennies now," she said soothingly. "I shall never have enough," he began, with vicious emphasis. Then, laughing, "I shall always be three-pence short in my accounts." "Why threepence?" "I carried a man's bag once from Liverpool Street Station to Blackfriar's Bridge. It was a sixpenny job,--you needn't laugh; indeed it was,--and I wanted the money desperately. He only gave me threepence; and he hadn't even the decency to pay in silver. Whatever money I make, I shall never get that odd threepence out of the world." This was not language befitting the man who had preached of the sanctity of work. It jarred on Maisie, who preferred her payment in applause, which, since all men desire it, must be of the right. She hunted for her little purse and gravely took out a threepenny bit. "There it is," she said. "I'll pay you, Dickie; and don't worry any more; it isn't worth while. Are you paid?" "I am," said the very human apostle of fair craft, taking the coin. "I'm paid a thousand times, and we'll close that account. It shall live on my watch-chain; and you're an angel, Maisie." "I'm very cramped, and I'm feeling a little cold. Good gracious! the cloak is all white, and so is your moustache! I never knew it was so chilly." A light frost lay white on the shoulder of Dick's ulster. He, too, had forgotten the state of the weather. They laughed together, and with that laugh ended all serious discourse. They ran inland across the waste to warm themselves, then turned to look at the glory of the full tide under the moonlight and the intense black shadows of the furze bushes. It was an additional joy to Dick that Maisie could see colour even as he saw it,--could see the blue in the white of the mist, the violet that is in gray palings, and all things else as they are,--not of one hue, but a thousand. And the moonlight came into Maisie's soul, so that she, usually reserved, chattered of herself and of the things she took interest in,--of Kami, wisest of teachers, and of the girls in the studio,--of the Poles, who will kill themselves with overwork if they are not checked; of the French, who talk at great length of much more than they will ever accomplish; of the slovenly English, who toil hopelessly and cannot understand that inclination does not imply power; of the Americans, whose rasping voices in the hush of a hot afternoon strain tense-drawn nerves to breaking-point, and whose suppers lead to indigestion; of tempestuous Russians, neither to hold nor to bind, who tell the girls ghost-stories till the girls shriek; of stolid Germans, who come to learn one thing, and, having mastered that much, stolidly go away and copy pictures for evermore. Dick listened enraptured because it was Maisie who spoke. He knew the old life. "It hasn't changed much," he said. "Do they still steal colours at lunch-time?" "Not steal. Attract is the word. Of course they do. I'm good--I only attract ultramarine; but there are students who'd attract flake-white." "I've done it myself. You can't help it when the palettes are hung up. Every colour is common property once it runs down,--even though you do start it with a drop of oil. It teaches people not to waste their tubes." "I should like to attract some of your colours, Dick. Perhaps I might catch your success with them." "I mustn't say a bad word, but I should like to. What in the world, which you've just missed a lovely chance of seeing, does success or want of success, or a three-storied success, matter compared with----No, I won't open that question again. It's time to go back to town." "I'm sorry, Dick, but----" "You're much more interested in that than you are in me." "I don't know, I don't think I am." "What will you give me if I tell you a sure short-cut to everything you want,--the trouble and the fuss and the tangle and all the rest? Will you promise to obey me?" "Of course." "In the first place, you must never forget a meal because you happen to be at work. You forgot your lunch twice last week," said Dick, at a venture, for he knew with whom he was dealing. "No, no,--only once, really." "That's bad enough. And you mustn't take a cup of tea and a biscuit in place of a regular dinner, because dinner happens to be a trouble." "You're making fun of me!" "I never was more in earnest in my life. Oh, my love, my love, hasn't it dawned on you yet what you are to me? Here's the whole earth in a conspiracy to give you a chill, or run over you, or drench you to the skin, or cheat you out of your money, or let you die of overwork and underfeeding, and I haven't the mere right to look after you. Why, I don't even know if you have sense enough to put on warm things when the weather's cold." "Dick, you're the most awful boy to talk to--really! How do you suppose I managed when you were away?" "I wasn't here, and I didn't know. But now I'm back I'd give everything I have for the right of telling you to come in out of the rain." "Your success too?" This time it cost Dick a severe struggle to refrain from bad words. "As Mrs. Jennett used to say, you're a trial, Maisie! You've been cooped up in the schools too long, and you think every one is looking at you. There aren't twelve hundred people in the world who understand pictures. The others pretend and don't care. Remember, I've seen twelve hundred men dead in toadstool-beds. It's only the voice of the tiniest little fraction of people that makes success. The real world doesn't care a tinker's--doesn't care a bit. For aught you or I know, every man in the world may be arguing with a Maisie of his own." "Poor Maisie!" "Poor Dick, I think. Do you believe while he's fighting for what's dearer than his life he wants to look at a picture? And even if he did, and if all the world did, and a thousand million people rose up and shouted hymns to my honour and glory, would that make up to me for the knowledge that you were out shopping in the Edgware Road on a rainy day without an umbrella? Now we'll go to the station." "But you said on the beach----" persisted Maisie, with a certain fear. Dick groaned aloud: "Yes, I know what I said. My work is everything I have, or am, or hope to be, to me, and I believe I've learnt the law that governs it; but I've some lingering sense of fun left,--though you've nearly knocked it out of me. I can just see that it isn't everything to all the world. Do what I say, and not what I do." Maisie was careful not to reopen debatable matters, and they returned to London joyously. The terminus stopped Dick in the midst of an eloquent harangue on the beauties of exercise. He would buy Maisie a horse,--such a horse as never yet bowed head to bit,--would stable it, with a companion, some twenty miles from London, and Maisie, solely for her health's sake should ride with him twice or thrice a week. "That's absurd," said she. "It wouldn't be proper." "Now, who in all London tonight would have sufficient interest or audacity to call us two to account for anything we chose to do?" Maisie looked at the lamps, the fog, and the hideous turmoil. Dick was right; but horseflesh did not make for Art as she understood it. "You're very nice sometimes, but you're very foolish more times. I'm not going to let you give me horses, or take you out of your way tonight. I'll go home by myself. Only I want you to promise me something. You won't think any more about that extra threepence, will you? Remember, you've been paid; and I won't allow you to be spiteful and do bad work for a little thing like that. You can be so big that you mustn't be tiny." This was turning the tables with a vengeance. There remained only to put Maisie into her hansom. "Goodbye," she said simply. "You'll come on Sunday. It has been a beautiful day, Dick. Why can't it be like this always?" "Because love's like line-work: you must go forward or backward; you can't stand still. By the way, go on with your line-work. Good night, and, for my--for my sake, take care of yourself." He turned to walk home, meditating. The day had brought him nothing that he hoped for, but--surely this was worth many days--it had brought him nearer to Maisie. The end was only a question of time now, and the prize well worth the waiting. By instinct, once more, he turned to the river. "And she understood at once," he said, looking at the water. "She found out my pet besetting sin on the spot, and paid it off. My God, how she understood! And she said I was better than she was! Better than she was!" He laughed at the absurdity of the notion. "I wonder if girls guess at one-half a man's life. They can't, or--they wouldn't marry us." He took her gift out of his pocket, and considered it in the light of a miracle and a pledge of the comprehension that, one day, would lead to perfect happiness. Meantime, Maisie was alone in London, with none to save her from danger. And the packed wilderness was very full of danger. Dick made his prayer to Fate disjointedly after the manner of the heathen as he threw the piece of silver into the river. If any evil were to befal, let him bear the burden and let Maisie go unscathed, since the threepenny piece was dearest to him of all his possessions. It was a small coin in itself, but Maisie had given it, and the Thames held it, and surely the Fates would be bribed for this once. The drowning of the coin seemed to cut him free from thought of Maisie for the moment. He took himself off the bridge and went whistling to his chambers with a strong yearning for some man-talk and tobacco after his first experience of an entire day spent in the society of a woman. There was a stronger desire at his heart when there rose before him an unsolicited vision of the Barralong dipping deep and sailing free for the Southern Cross. CHAPTER VIII And these two, as I have told you, Were the friends of Hiawatha, Chibiabos, the musician, And the very strong man, Kwasind. --Hiawatha Torpenhow was paging the last sheets of some manuscript, while the Nilghai, who had come for chess and remained to talk tactics, was reading through the first part, commenting scornfully the while. "It's picturesque enough and it's sketchy," said he; "but as a serious consideration of affairs in Eastern Europe, it's not worth much." "It's off my hands at any rate.... Thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine slips altogether, aren't there? That should make between eleven and twelve pages of valuable misinformation. Heigh-ho!" Torpenhow shuffled the writing together and hummed-- 'Young lambs to sell, young lambs to sell, If I'd as much money as I could tell, I never would cry, Young lambs to sell!'" Dick entered, self-conscious and a little defiant, but in the best of tempers with all the world. "Back at last?" said Torpenhow. "More or less. What have you been doing?" "Work. Dickie, you behave as though the Bank of England were behind you. Here's Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday gone and you haven't done a line. It's scandalous." "The notions come and go, my children--they come and go like our 'baccy," he answered, filling his pipe. "Moreover," he stooped to thrust a spill into the grate, "Apollo does not always stretch his----Oh, confound your clumsy jests, Nilghai!" "This is not the place to preach the theory of direct inspiration," said the Nilghai, returning Torpenhow's large and workmanlike bellows to their nail on the wall. "We believe in cobblers' wax. La!--where you sit down." "If you weren't so big and fat," said Dick, looking round for a weapon, "I'd----" "No skylarking in my rooms. You two smashed half my furniture last time you threw the cushions about. You might have the decency to say How d'you do? to Binkie. Look at him." Binkie had jumped down from the sofa and was fawning round Dick's knee, and scratching at his boots. "Dear man!" said Dick, snatching him up, and kissing him on the black patch above his right eye. "Did ums was, Binks? Did that ugly Nilghai turn you off the sofa? Bite him, Mr. Binkie." He pitched him on the Nilghai's stomach, as the big man lay at ease, and Binkie pretended to destroy the Nilghai inch by inch, till a sofa cushion extinguished him, and panting he stuck out his tongue at the company. "The Binkie-boy went for a walk this morning before you were up, Torp. I saw him making love to the butcher at the corner when the shutters were being taken down--just as if he hadn't enough to eat in his own proper house," said Dick. "Binks, is that a true bill?" said Torpenhow, severely. The little dog retreated under the sofa cushion, and showed by the fat white back of him that he really had no further interest in the discussion. "Strikes me that another disreputable dog went for a walk, too," said the Nilghai. "What made you get up so early? Torp said you might be buying a horse." "He knows it would need three of us for a serious business like that. No, I felt lonesome and unhappy, so I went out to look at the sea, and watch the pretty ships go by." "Where did you go?" "Somewhere on the Channel. Progly or Snigly, or some watering-place was its name; I've forgotten; but it was only two hours' run from London and the ships went by." "Did you see anything you knew?" "Only the Barralong outwards to Australia, and an Odessa grain-boat loaded down by the head. It was a thick day, but the sea smelt good." "Wherefore put on one's best trousers to see the Barralong?" said Torpenhow, pointing. "Because I've nothing except these things and my painting duds. Besides, I wanted to do honour to the sea." "Did She make you feel restless?" asked the Nilghai, keenly. "Crazy. Don't speak of it. I'm sorry I went." Torpenhow and the Nilghai exchanged a look as Dick, stooping, busied himself among the former's boots and trees. "These will do," he said at last; "I can't say I think much of your taste in slippers, but the fit's the thing." He slipped his feet into a pair of sock-like sambhur-skin foot coverings, found a long chair, and lay at length. "They're my own pet pair," Torpenhow said. "I was just going to put them on myself." "All your reprehensible selfishness. Just because you see me happy for a minute, you want to worry me and stir me up. Find another pair." "Good for you that Dick can't wear your clothes, Torp. You two live communistically," said the Nilghai. "Dick never has anything that I can wear. He's only useful to sponge upon." "Confound you, have you been rummaging round among my clothes, then?" said Dick. "I put a sovereign in the tobacco-jar yesterday. How do you expect a man to keep his accounts properly if you----" Here the Nilghai began to laugh, and Torpenhow joined him. "Hid a sovereign yesterday! You're no sort of financier. You lent me a fiver about a month back. Do you remember?" Torpenhow said. "Yes, of course." "Do you remember that I paid it you ten days later, and you put it at the bottom of the tobacco?" "By Jove, did I? I thought it was in one of my colour-boxes." "You thought! About a week ago I went into your studio to get some 'baccy and found it." "What did you do with it?" "Took the Nilghai to a theatre and fed him." "You couldn't feed the Nilghai under twice the money--not though you gave him Army beef. Well, I suppose I should have found it out sooner or later. What is there to laugh at?" "You're a most amazing cuckoo in many directions," said the Nilghai, still chuckling over the thought of the dinner. "Never mind. We had both been working very hard, and it was your unearned increment we spent, and as you're only a loafer it didn't matter." "That's pleasant--from the man who is bursting with my meat, too. I'll get that dinner back one of these days. Suppose we go to a theatre now." "Put our boots on,--and dress,--and wash?" The Nilghai spoke very lazily. "I withdraw the motion." "Suppose, just for a change--as a startling variety, you know--we, that is to say we, get our charcoal and our canvas and go on with our work." Torpenhow spoke pointedly, but Dick only wriggled his toes inside the soft leather moccasins. "What a one-ideaed clucker that is! If I had any unfinished figures on hand, I haven't any model; if I had my model, I haven't any spray, and I never leave charcoal unfixed overnight; and if I had my spray and twenty photographs of backgrounds, I couldn't do anything tonight. I don't feel that way." "Binkie-dog, he's a lazy hog, isn't he?" said the Nilghai. "Very good, I will do some work," said Dick, rising swiftly. "I'll fetch the Nungapunga Book, and we'll add another picture to the Nilghai Saga." "Aren't you worrying him a little too much?" asked the Nilghai, when Dick had left the room. "Perhaps, but I know what he can turn out if he likes. It makes me savage to hear him praised for past work when I know what he ought to do. You and I are arranged for----" "By Kismet and our own powers, more's the pity. I have dreamed of a good deal." "So have I, but we know our limitations now. I'm dashed if I know what Dick's may be when he gives himself to his work. That's what makes me so keen about him." "And when all's said and done, you will be put aside--quite rightly--for a female girl." "I wonder... Where do you think he has been today?" "To the sea. Didn't you see the look in his eyes when he talked about her? He's as restless as a swallow in autumn." "Yes; but did he go alone?" "I don't know, and I don't care, but he has the beginnings of the go-fever upon him. He wants to up-stakes and move out. There's no mistaking the signs. Whatever he may have said before, he has the call upon him now." "It might be his salvation," Torpenhow said. "Perhaps--if you care to take the responsibility of being a saviour." Dick returned with the big clasped sketch-book that the Nilghai knew well and did not love too much. In it Dick had drawn all manner of moving incidents, experienced by himself or related to him by the others, of all the four corners of the earth. But the wider range of the Nilghai's body and life attracted him most. When truth failed he fell back on fiction of the wildest, and represented incidents in the Nilghai's career that were unseemly,--his marriages with many African princesses, his shameless betrayal, for Arab wives, of an army corps to the Mahdi, his tattooment by skilled operators in Burmah, his interview (and his fears) with the yellow headsman in the blood-stained execution-ground of Canton, and finally, the passings of his spirit into the bodies of whales, elephants, and toucans. Torpenhow from time to time had added rhymed descriptions, and the whole was a curious piece of art, because Dick decided, having regard to the name of the book which being interpreted means "naked," that it would be wrong to draw the Nilghai with any clothes on, under any circumstances. Consequently the last sketch, representing that much-enduring man calling on the War Office to press his claims to the Egyptian medal, was hardly delicate. He settled himself comfortably on Torpenhow's table and turned over the pages. "What a fortune you would have been to Blake, Nilghai!" he said. "There's a succulent pinkness about some of these sketches that's more than life-like. 'The Nilghai surrounded while bathing by the Mahdieh'--that was founded on fact, eh?" "It was very nearly my last bath, you irreverent dauber. Has Binkie come into the Saga yet?" "No; the Binkie-boy hasn't done anything except eat and kill cats. Let's see. Here you are as a stained-glass saint in a church. Deuced decorative lines about your anatomy; you ought to be grateful for being handed down to posterity in this way. Fifty years hence you'll exist in rare and curious facsimiles at ten guineas each. What shall I try this time? The domestic life of the Nilghai?" "Hasn't got any." "The undomestic life of the Nilghai, then. Of course. Mass-meeting of his wives in Trafalgar Square. That's it. They came from the ends of the earth to attend Nilghai's wedding to an English bride. This shall be an epic. It's a sweet material to work with." "It's a scandalous waste of time," said Torpenhow. "Don't worry; it keeps one's hand in--specially when you begin without the pencil." He set to work rapidly. "That's Nelson's Column. Presently the Nilghai will appear shinning up it." "Give him some clothes this time." "Certainly--a veil and an orange-wreath, because he's been married." "Gad, that's clever enough!" said Torpenhow over his shoulder, as Dick brought out of the paper with three twirls of the brush a very fat back and labouring shoulder pressed against stone. "Just imagine," Dick continued, "if we could publish a few of these dear little things every time the Nilghai subsidises a man who can write, to give the public an honest opinion of my pictures." "Well, you'll admit I always tell you when I have done anything of that kind. I know I can't hammer you as you ought to be hammered, so I give the job to another. Young Maclagan, for instance----" "No-o--one half-minute, old man; stick your hand out against the dark of the wall-paper--you only burble and call me names. That left shoulder's out of drawing. I must literally throw a veil over that. Where's my pen-knife? Well, what about Maclagan?" "I only gave him his riding-orders to--to lambast you on general principles for not producing work that will last." "Whereupon that young fool,"--Dick threw back his head and shut one eye as he shifted the page under his hand,--"being left alone with an ink-pot and what he conceived were his own notions, went and spilt them both over me in the papers. You might have engaged a grown man for the business, Nilghai. How do you think the bridal veil looks now, Torp?" "How the deuce do three dabs and two scratches make the stuff stand away from the body as it does?" said Torpenhow, to whom Dick's methods were always new. "It just depends on where you put 'em. If Maclagan had know that much about his business he might have done better." "Why don't you put the damned dabs into something that will stay, then?" insisted the Nilghai, who had really taken considerable trouble in hiring for Dick's benefit the pen of a young gentleman who devoted most of his waking hours to an anxious consideration of the aims and ends of Art, which, he wrote, was one and indivisible. "Wait a minute till I see how I am going to manage my procession of wives. You seem to have married extensively, and I must rough 'em in with the pencil--Medes, Parthians, Edomites.... Now, setting aside the weakness and the wickedness and--and the fat-headedness of deliberately trying to do work that will live, as they call it, I'm content with the knowledge that I've done my best up to date, and I shan't do anything like it again for some hours at least--probably years. Most probably never." "What! any stuff you have in stock your best work?" said Torpenhow. "Anything you've sold?" said the Nilghai. "Oh no. It isn't here and it isn't sold. Better than that, it can't be sold, and I don't think any one knows where it is. I'm sure I don't.... And yet more and more wives, on the north side of the square. Observe the virtuous horror of the lions!" "You may as well explain," said Torpenhow, and Dick lifted his head from the paper. "The sea reminded me of it," he said slowly. "I wish it hadn't. It weighs some few thousand tons--unless you cut it out with a cold chisel." "Don't be an idiot. You can't pose with us here," said the Nilghai. "There's no pose in the matter at all. It's a fact. I was loafing from Lima to Auckland in a big, old, condemned passenger-ship turned into a cargo-boat and owned by a second-hand Italian firm. She was a crazy basket. We were cut down to fifteen ton of coal a day, and we thought ourselves lucky when we kicked seven knots an hour out of her. Then we used to stop and let the bearings cool down, and wonder whether the crack in the shaft was spreading." "Were you a steward or a stoker in those days?" "I was flush for the time being, so I was a passenger, or else I should have been a steward, I think," said Dick, with perfect gravity, returning to the procession of angry wives. "I was the only other passenger from Lima, and the ship was half empty, and full of rats and cockroaches and scorpions." "But what has this to do with the picture?" "Wait a minute. She had been in the China passenger trade and her lower decks had bunks for two thousand pigtails. Those were all taken down, and she was empty up to her nose, and the lights came through the port holes--most annoying lights to work in till you got used to them. I hadn't anything to do for weeks. The ship's charts were in pieces and our skipper daren't run south for fear of catching a storm. So he did his best to knock all the Society Islands out of the water one by one, and I went into the lower deck, and did my picture on the port side as far forward in her as I could go. There was some brown paint and some green paint that they used for the boats, and some black paint for ironwork, and that was all I had." "The passengers must have thought you mad." "There was only one, and it was a woman; but it gave me the notion of my picture." "What was she like?" said Torpenhow. "She was a sort of Negroid-Jewess-Cuban; with morals to match. She couldn't read or write, and she didn't want to, but she used to come down and watch me paint, and the skipper didn't like it, because he was paying her passage and had to be on the bridge occasionally." "I see. That must have been cheerful." "It was the best time I ever had. To begin with, we didn't know whether we should go up or go down any minute when there was a sea on; and when it was calm it was paradise; and the woman used to mix the paints and talk broken English, and the skipper used to steal down every few minutes to the lower deck, because he said he was afraid of fire. So, you see, we could never tell when we might be caught, and I had a splendid notion to work out in only three keys of colour." "What was the notion?" "Two lines in Poe-- 'Neither the angels in Heaven above nor the demons down under the sea, Can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Annabel Lee.' It came out of the sea--all by itself. I drew that fight, fought out in green water over the naked, choking soul, and the woman served as the model for the devils and the angels both--sea-devils and sea-angels, and the soul half drowned between them. It doesn't sound much, but when there was a good light on the lower deck it looked very fine and creepy. It was seven by fourteen feet, all done in shifting light for shifting light." "Did the woman inspire you much?" said Torpenhow. "She and the sea between them--immensely. There was a heap of bad drawing in that picture. I remember I went out of my way to foreshorten for sheer delight of doing it, and I foreshortened damnably, but for all that it's the best thing I've ever done; and now I suppose the ship's broken up or gone down. Whew! What a time that was!" "What happened after all?" "It all ended. They were loading her with wool when I left the ship, but even the stevedores kept the picture clear to the last. The eyes of the demons scared them, I honestly believe." "And the woman?" "She was scared too when it was finished. She used to cross herself before she went down to look at it. Just three colours and no chance of getting any more, and the sea outside and unlimited love-making inside, and the fear of death atop of everything else, O Lord!" He had ceased to look at the sketch, but was staring straight in front of him across the room. "Why don't you try something of the same kind now?" said the Nilghai. "Because those things come not by fasting and prayer. When I find a cargo-boat and a Jewess-Cuban and another notion and the same old life, I may." "You won't find them here," said the Nilghai. "No, I shall not." Dick shut the sketch-book with a bang. "This room's as hot as an oven. Open the window, some one." He leaned into the darkness, watching the greater darkness of London below him. The chambers stood much higher than the other houses, commanding a hundred chimneys--crooked cowls that looked like sitting cats as they swung round, and other uncouth brick and zinc mysteries supported by iron stanchions and clamped by 8-pieces. Northward the lights of Piccadilly Circus and Leicester Square threw a copper-coloured glare above the black roofs, and southward by all the orderly lights of the Thames. A train rolled out across one of the railway bridges, and its thunder drowned for a minute the dull roar of the streets. The Nilghai looked at his watch and said shortly, "That's the Paris night-mail. You can book from here to St. Petersburg if you choose." Dick crammed head and shoulders out of the window and looked across the river. Torpenhow came to his side, while the Nilghai passed over quietly to the piano and opened it. Binkie, making himself as large as possible, spread out upon the sofa with the air of one who is not to be lightly disturbed. "Well," said the Nilghai to the two pairs of shoulders, "have you never seen this place before?" A steam-tug on the river hooted as she towed her barges to wharf. Then the boom of the traffic came into the room. Torpenhow nudged Dick. "Good place to bank in--bad place to bunk in, Dickie, isn't it?" Dick's chin was in his hand as he answered, in the words of a general not without fame, still looking out on the darkness--"'My God, what a city to loot!'" Binkie found the night air tickling his whiskers and sneezed plaintively. "We shall give the Binkie-dog a cold," said Torpenhow. "Come in," and they withdrew their heads. "You'll be buried in Kensal Green, Dick, one of these days, if it isn't closed by the time you want to go there--buried within two feet of some one else, his wife and his family." "Allah forbid! I shall get away before that time comes. Give a man room to stretch his legs, Mr. Binkie." Dick flung himself down on the sofa and tweaked Binkie's velvet ears, yawning heavily the while. "You'll find that wardrobe-case very much out of tune," Torpenhow said to the Nilghai. "It's never touched except by you." "A piece of gross extravagance," Dick grunted. "The Nilghai only comes when I'm out." "That's because you're always out. Howl, Nilghai, and let him hear." "The life of the Nilghai is fraud and slaughter, His writings are watered Dickens and water; But the voice of the Nilghai raised on high Makes even the Mahdieh glad to die!" Dick quoted from Torpenhow's letterpress in the Nungapunga Book. "How do they call moose in Canada, Nilghai?" The man laughed. Singing was his one polite accomplishment, as many Press-tents in far-off lands had known. "What shall I sing?" said he, turning in the chair. "'Moll Roe in the Morning,'" said Torpenhow, at a venture. "No," said Dick, sharply, and the Nilghai opened his eyes. The old chanty whereof he, among a very few, possessed all the words was not a pretty one, but Dick had heard it many times before without wincing. Without prelude he launched into that stately tune that calls together and troubles the hearts of the gipsies of the sea-- "Farewell and adieu to you, Spanish ladies, Farewell and adieu to you, ladies of Spain." Dick turned uneasily on the sofa, for he could hear the bows of the Barralong crashing into the green seas on her way to the Southern Cross. Then came the chorus-- "We'll rant and we'll roar like true British sailors, We'll rant and we'll roar across the salt seas, Until we take soundings in the Channel of Old England From Ushant to Scilly 'tis forty-five leagues." "Thirty-five-thirty-five," said Dick, petulantly. "Don't tamper with Holy Writ. Go on, Nilghai." "The first land we made it was called the Deadman," and they sang to the end very vigourously. "That would be a better song if her head were turned the other way--to the Ushant light, for instance," said the Nilghai. "Flinging his arms about like a mad windmill," said Torpenhow. "Give us something else, Nilghai. You're in fine fog-horn form tonight." "Give us the 'Ganges Pilot'; you sang that in the square the night before El-Maghrib. By the way, I wonder how many of the chorus are alive tonight," said Dick. Torpenhow considered for a minute. "By Jove! I believe only you and I. Raynor, Vicery, and Deenes--all dead; Vincent caught smallpox in Cairo, carried it here and died of it. Yes, only you and I and the Nilghai." "Umph! And yet the men here who've done their work in a well-warmed studio all their lives, with a policeman at each corner, say that I charge too much for my pictures." "They are buying your work, not your insurance policies, dear child," said the Nilghai. "I gambled with one to get at the other. Don't preach. Go on with the 'Pilot.' Where in the world did you get that song?" "On a tombstone," said the Nilghai. "On a tombstone in a distant land. I made it an accompaniment with heaps of base chords." "Oh, Vanity! Begin." And the Nilghai began-- "I have slipped my cable, messmates, I'm drifting down with the tide, I have my sailing orders, while yet at anchor ride. And never on fair June morning have I put out to sea With clearer conscience or better hope, or a heart more light and free. "Shoulder to shoulder, Joe, my boy, into the crowd like a wedge. Strike with the hangers, messmates, but do not cut with the edge." Cries Charnock, "Scatter the faggots, double that Brahmin in two, The tall pale widow for me, Joe, the little brown girl for you!" "Young Joe (you're nearing sixty), why is your hide so dark? Katie has soft fair blue eyes, who blackened yours?--Why, hark!" They were all singing now, Dick with the roar of the wind of the open sea about his ears as the deep bass voice let itself go. "The morning gun--Ho, steady! the arquebuses to me! I ha' sounded the Dutch High Admiral's heart as my lead doth sound the sea. "Sounding, sounding the Ganges, floating down with the tide, Moore me close to Charnock, next to my nut-brown bride. My blessing to Kate at Fairlight--Holwell, my thanks to you; Steady! We steer for heaven, through sand-drifts cold and blue." "Now what is there in that nonsense to make a man restless?" said Dick, hauling Binkie from his feet to his chest. "It depends on the man," said Torpenhow. "The man who has been down to look at the sea," said the Nilghai. "I didn't know she was going to upset me in this fashion." "That's what men say when they go to say good-bye to a woman. It's more easy though to get rid of three women than a piece of one's life and surroundings." "But a woman can be----" began Dick, unguardedly. "A piece of one's life," continued Torpenhow. "No, she can't." His face darkened for a moment. "She says she wants to sympathise with you and help you in your work, and everything else that clearly a man must do for himself. Then she sends round five notes a day to ask why the dickens you haven't been wasting your time with her." "Don't generalise," said the Nilghai. "By the time you arrive at five notes a day you must have gone through a good deal and behaved accordingly. Shouldn't begin these things, my son." "I shouldn't have gone down to the sea," said Dick, just a little anxious to change the conversation. "And you shouldn't have sung." "The sea isn't sending you five notes a day," said the Nilghai. "No, but I'm fatally compromised. She's an enduring old hag, and I'm sorry I ever met her. Why wasn't I born and bred and dead in a three-pair back?" "Hear him blaspheming his first love! Why in the world shouldn't you listen to her?" said Torpenhow. Before Dick could reply the Nilghai lifted up his voice with a shout that shook the windows, in "The Men of the Sea," that begins, as all know, "The sea is a wicked old woman," and after wading through eight lines whose imagery is truthful, ends in a refrain, slow as the clacking of a capstan when the boat comes unwillingly up to the bars where the men sweat and tramp in the shingle. "'Ye that bore us, O restore us! She is kinder than ye; For the call is on our heart-strings!' Said The Men of the Sea." The Nilghai sang that verse twice, with simple cunning, intending that Dick should hear. But Dick was waiting for the farewell of the men to their wives. "'Ye that love us, can ye move us? She is dearer than ye; And your sleep will be the sweeter,' Said The Men of the Sea." The rough words beat like the blows of the waves on the bows of the rickety boat from Lima in the days when Dick was mixing paints, making love, drawing devils and angels in the half dark, and wondering whether the next minute would put the Italian captain's knife between his shoulder-blades. And the go-fever which is more real than many doctors' diseases, waked and raged, urging him who loved Maisie beyond anything in the world, to go away and taste the old hot, unregenerate life again,--to scuffle, swear, gamble, and love light loves with his fellows; to take ship and know the sea once more, and by her beget pictures; to talk to Binat among the sands of Port Said while Yellow Tina mixed the drinks; to hear the crackle of musketry, and see the smoke roll outward, thin and thicken again till the shining black faces came through, and in that hell every man was strictly responsible for his own head, and his own alone, and struck with an unfettered arm. It was impossible, utterly impossible, but-- "'Oh, our fathers in the churchyard, She is older than ye, And our graves will be the greener,' Said The Men of the Sea." "What is there to hinder?" said Torpenhow, in the long hush that followed the song. "You said a little time since that you wouldn't come for a walk round the world, Torp." "That was months ago, and I only objected to your making money for travelling expenses. You've shot your bolt here and it has gone home. Go away and do some work, and see some things." "Get some of the fat off you; you're disgracefully out of condition," said the Nilghai, making a plunge from the chair and grasping a handful of Dick generally over the right ribs. "Soft as putty--pure tallow born of over-feeding. Train it off, Dickie." "We're all equally gross, Nilghai. Next time you have to take the field you'll sit down, wink your eyes, gasp, and die in a fit." "Never mind. You go away on a ship. Go to Lima again, or to Brazil. There's always trouble in South America." "Do you suppose I want to be told where to go? Great Heavens, the only difficulty is to know where I'm to stop. But I shall stay here, as I told you before." "Then you'll be buried in Kensal Green and turn into adipocere with the others," said Torpenhow. "Are you thinking of commissions in hand? Pay forfeit and go. You've money enough to travel as a king if you please." "You've the grisliest notions of amusement, Torp. I think I see myself shipping first class on a six-thousand-ton hotel, and asking the third engineer what makes the engines go round, and whether it isn't very warm in the stokehold. Ho! ho! I should ship as a loafer if ever I shipped at all, which I'm not going to do. I shall compromise, and go for a small trip to begin with." "That's something at any rate. Where will you go?" said Torpenhow. "It would do you all the good in the world, old man." The Nilghai saw the twinkle in Dick's eye, and refrained from speech. "I shall go in the first place to Rathray's stable, where I shall hire one horse, and take him very carefully as far as Richmond Hill. Then I shall walk him back again, in case he should accidentally burst into a lather and make Rathray angry. I shall do that tomorrow, for the sake of air and exercise." "Bah!" Dick had barely time to throw up his arm and ward off the cushion that the disgusted Torpenhow heaved at his head. "Air and exercise indeed," said the Nilghai, sitting down heavily on Dick. "Let's give him a little of both. Get the bellows, Torp." At this point the conference broke up in disorder, because Dick would not open his mouth till the Nilghai held his nose fast, and there was some trouble in forcing the nozzle of the bellows between his teeth; and even when it was there he weakly tried to puff against the force of the blast, and his cheeks blew up with a great explosion; and the enemy becoming helpless with laughter he so beat them over the head with a soft sofa cushion that became unsewn and distributed its feathers, and Binkie, interfering in Torpenhow's interests, was bundled into the half-empty bag and advised to scratch his way out, which he did after a while, travelling rapidly up and down the floor in the shape of an agitated green haggis, and when he came out looking for satisfaction, the three pillars of his world were picking feathers out of their hair. "A prophet has no honour in his own country," said Dick, ruefully, dusting his knees. "This filthy fluff will never brush off my legs." "It was all for your own good," said the Nilghai. "Nothing like air and exercise." "All for your good," said Torpenhow, not in the least with reference to past clowning. "It would let you focus things at their proper worth and prevent your becoming slack in this hothouse of a town. Indeed it would, old man. I shouldn't have spoken if I hadn't thought so. Only, you make a joke of everything." "Before God I do no such thing," said Dick, quickly and earnestly. "You don't know me if you think that." "I don't think it," said the Nilghai. "How can fellows like ourselves, who know what life and death really mean, dare to make a joke of anything? I know we pretend it, to save ourselves from breaking down or going to the other extreme. Can't I see, old man, how you're always anxious about me, and try to advise me to make my work better? Do you suppose I don't think about that myself? But you can't help me--you can't help me--not even you. I must play my own hand alone in my own way." "Hear, hear," from the Nilghai. "What's the one thing in the Nilghai Saga that I've never drawn in the Nungapunga Book?" Dick continued to Torpenhow, who was a little astonished at the outburst. Now there was one blank page in the book given over to the sketch that Dick had not drawn of the crowning exploit in the Nilghai's life; when that man, being young and forgetting that his body and bones belonged to the paper that employed him, had ridden over sunburned slippery grass in the rear of Bredow's brigade on the day that the troopers flung themselves at Caurobert's artillery, and for aught they knew twenty battalions in front, to save the battered 24th German Infantry, to give time to decide the fate of Vionville, and to learn ere their remnant came back to Flavigay that cavalry can attack and crumple and break unshaken infantry. Whenever he was inclined to think over a life that might have been better, an income that might have been larger, and a soul that might have been considerably cleaner, the Nilghai would comfort himself with the thought, "I rode with Bredow's brigade at Vionville," and take heart for any lesser battle the next day might bring. "I know," he said very gravely. "I was always glad that you left it out." "I left it out because Nilghai taught me what the Germany army learned then, and what Schmidt taught their cavalry. I don't know German. What is it? 'Take care of the time and the dressing will take care of itself.' I must ride my own line to my own beat, old man." "Tempe ist richtung. You've learned your lesson well," said the Nilghai. "He must go alone. He speaks truth, Torp." "Maybe I'm as wrong as I can be--hideously wrong. I must find that out for myself, as I have to think things out for myself, but I daren't turn my head to dress by the next man. It hurts me a great deal more than you know not to be able to go, but I cannot, that's all. I must do my own work and live my own life in my own way, because I'm responsible for both. Only don't think I frivol about it, Torp. I have my own matches and sulphur, and I'll make my own hell, thanks." There was an uncomfortable pause. Then Torpenhow said blandly, "What did the Governor of North Carolina say to the Governor of South Carolina?" "Excellent notion. It is a long time between drinks. There are the makings of a very fine prig in you, Dick," said the Nilghai. "I've liberated my mind, estimable Binkie, with the feathers in his mouth." Dick picked up the still indignant one and shook him tenderly. "You're tied up in a sack and made to run about blind, Binkie-wee, without any reason, and it has hurt your little feelings. Never mind. Sic volo, sic jubeo, stet pro ratione voluntas, and don't sneeze in my eye because I talk Latin. Good night." He went out of the room. "That's distinctly one for you," said the Nilghai. "I told you it was hopeless to meddle with him. He's not pleased." "He'd swear at me if he weren't. I can't make it out. He has the go-fever upon him and he won't go. I only hope that he mayn't have to go some day when he doesn't want to," said Torpenhow. * * * * * In his own room Dick was settling a question with himself--and the question was whether all the world, and all that was therein, and a burning desire to exploit both, was worth one threepenny piece thrown into the Thames. "It came of seeing the sea, and I'm a cur to think about it," he decided. "After all, the honeymoon will be that tour--with reservations; only... only I didn't realise that the sea was so strong. I didn't feel it so much when I was with Maisie. These damnable songs did it. He's beginning again." But it was only Herrick's Nightpiece to Julia that the Nilghai sang, and before it was ended Dick reappeared on the threshold, not altogether clothed indeed, but in his right mind, thirsty and at peace. The mood had come and gone with the rising and the falling of the tide by Fort Keeling. CHAPTER IX "If I have taken the common clay And wrought it cunningly In the shape of a god that was digged a clod, The greater honour to me." "If thou hast taken the common clay, And thy hands be not free From the taint of the soil, thou hast made thy spoil The greater shame to thee." --The Two Potters HE DID no work of any kind for the rest of the week. Then came another Sunday. He dreaded and longed for the day always, but since the red-haired girl had sketched him there was rather more dread than desire in his mind. He found that Maisie had entirely neglected his suggestions about line-work. She had gone off at score filed with some absurd notion for a "fancy head." It cost Dick something to command his temper. "What's the good of suggesting anything?" he said pointedly. "Ah, but this will be a picture,--a real picture; and I know that Kami will let me send it to the Salon. You don't mind, do you?" "I suppose not. But you won't have time for the Salon." Maisie hesitated a little. She even felt uncomfortable. "We're going over to France a month sooner because of it. I shall get the idea sketched out here and work it up at Kami's." Dick's heart stood still, and he came very near to being disgusted with his queen who could do no wrong. "Just when I thought I had made some headway, she goes off chasing butterflies. It's too maddening!" There was no possibility of arguing, for the red-haired girl was in the studio. Dick could only look unutterable reproach. "I'm sorry," he said, "and I think you make a mistake. But what's the idea of your new picture?" "I took it from a book." "That's bad, to begin with. Books aren't the places for pictures. And----" "It's this," said the red-haired girl behind him. "I was reading it to Maisie the other day from The City of Dreadful Night. D'you know the book?" "A little. I am sorry I spoke. There are pictures in it. What has taken her fancy?" "The description of the Melancolia-- 'Her folded wings as of a mighty eagle, But all too impotent to lift the regal Robustness of her earth-born strength and pride. And here again. (Maisie, get the tea, dear.) 'The forehead charged with baleful thoughts and dreams, The household bunch of keys, the housewife's gown, Voluminous indented, and yet rigid As though a shell of burnished metal frigid, Her feet thick-shod to tread all weakness down." There was no attempt to conceal the scorn of the lazy voice. Dick winced. "But that has been done already by an obscure artist by the name of Durer," said he. "How does the poem run?-- 'Three centuries and threescore years ago, With phantasies of his peculiar thought.' You might as well try to rewrite Hamlet. It will be a waste of time." "No, it won't," said Maisie, putting down the teacups with a clatter to reassure herself. "And I mean to do it. Can't you see what a beautiful thing it would make?" "How in perdition can one do work when one hasn't had the proper training? Any fool can get a notion. It needs training to drive the thing through,--training and conviction; not rushing after the first fancy." Dick spoke between his teeth. "You don't understand," said Maisie. "I think I can do it." Again the voice of the girl behind him-- "Baffled and beaten back, she works on still; Weary and sick of soul, she works the more. Sustained by her indomitable will, The hands shall fashion, and the brain shall pore, And all her sorrow shall be turned to labour---- I fancy Maisie means to embody herself in the picture." "Sitting on a throne of rejected pictures? No, I shan't, dear. The notion in itself has fascinated me.--Of course you don't care for fancy heads, Dick. I don't think you could do them. You like blood and bones." "That's a direct challenge. If you can do a Melancolia that isn't merely a sorrowful female head, I can do a better one; and I will, too. What d'you know about Melacolias?" Dick firmly believed that he was even then tasting three-quarters of all the sorrow in the world. "She was a woman," said Maisie, "and she suffered a great deal,--till she could suffer no more. Then she began to laugh at it all, and then I painted her and sent her to the Salon." The red-haired girl rose up and left the room, laughing. Dick looked at Maisie humbly and hopelessly. "Never mind about the picture," he said. "Are you really going back to Kami's for a month before your time?" "I must, if I want to get the picture done." "And that's all you want?" "Of course. Don't be stupid, Dick." "You haven't the power. You have only the ideas--the ideas and the little cheap impulses. How you could have kept at your work for ten years steadily is a mystery to me. So you are really going,--a month before you need?" "I must do my work." "Your work--bah!... No, I didn't mean that. It's all right, dear. Of course you must do your work, and--I think I'll say goodbye for this week." "Won't you even stay for tea?" "No, thank you. Have I your leave to go, dear? There's nothing more you particularly want me to do, and the line-work doesn't matter." "I wish you could stay, and then we could talk over my picture. If only one single picture's a success, it draws attention to all the others. I know some of my work is good, if only people could see. And you needn't have been so rude about it." "I'm sorry. We'll talk the Melancolia over some one of the other Sundays. There are four more--yes, one, two, three, four--before you go. Goodbye, Maisie." Maisie stood by the studio window, thinking, till the red-haired girl returned, a little white at the corners of her lips. "Dick's gone off," said Maisie. "Just when I wanted to talk about the picture. Isn't it selfish of him?" Her companion opened her lips as if to speak, shut them again, and went on reading The City of Dreadful Night. Dick was in the Park, walking round and round a tree that he had chosen as his confidante for many Sundays past. He was swearing audibly, and when he found that the infirmities of the English tongue hemmed in his rage, he sought consolation in Arabic, which is expressly designed for the use of the afflicted. He was not pleased with the reward of his patient service; nor was he pleased with himself; and it was long before he arrived at the proposition that the queen could do no wrong. "It's a losing game," he said. "I'm worth nothing when a whim of hers is in question. But in a losing game at Port Said we used to double the stakes and go on. She do a Melancolia! She hasn't the power, or the insight, or the training. Only the desire. She's cursed with the curse of Reuben. She won't do line-work, because it means real work; and yet she's stronger than I am. I'll make her understand that I can beat her on her own Melancolia. Even then she wouldn't care. She says I can only do blood and bones. I don't believe she has blood in her veins. All the same I lover her; and I must go on loving her; and if I can humble her inordinate vanity I will. I'll do a Melancolia that shall be something like a Melancolia 'the Melancolia that transcends all wit.' I'll do it at once, con--bless her." He discovered that the notion would not come to order, and that he could not free his mind for an hour from the thought of Maisie's departure. He took very small interest in her rough studies for the Melancolia when she showed them next week. The Sundays were racing past, and the time was at hand when all the church bells in London could not ring Maisie back to him. Once or twice he said something to Binkie about 'hermaphroditic futilities,' but the little dog received so many confidences both from Torpenhow and Dick that he did not trouble his tulip-ears to listen. Dick was permitted to see the girls off. They were going by the Dover night-boat; and they hoped to return in August. It was then February, and Dick felt that he was being hardly used. Maisie was so busy stripping the small house across the Park, and packing her canvases, that she had not time for thought. Dick went down to Dover and wasted a day there fretting over a wonderful possibility. Would Maisie at the very last allow him one small kiss? He reflected that he might capture her by the strong arm, as he had seem women captured in the Southern Soudan, and lead her away; but Maisie would never be led. She would turn her gray eyes upon him and say, "Dick, how selfish you are!" Then his courage would fail him. It would be better, after all, to beg for that kiss. Maisie looked more than usually kissable as she stepped from the night-mail on to the windy pier, in a gray waterproof and a little gray cloth travelling-cap. The red-haired girl was not so lovely. Her green eyes were hollow and her lips were dry. Dick saw the trunks aboard, and went to Maisie's side in the darkness under the bridge. The mail-bags were thundering into the forehold, and the red-haired girl was watching them. "You'll have a rough passage tonight," said Dick. "It's blowing outside. I suppose I may come over and see you if I'm good?" "You mustn't. I shall be busy. At least, if I want you I'll send for you. But I shall write from Vitry-sur-Marne. I shall have heaps of things to consult you about. Oh, Dick, you have been so good to me!--so good to me!" "Thank you for that, dear. It hasn't made any difference, has it?" "I can't tell a fib. It hasn't--in that way. But don't think I'm not grateful." "Damn the gratitude!" said Dick, huskily, to the paddle-box. "What's the use of worrying? You know I should ruin your life, and you'd ruin mine, as things are now. You remember what you said when you were so angry that day in the Park? One of us has to be broken. Can't you wait till that day comes?" "No, love. I want you unbroken--all to myself." Maisie shook her head. "My poor Dick, what can I say!" "Don't say anything. Give me a kiss. Only one kiss, Maisie. I'll swear I won't take any more. You might as well, and then I can be sure you're grateful." Maisie put her cheek forward, and Dick took his reward in the darkness. It was only one kiss, but, since there was no time-limit specified, it was a long one. Maisie wrenched herself free angrily, and Dick stood abashed and tingling from head to toe. "Goodbye, darling. I didn't mean to scare you. I'm sorry. Only--keep well and do good work,--specially the Melancolia. I'm going to do one, too. Remember me to Kami, and be careful what you drink. Country drinking-water is bad everywhere, but it's worse in France. Write to me if you want anything, and good-bye. Say good-bye to the whatever-you-call-um girl, and--can't I have another kiss? No. You're quite right. Goodbye." A shout told him that it was not seemly to charge of the mail-bag incline. He reached the pier as the steamer began to move off, and he followed her with his heart. "And there's nothing--nothing in the wide world--to keep us apart except her obstinacy. These Calais night-boats are much too small. I'll get Torp to write to the papers about it. She's beginning to pitch already." Maisie stood where Dick had left her till she heard a little gasping cough at her elbow. The red-haired girl's eyes were alight with cold flame. "He kissed you!" she said. "How could you let him, when he wasn't anything to you? How dared you to take a kiss from him? Oh, Maisie, let's go to the ladies' cabin. I'm sick,--deadly sick." "We aren't into open water yet. Go down, dear, and I'll stay here. I don't like the smell of the engines.... Poor Dick! He deserved one,--only one. But I didn't think he'd frighten me so." Dick returned to town next day just in time for lunch, for which he had telegraphed. To his disgust, there were only empty plates in the studio. He lifted up his voice like the bears in the fairy-tale, and Torpenhow entered, looking guilty. "H'sh!" said he. "Don't make such a noise. I took it. Come into my rooms, and I'll show you why." Dick paused amazed at the threshold, for on Torpenhow's sofa lay a girl asleep and breathing heavily. The little cheap sailor-hat, the blue-and-white dress, fitter for June than for February, dabbled with mud at the skirts, the jacket trimmed with imitation Astrakhan and ripped at the shoulder-seams, the one-and-elevenpenny umbrella, and, above all, the disgraceful condition of the kid-topped boots, declared all things. "Oh, I say, old man, this is too bad! You mustn't bring this sort up here. They steal things from the rooms." "It looks bad, I admit, but I was coming in after lunch, and she staggered into the hall. I thought she was drunk at first, but it was collapse. I couldn't leave her as she was, so I brought her up here and gave her your lunch. She was fainting from want of food. She went fast asleep the minute she had finished." "I know something of that complaint. She's been living on sausages, I suppose. Torp, you should have handed her over to a policeman for presuming to faint in a respectable house. Poor little wretch! Look at the face! There isn't an ounce of immorality in it. Only folly,--slack, fatuous, feeble, futile folly. It's a typical head. D'you notice how the skull begins to show through the flesh padding on the face and cheek-bone?" "What a cold-blooded barbarian it is! Don't hit a woman when she's down. Can't we do anything? She was simply dropping with starvation. She almost fell into my arms, and when she got to the food she ate like a wild beast. It was horrible." "I can give her money, which she would probably spend in drinks. Is she going to sleep for ever?" The girl opened her eyes and glared at the men between terror and effrontery. "Feeling better?" said Torpenhow. "Yes. Thank you. There aren't many gentlemen that are as kind as you are. Thank you." "When did you leave service?" said Dick, who had been watching the scarred and chapped hands. "How did you know I was in service? I was. General servant. I didn't like it." "And how do you like being your own mistress?" "Do I look as if I liked it?" "I suppose not. One moment. Would you be good enough to turn your face to the window?" The girl obeyed, and Dick watched her face keenly,--so keenly that she made as if to hide behind Torpenhow. "The eyes have it," said Dick, walking up and down. "They are superb eyes for my business. And, after all, every head depends on the eyes. This has been sent from heaven to make up for--what was taken away. Now the weekly strain's off my shoulders, I can get to work in earnest. Evidently sent from heaven. Yes. Raise your chin a little, please." "Gently, old man, gently. You're scaring somebody out of her wits," said Torpenhow, who could see the girl trembling. "Don't let him hit me! Oh, please don't let him hit me! I've been hit cruel today because I spoke to a man. Don't let him look at me like that! He's reg'lar wicked, that one. Don't let him look at me like that, neither! Oh, I feel as if I hadn't nothing on when he looks at me like that!" The overstrained nerves in the frail body gave way, and the girl wept like a little child and began to scream. Dick threw open the window, and Torpenhow flung the door back. "There you are," said Dick, soothingly. "My friend here can call for a policeman, and you can run through that door. Nobody is going to hurt you." The girl sobbed convulsively for a few minutes, and then tried to laugh. "Nothing in the world to hurt you. Now listen to me for a minute. I'm what they call an artist by profession. You know what artists do?" "They draw the things in red and black ink on the pop-shop labels." "I dare say. I haven't risen to pop-shop labels yet. Those are done by the Academicians. I want to draw your head." "What for?" "Because it's pretty. That is why you will come to the room across the landing three times a week at eleven in the morning, and I'll give you three quid a week just for sitting still and being drawn. And there's a quid on account." "For nothing? Oh, my!" The girl turned the sovereign in her hand, and with more foolish tears, "Ain't neither 'o you two gentlemen afraid of my bilking you?" "No. Only ugly girls do that. Try and remember this place. And, by the way, what's your name?" "I'm Bessie,--Bessie----It's no use giving the rest. Bessie Broke,--Stone-broke, if you like. What's your names? But there,--no one ever gives the real ones." Dick consulted Torpenhow with his eyes. "My name's Heldar, and my friend's called Torpenhow; and you must be sure to come here. Where do you live?" "South-the-water,--one room,--five and sixpence a week. Aren't you making fun of me about that three quid?" "You'll see later on. And, Bessie, next time you come, remember, you needn't wear that paint. It's bad for the skin, and I have all the colours you'll be likely to need." Bessie withdrew, scrubbing her cheek with a ragged pocket-handkerchief. The two men looked at each other. "You're a man," said Torpenhow. "I'm afraid I've been a fool. It isn't our business to run about the earth reforming Bessie Brokes. And a woman of any kind has no right on this landing." "Perhaps she won't come back." "She will if she thinks she can get food and warmth here. I know she will, worse luck. But remember, old man, she isn't a woman; she's my model; and be careful." "The idea! She's a dissolute little scarecrow,--a gutter-snippet and nothing more." "So you think. Wait till she has been fed a little and freed from fear. That fair type recovers itself very quickly. You won't know her in a week or two, when that abject fear has died out of her eyes. She'll be too happy and smiling for my purposes." "But surely you're not taking her out of charity?--to please me?" "I am not in the habit of playing with hot coals to please anybody. She has been sent from heaven, as I may have remarked before, to help me with my Melancolia." "Never heard a word about the lady before." "What's the use of having a friend, if you must sling your notions at him in words? You ought to know what I'm thinking about. You've heard me grunt lately?" "Even so; but grunts mean anything in your language, from bad 'baccy to wicked dealers. And I don't think I've been much in your confidence for some time." "It was a high and soulful grunt. You ought to have understood that it meant the Melancolia." Dick walked Torpenhow up and down the room, keeping silence. Then he smote him in the ribs, "Now don't you see it? Bessie's abject futility, and the terror in her eyes, welded on to one or two details in the way of sorrow that have come under my experience lately. Likewise some orange and black,--two keys of each. But I can't explain on an empty stomach." "It sounds mad enough. You'd better stick to your soldiers, Dick, instead of maundering about heads and eyes and experiences." "Think so?" Dick began to dance on his heels, singing-- "They're as proud as a turkey when they hold the ready cash, You ought to 'ear the way they laugh an' joke; They are tricky an' they're funny when they've got the ready money,--Ow! but see 'em when they're all stone-broke." Then he sat down to pour out his heart to Maisie in a four-sheet letter of counsel and encouragement, and registered an oath that he would get to work with an undivided heart as soon as Bessie should reappear. The girl kept her appointment unpainted and unadorned, afraid and overbold by turns. When she found that she was merely expected to sit still, she grew calmer, and criticised the appointments of the studio with freedom and some point. She liked the warmth and the comfort and the release from fear of physical pain. Dick made two or three studies of her head in monochrome, but the actual notion of the Melancolia would not arrive. "What a mess you keep your things in!" said Bessie, some days later, when she felt herself thoroughly at home. "I s'pose your clothes are just as bad. Gentlemen never think what buttons and tape are made for." "I buy things to wear, and wear 'em till they go to pieces. I don't know what Torpenhow does." Bessie made diligent inquiry in the latter's room, and unearthed a bale of disreputable socks. "Some of these I'll mend now," she said, "and some I'll take home. D'you know, I sit all day long at home doing nothing, just like a lady, and no more noticing them other girls in the house than if they was so many flies. I don't have any unnecessary words, but I put 'em down quick, I can tell you, when they talk to me. No; it's quite nice these days. I lock my door, and they can only call me names through the keyhole, and I sit inside, just like a lady, mending socks. Mr. Torpenhow wears his socks out both ends at once." "Three quid a week from me, and the delights of my society. No socks mended. Nothing from Torp except a nod on the landing now and again, and all his socks mended. Bessie is very much a woman," thought Dick; and he looked at her between half-shut eyes. Food and rest had transformed the girl, as Dick knew they would. "What are you looking at me like that for?" she said quickly. "Don't. You look reg'lar bad when you look that way. You don't think much o' me, do you?" "That depends on how you behave." Bessie behaved beautifully. Only it was difficult at the end of a sitting to bid her go out into the gray streets. She very much preferred the studio and a big chair by the stove, with some socks in her lap as an excuse for delay. Then Torpenhow would come in, and Bessie would be moved to tell strange and wonderful stories of her past, and still stranger ones of her present improved circumstances. She would make them tea as though she had a right to make it; and once or twice on these occasions Dick caught Torpenhow's eyes fixed on the trim little figure, and because Bessie's flittings about the room made Dick ardently long for Maisie, he realised whither Torpenhow's thoughts were tending. And Bessie was exceedingly careful of the condition of Torpenhow's linen. She spoke very little to him, but sometimes they talked together on the landing. "I was a great fool," Dick said to himself. "I know what red firelight looks like when a man's tramping through a strange town; and ours is a lonely, selfish sort of life at the best. I wonder Maisie doesn't feel that sometimes. But I can't order Bessie away. That's the worst of beginning things. One never knows where they stop." One evening, after a sitting prolonged to the last limit of the light, Dick was roused from a nap by a broken voice in Torpenhow's room. He jumped to his feet. "Now what ought I to do? It looks foolish to go in.--Oh, bless you, Binkie!" The little terrier thrust Torpenhow's door open with his nose and came out to take possession of Dick's chair. The door swung wide unheeded, and Dick across the landing could see Bessie in the half-light making her little supplication to Torpenhow. She was kneeling by his side, and her hands were clasped across his knee. "I know,--I know," she said thickly. "'Tisn't right 'o me to do this, but I can't help it; and you were so kind,--so kind; and you never took any notice 'o me. And I've mended all your things so carefully,--I did. Oh, please, 'tisn't as if I was asking you to marry me. I wouldn't think of it. But you--couldn't you take and live with me till Miss Right comes along? I'm only Miss Wrong, I know, but I'd work my hands to the bare bone for you. And I'm not ugly to look at. Say you will!" Dick hardly recognised Torpenhow's voice in reply--"But look here. It's no use. I'm liable to be ordered off anywhere at a minute's notice if a war breaks out. At a minute's notice--dear." "What does that matter? Until you go, then. Until you go. 'Tisn't much I'm asking, and--you don't know how good I can cook." She had put an arm round his neck and was drawing his head down. "Until--I--go, then." "Torp," said Dick, across the landing. He could hardly steady his voice. "Come here a minute, old man. I'm in trouble"-- "Heaven send he'll listen to me!" There was something very like an oath from Bessie's lips. She was afraid of Dick, and disappeared down the staircase in panic, but it seemed an age before Torpenhow entered the studio. He went to the mantelpiece, buried his head on his arms, and groaned like a wounded bull. "What the devil right have you to interfere?" he said, at last. "Who's interfering with which? Your own sense told you long ago you couldn't be such a fool. It was a tough rack, St. Anthony, but you're all right now." "I oughtn't to have seen her moving about these rooms as if they belonged to her. That's what upset me. It gives a lonely man a sort of hankering, doesn't it?" said Torpenhow, piteously. "Now you talk sense. It does. But, since you aren't in a condition to discuss the disadvantages of double housekeeping, do you know what you're going to do?" "I don't. I wish I did." "You're going away for a season on a brilliant tour to regain tone. You're going to Brighton, or Scarborough, or Prawle Point, to see the ships go by. And you're going at once. Isn't it odd? I'll take care of Binkie, but out you go immediately. Never resist the devil. He holds the bank. Fly from him. Pack your things and go." "I believe you're right. Where shall I go?" "And you call yourself a special correspondent! Pack first and inquire afterwards." An hour later Torpenhow was despatched into the night for a hansom. "You'll probably think of some place to go to while you're moving," said Dick. "On to Euston, to begin with, and--oh yes--get drunk tonight." He returned to the studio, and lighted more candles, for he found the room very dark. "Oh, you Jezebel! you futile little Jezebel! Won't you hate me tomorrow!--Binkie, come here." Binkie turned over on his back on the hearth-rug, and Dick stirred him with a meditative foot. "I said she was not immoral. I was wrong. She said she could cook. That showed premeditated sin. Oh, Binkie, if you are a man you will go to perdition; but if you are a woman, and say that you can cook, you will go to a much worse place." CHAPTER X What's you that follows at my side?-- The foe that ye must fight, my lord.-- That hirples swift as I can ride?-- The shadow of the night, my lord.-- Then wheel my horse against the foe!-- He's down and overpast, my lord. Ye war against the sunset glow; The darkness gathers fast, my lord. ----The Fight of Heriot's Ford "This is a cheerful life," said Dick, some days later. "Torp's away; Bessie hates me; I can't get at the notion of the Melancolia; Maisie's letters are scrappy; and I believe I have indigestion. What give a man pains across the head and spots before his eyes, Binkie? Shall us take some liver pills?" Dick had just gone through a lively scene with Bessie. She had for the fiftieth time reproached him for sending Torpenhow away. She explained her enduring hatred for Dick, and made it clear to him that she only sat for the sake of his money. "And Mr. Torpenhow's ten times a better man than you," she concluded. "He is. That's why he went away. I should have stayed and made love to you." The girl sat with her chin on her hand, scowling. "To me! I'd like to catch you! If I wasn't afraid 'o being hung I'd kill you. That's what I'd do. D'you believe me?" Dick smiled wearily. It is not pleasant to live in the company of a notion that will not work out, a fox-terrier that cannot talk, and a woman who talks too much. He would have answered, but at that moment there unrolled itself from one corner of the studio a veil, as it were, of the flimsiest gauze. He rubbed his eyes, but the gray haze would not go. "This is disgraceful indigestion. Binkie, we will go to a medicine-man. We can't have our eyes interfered with, for by these we get our bread; also mutton-chop bones for little dogs." The doctor was an affable local practitioner with white hair, and he said nothing till Dick began to describe the gray film in the studio. "We all want a little patching and repairing from time to time," he chirped. "Like a ship, my dear sir,--exactly like a ship. Sometimes the hull is out of order, and we consult the surgeon; sometimes the rigging, and then I advise; sometimes the engines, and we go to the brain-specialist; sometimes the look-out on the bridge is tired, and then we see an oculist. I should recommend you to see an oculist. A little patching and repairing from time to time is all we want. An oculist, by all means." Dick sought an oculist,--the best in London. He was certain that the local practitioner did not know anything about his trade, and more certain that Maisie would laugh at him if he were forced to wear spectacles. "I've neglected the warnings of my lord the stomach too long. Hence these spots before the eyes, Binkie. I can see as well as I ever could." As he entered the dark hall that led to the consulting-room a man cannoned against him. Dick saw the face as it hurried out into the street. "That's the writer-type. He has the same modelling of the forehead as Torp. He looks very sick. Probably heard something he didn't like." Even as he thought, a great fear came upon Dick, a fear that made him hold his breath as he walked into the oculist's waiting room, with the heavy carved furniture, the dark-green paper, and the sober-hued prints on the wall. He recognised a reproduction of one of his own sketches. Many people were waiting their turn before him. His eye was caught by a flaming red-and-gold Christmas-carol book. Little children came to that eye-doctor, and they needed large-type amusement. "That's idolatrous bad Art," he said, drawing the book towards himself. "From the anatomy of the angels, it has been made in Germany." He opened in mechanically, and there leaped to his eyes a verse printed in red ink-- The next good joy that Mary had, It was the joy of three, To see her good Son Jesus Christ Making the blind to see; Making the blind to see, good Lord, And happy we may be. Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost To all eternity! Dick read and re-read the verse till his turn came, and the doctor was bending above him seated in an arm-chair. The blaze of the gas-microscope in his eyes made him wince. The doctor's hand touched the scar of the sword-cut on Dick's head, and Dick explained briefly how he had come by it. When the flame was removed, Dick saw the doctor's face, and the fear came upon him again. The doctor wrapped himself in a mist of words. Dick caught allusions to "scar," "frontal bone," "optic nerve," "extreme caution," and the "avoidance of mental anxiety." "Verdict?" he said faintly. "My business is painting, and I daren't waste time. What do you make of it?" Again the whirl of words, but this time they conveyed a meaning. "Can you give me anything to drink?" Many sentences were pronounced in that darkened room, and the prisoners often needed cheering. Dick found a glass of liqueur brandy in his hand. "As far as I can gather," he said, coughing above the spirit, "you call it decay of the optic nerve, or something, and therefore hopeless. What is my time-limit, avoiding all strain and worry?" "Perhaps one year." "My God! And if I don't take care of myself?" "I really could not say. One cannot ascertain the exact amount of injury inflicted by the sword-cut. The scar is an old one, and--exposure to the strong light of the desert, did you say?--with excessive application to fine work? I really could not say?" "I beg your pardon, but it has come without any warning. If you will let me, I'll sit here for a minute, and then I'll go. You have been very good in telling me the truth. Without any warning; without any warning. Thanks." Dick went into the street, and was rapturously received by Binkie. "We've got it very badly, little dog! Just as badly as we can get it. We'll go to the Park to think it out." They headed for a certain tree that Dick knew well, and they sat down to think, because his legs were trembling under him and there was cold fear at the pit of his stomach. "How could it have come without any warning? It's as sudden as being shot. It's the living death, Binkie. We're to be shut up in the dark in one year if we're careful, and we shan't see anybody, and we shall never have anything we want, not though we live to be a hundred!" Binkie wagged his tail joyously. "Binkie, we must think. Let's see how it feels to be blind." Dick shut his eyes, and flaming commas and Catherine-wheels floated inside the lids. Yet when he looked across the Park the scope of his vision was not contracted. He could see perfectly, until a procession of slow-wheeling fireworks defiled across his eyeballs. "Little dorglums, we aren't at all well. Let's go home. If only Torp were back, now!" But Torpenhow was in the south of England, inspecting dockyards in the company of the Nilghai. His letters were brief and full of mystery. Dick had never asked anybody to help him in his joys or his sorrows. He argued, in the loneliness of his studio, henceforward to be decorated with a film of gray gauze in one corner, that, if his fate were blindness, all the Torpenhows in the world could not save him. "I can't call him off his trip to sit down and sympathise with me. I must pull through this business alone," he said. He was lying on the sofa, eating his moustache and wondering what the darkness of the night would be like. Then came to his mind the memory of a quaint scene in the Soudan. A soldier had been nearly hacked in two by a broad-bladed Arab spear. For one instant the man felt no pain. Looking down, he saw that his life-blood was going from him. The stupid bewilderment on his face was so intensely comic that both Dick and Torpenhow, still panting and unstrung from a fight for life, had roared with laughter, in which the man seemed as if he would join, but, as his lips parted in a sheepish grin, the agony of death came upon him, and he pitched grunting at their feet. Dick laughed again, remembering the horror. It seemed so exactly like his own case. "But I have a little more time allowed me," he said. He paced up and down the room, quietly at first, but afterwards with the hurried feet of fear. It was as though a black shadow stood at his elbow and urged him to go forward; and there were only weaving circles and floating pin-dots before his eyes. "We need to be calm, Binkie; we must be calm." He talked aloud for the sake of distraction. "This isn't nice at all. What shall we do? We must do something. Our time is short. I shouldn't have believed that this morning; but now things are different. Binkie, where was Moses when the light went out?" Binkie smiled from ear to ear, as a well-bred terrier should, but made no suggestion. "'Were there but world enough and time, This coyness, Binkie, were not crime.... But at my back I always hear----'" He wiped his forehead, which was unpleasantly damp. "What can I do? What can I do? I haven't any notions left, and I can't think connectedly, but I must do something, or I shall go off my head." The hurried walk recommenced, Dick stopping every now and again to drag forth long-neglected canvases and old note-books; for he turned to his work by instinct, as a thing that could not fail. "You won't do, and you won't do," he said, at each inspection. "No more soldiers. I couldn't paint 'em. Sudden death comes home too nearly, and this is battle and murder for me." The day was failing, and Dick thought for a moment that the twilight of the blind had come upon him unaware. "Allah Almighty!" he cried despairingly, "help me through the time of waiting, and I won't whine when my punishment comes. What can I do now, before the light goes?" There was no answer. Dick waited till he could regain some sort of control over himself. His hands were shaking, and he prided himself on their steadiness; he could feel that his lips were quivering, and the sweat was running down his face. He was lashed by fear, driven forward by the desire to get to work at once and accomplish something, and maddened by the refusal of his brain to do more than repeat the news that he was about to go blind. "It's a humiliating exhibition," he thought, "and I'm glad Torp isn't here to see. The doctor said I was to avoid mental worry. Come here and let me pet you, Binkie." The little dog yelped because Dick nearly squeezed the bark out of him. Then he heard the man speaking in the twilight, and, doglike, understood that his trouble stood off from him--"Allah is good, Binkie. Not quite so gentle as we could wish, but we'll discuss that later. I think I see my way to it now. All those studies of Bessie's head were nonsense, and they nearly brought your master into a scrape. I hold the notion now as clear as crystal, 'the Melancolia that transcends all wit.' There shall be Maisie in that head, because I shall never get Maisie; and Bess, of course, because she knows all about Melancolia, though she doesn't know she knows; and there shall be some drawing in it, and it shall all end up with a laugh. That's for myself. Shall she giggle or grin? No, she shall laugh right out of the canvas, and every man and woman that ever had a sorrow of their own shall--what is it the poem says?-- 'Understand the speech and feel a stir Of fellowship in all disastrous fight.' "'In all disastrous fight'? That's better than painting the thing merely to pique Maisie. I can do it now because I have it inside me. Binkie, I'm going to hold you up by your tail. You're an omen. Come here." Binkie swung head downward for a moment without speaking. "Rather like holding a guinea-pig; but you're a brave little dog, and you don't yelp when you're hung up. It is an omen." Binkie went to his own chair, and as often as he looked saw Dick walking up and down, rubbing his hands and chuckling. That night Dick wrote a letter to Maisie full of the tenderest regard for her health, but saying very little about his own, and dreamed of the Melancolia to be born. Not till morning did he remember that something might happen to him in the future. He fell to work, whistling softly, and was swallowed up in the clean, clear joy of creation, which does not come to man too often, lest he should consider himself the equal of his God, and so refuse to die at the appointed time. He forgot Maisie, Torpenhow, and Binkie at his feet, but remembered to stir Bessie, who needed very little stirring, into a tremendous rage, that he might watch the smouldering lights in her eyes. He threw himself without reservation into his work, and did not think of the doom that was to overtake him, for he was possessed with his notion, and the things of this world had no power upon him. "You're pleased today," said Bessie. Dick waved his mahl-stick in mystic circles and went to the sideboard for a drink. In the evening, when the exaltation of the day had died down, he went to the sideboard again, and after some visits became convinced that the eye-doctor was a liar, since he could still see everything very clearly. He was of opinion that he would even make a home for Maisie, and that whether she liked it or not she should be his wife. The mood passed next morning, but the sideboard and all upon it remained for his comfort. Again he set to work, and his eyes troubled him with spots and dashes and blurs till he had taken counsel with the sideboard, and the Melancolia both on the canvas and in his own mind appeared lovelier than ever. There was a delightful sense of irresponsibility upon him, such as they feel who walking among their fellow-men know that the death-sentence of disease is upon them, and, seeing that fear is but waste of the little time left, are riotously happy. The days passed without event. Bessie arrived punctually always, and, though her voice seemed to Dick to come from a distance, her face was always very near. The Melancolia began to flame on the canvas, in the likeness of a woman who had known all the sorrow in the world and was laughing at it. It was true that the corners of the studio draped themselves in gray film and retired into the darkness, that the spots in his eyes and the pains across his head were very troublesome, and that Maisie's letters were hard to read and harder still to answer. He could not tell her of his trouble, and he could not laugh at her accounts of her own Melancolia which was always going to be finished. But the furious days of toil and the nights of wild dreams made amends for all, and the sideboard was his best friend on earth. Bessie was singularly dull. She used to shriek with rage when Dick stared at her between half-closed eyes. Now she sulked, or watched him with disgust, saying very little. Torpenhow had been absent for six weeks. An incoherent note heralded his return. "News! great news!" he wrote. "The Nilghai knows, and so does the Keneu. We're all back on Thursday. Get lunch and clean your accoutrements." Dick showed Bessie the letter, and she abused him for that he had ever sent Torpenhow away and ruined her life. "Well," said Dick, brutally, "you're better as you are, instead of making love to some drunken beast in the street." He felt that he had rescued Torpenhow from great temptation. "I don't know if that's any worse than sitting to a drunken beast in a studio. You haven't been sober for three weeks. You've been soaking the whole time; and yet you pretend you're better than me!" "What d'you mean?" said Dick. "Mean! You'll see when Mr. Torpenhow comes back." It was not long to wait. Torpenhow met Bessie on the staircase without a sign of feeling. He had news that was more to him than many Bessies, and the Keneu and the Nilghai were trampling behind him, calling for Dick. "Drinking like a fish," Bessie whispered. "He's been at it for nearly a month." She followed the men stealthily to hear judgment done. They came into the studio, rejoicing, to be welcomed over effusively by a drawn, lined, shrunken, haggard wreck,--unshaven, blue-white about the nostrils, stooping in the shoulders, and peering under his eyebrows nervously. The drink had been at work as steadily as Dick. "Is this you?" said Torpenhow. "All that's left of me. Sit down. Binkie's quite well, and I've been doing some good work." He reeled where he stood. "You've done some of the worst work you've ever done in your life. Man alive, you're----" Torpenhow turned to his companions appealingly, and they left the room to find lunch elsewhere. Then he spoke; but, since the reproof of a friend is much too sacred and intimate a thing to be printed, and since Torpenhow used figures and metaphors which were unseemly, and contempt untranslatable, it will never be known what was actually said to Dick, who blinked and winked and picked at his hands. After a time the culprit began to feel the need of a little self-respect. He was quite sure that he had not in any way departed from virtue, and there were reasons, too, of which Torpenhow knew nothing. He would explain. He rose, tried to straighten his shoulders, and spoke to the face he could hardly see. "You are right," he said. "But I am right, too. After you went away I had some trouble with my eyes. So I went to an oculist, and he turned a gasogene--I mean a gas-engine--into my eye. That was very long ago. He said, 'Scar on the head,--sword-cut and optic nerve.' Make a note of that. So I am going blind. I have some work to do before I go blind, and I suppose that I must do it. I cannot see much now, but I can see best when I am drunk. I did not know I was drunk till I was told, but I must go on with my work. If you want to see it, there it is." He pointed to the all but finished Melancolia and looked for applause. Torpenhow said nothing, and Dick began to whimper feebly, for joy at seeing Torpenhow again, for grief at misdeeds--if indeed they were misdeeds--that made Torpenhow remote and unsympathetic, and for childish vanity hurt, since Torpenhow had not given a word of praise to his wonderful picture. Bessie looked through the keyhole after a long pause, and saw the two walking up and down as usual, Torpenhow's hand on Dick's shoulder. Hereat she said something so improper that it shocked even Binkie, who was dribbling patiently on the landing with the hope of seeing his master again. CHAPTER XI The lark will make her hymn to God, The partridge call her brood, While I forget the heath I trod, The fields wherein I stood. 'Tis dule to know not night from morn, But deeper dule to know I can but hear the hunter's horn That once I used to blow. --The Only Son IT WAS the third day after Torpenhow's return, and his heart was heavy. "Do you mean to tell me that you can't see to work without whiskey? It's generally the other way about." "Can a drunkard swear on his honour?" said Dick. "Yes, if he has been as good a man as you." "Then I give you my word of honour," said Dick, speaking hurriedly through parched lips. "Old man, I can hardly see your face now. You've kept me sober for two days,--if I ever was drunk,--and I've done no work. Don't keep me back any more. I don't know when my eyes may give out. The spots and dots and the pains and things are crowding worse than ever. I swear I can see all right when I'm--when I'm moderately screwed, as you say. Give me three more sittings from Bessie and all--the stuff I want, and the picture will be done. I can't kill myself in three days. It only means a touch of D. T. at the worst." "If I give you three days more will you promise me to stop work and--the other thing, whether the picture's finished or not?" "I can't. You don't know what that picture means to me. But surely you could get the Nilghai to help you, and knock me down and tie me up. I shouldn't fight for the whiskey, but I should for the work." "Go on, then. I give you three days; but you're nearly breaking my heart." Dick returned to his work, toiling as one possessed; and the yellow devil of whiskey stood by him and chased away the spots in his eyes. The Melancolia was nearly finished, and was all or nearly all that he had hoped she would be. Dick jested with Bessie, who reminded him that he was "a drunken beast"; but the reproof did not move him. "You can't understand, Bess. We are in sight of land now, and soon we shall lie back and think about what we've done. I'll give you three months' pay when the picture's finished, and next time I have any more work in hand--but that doesn't matter. Won't three months' pay make you hate me less?" "No, it won't! I hate you, and I'll go on hating you. Mr. Torpenhow won't speak to me any more. He's always looking at maps." Bessie did not say that she had again laid siege to Torpenhow, or that at the end of our passionate pleading he had picked her up, given her a kiss, and put her outside the door with the recommendation not to be a little fool. He spent most of his time in the company of the Nilghai, and their talk was of war in the near future, the hiring of transports, and secret preparations among the dockyards. He did not wish to see Dick till the picture was finished. "He's doing first-class work," he said to the Nilghai, "and it's quite out of his regular line. But, for the matter of that, so's his infernal soaking." "Never mind. Leave him alone. When he has come to his senses again we'll carry him off from this place and let him breathe clean air. Poor Dick! I don't envy you, Torp, when his eyes fail." "Yes, it will be a case of 'God help the man who's chained to our Davie.' The worst is that we don't know when it will happen, and I believe the uncertainty and the waiting have sent Dick to the whiskey more than anything else." "How the Arab who cut his head open would grin if he knew!" "He's at perfect liberty to grin if he can. He's dead. That's poor consolation now." In the afternoon of the third day Torpenhow heard Dick calling for him. "All finished!" he shouted. "I've done it! Come in! Isn't she a beauty? Isn't she a darling? I've been down to hell to get her; but isn't she worth it?" Torpenhow looked at the head of a woman who laughed,--a full-lipped, hollow-eyed woman who laughed from out of the canvas as Dick had intended she would. "Who taught you how to do it?" said Torpenhow. "The touch and notion have nothing to do with your regular work. What a face it is! What eyes, and what insolence!" Unconsciously he threw back his head and laughed with her. "She's seen the game played out,--I don't think she had a good time of it,--and now she doesn't care. Isn't that the idea?" "Exactly." "Where did you get the mouth and chin from? They don't belong to Bess." "They're--some one else's. But isn't it good? Isn't it thundering good? Wasn't it worth the whiskey? I did it. Alone I did it, and it's the best I can do." He drew his breath sharply, and whispered, "Just God! what could I not do ten years hence, if I can do this now!--By the way, what do you think of it, Bess?" The girl was biting her lips. She loathed Torpenhow because he had taken no notice of her. "I think it's just the horridest, beastliest thing I ever saw," she answered, and turned away. "More than you will be of that way of thinking, young woman.--Dick, there's a sort of murderous, viperine suggestion in the poise of the head that I don't understand," said Torpenhow. "That's trick-work," said Dick, chuckling with delight at being completely understood. "I couldn't resist one little bit of sheer swagger. It's a French trick, and you wouldn't understand; but it's got at by slewing round the head a trifle, and a tiny, tiny foreshortening of one side of the face from the angle of the chin to the top of the left ear. That, and deepening the shadow under the lobe of the ear. It was flagrant trick-work; but, having the notion fixed, I felt entitled to play with it,--Oh, you beauty!" "Amen! She is a beauty. I can feel it." "So will every man who has any sorrow of his own," said Dick, slapping his thigh. "He shall see his trouble there, and, by the Lord Harry, just when he's feeling properly sorry for himself he shall throw back his head and laugh,--as she is laughing. I've put the life of my heart and the light of my eyes into her, and I don't care what comes.... I'm tired,--awfully tired. I think I'll get to sleep. Take away the whiskey, it has served its turn, and give Bessie thirty-six quid, and three over for luck. Cover the picture." He dropped asleep in the long chair, hid face white and haggard, almost before he had finished the sentence. Bessie tried to take Torpenhow's hand. "Aren't you never going to speak to me any more?" she said; but Torpenhow was looking at Dick. "What a stock of vanity the man has! I'll take him in hand tomorrow and make much of him. He deserves it.--Eh! what was that, Bess?" "Nothing. I'll put things tidy here a little, and then I'll go. You couldn't give Me that three months' pay now, could you? He said you were to." Torpenhow gave her a check and went to his own rooms. Bessie faithfully tidied up the studio, set the door ajar for flight, emptied half a bottle of turpentine on a duster, and began to scrub the face of the Melancolia viciously. The paint did not smudge quickly enough. She took a palette-knife and scraped, following each stroke with the wet duster. In five minutes the picture was a formless, scarred muddle of colours. She threw the paint-stained duster into the studio stove, stuck out her tongue at the sleeper, and whispered, "Bilked!" as she turned to run down the staircase. She would never see Torpenhow any more, but she had at least done harm to the man who had come between her and her desire and who used to make fun of her. Cashing the check was the very cream of the jest to Bessie. Then the little privateer sailed across the Thames, to be swallowed up in the gray wilderness of South-the-Water. Dick slept till late in the evening, when Torpenhow dragged him off to bed. His eyes were as bright as his voice was hoarse. "Let's have another look at the picture," he said, insistently as a child. "You--go--to--bed," said Torpenhow. "You aren't at all well, though you mayn't know it. You're as jumpy as a cat." "I reform tomorrow. Good night." As he repassed through the studio, Torpenhow lifted the cloth above the picture, and almost betrayed himself by outcries: "Wiped out!--scraped out and turped out! He's on the verge of jumps as it is. That's Bess,--the little fiend! Only a woman could have done that!--with the ink not dry on the check, too! Dick will be raving mad tomorrow. It was all my fault for trying to help gutter-devils. Oh, my poor Dick, the Lord is hitting you very hard!" Dick could not sleep that night, partly for pure joy, and partly because the well-known Catherine-wheels inside his eyes had given place to crackling volcanoes of many-coloured fire. "Spout away," he said aloud. "I've done my work, and now you can do what you please." He lay still, staring at the ceiling, the long-pent-up delirium of drink in his veins, his brain on fire with racing thoughts that would not stay to be considered, and his hands crisped and dry. He had just discovered that he was painting the face of the Melancolia on a revolving dome ribbed with millions of lights, and that all his wondrous thoughts stood embodied hundreds of feet below his tiny swinging plank, shouting together in his honour, when something cracked inside his temples like an overstrained bowstring, the glittering dome broke inward, and he was alone in the thick night. "I'll go to sleep. The room's very dark. Let's light a lamp and see how the Melancolia looks. There ought to have been a moon." It was then that Torpenhow heard his name called by a voice that he did not know,--in the rattling accents of deadly fear. "He's looked at the picture," was his first thought, as he hurried into the bedroom and found Dick sitting up and beating the air with his hands. "Torp! Torp! where are you? For pity's sake, come to me!" "What's the matter?" Dick clutched at his shoulder. "Matter! I've been lying here for hours in the dark, and you never heard me. Torp, old man, don't go away. I'm all in the dark. In the dark, I tell you!" Torpenhow held the candle within a foot of Dick's eyes, but there was no light in those eyes. He lit the gas, and Dick heard the flame catch. The grip of his fingers on Torpenhow's shoulder made Torpenhow wince. "Don't leave me. You wouldn't leave me alone now, would you? I can't see. D'you understand? It's black,--quite black,--and I feel as if I was falling through it all." "Steady does it." Torpenhow put his arm round Dick and began to rock him gently to and fro. "That's good. Now don't talk. If I keep very quiet for a while, this darkness will lift. It seems just on the point of breaking. H'sh!" Dick knit his brows and stared desperately in front of him. The night air was chilling Torpenhow's toes. "Can you stay like that a minute?" he said. "I'll get my dressing-gown and some slippers." Dick clutched the bed-head with both hands and waited for the darkness to clear away. "What a time you've been!" he cried, when Torpenhow returned. "It's as black as ever. What are you banging about in the door-way?" "Long chair,--horse-blanket,--pillow. Going to sleep by you. Lie down now; you'll be better in the morning." "I shan't!" The voice rose to a wail. "My God! I'm blind! I'm blind, and the darkness will never go away." He made as if to leap from the bed, but Torpenhow's arms were round him, and Torpenhow's chin was on his shoulder, and his breath was squeezed out of him. He could only gasp, "Blind!" and wriggle feebly. "Steady, Dickie, steady!" said the deep voice in his ear, and the grip tightened. "Bite on the bullet, old man, and don't let them think you're afraid." The grip could draw no closer. Both men were breathing heavily. Dick threw his head from side to side and groaned. "Let me go," he panted. "You're cracking my ribs. We--we mustn't let them think we're afraid, must we,--all the powers of darkness and that lot?" "Lie down. It's all over now." "Yes," said Dick, obediently. "But would you mind letting me hold your hand? I feel as if I wanted something to hold on to. One drops through the dark so." Torpenhow thrust out a large and hairy paw from the long chair. Dick clutched it tightly, and in half an hour had fallen asleep. Torpenhow withdrew his hand, and, stooping over Dick, kissed him lightly on the forehead, as men do sometimes kiss a wounded comrade in the hour of death, to ease his departure. In the gray dawn Torpenhow heard Dick talking to himself. He was adrift on the shoreless tides of delirium, speaking very quickly--"It's a pity,--a great pity; but it's helped, and it must be eaten, Master George. Sufficient unto the day is the blindness thereof, and, further, putting aside all Melancolias and false humours, it is of obvious notoriety--such as mine was--that the queen can do no wrong. Torp doesn't know that. I'll tell him when we're a little farther into the desert. "What a bungle those boatmen are making of the steamer-ropes! They'll have that four-inch hawser chafed through in a minute. I told you so--there she goes! White foam on green water, and the steamer slewing round. How good that looks! I'll sketch it. No, I can't. I'm afflicted with ophthalmia. That was one of the ten plagues of Egypt, and it extends up the Nile in the shape of cataract. Ha! that's a joke, Torp. Laugh, you graven image, and stand clear of the hawser.... It'll knock you into the water and make your dress all dirty, Maisie dear." "Oh!" said Torpenhow. "This happened before. That night on the river." "She'll be sure to say it's my fault if you get muddy, and you're quite near enough to the breakwater. Maisie, that's not fair. Ah! I knew you'd miss. Low and to the left, dear. But you've no conviction. Don't be angry, darling. I'd cut my hand off if it would give you anything more than obstinacy. My right hand, if it would serve." "Now we mustn't listen. Here's an island shouting across seas of misunderstanding with a vengeance. But it's shouting truth, I fancy," said Torpenhow. The babble continued. It all bore upon Maisie. Sometimes Dick lectured at length on his craft, then he cursed himself for his folly in being enslaved. He pleaded to Maisie for a kiss--only one kiss--before she went away, and called to her to come back from Vitry-sur-Marne, if she would; but through all his ravings he bade heaven and earth witness that the queen could do no wrong. Torpenhow listened attentively, and learned every detail of Dick's life that had been hidden from him. For three days Dick raved through the past, and then a natural sleep. "What a strain he has been running under, poor chap!" said Torpenhow. "Dick, of all men, handing himself over like a dog! And I was lecturing him on arrogance! I ought to have known that it was no use to judge a man. But I did it. What a demon that girl must be! Dick's given her his life,--confound him!--and she's given him one kiss apparently." "Torp," said Dick, from the bed, "go out for a walk. You've been here too long. I'll get up. Hi! This is annoying. I can't dress myself. Oh, it's too absurd!" Torpenhow helped him into his clothes and led him to the big chair in the studio. He sat quietly waiting under strained nerves for the darkness to lift. It did not lift that day, nor the next. Dick adventured on a voyage round the walls. He hit his shins against the stove, and this suggested to him that it would be better to crawl on all fours, one hand in front of him. Torpenhow found him on the floor. "I'm trying to get the geography of my new possessions," said he. "D'you remember that nigger you gouged in the square? Pity you didn't keep the odd eye. It would have been useful. Any letters for me? Give me all the ones in fat gray envelopes with a sort of crown thing outside. They're of no importance." Torpenhow gave him a letter with a black M. on the envelope flap. Dick put it into his pocket. There was nothing in it that Torpenhow might not have read, but it belonged to himself and to Maisie, who would never belong to him. "When she finds that I don't write, she'll stop writing. It's better so. I couldn't be any use to her now," Dick argued, and the tempter suggested that he should make known his condition. Every nerve in him revolted. "I have fallen low enough already. I'm not going to beg for pity. Besides, it would be cruel to her." He strove to put Maisie out of his thoughts; but the blind have many opportunities for thinking, and as the tides of his strength came back to him in the long employless days of dead darkness, Dick's soul was troubled to the core. Another letter, and another, came from Maisie. Then there was silence, and Dick sat by the window, the pulse of summer in the air, and pictured her being won by another man, stronger than himself. His imagination, the keener for the dark background it worked against, spared him no single detail that might send him raging up and down the studio, to stumble over the stove that seemed to be in four places at once. Worst of all, tobacco would not taste in the darkness. The arrogance of the man had disappeared, and in its place were settled despair that Torpenhow knew, and blind passion that Dick confided to his pillow at night. The intervals between the paroxysms were filled with intolerable waiting and the weight of intolerable darkness. "Come out into the Park," said Torpenhow. "You haven't stirred out since the beginning of things." "What's the use? There's no movement in the dark; and, besides,"--he paused irresolutely at the head of the stairs,--"something will run over me." "Not if I'm with you. Proceed gingerly." The roar of the streets filled Dick with nervous terror, and he clung to Torpenhow's arm. "Fancy having to feel for a gutter with your foot!" he said petulantly, as he turned into the Park. "Let's curse God and die." "Sentries are forbidden to pay unauthorised compliments. By Jove, there are the Guards!" Dick's figure straightened. "Let's get near 'em. Let's go in and look. Let's get on the grass and run. I can smell the trees." "Mind the low railing. That's all right!" Torpenhow kicked out a tuft of grass with his heel. "Smell that," he said. "Isn't it good?" Dick sniffed luxuriously. "Now pick up your feet and run." They approached as near to the regiment as was possible. The clank of bayonets being unfixed made Dick's nostrils quiver. "Let's get nearer. They're in column, aren't they?" "Yes. How did you know?" "Felt it. Oh, my men!--my beautiful men!" He edged forward as though he could see. "I could draw those chaps once. Who'll draw 'em now?" "They'll move off in a minute. Don't jump when the band begins." "Huh! I'm not a new charger. It's the silences that hurt. Nearer, Torp!--nearer! Oh, my God, what wouldn't I give to see 'em for a minute!--one half-minute!" He could hear the armed life almost within reach of him, could hear the slings tighten across the bandsman's chest as he heaved the big drum from the ground. "Sticks crossed above his head," whispered Torpenhow. "I know. I know! Who should know if I don't? H'sh!" The drum-sticks fell with a boom, and the men swung forward to the crash of the band. Dick felt the wind of the massed movement in his face, heard the maddening tramp of feet and the friction of the pouches on the belts. The big drum pounded out the tune. It was a music-hall refrain that made a perfect quickstep-- "He must be a man of decent height, He must be a man of weight, He must come home on a Saturday night In a thoroughly sober state; He must know how to love me, And he must know how to kiss; And if he's enough to keep us both I can't refuse him bliss." "What's the matter?" said Torpenhow, as he saw Dick's head fall when the last of the regiment had departed. "Nothing. I feel a little bit out of the running,--that's all. Torp, take me back. Why did you bring me out?" CHAPTER XII There were three friends that buried the fourth, The mould in his mouth and the dust in his eyes And they went south and east, and north,-- The strong man fights, but the sick man dies. There were three friends that spoke of the dead,-- The strong man fights, but the sick man dies.-- "And would he were with us now," they said, "The sun in our face and the wind in our eyes." --Ballad. The Nilghai was angry with Torpenhow. Dick had been sent to bed,--blind men are ever under the orders of those who can see,--and since he had returned from the Park had fluently sworn at Torpenhow because he was alive, and all the world because it was alive and could see, while he, Dick, was dead in the death of the blind, who, at the best, are only burdens upon their associates. Torpenhow had said something about a Mrs. Gummidge, and Dick had retired in a black fury to handle and re-handle three unopened letters from Maisie. The Nilghai, fat, burly, and aggressive, was in Torpenhow's rooms. Behind him sat the Keneu, the Great War Eagle, and between them lay a large map embellished with black-and-white-headed pins. "I was wrong about the Balkans," said the Nilghai. "But I'm not wrong about this business. The whole of our work in the Southern Soudan must be done over again. The public doesn't care, of course, but the government does, and they are making their arrangements quietly. You know that as well as I do." "I remember how the people cursed us when our troops withdrew from Omdurman. It was bound to crop up sooner or later. But I can't go," said Torpenhow. He pointed through the open door; it was a hot night. "Can you blame me?" The Keneu purred above his pipe like a large and very happy cat--"Don't blame you in the least. It's uncommonly good of you, and all the rest of it, but every man--even you, Torp--must consider his work. I know it sounds brutal, but Dick's out of the race,--down,--gastados expended, finished, done for. He has a little money of his own. He won't starve, and you can't pull out of your slide for his sake. Think of your own reputation." "Dick's was five times bigger than mine and yours put together." "That was because he signed his name to everything he did. It's all ended now. You must hold yourself in readiness to move out. You can command your own prices, and you do better work than any three of us." "Don't tell me how tempting it is. I'll stay here to look after Dick for a while. He's as cheerful as a bear with a sore head, but I think he likes to have me near him." The Nilghai said something uncomplimentary about soft-headed fools who throw away their careers for other fools. Torpenhow flushed angrily. The constant strain of attendance on Dick had worn his nerves thin. "There remains a third fate," said the Keneu, thoughtfully. "Consider this, and be not larger fools than necessary. Dick is--or rather was--an able-bodied man of moderate attractions and a certain amount of audacity." "Oho!" said the Nilghai, who remembered an affair at Cairo. "I begin to see,--Torp, I'm sorry." Torpenhow nodded forgiveness: "You were more sorry when he cut you out, though.--Go on, Keneu." "I've often thought, when I've seen men die out in the desert, that if the news could be sent through the world, and the means of transport were quick enough, there would be one woman at least at each man's bedside." "There would be some mighty quaint revelations. Let us be grateful things are as they are," said the Nilghai. "Let us rather reverently consider whether Torp's three-cornered ministrations are exactly what Dick needs just now.--What do you think yourself, Torp?" "I know they aren't. But what can I do?" "Lay the matter before the board. We are all Dick's friends here. You've been most in his life." "But I picked it up when he was off his head." "The greater chance of its being true. I thought we should arrive. Who is she?" Then Torpenhow told a tale in plain words, as a special correspondent who knows how to make a verbal precis should tell it. The men listened without interruption. "Is it possible that a man can come back across the years to his calf-love?" said the Keneu. "Is it possible?" "I give the facts. He says nothing about it now, but he sits fumbling three letters from her when he thinks I'm not looking. What am I to do?" "Speak to him," said the Nilghai. "Oh yes! Write to her,--I don't know her full name, remember,--and ask her to accept him out of pity. I believe you once told Dick you were sorry for him, Nilghai. You remember what happened, eh? Go into the bedroom and suggest full confession and an appeal to this Maisie girl, whoever she is. I honestly believe he'd try to kill you; and the blindness has made him rather muscular." "Torpenhow's course is perfectly clear," said the Keneu. "He will go to Vitry-sur-Marne, which is on the Bezieres-Landes Railway,--single track from Tourgas. The Prussians shelled it out in '70 because there was a poplar on the top of a hill eighteen hundred yards from the church spire. There's a squadron of cavalry quartered there,--or ought to be. Where this studio Torp spoke about may be I cannot tell. That is Torp's business. I have given him his route. He will dispassionately explain the situation to the girl, and she will come back to Dick,--the more especially because, to use Dick's words, 'there is nothing but her damned obstinacy to keep them apart.'" "And they have four hundred and twenty pounds a year between 'em." Dick never lost his head for figures, even in his delirium. "You haven't the shadow of an excuse for not going," said the Nilghai. Torpenhow looked very uncomfortable. "But it's absurd and impossible. I can't drag her back by the hair." "Our business--the business for which we draw our money--is to do absurd and impossible things,--generally with no reason whatever except to amuse the public. Here we have a reason. The rest doesn't matter. I shall share these rooms with the Nilghai till Torpenhow returns. There will be a batch of unbridled 'specials' coming to town in a little while, and these will serve as their headquarters. Another reason for sending Torpenhow away. Thus Providence helps those who help others, and"--here the Keneu dropped his measured speech--"we can't have you tied by the leg to Dick when the trouble begins. It's your only chance of getting away; and Dick will be grateful." "He will,--worse luck! I can but go and try. I can't conceive a woman in her senses refusing Dick." "Talk that out with the girl. I have seen you wheedle an angry Mahdieh woman into giving you dates. This won't be a tithe as difficult. You had better not be here tomorrow afternoon, because the Nilghai and I will be in possession. It is an order. Obey." "Dick," said Torpenhow, next morning, "can I do anything for you?" "No! Leave me alone. How often must I remind you that I'm blind?" "Nothing I could go for to fetch for to carry for to bring?" "No. Take those infernal creaking boots of yours away." "Poor chap!" said Torpenhow to himself. "I must have been sitting on his nerves lately. He wants a lighter step." Then, aloud, "Very well. Since you're so independent, I'm going off for four or five days. Say goodbye at least. The housekeeper will look after you, and Keneu has my rooms." Dick's face fell. "You won't be longer than a week at the outside? I know I'm touched in the temper, but I can't get on without you." "Can't you? You'll have to do without me in a little time, and you'll be glad I'm gone." Dick felt his way back to the big chair, and wondered what these things might mean. He did not wish to be tended by the housekeeper, and yet Torpenhow's constant tenderness jarred on him. He did not exactly know what he wanted. The darkness would not lift, and Maisie's unopened letters felt worn and old from much handling. He could never read them for himself as long as life endured; but Maisie might have sent him some fresh ones to play with. The Nilghai entered with a gift,--a piece of red modelling-wax. He fancied that Dick might find interest in using his hands. Dick poked and patted the stuff for a few minutes, and, "Is it like anything in the world?" he said drearily. "Take it away. I may get the touch of the blind in fifty years. Do you know where Torpenhow has gone?" The Nilghai knew nothing. "We're staying in his rooms till he comes back. Can we do anything for you?" "I'd like to be left alone, please. Don't think I'm ungrateful; but I'm best alone." The Nilghai chuckled, and Dick resumed his drowsy brooding and sullen rebellion against fate. He had long since ceased to think about the work he had done in the old days, and the desire to do more work had departed from him. He was exceedingly sorry for himself, and the completeness of his tender grief soothed him. But his soul and his body cried for Maisie--Maisie who would understand. His mind pointed out that Maisie, having her own work to do, would not care. His experience had taught him that when money was exhausted women went away, and that when a man was knocked out of the race the others trampled on him. "Then at the least," said Dick, in reply, "she could use me as I used Binat,--for some sort of a study. I wouldn't ask more than to be near her again, even though I knew that another man was making love to her. Ugh! what a dog I am!" A voice on the staircase began to sing joyfully-- "When we go--go--go away from here, Our creditors will weep and they will wail, Our absence much regretting when they find that we've been getting Out of England by next Tuesday's Indian mail." Following the trampling of feet, slamming of Torpenhow's door, and the sound of voices in strenuous debate, some one squeaked, "And see, you good fellows, I have found a new water-bottle--firs'-class patent--eh, how you say? Open himself inside out." Dick sprang to his feet. He knew the voice well. "That's Cassavetti, come back from the Continent. Now I know why Torp went away. There's a row somewhere, and--I'm out of it!" The Nilghai commanded silence in vain. "That's for my sake," Dick said bitterly. "The birds are getting ready to fly, and they wouldn't tell me. I can hear Morten-Sutherland and Mackaye. Half the War Correspondents in London are there;--and I'm out of it." He stumbled across the landing and plunged into Torpenhow's room. He could feel that it was full of men. "Where's the trouble?" said he. "In the Balkans at last? Why didn't some one tell me?" "We thought you wouldn't be interested," said the Nilghai, shamefacedly. "It's in the Soudan, as usual." "You lucky dogs! Let me sit here while you talk. I shan't be a skeleton at the feast.--Cassavetti, where are you? Your English is as bad as ever." Dick was led into a chair. He heard the rustle of the maps, and the talk swept forward, carrying him with it. Everybody spoke at once, discussing press censorships, railway-routes, transport, water-supply, the capacities of generals,--these in language that would have horrified a trusting public,--ranting, asserting, denouncing, and laughing at the top of their voices. There was the glorious certainty of war in the Soudan at any moment. The Nilghai said so, and it was well to be in readiness. The Keneu had telegraphed to Cairo for horses; Cassavetti had stolen a perfectly inaccurate list of troops that would be ordered forward, and was reading it out amid profane interruptions, and the Keneu introduced to Dick some man unknown who would be employed as war artist by the Central Southern Syndicate. "It's his first outing," said the Keneu. "Give him some tips--about riding camels." "Oh, those camels!" groaned Cassavetti. "I shall learn to ride him again, and now I am so much all soft! Listen, you good fellows. I know your military arrangement very well. There will go the Royal Argalshire Sutherlanders. So it was read to me upon best authority." A roar of laughter interrupted him. "Sit down," said the Nilghai. "The lists aren't even made out in the War Office." "Will there be any force at Suakin?" said a voice. Then the outcries redoubled, and grew mixed, thus: "How many Egyptian troops will they use?--God help the Fellaheen!--There's a railway in Plumstead marshes doing duty as a fives-court.--We shall have the Suakin-Berber line built at last.--Canadian voyageurs are too careful. Give me a half-drunk Krooman in a whale-boat.--Who commands the Desert column?--No, they never blew up the big rock in the Ghineh bend. We shall have to be hauled up, as usual.--Somebody tell me if there's an Indian contingent, or I'll break everybody's head.--Don't tear the map in two.--It's a war of occupation, I tell you, to connect with the African companies in the South.--There's Guinea-worm in most of the wells on that route." Then the Nilghai, despairing of peace, bellowed like a fog-horn and beat upon the table with both hands. "But what becomes of Torpenhow?" said Dick, in the silence that followed. "Torp's in abeyance just now. He's off love-making somewhere, I suppose," said the Nilghai. "He said he was going to stay at home," said the Keneu. "Is he?" said Dick, with an oath. "He won't. I'm not much good now, but if you and the Nilghai hold him down I'll engage to trample on him till he sees reason. He'll stay behind, indeed! He's the best of you all. There'll be some tough work by Omdurman. We shall come there to stay, this time. "But I forgot. I wish I were going with you." "So do we all, Dickie," said the Keneu. "And I most of all," said the new artist of the Central Southern Syndicate. "Could you tell me----" "I'll give you one piece of advice," Dick answered, moving towards the door. "If you happen to be cut over the head in a scrimmage, don't guard. Tell the man to go on cutting. You'll find it cheapest in the end. Thanks for letting me look in." "There's grit in Dick," said the Nilghai, an hour later, when the room was emptied of all save the Keneu. "It was the sacred call of the war-trumpet. Did you notice how he answered to it? Poor fellow! Let's look at him," said the Keneu. The excitement of the talk had died away. Dick was sitting by the studio table, with his head on his arms, when the men came in. He did not change his position. "It hurts," he moaned. "God forgive me, but it hurts cruelly; and yet, y'know, the world has a knack of spinning round all by itself. Shall I see Torp before he goes?" "Oh, yes. You'll see him," said the Nilghai. CHAPTER XIII The sun went down an hour ago, I wonder if I face towards home; If I lost my way in the light of day How shall I find it now night is come? --Old Song "Maisie, come to bed." "It's so hot I can't sleep. Don't worry." Maisie put her elbows on the window-sill and looked at the moonlight on the straight, poplar-flanked road. Summer had come upon Vitry-sur-Marne and parched it to the bone. The grass was dry-burnt in the meadows, the clay by the bank of the river was caked to brick, the roadside flowers were long since dead, and the roses in the garden hung withered on their stalks. The heat in the little low bedroom under the eaves was almost intolerable. The very moonlight on the wall of Kami's studio across the road seemed to make the night hotter, and the shadow of the big bell-handle by the closed gate cast a bar of inky black that caught Maisie's eye and annoyed her. "Horrid thing! It should be all white," she murmured. "And the gate isn't in the middle of the wall, either. I never noticed that before." Maisie was hard to please at that hour. First, the heat of the past few weeks had worn her down; secondly, her work, and particularly the study of a female head intended to represent the Melancolia and not finished in time for the Salon, was unsatisfactory; thirdly, Kami had said as much two days before; fourthly,--but so completely fourthly that it was hardly worth thinking about,--Dick, her property, had not written to her for more than six weeks. She was angry with the heat, with Kami, and with her work, but she was exceedingly angry with Dick. She had written to him three times,--each time proposing a fresh treatment of her Melancolia. Dick had taken no notice of these communications. She had resolved to write no more. When she returned to England in the autumn--for her pride's sake she could not return earlier--she would speak to him. She missed the Sunday afternoon conferences more than she cared to admit. All that Kami said was, "Continuez, mademoiselle, continuez toujours," and he had been repeating the wearisome counsel through the hot summer, exactly like a cicada,--an old gray cicada in a black alpaca coat, white trousers, and a huge felt hat. But Dick had tramped masterfully up and down her little studio north of the cool green London park, and had said things ten times worse than continuez, before he snatched the brush out of her hand and showed her where the error lay. His last letter, Maisie remembered, contained some trivial advice about not sketching in the sun or drinking water at wayside farmhouses; and he had said that not once, but three times,--as if he did not know that Maisie could take care of herself. But what was he doing, that he could not trouble to write? A murmur of voices in the road made her lean from the window. A cavalryman of the little garrison in the town was talking to Kami's cook. The moonlight glittered on the scabbard of his sabre, which he was holding in his hand lest it should clank inopportunely. The cook's cap cast deep shadows on her face, which was close to the conscript's. He slid his arm round her waist, and there followed the sound of a kiss. "Faugh!" said Maisie, stepping back. "What's that?" said the red-haired girl, who was tossing uneasily outside her bed. "Only a conscript kissing the cook," said Maisie. "They've gone away now." She leaned out of the window again, and put a shawl over her nightgown to guard against chills. There was a very small night-breeze abroad, and a sun-baked rose below nodded its head as one who knew unutterable secrets. Was it possible that Dick should turn his thoughts from her work and his own and descend to the degradation of Suzanne and the conscript? He could not! The rose nodded its head and one leaf therewith. It looked like a naughty little devil scratching its ear. Dick could not, "because," thought Maisie, "he is mine,--mine,--mine. He said he was. I'm sure I don't care what he does. It will only spoil his work if he does; and it will spoil mine too." The rose continued to nod in the futile way peculiar to flowers. There was no earthly reason why Dick should not disport himself as he chose, except that he was called by Providence, which was Maisie, to assist Maisie in her work. And her work was the preparation of pictures that went sometimes to English provincial exhibitions, as the notices in the scrap-book proved, and that were invariably rejected by the Salon when Kami was plagued into allowing her to send them up. Her work in the future, it seemed, would be the preparation of pictures on exactly similar lines which would be rejected in exactly the same way----The red-haired girl threshed distressfully across the sheets. "It's too hot to sleep," she moaned; and the interruption jarred. Exactly the same way. Then she would divide her years between the little studio in England and Kami's big studio at Vitry-sur-Marne. No, she would go to another master, who should force her into the success that was her right, if patient toil and desperate endeavour gave one a right to anything. Dick had told her that he had worked ten years to understand his craft. She had worked ten years, and ten years were nothing. Dick had said that ten years were nothing,--but that was in regard to herself only. He had said--this very man who could not find time to write--that he would wait ten years for her, and that she was bound to come back to him sooner or later. He had said this in the absurd letter about sunstroke and diphtheria; and then he had stopped writing. He was wandering up and down moonlit streets, kissing cooks. She would like to lecture him now,--not in her nightgown, of course, but properly dressed, severely and from a height. Yet if he was kissing other girls he certainly would not care whether she lecture him or not. He would laugh at her. Very good. She would go back to her studio and prepare pictures that went, etc., etc. The mill-wheel of thought swung round slowly, that no section of it might be slurred over, and the red-haired girl tossed and turned behind her. Maisie put her chin in her hands and decided that there could be no doubt whatever of the villainy of Dick. To justify herself, she began, unwomanly, to weigh the evidence. There was a boy, and he had said he loved her. And he kissed her,--kissed her on the cheek,--by a yellow sea-poppy that nodded its head exactly like the maddening dry rose in the garden. Then there was an interval, and men had told her that they loved her--just when she was busiest with her work. Then the boy came back, and at their very second meeting had told her that he loved her. Then he had----But there was no end to the things he had done. He had given her his time and his powers. He had spoken to her of Art, housekeeping, technique, teacups, the abuse of pickles as a stimulant,--that was rude,--sable hair-brushes,--he had given her the best in her stock,--she used them daily; he had given her advice that she profited by, and now and again--a look. Such a look! The look of a beaten hound waiting for the word to crawl to his mistress's feet. In return she had given him nothing whatever, except--here she brushed her mouth against the open-work sleeve of her nightgown--the privilege of kissing her once. And on the mouth, too. Disgraceful! Was that not enough, and more than enough? and if it was not, had he not cancelled the debt by not writing and--probably kissing other girls? "Maisie, you'll catch a chill. Do go and lie down," said the wearied voice of her companion. "I can't sleep a wink with you at the window." Maisie shrugged her shoulders and did not answer. She was reflecting on the meannesses of Dick, and on other meannesses with which he had nothing to do. The moonlight would not let her sleep. It lay on the skylight of the studio across the road in cold silver; she stared at it intently and her thoughts began to slide one into the other. The shadow of the big bell-handle in the wall grew short, lengthened again, and faded out as the moon went down behind the pasture and a hare came limping home across the road. Then the dawn-wind washed through the upland grasses, and brought coolness with it, and the cattle lowed by the drought-shrunk river. Maisie's head fell forward on the window-sill, and the tangle of black hair covered her arms. "Maisie, wake up. You'll catch a chill." "Yes, dear; yes, dear." She staggered to her bed like a wearied child, and as she buried her face in the pillows she muttered, "I think--I think--But he ought to have written." Day brought the routine of the studio, the smell of paint and turpentine, and the monotone wisdom of Kami, who was a leaden artist, but a golden teacher if the pupil were only in sympathy with him. Maisie was not in sympathy that day, and she waited impatiently for the end of the work. She knew when it was coming; for Kami would gather his black alpaca coat into a bunch behind him, and, with faded flue eyes that saw neither pupils nor canvas, look back into the past to recall the history of one Binat. "You have all done not so badly," he would say. "But you shall remember that it is not enough to have the method, and the art, and the power, nor even that which is touch, but you shall have also the conviction that nails the work to the wall. Of the so many I taught,"--here the students would begin to unfix drawing-pins or get their tubes together,--"the very so many that I have taught, the best was Binat. All that comes of the study and the work and the knowledge was to him even when he came. After he left me he should have done all that could be done with the colour, the form, and the knowledge. Only, he had not the conviction. So today I hear no more of Binat,--the best of my pupils,--and that is long ago. So today, too, you will be glad to hear no more of me. Continuez, mesdemoiselles, and, above all, with conviction." He went into the garden to smoke and mourn over the lost Binat as the pupils dispersed to their several cottages or loitered in the studio to make plans for the cool of the afternoon. Maisie looked at her very unhappy Melancolia, restrained a desire to grimace before it, and was hurrying across the road to write a letter to Dick, when she was aware of a large man on a white troop-horse. How Torpenhow had managed in the course of twenty hours to find his way to the hearts of the cavalry officers in quarters at Vitry-sur-Marne, to discuss with them the certainty of a glorious revenge for France, to reduce the colonel to tears of pure affability, and to borrow the best horse in the squadron for the journey to Kami's studio, is a mystery that only special correspondents can unravel. "I beg your pardon," said he. "It seems an absurd question to ask, but the fact is that I don't know her by any other name: Is there any young lady here that is called Maisie?" "I am Maisie," was the answer from the depths of a great sun-hat. "I ought to introduce myself," he said, as the horse capered in the blinding white dust. "My name is Torpenhow. Dick Heldar is my best friend, and--and--the fact is that he has gone blind." "Blind!" said Maisie, stupidly. "He can't be blind." "He has been stone-blind for nearly two months." Maisie lifted up her face, and it was pearly white. "No! No! Not blind! I won't have him blind!" "Would you care to see for yourself?" said Torpenhow. "Now,--at once?" "Oh, no! The Paris train doesn't go through this place till tonight. There will be ample time." "Did Mr. Heldar send you to me?" "Certainly not. Dick wouldn't do that sort of thing. He's sitting in his studio, turning over some letters that he can't read because he's blind." There was a sound of choking from the sun-hat. Maisie bowed her head and went into the cottage, where the red-haired girl was on a sofa, complaining of a headache. "Dick's blind!" said Maisie, taking her breath quickly as she steadied herself against a chair-back. "My Dick's blind!" "What?" The girl was on the sofa no longer. "A man has come from England to tell me. He hasn't written to me for six weeks." "Are you going to him?" "I must think." "Think! I should go back to London and see him and I should kiss his eyes and kiss them and kiss them until they got well again! If you don't go I shall. Oh, what am I talking about? You wicked little idiot! Go to him at once. Go!" Torpenhow's neck was blistering, but he preserved a smile of infinite patience as Maisie's appeared bareheaded in the sunshine. "I am coming," said she, her eyes on the ground. "You will be at Vitry Station, then, at seven this evening." This was an order delivered by one who was used to being obeyed. Maisie said nothing, but she felt grateful that there was no chance of disputing with this big man who took everything for granted and managed a squealing horse with one hand. She returned to the red-haired girl, who was weeping bitterly, and between tears, kisses,--very few of those,--menthol, packing, and an interview with Kami, the sultry afternoon wore away. Thought might come afterwards. Her present duty was to go to Dick,--Dick who owned the wondrous friend and sat in the dark playing with her unopened letters. "But what will you do," she said to her companion. "I? Oh, I shall stay here and--finish your Melancolia," she said, smiling pitifully. "Write to me afterwards." That night there ran a legend through Vitry-sur-Marne of a mad Englishman, doubtless suffering from sunstroke, who had drunk all the officers of the garrison under the table, had borrowed a horse from the lines, and had then and there eloped, after the English custom, with one of those more mad English girls who drew pictures down there under the care of that good Monsieur Kami. "They are very droll," said Suzanne to the conscript in the moonlight by the studio wall. "She walked always with those big eyes that saw nothing, and yet she kisses me on both cheeks as though she were my sister, and gives me--see--ten francs!" The conscript levied a contribution on both gifts; for he prided himself on being a good soldier. Torpenhow spoke very little to Maisie during the journey to Calais; but he was careful to attend to all her wants, to get her a compartment entirely to herself, and to leave her alone. He was amazed of the ease with which the matter had been accomplished. "The safest thing would be to let her think things out. By Dick's showing,--when he was off his head,--she must have ordered him about very thoroughly. Wonder how she likes being under orders." Maisie never told. She sat in the empty compartment often with her eyes shut, that she might realise the sensation of blindness. It was an order that she should return to London swiftly, and she found herself at last almost beginning to enjoy the situation. This was better than looking after luggage and a red-haired friend who never took any interest in her surroundings. But there appeared to be a feeling in the air that she, Maisie,--of all people,--was in disgrace. Therefore she justified her conduct to herself with great success, till Torpenhow came up to her on the steamer and without preface began to tell the story of Dick's blindness, suppressing a few details, but dwelling at length on the miseries of delirium. He stopped before he reached the end, as though he had lost interest in the subject, and went forward to smoke. Maisie was furious with him and with herself. She was hurried on from Dover to London almost before she could ask for breakfast, and--she was past any feeling of indignation now--was bidden curtly to wait in a hall at the foot of some lead-covered stairs while Torpenhow went up to make inquiries. Again the knowledge that she was being treated like a naughty little girl made her pale cheeks flame. It was all Dick's fault for being so stupid as to go blind. Torpenhow led her up to a shut door, which he opened very softly. Dick was sitting by the window, with his chin on his chest. There were three envelopes in his hand, and he turned them over and over. The big man who gave orders was no longer by her side, and the studio door snapped behind her. Dick thrust the letters into his pocket as he heard the sound. "Hullo, Torp! Is that you? I've been so lonely." His voice had taken the peculiar flatness of the blind. Maisie pressed herself up into a corner of the room. Her heart was beating furiously, and she put one hand on her breast to keep it quiet. Dick was staring directly at her, and she realised for the first time that he was blind. Shutting her eyes in a rail-way carriage to open them when she pleased was child's play. This man was blind though his eyes were wide open. "Torp, is that you? They said you were coming." Dick looked puzzled and a little irritated at the silence. "No; it's only me," was the answer, in a strained little whisper. Maisie could hardly move her lips. "H'm!" said Dick, composedly, without moving. "This is a new phenomenon. Darkness I'm getting used to; but I object to hearing voices." Was he mad, then, as well as blind, that he talked to himself? Maisie's heart beat more wildly, and she breathed in gasps. Dick rose and began to feel his way across the room, touching each table and chair as he passed. Once he caught his foot on a rug, and swore, dropping on his knees to feel what the obstruction might be. Maisie remembered him walking in the Park as though all the earth belonged to him, tramping up and down her studio two months ago, and flying up the gangway of the Channel steamer. The beating of her heart was making her sick, and Dick was coming nearer, guided by the sound of her breathing. She put out a hand mechanically to ward him off or to draw him to herself, she did not know which. It touched his chest, and he stepped back as though he had been shot. "It's Maisie!" said he, with a dry sob. "What are you doing here?" "I came--I came--to see you, please." Dick's lips closed firmly. "Won't you sit down, then? You see, I've had some bother with my eyes, and----" "I know. I know. Why didn't you tell me?" "I couldn't write." "You might have told Mr. Torpenhow." "What has he to do with my affairs?" "He--he brought me from Vitry-sur-Marne. He thought I ought to see you." "Why, what has happened? Can I do anything for you? No, I can't. I forgot." "Oh, Dick, I'm so sorry! I've come to tell you, and----Let me take you back to your chair." "Don't! I'm not a child. You only do that out of pity. I never meant to tell you anything about it. I'm no good now. I'm down and done for. Let me alone!" He groped back to his chair, his chest labouring as he sat down. Maisie watched him, and the fear went out of her heart, to be followed by a very bitter shame. He had spoken a truth that had been hidden from the girl through every step of the impetuous flight to London; for he was, indeed, down and done for--masterful no longer but rather a little abject; neither an artist stronger than she, nor a man to be looked up to--only some blind one that sat in a chair and seemed on the point of crying. She was immensely and unfeignedly sorry for him--more sorry than she had ever been for any one in her life, but not sorry enough to deny his words. So she stood still and felt ashamed and a little hurt, because she had honestly intended that her journey should end triumphantly; and now she was only filled with pity most startlingly distinct from love. "Well?" said Dick, his face steadily turned away. "I never meant to worry you any more. What's the matter?" He was conscious that Maisie was catching her breath, but was as unprepared as herself for the torrent of emotion that followed. She had dropped into a chair and was sobbing with her face hidden in her hands. "I can't--I can't!" she cried desperately. "Indeed, I can't. It isn't my fault. I'm so sorry. Oh, Dickie, I'm so sorry." Dick's shoulders straightened again, for the words lashed like a whip. Still the sobbing continued. It is not good to realise that you have failed in the hour of trial or flinched before the mere possibility of making sacrifices. "I do despise myself--indeed I do. But I can't. Oh, Dickie, you wouldn't ask me--would you?" wailed Maisie. She looked up for a minute, and by chance it happened that Dick's eyes fell on hers. The unshaven face was very white and set, and the lips were trying to force themselves into a smile. But it was the worn-out eyes that Maisie feared. Her Dick had gone blind and left in his place some one that she could hardly recognise till he spoke. "Who is asking you to do anything, Maisie? I told you how it would be. What's the use of worrying? For pity's sake don't cry like that; it isn't worth it." "You don't know how I hate myself. Oh, Dick, help me--help me!" The passion of tears had grown beyond her control and was beginning to alarm the man. He stumbled forward and put his arm round her, and her head fell on his shoulder. "Hush, dear, hush! Don't cry. You're quite right, and you've nothing to reproach yourself with--you never had. You're only a little upset by the journey, and I don't suppose you've had any breakfast. What a brute Torp was to bring you over." "I wanted to come. I did indeed," she protested. "Very well. And now you've come and seen, and I'm--immensely grateful. When you're better you shall go away and get something to eat. What sort of a passage did you have coming over?" Maisie was crying more subduedly, for the first time in her life glad that she had something to lean against. Dick patted her on the shoulder tenderly but clumsily, for he was not quite sure where her shoulder might be. She drew herself out of his arms at last and waited, trembling and most unhappy. He had felt his way to the window to put the width of the room between them, and to quiet a little the tumult in his heart. "Are you better now?" he said. "Yes, but--don't you hate me?" "I hate you? My God! I?" "Isn't--isn't there anything I could do for you, then? I'll stay here in England to do it, if you like. Perhaps I could come and see you sometimes." "I think not, dear. It would be kindest not to see me any more, please. I don't want to seem rude, but--don't you think--perhaps you had almost better go now." He was conscious that he could not bear himself as a man if the strain continued much longer. "I don't deserve anything else. I'll go, Dick. Oh, I'm so miserable." "Nonsense. You've nothing to worry about; I'd tell you if you had. Wait a moment, dear. I've got something to give you first. I meant it for you ever since this little trouble began. It's my Melancolia; she was a beauty when I last saw her. You can keep her for me, and if ever you're poor you can sell her. She's worth a few hundreds at any state of the market." He groped among his canvases. "She's framed in black. Is this a black frame that I have my hand on? There she is. What do you think of her?" He turned a scarred formless muddle of paint towards Maisie, and the eyes strained as though they would catch her wonder and surprise. One thing and one thing only could she do for him. "Well?" The voice was fuller and more rounded, because the man knew he was speaking of his best work. Maisie looked at the blur, and a lunatic desire to laugh caught her by the throat. But for Dick's sake--whatever this mad blankness might mean--she must make no sign. Her voice choked with hard-held tears as she answered, still gazing at the wreck--"Oh, Dick, it is good!" He heard the little hysterical gulp and took it for tribute. "Won't you have it, then? I'll send it over to your house if you will." "I? Oh yes--thank you. Ha! ha!" If she did not fly at once the laughter that was worse than tears would kill her. She turned and ran, choking and blinded, down the staircases that were empty of life to take refuge in a cab and go to her house across the Parks. There she sat down in the dismantled drawing-room and thought of Dick in his blindness, useless till the end of life, and of herself in her own eyes. Behind the sorrow, the shame, and the humiliation, lay fear of the cold wrath of the red-haired girl when Maisie should return. Maisie had never feared her companion before. Not until she found herself saying, "Well, he never asked me," did she realise her scorn of herself. And that is the end of Maisie. * * * * * For Dick was reserved more searching torment. He could not realise at first that Maisie, whom he had ordered to go had left him without a word of farewell. He was savagely angry against Torpenhow, who had brought upon him this humiliation and troubled his miserable peace. Then his dark hour came and he was alone with himself and his desires to get what help he could from the darkness. The queen could do no wrong, but in following the right, so far as it served her work, she had wounded her one subject more than his own brain would let him know. "It's all I had and I've lost it," he said, as soon as the misery permitted clear thinking. "And Torp will think that he has been so infernally clever that I shan't have the heart to tell him. I must think this out quietly." "Hullo!" said Torpenhow, entering the studio after Dick had enjoyed two hours of thought. "I'm back. Are you feeling any better?" "Torp, I don't know what to say. Come here." Dick coughed huskily, wondering, indeed, what he should say, and how to say it temperately. "What's the need for saying anything? Get up and tramp." Torpenhow was perfectly satisfied. They walked up and down as of custom, Torpenhow's hand on Dick's shoulder, and Dick buried in his own thoughts. "How in the world did you find it all out?" said Dick, at last. "You shouldn't go off your head if you want to keep secrets, Dickie. It was absolutely impertinent on my part; but if you'd seen me rocketing about on a half-trained French troop-horse under a blazing sun you'd have laughed. There will be a charivari in my rooms tonight. Seven other devils----" "I know--the row in the Southern Soudan. I surprised their councils the other day, and it made me unhappy. Have you fixed your flint to go? Who d'you work for?" "Haven't signed any contracts yet. I wanted to see how your business would turn out." "Would you have stayed with me, then, if--things had gone wrong?" He put his question cautiously. "Don't ask me too much. I'm only a man." "You've tried to be an angel very successfully." "Oh ye--es!... Well, do you attend the function tonight? We shall be half screwed before the morning. All the men believe the war's a certainty." "I don't think I will, old man, if it's all the same to you. I'll stay quiet here." "And meditate? I don't blame you. You observe a good time if ever a man did." That night there was a tumult on the stairs. The correspondents poured in from theatre, dinner, and music-hall to Torpenhow's room that they might discuss their plan of campaign in the event of military operations becoming a certainty. Torpenhow, the Keneu, and the Nilghai had bidden all the men they had worked with to the orgy; and Mr. Beeton, the housekeeper, declared that never before in his checkered experience had he seen quite such a fancy lot of gentlemen. They waked the chambers with shoutings and song; and the elder men were quite as bad as the younger. For the chances of war were in front of them, and all knew what those meant. Sitting in his own room a little perplexed by the noise across the landing, Dick suddenly began to laugh to himself. "When one comes to think of it the situation is intensely comic. Maisie's quite right--poor little thing. I didn't know she could cry like that before; but now I know what Torp thinks, I'm sure he'd be quite fool enough to stay at home and try to console me--if he knew. Besides, it isn't nice to own that you've been thrown over like a broken chair. I must carry this business through alone--as usual. If there isn't a war, and Torp finds out, I shall look foolish, that's all. If there is a way I mustn't interfere with another man's chances. Business is business, and I want to be alone--I want to be alone. What a row they're making!" Somebody hammered at the studio door. "Come out and frolic, Dickie," said the Nilghai. "I should like to, but I can't. I'm not feeling frolicsome." "Then, I'll tell the boys and they'll drag you like a badger." "Please not, old man. On my word, I'd sooner be left alone just now." "Very good. Can we send anything in to you? Fizz, for instance. Cassavetti is beginning to sing songs of the Sunny South already." For one minute Dick considered the proposition seriously. "No, thanks, I've a headache already." "Virtuous child. That's the effect of emotion on the young. All my congratulations, Dick. I also was concerned in the conspiracy for your welfare." "Go to the devil--oh, send Binkie in here." The little dog entered on elastic feet, riotous from having been made much of all the evening. He had helped to sing the choruses; but scarcely inside the studio he realised that this was no place for tail-wagging, and settled himself on Dick's lap till it was bedtime. Then he went to bed with Dick, who counted every hour as it struck, and rose in the morning with a painfully clear head to receive Torpenhow's more formal congratulations and a particular account of the last night's revels. "You aren't looking very happy for a newly accepted man," said Torpenhow. "Never mind that--it's my own affair, and I'm all right. Do you really go?" "Yes. With the old Central Southern as usual. They wired, and I accepted on better terms than before." "When do you start?" "The day after tomorrow--for Brindisi." "Thank God." Dick spoke from the bottom of his heart. "Well, that's not a pretty way of saying you're glad to get rid of me. But men in your condition are allowed to be selfish." "I didn't mean that. Will you get a hundred pounds cashed for me before you leave?" "That's a slender amount for housekeeping, isn't it?" "Oh, it's only for--marriage expenses." Torpenhow brought him the money, counted it out in fives and tens, and carefully put it away in the writing table. "Now I suppose I shall have to listen to his ravings about his girl until I go. Heaven send us patience with a man in love!" he said to himself. But never a word did Dick say of Maisie or marriage. He hung in the doorway of Torpenhow's room when the latter was packing and asked innumerable questions about the coming campaign, till Torpenhow began to feel annoyed. "You're a secretive animal, Dickie, and you consume your own smoke, don't you?" he said on the last evening. "I--I suppose so. By the way, how long do you think this war will last?" "Days, weeks, or months. One can never tell. It may go on for years." "I wish I were going." "Good Heavens! You're the most unaccountable creature! Hasn't it occurred to you that you're going to be married--thanks to me?" "Of course, yes. I'm going to be married--so I am. Going to be married. I'm awfully grateful to you. Haven't I told you that?" "You might be going to be hanged by the look of you," said Torpenhow. And the next day Torpenhow bade him good-bye and left him to the loneliness he had so much desired. CHAPTER XIV Yet at the last, ere our spearmen had found him, Yet at the last, ere a sword-thrust could save, Yet at the last, with his masters around him, He of the Faith spoke as master to slave; Yet at the last, tho' the Kafirs had maimed him, Broken by bondage and wrecked by the reiver,-- Yet at the last, tho' the darkness had claimed him, He called upon Allah and died a believer.--Kizzilbashi. "Beg your pardon, Mr. Heldar, but--but isn't nothin' going to happen?" said Mr. Beeton. "No!" Dick had just waked to another morning of blank despair and his temper was of the shortest. "'Tain't my regular business, 'o course, sir; and what I say is, 'Mind your own business and let other people mind theirs;' but just before Mr. Torpenhow went away he give me to understand, like, that you might be moving into a house of your own, so to speak--a sort of house with rooms upstairs and downstairs where you'd be better attended to, though I try to act just by all our tenants. Don't I?" "Ah! That must have been a mad-house. I shan't trouble you to take me there yet. Get me my breakfast, please, and leave me alone." "I hope I haven't done anything wrong, sir, but you know I hope that as far as a man can I tries to do the proper thing by all the gentlemen in chambers--and more particular those whose lot is hard--such as you, for instance, Mr. Heldar. You likes soft-roe bloater, don't you? Soft-roe bloaters is scarcer than hard-roe, but what I says is, 'Never mind a little extra trouble so long as you give satisfaction to the tenants.'" Mr. Beeton withdrew and left Dick to himself. Torpenhow had been long away; there was no more rioting in the chambers, and Dick had settled down to his new life, which he was weak enough to consider nothing better than death. It is hard to live alone in the dark, confusing the day and night; dropping to sleep through sheer weariness at mid-day, and rising restless in the chill of the dawn. At first Dick, on his awakenings, would grope along the corridors of the chambers till he heard some one snore. Then he would know that the day had not yet come, and return wearily to his bedroom. Later he learned not to stir till there was a noise and movement in the house and Mr. Beeton advised him to get up. Once dressed--and dressing, now that Torpenhow was away, was a lengthy business, because collars, ties, and the like hid themselves in far corners of the room, and search meant head-beating against chairs and trunks--once dressed, there was nothing whatever to do except to sit still and brood till the three daily meals came. Centuries separated breakfast from lunch and lunch from dinner, and though a man prayed for hundreds of years that his mind might be taken from him, God would never hear. Rather the mind was quickened and the revolving thoughts ground against each other as millstones grind when there is no corn between; and yet the brain would not wear out and give him rest. It continued to think, at length, with imagery and all manner of reminiscences. It recalled Maisie and past success, reckless travels by land and sea, the glory of doing work and feeling that it was good, and suggested all that might have happened had the eyes only been faithful to their duty. When thinking ceased through sheer weariness, there poured into Dick's soul tide on tide of overwhelming, purposeless fear--dread of starvation always, terror lest the unseen ceiling should crush down upon him, fear of fire in the chambers and a louse's death in red flame, and agonies of fiercer horror that had nothing to do with any fear of death. Then Dick bowed his head, and clutching the arms of his chair fought with his sweating self till the tinkle of plates told him that something to eat was being set before him. Mr. Beeton would bring the meal when he had time to spare, and Dick learned to hang upon his speech, which dealt with badly fitted gas-plugs, waste-pipes out of repair, little tricks for driving picture-nails into walls, and the sins of the charwoman or the housemaids. In the lack of better things the small gossip of a servants' hall becomes immensely interesting, and the screwing of a washer on a tap an event to be talked over for days. Once or twice a week, too, Mr. Beeton would take Dick out with him when he went marketing in the morning to haggle with tradesmen over fish, lamp-wicks, mustard, tapioca, and so forth, while Dick rested his weight first on one foot and then on the other and played aimlessly with the tins and string-ball on the counter. Then they would perhaps meet one of Mr. Beeton's friends, and Dick, standing aside a little, would hold his peace till Mr. Beeton was willing to go on again. The life did not increase his self-respect. He abandoned shaving as a dangerous exercise, and being shaved in a barber's shop meant exposure of his infirmity. He could not see that his clothes were properly brushed, and since he had never taken any care of his personal appearance he became every known variety of sloven. A blind man cannot deal with cleanliness till he has been some months used to the darkness. If he demand attendance and grow angry at the want of it, he must assert himself and stand upright. Then the meanest menial can see that he is blind and, therefore, of no consequence. A wise man will keep his eyes on the floor and sit still. For amusement he may pick coal lump by lump out of the scuttle with the tongs and pile it in a little heap in the fender, keeping count of the lumps, which must all be put back again, one by one and very carefully. He may set himself sums if he cares to work them out; he may talk to himself or to the cat if she chooses to visit him; and if his trade has been that of an artist, he may sketch in the air with his forefinger; but that is too much like drawing a pig with the eyes shut. He may go to his bookshelves and count his books, ranging them in order of their size; or to his wardrobe and count his shirts, laying them in piles of two or three on the bed, as they suffer from frayed cuffs or lost buttons. Even this entertainment wearies after a time; and all the times are very, very long. Dick was allowed to sort a tool-chest where Mr. Beeton kept hammers, taps and nuts, lengths of gas-pipes, oil-bottles, and string. "If I don't have everything just where I know where to look for it, why, then, I can't find anything when I do want it. You've no idea, sir, the amount of little things that these chambers uses up," said Mr. Beeton. Fumbling at the handle of the door as he went out: "It's hard on you, sir, I do think it's hard on you. Ain't you going to do anything, sir?" "I'll pay my rent and messing. Isn't that enough?" "I wasn't doubting for a moment that you couldn't pay your way, sir; but I 'ave often said to my wife, 'It's 'ard on 'im because it isn't as if he was an old man, nor yet a middle-aged one, but quite a young gentleman. That's where it comes so 'ard.'" "I suppose so," said Dick, absently. This particular nerve through long battering had ceased to feel--much. "I was thinking," continued Mr. Beeton, still making as if to go, "that you might like to hear my boy Alf read you the papers sometimes of an evening. He do read beautiful, seeing he's only nine." "I should be very grateful," said Dick. "Only let me make it worth his while." "We wasn't thinking of that, sir, but of course it's in your own 'ands; but only to 'ear Alf sing 'A Boy's best Friend is 'is Mother!' Ah!" "I'll hear him sing that too. Let him come this evening with the newspapers." Alf was not a nice child, being puffed up with many school-board certificates for good conduct, and inordinately proud of his singing. Mr. Beeton remained, beaming, while the child wailed his way through a song of some eight eight-line verses in the usual whine of a young Cockney, and, after compliments, left him to read Dick the foreign telegrams. Ten minutes later Alf returned to his parents rather pale and scared. "'E said 'e couldn't stand it no more," he explained. "He never said you read badly, Alf?" Mrs. Beeton spoke. "No. 'E said I read beautiful. Said 'e never 'eard any one read like that, but 'e said 'e couldn't abide the stuff in the papers." "P'raps he's lost some money in the Stocks. Were you readin' him about Stocks, Alf?" "No; it was all about fightin' out there where the soldiers is gone--a great long piece with all the lines close together and very hard words in it. 'E give me 'arf a crown because I read so well. And 'e says the next time there's anything 'e wants read 'e'll send for me." "That's good hearing, but I do think for all the half-crown--put it into the kicking-donkey money-box, Alf, and let me see you do it--he might have kept you longer. Why, he couldn't have begun to understand how beautiful you read." "He's best left to hisself--gentlemen always are when they're downhearted," said Mr. Beeton. Alf's rigorously limited powers of comprehending Torpenhow's special correspondence had waked the devil of unrest in Dick. He could hear, through the boy's nasal chant, the camels grunting in the squares behind the soldiers outside Suakin; could hear the men swearing and chaffing across the cooking pots, and could smell the acrid wood-smoke as it drifted over camp before the wind of the desert. That night he prayed to God that his mind might be taken from him, offering for proof that he was worthy of this favour the fact that he had not shot himself long ago. That prayer was not answered, and indeed Dick knew in his heart of hearts that only a lingering sense of humour and no special virtue had kept him alive. Suicide, he had persuaded himself, would be a ludicrous insult to the gravity of the situation as well as a weak-kneed confession of fear. "Just for the fun of the thing," he said to the cat, who had taken Binkie's place in his establishment, "I should like to know how long this is going to last. I can live for a year on the hundred pounds Torp cashed for me. I must have two or three thousand at least in the Bank--twenty or thirty years more provided for, that is to say. Then I fall back on my hundred and twenty a year, which will be more by that time. Let's consider. "Twenty-five--thirty-five--a man's in his prime then, they say--forty-five--a middle-aged man just entering politics--fifty-five 'died at the comparatively early age of fifty-five,' according to the newspapers. Bah! How these Christians funk death! Sixty-five--we're only getting on in years. Seventy-five is just possible, though. Great hell, cat O! fifty years more of solitary confinement in the dark! You'll die, and Beeton will die, and Torp will die, and Mai--everybody else will die, but I shall be alive and kicking with nothing to do. I'm very sorry for myself. I should like some one else to be sorry for me. Evidently I'm not going mad before I die, but the pain's just as bad as ever. Some day when you're vivisected, cat O! they'll tie you down on a little table and cut you open--but don't be afraid; they'll take precious good care that you don't die. You'll live, and you'll be very sorry then that you weren't sorry for me. Perhaps Torp will come back or... I wish I could go to Torp and the Nilghai, even though I were in their way." Pussy left the room before the speech was ended, and Alf, as he entered, found Dick addressing the empty hearth-rug. "There's a letter for you, sir," he said. "Perhaps you'd like me to read it." "Lend it to me for a minute and I'll tell you." The outstretched hand shook just a little and the voice was not over-steady. It was within the limits of human possibility that--that was no letter from Maisie. He knew the heft of three closed envelopes only too well. It was a foolish hope that the girl should write to him, for he did not realise that there is a wrong which admits of no reparation though the evildoer may with tears and the heart's best love strive to mend all. It is best to forget that wrong whether it be caused or endured, since it is as remediless as bad work once put forward. "Read it, then," said Dick, and Alf began intoning according to the rules of the Board School--"'I could have given you love, I could have given you loyalty, such as you never dreamed of. Do you suppose I cared what you were? But you chose to whistle everything down the wind for nothing. My only excuse for you is that you are so young.' That's all," he said, returning the paper to be dropped into the fire. "What was in the letter?" asked Mrs. Beeton, when Alf returned. "I don't know. I think it was a circular or a tract about not whistlin' at everything when you're young." "I must have stepped on something when I was alive and walking about and it has bounced up and hit me. God help it, whatever it is--unless it was all a joke. But I don't know any one who'd take the trouble to play a joke on me--Love and loyalty for nothing. It sounds tempting enough. I wonder whether I have lost anything really?" Dick considered for a long time but could not remember when or how he had put himself in the way of winning these trifles at a woman's hands. Still, the letter as touching on matters that he preferred not to think about stung him into a fit of frenzy that lasted for a day and night. When his heart was so full of despair that it would hold no more, body and soul together seemed to be dropping without check through the darkness. Then came fear of darkness and desperate attempts to reach the light again. But there was no light to be reached. When that agony had left him sweating and breathless, the downward flight would recommence till the gathering torture of it spurred him into another fight as hopeless as the first. Followed some few minutes of sleep in which he dreamed that he saw. Then the procession of events would repeat itself till he was utterly worn out and the brain took up its everlasting consideration of Maisie and might-have-beens. At the end of everything Mr. Beeton came to his room and volunteered to take him out. "Not marketing this time, but we'll go into the Parks if you like." "Be damned if I do," quoth Dick. "Keep to the streets and walk up and down. I like to hear the people round me." This was not altogether true. The blind in the first stages of their infirmity dislike those who can move with a free stride and unlifted arms--but Dick had no earthly desire to go to the Parks. Once and only once since Maisie had shut her door he had gone there under Alf's charge. Alf forgot him and fished for minnows in the Serpentine with some companions. After half an hour's waiting Dick, almost weeping with rage and wrath, caught a passer-by, who introduced him to a friendly policeman, who led him to a four-wheeler opposite the Albert Hall. He never told Mr. Beeton of Alf's forgetfulness, but... this was not the manner in which he was used to walk the Parks aforetime. "What streets would you like to walk down, then?" said Mr. Beeton, sympathetically. His own ideas of a riotous holiday meant picnicking on the grass of Green Park with his family, and half a dozen paper bags full of food. "Keep to the river," said Dick, and they kept to the river, and the rush of it was in his ears till they came to Blackfriars Bridge and struck thence on to the Waterloo Road, Mr. Beeton explaining the beauties of the scenery as he went on. "And walking on the other side of the pavement," said he, "unless I'm much mistaken, is the young woman that used to come to your rooms to be drawed. I never forgets a face and I never remembers a name, except paying tenants, 'o course!" "Stop her," said Dick. "It's Bessie Broke. Tell her I'd like to speak to her again. Quick, man!" Mr. Beeton crossed the road under the noses of the omnibuses and arrested Bessie then on her way northward. She recognised him as the man in authority who used to glare at her when she passed up Dick's staircase, and her first impulse was to run. "Wasn't you Mr. Heldar's model?" said Mr. Beeton, planting himself in front of her. "You was. He's on the other side of the road and he'd like to see you." "Why?" said Bessie, faintly. She remembered--indeed had never for long forgotten--an affair connected with a newly finished picture. "Because he has asked me to do so, and because he's most particular blind." "Drunk?" "No. 'Orspital blind. He can't see. That's him over there." Dick was leaning against the parapet of the bridge as Mr. Beeton pointed him out--a stub-bearded, bowed creature wearing a dirty magenta-coloured neckcloth outside an unbrushed coat. There was nothing to fear from such an one. Even if he chased her, Bessie thought, he could not follow far. She crossed over, and Dick's face lighted up. It was long since a woman of any kind had taken the trouble to speak to him. "I hope you're well, Mr. Heldar?" said Bessie, a little puzzled. Mr. Beeton stood by with the air of an ambassador and breathed responsibly. "I'm very well indeed, and, by Jove! I'm glad to see--hear you, I mean, Bess. You never thought it worth while to turn up and see us again after you got your money. I don't know why you should. Are you going anywhere in particular just now?" "I was going for a walk," said Bessie. "Not the old business?" Dick spoke under his breath. "Lor, no! I paid my premium"--Bessie was very proud of that word--"for a barmaid, sleeping in, and I'm at the bar now quite respectable. Indeed I am." Mr. Beeton had no special reason to believe in the loftiness of human nature. Therefore he dissolved himself like a mist and returned to his gas-plugs without a word of apology. Bessie watched the flight with a certain uneasiness; but so long as Dick appeared to be ignorant of the harm that had been done to him... "It's hard work pulling the beer-handles," she went on, "and they've got one of them penny-in-the-slot cash-machines, so if you get wrong by a penny at the end of the day--but then I don't believe the machinery is right. Do you?" "I've only seen it work. Mr. Beeton." "He's gone. "I'm afraid I must ask you to help me home, then. I'll make it worth your while. You see." The sightless eyes turned towards her and Bessie saw. "It isn't taking you out of your way?" he said hesitatingly. "I can ask a policeman if it is." "Not at all. I come on at seven and I'm off at four. That's easy hours." "Good God!--but I'm on all the time. I wish I had some work to do too. Let's go home, Bess." He turned and cannoned into a man on the sidewalk, recoiling with an oath. Bessie took his arm and said nothing--as she had said nothing when he had ordered her to turn her face a little more to the light. They walked for some time in silence, the girl steering him deftly through the crowd. "And where's--where's Mr. Torpenhow?" she inquired at last. "He has gone away to the desert." "Where's that?" Dick pointed to the right. "East--out of the mouth of the river," said he. "Then west, then south, and then east again, all along the under-side of Europe. Then south again, God knows how far." The explanation did not enlighten Bessie in the least, but she held her tongue and looked to Dick's patch till they came to the chambers. "We'll have tea and muffins," he said joyously. "I can't tell you, Bessie, how glad I am to find you again. What made you go away so suddenly?" "I didn't think you'd want me any more," she said, emboldened by his ignorance. "I didn't, as a matter of fact--but afterwards--At any rate I'm glad you've come. You know the stairs." So Bessie led him home to his own place--there was no one to hinder--and shut the door of the studio. "What a mess!" was her first word. "All these things haven't been looked after for months and months." "No, only weeks, Bess. You can't expect them to care." "I don't know what you expect them to do. They ought to know what you've paid them for. The dust's just awful. It's all over the easel." "I don't use it much now." "All over the pictures and the floor, and all over your coat. I'd like to speak to them housemaids." "Ring for tea, then." Dick felt his way to the one chair he used by custom. Bessie saw the action and, as far as in her lay, was touched. But there remained always a keen sense of new-found superiority, and it was in her voice when she spoke. "How long have you been like this?" she said wrathfully, as though the blindness were some fault of the housemaids. "How?" "As you are." "The day after you went away with the check, almost as soon as my picture was finished; I hardly saw her alive." "Then they've been cheating you ever since, that's all. I know their nice little ways." A woman may love one man and despise another, but on general feminine principles she will do her best to save the man she despises from being defrauded. Her loved one can look to himself, but the other man, being obviously an idiot, needs protection. "I don't think Mr. Beeton cheats much," said Dick. Bessie was flouncing up and down the room, and he was conscious of a keen sense of enjoyment as he heard the swish of her skirts and the light step between. "Tea and muffins," she said shortly, when the ring at the bell was answered; "two teaspoonfuls and one over for the pot. I don't want the old teapot that was here when I used to come. It don't draw. Get another." The housemaid went away scandalised, and Dick chuckled. Then he began to cough as Bessie banged up and down the studio disturbing the dust. "What are you trying to do?" "Put things straight. This is like unfurnished lodgings. How could you let it go so?" "How could I help it? Dust away." She dusted furiously, and in the midst of all the pother entered Mrs. Beeton. Her husband on his return had explained the situation, winding up with the peculiarly felicitous proverb, "Do unto others as you would be done by." She had descended to put into her place the person who demanded muffins and an uncracked teapot as though she had a right to both. "Muffins ready yet?" said Bess, still dusting. She was no longer a drab of the streets but a young lady who, thanks to Dick's check, had paid her premium and was entitled to pull beer-handles with the best. Being neatly dressed in black she did not hesitate to face Mrs. Beeton, and there passed between the two women certain regards that Dick would have appreciated. The situation adjusted itself by eye. Bessie had won, and Mrs. Beeton returned to cook muffins and make scathing remarks about models, hussies, trollops, and the like, to her husband. "There's nothing to be got of interfering with him, Liza," he said. "Alf, you go along into the street to play. When he isn't crossed he's as kindly as kind, but when he's crossed he's the devil and all. We took too many little things out of his rooms since he was blind to be that particular about what he does. They ain't no objects to a blind man, of course, but if it was to come into court we'd get the sack. Yes, I did introduce him to that girl because I'm a feelin' man myself." "Much too feelin'!" Mrs. Beeton slapped the muffins into the dish, and thought of comely housemaids long since dismissed on suspicion. "I ain't ashamed of it, and it isn't for us to judge him hard so long as he pays quiet and regular as he do. I know how to manage young gentlemen, you know how to cook for them, and what I says is, let each stick to his own business and then there won't be any trouble. Take them muffins down, Liza, and be sure you have no words with that young woman. His lot is cruel hard, and if he's crossed he do swear worse than any one I've ever served." "That's a little better," said Bessie, sitting down to the tea. "You needn't wait, thank you, Mrs. Beeton." "I had no intention of doing such, I do assure you." Bessie made no answer whatever. This, she knew, was the way in which real ladies routed their foes, and when one is a barmaid at a first-class public-house one may become a real lady at ten minutes' notice. Her eyes fell on Dick opposite her and she was both shocked and displeased. There were droppings of food all down the front of his coat; the mouth under the ragged ill-grown beard drooped sullenly; the forehead was lined and contracted; and on the lean temples the hair was a dusty indeterminate colour that might or might not have been called gray. The utter misery and self-abandonment of the man appealed to her, and at the bottom of her heart lay the wicked feeling that he was humbled and brought low who had once humbled her. "Oh! it is good to hear you moving about," said Dick, rubbing his hands. "Tell us all about your bar successes, Bessie, and the way you live now." "Never mind that. I'm quite respectable, as you'd see by looking at me. You don't seem to live too well. What made you go blind that sudden? Why isn't there any one to look after you?" Dick was too thankful for the sound of her voice to resent the tone of it. "I was cut across the head a long time ago, and that ruined my eyes. I don't suppose anybody thinks it worth while to look after me any more. Why should they?--and Mr. Beeton really does everything I want." "Don't you know any gentlemen and ladies, then, while you was--well?" "A few, but I don't care to have them looking at me." "I suppose that's why you've growed a beard. Take it off, it don't become you." "Good gracious, child, do you imagine that I think of what becomes of me these days?" "You ought. Get that taken off before I come here again. I suppose I can come, can't I?" "I'd be only too grateful if you did. I don't think I treated you very well in the old days. I used to make you angry." "Very angry, you did." "I'm sorry for it, then. Come and see me when you can and as often as you can. God knows, there isn't a soul in the world to take that trouble except you and Mr. Beeton." "A lot of trouble he's taking and she too." This with a toss of the head. "They've let you do anyhow and they haven't done anything for you. I've only to look and see that much. I'll come, and I'll be glad to come, but you must go and be shaved, and you must get some other clothes--those ones aren't fit to be seen." "I have heaps somewhere," he said helplessly. "I know you have. Tell Mr. Beeton to give you a new suit and I'll brush it and keep it clean. You may be as blind as a barn-door, Mr. Heldar, but it doesn't excuse you looking like a sweep." "Do I look like a sweep, then?" "Oh, I'm sorry for you. I'm that sorry for you!" she cried impulsively, and took Dick's hands. Mechanically, he lowered his head as if to kiss--she was the only woman who had taken pity on him, and he was not too proud for a little pity now. She stood up to go. "Nothing 'o that kind till you look more like a gentleman. It's quite easy when you get shaved, and some clothes." He could hear her drawing on her gloves and rose to say good-bye. She passed behind him, kissed him audaciously on the back of the neck, and ran away as swiftly as on the day when she had destroyed the Melancolia. "To think of me kissing Mr. Heldar," she said to herself, "after all he's done to me and all! Well, I'm sorry for him, and if he was shaved he wouldn't be so bad to look at, but... Oh them Beetons, how shameful they've treated him! I know Beeton's wearing his shirt on his back today just as well as if I'd aired it. Tomorrow, I'll see... I wonder if he has much of his own. It might be worth more than the bar--I wouldn't have to do any work--and just as respectable as if no one knew." Dick was not grateful to Bessie for her parting gift. He was acutely conscious of it in the nape of his neck throughout the night, but it seemed, among very many other things, to enforce the wisdom of getting shaved. He was shaved accordingly in the morning, and felt the better for it. A fresh suit of clothes, white linen, and the knowledge that some one in the world said that she took an interest in his personal appearance made him carry himself almost upright; for the brain was relieved for a while from thinking of Maisie, who, under other circumstances, might have given that kiss and a million others. "Let us consider," said he, after lunch. "The girl can't care, and it's a toss-up whether she comes again or not, but if money can buy her to look after me she shall be bought. Nobody else in the world would take the trouble, and I can make it worth her while. She's a child of the gutter holding brevet rank as a barmaid; so she shall have everything she wants if she'll only come and talk and look after me." He rubbed his newly shorn chin and began to perplex himself with the thought of her not coming. "I suppose I did look rather a sweep," he went on. "I had no reason to look otherwise. I knew things dropped on my clothes, but it didn't matter. It would be cruel if she didn't come. She must. Maisie came once, and that was enough for her. She was quite right. She had something to work for. This creature has only beer-handles to pull, unless she has deluded some young man into keeping company with her. Fancy being cheated for the sake of a counter-jumper! We're falling pretty low." Something cried aloud within him:--This will hurt more than anything that has gone before. It will recall and remind and suggest and tantalise, and in the end drive you mad. "I know it, I know it!" Dick cried, clenching his hands despairingly; "but, good heavens! is a poor blind beggar never to get anything out of his life except three meals a day and a greasy waistcoat? I wish she'd come." Early in the afternoon time she came, because there was no young man in her life just then, and she thought of material advantages which would allow her to be idle for the rest of her days. "I shouldn't have known you," she said approvingly. "You look as you used to look--a gentleman that was proud of himself." "Don't you think I deserve another kiss, then?" said Dick, flushing a little. "Maybe--but you won't get it yet. Sit down and let's see what I can do for you. I'm certain sure Mr. Beeton cheats you, now that you can't go through the housekeeping books every month. Isn't that true?" "You'd better come and housekeep for me then, Bessie." "Couldn't do it in these chambers--you know that as well as I do." "I know, but we might go somewhere else, if you thought it worth your while." "I'd try to look after you, anyhow; but I shouldn't care to have to work for both of us." This was tentative. Dick laughed. "Do you remember where I used to keep my bank-book?" said he. "Torp took it to be balanced just before he went away. Look and see." "It was generally under the tobacco-jar. Ah!" "Well?" "Oh! Four thousand two hundred and ten pounds nine shillings and a penny! Oh my!" "You can have the penny. That's not bad for one year's work. Is that and a hundred and twenty pounds a year good enough?" The idleness and the pretty clothes were almost within her reach now, but she must, by being housewifely, show that she deserved them. "Yes; but you'd have to move, and if we took an inventory, I think we'd find that Mr. Beeton has been prigging little things out of the rooms here and there. They don't look as full as they used." "Never mind, we'll let him have them. The only thing I'm particularly anxious to take away is that picture I used you for--when you used to swear at me. We'll pull out of this place, Bess, and get away as far as ever we can." "Oh yes," she said uneasily. "I don't know where I can go to get away from myself, but I'll try, and you shall have all the pretty frocks that you care for. You'll like that. Give me that kiss now, Bess. Ye gods! it's good to put one's arm round a woman's waist again." Then came the fulfilment of the prophecy within the brain. If his arm were thus round Maisie's waist and a kiss had just been given and taken between them,--why then... He pressed the girl more closely to himself because the pain whipped him. She was wondering how to explain a little accident to the Melancolia. At any rate, if this man really desired the solace of her company--and certainly he would relapse into his original slough if she withdrew it--he would not be more than just a little vexed. It would be delightful at least to see what would happen, and by her teachings it was good for a man to stand in certain awe of his companion. She laughed nervously, and slipped out of his reach. "I shouldn't worrit about that picture if I was you," she began, in the hope of turning his attention. "It's at the back of all my canvases somewhere. Find it, Bess; you know it as well as I do." "I know--but--" "But what? You've wit enough to manage the sale of it to a dealer. Women haggle much better than men. It might be a matter of eight or nine hundred pounds to--to us. I simply didn't like to think about it for a long time. It was mixed up with my life so.--But we'll cover up our tracks and get rid of everything, eh? Make a fresh start from the beginning, Bess." Then she began to repent very much indeed, because she knew the value of money. Still, it was probable that the blind man was overestimating the value of his work. Gentlemen, she knew, were absurdly particular about their things. She giggled as a nervous housemaid giggles when she tries to explain the breakage of a pipe. "I'm very sorry, but you remember I was--I was angry with you before Mr. Torpenhow went away?" "You were very angry, child; and on my word I think you had some right to be." "Then I--but aren't you sure Mr. Torpenhow didn't tell you?" "Tell me what? Good gracious, what are you making such a fuss about when you might just as well be giving me another kiss?" He was beginning to learn, not for the first time in his experience, that kissing is a cumulative poison. The more you get of it, the more you want. Bessie gave the kiss promptly, whispering, as she did so, "I was so angry I rubbed out that picture with the turpentine. You aren't angry, are you?" "What? Say that again." The man's hand had closed on her wrist. "I rubbed it out with turps and the knife," faltered Bessie. "I thought you'd only have to do it over again. You did do it over again, didn't you? Oh, let go of my wrist; you're hurting me." "Isn't there anything left of the thing?" "N'nothing that looks like anything. I'm sorry--I didn't know you'd take on about it; I only meant to do it in fun. You aren't going to hit me?" "Hit you! No! Let's think." He did not relax his hold upon her wrist but stood staring at the carpet. Then he shook his head as a young steer shakes it when the lash of the stock-whip cross his nose warns him back to the path on to the shambles that he would escape. For weeks he had forced himself not to think of the Melancolia, because she was a part of his dead life. With Bessie's return and certain new prospects that had developed themselves, the Melancolia--lovelier in his imagination than she had ever been on canvas--reappeared. By her aid he might have procured more money wherewith to amuse Bess and to forget Maisie, as well as another taste of an almost forgotten success. Now, thanks to a vicious little housemaid's folly, there was nothing to look for--not even the hope that he might some day take an abiding interest in the housemaid. Worst of all, he had been made to appear ridiculous in Maisie's eyes. A woman will forgive the man who has ruined her life's work so long as he gives her love; a man may forgive those who ruin the love of his life, but he will never forgive the destruction of his work. "Tck--tck--tck," said Dick between his teeth, and then laughed softly. "It's an omen, Bessie, and--a good many things considered, it serves me right for doing what I have done. By Jove! that accounts for Maisie's running away. She must have thought me perfectly mad--small blame to her! The whole picture ruined, isn't it so? What made you do it?" "Because I was that angry. I'm not angry now--I'm awful sorry." "I wonder.--It doesn't matter, anyhow. I'm to blame for making the mistake." "What mistake?" "Something you wouldn't understand, dear. Great heavens! to think that a little piece of dirt like you could throw me out of stride!" Dick was talking to himself as Bessie tried to shake off his grip on her wrist. "I ain't a piece of dirt, and you shouldn't call me so! I did it 'cause I hated you, and I'm only sorry now 'cause you're 'cause you're----" "Exactly--because I'm blind. There's noting like tact in little things." Bessie began to sob. She did not like being shackled against her will; she was afraid of the blind face and the look upon it, and was sorry too that her great revenge had only made Dick laugh. "Don't cry," he said, and took her into his arms. "You only did what you thought right." "I--I ain't a little piece of dirt, and if you say that I'll never come to you again." "You don't know what you've done to me. I'm not angry--indeed, I'm not. Be quiet for a minute." Bessie remained in his arms shrinking. Dick's first thought was connected with Maisie, and it hurt him as white-hot iron hurts an open sore. Not for nothing is a man permitted to ally himself to the wrong woman. The first pang--the first sense of things lost is but the prelude to the play, for the very just Providence who delights in causing pain has decreed that the agony shall return, and that in the midst of keenest pleasure. They know this pain equally who have forsaken or been forsaken by the love of their life, and in their new wives' arms are compelled to realise it. It is better to remain alone and suffer only the misery of being alone, so long as it is possible to find distraction in daily work. When that resource goes the man is to be pitied and left alone. These things and some others Dick considered while he was holding Bessie to his heart. "Though you mayn't know it," he said, raising his head, "the Lord is a just and a terrible God, Bess; with a very strong sense of humour. It serves me right--how it serves me right! Torp could understand it if he were here; he must have suffered something at your hands, child, but only for a minute or so. I saved him. Set that to my credit, some one." "Let me go," said Bess, her face darkening. "Let me go." "All in good time. Did you ever attend Sunday school?" "Never. Let me go, I tell you; you're making fun of me." "Indeed, I'm not. I'm making fun of myself.... Thus. 'He saved others, himself he cannot save.' It isn't exactly a school-board text." He released her wrist, but since he was between her and the door, she could not escape. "What an enormous amount of mischief one little woman can do!" "I'm sorry; I'm awful sorry about the picture." "I'm not. I'm grateful to you for spoiling it.... What were we talking about before you mentioned the thing?" "About getting away--and money. Me and you going away." "Of course. We will get away--that is to say, I will." "And me?" "You shall have fifty whole pounds for spoiling a picture." "Then you won't----?" "I'm afraid not, dear. Think of fifty pounds for pretty things all to yourself." "You said you couldn't do anything without me." "That was true a little while ago. I'm better now, thank you. Get me my hat." "S'pose I don't?" "Beeton will, and you'll lose fifty pounds. That's all. Get it." Bessie cursed under her breath. She had pitied the man sincerely, had kissed him with almost equal sincerity, for he was not unhandsome; it pleased her to be in a way and for a time his protector, and above all there were four thousand pounds to be handled by some one. Now through a slip of the tongue and a little feminine desire to give a little, not too much, pain she had lost the money, the blessed idleness and the pretty things, the companionship, and the chance of looking outwardly as respectable as a real lady. "Now fill me a pipe. Tobacco doesn't taste, but it doesn't matter, and I'll think things out. What's the day of the week, Bess?" "Tuesday." "Then Thursday's mail-day. What a fool--what a blind fool I have been! Twenty-two pounds covers my passage home again. Allow ten for additional expenses. We must put up at Madam Binat's for old time's sake. Thirty-two pounds altogether. Add a hundred for the cost of the last trip--Gad, won't Torp stare to see me!--a hundred and thirty-two leaves seventy-eight for baksheesh--I shall need it--and to play with. What are you crying for, Bess? It wasn't your fault, child; it was mine altogether. Oh, you funny little opossum, mop your eyes and take me out! I want the pass-book and the check-book. Stop a minute. Four thousand pounds at four per cent--that's safe interest--means a hundred and sixty pounds a year; one hundred and twenty pounds a year--also safe--is two eighty, and two hundred and eighty pounds added to three hundred a year means gilded luxury for a single woman. Bess, we'll go to the bank." Richer by two hundred and ten pounds stored in his money-belt, Dick caused Bessie, now thoroughly bewildered, to hurry from the bank to the P. and O. offices, where he explained things tersely. "Port Said, single first; cabin as close to the baggage-hatch as possible. What ship's going?" "The Colgong," said the clerk. "She's a wet little hooker. Is it Tilbury and a tender, or Galleons and the docks?" "Galleons. Twelve-forty, Thursday." "Thanks. Change, please. I can't see very well--will you count it into my hand?" "If they all took their passages like that instead of talking about their trunks, life would be worth something," said the clerk to his neighbour, who was trying to explain to a harassed mother of many that condensed milk is just as good for babes at sea as daily dairy. Being nineteen and unmarried, he spoke with conviction. "We are now," quoth Dick, as they returned to the studio, patting the place where his money-belt covered ticket and money, "beyond the reach of man, or devil, or woman--which is much more important. I've had three little affairs to carry through before Thursday, but I needn't ask you to help, Bess. Come here on Thursday morning at nine. We'll breakfast, and you shall take me down to Galleons Station." "What are you going to do?" "Going away, of course. What should I stay for?" "But you can't look after yourself?" "I can do anything. I didn't realise it before, but I can. I've done a great deal already. Resolution shall be treated to one kiss if Bessie doesn't object." Strangely enough, Bessie objected and Dick laughed. "I suppose you're right. Well, come at nine the day after tomorrow and you'll get your money." "Shall I sure?" "I don't bilk, and you won't know whether I do or not unless you come. Oh, but it's long and long to wait! Good-bye, Bessie,--send Beeton here as you go out." The housekeeper came. "What are all the fittings of my rooms worth?" said Dick, imperiously. "'Tisn't for me to say, sir. Some things is very pretty and some is wore out dreadful." "I'm insured for two hundred and seventy." "Insurance policies is no criterion, though I don't say----" "Oh, damn your longwindedness! You've made your pickings out of me and the other tenants. Why, you talked of retiring and buying a public-house the other day. Give a straight answer to a straight question." "Fifty," said Mr. Beeton, without a moment's hesitation. "Double it; or I'll break up half my sticks and burn the rest." He felt his way to a bookstand that supported a pile of sketch-books, and wrenched out one of the mahogany pillars. "That's sinful, sir," said the housekeeper, alarmed. "It's my own. One hundred or----" "One hundred it is. It'll cost me three and six to get that there pilaster mended." "I thought so. What an out and out swindler you must have been to spring that price at once!" "I hope I've done nothing to dissatisfy any of the tenants, least of all you, sir." "Never mind that. Get me the money tomorrow, and see that all my clothes are packed in the little brown bullock-trunk. I'm going." "But the quarter's notice?" "I'll pay forfeit. Look after the packing and leave me alone." Mr. Beeton discussed this new departure with his wife, who decided that Bessie was at the bottom of it all. Her husband took a more charitable view. "It's very sudden--but then he was always sudden in his ways. Listen to him now!" There was a sound of chanting from Dick's room. "We'll never come back any more, boys, We'll never come back no more; We'll go to the deuce on any excuse, And never come back no more! Oh say we're afloat or ashore, boys, Oh say we're afloat or ashore; But we'll never come back any more, boys, We'll never come back no more!" "Mr. Beeton! Mr. Beeton! Where the deuce is my pistol?" "Quick, he's going to shoot himself 'avin' gone mad!" said Mrs. Beeton. Mr. Beeton addressed Dick soothingly, but it was some time before the latter, threshing up and down his bedroom, could realise the intention of the promises to 'find everything tomorrow, sir.' "Oh, you copper-nosed old fool--you impotent Academician!" he shouted at last. "Do you suppose I want to shoot myself? Take the pistol in your silly shaking hand then. If you touch it, it will go off, because it's loaded. It's among my campaign-kit somewhere--in the parcel at the bottom of the trunk." Long ago Dick had carefully possessed himself of a forty-pound weight field-equipment constructed by the knowledge of his own experience. It was this put-away treasure that he was trying to find and rehandle. Mr. Beeton whipped the revolver out of its place on the top of the package, and Dick drove his hand among the khaki coat and breeches, the blue cloth leg-bands, and the heavy flannel shirts doubled over a pair of swan-neck spurs. Under these and the water-bottle lay a sketch-book and a pigskin case of stationery. "These we don't want; you can have them, Mr. Beeton. Everything else I'll keep. Pack 'em on the top right-hand side of my trunk. When you've done that come into the studio with your wife. I want you both. Wait a minute; get me a pen and a sheet of notepaper." It is not an easy thing to write when you cannot see, and Dick had particular reasons for wishing that his work should be clear. So he began, following his right hand with his left: "The badness of this writing is because I am blind and cannot see my pen." H'mph!--even a lawyer can't mistake that. It must be signed, I suppose, but it needn't be witnessed. Now an inch lower--why did I never learn to use a type-writer?--"This is the last will and testament of me, Richard Heldar. I am in sound bodily and mental health, and there is no previous will to revoke."--That's all right. Damn the pen! Whereabouts on the paper was I?--" "I leave everything that I possess in the world, including four thousand pounds, and two thousand seven hundred and twenty eight pounds held for me--oh, I can't get this straight." He tore off half the sheet and began again with the caution about the handwriting. Then: "I leave all the money I possess in the world to"--here followed Maisie's name, and the names of the two banks that held the money. "It mayn't be quite regular, but no one has a shadow of a right to dispute it, and I've given Maisie's address. Come in, Mr. Beeton. This is my signature; I want you and your wife to witness it. Thanks. Tomorrow you must take me to the landlord and I'll pay forfeit for leaving without notice, and I'll lodge this paper with him in case anything happens while I'm away. Now we're going to light up the studio stove. Stay with me, and give me my papers as I want 'em." No one knows until he has tried how fine a blaze a year's accumulation of bills, letters, and dockets can make. Dick stuffed into the stove every document in the studio--saving only three unopened letters; destroyed sketch-books, rough note-books, new and half-finished canvases alike. "What a lot of rubbish a tenant gets about him if he stays long enough in one place, to be sure," said Mr. Beeton, at last. "He does. Is there anything more left?" Dick felt round the walls. "Not a thing, and the stove's nigh red-hot." "Excellent, and you've lost about a thousand pounds' worth of sketches. Ho! ho! Quite a thousand pounds' worth, if I can remember what I used to be." "Yes, sir," politely. Mr. Beeton was quite sure that Dick had gone mad, otherwise he would have never parted with his excellent furniture for a song. The canvas things took up storage room and were much better out of the way. There remained only to leave the little will in safe hands: that could not be accomplished til tomorrow. Dick groped about the floor picking up the last pieces of paper, assured himself again and again that there remained no written word or sign of his past life in drawer or desk, and sat down before the stove till the fire died out and the contracting iron cracked in the silence of the night. CHAPTER XV With a heart of furious fancies, Whereof I am commander; With a burning spear and a horse of air, To the wilderness I wander. With a knight of ghosts and shadows I summoned am to tourney-- Ten leagues beyond the wide world's end, Methinks it is no journey. --Tom o' Bedlam's Song "Goodbye, Bess; I promised you fifty. Here's a hundred--all that I got for my furniture from Beeton. That will keep you in pretty frocks for some time. You've been a good little girl, all things considered, but you've given me and Torpenhow a fair amount of trouble." "Give Mr. Torpenhow my love if you see him, won't you?" "Of course I will, dear. Now take me up the gang-plank and into the cabin. Once aboard the lugger and the maid is--and I am free, I mean." "Who'll look after you on this ship?" "The head-steward, if there's any use in money. The doctor when we come to Port Said, if I know anything of P. and O. doctors. After that, the Lord will provide, as He used to do." Bess found Dick his cabin in the wild turmoil of a ship full of leavetakers and weeping relatives. Then he kissed her, and laid himself down in his bunk until the decks should be clear. He who had taken so long to move about his own darkened rooms well understood the geography of a ship, and the necessity of seeing to his own comforts was as wine to him. Before the screw began to thrash the ship along the Docks he had been introduced to the head-steward, had royally tipped him, secured a good place at table, opened out his baggage, and settled himself down with joy in the cabin. It was scarcely necessary to feel his way as he moved about, for he knew everything so well. Then God was very kind: a deep sleep of weariness came upon him just as he would have thought of Maisie, and he slept till the steamer had cleared the mouth of the Thames and was lifting to the pulse of the Channel. The rattle of the engines, the reek of oil and paint, and a very familiar sound in the next cabin roused him to his new inheritance. "Oh, it's good to be alive again!" He yawned, stretched himself vigorously, and went on deck to be told that they were almost abreast of the lights of Brighton. This is no more open water than Trafalgar Square is a common; the free levels begin at Ushant; but none the less Dick could feel the healing of the sea at work upon him already. A boisterous little cross-swell swung the steamer disrespectfully by the nose; and one wave breaking far aft spattered the quarterdeck and the pile of new deck-chairs. He heard the foam fall with the clash of broken glass, was stung in the face by a cupful, and sniffing luxuriously, felt his way to the smoking-room by the wheel. There a strong breeze found him, blew his cap off and left him bareheaded in the doorway, and the smoking-room steward, understanding that he was a voyager of experience, said that the weather would be stiff in the chops off the Channel and more than half a gale in the Bay. These things fell as they were foretold, and Dick enjoyed himself to the utmost. It is allowable and even necessary at sea to lay firm hold upon tables, stanchions, and ropes in moving from place to place. On land the man who feels with his hands is patently blind. At sea even a blind man who is not sea-sick can jest with the doctor over the weakness of his fellows. Dick told the doctor many tales--and these are coin of more value than silver if properly handled--smoked with him till unholy hours of the night, and so won his short-lived regard that he promised Dick a few hours of his time when they came to Port Said. And the sea roared or was still as the winds blew, and the engines sang their song day and night, and the sun grew stronger day by day, and Tom the Lascar barber shaved Dick of a morning under the opened hatch-grating where the cool winds blew, and the awnings were spread and the passengers made merry, and at last they came to Port Said. "Take me," said Dick, to the doctor, "to Madame Binat's--if you know where that is." "Whew!" said the doctor, "I do. There's not much to choose between 'em; but I suppose you're aware that that's one of the worst houses in the place. They'll rob you to begin with, and knife you later." "Not they. Take me there, and I can look after myself." So he was brought to Madame Binat's and filled his nostrils with the well-remembered smell of the East, that runs without a change from the Canal head to Hong-Kong, and his mouth with the villainous Lingua Franca of the Levant. The heat smote him between the shoulder-blades with the buffet of an old friend, his feet slipped on the sand, and his coat-sleeve was warm as new-baked bread when he lifted it to his nose. Madame Binat smiled with the smile that knows no astonishment when Dick entered the drinking-shop which was one source of her gains. But for a little accident of complete darkness he could hardly realise that he had ever quitted the old life that hummed in his ears. Somebody opened a bottle of peculiarly strong Schiedam. The smell reminded Dick of Monsieur Binat, who, by the way, had spoken of art and degradation. Binat was dead; Madame said as much when the doctor departed, scandalised, so far as a ship's doctor can be, at the warmth of Dick's reception. Dick was delighted at it. "They remember me here after a year. They have forgotten me across the water by this time. Madame, I want a long talk with you when you're at liberty. It is good to be back again." In the evening she set an iron-topped cafe-table out on the sands, and Dick and she sat by it, while the house behind them filled with riot, merriment, oaths, and threats. The stars came out and the lights of the shipping in the harbour twinkled by the head of the Canal. "Yes. The war is good for trade, my friend; but what dost thou do here? We have not forgotten thee." "I was over there in England and I went blind." "But there was the glory first. We heard of it here, even here--I and Binat; and thou hast used the head of Yellow 'Tina--she is still alive--so often and so well that 'Tina laughed when the papers arrived by the mail-boats. It was always something that we here could recognise in the paintings. And then there was always the glory and the money for thee." "I am not poor--I shall pay you well." "Not to me. Thou hast paid for everything." Under her breath, "Mon Dieu, to be blind and so young! What horror!" Dick could not see her face with the pity on it, or his own with the discoloured hair at the temples. He did not feel the need of pity; he was too anxious to get to the front once more, and explained his desire. "And where? The Canal is full of the English ships. Sometimes they fire as they used to do when the war was here--ten years ago. Beyond Cairo there is fighting, but how canst thou go there without a correspondent's passport? And in the desert there is always fighting, but that is impossible also," said she. "I must go to Suakin." He knew, thanks to Alf's readings, that Torpenhow was at work with the column that was protecting the construction of the Suakin-Berber line. P. and O. steamers do not touch at that port, and, besides, Madame Binat knew everybody whose help or advice was worth anything. They were not respectable folk, but they could cause things to be accomplished, which is much more important when there is work toward. "But at Suakin they are always fighting. That desert breeds men always--and always more men. And they are so bold! Why to Suakin?" "My friend is there. "Thy friend! Chtt! Thy friend is death, then." Madame Binat dropped a fat arm on the table-top, filled Dick's glass anew, and looked at him closely under the stars. There was no need that he should bow his head in assent and say--"No. He is a man, but--if it should arrive... blamest thou?" "I blame?" she laughed shrilly. "Who am I that I should blame any one--except those who try to cheat me over their consommations. But it is very terrible." "I must go to Suakin. Think for me. A great deal has changed within the year, and the men I knew are not here. The Egyptian lighthouse steamer goes down the Canal to Suakin--and the post-boats--But even then----" "Do not think any longer. I know, and it is for me to think. Thou shalt go--thou shalt go and see thy friend. Be wise. Sit here until the house is a little quiet--I must attend to my guests--and afterwards go to bed. Thou shalt go, in truth, thou shalt go." "Tomorrow?" "As soon as may be." She was talking as though he were a child. He sat at the table listening to the voices in the harbour and the streets, and wondering how soon the end would come, till Madame Binat carried him off to bed and ordered him to sleep. The house shouted and sang and danced and revelled, Madame Binat moving through it with one eye on the liquor payments and the girls and the other on Dick's interests. To this latter end she smiled upon scowling and furtive Turkish officers of fellaheen regiments, and was more than kind to camel agents of no nationality whatever. In the early morning, being then appropriately dressed in a flaming red silk ball-dress, with a front of tarnished gold embroidery and a necklace of plate-glass diamonds, she made chocolate and carried it in to Dick. "It is only I, and I am of discreet age, eh? Drink and eat the roll too. Thus in France mothers bring their sons, when those behave wisely, the morning chocolate." She sat down on the side of the bed whispering:--"It is all arranged. Thou wilt go by the lighthouse boat. That is a bribe of ten pounds English. The captain is never paid by the Government. The boat comes to Suakin in four days. There will go with thee George, a Greek muleteer. Another bribe of ten pounds. I will pay; they must not know of thy money. George will go with thee as far as he goes with his mules. Then he comes back to me, for his well-beloved is here, and if I do not receive a telegram from Suakin saying that thou art well, the girl answers for George." "Thank you." He reached out sleepily for the cup. "You are much too kind, Madame." "If there were anything that I might do I would say, stay here and be wise; but I do not think that would be best for thee." She looked at her liquor-stained dress with a sad smile. "Nay, thou shalt go, in truth, thou shalt go. It is best so. My boy, it is best so." She stooped and kissed Dick between the eyes. "That is for good-morning," she said, going away. "When thou art dressed we will speak to George and make everything ready. But first we must open the little trunk. Give me the keys." "The amount of kissing lately has been simply scandalous. I shall expect Torp to kiss me next. He is more likely to swear at me for getting in his way, though. Well, it won't last long.--Ohe, Madame, help me to my toilette of the guillotine! There will be no chance of dressing properly out yonder." He was rummaging among his new campaign-kit, and rowelling his hands with the spurs. There are two ways of wearing well-oiled ankle-jacks, spotless blue bands, khaki coat and breeches, and a perfectly pipeclayed helmet. The right way is the way of the untired man, master of himself, setting out upon an expedition, well pleased. "Everything must be very correct," Dick explained. "It will become dirty afterwards, but now it is good to feel well dressed. Is everything as it should be?" He patted the revolver neatly hidden under the fulness of the blouse on the right hip and fingered his collar. "I can do no more," Madame said, between laughing and crying. "Look at thyself--but I forgot." "I am very content." He stroked the creaseless spirals of his leggings. "Now let us go and see the captain and George and the lighthouse boat. Be quick, Madame." "But thou canst not be seen by the harbour walking with me in the daylight. Figure to yourself if some English ladies----" "There are no English ladies; and if there are, I have forgotten them. Take me there." In spite of this burning impatience it was nearly evening ere the lighthouse boat began to move. Madame had said a great deal both to George and the captain touching the arrangements that were to be made for Dick's benefit. Very few men who had the honour of her acquaintance cared to disregard Madame's advice. That sort of contempt might end in being knifed by a stranger in a gambling hell upon surprisingly short provocation. For six days--two of them were wasted in the crowded Canal--the little steamer worked her way to Suakin, where she was to pick up the superintendent of the lighthouse; and Dick made it his business to propitiate George, who was distracted with fears for the safety of his light-of-love and half inclined to make Dick responsible for his own discomfort. When they arrived George took him under his wing, and together they entered the red-hot seaport, encumbered with the material and wastage of the Suakin-Berger line, from locomotives in disconsolate fragments to mounds of chairs and pot-sleepers. "If you keep with me," said George, "nobody will ask for passports or what you do. They are all very busy." "Yes; but I should like to hear some of the Englishmen talk. They might remember me. I was known here a long time ago--when I was some one indeed." "A long time ago is a very long time ago here. The graveyards are full. Now listen. This new railway runs out so far as Tanai-el-Hassan--that is seven miles. Then there is a camp. They say that beyond Tanai-el-Hassan the English troops go forward, and everything that they require will be brought to them by this line." "Ah! Base camp. I see. That's a better business than fighting Fuzzies in the open." "For this reason even the mules go up in the iron-train." "Iron what?" "It is all covered with iron, because it is still being shot at." "An armoured train. Better and better! Go on, faithful George." "And I go up with my mules tonight. Only those who particularly require to go to the camp go out with the train. They begin to shoot not far from the city." "The dears--they always used to!" Dick snuffed the smell of parched dust, heated iron, and flaking paint with delight. Certainly the old life was welcoming him back most generously. "When I have got my mules together I go up tonight, but you must first send a telegram of Port Said, declaring that I have done you no harm." "Madame has you well in hand. Would you stick a knife into me if you had the chance?" "I have no chance," said the Greek. "She is there with that woman." "I see. It's a bad thing to be divided between love of woman and the chance of loot. I sympathise with you, George." They went to the telegraph-office unquestioned, for all the world was desperately busy and had scarcely time to turn its head, and Suakin was the last place under sky that would be chosen for holiday-ground. On their return the voice of an English subaltern asked Dick what he was doing. The blue goggles were over his eyes and he walked with his hand on George's elbow as he replied--"Egyptian Government--mules. My orders are to give them over to the A. C. G. at Tanai-el-Hassan. Any occasion to show my papers?" "Oh, certainly not. I beg your pardon. I'd no right to ask, but not seeing your face before I----" "I go out in the train tonight, I suppose," said Dick, boldly. "There will be no difficulty in loading up the mules, will there?" "You can see the horse-platforms from here. You must have them loaded up early." The young man went away wondering what sort of broken-down waif this might be who talked like a gentleman and consorted with Greek muleteers. Dick felt unhappy. To outface an English officer is no small thing, but the bluff loses relish when one plays it from the utter dark, and stumbles up and down rough ways, thinking and eternally thinking of what might have been if things had fallen out otherwise, and all had been as it was not. George shared his meal with Dick and went off to the mule-lines. His charge sat alone in a shed with his face in his hands. Before his tight-shut eyes danced the face of Maisie, laughing, with parted lips. There was a great bustle and clamour about him. He grew afraid and almost called for George. "I say, have you got your mules ready?" It was the voice of the subaltern over his shoulder. "My man's looking after them. The--the fact is I've a touch of ophthalmia and can't see very well. "By Jove! that's bad. You ought to lie up in hospital for a while. I've had a turn of it myself. It's as bad as being blind." "So I find it. When does this armoured train go?" "At six o'clock. It takes an hour to cover the seven miles." "Are the Fuzzies on the rampage--eh?" "About three nights a week. Fact is I'm in acting command of the night-train. It generally runs back empty to Tanai for the night." "Big camp at Tanai, I suppose?" "Pretty big. It has to feed our desert-column somehow." "Is that far off?" "Between thirty and forty miles--in an infernal thirsty country." "Is the country quiet between Tanai and our men?" "More or less. I shouldn't care to cross it alone, or with a subaltern's command for the matter of that, but the scouts get through it in some extraordinary fashion." "They always did." "Have you been here before, then?" "I was through most of the trouble when it first broke out." "In the service and cashiered," was the subaltern's first thought, so he refrained from putting any questions. "There's your man coming up with the mules. It seems rather queer----" "That I should be mule-leading?" said Dick. "I didn't mean to say so, but it is. Forgive me--it's beastly impertinence I know, but you speak like a man who has been at a public school. There's no mistaking the tone." "I am a public school man." "I thought so. I say, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but you're a little down on your luck, aren't you? I saw you sitting with your head in your hands, and that's why I spoke." "Thanks. I am about as thoroughly and completely broke as a man need be." "Suppose--I mean I'm a public school man myself. Couldn't I perhaps--take it as a loan y'know and----" "You're much too good, but on my honour I've as much money as I want. ... I tell you what you could do for me, though, and put me under an everlasting obligation. Let me come into the bogie truck of the train. There is a fore-truck, isn't there?" "Yes. How d'you know?" "I've been in an armoured train before. Only let me see--hear some of the fun I mean, and I'll be grateful. I go at my own risk as a non-combatant." The young man thought for a minute. "All right," he said. "We're supposed to be an empty train, and there's no one to blow me up at the other end." George and a horde of yelling amateur assistants had loaded up the mules, and the narrow-gauge armoured train, plated with three-eighths inch boiler-plate till it looked like one long coffin, stood ready to start. Two bogie trucks running before the locomotive were completely covered in with plating, except that the leading one was pierced in front for the muzzle of a machine-gun, and the second at either side for lateral fire. The trucks together made one long iron-vaulted chamber in which a score of artillerymen were rioting. "Whitechapel--last train! Ah, I see yer kissin' in the first class there!" somebody shouted, just as Dick was clamouring into the forward truck. "Lordy! 'Ere's a real live passenger for the Kew, Tanai, Acton, and Ealin' train. Echo, sir. Speshul edition! Star, sir."--"Shall I get you a foot-warmer?" said another. "Thanks. I'll pay my footing," said Dick, and relations of the most amiable were established ere silence came with the arrival of the subaltern, and the train jolted out over the rough track. "This is an immense improvement on shooting the unimpressionable Fuzzy in the open," said Dick, from his place in the corner. "Oh, but he's still unimpressed. There he goes!" said the subaltern, as a bullet struck the outside of the truck. "We always have at least one demonstration against the night-train. Generally they attack the rear-truck, where my junior commands. He gets all the fun of the fair." "Not tonight though! Listen!" said Dick. A flight of heavy-handed bullets was succeeded by yelling and shouts. The children of the desert valued their nightly amusement, and the train was an excellent mark. "Is it worth giving them half a hopper full?" the subaltern asked of the engine, which was driven by a Lieutenant of Sappers. "I should think so! This is my section of the line. They'll be playing old Harry with my permanent way if we don't stop 'em." "Right O!" "Hrrmph!" said the machine gun through all its five noses as the subaltern drew the lever home. The empty cartridges clashed on the floor and the smoke blew back through the truck. There was indiscriminate firing at the rear of the train, and return fire from the darkness without and unlimited howling. Dick stretched himself on the floor, wild with delight at the sounds and the smells. "God is very good--I never thought I'd hear this again. Give 'em hell, men. Oh, give 'em hell!" he cried. The train stopped for some obstruction on the line ahead and a party went out to reconnoitre, but came back, cursing, for spades. The children of the desert had piled sand and gravel on the rails, and twenty minutes were lost in clearing it away. Then the slow progress recommenced, to be varied with more shots, more shoutings, the steady clack and kick of the machine guns, and a final difficulty with a half-lifted rail ere the train came under the protection of the roaring camp at Tanai-el-Hassan. "Now, you see why it takes an hour and a half to fetch her through," said the subaltern, unshipping the cartridge-hopper above his pet gun. "It was a lark, though. I only wish it had lasted twice as long. How superb it must have looked from outside!" said Dick, sighing regretfully. "It palls after the first few nights. By the way, when you've settled about your mules, come and see what we can find to eat in my tent. I'm Bennil of the Gunners--in the artillery lines--and mind you don't fall over my tent-ropes in the dark." But it was all dark to Dick. He could only smell the camels, the hay-bales, the cooking, the smoky fires, and the tanned canvas of the tents as he stood, where he had dropped from the train, shouting for George. There was a sound of light-hearted kicking on the iron skin of the rear trucks, with squealing and grunting. George was unloading the mules. The engine was blowing off steam nearly in Dick's ear; a cold wind of the desert danced between his legs; he was hungry, and felt tired and dirty--so dirty that he tried to brush his coat with his hands. That was a hopeless job; he thrust his hands into his pockets and began to count over the many times that he had waited in strange or remote places for trains or camels, mules or horses, to carry him to his business. In those days he could see--few men more clearly--and the spectacle of an armed camp at dinner under the stare was an ever fresh pleasure to the eye. There was colour, light, and motion, without which no man has much pleasure in living. This night there remained for him only one more journey through the darkness that never lifts to tell a man how far he has travelled. Then he would grip Torpenhow's hand again--Torpenhow, who was alive and strong, and lived in the midst of the action that had once made the reputation of a man called Dick Heldar: not in the least to be confused with the blind, bewildered vagabond who seemed to answer to the same name. Yes, he would find Torpenhow, and come as near to the old life as might be. Afterwards he would forget everything: Bessie, who had wrecked the Melancolia and so nearly wrecked his life; Beeton, who lived in a strange unreal city full of tin-tacks and gas-plugs and matters that no men needed; that irrational being who had offered him love and loyalty for nothing, but had not signed her name; and most of all Maisie, who, from her own point of view, was undeniably right in all she did, but oh, at this distance, so tantalisingly fair. George's hand on his arm pulled him back to the situation. "And what now?" said George. "Oh yes of course. What now? Take me to the camel-men. Take me to where the scouts sit when they come in from the desert. They sit by their camels, and the camels eat grain out of a black blanket held up at the corners, and the men eat by their side just like camels. Take me there!" The camp was rough and rutty, and Dick stumbled many times over the stumps of scrub. The scouts were sitting by their beasts, as Dick knew they would. The light of the dung-fires flickered on their bearded faces, and the camels bubbled and mumbled beside them at rest. It was no part of Dick's policy to go into the desert with a convoy of supplies. That would lead to impertinent questions, and since a blind non-combatant is not needed at the front, he would probably be forced to return to Suakin. He must go up alone, and go immediately. "Now for one last bluff--the biggest of all," he said. "Peace be with you, brethren!" The watchful George steered him to the circle of the nearest fire. The heads of the camel-sheiks bowed gravely, and the camels, scenting a European, looked sideways curiously like brooding hens, half ready to get to their feet. "A beast and a driver to go to the fighting line tonight," said Dick. "A Mulaid?" said a voice, scornfully naming the best baggage-breed that he knew. "A Bisharin," returned Dick, with perfect gravity. "A Bisharin without saddle-galls. Therefore no charge of thine, shock-head." Two or three minutes passed. Then--"We be knee-haltered for the night. There is no going out from the camp." "Not for money?" "H'm! Ah! English money?" Another depressing interval of silence. "How much?" "Twenty-five pounds English paid into the hand of the driver at my journey's end, and as much more into the hand of the camel-sheik here, to be paid when the driver returns." This was royal payment, and the sheik, who knew that he would get his commission on this deposit, stirred in Dick's behalf. "For scarcely one night's journey--fifty pounds. Land and wells and good trees and wives to make a man content for the rest of his days. Who speaks?" said Dick. "I," said a voice. "I will go--but there is no going from the camp." "Fool! I know that a camel can break his knee-halter, and the sentries do not fire if one goes in chase. Twenty-five pounds and another twenty-five pounds. But the beast must be a good Bisharin; I will take no baggage-camel." Then the bargaining began, and at the end of half an hour the first deposit was paid over to the sheik, who talked in low tones to the driver. Dick heard the latter say: "A little way out only. Any baggage-beast will serve. Am I a fool to waste my cattle for a blind man?" "And though I cannot see"--Dick lifted his voice a little--"yet I carry that which has six eyes, and the driver will sit before me. If we do not reach the English troops in the dawn he will be dead." "But where, in God's name, are the troops?" "Unless thou knowest let another man ride. Dost thou know? Remember it will be life or death to thee." "I know," said the driver, sullenly. "Stand back from my beast. I am going to slip him." "Not so swiftly. George, hold the camel's head a moment. I want to feel his cheek." The hands wandered over the hide till they found the branded half-circle that is the mark of the Biharin, the light-built riding-camel. "That is well. Cut this one loose. Remember no blessing of God comes on those who try to cheat the blind." The men chuckled by the fires at the camel-driver's discomfiture. He had intended to substitute a slow, saddle-galled baggage-colt. "Stand back!" one shouted, lashing the Biharin under the belly with a quirt. Dick obeyed as soon as he felt the nose-string tighten in his hand,--and a cry went up, "Illaha! Aho! He is loose." With a roar and a grunt the Biharin rose to his feet and plunged forward toward the desert, his driver following with shouts and lamentation. George caught Dick's arm and hurried him stumbling and tripping past a disgusted sentry who was used to stampeding camels. "What's the row now?" he cried. "Every stitch of my kit on that blasted dromedary," Dick answered, after the manner of a common soldier. "Go on, and take care your throat's not cut outside--you and your dromedary's." The outcries ceased when the camel had disappeared behind a hillock, and his driver had called him back and made him kneel down. "Mount first," said Dick. Then climbing into the second seat and gently screwing the pistol muzzle into the small of his companion's back, "Go on in God's name, and swiftly. Goodbye, George. Remember me to Madame, and have a good time with your girl. Get forward, child of the Pit!" A few minutes later he was shut up in a great silence, hardly broken by the creaking of the saddle and the soft pad of the tireless feet. Dick adjusted himself comfortably to the rock and pitch of the pace, girthed his belt tighter, and felt the darkness slide past. For an hour he was conscious only of the sense of rapid progress. "A good camel," he said at last. "He was never underfed. He is my own and clean bred," the driver replied. "Go on." His head dropped on his chest and he tried to think, but the tenor of his thoughts was broken because he was very sleepy. In the half doze in seemed that he was learning a punishment hymn at Mrs. Jennett's. He had committed some crime as bad as Sabbath-breaking, and she had locked him up in his bedroom. But he could never repeat more than the first two lines of the hymn-- When Israel of the Lord believed Out of the land of bondage came. He said them over and over thousands of times. The driver turned in the saddle to see if there were any chance of capturing the revolver and ending the ride. Dick roused, struck him over the head with the butt, and stormed himself wide awake. Somebody hidden in a clump of camel-thorn shouted as the camel toiled up rising ground. A shot was fired, and the silence shut down again, bringing the desire to sleep. Dick could think no longer. He was too tired and stiff and cramped to do more than nod uneasily from time to time, waking with a start and punching the driver with the pistol. "Is there a moon?" he asked drowsily. "She is near her setting." "I wish that I could see her. Halt the camel. At least let me hear the desert talk." The man obeyed. Out of the utter stillness came one breath of wind. It rattled the dead leaves of a shrub some distance away and ceased. A handful of dry earth detached itself from the edge of a rail trench and crumbled softly to the bottom. "Go on. The night is very cold." Those who have watched till the morning know how the last hour before the light lengthens itself into many eternities. It seemed to Dick that he had never since the beginning of original darkness done anything at all save jolt through the air. Once in a thousand years he would finger the nailheads on the saddle-front and count them all carefully. Centuries later he would shift his revolver from his right hand to his left and allow the eased arm to drop down at his side. From the safe distance of London he was watching himself thus employed,--watching critically. Yet whenever he put out his hand to the canvas that he might paint the tawny yellow desert under the glare of the sinking moon, the black shadow of a camel and the two bowed figures atop, that hand held a revolver and the arm was numbed from wrist to collar-bone. Moreover, he was in the dark, and could see no canvas of any kind whatever. The driver grunted, and Dick was conscious of a change in the air. "I smell the dawn," he whispered. "It is here, and yonder are the troops. Have I done well?" The camel stretched out its neck and roared as there came down wind the pungent reek of camels in the square. "Go on. We must get there swiftly. Go on." "They are moving in their camp. There is so much dust that I cannot see what they do." "Am I in better case? Go forward." They could hear the hum of voices ahead, the howling and the bubbling of the beasts and the hoarse cries of the soldiers girthing up for the day. Two or three shots were fired. "Is that at us? Surely they can see that I am English," Dick spoke angrily. "Nay, it is from the desert," the driver answered, cowering in his saddle. "Go forward, my child! Well it is that the dawn did not uncover us an hour ago." The camel headed straight for the column and the shots behind multiplied. The children of the desert had arranged that most uncomfortable of surprises, a dawn attack for the English troops, and were getting their distance by snap-shots at the only moving object without the square. "What luck! What stupendous and imperial luck!" said Dick. "It's 'just before the battle, mother.' Oh, God has been most good to me! Only"--the agony of the thought made him screw up his eyes for an instant--"Maisie..." "Allahu! We are in," said the man, as he drove into the rearguard and the camel knelt. "Who the deuce are you? Despatches or what? What's the strength of the enemy behind that ridge? How did you get through?" asked a dozen voices. For all answer Dick took a long breath, unbuckled his belt, and shouted from the saddle at the top of a wearied and dusty voice, "Torpenhow! Ohe, Torp! Coo-ee, Tor-pen-how." A bearded man raking in the ashes of a fire for a light to his pipe moved very swiftly towards that cry, as the rearguard, facing about, began to fire at the puffs of smoke from the hillocks around. Gradually the scattered white cloudlets drew out into the long lines of banked white that hung heavily in the stillness of the dawn before they turned over wave-like and glided into the valleys. The soldiers in the square were coughing and swearing as their own smoke obstructed their view, and they edged forward to get beyond it. A wounded camel leaped to its feet and roared aloud, the cry ending in a bubbling grunt. Some one had cut its throat to prevent confusion. Then came the thick sob of a man receiving his death-wound from a bullet; then a yell of agony and redoubled firing. There was no time to ask any questions. "Get down, man! Get down behind the camel!" "No. Put me, I pray, in the forefront of the battle." Dick turned his face to Torpenhow and raised his hand to set his helmet straight, but, miscalculating the distance, knocked it off. Torpenhow saw that his hair was gray on the temples, and that his face was the face of an old man. "Come down, you damned fool! Dickie, come off!" And Dick came obediently, but as a tree falls, pitching sideways from the Bisharin's saddle at Torpenhow's feet. His luck had held to the last, even to the crowning mercy of a kindly bullet through his head. Torpenhow knelt under the lee of the camel, with Dick's body in his arms. THE END VOLUME VII THE STORY OF THE GADSBYS Preface To THE ADDRESS OF CAPTAIN J. MAFFLIN, Duke of Derry's (Pink) Hussars. DEAR MAFFLIN,--You will remember that I wrote this story as an Awful Warning. None the less you have seen fit to disregard it and have followed Gadsby's example--as I betted you would. I acknowledge that you paid the money at once, but you have prejudiced the mind of Mrs. Mafflin against myself, for though I am almost the only respectable friend of your bachelor days, she has been darwaza band to me throughout the season. Further, she caused you to invite me to dinner at the Club, where you called me "a wild ass of the desert," and went home at half-past ten, after discoursing for twenty minutes on the responsibilities of housekeeping. You now drive a mail-phaeton and sit under a Church of England clergyman. I am not angry, Jack. It is your kismet, as it was Gaddy's, and his kismet who can avoid? Do not think that I am moved by a spirit of revenge as I write, thus publicly, that you and you alone are responsible for this book. In other and more expansive days, when you could look at a magnum without flushing and at a cheroot without turning white, you supplied me with most of the material. Take it back again--would that I could have preserved your fetterless speech in the telling--take it back, and by your slippered hearth read it to the late Miss Deercourt. She will not be any the more willing to receive my cards, but she will admire you immensely, and you, I feel sure, will love me. You may even invite me to another very bad dinner--at the Club, which, as you and your wife know, is a safe neutral ground for the entertainment of wild asses. Then, my very dear hypocrite, we shall be quits. Yours always, RUDYARD KIPLING. P. S.--On second thoughts I should recommend you to keep the book away from Mrs. Mafflin. POOR DEAR MAMMA The wild hawk to the wind-swept sky, The deer to the wholesome wold, And the heart of a man to the heart of a maid, As it was in the days of old. --Gypsy Song. SCENE. Interior of Miss MINNIE THREEGAN'S Bedroom at Simla. Miss THREEGAN, in window-seat, turning over a drawerful of things. Miss EMMA DEERCOURT, bosom--friend, who has come to spend the day, sitting on the bed, manipulating the bodice of a ballroom frock, and a bunch of artificial lilies of the valley. Time, 5:30 P. M. on a hot May afternoon. Miss DEERCOURT. And he said: "I shall never forget this dance," and, of course, I said: "Oh, how can you be so silly!" Do you think he meant anything, dear? Miss THREEGAN. (Extracting long lavender silk stocking from the rubbish.) You know him better than I do. Miss D. Oh, do be sympathetic, Minnie! I'm sure he does. At least I would be sure if he wasn't always riding with that odious Mrs. Hagan. Miss T. I suppose so. How does one manage to dance through one's heels first? Look at this--isn't it shameful? (Spreads stocking-heel on open hand for inspection.) Miss D. Never mind that! You can't mend it. Help me with this hateful bodice. I've run the string so, and I've run the string so, and I can't make the fulness come right. Where would you put this? (Waves lilies of the valley.) Miss T. As high up on the shoulder as possible. Miss D. Am I quite tall enough? I know it makes May Older look lopsided. Miss T. Yes, but May hasn't your shoulders. Hers are like a hock-bottle. BEARER. (Rapping at door.) Captain Sahib aya. Miss D. (Jumping up wildly, and hunting for bodice, which she has discarded owing to the heat of the day.) Captain Sahib! What Captain Sahib? Oh, good gracious, and I'm only half dressed! Well, I sha'n't bother. Miss T. (Calmly.) You needn't. It isn't for us. That's Captain Gadsby. He is going for a ride with Mamma. He generally comes five days out of the seven. AGONIZED VOICE. (Prom an inner apartment.) Minnie, run out and give Captain Gadsby some tea, and tell him I shall be ready in ten minutes; and, O Minnie, come to me an instant, there's a dear girl! Miss T. Oh, bother! (Aloud.) Very well, Mamma. Exit, and reappears, after five minutes, flushed, and rubbing her fingers. Miss D. You look pink. What has happened? Miss T. (In a stage whisper.) A twenty-four-inch waist, and she won't let it out. Where are my bangles? (Rummages on the toilet-table, and dabs at her hair with a brush in the interval.) Miss D. Who is this Captain Gadsby? I don't think I've met him. Miss T. You must have. He belongs to the Harrar set. I've danced with him, but I've never talked to him. He's a big yellow man, just like a newly-hatched chicken, with an enormous moustache. He walks like this (imitates Cavalry swagger), and he goes "Ha-Hmmm!" deep down in his throat when he can't think of anything to say. Mamma likes him. I don't. Miss D. (Abstractedly.) Does he wax that moustache? Miss T. (Busy with Powder-puff.) Yes, I think so. Why? Miss D. (Bending over the bodice and sewing furiously.) Oh, nothing--only-- Miss T. (Sternly.) Only what? Out with it, Emma. Miss D. Well, May Olger--she's engaged to Mr. Charteris, you know--said--Promise you won't repeat this? Miss T. Yes, I promise. What did she say? Miss D. That--that being kissed (with a rush) with a man who didn't wax his moustache was--like eating an egg without salt. Miss T. (At her full height, with crushing scorn.) May Olger is a horrid, nasty Thing, and you can tell her I said so. I'm glad she doesn't belong to my set--I must go and feed this man! Do I look presentable? Miss D. Yes, perfectly. Be quick and hand him over to your Mother, and then we can talk. I shall listen at the door to hear what you say to him. Miss T. 'Sure I don't care. I'm not afraid of Captain Gadsby. In proof of this swings into the drawing-room with a mannish stride followed by two short steps, which produces the effect of a restive horse entering. Misses CAPTAIN GADSBY, who is sitting in the shadow of the window-curtain, and gazes round helplessly. CAPTAIN GADSBY. (Aside.) The filly, by Jove! 'Must ha' picked up that action from the sire. (Aloud, rising.) Good evening, Miss Threegan. Miss T. (Conscious that she is flushing.) Good evening, Captain Gadsby. Mamma told me to say that she will be ready in a few minutes. Won't you have some tea? (Aside.) I hope Mamma will be quick. What am I to say to the creature? (Aloud and abruptly.) Milk and sugar? Capt. G. No sugar, tha-anks, and very little milk. Ha-Hmmm. Miss T. (Aside.) If he's going to do that, I'm lost. I shall laugh. I know I shall! Capt. G. (Pulling at his moustache and watching it sideways down his nose.) Ha-Hmmm. (Aside.) 'Wonder what the little beast can talk about. 'Must make a shot at it. Miss T. (Aside.) Oh, this is agonizing. I must say something. Both Together. Have you Been-- Capt. G. I beg your pardon. You were going to say-- Miss T. (Who has been watching the moustache with awed fascination.) Won't you have some eggs? Capt. G. (Looking bewilderedly at the tea-table.) Eggs! (Aside.) O Hades! She must have a nursery-tea at this hour. S'pose they've wiped her mouth and sent her to me while the Mother is getting on her duds. (Aloud.) No, thanks. Miss T. (Crimson with confusion.) Oh! I didn't mean that. I wasn't thinking of mou--eggs for an instant. I mean salt. Won't you have some sa--sweets? (Aside.) He'll think me a raving lunatic. I wish Mamma would come. Capt. G. (Aside.) It was a nursery-tea and she's ashamed of it. By Jove! She doesn't look half bad when she colors up like that. (Aloud, helping himself from the dish.) Have you seen those new chocolates at Peliti's? Miss T. No, I made these myself. What are they like? Capt. G. These! De-licious. (Aside.) And that's a fact. Miss T. (Aside.) Oh, bother! he'll think I'm fishing for compliments. (Aloud.) No, Peliti's of course. Capt. G. (Enthusiastically.) Not to compare with these. How d'you make them? I can't get my khansamah to understand the simplest thing beyond mutton and fowl. Miss T. Yes? I'm not a khansamah, you know. Perhaps you frighten him. You should never frighten a servant. He loses his head. It's very bad policy. Capt. G. He's so awf'ly stupid. Miss T. (Folding her hands in her lap.) You should call him quietly and say: 'O khansamah jee!' Capt. G. (Getting interested.) Yes? (Aside.) Fancy that little featherweight saying, 'O khansamah jee' to my bloodthirsty Mir Khan! Miss T Then you should explain the dinner, dish by dish. Capt. G. But I can't speak the vernacular. Miss T. (Patronizingly.) You should pass the Higher Standard and try. Capt. G. I have, but I don't seem to be any the wiser. Are you? Miss T. I never passed the Higher Standard. But the khansamah is very patient with me. He doesn't get angry when I talk about sheep's topees, or order maunds of grain when I mean seers. Capt. G. (Aside with intense indignation.) I'd like to see Mir Khan being rude to that girl! Hullo! Steady the Buffs! (Aloud.) And do you understand about horses, too? Miss T. A little--not very much. I can't doctor them, but I know what they ought to eat, and I am in charge of our stable. Capt. G. Indeed! You might help me then. What ought a man to give his sais in the Hills? My ruffian says eight rupees, because everything is so dear. Miss T. Six rupees a month, and one rupee Simla allowance--neither more nor less. And a grass-cut gets six rupees. That's better than buying grass in the bazar. Capt. G. (Admiringly.) How do you know? Miss T. I have tried both ways. Capt. G. Do you ride much, then? I've never seen you on the Mall. Miss T. (Aside.) I haven't passed him more than fifty times. (Aloud.) Nearly every day. Capt. G. By Jove! I didn't know that. Ha-Hmmm (Pulls at his moustache and is silent for forty seconds.) Miss T. (Desperately, and wondering what will happen next.) It looks beautiful. I shouldn't touch it if I were you. (Aside.) It's all Mamma's fault for not coming before. I will be rude! Capt. G. (Bronzing under the tan and bringing down his hand very quickly.) Eh! Wha-at! Oh, yes! Ha! Ha! (Laughs uneasily.) (Aside.) Well, of all the dashed cheek! I never had a woman say that to me yet. She must be a cool hand or else--Ah! that nursery-tea! VOICE PROM THE UNKNOWN. Tchk! Tchk! Tchk! Capt. G. Good gracious! What's that? Miss T. The dog, I think. (Aside.) Emma has been listening, and I'll never forgive her! Capt. G. (Aside.) They don't keep dogs here. (Aloud.) Didn't sound like a dog, did it? Miss T. Then it must have been the cat. Let's go into the veranda. What a lovely evening it is! Steps into veranda and looks out across the hills into sunset. The CAPTAIN follows. Capt. G. (Aside.) Superb eyes! I wonder that I never noticed them before! (Aloud.) There's going to be a dance at Viceregal Lodge on Wednesday. Can you spare me one? Miss T. (Shortly.) No! I don't want any of your charity-dances. You only ask me because Mamma told you to. I hop and I bump. You know I do! Capt. G. (Aside.) That's true, but little girls shouldn't understand these things. (Aloud.) No, on my word, I don't. You dance beautifully. Miss T. Then why do you always stand out after half a dozen turns? I thought officers in the Army didn't tell fibs. Capt. G. It wasn't a fib, believe me. I really do want the pleasure of a dance with you. Miss T. (Wickedly.) Why? Won't Mamma dance with you any more? Capt. G. (More earnestly than the necessity demands.) I wasn't thinking of your Mother. (Aside.) You little vixen! Miss T. (Still looking out of the window.) Eh? Oh, I beg your pardon. I was thinking of something else. Capt. G. (Aside.) Well! I wonder what she'll say next. I've never known a woman treat me like this before. I might b--Dash it, I might be an Infantry subaltern! (Aloud.) Oh, please don't trouble. I'm not worth thinking about. Isn't your Mother ready yet? Miss T. I should think so; but promise me, Captain Gamsby, you won't take poor dear Mamma twice round Jakko any more. It tires her so. Capt. G. She says that no exercise tires her. Miss T. Yes, but she suffers afterward. You don't know what rheumatism is, and you oughtn't to keep her out so late, when it gets chill in the evenings. Capt. G. (Aside.) Rheumatism. I thought she came off her horse rather in a bunch. Whew! One lives and learns. (Aloud.) I'm sorry to hear that. She hasn't mentioned it to me. Miss T. (Flurried.) Of course not! Poor dear Mamma never would. And you mustn't say that I told you either. Promise me that you won't. Oh, Captain Gamsby, promise me you won't! Capt. G. I am dumb, or--I shall be as soon as you've given me that dance, and another--if you can trouble yourself to think about me for a minute. Miss T. But you won't like it one little bit. You'll be awfully sorry afterward. Capt. G. I shall like it above all things, and I shall only be sorry that I didn't get more. (Aside.) Now what in the world am I saying? Miss T. Very well. You will have only yourself to thank if your toes are trodden on. Shall we say Seven? Capt. G. And Eleven. (Aside.) She can't be more than eight stone, but, even then, it's an absurdly small foot. (Looks at his own riding boots.) Miss T. They're beautifully shiny. I can almost see my face in them. Capt. G. I was thinking whether I should have to go on crutches for the rest of my life if you trod on my toes. Miss T. Very likely. Why not change Eleven for a square? Capt. G. No, please! I want them both waltzes. Won't you write them down? Miss T. I don't get so many dances that I shall confuse them. You will be the offender. Capt. G. Wait and see! (Aside.) She doesn't dance perfectly, perhaps, but-- Miss T. Your tea must have got cold by this time. Won't you have another cup? Capt. G. No, thanks. Don't you think it's pleasanter out in the veranda? (Aside.) I never saw hair take that color in the sunshine before. (Aloud.) It's like one of Dicksee's pictures. Miss T. Yes I It's a wonderful sunset, isn't it? (Bluntly.) But what do you know about Dicksee's pictures? Capt. G. I go Home occasionally. And I used to know the Galleries. (Nervously.) You mustn't think me only a Philistine with a moustache. Miss T. Don't! Please don't. I'm so sorry for what I said then. I was horribly rude. It slipped out before j thought. Don't you know the temptation to say frightful and shocking things just for the mere sake of saying them? I'm afraid I gave way to it. Capt. G. (Watching the girl as she flushes.) I think I know the feeling. It would be terrible if we all yielded to it, wouldn't it? For instance, I might say-- POOR DEAR MAMMA. (Entering, habited, hatted, and booted.) Ah, Captain Gamsby? 'Sorry to keep you waiting. 'Hope you haven't been bored. 'My little girl been talking to you? Miss T. (Aside.) I'm not sorry I spoke about the rheumatism. I'm not! I'm NOT! I only wished I'd mentioned the corns too. Capt. G. (Aside.) What a shame! I wonder how old she is. It never occurred to me before. (Aloud.) We've been discussing 'Shakespeare and the musical glasses' in the veranda. Miss T. (Aside.) Nice man! He knows that quotation. He isn't a Philistine with a moustache. (Aloud.) Goodbye, Captain Gadsby. (Aside.) What a huge hand and what a squeeze! I don't suppose he meant it, but he has driven the rings into my fingers. Poor Dear Mamma. Has Vermillion come round yet? Oh, yes! Captain Gadsby, don't you think that the saddle is too far forward? (They pass into the front veranda.) Capt. G. (Aside.) How the dickens should I know what she prefers? She told me that she doted on horses. (Aloud.) I think it is. Miss T. (Coming out into front veranda.) Oh! Bad Buldoo! I must speak to him for this. He has taken up the curb two links, and Vermillion bates that. (Passes out and to horse's head.) Capt. G. Let me do it! Miss. T. No, Vermillion understands me. Don't you, old man? (Loosens curb-chain skilfully, and pats horse on nose and throttle.) Poor Vermillion! Did they want to cut his chin off? There! Captain Gadsby watches the interlude with undisguised admiration. Poor Dear Mamma. (Tartly to Miss T.) You've forgotten your guest, I think, dear. Miss T. Good gracious! So I have! Goodbye. (Retreats indoors hastily.) Poor Dear Mamma. (Bunching reins in fingers hampered by too tight gauntlets.) CAPTAIN Gadsby! CAPTAIN GADSBY stoops and makes the foot-rest. Poor Dear Mamma blunders, halts too long, and breaks through it. Capt. G. (Aside.) Can't hold up seven stone forever. It's all your rheumatism. (Aloud.) Can't imagine why I was so clumsy. (Aside.) Now Little Featherweight would have gone up like a bird. They ride out of the garden. The Captain falls back. Capt. G. (Aside.) How that habit catches her under the arms! Ugh! Poor Dear Mamma. (With the worn smile of sixteen seasons, the worse for exchange.) You're dull this afternoon, Captain Gadsby. Capt. G. (Spurring up wearily.) Why did you keep me waiting so long? Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. (AN INTERVAL OF THREE WEEKS.) GILDED YOUTH. (Sitting on railings opposite Town Hall.) Hullo, Gadsby! 'Been trotting out the Gorgonzola! We all thought it was the Gorgon you're mashing. Capt. G. (With withering emphasis.) You young cub! What the--does it matter to you? Proceeds to read GILDED YOUTH a lecture on discretion and deportment, which crumbles latter like a Chinese Lantern. Departs fuming. (FURTHER INTERVAL OF FIVE WEEKS.) SCENE. Exterior of New Simla Library on a foggy evening. Miss THREEGAN and Miss DEERCOURT meet among the 'rickshaws. Miss T. is carrying a bundle of books under her left arm. Miss D. (Level intonation.) Well? Miss T. (Ascending intonation.) Well? Miss D. (Capturing her friend's left arm, taking away all the books, placing books in 'rickshaw, returning to arm, securing hand by third finger and investigating.) Well! You bad girl! And you never told me. Miss T. (Demurely.) He--he--he only spoke yesterday afternoon. Miss D. Bless you, dear! And I'm to be bridesmaid, aren't I? You know you promised ever so long ago. Miss T. Of course. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow. (Gets into 'rickshaw.) O Emma! Miss D. (With intense interest.) Yes, dear? Miss T. (Piano.) It's quite true--about-the-egg. Miss D. What egg? Miss T. (Pianissimo prestissimo.) The egg without the salt. (Forte.) Chalo ghar ko jaldi, jhampani! (Go home, jhampani.) THE WORLD WITHOUT Certain people of importance. SCENE. Smoking-room of the Degchi Club. Time, 10.30 P. M. of a stuffy night in the Rains. Four men dispersed in picturesque attitudes and easy-chairs. To these enter BLAYNE of the Irregular Moguls, in evening dress. BLAYNE. Phew! The Judge ought to be hanged in his own store-godown. Hi, khitmatgar! Pour a whiskey-peg, to take the taste out of my mouth. CURTISS. (Royal Artillery.) That's it, is it? What the deuce made you dine at the Judge's? You know his bandobust. Blayne. 'Thought it couldn't be worse than the Club, but I'll swear he buys ullaged liquor and doctors it with gin and ink (looking round the room.) Is this all of you tonight? DOONE. (P.W.D.) Anthony was called out at dinner. Mingle had a pain in his tummy. Curtiss. Miggy dies of cholera once a week in the Rains, and gets drunk on chlorodyne in between. Good little chap, though. Any one at the Judge's, Blayne? Blayne. Cockley and his memsahib looking awfully white and fagged. Female girl--couldn'tcatch the name--on her way to the Hills, under the Cockleys' charge--the Judge, and Markyn fresh from Simla--disgustingly fit. Curtiss. Good Lord, how truly magnificent! Was there enough ice? When I mangled garbage there I got one whole lump--nearly as big as a walnut. What had Markyn to say for himself? Blayne. Seems that every one is having a fairly good time up there in spite of the rain. By Jove, that reminds me! I know I hadn'tcome across just for the pleasure of your society. News! Great news! Markyn told me. DOONE. Who's dead now? Blayne. No one that I know of; but Gadsby's hooked at last! DROPPING CHORUS. How much? The Devil! Markyn was pulling your leg. Not GADSBY! Blayne. (Humming.) "Yea, verily, verily, verily! Verily, verily, I say unto thee." Theodore, the gift 'o God! Our Phillup! It's been given out up above. MACKESY. (Barrister-at-Law.) Huh! Women will give out anything. What does accused say? Blayne. Markyn told me that he congratulated him warily--one hand held out, t'other ready to guard. Gadsby turned pink and said it was so. Curtiss. Poor old Caddy! They all do it. Who's she? Let's hear the details. Blayne. She's a girl--daughter of a Colonel Somebody. Doone. Simla's stiff with Colonels' daughters. Be more explicit. Blayne. Wait a shake. What was her name? Thresomething. Three-- Curtiss. Stars, perhaps. Caddy knows that brand. Blayne. Threegan--Minnie Threegan. Mackesy. Threegan Isn't she a little bit of a girl with red hair? Blayne. 'Bout that--from what from what Markyn said. Mackesy. Then I've met her. She was at Lucknow last season. 'Owned a permanently juvenile Mamma, and danced damnably. I say, Jervoise, you knew the Threegans, didn't you? JERVOISE. (Civilian of twenty-five years' service, waking up from his doze.) Eh? What's that? Knew who? How? I thought I was at Home, confound you! Mackesy. The Threegan girl's engaged, so Blayne says. Jervoise. (Slowly.) Engaged--en-gaged! Bless my soul! I'm getting an old man! Little Minnie Threegan engaged. It was only the other day I went home with them in the Surat--no, the Massilia--and she was crawling about on her hands and knees among the ayahs. 'Used to call me the "Tick Tack Sahib" because I showed her my watch. And that was in Sixty-Seven--no, Seventy. Good God, how time flies! I'm an old man. I remember when Threegan married Miss Derwent--daughter of old Hooky Derwent--but that was before your time. And so the little baby's engaged to have a little baby of her own! Who's the other fool? Mackesy. Gadsby of the Pink Hussars. Jervoise. 'Never met him. Threegan lived in debt, married in debt, and'll die in debt. 'Must be glad to get the girl off his hands. Blayne. Caddy has money--lucky devil. Place at Home, too. Doone. He comes of first-class stock. 'Can't quite understand his being caught by a Colonel's daughter, and (looking cautiously round room.) Black Infantry at that! No offence to you, Blayne. Blayne. (Stiffly.) Not much, thaanks. Curtiss. (Quoting motto of Irregular Moguls.) "We are what we are," eh, old man? But Gadsby was such a superior animal as a rule. Why didn't he go Home and pick his wife there? Mackesy. They are all alike when they come to the turn into the straight. About thirty a man begins to get sick of living alone. Curtiss. And of the eternal mutton--chop in the morning. Doone. It's a dead goat as a rule, but go on, Mackesy. Mackesy. If a man's once taken that way nothing will hold him, Do you remember Benoit of your service, Doone? They transferred him to Tharanda when his time came, and he married a platelayer's daughter, or something of that kind. She was the only female about the place. Doone. Yes, poor brute. That smashed Benoit's chances of promotion altogether. Mrs. Benoit used to ask "Was you goin' to the dance this evenin'?" Curtiss. Hang it all! Gadsby hasn't married beneath him. There's no tar-brush in the family, I suppose. Jervoise. Tar-brush! Not an anna. You young fellows talk as though the man was doing the girl an honor in marrying her. You're all too conceited--nothing's good enough for you. Blayne. Not even an empty Club, a dam' bad dinner at the Judge's, and a Station as sickly as a hospital. You're quite right. We're a set of Sybarites. Doone. Luxurious dogs, wallowing in-- Curtiss. Prickly heat between the shoulders. I'm covered with it. Let's hope Beora will be cooler. Blayne. Whew! Are you ordered into camp, too? I thought the Gunners had a clean sheet. Curtiss. No, worse luck. Two cases yesterday--one died--and if we have a third, out we go. Is there any shooting at Beora, Doone? Doone. The country's under water, except the patch by the Grand Trunk Road. I was there yesterday, looking at a bund, and came across four poor devils in their last stage. It's rather bad from here to Kuchara. Curtiss. Then we're pretty certain to have a heavy go of it. Heigho! I shouldn't mind changing places with Gaddy for a while. 'Sport with Amaryllis in the shade of the Town Hall, and all that. Oh, why doesn't somebody come and marry me, instead of letting me go into cholera-camp? Mackesy. Ask the Committee. Curtiss. You ruffian! You'll stand me another peg for that. Blayne, what will you take? Mackesy is fine on moral grounds. Done, have you any preference? Doone. Small glass Kummel, please. Excellent carminative, these days. Anthony told me so. Mackesy. (Signing voucher for four drinks.) Most unfair punishment. I only thought of Curtiss as Actaeon being chivied round the billiard tables by the nymphs of Diana. Blayne. Curtiss would have to import his nymphs by train. Mrs. Cockley's the only woman in the Station. She won't leave Cockley, and he's doing his best to get her to go. Curtiss. Good, indeed! Here's Mrs. Cockley's health. To the only wife in the Station and a damned brave woman! OMNES. (Drinking.) A damned brave woman Blayne. I suppose Gadsby will bring his wife here at the end of the cold weather. They are going to be married almost immediately, I believe. Curtiss. Gadsby may thank his luck that the Pink Hussars are all detachment and no headquarters this hot weather, or he'd be torn from the arms of his love as sure as death. Have you ever noticed the thorough-minded way British Cavalry take to cholera? It's because they are so expensive. If the Pinks had stood fast here, they would have been out in camp a month ago. Yes, I should decidedly like to be Gadsby. Mackesy. He'll go Home after he's married, and send in his papers--see if he doesn't. Blayne. Why shouldn't he? Hasn't he money? Would any one of us be here if we weren't paupers? Doone. Poor old pauper! What has become of the six hundred you rooked from our table last month? Blayne. It took unto itself wings. I think an enterprising tradesman got some of it, and a shroff gobbled the rest--or else I spent it. Curtiss. Gadsby never had dealings with a shroff in his life. Doone. Virtuous Gadsby! If I had three thousand a month, paid from England, I don't think I'd deal with a shroff either. Mackesy. (Yawning.) Oh, it's a sweet life! I wonder whether matrimony would make it sweeter. Curtiss. Ask Cockley--with his wife dying by inches! Blayne. Go home and get a fool of a girl to come out to--what is it Thackeray says?--"the splendid palace of an Indian pro-consul." Doone. Which reminds me. My quarters leak like a sieve. I had fever last night from sleeping in a swamp. And the worst of it is, one can't do anything to a roof till the Rains are over. Curtiss. What's wrong with you? You haven't eighty rotting Tommies to take into a running stream. Doone. No: but I'm mixed boils and bad language. I'm a regular Job all over my body. It's sheer poverty of blood, and I don't see any chance of getting richer--either way. Blayne. Can't you take leave? Doone. That's the pull you Army men have over us. Ten days are nothing in your sight. I'm so important that Government can't find a substitute if I go away. Ye-es, I'd like to be Gadsby, whoever his wife may be. Curtiss. You've passed the turn of life that Mackesy was speaking of. Doone. Indeed I have, but I never yet had the brutality to ask a woman to share my life out here. Blayne. On my soul I believe you're right. I'm thinking of Mrs. Cockley. The woman's an absolute wreck. Doone. Exactly. Because she stays down here. The only way to keep her fit would be to send her to the Hills for eight months--and the same with any woman. I fancy I see myself taking a wife on those terms. Mackesy. With the rupee at one and sixpence. The little Doones would be little Debra Doones, with a fine Mussoorie @chi-chi anent to bring home for the holidays. Curtiss. And a pair of be-ewtiful sambhur--horns for Doone to wear, free of expense, presented by--Doone. Yes, it's an enchanting prospect. By the way, the rupee hasn't done falling yet. The time will come when we shall think ourselves lucky if we only lose half our pay. Curtiss. Surely a third's loss enough. Who gains by the arrangement? That's what I want to know. Blayne. The Silver Question! I'm going to bed if you begin squabbling Thank Goodness, here's Anthony--looking like a ghost. Enter ANTHONY, Indian Medical Staff, very white and tired. Anthony. 'Evening, Blayne. It's raining in sheets. Whiskey peg lao, khitmatgar. The roads are something ghastly. Curtiss. How's Mingle? Anthony. Very bad, and more frightened. I handed him over to Fewton. Mingle might just as well have called him in the first place, instead of bothering me. Blayne. He's a nervous little chap. What has he got, this time? Anthony. 'Can't quite say. A very bad tummy and a blue funk so far. He asked me at once if it was cholera, and I told him not to be a fool. That soothed him. Curtiss. Poor devil! The funk does half the business in a man of that build. Anthony. (Lighting a cheroot.) I firmly believe the funk will kill him if he stays down. You know the amount of trouble he's been giving Fewton for the last three weeks. He's doing his very best to frighten himself into the grave. GENERAL CHORUS. Poor little devil! Why doesn't he get away? Anthony. 'Can't. He has his leave all right, but he's so dipped he can't take it, and I don't think his name on paper would raise four annas. That's in confidence, though. Mackesy. All the Station knows it. Anthony. "I suppose I shall have to die here," he said, squirming all across the bed. He's quite made up his mind to Kingdom Come. And I know he has nothing more than a wet-weather tummy if he could only keep a hand on himself. Blayne. That's bad. That's very bad. Poor little Miggy. Good little chap, too. I say-- Anthony. What do you say? Blayne. Well, look here--anyhow. If it's like that--as you say--I say fifty. Curtiss. I say fifty. Mackesy. I go twenty better. Doone. Bloated Croesus of the Bar! I say fifty. Jervoise, what do you say? Hi! Wake up! Jervoise. Eh? What's that? What's that? Curtiss. We want a hundred rupees from you. You're a bachelor drawing a gigantic income, and there's a man in a hole. Jervoise. What man? Any one dead? Blayne. No, but he'll die if you don't--give the hundred. Here! Here's a peg-voucher. You can see what we've signed for, and Anthony's man will come round tomorrow to collect it. So there will be no trouble. Jervoise. (Signing.) One hundred, E. M. J. There you are (feebly). It isn't one of your jokes, is it? Blayne. No, it really is wanted. Anthony, you were the biggest poker-winner last week, and you've defrauded the tax-collector too long. Sign! Anthony. Let's see. Three fifties and a seventy-two twenty-three twenty--say four hundred and twenty. That'll give him a month clear at the Hills. Many thanks, you men. I'll send round the chaprassi tomorrow. Curtiss. You must engineer his taking the stuff, and of course you mustn't-- Anthony. Of course. It would never do. He'd weep with gratitude over his evening drink. Blayne. That's just what he would do, damn him. Oh! I say, Anthony, you pretend to know everything. Have you heard about Gadsby? Anthony. No. Divorce Court at last? Blayne. Worse. He's engaged! Anthony. How much? He can't be! Blayne. He is. He's going to be married in a few weeks. Markyn told me at the Judge's this evening. It's pukka. Anthony. You don't say so? Holy Moses! There'll be a shine in the tents of Kedar. Curtiss. 'Regiment cut up rough, think you? Anthony. 'Don't know anything about the Regiment. Mackesy. It is bigamy, then? Anthony. Maybe. Do you mean to say that you men have forgotten, or is there more charity in the world than I thought? Doone. You don't look pretty when you are trying to keep a secret. You bloat. Explain. Anthony. Mrs. Herriott! Blayne. (After a long pause, to the room generally.) It's my notion that we are a set of fools. Mackesy. Nonsense. That business was knocked on the head last season. Why, young Mallard-- Anthony. Mallard was a candlestick, paraded as such. Think awhile. Recollect last season and the talk then. Mallard or no Mallard, did Gadsby ever talk to any other woman? Curtiss. There's something in that. It was slightly noticeable now you come to mention it. But she's at Naini Tal and he's at Simla. Anthony. He had to go to Simla to look after a globe-trotter relative of his--a person with a title. Uncle or aunt. Blayne And there he got engaged. No law prevents a man growing tired of a woman. Anthony. Except that he mustn't do it till the woman is tired of him. And the Herriott woman was not that. Curtiss. She may be now. Two months of Naini Tal works wonders. Doone. Curious thing how some women carry a Fate with them. There was a Mrs. Deegie in the Central Provinces whose men invariably fell away and got married. It became a regular proverb with us when I was down there. I remember three men desperately devoted to her, and they all, one after another, took wives. Curtiss. That's odd. Now I should have thought that Mrs. Deegie's influence would have led them to take other men's wives. It ought to have made them afraid of the judgment of Providence. Anthony. Mrs. Herriott will make Gadsby afraid of something more than the judgment of Providence, I fancy. Blayne. Supposing things are as you say, he'll be a fool to face her. He'll sit tight at Simla. Anthony. Shouldn't be a bit surprised if he went off to Naini to explain. He's an unaccountable sort of man, and she's likely to be a more than unaccountable woman. Doone. What makes you take her character away so confidently? Anthony. Primum tempus. Caddy was her first and a woman doesn't allow her first man to drop away without expostulation. She justifies the first transfer of affection to herself by swearing that it is forever and ever. Consequently-- Blayne. Consequently, we are sitting here till past one o'clock, talking scandal like a set of Station cats. Anthony, it's all your fault. We were perfectly respectable till you came in. Go to bed. I'm off, Good night all. Curtiss. Past one! It's past two by Jove, and here's the khit coming for the late charge. Just Heavens! One, two, three, four, five rupees to pay for the pleasure of saying that a poor little beast of a woman is no better than she should be. I'm ashamed of myself. Go to bed, you slanderous villains, and if I'm sent to Beora tomorrow, be prepared to hear I'm dead before paying my card account! THE TENTS OF KEDAR Only why should it be with pain at all? Why must I 'twixt the leaves of coronal Put any kiss of pardon on thy brow? Why should the other women know so much, And talk together-- Such the look and such The smile he used to love with, then as now. --Any Wife to any Husband. SCENE. A Naini Tal dinner for thirty-four. Plate, wines, crockery, and khitmatgars carefully calculated to scale of Rs. 6000 per mensem, less Exchange. Table split lengthways by bank of flowers. MRS. HERRIOTT. (After conversation has risen to proper pitch.) Ah! 'Didn't see you in the crush in the drawing-room. (Sotto voce.) Where have you been all this while, Pip? CAPTAIN GADSBY. (Turning from regularly ordained dinner partner and settling hock glasses.) Good evening. (Sotto voce.) Not quite so loud another time. You've no notion how your voice carries. (Aside.) So much for shirking the written explanation. It'll have to be a verbal one now. Sweet prospect! How on earth am I to tell her that I am a respectable, engaged member of society and it's all over between us? MRS. H. I've a heavy score against you. Where were you at the Monday Pop? Where were you on Tuesday? Where were you at the Lamonts' tennis? I was looking everywhere. Capt. G. For me! Oh, I was alive somewhere, I suppose. (Aside.) It's for Minnie's sake, but it's going to be dashed unpleasant. Mrs. H. Have I done anything to offend you? I never meant it if I have. I couldn't help going for a ride with the Vaynor man. It was promised a week before you came up. Capt. G. I didn't know-- Mrs. H. It really was. Capt. G. Anything about it, I mean. Mrs. H. What has upset you today? All these days? You haven't been near me for four whole days--nearly one hundred hours. Was it kind of you, Pip? And I've been looking forward so much to your coming. Capt. G. Have you? Mrs. H. You know I have! I've been as foolish as a schoolgirl about it. I made a little calendar and put it in my card-case, and every time the twelve o'clock gun went off I scratched out a square and said: "That brings me nearer to Pip. My Pip!" Capt. G. (With an uneasy laugh). What will Mackler think if you neglect him so? Mrs. H. And it hasn't brought you nearer. You seem farther away than ever. Are you sulking about something? I know your temper. Capt. G. No. Mrs. H. Have I grown old in the last few months, then? (Reaches forward to bank of flowers for menu-card.) PARTNER ON LEFT. Allow me. (Hands menu-card. Mrs. H. keeps her arm at full stretch for three seconds.) Mrs. H. (To partner.) Oh, thanks. I didn't see. (Turns right again.) Is anything in me changed at all? Capt. G. For Goodness's sake go on with your dinner! You must eat something. Try one of those cutlet arrangements. (Aside.) And I fancied she had good shoulders, once upon a time! What an ass a man can make of himself! Mrs. H. (Helping herself to a paper frill, seven peas, some stamped carrots and a spoonful of gravy.) That isn't an answer. Tell me whether I have done anything. Capt. G. (Aside.) If it isn't ended here there will be a ghastly scene some-where else. If only I'd written to her and stood the racket at long range! (To Khitmatgar.) Han! Simpkin do. (Aloud.) I'll tell you later on. Mrs. H. Tell me now. It must be some foolish misunderstanding, and you know that there was to be nothing of that sort between us. We, of all people in the world, can't afford it. Is it the Vaynor man, and don't you like to say so? On my honor-- Capt. G. I haven't given the Vaynor man a thought. Mrs. H. But how d'you know that I haven't? Capt. G. (Aside.) Here's my chance and may the Devil help me through with it. (Aloud and measuredly.) Believe me, I do not care how often or how tenderly you think of the Vaynor man. Mrs. H. I wonder if you mean that! Oh, what is the good of squabbling and pretending to misunderstand when you are only up for so short a time? Pip, don't be a stupid! Follows a pause, during which he crosses his left leg over his right and continues his dinner. Capt. G. (In answer to the thunderstorm in her eyes.) Corns--my worst. Mrs. H. Upon my word, you are the very rudest man in the world! I'll never do it again. Capt. G. (Aside.) No, I don't think you will; but I wonder what you will do before it's all over. (To Khitmatgar.) Thorah ur Simpkin do. Mrs. H. Well! Haven't you the grace to apologize, bad man? Capt. G. (Aside.) I mustn't let it drift back now. Trust a woman for being as blind as a bat when she won't see. Mrs. H. I'm waiting; or would you like me to dictate a form of apology? Capt. G. (Desperately.) By all means dictate. Mrs. H. (Lightly.) Very well. Rehearse your several Christian names after me and go on: "Profess my sincere repentance." Capt. G. "Sincere repentance." Mrs. H. "For having behaved"-- Capt. G. (Aside.) At last! I wish to Goodness she'd look away. "For having behaved"--as I have behaved, and declare that I am thoroughly and heartily sick of the whole business, and take this opportunity of making clear my intention of ending it, now, henceforward, and forever. (Aside.) If any one had told me I should be such a blackguard!-- Mrs. H. (Shaking a spoonful of potato chips into her plate.) That's not a pretty joke. Capt. G. No. It's a reality. (Aside.) I wonder if smashes of this kind are always so raw. Mrs. H. Really, Pip, you're getting more absurd every day. Capt. G. I don't think you quite understand me. Shall I repeat it? Mrs. H. No! For pity's sake don't do that. It's too terrible, even in fur. Capt. G. I'll let her think it over for a while. But I ought to be horsewhipped. Mrs. H. I want to know what you meant by what you said just now. Capt. G. Exactly what I said. No less. Mrs. H. But what have I done to deserve it? What have I done? Capt. G. (Aside.) If she only wouldn't look at me. (Aloud and very slowly, his eyes on his plate.) D'you remember that evening in July, before the Rains broke, when you said that the end would have to come sooner or later--and you wondered for which of US it would come first? Mrs. H. Yes! I was only joking. And you swore that, as long as there was breath in your body, it should never come. And I believed you. Capt. G. (Fingering menu-card.) Well, it has. That's all. A long pause, during which Mrs. H. bows her head and rolls the bread-twist into little pellets; G. stares at the oleanders. Mrs. H. (Throwing back her head and laughing naturally.) They train us women well, don't they, Pip? Capt. G. (Brutally, touching shirt-stud.) So far as the expression goes. (Aside.) It isn't in her nature to take things quietly. There'll be an explosion yet. Mrs. H. (With a shudder.) Thank you. B-but even Red Indians allow people to wriggle when they're being tortured, I believe. (Slips fan from girdle and fans slowly: rim of fan level with chin.) PARTNER ON LEFT. Very close tonight, isn't it? 'You find it too much for you? Mrs. H. Oh, no, not in the least. But they really ought to have punkahs, even in your cool Naini Tal, oughtn't they? (Turns, dropping fan and raising eyebrows.) Capt. G. It's all right. (Aside.) Here comes the storm! Mrs. H. (Her eyes on the tablecloth: fan ready in right hand.) It was very cleverly managed, Pip, and I congratulate you. You swore--you never contented yourself with merely Saying a thing--you swore that, as far as lay in your power, you'd make my wretched life pleasant for me. And you've denied me the consolation of breaking down. I should have done it--indeed I should. A woman would hardly have thought of this refinement, my kind, considerate friend. (Fan-guard as before.) You have explained things so tenderly and truthfully, too! You haven't spoken or written a word of warning, and you have let me believe in you till the last minute. You haven't condescended to give me your reason yet. No! A woman could not have managed it half so well. Are there many men like you in the world? Capt. G. I'm sure I don't know. (To Khitmatgar.) Ohe! Simpkin do. Mrs. H. You call yourself a man of the world, don't you? Do men of the world behave like Devils when they do a woman the honor to get tired of her? Capt. G. I'm sure I don't know. Don't speak so loud! Mrs. H. Keep us respectable, O Lord, whatever happens. Don't be afraid of my compromising you. You've chosen your ground far too well, and I've been properly brought up. (Lowering fan.) Haven't you any pity, Pip, except for yourself? Capt. G. Wouldn't it be rather impertinent of me to say that I'm sorry for you? Mrs. H. I think you have said it once or twice before. You're growing very careful of my feelings. My God, Pip, I was a good woman once! You said I was. You've made me what I am. What are you going to do with me? What are you going to do with me? Won't you say that you are sorry? (Helps herself to iced asparagus.) Capt. G. I am sorry for you, if you WANT the pity of such a brute as I am. I'm awf'ly sorry for you. Mrs. H. Rather tame for a man of the world. Do you think that that admission clears you? Capt. G. What can I do? I can only tell you what I think of myself. You can't think worse than that? Mrs. H. Oh, yes, I can! And now, will you tell me the reason of all this? Remorse? Has Bayard been suddenly conscience-stricken? Capt. G. (Angrily, his eyes still lowered.) No! The thing has come to an end on my side. That's all. Mafisch! Mrs. H. "That's all. Mafisch!" As though I were a Cairene Dragoman. You used to make prettier speeches. D'you remember when you said?-- Capt. G. For Heaven's sake don't bring that back! Call me anything you like and I'll admit it-- Mrs. H. But you don't care to be reminded of old lies? If I could hope to hurt you one-tenth as much as you have hurt me tonight--No, I wouldn't--I couldn't do it--liar though you are. Capt. G. I've spoken the truth. Mrs. H. My dear Sir, you flatter yourself. You have lied over the reason. Pip, remember that I know you as you don't know yourself. You have been everything to me, though you are--(Fan-guard.) Oh, what a contemptible Thing it is! And so you are merely tired of me? Capt. G. Since you insist upon my repeating it--Yes. Mrs. H. Lie the first. I wish I knew a coarser word. Lie seems so ineffectual in your case. The fire has just died out and there is no fresh one? Think for a minute, Pip, if you care whether I despise you more than I do. Simply Mafisch, is it? Capt. G. Yes. (Aside.) I think I deserve this. Mrs. H. Lie number two. Before the next glass chokes you, tell me her name. Capt. G. (Aside.) I'll make her pay for dragging Minnie into the business! (Aloud.) Is it likely? Mrs. H. Very likely if you thought that it would flatter your vanity. You'd cry my name on the house-tops to make people turn round. Capt. G. I wish I had. There would have been an end to this business. Mrs. H. Oh, no, there would not--And so you were going to be virtuous and blase', were you? To come to me and say: "I've done with you. The incident is clo-osed." I ought to be proud of having kept such a man so long. Capt. G. (Aside.) It only remains to pray for the end of the dinner. (Aloud.) You know what I think of myself. Mrs. H. As it's the only person in he world you ever do think of, and as I know your mind thoroughly, I do. You want to get it all over and--Oh, I can't keep you back! And you're going--think of it, Pip--to throw me over for another woman. And you swore that all other women were--Pip, my Pip! She can't care for you as I do. Believe me, she can't. Is it any one that I know? Capt. G. Thank Goodness it isn't. (Aside.) I expected a cyclone, but not an earthquake. Mrs. H. She can't! Is there anything that I wouldn't do for you--or haven't done? And to think that I should take this trouble over you, knowing what you are! Do you despise me for it? Capt. G. (Wiping his mouth to hide a smile.) Again? It's entirely a work of charity on your part. Mrs. H. Ahhh! But I have no right to resent it.--Is she better-looking than I? Who was it said?-- Capt. G. No--not that! Mrs. H. I'll be more merciful than you were. Don't you know that all women are alike? Capt. G. (Aside.) Then this is the exception that proves the rule. Mrs. H. All of them! I'll tell you anything you like. I will, upon my word! They only want the admiration--from anybody--no matter who--anybody! But there is always one man that they care for more than any one else in the world, and would sacrifice all the others to. Oh, do listen! I've kept the Vaynor man trotting after me like a poodle, and he believes that he is the only man I am interested in. I'll tell you what he said to me. Capt. G. Spare him. (Aside.) I wonder what his version is. Mrs. H. He's been waiting for me to look at him all through dinner. Shall I do it, and you can see what an idiot he looks? Capt. G. "But what imports the nomination of this gentleman?" Mrs. H. Watch! (Sends a glance to the Vaynor man, who tries vainly to combine a mouthful of ice pudding, a smirk of self-satisfaction, a glare of intense devotion, and the stolidity of a British dining countenance.) Capt. G. (Critically.) He doesn't look pretty. Why didn't you wait till the spoon was out of his mouth? Mrs. H. To amuse you. She'll make an exhibition of you as I've made of him; and people will laugh at you. Oh, Pip, can't you see that? It's as plain as the noonday Sun. You'll be trotted about and told lies, and made a fool of like the others. I never made a fool of you, did I? Capt. G. (Aside.) What a clever little woman it is! Mrs. H. Well, what have you to say? Capt. G. I feel better. Mrs. H. Yes, I suppose so, after I have come down to your level. I couldn't have done it if I hadn't cared for you so much. I have spoken the truth. Capt. G. It doesn't alter the situation. Mrs. H. (Passionately.) Then she has said that she cares for you! Don't believe her, Pip. It's a lie--as bad as yours to me! Capt. G. Ssssteady! I've a notion that a friend of yours is looking at you. Mrs. H. He! I hate him. He introduced you to me. Capt. G. (Aside.) And some people would like women to assist in making the laws. Introduction to imply condonement. (Aloud.) Well, you see, if you can remember so far back as that, I couldn't, in common politeness, refuse the offer. Mrs. H. In common politeness I--We have got beyond that! Capt. G. (Aside.) Old ground means fresh trouble. (Aloud.) On my honor-- Mrs. H. Your what? Ha, ha! Capt. G. Dishonor, then. She's not what you imagine. I meant to-- Mrs. H. Don't tell me anything about her! She won't care for you, and when you come back, after having made an exhibition of yourself, you'll find me occupied with-- Capt. G. (Insolently.) You couldn't while I am alive. (Aside.) If that doesn't bring her pride to her rescue, nothing will. Mrs. H. (Drawing herself up.) Couldn't do it? I--(Softening.) You're right. I don't believe I could--though you are what you are--a coward and a liar in grain. Capt. G. It doesn't hurt so much after your little lecture--with demonstrations. Mrs. H. One mass of vanity! Will nothing ever touch you in this life? There must be a Hereafter if it's only for the benefit of--But you will have it all to yourself. Capt. G. (Under his eyebrows.) Are you certain of that? Mrs. H. I shall have had mine in this life; and it will serve me right, Capt. G. But the admiration that you insisted on so strongly a moment ago? (Aside.) Oh, I am a brute! Mrs. H. (Fiercely.) Will that console me for knowing that you will go to her with the same words, the same arguments, and the--the same pet names you used to me? And if she cares for you, you two will laugh over my story. Won't that be punishment heavy enough even for me--even for me?--And it's all useless. That's another punishment. Capt. G. (Feebly.) Oh, come! I'm not so low as you think. Mrs. H. Not now, perhaps, but you will be. Oh, Pip, if a woman flatters your vanity, there's nothing on earth that you would not tell her; and no meanness that you would not do. Have I known you so long without knowing that? Capt. G. If you can trust me in nothing else--and I don't see why I should be trusted--you can count upon my holding my tongue. Mrs. H. If you denied everything you've said this evening and declared it was all in fun (a long pause), I'd trust you. Not otherwise. All I ask is, don't tell her my name. Please don't. A man might forget: a woman never would. (Looks up table and sees hostess beginning to collect eyes.) So it's all ended, through no fault of mine--Haven't I behaved beautifully? I've accepted your dismissal, and you managed it as cruelly as you could, and I have made you respect my sex, haven't I? (Arranging gloves and fan.) I only pray that she'll know you some day as I know you now. I wouldn't be you then, for I think even your conceit will be hurt. I hope she'll pay you back the humiliation you've brought on me. I hope--No. I don't! I can't give you up! I must have something to look forward to or I shall go crazy. When it's all over, come back to me, come back to me, and you'll find that you're my Pip still! Capt. G. (Very clearly.) False move, and you pay for it. It's a girl! Mrs. H. (Rising.) Then it was true! They said--but I wouldn't insult you by asking. A girl! I was a girl not very long ago. Be good to her, Pip. I daresay she believes in you. Goes out with an uncertain smile. He watches her through the door, and settles into a chair as the men redistribute themselves. Capt. G. Now, if there is any Power who looks after this world, will He kindly tell me what I have done? (Reaching out for the claret, and half aloud.) What have I done? WITH ANY AMAZEMENT And are not afraid with any amazement. --Marriage Service. SCENE. bachelor's bedroom-toilet-table arranged with unnatural neatness. CAPTAIN GADSBY asleep and snoring heavily. Time, 10:30 A. M.--a glorious autumn day at Simla. Enter delicately Captain MAFFLIN of GADSBY's regiment. Looks at sleeper, and shakes his head murmuring "Poor Gaddy." Performs violent fantasia with hair-brushes on chairback. Capt. M. Wake up, my sleeping beauty! (Roars.) "Uprouse ye, then, my merry merry men! It is our opening day! It is our opening da-ay!" Gaddy, the little dicky-birds have been billing and cooing for ever so long; and I'm here! Capt. G. (Sitting up and yawning.) Mornin'. This is awf'ly good of you, old fellow. Most awf'ly good of you. Don't know what I should do without you. 'Pon my soul, I don't. 'Haven't slept a wink all night. Capt. M. I didn't get in till half-past eleven. 'Had a look at you then, and you seemed to be sleeping as soundly as a condemned criminal. Capt. G. Jack, if you want to make those disgustingly worn-out jokes, you'd better go away. (With portentous gravity.) It's the happiest day in my life. Capt. M. (Chuckling grimly.) Not by a very long chalk, my son. You're going through some of the most refined torture you've ever known. But be calm. I am with you. 'Shun! Dress! Capt. G. Eh! Wha-at? Capt. M. Do you suppose that you are your own master for the next twelve hours? If you do, of course--(Makes for the door.) Capt. G. No! For Goodness' sake, old man, don't do that! You'll see me through, won't you? I've been mugging up that beastly drill, and can't remember a line of it. Capt. M. (Overturning G.'s uniform.) Go and tub. Don't bother me. I'll give you ten minutes to dress in. INTERVAL, filled by the noise as of one splashing in the bath-room.. Capt. G. (Emerging from dressing-room.) What time is it? Capt. M. Nearly eleven. Capt. G. Five hours more. O Lord! Capt. M. (Aside.) 'First sign of funk, that. 'Wonder if it's going to spread. (Aloud.) Come along to breakfast. Capt. G. I can't eat anything. I don't want any breakfast. Capt. M. (Aside.) So early! (Aloud) CAPTAIN Gadsby, I order you to eat breakfast, and a dashed good breakfast, too. None of your bridal airs and graces with me! Leads G. downstairs and stands over him while he eats two chops. Capt. G. (Who has looked at his watch thrice in the last five minutes.) What time is it? Capt. M. Time to come for a walk. Light up. Capt. G. I haven't smoked for ten days, and I won't now. (Takes cheroot which M. has cut for him, and blows smoke through his nose luxuriously.) We aren't going down the Mall, are we? Capt. M. (Aside.) They're all alike in these stages. (Aloud.) No, my Vestal. We're going along the quietest road we can find. Capt. G. Any chance of seeing Her? Capt. M. Innocent! No! Come along, and, if you want me for the final obsequies, don't cut my eye out with your stick. Capt. G. (Spinning round.) I say, isn't She the dearest creature that ever walked? What's the time? What comes after "wilt thou take this woman"? Capt. M. You go for the ring. R'c'lect it'll be on the top of my right-hand little finger, and just be careful how you draw it off, because I shall have the Verger's fees somewhere in my glove. Capt. G. (Walking forward hastily.) D--the Verger! Come along! It's past twelve and I haven't seen Her since yesterday evening. (Spinning round again.) She's an absolute angel, Jack, and She's a dashed deal too good for me. Look here, does She come up the aisle on my arm, or how? Capt. M. If I thought that there was the least chance of your remembering anything for two consecutive minutes, I'd tell you. Stop passaging about like that! Capt. G. (Halting in the middle of the road.) I say, Jack. Capt. M. Keep quiet for another ten minutes if you can, you lunatic; and walk! The two tramp at five miles an hour for fifteen minutes. Capt. G. What's the time? How about the cursed wedding-cake and the slippers? They don't throw 'em about in church, do they? Capt. M. Invariably. The Padre leads off with his boots. Capt. G. Confound your silly soul! Don't make fun of me. I can't stand it, and I won't! Capt. M. (Untroubled.) So-ooo, old horse You'll have to sleep for a couple of hours this afternoon. Capt. G. (Spinning round.) I'm not going to be treated like a dashed child, understand that. Capt. M. (Aside.) Nerves gone to fiddle-strings. What a day we're having! (Tenderly putting his hand on G.'s shoulder.) My David, how long have you known this Jonathan? Would I come up here to make a fool of you--after all these years? Capt. G. (Penitently.) I know, I know, Jack--but I'm as upset as I can be. Don't mind what I say. Just hear me run through the drill and see if I've got it all right:--"To have and to hold for better or worse, as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end, so help me God. Amen." Capt. M. (Suffocating with suppressed laughter.) Yes. That's about the gist of it. I'll prompt if you get into a hat. Capt. G. (Earnestly.) Yes, you'll stick by me, Jack, won't you? I'm awfully happy, but I don't mind telling you that I'm in a blue funk! Capt. M. (Gravely.) Are you? I should never have noticed it. You don't look like it. Capt. G. Don't I? That's all right. (Spinning round.) On my soul and honor, Jack, She's the sweetest little angel that ever came down from the sky. There isn't a woman on earth fit to speak to Her. Capt. M. (Aside.) And this is old Gadsby! (Aloud.) Go on if it relieves you. Capt. G. You can laugh! That's all you wild asses of bachelors are fit for. Capt. M. (Drawling.) You never would wait for the troop to come up. You aren't quite married yet, y'know. Capt. G. Ugh! That reminds me. I don't believe I shall be able to get into any boots Let's go home and try 'em on (Hurries forward.) Capt. M. 'Wouldn't be in your shoes for anything that Asia has to offer. Capt. G. (Spinning round.) That just shows your hideous blackness of soul--your dense stupidity--your brutal narrow-mindedness. There's only one fault about you. You're the best of good fellows, and I don't know what I should have done without you, but--you aren't married. (Wags his head gravely.) Take a wife, Jack. Capt. M. (With a face like a wall.) Ya-as. Whose for choice? Capt. G. If you're going to be a blackguard, I'm going on--What's the time? Capt. M. (Hums.) An' since 'twas very clear we drank only ginger-beer, Faith, there must ha' been some stingo in the ginger. Come back, you maniac. I'm going to take you home, and you're going to lie down. Capt. G. What on earth do I want to lie down for? Capt. M. Give me a light from your cheroot and see. Capt. G. (Watching cheroot-butt quiver like a tuning-fork.) Sweet state I'm in! Capt. M. You are. I'll get you a peg and you'll go to sleep. They return and M. compounds a four-finger peg. Capt. G. O bus! bus! It'll make me as drunk as an owl. Capt. M. 'Curious thing, 'twon't have the slightest effect on you. Drink it off, chuck yourself down there, and go to bye-bye. Capt. G. It's absurd. I sha'n't sleep, I know I sha'n't! Falls into heavy doze at end of seven minutes. Capt. M. watches him tenderly. Capt. M. Poor old Gadsby! I've seen a few turned off before, but never one who went to the gallows in this condition. 'Can't tell how it affects 'em, though. It's the thoroughbreds that sweat when they're backed into double-harness.--And that's the man who went through the guns at Amdheran like a devil possessed of devils. (Leans over G.) But this is worse than the guns, old pal--worse than the guns, isn't it? (G. turns in his sleep, and M. touches him clumsily on the forehead.) Poor, dear old Gaddy! Going like the rest of 'em--going like the rest of 'em--Friend that sticketh closer than a brother--eight years. Dashed bit of a slip of a girl--eight weeks! And--where's your friend? (Smokes disconsolately till church clock strikes three.) Capt. M. Up with you! Get into your kit. Capt. C. Already? Isn't it too soon? Hadn't I better have a shave? Capt. M. No! You're all right. (Aside.) He'd chip his chin to pieces. Capt. C. What's the hurry? Capt. M. You've got to be there first. Capt. C. To be stared at? Capt. M. Exactly. You're part of the show. Where's the burnisher? Your spurs are in a shameful state. Capt. G. (Gruffly.) Jack, I be damned if you shall do that for me. Capt. M. (More gruffly.) Dry up and get dressed! If I choose to clean your spurs, you're under my orders. Capt. G. dresses. M. follows suit. Capt. M. (Critically, walking round.) M'--yes, you'll do. Only don't look so like a criminal. Ring, gloves, fees--that's all right for me. Let your moustache alone. Now, if the ponies are ready, we'll go. Capt. G. (Nervously.) It's much too soon. Let's light up! Let's have a peg! Let's-- Capt. M. Let's make bally asses of ourselves! BELLS. (Without.)--"Good-peo-ple-all To prayers-we call." Capt. M. There go the bells! Come on--unless you'd rather not. (They ride off.) BELLS.--"We honor the King And Brides joy do bring--Good tidings we tell, And ring the Dead's knell." Capt. G. (Dismounting at the door of the Church.) I say, aren't we much too soon? There are no end of people inside. I say, aren't we much too late? Stick by me, Jack! What the devil do I do? Capt. M. Strike an attitude at the head of the aisle and wait for Her. (G. groans as M. wheels him into position before three hundred eyes.) Capt. M. (Imploringly.) Gaddy, if you love me, for pity's sake, for the Honor of the Regiment, stand up! Chuck yourself into your uniform! Look like a man! I've got to speak to the Padre a minute. (G. breaks into a gentle Perspiration.) If you wipe your face I'll never be your best man again. Stand up! (G. trembles visibly.) Capt. M. (Returning.) She's coming now. Look out when the music starts. There's the organ beginning to clack. Bride steps out of 'rickshaw at Church door. G. catches a glimpse of her and takes heart. ORGAN.--"The Voice that breathed o'er Eden, That earliest marriage day, The primal marriage-blessing, It hath not passed away." Capt. M. (Watching G.) By Jove! He is looking well. 'Didn't think he had it in him. Capt. G. How long does this hymn go on for? Capt. M. It will be over directly. (Anxiously.) (Beginning to bleach and gulp.) Hold on, Gabby, and think 'o the Regiment. Capt. G. (Measuredly.) I say, there's a big brown lizard crawling up that wall. Capt. M. My Sainted Mother! The last stage of collapse! Bride comes up to left of altar, lifts her eyes once to G., who is suddenly smitten mad. Capt. G. (To himself again and again.) Little Featherweight's a woman--a woman! And I thought she was a little girl. Capt. M. (In a whisper.) Form the halt--inward wheel. Capt. G. obeys mechanically and the ceremony proceeds. PADRE.... only unto her as ye both shall live? Capt. G. (His throat useless.) Ha-hmmm! Capt. M. Say you will or you won't. There's no second deal here. Bride gives response with perfect coolness, and is given away by the father. Capt. G. (Thinking to show his learning.) Jack give me away now, quick! Capt. M. You've given yourself away quite enough. Her right hand, man! Repeat! Repeat! "Theodore Philip." Have you forgotten your own name? Capt. G. stumbles through Affirmation, which Bride repeats without a tremor. Capt. M. Now the ring! Follow the Padre! Don't pull off my glove! Here it is! Great Cupid, he's found his voice. Capt. G. repeats Troth in a voice to be heard to the end of the Church and turns on his heel. Capt. M. (Desperately.) Rein back! Back to your troop! 'Tisn't half legal yet. PADRE.... joined together let no man put asunder. Capt. G. paralyzed with fear jibs after Blessing. Capt. M. (Quickly.) On your own front--one length. Take her with you. I don't come. You've nothing to say. (Capt. G. jingles up to altar.) Capt. M. (In a piercing rattle meant to be a whisper.) Kneel, you stiff-necked ruffian! Kneel! PADRE... whose daughters are ye so long as ye do well and are not afraid with any amazement. Capt. M. Dismiss! Break off! Left wheel! All troop to vestry. They sign. Capt. M. Kiss Her, Gaddy. Capt. G. (Rubbing the ink into his glove.) Eh! Wha-at? Capt. M. (Taking one pace to Bride.) If you don't, I shall. Capt. G. (Interposing an arm.) Not this journey! General kissing, in which Capt. G. is pursued by unknown female. Capt. G. (Faintly to M.) This is Hades! Can I wipe my face now? Capt. M. My responsibility has ended. Better ask Misses GADSBY. Capt. G. winces as though shot and procession is Mendelssohned out of Church to house, where usual tortures take place over the wedding-cake. Capt. M. (At table.) Up with you, Gaddy. They expect a speech. Capt. G. (After three minutes' agony.) Ha-hmmm. (Thunders Of applause.) Capt. M. Doocid good, for a first attempt. Now go and change your kit while Mamma is weeping over "the Missus." (Capt. G. disappears. Capt. M. starts up tearing his hair.) It's not half legal. Where are the shoes? Get an ayah. AYAH. Missie Captain Sahib done gone band karo all the jutis. Capt. M. (Brandishing scab larded sword.) Woman, produce those shoes! Some one lend me a bread-knife. We mustn't crack Gaddy's head more than it is. (Slices heel off white satin slipper and puts slipper up his sleeve.) Where is the Bride? (To the company at large.) Be tender with that rice. It's a heathen custom. Give me the big bag. * * * * * Bride slips out quietly into 'rickshaw and departs toward the sunset. Capt. M. (In the open.) Stole away, by Jove! So much the worse for Gaddy! Here he is. Now Gaddy, this'll be livelier than Amdberan! Where's your horse? Capt. G. (Furiously, seeing that the women are out of an earshot.) Where the d----'s my Wife? Capt. M. Half-way to Mahasu by this time. You'll have to ride like Young Lochinvar. Horse comes round on his hind legs; refuses to let G. handle him. Capt. G. Oh you will, will you? Get 'round, you brute--you hog--you beast! Get round! Wrenches horse's head over, nearly breaking lower jaw: swings himself into saddle, and sends home both spurs in the midst of a spattering gale of Best Patna. Capt. M. For your life and your love--ride, Gaddy--And God bless you! Throws half a pound of rice at G. who disappears, bowed forward on the saddle, in a cloud of sunlit dust. Capt. M. I've lost old Gaddy. (Lights cigarette and strolls off, singing absently):--"You may carve it on his tombstone, you may cut it on his card, That a young man married is a young man marred!" Miss DEERCOURT. (From her horse.) Really, Captain Mafflin! You are more plain spoken than polite! Capt. M. (Aside.) They say marriage is like cholera. 'Wonder who'll be the next victim. White satin slipper slides from his sleeve and falls at his feet. Left wondering. THE GARDEN OF EDEN And ye shall be as--Gods! SCENE. Thymy grass-plot at back of the Mahasu dak-bungalow, overlooking little wooded valley. On the left, glimpse of the Dead Forest of Fagoo; on the right, Simla Hills. In background, line of the Snows. CAPTAIN GADSBY, now three weeks a husband, is smoking the pipe of peace on a rug in the sunshine. Banjo and tobacco-pouch on rug. Overhead the Fagoo eagles. Mrs. G. comes out of bungalow. Mrs. G. My husband! Capt. G. (Lazily, with intense enjoyment.) Eh, wha-at? Say that again. Mrs. G. I've written to Mamma and told her that we shall be back on the 17th. Capt. G. Did you give her my love? Mrs. G. No, I kept all that for myself. (Sitting down by his side.) I thought you wouldn't mind. Capt. G. (With mock sternness.) I object awf'ly. How did you know that it was yours to keep? Mrs. G. I guessed, Phil. Capt. G. (Rapturously.) Lit-tle Featherweight! Mrs. G. I won' t be called those sporting pet names, bad boy. Capt. G. You'll be called anything I choose. Has it ever occurred to you, Madam, that you are my Wife? Mrs. G. It has. I haven't ceased wondering at it yet. Capt. G. Nor I. It seems so strange; and yet, somehow, it doesn't. (Confidently.) You see, it could have been no one else. Mrs. G. (Softly.) No. No one else--for me or for you. It must have been all arranged from the beginning. Phil, tell me again what made you care for me. Capt. G. How could I help it? You were you, you know. Mrs. G. Did you ever want to help it? Speak the truth! Capt. G. (A twinkle in his eye.) I did, darling, just at the first. Rut only at the very first. (Chuckles.) I called you--stoop low and I'll whisper--"a little beast." Ho! Ho! Ho! Mrs. G. (Taking him by the moustache and making him sit up.) "A-little-beast!" Stop laughing over your crime! And yet you had the--the--awful cheek to propose to me! Capt. C. I'd changed my mind then. And you weren't a little beast any more. Mrs. G. Thank you, sir! And when was I ever? Capt. G. Never! But that first day, when you gave me tea in that peach-colored muslin gown thing, you looked--you did indeed, dear--such an absurd little mite. And I didn't know what to say to you. Mrs. G. (Twisting moustache.) So you said "little beast." Upon my word, Sir! I called you a "Crrrreature," but I wish now I had called you something worse. Capt. G. (Very meekly.) I apologize, but you're hurting me awf'ly. (Interlude.) You're welcome to torture me again on those terms. Mrs. G. Oh, why did you let me do it? Capt. G. (Looking across valley.) No reason in particular, but--if it amused you or did you any good--you might--wipe those dear little boots of yours on me. Mrs. G. (Stretching out her hands.) Don't! Oh, don't! Philip, my King, please don't talk like that. It's how I feel. You're so much too good for me. So much too good! Capt. G. Me! I'm not fit to put my arm around you. (Puts it round.) Mrs. C. Yes, you are. But I--what have I ever done? Capt. G. Given me a wee bit of your heart, haven't you, my Queen! Mrs. G. That's nothing. Any one would do that. They cou--couldn'thelp it. Capt. G. Pussy, you'll make me horribly conceited. Just when I was beginning to feel so humble, too. Mrs. G. Humble! I don't believe it's in your character. Capt. G. What do you know of my character, Impertinence? Mrs. G. Ah, but I shall, shan't I, Phil? I shall have time in all the years and years to come, to know everything about you; and there will be no secrets between us. Capt. G. Little witch! I believe you know me thoroughly already. Mrs. G. I think I can guess. You're selfish? Capt. G. Yes. Mrs. G. Foolish? Capt. G. Very. Mrs. G. And a dear? Capt. G. That is as my lady pleases. Mrs. G. Then your lady is pleased. (A pause.) D'you know that we're two solemn, serious, grown-up people-- Capt. G. (Tilting her straw hat over her eyes.) You grown-up! Pooh! You're a baby. Mrs. G. And we're talking nonsense. Capt. G. Then let's go on talking nonsense. I rather like it. Pussy, I'll tell you a secret. Promise not to repeat? Mrs. G. Ye-es. Only to you. Capt. G. I love you. Mrs. G. Re-ally! For how long? Capt. G. Forever and ever. Mrs. G. That's a long time. Capt. G. 'Think so? It's the shortest I can do with. Mrs. G. You're getting quite clever. Capt. G. I'm talking to you. Mrs. G. Prettily turned. Hold up your stupid old head and I'll pay you for it. Capt. G. (Affecting supreme contempt.) Take it yourself if you want it. Mrs. G. I've a great mind to--and I will! (Takes it and is repaid with interest.) Capt. G, Little Featherweight, it's my opinion that we are a couple of idiots. Mrs. G. We're the only two sensible people in the world. Ask the eagle. He's coming by. Capt. G. Ah! I dare say he's seen a good many sensible people at Mahasu. They say that those birds live for ever so long. Mrs. G. How long? Capt. G. A hundred and twenty years. Mrs. G. A hundred and twenty years! O-oh! And in a hundred and twenty years where will these two sensible people be? Capt. G. What does it matter so long as we are together now? Mrs. G. (Looking round the horizon.) Yes. Only you and I--I and you--in the whole wide, wide world until the end. (Sees the line of the Snows.) How big and quiet the hills look! D'you think they care for us? Capt. G. 'Can't say I've consulted 'em particularly. I care, and that's enough for me. Mrs. G. (Drawing nearer to him.) Yes, now--but afterward. What's that little black blur on the Snows? Capt. G. A snowstorm, forty miles away. You'll see it move, as the wind carries it across the face of that spur and then it will be all gone. Mrs. G. And then it will be all gone. (Shivers.) Capt. G. (Anxiously.) 'Not chilled, pet, are you? 'Better let me get your cloak. Mrs. G. No. Don't leave me, Phil. Stay here. I believe I am afraid. Oh, why are the hills so horrid! Phil, promise me that you'll always love me. Capt. G. What's the trouble, darling? I can't promise any more than I have; but I'll promise that again and again if you like. Mrs. G. (Her head on his shoulder.) Say it, then--say it! N-no--don't! The--the--eagles would laugh. (Recovering.) My husband, you've married a little goose. Capt. G. (Very tenderly.) Have I? I am content whatever she is, so long as she is mine. Mrs. G. (Quickly.) Because she is yours or because she is me mineself? Capt. G. Because she is both. (Piteously.) I'm not clever, dear, and I don't think I can make myself understood properly. Mrs. G. I understand. Pip, will you tell me something? Capt. G. Anything you like. (Aside.) I wonder what's coming now. Mrs. G. (Haltingly, her eyes lowered.) You told me once in the old days--centuries and centuries ago--that you had been engaged before. I didn't say anything--then. Capt. G. (Innocently.) Why not? Mrs. G. (Raising her eyes to his.) Because--because I was afraid of losing you, my heart. But now--tell about it--please. Capt. G. There's nothing to tell. I was awf'ly old then--nearly two and twenty--and she was quite that. Mrs. G. That means she was older than you. I shouldn't like her to have been younger. Well? Capt. G. Well, I fancied myself in love and raved about a bit, and--oh, yes, by Jove! I made up poetry. Ha! Ha! Mrs. G. You never wrote any for me! What happened? Capt. G. I came out here, and the whole thing went phut. She wrote to say that there had been a mistake, and then she married. Mrs. G. Did she care for you much? Capt. G. No. At least she didn't show it as far as I remember. Mrs. G. As far as you remember! Do you remember her name? (Hears it and bows her head.) Thank you, my husband. Capt. G. Who but you had the right? Now, Little Featherweight, have you ever been mixed up in any dark and dismal tragedy? Mrs. G. If you call me Mrs. Gadsby, p'raps I'll tell. Capt. G. (Throwing Parade rasp into his voice.) Mrs. Gadsby, confess! Mrs. G. Good Heavens, Phil! I never knew that you could speak in that terrible voice. Capt. G. You don't know half my accomplishments yet. Wait till we are settled in the Plains, and I'll show you how I bark at my troop. You were going to say, darling? Mrs. G. I--I don't like to, after that voice. (Tremulously.) Phil, never you dare to speak to me in that tone, whatever I may do! Capt. G. My poor little love! Why, you're shaking all over. I am so sorry. Of course I never meant to upset you Don't tell me anything, I'm a brute. Mrs. G. No, you aren't, and I will tell--There was a man. Capt. G. (Lightly.) Was there? Lucky man! Mrs. G. (In a whisper.) And I thought I cared for him. Capt. G. Still luckier man! Well? Mrs. G. And I thought I cared for him--and I didn't--and then you came--and I cared for you very, very much indeed. That's all. (Face hidden.) You aren't angry, are you? Capt. G. Angry? Not in the least. (Aside.) Good Lord, what have I done to deserve this angel? Mrs. G. (Aside.) And he never asked for the name! How funny men are! But perhaps it's as well. Capt. G. That man will go to heaven because you once thought you cared for him. 'Wonder if you'll ever drag me up there? Mrs. G. (Firmly.) 'Sha'n't go if you don't. Capt. G. Thanks. I say, Pussy, I don't know much about your religious beliefs. You were brought up to believe in a heaven and all that, weren't you? Mrs. G. Yes. But it was a pincushion heaven, with hymn-books in all the pews. Capt. G. (Wagging his head with intense conviction.) Never mind. There is a pukka heaven. Mrs. G. Where do you bring that message from, my prophet? Capt. G. Here! Because we care for each other. So it's all right. Mrs. G. (As a troop of langurs crash through the branches.) So it's all right. But Darwin says that we came from those! Capt. G. (Placidly.) Ah! Darwin was never in love with an angel. That settles it. Sstt, you brutes! Monkeys, indeed! You shouldn't read those books. Mrs. G. (Folding her hands.) If it pleases my Lord the King to issue proclamation. Capt. G. Don't, dear one. There are no orders between us. Only I'd rather you didn't. They lead to nothing, and bother people's heads. Mrs. G. Like your first engagement. Capt. G. (With an immense calm.) That was a necessary evil and led to you. Are you nothing? Mrs. G. Not so very much, am I? Capt. G. All this world and the next to me. Mrs. G. (Very softly.) My boy of boys! Shall I tell you something? Capt. G. Yes, if it's not dreadful--about other men. Mrs. G. It's about my own bad little self. Capt. G. Then it must be good. Go on, dear. Mrs. G. (Slowly.) I don't know why I'm telling you, Pip; but if ever you marry again--(Interlude.) Take your hand from my mouth or I'll bite! In the future, then remember--I don't know quite how to put it! Capt. G. (Snorting indignantly.) Don't try. "Marry again," indeed! Mrs. G. I must. Listen, my husband. Never, never, never tell your wife anything that you do not wish her to remember and think over all her life. Because a woman--yes, I am a woman--can't forget. Capt. G. By Jove, how do you know that? Mrs. G. (Confusedly.) I don't. I'm only guessing. I am--I was--a silly little girl; but I feel that I know so much, oh, so very much more than you, dearest. To begin with, I'm your wife. Capt. G. So I have been led to believe. Mrs. G. And I shall want to know every one of your secrets--to share everything you know with you. (Stares round desperately.) Capt. G. So you shall, dear, so you shall--but don't look like that. Mrs. G. For your own sake don't stop me, Phil. I shall never talk to you in this way again. You must not tell me! At least, not now. Later on, when I'm an old matron it won't matter, but if you love me, be very good to me now; for this part of my life I shall never forget! Have I made you understand? Capt. G. I think so, child. Have I said anything yet that you disapprove of? Mrs. G. Will you be very angry? That--that voice, and what you said about the engagement-- Capt. G. But you asked to be told that, darling. Mrs. G. And that's why you shouldn't have told me! You must be the Judge, and, oh, Pip, dearly as I love you, I shan't be able to help you! I shall hinder you, and you must judge in spite of me! Capt. G. (Meditatively.) We have a great many things to find out together, God help us both--say so, Pussy--but we shall understand each other better every day; and I think I'm beginning to see now. How in the world did you come to know just the importance of giving me just that lead? Mrs. G. I've told you that I don't know. Only somehow it seemed that, in all this new life, I was being guided for your sake as well as my own. Capt. G. (Aside.) Then Mafflin was right! They know, and we--we're blind all of us. (Lightly.) 'Getting a little beyond our depth, dear, aren't we? I'll remember, and, if I fail, let me be punished as I deserve. Mrs. G. There shall be no punishment. We'll start into life together from here--you and I--and no one else. Capt. G. And no one else. (A pause.) Your eyelashes are all wet, Sweet? Was there ever such a quaint little Absurdity? Mrs. G. Was there ever such nonsense talked before? Capt. G. (Knocking the ashes out of his pipe.) 'Tisn't what we say, it's what we don't say, that helps. And it's all the profoundest philosophy. But no one would understand--even if it were put into a book. Mrs. G. The idea! No--only we ourselves, or people like ourselves--if there are any people like us. Capt. G. (Magisterially.) All people, not like ourselves, are blind idiots. Mrs. G. (Wiping her eyes.) Do you think, then, that there are any people as happy as we are? Capt. G. 'Must be--unless we've appropriated all the happiness in the world. Mrs. G. (Looking toward Simla.) Poor dears! Just fancy if we have! Capt. G. Then we'll hang on to the whole show, for it's a great deal too jolly to lose--eh, wife 'o mine? Mrs. G. O Pip! Pip! How much of you is a solemn, married man and how much a horrid slangy schoolboy? Capt. G. When you tell me how much of you was eighteen last birthday and how much is as old as the Sphinx and twice as mysterious, perhaps I'll attend to you. Lend me that banjo. The spirit moveth me to yowl at the sunset. Mrs. G. Mind! It's not tuned. Ah! How that jars! Capt. G. (Turning pegs.) It's amazingly different to keep a banjo to proper pitch. Mrs. G. It's the same with all musical instruments, What shall it be? Capt. G. "Vanity," and let the hills hear. (Sings through the first and half of the second verse. Turning to Mrs. G.) Now, chorus! Sing, Pussy! BOTH TOGETHER. (Con brio, to the horror of the monkeys who are settling for the night.)-- "Vanity, all is Vanity," said Wisdom, scorning me--I clasped my true Love's tender hand and answered frank and free-ee "If this be Vanity who'd be wise? If this be Vanity who'd be wise? If this be Vanity who'd be wi-ise (Crescendo.) Vanity let it be!" Mrs. G. (Defiantly to the grey of the evening sky.) "Vanity let it be!" ECHO. (Prom the Fagoo spur.) Let it be! FATIMA And you may go in every room of the house and see everything that is there, but into the Blue Room you must not go. --The Story of Blue Beard. SCENE. The GADSBYS' bungalow in the Plains. Time, 11 A. M. on a Sunday morning. Captain GADSBY, in his shirt-sleeves, is bending over a complete set of Hussar's equipment, from saddle to picketing-rope, which is neatly spread over the floor of his study. He is smoking an unclean briar, and his forehead is puckered with thought. Capt. G. (To himself, fingering a headstall.) Jack's an ass. There's enough brass on this to load a mule--and, if the Americans know anything about anything, it can be cut down to a bit only. 'Don't want the watering-bridle, either. Humbug!--Half a dozen sets of chains and pulleys for one horse! Rot! (Scratching his head.) Now, let's consider it all over from the beginning. By Jove, I've forgotten the scale of weights! Never mind. 'Keep the bit only, and eliminate every boss from the crupper to breastplate. No breastplate at all. Simple leather strap across the breast--like the Russians. Hi! Jack never thought of that! Mrs. G. (Entering hastily, her hand bound in a cloth.) Oh, Pip, I've scalded my hand over that horrid, horrid Tiparee jam! Capt. G. (Absently.) Eh! Wha-at? Mrs. G. (With round-eyed reproach.) I've scalded it aw-fully! Aren't you sorry? And I did so want that jam to jam properly. Capt. G. Poor little woman! Let me kiss the place and make it well. (Unrolling bandage.) You small sinner! Where's that scald? I can't see it. Mrs. G. On the top of the little finger. There!--It's a most 'normous big burn! Capt. G. (Kissing little finger.) Baby! Let Hyder look after the jam. You know I don't care for sweets. Mrs. G. Indeed?--Pip! Capt. G. Not of that kind, anyhow. And now run along, Minnie, and leave me to my own base devices. I'm busy. Mrs. G. (Calmly settling herself in long chair.) So I see. What a mess you're making! Why have you brought all that smelly leather stuff into the house? Capt. G. To play with. Do you mind, dear? Mrs. G. Let me play too. I'd like it. Capt. G. I'm afraid you wouldn't. Pussy--Don't you think that jam will burn, or whatever it is that jam does when it's not looked after by a clever little housekeeper? Mrs. G. I thought you said Hyder could attend to it. I left him in the veranda, stirring--when I hurt myself so. Capt. G. (His eye returning to the equipment.) Po-oor little woman!--Three pounds four and seven is three eleven, and that can be cut down to two eight, with just a lee-tle care, without weakening anything. Farriery is all rot in incompetent hands. What's the use of a shoe-case when a man's scouting? He can't stick it on with a lick--like a stamp--the shoe! Skittles-- Mrs. G. What's skittles? Pah! What is this leather cleaned with? Capt. G. Cream and champagne and--Look here, dear, do you really want to talk to me about anything important? Mrs. G. No. I've done my accounts, and I thought I'd like to see what you're doing. Capt. G. Well, love, now you've seen and--Would you mind?--That is to say--Minnie, I really am busy. Mrs. G. You want me to go? Capt. G, Yes, dear, for a little while. This tobacco will hang in your dress, and saddlery doesn't interest you. Mrs. G. Everything you do interests me, Pip. Capt. G. Yes, I know, I know, dear. I'll tell you all about it some day when I've put a head on this thing. In the meantime-- Mrs. G. I'm to be turned out of the room like a troublesome child? Capt. G. No-o. I don't mean that exactly. But, you see, I shall be tramping up and down, shifting these things to and fro, and I shall be in your way. Don't you think so? Mrs. G. Can't I lift them about? Let me try. (Reaches forward to trooper's saddle.) Capt. G. Good gracious, child, don't touch it. You'll hurt yourself. (Picking up saddle.) Little girls aren't expected to handle numdahs. Now, where would you like it put? (Holds saddle above his head.) Mrs. G. (A break in her voice.) Nowhere. Pip, how good you are--and how strong! Oh, what's that ugly red streak inside your arm? Capt. G. (Lowering saddle quickly.) Nothing. It's a mark of sorts. (Aside.) And Jack's coming to tiffin with his notions all cut and dried! Mrs. G. I know it's a mark, but I've never seen it before. It runs all up the arm. What is it? Capt. G. A cut--if you want to know. Mrs. G. Want to know! Of course I do! I can't have my husband cut to pieces in this way. How did it come? Was it an accident? Tell me, Pip. Capt. G. (Grimly.) No. 'Twasn't an accident. I got it--from a man--in Afghanistan. Mrs. G. In action? Oh, Pip, and you never told me! Capt. G. I'd forgotten all about it. Mrs. G. Hold up your arm! What a horrid, ugly scar! Are you sure it doesn't hurt now! How did the man give it you? Capt. G. (Desperately looking at his watch.) With a knife. I came down--old Van Loo did, that's to say--and fell on my leg, so I couldn't run. And then this man came up and began chopping at me as I sprawled. Mrs. G. Oh, don't, don't! That's enough!--Well, what happened? Capt. G. I couldn't get to my holster, and Mafflin came round the corner and stopped the performance. Mrs. G. How? He's such a lazy man, I don't believe he did. Capt. G. Don't you? I don't think the man had much doubt about it. Jack cut his head off. Mrs. G. Cut-his-head-off! "With one blow," as they say in the books? Capt. G. I'm not sure. I was too interested in myself to know much about it. Anyhow, the head was off, and Jack was punching old Van Loo in the ribs to make him get up. Now you know all about it, dear, and now-- Mrs. G. You want me to go, of course. You never told me about this, though I've been married to you for ever so long; and you never would have told me if I hadn't found out; and you never do tell me anything about yourself, or what you do, or what you take an interest in. Capt. G. Darling, I'm always with you, aren't I? Mrs. G. Always in my pocket, you were going to say. I know you are; but you are always thinking away from me. Capt. G. (Trying to hide a smile.) Am I? I wasn't aware of it. I'm awf'ly sorry. Mrs. G. (Piteously.) Oh, don't make fun of me! Pip, you know what I mean. When you are reading one of those things about Cavalry, by that idiotic Prince--why doesn't he be a Prince instead of a stable-boy? Capt. G. Prince Kraft a stable-boy--Oh, my Aunt! Never mind, dear. You were going to say? Mrs. G. It doesn't matter; you don't care for what I say. Only--only you get up and walk about the room, staring in front of you, and then Mafflin comes in to dinner, and after I'm in the drawing-room I can hear you and him talking, and talking, and talking, about things I can't understand, and--oh, I get so tired and feel so lonely!--I don't want to complain and be a trouble, Pip; but I do indeed I do! Capt. G. My poor darling! I never thought of that. Why don't you ask some nice people in to dinner? Mrs. G. Nice people! Where am I to find them? Horrid frumps! And if I did, I shouldn't be amused. You know I only want you. Capt. G. And you have me surely, Sweetheart? Mrs. G. I have not! Pip why don't you take me into your life? Capt. G. More than I do? That would be difficult, dear. Mrs. G. Yes, I suppose it would--to you. I'm no help to you--no companion to you; and you like to have it so. Capt. G. Aren't you a little unreasonable, Pussy? Mrs. G. (Stamping her foot.) I'm the most reasonable woman in the world--when I'm treated properly. Capt. G. And since when have I been treating you improperly? Mrs. G. Always--and since the beginning. You know you have. Capt. G. I don't; but I'm willing to be convinced. Mrs. G. (Pointing to saddlery.) There! Capt. G. How do you mean? Mrs. G. What does all that mean? Why am I not to be told? Is it so precious? Capt. G. I forget its exact Government value just at present. It means that it is a great deal too heavy. Mrs. G. Then why do you touch it? Capt. G. To make it lighter. See here, little love, I've one notion and Jack has another, but we are both agreed that all this equipment is about thirty pounds too heavy. The thing is how to cut it down without weakening any part of it, and, at the same time, allowing the trooper to carry everything he wants for his own comfort--socks and shirts and things of that kind. Mrs. G. Why doesn't he pack them in a little trunk? Capt. G. (Kissing her.) Oh, you darling! Pack them in a little trunk, indeed! Hussars don't carry trunks, and it's a most important thing to make the horse do all the carrying. Mrs. G. But why need you bother about it? You're not a trooper. Capt. G. No; but I command a few score of him; and equipment is nearly everything in these days. Mrs. G. More than me? Capt. G. Stupid! Of course not; but it's a matter that I'm tremendously interested in, because if I or Jack, or I and Jack, work out some sort of lighter saddlery and all that, it's possible that we may get it adopted. Mrs. G. How? Capt. G. Sanctioned at Home, where they will make a sealed pattern--a pattern that all the saddlers must copy--and so it will be used by all the regiments. Mrs. G. And that interests you? Capt. G. It's part of my profession, y'know, and my profession is a good deal to me. Everything in a soldier's equipment is important, and if we can improve that equipment, so much the better for the soldiers and for us. Mrs. G. Who's "us"? Capt. G. Jack and I; only Jack's notions are too radical. What's that big sigh for, Minnie? Mrs. G. Oh, nothing--and you've kept all this a secret from me! Why? Capt. G. Not a secret, exactly, dear. I didn't say anything about it to you because I didn't think it would amuse you. Mrs. G. And am I only made to be amused? Capt. G. No, of course. I merely mean that it couldn't interest you. Mrs. G. It's your work and--and if you'd let me, I'd count all these things up. If they are too heavy, you know by how much they are too heavy, and you must have a list of things made out to your scale of lightness, and-- Capt. G. I have got both scales somewhere in my head; but it's hard to tell how light you can make a head-stall, for instance, until you've actually had a model made. Mrs. G. But if you read out the list, I could copy it down, and pin it up there just above your table. Wouldn't that do? Capt. G. It would be awf'ly nice, dear, but it would be giving you trouble for nothing. I can't work that way. I go by rule of thumb. I know the present scale of weights, and the other one--the one that I'm trying to work to--will shift and vary so much that I couldn't be certain, even if I wrote it down. Mrs. G. I'm so sorry. I thought I might help. Is there anything else that I could be of use in? Capt. G. (Looking round the room.) I can't think of anything. You're always helping me you know. Mrs. G. Am I? How? Capt. G. You are of course, and as long as you're near me--I can't explain exactly, but it's in the air. Mrs. G. And that's why you wanted to send me away? Capt. G. That's only when I'm trying to do work--grubby work like this. Mrs. G. Mafflin's better, then, isn't he? Capt. G. (Rashly.) Of course he is. Jack and I have been thinking along the same groove for two or three years about this equipment. It's our hobby, and it may really be useful some day. Mrs. G. (After a pause.) And that's all that you have away from me? Capt. G. It isn't very far away from you now. Take care the oil on that bit doesn't come off on your dress. Mrs. G. I wish--I wish so much that I could really help you. I believe I could--if I left the room. But that's not what I mean. Capt. G. (Aside.) Give me patience! I wish she would go. (Aloud.) I assure you you can't do anything for me, Minnie, and I must really settle down to this. Where's my pouch? Mrs. G. (Crossing to writing-table.) Here you are, Bear. What a mess you keep your table in! Capt. G. Don' ttouch it. There's a method in my madness, though you mightn't think of it. Mrs. G. (At table.) I want to look--Do you keep accounts, Pip? Capt. G. (Bending over saddlery.) Of a sort. Are you rummaging among the Troop papers? Be careful. Mrs. G. Why? I sha'n't disturb anything. Good gracious! I had no idea that you had anything to do with so many sick horses. Capt. G. 'Wish I hadn't, but they insist on falling sick. Minnie, if 1 were you I really should not investigate those papers. You may come across something that you won't like. Mrs. G. Why will you always treat me like a child? I know I'm not displacing the horrid things. Capt. G. (Resignedly.) Very well, then. Don't blame me if anything happens. Play with the table and let me go on with the saddlery. (Slipping hand into trousers-pocket.) Oh, the deuce! Mrs. G. (Her back to G.) What's that for? Capt. G. Nothing. (Aside.) There's not much in it, but I wish I'd torn it up. Mrs. G. (Turning over contents of table.) I know you'll hate me for this; but I do want to see what your work is like. (A pause.) Pip, what are "farcybuds"? Capt. G. Hah! Would you really like to know? They aren't pretty things. Mrs. G. This Journal of Veterinary Science says they are of "absorbing interest." Tell me. Capt. G. (Aside.) It may turn her attention. Gives a long and designedly loathsome account of glanders and farcy. Mrs. G. Oh, that's enough. Don't go on! Capt. G. But you wanted to know--Then these things suppurate and matterate and spread-- Mrs. G. Pin, you're making me sick! You're a horrid, disgusting schoolboy. Capt. G. (On his knees among the bridles.) You asked to be told. It's not my fault if you worry me into talking about horrors. Mrs. G. Why didn't you say No? Capt. G. Good Heavens, child! Have you come in here simply to bully me? Mrs. G. I bully you? How could I! You're so strong. (Hysterically.) Strong enough to pick me up and put me outside the door and leave me there to cry. Aren't you? Capt. G. It seems to me that you're an irrational little baby. Are you quite well? Mrs. G. Do I look ill? (Returning to table). Who is your lady friend with the big grey envelope and the fat monogram outside? Capt. G. (Aside.) Then it wasn't locked up, confound it. (Aloud.) "God made her, therefore let her pass for a woman." You remember what farcybuds are like? Mrs. G. (Showing envelope.) This has nothing to do with them. I'm going to open it. May I? Capt. G. Certainly, if you want to. I'd sooner you didn't though. I don't ask to look at your letters to the Deercourt girl. Mrs. G. You'd better not, Sir! (Takes letter from envelope.) Now, may I look? If you say no, I shall cry. Capt. G. You've never cried in my knowledge of you, and I don't believe you could. Mrs. G. I feel very like it today, Pip. Don't be hard on me. (Reads letter.) It begins in the middle, without any "Dear Captain Gadsby," or anything. How funny! Capt. G. (Aside.) No, it's not Dear Captain Gadsby, or anything, now. How funny! Mrs. G. What a strange letter! (Reads.) "And so the moth has come too near the candle at last, and has been singed into--shall I say Respectability? I congratulate him, and hope he will be as happy as he deserves to be." What does that mean? Is she congratulating you about our marriage? Capt. G. Yes, I suppose so. Mrs. G. (Still reading letter.) She seems to be a particular friend of yours. Capt. G. Yes. She was an excellent matron of sorts--a Mrs. Herriott--wife of a Colonel Herriott. I used to know some of her people at Home long ago--before I came out. Mrs. G. Some Colonel's wives are young--as young as me. I knew one who was younger. Capt. G. Then it couldn't have been Mrs. Herriott. She was old enough to have been your mother, dear. Mrs. G. I remember now. Mrs. Scargill was talking about her at the Dutfins' tennis, before you came for me, on Tuesday. Captain Mafflin said she was a "dear old woman." Do you know, I think Mafflin is a very clumsy man with his feet. Capt. G. (Aside.) Good old Jack! (Aloud.) Why, dear? Mrs. G. He had put his cup down on the ground then, and he literally stepped into it. Some of the tea spirted over my dress--the grey one. I meant to tell you about it before. Capt. G. (Aside.) There are the makings of a strategist about Jack though his methods are coarse. (Aloud.) You'd better get a new dress, then. (Aside.) Let us pray that that will turn her. Mrs. G. Oh, it isn't stained in the least. I only thought that I'd tell you. (Returning to letter.) What an extraordinary person! (Reads.) "But need I remind you that you have taken upon yourself a charge of wardship"--what in the world is a charge of wardship?--"which as you yourself know, may end in Consequences"-- Capt. G. (Aside.) It's safest to let em see everything as they come across it; but 'seems to me that there are exceptions to the rule. (Aloud.) I told you that there was nothing to be gained from rearranging my table. Mrs. G. (Absently.) What does the woman mean? She goes on talking about Consequences--"almost inevitable Consequences" with a capital C--for half a page. (Flushing scarlet.) Oh, good gracious! How abominable! Capt. G. (Promptly.) Do you think so? Doesn't it show a sort of motherly interest in us? (Aside.) Thank Heaven. Harry always wrapped her meaning up safely! (Aloud.) Is it absolutely necessary to go on with the letter, darling? Mrs. G. It's impertinent--it's simply horrid. What right has this woman to write in this way to you? She oughtn't to. Capt. G. When you write to the Deercourt girl, I notice that you generally fill three or four sheets. Can't you let an old woman babble on paper once in a way? She means well. Mrs. G. I don't care. She shouldn't write, and if she did, you ought to have shown me her letter. Capt. G. Can't you understand why I kept it to myself, or must I explain at length--as I explained the farcybuds? Mrs. G. (Furiously.) Pip I hate you! This is as bad as those idiotic saddle-bags on the floor. Never mind whether it would please me or not, you ought to have given it to me to read. Capt. G. It comes to the same thing. You took it yourself. Mrs. G. Yes, but if I hadn't taken it, you wouldn't have said a word. I think this Harriet Herriott--it's like a name in a book--is an interfering old Thing. Capt. G. (Aside.) So long as you thoroughly understand that she is old, I don't much care what you think. (Aloud.) Very good, dear. Would you like to write and tell her so? She's seven thousand miles away. Mrs. G. I don't want to have anything to do with her, but you ought to have told me. (Turning to last page of letter.) And she patronizes me, too. I've never seen her! (Reads.) "I do not know how the world stands with you; in all human probability I shall never know; but whatever I may have said before, I pray for her sake more than for yours that all may be well. I have learned what misery means, and I dare not wish that any one dear to you should share my knowledge." Capt. G. Good God! Can't you leave that letter alone, or, at least, can't you refrain from reading it aloud? I've been through it once. Put it back on the desk. Do you hear me? Mrs. G. (Irresolutely.) I sh-sha'n't! (Looks at G.'s eyes.) Oh, Pip, please! I didn't mean to make you angry--'Deed, I didn't. Pip, I'm so sorry. I know I've wasted your time-- Capt. G. (Grimly.) You have. Now, will you be good enough to go--if there is nothing more in my room that you are anxious to pry into? Mrs. G. (Putting out her hands.) Oh, Pip, don't look at me like that! I've never seen you look like that before and it hu-urts me! I'm sorry. I oughtn't to have been here at all, and--and--and--(sobbing.) Oh, be good to me! Be good to me! There's only you--anywhere! Breaks down in long chair, hiding face in cushions. Capt. G. (Aside.) She doesn't know how she flicked me on the raw. (Aloud, bending over chair.) I didn't mean to be harsh, dear--I didn't really. You can stay here as long as you please, and do what you please. Don't cry like that. You'll make yourself sick. (Aside.) What on earth has come over her? (Aloud.) Darling, what's the matter with you? Mrs. G. (Her face still hidden.) Let me go--let me go to my own room. Only--only say you aren't angry with me. Capt. G. Angry with you, love! Of course not. I was angry with myself. I'd lost my temper over the saddlery--Don't hide your face, Pussy. I want to kiss it. Bends lower, Mrs. G. slides right arm round his neck. Several interludes and much sobbing. Mrs. G. (In a whisper.) I didn't mean about the jam when I came in to tell you-- CAPT. G. Bother the jam and the equipment! (Interlude.) Mrs. G. (Still more faintly.) My finger wasn't scalded at all. I--wanted to speak to you about--about--something else, and--I didn't know how. Capt. G. Speak away, then. (Looking into her eyes.) Eh! Wha-at? Minnie! Here, don't go away! You don't mean? Mrs. G. (Hysterically, backing to portiere and hiding her face in its folds.) The--the Almost Inevitable Consequences! (Flits through portiere as G. attempts to catch her, and bolts her self in her own room.) Capt. G. (His arms full of portiere.) Oh! (Sitting down heavily in chair.) I'm a brute, a pig--a bully, and a blackguard. My poor, poor little darling! "Made to be amused only?"-- THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW, KNOWING GOOD AND EVIL. SCENE. The GADSBYS' bungalow in the Plains, in June. Punkah-coolies asleep in veranda where Captain GADSBY is walking up and down. DOCTOR'S trap in porch. JUNIOR CHAPLAIN drifting generally and uneasily through the house. Time, 3:40 A. M. Heat 94 degrees in veranda. DOCTOR. (Coming into veranda and touching G. on the shoulder.) You had better go in and see her now. Capt. G. (The color of good cigar-ash.) Eh, wha-at? Oh, yes, of course. What did you say? DOCTOR. (Syllable by syllable.) Go-in-to-the-room-and-see-her. She wants to speak to you. (Aside, testily.) I shall have him on my hands next. JUNIOR CHAPLAIN. (In half-lighted dining room.) Isn't there any?-- DOCTOR. (Savagely.) Ha, you little fool! JUNIOR CHAPLAIN. Let me do my work. Gadsby, stop a minute--I (Edges after G.) DOCTOR. Wait till she sends for you at least--at least. Man alive, he'll kill you if you go in there! What are you bothering him for? JUNIOR CHAPLAIN. (Coming into veranda.) I've given him a stiff brandy-peg. He wants it. You've forgotten him for the last ten hours and--forgotten yourself too. G. enters bedroom, which is lit by one night-lamp. Ayah on the floor pretending to be asleep. VOICE. (From the bed.) All down the street--such bonfires! Ayah, go and put them out! (Appealingly.) How can I sleep with an installation of the C.I.E. in my room? No--not C.I.E. Something else. What was it? Capt. G. (Trying to control his voice.) Minnie, I'm here. (Bending over bed.) Don't you know me, Minnie? It's me--it's Phil--it's your husband. VOICE. (Mechanically.) It's me--it's Phil--it's your husband. Capt. G. She doesn't know me!--It's your own husband, darling. VOICE. Your own husband, darling. Ayah. (With an inspiration.) Memsahib understanding all I saying. Capt. G. Make her understand me then--quick! Ayah. (Hand on Mrs. G.'s fore-head.) Memsahib! Captain Sahib here. VOICE. Salaem do. (Fretfully.) I know I'm not fit to be seen. Ayah. (Aside to G.) Say "marneen" same as breakfash. Capt. G. Good morning, little woman. How are we today? VOICE. That's Phil. Poor old Phil. (Viciously.) Phil, you fool, I can't see you. Come nearer. Capt. G. Minnie! Minnie! It's me--you know me? VOICE. (Mockingly.) Of course I do. Who does not know the man who was so cruel to his wife--almost the only one he ever had? Capt. G. Yes, dear. Yes--of course, of course. But won't you speak to him? He wants to speak to you so much. VOICE. They'd never let him in. The Doctor would give darwaza band even if he were in the house. He'll never come. (Despairingly.) O Judas! Judas! Judas! Capt. G. (Putting out his arms.) They have let him in, and he always was in the house Oh, my love--don't you know me? VOICE. (In a half chant.) "And it came to pass at the eleventh hour that this poor soul repented." It knocked at the gates, but they were shut--tight as a plaster--a great, burning plaster. They had pasted our marriage certificate all across the door, and it was made of red-hot iron--people really ought to be more careful, you know. Capt. G. What am I to do? (Taking her in his arms.) Minnie! speak to me--to Phil. VOICE. What shall I say? Oh, tell me what to say before it's too late! They are all going away and I can't say anything. Capt. G. Say you know me! Only say you know me! DOCTOR. (Who has entered quietly.) For pity's sake don't take it too much to heart, Gadsby. It's this way sometimes. They won't recognize. They say all sorts of queer things--don't you see? Capt. G. All right! All right! Go away now; she'll recognize me; you're bothering her. She must--mustn't she? DOCTOR. She will before--Have I your leave to try?-- Capt. G. Anything you please, so long as she'll know me. It's only a question of hours, isn't it? DOCTOR. (Professionally.) While there's life there's hope y'know. But don't build on it. Capt. G. I don't. Pull her together if it's possible. (Aside.) What have I done to deserve this? DOCTOR. (Bending over bed.) Now, Mrs. Gadsby! We shall be all right tomorrow. You must take it, or I sha'n't let Phil see you. It isn't nasty, is it? Voice. Medicines! Always more medicines! Can't you leave me alone? Capt. G. Oh, leave her in peace, Doc! DOCTOR. (Stepping back,--aside.) May I be forgiven if I've done wrong. (Aloud.) In a few minutes she ought to be sensible; but I daren't tell you to look for anything. It's only-- Capt. G. What? Go on, man. DOCTOR. (In a whisper.) Forcing the last rally. Capt. G. Then leave us alone. DOCTOR. Don't mind what she says at first, if you can. They--they--they turn against those they love most sometimes in this.--It's hard, but-- Capt. G. Am I her husband or are you? Leave us alone for what time we have together. VOICE. (Confidentially.) And we were engaged quite suddenly, Emma. I assure you that I never thought of it for a moment; but, oh, my little Me!--I don't know what I should have done if he hadn't proposed. Capt. G. She thinks of that Deercourt girl before she thinks of me. (Aloud.) Minnie! VOICE. Not from the shops, Mummy dear. You can get the real leaves from Kaintu, and (laughing weakly) never mind about the blossoms--Dead white silk is only fit for widows, and I won't wear it. It's as bad as a winding sheet. (A long pause.) Capt. G. I never asked a favor yet. If there is anybody to listen to me, let her know me--even if I die too! VOICE. (Very faintly.) Pip, Pip dear. Capt. G. I'm here, darling. VOICE. What has happened? They've been bothering me so with medicines and things, and they wouldn't let you come and see me. I was never ill before. Am I ill now? Capt. G. You--you aren't quite well. VOICE. How funny! Have I been ill long? Capt. G. Some days; but you'll be all right in a little time. VOICE. Do you think so, Pip? I don't feel well and--Oh! what have they done to my hair? Capt. G. I d-d-on't know. VOICE. They've cut it off. What a shame! Capt. G. It must have been to make your head cooler. VOICE. Just like a boy's wig. Don't I look horrid? Capt. G. Never looked prettier in your life, dear. (Aside.) How am I to ask her to say goodbye? VOICE. I don't feel pretty. I feel very ill. My heart won't work. It's nearly dead inside me, and there's a funny feeling in my eyes. Everything seems the same distance--you and the almirah and the table inside my eyes or miles away. What does it mean, Pip? Capt. G. You're a little feverish, Sweetheart--very feverish. (Breaking down.) My love! my love! How can I let you go? VOICE. I thought so. Why didn't you tell me that at first? Capt. G. What? VOICE. That I am going to--die. Capt. G. But you aren't! You sha'n't. Ayah to punkah-coolie. (Stepping into veranda after a glance at the bed. ). Punkah chor do! (Stop pulling the punkah.) VOICE. It's hard, Pip. So very, very hard after one year--just one year. (Wailing.) And I'm only twenty. Most girls aren't even married at twenty. Can't they do anything to help me? I don't want to die. Capt. G. Hush, dear. You won't. VOICE. What's the use of talking? Help me! You've never failed me yet. Oh, Phil, help me to keep alive. (Feverishly.) I don't believe you wish me to live. You weren't a bit sorry when that horrid Baby thing died. I wish I'd killed it! Capt. G. (Drawing his hand across his forehead.) It's more than a man's meant to bear--it's not right. (Aloud.) Minnie, love, I'd die for you if it would help. VOICE. No more death. There's enough already. Pip, don't you die too. Capt. G. I wish I dared. VOICE. It says: "Till Death do us part." Nothing after that--and so it would be no use. It stops at the dying. Why does it stop there? Only such a very short life, too. Pip, I'm sorry we married. Capt. G. No! Anything but that, Min! VOICE. Because you'll forget and I'll forget. Oh, Pip, don't forget! I always loved you, though I was cross sometimes. If I ever did anything that you didn't like, say you forgive me now. Capt. G. You never did, darling. On my soul and honor you never did. I haven't a thing to forgive you. VOICE. I sulked for a whole week about those petunias. (With a laugh.) What a little wretch I was, and how grieved you were! Forgive me that, Pp. Capt. G. There's nothing to forgive. It was my fault. They were too near the drive. For God's sake don't talk so, Minnie! There's such a lot to say and so little time to say it in. VOICE. Say that you'll always love me--until the end. Capt. G. Until the end. (Carried away.) It's a lie. It must be, because we've loved each other. This isn't the end. VOICE. (Relapsing into semi-delirium.) My Church-service has an ivory cross on the back, and it says so, so it must be true. "Till Death do us part."--but that's a lie. (With a parody of G.'s manner.) A damned lie! (Recklessly.) Yes, I can swear as well as a Trooper, Pip. I can't make my head think, though. That's because they cut off my hair. How can one think with one's head all fuzzy? (Pleadingly.) Hold me, Pip! Keep me with you always and always. (Relapsing.) But if you marry the Thorniss girl when I'm dead, I'll come back and howl under our bedroom window all night. Oh, bother! You'll think I'm a jackal. Pip, what time is it? Capt. G. A little before the dawn, dear. VOICE. I wonder where I shall be this time tomorrow? Capt. G. Would you like to see the Padre? VOICE. Why should I? He'd tell me that I am going to heaven; and that wouldn't be true, because you are here. Do you recollect when he upset the cream-ice all over his trousers at the Gassers' tennis? Capt. G. Yes, dear. VOICE. I often wondered whether he got another pair of trousers; but then his are so shiny all over that you really couldn't tell unless you were told. Let's call him in and ask. Capt. G. (Gravely.) No. I don't think he'd like that. Your head comfy, Sweetheart? VOICE. (Faintly with a sigh of contentment.) Yeth! Gracious, Pip, when did you shave last? Your chin's worse than the barrel of a musical box.--No, don't lift it up. I like it. (A pause.) You said you've never cried at all. You're crying all over my cheek. Capt. G. I-I-I can't help it, dear. VOICE. How funny! I couldn't cry now to save my life. (G. shivers.) I want to sing. Capt. G. Won't it tire you? 'Better not, perhaps. VOICE. Why? I won't be bothered about. (Begins in a hoarse quaver) "Minnie bakes oaten cake, Minnie brews ale, All because her Johnnie's coming home from the sea." (That's parade, Pip.) "And she grows red as a rose, who was so pale; And 'Are you sure the church-clock goes?' says she." (Pettishly.) I knew I couldn't take the last note. How do the bass chords run? (Puts out her hands and begins playing piano on the sheet.) Capt. G. (Catching up hands.) Ahh! Don't do that, Pussy, if you love me. VOICE. Love you? Of course I do. Who else should it be? (A pause.) VOICE. (Very clearly.) Pip, I'm going now. Something's choking me cruelly. (Indistinctly.) Into the dark--without you, my heart--But it's a lie, dear--we mustn't believe it.--Forever and ever, living or dead. Don't let me go, my husband--hold me tight.--They can't--whatever happens. (A cough.) Pip--my Pip! Not for always--and--so--soon! (Voice ceases.) Pause of ten minutes. G. buries his face in the side of the bed while AYAH bends over bed from opposite side and feels Mrs. G.'s breast and forehead. Capt. G. (Rising.) Doctor Sahib ko salaam do. Ayah. (Still by bedside, with a shriek.) Ail Ail Tuta-phuta! My Memsahib! Not getting--not have got!--Pusseena agyal (The sweat has come.) (Fiercely to G.) TUM jao Doctor Sahib ko jaldi! (You go to the doctor.) Oh, my Memsahib! DOCTOR. (Entering hastily.) Come away, Gadsby. (Bends over bed.) Eh! The Dev--What inspired you to stop the punkah? Get out, man--go away--wait outside! Go! Here, Ayah! (Over his shoulder to G.) Mind I promise nothing. The dawn breaks as G. stumbles into the garden. Capt. M. (Rehung up at the gate on his way to parade and very soberly.) Old man, how goes? Capt. G. (Dazed.) I don't quite know. Stay a bit. Have a drink or something. Don't run away. You're just getting amusing. Ha! ha! Capt. M. (Aside.) What am I let in for? Gaddy has aged ten years in the night. Capt. G. (Slowly, fingering charger's headstall.) Your curb's too loose. Capt. M. So it is. Put it straight, will you? (Aside.) I shall be late for parade. Poor Gaddy. Capt. G. links and unlinks curb-chain aimlessly, and finally stands staring toward the veranda. The day brightens. DOCTOR. (Knocked out of professional gravity, tramping across flower-beds and shaking G's hands.) It'-it's-it's!--Gadsby, there's a fair chance--a dashed fair chance. The flicker, y'know. The sweat, y'know I saw how it would be. The punkah, y'know. Deuced clever woman that Ayah of yours. Stopped the punkah just at the right time. A dashed good chance! No--you don't go in. We'll pull her through yet I promise on my reputation--under Providence. Send a man with this note to Bingle. Two heads better than one. 'Specially the Ayah! We'll pull her round. (Retreats hastily to house.) Capt. G. (His head on neck of M.'s charger.) Jack! I bub-bu-believe, I'm going to make a bu-bub-bloody exhibitiod of byself. Capt. M. (Sniffing openly and feeling in his left cuff.) I b-b-believe, I'b doing it already. Old bad, what cad I say? I'b as pleased as--Cod dab you, Gaddy! You're one big idiot and I'b adother. (Pulling himself together.) Sit tight! Here comes the Devil-dodger. JUNIOR CHAPLAIN. (Who is not in the Doctor's confidence.) We--we are only men in these things, Gadsby. I know that I can say nothing now to help. Capt. M. (jealously.) Then don't say it Leave him alone. It's not bad enough to croak over. Here, Gaddy, take the chit to Bingle and ride hell-for-leather. It'll do you good. I can't go. JUNIOR CHAPLAIN. Do him good! (Smiling.) Give me the chit and I'll drive. Let him lie down. Your horse is blocking my cart--please! Capt. M. (Slowly without reining back.) I beg your pardon--I'll apologize. On paper if you like. JUNIOR CHAPLAIN. (Flicking M.'s charger.) That'll do, thanks. Turn in, Gadsby, and I'll bring Bingle back--ahem--"hell-for-leather." Capt. M. (Solus.) It would have served me right if he'd cut me across the face. He can drive too. I shouldn't care to go that pace in a bamboo cart. What a faith he must have in his Maker--of harness! Come hup, you brute! (Gallops off to parade, blowing his nose, as the sun rises.) (INTERVAL OF FIVE WEEKS.) Mrs. G. (Very white and pinched, in morning wrapper at breakfast table.) How big and strange the room looks, and how glad I am to see it again! What dust, though! I must talk to the servants. Sugar, Pip? I've almost forgotten. (Seriously.) Wasn't I very ill? Capt. G. Iller than I liked. (Tenderly.) Oh, you bad little Pussy, what a start you gave me! Mrs. G. I'll never do it again. Capt. G. You'd better not. And now get those poor pale cheeks pink again, or I shall be angry. Don't try to lift the urn. You'll upset it. Wait. (Comes round to head of table and lifts urn.) Mrs. G. (Quickly.) Khitmatgar, howarchikhana see kettly lao. Butler, get a kettle from the cook-house. (Drawing down G.'s face to her own.) Pip dear, I remember. Capt. G. What? Mrs. G. That last terrible night. CAPT. G. Then just you forget all about it. Mrs. G. (Softly, her eyes filling.) Never. It has brought us very close together, my husband. There! (Interlude.) I'm going to give Junda a saree. Capt. G. I gave her fifty dibs. Mrs. G. So she told me. It was a 'normous reward. Was I worth it? (Several interludes.) Don't! Here's the khitmatgar.--Two lumps or one Sir? THE SWELLING OF JORDAN If thou hast run with the footmen and they have wearied thee, then how canst thou contend with horses? And if in the land of peace wherein thou trustedst they wearied thee, then how wilt thou do in the swelling of Jordan? SCENE. The GADSBYS' bungalow in the Plains, on a January morning. Mrs. G. arguing with bearer in back veranda. Capt. M. rides up. Capt. M. 'Mornin', Mrs. Gadsby. How's the Infant Phenomenon and the Proud Proprietor? Mrs. G. You'll find them in the front veranda; go through the house. I'm Martha just now. Capt. M, 'Cumbered about with cares of Khitmatgars? I fly. Passes into front veranda, where GADSBV is watching GADSBY JUNIOR, aged ten months, crawling about the matting. Capt. M. What's the trouble, Gaddy-spoiling an honest man's Europe morning this way? (Seeing G. JUNIOR.) By Jove, that yearling's comin' on amazingly! Any amount of bone below the knee there. Capt. G. Yes, he's a healthy little scoundrel. Don't you think his hair's growing? Capt. M. Let's have a look. Hi! Hst Come here, General Luck, and we'll report on you. Mrs. G. (Within.) What absurd name will you give him next? Why do you call him that? Capt. M. Isn't he our Inspector-General of Cavalry? Doesn't he come down in his seventeen-two perambulator every morning the Pink Hussars parade? Don't wriggle, Brigadier. Give us your private opinion on the way the third squadron went past. 'Trifle ragged, weren't they? Capt. G. A bigger set of tailors than the new draft I don't wish to see. They've given me more than my fair share--knocking the squadron out of shape. It's sickening! Capt. M. When you're in command, you'll do better, young 'un. Can'tyou walk yet? Grip my finger and try. (To G.) 'Twon't hurt his hocks, will it? Capt. G. Oh, no. Don't let him flop, though, or he'll lick all the blacking off your boots. Mrs. G. (Within.) Who's destroying my son's character? Capt. M. And my Godson's. I'm ashamed of you, Gaddy. Punch your father in the eye, Jack! Don't you stand it! Hit him again! Capt. G. (Sotto voce.) Put The Butcha down and come to the end of the veranda. I'd rather the Wife didn't hear--just now. Capt. M. You look awf'ly serious. Anything wrong? Capt. G. 'Depends on your view entirely. I say, Jack, you won't think more hardly of me than you can help, will you? Come further this way.--The fact of the matter is, that I've made up my mind--at least I'm thinking seriously of--cutting the Service. Capt. M. Hwhatt? Capt. G. Don't shout. I'm going to send in my papers. Capt. M. You! Are you mad? Capt. G. No--only married. Capt. M. Look here! What's the meaning of it all? You never intend to leave us. You can't. Isn't the best squadron of the best regiment of the best cavalry in all the world good enough for you? Capt. G. (Jerking his head over his shoulder.) She doesn't seem to thrive in this God-forsaken country, and there's The Butcha to be considered and all that, you know. Capt. M. Does she say that she doesn't like India? Capt. G. That's the worst of it. She won't for fear of leaving me. Capt. M. What are the Hills made for? Capt. G. Not for my wife, at any rate. Capt. M. You know too much, Gaddy, and--I don't like you any the better for it! Capt. G. Never mind that. She wants England, and The Butcha would be all the better for it. I'm going to chuck. You don't understand. Capt. M. (Hotly.) I understand this!--One hundred and thirty-seven new horse to be licked into shape somehow before Luck comes round again; a hairy-heeled draft who'll give more trouble than the horses; a camp next cold weather for a certainty; ourselves the first on the roster; the Russian shindy ready to come to a head at five minutes' notice, and you, the best of us all, backing out of it all! Think a little, Gaddy. You won't do it. Capt. G. Hang it, a man has some duties toward his family, I suppose. Capt. M. I remember a man, though, who told me, the night after Amdheran, when we were picketed under Jagai, and he'd left his sword--by the way, did you ever pay Ranken for that sword?--in an Utmanzai's head--that man told me that he'd stick by me and the Pinks as long as he lived. I don't blame him for not sticking by me--I'm not much of a man--but I do blame him for not sticking by the Pink Hussars. Capt. G. (Uneasily.) We were little more than boys then. Can't you see, Jack, how things stand? 'Tisn't as if we were serving for our bread. We've all of us, more or less, got the filthy lucre. I'm luckier than some, perhaps. There's no call for me to serve on. Capt. M. None in the world for you or for us, except the Regimental. If you don't choose to answer to that, of course-- Capt. G. Don't be too hard on a man. You know that a lot of us only take up the thing for a few years and then go back to Town and catch on with the rest. Capt. M. Not lots, and they aren't some of Us. Capt. G. And then there are one's affairs at Home to be considered--my place and the rents, and all that. I don't suppose my father can last much longer, and that means the title, and so on. Capt. M. 'Fraid you won't be entered in the Stud Book correctly unless you go Home? Take six months, then, and come out in October. If I could slay off a brother or two, I s'pose I should be a Marquis of sorts. Any fool can be that; but it needs men, Gaddy--men like you--to lead flanking squadrons properly. Don't you delude yourself into the belief that you're going Home to take your place and prance about among pink-nosed Kabuli dowagers. You aren't built that way. I know better. Capt. G. A man has a right to live his life as happily as he can. You aren't married. Capt. M. No--praise be to Providence and the one or two women who have had the good sense to jawab me. Capt. G. Then you don't know what it is to go into your own room and see your wife's head on the pillow, and when everything else is safe and the house shut up for the night, to wonder whether the roof-beams won't give and kill her. Capt. M. (Aside.) Revelations first and second! (Aloud.) So-o! I knew a man who got squiffy at our Mess once and confided to me that he never helped his wife on to her horse without praying that she'd break her neck before she came back. All husbands aren't alike, you see. Capt. G. What on earth has that to do with my case? The man must ha' been mad, or his wife as bad as they make 'em. Capt. M. (Aside.) 'No fault of yours if either weren't all you say. You've forgotten the time when you were insane about the Herriott woman. You always were a good hand at forgetting. (Aloud.) Not more mad than men who go to the other extreme. Be reasonable, Gaddy. Your roof-beams are sound enough. Capt. G. That was only a way of speaking. I've been uneasy and worried about the Wife ever since that awful business three years ago--when--I nearly lost her. Can you wonder? Capt. M. Oh, a shell never falls twice in the same place. You've paid your toll to misfortune--why should your Wife be picked out more than anybody else's? Capt. G. I can talk just as reasonably as you can, but you don't understand--you don't understand. And then there's The Butcha. Deuce knows where the Ayah takes him to sit in the evening! He has a bit of a cough. Haven't you noticed it? Capt. M. Bosh! The Brigadier's jumping out of his skin with pure condition. He's got a muzzle like a rose-leaf and the chest of a two-year-old. What's demoralized you? Capt. G. Funk. That's the long and the short of it. Funk! Capt. M. But what is there to funk? Capt. G. Everything. It's ghastly. Capt. M. Ah! I see. You don't want to fight, And by Jingo when we do, You've got the kid, you've got the Wife, You've got the money, too. That's about the case, eh? Capt. G. I suppose that's it. But it's not for myself. It's because of them. At least I think it is. Capt. M. Are you sure? Looking at the matter in a cold-blooded light, the Wife is provided for even if you were wiped out tonight. She has an ancestral home to go to, money and the Brigadier to carry on the illustrious name. Capt. G. Then it is for myself or because they are part of me. You don't see it. My life's so good, so pleasant, as it is, that I want to make it quite safe. Can't you understand? Capt. M. Perfectly. "Shelter-pit for the Off'cer's charger," as they say in the Line. Capt. G. And I have everything to my hand to make it so. I'm sick of the strain and the worry for their sakes out here; and there isn't a single real difficulty to prevent my dropping it altogether. It'll only cost me--Jack, I hope you'll never know the shame that I've been going through for the past six months. Capt. M. Hold on there! I don't wish to be told. Every man has his moods and tenses sometimes. Capt. G. (Laughing bitterly.) Has he? What do you call craning over to see where your near-fore lands? Capt. M. In my case it means that I have been on the Considerable Bend, and have come to parade with a Head and a Hand. It passes in three strides. Capt. G. (Lowering voice.) It never passes with me, Jack. I'm always thinking about it. Phil Gadsby funking a fall on parade! Sweet picture, isn't it! Draw it for me. Capt. M. (Gravely.) Heaven forbid! A man like you can't be as bad as that. A fall is no nice thing, but one never gives it a thought. Capt. G. Doesn't one? Wait till you've got a wife and a youngster of your own, and then you'll know how the roar of the squadron behind you turns you cold all up the back. Capt. M. (Aside.) And this man led at Amdheran after Bagal Deasin went under, and we were all mixed up together, and he came out of the snow dripping like a butcher. (Aloud.) Skittles! The men can always open out, and you can always pick your way more or less. We haven't the dust to bother us, as the men have, and whoever heard of a horse stepping on a man? Capt. G. Never--as long as he can see. But did they open out for poor Errington? Capt. M. Oh, this is childish! Capt. G. I know it is, worse than that. I don't care. You've ridden Van Loo. Is he the sort of brute to pick his way--'specially when we're coming up in column of troop with any pace on? Capt. M. Once in a Blue Moon do we gallop in column of troop, and then only to save time. Aren't three lengths enough for you? Capt. G. Yes--quite enough. They just allow for the full development of the smash. I'm talking like a cur, I know: but I tell you that, for the past three months, I've felt every hoof of the squadron in the small of my back every time that I've led. Capt. M. But, Gaddy, this is awful! Capt. G. Isn't it lovely? Isn't it royal? A Captain of the Pink Hussars watering up his charger before parade like the blasted boozing Colonel of a Black Regiment! Capt. M. You never did! Capt. G. Once only. He squelched like a mussuck, and the Troop-Sergeant-Major cocked his eye at me. You know old Haffy's eye. I was afraid to do it again. Capt. M. I should think so. That was the best way to rupture old Van Loo's tummy, and make him crumple you up. You knew that. Capt. G. I didn't care. It took the edge off him. Capt. M. "Took the edge off him"? Gaddy, you--you--you mustn't, you know! Think of the men. Capt. G. That's another thing I am afraid of. D'you s'pose they know? Capt. M. Let's hope not; but they're deadly quick to spot skirm--little things of that kind. See here, old man, send the Wife Home for the hot weather and come to Kashmir with me. We'll start a boat on the Dal or cross the Rhotang--shoot ibex or loaf--which you please. Only come! You're a bit off your oats and you're talking nonsense. Look at the Colonel--swag-bellied rascal that he is. He has a wife and no end of a bow-window of his own. Can any one of us ride round him--chalkstones and all? I can't, and I think I can shove a crock along a bit. Capt. G. Some men are different. I haven't any nerve. Lord help me, I haven't the nerve! I've taken up a hole and a half to get my knees well under the wallets. I can't help it. I'm so afraid of anything happening to me. On my soul, I ought to be broke in front of the squadron, for cowardice. Capt. M. Ugly word, that. I should never have the courage to own up. Capt. G. I meant to lie about my reasons when I began, but--I've got out of the habit of lying to you, old man. Jack, you won't?--But I know you won't. Capt. M. Of course not. (Half aloud.) The Pinks are paying dearly for their Pride. Capt. G. Eh! Wha-at? Capt. M. Don't you know? The men have called Mrs. Gadsby the Pride of the Pink Hussars ever since she came to us. Capt. G. 'Tisn't her fault. Don't think that. It's all mine. Capt. M. What does she say? Capt. G. I haven't exactly put it before her. She's the best little woman in the world, Jack, and all that--but she wouldn't counsel a man to stick to his calling if it came between him and her. At least, I think-- Capt. M. Never mind. Don't tell her what you told me. Go on the Peerage and Landed-Gentry tack. Capt. G. She'd see through it. She's five times cleverer than I am. Capt. M. (Aside.) Then she'll accept the sacrifice and think a little bit worse of him for the rest of her days. Capt. G. (Absently.) I say, do you despise me? Capt. M. 'Queer way of putting it. Have you ever been asked that question? Think a minute. What answer used you to give? Capt. G. So bad as that? I'm not entitled to expect anything more, but it's a bit hard when one's best friend turns round and-- Capt. M. So I have found. But you will have consolations--Bailiffs and Drains and Liquid Manure and the Primrose League, and, perhaps, if you're lucky, the Colonelcy of a Yeomanry Cav-al-ry Regiment--all uniform and no riding, I believe. How old are you? Capt. G. Thirty-three. I know it's-- Capt. M. At forty you'll be a fool of a J. P. landlord. At fifty you'll own a bath-chair, and The Brigadier, if he takes after you, will be fluttering the dovecotes of--what's the particular dunghill you're going to? Also, Mrs. Gadsby will be fat. Capt. G. (Limply.) This is rather more than a joke. Capt. M. D'you think so? Isn't cutting the Service a joke? It generally takes a man fifty years to arrive at it. You're quite right, though. It is more than a joke. You've managed it in thirty-three. Capt. G. Don't make me feel worse than I do. Will it satisfy you if I own that I am a shirker, a skrim-shanker, and a coward? Capt. M. It will not, because I'm the only man in the world who can talk to you like this without being knocked down. You mustn't take all that I've said to heart in this way. I only spoke--a lot of it at least--out of pure selfishness, because, because--Oh, damn it all, old man,--I don't know what I shall do without you. Of course, you've got the money and the place and all that--and there are two very good reasons why you should take care of yourself. Capt. G. 'Doesn't make it any sweeter. I'm backing out--I know I am. I always had a soft drop in me somewhere--and I daren't risk any danger to them. Capt. M. Why in the world should you? You're bound to think of your family--bound to think. Er--hmm. If I wasn't a younger son I'd go too--be shot if I wouldn't! Capt. G. Thank you, Jack. It's a kind lie, but it's the blackest you've told for some time. I know what I'm doing, and I'm going into it with my eyes open. Old man, I can't help it. What would you do if you were in my place? Capt. M. (Aside.) 'Couldn't conceive any woman getting permanently between me and the Regiment. (Aloud.) 'Can't say. 'Very likely I should do no better. I'm sorry for you--awf'ly sorry--but "if them's your sentiments," I believe, I really do, that you are acting wisely. Capt. G. Do you? I hope you do. (In a whisper.) Jack, be very sure of yourself before you marry. I'm an ungrateful ruffian to say this, but marriage--even as good a marriage as mine has been--hampers a man's work, it cripples his sword-arm, and oh, it plays Hell with his notions of duty. Sometimes--good and sweet as she is--sometimes I could wish that I had kept my freedom--No, I don't mean that exactly. Mrs. G. (Coming down veranda.) What are you wagging your head over, Pip? Capt. M. (Turning quickly.) Me, as usual. The old sermon. Your husband is recommending me to get married. 'Never saw such a one-ideaed man. Mrs. G. Well, why don't you? I dare say you would make some woman very happy. Capt. G. There's the Law and the Prophets, Jack. Never mind the Regiment. Make a woman happy. (Aside.) O Lord! Capt. M. We'll see. I must be off to make a Troop Cook desperately unhappy. I won't have the wily Hussar fed on Government Bullock Train shinbones--(Hastily.) Surely black ants can't be good for The Brigadier. He's picking em off the matting and eating 'em. Here, Senor Comandante Don Grubbynose, come and talk to me. (Lifts G. JUNIOR in his arms.) 'Want my watch? You won't be able to put it into your mouth, but you can try. (G. JUNIOR drops watch, breaking dial and hands.) Mrs. G. Oh, Captain Mafflin, I am so sorry! Jack, you bad, bad little villain. Ahhh! Capt. M. It's not the least consequence, I assure you. He'd treat the world in the same way if he could get it into his hands. Everything's made to be played, with and broken, isn't it, young 'un? * * * * * Mrs. G. Mafflin didn't at all like his watch being broken, though he was too polite to say so. It was entirely his fault for giving it to the child. Dem little puds are werry, werry feeble, aren't dey, by Jack-in-de-box? (To G.) What did he want to see you for? Capt. G. Regimental shop as usual. Mrs. G. The Regiment! Always the Regiment. On my word, I sometimes feel jealous of Mafflin. Capt. G. (Wearily.) Poor old Jack? I don't think you need. Isn't it time for The Butcha to have his nap? Bring a chair out here, dear. I've got some thing to talk over with you. THIS IS THE END OF THE STORY OF THE GADSBYS VOLUME VIII from MINE OWN PEOPLE Bimi Namgay Doola The Recrudescence Of Imray Moti Guj--Mutineer BIMI THE orangoutang in the big iron cage lashed to the sheep-pen began the discussion. The night was stiflingly hot, and as Hans Breitmann and I passed him, dragging our bedding to the fore-peak of the steamer, he roused himself and chattered obscenely. He had been caught somewhere in the Malayan Archipelago, and was going to England to be exhibited at a shilling a head. For four days he had struggled, yelled, and wrenched at the heavy iron bars of his prison without ceasing, and had nearly slain a Lascar incautious enough to come within reach of the great hairy paw. "It would be well for you, mine friend, if you was a liddle seasick," said Hans Breitmann, pausing by the cage. "You haf too much Ego in your Cosmos." The orangoutang's arm slid out negligently from between the bars. No one would have believed that it would make a sudden snake-like rush at the German's breast. The thin silk of the sleeping-suit tore out: Hans stepped back unconcernedly, to pluck a banana from a bunch hanging close to one of the boats. "Too much Ego," said he, peeling the fruit and offering it to the caged devil, who was rending the silk to tatters. Then we laid out our bedding in the bows, among the sleeping Lascars, to catch any breeze that the pace of the ship might give us. The sea was like smoky oil, except where it turned to fire under our forefoot and whirled back into the dark in smears of dull flame. There was a thunderstorm some miles away: we could see the glimmer of the lightning. The ship's cow, distressed by the heat and the smell of the ape-beast in the cage, lowed unhappily from time to time in exactly the same key as the lookout man at the bows answered the hourly call from the bridge. The trampling tune of the engines was very distinct, and the jarring of the ash-lift, as it was tipped into the sea, hurt the procession of hushed noise. Hans lay down by my side and lighted a good-night cigar. This was naturally the beginning of conversation. He owned a voice as soothing as the wash of the sea, and stores of experiences as vast as the sea itself; for his business in life was to wander up and down the world, collecting orchids and wild beasts and ethnological specimens for German and American dealers. I watched the glowing end of his cigar wax and wane in the gloom, as the sentences rose and fell, till I was nearly asleep. The orangoutang, troubled by some dream of the forests of his freedom, began to yell like a soul in purgatory, and to wrench madly at the bars of the cage. "If he was out now dere would not be much of us left hereabouts," said Hans, lazily. "He screams good. See, now, how I shall tame him when he stops himself." There was a pause in the outcry, and from Hans' mouth came an imitation of a snake's hiss, so perfect that I almost sprung to my feet. The sustained murderous sound ran along the deck, and the wrenching at the bars ceased. The orangoutang was quaking in an ecstasy of pure terror. "Dot stop him," said Hans. "I learned dot trick in Mogoung Tanjong when I was collecting liddle monkeys for some peoples in Berlin. Efery one in der world is afraid of der monkeys except der snake. So I blay snake against monkey, and he keep quite still. Dere was too much Ego in his Cosmos. Dot is der soul-custom of monkeys. Are you asleep, or will you listen, and I will tell a dale dot you shall not pelief?" "There's no tale in the wide world that I can't believe," I said. "If you have learned pelief you haf learned somedings. Now I shall try your pelief. Good! When I was collecting dose liddle monkeys--it was in '79 or '80, und I was in der islands of der Archipelago--over dere in der dark"--he pointed southward to New Guinea generally--"Mein Gott! I would sooner collect life red devils than liddle monkeys. When dey do not bite off your thumbs dey are always dying from nostalgia--homesick--for dey haf der imperfect soul, which is midway arrested in defelopment--und too much Ego. I was dere for nearly a year, und dere I found a man dot was called Bertran. He was a Frenchman, und he was a goot man--naturalist to the bone. Dey said he was an escaped convict, but he was a naturalist, und dot was enough for me. He would call all her life beasts from der forests, und dey would come. I said he was St. Francis of Assisi in a new dransmigration produced, und he laughed und said he had never preach to der fishes. He sold dem for trepang--beche-de-mer. "Und dot man, who was king of beasts-tamer men, he had in der house shush such anoder as dot devil-animal in der cage--a great orangoutang dot thought he was a man. He haf found him when he was a child--der orangoutang--und he was child and brother and opera comique all round to Bertran. He had his room in dot house--not a cage, but a room--mit a bed and sheets, and he would go to bed and get up in der morning and smoke his cigar und eat his dinner mit Bertran, und walk mit him hand-in-hand, which was most horrible. Herr Gott! I haf seen dot beast throw himself back in his chair and laugh when Bertran haf made fun of me. He was not a beast; he was a man, and he talked to Bertran, und Bertran comprehended, for I have seen dem. Und he was always politeful to me except when I talk too long to Bertran und say nodings at all to him. Den he would pull me away--dis great, dark devil, mit his enormous paws shush as if I was a child. He was not a beast, he was a man. Dis I saw pefore I know him three months, und Bertran he haf saw the same; and Bimi, der orangoutang, haf understood us both, mit his cigar between his big-dog teeth und der blue gum. "I was dere a year, dere und at dere oder islands--somedimes for monkeys and somedimes for butterflies und orchits. One time Bertran says to me dot he will be married, because he hass found a girl dot was goot, and he inquire if this marrying idea was right. I would not say, pecause it was not me dot was going to be married. Den he go off courting der girl--she was a half-caste French girl--very pretty. Haf you got a new light for my cigar? Oof! Very pretty. Only I say 'Haf you thought of Bimi? If he pulls me away when I talk to you, what will he do to your wife? He will pull her in pieces. If I was you, Bertran, I would gif my wife for wedding present der stuff figure of Bimi.' By dot time I bad learned somedings about der monkey peoples. 'Shoot him?' says Bertran. 'He is your beast,' I said; 'if he was mine he would be shot now.' "Den I felt at der back of my neck der fingers of Bimi. Mein Gott! I tell you dot he talked through dose fingers. It was der deaf-and-dumb alphabet all gomplete. He slide his hairy arm round my neck, and he tilt up my chin and look into my face, shust to see if I understood his talk so well as he understood mine. "'See now dere!' says Bertran, 'und you would shoot him while he is cuddling you? Dot is der Teuton ingrate!' "But I knew dot I had made Bimi a life's enemy, pecause his fingers haf talk murder through the back of my neck. Next dime I see Bimi dere was a pistol in my belt, und he touch it once, and I open de breech to show him it was loaded. He haf seen der liddle monkeys killed in der woods, and he understood. "So Bertran he was married, and he forgot clean about Bimi dot was skippin' alone on the beach mit der haf of a human soul in his belly. I was see him skip, und he took a big bough und thrash der sand till he haf made a great hole like a grave. So I says to Bertran 'For any sakes, kill Bimi. He is mad mit der jealousy.' "Bertran haf said: 'He is not mad at all. He haf obey and love my wife, und if she speaks he will get her slippers,' und he looked at his wife across der room. She was a very pretty girl. "Den I said to him: 'Dost thou pretend to know monkeys und dis beast dot is lashing himself mad upon der sands, pecause you do not talk to him? Shoot him when he comes to der house, for he haf der light in his eyes dot means killing--und killing.' Bimi come to der house, but dere was no light in his eyes. It was all put away, cunning--so cunning--und he fetch der girl her slippers, and Bertran turn to me und say: 'Dost thou know him in nine months more dan I haf known him in twelve years? Shall a child stab his fader? I have fed him, und he was my child. Do not speak this nonsense to my wife or to me any more.' "Dot next day Bertran came to my house to help me make some wood cases for der specimens, und he tell me dot he haf left his wife a liddle while mit Bimi in der garden. Den I finish my cases quick, und I say: 'Let us go to your house und get a trink.' He laugh und say: 'Come along, dry mans.' "His wife was not in der garden, und Bimi did not come when Bertran called. Und his wife did not come when he called, und he knocked at her bedroom door und dot was shut tight-locked. Den he looked at me, und his face was white. I broke down der door mit my shoulder, und der thatch of der roof was torn into a great hole, und der sun came in upon der floor. Haf you ever seen paper in der waste-basket, or cards at whist on der table scattered? Dere was no wife dot could be seen. I tell you dere was noddings in dot room dot might be a woman. Dere was stuff on der floor, und dot was all. I looked at dese things und I was very sick; but Bertran looked a little longer at what was upon the floor und der walls, und der hole in der thatch. Den he pegan to laugh, soft and low, und I know und thank God dot he was mad. He nefer cried, he nefer prayed. He stood still in der doorway und laugh to himself. Den he said: 'She haf locked herself in dis room, and he haf torn up der thatch. Fi donc. Dot is so. We will mend der thatch und wait for Bimi. He will surely come.' "I tell you we waited ten days in dot house, after der room was made into a room again, and once or twice we saw Bimi comin' a liddle way from der woods. He was afraid pecause he haf done wrong. Bertran called him when he was come to look on the tenth day, und Bimi come skipping along der beach und making noises, mit a long piece of Nack hair in his hands. Den Bertran laugh and say, 'Fi donc' shust as if it was a glass broken upon der table; und Bimi come nearer, und Bertran was honey-sweet in his voice and laughed to himself. For three days he made love to Bimi, pecause Bimi would not let himself be touched Den Bimi come to dinner at der same table mit us, und der hair on his hands was all black und thick mit--mit what had dried on his hands. Bertran gave him sangaree till Bimi was drunk and stupid, und den--" Hans paused to puff at his cigar. "And then?" said I. "Und den Bertran kill him with his hands, und I go for a walk upon der heach. It was Bertran's own piziness. When I come back der ape he was dead, und Bertran he was dying abofe him; but still he laughed a liddle und low, and he was quite content. Now you know der formula uf der strength of der orangoutang--it is more as seven to one in relation to man. But Bertran, he haf killed Bimi mit sooch dings as Gott gif him. Dot was der mericle." The infernal clamor in the cage recommenced. "Aha! Dot friend of ours haf still too much Ego in his Cosmos, Be quiet, thou!" Hans hissed long and venomously. We could hear the great beast quaking in his cage. "But why in the world didn't you help Bertran instead of letting him be killed?" I asked. "My friend," said Hans, composedly stretching himself to slumber, "it was not nice even to mineself dot I should lif after I had seen dot room wit der hole in der thatch. Und Bertran, he was her husband. Good-night, und sleep well." NAMGAY DOOLA ONCE upon a time there was a king who lived on the road to Thibet, very many miles in the Himalaya Mountains. His kingdom was 11,000 feet above the sea, and exactly four miles square, but most of the miles stood on end, owing to the nature of the country. His revenues were rather less than 400 pounds yearly, and they were expended on the maintenance of one elephant and a standing army of five men. He was tributary to the Indian government, who allowed him certain sums for keeping a section of the Himalaya-Thibet road in repair. He further increased his revenues by selling timber to the railway companies, for he would cut the great deodar trees in his own forest and they fell thundering into the Sutlej River and were swept down to the Plains, 300 miles away, and became railway ties. Now and again this king, whose name does not matter, would mount a ring-streaked horse and ride scores of miles to Simlatown to confer with the lieutenant-governor on matters of state, or assure the viceroy that his sword was at the service of the queen-empress. Then the viceroy would cause a ruffle of drums to be sounded and the ring-streaked horse and the cavalry of the state--two men in tatters--and the herald who bore the Silver Stick before the king would trot back to their own place, which was between the tail of a heaven-climbing glacier and a dark birch forest. Now, from such a king, always remembering that he possessed one veritable elephant and could count his descent for 1,200 years, I expected, when it was my fate to wander through his dominions, no more than mere license to live. The night had closed in rain, and rolling clouds blotted out the lights of the villages in the valley. Forty miles away, untouched by cloud or storm, the white shoulder of Dongo Pa--the Mountain of the Council of the Gods--upheld the evening star. The monkeys sung sorrowfully to each other as they hunted for dry roots in the fern-draped trees, and the last puff of the day-wind brought from the unseen villages the scent of damp wood smoke, hot cakes, dripping undergrowth, and rotting pine-cones. That smell is the true smell of the Himalayas, and if it once gets into the blood of a man he will, at the last, forgetting everything else, return to the Hills to die. The clouds closed and the smell went away, and there remained nothing in all the world except chilling white mists and the boom of the Sutlej River. A fat-tailed sheep, who did not want to die, bleated lamentably at my tent-door. He was scuffling with the prime minister and the director-general of public education, and he was a royal gift to me and my camp servants. I expressed my thanks suitably and inquired if I might have audience of the king. The prime minister readjusted his turban--it had fallen off in the struggle--and assured me that the king would be very pleased to see me. Therefore I dispatched two bottles as a foretaste, and when the sheep had entered upon another incarnation, climbed up to the king's palace through the wet. He had sent his army to escort me, but it stayed to talk with my cook. Soldiers are very much alike all the world over. The palace was a four-roomed, white-washed mud-and-timber house, the finest in all the Hills for a day's journey. The king was dressed in a purple velvet jacket, white muslin trousers, and a saffron-yellow turban of price. He gave me audience in a little carpeted room opening off the palace courtyard, which was occupied by the elephant of state. The great beast was sheeted and anchored from trunk to tail, and the curve of his back stood out against the sky line. The prime minister and the director-general of public instruction were present to introduce me; but all the court had been dismissed lest the two bottles aforesaid should corrupt their morals. The king cast a wreath of heavy, scented flowers round my neck as I bowed, and inquired how my honored presence had the felicity to be. I said that through seeing his auspicious countenance the mists of the night had turned into sunshine, and that by reason of his beneficent sheep his good deeds would be remembered by the gods. He said that since I had set my magnificent foot in his kingdom the crops would probably yield seventy per cent more than the average. I said that the fame of the king had reached to the four corners of the earth, and that the nations gnashed their teeth when they heard daily of the glory of his realm and the wisdom of his moon-like prime minister and lotus-eyed director-general of public education. Then we sat down on clean white cushions, and I was at the king's right hand. Three minutes later he was telling me that the condition of the maize crop was something disgraceful, and that the railway companies would not pay him enough for his timber. The talk shifted to and fro with the bottles. We discussed very many quaint things, and the king became confidential on the subject of government generally. Most of all he dwelt on the shortcomings of one of his subjects, who, from what I could gather, had been paralyzing the executive. "In the old days," said the king, "I could have ordered the elephant yonder to trample him to death. Now I must e'en send him seventy miles across the hills to be tried, and his keep for that time would be upon the state. And the elephant eats everything." "What be the man's crimes, Rajah Sahib?" said I. "Firstly, he is an 'outlander,' and no man of mine own people. Secondly, since of my favor I gave him land upon his coming, he refuses to pay revenue. Am I not the lord of the earth, above and below--entitled by right and custom to one-eighth of the crop? Yet this devil, establishing himself, refuses to pay a single tax... and he brings a poisonous spawn of babes." "Cast him into jail," I said. "Sahib," the king answered, shifting a little on the cushions, "once and only once in these forty years sickness came upon me so that I was not able to go abroad. In that hour I made a vow to my God that I would never again cut man or woman from the light of the sun and the air of God, for I perceived the nature of the punishment. How can I break my vow? Were it only the lopping off of a hand or a foot, I should not delay. But even that is impossible now that the English have rule. One or another of my people"--he looked obliquely at the director-general of public education--"would at once write a letter to the viceroy, and perhaps I should be deprived of that ruffle of drums." He unscrewed the mouthpiece of his silver water-pipe, fitted a plain amber one, and passed the pipe to me. "Not content with refusing revenue," he continued, "this outlander refuses also to beegar" (this is the corvee or forced labor on the roads), "and stirs my people up to the like treason. Yet he is, if so he wills, an expert log-snatcher. There is none better or bolder among my people to clear a block of the river when the logs stick fast." "But he worships strange gods," said the prime minister, deferentially. "For that I have no concern," said the king, who was as tolerant as Akbar in matters of belief. "To each man his own god, and the fire or Mother Earth for us all at the last. It is the rebellion that offends me." "The king has an army," I suggested. "Has not the king burned the man's house, and left him naked to the night dews?" "Nay. A hut is a hut, and it holds the life of a man. But once I sent my army against him when his excuses became wearisome. Of their heads he brake three across the top with a stick. The other two men ran away. Also the guns would not shoot." I had seen the equipment of the infantry. One-third of it was an old muzzle-loading fowling-piece with ragged rust holes where the nipples should have been; one-third a wirebound matchlock with a worm-eaten stock, and one-third a four-bore flint duck-gun, without a flint. "But it is to be remembered," said the king, reaching out for the bottle, "that he is a very expert log-snatcher and a man of a merry face. What shall I do to him, sahib?" This was interesting. The timid hill-folk would as soon have refused taxes to their king as offerings to their gods. The rebel must be a man of character. "If it be the king's permission," I said, "I will not strike my tents till the third day, and I will see this man. The mercy of the king is godlike, and rebellion is like unto the sin of witchcraft. Moreover, both the bottles, and another, be empty." "You have my leave to go," said the king. Next morning the crier went through the stare proclaiming that there was a log-jam on the river and that it behooved all loyal subjects to clear it. The people poured down from their villages to the moist, warm valley of poppy fields, and the king and I went with them. Hundreds of dressed deodar logs had caught on a snag of rock, and the river was bringing down more logs every minute to complete the blockade. The water snarled and wrenched and worried at the timber, while the population of the state prodded at the nearest logs with poles, in the hope of easing the pressure. Then there went up a shout of "Namgay Doola! Namgay Doola!" and a large, red-haired villager hurried up, stripping off his clothes as he ran. "That he is. That is the rebel!" said the king. "Now will the dam be cleared." "But why has he red hair?" I asked, since red hair among hill-folk is as uncommon as blue or green. "He is an outlander," said the king. "Well done! Oh, well done!" Namgay Doola had scrambled on the jam and was clawing out the butt of a log with a rude sort of a boat-hook. It slid forward slowly, as an alligator moves, and three or four others followed it. The green water spouted through the gaps. Then the villagers howled and shouted and leaped among the logs, pulling and pushing the obstinate timber, and the red head of Namgay Doola was chief among them all. The logs swayed and chafed and groaned as fresh consignments from up-stream battered the now weakening dam. It gave way at last in a smother of foam, racing butts, bobbing black heads, and a confusion indescribable, as the river tossed everything before it. I saw the red head go down with the last remnants of the jam and disappear between the great grinding tree trunks. It rose close to the hank, and blowing like a grampus, Namgay Doola wiped the water out of his eyes and made obeisance to the king. I had time to observe the man closely. The virulent redness of his shock head and beard was most startling, and in the thicket of hair twinkled above high cheek-bones two very merry blue eyes. He was indeed an outlander, but yet a Thibetan in language, habit and attire. He spoke the Lepcha dialect with an indescribable softening of the gutturals. It was not so much a lisp as an accent. "Whence comest thou?" I asked, wondering. "From Thibet." He pointed across the hills and grinned. That grin went straight to my heart. Mechanically I held out my hand and Namgay Doola took it. No pure Thibetan would have understood the meaning of the gesture. He went away to look for his clothes, and as he climbed back to his village, I heard a joyous yell that seemed unaccountably familiar. It was the whooping of Namgay Doola. "You see now," said the king, "why I would not kill him. He is a bold man among my logs, but," and he shook his head like a schoolmaster, "I know that before long there will be complaints of him in the court. Let us return to the palace and do justice." It was that king's custom to judge his subjects every day between eleven and three o'clock. I heard him do justice equitably on weighty matters of trespass, slander, and a little wife-stealing. Then his brow clouded and he summoned me. "Again it is Namgay Doola," he said, despairingly. "Not content with refusing revenue on his own part, he has bound half his village by an oath to the like treason. Never before has such a thing befallen me! Nor are my taxes heavy." A rabbit-faced villager, with a blush-rose stuck behind his ear, advanced trembling. He had been in Namgay Doola's conspiracy, but had told everything and hoped for the king's favor. "Oh, king!" said I, "if it be the king's will, let this matter stand over till the morning. Only the gods can do right in a hurry, and it may be that yonder villager has lied." "Nay, for I know the nature of Namgay Doola; but since a guest asks, let the matter remain. Wilt thou, for my sake, speak harshly to this red-headed outlander? He may listen to thee." I made an attempt that very evening, but for the life of me I could not keep my countenance. Namgay Doola grinned so persuasively and began to tell me about a big brown bear in a poppy field by the river. Would I care to shoot that bear? I spoke austerely on the sin of detected conspiracy and the certainty of punishment. Namgay Doola's face clouded for a moment. Shortly afterward he withdrew from my tent, and I heard him singing softly among the pines. The words were unintelligible to me, but the tune, like his liquid, insinuating speech, seemed the ghost of something strangely familiar. "Dir hane mard-i-yemen dir To weeree ala gee," crooned Namgay Doola again and again, and I racked my brain for that lost tune. It was not till after dinner that I discovered some one had cut a square foot of velvet from the centre of my best camera-cloth. This made me so angry that I wandered down the valley in the hope of meeting the big brown bear. I could hear him grunting like a discontented pig in the poppy field as I waited shoulder deep in the dew-dripping Indian corn to catch him after his meal. The moon was at full and drew out the scent of the tasseled crop. Then I heard the anguished bellow of a Himalayan cow--one of the little black crummies no bigger than Newfoundland dogs. Two shadows that looked like a bear and her cub hurried past me. I was in the act of firing when I saw that each bore a brilliant red head. The lesser animal was trailing something rope-like that left a dark track on the path. They were within six feet of me, and the shadow of the moonlight lay velvet-black on their faces. Velvet-black was exactly the word, for by all the powers of moonlight they were masked in the velvet of my camera-cloth. I marveled, and went to bed. Next morning the kingdom was in an uproar. Namgay Doola, men said, had gone forth in the night and with a sharp knife had cut off the tail of a cow belonging to the rabbit-faced villager who had betrayed him. It was sacrilege unspeakable against the holy cow. The state desired his blood, but he had retreated into his hut, barricaded the doors and windows with big stones, and defied the world. The king and I and the populace approached the hut cautiously. There was no hope of capturing our man without loss of life, for from a hole in the wall projected the muzzle of an extremely well-cared-for gun--the only gun in the state that could shoot. Namgay Doola had narrowly missed a villager just before we came up. The standing army stood. It could do no more, for when it advanced pieces of sharp shale flew from the windows. To these were added from time to time showers of scalding water. We saw red beads bobbing up and down within. The family of Namgay Doola were aiding their sire. Blood-curdling yells of defiance were the only answer to our prayers. "Never," said the king, puffing, "has such a thing befallen my state. Next year I will certainly buy a little cannon." He looked at me imploringly. "Is there any priest in the kingdom to whom he will listen?" said I, for a light was beginning to break upon me. "He worships his own god," said the prime minister. "We can but starve him out." "Let the white man approach," said Namgay Doola from within. "All others I will kill. Send me the white man." The door was thrown open and I entered the smoky interior of a Thibetan hut crammed with children. And every child had flaming red hair. A freshgathered cow's tail lay on the floor, and by its side two pieces of black velvet--my black velvet--rudely hacked into the semblance of masks. "And what is this shame, Namgay Doola?" I asked. He grinned more charmingly than ever. "There is no shame," said he. "I did but cut off the tail of that man's cow. He betrayed me. I was minded to shoot him, sahib, but not to death. Indeed, not to death; only in the legs." "And why at all, since it is the custom to pay revenue to the king? Why at all?" "By the god of my father, I cannot tell," said Namgay Doola. "And who was thy father?" "The same that had this gun." He showed me his weapon, a Tower musket, bearing date 1832 and the stamp of the Honorable East India Company. "And thy father's name?" said I. He obeyed, and I understood whence the puzzling accent in his speech came. "Thimla Dhula!" said he, excitedly. "To this hour I worship his god." "May I see that god?" "In a little while--at twilight time." "Rememberest thou aught of thy father's speech?" "It is long ago. But there was one word which he said often. Thus, ''Shun!' Then I and my brethren stood upon our feet, our hands to our sides, thus." "Even so. And what was thy mother?" "A woman of the Hills. We be Lepchas of Darjiling, but me they call an outlander because my hair is as thou seest." The Thibetan woman, his wife, touched him on the arm gently. The long parley outside the fort had lasted far into the day. It was now close upon twilight--the hour of the Angelus. Very solemnly the red-headed brats rose from the floor and formed a semicircle. Namgay Doola laid his gun aside, lighted a little oil-lamp, and set it before a recess in the wall. Pulling back a wisp of dirty cloth, he revealed a worn brass crucifix leaning against the helmet badge of a long-forgotten East India Company's regiment. "Thus did my father," he said, crossing himself clumsily. The wife and children followed suit. Then, all together, they struck up the wailing cham that I heard on the hillside: "Dir bane mard-i-yemen dir To weeree ala gee." I was puzzled no longer. Again and again they sung, as if their hearts would break, their version of the chorus of "The Wearing of the Green": "They're hanging men and women, too, For the wearing of the green," A diabolical inspiration came to me. One of the brats, a boy about eight years old--could he have been in the fields last night?--was watching me as he sung. I pulled out a rupee, held the coin between finger and thumb, and looked--only looked--at the gun leaning against the wall. A grin of brilliant and perfect comprehension overspread his porringer-like face. Never for an instant stopping the song, he held out his hand for the money, and then slid the gun to my hand. I might have shot Namgay Doola dead as he chanted, but I was satisfied. The inevitable blood-instinct held true. Namgay Doola drew the curtain across the recess. Angelus was over. "Thus my father sung. There was much more, but I have forgotten, and I do not know the purport of even these words, but it may be that the god will understand. I am not of this people, and I will not pay revenue." "And why?" Again that soul-compelling grin. "What occupation would be to me between crop and crop? It is better than scaring bears. But these people do not understand." He picked the masks off the floor and looked in my face as simply as a child. "By what road didst thou attain knowledge to make those deviltries?" I said, pointing. "I cannot tell. I am but a Lepcha of Darjiling, and yet the stuff"-- "Which thou hast stolen," said I. "Nay, surely. Did I steal? I desired it so. The stuff--the stuff. What else should I have done with the stuff?" He twisted the velvet between his fingers. "But the sin of maiming the cow--consider that." "Oh, sahib, the man betrayed me; the heifer's tail waved in the moonlight, and I had my knife. What else should I have done? The tail came off ere I was aware. Sahib, thou knowest more than I." "That is true," said I. "Stay within the door. I go to speak to the king." The population of the state were ranged on the hillside. I went forth and spoke. "O king," said I, "touching this man, there be two courses open to thy wisdom. Thou canst either hang him from a tree--him and his brood--till there remains no hair that is red within thy land." "Nay," said the king. "Why should I hurt the little children?" They had poured out of the hut and were making plump obeisances to everybody. Namgay Doola waited at the door with his gun across his arm. "Or thou canst, discarding their impiety of the cow-maiming, raise him to honor in thy army. He comes of a race that will not pay revenue. A red flame is in his blood which comes out at the top of his head in that glowing hair. Make him chief of thy army. Give him honor as may befall and full allowance of work, but look to it, oh, king, that neither he nor his hold a foot of earth from thee henceforward. Feed him with words and favor, and also liquor from certain bottles that thou knowest of, and he will be a bulwark of defense. But deny him even a tuftlet of grass for his own. This is the nature that God has given him. Moreover, he has brethren"-- The state groaned unanimously. "But if his brethren come they will surely fight with each other till they die; or else the one will always give information concerning the other. Shall he be of thy army, oh, king? Choose!" The king bowed his head, and I said: "Come forth, Namgay Doola, and command the king's army. Thy name shall no more be Namgay in the mouths of men, but Patsay Doola, for, as thou hast truly said, I know." Then Namgay Doola, never christened Patsay Doola, son of Timlay Doola--which is Tim Doolan--clasped the king's feet, cuffed the standing army, and hurried in an agony of contrition from temple to temple making offerings for the sin of the cattle--maiming. And the king was so pleased with my perspicacity that he offered to sell me a village for 20 pounds sterling. But I buy no village in the Himalayas so long as one red head flares between the tail of the heaven-climbing glacier and the dark birch forest. I know that breed. THE RECRUDESCENCE OF IMRAY Imray had achieved the impossible. Without warning, for no conceivable motive, in his youth and at the threshold of his career he had chosen to disappear from the world--which is to say, the little Indian station where he lived. Upon a day he was alive, well, happy, and in great evidence at his club, among the billiard-tables. Upon a morning he was not, and no manner of search could make sure where he might be. He had stepped out of his place; he had not appeared at his office at the proper time, and his dog-cart was not upon the public roads. For these reasons and because he was hampering in a microscopical degree the administration of the Indian Empire, the Indian Empire paused for one microscopical moment to make inquiry into the fate of Imray. Ponds were dragged, wells were plumbed, telegrams were dispatched down the lines of railways and to the nearest seaport town--1,200 miles away--but Imray was not at the end of the drag-ropes nor the telegrams. He was gone, and his place knew him no more. Then the work of the great Indian Empire swept forward, because it could not be delayed, and Imray, from being a man, became a mystery--such a thing as men talk over at their tables in the club for a month and then forget utterly. His guns, horses, and carts were sold to the highest bidder. His superior officer wrote an absurd letter to his mother, saying that Imray had unaccountably disappeared and his bungalow stood empty on the road. After three or four months of the scorching hot weather had gone by, my friend Strickland, of the police force, saw fit to rent the bungalow from the native landlord. This was before he was engaged to Miss Youghal--an affair which has been described in another place--and while he was pursuing his investigations into native life. His own life was sufficiently peculiar, and men complained of his manners and customs. There was always food in his house, but there were no regular times for meals. He ate, standing up and walking about, whatever he might find on the sideboard, and this is not good for the insides of human beings. His domestic equipment was limited to six rifles, three shotguns, five saddles, and a collection of stiff-jointed masheer rods, bigger and stronger than the largest salmon rods. These things occupied one half of his bungalow, and the other half was given up to Strickland and his dog Tietjens--an enormous Rampur slut, who sung when she was ordered, and devoured daily the rations of two men. She spoke to Strickland in a language of her own, and whenever, in her walks abroad she saw things calculated to destroy the peace of Her Majesty the Queen Empress, she returned to her master and gave him information. Strickland would take steps at once, and the end of his labors was trouble and fine and imprisonment for other people. The natives believed that Tietjens was a familiar spirit, and treated her with the great reverence that is born of hate and fear One room in the bungalow was set apart for her special use. She owned a bedstead, a blanket, and a drinking-trough, and if any one came into Strickland's room at night, her custom was to knock down the invader and give tongue till some one came with a light. Strickland owes his life to her. When he was on the frontier in search of the local murderer who came in the grey dawn to send Strickland much further than the Andaman Islands, Tietjens caught him as he was crawling into Strickland's tent with a dagger between his teeth, and after his record of iniquity was established in the eyes of the law, he was hanged. From that date Tietjens wore a collar of rough silver and employed a monogram on her night blanket, and the blanket was double-woven Kashmir cloth, for she was a delicate dog. Under no circumstances would she be separated from Strickland, and when he was ill with fever she made great trouble for the doctors because she did not know how to help her master and would not allow another creature to attempt aid. Macarnaght, of the Indian Medical Service, beat her over the head with a gun, before she could understand that she must give room for those who could give quinine. A short time after Strickland had taken Imray's bungalow, my business took me through that station, and naturally, the club quarters being full, I quartered myself upon Strickland. It was a desirable bungalow, eight-roomed, and heavily thatched against any chance of leakage from rain. Under the pitch of the roof ran a ceiling cloth, which looked just as nice as a whitewashed ceiling. The landlord had repainted it when Strickland took the bungalow, and unless you knew how Indian bungalows were built you would never have suspected that above the cloth lay the dark, three-cornered cavern of the roof, where the beams and the under side of the thatch harbored all manner of rats, hats, ants, and other things. Tietjens met me in the veranda with a bay like the boom of the bells of St. Paul's, and put her paws on my shoulders and said she was glad to see me. Strickland had contrived to put together that sort of meal which he called lunch, and immediately after it was finished went out about his business. I was left alone with Tietjens and my own affairs. The heat of the summer had broken up and given place to the warm damp of the rains. There was no motion in the heated air, but the rain fell like bayonet rods on the earth, and flung up a blue mist where it splashed back again. The bamboos and the custard apples, the poinsettias and the mango-trees in the garden stood still while the warm water lashed through them, and the frogs began to sing among the aloe hedges. A little before the light failed, and when the rain was at its worst, I sat in the back veranda and heard the water roar from the eaves, and scratched myself because I was covered with the thing they called prickly heat. Tietjens came out with me and put her head in my lap, and was very sorrowful, so I gave her biscuits when tea was ready, and I took tea in the back veranda on account of the little coolness I found there. The rooms of the house were dark behind me. I could smell Strickland's saddlery and the oil on his guns, and I did not the least desire to sit among these things. My own servant came to me in the twilight, the muslin of his clothes clinging tightly to his drenched body, and told me that a gentleman had called and wished to see some one. Very much against my will, and because of the darkness of the rooms, I went into the naked drawing-room, telling my man to bring the lights. There might or might not have been a caller in the room--it seems to me that I saw a figure by one of the windows, but when the lights came there was nothing save the spikes of the rain without and the smell of the drinking earth in my nostrils. I explained to my man that he was no wiser than he ought to be, and went back to the veranda to talk to Tietjens. She had gone out into the wet and I could hardly coax her back to me--even with biscuits with sugar on top. Strickland rode back, dripping wet, just before dinner, and the first thing he said was: "Has any one called?" I explained, with apologies, that my servant had called me into the drawing-room on a false alarm; or that some loafer had tried to call on Strickland, and, thinking better of it, fled after giving his name. Strickland ordered dinner without comment, and since it was a real dinner, with white tablecloth attached, we sat down. At nine o'clock Strickland wanted to go to bed, and I was tired too. Tietjens, who had been lying underneath the table, rose up and went into the least exposed veranda as soon as her master moved to his own room, which was next to the stately chamber set apart for Tietjens. If a mere wife had wished to sleep out-of-doors in that pelting rain, it would not have mattered, but Tietjens was a dog, and therefore the better animal. I looked at Strickland, expecting to see him flog her with a whip. He smiled queerly, as a man would smile after telling some hideous domestic tragedy. "She has done this ever since I moved in here." The dog was Strickland's dog, so I said nothing, but I felt all that Strickland felt in being made light of. Tietjens encamped outside my bedroom window, and storm after storm came up, thundered on the thatch, and died away. The lightning spattered the sky as a thrown egg spattered a barn door, but the light was pale blue, not yellow; and looking through my slit bamboo blinds, I could see the great dog standing, not sleeping, in the veranda, the hackles alift on her back, and her feet planted as tensely as the drawn wire rope of a suspension bridge. In the very short pauses of the thunder I tried to sleep, but it seemed that some one wanted me very badly. He, whoever he was, was trying to call me by name, but his voice was no more than a husky whisper. Then the thunder ceased and Tietjens went into the garden and howled at the low moon. Somebody tried to open my door, and walked about and through the house, and stood breathing heavily in the verandas, and just when I was falling asleep I fancied that I heard a wild hammering and clamoring above my head or on the door. I ran into Strickland's room and asked him whether he was ill and had been calling for me. He was lying on the bed half-dressed, with a pipe in his mouth. "I thought you'd come," he said. "Have I been walking around the house at all?" I explained that he had been in the dining-room and the smoking-room and two or three other places; and he laughed and told me to go back to bed. I went back to bed and slept till the morning, but in all my dreams I was sure I was doing some one an injustice in not attending to his wants. What those wants were I could not tell, but a fluttering, whispering, bolt-fumbling, luring, loitering some one was reproaching me for my slackness, and through all the dreams I heard the howling of Tietjens in the garden and the thrashing of the rain. I was in that house for two days, and Strickland went to his office daily, leaving me alone for eight or ten hours a day, with Tietjens for my only companion. As long as the full light lasted I was comfortable, and so was Tietjens; but in the twilight she and I moved into the back veranda and cuddled each other for company. We were alone in the house, but for all that it was fully occupied by a tenant with whom I had no desire to interfere. I never saw him, but I could see the curtains between the rooms quivering where he had just passed through; I could hear the chairs creaking as the bamboos sprung under a weight that had just quitted them; and I could feel when I went to get a book from the dining-room that somebody was waiting in the shadows of the front veranda till I should have gone away. Tietjens made the twilight more interesting by glaring into the darkened rooms, with every hair erect, and following the motions of something that I could not see. She never entered the rooms, but her eyes moved, and that was quite sufficient. Only when my servant came to trim the lamps and make all light and habitable, she would come in with me and spend her time sitting on her haunches watching an invisible extra man as he moved about behind my shoulder. Dogs are cheerful companions. I explained to Strickland, gently as might be, that I would go over to the club and find for myself quarters there. I admired his hospitality, was pleased with his guns and rods, but I did not much care for his house and its atmosphere. He heard me out to the end, and then smiled very wearily, but without contempt, for he is a man who understands things. "Stay on," he said, "and see what this thing means. All you have talked about I have known since I took the bungalow. Stay on and wait. Tietjens has left me. Are you going too?" I had seen him through one little affair connected with an idol that had brought me to the doors of a lunatic asylum, and I had no desire to help him through further experiences. He was a man to whom unpleasantnesses arrived as do dinners to ordinary people. Therefore I explained more clearly than ever that I liked him immensely, and would be happy to see him in the daytime, but that I didn't care to sleep under his roof. This was after dinner, when Tietjens had gone out to lie in the veranda. "'Pon my soul, I don't wonder," said Strickland, with his eyes on the ceiling-cloth. "Look at that." The tails of two snakes were hanging between the cloth and the cornice of the wall. They threw long shadows in the lamp-light. "If you are afraid of snakes, of course"--said Strickland. "I hate and fear snakes, because if you look into the eyes of any snake you will see that it knows all and more of man's fall, and that it feels all the contempt that the devil felt when Adam was evicted from Eden. Besides which its bite is generally fatal, and it bursts up trouser legs." "You ought to get your thatch over-hauled," I said. "Give me a masheer rod, and we'll poke 'em down." "They'll hide among the roof beams," said Strickland. "I can't stand snakes overhead. I'm going up. If I shake 'em down, stand by with a cleaning-rod and break their backs." I was not anxious to assist Strickland in his work, but I took the loading-rod and waited in the dining-room, while Strickland brought a gardener's ladder from the veranda and set it against the side of the room. The snake tails drew themselves up and disappeared. We could hear the dry rushing scuttle of long bodies running over the baggy cloth. Strickland took a lamp with him, while I tried to make clear the danger of hunting roof snakes between a ceiling cloth and a thatch, apart from the deterioration of property caused by ripping out ceiling-cloths. "N o n s en s e," said Strickland. "They're sure to hide near the walls by the cloth. The bricks are too cold for 'em, and the heat of the room is just what they like." He put his hands to the corner of the cloth and ripped the rotten stuff from the cornice. It gave great sound of tearing, and Strickland put his head through the opening into the dark of the angle of the roof beams. I set my teeth and lifted the loading-rod, for I had not the least knowledge of what might descend. "H'm," said Strickland; and his voice rolled and rumbled in the roof. "There's room for another set of rooms up here, and, by Jove! some one is occupying em." "Snakes?" I said down below. "No. It's a buffalo. Hand me up the two first joints of a masheer rod, and I'll prod it. It's lying on the main beam." I handed up the rod. "What a nest for owls and serpents! No wonder the snakes live here," said Strickland, climbing further into the roof. I could see his elbow thrusting with the rod. "Come out of that, whoever you are! Look out! Heads below there! It's tottering." I saw the ceiling-cloth nearly in the centre of the room bag with a shape that was pressing it downward and downward toward the lighted lamps on the table. I snatched a lamp out of danger and stood back. Then the cloth ripped out from the walls, tore, split, swayed, and shot down upon the table something that I dared not look at till Strickland had slid down the ladder and was standing by my side. He did not say much, being a man of few words, but he picked up the loose end of the table-cloth and threw it over the thing on the table. "It strikes me," said he, pulling down the lamp, "our friend Imray has come back. Oh! you would, would you?" There was a movement under the cloth, and a little snake wriggled out, to be back-broken by the butt of the masheer rod. I was sufficiently sick to make no remarks worth recording. Strickland meditated and helped himself to drinks liberally. The thing under the cloth made no more signs of life. "Is it Imray?" I said. Strickland turned back the cloth for a moment and looked. "It is Imray," he said, "and his throat is cut from ear to ear." Then we spoke both together and to ourselves: "That's why he whispered about the house." Tietjens, in the garden, began to bay furiously. A little later her great nose heaved upon the dining-room door. She sniffed and was still. The broken and tattered ceiling-cloth hung down almost to the level of the table, and there was hardly room to move away from the discovery. Then Tietjens came in and sat down, her teeth bared and her forepaws planted. She looked at Strickland. "It's bad business, old lady," said he. "Men don't go up into the roofs of their bungalows to die, and they don't fasten up the ceiling-cloth behind 'em. Let's think it out." "Let's think it out somewhere else," I said. "Excellent idea! Turn the lamps out. We'll get into my room." I did not turn the lamps out. I went into Strickland's room first and allowed him to make the darkness. Then he followed me, and we lighted tobacco and thought. Strickland did the thinking. I smoked furiously because I was afraid. "Imray is back," said Strickland. "The question is, who killed Imray? Don't talk--I have a notion of my own. When I took this bungalow I took most of Imray's servants. Imray was guileless and inoffensive, wasn't he?" I agreed, though the heap under the cloth looked neither one thing nor the other. "If I call the servants they will stand fast in a crowd and lie like Aryans. What do you suggest?" "Call 'em in one by one," I said. "They'll run away and give the news to all their fellows," said Strickland. "We must segregate 'em. Do you suppose your servant knows anything about it?" "He may, for aught I know, but I don't think it's likely. He has only been here two or three days." "What's your notion?" I asked. "I can't quite tell. How the dickens did the man get the wrong side of the ceiling-cloth?" There was a heavy coughing outside Strickland's bedroom door. This showed that Bahadur Khan, his body-servant, had waked from sleep and wished to put Strickland to bed. "Come in," said Strickland. "It is a very warm night, isn't it?" Bahadur Khan, a great, green-turbaned, six-foot Mohammedan, said that it was a very warm night, but that there was more rain pending, which, by his honor's favor, would bring relief to the country. "It will be so, if God pleases," said Strickland, tugging off his hoots. "It is in my mind, Bahadur Khan, that I have worked thee remorselessly for many days--ever since that time when thou first came into my service. What time was that?" "Has the heaven-born forgotten? It was when Imray Sahib went secretly to Europe without warning given, and I--even I--came into the honored service of the protector of the poor." "And Imray Sahib went to Europe?" "It is so said among the servants." "And thou wilt take service with him when he returns?" "Assuredly, sahib. He was a good master and cherished his dependents." "That is true. I am very tired, but I can go buck-shooting tomorrow. Give me the little rifle that I use for black buck; it is in the case yonder." The man stooped over the case, banded barrels, stock, and fore-end to Strickland, who fitted them together. Yawning dolefully, then he reached down to the gun-case, took a solid drawn cartridge, and slipped it into the breech of the .360 express. "And Imray Sahib has gone to Europe secretly? That is very strange, Bahadur Khan, is it not?" "What do I know of the ways of the white man, heaven-born?" "Very little, truly. But thou shalt know more. It has reached me that Imray Sahib has returned from his so long journeyings, and that even now he lies in the next room, waiting his servant." "Sahib!" The lamp-light slid along the barrels of the rifle as they leveled themselves against Bahadur Khan's broad breast. "Go, then, and look!" said Strickland. "Take a lamp. Thy master is tired, and he waits. Go!" The man picked up a lamp and went into the dining-room, Strickland following, and almost pushing him with the muzzle of the rifle. He looked for a moment at the black depths behind the ceiling-cloth, at the carcass of the mangled snake under foot, and last, a grey glaze setting on his face, at the thing under the table-cloth. "Hast thou seen?" said Strickland, after a pause. "I have seen. I am clay in the white man's hands. What does the presence do?" "Hang thee within a month! What else?" "For killing him? Nay, sahib, consider. Walking among us, his servants, he cast his eyes upon my child, who was four years old. Him he bewitched, and in ten days he died of the fever. My child!" "What said Imray Sahib?" "He said he was a handsome child, and patted him on the head; wherefore my child died. Wherefore I killed Imray Sahib in the twilight, when he came back from office and was sleeping. The heaven-born knows all things. I am the servant of the heaven-born." Strickland looked at me above the rifle, and said, in the vernacular: "Thou art witness to this saying. He has killed." Bahadur Khan stood ashen grey in the light of the one lamp. The need for justification came upon him very swiftly. "I am trapped," he said, "but the offence was that man's. He cast an evil eye upon my child, and I killed and hid him. Only such as are served by devils," he glared at Tietjens, crouched stolidly before him, "only such could know what I did." "It was clever. But thou shouldst have lashed him to the beam with a rope. Now, thou thyself wilt hang by a rope. Orderly!" A drowsy policeman answered Strickland's call. He was followed by another, and Tietjens sat still. "Take him to the station," said Strickland. "There is a case toward." "Do I hang, then?" said Bahadur Khan, making no attempt to escape and keeping his eyes on the ground. "If the sun shines, or the water runs, thou wilt hang," said Strickland. Bahadur Khan stepped back one pace, quivered, and stood still. The two policemen waited further orders. "Go!" said Strickland. "Nay; but I go very swiftly," said Bahadur Khan. "Look! I am even now a dead man." He lifted his foot, and to the little toe there clung the head of the half-killed snake, firm fixed in the agony of death. "I come of land-holding stock," said Bahadur Khan, rocking where he stood. "It were a disgrace for me to go to the public scaffold, therefore I take this way. Be it remembered that the sahib's shirts are correctly enumerated, and that there is an extra piece of soap in his washbasin. My child was bewitched, and I slew the wizard. Why should you seek to slay me? My honor is saved, and--and--I die." At the end of an hour he died as they die who are bitten by the little kariat, and the policeman bore him and the thing under the table-cloth to their appointed places. They were needed to make clear the disappearance of Imray. "This," said Strickland, very calmly, as he climbed into bed, "is called the nineteenth century. Did you hear what that man said?" "I heard," I answered. "Imray made a mistake." "Simply and solely through not knowing the nature and coincidence of a little seasonal fever. Bahadur Khan has been with him for four years." I shuddered. My own servant had been with me for exactly that length of time. When I went over to my own room I found him waiting, impassive as the copper head on a penny, to pull off my boots. "What has befallen Bahadur Khan?" said I. "He was bitten by a snake and died; the rest the sahib knows," was the answer. "And how much of the matter hast thou known?" "As much as might be gathered from one coming in the twilight to seek satisfaction. Gently, sahib. Let me pull off those boots." I had just settled to the sleep of exhaustion when I heard Strickland shouting from his side of the house: "Tietjens has come back to her room!" And so she had. The great deer-hound was couched on her own bedstead, on her own blanket, and in the next room the idle, empty ceiling-cloth wagged light-heartedly as it flailed on the table. MOTI GUJ--MUTINEER ONCE upon a time there was a coffee-planter in India who wished to clear some forest land for coffee-planting. When he had cut down all the trees and burned the underwood, the stumps still remained. Dynamite is expensive and slow fire slow. The happy medium for stump-clearing is the lord of all beasts, who is the elephant. He will either push the stump out of the ground with his tusks, if he has any, or drag it out with ropes. The planter, therefore, hired elephants by ones and twos and threes, and fell to work. The very best of all the elephants belonged to the very worst of all the drivers or mahouts; and this superior beast's name was Moti Guj. He was the absolute property of his mahout, which would never have been the case under native rule; for Moti Guj was a creature to be desired by kings, and his name, being translated, meant the Pearl Elephant. Because the British government was in the land, Deesa, the mahout, enjoyed his property undisturbed. He was dissipated. When he had made much money through the strength of his elephant, he would get extremely drunk and give Moti Guj a beating with a tent-peg over the tender nails of the forefeet. Moti Guj never trampled the life out of Deesa on these occasions, for he knew that after the beating was over, Deesa would embrace his trunk and weep and call him his love and his life and the liver of his soul, and give him some liquor. Moti Guj was very fond of liquor--arrack for choice, though he would drink palm-tree toddy if nothing better offered. Then Deesa would go to sleep between Moti Guj's forefeet, and as Deesa generally chose the middle of the public road, and as Moti Guj mounted guard over him, and would not permit horse, foot, or cart to pass by, traffic was congested till Deesa saw fit to wake up. There was no sleeping in the daytime on the planter's clearing: the wages were too high to risk. Deesa sat on Moti Guj's neck and gave him orders, while Moti Guj rooted up the stumps--for he owned a magnificent pair of tusks; or pulled at the end of a rope--for he had a magnificent pair of shoulders--while Deesa kicked him behind the ears and said he was the king of elephants. At evening time Moti Guj would wash down his three hundred pounds' weight of green food with a quart of arrack, and Deesa would take a share, and sing songs between Moti Guj's legs till it was time to go to bed. Once a week Deesa led Moti Guj down to the river, and Moti Gui lay on his side luxuriously in the shallows, while Deesa went over him with a coir swab and a brick. Moti Guj never mistook the pounding blow of the latter for the smack of the former that warned him to get up and turn over on the other side. Then Deesa would look at his feet and examine his eyes, and turn up the fringes of his mighty ears in case of sores or budding ophthalmia. After inspection the two would come up with a song from the sea, Moti Guj, all black and shining, waving a torn tree branch twelve feet long in his trunk, and Deesa knotting up his own long wet hair. It was a peaceful, well-paid life till Deesa felt the return of the desire to drink deep. He wished for an orgy. The little draughts that led nowhere were taking the manhood out of him. He went to the planter, and "My mother's dead," said he, weeping. "She died on the last plantation two months ago, and she died once before that when you were working for me last year," said the planter, who knew something of the ways of nativedom. "Then it's my aunt, and she was just the same as a mother to me," said Deesa, weeping more than ever. "She has left eighteen small children entirely without bread, and it is I who must fill their little stomachs," said Deesa, beating his head on the floor. "Who brought the news?" said the planter. "The post," said Deesa. "There hasn't been a post here for the past week. Get back to your lines!", "A devastating sickness has fallen on my village, and all my wives are dying," yelled Deesa, really in tears this time. "Call Chihun, who comes from Deesa's village," said the planter. "Chihun, has this man got a wife?" "He?" said Chihun. "No. Not a woman of our village would look at him. They'd sooner marry the elephant!" Chihun snorted. Deesa wept and bellowed. "You will get into a difficulty in a minute," said the planter. "Go back to your work!" "Now I will speak Heaven's truth," gulped Deesa, with an inspiration. "I haven't been drunk for two months. I desire to depart in order to get properly drunk afar off and distant from this heavenly plantation. Thus I shall cause no trouble." A flickering smile crossed the planter's face. "Deesa," said he, "you've spoken the truth, and I'd give you leave on the spot if anything could be done with Moti Guj while you're away. You know that he will only obey your orders." "May the light of the heavens live forty thousand years. I shall be absent but ten little days. After that, upon my faith and honor and soul, I return. As to the inconsiderable interval, have I the gracious permission of the heaven-born to call up Moti Guj?" Permission was granted, and in answer of Deesa's shrill yell, the mighty tusker swung out of the shade of a clump of trees where he had been squirting dust over himself till his master should return. "Light of my heart, protector of the drunken, mountain of might, give ear!" said Deesa, standing in front of him. Moti Guj gave ear, and saluted with his trunk. "I am going away," said Deesa. Moti Guj's eyes twinkled. He liked jaunts as well as his master. One could snatch all manner of nice things from the roadside then. "But you, you fussy old pig, must stay behind and work." The twinkle died out as Moti Guj tried to look delighted. He hated stump-hauling on the plantation. It hurt his teeth. "I shall be gone for ten days, oh, delectable one! Hold up your near forefoot and I'll impress the fact upon it, warty toad of a dried mud-puddle." Deesa took a tent-peg and banged Moti Guj ten times on the nails. Moti Guj grunted and shuffled from foot to foot. "Ten days," said Deesa, "you will work and haul and root the trees as Chihun here shall order you. Take up Chihun and set him on your neck!" Moti Guj curled the tip of his trunk, Chihun put his foot there, and was swung on to the neck. Deesa handed Chihun the heavy ankus--the iron elephant goad. Chihun thumped Moti Guj's bald head as a paver thumps a curbstone. Moti Guj trumpeted. "Be still, hog of the backwoods! Chihun's your mahout for ten days. And now bid me goodbye, beast after mine own heart. Oh, my lord, my king! Jewel of all created elephants, lily of the herd, preserve your honored health; be virtuous. Adieu!" Moti Guj lapped his trunk round Deesa and swung him into the air twice. That was his way of bidding him goodbye. "He'll work now," said Deesa to the planter. "Have I leave to go?" The planter nodded, and Deesa dived into the woods. Moti Guj went back to haul stumps. Chihun was very kind to him, but he felt unhappy and forlorn for all that. Chihun gave him a ball of spices, and tickled him under the chin, and Chihun's little baby cooed to him after work was over, and Chihun's wife called him a darling; but Moti Guj was a bachelor by instinct, as Deesa was. He did not understand the domestic emotions. He wanted the light of his universe back again--the drink and the drunken slumber, the savage beatings and the savage caresses. None the less he worked well, and the planter wondered. Deesa had wandered along the roads till he met a marriage procession of his own caste, and, drinking, dancing, and tippling, had drifted with it past all knowledge of the lapse of time. The morning of the eleventh day dawned, and there returned no Deesa, Moti Guj was loosed from his ropes for the daily stint. He swung clear, looked round, shrugged his shoulders, and began to walk away, as one having business elsewhere. "Hi! ho! Come back you!" shouted Chihun. "Come back and put me on your neck, misborn mountain! Return, splendor of the hillsides! Adornment of all India, heave to, or I'll bang every toe off your forefoot!" Moti Guj gurgled gently, but did not obey. Chihun ran after him with a rope and caught him up. Moti Guj put his ears forward, and Chihun knew what that meant, though he tried to carry it off with high words. "None of your nonsense with me," said he. "To your pickets, devil-son!" "Hrrump!" said Moti Guj, and that was all--that and the forebent ears. Moti Guj put his hands in his pockets, chewed a branch for a toothpick, and strolled about the clearing, making fun of the other elephants who had just set to work. Chihun reported the state of affairs to the planter, who came out with a dog-whip and cracked it furiously. Moti Guj paid the white man the compliment of charging him nearly a quarter of a mile across the clearing and "Hrrumphing" him into his veranda. Then he stood outside the house, chuckling to himself and shaking all over with the fun of it, as an elephant will. "We'll thrash him," said the planter. "He shall have the finest thrashing ever elephant received. Give Kala Nag and Nazim twelve foot of chain apiece, and tell them to lay on twenty." Kala Nag--which means Black Snake--and Nazim were two of the biggest elephants in the lines, and one of their duties was to administer the graver punishment, since no man can beat an elephant properly. They took the whipping-chains and rattled them in their trunks as they sidled up to Moti Guj, meaning to hustle him between them. Moti Guj had never, in all his life of thirty-nine years, been whipped, and he did not intend to begin a new experience. So he waited, waving his head from right to left, and measuring the precise spot in Kala Nag's fat side where a blunt tusk could sink deepest. Kala Nag had no tusks; the chain was the badge of his authority; but for all that, he swung wide of Moti Guj at the last minute, and tried to appear as if he had brought the chain out for amusement. Nazim turned round and went home early. He did not feel fighting fit that morning, and so Moti Guj was left standing alone with his ears cocked. That decided the planter to argue no more, and Moti Guj rolled back to his amateur inspection of the clearing. An elephant who will not work and is not tied up is about as manageable as an eighty-one-ton gun loose in a heavy seaway. He slapped old friends on the back and asked them if the stumps were coming away easily; he talked nonsense concerning labor and the inalienable rights of elephants to a long 'nooning'; and, wandering to and fro, he thoroughly demoralized the garden till sundown, when he returned to his picket for food. "If you won't work, you sha'n't eat," said Chihun, angrily. "You're a wild elephant, and no educated animal at all. Go back to your jungle." Chihun's little brown baby was rolling on the floor of the hut, and stretching out its fat arms to the huge shadow in the doorway. Moti Guj knew well that it was the dearest thing on earth to Chihun. He swung out his trunk with a fascinating crook at the end, and the brown baby threw itself, shouting, upon it. Moti Guj made fast and pulled up till the brown baby was crowing in the air twelve feet above his father's head. "Great Lord!" said Chihun. "Flour cakes of the best, twelve in number, two feet across and soaked in rum, shall be yours on the instant, and two hundred pounds weight of fresh-cut young sugar-cane therewith. Deign only to put down safely that insignificant brat who is my heart and my life to me!" Moti Guj tucked the brown baby comfortably between his forefeet, that could have knocked into toothpicks all Chihun's hut, and waited for his food. He ate it, and the brown baby crawled away. Moti Guj dozed and thought of Deesa. One of many mysteries connected with the elephant is that his huge body needs less sleep than anything else that lives. Four or five hours in the night suffice--two just before midnight, lying down on one side; two just after one o'clock, lying down on the other. The rest of the silent hours are filled with eating and fidgeting, and long grumbling soliloquies. At midnight, therefore, Moti Guj strode out of his pickets, for a thought had come to him that Deesa might be lying drunk somewhere in the dark forest with none to look after him. So all that night he chased through the undergrowth, blowing and trumpeting and shaking his ears. He went down to the river and blared across the shallows where Deesa used to wash him, but there was no answer. He could not find Deesa, but he disturbed all the other elephants in the lines, and nearly frightened to death some gypsies in the woods. At dawn Deesa returned to the plantation. He had been very drunk in deed, and he expected to get into trouble for outstaying his leave. He drew a long breath when he saw that the bungalow and the plantation were still uninjured, for he knew something of Moti Guj's temper, and reported himself with many lies and salaams. Moti Guj had gone to his pickets for breakfast. The night exercise had made him hungry. "Call up your beast," said the planter; and Deesa shouted in the mysterious elephant language that some mahouts believe came from China at the birth of the world, when elephants and not men were masters. Moti Guj heard and came. Elephants do not gallop They move from places at varying rates of speed. If an elephant wished to catch an express train he could not gallop, but he could catch the train. So Moti Guj was at the planter's door almost before Chihun noticed that he had left his pickets. He fell into Deesa's arms trumpeting with joy, and the man and beast wept and slobbered over each other, and handled each other from head to heel to see that no harm had befallen. "Now we will get to work," said Deesa. "Lift me up, my son and my joy!" Moti Guj swung him up, and the two went to the coffee-clearing to look for difficult stumps. The planter was too astonished to be very angry.

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:30.998919

23340

Produced by Rebecca Hoath, Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net CAMPAIGNS OF A NON-COMBATANT, AND HIS ROMAUNT ABROAD DURING THE WAR. BY GEO. ALFRED TOWNSEND. NEW YORK: BLELOCK & COMPANY, 19 BEEKMAN STREET, 1866. Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1866, by GEORGE ALFRED TOWNSEND, In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of New York. SCRYMGEOUR, WHITCOMB & CO., Stereotypers, 15 WATER STREET, BOSTON. +-----------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Transcriber's note: Inconsistency in hyphenation in this etext is as in| |the original book. | +-----------------------------------------------------------------------+ TO "Miles O'Reilly," Who saw the war as vividly as he sang it; and whose aims for the peace that has ensued, are even nobler than the noble influence he exerted during the struggle, these chapters of travel are inscribed by his friend and colleague. PREFACE. In the early part of 1863, while I was resident in London,--the first of the War Correspondents to go abroad,--I wrote, at the request of Mr. George Smith, publisher of the Cornhill Magazine, a series of chapters upon the Rebellion, thus introduced:-- "Few wars have been so well chronicled, as that now desolating America. Its official narratives have been copious; the great newspapers of the land have been represented in all its campaigns; private enterprise has classified and illustrated its several events, and delegates of foreign countries have been allowed to mingle freely with its soldiery, and to observe and describe its battles. The pen and the camera have accompanied its bayonets, and there has not probably been any skirmish, however insignificant, but a score of zealous scribes have remarked and recorded it. "I have employed some leisure hours afforded me in Europe, to detail those parts of the struggle which I witnessed in a civil capacity. The Sketches which follow are entirely personal, and dwell less upon routine incidents, plans, and statistics, than upon those lighter phases of war which fall beneath the dignity of severe history and are seldom related. I have endeavored to reproduce not only the adventures, but the impressions of a novitiate, and I have described not merely the army and its operations, but the country invaded, and the people who inhabit it. "The most that I have hoped to do, is so to simplify a campaign that the reader may realize it as if he had beheld it, travelling at will, as I did, and with no greater interest than to see how fields were fought and won." To those chapters, I have added in this collection, some estimates of American life in Europe, and some European estimates of American life; with my ultimate experiences in the War after my return to my own country. I cannot hope that they will be received with the same favor, either here or abroad, as that which greeted their original publication. But no man ought to let the first four years of his majority slip away unrecorded. I would rather publish a tolerable book now than a possibly good one hereafter. CAMPAIGNS OF A NON-COMBATANT, AND HIS Romaunt abroad during the War. CHAPTER 1. MY IMPRESSMENT. "Here is a piece of James Franklin's printing press, Mr. Townsend," said Mr. Pratt to me, at Newport the other day,--"Ben. Franklin wrote for the paper, and set type upon it. The press was imported from England in 1730, or thereabouts." He produced a piece of wood, a foot in length, and then laid it away in its drawer very sacredly. "I should like to write to that press, Mr. Pratt," I said,--"there would be no necessity in such a case of getting off six columns for to-night's mail." "Well!" said Mr. Pratt, philosophically, "I have a theory that a man grows up to machinery. As your day so shall your strength be. I believe you have telegraphed up to a House instrument, haven't you?" "Mr. Pratt," cried I, with some indignation, "your memory is too good. This is Newport, and I have come down to see the surf. Pray, do not remind me of hot hours in a newspaper office, the click of a Morse dispatch, and work far into the midnight!" So I left Mr. Pratt, of the Newport _Mercury_, with an ostentation of affront, and bade James Brady, the boatman, hoist sail and carry me over to Dumpling Rocks. On the grassy parapet of the crumbling tower which once served the purposes of a fort, the transparent water hungering at its base, the rocks covered with fringe spotting the channel, the ocean on my right hand lost in its own vastness, and Newport out of mind save when the town bells rang, or the dip of oars beat in the still swell of Narragansett,--I lay down, chafing and out of temper, to curse the only pleasurable labor I had ever undertaken. To me all places were workshops: the seaside, the springs, the summer mountains, the cataracts, the theatres, the panoramas of islet-fondled rivers speeding by strange cities. I was condemned to look upon them all with mercenary eyes, to turn their gladness into torpid prose, and speak their praises in turgid columns. Never nepenthe, never _abandonne_, always wide-awake, and watching for saliences, I had gone abroad like a falcon, and roamed at home like a hungry jackal. Six fingers on my hand, one long and pointed, and ever dropping gall; the ineradicable stain upon my thumb; the widest of my circuits, with all my adventure, a paltry sheet of foolscap; and the world in which I dwelt, no place for thought, or dreaminess, or love-making,--only the fierce, fast, flippant existence of news! And with this inward execration, I lay on Dumpling Rocks, looking to sea, and recalled the first fond hours of my newspaper life. To be a subject of old Hoe, the most voracious of men, I gave up the choice of three sage professions, and the sweet alternative of idling husbandry. The day I graduated saw me an _attaché_ of the Philadelphia _Chameleon_. I was to receive three dollars a week and be the heir to lordly prospects. In the long course of persevering years I might sit in the cushions of the night-editor, or speak of the striplings around me as "_my_ reporters." "There is nothing which you cannot attain," said Mr. Axiom, my employer,--"think of the influence you exercise!--more than a clergyman; Horace Greeley was an editor; so was George D. Prentice; the first has just been defeated for Congress; the last lectured last night and got fifty dollars for it." Hereat I was greatly encouraged, and proposed to write a leader for next day's paper upon the evils of the Fire Department. "Dear me," said Mr. Axiom, "you would ruin our circulation at a wink; what would become of our ball column? in case of a fire in the building we couldn't get a hose to play on it. Oh! no, Alfred, writing leaders is hard and dangerous; I want you first to learn the use of a beautiful pair of scissors." I looked blank and chopfallen. "No man can write a good hand or a good style," he said, "without experience with scissors. They give your palm flexibility and that is soon imparted to the mind. But perfection is attained by an alternate use of the scissors and the pen; if a little paste be prescribed at the same time, cohesion and steadfastness is imparted to the man." His reasoning was incontrovertible; but I damned his conclusions. So, I spent one month in slashing several hundred exchanges a day, and paragraphing all the items. These reappeared in a column called "THE LATEST INFORMATION," and when I found them copied into another journal, a flush of satisfaction rose to my face. The editor of the _Chameleon_ was an old journalist, whose face was a sealed book of Confucius, and who talked to me, patronizingly, now and then, like the Delphic Oracle. His name was Watch, and he wore a prodigious pearl in his shirt-bosom. He crept up to the editorial room at nine o'clock every night, and dashed off an hour's worth of glittering generalities, at the end of which time two or three gentlemen, blooming at the nose, and with cheeks resembling a map drawn in red ink, sounded the pipe below stairs, and Mr. Watch said-- "Mr. Townsend, I look to you to be on hand to-night; I am called away by the Water-Gas Company." Then, with enthusiasm up to blood-heat, aroused by this mark of confidence, I used to set to, and scissor and write till three o'clock, while Mr. Watch talked water-gas over brandy and water, and drew his thirty dollars punctually on Saturdays. So it happened that my news paragraphs, sometimes pointedly turned into a reflection, crept into the editorial columns, when water-gas was lively. Venturing more and more, the clipper finally indited a leader; and Mr. Watch, whose nose water-gas was reddening, applauded me, and told me in his sublime way, that, as a special favor, I might write all the leaders the next night. Mr. Watch was seen no more in the sanctum for a week, and my three dollars carried on the concern. When he returned, he generously gave me a dollar, and said that he had spoken of me to the Water-Gas Company as a capital secretary. Then he wrote me a pass for the Arch Street Theatre, and told me, benevolently, to go off and rest that night. For a month or more the responsibility of the _Chameleon_ devolved almost entirely upon me. Child that I was, knowing no world but my own vanity, and pleased with those who fed its sensitive love of approbation rather than with the just and reticent, I harbored no distrust till one day when Axiom visited the office, and I was drawing my three dollars from the treasurer, I heard Mr. Watch exclaim, within the publisher's room-- "Did you read my article on the Homestead Bill?" "Yes," answered Axiom; "it was quite clever; your leaders are more alive and epigrammatic than they were." I could stand it no more. I bolted into the office, and cried-- "The article on the Homestead Bill is mine, so is every other article in to-day's paper. Mr. Watch does not tell the truth; he is ungenerous!" "What's this, Watch?" said Axiom. "Alfred," exclaimed Mr. Watch, majestically, "adopts my suggestions very readily, and is quite industrious. I recommend that we raise his salary to five dollars a week. That is a large sum for a lad." That night the manuscript was overhauled in the composing room. Watch's dereliction was manifest; but not a word was said commendatory of my labor; it was feared I might take "airs," or covet a further increase of wages. I only missed Watch's hugh pearl, and heard that he had been discharged, and was myself taken from the drudgery of the scissors, and made a reporter. All this was very recent, yet to me so far remote, that as I recall it all, I wonder if I am not old, and feel nervously of my hairs. For in the five intervening years I have ridden at Hoe speed down the groove of my steel-pen. The pen is my traction engine; it has gone through worlds of fancy and reflection, dragging me behind it; and long experience has given it so great facility, that I have only to fire up, whistle, and fix my couplings, and away goes my locomotive with no end of cars in train. Few journalists, beginning at the bottom, do not weary of the ladder ere they climb high. Few of such, or of others more enthusiastic, recall the early associations of "the office" with pleasure. Yet there is no world more grotesque, none, at least in America, more capable of fictitious illustration. Around a newspaper all the dramatis personæ of the world congregate; within it there are staid idiosyncratic folk who admit of all kindly caricature. I summon from that humming and hurly-burly past, the ancient proof-reader. He wears a green shade over his eyes and the gas burner is drawn very low to darken the bald and wrinkled contour of his forehead. He is severe in judgment and spells rigidly by the Johnsonian standard. He punctuates by an obdurate and conscientious method, and will have no italics upon any pretext. He will lend you money, will eat with you, drink with you, and encourage you; but he will not punctuate with you, spell with you, nor accept any of your suggestions as to typography or paragraphing whatsoever. He wears slippers and smokes a primitive clay pipe; he has everything in its place, and you cannot offend him more than by looking over any proof except when he is holding it. A chip of himself is the copyholder at his side,--a meagre, freckled, matter of fact youth, who reads your tenderest sentences in a rapid monotone, and is never known to venture any opinion or suggestion whatever. This boy, I am bound to say, will follow the copy if it be all consonants, and will accompany it if it flies out of the window. The office clerk was my bane and admiration. He was presumed by the verdant patrons of the paper to be its owner and principal editor, its type-setter, pressman, and carrier. His hair was elaborately curled, and his ears were perfect racks of long and dandyfied pens; a broad, shovel-shaped gold pen lay forever opposite his high stool; he had an arrogant and patronizing address, and was the perpetual cabbager of editorial perquisites. Books, ball-tickets, season-tickets, pictures, disappeared in his indiscriminate fist, and he promised notices which he could not write to no end of applicants. He was to be seen at the theatre every night, and he was the dashing escort of the proprietor's wife, who preferred his jaunty coat and highly-polished boots to the less elaborate wardrobe of us writers. That this noble and fashionable creature could descend to writing wrappers, and to waiting his turn with a bank-book in the long train of a sordid teller, passed all speculation and astonishment. He made a sorry fag of the office boy, and advised us every day to beware of cutting the files, as if that were the one vice of authors. To him we stole, with humiliated faces, and begged a trifling advance of salary. He sternly requested us not to encroach behind the counter--his own indisputable domain--but sometimes asked us to watch the office while he drank with a theatrical agent at the nearest bar. He was an inveterate gossip, and endowed with a damnable love of slipshod argument; the only oral censor upon our compositions, he hailed us with all the complaints made at his solicitation by irascible subscribers, and stood in awe of the cashier only, who frequently, to our delight and surprise, combed him over, and drove him to us for sympathy. The foreman was still our power behind the throne; he left out our copy on mechanical grounds, and put it in for our modesty and sophistry. In his broad, hot room, all flaring with gas, he stood at a flat stone like a surgeon, and took forms to pieces and dissected huge columns of pregnant metal, and paid off the hands with fabulous amounts of uncurrent bank bills. His wife and he went thrice a year on excursions to the sea-side, and he was forever borrowing a dollar from somebody to treat the lender and himself. The ship-news man could be seen towards the small-hours, writing his highly imaginative department, which showed how the Sally Ann, Master Todd, arrived leaky in Bombay harbor; and there were stacks of newsboys asleep on the boilers, fighting in their dreams for the possession of a fragment of a many-cornered blanket. These, like myself, went into the halcyon land of Nod to the music of a crashing press, and swarmed about it at the dawn like so many gad flies about an ox, to carry into the awakening city the rhetoric and the rubbish I had written. And still they go, and still the great press toils along, and still am I its slave and keeper, who sit here by the proud, free sea, and feel like Sinbad, that to a terrible old man I have sold my youth, my convictions, my love, my life! CHAPTER II. THE WAR CORRESPONDENT'S FIRST DAY. Looking back over the four years of the war, and noting how indurated I have at last become, both in body and in emotion, I recall with a sigh that first morning of my correspondentship when I set out so light-hearted and yet so anxious. It was in 1861. I was accompanied to the War department by an _attaché_ of the United States Senate. The new Secretary, Mr. Edwin M. Stanton, referred me to a Mr. Sanford, "Military Supervisor of Army Intelligence," and after a brief delay I was requested to sign a parole and duplicate, specifying my loyalty to the Federal Government, and my promise to publish nothing detrimental to its interests. I was then given a circular, which stated explicitly the kind of news termed contraband, and also a printed pass, filled in with my name, age, residence, and newspaper connection. The latter enjoined upon all guards to pass me in and out of camps; and authorized persons in Government employ to furnish me with information. Our Washington Superintendent sent me a beast, and in compliment to what the animal might have been, called the same a horse. I wish to protest, in this record, against any such misnomer. The creature possessed no single equine element. Experience has satisfied me that horses stand on four legs; the horse in question stood upon three. Horses may either pace, trot, run, rack, or gallop; but mine made all the five movements at once. I think I may call his gait an eccentric stumble. That he had endurance I admit; for he survived perpetual beating; and his beauty might have been apparent to an anatomist, but would be scouted by the world at large. I asked, ruefully, if I was expected to go into battle so mounted; but was peremptorily forbidden, as a valuable property might be endangered thereby. I was assigned to the Pennsylvania Reserve Corps in the anticipated advance, and my friend, the _attaché_, accompanied me to its rendezvous at Hunter's Mills. We started at two o'clock, and occupied an hour in passing the city limits. I calculated that, advancing at the same ratio, we should arrive in camp at noon next day. We presented ludicrous figures to the grim sabremen that sat erect at street corners, and ladies at the windows of the dwellings smothered with suppressed laughter as we floundered along. My friend had the better horse; but I was the better rider; and if at any time I grew wrathful at my sorry plight, I had but to look at his and be happy again. He appeared to be riding on the neck of his beast, and when he attempted to deceive me with a smile, his face became horribly contorted. Directly his breeches worked above his boots, and his bare calves were objects of hopeless solicitude. Caricatures, rather than men, we toiled bruisedly through Georgetown, and falling in the wake of supply teams on the Leesburg turnpike, rode between the Potomac on one side and the dry bed of the canal on the other, till we came at last to Chain Bridge. There was a grand view from the point of Little Falls above, where a line of foamy cataracts ridged the river, and the rocks towered gloomily on either hand: and of the city below, with its buildings of pure marble, and the yellow earthworks that crested Arlington Heights. The clouds over the Potomac were gorgeous in hue, but forests of melancholy pine clothed the sides of the hills, and the roar of the river made such beautiful monotone that I almost thought it could be translated to words. Our passes were now demanded by a fat, bareheaded officer, and while he panted through their contents, two privates crossed their bayonets before us. "News?" he said, in the shortest remark of which he was capable. When assured that we had nothing to reveal, he seemed immeasurably relieved, and added--"Great labor, reading!" At this his face grew so dreadfully purple that I begged him to sit down, and tax himself with no further exertion. He wiped his forehead, in reply, gasping like a triton, and muttering the expressive direction, "right!" disappeared into a guard-box. The two privates winked as they removed their muskets, and we both laughed immoderately when out of hearing. Our backs were now turned to the Maryland shore, and jutting grimly from the hill before us, the black guns of Fort Ethan Allen pointed down the bridge. A double line of sharp abattis protected it from assault, and sentries walked lazily up and down the parapet. The colors hung against the mast in the dead calm, and the smoke curled straight upward from some log-huts within the fort. The wildness of the surrounding landscape was most remarkable. Within sight of the Capital of the Republic, the fox yet kept the covert, and the farms were few and far apart. It seemed to me that little had been done to clear the country of its primeval timber, and the war had accomplished more to give evidence of man and industry, than two centuries of occupation. A military road had been cut through the solid rocks here; and the original turnpike, which had been little more than a cart track, was now graded and macadamized. I passed multitudes of teams, struggling up the slopes, and the carcasses of mules littered every rod of the way. The profanity of the teamsters was painfully apparent. I came unobserved upon one who was berating his beasts with a refinement of cruelty. He cursed each of them separately, swinging his long-lashed whip the while, and then damned the six in mass. He would have made a dutiful overseer. The soldiers had shown quite as little consideration for the residences along the way. I came to one dwelling where some pertinacious Vandal had even pried out the window-frames, and imperilled his neck to tear out the roof-beams; a dead vulture was pinned over the door by pieces of broken bayonets. "Langley's,"--a few plank-houses, clustering around a tavern and a church,--is one of those settlements whose sounding names beguile the reader into an idea of their importance. A lonesome haunt in time of peace, it had lately been the winter quarters of fifteen thousand soldiers, and a multitude of log huts had grown up around it. I tied my horse to the window-shutter of a dwelling, and picked my way over a slimy sidewalk to the ricketty tavern-porch. Four or five privates lay here fast asleep, and the bar-room was occupied by a bevy of young officers, who were emptying the contents of sundry pocket-flasks. Behind the bar sat a person with strongly-marked Hebrew features, and a watchmaker was plying his avocation in a corner. Two great dogs crouched under a bench, and some highly-colored portraits were nailed to the wall. The floor was bare, and some clothing and miscellaneous articles hung from beams in the ceiling. "Is this your house?" I said to the Hebrew. "I keepsh it now." "By right or by conquest?" "By ze right of conquest," he said, laughing; and at once proposed to sell me a bootjack and an India-rubber overcoat. I compromised upon a haversack, which he filled with sandwiches and sardines, and which I am bound to say fell apart in the course of the afternoon. The watchmaker was an enterprising young fellow, who had resigned his place in a large Broadway establishment, to speculate in cheap jewelry and do itinerant repairing. He says that he followed the "Army Paymasters, and sold numbers of watches, at good premiums, when the troops had money." Soldiers, he informed me, were reckless spendthrifts; and the prey of sutlers and sharpers. When there was nothing at hand to purchase, they gambled away their wages, and most of them left the service penniless and in debt. He thought it perfectly legitimate to secure some silver while "going," but complained that the value of his stock rendered him liable to theft and murder. "There are men in every regiment," said he, "who would blow out my brains in any lonely place to plunder me of these watches." At this point, a young officer, in a fit of bacchanal laughter, staggered rather roughly against me. "Begurpardon," he said, with an unsteady bow, "never ran against person in life before." I smiled assuringly, but he appeared to think the offence unpardonable. "Do asshu a, on honor of gentlemand officer, not in custom of behaving offensively. Azo! leave it to my friends. Entirely due to injuries received at battle Drainesville." As the other gentlemen laughed loudly here, I took it for granted that my apologist had some personal hallucination relative to that engagement. "What giggling for, Bob?" he said; "honor concerned in this matter, Will! Do asshu a, fell under Colonel's horse, and Company A walked over small of my back." The other officers were only less inebriated and most of them spoke boastfully of their personal prowess at Drainesville. This was the only engagement in which the Pennsylvania Reserves had yet participated, and few officers that I met did not ascribe the victory entirely to their own individual gallantry. I inquired of these gentlemen the route to the new encampments of the Reserves. They lay five miles south of the turnpike, close to the Loudon and Hampshire railroad, and along both sides of an unfrequented lane. They formed in this position the right wing of the Army of the Potomac, and had been ordered to hold themselves in hourly readiness for an advance. By this time, my friend S. came up, and leaving him to restore his mortified body, I crossed the road to the churchyard and peered through the open door into the edifice. The seats of painted pine had been covered with planks, and a sick man lay above every pew. At the ringing of my spurs in the threshold, some of the sufferers looked up through the red eyes of fever, and the faces of others were spectrally white. A few groaned as they turned with difficulty, and some shrank in pain from the glare of the light. Medicines were kept in the altar-place, and a doctor's clerk was writing requisitions in the pulpit. The sickening smell of the hospital forbade me to enter, and walking across the trampled yard, I crept through a rent in the paling, and examined the huts in which the Reserves had passed the winter. They were built of logs, plastered with mud, and the roofs of some were thatched with straw. Each cabin was pierced for two or more windows; the beds were simply shelves or berths; a rough fireplace of stones and clay communicated with the wooden chimney; and the floors were in most cases damp and bare. Streets, fancifully designated, divided the settlement irregularly; but the tenements were now all deserted save one, where I found a whole family of "contrabands" or fugitive slaves. These wretched beings, seven in number, had escaped from a plantation in Albemarle county, and travelling stealthily by night, over two hundred miles of precipitous country, reached the Federal lines on the thirteenth day. The husband said that his name was "Jeems," and that his wife was called "Kitty;" that his youngest boy had passed the mature age of eight months, and that the "big girl, Rosy," was "twelve years Christmas comin'." While the troops remained at Langley's, the man was employed at seventy-five cents a week to attend to an officer's horse. Kitty and Rose cooked and washed for soldiers, and the boys ran errands to Washington and return,--twenty-five miles! The eldest boy, Jefferson, had been given the use of a crippled team-horse, and traded in newspapers, but having confused ideas of the relative value of coins, his profits were only moderate. The nag died before the troops removed, and a sutler, under pretence of securing their passage to the North, disappeared with the little they had saved. They were quite destitute now, but looked to the future with no foreboding, and huddled together in the straw, made a picture of domestic felicity that impressed me greatly with the docility, contentment, and unfailing good humor of their dusky tribe. The eyes of the children were large and lustrous, and they revealed the clear pearls beneath their lips as they clung bashfully to their mother's lap. The old lady was smoking a clay pipe; the man running over some castaway jackets and boots. I remarked particularly the broad shoulders and athletic arms of the woman, whose many childbirths had left no traces upon her comeliness. She asked me, wistfully: "Masser, how fur to de nawf?" "A long way," said I, "perhaps two hundred miles." "Lawd!" she said, buoyantly--"is dat all? Why, Jeems, couldn't we foot it, honey?" "You a most guv out before, ole 'oman," he replied; "got a good ruff over de head now. Guess de white massar won't let um starve." I tossed some coppers to the children and gave each a sandwich. "You get up dar, John Thomas!" called the man vigorously; "you tank de gentleman, Jefferson, boy! I wonda wha your manners is. Tank you, massar! know'd you was a gentleman, sar! Massar, is your family from ole Virginny?" It was five o'clock when I rejoined S., and the greater part of our journey had yet to be made. I went at his creeping pace until courtesy yielded to impatience, when spurring my Pegasus vigorously, he fell into a bouncing amble and left the _attaché_ far behind. My pass was again demanded above Langley's by a man who ate apples as he examined it, and who was disposed to hold a long parley. I entered a region of scrub timber further on, and met with nothing human for four miles, at the end of which distance I reached Difficult Creek, flowing through a rocky ravine, and crossed by a military bridge of logs. Through the thick woods to the right, I heard the roar of the Potomac, and a finger-board indicated that I was opposite Great Falls. Three or four dead horses lay at the roadside beyond the stream, and I recalled the place as the scene of a recent cavalry encounter. A cartridge-box and a torn felt hat lay close to the carcasses: I knew that some soul had gone hence to its account. The road now kept to the left obliquely, and much of my ride was made musical by the stream. Darkness closed solemnly about me, with seven miles of the journey yet to accomplish, and as, at eight o'clock, I turned from the turnpike into a lonesome by-road, full of ruts, pools, and quicksands, a feeling of delicious uneasiness for the first time possessed me. Some owls hooted in the depth of the woods, and wild pigs, darting across the road, went crashing into the bushes. The phosphorescent bark of a blasted tree glimmered on a neighboring knoll, and as I halted at a rivulet to water my beast, I saw a solitary star floating down the ripples. Directly I came upon a clearing where the moonlight shone through the rents of a crumbling dwelling, and from the far distance broke the faint howl of farm dogs. A sense of insecurity that I would not for worlds have resigned, now tingled, now chilled my blood. At last, climbing a stony hill, the skies lay beneath me reddening with the flame of camps and flaring and falling alternately, like the beautiful Northern lights. I heard the ring of hoofs as I looked entranced, and in a twinkling, a body of horsemen dashed past me and disappeared. A little beyond, the road grew so thick that I could see nothing of my way; but trusting doubtfully to my horse, a deep challenge came directly from the thicket, and I saw the flash of a sabre, as I stammered a reply. Led to a cabin close at hand, my pass was examined by candle-light, and I learned that the nearest camp of the Reserves was only a mile farther on, and the regiment of which I was in quest about two miles distant. After another half hour, I reached Ord's brigade, whose tents were pitched in a fine grove of oaks; the men talking, singing, and shouting, around open air fires; and a battery of brass Napoleons unlimbered in front, pointing significantly to the West and South. For a mile and a half I rode by the light of continuous camps, reaching at last the quarters of the ----th, commanded by a former newspaper associate of mine, with whom I had gone itemizing, scores of times. His regiment had arrived only the same afternoon, and their tents were not yet pitched. Their muskets were stacked along the roadside, and the men lay here and there wrapped in their blankets, and dozing around the fagots. The Colonel was asleep in a wagon, but roused up at the summons of his Adjutant, and greeting me warmly, directed the cook to prepare a supper of coffee and fried pork. Too hungry to feel the chafing of my sores and bruises, I fell to the oleaginous repast with my teeth and fingers, and eating ravenously, asked at last to be shown to my apartments. These consisted of a covered wagon, already occupied by four teamsters, and a blanket which had evidently been in close proximity to the hide of a horse. A man named "Coggle," being nudged by the Colonel, and requested to take other quarters, asked dolorously if it was time to turn out, and roared "woa," as if he had some consciousness of being kicked. When I asked for a pillow, the Colonel laughed, and I had an intuition that the man "Coggle" was looking at me in the darkness with intense disgust. The Colonel said that he had once put a man on double duty for placing his head on a snowball, and warned me satirically that such luxuries were preposterous in the field. He recommended me not to catch cold if I could help it, but said that people in camp commonly caught several colds at once, and added grimly that if I wished to be shaved in the morning, there was a man close by, who had ground a sabre down to the nice edge of a razor, and who could be made to accommodate me. There were cracks in the bottom of the wagon, through which the cold came like knives, and I was allotted a space four feet in length, by three feet in width. Being six feet in height, my relation to these Procrustean quarters was most embarassing; but I doubled up, chatteringly, and lay my head on my arm. In a short time I experienced a sensation akin to that of being guillotined, and sitting bolt upright, found the teamsters in the soundest of Lethean conditions. As the man next to me snored very loudly, I adopted the brilliant idea of making a pillow of his thigh; which answered my best expectations. I was aroused after a while, by what I thought to be the violent hands of this person, but which, to my great chagrin, proved to be S., intent upon dividing my place with me. Resistance was useless. I submitted to martyrdom with due resignation, but half resolved to go home in the morning, and shun, for the future, the horrible romance of camps. CHAPTER III. A GENERAL UNDER THE MICROSCOPE. When I awoke at Colonel Taggert's tent the morning afterward, I had verified the common experience of camps by "catching several colds at once," and felt a general sensation of being cut off at the knees. Poor S., who joined me at the fire, states that he believed himself to be tied in knots, and that he should return afoot to Washington. Our horses looked no worse, for that would have been manifestly impossible. We were made the butts of much jesting at breakfast; and S. said, in a spirit of atrocity, that camp wit was quite as bad as camp "wittles." I bade him adieu at five o'clock A. M., when he had secured passage to the city in a sutler's wagon. Remounting my own fiery courser, I bade the Colonel a temporary farewell, and proceeded in the direction of Meade's and Reynold's brigades. The drum and fife were now beating _reveillé_, and volunteers in various stages of undress were limping to roll-call. Some wore one shoe, and others appeared shivering in their linen. They stood ludicrously in rank, and a succession of short, dry coughs ran up and down the line, as if to indicate those who should escape the bullet for the lingering agonies of the hospital. The ground was damp, and fog was rising from the hollows and fens. Some signal corps officers were practising with flags in a ploughed field, and negro stewards were stirring about the cook fires. A few supply wagons that I passed the previous day were just creaking into camp, having travelled most of the night. I saw that the country was rude, but the farms were close, and the dwellings in many cases inhabited. The vicinity had previously been unoccupied by either army, and rapine had as yet appropriated only the fields for camps and the fences for fuel. I was directed to the headquarters of Major-General M'Call,--a cluster of wall tents in the far corner of a grain-field, concealed from public view by a projecting point of woods. A Sibley tent stood close at hand, where a soldier in blue overcoat was reading signals through a telescope. I mistook the tent for the General's, and riding up to the soldier was requested to stand out of the way. I moved to his rear, but he said curtly that I was obstructing the light. I then dismounted, and led my horse to a clump of trees a rod distant. "Don't hitch there," said the soldier; "you block up the view." A little ruffled at this manifest discourtesy, I asked the man to denote some point within a radius of a mile where I would _not_ interfere with his operations. He said in reply, that it was not his business to denote hitching-stalls for anybody. I thought, in that case, that I should stay where I was, and he politely informed me that I might stay and be--jammed. I found afterward that this individual was troubled with a kind of insanity peculiar to all headquarters, arising out of an exaggerated idea of his own importance. I had the pleasure, a few minutes afterward, of hearing him ordered to feed my horse. A thickset, gray-haired man sat near by, undergoing the process of shaving by a very nervous negro. The thickset man was also exercising the privileges of his rank; but the more he berated his attendant's awkwardness, the more nervous the other became. I addressed myself mutually to master and man, in an inquiry as to the precise quarters of the General in command. The latter pointed to a wall tent contiguous, and was cursed by the thickset man for not minding his business. The thickset man remarked substantially, that he didn't know anything about it, and was at that moment cut by the negro, to my infinite delight. Before the wall tent in question stood a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman in shirt-sleeves and slippers, warming his back and hands at a fire. He was watching, through an aperture in the tent, the movements of a private who was cleaning his boots. I noticed that he wore a seal ring, and that he opened and shut his eyes very rapidly. He was, otherwise, a very respectable and dignified gentleman. "Is this General M'Call?" said I, a little discomposed. The gentleman looked abstractedly into my eyes, opening and shutting his own several times, as if doubtful of his personality, and at last decided that he _was_ General M'Call. "What is it?" he said gravely, but without the slightest curiosity. "I have a letter for you, sir, I believe." He put the letter behind his back, and went on warming his hands. Having winked several times again, apparently forgetting all about the matter, I ventured to add that the letter was merely introductory. He looked at it, mechanically. "Who opened it?" he said. "Letters of introduction are not commonly sealed, General." "Who are you?" he asked, indifferently. I told him that the contents of the letter would explain my errand; but he had, meantime, relapsed into abstractedness, and winked, and warmed his hands, for at least, five minutes. At the end of that time, he read the letter very deliberately, and said that he was glad to see me in camp. He intimated, that if I was not already located, I could be provided with bed and meals at headquarters. He stated, in relation to my correspondence, that all letters sent from the Reserve Corps, must, without any reservations, be submitted to him in person. I was obliged to promise compliance, but had gloomy forebodings that the General would occupy a fortnight in the examination of each letter. He invited me to breakfast, proposed to make me acquainted with his staff, and was, in all respects, a very grave, prudent, and affable soldier. I may say, incidentally, that I adopted the device of penning a couple of gossipy epistles, the length and folly of which, so irritated General M'Call, that he released me from the penalty of submitting my compositions for the future. I took up my permanent abode with quartermaster Kingwalt, a very prince of old soldiers, who had devoted much of a sturdy life to promoting the militia interests of the populous county of Chester. When the war-fever swept down his beautiful valley, and the drum called the young men from villages and farms, this ancient yeoman and miller--for he was both--took a musket at the sprightly age of sixty-five, and joined a Volunteer company. Neither ridicule nor entreaty could bend his purpose; but the Secretary of War, hearing of the case, conferred a brigade quartermastership upon him. He threw off the infirmities of age, stepped as proudly as any youngster, and became, emphatically, the best quartermaster in the Division. He never delayed an advance with tardy teams, nor kept the General tentless, nor penned irregular requisitions, nor wasted the property of Government. The ague seized him, occasionally, and shook his grey hairs fearfully; but he always recovered to ride his black stallion on long forages, and his great strength and bulk were the envy of all the young officers. He grasped my hand so heartily that I positively howled, and commanded a tall sergeant, rejoicing in the name of Clover, to take away my horse and split him up for kindling wood. "We must give him the blue roan, that Fogg rides," said the quartermaster, to the great dejection of Fogg, a short stout youth, who was posting accounts. I was glad to see, however, that Fogg was not disposed to be angry, and when informed that a certain iron-gray nag was at his disposal, he was in a perfect glow of good humor. The other _attachés_ were a German, whose name, as I caught it, seemed to be Skyhiski; and a pleasant lad called Owen, whose disposition was so mild, that I wondered how he had adopted the bloody profession of arms. A black boy belonged to the establishment, remarkable, chiefly, for getting close to the heels of the black stallion, and being frequently kicked; he was employed to feed and brush the said stallion, and the antipathy between them was intense. The above curious military combination, slept under a great tarpaulin canopy, originally used for covering commissary stores from the rain. Our meals were taken in the open air, and prepared by Skyhiski; but there was a second tent, provided with desk and secretary, where Mr. Fogg performed his clerk duties, daily. When I had relieved my Pegasus of his saddle, and penned some paragraphs for a future letter, I strolled down the road with the old gentleman, who insisted upon showing me Hunter's mill, a storm-beaten structure, that looked like a great barn. The mill-race had been drained by some soldiers for the purpose of securing the fish contained in it, and the mill-wheel was quite dry and motionless. Difficult Creek ran impetuously across the road below, as if anxious to be put to some use again; and the miller's house adjoining, was now used as a hospital, for Lieutenant-Colonel Kane, and some inferior officers. It was a favorite design of the Quartermaster's to scrape the mill-stone, repair the race, and put the great breast-wheel to work. One could see that the soldier had not entirely obliterated the miller, and as he related, with a glowing face, the plans that he had proposed to recuperate the tottering structure, and make it serviceable to the army, I felt a regret that such peaceful ambitions should have ever been overruled by the call to arms. While we stood at the mill window, watching the long stretches of white tents and speculating upon the results of war, we saw several men running across the road toward a hill-top cottage, where General Meade made his quarters. A small group was collected at the cottage, reconnoitring something through their telescopes. As I hastened in that direction, I heard confused voices, thus: "No, it isn't!" "It is!" "Can you make out his shoulder-bar?" "What is the color of his coat?" "Gray!" "No, it's butternut!" "Has he a musket!" "Yes, he is levelling it!" At this the group scattered in every direction. "Pshaw!" said one, "we are out of range; besides, it is a telescope that he has. By----, it is a Rebel, reconnoitring our camp!" There was a manifest sensation here, and one man wondered how he had passed the picket. Another suggested that he might be accompanied by a troop, and a third convulsed the circle by declaring that there were six other Rebels visible in a woods to the left. Mr. Fogg had meantime come up and proffered me a field-glass, through which I certainly made out a person in gray, standing in the middle of the road just at the ridge of a hill. When I dropped my glass I saw him distinctly with the naked eye. He was probably a mile distant, and his gray vesture was little relieved by the blue haze of the forest. "He is going," exclaimed a private, excitedly; "where's the man that was to try a lead on him?" Several started impulsively for their pieces, and some officers called for their horses. "There go his knees!" "His body is behind the hill!" "Now his head----" "Crack! crack! crack!" spluttered musketry from the edge of the mill, and like as many rockets darted a score of horsemen through the creek and up the steep. Directly a faint hurrah pealed from the camp nearest the mill. It passed to the next camp and the next; for all were now earnestly watching; and finally a medley of cheers shook the air and the ear. Thousands of brave men were shouting the requiem of one paltry life. The rash fool had bought with his temerity a bullet in the brain. When I saw him--dusty and still bleeding--he was beset by a full regiment of idlers, to whom death had neither awe nor respect. They talked of the delicate shot, as connoisseurs in the art of murder,--and two men dug him a grave on the green before the mill, wherein he was tossed like a dog or a vulture, to be lulled, let us hope, by the music of the grinding, when grain shall ripen once more. I had an opportunity, after dinner, to inspect the camp of the "Bucktails," a regiment of Pennsylvania backwoodsmen, whose efficiency as skirmishers has been adverted to by all chroniclers of the civil war. They wore the common blue blouse and breeches, but were distinguished by squirrel tails fastened to their caps. They were reputed to be the best marksmen in the service, and were generally allowed, in action, to take their own positions and fire at will. Crawling through thick woods, or trailing serpent-like through the tangled grass, these mountaineers were for a time the terror of the Confederates; but when their mode of fighting had been understood, their adversaries improved upon it to such a degree that at the date of this writing there is scarcely a Corporal's guard of the original Bucktail regiment remaining. Slaughtered on the field, perishing in prison, disabled or paroled, they have lost both their prestige and their strength. I remarked among these worthies a partiality for fisticuffs, and a dislike for the manual of arms. They drilled badly, and were reported to be adepts at thieving and unlicensed foraging. The second night in camp was pleasantly passed. Some sociable officers--favorites with Captain Kingwalt--congregated under the tarpaulin, after supper-hour, and when a long-necked bottle had been emptied and replenished, there were many quaint stories related and curious individualities revealed. I dropped asleep while the hilarity was at its height, and Fogg covered me with a thick blanket as I lay. The enemy might have come upon us in the darkness; but if death were half so sound as my slumber afield, I should have bid it welcome. CHAPTER IV. A FORAGING ADVENTURE. There was a newsboy named "Charley," who slept at Captain Kingwalt's every second night, and who returned my beast to his owner in Washington. The aphorism that a Yankee can do anything, was exemplified by this lad; for he worked my snail into a gallop. He was born in Chelsea, Massachusetts, and appeared to have taken to speculation at the age when most children are learning A B C. He was now in his fourteenth year, owned two horses, and employed another boy to sell papers for him likewise. His profits upon daily sales of four hundred journals were about thirty-two dollars. He had five hundred dollars in bank, and was debating with Captain Kingwalt the propriety of founding an army express and general agency. Such a self-reliant, swaggering, far-sighted, and impertinent boy I never knew. He was a favorite with the Captain's black-boy, and upon thorough terms of equality with the Commanding General. His papers cost him in Washington a cent and a half each, and he sold them in camp for ten cents each. I have not the slightest doubt that I shall hear of him again as the proprietor of an overland mail, or the patron and capitalist of Greenland emigration. I passed the second and third days quietly in camp, writing a couple of letters, studying somewhat of fortification, and making flying visits to various officers. There was but one other Reporter with this division of the army. He represented a New York journal, and I could not but contrast his fine steed and equipments with the scanty accommodations that my provincial establishment had provided for me. His saddle was a cushioned McClellan, with spangled breast-strap and plump saddle-bags, and his bridle was adorned with a bright curb bit and twilled reins. He wore a field-glass belted about his body, and was plentifully provided with money to purchase items of news, if they were at any time difficult to obtain. I resolved inwardly to seize the first opportunity of changing establishments, so that I might be placed upon as good a footing. My relations with camp, otherwise, were of the happiest character; for the troops were State-people of mine, and, as reporters had not yet abused the privileges accorded them, my profession was held in some repute. I made the round of various "messes," and soon adopted the current dissipations of the field,--late hours, long stories, incessant smoking, and raw spirits. There were some restless minds about me, whose funds of anecdote and jest were apparently inexhaustible. I do not know that so many eccentric, adventurous, and fluent people are to be found among any other nationality of soldiers, not excepting the Irish. The blue roan of which friend Fogg had been deprived, exhibited occasional evidences of a desire to break my neck. I was obliged to dispense with the spur in riding him, but he nevertheless dashed off at times, and put me into an agony of fear. On those occasions I managed to retain my seat, and gained thereby the reputation of being a very fine equestrian. As there were few civilians in camp, and as I wore a gray suit, and appeared to be in request at head-quarters, a rumor was developed and gained currency that I was attached to the Division in the capacity of a scout. When my horse became unmanageable, therefore, his speed was generally accelerated by the cheers of soldiers, and I became an object of curiosity in every quarter, to my infinite mortification and dread. The Captain was to set off on the fourth day, to purchase or seize some hay and grain that were stacked at neighboring farms. We prepared to go at eight o'clock, but were detained somewhat by reason of Skyhiski being inebriated the night before, and thereby delaying the breakfast, and afterward the fact that the black stallion had laid open the black-boy's leg. However, at a quarter past nine, the Captain, Sergeant Clover, Fogg, Owen, and myself, with six four-horse wagons, filed down the railroad track until we came to a bridge that some laborers were repairing, where we turned to the left through some soggy fields, and forded Difficult Creek. As there was no road to follow, we kept straight through a wood of young maples and chestnut-trees. Occasionally a trunk or projecting branch stopped the wagons, when the teamsters opened the way with their axes. After two hours of slow advance, we came to the end of the wood, and climbed a succession of hilly fields. From the summit of the last of these, a splendid sweep of farm country was revealed, dotted with quaint Virginia dwellings, stackyards, and negro-cabins, and divided by miles of tortuous worm-fence. The eyes of the Quartermaster brightened at the prospect, though I am afraid that he thought only of the abundant forage; but my own grew hazy as I spoke of the peaceful people and the neglected fields. The plough had furrowed none of these acres, and some crows, that screamed gutturally from a neighboring ash-tree, seemed lean and pinched for lack of their plunder of corn. Many of the dwellings were guarded by soldiers; but of the resident citizens only the women and the old men remained. I did not need to ask where the young men were exiled. The residue that prayed with their faces toward Richmond, told me the story with their eyes. There was, nevertheless, no melodramatic exhibition of feeling among the bereaved. I did not see any defiant postures, nor hear any melting apostrophies. Marius was not mouthing by the ruins of Carthage, nor even Rachel weeping for her Hebrew children. But there were on every hand manifestations of adherence to the Southern cause, except among a few males who feared unutterable things, and were disposed to cringe and prevaricate. The women were not generally handsome; their face was indolent, their dress slovenly, and their manner embarrassed. They lopped off the beginnings and the ends of their sentences, generally commencing with a verb, as thus: "Told soldiers not to carr' off the rye; declared they would; said they bound do jest what they pleased. Let 'em go!" The Captain stopped at a spruce residence, approached by a long lane, and on knocking at the porch with his ponderous fist, a woman came timidly to the kitchen window. "Who's thar?" she said, after a moment. "Come out young woman," said the Captain, soothingly; "we don't intend to murder or rob you, ma'am!" There dropped from the doorsill into the yard, not one, but three young women, followed by a very deaf old man, who appeared to think that the Captain's visit bore some reference to the hencoop. "I wish to buy for the use of the United States Government," said the Captain, "some stacks of hay and corn fodder, that lie in one of your fields." "The last hen was toted off this morning before breakfast," said the old man; "they took the turkeys yesterday, and I was obliged to kill the ducks or I shouldn't have had anything to eat." Here Fogg so misdemeaned himself, as to laugh through his nose, and the man Clover appeared to be suddenly interested in something that lay in a mulberry-tree opposite. "I am provided with money to pay liberally for your produce, and you cannot do better than to let me take the stacks: leaving you, of course, enough for your own horses and cattle." Here the old man pricked up his ears, and said that he hadn't heard of any recent battle; for his part, he had never been a politician; but thought that both parties were a little wrong; and wished that peace would return: for he was a very old man, and was sorry that folks couldn't let quiet folks' property alone. How far his garrulity might have betrayed him, could be conjectured only by one of the girls taking his hand and leading him submissively into the house. The eldest daughter said that the Captain might take the stacks at his own valuation, but trusted to his honor as a soldier, and as he seemed, a gentleman, to deal justly by them. There could be no crop harvested for a twelvemonth, and beggary looked them in the face. I have never beheld anything more chivalrously gallant, than the sturdy old quartermaster's attitude. He blended in tone and face the politeness of a diplomat and the gentleness of a father. They asked him to return to the house, with his _officers_, when he had loaded the wagons; for dinner was being prepared, and they hoped that Virginians could be hospitable, even to their enemies. As to the hay and fodder, none need be left; for the Confederates had seized their horses some months before, and driven off their cows when they retired from the neighborhood. I so admired the queer gables and great brick ovens of the house, that I resolved to tie my horse, and rest under the crooked porch. The eldest young lady had taken me to be a prisoner, and was greatly astonished that the Quartermaster permitted me to go at large. She asked me to have a chair in the parlor, but when I made my appearance there, the two younger sisters fled precipitately. The old man was shaking his head sadly by the fireplace. Some logs burned on the andirons with a red flame. The furniture consisted of a mahogany sideboard, table, and chairs,--ponderous in pattern; and a series of family portraits, in a sprawling style of art, smirked and postured on the wall. The floor was bare, but shone by reason of repeated scrubbing, and the black mantel-piece was a fine specimen of colonial carving in the staunchest of walnut-wood. Directly the two younger girls--though the youngest must have been twenty years of age--came back with averted eyes and the silliest of giggles. They sat a little distance apart, and occasionally nodded or signalled like school children. "Wish you _would_ stop, Bell!" said one of these misses,--whose flaxen hair was plastered across her eyebrows, and who was very tall and slender. "See if I don't tell on you," said the other,--a dark miss with roguish eyes and fat, plump figure, and curls that shook ever so merrily about her shoulders. "Declar' I never said so, if he asks me; declar' I will." "Tell on you,--you see! Won't he be jealous? How he will car' on!" I made out that these young ladies were intent upon publishing their obligations to certain sweethearts of theirs, who, as it afterward seemed, were in the army at Manassas Junction. I said to the curly-haired miss, that she was endangering the life of her enamored; for it would become an object with all the anxious troops in the vicinity to shorten his days. The old man roused up here, and remarked that his health certainly was declining; but he hoped to survive a while longer for the sake of his children; that he was no politician, and always said that the negroes were very ungrateful people. He caught his daughter's eye finally, and cowered stupidly, nodding at the fire. I remarked to the eldest young woman,--called Prissy (Priscilla) by her sister,--that the country hereabout was pleasantly wooded. She said, in substance, that every part of Virginia was beautiful, and that she did not wish to survive the disgrace of the old commonwealth. "Become right down hateful since Yankees invaded it!" exclaimed Miss Bell. "_Some_ Yankee's handsome sister," said Miss Bessie, the proprietor of the curls, "think some Yankees puffick gentlemen!" "Oh, you traitor!" said the other,--"wish _Henry_ heard you say that!" Miss Bell intimated that she should take the first opportunity of telling him the same, and I eulogized her good judgment. Priscilla now begged to be excused for a moment, as, since the flight of the negro property, the care of the table had devolved mainly upon her. A single aged servant, too feeble or too faithful to decamp, still attended to the menial functions, and two mulatto children remained to relieve them of light labor. She was a dignified, matronly young lady, and, as one of the sisters informed me, plighted to a Major in the Confederate service. The others chattered flippantly for an hour, and said that the old place was dreadfully lonesome of late. Miss Bell was _sure_ she should die if another winter, similar to the last, occurred. She loved company, and had always found it _so_ lively in Loudon before; whereas she had positively been but twice to a neighbor's for a twelvemonth, and had quite forgotten the road to the mill. She said, finally, that, rather than undergo another such isolation, she would become a _Vivandiere_ in the Yankee army. The slender sister was altogether wedded to the idea of her lover's. "_Wouldn't_ she tell Henry? and _shouldn't_ she write to Jeems? and oh, Bessie, you would not _dare_ to repeat that before _him_." In short, I was at first amused, and afterwards annoyed, by this young lady, whereas the roguish-eyed miss improved greatly upon acquaintance. After a while, Captain Kingwalt came in, trailing his spurs over the floor, and leaving sunshine in his wake. There was something galvanic in his gentleness, and infectious in his merriment. He told them at dinner of his own daughters on the Brandywine, and invented stories of Fogg's courtships, till that young gentleman first blushed, and afterward dropped his plate. Our meal was a frugal one, consisting mainly of the ducks referred to, some vegetables, corn-bread, and coffee made of wasted rye. There were neither sugar, spices, nor tea, on the premises, and the salt before us was the last in the dwelling. The Captain promised to send them both coffee and salt, and Fogg volunteered to bring the same to the house, whereat the Captain teased him till he left the table. At this time, a little boy, who was ostensibly a waiter, cried: "Miss Prissy, soldiers is climbin' in de hog-pen." "I knew we should lose the last living thing on the property," said this young lady, much distressed. The Captain went to the door, and found three strolling Bucktails looking covetously at the swine. They were a little discomposed at his appearance, and edged off suspiciously. "Halt!" said the old man in his great voice, "where are you men going?" "Just makin' reconnoissance," said one of the freebooters; "s'pose a feller has a right to walk around, hain't he?" "Not unless he has a pass," said the Quartermaster; "have you written permission to leave camp?" "Left'nant s'posed we might. Don't know as it's your business. Never see _you_ in the regiment." "It is my business, as an officer of the United States, to see that no soldier strays from camp unauthorizedly, or depredates upon private property. I will take your names, and report you, first for straggling, secondly for insolence!" "Put to it, Bill!" said the speaker of the foragers; "run, Bob! go it hearties!" And they took to their heels, cleared a pair of fences, and were lost behind some outbuildings. The Captain could be harsh as well as generous, and was about mounting his horse impulsively, to overtake and punish the fugitives, when Priscilla begged him to refrain, as an enforcement of discipline on his part might bring insult upon her helpless household. I availed myself of a pause in the Captain's wrath, to ask Miss Priscilla if she would allow me to lodge in the dwelling. Five nights' experience in camp had somewhat reduced my enthusiasm, and I already wearied of the damp beds, the hard fare, and the coarse conversation of the bivouac. The young lady assented willingly, as she stated that the presence of a young man would both amuse and protect the family. For several nights she had not slept, and had imagined footsteps on the porch and the drawing of window-bolts. There was a bed, formerly occupied by her brother, that I might take, but must depend upon rather laggard attendance. I had the satisfaction, therefore, of seeing the Captain and retinue mount their horses, and wave me a temporary good by. Poor Fogg looked back so often and so seriously that I expected to see him fall from the saddle. The young ladies were much impressed with the Captain's manliness, and Miss Bell wondered _how_ such a _puffick_ gentleman could _reconcile_ himself to the Yankee cause. She had felt a desire to speak to him upon that point as she was _sure_ he was of fine stock, and entirely averse to the invasion of such territory as that of _dear_ old Virginia. There was something in his manner that _so_ reminded her of some one who should be _nameless_ for the present; but the "nameless" was, _of course_, young, _handsome_, and _so_ brave. I ruthlessly dissipated her theory of the Captain's origin, by stating that he was of humble German descent, so far as I knew, and had probably never beheld Virginia till preceded by the bayonets of his neighbors. After tea Miss Bessie produced a pitcher of rare cider, that came from a certain mysterious quarter of the cellar. A chessboard was forthcoming at a later hour, when we amused ourselves with a couple of games, facetiously dubbing our chessman Federals and Confederates. Miss Bell, meanwhile, betook herself to a diary, wherein she minutely related the incidents and sentiments of successive days. The quantity of words underscored in the same autobiography would have speedily exhausted the case of italics, if the printer had obtained it. I was so beguiled by these patriarchal people, that I several times asked myself if the circumstances were real. Was I in a hostile country, surrounded by thousands of armed men? Were the incidents of this evening portions of an historic era, and the ground about me to be commemorated by bloodshed? Was this, in fact, revolution, and were these simple country girls and their lovers revolutionists? The logs burned cheerily upon the hearth, and the ancestral portraits glowered contemplatively from the walls. Miss Prissy looked dreamily into the fire, and the old man snored wheezily in a corner. A gray cat purred in Miss Bell's lap, and Miss Bessie was writing some nonsense in my note-book. A sharp knock fell upon the door, and something that sounded like the butt of a musket shook the porch without. The girls turned pale, and I think that Miss Bessie seized my arm and clung to it. I think also, that Miss Bell attempted to take the other arm, to which I demurred. "Those brutal soldiers again!" said Priscilla, faintly. "I think one of the andirons has fallen down, darter!" said the old man, rousing up. "Tremble for my life," said Miss Bell; "_sure_ shall die if it's _a man_." I opened the door after a little pause, when a couple of rough privates in uniform confronted me. "We're two guards that General Meade sent to protect the house and property," said the tallest of these men; "might a feller come in and warm his feet!" I understood at once that the Quartermaster had obtained these persons; and the other man coming forward, said-- "I fetched some coffee over, and a bag o' salt, with Corporal Fogg's compliments." They deposited their muskets in a corner, and balanced their boots on the fender. Nothing was said for a time. "Did you lose yer poultry?" said the tall man, at length. "All," said Miss Priscilla. "Fellers loves poultry!" said the man, smacking his lips. "Did you lose yer sheep?" said the same man, after a little silence. "The Bucktails cut their throats the first day that they encamped at the mill," said Miss Priscilla. "Them Bucktails great fellers," said the tall man; "them Bucktails awful on sheep: they loves 'em so!" He relapsed again for a few minutes, when he continued: "You don't like fellers to bag yer poultry and sheep, do you?" Miss Priscilla replied that it was both dishonest and cruel. Miss Bell intimated that none but Yankees would do it. "P'raps not," said the tall soldier, drily; "did you ever grub on fat pork, Miss? No? Did you ever gnaw yer hard tack after a spell o' sickness, and a ten-hour march? No? P'raps you might like a streak o' mutton arterwards! P'raps you might take a notion for a couple o' chickens or so! No? How's that, Ike? What do you think, pardner? (to me) I ain't over and above cruel, mum. I don't think the Bucktails is over and above dishonest to home, mum. But, gosh hang it, I think I _would_ bag a chicken any day! I say that above board. Hey, Ike?" When the tall man and his inferior satellite had warmed their boots till they smoked, they rose, recovered their muskets, and bowed themselves into the yard. Soon afterward I bade the young ladies good night, and repaired to my room. The tall man and his associate were pacing up and down the grass-plot, and they looked very cold and comfortless, I thought. I should have liked to obtain for them a draught of cider, but prudently abstained; for every man in the army would thereby become cognizant of its existence. So I placed my head once more upon a soft pillow, and pitied the chilled soldiers who slept upon the turf. I thought of Miss Bessie with her roguish eyes, and wondered what themes were now engrossing her. I asked myself if this was the romance of war, and if it would bear relating to one's children when he grew as old and as deaf as the wheezy gentleman down-stairs. In fine, I was a little sentimental, somewhat reflective, and very drowsy. So, after a while, processions of freebooting soldiers, foraging Quartermasters, deaf gentlemen, Fogg's regiment, and multitudes of ghosts from Manassas, drifted by in my dreams. And, in the end, Miss Bessie's long curls brushed into my eyes, and I found the morning, ruddy as her cheeks, blushing at the window. CHAPTER V. WHAT A MARCH IS IN FACT. I found at breakfast, that Miss Bessie had been placed beside me, and I so far forgot myself as to forget all other persons at the table. Miss Priscilla asked to be helped to the corn-bread, and I deposited a quantity of the same upon Miss Bessie's plate. Miss Bell asked if I did not love _dear_ old Virginia, and I replied to Miss Bessie that it had lately become very attractive, and that, in fact, I was decidedly rebellious in my sympathy with the distressed Virginians. I _did_ except, however, the man darkly mooted as "Henry," and hoped that he would be disfigured--not killed--at the earliest engagement. The deaf old gentleman bristled up here and asked _who_ had been killed at the recent engagement. There was a man named Jeems Lee,--a distant connection of the Lightfoots,--not the Hampshire Lightfoots, but the Fauquier Lightfoots,--who had distinctly appeared to the old gentleman for several nights, robed in black, and carrying a coffin under his arm. Since I had mentioned his name, he recalled the circumstance, and hoped that Jeems Lightfoot had not disgraced his ancestry. Nevertheless, the deaf gentleman was not to be understood as expressing any opinion upon the merits of the war. For _his_ part he thought both sides a little wrong, and the crops were really in a dreadful state. The negroes were very ungrateful people and property should be held sacred by all belligerents. At this point he caught Miss Priscilla's eye, and was transfixed with conscious guilt. I had, meantime, been infringing upon Miss Bessie's feet,--very pretty feet they were!--which expressive but not very refined method of correspondence caused her to blush to the eyes. Miss Bell, noticing the same, was determined to tell '_Henry_' at once, and I hoped in my heart that she would set out for Manassas to further that purpose. The door opened here, and the rubicund visage of Mr. Fogg appeared like the head of the Medusa. He said that 'Captain' had ordered the blue roan to be saddled and brought over to me, but I knew that this was a cunning device on his part, to revisit the dwelling. Miss Bell, somehow caught the idea that Fogg was enamored of her, and the poor fellow was subjected to a volley of tender innuendos and languishing glances, that by turn mortified and enraged him. I bade the good people adieu at eight o'clock, promising to return for dinner at five; and Miss Bessie accompanied me to the lane, where I took leave of her with a secret whisper and a warm grasp of the hand. One of her rings had somehow adhered to my finger, which Fogg remarked with a bilious expression of countenance. I had no sooner got astride of the blue roan than he darted off like the wind, and subjected me to great terror, alternating to chagrin, when I turned back and beheld all the young ladies waving their handkerchiefs. They evidently thought me an unrivalled equestrian. I rode to a picket post two miles from the mill, passing over the spot where the Confederate soldier had fallen. The picket consisted of two companies or one hundred and sixty men. Half of them were sitting around a fire concealed in the woods, and the rest were scattered along the edges of a piece of close timber. I climbed a lookout-tree by means of cross-strips nailed to the trunk, and beheld from the summit a long succession of hazy hills, valleys, and forests, with the Blue Ridge Mountains bounding the distance, like some mighty monster, enclosing the world in its coils. This was the country of the enemy, and a Lieutenant obligingly pointed out to me the curling smoke of their pickets, a few miles away. The cleft of Manassas was plainly visible, and I traced the line of the Gap Railway to its junction with the Orange and Alexandria road, below Bull Run. For aught that I knew, some concealed observer might now be watching me from the pine-tops on the nearest knoll. Some rifleman might be running his practised eye down the deadly groove, to topple me from my perch, and send me crashing through the boughs. The uncertainty, the hazard, the novelty of my position had at this time an indescribable charm: but subsequent exposures dissipated the romance and taught me the folly of such adventures. The afternoon went dryly by: for a drizzling rain fell at noon; but at four o'clock I saddled the blue roan and went to ride with Fogg. We retraced the road to Colonel T----s, and crossing a boggy brook, turned up the hills and passed toward the Potomac. Fogg had been a schoolmaster, and many of his narrations indicated keen perception and clever comprehension. He so amused me on this particular occasion that I quite forgot my engagement for dinner, and unwittingly strolled beyond the farthest brigade. Suddenly, we heard a bugle-call from the picket-post before us, and, at the same moment, the drums beat from the camp behind. Our horses pricked up their ears and Fogg stared inquiringly. As we turned back we heard approaching hoofs and the blue roan exhibited intentions of running away. I pulled his rein in vain. He would neither be soothed nor commanded. A whole company of cavalry closed up with him at length, and the sabres clattered in their scabbards as they galloped toward camp at the top of their speed. With a spring that almost shook me from the saddle and drove the stirrups flying from my feet, the blue roan dashed the dust into the eyes of Fogg, and led the race. Not the wild yager on his gait to perdition, rode so fearfully. Trees, bogs, huts, bushes, went by like lightning. The hot breath of the nag rose to my nostrils and at every leap I seemed vaulting among the spheres. I speak thus flippantly now, of what was then the agony of death. I grasped the pommel of my saddle, mechanically winding the lines about my wrist, and clung with the tenacity of sin clutching the world. Some soldiers looked wonderingly from the wayside, but did not heed my shriek of "stop him, for God's sake!" A ditch crossed the lane,--deep and wide,--and I felt that my moment had come: with a spring that seemed to break thew and sinew, the blue roan cleared it, pitching upon his knees, but recovered directly and darted onward again. I knew that I should fall headlong now, to be trampled by the fierce horsemen behind, but retained my grasp though my heart was choking me. The camps were in confusion as I swept past them. A sharp clearness of sense and thought enabled me to note distinctly the minutest occurrences. I marked long lines of men cloaked, and carrying knapsacks, drummer-boys beating music that I had whistled in many a ramble,--field-officers shouting orders from their saddles, and cannon limbered up as if ready to move,--tents taken down and teams waiting to be loaded; all the evidences of an advance, that I alas should never witness, lying bruised and mangled by the roadside. A cheer saluted me as I passed some of Meade's regiments. "It is the scout that fetched the orders for an advance!" said several, and one man remarked that "that feller was the most reckless rider he had ever beheld." The crisis came at length: a wagon had stopped the way; my horse in turning it, stepped upon a stake, and slipping rolled heavily upon his side, tossing me like an acrobat, over his head, but without further injury than a terrible nervous shock and a rent in my pantaloons. I employed a small boy to lead the blue roan to Captain Kingwalt's quarters, and as I limped wearily after, some regiments came toward me through the fields. General McCall responded to my salute; he rode in the advance. The Quartermaster's party was loading the tents and utensils. The rain fell smartly as dusk deepened into night, and the brush tents now deserted by the soldiers, were set on fire. Being composed of dry combustible material, they burned rapidly and with an intense flame. The fields in every direction were revealed, swarming with men, horses, batteries, and wagons. Some of the regiments began the march in silence; others sang familiar ballads as they moved in column. A few, riotously disposed, shrieked, whistled, and cheered. The standards were folded; the drums did not mark time; the orders were few and short. The cannoneers sat moodily upon the caissons, and the cavalry-men walked their horses sedately. Although fifteen thousand men comprised the whole corps, each of its three brigades would have seemed as numerous to a novice. The teams of each brigade closed up the rear, and a quartermaster's guard was detailed from each regiment to march beside its own wagons. When the troops were fairly under way, and the brush burning along from continuous miles of road, the effect was grand beyond all that I had witnessed. The country people gathered in fright at the cottage doors, and the farm-dogs bayed dismally at the unwonted scene. I refused to ride the blue roan again, but transferred my saddle to a team horse that appeared to be given to a sort of equine somnambulism, and once or twice attempted to lie down by the roadside. At nine o'clock I set out with Fogg, who slipped a flask of spirits into my haversack. Following the tardy movement of the teams, we turned our faces toward Washington. I was soon wet to the skin, and my saddle cushion was soaking with water. The streams crossing the road were swollen with rain, and the great team wheels clogged on the slimy banks. We were sometimes delayed a half hour by a single wagon, the storm beating pitilessly in our faces the while. During the stoppages, the Quartermaster's guards burned all the fence rails in the vicinity, and some of the more indurated sat round the fagots and gamed with cards. Cold, taciturn, miserable, I thought of the quiet farm, house, the ruddy hearth-place, and the smoking supper. I wondered if the roguish eyes were not a little sad, and the trim feet a little restless, the chessmen somewhat stupid, and the good old house a trifle lonesome. Alas! the intimacy so pleasantly commenced, was never to be renewed. With the thousand and one airy palaces that youth builds and time annihilates, my first romance of war towered to the stars in a day, and crumbled to earth in a night. At two o'clock in the morning we halted at Metropolitan Mills, on the Alexandria and Leesburg turnpike. A bridge had been destroyed below, and the creek was so swollen that neither artillery nor cavalry could ford it. The meadows were submerged and the rain still descended in torrents. The chilled troops made bonfires of some new panel fence, and stormed all the henroosts in the vicinity. Some pigs, that betrayed their whereabouts by inoportune whines and grunts, were speedily confiscated, slaughtered, and spitted. We erected our tarpaulin in a ploughed field, and Fogg laid some sharp rails upon the ground to make us a dry bed. Skyhiski fried a quantity of fresh beef, and boiled some coffee; but while we ate heartily, theorizing as to the destination of the corps, the poor Captain was terribly shaken by his ague. I woke in the morning with inflamed throat, rheumatic limbs, and every indication of chills and fever. Fogg whispered to me at breakfast that two men of Reynold's brigade had died during the night, from fatigue and exposure. He advised me to push forward to Washington and await the arrival of the division, as, unused to the hardships of a march, I might, after another day's experience, become dangerously ill. I set out at five o'clock, resolving to ford the creek, resume the turnpike, and reach Long Bridge at noon. Passing over some dozen fields in which my horse at every step sank to the fetlocks, I travelled along the brink of the stream till I finally reached a place that seemed to be shallow. Bracing myself firmly in the saddle, I urged my unwilling horse into the waters, and emerged half drowned on the other side. It happened, however, that I had crossed only a branch of the creek and gained an island. The main channel was yet to be attempted, and I saw that it was deep, broad, and violent. I followed the margin despairingly for a half-mile, when I came to a log footbridge, where I dismounted and swam my horse through the turbulent waters. I had now so far diverged from the turnpike that I was at a loss to recover it, but straying forlornly through the woods, struck a wagon track at last, and pursued it hopefully, until, to my confusion, it resolved itself to two tracks, that went in contrary directions. My horse preferred taking to the left, but after riding a full hour, I came to some felled trees, beyond which the traces did not go. Returning, weak and bewildered, I adopted the discarded route, which led me to a worm-fence at the edge of the woods. A house lay some distance off, but a wheat-field intervened, and I might bring the vengeance of the proprietor upon me by invading his domain. There was no choice, however; so I removed the rails, and rode directly across the wheat to some negro quarters, a little removed from the mansion. They were deserted, all save one, where a black boy was singing some negro hymns in an uproarious manner. The words, as I made them out, were these:-- "Stephen came a runnin', His Marster fur to see; But Gabriel says he is not yar'; He gone to Calvary! O,--O,--Stephen, Stephen, Fur to see; Stephen, Stephen, get along up Calvary!" I learned from this person two mortifying facts,--that I was farther from Washington than at the beginning of my journey, and that the morrow was Sunday. War, alas! knows no Sabbaths, and the negro said, apologetically-- "I was a seyin' some ole hymns, young Mars'r. Sence dis yer war we don't have no more meetin's, and a body mos' forgits his pra'rs. Dere hain't been no church in all Fairfax, sah, fur nigh six months." Washington was nineteen miles distant, and another creek was to be forded before gaining the turnpike. The negro sauntered down the lane, and opened the gate for me. "You jes keep from de creek, take de mill road, and enqua' as ye get furder up," said he; "it's mighty easy, sah, an' you can't miss de way." I missed the way at once, however, by confounding the mill road with the mill lane, and a shaggy dog that lay in a wagon shed pursued me about a mile. The road was full of mire; no dwellings adjoined it, and nothing human was to be seen in any direction. I came to a crumbling negro cabin after two plodding hours, and, seeing a figure flit by the window, called aloud for information. Nobody replied, and when, dismounting, I looked into the den, it was, to my confusion, vacant. The soil, hereabout, was of a sterile red clay, spotted with scrub cedars. Country more bleak and desolate I have never known, and when, at noon, the rain ceased, a keen wind blew dismally across the barriers. I reached a turnpike at length, and, turning, as I thought, toward Alexandria, goaded my horse into a canter. An hour's ride brought me to a wretched hamlet, whose designation I inquired of a cadaverous old woman-- "Drainesville," said she. "Then I am not upon the Alexandria turnpike?" "No. You're sot for Leesburg. This is the Georgetown and Chain Bridge road." With a heavy heart, I retraced my steps, crossed Chain Bridge at five o'clock, and halted at Kirkwood's at seven. After dinner, falling in with the manager of the Washington Sunday morning _Chronicle_, I penned, at his request, a few lines relative to the movements of the Reserves; and, learning in the morning that they had arrived at Alexandria, set out on horseback for that city. Many hamlets and towns have been destroyed during the war. But, of all that in some form survive, Alexandria has most suffered. It has been in the uninterrupted possession of the Federals for twenty-two months, and has become essentially a military city. Its streets, its docks, its warehouses, its dwellings, and its suburbs, have been absorbed to the thousand uses of war. I was challenged thrice on the Long Bridge, and five times on the road, before reaching the city. I rode under the shadows of five earthworks, and saw lines of white tents sweeping to the horizon. Gayly caparisoned officers passed me, to spend their Sabbath in Washington, and trains laden with troops, ambulances, and batteries, sped along the line of railway, toward the rendezvous at Alexandria. A wagoner, looking forlornly at his splintered wheels; a slovenly guard, watching some bales of hay; a sombre negro, dozing upon his mule; a slatternly Irish woman gossiping with a sergeant at her cottage door; a sutler in his "dear-born," running his keen eye down the limbs of my beast; a spruce civilian riding for curiosity; a gray-haired gentleman, in a threadbare suit, going to camp on foot, to say good by to his boy,--these were some of the personages that I remarked, and each was a study, a sermon, and a story. The Potomac, below me, was dotted with steamers and shipping. The bluffs above were trodden bare, and a line of dismal marsh bordered some stagnant pools that blistered at their bases. At points along the river-shore, troops were embarking on board steamers; transports were taking in tons of baggage and subsistence. There was a schooner, laden to the water-line with locomotive engines and burden carriages; there, a brig, shipping artillery horses by a steam derrick, that lifted them bodily from the shore and deposited them in the hold of the vessel. Steamers, from whose spacious saloons the tourist and the bride have watched the picturesque margin of the Hudson, were now black with clusters of rollicking volunteers, who climbed into the yards, and pitched headlong from the wheel-houses. The "grand movement," for which the people had waited so long, and which McClellan had promised so often, was at length to be made. The Army of the Potomac was to be transferred to Fortress Monroe, at the foot of the Chesapeake, and to advance by the peninsula of the James and the York, upon the city of Richmond. I rode through Washington Street, the seat of some ancient residences, and found it lined with freshly arrived troops. The grave-slabs in a fine old churchyard were strewn with weary cavalry-men, and they lay in some side yards, soundly sleeping. Some artillery-men chatted at doorsteps, with idle house-girls; some courtesans flaunted in furs and ostrich feathers, through a group of coarse engineers; some sergeants of artillery, in red trimmings, and caps gilded with cannon, were reining their horses to leer at some ladies, who were taking the air in their gardens; and at a wide place in the street, a Provost-Major was manoeuvring some companies, to the sound of the drum and fife. There was much drunkenness, among both soldiers and civilians; and the people of Alexandria were, in many cases, crushed and demoralized by reason of their troubles. One man of this sort led me to a sawmill, now run by Government, and pointed to the implements. "I bought 'em and earned 'em," he said. "My labor and enterprise set 'em there; and while my mill and machinery are ruined to fill the pockets o' Federal sharpers, I go drunk, ragged, and poor about the streets o' my native town. My daughter starves in Richmond; God knows I can't get to her. I wish to h----l I was dead." Further inquiry developed the facts that my acquaintance had been a thriving builder, who had dotted all Northeastern Virginia with evidences of his handicraft. At the commencement of the war, he took certain contracts from the Confederate government, for the construction of barracks at Richmond and Manassas Junction; returning inopportunely to Alexandria, he was arrested, and kept some time in Capitol-Hill prison; he had not taken the oath of allegiance, consequently, he could obtain no recompense for the loss of his mill property. Domestic misfortunes, happening at the same time, so embittered his days that he resorted to dissipation. Alexandria is filled with like ruined people; they walk as strangers through their ancient streets, and their property is no longer theirs to possess, but has passed into the hands of the dominant nationalists. My informant pointed out the residences of many leading citizens: some were now hospitals, others armories and arsenals; others offices for inspectors, superintendents, and civil officials. The few people that remained upon their properties, obtained partial immunity, by courting the acquaintance of Federal officers, and, in many cases, extending the hospitalities of their homes to the invaders. I do not know that any Federal functionary was accused of tyranny, or wantonness, but these things ensued, as the natural results of civil war; and one's sympathies were everywhere enlisted for the poor, the exiled, and the bereaved. My dinner at the City Hotel was scant and badly prepared. I gave a negro lad who waited upon me a few cents, but a burly negro carver, who seemed to be his father, boxed the boy's ears and put the coppers into his pocket. The proprietor of the place had voluntarily taken the oath of allegiance, and had made more money since the date of Federal occupation than during his whole life previously. He said to me, curtly, that if by any chance the Confederates should reoccupy Alexandria, he could very well afford to relinquish his property. He employed a smart barkeeper, who led guests by a retired way to the drinking-rooms. Here, with the gas burning at a taper point, cobblers, cocktails, and juleps were mixed stealthily and swallowed in the darkness. The bar was like a mint to the proprietor; he only feared discovery and prohibition. It would not accord with the chaste pages of this narrative to tell how some of the noblest residences in Alexandria had been desecrated to licentious purposes; nor how, by night, the parlors of cosey homes flamed with riot and orgie. I stayed but a little time, having written an indiscreet paragraph in the Washington Chronicle, for which I was pursued by the War Department, and the management of my paper, lacking heart, I went home in a pet. CHAPTER VI. DOWN THE CHESAPEAKE. Disappointed in the unlucky termination of my adventures afield, I now looked ambitiously toward New York. As London stands to the provinces, so stands the empire city to America. Its journals circulate by hundreds of thousands; its means are only rivalled by its enterprise; it is the end of every young American's aspiration, and the New Bohemia for the restless, the brilliant, and the industrious. It seemed a great way off when I first beheld it, but I did not therefore despair. Small matters of news that I gathered in my modest city, obtained space in the columns of the great metropolitan journal, the----. After a time I was delegated to travel in search of special incidents, and finally, when the noted Tennessee Unionist, "Parson" Brownlow, journeyed eastward, I joined his _suite_, and accompanied him to New York. The dream of many months now came to be realized. A correspondent on the ----'s staff had been derelict, and I was appointed to his division. His horse, saddle, field-glasses, blankets, and pistols were to be transferred, and I was to proceed without delay to Fortress Monroe, to keep with the advancing columns of McClellan. At six in the morning I embarked; at eleven I was whirled through my own city, without a glimpse of my friends; at three o'clock I dismounted at Baltimore, and at five was gliding down the Patapsco, under the shadows of Fort Federal Hill, and the white walls of Fort McHenry. The latter defence is renowned for its gallant resistance to a British fleet in 1813, and the American national anthem, "The Star-Spangled Banner," was written to commemorate that bombardment. Fort Carroll, a massive structure of hewn stone, with arched bomb-proof and three tiers of mounted ordnance, its smooth walls washed by the waves, and its unfinished floors still ringing with the trowel and the adze,--lies some miles below, at a narrow passage in the stream. Below, the shores diverge, and at dusk we were fairly in the Chesapeake, under steam and sail, speeding due southward. The _Adelaide_ was one of a series of boats making daily trips between Baltimore and Old Point. Fourteen hours were required to accomplish the passage, and we were not to arrive till seven o'clock next morning. I was so fortunate as to obtain a state-room, but many passengers were obliged to sleep upon sofas or the cabin floor. These boats monopolized the civil traffic between the North and the army, although they were reputed to be owned and managed by Secessionists. None were allowed to embark unless provided with Federal passes; but there were, nevertheless, three or four hundred people on board. About one fourth of these were officers and soldiers; one half sutlers, traders, contractors, newsmen, and idle civilians, anxious to witness a battle, or stroll over the fields of Big Bethel, Lee's Mills, Yorktown, Gloucester, Williamsburg, or West Point; the rest were females on missions of mercy, on visits to sons, brothers, and husbands, and on the way to their homes at Norfolk, Suffolk, or Hampton. Some of these were citizens of Richmond, who believed that the Federals would occupy the city in a few days, and enable them to resume their professions and homes. The lower decks were occupied by negroes. The boat was heavily freighted, and among the parcels that littered the hold and steerage, I noticed scores of box coffins for the removal of corpses from the field to the North. There were quantities of spirits, consigned mainly to Quartermasters, but evidently the property of certain Shylocks, who watched the barrels greedily. An embalmer was also on board, with his ghostly implements. He was a sallow man, shabbily attired, and appeared to look at all the passengers as so many subjects for the development of his art. He was called "Doctor" by his admirers, and conversed in the blandest manner of the triumphs of his system. "There are certain pretenders," he said, "who are at this moment imposing upon the Government. I regret that it is necessary to repeat it, but the fact exists that the Government is the prey of harpies. And in the art of which I am an humble disciple,--that of injecting, commonly called embalming,--the frauds are most deplorable. There was Major Montague,--a splendid subject, I assure you,--a subject that any _Professor_ would have beautifully preserved,--a subject that one esteems it a favor to obtain,--a subject that I in particular would have been proud to receive! But what were the circumstances? I do assure you that a person named Wigwart,--who I have since ascertained to be a veterinary butcher; in plain language, a doctor of horses and asses,--imposed upon the relatives of the deceased, obtained the body, and absolutely ruined it!--absolutely _mangled_ it! I may say, shamefully disfigured it! He was a man, sir, six feet two,--about your height, I think! (to a bystander.) About your weight, also! Indeed quite like you! And allow me to say that, if you should fall into my hands, I would leave your friends no cause for offence! (Here the bystander trembled perceptibly, and I thought that the doctor was about to take his life.) Well! _I_ should have operated thus:--" Then followed a description of the process, narrated with horrible circumstantiality. A fluid holding in solution pounded glass and certain chemicals, was, by the doctor's "system," injected into the bloodvessels, and the subject at the same time bled at the neck. The body thus became hard and stony, and would retain its form for years. He had, by his account, experimented for a lifetime, and said that little "Willie," the son of President Lincoln, had been so preserved that his fond parents must have enjoyed his decease. It seemed to me that the late lamented practitioners, Messrs. Burke and Hare, were likely to fade into insignificance, beside this new light of science. I went upon deck for some moments, and marked the beating of the waves; the glitter of sea-lights pulsing on the ripples; the sweep of belated gulls through the creaking rigging; the dark hull of a passing vessel with a grinning topmast lantern; the vigilant pilot, whose eyes glared like a fiend's upon the waste of blackness; the foam that the panting screw threw against the cabin windows; the flap of fishes caught in the threads of moonlight; the depths over which one bent, peering half wistfully, half abstractedly, almost crazily, till he longed to drop into their coolness, and let the volumes of billow roll musically above him. A woman approached me, as I stood against the great anchor, thus absorbed. She had a pale, thin face, and was scantily clothed, and spoke with a distrustful, timorous voice:-- "You don't know the name of the surgeon-general, do you sir!" "At Washington, ma'am?" "No, sir; at Old Point." I offered to inquire of the Captain: but she stopped me, agitatedly. "It's of no consequence," she said,--"that is, it is of great consequence to me; but perhaps it would be best to wait." I answered, as obligingly as I could, that any service on my part would be cheerfully rendered. "The fact is, sir," she said, after a pause, "I am going to Williamsburg, to--find--the--the body--of my--boy." Here her speech was broken, and she put a thin, white hand tremulously to her eyes. I thought that any person in the Federal service would willingly assist her, and said so. "He was not a Federal soldier, sir. He was a Confederate!" This considerably altered the chances of success, and I was obliged to undeceive her somewhat. "I am sure it was not my fault," she continued, "that he joined the Rebellion. You don't think they'll refuse to let me take his bones to Baltimore, do you, sir? He was my oldest boy, and his brother, my second son, was killed at Ball's Bluff: _He_ was in the Federal service. I hardly think they will refuse me the poor favor of laying them in the same grave." I spoke of the difficulty of recognition, of the remoteness of the field, and of the expense attending the recovery of any remains, particularly those of the enemy, that, left hastily behind in retreat, were commonly buried in trenches without headboard or record. She said, sadly, that she had very little money, and that she could barely afford the journey to the Fortress and return. But she esteemed her means well invested if her object could be attained. "They were both brave boys, sir; but I could never get them to agree politically. William was a Northerner by education, and took up with the New England views, and James was in business at Richmond when the war commenced. So he joined the Southern army. It's a sad thing to know that one's children died enemies, isn't it? And what troubles me more than all, sir, is that James was at Ball's Bluff where his brother fell. It makes me shudder to think, sometimes, that his might have been the ball that killed him." The tremor of the poor creature here was painful to behold. I spoke soothingly and encouragingly, but with a presentiment that she must be disappointed. While I was speaking the supper-bell rang, and I proposed to get her a seat at the table. "No, thank you," she replied, "I shall take no meals on the vessel; I must travel economically, and have prepared some lunch that will serve me. Good by, sir!" Poor mothers looking for dead sons! God help them! I have met them often since; but the figure of that pale, frail creature flitting about the open deck,--alone, hungry, very poor,--troubles me still, as I write. I found, afterward, that she had denied herself a state-room, and intended to sleep in a saloon chair. I persuaded her to accept my berth, but a German, who occupied the same apartment, was unwilling to relinquish his bed, and I had the power only to give her my pillow. Supper was spread in the forecabin, and at the signal to assemble the men rushed to the tables like as many beasts of prey. A captain opposite me bolted a whole mackerel in a twinkling, and spread the half-pound of butter that was to serve the entire vicinity upon a single slice of bread. A sutler beside me reached his fork across my neck, and plucked a young chicken bodily, which he ate, to the great disgust of some others who were eyeing it. The waiter advanced with some steak, but before he reached the table, a couple of Zouaves dragged it from the tray, and laughed brutally at their success. The motion of the vessel caused a general unsteadiness, and it was absolutely dangerous to move one's coffee to his lips. The inveterate hate with which corporations are regarded in America was here evidenced by a general desire to empty the ship's larder. "Eat all you can," said a soldier, ferociously,--"fare's amazin' high. Must make it out in grub." "I always gorges," said another, "on a railroad or a steamboat. Cause why? You must eat out your passage, you know!" Among the passengers were a young officer and his bride. They had been married only a few days, and she had obtained permission to accompany him to Old Point. Very pretty, she seemed, in her travelling hat and flowing robes; and he wore a handsome new uniform with prodigious shoulder-bars. There was a piano in the saloon, where another young lady of the party performed during the evening, and the bride and groom accompanied her with a song. It was the popular Federal parody of "Gay and Happy:" "Then let the South fling aloft what it will,-- We are for the Union still! For the Union! For the Union! We are for the Union still!" The bride and groom sang alternate stanzas, and the concourse of soldiers, civilians, and females swelled the chorus. The reserve being thus broken, the young officer sang the "Star-Spangled Banner," and the refrain must have called up the mermaids. Dancing ensued, and a soldier volunteered a hornpipe. A young man with an astonishing compass of lungs repeated something from Shakespeare, and the night passed by gleefully and reputably. One could hardly realize, in the cheerful eyes and active figures of the dance, the sad uncertainties of the time. Youth trips lightest, somehow, on the brink of the grave. The hilarities of the evening so influenced the German quartered with me, that he sang snatches of foreign ballads during most of the night, and obliged me, at last, to call the steward and insist upon his good behavior. In the gray of the morning I ventured on deck, and, following the silvery line of beach, made out the shipping at anchor in Hampton Roads. The _Minnesota_ flag-ship lay across the horizon, and after a time I remarked the low walls and black derricks of the Rip Raps. The white tents at Hampton were then revealed, and finally I distinguished Fortress Monroe, the key of the Chesapeake, bristling with guns, and floating the Federal flag. As we rounded to off the quay, I studied with intense interest the scene of so many historic events. Sewall's Point lay to the south, a stretch of woody beach, around whose western tip the dreaded _Merrimac_ had so often moved slowly to the encounter. The spars of the _Congress_ and the _Cumberland_ still floated along the strand, but, like them, the invulnerable monster had become the prey of the waves. The guns of the Rip Raps and the terrible broadsides of the Federal gunboats, had swept the Confederates from Sewall's Point,--their flag and battery were gone,--and farther seaward, at Willoughby Spit, some figures upon the beach marked the route of the victorious Federals to the city of Norfolk. The mouth of the James and the York were visible from the deck, and long lines of shipping stretched from each to the Fortress. The quay itself was like the pool in the Thames, a mass of spars, smoke-stacks, ensigns and swelling hills. The low deck and quaint cupola of the famous _Monitor_ appeared close into shore, and near at hand rose the thick body of the _Galena_. Long boats and flat boats went hither and thither across the blue waves: the grim ports of the men of war were open and the guns frowned darkly from their coverts; the seamen were gathering for muster on the flagship, and drums beat from the barracks on shore; the Lincoln gun, a fearful piece of ordnance, rose like the Sphynx from the Fortress sands, and the sodded parapet, the winding stone walls, the tops of the brick quarters within the Fort, were some of the features of a strangely animated scene, that has yet to be perpetuated upon canvas, and made historic. At eight o'clock the passengers were allowed to land, and a provost guard marched them to the Hygeia House,--of old a watering-place hotel,--where, by groups, they were ushered into a small room, and the oath of allegiance administered to them. The young officer who officiated, repeated the words of the oath, with a broad grin upon his face, and the passengers were required to assent by word and by gesture. Among those who took the oath in this way, was a very old sailor, who had been in the Federal service for the better part of his life, and whose five sons were now in the army. He called "Amen" very loudly and fervently, and there was some perceptible disposition on the part of other ardent patriots, to celebrate the occasion with three cheers. The quartermaster, stationed at the Fortress gave me a pass to go by steamer up the York to White House, and as there were three hours to elapse before departure, I strolled about the place with our agent. In times of peace, Old Point was simply a stone fortification, and one of the strongest of its kind in the world. Many years and many millions of dollars were required to build it, but it was, in general, feebly garrisoned, and was, altogether, a stupid, tedious locality, except in the bathing months, when the beauty and fashion of Virginia resorted to its hotel. A few cottages had grown up around it, tenanted only in "the season;" and a little way off, on the mainland, stood the pretty village of Hampton. By a strange oversight, the South failed to seize Fortress Monroe at the beginning of the Rebellion; the Federals soon made it the basis for their armies and a leading naval station. The battle of Big Bethel was one of the first occurrences in the vicinity. Then the dwellings of Hampton were burned and its people exiled. In rapid succession followed the naval battles in the Roads, the siege and surrender of Yorktown, the flight of the Confederates up the Peninsula to Richmond, and finally the battles of Williamsburg, and West Point, and the capture of Norfolk. These things had already transpired; it was now the month of May; and the victorious army, following up its vantages, had pursued the fugitives by land and water to "White House," at the head of navigation on the Pamunkey river. Thither it was my lot to go, and witness the turning-point of their fortunes, and their subsequent calamity and repulse. I found Old Point a weary place of resort, even in the busy era of civil war. The bar at the Hygeia House was beset with thirsty and idle people, who swore instinctively, and drank raw spirits passionately. The quantity of shell, ball, ordnance, camp equipage, and war munitions of every description piled around the fort, was marvellously great. It seemed to me that Xerxes, the first Napoleon, or the greediest of conquerors, ancient or modern, would have beheld with amazement the gigantic preparations at command of the Federal Government. Energy and enterprise displayed their implements of death on every hand. One was startled at the prodigal outlay of means, and the reckless summoning of men. I looked at the starred and striped ensign that flaunted above the Fort, and thought of Madame Roland's appeal to the statue by the guillotine. The settlers were numbered by regiments here. Their places of business were mainly structures or "shanties" of rough plank, and most of them were the owners of sloops, or schooners, for the transportation of freight from New York, Philadelphia, or Baltimore, to their depots at Old Point. Some possessed a dozen wagons, that plied regularly between these stores and camps. The traffic was not confined to men; for women and children kept pace with the army, trading in every possible article of necessity or luxury. For these--disciples of the dime and the dollar--war had no terrors. They took their muck-rakes, like the man in Bunyan, and gathered the almighty coppers, from the pestilential camp and the reeking battle-field. CHAPTER VII. ON TO RICHMOND. Yorktown lies twenty-one miles northwestward from Old Point, and thither I turned my face at noon, resolving to delay my journey to "White House," till next day morning. Crossing an estuary of the bay upon a narrow causeway, I passed Hampton,--half burned, half desolate,--and at three o'clock came to "Big Bethel," the scene of the battle of June 11, 1861. A small earthwork marks the site of Magruder's field-pieces, and hard by the slain were buried. The spot was noteworthy to me, since Lieutenant Greble, a fellow alumnus, had perished here, and likewise, Theodore Winthrop, the gifted author of "Cecil Dreeme" and "John Brent." The latter did not live to know his exaltation. That morning never came whereon he "woke, and found himself famous." The road ran parallel with the deserted defences of the Confederates for some distance. The country was flat and full of swamps, but marked at intervals by relics of camps. The farm-houses were untenanted, the fences laid flat or destroyed, the fields strewn with discarded clothing, arms, and utensils. By and by, we entered the outer line of Federal parallels, and wound among lunettes, crémaillères, redoubts, and rifle-pits. Marks of shell and ball were frequent, in furrows and holes, where the clay had been upheaved. Every foot of ground, for fifteen miles henceforward, had been touched by the shovel and the pick. My companion suggested that as much digging, concentred upon one point, would have taken the Federals to China. The sappers and miners had made their stealthy trenches, rod by rod, each morning appearing closer to their adversaries, and finally, completed their work, at less than a hundred yards from the Confederate defences. Three minutes would have sufficed from the final position, to hurl columns upon the opposing outworks, and sweep them with the bayonet. Ten days only had elapsed since the evacuation (May 4), and the siege guns still remained in some of the batteries. McClellan worshipped great ordnance, and some of his columbiads, that were mounted in the water battery, yawned cavernously through their embrasures, and might have furnished sleeping accommodations to the gunners. A few mortars stood in position by the river side, and there were Parrott, Griffin, and Dahlgren pieces in the shore batteries. However numerous and powerful were the Federal fortifications, they bore no comparison, in either respect, to those relinquished by the revolutionists. Miniature mountain ranges they seemed, deeply ditched, and revetted with sods, fascines, hurdles, gabions or sand bags. Along the York riverside there were water batteries of surpassing beauty, that seemed, at a little distance, successions of gentle terraces. Their pieces were likewise of enormous calibre, and their number almost incredible. The advanced line of fortifications, sketched from the mouth of Warwick creek, on the South, to a point fifteen miles distant on the York: one hundred and forty guns were planted along this chain of defences; but there were two other concentric lines, mounting, each, one hundred and twenty, and two hundred and forty guns. The remote series consisted of six forts of massive size and height, fronted by swamps and flooded meadows, with frequent creeks and ravines interposing; sharp _fraise_ and _abattis_ planted against scarp and slope, pointed cruelly eastward. There were two water batteries, of six and four thirty-two columbiads respectively, and the town itself, which stands upon a red clay bluff, was encircled by a series of immense rifled and smooth-bore pieces, including a powerful pivot-gun, that one of McClellan's shells struck during the first day's bombardment, and split it into fragments. At Gloucester Point, across the York river, the great guns of the _Merrimac_ were planted, it is said, and a fleet of fire-rafts and torpedo-ships were moored in the stream. By all accounts, there could have been no less than five hundred guns behind the Confederate entrenchments, the greater portion, of course, field-pieces, and, as the defending army was composed of one hundred thousand men, we must add that number of small arms to the list of ordnance. If we compute the Federals at so high a figure,--and they could scarcely have had less than a hundred thousand men afield,--we must increase the enormous amount of their field, siege, and small ordnance, by the naval guns of the fleet, that stood anchored in the bay. It is probable that a thousand cannon and two hundred thousand muskets were assembled in and around Yorktown during this memorable siege. The mind shudders to see the terrible deductions of these statistics. The monster, who wished that the world had but one neck, that he might sever it, would have gloated at such realization! How many days or hours would have here sufficed to annihilate all the races of men? Happily, the world was spared the spectacle of these deadly mouths at once aflame. Beautiful but awful must have been the scene, and the earth must have staggered with the shock. One might almost have imagined that man, in his ambition, had shut his God in heaven, and besieged him there. While the fortifications defending it amazed me, the village of Yorktown disappointed me. I marvelled that so paltry a settlement should have been twice made historic. Here, in the year 1783, Lord Cornwallis surrendered his starving command to the American colonists and their French allies. But the entrenchments of that earlier day had been almost obliterated by these recent labors. The field, where the Earl delivered up his sword, was trodden bare, and dotted with ditches and ramparts; while a small monument, that marked the event, had been hacked to fragments by the Southerners, and carried away piecemeal. Yet, strange to say, relics of the first bombardment had just been discovered, and, among them, a gold-hilted sword. I visited, in the evening, the late quarters of General Hill, a small white house with green shutters, and also the famous "Nelson House," a roomy mansion where, of old, Cornwallis slept, and where, a few days past, Jefferson Davis and General Lee had held with Magruder, and his associates, a council of war. It had been also used for hospital purposes, but some negroes were now the only occupants. The Confederates left behind them seventy spiked and shattered cannon, some powder, and a few splintered wagons; but in all material respects, their evacuation was thorough and creditable. Some deserters took the first tidings of the retreat to the astonished Federals, and they raised the national flag within the fortifications, in the gray of the morning of the 4th of May. Many negroes also escaped the vigilance of their taskmasters, and remained to welcome the victors. The fine works of Yorktown are monuments to negro labor, for _they_ were the hewers and the diggers. Every slave-owner in Eastern Virginia was obliged to send one half of his male servants between the ages of sixteen and fifty to the Confederate camps, and they were organized into gangs and set to work. In some cases they were put to military service and made excellent sharpshooters. The last gun discharged from the town was said to have been fired by a negro. I slept on board a barge at the wharf that evening, and my dreams ran upon a thousand themes. To every American this was hallowed ground. It had been celebrated by the pencil of Trumbull, the pen of Franklin, and the eloquence of Jefferson. Scarce eighty years had elapsed since those great minds established a fraternal government; but the site of their crowning glory was now the scene of their children's shame. Discord had stolen upon their councils and blood had profaned their shrine. I visited next day a bomb-proof postern, or subterranean passage, connecting the citadel with the outworks, and loitered about the fortifications till noon, when I took passage on the mail steamer, which left the Fortress at eleven o'clock, and reached White House at dusk the same evening. The whole river as I ascended was filled with merchant and naval craft. They made a continuous line from Old Point to the mouth of York River, and the masts and spars environing Yorktown and Gloucester, reminded one of a scene on the Mersey or the Clyde. At West Point, there was an array of shipping scarcely less formidable, and the windings of the interminably crooked Pamunkey were marked for leagues by sails, smoke-stacks, and masts. The landings and wharves were besieged by flat-boats and sloops, and Zouaves were hoisting forage and commissary stores up the red bluffs at every turn of our vessel. The Pamunkey was a beautiful stream, densely wooded, and occasional vistas opened up along its borders of wheat-fields and meadows, with Virginia farm-houses and negro quarters on the hilltops. Some of the houses on the river banks appeared to be tenanted by white people, but the majority had a haunted, desolate appearance, the only signs of life being strolling soldiers, who thrust their legs through the second story windows, or contemplated the river from the chimney-tops, and groups of negroes who sunned themselves on the piazza, or rushed to the margin to gaze and grin at the passing steamers. There were occasional residences not unworthy of old manorial and baronial times, and these were attended at a little distance by negro quarters of logs, arranged in rows, and provided with mud chimneys built against their gables. Few of the Northern navigable rivers were so picturesque and varied. We passed two Confederate gunboats, that had been half completed, and burned on the stocks. Their charred elbows and ribs, stared out, like the remains of some extinct monsters; a little delay might have found each of them armed and manned, and carrying havoc upon the rivers and the seas. West Point was simply a tongue, or spit of land, dividing the Mattapony from the Pamunkey river at their junction; a few houses were built upon the shallow, and some wharves, half demolished, marked the terminus of the York and Richmond railroad. A paltry water-battery was the sole defence. Below Cumberland (a collection of huts and a wharf), a number of schooners had been sunk across the river, and, with the aid of an island in the middle, these constituted a rather rigid blockade. The steamboat passed through, steering carefully, but some sailing vessels that followed required to be towed between the narrow apertures. The tops only of the sunken masts could be discerned above the surface, and much time and labor must have been required to place the boats in line and sink them. Vessels were counted by scores above and below this blockade, and at Cumberland the masts were like a forest; clusters of pontoons were here anchored in the river, and a short distance below we found three of the light-draught Federal gunboats moored in the stream. It was growing dark as we rounded to at "White House;" the camp fires of the grand army lit up the sky, and edged the tree-boughs on the margin with ribands of silver. Some drums beat in the distance; sentries paced the strand; the hum of men, and the lowing of commissary cattle, were borne towards us confusedly; soldiers were bathing in the river; team-horses were drinking at the brink; a throng of motley people were crowding about the landing to receive the papers and mails. I had at last arrived at the seat of war, and my ambition to chronicle battles and bloodshed was about to be gratified. At first, I was troubled to make my way; the tents had just been pitched; none knew the location of divisions other than their own, and it was now so dark that I did not care to venture far. After a vain attempt to find some flat-boats where there were lodgings and meals to be had, I struck out for general head-quarters, and, undergoing repeated snubbings from pert members of staff, fell in at length, with a very tall, spare, and angular young officer, who spoke broken English, and who heard my inquiries, courteously; he stepped into General Marcy's tent, but the Chief of Staff did not know the direction of Smith's division; he then repaired to Gen. Van Vleet, the chief Quartermaster, but with ill success. A party of officers were smoking under a "fly," and some of these called to him, thus-- "Captain! Duke! De Chartres! What do you wish?" It was, then, the Orleans Prince who had befriended me, and I had the good fortune to hear that the division, of which I was in search, lay a half mile up the river. I never spoke to the Bourbon afterward, but saw him often; and that he was as chivalrous as he was kind, all testimony proved. A private escorted me to a Captain Mott's tent, and this officer introduced me to General Hancock. I was at once invited to mess with the General's staff, and in the course of an hour felt perfectly at home. Hancock was one of the handsomest officers in the army; he had served in the Mexican war, and was subsequently a Captain in the Quartermaster's department. But the Rebellion placed stars in many shoulder-bars, and few were more worthily designated than this young Pennsylvanian. His first laurels were gained at Williamsburg; but the story of a celebrated charge that won him the day's applause, and McClellan's encomium of the "Superb Hancock," was altogether fictitious. The musket, not the bayonet, gave him the victory. I may doubt, in this place, that any extensive bayonet charge has been known during the war. Some have gone so far as to deny that the bayonet has ever been used at all. Hancock's regiments were the 5th Wisconsin, 49th Pennsylvanian, 43d New York, and 6th Maine. They represented widely different characteristics, and I esteemed myself fortunate to obtain a position where I could so eligibly study men, habits, and warfare. During the evening I fell in with the Colonel of each of these regiments, and from the conversation that ensued, I gleaned a fair idea of them all. The Wisconsin regiment was from a new and ambitious State of the Northwest. The men were rough-mannered, great-hearted farmers, wood-choppers, and tradesmen. They had all the impulsiveness of the Yankee, with less selfishness, and quite as much bravery. The Colonel was named Cobb, and he had held some leading offices in Wisconsin. A part of his life had been adventurously spent, and he had participated in the Mexican war. He was an ardent Republican in politics, and had been Speaker of a branch of the State Legislature. He was an attorney in a small county town when the war commenced, and his name had been broached for the Governorship. In person he was small, lithe, and capable of enduring great fatigue. His hair was a little gray, and he had no beard. He did not respect appearances, and his sword, as I saw, was antique and quite different in shape from the regulation weapon. He had penetrating gray eyes, and his manners were generally reserved. One had not to regard him twice to see that he was both cautious and resolute. He was too ambitious to be frank, and too passionate not to be brave. In the formula of learning he was not always correct; but few were of quicker perception or more practical and philosophic. He might not, in an emergency, be nicely scrupulous as to means, but he never wavered in respect to objects. His will was the written law to his regiment, and I believed his executive abilities superior to those of any officer in the brigade, not excepting the General's. The New York regiment was commanded by a young officer named Vinton. He was not more than thirty-five years of age, and was a graduate of the United States Military Academy. Passionately devoted to engineering, he withdrew from the army, and passed five years in Paris, at the study of his art. Returning homeward by way of the West Indies, he visited Honduras, and projected a filibustering expedition to its shores from the States. While perfecting the design, the Rebellion commenced, and his old patron, General Scott, secured him the colonelcy of a volunteer regiment. He still cherished his scheme of "Colonization," and half of his men were promised to accompany him. Personally, Colonel Vinton was straight, dark, and handsome. He was courteous, affable, and brave,--but wedded to his peculiar views, and, as I thought, a thorough "Young American." The Maine regiment was fathered by Colonel Burnham, a staunch old yeoman and soldier, who has since been made a General. His probity and good-nature were adjuncts of his valor, and his men were of the better class of New Englanders. The fourth regiment fell into the hands of a lawyer from Lewistown, Pennsylvania. He had been also in the Mexican war, and was remarkable mainly for strictness with regard to the sanitary regulations of his camps. He had wells dug at every stoppage, and his tents were generally fenced and canopied with cedar arbors. General Hancock's staff was composed of a number of young men, most of whom had been called from civil life. His brigade constituted one of three commanded by General Smith. Four batteries were annexed to the division so formed; the entire number of muskets was perhaps eight thousand. The Chief of Artillery was a Captain Ayres, whose battery saved the three months' army at Bull Run. It so happened that he came into the General's during the evening, and recited the particulars of a gunboat excursion, thirty miles up the Pamunkey, wherein he had landed his men, and burned a quantity of grain, some warehouses, and shipping. I pencilled the facts at once, made up my letter, and mailed it early in the morning. CHAPTER VIII. RUSTICS IN REBELLION. At White House, I met some of the mixed Indians and negroes from Indiantown Island, which lies among the osiers in the stream. One of these ferried me over, and the people received me obsequiously, touching their straw hats, and saying, "Sar, at your service!" They were all anxious to hear something of the war, and asked, solicitously, if they were to be protected. Some of them had been to Richmond the previous day, and gave me some unimportant items happening in the city. I found that they had Richmond papers of that date, and purchased them for a few cents. They knew little or nothing of their own history, and had preserved no traditions of their tribe. There was, however, I understood, a very old woman extant, named "Mag," of great repute at medicines, pow-wows, and divination. I expressed a desire to speak with her, and was conducted to a log-house, more ricketty and ruined than any of the others. About fifty half-breeds followed me in respectful curiosity, and they formed a semicircle around the cabin. The old woman sat in the threshold, barefooted, and smoking a stump of clay pipe. "Yaw's one o' dem Nawden soldiers, Aunt Mag!" said my conductor. "He wants to talk wid ye." "Sot down, honey," said the old woman, producing a wooden stool; "is you a Yankee, honey? Does you want you fauchun told by de ole 'oman?" I perceived that the daughter of the Delawares smelt strongly of fire-water, and the fumes of her calumet were most unwholesome. She was greatly disappointed that I did not require her prophetic services, and said, appealingly-- "Why, sar, all de gen'elmen an' ladies from Richmond has dere fauchuns told. I tells 'em true. All my fauchuns comes out true. Ain't dat so, chillen?" A low murmur of assent ran round the group, and I was obviously losing caste in the settlement. "Here is a dime," said I, "that I will give you, to tell me the result of the war. Shall the North be victorious in the next battle? Will Richmond surrender within a week? Shall I take my cigar at the Spotswood on Sunday fortnight?" "I'se been a lookin' into dat," she said, cunningly; "I'se had dreams on dat ar'. Le'um see how de armies stand!" She brought from the house a cup of painted earthenware containing sediments of coffee. I saw her crafty white eyes look up to mine as she muttered some jargon, and pretended to read the arrangement of the grains. "Honey," she said, "gi' me de money, and let de ole 'oman dream on it once mo'! It ain't quite clar' yit, young massar. Tank you, honey! Tank you! Let de old 'oman dream! Let de ole 'oman dream!" She disappeared into the house, chuckling and chattering, and the sons of the forest, loitering awhile, dispersed in various directions. As I followed my conductor to the riverside, and he parted the close bushes and boughs to give us exit, the glare of the camp-fires broke all at once upon us. The ship-lights quivered on the water; the figures of men moved to and fro before the fagots; the stars peeped timorously from the vault; the woods and steep banks were blackly shadowed in the river. Here was I, among the aborigines; and as my dusky acquaintance sent his canoe skimming across the ripples, I thought how inexplicable were the decrees of Time and the justice of God. Two races united in these people, and both of them we had wronged. From the one we had taken lands; from the other liberties. Two centuries had now elapsed. But the little remnant of the African and the American were to look from their Island Home upon the clash of our armies and the murder of our braves. By the 19th of May the skirts of the grand army had been gathered up, and on the 20th the march to Richmond was resumed. The troops moved along two main roads, of which the right led to New Mechanicsville and Meadow Bridges, and the left to the railroad and Bottom Bridges. My division formed the right centre, and although the Chickahominy fords were but eighteen miles distant, we did not reach them for three days. On the first night we encamped at Tunstalls, a railroad-station on Black Creek; on the second at New Cold Harbor, a little country tavern, kept by a cripple; and on the night of the third day at Hogan's farm, on the north hills of the Chickahominy. The railroad was opened to Despatch Station at the same time, but the right and centre were still compelled to "team" their supplies from White House. In the new position, the army extended ten miles along the Chickahominy hills; and while the engineers were driving pile, tressel, pontoon, and corduroy bridges, the cavalry was scouring the country, on both flanks, far and wide. The advance was full of incident, and I learned to keep as far in front as possible, that I might communicate with scouts, contrabands, and citizens. Many odd personages were revealed to me at the farm-houses on the way, and I studied, with curious interest, the native Virginian character. They appeared to be compounds of the cavalier and the boor. There was no old gentleman who owned a thousand barren acres, spotted with scrub timber; who lived in a weather-beaten barn, with a multiplicity of porch and a quantity of chimney; whose means bore no proportion to his pride, and neither to his indolence,--that did not talk of his ancestry, proffer his hospitality, and defy me to an argument. I was a civilian,--they had no hostility to me,--but the blue-coats of the soldiers seared their eyeballs. In some cases their daughters remained upon the property; but the sons and the negroes always fled,--though in contrary directions. The old men used to peep through the windows at the passing columns; and as their gates were wrenched from the hinges, their rails used to pry wagons out of the mud, their pump-handles shaken till the buckets splintered in the shaft, and their barns invaded by greasy agrarians, they walked to and fro, half-weakly, half-wrathfully, but with a pluck, fortitude, and devotion that wrung my respect. Some aged negro women commonly remained, but these were rather incumbrances than aids, and they used the family meal to cook bread for the troops. An old, toothless, grinning African stood at every lane and gate, selling buttermilk and corn-cakes. Poor mortal, sinful old women! They had worked for nothing through their three-score and ten, but avarice glared from their shrivelled pupils, and their last but greatest delight lay in the coppers and the dimes. One would have thought that they had outlived the greed of gold; but wages deferred make the dying miserly. The lords of the manors were troubled to know the number of our troops. For several days the columns passed with their interminable teams, batteries, and adjuncts, and the old gentlemen were loth to compute us at less than several millions. "Why, look yonder," said one, pointing to a brigade; "I declar' to gracious, there ain't no less than ten thousand in _them_!" "Tousands an' tousands!" said a wondering negro at his elbow. "I wonda if dey'll take Richmond dis yer day?" Many of them hung white flags at their gate-posts, implying neutrality; but nobody displayed the Federal colors. If there were any covert sympathizers with the purposes of the army, they remembered the vengeance of the neighbors and made no demonstrations. There was a prodigious number of stragglers from the Federal lines, as these were the bane of the country people. They sauntered along by twos and threes, rambling into all the fields and green-apple orchards, intruding their noses into old cabins, prying into smoke-houses, and cellars, looking at the stock in the stables, and peeping on tiptoe into the windows of dwellings. These stragglers were true exponents of Yankee character,--always wanting to know,--averse to discipline, eccentric in their orbits, entertaining profound contempt for everything that was not up to the measure of "to hum." "Look here, Bill, I say!" said one, with a great grin on his face; "did you ever, neow! I swan! they call that a plough down in these parts." "Devilishest people I ever see!" said Bill, "stick their meetin'-houses square in the woods! Build their chimneys first and move the houses up to 'em! All the houses breakin' out in perspiration of porch! All their machinery with Noah in the ark! Pump the soil dry! Go to sleep a milkin' a keow! Depend entirely on Providence and the nigger!" There was a mill on the New Bridge road, ten miles from White House, with a tidy farm-house, stacks, and cabins adjoining. The road crossed the mill-race by a log bridge, and a spreading pond or dam lay to the left,--the water black as ink, the shore sandy, and the stream disappearing in a grove of straight pines. A youngish woman, with several small children, occupied the dwelling, and there remained, besides, her fat sister-in-law and four or five faithful negroes. I begged the favor of a meal and bed in the place one night, and shall not forget the hospitable table with its steaming biscuit; the chubby baby, perched upon his high stool; the talkative elderly woman, who took snuff at the fireplace; the contented black-girl, who played the Hebe; and above all, the trim, plump, pretty hostess, with her brown eyes and hair, her dignity and her fondness, sitting at the head of the board. When she poured the bright coffee into the capacious bowl, she revealed the neatest of hands and arms, and her dialect was softer and more musical than that of most Southerners. In short, I fell almost in love with her; though she might have been a younger playmate of my mother's, and though she was the wife of a Quartermaster in a Virginia regiment. For, somehow, a woman seems very handsome when one is afield; and the contact of rough soldiers, gives him a partiality for females. It must have required some courage to remain upon the farm; but she hoped thereby to save the property from spoliation. I played a game of whist with the sister-in-law, arguing all the while; and at nine o'clock the servant produced some hard cider, shellbarks, and apples. We drank a cheery toast: "an early peace and old fellowship!"--to which the wife added a sentiment of "always welcome," and the baby laughed at her knee. How brightly glowed the fire! I wanted to linger for a week, a month, a year,--as I do now, thinking it all over,--and when I strolled to the porch,--hearing the pigeons cooing at the barn; the water streaming down the dam; the melancholy monotony of the pine boughs;--there only lacked the humming mill-wheel, and the strong grip of the miller's hand, to fill the void corner of one's happy heart. But this was a time of war, when dreams are rudely broken, and mine could not last. The next day some great wheels beat down the bridge, and the teams clogged the road for miles; the waiting teamsters saw the miller's sheep, and the geese, chickens, and pigs, rashly exposed themselves in the barnyard; these were killed and eaten, the mill stripped of flour and meal, and the garden despoiled of its vegetables. A quartermaster's horse foundered, and he demanded the miller's, giving therefor a receipt, but specifying upon the same the owner's relation to the Rebellion; and, to crown all, a group of stragglers, butchered the cows, and heaped the beef in their wagons to feed their regimental friends. When I presented myself, late in the afternoon, the yard and porches were filled with soldiers; the wife sat within, her head thrown upon the window, her bright hair unbound, and her eyes red with weeping. The baby had cried itself to sleep, the sister-in-law took snuff fiercely, at the fire; the black girl cowered in a corner. "There is not bread in the house for my children," she said; "but I did not think they could make me shed a tear." If there were Spartan women, as the story-books say, I wonder if their blood died with them! I hardly think so. If I learned anything from my quiet study of this and subsequent campaigns, it was the heartlessness of war. War brutalizes! The most pitiful become pitiless afield, and those who are not callous, must do cruel duties. If the quartermaster had not seized the horses, he would have been accountable for his conduct; had he failed to state the miller's disloyalty in the receipt, he would have been punished. The men were thieves and brutes, to take the meal and meat; but they were perhaps hungry and weary, and sick of camp food; on the whole, I became a devotee of the George Fox faith, and hated warfare, though I knew nothing to substitute for it, in _crises_. Besides, the optimist might have seen much to admire. Individual merits were developed around me; I saw shop-keepers and mechanics in the ranks, and they looked to be better men. Here were triumphs of engineering; there perfections of applied ingenuity. I saw how the weakest natures girt themselves for great resolves, and how fortitude outstripped itself. It is a noble thing to put by the fear of death. It was a grand spectacle, this civil soldiery of both sections, supporting their principles, ambitions, or whatever instigated them, with their bodies; and their bones, lie where they will, must be severed, when the plough-share some day heaves them to the ploughman. One morning a friend asked me to go upon a scout. "Where are your companies?" said I. "There are four behind, and we shall be joined by six at Old Cold Harbor." I saw, in the rear, filing through a belt of woods, the tall figures of the horsemen, approaching at a canter. "Do you command?" said I again. "No! the Major has charge of the scout, and his orders are secret." I wheeled beside him, as the cavalry closed up, waved my hand to Plumley, and the girls, and went forward to the rendezvous, about six miles distant. The remaining companies of the regiment were here drawn up, watering their nags. The Major was a thick, sunburnt man, with grizzled beard, and as he saw us rounding a corner of hilly road, his voice rang out-- "Attention! Prepare to mount!" Every rider sprang to his nag; every nag walked instinctively to his place; every horseman made fast his girths, strapped his blankets tightly, and lay his hands upon bridle-rein and pommel. "Attention! Mount!" The riders sprang to their seats; the bugles blew a lively strain; the horses pricked up their ears; and the long array moved briskly forward, with the Captain, the Major, and myself at the head. We were joined in a moment by two pieces of flying artillery, and five fresh companies of cavalry. In a moment more we were underway again, galloping due northward, and, as I surmised, toward Hanover Court House. If any branch of the military service is feverish, adventurous, and exciting, it is that of the cavalry. One's heart beats as fast as the hoof-falls; there is no music like the winding of the bugle, and no monotone so full of meaning as the clink of sabres rising and falling with the dashing pace. Horse and rider become one,--a new race of Centaurs,--and the charge, the stroke, the crack of carbines, are so quick, vehement, and dramatic, that we seem to be watching the joust of tournaments or following fierce Saladins and Crusaders again. We had ridden two hours at a fair canter, when we came to a small stream that crossed the road obliquely, and gurgled away through a sandy valley into the deepnesses of the woods. A cart-track, half obliterated, here diverged, running parallel with the creek, and the Major held up his sword as a signal to halt; at the same moment the bugle blew a quick, shrill note. "There are hoof-marks here!" grunted the Major,--"five of 'em. The Dutchman has gone into the thicket. Hulloo!" he added, precipitately--"there go the carbines!" I heard, clearly, two explosions in rapid succession; then a general discharge, as of several persons firing at once, and at last, five continuous reports, fainter, but more regular, and like the several emptyings of a revolver. I had scarcely time to note these things, and the effect produced upon the troop, when strange noises came from the woods to the right: the floundering of steeds, the cries and curses of men, and the ringing of steel striking steel. Directly the boughs crackled, the leaves quivered, and a horse and rider plunged into the road, not five rods from my feet. The man was bareheaded, and his face and clothing were torn with briars and branches. He was at first riding fairly upon our troops, when he beheld the uniform and standards, and with a sharp oath flung up his sword and hands. "I surrender!" he said; "I give in! Don't shoot!" The scores of carbines that were levelled upon him at once dropped to their rests at the saddles; but some unseen avenger had not heeded the shriek; a ball whistled from the woods, and the man fell from his cushion like a stone. In another instant, the German sergeant bounded through the gap, holding his sabre aloft in his right hand; but the left hung stiff and shattered at his side, and his face was deathly white. He glared an instant at the dead man by the roadside, leered grimly, and called aloud-- "Come on, Major! Dis vay! Dere are a squad of dem ahead!" The bugle at once sounded a charge, the Major rose in the stirrups, and thundered "Forward!" I reined aside, intuitively, and the column dashed hotly past me. With a glance at the heap of mortality littering the way, I spurred my nag sharply, and followed hard behind. The riderless horse seemed to catch the fever of the moment, and closed up with me, leaving his master the solitary tenant of the dell. For perhaps three miles we galloped like the wind, and my brave little traveller overtook the hindmost of the troop, and retained the position. Thrice there were discharges ahead; I caught glimpses of the Major, the Captain, and the wolfish sergeant, far in the advance; and once saw, through the cloud of dust that beset them, the pursued and their individual pursuers, turning the top of a hill. But for the most part, I saw nothing; I _felt_ all the intense, consuming, burning ardor of the time and the event. I thought that my hand clutched a sabre, and despised myself that it was not there. I stood in the stirrups, and held some invisible enemy by the throat. In a word, the bloodiness of the chase was upon me. I realized the fierce infatuation of matching life with life, and standing arbiter upon my fellow's body and soul. It seemed but a moment, when we halted, red and panting, in the paltry Court House village of Hanover; the field-pieces hurled a few shells at the escaping Confederates, and the men were ordered to dismount. It seemed that a Confederate picket had been occupying the village, and the creek memorized by the skirmish was an outpost merely. Two of the man Otto's party had been slain in the woods, where also lay as many Southerners. Hanover Court House is renowned as the birthplace of Patrick Henry, the colonial orator, called by Byron the "forest Demosthenes." In a little tavern, opposite the old Court House building, he began his humble career as a measurer of gills to convivials, and in the Court House,--a small stone edifice, plainly but quaintly constructed,--he gave the first exhibitions of his matchless eloquence. Not far away, on a by-road, the more modern but not less famous orator, Henry Clay, was born. The region adjacent to his father's was called the "Slashes of Hanover," and thence came his appellation of the "Mill Boy of the Slashes." I had often longed to visit these shrines; but never dreamed that the booming of cannon would announce me. The soldiers broke into both the tavern and court-house, and splintered some chairs in the former to obtain relics of Henry. I secured Richmond newspapers of the same morning, and also some items of intelligence. With these I decided to repair at once to White House, and formed the rash determination of taking the direct or Pamunkey road, which I had never travelled, and which might be beset by Confederates. The distance to White House, by this course, was only twenty miles; whereas it was nearly as far to head-quarters; and I believed that my horse had still the persistence to carry me. It was past four o'clock; but I thought to ride six miles an hour while daylight lasted, and, by good luck, get to the depot at nine. The Major said that it was foolhardiness; the Captain bantered me to go. I turned my back upon both, and bade them good by. CHAPTER IX. PUT UNDER ARREST. While daylight remained, I had little reason to repent my wayward resolve. The Pamunkey lay to my left, and the residences between it and the road were of a better order than others that I had seen. This part of the country had not been overrun, and the wheat and young corn were waving in the river-breeze. I saw few negroes, but the porches were frequently occupied by women and white men, who looked wonderingly toward me. There were some hoof-marks in the clay, and traces of a broad tire that I thought belonged to a gun-carriage. The hills of King William County were but a little way off, and through the wood that darkened them, sunny glimpses of vari-colored fields and dwellings now and then appeared. I came to a shabby settlement called New Castle, at six o'clock, where an evil-looking man walked out from a frame-house, and inquired the meaning of the firing at Hanover. I explained hurriedly, as some of his neighbors meantime gathered around me. They asked if I was not a soldier in the Yankee army, and as I rode away, followed me suspiciously with their eyes and wagged their heads. To end the matter I spurred my pony and soon galloped out of sight. Henceforward I met only stern, surprised glances, and seemed to read "murder" in the faces of the inhabitants. A wide creek crossed the road about five miles further on, where I stopped to water my horse. The shades of night were gathering now; there was no moon; and for the first time I realized the loneliness of my position. Hitherto, adventure had laughed down fear; hereafter my mind was to be darkened like the gloaming, and peopled with ghastly shadows. I was yet young in the experience of death, and the toppled corpse of the slain cavalry-man on the scout, somehow haunted me. I heard his hoof-falls chiming with my own, and imagined, with a cold thrill, that his steed was still following me; then, his white rigid face and uplifted arms menaced my way; and, at last, the ruffianly form of his slayer pursued him along the wood. They glided like shadows over the foliage, and flashed across the surfaces of pools and rivulets. I heard their steel ringing in the underbrush, and they flitted around me, pursuing and retreating, till my brain began to whirl with the motion. Suddenly my horse stumbled, and I reined him to a halt. The cold drops were standing on my forehead. I found my knees a-quiver and my breathing convulsive. With an expletive upon my unmanliness, I touched the nag with my heel, and whistled encouragingly. Poor pony! Fifty miles of almost uninterrupted travel had broken his spirit. He leaped into his accustomed pace: but his legs were unsteady and he floundered at every bound. There were pools, ruts, and boughs across the way, with here and there stretches of slippery corduroy; but the thick blackness concealed these, and I expected momentarily to be thrown from the saddle. By and by he dropped from a canter into a rock; from a rock to an amble; then into a walk, and finally to a slow painful limp. I dismounted and took him perplexedly by the bit. A light shone from the window of a dwelling across some open fields to the left, and I thought of repairing thither; but some deep-mouthed dogs began to bay directly, and then the lamp went out. A tiny stream sang at the roadside, flowing toward some deeper tributary; lighting a cigar, I made out, by its fitful illuminings, to wash the limbs of the jaded nag. Then I led him for an hour, till my own limbs were weary, troubled all the time by weird imaginings, doubts, and regrets. When I resumed the saddle the horse had a firmer step and walked pleasantly. I ventured after a time to incite him to a trot, and was going nicely forward, when a deep voice, that almost took my breath, called from the gloom-- "Who comes there? Halt, or I fire! Guard, turn out!" Directly the road was full of men, and a bull's-eye lantern flashed upon my face. A group of foot-soldiery, with drawn pistols and sabres, gathered around me, and I heard the neigh of steeds from some imperceptible vicinity. "Who is it, Sergeant?" said one. "Is there but one of 'em?" said another. "Cuss him!" said a third; "I was takin' a bully snooze." "Who are yeou?" said the Sergeant, sternly; "what are yeou deouin' aout at this hour o' the night? Are yeou a rebbil?" "No!" I answered, greatly relieved; "I am a newspaper correspondent of Smith's division, and there's my pass!" I was taken over to a place in the woods, where some fagots were smouldering, and, stirring them to a blaze, the Sergeant read the document and pronounced it right. "Yeou hain't got no business, nevertheless, to be roamin' araound outside o' picket; but seein' as it's yeou, I reckon yeou may trot along!" I offered to exchange my information for a biscuit and a drop of coffee, for I was wellnigh worn out; while one of the privates produced a canteen more wholesome than cleanly, another gave me a lump of fat pork and a piece of corn bread. They gathered sleepily about me, while I told of the scout, and the Sergeant said that my individual ride was "game enough, but nothin' but darn nonsense." Then they fed my horse with a trifle of oats, and after awhile I climbed, stiff and bruised, to the saddle again, and bade them good night. I knew now that I was at "Putney's," a ford on the Pamunkey, and an hour later I came in sight of the ship-lights at White House, and heard the steaming of tugs and draught-boats, going and coming by night. I hitched my horse to a tree, pilfered some hay and fodder from two or three nags tied adjacent, and picked my way across a gangway, several barge-decks, and a floating landing, to the mail steamer that lay outside. Her deck and cabin were filled with people, stretched lengthwise and crosswise, tangled, grouped, and snoring, but all apparently fast asleep. I coolly took a blanket from a man that looked as though he did not need it, and wrapped myself cosily under a bench in a corner. The cabin light flared dimly, half irradiating the forms below, and the boat heaved a little on the river-swells. The night was cold, the floor hard, and I almost dead with fatigue. But what of that! I felt the newspapers in my breast pocket, and knew that the mail could not leave me in the morning. Blessed be the news-gatherer's sleep! I think he earned it. It was very pleasant, at dawn, to receive the congratulations of our agent, with whom I breakfasted, and to whom I consigned a hastily written letter and all the Richmond papers of the preceding day. He was a shrewd, sanguine, middle-aged man, of large experience and good standing in our establishment. He was sent through the South at the beginning of the Rebellion, and introduced into all public bodies and social circles, that he might fathom the designs of Secession, and comprehend its spirit. Afterward he accompanied the Hatteras and Port Royal expeditions, and witnessed those celebrated bombardments. Such a thorough individual abnegation I never knew. He was a part of the establishment, body and soul. He agreed with its politics, adhered to all its policies, defended it, upheld it, revered it. The Federal Government was, to his eye, merely an adjunct of the paper. Battles and sieges were simply occurrences for its columns. Good men, brave men, bad men, died to give it obituaries. The whole world was to him a Reporter's district, and all human mutations plain matters of news. I hardly think that any city, other than New York, contains such characters. The journals there are full of fever, and the profession of journalism is a disease. He cashed me a draft for a hundred dollars, and I filled my saddle-bags with smoking-tobacco, spirits, a meerschaum pipe, packages of sardines, a box of cigars, and some cheap publications. Then we adjourned to the quay, where the steamer was taking in mails, freight and passengers. The papers were in his side-pocket, and he was about to commit them to a steward for transmission to Fortress Monroe, when my name was called from the strand by a young mounted officer, connected with one of the staffs of my division. I thought that he wished to exchange salutations or make some inquiries, and tripped to his side. "General McClellan wants those newspapers that you obtained at Hanover yesterday!" A thunderbolt would not have more transfixed me. I could not speak for a moment. Finally, I stammered that they were out of my possession. "Then, sir, I arrest you, by order of General McClellan. Get your horse!" "Stop!" said I, agitatedly, "--it may not be too late. I can recover them yet. Here is our agent,--I gave them to him." I turned, at the word, to the landing where he stood a moment before. To my dismay, he had disappeared. "This is some frivolous pretext to escape," said the Lieutenant; "you correspondents are slippery fellows, but I shall take care that you do not play any pranks with me. The General is irritated already, and if you prevaricate relative to those papers he may make a signal example of you." I begged to be allowed to look for----; but he answered cunningly, that I had better mount and ride on. An acquaintance of mine here interfered, and testified to the existency of the agent and his probable connection with the journals. Pale, flurried, excited, I started to discover him, the Lieutenant following me closely meantime. We entered every booth and tent, went from craft to craft, sought among the thick clusters of people, and even at the Commissary's and Quartermaster's pounds, that lay some distance up the railroad. "I am sorry for you, old fellow," said the Lieutenant, "but your accomplice has probably escaped. It's very sneaking of him, as it makes it harder for you; but I have no authority to deal with him, though I shall take care to report his conduct at head-quarters." I found that the Lieutenant was greatly gratified with the duty entrusted to him. He had been at the cavalry quarters on the return of the scouting party, and had overheard the Major muttering something as to McClellan's displeasure at receiving no Richmond journals. The Major had added that one of the correspondents took them to White House, and, mentioning me by name, this young and aspiring satellite had blurted out that he knew me, and could doubtless overtake me at the mail-boat in the morning. The Commanding General authorised him to arrest me _with the papers_, and report at head-quarters. This was then a journey to recommend him to authority, and it involved no personal danger. I was not so intimidated that I failed to see how the Lieutenant would lose his gayest feather by failing to recover the journals, and I dexterously insinuated that it would be well to recommence the search. This time we were successful. The shrewd, sanguine, middle-aged man was coolly contemplating the river from an outside barge, concealed from the shore by piled boxes of ammunition. He was reading a phonetic pamphlet, and appeared to take his apprehension as a pleasant morning call. I caught one meaning glance, however, that satisfied me how clearly he understood the case. "Ha! Townsend," said he, smilingly, "back already? I thought we had lost you. One of your military friends? Good-day, Lieutenant." "I am under arrest, my boy," said I, "and you will much aggravate General McClellan, if you do not consign those Richmond journals to his deputy here." "Under arrest? You surprise me! I am sorry, Lieutenant that you have had so fatiguing a ride, but the fact is, those papers have gone down the river. If the General is not in a great hurry, he will see their columns reproduced by us in a few days." "How did they go?" said the Lieutenant, with an oath, "if by the mail-boat I will have General Van Vliet despatch a tug to overhaul her." "I am very sorry again," said the bland civilian, smoothing his hands: "but they went by the _South America_ at a much earlier hour." I looked appealingly to him; the satellite stared down the river perplexedly, but suddenly his eye fell upon something that absorbed it; and he turned like a madman to---- "By! ---- sir, you are lying to me. There is the _South America_ moored to a barge, and her steam is not up!" "Those words are utterly uncalled for," said the agent,--"but you cannot irritate me, my dear sir! I know that youth is hot,--particularly military youth yet inexperienced; and therefore I pardon you. I made a mistake. It was not the _South America_, it was--it was--upon my word I cannot recall the name!" "You do not mean to!" thundered the young Ajax, to whose vanity, ----'s speech had been gall; "my powers are discretionary: I arrest you in the name of General McClellan." "Indeed! Be sure you understand your orders! It isn't probable that such a fiery blade is allowed much discretionary margin. The General himself would not assume such airs. Why don't you shoot me? It might contribute to your promotion, and that is, no doubt, your object. I know General McClellan very well. He is a personal friend of mine." His manner was so self-possessed, his tone so cutting, that the young man of fustian--whose name was Kenty--fingered his sword hilt, and foamed at the lips. "March on," said he,--"I will report this insolence word for word." He motioned us to the quay; we preceded him. The sanguine gentleman keeping up a running fire of malevolent sarcasm. "Stop!" said he quietly, as we reached his tent,--"I have not sent them at all. They are here. And you have made all this exhibition of yourself for nothing. I am the better soldier, you see. You are a drummer-boy, not an officer. Take off your shoulder-bars, and go to school again." He disappeared a minute, returned with two journals, and looking at me, meaningly, turned to their titles. "Let me see!" he said, smoothly,--"_Richmond Examiner_, May 28, _Richmond Enquirer_, May 22. There! You have them! Go in peace! Give my respects to General McClellan! Townsend, old fellow, you have done your full duty. Don't let this young person frighten you. Good by." He gave me his hand, with a sinister glance, and left something in my palm when his own was withdrawn. I examined it hastily when I girt up my saddle. It said: "_Your budget got off safe, old fellow._" He had given Kenty some old journals that were of no value to anybody. When we were mounted and about to start, the Lieutenant looked witheringly upon his persecutor-- "Allow me to say, sir," he exclaimed, "that you are the most unblushing liar I ever knew." "Thank you, kindly," said----, taking off his hat, "you do me honor!" Our route was silent and weary enough. The young man at my side, unconscious of his wily antagonist's deception, boasted for some time that he had attained his purposes. As I could not undeceive him, I held my tongue; but feared that when this trick should be made manifest, the vengeance would fall on me alone. I heartily wished the unlucky papers at the bottom of the sea. To gratify an adventurous whim, and obtain a day's popularity at New York, I had exposed my life, crippled my nag, and was now to be disgraced and punished. What might or might not befall me, I gloomily debated. The least penalty would be expulsion from the army; but imprisonment till the close of the war, was a favorite amusement with the War Office. How my newspaper connection would be embarrassed was a more grievous inquiry. It stung me to think that I had blundered twice on the very threshold of my career. Was I not acquiring a reputation for rashness that would hinder all future promotion and cast me from the courts of the press. Here the iron entered into my soul; for be it known, I loved Bohemia! This roving commission, these vagabond habits, this life in the open air among the armies, the white tents, the cannon, and the drums, they were my elysium, my heart! But to be driven away, as one who had broken his trust, forfeited favor and confidence, and that too on the eve of grand events, was something that would embitter my existence. We passed the familiar objects that I had so often buoyantly beheld,--deserted encampments, cross-roads, rills, farm-houses, fields, and at last came to Daker's. I called out to them, and explained my woful circumstances with rueful conciseness. It was growing dark when we came to general headquarters, two miles beyond Gaines's Mill. The tents were scattered over the surface of a hill, and most of them were illumined by candles. The Lieutenant gave our horses to an orderly, and led the way through two outer circles of wall-tents, between which and the inner circle, guards were pacing, to deny all vulgar ingress. A staff officer took in our names, and directly returned with the reply of "Pass in!" We were now in the sacred enclosure, secured by flaming swords. Four tents stood in a row, allotted respectively to the Chief of Staff, the Adjutant-General, the telegraph operators, and the select staff officers. Just behind them, embowered by a covering of cedar boughs, stood the tent of General McClellan. Close by, from an open plot or area of ground, towered a pine trunk, floating the national flag. Lights burned in three of the tents: low voices, as of subdued conversation, were heard from the first. A little flutter of my heart, a drawing aside of canvas, two steps, an uncovering, and a bow,--I stood at my tribunal! A couple of candles were placed upon a table, whereat sat a fine specimen of man, with kindly features, dark, grayish, flowing hair, and slight marks of years upon his full, purplish face. He looked to be a well-to-do citizen, whose success had taught him sedentary convivialities. A fuming cigar lay before him; some empty champagne bottles sat upon a pine desk; tumblers and a decanter rested upon a camp-stool; a bucket, filled with water and a great block of ice, was visible under the table. Five other gentlemen, each with a star in his shoulder-bar, were dispersed upon chairs and along a camp bedside. The tall, angular, dignified gentleman with compressed lips and a "character" nose, was General Barry, Chief of Artillery. The lithe, severe, gristly, sanguine person, whose eyes flashed even in repose, was General Stoneman, Chief of Cavalry. The large, sleepy-eyed, lymphatic, elderly man, clad in dark, civil gray, whose ears turned up habitually as from deafness, was Prince de Joinville, brother to Louis Philippe, King of France. The little man with red hair and beard, who moved quickly and who spoke sharply, was Seth Williams, Adjutant-General. The stout person with florid face, large, blue eyes, and white, straight hair, was General Van Vliet, Quartermaster-General. And the man at the table, was General Marcy, father-in-law to McClellan, and Executive officer of the army. Maps, papers, books, and luggage lay around the room; all the gentlemen were smoking and wine sparkled in most of the glasses. Some swords were lying upon the floor, a pair of spurs glistened by the bed, and three of the officers had their feet in the air. "What is it you wish, Lieutenant?" said General Marcy, gravely. The boor in uniform at my side, related his errand and order, gave the particulars of my arrest, declaimed against our agent, and submitted the journals. He told his story stammeringly, and I heard one of the officers in the background mutter contemptuously when he had finished. "Were you aware of the order prohibiting correspondents from keeping with the advance?" said the General, looking up. "I had not been notified from head-quarters. I have been with the army only a week." "You knew that you had no business upon scouts, forages, or reconnoissances; why did you go?" "I went by invitation." "Who invited you?" "I would prefer not to state, since it would do him an injury." Here the voices in the background muttered, as I thought, applaudingly. Gaining confidence as I proceeded, I spoke more boldly-- "I am sure I regret that I have disobeyed any order of General McClellan's; but there can nothing occur in the rear of an army. Obedience, in this case, would be indolence and incompetence; for only the reliable would stay behind and the reckless go ahead. If I am accredited here as a correspondent, I must keep up with the events. And the rivalries of our tribe, General, are so many, that the best of us sometimes forget what is right for what is expedient. I hope that General McClellan will pass by this offence." He heard my rambling defence quietly, excused the Lieutenant, and whistled for an orderly. "I don't think that you meant to offend General McClellan," he said, "but he wishes you to be detained. Give me your pass. Orderly, take this gentleman to General Porter, and tell him to treat him kindly. Good night." When we got outside of the tent, I slipped a silver half-dollar into the orderly's hand, and asked him if he understood the General's final remark. He said, in reply, that I was directed to be treated with courtesy, kindness, and care, and asked me, in conclusion, if there were any adjectives that might intensify the recommendation. When we came to General Porter, the Provost-Marshal, however, he pooh-poohed the qualifications, and said that _his_ business was merely to put me under surveillance. This unamiable man ordered me to be taken to Major Willard, the deputy Provost, whose tent we found after a long search. The Major was absent, but some young officers of his mess were taking supper at his table, and with these I at once engaged in conversation. I knew that if I was to be spared an immersion in the common guardhouse, with drunkards, deserters, and prisoners of war, I must win the favor of these men. I gave them the story of my arrest, spoke lightly of the offence and jestingly of the punishment, and, in fact, so improved my cause that, when the Major appeared, and the Sergeant consigned me to his custody, one of the young officers took him aside, and, I am sure, said some good words in my favor. The Major was a bronzed, indurated gentleman, scrupulously attired, and courteously stern. He looked at me twice or thrice, to my confusion; for I was dusty, wan, and running over with perspiration. His first remark had, naturally, reference to the lavatory, and, so far as my face and hair were concerned, I was soon rejuvenated. I found on my return to the tent, a clean plate and a cup of steaming coffee placed for me, and I ate with a full heart though pleading covertly the while. When I had done, and the tent became deserted by all save him and me, he said, simply-- "What am I to do with you, Mr. Townsend?" "Treat me as a gentleman, I hope, Major." "We have but one place of confinement," said he, "the guardhouse; but I am loth to send you there. Light your pipe, and I will think the matter over." He took a turn in front, consulted with some of his associates, and directly returning, said that I was to be quartered in his office-tent, adjoining. A horror being thus lifted from my mind, I heard with sincere interest many revelations of his military career. He had been a common soldier in the Mexican war, and had fought his way, step by step, to repeated commissions. He had garrisoned Fort Yuma, and other posts on the far plains, and at the beginning of the war was tendered a volunteer brigade, which he modestly declined. His tastes were refined, and a warm fancy, approaching poetry, enhanced his personal reminiscences. His face softened, his eyes grew milder, his large, commanding mouth relaxed,--he was young again, living his adventures over. We talked thus till almost midnight, when two regulars appeared in front,--stiff, ramrodish figures, that came to a jerking "present," tapped their caps with two fingers, and said, explosively; "Sergeant of Guard, Number Five!" The Major rose, gave me his hand, and said that I would find a candle in my tent, with waterproof and blankets on the ground. I was to give myself no concern about the nag, and might, if I chose, sit for an hour to write, but must, on no account, attempt to leave the canvas, for the guard would instantly shoot me down. The guard in question had a _doppel-ganger_,--counterpart of himself in inflexibility,--and both were appendages of their muskets. He was not probably a sentient being, certainly not a conversational one. He knew the length of a stride, and the manual of bayonet exercise, but was, during his natural life, a blind idolater of a deity, called "Orders." The said "Orders," for the present evening, were walking, not talking, and he was dumb to all conciliatory words. He took a position at one end of my tent, and his double at the other end. They carried their muskets at "support arms," and paced up and down, measuredly, like two cloaked and solemn ghosts. I wrapped myself in the damp blankets, and slept through the bangs of four or five court-martials and several executions. At three o'clock, they changed ramrods,--the old doppel-gangers going away, and two new ones fulfilling their functions. CHAPTER X. AFTER THE VICTORY. The two ramrods were still pacing to and fro, when I aroused in the gray of the morning; but they looked very misty and moist, as if they were impalpables that were shortly to evaporate. The Major poked his head between the flaps at eight o'clock, and said that breakfast was ready; but the ramrod nearest me kept vigilantly alongside, and I thought he had been invited also. The other ramrod guarded the empty tent, and I think that he believed me a doppel-ganger likewise. I wondered what was to be done with me, as the hours slipped rapidly by. The guards were relieved again at ten o'clock, and Quartermaster's men commenced to take down the tents. Camps were to be moved, and I inquired solicitously if I was to be moved also. The Major replied that prisoners were commonly made to walk along the road, escorted by horsemen, and I imagined, with dread, the companionship of negroes, estrays, ragged Confederates, and such folk, while the whole army should witness my degradation. Finally, all the tents were lifted and packed in wagons, as well as the furniture. I adhered to a stool, at which the teamster looked wistfully, and the implacable sentinels walked to and fro. A rumor became current among the private soldiers, that I was the nephew of the southern General Lee, whose wife had been meantime captured at Hanover Court House. Curious groups sauntered around me, and talked behind their hands. One man was overheard to say that I had fought desperately, and covered myself with glory, and another thought that I favored my uncle somewhat, and might succeed to his military virtues. "I guess I'll take that cheer, if you ain't got no objection," said the teamster, and he slung it into the wagon. What to do now troubled me materially; but one of the soldiers brought a piece of rail, and I "squatted" lugubriously on the turf. "If you ever get to Richmond," said I, "you shall be considerately treated." (Profound sensation.) "Thankee!" replied the man, touching his cap; "but I'm werry well pleased _out_ o' Richmond, Captain." Here the Major was seen approaching, a humorous smile playing about his eyes. "You are discharged," said he; "General Marcy will return your pass, and perhaps your papers." I wrung his hand with indescribable relief, and he sent the "ramrod" on guard, to saddle my horse. In a few minutes, I was mounted again, much to the surprise of the observers of young Lee, and directly I stood before the kindly Chief of Staff. At my request, he wrote a note to the division commander, specifying my good behavior, and restoring to me all privileges and immunities. He said nothing whatever as to the mistake in the papers, and told me that, on special occasions, I might keep with advances, by procuring an extraordinary pass at head-quarters. In short, my arrest conduced greatly to my efficiency. I invariably carried my Richmond despatches to General Marcy, thereafter, and, if there was information of a legitimate description, he gave me the benefit of it. My own brigade lay at Dr. Gaines's house, during this time, and we did not lack for excitement. Just behind the house lay several batteries of rifled guns, and these threw shells at hourly intervals, at certain Confederate batteries across the river. The distance was two miles or less; but the firing was generally wretched. Crowds of soldiers gathered around, to watch the practice, and they threw up their hats applaudingly at successful hits. Occasionally a great round shot would bound up the hill, and a boy, one day, seeing one of these spent balls rolling along the ground, put out his foot to stop it, but shattered his leg so dreadfully that it had to be amputated. Dr. Gaines was a rich, aristocratic, and indolent old Virginian, whose stables, summerhouses, orchards, and negro-quarters were the finest in their district. The shooting so annoyed him that he used to resort to the cellar; several shots passed through his roof, and one of the chimneys was knocked off. His family carriages were five in number, and as his stables were turned into hospitals, these were all hauled into his lawn, where their obsolete trimmings and queer shape constantly amused the soldiers. About this time I became acquainted with some officers of the 5th Maine regiment, and by permission, accompanied them to Mechanicsville. I was here, on the afternoon of Thursday, May 27, when the battle of Hanover Court House was fought. We heard the rapid growl of guns, and continuous volleys of musketry, though the place was fourteen miles distant. At evening, a report was current that the Federals had gained a great victory, and captured seven hundred prisoners. The truth of this was established next morning; for detachments of prisoners were from time to time brought in, and the ambulances came to camp, laden with the wounded. I took this opportunity of observing the Confederate soldiers, as they lay at the Provost quarters, in a roped pen, perhaps one hundred rods square. It was evening, as I hitched my horse to a stake near-by, and pressed up to the receptacle for the unfortunates. Sentries enclosed the pen, walking to-and-fro with loaded muskets; a throng of officers and soldiers had assembled to gratify their curiosity; and new detachments of captives came in hourly, encircled by sabremen, the Southerners being disarmed and on foot. The scene within the area was ludicrously moving. It reminded me of the witch-scene in Macbeth, or pictures of brigands or Bohemian gypsies at rendezvous, not less than five hundred men, in motley, ragged costumes, with long hair, and lean, wild, haggard faces, were gathered in groups or in pairs, around some fagot fires. In the growing darkness their expressions were imperfectly visible; but I could see that most of them were weary, and hungry, and all were depressed and ashamed. Some were wrapped in blankets of rag-carpet, and others wore shoes of rough, untanned hide. Others were without either shoes or jackets, and their heads were bound with red handkerchiefs. Some appeared in red shirts; some in stiff beaver hats; some were attired in shreds and patches of cloth; and a few wore the soiled garments of citizen gentlemen; but the mass adhered to homespun suits of gray, or "butternut," and the coarse blue kersey common to slaves. In places I caught glimpses of red Zouave breeches and leggings; blue Federal caps, Federal buttons, or Federal blouses; these were the spoils of anterior battles, and had been stripped from the slain. Most of the captives were of the appearances denominated "scraggy" or "knotty." They were brown, brawny, and wiry, and their countenances were intense, fierce, and animal. They came from North Carolina, the poorest and least enterprising Southern State, and ignorance, with its attendant virtues, were the common facial manifestations. Some lay on the bare ground, fast asleep; others chatted nervously as if doubtful of their future treatment; a few were boisterous, and anxious to beg tobacco or coffee from idle Federals; the rest--and they comprehended the greater number--were silent, sullen, and vindictive. They met curiosity with scorn, and spite with imprecations. A child--not more than four years of age, I think--sat sleeping in a corner upon an older comrade's lap. A gray-bearded pard was staunching a gash in his cheek with the tail of his coat. A fine-looking young fellow sat with his face in his hands, as if his heart were far off, and he wished to shut out this bitter scene. In a corner, lying morosely apart, were a Major, three Captains, and three Lieutenants,--young athletic fellows, dressed in rich gray cassimere, trimmed with black, and wearing soft black hats adorned with black ostrich-feathers. Their spurs were strapped upon elegantly fitting boots, and they looked as far above the needy, seedy privates, as lords above their vassals. After a time, couples and squads of the prisoners were marched off to cut and carry some firewood, and water, for the use of their pen, and then each Confederate received coffee, pork, and crackers; they were obliged to prepare their own meals, but some were so hungry that they gnawed the raw pork, like beasts of prey. Those who were not provided with blankets, shivered through the night, though the rain was falling, and the succession of choking coughs that ran through the ranks, told how ill they could afford the exposure. Major Willard had charge of these men, and he sent a young officer to get me admittance to the pen, that I might speak with them. "Good evening, Major," I said, to the ranking Confederate officer, and extended my hand. He shook it, embarrassedly, and ran me over with his eye, as if to learn my avocation. "Can I obtain any facts from you," I continued, "as to the battle of Hanover?" "Fuh what puhpose?" he said, in his strong southern dialect. "For publication, sir." He sat up at once, and said that he should be happy to tell me anything that would not be a violation of military honor. I asked him, therefore, the Confederate Commandant at Hanover, the number of brigades, regiments, and batteries engaged, the disposition of forces, the character of the battle, and the losses, so far as he knew, upon his own side. Much of this he revealed, but unguardedly let out other matters, that direct inquiry could not have discovered. I took notes of the legitimate passages, trusting to memory for the rest; and think that I possessed his whole stock of information, in the course of an hour's manoeuvring. It seemed that General Branch, formerly a member of the Federal congress, had been sent with some thousands of Carolina troops across the upper Chickahominy, to see if it would not be possible to turn the Federal right, and cut off one of its brigades; but a stronger Federal reconnoissance had gone northward the day before, and discovering Branch's camp-fires, sent, during the night, for reinforcements. In the end, the "North State" volunteers were routed, their cannon silenced or broken, and seven hundred of their number captured. The Federals lost a large number of men killed, and the wounded upon both sides, were numerous. The Confederate Major was of the class referred to in polite American parlance, as a "blatherskite." He boasted after the manner of his fellow-citizens from the county of "Bunkum," but nevertheless feared and trembled, to the manifest disgust of one of the young Captains. "Majuh!" said this young man, "what you doin' thah! That fellow's makin' notes of all your slack; keep your tongue! aftah awhile you'll tell the nombah of the foces! Don't you s'pose he'll prent it all?" The Major had, in fact, been telling me how many regiments the "old Nawth State, suh," had furnished to the "suhvice," and I had the names of some thirty colonels, in order. The young Captain gave me a sketch of General Branch, and was anxious that I should publish something in extenuation of North Carolina valor. "We have lost mo' men," said he, "than any otha' Commonwealth; but these Vuhginians, whose soil, by----! suh, we defend suh! Yes, suh! whose soil we defend; these Vuhginians, stigmatize us as cowads! _We_, suh! yes suh, _we_, that nevah wanted to leave the Union,--_we cowads_! Look at ou' blood, suh, ou' blood! That's it, by----! look at that! shed on every field of the ole Dominion,--killed, muhdud, captued, crippled! We _cowads_! I want you prent that!" I was able to give each of the officers a drop of whiskey from my flask, and I never saw men drink so thirstily. Their hands and lips trembled as they took it, and their eyes shone like lunacy, as the hot drops sank to the cold vitals, and pricked the frozen blood. Mingling with the privates, I stirred up some native specimens of patriotism, that appeared to be in great doubt as to the causes and ends of the war. They were very much in the political condition of a short, thick, sententious man, in blue drilling breeches, who said-- "Damn the country! What's to be done with _us_?" One person said that he enlisted for the honor of his family, that "fit in the American Revolution;" and another came out to "hev a squint et the fightin'." Several were northern and foreign lads, that were working on Carolina railroads, and could not leave the section, and some labored under the impression that they were to have a "slice" of land and a "nigger," in the event of Southern independence. A few comprehended the spirit of the contest, and took up arms from principle; a few, also, declared their enmity to "Yankee institutions," and had seized the occasion to "polish them off," and "give them a ropein' in;" but many said it was "dull in our deestreeks, an' the niggers was runnin' away, so I thought I'ud jine the foces." The great mass said, that they never contemplated "this box," or "this fix," or "these suckemstances," and all wanted the war to close, that they might return to their families. Indeed, my romantic ideas of rebellion were ruthlessly profaned and dissipated. I knew that there was much selfishness, peculation, and "Hessianism" in the Federal lines, but I had imagined a lofty patriotism, a dignified purpose, and an inflexible love of personal liberty among the Confederates. Yet here were men who knew little of the principles for which they staked their lives;--who enlisted from the commonest motives of convenience, whim, pelf, adventure, and foray; and who repented, after their first misfortune, with the salt rheum in their eyes. I think that all "great uprisings" resolve to this complexion. With due reverence for my own ancestry, I think that they sometimes stooped from greatness to littleness. I must confess that certain admissions in my revolutionary textbook are much clearer, now that I have followed a campaign. And if, as I had proposed, I could have witnessed the further fortunes of the illustrious Garibaldi, I think that some of his compatriots would have been found equally inconsistent. Let no man believe that the noblest cause is fought out alone by the unerring motives of duty and devotion. The masses are never so constant. They cannot appreciate an abstraction, however divine. Any of the gentlemen in question would have preferred their biscuit and fat pork before the political enfranchisement of the whole world! I rode across the fields to the Hogan, Curtis, and Gaines mansions; for some of the wounded had meantime been deposited in each of them. All the cow-houses, wagon-sheds, hay-barracks, hen-coops, negro cabins, and barns were turned into hospitals. The floors were littered with "corn-shucks" and fodder; and the maimed, gashed, and dying lay confusedly together. A few, slightly wounded, stood at windows, relating incidents of the battle; but at the doors sentries stood with crossed muskets, to keep out idlers and gossips. The mention of my vocation was an "open sesame," and I went unrestrained, into all the largest hospitals. In the first of these an amputation was being performed, and at the door lay a little heap of human fingers, feet, legs, and arms. I shall not soon forget the bare-armed surgeons, with bloody instruments, that leaned over the rigid and insensible figure, while the comrades of the subject looked horrifiedly at the scene. The grating of the murderous saw drove me into the open air, but in the second hospital which I visited, a wounded man had just expired, and I encountered his body at the threshold. Within, the sickening smell of mortality was almost insupportable, but by degrees I became accustomed to it. The lanterns hanging around the room streamed fitfully upon the red eyes, and half-naked figures. All were looking up, and saying, in pleading monotone: "Is that you, doctor?" Men with their arms in slings went restlessly up and down, smarting with fever. Those who were wounded in the lower extremities, body, or head, lay upon their backs, tossing even in sleep. They listened peevishly to the wind whistling through the chinks of the barn. They followed one with their rolling eyes. They turned away from the lantern, for it seemed to sear them. Soldiers sat by the severely wounded, laving their sores with water. In many wounds the balls still remained, and the discolored flesh was swollen unnaturally. There were some who had been shot in the bowels, and now and then they were frightfully convulsed, breaking into shrieks and shouts. Some of them iterated a single word, as, "doctor," or "help," or "God," or "oh!" commencing with a loud spasmodic cry, and continuing the same word till it died away in cadence. The act of calling seemed to lull the pain. Many were unconscious and lethargic, moving their fingers and lips mechanically, but never more to open their eyes upon the light; they were already going through the valley and the shadow. I think, still, with a shudder, of the faces of those who were told mercifully that they could not live. The unutterable agony; the plea for somebody on whom to call; the longing eyes that poured out prayers; the looking on mortal as if its resources were infinite; the fearful looking to the immortal as if it were so far off, so implacable, that the dying appeal would be in vain; the open lips, through which one could almost look at the quaking heart below; the ghastliness of brow and tangled hair; the closing pangs; the awful _quietus_. I thought of Parrhasius, in the poem, as I looked at these things:-- "Gods! Could I but paint a dying groan----." And how the keen eye of West would have turned from the reeking cockpit of the _Victory_, or the tomb of the Dead Man Restored, to this old barn, peopled with horrors. I rambled in and out, learning to look at death, studying the manifestations of pain,--quivering and sickening at times, but plying my avocation, and jotting the names for my column of mortalities. At eleven o'clock there was music along the high-road, and a general rushing from camps. The victorious regiments were returning from Hanover, under escort, and all the bands were pealing national airs. As they turned down the fields towards their old encampments, the several brigades stood under arms to welcome them, and the cheers were many and vigorous. But the solemn ambulances still followed after, and the red flag of the hospitals flaunted bloodily in the blue midnight. Both the prisoners and the wounded were removed between midnight and morning to White House, and as I had despatches to forward by the mail-boat, I rode down in an ambulance, that contained six wounded men besides. The wounded were to be consigned to hospital boats, and forwarded to hospitals in northern cities, and the prisoners were to be placed in a transport, under guard, and conveyed to Fort Delaware, near Philadelphia. Ambulances, it may be said, incidentally, are either two-wheeled or four-wheeled. Two-wheeled ambulances are commonly called "hop, step, and jumps." They are so constructed that the forepart is either very high or very low, and may be both at intervals. The wounded occupants may be compelled to ride for hours in these carriages, with their heels elevated above their heads, and may finally be shaken out, or have their bones broken by the terrible jolting. The four-wheeled ambulances are built in shelves, or compartments, but the wounded are in danger of being smothered in them. It was in one of these latter that I rode, sitting with the driver. We had four horses, but were thrice "swamped" on the road, and had to take out the wounded men once, till we could start the wheels. Two of these men were wounded in the face, one of them having his nose completely severed, and the other having a fragment of his jaw knocked out. A third had received a ball among the thews and muscles behind his knee, and his whole body appeared to be paralyzed. Two were wounded in the shoulders, and the sixth was shot in the breast, and was believed to be injured inwardly, as he spat blood, and suffered almost the pain of death. The ride with these men, over twenty miles of hilly, woody country, was like one of Dante's excursions into the Shades. In the awful stillness of the dark pines, their screams frightened the hooting owls, and the whirring insects in the leaves and tree-tops quieted their songs. They heard the gurgle of the rills, and called aloud for water to quench their insatiate thirst. One of them sang a shrill, fierce, fiendish ballad, in an interval of relief, but plunged, at a sudden relapse, in prayers and curses. We heard them groaning to themselves, as we sat in front, and one man, it seemed, was quite out of his mind. These were the outward manifestations; but what chords trembled and smarted within, we could only guess. What regrets for good resolves unfulfilled, and remorse for years misspent, made hideous these sore and panting hearts? The moonlight pierced through the thick foliage of the wood, and streamed into our faces, like invitations to a better life. But the crippled and bleeding could not see or feel it,--buried in the shelves of the ambulance. CHAPTER XI. BALLOON BATTLES. Some days ago, as I was sitting in Central Park, under a tree no bigger than Jonah's gourd, broiling nicely brown, and seasoning the process by reading what the lesser weeklies said about me, I saw at the Park gate a great phantasm, like a distended sausage, swaying to and fro as if striving to burst, and directly the horrible thing blew upwards, spilling all the stuffing from the case. I saw in a moment that the apparition was a balloon, and that the aeronaut was only emptying ballast. Straight toward me the floating vessel came, so close to the ground that I could hear the silk crackle and the ropes creak, till, directly, a man leaned over the side and shouted-- "Is that you, Townsend?" "Hallo, Lowe!" "I want you to get on your feet and be spry about it: we have a literary party here, and wish you to write it up. I'll let one bag of ballast go, as we touch the grass, and you must leap in simultaneously. Thump!" Here the car collided with the ground, and in another instant, I found quantities of dirt spilled down my back, and two or three people lying beneath me. The world slid away, and the clouds opened to receive me. Lowe was opening a bottle of Heidsick, and three or four gentlemen with _heads sick_ were unclosing the petals of their lips to get the afternoon dew. These were the various critics and fugitive writers of the weekly and daily press. They looked as if they wanted to put each other over the side of the car, but smothered their invective at my advent, as if I were so much pearl-ash. It was just seven o'clock, and the Park lay like a veined and mottled blood-stone in the red sunset. The city wilted to the littleness of a rare mosaic pin, its glittering point parting the blue scarf of the bay, and the white bosom of the ocean swelling afar, all draped with purple clouds like golden hair, in which the entangled gems were the sails of the white ships. I said this aloud, and all the party drew their lead pencils. They forgot the occasion in my eloquence, and wanted to report me. Just here, I drew a field-glass from the aeronaut, and reconnoitred the streets of the city. To my dismay there was nobody visible on Broadway but gentlemen. I called everybody's attention to the fact, and it was accounted for on the supposition that the late bank forgeries and defalcations, growing out of the extravagance of womankind, had prompted all the husbands to make of their homes nunneries. We observed, however, close by every gentleman, something that resembled a black dog with his tail curled over his back. "Stuff!" said one, "they're hay wagons." "No!" cried Lowe, "they're nothing of the sort; they are waterfalls, and the ladies are, of course, invisible under them." We accepted the explanation, and thought the trip very melancholy. No landscape is complete without a woman. Very soon we struck the great polar current, and passed Harlem river; the foliage of the trees, by some strange anomaly, began to ascend towards us, but Lowe caught two or three of the supposed leaves, and they proved to be greenbacks. There was at once a tremendous sensation in the car; we knew that we were on the track of Ketchum and his carpet-bag of bank-notes. "Is there any reward out?" cried Lowe. "Not yet!" "Then we won't pursue him." As we slowly drifted to the left, the Hudson shone through the trees, and before dusk we swept across Lake Mahopec. I heard a voice singing to the dip of oars, and had to be held down by five men to restrain an involuntary impulse to quit my company. "Townsend," said Lowe, "have you the copy of that matter you printed about me in England? This is the time to call you to account for it. We are two or three miles above _terra firma_, and I might like to drop you for a parachute." I felt Lowe's muscle, and knew myself secure. Then I unrolled the pages, which I fortunately carried with me, and told him the following news about himself:-- The aeronaut of the Army of the Potomac was Mr. S. T. C. Lowe; he had made seven thousand ascensions, and his army companion was invariably either an artist, a correspondent, or a telegrapher. A minute insulated wire reached from the car to headquarters, and McClellan was thus informed of all that could be seen within the Confederate works. Sometimes they remained aloft for hours, making observations with powerful glasses, and once or twice the enemy tested their distance with shell. On the 13th of April, the Confederates sent up a balloon, the first they had employed, at which Lowe was infinitely amused. He said that it had neither shape nor buoyancy, and predicted that it would burst or fall apart after a week. It certainly occurred that, after a few fitful appearances, the stranger was seen no more, till, on the 28th of June, it floated, like a thing of omen, over the spires of Richmond. At that time the Federals were in full retreat, and all the acres were covered with their dead. On the 11th of April, at five o'clock, an event at once amusing and thrilling occurred at our quarters. The commander-in-chief had appointed his personal and confidential friend, General Fitz John Porter, to conduct the siege of Yorktown. Porter was a polite, soldierly gentleman, and a native of New Hampshire, who had been in the regular army since early manhood. He fought gallantly in the Mexican war, being thrice promoted and once seriously wounded, and he was now forty years of age,--handsome, enthusiastic, ambitious, and popular. He made frequent ascensions with Lowe, and learned to go aloft alone. One day he ascended thrice, and finally seemed as cosily at home in the firmament as upon the solid earth. It is needless to say that he grew careless, and on this particular morning leaped into the car and demanded the cables to be let out with all speed. I saw with some surprise that the flurried assistants were sending up the great straining canvas with a single rope attached. The enormous bag was only partially inflated, and the loose folds opened and shut with a crack like that of a musket. Noisily, fitfully, the yellow mass rose into the sky, the basket rocking like a leather in the zephyr; and just as I turned aside to speak to a comrade, a sound came from overhead, like the explosion of a shell, and something striking me across the face laid me flat upon the ground. Half blind and stunned, I staggered to my feet, but the air seemed full of cries and curses. Opening my eyes ruefully, I saw all faces turned upwards, and when I looked above,--the balloon was adrift. The treacherous cable, rotted with vitriol, had snapped in twain; one fragment had been the cause of my downfall, and the other trailed, like a great entrail, from the receding car, where Fitz John Porter was bounding upward upon a Pegasus that he could neither check nor direct. The whole army was agitated by the unwonted occurrence. From battery No. 1, on the brink of the York, to the mouth of Warwick river, every soldier and officer was absorbed. Far within the Confederate lines the confusion extended. We heard the enemy's alarm-guns, and directly the signal flags were waving up and down our front. The General appeared directly over the edge of the car. He was tossing his hands frightenedly, and shouting something that we could not comprehend. "O--pen--the--valve!" called Lowe, in his shrill tones; "climb--to--the--netting--and--reach--the--valve--rope." "The valve!--the valve!" repeated a multitude of tongues, and all gazed with thrilling interest at the retreating hulk that still kept straight upward, swerving neither to the east nor the west. It was a weird spectacle,--that frail, fading oval, gliding against the sky, floating in the serene azure, the little vessel swinging silently beneath, and a hundred thousand martial men watching the loss of their brother in arms, but powerless to relieve or recover him. Had Fitz John Porter been drifting down the rapids of Niagara, he could not have been so far from human assistance. But we saw him directly, no bigger than a child's toy, clambering up the netting and reaching for the cord. "He can't do it," muttered a man beside me; "the wind blows the valve-rope to and fro, and only a spry, cool-headed fellow can catch it." We saw the General descend, and appearing again over the edge of the basket, he seemed to be motioning to the breathless hordes below, the story of his failure. Then he dropped out of sight, and when we next saw him, he was reconnoitring the Confederate works through a long black spy-glass. A great laugh went up and down the lines as this cool procedure was observed, and then a cheer of applause ran from group to group. For a moment it was doubtful that the balloon would float in either direction; it seemed to falter, like an irresolute being, and moved reluctantly southeastward, towards Fortress Monroe. A huzza, half uttered, quivered on every lip. All eyes glistened, and some were dim with tears of joy. But the wayward canvas now turned due westward, and was blown rapidly toward the Confederate works. Its course was fitfully direct, and the wind seemed to veer often, as if contrary currents, conscious of the opportunity, were struggling for the possession of the daring navigator. The south wind held mastery for awhile, and the balloon passed the Federal front amid a howl of despair from the soldiery. It kept right on, over sharpshooters, rifle-pits, and outworks, and finally passed, as if to deliver up its freight, directly over the heights of Yorktown. The cool courage, either of heroism or despair, had seized upon Fitz John Porter. He turned his black glass upon the ramparts and masked cannon below, upon the remote camps, upon the beleaguered town, upon the guns of Gloucester Point, and upon distant Norfolk. Had he been reconnoitring from a secure perch at the tip of the moon, he could not have been more vigilant, and the Confederates probably thought this some Yankee device to peer into their sanctuary in despite of ball or shell. None of their great guns could be brought to bear upon the balloon; but there were some discharges of musketry that appeared to have no effect, and finally even these demonstrations ceased. Both armies in solemn silence were gazing aloft, while the imperturbable mariner continued to spy out the land. The sun was now rising behind us, and roseate rays struggled up to the zenith, like the arcs made by showery bombs. They threw a hazy atmosphere upon the balloon, and the light shone through the network like the sun through the ribs of the skeleton ship in the _Ancient Mariner_. Then, as all looked agape, the air-craft "plunged, and tacked, and veered," and drifted rapidly toward the Federal lines again. The allelujah that now went up shook the spheres, and when he had regained our camp limits, the General was seen clambering up again to clutch the valve-rope. This time he was successful, and the balloon fell like a stone, so that all hearts once more leaped up, and the cheers were hushed. Cavalry rode pell-mell from several directions, to reach the place of descent, and the General's personal staff galloped past me like the wind, to be the first at his debarkation. I followed the throng of soldiery with due haste, and came up to the horsemen in a few minutes. The balloon had struck a canvas tent with great violence, felling it as by a bolt, and the General, unharmed, had disentangled himself from innumerable folds of oiled canvas, and was now the cynosure of an immense group of people. While the officers shook his hands, the rabble bawled their satisfaction in hurrahs, and a band of music marching up directly, the throng on foot and horse gave him a vociferous escort to his quarters. Five miles east of Richmond, in the middle of May, we found the balloon already partially inflated, resting behind a ploughed hill that formed one of a ridge or chain of hills, bordering the Chickahominy. The stream was only a half-mile distant, but the balloon was sheltered from observation by reason of its position in the hollow. Heretofore the ascensions had been made from remote places, for there was good reason to believe that batteries lined the opposite hills; but now, for the first time, Lowe intended to make an ascent whereby he could look into Richmond, count the forts encircling it, and note the number and position of the camps that intervened. The balloon was named the "Constitution," and looked like a semi-distended boa-constrictor, as it flapped with a jerking sound, and shook its oiled and painted folds. It was anchored to the ground by stout ropes affixed to stakes, and also by sand-bags which hooked to its netting. The basket lay alongside; the generators were contained in blue wooden wagons, marked "U. S.;" and the gas was fed to the balloon through rubber and metallic pipes. A tent or two, a quantity of vitriol in green and wicker carboys, some horses and transportation teams, and several men that assisted the inflation, were the only objects to be remarked. As some time was to transpire before the arrangements were completed, I resorted to one of the tents and took a comfortable nap. The "Professor" aroused me at three o'clock, when I found the canvas straining its bonds, and emitting a hollow sound, as of escaping gas. The basket was made fast directly, the telescopes tossed into place; the Professor climbed to the side, holding by the network; and I coiled up in a rope at the bottom. "Stand by your cables," he said, and the bags of ballast were at once cut away. Twelve men took each a rope in hand, and played out slowly, letting us glide gently upward. The earth seemed to be falling away, and we poised motionless in the blue ether. The tree-tops sank downward, the hills dropped noiselessly through space, and directly the Chickahominy was visible beyond us, winding like a ribbon of silver through the ridgy landscape. Far and wide stretched the Federal camps. We saw faces turned upwards gazing at our ascent, and heard clearly, as in a vacuum, the voices of soldiers. At every second the prospect widened, the belt of horizon enlarged, remote farmhouses came in view; the earth was like a perfectly flat surface, painted with blue woods, and streaked with pictures of roads, fields, fences, and streams. As we climbed higher, the river seemed directly beneath us, the farms on the opposite bank were plainly discernible, and Richmond lay only a little way off, enthroned on its many hills, with the James stretching white and sinuous from its feet to the horizon. We could see the streets, the suburbs, the bridges, the outlaying roads, nay, the moving masses of people. The Capitol sat white and colossal on Shockoe Hill, the dingy buildings of the Tredegar works blackened the river-side above, the hovels of rockets clustered at the hither limits, and one by one we made out familiar hotels, public edifices, and vicinities. The fortifications were revealed in part only, for they took the hue of the soil, and blended with it; but many camps were plainly discernible, and by means of the glasses we separated tent from tent, and hut from hut. The Confederates were seen running to the cover of the woods, that we might not discover their numbers, but we knew the location of their camp-fires by the smoke that curled toward us. A panorama so beautiful would have been rare at any time, but this was thrice interesting from its past and coming associations. Across those plains the hordes at our feet were either to advance victoriously, or be driven eastward with dusty banners and dripping hands. Those white farm-houses were to be receptacles for the groaning and the mangled; thousands were to be received beneath the turf of those pasture fields; and no rod of ground on any side, should not, sooner or later, smoke with the blood of the slain. "Guess I got 'em now, jest where I want 'em," said Lowe, with a gratified laugh; "jest keep still as you mind to, and squint your eye through my glass, while I make a sketch of the roads and the country. Hold hard there, and anchor fast!" he screamed to the people below. Then he fell imperturbably to work, sweeping the country with his hawk-eye, and escaping nothing that could contribute to the completeness of his jotting. We had been but a few minutes thus poised, when close below, from the edge of a timber stretch, puffed a volume of white smoke. A second afterward, the air quivered with the peal of a cannon. A third, and we heard the splitting shriek of a shell, that passed a little to our left, but in exact range, and burst beyond us in the ploughed field, heaving up the clay as it exploded. "Ha!" said Lowe, "they have got us foul! Haul in the cables--quick!" he shouted, in a fierce tone. At the same instant, the puff, the report, and the shriek were repeated; but this time the shell burst to our right in mid-air, and scattered fragments around and below us. "Another shot will do our business," said Lowe, between his teeth; "it isn't a mile, and they have got the range." Again the puff and the whizzing shock. I closed my eyes, and held my breath hard. The explosion was so close, that the pieces of shell seemed driven across my face, and my ears quivered with the sound. I looked at Lowe, to see if he was struck. He had sprung to his feet, and clutched the cordage frantically. "Are you pulling in there, you men?" he bellowed, with a loud imprecation. "Puff! bang! whiz-z-z-z! splutter!" broke a third shell, and my heart was wedged in my throat. I saw at a glimpse the whole bright landscape again. I hoard the voices of soldiers below, and saw them running across fields, fences, and ditches, to reach our anchorage. I saw some drummer-boys digging in the field beneath for one of the buried shells. I saw the waving of signal flags, the commotion through the camps,--officers galloping their horses, teamsters whipping their mules, regiments turning out, drums beaten, and batteries limbered up. I remarked, last of all, the site of the battery that alarmed us, and, by a strange sharpness of sight and sense, believed that I saw the gunners swabbing, ramming, and aiming the pieces. "Puff! bang! whiz-z-z-z! splutter! crash!" "Puff! bang! whiz-z-z-z! splutter! crash!" "My God!" said Lowe, hissing the words slowly and terribly, "_they have opened upon us from another battery_!" The scene seemed to dissolve. A cold dew broke from my forehead. I grew blind and deaf. I had fainted. "Pitch some water in his face," said somebody. "He ain't used to it. Hallo! there he comes to." I staggered to my feet. There must have been a thousand men about us. They were looking curiously at the aeronaut and me. The balloon lay fuming and struggling on the clods. "Three cheers for the Union bal-loon!" called a little fellow at my side. "Hip, hip--hoorooar! hoorooar! hoorooar!" "Tiger-r-r--yah! whoop!" CHAPTER XII. SEVEN PINES AND FAIROAKS. Returning from White House on Saturday, May 29, I heard the cannon of "Seven Pines." The roar of artillery came faintly upon the ear in the dells and woods, but in the open stretches of country, or from cleared hill-tops, I could hear also the volleys of musketry. It was the battle sound that assured me of bloody work; for the musket, as I had learned by experience, was the only certain signification of battle. It is seldom brought into requisition but at close quarters, when results are intended; whereas, cannon may peal for a fortnight, and involve no other destruction than that of shell and powder. I do not think that any throb of my heart was unattended by some volley or discharge. Dull, hoarse, uninterrupted, the whole afternoon was shaken by the sound. It was with a shudder that I thought how every peal announced flesh and bone riven asunder. The country people, on the way, stood in their side yards, anxiously listening. Riders or teamsters coming from the field, were beset with inquiries; but in the main they knew nothing. As I stopped at Daker's for dinner, the concussion of the battle rattled our plates, and the girls entirely lost their appetites, so that Glumley, who listened and speculated, observed that the baby face was losing all the lines of art, and was quite flat and faded in color. Resuming our way, we encountered a sallow, shabby person, driving a covered wagon, who recognized me at once. It was the "Doctor" who had lightened the journey down the Chesapeake, by a discourse upon embalming. He pointed toward the field with a long bony finger, and called aloud, with a smirk upon his face-- "I have the apparatus here, you see. They will need me out yonder, you know. There's opportunity there for the development of the 'system.'" I did not reach my own camp at Gaines's Farm, till late in the day. The firing had almost entirely ceased, but occasional discharges still broke the repose of evening, and at night signal rockets hissed and showered in every direction. Next day the contest recommenced; but although not farther in a direct line, than seven miles, from our encampment, I could not cross the Chickahominy, and was compelled to lie in my tent all day. These two battles were offered by the Confederates, in the hope of capturing that portion of the Federal army that lay upon the Richmond side of the river. Some days previously, McClellan had ordered Keyes's corps, consisting of perhaps twelve thousand men, to cross Bottom Bridge, eight miles down the Chickahominy, and occupy an advanced position on the York River railroad, six miles east of Richmond. Keyes's two divisions, commanded by Generals Couch and Casey, were thus encamped in a belt of woods remote from the body of the army, and little more than a mile from the enemy's line. Heintzelman's corps was lying at the Bridge, several miles in their rear, and the three finest corps in the army were separated from them by a broad, rapid river, which could be crossed at two places only. The troops of Keyes were mainly inexperienced, undisciplined volunteers from the Middle States. When their adversaries advanced, therefore, in force, on the twenty-ninth instant, they made a fitful, irregular resistance, and at evening retired in panic and disorder. The victorious enemy followed them so closely, that many of the Federals were slain in their tents. During that night, the Chickahominy, swollen by rains, overflowed its banks, and swept away the bridges. The beaten and disorganized relic of the fight of "Seven Pines," was thus completely isolated, and apparently to be annihilated at daybreak. But during the night, twenty thousand fresh men of Sumner's corps, forded the river, carrying their artillery, piece by piece across, and at dawn they assumed the offensive, seconded by the encouraged columns of Keyes. The fight was one of desperation; at night the Federals reoccupied their old ground at Fairoaks, and the Confederates retired, leaving their dead and wounded on the field. They lost, among their prisoners, General Pettigrew, of South Carolina, who was severely wounded, and with whom I talked as he lay in bed at Gaines's Mansion. He appeared to be a chivalrous, gossipy old gentleman, and said that he was the last South Carolinian to stand by the Union. On the succeeding day, Monday, June 2, I rode to "Grape-Vine Bridge," and attempted to force my horse through the swamp and stream; but the drowned mules that momentarily floated down the current, admonished me of the folly of the hazard. The bridge itself was a swimming mass of poles and logs, that yielded with every pressure; yet I saw many wounded men, who waded through the water, or stepped lightly from log to log, and so gained the shore, wet from head to foot. Long lines of supply teams and ambulances were wedged in the depth of the thick wood, bordering the river; but so narrow were the corduroy approaches to the bridge, and so fathomless the swamp on either hand, that they could neither go forward, nor return. The straggling troops brought the unwelcome intelligence, that their comrades on the other side were starving, as they had crossed with a single ration of food, and had long ago eaten their last morsels. While I was standing close by the bridge, General McClellan, and staff, rode through the swamp, and attempted to make the passage. The "young Napoleon," urged his horse upon the floating timber, and at once sank over neck and saddle. His staff dashed after him, floundering in the same way; and when they had splashed and shouted, till I believed them all drowned, they turned and came to shore, dripping and discomfited. There was another Napoleon, who, I am informed, slid down the Alps into Italy; the present descendant did not slide so far, and he shook himself, after the manner of a dog. I remarked with some surprise, that he was growing obese; whereas, the active labors of the campaign had reduced the dimensions of most of the Generals. I secured my horse, and placed a drummer-boy beside him, to prevent abduction or mistake; then stripping from top to toe, and holding my garments above my head, I essayed the difficult passage; as a commencement, I dropped my watch, but the guard-hook caught in a log and held it fast. Afterward, I slipped from the smooth butt of a tree, and thoroughly soused myself and clothing; a lumber-man from Maine, beheld my ill luck, and kindly took my burden to the other side. An estuary of the Chickahominy again intervened, but a rough scow floated upon it, which the Captain of Engineers sent for me, with a soldier to man the oars. I neglected to "trim boat," I am sorry to add, although admonished to that effect repeatedly by the mariner; and we swamped in four feet of water. I resembled a being of one of the antediluvian eras, when I came to land, finally, and might have been taken for a slimy Iguanodon. I sacrificed some of my under clothing to the process of cleansing and drying, and so started with soaking boots, and a deficiency of dress, in the direction of Savage's. Passing the "bottom," or swamp-land, I ascended a hill, and following a lane, stopped after a half hour at a frame-mansion, unpainted, with some barns and negro-quarters contiguous, and a fine grove of young oaks, shading the porch. An elderly gentleman sat in the porch, sipping a julep, with his feet upon the railing, and conversing with a stout, ruddy officer, of decidedly Milesian physiognomy. When I approached, the latter hurriedly placed a chair between himself and me, and said, with a stare-- "Bloodanowns! And where have ye been? Among the hogs, I think?" I assured him that I did not intend to come to close quarters, and that it would be no object on my part to contaminate him. The old gentleman called for "William," a tall, consumptive servant, whose walk reminded me of a stubborn convict's, in the treadmill, and ordered him to scrape me, which was done, accordingly, with a case-knife. The young officer proposed to dip me in the well and wring me well out, but I demurred, mainly on the ground that some time would be so consumed, and that my horse was waiting on the other side. He at once said that he would send for it, and called "Pat," a civilian servant, in military blue, who was nursing a negro baby with an eye, it seemed, to obtain favor with the mother. The willingness of the man surprised me, but he said that it was a short cut of four miles to the railroad bridge, which had been repaired and floored, and that he could readily recover the animal and return at three o'clock. My benefactor, the officer, then mixed a julep, which brought a comfortable glow to my face, and said, without parley-- "You're a reporter, on the----" He said further, that he had been Coroner's Surgeon in New York for many years, and had learned to know the representatives of newspapers, one from the other, by generic manner and appearance. Three correspondents rode by at the time, neither of whom he knew personally, but designated them promptly, with their precise connections. In short, we became familiar directly, and he told me that his name was O'Gamlon, Quartermaster of Meagher's Irish brigade, Sumner's corps. He was established with the elderly gentleman,--whose name was Michie,--and had two horses in the stable, at hand. He proposed to send me to the field, with a note of introduction to the General, and another to Colonel Baker, of the New York 88th (Irish), who could show me the lines and relics of battle, and give me the lists of killed, wounded, and missing. I repaired to his room, and arrayed myself in a fatigue officer's suit, with clean underclothing, after which, descending, I climbed into his saddle, and dashed off, with a mettlesome, dapper pony. The railroad track was about a mile from the house, and the whole country, hereabout, was sappy, dank, and almost barren. Scrub pines covered much of the soil, and the cleared fields were dotted with charred stumps. The houses were small and rude; the wild pigs ran like deer through the bushes and across my path; vultures sailed by hundreds between me and the sky; the lane was slippery and wound about slimy pools; the tree-tops, in many places, were splintered by ball and shell. I crossed the railroad, cut by a high bridge, and saw below the depot, at Savage's, now the head-quarters of General Heintzelman. Above, in full view, were the commands at Peach Orchard and Fairoaks, and to the south, a few furlongs distant, the Williamsburg and Richmond turnpike ran, parallel with the railway, toward the field of Seven Pines. The latter site, was simply the junction of the turnpike with a roundabout way to Richmond, called the "Nine Mile Road," and Fairoaks was the junction of the diverging road with the railroad. Toward the latter I proceeded, and soon came to the Irish brigade, located on both sides of the way, at Peach Orchard. They occupied the site of the most desperate fighting. A small farm hollowed in the swampy thicket and wood, was here divided by the track, and a little farm-house, with a barn, granary, and a couple of cabins, lay on the left side. In a hut to the right General Thomas Francis Meagher made his head-quarters, and a little beyond, in the edges of the swamp timber, lay his four regiments, under arms. A guard admonished me, in curt, lithe speech, that my horse must come no further; for the brigade held the advance post, and I was even now within easy musket range of the imperceptible enemy. An Irish boy volunteered to hold the rein, while I paid my respects to the Commander. I encountered him on the threshold of the hut, and he welcomed me in the richest and most musical of brogues. Large, corpulent, and powerful of body; plump and ruddy--or as some would say, bloated--of face; with resolute mouth and heavy animal jaws; expressive nose, and piercing blue-eyes; brown hair, mustache, and eyebrows; a fair forehead, and short sinewy neck, a man of apparently thirty years of age, stood in the doorway, smoking a cigar, and trotting his sword fretfully in the scabbard. He wore the regulation blue cap, but trimmed plentifully with gold lace, and his sleeves were slashed in the same manner. A star glistened in his oblong shoulder-bar; a delicate gold cord seamed his breeches from his Hessian boots to his red tasselled sword-sash; a seal-ring shone from the hand with which he grasped his gauntlets, and his spurs were set upon small aristocratic feet. A tolerable physiognomist would have resolved his temperament to an intense sanguine. He was fitfully impulsive, as all his movements attested, and liable to fluctuations of peevishness, melancholy, and enthusiasm. This was "Meagher of the Sword," the stripling who made issue with the renowned O'Connell, and divided his applauses; the "revolutionist," who had outlived exile to become the darling of the "Young Ireland" populace in his adopted country; the partisan, whose fierce, impassioned oratory had wheeled his factious element of the Democracy into the war cause; and the soldier, whose gallant bearing at Bull Run had won him a brigadiership. He was, to my mind, a realization of the Knight of Gwynne, or any of the rash, impolitic, poetic personages in Lever and Griffin. Ambitious without a name; an adventurer without a definite cause; an orator without policy; a General without caution or experience, he had led the Irish brigade through the hottest battles, and associated them with the most brilliant episodes of the war. Every adjunct of the place was strictly Hibernian. The emerald green standard entwined with the red, white, and blue; the gilt eagles on the flag-poles held the Shamrock sprig in their beaks; the soldiers lounging on guard, had "69" or "88" the numbers of their regiments, stamped on a green hat-band; the brogue of every county from Down to Wexford fell upon the ear; one might have supposed that the "year '98" had been revived, and that these brawny Celts were again afield against their Saxon countrymen. The class of lads upon the staff of Meagher, was an odd contrast to the mass of staff officers in the "Grand Army." Fox-hunters they all seemed to me, and there was one, who wore a long, twisted, pomatumed moustache, who talked of steeple chases, all the while, and wanted to have "a healthy dash" of some kind. A class of Irish exquisites, they appeared to be,--good for a fight, a card-party, or a hurdle jumping,--but entirely too Quixotic for the sober requirements of Yankee warfare. When anything absurd, forlorn, or desperate was to be attempted, the Irish brigade was called upon. But, ordinarily, they were regarded, as a party of mad fellows, more ornamental than useful, and entirely too clannish and factious to be entrusted with power. Meagher himself seemed to be less erratic than his subordinates; for he had married a New York lady, and had learned, by observation, the superiority of the pelfish, plodding native before his own fitful, impracticable race. His address was infatuating: but there was a certain airiness, indicative of vanity, that revealed his great characteristic. He loved applause, and to obtain it had frittered away his fine abilities, upon petty, splendid, momentary triumphs. He was generous to folly, and, I have no doubt, maintained his whole staff. When I requested to be shown the field, and its relics, Meagher said, in his musical brogue, that I need only look around. "From the edge of that wood," he said, "the Irish brigade charged across this field, and fell upon their faces in the railway cutting below. A regiment of Alabamians lay in the timber beyond, with other Southerners in their rear, and on both flanks. They thought that we were charging bayonets, and reserved their fire till we should approach within butchering distance. On the contrary, I ordered the boys to lie down, and load and fire at will. In the end, sir, we cut them to pieces, and five hundred of them were left along the swamp fence, that you see. There isn't fifty killed and wounded in the whole Irish brigade." A young staff officer took me over the field. We visited first the cottage and barns across the road, and found the house occupied by some thirty wounded Federals. They lay in their blankets upon the floors,--pale, helpless, hollow-eyed, making low moans at every breath. Two or three were feverishly sleeping, and, as the flies revelled upon their gashes, they stirred uneasily and moved their hands to and fro. By the flatness of the covering at the extremities, I could see that several had only stumps of legs. They had lost the sweet enjoyment of walking afield, and were but fragments of men, to limp forever through a painful life. Such wrecks of power I never beheld. Broad, brawny, buoyant, a few hours ago, the loss of blood, and the nervous shock, attendant upon amputation, has wellnigh drained them to the last drop. Their faces were as white as the tidy ceiling; they were whining like babies; and only their rolling eyes distinguished them from mutilated corpses. Some seemed quite broken in spirit, and one, who could speak, observing my pitiful glances toward his severed thigh, drew up his mouth and chin, and wept as if with the loss of comeliness all his ambitions were frustrated. A few attendants were brushing off the insects with boughs of cedar, laving the sores, or administering cooling draughts. The second story of the dwelling was likewise occupied by wounded, but in a corner clustered the terrified farmer and his family, vainly attempting to turn their eyes from the horrible spectacle. The farmer's wife had a baby at her breast, and its little blue eyes were straying over the room, half wonderingly, half delightedly. I thought, with a shudder, of babyhood thus surrounded, and how, in the long future, its first recollections of existence should be of booming guns and dying soldiers! The cow-shed contained seven corpses, scarcely yet cold, lying upon their backs, in a row, and fast losing all resemblance to man. The farthest removed, seemed to be a diminutive boy, and I thought if he had a mother, that she might sometime like to speak with me. When I took their names, I thought what terrible agencies I was fulfilling. Beyond my record, falsely spelled, perhaps, they would have no history. And people call such deaths glorious! Upon a pile of lumber and some heaps of fence-rails, close by, sat some dozens of wounded men, mainly Federals, with bandaged arms and faces, and torn clothing. There was one, shot in the foot, who howled at every effort to remove his boot; the blood leaked from a rent in the side, and at last, the leather was cut, piecemeal from the flesh. These ate voraciously, though in pain and fear; for a little soup and meat was being doled out to them. The most horrible of all these scenes--which I have described perhaps too circumstantially--was presented in the stable or barn, on the premises, where a bare dingy floor--the planks of which tilted and shook, as one made his way over them--was strewn with suffering people. Just at the entrance sat a boy, totally blind, both eyes having been torn out by a minnie-ball, and the entire bridge of the nose shot away. He crouched against the gable, in darkness and agony, tremulously fingering his knees. Near at hand, sat another, who had been shot through the middle of the forehead, but singular to relate, he still lived, though lunatic, and evidently beyond hope. Death had drawn blue and yellow circles beneath his eyes, and he muttered incomprehensibly, wagging his head. Two men, perfectly naked, lay in the middle of the place, wounded in bowels and loins; and at a niche in the weather-boarding, where some pale light peeped in, four mutilated wretches were gaming with cards. I was now led a little way down the railroad, to see the Confederates. The rain began to fall at this time, and the poor fellows shut their eyes to avoid the pelting of the drops. There was no shelter for them within a mile, and the mud absolutely reached half way up their bodies. Nearly one third had suffered amputation above the knee. There were about thirty at this spot, and I was told that they were being taken to Meadow Station on hand cars. As soon as the locomotive could pass the Chickahominy, they would be removed to White House, and comfortably quartered in the Sanitary and hospital boats. Some of them were fine, athletic, and youthful, and I was directed to one who had been married only three days before. "Doctor," said one, feebly, "I feel very cold: do you think that this is death? It seems to be creeping to my heart. I have no feeling, in my feet, and my thighs are numb." A Federal soldier came along with a bucket of soup, and proceeded to fill the canteens and plates. He appeared to be a relative of Mark Tapley, and possessed much of that estimable person's jollity-- "Come, pardner," he said, "drink yer sup! now, old boy, this'ill warm ye; sock it down and ye'll see yer sweetheart soon. You dead, Ally-bammy? Go way, now. You'll live a hundred years, you will. That's wot you'll do. Won't he, lad? What? Not any? Get out! You'll be slap on your legs next week and hev another shot at me the week a'ter that. You know you will! Oh! you Rebil! You, with the butternut trousers! Say! Wake up and take some o' this. Hello! lad, pardner. Wake up!" He stirred him gently with his foot; he bent down to touch his face. A grimness came over his merriment. The man was stiff and dumb. Colonel Baker, commanding the 88th New York, was a tall, martial Irishman, who opened his heart and bottle at the same welcome, and took me into the woods, where some of the slain still remained. He had slept not longer than an hour, continuously, for seventy hours, and during the past night had been called up by eight alarums. His men lay in the dark thickets, without fires or blankets, as they had crossed the Chickahominy in light marching order. "Many a lad," said he, "will escape the bullet for a lingering consumption." We had proceeded but a very little way, when we came to a trodden place beneath the pines, where a scalp lay in the leaves, and the imprint of a body was plainly visible. The bayonet scabbard lay at one side, the canteen at the other. We saw no corpses, however, as fatigue parties had been burying the slain, and the whole wood was dotted with heaps of clay, where the dead slept below in the oozy trenches. Quantities of cartridges were scattered here and there, dropped by the retreating Confederates. Some of the cartridge-pouches that I examined were completely filled, showing that their possessors had not fired a single round; others had but one cartridge missing. There were fragments of clothing, hair, blankets, murderous bowie and dirk knives, spurs, flasks, caps, and plumes, dropped all the way through the thicket, and the trees on every hand were riddled with balls. I came upon a squirrel, unwittingly shot during the fight. Not those alone who make the war must feel the war! At one of the mounds the burying party had just completed their work, and the men were throwing the last clods upon the remains. They had dug pits of not more than two feet depth, and dragged the bodies heedlessly to the edges, whence they were toppled down and scantily covered. Much of the interring had been done by night, and the flare of lanterns upon the discolored faces and dead eyes must have been hideously effective. The grave-diggers, however, were practical personages, and had probably little care for dramatic effects. They leaned upon their spades, when the rites were finished, and a large, dry person, who appeared to be privileged upon all occasions, said, grinningly-- "Colonel, your honor, them boys 'ill niver stand forninst the Irish brigade again. If they'd ha' known it was us, sur, begorra! they 'ud ha' brought coffins wid 'em." "No, niver!" "They got their ticket for soup!" "We kivered them, fait', will inough!" shouted the other grave-diggers. "Do ye belave, Colonel," said the dry person, again, "that thim ribals'll lave us a chance to catch them. Be me sowl! I'm jist wishin to war-rum me hands wid rifle practice." The others echoed loudly, that they were anxious to be ordered up, and some said that "Little Mac'll give 'em his big whack now." The presence of death seemed to have added no fear of death to these people. Having tasted blood, they now thirsted for it, and I asked myself, forebodingly, if a return to civil life would find them less ferocious. I dined with Colonel Owen of the 69th Pennsylvania (Irish) volunteers. He had been a Philadelphia lawyer, and was, by all odds, the most consistent and intelligent soldier in the brigade. He had been also a schoolmaster for many years, but appeared to be in his element at the head of a regiment, and was generally admitted to be an efficient officer. He shared the prevailing antipathy to West Point graduates; for at this time the arrogance of the regular officers, and the pride of the volunteers, had embittered each against the other. His theory of military education was, the establishment of State institutions, and the reorganization of citizenship upon a strict militia basis. After dinner, I rode to "Seven Pines," and examined some of the rifle pits used during the engagement. A portion of this ground only had been retaken, and I was warned to keep under cover; for sharpshooters lay close by, in the underbrush. A visit to the graves of some Federal soldiers completed the inspection. Some of the regiments had interred their dead in trenches; but the New Englanders were all buried separately, and smooth slabs were driven at the heads of the mounds, whereon were inscribed the names and ages of the deceased. Some of the graves were freshly sodded, and enclosed by rails and logs. They evidenced the orderly, religious habits of the sons of the Puritans; for, with all his hardness of manner and selfishness of purpose, I am inclined to think that the Yankee is the best manifestation of Northern character. He loves his home, at least, and he reveres his deceased comrades. When I returned to Michie's, at six o'clock, the man "Pat," with a glowing face, came out to the gate. "That's a splendid baste of yours, sur," he said,--"and sich a boi to gallop." "My horse doesn't generally gallop," I returned, doubtfully. When I passed to the barn in the rear, I found to my astonishment, a sorrel stallion, magnificently accoutred. He thrust his foot at me savagely, as I stood behind him, and neighed till he frightened the spiders. "Pat," said I, wrathfully, "you have stolen some Colonel's nag, and I shall be hanged for the theft." "Fait, sur," said Pat, "my ligs was gone intirely, wid long walkin', and I sazed the furst iligant baste I come to." CHAPTER XIII. STUART'S RAID. The old Chickahominy bridges were soon repaired, and the whole of Franklin's corps crossed to the south side. McClellan moved his head-quarters to Dr. Trent's farm, a half-mile from Michie's, and the latter gentleman's fields and lawn were made white with tents. Among others, the Chief of Cavalry, Stoneman, pitched his canopy under the young oaks, and the whole reserve artillery was parked in the woods, close to the house. The engineer brigade encamped in the adjacent peach-orchard and corn-field, and the wheat was trampled by battery and team-horses. Smith's division now occupied the hills on the south side of the Chickahominy, and the Federal line stretched southeastward, through Fairoaks, to White Oak Swamp, seven miles away. Porter's corps still lay between Mechanicsville and New Bridge, on the north bank of the river, and my old acquaintances, the Pennsylvania Reserves, had joined the army, and now formed its extreme right wing. This odd arrangement of forces was a subject of frequent comment: for the right was thus four miles, and the left fourteen miles, from Richmond. The four corps at once commenced to entrench, and from Smith's redoubt on the river bluffs, to Casey's entrenched hill at White Oak, a continuous line of moderately strong earthworks extended. But Porter and the Reserves were not entrenched at all, and only a few horsemen were picketed across the long reach of country from Meadow Bridge to Hanover Court House. Both flanks, in fact, were open, and the left was a day's march from the right. We were, meantime, drawing our supplies from White House, twenty miles in the rear; there were no railroad guards along the entire line, and about five companies protected the grand depot. Two gunboats lay in the river, however, and as the teams still went to and fro, a second depot was established at a place called Putney's or "Garlic," five miles above White House. I went often, and at all hours of the day and night, over this exposed and lonely route. My horse had been, meantime, returned to the Provost Quarters, and the rightful owner had obtained his stallion in exchange. I rode the said stallion but once, when he proceeded to walk sideways, and several times rivalled the renowned Pegasus in his aerial flights. The man named "Pat" essayed to show his paces one day, but the stallion took him straight into Stoneman's wall-tent, and that officer shook the Irishman blind. My little bob-tailed brownie was thrice endeared to me by our separation; but I warned the man "Pat" to keep clear of him thereafter. The man "Pat" was a very eccentric person, who slept on the porch at Michie's, and used to wake up the house in the small hours, with the story that somebody was taking the chickens and the horses. He was the most impulsive person that I ever knew, and when I entrusted despatches to him once, he put them on the hospital boat by mistake, and they got to New York at the close of the campaign. Michie's soon became a correspondents' rendezvous, and we have had at one time, at dinner, twelve representatives of five journals. The Hon. Henry J. Raymond, Ex-Lieutenant Governor of New York, and proprietor of the _Times_ newspaper, was one of our family for several weeks. He had been a New Hampshire lad, and, strolling to New York, took to journalism at the age of nineteen years. His industry and probity obtained him both means and credit, and, also, what few young journalists obtain, social position. He was the founder of Harper's Magazine, one of the most successful serials in America, and many English authors are indebted to him for a trans-Atlantic recognition of their works. He edited an American edition of _Jane Eyre_ before it had attracted attention in England, and conducted the _Courier and Enquirer_ with great success for many years. The _Times_ is now the most reputable of the great New York dailies, and Mr. Raymond has made it influential both at home and abroad. He has retained, amidst his social and political successes, a predilection for "Bohemia," and became an indefatigable correspondent. I rode out with him sometimes, and heard, with interest, his accounts of the Italian war, whither he also went in furtherance of journalism. Among our quill cavalry-men was a fat gentleman from Philadelphia, who had great fear of death, and who used to "tear" to White House, if the man "Pat" shot a duck in the garden. He was a hearty, humorous person, however, and an adept at searching for news. O'Ganlon rode with me several times to White House, and we have crossed the railroad bridge together, a hundred feet in the air, when the planks were slippery, the sides sloping, and the way so narrow that two horses could not pass abreast. He was a true Irishman, and leaped barricades and ditches without regard to his neck. He had, also, a partiality for by-roads that led through swamps and close timber. He discovered one day a cow-path between Daker's and an old Mill at Grapevine Bridge. The long arms of oaks and beech trees reached across it, and young Absalom might have been ensnared by the locks at every rod therein. Through this devious and dangerous way, O'Ganlon used to dash, whooping, guiding his horse with marvellous dexterity, and bantering me to follow. I so far forgot myself generally, as to behave quite as irrationally, and once returned to Michie's with a bump above my right eye, that rivalled my head in size. At other times I rode alone, and my favorite route was an unfrequented lane called the "Quaker Road," that extended from Despatch Station, on the line of rail, to Daker's, on the New Bridge Road. Much of this way was shut in by thick woods and dreary pine barrens; but the road was hard and light, and a few quiet farms lay by the roadside. There was a mill, also, three miles from Daker's, where a turbulent creek crossed the route, and at an oak-wood, near by, I used to frighten the squirrels, so that they started up by pairs and families; I have chased them in this way a full mile, and they seemed to know me after a time. We used to be on the best of terms, and they would, at length, stand their ground saucily, and chatter, the one with the other, flourishing their bushy appendages, like so many straggling "Bucktails." When I turned from the beaten road, where the ruts were like a ditch and parapet, and dead horses blackened the fields; where teams went creaking day and night, and squads of sabremen drove pale, barefooted prisoners to and fro like swine or cattle, the silence and solitude of this by-lane were beautiful as sleep. Many of the old people living in this direction had not seen even a soldier or a sutler, save some mounted scouts that vanished in clouds of dust; but they had listened with awe to the music of cannon, though they did not know either the place or the result of the fighting. If fate has ordained me to survive the Rebellion, I shall some day revisit these localities; they are stamped legibly upon my mind, and I know almost every old couple in New Kent or Hanover counties. I have lunched at all the little springs on the road, and eaten corn-bread and bacon at most of the cabins. I have swam the Pamunkey at dozens of places, and when my finances were low, and my nag hungry, have organized myself into a company of foragers, and broken into the good people's granaries. I do not know any position that admitted of as much adventure and variety. There was always enough danger to make my journeys precariously pleasant, and, when wearied of the saddle, my friends at Daker's and Michie's had a savory julep and a comfortable bed always prepared. I had more liberty than General McClellan, and a great deal more comfort. Mrs. Michie was a warm-hearted, impulsive Virginia lady, with almost New England industry, and from very scanty materials she contrived to spread a bountiful table. Her coffee was bubbling with rich cream, and her "yellow pone" was overrunning with butter. A cleanly black girl shook a fly-brush over our shoulders as we ate, and the curious custom was maintained of sending a julep to our bedrooms before we rose in the mornings. Our hostess was too hospitable to be a bitter partisan, and during five weeks of tenure at her residence, we never held an hour's controversy. She had troubles, but she endured them patiently. She saw, one by one, articles of property sacrificed or stolen; she heard the servants speaking impudently; and her daughters and son were in a remote part of the State. The young man was a Confederate Surgeon at Lynchburg, and the young ladies had taken refuge in Rockbridge County. The latter were, from all accounts, pretty and intelligent, and one day, as I examined some parcels of books in the parlors, I found a volume of amateur poems that some laboring bard had dedicated to the youngest of them. Mr. Michie was a fine old Virginia gentleman, who remembered Thomas Jefferson well, as he had been reared in that great statesman's village, Charlottesville. He told me many anecdotes of Patrick Henry, John Randolph, and other distinguished patriots. I wrote in one of the absent daughter's albums the following lines:-- Alas! for the pleasant peace we knew, In the happy summers of long ago, When the rivers were bright, and the skies were blue, By the homes of Henrico: We dreamed of wars that were far away, And read, as in fable, of blood that ran, Where the James and Chickahominy stray, Through the groves of Powhattan. 'Tis a dream come true; for the afternoons Blow bugles of war, by our fields of grain, And the sabres clink, as the dark dragoons Come galloping up the lane; The pigeons have flown from the eves and tiles, The oat-blades have grown to blades of steel, And the Huns swarm down the leafy aisles Of the grand old Commonweal. They have torn the Indian fisher's nets, Where flows Pamunkey toward the sea, And blood runs red in the rivulets, That babbled and brawled in glee; The corpses are strewn in Fairoak glades, The hoarse guns thunder from Drury's Ridge, The fishes that played in the cove, deep shades, Are frightened from Bottom Bridge. I would that the year were blotted away, And the strawberry grew in the hedge again; That the scythe might swing in the tangled hay, And the squirrel romp in the glen; The walnut sprinkle the clover slopes, Where graze the sheep and the spotted steer; And the winter restore the golden hopes, That were trampled in a year. On Friday, June 13, I made one of my customary trips to White House, in the company of O'Ganlon. The latter individual, in the course of a "healthy dash" that he made down the railroad ties,--whereby two shoes shied from his mare's hoofs,--reined into a quicksand that threatened to swallow his steed. He afterward left his sword at Summit Station, and I, obligingly, rode back three miles to recover it. We dined at Daker's, where Glumley sat beside the baby-face, pursuant to his art-duties, and the plump, red-cheeked miss sat beside me. O'Ganlon was entertained by the talkative daughter, who drove him quite mad; so that, when we resumed our horses, he insisted upon a second "healthy dash," and disappeared through a strip of woods. I followed, rationally, and had come to a blacksmith's shop, at the corner of a diverging road, when I was made aware of some startling occurrence in my rear. A mounted officer dashed past me, shouting some unintelligible tidings, and he was followed in quick succession by a dozen cavalry-men, who rode as if the foul fiend was at their heels. Then came a teamster, bare-backed, whose rent harness trailed in the road, and directly some wagons that were halted before the blacksmith's, wheeled smartly, and rattled off towards White House. "What is the matter, my man?" I said to one of these lunatics, hurriedly. "The Rebels are behind!" he screamed, with white lips, and vanished. I thought that it might be as well to take some other road, and so struck off, at a dapper pace, in the direction of the new landing at Putney's or "Garlic." At the same instant I heard the crack of carbines behind, and they had a magical influence upon my speed. I rode along a stretch of chestnut and oak wood, attached to the famous Webb estate, and when I came to a rill that passed by a little bridge, under the way, turned up its sandy bed and buried myself in the under-brush. A few breathless moments only had intervened, when the roadway seemed shaken by a hundred hoofs. The imperceptible horsemen yelled like a war-party of Camanches, and when they had passed, the carbines rang ahead, as if some bloody work was being done at every rod. I remained a full hour under cover; but as no fresh approaches added to my mystery and fear, I sallied forth, and kept the route to Putney's, with ears erect and expectant pulses. I had gone but a quarter of a mile, when I discerned, through the gathering gloom, a black, misshapen object, standing in the middle of the road. As it seemed motionless, I ventured closer, when the thing resolved to a sutler's wagon, charred and broken, and still smoking from the incendiaries' torch. Further on, more of these burned wagons littered the way, and in one place two slain horses marked the roadside. When I emerged upon the Hanover road, sounds of shrieks and shot issued from the landing at "Garlic," and, in a moment, flames rose from the woody shores and reddened the evening. I knew by the gliding blaze that vessels had been fired and set adrift, and from my place could see the devouring element climbing rope and shroud. In a twinkling, a second light appeared behind the woods to my right, and the intelligence dawned upon me that the cars and houses at Tunstall's Station had been burned. By the fitful illumination, I rode tremulously to the old head-quarters at Black Creek, and as I conjectured, the depot and train were luridly consuming. The vicinity was marked by wrecked sutler's stores, the embers of wagons, and toppled steeds. Below Black Creek the ruin did not extend: but when I came to White House the greatest confusion existed. Sutlers were taking down their booths, transports were slipping their cables, steamers moving down the stream. Stuart had made the circuit of the Grand Army to show Lee where the infantry could follow. CHAPTER XIV. FEVER DREAMS IN WAR. A subtle enemy had of late joined the Confederate cause against the invaders. He was known as Pestilence, and his footsteps were so soft that neither scout nor picket could bar his entrance. His paths were subterranean,--through the tepid swamp water, the shallow graves of the dead; and aerial,--through the stench of rotting animals, the nightly miasms of bog and fen. His victims were not pierced, or crushed, or mangled, but their deaths were not less terrible, because more lingering. They seemed to wither and shrivel away; their eyes became at first very bright, and afterward lustreless; their skins grew hard and sallow; their lips faded to a dry whiteness; all the fluids of the body were consumed; and they crumbled to corruption before life had fairly gone from them. This visitation has been, by common consent, dubbed "the Chickahominy fever," and some have called it the typhus fever. The troops called it the "camp fever," and it was frequently aggravated by affections of the bowels and throat. The number of persons that died with it was fabulous. Some have gone so far as to say that the army could have better afforded the slaughter of twenty thousand men, than the delay on the Chickahominy. The embalmers were now enjoying their millennium, and a steam coffin manufactory was erected at White House, where twenty men worked day and night, turning out hundreds of pine boxes. I had, occasion, in one of my visits to the depot, to repair to the tent of one of the embalmers. He was a sedate, grave person, and when I saw him, standing over the nude, hard corpse, he reminded me of the implacable vulture, looking into the eyes of Prometheus. His battery and tube were pulsing, like one's heart and lungs, and the subject was being drained at the neck. I compared the discolored body with the figure of _Ianthe_, as revealed in Queen Mab, but failed to see the beautifulness of death. "If you could only make him breathe, Professor," said an officer standing by. The dry skin of the embalmer broke into chalky dimples, and he grinned very much as a corpse might do:-- "Ah!" he said, "_then_ there would be money made." To hear these embalmers converse with each other was like listening to the witch sayings in Macbeth. It appeared that the arch-fiend of embalming was a Frenchman named Sonça, or something of that kind, and all these worthies professed to have purchased his "system." They told grisly anecdotes of "operations," and experimented with chemicals, and congratulated each other upon the fever. They would, I think, have piled the whole earth with catacombs of stony corpses, and we should have no more green graves, but keep our dead with us as household ornaments. The negroes did not suffer with the fever, although their quarters were close and filthy. Their Elysium had come; there was no more work. They slept and danced and grinned, and these three actions made up the sum of their existence. Such people to increase and multiply I never beheld. There were scores of new babies every day; they appeared to be born by twins and triplets; they learned to walk in twenty-four hours; and their mothers were strong and hearty in less time. Such soulless, lost, degraded men and women did nowhere else exist. The divinity they never had; the human they had forgotten; they did no great wrongs,--thieving, quarrelling, deceiving,--but they failed to do any rights, and their worship was animal, and almost profane. They sang incongruous mixtures of hymns and field songs:-- "Oh! bruddern, watch an' pray, _watch_ an' pray! De harvest am a ripenin' our Lord an' Marser say! Oh! ho! yo! dat ole coon, de serpent, ho! oh! Watch an' pray!" I have heard them sing such medleys with tears in their eyes, apparently fervid and rapt. A very gray old man would lead off, keeping time to the words with his head and hands; the mass joining in at intervals, and raising a screaming alleluja. Directly they would all rise, link hands, and proceed to dance the accompaniment. The motion would be slow at first, and the method of singing maintained; after a time they would move more rapidly, shouting the lines together; and suddenly becoming convulsed with strange excitement, they would toss up their arms, leap, fall, groan, and, seemingly, lose consciousness. Their prayers were earnest and vehement, but often degenerated to mere howls and noises. Some of both sexes had grand voices, that rang like bugles, and the very impropriety of their music made it fascinating. It used to seem to me that any of the great composers might have borrowed advantageously some of those original negro airs. In many cases, their owners came within the lines, registered their allegiance, and recovered the negroes. These were often veritable Shylocks, that claimed their pounds of flesh, with unblushing reference to the law. The poor Africs went back cowed and tearful, and it is probable that they were afterward sent to the far South, that terrible _terra incognita_ to a border slave. Among the houses to which I resorted was that of a Mr. Hill, one mile from White House. He had a thousand acres of land and a valuable fishery on the Pamunkey. The latter was worth, in good seasons, two thousand dollars a year. He had fished and farmed with negroes; but these had leagued to run away, and he sent them across the river to a second farm that he owned in King William County. It was at Hill's house that the widow Custis was visiting when young Washington reined at the gate, on his road to Williamsburg. With reverent feelings I used to regard the old place, and Hill frequently stole away from his formidable military household, to talk with me on the front porch. Perhaps in the same moonlights, with the river shimmering at their feet, and the grapevine shadowing the creaky corners,--their voices softened, their chairs drawn very close, their hands touching with a thrill,--the young soldier and his affianced had made their courtship. I sometimes sat breathless, thinking that their figures had come back, and that I heard them whispering. Hill was a Virginian,--large, hospitable, severe, proud,--and once I ventured to speak upon the policy of slavery, with a view to develop his own relation to the "institution." He said, with the swaggering manner of his class, that slavery was a "domestic" institution, and that therefore no political law could reach it. I insinuated, quietly, that no political law should therefore sustain it, and took exception to the idea that what was domestic was therefore without the province of legislation. When I exampled polygamy, Hill became passionate, and asked if I was an abolitionist. I opined that I was not, and he so far relented as to say that slavery was sanctioned by divine and human laws; that it was ultimately to be embraced by all white nationalities, and that the Caucasian was certain, in the end, to subjugate and possess every other race. He pointed, with some shrewdness, to the condition of the Chinese in California and Australia, and epitomized the gradual enslaving of the Mongol and Malay in various quarters of the world. "As to our treatment of niggers," he said, curtly, "I never prevaricate, as some masters do, in that respect. I whip my niggers when they want it! If they are saucy, or careless, or lazy, I have 'em flogged. About twice a year every nigger has to be punished. If they ain't roped over twice a year, they take on airs and want to be gentlemen. A nigger is bound by no sentiment of duty or affection. You must keep him in trim by fear." Among the victims of the swamp fever, were Major Larrabee, and Lieutenant-Colonel Emory, of the Fifth Wisconsin regiment; I had been indebted to them for many a meal and draught of spirits. I had talked with each of them, when the camps were darkened and the soldiery asleep. Larrabee was a soldier by nature,--adventurous, energetic, intrepid, aggressive. He had been a country Judge in Wisconsin, and afterwards a member of Congress. When the war commenced, he enlisted as a common soldier, but public sentiment forced the State Government to make him a Major. Emory was a mild, reflective, unimpassioned gentleman,--too modest to be eminent, too scrupulous to be ambitious. The men were opposites, but both capital companions, and they were seized with the fever about the same time. The Major was removed to White House, and I visited him one day in the hospital quarters. Surgeon General Watson, hospital commandant, took me through the quarters; there was quite a town of sick men; they lay in wall-tents--about twenty in a tent,--and there were daily deaths; those that caught the fever, were afterwards unfit for duty, as they took relapses on resuming the field. The tents were pitched in a damp cornfield; for the Federals so reverenced their national shrines, that they forbade White House and lawn to be used for hospital purposes. Under the best circumstances, a field hospital is a comfortless place; but here the sun shone like a furnace upon the tents, and the rains drowned out the inmates. If a man can possibly avoid it, let him never go to the hospital: for he will be called a "skulker," or a "shyster," that desires to escape the impending battle. Twenty hot, feverish, tossing men, confined in a small tent, like an oven, and exposed to contumely and bad food, should get a wholesome horror of war and glory. So far as I could observe and learn, the authorities at White House carried high heads, and covetous hands. In brief, they lived like princes, and behaved like knaves. There was one--whose conduct has never been investigated--who furnished one of the deserted mansions near by, and brought a lady from the North to keep it in order. He drove a span that rivalled anything in Broadway, and his wines were luscious. His establishment reminded me of that of Napoleon III. in the late Italian war, and yet, this man was receiving merely a Colonel's pay. My impression is that everybody at White House robbed the Government, and in the end, to cover their delinquencies, these scoundrels set fire to an immense quantity of stores, and squared their accounts thus: "Burned on the Pamunkey, June 28, commissary, quartermaster's, and hospital stores, one million dollars." The time was now drawing to a close that I should pass amid the familiar scenes of this region. The good people at Daker's were still kindly; but having climbed into the great bed one night, I found my legs aching, my brain violently throbbing, my chest full of pain and my eyes weak. When I woke in the morning my lips were fevered, I could eat nothing, and when I reached my saddle, it seemed that I should faint. In a word, the Chickahominy fever had seized upon me. My ride to New Bridge was marked by great agony, and during much of the time I was quite blind. I turned off, at Gaines's Mill, to rest at Captain Kingwalt's; but the old gentleman was in the grip of the ague, and I forebore to trouble him with a statement of my grievances. Skyhiski made me a cup of tea, which I could not drink, and Fogg made me lie on his "poncho." It was like old times come back, to hear them all speak cheerfully, and the man Clover said that if there "warn't" a battle soon, he knew what he'd do, he did! he'd go home, straight as a buck! "Becoz," said the man Clover, flourishing his hands, "I volunteered to fight. To _fight_, sir! not to dig and drive team. Here we air, sir, stuck in the mud, burnin' with fever, livin' on hardtack. And thair's Richmond! Just thair! You can chuck a stone at it, if you mind to. A'ter awhile them rebbils'll pop out, and fix us. Why ain't we led up, sa-a-y?" The man Clover represented common sentiment among the troops at this time; but I told him that in all probability he would soon be gratified with a battle. My prediction was so far correct, that when I met the man Clover on the James River, a week afterward, he said, with a rueful countenance-- "Sa-a-a-y! It never rains but it pours, does it?" As I rode from the camp of the Pennsylvania Reserves, at noon, on the 21st of June, I seemed to feel a gloomy premonition of the calamities that were shortly to fall upon the "Army of the Potomac." I passed in front of Hogan house; through the wood above the mill; along Gaines's Lane, between his mansion and his barn; across a creek, tributary to the Chickahominy; and up the ploughed hills by a military road, toward Grapevine Bridge. Lieutenant-Colonel Heath, of the Fifth Maine Regiment, was riding with me, and we stopped at the tip of an elevated field to look back upon the scene. I was very sick and weary, and I lay my head upon the mane of my nag, while Heath threw a leg across his saddle pommel, and straightened his slight figure; we both gazed earnestly. The river lay in the hollow or ravine to the left, and a few farm-houses sat among the trees on the hill-tops beyond. A battery was planted at each house, and we could see the lines of red-clay parapets marking the sites. From the roof of one of the houses floated a speck of canvas,--the revolutionary flag. A horseman or two moved shadow-like across a slope of yellow grain. Before and back the woods belted the landscape, and some pickets of both sides paced the river brink: they did not fire upon each other. Our side of the Chickahominy was not less peaceful. A couple of batteries lay below us, in the meadows; but the horses were dozing in the harness, and the gunners, standing bolt upright at the breech, seemed parts of their pieces; the teamsters lay grouped in the long grass. Immediately in front, Gaines's Mansion and outhouses spotted a hillside, and we could note beyond a few white tents shining through the trees. The roof of the old mill crouched between a medley of wavy fields and woods, to our right, and just at our feet a tiny rill divided Gaines's Mill from our own. Behind us, over the wilderness of swamp and bog-timber, rose Smith's redoubt, with the Federal flag flaunting from the rampart. "Townsend," said Heath, as he swept the whole country with his keen eye, "do you know that we are standing upon historic ground?" He had been a poet and an orator, and he seemed to feel the solemnity of the place. "It may become historic to-morrow," I replied. "It is so to-day," he said, earnestly; "not from battle as yet; _that_ may or may not happen; but in the pause before the storm there is something grand; and this is the pause." He took his soft beaver in his hand, and his short red hair stood pugnaciously back from his fine forehead. "The men that have been here already," he added, "consecrated the place; young McClellan, and bluff, bull-headed Franklin; the one-armed devil, Kearney, and handsome Joe Hooker; gray, gristly Heintzelman; white-bearded, insane Sumner; Stuart, Lee, Johnston, the Hills----" "Why not," said I, laughingly, "Eric the red,--the redoubtable Heath!" "Why not?" he said, with a flourish; "Fate may have something in store for me, as well as for these." I have thought, since, how terribly our light conversation found verification in fact. If I had said to Heath, that, at the very moment, Jefferson Davis and his Commander-in-chief were sitting in the dwelling opposite, reconnoitring and consulting; that, even now, their telescopes were directed upon us; that the effect of their counsel was to be manifest in less than a week; that one of the bloodiest battles of modern times was to be fought beside and around us; that six days of the most terrible fighting known in history were to ensue; that my friend and comrade was standing upon the same clods which would be reddened, at his next coming, with his heart's blood; and that the trenches were to yawn beneath his hoofs, to swallow himself and his steed,--if I had foretold these things as they were to occur, I wonder if the "pause before the storm" would have been less awful, and our ride campward less sedate. Poor Heath! Gallant New Englander! he called at my bedside, the sixth day following, as I lay full of pain, fear, and fever, and after he bade me good by, I heard his horse's hoofs ringing down the lane. Ten minutes afterward he was shot through the head. When I reached Michie's, at three o'clock, I had to be helped from the saddle, and the fever was raging in my whole body before nightfall. My hands were flushed, my face hot, but my feet were quite cold, and I was seized with chills that seemed to shake my teeth from my head. Mrs. Michie made me a bowl of scorching tea, and one of the black-girls bathed my limbs in boiling water. The fever dreams came to me that night, in snatches of burning sleep, and toward morning I lay restlessly awake, moving from side to side, famishing for drink, but rejecting it, when they brought it to my lips. The next day, my kind hostess gave me some nourishing soup, but after a vain effort to partake of it, I was compelled to put it aside. O'Ganlon procured some pickled fruit and vegetables from a sutler, which I ate voraciously, quaffing the vinegar like wine. Some of my regimental friends heard of my illness, and they sent me quiet luxuries, which gladdened me, though I did not eat. During the day I had some moments of ease, when I tried to read. There was a copy of Wordsworth's poems in the house, and I used to repeat stanzas from "Peter Bell," till they rang, in eddies of rhyme, through my weak brain, and continued to scan and jangle far into the nights. Some of these fever-dreams were like delusions in delirium: peopled with monsters, that grinned and growled. Little black globules used to leer from corners, and after a time they began to revolve toward me, increasing as they came, and at length rolling like mountains of surge. I frequently woke with a scream, and found my body in profuse perspiration. There were fiery snakes, also, that, at first, moved slowly around me, and I followed them with red and terrified eyes. After awhile they flashed in circles of lightning, and hissed showers of sparks, until I became quite crazed with fear. The most horrible apparitions used to come to my bedside, and if I dropped to sleep with any thought half formed or half developed, the odd half of that thought became impregnated, somehow, and straightway loomed up a goblin, or a giant, or a grotesque something, that proceeded to torture me, like a sort of Frankenstein, for having made it. Amid all these ghastly things, there came beautiful glimpses of form, scene, and sensation, that straightway changed to horrors. I remember, for example, that I was gliding down a stream, where the boughs overhead were as shady as the waters, and there were holy eyes that seemed to cool my fever; but suddenly the stream became choked with corpses, that entangled their dead limbs with mine, until I strangled and called aloud,--waking up O'Ganlon and some reporters who proposed to give me morphine, that I might not alarm the house. How the poor soldiers fared, in the hot hospitals, I shudder to think; but a more merciful decree spared my life, and kind treatment met me at every hand. Otherwise, I believe, I should not be alive to-day to write this story; for the fever had seized me in its severest form, and I had almost tutored myself to look upon my end, far from my home and on the very eve of my manhood. O'Ganlon, at last, resolved to send me to White House, and started thither one day, to obtain a berth for me upon a Sanitary steamer. The next day an ambulance came to the door. I tried to sit up in bed, and succeeded; I feebly robed myself and staggered to the stairs. I crawled, rather than walked, to the hall below; but when I took a chair, and felt the cool breeze from the oaks fanning my hair, I seemed to know that I should get well. "Boom! Boom! Boom!" pealed some cannon at the moment, and all the windows shook with the concussion. Directly we heard volleys of musketry, and then the camps were astir. Horses went hither and thither; signal flags flashed to-and-fro; a battery of the Reserve Artillery dashed down the lane. I felt my strength coming back with the excitement; I even smiled feebly as the guns thundered past. "Take away your ambulance, old fellow," I said, "I shan't go home till I see a battle." CHAPTER XV. TWO DAYS OF BATTLE. The Confederates had been waiting two months for McClellan's advance. Emboldened by his delay they had gathered the whole of their available strength from remote Tennessee, from the Mississippi, and from the coast, until, confident and powerful, they crossed Meadow Bridge on the 26th of June, 1862, and drove in our right wing at Mechanicsville. The reserves of Gen. McCall were stationed here; they made a wavering resistance,--wherein four companies of Bucktails were captured bodily,--and fell back at nightfall upon Porter's Corps, at Gaines's Mill. Fitz John Porter commanded the brigades of Gens. Sykes and Morrell,--the former made up solely of regulars. He appeared to have been ignorant of the strength of the attacking party, and he telegraphed to McClellan, early on Thursday evening, that he required no reinforcements, and that he could hold his ground. The next morning he was attacked in front and flank; Stewart's cavalry fell on his right, and turned it at Old Church. He formed at noon in new line of battle, from Gaines's House, along the Mill Road to New Coal Harbor; but stubbornly persisted in the belief that he could not be beaten. By three o'clock he had been driven back two miles, and all his energies were unavailing to recover a foot of ground. He hurled lancers and cavalry upon the masses of Jackson and the Hills, but the butternut infantry formed impenetrable squares, hemmed in with rods of steel, and as the horsemen galloped around them, searching for previous points, they were swept from their saddles with volleys of musketry. He directed the terrible fire of his artillery upon them, but though the gray footmen fell in heaps, they steadily advanced, closing up the gaps, and their lines were like long stretches of blaze and ball. Their fire never slackened nor abated. They loaded and moved forward, column on column, like so many immortals that could not be vanquished. The scene from the balloon, as Lowe informed me, was awful beyond all comparison,--of puffing shells and shrieking shrapnel, with volleys that shattered the hills and filled the air with deathly whispers. Infantry, artillery, and horse turned the Federal right from time to time, and to preserve their order of battle the whole line fell back toward Grapevine Bridge. At five o'clock Slocum's Division of volunteers crossed the creek from the south side, and made a desperate dash upon the solid columns of the Confederates. At the same time Toombs's Georgia Brigade charged Smith's redoubt from the south side, and there was a probability of the whole of both armies engaging before dark. My fever of body had so much relinquished to my fever of mind, that at three o'clock I called for my horse, and determined to cross the bridge, that I might witness the battle. It was with difficulty that I could make my way along the narrow corduroy, for hundreds of wounded were limping from the field to the safe side, and ammunition wagons were passing the other way, driven by reckless drivers who should have been blown up momentarily. Before I had reached the north side of the creek, an immense throng of panic-stricken people came surging down the slippery bridge. A few carried muskets, but I saw several wantonly throw their pieces into the flood, and as the mass were unarmed, I inferred that they had made similar dispositions. Fear, anguish, cowardice, despair, disgust, were the predominant expressions of the upturned faces. The gaunt trees, towering from the current, cast a solemn shadow upon the moving throng, and as the evening dimness was falling around them, it almost seemed that they were engulfed in some cataract. I reined my horse close to the side of a team, that I might not be borne backward by the crowd; but some of the lawless fugitives seized him by the bridle, and others attempted to pull me from the saddle. "Gi' up that hoss!" said one, "what business you got wi' a hoss?" "That's my critter, and I am in for a ride; so you get off!" said another. I spurred my pony vigorously with the left foot, and with the right struck the man at the bridle under the chin. The thick column parted left and right, and though a howl of hate pursued me, I kept straight to the bank, cleared the swamp, and took the military route parallel with the creek, toward the nearest eminence. At every step of the way I met wounded persons. A horseman rode past me, leaning over his pommel, with blood streaming from his mouth and hanging in gouts from his saturated beard. The day had been intensely hot and black boys were besetting the wounded with buckets of cool lemonade. It was a common occurrence for the couples that carried the wounded on stretchers to stop on the way, purchase a glass of the beverage, and drink it. Sometimes the blankets on the stretchers were closely folded, and then I knew that the man within was dead. A little fellow, who used his sword for a cane, stopped me on the road, and said-- "See yer! This is the ball that jes' fell out o' my boot." He handed me a lump of lead as big as my thumb, and pointed to a rent in his pantaloons, whence the drops rolled down his boots. "I wouldn't part with that for suthin' handsome," he said; "it'll be nice to hev to hum." As I cantered away he shouted after me-- "Be sure you spell my name right! it's Smith, with an 'E'--S-M-I-T-H-E." In one place I met five drunken men escorting a wounded sergeant; the latter had been shot in the jaw, and when he attempted to speak, the blood choked his articulation. "You let go him, pardner," said one of the staggering brutes, "he's not your sergeant. Go 'way!" "Now, sergeant," said the other, idiotically, "I'll see you all right, sergeant. Come, Bill, fetch him over to the corn-crib and we'll give him a drink." Here the first speaker struck the second, and the sergeant, in wrath, knocked them both down. All this time the enemy's cannon were booming close at hand. I came to an officer of rank, whose shoulder-emblem I could not distinguish, riding upon a limping field-horse. Four men held him to his seat, and a fifth led the animal. The officer was evidently wounded, though he did not seem to be bleeding, and the dust of battle had settled upon his blanched, stiffening face, like grave-mould upon a corpse. He was swaying in the saddle, and his hair--for he was bare-headed--shook across his white eyeballs. He reminded me of the famous Cid, whose body was sent forth to scare the Saracens. A mile or more from Grapevine Bridge, on a hill-top, lay a frame farm-house, with cherry trees encircling it, and along the declivity of the hill were some cabins, corn-sheds, and corn-bins. The house was now a Surgeon's headquarters, and the wounded lay in the yard and lane, under the shade, waiting their turns to be hacked and maimed. I caught a glimpse through the door, of the butchers and their victims; some curious people were peeping through the windows at the operation. As the processions of freshly wounded went by, the poor fellows, lying on their backs, looked mutely at me, and their great eyes smote my heart. Something has been written in the course of the war upon straggling from the ranks, during battle. But I have seen nothing that conveys an adequate idea of the number of cowards and idlers that so stroll off. In this instance, I met squads, companies, almost regiments of them. Some came boldly along the road; others skulked in woods, and made long detours to escape detection; a few were composedly playing cards, or heating their coffee, or discussing the order and consequences of the fight. The rolling drums, the constant clatter of file and volley-firing,--nothing could remind them of the requirements of the time and their own infamy. Their appreciation of duty and honor seemed to have been forgotten; neither hate, ambition, nor patriotism could force them back; but when the columns of mounted provosts charged upon them, they sullenly resumed their muskets and returned to the field. At the foot of the hill to which I have referred the ammunition wagons lay in long lines, with the horses' heads turned from the fight. A little beyond stood the ambulances; and between both sets of vehicles, fatigue-parties were going and returning to and from the field. At the top of the next hill sat many of the Federal batteries, and I was admonished by the shriek of shells that passed over my head and burst far behind me, that I was again to look upon carnage and share the perils of the soldier. The question at once occurred to me: Can I stand fire? Having for some months penned daily paragraphs relative to death, courage, and victory, I was surprised to find that those words were now unusually significant. "Death" was a syllable to me before; it was a whole dictionary now. "Courage" was natural to every man a week ago; it was rarer than genius to-day. "Victory" was the first word in the lexicon of youth yesterday noon; "discretion" and "safety" were at present of infinitely more consequence. I resolved, notwithstanding these qualms, to venture to the hill-top: but at every step flitting projectiles took my breath. The music of the battle-field, I have often thought, should be introduced in opera. Not the drum, the bugle, or the fife, though these are thrilling, after their fashion; but the music of modern ordnance and projectile, the beautiful whistle of the minie-ball, the howl of shell that makes unearthly havoc with the air, the whiz-z-z of solid shot, the chirp of bullets, the scream of grape and canister, the yell of immense conical cylinders, that fall like redhot stoves and spout burning coals. All these passed over, beside, beneath, before, behind me. I seemed to be an invulnerable something at whom some cunning juggler was tossing steel, with an intent to impinge upon, not to strike him. I rode like one with his life in his hand, and, so far as I remember, seemed to think of nothing. No fear, _per se_; no regret; no adventure; only expectancy. It was the expectancy of a shot, a choking, a loud cry, a stiffening, a dead, dull tumble, a quiver, and--blindness. But with this was mingled a sort of enjoyment, like that of the daring gamester, who has played his soul and is waiting for the decision of the cards. I felt all his suspense, _more_ than his hope; and withal, there was excitement in the play. Now a whistling ball seemed to pass just under my ear, and before I commenced to congratulate myself upon the escape, a shell, with a showery and revolving fuse, appeared to take the top off my head. Then my heart expanded and contracted, and somehow I found myself conning rhymes. At each clipping ball,--for I could hear them coming,--a sort of coldness and paleness rose to the very roots of my hair, and was then replaced by a hot flush. I caught myself laughing, syllabically, and shrugging my shoulders, fitfully. Once, the rhyme that came to my lips--for I am sure there was no mind in the iteration--was the simple nursery prayer-- "Now I lay me down to sleep," I continued to say "down to sleep," "down to sleep," "down to sleep," till I discovered myself, when I ceased. Then a shell, apparently just in range, dashed toward me, and the words spasmodically leaped up: "Now's your time. This is your billet." With the same insane pertinacity I continued to repeat "Now's your time, now's your time," and "billet, billet, billet," till at last I came up to the nearest battery, where I could look over the crest of the hill; and as if I had looked into the crater of a volcano, or down the fabled abyss into hell, the whole grand horror of a battle burst upon my sight. For a moment I could neither feel nor think. I scarcely beheld, or beholding did not understand or perceive. Only the roar of guns, the blaze that flashed along a zigzag line and was straightway smothered in smoke, the creek lying glassily beneath me, the gathering twilight, and the brownish blue of woods! I only knew that some thousands of fiends, were playing with fire and tossing brands at heaven,--that some pleasant slopes, dells, and highlands were lit as if the conflagration of universes had commenced. There is a passage of Holy Writ that comes to my mind as I write, which explains the sensation of the time better than I can do:-- "_He opened the bottomless pit; and there arose a smoke out of the pit, as the smoke of a great furnace; and the sun and the air were darkened by reason of the smoke of the pit._ "_And there came out of the smoke locusts upon the earth._"--Revelation, ix. 2, 3. In a few moments, when I was able to compose myself, the veil of cloud blew away or dissolved, and I could see fragments of the long columns of infantry. Then from the far end of the lines puffed smoke, and from man to man the puff ran down each line, enveloping the columns again, so that they were alternately visible and invisible. At points between the masses of infantry lay field-pieces, throbbing with rapid deliveries, and emitting volumes of white steam. Now and then the firing slackened for a short time, when I could remark the Federal line, fringed with bayonets, stretching from the low meadow on the left, up the slope, over the ridge, up and down the crest, until its right disappeared in the gloaming of wood and distance. Standards flapped here and there above the column, and I knew, from the fact that the line became momentarily more distinct, that the Federals were falling stubbornly back. At times a battery would dash a hundred yards forward, unlimber, and fire a score of times, and directly would return two hundred yards and blaze again. I saw a regiment of lancers gather at the foot of a protecting swell of field; the bugle rang thrice, the red pennons went upward like so many song birds, the mass turned the crest and disappeared, then the whole artillery belched and bellowed. In twenty minutes a broken, straggling, feeble group of horsemen returned; the red pennons still fluttered, but I knew that they were redder for the blood that dyed them. Finally, the Federal infantry fell back to the foot of the hill on which I stood; all the batteries were clustering around me, and suddenly a column of men shot up from the long sweep of the abandoned hill, with batteries on the left and right. Their muskets were turned towards us, a crash and a whiff of smoke swept from flank to flank, and the air around me rained buck, slug, bullet, and ball! The incidents that now occurred in rapid succession were so thrilling and absorbing that my solicitude was lost in their grandeur. I sat like one dumb, with my soul in my eyes and my ears stunned, watching the terrible column of Confederates. Each party was now straining every energy,--the one for victory, the other against annihilation. The darkness was closing in, and neither cared to prolong the contest after night. The Confederates, therefore, aimed to finish their success with the rout or capture of the Federals, and the Federals aimed to maintain their ground till nightfall. The musketry was close, accurate, and uninterrupted. Every second was marked by a discharge,--the one firing, the other replying promptly. No attempt was now made to remove the wounded; the coolness of the fight had gone by, and we witnessed only its fury. The stragglers seemed to appreciate the desperate emergency, and came voluntarily back to relieve their comrades. The cavalry was massed, and collected for another grand charge. Like a black shadow gliding up the darkening hillside, they precipitated themselves upon the columns: the musketry ceased for the time, and shrieks, steel strokes, the crack of carbines and revolvers succeeded. Shattered, humiliated, sullen, the horse wheeled and returned. Then the guns thundered again, and by the blaze of the pieces, the clods and turf were revealed, fitfully strewn with men and horses. The vicinity of my position now exhibited traces of the battle. A caisson burst close by, and I heard the howl of dying wretches, as the fires flashed like meteors. A solid shot struck a field-carriage not thirty yards from my feet, and one of the flying splinters spitted a gunner as if he had been pierced by an arrow. An artillery-man was standing with folded arms so near that I could have reached to touch him; a whistle and a thumping shock and he fell beneath my nag's head. I wonder, as I calmly recall these episodes now, how I escaped the death that played about me, chilled me, thrilled me,--but spared me! "They are fixing bayonets for a charge. My God! See them come down the hill." In the gathering darkness, through the thick smoke, I saw or seemed to see the interminable column roll steadily downward. I fancied that I beheld great gaps cut in their ranks though closing solidly up, like the imperishable Gorgon. I may have heard some of this next day, and so confounded the testimonies of eye and ear. But I knew that there was a charge, and that the drivers were ordered to stand by their saddles, to run off the guns at any moment. The descent and bottom below me, were now all ablaze, and directly above the din of cannon, rifle, and pistol, I heard a great cheer, as of some salvation achieved. "The Rebels are repulsed! We have saved the guns!" A cheer greeted this announcement from the battery-men around me. They reloaded, rammed, swabbed, and fired, with naked arms, and drops of sweat furrowed the powder-stains upon their faces. The horses stood motionless, quivering not half so much as the pieces. The gristly officers held to their match-strings, smothering the excitement of the time. All at once there was a running hither and thither, a pause in the thunder, a quick consultation-- "'Sdeath! They have flanked us again." In an instant I seemed overwhelmed with men. For a moment I thought the enemy had surrounded us. "It's all up," said one; "I shall cross the river." I wheeled my horse, fell in with the stream of fugitives, and was borne swiftly through field and lane and trampled fence to the swampy margin of the Chickahominy. At every step the shell fell in and among the fugitives, adding to their panic. I saw officers who had forgotten their regiments or had been deserted by them, wending with the mass. The wounded fell and were trodden upon. Personal exhibitions of valor and determination there were; but the main body had lost heart, and were weary and hungry. As we approached the bridge, there was confusion and altercation ahead. The people were borne back upon me. Curses and threats ensued. "It is the Provost-guard," said a fugitive, "driving back the boys." "Go back!" called a voice ahead. "I'll blow you to h--ll, if you don't go back! Not a man shall cross the bridge without orders!" The stragglers were variously affected by this intelligence. Some cursed and threatened; some of the wounded blubbered as they leaned languidly upon the shoulders of their comrades. Others stoically threw themselves on the ground and tried to sleep. One man called aloud that the "boys" were stronger than the Provosts, and that, therefore, the "boys" ought to "go in and win." "Where's the man that wants to mutiny?" said the voice ahead; "let me see him!" The man slipped away; for the Provost officer spoke as though he meant all he said. "Nobody wants to mutiny!" called others. "Three cheers for the Union." The wounded and well threw up their hats together, and made a sickly hurrah. The grim officer relented, and he shouted stentoriously that he would take the responsibility of passing the wounded. These gathered themselves up and pushed through the throng; but many skulkers plead injuries, and so escaped. When I attempted to follow, on horseback, hands were laid upon me and I was refused exit. In that hour of terror and sadness, there were yet jests and loud laughter. However keenly I felt these things, I had learned that modesty amounted to little in the army; so I pushed my nag steadily forward and scattered the camp vernacular, in the shape of imprecations, left and right. "Colonel," I called to the officer in command, as the line of bayonets edged me in, "may I pass out? I am a civilian!" "No!" said the Colonel, wrathfully. "This is no place for a civilian." "That's why I want to get away." "Pass out!" I followed the winding of the woods to Woodbury's Bridge,--the next above Grapevine Bridge. The approaches were clogged with wagons and field-pieces, and I understood that some panic-stricken people had pulled up some of the timbers to prevent a fancied pursuit. Along the sides of the bridge many of the wounded were washing their wounds in the water, and the cries of the teamsters echoed weirdly through the trees that grew in the river. At nine o'clock, we got under way,--horsemen, batteries, ambulances, ammunition teams, infantry, and finally some great siege 32s. that had been hauled from Gaines's House. One of these pieces broke down the timbers again, and my impression is that it was cast into the current. When we emerged from the swamp timber, the hills before us were found brilliantly illuminated with burning camps. I made toward head-quarters, in one of Trent's fields; but all the tents save one had been taken down, and lines of white-covered wagons stretched southward until they were lost in the shadows. The tent of General McClellan alone remained, and beneath an arbor of pine boughs, close at hand, he sat, with his Corps Commanders and Aides, holding a council of war. A ruddy fire lit up the historical group, and I thought at the time, as I have said a hundred times since, that the consultation might be selected for a grand national painting. The crisis, the hour, the adjuncts, the renowned participants, peculiarly fit it for pictorial commemoration. The young commander sat in a chair, in full uniform, uncovered. Heintzelman was kneeling upon a fagot, earnestly speaking. De Joinville sat apart, by the fire, examining a map. Fitz John Porter was standing back of McClellan, leaning upon his chair. Keyes, Franklin, and Sumner, were listening attentively. Some sentries paced to and fro, to keep out vulgar curiosity. Suddenly, there was a nodding of heads, as of some policy decided; they threw themselves upon their steeds, and galloped off toward Michie's. As I reined at Michie's porch, at ten o'clock, the bridges behind me were blown up, with a flare that seemed a blazing of the Northern Lights. The family were sitting upon the porch, and Mrs. Michie was greatly alarmed with the idea that a battle would be fought round her house next day. O'Ganlon, of Meagher's staff, had taken the fever, and sent anxiously for me, to compare our symptoms. I bade the good people adieu before I went to bed, and gave the man "Pat" a dollar to stand by my horse while I slept, and to awake me at any disturbance, that I might be ready to scamper. The man "Pat," I am bound to say, woke me up thrice by the exclamation of-- "Sure, yer honor, there's--well--to pay in the yard! I think ye and the Doctor had better ride off." On each of those occasions, I found that the man Pat had been lonesome, and wanted somebody to speak to. What a sleep was mine that night! I forgot my fever. But another and a hotter fever burned my temples,--the fearful excitement of the time! Whither were we to go, cut off from the York, beaten before Richmond,--perhaps even now surrounded,--and to be butchered to-morrow, till the clouds should rain blood? Were we to retreat one hundred miles down the hostile Peninsula,--a battle at every rod, a grave at every footstep? Then I remembered the wounded heaped at Gaines's Mill, and how they were groaning without remedy, ebbing at every pulse, counting the flashing drops, calling for water, for mercy, for death. So I found heart; for I was not buried yet. And somehow I felt that fate was to take me, as the great poet took Dante, through other and greater horrors. CHAPTER XVI. M'CLELLAN'S RETREAT. The scene presented in Michie's lawn and oak grove, on Saturday morning, was terribly picturesque, and characteristic of the calamity of war. The well was beset by crowds of wounded men, perishing of thirst, who made frantic efforts to reach the bucket, but were borne back by the stronger desperadoes. The kitchen was swarming with hungry soldiers who begged corn-bread and half-cooked dough from the negroes. The shady side-yard was dotted with pale, bruised, and bleeding people, who slept out their weariness upon the damp grass, forgetful, for the moment, of their sores. Ambulances poured through the lane, in solemn procession, and now and then, couples of privates bore by some wounded officer, upon a canvas "stretcher." The lane proving too narrow, at length, for the passing vehicles, the gate-posts and fence were torn up, and finally, the soldiers made a footway of the hall of the dwelling. The retreat had been in progress all night, as I had heard the wagons through my open windows. By daylight the whole army was acquainted with the facts, that we were to resign our depot at White House, relinquish the North bank of the river, and retire precipitately to the shores of the James. A rumor--indignantly denied, but as often repeated--prevailed among the teamsters, surgeons, and drivers, that the wounded were to be left in the enemy's hands. It shortly transpired that we were already cut off from the Pamunkey. A train had departed for White House at dawn, and had delivered its cargo of mortality safely; but a second train, attempting the passage, at seven o'clock had been fired into, and compelled to return. A tremendous explosion, and a shaft of white smoke that flashed to the zenith, informed us, soon afterward, that the railroad bridge had been blown up. About the same time, the roar of artillery recommenced in front, and regiments that had not slept for twenty hours, were hurried past us, to take position at the entrenchments. A universal fear now found expression, and helpless people asked of each other, with pale lips-- "How far have we to walk to reach the James?" It was doubtful, at this time, that any one knew the route to that river. A few members of the signal corps had adventured thither to open communication with the gunboats, and a small cavalry party of Casey's division had made a foray to New Market and Charles City Court House. But it was rumored that Wise's brigade of Confederates was now posted at Malvern Hills, closing up the avenue of escape, and that the whole right wing of the Confederate army was pushing toward Charles City. Malvern Hills, the nearest point that could be gained, was about twenty miles distant, and Harrison's Landing--presumed to be our final destination--was thirty miles away. To retreat over this distance, encumbered with baggage, the wounded and the sick, was discarded as involving pursuit, and certain calamity. Cavalry might fall upon us at every turning, since the greater portion of our own horse had been scouting between White House and Hanover, when the bridges were destroyed, and was therefore separated from the main army. At eight o'clock--weak with fever and scarcely able to keep in the saddle--I joined Mr. Anderson of the _Herald_, and rode toward the front, that I might discover the whereabouts of the new engagement. Winding through a cart-track in Michie's Woods, we came upon fully one third of the whole army, or the remnant of all that portion engaged at Gaines's Mill;--the Reserves, Porter's Corps, Slocum's division, and Meagher's brigade,--perhaps thirty-thousand men. They covered the whole of Tent's farm, and were drawn up in line, heavily equipped, with their colors in position, field officers dismounted, and detachments from each regiment preparing hot coffee at certain fires. A very few wagons--and these containing only ammunition--stood harnessed beside each regiment. In many cases the men lay or knelt upon the ground. Such hot, hungry, weary wretches, I never beheld. During the whole night long they had been crossing the Chickahominy, and the little sleep vouchsafed them had been taken in snatches upon the bare clay. Travelling from place to place, I saw the surviving heroes of the defeat: Meagher looking very yellow and prosaic; Slocum,--small, indomitable, active; Newton,--a little gray, a trifle proud, very mercurial, and curiously enough, a Virginian; Meade,--lithe, spectacled, sanguine; and finally General McCall, as grave, kindly odd and absent, as I had found him four months before. The latter worthy was one of the first of the Federal Generals to visit Richmond. He was taken prisoner the second day afterward, and the half of his command was slain or disabled. I went to and fro, obtaining the names of killed, wounded and missing, with incidents of the battle as well as its general plan. These I scrawled upon bits of newspaper, upon envelopes, upon the lining of my hat, and finally upon my shirt wristbands. I was literally filled with notes before noon, and if I had been shot at that time, endeavors to obtain my name would have been extremely difficult. I should have had more titles than some of the Chinese princes; some parts of me would have been found fatally wounded, and others italicized for gallant behavior. Indeed, I should have been shot in every part, taken prisoner at every place, killed outright in every skirmish, and marvellously saved through every peril. My tombstone would have been some hundreds of muster-rolls and my obituary a fortune to a newspaper. I recollect, with some amusement, the credit that each regiment took upon itself for distinguished behavior. There were few Colonels that did not claim all the honors. I fell in with a New Jersey brigade, that had been decimated of nearly half its _quota_, and a spruce young Major attempted to convey an idea of the battle to me. He said, in brief, that the New Jersey brigade, composed mainly of himself and his regiment, and some few organizations of little consequence,--although numbering ten thousand odd soldiers,--had received the whole shock of a quantity of "Rebels." The said "Rebels" appeared to make up one fourth part of the population of the globe. There was no end to them. They seemed to be several miles deep, longer and more crooked than the Pamunkey, and stood with their rear against Richmond, so that they couldn't fall back, even if they wanted to. In vain did the New Jersey brigade and his regiment attack them with ball and bayonet. How the "Rebels" ever withstood the celebrated charge of his regiment was altogether inexplicable. In the language of the Major,--"the New Jersey brigade,--and my regiment,--fit, and fit, and fit, and give 'em 'get out!' But sir, may I be----, well there (expression inadequate), we couldn't budge 'em. No, sir! (very violently,) not budge 'em, sir! _I_ told the boys to walk at 'em with cold steel. Says I: 'Boys, steel'ill fetch 'em, or nothin' under heaven!' Well, sir, at 'em we went,--me and the boys. There ain't been no sich charge in the whole war! Not in the whole war, sir! (intensely fervid;) leave it to any impartial observer if there has been! We went up the hill, square in the face of all their artillery, musketry, cavalry, sharpshooters, riflemen,--everything, sir! Everything! (energetically.) One o' my men overheard the Rebel General say, as we came up: says he,--'that's the gamest thing I ever see.' Well! we butchered 'em frightful. We must a killed a thousand or two of 'em, don't you think so, Adjutant? But, sir,--it was all in vain. No go, sir! no, sir, no go! (impressively.) And the New Jersey brigade and my regiment fell back, inch by inch, with our feet to the foe (rhetorically.) Is that so, boys?" The "boys," who had meantime gathered around, exclaimed loudly, that it was "true as preachin," and the Major added, in an undertone that his name was spelled * * *. "But where were Porter's columns?" said I, "and the Pennsylvania Reserves?" "I didn't see 'em," said the Major: "I don't think they was there. If they had a been, why wa'n't they on hand to save my regiment, and the New Jersey brigade?" It would be wrong to infer from these vauntings, that the Federals did not fight bravely and endure defeat unshrinkingly. On the contrary, I have never read of higher exemplifications of personal and moral courage, than I witnessed during this memorable retreat. And the young Major's boasting did not a whit reduce my estimate of his efficiency. For in America, swaggering does not necessarily indicate cowardice. I knew a Captain of artillery in Smith's division, who was wordier than Gratiano, and who exaggerated like Falstaff. But he was a lion in action, and at Lee's Mills and Williamsburg his battery was handled with consummate skill. From Trent's farm the roadway led by a strip of corduroy, through sloppy, swampy woods, to an open place, beyond a brook, where Smith's division lay. The firing had almost entirely ceased, and we heard loud cheers running up and down the lines, as we again ventured within cannon range. On this spot, for the second time, the Federals had won a decided success. And in so far as a cosmopolitan could feel elated, I was proud, for a moment, of the valor of my division. The victors had given me meals and a bed, and they had fed my pony when both of us were hungry. But the sight of the prisoners and the collected dead, saddened me somewhat. These two engagements have received the name of the First and Second battles of Golding's Farm. They resulted from an effort of Toombs's Georgia brigade to carry the redoubt and breastworks of General Smith. Toombs was a civilian, and formerly a senator from Georgia. He had no military ability, and his troops were driven back with great slaughter, both on Friday and Saturday. Among the prisoners taken was Colonel Lamar of (I think) the 7th Georgia regiment. He passed me, in a litter, wounded, as I rode toward the redoubt. Lamar was a beautiful man, shaped like a woman, and his hair was long, glossy, and wavy with ringlets. He was a tiger, in his love of blood, and in character self-willed and vehement. He was of that remarkable class of Southern men, of which the noted "Filibuster" Walker was the great exponent. I think I may call him an apostle of slavery. He believed it to be the destiny of our pale race to subdue all the dusky tribes of the earth, and to evangelize, with the sword, the whole Western continent, to the uses of master and man. Such people were called disciples of "manifest destiny." He threw his whole heart into the war; but when I saw him, bloodless, panting, quivering, I thought how little the wrath of man availed against the justice of God. From Smith's on the right, I kept along a military road, in the woods, to Sedgwick's and Richardson's divisions, at Fairoaks. Richardson was subsequently slain, at the second battle of Bull Run. He was called "Fighting Dick," and on this particular morning was talking composedly to his wife, as she was about to climb to the saddle. His tent had been taken down, and soldiers were placing his furniture in a wagon. A greater contrast I never remarked, than the ungainly, awkward, and rough General, with his slight, trim, pretty companion. She had come to visit him and had remained until commanded to retire. I fancied, though I was separated some distance, that the little woman wept, as she kissed him good by, and he followed her, with frequent gestures of good-hap, till she disappeared behind the woods. I do not know that such prosaic old soldiers are influenced by the blandishments of love; but "Fighting Dick" never wooed death so recklessly as in the succeeding engagements of New Market and Malvern Hills. From Seven Pines to the right of Richardson's head-quarters, ran a line of alternate breastwork, redoubt, and stockade. The best of these redoubts was held by Captain Petit, with a New York Volunteer battery. I had often talked with Petit, for he embodied, as well as any man in the army, the martial qualifications of a volunteer. He despised order. Nobody cared less for dress and dirt. I have seen him, sitting in a hole that he hollowed with his hands, tossing pebbles and dust over his head, like another Job. He had profound contempt for any man and any system that was not "American." I remember asking him, one day, the meaning of the gold lace upon the staff hats of the Irish brigade. "Means run like shell!" said Petit, covering me with dirt. "Don't the Irish make the best soldiers?" I ventured. "No!" said Petit, raining pebbles, "I had rather have one American than ten Irishmen." The fighting of Petit was contrary to all rule; but I think that he was a splendid artillery-man. He generally mounted the rampart, shook his fist at the enemy, flung up his hat, jumped down, sighted the guns himself, threw shells with wonderful accuracy, screamed at the gunners, mounted the rampart again, halloed, and, in short, managed to do more execution, make more noise, attract more attention and throw more dirt than anybody in the army. His redoubt was small, but beautifully constructed, and the parapet was heaped with double rows of sandbags. It mounted rifled field-pieces, and, at most times, the gunners were lying under the pieces, asleep. Not any of the entrenched posts among the frontier Indians were more enveloped in wilderness than this. The trees had been felled in front to give the cannon play, but behind and on each side belts of dense, dwarf timber covered the boggy soil. To the left of Petit, on the old field of Seven Pines, lay the divisions of Hooker and Kearney, and thither I journeyed, after leaving the redoubtable volunteer. Hooker was a New Englander, reputed to be the handsomest man in the army. He fought bravely in the Mexican war, and afterwards retired to San Francisco, where he passed a Bohemian existence at the Union Club House. He disliked McClellan, was beloved by his men, and was generally known as "Old Joe." He has been one of the most successful Federal leaders, and seems to hold a charmed life. In all probability he will become Commander-in-chief of one of the grand armies. Kearney has passed away since the date of which I speak. He was known as the "one-armed Devil," and was, by odds, the best educated of all the Federal military chiefs. But, singularly enough, he departed from all tactics, when hotly afield. His personal energy and courage have given him renown, and he loved to lead forlorn hopes, or head storming-parties, or ride upon desperate adventures. He was rich from childhood, and spent much of his life in Europe. For a part of this time he served as a cavalry-man with the French, in Algiers. In private life he was equally reckless, but his tastes were scholarly, and he was generous to a fault. Both Kearney and Hooker were kind to the reporters, and I owe the dead man many a favor. General Daniel Sickles commanded a brigade in this corps. To the left, and in the rear of Heintzelman's corps, lay the divisions of Casey and Couch, that had relapsed into silence since their disgrace at Seven Pines. General Casey was a thin-haired old gentleman, too gracious to be a soldier, although I believe that he is still in the service. His division comprised the extreme left of the Grand Army, and bordered upon a deep, impenetrable bog called "White Oak Swamp." It was the purpose of McClellan to place this swamp between him and the enemy, and defend its passage till his baggage and siege artillery had obtained the shelter of the gunboats, on the shores of the James. I rode along this whole line, to renew my impressions of the position, and found that sharp skirmishing was going on at every point. When I returned to Savage's, where McClellan's headquarters had temporarily been pitched, I found the last of the wagons creaking across the track, and filing slowly southward. The wounded lay in the out-houses, in the trains of cars, beside the hedge, and in shade of the trees about the dwelling. A little back, beside a wood, lay Lowe's balloon traps, and the infantry "guard," and cavalry "escort" of the Commander-in-chief were encamped close to the new provost quarters, in a field beyond the orchard. An ambulance passed me, as I rode into the lane; it was filled with sufferers, and two men with bloody feet, crouched in the trail. From the roof of Savage's house floated the red hospital flag. Savage himself was a quiet Virginia farmer, and a magistrate. His name is now coupled with a grand battle. I felt very hungry, at four o'clock, but my weak stomach revolted at coarse soldier fare, and I determined to ride back to Michie's. I was counselled to beware; but having learned little discretion afield, I cantered off, through a trampled tillage of wheat, and an interminable woods. In a half hour I rode into the familiar yard; but the place was so ruined that I hardly recognized it. Not a panel of fence remained: the lawn was a great pool of slime; the windlass had been wrenched from the well; a few gashed and expiring soldiers lay motionless beneath the oaks, the fields were littered with the remains of camps, and the old dwelling stood like a haunted thing upon a blighted plain. The idlers, the teamsters, and the tents were gone,--all was silence,--and in the little front porch sat Mrs. Michie, weeping; the old gentleman stared at the desolation with a working face, and two small yellow lads lay dolorously upon the steps. They all seemed to brighten up as I appeared at the gate, and when I staggered from my horse, both of them took my hands. I think that tears came into all our eyes at once, and the little Ethiops fairly bellowed. "My friends," I said, falteringly, "I see how you have suffered, and sympathize with you, from my heart." "Our beautiful property is ruined," said Mrs. Michie, welling up. "Yer's five years of labor,--my children's heritage,--the home of our old age,--look at it!" The old gentleman stood up gravely, and cast his eyes mournfully around. "I have nobody to accuse," he said; "my grief is too deep for any hate. This is war!" "What will the girls say when they come back?" was the mother's next sob; "they loved the place: do you think they will know it?" I did not know how to reply. They retained my hands, and for a moment none of us spoke. "Don't think, Mr. Townsend," said the chivalrous old gentleman again, "that we like you less because some of your country people have stripped us. Mother, where is the gruel you made for him?" The good lady, expecting my return, had prepared some nourishing chicken soup, and directly she produced it. I think she took heart when I ate so plentifully, and we all spoke hopefully again. Their kindness so touched me, that as the evening came quietly about us, lengthening the shadows, and I knew that I must depart, I took both their hands again, doubtful what to say. "My friends,--may I say, almost my parents? for you have been as kind,--good by! In a day, perhaps, you will be with your children again. Richmond will be open to you. You may freely go and come. Be comforted by these assurances. And when the war is over,--God speed the time!--we may see each other under happier auspices." "Good by!" said Mr. Michie; "if I have a house at that time, you shall be welcome." "Good by," said Mrs. Michie; "tell your mother that a strange lady in Virginia took good care of you when you were sick." I waved a final adieu, vaulted down the lane, and the wood gathered its solemn darkness about me. When I emerged upon Savage's fields, a succession of terrible explosions shook the night, and then the flames flared up, at points along the railroad. They were blowing up the locomotives and burning the cars. At the same hour, though I could not see it, White House was wrapped in fire, and the last sutler, teamster, and cavalry-man had disappeared from the shores of the Pamunkey. I tossed through another night of fever, in the captain's tent of the Sturgis Rifles,--McClellan's body guard. And somehow, again, I dreamed fitfully of the unburied corpses on the field of Gaines's Mill. CHAPTER XVII. A BATTLE SUNDAY. In the dim of the morning of our Lord's Sabbath, the twenty-ninth of June, 1862, I sat in my saddle at Savage's. The gloom was very cheerless. A feeling of hopeless vagabondism oppressed me. I remembered the Disinherited Knight, the Wandering Jew, Robinson Crusoe, and other poor errants in the wide world, and wondered if any of them ever looked so ruefully as I, when the last wagon of the Grand Army disappeared through the shadow. The tent had been taken down at midnight. I had been dozing in the saddle, with parched lips and throbbing temples, waiting for my comrade. Head-quarters had been intending to move, without doing it, for four hours, and he informed me that it was well to stay with the Commanding General, as the Commanding General kept out of danger, and also kept in provisions. I was sick and petulant, and finally quarrelled with my friend. He told me, quietly, that I would regret my harshness when I should be well again. I set off for White Oak, but repented at "Burnt Chimneys," and turned back. In the misty dawn I saw the maimed still lying on the ground, wrapped in relics of blankets, and in one of the outhouses a grim embalmer stood amid a family of nude corpses. He dealt with the bodies of high officers only; for, said he-- "I used to be glad to prepare private soldiers. They were wuth a five dollar bill apiece. But, Lord bless you, a Colonel pays a hundred, and a Brigadier-General two hundred. There's lots of them now, and I have cut the acquaintance of everything below a Major. I might," he added, "as a great favor, do a Captain, but he must pay a Major's price. I insist upon that! Such windfalls don't come every day. There won't be another such killing for a century." A few horsemen of the escort loitered around head-quarters. All the tents but one had been removed, and the staff crouched sleepily upon the refuse straw. The rain began to drizzle at this time, and I unbuckled a blanket to wrap about my shoulders. Several people were lying upon dry places, here and there, and espying some planks a little remote, I tied my horse to a peach-tree, and stretched myself languidly upon my back. The bridal couch or the throne were never so soft as those knotty planks, and the drops that fell upon my forehead seemed to cool my fever. I had passed into a sort of cognizant sleep when a harsh, loud, cruel voice awakened me, and I seemed to see a great Polyphemus, stretching his hands into the clouds, and gaping like an earthquake. "Boy," I heard him say, to a slight figure, near at hand, "boy, what are you standing there for? What in ---- do you want?" "Nothing!" "Take it, and go, ---- ---- you! Take it, and go!" I peeped timorously from my place, and recognized the Provost-General of the Grand Army. He had been sleeping upon a camp chest, and did not appear to be refreshed thereby. "I feel sulky as ----!" he said to an officer adjoining; "I feel ---- bad-humored! Orderly!" "General!" "Whose horses are these?" "I don't know, General!" "Cut every ---- ---- one of 'em loose. Wake up these ---- ---- loafers with the point of your sabre! Every ---- ---- one of 'em! That's what I call ---- ----boldness!" He strutted off like the great Bomba or the Czar, and I thought I never beheld a more exceptional person in any high position. With a last look at Savage's white house, the abandoned wretches in the lawn, the blood-red hospital flag, the torn track and smouldering cars, I turned my face southward, crossed some bare plains, that had once been fields, and at eight o'clock passed down the Williamsburg road, toward Bottom Bridge. The original roadway was now a bottomless stretch of sand, full of stranded wheels, dead horses, shreds of blankets, discarded haversacks, and mounds of spilled crackers. Other routes for wagons had been opened across fields, over bluffs, around pits and bogs, and through thickets and woods. The whole country was crossed with deeply-rutted roads, as if some immense city had been lifted away, and only its interminably sinuous streets remained. Near Burnt Chimneys, a creek crossing the road made a ravine, and here I overtook the hindmost of the wagons. They had been stalled in the gorge, and a provost guard was hurrying the laggard teamsters. The creek was muddy beyond comparison, and at the next hill-top I passed "Burnt Chimneys," a few dumb witnesses that pointed to heaven. A mile or two further, I came to some of the retreating regiments, and also to five of the siege thirty-twos with which Richmond was to have been bombarded. The main army still lay back at their entrenchments to cover the retreat, and at ten o'clock I heard the roar of field guns; the pursuit had commenced, and the Confederates were pouring over the ramparts at Fairoaks. I did not go back; battles were of no consequence to me. I wanted some breakfast. If I could only obtain a cup of warm coffee and a fragment of meat, I thought that I might recover strength. But nothing could be obtained anywhere, for money or charity. The soldiers that I passed looked worn and hungry, for their predecessors had swept the country like herds of locusts; but one cheerful fellow, whom I addressed, produced a lump of fat pork that I tried to eat, but made a signal failure. All my baggage had been left at Michie's, where it remains to this moment. None cared to be hospitable to correspondents at this despondent hour, and a horrible idea of starvation took possession of my mind. A mile from White Oak Swamp, some distance back of the road, lay the Engineer Brigade. They were now on the eve of breaking camp, and when I reached Colonel McCloud Murphy's, his chests were packed, and all his provisions had gone ahead. He gave me, however, a couple of hard crackers and a draught of whiskey and quinine, whereby I rallied for a moment. At General Woodbury's I observed a middle-aged lady, making her toilet by a looking-glass hung against the tent-pole. She seemed as careful of her personal appearance, in this trying time, as if she had been at some luxurious court. There were several women on the retreat, and though the guns thundered steadily behind, they were never flurried, but could have received company, or accepted offers of marriage, with the utmost complacency. If there was any one that rouged, I am sure that no personal danger would have disturbed her while she heightened her roses; and she would have tied up her back hair in defiance of shell or grape. At Casey's ancient head-quarters, on the bluff facing White Oak Swamp, I found five correspondents. We fraternized immediately, and they all pooh-poohed the battle, as such an old story that it would be absurd to ride back to the field. We knew, however, that it was occurring at Peach Orchard, on a part of the old ground at Fairoaks. These gentlemen were in rather despondent moods, and there was one who opined that we were all to be made prisoners of war. In his own expressive way of putting it, we were to be "gobbled up." This person was stout and inclined to panting and perspiration. He wore glasses upon a most pugnacious nose, and his large, round head was covered with short, bristly, jetty hair. "I promised my wife," said this person, who may be called Cindrey, "to stay at home after the Burnside business. The Burnside job was very nearly enough for me. In fact I should have quite starved on the Burnside job, if I hadn't took the fever. And the fever kept me so busy that I forgot how hungry I was. So I lived over that." At this point he took off his glasses and wiped his face; the water was running down his cheeks like a miniature cataract, and his great neck seemed to emit jets of perspiration. "Well," he continued, "the Burnside job wasn't enough for me; I must come out again. I must follow the young Napoleon. And the young Napoleon has made a pretty mess of it. I never expect to get home any more; I know I shall be gobbled up!" A youngish, oldish, oddish fellow, whom they called "Pop," here told Mr. Cindrey to keep his pulse up and take a drink. A tall, large person, in semi-quaker garb, who did not look unlike George Fox, run to seed, said, with a flourish, that these battles were nothing to Shiloh. He was attached to the provincial press, and had been with the army of the West until recently. Without any exception, he was the "fussiest," most impertinent, most disagreeable man that I ever knew. He always made a hero of himself in his reports, and if I remember rightly, their headings ran after this fashion:-- "_Tremendous Battle at_ ROANOKE! _The Correspondent of_ THE BLUNDERBUSS _hoists the_ NATIONAL FLAG above the REBEL RAMPARTS!!!" or again--"_Grand Victory at_ SHILOH! _Mr. Twaddle, our Special Correspondent_, TAKEN PRISONER!!! _He_ ESCAPES!!! _He is_ FIRED UPON!!! _He wriggles through_ FOUR SWAMPS and SEVEN HOSTILE CAMPS! _He is_ AGAIN CAPTURED! _He_ STRANGLES _the sentry_! _He drinks the Rebel Commander, Philpot_, BLIND! _Philpot gives him_ THE PASSWORD!! --> _Philpot compliments the Blunderbuss._ <-- OUR _Correspondent gains the Gunboats_! _He is_ TAKEN ABOARD! _His welcome!_ _Description of_ HIS BOOTS! _Remarks, etc._, ETC., ETC!!!" This man was anxious to regulate not only his own newspaper, but he aspired to control the entire press. And his self adulation was incessant. He rung all the changes upon Shiloh. Every remark suggested some incident of Shiloh. He was a thorough Shilohite, and I regretted in my heart that the "Rebels" had not shut him away at Shiloh, that he might have enjoyed it to the end of his days. The man "Pop" produced some apple whiskey, and we repaired to a spring, at the foot of the hill, where the man "Pop" mixed a cold punch, and we drank in rotation. I don't think that Cindrey enjoyed his draught, for it filtered through his neck as if he had sprung a leak there; but the man Twaddle might have taken a tun, and, as the man "Pop" said, the effect would have been that of "pouring whiskey through a knot-hole." It was arranged among our own reporters, that I, being sick, should be the first of the staff to go to New York. The man "Pop" said jocosely, that I might be allowed to die in the bosom of my family. The others gave me their notes and lists, but none could give me what I most needed,--a morsel of food. At eleven o'clock our little party crossed White Oak Creek. There was a corduroy bridge upon which the teams travelled, and a log bridge of perilous unsteadiness for foot passengers. But the soldiers were fording the stream in great numbers, and I plunged my horse into the current so that he spattered a group of fellows, and one of them lunged at me with a bayonet. Beyond the creek and swamp, on the hillsides, baggage wagons and batteries were parked in immense numbers. The troops were taking positions along the edge of the bottom, to oppose incursions of the enemy, when they attempted pursuit, and I was told that the line extended several miles westward, to New Market Cross Roads, where, it was thought, the Confederates would march out from Richmond to offer battle. The roadway, beyond the swamp, was densely massed with horse, foot, cannon, and teams. The latter still kept toward the James, but the nags suffered greatly from lack of corn. Only indispensable material had been hauled from the Chickahominy, and the soldiers who fought the ensuing protracted battles were exhausted from hunger. Everything had an uncomfortable, transient, expectant appearance, and the feeble people that limped toward the _ultima thule_ looked fagged and wretched. There were some with balls in the groin, thigh, leg, or ankle, that made the whole journey, dropping blood at every step. They were afraid to lie down, as the wounded limbs might then grow rigid and stop their progress. While I pitied these maimed persons, I held the sick in greater sympathy. The troubles of the one were local; the others were pained in every bone. Bullets are fearful tenants, but fevers are worse. And some of the flushed, staggering folk, that reeled along the roadside, were literally out of their minds. They muttered and talked incoherently, and shouted ribald songs till my blood curdled to see them. At the first house on the right of the road, a half-mile past the Creek, I noticed many idle soldiers climbing the white palings, to watch something that lay in the yard. A gray-haired man was expiring, under the coolness of a spreading tree, and he was even now in the closing pangs. A comrade at his side bathed his brow with cool water, but I saw that he would shortly be with Lazarus or Dives. His hands were stretched stiffly by his sides, his feet were rigidly extended, and death was hardening into his bleached face. The white eyeballs glared sightlessly upward: he was looking into the other world. The heat at this time was so intolerable that our party, in _lieu_ of any other place of resort, resolved to go to the woods. The sun set in heaven like a fiery furnace, and we sweat at every pore. I was afraid, momentarily, of sunstroke, and my horse was bathed in foam. Some companies of cavalry were sheltered in the edges of the woods, and, having secured our nags, we penetrated the depths, and spread out our blankets that we might lie down. But no breath of air stirred the foliage. The "hot and copper sky" found counterpart in the burning earth, and innumerable flies and insects fastened their fangs in our flesh. Cindrey was upon the rack, and it seemed to me that he possessed a sort of capillary perspiration, for the drops stood at tips of each separate bristle. He appeared to be passing from the solid to the fluid state, and I said, ungenerously, that the existing temperature was his liquifying point. "Then," said the man "Pop," with a youngish, oldish smile, "we may as well liquor up." "I don't drink!" said Twaddle, with a flourish. "During all the perilous hours of Shiloh, I abstained. But I am willing to admit, in respect to heat, that Shiloh is nowhere at present. And, therefore, I drink with a protest." "No man can drink from my bottle, with a protest," said "Pop." "It isn't regular, and implies coercion. Now I don't coerce anybody, particularly you." "Oh!" said Twaddle, drinking like a fish, or, as "Pop" remarked, enough to float a gunboat; "oh! we often chaffed each other at Shiloh." "If you persist in reminding me of Shiloh," blurted Cindrey, "you'll be the ruin of me,--you and the heat and the flies. You'll have me dissolving into a dew." Here he wiped his forehead, and killed a large blue fly, that was probing his ear. We all resolved to go to sleep, and Twaddle said that _he_ slept like a top, in the heat of action, at Shiloh. "Pop" asked him, youngishly, to be kind enough to capture no redoubts while we slumbered, and not to raise the national flag over any ramparts for fifteen minutes. Then he grinned oldishly, and commenced to snore, with his flask in his bosom. I am certain that nobody ever felt a tithe of the pain, hunger, heat, and weariness, which agonized me, when I awoke from a half-hour's sweltering nap. My clothing was soaking with water; I was almost blind; somebody seemed to be sawing a section out of my head; my throat was hot and crackling; my stomach knew all the pangs of emptiness; I had scarcely strength to motion away the pertinacious insects. A soldier gave me a trifle of boiling water from his canteen; but I gasped for air; we were living in a vacuum. Sahara could not have been so fierce and burning. Two of us started off to find a spring. We made our way from shade to shade, expiring at every step, and finally, at the base of the hill, on the brink of the swamp, discovered a rill of tepid water, that evaporated before it had trickled a hundred yards. If a sleek and venomous water-snake--for there were thousands of them hereabout--had coiled in the channel, I would still have sucked the draught, bending down as I did. Then I bethought me of my pony. He had neither been fed nor watered for twenty hours, and I hastened to obtain him from his place along the woodside. To my terror, he was gone. Forgetful of my weakness, I passed rapidly, hither and thither, inquiring of cavalry-men, and entertaining suspicions of every person in the vicinity. Finally, I espied him in charge of a rough, thievish sabreman, who affected not to see me. I went up to the animal, and pulled the reins from his shoulder, to discover the brand mark,--"U. S." As I surmised, he had not been branded, and I turned indignantly upon the fellow:-- "My friend, how came you by this horse?" "Quartermaster!" said the man, guiltily. "No sir! He belongs to me. Take off that cavalry-saddle, and find mine, immediately." "Not if the court knows itself," said the man--"and it thinks it do!" "Then," said I, white with rage, "I shall report you at once, for theft." "You may, if you want to," replied the man, carelessly. I struck off at once for the new Provost Quarters, at a farm-house, close by. The possible failure to regain my animal, filled me with rueful thoughts. How was I, so dismounted, to reach the distant river? I should die, or starve, on the way. I thought I should faint, when I came to the end of the first field, and leaned, tremblingly, against a tree. I caught myself sobbing, directly, like a girl, and my mind ran upon the coolness of my home with my own breezy bedroom, soft paintings, and pleasant books. These themes tortured me with a consciousness of my folly. I had forsaken them for the wickednesses of this unhappy campaign. And my body was to blacken by the road-side,--the sable birds of prey were to be my mourners. But, looking through my tears, a moving something passed between me and the sky. A brownish bay pony, trailing a fence-rail by his halter, and browsing upon patches of oats. I whistled thrice and the faithful animal trotted to my feet, and extended his great nose to be rubbed. I believe that this horse was the only living thing in the army that sympathized with me. He knew that I was sick, and I thought once, that, like the great dogs of Saint Bernard, he was about to get upon his knees, that I might the more readily climb upon his back. He did, however, stand quietly, while I mounted, and I gave him a drink at the foot of the hill. Returning, I saw the soldier, wrongfully accused, eyeing me from his haunt beneath the trees. I at once rode over to him, and apologized for my mistake. "Never mind," said the man, complacently. "You was all right. I might a done the same thing. Fact is," he added, "I did hook this hoss, but I knew you wan't the party." During the rest of the day I travelled disconsolately, up and down the road, winding in and out of the lines of teams. I was assured that it would be impossible to get to the James till next day, as no portion of that army had yet advanced so far. The moody minutes of that afternoon made the longest part of my life, while the cannon at Peach Orchard and Savage's, roared and growled incessantly. Toward the close of the day I fell in with Captain Hill, of the New York Saratoga regiment, who gave me the outline of the fight. The Confederates had discovered that we were falling back, by means of a balloon, of home manufacture,--the first they had been able to employ during the entire war. They appeared at our entrenchments on Sunday morning, and finding them deserted, commenced an irregular pursuit, whereby, they received terrible volleys of musketry from ambuscaded regiments, and retired, in disorder, to the ramparts. This was the battle of "Peach Orchard," and was disastrous to the Southerners. In the afternoon, they again essayed to advance, but more cautiously. The Federals, meantime, lay in order of battle upon Savage's, Dudley's, and Crouch's farms, their right resting on the Chickahominy, their centre on the railroad, and their left beyond the Williamsburg turnpike. For a time, an artillery contest ensued, and the hospitals at Savage's, where the wounded lay, were thrice fired upon. The Confederates finally penetrated the dense woods that belted this country, and the battle, at nightfall, became fervid and sanguinary. The Federals held their ground obstinately, and fell back, covered by artillery, at midnight. The woods were set on fire, in the darkness, and conflagration painted fiery terrors on the sky. The dead, littered all the fields and woods. The retreating army had marked its route with corpses. This was the battle of "Savage's," and neither party has called it a victory. During the rest of the night the weary fugitives were crossing White Oak Creek and Swamp. Toward daybreak, the last battery had accomplished the passage; the bridge was destroyed; and preparations were made to dispute the pursuit in the morning. I noted these particulars and added to my lists of dead and captured. At dusk I was about to sleep, supperless, upon the bare ground, when my patron, Colonel Murphy, again came in sight, and invited me to occupy a shelter-tent, on the brow of the hill at White Oak. To my great joy, he was able to offer me some stewed beef, bread and butter, and hot coffee. I ate voraciously, seizing the food in my naked fingers, and rending it like a beast. The regiment of Colonel Murphy was composed of laborers, and artificers of every possible description. There were blacksmiths, moulders, masons, carpenters, boat-builders, joiners, miners, machinists, riggers, and rope-makers. They could have bridged the Mississippi, rebuilt the Tredegar works, finished the Tower of Babel, drained the Chesapeake, constructed the Great Eastern, paved Broadway, replaced the Grand Trunk railroad, or tunnelled the Straits of Dover. I have often thought that the real greatness of the Northern army lay in its ingenuity and industry, not in its military qualifications. Our conversation turned upon these matters, as we sat before the Colonel's tent in the evening, and a Chaplain represented the feelings of the North in this manner: "We must whip them. We have got more money, more men, more ships, more ingenuity. They are bound to knuckle at last. If we have to lose man for man with them, their host will die out before ours. And we wont give up the Union,--not a piece of it big enough for a bird or a bee to cover,--though we reduce these thirty millions one half, and leave only the women and children to inherit the land." The heart of the army was now cast down, though a large portion of the soldiers did not know why we were falling back. I heard moody, despondent, accusing mutterings, around the camp-fires, and my own mind was full of grief and bitterness. It seemed that our old flag had descended to a degenerate people. It was not now, as formerly, a proud recollection that I was an American. If I survived the retreat, it would become my mission to herald the evil tidings through the length and breadth of the land. If I fainted in their pursuit, a loathsome prison, or a grave in the trenches, were to be my awards. When I lay down in a shelter-tent, rolling from side to side, I remembered that this was the Sabbath day. A battle Sabbath! How this din and slaughter contrasted with my dear old Lord's days in the prayerful parsonage! The chimes in the white spire, where the pigeons cooed in the hush of the singing, were changed to cannon peals; and the boys that dozed in the "Amen corner," were asleep forever in the trampled grain-fields. The good parson, whose clauses were not less truthful, because spoken through his nose, now blew the loud trumpet for the babes he had baptized, to join the Captains of fifties and thousands; and while the feeble old women in the side pews made tremulous responses to the prayer for "thy soldiers fighting in thy cause," the banners of the Republic were craped, dusty, and bloody, and the scattered regiments were resting upon their arms for the shock of the coming dawn. Thus I thought, tossing and talking through the long watches, and toward morning, when sleep brought fever-dreams, a monstrous something leered at me from the blackness, saying, in a sort of music-- "Gobbled up! Gobbled up!" CHAPTER XVIII. BY THE RIVERSIDE. A crash and a stunning shock, as of a falling sphere, aroused me at nine o'clock. A shell had burst in front of our tent, and the enemy's artillery was thundering from Casey's old hill, beyond the swamp. As I hastily drew on my boots,--for I had not otherwise undressed,--I had opportunity to remark one of those unaccountable panics which develop among civilian soldiers. The camps were plunged into disorder. As the shells dropped here and there, among the tents and teams, the wildest and most fearful deeds were enacted. Here a caisson blew up, tearing the horses to pieces, and whirling a cannoneer among the clouds. There an ammunition wagon exploded, and the air seemed to be filled with fragments of wood, iron, and flesh. A boy stood at one of the fires, combing out his matted hair; suddenly his head flew off, spattering the brains, and the shell--which we could not see--exploded in a piece of woods, mutilating the trees. The effect upon the people around me was instantaneous and appalling. Some, that were partially dressed, took to their heels, hugging a medley of clothing. The teamsters climbed into the saddles, and shouted to their nags, whipping them the while. If the heavy wheels hesitated to revolve, they left horses and vehicles to their fate, taking themselves to the woods; or, as in some cases, cut traces and harness, and galloped away like madmen. In a twinkling our camps were almost deserted, and the fields, woods, and roads were alive with fugitives, rushing, swearing, falling, and trampling, while the fierce bolts fell momentarily among them, making havoc at every rod. To join this flying, dying mass was my first impulse; but after-thought reminded me that it would be better to remain. I must not leave my horse, for I could not walk the whole long way to the James, and the fever had so reduced me that I hardly cared to keep the little life remaining. I almost marvelled at my coolness; since, in the fulness of strength and health, I should have been one of the first of the fugitives; whereas, I now looked interestedly upon the exciting spectacle, and wished that it could be daguerreotyped. Before our artillery could be brought to play, the enemy, emboldened at his success, pushed a column of infantry down the hill, to cross the creek, and engage us on our camping-ground. For a time I believed that he would be successful, and in that event, confusion and ruin would have overtaken the Unionists. The gray and butternut lines appeared over the brow of the hill,--they wound at double quick through the narrow defile,--they poured a volley into our camps when half-way down, and under cover of the smoke they dashed forward impetuously, with a loud huzza. The artillery beyond them kept up a steady fire, raining shell, grape, and canister over their heads, and ploughing the ground on our side, into zigzag furrows,--rending the trees, shattering the ambulances, tearing the tents to tatters, slaying the horses, butchering the men. Directly Captain Mott's battery was brought to bear; but before he could open fire, a solid shot struck one of his twelve-pounders, breaking the trunnion and splintering the wheels. In like manner one of his caissons blew up, and I do not think that he was able to make any practise whatever. A division of infantry was now marched forward, to engage the Confederates at the creek side; but two of the regiments--and I think that one was the 20th New York--turned bodily, and could not be rallied. The moment was full of significance, and I beheld these failures with breathless suspense. In five minutes the pursuers would gain the creek, and in ten, drive our dismayed battalions, like chaff before the wind. I hurried to my horse, that I might be ready to escape. The shell and ball still made music around me. I buckled up my saddle with tremulous fingers, and put my foot upon the stirrup. But a cheer recalled me and a great clapping of hands, as at some clever performance in the amphitheatre. I looked again. A battery from our position across the road, had opened upon the Confederate infantry, as they reached the very brink of the swamp. For a moment the bayonets tossed wildly, the dense column staggered like a drunken man, the flags rose and fell, and then the line fell back disorderly. At that instant a body of Federal infantry, that I had not seen, appeared, as by invocation; their steel fell flashingly, a column of smoke enveloped them, the hills and skies seemed to split asunder with the shock,--and when I looked again, the road was strewn with the dying and dead; the pass had been defended. As the batteries still continued to play, and as the prospect of uninterrupted battle during the day was not a whit abated, I decided to resume my saddle, and, if possible, make my way to the James. The geography of the country, as I had deciphered it, satisfied me that I must pass "New Market," before I could rely upon my personal safety. New Market was a paltry cross-road's hamlet, some miles ahead, but as near to Richmond as White Oak Creek. The probabilities were, that the Confederates would endeavor to intercept us at this point, and so attack us in flank and rear. As I did not witness either of these battles, though I heard the discharge of every musket, it may be as well to state, in brief, that June 30 was marked by the bloodiest of all the Richmond struggles, excepting, possibly, Gaines's Mill. While the Southern artillery engaged Franklin's corps, at White Oak Crossing, and their left made several unavailing attempts to ford the creek with infantry,--their entire right and centre, marched out the Charles City Road, and gave impetuous battle at New Market. The accounts and the results indicate that the Federals won the day at New Market, sheerly by good fighting. They were parching with thirst, weak with hunger, and it might have been supposed that reverses had broken their spirit. On the contrary they did not fall back a rod, during the whole day, and at evening Heintzelman's corps crowned their success by a grand charge, whereat the Confederates broke and were pursued three miles toward Richmond. The gunboats Galena and Aroostook, lying in the James at Turkey Bend, opened fire at three o'clock, and killed promiscuously, Federals and Confederates. But the Southern soldiers were superstitious as to gunboats, and they could not be made to approach within range of the Galena's monstrous projectiles. I shall always recall my journey from White Oak to Harrison's Bar, as marked by constantly increasing beauties of scenery, and terrors of event. At every hoof-fall I was leaving the low, boggy, sparsely settled Chickahominy region, for the high farm-lands of the James. The dwellings, as I progressed, became handsome; the negro quarters were less like huts and cattle-sheds; the ripe wheatfields stretched almost to the horizon; the lawns and lanes were lined with ancient shade-trees; there were picturesque gates and lodges; the fences were straight and whitewashed, there were orchards, heavy with crimson apples, where the pumpkins lay beneath, like globes of gold, in the rows of amber corn. Into this patriarchal and luxuriant country, the retreating army wound like a great devouring serpent. It was to me, the coming back of the beaten _jetters_ through _Midgards_, or the repulse of the fallen angels from heaven, trampling down the river-sides of Eden. They rode their team-horses into the wavy wheat, and in some places, where the reapers had been at work, they dragged the sheaves from the stacks, and rested upon them. Hearing of the coming of the army, the proprietors had vainly endeavored to gather their crops, but the negroes would not work, and they had not modern implements, whereby to mow the grain rapidly. The profanation of those glorious stretches of corn and rye were to me some of the most melancholy episodes of the war. No mind can realize how the grain-fields used to ripple, when the fresh breezes blew up and down the furrows, and the hot suns of that almost tropical climate, had yielded each separate head till the whole landscape was like a bright cloud, or a golden sea. The tall, shapely stalks seemed to reach out imploringly, like sunny-haired virgins, waiting to be gathered into the arms of the farmer. They were the Sabine women, on the eve of the bridal, when the insatiate Romans tore them away and trampled them. The Indian corn was yet green, but so tall that the tasselled tops showed how cunningly the young ears were ripening. There were melons in the corn-rows, that a week would have developed, but the soldiers dashed them open and sucked the sweet water. They threw clubs at the hanging apples till the ground was littered with them, and the hogs came afield to gorge; they slew the hogs and divided the fresh pork among themselves. As I saw, in one place, dozens of huge German cavalry-men, asleep upon bundles of wheat, I recalled their Frankish forefathers, swarming down the Apennines, upon Italy. The air was so sultry during a part of the day, that one was constantly athirst. But there was a belt of country, four miles or more in width, where there seemed to be neither rills nor wells. Happily, the roads were, in great part, enveloped in stately timber, and the shade was very grateful to men and horses. The wounded still kept with us, and many that were fevered. They did not complain with words; but their red eyes and painful pace told all the story. If we came to rivulets, they used to lie upon their bellies, along the margins, with their heads in the flowing water. The nags were so stiff and hot, that, when they were reined into creeks, they refused to go forward, and my brown animal once dropped upon his knees, and quietly surveyed me, as I pitched upon my hands, floundering in the pool. I remember a stone dairy, such as are found upon Pennsylvania grazing farms, where I stopped to drink. It lay up a lane, some distance from the road, and two enormous tulip poplar trees sheltered and half-concealed it. A tiny creek ran through the dairy, over cool granite slabs, and dozens of earthen milk-bowls lay in the water, with the mould of the cream brimming at the surface. A pewter drinking-mug hung to a peg at the side, and there were wooden spoons for skimming, straining pails, and great ladles of gourd and cocoanut. A cooler, tidier, trimmer dairy, I had not seen, and I stretched out my body upon the dry slabs, to drink from one of the milk-bowls. The cream was sweet, rich, and nourishing, and I was so absorbed directly, that I did not heed the footfalls of a tall, broad, vigorous man, who said in a quiet way, but with a deep, sonorous voice, and a decided Northern twang-- "Friend, you might take the mug. Some of your comrades will want to drink from that bowl." I begged his pardon hastily, and said that I supposed he was the proprietor. "I reckon that I must give over my ownership, while the army hangs around here," said the man; "but I must endure what I can't cure." Here he smiled grimly, and reached down the pewter cup. Then he bent over a fresh bowl, and dexterously dipped the cup full of milk, without seeming to break the cream. "Drink that," he said; "and if there's any better milk in these parts, I want to know the man." He looked at me critically, while I emptied the vessel, and seemed to enjoy my heartiness. "If you had been smart enough to come this way, victorious," added the man, straightforwardly, "instead of being out-generalled, whipped, and driven, I should enjoy the loss of my property a great deal more!" There was an irresistible heartiness in his tone and manner. He had, evidently, resolved to bear the misfortunes of war bravely. "You are a Northern man?" I said, inquiringly. "How do you know?" "There are no such dairies in Virginia; a Virginian never dipped a mug of milk after your fashion; you haven't the Virginia inflection, and very weak Virginia principles." The man laughed dryly, and filled himself a cup, which he drank sedately. "I reckon you are correct," he said; "pretty much correct, any way. I'm a New Yorker, from the Mohawk Valley, and I have been showing these folks how they can't farm. If there's anybody that farms better than I do, I want to know the man!" He looked at the flowing water, the clean slabs and walls, the shining tins, and smacked his lips satisfactorily. I asked him if he farmed with negroes, and if the prejudices of the country affected either his social or industrial interests. He answered that he was obliged to employ negroes, as he had thrice tried the experiment of working with whites, but with ill success. "_I_ would have kept 'em," he added, in his great voice, closing a prodigious fist, "but the men would not stay. I couldn't make the neighbors respect them. There was nobody for 'em to associate with. They were looked upon as niggers, and they got to feel it after a while. So I have had only niggers latterly; but I get more work from them than any other man in these parts. If there's anybody that gets more work out of niggers than I do, I want to know the man!" There was a sort of hard, hearty defiance about him, typical of his severe, angular race, and I studied his large limbs and grim, full face with curious admiration. He told me that he hired his negro hands from the surrounding slave-owners, and that he gave them premiums upon excess of work, approximating to wages. In this way they were encouraged to habits of economy, perseverance, and sprightliness. "I don't own a nigger," he said, "not one! But I don't think a nigger's much too good to be a slave. I won't be bothered with owning 'em. And I won't be conquered into 'the institution.' I said, when I commenced, that I should not buy niggers, and I won't buy niggers, because I said so! As to social disadvantages, every Northern man has 'em here. They called me an abolitionist; and a fellow at the hotel in Richmond did so to my face. I knocked him into a heap, and nobody has meddled with me since." "Of course," he said, after a moment, "it won't do to inflame these people. These people are like my bulls, and you mustn't shake a red stick at 'em. Besides, I'm not a fanatic. I never was. My wife's one of these people, and I let her think as she likes. But, if there's anybody in these parts that wants to interfere with me, I should like to know the man!" The contemptuous tone in which he mentioned "these people" amused me infinitely, and I believed that his resolute, indomitable manner would have made him popular in any society. He was shrewd, withal, and walked beside me to his gate. When the regiments halted to rest, by the wayside, he invited the field officers to the dairy, and so obtained guards to rid him of depredators. He would have escaped very handsomely, but the hand of war was not always so merciful, and a part of the battle of Malvern Hills was fought upon his property. I have no doubt that he submitted unflinchingly, and sat more stolidly amid the wreck than old Marius in battered Carthage. Until two o'clock in the afternoon I rode leisurely southward, under a scorching sky, but still bearing up, though aflame with fever. The guns thundered continuously behind, and the narrow roads were filled, all the way, with hurrying teams, cavalry, cannon, and foot soldiers. I stopped, a while, by a white frame church,--primly, squarely built,--and read the inscriptions upon the tombs uninterestedly. Some of the soldiers had pried open the doors, and a wounded Zouave was delivering a mock sermon from the pulpit. Some of his comrades broke up the meeting by singing-- "John Brown's body lies a mouldering in the grave," and then a Major ordered them out, and put a guard upon the building. The guard played cards upon the door sills. I was frequently obliged, by the crowded state of the roads, to turn aside into woods, fens, and fields, and so make precarious progress. Sometimes I strayed, unwittingly, a good way from the army, and recovered the route with difficulty. On one of these occasions, I was surprised by a person in civil dress, who seemed to shoot up out of the ground. He was the queerest, grimmest, fearfulest man that I have ever known, and, at first, I thought that the arch fiend had appeared before me. The wood was very deep here, and there were no wayfarers but we two. It was quite still; but now and then we heard the rumble of wagons, and the crack of teamster's whips. The man in question wore dead black beard, and his eyebrows were of the same intense, lustreless hue. So were his eyes and his hair; but the latter formed a circle or cowl around his head. He had a pale skin, his fingers, were long and bony, and he rode dexterously in and out, among the tree boles, with his hat in his hand. His horse was as black as himself, and, together, they made a half-brigandish, half-satanic appearance. I reined in sharply, when I saw this person, and he looked at me like the evil-eye, through his great owlish orbs. "Good day," he said, in profound basso, as low I think as "double G," and when he opened his mouth, I saw that his teeth were very white. I saluted him gravely, and, not without a shudder, rode beside him. He proved to be a sort of Missionary, from the Evangelical religious denominations of the North, to inquire into the spiritual condition of the soldiers. Camps were full of such people, but I had not found any man who appeared to be less qualified for his vocation; to have such a figure at one's deathbed, would be like a foretaste of the great fiend. He had a fashion of working his scalp half way down to his eyes, as he spoke, and when he smiled,--though he never laughed aloud,--his eyelashes did not contract, as with most people, but rather expanded, till his eyeballs projected from his head. On such occasions, his white teeth were revealed like a row of fangs, and his leprous skin grew yet paler. "The army has not even the form of godliness," said this man. In the course of his remarks, he had discovered that I was a correspondent, and at once turned the conversation into a politico-religious channel. "The form of godliness is gone," said the man again in "double G." "This is a calamitous fact! I would it were not so! I grieve to state it! But inquiry into the fact, has satisfied me that the form of godliness does not exist. Ah!" When the man said "Ah!" I thought that my horse would run away, and really, the tone was like the deep conjuration in Hamlet: "_swear-r-r-r_!" "For example," said the man, who told me that his name was Dimpdin,--"I made some remarks to the 1st New Jersey, on Sabbath week. The field officers directed the men to attend; I opened divine service with a feeling hymn; a very feeling hymn! A long measure hymn. By Montgomery! I commenced earnestly in prayer. In appropriate prayer! I spoke advisedly for a short hour. What were the results? The deplorable results? There were men, sir, in that assembly, who went to sleep. To sleep!" He must have gone a great way below "double G," this time, and I did not see how he could get back. He drew his scalp quite down to the bridge of his nose, and, seeing that my horse pricked up his ears, timorously smiled like the idol of Baal. "There were men, sir, who did worse. Not simply failing to be hearers of the word! But doers of evil! Men who played cards during the service. Played cards! Gambled! Gambled! And some,--abandoned wretches!--who mocked me! Lifted up their voices and mocked! Mockers, gamblers, slumberers!" I never heard anything so awful as the man Dimpdin's voice, at the iteration of these three words. They seemed to come from the bowels of the earth, and rang through the wood like the growl of a lion. He told me that he was engaged upon a Memorial to the Evangelical Union, which should state the number of unconverted men in the ranks, and the number of castaways. He accredited the loss of the campaign to the prevailing wickedness, but was unwilling to admit that the Southern troops were more religious. His theory of reform, if I remember it, embraced the raising of Chaplains to the rank of Major, with proportionate pay and perquisites, the establishment of a military religious bureau, and a Chaplain-General with Aides. Each soldier, officer, teamster, and drummer-boy was to have a Testament in his knapsack, and services should be held on the eve of every battle, and at roll-call in the mornings. There was to be an inspection of Testaments as of muskets. For swearing, a certain sum should be subtracted from the soldier's pay, and conferred upon the Chaplains. "In fact," said Dimpdin, tragically,--scalping himself meanwhile,--"the church must be recognized in every department, and if my Memorial be acted upon favorably, we shall have such victories, in three months, as will sweep Rebellion into the grave. Yes! Into the grave! The grave!" I was obliged to say, here, that my horse could not stand these sepulchral noises, and that my nerves, being shattered by the fever, were inadequate to bear the shock. So the man Dimpdin smiled, like a window-mummy, and contented himself with looking like Apollyon. We reached a rill directly, and he produced a wicker flask, with a Britannia drinking-case. "Young men love stimulating drinks," said Dimpdin,--"strong drinks! alcoholic drinks! Here is a portion of Monongahela! old Monongahela! We will refresh ourselves!" He found a lemon, accidentally, in his saddle-bag, and contrived an informal punch, with wonderful dexterity. I took a draught modestly, and he emptied the rest, with an "Ah!" that shook the woods. I wondered if the man Dimpdin would suggest the apportionment of flasks to soldiers, in his Evangelical report! He left me, when we regained the road, to ride with a lithe, bronchial person, in white neckcloth and coat cut close at the collar. They looked like the fox and the fiend, in the fable, and I seemed to hear the man Dimpdin's voice for three succeeding weeks. At three o'clock, I climbed a gentle hill,--and I was now very weary and weak,--and from the summit, looked upon the river James, flowing far off to the right, through woods, and bluffs, and grainfields, and reedy islands. At last, I had gained the haven. The bright waters below me seemed to cool my red, fiery eyes, and a sort of blessed blindness fell for a time upon me, so that, when I looked again my lashes were wet. The prospect was truly beautiful. Far to the west, standing out from the chalky bluffs, were scattered the white camps of Wise's Confederate brigade. Beyond, on the remote bank of the river, lay farm-lands, and stately mansions, and some one showed me, rising faintly in the distance, "Drury's Bluff," the site of Fort Darling, where the gunboats were repulsed in the middle of May. Below, in the river, lay the _Galena_, and a little way astern, the _Aroostook_. Signal-men, with flags, were elevated upon the masts of each, and the gunners stood upon the decks, as waiting some emergency. The vessels had steam up, and seemed to be ready for action at any moment. This was Grand Turkey Bend, and the rising ground on which I stood, was known as "Malvern Hills." A farm-house lay to my left, and repairing thither, I cast myself from the nag, and lay down in the shady yard, thankful that I had reached the haven, and only solicitous now to escape the further privations of McClellan's Peninsular Campaign. CHAPTER XIX. THE HOSPITAL TRANSPORT. An earnest desire now took possession of me, to be the first of the correspondents to reach New York. The scenes just transpired had been unparalleled in the war, and if, through me, the ---- should be the first to make them public, it would greatly redound to my credit. Perhaps no profession imparts an enthusiasm in any measure kindred to that of the American Newsgatherer. I was careless of the lost lives and imperilled interests, the suffering, the defeat: no emotions either of the patriot or the man influenced me. I only thought of the _eclat_ of giving the story to the world, and nurtured an insane desire to make to Fortress Monroe, by some other than the common expedient. That this was a paltry ambition I know; but I write what happened, and to the completion of my sketch of a correspondent, this is necessary to be said. I found Glumley at the old mansion referred to, and stealthily suggested to him the seizing of an open boat, whereby we might row down to the Fortress. He rejected it as impracticable, but was willing to hazard a horseback ride down the Peninsula. I knew that this would not do, and after a short time I continued my journey down the riverside, hopeful of finding some transport or Despatch boat. I was now in Charles City County, and the river below me was dotted with woodland islands. I soon got upon the main road to Harrison's Point or Bar, and followed the stream of ambulances and supply teams for more than an hour. At last we reached a diverging lane, through which we passed to a landing, close to a fine dwelling, whose style of architecture I may denominate, the "Gothic run mad." An old cider-press was falling into rottenness on the lawn; four soldiers were guarding the well, that the mob might not exhaust its precious contents, and between some negro-huts and the brink of the bluff, stood a cluster of broad-armed trees, beneath whose shade the ambulance-drivers were depositing the wounded. I have made these chapters sufficiently hideous, without venturing to transcribe these new horrors. Suffice it to say that the men whom I now beheld had been freshly brought from the fight of New Market, and were suffering the first agonies of their wounds. One hour before, they had felt all the lustiness of life and adventure. Now, they were whining like babes, and some had expired in the ambulances. The act of lifting them to the ground so irritated their wounds that they howled dismally, and yet were so exhausted that after lying upon the ground awhile, they quietly passed into sleep. Such are the hardening results of war, that some soldiers, who were unhurt, actually refused to give a trifle of river water from their canteens to their expiring comrades. At one time a brutal wrangle occurred at the well, and the guard was compelled to seek reinforcement, or the thirsty people would have massacred them. I was now momentarily adding to my notes of the battles, and the wounded men very readily gave me their names; for they were anxious that the account of their misfortunes should reach their families, and I think also, that some martial vanity lingered, even among those who were shortly to crumble away. A longboat came in from the Galena, after a time, and General McClellan, who had ridden down to the pier, was taken aboard. He looked to be very hot and anxious, and while he remained aboard the vessel, his staff dispersed themselves around the banks and talked over the issues of the contest. As the General receded from the strand, every sweep of the long oars was responded to from the hoarse cannon of the battle-field, and when he climbed upon deck, the steamer moved slowly up the narrow channel, and the signal-man in the foretop flourished his crossed flag sturdily. Directly, the _Galena_ opened fire from her immense pieces of ordnance, and the roar was so great that the explosions of field-guns were fairly drowned. She fired altogether by the direction of the signals, as nothing could be seen of the battle-field from her decks. I ascertained afterward that she played havoc with our own columns as well as the enemy's, but she brought hope to the one, and terror to the other. The very name of gunboat affrighted the Confederates, and they were assured, in this case, that the retreating invaders, had at length reached a haven. The _Galena_ kept up a steady fire till nightfall, and the Federals, taking courage, drove their adversaries toward Richmond, at eve. Meanwhile the Commanding General's escort and body-guard had encamped around us, and during the night the teams and much of the field cannon fell back. I obtained shelter and meals from Quartermaster Le Duke of Iowa, whose canvas was pitched a mile or more below, and as I tossed through the watches I heard the splashing of water in the river beneath, where the tired soldiers were washing away the powder of the battle. In the morning I retraced to head-quarters, and vainly endeavored to learn something as to the means of going down the river. Commanders are always anxious to grant correspondents passes after a victory; but they wish to defer the unwelcome publication of a defeat. I was advised by Quartermaster-General Van Vliet, however, to proceed to Harrison's Bar, and, as I passed thither, the last day's encounters--those of "Malvern Hills"--occurred. The scenes along the way were reiterations of terrors already described,--creaking ambulances, staggering foot soldiers, profane wagoners, skulking officers and privates, officious Provost guards, defiles, pools and steeps packed with teams and cannon, wayside houses beset with begging, gossiping, or malicious soldiers, and wavy fields of wheat and rye thrown open to man and beast. I was amused at one point, to see some soldiers attack a beehive that they might seize the honey. But the insects fastened themselves upon some of the marauders, and after indescribable cursing and struggling, the bright nectar and comb were relinquished by the toilers, and the ravishers gorged upon sweetness. Harrison's Bar is simply a long wharf, extending into the river, close by the famous mansion, where William Henry Harrison, a President of the United States, was born, and where, for two centuries, the scions of a fine old Virginia family have made their homestead. The house had now become a hospital, and the wounded were being conveyed to the pier, whence they were delivered over to some Sanitary steamers, for passage to Northern cities. I tied my horse to the spokes of a wagon-wheel, and asked a soldier to watch him, while I repaired to the quay. A half drunken officer was guarding the wharf with a squad of men, and he denied me admittance, at first, but when I had said something in adulation of his regiment--a trick common to correspondents--he passed me readily. The ocean steamer _Daniel Webster_ was about being cast adrift when I stepped on board, and Colonel Ingalls, Quartermaster in charge, who freely gave me permission to take passage in her, advised me not to risk returning to shore. So, reluctantly, I resigned my pony, endeared to me by a hundred adventures, and directly I was floating down the James, with the white teams and the tattered groups of men, receding from me, and each moment the guns of Malvern Hills growing fainter. Away! praised be a merciful God! away from the accursed din, and terror, and agony, of my second campaign,--away forever from the Chickahominy. For awhile I sat meditatively in the bow of the boat, full of strange perplexities and thankfulness. I had escaped the bullet, and fever, and captivity, and a great success in my profession was about to be accorded to me, but there was much work yet to be done. The rough material I had for a grand account of the closing of the campaign; but these fragmentary figures and notes must be wrought into narrative, and to avail myself of their full significance, I must lose no moment of application. I found that I was one of four correspondents on board, and we resolved to district the boat, each correspondent taking one fourth of the names of the sick and wounded. The spacious saloons, the clean deck, the stairways, the gangways, the hold, the halls,--all were filled with victims. They lay in rows upon straw beds, they limped feverishly here and there; some were crazed from sunstroke, or gashes; and one man that I remember counted the rivets in the boilers over the whole hundred miles of the journey, while another,--a teamster,--whipped and cursed his horses as if he had mistaken the motion of the boat for that of his vehicle. The _Daniel Webster_ was one of a series of transports supplied for the uses of the wounded by a national committee of private citizens. Her wood work was shining and glossy, her steel shone like mirrors, and she was cool as Paradise. Out of the smoke, and turmoil, and suffocation of battle these wretched men had emerged, to enjoy the blessedness, unappreciated before, of shelter, and free air and cleanliness. There was ice in abundance on board, and savory lemonade lay glassily around in great buckets. Women flitted from group to group with jellies, _bonbons_, cigars, and oranges, and the grateful eyes of the prostrate people might have melted one to tears. These women were enthusiasts of all ages and degrees, who proffered themselves, at the beginning of the war, as stewardesses and nurses. From the fact that some of them were of masculine natures, or, in the vocabulary of the times, "strong-minded," they were the recipients of many coarse jests, and imputations were made upon both their modesty and their virtue. But I would that any satirist had watched with me the good offices of these Florence Nightingales of the West, as they tripped upon merciful errands, like good angels, and left paths of sunshine behind them. The soldiers had seen none of their countrywomen for months, and they followed these ambassadors with looks half-idolatrous, half-downcast, as if consciously unworthy of so tender regard. "If I could jest die, now," said one of the poor fellows to me, "with one prayer for my country, and one for that dear young lady!" There was one of these daughters of the good Samaritan whose face was so full of coolness, and her robes so airy, flowing, and graceful, that it would have been no miracle had she transmuted herself to something divine. She was very handsome, and her features bore the imprint of that high enthusiasm which may have animated the maid of Arc. One of the more forward of the correspondents said to her, as she bore soothing delicacies to the invalids, that he missed the satisfaction of being wounded, at which she presented an orange and a cigar to each of us in turn. Among the females on board, I remarked one, very large, angular, and sanguine, who sat at a small table, dispensing luxuries with the manners of a despot and the charity of a child. She had a large vessel of boiling coffee, from which she drew spicy quantities at intervals; and when the troops thronged around eagerly, she rebuked the more forward, and called up some emaciated, bashful fellows, giving them the preference. Every soldier who accepted coffee was obliged to take a religious tract, and she gave them away with a grim satisfaction that was infinitely amusing and interesting. I ventured to ask this imperative person for a bottle of ink, and after some difficulty,--arising out of a mistaken notion on her part that I was dangerously wounded,--she vaulted over a chair, and disappeared into a state-room. When she returned, her arms were filled with a perfect wilderness of stationery, and having supplied each of us in turn, she addressed herself to me in the following sententious manner:-- "See here! You reporter! (There's ink!) I want to be put in the newspapers! Look at me! Now! Right straight! (Pens?) Here I am; thirteen months at work; been everywhere; done good; country; church; never noticed. Never!--Now! I want to be put in newspapers." At this point the Imperatress was called off by some soldiers, who presumed to draw coffee without her consent. She slapped one of them soundly, and at once overpowered him with kindnesses, and tracts; then she returned and gave me a photograph, representing herself with a basket of fruit, and a quantity of good books. I took note of her name, but unfortunately lost the memorandum, and unless she has been honored by some more careful scribe, I fear that her labors are still unrecognized. During much of the trip, I wrote material parts of my report, copied portions of my lists, and managed before dusk, to get fairly underway with my narrative. From the deck of the steamer I beheld at five o'clock, what I had long wished to see,--the famous island of Jamestown, celebrated in the early annals of the New World, as the home of John Smith, and of Nathaniel Bacon, and as the resort of the Indian Princess, Pocahontas. A single fragment of a tower, the remnant of the Colonial church, was the only ruin that I could see. At seven o'clock we dropped anchor in Hampton Roads, and a boat let down from the davits. Some of my wily compeers endeavored to fill all the stern seats, that I might not be pulled to shore; but I swung down by a rope, and made havoc with their shins, so that they gained nothing; the surf beat so vehemently against the pier at Old Point, that we were compelled to beach the boat, and I ran rapidly through the ordnance yard to the "Hygeia House," where our agent boarded; he had gone into the Fortress to pass the night, and when I attempted to follow him thither, a knot of anxious idlers, who knew that I had just returned from the battle-fields, attempted to detain me by sheer force. I dashed rapidly up the plank walk, reached the portal, and had just vaulted into the area, when the great gates swung to, and the tattoo beat; at the same instant the sergeant of guard challenged me:-- "Who comes there? Stand fast! Guard prime!" A dozen bright musket-barrels were levelled upon me, and I heard the click of the cocks as the fingers were laid upon the triggers. When I had explained, I was shown the Commandant's room, and hastening in that direction, encountered Major Larrabee, my old patron of the fifth Wisconsin regiment. He took me to the barracks, where a German officer, commanding a battery, lodged, and the latter accommodated me with a camp bedstead. Here I related the incidents of the engagements, and before I concluded, the room was crowded with people. I think that I gave a sombre narration, and the hearts of those who heard me were cast down. Still, they lingered; for the bloody story possessed a hideous fascination, and I was cross-examined so pertinaciously that my host finally arose, protesting that I needed rest, and turned the party out of the place. The old fever-dreams returned to me that night, and my brain spun round for hours before I could close my eyes. CHAPTER XX. ON FURLOUGH AWHILE. Counter winds and tides had so delayed the _Adelaide_, on which I departed for New York with my despatches, that it became a doubtful question as to whether we could make connection with the early train for New York. The captain shook his head distrustfully when he had looked at his watch, and told me that he frequently failed to land his passengers in time. The bitterness of the doubt so troubled me, that I paced the decks, looking at the approaching city, and thinking that all my labor was to be disappointed in the end. I could not telegraph my narrative and lists, for Government controlled the wires; and moreover, the Associated Press regulations forbade any newspaper to telegraph exclusive news from any point but Washington. I half resolved to hire a special locomotive, but it was doubtful that the railway authorities could procure one, at 60 short notice. Unless I overtook the eight o'clock A. M. train, I could not get to New York before two o'clock next morning,--too late for the press. Besides, how did I know that some correspondent had not reached Washington, by way of one of the Potomac vessels, and so forestalled me? Here was an opportunity to be the first of all our correspondents to publish the incidents and results of six days' stupendous warfare,--but escaping at the very moment of realization. The seconds were hours as we swept past Fort Carroll, rounded Fort McHenry, and swung toward our moorings, under Fort Federal Hill. "If we make a prompt landing," said the Captain, "you may barely get the train." I stood with my bundles of notes upon the high deck, and signalled a cab-driver. He caught the precious manuscript, and bolted for his cab. In another second he was 'dashing like a runaway up the pier, over the bridge, through Pratt Street, and--out of sight. Slowly the great hulk turned awkwardly about; one turn of her paddles brought us close enough to fling a rope, a second drew her very near the shore; the distance was fearful, but I braced myself for the leap. "Stand clear!" I called to the score of hackmen. A little run, a spring,--and I fell upon my feet, rolled over upon my face, gathered myself to the arms of all the Jehus, and was carried off bodily by a man with a great knob on his forehead as big as the end of his whip-handle. "G'lang! Who-o-o-oh! Swis-s-s!" I think that I promised that man everything under the sun to catch the train. I recollect that the knob on his forehead grew black and bulging as he lashed his horse. I found myself standing up in the cab, screaming like the driver. We were both insane, and the horse must have been of the breed of _Pegasus_, for I could feel the vehicle gyrating in the air. Now we turned a lamp-post, and the glass splintered somewhere; a dog howled as we drove over his appendage; a woman with a baby gave a short scream and disappeared into the earth; a policeman gave chase, but we laughed him to scorn. Huzza! Here we are! The train stands puffing at the long platform. "Your bundle, yer honor! Wasn't I the boy to make the keers?" "Didn't I projuce yer honor in good time, sur?" I only know that I flung a greenback to the two,--that I vainly besought the ticket agent to give me no change, but consign it to the first engineer who failed to make time,--that I wrote on the back of my hat for four hours,--that I devoured a chicken and as many eggs as she had laid in a lifetime, at Havre de Grace,--that I leaped upon the platform at Broad and Prime streets, Philadelphia, at noon,--that I plunged into a cab, and said, significantly-- "New York Ferry!" It chafed me to pass through the promenade street of my home-city, without a moment to spare for my family or friends. The cab-horse slipped in Chestnut Street, and I went over the rest of the route on foot, at a dog-trot pace, passing in various quarters for a sportsman, a professional runner, and a lunatic. I was greatly aggravated between Amboy and Camden, by persons making inquiries for brothers, sons, and acquaintances. At last, when I attained the steamer, the Captain kindly shut me up in his office, and I went on with my narrative till my eyes were burning and my hands failed in their function. Kill von Kull and its picturesque shores went by; we emerged into the beautiful bay, and winding among its buoys, harbor lights, and shipping, came to, at length, at the foot of Christopher Street. I repaired to the office at once, and wrote far into the night, refraining, finally, from sheer blindness and exhaustion, and dropped asleep in the carriage as I was taken toward the Metropolitan Hotel. The next day was Friday, July 4, the anniversary of American Independence, and my version of the six-days' battles caused universal gloom and grief. I had furnished five pages or forty columns of closely printed matter, and thousands of tremulous fingers were tracing out the names of their dead dear ones, while I sipped my wine and rehearsed for the hundredth time, the incidents of the retreat to a multitude of men. Cards and letters came to me by the gross, from bereaved countrymen, and I was obliged, finally, to add a postscript to my account, and a protest that I knew no more, and could answer no interrogatories. A bath, fresh clothing, and rich food so far improved my appearance in a few days, that I presented no other traces of sickness and travel than a sunburnt face, and a rheumatic walk. With restoration came a revival of old desires, appetites, and attachments. It required one additional campaign to sober me in these respects, and I was not a little relieved, to receive an order on the fourth day, to proceed to Washington, and attach myself to the "Army of Virginia" at the head of which Major-General John Pope had just been placed. After two quieter days' enjoyment, in the Quaker City, I reported myself at the Capital, but was debarred from taking the field at once, owing to the tardiness of the new Commander. For two weeks or more, I loitered around Washington, and although the time passed monotonously, I saw many persons and events which have much to do with the history of the Rebellion. The story of "Washington During the War" has yet to be written in all its vividness of enterprise, devotion, and infamy. It has been, in periods of peace, a dull, dolorous town, of mammoth hotels, paltry dwellings, empty lots, prodigiously wide avenues, a fossil population, and a series of gigantic public buildings, which seemed dropped by accident into a fifth-rate backwoods settlement. During the sessions Washington was overrun with "Smartness": Smart pages, smart messengers, smart cabmen, smart publicans, smart politicians, smart women, smart scoundrels! Greatness became commonplace here, and Mr. Douglas might drink at Willard's Bar, with none so poor to do him reverence, or General Winfield Scott strut like a colossus along "the Avenue," and the sleepy negroes upon their backs would give him the attention of only one eye. It was interesting, to notice how rapidly provincial eminence lost caste here. Slipkins, who was "Honorable" at home, and of whom his county newspaper said that "this distinguished fellow citizen of ours will be heard from, among the greatest of the free,"--Slipkins moved to and fro unnoticed, and voted with his party, and drank much brandy and water, and left no other record at the Capital than some unpaid bills, and perhaps an unacknowledged heir. A gaping rustic and his new bride, or a strolling foreigner, marvelling and making notes at every turn, might be observed in the Patent Office examining General Washington's breeches, but these were at once called "greenies," and people put out their tongues and winked at them. The Secretaries' ladies gave parties now and then, attended by the folks who sold them horses, or carpets, or wines; the President gave a "levee," whereat a wonderfully Democratic horde gathered to pinch his hands and ogle his lady; the Marine band (in _red_ coats), played twice a week in the Capital grounds, and Senators, Cyprians, Ethiops, and children rallied to enjoy; a theatre or two played time-honored dramas with Thespian companies; a couple of scholars lectured in the sombre Smithsonian Institution; an intrigue and a duel filled some most doleful hiatus; and a clerk absconded with half a million, or an Indian agent robbed the red men and fell back to the protection of his "party." A very dismal, a very dirty, and a very Democratic settlement was the American Capital, till the war came. Even the war lost half its interest in Washington. A regiment marching down Broadway was something to see, but the same regiment in Pennsylvania Avenue looked mean and matter-of-fact. A General in the field, or riding uncovered through Boston or Baltimore, or even lounging at the bar of the Continental or the Astor House or the Tremont, was invested with an atmosphere half heroic, half poetic; but Generals in Washington may be counted by pairs, and I used to sit at dinner with eight or a dozen of them in my eye. There was the new Commander-in-Chief, Halleck, a short, countryfied person, whose blue coat was either threadbare or dusty, or lacked some buttons, and who picked his teeth walking up and down the halls at Willard's, and argued through a white, bilious eye and a huge mouth. There was General Mitchel, also, who has since passed away,--a little, knotty gentleman, with stiff, gray, Jacksonian hair. And General Sturgis passed in and out perpetually, with impressive, individual Banks, or some less prominent person, all of them wearing the gold star upon their shoulders, and absolute masters of some thousands of souls. The town, in fact, was overrun with troops. Slovenly guards were planted on horseback at crossings, and now and then they dashed, as out of a profound sleep, to chase some galloping cavalier. Gin and Jews swarmed along the Avenue, and I have seen gangs of soldiers of rival regiments, but oftener of rival nationalities, pummelling each other in the highways, until they were marched off by the Provosts. The number of houses of ill-fame was very great, and I have been told that Generals and Lieutenants of the same organization often encountered and recognized each other in them. Contractors and "jobbers" used to besiege the offices of the Secretaries of War and Navy, and the venerable Welles (who reminded me of Abraham in the lithographs), and the barnacled Stanton, seldom appeared in public. Simple-minded, straightforward A. Lincoln, and his ambitious, clever lady, were often seen of afternoons in their barouche; the little old-fashioned Vice-President walked unconcernedly up and down; and when some of the Richmond captives came home to the Capital, immense meetings were held, where patriotism bawled itself hoarse. A dining hour at Willard's was often wondrously adapted for a historic picture, when accoutred officers, and their beautiful wives,--or otherwise,--sat at the _table d'-hôte_, and sumptuous dishes flitted here and there, while corks popped like so many Chinese crackers, and champagne bubbled up like blood. At night, the Provost Guard enacted the farce of coming by deputations to each public bar, which was at once closed, but reopened five minutes afterward. Congress water was in great demand for weak heads of mornings, and many a young lad, girt up for war, wasted his strength in dissipation here, so that he was worthless afield, and perhaps died in the hospital. The curse of civil war was apparent everywhere. One had but to turn his eye from the bare Heights of Arlington, where the soldiers of the Republic lay demoralized, to the fattening vultures who smoked and swore at the National, to see the true cause of the North's shortcomings,--its inherent and almost universal corruption. Human nature was here so depraved, that man lost faith in his kind. Death lurked behind ambuscades and fortifications over the river, but Sin, its mother, coquetted _here_, and as an American, I often went to bed, loathing the Capital, as but little better than Sodom, though its danger had called forth thousands of great hearts to throb out, in its defence. For every stone in the Capitol building, a man has laid down his life. For every ripple on the Potomac, some equivalent of blood has been shed. I lodged for some time in Tenth Street, and took my meals at Willard's. The legitimate expenses of living in this manner were fourteen dollars a week; but one could board at Kirkwood's or Brown's for seven or eight dollars, very handsomely. A favorite place of excursion, near the city, was "Crystal Spring," where some afternoon orgies were enacted, which should have made the sun go into eclipse. I repaired once to Mount Vernon, and looked dolorously at the tomb of the _Pater Patris_, and once to Annapolis, on the Chesapeake, which the war has elevated into a fine naval station. At length Pope's forces were being massed along the line of the Rappahannock, below the Occoquan river, and upon the "Piedmont" highlands. "Piedmont" is the name applied to the fine table-lands of Northern Virginia, and the ensuing campaign has received the designation of the "Piedmont Campaign." Pope's army proper was composed of three corps, commanded respectively by Generals Irvin McDowell, Franz Siegel, and Nathaniel P. Banks. But a portion of General McClellan's peninsular army had meantime returned to the Potomac, and the corps of General Burnside was stationed at Fredericksburg, thirty miles or more below Pope's head-quarters at Warrenton. I presented myself to General Pope on the 12th of July, at noon. His Washington quarters consisted of a quiet brick house, convenient to the War office, and the only tokens of its importance were some guards at the threshold, and a number of officers' horses, saddled in the shade of some trees at the curb. The lower floor of the dwelling was appropriated to quartermasters' and inspectors' clerks, before whom a number of people were constantly presenting themselves, with applications for passes;--sutlers, in great quantities, idlers, relic-hunters, and adventurers in still greater ratio, and, last of all, citizens of Virginia, solicitous to return to their farms and families. The mass of these were rebuffed, as Pope had inaugurated his campaign with a show of severity, even threatening to drive all the non-combatants out of his lines, unless they took the Federal oath of allegiance. He gave me a pass willingly, and chatted pleasantly for a time. In person he was dark, martial, and handsome,--inclined to obesity, richly garbed in civil cloth, and possessing a fiery black eye, with luxuriant beard and hair. He smoked incessantly, and talked imprudently. Had he commenced his career more modestly, his final discomfiture would not have been so galling; but his vanity was apparent to the most shallow observer, and although he was brave, clever, and educated, he inspired distrust by his much promising and general love of gossip and story-telling. He had all of Mr. Lincoln's garrulity (which I suspect to be the cause of their affinity), and none of that good old man's unassuming common sense. The next morning, at seven o'clock, I embarked for Alexandria, and passed the better half of the forenoon in negotiating for a pony. At eleven o'clock, I took my seat in a bare, filthy car, and was soon whirled due southward, over the line of the Orange and Alexandria railroad. The country between Alexandria and Warrenton Junction, or, indeed, between Washington and Richmond, was not unlike those masterly descriptions of Gibbon, detailing the regions overrun by Hyder Ali. The towns stood like ruins in a vast desert, and one might write musing epitaphs at every wind-beaten dwelling, whence the wretched denizens had fled in cold and poverty to a doubtful hospitality in the far South. Fences there were none, nor any living animals save the braying hybrids which limped across the naked plains to eke out existence upon some secluded patches of grass. These had been discharged from the army, and they added rather than detracted from the lonesomeness of the wild. Their great mournful eyes and shaggy heads glared from copses, and in places where they had lain down beside the track to expire. If we sometimes pity these dumb beasts as they drag loaded wains, or heavy omnibuses, or sub-soil ploughs, we may also bestow a tender sentiment upon the army mules. Flogged by teamsters, cursed by quartermasters, ridiculed by roaring regiments of soldiers, strained and spavined by fearful draughts, stalled in bogs and fainting upon hillsides,--their bones will evidence the sites of armies, when the skeletons of men have crumbled and become reabsorbed. I have seen them die like martyrs, when the inquisitor, with his bloody lash, stood over them in the closing pangs, and their last tremulous howl has almost moved to tears. Some of the dwellings seemed to be occupied, but the tidiness of old times was gone. The women seemed sunburnt and hardened by toil. They looked from their thresholds upon the flying train, with their hair unbraided and their garters ungyved,--not a negro left to till the fields, nor a son or brother who had not travelled to the wars. They must be now hewers of wood, and drawers of water, and the fingers whereon diamonds used to sparkle, must clench the axe and the hoe. At last we came to Bull Run, the dark and bloody ground where the first grand armies fought and fled, and again to be consecrated by a baptism of fire. The railway crossed the gorge upon a tall trestle bridge, and for some distance the track followed the windings of the stream. A black, deep, turgid current, flowing between gaunt hills, lined with cedar and beech, crossed here and there by a ford, and vanishing, above and below, in the windings of wood and rock; while directly beyond, lie the wide plains of Manassas Junction, stretching in the far horizon, to the undulating boundary of the Blue Ridge. As the Junction remains to-day, the reader must imagine this splendid prospect, unbroken by fences, dwellings, or fields, as if intended primevally to be a place for the shock of columns, with redoubts to the left and right, and fragments of stockades, dry rifle pits, unfinished or fallen breastworks, and, close in the foreground, a medley of log huts for the winter quartering of troops. The woods to the north mark the course of Bull Run; a line of telegraph poles going westward points to Manassas Gap; while the Junction proper is simply a point where two single track railways unite, and a few frame "shanties" or sheds stand contiguous. These are, for example, the "New York Head-quarters," kept by a person with a hooked nose, who trades in cakes, lemonade, and (probably) whiskey, of the brand called "rotgut;" or the "Union Stores," where a person in semi-military dress deals in India-rubber overcoats, underclothing, and boots. As the train halts, lads and negroes propose to sell sandwiches to passengers, and soldiers ride up to take mail-bags and bundles for imperceptible camps. In the distance some teams are seen, and a solitary horseman, visiting vestiges of the battle; sidings beside the track are packed with freight cars, and a small mountain of pork barrels towers near by; there are blackened remains of locomotives a little way off, but these have perhaps hauled regiments of Confederates to the Junction; and over all--men, idlers, ruins, railway, huts, entrenchments--floats the star-spangled banner from the roof of a plank depot. The people in the train were rollicking and well-disposed, and black bottles circulated freely. I was invited to drink by many persons, but the beverage proffered was intolerably bad, and several convivials became stupidly drunk. A woman in search of her husband was one of the passengers, and those contiguous to her were as gentlemanly as they knew how to be. "A pretty woman, in war-time," said a Captain, aside, to me, "is not to be sneezed at." At "Catlett's," a station near Warrenton Junction, we narrowly escaped a collision with a train behind, and the occupants of our train, women included, leaped down an embankment with marvellous agility. Here we switched off to the right, and at four o'clock dismounted at the pleasant village of Warrenton. CHAPTER XXI. CAMPAIGNING WITH GENERAL POPE. The court-house village of Fauquier County contained a population of twelve or fifteen hundred at the commencement of the war. Its people embraced the revolutionary cause at the outstart, and furnished some companies of foot to the Confederate service, as well as a mounted company known as the "Black Horse Cavalry." The guns of Bull Run were heard here on the day of battle, and hundreds of the wounded came into town at nightfall. Thenceforward Warrenton became prominently identified with the struggle, and the churches and public buildings were transmuted to hospitals. After the Confederates retired from Manassas Junction, the vicinity of Warrenton was a sort of neutral ground. At one time the Southern cavalry would ride through the main street, and next day a body of mounted Federals would pounce upon the town, the inhabitants, meanwhile, being apprehensive of a sabre combat in the heart of the place. Some people were ruined by the war; some made fortunes. The Mayor of the village was named Bragg, and he was a trader in horses, as well as a wagon-builder. There were two taverns, denominated respectively, the "Warrenton Inn," and the "Warren Green Hotel." I obtained a room at the former. A young man named Dashiell kept it. He was a fair-complexioned, clever, high-strung Virginian, and managed to obtain a great deal of paper money from both republics. It is an encomium in America, to say that a man "Can keep a hotel," but what shall be said of the man who can keep a hotel in war-time? I observed young Dashiell's movements from day to day, and I am satisfied that his popularity arose from his fairness and frankness. He charged nine dollars a week for room, and "board," of three meals, but could, with difficulty, obtain meat and vegetables for the table. His mother and his brother-in-law lived in the house. The latter was a son of Mayor Bragg, and had been twice in the Confederate service. He was engaged both at Bull Run and at Fairfax Court House, and made no secret of his activity at either place. But he was treated considerately, though he vaunted intolerably. The "Inn" was a frame dwelling, with a first floor of stone, surrounded by a double portico. The first room (entering from the street) was the office, consisting of a bare floor, some creaking benches, some chairs with whittled and broken arms, a high desk, where accounts were kept, a row of bells, numbered, communicating with the rooms. Hand-bills were pinned to the walls, announcing that William Higgins was paying good prices for "likely" field hands, that Timothy Ingersoll's stock of dry goods was the finest in Piedmont, that James Mason's mulatto woman, named Rachel, had decamped on the night of Whitsuntide, and that one hundred dollars would be paid by the subscriber for her return. Most of these bills were out of date, but some recent ones were exhibited to me calling for volunteers, labelled, "Ho! for winter-quarters in Washington;" "Sons of the South arise!"--"Liberty, glory, and no Yankeedom!" A bellcord hung against the "office" door, communicating with the stables, where a deaf hostler might _not_ be rung up. In the back yard, suspended from a beam, and upright, hung a large bell, which called the boarders to meals. It commonly rung thrice, and I was told on inquiry, by the cook-- "De fust bell, sah, is to prepah to prepah for de table; dat bell, when de fust cook don't miss it, is rung one hour befo' mealtime. De second bell, sah, is to _prepah_ for de table; de last bell, to _come_ to de table." I should have been better pleased with the ceremony, if the food had been more cleanly, more wholesome, and more abundant. We used to clear the plates in a twinkling, and if a person asked twice for beef, or butter, he was stared at by the negroes, as if he had eaten an entire cow. I soon brought the head-waiter to terms by promising him a dollar a week for extra attendance, and could even get ice after a time, which was a luxury. There was a bar upon the premises, which opened stealthily, when there were liquors to be sold. Cider (called champaigne) could be purchased for three dollars a bottle, and whiskey came to hand occasionally. There were cigars in abundance, and I used to sit on the upper porch of evenings, puffing long after midnight, and watching the sentinels below. There was some female society in Warrenton, but the blue-coats engrossed it all. The young women were ardent partisans, but also very pretty; and treason, somehow, heightened their beauty. Disloyalty is always pardonable in a woman, and these ladies appreciated the fact. They refused to walk under Federal flags, and stopped their ears when the bands played national music; but every evening they walked through the main street, arm in arm with dashing Lieutenants and Captains. Many flirtations ensued, and a great deal of gossip was elicited. In the end, some of the misses fell out among themselves, and hated each other more than the common enemy. I overheard a young lady talking in a low tone one evening, to a Captain in the Ninth New York regiment. "If you knew my brother," she said, "I am sure you would not fire upon _him_." As there were plain, square, prim porches to all the dwellings, the ladies commonly took positions therein of evenings, and a grand promenade commenced of all the young Federals in the town. The streets were pleasantly shaded, and a leafy coolness pervaded the days, though sometimes, of afternoons, the still heat was almost stifling. A jaunt after supper often took me far into the country, and the starlights were softer than one's peaceful thoughts. To be a civilian was a distinguished honor now, and I enjoyed the staring of the citizens, who pondered as to my purposes and pursuits, as only villagers can do. There is a quiet pleasure in being a strange person in a country town, and so far from objecting to the inquisitiveness of the folk, I rather like it. One may be passing for a young duke, or tourist, or clergyman, or what not? The Ninth New York (militia) regiment guarded Warrenton, and it was composed of clever, polite young fellows, who had taken to volunteering before there was any promise of war, and who turned out, pluckily, when the strife began. Perhaps public sentiment or pride of organization influenced them. They were all good-looking and tidy, and their dress-parades, held in the main street, were handsome affairs. I have never seen better disciplined columns, and the youthful faces of the soldiers, with the staid locality of the exhibition,--young women, negroes, dogs and babies, and old men looking on,--seemed to contradict the bloody mission of the troops. The old men, referred to, were villagers of such long standing that had the Court of Saint James, or the Vatican, or the battle of Waterloo been moved into their country, they would have still been villagers to the last. They met beside the Warrenton Inn, under the shade of the trees, at eleven o'clock every morning, and borrowed the New York papers of the latest date. One individual, slightly bald, would read aloud, and the rest crouched or stood about him, making grunts and remarks at intervals. They did not wish to believe the Federal reports, but they must needs read, and as most of them had sons in the other army, their pulses were constantly tremulous with anxiety. I think that Pope's resolve to transport these harmless old people beyond his lines was very barbarous, and the soldiers denounced it in similar terms. They spoke of Pope, as of some terrible despot, and wished to know when he was coming to town, as they had appointed a committee, and drafted a petition, asking his forbearance and charity. When these villagers found me out to be a Newspaper Correspondent, they regarded me with amusing interest, and marvelled what I would say of their town. A villager is very sensitive as to his place of residence, and these good people read the----daily, confounding me with all the paper,--editorial, correspondence, and, I verily believe, advertisements. One of them wished me to board at his residence, and I was, after a time, invited out to dinner and tea frequently. The negroes remained in Warrenton, in great numbers, and held carnival of evenings when the bands played. "Contrabands" were coming daily into town, and idleness and vice soon characterized the mass of them. They were ignorant, degraded, animal beings, and many of them loved rum; it was the last link that bound them to human kind. Servants could be hired for four dollars a month and "keep;" but they were "shiftless" and unprofitable. The Provost-Marshal of the place was a Captain Hendrickson. His quarters were in the Court House building, and he kept a zealous eye upon sutlers and citizens. The former trespassed in the sales of liquors to soldiers, and the latter were accused of maintaining a contraband mail, and of conspiring to commit divers offences. There were a number of churches in the village, all of which served as hospitals, and in the quiet cemetery west of the town, two hundred slain soldiers were interred. A stake of white pine was driven at the head of each grave. Here lay some of the men who had helped to change the destinies of a continent. No public worship was held in the place. The Sundays were busy as other days: trains came and went, teams made dust in the streets, cavalry passed through the village, music arose from all the outlying camps; parades and inspections were made, and all the preparations for killing men were relentlessly forwarded. A pleasant entertainment occurred one evening, when a plot of ground adjoining the Warrenton Inn, was appropriated for a camp theatre. Candle footlights were arranged, and the stage was canopied with national flags. The citizens congregated, and the performers deferred to their prejudices by singing no Federal songs. Tho negroes climbed the trees to listen, and their gratified guffaws made the night quiver. The war lost half its bitterness at such times; but I thought with a shudder of Stuart's thundering horsemen, charging into the village, and closing the night's mimicry with a horrible tragedy. Some of the dwellings about the place were elegant and spacious, but many of these were closed and the owners removed. Two newspapers had been published here of old, and while ransacking the office of one of them, I discovered that the type had been buried under the floor. The planks were speedily torn away, and the cases dragged to light. I obtained some curious relics, in the shape of "cuts" of recruiting officers, runaway negroes, etc., as well as a column of a leader, in type, describing the first battle of Bull Run. For two weeks I had little to do, as the campaign had not yet fairly commenced, and I passed many hours every day reading. A young lawyer, in the Confederate service, had left an ample library behind him, and the books passed into the hands of every invader in the town. Pope finally arrived at Warrenton, and as the troops seemed to be rapidly concentrating, I judged it expedient to procure a horse at once, and canvassed the country with that object. By paying a quartermaster the Government price ($130), I could select a steed from the pound, but inspection satisfied me that a good saddle nag could not be obtained in this way. After much parleying with Hebrews and chaffing with country people, I heard that Mayor Bragg kept some fair animals, and when I stated my purpose at his house, he commenced the business after a fashion immemorial at the South, by producing some whiskey. When Mayor Bragg had asked me pertinently, if I knew much about the "pints of a hoss," and what "figger in the way of price" would suit me, he told an erudite negro named "Jeems" to trot out the black colt. The black colt made his appearance by vaulting over a gate, and playfully shivering a panel of fence with his "off" hoof. Then he executed a flourish with his tail, leaped thrice in the air, and bit savagely at the man "Jeems." When I asked Mayor Bragg if the black colt was sufficiently gentle to stand fire, he replied that he was gentle as a lamb and offered to put me astride him. I had no sooner taken my seat, however, than the black colt backed, neighed, flourished, and stood erect, and finally ran away. A second animal was produced, less mettlesome, but also black, finely strung, daintily hoofed, and as Mayor Bragg said, "just turned four year." The price of this charger was one hundred and ninety dollars; but in consideration of my youth and pursuit, Mayor Bragg proposed to take one hundred and seventy-five; we compromised upon a hundred and fifty dollars, Major Bragg throwing in a halter, and by good luck I procured a saddle the same evening, so that I rode triumphantly through the streets of Warrenton, and fancied that all the citizens were admiring my new purchase. I was struck with the fact, that Mayor Bragg, though an ardent patriot, would accept of neither Confederate nor Virginia money; he required payment for his animal, in Father Chase's "greenbacks." Mounted anew, I fell into my former active habits, and made two journeys, to Sperryville and Little Washington, in one direction, to Madison in another; each place was probably twenty miles distant; the latter was merely a cavalry outpost, where Generals Hatch and Bayard were stationed, and the former villages were the head-quarters, respectively, of General Banks and General Siegel. Madison was, at this time, a precarious place for a long tarrying. I went to sleep in the inn on the night of my arrival, and at that time the place was thronged with cavalry and artillery-men. Next morning, when I aroused, not a blue-coat could be seen. They had fallen back in the darkness, and prudently abstaining from breakfast, I galloped northward, as if the whole Confederate army was at my heels. These old turnpike roads were now marked by daily chases and rencontres. A few Virginians, fleetly mounted, would provoke pursuit from a squad of Federals, and the latter would be led into ambuscades. A quaint incident happened in this manner, near Madison. Captain T. was chasing a party of Confederates one afternoon, when his company was suddenly fired upon from a wheatfield, parties rising up on both sides of the road, and discharging carbines through the fence rails. Three or four men, and as many horses were slain; but the ambushing body was outnumbered, and several of its members killed. Among others, a young lieutenant took deliberate aim at Captain T. at the distance of twelve yards; and, seeing that he had missed, threw up his carbine to surrender. The Captain had already drawn his revolver, and, amazed at the murderous purpose, he shot the assassin in the head, killing him instantly. Nobody blamed Captain T., but he was said to be a humane person, and the affair preyed so continually upon his mind, that he committed suicide one night in camp. At Sperryville I saw and talked with Franz Siegel, the idol of the German Americans. He had been a lieutenant in his native country, but subsided, in St. Louis, to the rank of publican, keeping a beer saloon. When the war commenced, he was appointed to a colonelcy, in deference to the large German republican population of Missouri. His abilities were speedily manifested in a series of engagements which redeemed the Southern border, and he finally fought the terrible battle of Pea Ridge, Arkansas, which broke the spirit of the Confederates west of the Mississippi. The man who fought "mit Siegel" in those days, was always told in St. Louis: "Py tam! you pays not'ing for your lager." Siegel now commanded one of Pope's corps. He was a diminutive person, but well-knit, emaciated by his active career, feverish and sanguine of face, and, as it appeared to me, consuming with energy and ambition. As a General he was prompt to decide and do, and his manner of dealing with Confederate property was severer than that of any American. He battered the splendid mansion hotel of White Sulphur Springs to the ground, for example, when somebody discharged a rifle from its window. He preferred to fight by retreating, and if pursued, generally unmasked his guns and made massacre with the scattered opponents. Another German commander was Blenker, whose corps of Germans might have belonged to the free bands of the Black forest. They were the most lawless men in the Federal service, and what they did not steal they destroyed. Such volunteers were mercenaries, in every sense of the word. I have been told that they slaughtered sheep and cattle in pure wantonness, and the rats of Ehrenfels did not make a cleaner sweep of provisions. The Germans, as a rule, lacked the dash of the Irish troops and the tact of the Americans. They thought and fought in masses, had little individuality, and were thick-skulled; but they were persevering and had their hearts in the cause. General Banks was a fine representative of the higher order of Yankee. Originally a machinist in a small manufacturing town near Boston, he educated himself, and was elected successively Legislator, Governor, Congressman, and General of volunteers. His personal graces were equalled by his energy, and his ability was considerable. He has been very successful in the field, and has conducted a retreat unparalleled in the war; these things being always reckoned among American successes. The country hereabout was mountainous, healthy, and well adapted for campaigning. Streams and springs were numerous, and there were fine sites for camps. The deserted toll-houses along the way glowered mournfully through the rent windows, and I fancied them, sometimes, as I rode at night, haunted by the shambling tollman. Ancient road that wind'st deserted, Through the level of the vale,-- Sweeping toward the crowded market, Like a stream without a sail, Standing by thee, I look backward, And, as in the light of dreams, See the years descend and vanish, Like thy tented wains and teams.--T. B. READ. To provide myself with thorough equipment for Pope's campaign, I returned to Washington, and purchased a patent camp-bed, which strapped to my saddle, saddle bags of large capacity, India-rubber blankets, and a full suit of waterproof cloth,--hat, coat, _genoullieres_, and gauntlets. I had my horse newly shod, I drew upon my establishment for an ample sum of money, and, to properly inaugurate the campaign, I gave an entertainment in the parlor of the inn. Pipes, cold ham, a keg of beer, and a demijohn of whiskey comprised the attractions of the night. The guests were three Captains, two Adjutants, two Majors, a Colonel, four Correspondents, several Lieutenants, and a signal officer. There was some jesting, and much laughing, considerable story-telling, and (toward the small hours) a great deal of singing. Much heroism was evolved; all the guests were devoted to death and their country; and there was one person who took off his coat to fight an imaginary something, but changed his mind, and dropped asleep directly. At length, a gallant Captain, to demonstrate his warlike propensities, fired a pistol through the front window; and somebody blowing out the candles, the whole party retired to rest upon the floor. In this delightful way my third campaign commenced, and next evening I set off for the advance. CHAPTER XXII. ARMY MORALS. Some of General McDowell's aides had invited me to pass a night with them at Warrenton Springs. Fully equipped, I joined Captain Ball, of Cincinnati, and we rode southward, over a hard, picturesque turnpike, under a clear moonlight. The distance was seven miles, and a part of this route was enlivened by the fires, halloos, and the music of camps. Volunteers are fond of serenading their officers; and this particular evening was the occasion of much merry-making, since a majority of the brass bands were to be mustered out of the service to-morrow. We could hear the roll of drums from imperceptible localities, and the sharp winding of bugles broke upon the silence like the trumpet of the Archangel. Stalwart shapes of horsemen galloped past us, and their hoofs made monotone behind, till the cadence died so gradually away that we did not know when the sound ceased and when the silence began. The streams had a talk to themselves, as they strolled away into the meadow, and an owl or two challenged us, calling up a corporal hawk. This latter fellow bantered and blustered, and finally we fell into an ambush of wild pigs, which charged across the road and plunged into the woods. There were despatch stations at intervals, where horses stood saddled, and the couriers waited for hoof-beats, to be ready to ride fleetly toward head-quarters. Anon, we saw wizard lights, as of Arctic skies, where remote camps built conflagration; and trudging wearily down the stony road, poor ragged, flying negroes, with their families and their worldly all, came and went--God help them!--and touched their hats so obsequiously that my heart was wrung, and I felt a nervous impulse to put them upon my steed and take their burdens upon my back. Little sable folk, asleep and ahungered, drawn to that barefoot woman's breast; and the tired boy, weeping as he held to his father's hand; and the father with the sweat of fatigue and doubt upon his forehead,--children of Ishmael all; war raging in the land, but God overhead! These are the "wandering Jews" of our day, hated North and South, because they are poor and blind, and do no harm; but out of their wrongs has arisen the abasement of their wrongers. Is there nothing over all? We entered the beautiful lawn of the Springs' hotel, at ten o'clock, and a negro came up to take our horses. By the lamplight and moonlight I saw McDowell's tent, a sentry pacing up and down before it, and the thick, powerful figure of the General seated at a writing-table within. Irvin McDowell was one of the oldest officers in the service, and when the war commenced he became a leading commander in the Eastern army. At Bull Run he had a responsible place, and the ill success of that battle brought him into unpleasant notoriety. Though he retained a leading position he was still mistrusted and disliked. None bore ingratitude so stolidly. He may have flinched, but he never replied; and though ambitious he tried to content himself with subordinate commands. Some called him a traitor, others an incompetent, others a plotter. If McClellan failed, McDowell was cursed. If Pope blundered, McDowell received half the contumely. But he loosened no cord of discipline to make good will. Implacable, dutiful, soldierly, rigorous in discipline, sententious, brave,--the most unpopular man in America went on his way, and I think that he is recovering public favor again. The General of a republic has a thorny path to tread, and almost every public man has been at one time disgraced during the civil war. McDowell, I think, has been treated worse than any other. Our nags being removed, we repaired to one of the rustic cottages which bounded the lawn, and I was introduced to several members of the staff; among others, to a Count Saint Alb, an Austrian. He had been an officer in his native country; but came to America, anxious for active service, and was appointed to Gen. McDowell's Staff with the rank of Captain. I understood that he was writing a book upon America. There are many such adventurers in the Federal service, but the present one was clever and amusing, and he spoke English fluently. Our tea was plain but abundant, consisting of broiled beef, fresh bread, butter, and cheese; and the inveterate whiskey was produced afterward, when we assembled on the piazza, so that the hours passed by pleasantly, if not profitably, and we retired at two o'clock. In the morning I bathed in the clear, cold sulphur spring, where thousands of invalid people had come for healing waters. A canopy covered the spring, and a soldier stood on guard at the top of the descending steps, to preserve the property in its original cleanliness. This was one of the most famous medical springs on the American continent; the water was so densely impregnated that its peculiarly offensive smell could be detected at the distance of a mile. The place was going to ruin now. All the bathing-rooms were falling apart, the pipes had been carried off to be moulded into bullets, and the great hotel was desolate. I walked into the ball-room; but the large gilded mirrors had been splintered, and lewd writings defaced the wall. Some idlers were asleep upon the piazzas, and the furniture was removed or broken. Some rustic cottages dotted the lawn, but these were now inhabited by officers and their servants. A few days were to finish the work of rapine, and a heap of ashes was to mark the scene of tournament, coquetry, and betrothal. I witnessed a review of troops in a field contiguous, at nine o'clock. The heat was so intense that many men fell out of line and were carried off to their camps. McDowell passed exactingly from man to man, examined muskets, clothing, and knapsacks, and the inspection was proceeding, when I bade my friends good by and set out for Culpepper. I crossed the North Rappahannock, or Hedgemain river, upon a precarious bridge of planks. A new bridge for artillery was being constructed close by; for the river beneath had a swift, deep current, and could with difficulty be forded. Patches of wagons, squads of horse, and now and then a regiment of infantry, varied the monotony of the journey. The country was high, woody, and sparsely settled. At noon I overtook Tower's brigade, and observing the 94th N. Y. Regiment resting in the woods, I dismounted and made the acquaintance of its Colonel. He was at this juncture greatly enraged with some of his soldiers who had been plucking green apples. "Boy," he said to one, "put down that fruit! Drop it, or I'll blow your head off! Directly you'll double up, pucker, and say that you have the "di-o-ree," and require an ambulance. Orderly!" A sergeant came up and touched his cap. "Take your musket," said the Colonel; "go out to that orchard, and order those men away. If they hesitate or object, shoot them!" A few such colonels would marvellously improve the volunteer organization. The Hazel or North Anne river, a branch of the Hedgemain, interposed a few miles further on, and passing through a covered bridge, I turned down the north bank, crossed some spongy fields, and at length came to a dry place in the edge of a woods, where I tied my nag, spread out my bed, and prepared to dine. A box of sardines, a lemon, and some fresh sandwiches constituted the repast, and being dusty and parched I stripped afterward and swam across the river. Seeing that my horse plunged and neighed, with swollen eyeballs, and every evidence of terror, I hastened toward him and discovered a black snake, six feet or more in length, which seemed about to coil itself around the nag's leg. The size and contiguity of the reptile at first appalled me, and my mind was not more composed when the serpent, at my approach, manifested an inclination to assume the offensive. Its folds were thicker than my arm, and it commenced to revolve rapidly, at length running up a sapling, suspending itself by the tail, and hissing vehemently. It belonged to the family of "racers," and was hideous and powerful beyond any specimen that I had seen. I blew it into halves at the second discharge of my pistol, and at once resumed my saddle, indisposed to remain longer amidst such acquaintances. At four o'clock I saw Culpepper, a trim little village, lying in the hollow of several hills. A couple of steeples added to its picturesqueness, and a swift creek, crossed by a small bridge, interposed between myself and the main part of the place. It looked like Sunday when I rode through the principal street. The shutters were closed in the shop windows, the dwellings seemed tenantless, no citizens were abroad, no sutlers had invaded the country; only a few cavalry-men clustered about an ancient pump to water their nags, and some military idlers were sitting upon the long porch of a public house, called the Virginia Hotel. I tied my horse to a tree, the bole of which had been gnawed bare, and found the landlord to be an old gentleman named Paine, who appeared to be somewhat out of his head. Two days before the Confederate cavalry had vacated the village, and the army had been encamped about the town for many months. A sabre conflict had taken place in the streets; and these events, happening in rapid succession, combined with the insolence of some Federal outriders, had so agitated the host that his memory was quite gone, and he could not perform even the slightest function. There is a panacea for all these things, which the faculty and philanthropy alike forbid, but which my experience in war-matters has invariably found unfailing. I produced my flask, and gently insinuated it to the old gentleman's lips. He possessed instinct sufficient to uncork and apply it, and the results were directly apparent, in a partial recovery of memory. He said that meals were one dollar each, board four dollars a day, or by the week twenty-five dollars. These terms are unknown in America; but when Mr. Paine added that horse provender was one dollar per "feed," I looked aghast, and required some stimulant myself to appreciate the enormity of the reckoning. I discovered, however, that the people of the village were almost starving; that beef had been fifty cents a pound during the whole winter, flour twenty-five dollars per barrel, coffee one dollar and a quarter a pound, and corn one dollar per bushel. The army had swept the country like famine, and the citizens had pinched, pining faces, with little to eat to-day and nothing for to-morrow. I acquiesced in the charge, as no choice remained, and asked to be shown to my room. A burly negro, apparently suffering _delirium tremens_, seized my baggage with quaking hands, and lifting a pair of red eyes upon me, shuffled through a bare hall, up a stairway, and into a bedroom. I never saw a more hideous being in my life, and when he had flung my luggage upon the floor, he sank into a chair, and glared wofully into my face, breathing like one about to expire. "Young Moss," said he, "cant you give a po' soul a drop o' sperits? Do for de good Lord's sake! Do, Moss, fo' de po' nigga's life. Do! do! Moss." I poured him out a little in a tumbler, less from charity than from fear; for he knew that I was provided with a bottle, and I seemed to read murder in his eyes. He drank like one athirst and scant of breath, making a dry, chuckling noise with his throat. When he had finished, he leaned his powerful neck and head upon the bed and groaned terribly. "Moss," he said again, "ain't you got no tobacco, Moss? I haint had none since Christmas. I's mos dead I'm po' sinful nigga'. Do give some tobacco to po' creature, do!" I told him that I did not chew the weed, but gave him a crushed cigar, and he thrust it into his mouth, as if it was food and he was perishing. This wretched animal performed the duties of a chambermaid upon the premises; he made the beds, attended to the toilets, answered the bells, etc. He finally became so offensive that I forbade him my room, and he revenged himself by paltry thefts. There were two other servants, a woman with a baby, and a shrewd, dishonest mulatto man, who was the steward and carver. This fellow secreted provender in the kitchen and sold it stealthily to hungry soldiers. A public house so mismanaged I had nowhere met. Sometimes we could get no breakfast till noon, and finally the price of dinner went up to one dollar and a half, with nothing to eat. The table was protected from flies by a series of paper fans, pendant from the ceiling and connected by a cord, which an ebony boy pulled, at the foot of the room to keep them in motion. This boy being worked day and night, often fell asleep upon his stool, when the yellow man boxed his ears, or knocked him down; and then he would fan with such vigor that a perfect gale swept down the table. The landlord was a kindly old man, but he could not "keep a hotel," and the strong-minded part of the house consisted of his wife and four daughters. Gen. Ben Butler would have sent these young women to Ship Island, five times of a day. They were very bad-mannered and always sat apart at one end of the cloth, talking against the "Yankees." As there was no direct provocation to do so, this boldness was gratuitous, and detracted rather than added to my estimate of the heroism of Southern women. I have known them to burst into the office, crowded with blue-coats, and scream-- "Pop, Yankees thieving in garden!" or, "Pop, drive these Yankees out of parlor!" Every afternoon when the pavement was unusually patronized by young officers, these women would sally out, promenade in crinoline, silk stockings, and saucy hoods, and the crowd would fall respectfully back to let them pass. A flag hung from a hospital over the sidewalk, and with a pert flourish, the landlord's daughters filed off the pavement, around the ensign, and back again. This was amusing, I thought, but not very clever, and rather immodest. Had they been handsome, some romance might have attached to the act; but being homely and not marriageable, I smiled at the occurrence and entered it in my diary as "patriotism run mad." The stable arrangements were, if possible, worse. One had to be certain, from actual presence, that his horse was fed at all, and during the first three days of my tenure, the black hostler lost me a breast strap, a halter, a crupper strap, and finally emptied my saddle-bags. Now and then a woman made her appearance at a front window, stealthily peeping into the street, or a neighboring farmer ventured into town upon a lean consumptive mule. The very dogs were skinny and savage for want of sustenance, and when a long, cadaverous hog emerged from nowhere one day, and tottered up the main street, he was chased, killed, and quartered so rapidly, that the famous steam process seemed to have been applied to him, of being dropped into a hopper, and tumbling out, a medley of hams, ribs, lard, and penknives. The stock of provisions at the hotel finally gave out, and I was compelled to purchase morsels of meat from the steward. Dreadful visions of famishing ensued, but ultimately the railway was opened to town, and a sutler started a shop in the village. I lived upon sardines and crackers for two days, and a Major Fifield, Superintendent of Military Railroads, gave me savory breakfasts of ham afterward. Troops were now concentrating in the neighborhood of Culpepper, and a bevy of camps encircled the little village. Crawford's Brigade, of Banks's Corps, garrisoned the place, and a Provost Marshal occupied the quaint Court House. Reconnoissances were made southward daily, and I joined one of these, which left the village on the second of August, at three o'clock, for Orange Court House, seventeen miles on the way to Richmond. Detachments of a Vermont and a New York cavalry regiment composed the reconnoitring party, and the whole was commanded by Gen. Crawford, a clever and unostentatious soldier. We bivouacked that night near Raccoon Ford, on the river Rapidan. No fires were built; for we knew that the enemy was all around us, and we slept coldly and imperfectly till the gray of Sunday morning. At daylight we galloped into the main street of Orange Court House, having first sent a squadron around the village, to ride in at the other end. At the very moment of our entry, a company or more of Confederate horse was also trotting into town. Both parties sounded the charge simultaneously, and the carbines exploded in the very heart of the village. For a minute or more a sabre fight ensued, alternated by the firing of revolvers; but the defenders were overmatched, and several of them having been slain, they turned to escape. At that moment, however, our other squadron charged upon them, effectually blocking up the street, and the whole party surrendered. A major, who exhibited some obstinacy, was felled from the saddle by a terrible cut, which clove his skull, and a very dexterous young fellow, who attempted to escape by a side street, dodged a bevy of pursuers and saved his head by the loss of both his ears. The disfigured corpses of those freshly slain were laid along the sidewalk in a row; and after some invasion of henroosts and private pantries, we remounted, and with fifty or more prisoners crossed the Rapidan, and were welcomed into Culpepper with cheers. The prisoners were lodged in the loft of the Court House, and their officers were paroled, and boarded among the neighbors. They complied with the terms of their parole very honorably, and bore testimony to the courtesy of their captors. I talked with them often upon the tavern porch, but an undue intimacy with any of them might have brought me into disrepute. Although the larders of the village were supposed to be empty, savory meals were nevertheless sent daily to these cavalry-men, and it was evident that the people on all hands sympathized with their soldiery. The stringent orders of Pope, relative to removing the disaffected beyond his lines, were never enforced. I doubt if the veritable commander himself meant to do more than intimidate evil doers; but I saw frequent evidences of scrupulous humanity on the part of his general officers. One day, when I was negotiating with the Provost for the purchase of some port wine, stored upon the premises of a village druggist, a sergeant elbowed his way into the presence of the Marshal, and pushed forward two very dirty lads, who gave their ages respectively, as ten and thirteen years. They were of Hibernian parentage, and belonged to the class of newsboys trading with the different brigades. The younger lad was wiping his nose and eyes with a relic of a coat sleeve, and the elder was studying the points of the case, with a view to an elaborate defence. The sergeant produced a thick roll of bills and laid them upon the desk. "Gineral Crawford," said he, "orders these boys to be locked up in the jail. They have been passing this stuff upon the country folks, and belong to a gang of young varmints who follers the 'lay.' The Gineral is going to have 'em brought up at the proper time and punished." The bills were fair imitations of Confederate currency, and were openly sold in the streets of Northern cities at the rate of thousands of dollars for a penny. These lads probably purchased horses, swine, or fowls with them, or perhaps paid some impoverished widow for board in the worthless counterfeit. The younger lad sobbed and howled when the order for his incarceration had been announced, but the elder made a stout remonstrance. He didn't know the Gineral would arrest him. Everybody else passed the bills. He thought they wos good bills; some man gave 'em to him. They wan't passed, nohow, upon nobody but _Rebels_! He could prove that! He "know'd" a quartermaster that passed 'em. Wouldn't they let him and Sam off this wunst? They were both sent to Coventry, despite their tears, and down to the last day of our tenure in Culpepper, I saw these wicked urchins peeping through the grates of the old brick jail, where they lay in the steam and vapor, among negroes, drunkards, and thieves,--an evidence of justice, which it is a pleasure to record, in this free narrative. I joined a mess in the Ninth New York regiment finally, and contrived to exist till the fifth of the month, when Pope moved his head-quarters to a hill back of Culpepper, and thereafter I lived daintily for a little while. On the 8th of August, however, an event occurred, which disturbed the wisest calculations of the correspondent and the Generals, THE BATTLE OF CEDAR MOUNTAIN. CHAPTER XXIII. GOING INTO ACTION. While General Pope's army was concentrating between the Rappahannock and Rapidan rivers, the army of General Stonewall Jackson was lying upon the south bank of the Rapidan, and that renowned commander's head-quarters were at Gordonsville, about thirty miles from Culpepper. It was generally presumed that Jackson had fortified Gordonsville, intending to lie in wait there, or possibly to oppose the crossing of Pope upon the banks of the river. It was not believed that Jackson's force was very great, because the main body of the Confederates were held below Richmond, where McClellan's army still remained. The Southern capital seemed to be menaced both from the North and the South; but in reality, the Grand Army was re-embarking at Harrison's Bar, and sailing up the Chesapeake in detachments, to effect a junction with Pope on the plains of Piedmont. So important a movement could not be concealed from the Confederates, and they had resolved to annihilate Pope before McClellan's reinforcements could arrive. It was the work of two weeks to transport eighty or a hundred thousand men three hundred miles, and finding that Burnside's corps had already landed upon the Potomac, Stonewall Jackson determined to cross the Rapidan and cripple the fragment of Pope's forces stationed at Culpepper. Stonewall Jackson is one of the many men whose extraordinary military genius has been developed by the civil war. But unlike the mass who have become famous in a day, and lost their laurels in a week, Jackson's glory has steadily increased. He was first brought into notice at Winchester, where he fought a fierce battle with Banks, and derived the _sobriquet_ which he has retained to the present time. Soon afterward, he chased Banks's army down the Shenandoah Valley, and across the Potomac. Afterward, he bore a conspicuous part in the engagement below Richmond, and was now to become prominent in the most daring episodes of the whole war. His excellence was _activity_. He scrupled at no fatigue, marched his troops over steep and circuitous roads, was everywhere when unexpected, and nowhere when sought, and his boldness was equal to his energy. He did not fear to attack overpowering numbers, if the situation demanded it. All that General Lee might plan, General Jackson would dare to execute; and he has been, above all others, the Soult of the Southern war, while Stuart was its Murat, and Lee its Napoleon. We first had intimation of the advance of Jackson on the afternoon of the 7th of August. Two regiments of cavalry, picketed upon the Rapidan, rode pell-mell into Culpepper, reporting a large Southern force at the fords, and rapidly advancing. Pope at once ordered the whole of one of these regiments under arrest, and it was the opinion of the army that the approach was a feint, or, at most, a reconnoissance in force. Subsequent information satisfied the incredulous, however, that a considerable body of troops were marching northward, and their outriding scouts had been seen at Cedar Mountain, only six miles from Culpepper. The latter is one of the many woody knobs or heights that environ the village, but it is nearer than any other, and should have been occupied by Pope, simultaneously with his arrival. It is scarcely a mountain in elevation, but so high that the clouds often envelope its crest, and it commands a view of all the surrounding country. There are cleared patches up its sides, and the highest of these constitutes the farm of a clergyman, after whom the eminence is sometimes called "Slaughter's Mountain." At its base lie a few pleasant farms; and a shallow rivulet or creek, called Cedar Run, crosses the road between the mountain and Culpepper. Upon the mountain side Jackson had placed his batteries, and his infantry lay in dense thickets and belts of woods before the hill and on each side of it. The position was a powerful, though not an impregnable one; for batteries might readily be pushed up the slope, and our infantry had often ascended steeper eminences. But an opposing army scattered about the meadow lands below, would find its several components exposed to shot and shell, thrown from points three or four hundred feet above them. When it had been discovered that the enemy had anticipated us in seizing this strong position, word was at once despatched to Banks and Siegel to bring up their columns without delay. The brigade of General Crawford was marched through Culpepper at noon on Friday; and that afternoon, foot-sore, but enthusiastic, regiments began to arrive in rapid succession. I had been passing the morning of Friday with Colonel Bowman, a modest and capable gentleman, when the serenity of our converse was disturbed by a sergeant, who rode into camp with orders for a prompt advance in light marching order. In a twinkling all the camps in the vicinity were deserted, and the roads were so blocked with soldiers on my return, that I was obliged to ride through fields. I trotted rapidly into the village, and witnessed a scene exciting and martial beyond anything which I had remarked with the Army of Virginia. Regiments were pouring by all the roads and lanes into the main street, and the spectacle of thousands of bayonets, extending as far as the eye could reach, was enhanced by the music of a score of bands, throbbing all at the same moment with wild music. The orders of officers rang out fitfully in the din, and when the steel shifted from shoulder to shoulder, it was like looking down a long sparkling wave. Above the confusion of the time, the various nativities of volunteers roared their national ballads. "St. Patrick's Day," intermingled with the weird refrain of "Bonnie Dundee," and snatches of German sword-songs were drowned by the thrilling chorus of the "Star-Spangled Banner." Then some stentor would strike a stave of-- "John Brown's body lies a mouldering in the grave," and the wild, mournful music would be caught up by all,--Germans, Celts, Saxons, till the little town rang with the thunder of voices, all uttering the name of the grim old Moloch, whom--more than any one save Hunter--Virginia hates. Suddenly, as if by rehearsal, all hats would go up, all bayonets toss and glisten, and huzzas would deafen the winds, while the horses reared upon their haunches and the sabres rose and fell. Then, column by column, the masses passed eastward, while the prisoners in the Court-House cupola looked down, and the citizens peeped in fear through crevices of windows. Being unattached to the staff of any General at the time, and therefore at liberty as a mere spectator, I rode rapidly after the troops, passed the foremost regiments, and unwittingly kept to the left, which I did not discover in the excitement of the ride, till my horse was foaming and my face furrowed with heat drops. I saw that the way had been little travelled, and inquiry at a log farm-house, some distance further, satisfied me that I had mistaken the way. Two men in coarse brown suits, were chopping wood here, and they informed me, with an oath, that the last soldiers seen in the neighborhood, had been Confederate pickets. A by-road enabled me to recover the proper route, and from the top of a hill overlooking Culpepper, I had a view of the hamlet, nestling in its hollow; the roads entering it, black with troops, and all the slopes covered with wagon-trains, whose white canopies seemed infinite. The skies were gorgeously dyed over the snug cottages and modest spires; some far woods were folded in a pleasant haze; and the blue mountains lifted their huge backs, voluming in the distance, like some boundary for humanity, with a happier land beyond. Here I might have stood, a few months before, and heard the church bells; and the trees around me might have been musical with birds. But now the parsons and the choristers were gone; the scaffold was erected, the axe bare, and with a good by glance at the world and man, some hundreds of wretches were to drop into eternity. We have all read of the guillotine in other lands; it was now before me in my own. As I passed into the highway again, and riding through narrow passages, grazing officers' knees, turning vicious battery horses, winding in and out of woods, making detours through pasture fields, leaping ditches, and so making perilous progress, I passed many friends who hailed me cheerfully,--here a brigadier-general who waved his hand, or a colonel who saluted, or a staff officer who rode out and exchanged inquiries or greetings, or a sergeant who winked and laughed. These were some of the men whose bodies I was to stir to-morrow with my foot, when the eyes that shone upon me now would be swollen and ghastly. Some of the privates seeing me in plain clothes, as I had joined the army merely as a visitor and with no idea of seeing immediate service there, mistook me for a newspaper correspondent, which in one sense I was; and I was greeted with such cries as-- "Our Special Artist!" "Our Own Correspondent!" "Give our Captain a setting up, you sir!" "Puff our Colonel!" "Give me a good obituary!" "Where's your pass, bub?" "Halloo! Jenkins. Three cheers for Jenkins!" I shall not soon forget one fellow, who planted himself in my path (his regiment had halted), and leaning upon his musket looked steadily into my eyes. "Ef I had a warrant for the devil," he said, "I'd arrest that feller." Many of the soldiers were pensive and thoughtful; but the mass were marching to their funerals with boyish outcries, apparently anxious to forget the responsibilities of the time. "Let's sing, boys." "Oh! Get out, or I'll belt you over the snout." "Halloo! Pardner, is there water over there?" "Three groans for old Jeff!" "Hip-hip--hoo-roar! Hi! Hi!" A continual explosion of small arms, in the shape of epithets, jests, imitations of the cries of sheep, cows, mules, and roosters, and snatches of songs, enlivened the march. If something interposed, or a halt was ordered, the men would throw themselves in the dust, wipe their foreheads, drink from their canteens, gossip, grin, and shout confusedly, and some sought opportunities to straggle off, so that the regiments were materially decimated before they reached the field. The leading officers maintained a dignity and a reserve, and reined their horses together in places, to confer. At one time, a private soldier came out to me, presenting a scrap of paper, and asked me to scrawl him a line, which he would dictate. It was as follows:-- "_My dear Mary, we are going into action soon, and I send you my love. Kiss baby, and if I am not killed I will write to you after the fight._" The man asked me to mail the scrap at the first opportunity; but the same post which carried his simple billet, carried also his name among the rolls of the dead. At five o'clock I overtook Crawford's brigade, drawn up in front of a fine girdle of timber, in a grass field, and on the edge of Cedar Creek. Their ambulances had been unhitched, and ranged in a row against the woods and the soldiers were soon formed in line of battle, extending across the road, with their faces toward the mountain. In this order they moved through the creek, and disappeared behind the ridge of a cornfield. The hill towered in front, but with the naked eye I could distinguish only a speck of floating something above the roof of Slaughter's white house. This was said to be a flag, though I did not believe it; and as there were no evidences of any enemy, which I could determine, I turned my attention to the immediate necessities of myself and my horse. A granary lay at a little distance, and as I was hastening thither, a trooper came along with a blanket full of corn. Fortuitously, he dropped about a dozen ears, which I secured, and hitched my animal to a tree, where he munched until I had fallen asleep. The latter event happened in this wise. I had observed a slight person in the uniform of a surgeon. He was dividing a large lump of pork at the time, and three great crackers lay before him. I approached and introduced myself, and in a few minutes I was a partial proprieter of the meat, and he a recipient of some drink. The same person directed me to occupy a shelf of the ambulance, and when we lay down together he narrated some of his experiences in Martinsburg, when the Confederates occupied the place after Banks's retreat. He had charge of a hospital at that time, and witnessed the entrance of the Confederate army. The wildness of the people was unbounded, he said, and all who had given so much as a drop of cold water to the invaders were pointed out and execrated. The properties of a few, said to be Unionists, were endangered; and ruffianly soldiers climbed to the windows of the hospital, hooting and taunting the sick. Not to be outdone in bitterness, the tenants flung up their crutches and cheered for the "Union,"--that darling idea, which has marshalled a million of men and filled hecatombs with its champions. In a few days the Federals took possession of the town anew, and the Southern element was in turn oppressed. This is Civil War,--more cruel than the excesses of hereditary enemies. A year before these people of the Shenandoah were fellow-countrymen of the soldiery they contemned. CHAPTER XXIV CEDAR MOUNTAIN. There being nothing to eat in the vicinity of the ambulances, I mounted anew at five o'clock and rode back toward Culpepper. No portion of the troops of Crawford were visible now, and only some gray smoke moved up the side of the mountain. A few stragglers were bathing their faces in Cedar Creek, and some miles in the rear lay several of McDowell's brigades under arms. Their muskets were stacked along the sides of the road, the men lay sleepily upon the ground,--company by company, each in its proper place,--the field-officers gossiping together, and the colors upright and unfurled. I was stopped, all the way along the lines, and interrogated as to what was happening in front. "Any Reb-bils out yonder?" asked a grim, snappish Colonel. "Guess they don't mean to fight before breakfast!" blurted a Captain. "Wish they'd cut away, anyway, if they goin' to!" muttered a chorus of privates. At the village there was nothing to be purchased, although some sutlers' stores lay at the depot, guarded by Provost officers. I persuaded a negro to give me a mess of almost raw pork, and a woman, with a child at the breast, cooked me some biscuit. There were many civilians and idle officers in the town, and the streets were lined with cavalry. Mr. Paine, the landlord, was losing the remnant of his wits, and the young ladies were playing the "Bonnie Blue Flag," and laughing satirically at some young officers who listened. The correspondents began to show themselves in force, and a young fellow whom I may call Chitty, representing a provincial journal, greatly amused me, with the expression of fears that there might be no engagement after all. Chitty was an attorney, who had forsaken a very moderate practice, for a press connection, and he informed me, in confidence, that he was gathering materials for a history of the war. By reason of his attention to this weighty project, he failed to do any reporting, and as his mind was not very well balanced, he was commonly taken to be a simpleton. As there was nobody else to talk to, I amused myself with Chitty during the forenoon, and he narrated to me some doubtful intrigues which had varied his career in Piedmont. But Chitty had mingled in no battles, and now that a contest was about to take place, his heart warmed in anticipation. He asked me if the hottest fighting would not probably occur on the right, and intimated, in that event, his desire to carry despatches through the thickest of the fray. Death was welcome to Chitty if he could so distinguish himself. Between Chitty and a nap in a wagon, I managed to loiter out the morning, and at three o'clock, a cannon peal, so close that it shook the houses, brought my horse upon his haunches. For awhile I did not leave the village. Cannon upon cannon exploded; the young ladies ceased their mirth; the landlord staggered with white lips into the air, and after a couple of hours, I heard the signal that I knew so well--a volley of musketry. Full of all the old impulses, I climbed into the saddle, and spurred my horse towards the battle-field. The ride over six miles of clay road was a capital school for my pony. Every hoof-fall brought him closer to the cannon, and the sound had become familiar when he reached the scene. At four o'clock, the musketry was close and effective beyond anything I had known, and now and then I could see, from secure places, the spurts of white cannon-smoke far up the side of the mountain. The action was commenced by emulous skirmishers, who crawled from the woodsides, and annoyed each other from coverts of ridge, stump, and stone heap. A large number of Southern riflemen then threw themselves into a corner of wood, considerably advanced from their main position. Their fire was so destructive that General Banks felt it necessary to order a charge. Two brigades, when the signal was given, marched in line of battle, out of a wood, and charged across a field of broken ground toward the projecting corner. As soon as they appeared, sharpshooters darted up from a stretch of scrub cedars on their right, and a battery mowed them down by an oblique fire from the left. The guns up the mountain side threw shells with beautiful exactness, and the concealed rifle-men in front poured in deadly showers of bullet and ball. As the men fell by dozens out of line, the survivors closed up the gaps, and pressed forward gallantly. The ground was uneven, however, and solid order could not be observed throughout. At length, when they had gained a brookside at the very edge of the wood, the column staggered, quailed, fell into disorder, and then fell back. Some of the more desperate dashed singly into the thicket, bayoneting their enemies, and falling in turn in the fierce grapple. Others of the Confederates ran from the wood, and engaged hand to hand with antagonists, and, in places, a score of combatants met sturdily upon the plain, lunging with knife and sabre bayonet, striking with clubbed musket, or discharging revolvers. But at last the broken lines regained the shelter of the timber, and there was a momentary lull in the thunder. For a time, each party kept in the edges of the timber, firing at will, but the Confederates were moving forward in masses by detours, until some thousands of them stood in the places of the few who were at first isolated. Distinct charges were now made, and a large body of Federals attempted to capture the battery before Slaughter's house, while separate brigades charged by front and flank upon the impenetrable timber. The horrible results of the previous effort were repeated; the Confederates preserved their position, and, at nightfall, the Federals fell back a mile or more. From fifteen hundred to two thousand of the latter were slain or wounded, and, though the heat of the battle had lasted not more than two hours, nearly four thousand men upon both sides were maimed or dead. The valor of the combatants in either cause was unquestionable. But no troops in the world could have driven the Confederates out of the impregnable mazes of the wood. It was an error to expose columns of troops upon an open plain, in the face of imperceptible sharpshooters. The batteries should have shelled the thickets, and the infantry should have retained their concealment. The most disciplined troops of Europe would not have availed in a country of bog, barren, ditch, creek, forest, and mountain. Compared to the bare plain of Waterloo, Cedar Mountain was like the antediluvian world, when the surface was broken by volcanic fire into chasms and abysses. In this battle, the Confederate batteries, along the mountain side, were arranged in the form of a crescent, and, when the solid masses charged up the hill, they were butchered by enfilading fires. On the Confederate part, a thorough knowledge of the country was manifest, and the best possible disposition of forces and means; on the side of the Federals, there was zeal without discretion, and gallantry without generalship. During the action, "Stonewall" Jackson occupied a commanding position on the side of the mountain, where, glass in hand, he observed every change of position, and directed all the operations. General Banks was indefatigable and courageous; but he was left to fight the whole battle, and not a regiment of the large reserve in his rear, came forward to succor or relieve him. As usual, McDowell was cursed by all sides, and some of Banks's soldiers threatened to shoot him. But the unpopular Commander had no defence to make, and said nothing to clear up the doubts relative to him. He exposed himself repeatedly, and so did Pope. The latter rode to the front at nightfall,--for what purpose no one could say, as he had been in Culpepper during the whole afternoon,--and he barely escaped being captured. The loss of Federal officers was very heavy. Fourteen commissioned officers were killed and captured out of one regiment. Sixteen commissioned officers only remained in four regiments. One General was taken prisoner and several were wounded. A large number of field-officers were slain. During the progress of the fight I galloped from point to point along the rear, but could nowhere obtain a panoramic view. The common sentiment of civilians, that it is always possible to see a battle, is true of isolated contests only. Even the troops engaged, know little of the occurrences around them, and I have been assured by many soldiers that they have fought a whole day without so much as a glimpse of an enemy. The smoke and dust conceal objects, and where the greatest execution is done, the antagonists have frequently fired at a line of smoke, behind which columns may, or may not have been posted. It was not till nightfall, when the Federals gave up the contested ground, and fell back to some cleared fields, that I heard anything of the manner of action and the resulting losses. As soon as the firing ceased, the ambulance corps went ahead and began to gather up the wounded. As many of these as could walk passed to the rear on foot, and the spectacle at eight o'clock was of a terrible character. The roads were packed with ambulances, creaking under fearful weights, and rod by rod, the teams were stopped, to accommodate other sufferers who had fallen or fainted on the walk. A crippled man would cling to the tail of a wagon, while the tongue would be burdened with two, sustaining themselves by the backs of the horses. Water was sought for everywhere, and all were hungry. I met at sundry times, friends who had passed me, hopeful and humorous the day before, now crawling wearily with a shattered leg or dumb with a stiff and dripping jaw. To realize the horror of the night, imagine a common clay road, in a quiet, rolling country, packed with bleeding people,--the fences down, horsemen riding through the fields, wagons blocking the way, reinforcements in dark columns hurrying up, the shouting of the well to the ill, and the feeble replies,--in a word, recall that elder time when the "earth was filled with violence," and add to the idea that the time was in the night. I assumed my old rôle of writing the names of the wounded, but when, at nine o'clock, the 10th Maine regiment--a fragment of the proud column which passed me in the morning--returned, I hailed Colonel Beale, and reined with him into a clover-field, the files following wearily. Tramping through the tall garbage, with few words, and those spoken in low tones, we stopped at length in a sort of basin, with the ground rising on every side of us. The men were placed in line, and the Company Sergeants called the rolls. Some of the replies were thrilling, but all were prosaic:-- "Smith!" "Smith fell at the first fire, Sergeant. Bill, here, saw him go down." "Sturgis!" "Sam's in the ambulance, wi' his thigh broke. I don't believe he'll live, Sergeant!" "Thompson!" "Dead." "Vinton!" "Yar! (feebly said) four fingers shot off!" In this way, the long lists were read over, while the survivors chatted, laughed, and disputed, talking of the incidents of the day. Most of the men lay down in the clover, and some started off in couples to procure water. The field-officers gave me some items relative to the conflict, and as they were ordered to remain here, I resolved to pass the night with them. Obtaining a great fence-rail, I lashed my horse to it by his halter, and, removing his saddle and bridle, left him free to graze in the vicinity. Then I unfolded my camp-bed, covered myself with a rubber blanket, and continued to listen to the conversation. Of course, accusations, bitter mutterings, moodiness, and melancholy, prevailed. I heard these for some time, interspersed with sententious eulogies upon particular persons, and references to isolated events. The evening was one of the pleasantest of the year, in all that nature could contribute; a fine starlight, a transparent atmosphere, a coolness, and a fragrance of sweet-clover blossoms. I had laid my head upon my arm, and shut my eyes, and felt drowsiness come upon me, when something hurtled through the air, and another gun boomed on the stillness. A shell, describing an arc of fire, fell some distance to our left, and, in a moment, a second shell passed directly over our heads. "----!" said an officer; "have they moved a battery so close? See! it is just at the end of this field!" I looked back! At the top of the basin in which we lay, something flashed up, throwing a glare upon the woody background, and a shell, followed by a shock, crashed ricochetting, directly in a line with us, but leaped, fortunately, above us, and continued its course far beyond. "They mean 'em for us," said the same voice; "they see these lights where the fools have been warming their coffee. Halloo!" Another glare of fire revealed the grouped men and horses around the battery, and for a moment I thought the missile had struck among us. There was a splutter, as of shivering metal flying about, and, with a sort of intuition, the whole regiment rose and ran. I started to my feet and looked for my horse. His ears were erect, his eyeballs distended, and his nostrils were tremulous with fright. A fifth shell, so perfectly in range that I held my breath, and felt my heart grow cold, came toward and passed me, and, with a toss of his head, the nag flung up the rail as if it had been a feather. He seemed literally to juggle it, and it flitted here and there, so that I dared not approach him. A favorable opportunity at length ensued, and I seized the animal by his halter. He was now wild with panic, and sprang toward me as if to trample me. In vain I endeavored to pull him toward the saddle. Fresh projectiles darted beside and above us, and the last of these seemed to pass so close that I could have reached and touched it. The panic took possession of me. I grasped my camp-bed, rather by instinct than by choice, and, holding it desperately under my arm, took to my heels. It was a long distance to the bottom of the clover-field, and the swift iron followed me remorselessly. At one moment, when a shell burst full in my face, half blinding me, I felt weak to faintness, but still I ran. I had wit enough to avoid the high road, which I knew to be packed with fugitives, and down which, I properly surmised, the enemy would send his steady messengers. Once I fell into a ditch, and the breath was knocked out of my body, but I rolled over upon my feet with marvellous sprightliness, till, at last, when I gained a corn-field, my attention was diverted to a strange, rattling noise behind me. I turned and looked. It was my horse, the rail dangling between his legs, his eyes on fire in the night. As we regarded each other, a shell burst between us. He dashed away across the inhospitable fields, and I fell into the high road among the routed. Expletives like these ensued:-- "Sa-a-ay! Hoss! Pardner! Are you going to ride over this wounded feller?" "Friend, have you a drop of water for a man that's fainted here?" "Halloo! Buster! Keep that bayonit out o' my eye, if you please!" "Where's Gen. Banks? I hearn say he's a prisoner." "I do' know!" "Was we licked, do you think?" "No! We warn't nothin' o' the kind. Siegel's outflanked 'em and okkepies the field. A man jus' told me so." "Huzza! Hearties, cheer up! Siegel's took the field, and Stonewall Jackson's dead." "Three cheers for Siegel." "Hoorooar, hoor--" "Oh! Get out! That's all blow. Don't try stuff me! We're lathered; that's the long and shawt of it." "Is that so? Boys, I guess we're beat!" Such was the character of exclamations that ran here and there, and after a little volley of them had been let off, a long pause succeeded, when only the sighs of the injured and the tramp of men and nags broke the silence. Overhead the starlight and the blue sky; on either side the rolling, shadowy fields; and wrapping the horizon in a gray, grisly girdle, the reposing woods plentiful with dew. Nature was putting forth all her still, sweet charms, as if to make men witness the damned contrast of their own wrath, violence, and murder. Even thus, perhaps,--I reasoned,--in the days of old, did the broken multitudes of Xerxes return by the shores of the golden Archipelago; and the Hellespont shone as peacefully as these silvernesses of earth and firmament. The dulness of history became invested with new intelligence. I filled in the details of a thousand routs conned in school-days, when only the dry outlines lay before me. They were mysteries before, and lacked the warmness of life and truth; but now I _saw_ them! The armor and the helmets fell away, with all other trappings of custom, language, and ceremony. This pale giant, who walked behind the ambulance, leaning upon the footboard, was the limping Achilles, with the arrow of Paris festering in his heel. This ancient veteran, with his back to the field, was the fugitive Æneas, leaving Troy behind. And these, around me, belonged to the columns of Barbazona, scattered at Legnano by the revengeful Milanese. Cobweb, and thick dust, and faded parchment had somewhat softened those elder events; but in their day they were tangible, practical, and prosaic, like this scene. Years will roll over this, as over those, and folks will read at firesides, half doubtfully, half wonderingly, the story of this bafflement, when no fragment of its ruin remains. It was a profound feeling that I should thus be walking down the great retreat of time, and that the occurrences around me should be remembered forever! There were a few prisoners in the mass, walking before cavalry-men. Nobody interfered with them, and they were not in a position to feel elated. Now and then, when we reached an ambulance, the fugitives would press around it to inquire if any of their friends were within. Rough recognitions would ensue, as thus:-- "Bobby, is that you, back there?--Bobby Baker?" "Who is it?" (feebly uttered.) "Me, Bobby--Josh Wiggins. Are you shot bad, Bobby?" "Shot in the thigh; think the bone's broke. You haven't got a drop of water, have you?" "No, Bobby; wish I had. Have anymore of our boys been hurt that you know of?" "Switzer is dead; Bill Cringle and Jonesy are prisoners; 'Pud' White is in the ambulance ahead; 'Fol' Thompson's lost an arm; that's all I know." When we had gone two miles or more, we found a provost column drawn across the road, and a mounted officer interrogating all who attempted to pass:-- "Stop there! You're not wounded." "Yes, I am." "Pass on! Halt boy! Go back. Men, close up there. Stop that boy." "I am sun-struck, Major." "You lie! Drive him back. Go back, now!" Beyond this the way was comparatively clear; but as I knew that other guards held the road further on, I passed to the right, and with the hope of finding a rill of water, went across some grass fields, keeping toward the low places. The fields were very still, and I heard only the subdued noises wafted from the road; but suddenly I found myself surrounded by men. They were lying in groups in the tall grass, and started up suddenly, like the clansmen of Roderick Dhu. At first I thought myself a prisoner, and these some cunning Confederates, who had lain in wait. But, to my surprise, they were Federal uniforms, and were simply skulkers from various regiments, who had been hiding here during the hours of battle. Some of these miserable wretches asked me the particulars of the fight, and when told of the defeat, muttered that they were not to be hood-winked and slaughtered. "I was sick, anyway," said one fellow, "and felt like droppin' on the road." "I didn't trust my colonel," said another; "he ain't no soldier." "I'm tired of the war, anyhow," said a third, "and my time's up soon; so I shan't have my head blown off." As I progressed, dozens of these men appeared; the fields were strewn with them; a true man would rather have been lying with the dead on the field of carnage, than here, among the craven and base. I came to a spring at last, and the stragglers surrounded it in levies. One of them gave me a cup to dip some of the crystal, and a prayerful feeling came over me as the cooling draught fell over my dry palate and parched throat. Regaining the road, I encountered reinforcements coming rapidly out of Culpepper, and among them was the 9th New York. My friend Lieutenant Draper, recognized me, and called out that he should see me on the morrow, if he was not killed meantime. Culpepper was filling with fugitives when I passed up the main street, and they were sprinkled along the sidewalks, gossiping with each other. The wounded were being carried into some of the dwellings, and when I reached the Virginia Hotel, many of them lay upon the porch. I placed my blanket on a clean place, threw myself down exhaustedly, and dropped to sleep directly. CHAPTER XXV. OUT WITH A BURYING PARTY. When I rose, at ten o'clock on the morning of Sunday, August 10, the porch was covered with wounded people. Some fierce sunbeams were gliding under the roof, shining in the poor fellows' eyes, and they were stirring wearily, though asleep. Picking my way among the prostrate figures, I resorted to the pump in the rear of the tavern for the purpose of bathing my face. A soldier stood there on guard, and he refused to give me so much as a draught of water. The wounded needed every drop, and there were but a few wells in the town. I strolled through the main street, now crowded with unfortunates, and pausing at the Court House, found the seat of justice transmuted to a headquarters for surgeons, where amputations were being performed. Continuing by a street to the left, I came to the depot, and here the ambulances were gathered with their scores of inmates. A tavern contiguous to the railway was also a hospital, but in the basement I found the transportation agents at breakfast, and they gave me a bountiful meal. It was here arranged between myself and an old friend--a newspaper correspondent who had recently married, and whose wife awaited him at Willard's in Washington--that he should proceed at once to New York with the outline of the fight, and that I should follow him next day (having, indeed, to report for duty and fresh orders at Head-quarters of the army in Washington,) with particulars and the lists of killed. I commenced my part of the labors at once, employing three persons to assist me, and we districted Culpepper, so that no one should interfere with the grounds of the other. My own part of the work embraced both hotel-hospitals, the names and statements of the prisoners of the Court House loft, and interviews with some of the generals and colonels who lay at various private residences. The business was not a desirable one; for hot hospital rooms were now absolutely reeking, and many of the victims were asleep. It would be inhuman to awaken these; but in many cases those adjacent knew nothing, and with all assiduity the rolls must be imperfect. I found one man who had undergone a sort of mental paralysis and could not tell me his own name. However, I groped through the several chambers where the bleeding littered the bare floors. Some of them were eating voraciously, and buckets of ice-water were being carried to and fro that all might drink. Some male nurses were fanning the sleeping people with boughs of cedar; but the flies filled the ceiling, and, attracted by the wounds, they kept up a constant buzzing. I imagined that mortification would rapidly ensue in this broiling atmosphere. A couple of trains were being prepared below, to transport the sufferers to Washington, and from time to time individuals were carried into the air and deposited in common freight-cars upon the hard floors. Here they were compelled to wait till late in the evening, for no trains were allowed to leave the village during the day. At the Virginia Hotel, I visited, among others, the room in which I had lodged when I first came to Culpepper. Eight persons now occupied it, and three of them lay across the bed. I took the first man's name, and as the man next to him seemed to be asleep, I asked the first man to nudge him gently. "I don't think he is alive," said the man; "he hasn't moved since midnight. I've spoken to him already." I pulled a blanket from the head of the figure, and the tangled hair, yellow skin, and stiffened jaw told all the story. The other man looked uneasily into the face of the corpse and then lay down with his back toward it. "I hope they'll take it out," said he, "I don't want to sleep beside it another night." The guard at the Court House allowed me to ascend to the loft, and the prisoners--forty or fifty in number--clustered around me. They had received, a short time before, their day's allotment of crackers and bread, and some of them were sitting in the cupola, with their bare legs hanging over the rails. They were anxious to have their names printed, and I learned from the less cautious the names of the brigades to which they belonged. Before I left the room I had obtained the number of regiments in Jackson's command and the names of his brigadier-generals. Some prisoners arrived while I was noting these matters. They had been sent to pick up arms, canteens, cartridge-boxes, etc., from the battle-field, and some of our cavalry had ridden them down and captured them. They were a little discomposed, but said, for the most part, that they were weary of the war and glad to be in custody. As a rule, Northern and Southern troops have the same general manners and appearances. These were more ragged than any Federals I had ever known, and their appetites were voracious. I found General Geary, a Pennsylvania brigade Commander, in the dwelling of a lady near the end of the town. He had received a bullet in the arm, and, I believe, submitted to amputation afterward. He was a tall, athletic man, upwards of six feet in height, and a citizen of one of the mountainous interior counties of the Quaker State. His life had been marked by much adventure, and he had been elevated to many important civil positions in various quarters of the Republic. He occupied a leading place, in the Mexican war, and was afterward Mayor of San Francisco and Governor of Kansas. He acted with the Southern wing of the Democratic party, and was discreetly ambitious, promoting the agricultural interests of his commonwealth, and otherwise fulfilling useful civil functions. He was a fine exemplar of the American gentleman, preserving the better individualities of his countrymen, but discarding those grosser traits, which have given us an unenviable name abroad. Geary could not do a mean thing, and his courage came so naturally to him that he did not consider it any cause of pride. The bias of party, which in America diseases the best natures, had in some degree affected the General. He was prone to go with his party in any event, when often, I think, his fine intelligence would have prompted him to an independent course. But I wish that all our leading men possessed his manliness, for then more dignity and self-respect, and less "smartness," might be apparent in our social and political organizations. He was lying on his back, with his shattered arm bandaged, and resting on his breast. Twitches of keen pain shot across his face now and then, but he received me with a simple courtesy that made his patience thrice heroic. He did not speak of himself or his services, though I knew both to be eminent; but McDowell had insulted him, as he rode disabled from the field, and Geary felt the sting of the word more than the bullet. He had ventured to say to McDowell that the Reserves were badly needed in front, and the proud "Regular" had answered the officious "Volunteer," to the effect that he knew his own business. Not the least among the causes of the North's inefficiency will be found this ill feeling between the professional and the civil soldiery. A Regular contemns a Volunteer; a Volunteer hates a Regular. I visited General Augur--badly wounded--in the drawing-room of the hotel, and paused a moment to watch Colonel Donnelly, mortally wounded, lying on a spread in the hall. The latter lingered a day in fearful agony; but he was a powerful man in physique, and he fought with death through a bloody sweat, never moaning nor complaining, till he fell into a blessed torpidity, and so yielded up his soul. The shady little town was a sort of Golgotha now. Feverish eyes began to burn into one's heart, as he passed along the sidewalks. Red hospital flags, hung like regalia from half the houses. A table for amputations was set up in the open air, and nakedness glared hideously upon the sun. How often have they brought out corpses in plain boxes of pine, and shut them away without sign, or ceremony, or tears, driving a long stake above the headboard. The ambulances came and went, till the line seemed stretching to the crack of doom; while, as in contemplation of further murder, the white-covered ammunition-teams creaked southward, and mounted Provosts charged upon the skulkers, driving them to a pen, whence they were forwarded to their regiments. Old Mr. Paine, the landlord, tottered up to me, with a tear in his eye, and said-- "My good Lord, sir! Who is responsible for this?" He did not mean to suggest argument. It was the language of a human heart pitying its brotherhood. At twelve o'clock I started anew for the field, and fell in with Captain Chitty on the way. He stated that his courage during the fight surpassed his most heroic expectations, and added, in an undertone, that he was deliberating as to whether he should allow his name to be mentioned officially, since several military men were urging that honor upon him. I dissuaded Chitty from this intent, upon the ground that his reputation for modesty might be sacrificed. Chitty at once said that he would take my advice. We encountered Surgeon Ball, of Ohio, after a time, and he informed us that a day's armistice had been agreed upon, to allow for the burial of the dead. The work of interment was already commenced in front, and the surgeon had been ordered to see to the wounded, some of whom still lay on the places where they fell. He allowed us to accompany him in the capacity of cadets, but we first diverged a little from the road, that he might obtain his portmanteau of instruments. I fell into a little difficulty here, by unwittingly asking aloud of the 28th Pennsylvania regiment, if that was not the organization which hid itself during the fight? The 28th had been ordered, on the morning of Saturday, to occupy Telegraph Mountain,--an elevation in the rear of Cedar Mountain,--which was used for a Federal signal-post. Nobody having notified the 28th to return to camp, they remained on the mountain, passively witnessing the carnage, and came away in the night. But although my remark was jestingly said, the knot of soldiers who heard it were intensely excited. They spoke of taking me "off that hoss," and called me a New York "Snob," who "wanted his head punched." This irate feeling may be attributed to the rivalry which exists between the "Empire" and the "Keystone" States, the latter being very jealous of the former, and claiming to have sent more troops to the war than any other commonwealth. The 28th volunteers doubtless expected a terrific onslaught from the next issue of the Philadelphia papers. The reserve, which had lain some miles in the rear the previous evening, were now massed close to the field, but in the woods, that the enemy might not count their numbers from his high position. Stopping at times to chat with brother officers, at last I reached the meadow whence I had been driven the previous evening. I looked for my nag in vain. One soldier told me that he had seen him at daylight limping along the high road; but after sundry wild-goose chases, I gave up the idea of recovering him. At last I passed the outlying batteries, with their black muzzles scanning the battle-ground, and ascending the clover field, came upon the site of the battery which had so discomfited us the previous night. A signal vengeance had overtaken it. Some splinters of wheel and an overturned caisson, with eight horses lying in a group,--their hoofs extended like index boards, their necks elongated along the ground, and their bodies swollen--were the results of a single shell trained upon the battery by a cool artillerist. Beyond, the road and fields were strown with knapsacks, haversacks, jackets, canteens, cartridge-boxes, shoes, bayonets, knives, buttons, belts, blankets, girths, and sabres. Now and then a mule or a horse lay at the roadside, with the clay saturated beneath him; and some of the tree-tops, in the depth of the woods, were scarred, split, and barked, as if the lightning had blasted them. Now passing a disabled wagon, now marking a dropped horseshoe, now turning a capsized ambulance, now regarding a perfect wilderness of old clothes, we emerged from the timber at last, and came to the place where I had slept on the eve of the battle. A hurricane had apparently swept the country here, and the fences had been transported bodily. Sometimes the ground looked, for limited areas, as if there had been a rain of kindling-wood; and there were furrows in the clay, like those made by some great mole which had ploughed into the bowels of the earth. All the tree boles were pierced and perforated, and boughs had been severed so that they littered the way. Cedar Creek ran merrily across what had been the road,--the waters limpid and cool as before,--and when I passed beyond, I entered the region of dead men. Some poisonous Upas had seemingly grown here, so that adventurers were prostrated by its exhalations. A tributary rivulet formed with the creek a triangular enclosure of ground, where most of the Federals had fallen. To the left of the road stood a cornfield; to the right a stubble-field, dotted with stone heaps: deep woods formed the background to these, and scrub-timber, irregularly disposed, the foreground. On the right of the stubble lay a great stretch of "barren," spotted with dwarf cedars, and on the left of the cornfield stood a white farm-house, with orchards and outbuildings; beyond, the creek had hollowed a ravine among the hills, and the far distance was bounded by the mountains on the Rapidan. In the immediate front, towered Cedar Mountain, with woods at its base; and the roadway in which I stood, lost itself a little way on in the mazes of the thicket. Looking down one of the rows of corn, I saw the first corpse--the hands flung stiffly back, the feet set stubbornly, the chin pointing upward, the features losing their sharpness, the skin blackening, the eyes great and white-- "A heap of death--a chaos of cold clay." Turning into the cornfield, we came upon one man with a spade, and another man lying at his feet. He was digging a grave, and when we paused to note the operation, he touched his cap:-- "Pardner o' mine," he said, indicating the body; "him and I fit side by side, and we agreed, if it could be done, to bury each other. There ain't no sich man as that lost out o' the army, private or officer,--with all respect to you." It was a eulogy that sounded as if more deserved, because it was homely. There are some that I have read, much finer, but not as honest. At little distances we saw parties of ten or twenty, opening trenches, the tributary brook, only, dividing the Confederate and Federal fatigue parties. Close to this brook, in the cornfield, lay a fallen trunk of a tree, and four men sat upon it. Two of them wore gray uniforms, two wore blue. The latter were Gens. Roberts and Hartsuff of the Federal army. They were waiting for Gens. Stuart and Early, of the Confederate army: and the four were to define the period of the armistice. The men in gray were Major Hintham of Mississippi, and Lieut. Elliott Johnston of Maryland. Hintham was a lean, fiery, familiar man, who wore the uniform of several field-marshals. An ostrich feather was stuck in his soft hat and clasped by a silver star upon a black velvet ground. A golden cord formed his hat-band, and two tassels, as huge as those of drawing-room curtains, fell upon his back. His collar was plentifully embroidered as well as his coat-sleeves, and a black seam ran down his trousers. He wore spurs of prodigious size, and looked, in the main, like a tragedian about to appear upon the stage. The other man was young, stout, and good humored; and he talked sententiously, with a little vanity, but much courtesy. The Federals had nothing to say to these, they dealt only with equals in rank. It became a matter of professional ambition, now, to obtain the greatest amount of information from these Confederates, without appearing to depart from any conventionality of the armistice. I got along very well till Chitty came up, and his interrogatives were so pert and pointed that he very nearly spoiled the entire labor. Young Johnston was a Baltimorean, and wished his people to know something of him; he gave me a card, stated that he was one of Gen. Garnett's aids, and had opened the armistice, early in the day, by riding into the Federal lines with a flag of truce. By detachments, new bodies of Confederate officers joined us, most of them being young fellows in gray suits: and at length Gen. Early rode down the hillside and nodded his head to our party. It was the custom of our newspapers to publish, with its narrative of each battle, a plan of the field; and in furtherance of this object, having agreed to act for my absent friend, I moved a little way from the place of parley, and laying my paper on the pommel of my saddle proceeded to sketch the relative positions of road, brook, mountain, and woodland. While thus busily engaged, and congratulating myself upon the fine opportunities afforded me, a lithe, indurated, severe-looking horseman rode down the hill, and reining beside me, said-- "Are you making a sketch of our position?" "Not for any military purpose." "For what?" "For a newspaper engraving." "Umph!" The man rode past me to the log, and when I had finished my transcript, I resumed my place at the group. The new comer was Major General J. E. B. Stuart, one of the most famous cavalry leaders in the Confederate army. He was inquiring for General Hartsuff, with whom he had been a fellow-cadet at West Point; but the Federal General had strolled off, and in the interval Stuart entered into familiar converse with the party. He described the Confederate uniform to me, and laughed over some reminiscences of his raid around McClellan's army. "That performance gave me a Major-Generalcy, and my saddle cloth there, was sent from Baltimore as a reward, by a lady whom I never knew." Stuart exhibited what is known in America as "airiness," and evidently loved to talk of his prowess. Directly Gen. Hartsuff returned, and the forager rose, with a grim smile about his mouth-- "Hartsuff, God bless you, how-de-do?" "Stuart, how are you?" They took a quiet turn together, speaking of old school-days, perhaps; and when they came back to the log, Surgeon Ball produced a bottle of whiskey, out of which all the Generals drank, wishing each other an early peace. "Here's hoping you may fall into our hands," said Stuart; "we'll treat you well at Richmond!" "The same to you!" said Hartsuff, and they all laughed. It was a strange scene,--this lull in the hurricane. Early was a North Carolinian, who lost nearly his whole brigade at Williamsburg. He wore a single star upon each shoulder, and in other respects resembled a homely farmer. He kept upon his horse, and had little to say. Crawford was gray and mistrustful, calmly measuring Stuart with his eye, as if he intended to challenge him in a few minutes. Hartsuff was fair and burly, with a boyish face, and seemed a little ill at ease. Stuart sat upon a log, in careless posture, working his jaw till the sandy gray beard brushed his chin and became twisted in his teeth. Around, on foot and on horse, lounged idle officers of both armies; and the little rill that trickled behind us was choked in places with corpses. A pleasanter meeting could not have been held, if this were a county training. The Surgeon told Gen. Stuart that some of his relatives lived near the Confederate Capital, and as the General knew them, he related trifling occurrences happening in their neighborhoods, so that the meeting took the form of a roadside gossip, and Stuart might have been a plain farmer jaunting home from market. The General, who was called "JEB" by his associates, so far relented finally as to give me leave to ride within the Confederate outer lines, and Lieut. Johnson accompanied me. The corpses lay at frequent points, and some of the wounded who had not been gathered up, remained at the spots where they had fallen. One of these, whose leg had been broken, was incapable of speaking, and could hardly be distinguished from the lifeless shapes around him. The number of those who had received their death wound on the edge of the brook, while in the act of leaping across was very great. I fancied that their faces retained the mingled ardor and agony of the endeavor and the pang. There seemed to be no system in the manner of interment, and many of the Federals had thrown down their shovels, and strolled across the boundary, to chaff and loiter with the "Butternuts." No one, whom I saw, exhibited any emotion at the strewn spectacles on every side, and the stories I had read of the stony-heartedness during the plague, were more than rivalled by these charnel realities. Already corruption was violating the "temples of the living God." The heat of the day and the general demoralizing influences of the climate, were making havoc with the shapely men of yesterday, and nature seemed hastening to reabsorb, and renew by her marvellous processes, what was now blistering and burdening her surface. Enough, however, of this. Satiated with the scenes of war, my ambition now was to extend my observations to the kingdoms of the Old World. CHAPTER XXVI. OUR OWN CORRESPONDENT IN ENGLAND. The boy's vague dream of foreign adventure had passed away; my purpose was of a tamer and more practical cast; it was resolved to this problem: "How could I travel abroad and pay my expenses?" Evidently no money could be made by home correspondence. The new order of journals had no charity for fine moral descriptions of church steeples, ruined castles, and picture galleries; I knew too little of foreign politics to give the Republic its semi-weekly "sensation;" and exchange was too high at the depreciated value of currency to yield me even a tolerable reward. But might I not reverse the policy of the peripatetics, and, instead of turning my European experiences into American gold, make my knowledge of America a bill of credit for England? What capital had I for this essay? I was twenty-one years of age; the last three years of my minority had been passed among the newspapers; I knew indifferently well the distribution of parties, the theory of the Government, the personalities of public men, the causes of the great civil strife. And I had mounted to my saddle in the beginning of the war, and followed the armies of McClellan and Pope over their sanguinary battle-fields. The possibility thrilled me like a novel discovery, that the Old World might be willing to hear of the New, as I could depict it, fresh from the theatre of action. At great expense foreign correspondents had been sent to our shores, whose ignorance and confidence had led them into egregious blunders; for their travelling outlay merely, I would have guaranteed thrice the information, and my sanguine conceit half persuaded me that I could present it as acceptably. I did not wait to ponder upon this suggestion. The guns of the second action of Bull Run growled a farewell to me as I resigned my horse and equipments to a successor. With a trifle of money, I took passage on a steamer, and landed at Liverpool on the first of October, 1862. Among my acquaintances upon the ship was a semi-literary adventurer from New England. I surmised that his funds were not more considerable than my own; and indeed, when he comprehended my plans, he confessed as much, and proposed to join enterprises with me. "Did you ever make a public lecture?" he asked. Now I had certain blushing recollections of having entertained a suburban congregation, long before, with didactic critiques upon Byron, Keats, and the popular poets. I replied, therefore, misgivingly, in the affirmative, and Hipp, the interrogator, exclaimed at once-- "Let us make a lecturing tour in England, and divide the expenses and the work; you will describe the war, and I will act as your agent." With true Yankee persistence Hipp developed his idea, and I consented to try the experiment, though with grave scruples. It would require much nerve to talk to strange people upon an excitable topic; and a camp fever, which among other things I had gained on the Chickahominy, had enfeebled me to the last degree. However, I went to work at once, inditing the pages in a snug parlor of a modest Liverpool inn, while Hipp sounded the patrons and landlord as to the probable success of our adventure. Opinions differed; public lectures in the Old World had been generally gratuitous, except in rare cases, but the genial Irish proprietor of the _Post_ advised me to go on without hesitation. We selected for the initial night a Lancashire sea-side town, a summer resort for the people of Liverpool, and filled at that time with invalids and pleasure-seekers. Hipp, who was a sort of American Crichton, managed the business details with consummate tact. I was announced as the eye-witness and participator of a hundred actions, fresh from the bloodiest fields and still smelling of saltpetre. My horse had been shot as I carried a General's orders under the fire of a score of batteries, and I was connected with journals whose reputations were world-wide. Disease had compelled me to forsake the scenes of my heroism, and I had consented to enlighten the Lancashire public, through the solicitation of the nobility and gentry. Some of the latter had indeed honored the affair with their patronage. We secured the three village newspapers by writing them descriptive letters. The parish rector and the dissenting preachers were waited upon and presented with family tickets; while we placarded the town till it was scarcely recognizable to the oldest inhabitant. On the morning of the eventful day I arrived in the place. The best room of the best inn had been engaged for me, and waiters in white aprons, standing in rows, bowed me over the portal. The servant girls and gossips had fugitive peeps at me through the cracks of my door, and I felt for the first time all the oppressiveness of greatness. As I walked on the quay where the crowds were strolling, looking out upon the misty sea, at the donkeys on the beach, and at the fishing-smacks huddled under the far-reaching pier, I saw my name in huge letters borne on the banner of a bill-poster, and all the people stopping to read as they wound in and out among them. How few thought the thin, sallow young man, in wide breeches and square-toed boots, who shambled by them so shamefacedly, to be the veritable Mentor who had crossed the ocean for their benefit. Indeed, the embarrassing responsibility I had assumed now appeared to me in all its vividness. My confidence sensibly declined; my sensitiveness amounted to nervousness; I had half a mind to run away and leave the show entirely to Hipp. But when I saw that child of the Mayflower stolidly, shrewdly going about his business, working the wires like an old operator, making the largest amount of thunder from so small a cloud, I was rebuked of my faintheartedness. In truth, not the least of my misgivings was Hipp's extraordinary zeal. He gave the townsmen to understand that I was a prodigy of oratory, whose battle-sketches would harrow up their souls and thrill them like a martial summons. It brought the blush to my face to see him talking to knots of old men after the fashion of a town crier at a puppet-booth, and I wondered whether I occupied a more reputable rank, after all, than a strolling gymnast, giant, or dwarf. As the twilight came on my position became ludicrously unenviable. The lights in the town-hall were lit. I passed pallidly twice or thrice, and would have given half my fortune if the whole thing had been over. But the minutes went on; the interval diminished; I faced the crisis at last and entered the arena. There sat Hipp, taking money at the head of the stairs, with piles of tickets before him; and as he rose, gravely respectful, the janitor and some loiterers took off their hats while I passed. I entered the little bare dressing-room; my throat was parched as fever, my hands were hot and tremulous; I felt my heart sag. How the rumble of expectant feet in the audience-room shook me! I called myself a poltroon, and fingered my neck-tie, and smoothed my hair before the mirror. Another burst of impatient expectation made me start; I opened the door, and stood before my destiny. The place was about one third filled with a representative English audience, the males preponderating in number. They watched me intently as I mounted the steps of the rostrum and arranged my port-folio upon a musical tripod; then I seated myself for a moment, and tried to still the beating of my foolish heart. How strangely acute were my perceptions of everything before me! I looked from face to face and analyzed the expressions, counted the lines down the corduroy pantaloons, measured the heavily-shod English feet, numbered the rows of benches and the tubes of the chandeliers, and figured up the losing receipts from this unremunerative audience. Then I rose, coughed, held the house for the last time in severe review, and repeated-- "LADIES AND GENTLEMEN--A grand contest agitates America and the world. The people of the two sections of the great North American Republic, having progressed in harmony for almost a century, and become a formidable power among the nations, are now divided and at enmity; they have consecrated with blood their fairest fields, and built monuments of bones in their most beautiful valleys," etc. For perhaps five minutes everything went on smoothly. I was pleased with the clearness of my voice; then, as I referred to the origin of the war, and denounced the traitorous conspiracy to disrupt the republic, faint mutterings arose, amounting to interruptions at last. The sympathies of my audience were, in the main, with the secession. There were cheers and counter cheers; storms of "Hear, hear," and "No, no," until a certain youth, in a sort of legal monkey-jacket and with ponderously professional gold seals, so distinguished himself by exclamations that I singled him out as a mark for my bitterest periods. But while I was thus the main actor in this curious scene, a strange, startling consciousness grew apace upon me; the room was growing dark; my voice replied to me like a far, hollow echo; I knew--I knew that I was losing my consciousness--that I was about to faint! Words cannot describe my humiliation at this discovery. I set my lips hard and straightened my limbs; raised my voice to a shrill, defiant pitch, and struggled in the dimming horror to select my adversary in the monkey-jacket and overwhelm him with bitter apostrophes. In vain! The novelty, the excitement, the enervation of that long, consuming fever, mastered my overtaxed physique. I knew that, if I did not cease, I should fall senseless to the floor. Only in the last bitter instant did I confess my disability with the best grace I could assume. "My friends," I said, gaspingly, "this is my first appearance in your country, and I am but just convalescent; my head is a little weak. Will you kindly bear with me a moment while the janitor gets me a glass of water?" A hearty burst of applause took the sting from my mortification. A bald old gentleman in the front row gravely rose and said, "Let me send for a drop of brandy for our young guest." They waited patiently and kindly till my faintness passed away, and when I rose, a genuine English cheer shook the place. I often hear it again when, here in my own country, I would speak bitterly of Englishmen, and it softens the harshness of my condemnation. But I now addressed myself feverishly to my task, and my disgrace made me vehement and combative. I glared upon the individual in the monkey-jacket as if he had been Mr. Jefferson Davis himself, and read him a scathing indictment. The man in the monkey-jacket was not to be scathed. He retorted more frequently than before; he was guilty of the most hardy contempt of court. He was determined not to agree with me, and said so. "Sir," I exclaimed at last, "pray reserve your remarks till the end of the lecture, and you shall have the platform." "I shall be quite willing, I am sure," said the man in the monkey-jacket with imperturbable effrontery. Then, as I continued, the contest grew interesting; explosions of "No, no," were interrupted with volleys of "Ay, ay," from my adherents. Hipp, who had squared accounts, made all the applause in his power, standing in the main threshold, and the little auditory became a ringing arena, where we fought without flinching, standing foot to foot and drawing fire for fire. The man in the monkey-jacket broke his word: silence was not his forte; he hurled denials and counter-charges vociferously; he was full of gall and bitterness, and when I closed the last page and resumed my chair, he sprang from his place to claim the platform. "Stop," cried Hipp, in his hard nasal tone, striding forward; "you have interrupted the lecturer after giving your parole; we recall our promise, as you have not stood by yours. Janitor, put out the lights!" The bald old gentleman quietly rose. "In England," he said, "we give everybody fair play; tokens of assent and dissent are commonly made in all our public meetings; let us have a hearing for our townsman." "Certainly," I replied, giving him my hand at the top of the stairs, "nothing would afford me more pleasure." The man in the monkey-jacket then made a sweeping speech, full of loose charges against the Americans, and expressive of sympathy with the Rebellion; but, at the finishing, he proposed, as the sentiment of the meeting, a vote of thanks to me, which was amended by another to include himself. Many of the people shook hands with me at the door, and the bald old gentleman led me to his wife and daughter, whose benignities were almost parental. "Poor young man!" said the old lady; "a must take care of 'is 'ealth; will a come hoom wi' Tummas and me and drink a bit o' tea?" I strolled about the place for twenty-four hours on good terms with many townsmen, while Hipp, full of pluck and business, was posting me against all the dead walls of a farther village. Again and again I sketched the war-episodes I had followed, gaining fluency and confidence as by degrees my itinerant profession lost its novelty, but we as steadily lost money. The houses were invariably bad; we had the same fiery discussions every evening, but the same meagre receipts, and in every market town of northwestern Lancashire we buried a portion of our little capital, till once, after talking myself hoarse to a respectable audience of empty benches, Hipp and I looked blankly into each other's faces and silently put our last gold pieces upon the table. We were three thousand miles from home, and the possessors of ten sovereigns apiece. I reached out my hand with a pale smile:-- "Old fellow," I said, "let us comfort ourselves by the assurance that we have deserved success. The time has come to say good by." "As you will," said Hipp: "it is all the fault of this pig-headed nation. Now I dare say if we had brought a panorama of the war along, it would have been a stunning success; but standing upon high literary and forensic ground, of course they can't appreciate us. Confound 'em!" I think that Hipp has since had but two notions,--the exhibition of that panorama, or, in the event of its failure, a declaration of war against the British people. He followed me to Liverpool, and bade me adieu at Birkenhead, I going Londonward with scarcely enough money to pay my passage, and he to start next day for Belfast, to lecture upon his own hook, or, failing (as he afterward did), to recross the Atlantic in the steerage of a ship. My feelings, as the train bore me steadily through the Welsh border, by the clustering smoke-stacks of Birmingham, by the castled tower of Warwick, and along the head waters of the Thames and Avon, were not of the most enthusiastic description. I had no money and no friends; I had sent to America for a remittance, but in the interval of six weeks required for a reply, must eat and drink and lodge, and London was wide and pitiless, even if I dared stoop to beg assistance. Let no young man be tempted to put the sea between his home and himself, how seductive soever be the experiences of book-makers and poetic pedestrians. One hour's contemplation of poverty in foreign lands will line the boy's face with the wrinkles of years, and burn into his soul that withering dependency which will rankle long after his privations are forgotten. In truth, my circumstances were so awkward that my very desperation kept me calm. I had a formal letter to one English publisher, but not any friendly line whatever to anybody; and as the possibilities of sickness, debt, enemies, came to mind, I felt that I was no longer the hero of a romance, but face to face with a hard, practical, terrible reality. It was night when I landed at the Paddington Station, and taking an omnibus for Charing Cross, watched the long lines of lamps on Oxford Street, and the glitter of the Haymarket theatres, and at last the hard plash of the fountains in Trafalgar Square, with the stony statues grouped so rigidly about the column to Nelson. I walked down Strand with my carpet-bag in my hands, through Fleet Street and under Temple Bar, till, weary at last from sheer exercise, I dropped into a little ale-house under a great, grinning lantern, which said, in the crisp tone of patronage, the one word, "beds." They put me under the tiles, with the chimney-stacks for my neighbors, and I lay awake all night meditating expedients for the morrow: so far from regret or foreboding, I longed for the daylight to come that I might commence my task, confident that I could not fail where so many had succeeded. They were, indeed, inspirations which looked in upon me at the dawn. The dome of St. Paul's guarding Paternoster Row, with Milton's school in the background, and hard by the Player's Court, where, in lieu of Shakespeare's company, the American presses of the _Times_ shook the kingdom and the continent. I thought of Johnson, as I passed Bolt Alley, of Chatterton at Shoe Lane, of Goldsmith as I put my foot upon his grave under the eaves of the Temple. The public has nothing to do with the sacrifices by which my private embarrassment received temporary relief. Though half the race of authors had been in similar straits, I would not, for all their success, undergo again such self-humiliation. It is enough to say that I obtained lodgings in Islington, close to the home of Charles Lamb, and near Irving's Canterbury tower; and that between writing articles on the American war, and strategic efforts to pay my board, two weeks of feverish loneliness drifted away. I made but one friend; a young Englishman of radical proclivities, who had passed some years in America among books and newspapers, and was now editing the foreign column of the _Illustrated London News_. He was a brave, needy fellow, full of heart, but burdened with a wife and children, and too honestly impolitic to gain money with his fine abilities by writing down his own unpopular sentiments. He helped me with advice and otherwise. "If you mean to work for the journals," he said, "I fear you will be disappointed. I have tried six years to get upon some daily London paper. The editorial positions are always filled; you know too little of the geography and society of the town to be a reporter, and such miscellaneous recollections of the war as you possess will not be available for a mere newspaper. But the magazines are always ready to purchase, if you can get access to them. In that quarter you might do well." I found that the serials to which my friend recommended me shared his own advanced sentiments, but were unfortunately without money. So I made my way to the counter of the Messrs. Chambers, and left for its junior partner an introductory note. The reply was to this effect. I violate no confidence, I think, in reproducing it:-- "SIR,--I shall be glad to see any friend of----, and may be found," etc., etc. "I fear that articles upon the American war, written by an American, will not, however, be acceptable in this journal, as the public here take a widely different view of the contest from that entertained in your own country, and the feeling of horror is deepening fast." Undeterred by this frank avowal, I waited upon the publisher at the appointed time,--a fine, athletic, white-haired Scotchman, whose name is known where that of greater authors cannot reach, and who has written with his own hand as much as Dumas _père_. He met me with warm cordiality, rare to Englishmen, and when I said-- "Sir, I do not wish the use of your paper to circulate my opinions,--only my experiences," he took me at once to his editor, and gave me a personal introduction. Fortunately I had brought with me a paper which I submitted on the spot; it was entitled, "Literature of the American War," collated from such campaign ballads as I could remember, eked out with my own, and strung together with explanatory and critical paragraphs. The third day following, I received this announcement in shockingly bad handwriting:-- "D'r S'r, "Y'r article will suit us. "The ed. C. J." For every word in this communication, I afterward obtained a guinea. The money not being due till after the appearance of the article, I anticipated it with various sketches, stories, etc., all of which were largely fanciful or descriptive, and contained no paragraph which I wish to recall. In other directions, I was less successful. Of two daily journals to which I offered my services, one declined to answer my letter, and the other demanded a quarto of credentials. So I lived a fugitive existence, a practical illustration of Irving's "Poor Devil Author," looking as often into pastry-shop windows, testing all manner of cheap Pickwickian veal-pies, breakfasting upon a chop, and supping upon a herring in my suburban residence, but keeping up pluck and _chique_ so deceptively, that nobody in the place suspected me of poverty. I went for some American inventors, to a rifle ground, and explained to the Lords of the Admiralty the merits of a new projectile; wrote letters to all the Continental sovereigns for an itinerant and independent embassador, and was at last so poor that my only writing papers were a druggist's waste bill-heads. An article with no other "backing" than this was fortunate enough to stray into the _Cornhill Magazine_. I found that its proprietor kept a banking-house in Pall Mall, and doubtful of my welcome on Cornhill, ventured one day in my unique American costume,--slouched hat, wide garments, and squared-toed boots,--to send to him directly my card. He probably thought from its face that a relative of Mr. Mason's was about to open an extensive account with him. As it was, once admitted to his presence, he could not escape me. The manuscript lay in his hands before he fully comprehended my purpose. He was a fine specimen of the English publisher,--robust, ruddy, good-naturedly acute,--and as he said with a smile that he would waive routine and take charge of my copy, I knew that the same hands had fastened upon the crude pages of Jane Eyre, and the best labors of Hazlitt, Ruskin, Leigh Hunt, and Thackeray. Two more weary weeks elapsed; I found it pleasant to work, but very trying to wait. At the end my courage very nearly failed. I reached the era of self-accusation; to make myself forget myself I took long, ardent marches into the open country; followed the authors I had worshipped through the localities they had made reverend; lost myself in dreaminesses,--those precursors of death in the snow,--and wished myself back in the ranks of the North, to go down in the frenzy, rather than thus drag out a life of civil indigence, robbing at once my brains and my stomach. One morning, as I sat in my little Islington parlor, wishing that the chop I had just eaten had gone farther, and taking a melancholy inventory of the threadbare carpet and rheumatic chairs, the door-knocker fell; there were steps in the hall; my name was mentioned. A tall young gentleman approached me with a letter: I received him with a strange nervousness; was there any crime in my record, I asked fitfully, for which I had been traced to this obscure suburb for condign arrest and decapitation? Ha! ha! it was my heart, not my lips, that laughed. I could have cried out like Enoch Arden in his dying apostrophe:-- "A sail! a sail! I am saved!" for the note, in the publisher's own handwriting, said this, and more:-- "DEAR SIR,--I shall be glad to send you fifteen guineas immediately, in return for your article on General Pope's Campaign, if the price will suit you." But I suppressed my enthusiasm. I spoke patronizingly to the young gentleman. Dr. Johnson, at the brewer's vendue, could not have been more learnedly sonorous. "You may say in return, sir, that the sum named will remunerate me." At the same time the instinct was intense to seize the youth by the throat, and tell him that if the remittance was delayed beyond the morning, I would have his heart's-blood! I should have liked to thrust him into the coal-hole as a hostage for its prompt arrival, or send one of his ears to the publishing house with a warning, after the manner of the Neapolitan brigands. That afternoon I walked all the way to Edmonton, over John Gilpin's route, and boldly invested two-pence in beer at the time-honored Bell Inn. I disdained to ride back upon the omnibus for the sum of threepence, but returned on foot the entire eight miles, and thought it only a league. Next day my check came duly to hand,--a very formidable check, with two pen-marks drawn across its face. I carried it to Threadneedle Street by the unfrequented routes, to avoid having my pockets picked, and presented it to the cashier, wondering if he knew me to be a foreign gentleman who had written for the _Cornhill Magazine_. The cashier looked rather contemptuous, I thought, being evidently a soulless character with no literary affinities. "Sir," he said, curtly, "this check is crossed." "Sir!" "We can't cash the check; it is crossed." "What do you mean by crossed?" "Just present it where you got it, and you will find out." The cashier regarded me as if I had offered a ticket of leave rather than an order for the considerable amount of seventy-five dollars. I left that banking-house a broken man, and stopped with a long, long face at a broker's to ask for an explanation. "Yesh, yesh," said the little man, whose German silver spectacles sat upon a bulbously Oriental nose; "ze monish ish never paid on a crossed shequc. If one hash a bank-account, you know, zat ish different. Ze gentleman who gif you dis shequc had no bishness to crosh it if you have no banker." I was too vain to go back to Cornhill and confess that I had neither purse nor purser; so I satisfied the broker that the affair was correct, and he cashed the bill for five shillings. That was the end of my necessities; money came from home, from this and that serial; my published articles were favorably noticed, and opened the market to me. Whatever I penned found sale; and some correspondence that I had leisure to fulfil for America brought me steady receipts. Had I been prudent with my means, and prompt to advantage myself of opportunities, I might have obtained access to the best literary society, and sold my compositions for correspondingly higher prices. Social standing in English literature is of equal consequence with genius. The poor Irish governess cannot find a publisher, but Lady Morgan takes both critics and readers by storm. A duchess's name on the title-page protects the fool in the letter-press; irreverent republicanism is not yet so great a respecter of persons. I was often invited out to dinner, and went to the expense of a dress-coat and kids, without which one passes the genteel British portal at his peril; but found that both the expense and the stateliness of "society" were onerous. In this department I had no perseverance; but when, one evening, I sat with the author of "Vanity Fair," in the concert rooms at Covent Garden, as Colonel Newcome and Clive had done before me, and took my beer and mutton with those kindly eyes measuring me through their spectacles, I felt that such grand companionship lifted me from the errantry of my career into the dignity of a renowned art. I moved my lodgings, after three months, to a pleasant square of the West End, where I had for associates, among others, several American artists. Strange men were they to be so far from home; but I have since found, that the poorer one is the farther he travels, and the majority of these were quite destitute. Two of them only had permanent employment; a few, now and then, sold a design to a magazine; the mass went out sketching to kill time, and trusted to Providence for dinner. But they were good fellows for the most part, kindly to one another, and meeting in their lodgings, where their tenure was uncertain, to score Millais, or praise Rosetti, or overwhelm Frith. My own life meantime passed smoothly. I had no rivals of my own nationality; though one expatriated person, whose name I have not heard, was writing a series of prejudiced articles for _Fraser_, which he signed "A White Republican." I thought him a very dirty white. One or two English travellers at the same time were making amusingly stupid notices of America in some of the second-rate monthlies; and Maxwell, a bustling Irishman, who owns _Temple Bar_, the _Saint James_, and _Sixpenny Magazine_, and some half dozen other serials, was employing a man to invent all varieties of rubbish upon a country which he had never beheld nor comprehended. After a few months the passages of the war with which I was cognizant lost their interest by reason of later occurrences. I found myself, so to speak, wedged out of the market by new literary importations. The enforcement of the draft brought to Europe many naturalized countrymen of mine, whose dislike of America was not lessened by their unceremonious mode of departure from it; and it is to these, the mass of whom are familiarly known in the journals of this country, that we owe the most insidious, because the best informed, detraction of us. _Macmillan's Magazine_ did us sterling service through the papers of Edward Dicey, the best literary _feuilletonist_ in England; and Professor Newman, J. Stuart Mill, and others, gave us the limited influence of the _Westminster Review_. The _Cornhill_ was neutral; _Chambers's_ respectfully inimical; _Bentley_ and _Colburn_ antagonistically flat; Maxwell's tri-visaged publications grinningly abusive; _Good Words_ had neither good nor bad words for us; _Once a Week_ and _All the Year Round_ gave us a shot now and then. _Blackwood_ and _Fraser_ disliked our form of Government, and all its manifestations. The rest of the reviews, as far as I could see, pitied and berated us pompously. It was more than once suggested to me to write an experimental paper upon the failure of republicanism; but I knew only one American--a New York correspondent--who lent himself to a systematic abuse of the Government which permitted him to reside in it. He obtained a newsboy's fame, and, I suspect, earned considerable. He is dead: let any who love him shorten his biography by three years. However, I at last concluded a book,--if I may so call what never resulted in a volume,--at which, from the first, I had been pegging away. I called it "The War Correspondent," and made it the literal record of my adventures in the saddle. When some six hundred MS. pages were done I sent it to a publisher; he politely sent it back. I forwarded it to a rival house; in this respect only both houses were agreed. Having some dim recollection of the early trials of authors I perseveringly gave that copy the freedom of the city; the verdict upon it was marvellously identical, but the manner of declension was always soothing. They separately advised me not to be content with one refusal, but to try some other house, though I came at last to think, by the regularity of its transit to and fro, that one house only had been its recipient from the first. At last, assured of its positive failure, I took what seemed to be the most philosophic course,--neither tossing it into the Thames, after the fashion of a famous novelist, nor littering my floor with its fragments, and dying amidst them like a _chiffonnier_ in his den: I cut the best paragraphs out of it, strung them together, and published it by separate articles in the serials. My name failed to be added to the British Museum Catalogue; but that circumstance is, at the present time, a matter of no regret whatever. When done with the war I took to story-writing, using many half-forgotten incidents of American police-reporting, of border warfare, of the development of civilization among the pioneers, of thraldom in the South, and the gold search on the Pacific. The majority of these travelled across the water, and were republished. And when America, in the garb of either fact or fiction, lost novelty, I entered the wide field of miscellaneous literature among a thousand competitors. An author's ticket to the British Museum Reading-room put the whole world so close around me that I could touch it everywhere. I never entered the noble rotunda of that vast collection without an emotion of littleness and awe. Lit only from the roof, it reminded me of the Roman Pantheon; and truly all the gods whom I had worshipped sat, not in statue, but in substance, along its radiating tables, or trod its noiseless floors. Half the literature of our language flows from thence. One may see at a glance grave naturalists knee-deep in ichthyological tomes, or buzzing over entomology; pale zealots copying Arabic characters, with the end to rebuild Bethlehem or the ruins of Mecca; biographers gloating over some rare original letter; periodical writers filching from two centuries ago for their next "new" article. The Marquis of Lansdowne is dead; you may see the _Times_ reporter yonder running down the events of his career. Poland is in arms again, and the clever compiler farther on means to make twenty pounds out of it by summing up her past risings and ruins. The bruisers King and Mace fought yesterday, and the plodding person close by from _Bell's Life_ is gleaning their antecedents. Half the _literati_ of our age do but like these bind the present to the past. A great library diminishes the number of thinkers; the grand fountains of philosophy and science ran before types were so facile or letters became a trade. The novelty of this life soon wore away, and I found myself the creature of no romance, but plodding along a prosy road with very practical people. I carried my MSS. into Paternoster Row like anybody's book-keeper, and accused the world of no particular ingratitude that it could not read my name with my articles, and that it gave itself no concern to discover me. Yet there was a private pleasure in the congeniality of my labor, and in the consciousness that I could float upon my quill even in this vast London sea. Once or twice my articles went across the Channel and returned in foreign dress. I wonder if I shall ever again feel the thrill of that first recognition of my offspring coming to my knee with their strange French prattle. I was not uniformly successful, but, if rejected, my MSS. were courteously returned, with a note from the editor. As a sample I give the following. The original is a lithographed fac-simile of the handwriting of Mr. Dickens, printed in blue ink, the date and the title of the manuscript being in another handwriting. OFFICE OF "ALL THE YEAR ROUND." A WEEKLY JOURNAL CONDUCTED BY CHARLES DICKENS. NO. 26 WELLINGTON STREET, STRAND, LONDON, W. C. _January 27, 1863._ Mr. Charles Dickens begs to thank the writer of the paper entitled "A Battle Sunday" for having done him the favor to offer it as a contribution to these pages. He much regrets, however, that it is not suited to the requirements of "All the Year Round." The manuscript will be returned, under cover, if applied for as above. The prices of miscellaneous articles in London are remunerative. Twenty-four shillings a magazine page is the common valuation: but specially interesting papers rate higher. Literature as a profession, in England, is more certain and more progressive than with us. It is not debased with the heavy leaven of journalism. Among the many serial publications of London, ability, tact, and industry should always find a liberal market. There is less of the vagrancy of letters,--Bohemianism, Mohicanism, or what not,--in London than in either New York or Paris. I think we have the cleverer fugitive writers in America, but those of England seemed to me to have more self-respect and conscientiousness. The soul of the scribe need never be in pledge if there are many masters. While a good writer in any department can find work across the water, I would advise no one to go abroad with this assurance solely. My success--if so that can be called which yielded me life, not profit--was circumstantial, and cannot be repeated. I should be loth to try it again upon purely literary merits. After nine months of experiment I bade the insular metropolis adieu, and returned no more. The Continent was close and beckoning; I heard the confusion of her tongues, and saw the shafts of her Gothic Babels probing the clouds, and for another year I roamed among her cities, as ardent and errant as when I went afield on my pony to win the spurs of a War Correspondent. CHAPTER XXVII. SPURS IN THE PICTURE GALLERIES. Florence, city of my delight! how do I thrill at the recollection of the asylum afforded me by thee in the Via Parione. The room was tiled, and cool, and high, and its single window looked out upon a real palace, where the family of Corsini, presided over by a porter in cocked hat and an exuberance of gold lace, gave me frequent glimpses of gauze dresses and glorious eyes, whose owners sometimes came to the casement to watch the poor little foreigner, writing so industriously. Every young traveller has two or three subjects of unrest. Mine were girls and art. The copyists in the galleries were more beautiful studies to me than the paintings. The next time I go to Europe, I shall take enough money along to give all the pretty ones an order; this will be an introduction, and I shall know how they live, and how much money they make, and what passions have heaved their beautiful bosoms, to make their slow, quiet lives forever haunted and longing. Love, love! There are only two grand, unsatiated passions, which keep us forever in freshness and fever,--love and art. In Italy I breathed the purest atmosphere; all the world was a landscape picture; all the skies were spilling blueness and crimson upon the mountains; all the faces were Madonnas; all the perspectives were storied architecture. Westward the star of Empire takes its way, but that of art shines steadily in the East. Thither look our American young men, no matter at which of its altars they make their devotions,--painting, sculpture, or architecture. And I, who had known some fondness for the pencil till lured into the wider, wilder field of letters, felt almost an artist's joy when I stood in the presence of those solemn masters whose works are inspired and imperishable, like religion. Having passed the first thrill and disappointment,--for pure art speaks only to the pure by intuition or initiation, and I was yet a novice,--my old newspaper curiosity revived to learn of the successful living rather than of the grand dead. Correspondents, like poets, are born, not made: the venerable associations around me--monuments, cloisters, palaces, the homes and graves of great men whom I revered, the aisles where every canvas bore a spell name--could not wean me from that old, reportorial habit of asking questions, peeping into private nooks, and making notes upon contemporary things, just as I had done for three years, in cities, on routes, on battle-fields. And as the old world seemed to me only a great art museum, I longed to look behind the tapestry at the Ghobelin weavers, pulling the beautiful threads. "Where dwell these gay and happy students, who quit our hard, bright skies, and land of angularities, to inhale the dews of these sedative mosses, and, by attrition with masterpieces, glean something of the spirit of the masters?" Straightway the faery realm opened to me, and two months of Italian rambling were spent in association with the folk I esteemed only less than my own exemplars. Art, in all ages, is the flowery way. No pursuit gives so great joy in the achieving, none achieved yields higher meed of competence, contentment, and repute. Its ambition is more genial and subdued than that of literature, its rivalry more courteous and exalting; its daily life should be pastoral and domestic, free from those feverish mutations and adventures which cross the incipient author, and it is forever surrounded by bright and beautiful objects which linger too long upon the eye to stir the mind to more than emulation. Is it harsh to say that artists have been too well rewarded, and thinkers and writers too ill? Vasari dines at the ducal table, while Galileo's pension is the rack; the mob which carries Cimabue's canvas in triumph, drives Dante into exile; Rubens is a king's ambassador, and Grotius is sent to jail; to Reynolds's levees, poor, bankrupt Goldsmith steals like an unwelcome guest, and Apelles's gold is paid to him in measures, while Homer, singing immortal lines, goes blind and begging. Art students take rank in Italy among the best of travellers, but Bohemianism in art is at one's peril. There are many wasted lives among the clever fellows who go abroad ostensibly for study. I recall Jimman, who was an expert with the pencil, and who colored with excellent discrimination. He went to Dusseldorf at first, and became known to Leutze, who praised his sketches. He began to associate at once with students and tipplers, and dissipated less by drinking than by talking. I have a theory that more men are lost to themselves and the age by a love of "gabbing" than by drinking. It is not hard to eschew cognac and claret, but there is no cure for "buzzing." There is a drunkenness of talk which takes possession of one, and Jimman would have had the _delirium tremens_ in a week, with nobody to listen to him. To my mind the Trappiste takes the severest of monastic vows. Jimman used to rise in the morning betimes, full of inflexible resolution. Having stretched his canvas, and carefully prepared his pigments, he went to breakfast, pondering great achievements. Here he fell in with a lot of Germans,--the most incurable race of gossipers in the world,--and while they discussed, in a learned way, every subject under the sun, the meal extended into the afternoon, and Jimman concluded that it was then too late to undertake anything. In this way his ambition burnt away, his money was squandered, he lost facility of manipulation, and came back to Paris at the age of twenty-eight, to pursue the same listless, garrulous existence; debts and grisettes, buzzing and brandy, the utterance of resolves which expired in the utterance, and Jimman finally became, perforce, a common apprentice to a moulder, that he might not entirely starve. I saw him, for the last time, in the Louvre, looking at Zurbaran's "Kneeling Monk." "Ah, Townsend," he said, "I might have done something like that. All my zeal is gone." And he began to chat in the same loose, familiar way. Dumbness and deafness would have been endowments rather than deprivations for him. I had rooms in Florence with Gypsum and Stagg. The former was a young, industrious fellow, of German descent, who worked hard, but not wisely. He spent half a year in copying a face by Paul Veronese, and the other half in sketching an old convent yard. But he did not visit, and an artist, to get orders and take rank, must be seen as well as be earnest. He need not be hail-fellow, but should keep well in the circle of respectable travellers; for these are to be his patrons, if he pleases them. Gypsum was over-modest and too conscientious; he had only a trifle of money, and was careless of his attire. So he disregarded society, and society forgot him. Therefore, at dawn, he betook himself to the old convent-yard, and stood at his easel bravely, never so unhappy as when one of the church's innumerable holy days arrived, for then he was forbidden to work upon the convent premises. With all his conscientiousness he received no orders; while Stagg, who was not more clever, proportioned to his longer experience, was befriended on every hand, because he went to the American chapel regularly and wore a dress-coat at the sociables. Stagg used the old studio of Buchanan Read, just off the Via Seragli. I stumbled upon him one morning, and saw more than I anticipated. A young, plump girl, without so much as a fig-leaf upon her, was posing before his easel, so motionless that she scarcely winked, one hand extended and clasping her loosened tresses, and bending upon one white and dimpled knee. She had the large dark eyes of the professional _modello_, and a bosom as ripe as Titian's Venus. Her feet were small, and her hands very white and beautiful. But of me she took no more notice than if I had been a bird alighting upon the window, or a mouse peeping at her from the edge of his knot-hole. Old Stagg, who was commonly grave as a clergyman, now and then left his easel to alter her position, and when he was done, she gathered up her clothes, which had lain in a heap on the floor, and took her few silver pieces with a "_Mille grazie, Signore!_" and went home to take dinner with her little brothers. A studio in Florence costs only fifteen or twenty francs a month,--seldom so much. There are a series of excellent ones in the same Via Seragli, in a very large dismantled convent. There is a well in the centre of its great courtyard, and innumerable ropes lead from it to the various high windows of the building, on which buckets of water are forever ascending. All this of which I speak refers to a year ago, when Florence was not a capital; doubtless, studios command more at present. The models at Florence were to me strange personages. There was a drawing-school which I sometimes attended, where one old woman kept three daughters, aged respectively twenty, seventeen, and thirteen years. They lived pretty much as they were born, and while they posed upon a high platform, the old woman took her seat near the door and looked on with grim satisfaction. She was very careful of their moral habits, but the second one she lost by an excess of greed. She resolved to make them useful by day, as well as by night, and put them to work at the studios of individual artists. But as no one artist wanted three models, the girls had to separate, and, out of the mother's vigilance, the second one, Orsolo, went to the atelier of a wicked and handsome fellow, and met with the usual romance of her class. The oldest girl, Luigia, married a man-model, and their nuptials must have been of a most prosaic character. Among the many men who thus stood for the artists, was one old fellow, tall, and bearded, and massively characterized, who used to remain motionless for hours; until he seemed to be dead. He had been a model in every stage of life, from childhood to the grave, and represented every subject from Garibaldi to Moses. The walks in and around Florence occupied all my Sabbaths. Stagg and I used to stroll up to Fiesole, by the villa where Boccaccio's party of story-tellers met, and look up old pictures in the village church; we measured the proportions of the chapel on the hill of Saint Miniato, and he endeavored in vain to imitate the hue of the light as it fell through the veined marble of Serravezza; we spent contemplative afternoons in the house of Michael Angelo, and went up to Vallambrosa, at the risk of our necks, to look at a Giotto no bigger than a tea-plate. In Florence there is enough out-of-door statuary to make one of the finest galleries in the world. The majesty of Donatello's "Saint George" arises before me when I would conceive of any noble humanity, and the sweep of Orgagna's great arches give me an idea of vastness like the sea; in the Pitti palace only giants should abide; the Campanile goes up to heaven as beautiful as Jacob's ladder, and in the perpetual twilight of the Duomo I was not of half the stature I believed when roaming under the loftier sky. I saw a jail in Florence, and it troubled me; who in that beautiful city could do a crime? How should old age, or bad passions, or sickness, or shame, exist in that limpid atmosphere, in the shadow of such architecture, in the presence of those pictures? CHAPTER XXVIII. A CORRESPONDENT ONCE MORE. Again on the way to Washington! I have made the trip more than sixty times. I saw the Gunpowder Bridge in flames when Baltimore was in arms and the Capital cut off from the North. I saw from Perryville the State flag of Maryland waving at Havre de Grace across the Susquehanna. I saw at the Washington Navy Yard the blackened body of Ellsworth, manipulated by the surgeons. I moved through the city with McClellan's onward army toward the transports which were to carry it to the Peninsula. The awful tidings of the seven days' retreat came first through the Capital in my haversack, and before Stonewall Jackson fell upon the flank of Pope, I crossed the Long Bridge with the story of the disaster of Cedar Mountain. In like manner the crowning glory of Five Forks made me its earliest emissary, and the murder of the President brought me hot from Richmond to participate in the pursuit of Booth and chronicle his midnight expiation. Again am I on the way to the city of centralization, to paint by electricity the closing scenes of the conspirators, and, as I pass the Pennsylvania line, the recollection of those frequent pilgrimages--pray God this be the last!--comes upon me like the sequences of delirium. As I look abroad upon the thrifty fields and the rich glebe of the ploughman, I wonder if the revolutions of peace are not as sweeping and sudden as those of war. He who wrote the certain downfall of this Nation, did not keep his eye upon the steadily ascending dome of the capitol, nor remark, during the thunders of Gettysburg, the as energetic stroke of the pile-drivers upon the piers of the great Susquehanna bridge. We built while we desolated. No fatalist convert to Mohammed had so sure faith in the eternity of his institutions. More masonry has been laid along the border during the war than in any five previous years. We have finished the Treasury, raised the bronze gates on the Capitol, double-railed all the roads between New York and the Potomac, and gone on as if architecture were imperishable, while thrice the Rebels swept down toward the Relay. And we have done one strategic thing, which, I think, will compare with the passing of Vicksburg or the raid of Sherman; we have turned Philadelphia. This modern Pompeii used to be the stumbling-block on the great highway. It was to the direct Washington route what Hell-gate was to the Sound Channel. We were forbidden the right of way through it, on the ground that by retarding travel Philadelphia would gain trade, and had to cross the Delaware on a scow, or lay up in some inn over night. New Jerseymen, I hear, pray every morning for their daily stranger; Philadelphia has much sinned to entrap its daily customer. But Maillefert--by which name I designate the inevitable sledge which spares the grand and pulverizes the little--has built a road around the Quaker City. It is a very curious road, going by two hypothenuses of about fifteen miles to make a base of three or four, so that we lose an hour on the way to the Capital, all because of Philadelphia's overnight toil. The bridge at Perryville will be one of the staunchest upon our continent: the forts around Baltimore make the outlying landscapes scarcely recognizable to the returning Maryland Rebels. At last,--woe be the necessity! we have garrisoned our cities. The Relay House is the most picturesque spot between the two foci of the country. Wandering through the woods, I see the dirty blouses of the remnant of "the boys" and the old abatis on the height looks sunburnt and rusty; away through the gorge thunders the Baltimore and Ohio train, over what ruins and resurrections, torn up a hundred times, and as obstinately relaid, until all its engineers are veteran officers, and can stand fire both of the furnace and the musket. Everybody in the country is a veteran; the contractor, who ran his schooner of fodder past the Rebel batteries; the correspondent, whose lean horse slipped through the crevices of dropping shells; the teamster, who whipped his mule out of the mud-hole, while his ammunition wagon behind grew hot with the heaviness of battle; the old farmer, who took to his cellar while the fight raged in his chimneys, but ventured out between the bayonet charges to secure his fatted calf. Annapolis Junction has still the sterile guise of the campaign, where the hills are bare around the hospitals, and the railway taverns are whittled to skeletons. I have really seen whole houses, little more than shells, reduced to meagreness by the pocket-knife. The name of almost everybody on the continent is cut somewhere in the South; Virginia has more than enough names carved over her fireside altars to inscribe upon all her multitudinous graves. There are close to the city fine bits of landscape, where the fields dip gracefully into fertile basins, and rise in swells of tilled fields and orchard to some knoll, enthroning a porticoed home. Two years ago all these fields were quagmires, where stranded wheels and the carcasses of hybrids, looked as if a mud-geyser had opened near by. The grass has spread its covering, as the birds spread their leaves over the poor babes in the wood, and we walk we know not where, nor over what struggles, and shadows, and sorrows. I pity the army mule, though he never asked me for sympathy. Who ever loved a mule? You can love a lion, and make him lick your hand: some people love parrots, and owls; and I once knew a person who could catch black snakes and carry them lovingly in his bosom; but I never knew a beloved mule. Yet this war has been fought and won by hybrids. They have pulled us out of ruts and fed us, and starved for us. The mule is the great quartermaster. See him and his brethren yonder in corral,--miserable veterans of no particular race, slab-sided, and capable of holding ink between their ribs. They mounch, and mounch, and wear the same stolid eye which you have seen under the driver's lash, and in the vaulting moment of victory. No stunning receptions greet them, no cheers and banquets when Muley comes marching home; over at _Giesboro_ they come in crippled, die by the musket without a murmur, and are immediately boiled down and forgotten. I was once beaten by a rival correspondent upon a prominent battle, by riding a mule with my despatches. He walked into a mud-puddle just half way between the field and the post-office, and stopped there till morning. Here we are, at Washington. I have been in most of the cities of Europe: some of them have dirty suburbs, but the first impression of the Capitol City is dreary in the extreme; a number of the lost tribes have established booths contiguous to the terminus, wherein the filthiest people in the world eat the filthiest dishes; a man's sense of cleanliness vanishes when he enters the District of Columbia. I have been astonished to remark how greatness loses its stature here. Mr. Charles Sumner is a handsome man on Broadway or Beacon Street, but eating dinner at Thompson's, his shoulders seem to narrow and his fine face to grow commonplace. Above the squalid wideness of ungraded streets and the waste of shanties propped upon poles above abysses of vacant lots, where two drunken soldiers are pummelling each other, towers the marvellous dome with its airy genius firmly planted above, like the ruins of Palmyra above contemporary meanness. Moving up the streets, in dust and mud-puddle, you see shabbily ambitious churches, with wooden towers; hotels, the curbs whereof are speckled with human blemishes, sustaining like hip-shotten caryatides the sandstone-wooden columns. Within there is a pandemonium of legs in the air, and an agglomeration of saliva, ending with an impertinent clerk and two crescents of lazy waiters, who shy whisks, and are ambitious to run superfluous errands, for the warrant to rob you. Of people, you see squads; of residents, none. The public edifices have not picked their company, neither have the public functionaries. There is a quantity of vulgar statuary lying around, horses standing on their tails, and impossible Washingtons imbedded in arm-chairs; but the noble facade of the treasury always suggests to me Couture's great picture of the Decadence, where, under a pure colonnade, some tipplers are carousing. If we are to have statues at the Capital, let us make them with uplifted hands, and shame upon their grave, contemplative faces. Shall we ever make Washington the representative Capital of the country? Certainly all efforts to improve the site worthy of the seat of gigantic legislation have hitherto failed. The sword and the malaria have attacked it. Every year sees the President driven from his Mansion by pestilential vapors, and the sanitary condition of the city is extraordinarily bad. The carcasses of slain horses at Giesboro send their effluvia straight into Washington on the wind, and the "Island," or that part of the city between the river and the canal, is dangerous almost all the year. Moreover, the entire river front of the city seems to be untenable, except for negroes; the Washington monument stands on the yielding plain in the rear of the Chief Magistrate's, a stunted ruin, finding no foundation; and much of the great Capital reserve near by, would be a dead weight, if any effort were made to dispose it of, as building lots. The small portion of Washington lying upon Capitol Hill, is the most salubrious and covetable; but it is a lonesome journey by night around the Capitol grounds to the city. The finest residences lie north of the President's house, but the number of these grows apace, and the quantity of capital invested in private real estate, remains almost stationary. We recall but two or three citizens of Washington who have spent their money on the spot where they have made it. Corcoran was the most generous; he erected a museum of art, and Government has made it a Commissary depot! But how few of the illustrious Senators, Chief Justices, Generals, etc., who draw their sustenance from the Capital, care a penny to decorate it? Compare the home of Governor Sprague on 6th Street, to his splendid mansion at Providence, or the Club House of the Secretary of State, to his place at Auburn. Washington has power, but it cannot attract. It is the solitary monarch, at whose feet all kneel, but by none beloved. Strangers repair to it, grow rich, and quit it with their earnings. Government works nobly to imitate the Palaces of the Cæsars, and the public edifices leave our municipal structures far beneath, but these marble and granite piles seem to mock the littleness of individual ambition. Two hotels have been built during the war, both of the caravansary class, but the city, for four years, has been miserably incompetent to entertain its guests, or to command their respect. Washington, to be a city, lacks three elements--commerce, representation, health; the environs are picturesque, and the new forts on the hill-tops little injure the landscape. But the question is not premature, whether Washington city will ever answer the purposes of a stable seat of government, and reflect the enterprise, patriotism, and taste of the American people. I have sometimes thought that these huge public buildings,--now inadequate to accommodate the machinery of the Government,--would, at some future day, be the nucleus of a great _lycee_, and that Washington would become the Padua of the Republic, its University and Louvre, while legislation and administration, despairing of giving dignity to the place, would depart for a more congenial locality. At any rate, the old Federal theory of a sylvan seat of government has failed. For a sequestered and virtuous retreat of legislation, we have corruption augmented by dirt, and business stagnation aggravated by disease. There are virtues in the town; but these must be searched for, and the vices are obvious. CHAPTER XXIX. FIVE FORKS. I commence my account on the battle-field, but must soon make the long and lonely ride to Humphrey's Station, where I shall continue it. I am sitting by Sheridan's camp-fire, on the spot he has just signalized by the most individual and complete victory of the war. All his veterans are around him, stooping by knots over the bright fagots, to talk together, or stretched upon the leaves of the forest, asleep, with the stains of powder yet upon their faces. There are dark masses of horses blackened into the gray background, and ambulances are creaking to and fro. I hear the sobs and howls of the weary, and note, afar off, among the pines, moving lights of burying parties, which are tumbling the slain into the trenches. A cowed and shivering silence has succeeded the late burst of drums, trumpets, and cannon; the dead are at rest; the captives are quiet; the good cause has won again, and I shall try to tell you how. Many months ago the Army of the Potomac stopped before Petersburg, driven out of its direct course to Richmond. It tried the Dutch Gap and the powder-ship, and shelled and shovelled till Sherman had cut five States in half, and only timid financiers, sutlers, and congressional excursionists paid the least attention to the armies on the James. We had fights without much purpose at our breastworks, and at Hatcher's Run, but the dashing achievements of Sheridan in the Shenandoah Valley overtopped all our dull infantry endeavors, and he shared with Sherman the entire applause of the country. No one knows but that behind these actors stood the invisible prompter, Grant; yet prompters, however assiduous, never divide applauses with the _dramatis personæ_; and therefore, when Sheridan, the other day, by one of those slashing adventures which hold us breathless, appeared on the Pamunkey and crossed the peninsula to City Point, even the armies of the Potomac and James were agitated. The _personnel_ of the man, not less than his renown, affected people. A very Punch of soldiers, a sort of Rip Van Winkle in regimentals, it astonished folks, that with so jolly and grotesque a guise, he held within him energies like lightning, the bolts of which had splintered the fairest parts of the border. But nobody credited General Sheridan with higher genius than activity; we expected to hear of him scouring the Carolina boundary, with the usual destruction of railways and mills, and therefore said at once that Sheridan would cut the great Southside road. But in this last chapter Sheridan must take rank as one of the finest military men of our century. The battle of "Five Forks" was, perhaps, the most ingeniously conceived and skilfully executed that we have ever had on this continent. It matches in secretiveness and shrewdness the cleverest efforts of Napoleon, and shows also much of that soldier's broadness of intellect and capacity for great occasions. Sheridan had scarcely time to change his horses' shoes before he was off, and after him much of our infantry also moved to the left. We passed our ancient breastworks at Hatcher's Run, and extended our lines southwestward till they touched Dinwiddie Court House, thirty miles from City Point. The Rebels fell back with but little skirmishing, until we faced northward and reached out toward their idolized Southside Railway; then they grew uneasy, and, as a hint of their opposition, fought us the sharp battle of Quaker Road on Thursday. Still, we reached farther and farther, marvelling to find that, with his depleted army, Lee always overmatched us at every point of attack; but on Friday we quitted our intrenchments on the Boydtown plank-road, and made a bold push for the White Oak road. This is one of the series of parallel public ways running east and west, south of the Southside, the Vaughan road being the first, the Boydtown plank-road the second, and the old Court-House road the third. It became evident to the Rebels that we had two direct objects in view: the severing of their railway, and the occupation of the "Five Forks." The latter is a magnificent strategic point. Five good roads meet in the edge of a dry, high, well-watered forest, three of them radiating to the railway, and their tributaries unlocking all the country. Farther south, their defences had been paltry, but they fortified this empty solitude as if it had been their capital. Upon its principal road, the "White Oak," aforenamed, they had a ditched breastwork with embrasures of logs and earth, reaching east and west three miles, and this was covered eastward and southeastward by rifle-pits, masked works, and felled timber; the bridges approaching it were broken; all the roads picketed, and a desperate resolve to hold to it averred. This point of "Five Forks" may be as much as eight miles from Dinwiddie Court House, four from the Southside road, and eighteen from Humphrey's, the nearest of our military railway stations. A crooked stream called Gravelly Run, which, with Hatcher's, forms Rowanty Creek, and goes off to feed the Chowan in North Carolina, rises near "Five Forks," and gives the name of Gravelly Run Church to a little Methodist meeting-house, built in the forest a mile distant. That meeting-house is a hospital to-night, running blood, and at "Five Forks" a victor's battle-flags are flying. The Fifth Army Corps of General Warren, has had all of the flank fighting of the week to do. It lost five or six hundred men in its victory of Thursday, and on Friday rested along the Boydtown plank-road, at the house of one Butler, chiefly, which is about seven miles from Five Forks. On Friday morning, General Ayres took the advance with one of its three divisions, and marched three-quarters of a mile beyond the plank-road, through a woody country, following the road, but crossing the ubiquitous Gravelly Run, till he struck the enemy in strong force a mile and a half below White Oak road. They lay in the edge of a wood, with a thick curtain of timber in their front, a battery of field-pieces to the right, mounted in a bastioned earthwork, and on the left the woods drew near, encircling a little farm-land and negro-buildings. General Ayres's skirmish-line being fired upon, did not stand, but fell back upon his main column, which advanced at the order. Straightway the enemy charged headlong, while their battery opened a cross fire, and their skirmishers on our left, creeping down through the woods, picked us off in flank. They charged with a whole division, making their memorable yell, and soon doubled up Ayres's line of battle, so that it was forced in tolerable disorder back upon General Crawford, who commanded the next division. Crawford's men do not seem to have retrieved the character of their predecessors, but made a feint to go in, and, falling by dozens beneath the murderous fire, gave up the ground. Griffin's division, past which the fugitives ran, halted awhile before taking the doubtful way; the whole corps was now back to the Boydtown plank-road, and nothing had been done to anybody's credit particularly. General Griffin rode up to General Chamberlain in this extremity. Chamberlain is a young and anxious officer, who resigned the professorship of modern languages in Bowdoin College to embrace a soldier's career. He had been wounded the day before, but was zealous to try death again. "Chamberlain," said Griffin, "can't you save the honor of the Fifth corps?" The young General formed his men at once,--they had tasted powder before,--the One Hundred and eighty-fifth New York and the One Hundred and ninety-eighth Pennsylvania. Down they went into the creek waist deep, up the slope and into the clearing, muskets to the left of them, muskets in front of them, cannon to the right of them; but their pace was swift, like their resolve; many of them were cut down, yet they kept ahead, and the Rebels, who seemed astonished at their own previous success, drew off and gave up the field. Almost two hours had elapsed between the loss and the recovery of the ground. The battle might be called Dabney's Farm, or more generally the fight of Gravelly Run. The brigades of Generals Bartlett and Gregory rendered material assistance in the pleasanter finale of the day. An order was soon after issued to hasten the burial of the dead and quit the spot, but Chamberlain petitioned for leave to charge the Rebel earthwork in the rear, and the enthusiasm of his brigade bore down General Warren's more prudent doubt. In brief, Griffin's division charged the fort, drove the Rebels out of it, and took position on the White Oak road, far east of Five Forks. While Griffin's division must be credited with this result, it may be said that their luck was due as much to the time as the manner of their appearance; the Rebel divisions of Pickett and Bushrod Johnston were, in the main, by the time Griffin came up, on their way westward to attack Sheridan's cavalry. Ayres and Crawford had charged as one to four, but the forces were quite equalized when Chamberlain pushed on. The corps probably lost twelve hundred men. In this action, the Rebels, for the first time for many weeks, exhibited all their traditional irresistibility and confidence. The merit of the affair, I am inclined to think, should be awarded to them; but a terrible retribution remained for them in the succeeding day's decrees. The ill success of the earlier efforts of Sheridan, show conclusively the insufficiency of ever so good cavalry to resist well organized and resolute infantry. Concentrating at Dinwiddie Court House, he proceeded to scour so much of the country that he almost baffled conjecture as to where his quarters really were. As many thousand cavalry as constitute his powerful force seem magnified, thus mounted and ever moving here and there, to an incredible number. The Court House, where he remained fittingly for a couple of days, is a cross-road's patch, numbering about twelve scattered buildings, with a delightful prospect on every side of sterile and monotonous pines. This is, I believe, the largest village in the district, though Dinwiddie stands fourth in population among Virginia counties. At present there is almost as great a population underground as the ancient county carried on its census. Indeed, one is perplexed at every point to know whence the South draws its prodigious armies. Some English officers have been visiting Dinwiddie during the week, and one of them said, curtly: "Blast the country! it isn't worth such a row, you know. A very good place to be exiled, to be sure, but what can you ever make of it!" This soulless Briton had never read any of the poems about the "boundless continent," and had no distinct conception of "size." From Dinwiddie fields, Sheridan's men went galloping, by the aid of maps and cross-examination, into every by-road; but it was soon apparent that the Rebel infantry meant to give them a push. This came about on Friday, with a foretaste on Thursday. Little Five Forks, is a cross-road not far from Dinwiddie Court House, in the direction of Petersburg. Big Five Forks, which, it must be borne in mind, gives name to the great battle of Saturday, is farther out by many miles, and does not lie within our lines. But, if the left of the army be at Dinwiddie, and the right at Petersburg, Little Five Forks will be first on the front line, though when Sheridan fought there, it was neutral ground, picketed but not possessed. Very early in the week, when the Rebels became aware of the extension of our lines, they added to the regular force which encamped upon our flank line at least a division of troops. These were directed to avoid an infantry fight, but to seek out the cavalry, and, by getting it at disadvantage, rid the region both of the harmfulness of Sheridan, and that prestige of his name, so terrifying to the Virginia house-wife. So long as Sheridan remained upon the far left, the Southside road was unsafe, and the rapidity with which his command could be transferred from point to point rendered it a formidable balance of power. The Rebels knew the country well, and the peculiar course of the highways gave them every advantage. The cavalry of Sheridan's army proper, is divided into two corps, commanded by Generals Devin and Custer; the cavalry of the Potomac is commanded by General Crook; Mackenzie has control of the cavalry of the James. On Friday, these were under separate orders, and the result was confusion. The infantry was beaten at Gravelly Run, and the cavalry met in flank and front by overwhelming numbers, executed some movements not laid down in the manual. The centre of the battle was Little Five Forks, though the Rebels struck us closer to Dinwiddie Court House, and drove us pell mell up the road into the woods, and out the old Court House road to Gravelly Run. We rallied several times, and charged them into the woods, but they lay concealed in copses, and could go where sabres were useless. The plan of this battle-field will show a series of irregular advances to puzzle anybody but a cavalry-man. The full division of Bushrod Johnston and General Pickett, were developed against us, with spare brigades from other corps. Our cavalry loss during the day was eight hundred in killed and wounded; but we pushed the Rebels so hard that they gave us the field, falling back toward Big Five Forks, and we intrenched immediately. Two thousand men comprise our losses of Friday in Warren's corps and Sheridan's command, including many valuable officers. We shall see how, under a single guidance, splendid results were next day obtained with half the sacrifice. On Friday night General Grant, dissatisfied, like most observers, with the day's business, placed General Sheridan in the supreme command of the whole of Warren's corps and all the cavalry. General Warren reported to him at nightfall, and the little army was thus composed:-- _General Sheridan's Forces, Saturday April 1, 1865._ Three divisions of infantry, under Generals Griffin, Ayres, and Crawford. Two divisions of cavalry, formerly constituting the Army of the Shenandoah, now commanded by General Merritt, under Generals Devin and Custer. One division cavalry of the Army of the Potomac, under General Crook. Brigade or more cavalry Army of the James, under General Mackenzie. In this composition the infantry was to the cavalry in the proportion of about two to one, and the entire force a considerable army, far up in the teens. Sheridan was absolute, and his oddly-shaped body began to bob up and down straightway; he visited every part of his line, though it stretched from Dinwiddie Court House to the Quaker road, along the Boydtown Plank and its adjuncts. At daybreak on Saturday he fired four signal-guns, to admonish Warren he was off; and his cavalry, by diverging roads, struck their camps. Just south of Culpepper is a certain Stony creek, the tributaries to which wind northward and control the roads. Over Stony creek went Crook, making the longest detour. Custer took a bottom called Chamberlain's bed; and Devin advanced from Little Five Forks, the whole driving the Rebels toward the left of their works on White Oak road. We must start with the supposition that our own men far outnumbered the Rebels. The latter were widely separated from their comrades before Petersburg, and the adjustment of our infantry as well as the great movable force at Sheridan's disposal, renders it doubtful that they could have returned. At any rate they did not do so, whether from choice or necessity, and it was a part of our scheme to push them back into their entrenchments. This work was delegated to the cavalry entirely, but, as I have said before, mounted carbineers, are no match for stubborn, bayoneted infantry. So when the horsemen were close up to the Rebels, they were dismounted, and acted as infantry to all intents. A portion of them, under Gregg and Mackenzie, still adhered to the saddle, that they might be put in rapid motion for flanking and charging purposes; but fully five thousand indurated men, who had seen service in the Shenandoah and elsewhere, were formed in line of battle on foot, and by charge and deploy essayed the difficult work of pressing back the entire Rebel column. This they were to do so evenly and ingeniously, that the Rebels should go no farther than their works, either to escape eastward or to discover the whereabouts of Warren's forces, which were already forming. Had they espied the latter they might have become so discouraged as to break and take to the woods; and Sheridan's object was to capture them as well as to rout them. So, all the afternoon, the cavalry pushed them hard, and the strife went on uninterruptedly and terrifically. I have no space in this hurried despatch to advert either to individual losses or to the many thrilling episodes of the fight. It was fought at so close quarters that our carbines were never out of range; for had this been otherwise, the long rifles of the enemy would have given them every advantage. With their horses within call, the cavalry-men, in line of battle, stood together like walls of stone, swelling onward like those gradually elevating ridges of which Lyell speaks. Now and then a detachment of Rebels would charge down upon us, swaying the lines and threatening to annihilate us; for at no part of the action, till its crisis, did the Southern men exhibit either doubt or dismay, but fought up to the standard of the most valiant treason the world has ever had, and here and there showing some of those wonderful feats of individual courage which are the miracles of the time. A colonel with a shattered regiment came down upon us in a charge. The bayonets were fixed; the men came on with a yell; their gray uniforms seemed black amidst the smoke; their preserved colors, torn by grape and ball, waved yet defiantly; twice they halted, and poured in volleys, but came on again like the surge from the fog, depleted, but determined; yet, in the hot faces of the carbineers, they read a purpose as resolute, but more calm, and, while they pressed along, swept all the while by scathing volleys, a group of horsemen took them in flank. It was an awful instant; the horses recoiled; the charging column trembled like a single thing, but at once the Rebels, with rare organization, fell into a hollow square, and with solid sheets of steel defied our centaurs. The horsemen rode around them in vain; no charge could break the shining squares, until our dismounted carbineers poured in their volleys afresh, making gaps in the spent ranks, and then in their wavering time the cavalry thundered down. The Rebels could stand no more; they reeled and swayed, and fell back broken and beaten. And on the ground their colonel lay, sealing his devotion with his life. Through wood and brake and swamp, across field and trench, we pushed the fighting defenders steadily. For a part of the time, Sheridan himself was there, short and broad, and active, waving his hat, giving orders, seldom out of fire, but never stationary, and close by fell the long yellow locks of Custer, sabre extended, fighting like a Viking, though he was worn and haggard with much work. At four o'clock the Rebels were behind their wooden walls at Five Forks, and still the cavalry pressed them hard, in feint rather than solemn effort, while a battalion dismounted, charged squarely upon the face of their breastworks which lay in the main on the north side of the White Oak road. Then, while the cavalry worked round toward the rear, the infantry of Warren, though commanded by Sheridan, prepared to take part in the battle. The genius of Sheridan's movement lay in his disposition of the infantry. The skill with which he arranged it, and the difficult manoeuvres he projected and so well executed, should place him as high in infantry tactics as he has heretofore shown himself superior in cavalry. The infantry which had marched at 2½ P. M. from the house of Boisseau, on the Boydtown plank-road, was drawn up in four battle lines, a mile or more in length, and in the beginning facing the White Oak road obliquely; the left or pivot was the division of General Ayres, Crawford had the center and Griffin the right. These advanced from the Boydtown plank-road, at ten o'clock, while Sheridan was thundering away with the cavalry, mounted and dismounted, and deluding the Rebels with the idea that he was the sole attacking party; they lay concealed in the woods behind the Gravelly Run meeting-house, but their left was not a half-mile distant from the Rebel works, though their right reached so far off that a novice would have criticized the position sharply. Little by little, Sheridan, extending his lines, drove the whole Rebel force into their breastworks; then he dismounted the mass of his cavalry and charged the works straight in the front, still thundering on their flank. At last, every Rebel was safe behind his intrenchments. Then the signal was given, and the concealed infantry, many thousand strong, sprang up and advanced by eçhelon to the right. Imagine a great barndoor shutting to, and you have the movement, if you can also imagine the door itself, hinge and all, moving forward also. This was the door:-- AYRES--CRAWFORD--GRIFFIN. Stick a pin through Ayres and turn Griffin and Crawford forward as you would a spoke in a wheel, but move your pin up also a very little. In this way Ayres will advance, say half a mile, and Griffin, to describe a quarter revolution, will move through a radius of four miles. But to complicate this movement by eçhelon, we must imagine the right when half way advanced cutting across the centre and reforming, while Crawford became the right and Griffin the middle of the line of battle. Warren was with Crawford on this march. Gregory commanded the skirmishers. Ayres was so close to the Rebel left that he might be said to hinge upon it; and at 6 o'clock the whole corps column came crash upon the full flank of the astonished Rebels. Now came the pitch of the battle. We were already on the Rebel right in force, and thinly in their rear. Our carbineers were making feint to charge in direct front, and our infantry, four deep, hemmed in their entire left. All this they did not for an instant note, so thorough was their confusion; but seeing it directly, they, so far from giving up, concentrated all their energy and fought like fiends. They had a battery in position, which belched incessantly, and over the breastworks their musketry made one unbroken roll, while against Sheridan's prowlers on their left, by skirmish and sortie, they stuck to their sinking fortunes, so as to win unwilling applause from mouths of wisest censure. It was just at the coming up of the infantry that Sheridan's little band was pushed the hardest. At one time, indeed, they seemed about to undergo extermination; not that they wavered, but that they were so vastly overpowered. It will remain to the latest time a matter of marvel that so paltry a cavalry force could press back sixteen thousand infantry; but when the infantry blew like a great barndoor--the simile best applicable--upon the enemy's left, the victory that was to come had passed the region of strategy and resolved to an affair of personal courage. We had met the enemy; were they to be ours? To expedite this consummation every officer fought as if he were the forlorn hope. Mounted on his black pony, the same which he rode at Winchester, Sheridan galloped everywhere, his flushed face all the redder, and his plethoric, but nervous figure all the more ubiquitous. He galloped once straight down the Rebel front, with but a handful of his staff. A dozen bullets whistled for him together; one grazed his arm, at which a faithful orderly rode; the black pony leaped high, in fright, and Sheridan was untouched, but the orderly lay dead in the field, and the saddle dashed afar empty. General Warren rode with Crawford most of the afternoon, mounted likewise, and making two or three narrow escapes. He was dark, dashing, and individual as ever, but for some reason or other was relieved of his command after the battle, and Griffin was instated in his place. General Sheridan ordered Warren to report to General Grant's head-quarters, sending the order by an aid. Warren, on his own hook, did not meet on Friday with his general success, and on Saturday Sheridan was the master-spirit; but Warren is a General as well as a gentleman, and is only overshadowed by a greater genius,--not obliterated. Ayres, accounted the best soldier in the Fifth corps, but too quietly modest for his own favor, fought like a lion in this pitch of battle, making all the faint-hearted around him ashamed to do ill with such an example contiguous. General Bartlett, keen-faced and active like a fiery scimitar, was leading his division as if he were an immortal! He was closest at hand in the most gallant episodes, and held at nightfall a bundle of captured battle-flags. But Griffin, tall and slight, was the master-genius of the Fifth corps, to which by right he has temporarily succeeded. He led the charge on the flank, and was the first to mount the parapet with his horse, riding over the gunners as May did at Cerro Gordo, and cutting them down. Bartlett's brigade, behind him, finished the business, and the last cannon was fired for the day against the conquering Federals. General Crawford fulfilled his full share of duties throughout the day, amply sustained by such splendid brigade commanders as Baxter, Coulter, and Kellogg, while Gwin and Boweryman were at hand in the division of General Ayres; not to omit the fallen Winthrop, who died to save a friend and win a new laurel. What shall I say for Chamberlain, who, beyond all question, is the first of our brigade commanders, having been the hero of both Quaker Road and Gravelly Run, and in this action of Five Forks making the air ring with the applauding huzzas of his soldiers, who love him? His is one of the names that will survive the common wreck of shoulder-straps after the war. But I am individualizing; the fight, as we closed upon the Rebels, was singularly free from great losses on our side, though desperate as any contest ever fought on the continent. One prolonged roar of rifle shook the afternoon; we carried no artillery, and the Rebel battery, until its capture, raked us like an irrepressible demon, and at every foot of the intrenchments a true man fought both in front and behind. The birds of the forest fled afar; the smoke ascended to heaven; locked in so mad frenzy, none saw the sequel of the closing day. Now Richmond rocked in her high towers to watch the impending issue, but soon the day began to look gray, and a pale moon came tremulously out to watch the meeting squadrons. Imagine along a line of a full mile, thirty thousand men struggling for life and prestige; the woods gathering about them--but yesterday the home of hermit hawks and chipmonks--now ablaze with bursting shells, and showing in the dusk the curl of flames in the tangled grass, and, rising up the boles of the pine trees, the scaling, scorching tongues. Seven hours this terrible spectacle had been enacted, but the finale of it had almost come. It was by all accounts in this hour of victory when the modest and brave General Winthrop of the first brigade, Ayres division, was mortally wounded. He was riding along the breastworks, and in the act as I am assured, of saving a friend's life, was shot through to the left lung. He fell at once, and his men, who loved him, gathered around and took him tenderly to the rear, where he died before the stretcher on which he lay could be deposited beside the meeting-house door. On the way from the field to the hospital he wandered in mind at times, crying out, "Captain Weaver how is that line? Has the attack succeeded?" etc. When he had been resuscitated for a pause he said: "Doctor, I am done for." His last words were: "Straighten the line!" And he died peacefully. He was a cousin of Major Winthrop, the author of "Cecil Dreeme." He was twenty-seven years of age. I had talked with him before going into action, as he sat at the side of General Ayres, and was permitted by the guard of honor to uncover his face and look upon it. He was pale and beautiful, marble rather than corpse, and the uniform cut away from his bosom showed how white and fresh was the body, so pulseless now. General Griffin said to me: "This victory is not worth Winthrop's life." Winthrop went into the service as a simple color-bearer. He died a brevet brigadier. At seven o'clock the Rebels came to the conclusion that they were outflanked and whipped. They had been so busily engaged that they were a long time finding out how desperate were their circumstances; but now, wearied with persistent assaults in front, they fell back to the left, only to see four close lines of battle waiting to drive them across the field, decimated. At the right the horsemen charged them in their vain attempt to fight "out," and in the rear straggling foot and cavalry began also to assemble; slant fire, cross fire, and direct fire, by file and volley rolled in perpetually, cutting down their bravest officers and strewing the fields with bleeding men; groans resounded in the intervals of exploding powder, and to add to their terror and despair, their own artillery, captured from them, threw into their own ranks, from its old position, ungrateful grape and canister, enfilading their breastworks, whizzing and plunging by air line and ricochet, and at last bodies of cavalry fairly mounted their intrenchments, and charged down the parapet, slashing and trampling them, and producing inexplicable confusion. They had no commanders, at least no orders, and looked in vain for some guiding hand to lead them out of a toil into which they had fallen so bravely and so blindly. A few more volleys, a new and irresistible charge, a shrill and warning command to die or surrender, and, with a sullen and tearful impulse, five thousand muskets are flung upon the ground, and five thousand hot, exhausted, and impotent men are Sheridan's prisoners of war. Acting with his usual decision, Sheridan placed his captives in care of a provost-guard, and sent them at once to the rear. Those which escaped, he ordered the fiery Custer to pursue with brand and vengeance; and they were pressed far into the desolate forest, spent and hungry, many falling by the way of wounds or exhaustion, many pressed down by hoof or sabre-stroke, and many picked up in mercy and sent back to rejoin their brethren in bonds. We captured in all fully six thousand prisoners. General Sheridan estimated them modestly at five thousand, but the provost-marshal assured me that he had a line four abreast a full mile long. I entirely bear him out, having ridden for forty minutes in a direction opposite to that they were taking, and growing weary at last of counting or of seeing them. They were fine, hearty fellows, almost all Virginians, and seemed to take their capture not unkindly. They wore the gray and not very attractive uniform of the Confederacy, but looked to be warm and fat, and passing along in the night, under the fir-trees, conveyed at most a romantic idea of grief and tribulation. They were put in a huge pen, midway between Big and Little Five Forks, for the night, the officers sharing the same fare with the soldiers, from whom, indeed, they were undistinguishable. Thus ended the splendid victory of Five Forks, the least bloody to us, but the most successful, proportionate to numbers engaged, that has been fought during the war. One man out of every three engaged took a prisoner. We captured four cannon, an ambulance train and baggage-teams, eight thousand muskets, and twenty-eight battle-flags. General Longstreet, it is thought, commanded. Neither he nor Pickett nor Bushrod Johnston, division commanders, were taken; they were wise enough to see that the day was lost, and imitated Bonaparte after Waterloo. I attribute this victory almost entirely to Sheridan; it was won by strategy and persistence, and in great part by men who would not stand fire the day before. The happy distribution of duties between cavalry and infantry excited a fine rivalry, and the consciousness of Sheridan's guidance inspired confidence. Has any battle so successful ever been fought in Virginia? or, indeed, in the East? I think not. It has opened to us the enemy's flank, so that we can sweep down upon the Appomattox and inside of his breastworks, enabling us to shorten our lines of intrenchments one half, if no more, and putting out of Lee's service fifteen thousand of his choicest troops. And all this, General Sheridan tells me, has cost him personally no more than eight hundred men, and the service no more than fifteen hundred. Compare this with Chancellorsville, Williamsburg, the Wilderness, Bull Run, and what shall we say? The enemy must have lost in this fight three thousand in killed and wounded. The scene at Gravelly Run meeting-house at 8 and at 10 o'clock on Saturday night, is one of the solemn contrasts of the war, and, I hope, the last of them. A little frame church, planted among the pines, and painted white, with cool, green window-shutters, holds at its foot a gallery for the negroes, and at the head a varnished pulpit. I found its pews moved to the green plain over the threshold, and on its bare floors the screaming wounded. Blood ran in little rills across the planks, and, human feet treading in them, had made indelible prints in every direction; the pulpit-lamps were doing duty, not to shed holy light upon holy pages, but to show the pale and dusty faces of the beseeching; and as they moved in and out, the groans and curses of the suffering replace the gush of peaceful hymns and the deep responses to the preacher's prayers. Federal and Confederate lay together, the bitterness of noon assuaged in the common tribulation of the night, and all the while came in the dripping stretchers, to place in this golgotha new recruits for death and sorrow. I asked the name of the church, but no one knew any more than if it had been the site of some obsolete heathen worship. At last, a grinning sergeant smacked his thumbs as if the first idea of his life had occurred to him, and led me to the pulpit. Beneath some torn blankets and rent officers' garments, rested the hymn book and Bible, which he produced. Last Sunday these doled out the praises of God, and the frightened congregation worshipped at their dictation. Now they only served by their fly leaves to give me my whereabouts, and said:-- _Presented to Gravelly Run Meeting House by the Ladies._ Over the portal, the scenes within were reiterated, except that the greatness of a starry night replaced the close and terrible arena of the church. Beneath the trees, where the Methodist circuit-rider had tied his horse, and the urchins, daring class-meeting, had wandered away to cast stones at the squirrels, and measure strength at vaulting and running, the gashed and fevered lay irregularly, some soul going out at each whiff of the breeze in the fir-tops; and the teams and surgeons, and straggling soldiers, and galloping orderlies passed all the night beneath the old and gibbous moon and the hushed stars, and by the trickle of Gravelly Run stealing off, afeared. But the wounded had no thought that night; the victory absorbed all hearts; we had no losses to notice where so much was won. A mile past the church, going away from head-quarters all the time, lies Five Forks, the object and name of the battle. A large open field of perhaps thirty acres, interposes between the church and the commencement of the Rebel works. Their left is only some rails and logs to mask marksmen, but the work proper is a very long stretch of all obstructions of a man's height in relief. The White Oak road runs directly in front of these intrenchments, and was, at the time I passed, the general highway for infantry returning from the field and cavalry-men concentrating at General Sheridan's bivouac. Riding a mile I came upon the Five Forks proper, and just to the left, at the foot of some pines, the victor and his assistants were congregated. Sheridan sat by some fagots, examining a topographical map of the country he had so well traversed; possibly with a view to design further aggressive movements in the morning. He is opposite me now as I pen these paragraphs by the imperfect blaze of his bivouac fire. He is good humored and talkative, like all men conscious of having achieved a great work, and has been good enough to sketch for me the plan of the day's operations, from which I have compiled much of the statement above. Close by lies Custer, trying to sleep, his long yellow hair covering his face; and General Griffin, now commanding the Fifth corps, goes here and there issuing orders, while aides and orderlies rode in and out, bearing further fresh messages of deeds consummated or proposed. We shall have a hot night no doubt, for away off to the right, continue volleys of musketry and discharges of artillery, intermixed with what seem to be thunderbolts of our men-of-war at anchor in the Appomatox and James,--if such can be heard at this great distance,--which tell us that the lines are in motion. CHAPTER XXX. RICHMOND DESOLATE. The scenes of entering the doomed stronghold, when Grant had burst its gates, ought to be made vivid as the spectacle of death. With my good and talented associate, Mr. Jerome B. Stillson, I hold the Spotswood Hotel, and from this caravansary of the late capital as thoroughly identified with Rebellion as the inn at Bethlehem with the gospel, we date our joint paragraphs upon the condition of the city. A week cannot have exhausted the curiosity of the North to learn the exact appearance of a city which has stood longer, more frequent, and more persistent sieges, than any in Christendom. This town is the Rebellion; it is all that we have directly striven for; quitting it, the Confederate leaders have quitted their sheet-anchor, their roof-tree, their abiding hope. Its history is the epitome of the whole contest, and to us, shivering our thunderbolts against it for more than four years, Richmond is still a mystery. Know then, that, whether coming from Washington or Baltimore, the two points of embarkation, all bound hitherward must rendezvous at Fortress Monroe; thence, in such excellent steamers as the _Dictator_, start up the broad James River. To own a country-house upon the "Jeems" river is the Virginia gentleman's ultimate aspiration. There, with a tobacco-farm, and wide wheatlands, his feet on his front-porch rails, a Havana cigar between his teeth, and a colored person to bring him frequent juleps, the Virginia gentleman, confident in the divinity of slavery, hopes in his natural, refined idleness, to watch the little family graveyard close up to his threshold, till it shall kindly open and give him sepulture. Elsewhere men aim to be successful, or enterprising, or eloquent, or scholarly, but that nobleness of hospitality, high spirit, dignity, and affability which constitute our idea of chivalry is everywhere save here an exotic. We say that chivalry is "played out," and that the prestige of "first families" is gone with the hurried retreat before Grant's salamanders. Not so. Secession as a cause is past the range of possibilities. But no people in their subjugation wear a better front than these brave old spirits, whose lives are not their own. Fire has ravaged their beautiful city, soldiers of the color of their servants, guard the crossings and pace the pavement with bayoneted muskets. But gentlemen they are still, in every pace, and inch, and syllable,--such men as we were wont to call brothers and countrymen. However, the James River, at which we commenced, has not a town upon it between the sea and the head of navigation. It is a strong commentary upon this patriarchal civilization, judged by our gregarious tastes, that one of the noblest streams in the world should show to the traveller only here and there a pleasant mansion, flanked by negro cabins, but nowhere a church-spire nor a steam-mill. All that we see from Fortress Monroe to City Point are ridges of breastworks, rifle-pits, and forts, lying bare, yellow, and deserted, to defend its passage, excepting at James Island, where the solitary and broken tower of the ancient colony holds guard over some bramble and ruin. Here Smith founded the celebrated settlement, which wooed to its threshold the gentle Pocahontas, and fell to fragments at the behest of the fiery Bacon. The ramparts on the James will remain forever; great as they are, they would hardly hold the bones of the slain in the capture and defence. Four hours from Fortress Monroe we pass Harrison's Landing, where two grand armies, _beaten_ aside from Richmond, sought the shelter of the river, and at City Point quit our large craft, to be transferred to a light draught vessel, which is to carry the first mail going to Richmond under the national flag since the beginning of the war. City Point is still a populous place, and the millions of mules upon it bray hoarsely; but we leave all these behind, as well as the national standard, which flaunts over General Grant's late head-quarters, and steam past the mouth of the Appomattox to go through the enemy's lines. Henceforward every foot of the way is freshly interesting. The Rebel ram _Atlanta_ in tow of a couple of tugs, goes past us with a torpedo boat at the rear. She is raking, slant, and formidable; but "old glory" is waving on her. Directly our own leviathan, the _Roanoke_ drifts up, and all her storm-throated tars cheer like the belch of her guns. We see to the right, the tip of Malvern Hill, ever sorrowful and sacred, and soon a great unfinished ram careens by, which never grew to battle-size; the true colors shine above her bulwarks like a flower growing in a carcass. Then at little intervals there are frequent prizes from the docks of Richmond, tugs, transports, barges, some of which show under our beautiful banner the Rebel cross, pale and contemptible. These malcontents committed as great crime against good taste in substituting for our starry emblem this artistic abomination, as against law and policy in changing the configuration of the Union. There is another flag, however, which we see, half exultantly, half vindictively,--the cross of St. George,--flying from a British cutter. By and by we come to our intrenchments upon the upper James and at Bermuda Hundred. Now they are very listless and half empty. The boys have gone off to tread on Lee's shanks. Only a few vessels stand at the landings, and the few remnants have laid down the rifle, and taken up the fishing-pole. One should come up this river to get a conception of our splendid navy. Sharp-pointed gunboats, with bullet-proof crows' nests and swivels that are the gentlest murderers ever polished; monitors through whose eyeholes a ball a big as a cook-stove squints from a columbiad socket; ferry-boats which are speckled with brass cannon, and all sorts of craft that can float and manoeuvre, provided they look at us through deadly muzzles are there to the number of fifty or sixty, as many as make the entire navies of all other American nations. After the war we must have a great naval review, and invite all the crowned heads to attend it. Soon we reach Dutch Gap, where lies Butler's canal, or "Butler's gut," as the sailors call it. The river at this point is so crooked that Butler must have laid it out by the aid of his wrong eye. The canal is meant to cut on a long elbow; but being almost at right angles to the course of the river, only the most obliging tide would run through it. As a consequence, it is a sort of a sluice merely, of insufficient width, and as a "sight" very disappointing to great expectations. Between the points of debouch of this canal crosses a drawbridge of pontoons, for the use of our troops, and just beyond it Aiken's Landing, where the flag of truce boat stopped. A fine brick mansion stands in shore, with a wharf abreast it. The banks around it are trodden here with many feet. These are the traces of the poor prisoners who reached here, fevered, and starving and naked, to catch for the first time the sight of cool waters and friends, and the bright flag which they had followed to the edge of the grave. How they threw up their hats, and cheered to the feeblest, and wept, and danced, and laughed. Long be the place remembered, as holy, neutral ground, where death never trod, and multitudes passed from suffering, to freedom and home. Beyond this point, the most formidable Rebel works we have seen, line the high bluffs and ridges. They are monuments of patient labor, and make of themselves hills as great as nature's. But the siege pieces, which often bellowed upon them like thunderbolts along the mountain-tops, are gone now, and only straggling, meddling fellows pass them at all. The highest of these works commands both ends of the Dutch Gap canal, and while our lads were digging they often hid themselves in caves which they dug in the cliff-sides. We reach the first torpedo at length; a little red flag marks it, by which the boat slips tremulously, though another and another are before, at the sight of which our nervous folks are agitated. Here is a monitor with a drag behind it, which has just fished up one; and the sequel is told by a bloody and motionless figure upon the deck. These torpedoes are the true dragon teeth of Cadmus, which spring up armed men. Happily for us, the Rebels have sown but few of them, and the position of these was pointed out by one of their captains who deserted to our side. In the midst of these lie the obstructions. Great hulks of vessels and chained spars, and tree-tops which reach quite across the river, except where our pioneers have hewn a little gap to let the steamer through. Upon these obstructions a hundred cannon bear from the cliffs before us, and as we go further we see the whole river-bed sprinkled with strange contrivances to keep back our thunder-bearers. We think it absolutely impossible, under any circumstances, that our fleet could have got to Richmond so long as the Rebels contested the passage; each step forward finds new and greater obstacles. The channel is as narrow as Harlem River and as crooked as a walk in the ramble of Central Park. Each elbow of the stream is muscular with snag and snare wherever the swift stream swoops around abruptly. Jagged abatis, driven piles, and artificial lumber, bar the way before us. To the right of us, to the left of us, behind us, stand up the bare parapets, crowned with airy lookout towers, where, at the coming of a nautilus, the whole horizon and foreground would rain crossfires of shell and iron bolts, to sweep into annihilation the tiniest or the staunchest opposition from the earth's surface, and under the earth and above the earth death waited to leap up and draw the daring to its bosom. Not one, nor two, nor three lines of defences frowned down as we cautiously steamed along, but every precipice was bristling with defiance, as if the deep subterranean fires underlying our race had burst here fitfully and frequently, heaving up the swells of the hills till they lay hard and barren for human ingenuity to garnish them with anxious artillery. All along were the deep funnel-shaped cases of the torpedoes just disentombed. But at nightfall Drury's Bluff flitted by like the battlemented wall of a city, and then we saw no more. The band that greeted us from a distance stops playing as the boat nears the wharf. There is a stillness, in the midst of which Richmond, with her ruins, her spectral roof, afar, and her unchanging spires, rests beneath a ghastly, fitful glare,--the night stain which a great conflagration leaves behind it for weeks,--struggling silently with colossal shadows along the foreground, two hideous walls alone arise in front, shutting these gleams. They are the Libby Prison and Castle Thunder. Right and left, and far in the moonlighted perspective beyond, there is a soft glitter upon cornices and domes. A haggard glow of candles, faintly defines the thoroughfares that have not suffered ruin; while massive, and upon a height overlooking all, stands the Capitol, flying its black shadow from the sinking moon across a hundred crumbling walls, until its edges touch the windows of the Libby. But over its massive roof, dimly seen through the mists of the river, and, as before, "through the mists of the deep," the banner of the Union, banished for four years, is shaken out again, broad and beautiful, by the breath of an April night. Upon the face of every leaning figure on the steamer's deck, in sight of that radiant signal, is the same half-melancholy, half-triumphant smile. The thought of the battle which has passed, of the army, which, after struggling through years for this majestic procession, has swept by and beyond without the view for which its straining eyes have yearned, is sad and strange. There comes back dimly suggestive, a story of Iran and his host, thundering at the gates of Tupelo, for the possession of a wondrous jewel, and awakening once upon a dawn to learn that Tupelo was an empty casket,--to turn back longing, "wondering eyes upon the city, and to hunt the fleeing prize afar." Yet unto those legions of the republic which have emptied Richmond of a prize which yet they may have easily clutched, there go out reverence and blessing even larger than might be bestowed upon them resting in camp, upon these overlooking hills. That true allegiance, that calm and stern self-sacrifice which impels an army forward past the sweet applauses and rewarding calms to which great victories might entitle it, are the purest sources of its glory and its fame. God bless the army that has permitted us to consummate this journey and to gaze upon this spectacle, while it does not impress us too proudly, too triumphantly. Both pride and triumph have, of course, a place in the tumultuous feeling that surges through the hearts of all; yet as in every true man is born an instinct of compassion for a fallen foe, we prefer that the shout should go up in honor of our victory alone, and not because these have suffered. The boat touches the shore at Rockett's, the foot of Richmond. A few minutes' walk and we tread the pavements of the capital. There are no noisy and no beseeching runners; there is no sound of life, but the stillness of a catacomb, only as our footsteps fall dull on the deserted sidewalk, and a funeral troop of echoes bump their elfin heads against the dead walls and closed shutters in reply, and this is Richmond. Says a melancholy voice: "And this is Richmond." We are under the shadow of ruins. From the pavements where we walk far off into the gradual curtain of the night, stretches a vista of desolation. The hundreds of fabrics, the millions of wealth, that crumbled less than a week ago beneath one fiery kiss, here topple and moulder into rest. A white smoke-wreath rising occasionally, enwraps a shattered wall as in a shroud. A gleam of flame shoots a grotesque picture of broken arches and ragged chimneys into the brain. Huge piles of debris begin to encumber the sidewalks, and even the pavements, as we go on. The streets in some places are quite choked up from walking. We are among the ruins of half a city. The wreck, the loneliness, seem interminable. The memory of lights in houses above, beheld while upon the steamer, alone keeps despondency from a victory over hope; and although the continued existence of the Spottswood Hotel is vouched for by authority, my lodge in such a wilderness seems next to impossible. Away to the right, above the waste of blackened walls, around the phantom-looking flag upon the capitol,--the only sign betwixt heaven and earth, or upon the earth, that Richmond is not wholly deserted,--beyond and out of the ruins, we walk past one of two open doorways where the moon serves as candle to a group of talking negroes. The gas works, injured by fire, are not working, and "ile" has not been struck in the Confederacy. Not a white man appears until we reach the Spottswood,--there before the entrance is a conclave of officers,--then, at last, entering, we stand in that most famous of Southern hotels, the interior of which is filled with the very aroma of the Rebellion. A thankful yielding up of carpet-bags and valises to the indignant negro waiters, and then a brief moonlight stroll toward the capitol. Within the gates of the Square, that swing on their hinges silent as the hour we pass alone, before us stands the magnificent monument crowned with Crawford's equestrian statue of Washington. The right hand of the rider, lifted against the sky, points a prophetic finger toward the southwest. Dark, and motionless, and grand, it is the one symbol belonging solely to the Union, which they have not dared to desecrate; which they have strangely chosen to consider neither as an insult nor a rebuke. Gazing beyond at the capitol itself, and back again at the figure which overlooks the building, it is not hard to imagine that, while the noisy debates of a congress of traitors to the Union that he founded were in progress, those bronze lips sometimes smiled in scorn. Leaving Richmond proper, and descending into the low, squalid portion of the town known as Rocketts, one sees among the many large warehouses, used without exception for the storage of tobacco, a certain one more irregular than the rest. An archway leads into it, and upon the outside of the second story windows runs a long ledge or footway, whereupon sentries used to stride, guarding the miserable people within. This is the jail of Castle Thunder, and it was the civil or State prison of the capital. Ill as were the accommodations of prisoners of war, the treatment of their own unoffending citizens by the Rebel government was ten times more infamous. We could not repress indignation, nor by any philosophic or charitable effort excuse the atrocious tyranny which here lashed, chained, handcuffed, tortured, shot, and hung, hundreds of people whom it could not stultify or impress. We may grant that the Confederacy had become a government; that, in its perilous incipiency, it had apology for severity and rigor with all malcontents; that, in its own struggle for death or life, it might, in self-defence, absorb all private liberty; but even thus the terrible testimony of this Castle Thunder is an everlasting stigma upon the Southern cause. We entered its strong portal, and there in the new commandant's room lay the record left behind by the Confederates. Its pages made one shudder. These are some of the entries:-- "George Barton,--giving food to Federal prisoners of war; forty lashes upon the bare back. Approved. Sentence carried into effect July 2. "Peter B. Innis,--passing forged government notes; chain and ball for twelve months; forty lashes a day. Approved. "Arthur Wright,--attempting to desert to the enemy; sentenced to be shot. Approved. Carried into effect, March 26. "John Morton,--communicating with the enemy; to be hung. Approved. Carried into effect, March 26." In an inner room are some fifty pairs of balls and chains, with anklets and handcuffs upon them, which have bent the spirit and body of many a resisting heart. Within are two condemned cells, perfectly dark,--a faded flap over the window peep-hole,--the smell from which would knock a strong man down. For in their centre lies the sink, ever open, and the floors are sappy with uncleanliness. To the right of these, a door leads to a walled yard not forty feet long, nor fifteen wide, overlooked by the barred windows of the main prison rooms, and by sentry boxes upon the wall-top. Here the wretched were shot and hung in sight of their trembling comrades. The brick wall at the foot of the yard is scarred and crushed by balls and bullets which first passed through some human heart and wrote here their damning testimony. The gallows had been suspended from a wing in the ledge, and in mid-air the impotent captive swung, none daring or willing to say a good word for him; and not for any offence against God's law, not for wronging his neighbor, or shedding blood, or making his kind miserable, but for standing in the way of an upstart organization, which his impulse and his judgment alike impelled him to oppose. This little yard, bullet-marked, close, and shut from all sympathy, is to us the ghastliest spot in the world. Can Mr. Davis visit it, and pray as he does so devoutly afterward? When men plead the justice of the South, and arguments are prompt to favor them, let this prison yard rise up and say that no such crimes in liberty's name have ever been committed, on this continent, at least. Up stairs, in Castle Thunder, there are two or three large rooms, barred and dimly lit, and two or three series of condemned cells, pent-up and pitchy, where, by a refinement of cruelty, the ceiling has been built low so that no man can stand upright. Here fifteen or twenty were crowded together, and, in the burning atmosphere, they stripped themselves stark naked, so that when in the morning the cell-doors were opened, they came forth as from the grave, begging for death. There are women's cells too; for this great and valiant government recognized women as belligerents, and locked them up close to a sentry's cartridge, so that, in the bitterness of solitude, they were unsexed, and railed, and blasphemed, like wanton things. On the pavements before the jail, were hidden numberless guards, who shot at every rag fluttering from the cages, and all this little circle of death and terror was enacted close to the bright river, and airy pediment of that high capitol, where bold men hoped by war to wring from a reluctant Union, acknowledgment of arrogant independence to rein civilization as it pleased, and warp the destinies of our race. CHAPTER XXXI. THE RUINS OF THE REBELLION. When Richmond was a plain city, a county seat, and the residence of a governor and commonwealth legislature, its enterprise was as gradual as its hospitality and private probity were steadfast. It was always a fierce political arena, and its two great journals, the _Whig_ and _Enquirer_, were not more violently partisan than its hustings. In the latter its debaters were wide-famed. No such "stump" has ever existed in America, commencing with Patrick Henry, whose eloquence was as intense and telling as his statesmanship was errant and inconsistent, and passing through the shrill and bitter apostrophies of John Randolph down to the latest era of Henry A. Wise, the most sufferable and interminable campaign orator extant, and John Minor Botts, scarcely his inferior. With us, out of door rhetoric is dry, studied, and argumentative; here an inspiration, based upon feeling rather than reason, and so earnest that it knew no personal friendship where its political affinities stopped. Whig and Democrat were not men of the same race or family in Richmond; they passed each other on the sidewalk with a sneer or a scowl, and knew no coalition even in the house of God. Even when the Whig party as an organization deceased, the Whigs, as individuals, retained their traditional antipathy, and the advent of secession was decried by these, not because they loved the Union more, but the triumphant Democracy the less. Separation was a feature of the hated faith, and no good could come out of Nazareth. The Union men of Richmond who have hungered in Castle Thunder, and been driven, needy and naked, from the South, were all old line Whigs, distrusting the North, but disliking Democracy. However, the war burst at last, heralded by that mysterious lunatic who appeared like a warning giant in the twilight day of the Union,--old John Brown; and as the Gulf States wheeled into line and pulled down the old colors, the Old Dominion, Southern and slaveholding, was too impulsive not to follow the whirlwind. She did not go for policy's sake, nor for principle's sake, but for emotion's sake. How wild and jubilant, and confident, were those Richmond mass meetings, at which separation was counselled! How awful seems their levity at this distance, with the city conquered and in ruins! On the Capitol Hill the mad orators inveighed; within the Capitol met the disunion assembly in secret and prolonged session; before the American, the Exchange, and the Spottswood hotels, visiting commissioners harangued the crowd; the people went to ballot on the day of State suicide, with laughing and wagging, and at the decree that Virginia and her people had resolved to quit the fabric of their fathers, bonfires and illuminations lit up the river and the sky. Done, these were the men to stand fast. Done in dream, the first acts were mirages rather than comprehensible events. They marched upon Harper's Ferry; they suppressed the Unionists in their midst; they erased the sacred mottoes of amity and unity from their monuments, and won to the new cause they so blindly embraced every inch of their soil except Old Point, where Fortress Monroe still stood defiant, to be in the end the source of their downfall. Gayly went the populace of Richmond, and splendid parties made the nights lustrous. When they heard that their town was mentioned, among many others, as the probable Confederate capital, they threw their hearts into the suggestion and offered lands and edifices as free gifts for the honor of being the centre of the South. A few, more interested, beheld in the coming of the seat of government higher rents and increased patronage, crowded hotels, and railway stock at a premium; but the mass, with the enthusiasm of women or children, thought only of their beloved city growing in rank and power; the home of legislators, orators, and savans; the seat of all rank and the depository of archives. At last the good news came; Richmond was the capital of a great nation; that courtesy bound all grateful Virginian hearts to the common cause forever; the heyday and gratulation were renewed; the new President, and the reverend senators appeared on Richmond streets; the citizens were proud and happy. There was no spectre of the mighty North, slowly rising from lethargy like those Medicean figures of Michael Angelo, which leap from stone to avengers. There was no mutter of coming storm, no clank of coming sabres and bayonets, no creak of great wheels rolling southward, and war in its extremest and most deadly phase. Richmond and Virginia laughed at these, flushed in the present, and invincible in the past. They only held high heads,--and trade, with vanity, grew strong, till every citizen wondered why all this glory had been so long delayed, and despised the ten years preceding the rupture, if not, indeed, the whole past of the Union. The President of the United States proclaimed war; an army marched upon the city. Not until the battle of Bull Run, when the dead and mangled came by hundreds into the town, did any one discover the consequences of Richmond's new distinction; but by this time the Rebel government had absorbed Virginia, and was master of the city. Thenceforward Richmond was the scene of all terrors, the prey of all fears and passions. Campaign after campaign was directed against her; she lived in the perpetual thunder of cannon; raiders pressed to her gates; she was a great garrison and hospital only, besieged and cut off from her own provinces; armies passed through her to the sound of drums, and returned to the creak of ambulances. She lost her social prestige, and became a barrack-city, filled with sutlers, adventurers, and refugees, till, bearing bravely up amid domestic riot and horrible demoralization,--a jail, a navy-yard, a base of operations,--she grew pinched, and base, and haggard, and, at last, deserted. Given over to sack and fire, the wretches who used her retreated in the night, and the enemies she had provoked marched over her defences, and laid her--spent, degenerate, and disgraced--under martial law. The outline of the scenes immediately associated with the evacuation of Richmond has been told by telegraph. Now that the stupefied citizens have recovered reason and memory so well as to tell us the story, it seems the most dramatic and fearful of the war. On Saturday the city was calm and trusting; Lee, its idol, held Grant, at Petersburg, fast; the daily journals came out as usual, filled with soothing accounts; that night came vague rumors of reverses; in the morning vaguer rumors of evacuation; by Sunday night the public records were burned in the streets, and the only remaining railway carried off the specie of the banks; before daylight on Monday, the explosions of bridges and half-built ships of war shook the houses; in the imperfect day, women, and old men, and children began to sway and surge before the guarded depot, which refused to admit them; then the town fell afire; no remonstrance could pacify the incendiaries; the spring wind carried the flame from the burning boats on the canal to the great Galligo Mills, to files of massive warehouses groaning with tobacco, into the heart of the town, where stores, and vaults, and banks, and factories lined the wide, undulating streets; it filled the gray concave with flame till the stars of the dawn shrank to pale invisibility in the advancing glare, and the crackle of hot roofs and beams, and the crash of walls and timbers, drowned the cries of the frightened and bankrupt, who beheld their fortunes wither in an hour, and the inheritance of their children fall to ashes. By the red, consuming light, poured past the straggling Confederate soldiers, dead to the acknowledgment of private rights, and sacking shop and home with curses and ribaldry; the suburban citizens and the menial negroes adopted their examples; carrying off whatever came next their hands, and with arms full of "swag," dropping it in the highway, lured by some dearer plunder. Negroes, with baskets of stolen champagne and rare jars of tamarinds, sought their dusky quarters to swill and carouse; and whites of the middle, and even of the higher class, lent themselves to theft, who, before this debased era, would have died before so surrendering their honor. All was peril, terror, and license; all who had nothing to lose were thieves; all who had anything left to lose were cowards. The conflagration swept through the densest, proudest blocks, driving off, not only the resident worthy, but the resident corrupt. Where were the lewd contractors, who had hoarded Confederate scrip by the basest exactions? With the fall of the capital their dollars dwindled to dust; four years of crime had resulted in beggary; still, with grasping palms, they adhered to their valueless paper, bearing it away. But of all the wretched, the Cyprians were the foremost. These inhabited the dense and business part of the town, where their houses were serried and compact; and, driven forth by the fire, they sought the street in their plumes and calicoes, to spend a cold and shivering bivouac in the square of the Capitol. From afar, the rich men of Sunday watched the flames of Monday sweeping on in terrible impetuosity, knowing that every tongue of light which leaped on high carried with it the competence they had sinned to acquire. And behind all, plunderer, incendiary, and straggler, came the one vague, overlapping, dreadful fear of--the enemy. Would they finish what friends had commenced,--the sack, the desolation, the slaughter of the place? Richmond had cost them half a million of lives, a mountain of blood and wealth, four years of deadly struggle; would they not complete its ruin? The morning came; the Confederates were gone; cavalry in blue galloped up the streets; a brigade of white infantry filed after them; then came the detested negroes. Behold! the victors, the subjugators, assist to quench the flames,--and Richmond is captured, but secure! Many of the churches were open on the Sunday of April 9, 1865, and were thinly attended by the more adventurous of the citizens, with a sprinkling of soldiers and Northern civilians. Mr. Woodbridge, at the Monument Church, built on the site of a famous burnt theatre, prayed for "all in authority," and held his tongue upon dangerous topics. The First Baptist Negro Church has been occupied all the week by Massachusetts chaplains, and Northern negro preachers, who have talked the gospel of John Brown to gaping audiences of wool, white-eyeball, and ivory, telling them that the day of deliverance has come, and that they have only to possess the land which the Lord by the bayonet has given them. To-day, Mr. Allen, the regular white preacher, occupied the pulpit, and told the negroes that slavery was a divine institution, which would continue forever, and that the duty of every good servant was to stay at home and mind his master. Half of the enlightened Africans got up midway of the discourse and left; the rest were in doubt, and two or three black class-leaders, whom the parson had wheeled over, prayed lustily that the Lord would keep Old Virginny from new ideas and all Yankee salvations; so that in the end the population were quite tangled up, as much so as if they had read the book of Revelation. I attended Saint Paul's, the fashionable Episcopalian church, where Lee, Davis, Memminger, and the rest had been communicants, and heard Doctor Minnegerode discourse. He was one of the Prussian refugees of 1848, and, though a hot Jacobin there, became a more bitter secessionist here. He is learned, fluent, and thoughtful, but speaks with a slight Teutonic accent. Jeff Davis's pew was occupied by nobody, the door thereof being shut. Jeff was a very devout man, but not so much so as Lee, who made all the responses fervently, and knelt at every requirement. This church is capable of "seating" fifteen hundred persons, has galleries running entirely around it, and is sustained at the roof within by composite pilasters of plaster, and at the pulpit by columns of mongrel Corinthian; the _tout ensemble_ is very excellent; a darkey sexton gave us a pew, and there were some handsome ladies present, dark Richmond beauties, haughty and thinly clothed, with only here and there a jockey-feathered hat, or a velvet mantilla, to tell of long siege and privation. We saw that those who dressed the shabbiest had yet preserved some little article of jewelry--a finger-ring, a brooch, a bracelet, showing how the last thing in woman to die is her vanity. Poor, proud souls! Last Sunday many of them were heiresses; now many of them could not pay the expenses of their own funerals. There were some Confederate officers in the house. They reminded me of the captive Jews holding worship in their gutted Temple. Some ruffians broke into this church after the occupation, and wrote ribaldry in the Bible and hymn-book. Dr. Minnegerode dared not pray for the Confederate States, and his sermon was trite, based upon the text of the eleventh chapter of the Acts--"The disciples were first called Christians in Antioch." In the opening lesson, however, he aimed poison at the North, selecting the forty-fourth and following Psalms, commencing, "We have heard with our ears, O God! our fathers have told us, what work Thou didst in their days, in the times of old." Then it spoke of the heathen being driven out and the chosen people planted; afflicted by God's disfavor, the forefathers held the territory, and the generation extant would yet rout its enemies. But now the old stock were put to shame, a reproach to their neighbors and those that dwelt round about them. "Thou hast broken us in the place of dragons, and covered us with the shadow of death," going not forth with our armies, bowing our souls to the dust till our bellies cleave unto the earth; we are killed all the day long, and counted as sheep for the slaughter. Let all who would drink the essence of sorrow and anguish, read this wonderful Psalm, to learn how after this recapitulation, the parson said aloud the thrilling invocation. "Arise! for our help, and redeem us for thy mercies' sake." Then came the next Psalm, light and tripping, full of praise for the king and his bride, coming to the nuptials with her virgin train: "instead of thy fathers, shall be thy children, whom thou mayst make princes in all the earth." A poetic parallel might be drawn between all this and the early hopes of Richmond; but the third Psalm came in like a beautiful peroration. "God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble,--the Lord of Hosts is with us, the God of Jacob is our refuge. Selah! He maketh wars to cease unto the end of the earth; he breaketh the bow and cutteth the spear in sunder; he burneth the chariot in the fire." Clear, direct, and in meaning monotone, the captive high-priest read all this, so fearfully applicable to the subjugated and ruined town, and then the organ threw its tender music into the half-empty concave, sobbing like a far voice of multitudes, until the sweet singing of Madame Ruhl, the chorister, swept into the moan of pipes, and rose to a grand peal, quivering and trilling, like a nightingale wounded, making more tears than the sublimest operatic effort and the house reeled and trembled, as if Miriam and her chanting virgins were lifting praises to God in the midst of the desert. That part of the New Testament read, by some strange fatuity, touches also the despair of the city. It told of Christ betrayed by Iscariot, deserted by his disciples, saying to his few trusty ones: "I will smite the shepherd, and the sheep of the flock shall be scattered abroad." "Can ye not watch with me one hour?" he says to the timid and sleeping; and turning to his conquerors, avers that the Son of Man shall return to Jerusalem, "sitting on the right hand of power, and coming in the clouds of heaven." All this, of course, was the prescribed lesson for the Sunday before Easter, which to-day happened to be; but had the pastor searched it out to meet the exigencies of the place and time, it could not have been more _apropos_. He read also from Daniel, where the king's dream was interpreted; his realm, like a tree worn down to the root, and the king himself making his dwelling with the wild asses, but in the end "thy kingdom shall be sure unto thee, after that thou shalt have known that the heavens do rule." Again the organ rang, and the wonderful voice of the choristers alternated with deep religious prayers, whose refrain was, "Have mercy upon us." Only one Sunday gone by, the church was densely packed with Rebel officers and people; Mrs. Lee was there, and the president, in his high and whitened hairs. Midway of the discourse a telegram came up the aisle, borne by a rapid orderly. The president read it, and strode away; the preacher read it, and faltered, and turned pale; it said: My lines are broken; Richmond must be evacuated by midnight. ROBERT E. LEE. Ill news travels without words; the whole house felt that the great calamity had come; they broke for the doors, and left the rector, alone and frightened, to finish the solemn services. Now the enemy is here; the music and the prayer are not interrupted. God is over all, whether Davis or Lincoln be uppermost. This campaign, so gloriously and promptly finished, has consumed just eleven days. It took three to flank the Rebel army, one to capture Petersburg, one to occupy Richmond, and six to pursue, overtake, and capture the Army of Northern Virginia. No such memorable fighting has ever been known on our continent, and it parallels the Italian, the Austerlitz, and the Jena campaigns; in breadth of conception, it outrivals them all; it took less men to do it than the last two; it shows equal sagacity with any of them, but none of their brilliant episodes; and, unlike them, we cannot trace its full credit to any single personality. It has made the army immortal, but the lustre of it is diffused, not concentrating upon any single head. Grant must be credited with most of the combinations; yet without the genius and activity of Sheridan, the bewildering rapidity of Sherman, and the steadfastness of such reliable men as Wright, Parke, and Griffin, these combinations would have fallen apart. It is said that Stoneman and Sheridan were to have joined their separate cavalry commands at Lynchburg, and effect a simultaneous junction with the Army of the Potomac. This failed, through a miscalculation of distance or time; but had they succeeded, we should have been less than three days in turning Lee's right, and so made the campaign even more concise. But Grant's talent has been marked and signal. He is the long-expected "coming man." None can be lukewarm in surveying the nice adjustment of so many separate and converging routes to a grand series of victories. Sherman leaves the Rebellion no Gulf city to inhabit, and cuts off Lee's retreat while he absorbs Johnston; the navy closes the last seaport; Sheridan severs all communication with Richmond, and swells the central forces; then the Rebels are lured from their lines and scattered on their right; the same night the intrenchments of Petersburg are stormed, Richmond falls as this prop is removed, being already hungry-hearted, and the flushed army falls upon Lee and finishes the war. Is not this work for gratulation? Glory to the army, perfect at last, and to Grant, to Sheridan, to each of its commanders! Let us not do injustice to Lee. His tactics at the close of his career were as brilliant as necessity would permit. He could not feed Richmond, even though its impregnable works were behind him to retire to. So he gave his government time to evacuate, and, with his thinned and famishing ranks, made a bold push to join Johnston, some of whose battalions had already reinforced him; overtaken on the way, and punished anew, he did as any great and humane commander would do,--stopped the effusion of blood uselessly, and gave up his sword. Unless Davis has been captured, we would think it improbable that he had given up the Rebel cause. He was born to revolutionize, containing within himself all the elements of a Rebel leader, and too proud to yield, even when, like Macbeth, pursued to his castle-keep. I am assured by those who know him best that he has been, throughout, the absolute master of the Confederacy, overawing Lee, who, from the first, was a reluctant Rebel; and his design was, until abandoned by his army, to hold Richmond, even through starvation, making, behind its tremendous fortifications, a defence like that of Leyden or Genoa. There is no more faith in the Rebellion; it will be a long time before the United States is greatly beloved, but it will be always obeyed. Our soldiers look well, most of them being newly uniformed, and behave like gentlemen. Courtesy will conquer all that bayonets have not won. The burnt district is still hideously yawning in the heart of the town, a monument to the sternness of those bold revolutionists who are being hunted to their last quarry. Despotism, under the plea of necessity, has met with its end here as it must everywhere. We shall have no more experiments for liberty out of the Union, if the new Union will grant all that it gave before. Yesterday, when our splendid levies were paraded in the street, with foot, cavalry, and cannon, in admirable order, and kindly-eyed men in command, I looked across their cleanly lines, tipped with bayonets, to the Capitol they had won, bearing at last the tri-color we all love and honor, as the symbol of our homes and the hope of the world, and thought how more grandly, even in her ruin, Richmond stood in the light of its crowding stars, rather than the den of a desperate cabal, whose banner was known in no city nor sea, but as the ensign of corsairs, and hailed only by fustian peers, now rent in the grip of our eagle, and without a fane or an abiding-place. Let us go on, not conquerors, but Republicans, battering down only to rebuild more gloriously,--not narrowing the path of any man, but opening to high and low a broader destiny and a purer patriotism. CHAPTER XXXII. WAR EXECUTIONS. To have looked upon seventeen beings of human organism, ambition, sense of pain and of disgrace, brought forward with all the solemnities of a living funeral, and launched from absolute cognition to direct death, should put one in the category of Calcraft, Ketch, and Isaacs. Yet, I do not think it would be right to so classify me. I know an excellent clergyman, who has seen and assisted in fifty odd executions. He says, as I say, that each new one is an augmented terror. But he is upon the spot to smooth the felon's troubled spirit, and I am with him to teach the felon's boon companions the direness of the penalty. Without either the Chaplain or myself, capital punishment would lose half its effectiveness. And this is why I write the present article,--to relieve myself from the pertinacious inquiries with which I have been assailed since my return from the melancholy episodes of the executions at Washington. I am button-holed at every corner, and put through a cross-examination, to which Holt's or Bingham's had no searchingness: "How did Mrs. Suratt die?" "Was the rope attached to her left ear?" "What sort of rope was it, for example?" "Do her pictures look like her?" "Pray describe how Payne twisted, and whether you think Atzeroth's neck was dislocated?" And, after answering these questions, replete as they are with horrible curiosity, the questioner turns away, saying, "Dear me! I wouldn't see a man hung for a thousand dollars." I am weary of such hypocrisy, and I shall, in this paper, speak of some executions I have witnessed. I was quite a small boy, at school, when my chum and model, Bill Everett, dragged me off to Wayland's Mill, to see old Mrs. Kitty White suspended. She was a very infamous old woman, who had been in the habit of kidnapping black children, and running them by night from the Eastern shore across the bay to Virginia, where they were sold. If they became noisy and obstreperous before they left her house, and suspicion fell upon her, she clove their skulls with a hatchet, and buried them in her garden. When finally discovered, the remains of nearly a score marked how wholesale had been her wickedness. This old woman was very drunk when she came to be hanged, and so was the sheriff who assisted her. She called him impolite names, and carried a pipe in her mouth, and went off smoking and cursing. I remember that I cried very loudly, so that Bill Everett had to choke me, and saw ghosts for so many nights succeeding, that Crouch, our maid of all work, had to sit at my bedside till I fell asleep. The atrocity of a crime makes great difference in one's desire to see its after tragedy; and the next hanging I attended was almost world-famed. Four men were suspended for shooting down an entire family in cold blood. They had embarked on a raid of robbery, and emerging from the barren scrub of Delaware Forest, fell upon a snug and secluded Maryland farm-house, where the farmer's family were taking their supper. They fired through the ruddy windows, and brought the man down at his wife's feet; she, in turn, fell upon her threshold, rushing forth into the darkness, and the remnant of the family perished except two boys, who slipped away and gave the alarm. The jailer's boys of Chestertown went to school with me, and I was invited by the least of them to visit the jail,--a tumble-down old structure with goggly windows, and so unsafe that the felons had to be ironed to almost their own weight. And into the cell where the four fiends were lying, the jailer's big boy, for a big joke, pushed me, and locked the door upon me. I was alone with the same bloody-handed men who had so recently, and for a trifle of gold, made the fireside a shamble, and the night a howling terror. They appreciated the joke, and drew me to them, while their chains clanked, and pressed to my face their wild and prickly beards. There was one of them, named Drummond, who swore he would cut my heart out, and they executed a sort of death-tune on the floor with their balls and links. I lost all knowledge and perception in my fright, and cannot, at this interval, remember anything succeeding, but the execution. They were put to death upon a single long scaffold, the counterpart of that erected for the Booth conspirators, and the rope attached to the neck of the least guilty, broke when the drop fell, and cast him upon the ground, lacerated, but conscious, to be picked up and again suspended, while he begged for life, like a child. The sixth miscreant murdered from revenge, which is just a trifle better than avarice: his girl preferred another, and the disappointed man, Bowen, went to sea. Returning, he found the united lovers in the exultation of happiness; a child had just been born to them, and, touched by their content, Bowen gave the old rival his hand, and asked him out to accept a bumper. They drank again and again,--the spirits burning their blood to fire, and reviving again the bitter story of Bowen's love and shame. Within the hour, the husband lay at the jilted man's feet! He was condemned to death, and I undertook to describe his exit for a weekly newspaper. Still I see him, broad and muscular, climbing the gallows stair with his peaked cap, deathly white, and looking up at the sun as if he dreaded its eye. There was the muttering of prayers, the spasm of one spectator taken sick at the crisis, and the dull thump of the scaffold falling in. The preacher Harden, who fondled his wife on his knee, and fed her the while with poison, passed away so recently, that I need not revive the scene into which all his bad life should have been prolonged. The death of Armstrong, expiating a hypocrite's life at Philadelphia, is not so well remembered: he killed an old man in the heart of the city, riding in a wagon, and dumped him out when he reached the suburbs. His life, to the end, was marked by all insolence and infamy, and on the day of the execution, he made a pretended confession, inculpating two innocent persons. One hour after this, he made the following speech:-- MY FRIENDS: I have a few words to say to you; I am going to die; and let me say, in passing, I die in peace with my Maker; and if, at this moment, a pardon was offered me on condition of giving up my Maker, I would not take it; and I die in peace with all the world, and forgive all my enemies. I desire you to take warning by my fate. Sabbath-breaking was the first cause. I bid you farewell, gentlemen, (here he mentioned various officers), and I bid you all farewell. I die in peace with everybody. The Sheriff, very nervous, gave a signal to the drop-man too soon, and a serious accident very nearly occurred. The props were readjusted, all but the main support removed, and that unhinged; the Sheriff waved his handkerchief, and with the dead thump of the trap-lids against their cushions, and the heavy jerking of the noose knot against the victim's throat, the young murderer hung dangling in the air, not a limb quivering, and only a convulsive movement of the shoulders, to indicate the struggle which life maintained when giving up its place in the body. There was a rush forward. The doctors grasped his wrist. Some spectators passed their hands across his knees to feel the tremulous sinews; one or two felt a faintness, and a dozen made coarse jokes; and one or more speculated as to the issue of his immortal part, or the degree of his pain, or the probability of his cognizance. In seven minutes he was beyond the reach of execution or executioner, and a hurdle being wheeled from the stable, they cut down his body, while a few scrambled for the rope, and it was wheeled on a run into the convict's corridor for his old father to claim. The neck was not broken, nor the flesh discolored. Some said that he died "game;" and all went away, leaving the old man and a brother to sit by the remains and weep, that so great calamity had darkened their home and blighted their lives. Few lamented him, for he had youth, but none of its elements of sympathy; and those who would make, even of his dying speech, a text and a lesson, are instancing a lie more grievous than the murder which he did. In England, I saw two men and a woman suffer death on the common sidewalk; just as if we were to hang people in New York on the pavement before the Tombs. No man, anxious to see an execution in London, need be disappointed. Once or twice a month the wolves are brought to the slaughter, and all the people are invited to enjoy the spectacle. A woman, one Catharine Wilson, was to be hanged for poisoning. She was middle aged, and had been reputable. Her manner of making way with folks was to act as sick-nurse, and mingling poison with their medicine, possess herself of the trifles upon their persons. She had sent six souls to their account in this way; but, discovered in the seventh attempt, all the other cases leaked out. She was condemned, of course, and on the Sunday evening previous to the execution, as I was returning from Spurgeon's Tabernacle, the omnibus upon which I sat passed through the Old Bailey. There were the carpenters joining the timbers of the scaffold, and building black barricades across the street. A murmuring crowd stood around in the solemn night, and the funereal walls of old Newgate glowered like a horrible vault upon the dimly-lit street. The public houses across the way were filled up with guests. All the front parlors and front bedrooms had been let at fat prices, and suppers were spread in them for the edification of their tenants. Do you remember the thrilling chapter of "The Jew's last night alive," in "Oliver Twist?" Well, this was the scene! These were the same beams and uprights. There, huge, massive, and blackened with smoky years, rose the cold, impervious stones; and yonder, casting its sharp pinnacles into the sky, is the tower of St. Sepulchre's Church, where the bell hangs muffled for the morrow's tolling away of a sinner's life. Old Fagin heard it, though it was no new sound to him; for Field Lane, where he kept his "fence," lies a very little way off,--little more than a stone's throw, and when, in the morning, I dressed at an early hour and hurried to the place of execution, I saw Charley Bates, and the Dodger, and Nancy, and Toby Crackit, and the rest, shying men's hats in the air, and looking out for the "wipes" and the "tickers." All the streets leading to Newgate were like great conduits, where human currents babbled along, emptying themselves into the Old Bailey. Mothers by the dozen were out with their infants, holding them aloft tenderly, to show them the noose and the cross-beam. Fathers came with their sons, and explained very carefully to them the method of strangulation. Little girls, on their way to workshops, had turned aside to see the playful affair, and traders in fancy soap and shoe-blacking, pea-nuts and shrimps, Banbury cakes, and Chelsea buns, and Yarmouth bloaters, were making the morning hilarious with their odd cries and speeches. Along the chimney-pots of Green Arbour Court, where Goldsmith penned the "Vicar of Wakefield," lads and maidens were climbing, that they might have commanding places. There was one young woman who had some difficulty in climbing over a battlement, and the mob hailed her failure with roars of mirth. But she persevered, though there was a high wind blowing, and then called loudly for her male attendant to follow her. He obeyed dutifully, and they both seated themselves upon a chimney-top,--a picture of love rewarded,--and waited for the show. The moments, as marked upon St. Sepulchre's clock, went grudgingly, as if the index-hands were unwilling to shoulder the responsibility of what was to come. Meantime, the police had their hands full; for some merry urchins were darting between their legs, and it was dangerous to keep one's hat on his head, for it hazarded plucking off and shying here and there. At the chamber-windows aforesaid, crowded the tipsy occupants, men and women, red-eyed with drinking, and leering stupidly upon the surging heads below. Some asked if Calcraft did the "job," and others volunteered sketches of Calcraft's life. One man boasted that he had taken a pot of beer with him, and another added that the hangman's children and his own went to school together. "He pockets," said the man, "two-pun ten for every one he drops, besides his travelling expenses, and he has put away three hundred and twenty folks. He is a clever fellow, is Calcraft, and he is going to retire soon." So the hours passed; the great clock-hands journeyed onward; all eyes watched them attentively; suddenly the deep bells struck a terrible one--two--three--four--five--six--seven--eight, and the bells of the neighborhood answered, some hoarsely, others musically, others faintly, as if ashamed. Before the tones had died away, three persons appeared upon the scaffold,--a woman, pinioned and wearing a long, sharp, snowy, shrowdy, death-cap; a man in loose black robes with a white neckhandkerchief, and a burly, surly fellow, in black cloth, bareheaded, and having a curling jetty beard around his heavy jaws. It is but a moment, that, standing on tiptoe, you catch this scene. The priest stretches his hand toward the people, and says some unintelligible words; those of the mob curse each other, and some scream out that they are dying in the press. Then the scaffold is clear; the woman stands alone,--God forgive her!--and when you look again, a bundle of old clothes, tipped with a sugar-loaf, is all that is visible, and the gallows-cord is very straight and tight. For the last chapter, consult the graveyard within the jail walls! The guillotining which I witnessed in Paris, in the month of June, 1864, may be deemed worthy of an extended description:-- Couty de la Pommerais was a young physician of Paris, descended from a fine family, and educated beyond the requirements of a French Faculty. He was handsome and manly, and gave evidences of ambition at an early age. He was popularly called the Comte de la Pommerais, and at the time of his apprehension, was expecting a decoration from the Papal Government, with the rank he desired. Like all French students, he was incontinent, and had several mistresses. The last of these was a widow named Pauw, who appears to have loved him sincerely. She had some little fortune, which they consumed together; and then la Pommerais married a rich young lady, with whom he lived one year. Her mother died suddenly at the end of that time, and as la Pommerais was interested in getting certain moneys which the elder lady controlled, the manner of her death led to suspicions of poisoning. However, the woman was interred, but the son-in-law was not so fortunate as he supposed, and he ceased to live with his wife, but returned to Madame Pauw, who still adored him. Upon this fond, foolish woman he seems to have premeditated a deep and intricate crime; and it was for this that he suffered death. She must have been dishonest like himself, for she consented to a scheme of swindling the insurance companies; but, unlike himself, she lacked the wit to be silent, and was heard to hint mysteriously that she should soon be grand and happy. La Pommerais persuaded her to have her life insured, which was done for 515,000 francs, or upward of $100,000. When the matter had transpired some time, he persuaded her to feign sickness. The simple woman asked why she should do so. "The insurance people," he replied, "will, when they consider that you are dangerously ill, prefer to give you 100,000f., rather than pay the 515,000f. in the certainty of your death. You can give them up your policy, accept the compromise, get well again, and be rich." Yet this counterfeited sickness was meant by the villain to prepare the neighbors of Mme. Pauw for the death which he intended to ensue. He was to make it known to all, that she was dangerously ill; she was to uphold his testimony; and he was to kill her in due time, and take the whole of the insurance. At length, the farce was finished. La Pommerais gave to Mme. Pauw, a poison difficult to detect, called _digitalline_, the essential principle of our common foxglove; she died unconscious of his deception, loving him to the last, and he claimed the 515,000 francs at the insurance office. He was suspected, accused, and tried. The old suspicions relative to his mother-in-law were revived; the bodies were exhumed and examined; upon evidence entirely circumstantial and technical, he was convicted, and sentenced to be guillotined. His learning and standing made the trial a famous one; his bearing during the long proceedings was calm and collected; he was handsome, and had much sympathy: but the jury found him guilty, and the Emperor refused to extend his clemency to the case. He was put in a strait jacket and locked up in La Roquette, the prison for the condemned. The prison of _La Roquette_ (or the Rocket Prison) is situated in the eastern suburbs of Paris, a mile beyond the Bastile. It does not look unlike our American jails; a high exterior wall of rough stone, over the top of which one gets a glimpse of the prison gables, with a huge gate in the arched portal, guarded forever by sentinels. Before this gate is a small open plot of ground, planted with trees. _Rue de la Roquette_ passes between it and a second prison, immediately facing the first, called the _Prison des Jeunes Detenus_, or, as we would say in America, the "House of Refuge." Standing between the two jails, and looking away from Paris, one will see the great metropolitan cemetery of _Père la Chaise_, scarcely a stone's throw distant, and behind him will be the great _abbatoir_ or public slaughter-house of Menilmontant, with the vast area of roofs and spires of Paris stretching beyond it to the horizon. It was to this region of vacant lots and lonesome, glowering houses, that thousands of Parisians bent their steps the night before the execution. The news had gone abroad that la Pommerais would not be pardoned. It was also generally credited that this would be the last execution ever held in Paris, since there is a general desire for the abolition of capital punishment in France, and a conviction that the Legislature, at its next session, will substitute life-imprisonment. This, with the rarity of the event, and that terrible allurement of blood which distinguishes all populaces, brought out all the excitable folk of the town; and at dusk, on the night before the expiation, the whole neighborhood of La Roquette was crowded with men and women. All classes of Parisians were there,--the _blouses_, or workingmen, standing first in number; the students from the Latin Quartier being well represented, and idlers, and well-dressed nondescripts without enumeration,--distributing themselves among women, dogs, and babies. Venders of _gateaux_, muscles, and fruit were out in force. The "Savage of Paris," clothed in his war plumes, paint, greaves, armlets, and moccasins, was selling razors by gaslight; here and there ballad-mongers were singing the latest songs, and boys, with chairs to let, elbowed into the intricacies of the crowd, which amused itself all the night long by smoking, drinking, and hallooing. At last, the mass became formidable in numbers, covering every inch of ground within sight of the prison, and many soldiers and _sergeants de ville_, mounted and on foot, pushed through the dense mass to restore order. At midnight, a body of cavalry forced back the people from the square of La Roquette. A number of workmen, issuing from the prison-gates, proceeded to set up the instrument of death by the light of blazing torches. The flame lit up the dark jail walls, and shone on the helmets and cuirasses of the sabre-men, and flared upon spots of the upturned faces, now bringing them into strong, ruddy relief, now plunging them into shadow. When the several pieces had been framed together, we had a real guillotine in view,--the same spectre at which thousands of good and bad men had shuddered; and the folks around it, peering up so eagerly, were descendants of those who stood on the _Place de la Concorde_ to witness the head of a king roll into the common basket. Imagine two tall, straight timbers, a foot apart, rising fifteen feet from the ground. They are grooved, and spring from a wide platform, approached by a flight of steps. At the base, rests a spring-plank or _bascule_, to which leather thongs are attached to buckle down the victim, and a basket or _pannier_ filled with sawdust to receive the severed head. Between these, at their summit, hangs the shining knife in its appointed grooves, and a cord, which may be disconnected by a jerk, holds it to its position. Two men will be required to work the instrument promptly,--the one to bind the condemned, the other to drop the axe. The _bascule_ is so arranged that the whole weight and length of the trunk will rest upon it, leaving the head and neck free, and when prone it will reach to the grooves, leaving space for the knife to pass below it. The knife itself is short and wide, with a bright concave edge, and a rim of heavy steel ridges it at the top; it moves easily in the greased grooves, and may weigh forty pounds. It has a terrible fascination, hanging so high and so lightly in the blaze of the torches, which play and glitter upon it, and cast stains of red light along its keen blade, as if by their brilliance all its past blood-marks had become visible again. A child may send it shimmering and crashing to the scaffold, but only God can fasten together the warm and throbbing parts which it shall soon dissever. And now that the terrible creature has been recreated, the workmen slink away, as if afraid of it, and a body of soldiers stand guard upon it, as if they fear that it might grow thirsty and insatiate as in the days of its youth. The multitude press up again, reinforced every hour, and at last the pale day climbs over the jail-walls, and waiting people see each other by its glimmer. The bells of Notre Dame peal out; a hundred towers fall into the march of the music; the early journals are shrieked by French newsboys, and folks begin to count the minutes on their watches. There are men on the ground who saw the first guillotine at work. They describe the click of the cleaver, the steady march of victims upon the scaffold-stairs, the rattle of the death-cart turning out of the _Rue Saint Honore_, the painted executioners, with their dripping hands, wiping away the jets of blood from the hard, rough faces; nay! the step of the young queen, white-haired with care, but very beautiful, who bent her body as she had never bent her knee, and paid the penalty of her pride with the neck which a king had fondled. At four minutes to six o'clock on Thursday morning, the wicket in the prison-gate swung open; the condemned appeared, with his hands tied behind his back, and his knees bound together. He walked with difficulty, so fettered; but other than the artificial restraints, there was no hesitation nor terror in his movements. His hair, which had been long, dark, and wavy, was severed close to his scalp; his beard had likewise been clipped, and the fine moustache and goatee, which had set off his most interesting face, no longer appeared to enhance his romantic, expressive physiognomy. Yet his black eyes and cleanly cut mouth, nostrils, and eyebrows, demonstrated that Couty de la Pommerais was not a beauty dependent upon small accessories. There was a dignity even in his painful gait; the coarse prison-shirt, scissored low in the neck, exhibited the straight columnar throat and swelling chest; for the rest, he wore only a pair of black pantaloons and his own shapely boots. As he emerged from the wicket, the chill morning air, laden with the dew of the truck gardens near at hand, blew across the open spaces of the suburbs, and smote him with a cold chill. He was plainly seen to tremble; but in an instant, as if by the mere force of his will, he stood motionless, and cast a first and only glance at the guillotine straight before him. It was the glance of a man who meets an enemy's eye, not shrinkingly, but half-defiant, as if even the bitter retribution could not abash his strong courage. The dramatic manner which is characteristic of the most real and earnest incidents of French life had its fascination for la Pommerais, even at his death-hour. Not Mr. Booth nor Mr. Forrest could have expressed the rallying, startling, almost thrilling recognition of an instrument of death, better than this actual criminal, whose last winkful of daylight was blackened by the guillotine. It reminded one of Damon, in the pitch of the tragedy:-- "I stand upon the scaffold--I am standing on my throne." His dark eye was scintillant; his nostril grew full; his shoulders fell back as if to exhibit his broad, compact figure in manlier outline; he seemed to feel that forty thousand men and women, and young children were looking upon him to see how he dared to die, and that for a generation his bearing should go into fireside descriptions. Then he moved on between the files of soldiers at his shuffling pace, and before him went the _aumonier_ or chaplain, swaying the crucifix, behind him the executioner of Versailles--a rough and bearded man--to assist in the final horror. It was at this intense moment a most wonderful spectacle. As the prisoner had first appeared, a single great shout had shaken the multitude. It was the French word "_Voila!_" which means "Behold!" "See!" Then every spectator stood on tiptoe; the silence of death succeeded; all the close street was undulant with human motion; a few house roofs near by were dizzy with folks who gazed down from the tiles; all the way up the heights of Père la Chaise, among the pale chapels and monuments of the dead, the thousands of stirred beings swung and shook like so many drowned corpses floating on the sea. Every eye and mind turned to the little structure raised among the trees, on the space before _La Roquette_, and there they saw a dark, shaven, disrobed young man, going quietly toward his grave. He mounted the steps deliberately, looking toward his feet; the priest held up the crucifix, and he felt it was there, but did not see it; his lips one moment touched the image of Christ, but he did not look up nor speak; then, as he gained the last step, the _bascule_ or swingboard sprang up before him; the executioner gave him a single push, and he fell prone upon the plank, with his face downward; it gave way before him, bearing him into the space between the upright beams, and he lay horizontally beneath the knife, presenting the back of his neck to it. Thus resting, he could look into the _pannier_ or basket, into whose sawdust lining his head was to drop in a moment. And in that awful space, while all the people gazed with their fingers tingling, the legitimate Parisian executioner gave a jerk at the cord which held the fatal knife. With a quick, keen sound, the steel became detached; it fell hurtling through the grooves; it struck something with a dead, dumb thump; a jet of bright blood spurted into the light, and dyed the face of an attendant horribly red; and Couty de la Pommerais's head lay in the sawdust of the pannier, while every vein in the lopped trunk trickled upon the scaffold-floor! They threw a cloth upon the carcass and carried away the pannier; the guillotine disappeared beneath the surrounding heads; loud exclamations and acclaims burst from the multitude; the venders of trash and edibles resumed their cheerful cries, and a hearse dashed through the mass, carrying the warm body of the guillotined to the cemetery of Mt. Parnasse. In thirty minutes, newsboys were hawking the scene of the execution upon all the quays and bridges. In every café of Paris some witness was telling the incidents of the show to breathless listeners, and the crowds which stopped to see the funeral procession of the great Marshal Pelissier divided their attention between the warrior and the poisoner,--the latter obtaining the preponderance of fame. I wonder sometimes, if the ultimate penalty, however enforced, greatly assists example, or dignifies justice. But this would involve a very long controversy, over which many sage heads have sadly ached. In the open daylight, when my face is shining, and my life secure, I take the humanitarian side, and denounce the barbarities of the gibbet. But when I come down the dark stairs of the daily paper office, after midnight, and see three or four stealthy fellows hiding in the shadows, and go up the black city unarmed with my pocket full of greenbacks, I think the gallows quite essential as a warning, and indorse it, even after seventeen executions. So end my desultory chapters of desultory life. It has been, in the arranging of them, difficult to reject material,--not to select it. I am amazed to find what a world of dead leaves lies around my feet, as if I were a tree that blossomed and shed its covering every day. There are baskets-full of copy still remaining, from which the temptation is great to gather. It is sad to have written so much at twenty-five, and yet to have only drifting convictions. I may have succeeded in depicting the lives of certain young gentlemen who reported the war. All of us, who were young, loved the business, and were glad to quit it. For myself, I am weary of travel; rather than publish again from these fragments of my fugitive life, let me weave their material into a more poetic story, softened by some years of stay at home.

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:31.159466

23341

Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ DE MONUMENTEN VAN DEN GIRNAR. [1] Naar het Fransch van Mlle D. Menant. Ahmedabad is een stad in Voor-Indië, die ik meermalen heb mogen bezoeken. Het eerst kwam ik er in Februari 1901 op weg naar het schiereiland Kathiawar of Goedsjerat. Ik was toen van ziekte herstellende en het was mijn eerste uitgang na het verlaten van het hospitaal te Surate, waar een ongeluk met een rijtuig, dat mij te Baroda was overkomen, mij de geheele maand Januari had vastgehouden. Ik was naar Indië gegaan, om mijn studiën te voltooien over de Parsi-gemeenten in het Presidentschap Bombay, en mijn reis door Goedsjerat was er door afgebroken. Voordat ik die nu vervolgde, maakte ik van het verlof der geneesheeren gebruik, om de mooie tempels te gaan bewonderen op den Girnar en den Açokasteen, interessante monumenten van Hindoes en Dsjain, de secte, wier leerstellingen zooveel op die van het Hindoeïsme lijken. Die tocht was een aangename afleiding na de sombere overpeinzingen, waaraan ik mij in mijn hospitaalkamer had overgegeven. Ahmedabad ligt 300 mijlen ten noorden van Bombay aan den spoorweg Bombay-Baroda en Centraal-Indië. Het is het kruispunt van de lijnen uit Rajpoetana, en de reizigers voor den Aboeberg, en voor Agra en Delhi veranderen er van trein. Wij kwamen in den vroegen morgen aan in het reusachtig station, vol met inlandsche arbeiders, die in de zalen heen en weer liepen en op het perron, waar ze den nacht hadden doorgebracht, ineengedoken onder hun dekens, luidruchtig wakker werden. Wij zouden in groote verlegenheid zijn geweest zonder de hulp van een vriend, den heer Ginwalla, die ons kwam zeggen, dat de _Travellers' Quarters_ bezet waren door de leden van de Hongersnoodcommissie en dat hij ons ten zijnent gastvrijheid aanbood, een uitnoodiging, die wij met de grootste dankbaarheid aanvaardden. Wij konden slechts over een enkelen dag beschikken, daar we den volgenden te Rajkot werden verwacht; dus was de tijd al spoedig gevuld. De stad, die in de 15de eeuw door sultan Ahmed is gesticht, bloeide in de eerste eeuwen van haar bestaan en wordt door historieschrijvers en reizigers om het zeerst geprezen om haar citadel, haar moskeeën, haar paleizen en tuinen, waar fonteinen sprongen, en haar breede straten, waar tien rijtuigen elkaar konden passeeren in een enkele rij. De heerschappij der Mahratten in de 17de en 18de eeuw heeft haar geen goed gedaan, en eerst onder engelschen invloed is Ahmedabad weer meer vooruitgegaan. Wij brachten het eerst een bezoek aan het fort, het grootste van geheel Indië, bijna als een stad op zich zelf. Aan den eenen kant worden de muren bespoeld door de rivier Sabarmati en aan den anderen strekt zich een wijde vlakte uit. Van de terrassen heeft men een prachtig uitzicht. De moskee Djamé Mesdjisj was in de hoofdstraat. De nauwe ingang werd nog versperd door bedelaars, en een rondtrekkend koopman had zijn pijpen uitgestald op de treden van de trap; maar als men, na zijn schoenen te hebben uitgetrokken, binnen is gegaan, komt men in een nieuwe wereld en verdwaalt bijna tusschen de massa hooge zuilen. Vol schroom doolden wij te midden van de oostersche pracht, waarvan de bijzonderheden niet te onderscheiden waren in het halfdonker, dat met een zacht, blauwachtig waas was doortrokken. De moskee neemt den westkant in van een groot plein en heeft haar vijf koepels behouden, maar de minarets, die in 1819 bij een aardbeving zijn verwoest, zijn, jammer genoeg, niet herbouwd. Wij zetten onze wandeling langs verlaten kloosters voort in de brandende middagzon, die op de steenen brandde, en waaraan we ons haastten te ontkomen door een poort, leidend naar het praalgraf van Ahmed. Het was een massief gebouw met een koepel, verlicht door vensters met prachtige opengewerkte kozijnen, zooals we ook elders in Goedsjerat zagen en voor welk werk de kunstenaars uit die streek beroemd waren. Op het graf worden op sommige gedenkdagen door Hindoes en Mohammedanen, getrouw aan de nagedachtenis van hun roemrijken vorst, bloemen gebracht, en op den dag van ons bezoek lagen er verwelkte rozen op het marmer. Naast den souverein slapen zijn zoons en kleinzoons, en iets verder zijn vrouwen. Door een kloostergang, een soort van gaanderij met wanden van opengewerkt marmer komt men bij de graven van de beide vrouwen Moghalaï Bibi in een sarcofaag van wit marmer, en de andere, Moerki Bibi in een prachtgraf van zwart marmer, met parelmoer ingelegd. Daar dicht bij hadden andere, minder begunstigde echtgenooten eenvoudiger rustplaatsen. Het was een bekoorlijk plekje vol licht en glans, waar de gedachte aan dood en sterven aan niets sombers verbonden was, zoo geheel anders dan bij de lijkentorens van de Parsi's en de brandstapels der Hindoes. Tegen den avond gingen we een bezoek afleggen bij den commissioner general, den heer Lely en Mevrouw Lely. Wij vernamen, dat Mevrouw reeds vertrokken was naar de Parsifamilie, waar ook wij genoodigd waren tot het bijwonen van het huwelijk van den zoon, en onze gastheer geleidde ons toen naar de Kankariya, het kunstmatige meer op drie mijlen afstands van Ahmedabad. Alleen onmiddellijk aan het meer vindt men eenigen plantengroei, waar troepen apen ons nieuwsgierig, maar zonder wantrouwen, aangluurden. De Kankariya is een der grootste waterréservoirs in Indië; het beslaat meer dan 62 acres en is veelhoekig, met 34 zijden, elk van 190 voet. Het werd in 1451 voltooid en is door steenen trappen omgeven met koepels op verscheiden kanten en een sluis. In het midden is een eilandje, aan den wal verbonden door een brug van 48 bogen, en met een zomerpaleis en tuin voor den onderkoning van Ahmedabad. De reizigers spreken met bewondering over de Kankariya, en reeds voor Pietro della Valle was dit het schoonste plekje ter wereld. Maar op het eind der 18de eeuw lag alles, paleis, waterleiding, sluis, in puin, en eerst in 1872 heeft de regeering zich de zaak der restauratie aangetrokken. Aan de oevers werd bosch aangeplant, en het meer werd uitgediept. Men kan er nu rondwandelen, maar de omgeving is nog allermelancholiekst. Men zou er kunnen schreien, en ten overvloede liet zich een klagende muziek hooren, terwijl ik er vertoefde. Toen ik bij ons rijtuig terug keerde, waren mijn moeder en de vrienden aan het luisteren naar de garba's of balladen van een ouden muzikant. Dat was de oorzaak van mijn ontroering. Op den terugweg lieten wij rechts liggen de armenische en hollandsche graven, die we voor een later bezoek bewaren, en het was avond toen we thuis kwamen. De mist was dik, die ijzige mist van Ahmedabad, die zoo eigenaardig onaangenaam ruikt naar roet. Niet lang daarna traden wij een dier groote tenten binnen, die in Indië sjamiana heeten; ze was schitterend verlicht, en er was een elegante menigte bijeen, want er werd het huwelijk gevierd van een jongen Parsi. In het midden van een tuin, waar een onmetelijk velum over was uitgespreid, werden op een estrade, half verborgen achter een gordijn van bloemen, vooral rozen en jasmijn, de kerkelijke plechtigheden voltrokken door de mobeds of priesters. Ze zongen psalmen en ter afwisseling lieten zich inlandsche en europeesche orkesten hooren. Het was een mooi gezicht. De heer en mevrouw Lely waren in gezelschap van den luitenant-gouverneur der Noordwestelijke provinciën, Sir Antony Mac Donnell. Er werd te Ahmedabad vol lof gesproken over de wijze, waarop die hooge ambtenaar zich kweet van zijn taak, de enquêtecommissie voor den hongersnood te presideeren. Den volgenden morgen al vroeg namen wij afscheid van onze vriendelijke gastheeren en vertrokken naar Kathiawar. Dat is een vierkant schiereiland, dat in de Arabische Zee uitsteekt tusschen Katsj en de kust van Goedsjerat, en zoo genoemd is naar den stam der Kathi's, die er als kolonisten kwamen tusschen de 13de en de 15de eeuw. De Mahratten pasten den naam op het geheele schiereiland toe, en in navolging van hen doen de Europeanen dat ook. Hoe afgelegen het ook is, toch heeft het schiereiland gedeeld in de lotgevallen van Indië. In overoude tijden stond het onder de heerschappij van Asoka en zijn opvolgers en werd door vice-gouverneurs bestuurd tot op den tijd, dat de gouverneurs zich onafhankelijk maakten. Van dien tijd af ontmoet men er zuiver hindoesche dynastieën; daarna kwamen de Mohammedanen, dan de invallen der Mahratten en eindelijk de suzereiniteit van Engeland, waarmee een nieuwe periode van orde en vooruitgang wordt geopend. Wat landschappelijk schoon betreft, is Kathiawar zeer ongelijk; in het Westen en het Oosten vindt men er zandwoestijnen, met cactussen bedekt, waarop de bosschen van den Gir volgen, vol van klare beekjes en groene velden. In het Noorden heeft men de verlaten oorden van den Ran, dan naar den kant van het Zuidwesten het lachende land met zijn tuinen en goed bebouwde velden en eindelijk meer binnenwaarts in Sorath het massieve granietgebergte, de Girnar, welks toppen majestueus boven den staat Junagadh oprijzen. Wij begeven ons daarheen. Tusschen Ahmedabad en Wadhwan namen we de gevolgen der droogte waar en van den ellendigen hongersnood; overal zagen we kale velden en weiden met mager vee. Wat een armoedig gezicht, die magere, stoffige buffels, die niet van hetzelfde ras lijken als onze glanzige en vette dieren der hoeven in Bandora! Nergens heeft de hongersnood wreeder sporen achtergelaten dan in Kathiawar. In 1899/1900 waren de beide oogsten, die van den herfst en die van het voorjaar mislukt, op een enkele uitzondering na, die van Palitana, en God weet, hoeveel de arme drommels, gewend om van den eenen dag op den anderen te leven, hadden geleden, te meer daar er ook gebrek aan water bij kwam, waardoor een deel der kudden verloren was gegaan. De dorpshoofden konden niet helpen. Wel stond de regeering hun aanzienlijke sommen toe, waarmee in verscheiden staten in den dadelijk en nood werd voorzien; maar tijdens de hitte brak de cholera uit en deed de sterfte op onrustbarende wijze toenemen. Volgens de statistieken verloor het schiereiland in tien jaren meer dan een zevende zijner bevolking. Toen kwam de tweede hongersnood van 1900/1901. De moesson was slechts met veel moeite doorgekomen, en eerst in Juli was er regen gevallen, maar toen zoo hevig, dat hij in plaats van zachtkens in den grond te dringen, het gezaaide had vernield, terwijl de regen in het najaar totaal was weggebleven, en er tot overmaat van ramp een koortsepidemie uitbrak. Zulk een staat van zaken heeft intusschen niets abnormaals; de lijst der hongersnooden is lang in Kathiawar, vanaf dien van 1559, den eersten, waaraan de herinnering is bewaard gebleven. Te Wadhwan moesten we van trein veranderen voor Rajkot; reizigers, ossen, karren, bagage, alle krioelen in vreeselijke wanorde dooreen. Daar ontdekte ik het vriendelijke gezicht van Dr. Thakordass Kikhabhai Dalal. Nu behoefde ik mij niet meer om de dingen te bekommeren, want nu was alles geregeld en in orde. Ik ben tweemaal te Wadhwan geweest; de eerste maal slechts enkele uren; maar de indrukken van die bezoeken vat ik hier samen. Allereerst die van het zoogenaamde kamp, waar de engelsche dienst is georganiseerd. Er wordt daar een belangrijke markt gehouden, en men vindt er kantoren van de regeering, een hospitaal, een gevangenis en een mooien klokketoren. Ook dient gelet op de interessante school, waar de zoons van de kleine grondeigenaars worden opgevoed. Die bezitters of girasia's vormen een talrijke en weinig ontwikkelde klasse en zij is vaak overgeleverd aan inhalige en onwetende intendanten. In hun belang werd in 1881 door kolonel Stace deze school gesticht, waar het onderwijs de leerlingen brengt tot het toelatingsexamen voor de universiteit van Bombay en waar veel tijd aan lichaamsoefeningen wordt besteed. De jongelui hebben er ieder een eigen kamer en worden door hun eigen bedienden bediend; ze mogen paarden houden, als ze willen. De school staat onder rechtstreeksch engelsch toezicht. De resultaten waren in het begin gering, want er kwamen haast geen leerlingen, en eerst op den duur leerden de ouders inzien, dat de stichters gelijk hadden en dat het veel waard was, in het land grondbezitters te krijgen die hun land tot zijn recht konden doen komen. Het ernstigste bezwaar leverde het vrouwelijke element der gezinnen op, dat er zich tegen verzette dat de jongens het ouderlijk huis zouden verlaten, om door Westerlingen te worden opgevoed. De tegenstand is van dien kant nu nog zoo sterk, dat ik girasia's ken, die liever hun land hebben willen verlaten, om hun zoons te kunnen opvoeden naar hun eigen smaak. Maar veel girasia's blijven niet wonen op hun goederen, maar bekleeden bestuursambten. Wij zullen weldra te Rajkot bemerken, dat die scholen deel uitmaken van een uitgebreid stelsel van onderwijs, dat alle standen omvat. De stad ligt drie mijlen van het engelsche "kamp", en is omringd door versterkingen bij het paleis van het hoofd. De enkele oogenblikken, die ik met Dr. Thakordass doorbracht, werden prettig gevuld met het bespreken van onze reis door Kathiawar en met eer te doen aan een lunch van uitgelezen Hindoesche gerechten, dat ons in een wachtkamer werd voorgezet. Weer zaten we in den trein, nu niet meer aan de groote lijn, hetgeen we gauw genoeg bespeurden aan het langzame rijden. Het land zag er nog even verlaten uit. Hier en daar zagen beesten den trein met verbazing passeeren. Plotseling werd er tusschen Mull en Dholia gestopt; er was iets niet in orde met de machine en er moest een andere worden gehaald van het naburig station. De tijd verliep; de zon daalde langzaam achter den horizon met roode tinten de lucht en de vlakte overgietend; binnen enkele oogenblikken zal het donker wezen en reeds verschijnen de sterren. Zal men nu eindelijk weggaan? Ja, daar is de locomotief, en we rijden snel om den verloren tijd in te halen.... Toen ik te Rajkot uitstapte, waaide er een ijskoude wind. Het station was slecht verlicht, en bijna kon ik in de schemering de groep personen niet herkennen, bij wie ik was aanbevolen en die tot de notabele Parsi's uit de plaats behoorden. Ze begroetten ons met oostersche beleefdheid en verzochten, dat wij ons gedurende ons verblijf in Rajkot geheel als hun gasten zouden beschouwen. Geen middel om die uitnoodiging af te slaan! Dus moesten we bedanken voor de gastvrijheid, die de heeren Kincaid en Seddon ons aanboden vanwege den Political-Agent, luitenant-kolonel W. F. Kennedy. Na in het halfduister gezocht te hebben naar onze bagage te midden van karren en afgespannen ossen, die lui bleven liggen, stapte ik eindelijk in een rijtuig met mijn moeder en mijn secretaris en daar reden we in den donkeren mist naar de Travellers' Quarters. Een tusschen de boomen schitterend licht leidde ons naar een groot gebouw, waar de hôtelier, een Portugees uit Goa, ons een welverdiend diner voorzette, zooals hem was opgedragen door onze Parsi-vrienden. Den daarop volgenden dag begaf ik mij te voet naar het Residentiegebouw, dat maar een paar minuten van het hôtel was verwijderd, waardoor ik ook hier het "kamp" in oogenschouw kon nemen, dat het mooiste en grootste is van Kathiawar. Breede wegen tusschen prachtige boomen waren omzoomd door aardige villa's. Alle openbare diensten zijn goed gehuisvest, zoowel de post als de telegraaf, de douane en het politiecommissariaat. De inlandsche vorsten droegen ijverig bij in de kosten. Mijne eenzame wandeling was een genot. Het was zachter weêr geworden, al bleef het koel en de zon scheen. Het klimaat van Rajkot moet gezond zijn voor de Europeanen. Na het ontbijt kwamen onze Parsi's ons voor een bezoek aan de stad afhalen. Rajkot aan de oevers van de Aji is omringd door versterkingen en door een weg met het engelsche gedeelte verbonden. Vergeleken bij andere plaatsen in Kathiawar, is het zindelijk en de steenen huizen zijn stevig genoeg, om een beleg te doorstaan. Gezien van af de Kaiser-i-Hind, de groote brug over de Aji, ziet het er schilderachtig uit. Toen wij er door gingen, staken de torens en muren af tegen een helderen hemel, en de rivier stroomde kalm over haar rotsachtige bedding; maar in den regentijd wordt het een bruisend water, dat tegen de stadsmuren slaat. De brug heeft dan ook niet minder dan 16 bogen. Aan de oude, slechte gebruiken van de Rajpoeten, o. a. aan den kindermoord op kinderen van het vrouwelijk geslacht, heeft het engelsch bestuur het eerst in Rajkot een eind gemaakt. Toen Dr. Wilson er in 1835 kwam, was het plaatselijk hoofd juist de moordenaar van zijn dochter geweest. Sir J. P. Willoughby deed de oude reglementen van kolonel Walker uit 1807 herleven en had zich aan de spits gesteld van een humanitaire beweging, waardoor hij de hoofden van de Jadeja's had overgehaald, zich schriftelijk te verbinden, die gewoonte niet meer te volgen, er geen vergunning voor te geven en straf op te leggen aan diegenen, die het bevel overtraden. Die maatregel heeft de gewoonte in het geheele schiereiland uitgeroeid. De Parsi's zijn niet talrijk in Kathiawar, zoo ongeveer een duizendtal zijn er; zij zijn niet de afstammelingen van de eerste groep emigranten, die in de 7de eeuw uit Perzië uitweken en vijftien jaren lang gevestigd waren te Diu, voordat ze aan de westkust van Goedsjerat kwamen. Diegenen, die nu te Diu wonen, kunnen zelfs niet op die afkomst bogen. Eerst op het eind der 18de eeuw kwamen Parsi's uit Surate zich voor zaken vestigen in Kathiawar. Een der eerste was Koyajee Cuverjee, een rijke koopman in parels en edelgesteenten, grootvader van den tegenwoordigen leider der gemeente; hij stierf jong, na veel te hebben gereisd; hij was in Engeland geweest met zijn zoon, die later gouverneur werd van de jonge prinsen te Baroda. Het tegenwoordige hoofd der gemeente, de heer Koyajee, een bekend advocaat, is diwan of eerste minister geweest in den staat Dhrangadra. De Parsi's zijn in de meeste gevallen winkeliers; maar soms hebben zij een betrekking bij de Agency, en enkelen van hen worden ministers in inboorlingenstaten. Te Rajkot hebben ze zich gevestigd, toen de Engelschen er hun "kamp" hebben gesticht. Zij bezitten er een agyari of vuurtempel, gebouwd in 1875 en die bediend wordt door drie priesters, verder een school en een hôtel. Het was een groot genoegen voor ons, onder die beminnelijke menschen te vertoeven. Ik was uitgenoodigd, de plechtigheid der inwijding van een nieuwen toren des zwijgens bij te wonen; maar tot mijn grooten spijt hadden omstandigheden mij te Bombay doen blijven. De Toren van het Zwijgen is, naar men weet, het ronde gebouw, waarin de Parsi's hun dooden brengen op een platform, waar ze een prooi der gieren worden... Daar er geen dooden waren, mochten wij naderen en zelfs werd de deur voor ons geopend. De Parsi's maakten hier nog gebruik van het kerkhof sedert hun vestiging aan deze plaats, maar dat was voor hen een wreede noodzakelijkheid. Inderdaad heeft elke kolonie van Parsi's een tempel, waar het heilige vuur wordt onderhouden en een toren, waar de dooden worden neergelegd. Het bezoek aan het kerkhof wekte mijn levendige belangstelling, want het was het eerste, dat ik in Indië zag; enkele met koepels gekroonde gebouwen wezen de plaats van verscheiden graven aan. Na een gezellige lunch bij de heeren Kincaid en Seddon gingen we naar Rajkumar College, het mooiste gebouw uit het kamp, groot en met twee vleugels, ieder met twintig kamers voor de leerlingen, en de villa voor den directeur en den onderdirecteur. Alles was omringd door een muur van zes voet hoog. Achter de vleugels zijn de keukens, de stallen voor de paarden der leerlingen, de tuinen en de bijgebouwen. De engelsche vlag, teeken van Engelands suzereiniteit over de kleine staten van Kathiawar, staat op het centrale paviljoen. Feitelijk gelijkt de school zoowel op een kasteel als op een kazerne. Deze stichting beantwoordt aan een ernstige behoefte, zooals de geschiedenis leert. Omstreeks 1842 was de onwetendheid in Kathiawar nog ontzettend groot. Weinig hoofden konden schrijven; hun agenten en secretarissen kenden er juist zooveel van, om de zaken slecht te leiden. De regeering besloot toen, pandits of geletterden te beloonen voor onderwijs, dat zij aan het volk zouden geven. De zendelingen van hun kant openden enkele klassen voor jongere en oudere leerlingen, en toen de belangstelling eenmaal gewekt was, werden de vorsten er toe gebracht, scholen te stichten, waar zoowel Engelsch als de landstalen werden onderwezen. Het kostte moeite, de vorsten over te halen, hun paleizen te verlaten en aan het openbare leven deel te nemen. Toen de eerste universiteiten werden geopend, sprak Lord Canning zijn hoop uit, dat de adel en de hoogere standen hun plicht zouden inzien, om hun kinderen hooger onderwijs te verstrekken. Maar de hoofden en de leiders hechtten in het geheel geen waarde aan het onderwijs; zij wenschten dat niet voor hun kroost en weigerden, de kinderen naar scholen te zenden in sociale besmetting. Dus werd het dringend noodig, eigen scholen op te richten voor de zoons van den adel. Kolonel Keatinge begon zich daarmee ernstig bezig te houden en beproefde de hoofden te overtuigen van het belang, dat in de zaak gelegen was, maar hem viel niet de eer te beurt der oprichting. Kolonel Anderson vatte de taak op en had succes. In 1670 werd het College gesticht door de hoofden in de provincie, onder de auspiciën van de regeering. Charles Macnaghten was de eerste leider en bleef 26 jaar directeur der onderneming. De eerste leerling was Takore Sahib uit Bhaunagar, en de anderen volgden spoedig. Het was nog een veelbewogen tijd, en elken avond werd de wacht betrokken vóór de vertrekken der prinsen. De ouders konden niet meer protesteeren, nu de leiding der zaak in hun handen was en de kinderen met huns gelijken samen waren. Op Rajkumar College worden inderdaad alleen toegelaten Patvi kumars, Fantaya kumars en Bhayats. De eerste zijn vermoedelijke erfgenamen, die altijd verwend worden door de ministers van hun vaders, omdat ze in hen de toekomstige heerschers zien, die gevleid moeten worden als uitdeelers van gunsten en gaven. De tweede, een jongere zoon, is minder in aanzien, want voor hem is slechts een saghir weggelegd, dat is het inkomen van bepaalde goederen, al heeft hij uit materiëel oogpunt genoeg, om te studeeren en te reizen. De Bhayat behoort tot de zijlinies der familie en heeft een niet juist benijbare positie, en men kan gerust zeggen, dat het in Indië niet altijd een voordeel is, tot een vorstelijke familie te behooren. Dat waren en dat zijn nog de jongelieden, die door de edelmoedige mannen, onder wier leiding ze zijn gesteld, moeten worden opgevoed, verzacht en onder tucht gebracht, opdat ze zullen worden tot mannen, die geen geleerden zijn, maar energieke hoofden, verlicht en goed in staat, hun gebied te administreeren. Voor den jeugdigen prins is er een groot verschil tusschen het leven, dat hij thuis in het vaderlijk paleis leidde en dat, hetwelk hij leidt in het College, waar hij niet langer meester en gebieder is, maar moet gehoorzamen en een soldaat is onder velen. Reeds om zes uur in den morgen stijgt hij te paard, om aan de oefeningen deel te nemen en daarna volgen de lessen, die behalve Engelsch, de wiskunde, de algebra, aardrijkskunde, geschiedenis en de taal van Goedsjerat, het Goedsjeratti, omvatten. Onder de leeraren zijn evenveel Engelschen als inlanders. Tusschen de lessen worden ijverig spelen beoefend, tennis, cricket, voetbal en golf. De hall, waar de directeur, de heer Waddington, ons ontving, werd door groote vensters verlicht en aan de wanden hingen de portretten van indische vorsten naast die van koningin Victoria en de hertog en hertogin van Connaught. Wij bezochten de klassen, waar op dat oogenblik geen leerlingen in waren, maar op de zwarte borden stonden nog de sporen van het pas gedane werk. Op ons verzoek liet de directeur den jongen nabab van Sachin roepen, en wij konden hem de groeten brengen van zijn broers, die we onlangs te Surate hadden gesproken. Het schoolrégime heeft den jongeling goed gedaan; met zijn laarzen en sporen, de karwats in de hand, zag hij er onberispelijk uit, een sierlijk ruiter! Den 6den November 1900 had Lord Curzon in de zaal, waar wij ons bevonden, de prijsuitdeeling bijgewoond. Het was de eerste maal, dat een onderkoning aan die plechtigheid deelnam. Het bleek een schitterende bijeenkomst; de jonge prinsen, alle in hun officieel costuum, leverden een kleurig schouwspel op. Lord Curzon sprak zeer goed over de noodzakelijkheid voor de vorsten, om ontwikkeling te erlangen, niet om jonge Engelschen te worden, maar om goede indische vorsten te zijn voor indische onderdanen. "De hoofden", sprak hij, "zijn niet, zooals men het graag voorstelt, een bevoorrechte klasse. God heeft hun het land niet ten geschenke gegeven; de staat is niet hun eigendom en de inkomsten komen hun niet persoonlijk toe. Zij moeten leven voor het welzijn van hun onderdanen; de onderdanen zijn er niet voor hen." Schoone woorden en moedige woorden in een gezelschap, dat gewend is geweest, altijd den staat te beschouwen als het eigendom van den vorst. De heer Waddington noodigde ons uit, de thee te gebruiken in gezelschap van een hoog personnage, dat ook juist de school bezocht te Rajkot, namelijk den nabab van Sikkim, en daarna naar het poloveld te gaan, waar de leerlingen aan het spelen waren. Helaas, onze rouw belet ons, aan het schitterend onthaal deel te nemen, en wij gaan met ons rijtuig staan onder de boomen van de laan, van waar we de spelen wel kunnen zien. Daar komen de jonge prinsen aan! Wat zien ze er knap uit! De grootsten zijn volmaakte ruiters; de jongsten kijken onbetaalbaar ernstig onder hun gestreepte tulbanden en worden braaf geschud door hun edele paarden van kathiawaarsch ras, maar blijven vast in den zadel. Het sein wordt gegeven, en het spel begint. De directeur zelf nam er met groote ambitie aan deel, en hij is niet de minst handige, noch de minst vurige. In Rajkumar College krijgt men inderdaad een goeden indruk van het succes der engelsche methode in zake opvoeding aan vorstenzonen, zooals men ook in Kathiawar het best de resultaten kan waarnemen van de wijze van bestuur en de vreedzame inlijving der inboorlingenstaten. Dat komt, dat hier het veld van waarneming betrekkelijk klein is, en de bevolking nog al homogeen. Ieder onpartijdig reiziger zal toegeven, dat de veiligheid nu niets te wenschen overlaat, en dat de staten beter worden bestuurd en het volk er gelukkiger is. Wat de vorsten aangaat, onder invloed van de in het College verkregen opvoeding, zijn ze belangstelling gaan gevoelen voor de stichting van nuttige instellingen in hun landen, voor den bouw van scholen en de verfraaiing van hun hoofdsteden, zonder dat daarom het godsdienstige leven of de sociale instellingen zijn veranderd. En ik moest denken aan de mannen, die aldus zich wijdden aan de opvoeding van het volk in een achterland van Goedsjerat en hen vergelijken met Johnston, Mountstuart Elphinstone en andere Engelschen uit die school. Van den laatste is bekend, dat hij eens zeide, dat als ooit deze volken zich van Engeland vrij maakten, het dan nog beter was, dat Engeland als buren een ontwikkeld volk had dan een barbaarsch. Dat alles overdacht ik, terwijl ik met mijn moeder en mijn secretaris naar de spelen keek... Het spel is afgeloopen; de prinsen vormen weer een rij en defileeren in galop door de laan, mij beleefde groeten toezendend. De nabab van Sikkim ging met de anderen weg; hij werd gevolgd door zijn gezelschap, en wij brachten verder den dag door bij onze Parsi-vrienden. Met hoeveel genoegen we ook te Rajkot waren, we moesten denken over onze verdere reis naar Junagadh. Onze goede vrienden, de Parsi's stelden zich niet tevreden met ons naar het station te vergezellen; zij stegen mee in den waggon en brachten ons tot het volgend station. Ik heb aan hun ontvangst de aangenaamste herinnering en wij gingen weg met veel kostbare geschenken en heerlijke, welriekende rozen, die even goed in ons oude Frankrijk hadden kunnen bloeien als in Ispahan; maar Rajkot is niet het land der rozen, en in Kathiawar zijn de Gloire de Dijon en de Maréchal Niel zeldzaamheden. De liefhebber, die ze heeft gekweekt, deed te mijner eer een groote opoffering, die ik zeer op prijs stel. Wij reisden nu snel naar het Zuiden. Het was een rustig landschap, en het zacht golvend terrein was zeer vruchtbaar. Wij zijn op het gebied van Gondal, een staatje van den tweeden rang, van 150.000 inwoners. Er wordt koren verbouwd en katoen. De vorst, die Thakore heet, is tegelijk schatplichtig aan Engeland, aan Rajkot en aan Junagadh. De stichter van het vorstengeslacht, de tweede kleinzoon van Vibhaji van Rajkot, had twintig dorpen geërfd, waarbij het gouvernement van Ahmedabad ter belooning van bewezen diensten nog later Gondal voegde, dat tot hoofdstad werd verheven in de 17de eeuw. Zijn opvolgers vergrootten het gebied nog. De Thakore Bagvat Sjingji, een schitterend leerling van Rajkumar College, heeft te Edinburg zijn medische studiën voltooid en schreef een werk over de geneeskunde in Indië en een reisverhaal van zijn bezoek aan Europa. Zijn hoofdstad aan den oever van de rivier Gonduli heeft mooie gebouwen, moderne huizen, een hospitaal en een school voor adellijken. Bij onze nadering beschreef de trein, die den vorst na een afwezigheid van eenigen tijd in zijn staten terugvoerde, een bocht, om hem voor de deur van zijn paleis af te zetten, en de rookwolk van de locomotief drong tusschen de boomen van het vorstelijk park. De minister van Gondal, de heer Damri, de heer J. N. Unwalla en een perzisch reiziger wachtten ons op het perron. Onze gastheer uit Bombay, de heer Malabari, heeft de goede gedachte gehad, ons overal in Kathiawar zulke verrassingen te bereiden. De minister noodigde ons uit, den dag bij hem door te brengen; maar wij hadden geen tijd om in deze stad te blijven, die de hoofdstad moet zijn van wat een modelstaat wordt genoemd. Wij konden alleen een praatje houden over gemeenschappelijke bekenden, o. a. over den opvolger van mijn vader aan de academie van de opschriften, den heer Sénart. Na Gondal werd het terrein bergachtiger. De warme, weldadige zon gaf mij nieuwe krachten en ik gevoelde, dat ik genoegzaam hersteld was voor den tocht naar den Girnar. Het was in die mooie Februaridagen een heerlijke reis. Rust en kalmte heerschten hier in deze streken, alleen aan de stations afgebroken door enkele luidruchtige inboorlingen, die op transport van hun bagage toezien of voor hun koopwaar zorgen. Eindelijk zijn wij te Junagadh; de schoonzoon van den minister, de heer K. Ch. Dhru, is ons tegemoet gereisd en brengt ons in den landauer van den Nabab Sahib naar een villa, even buiten de stad gelegen tegenover den Girnar. Wij hoorden, dat de officiëele wereld naar een naburigen staat was gegaan, om het huwelijk van den vorst bij te wonen. Wij zullen dus kunnen uitrusten. Lal Bagh is een der geriefelijkste woningen, die we in Indië hebben gehad, althans in de provincie, en het is, of ik er mijn kamer uit Bandora terugvind. Het huis werd gebouwd door den Parsi Sir Ph. Mehta, in den tijd van zijn verblijf in Junagadh; het was elegant gemeubeld en ik zal nooit vergeten met hoeveel attenties het dienstpersoneel mij omringde. Vanaf het terras had men een prachtig uitzicht op het bergland van den Girnar. Een lichtende wolk scheen om de vijf toppen te hangen en ze samen tot een volmaakten kegel te maken. Het is een heilige berg, vroeger woonplaats der goden, en sinds onheugelijke tijden trekken de pelgrims er heen. In de rotsflanken hebben kluizenaars zich cellen ter bewoning gekozen; op de bloeiende hellingen hebben de geloovigen tempels gebouwd voor hun beschermgoden, en op de toppen kan men de voetstappen vinden van de gelukkige stervelingen, die op het punt waren, de zaligheid van het Nirwana deelachtig te worden. Men kan de stad Junagadh niet bezoeken, zonder een blik te slaan op haar verleden. De vorsten uit de tegenwoordige regeerende dynastie der afghaansche Babi's hebben tallooze voorgangers gehad; maar men moet tot de rajpoetische dynastie opklimmen van de Chudasama's, om den oorsprong te vinden van de vele sagen en verhalen, die in omloop zijn. In de 15de eeuw verscheen de geduchte vijand voor de vorsten van Goedsjerat en Sorath, de Islam. Ra Mandik III was de laatste Hindoevorst, die in dien tijd over Junagadh regeerde. Het heet, dat de vorst de vrouw van zijn minister verleidde en dat deze, om wraak te nemen, zijn vorst verried aan Mahmoed, sultan van Ahmedabad. De overwonnene werd gedwongen, den Islam aan te nemen en verkreeg onder den naam Khan Djehan een roep van heiligheid. Mahmoed vond veel behagen in de mooie provincie Sorath, vestigde er zich en veranderde zelfs den naam van Junagadh in dien van Moestafabad. Hij legde de versterkingen aan van de stad en bouwde de moskee bij het fort. Zijn edelen volgden hem; hij gaf hun ambten en gunstbewijzen en bracht den Islam er tot bloei. Sedert de bezetting door Mahmoed werd Junagadh bestuurd door een uit Ahmedabad gezonden ambtenaar, en de sultan stond aan den zoon van den onttroonden koning een eeretitel toe en land te Sil Bayarda aan het strand der zee. Het geslacht der Chudasama's heeft zijn invloed nog behouden in het land en in de regeerende familie hecht men nog waarde aan de verwantschap met de afstammelingen der oude koningen. De laatste der Foedjaren of gouverneurs, Sehr khan Babi, maakte in de 18de eeuw gebruik van het verval van het Rijk, om den titel van Nabab van Junagadh aan te nemen. Daar hij een bekwaam en moedig man was, hief hij een schatting van alle vorsten van Kathiawar, een heffing, die nu nog voortduurt en die door tusschenkomst der Engelschen wordt geheven sinds 1821. De geschiedenis van het vorstengeslacht der Babi's levert een merkwaardig voorbeeld van de intriges aan de kleine inlandsche hoven, intriges van vrouwen dikwijls. In het begin der 19de eeuw verschijnen de Engelschen ten tooneele en slagen er langzamerhand in de Mohammedanen te vervangen, en van de helft dier eeuw dagteekent de bloeitijd van den staat. Bahadoer Khandji, broeder en voorganger van Z. H. Rasoel Khandji, die thans regeert, ontving van den onderkoning van Indië een vlag met de wapens van Junagadh en verscheen met staatsie op den durbar te Delhi. De Nabab Sahib heeft te Rajkumar College zijn opvoeding gekregen; hij is zeer vroom en zeer liefdadig. Te Rajkot hebben wij het hospitaal gezien, dat hij had laten bouwen; in zijn staten heeft men hem voor veel andere nuttige instellingen te danken. Groote sommen heeft hij besteed voor een betere waterverdeeling en hij heeft den spoorweg van Junagadh naar de haven Veraval laten aanleggen, alsook dien van Junagadh naar Rajkot. Evenals de vorsten van zijn familie is ook de vermoedelijke troonopvolger te Rajkumar College opgevoed. Hij, Z. H. Cherzeme Khandji, is in 1889 getrouwd. Hij was het, die bij het bezoek van den onderkoning het woord nam, om den hoogen bezoeker te antwoorden, en hij heeft het met groote waardigheid gedaan. Men moet niet denken, dat het bestuur der inlandsche staten aan het toeval wordt overgelaten; in het residentschap Bombay heeft elke staat, klein of groot, afzonderlijke diensten voor de uitvoerende macht, de financiën, de justitie, openbare werken, kadaster, geneeskundigen dienst, douane, politie enz. De uitvoerende macht berust bij den vorst, die haar overdraagt aan zijn eersten minister of diwan, wiens plichten zeer verscheiden zijn. Hij heeft alle ambtenaren onder zijn bevelen, moet toezicht houden op de rechtspraak, het onderwijs regelen, toezien op de bescherming der arbeidende klassen, zorgen voor het onderhoud der wegen, de irrigatiewerken en zoo meer. Hij mag dus wel een practisch man zijn. De vorst is vrij in de keuze van zijn eersten minister, maar de keuze moet worden goedgekeurd door de plaatselijke regeering. Oudtijds was de betrekking erfelijk. Sedert bijna een halve eeuw zijn de regeeringsaangelegenheden in Junagadh in handen geweest van bekwame mannen. De eerste staatsman ten tijde van ons bezoek was de vizier Sjeik Mohammed Bahauddin Hasambhai, aan de regeerende familie vermaagschapt door het huwelijk van zijn zuster Laddi Bibi met wijlen Mahabat Khandji. Zeer jong in staatsdienst getreden, was de vizier eerst commandant van de lijfwacht of Lal Risalda. Hij is vooral zijn hooge positie verschuldigd aan den steun, dien hij aan den Nabab verleende in den strijd tegen de koningin-moeder, een heerschzuchtige vrouw, die haar zoon buiten de zaken wilde houden. Daar hij in financiëele aangelegenheden uiterst bekwaam was, bestuurde de vizier de bezittingen van den staat met groote bekwaamheid, en daarbij gaf hij blijk van zeldzame energie in de onderdrukking van de rooverijen. In 1882 maakte hij zich meester van den hoofdman Janji Makrani, den schrik van den omtrek, en het volgend jaar van den bandiet Jasla, die voor de monding van een kanon werd gebonden, waardoor de rust van het land verzekerd was. Eindelijk roeide hij in 1889 de laatste rooverbenden uit, en sinds dien heerschte veiligheid in het land. De vizier hield zich veel bezig met het onderwijs, dat hij aanmoedigde door beurzen en door de oprichting van scholen. De armen hebben aan hem slaaphuizen te danken en de pelgrims een weg naar Dattar. Als wijs en gematigd man weet hij de goede verstandhouding te bewaren tusschen hindoesche en mohammedaansche gemeenten. Sir Charles Ollivant verklaarde in 1892, dat aan den vizier en den diwan Haridas de welvaart van den staat Junagadh te danken was. Die laatste trouwe medewerker van den mohammedaanschen vizier behoorde tot een familie van Ksjatria's uit Pendsjab. Zijn voorvaderen hadden geschitterd aan de hoven van de Groot Mogols; zij bewezen diensten aan de Mahratten, eindelijk aan de Engelschen, wien de vader van den heer Haridas Viharidas getrouw bleef in het vreeselijke jaar van den opstand. De heer Haridas Viharidas, die in het midden der vorige eeuw geboren was, had in zijn provincie Madras studiën gemaakt over de cultuur van tabak. Daarna trad hij in staatsdienst en werd in verscheiden inboorlingenstaten benoemd, tot hij in 1883 in Junagadh minister werd, welke betrekking hij twaalf jaar bekleedde. Op zijn initiatief werd de stad verfraaid. Hij stierf in 1895 en werd vervangen door zijn broeder, den heer Behechardas Viharidas, oud-lid van den wetgevenden Raad te Bombay. Deze ondernam groote irrigatiewerken. Ik wil hier terloops opmerken, dat geen van die verdienstelijke ambtenaren in Engeland is geweest. Die dure en vaak zoo weinig nuttige reis is dus voor jonge lieden niet noodig ter voorbereiding van een rol van beteekenis in Indië. Ofschoon de stad Junagadh in de vlakte ligt, ziet zij er ondanks de moderne gebouwen en de rechte straten schilderachtig uit. Als men de oogen opslaat, ziet men de kanteelen van het fort en de toppen van den Girnar, die een indrukwekkenden achtergrond vormen en belangwekkende historische herinneringen oproepen. Tijdens ons verblijf werd er over niets anders gesproken dan over het verblijf van Lord Curzon, dat een waar succes was geweest. Er was veel troepenvertoon geweest; er waren eerebogen opgericht en een optocht van olifanten, geleid door ruiters op rhinocerossen. Des avonds had een prachtige illuminatie de bevolking verheugd. Wat Lord Curzon vooral genoegen deed, was het zien van de velden, die het einde van den hongersnood aankondigden en daarmee tevens den terugkeer van overvloed, want vele streken zijn zoo vruchtbaar, dat men er driemaal in het jaar kan oogsten. De oorsprong van Junagadh verliest zich in den nacht der tijden. Met de Chudasama's als heeren van het land, komt men bij de historische tijden; zij brachten een beschaving, waarvan de kunst nog sporen heeft nagelaten op de rotsen van den Girnar. In de 16de eeuw na hun val vernemen wij, dat Sorath in den tijd van Akbar in negen afdeelingen was verdeeld, elk door een anderen stam bewoond. De eerste, het nieuwe Sorath, was lang onbekend gebleven door de vele bosschen en de ontoegankelijke bergen. Er was, zoo vertelt een geschiedschrijver, een fort, dat Junagadh of Uperkot heette en dat vroeger door sultan Mahmoed veroverd werd, die aan den voet van het fort Moestafabad de moderne stad oprichtte. De gewoonte, om haar enkel aan te duiden door het woord durg of gadh, dat is vesting, dateert al uit zeer vroege oudheid. Daaruit blijkt, dat dit het fort bij uitnemendheid was. In het begin der vorige eeuw, in 1822, bezocht kolonel Tod Junagadh, dat nog door wouden was ingesloten over een uitgestrektheid van verscheidene mijlen, wouden zoo dicht, dat men er alleen in kon binnendringen door de lanen, uitgespaard, om met de naburige plaatsen gemeenschap te onderhouden. De bevolking bestond uit dezelfde bestanddeelen als tegenwoordig, Brahmanen, Mohammedanen, landbouwers als Ahirs, Koli's enz. en Rajpoeten. Er waren niet meer dan een paar duizend inwoners, en nu zijn er niet minder dan dertig duizend. Wat den vorst aangaat, hij had geringe inkomsten en weinig eerzucht. De groote monumenten, moskeeën, paleizen en graven zijn modern. De stad heeft de muren behouden, waarmee Mahmoed haar begiftigd had en daarbinnen ontwikkelt zij zich nog. Rondom de citadel is een verlaten en onbebouwd gedeelte, waar men veel ruïnen vindt. Het strekt zich uit tot aan den voet der muren; maar daarachter begint het vrije veld met mooie woningen, o. a. die van den vizier. De tuinen bij die villa's en de vruchten, die men er oogst, zijn vermaard. Het aanzien van de straten wijst op welvaart; de bazars zijn goed voorzien en leveren alle mogelijke producten der plaatselijke industrie. Het zou eigenlijk het aardigst wezen, naar Junagadh te gaan in den tijd der bedevaarten, die jaarlijks uit alle deelen van Indië er bijna honderd duizend geloovigen doen samenstroomen. De menigte kampeert vaak in de open lucht en bij den Girnar worden logeerhuizen voor de armen ingericht, waar de menschen ook kosteloos worden gevoed. De bedelaars van beroep, de sadhoes, schuilen waar ze maar kunnen, dikwijls tusschen de ruïnen. De bedevaarten hebben altijd plaats in den winter; dan is het klimaat zeer gezond, vooral in Januari en Februari; maar het wordt ongunstig in den warmen tijd, wanneer dan ook de bevolking naar de bergen trekt, en dat wel al van de maand Mei af. Aan den Girnar zijn in de buurt van de tempels hôtels gebouwd, maar het schijnt dat het er niet gezond is. De weinige Europeanen, die hier wonen, gaan liever naar de zee, naar Veraval, dat vroeger een eenvoudige inschepingsplaats was voor de Mohammedanen, die zich naar Mekka begaven, en nu een stad is van meer dan 12.000 inwoners, met een spoorweg verbonden aan Junagadh en station voor de stoombooten, die geregeld dienst doen tusschen Bombay en Kathiawar. Het paleis van den Nabab ligt in de hoofdstraat van Junagadh; daar Z. H. afwezig was, konden wij er niet worden toegelaten, ik heb er alleen van kunnen zien den mooien gevel van stuc en de terrassen; maar ik weet, dat het inwendige weelderig is ingericht, misschien wel al te modern. Het is een ongelukkige neiging van de indische vorsten, dat ze onze europeesche producten stellen boven die van hun eigen industrie. Zoo is het mooie Lal Bagh een echt anglo-indisch huis; men waardeert wel het comfort, dat men er geniet, maar de inlandsche handwerkslieden hebben niet veel verdiend aan de meubileering. Ten noordwesten van de stad heeft het graf der eerste Nababs van Junagadh tot model gediend voor dat van de moeder van den Nabab Bahadoer Khandji, dat een uitstekend voorbeeld is van den localen bouwtrant. Het werd gebouwd door de vorstin, die de vervaardiging toevertrouwde aan een kunstenaar uit de streek. Deze had den goeden smaak zich te laten inspireeren door een oud kunstwerk; maar daar hij over groote ruimte kon beschikken, vergrootte hij zijn bouwwerk. Op een voetstuk van 38 voet in het vierkant staat een platform, waar twintig zuilen de veranda dragen, die het graf omringt. Die zuilen, rijk versierd, zijn achthoekig, met kleinere pilaren eromheen en de voetstukken zijn met het prachtigst beeldhouwwerk getooid. Al kan men misschien van eenige overlading spreken, het is toch veel aantrekkelijker, zoo naar oude tradities terug te keeren, dan te jagen naar nabootsing van vreemde architectuur, zooals uit zooveel indische gebouwen blijkt. Naast het graf van de moeder van den Nabab vindt men een rij graven van twaalf mohammedaansche heiligen, wier namen onbekend zijn; allen broeders, naar het heet, en gesneuveld in hetzelfde gevecht. De architecten van de graven der laatste Nababs en van den vizier hebben op hun beurt het graf van de vorstin tot voorbeeld genomen. Men treft hier overal den strijd tusschen het artistiek gevoel, dat inlandsen werk verkiest, en de aanhangers van westersche motieven. Een mooi gebouw van moderne en westersche bestemming is het Bahauddin Arts College, gebouwd en bestemd om de herinnering aan den vizier levendig te houden. Het was kort vóór ons bezoek ingewijd door Lord Curzon. "Waar", zoo had de onderkoning gezegd, "vindt men een schitterender bewijs voor de veranderingen, die in Junagadh hebben plaats gehad, en voor zijn tegenwoordige welvaart, dan deze school, die de industrieën moet doen herleven, waar de indische kunstenaars hun roem aan te danken hebben? Het is opgetrokken bij de muren van een antiek fort in het hart van een staat, die eeuwen lang ten prooi was aan oorlog en plundering". De reiziger wordt vooral getroffen door de groote hoeveelheid steenen, die noodig zijn geweest voor de oprichting van al die huizen van vele verdiepingen, die paleizen, bazars, alles zoo stevig en toch zoo decoratief. Men zou denken, dat steenen overvloedig zijn in Kathiawar, en dat is ook inderdaad zoo, want de menschen hebben de ruïnen eenvoudig als steengroeven gebruikt. In 1875 zag Burgess systematisch een gebouw afbreken, en hoeveel oostersche steden zijn niet opgetrokken met de resten van hun voorgangsters! Alle godsdiensten en alle rassen leven vriendschappelijk in Junagadh; Brahmanen, Mohammedanen en de talrijke secten, die zich alle tot de Hindoes rekenen. Onder die laatste is die van Swami Narayen in het bezit van een mooien tempel. Ik had dien van Surate gezien, en later zou ik dien van Ahmedabad nog te zien krijgen. De secte van Swami Narayen telt een groot aantal aanhangers in Goedsjerat, waar ze zich vooral schijnt te hebben gevestigd; de stichter, een brahmaansch asceet uit Cudh, ging in 1800 ongeveer tot het Vischnoeïsme over en verliet zijn vaderland, om een eindelooze reeks van pelgrimstochten te gaan ondernemen. Hij stelde zich onder de bescherming van een goeroe of meester en woonde met hem te Ahmedabad en te Junagadh; daarna stichtte hij de nieuwe leer, gegrond op sommige leerstellingen van Krisjna. Dadelijk bij zijn komst in Goedsjerat was hij geschokt geworden door de praktijken van een visjnoeïtische secte uit de 16de eeuw, en daartegenover preekte hij een reiner leven en gaf een voorbeeld van matigheid en kuischheid. Narayen stierf in 1830. De gemeente is nog bloeiend en telt ongeveer 200.000 aanhangers, terwijl nog elk jaar nieuwe toetreden, want het is de regel, dat ieder lid zes nieuwelingen moet aanbrengen. Evenals in elke Hindoesecte zijn er twee afdeelingen, de gezinshoofden en de bedelaars; de laatste doen een gelofte van het celibaat, dragen het gele kleed der asceten en gaan twee aan twee uit om te preeken. Aan het eind van hun tournée worden ze opgenomen in kloosters, die bij de tempels behooren. Dat van Junagadh wordt onderhouden door de leden van het genootschap, dat vooral veel aanhangers wint onder de timmerlieden, de steenhouwers en de smeden. De Sardar Bagh, die buiten de muren der stad is gelegen, is een heerlijk doel voor een wandeling. Sardar khan, gouverneur van Sorath, liet het huis in 1681 bouwen en richtte er zijn graf op; maar hij stierf in Sind, waar zijn lijk is gebleven. De tuinen zijn met zeldzame boomen beplant en versierd met vijvers en paviljoens, waar de menschen de koelte gaan zoeken; maar de grootste aantrekkelijkheid van Sardar Bagh is de menagerie. Er is daar te zien de eenige soort van leeuwen, die nog in Indië bestaat en die in wezen blijft in de bosschen van den Gir, waar enkele paren zich vermenigvuldigen. De tijd is voorbij, toen de vorsten op de jacht naar groote roofdieren gingen. Dat bosch van den Gir is bijna honderd kilometer lang bij 32 breed, terwijl het grootste deel der oppervlakte in Junagadh ligt. Er liggen ook dorpen en gehuchten in. In den regentijd worden de dieren in de vette weiden gestuurd, die aan de waterloopen liggen. Hier moet ik nog eens gewagen van de rooverijen, die zoo lang Kathiawar berucht hebben gemaakt. De Gir diende tot toevlucht voor de stoutmoedigste Kathihoofden; als ze hun rooftochten hadden gedaan en hun veediefstallen en moorden volbracht, tartten ze daar de justitie en de weerwraak van huns gelijken. In het begin van de vorige eeuw verschool een Kathihoofdman, die in zijn erfrecht was gekrenkt, zich er met zijn bende. In 1820 maakte hij zich van kapitein Grant meester, een marineofficier in dienst van vorst van Baroda, en hield hem vier maanden gevangen. De ongelukkige kapitein heeft interessante aanteekeningen over zijn gevangenschap uitgegeven. Twee maanden lang werd hij nacht en dag blootgesteld aan alle weêr in het slechte jaargetijde en steeds bewaakt door twee mannen met den degen in de vuist. De vrouwen in de dorpen kozen ten laatste zijn partij en verweten den vorst zijn wreedheid. Met geweld gedwongen door de roovers, om aan hun barbaarsche gebruiken deel te nemen, kon hij als ooggetuige verklaren, dat ze in de dorpen der vijanden hun komst aankondigden door de kinderen, die voor de huizen speelden, het hoofd af te snijden. De jonge Kathi's spraken over niets anders dan over de moorden, die ze reeds hadden begaan, terwijl de grijsaards en wijzen en notabelen nachtelijke samenkomsten hielden, waarin ze uitmaakten dat de mensch het dier is, dat het moeilijkst is te dooden, want dat men nooit zeker is van zijn dood, als niet het hoofd aan den eenen kant ligt en het lijf aan den anderen. Sombere vergaderingen in den tijd, dat de leeuwen buiten brulden en om de kampen slopen. Dikwijls ging Bawavala, dronken van opium, bij zijn gevangene zitten en vroeg hem, hoeveel slagen er, naar hij dacht, noodig zouden zijn, om hem te dooden. Dan antwoordde de ongelukkige, die geheel uitgeput was, nauwelijks verstaanbaar, dat een enkele slag wel voldoende zou wezen. Maar het monster wenschte niet den dood van zijn slachtoffer; hij wilde enkel de uitlevering van zijn bezittingen als losgeld. Het was een afschuwelijk leven van die roovers, altijd de wacht houdend, slapend naast hun paarden met den teugel om den arm, gereed om in den zadel te springen bij de eerste beweging van het dier. Hun voornaamste bezigheid was het uitplunderen van rijke reizigers, die hun werden aangewezen. Kapitein Grant werd gered door tusschenkomst der Engelschen, die van den Nabab van Junagadh gedaan kregen de teruggave aan Bawavala van de goederen, die het andere Kathihoofd had geroofd; maar hij bleef zijn geheele leven ziek en verloor het geheugen. Om een denkbeeld te geven van de moderne zeden, diene, dat de vrouwen nog den lof zingen van Bawavala, den Robin Hood van Kathiawar. Wij zouden nog meer staaltjes van lateren tijd kunnen melden, maar wat met kapitein Grant is gebeurd, heeft min of meer een officiëelen stempel, en men kan ons dan niet van overdrijving beschuldigen. Een heele litteratuur is verbonden aan de heldendaden van de bendehoofden. De heer C. A. Kincaid heeft onlangs een belangwekkenden bundel het licht doen zien van oudere en nieuwere balladen, die op hun heldenstukken betrekking hebben. Men kan er den geest uit leeren kennen, die al sinds onheugelijke tijden in het land heerschte onder de menschen, die geneigd waren de rechten van het individu te doen voorgaan boven die der gemeenschap en tegen het gezag, welk dat ook was. Ondanks zijn misdaden was de misdadiger sympathiek aan de massa. Naast hem treedt dan het paard op, door de nationale dichters niet minder goed behandeld dan zijn meester. Het is de blanke merrie met de vlokkige, wapperende manen, die met wijd geopende neusgaten de ruimte verslindt, in één sprong over de muren van dorpen springt en zoo snel en licht zich beweegt, dat de vogels zich niet met haar meten kunnen. Thans is de Gir gastvrijer geworden. Men kan er veilig zich bewegen, vooral als men vergezeld is door Engelsche ambtenaren. Sasan op den zuidelijken oever van de rivier Hiran is de residentie van den inspecteur van het boschwezen. Daar was ook het kamp van Lord Curzon gevestigd. Vroeger was die plaats zeer ongezond en had zelfs aan die ongezondheid zijn naam te danken, want Sasan wil in het Sanskriet zeggen "straf", omdat men er de staatsgevangenen heen zond, opdat ze spoedig zouden sterven door de slechte hoedanigheid van het water ter plaatse. De leeuw, die oudtijds de glorie van Pendsjab en Hindostan was, is teruggedrongen naar deze boschrijke streek. Hij is niet de mindere van zijn soortgenoot uit Afrika, noch wat grootte betreft, noch wat den moed aangaat; de manen zijn zwart, bruin of geel, al naar gelang van den leeftijd. Hij zal zelden een mensch aanvallen; maar er worden gevallen vermeld, waarin hij een of meer slachtoffers heeft gemaakt. In de menagerie van Sardar Bagh worden de groote, welgeluchte kooien goed onderhouden, en de dieren zien er niet zoo ellendig uit als in Europa. Ze worden ook niet vaak door bezoekers lastig gevallen; en een knippen met de oogen of een gegrom is het eenige, dat de bewaker erlangt, als hij ze wil doen opstaan. Met die visite aan de leeuwen eindigde ons bezoek aan Junagadh. De ruïnen van den Uperkot of de citadel van Junagadh liggen links van den weg, die naar den Girnar leidt; wij kozen het eind van een schoonen dag, om ze te bezoeken. Zij zijn begrepen in den stadsmuur en bevinden zich op een soort van platform van natuurlijken aard tusschen de stad en den berg; de muren, omringd door een diepe gracht, zijn bijna zeventig voet hoog. Men komt er binnen door twee poorten; volgens oude kronieken waren er drie en 84 torens. Het grootste deel van het terrein is al lang ingenomen door de jungle, maar men is onlangs begonnen met de ontgraving, en nu is de citadel in het geheel niet meer in den deplorabelen toestand, dien Tod in 1822 beschrijft. Door een gunstbewijs, dat nog door geen enkel Europeaan was verkregen, had de moedige reiziger kunnen binnendringen. Hoewel het geen oorlog was, hield men er goed de wacht en de poorten werden slechts ten halve geopend voor den reiziger. Overal zag hij verval en verlatenheid. Het is nog een imposant monument van de militaire mohammedaansche bouwwijze, die men terugvindt in vele vestingen uit denzelfden tijd. Het rijtuig bracht ons tot op de wallen; bij den ingang viel ons het gewelf boven de deur op, dat een merkwaardig voorbeeld was van de oude rajpoetische architectuur. Het is moeilijk den tijd van ontstaan vast te stellen; maar als die poort van vroegeren datum is dan de herstellingen, in de 15de eeuw aangebracht, zooals een opschrift aangeeft, toch klimt ze niet hooger op dan de 18de eeuw. In een sankrietsch werk uit de elfde eeuw van iemand, geboortig van Goedsjerat, wordt gezegd, dat de vierde vorst uit het geslacht der Chudasama's in de tiende eeuw overwonnen en gevangen genomen werd en daarna weer in vrijheid gesteld door een vorst uit Goedsjerat, dat hij vervolgens Vanthali verliet, dat zijn hoofdstad was, om zich te Junagadh te vestigen, waar hij de citadel liet bouwen, hetgeen verklaard wordt door de noodzakelijkheid, waarin de Chudasama's waren, om zich te beschermen tegen de invallen van hun machtige en oorlogzuchtige buren. Een beslissend getuigenis brengt steun aan dat bericht uit de elfde eeuw. De boeddhistische pelgrim Hioeën Thsang, die in de zevende eeuw reisde en die zoo minitieus de steden, bergen en oude grotten van Saurasthra heeft beschreven, maakt geen melding van den Uperkot, bewijs, dat de citadel niet bestond toen hij in de plaats was. In de elfde eeuw begint de geschiedenis van de belegeringen, die zij had te doorstaan, eerst van de Hindoevorsten, dan van de Muzelmannen. Overigens mag het fort ondanks de herhaalde capitulaties trotsch zijn op zijn lang verleden. Het heeft dapper de aanvallen weerstaan der veroveraars, die het op zijn bestaan voorzien hadden. Na de opneming van Sorath in het mongoolsche rijk treedt de vesting in de schaduw. In de 18de eeuw maakten de geldzuchtige Arabieren, wien men achterstallige soldij schuldig was, zich er herhaaldelijk meester van, en ze konden er slechts met moeite uit verdreven worden. Van dien tijd af hebben de gevangenissen, die het bevatte, slechts gediend voor de vorsten of de opstandelingen, van wie men zich wilde ontdoen. Het monument, dat het eerst de aandacht trekt, is de moskee, een groot gebouw van 136 bij 103 voet. Het uitwendige heeft niet veel stijl; het is zwaar en lomp met de vier granieten zuilen op de hoeken; maar het inwendige biedt een verrassing; er staan 140 zuilen in verschillende rijen. Die der drie eerste, van den gevel af naar binnen, zijn dikker, evenals die van de vijfde en tiende rij overdwars en zijn door bogen samen verbonden, zoodat ze, als ze waren voortgezet, het gebouw zouden hebben verdeeld in drie hoofdschepen in het midden en twee zijschepen van de helft der grootte. De preekstoel ligt elf treden boven den beganen grond, en de deuren zijn van prachtig bewerkt marmer. De moskee, die onder Mahmoed Bigaré werd begonnen, is waarschijnlijk nooit voltooid. Op de wallen staan twee zware kanonnen op de stad gericht en beroemd in de geschiedenis van Junagadh. Het grootste is bekend onder den naam van Nilam tope, het blauwe kanon; er staat een arabisch opschrift op, dat er aan herinnert, hoe het stuk in Egypte werd gegoten op bevel van sultan Soleiman, zoon van Selim Khan, koning van Arabië en Perzië, om de vijanden van den godsdienst te verdelgen en die van den staat,--dat waren de Portugeezen,--legers toen de steden van Indië bezetten. Achter de moskee ziet men aan den noordkant een merkwaardig staal van den bouw in de rotsen, namelijk de zalen, die in 1879 ter gelegenheid van het bezoek van Burgess werden ontdekt. De opgravingen brachten twee rijen van in de rots uitgehouwen woningen aan het licht, van een nog niet nader omschreven karakter. Onze onderaardsche wandeling was zeer interessant; door de groote openingen voor licht en lucht, die door de oorspronkelijke aanleggers zijn uitgespaard, kan men de gidsen volgen, zonder vrees van in de duisternis te verdwalen en door gebrek aan lucht te stikken. Op de eerste verdieping was een groot réservoir, misschien een vischvijver, aan drie zijden omgeven door een veranda, die overdekt was. Aan den westkant is er een soort van platform, gelijk aan die, waar men in tempels de beelden plaatst. Burgess denkt, dat de menschen er hun kleederen neerlegden, als ze zich baadden, en men kan nog sporen vinden van een buizenstelsel, dat het water aanvoerde uit een put in de buurt naar een kleinen regenbak aan den ingang, opdat het gezuiverd zou wezen, voordat het in het réservoir kwam. Het vertrek boven de baden, als men ze zoo mag noemen, ligt open en aan den kant, van waar het licht komt, staat een laag muurtje, zoodat door een wijde opening dat licht binnenstroomt. De gang aan den zuidkant vertoont twee zuilen met achtkantigen voet, welker kapiteelen met bloemen zijn versierd en met andere versieringen, die alle ongelukkig in zeer slechten staat zijn. Wij toefden lang in de zaal der baden, vóór we heengingen. Men kan deze rotswoningen niet beschouwen als bij een klooster behoorend; eerder doet de nabijheid van een oud paleis, het Khengar Mehal, vermoeden, dat ze een dépendance waren van dat huis, dat, in de jungle gelegen, overgeleverd is aan de moderne exploiteerders van een steengroeve. Het was nog te herkennen aan den 250 meter langen gevel in de rots uitgehouwen en gesteund door massieve pilaren, en bestond uit een doolhof van zalen, gangen en trappen. God behoede mij ervoor, daarmee den lezer lastig te vallen. Liever wil ik bij u de herinnering wekken aan de bewoners van die onderaardsche woningen, die zeer zeker aangename verblijven waren in den tijd van groote warmte, maar die in geen enkel opzicht gelijken op de kloosters en de lichte, sierlijke bouwwerken, over de heuvels van den Girnar verspreid. In den Uperkot of de vesting vinden wij twee groote putten, die uit den tijd der Chudasama's dagteekenen. De eene, de Adi Sjadi, werd aangelegd door twee slavenmeisjes van een der vorsten dier dynastie, en men daalt erheen af langs steenen trappen; de andere, de Noghan, klimt op tot de elfde eeuw. Een gang van tien voet breed, in een spiraal in de rots gehouwen, leidt langs 235 treden in de diepte, namelijk tot ongeveer 120 voet. Ze wordt verlicht door openingen in de rots; aan den eenen kant is een soort van balkon, waar een bedwelmende drank werd bereid in een grooten bak, dien men nog herkennen kan. Er wordt verteld, dat het hof er bacchantische feesten kwam vieren. Duiven vlogen rond boven een der putten, die door gebladerte overschaduwd werd. Ik wilde er in afdalen, maar de vochtigheid en vooral de stank van het erin staand water noodzaakten mij terug te gaan. Maar wel had ik er genoeg van gezien, om mij rekenschap te geven van die soort van putten, die zoo nuttig moeten zijn geweest. Want is niet het water een groote weldaad voor het Oosten? Hij, die het zijne bijdroeg tot de bewaring en verspreiding van een zoo nuttige stof, deed een gezegend werk, en werken van irrigatie hebben al van de oudheid af de regeerders van deze streken beziggehouden. Wij zullen daarvan ook een bewijs vinden aan den voet van den Girnar. Ook moderne werken van dien aard zijn in den Uperkot uitgevoerd. De vesting zag er in het roode licht van den vallenden avond schilderachtig uit; de ruïnen en de met boomen bedekte heuvels boeiden het oog; op een ouden muur vertoonden pauwen hun prachtig gevederte, en van de wallen overzag men de stad en de vlakte, al in schemering gedompeld, terwijl links zich de majestueuse top van den Girnar verhief. Boeddhistische grotten en holen komen er veel voor in Junagadh; Hioen Thsang heeft ze ook vermeld. Er waren in zijn tijd meer dan 50 kloosters en bijna 3000 monniken, en daarbij honderden tempels, waar monniken van verschillende secten in vrede leefden. Ondanks de verwoestingen door den tijd aangericht, en ondanks 400 jaren van mohammedaansche overheersching, treft men nog belangwekkende sporen van het boeddhistisch tijdperk aan. De reizigers, die van het land spreken, zeggen, dat de streek letterlijk met cellen was overdekt. Dat kluizenaarsleven is een der karakteristieke eigenaardigheden van het Boeddhisme. Ieder mocht gaan wonen in de bosschen of de grotten van het bergland, en als de regentijd daar was, kon de heremiet zich voegen bij zijn collega's, die in de kloosters of vihara's woonden. Die kloosters bestonden, schijnt het, uit een plein, omringd door cellen, met galerijen, die versierd waren. De cellen in de open lucht zijn verdwenen en enkel die zijn overgebleven, die in de rotsen waren uitgehouwen. De oudste inrichting schijnt te zijn geweest, dat de kleine cellen op rijen lagen met een veranda, die op pilaren rustte. Aan de westzijde is er aan het bouwwerk meer zorg besteed dan aan het beeldhouwwerk. Het dak wordt door zuilen gedragen, en een zuilengalerij geeft toegang tot een diepe zaal, waar de monniken dienst hielden en hun Boeddha's aanbaden. Aan den oostkant van den Uperkot bij het klooster Bawa Pyara vindt men ook van die onderaardsche woningen; maar hoe een denkbeeld te geven van dien overvloed van gangen en zalen en cellen? Er bestaat trouwens geen twijfel aan de bestemming van de bouwwerken. Hoe opgestapeld de aarde en het puin ook zijn in die zalen, de kenners hebben er de inrichting van een vihara in herkend. Ik mocht er niet binnentreden, en ik had ook inderdaad genoeg aan het uitwendige; de verbeelding stelde mij in staat, mij het leven van de monniken voor te stellen. Een opschrift leert, dat de holen ingericht waren voor de Dsjaina's door de koningen van Saurasthra op het eind van de tweede eeuw der christelijke jaartelling, of dat ze hun geschonken waren toen de Boeddhisten er geen gebruik meer van maakten. Het kloosterleven der Dsjaina's gelijkt, zooals bekend is, veel op dat der Boeddhisten. Verder in de jungle, te Maï Godesji, waren onder een ouden Hindoetempel, die in een moskee is veranderd, andere kamers; die behoorden waarschijnlijk niet bij een klooster, maar ze werden zeker gebruikt als die in den Uperkot. Van alle overblijfselen van den boeddhistischen godsdienst in Saurasthra is er geen enkel zoo belangrijk als de opschriften op den Asokasteen. Wij wijdden daaraan een morgen. Men verlaat dan de stad door de Wagheswaripoort in het Zuidoosten, en laat den Uperkot links liggen. Het is tevens de weg naar den Girnar. Vroeger hadden de reizigers, die naar de tempels gingen, te kiezen tusschen een wandeling en een draagstoel; thans leidt een rijweg naar den voet van den berg, en ons rijtuig reed een smal dal binnen, beplant met teak- en ebbenhoutboomen. In het begin der 19e eeuw legde de rijke paardenkoopman Sundarji, van Junagadh uit, een weg aan, waar hij boomen met rijk gebladerte langs liet zetten, opdat de pelgrims in de schaduw zouden kunnen uitrusten, zoodat men aan hen de ontdekking van den Asokasteen te danken heeft, want zonder dit voorbereidingswerk zou het monument nog verborgen wezen in de onontwarbare acaciaboschjes, die het omringen. De eerste, die er melding van maakt, kolonel Tod, heeft een levendig verhaal gegeven van zijn ontdekking in December 1822. Bij de samenkomst van de door Sundarji geplante laan en de Sonarekh, een der talrijke riviertjes, die den voet van den Girnar besproeien, komt een breede weg, evenwijdig aan de laan, uit bij een brug met drie bogen en voorzien van een leuning. Voordat die brug gebouwd was, liepen de pelgrims in den regentijd gevaar, door het water der rivier te worden meegesleurd, en veel ongelukken gebeurden er. Nadat men den weg heeft verlaten en naar rechts is gegaan, bereikt men den Asokasteen. Tod heeft hem beschreven als "een zware massa in den vorm van een halven cirkel van zwart graniet, die als een wrat op het menschelijk lichaam de schors van onze moeder aarde had doorboord, zonder een spleet of scheur te maken." De oppervlakte, die de steen besloeg, was 10 voet. De steen was in afdeelingen verdeeld of parallelogrammen, die opschriften in antiek schrift bevatten. Tod begreep, dat hij zich in de tegenwoordigheid bevond van een nog niet leesbare bladzijde der historie; hij bepaalde zich er toe, zijn secretaris te verzoeken twee der opschriften en een deel van het derde af te schrijven. En er werd in dertien jaren niets meer gedaan. In 1835 onderzocht Dr. Wilson, die tegen het vallen van den avond van den Girnar daalde, de opschriften, nog steeds onontcijferbaar geacht, ofschoon ze reeds de aandacht van de geleerde wereld hadden getrokken. Hij liet er afdrukken van nemen in 1837 en trachtte tot het begrip er van te komen, maar Prinsep was hem in 1838 voor met het vinden van den sleutel tot het nieuwe letterschrift. Door een gelukkig samentreffen had luitenant Kittoe te Dhauli een lang opschrift ontdekt, dat bijna identiek was aan dat te Junagadh, en kapitein Birtes liet een opschrift overnemen, dat gegraveerd was op een rots dicht bij het dorp Sjah-baz-garhi, 36 mijlen ten noorden van Peshawar, ook identiek met die van Girnar en Dhauli. Het was voor diegenen, die zich aan de bestudeering van de teksten wijdden, noodig correcte copieën te hebben en welverzorgde afdrukken van al die figuren. In 1838 werd luitenant Postans door het bestuur van Bombay naar Junagadh gezonden, om de opschriften te copiëeren en Burgess kwam in 1869 afdrukken maken. De steen was in die dagen door een kluizenaar bezet, die er zich een soort van hut naast had gebouwd en hout rondom had opgestapeld. De regeering van Bombay, van die feiten op de hoogte gebracht, richtte vertoogen tot den eersten minister van Junagadh, die over den steen een dak liet bouwen. Dat werd later vervangen door een soliede en fraai gebouwtje, waarin wij het genoegen hadden, eenige oogenblikken te rusten. Wij zullen de geleerden niet volgen in hun ontcijferingswerk en in hun verklaringen der opschriften. De opschriften zijn van het hoogste belang; men heeft ze terecht vergeleken met den steen van Rosette, met de opschriften op rotsen te Bisitoen, en met de steenbibliotheken van Assurbanipal. Een enkel woord over den vorst, van wien ze uitgingen. Asoka Biyadasi, koning van Magadha of Behar, die in de derde eeuw vóór Christus regeerde en tot het Boeddhisme werd bekeerd, legde er zich met ijver op toe, zijn godsdienstige denkbeelden te verspreiden. Er wordt gezegd, dat hij 64.000 priesters onderhield en kloosters stichtte in zoo groot aantal, dat zijn land nog het land der kloosters wordt genoemd, der vihara of behars. Hij maakte het Boeddhisme tot staatsgodsdienst, stelde een raad in, om de geloofsartikelen te verklaren, verspreidde zedelessen, benoemde een ministerie, om de zuiverheid der leer te handhaven en gaf bevel tot een herziening van den kanon der boeddhistische geschriften. Terzelfder tijd verspreidden legioenen van zendelingen zijn leer tot in de verste streken, en zijn wereldlijke macht zette kracht bij aan het prestige zijner boodschappers. Het monument is niet het eenige van zijn soort; veertien opschriften op rotsen in Indië verspreid, geven dezelfde voorschriften. Deze steen van Asoka telt veertien edicten of wetsbepalingen van Asoka en twee opschriften, die betrekking hebben op de herstelling van een oud réservoir, de Soedarsana. Men kan de voorschriften van Asoka aldus samenvatten: Ten eerste werd verboden dieren te dooden, om ze te eten of te offeren. Ten tweede werden voorschriften gegeven omtrent geneeskundige hulp voor menschen en dieren, omtrent aanplantingen en putten aan den kant der wegen. Ten derde werd bevolen, zich alle vijf jaren aan een boete te onderwerpen en opnieuw de groote zedelijke waarheden van het boeddhistisch geloof te publiceeren. Ten vierde werd een vergelijking getrokken tusschen den ouden staat van zaken en de nieuwe richting van den koning. Ten vijfde moesten er zendelingen worden benoemd, om de leer in vreemde landen te gaan verkondigen. Ten zesde werd de gelofte verplicht gesteld, dat men gelijkheid van rang en stand zou handhaven. Ten zevende werd de aanstelling van zederechters verplicht gesteld. Ten achtste werd op het verschil gewezen tusschen de materiëele genoegens van de voorgangers van den koning en zijn eigene. Ten negende werd een uiteenzetting gegeven van het ware geluk, dat slechts in deugd te vinden is, waardoor de zegeningen des hemels den mensch te beurt vallen. Ten tiende werd een vergelijking gemaakt tusschen den vergankelijken roem dezer wereld en de hemelsche zegeningen, waar de koning naar haakt. Ten elfde werd een verklaring gegeven van de stelling, dat de grootste van alle gaven, die men aan zijn medemensch kan schenken, is hem de deugd te leeren. Ten twaalfde wordt een woord tot de geloovigen gericht. Om eenig denkbeeld te geven van de voorschriften en van den stijl des koning-schrijvers, kiezen we het achtste, dat de bekeering van den koning tot het Boeddhisme inhoudt. "In vroegere tijden kenden de koningen de pleizierreizen, de jacht en andere vermaken. Maar Pyadasi, de geliefde koning der Deva's, tot het tiende jaar zijner regeering gekomen, heeft de volmaakte leer van Boeddha leeren kennen, en zal alleen die wet verspreiden. In de tiende stelling verklaart hij, dat de eenige roem, dien hij begeert, is zijn volken te zien gehoorzamen aan die wet en alle plichten te zien vervullen, die zij oplegt, en hij voegt erbij: "Het is een moeilijke zaak voor een middelmatig mensch, om de zaligheid deelachtig te worden, zooals ook voor iemand van rang, tenzij hij door buitengewone verdienste alles hebbe opgeofferd; maar voor een vorst is het nog veel moeilijker." Indien de koning dan al een vurig proselietenmaker is, hij heeft toch eerbied voor het geloof van anderen. Die gedachte drukt hij uit in het twaalfde voorschrift. "Pyadasi, de geliefde koning der Deva's, heeft eerbied voor elk geloof. Hij eert tevens de bedelaars, door hun aalmoezen te geven. Men moet alleen zijn eigen geloof liefhebben, maar men moet dat van anderen niet beschimpen; dan doet men niemand onrecht. Er zijn zelfs omstandigheden, waarin het geloof van anderen even hoog moet gesteld worden. Door dat te doen, versterkt men zichzelven in het geloof en dient tevens dat van anderen." Onnoodig, de aanhalingen nog te vermeerderen. Het is die geest van verdraagzaamheid, dien we vooral wilden laten uitkomen, want die geest zou zich door de eeuwen handhaven in het Boeddhisme. De andere opschriften, die een weinig beschadigd zijn, houden zich bezig met het Soedarsana of mooie meer, waarvan men de sporen in het dal heeft gezocht. Zooals ik al zei naar aanleiding van de irrigatiewerken in den Uperkot, men hield zich lang bezig met die vragen in Saurasthra. De opschriften leeren, dat het meer het werk was van een onderkoning van Kathiawar, die 300 jaar vóór Christus het aanlegde; dat het onder Asoka verfraaid werd en toen 350 jaar onveranderd bleef. Maar na dien tijd, in 129 na C. veroorzaakten hevige regens overstroomingen in het Girnargebied; een orkaan wierp boomen omver, deed rotsen schudden, rukte deuren uit hun voegen en vernielde de woningen. De wateren braken de dijken en sleurden alles mee. Het scheen een onherstelbare ramp, en de raadgevers van den koning deden er niets aan. Maar het volk vroeg luide naar zijn "schoon meer" en koning Rudra Daman, die toen over Goedsjerat regeerde, en die geen belastingen hief en geen heerendiensten vergde, maar alles uit eigen fondsen betaalde, stond zijn onderkoning toe, het meer te herstellen. Het opschrift zegt, dat die herstelling door middel van een dam werd bewerkstelligd. En er verliepen 310 jaren, toen in 449 op een nacht ten gevolge van hevige regens de dam bezweek tot grooten schrik der bevolking. Zeven jaren later slaagde de onderkoning erin, in twee maanden een dam te bouwen van 150 voet lang, en 102 voet breed en 35 voet hoog. Hoe lang hield het nieuwe werk stand en waardoor werd het vernield? Op welk tijdstip nam de plantengroei weer de plaats in van die watervlakte, die zich uitstrekte aan den voet van den Girnar? Wanneer trad de liefelijke rivier Sonarekh binnen haar bedding terug? Geen enkele overlevering maakt er melding van, en men weet zelfs niet, waar het Soedarsana gelegen was! Een pandit heeft de plaats vastgesteld op driekwart mijl van de stad naar het Oosten op weg naar den Girnar; vondsten van metselwerk, hier en daar teruggevonden, hadden hem tot die veronderstelling gebracht; maar in dat geval zou de weg naar den Girnar afgesloten zijn geworden en de bedevaartplaatsen, zooals Damodar Kund, zouden overstroomd zijn geworden en zouden ontoegankelijk zijn. Naar de muurresten te oordeelen in de bedding der Sonarekh en naar sommige golvingen van het terrein aan den linkeroever, denkt men eerder de omstreken van den Uperkot als de plaats van het meer te moeten aanwijzen. Ons bezoek aan den Asokasteen was zeer interessant geweest, en op den terugtocht wierpen we slechts even een blik op de mooie natuur. Aangekomen bij het Lal Bagh, maakten we toebereidselen voor de bedevaart naar den Girnar, die den volgenden dag zou plaats hebben. Van de meest aangrijpende herinneringen van het Boeddhisme zouden we overgaan tot de moderne werkelijkheid van een ermee wedijverende secte, de Dsjaïna's. Het ideaal van een heilig leven, door Asoka gedroomd, zou niet tot Indië beperkt blijven. De leer van dat leven ging over de grenzen, en de geest van het proselietisme, die het wezen van het Boeddhisme is, zond zendelingen naar de verste landen, waar ze zielen wonnen. Er zijn thans meer dan 500 millioen Boeddhisten in de wereld; in Indië en Birma drie millioen. Het Brahmaïsme, dat tijdelijk achteruitging, maar nooit verdelgd was, herkreeg zijn bloei in de achtste en negende eeuw, en in de elfde joegen de Mohammedanen beslist het Boeddhisme uit Kaschmir en Orissa, die alleen getrouw gebleven waren. De leerstellingen van Boeddha waren echter niet verloren gegaan; zij voegden zich bij de nieuwe elementen, met behulp waarvan het Hindoeïsme ontstond. Indië wierp diegenen uit, die er niet pasten en behield wat bij zijn aard en wezen paste. Het Boeddhisme liet echter op indischen grond, zooals ik reeds zeide, een secte achter, die het overleven zou. Het Dsjaïnisme heeft zijn oorsprong te danken aan Swami Mahavira, metgezel van Boeddha, misschien wel zijn leermeester, als men de teksten van de Dsjaïna's mag gelooven. Evenals de Boeddhisten verwerpen de Dsjaïna's de Veda, als dat boek in strijd is met hun leer, alsook de autoriteit der Brahmanen; ze houden geen rekening met de offeranden en leven in strikte zedelijkheid. Zij gelooven, dat hun verleden en hun toekomst van hun eigen handelingen afhangen en niet van den wil van God, en ze hebben een grooten eerbied voor het leven van menschen en dieren. Ze verdeelen den tijd in opeenvolgende era's en kennen aan elke era vier-en-twintig Dsjina's of rechtvaardigen toe, mannen, die volmaakt zijn geworden, door de menschelijke hartstochten te overwinnen. Er zijn er 24 geweest in het verleden; er bestaan in het tegenwoordige ook 24, en er zullen 24 in de toekomst wezen. Ze plaatsen in hun tempels kolossale marmeren beelden voor die Dsjina's. De Dsjaïna's worden in twee groote secten verdeeld, de Digambara's, in ruimte gekleed, en zoo genoemd, omdat de monniken van die secte de gewoonte hadden, geen kleederen te dragen. In Indië is namelijk de volkomen naaktheid aan zijn wijzen veroorloofd. De tweede secte is die der Swetambara's, wier monniken witte kleederen dragen. Deze bedienen zich steeds van een waaier en houden een lap voor den mond, om niet te dooden, want kleine levende wezens konden in hun mond komen en den dood vinden. Zij mogen een bedelschaal in de hand houden, om voedsel in ontvangst te nemen, dat de geloovigen hun geven, wat de Digambara's niet mogen doen. Dezen mogen de giften alleen in het holle van de hand aannemen. De monniken wonen niet samen in kloosters; ze reizen en trekken, leven van aalmoezen, en als ze behoefte hebben aan rust, trekken ze zich terug in rusthuizen, die vermogende Dsjaïna's voor hen hebben gebouwd. Vroeger waren ze verdeeld in talrijke broederschappen, waarvan nu nog vier of vijf over zijn. De leeken of Sjrawaks dragen noch heilig lint, noch teeken op het voorhoofd, noch houten halsband. Ze onderwerpen zich aan bepaalde reinigingen en hebben Brahmanen als dienstdoende geestelijken, al vereeren ze de monniken hoog. Hun godsdienstplichten zijn niet te vergelijken met die der Brahmanen, wier leven een onderwerping is aan nietigheden van den dienst; de gebeden van de Dsjaïna's zijn noch lang, noch ingewikkeld. De monniken worden aan geen enkelen regel gebonden, en de leeken zijn enkel gehouden aan een bezoek aan de tempels, waar ze driemaal moeten loopen om het beeld van hun heilige en buigen voor de andere kleine beelden, onder het aanbieden van een offer en het uitspreken van enkele formules. Goedsjerat is het uitverkoren land van die rijke en belangrijke secte; het aantal Dsjaïna's bedraagt in 't geheel nauwelijks een millioen. Als men het Dsjaïnisme zou willen omschrijven, kan men niet beter zeggen dan dat het een Boeddhisme is, voorzien van een mythologie niet van goden maar van heiligen. Inderdaad is het ideaal van een Dsjaïna een tempel te bouwen, waar hij het beeld van een zijner Dsjina's plaatsen kan, het steenen gebed, zooals ze zeggen en wat ook Fergusson heeft beweerd. Het gebed vindt dan zijn geloofsuitdrukking in de schoonheid der architectonische vormen en de pracht van het geheel. Zoo verklaart het zich, dat men zooveel prachtige Dsjaïna-tempels door geheel Indië vindt, bij voorbeeld bij de Aravalli, op den berg Aboe, in Bengalen te Parasnath; in Kathiawar op den heiligen berg Satrunjaya, eindelijk tegenover ons op het plateau van den Girnar, waar wij morgen den 22sten Dsjina gaan huldigen. Het bergmassief van den Girnar bestaat uit vijf toppen, den Amba Mata, bekroond met den tempel van de godin der primitieve tijden, Uma of Parvati; dan den Gorathnath, den hoogsten van alle, 3600 voet boven de zee; den Oghad Sikhara; den Datatreya en den Kalika. De Girnar was waarschijnlijk al een bedevaartplaats vóór den tijd van Asoka, te oordeelen naar de sporen van cellen van boeddhistische monniken, die men er nog vindt. Zijn wonderbare geschiedenis wordt verteld door Brahmanen zoowel als door Dsjaïna's; dertig hoofdstukken van de godsdienstige jaarboeken vieren zijn heiligheid in verhalen, die door de Brahmanen werden bedacht en gelegd in den mond van Siva, hun geliefden god. Elke bedevaartplaats heeft zoo haar boek, waarin zijn verzameld haar overleveringen, de godsdienstige gebruiken van de plek, de herstellingen, die in de heiligdommen worden aangebracht, de genealogie der heiligen, der weldoeners en der personen, die bedevaarten er heen hebben ondernomen. Volgens de Dsjaïna's hoorde Indra, toen hij aan Mahavira vroeg naar de namen der 25 heilige toppen, dat de vijfde was de groote berg Raivata, dat is de Girnar, die de vijfde wetenschap geeft, het eeuwig heil. De giften en gaven, die men er brengt, gelden voor verdiensten in deze wereld en in de andere, verdiensten, die alle zonden uitdelgen, begaan gedurende vele zielsverhuizingen. De wijzen hebben er geen materiëele zorgen meer; gelijk aan goden, brengen ze hun dagen door met het beoefenen van vrome werken en met de aanbidding van Nemi. De seizoenen zijn er betrouwbaar; de waterleidingen vloeien over van een nectar, door de goden geschonken; en eindelijk brengt de herinnering aan Raivata geluk. Het aanschouwen van den berg geneest ziekten, en als men er is geweest, worden al onze wenschen vervuld. Het landschap van den Girnar past bij zijn heiligheid. Het is er rustig en de eenzaamheid is er nu nog even gemakkelijk te vinden, als toen de berg bewoond werd door de monniken, die wijzen van de Veda's, aan wie Indië goddelijke vermogens toeschrijft. De lachende dalen, besproeid door heldere beken, de grotten, uitgehold in kloven in de rotsen, hebben nog hetzelfde aanzien. Zoo als ten tijde der pelgrimstochten de dichte menigte den top Amba Mata opgaat, in gewone tijden wonen alleen de dienstdoende priesters bij de heiligdommen, waar ze in het warme jaargetijde de aanwezigheid dulden van enkele bewoners van Junagadh, die de koelte komen zoeken; maar priesters, pelgrims, vreemdelingen, alle zonder onderscheid moeten zich onderwerpen aan de reglementen, die o.a. verbieden dierlijk voedsel te nuttigen op den heiligen berg; ook is alle handel er verboden, en kudden en herders moeten in de verte op de vlakte blijven. De Girnar is een plaats van rust voor vermoeide zielen, waar de Hindoe nieuwe kracht komt garen, bovennatuurlijke kracht, naar hij meent, en waar hij die verdiensten erlangt, die hem nieuwe beproevingen zullen besparen in nieuwe zielsverhuizingen. Onze excursie naar de tempels van den Girnar had op 12 Februari plaats. De heer C. Ch. Dhru wilde ons wel de noodige inlichtingen geven en voegde bij al zijn goedheden die van ons te vergezellen. Wij vertrokken tegen zeven uur in den morgen bij heerlijk weêr. Wij zouden dezelfde etappen nemen als de pelgrims. Toen we de Wagheswaripoort uit waren gegaan, volgden we den weg naar den Asokasteen, dien we rechts lieten liggen. Nadat men de brug over is gegaan over de Sonarekh, gaat men door een aardig dal, dat boschrijk is en naar den Damodar Kund leidt, zoo genoemd naar Krisjna of Damodar en een meer vormend van het water der Sonarekh. Er voert een brug over de Damodar Kund, die gebouwd is op bevel van den diwan Haridas. Het al te bescheiden opschrift vermeldt niet den naam van den edelmoedigen schenker; er is slechts sprake van een zoon, die hoopt, dat de zegeningen der pelgrims zijn ziel ten goede zullen komen, en dat de verdiensten van het werk in aanmerking zullen worden genomen naast die van zijn hoogvereerde moeder. Er wordt aan het water van de Kund een vreemde werking toegeschreven, die namelijk van menschelijke beenderen op te lossen, en daarom hebben de Hindoes een crematorium in de buurt gebouwd of eigenlijk een verbrandingsterrein. Toen wij over de brug gingen, steeg een lichte rookwolk boven de Burning Ghat omhoog, een donkere en sombere vlek, die een weemoedige tint werpt over het zonnige land. Wat heb ik nu al veel van die brandstapels gezien, voor het meerendeel van arme menschen, zoo maar opgericht aan den oever der rivier of aan een of ander zandig strand, opdat des avonds, als de vloed opkomt, deze den doode, die misschien maar half verbrand is, meevoere naar zee! Aan den voet van den berg, te Chadani Vav, begon de eigenlijke bergbestijging, en daar veranderde ons vervoermiddel. De vier doli's en de zestien dragers, die besteld waren, wachtten ons op. De doli is een soort van armstoel zonder pooten, gelijkend, naar men zegt, op een romeinsch zadel, gedragen op vier lange stokken, die rusten op de schouders van vier sterke koelies. Ik zal nooit toestemmen, dat het een aangename manier van reizen is. Ik ben geen liefhebster van den draagstoel, al had ik er in reisbeschrijvingen soms vol geestdrift van hooren spreken. Nu kan ik bijna niet onder woorden brengen, wat ik heb uitgestaan, toen ik voor de eerste maal van dat vervoermiddel gebruik maakte. Het was te Udvada; op den weg naar den Vuurtempel, dus vele mijlen ver, liggend in dat smalle bed van antieken vorm en beschut door een klein zeil, hoorde ik steeds de gejaagde ademhaling van mijn dragers; ik zag het zweet vloeien langs hun bruine lijven. "Arme broeders," zei ik tot mijzelve, "vergeeft het mij, dat ik den moed niet heb, uw diensten te weigeren!" En dat was een eenvoudig ritje over een vlakken weg, die goed onderhouden was, terwijl nu een bestijging van meer dan 2000 voet moest plaats hebben. Toch was dat gevoel bij mij wel wat overdreven; in den tijd der bedevaarten volvoeren de pelgrims soms meermalen per dag den tocht omhoog en ze blijven er gezond bij. Zij houden van hun vak, worden goed betaald en klagen niet. Dus moest ik mij er wel in schikken; mijn staat van herstellende zieke legt mij den plicht op, volgzaam te zijn, en mijn waardigheid van gast van den diwan is mede een reden, om gehoorzaam de doli te bestijgen. Stapje voor stapje, of eigenlijk trap voor trap, ging de bestijging. Vroeger moesten de bedevaartgangers zich, zoo goed en zoo kwaad als het ging, een weg banen te midden der rotsblokken en van het rotspuin en op enkele plaatsen waren dan uitgesleten trappen, terwijl vijf herbergen aan den weg hem onderdak of een verfrissching boden. Maar nu hebben granieten trappen, die breed en gemakkelijk zijn, maar nog al eens glad en vuil, en die om de rots heen loopen, den ouden weg vervangen. Die antieke trap was al gebouwd in 1166 en 1167 op kosten van een zekeren Amba, zoon van Raning, van de kaste der Sjromali's; ze werd hersteld in 1627 door een genootschap van pelgrims en eindelijk, in 1899, door de zorgen van de Girnar lottery, die meer dan 500,000 francs uitgaf om de trap in den tegenwoordigen staat te brengen en om bruggen te laten slaan op de gevaarlijke punten tusschen Ambaji en Jorakhnath. Wij bepaalden de volgorde van den tocht. Vóór mij mijn moeder, goed beschut door haar zonnepet en stevig gezeten in den stoel op de schouders van haar dragers, dezelfde als van lord Curzon naar het schijnt; haar trouwe François naast haar. Dan kom ik en dan mijn secretaris, die in zijn hoedanigheid van gegradueerde van de universiteit van Bombay, in diepe gedachten verzonken is, waarvan het resultaat, zooals hij mij heeft verteld, een artikel zal zijn in een der dagbladen van Surate. Ik kan mij dus ongehinderd overgeven aan de overpeinzingen, waartoe de plaats en de herinneringen uitnoodigen; maar weldra worden ze op den achtergrond gedrongen door de bekoorlijkheid van het landschap; ik zie alleen nog met mijn physieke oogen de bewonderenswaardige tooneelen, die zich ontrollen en die winnen in grootschheid naarmate we hooger komen. Aan onze voeten liggen Junagadh, de Uperkot en de vlakten van Kathiawar en rondom hebben wij de boschrijke hoogten van den Girnar. Het is een verrukkelijk panorama. De ernstige stilte wordt alleen verbroken door zachte geluiden in de boomen; kleine, onschuldige aapjes spelen en doen den voorbijganger geen hinder. Bij de eerste halt stegen we uit aan den eenzamen weg, die sinds het woeden van de pest en den hongersnood verlaten is. De bedevaarten worden niet meer gehouden, want ieder gaat op eigen gelegenheid. Enkele pelgrims rusten in de herbergen uit; andere klimmen naar de hoogten, en er zijn er ook, die met hun stokken al hebben geraakt aan den heiligen grond van de toppen van Dattar en Gorakhnath. Allen komen van ver. Als men rustig met hen kon praten, wat zou men dan een goede voorstelling van de Hindoeziel krijgen, en als men ergens de geheimen van die ziel mocht onderzoeken, dan zou het zeker aan den Girnar zijn. Jonge vrouwen, in haar kleurige gewaden, komen met neergeslagen oogen van den Amba Mata, en de jonggehuwden brengen aan de godin cocosnoten en andere geschenken, opdat ze hun zegen schenke. Er waren veel asceten, die met verwarde haren en het lichaam met asch bedekt, in lompen gehuld rondliepen; een van hen was in een grot gehuisvest, waar we hem een bezoek brachten. In de oogen van den Europeaan zijn die waardelooze wezens in een goed georganiseerde maatschappij tot niets nut; maar voor den Indiër heeft de godsdienstige bedelaar zijn reden van bestaan, als de vertegenwoordiger van het oude ideaal van ascetisme en armoede. Is in Manoe niet het ascetisme de laatste etappe van het menschenleven? Volgens Boeddha is immers armoede de ware rijkdom. De asceten van tegenwoordig worden in veel klassen verdeeld; op den top van de ladder staat de Sanyasi, gewoonlijk Brahmaan van afkomst; daarna, veel lager, volgen de Yogi's, de Bawa's, de Sadhoes en de Gosains, die tot de lagere kasten behooren. Die laatsten leven in groepen, bedelen van huis tot huis, doen aan veel bijgeloovige gebruiken, en leggen zichzelven lichaamskwellingen op. In groepen staande om de heiligdommen, maken ze deel uit van de pelgrimages en komen ten laatste in de kloosters van hun secte terecht. Soms komen ze aan den weg om, maar al zou men hen in Frankrijk vagebond noemen, in Indië zijn het heiligen! Die bedelaars worden er gerekend tot de groote moreele krachten van het land. Zij dwalen zwijgend door de straten, bewegen zich onder de menigte, komen in de tempels en in de gezinnen, en de grootste moderne geesten zien in die ongelukkigen vertegenwoordigers van de onsterfelijke denkers van den godsdienst. Er zijn zelfs ministers geweest, die het hof en hun betrekking verlieten, om hun leven in ascetisme te besluiten. Die minachting voor den rijkdom, die niet zonder grootheid is, vindt men ook terug in de kringen van studenten. Zoo stellen zich de professoren van Fergusson college te Poenah tevreden met een allerminiemst salaris, en het zijn geleerden van den allereersten rang. Het leven van vrijheid en overpeinzing schijnt wonderlijk goed in dit land te huis te zijn. "Wanneer toch zal ik", zoo vraagt de boeddhistische monnik, "wonen in een grot op de bergen, alleen, zonder metgezellen, met de bewustheid van de wisselvalligheid des levens? Wanneer zal dat heerlijk lot het mijne zijn? Wanneer zal ik wijs wezen en in kleeren van lompen, met niets, dat ik het mijne kan noemen, en zonder begeerten, zonder liefde, haat en dwaling vroolijk op de bergen wonen?" De trappen, die al steiler worden, leiden naar een plateau, waar de eerste tempels zijn gebouwd, eerste etappe op meer dan 2000 voet hoogte. Men treedt er binnen door een groot portaal, dat tot een ruim gebouw toegang geeft, een zomerpaleis of fort, waarvan de ruïnen nu dienen als woning voor de priesters en hun bedienden. Aan den ingang is het opschrift, dat een verkorte lijst bevat van de vorsten uit de dynastie der Chudasama's. Vóór we binnengingen, werden we gelaten in een koele, donkere zaal, waar men ons verzocht, onze schoenen uit te trekken, om aardige laarsjes van rood laken ervoor in de plaats te stellen, met goud geborduurd, waarna we waardig zijn de gewijde ruimte te betreden. Er waren in de rotsen zalen uitgehouwen, en zoo vormden de dsjaïna-tempels een soort van forten. Er was een galerij omheen met cellen of nissen, die hetzelfde beeld vertoonen in verschillende grootte. Deze tempels zijn de mooiste van den Girnar; de andere, die in de buurt verspreid zijn of op de hellingen der bergen, zijn minder rijk of van jonger datum. De eerste is die van Neminath, aan wien de berg is gewijd; oudtijds was de hoofdingang aan den zuidkant; maar die entrée is verboden en men komt nu binnen door een ingang in het Khengarpaleis. Het gebouw staat op een vierkant plein van 190 bij 130 voet; op een zuil in een der zalen zegt een opschrift, dat het in 1278 werd hersteld, en hieruit kan men den ouderdom wel zoo wat afleiden. Er zijn twee zalen en een heiligdom, waar een zwart marmeren standbeeld staat van Neminath, behangen met versierselen van goud en edelgesteenten. Rondom liep een gang met marmeren beelden, die oogen hadden van rotskristal. In de tweede zaal bemerkt men twee platforms van fijn gesteente, bedekt met afbeeldingen van voeten in paren, ter herinnering aan de 2452 voeten der eerste leerlingen van Neminath. Natuurlijk kan men nauwelijks een derde ervan terugvinden. Al die wijde ruimten, overgoten met het heldere morgenlicht, waren aangrijpend van helderheid en witheid. Er waren in de zalen slechts enkele pelgrims en de brahmaansche priesters van den Girnar. Onze tegenwoordigheid wekte in het minst geen onwelwillende nieuwsgierigheid. Het was mijn eerste betreden van een tempel der Dsjaïna's; ik had nog nooit een dienst bijgewoond, zooals later in Palitana en Calcutta, diensten, die trouwens zeer eenvoudig zijn en hoofdzakelijk bestaan uit het zingen van priesters onder begeleiding van muziek en het branden van wierook voor de beelden. Ik hoopte, het beeld te zien van Amyhara, dat in een onderaardsch verblijf wordt bewaard en waarvan het heet, dat het zweet. Om den tempel loopt een gesloten galerij met opengewerkte afsluiting, waarin kleine nissen met de vaak herhaalde beelden van den zittenden Dsjina Parasnath. Aan den zuidkant leidt een doorgang tusschen twee nissen of cellen naar een lage zaal, gesteund door granieten zuilen. Tegenover den ingang stonden twee groote beelden van zwart marmer, met daarbij een liggenden leeuw en een krokodil. Bij het rookende licht van onze fakkels kon men weinig onderscheiden. Deze onderaardsche verblijven maakten deel uit van de vroegere kloosters. Een lage deur voerde ons in een duister vertrek, waar we werden verzocht om af te dalen of liever ons te laten zakken in een lagere zaal. Daar troont in eenzame majesteit, in eeuwig zwijgen, het beroemde beeld van Parasnath. Toen ik in zijn tegenwoordigheid werd toegelaten, kon ik niet nalaten een stap achteruit te doen. Het type is dat van de andere Dsjaïna-beelden, met de handen gekruist over de zilveren voeten, die ook gekruist zijn, het gelaat verlicht door groote, amandelvormige oogen, aangeduid door schitterende plekken, en den fijnen mond, die glimlacht, terwijl de lange oorlellen op de schouders afhangen. De vlam speelde op die zonderlinge figuur met felle licht- en schaduwplekken, en de indruk was niet aangenaam, zoo onaangenaam zelfs, dat ik geen aandacht had voor een der andere beelden, o.a. dat van Neminath aan mijn rechterhand, en dat ik gauw mijn plaats afstond aan mijn moeder en de anderen. Dit beeld wordt in hooge eere gehouden door de leden der secte en door de priesters. Wat de legende betreft van den fameusen waterdruppel, die uit zijn oor vloeit en een gat boort in den schouder, daar zal ik niet bij stil staan. Toch heeft hij aan het beeld den naam van Amyhara bezorgd, dat is druppel nectar. Met veel genoegen stegen we weer omhoog naar het licht en na het verblijf in die vochtige holen was het zien van het zonlicht een vreugde. Op den Girnar behoeft er geen vrees te bestaan, dat het felle licht den indruk der heiligdommen zal bederven. Het speelt integendeel in het beeldhouwwerk der plafonds, glijdt langs de nissen en om de pilaren en doet nooit die vervallen oudheid zien, die in andere deelen van Indië de monumenten kenmerkt. Het is of de Girnar een eeuwige jeugd geniet. Nu moesten wij nog een oog slaan op de pleinen, waar geen duimbreed gronds ongebruikt is gelaten. Men heeft er heiligdommen opgericht voor schutsgoden, bij voorbeeld Amba Mata, en kleine monumenten zijn gebouwd boven de voetstappen der hoogepriesters. Ons links wendend, zonder den eigenlijken tempelkring of Deva Kota te verlaten, vonden we een groep van drie tempels, die van Rishabhdev, Merakvasi en Sangharam Soni. De eerste bevat het kolossale beeld van Rishabhdev, den eersten Dsjina of Tirtankara; het is bedekt met pleister en draagt op elken schouder een staanden persoon in een houding van nadenken. De beide andere munten uit door de schoonheid der zolderingen en de détails van het beeldhouwwerk; het is alles schitterend. Tot aan den tijd van ons bezoek was het onmogelijk gebleken, er een photografie van te nemen door het witte en diffuse licht, dat tot in de verste hoekjes dringt. Misschien is men er later beter in geslaagd. Het heiligdom ligt op het Westen, een omstandigheid, die verklaard wordt door de vroegere bestemming van deze monumenten, die paleizen waren. Woonden in dergelijke woningen de echtgenooten van de Chudasama's? In den tempel van Sangharam Soni herkent men nog het best aan de proporties een koninklijke residentie. Die tempel is gewijd aan Parasnath, wiens modern standbeeld er te zien is. Buiten de Deva Kota vinden we eerst den tempel van den Rajah Samprati, die zeker de mooiste is door de gratie zijner lijnen, zijn prachtige ligging op de helling van den berg, en zijn plafondschilderingen, waarin de kunstenaars der Dsjaïna's zichzelven hebben overtroffen. Hij is ook de oudste van de groep van den Girnar; een opschrift in het inwendige geeft als tijd van de stichting het jaar 1158 aan. Aan de noordzijde, een weinig afgezonderd van de groep, staat de Kumarpal, waarvan het lange portiek door 24 zuilen wordt gedragen. Het gebouw was in de vorige eeuw bijna verwoest; er was nog slechts een enkele zaal over. Toen de Dsjaïna's tot de herstelling besloten, bespeurden ze, dat een sivaïetisch bankier er bezit van had genomen, om er een voor hem heilig beeld te plaatsen. In wanhoop dreigden ze, dat ze, als men hun het eigendom niet teruggaf, tot de plechtigheid van het _dharna_ te zullen overgaan, dat wil zeggen, bij de poort van den tempel te gaan zitten en te vasten tot de dood zou intreden, zoolang ze hun bezit niet terug hadden. De partijen kwamen tot een vergelijk, en volgens het opschrift had de restauratie in 1824 plaats; het heiligdom bevat drie beelden. Eindelijk is er ten oosten van de Deva Kota, rechts van den weg die naar het heiligdom van Amba Mata leidt, de drievoudige tempel van Vestupal Tejpal. De dsjaïnische kunst ontplooit er al haar pracht in de versiering der zolderingen, der pilaren en der koepels; ongelukkig heeft het beeldhouwwerk veel geleden. Het monument is zeer oud en werd in 1229 opgericht door den minister van een koning van Goedsjerat en zijn broeder. Het bezoek der tempels, hoe vlug het ook plaats had, was lang en vermoeiend geweest; ik heb er slechts een flauw denkbeeld van kunnen geven, en moet veel karakteristieke détails voorbijgaan; maar daar ik er geen foto's van kon krijgen, zou de beschrijving geen doel treffen. De heer K. Ch. Dhru noodigde ons op een déjeûner in de voor gasten bestemde zaal; maar in zijn hoedanigheid van Brahmaan mocht hij niet aan onzen maaltijd deelnemen. Aan tafel liep het gesprek over de dingen, waar wij van vervuld waren, vooral over den oorsprong en de ontwikkeling der dsjaïnische kunst. Het was trouwens slechts de herhaling van de meeningen der groote autoriteiten en van de indrukken der reizigers, in het bijzonder van Tod, wiens levendige beschrijvingen mij lust hadden gegeven, naar Girnar te gaan en mij tot geestdrift hadden gestemd. Minder begunstigd dan hij, werd het ons niet vergund, den nacht door te brengen op het mooie platform van de Deva Kota, en geen bliksemstraal, die de wolken scheurde, stond ons toe, met een enkelen blik de vlakten van Kathiawar en de verre oevers van Mangrol en Pattan te omvatten. Doch waarom getreurd, de helderheid der atmosfeer, het vriendelijke landschap, de zachtheid der temperatuur passen bij een streek, die de woonplaats der goden is geweest, en dat is de indruk, dien wij wenschen mee te nemen. Toen het déjeûner was afgeloopen, hervatten we onzen tocht naar den top van den berg; we moesten nog 600 voet stijgen. Links van ons boven de tempels teekende zich op de lucht een groot blok graniet af, de Bairav Jap, Sprong van den Dood, van waar de ongelukkigen, die met de bevrijding van hun kwalen de belooning hoopten te vinden voor hun wanhoopsdaad, zich naar beneden stortten, een belooning, die hen van treurig misdeelden en nederige proletariërs zou maken tot heeren en vorsten in het paradijs van Indra. Het slachtoffer, gedost in zijn mooiste kleederen, gaat naar den rand van den afgrond; met den voet rustend op een cocosnoot, balanceert hij een oogenblik en glijdt dan in het ledige, waar zijn lichaam op de punten der rotsen te pletter valt. Er werden ons veel voorbeelden genoemd van deze soort van godsdienstigen zelfmoord; maar de engelsche politie verzet zich krachtig tegen de ellendige praktijk. Meestentijds zijn de ongelukkigen van beperkt verstand, door geestdrijvers ingepakt en soms onder den invloed van alcoholische dranken. Tweehonderd meter boven de Deva Kota moet men niet verzuimen, een blik te werpen op het heiligdom van Mahadav en zijn heilig waterbekken, waar de pelgrims hun wasschingen moeten verrichten. Wij bestijgen de laatste treden, die naar den tempel van Amba Mata voeren, en terwijl onze beminnelijke gids zijn godsdienstplichten vervult, brengen wij een bezoek aan het inwendige. De priesters haastten zich een armen asceet te verjagen, wiens staat van naaktheid zijn verdwijning achter de rotsen rechtvaardigt. De tempel, die tot vrij hooge oudheid opklimt, is van zwart graniet gebouwd; hij was vroeger door een portiek omgeven, maar de bogen zijn dichtgemetseld. In 1889, toen de bliksem het gebouw had beschadigd, werd het hersteld door de Hindoes van Junagadh. Het inwendige is zoo donker, dat men ternauwernood het beeld van Amba Mata kan herkennen, de godin der oude tijden, een der gedaanten van Uma of Parvati. De zindelijkheid liet veel te wenschen over, en enkele reizigers hebben de weinig vleiende opmerking gemaakt, dat de tempel niet geveegd schijnt te zijn, sinds de Boeddhisten of de Dsjaïna's hem aan de Brahmanen hebben afgestaan. Wij offeren ons penningske, en we gaan het uitzicht bewonderen, want van den Amba Mata kan men het gansche bergstelsel van den Girnar overzien. In het Oosten, vrij dicht bij ons, de Goraknath, gekroond met een tempeltje, gewijd aan den leerling van den een of anderen heilige; wat verder de Dattar, die geen spoor van eenigen plantengroei vertoont op zijn flanken van graniet; op den top staat een gebouwtje, dat de voetstappen van Neminath bedekt, en waar, naar beweerd wordt, de dsjina het Nirvana bereikte; en eindelijk, lager, de Kalika met een tempel voor de godin Kalika. Lagere bergen staan als een gordel om de hooge, en in het Zuiden breidt zich het woudgebied van den Gir uit. Alle dalen van het bergland en der lagere ketenen zijn bosch- en wildrijk. De Kalika staat in een niet te besten reuk, waardoor de geheele groep van bergen min of meer berucht is. Hij heeft tot in de jongste tijden tot woonplaats gediend aan de Aghori's. Een Aghori is iets verschrikkelijks, oordeelt men in Indië, en niet ten onrechte, zooals wij zullen zien. Als godsdienstige secte zijn de Aghori's zeer oud en worden in de geschiedenis vermeld als menscheneters. De schrijver van "Dabistan", een werk uit de 17de eeuw, verhaalt, dat hij een Aghori gezien heeft, die een lijkzang zong, zittend op een lijk, dat hij verslond, ofschoon het al tot ontbinding was overgegaan. Deze schepsels aanbidden de godin Aghori Mata, maar van eigenlijken godsdienst kan bij hen geen sprake zijn, evenmin als van eenig wijsgeerig systeem, al beweren zij, dat ze de logische consequenties aanvaarden van de pantheïstische philosofie der Vedanta. Vroeger deden ze aan menschenoffers, en de plechtigheden bij hun inwijding waren iets monsterachtigs, terwijl ze tot op onzen tijd nog zeer weerzinwekkend moeten wezen. Het is bewezen, dat de leden der secte gedwongen worden, menschenvleesch te eten; om zich te verontschuldigen, beweren zij, dat hun hoofden hen uit de gemeenschap zouden stooten, als ze weigerden, zich aan die afschuwelijke gewoonte te onderwerpen, en dat ten overvloede de smaak van menschenvleesch hun de kennis verschaft van de onzienlijke dingen. Ze komen niet dikwijls te zamen; maar te Benares zijn er nog velen en daar zwerven ze om de kerkhoven rond, om den deelnemers aan begrafenissen geld af te persen. Ziehier het portret van den Aghori, geteekend door de hand van een kenner. "Zwart, vuil, harig, de oogen met bloed beloopen, de neusgaten wijd uitstaande, lange nagels, een met zweren bedekt lichaam, het haar vol ongedierte, in volkomen naaktheid, zoo is de Aghori. Hij ziet uit de oogen als een krankzinnige, lacht ook als zulk een ongelukkige, laat de tong uit den mond hangen en heeft vuile tanden. Nooit wascht of reinigt hij zich; hij voedt zich met krengen en lescht zijn dorst met rottend water, in de eene hand houdt hij een schedel vast en in de andere een of ander martelwerktuig. Aldus heeft Malabari hem beschreven. De Aghori's hebben altijd schrik verspreid, waar ze zich vertoonden, en op het platte land vreesden hen de moeders, omdat men kinderroof van hen kende. Hun voornaamste verblijf was de berg Kalika. Thans zijn ze bijna verdwenen; maar de berg is nog berucht door hun vroegere aanwezigheid. Toen kwam de tijd, dat wij aan vertrekken moesten denken. Het ging bliksemsnel bergaf. Wat mij betreft, ik was zoo ingenomen met mijn lakensche laarsjes, met goud geborduurd, en ik was er zoo gemakkelijk mee geschoeid, dat ik besloot, te voet naar beneden te gaan in gezelschap van den heer Dhru. Moeder hernam ernstig haar plaats in den draagstoel; maar ik had niet voorzien, wat er met haar en de doli zou gebeuren; pas waren de stokken stevig op de schouders van de koelies geplant, of dezen gingen er in galop van door, sprongen als geiten over de granieten treden, vlogen langs de corniches op geen twee vingers afstands van den afgrond en mijn moeder werd in dien dollen ren meegevoerd! De heer Dhru had met zijn zachtheid en beleefdheid moeite, mij gerust te stellen. Onze bediende François was doodverschrikt en sloeg met zijn armen in de lucht. Nu was het de beurt van mijn secretaris, wiens dragers die van mijn moeder volgden op eenigen afstand; in 45 minuten waren ze allen beneden aangeland. Toen ik mijn moeder terugvond, was ze heel kalm, hoewel wat verbaasd over den dollen tocht; ze vond het zelfs wel een aardige ervaring, en we hadden er drie dagen later weer plezier van op den rit naar Palitana, waar we niet zoo verschrikt behoefden te zijn over de haast, waarmee we toen daalden. In het Lal Bagh teruggekeerd, werd ons gezegd, dat de eerste minister terug was en dat hij ons tegen den avond een bezoek zou komen brengen. Het was ons een genoegen, persoonlijk kennis met hem te maken en hem onzen dank te betuigen voor de gastvrijheid, die wij te Junagadh hadden gevonden. De heer Chunilal Sarabhai heeft een schitterende loopbaan gehad. Hij is uitstekend op de hoogte van den godsdienstigen, financiëelen en staatkundigen toestand van de streek, is minister geweest in verscheiden naburige staten, waar men hem in moeilijke omstandigheden te hulp riep. Hij is Brahmaan van de kaste der Nagars en geboortig uit Ahmedabad; zijn voorvaderen onderscheidden zich in den dienst van de keizers van Delhi, waardoor ze den titel van Hazaret en den post van diwan van Goedsjerat kregen. Het gesprek liep over de meest verschillende onderwerpen, den hongersnood, de besproeiingswerken, de maatschappelijke hervormingen, en bij dat gesprek gaf ik mij eerst goed rekenschap van de beteekenis, die voor Indië moet worden gehecht aan die mannen, die langen tijd er de zaken hebben bestuurd en bij wie de engelsche regeering hulp zoekt, als ze de reorganisatie van de toestanden ter hand neemt. Het zou onverstandig wezen, in het zoo teêre raderwerk der inlandsche staten in te laten grijpen door menschen, die alleen een europeesche universitaire opleiding hebben genoten. De groote ministers, zooals de Brahmaan Madhav Rao, die de orde heeft hersteld in de staat Baroda; Salar Jung, die een steun in Nizam is geweest, zij hebben succes gehad daar, waar Engelschen en verengelschte Indiërs schipbreuk hebben geleden. Den volgenden dag vertrokken wij naar Palitana, om ons bezoek aan de tempels te voltooien met een tocht naar den berg van Sattrunjaya, en na drie dagen, doorgebracht ten huize van Z. H. den takore Masingji, begaven we ons weer terug naar Ahmedabad. AANTEEKENING [1] Berg in het Noordwesten van Voor-Indië op het schiereiland Goedsjerat. End of Project Gutenberg's De monumenten van den Girnar, by D. Menant

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:31.224725

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Produced by Tapio Riikonen SISAR ROSA Seitsemässä luvussa kertonut Charles Dickens Suomennos Englannin kielestä. Helsingissä, Suomalaisen Kirjallisuuden Seuran kirjapainossa, 1879. ENSIMMÄINEN LUKU. "Hyvin, herra Guillaume; mitä uutta muutoin tänä iltana?" "Ei mitään, tietääkseni, herra Justin, paitsi tuo neiti Rosan huomenna tapahtuva naiminen". "Hyvin kiitollinen, kunnioitettava vanha ystäväni, niin hauskasta ja odottamattomasta vastauksesta minun kysymykseeni. Siihen katsoen että minä olen herra Danville'n palvelija, hänen, joka näyttelee tuota tärkeätä sulhasen osaa siinä pikku hääkomediassa, jota tarkoitatte, luulen voivani vakuuttaa teille, ilman loukkaamatta, että uutisenne on, mikäli se minuun koskee, mitä vanhinta laatua. Ottakaa nuuskaa hyppysellinen, herra Guillaume, ja suokaa minulle anteeksi, jos ilmoitan teille kysymykseni tarkoittaneen yleisiä uutisia, eikä niiden kahden perheen yksityisiä asioita, joiden taloudellisia etuja meidän on kunnia edistää". "Minä en ymmärrä mitä tarkoitatte semmoisella puheenparrella kuin 'edistää taloudellisia etuja', herra Austin. Minä olen palvelijana herra Louis Trudaine'lla, joka asuu tässä sisarensa, neiti Rosan, kanssa. Te olette palvelijana herra Danville'lla, jonka oiva äiti on saanut aikaan naimisliiton hänen ja nuoren emäntäni välillä. Koska molemmat olemme palvelijoita, ovat hauskimmat uutiset, mitkä meitä voi viehättää, ne, jotka koskevat isäntiemme onnea. Minulla ei ole mitään tekemistä yleisten asiain kanssa; ja ollen vanhan opin miehiä, pidän minä omien asioiden hoitamista pää-asiana elämässä. Jos meidän kotoiset, perheelliset asiamme eivät teitä huvita, niin sallikaa minun lausua mielipahani siitä ja toivottaa teille hyvin hauskaa iltaa". "Suokaa anteeksi, hyvä herra, vaan minä en anna vähintäkään arvoa tuolle vanhalle opille, enkä voi kärsiä ihmisiä, jotka pitävät ainoastaan omista asioistaan. Kuitenkin minä, samoin kuin te, lausun mielipahani ja toivotan hauskaa iltaa; ja toivon löytäväni teidät korjaantuneena mielenlaadun, puvun, käytöksen ja ulkonäön suhteen, ensi kerran kun saan kunnian teitä tavata. Hyvästi, herra Guillaume, ja eläköön vähäpätöisyys!" Tämä kahdenpuhe tapahtui kauniina kesä-iltana vuonna seitsemäntoista sataa kahdeksankymmentä yhdeksän, muutaman pienen rakennuksen edustalla Seinen joen rannalla, noin peninkulman päässä Rouen'in kaupungista. Toinen puhuja oli laiha, vanha, karmea ja rähjäpukuinen; toinen oli lihava, nuori, pöyhkiäkäytöksinen, sekä puettu sen aikakauden mitä loistavimpaan palvelijanpukuun. Todellisen keikariuden viimeiset päivät olivat lähestymässä koko sivistyneessä maailmassa; ja herra Justin oli, omalla tavallaan, pukunsa täydellisyyden suhteen elävä kuva tämän aikakauden hälvenevästä loistosta. Vanhan palvelijan mentyä, seisoi hän muutaman hetken sangen ylpeällä katseella tarkastellen sitä pikku taloa, jonka edustalla keskustelu oli tapahtunut. Akkunoista päättäen se ei voinut sisältää enemmän kuin kuusi tahi kahdeksan huonetta kaikkiansa. Ei ollut tallia eikä ulkohuoneita, vaan oli sen sijaan rakennuksen toiseen päähän liitetty säilyhuone ja toiseen päähän matala, pitkä, kirjaviksi maalatuista laudoista tehty huone. Yksi tämän huoneen akkunoista oli jätetty ilman peitotta, ja tästä saattoi katsella huoneen sisään, jossa näkyi, jonkunlaisen ison kyökkipöydän päällä, kummallisen värisiä nesteillä täytettyjä pulloja, oudon-muotoisia kuparisia ja muunmetallisia tarvekaluja, sekä iso keitin-uuni ja muita esineitä, jotka kaikki selvään osoittivat huonetta käytettävän kemialliseksi työhuoneeksi. "No jonkinlaisia, kun tuo morsiamemme velikin huvitteleiksen tuonlaisessa paikassa keittäen rohto-aineita kastikepannuissa", mutisi herra Justin, kurkistaen huoneesen. "Olen vähimmin arkatunteinen mies koko maailmassa; vaan se minun täytyy tunnustaa, etten tahtoisi meidän joutuvan yhteyteen naimisen kautta apteekkaritaidon harrastajan kanssa. Uh! Minä tunnen hajun saunan läpi". Näin sanoen herra Justin käänsi inholla selkänsä laboratoriolle ja läksi astumaan joen varrella oleville kallioille päin. Tultuansa ulos taloon kuuluvasta puutarhasta, astui hän viehättävää mäkeä ylös polvittelevaa polkua myöten. Päästyänsä korkeimmalle kohdalle, Seinen joen koko avara maisema kauniine viheriöine saarineen, raitarannikkoineen, kiitävine venheineen ja rantamajoineen siellä täällä, avautui hänen eteensä. Lännen puolella, jossa tasankomaa näkyi kaukaisempien joki-äyräitten takana, hehkui koko maisema laskeutuvan auringon ruskossa. Idän puolella pitkät varjot ja tummeamman valoiset välipaikat, karehtivassa vedenpinnassa värähtelevä kultaloisto, ja liikkumaton punainen tuliloisto majojen akkunoista, jotka heijastivat niihin sattuvia auringon säteitä, viettelivät silmää kauemmas ja kauemmas katsomaan, pitkin Seinen kierroksia, kunnes sitä viimein pysähytti Rouen'in tornit ja huiput ja laaja rakennusten ryhmä, sekä niiden takana perä-alana kohoavat metsäiset vuoret. Kaunis katsella kaikin aloin, oli tämä maisema melkein ylenluonnollisesti ihana nyt ilta-auringon loistossa. Ei mitkään sen viehätykset kuitenkaan vaikuttaneet mitään palvelijaan; hän seisoi haukotellen, kädet lakkarissa, oikealle tahi vasemmalle katsomatta, vaan tuijottaen suoraan eteensä pientä kalliossa olevaa koverrusta kohti, jonka takana jyrkkäys vähitellen alkoi. Tähän oli istuinpenkki asetettu, ja kolme henkilöä -- vanha rouva, herrasmies ja nuori neitonen -- istui siinä, katsellen auringon laskua ja siis selin herra Justin'iin. Lähellä heitä seisoi kaksi herrasmiestä, myös katsellen jokea ja kaukaista maisemaa. Nämä viisi henkeä vetivät yksinomaisesti puoleensa palvelijan huomaavaisuuden, niinkuin ei muita esineitä olisi ollut hänen ympärillään. "Siinä ne vielä ovat", puhui hän itsekseen nurkumielisenä. "Rouva Danville samalla paikalla istuimella; minun isäntäni, sulhaismies, velvollisuuttaan noudattaen hänen vieressään; neiti Rosa, morsian, kainosti taas hänen vieressään; herra Trudaine, tuo apteekkitaidon harrastaja ja morsiamen veli, hellämielisenä häntä lähinnä; ja herra Lomaque, tuo meidän kummallinen talonvoutimme, virallisesti koko seuran jatkona. Siinä ne vielä todellakin kaikki ovat, käsittämättömällä tavalla kuluttaen aikaansa, äänettöminä katsellen tyhjää! Niin", jatkoi herra Justin, väsyneen tapaan nostaen silmänsä ja katsoen pikaisesti, ensin jokea ylös, Rouen'iin päin, sitten jokea alas, laskeutuvaa aurinkoa kohti; "niin, rutto heidät vieköön, ovat katselleet tyhjää, todellista, pelkkää tyhjyyttä, kaiken tämän ajan". Taas alkoi herra Justin'ia haukottaa; ja, palattuansa puutarhaan, hän istuutui muutamaan lehtimajaan ja rupesi siinä malttavaisella mielellä nukkumatin kanssa kauppaa hieromaan. Jos palvelija olisi astunut lähemmäksi niitä henkilöitä, joita hän oli kaukaa tarkastellut, ja jos hänellä olisi ollut hienompi tarkkaamisvoima, olisi hän tuskin voinut olla huomaamatta huomispäivän morsiamen ja sulhasen sekä heidän kummallakin puolella olevien seuralaistensa, siis kaikkien, olevan, suuremmassa tai vähemmässä määrässä, jonkunlaisen salaisen ahdistuksen vaikutuksen alaisina, joka teki teeskennellyksi heidän keskustelunsa, heidän liikkeensä, ja vieläpä mielenilmauksetkin heidän kasvoissaan. Rouva Danville -- hyvännäköinen, koreasti puettu vanha nainen, kirkkailla silmillä ja epäluuloisuutta tietävällä käytöstavalla -- näytti sangen levolliselta ja onnelliselta niinkauan kuin hänen huomionsa oli poikaansa kiinnittynyt. Vaan kun hän kääntyi hänestä morsiameen, ilmautui levottomuus heti hänen kasvoihinsa -- levottomuus, joka muuttui tyytymättömyydeksi ja vieläpä inhoksikin, milloin hän vaan katsoi neiti Trudaine'n veljeen. Samoin hänen poikansa, joka oli pelkkää hymyä ja onnellisuutta puhellessaan tulevan vaimonsa kanssa, muuttui nähtävästi käytöksensä ja katseensa suhteen, aivan niinkuin hänen äitinsäkin muuttui, milloin vaan herra Trudaine'n läsnäolo erityisesti veri hänen huomiotaan puoleensa. Vouti taas -- tuo hiljainen, kuiva, laiha Lomaque, nöyrällä käytöksellään ja punareunaisilla silmillään -- ei koskaan katsahtanut isäntänsä lankoon, ilman heti kääntymättä levottomasti taas toisaanne katsomaan, ja seisoi muulloin miettiväisenä, kaivaen reikää nurmikkoon pitkällä teräväpäisellä kävely-kepillään. Itse morsiamessakin, tuossa kauniissa, viattomassa tytössä, jonka käytös oli niin lapsekas ja arkamainen, ilmautui jonkunlaista lunnonkiihoitusta samoin kuin muissakin. Epäillys, ellei tuska, varjosti hänen kasvojaan ajoittain; ja kätensä, jota hänen rakastajansa piteli, vapisi hiukan ja kävi levottomaksi kun hän sattui katsomaan veljensä silmiin. Eikä kuitenkaan, kummallista kyllä, löytynyt mitään inhoittavaa, vaan päinvastoin paljo miellyttävää sen henkilön katsannossa ja käytöksessä, jonka läsnäolo näytti tekevän semmoisen kummallisen ahdistavan vaikutuksen hää-seuraan. Louis Trudaine oli tavattoman kaunis mies. Hänen katsantonsa oli erinomaisen ystävällinen ja lempeä; hänen käytöksensä viehätti vastustamattomasti suoralla, miehekkäällä lujuudellaan ja vakaisuudellaan. Hänen sanansa, milloin hän sattui puhumaan, näyttivät olevan yhtä vähän loukkaavaa laatua kuin hänen katsantonsa; sillä hän aukasi suutaan ainoastaan kohteliaasti vastataksensa niihin kysymyksiin, jotka suorastaan lausuttiin hänelle. Päättäen hänen surullisesta äänestään ja murheellisesta lempeydestä, joka tummensi hänen ystävällistä ja vakaista katsettaan, milloin tämä sattui hänen sisareensa, eivät hänen ajatuksensa olleet onnellista eikä toivoisaa laatua. Mutta hän ei niitä ilmoittanut; hän ei tunkenut salaista murhettaan, mikä se sitten lienee ollutkin, kenellekään seurakumppaneistaan. Vaikka hän oli kaino ja mieltänsä malttava, näytti kuitenkin hänen läsnäolossaan olevan jotain nuhtelevaa ja kolkostuttavaa, joka vaikutti ahdistavaisesti jokaisen häntä lähellä olevan mieleen, ja synkistytti hää-aattoa niin morsiamelle kuin sulhaselle. Auringon painuessa vähitellen taivaanrannan taakse, laimentui keskuspuhe laimentumistaan. Pitkän äänettömyyden perästä oli sulhanen ensimmäinen alottamaan uutta puheen-ainetta. "Rosa, rakastettuni", sanoi hän, "tämä ihana auringonlasku on hyvänä enteenä meidän avioliitollemme, se lupaa toista kaunista päivää huomiseksi". Morsian hymyili ja punastui. "Uskotko sinä todellakin ennusmerkkejä, Charles?" sanoi hän. "Kultaseni", keskeytti vanha rouva, ennenkuin hänen poikansa ennätti vastata; "jos Charles uskoo ennusmerkkejä, ei se ole mitään naurettavaa. Olet kohta käsittävä asioita paremmin, kun tulet hänen vaimokseen, etkä arvostele hänen mielipiteitään pienimmissäkään seikoissa samoilla silmillä kuin yhteisen rahvaan turhia uskoja. Hänen vakuutuksensa on kaikissa asioissa niin vakavilla perustuksilla -- niin vakavilla, että jo minä luulisin hänen todellakin uskovan ennusmerkkejä, niin varmaan pakoittaisin mieltäni myös uskomaan niitä". "Minä pyydän anteeksi, madame", alkoi Rosa vavisten; minä vaan tarkoitin --" "Rakas lapseni, niinkö vähän sinä tunnet maailmaa että luulet minun voivani tulla loukatuksi --" "Antakaa Rosan puhua", sanoi nuori mies. Hän kääntyi äitiinsä näsäkkäästi, melkein kuin pilannut lapsi, näitä sanoja lausuessaan. Äiti oli katsellut poikaansa lempein ja ylpeilevin katsein tähän saakka. Nyt hän hämmästyneenä käänsi silmänsä hänestä; hän mietiskeli hetkisen osoittaen äkillistä hämmennystä, joka näytti olevan aivan vierasta hänen luonteelleen, kuiskasi sitten hänen korvaansa: "Olenko minä moitittava, Charles, siitä kun koetan saada häntä sinua arvossa pitämään?" Hänen poikansa ei ollut kysymyksestä milläänkään. Hän vaan lausui uudestaan karkeasti: -- "Antakaa Rosan puhua". "Ei minulla todellisesti ollut mitään sanottavaa", änkytti nuori tyttö, tullen enemmän ja enemmän hämille. "Mutta sinulla oli!" Oli semmoinen epäkohtelias tuikkaus hänen äänessään, semmoinen näsäviisaus hänen käytöksessään, näitä sanoja lausuessaan, että hänen äitinsä varottavaisesti nykäisi hänen käsivarttaan ja kuiskasi "Hsh!" Voutimies herra Lomaque ja velimies herra Trudaine, katsoivat molemmat tutkivasti morsiameen, näiden sanojen tullessa sulhasen suusta. Morsian näytti enemmän peljästyvän ja hämmästyvän, kuin suuttuvan tahi loukkautuvan. Omituinen hymy pani kureille Lomaque'n sileän naaman hänen katsellessaan teeskentelevästi alas maahan ja tehdessään uutta reikää nurmikkoon keppinsä terävällä päällä. Trudaine kääntyi äkkiä toisaanne ja astui huo'aten pari askelta; palasi takaisin ja näytti rupeavan puhumaan, vaan Danville keskeytti häntä hänen aikomuksessaan. "Anna minulle anteeksi, Rosa", sanoi hän; "minä olen niin luulevainen kaiken suhteen, joka vähänkään näyttää epäkohteliaisuudelta sinua kohtaan, että olin vähällä suuttua tyhjästä". Hän suuteli morsiamensa kättä hyvin hempeästi ja herttaisesti, pyytäessään anteeksi; vaan hänen silmissään näkyi salainen mielenilmaus, joka oli ristiriidassa hänen käytöksessään näkyvän innostuksen kanssa. Ei kukaan muu sitä huomannut kuin tuo tarkka ja nöyrä herra Lomaque, joka taas hymyili itsekseen ja kaiveli yhä hartaammasti reikäänsä nurmikossa. "Minä luulen herra Trudaine'n tahtoneen puhua jotakin", sanoi rouva Danville. Kenties me saamme kuulla mitä hän oli aikeissa sanoa". "Ei se ollut mitään, madame", vastasi Trudaine kohteliaasti. "Aikomukseni oli vaan omistaa itselleni tuo moite Rosan osoittamasta kunnioituksen puutteesta ennusmerkkien uskojia kohtaan, tunnustamalla, että minä aina olen kehoittanut häntä nauramaan kaikenlaiselle taika-uskolle". "Te olisitte taika-uskon pilkkaaja", sanoi Danville, kääntyen äkisti häneen. "Te, joka olette rakentaneet laboratorion; te, joka olette kemian salaisten tietojen harrastaja, 'Elämän veden' etsijä. Kunnian sanallani, te hämmästytätte minua!" Hänen äänessään, katseessaan ja käytöksessään oli pilkkaava kohteliaisuus, näitä sanoja lausuessaan, jotka hänen äitinsä ja myös voutinsa, herra Lomaque, täydelleen ymmärsivät selittää. Edellinen kosketteli taas poikansa käsivartta ja kuiskasi: "Ole varovainen!" Toinen tuli äkkiä hyvin totiseksi ja lakkasi kaivamasta reikää nurmikkoon. Rosa ei kuullut rouvaa Danville'n varoitusta, eikä huomannut muutosta Lomaque'ssa. Hän katseli veljeensä ja odotti iloisella herttaisella hymyllä hänen vastaustaan. Veli nyykäytti päätänsä ikäänkuin uudeksi vakuutukseksi sisarelleen, ennenkuin hän taas puhui Danville'lle. "Teillä on jokseenkin haaveksivaiset ajatukset kemiallisista kokeista", sanoi hän tyynesti. "Minun työlläni on niin vähän yhteyttä sen kanssa, mitä te nimitätte salaisiksi tiedoiksi, että koko maailma saa niitä katsella, jos maailma luulee sen maksavan vaivaa. Ainoa 'Elämänvesi' minkä minä tunnen on levollinen sydän ja tyytyväinen mieli. Nämä molemmat olen löytänyt jo vuosia sitten, kun Rosa ja minä ensin tulimme kahden asumaan taloon tuolla alhaalla". Hänen äänessään oli hiljainen murheellisuus, joka puhui paljoa enemmän hänen sisarellensa kuin sanat, mitkä hän lausui. Rosan silmiin tuli kyyneleet; hän kääntyi hetkeksi rakastajastaan, ja tarttui veljensä käteen. "Älä puhu, Louis, niinkuin aikoisit jättää sisaresi, sillä" -- Hänen huulensa rupesivat vapisemaan, ja hän vaikeni äkkiä. "Karsastelee pahemmin kuin koskaan ennen sinua siitä, että viet sisaren häneltä pois!" kuiskasi rouva Danville poikansa korvaan. "Ush! älä, Jumalan tähden, ole siitä milläsikään", lisäsi hän äkisti, nousten istuiltaan, ja katseli Trudainea selvästi osoittaen käytöksessään suuttumusta ja tuskastusta. Ennenkuin hän ennätti puhua ilmautui vanha palvelija Guillaume, ja ilmoitti kahvin olevan valmiina. Rouva Danville taas sanoi "Ush!" ja tarttui sukkelasti poikansa toiseen käsivarteen, tarjoten toista Rosalle. "Charles!" sanoi nuori tyttö, kummastuksella "kuin sinun kasvosi ovat punastuneet, ja miten käsivartesi vapisee!" Danville hillitsi itsensä silmänräpäyksessä, hymyili ja sanoi hänelle. "Voitko arvata mitä, Rosa? Minä ajattelin huomispäivää". Puhuessaan hän kulki aivan lähitse voutia, matkallaan takaisin taloon naisten kanssa. Hymy palasi herra Lomaque'n sileisin kasvoihin ja omituinen valo välähti hänen punareunaisissa silmissään, alkaessaan uutta reikää taas kaivaa nurmikkoon. "Ettekö tahdo käydä sisään, kahvia juomaan?" kysyi Trudaine, koskettaen voudin käsivartta. Herra Lomaque säpsähti vähän ja jätti keppinsä pistettynä maahan. "Tuhansia kiitoksia, hyvä herra", sanoi hän; "saanko luvan seurata teitä?" "Tunnustan tämän ihanan illan tekevän minut vähän vastahakoiseksi jättämään tätä paikkaa juuri nyt". "Ah! luonnon suloisuus -- minä tunnen tien samoin kuin te, herra Trudaine: minä tunnen sen täällä". Näin sanoen Lomaque pani toisen kätensä sydämensä kohdalle, toisella vetäen keppinsä ylös nurmikosta. Hän oli katsellut yhtä vähän maisemaa tahi laskeutuvaa aurinkoa kuin itse herra Justin. He istuutuivat vieretysten tyhjälle penkille; ja sitten seurasi ikävä äänettömyys. Nöyrä Lomaque oli liian varovainen unhottaakseen paikkaa missä hän oli ja aloittaakseen uutta puheenainetta. Trudaine'n mieli oli kiintynyt luonnon kauneuteen ja hän oli hyvin vähän taipuvainen puhumiseen. Oli kuitenkin välttämätöntä, yleisen kohteliaisuuden vuoksi, sanoa jotakin. Tuskinpa itsekään tarkaten omia sanojaan, alkoi Trudaine jokapäiväisellä puheenparrella. -- "Olen pahoillani, herra Lomaque, ettei meillä ole ollut enempää tilaisuutta tullaksemme paremmiksi tuttaviksi". "Tunnen olevani suuressa kiitollisuuden velassa", sanoi vouti, "kunnioitettavalle rouva Danville'lle siitä, että hän on valinnut minut saattajakseen tänne poikansa maatilalta lähellä Lyon'ia ja että hän sen ohessa on hankkinut minulle kunnian päästä tähän tuttavuuteen". Oli ikään kuin joku äkillinen räpytystaudin puuska olisi tapaillut herra Lomaquen molempia silmiä, hänen lausuessaan näitä kohteliaita sanoja. Hänen vihamiehillään oli tapana sanoa, että milloin hän vaan oli erityisesti teeskentelevä tahi erityisesti viekas, hän aina turvautui silmäinsä heikkouteen, ja vältti siten tuota kovaa viattomuuden koetetta, jossa täytyy katsoa vakaasti sen henkilön silmiin, jonka kanssa puhuu. "Minua suuresti ilahutti, kuullessani teidän mainitsevan isävainajani nimeä, päivällisillä ollessamme, suurella kunnioituksella", jatkoi Trudaine, niinkuin hän olisi väkisinkin päättänyt pitkittää keskuspuhetta. "Tunsitteko hänen?" "Minä olen välillisesti kiitollisuuden velassa teidän oivalliselle isällenne", vastasi vouti, "siitä asemasta, jossa nyt olen. Aikana semmoisena, jolloin varakkaan ja arvokkaan miehen puollussana oli tarpeen minua pelastamaan köyhyydestä ja häviöstä, lausui teidän isänne tämän sanan. Siitä lähtien minulla on, omissa pienissä oloissani, ollut menestystä, kunnes viimein kohosin herra Danvillen maa-tilan ylihoitajan arvoon". "Antakaa anteeksi -- vaan tuo teidän puheenne nykyisistä oloistanne kummastuttaa minua vähän. Teidän isänne, luullakseni, oli kauppias, aivan samoin kuin Danville'n isä oli kauppias; ainoa eroitus heidän välillä oli että toisella oli vastainen onni, ja toinen voitti suuren omaisuuden. Miksi siis sanotte nykyisen paikkanne olevan kunnianarvon teille?" "Ettekö ole koskaan kuulleet?" huusi Lomaque, suurella kummastuksella, "tahi oletteko kuulleet, vaan unhoittaneet, että rouva Danville juurtaa alkunsa muutamasta Ranskanmaan ylimysperheestä. Eikö hän ole koskaan teille puhunut, niinkuin hän usein on minulle, että hän alentui lähtiessään vaimoksi miesvainajalleen, ja että hänen tärkein toivonsa elämässä on saada sukunsa (joka vuosia sitten on miespuolen haaralta mennyt sukupuuttoon) arvonimet muutetuiksi pojalleen?" "Kyllä", vastasi Trudaine; "muistan kuulleeni jotakin tuosta, vaan en suuresti ottanut sitä huomiooni silloin, koska hyvin vähässä arvossa pidän semmoisia toiveita kuin ne, joista puhutte. Te olette eläneet monta vuotta Danvillen palveluksessa, herra Lomaque, oletteko --" Hän jäi hetkeksi miettimään, vaan jatkoi sitten katsoen suoraan voudin silmiin, "oletteko huomanneet hänessä hyvän ja lempeän isännän?" Lomaque'n ohuet huulet näyttivät sulkeutuvan vaistomaisesti, ikäänkuin hän ei aikoisi enää koskaan puhua. Hän kumarsi -- Trudaine odotti -- hän vaan kumarsi taas. Trudaine odotti kolmannen kerran. Lomaque katsoi hetken aivan vakaasti Trudaineen; sitten hänen silmänsä alkoivat taas tulla heikoiksi. "Teillä näyttää olevan joku erityinen syy", huomautti hän hiljaa, "jos sallittaneen minun niin sanoa ilman loukkaamatta, kysyäksenne minulta tätä". "Minä puhun suoraan, mistään huolimatta, kaikkien kanssa", jatkoi Trudaine; "ja vaikka olette vieras, tahdon puhua suoraan teidänkin kanssanne. Tunnustan minulla olevan erityistä syytä kysyä tätä teiltä, -- joka syy koskee mitä kalliimpia ja arjimpia asioita". Viimeisiä sanoja lausuessaan hänen äänensä vapisi hetken, vaan hän jatkoi vakaasti: "Alusta alkain, siitä lähtien kun liitto syntyi sisareni ja Danvillen välillä, katsoin minä velvollisuudekseni ilmoittaa peittelemättä omia tunteitani; omatuntoni ja tunteeni Rosaa kohtaan kehoittivat minua ilmoittamaan suoraan ajatuksiani viimeiseen saakka, vaikka tämä suoruus harmittaisi tahi loukkaisi muita. Kun ensin jouduimme rouva Danville'n tuttavuuteen, ja kun minä ensin huomasin että Rosa suosiollisesti otti vastaan hänen poikansa kohteliaisuuksia, kummastuin minä, ja vaikka minun täytyi ponnistaa henkeni voimia, en voinut salata tätä kummastustani sisareltani". Lomaque, joka tähän saakka oli ollut hyvin tarkkaavainen, säpsähti tässä ja nosti hämmästyen ylös käsiänsä. "Kummastuitte, kuulin teidän sanovan? Kummastuitte, herra Trudaine, että nuori neito suosiollisesti ottaa vastaan semmoisen nuoren herrasmiehen kohteliaisuuksia, joka omistaa ylhäisen kasvatuksen saaneen Ranskalaisen kaiken sievyyden ja täydellisyyden! Kummastelitte että semmoinen tanssija, semmoinen laulaja, semmoinen puhuja, semmoinen kuuluisa naisten lumooja kuin herra Danville on, herätti vastatunteita neiti Rosan sydämessä! Oh! Herra Trudaine, arvoisa herra Trudaine, sitä on melkein mahdoton uskoa". Lomaque'n silmät tulivat erittäin heikoiksi, ja räpyttivät lakkaamatta hänen lausuessaan tämän muistutuksen. Lopulla hän nosti taas kätensä ja katseli kysyväisesti ympärilleen, äänettömästi vedoten koko luontoon. "Kun vähän ajan kuluttua asia oli enemmän edistynyt", jatkoi Trudaine, ottamatta huomioonsa tätä keskeytystä; "kun naimistarjous oli tehty, ja kun sain tietää, että Rosa oli omassa sydämessään siihen suostunut, minä panin vastaan enkä voinut salata esteitäni --" "Taivaan tähden!" keskeytti Lomaque taas, lyöden käsiänsä yhteen hämmästyneellä katsannolla; "mitä esteitä? mitä mahdollisia esteitä nuorta ja hyvin kasvatettua miestä vastaan, jolla on mahdottoman suuri omaisuus ja nuhteeton luonne? Minä olen kuullut noista esteistä ja vastustuksista: minä tiedän että ne ovat vihastuttaneet muita; ja minä kysyn itseltäni alinomaa, mitkä ne esteet voivat olla?" "Jumala tietää että olen usein koettanut karkoittaa niitä pois mielestäni, haaveellisina ja mahdottomina", sanoi Trudaine, "vaan minun ei ole onnistunut. Mahdotonta on, teidän läsnäollessa, minun perinpohjin selittää mitkä minun tunteeni ovat olleet alusta alkain sitä herraa kohtaan, jota te palvelette. Antakaa siinä olla tarpeeksi, jos uskon teille, etten voi, en nytkään, olla vakuutettu hänen sisartani kohtaan osoittamiensa tunteiden puhtaudesta, ja että minussa on -- vasten omaa tahtoani, vasten vakaista tahtoani luottaa täydellisesti Rosan vaaliin -- paha luulo hänen luonteestaan ja mielensä laadusta, luulo, joka nyt, hää-aattona, kasvaa todelliseksi kauhuksi. Pitkällinen salainen kärsimys, epäilys, ja päättämättömyys pakoittavat tämän tunnustuksen ulos minusta, herra Lomaque, melkein varomattomasti ja kaikkia seuraelämän tapoja vastaan. Te olette elänyt vuosia saman katon alla tämän miehen kanssa; te olette nähnyt häntä vaariin-ottamattomimpina hetkinä yksityiselämässä. En viekoittele teitä uskoutumaan minulle -- minä ainoastaan kysyn voitteko tehdä minut onnelliseksi kertomalla minulle, että olen tehnyt kauheinta vääryyttä isännällenne mielipiteilläni hänestä? Pyydän teitä tarttumaan käteeni ja kertomaan minulle, jos voitte, kaikessa kunniassa, että minun sisareni ei pane alttiiksi koko elämänsä onnea, antautuessaan naimisiin herra Danville'n kanssa!" Hän ojensi kätensä puhuessaan. Jonkun kummallisen muutoksen alaisena sattui Lomaque juuri tällä hetkellä katsomaan noihin luonnon kauneuksiin, joita hän niin suuresti ihanteli. "Todellakin, herra Trudaine, todellakin semmoinen vetoominen teidän puolelta, tämmöisellä hetkellä, kummastuttaa minua". Mentyänsä niin pitkälle, vaikeni hän, eikä puhunut sen enempää. "Kun ensin istuimme tähän yhdessä, ei aikomukseni ollenkaan ollut tehdä tämmöistä vetoomista, ei ollenkaan puhua teille niinkuin olen puhunut", jatkoi toinen. "Sanani ovat minulta päässeet, teille puhuessani, melkein vahingossa -- teidän täytyy antaa ne minulle anteeksi. En voi odottaa että muut, herra Lomaque, arvossa pitävät ja käsittävät tunteeni Rosaa kohti. Me kaksi olemme eläneet yhdessä yksinämme maailmassa: isä, äiti, suku, kaikki kuolivat jo aikoja sitten ja jättivät meidät. Minä olen niin paljon vanhempi sisartani, että olen tottunut pitämään itseäni enemmän hänen isänään kuin veljenään. Koko elämäni, minun kalliimmat toiveeni, kaikki minun korkeimmat pyrintöni ovat yhdistyneet häneen. Poika-aikani oli jo ohitse kun äitini asetti pikku sisareni käden minun käteeni ja lausui kuolinvuoteellaan: 'Louis, ole hänelle mitä minä olen ollut, sillä hänelle ei ole jäänyt ketään muuta, johon voisi turvautua, kuin sinä'. Siitä lähtien eivät muitten miesten mieliharrastukset ja kunnianhimoisuudet ole olleet minun mieliharrastuksiani eikä kunnianhimoani. Sisar Rosa -- niinkuin meillä kaikilla oli tapana nimittää häntä noina menneinä aikoina, ja joksi minä vieläkin mieluimmin häntä nimitän -- sisar Rosa on ollut ainoa päämäärä, ainoa onnellisuus, ainoa todellinen lohdutus, ainoa kallisarvoinen palkinto minun elämässäni. Minä olen elänyt tässä köyhässä majassa, tässä syrjäisessä erakko-elämässä, kuin Paratiisissa, Koska sisar Rosa, viaton, onnellinen, kirkassilmäinen Evani on elänyt tässä minun kanssani. Vaikka hänen valitsema aviomiehensä olisikin ollut sama, jonka minäkin olisin valinnut, olisi tuo pakollinen luopumus hänestä ollut kovin, katkerin koetus. Niinkuin asiat nyt ovat, minun ajatellessa mitä ajattelen, ja peljätessä mitä pelkään, päättäkää itse millaiset minun ajatukseni voivat olla hänen naimisensa aatto-iltana; ja te ymmärrätte miksi ja missä tarkoituksessa minä tein sen vetoomisen, joka kummastutti teitä hetki sitten, vaan joka ei voi kummastuttaa teitä nyt. Puhukaa jos tahdotte -- minä en voi sanoa mitään enää". Hän huoahti katkerasti; hänen päänsä vaipui alas, ja käsi, jonka oli Lomaque'lle tarjonnut, vapisi kun hän veti sen pois ja antoi sen vaipua kupeelleen. Vouti ei ollut mies, joka oli tottunut empimään, vaan nyt hän empi. Hän ei ollut tottunut olemaan puheenparsien puutteessa, mutta nyt hän änkytti pahoin vastauksensa alkuosassa. "Otaksukaa että minä vastaisin", aloitti hän hiljaa; "otaksukaa että sanon teidän tuominneen häntä väärin, olisiko minun todistukseni todellakin tarpeeksi voimallinen kumoomaan mielipiteitä, tahi paremmin arveluita, jotka teissä ovat vakaantuneet vakaantumistaan kuukausien kuluessa? Otaksukaa, toiselta puolen, että minun isännälläni olisi pienet --" (Tässä Lomaque epäili, ennenkuin hän lausui seuraavan sanan) "-- pienet -- heikkoutensa, jos niin saan sanoa; vaan ainoastaan otaksuen, muistakaa se! heikkouksia -- ja otaksukaa että olen ne huomannut, ja tahtoisin uskoa ne teille, mitä hyötyä semmoisesta ilmoittamisesta olisi nyt, yhdennellätoista hetkellä, kun neiti Rosa on antanut sydämensä ja häät ovat määrätyt huomispäiväksi? Ei, ei! uskokaa minua --" Trudaine äkkiä katsahti ylös. "Kiitän teitä, herra Lomaque, muistutuksestanne. Niinkuin sanotte, on nyt liian myöhäistä kuulustella ja siis myöskin liian myöhäistä luottaa toisiin. Sisareni on valinnut; ja valitun suhteen minun huuleni tulevat olemaan tästä lähtien suljettuina. Tulevaisuus on Jumalan kädessä: millainen se tulleekin olemaan, toivon olevani tarpeeksi vahva kantamaan mitä osakseni tulee, miehen miehuudella ja kärsiväisyydellä! Pyydän anteeksi, herra Lomaque, että olen ajattelemattomasti vaivannut teitä kysymyksillä, joita minun ei ollut oikeus tehdä. Menkäämme takaisin huoneisin -- minä näytän tietä teille". Lomaque'n huulet avautuivat, vaan sulkeutuivat taas: hän kumarsi pakollisesti ja hänen keltaiset kasvonsa valkenivat hetkeksi. Trudaine astui tietä myöten äänettömänä takaisin taloon: vouti seurasi hiljaa muutamain askelten päässä ja sopotteli hiljaa itsekseen. "Hänen isänsä pelasti minut", mutisi Lomaque; "se on totta, eikä siitä pääse mihinkään: hänen isänsä pelasti minut; ja nyt, minä olen tässä -- ei! liian myöhäistä! -- liian myöhäistä puhua -- liian myöhäistä toimia -- liian myöhäistä tehdä mitään!" Aivan lähellä huonetta tuli vanha palvelija heitä vastaan. "Nuori emäntäni on juuri lähettänyt minua kutsumaan teitä kahvia juomaan, herra", sanoi Guillaume. "Hän on pitänyt teitä varten kahvia lämpimänä ja toista kuppia herra Lomaque'a varten". Vouti säpsähti -- tällä kertaa toden-perästä hämmästyen. "Minua varten!" huudahti hän. "Neiti Rosa on vaivannut itseään pitämällä kahvia lämpimänä minua varten?" Vanha palvelija katsoa tuijotti häneen; Trudaine seisattui ja katsoi taakseen. "Mitä kummastuttavaa siinä on", kysyi hän, "semmoisessa tavallisessa kohteliaisuudessa sisareni puolelta?" "Suokaa anteeksi, herra Trudaine", vastasi Lomaque; "te ette ole eläneet semmoisissa oloissa kuin minä, te ette ole vanha mies ilman ystävittä, teillä on vakainen asema maailmassa ja te olette tottuneet saamaan ihmisiltä kunnioitusta. Minä en ole. Tämä on ensimmäinen kerta elämässäni kun huomaan itseni olevan nuoren neitosen kohteliaisuuden esineenä; ja tämä minua hämmästytti. Pyydän uudestaan anteeksi -- olkaa niin hyvä, käykäämme sisään". Trudaine ei vastannut mitään tähän kummalliseen selitykseen. Hän kummasteli sitä kuitenkin vähän; ja kummasteli vielä enemmän vierashuoneesen tultuaan, kun näki Lomaque'n astuvan suoraapäätä hänen sisarensa luokse, ja -- nähtävästi huomaamatta, että Danville istui klaverin edessä sillä hetkellä juuri laulaen -- piti hänelle hyvin sekavaa vaan tavanmukaista kiitospuhetta kahvikupista. Rosa katseli kummastuneena ja puoleksi pidättäen nauruaan kuunnellessaan häntä. Rouva Danville, joka istui hänen vieressään, kävi myreän näköiseksi ja löi hiljaa viuhkallaan voudin käsivartta. "Olkaa niin hyvä ja pysykää ääneti siksi kuin poikani on laulanut", sanoi hän. Lomaque kumarsi hiukan, astui muutaman nurkassa olevan pöydän luokse ja otti siinä olevan sanomalehden käteensä. Jos rouva Danville olisi huomannut mikä mielenilmaus näkyi Lomaque'n kasvoissa hänen kääntyessään, kyllä olisi hänen ylpeä, aristokraatillinen mielensä ehkä vähän hämmentynyt. Danville oli lopettanut laulunsa, oli jättänyt klaveerin, ja puheli hiljaa morsiamensa kanssa; rouva Danville lisäsi jonkun sanan keskuspuheesen silloin tällöin; Trudaine istui erikseen huoneen toisessa päässä, miettiväisesti lukien kirjettä, jonka otti taskustaan, kun Lomaque, joka vielä lueskeli sanomalehteänsä, äkkiä päästi huudahduksen, joka keskeytti kaikkia huoneessa olijoita toimissaan ja saattoi heidät katsomaan voutiin. "Mitä se on?" kysyi Danville kärsimättömästi. "Häiritsenkö, jos selitän tämän?" kysyi Lomaque, tullen silmistään hyvin heikoksi taas, ja kääntyen kunnioittavaisesti rouva Danville'en. "Te olette jo häirinneet meitä", sanoi vanha nainen äreästi, "niin samapa tuo on nyt jos puhuttekin". Se on eräs paikka Tieteellisissä Ilmoituksissa, joka on minua suuresti ilahuttanut ja joka varmaan on oleva ilahuttava uutinen jokaiselle tässä". Näin sanoen katsoi Lomaque huomauttamalla katsannolla Trudaineen ja luki sitten sanomista seuraavat rivit: "_Tiede-Akatemia Parisissa_. -- Olemme suureksi iloksemme saaneet kuulla että kemian avoinna oleva ala-professorin virka on tarjottu eräälle miehelle, jonka vaatimattomuus on estänyt hänen tieteellisiä ansioitaan tulemasta tarpeeksi kuuluisiksi maailmassa. Akatemian jäsenet ovat jo aikoja sitten tienneet hänen tehneen useampia, merkillisimpiä kemiata edistäviä keksintöjä, mitä viime vuosien kuluessa on tehty -- keksintöjä, joista hän on erinomaisella, tekeepä mielemme melkein sanomaan, moitittavalla vaatimattomuudella sallinut muitten rangaistuksetta omistaa itselleen kunniata. Ei kukaan mies missäkään virassa ole täydellisemmin oikeutettu saamaan valtiolta kunnian arvoa ja virkaa, kuin se herra jota tarkoitamme -- herra Louis Trudaine". Ennenkuin Lomaque voi katsoa kuulijoihin, huomatakseen minkä vaikutuksen hänen uutisensa teki, oli Rosa jo rientänyt veljensä luokse ja suuteli häntä riemun vimmassa. "Armas Louis", huusi hän taputtaen käsiään, "suo minun ensimmäiseksi sinua onnitella! Miten ylpeä ja iloinen minä olen. Sinä otat tietysti vastaan professorinviran". Trudaine, joka äkkiä ja hiukan hämmästyneenä oli pistänyt kirjeensä takaisin taskuun sillä hetkellä kuin Lomaque alkoi lukea, näytti olevan vastauksen puutteessa. Hän taputti sisarensa kättä hajamielisesti ja sanoi: "En ole vielä päättänyt; älä kysy minulta miksi, Rosaseni -- älä ainakaan nyt, älä nyt suinkaan". Hämmennys ja levottomuus ilmautui hänen kasvoissaan pyytäessään sisartaan käymään jälleen tuolilleen istumaan. "Pidetäänkö kemian ala-professoria herrasmiehen arvoisena?" kysyi rouva Danville, osoittamatta vähintäkään osanottoa Lomaque'n uutiseen. "Tietysti ei", vastasi hänen poikansa ilkkuvalla naurulla; "semmoisen täytyy tehdä työtä ja tehdä itsensä hyödylliseksi -- mikä herrasmies hän on?" "Charles!" huudahti vanha rouva, punastuen suuttumuksesta. "Hoh!" huusi Danville, kääntyen selin häneen; "nyt on jo tarpeeksi kemiaa. Lomaque! te olette nyt ruvenneet lukemaan uutisia, koettakaa voitteko löytää jotakin hauskaa luettavaa. Mitkä ovat viimeiset tiedot Parisista? Kuuluuko vielä yleisen kapinan enteitä?" Lomaque rupesi toista paikkaa tarkastamaan sanomista. "Vähän, hyvin vähän toiveita on saada rauhallisuus jälleen palautetuksi", hän sanoi. "Necker, kansan ministeri, on eroitettu virastaan. Julistuksia väkikokouksia vastaan on levitetty yli koko Parisin. Sveitsiläinen kaarti on asetettu Champs Elysées-kentälle neljän tykin kanssa. Enempää ei vielä tiedetä, vaan pahinta peljätään. Ylimyskunnan ja kansan välinen riita kasvaa kasvamistaan uhkaavalla tavalla, melkein joka hetki". Tähän hän pysähtyi ja asetti sanomalehden pöydälle. Trudaine otti sen siitä ja pudisti päätään pahaa aavistavalla tavalla, katsellessaan sitä paikkaa, joka juuri oli luettu. "Oh!" huudahti rouva Danville. "Kansa, todellakin! Antakaa noiden neljän tykin tulla hyvään latinkiin, antakaa Sveitsiläisen kaartin tehdä tehtävänsä, ja me emme saa koskaan kuulla sen enempää tuosta kansasta!" "Neuvoni on, ettette olisi liioin varma siitä", sanoi hänen poikansa huolettomasti; "siellä on liian paljo kansaa Parisissa Sveitsiläiselle kaartille ammuttavaksi, kuin että se voisi käydä niin mukavasti. Älkää pitäkö päätänne liian aristokraatillisesti ylhäällä, äitini, ennenkuin aivan varmaan tiedämme mistä päin tuuli käy. Kenties minä saan jonakuna päivänä kumartaa yhtä syvälle kuningas Moukalle, kuin te nuoruudessanne kuningas Louis viidennelletoista!" Hän hymyili kohteliaasti puhettaan lopettaessaan ja aukasi nuuskatoosansa. Hänen äitinsä nousi tuoliltaan, kasvot punaisina inhosta. "En tahdo kuulla sinun puhuvan niin -- se kauhistuttaa, se kuohuttaa mieltäni!" huusi hän rajulla liikunnolla. "Ei, ei! en tahdo enää semmoista kuulla. En tahdo istua tässä kuulemassa miten poikani, jota rakastan, laskee leikkiä pyhimmistä aatteista, ja pilkkaa voidellun kuninkaan muistoa. Se on kiitokseni siitä että olen myöntynyt ja tullut tänne, vasten kaikkia säädyllisyyden lajeja, hää-aattona? En kärsi tätä kauemmin; minä noudatan omaa tahtoani ja käyn omaa tietäni. Minä käsken sinua, minun poikaani, saattamaan minua takaisin Rouen'iin. Me olemme sulhasen seuruetta eikä meillä ole mitään tekemistä täällä, ollaksemme yötä morsiamen talossa. Te ette kohtaa toisianne ennenkuin kohtaatte kirkolla. Justin! vaununi. Lomaque, hakekaa käsiin minun päähineeni; herra Trudaine! kiitoksia vieraanvaraisuudestanne; toivon saavani palkita sen ensikerran kun olette läheisyydessämme. Neitiseni; ottakaa nyt kauniin katsantonne huomenna päällenne, joka sopii yhteen hääloistonne kanssa; muistakaa että minun poikani morsiamen tulee olla todistuksena poikani hyvästä kauneuden aistista. Justin! vaununi -- laiskuri, roisto, tomppeli, missä minun vaununi!" "Äitini näyttää kauniilta, kun hän on kiihoissaan, eikö niin, Rosa?" sanoi Danville, au'aisten nuuskatoosaansa vanhan rouvan kiitäessä ulos huoneesta. "Miksi näytät aivan peljästyneeltä, armaani", lisäsi hän, tarttuen Rosan käteen luontealla, lempeällä katseella, "peljästyneeltä, salli mun vakuuttaa, ilman vähintäkään syytä. Minun äidilläni on vaan tämä ainoa turha usko, ja tämä ainoa heikko puoli, Rosa kultani. Olet huomaava että hän on yhtä lempeä kuin kyyhkynen, kun vaan ei hänen sääty-ylpeyttään loukata. Mitä se on! tänä iltana ainakaan et saa erota minusta tuommoisella katsannolla". Hän kumartui ja kuiskasi tytön korvaan jonkun sulhais-sukkeluuden, joka heti saattoi punan takaisin morsiamen poskille. "Oi miten Rosa häntä rakastaa -- miten innokkaasti hän häntä rakastaa", ajatteli hänen veljensä, katsellen häntä huoneen nurkasta, missä hän istui yksinänsä, ja huomaten hymyä, joka kirkasti hänen punastuneita kasvojaan Danville'n suudellessa hänen kättänsä, ja lähteissä matkalle. Lomaque, joka oli pysynyt järkähtämättömän kylmänä rouvan suuttumisen puuskan kestäessä; Lomaque, jonka huomaava silmä oli tarkastellut, ivallisesti, minkä vaikutuksen tuo kohtaus äidin ja pojan välillä tekisi Trudaine'en ja hänen sisareensa, oli viimeinen joka sanoi jäähyväisensä. Kumarrettuaan Rosalle omituisella suloudella käytöksessään, joka pahoin sopi yhteen hänen rypistyneitten, laihojen kasvojensa kanssa, ojensi hän kätensä hänen veljelleen. "En ottanut teidän kättänne istuessamme kahden tuolla penkillä", sanoi hän, "saanko nyt?" Trudaine antoi hänelle kättä kohteliaasti vaan äänetönnä. "Te ajattelette toisin minusta vielä joskus maailmassa". Lisäten nämät sanat kuiskaamalla, herra Lomaque kumarsi vielä kerran morsiamelle ja iäksi ulos. Muutamia minuuttia sen perästä kun ovi oli sulkeutunut, veli ja sisar olivat ääneti. "Viimeinen ilta, jonka yhdessä olemme täällä kotona!" se oli ajatus, joka täytti molempain mielet. Rosa oli ensimmäinen puhumaan. Epäillen hiukan, lähestyessään veljeään, hän sanoi hänelle surullisesti: "Olen pahoillani tuosta mikä tapahtui rouva Danville'lle, Louis. Saattaako se sinua ajattelemaan pahaa Charles'ista?" "Minä voin antaa rouva Danvillen suuttumisen anteeksi", vastasi Trudaine vältteleväisesti, "koska hän puhui rehellisestä vakuutuksesta". "Rehellisestä?" toisti Rosa murheellisesti, -- "rehellisestä? -- ah, Louis! Minä tiedän että sinä ajattelet halveksivasti Charles'in vakuutuksista, kun niin puhut hänen äidistään". Trudaine hymyili ja pudisti päätään; vaan Rosa ei huomannut tätä kieltävää liikuntoa -- hän vaan seisoi murheellisesti ja miettivästi katsellen hänen kasvoihinsa. Hänen silmänsä alkoivat kastua; hän äkkiä heitti käsivartensa veljensä kaulan ympäri ja kuiskasi hänelle: "oi, Louis, Louis! kuinka minä tahtoisin opettaa sinua katsomaan Charlesta minun silmilläni!" Veli tunsi hänen kyyneleitä kasvoillansa hänen puhellessa, ja koetti lohduttaa häntä. "Sinun pitää opettaman mua, Rosa -- sinun pitää todellakin. Älä nyt ole milläsikään; meidän täytyy mieltämme virkistää, tahi miten voit sinä saada parhaimman näkösi huomiseksi?" Hän irroitti hänen kätensä kaulastaan ja talutti häntä lempeästi tuolille istumaan. Samassa koputti joku ovea; Rosan palvelija-neitsyt tuli emännältään kysymään jotakin häämenoja koskevaa asiata. Ei mikään keskeyttäminen olisi voinut olla enemmän tervetullut kuin tämä tällä hetkellä. Se pakoitti Rosaa ajattelemaan hetken vaatimia toimia; ja soi hänen veljelleen tilaisuutta mennä työhuoneesensa. Hän istuutui pulpettinsa ääreen, epäilevänä ja murheellisena, ja asetti Tiede-Akatemialta tulleen kirjeen avattuna eteensä. Jättäen lukematta ne sievistelevät lauseet, joita se sisälti, pysähtyi hän tarkastamaan ainoastaan seuraavia rivejä lopussa: -- "Professorivirkanne ensimmäisinä kolmena vuotena teidän tulee asua Parisissa tahi sen läheisyydessä yhdeksän kuukautta vuodessa, luentojen pitämistä varten ja laboratorioissa toimitettavien kokeiden tarkastusta varten". Kirje, jossa nämä rivit löytyi, tarjosi hänelle viran, jommoista hän, vaatimattomassa itsensähalveksimisessaan, ei ollut koskaan voinut uneksiakaan saavansa: kirje lupasi hänelle tilaisuutta täydellä vapaudella harjoittaa mielikokeitaan, joita hän ei koskaan voinut toivoa aikaan saavansa omassa pikku työhuoneessaan, omilla vähäisillä apukeinoillaan; ja siinä hän nyt istui kuitenkin epäillen ottaisiko hän vastaan hänelle tarjottua kunniapaikkaa ja etuja -- epäillen sisarensa onnen vuoksi! "Yhdeksän kuukautta vuodesta Parisissa", sanoi hän itsekseen murheellisesti; "ja Rosa on asuva naineena Lyonissa. Voi! jos voisin luoda sydämestäni murheeni hänestä ja voisin karkoittaa mielestäni aavistukseni hänen tulevaisuudestaan -- kuinka iloisesti enkö vastaisi tähän kirjeesen ottaen vastaan sen luottamuksen, joka minua kohtaan osoitetaan!" Hän pysähtyi hetkeksi ja mietiskeli. Millaiset hänen ajatuksensa olivat näkyivät hänen kasvoistaan, jotka kävivät yhä vaaleimmiksi, ja silmistään, joiden kiilto kävi yhä tummemmaksi. "Jos tuo kalvava epäluulo, josta en voi vapauttaa itseäni, kävisi todeksi, tuo mykkä ennustus tulevasta onnettomuudesta toteutuisi -- en tiedä milloin -- jos niin kävisi (josta Jumala varjelkoon), kuinka kohta eikö hän kaipaisi ystävää, suojelijaa läheisyydessään, valmista turvaa onnettomuuden hetkenä! Mistä hän on silloin löytävä suojaa tahi turvaa? Tuon kiihkeän vaimon seurassa? Miehensä sukulaisten ja ystävien seurassa?" Häntä kauhistutti tuo mieltä särkevä ajatus; ja avaten puhtaan paperi-arkin, kastoi hän kynänsä musteessa. "Ole hänelle kaikki, Louis, mitä minä olen ollut", mutisi hän itsekseen, kertoen äitinsä viimeisiä sanoja ja aloittaen kirjettä niitä lausuessaan. Se oli pian valmis. Se lausui, mitä kunnioittavimmilla sanoilla, hänen kiitollisuutensa hänelle tehdystä tarjouksesta, vaan samalla ilmoituksen ettei hän voinut sitä vastaanottaa perheellisten olojen tähden, joita oli tarpeetonta selittää. Päällekirjoitus oli kirjoitettu, kirje sinetissä: ei puuttunut muuta kuin panna se postilaukkuun, joka oli hänen vieressään. Tähän viimeiseen ratkaisevaan toimitukseen tultuaan, jäi hän epäilemään. Hän oli kertonut Lomaque'lle ja oli lujasti itsekin uskonut voittaneensa kaiken kunnianhimonsa sisarensa onnen tähden. Hän tunsi nyt, ensi kerran, että hän ainoastaan oli tuudittanut sen lepoon, -- hän huomasi Parisista tulleen kirjeen saaneen sen hereille. Hänen vastauksensa oli kirjoitettu, hän piti kädessään postilaukkua; ja tällä hetkellä oli koko taistelu joutua uudestaan taisteltavaksi -- taisteltavaksi hänen ollessaan vähimmin sopivana siihen! Tavallisissa oloissa hän ei ollut se mies, joka lykkäsi asiansa toistaiseksi; vaan hän teki sen nyt. "Yö neuvon tuo: minä odotan huomiseksi", sanoi hän itsekseen, pisti epäyskirjeen taskuunsa ja läksi nopeasti ulos laboratoriosta. Armoa antamatta tuo tärkeä huomisaamu tuli: auttamattomasti, hyväksi tai pahaksi, tuo tärkeä aviovala tuli lausutuksi. Charles Danville ja Rosa Trudaine olivat nyt mies ja vaimo. Edellisen illan ihanaan auringon-laskuun perustuva ennustus ei ollut pettänyt. Pilvitön oli hääpäivä. Häämenot olivat kaikki käyneet miellyttävästi, ja olivat myös tyydyttäneet rouva Danvillea. Hän tuli hääjoukon kanssa Trudainen kotiin, paljaana hymynä ja kirkkautena. Nuorikkoa kohtaan hän oli itse ystävyys. "Hyvä tyttöseni", sanoi vanha rouva, mieltyneenä taputtaen häntä viuhkaimellaan poskille. "Hyvä tyttöseni! sinä olet ollut kaunis tänä aamuna -- sinä olet hyvää todistanut poikani kauneuden aistista. Todellakin, sinä olet minua miellyttänyt, lapseni! käy nyt tuolla ylhäällä pukeutumassa jokapäiväiseen pukuusi; ja luota vaan äidilliseen rakkauteeni niin kauan kuin Charles'ia onnelliseksi teet". Oli päätetty niin, että morsian ja sulhanen viettäisivät lempiviikkonsa Britanniassa ja sitten palaisivat Danville'n lähellä Lyon'ia olevalle maatilalle. Matkalle kiiruhdettiin, niinkuin ainakin semmoisille matkoille. Vaunut olivat lähteneet -- Trudaine, kauan seistyään niiden lähtöä katsellen, palasi nopeasti huoneisin -- pyörivien rattaiden nostama pöly oli tykkänään kadonnut -- siinä ei ollut niin mitään katseltavaa -- enää -- vaan tuossa seisoi herra Lomaque huoneen editse kulkevalla tiellä; toimettomana, ikäänkuin hän olisi ollut vapaa mies -- levollisena, ikäänkuin semmoiset huolet kuin rouva Danville'n vaunujen -- esille kutsuminen ja rouva Danville'n saattaminen takaisin Lyon'iin eivät olisi voineet olla jätettyinä hänen niskoilleen. Toimetonna ja levollisna, hiljaa käsiään nykertäen, hiljaa nyykyttäen päätään siihen suuntaan, minne morsian ja sulhanen olivat ajaneet, seisoi haaveksiva vouti maantiellä. Äkkiä näytti talosta päin lähestyvän astunnan kohta häntä herättävän. Vielä kerran katsoi hän tietä pitkin ikäänkuin hän olisi odottanut näkevänsä vieläkin vastanaineen pariskunnan vaunuja. "Tyttö parka! -- voi tyttö parkaa!" sanoi herra Lomaque hiljaa itsekseen, ja kääntyi katsomaan kuka häntä lähestyi huoneesta päin. Oli vaan postimies kirje kädessä ja postilaukku kainalossa. "Onko mitään uutisia Parisista, ystäväni?" kysyi Lomaque. "Hyvin huonoja uutisia, herraseni", vastasi postimies. Camille Desmoulins on vedonnut kansaan Palais Royalissa -- siellä peljätään kapinaa". "Ainoastaan kapinaa!" matki Lomaque ivallisesti. "Mikä kunnon hallitus, joka ei pelkää pahempaa! Onko kirjeitä?" lisäsi hän äkkiä muuttaen puheen ainetta. "Ei ole _taloon_", sanoi postimies, -- "ainoastaan yksi _talosta_, jonka herra Trudaine antoi. Sitä tuskin kannattaa", lisäsi hän, käännellen kirjettä kädessään, "pistää postilaukkuun, vai mitä?" Lomaque katseli hänen olkapäittensä yli, hänen näin puhellessa, ja näki kirjeen olevan Tiede-Akatemian Presidentille Parisissa. "Tahtoisin mielelläni tietää onko hän ottanut vastaan paikan, vai kieltäynyt", ajatteli vouti, nyökyttäen päätään postimiehelle ja jatkaen matkaansa taloon päin. Ovella tuli Trudaine häntä vastaan, joka sanoi hänelle pikaisesti: "te lähdette Lyon'iin takaisin rouva Danville'n kanssa, arvaan minä?" "Tänä päivänä vielä", vastasi Lomaque. "Jos sattuisitte kuulemaan jostakin nuorenmiehen huoneuksesta Lyonissa tahi sen läheisyydessä", jatkoi toinen, alentaen ääntään ja puhuen entistä nopeammin, "niin te tekisitte minulle hyvän työn jos antaisitte tiedon siitä minulle". Lomaque lupasi; vaan ennenkuin hän ennätti lisätä kysymyksen, joka hänellä jo oli kielellään, oli Trudaine kadonnut huoneesen. "Nuorenmiehen asunto!" toisti vouti, seisten yksinään portailla. "Lyonissa tahi sen läheisyydessä! Ahaa! Herra Trudaine, minä lasken yhteen nuorenmiehen-asuntonne ja puheenne minulle eilen illalla, ja saan summan, joka on, arvelen minä, jokseenkin täsmälleen oikein. Te ette ole myöntänet Parisin tarjoukseen ja minä luulen voivani arvata syyn". Hän vaikeni miettiväisenä ja pudisti päätään pahaa tietävällä tyytymättömyydellä ja pureskellen huuliaan. "Kaikki on kyllä kirkasta tuolla taivaalla", jatkoi hän hetken kuluttua, katsellen ylös loistavaa keskipäivän taivasta kohti. "Kaikki kyllä kirkasta siellä; vaan minä luulen näkeväni pienen pilven jo nousevan erään perheen taivaalle -- pikku pilvi, jonka peitossa on paljo, ja jota minä puolestani tulen huolellisesti tarkkaamaan". TOINEN LUKU. Viisi vuotta oli kulunut siitä kun herra Lomaque seisoi miettiväisenä Trudainen talon portilla, katsellen morsiamen ja sulhasen vaunujen lähtöä, ja murheellisesti aprikoiden tulevaisuuden suhteita. Suuria tapahtumia oli kulkenut yli sen perheellisen taivaan, jolla hän ennustavaisesti oli huomannut pienen uhkaavan pilven. Suurempia tapahtumia oli kulkenut yli Ranskanmaan taivaan. Mitä oli kapina viisi vuotta takaperin vallankumousta vastaan nyt -- joka oli syössyt maahan valta-istuimen, kukistanut ruhtinaita ja valtoja; joka oli asettanut omia kruunuttomia ja perinnöttömiä kuninkaitaan ja neuvon-antajiaan valtaistuimelle, ja verisesti temmaissut ne sieltä alas taas tusinoittain; joka oli raivonnut ja raivonnut hillittömästi, julmassa innossa, kunnes viimein yksi ainoa kuningas saattoi sitä hallita ja hillitä vähäksi aikaa. Tämän kuninkaan nimi oli Hirmu, ja yksi tuhatta seitsemän sataa ja yhdeksän kymmentä neljä on hänen hallitusvuotensa. Herra Lomaque, joka ei ole voutina enää, istuu yksinänsä virkahuoneelta näyttävässä huoneessa muutamassa Parisin yleisessä rakennuksessa. On taas Heinäkuun ilta, yhtä kaunis kuin se ilta, jona hän Trudainen kanssa istui kahden tuolla penkillä, josta voi katsella Seinen joen ihanaa maisemaa. Huoneen akkuna on auki, ja vieno, vilpeä tuulenhenki aikaa puhaltaa siitä. Mutta Lomaque hengittää vaivaloisesti, ikäänkuin häntä vielä vaivaisi keskipäivän helteen tukehuttava kuumuus; ja hänen kasvoissaan voi huomata murheen ja levottomuuden merkkejä hänen silloin, tällöin hajamielisesti katsellessaan alas kadulle. Ne ajat, joista hän elää, ovat itsessään jo semmoiset, että ne voivat tehdä miehen kasvot murheellisiksi. Tänä kauheana Hirmun hallitusaikana ei löytynyt sitä elävätä henkilöä koko Parisin kaupungissa, joka aamulla noustessaan olisi voinut olla varma siitä, ett'ei hän ennen iltaa joutuisi vakojien käsiin, syytöksen alaiseksi, vankeuteen tahi vaikkapa mestauslavallekin. Semmoiset ajat koettavat kyllä miehen mieltä; vaan Lomaque ei nyt niitä ajatellut eikä ollut huolellisna niiden tähden. Paperiläjästä, joka oli hänen edessään vanhalla kirjoituspöydällä, oli hän juuri ottanut esille yhden, joka oli saattanut hänen ajatuksensa takaisin menneisin aikoihin, ja niihin tapauksiin, jotka olivat tapahtuneet sen jälkeen, kun hän seisoi yksinänsä Trudaine'n huoneen portailla, aprikoiden tulevia tapahtumia. Nopeammin kuin hän oli aavistanutkaan oli nämä tapaukset tulleet. Vähemmässä ajassa kuin hän oli edeltäpäin luullut, tuli tuo surkea onnettomuus, jota Rosan veli oli varonnut niinkuin selvästi mahdollista onnettomuutta ainakin, ja vaati kaikkea sitä kärsiväisyyttä, miehuullisuutta ja itsensä uhraavaisuutta, mitä hän kykeni tarjoomaan sisarensa hyväksi. Vähin askelin alaspäin, pahasta pahempaan, osoittihe Rosan miehen luonne selvemmin ja selvemmin melkein päivä päivältä. Satunnaiset huolimattomuudet päättyivät tavaksi otetulla laiminlyömisellä; huolimaton karttaminen muuttui kylmäksi viholllisuudeksi; pienistä loukkauksista kypsyi suuria herjauksia -- nämä oli ne julmat merkit, joista Rosa huomasi panneensa kaiken alttiiksi ja kadottaneensa kaiken, ollessaan vielä nuori vaimo -- nämä ne ansaitsemattomat murheet, jotka kohtasivat häntä turvattomana, jotka olisivat jättäneet hänet turvattomaksi, ellei hänen veljensä alttiiksiantava rakkaus olisi tuonut apua ja tukea. Trudaine oli alusta alkain pyhittänet itsensä semmoisten koetusten vastaanottamiseen kuin ne, joita hän nyt sai kärsiä; ja miehen tavalla hän otti ne vastaan, huolimatta yhtä vähän äidin vainosta kuin pojan solvauksista. Tämä vaikea tehtävä tuli ainoastaan helpoitetuksi silloin, kun ajan kuluessa yleinen häiriö sekaantui yksityisiin huoliin. Silloin huomiota luokseen vetävät valtiolliset onnettomuudet tulivat helpoitukseksi perheelliselle kurjuudelle. Silloin alkoi Danvillen elämän ainoana tarkoituksena ja perintönä olla asiainsa ajaminen niin viisaasti, että hän voisi kulkea vahingotta edistävän vallankumouksellisen virran kanssa -- kuinka kauas, siitä hän ei huolinut, kun hän vaan pelasti omaisuutensa ja henkensä vaaraan joutumasta. -- Hänen äitinsä, joka järkähtämättömästi pysyi uskollisena vanhanaikaisille mielipiteilleen, kaikesta vaarasta huolimatta, sai rukoilla ja nuhdella, sai puhua kunniasta ja miehuudesta ja rehellisyydestä -- poika ei ottanut korviinsakaan, tahi kuunteli ainoastaan nauraakseen. Samoin kuin hän oli vaimonsa suhteen kulkenut väärää polkua, niin oli hän nyt taipuvainen astumaan väärää tietä maailman suhteen. Vuosia kului: hävittäväiset muutokset runtelivat hurrikani-myrskyn tapaan alinomaa Ranskan maan vanhaa hallitusjärjestystä; ja vielä Danville onnellisesti vaihetteli vaihettelevan ajan mukaan. Hirmuvallan ensimmäiset päivät lähestyivät; valtiollisessa ja yksityisessä elämässä -- ylhäisissä ja alhaisissa -- joka mies epäili veljeänsä. Danville, vaikka olikin neuvokas, joutui myös viimein epäluulon alaiseksi Parisissa olevan päähallituksen luona, etupäässä äitinsä kautta. Tämä oli hänen ensimmäinen valtiollinen häviönsä, ja ajattelemattomana raivon ja kiusan hetkenä hän antoi Lomaquen kärsiä siitä syttynyttä vihaansa. Itse epäluulon alaisena, rupesi hän puolestaan epäilemään voutiaan. Hänen äitinsä kiihoitti tätä luulevaisuutta. -- Lomaque eroitettiin virastaan. Entisinä aikoina olisi semmoinen uhri joutunut häviöön -- uusissa oloissa hän suorastaan tuli kelvolliseksi toimittamaan valtiollista tehtävää maailmassa. Lomaque oli köyhä, sukkela-älyinen, harvapuheinen, eikä liioin tarkkatunteinen. Hän oli hyvä isänmaanrakastaja, hänellä oli hyviä isänmaataan rakastavia ystäviä, tarpeeksi kunnianhimoa, viekas kissanluontoinen urhoollisuus, eikä hänellä ollut mitään peljättävää -- hän tuli Parisiin. Siellä oli kyllin menestyksen tilaisuuksia hänenlaatuisille miehille. Hän odotti semmoista tilaisuutta. Se tuli; hän käytti sitä parhaimmiten hyödykseen; pääsi julman Fonqvier-Tinvillen suosioon ja sai viran Salaisen Poliisin virastossa. Danvillen viha kuitenkin haihtui: hän tointui jälleen käyttämään tuota älykästä mieltä, joka tähän asti oli häntä niin hyvästi auttanut, ja lähetti kutsumaan takaisin poisajettua palvelijaa. Se oli liian myöhäistä. Lomaque oli jo siinä asemassa, että hän voi vaatia häntä puhdistamaan itseään epäluuloista -- jopa kenties saattaa hänen päänsä mestauspölkylle. Pahempi asia kuin tämä oli että nimittämättömiä kirjeitä hänelle lähetettiin, joissa häntä kehoitettiin mitä pikemmin osoittamaan isänmaanrakkautta jollakin vastustamattomalla alttiiksi panolla ja saattamaan äitiänsä vaikenemaan, jonka mieletön suoruus luultavasti ennen pitkää maksaisi hänelle hänen henkensä. Danville tunsi hänet siksi hyvin, että hän tiesi yhden ainoan keinon löytyvän häntä pelastaa, ja sen kautta pelastaa myös itseään. Äiti oli aina vastustanut maasta pois muuttamista; vaan nyt hänen poikansa vaati että hänen piti käyttää ensimmäistä tilaisuutta lähteäksensä Ranskasta, siksi kun levollisempia aikoja tulisi. Luultavasti olisi äiti antanut oman henkensä kymmenen kertaa vaaran alttiiksi ennemmin kuin olisi poikaansa totellut; vaan hän ei uskaltanut saattaa samalla poikansa henkeä vaaran alaiseksi; ja hän myöntyi poikansa tähden. Osaksi salaisten vehkeitten, osaksi häpiämättömän petoksen kautta, Danville hankki hänelle semmoisia papereja ja luvantodistuksia, joilla hän voi päästä ulos Ranskasta Marseillen kautta. Vielä nytkin epäsi hän lähtevänsä ennenkuin saisi tietää mitkä hänen poikansa aikeet olivat tulevaisuuden suhteen. Danville näytti hänelle kirjeen, jonka hän oli juuri lähettämäisillään Robespierrelle itselleen, jossa hän puollusti epäiltyä isänmaanrakkauttaan, ja harmistuneena pyysi saada osoittaa sitä jossakin virassa, sama miten pienessä, sen julman kolmikkovallan palveluksessa, joka silloin hallitsi, tahi oikeammin kauhistutti Ranskanmaata. Nähtyänsä tämän kirjoituksen rouva Danville rauhoittui. Hän sanoi jäähyväiset pojalleen ja läksi viimeinkin matkalle, uskollisen palvelijan kanssa, Marseilleen. Danvillen tarkoitus lähettäessään kirjeen Parisiin, ei ollut muu kuin pelastaa itsensä isänmaallisella kerskaamisella. Hän oli kuin pilvistä pudonnut saadessaan vastuun, jossa otettiin kiinni hänen sanoistaan, ja käskettiin tulemaan pääkaupunkiin ottamaan vastaan tointa siellä silloiselta hallitukselta. Siinä ei auttanut muu kuin totteleminen. Hän siis matkusti Parisiin, ottaen vaimonsa mukaansa suorastaan vaaran kitaan. Hän oli silloin julkisessa vihollisuudessa Trudainen kanssa; ja kuta suurempaan tuskaan ja levottomuuteen hän vaan voi saada veljeä sisarensa puolesta, sitä enemmän se oli hänelle mieleen. Pysyen uskollisena luottamisessaan ja rakkaudessaan, kaikista vaaroista ja vainoomisista huolimatta, seurasi Trudaine heitä; ja saman kadun varrella, jossa heidän asuinpaikkansa oli Parisissa, Hirmuhallituksen vaarallisena aikana, oli myöskin hänen asuntonsa. Danville oli kummastunut tarjotun palveluksensa vastaanottamisesta -- vielä enemmän hän hämmästyi huomatessaan hänelle määrätyn viran olevan päällysmiehen viran samassa Salaisen Poliisin virastossa, jossa Lomaque oli toimitusmiehenä. Robespierre ja hänen virkakumppalinsa olivat punninneet miehensä arvoa -- hänellä oli kyllin rahaa ja paikkakunnallista arvoa -- häntä kyllä kannatti tutkia. He tiesivät missä suhteessa häntä piti epäillä, ja miten he voisivat häntä hyödykseen käyttää. Salaisen Poliisin toimet olivat senlaatuisia toimia, jotka sopivat raakatuntoiselle, neuvokkaalle miehelle; ja tämän älyn rehellisestä käyttämisestä saadussa virassa oli Lomaquen läsnäolo virassa hyvänä vakuutuksena. Poisajettu palvelija oli juuri omansa vakoilemaan epäluulon alaista isäntää. Niin tapahtui että Parisin salaisessa poliisivirastossa, hirmuhallituksen aikana, Lomaquen entinen isäntä oli nimensä suhteen vielä hänen isäntänsä -- julkisuudessa päällysmies, jolle hän oli tilinalainen, -- yksityisessä elämässä epäluulon alainen mies, jonka pienimpiä sanoja ja tekoja hän oli virallisesti määrätty pitämään silmällä. Yhä murheellisemmiksi ja synkemmiksi kävivät Lomaque'n kasvot hänen nyt aprikoidessaan viimeiksikuluneitten viiden vuoden muutoksia ja onnettomuuksia. Kun lähistössä olevan kirkon kello löi seitsemän, heräsi hän näistä mietteistänsä. Hän järjesti hajallaan edessänsä olevat paperit -- katsoi oveen päin ikäänkuin odottaen jonkun tulevan -- rupesi sitten, huomattuaan olevansa yksin, tarkastamaan sitä kirjoitusta, joka ensiksi oli johdattanut hänen mieleensä tuon pitkän jonon synkkiä ajatuksia. Siinä löytyvät muutamat rivit olivat kirjoitetut salaisilla kirjainmerkeillä ja sen sisältö oli seuraava: "Ottakaa huomioonne että teidän päällysmiehenne, Danville, viime viikolla sai luvan olla poissa hoitaakseen muutamia omia asioitaan Lyonissa, ja ettei häntä odoteta takaisin tulevaksi päivään tahi kahteen. Hänen poissa ollessa jouduttakaa Trudainen asiaa. Ko'otkaa kaikki todistukset ja olkaa itse valmiina ryhtymään toimiin samassa kun saatte käskyn. Elkää lähtekö virastohuoneesta ennenkuin taas saatte tietoja minulta. Jos teillä on kopia Danvilleä koskevasta yksityisohjeesta, jonka te minulle kirjoititte, niin lähettäkää se minun kotiini. Tahdon muistiani virkistää. Teidän alkuperäinen kirjeenne on poltettu". Tässä ilmoituskirje äkisti päättyi. Pannessaan sitä kokoon ja pistäessään sitä taskuunsa, Lomaque huokaili. Tämä oli muuten harvinainen tunteiden-ilmaus hänessä. Hän nojautui tuolin selkälautaa vasten ja naputteli kynsillään pöytään. Äkkiä koputettiin hiljaa huoneen ovea ja kahdeksan tahi kymmenen miestä -- nähtävästi uuden Ranskalaisen Inkvisitionin haltijoita -- tyynenä astui sisään, asettuivat seisomaan järjestykseen vasten seinää. Lomaque nyykäytti päätään kahdelle heistä. "Picard ja Magloire, käykää istumaan tämän pulpetin ääreen. Minä tarvitsen teitä toisten mentyä", Näin sanoen antoi Lomaque muutamia sinetillä ja päällekirjoituksilla varustettuja kirjeitä toisille huoneessa odottaville miehille, jotka ottivat niitä vastaan äänettöminä, kumarsivat ja läksivät ulos. Äkkinäinen katsoja olisi luullut heitä konttorikirjureiksi, jotka ottivat vastaan kauppiaalta lähetettävien tavaroiden tunnuskirjoja. Ken olisi voinut aavistaa että syytösten, vangitsemiskäskyjen, ja kuolemantuomioitten antaminen ja vastaan-ottaminen -- tuomittujen ihmisparkojen toimittaminen ruoaksi tuolle kaikkinielevälle Guillotinelle [mestauskone, jota käytettiin Ranskan vallankumouksen aikana] -- olisi voinut käydä noin tyynesti ja huolettomasti, tuommoisella kylmämielisellä virkatottumuksella! Kääntyen pulpetin ääressä istuviin kahteen mieheen sanoi Lomaque: "No onko teillä nyt nuo muistoonpanot muassanne". (He vastasivat myöntäväisesti). "Picard, teillä on ensimmäiset syytöskohdat tässä Trudainen asiassa; teidän tulee lukea ensiksi. Minä olen jo lähettänyt virka-ilmoitukset; vaan meidän täytyy kuitenkin lukea todistukset alusta alkain ollaksemme varmat ettei niistä ole jäänyt mitään pois. Jos muutoksia tulee tehtäväksi, niin nyt on aika niitä tehdä. Lukekaa, Picard, ja tehkää se niin pikaan kuin mahdollista". Saatuaan tämmöisen kehoituksen, veti Picard taskustaan muutamia pitkiä paperikaistaleita ja alkoi lukea niistä seuraavaa: "Pöytäkirja, sisältävä koottuja todistuksia Louis Trudainea vastaan, jota luullaan, Kansalaisen Päällysmies Danvillen tekemän syytöksen johdosta, syylliseksi vihollisuuteen vapauden pyhää asiaa vastaan, ja vastahakoisuuteen kansan yksinvaltaisuutta vastaan. (1) Epäluulon alainen henkilö on salaisen tarkastuksen alla, ja on seuraavat seikat saatu ilmi. On huomattu hänen kahdesti käyneen yön aikana muutamassa Papiston-kadun varrella olevassa talossa. Ensimmäisenä yönä kuljetti hän mukanaan rahaa, -- toisena asiapapereita. Hän palasi sieltä ilman kumpiakin. Nämä seikat on saatu tietää erään kansalaisen avulla, jonka Trudaine on ottanut apumiehekseen taloutensa toimissa (niitä, joita Tirannien aikana sanottiin palvelijoiksi), tämä mies on hyvä isänmaansa rakastaja, jolle voi uskoa Trudaine'n tointen silmällä pitämisen. (2) Asukkaita on Papiston-kadun varrella olevassa talossa hyvin paljon, ja ne ovat muutamissa suhteissa hallitukselle vähemmin tunnettuja kuin suotava olisi. On huomattu vaikeaksi saada varmoja tietoja siitä tahi niistä henkilöistä, joiden luona Trudaine on käynyt, käyttämättä vankeutta. (3) Vangitsemista on katsottu liian aikaiseksi, toiminnon näin vasta alulla ollessa, koska se luultavasti estäisi salaliiton kehkeytymistä ja antaisi varoituksen syyllisille, joten ehkä voisivat päästä pakoon. Käsky on sentähden annettu tarkastaa heitä vaan tätä nykyä, ja odottaa. (4) Kansalainen päällysmies Danville lähtee Parisista vähäksi aikaa. Trudainen silmällä pitämisen toimi on sentähden otettu allekirjoittaneelta ja annettu hänen kumppalilleen, Magloirelle. -- Allekirjoittanut: Picard. Nimellä vahvistanut: Lomaque". Luettuansa niin pitkälle asetti poliisimies paperinsa kirjoituspöydälle, odotti hetken käskyjä ja läksi ulos, kun hän ei niitä saanut. Ei tullut mitään muutosta Lomaquen kasvoissa ilmautuvaan murheellisuuteen ja levottomuuteen. Hän vielä naputteli tuskallisesti kynsillään kirjoituspöytään eikä edes katsonut toiseen poliisimieheen pyytäessään häntä lukemaan kertomuksensa. Magloire veti esille samanlaisia paperikaistaleita kuin Picard ja luki niistä samalla kiireisellä, asioimistapaisella, yksitoikkoisella äänellä: "Trudainen asia. Pöytäkirjan jatkoa. Kansalais-asioitsija Magloire on määrätty Trudainen silmälläpitoa jatkamaan, ja on seuraavat tärkeät tiedot saatu ilmi edellisiin lisättäviksi. (1) Näyttää siltä kuin Trudaine aikoisi käydä kolmannen kerran salaisesti Papiston-kadun varrella olevassa talossa. On ryhdytty erityisiin toimiin voidaksemme läheltä tarkastaa hänen tekojaan ja seuraus on ollut että toinen henkilö on huomattu osalliseksi tuohon otaksuttuun salaliittoon. Tämä henkilö on Trudainen sisar, ja Kansalais-päällysmies Danvillen vaimo". "Voi ihmisparkaa! -- hukassa hän on!" mutisi Lomaque itsekseen huoaisten, ja liikkuen levottomasti yhdeltä puolelta toiselle, vanhassa kuluneessa nojatuolissaan. Nähtävästi Magloire ei ollut tottunut huokauksiin, keskeyttämisiin, ja murheen osoituksiin siltä taholta, sillä hyvin järkähtämätön tuo pääpoliisi tavallisesti oli. Hän katsoi paperistaan ylös kummastuneena. "Jatka, Magloire!" huusi Lomaque suuttuneena. "Miksi hitossa sinä et jatka?" -- "Aivan heti, kansalainen", vastasi Magloire nöyrästi ja jatkoi: "(2) Trudainen kotona on Danvillen vaimon osallisuus veljensä salaisiin hankkeisin saatu ilmi edellämainitun isänmaallisen kansalaisen valppauden kautta. Näiden kahden epäluulon alaisen henkilön keskustelut tapahtuvat ainoastaan heidän kahden kesken ollessaan ja kuiskuttelemalla. Vähä on, mikä on voitu kuulla; vaan tämä vähäinen riittää todistukseksi siitä, että hän täydelleen tietää veljensä aikomuksesta lähteä kolmannen kerran Papiston-kadun varrella olevaan taloon. On vielä saatu tietää että hän on odottava veljensä takaisintuloa ja että hän vasta sitten yksinänsä palaa omaan kotiinsa. (3) Ankarimpiin keinoihin on ryhdytty Papiston-kadun varrella olevan talon silmällä pitoa varten. On saatu tietää Trudaine'n käyntien tarkoittaneen miestä ja vaimoa, joita talonomistaja ja muut asukkaat tuntevat nimellä Duboit. Ne asuvat neljännessä kerroksessa. Mahdotonta on nyt asian urkkimis-aikana käydä niiden huoneesen tahi tutkia kansalaista Dubois ja hänen vaimoansa, saattamatta meille haitallista häiriötä ja meteliä siihen taloon ja sen naapuristoon. Poliisimies jätettiin paikkaa silmällä pitämään, kunnes tutkimis- ja vangitsemis-käskyjä saataisiin. Niiden saaminen tuli sattumoilta estetyksi. Kun ne viimein saatiin huomattiin molempain sekä miehen että vaimon olevan poissa. Ei ole vielä tähän saakka päästy niiden jäljille. (4) Talonomistaja heti vangittiin samoin kuin taloa tarkastamaan asetettu poliisimies. Talonomistaja vakuuttaa ettei hän tiedä mitään talonsa asukkaista. Luullaan hänen kuitenkin olleen salajuoniin osallisena kuin myös että ne paperit, jotka Trudaine kuljetti kansalaisille Dubois, olivat väärennettyjä matkapasseja. Ei ole mahdotonta että heidän on onnistunut näillä ja rahalla jo päästä Ranskanmaasta. On ryhdytty toimiin niiden kiinniottamista varten siinä tapauksessa ett'eivät vielä ole yli rajan kulkeneet. Enempiä tietoja heistä ei ole vielä saatu. (5) Trudaine ynnä hänen sisarensa ovat alituisen tarkastuksen alla; ja allekirjoittanut odottaa saadakseen enempiä käskyjä, ja pidäksen valmiina niitä toimeenpanemaan. -- Allekirjoittanut: Magloire. Nimellä vahvistanut: Lomaque". Herettyänsä muistoonpanojaan lukemasta, Magloire asetti ne kirjoituspöydälle. Hän oli selvästi suosittu mies virastossa ja luotti asemaansa; sillä hän uskalsi tehdä muistutuksen, eikä heti lähtenyt huoneesta äänettömänä niinkuin hänen edelläkävijänsä Picard. "Kun kansalainen Danville palajaa Parisiin", alkoi hän, "niin hän varmaan hämmästyy huomatessaan että hän syyttämällä vaimonsa veljeä, samalla myös on syyttänyt tietämättänsä omaa vaimoansa". Lomaque katsahti häneen äkisti, tuo vanha heikkous silmissä, joka teki ne niin kummallisen näköisiksi muutamissa tilaisuuksissa. Magloire ymmärsi tämän ennusmerkin merkityksen ja olisi joutunut hämille, ellei hän olisi ollut poliisimies. Nyt hän taastui askeleen tai kaksi pöydästä eikä puhunut mitään. "Ystäväni Magloire", sanoi Lomaque, lempeästi iskien silmää, "teidän viimeinen muistutuksenne näyttää minusta peitetyltä kysymykseltä. Minä aina kysyn suoraan toisilta -- en koskaan vastaa itse kysymyksiini. Te tahdotte tietää, kansalainen, mikä salainen syy meidän päällysmiehellämme on tehdä kanne vaimonsa veljeä vastaan? Mitä jos itse koettaisitte miettimällä löytää sen. Se tulee olemaan erinomaisen sopiva toimi teille, ystäväni Magloire -- erinomaisen sopiva harjoitus virkatuntien perästä". "Onko muita käskyjä?" kysyi Magloire nyreissään. "Ei ole vastaluettuja ilmoituksia koskevia", vastasi Lomaque. "En tiedä mitään muutettavaa tahi lisättävää kuultuani ne uudestaan. Vaan minulla on heti pieni mnistoonpano valmiina teille. Istukaa toiseen pöytään, ystävä Magloire; minä pidän teistä hyvin paljon kun vaan ette ole utelias, -- pyydän, istukaa". Näin kohteliaasti puhellen poliisimiehelle lempeimmällä äänellään, Lomaque otti esille taskukirjansa, ja siitä pienen kirjeen, jonka hän aukaisi ja luki läpi tarkkaavaisuudella. Se aikoi lauseella: "Yksityisiä virkaohjeita Päällysmies Danvillen suhteen", ja sen sisältö oli muutoin seuraava: -- Allekirjoittanut voi lujasti vakuuttaa, kauan tunnettuansa Danvillen perheellistä elämää, että hänen syynsä vaimonsa veljen ilmi-autamiseen ovat paljaastaan yksityistä laatua, ja ett'eivät ole kaukaisimmassakaan yhteydessä valtiollisten seikkain kanssa. Lyhyesti puhuen, asia on seuraava: -- Louis Trudaine vastusti alusta alkain sisarensa naimista Danvillen kanssa, epäillen jälkimäisen luonnetta ja mielen laatua. Naiminen kumminkin tapahtui ja veli malttoi mielensä ja odotti seurauksia, käyttäen sitä varokeinoa että hän muutti asumaan sisarensa läheisyyteen, ollakseen välittäjänä, jos tarve vaatisi, aviomiehen mahdollisesti tapahtuvien rikosten ja vaimon kärsittävien tuskain välillä. Seuraukset olivat hänen pahimpia aavistuksiaan pahemmat, ja vaativat sitä välittäjätointa, johon hän oli valmistainnut. Hän on murtamattoman voimakas, kärsivällinen ja nuhteeton mies, ja on tehnyt sisarensa suojaamisen ja lohduttamisen elämänsä päämääräksi. Hän ei anna langolleen vähintäkään syytä julkiseen riitaan itsensä kanssa. Häntä ei voi pettää, suututtaa eikä väsyttää; ja hän on Danvillea etevämpi joka suhteessa -- käytöksen, mielenlaadun ja ky'yn suhteen. Asiain näin ollessa lienee tarpeetonta sanoa, että hänen lankonsa viha häntä kohtaan on leppymättömintä laatua, ja samoin tarpeetonta viitata ilmi-annon aivan selviin vaikutussyihin. "Mitä niihin epäluulon-alaisiin seikkoihin tulee, joista ei ole syytetty ainoastaan Trudainea, vaan myös hänen sisartaan, niin allekirjoittanut on pahoillaan, ett'ei hän voi, tämän enempää, niitä ymmärtää eikä selittää. Tällä valmistuvaisella kannalla ollessaan näyttää asia olevan läpitsetunkemattoman salaisuuden peitossa". Lomaque luki nämä rivit läpi lopussa olevaan omaan allekirjoitukseensa saakka. Tämä oli se kopia Salaisista Ohjeista, joita häneltä oli pyydetty siinä kirjoituksessa, jota hän tarkasteli ennenkuin nuo kaksi poliisimiestä tulivat huoneesen. Verkkaan ja niinkuin näytti, vastahakoisesti, hän kääri kirjeen uuteen paperi-arkkiin ja oli sulkemaisillaan sitä sinetillä, kun koputus oveen häntä pysähdytti. "Astukaa sisään", huusi hän äkäisesti; ja mies, työpuvussa ja pölyisenä, astui huoneesen, kuiskasi sanan tahi pari hänen korvaansa, nyykäytti päätään ja läksi ulos. Lomaque säpsähti kuullessaan kuiskutuksen; ja avattuaan kirjeensä uudestaan, kirjoitti hän pikaisesti nimikirjoituksensa alle: -- "Olen juuri saanut tietää että Danville on kiiruhtanut Pariisiin palajamistaan ja odotetaan tulevaksi tänä iltana". Kirjoitettuaan nämä rivit, hän sinetitti kirjeen, kirjoitti päällekirjoituksen ja antoi sen Magloirelle. Poliisimies katseli päällekirjoitusta lähtiessään ulos huoneesta -- se oli "Kansalaiselle Robespierre, Saint Honoré-katu". Yksin jäätyänsä, Lomaque nousi istuiltaan ja asteli levottomasti edes takaisin kynsiänsä pureskellen. "Danville tulee takaisin tänä iltana", sanoi hän itsekseen; "ja ratkaiseva hetki tulee hänen kanssaan. Trudaine olisi salaliittolainen! Sisar Rosa (niinkuin tapansa oli häntä nimittää) salaliittolainen! Äh! salaliitto voi tuskin olla vastaus arvoitukseen tällä kertaa. Mikä se on?" Hän kävi pari kertaa edestakaisin äänettömänä -- seisattui sitten avonaisen akkunan eteen ja katseli sitä vähäistä osaa taivaasta, minkä kadunvarrella olevilta rakennuksilta voi nähdä. "Tähän aikaan viisi vuotta takaperin", sanoi hän, "puhui Trudaine minulle tuolla penkillä, josta saattoi Seineä ihailla; ja sisar Rosa piti kahvia lämpimänä vanhaa rumanaamaista Lomaque-parkaa varten. Nyt olen virallisesti velvoitettu epäilemään heitä molempia; kenties heitä vangitsemaan; kenties --, tahtoisin että tämä toimi olisi jollekulle toiselle annettu. En sitä tahtoisi -- en tahtoisi sitä millään tavalla!" Hän palasi kirjoituspöydän luo ja istuutui papereitansa tarkastamaan semmoisen miehen äreällä katsannolla, joka on päättänyt karkoittaa vaivaavia ajatuksia hyvin kovan työnteon voimalla. Enemmän kuin tunnin hän uutterasti työskenteli, silloin tällöin haukkasi hän kuivasta leipäviipaleesta palasen ja pureskeli sitä. Silloin hän hetkeksi pysähtyi työssään ja rupesi taas miettimään. Vähitellen ilta alkoi hämärtää ja huone kävi pimiäksi. "Kenties pääsemme yli tämän illan, viimeinkin -- ken tietää?" sanoi Lomaque soittaen pöytäkelloa saadakseen valkeata. Kynttilöitä tuotiin; ja samalla palasi poliisimies Magloire, tuoden pientä suljettua kirjettä. Se sisälsi vangitsemiskäskykirjeen ja ohuen kolmikulmaisen kirjeen, joka paremmin oli rakkaudenkirjeen tahi naisen kutsumuskirjeen näköinen kuin minkään muun. Lomaque aukasi kirjeen uteliaasti ja luki siitä seuraavat sievästi kirjoitetut rivit, joiden alla oli Robespierren nimikirjaimet -- V. R. -- ja jonka kirjaimet olivat kauniisti tehtyjä salamerkkejä. "Vangitse Trudaine ja hänen sisarensa tänä iltana. Paremmin asiaa mietittyäni en ole aivan varma tuleeko Danville takaisin niin aikaisin että voi olla läsnä, joka ehkä olisi vielä parempi. Hän ei voi aavistaakaan mitään vaimonsa vangitsemisesta. Pidä häntä tarkoin silmällä kun tämä tapahtuu, ja lähetä yksityinen ilmoitus siitä minulle. Minä pelkään että hän on paheellinen mies; ja kaikesta enimmin inhoan Pahetta". "Onko minulla muuta työtä tänä ehtoona?" kysyi Magloire haukotellen. "Ainoastaan eräs vangitseminen", vastasi Lomaque. "Kokoelkaa miehenne ja kun olette valmiina, niin hankkikaa vaunut portille odottamaan". "Olimme juuri ehtoolliselle menemäisillämme", murisi Magloire itsekseen, pois lähtiessään. "Vieköön hiisi nuo ylimykset! Niillä on kaikilla semmoinen kiiru tulla guillotiniin etteivät suo ihmiselle niin paljon aikaa että edes saisi rauhassa syödä ruokansa!" "Ei siitä nyt pääse mihinkään", mutisi Lomaque, murheellisella katseella pistäen vangitsemiskäskyn ja kolmikulmaisen kirjeen taskuunsa. "Hänen isänsä oli minun pelastukseni; hän itse tervehti minua aivan kuin vertaistaan; hänen sisarensa kohteli minua aivan kuin herrasmiestä, niinkuin siihen aikaan sanottiin; ja nyt --" Hän vaikeni ja pyyhki otsaansa -- aukasi sitten pulpettinsa, otti siitä esille viinaputellin ja kaatoi siitä itselleen lasin nestettä, jota hän nautti verkalleen, vähin ryypyin. "Tokkohan muut ihmiset tulevat pehmeämpi-sydämisiksi vanhoillaan?" sanoi hän. "Minä ainakin näytän siksi tulevan. Miehuutta! miehuutta! mikä kerran on tapahtuva, se tapahtuu. Vaikka tässä panisin pääni vaaran alttiiksi, en voisi heidän vangitsemistaan estää. Ei löydy koko virkakunnassa miestä, joka ei olisi valmis sitä tekemään, ellen minä tahtoisi". Tällöin kuului rattaiden tärinä ulkoa. "Siinä on vaunut", huudahti Lomaque, pistäen takaisin putellinsa ja ottaen hattunsa. "Koska tämä vangitseminen kumminkin on tapahtuva, on se yhtä heille, vaikka minä sen teen". Lohdutellen itseään miten parhaiten voi tällä mietteellä, puhalsi pääpoliisi Lomaque kynttilät sammuksiin ja lähti ulos huoneesta. KOLMAS LUKU. Mitään tietämättä miehensä päätöksestä palata Pariisiin päivää ennemmin kuin oli lähtiessään luvannut, sisar Rosa jätti yksinäisen kotinsa, viettääksensä iltaa veljensä kanssa. Olivat jutelleet keskenään kauan auringon laskun jälkeen ja antaneet pimeän tulla hiipien huomaamatta, niinkuin ihmiset tahtovat, jotka ovat levollisessa, perheellisessä keskuspuheessa. Niin tapahtui, kummallisen sattumuksen kautta, että juuri silloin kun Lomaque puhalsi kynttilänsä sammuksiin virkahuoneessaan, Rosa sytytti lukulamppua veljensä asunnossa. Viiden vuoden tuskat ja murheet olivat surkealla tavalla muuttaneet hänen ulkonäkönsä. Hänen kasvonsa näyttivät laihemmilta ja pitemmiltä; kerran niin suloinen "valko ja puna" hänen poskillaan oli mennyttä; hänen vartalonsa oli jo jonkunlaisen heikkouden vaikutuksesta käynyt vähän kyyryyn, jonka voi huomata hänen käydessään. Hänen käytöksensä oli kadottanut neidollisen kauneutensa ainoastaan tullakseen luonnottoman tyyneksi ja raukeaksi. Kaikista hänen sulouksistaan, jotka olivat niin onnettomilla seurauksilla, vaan samalla niin viattomasti, viehättäneet hänen sydämetöntä miestään, oli yksi ainoa jäänyt -- hänen äänensä viehättävä sulous. Jos kohta silloin tällöin joku murheen sävel siihen sekaantui, oli sen tyyni, luonnollinen viehättäväisyys kuitenkin jäljellä. Kaiken muun sulouden hävityksestä oli tämä ainoa sulous pelastunut muuttumatta! Hänen veljensä -- vaikka hänen kasvonsa näyttivät huolen kalvaamilta ja hänen käytöksensä surullisemmalta kuin ennen, näytti vähemmin entisestään muuttuneelta. Heikommassa rakennus-aineessa ensimmäiseksi rakoja huomaa. Tuo maailman epäjumala, Kauneus, viettää heikointa ja lyhyintä ikäänsä siinä temppelissä, mistä me enimmin tahdomme häntä jumaloida. "Ja sinä luulet todellakin, Louis, että meidän vaarallinen hankkeemme on onnellisesti päättynyt tällä hetkellä?" sanoi Rosa surullisesti, sytyttäen lamppua ja asettaen lasikupua sen päälle. "Mikä helpoitus jo tuostakin on, kun kuulen sinun sanovan, että luulet meidän viimeinkin onnistuneen!" "Minä sanoin vaan toivovani, Rosa", vastasi veli. "Hyvä, myöskin toivo on kallis-arvoinen sana sinun suustasi, Louis, -- kallis-arvoinen sana kuulla vaikka kenen suusta tässä kauheassa kaupungissa, ja näinä Hirmun päivinä". Hän vaikeni äkkiä, nähdessään veljensä kohottavan kättään varoitukseksi. He katselivat toisiinsa äänettöminä ja kuuntelivat. Huoneen sivuitse kulkevain askelten kopina -- joka lakkasi hetkeksi juuri huoneen kohdalla -- sitten kuului taasen -- kuului läpi auki olevan akkunan. Ei kuulunut mitään muuta, ei ulkoa ei sisällä, joka olisi häirinnyt illan hiljaisuutta -- Hirmun kuolonhiljaisuutta, joka jo monta kuukautta oli vallinnut Parisissa. Tämän ajan omituisia tunnusmerkkejä oli tuokin, että ohitse kulkevissa askeleissakin, jotka kuuluivat vähän oudoilta illan pimeydessä, oli jo epäluulon esinettä, sekä veljelle että sisarelle -- niin luonnollista epäluulon syytä, että he lakkasivat puhumasta aivan kuin luonnollisesta syystä, ilman sanaakaan vaihtamatta selitykseksi, kunnes noitten outojen askelten kopina oli hälvennyt. "Louis", jatkoi Rosa, hiljentäen ääntänsä sopotukseksi, kun ei enää mitään kuulunut, "milloinka minä saan kertoa salaisuutemme miehelleni?" "Ei vielä!" sanoi Trudaine totisena. "Ei sanaakaan, ei viittaustakaan sinnepäin, ennenkuin minä annan luvan. Muista, Rosa, että lupasit olla vaiti jo alusta. Kaikki riippuu siitä, pidätkö lupaustasi pyhänä, kunnes minä päästän sinut siitä". "Minä tahdon pitää sitä pyhänä; minä tahdon todellakin, kaikesta huolimatta, vaikka miten mieleni tekisi", hän vastasi. "Se on aivan kylliksi minun rauhoittamisekseni -- ja nyt, armaani, puhukaamme muusta. Noilla seinilläkin voi olla korvat, ja ehkä tuo suljettu ovikaan tuossa ei ole miksikään turvaksi". Hän katsoi siihen levottomasti puhuessaan. "Vähitellen olen tullut samoihin mielipiteisin kuin sinä, Rosa, tuosta minun uudesta palvelijastani -- siinä on jotakin viekasta hänen kasvoissaan. Tahtoisin olleeni yhtä sukkela sitä huomaamaan, kuin sinä olit". Rosa katsoi häneen peljästyneenä. "Onko hän tehnyt mitään epäluulon alaista? Oletko huomannut hänen vakoavan sinua? Kerro minulle pahinta, Louis". "Hsh! hsh! rakas sisareni, ei niin ääneen. Älä saata itseäsi niin levottomaksi; hän ei ole tehnyt mitään epäluulonalaista". "Lähetä hänet pois -- minä rukoilen, lähetä hänet pois, ennenkuin on liian myöhäistä!" "Ja hän on antava minut ilmi, kostosta, samana iltana jona hän lähtee täältä. Sinä unhotat että palvelijat ja herrat nyt ovat yhden-arvoisia. On ikäänkuin minulla ei olisi palvelijaa ollenkaan. Minun kanssani asuu eräs kansalainen, joka taloudellisilla töillään saattaa minua kiitollisuuden velkaan, jota kiitollisuutta minun tulee rahallisesti osoittaa. Ei! ei! jos minä te'en jotain, niin minun tulee koettaa saada häntä luopumaan minusta. Vaan me olemme jo joutuneet ikävään puheen-aineesen -- mitä jos taas muutan ainetta? Sinä löydät tuolta pöydältä, joka on nurkassa, pienen kirjan -- sano mikä on sinun ajatuksesi siitä". Kirja oli Corneille'n näytelmä Cid, kauniisti sidottu sinisiin sahviani-kansiin. Rosa innostui sitä ylistämään. "Minä löysin sen eräästä kirjakaupasta eilen", sanoi hänen veljensä, "ja ostin sen, lahjoittaakseni sen sinulle. Corneille ei ole kirjailija, joka saattaa ketään harmillisiin seikkoihin, ei edes näinäkään aikoina. Etkös muista kerran sanoneesi, entisinä aikoina, häpeissäsi olevasi siitä, kun et tuntenut kuin hyvin vähän meidän suurinta dramallista kirjailijaa?" Rosa muisti hyvin, ja hymyili yhtä onnellisena kuin menneinä aikoina lahjastaan. "Siinä on muutamia hyviä piirroskuvia joka näytöksen alussa", jatkoi Trudaine, huolellisennäköisenä johdattaen sisarensa huomiota kuviin, ja nousi sitten äkkiä hänen vierestään, nähtyänsä hänen mielistyneen niiden katselemiseen. Hän kävi akkunan luokse -- kuunteli -- väisti syrjään akkunanpeitettä ja katsoi kadulle kumpaankin suuntaan. Ei elävää sielua ollut näkyvissä. "Minä taisin erehtyä", hän ajatteli ja palasi nopeasti sisarensa luokse; "vaan kyllä minä varmaan luulin että mua seurasi vakoja tänään kadulla kulkiessani". "Minä arvelen", sanoi Rosa, vielä tarkastellen kirjaansa, "arvelen tokkohan minun mieheni antaa minun mennä 'Le Cid'ia' katsomaan, kun sitä ensi kerran näytetään?" "Ei!" huusi ääni ovella, "ei, vaikka polvillesi lankeaisit häntä rukoilemaan!" Rosa kääntyi sinnepäin hätähuudolla. Siinä seisoi hänen miehensä kynnyksellä, karsaasti katsoen häneen, hattu päässä ja kädet tylysti taskuun pistettyinä. Trudainen palvelija ilmoitti hänen tuloa, hävyttömällä hymyllä, sillä äänettömällä välihetkellä, joka seurasi ilmestymistä. "Kansalainen, päällysmies Danville, käymään kansalaisen, hänen vaimonsa luokse", sanoi mies ivallisesti, kumartaen isännälleen. Rosa katsoi veljeensä, astui sitten pari askelta oveen päin. "Tämä oli odottamaton tulo", sanoi hän heikolla äänellä; "onko jotakin tapahtunut? Me -- me emme odottaneet sinua --". Hänen äänensä kävi kovin heikoksi, nähdessään miehensä lähestyvän, kalpeana huulia myöten tukahutetusta suuttumuksesta. "Kuinka rohkenit tulla tänne kuultuasi sen, minkä minä sinulle sanoin?" kysyi hän pikaisesti matalalla äänellä. Rosan koko ruumista pöyristi hänen miehensä sanat, ikäänkuin tämä olisi häntä lyönyt. Veri nousi hänen veljensä kasvoihin, kun tämä huomasi sen, vaan hän hillitsi itsensä, ja tarttuen sisarensa käteen, talutti hänet muutamaan nojatuoliin istumaan. "Minä kiellän sinua istumasta tässä talossa", sanoi Danville, vielä lähestyen; "minä käsken sinua tulemaan täältä kanssani! Kuuletko sinä? Minä käsken sinua!" Hän astui vaimoaan yhä lähemmäksi, vaan huomasi Trudainen silmien tuimasti tuijottavan häneen, ja seisattui. Rosa hypähti ylös ja heittäytyi heidän väliinsä. "Oi, Charles, Charles!" sanoi hän miehelleen. "Sopikaa Louis'n kanssa tänä iltana, ja ole lempeä taas minua kohtaan -- minulla on syytä vaatia paljoa sinulta, vaikka sinä et voi sitä aavistaakaan!" Tämä käänsi kasvonsa toisaannepäin ja nauroi ylenkatseellisesti. Rosa koetti taas puhua, vaan Trudaine kosketti hänen käsivarttaan ja loi häneen varoittavan katseen. "Ilmoitusmerkkejä!" huusi Danville; "salaisia ilmoitusmerkkejä teidän kesken!" Epäilevästi katsellessaan vaimoaan, sattui hänen silmänsä Trudainen lahjakirjaan, jota Rosa vielä tietämättään piti kädessään. "Mikä kirja se on?" kysyi hän. "Ei se ole kuin eräs Corneillen näytelmä", vastasi Rosa; "Louis on juuri lahjoittanut sen minulle". Tämän selityksen perästä Danvillen hillitty suuttumus puhkesi ilmi valloilleen. "Anna se hänelle takaisin!" huusi hän raivossaan. "Sinun ei pidä ottaa mitään lahjaa häneltä; perheenvakojan myrkky tahraa kaikkea mitä hän koskettelee. Anna se hänelle takaisin!" Rosa empi. "Sinä et tahdo?" Hän tempasi kirjan häneltä lausuen kirouksen -- heitti sen lattiaan ja asetti jalkansa sen päälle. "Oi, Louis Louis! Jumalan tähden puhu!" Trudaine otti askeleen eteenpäin, kun kirja lensi maahan. Samassa hänen sisarensa löi käsivartensa hänen vartalonsa ympäri. Hän seisattui, tulipunaisesta muuttuen haahmonkalpeaksi. "Ei! ei! Louis", sanoi Rosa, kovemmin kiinnipitäen häntä; "ei viiden vuoden kärsivällisyyden perästä. Ei -- ei!" Hiljaa otti hän irti käsivartensa. "Sinulla on oikein, rakas sisareni. Älä pelkää, kaikki on jo ohitse nyt". Näin sanoen väisti hän sisarensa kauemmas luotaan ja otti äänetönnä kirjan ylös lattialta. "Eikö tämän pitäisi loukata teitä myös?" sanoi Danville ilkeällä hymyllä. "Teillä on kummallinen luonne -- toinen mies olisi vaatinut minua kaksintaisteluun!" Trudaine katsoi häneen vakavasti; otti taskustaan nenäliinansa ja pyyhkieli sillä kirjan ryvettyneitä kansia. "Jos voisin pyyhkiä pois verenne tahrat minun omastatunnostani yhtä helposti kuin voin pyyhkiä saappaanne tekemät tahrat tästä kirjasta", sanoi hän tyynesti, "niin olisi tämä teidän viimeinen hetkenne. Älä itke, Rosa", jatkoi hän, kääntyen taas sisareensa; "minä tahdon pitää sinun kirjaasi varallesi, siksi kun voit sen itse ottaa". "Ai'ot tehdä tämän! Ai'ot tehdä tuon!" huusi Danville, vihastuen yhä pahemmasti ja antaen vihansa voittaa älykkäisyytensäkin. "Puhu vähemmällä luottamuksella tulevaisuudesta -- et tiedä mitä se sinulle tuo. Hallitse kieltäsi, kun minun läsnä ollessani puhut; se päivä on tuleva, jolloin tarvitset minun apuani -- minun apuani, kuulitko?" Trudaine käänsi kasvonsa sisarestaan pois, ikäänkuin hän olisi peljännyt näyttää niitä hänelle sillä hetkellä kun nämä sanat lausuttiin. "Mies, joka minua seurasi tänään, oli vakoja -- Danvillen lähettämä vakoja!" tämä ajatus juolahti hänen mieleensä, vaan hän ei sitä lausunut. Hetken äänettömyys seurasi; silloin kuului illan hiljaisuudessa kaukaista rattaiden jyrinää. Tämä ääni tuli lähemmäksi ja lähemmäksi -- tuli aivan lähelle ja taukosi akkunan alla. Danville kiiruhti akkunan luo ja katsoi ulos tutkivasti. "En ole jouduttanut takaisin-tuloani turhaan. En olisi tahtonut jäädä läsnä-olematta tässä vangitsemisessa mistään hinnasta", ajatteli hän, tirkistellen ulos pimeyteen. Tähtiä näkyi taivaalla, vaan kuutamoa ei ollut sinä iltana. Hän ei voinut tuntea vaunuja eikä niitä henkilöitä, jotka nousivat niistä; ja hän kääntyi taas huoneesen päin. Hänen vaimonsa oli vaipunut muutamaan nojatuoliin -- vaimon veli oli asettamassa kaappiin kirjaa, jota oli luvannut säilyttää sisarelleen. Tässä kuoleman hiljaisuudessa kuului portailta nousevien askelten kopina tuskallisen selvään. Viimein ovi aukeni hiljaa. "Kansalainen Danville, terveyttä ja veljellisyyttä!" sanoi Lomaque, seisten ovessa, poliisimiehet hänen takanaan. "Missä kansalainen Louis Trudaine?" jatkoi hän, aloittaen tavallisen mallin mukaan. Rosa töytäsi ylös tuolilta; vaan hänen veljensä käsi peitti hänen huulensa ennenkuin hän ennätti puhua. "Nimeni on Louis Trudaine", hän vastasi. "Charles!" huusi hänen sisarensa, irroittaen itsensä hänestä ja vedoten mieheensä, "keitä nämä ihmiset ovat? Mitä niillä on täällä tekemistä?" Miehensä ei vastannut. "Louis Trudaine", sanoi Lomaque, verkkaan vetäen käskykirjaa taskustaan, "Tasavallan nimessä minä teidät vangitsen". "Rosa, tule takaisin tänne", huusi Trudaine. Se oli liian myöhäistä; hän oli jo irroittanut, ja kauhistuksen ajattelemattomuudessa tarttui hän miehensä käsivarteen. "Pelasta hänet!" huusi hän. "Pelasta hänet, kaiken tähden mitä maailmassa kalliina pidät! Sinä olet tuon miehen päällysmies, Charles -- käske hänet ulos huoneesta!" Danville irroitti raakamaisesti hänen kätensä käsivarrestaan. "Lomaque täyttää velvollisuutensa. Niin", lisäsi hän, voitonriemuisella katseella Trudaineen, "niin, täyttää velvollisuutensa. Katso vaan minuun niin paljon kuin vaan tahdot -- sinun katseesi ei minua voi liikuttaa. Minä annoin sinut ilmi! Minä tunnustan sen -- minä kehuu sitä! Olen pelastanut itseäni vihamiehestä ja valtiota huonosta kansalaisesta. Muista salaista käyntiäsi talossa Papiston-kadun varrella!" Hänen vaimonsa päästi kauhistuksen huudon. Hän tarttui uudestaan miehensä käsivarteen molemmilla käsillään -- noilla heikoilla, vapisevilla käsillään, jotka näyttivät äkkiä saaneen miehen voimia ja jäntevyyttä. "Tule tänne -- tule tänne! minun täytyy ja minä tahdon puhua sinulle!" Hän veti hänet suurella voimalla muutamaan tyhjänä olevaan huoneen nurkkaan. Kuolonkalpeana ja kauhistuneella katsannolla nousi hän varpailleen ja lähisti huuliansa miehensä korvaan. Tällä hetkellä Trudaine huusi hänelle: "Rosa, jos sinä puhut, olen minä hukassa". Hän pysähtyi aikeessaan, kuullessaan veljensä äänen, päästi miehensä käden, ja katsoi veljeensä väristen. "Rosa", jatkoi Trudaine, "sinä olet luvannut ja sinun lupauksesi on pyhä. Jos arvossa pidät kunniaa ja rakastat minua, tule tänne -- tule tänne ja ole vaiti". Hän ojensi kätensä. Rosa riensi hänen luoksensa; ja nojaten päätään vasten hänen rintaansa, purskahti hän katkeraan itkuun. Danville kääntyi levottomasti poliisimiehiin. "Viekää pois vankinne", sanoi hän; "te olette jo täyttäneet velvollisuutenne täällä". "Ainoastaan puoleksi", vastasi Lomaque, tuimasti tarkaten häntä. "Rosa Danville --" "Minun vaimoni!" huusi toinen. "Mitä minun vaimolleni?" "Rosa Danville", jatkoi Lomaque säälimättömästi, "te olette saman vangituksen alainen kuin Louis Trudaine". Rosa nosti päänsä äkkiä veljensä rinnoilta. Trudainen voimallisuus oli paennut -- hän vapisi. Rosa kuuli hänen sopottavan itsekseen: "Rosa myöskin! Ei, Jumalani! Tuota en tiennyt odottaa". Hän kuuli nämä sanat ja nyyhki pois kyyneleet silmistään, ja suuteli häntä sanoen: "Minä olen siitä iloinen, Louis. Me yhdessä uskalsimme -- yhdessä tulemme nyt kärsimään. Minä olen hyvilläni siitä!" Danville katsoi epäileväisesti Lomaqueen, kun ensimmäinen hämmästyksen puuska oli mennyt ohitse. "Mahdotonta!" huusi hän. "En ole koskaan syyttänyt vaimoani. Tässä on joku erehdys: te olette menneet valtuuskirjanne ylitse". "Vaiti!" sanoi Lomaque tuimasti ja mahtavaisesti. "Vaiti, kansalainen, ja antakaa arvoa Tasavallan päätökselle!" "Sinä konna! näytä minulle vangitsemis-käskykirja!" sanoi Danville. "Kuka on uskaltanut syyttää vaimoani?" "Te olette!" sanoi Lomaque kääntyen häneen halveksivalla naurulla. "Te -- ja konnan nimi takaisin teille itsellenne! Te, syyttämällä hänen veljeänsä! Ahaa! Me olemme ankarat virantoimissamme; me emme menetä aikaamme nimien huutamiseen -- me teemme havaintoja. Jos Trudaine on syyllinen, on teidän vaimonne osallinen hänen rikokseensa. Me tiedämme sen; ja me vangitsemme hänet". "Minä panen tätä vangitsemista vastaan", huusi Danville. "Minä olen tässä päällikkö. Kuka minua vastustaa?" Taipumaton ylipoliisi ei vastannut. Joku uusi jyrinä kadulta kävi hänen korviinsa. Hän riensi akkunan luokse ja katsoi ulos tutkivaisesti. "Ken minua vastustaa?" huusi Danville uudestaan. "Kuunnelkaa!" huusi Lomaque, kohottaen kättänsä. "Ääneti, ja kuunnelkaa!" Joukossa astuvien ihmisten jalkain töminä alkoi kuulua hänen puhuessaan. Ihmisäänet, jotka hiljaa ja yksiäänisesti hyräilivät marseillaise-laulua, yhdistyi juhlallisesti raskaitten, säännöllisten askelten töminään. Tulisoittojen valo alkoi yhä selvemmin välkkyä punaiselta, himeän tähtitaivaan alla. "Kuuletteko tuon? Näettekö lähestyviä tulisoittoja?" huusi Lomaque, riemullisesti osoittaen kadulle. "Kunniaa kansallislaululle ja sille miehelle, jonka kädessä on koko Ranskanmaan onni! Hattu päästä, kansalainen Danville! Robespierre kulkee ohitse. Hänen henkivartijajoukkonsa, nuo Tuima-iskuiset, ovat häntä saattamassa tulisoitoilla Jakobini-klubiin! -- Ken teitä vastustaisi, niinhän te sanoitte? Teidän herranne ja minun; se mies, jonka nimikirjoitus on tämän käskykirjan alla -- se mies, joka kynänpyörähdyksellä voi lähettää meidän molempain päät yhdessä vierimään guillotinin pussiin! Huudanko häntä hänen kulkeissaan talon ohitse? Kerronko hänelle että Päällysmies Danville vastustaa minua vangitsemisen toimittamisessa? Teenkö niin? Teenkö niin?" Ja ylenkatseensa suuruudessa, näytti Lomaque aivan kasvavan ruumiinkoossaankin, työntäessään vangitsemiskäskyn Danvillen silmäin eteen, ja osoittaen allekirjoitusta keppinsä kahvalla. Rosa katsoi ylös kauhistuksella Lomaquen lausuessa viimeisiä sanojaan -- katsoi, ja näki miehensä kavahtavan vangitsemiskäskyn nimikirjoituksen edessä ikäänkuin olisi itse guillotini ilmestynyt hänen eteensä. Hänen veljensä tunsi hänen horjahtavan käsissään ja pelkäsi suuresti miten sisarensa voimat ja mielenmaltti voisi kestää, jos vangitsemisen kauhu ja viivytys tulisi vielä kauemmin hänen mieltään kuohuttamaan. "Rohkeutta, Rosa; rohkeutta!" sanoi hän. "Sinä olet käyttäinnyt jalosti: sinun ei pidä nyt horjuman. Ei, ei! Ei sanaakaan enää. Ei sanaakaan ennenkuin minä taas kykenen selvään ajattelemaan ja päättämään mikä on parahinta. Rohkeutta, rakas sisareni: henkemme riippuu siitä. Kansalainen", jatkoi hän, kääntyen Lomaqueen, "toimittakaa vaan tehtävänne, -- me olemme valmiina". Raskaitten askelten töminä ulkona kävi yhä kovemmaksi; laulu kuului joka hetki selvemmin; palavien tulisoittojen leimuaminen valaisi taas pimeätä katua. Ottaen syyksi hatun tarjoamisen Trudainelle, astui Lomaque aivan häntä lähelle, ja kääntyen selin Danvilleen, kuiskasi: "en ole unhottanut hää-aattoiltaa enkä penkkiä joen-äyräällä". Ennenkuin Trudaine ennätti vastata oli hän ottanut Rosan päällysvaatteen ja päähineen erään apumiehensä kädestä ja auttoi häntä niiden päällepanemisessa. Danville, vielä kalpeana ja vapisevana, astui nähdessään näitä lähdön valmistuksia, vaimonsa luokse ja lausui hänelle pari sanaa; vaan hän puhui hiljaa ja lähestyvä astunnan töminä sekä laulun hyrinä estivät kuulemasta hänen sanojaan. Kirous pääsi hänen suustaan ja hillitsemättömässä raivossa löi hän nyrkkinsä hänen vieressä olevaan pöytään. "Sinetit on pantu jokaiseen kapineesen tässä huoneessa ja makuuhuoneessa", sanoi Magloire, lähestyen Lomaquea, joka nyykytti päätään ja viittauksella käski hänen kutsua ovelle toiset poliisimiehet. "Valmiina", huusi Magloire, astuen heti esille miehineen ja kohotti ääntään saadakseen sanojaan kuulumaan. "Minne?" Robespierre ja hänen Tuima-iskuisensa kulkivat juuri huoneen ohitse. Palavien tulisoittojen käry löyhähti akkunan kautta huoneesen; ohitse kulkevien miesten askeleet kopisivat yhä kovemmin vasten maata; Marseillais'en hiljainen hyrinä oli kasvanut selvästi kuuluvaksi lauluksi; Lomaque katsoi hetken vangitsemiskäskyynsä ja vastasi sitten: "St. Lazare'n vankihuoneesen!" NELJÄS LUKU. St. Lazare'n ylimmäinen vanginvartija seisoi vankihuoneen ulko-eteisessä, kaksi päivää Trudainen asunnossa tapahtuneen vangitsemisen jälkeen, poltellen aamupiippuaan. Katsellessaan pihan porttia kohden, näki hän portti-ovea avattavan ja erioikeuksellisen miehen astuvan sisään, jonka hän kohta tunsi Salapoliisinviraston toisen osaston ylipoliisiksi. "Miten, ystäväni Lomaque", huusi vanginvartija, astuen pihalle, "mikä teidät on saattanut tänne tänä aamuna, onko teillä asioita, vai huviksenneko olette tullut?" "Huvikseni, tällä kertaa, kansalaiseni. Minulla on jouto-aikaa, tunti tahi pari, kävelyyn käyttää. Minä huomasin olevani vankihuoneen läheisyydessä, enkä voinut olla tulematta tänne katsomaan miten minun ystäväni, ylimmäinen vanginvartija, jaksaa". Lomaque puhui ihmetyttävän hilpeästi ja vilkkaasti. Hänen silmiänsä vaivasi erinomainen heikkous ja räpytystauti; vaan hän hymyili kuitenkin mitä iloisimman veitikan näköisenä. Nuo hänen vanhat vihamiehensä, jotka aina epäilivät häntä enimmin silloin kun heikkous enimmin vaivasi hänen silmiään, eivät suinkaan olisi uskoneet sanaakaan siitä ystävällisestä puheesta, jonka hän ikään oli pitänyt, ja olisivat pitäneet varmana asiana että hänen käyntinsä ylimmän vanginvartijan luona oikeastaan tarkoitti muuta salaista asiata. "Mitenkä minä jaksan?" sanoi vanginvartija, pudistaen päätään. "Liika työn rasitus, ystäväni, -- liika työn rasitus. Ei ole joutohetkiä meidän osastossamme. Myös guillotinikin on käynyt liian hidastöiseksi meille!" "Joko olette lähettäneet vankileipomuksenne tutkittavaksi tänä aamuna?" kysyi Lomaque, aivan huolettoman näköisenä. "En; ovat juuri lähtemäisillään", vastasi toinen. "Tulkaa heitä katsomaan". Hän puhui aivan niinkuin vangit olisivat olleet joku kokoelma katseltavia kuvia tahi äsken valmistunut vaatepuku. Lomaque nyykäytti päätään, yhä vieläkin kasvoissa tuo onnellinen juhlallisuus. Vanginvartija näytti tietä sisempään etusaliin; ja osoittaen uneliaasti piipunvarrellaan, sanoi hän: "aamuleipomuksemme, kansalaiseni, juuri valmis leivottavaksi". Muutamassa salin nurkassa oli yhteentungettuina enemmän kuin kolmekymmentä miestä ja vaimoa, kaikensäätyisiä ja -ikäisiä, muutamat tuijottaen ympärilleen epätoivoisen murheen katseella, muutamat nauraen ja leikkiä laskien huolettomasti. Lähellä heitä käveli laiskotellen muuan "Patrioteihin" kuuluva vahtijoukko, poltellen tupakkaa, syljeskellen ja kiroten. Patriotien ja vankien välillä istui vaperalla tuolilla toinen vanginvartija -- kyttyräselkäinen mies; mahdottoman isoilla punaisilla viiksillä -- suurustaan lopettamassa, ahmien suuria papuja, joita hän veitsellään pisteli vadista ja huuhtoi alas aika kulauksilla viiniputellista. Huolettomasti näytti Lomaque katselevan tuota inhoittavaa näytöstä, vaan muutamissa minuutissa oli hänen tarkat silmänsä tarkastaneet jokaisen vangin kasvoja ja huomanneet Trudainen ja hänen sisarensa seisovan yhdessä joukon takana. "No, Apollo!" huusi ylimmäinen vanginvartija, puhutellen alempaa virkaveljeänsä lystikkäällä vankihuoneessa käytetyllä haukkumanimellä, "älä kaiken päivää te'e lähtöä tuon roskaleipomuksesi kanssa! Ja kuules nyt, ystäväni: minulla on lupa olla poissa asioillani osastossani iltapäivällä, niin että sinun asiasi tulee olemaan lukea guillotini-luetteloa ja merkitä vankien ovet ennenkuin vaunut tulevat huomen-aamulla. Käytä varovasti putellia, Apollo, tänä päivänä; käytä varovasti putellia, ettei tule hämminkiä kuolemaantuomittujen luettelossa huomenna". "Eikös ole janottava Heinäkuun ilma tämä -- kansalaiseni?" sanoi Lomaque, jättäen ylimmäisen vanginvartijan, ja taputellen kyttyräselkää mitä ystävällisimmällä tavalla hartioille. "Miten olette syössyt yhteen kaiken leipomuksenne tänään ilman järjestyksettä! Autanko minä teitä saamaan ne marssi-järjestykseen? Aikani on aivan teidän käytettäväksenne. Tämä aamu on minulla pyhäpäivää!" "Ha! ha! ha! mikä iloinen veitikka hän on pyhäpäivä-aamua viettäessään!" huudahti ylimmäinen vanginvartija, kun Lomaque -- nähtävästi kokonaan jättäen tavallisen luonteensa, iloissaan tunnin odottamattomasta joutoajasta -- alkoi työntää ja survata vankeja riviin, puhellen lystikkäitä kokkapuheita, joille ei ainoastaan virkapalvelijat, vaan myös moni uhreista itsistään -- huolettoman tiranniuden huolettomia uhreja -- nauroi sydämellisesti. Loppuun saakka jatkaen tätä hullunkurista toimitustaan, sai Lomaque tilaisuutta tulla Trudainea niin lähelle että voi silmillään antaa hänelle merkin, ennenkuin hän tarttui hänen niskaansa samoin kuin muitten. "Noh, tasajoukko", huusi Lomaque, survaisten Trudainea. "Pysy nyt astuntarivissä ja muista pysyä samoissa askeleissa tuon nuoren vaimosi kanssa. Rohkaiskaa mieltänne, naiskansalaiseni! tässä maailmassa tottuu kaikkeen, yksin guillotiniinkin!" Lomaquen puhuessa ja työntäessä samalla kertaa, tunsi Trudaine paperipalasen solahtavan niskansa ja kaulahuivinsa väliin. "Rohkeutta!" kuiskasi hän puristaen sisarensa kättä, kun huomasi hänen kauhistuvan Lomaquen pilan teeskenneltyä törkeyttä. Joukko "Patrioti"-kaartin vartiomiehiä ympärillä, kulki vankisaatto verkalleen ulkopihan kautta matkallaan vallankumous-oikeuteen; kyttyräselkäinen vanginvartija seurasi takana. Lomaque oli aikeessa seurata heitä vähän matkan päässä, vaan ylimmäinen vanginvartija vaati häntä vieraanvaraisesti tulemaan takaisin. "Mikä kiire teillä on?" sanoi hän. "Nyt kun tuo parantumaton juoppo, toinen alapäällikköni, on lähtenyt matkalle leipomuksensa kanssa, niin totta saan pyytää teitä astumaan huoneesen ja maistamaan vähän viiniä". "Kiitoksia", vastasi Lomaque; "vaan minun mieleni tekee paremmin kuunnella oikeuden tutkintoa tänään. Mitä jos tulisin takaisin myöhemmin? Mihin aikaan menette osastoonne? Kello kaksi, vai mitä? Hyvä! Minä koetan enkö voisi päästä tänne heti yhden jälkeen". Niin sanoen nyykäytti hän päätään ja läksi ulos pihasta. Kirkas auringonpaiste linnanpihalla saattoi häntä räpyttämään silmiään tavallista enemmin! Jos joku hänen vanhoista vihamiehistään olisi ollut hänen kanssaan, olisi se varmaan ajatellut itsekseen: "Jos ollenkaan aiot tulla takaisin, kansalainen Lomaque, niin ei se tapahdu heti yhden jäljestä!" Matkallaan tapasi pääpoliisi kadulla muutamia poliisivirastoon kuuluvia ystäviä, jotka viivyttivät hänen kulkuansa, niin että hänen tullessa vallankumous-oikeuteen tutkimiset juuri olivat alkamaisillaan. Etevin huonekalu oikeussalissa oli pitkä puiseva honkainen pöytä, joka oli peitetty viheriäisellä villavaatteella. Tämän pöydän päässä istui presidentti oikeuskuntansa kanssa, hatut päässä, ja niiden takana kirjava joukko isänmaanrakastajia, joilla oli virallisesti jotakin tekemistä niiden oikeus-asioiden kanssa, jotka nyt piti otettaman esille. Pöydän etusivun vieressä oli yleisöä varten kaidepuilla eroitettu ala, jonka päällä oli parvi. Yleisöä edusti tässä tilaisuudessa joukko naisia, jotka kaikki istuivat yhdessä penkillä ja kutoivat sukkaa, ompelivat paitoja ja lapsenvaatteita, yhtä tyynimielisinä, kuin jos olisivat olleet kotonaan. Pöydän toisella puolella, kauimpana suuresta ovesta oli laudoista rakennettu, kaidepuilla eroitettu lava, jossa ikkunasta ja juttelevista äänistä syntynyt lakkaamaton hälinä kuului salissa Lomaquen astuessa sisään. Hän oli erioikeuksellinen mies täällä niinkuin vankihuoneessakin; ja hän tuli huoneesen erityisestä ovesta, niin että hänen tuli kulkea vankien lavan sivuitse ja ympäri, ennenkuin pääsi paikalleen presidentin tuolin taakse. Trudaine, joka seisoi sisarensa kanssa vankijoukon äärimmäisinä, nyykytti päätään merkin-annoksi, kun Lomaque sattui hetkeksi katsomaan häneen. Hän oli matkallaan oikeuteen saanut tilaisuutta lukea sen paperin, jonka pääpoliisi oli pistänyt hänen kaulahuivinsa väliin. Siinä oli seuraavat rivit: "Olen juuri saanut tietää missä kansalainen Dubois ja hänen vaimonsa nyt ovat. Ei teillä ole muuta neuvoa kuin tunnustaa kaikkityyni. Sillä tavoin te vedätte syylliseksi erästä hallitukseen kuuluvaa kansalaista, ja vaikutatte sen että hän, jos hänen oma henkensä on hänelle rakas, koettaa kaikkea pelastaakseen teidän ja teidän sisarenne hengen". Tultuansa presidentin tuolin taakse, huomasi Lomaque nuo kaksi uskollista käskyn-alaista, Magloire ja Picard, jotka odottivat kokoontuneitten isänmaallisvirkamiesten joukossa, saadakseen jättää oikeudelle todistuksensa. Niiden takana seisoi päällysmies Danville nojaten vasten seinää. Ei kukaan häntä puhutellut, eikä hän ketään. Epäillys ja epätietoisuus näkyi hänen kasvonsa joka piirteessä; levottoman mielen äreys ilmautui hänen pienimmässäkin liikunnossaan -- myöskin hänen pyhkiessään vähän väliin nenäliinallaan kasvojansa, joihin hiki nousi suurina pisaroina. "Silence!" huusi täksi kertaa määrätty menojen-ohjaaja, käheä-ääninen mies nipukkasaappaissa, mahdottoman iso miekka vyöllä ja sauva kädessä. "Äänettömyyttä kansalaispresidentille!" sanoi hän uudestaan, lyöden sauvansa pöytään. Presidentti nousi seisoalleen, ja julisti tämän päivän istunnon alkaneeksi; sitten rupesi istumaan jälleen. Silmänräpäyksellistä äänettömyyttä, joka seurasi, tauotti äkillinen meteli vankien keskuudessa lavalta. Kaksi vartijaa juoksi sinne. Kuului raskaan putoavan ruumiin tömähdys -- muutamien naisvankien päästämät kauhun huudot -- sitten oli taas kuolon hiljaisuus, jota ainoastaan muuan vartija häiritsi, joka astui salin poikki verinen veitsi kädessä, ja asetti tämän pöydälle. "Kansalaispresidentti", sanoi hän, "minulla on ilmoitettavana, että eräs vanki on juuri ikään pistänyt itsensä kuoliaaksi". Kuului mutiseva huuto -- "Eikö muuta?" naiskatsojien joukosta, heidän ryhtyessään taas työhönsä. Itsemurhat oikeuden istunnoissa eivät olleet tavattomia tapauksia Hirmuvallan aikana. "Nimi?" kysyi presidentti, levollisesti tarttuen kynäänsä ja avaten erästä kirjaa. "Martigué", vastasi kyttyräselkäinen vanginvartija, astuen pöydän luokse. "Mitä laatua?" "Muinoin tiranni Capet'in kuninkaallinen vaunumaakari". "Syytös?" "Salaisia hankkeita vankihuoneessa". Presidentti nyykäytti päätään, ja kirjoitti kirjaan: -- "Martigué, vaununtekijä. Syytetty salahankkeista vankihuoneessa. Ehdätti lainmenoa itsemurhalla. Tekoa pidetään rikoksen täydellisenä tunnustuksena. Omaisuus otetaan valtiolle. Ensimmäisenä Termidorina, Tasavallan vuotena kaksi". "Äänettömyyttä!" huusi mies lyijypäisellä sauvalla sillä aikaa kun presidentti riputteli santaa kirjoituksen päälle ja viittasi vanginvartijalle, että hänen piti viemän kuolleen ruumiin pois, ja sitten sulki kirjan. "Onko erityistä ilmoitettavaa tänä aamuna?" kysyi presidentti katsahtaen takanaan olevaan joukkoon. "On yksi", sanoi Lomaque, astuen presidentin tuolin luokse. "Sopisiko teidän, kansalaiseni, ottaa ensimmäiseksi Louis Trudainen ja Rosa Danvillen asia? Kaksi minun miehistäni on määrätty tänne vieraiksi miehiksi ja heidän aikansa on kallisarvoinen Tasavallalle". Presidentti huomasi nimilistan edessänsä, ja antoi sen huutajalle eli menon-ohjaajalle, pantuansa ykkösen ja kakkosen Louis Trudainen ja Rosa Danvillen eteen. Lomaquen astuessa takaisin entiseen paikkaansa presidentin tuolin takana, lähestyi Danville ja kuiskasi hänelle: "Huhu kertoo teidän saaneen tietoja kansalaisista Dubois. Onko se totta? Te tiedätte keitä ne ovat?" "Kyllä", vastasi Lomaque; "vaan minulla on korkeampia käskyjä pitää näitä tietoja itseäni varten, juuri nyt". Halunperäisyys, millä Danville teki kysymyksensä, ja pettymys, jota hän osoitti kun ei saanut tyydyttävää vastausta, olivat sitä laatua että tarkkahuomioinen pääpoliisi niistä tuli täydelleen vakuutetuksi siitä että Danville todellakin oli niin tietämätön, kun hän näytti olevan, miehestä ja vaimosta Dubois. Tämä salaisuus oli kaikessa tapauksessa vielä Danvillelle selittämätön salaisuus. "Louis Trudaine! Rosa Danville!" huusi menojen-ohjaaja, toisen kerran kolahuttaen sauvallaan pöytään. Molemmat astuivat, totellen käskyä, esille vankien lavan kaidepuitten luo. Ensimmäinen katsaus tuomareihinsa, ensimmäinen kauhu tuntiessaan seisovansa kuulijakunnan armahtamattoman uteliaisuuden esineenä, näytti voittavan Rosan voimat. Hän kävi kuolon kalpeasta tulipunaiseksi, sitten kalpeaksi uudelleen, ja piiloitti kasvojansa veljensä hartioita vasten. Miten tasaisesti hän kuuli veljensä sydämen tykkivän! kyyneleet täyttivät hänen silmänsä, ajatellessaan että veljensä pelkäsi ainoastaan hänen tauttaan! "Nyt!" sanoi presidentti kirjoittaen heidän nimensä. "Kenen ilmiantamia?" Magloire ja Picard astuivat esille pöydän viereen. Edellinen vastasi -- "kansalais-päällysmies Danville'n". Vastaus nosti suurta hälinää sekä vangeissa että kuulijoissa. "Syytetyt mistä?" jatkoi presidentti. "Miesvanki salaisista hankkeista Tasavaltaa vastaan; naisvanki, rikoksellisesta tietoisuudesta siitä". "Tuokaa esille todistuksenne samassa järjestyksessä". Picard ja Magloire avasivat todistuksia sisältävät pöytäkirjansa, ja lukivat presidentille samat erityisseikat, jotka olivat aikaisemmin lukeneet Lomaquelle. "Hyvä", sanoi presidentti, kun olivat lopettaneet. "Meidän ei tarvitse vaivata itseämme millään muulla kuin tiedustamalla keitä kansalaiset Dubois ovat, ja niitä tietoja te varmaan olette valmiit antamaan. Oletteko kuulleet todistukset?" jatkoi hän kääntyen vankeihin; Picardin ja Magloiren puhellessa keskenään hiljaa sopottaen, ja katsellessa hämmästyneinä pääpoliisiin, joka seisoi äänettömänä heidän takanaan. "Oletteko kuulleet todistukset, te vangitut? Tahdotteko sanoa jotakin? Jos tahdotte puhua, niin muistakaa että tämän oikeuden aika on kallis-arvoinen ja ettette saa sitä turhaan kuluttaa". "Minä pyydän saadakseni puhua, omasta ja sisareni puolesta", vastasi Trudaine. "Aikomukseni on säästää oikeuden aikaa tunnustuksen tekemisellä". Hiljainen sopotus, joka oli kuulunut naiskuulijoitten puolelta vähää ennen, lakkasi heti kun hän lausui sanan: tunnustus. Kuolon hiljaisuudessa tunki hänen matala, tyyni äänensä oikeussalin kaukaisimpiin nurkkiin, kun hän, itseään hilliten, ettei kenkään voisi huomata sitä toivon kuolemankamppausta, joka tapahtui hänen sisässänsä, jatkoi puhettansa seuraavin sanoin: "Minä tunnustan salaiset käyntini talossa Papistonkadun varrella. Minä tunnustan että ne henkilöt, joita kävin tapaamassa, ovat todistuksissa osoitetut. Ja viimein tunnustan tarkoitukseni näillä käynneilläni heidän luonansa olleen auttaa heitä heidän aikeissaan lähteä Ranskasta. Jos olisin tehnyt tämän valtiollisista vaikutteista, nykyisen hallituksen valtiolliseksi vahingoksi, myönnän että olisin syyllinen semmoisiin salahankkeisin Tasavaltaa vastaan, jommoisista minua syytetään. Vaan ei mitkään valtiolliset tarkoitukset minua elähyttäneet, eikä mikään valtiollinen täytymys minua kehoittanut tekemään sitä, joka minun on saattanut tämän oikeuden eteen. Niillä henkilöillä, joita autoin lähtemään Ranskasta, ei ole minkäänlaista valtiollista merkitystä, tahi yhteyttäkään valtiollisten asiain kanssa. Yksistään yksityisistä vaikutussyistä minä osoitin tätä inhimillisyyttä heitä ja toisia kohtaan -- inhimillisyyttä, jota hyvä tasavaltalainen saanee tuntea, joutumatta isänmaansa onnen kavaltajaksi". "Oletteko valmis ilmoittamaan oikeudelle keitä nämä kansalaiset Dubois todellakin ovat?" kysyi presidentti levottomasti. "Olen valmis", vastasi Trudaine. "Vaan ensin haluan saada lausua pari sanaa sisareni suhteen, joka seisoo tässä oikeuden edessä syytettynä minun kanssani". Hänen äänensä alkoi käydä epävakaiseksi; ja nyt vasta alkoi hänen kasvonsa muuttaa väriä, kun Rosa nosti kasvonsa hänen hartioistaan ja katsoi häneen tuskaisesti. "Minä rukoilen oikeutta julistautaan sisartani syyttömäksi kaikkeen osanottoon siihen rikokseen, josta olen syytetty --", jatkoi hän. "Puhuttuani suoruudella itsestäni, voin minä vaatia uskomaan puhettani hänestä, kun vakuutan ett'ei hän ole minua auttanut eikä ole voinut auttaa. Jos syytä on; on se yksistään minun; jos tulee rangaistusta, tulkoon se yksistään minun kärsittäväkseni". Hän pysähtyi äkkiä ja hämmästyi. Hänen oli helppo olla Rosaan katsomatta, vaan hän ei voinut pelastua mihinkään itsensä hallitsemisen koetuksesta, jos Rosa puhuisi. Juuri kun hän lausui viimeisen lauseen, nosti Rosa taas kasvonsa hänen hartioistaan, ja kuiskasi tuskaisesti: "Ei, ei, Louis! Ei tätä uhrausta, kaikkien toisten uhrauksien perästä -- ei tätä, vaikka sinä pakoittaisit minua itseäni puhumaan heille!" Hän irroitti äkillisesti kätensä veljestään ja astui samassa esille kaidepuitten luo, jossa hän seisoi katsellen läsnäoleviin ja samalla kaikkien katseltavana. Kaidepuut tärisivät hänen kättensä vavistuksesta hänen niistä kiinnipitäessään itseään tukeaksensa! Hänen hiuksensa riippuivat vanukkeisina hänen hartioillaan; hänen kasvonsa olivat saaneet omituisen lujuuden; hänen suloiset siniset silmänsä, jotka muulloin olivat niin lempeät, olivat saaneet kauhistuksen kiillon. Uteliaisuuden ja ihmettelemisen sohina kuului naisten joukossa. Muutamat nousivat levottomasti istuiltaan, toiset huusivat: "Kuunnelkaa, kuunnelkaa! hän aikoo puhua!" Hän puhui. Heleänä ja kirkkaana kuului tuo suloinen ääni, suloisempana kuin koskaan murheessa, muitten äänten yli -- yli raa'an mörinän ja kuiskaavan suhinan. "Herra presidentti" -- alkoi vaimo parka vakavasti. Hänen seuraavat sanansa eivät voineet kuulua naisten vihellyksiltä. "Oh! ylimys, ylimys! Ei ollenkaan teidän kirottuja arvonimiä täällä!" oli heidän kimakka huutonsa hänelle. Hän ei peljästynyt näitä huutoja, eikä niitä seuraavia rajuja liikuntoja, hän katseli vakavasti ympärilleen, tuo omituinen lujuus vielä kasvoissaan. Hän olisi puhunut taas, huolimatta tuosta metelistä ja noista inhon-osoituksista, vaan hänen veljensä ääni oli hänen ääntään väkevämpi. "Kansalainen, presidentti", huusi veli, "en ole vielä lopettanut. Pyydän saada lopettaa tunnustukseni. Minä rukoilen oikeutta olemaan välinpitämätön sisareni puheista. Viimeisien päiväin levottomuus ja kauhu on sekoittanut hänen ymmärrystään. Hän ei voi vastata sanoistaan -- minä vakuutan sen julkisesti, koko oikeuskunnan kuullen". Veri nousi taas hänen vaaleisin kasvoihinsa kun hän lausui tämän vakuutuksensa. Tälläkin tärkeällä hetkellä miehen jalo sydän nuhteli häntä tuosta petoksesta, vaikka vaikutteena siihen oli hänen sisarensa hengen pelastaminen. "Antakaa hänen puhua! antakaa hänen puhua!" huusivat naiset, kun Rosa, koskematta, katsomatta veljeensä, ikäänkuin hän ei olisi kuullut mitä tämä puhui, toisen kerran koetti puhua tuomareille, huolimatta Trudainen keskeyttämisestä. "Vaiti!" huusi sauvalla varustettu mies. "Vaiti te vaimot! kansalais-presidentti aikoo puhua". "Vanki Trudainella on puheen oikeus", sanoi presidentti; "ja saa jatkaa tunnustustaan, Jos naisvanki aikoo puhua, niin hän saa puhua perästäpäin. Minä kehoitan molempia syytettyjä joutuisasti toimittamaan puhuttavansa minulle, muutoin pahentavat he asiaansa, eivätkä paranna. Minä käsken kuulijakuntaa olemaan vaiti; ja ell'ei minua totella, ai'on minä ajaa kuulijat pois. Nyt, vanki Trudaine, pyydän minä teitä jatkamaan. Ei sanaakaan enää sisarestanne; antakaa hänen puhua omasta puolestaan. Nyt teidän ja meidän välinen asia koskee miestä ja vaimoa Dubois. Oletteko tahi ettekö ole valmis ilmoittamaan oikeudelle keitä he ovat?" "Minä uudestaan ilmoitan että olen valmis puhumaan", vastasi Trudaine, "Kansalainen Dubois on eräs palvelija. Vaimo Dubois on sen miehen, joka on minut ilmi antanut -- päällysmies Danvillen äiti". Satojen yht'aikaa puhuvien, huudahtavien ja murisevien äänten kohina seurasi tätä vastauksen lausuntoa. Ei sitä miestä koko oikeussalissa, joka olisi voinut pidättää hämmästyksensä osoitusta. Se vaikutti vankeihin, jotka seisoivat lavallaan, se vaikutti itse huutajaan, oikeuden tuomareihinkin, jotka hetki sitä ennen olivat rötköttäneet huolettomina, äänettöminä tuoleissaan. Helinän ollessa viimeinkin taukoamaisillaan, lakkasi se silmänräpäyksessä, kun kuultiin jonkun huutavan tungoksesta presidentin tuolin takana: "Antakaa tietä! Päällysmies Danville on ruvennut voimaan pahoin!" Kova kuiske ja toisiaan keskeyttävien äänten sohina seurasi; sitten liike virantoimitus-joukkiossa; sitten eleinen hiljaisuus; sitten ilmestyi äkkiä Danville yksinänsä pöydän eteen. Hänen katseensa, kun hän käänsi kalpeat kasvonsa kuulijoihin, vaienti ja pysähytti heitä, kun juuri olivat aloittamaisillaan uutta hälinää. Jokainen kuroittihe eteenpäin, halukkaana kuulemaan mitä hän sanoisi. Hänen huulensa liikkuivat; vaan niistä lähteviä sanoja eivät muut kuulleet kuin ne, jotka sattuivat istumaan aivan hänen läheisyydessään. Puhuttuansa lähti hän pöydän luota erään poliisimiehen nojassa, joka näytti taluttavan häntä oikeuskunnan yksityistä ovea kohti, ja siis vankien lavaa kohti. Hän seisattui kuitenkin puolitiessä, käänsi äkkiä kasvonsa vangeista pois ja viitaten salin toisella puolella olevaan yleiseen oveen päin, antoi hän taluttaa itseään ulos ulko-ilmaan sitä tietä. Hänen mentyä sanoi presidentti, puhuen osittain Trudainelle ja osittain kuulijakunnalle: "Kansalais-päällysmies Danville on ruvennut voimaan pahoin kuumuudesta täällä salissa. Hän on lähtenyt (minun tahdostani poliisimiehen huostassa) virkistymään ulko-ilmaan; vakuuttaen minulle tulevansa takaisin ja valaisevansa tätä eriskummallista ja epäluulon-alaista seikkaa, jonka vanki nyt on tuonut ilmi. Jos syytetyllä Trudainella on enempää ilmoitettavaa minulle, niin minä käsken häntä jättämään sen siksi kun kansalainen Danville palajaa. Tämä asia on ensin selville saatava, ennenkuin muita asioita voi ottaa esille. Ettei oikeuden aika kuitenkaan menisi hukkaan, annan minä naisvangille luvan käyttää tätä tilaisuutta, puhuakseen häntä itseään koskevista seikoista, joita hän ehkä tahtoo tuomareille ilmoittaa". "Saattakaa tuo mies vaikenemaan!" "Viekää hänet ulos oikeussalista!" "Pankaa hänelle suu-kapula!" "Viekää guillotiniin!" Tämmöisiä huutoja kuului kuulijoiden joukosta presidentin vai'ettua. Nämä tarkoittivat kaikki Trudainea, joka oli tehnyt viimeisen epätoivoisen ponnistuksen, saadakseen sisartaan olemaan vaiti, ja joita yrityksiä katsojat olivat huomanneet. "Jos vanki puhuu vielä sanaakaan sisarelleen, niin viekää hänet pois", sanoi presidentti, kääntyen lavan ympärillä seisoviin vartioihin. "Hyvä! me saamme viimeinkin kuulla häntä. Vaiti! vaiti!" huusivat naiset, laittautuen mukavasti istumaan penkeilleen, ja valmistautuen töitään taas jatkamaan. "Rosa Danville, oikeus odottaa saadakseen kuulla teitä", sanoi presidentti, heittäen säärensä ristiin ja nojautuen taaksepäin muhkeasti isossa nojatuolissaan. Viimeksi kuluneiden viiden minuutin hälinän ja häiriön kestäessä oli Rosa seisonut hetken aikaa samassa asennossa. Tuo omituinen vakava mielen-ilmaus oli yhden ainoan kerran muuttunut hänen kasvoissaan. Kun hänen miehensä astui pöydän viereen ja seisoi siinä yksinänsä kaikkien katseltavana, vapisivat hänen huulensa hiukan, ja hieno punastuksen varjo kulki nopeasti yli hänen kasvojensa. Tuotakaan pientä muutosta ei enää näkynyt -- hän oli vaaleampi, hiljaisempi, entisestään enemmän muuttunut kuin koskaan, katsellessaan presidenttiin ja lausuessaan seuraavaa: "Minä tahdon seurata veljeni esimerkkiä ja tehdä tunnustukseni samoin kuin hän. Olisin mieluimmin tahtonut että hän olisi puhunut minunkin puolestani; vaan hän on liian alttiiksi antavainen, puhuakseen muuta kuin minkä hän luulee pelastavan minua joutumasta hänen rangaistukseensa osalliseksi. Minä en tahdo tulla pelastetuksi, ellei hän tule myös. Minne hän menee täältä lähtiessään, sinne minäkin tahdon mennä; mitä hän kärsii, tahdon minäkin kärsiä; jos hän tuomitaan kuolemaan, toivon Jumalan antavan minulle voimaa nöyränä kuollakseni hänen kanssaan! Ja nyt tahdon lausua, mikä minun osani on siinä asiassa, josta minun veljeäni on syytetty: -- Joku aika takaperin kertoi hän minulle muutamana päivänä nähneensä mieheni äidin Parisissa, puettuna köyhäksi vaimoksi, puhutelleensa häntä ja pakoittaneensa häntä itseänsä ilmoittamaan. Tähän saakka olimme kaikki pitäneet varmana asiana, että hän oli lähtenyt Ranskasta, koska hän noudatti vanhanaikaisia mielipiteitä, joita oli vaarallista ihmisten nyt noudattaa; luulimme hänen lähteneen Ranskasta ennenkuin tulimme Pariisiin. Hän kertoi veljelleni todellakin lähteneensä (vanha uskottu perheen palvelija apuna ja suojelijana) Marseilleen saakka; ja että hän, huomatessaan siellä kauemmaksi pääsönsä odottamattoman vaikeaksi, oli luullut Jumalan tällä tavoin varoittavan häntä jättämästä poikaansa, jota hän innokkaasti rakasti, ja josta hän ainoastaan suurella vastahakoisuudella oli eronnut. Hyljäten aikomuksensa odottaa maanpakolaisuudessa rauhallisempia aikoja, päätti hän lähteä Parisiin ja piiloitella siellä, koska tiesi poikansa myöskin sinne lähteneen. Hän otti vanhan ja rehellisen palvelijansa nimen -- palvelijansa, joka viimeiseen saakka kieltäytyi jättämästä häntä ilman suojelijatta; ja hän aikoi elää ankarimmassa salaisuudessa ja aivan erillään muista, tarkastellen, tuntemattomana, poikansa menestymistä, ja valmiina heti tiedon saatua ilmoittamaan itsensä hänelle, kun vaan valtiollisten asiain kanta sallisi hänen onnellisesti yhdistyä rakastettuun lapseensa. Veljeni katsoi tätä yritystä kovin vaaralliseksi sekä hänelle itselleen, hänen pojalleen, että myös tuolle kunnioitettavalle vanhalle miehelle, joka oli pannut päänsä alttiiksi emäntänsä etua katsoen. Minä ajattelin samoin; ja onnettomana hetkenä minä sanoin Louis'lle: 'Tahdotko sinä koettaa salassa auttaa anoppiani matkalle ja katsoa että hänen uskollinen palvelijansa todellakin saattaa hänet Ranskasta tällä kertaa?' Minä tein väärin kun pyysin veljeäni tekemään tämän, sillä minä tein sen itsekkäisestä syystä -- syystä, joka on yhteydessä minun avioelämäni kanssa, joka ei ole onnellinen. Minun ei ollut onnistunut voittaa mieheni lempeä ja hän kohteli minua pahoin. Minun veljeni, joka aina on rakastanut minua paljoa hellemmästi, pelkään minä, kuin olen koskaan ansainnut; minun veljeni osoitti yhä suurempaa hellyyttä minua kohtaan, kun hän näki mieheni kohtelevan minua tylysti. Tästä syntyi viha heidän kesken. Minun ajatukseni, pyytäessäni veljeäni tekemään sen, jonka olen maininnut, oli, että jos me kaki estäisimme anoppiani, ilman vaaratta miehelleni, saattamasta vaaraan itseään ja poikaansa, me tulisimme, kun aika joutuisi puhua siitä mitä olimme tehneet, näyttäytymään mieheni silmissä uudessa ja paremmassa valossa. Minä olisin näyttänyt miten hyvin minä ansaitsin hänen rakkauttaan, ja Louis olisi näyttänyt miten hyvin hän olisi ansainnut lankonsa kiitollisuutta; ja niin me olisimme tehneet kotimme onnelliseksi viimeinkin, ja kaikki kolme olisimme yhdessä eläneet suosiossa keskenämme. Tämä oli minun ajatukseni; ja kun minä kerroin sen veljelleni, ja kysyin häneltä tuottaisiko se suurta vaaraa, ajattelemattani hänen hellyyttään ja sääliväisyyttään minua kohtaan, sanoi hän: 'Ei!' Hän oli niin totuttanut minua ottamaan vastaan uhrauksia minun onnellisuuteni eduksi, että minä annoin hänen saattaa itseänsä vaaraan, auttamalla minua vähäisessä perheellisessä tuumassani. Minä kadun tätä nyt katkerasti; minä pyydän häneltä anteeksi täydestä sydämestäni. Jos hänet julistetaan syyttömäksi, koetan minä käytökselläni näyttää itseäni paremmin ansaitsevaksi hänen rakkauttaan. Jos hän tuomitaan syylliseksi, tahdon minä myös käydä mestauslavalle, ja kuolla veljeni kanssa, joka pani henkensä alttiiksi minun tähteni". Hän lopetti yhtä levollisena kuin oli aloittanutkin; ja kääntyi vielä kerran veljeensä. Kääntäessään kasvonsa oikeuskunnasta ja katsellessaan häneen, tuli muutamia kyyneleitä hänen silmiinsä ja kasvoissa näkyi jotakin tuota vanhaa muodon suloutta ja mielen-ilmauksen herttaisuutta. Veli antoi hänen tarttua käteensä; vaan hän näytti aikovan välttää hänen huolestunutta katsettaan. Hänen päänsä painui alas rintaa vasten; hän hengitti raskaasti; hänen kasvonsa kävivät synkiksi ja vääntyivät rumannäköisiksi ikäänkuin hän olisi kärsinyt kovaa ruumiillista tuskaa. Hän kumartui vähän ja nojaten kyynäspäällään kaidepuuta vasten hänen edessään, peitti hän kasvojansa kädellään; ja niin tukehutti hän nousevaa tuskaansa, niin pakoitti hän takaisin polttavat kyyneleet sydämeensä. Kuulijakunta oli kuunnellut Rosaa äänettömänä ja pysyi yhtä hiljaisena hänen lopetettuakin. Tämä oli harvinainen suosion-osoitus hirmuhallituksen kansan puolelta. Presidentti katsoi taakseen virkatovereihinsa, ja pudisti päätään epäilevästi. "Tämä naisvangin selitys tekee asian hyvin sekavaksi ja vaikeaksi", sanoi hän. "Onko täällä ketään oikeussalissa", lisäsi hän, katsellen niihin henkilöihin, jotka olivat hänen tuolinsa takana, "joka tietää missä päällysmies Danvillen äiti ja palvelija nyt ovat?" Lomaque astui esille kutsumuksesta ja asettui seisomaan pöydän viereen. "Mikä nyt, kansalaispoliisi?" jatkoi presidentti, katsellen tuimasti häneen, "onko kuumuus voittanut teidätkin?" "Puuska tavoitti hänet, kansalaispresidentti, juuri kuin naisvanki oli päättänyt selityksensä", selitti Magloire, tunkeutuen esille liekartelevasti. Lomaquen katse alammaiseensa lähetti tämän takaisin suoraan viranomaisen joukon taakse; hän puhui sitten, matalammalla äänellä kuin tapansa oli: "Minä olen saanut tietoja päällysmies Danvillen äidistä ja palvelijasta ja olen valmis vastaamaan kaikkiin kysymyksiin, joita minulle tehdään". "Missä he nyt ovat?" kysyi presidentti. "Tiedetään äidin ja hänen palvelijansa päässeen yli rajan ja luullaan heidän matkustaneen Kölniin. Mutta sen jälkeen kun pääsivät Saksanmaahan, on tasavaltaisilla virkakunnilla tietysti ollut ainoastaan epävarmoja tietoja heidän olopaikoistaan". "Onko teillä mitään tietoja vanhan palvelijan käytöksestä hänen Parisissa olon aikana?" "Minulla on tarpeeksi tietoja todistaakseni ett'ei hän ollut semmoinen mies, jota voisi pitää valtiollisen epäluulon esineenä. Hän näyttää yksinomaisesti orjamaisesti harrastaneen tuon naisen etuja, toimittaneen hänelle kaikkia palvelijan tavallisia tehtäviä yksityisessä elämässä; ja eksyttäneen naapureita teeskentelemällä yhdenvertaisuutta hänen kanssaan julkisuudessa". "Onko teillä mitään syytä luulla että päällysmies Danville tiesi äitinsä ensimmäisestä aikeesta paeta Ranskasta?" "Minä päätän sen siitä mitä naisvanki on puhunut, ja toisista syistä joita ei sovi kertoa oikeuden edessä. Ei ole epäilemistäkään, ett'ei todistuksia saataisi, jos minulle myönnetään aikaa käydä kirjeenvaihtoon Lyonin ja Marseillen virkakuntien kanssa". Tällä hetkellä Danville palasi oikeussaliin, ja tultuansa pöydän luokse asettui seisomaan aivan pääpoliisin viereen. He katsoivat hetken vakaasti toistensa silmiin. "Hän on tointunut Trudainen vastauksen vaikuttamasta puuskauksesta", ajatteli Lomaque, astuen takaisin entiselle paikalleen. "Hänen kätensä vapisee; hänen kasvonsa ovat vaaleat; vaan minä voin huomata jälleen saatua itsensähillitsemistä hänen silmissään; ja minä jo pelkään seurauksia". "Kansalainen presidentti", alkoi Danville, "minä pyydän saada tietää onko minun poissa ollessani tapahtunut mitään, joka kunniatani loukkaisi ja isänmaanrakkauttani tekisi epäiltäväksi?" Hän puhui nähtävästi täydellisimmällä kylmämielisyydellä, vaan hän ei katsonut kehenkään. Hänen silmänsä tuijottivat viheriäiseen villavaatteesen pöydällä hänen edessään. "Naisvanki on antanut selityksen, joka etupäässä koskee häntä itseään ja hänen veljeänsä", vastasi presidentti; "vaan sen ohessa tuo ilmi erästä aikaisempaa teidän äitinne aikomusta rikkoa voimassa olevia lakeja vastaan, muuttamalla pois Ranskasta. Tämä osa tunnustuksesta sisältää joitakuita epäluulon-alaisia seikkoja, jotka, paha kyllä, koskevat teitä --" "Ne eivät tule kauemmin olemaan epäluuloja -- omalla edesvastauksellani minä teen ne varmoiksi asioiksi!" huusi Danville, ojentaen kättään näytelmällisesti, ja katsoen ylös ensikerran. "Kansalainen presidentti, minä tunnustan sen hyvän isänmaanrakastajan pelkäämättömällä suoruudella; minä tiesin äitini ensimmäisestä aikomuksesta paeta Ranskasta". Vihellyksiä ja inhon huutoja seurasi tätä tunnustusta. Nämä häntä vapisutti ensin; vaan hän ennätti hillitä itseään ennenkuin äänettömyys saatiin palautetuksi. "Kansalaiset, te olette kuulleet rikokseni tunnustuksen", jatkoi hän, kääntyen epätoivoisella vakuutuksella kuulijakuntaan; "kuulkaa nyt millä olen sovittanut tämän isänmaani alttarilla". Hän odotti tämän lauseen lopussa kunnes tuomioistuimen kirjuri oli kirjoittanut sen oikeuden asiakirjaan. "Kirjoita uskollisesti kirjaimia myöten!" huusi Danville, osoittaen juhlallisesti avattua sivua kirjassa. "Elämä ja kuolema riippuu minun sanoistani". Kirjuri kastoi kynänsä musteessa ja nyykäytti päätään merkiksi että oli valmis. Danville puhui: "Näinä Ranskan kunnian ja koetuksen päivinä", jatkoi hän, pakoittaen ääntään osoittamaan syvää liikutusta, "mitä ovat kaikki hyvät kansalaiset pyhimmästi velvoitetut tekemään? Uhrata kalliimmat yksityiset tunteensa ja harrastuksensa julkisten velvollisuuksiensa hyväksi! Kun minun äitini ensimmäisen kerran koetti rikkoa lakia maasta poismuuttamista vastaan, Ranskasta pakenemalla, hairahduin siinä heroisessa uhrauksessa, jota järkähtämätön isänmaanrakkaus minulta vaati. Asemani oli kauheampi kuin Brutuksen asema tuomitessaan omaa poikaansa. Minulla ei ollut samanlaista Romalaista urhoollisuutta. Minä hairahduin, kansalaiset, hairahduin niinkuin Coriolanus, kun hänen jalo äitinsä keskusteli hänen kanssaan Roman onnesta! Tästä hairahduksesta minä ansaitsin tulla eroitetuksi tasavaltalaisesta yhteiskunnasta; vaan minä pääsin ansaitusta rangaistuksesta -- kohosinpa vielä siihen kunniaan että sain viran hallitukselta. Aikoja kului; ja taas koetti minun äitini paeta Ranskasta. Taas välttämätön sallimus saattoi kansalaiskuntoni koetukselle. Miten otin vastaan tätä toista koetusta? Entisen heikkouden sovituksella, joka sovitus oli yhtä kauhea kuin koetus itse! Kansalaiset, te kauhistutte; vaan te varmaan taputatte käsiänne mieltymyksen osoitukseksi samalla kuin vapisette. Kansalaiset, katsokaa! ja muistakaa katsellessanne tätä tutkintoa alottaessa luettuja todistuksia. Tuossa seisoo isänmaansa vihollinen, joka käytti salavehkeitä auttaakseen äitiäni pakoon; tässä seisoo isänmaanrakastaja poika, jonka ääni oli ensimmäinen, oli ainoa ääni antamaan ilmi hänet tästä rikoksesta". Puhuessaan osoitti hän Trudainea, löi sitten kätensä vasten rintaa, sitten asetti käsivartensa ristiin rinnoilleen ja katsoi tuimasti kuulijoihin. "Te vakuutatte", huusi presidentti, "tietäneenne Trudainen ilmi antaessanne, hänen auttavan äitiänne pakoon?" "Minä vakuutan sen", vastasi Danville. Kynä, jota presidentti piteli, tipahti hänen kädestään kun hän kuuli tämän vastauksen; hänen virkakumppalinsa säpsähtivät ja katsoivat toisiinsa äänettöminä. "Hirviö! hirviö!" kuultiin huudettavan ensin vankien lavalla, vaan morina levisi heti kuulijakuntaan, ja huudot kasvoivat yhteiseksi hälinäksi; julmimmat nais-tasavaltalaiset kuuntelija-istuimilla yhtyivät viimein ylpeimpien vankilavalla olevien nais-ylimysten kanssa. Tässäkin kauheimman eripuraisuuden keskuudessa, tällä ankarimman vihollisuuden ajalla, tuo luonnon tunne osoitti vanhaa taivaallista taikavoimaansa; heräsi äitin tunne, joka yhdistää kaiken maailman. Niitten harvojen henkilöiden joukossa tässä oikeussalissa, jotka heti arvasivat edeltäpäin minkä vaikutuksen Danvillen vastaus tekisi tämän oikeusjutun päätökseen, oli Lomaque yksi. Hänen keltaiset kasvonsa valkenivat hänen katsoessaan vankien lavaa kohden. "He ovat hukassa", mutisi hän itsekseen, astuen ulos siitä joukosta, jossa hän tähän asti oli seissyt. "Hukassa! Se valhe, joka on pelastanut tuon konnan pään, on vienyt heiltä pienimmän toivon kipinänkin. Ei mikään voi estää tuomion langettamista. -- Danville'n kauhea mielenlujuus on saattanut ne guillotinille!" Lausuen nämät sanat läksi hän ulos kiireesti lähellä vankienlavaa olevan oven kautta, joka vei vankien odotushuoneesen. Rosan pää vaipui taas hänen veljensä hartioita vasten. Häntä pöyristytti, ja hän nojautui taaksepäin heikkona vasten käsivartta, jota veljensä ojenti häntä tukeakseen. Muuan naisvangeista koetti auttaa Trudaineä tämän lohduttaessa häntä; mutta hänen miehensä petollisuuden täydellisentäminen näytti kervaisneen häntä sydämeen asti. Hän jupisi vaan kerran veljensä korvaan, -- "Louis! Nöyrästi minä käyn kuolemaan -- ei muu kuin kuolema ole jäänyt minulle osaksi alennuttuani niin halvaksi että olen rakastanut tuota miestä." Hän lausui nämät sanat ja ummisti silmänsä raukeesti, eikä puhunut enempää. "Toinen kysymys, ja te saatte mennä", lausui presidentti, kääntyen Danvilleen: "Tiesittekö vaimonne osallisuudesta veljensä salahankkeisin?" Danville mietti epäilevästi hetken, muisti että siellä oli vieraita miehiä oikeussalissa, jotka voisivat todistaa hänen puheistaan ja käytöksestään vaimonsa vangitsemisen iltana, ja päätti tällä kertaa puhua totta. "Minä en tiennyt siitä", vastasi hän, "vieraita miehiä voidaan kutsua tänne, jotka todistavat minun olleeni poissa Parisista, kun vaimoni osallisuus saatiin ilmi". Vaikka hän saattoikin sydämettömästi hillitä luontoansa, oli yleisön mielenosoitus hänen edellisen vastauksensa jälkeen hämmentänyt häntä. Hän puhui nyt matalalla äänellä, seisten selin katsojiin, ja kiinnittäen silmänsä taas viheriäiseen pöydän peitteesen. "Vangit! Onko teillä mitään muistutusta tehtävänä, jotakin todistuksia tuoda esiin, jotka voisivat heikontaa sitä selitystä, jolla kansalainen Danville on puhdistanut itseänsä epäluulosta?" kysyi presidentti. "Hän on puhdistanut itseään mitä inhoittavimmalla valheella", vastasi Trudaine. "Jos voitaisiin saada käsiimme hänen äitinsä ja hän tuotaisiin tänne, niin hänen todistuksensa näyttäisi sen". "Voitteko esiintuoda muuta todistusta vakuutuksenne tueksi?' kysyi presidentti. "En voi". "Kansalais-päällysmies Danville, teillä on vapaus lähteä pois. Teidän selityksenne tulee jätettäväksi sille virkakunnalle, jolle olette virallisesti vastuunalainen. Josko ansaitsette kansalais-kruunun enemmän kuin Roomalaisesta urhoudestanne, tahi --" Mentyänsä näin pitkälle, pysähtyi presidentti äkkiä, ikään kuin hän ei olisi tahtonut liian pian antautua arvostelemaan, ja sanoi uudestaan. -- "Te saatte mennä." Danville läksi heti ulos oikeussalista, taas julkisen oven kautta. Häntä seurasi murina naisten penkeiltä, joka kuitenkin pian lakkasi, kun nähtiin presidentin sulkevan kirjansa ja kääntyvän virkakumppaleihinsa. "Tuomio!" oli yleisenä kuiskauksena nyt. "Hsh, hsh -- tuomio!" Muutamia minuuttia kestävän keskustelun perästä takanansa olevien henkilöiden kanssa, nousi presidentti seisoalle, ja lausui seuraavat painavat sanat: -- "Louis Trudaine ja Rosa Danville; vallankumous-oikeus, kuultuansa syytöksen teitä vastaan, ja arvosteltuaan teidän vastauksianne siihen, päättää teidän olevan molempien syylliset, ja tuomitsee teidät kuoleman rangaistukseen." Julistettuansa tuomion näillä sanoilla istuutui hän taas, ja pani merkin kahden ensin tuomitun henkilön nimien perään vankiluettelossa. Heti sen jälkeen otettiin seuraava asia esille, ja uusi tutkinto kiihoitti taas kuulijakunnan uteliaisuutta. VIIDES LUKU. Vallankumous-oikeuden odotushuone oli kolkko alaston suoja, likaisella kivilattialla ja penkit pitkin seiniä. Akkunat olivat korkeat ja kaltereilla varustetut, ja kadulle vievän ulko-oven vieressä seisoi kaksi vahtimiestä. Tullessaan oikeussalista tähän kolkkoon pakopaikkaan, huomasi Lomaque sen olevan typötyhjän. Yksinäisyys oli juuri sillä hetkellä hänelle tervetullut. Hän jäi odotushuoneesen, hän käveli verkkaan huoneen toisesta päästä toiseen likaisella kivityksellä, puhuen hartaasti ja lakkaamatta itsekseen. Jonkun hetken kuluttua, aukeni oikeussaliin vievä ovi ja kyttyräselkäinen vanginvartija ilmautui saattaen sisään Trudaineä ja Rosaa. "Teidän on odottaminen täällä", sanoi pieni mies, "kunnes jäljellä olevat ovat tutkitut ja tuomitut; ja sitten te kaikki tulette menemään takaisin vankihuoneesen yhdessä ryhmässä. Haa, kansalainen!" jatkoi hän, huomatessaan Lomaquen salin toisessa päässä, ja astui hänen luokseen. "Täällä vielä, vai niin! Jos ai'otte viipyä täällä vielä kauemman aikaa, niin minulla olisi vähäinen pyyntö tehtävä". "Ei ole minulla kiirettä", sanoi Lomaque, katsahtaen molempiin vangittuihin. "Hyvä asia!" huusi kyttyräselkä, pyyhkien suutaan kämmenellään; "minä olen janosta kuivamaisillani, ja kuolen varmaan ellen pääse kaulaani kastamaan tuonne viinikauppaan kadun toisella puolella. Tahdotteko tarkkaan pitää silmällä tuota miestä ja vaimoa sillä aikaa kun olen poissa, tahdotteko? Se on mitä helpoin asia -- tuolla on vartijat ulkona, ikkunoissa on rautaristikko, oikeussali on niin lähellä että huuto kuuluu! Tahdotteko tehdä minulle tämän hyvän työn?" "Olen oikein iloinen tästä tilaisuudesta". "Niin tekee hyvä ystävä -- ja, muistakaa, jos minua kysyttäisiin, tulee teidän sanoa, että minun täytyi lähteä muutamaksi hetkeksi oikeudesta, vaan jättäneeni toimeni teille". Tämän sanottua riensi kyttyräselkäinen vanginvartija viinikauppaan. Hän oli tuskin kadonnut ennenkuin Trudaine tuli poikki huoneen ja tarttui Lomaquen käsivarteen. "Pelastakaa hänet", hän kuiskasi; "nyt on tilaisuutta -- pelastakaa hänet!" Hänen kasvonsa olivat punastuneet -- hänen silmäyksensä näyttivät houruisilta -- hänen henkensä, jonka Lomaque tunsi hänen puhuessaan poskillaan, oli polttavan kuuma. "Pelastakaa hänet!" sanoi hän uudestaan, pudistaen Lomaquea käsivarresta, ja vetäen häntä ovea kohti. "Muistakaa missä kiitollisuuden velassa olette isälleni -- muistakaa keskustelumme tuolla penkillä joen äyräällä -- muistakaa mitä itse sanoitte minulle vangitsemis-iltana -- älkää miettimisellä menettäkö aikaa -- pelastakaa hänet ja jättäkää minut sanaa sanomatta! Jos kuolen yksinäni, niin minä voin kuolla niinkuin miehen tulee -- jos hän astuu mestauslavalle minun rinnallani, niin minun sydämeni ei kestä -- minä tulen kuolemaan pelkurin kuolemaa! Minä olen elänyt hänen elämänsä edestä -- antakaa minun kuolla sen edestä, ja minä kuolen onnellisena!" Hän koetti puhua enempää, vaan hänen kiihoituksensa rajuus esti sen. Hän saattoi ainoastaan pudistaa Lomaquen käsivartta alinomaa, ja osoittaa penkkiä, jolla Rosa istui -- pää vaipuneena rintaa vasten, kädet ristissä hervakasti polvien päällä. "Tuolla on kaksi aseellista vartijaa oven ulkopuolella -- ikkunoissa on rautaristikot -- teillä ei asetta -- ja jos teillä olisikin, niin on vahtihuone aivan lähellä toisella puolen teitä ja oikeussali toisella. Pakeneminen tästä huoneesta on mahdoton", vastasi Lomaque. "Mahdoton!" kertoi toinen raivossa. "Te petturi! te pelkuri! Voitteko nähdä hänen istuvan tuossa auttamattomana -- hänen elämänsä rientää jo pois joka hetkeltä mikä kuluu -- ja kylmästi sanoa minulle että pako on mahdoton?" Murheensa ja toivottomuutensa raivossa hän nosti puhuessaan irroitetun kätensä uhkaavaisesti. Lomaque tarttui hänen käsiranteesensa ja kuljetti hänet erään akkunan luo, jonka yliset lasit olivat auki. "Te ette ole nyt täydellä mielellä", sanoi pääpoliisi vakavasti; "tuska ja pelko sisarenne kohtalosta on hämmentänyt selvän järkenne. Koettakaa asettua ja kuunnelkaa minua. Minulla on jotakin tärkeätä sanottavaa --" Trudaine katsoi häneen epäilevästi. "Tärkeätä", jatkoi Lomaque, "sillä se koskee sisarenne kohtaloa tällä kauhealla ratkaisuhetkellä". Tämä muistutus vaikutti silmänräpäyksessä. Trudainen ojennettu käsivarsi taipui alas ja hänen kasvoissaan tapahtui äkillinen muutos. "Vartokaa hetkinen", sanoi hän heikolla äänellä; ja kääntyen pois, nojautui hän vasten seinää ja painoi kuumaa otsaansa kylmää, kosteata kiveä vasten. Hän ei nostanut päätään ennenkuin oli saanut itsensä hillityksi, ja saattoi sanoa tyynesti: "Puhukaa -- minä olen valmis kuulemaan, ja siksi täydellä mielellä, että voin pyytää teiltä anteeksi sen minkä minä äsken sanoin". "Kun minä läksin oikeussalista ja tulin tähän huoneesen", alkoi Lomaque hiljaa kuiskaten; "en voinut ajatella mitään keinoa, jolla voisi auttaa teitä ja teidän sisartanne. En voinut muuta kuin surra sitä ett'ei tuo tunnustus auttanut, jota minä olin pitänyt teidän parhaimpana puollustuskeinona ja jota olin tullut teille neuvomaan St. Lazare-linnaan. Sittemmin on päähäni pälkähtänyt tuuma, josta voi olla apua -- niin hurja, niin epätietoinen tuuma -- jonka menestyminen niin tykkönään riippuu satunnaisista seikoista, ett'en tahdo uskoa sitä teille muuten kuin yhdellä ehdolla". "Sanokaa ehtonne! minä suostun jo edeltäpäin". "Luvatkaa kunniansanallanne, ett'ette puhu sanaakaan sisarellenne siitä, mitä minä nyt sanon teille, ennenkuin annan teille luvan puhua. Luvatkaa minulle että te, kun näette lähenevän kuolemanhetken kauhistuttavan häntä tänä yönä, hillitsette itsenne niin paljon, ett'ette puhu toivon sanaa hänelle. Minä kysyn tämän, syystä että tässä on kymmenen -- kaksi kymmentä -- viisi kymmentä mahdollisuutta sitä yhtä vastaan, että toivoa on". "Enhän minä voi muuta kuin luvata", vastasi Trudaine. Lomaque otti esille taskukirjansa ja lyijykynänsä ennenkuin hän taas rupesi puhumaan. "Minä menen erityisseikkoihin niin pian kuin ensin olen tehnyt teille kummallisen kysymyksen", sanoi hän. "Te olette ollut suuri kemiallisten kokeiden harjoittaja aikananne -- oletteko tarpeeksi tyynimielinen tämmöisellä kamalalla hetkellä vastaamaan kysymykseen, joka tavallansa on yhteydessä kemian kanssa? Te näytätte kummastuneelta. Sallikaa minun lausua kysymykseni heti. Tunnetaanko jotakin nestettä, tahi pulveria, tahi useampain ainesten yhdistystä, joka hävittää kirjoituksen paperista eikä jätä mitään merkkiä jälkeensä?" "Varmaan! Vaan siinäkö koko kysymys? Eikö ole suurempaa vaikeutta --?" "Ei. Kirjoittakaa aineksien-määräys, olkoot ne sitten mitä tahansa, tälle lehdelle", sanoi toinen, antaen hänelle taskukirjan. "Kirjoittakaa se siihen, ja määrätkää myös tarkoin aineen käyttäminen". Trudaine totteli. "Tämä on ensimmäinen askel", jatkoi Lomaque, pistäen kirjan taskuunsa, "hankkeeni perille päästäksemme -- epävarman hankkeeni, muistakaa se! Kuunnelkaa nyt; minä olen saattamaisillani oman pääni vaaran-alaiseksi, tehdäkseni teidän ja sisarenne pään pelastamisen mahdolliseksi, käyttämällä vähäisiä vehkeitä kuolemaantuomittujen luettelon kanssa. Älkää keskeyttäkö minua! Jos minä voin pelastaa yhden, niin minä voin pelastaa toisenkin. Ei sanaakaan kiitollisuudesta! Odottakaa kunnes tunnette kiitollisuutenne määrän. Minä sanon teille suoraan, alussa, että siinä toimessa, johon olen ryhtymäisilläni, on sekä epätoivon että sääliväisyyden vaikutussyitä pohjalla. Vaiti! Minä vaadin sen. Aikaa on meillä vähän; minun asiani on puhua, ja teidän on kuunnella. Oikeuden presidentti on pannut kuolemanmerkin teidän nimienne jälkeen tämän päivän vankiluettelossa. Kun tutkimiset ovat päättyneet ja lista on merkitty loppuun asti, tuodaan se tähän huoneesen ennenkuin teidät viedään St. Lazare'en. Se sitten lähetetään Robespierrelle, joka pitää sen, teetettyänsä kopian siitä samassa kun se on tullut hänelle jätetyksi, kiertämistä varten hänen virkaveljiensä -- St. Just'in ja muiden, luona. Minun tehtävänäni on toimittaa jäljennös tästä kopiasta ensi kädessä. Jalo Robespierre itse tahi joku, johon hän voi ehdottomasti luottaa, vertaa tätä jäljennöstä alkuperäiseen luetteloon, ja mahdollisesti kopiaan myös, ja se lähetetään sitten St. Lazare'en, tulematta enää minun käsiini. Heti kun se on vastaanotettu, luetaan se julkisesti vankihuoneen kalterilla, ja jää sittemmin vanginvartijalle, joka sitä käyttää kulkiessaan illalla liidulla merkitsemässä niiden vankien koppien ovia, jotka ovat määrätyt huomenna mestattaviksi. Tämän tehtävän toivon minä tuon kyttyräselän saavan tänään, jonka te näitte minua puhuttelevan. Hän on tunnettu juoppo ja minä ai'on vietellä häntä semmoisella viinillä, jota hän harvoin maistaa. Jos minä -- sen jälkeen kun luettelo on julkisesti luettu ja ennenkuin koppien ovet ovat merkityt -- voin saada hänet istumaan putelin ääreen, niin minä lupaan saattaa hänet juovuksiin, ottaa luettelon hänen taskustaan, ja poistaa teidän nimenne siitä sillä aineella, jonka määräyksen juuri ikään olette kirjoittanut minulle. Minä kirjoitan kaikki nimet, toisen toisensa alle, niin tarpeeksi epäsäännöllisesti jäljennökseeni ett'ei poisottamisen kautta syntynyttä tyhjää väliä niin helposti voida huomata. Jos minä tässä onnistun, niin teidän ovenne ei tulekaan merkityksi; eikä teidän nimiänne huomenaamulla huudetakaan, kun guillotinin rattaat tulevat. Nykyään kun vankeja tulvaa joka päivä vankihuoneesen tutkisteltaviksi ja tulvaa vankihuoneesta joka päivä mestattavaksi, on teillä siinä yleisessä sekasotkossa mitä suurin mahdollisuus päästä kaikista nenäkkäistä kysymyksistä, jos sopivasti asetatte korttianne, vähintäin kaksi viikkoa tahi kymmenen päivää. Silloin --" "Hyvin! hyvin!" huusi Trudaine innokkaasti. Lomaque katsoi oikeussalin oveen päin ja alenti äänensä hiljaiseksi kuiskutukseksi ennenkuin hän jatkoi: "Silloin Robespierren oma pää voi pudota guillotinin pussiin! Kansa on alkanut kyllästyä Hirmuhallitukseen. Kohtuuden puolueen Ranskalaiset, jotka ovat maanneet piilossa kuukausia kellareissa ja ylisillä, ovat alkaneet salaa tulla esille ja neuvotella, kaksi ja kolme yhdessä, yön pimeydessä. Robespierre ei ole moneen viikkoon uskaltanut näyttäytyä neuvottelemassa Valiokunnassa. Hän ainoastaan puhuu omien ystäviensä seurassa Jakobineille. Huhu kertoo kauheasta Carnot'n ilmisaatosta ja kurjasta päätöksestä, jonka Tallien on tehnyt. Ihmiset, jotka ovat saaneet katsoa näyttämön taakse, huomaavat Hirmuhallituksen viimeisten päiväin lähestyvän. Jos Robespierre tulee lyödyksi lähestyvässä taistelussa, olette pelastetut -- sillä uuden hallituksen tulee olla Anteeksiannon hallituksen. Jos hän voittaa, olen minä ainoastaan lykännyt teidän ja teidän sisarenne kuolemanpäivän edemmäksi, ja saattanut oman pääni piilun alle. Tämmöiset ovat mahdollisuudet -- se on kaikki minkä minä voin tehdä". Hän vaikeni, ja taas koetti Trudaine puhua semmoista, joka näyttäisi, ett'ei hän ollut sen kuoleman-uhrauksen ansaitsematon, jonka Lomaque oli aikeessa tehdä. Vaan vielä kerran pääpoliisi lujasti ja suuttuneesti esti häntä. "Minä sanon teille, kolmannen kerran", puhui hän, "en tahdo kuulla kiitollisuuden osoituksia teiltä, ennenkuin tiedän ansaitsenko minä niitä. Totta on, että minä olen kiitollisuuden velassa isänne sopivalla ajalla osoittamasta hyvyydestä minua kohtaan -- totta, etten ole unhottanut mitä tapahtui viisi vuotta takaperin teidän kotonanne, joen varrella. Minä muistan kaikki, yksin niitäkin, joita te katsoisitte kovin vähäpätöisiksi -- tuon kupin kahvia, esimerkiksi, jonka sisarenne piti varina minua varten. Minä silloin sanoin teille, teidän tulevan joskus maailmassa parempaa ajattelemaan minusta. Minä tiedän että niin on nyt. Vaan tämä ei ole vielä kaikki. Te mielellänne ylistäisitte minua suorastaan että minä panen henkeni vaaran alttiiksi teidän edestänne. Minä en tahdo teitä kuulla, koska minun alttiiksi antamiseni on halvinta laatua. Minä olen kyllästynyt elämääni. En voi katsoa taakseni iloisella mielellä. Olen liian vanha katsomaan eteenpäin siihen mikä voisi olla toivon-alaista. Siellä oli jotakin sinä iltana teidän kodissanne, ennen naimista -- jotakin teidän puheessanne, sisarenne te'oissa -- joka teki minut toisenlaiseksi. Minulla on ollut synkkämielisyyden ja itsenisyyttämisen päiviä, aika ajoin, siitä lähtien. Minä olen suuttunut orjuuteeni, ja nöyryyteeni, ja kaksimielisyyteeni, ja liehittelemiseeni ensin yhden herran, sitten toisen alla. Minä olen toivonut saavani katsoa takaisin elämääni, ja lohdutella itseäni huomatessani jonkun hyvän teon, niinkuin säästävä mies lohduttaa itseään katselemalla pientä säästöään laatikossaan. Minä en voi sitä tehdä; ja minä haluaisin kuitenkin. Tuo kaipaus tulee minuun kuin taudinpuuskaus, määrättömien loma-aikojen perästä äkisti, käsittämättömimmistä vaikutussyistä. Katsahdus ylös sinistä taivasta kohden -- tähtikirkkaana kaarrellen tämän suuren kaupungin rakennuksien ylitse, illoin katsellessani ulos vinnihuoneeni akkunasta -- lapsen äänen sattuessa äkkiä korvaani, en tiedä mistä -- naapurini hempun viserrys pienessä häkissään -- milloin mikin vähäpätöinen asia herättää tuon kaipauksen minussa silmänräpäyksessä. Vaikka kurja olen, niin nuo muutamat yksinkertaiset sanat, jotka sisarenne lausui tuomarille, tunkivat minun läpitseni kuin veitsen iskut. Kummallista semmoisessa miehessä kuin minä, eikös ole? Minä itsekin sitä kummastelen. Minun elämäni? Oh! minä olen sen vuokrannut muille, joutuakseni roistojen potkittavaksi yhdestä likarapakosta toiseen, niinkuin palli jalkapallisilla ollessa. Mieleeni on johtunut antaa itse sille viimeinen potku, ja heittää se tarpeeksi etäälle, ennenkuin se lepää sontatunkiolla ainaiseksi. Teidän sisarenne piti hyvän kupin kahvia varina minua varten, ja minä annan hänelle huonon elämän kohteliaisuuden palkinnoksi. Te tahdotte kiittää minua siitä? Mitä hulluutta! Kiittäkää minua kun olen jotakin hyödyllistä tehnyt. Älkää kiittäkö tästä!" Hän näpähytti sormillaan halveksivaisesti puhuessaan, ja astui pois ulko-oven luokse, ottamaan vanginvartijaa vastaan, joka tällä hetkellä palasi. "No", kysyi kyttyräselkä, "onko kukaan minua kysynyt?" "Ei", vastasi Lomaque; "ei ole kukaan käynyt huoneessa. Mitä lajia viiniä te saitte?" "Niin -- niin! Hyvää kun on pulassa, ystäväni -- hyvää kun on pulassa". "Oh! te menisitte minun viinikauppaani, ja maistaisitte eräästä tynnyristä, jossa on viiniä eräästä viininsaannosta, joka on jotakin!" "Mikä viinikauppa? Mikä viininsaanto?" "Minä en jouda nyt kertomaan, vaan luultavasti me tapaamme toisemme vielä tänään. Minä toivon olevani vankihuoneella iltapäivällä. Kysynkö minä teitä? Hyvä! En unhota!" Näillä jäähyväissanoilla hän läksi ulos; eikä edes katsonut taakseen vankeihin, ennenkuin jo sulkivat oven hänen perästään. Trudaine palasi sisarensa luokse, peloissaan että hänen kasvonsa ilmoittaisivat mitä oli tapahtunut tuossa omituisessa keskustelussa Lomaquen ja hänen välillä. Vaan mikä muutos siinä lienee ollutkin, ei Rosa näyttänyt sitä huomaavan. Hän oli yhä vielä kummallisen huomaamaton kaikkien ulkonaisten seikkain suhteen. Tuo kärsiväisyys, joka on vaimojen urhoollisuus kaikissa onnettomuuksissa, näytti nyt olevan ainoa virkistävä hengen-ilmaus, joka voimassa piti elämänliekkiä hänessä. Kun veljensä istuutui hänen viereensä, tarttui hän vaan hänen käteensä ja sanoi: "Olkaamme näin yhdessä, Louis, kunnes hetki tulee. Minä en sitä pelkää. Minulla ei ole paitse sinua mitään muuta, joka saattaisi minua rakastamaan elämää, ja sinä tulet myös kuolemaan. Muistatko sitä aikaa kun minulla oli tapana murehtia sitä, ett'ei minulla ollut lasta joksikin lohdutukseksi minulle? Minä ajattelin tässä, joku hetki sitten, miten kauheata olisi ollut nyt, jos minun toivoni olisi toteutunut. Se on minulle siunaukseksi, tässä suuressa kurjuudessa, että olen lapseton! Puhukaamme menneistä ajoista, Louis, niin kauan kuin voimme -- ei miehestäni, eikä naimisestani -- ainoastaan niistä menneistä ajoista, jolloin en vielä ollut taakkana ja murheena sinulle". Päivä kului. Yksittäin, kaksittain ja kolmittain tulivat tuomitut vangit oikeussalista, ja keräytyivät odotushuoneesen. Kello kaksi oli kuolemaantuomittujen luettelo valmis luettavaksi. Se luettiin ja eräs oikeuden jäsen vahvisti sen todeksi; sitten vei vanginvartija vankinsa takaisin St. Lazare'en. Ilta tuli. Vankien iltanen oli annettu; kuolemalistan jäljennös oli luettu julkisesti kalterien edessä; koppien ovet olivat kaikki lukitut. Vangitsemispäivästään saakka olivat Rosa ja hänen veljensä, osaksi erään lahjan, osaksi Lomaquen välityksen vaikutuksesta, olleet suljettuna samaan koppiin; ja yhdessä he nyt odottivat huomispäivän kauheata kohtausta. Rosasta tämä kohtaus oli kuolema -- kuolema, jota hän ainakin kärsiväisyydellä ajatteli. Trudainen mielessä lähintä tulevaisuutta pimitti yhä enemmän tuo epätietoisuus, joka on kuolemaa pahempi; tuo ahdistava, kauhea, säälimätön viipymys, joka pitää mieltä piinauspenkillä, ja joka sydäntä kalvaa. Tämän kauhean yön pitkän, lohduttoman kuolemankamppauksen kestäessä, tuli hänelle vaan yksi helpoitus. Joka hermon jännitys, jokaiseen ajatukseen kiinnittyvän kauhean ahdistuksen ruhjoava paino helpoittuivat vähän, kun Rosan ruumiilliset voimat alkoivat vaipua hänen henkisen väsymyksensä alle -- kun hänen surullinen kuoleva puheensa menneistä onnellisista ajoista hiljaa vaikeni, ja hän asetti päänsä hänen hartioilleen, ja antoi unen enkelin viedä itseään vähäksi aikaa, vaikka kuoleman enkeli jo siivillään häntä varjosti. Aamu tuli ja lämmin kesäinen päivännousu. Mikä oli eloon jätetty hirmun hallitsemassa kaupungissa, heräsi täksi päivää pelkäävästi; ja yhä pysyi pitkän yön epätietoisuus huokenematta. Hetki lähestyi, jona vaunut tulivat noutamaan edellisenä päivänä tuomitut uhrit. Trudainen korva saattoi eroittaa heikointakin ääntä kaikuvassa vankihuoneessa koppinsa ulkopuolella. Hän kohta meni kuuntelemaan lähelle ovea, ja kuuli keskenään väitteleviä ääniä sen takaa. Äkkiä teljet vedettiin ovelta, avain vääntyi rei'ässään, ja hän huomasi edessään kyttyräselän ja erään alemman vanginvartijan. "Katsokaa!" mutisi tämä jälkimäinen nurpeissaan, "siinä ne ovat, terveinä kopissaan, juuri niinkuin minä sanoin; vaan minä vakuutan teille vielä kerran etteivät olleet luettelossa. Mitä ajattelettekaan toruessanne minua ett'en ole liidulla merkinnyt heidän ovea viime yönä samalla kertaa kuin muitten? Pyytäkää taas minua toimittamaan tehtäviänne, kun olette liian juovuksissa itse sitä tekemään!" "Pitäkää suunne, ja antakaa minun uudestaan katsella luetteloa!" vastasi kyttyräselkä, kääntyen ovesta ja temmaisten paperikaistaleen toisen kädettä. "Piru vieköön, jos minä tätä ymmärrän!" huusi hän, pudistaen päätään, huolellisesti tarkastettuansa luetteloa. "Minä voisin vannoa lukeneeni heidän nimensä porttikalterilla, eilen illalla, omilla huulillani; ja nyt, vaikka katsoisin miten kauan, en voi löytää heitä tästä. Anna nuuskaa näpillinen, ystäväni. Olenko minä valveilla, vai näenkö unta? -- juovuksissa, vai selvänä tänä aamuna?" "Selvänä, toivon minä", sanoi tyven ääni hänen takanaan. "Pistäysin juuri katsomaan miten jaksaisitte eilisen perästä". "Miten minä jaksan, kansalainen Lomaque? Kiveksi muuttunut kummastuksesta. Te itse vartioitte tätä miestä ja tätä vaimoa edestäni, odotushuoneessa, eilen aamulla; ja mitä itseeni tulee, niin voisin vannoa lukeneeni heidän nimensä porttikalterilla eilen iltapäivällä. Nyt, tänä aamuna, tässä ei ole semmoista kuin nämä sanotut nimet koko luettelossa! Mitä ajattelette tästä?" "Ja mitä te ajattelette", keskeytti loukattu alavartija, "hänen hävyttömyydestään haukkua minua huolimattomasta ovien liiduttamisesta, kun mies oli liian juovuksissa itse sitä toimittamaan? -- liian juovuksissa voidakseen eroittaa oikeata kättään vasemmasta! Ellen olisi parasluontoinen mies koko maailmassa, niin minä kaipaisin ylivanginvartijalle". "Aivan oikein teiltä antaa hänelle anteeksi, ja aivan väärin häneltä teitä torua", lausui Lomaque vakuuttavalla tavalla. "Ottakaa minulta neuvo", jatkoi hän, tuttavasti puhellen kyttyräselälle, "älkääkä liioin luottako tuohon teidän pettävään muistiinne, hiukan juotuanne edellisenä päivänä. Te ette ole voineet todellisesti lukea heidän nimiään kalteriportilla, senhän ymmärrätte, sillä siinä tapauksessa ne tietysti olisivat listassa. Mitä oikeussalin odotushuoneesen tulee, niin minä sanon sanan teidän korvaanne: pääpoliisit tietävät kummallisia salaisuuksia. Oikeuden presidentti tuomitsee ja armahtaa julkisesti; vaan onpa joku toinen, tuhannen presidentin vallalla, joka silloin tällöin tuomitsee ja armahtaa yksityisesti. Te voitte arvata kuka. Minä en sano muuta kuin neuvon vaan teitä pitämään päätänne paikoillaan, siten ett'ette pidä huolta muusta kuin tuosta luettelosta teidän kädessänne. Pysykää sen puustaveissa kiinni, niin ei kukaan voi teitä syyttää. Pitäkää vaan melua salaisuuksista, jotka eivät koske teitä, niin --" Lomaque pysähtyi, ja pitäen kättään miekan tapaisesti, sujahutti sillä osoittavaisesti kyttyräselän pään ylitse. Tämä liikunto kuin myös ne vihjaukset, joita hän kuuli sitä ennen, hämmentivät kokonaan pientä miestä. Hän tuijotti hämmästyneenä Lomaqueen; pyysi parilla sanalla raakamaisesti anteeksi alavartijalta, ja kummallisella tavalla pyörittäen rumaa päätään, astui hän pois, pitäen kuolema-luetteloa rutistettuna kädessään. "Tahtoisin heittää silmäyksen heihin, ja katsoa ovatko ne todellakin sama mies ja vaimo, joita minä vartijoin eilen aamulla odotushuoneessa", sanoi Lomaque, tarttuen kädellään kopin oveen, juuri samassa kun virkatoimessaan oleva vartija rupesi sitä kiinni panemaan. "Katsokaa sisään, niinkuin tahdotte", sanoi mies. "Kyllä varmaan huomaatte tuon juoppolallin olevan yhtä väärässä näiden suhteen kuin hän on kaikissa asioissa". Lomaque käytti heti tätä myönnettyä oikeutta. Hän näki Trudainen istuvan sisarensa kanssa kopin nurkassa kauimpana ovesta, arvattavasti siinä tarkoituksessa ett'ei Rosa kuulisi ovella tapahtuvaa keskustelua. Hänen silmissään näkyi kuitenkin levoton katse, hänen poskillaan enenevä punastus, joka osoitti hänen ainakin epävarmasti tietävän että jotakin outoa tapahtui käytävässä. Lomaque viittasi Trudainelle että hän tulisi ovelle, ja kuiskasi hänelle: "Määräämänne aine vaikutti hyvin. Te olette pelastetut täksi päivää. Kertokaa tämä uutinen sisarellenne niin lempeästi kuin voitte. Danville --" Hän vaikeni ja kuunteli kunnes hän voi vanginvartijan askeleitten kopinasta varmaan tietää tämän astuskelevan käytävän toisessa päässä. "Danville", jatkoi hän, "sekaannuttuaan kansajoukkoon kalteriportin ulkopuolella eilen, ja kuultuansa teidän nimiä luettavan, vangittiin illalla Robespierren salaisesta käskystä ja lähetettiin Temple-linnaan. Mikä syytös häntä vastaan tehdään, tahi milloin hän viedään tutkittavaksi, on mahdoton sanoa. Tiedän ainoastaan hänen olevan vangitun. Hush! Älkää puhuko nyt; ystäväni täällä ulkona tulee takaisin. Pysykää levollisena -- toivokaa kaikkea sattumukselta ja valtiollisten asiain muutoksesta; ja lohduttakaa itseänne sillä ajatuksella, että olette molemmat pelastetut huomiseksi". "Ja huomenna?" kuiskasi Trudaine. "Älkää ajatelko huomispäivää", vastasi Lomaque, kääntyen äkkiä oveenpäin. "Antakaa huomispäivän pitää huolta itsestään". KUUDES LUKU. Eräänä kevät-aamuna, vuonna seitsemäntoista sataa yhdeksänkymmentä kahdeksan, jätti Chalon-sur-Marnen ja Parisin välillä kulkevat yleiset postivaunut yhden matkustajistaan ensimmäiseen pysäyspaikkaan Meaux'sta. Matkustaja, joka oli vanha mies, läksi, hetken katseltuaan miettiväisesti ympärilleen, pieneen ravintolaan, joka oli postihuoneen vastapäätä, ja jonka nimenä oli "Kirjo-hepo", ja emäntänä leski Duval vaimo, jota syystä kehuttiin puheliaimmaksi akaksi ja parhaimmaksi hanhenpaistin valmistajaksi koko paikkakunnassa. Vaikka matkustaja ei herättänyt suurta huomiota tiellä vetelehtivien kylän laiskurien silmissä, ja vaikka leski Duval tervehti häntä aivan välinpitämättömästi, ei hän sentään ollut niin tavallinen ja jokapäiväinen vieras kuin nämä maalaiset näyttivät luulevan. Oli ollut sekin aika, jolloin tuolle hiljaiselle, vanhanpuoleiselle, vaatimattomalle virvoituksen pyytäjälle "Kirjo-hevossa" oli uskottu Hirmuhallituksen syvimpiä salaisuuksia, ja jolla oli oikeus millä hetkellä ja minä aikana tahansa käydä itse Maksimilian Robespierren puheilla. Leski Duval ja nuo laiskoittelijat postihuoneen edustalla olisivat todellakin hämmästyneet, jos joku asiantunteva henkilö pääkaupungista olisi ollut läsnä heille kertomassa että tuo nöyrännäköinen vanha matkustaja, kuluneella matkalaukulla, oli eräs Parisin Salapoliisiviraston entisiä pää-asioitsijoita. Neljättä vuotta oli kulunut siitä kun Lomaque viimeisen kerran oli ollut Hirmuhallituksen virallisissa toimissa. Hänen hartiansa olivat käyneet enemmän kyyryyn, ja hänen tukkansa oli kaikki lähtenyt, paitse sivuilta ja takaa. Muutamissa muissa suhteissa näytti kuitenkin enenevä ikä parantaneen enemmän kuin pahentaneen hänen ulkonäköänsä. Hänen poskensa näyttivät terveemmiltä, hänen katsantonsa iloisemmalta, hänen silmänsä kirkkaammilta kuin olivat koskaan ennen näyttäneet. Hän astui myös ripeämmin kuin entisinä aikoina poliisivirassa; ja hänen pukunsa, jos kohta se ei näyttänyt varakkaan miehen puvulta, oli kumminkin puhtaampi ja paremmin pidelty kuin ennen aikaan hänen ollessaan valtiollisessa palveluksessa Parisissa. Hän istuutui yksin ravintolan vierashuoneesen ja emännän lähdettyä noutamaan puolta putellia viiniä, jota hän pyysi, vietti hän aikaansa tarkastamalla likaista vanhaa korttia, jonka hän veti esille paperijoukosta taskukirjastaan, ja johon oli kirjoitettu seuraavat sanat: -- "Kun rauhattomuuden ajat ovat ohitse, älkää unhottako niitä, jotka muistavat teitä ikuisella kiitollisuudella. Pysähtykää ensimmäiseen posti-asemaan Meaux'sta, Parisiin vievän valtamaantien varrella, ja kysykää ravintolassa kansalaista Maurice, jos vielä tahdotte nähdä meitä tahi kuulla meistä". "Pyydän anteeksi kysymistäni", sanoi Lomaque, pistäen kortin taskuunsa, kun leski Duval toi sisään viiniä, "voitteko sanoa minulle asuuko täällä jossakin läheisyydessä eräs henkilö nimeltä Maurice?" "Josko minä voin sanoa?" kertoi lyhyt lylleröinen leski. "Tietysti minä voin! Kansalainen Maurice, ja hänen rakastettava sisarensa -- jota ei saa unhottaa sen tähden, ett'ette te muistaneet mainita häntä, -- asuu kymmenen minuutin matkan päässä minun talostani. Viehättävä asunto, viehättävällä paikalla, ja kaksi mitä viehättävintä asukasta -- niin hiljainen, niin syrjäinen ja niin erinomaisen tuottava paikka. Minä toimitan heille kaikkea, -- lintuja, munia, leipää, voita, kasvaksia (ei ne sentään syö mitään laatua paljon), viiniä (jota eivät juo puoliakaan siitä mikä olisi heille terveellistä); lyhyesti sanottu, minä muonitan tuota pikku erakkomajaa, ja rakastan noita kahta herttaista erakkoa kaikesta sydämestäni. Oih! heillä on ollut murheensa, ihmisparoilla, etenkin sisarella, vaikka ne eivät koskaan puhu niistä. Kun ensin tulivat asumaan tänne meidän naapuristoomme --" "Pyydän anteeksi, kansalainen, vaan jos te tahtoisitte ainoastaan olla niin hyvä ja neuvoisitte minua --" "Josta on kolme -- ei, neljä -- ei, kolme ja puoli vuotta aikaa -- lyhyesti, juuri sen jälkeen kun tuo mies Saatana Robespierre oli tullut päätä lyhemmäksi (aivan sopivata hänelle), niin minä sanoin miehelleni (joka teki loppuansa silloin miesparka!) 'Hän kuolee' -- tarkoittaen naista. Hän ei kuitenkaan kuollut. Lintuni, munani, leipäni, voini, kasvakseni, ja viinini, auttoivat häntä taudin läpi -- yhteydessä aina kansalaisen Mauricen hellän hoidon kanssa. Niin! niin! Olkaamme tunnokkaat tunnustamaan ansiota, kun semmoinen on paikallaan; älkäämme koskaan unhoittako että kansalainen Maurice auttoi paljon viehättävän sairaan parantumista samoin kuin ruokavarat ja juomat Kirjavasta Hevosesta. Siinä se nyt on, mitä kauniin pikku nainen mitä kauniimmassa pikku majassa --" "Missä? Tahdotteko olla niin hyvä että sanotte minulle missä?" "Ja erinomaisen terveenä, paitsi silloin tällöin kun häntä kohtaa suonenvedontapaiset taudinpuuskat, jotka sanottavasti, niin minä ainakin luulen, ovat seurauksia kauheasta säikähtymisestä -- hyvin todennäköistä tuona kirottuna Hirmun aikana, ennenkuin tulivat Parisista -- te ette juo, kunnon mies! Miksi ette juo? -- Hyvin, hyvin kaunis kalvakkalaatuisia ollakseen; vartalo ehkä liian laiha -- antakaa minun kaataa lasiinne -- mutta enkeli hyväluontoisuudessa, ja oikein on liikuttavaa nähdä miten hän on kiintynyt kansalaiseen Maurice --" "Kansalaiseni, emäntäni! tahdotteko, tahi ettekö tahdo sanoa minulle missä ne asuvat?" "Te hupsu mies! miks'ette kysyneet sitä ennen, jos tahdoitte sitä tietää? Lopettakaa viininne ja tulkaa tänne ovelle. Tässä rahoistanne takaisin ja kiitoksia käynnistinne vaikk'ette ottaneet paljoa. Tulkaa tänne ovelle, sanon minä, älkääkä keskeyttäkö minua! Te olette vanha mies -- voitteko nähdä kahdenkymmenen sylen päähän? -- Vai niin, te voitte! Älkää närkästykö, -- se ei koskaan tee kenellekään hyvää. No katsokaa nyt taaksepäin, tietä pitkin, jonne minä osoitan. Te näette suuren kivikasan? Hyvä. Kiviläjän toisella puolella on pikku ura, -- te ette voi sitä nähdä, vaan voittehan te pitää muistissa, mitä minä teille sanon? Hyvä. Te kuljette polkua myöten kunnes tulette erään joen rannalle; joen vartta pitkin kunnes tulette muutamaan siltaan; toista jokivartta sitten (kuljettuanne sillan yli) kunnes tulette vanhan vesimyllyn luo -- oikein kallisarvoinen vesimylly! kuuluisa peninkulmien päässä ylt'ympäri; taideniekkoja kaikista maailman ääristä tulee alinomaa sitä piirustamaan! Oh! miten olette käyneet hätäiseksi taas! Te ette malta odottaa? Kärsimätön vanha mies, minkälaista elämää teidän vaimonne mahtaa saada kärsiä, jos teillä on semmoinen! Muistakaa siltaa! Voi, teidän vaimoparkaanne ja lapsianne, minä säälin heitä -- teidän tyttäriänne erittäin. Pst! pst! muistakaa siltaa, hätäinen vanha mies, muistakaa siltaa!" Astuen niin pian kuin saattoi, päästäkseen kuulemasta leski Duvalin kielen pieksäntää, kääntyi Lomaque kivikasan kohdalla polulle, joka erosi valtamaantieltä, kulki yli joen ja tuli vanhalle vesimyllylle. Aivan lähellä sitä oli asuinhuone, -- puinen koruton rakennus, pikku puutarha edessä. Lomaquen tarkat silmät huomasivat kukkaislavojen luonnikasta järjestystä ja akkunavaatetten hienoa vaikeutta huonolasisten pienten ikkunain takana. "Tämä mahtaa olla paikka", sanoi hän itsekseen, koputtaessaan ovea kepillään. "Minä voin nähdä hänen kättensä jälkiä ennenkuin astuin yli kynnyksen". Ovi avattiin. "Pyydän anteeksi, tokkohan kansalainen Maurice --?" alkoi Lomaque ensihetkellä kun ei selvään nähnyt pimeässä pienessä etehisessä. Ennenkuin hän ennätti sanoa enempää, oli hänen käteensä tartuttu, hänen matkalaukkunsa poisotettu, ja hyvin tuttu ääni huusi: "Tervetullut! tuhatta, tuhatta kertaa tervetullut, viimeinkin! Kansalainen Maurice ei ole kotona; vaan Louis Trudaine rupeaa hänen sijaisekseen, ja on iloissaan, ihastuksissaan, nähdessään vielä kerran parhaimman ja kalliimman ystävänsä!" "Minä tuskin teidät tunsin jälleen. Miten olette muuttunut paremmannäköiseksi!" huusi Lomaque heidän tultuaan asunnon vierashuoneesen. "Muistakaa että te näette minun pitkän ajan oltuani tuskista vapaana. Sen jälkeen kun tänne muutin asumaan, olen mennyt levolle iltasilla enkä ole peljännyt aamusilla", vastasi Trudaine. Hän meni ulos etehiseen puhuessaan, ja huusi portailta: "Rosa, Rosa! tule tänne! Se ystävä, jota hartaimmin olet toivonut saavasi tavata, on viimeinkin tullut". Hän totteli kehoitusta heti. Hänen tervehdyksensä suora ystävällinen sydämellisyys, hänen vakaa päätöksensä, ensimmäisten kysymysten vaihduttua, auttaa vierasta ottamaan päältään päällysnuttuansa omalla kädellään, hämmenti ja miellytti Lomaquea niin että hän tuskin tiesi mihin kääntyä, mitä sanoa. "Tämä panee enemmän koetukselle, hauskalla tavalla, yksinäistä vanhaa miestä kuin minä" -- hän oli lisätä: "kuin tuo kahvikupin varina pitämisen odottamaton kohteliaisuus, vuosia takaperin"; vaan muistaen mitä muistoja tuokin vähäpätöinen seikka voisi herättää, pysähytti hän itseään. "Enemmän koetukselle kuin mikä?" kysyi Rosa, taluttaessaan häntä tuolin luo. "Ah! minä unhotin, vanhuuden tylsyys jo minua vaivaa!" vastasi hän hiukan hämillään. "Minä en ole tottunut juuri äskettäin iloon nähdä teidän herttaisia kasvojanne taas". Oli todellakin hupaista katsella näitä kasvoja nyt niiden aikojen perästä, joina Lomaque viimeksi oli ne nähnyt. Vanha kolmen vuoden levollisuus ei ollut Rosalle voinut tuoda jälleen tuota nuoruuden suloutta, jonka hän iäksi päiväksi oli kadottanut Hirmun aikana, ei se kuitenkaan ollut menojaan mennyt jättämättä hyviä jälkiä parantavasta vaikutuksestaan. Vaikka hänen poskensa eivät olleet saaneet takaisin nuoruuden pulskeuttaan, että hänen ihonsa nuoruuden hienouttaan, olivat hänen silmänsä kuitenkin saaneet jälleen paljon entistä sulouttaan, ja hänen katsantonsa kaiken entisen miellyttävän herttaisuutensa. Mitä oli jäänyt salaista murheellisuutta hänen kasvoihinsa, ja osoittuvaa hiljaisuutta hänen käytökseensä, oli jäänyt vahingotta ja vienosti, enemmän osoittamaan mitä kerran oli ollut, kuin mitä nyt oli. Näytti kuitenkin siltä kuin jotain menneitten aikojen levottomuutta ja tuskaa olisi palannut hetkeksi heidän kasvoihinsa, kun Trudaine, kaikkien istuuduttua, katsoi tutkivasti Lomaqueen ja kysyi: "Tuotteko mitään uutisia Parisista?" "En mitään", vastasi hän; "vaan erinomaisia uutisia sen sijaan Rouenista. Minä olen kuullut, sattumalta, isäntäni kautta, jonka palveluksessa olen ollut siitä lähtien kuin me erosimme, teidän vanhan huoneenne virran rannalla olevan vuokrattavana taas". Rosa syöksähti tuoliltaan. "Oi, Louis, jos me saisimme asua siinä vielä kerran! Minun kukkaistarhani?" jatkoi hän kääntyen Lomaqueen. "Viimeinen asukas on hoitanut kaikki-tyyni", vastasi hän. "Ja laboratorio?" lisäsi veli. "Jätetty paikoilleen", sanoi Lomaque. "Tässä on kirje, jossa kaikki erityiset seikat ovat tarkkaan lueteltuina. Te voitte luottaa siihen, sillä kirje on sen henkilön kirjoittama, jonka toimena on huoneen vuokraaminen". Trudaine tutki kirjettä tarkkaan. "Hinta ei käy yli meidän varain", sanoi hän. Kolmevuotisen säästäväisyyden perästä täällä, kannattaa meidän antaa jotakin suuresta hauskuudesta". "Oi mikä onnen päivä se tulee olemaan kun me tulemme kotiimme taas!" huusi Rosa. "Olkaa niin hyvä, kirjoittakaa ystävällenne heti", lisäsi hän, puhuen Lomaquelle, "ja ilmoittakaa meidän ottavamme huoneen, ennenkuin joku toinen ennättää meidän edellä!" Lomaque nyykäytti päätään; ja taitettuaan kirjettä tavankäyvästi entiseen viralliseen muotoonsa, kirjoitti hän muistutuksen sen laitaan vanhaan viralliseen tapaansa. Trudaine huomasi tämän ja tunsi sen muistuttavan menneitä murheen ja kauhun aikoja. Hänen kasvonsa kävivät taas totisiksi, sanoessaan Lomaquelle: "Onko nämät hyvät uutiset todellakin kaikki mitä teillä on tärkeätä meille kerrottavaa?" Lomaque mietti epäillen ja väänsihe tuolillaan. "Mitä muuta uutta minulla on, se ei pahene jos vähän odottavatkin", hän vastasi. "Minä mielelläni tekisin ensin muutamia kysymyksiä sisarenne ja teidän suhteista. Te ette paheksu että minä palajan vähäksi hetkeksi niihin aikoihin, jolloin viimeksi toisiamme kohtasimme?" Hän käänsi itsensä tällä kysymyksellä Rosaan, joka vastasi kieltävästi; vaan hänen äänensä näytti muuttuvan lausuessaan tuon yhden sanankin "Emme". Hän käänsi kasvonsa toisaanne puhuessaan; ja Lomaque huomasi hänen kätensä vapisevan kun hän otti jonkun työn lähellä olevalta pöydältä, ja äkkiä ryhtyi siihen. "Me puhumme niin vähän kuin mahdollista niistä ajoista", sanoi Trudaine, katsoen tarkoittavaisesti sisareensa; "vaan meillä on muutamia asioita teiltä kysyttävänä, vuorostamme; niin että niistä ajoista puhuminen tällä kertaa on välttämätön. Teidän äkillinen katoamisenne tuon kauhean vaarallisen ajan ratkaisevana hetkenä ei ole tullut meille täydellisesti selitetyksi. Tuo pikku ilmoitus, minkä jätitte, auttoi meitä arvaamaan mitä oli tapahtunut, enemmän kuin sitä ymmärtämään". "Minä voin sen helposti selittää nyt", vastasi Lomaque. "Hirmuhallituksen äkillinen kukistus, joka oli pelastusta teille, oli perikatoa minulle. Uusi tasavaltainen hallitus oli anteeksiannon hallitus muille paitsi Robespierren hännälle, niin puheenpartena silloin oli. Jokaista miestä, joka oli ollut niin jumalaton tahi niin onneton että oli sekaantunut, vähimmässäkään määrässä, hirmuhallinnon koneistoon, uhattiin, ja oikeudella, Robespierren kohtalolla. Minä, muitten kanssa, jouduin tämän kuoleman-uhkauksen alaiseksi. Minä ansaitsin kuolla ja olisin nöyrästi käynyt mestattavaksi, vaan teidän tauttanne. Yleisten asiain menosuunnasta minä tiesin teidän tulevan vapautetuiksi; ja vaikka teidän pelastuksenne oli sattumusten aikaansaama, oli minullakin ulkonaisesti osa siinä työssä, tehdessäni sen mahdolliseksi; ja minussa heräsi halu saada teitä molempia nähdä taas vapaana omilla silmilläni -- itsekkäinen mielihalu nähdä teitä elävänä, hengittävänä, todellisena todistuksena sydämeni ainoasta hyvästä herätyksestä, johon voin tyytyväisyydellä katsella. Tämä toivo herätti minussa uutta halua elämään. Minä päätin paeta kuolemaa, jos vaan olisi mahdollista. Kymmenen päivää olin piiloitettuna Parisissa. Minun sitten onnistui päästä Parisista, ja matkustaa onnellisesti Sveitsiin, josta minun tulee kiittää muutamia jäännöksiä niistä tiedoista, joita kokemuksen kautta olin saanut, palvellessani salapoliisivirastossa. Loppu kertomuksestani on niin lyhyt ja niin pian kerrottu, että voin sen samalla kertoa. Ainoa sukulainen, jonka tiesin olevan elossa, oli eräs minun serkkuni (jota en ollut koskaan ennen nähnyt), joka oli silkkikauppiaana Bernissä. Minä tunkeusin tämän miehen armolle. Hän huomasi minun asioitsemiskykyni ja että minä siis voin olla hyödyllinen hänelle ja hän otti minut luokseen. Minä toimitin mitä hänen vaan teki mieli minulle määrätä tehtäväksi; matkustin hänen asioissaan Sveitsissä; ansaitsin hänen luottamustaan, ja saavutinkin sen. Vasta pari kuukautta takaperin minä erosin hänestä; jätin palvelukseni ainoastaan ruvetakseni, isäntäni omasta kehoituksesta, hänen poikansa asioitsijaksi, joka myöskin oli silkkikauppiaana, Chalon-sur-Marnen kaupungissa. Tämän kauppiaan konttorissa olen minä kirjeenvaihtajana; ja pääsin teitä katsomaan nyt ainoastaan siten, että otin lähteäkseni erästä isäntäni asiaa toimittamaan Parisiin. Se on kovaa työtä minun ikäiselleni, kärsittyäni niin paljon maailmassa -- vaan minun kova työni on viatonta työtä. Minun ei ole tarvis kumartaa joka pennin edestä, jonka pistän taskuuni -- en ole velvoitettu ilmiantamaan, viekoittelemaan, vainustelemaan toisia ihmisiä tapettaviksi, ansaitakseni leipäni ja kootakseni siksi rahaa että kunnialla pääsen hautaan. Minä olen lopettamaisillani huonoa, halpaa elämää viattomasti viimeinkin. Se on vähäinen asia, vaan se on kuitenkin jotakin -- ja sekin tyydyttää miestä tällä iällä. Minä olen onnellisempi kuin ennen, tahi, vähintäin, vähemmin häpeissäni katsoessani semmoisten ihmisten silmiin kuin te olette". "Hush! hush!" keskeytti Rosa, pannen kätensä hänen käsivarrelleen. "Minä en voi sallia teidän puhua itsestänne tuolla tavoin, en edes piloilla". "Minä puhuin totisesti", vastasi Lomaque tyyneesti; "vaan minä en tahdo vaivata teitä enää sanallakaan minusta itsestäni. Minun historiani on kerrottu". "Kokonaan?" kysyi Trudaine. Hän katsoi tutkivaisesti, melkein epäileväisesti, Lomaqueen, kysyessään. "Kokonaisuudessaan?" toisti hän. "Teidän kertomuksenne on lyhyt, todellakin, hyvä ystäväni. Ehkä olette unhottanut jotakin siitä?" Taas Lomaque väänsihe tuolillaan mietteissä. "Eikös ole vähän kovaa vanhan miehen kärsiä, kun häneltä aina vaan kysytään, eikä koskaan vastata yhteenkään hänen kysymykseensä?" sanoi hän Rosalle, hyvin iloisena käytöksessään, vaan katsannoltaan vähän levotonna. "Hän ei tahdo puhua, ennenkuin olemme kahden", ajatteli Trudaine. "Parasta on häntä tyydytellä". "No, no", sanoi hän ääneen, "ei nurkua. Minä myönnän teidän vuoronne olevan nyt kuulla meidän kertomuksemme; ja tahdon koettaa parastani teitä tyydyttääkseni. Vaan ennenkuin aloitan", lisäsi hän, kääntyen sisareensa, "tahdon huomauttaa, Rosa, että jos sinulla on talousaskareita toimitettavana tuolla ylhäällä --" "Minä tiedän mitä tarkoitat", keskeytti Rosa, ottaen äkkiä käsiinsä työnsä, jonka oli antanut pudota syliinsä; "vaan minä olen vahvempi kuin luulet; minä voin kuunnella pahinta, mitä voit kertoa, aivan tyynesti. Kerro vaan, Louis; pyydän, puhu vaan -- minä voin aivan hyvin jäädä teitä kuulemaan". "Te tiedätte mitä me kärsimme odotus-aikamme ensimmäisinä päivinä, sen perästä kun kepposenne oli onnistunut", sanoi Trudaine, kääntyen Lomaqueen. "Oli, luullakseni, saman päivän iltana, jona me olimme viimeisen kerran nähneet teidät St. Lazaressa, kun sekavia huhuja lähestyvästä vallankumouksesta Parisissa ensin alkoi tunkea vankihuoneemme muurien läpi. Lähinnä seuraavina päivinä osoittivat vartijaimme kasvot tarpeeksi että nämä huhut puhuivat totta, ja että Maltteellinen puolue todellakin uhkasi kumota Hirmuhallitusta. Meillä tuskin oli aikaa toivoa mitään tästä siunatusta muutoksesta, ennenkuin tuo kauhea uutinen Robespierren onnistumattomasta itsemurhan-yrityksestä, sitten hänen tuomiostaan ja mestauksestansa, saapui meille. Vankeushuoneessa syntynyttä hämmennystä tuskin voinee kuvata. Tutkitut ja tutkimattomat vangit olivat kaikki yhdessä. Robespierren vangitsemispäivästä lähtien ei mitään käskyjä tullut virkakunnille, ei kuolemanluetteloa vankihuoneesen. Vanginvartijat, joita säikytti sinne leviävät huhut, että tirannien alhaisimmatkin palvelijat tulisivat olemaan vastuun-alaisia ja tulisivat tuomituiksi hänen kanssaan, eivät koettaneetkaan ylläpitää järjestystä. Muutamat heistä -- tuo kyttyräselkäinen mies muitten joukossa -- pötkivät pakoon tykkönään. Epäjärjestys oli niin täydellinen, että uuden hallituksen asiamiesten tullessa St. Lazareen, vangit olivat nälkään kuolemaisillaan, kaikkein elämäntarpeitten puutteessa. Huomattiin mahdottomaksi erityisesti tutkia meidän asioitamme. Milloin olivat tarvittavat asiakirjat kadonneet; milloin olivat löydetyt asiakirjat mahdottomat ymmärtää uusille tutkijoille. Niitten oli täytymys viimein kiirehtiä työstään ja kutsuivat meitä esille tusinoittain. Tutkittuina tahi tutkimatta, olimmehan kaikki tirannin vangitsemia, olimmehan kaikki syytetyt salavehkeistä häntä kohtaan, ja olimme kaikki valmiit tervehtimään uutta hallitusta Ranskan pelastuksena. Yhdeksässä kymmenestä tapauksesta olivat meidän parhaimmat vapauttamisen vaatimukset johdetut näistä suhteista. Tallien ja Yhdeksännen Thermidorin miehet luottivat meihin, koska Robespierre, Couthon ja St. Just olivat meitä epäilleet. Samoin kuin meitä oli vangittu epäsäännöllisesti, niin meitä vapautettiin epäsäännöllisesti. Kun sisareni ja minun vuoto tuli, ei meitä tutkittu viittä minuuttiakaan. Ei meiltä edes tehty tutkivaa kysymystä; minä luulen että me olisimme voineet sanoa omat nimemme aivan vaaratta. Vaan minä olin edeltäkäsin neuvonut Rosaa että meidän tuli ottaa nyt äitimme sukunimi -- Maurice. Kansalaisina Maurice me siis astuimme ulos vankihuoneesta; sillä nimellä olemme sittemmin eläneet täällä piilopaikassamme. Meidän vietetty rauhallisuutemme on riippunut ja tulevainen onnemme riippuu siitä että meidän pelastuksemme kuolemasta tulee olemaan syvimpänä salaisuutena meidän kolmen kesken. Eräästä pätevästä syystä, jonka te voitte täydelleen arvata, ei veli ja sisar Maurice saa tietää mitään Louis Trudainesta ja Rosa Danvillesta, paitsi että he olivat niitten satojen uhrien joukossa, jotka mestattiin Hirmuhallituksen aikana". Hän puhui tämän viimeisen lauseen hienolla hymyllä, ja miehen katsannolla, joka luulee, vastoin omaa tunnettaan, käyttelevänsä helposti tärkeätä asiaa. Hänen kasvonsa synkistyivät kuitenkin taas äkkiä katsoessaan, viimeiset sanat sanottuaan, sisareensa. Hänen työnsä oli vielä kerran pudonnut hänen polvilleen; hänen kasvonsa olivat toisaanne, ettei Trudaine voinut niitä nähdä; vaan hän näki ristissä olevien, polville vaipuneitten käsien vapistuksesta, ja suonien vähäisestä paisunnasta hänen niskassaan, jota hän ei voinut veljeltään peittää, että kehumansa vahvahermoisuus oli hänen jättänyt. Kolmevuotinen lepo ei ollut häntä niin paljon vahvistanut, että olisi voinut kuulla miehensä nimeä lausuttavan, tahi olla läsnä kun kuolettavan tuskan ja kauhun viimeisistä ajoista muistutettiin, kauhistusta osoittamatta kasvoissaan ja käytöksessään. Trudaine näytti tulevan murheelliseksi, vaan ei kummastuvan siitä mitä hän huomasi. Viitaten Lomaquelle olemaan vaiti, nousi hän ja otti Rosan päähineen lähellä olevalta akkunalta. "No, Rosa", sanoi hän, "aurinko paistaa, suloinen kevät-ilma kutsuu meitä ulos. Lähtekäämme kävelemään pitkin joen vartta. Miksi me pitäisimme vanhaa ystäväämme täällä, ahtaassa pikku huoneessa, kun meillä on peninkulmain avaruudelta kauniita maisemia hänelle näyttää toisella puolen kynnyksen? Tulkaa! se on petosta Kuningatar Luontoa vastaan pysyä huoneessa tämmöisenä aamuna". Vastausta odottamatta pani hän päähineen sisarensa päähän, otti hänen käsivartensa kainaloonsa, ja niin lähdettiin ulos. Lomaque kulki totisen näköisenä heidän jäljestä. "Olen iloinen siitä ett'en näyttänyt kuin loistavaa puolta uutisieni luettelosta hänen läsnä-ollessa", ajatteli hän. "Hänen sydämensä ei ole terve vielä. Puheeni olisi kipeästi koskenut häneen, naisparkaan! Minä olisin taas saattanut hänelle kovan tuskan, ellen olisi pitänyt suutani!" He kävelivät vähän aikaa pitkin joen vartta, jutellen mitättömistä asioista; sitten palasivat asuinhuoneelle. Rosa oli sillä aikaa taas tullut voimiinsa, ja saattoi hartaudella ja ilokseen kuunnella Lomaquen lystikästä kuvailua kirjuri-elämästään Chalons-sur-Marnessa. He erosivat vähäksi aikaa huoneen ovella. Rosa meni huoneen yläkertaan, josta hänen veljensä oli häntä huutanut alas. Trudaine ja Lomaque läksivät taas uudestaan kävelemään pitkin joen vartta. Ikäänkuin suostumuksesta, sanaakaan toisilleen puhumatta, kiiruhtivat he asuinhuoneen läheisyydestä; sitten seisattuivat äkkiä, ja katselivat tarkkaavaisesti toistensa silmiin -- katsoivat äänettöminä hetken. Trudaine puhui ensin. "Minä kiitän teitä siitä että häntä säästitte", alkoi hän äkkipäätä, "hän ei ole tarpeeksi vahva vielä voidakseen kuulla uudesta onnettomuudesta, ellen minä saata hänelle tiedon ensiksi". "Te luulette siis minun tuovan pahoja uutisia?" sanoi Lomaque. "Minä tiedän sen. Nähtyäni teidän ensimmäisen katseenne häneen, sen jälkeen kun olimme kaikki istuutuneet vierashuoneesen, minä tiesin sen. Puhukaa! ilman pelotta, varomatta, ilman tarpeetonta alkupuhetta. Kolmen vuoden levollisuuden perästä, jos Jumalan tahto on meille taas saattaa murhetta, minä voin tyynesti kärsiä koetusta; ja, jos tarpeen on, voin voimistuttaa häntä myös sitä kärsimään. Sanon uudelleen, Lomaque, puhukaa suoraa! Minä tiedän uutisenne olevan pahoja, sillä minä tiedän jo edeltäpäin että uutiset ovat Danvillesta". "Te olette oikeassa, minun pahat uutiseni ovat uutisia hänestä". "Hän on saanut ilmi salaisuuden meidän paostamme guillotinin kidasta --?" "Ei -- hänellä ei ole aavistustakaan siitä. Hän luulee -- niinkuin hänen äitinsä, niinkuin jokainen luulee -- teidän tulleenne mestatuiksi päivänä sen jälkeen kun Vallankumous-oikeus tuomitsi teidät kuolemaan". "Lomaque! te puhutte varmuudella tästä hänen luulostaan -- vaan te ette voi olla varma siitä". "Minä voin, välttämättömimmillä, kauheimmilla perusteilla -- Danvillen omista teoista päättäen. Te olette pyytäneet minua puhumaan suoraan --?" "Minä pyydän teitä taas -- minä pysyn siinä! Uutisenne, Lomaque -- uutisenne, ilman muuta sanaa esipuheeksi!" "Te saatte ne ilman muuta sanaa esipuheeksi. Danville on juuri naimisiin menemäisillään". Kun vastaus oli annettu, seisattuivat molemmat joen rannalla ja katselivat taas toisiinsa. Kuoleman äänettömyyttä kesti hetken. Tämän hetken aikana kohisi vesi, iloisesti rientäessään kivisessä uomassaan, erinomaisen kova-äänisesti, lintujen laulu joen varrella olevassa pienessä metsässä kuului erinomaisen heleältä molempien korvissa. Vieno tuulen hengähdys, päiväsydämen lämpimyydessäkin, kävi viileästi heidän poskiinsa, ja kevät-auringon paiste heidän kasvoihinsa oli ikäänkuin paiste läpi talvisien pilvien. "Lähtekäämme astumaan", sanoi Trudaine matalalla äänellä. "Minä odotin pahoja uutisia, vaan en tuota. Oletteko varma siitä, mitä minulle juuri puhutte?" "Yhtä varma kuin siitä, että tuo virta vieriää tuossa vieressämme. Kuulkaa miten minä tulin tämän tietämään, ettekä epäile enää. Viime viikkoon saakka en tiennyt mitään muuta Danvillesta, kuin että hänen vangitsemisensa, Robespierren käskystä, oli, asiain muuttuessa, hänen henkensä pelastus. Hän vangittiin, niinkuin teille kerroin, samana iltana kuin hän oli kuullut teidän nimiä luettavan kuolemaan tuomittujen luettelosta vankihuoneen portilla. Hän pysyi vankeudessaan Temple-linnassa huomaamattomana ulkopuolella eläville valtiollisessa hämmennyksessä, juuri niinkuin te pysyitte huomaamattomina St. Lazaressa; ja hän käytti hyväkseen samalla tavalla tuin te tuota hyvissä ajoin tullutta kapinaa, joka löi kumoon Hirmuhallituksen. Minä tiesin sen ja tiesin hänen astuneen ulos vankihuoneesta Robespierren vainottuna uhrina -- ja enemmän kuin kolme vuotta kului ett'en tiennyt mitään. Kuulkaa nyt. Viime viikolla satuin odottamaan isäntäni, kansalaisen Clairfait'n, kauppapuodissa muutamia konttoriin vietäviä papereita, kun muuan vanha mies astui sisään tuoden suljettua pakettia, jonka hän antoi muutamalle kauppapalvelijalle, sanoen: "Antakaa tämä kansalaiselle Clairfait". "Mikä nimi?" sanoi kauppapalvelija. "Nimi ei ole niin tärkeä", vastasi vanha mies; "vaan jos te tahdotte, niin voitte sanoa minun nimeni. Paketin toi kansalainen Dubois"; ja sitten meni ulos. Hänen, nimensä yhteydessä hänen vanhan ulkomuotonsa kanssa, herätti heti minun huomiotani. "Asuuko tuo mies Chalons'issa?" kysyin minä. "Ei", sanoi kauppapalvelija. "Hän on täällä erään meidän hyvän ostajan palvelijana -- erään vanhan entisen ylimys-rouvan, jonka nimi on Danville". Hän on käymässä täällä meidän kaupungissa". "Te voitte kuvitella miten tuo vastaus minua hämmästytti ja oudostutti. Kauppapalvelija ei voinut vastata muihin kysymyksiin; vaan seuraavana päivänä olin kutsuttu päivälliselle isäntäni luokse (joka, isänsä tautta, osoitti minulle erinomaisinta kohteliaisuutta). Huoneesen tullessani huomasin hänen vaimonsa juuri asettavan pois käsistään lavendeli-värisen nais-vyöttimen, johon hän oli ollut korko-ompelua ompelemassa -- hopealangalla, ja minusta näytti viirustelma kypäriltä ja vaakunakilveltä". "En ole millänikään vaikka näette mitä työskentelen, kansalainen Lomaque", sanoi hän; "sillä minä tiedän että me voimme luottaa teihin. Tämän vyöttimen on eräs ostaja lähettänyt meille takaisin; -- eräs entinen maastamuuttaja-rouva tuota vanhaa ylimysjoukkoa. Hän tahtoo nyt saada perheensä vaakunakilven ommelluksi tähän vyöttimeen." "On se sentään vaarallista tointa näinäkin armollisina demokratillisina aikoina, eikös ole?" sanoin minä. "Tuo vanha rouva, -- se teidän tulee tietää", sanoi hän, "on ylpeä kuin Luciferus; ja onnellisesti päästyänsä takaisin Ranskaan tänä maltteellisen tasavaltaisuuden aikana, luulee hän rankaisematta saavansa harjoitella vanhoja hullutuksiaan. Koska hän on ollut erinomaisen hyvä ostaja meillä, niin katsoi mieheni parhaaksi tyydyttää hänen tahtoansa, kuitenkaan jättämättä tätä tointa jonkun työvaimon tehtäväksi. Me emme nyt elä Hirmuhallituksen alla, se on totta; vaan ei ole kuitenkaan mitään varmuutta". "Ei ole", minä vastasin. "Pyydän anteeksi, mikä on tuon entisen maastamuuttajan nimi?" "Danville", vastasi emäntä. "Hän aikoo koreilla tässä vyöttimessä poikansa häissä". "Häissä" huusin minä vallan kuin ukkosen tulen lyömänä. "Niin", sanoi hän. "Mitä siinä on kummasteltavaa? Sen mukaan mitä minä olen kuullut, taitaa poika, mies parka, tehdä hyvän naimiskaupan tällä kertaa. Hänen ensimmäisen vaimonsa vei häneltä guillotini Hirmuhallituksen aikana". "Kenen hän aikoo naida?" kysyin minä vielä hengittämättä. "Kenrali Berthelin'in tyttären. Kenraali on sukunsa puolesta entinen ylimys niinkuin tuo vanha rouvakin, vaan mielipidettensä puolesta yhtä hyvä tasavaltainen kuin kukaan muu -- viinaanmenevä, ääneenkiroova vanha sotilas isolla poskiparralla; joka näpähyttää sormillaan esi-isilleen ja sanoo kaikkien ihmisten polveutuvan Aatamista, joka oli ensimmäinen todellinen sanskulotti maailmassa". [Oikeastaan: housuton. Yhdenvertaisuuden harrastajain nimi ensimmäisen Ranskan vallankumouksen aikana.] "Tähän tapaan Clairfait'n vaimo laski leikkiä kaiken päivällisen ajan, vaan ei puhunut tärkeitä tietoja sen enempää. Minulla kun oli vielä vanhat poliisivirka-tapani, aloin seuraavana päivänä koettaa saada ilmi jotakin itse. Kaikki, minkä sain tietää, on seuraava: Danvillen äiti oleskelee kenrali Berthelin'in sisaren ja tyttären kanssa Chalons'issa; ja Danvilleä itseään odotetaan joka päivä tulevaksi sinne heitä sieltä saattamaan Parisiin, jossa naimiskirja tulee allekirjoitettavaksi kenraalin kodissa. Saatuani tietää tämän ja huomattuani nopsan toimen nyt vaan auttavan, otin minä, niinkuin jo kerroin teille, isäntäni asian Parisissa toimittaakseni; kiirehdin lähtöäni; ja pysähdyin tässä matkallani. -- Vartokaa. En ole lopettanut vielä. Vaikka kiiruhdan niin paljon kuin voin, en voi sittenkään päästä kunnolla kilpaa ajamaan hääjoukon kanssa. Matkallani tänne sivuutti meidät eräät vaunut, jotka kiitivät täyttä vauhtia eteenpäin. Minä en voinut nähdä vaunujen sisään; vaan ajajan istuimella tunsin vanhan Dubois'n. Hän kyllä vilahti sivuitseni pölypilvessä, vaan minä olen varma hänestä; ja minä sanoin itsekseni, mitä nyt sanon teille, ei ole aikaa panna hukkaan!" "Ei aikaa _pannakkaan_ hukkaan", vastasi Trudaine lujasti. "Kolme vuotta on kulunut", hän jatkoi, matalammalla äänellä, puhuen enemmän itselleen kuin Lomaquelle; "kolme vuotta siitä päivästä kun talutin sisartani vankihuoneen portista ulos, -- kolme vuotta siitä kun lausuin sydämessäni: minä tahdon olla kärsivällinen, enkä tahdo koettaa itse kostaa. Meille tehdyt vääryydet huutavat maasta taivaasen; ihmisestä, joka tekee vääryyttä, Jumalaan, joka parantaa. Kun tilinteon päivä tulee, olkoon se Hänen kostonsa päivä, eikä minun. Sydämessäni sanoin minä nämät sanat -- olen ollut niille sanoille uskollinen, olen odottanut. Päivä on tullut, ja minä tahdon täyttää ne velvollisuudet, joita se minulta vaatii". Oli hetken äänettömyys, ennenkuin Lomaque taas puhui. "Sisarenne?" alkoi hän epäilevästi. "Ainoastaan siinä suhteessa on aikomukseni epäselvä", sanoi toinen totisena. "Jos vaan olisi mahdollista jättää hänet tykkänään tietämättömäksi tästä viimeisestä koetuksesta, ja jättää tämä kauhea tehtävä minulle yksinään?" "Minä luulen sen mahdolliseksi", keskeytti Lomaque. "Kuunnelkaa mitä minä neuvon. Meidän täytyy lähteä Parisiin postivaunulla huomen-aamulla, ja meidän täytyy ottaa sisarenne mukaan -- huomenna on vielä aikaa kyllä: ei ihmiset kirjoita naimiskirjoja iltasella, matkustettuaan pitkän päivän. Meidän täytyy siis lähteä ja meidän täytyy ottaa sisarenne. Antakaa minun pitää huolta hänestä Parisissa ja jättäkää myös minun huolekseni hoitaa häntä niin ettei hän tiedä mitä te olette tekemässä. Käykää kenrali Berthelin'in kotiin semmoisena aikana, jolloin Danville on siellä (me voimme saada tämän tiedon palvelijain kautta); astukaa hänen eteensä ilman mitään edelläkäypää varoitusta; astukaa hänen eteensä kuolleesta nousneena miehenä; astukaa hänen eteensä kaikkien huoneessa olevien nähden, vaikka huone olisi väkeä täynnä ja jättäkää äkkihämmästyksen alaisen miehen itseänsä pettämään ja ilmisaattamaan. Sanokaa vaan kolme sanaa, ja teidän velvollisuutenne on täytetty, te saatte palata sisarenne luokse, ja matkustaa hänen kanssaan turvallisesti asuntoonne Rouen'iin, tahi minne hyvänsä tahdotte, sinä päivänä, jona olette tehnyt hänen kirotulle miehelleen mahdottomaksi lisätä rikostensa luetteloon mitään uutta pahaa". "Te unhotatte Parisiin lähdön kiirettä", sanoi Trudaine. "Kuinka me selitämme sen, herättämättä hänessä epäluuloa?" "Uskokaa tämä huoli minulle", vastasi Lomaque. "Palatkaamme huoneesen heti. Oi! ette te", lisäsi hän äkkiä, heidän kääntyessä takaisin astumaan. "Teidän kasvoissanne on jotakin, joka meidät pettäisi. Antakaa minun palata yksinäni -- minä sanon teidän menneenne joitakin käskyjä antamaan ravintolaan. Erotkaamme nyt kohta. Te rauhoitatte mieltänne, te tulette entisellenne ennemmin, jos olette yksinänne -- minä tunnen teidät tarpeeksi, tietääkseni sen. Me emme saa kuluttaa minuuttiakaan selityksiin, minuutitkin ovat kallisarvoisia tämmöisenä päivänä. Kun te taas voitte kohdata sisartanne, on minulla ollut aikaa puhua mitä tahdon ilmoittaa hänelle, ja odotan huoneenne edustalla kertoakseni teille miten on käynyt". Hän katsoi Trudaineen ja hänen silmissään näytti välkähtävän taas jotakin tuota entistä pontevaa nerokkuutta, jota huomattiin hänen ollessaan Hirmuhallituksen virkamiehenä. "Jättäkää se minun huolekseni", sanoi hän; ja viitaten kädellään läksi hän äkkiä astumaan asuinhuoneelle päin. Lähes tunti kului, ennenkuin Trudaine uskalsi häntä seurata. Kun hän viimein tuli puutarhan portille vievälle polulle, näki hän sisarensa odottavan huoneen ovella. Hänen kasvonsa näyttivät tavattoman vilkastuneilta; ja hän riensi pari askelta eteenpäin häntä vastaanottamaan. "Oh, Louis!" sanoi hän, "minulla on tunnustus tehtävä ja minun täytyy pyytää sinua sitä kuulemaan kärsivällisesti loppuun asti. Tiedäppäs, kun meidän hyvä Lomaque, vaikka hän oli väsyneenä kävelystään, otti minun pyynnöstäni ensimmäiseksi työkseen kirjoittaa sen kirjeen, joka meille vakuuttaa tuon vanhan rakkaan kodin Seinen rannalla. Kun hän oli lopettanut, katsoi hän minuun ja sanoi: 'minä mielelläni tahtoisin olla läsnä teidän onnellisina palatessanne siihen taloon, jossa teidät ensin näin'. 'Oi, tulkaa, tulkaa meidän kanssamme!' sanoin minä suorastaan. 'Minun olemiseni ja tulemiseni eivät ole omassa vallassani', vastasi hän, 'minulla on vapaata aikaa nyt matkustaakseni Parisiin, se on totta; vaan se aika ei ole pitkä -- jos minä vaan olisin oma herrani' -- ja sitten hän vaikeni. Louis! minä muistin missä kiitollisuuden velassa me olemme hänelle; minä muistin ettei voinut löytyä sitä uhrausta, jota me emme ilollakin tekisi hänen hyväkseen; minä tunsin hänen lausuvan toivonsa herttaisuuden; ja kenties olin hiukan oman malttamattomuuteni vaikuttamassa innossa saadakseni taas nähdä kukkaistarhani ja niitä huoneita, joissa elimme niin onnellisina. Niin minä sanoin hänelle: 'minä varmaan tiedän Louis'n olevan samaa mieltä kuin minä siinä, että meidän aikamme on teidän ja että me suurella ilolla asetamme lähtömme niin että teille jää matkustusaikaa tarpeeksi, tullaksenne meidän kanssamme Rouen'iin. Me olisimme pahemmat kuin kiittämättömät --' Hän pysähytti minut. 'Te olette aina olleet hyvä minua kohtaan', sanoi hän; 'minun ei sovi nyt väärin käyttää teidän hyväntahtoisuuttanne. Ei! ei! teillä on vielä asioita järjestettävänä ennenkuin voitte lähteä tältä paikalta'. 'Ei yhtään', sanoin minä -- sillä meillä ei ole, niinkuin tiedät, Louis. 'Miksi ei? tässä on teidän huonekalustonne ensi aluksi', sanoi hän. 'Muutamia tuolia ja pöytiä, jotka olemme vuokranneet ravintolasta', vastasin minä; 'meidän ei tarvitse tehdä muuta kuin jättää avaimemme ravintolan emännälle ja jättää kirje huoneen omistajaa varten; ja sitten --' Hän nauroi. 'Kun kuulee teidän noin puhuvan, luulisi teidän olevan yhtä valmiina lähtemään matkalle kuin minä!' 'Niin me olemmekin', sanoin minä, 'aivan niin valmiina, asuessamme sillä tavoin kuin tässä asumme'. Hän pudisti päätään; vaan sinä et pudista päätäs, Louis, siitä olen varma, nyt kuultuasi koko minun pitkän kertomukseni? Ethän minua moiti, ethän?" Ennenkuin Trudaine ennätti vastata, katsoi Lomaque ulos huoneen ikkunasta. "Minä olen juuri kertonut veljelleni kaikkityyni", sanoi Rosa, kääntyen sinne päin. "Ja mitä hän sanoo?" kysyi Lomaque. "Hän sanoo mitä minäkin", vastasi Rosa veljensä puolesta; "että meidän aikamme on teidän aikanne -- on parhaimman ja rakkaimman ystävämme". "Tapahtuuko se siis?" kysyi Lomaque, tarkoittavalla katseella Trudaineen. Rosa katsoi levottomasti veljeensä: hänen kasvonsa olivat paljoa totisemmat kuin hän oli odottanut, vaan hänen vastauksensa päästi hänet kaikesta epäilyksestä. "Sinä teit aivan oikein, rakas sisareni, puhuessasi sillä tavoin kuin puhuit", sanoi hän hiljaisesti. Sitten, kääntyen Lomaqueen, lisäsi hän kovemmalla äänellä: "se tapahtuu". SEITSEMÄS LUKU. Kaksi päivää sen jälkeen kun matkustajavaunut, joista Lomaque oli puhunut, olivat ajaneet postivaunujen ohitse Parisiin vievällä tiellä, istui rouva Danville muutaman asuinkerran vierashuoneessa Grenelle-kadun varrella, kauniissa lystäilys-puvussa. Katsottuansa suurta kultakelloa, joka riippui hänen kupeellansa, ja huomattuansa kellon olevan neljännestä vailla kahta, soitti hän käsikelloa ja sanoi sisään rientävälle palvelusneitsyelle: "minulla on vielä viisi minuuttia. Lähetä Dubois tuomaan minun suklaatini". Vanha mies ilmestyi suurella hilpeydellä. Tarjottuansa kupin suklaatia emännälleen uskalsi hän käyttää puhumis-oikeuttaan, jonka oli saanut pitkästä ja rehellisestä palveluksestaan, ja lausui vanhalle rouvalle sievistelypuheen. "Minua ilahuttaa nähdä rouvaa noin nuorennäköisenä ja niin hyvällä tuulella tänä aamuna", sanoi hän syvästi kumartaen ja hienolla kunnioituksen hymyllä. "Luulen minulla syytä olevankin olla hyvillä mielin sinä päivänä, jona poikani aviosuostumus päätetään", sanoi rouva Danville, miellyttävällä pään nyykäyksellä. "Haa, Dubois, minä saan elää vielä nähdäkseni häntä aateliskirja kädessä. Roskaväki on tehnyt pahintaan; tuon kirotun vallankumouksen loppu ei ole kaukana; meidän sääty-arvo palaa taas kohta, ja kenellä silloin on parempaa edistyksen mahdollisuutta hovissa kuin minun pojallani? Hän on jalosukuinen jo äitinsä kautta; hän tulee jalosukuiseksi myös vaimonsa kautta. Niin, niin, anna hänen raaka-käytöksisen, innokkaan, vanhan sotilasisänsä olla miten luonnottomasti tasavaltalaismielinen tahansa, hänellä on nimi, joka on saattava minun poikani ylimysarvoon. Kreivi D'Anville (D katkomerkillä, sinä ymmärrät, Dubois)! Kreivi D'Anville, miten kauniilta se kuuluu!" "Ihanalta, rouva -- ihanalta. Oh! nuoren herrani toinen naiminen alkaa paljon paremmilla enteillä kuin ensimmäinen". Tuo muistutus oli onneton muistutus. Rouva Danville kävi sanomattoman vihastuneen näköiseksi, veti kulmiansa ryppyyn ja nousi kiiruusti tuoliltaan. "Oletko mieletön, sinä vanha hupakko?" huusi hän närkästyneenä; "mitä sinä tarkoitat muistuttamisillasi noista asioista juuri tämmöisenä päivänä? Sinä aina märehdit tuota asiaa noista kahdesta kurjasta ihmisestä, jotka mestattiin, niinkuin luulisit minun voineen heitä pelastaa. Etkö itse ollut läsnä minun ensi kerran kohdatessani poikaani Hirmun ajan jäikeen? Etkö kuullut minun ensimmäisiä sanojani hänelle, kun hän kertoi minulle lopputapauksen? Eivätkö ne olleet näin: -- 'Charles, minä rakastan sinua; vaan jos minä tietäisin sinun antaneen noiden kahden onnettoman, jotka antautuivat vaaran alttiiksi minua pelastaakseen, kuolla, uskaltamattasi henkeäsi heidän pelastuksekseen, tahtoisin ennemmin puhkaista sydämmeni, ennenkuin koskaan katsoa sinuun tahi puhua sinulle enää!' -- Enkö sanonut niin? Ja eikö hän vastannut: -- 'Äitini, minä uskalsin henkeni heidän tähtensä. Ja todistinhan minä uhraukseni sillä että antauduin vangitsemisen alttiiksi -- minut vangittiin ahkeroimisieni tähden, ja sitten en voinut enää mitään tehdä!' Etkös seissut vieressä ja kuullut hänen näin vastaavan, puhuessaan jalon liikutuksen vallassa? Etkö tiennyt hänen todellakin olleen vangittuna Temple-linnassa? Uskallatko ajatella että meitä voi moittia tämän jälkeen? Minä olen sinulle kiitollisuuden velassa, Dubois, vaan jos sinä rupeat loukkaaviin vapaisuuksiin minun suhteen --" "Oh, rouvaseni! Minä pyydän anteeksi tuhat kertaa. Minä olin ajattelematon; ainoastaan ajattelematon --" "Vaiti! Ovatko vaununi portilla? -- Hyvä. Ole valmis minua saattamaan. Sinun herrallasi ei ole aikaa palata tänne. Hän tapaa minut, suostumuskirjan tekoa varten, kenrali Berthelin'in kodissa kello kaksi täsmälleen. Seis! Onko paljo kansaa kadulla? Minä en tahdo tulla roskaväen katseltavaksi vaunuihini käydessäni". Dubois käydä vaaperti katuvaisen näköisenä akkunan luokse ja katsoi ulos, emännän astuessa ovelle. "Katu on melkein tyhjä, rouvaseni", sanoi hän. "Ainoastaan yksi mies, nainen kainalossa, on seisahtunut ihmettelemään teidän vaunujanne. Ne näyttävät siivoilta ihmisiltä, sen verran kuin minä voin nähdä ilman silmilasiani. Ei ne ole roskaväkeä, sanoakseni, rouva, varmaan eivät ole roskaväkeä!" "Hyvä. Odota minua tuolla alhaalla; ja ota vähän pientä hopeata mukaasi; jos nuo siivot ihmiset ehkä ovat sopivia armeliaisuuden esineitä. Ei muita käskyjä ajajalle kuin ajaa suoraa tietä kenraalin asuntoon". Siinä seurassa, joka oli kokoontunut kenrali Berthelinin asuntoon todistamaan aviosuostumus-kirjan allekirjoitusta, nähtiin, paitse asianomaisia henkilöitä, muutamia nuoria naisia, jotka olivat morsiamen ystäviä, ja joitakuita upseereja, jotka olivat olleet hänen isänsä kumppaneja entisinä aikoina. Vieraat olivat hajonneet kahteen keskenään yhteydessä olevaan sievään huoneesen -- toista nimitettiin talossa vierashuoneeksi ja toista kirjastohuoneeksi. Vierashuoneesen oli kokoontunut notarius, välikirja valmiina mukana, morsian, nuoret naiset, ja enimmät kenraalin ystävistä. Kirjastohuoneessa toiset sotilasvieraat huvittelivat biljardin peluulla siksi kun välikirjan allekirjoittaminen piti tapahtuman; Danville ja hänen tuleva appensa yhdessä edestakaisin huoneessa; edellinen kuunnellen hajamielisesti, jälkimäinen kaikella tavallisella innokkaisuudellaan, ja enemmän kuin tavallisesti käyttäen kasarmillisia täytesanojaan. Kenraalin päähän oli pistänyt selittää muutamia kohtia avioliittokirjassa sulhaselle, jonka täytyi, vaikka hän käsitti niiden muodon ja sisällyksen paljoa paremmin kuin hänen appensa, kuunnella kohteliaisuuden vuoksi. Vanhan sotilaan vielä ollessa keskellä pitkää ja sekavaa selityspuhettaan, löi kirjaston uunin otsalla oleva kello. "Kello on kaksi!" huudahti Danville iloisena, saadessaan jotakin syytä keskeyttää puhetta välikirjasta. "Kello on kaksi, eikä äitini ole vielä täällä! Mikä voi häntä viivyttää?" "Ei mikään", huusi kenraali. "Oletko koskaan tuntenut täsmällistä naista, poikaseni? Jos me odotamme äitiäsi -- ja hän on semmoinen raivokas ylimysmielinen, ett'ei hän antaisi meille koskaan anteeksi, ellemme odottaisi -- emme pääse kirjoittamaan välikirjan alle puoleen tuntiin. Yhdentekevä! jatkakaamme tätä keskeytynyttä puhettamme. Missä helvetissä minä olin taas kun tuo kirottu kello lyönnillään meidät keskeytti? Mitäs nyt, Musta-Silmä, mikä asiana?" Tämä viimeinen kysymys lausuttiin neiti Berthelinille, joka tällä hetkellä kiireesti tuli kirjastohuoneesen vierashuoneesta. Hän oli isohko ja enemmän miehennäköinen nainen, erinomaisen kauniilla mustilla silmillä, mustalla tukalla, joka kasvoi sangen alhaalla hänen otsallaan, ja jotakin isänsä lujuutta ja raakamaisuutta puhumistavassaan. "Muuan vieras ihminen on toisessa huoneessa, pappa, joka tahtoo teitä tavata. Minä luulen palvelijoiden käskeneen häntä tänne yläkertaan, luullen häntä meidän vieraaksemme. Käskenkö minä neuvomaan häntä alas jälleen?" "Tuhma kysymys! Miten minä voin tietää? Odota siksi kun olen häntä nähnyt, neitiseni, ja sitten minä tahdon vastata sinulle". Näin sanoen kenraali käännähtihe ympäri kantapäällään ja läksi vierashuoneesen. Hänen tyttärensä olisi häntä seurannut, vaan Danville tarttui hänen käteensä. "Voitko olla niin kovasydäminen että jätät minut tänne yksinäni?" kysyi hän. "Mitenkäs käy minun hartaille ystävilleni toisessa huoneessa, sinä itsekäs mies, jos minä jään tänne sinun kanssasi?" tiuskasi neitonen vastaukseksi, ahkeroiden päästäkseen irti. "Kutsu ne tänne", sanoi Danville iloisesti, tarttuen hänen toiseen käteensä. Neito nauroi ja veti sulhastaan vierashuoneen ovea kohti. "Tule!" huusi hän, "ja anna kaikkien naisten nähdä minkä tirannin minä tulen saamaan miehekseni. Tule ja näytä heille mikä uppiniskainen, järjetön, ikävä --" Hänen äänensä kävi äkkiä heikoksi, hänen ruumistaan pöyristytti ja hän meni aivan voimattomaksi. Danvillen käsi oli silmänräpäyksessä käynyt kuoleman kylmäksi hänen kädessään. Danvillen sormien hetkellinen kosketteleminen, irroittuessaan kiinnipidostaan, vaikutti kummallisen väristyksen hänen ruumiisensa kiireestä kantapäähän. Hän katsoi sulhaseensa kauhistuneena, ja näki hänen silmänsä tuijottavan vierashuoneesen. Niiden tuijotus oli niin eriskummallinen, liikkumaton, hirvittävä; hänen kasvojensa muista osista oli tykkönään kadonnut kaikki hengen-ilmaus, kaikki huomattava elo ja liikunto. Ne olivat hengetön, eloton naamari -- valkea paperi. Kauhun huudolla hän katsahti siihen, mihin hän näytti tuijottavan, vaan ei voinut muuta nähdä kuin tuon tuntemattoman vieraan seisovan keskellä lattiaa vierashuoneessa. Ennenkuin hän oli ennättänyt mitään kysyä, ennenkuin oli saanut sanaakaan puhutuksi, tuli hänen isänsä hänen luokseen, tarttui Danvillen käsivarteen ja työnsi tytärtään raakamaisesti takaisin kirjastohuoneesen. "Mene sinne ja ota naiset mukaasi", sanoi hän kiireisellä, kiivaalla kuiskeella. "Kirjastohuoneesen!" jatkoi hän, kääntyen naisten puoleen, ja kohottaen ääntään. "Kirjastohuoneesen, kaikkityyni, menkää tyttäreni kanssa". Naiset, peljästyneenä hänen käytöksestään, tottelivat häntä suuresti hämmästyneinä. Heidän kiiruhtaessa kirjastohuoneesen, viittasi hän notariukselle, että hänen piti seurata heitä, ja sulki sitten molempain huoneiden välillä olevan oven. "Pysykää missä olette!" huusi hän vanhoille upseereille, jotka olivat nousseet seisoalleen. "Pysykää paikoillanne, minä vaadin sen! Tapahtukoon mitä tahansa, Jacques Berthelin ei ole tehnyt mitään, josta hänen tarvitsisi hävetä vanhain ystäviensä ja kumppaniensa edessä. Te olette nähneet alun; pysykää alallanne ja katselkaa loppua". Puhuessaan astui hän keskelle huoneen laattiaa. Hän ei ollut vielä jättänyt kaappaustaan Danvillen käsivarresta -- askel askeleelta he astuivat yhdessä siihen paikkaan, missä Trudaine seisoi. "Te olette tulleet minun huoneeseni, ja pyytäneet tyttäreni vaimoksenne -- ja minä olen suotunut antamaan hänen teille", sanoi kenraali, puhellen Danvillelle tyyneesti. "Te kerroitte minulle teidän ensimmäisen vaimonne ja hänen veljensä tulleen mestatuiksi kolme vuotta takaperin Hirmun aikana -- ja minä uskoin teitä. Nyt, katsokaa tuota miestä -- katsokaa suoraan hänen kasvoihinsa. Hän on ilmoittanut itsensä minulle teidän vaimonne veljenä, ja vakuuttaa sisarensa elävän tällä hetkellä. Toinen teistä kahdesta on minua pettänyt. Kumpiko se on?" Danville koetti puhua; vaan ei tullut ääntä hänen huuliltaan; hän koetti vääntää käsivarttaan irti kenraalin kiinnipidosta, vaan ei voinut irroittaa vanhan sotilaan vakavaa kättä. "Oletteko peloissanne? oletteko pelkuri? Ettekö voi katsoa häntä silmiin?" kysyi kenraali, lujemmasti pitäen käsivarresta kiinni. "Seis! seis!" keskeytti muuan vanha upseeri astuen esille. "Antakaa hänelle aikaa. Tämä voi olla joku eriskummallinen satunnainen yhdennäköisyys, joka kyllä voi tämmöisissä oloissa panna miehen pään sekaisin. Antakaa anteeksi, kansalainen", jatkoi hän kääntyen Trudaineen. "Vaan te olette tuntematon vieras; te ette ole antaneet mitään todistusta siitä että olette se, joksi itseänne sanotte." "Tuossa on todistus", sanoi Trudaine, osoittaen Danvillen kasvoja. "Niin, niin", jatkoi toinen; "hän näyttää kalpealta ja hämmästyneeltä kyllä, se on totta. Vaan minä sanon uudestaan -- elkäämme olko liian hätäisiä: kerrotaan kummallisia tapauksia satunnaisista yhdennäköisyyksistä, ja tämä voi olla semmoinen!" Kertoessaan näitä sanojaan, katsoi Danville häneen heikolla, nöyristyvällä kiitollisuuden katseella, jota saattoi tuskin eroittaa hänen kalpeissa kauhistuneissa kasvoissaan. Hän kumarsi päätään, mutisi jotakin, ja viittaili sinne tänne vapaana olevalla kädellään. "Katsoksa!" huusi vanha upseeri; "katsokaa, Berthelin, hän kieltää miehen olevan vaimonsa veljen." "Kuuletteko sen?" sanoi kenraali Trudainelle. "Onko teillä todistuksia, joilla voitte hänen kieltoansa kumota? Jos teillä on, niin tuokaa ne esille heti". Ennenkuin vastausta voitiin antaa, singahti vierashuoneesta etehiseen vievä ovi äkkiä seljälleen, ja rouva Danville -- hajalla hapsin, kasvot kalpeina kauhistuksesta, sopivaiset vastaverraksi hänen poikansa kasvoille -- näkyi kynnyksellä, vanha Dubois ja joukko kummastuneita ja kauhistuneita palvelijoita takanaan. "Jumalan tähden elkää kirjoittako! Jumalan tähden tule pois!" huusi hän. "Minä olen nähnyt sinun vaimosi -- aaveena tahi todellisena, en tiedä kumpanako -- vaan minä olen nähnyt hänen. Charles! Charles! niin totta kuin Taivas on yllämme, olen minä nähnyt sinun vaimosi". "Te olette nähneet hänet ilmeisenä ihmisenä, elävänä ja hengittävänä samoin kuin näette hänen veljensä tuossa", sanoi vakava, tyyni ääni palvelijoiden joukosta porraskäytävästä. "Antakaa sen miehen tulla sisään, olkoon hän kuka tahansa!" huusi kenraali. Lomaque kulki rouva Danvillen sivuitse kynnyksen yli. Tämä vapisi hänen rientäessä ohitsensa; seurasi häntä sitten, tunkien itseään vasten seinää, muutamia askeleita huoneesen. Hän katsoi ensin poikaansa -- sitten Trudaineen -- sitten taas poikaansa. Hänen läsnäolossaan oli jotakin, joka sai kaikki vaikenemaan. Äkillinen hiljaisuus valtasi koko seuran -- hiljaisuus niin syvä, että kirjastohuoneessa olevien naisten intoinen, säikähtynyt kuiskutus, ja hameiden kova kuhina kuului suljetun oven takaa. "Charles!" sanoi hän, hiljaa lähestyen; "miksi sinä katsot --?" Hän pysähtyi, ja katseli taas poikaansa tuikeammin kuin ennen, kääntyi sitten äkkiä Trudaineen. "Te katsotte poikaani, herraseni", sanoi hän, "ja minä huomaan halveksimista teidän katseessanne. Millä oikeudella te solvaatte miestä, jonka kiitollinen tunne, äitinsä kiitollisuuden velasta teille, on saattanut häntä panemaan henkensä alttiiksi teidän ja teidän sisarenne pelastukseksi? Millä oikeudella olette pitäneet minun poikani vaimon pelasttuksen guillotinista -- pelastuksen, jota huolimatta kaikesta siitä, minkä minä tiedän sitä vastaan, hänen jalot ahkeroimisensa auttoivat -- salassa pojaltani? Millä oikeudella, pyydän saada tietää, on teidän konnamainen salaperäisyytenne saattanut meidät semmoiseen asemaan, jossa nyt seisomme tässä tämän talon isännän edessä?" Trudainen kasvot osoittivat murheen ja säälin tunteita, hänen puhuessaan. Hän astui muutamia askeleita taaksepäin, eikä vastannut mitään. Kenraali katsoi häneen innokkaalla uteliaisuudella; ja päästäen Danvillen kasivarren, näytti aikovan puhua; vaan Lomaque astui esiin samassa, ja nosti kätensä vaatien huomaavaisuutta. "Luulen lausuvani kansalaisen Trudainen tahdon", sanoi hän kääntyen rouva Danvilleen, "jos neuvon tätä rouvaa vähemmin julkisesti vaatimaan vastausta kysymyksiinsä." "Kuka te olette, herra, joka otatte huoleksenne neuvoa minua?" muistutti hän ylpeästi. "Minulla ei ole mitään teille sanottavaa, paitse että minä pysyn sanoissani ja tahdon vastausta." "Kuka on tämä mies?" kysyi kenraali Trudaineltä, osoittaen Lomaquea. "Mies, johon ei voi luottaa", huusi Danville, puhuen kuuluvasti ensimmäisen kerran, ja heittäen verisen vihan katseen Lomaqueen. "Eräs Robespierren poliisiasiamiehiä." "Ja tämmöisenä kykenevä vastaamaan kysymyksiin, jotka koskevat Robespierren oikeuden-istuimien toimituksia", huomautti entinen pääpoliisi vanhalla virallisella maltillaan. "Se on totta!" huusi kenraali; "mies on oikeassa -- antakaa hänen puhua." "Ei sitä voi auttaa", sanoi Lomaque, katsoen Trudaineen; "jättäkää se minun huolekseni -- sopivinta on minun puhua. Minä olin läsnä", jatkoi hän kovemmalla äänellä, "kansalaisen Trudainen ja hänen sisarensa tutkinnossa. Ne oli saatettu oikeuden eteen kansalaisen Danvillen ilmiannosta. Olen varma siitä ettei Danville siihen saakka kun miesvangin tunnustus selitti asian, tiennyt mitään sen rikoksen oikeasta laadusta, josta Trudaineä ja hänen sisartaan syytettiin. Kun tuli tunnetuksi että olivat salaa auttaneet tätä rouvaa pakenemaan Ranskasta, ja kun Danvillen oma pää siis oli vaarassa, kuulin minä itse hänen pelastavan päänsä valheellisesti vakuuttamalla tienneensä Trudainen salahankkeesta jo alusta --" "Tahdotte sanoa", keskeytti kenraali, "että hän julkisesti istuvan oikeuden edessä julisti tieten taiten ilmi antaneensa sen miehen, joka seisoi syytettynä siitä että oli pelastanut hänen äitinsä?" "Niin sanon", vastasi Lomaque. (Kauhistuksen ja inhon murina kuului läsnä olevien vieraitten joukosta, tämän vastauksen perästä). "Oikeuden pöytäkirjat löytyvät vielä todistamassa minun puheeni totuutta", jatkoi hän. "Mitä kansalaisen Trudainen ja Danvillen vaimon pelastukseen guillotinista tulee, niin oli se valtiollisten tapausten vaikuttama, jota todistamaan vielä löytyy henkilöitä elossa, jos tarpeeksi katsotaan, ja minun tekemäni pienen kepposen, jota on tarpeetonta tässä nyt kertoa. Ja viimein mitä siihen tulee, että he pelastumisensa jälkeen eivät antaneet tietoja itsestään, niin pyydän saadakseni ilmoittaa teille, että asian salassa pitäminen lakkasi samassa kun tiedettiin mitä täällä oli tapahtumaisillaan; ja ettei se ole ollut muuta kuin tarpeellista, luonnollista varovaisuutta kansalaisen Trudainen puolelta. Samanlaisista syistä emme ole tahtoneet saattaa hänen sisartaan tänne, säästäen häntä kauheasta mielenliikutuksesta ja vaarasta. Kuka mies, jolla on rahtuakaan tunteellisuutta, tahtoisi antaa hänen katsahtaakaan semmoiseen aviomieheen kuin tuo?" Hän katsoi ympärilleen ja osoitti Danvillea lausuessaan tämän kysymyksen. Ennenkuin kukaan huoneessa ennätti puhua sanaakaan, kuului hiljainen valitushuuto: "emäntäni! rakas, rakas emäntäni!" ja käänsi kaikkien huomion vanhaan mieheen Dubois, ja sitten rouva Danvilleen. Hän oli nojautunut vasten seinää ennenkuin Lomaque rupesi puhumaan; vaan nyt hän seisoi aivan suorana. Hän ei puhunut eikä liikkunut. Ei yksikään hänen epäjärjestyksessä olevan päähineensä heleävärisistä nauhoista edes vavissut. Vanha palvelija Dubois oli polvillaan hänen vieressään, suuteli hänen kylmää oikeaa kättään, hieroi sitä omien käsiensä välissä, toistamiseen huudahtaen: "oi, emäntäni, rakas, rakas emäntäni!" vaan hänen emäntänsä ei näyttänyt tietävän hänen läsnä-olostaan. Ainoastaan kun hänen poikansa lähestyi muutamia askeleita häntä kohti, näytti hän äkkiä heräävän tuosta mielentuskan vaikuttamasta tunnottomuudesta. Silloin hän hiljaa nosti vapaata kättään ja viittasi häntä pois luotaan. Danville seisahtui ja koetti puhua. Hän viittasi taas kädellään ja hänen kasvoissaan alkoi liikuntoa näkyä. Hänen huulensa liikkuivat vähän -- hän puhui. "Olkaa niin hyvä minulle, herrani, viimeisen kerran, että pysytte ääneti. Teillä ja minulla ei ole tästä lähtien mitään toisillemme sanottavaa. Minä olen jalon suvun tytär ja kunnian miehen leski. Te olette petturi ja väärä todistaja; semmoinen, josta jokainen rehellinen mies, jokainen rehellinen nainen kääntyy ylenkatseella. Minä kieltäydyn olemasta äitinne! Julkisesti, näitten herrasmiesten läsnä-ollessa, minä sanon sen: minulla ei ole poikaa". Hän kääntyi selin häneen; ja kumartaen toisille huoneessa oleville henkilöille, menneitten aikojen kaunistelevalla sievyydellä, astui hän hiljaa ja vakavasti ovelle. Seisahtuen tässä katsoi hän taakseen; ja hetken teeskennelty mielen lujuus jätti hänet. Heikolla, tukahutetulla huudolla tarttui hän vanhan palvelijan käteen, joka vielä pysyi uskollisesti hänen rinnallaan; tämä rupesi häntä pitelemään molemmilla käsillään ja rouvan pää vaipui hänen olkapäätänsä vasten. "Auttakaa häntä!" huusi kenraali ovella seisoville palvelijoille. "Auttakaa häntä ja viekää rouva toiseen huoneesen!" Vanha mies katsoi epäilevästi emännästään niihin, jotka olivat auttamassa häntä. Omituisen äkillisen kateuden vallassa pudisti hän kättään heille. "Kotiin", huusi hän, "hänen täytyy tulla kotiin, ja minä tahdon pitää huolta hänestä. Pois! te siinä -- ei kukaan saa pitää hänen päätään muu kuin Dubois. Portaita alas! portaita alas, hänen vaunujensa luokse! hänellä ei ole jälellä muita kuin minä; ja minä sanon että hän on saatettava kotiin". Kun ovi oli sulkeutunut, lähestyi kenrali Berthelin Trudainea, joka oli seissut äänetönnä ja syrjässä siitä saakka kun Lomaque ensin ilmestyi vierashuoneesen. "Minä tahdon pyytää teiltä anteeksi", sanoi vanha sotilas; "koska olen loukannut teitä pitämällä hetken aikaa epäluuloa teitä kohtaan. Tyttäreni tähden minä hyvin paheksun ettemme ole jo aikoja sitten nähneet toisiamme; vaan minä kiitän teitä kuitenkin tulemastanne tänne, vaikka yhdennellätoista hetkellä". Hänen puhuessaan tuli muuan hänen ystävistään ja sanoi, koskettaen hänen olkapäätään: "Berthelin, saako tuo konna lähteä täältä?" Kenraali käänsihe ympäri kantapäällään heti, ja viittasi ylenkatseellisesti Danvillelle että hän seuraisi häntä ovelle. Kun olivat tulleet toisten korvankuuluvilta, puhui hän näin: "Teidän lankonne on todistanut teidät konnaksi, ja äitinne on kieltäytynyt teistä, julistaen teidät valehtelijaksi. He ovat täyttäneet velvollisuutensa teitä kohtaan; ja nyt ei ole minulla muuta tehtävää kuin myös täyttää velvollisuuteni. Kun mies tunkeutuu toisen perheesen petollisella mielellä ja saattaa tämän tyttären arvon vaaran-alaiseksi, niin meillä sotamiehillä on hyvin sievä keino saada hänet vastuun-alaiseksi siitä. Kello on nyt juuri kolme; kello viisi olen minä ja eräs minun ystäväni --" Hän vaikeni ja katseli ympärilleen varovasti, -- sitten kuiskasi hän muun sanottavansa Danvillen korvaan -- työnsi oven anki ja osoitti portaita. "Tehtävämme on täällä toimitettu", sanoi Lomaque, pannen kätensä Trudainen käsivarrelle. "Antakaamme Danvillelle aikaa lähteäkseen talosta ja lähtekäämme sitten myöskin". "Sisareni! missä hän on?" kysyi Trudaine jollakin levottomuudella. "Olkaa aivan huoleti hänestä. Minä kerron teille enempää kun tulemme ulos". "Te varmaan annatte minulle anteeksi", sanoi kenraali Berthelin, puhuen kaikille läsnä-oleville, käsi kirjastohuoneen ovella, "jos minä jätän teidät. Minulla on pahoja uutisia saatettavana tyttärelleni, ja yksityisiä asioita sen perästä toimitettavana erään ystäväni kanssa". Hän nyykäytti päätään jäähyväisiksi seuralle vanhalla jörömäisellä tavallaan ja meni kirjastohuoneesen. Pari minuuttia myöhemmin Trudaine ja Lomaque läksivät talosta. "Te löydätte sisarenne teitä odottamasta asunnossanne hotellissa", sanoi jälkimäinen. "Hän ei tiedä mitään, ei ollenkaan mitään, siitä mikä on tapahtunut". "Vaan miten hänet tunnettiin?" kysyi Trudaine oudostellen. "Danvillen äiti näki hänet. Varmaan hän --?" "Minä ajoin asiaa niin että hän näkyisi, vaan ei näkisi. Meidän entinen kokemuksemme Danvillesta oli syynä siihen että minä katsoin tarpeelliseksi tehdä tämän kokeen, ja vanha poliisivirka-tottumukseni auttoi minua sen toimeen panemisessa. Minä näin vaunujen seisovan portilla, ja odotin kunnes vanha rouva tuli alas. Minä kävellytin sisartanne poispäin, kun hän astui vaunuihin, ja kävellytin häntä takaisin lähitse ikkunaa, kun vaunut läksi ajamaan. Silmänräpäys sen teki; ja kaikki kävi niin hyvin kuin olin ajatellut. Kyllin jo siitä! Palatkaa nyt sisarenne luo. Pysykää huoneessanne siksi kun yöposti lähtee Roueniin. Minä olen jo tilannut valmiiksi teille kaksi paikkaa. Menkää! ottakaa jälleen haltuunne vanhat huoneenne, ja jättäkää minut tänne toimittamaan ne asiat, jotka isäntäni on minulle uskonut, ja näkemään miten Danvillen ja hänen äitinsä asiat päättyvät. Koetan jollakin tavalla saada aikaa tullakseni sanomaan jäähyväiset teille Roueniin, vaikka en voisikaan siellä viipyä kauemmin kuin yhden päivän. Mitä vielä! ei mitään kiitosta. Antakaa kätenne. Minä häpesin sitä ottaa kahdeksan vuotta takaperin -- nyt voin sitä sydämellisesti pudistaakin. Tuossa on teidän tienne; tässä minun. Jättäkää minut silkki- ja satiini-toimiini, käykää te sisarenne luokse ja auttakaa häntä matkakapineenne järjestämisessä". * * * * * Kolme päivää oli kulunut. On ilta. Rosa, Trudaine ja Lomaque istuivat yhdessä penkillä, josta Seinen joen kierrosten kaunista maisemaa on niin hyvä katsella. Vanha tuttu näkö-ala leviää heidän edessään, ihana kuin ennenkin -- muuttumattomana, ikäänkuin he eilen olisivat sitä viimeksi katselleet. He puhuvat keskenään surullisesti ja hiljaisella äänellä. Samat muistot täyttävät heidän sydämensä -- muistot, joita he pidättävät puheeksi tulemasta, vaan joiden vaikutuksia jokainen tietää vaistollisesti toisenkin tuntevan. Milloin johtaa yksi keskuspuhetta, milloin toinen; vaan puhukoon kuka tahansa, valittuna puheen-aineena on aina, ikäänkuin yhteisestä suostumuksesta, aine, joka on yhteydessä tulevaisuuden kanssa. Ilta alkaa hämärtää, ja Rosa on ensimmäinen nousemaan penkiltä. Veli ja sisar katselevat toisiinsa salaista liittoa tietävillä katseilla ja Rosa sanoo Lomaquelle: "Tahdotteko seurata minua huoneesen", kysyi hän, niin vähällä viipymisellä kuin mahdollista? "Minulla on jotakin, jota tahtoisin hyvin mielelläni teille näyttää". Hänen veljensä odottaa siksi kun hän on niin kaukana ett'ei voi kuulla; ja kysyy sitten levottomasti mitä oli tapahtunut Parisissa hänen ja Rosan lähdön jälkeen. "Sisarenne on vapaa", vastasi Lomaque. "Kaksintaistelu siis tapahtui?" "Samana päivänä. Heidän piti ampua molempain yht'aikaa. Hänen vastustajansa puolusmies vakuuttaa hänen olleen pelosta ravistuneena; hänen oma puolusmiehensä sanoo hänen päättäneen, huolimatta siitä miten hän oli elänyt, kohdata kuolemaa urhoollisesti tarjoamalla henkeänsä sen miehen ensimmäiselle laukaukselle, jota hän oli loukannut. Mikä näistä on tosi, sitä en tiedä. Se vaan on varma, ettei hän lau'aissut pistoliansa; että hänen vastustajansa ensimmäinen kuula hänet kaatoi; ja ett'ei hän sen jälkeen puhunut sanaakaan". "Ja hänen äitinsä?" "Vaikeata on saada sieltä tietoja. Hänen ovensa ovat suljetut; hänen vanha palvelijansa hoitaa häntä hartaimmalla huolella. Lääkäri on aina läsnä; ja talossa kerrotaan että se tauti, jota hän sairastaa, enemmän tapailee hänen mieltään kuin ruumista. Enempiä tietoja en saanut". Tämän vastauksen perästä molemmat pysyivät äänettöminä vähän aikaa -- nousivat sitten penkiltä ja astuivat huonetta kohti. "Joko teillä on selvillä miten sisartanne valmistaisitte kuulemaan kaikki mitä on tapahtunut?" kysyy Lomaque, nähdessään lampunvalon loistavan vierashuoneen akkunasta. "Minä odotan siksi kuin olemme aivan asettuneet täällä -- siksi kun palaamisemme ensimmäiset juhlapäivät ovat ohitse, ja jokapäiväisen elämämme rauhalliset toimet ovat taas alkaneet", vastasi Trudaine. He astuivat huoneesen. Rosa viittaa Lomaquelle, että hän tulisi istumaan hänen viereensä ja asettaa kynän ja avonaisen kirjeen hänen eteensä. "Minulla olisi viimeinen suosion osoitus teiltä pyydettävä", sanoi hän hymyillen. "Toivon, ettei sen pyynnön täyttäminen kovin pitkää aikaa vie", vastasi Lomaque; "sillä minulla on ainoastaan tämä ilta olla teidän kanssanne. Huomenaamulla, ennenkuin olette ylhäällä, täytyy minun jo olla matkalla takaisin Chalons'iin". "Tahdotteko kirjoittaa nimenne tämän kirjeen alle?" jatkoi Rosa, vielä hymyillen, "ja sitten antaa se minulle postiin pantavaksi? Louis on sanellut ja minä olen -- kirjoittanut sen, ja se tulee aivan valmiiksi, jos te kirjoitatte nimenne loppuun". "Saanenhan kaiketi lukea sen?" Rosa nyykäytti päätään suostumukseksi; ja Lomaque luki seuraavat rivit: "_Kansalainen_. -- Pyydän kunnioituksella saada teille ilmoittaa että minulle uskottu toimitettavanne Parisissa on toimitettu. "Minun on myöskin pyydettävä teidän suostumustanne minun luopumiseeni siitä virasta, mikä minulla on ollut teidän konttorissanne. Teidän itsenne ja teidän isänne minua kohtaan osoittama ystävällisyys antaa minulle rohkeutta toivoa että te suosiollisesti otatte tietoonne syyt minun luopumiseeni. Kaksi minun ystävääni, jotka katsovat olevansa jossakin kiitollisuuden velassa minulle, tahtovat välttämättömästi että minä viettäisin loput elämääni heidän kotinsa rauhallisuudessa ja turvassa. Menneiden vuosien huolet ovat yhdistäneet meidät niin toisiimme kuin olisimme saman perheen jäseniä. Minä olen koti-elämän levollisuuden ja onnellisuuden tarpeessa yhtä hyvin kuin kenkään muu, semmoisen elämän kärsittyäni kuin minä; ja ystäväni vakuuttavat niin hartaasti täydestä sydämestään valmistavansa vanhan miehen mukavaa tuolia lietensä ääreen, etten voi saada tarpeeksi lujuutta eroamaan heistä ja kieltämään heidän tarjoustaan. "Minä pyydän teitä siis suosiollisesti ottamaan vastaan sen luopumuspyynnön, jonka tämä kirje sisältää, ja samalla vakuutuksen vilpittömästä kiitollisuudestani ja kunnioituksestani. Kansalaiselle Clairfait, Silkkikauppias. Chalons-sur-Marne." Tämän luettuaan kääntyi Lomaque katsomaan Trudaineen ja koetti puhua, vaan sanat eivät tahtoneet käskien tulla. Hän katsoi Rosaan ja koetti hymyillä; vaan hänen huulensa ainoastaan vapisivat. Hän kastoi kynän läkissä, ja asetti sen käteensä. Hän painoi päänsä alas äkisti paperin yli, ettei Rosa näkisi hänen kasvojaan; vaan vielä hän ei kirjoittanut nimeänsä. Rosa asetti lempeästi kätensä hänen olkapäälleen ja kuiskasi hänelle: "Joutuun, joutuun, olkaa nyt 'Sisar Rosalle' mieliksi. Hänen mieltään täytyy nyt noudattaa, kun hän on taas palannut kotiinsa". Hän ei vastannut mitään -- hänen päänsä vaipui alemmaksi -- hän mietti hetkisen -- kirjoitti sitten nimensä kirjeen loppuun heikolla vapisevalla käsialalla. Rosa otti hiljaa kirjeen pöydältä. Muutamia kyyneleen karpaloita oli paperilla. Pyyhkien niitä pois nenäliinallaan, katsoi hän veljeensä. "Ne ovat viimeiset, joita hän koskaan on vuodattava, Louis, sinä ja minä pidämme huolen siitä!"

project gutenberg

2024-05-14T13:06:31.238013